So a few months back, I posted a status on FB something to the effect of, "In reviewing the school lunches and their nutritional content for the month, it's no wonder obesity amongst children in the US is an epidemic." That's not verbatim - but close enough. Anyway, I'd forgotten that I am "friends" with a high school classmate who runs the food service for another school district in our city. So she posted in, "OUCH". I immediately explained my comment and that I didn't think it was her fault or the fault of the food service, but instead, the fault of something larger that makes crappy food more affordable to these school districts vs. healthy, fresh food. She never replied. So I blocked her from my news feed so I didn't have to see her daily religious quotes any longer. There. I fixed her.
But what I really wanted to say to her is, "Seriously? Look at yourself in the damned mirror." Now. I know that's mean. And if you're already offended, stop reading - but I'm going to say it anyway. This girl was the picture of health and fitness in high school. Star athlete - not an ounce of fat on her. Homecoming candidate. Volleyball star, basketball star, track star. She did it all. And now? I wouldn't recognize her in a crowd due to the amount blubber she has amassed over the years. So I find it ironic that she runs a food service for a school district - serving up parts of chicken which have been formed into various shapes and given a variety of fun names and deep fried and honestly thinks that she is doing the children of this country justice. I know the school districts are limited in funding and options when it comes to lunches. I get all of that. I really do. But instead of replying with "ouch" - I would have rather seen a reply riddled with passion and desire to want to do better and have different choices to offer but not having the monetary capacity to do so. Instead? It seems the once fit and healthy one finds some level of comfort and pleasure in shoveling out shit to the children in her district.
The whole thing irritated me. As does her perpetual religious commenting. So I found especially great joy when a recent news article came out that her district was written up by officials for the most code violations in the city. And there she was, featured in the local paper, defending her shoddily run food program again. Making excuses for the violations. Stating she was unaware of them and they all occurred in the warehouse - where she never goes, but will in the future to ensure violations don't occur again. I had to giggle to myself as I read the article. Because to me it just screamed apathy. Apathy over what she chooses to feed those kids and apathy for how the food is stored and handled. Lazy. That's what it is.
And then I felt sad for her. How does someone get to that point? The point they don't care about themselves, their health, the results they produce in their career, lack of self-accountability? Think how amazing this world would be if everyone gave a shit and tackled their job with the desire to make a difference - an impact - a dent in their tiny section of the universe. Wouldn't the world be a better place? Wouldn't people be happier? More fulfilled? More joyful to be around?
In the meantime, the blonde refuses to eat the school lunches and so daily I'm forced to pack a cold lunch for her and on the days that I'm irritated by that fact, I remind myself that I'm proud of her for taking a stand against eating that shit they call food. Hopeful that I'm teaching her to NOT be apathetic and optimistic she'll do amazing things in her life by daring to be different at the ripe old age of 9. ROCK ON BLONDE!
.....To the rest of you - SAY NO TO CHICKEN NUGGETS, STARS, STICKS, PATTIES AND WHATEVER OTHER FUN SHAPES THEY MOLD THAT SHIT INTO.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
I don't know how else to say this.............
You fucking stink.
That seems so harsh. Rude. Maybe even insensitive. But isn't brutal honesty sometimes the ONLY way to address an issue? I don't know. I'm lost. I need help on this one faithful readers. (all 2 of you)
The Prodigal Son is home and he has a friend that insists our basement is a hostel perfectly situated between his place of employment and his home - so the ease of just pulling in here at night after work and crashing is so luring that he cannot help himself. And since he arrives late, is quiet, doesn't eat any food and leaves early in the morning without a disturbance to anyone in the house, I normally wouldn't give a shit. Mi casa es su casa, right? But... he fucking.stinks.
The first time we encountered the smell of death which resonates from his earthly transport, we mistook the odor for a rotting carcass in the kitchen trash can. It was only after we'd emptied the trash, scrubbed the can and sink with bleach, threw away everything in the refrigerator and sprayed 32 oz of Lysol around the kitchen, did we realize the smell was not emanating from the kitchen, but instead from the adjacent family room where he was peacefully dozing. My eyes began to water and the contents of my empty stomach began clawing their way up my esophagus, begging to be released. Acting swiftly, I shoved two paper towels up each nostril, poured myself a cup of coffee and retreated to the garage where I proceeded to dry heave until we departed the stink infested house for a soccer game. Upon returning home, I retreated to my bedroom where I remained, with toilet paper shoved up my nose, until he awakened and left for work. We quickly threw open every window in the house and shampooed the carpets, threw the blankets and sleeping bags on the deck and talked shit on him the remainder of the day.
We told his father that we got a "whiff" of him and that he did not smell good and suggested he see a doctor immediately as the smell was not of athlete's foot, but instead, something far more serious - perhaps jungle rot? We told the kid that he needed new shoes and that he couldn't leave his in our house and as a matter of fact, he needed to throw his shoes in the trash and get new ones. We even told his father to please, for the love of God and little baby Jesus, buy his son new shoes.
He did get new shoes. And his socks looked pearly white the next time I saw him. I was hopeful. I was pleased. But 2 minutes after he passed through the kitchen en route to the bathroom and returning to the basement (as we told him he could no longer sleep in the family room on the main level) - the smell wafted through the house again. This time not so much like sour milk, but more like a locker room after 100 young men returned from and 8 hour practice in 112 degree heat. And again, I was forced to retreat to my bedroom where I remained until he departed for the day. And as I carefully made my way to the basement, a can of air freshener in hand and spraying it in front of me to lead the way, yet the odor became stronger and stronger and my eyes began to water and I began to dry heave again.
I had plans today. Plans to walk on the treadmill (in the basement). Plans to put away all the Christmas tubs (in the basement). Plans to bask in the glory and wonder of this crisp day. But the plans have been crushed by the sight of his shoes by the back door. Empty shoes at the back door mean his stinky ass will eventually appear on the main level to use the bathroom and the stench from the basement will spew forth into the kitchen and the remainder of my day will be spent scrubbing with bleach, spraying with air freshener and cussing the young man I once loved and welcomed into my home as my own.
And the husband, the PS and I will stand in the kitchen looking like deer in the headlights and proclaiming, "SOMEONE.HAS.GOT.TO.SAY.SOMETHING.TO.HIM." And I, being the rational one in the family, will begin crying, "I can't take it. I can't live like this. This is my home and this cannot happen again."
So please, faithful friends, I need your advice. How do you address such a delicate situation?
While you ponder this question and draft your response, I will be out buying candles and lighting 1,200 of them in the house. Oh... and more air freshener, as I've honestly used 8 cans from Pier One in a month. I'm going broke over here - H.E.L.P.!!!!!!
That seems so harsh. Rude. Maybe even insensitive. But isn't brutal honesty sometimes the ONLY way to address an issue? I don't know. I'm lost. I need help on this one faithful readers. (all 2 of you)
The Prodigal Son is home and he has a friend that insists our basement is a hostel perfectly situated between his place of employment and his home - so the ease of just pulling in here at night after work and crashing is so luring that he cannot help himself. And since he arrives late, is quiet, doesn't eat any food and leaves early in the morning without a disturbance to anyone in the house, I normally wouldn't give a shit. Mi casa es su casa, right? But... he fucking.stinks.
The first time we encountered the smell of death which resonates from his earthly transport, we mistook the odor for a rotting carcass in the kitchen trash can. It was only after we'd emptied the trash, scrubbed the can and sink with bleach, threw away everything in the refrigerator and sprayed 32 oz of Lysol around the kitchen, did we realize the smell was not emanating from the kitchen, but instead from the adjacent family room where he was peacefully dozing. My eyes began to water and the contents of my empty stomach began clawing their way up my esophagus, begging to be released. Acting swiftly, I shoved two paper towels up each nostril, poured myself a cup of coffee and retreated to the garage where I proceeded to dry heave until we departed the stink infested house for a soccer game. Upon returning home, I retreated to my bedroom where I remained, with toilet paper shoved up my nose, until he awakened and left for work. We quickly threw open every window in the house and shampooed the carpets, threw the blankets and sleeping bags on the deck and talked shit on him the remainder of the day.
We told his father that we got a "whiff" of him and that he did not smell good and suggested he see a doctor immediately as the smell was not of athlete's foot, but instead, something far more serious - perhaps jungle rot? We told the kid that he needed new shoes and that he couldn't leave his in our house and as a matter of fact, he needed to throw his shoes in the trash and get new ones. We even told his father to please, for the love of God and little baby Jesus, buy his son new shoes.
He did get new shoes. And his socks looked pearly white the next time I saw him. I was hopeful. I was pleased. But 2 minutes after he passed through the kitchen en route to the bathroom and returning to the basement (as we told him he could no longer sleep in the family room on the main level) - the smell wafted through the house again. This time not so much like sour milk, but more like a locker room after 100 young men returned from and 8 hour practice in 112 degree heat. And again, I was forced to retreat to my bedroom where I remained until he departed for the day. And as I carefully made my way to the basement, a can of air freshener in hand and spraying it in front of me to lead the way, yet the odor became stronger and stronger and my eyes began to water and I began to dry heave again.
I had plans today. Plans to walk on the treadmill (in the basement). Plans to put away all the Christmas tubs (in the basement). Plans to bask in the glory and wonder of this crisp day. But the plans have been crushed by the sight of his shoes by the back door. Empty shoes at the back door mean his stinky ass will eventually appear on the main level to use the bathroom and the stench from the basement will spew forth into the kitchen and the remainder of my day will be spent scrubbing with bleach, spraying with air freshener and cussing the young man I once loved and welcomed into my home as my own.
And the husband, the PS and I will stand in the kitchen looking like deer in the headlights and proclaiming, "SOMEONE.HAS.GOT.TO.SAY.SOMETHING.TO.HIM." And I, being the rational one in the family, will begin crying, "I can't take it. I can't live like this. This is my home and this cannot happen again."
So please, faithful friends, I need your advice. How do you address such a delicate situation?
While you ponder this question and draft your response, I will be out buying candles and lighting 1,200 of them in the house. Oh... and more air freshener, as I've honestly used 8 cans from Pier One in a month. I'm going broke over here - H.E.L.P.!!!!!!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Christmas Blip 2011 #1
I survived the great road trip of 2011! Made it back home with fingernails intact and no idiot drivers from Iowa were killed at my doing!
Sunday, I decided to let the girls decorate one of the Christmas trees. Alone. Without my guidance and direction. They put on some Christmas music and after the husband and I spent an hour looking for the faulty bulb in the string of lights, the girls woke up from their boredom induced coma and set out to adorn the tree with all the fun decorations each of the kids has collected over the years. I sat in the kitchen working on a 500 piece puzzle, which had now turned into a mission not to be abandoned before I turned in that night so I could eavesdrop on their conversation and laughter. Sisters. One 16 and one 9. One brunette and one blonde. Both with blue eyes and both the beats of my heart. I was giddy with excitement at my ability to stand back and allow them this special time together without my constant bossing and nagging. Oh the joy I would experience!!! And so it began......
Brunette: What are you doing? Don't put that ornament there - you just put one there - you need to space them out.
Blonde: That's MY ornament sissy - why are you hanging up all of my ornaments?
Brunette: What the frick difference does it make? Jesus Blonde - you're such a brat.
Blonde: No. I'm not a brat. Mommy - why do sissy and brudder have more ornaments than me? I hardly have any?
Me (calmly from kitchen): Because they are older and have amassed them at the rate of 3 or more per year - so when you get to be their age you will have just as many sweetie - no worries.
Brunette: I doubt it, because no one loves you Blonde. They just pretend they do. STOP HANGING THEM RIGHT NEXT TO OTHER. JESUS. I FRICKIN TOLD YOU THAT 10 TIMES ALREADY!!!
Blonde: Sissy - it doesn't matter. Is this yours or brudders?
Brunette: MINE! All of these are MINE. Stop hanging MINE.
And so it went for nearly an hour. With the brunette's text alert sounding every 15 seconds in between the sound of ornaments crashing to the wood floor shattering into a million pieces. The blonde frowning and on the verge of tears and the brunette rushing through the project so she could get back to her texting and tweeting. And I remained calm. At peace with my puzzle that was now threatening to drive me to insanity. And thinking the entire time........ They let people who are only 16 raise children? How? How can it be so? What a horrible.fucking.idea.
And so I made a mental note to put that child on birth control at the first given chance - - - just in case.
And I asked the blonde if she had a good time decorating the tree without mommy. "No."
Great. Another childhood memory I've managed to totally fuck up for this child. I can't win.
Sunday, I decided to let the girls decorate one of the Christmas trees. Alone. Without my guidance and direction. They put on some Christmas music and after the husband and I spent an hour looking for the faulty bulb in the string of lights, the girls woke up from their boredom induced coma and set out to adorn the tree with all the fun decorations each of the kids has collected over the years. I sat in the kitchen working on a 500 piece puzzle, which had now turned into a mission not to be abandoned before I turned in that night so I could eavesdrop on their conversation and laughter. Sisters. One 16 and one 9. One brunette and one blonde. Both with blue eyes and both the beats of my heart. I was giddy with excitement at my ability to stand back and allow them this special time together without my constant bossing and nagging. Oh the joy I would experience!!! And so it began......
Brunette: What are you doing? Don't put that ornament there - you just put one there - you need to space them out.
Blonde: That's MY ornament sissy - why are you hanging up all of my ornaments?
Brunette: What the frick difference does it make? Jesus Blonde - you're such a brat.
Blonde: No. I'm not a brat. Mommy - why do sissy and brudder have more ornaments than me? I hardly have any?
Me (calmly from kitchen): Because they are older and have amassed them at the rate of 3 or more per year - so when you get to be their age you will have just as many sweetie - no worries.
Brunette: I doubt it, because no one loves you Blonde. They just pretend they do. STOP HANGING THEM RIGHT NEXT TO OTHER. JESUS. I FRICKIN TOLD YOU THAT 10 TIMES ALREADY!!!
Blonde: Sissy - it doesn't matter. Is this yours or brudders?
Brunette: MINE! All of these are MINE. Stop hanging MINE.
And so it went for nearly an hour. With the brunette's text alert sounding every 15 seconds in between the sound of ornaments crashing to the wood floor shattering into a million pieces. The blonde frowning and on the verge of tears and the brunette rushing through the project so she could get back to her texting and tweeting. And I remained calm. At peace with my puzzle that was now threatening to drive me to insanity. And thinking the entire time........ They let people who are only 16 raise children? How? How can it be so? What a horrible.fucking.idea.
And so I made a mental note to put that child on birth control at the first given chance - - - just in case.
And I asked the blonde if she had a good time decorating the tree without mommy. "No."
Great. Another childhood memory I've managed to totally fuck up for this child. I can't win.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Oh Why are there No Moose here?
Yesterday morning I woke up and immediately remembered a dream I'd had overnight. My mom was driving and texting while I was in the car. And we were on a narrow and curvy road and I kept asking her to stop and she refused and kept saying, "I've got this - I drive a Volvo - it's fine." It was totally fucked up and irresponsible and I was still mad at her and stayed mad at her all day yesterday. I should probably send her an email and let her know just how fucked up and irresponsible she is.
Then I drove to Rochester, MN. And along the way I learned several things that I'd like to share:
Then I drove to Rochester, MN. And along the way I learned several things that I'd like to share:
- I am capable of leaving the house and driving, alone, for distances farther than 10 miles.
- People in Wyandotte County drive like shit and that is evidenced by the fact that all of their cars are beat to shit.
- 635 is not the same as 670 and take you to different places.
- People in Missouri drive like shit.
- I am addicted to my phone and had that was evidenced by the serious withdrawals I was having by not being able to look at it continuously for 7 hours.
- People in Iowa drive even worse than people in Missouri.
- Talk to Tweet would be a super cool app because I kept thinking of really funny shit I wanted to Tweet along the way, but could not because I was driving - I wonder if someone has already thought of that? I should look into that.
- Wendy's new and improved burgers are not really that improved. As a matter of fact, I think they're even shittier than before.
- Road trips are more fun with alcohol - but that seems irresponsible so I didn't bring any alcohol.
- I drink too much - of anything. I swilled water after water, one right after the other. This explains my perpetual over-serving myself of alcohol. I should likely just stick to water.
- I-35 north is a boring fucking drive and evidently also the home of the great deer massacre of 2011.
