If anyone has ever been harassed by creditors, it's really not fun. They're just mean. We had one once insult Chris' deceased mother, say that he was a no good loser, I mean, just really not nice people. This week, they took it to a whole other level.
This week, we were contacted by a creditor. They knew I'd moved to Georgia, they knew about the situation with my ex, they knew everything. They knew it because I told them, or I'd written it on my blog and they'd found it. Apparently, they've been reading about our life and deciding how they should respond. Violated doesn't even begin to describe how I feel.
I mean, yes. Writing on a blog isn't private. I know that, I've even talked about it before. But I thought I'd done everything right. I made it so you can't see my last name or address when you to the website owner search, I've NEVER said my last name, my husband's last name, or my children's last name, I thought I'd done everything right. But when they said that they knew all this stuff, and that they were making decisions based on my blog...it just really creeped me out. If they can find me that easily, anyone could. It's not that I'm hiding, I'm not. It's that I kind of thought there was some filter between internet life and my real life. There isn't. That's crystal clear. And that scares the shit out of me.
This isn't about what we owe or who we owe it to. It's about the ease in which my life was able to be pryed into by someone I didn't know. By the way, had these people asked where we lived, I would've told them. I never tried to hide. My issue isn't that they "found me" (because we were in phone contact with them almost once a week, so it's not like we were MIA), my issue is, that they threw my life in my face. My issue is, they pretty much said, "we know you live in Georgia, we know that you did such and such. We know everything. We read your blog". If they can find it so easily, who else can? If they know all this, who else does?
Where does this leave me? Where do I go from here? Can I write the way I want without fear from retribution? Is this just part of the territory? Is just the nasty underbelly of the internet that I've just not seen before? Is it even worth the trouble? I don't know. I just don't know. All I know is I feel completely violated.
Showing posts with label wtf. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wtf. Show all posts
Yup, for real. Poop.
Yesterday afternoon David came in the kitchen and said, Mom, my stomach really hurts. It has this really bad pain when I lean over. I didn't really think much of it at first. Then he lifted up his shirt and said, it hurts right here. There was this huge bump on his stomach, right under his rib cage. It was about the size of a small fist. Protruding out of his stomach. My own stomach dropped to my knees, I felt this hot pulse go through my body followed by tingling in all my limbs. But I didn't freak out. I didn't react (at least not externally). I looked at Chris with a sheer panic in my eyes, hoping that he could read my thoughts. He nodded and calmly said, can I see that bump again? He felt around, asking does it hurt here? How about here? Does it hurt when you turn from side to side? We asked Davey if he'd gotten hit at football practice (he said he didn't), does he remember doing anything that might have caused this? (he said he didn't). Then Chris says to me, I think we need to call the doctor.
Now Chris does not call the doctor. Ever. He never suggests it, and often scoffs when I say someone should go. He just doesn't do doctors. So him saying that throws me into all out panic. I knew that I couldn't let Davey see that, he has enough anxiety issues without me freaking him out. So I say, we're gonna call the doctor just to be safe. I'm sure it's nothing, buddy. Like a robot, I grabbed the phone and went outside to smoke a cigarette and call the doctor, feeling a weird combination of panic and numbness. I said to Chris, that's not normal. Bumps are really bad (my eyes start welling up with tears and start shaking). You know usually a bump like that is... Thank God Chris knows me so well, because he said, I know baby. Just call the doctor. I was so grateful to not have to finish that sentence. I've read too many stories about kids whose first symptom of cancer is a large bump, I just couldn't say it out loud. I'm thinking, no. Not my baby. No. This can't be happening. So I start thinking "best" case scenarios. Appendix? Spleen? Liver? Hernia? I'm truly teetering on the edge of a complete meltdown.
We get an appointment immediately at the doctor's office, literally 20 minutes later. Apparently they thought it was a pretty big deal as well, because we all know, that NEVER happens. So I'm doing my best to smile and laugh with Davey. Chris is telling us jokes and making sure that we're all focused on anything but this lump on my baby boy's stomach. When the doctor walked in, Chris squeezed my hand, I knew he was scared. He starts examining Davey. Having him bend over, turn from side to side. He says, hmmm, interesting... Which completely sends my mind into overdrive again. He says, do a sit up for me. Now do a crunch and hold it. He pushes around again and says, see this section here? That's his bowel. It's backed up poop. You can feel it right here. See how it's moved down? Are you fucking kidding me? Poop? Surely not. So I said, are you sure? You don't think it's anything...else? He says, no, it doesn't hurt him when I push on it, and if it was anything else, he'd be in excruciating pain. Are you in pain little guy? Davey says, actually, no. It feels a lot better. Son of a bitch. Poop? For real? When the doctor left the room, I said, let me see that bump. Gone. No bump. No lump. Nothing. Fucking poop.
So I paid $10, lost 15 years off my life and got 50% more gray hair to have the doctor tell me that my kid needs to poop. Typical.
Now Chris does not call the doctor. Ever. He never suggests it, and often scoffs when I say someone should go. He just doesn't do doctors. So him saying that throws me into all out panic. I knew that I couldn't let Davey see that, he has enough anxiety issues without me freaking him out. So I say, we're gonna call the doctor just to be safe. I'm sure it's nothing, buddy. Like a robot, I grabbed the phone and went outside to smoke a cigarette and call the doctor, feeling a weird combination of panic and numbness. I said to Chris, that's not normal. Bumps are really bad (my eyes start welling up with tears and start shaking). You know usually a bump like that is... Thank God Chris knows me so well, because he said, I know baby. Just call the doctor. I was so grateful to not have to finish that sentence. I've read too many stories about kids whose first symptom of cancer is a large bump, I just couldn't say it out loud. I'm thinking, no. Not my baby. No. This can't be happening. So I start thinking "best" case scenarios. Appendix? Spleen? Liver? Hernia? I'm truly teetering on the edge of a complete meltdown.
We get an appointment immediately at the doctor's office, literally 20 minutes later. Apparently they thought it was a pretty big deal as well, because we all know, that NEVER happens. So I'm doing my best to smile and laugh with Davey. Chris is telling us jokes and making sure that we're all focused on anything but this lump on my baby boy's stomach. When the doctor walked in, Chris squeezed my hand, I knew he was scared. He starts examining Davey. Having him bend over, turn from side to side. He says, hmmm, interesting... Which completely sends my mind into overdrive again. He says, do a sit up for me. Now do a crunch and hold it. He pushes around again and says, see this section here? That's his bowel. It's backed up poop. You can feel it right here. See how it's moved down? Are you fucking kidding me? Poop? Surely not. So I said, are you sure? You don't think it's anything...else? He says, no, it doesn't hurt him when I push on it, and if it was anything else, he'd be in excruciating pain. Are you in pain little guy? Davey says, actually, no. It feels a lot better. Son of a bitch. Poop? For real? When the doctor left the room, I said, let me see that bump. Gone. No bump. No lump. Nothing. Fucking poop.
So I paid $10, lost 15 years off my life and got 50% more gray hair to have the doctor tell me that my kid needs to poop. Typical.
Not the kind of chain letters I remember sending
So tonight on the way home, my phone rings, and it's my mom, who says (in her total "I'm really disturbed and upset" voice), Merritt, I have to tell you something. I'm thinking someone's died or something. I just got a message from Kat, and you need to see it. I'll send it to you, it's really important that you see this. It says something about slitting a girl's throat. I was like, WHAT? She said, just read it. Call me back. The message said (copied verbatim):
Hello. my name is Alexis. When I was 7, me and my dad got into a big fight and he slit my throat and threw me into a sewer.
I was like what the hell? I took Kat's phone, and there's this whole chain of messages, my mom only got the first part. The rest said (copied verbatim):
One day a girl named Alyssa got this message, thought it was stupid and erased it. That night when Alyssa went to bed, she heard laughter coming from her bathroom, got scared, and ran to her phone and sent it. She went to bed fine that night. Later that night, around midnight, Alyssa's parents heard laughter and cutting from coming from the bathroom. They went in there to find the bathtub filled with Alyssa's blood and her phone with my picture on it floating in her blood. Now that you've read Alyssa's death, I am going to have to kill you too. The only way you can escape this is to send to ten people besides the person who sent this to you. If you don't, I will be at your bed when you fall asleep and at midnight, I will kill you. NO SEND BACKS. I'M DONE!!!! I'm sorry...I will see you at midnight...goodbye and good luck.
What the fuck kind of chain letter is that? I was like, Katherine, what the hell is that? Who sent that to you and why the hell would you send it to anyone, let alone your grandmother? She immediately started crying and said she didn't see what was wrong with it, one of her friends sent it to her, but she assured me that she didn't send it to anyone else. Well good thing, because I'd have to do some serious damage control. I mean, I'd have to contact everyone she sent it to, apologize and assure them that it wouldn't happen again, because that's just totally inappropriate, and I'm not going to let my daughter be one of those stupid kids who does shit like that. I'll be damned if my kids are going to be punks and be perpetrators of such vile shit...oh wait, what's that? Liar, liar pants on fire! She not only sent it to my mom, but also my dad, my brother, and every other person in her goddamn phone book. Unfortunately for her, she hasn't learned that you can see what's been sent if you look in the sent messages folder. Even more unfortunately for her, I'm not as stupid as she thinks I am and thought to check the sent messages. I spent the next 20 minutes yelling at her for being so colossally stupid to send something like that and then lying about it all while retexting everyone in her phone book saying, hi, this is Kat's mom. I'm sorry that she sent you that text message, it was inappropriate and wrong. It won't happen again.
I'm so pissed I haven't even finished deciding on her punishment. I don't know what I'm more pissed about, that she sent it at all or that she lied about it. Later on (after she stopped sobbing), I asked her again why she sent it. She said, I was afraid, I didn't want it to be true. Normally, I'd scoff and tell her to stop being dramatic. But the fear was real, she really was afraid. I think that's the most disturbing thing here, what happened to the chain letters when we were kids? Like about how you get good luck if you don't break the chain. I don't remember anything about throat slitting and murdering when I was a kid. What do you do with that? How do you temper punishing her for being so irresponsible (read: stupid) and lying about it with trying to comfort her and reassure her that no one is waiting to kill her because she broke a chain letter?
Hello. my name is Alexis. When I was 7, me and my dad got into a big fight and he slit my throat and threw me into a sewer.
