The time I ruined the T-Ball fund raiser

So there we were at Daughter #2's first T-ball game of the season - I may be the oldest mother there.  As a matter of fact, I think I recognized one of the grandparents as being a classmate of mine in high school.  But I had on Daughter #1's clothes and my so-fucking-big-you-cannot-see-my-crow's feet sunglasses so hopefully no one picked up on it.  It, being the fact that Daughter #2 is considerably younger than the other children.  She's their sister by a different mister.  It's okay - I'm married to that mister.  Don't get all on-the-edge-of-your-seat excited on me here.

I had to walk over to a different building for a meeting (Yes.  A meeting).  And on my way back to the T-ball field, I was approached by a darling young mom, all cute in her cargo capri's, stretch T and flip flops, clearly sportin' a bun in the oven and she's all smiling and walking directly toward me and I can see the white envelopes in her arms and I'm on to her - she's handing out the fund raiser shit.  So I smile warmly and walk straight so she actually has a shot at catching me, and as soon as we are within hearing distance of each other, I put my hand in the air and say, "Oh HELL NO - don't EVEN give me one of those."  The look on her face was priceless.  I had clearly caught her off-guard and I didn't want her to think I was just some jaded old sour puss (figured she'd figure that out on her own soon enough) - so I lightened my spirit and added, "Can I just buy it out?"  She still looked confused.  Obviously her first rodeo with the T-ball fund raiser.  Poor thing.  I almost felt sorry for her.  Then I considered NOT filling her in on the bullshit baggage that comes with this fund raiser.  But then I felt sorry for her again - almost. 

So under my breath I said, "You know how much of a pain in the ass this fund raiser is, don't you?  You have one week to sell 10,000 frozen pizzas so your kid can get a free frisbee, then the shit doesn't even come in until the end of July.  So all summer long, you field phone calls from disgruntled purchasers - looking for their goodies that they bought with intention of feeding their teenagers all summer long - sad that it won't be here until the end of July.  Then you have to retrieve all the shit yourself - and then fucking deliver it to every person who ordered from you."  I'm pretty sure she thought she hadn't heard me correctly because she asked, "I have to pick this stuff up and deliver it to anyone that we sell to?"  That's right sister.  You SURE DO!  And guess what?  Last year the shit came in while we were on vacation and so we had to recruit another sucker to pick it all up for us.  And then we came back from vacation and were greeted by a deep freeze full of pizza and cookie dough.  We spent the next week delivering the shit.  What a nightmare.

She looked terrified.  I was glad.  I'm sick like that.  So I continued, "And then there was the year that the big kids got into ALL the tubs of cookie dough and ate one bite out of each of them so I actually had to PAY people who had purchased the shit and I ended up with $300 worth of cookie dough in my freezer."  She was totally freaked out at this time.  I know she rolled her eyes.  I could sense it.  I knew my job there was done, so I thanked her for the envelope and wished her luck!

I think I'll just order $50 worth of frozen shit for our deep freeze and go to the $1 store and buy the kid a bunch of cheap shit and tell her she won it.  She'll never know the difference.  And I'm happy that, as an older mother in the group, I was able to educate these novices.

The Day my Life Passed Before my Eyes at the Beauty Shop

So a short while back, I was sitting in the hair salon, waiting on Daughter #1 to get her split ends chopped off and also to have her caterpillars trimmed up because she was starting to look a little like Oscar the Grouch.  And as I sat there, listening to my iPod and playing some game (iPhone is an amazing little piece of technology that I fail to understand how I ever lived without it for so long and those fuckers at American Idol are damned lucky I got mine to power back up after Lee DeWitz killed it last night) - and all of a sudden, this guy in a leather apron (Stay with me here people - that was not some Freudian slip -he had on a LEATHER APRON) - comes up to me and sits down.  So I give him some fake smile - you know, the one that shows politeness but at the same time screams "What.the.fuck are you doing perv?  There's other seats in the place!"  That one.  So he smiles back and asks if my name is bleach blonde.  Umm - yeh.  And now I'm looking really freaked out.  And then he drops the bomb on me - "Do you remember me?"  Ummmm - that's a negatory pal.  And then, because he's like fucking social Rambo in a leather apron, he drops another bomb - "One night..." - at that point I think I might have blacked out.  Any story that starts with "one night" and involves me and my past (God only knows WHICH past) cannot end well and I start to fidget, and sweat and also look furtively toward my daughter, whom I certainly do NOT want to hear ANY part of this fucked up story he's about to share with me. 

My mind raced backward in time - to every bar, every concert, every party I'd ever been to - it's sketchy at best and I'm not placing this dude anywhere.  I'm really nervous at this point, wondering what fucking horrible part of my past is about to be aired in the hair salon.  Jesus.  Why don't you just call fucking CNN?  It'd be less dangerous than sharing my past in the hair salon.  I must have looked VERY nervous and shaken up because he quickly spit out the rest of the line he was working on - "you, me, your friend C and her friend K went on a double date!" 

WE did?  Who was with whom I'm wondering.  Was I on the double date with this leather apron donning man?  I still look totally confused and baffled and admit I have NO CLUE who he is.  None.  It's not coming back to me at all, but the names of the other two involved rang a bell - from my high school days and I haven't seen either of them since high school, so at least I had an excuse for not remembering this guy - it had been over 25 years since I'd seen him.  How the fuck did he recognize me?  Finally he blurts out his name.  And I jump up and screech - "OMG - NO FUCKING WAY?  OMG!!!!"  And then I punch him in the arm - for some reason that is still unbeknownst to me.  I never punch anyone in the arm - so why I punched him will forever remain a mystery to me.  But I did.  And instantly his eyes lit up and his smile warmed the entire place - he was happy that I remembered him!  Sadly though.... I really didn't.  I still had no fucking clue who he was.  The name did sound somewhat familiar - but I was still not making the connection - but I didn't want him to know that.  Maybe that's why I punched him?  Still a mystery.

Anyway -I finally sat down and acted like a civilized human being and we chatted for at least half an hour.  He was living my dream.  Which totally pissed me off but in many ways I found it so ironic.  Here's this guy, that I supposedly went on a date with (I don't even think I was allowed to date back then), haven't talked to in over 25 years - may be closer to 30 actually because he was 4 years older than me (still is, oddly enough), and he's living my dream.  Started his career in corporate America, climbing the ladder, held prisoner by the golden handcuffs by a job that was sucking the life out of him.  And one day he woke up and decided that was it - he was sick of waking up on Monday, wishing it was Friday, and essentially wishing his entire life away day by day JUST BECAUSE HE HATED HIS CAREER CHOICE.  So he quit.  And now he's a cook!!!  He does BBQ catering ONLY - so he just cooks all day and people come and pick up their food from him.  And he was so warm.  And happy.  And gentle.  And sweet.  And we chatted and chatted like long lost friends who had just reconnected (which, evidently in his world we were - in mine though we were still total strangers because I have obviously killed off that part of my brain).   And he was pissed off about morbidly obese people like I am.  And he was grossed out by this one girl from our high school (just like I am) who cannot stay out of the tanning booth or stop bleaching her hair. 

And then he told me that he thought I was always pretty damned cute, but to be certain to go back and tell my husband that I'm even better lookin' as a 40 something woman than I ever was as a high school girl.  I thought that was sweet and it really boosted my confidence and sometimes I need that. 

And we just sat there and chatted and chatted.  And it never did click with me exactly WHO he was.  But I liked him. Not in a romantic kind of way - but I liked the person I was sitting with, talking to.  And as I drove home, I longed to spend more time with him and meet his wife and we could have them over to dinner.  He was just a cool fucking person and talking to him that morning made my entire day.  And when I got home, I scurried to the basement and dug out my yearbook from 1981 - and I looked him up.   Hmmm.  Nothing.  I still did not recall him - I mean his picture looked familiar - but not like someone that I knew really well or hung out with - but clearly we had as he remembered me and all of my friends and told stories - after all these years.  Feeling like a complete dumbass, I reached out to one of the girls he had mentioned - told her I'd run into him.  She laughed and said she had JUST run across a picture of all of together in high school.  What.The.Fuck?  Here's this kick ass human being, that I evidently knew at one point in my life and have now completely erased ALL memories of him?  Jesus I was a contrite little bitch back then.  I now wonder how many other amazing human beings I excused for whatever shallow reason made sense to me at the time? 