- It's peculiarly peaceful being alone for 7 hours in a car.
- I sing exactly like George Michael, Melissa Ethridge, Rihanna, Janet Jackson and Natasha Bedingfeld. I had no idea my vocal range was so broad.
- If you take an anti-anxiety pill, 1/2 a Xanax and drink two beers - you CAN sleep through the night.
- It's cold as fuck in Minnesota.
- Evidently there are no moose in this part of Minnesota so I'm pretty upset and disappointed.
- The mattress in the hotel room will not fit in my suitcase - no matter how I try to fold it or cram it in, so I'll need to come up with Plan B on getting that into my car to take home.
- Having 8 pillows in your room to choose from is not better - it only became a chore to try them all and make a decision.
- Munchkins must assemble showers in hotels because the shower heads are always very very low and while it works great for me, I can't help but think they're a pain in the ass for the general population.
- Hair that comes in an aerosol can and is sprayed on your head doesn't really disguise the fact that you're bald. As a matter of fact it just makes you look like an even bigger douche bag.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Stop It. Stop It RIGHT NOW.
Watching TV with the family is becoming increasingly painful and difficult. Not because we cannot agree on a show to watch. Not because we cannot locate a show sans sex or sexual innuendos or profanity. And not because we can't find the time. It's all because of the freakin' commercials.
Last night as the blond and I attempted to watch Vietnam in HD on the History Channel, a commercial for Cialis would come on EVERY.FUCKING.BREAK. So I would quickly switch over to TVLand to Everybody Loves Raymond. Only to be met with a Viagra commercial. So back to the History Channel I would go. And what was on? Another Viagra commercial. WHAT.THE.FUCK. This was between the hours of 7 p.m. and 9 p.m. Isn't that considered prime time for family viewing? And it doesn't just happen on the upper cable channels. I've also fallen victim to this bullshit on the major TV networks.
Is erectile dysfunction really that big (no pun intended) of a problem? Is this really something the entire universe of TV viewers needs to be subjected to? Don't I read in the paper and hear on the news DAILY about sex scandals? Coaches. School officials. Politicians. Church leaders. Corporate execs. It's everywhere. Everyday. Some dip shit stuck his dick where it didn't belong. It's enough to make a person physically ill. Has no one read the first book of the Bible? Did no one learn from that? Go back and read it again. You think with your dick and so begins the saga of bad shit.
I suppose to further piss me off and make me sick, this shit is covered by insurance. I'd have to guess that it is because (it seems to me) the pharmaceutical companies and insurance companies are all in cahoots with each other. And just exactly how large is their marketing budget? C'mon TV stations - get your shit together and quit selling yourselves out for the almighty dollar. We're trying to watch a documentary. On the Vietnam War. With our kids. Do you really think we want to explain erectile dysfunction to a nine year old right then and there?
Scruples. Get some. Please.
Last night as the blond and I attempted to watch Vietnam in HD on the History Channel, a commercial for Cialis would come on EVERY.FUCKING.BREAK. So I would quickly switch over to TVLand to Everybody Loves Raymond. Only to be met with a Viagra commercial. So back to the History Channel I would go. And what was on? Another Viagra commercial. WHAT.THE.FUCK. This was between the hours of 7 p.m. and 9 p.m. Isn't that considered prime time for family viewing? And it doesn't just happen on the upper cable channels. I've also fallen victim to this bullshit on the major TV networks.
Is erectile dysfunction really that big (no pun intended) of a problem? Is this really something the entire universe of TV viewers needs to be subjected to? Don't I read in the paper and hear on the news DAILY about sex scandals? Coaches. School officials. Politicians. Church leaders. Corporate execs. It's everywhere. Everyday. Some dip shit stuck his dick where it didn't belong. It's enough to make a person physically ill. Has no one read the first book of the Bible? Did no one learn from that? Go back and read it again. You think with your dick and so begins the saga of bad shit.
I suppose to further piss me off and make me sick, this shit is covered by insurance. I'd have to guess that it is because (it seems to me) the pharmaceutical companies and insurance companies are all in cahoots with each other. And just exactly how large is their marketing budget? C'mon TV stations - get your shit together and quit selling yourselves out for the almighty dollar. We're trying to watch a documentary. On the Vietnam War. With our kids. Do you really think we want to explain erectile dysfunction to a nine year old right then and there?
Scruples. Get some. Please.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Lasagna and Other Matters Less Important
Recently I received a text from a friend while at the grocery store. Turns out she was also at the grocery store and her text was a grocery emergency regarding my lasagna recipe I'd shared with her:
Her: I'm at the store...do you use spaghetti sauce in the lasagna or tomato sauce? And I saw the snots on Sunday at [local festival name].
Me: Spag sauce. I hate those snots. I actually use tomato sauce and that dry spag sauce mix in the gravy aisle
Her: Thanks! That's what I remember, the dry. [More on snots seen at local festival]
So I'm all thinking she's good to go on the lasagna and such and moved on with my life like I often do after a benign conversation about sauce and snots. But oh hell no - TWO days later I receive another text from her.
Her: I'm being a pain in the ass. [that's no shit] How long do you cook the lasagna? My computer crashed and I lost everything. [likely story - it's just easier to text me than it is to actually LOOK for the information I've previously provided to you]
Me: Hell if I know! Let's say 60 min if at room temp, 90 if out of fridge?
Her: Temp? I think 425 or 375. Otherwise I'm gonna wing it.
Me: I cook everything on 350
Her: Sounds good. Thanks.
So seriously. Did it take her 2 days to assemble that lasagna and she was just now getting ready to cook it? Or what the hell was taking her so long to get that shit in the oven I'll never know. But what I did know is that all of a sudden, I had a hankerin for some lasagna myself. So that day, I went out and purchased all the ingredients for my now world famous much sought after lasagna recipe.
And that night (see I'm efficient - I do shit on the same day) as I mixed the ricotta cheese with the eggs, I had this strange feeling that it didn't "feel right". The consistency was off. But I just kept mixing along. Then as I worked on assembling the layers, when I got to the part to spread the ricotta on the mess, it hit me: THIS FUCKING RECIPE DOESN'T CALL FOR RICOTTA - IT CALLS FOR COTTAGE CHEESE. WHAT.THE.FUCK. I have NEVER used ricotta in lasagna - well once I did and I didn't like it which is how my recipe came to NOT.USE.RICOTTA but instead USE.COTTAGE.CHEESE.
So. This is your fault friend in need of help at grocery store that day. You asked me so many damned questions about my lasagna that even I forgot my own recipe and fucked.it.up and had to choke down dry ass lasagna - 15 pounds of it to be exact.
Thanks.
Her: I'm at the store...do you use spaghetti sauce in the lasagna or tomato sauce? And I saw the snots on Sunday at [local festival name].
Me: Spag sauce. I hate those snots. I actually use tomato sauce and that dry spag sauce mix in the gravy aisle
Her: Thanks! That's what I remember, the dry. [More on snots seen at local festival]
So I'm all thinking she's good to go on the lasagna and such and moved on with my life like I often do after a benign conversation about sauce and snots. But oh hell no - TWO days later I receive another text from her.
Her: I'm being a pain in the ass. [that's no shit] How long do you cook the lasagna? My computer crashed and I lost everything. [likely story - it's just easier to text me than it is to actually LOOK for the information I've previously provided to you]
Me: Hell if I know! Let's say 60 min if at room temp, 90 if out of fridge?
Her: Temp? I think 425 or 375. Otherwise I'm gonna wing it.
Me: I cook everything on 350
Her: Sounds good. Thanks.
So seriously. Did it take her 2 days to assemble that lasagna and she was just now getting ready to cook it? Or what the hell was taking her so long to get that shit in the oven I'll never know. But what I did know is that all of a sudden, I had a hankerin for some lasagna myself. So that day, I went out and purchased all the ingredients for my now world famous much sought after lasagna recipe.
And that night (see I'm efficient - I do shit on the same day) as I mixed the ricotta cheese with the eggs, I had this strange feeling that it didn't "feel right". The consistency was off. But I just kept mixing along. Then as I worked on assembling the layers, when I got to the part to spread the ricotta on the mess, it hit me: THIS FUCKING RECIPE DOESN'T CALL FOR RICOTTA - IT CALLS FOR COTTAGE CHEESE. WHAT.THE.FUCK. I have NEVER used ricotta in lasagna - well once I did and I didn't like it which is how my recipe came to NOT.USE.RICOTTA but instead USE.COTTAGE.CHEESE.
So. This is your fault friend in need of help at grocery store that day. You asked me so many damned questions about my lasagna that even I forgot my own recipe and fucked.it.up and had to choke down dry ass lasagna - 15 pounds of it to be exact.
Thanks.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Seriously, FDA. WTF?
So I've likely previously mentioned somewhere in this rant of a blog that I cannot stand the FDA. I like to refer to them as the Fucking Dumb Asses. They cannot seem to make up their minds on anything. One day something is good for you and encourage the public to eat it, take it, drink it, do it, whatever. Then later they change their mind and determine that whatever it was is now bad for you and will kill you. Or vice versa. They don't have a fucking clue. That's what I think. And they just make shit up as they go along and like sheep, we all just follow along with whatever bullshit they feed us. Anywho...
I finally picked up this script that the doctor ordered - you know - the one I've been bitching about for two weeks now. The whole point behind this script was to do something about my anxiety, insomnia, perpetual irritability and the likes thereof. I RARELY take drugs (except for the occasional Xanax to calm me down) and I don't believe in them BECAUSE of my opinion of the FDA. But being at a point of desperation, I decided to move forward with this one and give it a whirl. The drugs came with 5 pages of instructions and warnings and read each and every word so I could familiarize myself with what to expect. I won't rehash all the warnings but here's a snippet of the expected or possible side effects of these pills:
Anxiety or panic attacks
Feeling agitated, restless, angry or irritable
Trouble sleeping
Unusual changes in behavior or mood
WTF FDA? If I'm set out to develop a drug that will curb those types of things, and determine, through "extensive testing" that the drug I developed also causes or worsens those things, how the hell do you call that a success? I mean, I'm thinking that it's a complete project failure. ??? Whatever. As I continued to read through this paperwork with the husband, we determined that neither of us would really be able to assess if I was experiencing any of the side effects or if it was just normal every day bullshit from me.
Me: Says here that I should call 911 if I start having grand ideas. WTF is wrong with a grand idea? Are they afraid I'll finally solve the world's problems and part of that will be to shut them down? Also says to call 911 if I start talking more or faster than usual.
Him: I don't know how that's possible or how I'd be able to determine if you were talking more or faster because you never shut up and you're always going 100 mph.
Me: Also says here that side effects include feeling anxious, sweating, not feeling hungry...
Him: Well, you're always anxious, you have horrible night sweats and have you even eaten today?
Me: No. I don't know. I don't remember. I'm not hungry so I don't think I have eaten today.
Him: Great. So now I have to babysit you and make damned certain you eat because you never eat and now you're taking medication that might make that worse.
Me: Says here that yawning is a side effect. {yawn} Great. Now I'm yawning. {yawn} Fuck. I yawned again. {yawn} Shit. I can't stop yawning ever since I said the word yawning. {yawn} This is not going to be good. {yawn} My jaw is already starting hurt from all the {yawn} yawning. DAMMIT. Do you think it's the drug already kicking in or do you think it's just that yawning {yawn} SHIT is contagious and habitual? {yawn}
Him: I don't know. But stop yawning because now it's making me have to {yawn} yawn. Have you had any grand ideas yet? {yawn}
Me: No. I don't think so - but I think all my ideas are fairly grand so how will I be able to tell?
Him: No clue.
And with that we yawned our way to bed. The next morning I must have yawned 50 times in the first hour I was awake. And my stomach was upset and I had a horrible headache.
Me: I can't stop yawning and I'm nauseous and I have a horrible headache. Do you think it's side effects from these drugs?
Him: I'm guessing it's side effects from the 10 beers you slammed down last night and the fact you didn't eat yesterday.
Me: oh. It did mention not to use alcohol when taking this medication. Do you think they were serious about that?
Him: Maybe you should have started the medication when you were sober so you could get an idea how it makes you feel sober instead of taking it when you were drinking?
Well THERE'S a GRAND IDEA. Clearly this shit does NOT work.
I finally picked up this script that the doctor ordered - you know - the one I've been bitching about for two weeks now. The whole point behind this script was to do something about my anxiety, insomnia, perpetual irritability and the likes thereof. I RARELY take drugs (except for the occasional Xanax to calm me down) and I don't believe in them BECAUSE of my opinion of the FDA. But being at a point of desperation, I decided to move forward with this one and give it a whirl. The drugs came with 5 pages of instructions and warnings and read each and every word so I could familiarize myself with what to expect. I won't rehash all the warnings but here's a snippet of the expected or possible side effects of these pills:
Anxiety or panic attacks
Feeling agitated, restless, angry or irritable
Trouble sleeping
Unusual changes in behavior or mood
WTF FDA? If I'm set out to develop a drug that will curb those types of things, and determine, through "extensive testing" that the drug I developed also causes or worsens those things, how the hell do you call that a success? I mean, I'm thinking that it's a complete project failure. ??? Whatever. As I continued to read through this paperwork with the husband, we determined that neither of us would really be able to assess if I was experiencing any of the side effects or if it was just normal every day bullshit from me.
Me: Says here that I should call 911 if I start having grand ideas. WTF is wrong with a grand idea? Are they afraid I'll finally solve the world's problems and part of that will be to shut them down? Also says to call 911 if I start talking more or faster than usual.
Him: I don't know how that's possible or how I'd be able to determine if you were talking more or faster because you never shut up and you're always going 100 mph.
Me: Also says here that side effects include feeling anxious, sweating, not feeling hungry...
Him: Well, you're always anxious, you have horrible night sweats and have you even eaten today?
Me: No. I don't know. I don't remember. I'm not hungry so I don't think I have eaten today.
Him: Great. So now I have to babysit you and make damned certain you eat because you never eat and now you're taking medication that might make that worse.
Me: Says here that yawning is a side effect. {yawn} Great. Now I'm yawning. {yawn} Fuck. I yawned again. {yawn} Shit. I can't stop yawning ever since I said the word yawning. {yawn} This is not going to be good. {yawn} My jaw is already starting hurt from all the {yawn} yawning. DAMMIT. Do you think it's the drug already kicking in or do you think it's just that yawning {yawn} SHIT is contagious and habitual? {yawn}
Him: I don't know. But stop yawning because now it's making me have to {yawn} yawn. Have you had any grand ideas yet? {yawn}
Me: No. I don't think so - but I think all my ideas are fairly grand so how will I be able to tell?
Him: No clue.
And with that we yawned our way to bed. The next morning I must have yawned 50 times in the first hour I was awake. And my stomach was upset and I had a horrible headache.
Me: I can't stop yawning and I'm nauseous and I have a horrible headache. Do you think it's side effects from these drugs?
Him: I'm guessing it's side effects from the 10 beers you slammed down last night and the fact you didn't eat yesterday.
Me: oh. It did mention not to use alcohol when taking this medication. Do you think they were serious about that?
Him: Maybe you should have started the medication when you were sober so you could get an idea how it makes you feel sober instead of taking it when you were drinking?
Well THERE'S a GRAND IDEA. Clearly this shit does NOT work.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Update on crazy status........
Last post: umpteen days ago.
Subject Matter: Drugs to cure my Craziness
Current Status: Still Crazy
Or am I? See, that's the part I'm not sure about. As I mentioned nearly 14 days ago, the DOCTOR determined I should take some kind of medication to "get my neurons back on track" because they were "out of whack." I know. A terribly scientific and clinic diagnosis. I waited a day to go pick up the meds, ya know, just to be thoughtful to the pharmacy and all. I mean, I'm already crazy evidently, so what's another day, right? Well, when I got there, the pharmacy informed me that the script required prior authorization from the doctor.
Huh? Who the fuck do you think wrote that script? Me? I just shook my head and told the husband to drive away from the pick-up window quickly before I snapped. Easy enough. They'll call the doctor tomorrow, he'll grant the authorization. The pharmacy will confirm with insurance that indeed it was the doctor that wrote the script and not me posing as the doctor and the script would be filled the next day. No worries. Just go to bed early and no one will get hurt in the interim.