I was like what the hell? I took Kat's phone, and there's this whole chain of messages, my mom only got the first part. The rest said (copied verbatim):
One day a girl named Alyssa got this message, thought it was stupid and erased it. That night when Alyssa went to bed, she heard laughter coming from her bathroom, got scared, and ran to her phone and sent it. She went to bed fine that night. Later that night, around midnight, Alyssa's parents heard laughter and cutting from coming from the bathroom. They went in there to find the bathtub filled with Alyssa's blood and her phone with my picture on it floating in her blood. Now that you've read Alyssa's death, I am going to have to kill you too. The only way you can escape this is to send to ten people besides the person who sent this to you. If you don't, I will be at your bed when you fall asleep and at midnight, I will kill you. NO SEND BACKS. I'M DONE!!!! I'm sorry...I will see you at midnight...goodbye and good luck.
What the fuck kind of chain letter is that? I was like, Katherine, what the hell is that? Who sent that to you and why the hell would you send it to anyone, let alone your grandmother? She immediately started crying and said she didn't see what was wrong with it, one of her friends sent it to her, but she assured me that she didn't send it to anyone else. Well good thing, because I'd have to do some serious damage control. I mean, I'd have to contact everyone she sent it to, apologize and assure them that it wouldn't happen again, because that's just totally inappropriate, and I'm not going to let my daughter be one of those stupid kids who does shit like that. I'll be damned if my kids are going to be punks and be perpetrators of such vile shit...oh wait, what's that? Liar, liar pants on fire! She not only sent it to my mom, but also my dad, my brother, and every other person in her goddamn phone book. Unfortunately for her, she hasn't learned that you can see what's been sent if you look in the sent messages folder. Even more unfortunately for her, I'm not as stupid as she thinks I am and thought to check the sent messages. I spent the next 20 minutes yelling at her for being so colossally stupid to send something like that and then lying about it all while retexting everyone in her phone book saying, hi, this is Kat's mom. I'm sorry that she sent you that text message, it was inappropriate and wrong. It won't happen again.
I'm so pissed I haven't even finished deciding on her punishment. I don't know what I'm more pissed about, that she sent it at all or that she lied about it. Later on (after she stopped sobbing), I asked her again why she sent it. She said, I was afraid, I didn't want it to be true. Normally, I'd scoff and tell her to stop being dramatic. But the fear was real, she really was afraid. I think that's the most disturbing thing here, what happened to the chain letters when we were kids? Like about how you get good luck if you don't break the chain. I don't remember anything about throat slitting and murdering when I was a kid. What do you do with that? How do you temper punishing her for being so irresponsible (read: stupid) and lying about it with trying to comfort her and reassure her that no one is waiting to kill her because she broke a chain letter?
Karma gets you every time
If you have a problem with poop, tampons or toilets, you should not read this post. You really probably shouldn't read it anyway...
The other day I was working in a different building, cleaning up some odds and ends before the long holiday weekend. Chris called and said he would be there in a few minutes to pick me up, and I knew that in Chris language, that means like an hour, so I pretty much ignored it and continued doing my work. I gave it about 40 minutes and decided I should go to the bathroom before I left. So in the building that I was working in, there’s a private bathroom. I decided that since I was pretty much alone in the building, screw using the public stalls, I was gonna use the private bathroom. Still no call from Chris, so I decide, what the hell, I’ll poop too. So I’m doing my thing in the bathroom, and decide that Chris and I probably won’t go straight home, so I ought to change my tampon while I’m at it. I finish up, and I’m getting ready to flush and Chris calls, says he’s pulling into the parking lot. Perfect timing! I reach over and flush the toilet.
The water starts filling, and filling, and filling. I’m like, well, I probably just didn’t hold the handle down long enough. No luck, the water splashed up nearly to the very top of the bowl.
Oh my dear God, I’ve overflowed the toilet and there’s poop and a used tampon floating in the toilet! I start frantically searching for a plunger, no go. The only thing I can find is a toilet scrubber. I don’t know what the hell kind of bathroom has a toilet scrubber but no plunger. So I grab the toilet scrubber, thinking that maybe I can swoosh everything around enough to maybe unclog it. It’s still not working. I’m totally afraid to flush again, because any more water, it’s gonna be all over the floor. At this point, I’m totally freaking out because I’m not even supposed to be using this bathroom, so it’s not like I can just go ask a janitor for help. And really, there’s no way I’m going to walk up to some random stranger and be like, excuse me, I plugged the toilet, would you mind plunging it for me? Don’t mind the poop or the used tampon floating around in it. So not happening. So I debated for a minute, ok more like a split second, and I decide I’m bailing. Because I’m one of the youngest people (everyone else is well over 50 and post-menopausal) that work for my department, anyone seeing a floating tampon could deduce that it was me who plugged the toilet and left it all weekend. Actually, now that I write that, it sounds kinda asinine, that someone would actually be like, hmm, plugged toilet, floating poop, I have no idea who would…OH MY GOD! There’s a tampon! It HAS to be Merritt! It sounded so much more plausible at the time... Anyway, I decide that I’m leaving the poop and toilet paper, but taking back the tampon. I grab the toilet scrubber and start trying to use it as a pole to fish out the tampon. I get it the first time, but the string wraps around the handle of the scrubber and I fling toilet water on my feet and fling the tampon across the room. Ohmygodoymygodohmygod. Totally freaking now. I pick up the tampon off the floor with a paper towel, wrap it in like 587 more paper towels and bury it in the trash, I clean up all the water and mess, I do a little gross out dance and scrub the hell out of my hands.
I get to the door and reach for the light switch, the toilet makes this wooooosh sound and the water spins around, and flushes, taking all the contents of the bowl with it. Son of a bitch! I turned around and said (to the toilet), stupid motherfuc… The fucking toilet GURGLED at me. I hauled ass out of there, I wasn’t about to stay in there with the toilet from hell, who was clearly possessed. I suppose it serves me right for using the bathroom in places I don’t belong, then trying to leave my shit (literally) for someone else to deal with.
The other day I was working in a different building, cleaning up some odds and ends before the long holiday weekend. Chris called and said he would be there in a few minutes to pick me up, and I knew that in Chris language, that means like an hour, so I pretty much ignored it and continued doing my work. I gave it about 40 minutes and decided I should go to the bathroom before I left. So in the building that I was working in, there’s a private bathroom. I decided that since I was pretty much alone in the building, screw using the public stalls, I was gonna use the private bathroom. Still no call from Chris, so I decide, what the hell, I’ll poop too. So I’m doing my thing in the bathroom, and decide that Chris and I probably won’t go straight home, so I ought to change my tampon while I’m at it. I finish up, and I’m getting ready to flush and Chris calls, says he’s pulling into the parking lot. Perfect timing! I reach over and flush the toilet.
The water starts filling, and filling, and filling. I’m like, well, I probably just didn’t hold the handle down long enough. No luck, the water splashed up nearly to the very top of the bowl.
Oh my dear God, I’ve overflowed the toilet and there’s poop and a used tampon floating in the toilet! I start frantically searching for a plunger, no go. The only thing I can find is a toilet scrubber. I don’t know what the hell kind of bathroom has a toilet scrubber but no plunger. So I grab the toilet scrubber, thinking that maybe I can swoosh everything around enough to maybe unclog it. It’s still not working. I’m totally afraid to flush again, because any more water, it’s gonna be all over the floor. At this point, I’m totally freaking out because I’m not even supposed to be using this bathroom, so it’s not like I can just go ask a janitor for help. And really, there’s no way I’m going to walk up to some random stranger and be like, excuse me, I plugged the toilet, would you mind plunging it for me? Don’t mind the poop or the used tampon floating around in it. So not happening. So I debated for a minute, ok more like a split second, and I decide I’m bailing. Because I’m one of the youngest people (everyone else is well over 50 and post-menopausal) that work for my department, anyone seeing a floating tampon could deduce that it was me who plugged the toilet and left it all weekend. Actually, now that I write that, it sounds kinda asinine, that someone would actually be like, hmm, plugged toilet, floating poop, I have no idea who would…OH MY GOD! There’s a tampon! It HAS to be Merritt! It sounded so much more plausible at the time... Anyway, I decide that I’m leaving the poop and toilet paper, but taking back the tampon. I grab the toilet scrubber and start trying to use it as a pole to fish out the tampon. I get it the first time, but the string wraps around the handle of the scrubber and I fling toilet water on my feet and fling the tampon across the room. Ohmygodoymygodohmygod. Totally freaking now. I pick up the tampon off the floor with a paper towel, wrap it in like 587 more paper towels and bury it in the trash, I clean up all the water and mess, I do a little gross out dance and scrub the hell out of my hands.
I get to the door and reach for the light switch, the toilet makes this wooooosh sound and the water spins around, and flushes, taking all the contents of the bowl with it. Son of a bitch! I turned around and said (to the toilet), stupid motherfuc… The fucking toilet GURGLED at me. I hauled ass out of there, I wasn’t about to stay in there with the toilet from hell, who was clearly possessed. I suppose it serves me right for using the bathroom in places I don’t belong, then trying to leave my shit (literally) for someone else to deal with.
Braking and entering
A couple of months ago we were all in the car, and brakes made an audible squeal, the one that’s the tell-tale sign that it’s time for new brakes. I, clearly the most car-savvy of the bunch, said, Sounds like we should get the brakes fixed. Chris says, No. They’re fine. We don’t have the money to be dropping $200 on brakes just because of a little squeal. Hrm, well ok then. So fast forward to a month ago. We’re all in the car and the brakes make a grinding sound. I, clearly the most car-savvy of the bunch, said, Sounds like we should get the brakes fixed. Chris says, No, the brakes are fine. There’s nothing wrong with a little grinding. We’ll get them looked at before winter, but we just don’t need to be spending money on stuff like that. Well, alright I guess. So fast forward again to last week. The brakes are now make a horrendous grinding sound, metal on metal, the car shudders when the brakes are pressed, it’s bad. So I try again, you know, I think we REALLY need brakes. Chris says, yeah, maybe we do. Yeah, ya think? So I made the appointment for 8:00 a.m. Chris leaves for work at 5:30 a.m. and I still don’t have my license back, so I asked Dave to help me out. He agreed, and I told him how simple this would be. All he’d have to do is go switch cars with Chris and bring Chris’ car to the garage. The garage would call me when they had the price, and I’d pay it over the phone with my credit card. He’d switch cars again with Chris, the whole thing shouldn’t take longer than 2 hours. Easy enough right? I wish.