There's a place for people like me.  You guess the name of it.

The Day American Idol RUINED my life

Lots going on today - so much that mind is starting to reel again.  I really do function at my best when I'm totally overloaded with shit and totally stressed out.  I thrive on it actually.  It's an illness.  Don't judge.

I went to work and some really super awesomely great shit happened there - but I can't share it with you.  Sorry.   Well, wait - I will share THIS with you about work  (shhh - don't tell ANYONE) - I totally wore my new shirt to work today:

That's right - GUNS 'n ROSES!!  On the back of my shirt!!  And you know that when I put it on this morning I was totally feelin' like a freakin' bad ass rocker chick.  Nevermind that I actually purchased it at the State Barrel Race finals and I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be a cowgirl shirt - but it was hot and I didn't feel like wearing my cagirl boots so I instead donned it like I was super kick ass rocker gal.  And I was.  And not one fucking person even commented on it.  Not one.  Fuck all y'all.  Who sees someone in such a kick ass shirt and does NOT comment on how fucking rockin' it is?  (To my lone reader from work - by my choice - in your defense I don't think you saw me - because I know you would have commented on how fucking cool I was in that shirt so the fuck all y'all doesn't apply to you).

At that same barrel race - I also bought this kick ass sun dress that's all embellished with sequins and bling and I am TOTALLY going to wear it with my cagirl boots.  I don't know where I'm going in it yet - but trust me - I will wear that outfit at some point this summer.  And I will feel like I'm 18 all over again.  And I will stab real daggers into the eyes of ANYONE who gives me the stink eye when they see me in it.  Kay?  Just remember that.  I used to have a shirt that said, "I AM the Sheriff" on it - Or maybe it said, "I AM the Law" - I cannot recall - but it was a skimpy little red thing with bling all over it - and I LOVED to wear it out to the country bars.  That was back when I thought I was a really fucking hot 35 year old  - well I was actually - and also I was single so it seemed appropriate to wear such a shirt.  Then I got married and had child #3 and so I think the shirt got tossed in the trash.  I really wish I'd saved it.  Anyway - there I go again - off on a tangent of unknown direction and reason.

Then I did some other shit and blah blah blah and yada yada yada and then "DING"  the goin' home bell went off - so I went home.  Where I promptly changed clothes into my super kickass shorts I totally stole from Daughter #1 and headed out to take the flubbery beast for a walk.  Well, not only did the beast go with, but so did daughter #1 AND one of my other sons (not the prodigal son - he was busy playing XBox - STILL - for the 198th consecutive day).  YAY!  Walking buddies!  And my other son was actually the dog handler so I could walk freely and without his pain in the ass stopping to piss on every blade of grass he passed.  And the dingbat daughter #1 - who is NOT a blonde - decided to ride a very small razor scooter - barefooted - on a 2 mile walk.  She has blisters on her feet now - but I don't feel sorry for her because I told her it was a bad idea, but she is almost 15 and far smarter than I.  Now she limps like a peg-leg pirate on a swaying plank.  That's her problem.  Not mine. 

On the downhill stretch home, the other son challenges me to a race. 

Him:  Bleach blonde, I'll race you the rest of the way home - JOGGING.

Me:  Oh hell no!  You did NOT just challenge me?

Him:  I did - GO!

Me:  BRING IT PUNK - BRING IT!!!

So off we went - running, down a hill, my boobs flying up and then stretching low and getting saggier with each step.  My giant - can't see any of my crow's feet - sunglasses bouncing up and down on my already crooked nose, threatening to break it with each step.  But I did not stop - I ran my little heart out.  And then it was so pathetic how much fucking faster than him I was, I had to hold myself back.  I didn't want to embarrass him or hurt his feelings - and every now and again you have to let a kid win or be right - it's part of life - beat them or make them wrong 98% of the time, but 2% of the time - take the high road.  So I slowed down my pace, quite a bit actually  - I was shocked at slow he was moving - I damned near had to stop dead in my tracks to allow him to even catch up to me.  Fucking kids.  At one point I think I was even jogging in place to give the illusion that I was moving as fast as I could but he was still winning.  The things I do to build kids' self esteem.  I swear.  I should get mother of the year award.  I really should.

So now - I'm sore.  And it's only been 3 hours.  What.the.fuck?  I bet I won't even be able to get out of bed in the morning.  I think I might have dislocated my 4th vertebrae.  Or bruised my tail bone.  (don't ask). 

Oh shit - here it comes - winner of American Idol - - -  - --   oh fuck me.  Lee.  Second fucking year in a row that it's NOT the person it should be.  That's okay Mama Sox - most winners of this show never go on to do a damned thing with their life (at least that any of us ever hear about) - you, on the other hand - I will see in concert within the year.  I'm done with that show.  Although I admit I did enjoy seeing Janet Jackson perform tonight.  This Lee sings like SHIT.  Awful.  I swear I've heard him before.  Whatever. 

And now I just noticed I can't get my iPhone to power on.  What.the.fuck.  God Dammit.  Ever since this fucking Lee won American Idol, my life's gone to hell in a hand basket.  Thanks American Idol.  For ruining my fucking iPhone.  Fuckers. 

The blog entry that could not come to be - and other random shit -

God how I wish I could blog about work.  Granted, there is nothing that physically prohibits me from doing so, but my stupid fucking better judgment always kicks in and tells me it's just a hideously bad idea.  But it really is a shame, y'all would get a kick out of the shit that runs through my head about that place and the goings on there.  Too bad.  You'll never know.  Well, maybe one day you will, but until then I guess you're stuck with other random shit that runs through my crazy bleach blonde head.

So today, daughter #1 took the flubbery beast for his daily walk because I didn't have time to do it over lunch and I was afraid it would be raining by the time I got home from work.  (I still haven't seen the aforementioned rain which I thought was in the forecast, but whatever - it's May - in Kansas - just go with it).  So, the point of that long drug out explanation is this:  I TOOK MY DAILY WALK WITHOUT THE FAT ASS DOG IN TOW!!  I got to walk alone. - Just myself.  Without having to maneuver a 110 lb dog, without having to deal with every "watch dog" in the neighborhood nipping at my heels and without having to drag him away from every hydrant he insists on planting his nose into.  It was quite blissful - almost to the point I felt guilty for enjoying myself so much.  He so enjoys the little jaunts we go on, so I felt horrible that I was enjoying myself more without him.  I got over it pretty quick though.  I'm pretty damned good at finding reasons for feeling guilty and I quickly dismissed the guilt related to a dog.  Plenty of people out there to spend that energy on. 

Good GOD - get a grip here - I cannot carry a fluid thought for more than 2 minutes people.  Maybe it's because I'm also trying to watch the Real Housewives of NYC and the drama is pretty intense and, like it's a train wreck, I cannot turn away.  Those bitches are fucking NUTS.   And also, the husband came in to tell me a long story about something and someone and all I know is that it involved pot.  I'll have to ask him more about that later. 

So anyway, while I was walking - ALONE - it occurred to me that I was keeping pace with the music blaring from my iPod into my ears and not the dog like I normally am.  And it was kind of a slow song, so it was taking me a horribly long time to traverse the OH FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST.  NOW DAUGHTER #2 WANTS ME TO WATCH HER PUT ON HER PAJAMA TOP. 

Think.  Think. Think.  Just never fucking mind.  It wasn't that interesting or funny anyway.

Dog Walking aka Very Dangerous Day at the Park (HUH?)

I was going to tell a funny story to y'all. 

Then I forgot it.  Seriously.  No joshin'. 

So I'll tell you this one instead. 