So the next day I went to the pharmacy and got an update. "Well, the insurance company doesn't want you to have that script, they want you to have something else." Again, realizing the pharmacy was just the middle man in the game, I nodded my head and walked away calmly, denying the senseless urge to ram my buggy into every display I passed in the pharmacy and racking my brain to remember when it was I actually saw the insurance company - clearly I had as they were now treating me instead of the doctor.
I checked back a few more times and eventually just reached a point where it just didn't matter anymore. Fuck it. I've been crazy for a long fucking time and have learned to deal with it. I'll just keep dealing wiith it on my own because dealing with attempting to correct it was just making me even more crazy.
YESTERDAY I got a letter from the insurance company. "YOUR request for script XYZ has been denied after reveiw by our out-sourced clinical reveiw team." That's how it started. First off - I did NOT fucking request the script XYZ. The doctor did. But evidently that means nothing anymore. B- what the fuck was reviewed? No one knows. Then I got a call from the doctor's office - Your insurance has denied the top-shelf drugs - you're not worthy of them. Instead, I have found you a generic THAT WORKS and is only $10 for a 90 day supply!!!!!
Whatever. I don't even care anymore. I really don't. I'm not the one that's crazy. It's this fucking conglomoration of insurance and pharmaceutical companies that are crazy.
Subject Matter: Drugs to cure my Craziness
Current Status: Still Crazy
Or am I? See, that's the part I'm not sure about. As I mentioned nearly 14 days ago, the DOCTOR determined I should take some kind of medication to "get my neurons back on track" because they were "out of whack." I know. A terribly scientific and clinic diagnosis. I waited a day to go pick up the meds, ya know, just to be thoughtful to the pharmacy and all. I mean, I'm already crazy evidently, so what's another day, right? Well, when I got there, the pharmacy informed me that the script required prior authorization from the doctor.
Huh? Who the fuck do you think wrote that script? Me? I just shook my head and told the husband to drive away from the pick-up window quickly before I snapped. Easy enough. They'll call the doctor tomorrow, he'll grant the authorization. The pharmacy will confirm with insurance that indeed it was the doctor that wrote the script and not me posing as the doctor and the script would be filled the next day. No worries. Just go to bed early and no one will get hurt in the interim.
So the next day I went to the pharmacy and got an update. "Well, the insurance company doesn't want you to have that script, they want you to have something else." Again, realizing the pharmacy was just the middle man in the game, I nodded my head and walked away calmly, denying the senseless urge to ram my buggy into every display I passed in the pharmacy and racking my brain to remember when it was I actually saw the insurance company - clearly I had as they were now treating me instead of the doctor.
I checked back a few more times and eventually just reached a point where it just didn't matter anymore. Fuck it. I've been crazy for a long fucking time and have learned to deal with it. I'll just keep dealing wiith it on my own because dealing with attempting to correct it was just making me even more crazy.
YESTERDAY I got a letter from the insurance company. "YOUR request for script XYZ has been denied after reveiw by our out-sourced clinical reveiw team." That's how it started. First off - I did NOT fucking request the script XYZ. The doctor did. But evidently that means nothing anymore. B- what the fuck was reviewed? No one knows. Then I got a call from the doctor's office - Your insurance has denied the top-shelf drugs - you're not worthy of them. Instead, I have found you a generic THAT WORKS and is only $10 for a 90 day supply!!!!!
Whatever. I don't even care anymore. I really don't. I'm not the one that's crazy. It's this fucking conglomoration of insurance and pharmaceutical companies that are crazy.
Friday, October 21, 2011
I am NOT nuts.....I don't think.....or am I....I don't know......
So yesterday was my annual crotch well-woman check up. It's still there. So that was good to know. You may recall last year how I lamented over this appointment, shaved my knees for nothing and was sent off to take some type of hormone therapy to help improve my quality of life. Well, I never did take that hormone therapy - I convinced myself I didn't need it and that through proper diet, exercise and a daily attitude adjustment I could get a handle on my life quality. Well, sometime during the year, my doctor left the practice so I had to see a different doctor. Things were going along pretty well but then he asked the dreaded question: Any questions, concerns, complaints?
The old me would have smiled broadly and quickly replied, "NOPE!" The new and improved me looked him square in the eye and smiled broadly and replied, "I have gotten my hands on some Xanax illegally and I'd like a prescription for that for myself so I don't feel so criminal when I take it. I only take 1/2 at a time and only when I feel as though I'm going to snap." I thought the request seemed pretty simple and should have been greeted with him whipping out his pen and script pad and getting busy writing up that script - I even started drooling at the thought of having my own bottle - marked with MY NAME and not having to hide the unmarked bottle in my closet so no one would find it. I would be the proud owner of my very own Xanax! As I sat there in my Xanax daydream bliss, I noticed he wasn't scribbling out a script. He wasn't even nodding his head. Instead, he had a VERY concerned look on his face and sat back down.
Him: Tell me more about this feeling that you're going to snap.
Me: Well, maybe that is exaggerated a bit, but it's like when every single person I encounter at home, at work, in the general public, on the phone, on Facebook - just everyone - is a complete dumbass and I want to scream at them and tell them what a fucknugget they are - just when I feel like that, it causes me to pause and think maybe.... JUST MAYBE....it's ME. I mean - it's not really possible for everyone in the world to be that annoying all on the same day is it?
Him: {smirky grin} mmm hmmmm I see.
Me: See. For instance - that just irritated me. I don't like your response. But I'm thinking it's probably a valid reaction to what I just said but it pisses me off and I kind of want to punch you right now. But I'm not a violent person so I don't think that will actually happen.
Him: How often do you feel this way?
Me: Well. Not much. Maybe 7 - 14 times a month is all.
Him: So 50% of your life you are upset and want to punch people?
Me: Well, I guess when you put it that way, maybe it's 80% - don't you think people have gotten more annoying lately? Like the world has gone crazy?
Him: {smirky grin} And tell me - do you sleep well at night?
Me: It depends really. During a full moon I do not sleep at all.
Him: Do stay up at night and howl? {belts out laughter}
Me: See - you're pissing me off again. I've heard of other people having sleep trouble during full moons, so I don't think I'm a werewolf, I think it just throws off my sleep pattern - or maybe it's because it's so bright and I don't have any window treatments in my bedroom - but something certainly throws it off and I don't sleep.
Him: Any other time you don't sleep well?
Me: Yes - when Aunt Flo is in visiting.
Him: And how often is that?
Me: I don't really know. Seems she visits randomly - like for special occasions, holidays, days I plan to wear white capris, days I am going to the lake to boat, you know - just whenever she knows she can most fuck with me is when she arrives - so I've tried to be fairly clandestine with my plans so she won't be aware of them, but she's a sneaky bitch and always figures it out.
Him: Right. Right. How often do you take those Xanax?
Me: Well really only when I want to kill my husband, have to ride in the car with my husband, have to go to a gathering where there will be a large crowd, if I have to go to the other part of town, when my daughter wants to go to the mall. You know. Just when I feel a little out of control.
Him: And do you feel sad?
Me: Not today. But Monday I felt sad. It was gloomy and gray - so I slept all day so I didn't have to deal with it. And I wasn't really sad now that I think about it - I just didn't give a shit - except for the couple of times I wanted to face punch a few people. I just had no energy or will to live.
Him: I think you need to take an SSRI to help get your neurons back on track. As women get older, their neurons get confused and a little haywire and sometimes just need a little help to get leveled back out.
And with that he FINALLY starts writing the script
Him: But not Xanax and not something that's an on-demand, as-needed drug - I'm thinking something routine - something that gets you a higher quality of life than 1-2 weeks a month of feeling good, sleeping well and feeling joyful. {YAY!!! It's a medicinal marijuana script!!!}
Me: Okay - but will this help with my anxiety?
Him: Do you have anxiety at severe levels {as he stops writing the script}
Me: Well, I'm not sure. I get nervous when I have to get the mail because I'm afraid I might get run down by a texting driver.
Him: {no response - tears up the script - and starts writing a new one}
Me: And about 12 years ago I took an anti-depressant and they made me feel NOTHING. I wasn't sad anymore - but I never felt joy either - just an emotionless sack of bones - I won't take those things if I will no longer have the desire to bust out laughing at everything I see - I just won't.
Him: {no verbal response - tears up the 2nd script - and starts writing a new one}
Me: Seriously. I won't. I'm already having a panic attack at the thought of watching people laugh and me feeling nothing at all. I mean what's the point?
Him: Yes. I do understand. I think I'll just study on this some more and call your script in to the pharmacy so you can just pick it up there. Come back in 6 weeks and let's see if you feel a bit better. Okay? Nice to meet you -and take the medicine.
And with that he quickly scurried out of the room. Like I was some type of fucking lunatic or something. When I got home, I told the husband what had happened:
Me: They put me on some type of medicine because the doctor thinks I'm a fucking nut job.
Him: What time will your script be ready? I'll go get it for you.
?????????????????????????????
The old me would have smiled broadly and quickly replied, "NOPE!" The new and improved me looked him square in the eye and smiled broadly and replied, "I have gotten my hands on some Xanax illegally and I'd like a prescription for that for myself so I don't feel so criminal when I take it. I only take 1/2 at a time and only when I feel as though I'm going to snap." I thought the request seemed pretty simple and should have been greeted with him whipping out his pen and script pad and getting busy writing up that script - I even started drooling at the thought of having my own bottle - marked with MY NAME and not having to hide the unmarked bottle in my closet so no one would find it. I would be the proud owner of my very own Xanax! As I sat there in my Xanax daydream bliss, I noticed he wasn't scribbling out a script. He wasn't even nodding his head. Instead, he had a VERY concerned look on his face and sat back down.
Him: Tell me more about this feeling that you're going to snap.
Me: Well, maybe that is exaggerated a bit, but it's like when every single person I encounter at home, at work, in the general public, on the phone, on Facebook - just everyone - is a complete dumbass and I want to scream at them and tell them what a fucknugget they are - just when I feel like that, it causes me to pause and think maybe.... JUST MAYBE....it's ME. I mean - it's not really possible for everyone in the world to be that annoying all on the same day is it?
Him: {smirky grin} mmm hmmmm I see.
Me: See. For instance - that just irritated me. I don't like your response. But I'm thinking it's probably a valid reaction to what I just said but it pisses me off and I kind of want to punch you right now. But I'm not a violent person so I don't think that will actually happen.
Him: How often do you feel this way?
Me: Well. Not much. Maybe 7 - 14 times a month is all.
Him: So 50% of your life you are upset and want to punch people?
Me: Well, I guess when you put it that way, maybe it's 80% - don't you think people have gotten more annoying lately? Like the world has gone crazy?
Him: {smirky grin} And tell me - do you sleep well at night?
Me: It depends really. During a full moon I do not sleep at all.
Him: Do stay up at night and howl? {belts out laughter}
Me: See - you're pissing me off again. I've heard of other people having sleep trouble during full moons, so I don't think I'm a werewolf, I think it just throws off my sleep pattern - or maybe it's because it's so bright and I don't have any window treatments in my bedroom - but something certainly throws it off and I don't sleep.
Him: Any other time you don't sleep well?
Me: Yes - when Aunt Flo is in visiting.
Him: And how often is that?
Me: I don't really know. Seems she visits randomly - like for special occasions, holidays, days I plan to wear white capris, days I am going to the lake to boat, you know - just whenever she knows she can most fuck with me is when she arrives - so I've tried to be fairly clandestine with my plans so she won't be aware of them, but she's a sneaky bitch and always figures it out.
Him: Right. Right. How often do you take those Xanax?
Me: Well really only when I want to kill my husband, have to ride in the car with my husband, have to go to a gathering where there will be a large crowd, if I have to go to the other part of town, when my daughter wants to go to the mall. You know. Just when I feel a little out of control.
Him: And do you feel sad?
Me: Not today. But Monday I felt sad. It was gloomy and gray - so I slept all day so I didn't have to deal with it. And I wasn't really sad now that I think about it - I just didn't give a shit - except for the couple of times I wanted to face punch a few people. I just had no energy or will to live.
Him: I think you need to take an SSRI to help get your neurons back on track. As women get older, their neurons get confused and a little haywire and sometimes just need a little help to get leveled back out.
And with that he FINALLY starts writing the script
Him: But not Xanax and not something that's an on-demand, as-needed drug - I'm thinking something routine - something that gets you a higher quality of life than 1-2 weeks a month of feeling good, sleeping well and feeling joyful. {YAY!!! It's a medicinal marijuana script!!!}
Me: Okay - but will this help with my anxiety?
Him: Do you have anxiety at severe levels {as he stops writing the script}
Me: Well, I'm not sure. I get nervous when I have to get the mail because I'm afraid I might get run down by a texting driver.
Him: {no response - tears up the script - and starts writing a new one}
Me: And about 12 years ago I took an anti-depressant and they made me feel NOTHING. I wasn't sad anymore - but I never felt joy either - just an emotionless sack of bones - I won't take those things if I will no longer have the desire to bust out laughing at everything I see - I just won't.
Him: {no verbal response - tears up the 2nd script - and starts writing a new one}
Me: Seriously. I won't. I'm already having a panic attack at the thought of watching people laugh and me feeling nothing at all. I mean what's the point?
Him: Yes. I do understand. I think I'll just study on this some more and call your script in to the pharmacy so you can just pick it up there. Come back in 6 weeks and let's see if you feel a bit better. Okay? Nice to meet you -and take the medicine.
And with that he quickly scurried out of the room. Like I was some type of fucking lunatic or something. When I got home, I told the husband what had happened:
Me: They put me on some type of medicine because the doctor thinks I'm a fucking nut job.
Him: What time will your script be ready? I'll go get it for you.
?????????????????????????????
Monday, October 17, 2011
ARGHHHHHHHHHHH
I can't believe I haven't posted anything since October 6th. Good grief - time really does fly.
Last week, I had a garage sale. If you follow me on Twitter, you will have experienced in real-time just howfun and entertaining fucking miserable the whole event was. Here are a few things I learned about garage sales this go around and want to share them with you so you can learn from my mistakes:
Last week, I had a garage sale. If you follow me on Twitter, you will have experienced in real-time just how
- Do NOT have a garage sale right before, during or directly after a full moon. People are fucking insane and my ability to tolerate their bullshit is VERY low. You will end up killing someone.
- ASK how much vodka was put into the jug of bloody mary's BEFORE you drink a gallon of them. Lest you'll pass out in the middle of the afternoon and only learn AFTER the fact that you've ingested a magnum of vodka in less than 2 hours.
- People are fucking rude. And demanding. And just overall shitty in nature.
- Everyone wants to pay a quarter, for an item you have marked $1 and for which you originally paid $100 for. AND they want it in a sack when they leave. Go to the fucking mall if you want a sack.
- My husband likes to stand directly in front of me so I cannot see anything but him. It's annoying and obnoxious - like a small child looking for attention.
- He also likes to correct me and is a severe know-it-all when his parents are around. It's also fucking annoying.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
I could have been Mother Theresa...........
I've recently had requests to continue the mini-series. Unfortunately, it was not I who authored the first two episodes - it was Aunt Flo. Remember, she despises the husband. I'm never sure when she'll make an appearance but it likely won't be long. So until her return, you'll just have to deal with me and my ramblings. For that, I apologize in advance.
And I have nothing to say. I'm exhausted. But CAN.NOT.STOP. Must keep plowing through the mire of shit in front of me. My week has been consumed with lifting people up and giving strength where needed. Oh and lucky for you - I just now found something to bitch about because I'm certain y'all do NOT frequent this site for daily inspiration or encouragement.
So last night I get a call from the Prodigal Son. His car, which has been undriveable for a month due to antifreeze pouring out of it, drove the car to the Quicky Mart to buy chew and then it wouldn't start so he left it there and some son's of bitches had it towed and now it's in the impound. He never did catch on that this was HIS fault - just kept bitching about the owner of the business having the car towed. I really wonder if he'll ever fucking accept responsibility for a damned thing. So I give him instruction on what to do: Call the impound - find out how to get it out, then call AAA and have it towed to a mechanic's shop. All of that was too confusing for him so he dropped it in my lap and said he didn't understand, didn't have the AAA card cuz his billfold wasleft at the casino stolen (again with the inability to be accountable for his own actions), blah blah blah. So then it became MY problem.