At about 7:30 that morning, I’m sleeping soundly. I know that since the car is in the garage, I’ll be going into work late, so I’m catching up on some much needed beauty sleep. The kids are sleeping, it’s gloriously quiet. Then the dogs start barking. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a Pomeranian and a Puggle (Pug/Beagle) barking, but it’s like a shrill, high-pitched screeching bark from the Pomeranian, and a low howling bark from the Puggle. It’s probably one of the most annoying noises on the planet, especially when you’re sound asleep. So I’m refusing to open my eyes, and I yell, shut the hell up! They both lay back down and are quiet for a few minutes. Then they start barking/screeching/howling again. What the fuck is wrong with you two?! SHUT THE HELL UP! Vivvy (the Pomeranian) is barking so furiously she’s literally hopping in circles and Layla (the Puggle) is running back and forth between the bedroom door and the bed howling like a werewolf. Then I hear a pounding coming from downstairs. By now I’m pissed. So I go stomping down the stairs, expecting to find one of the kids has gotten up and has forgotten that we don’t wake Mommy up before 8:00 on a sleep in day. I get to the bottom of the stairs and through the window of living room door I see this shadow of a man standing on our front porch. I don’t know whether to be terrified or really pissed, so I fling open the door and there’s Dave. Standing on my porch. I’m like, What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the garage with the car. Wait…how the hell did you get on my porch? (we have a glassed in sun porch with a dead bolt on the front door that leads to the living room door, so you can’t just walk up to the living room door from the outside without going through the sun porch). He says, all nonchalantly, oh, I just broke in. I lifted up the windows and crawled in. What. The. Fuck. Who breaks into someone else’s house? Ever heard of a telephone? He says, I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to pay them, and I called your cell phone, you didn’t pick up, so I broke in. You said I couldn’t have a key… Geesh, I wonder why you can’t have a key, you fucking freak.
I told Chris, who thought it was hilarious. He thinks that Dave and I have the most dysfunctional relationship ever for two divorced people and it never ceases to amaze him when Dave does this kind of stuff (which he does all the time). He didn’t find it nearly as funny when it cost almost $350 at the garage for the brakes. They had to change the brakes, pads and rotors. They were like, well, we probably wouldn’t have had to do the rotors, but it looks like you’ve been driving on them like this for a long time. Hrm, what are the words I’m looking for here….oh yes. Told you so.
At about 7:30 that morning, I’m sleeping soundly. I know that since the car is in the garage, I’ll be going into work late, so I’m catching up on some much needed beauty sleep. The kids are sleeping, it’s gloriously quiet. Then the dogs start barking. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a Pomeranian and a Puggle (Pug/Beagle) barking, but it’s like a shrill, high-pitched screeching bark from the Pomeranian, and a low howling bark from the Puggle. It’s probably one of the most annoying noises on the planet, especially when you’re sound asleep. So I’m refusing to open my eyes, and I yell, shut the hell up! They both lay back down and are quiet for a few minutes. Then they start barking/screeching/howling again. What the fuck is wrong with you two?! SHUT THE HELL UP! Vivvy (the Pomeranian) is barking so furiously she’s literally hopping in circles and Layla (the Puggle) is running back and forth between the bedroom door and the bed howling like a werewolf. Then I hear a pounding coming from downstairs. By now I’m pissed. So I go stomping down the stairs, expecting to find one of the kids has gotten up and has forgotten that we don’t wake Mommy up before 8:00 on a sleep in day. I get to the bottom of the stairs and through the window of living room door I see this shadow of a man standing on our front porch. I don’t know whether to be terrified or really pissed, so I fling open the door and there’s Dave. Standing on my porch. I’m like, What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the garage with the car. Wait…how the hell did you get on my porch? (we have a glassed in sun porch with a dead bolt on the front door that leads to the living room door, so you can’t just walk up to the living room door from the outside without going through the sun porch). He says, all nonchalantly, oh, I just broke in. I lifted up the windows and crawled in. What. The. Fuck. Who breaks into someone else’s house? Ever heard of a telephone? He says, I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to pay them, and I called your cell phone, you didn’t pick up, so I broke in. You said I couldn’t have a key… Geesh, I wonder why you can’t have a key, you fucking freak.
I told Chris, who thought it was hilarious. He thinks that Dave and I have the most dysfunctional relationship ever for two divorced people and it never ceases to amaze him when Dave does this kind of stuff (which he does all the time). He didn’t find it nearly as funny when it cost almost $350 at the garage for the brakes. They had to change the brakes, pads and rotors. They were like, well, we probably wouldn’t have had to do the rotors, but it looks like you’ve been driving on them like this for a long time. Hrm, what are the words I’m looking for here….oh yes. Told you so.
This is the obligatory warning, disclaimer and big fat red flag for this post
I haven't made it a huge secret that I'm kind of a makeup whore. I tend to spend way too much (remember the $28 mascara?) on fancy brands, in hopes that they'll work better than say Wal-Mart brands. My makeup is like a who's who of overpriced cosmetic companies, Yves Saint Lauren, MAC, Christian Dior, etc. I think it's because I've always had a really hard time with my skin. I had acne, tons of sun damage from the slather on baby-oil and bake in the sun days, and I guess I've always been just really kind of self-conscious about it, and I figure, well hell, if they can charge $50 for foundation, it must be pretty damn good. Well, it's the same with skin care products: lotions, potions, etc., I have them all. So in apparently "helping" me with my constant quest for the best skin care products, Chris sent me an email that said, you've never tried this before, and attached this article, 6 Valuable (And Disgusting) Ways They're Reusing Human Waste. I think he's mocking me...or offering his services. I don't know I'm kinda disturbed.
Now, if you're my mother, please stop reading right now. Like RIGHT now. I'm going to try to say this as tactfully as possible, but I make no guarantees. Ok, so we've all (I'd hope this is a "we" and I'm not the only one who knows about this) heard about how if a guy "deposits" on your face, it's supposed to make it softer. Personally, I think that practice is reserved for porn stars and wouldn't test the theory, but lots of people swear by it. Well, now there's a product called "Cmen Beauty Now" (yes, really). Apparently semen is an antioxidant, it slows the aging process and it's better and stronger than Vitamin E. I have a wrinkle, right in the middle of my eyebrows, that I would do just about anything to get rid of. You know what I wouldn't do? Rub semen on my face. I would inject botulism into my face a la botox, but not semen. Like ever. I can't think of anything more disturbing than rubbing semen on my face, except maybe injecting the foreskins of circumcised babies into my face. Yes, you can do that too. There's a company that's decided to use foreskin as an anti-aging/scar healing treatment. I only wish I was making this up.
I don't even know what to say about that, except, what the fuck are these scientists on? Typical behavior though. Men (and I have to believe that men invented these asinine products because I can't imagine a woman saying, "yes! I'll inject foreskin in my face!") thinking they can solve all of woman's problems with their penis.
Now, if you're my mother, please stop reading right now. Like RIGHT now. I'm going to try to say this as tactfully as possible, but I make no guarantees. Ok, so we've all (I'd hope this is a "we" and I'm not the only one who knows about this) heard about how if a guy "deposits" on your face, it's supposed to make it softer. Personally, I think that practice is reserved for porn stars and wouldn't test the theory, but lots of people swear by it. Well, now there's a product called "Cmen Beauty Now" (yes, really). Apparently semen is an antioxidant, it slows the aging process and it's better and stronger than Vitamin E. I have a wrinkle, right in the middle of my eyebrows, that I would do just about anything to get rid of. You know what I wouldn't do? Rub semen on my face. I would inject botulism into my face a la botox, but not semen. Like ever. I can't think of anything more disturbing than rubbing semen on my face, except maybe injecting the foreskins of circumcised babies into my face. Yes, you can do that too. There's a company that's decided to use foreskin as an anti-aging/scar healing treatment. I only wish I was making this up.
I don't even know what to say about that, except, what the fuck are these scientists on? Typical behavior though. Men (and I have to believe that men invented these asinine products because I can't imagine a woman saying, "yes! I'll inject foreskin in my face!") thinking they can solve all of woman's problems with their penis.
The petty larcenist a la Winona Rider
I'm beginning to wonder if that thing that my mom said when I was a teenager was really an evil voodoo curse. You know the, I hope you have 10 daughters JUST LIKE YOU! that moms say when you've been really bad? Yeah, so now I'm searching for a cure for the curse and all I can find is something about eating a newt's eye on a full moon and juvenile detention centers. Since I have a thing about eyeballs, I'm thinking of going with the latter, or maybe I should make her eat a newt's eyeballs...anyway, I digress.
Yesterday we were getting ready to go to cheering practice, and I told Kat to put her backpack away before we left. She was going super slow, so I thought I'd do it for her. She of course has been stuffing crap in there since Christmas, so it weighs 73 lbs, and I was like, SIGH. So I start pulling out stuff. She has, and I'm not exaggerating even a little, 4 large rocks, 6 pencils, 3 hardcover books, 2 paperback books, about an inch worth of papers I was supposed to get a month ago, and half of an envelope. The envelope is clearly half of her milk money envelope, it has my writing on it, the amount, teacher's name, etc. I was like, eh, what the hell is this? Where's the other half? She's like, I opened it before I gave it to my teacher. Oh ok, well thanks for clearing that up, big fat liar. So I'm like, pffft. Bull, wanna try that again? The she gets these big crocodile tears and whimpers, I took it. I was like, you TOOK it? Like you STOLE it? You stole $1.25? So after yelling at her, lecturing her about morals, trying to be calm while telling her who disappointed I am in her, etc., I think aged about 13 years. I feel certain I saw a new wrinkle in my forehead today. The dumbest thing about this is, this kid, both of my kids, are spoiled. They get pretty much what they want, go where they want, have nice clothes and shoes, I mean, they really aren't lacking anything. So for this fool to steal $1.25 is just maddening. I mean, so now we're practicing petty larceny for the fun of it? So Kat's going all Winona Rider on me, and that's just not cool.
So Miss Katherine got grounded from her phone for a month (and we're actually suspending service, so there's no going back on it), plus she may also lose her Sidekick, depending on if she pisses me off in the next 30 days. I know I was a bad kid, and maybe I deserve my mom's voodoo curse, but damn. Kat is 9, at this rate either she's going into a juvenile detention center, or I'm going into an insane asylum.
In other mom news, my mom said that my blog is vile and that I'd be better served writing about things that actually matter. I'm all, hello? Like porn and giant gummy bear lollipops don't matter? And just because I SOMETIMES swear like a drunken sailor, that makes me vile? What do you know. I'm tempted to be totally vile and random (like more that usual), but since I'm hoping she'll lift her voodoo curse, I'll try to behave. I love you, Mom...