Today at lunch, in the 88 degree sunshinin' weather with 83% humidity, I took my flubber ass on a walk around the neighborhood.  I clocked it in the car one day - it's 1.5 miles.  The dog and I cover it in just under 20 minutes.  We move fast.  He (the dog) needs to drop about 8 pounds and I need to build a muscle in my ass so it's not so flubbery and flat.  (Evidently 20+ years at a desk will do that to your ass - in case you're wonderin'). 

The neighborhood is pretty quiet during that time of day since most everyone is at work and because of that, that's the time I like to walk the dog.  When I'm not forced to wave at people I don't know and act nice and cordial and neighborly.  I just want to walk.  I'm not out on a social mission.  Sometimes I listen to my iPod and sing out loud while I walk.  It gives the few onlookers I pass something to talk about.  And that makes me smile.

Today, the dog and I were chased down by several dogs -
One is a bitter old retired police dog.  He's either retired, or never got his badge, I'm not sure which.  But he lives with a Sheriff's Deputy but he doesn't go to work with him - he just stays at home in the driveway and guards their house all day - and he's PISSED OFF about it.  As soon as he sees us coming, he hauls ass, barking loudly, to the edge of his yard and stops - and just barks.  And my pussy-assed 110 lb dog leaps into my arms and starts sucking his doo-claw just like Scooby fucking Doo.  And as soon as I carry my ferocious beast past that house, he gets back down and starts walking again, and Sarge returns to his post at the top of the driveway.  Every fucking day we go through this routine.  I think Sarge might be slow and that's why he never got his badge.  You'd think he'd start to recognize our scent and stop this asinine routine - but he never does.  We're NEW intuders EVERY time.

Then we round the corner and walk a bit and that's where we pick up a miniature Collie looking thing.  Shetland?  What are they called?  Looks like Lassie with 5" legs.  That fucker runs out every time from BEHIND his house and chases us for four houses.  My dog is less afraid of him than Sarge, so he doesn't leap into my arms, but instead, walks forward with his head turned backward, keeping an eye on shruken Lassie, so basically I end up dragging his 110 lb ass for those four houses.  Then Lassie gets a call from Timmy, who is likely in the fucking well again, and goes back home to save him and we can move freely on up the street.

Next on the walk, we're chased down by a fucking chihuahua.  Seriously?  You're the size of my dog's head - and you're honestly chasing us down, crossing the street in the process?  Give me a fucking break.  But he's a persistent little fucker and he seems to intimidate my puss of a dog, so I guess he gets the job done. 

And just as we're almost back home, from out of nowhere comes a miniature pincher of some sort.  Looks like he got put in the dryer on the hot cycle and he's also very displeased and yapping and carrying on and I'm wishing at this point I had that air pistol with me - just so I could shoot these little bastards in the ass with it while I walk.  And as I have thought, I wonder, "Who the fuck leaves their dog out ALL day while they are at work in an unfenced yard?"  They're probably at work bragging to everyone how their dog never runs off, etc.  Meanwhile, their dog is at home wreaking fucking havoc on everyone on foot all day long. 

They're not frightening dogs.  But they sure are annoying as hell.  I think I WILL take that air pistol with me next time.  Knowing my luck though, I'll probably get busted for having the damned thing because some old retired fart will report me as lurking through the neighborhood with a gun.  That's exactly the kind of luck I have!!

So that's my dog walking story, which was not all that funny unless you were there.  And also unless you were me, having those thoughts while I walked.  But like I said, I forgot the other story. 

Now - go eat some Rainbow Sherbet - it will cool you down and you will thank me for it later!

This totally could have been my article. Had someone else not thought of it and posted it first.

Excellent shit I saw on the innernets this week and wish I'd thought of:

http://www.theonion.com/articles/if-we-dont-stop-childhood-obesity-our-fat-toddlers,17455/

Newsworthy? Must be cuz I read it on the innernets.

Shit I dug up on the innernets this week that caused my jaw to drop - either because of its total ludicrousy or because I had no clue this shit was going on behind my back while I was busy with graduation planning:

http://worldofpopculture.com/?p=128 - I'm speechless because no one forewarned me of this.  How long has this been going on?  And oh BTW Chaz - you still look like a woman. 

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/8677486.stm -  Uh...  stupid on so many different levels I can't even describe them all.

http://www.cnn.com/2010/TECH/05/19/pakistani.facebook.shutdown/index.html?hpt=T2 - You can do this?  An entire nation can be blocked from Facebook?  Good grief.  I'm happier now than ever to be an American.

http://wcbstv.com/local/Adam.Wheeler.Delaware.2.1700695.html - who is REALLY at fault here?  Let us not forget that obviously someone in admissions did NOT do their job.

http://www.cnn.com/2010/SHOWBIZ/Movies/05/19/lindsay.lohan.court/index.html?hpt=T2 - Give it up Lindsay - you're just a fuck up through and through.  Seriously.  I looked it up in Websters and there was an 8x10 glossy of you.

http://www.cnn.com/2010/HEALTH/05/18/postpartum.dads/index.html?hpt=Sbin - Oh for God's sake.  When the fuck will men stop being such drama queens and vying for center stage all the fucking time?  WHEN? 

http://www.cnn.com/2010/US/05/19/new.york.kennedy.arrest/index.html?npt=NP1 - really?  Now there's a shocker.

Lost

I'm lost.  Can you help me please?  I currently have absolutely NO list(s) to follow.  I'm like a tumbleweed on a breezy Kansas day.  I keep turning to my handy dandy notebook by which I've lived for the last two months (or more) and it's providing me ZERO guidance.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zip.  Empty.  On that last Friday before Graduation, I had 5 or more lists to which I was referring continually.  They were loyal friends that provided insight to the next move I was to make.  The next task, the next breath.  And now, when I look at them......  the tasks are all marked off and there is nothing but a blank page staring me in the face:

Maybe I'll just start making shit up so I can feel productive?  I do have this "other" list - the MASTER List for 2010 - it's entitled GOALS:

I feel like we've done a pretty good job of knocking some of that shit out already this year and as I look through it now, wondering which item to tackle next, it occurs to me that I'm going to need about $20,000+ to make an admirable dent in the remaining items.  So, I really don't see much more of it getting done this year unless I trip into a pile of cash in the near future.  So, NOW WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO DO???

Graduation Update - Thank you for giving a shit and asking for this update!

So one of my devout followers requested an update to the graduation festivities.  Said I bitched and moaned about the preparations for weeks, then just left her hanging.  I'm sorry - that's the way I roll.  But because I only have 6 followers, I figger I better oblige her and give y'all an update.  So here it is, by popular demand! 

Okay - let's see.  Thursday.  Let's start with Thursday. That was the big shopping day.  The day I had to buy all that shit at Sam's Club.  That was fun.  And that's all I'm gonna say about that.  Now, the good part comes when the husband and I are standing in the rain at Sam's in the parking lot with a pallet cart AND a giant buggy full of shit trying to load this stuff into the Suburban.  I, of course, have a plan for how to load it so that we don't have to do a full unload/reload later.  I had everything perfectly separated into three different sections in the carts, based upon their final destination.  And then.  The phone rings.  It is the prodigal son.  He's talking.  On a rant.  He's not even breathing.  It's just a continual indecipherable rant about flunking a different class than the one he thought he was previously flunking (and was not).  He won't breathe.  He won't pause.  He just rants.  And the husband is asking where the mustard goes in the truck and an old woman is sitting in her car with her blinker on- wants THAT spot and she's willing to wait 1/2 hour for it.  And there I am.  Standing in the rain, with my hand up in the air - giving the pause sign - but the world won't stop spinning and the son won't stop ranting. 

About the time I was about to collapse in a puddle from stress, he breathed and I seized the opportunity to express my empathy:

Me:  Do you have your cap and gown and did they release you to graduate?
Him:  Yes, but...
Me:  That's all I give a shit about.  I don't have time to get caught up in your fucking drama so I'll have to call you back.  Love you. 

Click. 

And we finished our loading, and the crazy old bitch sat there with her blinker on waiting for our spot and off we went - on to our next destination.  We got all that boring shit done and blah blah blah - a bunch of other uneventful shit transpired. 