So this morning, I call a mechanic's shop in the remote town where he resides - and YAY!!! The car was actually THERE! Thank GOD for small towns where the impound is also the wrecker station AND the mechanic!!! Impound bill is already up to $85 and running at a rate of $20/day. And they need the keys.
So I text the PS and tell him to call me ASAP about the car. Finally get a call 2 hours later.
Me: Can you get the keys to the mechanic and get the car out of the impound before practice?
Him: Why the fuck do they even need the keys, the fucker doesn't start, what part of that do they not understand?
Me: So can you get a ride?
Him: I dunno. My roommates are all busy doing something right now and I don't even know where the place is.
Me: Can you get there today? I will put money in your account and they will accept a debit card - but I don't want to continue paying impound fees at a rate of $20/day son.
Him: I SAID I DON'T FUCKING KNOW. AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE GOD DAMNED KEYS ARE.
Me:
Him: I will look for the keys and try to find a ride before practice at 2:00.
Me: Thank you. Please text me when you are headed there.
Him: Whatever.
Seriously? I told him to take that fucking car to the mechanic a month ago to assess the problem and to let me know - he didn't have time. But I know he has plenty of time to fucking drink himself silly on a regular basis. GET OFF YOUR ASS, PUT THE BOTTLE DOWN AND GET YOUR FUCKING SHIT TOGETHER.
I hope the fucking car is dead. Because he's not getting another one until he gets his shit together. And I'm not falling for this shit storm he's created in an attempt to force me to get him a new car before he meets the goals I've set forth in order for him to be deserving of a new car. And also - did he really think I was going to drive 5 hours round trip to get the fucking car out of the impound FOR HIM? At what age the male brain kicks in, I do not yet know. The husband is at 42 and I haven't seen it yet. So I'm holding out hope for 43.
I'm going back to lifting people up and providing strength when and where needed - I find it less draining and more rewarding than dealing with POS cars purchased from an alcoholic dumbass and run into the ground by a bunch of stupid, irresponsbile fucking college boys who don't do a single fucking thing to HELP THEMSELVES in this crazy thing called LIFE.
Have a quality day.
And I have nothing to say. I'm exhausted. But CAN.NOT.STOP. Must keep plowing through the mire of shit in front of me. My week has been consumed with lifting people up and giving strength where needed. Oh and lucky for you - I just now found something to bitch about because I'm certain y'all do NOT frequent this site for daily inspiration or encouragement.
So last night I get a call from the Prodigal Son. His car, which has been undriveable for a month due to antifreeze pouring out of it, drove the car to the Quicky Mart to buy chew and then it wouldn't start so he left it there and some son's of bitches had it towed and now it's in the impound. He never did catch on that this was HIS fault - just kept bitching about the owner of the business having the car towed. I really wonder if he'll ever fucking accept responsibility for a damned thing. So I give him instruction on what to do: Call the impound - find out how to get it out, then call AAA and have it towed to a mechanic's shop. All of that was too confusing for him so he dropped it in my lap and said he didn't understand, didn't have the AAA card cuz his billfold was
So this morning, I call a mechanic's shop in the remote town where he resides - and YAY!!! The car was actually THERE! Thank GOD for small towns where the impound is also the wrecker station AND the mechanic!!! Impound bill is already up to $85 and running at a rate of $20/day. And they need the keys.
So I text the PS and tell him to call me ASAP about the car. Finally get a call 2 hours later.
Me: Can you get the keys to the mechanic and get the car out of the impound before practice?
Him: Why the fuck do they even need the keys, the fucker doesn't start, what part of that do they not understand?
Me: So can you get a ride?
Him: I dunno. My roommates are all busy doing something right now and I don't even know where the place is.
Me:
Him: I SAID I DON'T FUCKING KNOW. AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE GOD DAMNED KEYS ARE.
Me:
Him: I will look for the keys and try to find a ride before practice at 2:00.
Me: Thank you. Please text me when you are headed there.
Him: Whatever.
Seriously? I told him to take that fucking car to the mechanic a month ago to assess the problem and to let me know - he didn't have time. But I know he has plenty of time to fucking drink himself silly on a regular basis. GET OFF YOUR ASS, PUT THE BOTTLE DOWN AND GET YOUR FUCKING SHIT TOGETHER.
I hope the fucking car is dead. Because he's not getting another one until he gets his shit together. And I'm not falling for this shit storm he's created in an attempt to force me to get him a new car before he meets the goals I've set forth in order for him to be deserving of a new car. And also - did he really think I was going to drive 5 hours round trip to get the fucking car out of the impound FOR HIM? At what age the male brain kicks in, I do not yet know. The husband is at 42 and I haven't seen it yet. So I'm holding out hope for 43.
I'm going back to lifting people up and providing strength when and where needed - I find it less draining and more rewarding than dealing with POS cars purchased from an alcoholic dumbass and run into the ground by a bunch of stupid, irresponsbile fucking college boys who don't do a single fucking thing to HELP THEMSELVES in this crazy thing called LIFE.
Have a quality day.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Letter to the Asses of the World
Dear You Know Who:
You are the most despicable person I do believe I've ever had the misfortune of knowing. What makes it even more sickening is the fact that I think you're aware of your actions and yet justify them in your mind as an acceptable means of living. I'd like to take this opportunity to explain to you how disgusting you are.
You lie. You lie about anything and everything. Not just little white lies to protect people's feelings. But flat out L.I.E.S. for the sole purpose of benefiting YOU. What's funny is, most people you lie to are aware of your lies and now just assume everything that comes out of your mouth is a non-truth, or maybe a half-truth, twisted to either benefit you or facilitate your position as the victim. You have made up more shit and caused more problems than I can even count. When you're called out on the carpet for the lie, you just lie some more. Digging your fucking hole so goddamned deep that eventually the rest of us just walk away because you're joke AND a waste of our time.
You're manipulative - see above with the lies. It must be exhausting to be you - constantly manipulating people, situations, reality, to best suit YOUR needs. I am somewhat impressed with your ability to keep the shit straight in your head, but honestly, as time elapses, I see you failing at your own game and eventually, it will bite you in the ass. I just keep anxiously awaiting for the day when the ultimate ass biting gets you and your little world crumbles around you.
You're selfish. Likely the most selfish, self-serving ass I've ever met in my life. How you have a single true friend is beyond me and judging by the number of people you've surrounded yourself with, I'm guess you DON'T have any true friends. Instead, you just collect masses of "friends" so you have a larger pool of people to manipulate and serve you and your needs. I've never seen you give back to a single person - NEVER. And I've never seen you just give for the sake of giving. Every act of giving by you I've ever witnessed has been performed with self-indulgence and self-benefit in mind. I hope one day you don't really need someone or something in order to survive - because it will be real tricky for you to actually receive that help voluntarily from a single person you know.
You're materialistic in a way that is totally off-putting. Your continual display of materialism and command for those material items is disgusting. I've got a news flash for you: material items don't buy happiness. They don't define love. They don't define friendship. Or self-worth. All they are are "things". Things that you think disguise any demons you may be fighting or problems you think you're hiding.
So you just keep on telling your lies, making yourself out to be the victim and collecting "friends" and I'll just keep sitting back wondering how long this charade can last before the people closest to you figure you out and toss you to the side, realizing what a waste of a human being you are.
Until then, enjoy your martyrdom.
You are the most despicable person I do believe I've ever had the misfortune of knowing. What makes it even more sickening is the fact that I think you're aware of your actions and yet justify them in your mind as an acceptable means of living. I'd like to take this opportunity to explain to you how disgusting you are.
You lie. You lie about anything and everything. Not just little white lies to protect people's feelings. But flat out L.I.E.S. for the sole purpose of benefiting YOU. What's funny is, most people you lie to are aware of your lies and now just assume everything that comes out of your mouth is a non-truth, or maybe a half-truth, twisted to either benefit you or facilitate your position as the victim. You have made up more shit and caused more problems than I can even count. When you're called out on the carpet for the lie, you just lie some more. Digging your fucking hole so goddamned deep that eventually the rest of us just walk away because you're joke AND a waste of our time.
You're manipulative - see above with the lies. It must be exhausting to be you - constantly manipulating people, situations, reality, to best suit YOUR needs. I am somewhat impressed with your ability to keep the shit straight in your head, but honestly, as time elapses, I see you failing at your own game and eventually, it will bite you in the ass. I just keep anxiously awaiting for the day when the ultimate ass biting gets you and your little world crumbles around you.
You're selfish. Likely the most selfish, self-serving ass I've ever met in my life. How you have a single true friend is beyond me and judging by the number of people you've surrounded yourself with, I'm guess you DON'T have any true friends. Instead, you just collect masses of "friends" so you have a larger pool of people to manipulate and serve you and your needs. I've never seen you give back to a single person - NEVER. And I've never seen you just give for the sake of giving. Every act of giving by you I've ever witnessed has been performed with self-indulgence and self-benefit in mind. I hope one day you don't really need someone or something in order to survive - because it will be real tricky for you to actually receive that help voluntarily from a single person you know.
You're materialistic in a way that is totally off-putting. Your continual display of materialism and command for those material items is disgusting. I've got a news flash for you: material items don't buy happiness. They don't define love. They don't define friendship. Or self-worth. All they are are "things". Things that you think disguise any demons you may be fighting or problems you think you're hiding.
So you just keep on telling your lies, making yourself out to be the victim and collecting "friends" and I'll just keep sitting back wondering how long this charade can last before the people closest to you figure you out and toss you to the side, realizing what a waste of a human being you are.
Until then, enjoy your martyrdom.
Friday, September 30, 2011
We Interrupt this Mini-Series to bring you a recent development.....
The husband came home from work the other night - blinking. And blinking. And blinking. And blinking. And blinking. Every 2 seconds. Blinking. Blinking. Blinking. Y'all know I couldn't let this go on and because I'm such a loving, empathetic bitch, I had to ask what was up with the incessant blinking:
Me: Why the FUCK are you blinking so goddamn much?
Him: I have something in my eye.
Me: Well get it out. It's on my last fucking nerve. Blink. Blink. Blink. It's like being on an acid trip in a disco and you're making my vertigo act up, I may pass out.
Him: I'll be fine.
Me: No. You won't be fine. You already drive like shit - you can't go around blind and driving - you're not helping your cause much are you?
Him: I had on my safety goggles so I don't know why I got something in my eye.
Me: Because Larry fucking Wilson hates you and put it there. Jesus. Who the hell knows WHY it's in there - what the hell does sitting around trying to determine WHY seem a logical solution to just fixing the fucking problem? AND STOP FUCKING BLINKING - YOU'RE JUST TEARING THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR EYE AT THIS POINT. Go to the doctor.
Him: How much will that cost?
Me: What the fuck do you care? You don't pay for it and you don't even understand how the insurance works - just go to the damned doctor because your fucking blindness is going to be more expensive than getting this problem resolved. I'm going to bed. You've made me nauseous.
So the next morning, he gets up and comes out to the garage where I was cheerfully drinking coffee and playing on my iPhone. BLINKING.
Me: You'll need $25 and the insurance card. Go to the fucking doctor and do NOT come back here until you have.
So he finally went to the doctor and when he got back he told me he had a scratch on his eye. That's it. A scratch on his eye. But, you see, I had an appointment with that same doctor later that day and that's when I got the REAL story.
Evidently, he'd almost passed out in her office when she was messing with his eye and also has a terrible infection in his eye. See. I knew he was going to go blind with all that fucking blinking. Thank GOD he has me.
And while his eye appears to be on the mend, he's now injured his back and his sinuses are "out of control".
I'm thinking of putting him in traction and having a large swedish woman flush his sinuses with a netti-pot every 1/2 hour. Maybe THEN he'd quit with his incessant hypochondria and morning complaining about all his fucking ailments. You're 42. Not 82. Try taking care of yourself for once and see if you don't feel better. Until then - I don't want to hear it unless you need me to call an ambulance. Or a hearse to just take you straight to the cemetary.
Me: Why the FUCK are you blinking so goddamn much?
Him: I have something in my eye.
Me: Well get it out. It's on my last fucking nerve. Blink. Blink. Blink. It's like being on an acid trip in a disco and you're making my vertigo act up, I may pass out.
Him: I'll be fine.
Me: No. You won't be fine. You already drive like shit - you can't go around blind and driving - you're not helping your cause much are you?
Him: I had on my safety goggles so I don't know why I got something in my eye.
Me: Because Larry fucking Wilson hates you and put it there. Jesus. Who the hell knows WHY it's in there - what the hell does sitting around trying to determine WHY seem a logical solution to just fixing the fucking problem? AND STOP FUCKING BLINKING - YOU'RE JUST TEARING THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR EYE AT THIS POINT. Go to the doctor.
Him: How much will that cost?
Me: What the fuck do you care? You don't pay for it and you don't even understand how the insurance works - just go to the damned doctor because your fucking blindness is going to be more expensive than getting this problem resolved. I'm going to bed. You've made me nauseous.
So the next morning, he gets up and comes out to the garage where I was cheerfully drinking coffee and playing on my iPhone. BLINKING.
Me: You'll need $25 and the insurance card. Go to the fucking doctor and do NOT come back here until you have.
So he finally went to the doctor and when he got back he told me he had a scratch on his eye. That's it. A scratch on his eye. But, you see, I had an appointment with that same doctor later that day and that's when I got the REAL story.
Evidently, he'd almost passed out in her office when she was messing with his eye and also has a terrible infection in his eye. See. I knew he was going to go blind with all that fucking blinking. Thank GOD he has me.
And while his eye appears to be on the mend, he's now injured his back and his sinuses are "out of control".
I'm thinking of putting him in traction and having a large swedish woman flush his sinuses with a netti-pot every 1/2 hour. Maybe THEN he'd quit with his incessant hypochondria and morning complaining about all his fucking ailments. You're 42. Not 82. Try taking care of yourself for once and see if you don't feel better. Until then - I don't want to hear it unless you need me to call an ambulance. Or a hearse to just take you straight to the cemetary.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Failing by Trying Too Hard - A mini series. - Case Study #2
The School Carnival (or... Talking. Just to hear the sound of your own voice)
Saturday night was the PTO fund raising carnival for the blonde's school. That event is a blog entry in and of itself as it's quite the production and event and requires a shit ton of money from each family - but I'll try to stay focused on my case study here and not digress into the abyss of bullshit related to the illogical concept of the carnival itself.
We arrived right as the carnival was getting ready to open because we were working the bounce house for the first hour. Fortunately, there were not yet many people there, because I don't know the people and I'm pretty certain I don't like the people anyway. We took our post by the bounce house - ready to do whatever it was we were supposed to do - mark off two punches on the cards, get their shoes off, get them in the bounce house, and time them for 5 minutes, get them out of the bounce house. Repeat over and over until the end of our hour long gig. Easy enough. Got it. All was going well, and then the people started to arrive, and that was when it started. The talking. Just to fucking hear himself talk I think.
Him: Hey, there's that one gal.
Me: Who?
Him: You know. That gal, she reminds me of that one chick that played that one gal on that movie.
Me: Yeh. I have no idea.
Him: Oh shoot - I wish I could remember her name.
(oh - so do I - believe me - because this conversation is fucking stupid and a waste of my time)
Him: Hey! We have that same camera! Honey - look! Isn't that the same camera as ours?
(I look at the camera - it's a Panasonic point and shoot jobbie - ours is a Nikon D80 - so they weren't even the same size. Or shape. Or style. As a matter of fact - the ONLY thing they had in common was that they were both..... CAMERAS)
Me: Not exactly.
Him: Oh - I thought it was - is ours a Sony?
Me: It's a Nikon.
Him: Can you believe how tall Cameron has gotten?
Me: I haven't seen Cameron, so I don't really know how tall he is. I don't think I've seen him in like 4 years.
Him: He's RIGHT THERE!
(I again look in the general direction of his finger pointing into a sea of 50+ kids - all of whom have their back turned)
Me: Huh. I'm sorry - I guess I don't know which one he is.
This shit went on for the entire hour we worked that bounce house. I punched tickets, ensured shoes and necklaces were removed and safely placed on the side and out of the way, counted the kids, assembled them into groups by size so the little ones wouldn't get killed, herded them in and out of that fucking bounce house. He was in charge of the timer. But so busy gawking and chatting about all the people he THOUGHT he knew, that most times forgot and I was left begging him to check the time. After the bounce house, we went in search of the blonde and ended up staying another hour (much to my dismay) - where he continued his "there's that one kid's parents" bullshit for the next hour.