Yesterday we were getting ready to go to cheering practice, and I told Kat to put her backpack away before we left. She was going super slow, so I thought I'd do it for her. She of course has been stuffing crap in there since Christmas, so it weighs 73 lbs, and I was like, SIGH. So I start pulling out stuff. She has, and I'm not exaggerating even a little, 4 large rocks, 6 pencils, 3 hardcover books, 2 paperback books, about an inch worth of papers I was supposed to get a month ago, and half of an envelope. The envelope is clearly half of her milk money envelope, it has my writing on it, the amount, teacher's name, etc. I was like, eh, what the hell is this? Where's the other half? She's like, I opened it before I gave it to my teacher. Oh ok, well thanks for clearing that up, big fat liar. So I'm like, pffft. Bull, wanna try that again? The she gets these big crocodile tears and whimpers, I took it. I was like, you TOOK it? Like you STOLE it? You stole $1.25? So after yelling at her, lecturing her about morals, trying to be calm while telling her who disappointed I am in her, etc., I think aged about 13 years. I feel certain I saw a new wrinkle in my forehead today. The dumbest thing about this is, this kid, both of my kids, are spoiled. They get pretty much what they want, go where they want, have nice clothes and shoes, I mean, they really aren't lacking anything. So for this fool to steal $1.25 is just maddening. I mean, so now we're practicing petty larceny for the fun of it? So Kat's going all Winona Rider on me, and that's just not cool.
So Miss Katherine got grounded from her phone for a month (and we're actually suspending service, so there's no going back on it), plus she may also lose her Sidekick, depending on if she pisses me off in the next 30 days. I know I was a bad kid, and maybe I deserve my mom's voodoo curse, but damn. Kat is 9, at this rate either she's going into a juvenile detention center, or I'm going into an insane asylum.
In other mom news, my mom said that my blog is vile and that I'd be better served writing about things that actually matter. I'm all, hello? Like porn and giant gummy bear lollipops don't matter? And just because I SOMETIMES swear like a drunken sailor, that makes me vile? What do you know. I'm tempted to be totally vile and random (like more that usual), but since I'm hoping she'll lift her voodoo curse, I'll try to behave. I love you, Mom...
My kids' bus driver is an obnoxious asshat posing as a Red Sox fan
Living in the Northeast, there are a lot of unpleasant things that I have to deal with, snow, mud season, black flies, and Boston Red Sox fans. Yeah, I went there, because I mean, let's be honest, y'all are nuts. Don't misunderstand me, I get it. Chris and I are both pretty damn obnoxious when it comes to our teams. Chris has been known to stomp around and throw things at the tv, and it would curl your hair if you heard some of the things that I yell at the tv during football season. Sure, some of you are not scum of the Earth, but I see your dirty looks when I walk around with my Not Boston Red Sox hat, aka my New York Yankees hat. Want to know what's funny? I don't even like baseball, I'm a football girl through and through. I do it to annoy you. Works like a charm, and it amuses me. Anyway, be obnoxious, I don't care, it's all in good fun, right? Yeah, until your hatred for anything not Red Sox makes my kid cry. The other day, the kids were on the bus and the bus driver said, who's a Red Sox fan? A whole bunch of kids raised their hand. My kids didn't, they, always wanting to be like Mom and Chris, said they were Yankees fans. So the bus driver makes them sit in the back of the bus. Like all the way in the back, reminiscent of the 60's and Rosa Parks back of the bus. They're trying to not get in trouble, so they go. Then the douche bag says, candy for all the Red Sox fans! He passes out candy to all the kids who said they liked the Red Sox...and didn't give any to the kids (mine included) who said they liked the Yankees and he made them sit in the back of the bus the whole way home. The kids waited, and waited, thinking it was a joke, nope, no joke. This asshat is actually discriminating against 9 year old CHILDREN because they don't like the Red Sox.
Anyway, they were both pretty upset. I told them to tell the bus driver that it's discrimination and illegal. They didn't believe me, but I was all, hell yes. Can't discriminate against, race, sex, sexual orientation, religion, or team preference. Says so in the Constitution. So they're all, can he go to jail? And I'm like, Syeah he can! I don't think he actually can go to jail for not giving my kids a piece of candy, but I'm not telling them that. Today they were going to give him a little trash talk, we taught them about how the Red Sox perennially suck and have only won 2 World Series since 1918 and the Yankees are awesome and have won like 248923498723984 World Series and that made them feel a little better. I suppose it would've been a better idea to just tell them to be a Red Sox fan to get a piece of candy, but we only lie for top shelf candy. And isn't that what being a parent is all about? Teaching your kids trash talk and encouraging them to act obstinate and stubborn just to make a point and to piss off Red Sox fans? I'm sure I read that somewhere...
Anyway, they were both pretty upset. I told them to tell the bus driver that it's discrimination and illegal. They didn't believe me, but I was all, hell yes. Can't discriminate against, race, sex, sexual orientation, religion, or team preference. Says so in the Constitution. So they're all, can he go to jail? And I'm like, Syeah he can! I don't think he actually can go to jail for not giving my kids a piece of candy, but I'm not telling them that. Today they were going to give him a little trash talk, we taught them about how the Red Sox perennially suck and have only won 2 World Series since 1918 and the Yankees are awesome and have won like 248923498723984 World Series and that made them feel a little better. I suppose it would've been a better idea to just tell them to be a Red Sox fan to get a piece of candy, but we only lie for top shelf candy. And isn't that what being a parent is all about? Teaching your kids trash talk and encouraging them to act obstinate and stubborn just to make a point and to piss off Red Sox fans? I'm sure I read that somewhere...
Sigh.
So this is the big week. Kat's competing in Virginia Beach for cheering Nationals. It's pretty damn big deal, and I mean we've been planning this trip since February when they qualified. You'd think that'd be plenty of time to get the basic details taken care, plane tickets, hotel, fucking state issued identification. It's pretty much common knowledge that you need a picture ID to board a plane, and for most people that wouldn't be a problem, except that I got my license suspended and figured a state ID was a waste of money. Yeah, not so much.
See, in July I was in an accident. Some jackass rammed into the side of my Jeep, totaling it. Well, my insurance had lapsed, only by a few days, and even though the accident wasn't my fault, I got a ticket for not having insurance. About a month later, I got a letter from the State saying that I needed to have this special insurance (an SR-22) on my license for at risk drivers. So I got it, no big deal. Well, when my insurance renewed on December 31, I got a bill. For $600... JUST for the renewal. It was going to be another $200 for the first month of coverage because of the stupid SR-22. I was like well screw that, I'm not paying that.Chris and I decided we'd cut down to 1 car, he'd be the official chauffeur, etc. We haven't had any problems at all with it. We've saved money, it's been great, until this morning when it really sucked. On the way to work, I was thinking about how people lie on their licenses, you know they weigh like 500 lbs, but they put 120 lbs? Well, it was going to be a great blog post, then I realized 1. I totally do that on my license, and 2. isn't it strange I have long hair on my license. It was kind of a slow progression to reality: hey, I have long hair in my license picture, I haven't had long hair in like 7 years, that's weird, I wonder when this expires... OH MY GOD MY LICENSE IS EXPIRED! Now you're probably thinking, you already knew it was suspended, what's the big deal? Well, I don't have a state ID. Meaning, I have no valid identification to board the plane. On Friday morning. No big deal, just go get a state ID, right? Wrong. Because of the new federal laws, you have to prove that you're not a terrorist or something and show your birth certificate and a copy of your taxes or something before you can get an ID. Just get a copy of your birth certificate, right? Wrong. The Office of Vital Statistics takes 24-48 hours to expedite a birth certificate request, and since it has to be an "official copy", it just makes it harder. I have a copy, it's just not an "official" copy. Ok so, can't get one from Vital Statistics, not enough time. So I called the town where I was born, they can make me an official copy TODAY (huge sigh of relief). So they're an hour away, we have to drive there and get the "official" copy. Then we have to drive back an hour and a half in the other direction to get the actual ID. Then I have to give the State a copy of my travel plans so they'll release my ID today and not in 2-3 weeks, which is standard turn around time on IDs. Of course if all of this fails, we'll be driving the 13 hours to Virginia Beach. 13 hours, me, Chris and Kat stuck in a car together? Good Christ that would suck.
So lesson learned? I don't know that I really learned anything...except that getting a license or ID is a pain in the ass. I refuse to take responsibility for the accident (the cops and the other driver's insurance company said he was 100% at fault) or for trying to save $200 a month on stupid insurance about a stupid law that punished me for some jackass hitting MY car.
Ok it's kinda my fault for not taking care of this sooner. SIGH.
See, in July I was in an accident. Some jackass rammed into the side of my Jeep, totaling it. Well, my insurance had lapsed, only by a few days, and even though the accident wasn't my fault, I got a ticket for not having insurance. About a month later, I got a letter from the State saying that I needed to have this special insurance (an SR-22) on my license for at risk drivers. So I got it, no big deal. Well, when my insurance renewed on December 31, I got a bill. For $600... JUST for the renewal. It was going to be another $200 for the first month of coverage because of the stupid SR-22. I was like well screw that, I'm not paying that.Chris and I decided we'd cut down to 1 car, he'd be the official chauffeur, etc. We haven't had any problems at all with it. We've saved money, it's been great, until this morning when it really sucked. On the way to work, I was thinking about how people lie on their licenses, you know they weigh like 500 lbs, but they put 120 lbs? Well, it was going to be a great blog post, then I realized 1. I totally do that on my license, and 2. isn't it strange I have long hair on my license. It was kind of a slow progression to reality: hey, I have long hair in my license picture, I haven't had long hair in like 7 years, that's weird, I wonder when this expires... OH MY GOD MY LICENSE IS EXPIRED! Now you're probably thinking, you already knew it was suspended, what's the big deal? Well, I don't have a state ID. Meaning, I have no valid identification to board the plane. On Friday morning. No big deal, just go get a state ID, right? Wrong. Because of the new federal laws, you have to prove that you're not a terrorist or something and show your birth certificate and a copy of your taxes or something before you can get an ID. Just get a copy of your birth certificate, right? Wrong. The Office of Vital Statistics takes 24-48 hours to expedite a birth certificate request, and since it has to be an "official copy", it just makes it harder. I have a copy, it's just not an "official" copy. Ok so, can't get one from Vital Statistics, not enough time. So I called the town where I was born, they can make me an official copy TODAY (huge sigh of relief). So they're an hour away, we have to drive there and get the "official" copy. Then we have to drive back an hour and a half in the other direction to get the actual ID. Then I have to give the State a copy of my travel plans so they'll release my ID today and not in 2-3 weeks, which is standard turn around time on IDs. Of course if all of this fails, we'll be driving the 13 hours to Virginia Beach. 13 hours, me, Chris and Kat stuck in a car together? Good Christ that would suck.