Later that night, the crazies came over to pull pork.  LOTS of pork.  And we pretty much got that done without any major problems.  And the ultimate crazy one was all kissing my ass like asking my permission and blessing on every fucking thing - like I really gave a shit at that point.  I was done stressing and done making decisions - although I wondered if she perceived that I might be on the brink of a breakdown and that's why she was patronizing me or did she perhaps trip across this blog?  Paranoia was setting in so I knew it was time for this shit to be over.

The next day was Friday, obviously because it follows Thursday.  And I had a giant fucking list of shit to do and I was going through it very methodically and getting it all done and I wasn't stressed and I started drinking at like 3:00 so I could get a good buzz on by 6:30.  And the whacko showed up looking like Richard Marx with more make-up than I'd worn to the Go-Go's concert in 1984.  And the other nutcase showed up with body glitter all over.  And I was all, "seriously?  I didn't even fucking powder my nose."

And we got shit set up at that party and people arrived and they ate and I continued to drink from my sippy cup through the night.  I don't know if I got to talk to anyone and I don't know who all was there - I was busy filling bowls with chips and refilling buns and cleaning tea off the floor and all that other shit.  As I recall there were a shit-ton of people there - more than expected and we kept running out of food and some guy was a smart ass and tried to trick me into beating the shit out of him but I didn't bite.  It must have been time for the party to end because we were cleaning up and things were going well until SOMEONE threw my fucking sippy cup in the trash.  THAT was the straw that broke the camel's back.  I picked up what was left of my shit and ordered the husband to drive me home - I was done cleaning because someone threw my drink away.  So he did.  He was afraid of me at that point I think.  So we came back home and so did a bunch of other people and we drank until the wee hours of the night. 

For which, I was QUITE thankful on Saturday morning when I got up and had to attend 4 other parties.  That day went off without a hitch and thanks to a few jiggers of the Lord and a Xanax, I was out by 11:00 p.m. 

Sunday morning I got up and felt quite rested and proceeded through my preparations without any problems.  I thought I maintained myself quite well as my house filled up with people and we were all cramped in fairly close quarters.  I heard laughing and saw smiling, so I think they were having fun.  I was doing good at enlisting help and didn't feel too stressed by all of it.  So I had a beer to celebrate my total lack of being freaked out.  And it was yummy.  So I had a few more. 

Then we had to go to graduation.  What a downer.  I mean I know it was the purpose behind the party - but seriously?  Just send a live innernets feed to my house.  But I went.  Because it was the right thing to do.  And they ran through the honor roll students and I totally did not hear my son's name being called.  Then they ran through some other academic award thing and I again did not hear my son's name called.  Fucking people clapping and shit - I know he was on that list - I just missed it being called.  And his name was also not in the scholarship flier due to receiving it AFTER printing.  FUCK THAT.  I demand a re-print.  The principal clearly said to NOT use air horns and some fuck ups STILL used them anyway. I was pissed at their blatant disobedience and bargained that their kids had spent quite a bit of time in detention during their career at the school.  Then they called my son's name and I clapped and yelled and then it was over and I left. 

We got back home and started swilling back the beers like we hadn't had a drink in months.  And the ex and his wife and 52 kids were here and we were all in the garage, smoking and drinking and having a good ol' time.  The ex even told his 6 stories about the son's childhood.  And I felt sorry for him.  Sad that was all he has.  Those 6 fucking lame-ass pathetic stories that are 10+ years old.  He'd probably have a coronary if he knew half the shit from the last 5 years.  I was drunk.  But not THAT drunk, so I didn't blab.  They eventually left and I kissed him on the cheek and also hugged my step-wife and told her I loved her.  I should have likely stopped drinking then, but I didn't because I had a 72 gallon cooler full of beer.  So I set out to finish 'er off. 

At 2:30 a.m. I decided I should likely go to bed.  So I did.  And then I got up at 7:30 the next day.  And then I slept for another 12 hours.  And that's the story of graduation.  Oh.  The son?  During all of this?  I dunno.  He was here - doing something - in which I was not involved.

I totally almost wrecked my car trying to turn this song off. There should be laws against this.

As I was driving along today I heard the song "Eye of the Tiger" and it reminded me how much I fucking hate that song.  Seriously.  HATE IT.  First off, I don't even fucking understand the song or what it means.  Secondly, we did a dance routine to it in high school cheer so I'm pretty sure I already heard it like 10,000 times in my life and NEVER need to hear it again.  EVER. 

Here is a list of 9 other songs I fucking hate and never want to hear again posted in random order because I hate them all equally (I mean is there REALLY a need to rate different levels of hatred?):

1. Tim McGraw - "Don't Take the Girl" - normally a devout Tim McGraw fan, this song is an intolerable illustration of just how whiney this man can be. The only other thing he can do to make me vomit in my own mouth is show up at a concert with that bimbo of a wife of his. 
2. Nena - "99 Luftballoons" - I don't even know what a "luftballoon" is - so I certainly don't understand why she's singing about 99 of them.
3. Sammy Hagar - "I Can't Drive 55" - #1 I hate the "Red Rocker" and anything he sings - but seriously - I can't drive 55?  Nuff said.
4. Styxx - "Mr. Roboto" - normally a fan of Styxx but sorry guys - I'm not lovin' this one.
5. Peter Gabriel - "Sledgehammer" - and all of Peter Gabriel's other songs and ridiculously asinine videos that go with them.
6. Eric Carmen - "All By Myself" - Just listen to it - I won't need to explain my hatred toward it after that.
7. Donna Summer - "Macarthur Park" - Someone left the cake in the rain - wah wah wah - Shut.the.fuck.up and go get the damned cake out of the rain.
8. Genesis - "I Can't Dance" - and you can't sing either - don't leave that part out.
9. I cannot even believe I'm putting this on here - but it's true - I hate this song - sorry my lover Kenny Chesney - "She thinks my tractor's sexy" - for all the right things you've done over the years and for all the love I've showered on you - Please - for the love of God and little baby Jesus - STOP playing this song!!

What songs do you love to hate??  Please share with me!!

Those Wonderful School Years

So my dad cleaned out his basement and found a bunch of shit that he thought a few of us in the family might enjoy having at our own homes.  My treasure?

That's right.  A book chock-full of my elementary school day memories!  YAY!  I have to admit - when I saw it, I was filled with emotion and wanted to sit and look at it right that instant.  I recalled how I used to look at it as a little girl and how the flood of memories of years gone by would overcome me.  I just KNEW I would have that exact same experience going through this little gem at this stage of my life.  But since it was the prodigal son's graduation day, I decided to put it aside and look at it another time.  I know.  Pretty selfless of me, but sometimes I have those moments.  A few days passed and I got the book out and opened it with great anticipation.  Here are a few of the awesomely rich memories I found inside this book:

Yep!  That is totally a letter from THE WHITE HOUSE!!  Check it OUT!!!  It was a response to a letter I wrote to President Nixon in 1974.  Don't judge. To prove it - here's a picture of the letter (because the fucker sent it back to me along with his well-crafted response by an aide):

Notice my Emily Post etiquetteness in the letter - Dear Nixon.  Not President Nixon.  Not Mr. Nixon.  Just Nixon.  We were close like that and so it was okay for me to just address him as Nixon.  Also, to prove to Nixon just how up on current events I was - notice my last line:  "Rusha Nixon".  It took me a few hours to figure this one out as I was going through this book of scraps memories.  Don't judge.  I was not a bright child.  As a matter of fact, my report card that same year proves it.  Which is a nice segue into THAT year.  The year from HELL.  Second grade.  It all started with that wretched teacher of mine - Bitch From Hell.  Her name was Margaret Riddick.  I don't have a picture of her but she looked something like this:

Shut up.  She had bright orange hair and big giant red lips and looked just like that.  And also, my little memory book thingie says RIGHT HERE that I wanted to be an Artist when I grew up.  Clearly I'm living my dream.  Don't be a hater.