Him: There's that one kids's parents.
Me: Yep.
Him: Why are you so snotty?
Me: Because you don't have a fucking clue what anyone's name is so the whole night has been an irrelevant conversation that has left me confused and irritated.
(about that time, some dude walks by, smiles real big and says to me, "HI!! How are you?" I responded with a cordial "fine thank you" and smiled back)
Husband: Who was that?
Me: I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE.
Him: Well, I don't recognize him. How do you know him?
Me: I don't. I've never seen the fucker in my life. He said hello. So I said hello back. I don't know him. I don't know who he belongs to. Chances are..
Him: Hey! There's that one neighbor around the corner - you know the one in the taupe house - oh what's their name......
If I EVER have to go to that school carnival again I'm going to take several Xanax. And tape his fucking mouth shout.
Saturday night was the PTO fund raising carnival for the blonde's school. That event is a blog entry in and of itself as it's quite the production and event and requires a shit ton of money from each family - but I'll try to stay focused on my case study here and not digress into the abyss of bullshit related to the illogical concept of the carnival itself.
We arrived right as the carnival was getting ready to open because we were working the bounce house for the first hour. Fortunately, there were not yet many people there, because I don't know the people and I'm pretty certain I don't like the people anyway. We took our post by the bounce house - ready to do whatever it was we were supposed to do - mark off two punches on the cards, get their shoes off, get them in the bounce house, and time them for 5 minutes, get them out of the bounce house. Repeat over and over until the end of our hour long gig. Easy enough. Got it. All was going well, and then the people started to arrive, and that was when it started. The talking. Just to fucking hear himself talk I think.
Him: Hey, there's that one gal.
Me:
Him: You know. That gal, she reminds me of that one chick that played that one gal on that movie.
Me:
Him: Oh shoot - I wish I could remember her name.
(oh - so do I - believe me - because this conversation is fucking stupid and a waste of my time)
Him:
(I look at the camera - it's a Panasonic point and shoot jobbie - ours is a Nikon D80 - so they weren't even the same size. Or shape. Or style. As a matter of fact - the ONLY thing they had in common was that they were both..... CAMERAS)
Me: Not exactly.
Him: Oh - I thought it was - is ours a Sony?
Me: It's a Nikon.
Him: Can you believe how tall Cameron has gotten?
Me: I haven't seen Cameron, so I don't really know how tall he is. I don't think I've seen him in like 4 years.
Him: He's RIGHT THERE!
(I again look in the general direction of his finger pointing into a sea of 50+ kids - all of whom have their back turned)
Me: Huh. I'm sorry - I guess I don't know which one he is.
This shit went on for the entire hour we worked that bounce house. I punched tickets, ensured shoes and necklaces were removed and safely placed on the side and out of the way, counted the kids, assembled them into groups by size so the little ones wouldn't get killed, herded them in and out of that fucking bounce house. He was in charge of the timer. But so busy gawking and chatting about all the people he THOUGHT he knew, that most times forgot and I was left begging him to check the time. After the bounce house, we went in search of the blonde and ended up staying another hour (much to my dismay) - where he continued his "there's that one kid's parents" bullshit for the next hour.
Him: There's that one kids's parents.
Me: Yep.
Him: Why are you so snotty?
Me: Because you don't have a fucking clue what anyone's name is so the whole night has been an irrelevant conversation that has left me confused and irritated.
(about that time, some dude walks by, smiles real big and says to me, "HI!! How are you?" I responded with a cordial "fine thank you" and smiled back)
Husband: Who was that?
Me: I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE.
Him: Well, I don't recognize him. How do you know him?
Me: I don't. I've never seen the fucker in my life. He said hello. So I said hello back. I don't know him. I don't know who he belongs to. Chances are..
Him: Hey! There's that one neighbor around the corner - you know the one in the taupe house - oh what's their name......
If I EVER have to go to that school carnival again I'm going to take several Xanax. And tape his fucking mouth shout.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Failing by Trying Too Hard - A mini series.
Y'all know I love the husband. I really do. I adore him. But he drives me nuts with the fact that he just tries too fucking hard and that results in what appears to be a brain freeze on his part and then his lack of thinking ends up biting him in the ass because it gets on my ever lovin' last damned nerve.
I'll recount a few case in points over the next few blogs:
Case 1: Dinner. An Enigma. (or... the night his head was stuck up his ass)
Him: What do you want for dinner?
Me: I don't know - my stomach is still not quite right - so I'm not sure it really matters since I don't know that I'll be able to eat it and survive anyway.
Him: Do you want to go out to eat?
Me: Considering I haven't kept a meal down in two days, not really. I don't think that would be much fun.
Him: Well, then what do you want?
Me: I don't know - nothing sounds good.
Him: You probably have malnutrition.
Me: I don't think so. I think I have a bug of some sort.
Him: So you're not going to eat anything?
Me: I don't see that you brought me anything, so I guess not.
Him: Fine. Jesus Christ. I'll go get you something.
a full hour passes and he arrives......
Him: I hope McDonalds is okay.
Me: Wow! That was pretty creative on your part.
Him: You need to eat - I think you're malnourished.
Me: I'm not fucking malnourished - I have a bug - I'll be fine. Why you thought McDonalds on a sick stomach would be a good idea, I'll never know.
Him: Well, I suck at this dinner thing.
Me: Clearly. And now that I've eaten the food you brought me - I'll be in the bathroom.
Him: Are you fucking kidding me? If you ate more often, you wouldn't be malnourished and have this fucking problem.
Thank you Dr. Genius for that diagnosis. I'll be in the bathroom the remainder of the night. Mainly trying to avoid you.
I'll recount a few case in points over the next few blogs:
Case 1: Dinner. An Enigma. (or... the night his head was stuck up his ass)
Him: What do you want for dinner?
Me: I don't know - my stomach is still not quite right - so I'm not sure it really matters since I don't know that I'll be able to eat it and survive anyway.
Him: Do you want to go out to eat?
Me: Considering I haven't kept a meal down in two days, not really. I don't think that would be much fun.
Him: Well, then what do you want?
Me: I don't know - nothing sounds good.
Him: You probably have malnutrition.
Me: I don't think so. I think I have a bug of some sort.
Him: So you're not going to eat anything?
Me: I don't see that you brought me anything, so I guess not.
Him: Fine. Jesus Christ. I'll go get you something.
a full hour passes and he arrives......
Him: I hope McDonalds is okay.
Me: Wow! That was pretty creative on your part.
Him: You need to eat - I think you're malnourished.
Me: I'm not fucking malnourished - I have a bug - I'll be fine. Why you thought McDonalds on a sick stomach would be a good idea, I'll never know.
Him: Well, I suck at this dinner thing.
Me: Clearly. And now that I've eaten the food you brought me - I'll be in the bathroom.
Him: Are you fucking kidding me? If you ate more often, you wouldn't be malnourished and have this fucking problem.
Thank you Dr. Genius for that diagnosis. I'll be in the bathroom the remainder of the night. Mainly trying to avoid you.
Friday, September 23, 2011
What did you DO to yourself?
I didn't DO anything fucker. I'm sick.
That's the conversation I had with the husband yesterday as I lay on the couch, near death, for some unknown and still mysterious reason.
Him: I just don't know what you did to yourself.
Me: Why the fuck is this my fault? Is it possible I just got into something that made me sick?
Him: That doesn't make sense to me.
Me: I've been a lot of places this week and around a shit ton of different people - chances are, I've gotten a bug from somewhere and could you please just also SHUT THE FUCK UP?
Brunette: Maybe you should start exercising again?
Me: That's probably an accurate statement -but right now I cannot seem to even hold my head up or sit upright - so I will consider that once I'm able to stand on my own again.
Husband: You're probably dying of malnutrition.
Me: Probably. Because malnutrition comes on fast and hard like that - one minute you're standing and the next you're on the ground, unable to move. I bet you're right - that's EXACTLY what's wrong with me.
Husband: Do you want me to get you some food?
Me: NO - My stomach is in knots - I cannot swallow - therefore I do NOT want to eat.
Him: Well, I still don't understand what you've done to yourself. But you're ridiculous when you're sick.
Really? REALLY? I'm RIDICULOUS? When I'm sick - I'm SICK. I go to bed and stay there. Unlike his dumbass who refuses to acknowledge sick and just continues to plod around pretending to NOT be sick and ultimately dragging the sick out for longer than need be.
Fortunately, for the whole lot of them, I'm feeling better today and it appears I may live, afterall. And just in case I'm dying of malnutrition, I'm force-feeding myself some oatmeal. Later, I may even choke down some soup. Because clearly, I've done this to myself.
That's the conversation I had with the husband yesterday as I lay on the couch, near death, for some unknown and still mysterious reason.
Him: I just don't know what you did to yourself.
Me: Why the fuck is this my fault? Is it possible I just got into something that made me sick?
Him: That doesn't make sense to me.
Me: I've been a lot of places this week and around a shit ton of different people - chances are, I've gotten a bug from somewhere and could you please just also SHUT THE FUCK UP?
Brunette: Maybe you should start exercising again?
Me: That's probably an accurate statement -but right now I cannot seem to even hold my head up or sit upright - so I will consider that once I'm able to stand on my own again.
Husband: You're probably dying of malnutrition.
Me: Probably. Because malnutrition comes on fast and hard like that - one minute you're standing and the next you're on the ground, unable to move. I bet you're right - that's EXACTLY what's wrong with me.
Husband: Do you want me to get you some food?
Me: NO - My stomach is in knots - I cannot swallow - therefore I do NOT want to eat.
Him: Well, I still don't understand what you've done to yourself. But you're ridiculous when you're sick.
Really? REALLY? I'm RIDICULOUS? When I'm sick - I'm SICK. I go to bed and stay there. Unlike his dumbass who refuses to acknowledge sick and just continues to plod around pretending to NOT be sick and ultimately dragging the sick out for longer than need be.
Fortunately, for the whole lot of them, I'm feeling better today and it appears I may live, afterall. And just in case I'm dying of malnutrition, I'm force-feeding myself some oatmeal. Later, I may even choke down some soup. Because clearly, I've done this to myself.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Ummmmm.............
What day is it? I have lost track. The week has been a whirlwind of endless tasks, projects, deadlines, crises, etc. STOP. JUST STOP. I like my shit to run in order - not be reeling out of control. And I like to be rested, but instead it's been a week of sleepless days and nights.
Thinking about Happy and how she is always.... well, HAPPY. How the hell does she do that? I know she's tired. I know she has stress. I know she has grief. But yet, every day she wakes up smiling and finding the good in the day. Where the hell does she find the energy? I have no clue. Have I even smiled this week? Yes. I believe I did briefly yesterday, at a retirement reception. But other than that - I can't even remember what I did, who I saw or where I went.
Oh! I KNOW! I took the brunette dress shopping in Lawrence Tuesday after school. It's Homecoming you know. She has a date! I don't like him - his sleeves on his sweatshirt were too short last time I saw them. He's a king candidate for Homecoming - so there's the whole riff over a junior going with a senior and blah blah blah. That high school shit wears me out.
Anyway - we only went to TWO stores!! And we landed the perfect dress at the second store and it was on sale for under $50!!! Success! Then she got herself some 4" heels, so she's been wearing them around the house - - practicing walking. I hope she doesn't break her ankle. That would surely suck.
Still working on the blonde's birthday! I say get her some pencils and a couple of PSP games and call it good. The husband wants to get her a go-cart or something else big and fancy. She'll be 9. Let's not go crazy. We'll see what we end up with when it's all said and done. Thinking tomorrow we'll take her clothes shopping because she wants clothes but has the strangest fashion sense I've ever seen so I don't dare pick them out without her. And then maybe to the Lego Exhibit before it leaves town on Sunday. And maybe to my favorite restaurant for lunch! Oh wait - I mean HER favorite restaurant. Which will be the same as mine as soon as I tell her that's her favorite.
Have a fun weekend!!!
Thinking about Happy and how she is always.... well, HAPPY. How the hell does she do that? I know she's tired. I know she has stress. I know she has grief. But yet, every day she wakes up smiling and finding the good in the day. Where the hell does she find the energy? I have no clue. Have I even smiled this week? Yes. I believe I did briefly yesterday, at a retirement reception. But other than that - I can't even remember what I did, who I saw or where I went.
Oh! I KNOW! I took the brunette dress shopping in Lawrence Tuesday after school. It's Homecoming you know. She has a date! I don't like him - his sleeves on his sweatshirt were too short last time I saw them. He's a king candidate for Homecoming - so there's the whole riff over a junior going with a senior and blah blah blah. That high school shit wears me out.
Anyway - we only went to TWO stores!! And we landed the perfect dress at the second store and it was on sale for under $50!!! Success! Then she got herself some 4" heels, so she's been wearing them around the house - - practicing walking. I hope she doesn't break her ankle. That would surely suck.
Still working on the blonde's birthday! I say get her some pencils and a couple of PSP games and call it good. The husband wants to get her a go-cart or something else big and fancy. She'll be 9. Let's not go crazy. We'll see what we end up with when it's all said and done. Thinking tomorrow we'll take her clothes shopping because she wants clothes but has the strangest fashion sense I've ever seen so I don't dare pick them out without her. And then maybe to the Lego Exhibit before it leaves town on Sunday. And maybe to my favorite restaurant for lunch! Oh wait - I mean HER favorite restaurant. Which will be the same as mine as soon as I tell her that's her favorite.
Have a fun weekend!!!
Thursday, September 15, 2011
I thought we already had this Discussion?
Remember last year, when I suggested to the blonde that I pick her friends? Well, evidently she's got a learning disability because once again, she's not listening to me with regard to which one of her little imp friends can join in for her birthday fun. Looking back to last year, I did allow her to invite this one little gal over. The one I thought would be okay for an evening? Well... I was wrong. That child was a complete PITA. Demanding to be paid attention to all night. Insisting she hang in the garage with the adults and put on "shows" for us and all other kinds of childish shit we had no interest in. And bored. I don't think that girl has been back over since that night because she done wore my ass OUT.
When I asked the blonde this year if she might like to have a friend join in on her birthday fun - she had to think long and hard because evidently I've made no qualms about letting her know exactly how I feel about each of her friends.
There are the Branch Davidians - negatory.
The little pain in the ass from last year. NOT.
The little gal that doesn't eat a single fucking thing she is served - including ice cream. Nope.
The unfortunate looking little child who cries a lot. No thanks.
The little guy that has to wear a weighted vest to slow him down. Uh uh.
FUCK. Blonde. You SUCK at picking friends. How about that one little cat who came over two weeks ago. The one who asked for NOTHING. The one who ate the food I put in front of him - ALL OF IT. The one who's dad's phone plays Steppenwolf while I'm connecting to my party? What about him? I like him. I like his dad. He smokes. He drinks. He listens to classic rock. They seem like a good family - let's invite him. NO - we are not friends anymore.
WTF? Not friends anymore? How can this be? Turns out, kids at school were teasing them about being girl friend and boy friend. So now they are just not even friends. Fucking third graders. Such a pain in my ass. It's too late to plan any type of brief party where maybe I would only have to engage wtih these brats for a couple of hours. So it would appear the blonde will be spending her birthday celebration with me, the husband and our friends. YAY! What 9 year old doesn't want to spend her day with a bunch of adults?
Poor blonde.
When I asked the blonde this year if she might like to have a friend join in on her birthday fun - she had to think long and hard because evidently I've made no qualms about letting her know exactly how I feel about each of her friends.
There are the Branch Davidians - negatory.
The little pain in the ass from last year. NOT.
The little gal that doesn't eat a single fucking thing she is served - including ice cream. Nope.
The unfortunate looking little child who cries a lot. No thanks.
The little guy that has to wear a weighted vest to slow him down. Uh uh.
FUCK. Blonde. You SUCK at picking friends. How about that one little cat who came over two weeks ago. The one who asked for NOTHING. The one who ate the food I put in front of him - ALL OF IT. The one who's dad's phone plays Steppenwolf while I'm connecting to my party? What about him? I like him. I like his dad. He smokes. He drinks. He listens to classic rock. They seem like a good family - let's invite him. NO - we are not friends anymore.