So lesson learned? I don't know that I really learned anything...except that getting a license or ID is a pain in the ass. I refuse to take responsibility for the accident (the cops and the other driver's insurance company said he was 100% at fault) or for trying to save $200 a month on stupid insurance about a stupid law that punished me for some jackass hitting MY car.
Ok it's kinda my fault for not taking care of this sooner. SIGH.
Heeeeeere's Johnny!
This afternoon we brought the kids to see the Hannah Montana movie. They actually had Johnny of the Cobra Kai as Miley/Hannah's love interest! So this kid, who they call Travis in the movie, is CLEARLY Johnny.
For anyone who has just crawled out from under a rock and doesn't know the awesomeness that is Johnny...Johnny is the uber bully from the Karate Kid. His gang of pseudo ninjas were called the Cobra Kai. He's the most bad ass bully ever.
See? Was there ever any doubt? Anyway, the final scene of the movie is the big crowd scene, it was so exciting, I just knew there was an ass kicking coming! And seriously, after almost 90 minutes of tween giggling and faux-teen angst, I'm ready to see an ass whooping. I start yelling, SWEEP THE LEG! SWEEP THE LEG! And, sonofabitch...there was no ass kicking. There was no sweeping of the leg. There wasn't even a good bitch slap. Nothing. Just a big stupid song and dance number. I'm like, what the hell kind of movie is this? You show me Johnny and taunt me with fantasies of the Cobra Kai and I get a stupid SONG? This was the stupidest movie ever. I hate Hannah Montana.
For anyone who has just crawled out from under a rock and doesn't know the awesomeness that is Johnny...Johnny is the uber bully from the Karate Kid. His gang of pseudo ninjas were called the Cobra Kai. He's the most bad ass bully ever.
See? Was there ever any doubt? Anyway, the final scene of the movie is the big crowd scene, it was so exciting, I just knew there was an ass kicking coming! And seriously, after almost 90 minutes of tween giggling and faux-teen angst, I'm ready to see an ass whooping. I start yelling, SWEEP THE LEG! SWEEP THE LEG! And, sonofabitch...there was no ass kicking. There was no sweeping of the leg. There wasn't even a good bitch slap. Nothing. Just a big stupid song and dance number. I'm like, what the hell kind of movie is this? You show me Johnny and taunt me with fantasies of the Cobra Kai and I get a stupid SONG? This was the stupidest movie ever. I hate Hannah Montana.
Kicked out of the Cardigan Club
Being the good mommy that I am, I volunteered to help on a fundraising committee for my kids' team. So this new fundraising committee had a meeting, where I met the other two members of the committee, who were part of the "I'm a Perfect Mommy and You're a Trashy Loser Club" aka the Cardigan Club. You know those moms that give you "the look" when your kid misbehaves? The moms that are the eternally suffering martyrs of the PTA (complaining about ALL the hard work they have to do, yet never have the sense to stop volunteering or let someone else have a turn)? Yeah, they were my fundraising committee. It was a little disheartening, because I think those kind of moms give moms everywhere a bad name, but because I want to be supportive of my kids, I sucked it up and played nice. After about 30 minutes of listening to how they're SO good at this kind of thing, and how during soccer they did such and such, and how they're they only 2 people on the planet capable of fundraising, they actually gave me a job. I was supposed to handle ordering t-shirts, collecting money from parents, etc. Easy enough right? I mean, I get paid to do logistical planning for Christ's sake, I think I can handle ordering some friggin t-shirts.
We "discussed" (and by discussed I mean they included me in emails in which they bickered back and forth in an effort for Ultimate Queen Bee Mommy Supremacy) for 2 weeks over what color the shirts should be. Yes, really. One of them said that black was just too "blah", and the other said that "white doesn't hide stains well", and "green is not my color". The argued about how much to charge. They argued about whether or not the logo should be outlined so it would "pop" more. On and on and on and fucking on. But I love my kids, so I resist the urge to bash their little blonde heads together. I continue asking for some decisions so I could finish this, I make about 73 variations of an order form, I mean, I put time and effort in to really try to do my part. I smile as they talk to me like I'm a backward redneck. I ignore the snotty comments and the backhanded compliments. After all, I'm a good mommy, right? And we're all just doing what we can to support our kids, right? So yesterday, I get an email that says essentially, Someone else is taking care of the t-shirts, butt out.I was like, eh what the fuck? So I wrote them all an email asking what was up, what happened, etc. So the reigning Queen Bee Mommy writes back and tells me that this should've been done last week and that I obviously don't understand how to do this, basically I'm just a big stupid loser so they had to "delegate" elsewhere. Speechless.
I don't know what I'm more irritated by: the fact that these two women, who stand for everything that I hate by the way, blew me off, or the fact that I care. Yeah, there are times that I wish that the Cardigan Club would pay attention when I talked. I wish that I could be a part of this elite clique of Mommies. I readily admit, I'm not a fancy pants mom. I don't send my kids to private school, I have tattoos and swear (although I never once swore around them, I even slipped in an "oh my GOSH!"). I don't even own a cardigan, let alone a pair of pleated khaki pants (their official uniform).
Anyway, I told them they could take their fundraising committee and their holier than thou attitude and shove it. Of course, thereby reinforcing their idea that I was not a worthy member of the Mommies for World Domination Club, but I was in fact an imposter, a smoking, swearing, jeans wearing, borderline psychotic mommy with questionable parenting skills. But hey, on the bright side, I'm pretty sure they won't be asking me to bake cookies for the bake sale.
We "discussed" (and by discussed I mean they included me in emails in which they bickered back and forth in an effort for Ultimate Queen Bee Mommy Supremacy) for 2 weeks over what color the shirts should be. Yes, really. One of them said that black was just too "blah", and the other said that "white doesn't hide stains well", and "green is not my color". The argued about how much to charge. They argued about whether or not the logo should be outlined so it would "pop" more. On and on and on and fucking on. But I love my kids, so I resist the urge to bash their little blonde heads together. I continue asking for some decisions so I could finish this, I make about 73 variations of an order form, I mean, I put time and effort in to really try to do my part. I smile as they talk to me like I'm a backward redneck. I ignore the snotty comments and the backhanded compliments. After all, I'm a good mommy, right? And we're all just doing what we can to support our kids, right? So yesterday, I get an email that says essentially, Someone else is taking care of the t-shirts, butt out.I was like, eh what the fuck? So I wrote them all an email asking what was up, what happened, etc. So the reigning Queen Bee Mommy writes back and tells me that this should've been done last week and that I obviously don't understand how to do this, basically I'm just a big stupid loser so they had to "delegate" elsewhere. Speechless.
I don't know what I'm more irritated by: the fact that these two women, who stand for everything that I hate by the way, blew me off, or the fact that I care. Yeah, there are times that I wish that the Cardigan Club would pay attention when I talked. I wish that I could be a part of this elite clique of Mommies. I readily admit, I'm not a fancy pants mom. I don't send my kids to private school, I have tattoos and swear (although I never once swore around them, I even slipped in an "oh my GOSH!"). I don't even own a cardigan, let alone a pair of pleated khaki pants (their official uniform).
Anyway, I told them they could take their fundraising committee and their holier than thou attitude and shove it. Of course, thereby reinforcing their idea that I was not a worthy member of the Mommies for World Domination Club, but I was in fact an imposter, a smoking, swearing, jeans wearing, borderline psychotic mommy with questionable parenting skills. But hey, on the bright side, I'm pretty sure they won't be asking me to bake cookies for the bake sale.
Feeling horny?
Did you know that you can grow horns? Yes, really. I read this article that said that the human body can grow horns, usually in response to a disease. The skin on the body grows thicker, and can eventually be the thickness of the butt of a rhinoceros or an elephant. One of the doctors in the article said, "The horn is a red flag". Red flag, huh? Yeah, if I was growing fucking horns, I think it's safe to consider that a red flag.
Here's the article if you're interested. If not, you can just marvel at my horniness.
Here's the article if you're interested. If not, you can just marvel at my horniness.
Just like a brontosaurus
I had a couple of really good ideas for posts for today...but I forgot them. I'm completely exhausted and apparently I've developed amnesia, or my brain is just broken. Hard to tell. Could have something to do with the fact that I got literally 2 hours of sleep last night. I've been a funk lately, the whole economy thing finally hit my job. We got news that the there was a good possibility that 45 positions (including mine) would be eliminated. Fortunately, that isn't going to happen, but I didn't find that out until this morning at about 6 a.m. (BIG sigh of relief). Ever since I heard that, I could lose my job, I've been kinda moping around, just not myself at all. Not sleeping really well, being all zoned out, just all depressed-like. So last night, I said to Chris, so I think I know what my problem is.
Chris: Oh yeah? What's that?
Me: I think I'm depressed.
Chris: Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you've kind of reminded me of a brontosaurus, all moping around with no place to go.
Me: Did you just call me a brontosaurus? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you saying I'm fat like a fucking DINOSAUR?
Chris: No, no. Not at all. You know how a brontosaurus just kinda lumbers around aimlessly?
He then shows me how a brontosaurus "lumbers around aimlessly". Walking around the kitchen like arms and legs don't bend with this ridiculous big-eyed sad face. Wow. I was speechless. Did my husband seriously just call me a fucking brontosaurus? Nice. I "lumber around aimlessly"? Yeah, let's see if I can imitate any other dinosaurs. Maybe a raptor or something so I can rip your head off if you ever say anything so retarded again. So I kind of brushed it off (the imitation was kinda funny) and we went to bed. I start trying to talk to him, I'm feeling that maybe I have been in funk, and maybe just need to get it off my chest. I'm being totally open and vulnerable, baring my soul, when all of a sudden I hear a familiar sound...snoring. Yes folks, my wonderful and adoring husband fell asleep while I was talking. A minor faux-pas (which he was still very sorry for at 3:30 this morning when I finally decided he was sorry enough for being insensitive and could go to sleep to get ready for work at 5:30), no?
So apparently if you have husband who will compare you to a brontasaurus or fall asleep while you're talking, screw baring your soul and discussing feelings. Pout and tell him jewelry will make you feel better. Granted you run the risk of not having ample guilt ammo stored up (I have tons and tons), but you also won't be called a fucking dinosaur.