Anyway.  I remember I hated her so much and later in elementary school, I recall she fell down during recess and got a bloody face and I kind of felt bad for her (after I got done laughing my ass off at her) and as I grew older, over the years, I forgave her and got over my ill-feelings toward her.  Now that I see my report card from her again - I'm sorry I ever wasted any part of my life on coming to terms and forgiving her for a couple of reasons.

#1:

Needs Improvement in practicing self-control in halls, classroom and playgrounds?  Seriously?  And also in showing good sportsmanship?  You fucking fell down on the sidewalk while walking.  What.the.fuck do you even know about how to act on a playground? 

#2

A C+ in Writing?  Fuck you.  You stamped your name on my report card with a rubber stamper - so you tell me who the fuck up in Writing is?  And an "S-" in music?  I don't even know what an "S-" is because it's not on the "Explanation of Marks" section so clearly you don't fucking follow direction well either, now do you?  I assume it means you thought I sucked at Music?  Whatever.  I'm good at it - ask ALL my friends and family.  GOOD AT IT.  And what's this "S" bullshit in Art?  Did you not see my stated wish to be an Artist when I grow up?  My artistic skills were awesome back then and they still are. 

Okay.  I'm not over it. And I'm not going to forgive her a second time.  She was a horrible, horrible woman.  Hopefully she was fired.  And I'm pretty certain she's dead by now - likely in hell telling everyone else how horrible they are and how much they all suck ass and giving them a lecture. 

There are lots of other little treats in this book, some of which, even while holding and perusing, jog absolutely no memories whatsoever.  Likely they're not even my things - just random shit my parents stuffed in the book to make it look like they were attentive and sentimental to my formative years.  There is, however, what appears to be a letter from my cousin that I cannot recall if I ever responded to or not:

I hate it when I write someone and they don't respond, so I'm sorry Reg.  I will respond now to this sweet letter you wrote me in 1974:

Dear Reggie,

My arm does feel better, thank you, however it was my wrist that I broke.  And although it appears to have healed from the initial break, age and abuse of my body has resulted in a weakened joint and general aches and pains have taken over.  It WAS horrible.  Thank you for your obvious  concern over my accident, however it was not the last time I fell down the stairs and actually this misstep only taught me how to be more graceful in what would soon become a life-long weekly occurrence.  Regarding school.  Yes, I did return.  I even went on to graduate High School and several years later I also graduated from College.  Since I'm still paying off my student loans from that last little stint at college because I chose to drink away my free ride wasn't properly focused, I won't be returning anytime in the near future to obtain my Masters or PhD though.  As it's now been nearly 36 years since I was in the hospital with this broken wrist, I really don't recall what it was like there.  Although back then they likely allowed people to smoke and drink in the hospital so I'm guessing it was much more pleasurable less sanitary than a similar stay in today's world might be.  I hope to see you soon also!

Love, The Bleach Blonde

And thank you, Dad.  For bringing this book to me.  I'm sure everyone reading also thanks you.

Found It!!!

Y'all remember back when I was a total fuck up and discovered I'd left an entire laundry basket of dry cleaning AT the dry cleaners?  Yeh.  That was fucking genius on my part.  So, last week in the flurry of graduation preparations, I ran out to the store to get the husband some new slacks - since I totally left his at the cleaners and he didn't have any.  Slacks are pretty fucking exciting, so after he took them out of the bag and said, "thanks" - he went to hang them in his closet.  At which time, he pulls out the fucking slacks I'd left at the cleaners.  What.the.Fuck????  How could it be?  How the hell did those get in his closet?  I'd totally already told him I'd lost them at the cleaners and apologized emphatically.  How did he get them back? 

So I said, "Huh.  Now that is weird.  I thought I lost those for you?  But that doesn't really explain what happened to the other clothes we're missing - the dress shirts, those two black dresses of mine and some other shit I cannot for the life of me recall what it even is but I miss it every day and wish I had it back." 

And as I'm carrying on and on about how I lost that other shit at the cleaners and for the life of me do not know how those slacks made it back into his closet, I'm walking along in our bedroom and all of a sudden, I see it. The white laundry basket that I've looked frantically for for a month and determined I've left at the cleaners and is gone forever:

Now.  I walk into that room AT LEAST 10 times a day.  It's part of our bathroom.  And evidently that basket has been sitting there so fucking long that it's now just become part of the permanent fixtures of the room and I do not even fucking notice it.  EVER.  So I start laughing when I see it - and I call the husband in and say, "Come here and look at this!"

Husband:  What?

Me:  Do I see it?

Husband:  Do you see what?

Me:  That basket?

Husband:  What basket?

Me:  That white one - the one sitting right the fuck there - the one with our lost dry cleaning in it?

At that point we both about died laughing at how fucking blind we both have been and the whole situation adds a very welcome dose of levity to the stress of graduation!  I mean seriously?  Jesus. Clean the bathroom once in a while and you might fucking notice a laundry basket sitting on the floor.  So in the end, I'm actually a BIGGER dumbass than I originally thought. 

ASSanine Shit

Because I'll be kind of busy for a few days here and likely unable to post in the present and keep you updated on a minute by minute account of what's going on, I'm going to post ahead. 

1.  That means I'll be rambling about some inane bullshit NOW and posting it LATER and you'll THINK it's in the present and be all, "What.the.fuck is she doing blogging, doesn't she have graduation duties to tend to?  Bitch needs to get her priorities straight." 

2.  Maybe I should start twittering and y'all could follow me minute by minute that way? 

3.  I do not have time to start twittering. 

4.  But it would be fun so maybe I will.

Have you ever known someone who had to have hemorrhoid surgery?  If so, when you got the news, did you promptly reply with, "Well that's a complete pain in the ass?"  < insert long awkward silence here >  Because I did.  Reply in that manner, that is.  Not have the surgery.  Yet.  And ever since I got this piece of TMI, I've been gnawing on tree bark to ensure I get enough daily fiber intake and can hopefully avoid the whole innards hanging out your ass problem. 

Well, once I had a hemorrhoid.  Seriously?  Am I fucking blogging about this?  Yes.  I am.  Move along if you're not interested in how the story unfolds - but do not judge. 

So, anyway - I had this thing down there. And after a few days, I diagnosed myself with cancer.  It was a malignent tumor on my parts that have names, but none of them make any of those parts sound any more attractive or less personal.  Fuck.  I really was NOT in the mood to die from this tumor down there, I was single and had small children and the thought of them growing up without me AND facing the stigma of having to tell people their mom died of a giant fucking tumor on her pooper was just really more than I could deal with.  So I rolled my dice and went to the doctor. 

"And what is the nature of your visit today?

Um - I have a beach ball growing out of my ass evidently.  Or maybe it's one of the other parts down there it's growing out of - I can't really get a good angle on the thing. 

"Okay then let's have a look" 

That woman wasn't down there more than 2 seconds and she looks up and says, "It's a hemorrhoid." 

A WHAT?  Well that's fucking embarrassing.  How the hell did that get there?  I was pretty sure I'd swallowed a beach ball and it was trying to make its way back out.  And also are you sure?  Because I diagnosed it as a malignent tumor -

"It's a hemorrhoid."

Fine.  Fuck you nurse ass.  Ass nurse.  Ms. Ass Nurse.  Thank you for ruining my perfectly good and also incredibly accurate terminal diagnosis with your helpful tidbit.  I'll be going now.

And so I left that office and made a note to NEVER go back to her again.  And to eat a ton of fiber every day to hopefully avoid that situation again.  I headed to the store to get some Preparation H and sure enough - it worked great!  But then because it is sold in 5 gallon tubes, I had a shit ton of it left over.  And THAT is when I read that you could use the shit on bags under your eyes and it would decrease the inflammation and you'd look more rested.  Why not?!  If it's good enough for my ass, then it's certainly good enough for my eyes!  And guess what?!!!  It worked GREAT for that too! 

Hopefully you have found this post educational and are able to glean something from the information I've shared with you.  What, I do not know nor can I even begin to imagine.

ENOUGH!