WTF? Not friends anymore? How can this be? Turns out, kids at school were teasing them about being girl friend and boy friend. So now they are just not even friends. Fucking third graders. Such a pain in my ass. It's too late to plan any type of brief party where maybe I would only have to engage wtih these brats for a couple of hours. So it would appear the blonde will be spending her birthday celebration with me, the husband and our friends. YAY! What 9 year old doesn't want to spend her day with a bunch of adults?
Poor blonde.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Why oh WHY Must History Repeat Itself????
I've never been one to be "in" to exercise. Physical activity isn't something I long for or make a priority in my life. Sure, there have been times when I set my mind to being more physically fit and like anything I set out to do - I do it to the extreme.
Like the time back in the late 80's where I got all addicted to aerobics. Maybe it was the cute attire, or the side pony tail, or maybe the leg warmers or the Richard Simmons reeboks. Or maybe I just really found myself enjoying the way my body was taking shape. But all I know is what started out as a twice a week stint, turned into a 6 day a week addiction. I was such an addict that 15 minutes after having a gun held to my head during a bank robbery, I asked the KBI agent how long the inquiry was going to take because I really had an aerobics class to get to. Got shit to do people - let's move this investigation along. We're all alive - now let's get going!
Or the time in the late 90's when I joined a gym. And went every single night and twice on Saturdays. All so I could wear those pale yellow Rockies - I called them my butter jeans. Because my ass looked yummy as butter in them. I even won a best butt contest at the bar. Of course, I may have been the only person there that night - but I don't really remember that part so we won't focus on that. After the blonde was born, my ass looked like melted butter in them, so I gave them to Goodwill and determined NO ONE should EVER wear pale yellow, pocketless jeans.
And then there was the time just about two years ago when I set out to exercise because I felt like shit. My knees and hips hurt from sitting in a fucking chair 11 hours a day while working. And it started small - with the Wii Fit. And then expanded to the Wii Active. And then I took my gig to the great outdoors and walked. And walked. And walked. And then a pack of wild dogs (no shit) attacked a woman in the vicinity, so I stopped walking outside and got a treadmill. And I walked on it. Daily. Every day pushing myself to go just a little further. If you can do 20 minutes, you can do 30 minutes and if you haven't died at 30 minutes, you can go 45 and fuck it - just keep going girl - you walk on that treadmill ALL day! You ROCK!!
Sometime around Christmas last year, I stopped walking. I'm trying to remember why, exactly. I can never recall WHY I stop engaging in good habits. So this time I'm giving it some good thought. I recall my tennis shoes needed replaced. And the ones I had were so comfortable, but they stopped selling them - Under Armour Women's running shoes for people with high arches. L.O.V.E. Can no longer find them. Of course. Just like a favorite lipstick color or mascara - gone without notice. So I bought a pair of those Reebok tone-ups or something like that. And those little bastards hurt the balls of my feet so badly that I returned them within a week and bought a pair of Ecco tennis shoes. Which ALSO hurt my feet. So I think that was originally the first step toward the end of walking career. Feet hurt. Cannot walk.
And then, as I recall, the Prodigal Son broke the treadmill. He has a knack for breaking shit. Always has. That child could look at something that belongs to me from across the room and fuck it up completely. Well, I pitched a big ass fit over this broken treadmill and demanded the husband get it fixed RIGHT THIS FUCKING INSTANT BECAUSE I'M USING IT. And so he found someone to come fix it - RIGHT THAT INSTANT - and I've never been on it since. I believe that was in early January 2011.
My legs are feeling weak. My back is hurting again. My posture is looking sloppy. And I have smoked so many fucking cigarettes in the last 3 months that I can't breathe. So, I'm thinking it's time to start up that heinous habit of walking again but now I'm cussing myself because I know how damned hard the first few weeks are going to be. Why the hell do I allow this to happen? Over and over again.
I've walked out to the end of my driveway a few times recently and gazed up the hill that looms ahead of me if I were to walk outside. That hill is a bitch. It kicked my ass when I was in good shape. I'm not sure I could make it up it right at the moment without stopping for a smoke and a beer about 1/2 way. But today I am determined. I'm going to take my fat dog and put his ass on a leash and walk up that hill. I may not make it up that hill. And I may only make it as far as the top of the hill and no further. But it has to be done. And if I'm moving slow or stopping along the way, I'll just make it look like it's the dog slowing me down and not actually me needing a break.
And also I'll cuss myself the entire way - this is what you get for indulging in bad habits in excess for so many months. You like beer? You like whiskey? You like to smoke? And sit on your ass and float in the pool? Well, this is the payback you get for that you lazy ass, velveeta whore.
Like the time back in the late 80's where I got all addicted to aerobics. Maybe it was the cute attire, or the side pony tail, or maybe the leg warmers or the Richard Simmons reeboks. Or maybe I just really found myself enjoying the way my body was taking shape. But all I know is what started out as a twice a week stint, turned into a 6 day a week addiction. I was such an addict that 15 minutes after having a gun held to my head during a bank robbery, I asked the KBI agent how long the inquiry was going to take because I really had an aerobics class to get to. Got shit to do people - let's move this investigation along. We're all alive - now let's get going!
Or the time in the late 90's when I joined a gym. And went every single night and twice on Saturdays. All so I could wear those pale yellow Rockies - I called them my butter jeans. Because my ass looked yummy as butter in them. I even won a best butt contest at the bar. Of course, I may have been the only person there that night - but I don't really remember that part so we won't focus on that. After the blonde was born, my ass looked like melted butter in them, so I gave them to Goodwill and determined NO ONE should EVER wear pale yellow, pocketless jeans.
And then there was the time just about two years ago when I set out to exercise because I felt like shit. My knees and hips hurt from sitting in a fucking chair 11 hours a day while working. And it started small - with the Wii Fit. And then expanded to the Wii Active. And then I took my gig to the great outdoors and walked. And walked. And walked. And then a pack of wild dogs (no shit) attacked a woman in the vicinity, so I stopped walking outside and got a treadmill. And I walked on it. Daily. Every day pushing myself to go just a little further. If you can do 20 minutes, you can do 30 minutes and if you haven't died at 30 minutes, you can go 45 and fuck it - just keep going girl - you walk on that treadmill ALL day! You ROCK!!
Sometime around Christmas last year, I stopped walking. I'm trying to remember why, exactly. I can never recall WHY I stop engaging in good habits. So this time I'm giving it some good thought. I recall my tennis shoes needed replaced. And the ones I had were so comfortable, but they stopped selling them - Under Armour Women's running shoes for people with high arches. L.O.V.E. Can no longer find them. Of course. Just like a favorite lipstick color or mascara - gone without notice. So I bought a pair of those Reebok tone-ups or something like that. And those little bastards hurt the balls of my feet so badly that I returned them within a week and bought a pair of Ecco tennis shoes. Which ALSO hurt my feet. So I think that was originally the first step toward the end of walking career. Feet hurt. Cannot walk.
And then, as I recall, the Prodigal Son broke the treadmill. He has a knack for breaking shit. Always has. That child could look at something that belongs to me from across the room and fuck it up completely. Well, I pitched a big ass fit over this broken treadmill and demanded the husband get it fixed RIGHT THIS FUCKING INSTANT BECAUSE I'M USING IT. And so he found someone to come fix it - RIGHT THAT INSTANT - and I've never been on it since. I believe that was in early January 2011.
My legs are feeling weak. My back is hurting again. My posture is looking sloppy. And I have smoked so many fucking cigarettes in the last 3 months that I can't breathe. So, I'm thinking it's time to start up that heinous habit of walking again but now I'm cussing myself because I know how damned hard the first few weeks are going to be. Why the hell do I allow this to happen? Over and over again.
I've walked out to the end of my driveway a few times recently and gazed up the hill that looms ahead of me if I were to walk outside. That hill is a bitch. It kicked my ass when I was in good shape. I'm not sure I could make it up it right at the moment without stopping for a smoke and a beer about 1/2 way. But today I am determined. I'm going to take my fat dog and put his ass on a leash and walk up that hill. I may not make it up that hill. And I may only make it as far as the top of the hill and no further. But it has to be done. And if I'm moving slow or stopping along the way, I'll just make it look like it's the dog slowing me down and not actually me needing a break.
And also I'll cuss myself the entire way - this is what you get for indulging in bad habits in excess for so many months. You like beer? You like whiskey? You like to smoke? And sit on your ass and float in the pool? Well, this is the payback you get for that you lazy ass, velveeta whore.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Remembering....
There are some days in your life that you will never forget. You won't forget where you were. You won't forget how you felt......those days for me are...
When I got the news that Elvis died.
When President Reagan was shot.
The onset of the first Gulf War.
The outcome of the OJ Simpson trial.
The OK City bombing.
The WACO, TX fiasco.
The death of Princess Diana
The Columbine Shootings
9/11/01
When I got the news Michael Jackson was dead.
Those are the biggies for me. Let's focus on the one in bold since it's the 10th anniversary of that tragic day. I had to get up early that day and stop at a customer site - - - I don't remember why or what they wanted, they've always been a complete PITA though so I'm sure it was to listen to more of their rambling, babbling bullshit. I knew when I arrived there that the first plane had hit the first tower. And it must have been a short site visit because by the time I got back into my car to head to the office, they were announcing that there was a 2nd plane that hit the other tower. And I remember a rush of panic coming over me. WTF was going on? I had no clue, but it was frightening. And I was alone.
I raced to the office and immediately asked someone to run home and get a TV so we could watch the news unfold. And we sat, that day, staring at that little tiny black and white TV with huge rabbit ears and aluminum foil hanging off of them to get a better signal. Dumbstruck. Completely and utterly dumbstruck.
I didn't cry. I didn't know what to feel. I was numb. And that night, the husband and I (we had JUST started dating) sat there in front of the TV and watched the coverage for hours - over and over and over - completely confused and speechless.
It's odd. I remember the OK City bombings left me sobbing at work. Yearning to get home to my babies to hug them (well, actually I think I was pregnant with the brunette so I would have only had the Prodigal Son at the time). Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones. Or the fact I was a young mother. Something about that event touched me more deeply and personally. Although I knew none of the victims. It just "hit-home" a little more. And yet with 9/11 I was just left C.O.N.F.U.S.E.D. and now, forever afraid to fly. I think I've only flown 3 times since that day. And each time I was petrified. And one time I was sent to the terrorist suspect line because my ID didn't match the name on my ticket exactly. I think that was the last time I flew.
It upsets me to watch the coverage from that day. The fear. The panic. The desparation. The people in the top floors, hanging out the windows - no chance in hell of surviving. Their family members watching that coverage - wondering if that was their loved one they saw waving for help that would never arrive. I watched a documentary last night and one mother said, "Every time I watch the clip of the 2nd plane hitting the 2nd tower, I am watching my son die." She said it with dry eyes. I don't know how she did it. I never want to outlive my children. But I always think in the back of my head that if by chance I do, that my children do not experience grave fear. I loathe fear. And yet I live in a constant state of it. Maybe I carry all the fear for all of my children so they won't have to experience it? I'll be afraid. You go live life.
I don't really ever talk to my kids about this day. Maybe I should. The blonde wasn't born yet. And I guess a part of me doesn't want her to know because I'm afraid she will be afraid. She'll know someday. But for now, I relish her innocence and optimistism. I don't want to taint that for her. The older kids would remember that day. But sadly, it's just another tragedy that occurred during their short life span. They've grown up in a world where school shootings and violence are the norm. The country is in a constant state of war. And they think Tupac and Michael Jackson are still alive and in hiding. These are their realities. Such crazy assed shit happens all around them that to have a terrorist attack on our home land doesn't seem extraordinarily confusing to them like it did to me.
And so I will go into this day....remembering and thanking those that continue to fight for our Freedom and happy to be an American.... and likely jumpy as hell. And when I want to keep close tabs on all the kids today and know at all times where they are, lest there is cause for me to need to panic, I will be able to quickly locate them....they'll roll their eyes and tell me I'm paranoid. And I'll happily take that title and carry the fear for them so they can enjoy their day.
When I got the news that Elvis died.
When President Reagan was shot.
The onset of the first Gulf War.
The outcome of the OJ Simpson trial.
The OK City bombing.
The WACO, TX fiasco.
The death of Princess Diana
The Columbine Shootings
9/11/01
When I got the news Michael Jackson was dead.
Those are the biggies for me. Let's focus on the one in bold since it's the 10th anniversary of that tragic day. I had to get up early that day and stop at a customer site - - - I don't remember why or what they wanted, they've always been a complete PITA though so I'm sure it was to listen to more of their rambling, babbling bullshit. I knew when I arrived there that the first plane had hit the first tower. And it must have been a short site visit because by the time I got back into my car to head to the office, they were announcing that there was a 2nd plane that hit the other tower. And I remember a rush of panic coming over me. WTF was going on? I had no clue, but it was frightening. And I was alone.
I raced to the office and immediately asked someone to run home and get a TV so we could watch the news unfold. And we sat, that day, staring at that little tiny black and white TV with huge rabbit ears and aluminum foil hanging off of them to get a better signal. Dumbstruck. Completely and utterly dumbstruck.
I didn't cry. I didn't know what to feel. I was numb. And that night, the husband and I (we had JUST started dating) sat there in front of the TV and watched the coverage for hours - over and over and over - completely confused and speechless.
It's odd. I remember the OK City bombings left me sobbing at work. Yearning to get home to my babies to hug them (well, actually I think I was pregnant with the brunette so I would have only had the Prodigal Son at the time). Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones. Or the fact I was a young mother. Something about that event touched me more deeply and personally. Although I knew none of the victims. It just "hit-home" a little more. And yet with 9/11 I was just left C.O.N.F.U.S.E.D. and now, forever afraid to fly. I think I've only flown 3 times since that day. And each time I was petrified. And one time I was sent to the terrorist suspect line because my ID didn't match the name on my ticket exactly. I think that was the last time I flew.
It upsets me to watch the coverage from that day. The fear. The panic. The desparation. The people in the top floors, hanging out the windows - no chance in hell of surviving. Their family members watching that coverage - wondering if that was their loved one they saw waving for help that would never arrive. I watched a documentary last night and one mother said, "Every time I watch the clip of the 2nd plane hitting the 2nd tower, I am watching my son die." She said it with dry eyes. I don't know how she did it. I never want to outlive my children. But I always think in the back of my head that if by chance I do, that my children do not experience grave fear. I loathe fear. And yet I live in a constant state of it. Maybe I carry all the fear for all of my children so they won't have to experience it? I'll be afraid. You go live life.
I don't really ever talk to my kids about this day. Maybe I should. The blonde wasn't born yet. And I guess a part of me doesn't want her to know because I'm afraid she will be afraid. She'll know someday. But for now, I relish her innocence and optimistism. I don't want to taint that for her. The older kids would remember that day. But sadly, it's just another tragedy that occurred during their short life span. They've grown up in a world where school shootings and violence are the norm. The country is in a constant state of war. And they think Tupac and Michael Jackson are still alive and in hiding. These are their realities. Such crazy assed shit happens all around them that to have a terrorist attack on our home land doesn't seem extraordinarily confusing to them like it did to me.
And so I will go into this day....remembering and thanking those that continue to fight for our Freedom and happy to be an American.... and likely jumpy as hell. And when I want to keep close tabs on all the kids today and know at all times where they are, lest there is cause for me to need to panic, I will be able to quickly locate them....they'll roll their eyes and tell me I'm paranoid. And I'll happily take that title and carry the fear for them so they can enjoy their day.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Soul Sisters
So you ever had one of those friends? You know the ones, the minute you saw them you knew you had to have them in your life? You took one look at the person and you're all, "OMFG! DO YOU WANT TO BE BFFs? CUZ I WILL D.I.E. IF I DO NOT HAVE YOU IN MY LIFE!!!!"
If you don't have one of these friends, I feel sorry for you and highly recommend you go get you one of these friends - RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!! You will not regret it people. Trust me!
Anyways, I got me one of these friends. Way back in... hell I don't even remember what year it was. 1997 maybe? Maybe it was early '98. Whatever. It was a long fucking time ago and I L.O.V.E me this friend. There I was all spiffy and professional in my banker uniform looking like I was 75 when I was 30, and this cuter than a button little blonde with red lips came in for an interview. And then she opened her mouth to speak and WTF are you kidding me? Jesus! She has a southern accent? MUST.BE.HER.FRIEND. She didn't know a damned thing about banking, but she offered to vacuum the floors or sort my paper clips or whatever the hell she could possibly do because she was lonely and new in town. That's nice. And we parted company. But an hour later, I could not stand the thought of going through life without her in it, so I called her ass back down there for a second interview and hired her on the spot.
