Heather Christena Schmidt

In reality, every day of my life is a weekend. I don’t work and I homeschool, and my husband works most weekends, so it’s all pretty much the same to me. This weekend was no different than any other, although there were also the not-so-usual characters that crept up on all sides of it.

Corona Chicks Like Big Dicks

Really, I am not one to judge on the way people dress or look. If someone is comfortable with the way they have dressed for the day, or are comfortable enough in their physical appearance (or shape) to dress a certain way, then truly I applaud them. My appearance is something I belabor over on a daily basis. Whether I’m sitting at home watching Desperate Housewives all day with the flu, or going out for a night on the town with my husband (psh, when has that ever happened?) – I always put on makeup, worry about my outfit, and do my hair. I understand all too well what it feels like for people to be judging you for your physical appearance, most probably because I had scoliosis when I was little and, well – quite frankly, that’s what we do in California.

Keeping all of my pseudo-openmindedness and general understanding of the need to not judge in mind, let me break from all of that niceness for just one moment to become a total hypocrite and judge the lady that I saw at the mall this weekend, smoking her electronic cigarettes and offending me with her choice of clothing. It wasn’t that she was borderline obese that bothered me. It wasn’t that her hair was stringy and looked like it hadn’t been washed in well over a year. It wasn’t that she was smoking an electronic cigarette in the mall, offending me with the smell of digital carcinogens. It was that she was wearing a freaking tube top that was about six sizes too small and said “Corona Chicks Like Big Dicks.”

Even if Corona Chicks do like big dicks, there is absolutely no reason to put it on a tube top. Even if Corona Chicks do like big dicks and you think there is good reason to put it on a tube top, there is absolutely no reason to wear it to the local mall where small children will see it and wonder just what a Corona Chick and/or big dick is.

Hillbilly Ass Scratcher

So we’ve had one car problem after another, it seems – our most recent of which being flat tires on both my husband’s and my cars. My husband’s was the worst offender, which resulted in a few hours of sitting at the good ol’ boys Grand Central Station: my local tire shop. Have any of you faithful blog followers noticed that when you go to the tire shop, it’s like a convention of guys asserting their masculinity, patting each other gently on the balls, and spewing out niceties that make no sense?

At my local tire shop, this is never lacking. The other thing that is never lacking are the hillbillies. I’m not sure what it is: maybe because the whole chic California culture is a facade to cover the truth, which is that most Californians are from somewhere else or descendants of people that came over from the south during the Great Depression. That’s right, I said it: most Californians are hicks. Biscuit-eating, four-bying, fruit pickers that came over from Oklahoma with their banjos in tow some 80 years ago. Every other goddamn vehicle on the road is a truck or SUV, and almost the entire lot of them are conservative gun toters to boot. At least in the suburban sprawl in which we live, hillbilly seems to be the status quo.

So I think there are a lot of them over the weekend at the tire shop because they all want bigger, better tires to go off-roading and range shootin’ with. It wasn’t until this weekend at my tire shop, though, that I learned two very interesting (possibly hillbilly) lessons, though:

1) The bigger your tires, the bigger your balls; and,

2) It is socially acceptable to pull your shorts down in a public venue and openly scratch your ass.

That’s right, the guy in this photo, here, was the offender. He showed me this weekend that should I have an itch in want of scratching, it would be totally cool for me to pull my shorts down to scratch in open air. Thank you, oh ass scratcher, for spewing your hillbilly venom everywhere so that I may learn to blend with the natives, so to speak.

So we meet again, Hello Kitty Toaster

You all remember that after I got back from vacation three weeks ago, I vowed to delete that rancid bitch of a Hello Kitty Toaster off my Facebook page. She just pissed me off too often, and was always inserting her terribly judgmental bull shit in my life. She also constantly gave me a hard time about my husband’s refusal to spend much time with his family, even though that decision has nothing to do with me and my opinions one iota.

But that sure as hell didn’t stop the public interactions with her. Sunday night the weekend of relatively blasé activity and bizarre encounters with the absolute worst of humanity was coming to a conclusion, and I decided to pack us in the car in PJs and get some frozen yogurt. Sadly, there is only one frozen yogurt place in the town in which we live, which happens to be about a block away from the home of Hello Kitty Toaster and her husband. The entire way there I thought to myself as I always do: please don’t run into them, please don’t run into them. Then about two minutes before we left, I heard my name being called out from across the parking lot, and low and behold it was Hello Kitty Toaster, her husband, and her parents.

They were nice enough. They asked how our trip went. We hugged. They called us strangers because we haven’t been to any family events in a while. Hello Kitty Toaster really didn’t say more than four words to me – she was too busy parading in and out of the frozen yogurt shop to analyze what “yummmmmay flavors they haaaaave.” Afterwards, I went home and stared at myself in the mirror, because I was in pajamas – yoga pants and a striped, Chicago hoodie. I instantly worried about the gossip that would ensue, because that is the way this family works. And then I settled into the quite consolation petty, again hypocritical judgment – this time I noticed that her hair is looking a little flat and was reminded that she is stupider than a rock.

So that was my weekend. I have no Manic Monday posts, because my Monday is more mundane than anything else. I did not do anything adventurous this weekend, exciting, or really new. It was as it always is, albeit filled with the most bizarre creatures humanity seems to have to offer. Happy Monday!