So I've had it.  I've absolutely reached my limit on this shit.  I've told you before about the nut case on the graduation party planning committee.  That sounds so formal and official, doesn't it?  Graduation party planning committee a.k.a four sets of parents stressed and emotionally taxed making a feeble attempt to throw a joint party for their sons.  Call it whatever the fuck you want.  I call it BULLSHIT.  I told you that one gal was on my nerves MONTHS ago.  Well it ain't gettin' any better sweethearts. 

She has managed to turn the task of ordering and retrieving the cakes into a goddamned career path.  I didn't think it was even possible.  But she has.  So while me, the hubby and a single dad are running around like crazy asses, floating the funds for this party, buying one of everything at Sams and pulling the pork and coordinating the details, she's out picking up the fucking cake.  The urge to smash cake in her face at the party is getting difficult to deny.  That bitch better stay til the bitter end and help clean up - that's all I have to say about that.

I now know where her son gets his annoying tendencies.  I used to always tell the prodigal son that the other boy was quite fortunate to have such nice friends, lest he get his ass kicked on a daily basis.  The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, that's for damned certain.  MUST GET THROUGH NEXT TWO DAYS WITH A SMILE ON MY FACE AND NOT CONCERNED WITH HER.  I really think I will ingest at least one Xanax followed by a beer chaser on Friday before this party.  I think I'll still be able to walk.  I just hope I'll be able to remember what happens so when I lose sight of my senses and kick her fat ass, I'll be able to relate the entire incident to you!!  I should likely make sure the husband is also drugged.  He's more apt to bring on confrontation than I am.  I'll just be in the bathroom talking smack on her - I'd never actually confront her. 

And OMG if she isn't biggest fucking liar and embellisher of all truths.  I was sitting right the fuck here at my table, and listened to the single dad call her and ask her a question.  I heard every word he said.  Next thing I know, another mom on the committee calls me and tells me pain in the ass just called her and single dad said "blah blah blah" - - - it was one lie after another what she said he said.  I just sat here and listened and I was like, "uh, no.  That's NOT what was said or asked."  And then I got that feeling - the one I used to get during the whole fender bender debacle of 2009 that involved the pain in the ass's annoying son.  LIES.  And EMBELLISHMENTS - all for the purpose of stirring up shit.  SHIT DISTURBER.  I just looked it up and found an 8x10 glossy of her fat ass.

BREATHE!  in AND out.

BREATHE

That should be on the "the list" - it really should because there have been a few times this week when I've found myself forgetting to breathe.  I start to feel faint and dizzy and my fingers are turning purple and I'm all What.the.fuck is wrong with me?  Then it occurs to me - SHIT!  I haven't breathed in like 15 minutes - Jesus.  It's a wonder I'm even still alive. 

Here's an update on the list:

See.  It ALREADY looks like I'm almost done with everything!  YAY!  I think there is even some shit that got done but never made it to the list.  As soon as I remember what it was, I'm going to add it and immediately cross it off.  I like to do that - to show just how fucking amazing and efficient I am.  Most of the stuff that remains on the list at this point cannot be done until the last minute or day before - so I'm feeling pretty damned good about all of it.  Now, we've been threatened with shitty weather all week and since shit's getting in order this really pisses me off.  If I've put myself out doing all this work and end up with my house and yard disorganized because of a fucking tornado I'm going to be REALLY fucking pissed.  Of course, if it results in a new paid-for-by-insurance roof on the house, I think I can get over it pretty damned quickly.  I'm really torn on whether I should pray for the shitty weather or pray that it stays away.  Graduation vs Roof.  It's really a toss up to me.  I mean, maybe everyone would feel sorry for us and come over and clean up the yard and recover all my belongings from the neighboring yards WHILE I'm at graduation? 

I dunno.  I've played it out several different ways in my head and I just cannot arrive at the perfect scenario.  I guess I shouldn't stay awake at night worrying about it and focus on more important things - like ummm - SLEEPING? 

So, remember on the "the list" - one of the items was to make another list?  Genius, I know.  So I tackled that item and now have this "other" list:

Jesus.  That's a whole lot of shit to buy.  And there's more on another page that I didn't photograph.  I know, I wanted to spare you all from your feelings of inadequacy from cowering in my shadow of wonder and amazingness. 

Welp, no further time to belittle you all.  I must get back to "the list".................

Blog vs Gypsy Life

So back at the beginning of the year, I decided that 2010 would be the year that I would start blogging and I was quite convinced I could blog myself into a new career - that of blogger.  Yesterday I got a $100 from Google!  I don't know what it's for or how to use it because I'm pretty sure I have to spend it on one of their services - but it was awful nice of them to make such a generous contribution toward the promoting and marketing of my blog.  LOVE GOOGLE!  And also, I checked my stats and I've already made FIFTEEN CENTS this year on this blog!!!!  WOO HOOO!!!!!!!!!  I can really start to see my new future unfolding - I'm living my dream!!

Maybe I should go back to Plan B - which was to COOK my way into a new career.  It seemed so clear the time I conceived it.  2010:  Peddle bottled water and cans of beer at Sturgis for two weeks during the summer.  That would thereby create enough cash to move to the 2011 plan which was to sell FOOD at Sturgis for two weeks.  I got this kick ass idea when I heard of a dude that peddles BBQ sandwiches up there for the bike rally and made $193,000 last year.  Net.  I mean - GET.THE.FUCK.OUT - $193,000 for peddling some food to a bunch of drunk wanna-bes?  How hard could this be?  Sure, you'd be cooking most of the year in preparation of those two weeks, but big shit.  It's not like your chained to your desk waiting for the phone to ring and having to respond to some whiny assed bawl baby on the other end of the line. 

I love this plan actually.  I love it so much that I've already imagined home schooling the youngest and just being a gypsy for the rest of my life.  Peddling some sort of food.  I thought maybe something like tuna casserole.  No one else up there would have it.  And since everyone would be sick of eating sandwiches, they'd surely all drop by and get some comforting tuna casserole, right?  Does tuna casserole freeze?  I don't know.  What about spaghetti?  I know that freezes.  I just can't seem to make up my mind.  But I'm pretty sure I could sell a shit ton of bottled water and canned beer - surely I'd make more than the fifteen cents this blog has yielded year-to-date.

Ric Rac

I'm in the mood for some ric rac.  My Grandma H. used to make me all kinds of clothing as a child and it was always embellished with ric rac.  I fucking despised that ric rac back then and everything it fucking stood for.  Homemade clothes sans designer labels like Jordache and missing things like PANT LEGS and NEVER made out of denim.  "Here Agnes!  I made you a dress - it's got a red/white gingham turtle on the skirt with RIC RAC trim."  YAY!  I wanted JEANS.  Tight jeans with fancy shit on the pockets.  But jeans were for farmers and we weren't farmers.  That's what she told me.  "Only POOR farmers wear jeans.  RICH farmers don't even wear jeans.  I was a RICH farmer and I never wore jeans, EVER!"

Who knew.  But I knew I hated that fucking turtle applique on that blue dress.  But as I recall, she also made one for one of my friends so that we could dress like twins, so there was some comfort in knowing that there were now going to be two of us zipping around town looking like dipshits in our homemade fucking dresses because turtles are fucking cooler than any design on ANY pair of Jordache jeans ever made. 

Somedays she would run out of ric rac while she was sewing.  I know, right?  How the hell do you run out of ric rac?  Like me, you probably have the same yard of ric rac you bought 20 years for some project and have been hauling it around all these years never finding a use for it.  But she managed to run out of ric rac quite often.  Damned near daily during the summer months when I was there so she could fashion me a new school wardrobe for the fall.  (Because every 5th grader wants an 8 piece ensemble constructed from 4 different fabric patterns that you can mix and match and make into 178 different outfits and because no other 5th grader would ever fucking catch on to your act). 