Then I took her with me to my next job. I went to hell, she went with me to make sure no one kicked my ass or hurt my feelings. Inseperable. That's what we were. Then one day, something happened. I must have blocked it from my memory because I never can remember the exact cause, but we broke up. And it was an ugly breakup and we didn't speak for YEARS. And my heart ACHED for her. ACHED. I would cry and cry and cry to the husband and when he'd ask me what was wrong, I'd tell him how much I missed my soul sister and needed her in my life. I had to have her or I would absolutely DIE. I could NOT live without her another day of my life. So... being the brave bitch that I am, I emailed her. Just reached out to get a feel for how she would respond. Hopeful I would get a response, but not really expecting to. But then!!! To my great surprise, she DID respond!!!!! I skipped around the kitchen with joy! Yippeee!!!! My soul sister misses me too and loves me and she responded! And after I got done celebrating and congratulating myself on my successful mission, I opened her email to read it.......
SERIOUSLY? SERIOUSLY? YOU HAVE A LOT OF FUCKING BALLS REACHING OUT TO ME AFTER WHAT YOU DID TO ME AND HOW YOU TREATED ME AND GO TO HELL BITCH.
Hmmm. Not really the response I was hoping for.... but hey! At least it was a response!!! Score 1 for the home team here! So I responded back, "Fair enough." But she hadn't finished chewing my ass completely off so she retorted with some other shit ensuring I had absolutely not one iota of ass when she got done. And I didn't. But then she told me she was wearing the fuzzy slippers I gave her eleventy nine hundred years ago so I knew deep down she really did love me and wanted to make amends. And over time - a very long and careful walk across the burning embers - we were able to come together again. And the first time the husband saw the two of us together and watched us throughout the evening, he too cried tears of joy and said, "You were right. You two belong together. The wife knew it all along."
And now I've hauled her ass back to work with me. And she's a hard damned worker. And smart. But she doesn't give herself enough credit for the brains she has, so I get push her and help her stretch and grow so she can see in herself what I've ALWAYS seen in her!! Yesterday, she started herself a blog - she's funny as all get out and makes me smile to hear her talk or read her stories! I KNOW she will be a great blogger and you'll enjoy her as much as I do. But SHE'S MINE. SO DON'T GO STEALING ON MY SOUL SISSER.
Blessed in every way! That's what I am!
If you don't have one of these friends, I feel sorry for you and highly recommend you go get you one of these friends - RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!! You will not regret it people. Trust me!
Anyways, I got me one of these friends. Way back in... hell I don't even remember what year it was. 1997 maybe? Maybe it was early '98. Whatever. It was a long fucking time ago and I L.O.V.E me this friend. There I was all spiffy and professional in my banker uniform looking like I was 75 when I was 30, and this cuter than a button little blonde with red lips came in for an interview. And then she opened her mouth to speak and WTF are you kidding me? Jesus! She has a southern accent? MUST.BE.HER.FRIEND. She didn't know a damned thing about banking, but she offered to vacuum the floors or sort my paper clips or whatever the hell she could possibly do because she was lonely and new in town. That's nice. And we parted company. But an hour later, I could not stand the thought of going through life without her in it, so I called her ass back down there for a second interview and hired her on the spot.
Then I took her with me to my next job. I went to hell, she went with me to make sure no one kicked my ass or hurt my feelings. Inseperable. That's what we were. Then one day, something happened. I must have blocked it from my memory because I never can remember the exact cause, but we broke up. And it was an ugly breakup and we didn't speak for YEARS. And my heart ACHED for her. ACHED. I would cry and cry and cry to the husband and when he'd ask me what was wrong, I'd tell him how much I missed my soul sister and needed her in my life. I had to have her or I would absolutely DIE. I could NOT live without her another day of my life. So... being the brave bitch that I am, I emailed her. Just reached out to get a feel for how she would respond. Hopeful I would get a response, but not really expecting to. But then!!! To my great surprise, she DID respond!!!!! I skipped around the kitchen with joy! Yippeee!!!! My soul sister misses me too and loves me and she responded! And after I got done celebrating and congratulating myself on my successful mission, I opened her email to read it.......
SERIOUSLY? SERIOUSLY? YOU HAVE A LOT OF FUCKING BALLS REACHING OUT TO ME AFTER WHAT YOU DID TO ME AND HOW YOU TREATED ME AND GO TO HELL BITCH.
Hmmm. Not really the response I was hoping for.... but hey! At least it was a response!!! Score 1 for the home team here! So I responded back, "Fair enough." But she hadn't finished chewing my ass completely off so she retorted with some other shit ensuring I had absolutely not one iota of ass when she got done. And I didn't. But then she told me she was wearing the fuzzy slippers I gave her eleventy nine hundred years ago so I knew deep down she really did love me and wanted to make amends. And over time - a very long and careful walk across the burning embers - we were able to come together again. And the first time the husband saw the two of us together and watched us throughout the evening, he too cried tears of joy and said, "You were right. You two belong together. The wife knew it all along."
And now I've hauled her ass back to work with me. And she's a hard damned worker. And smart. But she doesn't give herself enough credit for the brains she has, so I get push her and help her stretch and grow so she can see in herself what I've ALWAYS seen in her!! Yesterday, she started herself a blog - she's funny as all get out and makes me smile to hear her talk or read her stories! I KNOW she will be a great blogger and you'll enjoy her as much as I do. But SHE'S MINE. SO DON'T GO STEALING ON MY SOUL SISSER.
Blessed in every way! That's what I am!
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Benadryl Cures Brain Tumors
There I was, sitting in a ketchy little restaurant, listening to a friend chat, when all of a sudden, I turned my head toward a noise I heard and the next thing I know, my head is reeling, my stomach is churning and everything went blurry. I quickly turned back to face my friend which was a huge mistake, because as I looked at her, she became very distorted and her words were slow and drawn out and I honestly cannot imagine the look I must have had on my face. But not wanting to upset her or make an ass of myself, I casually leaned my head over and supported it coyly with one hand. Little did she know, I was on the verge of passing out. I had no idea why. I had no clue why the room was spinning, or why I couldn't hear her or why I was going to pass out. I just knew I was. I didn't want to be rude and interrupt her, to forewarn her, yet I didn't want to surprise her with my collapse either. Panic overwhelmed me and soon my heart was racing and I thought, "Jesus Christ. I'm having a stroke. Or a heart attack. And this is NOT going to end well. I'm going to be completely embarrassed here at this ketchy little restaurant. This is EXACTLY why I don't leave the house. You just never know when you might fucking pass out." Somehow, through the Grace of God, I was able to pull my shit together and NOT pass out and I never mentioned it to her either. I just kept praying that I could make it to my car without falling down in the parking lot. And that I could make it home without passing out and killing myself and others in the process.
With each turn and twist in the road, it would hit me again. Dizzy. Blurry. Nausea. GREAT. I HAVE A FUCKING BRAIN TUMOR. This is how it's going to end. A stupid fucking brain tumor. I always knew I'd have some fucked up ending to this story and this is the ultimate kick in the ass. And it made me think of the movie Phenomenon. Where John Travolta gets uber smart and figures out a bunch of shit and so I started thinking about what shit I would figure out with my brain tumor assistant. And they play that super fun and happy music throughout. I love that movie. I think I even have the soundtrack. And I'm always like, "Hey!!! Let's watch Phenomenon!!!" And the husband obliges and we sit down to watch it and I'm all smiling and laughing and HOLY FUCKING SHIT JESUS H. CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK? HE FUCKING DIES? OH.MY.GOD. TURN IT OFF. TURN IT OFF. IT'S SO FUCKING SAD! WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME HE DIES? I HATE THIS FUCKING SAD MOVIE.
I forget that part EVERY TIME I watch that movie. I think the last time I watched it, I marked on the DVD box in black sharpie: FYI DIPSHIT: HE DIES IN THE END.
So anyway, I managed to make it home without crashing, and participated in a conference call and even managed to operate my vehicle to and from the office later in the afternoon. And when my husband got home and asked how my day was, I was all, "It fucking SUCKED." And he's all, "So did mine!" And I'm like, "Yeh? Well I have a god damned brain tumor." And he looked a little miffed that my day was worse than his because I think he thought he was going to get to do all the talking last night. He was so fucking miffed as a matter of fact, that he didn't even ask HOW I got the brain tumor. Ass. He was just like, "Oh. I need a beer."
And I needed a beer too. But the brain tumor doesn't like beer and it acted up and started revolting and making me act more crazy and dizzy and sending me reeling like I'd been on a tilt-a-whirl marathon. And everytime I tried to focus on something, it would punch me behind the eyes so I couldn't see what I was looking at. And when a colleague arrived at 4:30 for a scheduled meeting, he was all, "today isn't a very good day to meet because I'm in a shitty fucking mood." And I'm like, "No shit. I have a brain tumor." And he's like, "WHAT? When did you find that out, because you didn't seem like yourself earlier today and I wondered what was wrong" and unlike the husband, he seemed VERY concerned about me. So I was like, "I diagnosed myself about 1:30 this afternoon."
And he started busting a gut laughing. WHAT.THE.FUCK? Who laughs at someone with a brain tumor? Stupid sonofabitch. I guess he forgot he reports to me. So I made a mental note to fire his ass at the first given opportunity. Talk about poor judgment. That right there was a career limiting move.
The husband, being the medical genius that he is, says, "Maybe it's just your sinuses, why don't you just take some Benadryl and go to bed." Seriously? My sinuses? It was clear he was still jealous that my day was worse than his and he wanted me to go to bed so he could tell the dog all about his shitty fucking day without me interrupting him. But I took the Benadryl anyway, since the brain tumor hated him about as much as Aunt Flo does and I knew it would make me tired and plus it was like a great excuse to just go to bed and not have to a single chore all evening. That was at 7:30 last night. When I woke up 11 hours later, the brain tumor was gone! No more vertigo!! No more blurred vision!! I'm CURED!!! YAY!!!! Praise Jesus!!!
When the husband asked me how I felt this morning, I of course told the truth: "I STILL FEEL LIKE SHIT AND STILL HAVE THIS BRAIN TUMOR" ...... that should get me out of chores again today. Plus, I don't like him thinking he's the brains of this operation over here.
With each turn and twist in the road, it would hit me again. Dizzy. Blurry. Nausea. GREAT. I HAVE A FUCKING BRAIN TUMOR. This is how it's going to end. A stupid fucking brain tumor. I always knew I'd have some fucked up ending to this story and this is the ultimate kick in the ass. And it made me think of the movie Phenomenon. Where John Travolta gets uber smart and figures out a bunch of shit and so I started thinking about what shit I would figure out with my brain tumor assistant. And they play that super fun and happy music throughout. I love that movie. I think I even have the soundtrack. And I'm always like, "Hey!!! Let's watch Phenomenon!!!" And the husband obliges and we sit down to watch it and I'm all smiling and laughing and HOLY FUCKING SHIT JESUS H. CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK? HE FUCKING DIES? OH.MY.GOD. TURN IT OFF. TURN IT OFF. IT'S SO FUCKING SAD! WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME HE DIES? I HATE THIS FUCKING SAD MOVIE.
I forget that part EVERY TIME I watch that movie. I think the last time I watched it, I marked on the DVD box in black sharpie: FYI DIPSHIT: HE DIES IN THE END.
So anyway, I managed to make it home without crashing, and participated in a conference call and even managed to operate my vehicle to and from the office later in the afternoon. And when my husband got home and asked how my day was, I was all, "It fucking SUCKED." And he's all, "So did mine!" And I'm like, "Yeh? Well I have a god damned brain tumor." And he looked a little miffed that my day was worse than his because I think he thought he was going to get to do all the talking last night. He was so fucking miffed as a matter of fact, that he didn't even ask HOW I got the brain tumor. Ass. He was just like, "Oh. I need a beer."
And I needed a beer too. But the brain tumor doesn't like beer and it acted up and started revolting and making me act more crazy and dizzy and sending me reeling like I'd been on a tilt-a-whirl marathon. And everytime I tried to focus on something, it would punch me behind the eyes so I couldn't see what I was looking at. And when a colleague arrived at 4:30 for a scheduled meeting, he was all, "today isn't a very good day to meet because I'm in a shitty fucking mood." And I'm like, "No shit. I have a brain tumor." And he's like, "WHAT? When did you find that out, because you didn't seem like yourself earlier today and I wondered what was wrong" and unlike the husband, he seemed VERY concerned about me. So I was like, "I diagnosed myself about 1:30 this afternoon."
And he started busting a gut laughing. WHAT.THE.FUCK? Who laughs at someone with a brain tumor? Stupid sonofabitch. I guess he forgot he reports to me. So I made a mental note to fire his ass at the first given opportunity. Talk about poor judgment. That right there was a career limiting move.
The husband, being the medical genius that he is, says, "Maybe it's just your sinuses, why don't you just take some Benadryl and go to bed." Seriously? My sinuses? It was clear he was still jealous that my day was worse than his and he wanted me to go to bed so he could tell the dog all about his shitty fucking day without me interrupting him. But I took the Benadryl anyway, since the brain tumor hated him about as much as Aunt Flo does and I knew it would make me tired and plus it was like a great excuse to just go to bed and not have to a single chore all evening. That was at 7:30 last night. When I woke up 11 hours later, the brain tumor was gone! No more vertigo!! No more blurred vision!! I'm CURED!!! YAY!!!! Praise Jesus!!!
When the husband asked me how I felt this morning, I of course told the truth: "I STILL FEEL LIKE SHIT AND STILL HAVE THIS BRAIN TUMOR" ...... that should get me out of chores again today. Plus, I don't like him thinking he's the brains of this operation over here.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
HELP!!!!! I've been hijacked by Happy
So last time I checked in, Happy and our other sister were on their way over. I'm never sure why the other sister isn't in any of the pictures - perhaps it's because she doesn't run around the garage and yard acting like a horse's ass like Happy and I tend to? Anyway - the day started off something like this:
See, we were wearing shit kickers. And showing off our matching purses. The purse on her shoulder is the one she hijacked from me while I was peeing at the bar last time I saw her. And the one I'm carrying is the new one she bought to replace it. Only she didn't really replace it. She just emptied out the contents of the stolen purse and then put her shit in the new purse. That's how she rolls.
The day progressed and one thing led to another and the next thing I know, I'm donning a helmet and she's carrying me around:
And that's kind of how the rest of the day and night went. Me. Wearing a helmet. Her carrying me around. Only she kept dropping me (which is why I wore the helmet to begin with) and the next day I woke up with a bruise the size of my head on my thigh, a bloody ankle and several bruised ribs. I have no.fucking.clue why. But I love her and my other sister and our friends that joined us for such a beautiful Sunday Funday!!
And also, I think next time she comes over, I'll wear full body pads.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
I'm like Sybil
...BUT BETTER!
I have so many different profiles at the moment that it will likely take a miracle for them to keep me all straight. I mean for me to keep them all straight. There's the professional Facebook profile where I keep my witty shitty humor hidden and only say positive things, leadership advice and other benign shit that some people might find interesting. And then there's the personal Facebook profile where I spout off whatever random shit flows through my head and share stupid pictures of myself and my immature antics. And now this morning, I created a Facebook profile for my husband. But because he's innernets challenged, it's actually ME posing as him. He's friends with my professional profile. Because if he were to figure out the innernets by some fluke and was friends with the personal profile of myself, well then he'd see all the random shit I post about him and that might not be a good thing. Although he does typically laugh at everything I say because I am in fact the funniest fucking person on earth.
Oh and also on Facebook, there is the work Fan Page that I am an administer on. That's where I have to say things to try to get our customers to interact with us which is a little like trying to get a dog to balance hisself on a beach ball while navigating an obstacle course constructed of meaty bones.
Then there is the work Tweeter account that I am an administrator on where we pluck our brains for interesting things to tweet to our followers there - 90% of which we have no clue who they are, but whatever.
And then there's the personal, nonamesmentioned Tweeter account where I say even more rankier shit than on the personal Facebook account.
And lastly, the ol' LinkedIn account - where I try to post inspiring shit focused around our company, my career and life. It's the most boring piece of shit ever.