Chris: Oh yeah? What's that?
Me: I think I'm depressed.
Chris: Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you've kind of reminded me of a brontosaurus, all moping around with no place to go.
Me: Did you just call me a brontosaurus? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you saying I'm fat like a fucking DINOSAUR?
Chris: No, no. Not at all. You know how a brontosaurus just kinda lumbers around aimlessly?
He then shows me how a brontosaurus "lumbers around aimlessly". Walking around the kitchen like arms and legs don't bend with this ridiculous big-eyed sad face. Wow. I was speechless. Did my husband seriously just call me a fucking brontosaurus? Nice. I "lumber around aimlessly"? Yeah, let's see if I can imitate any other dinosaurs. Maybe a raptor or something so I can rip your head off if you ever say anything so retarded again. So I kind of brushed it off (the imitation was kinda funny) and we went to bed. I start trying to talk to him, I'm feeling that maybe I have been in funk, and maybe just need to get it off my chest. I'm being totally open and vulnerable, baring my soul, when all of a sudden I hear a familiar sound...snoring. Yes folks, my wonderful and adoring husband fell asleep while I was talking. A minor faux-pas (which he was still very sorry for at 3:30 this morning when I finally decided he was sorry enough for being insensitive and could go to sleep to get ready for work at 5:30), no?
So apparently if you have husband who will compare you to a brontasaurus or fall asleep while you're talking, screw baring your soul and discussing feelings. Pout and tell him jewelry will make you feel better. Granted you run the risk of not having ample guilt ammo stored up (I have tons and tons), but you also won't be called a fucking dinosaur.
Are you a trampy whore or just a sociopath?
I've learned two things today: 1. I'm addicted to quizes. 2. I'm clinically insane. The quiz addiction doesn't really surprise me. I've always loved taking quizes. Back when I used to be single/interested in spicing up my sex life/interested in finding, keeping and manipulating a man I had a subscription to Cosmopolitan and they seriously have the best quizes. They're always like, "Are you a backstabbing whore?" or "Are you a Pollyanna in bed because handcuffs freak you out?" Good stuff. So as I said the other day, now I take all these Facebook quizes. And according to Facebook, I'm clinically insane.
So I took the quiz again. I chose different answers (although I still didn't pick the talking unicorn answer). This time it said I'm schizophrenic. Thanks, that's much better. I don't like this quiz at all. It's kinda of depressing. Where's a good, "Are you a trampy slut?" quiz to lift your spirits when you need it?
You don't care about rules. You don't care about inflicting pain. In fact, you don't care about anything besides fulfilling your own twisted desires, regardless of the cost to others. This is what makes persons with Antisocial Personality Disorder capable of anything, and thus, the most dangerous of all crazies. Maybe you're not a serial killer... maybe you just take advantage of people at any available opportunity. Maybe you steal for the fun of it, maybe you enjoy hurting people's feelings, or manipulating those around you, pitting them against each other for your own amusement. In any case, you're a sick f***.A fucking sociopath? C'mon. That's way harsh. Ok, yes. Some of it is true. I care little for rules, but I don't like inflicting pain, and I have been known to manipulate a little, but not for my own amusement, it was for my own BENEFIT, which is totally not the same thing. Clearly this quiz is the one that's fucked up, not me. One of the questions was about what your dreams typically involve: A. what dreams? I don't sleep and when I do, I'm too inebriated to remember anything. ( clearly this one is for either alcoholics or drunken college students, of which I'm neither). B. unicorns who speak in tongues...though you wish they'd leave when you woke up.(ok, asfuckingif. That's not even a real answer. Everyone knows unicorns can't talk). C. your run of the mill torture and murder. I chose C. In my defense, I made the unfortunate decision to watch Hostel, and ever since, my nightmares have taken on a whole new genre. And besides, my other choices are to be an alcoholic or to say that unicorns talk to me and now all of a sudden murder and torture look crazy? What retard wrote this quiz?
So I took the quiz again. I chose different answers (although I still didn't pick the talking unicorn answer). This time it said I'm schizophrenic. Thanks, that's much better. I don't like this quiz at all. It's kinda of depressing. Where's a good, "Are you a trampy slut?" quiz to lift your spirits when you need it?
Animal Voodoo
So we're driving to cheering, everything is going right on schedule, we might even be there early. Then we hear this rumbling. I was like, babe is that the car? Chris goes, eh... We see smoke and both go, oh shit. Chris starts pulling over, but the car isn't stopping and he's having a hard time even getting into the breakdown lane. Once he finally got it stopped, I get out and looked at the tire, TOTALLY flat. Like not a little flat, like riding on the rim flat. Chris gets out to inspect and confirms my original diagnosis...it's flat. We have a spare but no jack. So I call AAA, and give them all the info they need and specifically said that we're not all the way out of the road, so could they please send a police officer to at least get people to slow down/move into the other lane. The guys says no problem, we'll be there within 10 minutes. So 10 minutes go by, then 15, then 20. No police, no tow truck, nothing. Just cars speeding by at 80 mph. At 25 minutes, I call AAA back, fucking LIVID. I was all, where the HELL are you guys? He's like, ma'am, they're on the way, I assure you. They're about 15 minutes away. I was like, THAT'S WHAT YOU SAID 25 MINUTES AGO! He's all, ma'am if you could just calm down...Heh. Not likely, DON'T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN. I HAVE 2 KIDS IN THE BACKSEAT AND CARS ARE SPEEDING BY. THERE ARE NO POLICE IN SIGHT. WE NEED HELP! He's all, certainly ma'am. I'm all, go fuck yourself.
So after I hung up on that douchebag, this tractor trailer nearly clips the back of the car. I was like, that's it. Get out of the car. Everyone out. NOW. So they get out and I was holding their hands, trying to walk down this steep hill into the ditch. They're starting to cry, and I'm just trying to get them off the side of the road. We get to the bottom of the hill, and there's like a river of muck (dead leaves and such) and of course there's still snow. I'm thinking, no problem, we'll just kinda hop across. Yeah, there was no hopping. I took a step and sunk in up to my freaking knee in this ice cold watery mud shit. As I sunk in, Davey took a step and sunk in up to his ankles. He starts wailing (literally). So I grab him (my leg still stuck in the river of shit) and fling him out of the shit and onto solid ground. I'm trying to yell instructions at Kat to make sure she doesn't sink, but of course she can't hear me over David's wailing, the whizzing cars and her own sobbing. She starts to sink and I grab her and toss her next to David. I manage to pull myself out, and limp over to the kids, who are huddled together crying. We were standing in front of a bunch of trees, and Davey goes, Mom, I'm really scared we're gonna die!. Chris (ever helpful) says, you're not gonna die buddy, but watch out for bears! Davey lets out this wail and is like, AHHHH, OH GOD! I'm trying not to laugh, because he's obviously scared, and was just like, Baby, there are no bears. We're not going to die, I promise. I don't think he believed me. Chris walks down the hill to make sure we're not dead and walks across the mud in 1 step, no sinking. He goes, why didn't you just go this way? Heh. Well thanks dear, I sure do appreciate that tip. But I gotta tell you, I so enjoyed sinking in the mud and getting soaking wet. Jackass.
So FINALLY the tow truck comes and they start fixing the tire. They'd been working for about 5 minutes when the police show up. The cop strolls over to Chris and is like, license and registration please. He takes all of Chris' information and goes back to his car. Mind you, he's never once even asked if we were ok. All he did was glare at me and the kids huddled together our feet and legs soaking wet and covered in mud. He comes back, glares at us again, and then writes Chris a warning for not changing his address on his license. Then he left. Never even waited for the tow truck to finish. Seriously? That's what we called you for? Thanks so much, that was so helpful.
So tire's fixed, and we get back up the hill without further incident, and get back in the car. I was bitching about how gross the muddy water was and how it smelled and turned my foot brown. The kids were both talking about how they were sure that they were going to die, and they saw their life flash before their eyes, all the melodrama you'd expect from my children. Then Davey says, I was so scared when we sank in that animal voodoo. Chris goes, I think you mean doodoo. Davey was like, nope, I mean voodoo. It was NASTY.Then Chris and I are talking about what a jerk the officer was, and I called him "Officer Douchebag". Davey goes, hehe. I like it when you call him Officer Douchebag. Probably not the best protocol teaching my son a new bad word, but what are good mommies for, right? And hey, the kid just sank in animal voodoo, what do you expect? He's traumatized.
So that's my adventure. I'm left with a bruise the size of Ohio on my calf, my hip muscle is pulled and I'm limping because my knee is all messed up. Although there is no moral of the story here, and there's really no lesson learned, we didn't die and that's good enough for me.
So after I hung up on that douchebag, this tractor trailer nearly clips the back of the car. I was like, that's it. Get out of the car. Everyone out. NOW. So they get out and I was holding their hands, trying to walk down this steep hill into the ditch. They're starting to cry, and I'm just trying to get them off the side of the road. We get to the bottom of the hill, and there's like a river of muck (dead leaves and such) and of course there's still snow. I'm thinking, no problem, we'll just kinda hop across. Yeah, there was no hopping. I took a step and sunk in up to my freaking knee in this ice cold watery mud shit. As I sunk in, Davey took a step and sunk in up to his ankles. He starts wailing (literally). So I grab him (my leg still stuck in the river of shit) and fling him out of the shit and onto solid ground. I'm trying to yell instructions at Kat to make sure she doesn't sink, but of course she can't hear me over David's wailing, the whizzing cars and her own sobbing. She starts to sink and I grab her and toss her next to David. I manage to pull myself out, and limp over to the kids, who are huddled together crying. We were standing in front of a bunch of trees, and Davey goes, Mom, I'm really scared we're gonna die!. Chris (ever helpful) says, you're not gonna die buddy, but watch out for bears! Davey lets out this wail and is like, AHHHH, OH GOD! I'm trying not to laugh, because he's obviously scared, and was just like, Baby, there are no bears. We're not going to die, I promise. I don't think he believed me. Chris walks down the hill to make sure we're not dead and walks across the mud in 1 step, no sinking. He goes, why didn't you just go this way? Heh. Well thanks dear, I sure do appreciate that tip. But I gotta tell you, I so enjoyed sinking in the mud and getting soaking wet. Jackass.