So there I'd be, all watching some old black and white movie, ironing my grandpa's underwear and handkerchiefs and I'd hear her, "AGNES!!!  Get in the car - we need to go to Alco and get some ric rac."  Well, this would have been fine, but she was usually drinking scotch by 11 a.m. and pretty saucy by the time she ran out of ric rac at 3 p.m.  But off we'd go in her car.  Barreling down the narrow street in her big ass luxury car, never once letting the car actually switch gears.  As soon as she'd hear that engine start to rev up and right before it got ready to switch gears, she'd slam her foot on the brake.  The engine would simmer down and she'd stomp on the gas again.  Revving it up to just about....NO... BRAKE.  No switching gears for you car.  You are under my command and you will stay in this one gear all the way to Alco.  And so it went.  Day after day.  Summer after summer.  One asinine ric rac trimmed outfit after another.  God how I despised that shit. 

Last year my mom made me an apron and when she asked me how I wanted it to look - I told her.  "Black and white gingham, with hot pink ric rac - BIG ric rac - the kind that is HUGE" - and that's EXACTLY how my mom made that apron.  And I love it.  And everytime I put it on, I'm reminded of my beloved grandmother and her love for ric rac.  And also of her inability to properly operate a vehicle.  But most of all - how I once hated the shit and now I yearn for it. 

Look at it http://www.bing.com/images/search?q=ric+rac&FORM=BIFD#  it's GORGEOUSLY versatile.  I must go buy some right away!!!

Graduation List

I know, I know.  Y'all are SICK of hearing about graduation.  Too bad.  Go to the next blog if you don't want to read about it anymore.  But - this is my list of shit to get done before graduation.  I thought I'd share it now and then share an updated list with you as the day gets nearer just so you can also see how fucking hilarious it is that I even made the damned list to begin with.

Notice:  there are only 2 items crossed off the list.  They both deal with plants.  (lipstick on the pig) and neither are relevant to the actual task at hand.  But, I got them done!!!  Okay - I lied.  One of them "got done" because the husband gave me a plant flower thingamabop for Mother's Day.  Yes.  I'm that fucking lame.  I totally tried to lie and say I actually accomplished TWO items on the list when in fact I did not.  Get the fuck over it.  I have. 

But I love this list.  Some of it is so fucking critical to the whole success of the graduation and celebration of this moment. 

• Buy new hand towels
• Paint toenails!
• Make a list of shit to buy at Sam's Club (classic - an item on one list is to make another list)
• Dust

This shit is important.  Then there's the other shit on the list - you know - the filler - the shit that is there for placeholder value only to make me look like I've really busted my ass in preparation of the whole thing.  Shit like:

• Order a cake
• Talk to brother about the food
• Finish picture board
• Graduation Card

I mean seriously?  Is that shit even important?  Oh, and here's a classic item on the list:  Pay RE taxes.  REALLY?  What.the.Fuck do real estate taxes have to do with graduation?  I don't even know why that's on the fucking list.  I should just cross it off and forget it.  And my personal favorite and the one I'm looking forward to the ABSOLUTE most:  MAKE 10 LBS OF POTATO SALAD.  Fuck.  My arm already hurts just thinking of having to stir that shit. 

I'll update you later on how I've progressed through the list.  In the meantime, I've got to make a list of shit to buy at Sam's Club....

Happy Mother's Day!!!

Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers out there reading this blog!!!  Mother's Day.  Always a weird day for me for some reason.  Mothers are so under-appreciated and I always carry a personal grudge for that fact and especially on Mother's Day. 

I woke up this morning, tired because I sat in the garage drinking beer and smoking 18,000 cigarettes until 3 a.m. with the husband.  That was MY mother's day celebration.  Forcing him to listen to me sing every single old song ever sung by Dr. Hook, Little River Band and England Dan & John Ford Coley.  Odd collection, I know.  When I woke up, it occurred to me that I haven't cooked in days.  And following that realization, it occurred to me I also have not eaten in days.  Thursday I had some salad the size of my hand while at a college visit - so there's my veggies.  Friday I ate a cold leftover hamburger while putting away the groceries.  Later that night I stole 5 popcorn chicken thingies from the little one.  And yesterday I had a McChicken from McNasty's $1 menu.  Yes.  You read that correctly.  That is what I've had to eat since Thursday.  And beer.  So evidently, if I do not operate the stove in this house, we do not eat.  I wonder if the kids have eaten?  I left the little one at a friend's house last night - I'm sure she ate there.  They are probably even having breakfast right now. 

Friday I treated myself to some new jammies.  I haven't had new jammies in 8 years!  They were wonderful - soft and had all their threads.  I felt like a princess in them Friday night.  Then fucking Aunt Flo shows up from out of nowhere overnight and adds her fucking mark to them.  That bitch.  But it's just like her to pull this shit on me. 

Anyway - back to Mother's Day.  I found it curiously ironic that the grocery store had a 3 day Sale for Mother's Day and highlighted in that ad:  Hamburger Helper and Brownie Mix - 99 cents each.  Seriously?  Fucking Hamburger fucking Helper?  On Father's Day they have REAL food on sale.  And as I walked along giggling to myself over this ridiculous reality, it occurred to me that I really wouldn't give a shit if my family DID make me hamburger helper on Mother's Day - so long as I didn't have to cook it or clean up - I wouldn't care one bit.  I almost jump-started the process by buying them a few boxes, but the shelves had already been emptied.  Not a single box of the shit to be had.  And no brownie mixes either.  Who knew.

We are officially one week out from graduation.  I can tell you that this house is literally a pig sty.  And I don't give a shit. Because ANY work I do NOW will just have to be redone in a few days, so I'm just going to let it continue to pile up and up and up.  And then when I do clean for graduation - ANY amount of effort I put forth will have such dramatic results that I'll think I really worked my ass off - which is really all that I'm after.  I'm not after a picture perfect clean house - I'm after that martyr affect of having really fucking knocked myself out over the whole thing.  And also now that I've realized that that's what I'm really after, the pressure is off to perform.  I'm so glad I've gotten that all squared away.  I also love how I can fabricate some fucked up mental illness to justify NOT doing any house work.  It's truly genius!

Look how cute - the husband made me breakfast in bed and is now refilling my coffee for me!  I'd feel like a queen if it wasn't so pathetic that I stayed up until 3 a.m. drinking and singing into my beer bottle like it was a microphone.  And as I sang, I would notice the husband drifting off to sleep, so I'd yell, "WAKE THE FUCK UP - YOU'RE MISSING THE BEST FUCKING ENGLAND DAN AND JOHN FORD COLEY SONG EVER WRITTEN!!!  Here.  I'll rewind it and start from the beginning so you can hear the whole thing.. I'm not talkin' bout movin' in and I don't wanna change your life..."   If you don't know the song - you really should google it.  I like to follow it up with Dr. Hook's "I got stoned and missed it" - That's a funny ass song!  The two go great hand-in-hand.

So - at the beginning I think I said this day confuses me or something like that - so here's the part that confuses me that maybe you can help me out with:  Are the children supposed to orchestrate the plans for the mother and ask to see her on Mother's Day?  Or is the mother supposed to coordinate the seeing of the children?  I've been confused on this for a very long time and I can tell that my children are also confused because of my confusion.  I need to get this shit figured out before they are adults and out of the house.  HELP!!!!

UPDATE:  Check out the card I got from the prodigal son!!  I love that kid!!

Flubbery Fool

I know.  I know.  I've been AWOL again.  It happens.  Get used to it.  After I posted on Sunday that I'd discovered I was not grounded from the whiskey, I went ahead and indulged.  Then I indulged some more.  And some more.  And the next thing I know, it was 1:30 a.m. and the kids were all, "Seriously Mom.  GO TO BED.  Why are you waking us up to ask who sings that song and insisting we get up and dance with you?"  They are so not fun.  So I went to bed because I had to get up and go to work anyway. 

Well, what a HUGE mistake, and although I didn't feel too horrible, the day was insane crazy nuts at work and I never had time for lunch and I was running around like a maniac all day.  And I've been in THAT mode ever since - trying to catch up.  Last week was the full moon week, so I have no clue why this week is so crazy assed busy at work -but it is.  And I don't have time to busy at work, I've got a gajillion things to do before graduation next week.  But alas, my give-o-shit meter on getting those things done is very quickly waning. 