I'm super wound up this morning - up at 4:30 a.m. - EXCITED!!! Happy and my other sister are coming to visit today and they're bringing two other friends and we're having SundayFunday and we're going to live tweet it - we are so fucking funny anyway - then you add beers and laughter to it - I'm CERTAIN the tweeter fest will go viral!!!
WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! I may even create yet another personality before the end of the day!!!
I have so many different profiles at the moment that it will likely take a miracle for them to keep me all straight. I mean for me to keep them all straight. There's the professional Facebook profile where I keep my witty shitty humor hidden and only say positive things, leadership advice and other benign shit that some people might find interesting. And then there's the personal Facebook profile where I spout off whatever random shit flows through my head and share stupid pictures of myself and my immature antics. And now this morning, I created a Facebook profile for my husband. But because he's innernets challenged, it's actually ME posing as him. He's friends with my professional profile. Because if he were to figure out the innernets by some fluke and was friends with the personal profile of myself, well then he'd see all the random shit I post about him and that might not be a good thing. Although he does typically laugh at everything I say because I am in fact the funniest fucking person on earth.
Oh and also on Facebook, there is the work Fan Page that I am an administer on. That's where I have to say things to try to get our customers to interact with us which is a little like trying to get a dog to balance hisself on a beach ball while navigating an obstacle course constructed of meaty bones.
Then there is the work Tweeter account that I am an administrator on where we pluck our brains for interesting things to tweet to our followers there - 90% of which we have no clue who they are, but whatever.
And then there's the personal, nonamesmentioned Tweeter account where I say even more rankier shit than on the personal Facebook account.
And lastly, the ol' LinkedIn account - where I try to post inspiring shit focused around our company, my career and life. It's the most boring piece of shit ever.
I'm super wound up this morning - up at 4:30 a.m. - EXCITED!!! Happy and my other sister are coming to visit today and they're bringing two other friends and we're having SundayFunday and we're going to live tweet it - we are so fucking funny anyway - then you add beers and laughter to it - I'm CERTAIN the tweeter fest will go viral!!!
WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! I may even create yet another personality before the end of the day!!!
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Night Crawlers
What a night. Seriously. I went to bed with a Benadryl at 10 p.m. Woke up to the husband yelling out some unidentifiable babble at 2 a.m. WTF is he doing? Fighting his demons? Why can't he do that properly like I do? Drown them with alcohol- THAT is proper demon fighting. Not in the middle of the night when people are trying to sleep - that's just RUDE. And so there I was, wide awake and 2 a.m. Staring at the blackness that surrounded me. And my neck started screaming at me and making me unable to return to sleep. Ever since I took up looking at my iPhone 18 hours a day, my neck seems to be rebeling. I'm not sure the two are actually connected, it could just be a strange coincidence? And then my stomach started yelling out for food. Seriously guys? It's 2 a.m. - STFU and go back to sleep. All y'all.
And the more I tossed and turned, the more alert my brain became and it started thinking of all kinds of shit - about work mainly. I think I finally got the whole lot of them to simmer down around 5 a.m. and just as I began to doze off, I felt a few light taps on my shoulder. WTF is that? And then it pulled my hair. Seriously. Now I'm scared and afraid to roll over to see the monster fucking with me at 5 a.m. - what if it's an intruder? A ghost? What if it's just my mind fucking with me. Christ, will this long ass worthless night EVER end? I could feel a presence in the room, so I went ahead and after taking a deep breath and considering all my options, rolled over to take a peek at what was tapping and pulling at me. And I could see it - the shadow - the outline of........
THE BLONDE. Seriously? WHAT blonde? WHAT? She leaned over real close to me and whispered something unidentifiable in my ear. Anything she whispers is unidentifiable because she's never mastered the art of whispering. She moves her lips and lets a bit of air out, but absolutely NO SOUND. I should likely teach her how to whisper since she's almost 9 and all because she doesn't get it. So after a few failed attempts at getting her to repeat herself, she speaks in her normal voice and asks to get in bed with us. And being the ever-concerned and loving parent that I am, I respond with, "Good GOD. That's fine. Get in the middle."
And when she got in the middle, the husband rolled out the other side and I guess he was up for the day. Grumpy. Of course you're grumpy - you were in a fight with something all night. And then my neck started yelling and screaming and Jesus H. Christ, fuck it. I got up too. So here we both are - in shitty ass moods all because of a shitty night's sleep. And as I look at my agenda for the day, it looks perfectly miserable. I think I'll skip washing my hair and wearing makeup today. I think I'll just shower, throw on some shitty clothes and clean in between meetings so I can forget about this fucking pain in my neck. Hopefully the husband will find a job to go to today so I don't have to deal with his grumpy ass all day. And also I may take this god damned dog of mine to the pound. He has been breathing heavy and licking himself for 12 days straight. I think he has a deviated septum, no doubt aggravated by his self-induced fatness and also he's formed a habit of licking. The non stop slurping sound of his licking hisself is going to drive me over the fucking edge. Bye bye doggie. It's been a real fucking treat cleaning up your 15 pounds of hair off my floors every day for 6 years. Go lick yourself at someone else's house.
.....and maybe I'll take a cat or two with him to the pound so he doesn't feel lonely when he gets there. Like that one dipshit that thinks hunting moths is helpful.....
And the more I tossed and turned, the more alert my brain became and it started thinking of all kinds of shit - about work mainly. I think I finally got the whole lot of them to simmer down around 5 a.m. and just as I began to doze off, I felt a few light taps on my shoulder. WTF is that? And then it pulled my hair. Seriously. Now I'm scared and afraid to roll over to see the monster fucking with me at 5 a.m. - what if it's an intruder? A ghost? What if it's just my mind fucking with me. Christ, will this long ass worthless night EVER end? I could feel a presence in the room, so I went ahead and after taking a deep breath and considering all my options, rolled over to take a peek at what was tapping and pulling at me. And I could see it - the shadow - the outline of........
THE BLONDE. Seriously? WHAT blonde? WHAT? She leaned over real close to me and whispered something unidentifiable in my ear. Anything she whispers is unidentifiable because she's never mastered the art of whispering. She moves her lips and lets a bit of air out, but absolutely NO SOUND. I should likely teach her how to whisper since she's almost 9 and all because she doesn't get it. So after a few failed attempts at getting her to repeat herself, she speaks in her normal voice and asks to get in bed with us. And being the ever-concerned and loving parent that I am, I respond with, "Good GOD. That's fine. Get in the middle."
And when she got in the middle, the husband rolled out the other side and I guess he was up for the day. Grumpy. Of course you're grumpy - you were in a fight with something all night. And then my neck started yelling and screaming and Jesus H. Christ, fuck it. I got up too. So here we both are - in shitty ass moods all because of a shitty night's sleep. And as I look at my agenda for the day, it looks perfectly miserable. I think I'll skip washing my hair and wearing makeup today. I think I'll just shower, throw on some shitty clothes and clean in between meetings so I can forget about this fucking pain in my neck. Hopefully the husband will find a job to go to today so I don't have to deal with his grumpy ass all day. And also I may take this god damned dog of mine to the pound. He has been breathing heavy and licking himself for 12 days straight. I think he has a deviated septum, no doubt aggravated by his self-induced fatness and also he's formed a habit of licking. The non stop slurping sound of his licking hisself is going to drive me over the fucking edge. Bye bye doggie. It's been a real fucking treat cleaning up your 15 pounds of hair off my floors every day for 6 years. Go lick yourself at someone else's house.
.....and maybe I'll take a cat or two with him to the pound so he doesn't feel lonely when he gets there. Like that one dipshit that thinks hunting moths is helpful.....
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Spunky & Happy
So last Sunday (not just this past Sunday, but the Sunday prior), I got a text about mid-afternoon from Happy's daughter, Spunky. "Momma said that the worst thing that could happen to you if you fell off a jet ski was that you'd get a butt douche, but I think that's an enema."
Right then and there, I knew Happy & Spunky were up to no good on a Sunday afternoon and having WAY more fun than I was. But of course, just about anything is more fun than lying on the couch listening to the blonde proclaim her perpetual boredom and not being able to think of a single damned thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. One thing led to another and Spunky invited me to join her and Happy at a bar at a nearby lake. Knowing full well I would partake in adult beverages, I coherced the Brunette to go with me so she could drive me home and being the sweet little gal that she is, she agreed!
When I arrived on the deck at the bar, I was greeted with squealing and glee that overwhelmed me and then the next thing I knew, Happy picked me up, demanded that I wrap my legs around her and she hugged me and kissed me and carried me around showing me off to all her new best friends at the bar. It was pretty obvious I had some catching up to do to get to that level of alcohol induced bliss. And being the obedient type that I am, I immediately conformed and starting slamming back the beers with them.
And we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And kissed and kissed and kissed. I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard and kissed so much. It was one of those afternoons that you never wanted to see end, because the lake breeze and view were gorgeous and serene and the laughter was loud and authentic. And the profanity poured out of our mouths like water from a tap. I think we even ran off a family of 8 that had made the poor judgment call to sit out on the deck to enjoy their late afternoon meal.
We loved the waitress so much - a darling little 18 year old. With seven foot long legs, wearing tiny jean panties for shorts coupled with knee high black boots. See, when you're our age, these types of hotties don't piss you off - you're just impressed with their gorgeous youth and their amazing legs and I think we told her 100 times that if we had legs like that, we'd wear that same outfit. Hell, we probably tried to get her to give us those boots so we could mimic her look for the day. We named her "boots" and beckoned her to our table time and again to fetch us more beers... "BOOTS!!! BEERS!!!" I left her a fat tip at the end of the day because she'd been such a good sport about the whole thing. No doubt went back to her dorm and told her friends about the crazy drunk old gals that hassled her all afternoon and prayed that she didn't grow up to be like us.
And then we ran out of music. So I loaded up the juke box with a 10 spot and proceeded to pick out all my favorite songs. Only I played all my favorite favorites at the beginning and therefore didn't really get to hear them - being in charge of the juke box sucks and also it's boring. Standing there alone. Perusing millions of songs - trying to spend your money "just right". I don't think I'll be in charge of the juke box anymore. I don't like it. I made Spunky take over at one point because it got so mundane. Plus, I could see Happy out there on the deck dancing and I wanted to dance with her.
And then the Brunette said she needed to go home - something about school and homework and blah blah blah. So responsible. And since she's an awesome driver when I've been drinking, we made it home safely.
I never want to forget that day. Because it was an epic moment of spontaneous fun! And I love Happy and I love Spunky!
And I think I might have agreed to host Christmas. Blame it on the al al al al alcohol.
Right then and there, I knew Happy & Spunky were up to no good on a Sunday afternoon and having WAY more fun than I was. But of course, just about anything is more fun than lying on the couch listening to the blonde proclaim her perpetual boredom and not being able to think of a single damned thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. One thing led to another and Spunky invited me to join her and Happy at a bar at a nearby lake. Knowing full well I would partake in adult beverages, I coherced the Brunette to go with me so she could drive me home and being the sweet little gal that she is, she agreed!
When I arrived on the deck at the bar, I was greeted with squealing and glee that overwhelmed me and then the next thing I knew, Happy picked me up, demanded that I wrap my legs around her and she hugged me and kissed me and carried me around showing me off to all her new best friends at the bar. It was pretty obvious I had some catching up to do to get to that level of alcohol induced bliss. And being the obedient type that I am, I immediately conformed and starting slamming back the beers with them.
And we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And kissed and kissed and kissed. I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard and kissed so much. It was one of those afternoons that you never wanted to see end, because the lake breeze and view were gorgeous and serene and the laughter was loud and authentic. And the profanity poured out of our mouths like water from a tap. I think we even ran off a family of 8 that had made the poor judgment call to sit out on the deck to enjoy their late afternoon meal.
We loved the waitress so much - a darling little 18 year old. With seven foot long legs, wearing tiny jean panties for shorts coupled with knee high black boots. See, when you're our age, these types of hotties don't piss you off - you're just impressed with their gorgeous youth and their amazing legs and I think we told her 100 times that if we had legs like that, we'd wear that same outfit. Hell, we probably tried to get her to give us those boots so we could mimic her look for the day. We named her "boots" and beckoned her to our table time and again to fetch us more beers... "BOOTS!!! BEERS!!!" I left her a fat tip at the end of the day because she'd been such a good sport about the whole thing. No doubt went back to her dorm and told her friends about the crazy drunk old gals that hassled her all afternoon and prayed that she didn't grow up to be like us.
And then we ran out of music. So I loaded up the juke box with a 10 spot and proceeded to pick out all my favorite songs. Only I played all my favorite favorites at the beginning and therefore didn't really get to hear them - being in charge of the juke box sucks and also it's boring. Standing there alone. Perusing millions of songs - trying to spend your money "just right". I don't think I'll be in charge of the juke box anymore. I don't like it. I made Spunky take over at one point because it got so mundane. Plus, I could see Happy out there on the deck dancing and I wanted to dance with her.
And then the Brunette said she needed to go home - something about school and homework and blah blah blah. So responsible. And since she's an awesome driver when I've been drinking, we made it home safely.
I never want to forget that day. Because it was an epic moment of spontaneous fun! And I love Happy and I love Spunky!
And I think I might have agreed to host Christmas. Blame it on the al al al al alcohol.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Monday Monday
Thank God it's Monday. Seriously. The weekends just absolutely stress me out to the max. Everyone running here and there and wanting to be entertained and spending money and Lord Baby Jesus just please - sit down and STFU. It just wears me out. So much so that at 7 p.m. last night I took a Xanax and didn't wake up until 6:15 this morning. Thank you for small miracles in the form of Xanax.
I could tell, immediately, however, the day would NOT run without glitches as soon as I attempted to order 12 books on Amazon.com and have them sent to 11 different addresses. What a piece of shit their "ship to multiple address" feature is on their website. TOTAL piece of SHIT. It took me no less than 30 minutes to get the damned order right and directed out to the correct addresses. You'd think an online retailer like them might have their shit mastered, but evidently NO.
Then my washer would not come on. It had power, but no display - it was just dead. The GOM fixed it by unplugging it and plugging it back in. WHEW. Glad that's all it was.
This is day two on my hiatus from alcohol. So far it's not looking good for a three day run. I'll be honest with you. We shall see how the remainder of the day goes and if I make it through. I really wish the GOM would get picked up for a job outside of the house. Because he has a knack for gettin' on my last nerve during the day. He doesn't mean to. And he has good intentions. But it does tend to wear on a person when they are asked a million questions all day long. "What's for dinner tonight, anyway?" "Are you hungry for lunch?" "What do we have for lunch?" and so on and so forth. Don't you have school or something you could go to so I could just sit here in peace and work? Love that man, but really cannot help but think he's driving me to drink most days.
I have a couple of meetings at various school functions this week, so I hope to have some funny stories to share - I always find interacting with other parents to be humorous. I don't know why. I just do. Until then - I need to go get an attitude adjustment - in the form of say...... A WALK!!!
I could tell, immediately, however, the day would NOT run without glitches as soon as I attempted to order 12 books on Amazon.com and have them sent to 11 different addresses. What a piece of shit their "ship to multiple address" feature is on their website. TOTAL piece of SHIT. It took me no less than 30 minutes to get the damned order right and directed out to the correct addresses. You'd think an online retailer like them might have their shit mastered, but evidently NO.
Then my washer would not come on. It had power, but no display - it was just dead. The GOM fixed it by unplugging it and plugging it back in. WHEW. Glad that's all it was.
This is day two on my hiatus from alcohol. So far it's not looking good for a three day run. I'll be honest with you. We shall see how the remainder of the day goes and if I make it through. I really wish the GOM would get picked up for a job outside of the house. Because he has a knack for gettin' on my last nerve during the day. He doesn't mean to. And he has good intentions. But it does tend to wear on a person when they are asked a million questions all day long. "What's for dinner tonight, anyway?" "Are you hungry for lunch?" "What do we have for lunch?" and so on and so forth. Don't you have school or something you could go to so I could just sit here in peace and work? Love that man, but really cannot help but think he's driving me to drink most days.
I have a couple of meetings at various school functions this week, so I hope to have some funny stories to share - I always find interacting with other parents to be humorous. I don't know why. I just do. Until then - I need to go get an attitude adjustment - in the form of say...... A WALK!!!
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