So FINALLY the tow truck comes and they start fixing the tire. They'd been working for about 5 minutes when the police show up. The cop strolls over to Chris and is like, license and registration please. He takes all of Chris' information and goes back to his car. Mind you, he's never once even asked if we were ok. All he did was glare at me and the kids huddled together our feet and legs soaking wet and covered in mud. He comes back, glares at us again, and then writes Chris a warning for not changing his address on his license. Then he left. Never even waited for the tow truck to finish. Seriously? That's what we called you for? Thanks so much, that was so helpful.
So tire's fixed, and we get back up the hill without further incident, and get back in the car. I was bitching about how gross the muddy water was and how it smelled and turned my foot brown. The kids were both talking about how they were sure that they were going to die, and they saw their life flash before their eyes, all the melodrama you'd expect from my children. Then Davey says, I was so scared when we sank in that animal voodoo. Chris goes, I think you mean doodoo. Davey was like, nope, I mean voodoo. It was NASTY.Then Chris and I are talking about what a jerk the officer was, and I called him "Officer Douchebag". Davey goes, hehe. I like it when you call him Officer Douchebag. Probably not the best protocol teaching my son a new bad word, but what are good mommies for, right? And hey, the kid just sank in animal voodoo, what do you expect? He's traumatized.
So that's my adventure. I'm left with a bruise the size of Ohio on my calf, my hip muscle is pulled and I'm limping because my knee is all messed up. Although there is no moral of the story here, and there's really no lesson learned, we didn't die and that's good enough for me.
Scaring the crap out of sick kids
I just read the scariest/most disturbing thing I've ever read in my life. According to the Miami Herald, Britney Spears donated $100,000 to help sick kids through an organization called Big Apple Circus Clown Care Program. I was like, well, isn't that nice, bad mommy does good. But I wasn't really sure what the Big Apple Circus Clown Care Program was, so off to Google I went. And I had a small aneursym when I read the info. Apparently, this is an organization of doctor/clowns who treat sick kids. Why? Why would you do that to innocent children? They're already sick, why would you expose them to the scariest people on the entire planet?
Just so we're all totally clear, I have nothing against helping sick children. I'm not the Antichrist, I do have a soul, and I promise I have a heart for sick children. However, I do NOT have a heart for clowns. They terrify the bejesus out me. Not a little, not like in a, "oh, haha, that's so silly" kind of way, in a "makes my heart beat faster, makes me hyperventilate, makes me pee my pants a little bit" kind of way. People have told me this is just an irrational fear, I disagree. It's quite rational. In fact, if someone can explain to me how grown men/women can put on face paint, paint on a smile, wear big shoes and clothes and move around like they're in slow motion, all the while pointing and fake laughing with no sound, is at all rational, I'll give them a million dollars. Not only is not rational, it's sure as hell not funny. To prove I'm not crazy, take a look at the overwhelming evidence. Warning, it's fucking terrifying.
Exhibit A: Clownhouse. A movie about 3 escaped mental patients who follow a young boy and his 2 brothers home. I could say more, but the trailer really speaks for itself.
Exhibit B. Stephen King's IT. No intro needed, just take a look at the terrifying clown coming out of the ground.
Exhibit C. There is no exhibit C because I've sufficiently scared the shit out of myself by looking for these 2 items and am in the process of retreating into the fetal position to be followed by rocking in the corner sucking my thumb.
P.S. Apparently I'm not alone in this anlysis. According the Wikipedia article about coulrophobia (fear of clowns), The University of Sheffield found that children are frightened by clown-themed decor in hospitals. Imagine what they would've found if they'd researched how children feel about ACTUAL clowns in hospitals.
Just so we're all totally clear, I have nothing against helping sick children. I'm not the Antichrist, I do have a soul, and I promise I have a heart for sick children. However, I do NOT have a heart for clowns. They terrify the bejesus out me. Not a little, not like in a, "oh, haha, that's so silly" kind of way, in a "makes my heart beat faster, makes me hyperventilate, makes me pee my pants a little bit" kind of way. People have told me this is just an irrational fear, I disagree. It's quite rational. In fact, if someone can explain to me how grown men/women can put on face paint, paint on a smile, wear big shoes and clothes and move around like they're in slow motion, all the while pointing and fake laughing with no sound, is at all rational, I'll give them a million dollars. Not only is not rational, it's sure as hell not funny. To prove I'm not crazy, take a look at the overwhelming evidence. Warning, it's fucking terrifying.
Exhibit A: Clownhouse. A movie about 3 escaped mental patients who follow a young boy and his 2 brothers home. I could say more, but the trailer really speaks for itself.
Exhibit B. Stephen King's IT. No intro needed, just take a look at the terrifying clown coming out of the ground.
Exhibit C. There is no exhibit C because I've sufficiently scared the shit out of myself by looking for these 2 items and am in the process of retreating into the fetal position to be followed by rocking in the corner sucking my thumb.P.S. Apparently I'm not alone in this anlysis. According the Wikipedia article about coulrophobia (fear of clowns), The University of Sheffield found that children are frightened by clown-themed decor in hospitals. Imagine what they would've found if they'd researched how children feel about ACTUAL clowns in hospitals.
I'm the porn-looking-at retard who apparently shouldn't be allowed out without a helmet
Usually when I write a post, I text Chris to tell him, make him read it, shower me with praise, etc., etc., etc. Normally he has comments, but after reading Friday's post, he was suspiciously quiet. We went out dinner at Olive Garden, and I was like, so you didn't say much about my blog post, did you not like it? He was like, yeah, I did...I just ...I dunno. So I'm moderately offended.
Me: No seriously, what did you think?
Chris: Well, I don't want to make you feel bad.
Me: (thinking what the hell?) No, go ahead.
Chris: I know ATP means.
Me: Oh? Do tell. (at this point totally thinking he's just being a jackass)
Chris:It means adenosine triphosphate.
Me: Pfft. What the hell does that mean?
Chris: Well see, adenosine triphosphate moves the energy that helps in cell division and helps in DNA replication. It's an energy transfer molecule.
Totally speechless.
So here I am, thinking that only some nerdy loser would actually know that, and fucking Chris knows it. He proceeded to tell me all about cell division and crap. I don't know. I was so completely blown away I was listening to him with my mouth hanging open. When he was done educating me he goes, I really am smart you know. Shyeah, got it. Thanks. In other make me feel like an idiot news, I spent the majority of the day helping Kat with her science project. She had to make a poster about simple machines. Apparently a fork is a simple machine. I totally didn't know that. I actually learned quite a bit, which is sad since she's in the third grade and I swear I graduated high school and have attended 3 semesters of college.
I apparently can't spell either. On Saturday I was logging on to Facebook (yeah, totally addicted), and I typed what I thought was Facebook into the URL box. I misspelled it, hit enter and SURPRISE! Hard core porn. I was like HOLY SHIT! The kids are standing at the sink washing their hands as Mommy is looking at porn, albeit unintentionally. So in addition to being the kind of mom who now has porn on the family computer, I'm also the kind of wife to shirk all responsibility. I didn't realize I'd misspelled Facebook until about 5 minutes later. I probably would've figured it out sooner, except I was busy sending Chris angry text messages, because I was 110% sure he was looking at porn on the computer and I had gotten a pop-up because of all the porn looking he was doing. It was only when I looked at the URL that I realized it was me corrupting our computer. There's one porn site on the computer. Because of me. Sigh. I, of course, apologized for jumping to conclusions. Chris was all, I TOLD you I don't look at porn. Yes dear, I know. I get it. You don't look at porn and you know what adenosine triphosphate means. I'm the porn-looking-at retard who apparently shouldn't be allowed out without a helmet.
Me: No seriously, what did you think?
Chris: Well, I don't want to make you feel bad.
Me: (thinking what the hell?) No, go ahead.
Chris: I know ATP means.
Me: Oh? Do tell. (at this point totally thinking he's just being a jackass)
Chris:It means adenosine triphosphate.
Me: Pfft. What the hell does that mean?
Chris: Well see, adenosine triphosphate moves the energy that helps in cell division and helps in DNA replication. It's an energy transfer molecule.
Totally speechless.
So here I am, thinking that only some nerdy loser would actually know that, and fucking Chris knows it. He proceeded to tell me all about cell division and crap. I don't know. I was so completely blown away I was listening to him with my mouth hanging open. When he was done educating me he goes, I really am smart you know. Shyeah, got it. Thanks. In other make me feel like an idiot news, I spent the majority of the day helping Kat with her science project. She had to make a poster about simple machines. Apparently a fork is a simple machine. I totally didn't know that. I actually learned quite a bit, which is sad since she's in the third grade and I swear I graduated high school and have attended 3 semesters of college.
I apparently can't spell either. On Saturday I was logging on to Facebook (yeah, totally addicted), and I typed what I thought was Facebook into the URL box. I misspelled it, hit enter and SURPRISE! Hard core porn. I was like HOLY SHIT! The kids are standing at the sink washing their hands as Mommy is looking at porn, albeit unintentionally. So in addition to being the kind of mom who now has porn on the family computer, I'm also the kind of wife to shirk all responsibility. I didn't realize I'd misspelled Facebook until about 5 minutes later. I probably would've figured it out sooner, except I was busy sending Chris angry text messages, because I was 110% sure he was looking at porn on the computer and I had gotten a pop-up because of all the porn looking he was doing. It was only when I looked at the URL that I realized it was me corrupting our computer. There's one porn site on the computer. Because of me. Sigh. I, of course, apologized for jumping to conclusions. Chris was all, I TOLD you I don't look at porn. Yes dear, I know. I get it. You don't look at porn and you know what adenosine triphosphate means. I'm the porn-looking-at retard who apparently shouldn't be allowed out without a helmet.
Happy birthday to me!
So...yesterday was my birthday. I'd could tell you that it was filled with the obligatory showering me with praise, affection and attention that usually comes with birthdays, but I'd be lying. I spent the day on the verge of a panic attack, starving, my hands bleeding, my throat raw and best of all, with my ass asleep.