Originally I wanted to have the new tile down in the kitchen.  Then I decided maybe I'd just get on my hands and knees and scrub the existing floor.  Then I talked myself into just mopping the floor.  And now, fuck it.  15 minutes into the celebration the floor will be trashed anyway so why bother?  I'm more focused on getting this skin tag removed from my armpit now that it's sleeveless shirt weather than I am with cleaning that fucking disgusting floor.  And also, what the hell is it with me and these bizarre skin issues?  Corns, skin tags, what's next?  A sixth toe?  A second head?  Maybe a 3rd boob?  I hope it's firm and supple.

Well since I've been mainly consumed by work this week, all my funny stories are about work and since I don't blog about work out of fear of being fired, I guess that's all I have to say about all that. Oh except for my fucking fat bastard neighbor.  Jesus.  He weighs AT LEAST 600 pounds I'd say.  And yet insists on going around without a shirt on. I damned near lost my lunch when I was walking the dog tonight.  There he was, in all his flubberness, standing out in his yard - without a shirt.  It's wrong.  I'm the size of his thigh, okay, maybe his arm - his forearm - well maybe his pinkie toe  - and I had on more clothes.  Then I was very very thankful that someone had invented clothes.  I don't know who that was, but I'm definitely a fan.  Wonder if they're on Facebook? 

He drives a mini truck.  It really is mini - like one of those Ford Ranger jobs, and I think he removed the front seats and just drives from the back seat or something like that.  Anyway, one day, he met the husband and I on the road and he did not have on a shirt that day either.  And we were in our car and I couldn't really see his entire body, so after we were done chatting with him, and we drove off, I said, "Please tell me that fat fuck had pants on"  - the husband said he couldn't tell because his giant belly was laying all over the front seat.  Gross.  I mean seriously.  I totally get that you could gain some weight.  I do.  But what I do not get is how the fuck you just give up and let yourself get that damned huge.  Like that 1/2 ton man on TV - really?  I mean, how does this work?  One day you're gorging yourself at the local trough and the next day you're all, "Fuck it.  Today is the day I can no longer get out of bed so I'm now bedridden.  Hey honey?!  I'm bedridden now - can you go to the store and get me some Depends?"  Is that how it works? 

I saw this guy on TV that was bedridden, so his wife moved the fucking stove into the living room where they'd put the fat bastard's bed so he could fucking lie in bed and cook.  What.the.fuck.  So let me get this straight:  She goes to work every day and he lies in bed and shits his diapers and cooks her dinner so she can come home and clean his ass up (literally) and eat the food he prepares?  I mean shit.  I'm an enabler - but she was the an enabler to the nth degree.  The guy is dead now I think.  I think that was the update to the story I saw last.  Did they ever really think that story would end differently?

I used to watch ALL the fat people shows.  Every single last one of them. It was like watching a train wreck - it made me sick, but I couldn't stop watching.  But then I noticed that my 7 year old wouldn't eat - EVER - and then she started referencing the fat fucks on TV that she had seen when hanging out with me during snuggle time.  I think she was scared to eat for fear of ending up like one of those people, so I had to stop watching the shows.  It was for her health.  But I am curious how the fat ass in Mexico is doing and if he and his wife (I know, right?) are still together and if he was ever able to get out of that damned bed, or are they still towing him and his bed behind a big rig around town so he can see the sights?  Jesus.  That is pathetic on so many different levels, I can't even explain them all.  I'm stuck in my bed because I'm too fucking fat.  So the community removed an entire fucking wall of my house (which is really a department store I think) and put in sliding doors, that way I can sit in the window and see the people all day and they can see me.  And then when I want to go about town, a fucking tow truck just hooks up to my bed and drags me around town.  It's great!  I'm my own parade! 

Seriously?  Did I just go off on fat people for that long?  Yes.  And I could go on and on for days.  Months.  Years.  Like I said, I get gaining a few pounds.  But I'm talking about morbidly obese folk.  When you reach 100 lbs overweight - think about putting the fucking fork down.  Gluttony is a sin.  Isn't it?  I can't find my Bible to double check and I wouldn't know where to look in it anyway.  Not to mention how rude it is to take up so much fucking space in the world.  It's selfish.  It's disgusting and it's wrong.  I love those fatties riding the rascals around the grocery store.  Seriously?  GET UP and fucking WALK - you might burn a calorie.  Okay -I'm doing it again - BACK on the rant.  See.  I cannot stop.  Once I get going on this subject it's like instant diarrhea of the mouth and it's impossible to shut me up.  Bottom line is this - my neighbor needs to wear a shirt when he's in his front yard.  Stupid fuck made me go off on a tangent for 1/2 hour now.

Oh - and one more thing.  He has miniature dogs - like a mini pincher and a mini-chihuahua.  And there I was, walking a lab that's exactly 3/4 my siz!e.  What is it with him and this mini shit?  Christ.  Now I'm going to have to research into the psyche of huge people that makes them collect miniature shit.  DAMMIT - I'm too fucking busy for this shit people.  I have drapes to vacuum.  Something tells me I'll know the secret to this mini shit before those drapes get done though.....  stay tuned

Another lame post about boring shit - sorry y'all

Sunday.  Why is this always such a melancholy day for me?  Must be because I know that tomorrow it's back to the grindstone.  And while I enjoy my job and am quite thankful for it - there's always a little part of me that harbors dread toward Monday. 

Yesterday was a big day for the little bear, she rode a Harley AND a horse.  She had better luck on the Harley than the horse, since the damned horse bucked her off.  Thank GOD I had turned my back and missed the whole ordeal.  I've been playing the "what if" game in my mind ever since the incident.  I don't know why I insist on making myself absolutely nuts by running through various scenarios that COULD HAVE happened but didn't.  This relentless fear of death and injury is exactly why I just sit my ass in a chair and drink.  At least my death will be slow and expected that way.

The prodigal son got an invitation to a community college to do an on-site visit from the baseball coach.  The coach has been watching him the last two weeks and seems interested.  I'm thrilled beyond belief, but admit I cried all the way to Walmart at the thought of him being 3.5 hours from home.  Who will grate on my last fucking nerve?  Who will eat all of my food?  Drink all of the bottled water?  Leave 2 grains of cereal in the box in the pantry and a teaspoon of milk in the jug?  I will be undeniably lonely.  How often should I call?  Text? Daily?  Hourly?  We're hoping to get down there this Thursday  - I'm scared.  I bet he is too, but we'll at least have 7 hours of windshield time to talk it through. 

Update on the corn (because I know y'all are curious) - the bone on the adjacent toe is poking through as a result of all the skin being eaten off by the corn acid.  Now it's sore.  But the corn festers on - I made a note to look up what the hell a corn even is and also how to prevent this in the future.  Also I emailed the corn acid people and told them how fucked up their concoction is because it's left me lame.  I may file a class action suit against them if I remember and also if I find the time.

Today we're burning a big ol' pile of sticks - YAY!  I think the husband is hung over and so this is his idea of looking busy - standing in front of a fire, throwin' shit in and "workin the fire" as he puts it.  He really can find more ways to avoid housework than anyone I have ever met.  We're also going to fry up a shit ton of catfish  - assuming I can find the power cord to the fryer.  Otherwise, I guess we'll just watch it rot away in the fridge then throw it away. 

I really don't have anything interesting or fascinating or funny to say - just checkin' in and lettin' y'all know I'm still alive over here - I wonder if I'm still grounded from whiskey?  I better go check, cuz I'm thinking that a good shot would ease my nerves and also make the task of cleaning just a tad more fun!

UPDATE:  I read up on this corn matter - turns out doctors recommend NOT using that shit from Hellmart because it eats off your skin.  Why the fuck do they even sell it then?  This would have been good damned information to have previously. 

UPDATE #2:  I am evidently NOT grounded from whiskey because I see that someone has brought me a new half-gallon bottle and has it already chilling in the fridge.  I think if I was grounded from it, there wouldn't be any in the house.  ROCK ON!!!