Started out pretty good, Chris remembered, said happy birthday before my eyes were even open. The kids of course forgot until Chris was like, did you wish your mother a happy birthday? To which Kat (obviously not filled with the horror of forgetting her mother's birthday) said, I was just about to...as soon as I remembered! Davey was like, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM! Davey spent the rest of the day hugging me and petting me, telling me "happy birthday" no less than 23894719874 times. Clearly the child is guilt ridden, but I wouldn't be doing my job as a mother if I didn't make my children feel guilty. Anyway, everything ran on schedule getting out of the house, which NEVER happens. I did dump a whole container of Kat's silver glitter eye make up all over the bathroom floor, but that's ok. Since her competition season started I've found glitter all over the house, our clothes, my face, Chris' hair, David's headgear...literally everywhere. We get to the competition and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. They had us lined up in this entryway thing, crammed in like sardines, no air, no water, no room to even turn around. As I've said before, I have a personal space thing, well, I also have a crowd thing. I'm standing in the middle of this crowd and I start getting dizzy, and all claustrophobic. People are talking to me, and I'm swaying back and forth, the whole time going, shit. I'm going to faint and them I'll crack my skull open on the floor and need stitches, I'll make a huge scene and the fondest memory I'll have of my 30th birthday will be when they gave me the good drugs at the hospital. I didn't faint. Some angelic soul finally opened the gym doors and let us all in. Although, looking back, getting my hands on some of those drugs would've been nice, because my I spent the rest of the day with my ass asleep. This competition was supposed to last until 2:30. We got out at freaking 5. Granted it was great watching all the teams from Kat's gym perform, and they swept every category, including top gym, but it dragged on, and on, and on. To make matters worse, they were giving away a trophy for "Most Spirited Fans". So I'm screaming my little heart out, clapping my hands to a bloody pulp, the whole deal. We didn't win. How we didn't win, I have no idea. I think the trophy was really for "Most NOT Spirited Fans because we don't want to hurt any smaller gyms feelings by giving the trophy to the biggest gym with the most and loudest fans". But whatever.
When we finally left the competition, I was starving. I don't know that I've been so hungry in my life. I didn't eat breakfast because I thought we'd be done by 3 at the latest, so by the time we got to Outback I was near death. I did learn a few things in the process: 1., we need a GPS, 2., Chris sucks at directions, 3., I get a little testy when I'm hungry. After taking 73 wrong turns and still being no where near Outback, Chris says, I know it's around here somewhere... To which I replied, IF YOU DON'T GET ME SOMETHING TO F*UCKING EAT IN THE NEXT 2 MINUTES I'M GOING TO GNAW OFF DAVEY'S LEG. Chris made his, holy shit. Back it down face. Davey wasn't sure if he should be laugh or be scared. I think he was both. We finally, FINALLY got to Outback, and there was a 55 minute wait. At this point, I was like, you know what. Screw it. It's my birthday. We're waiting. I think it was worth it...I'm not entirely sure, because I was near-comatose and inhaled it.
So my birthday didn't go at all the way I'd planned, but as Chris likes to remind me, things could always be worse, I could be on fire.
Started out pretty good, Chris remembered, said happy birthday before my eyes were even open. The kids of course forgot until Chris was like, did you wish your mother a happy birthday? To which Kat (obviously not filled with the horror of forgetting her mother's birthday) said, I was just about to...as soon as I remembered! Davey was like, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM! Davey spent the rest of the day hugging me and petting me, telling me "happy birthday" no less than 23894719874 times. Clearly the child is guilt ridden, but I wouldn't be doing my job as a mother if I didn't make my children feel guilty. Anyway, everything ran on schedule getting out of the house, which NEVER happens. I did dump a whole container of Kat's silver glitter eye make up all over the bathroom floor, but that's ok. Since her competition season started I've found glitter all over the house, our clothes, my face, Chris' hair, David's headgear...literally everywhere. We get to the competition and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. They had us lined up in this entryway thing, crammed in like sardines, no air, no water, no room to even turn around. As I've said before, I have a personal space thing, well, I also have a crowd thing. I'm standing in the middle of this crowd and I start getting dizzy, and all claustrophobic. People are talking to me, and I'm swaying back and forth, the whole time going, shit. I'm going to faint and them I'll crack my skull open on the floor and need stitches, I'll make a huge scene and the fondest memory I'll have of my 30th birthday will be when they gave me the good drugs at the hospital. I didn't faint. Some angelic soul finally opened the gym doors and let us all in. Although, looking back, getting my hands on some of those drugs would've been nice, because my I spent the rest of the day with my ass asleep. This competition was supposed to last until 2:30. We got out at freaking 5. Granted it was great watching all the teams from Kat's gym perform, and they swept every category, including top gym, but it dragged on, and on, and on. To make matters worse, they were giving away a trophy for "Most Spirited Fans". So I'm screaming my little heart out, clapping my hands to a bloody pulp, the whole deal. We didn't win. How we didn't win, I have no idea. I think the trophy was really for "Most NOT Spirited Fans because we don't want to hurt any smaller gyms feelings by giving the trophy to the biggest gym with the most and loudest fans". But whatever.
When we finally left the competition, I was starving. I don't know that I've been so hungry in my life. I didn't eat breakfast because I thought we'd be done by 3 at the latest, so by the time we got to Outback I was near death. I did learn a few things in the process: 1., we need a GPS, 2., Chris sucks at directions, 3., I get a little testy when I'm hungry. After taking 73 wrong turns and still being no where near Outback, Chris says, I know it's around here somewhere... To which I replied, IF YOU DON'T GET ME SOMETHING TO F*UCKING EAT IN THE NEXT 2 MINUTES I'M GOING TO GNAW OFF DAVEY'S LEG. Chris made his, holy shit. Back it down face. Davey wasn't sure if he should be laugh or be scared. I think he was both. We finally, FINALLY got to Outback, and there was a 55 minute wait. At this point, I was like, you know what. Screw it. It's my birthday. We're waiting. I think it was worth it...I'm not entirely sure, because I was near-comatose and inhaled it.
So my birthday didn't go at all the way I'd planned, but as Chris likes to remind me, things could always be worse, I could be on fire.
Get your boobs off my donut
So this morning I hitched a ride with my friend (well, I don't know if you can really call him a friend per-se, he's my ex-husband), who was telling me about how excited he was to go to this new donut shop to have coffee. I was really only half listening, until I heard, boobs. I was like, eh, what? Apparently, it's a topless donut shop he's going to. I don't think that this was thought all the way through.
First off, aren't there inherent health risks with this? Not only for the bare-chested women who run the very real risk of burning their boobs on hot coffee (hello? ouch), but also for the customers. What happens when the waitresses' boobs touch the food? I don't know if boobs carry any more germs than hands do, and I'd like to think that most people wash their hands before serving food, do these waitresses wash their boobs just in case? Or like what if they bend over the counter and if their boobs aren't all fake and perky, their boob grazes the donuts? I'd be like, uh, get your boobs off my donut. It's like when Chris took me to Hooters for our first date (yes, he really took me to Hooters for our first date), the waitress was like fucking SITTING on our table, like kinda perched on the edge taking our order. I was like, uh, get your ass off my table. Chris was like, aww, don't get upset, I don't mind. I was like, yeah, I bet you don't.
Just like you don't mind getting ass germs on your table for the price of chicken wings at Hooters, I suppose the running the risk of donut contamination by boobs is worth it if you get to see naked boobs for the price of a cup of coffee. I like my food uncontaminated and boob and ass free, but that's just me.
First off, aren't there inherent health risks with this? Not only for the bare-chested women who run the very real risk of burning their boobs on hot coffee (hello? ouch), but also for the customers. What happens when the waitresses' boobs touch the food? I don't know if boobs carry any more germs than hands do, and I'd like to think that most people wash their hands before serving food, do these waitresses wash their boobs just in case? Or like what if they bend over the counter and if their boobs aren't all fake and perky, their boob grazes the donuts? I'd be like, uh, get your boobs off my donut. It's like when Chris took me to Hooters for our first date (yes, he really took me to Hooters for our first date), the waitress was like fucking SITTING on our table, like kinda perched on the edge taking our order. I was like, uh, get your ass off my table. Chris was like, aww, don't get upset, I don't mind. I was like, yeah, I bet you don't.
Just like you don't mind getting ass germs on your table for the price of chicken wings at Hooters, I suppose the running the risk of donut contamination by boobs is worth it if you get to see naked boobs for the price of a cup of coffee. I like my food uncontaminated and boob and ass free, but that's just me.
A big brother conspiracy and Hannah Montana?
Well, the plague didn't get me this time. I spent the last week trying to be sick. I emphasize trying because Chris decided he was sicker than me. Totally stole my thunder...if you got thunder for being sick. Maybe not thunder, maybe that's the wrong metaphor. All I know I was perfectly happy being sick and babied, and he went and ruined it by getting a case of the plague. Dick. Yeah, speaking of Dick (which is totally my new name for Chris), last night, I'm thinking, ok, he's surely feeling better by now. He's been milking this for like a week. It's totally my turn. Merritt-time! So we're watching tv, and I was like, we don't have to watch tv, we could talk or something. And he goes, eh, no. No thinking, no considering, nothing. Just "no". So I was like, fine. Dick. He freaking LAUGHED at me. I was like, yeah, laugh it up, DICK. No apology, no sad face, nothing, he just keeps laughing. So I go, what's so damn funny? He goes, heh, dick. Just the way you said it, all serious-like. I was like, yeah. Shut up. Dick.
In other annoying news, I hate my ipod. Or, to be more specific, I hate itunes...I think. I plugged my ipod into the computer to charge it, no problems, all is good. I'm sitting at my desk this morning, and all of a sudden I hear friggin Hannah Montana. I was like, oh hell no. So I went onto the next song...which was from High School Musical. SIGH. Now, I don't know who to blame here. My ipod, itunes, or maybe there's some big brother Apple conspiracy going on. Maybe they're trying to brain wash me with their peppy, up-beat preteen anthems about being preteen and fabulous even thought you're not even old enough to know what fabulous really is because you're not even allowed to watch an R-rated movied by yourself. All I know is Kat's music has invaded my ipod and I'm stuck listening to Rob Zombie and Hannah Montana, which just sucks. If I show any signs of regressing into preteen hell, please send help. k? kewl. c u l8r.
In other annoying news, I hate my ipod. Or, to be more specific, I hate itunes...I think. I plugged my ipod into the computer to charge it, no problems, all is good. I'm sitting at my desk this morning, and all of a sudden I hear friggin Hannah Montana. I was like, oh hell no. So I went onto the next song...which was from High School Musical. SIGH. Now, I don't know who to blame here. My ipod, itunes, or maybe there's some big brother Apple conspiracy going on. Maybe they're trying to brain wash me with their peppy, up-beat preteen anthems about being preteen and fabulous even thought you're not even old enough to know what fabulous really is because you're not even allowed to watch an R-rated movied by yourself. All I know is Kat's music has invaded my ipod and I'm stuck listening to Rob Zombie and Hannah Montana, which just sucks. If I show any signs of regressing into preteen hell, please send help. k? kewl. c u l8r.
