I Don’t Shave My Crotch, and Other Assorted Coffee Time Conversation

I had coffee with a friend yesterday. Coffee is sort of a weird way to say it, though, because I actually don’t drink coffee. So what I had was this blended iced milk with vanilla in it; it was big and full of sugar and something like 600 calories – but who’s counting, because at least it wasn’t coffee – am I right?

(I seriously cannot stand coffee.)

Anyway, so we were talking about I’m not sure what and then we started talking about other stuff, and somewhere in there she said “now don’t blog about this.”

So naturally I had to.

OK, but I won’t give any identifying characteristics (curly hair). Or what we were there for (crafting). Or what she drank (an Italian soda, also a non-coffee drink, which begs the question: why were we meeting for coffee and crafting when neither of us intended on drinking that horrific beverage?).

I will just say that we were having coffee (not really, I basically told you everything and also we weren’t drinking coffee) AND amidst all of that we were talking about how my ten year old is starting to grow boobs and I’m panicking about said boobs.

Because puberty is terrifying. As a mother, that is.

And we were talking about how neither of our mothers taught us much about femininity. Now my friend’s situation I cannot attest to, but my mother moved across the country when I was 10 years old to live 2,000 miles away from her daughter (that would be me) so that she could be available to shack up with a married man whenever he came around. Then when that fell through she stayed and I saw her over the summer and holidays – whenever my dad would force me to go.

When I got my first period, I happened to be visiting her, but she was too busy talking to her married boyfriend on the phone to help me deal. Otherwise, what I learned of femininity came from my wonderful and saintly aunt, and the occasional time that my dad took me with him to work and a female coworker would spend time talking to me.

Somehow that coffee time conversation turned into discussing the West Coast obsession (at least I hear it’s a West Coast thing, stemming from the porn industry) for women to go bald down there.

And somehow that turned me into saying way way WAY too loudly, in the middle of this coffee shop where I most certainly was not drinking coffee: “oh yeah, I don’t shave my crotch…never have, never will. What do I want to look like – a five year old girl?”

Now, maybe I don’t do that because I grew up with my dad, and was lucky to get out knowing how to put on pantyhose. Shaving anything was unchartered territory for me until my early 20s, and quite frankly shaving my pits and my legs is a miracle at this point.

But it also stems from my belief that only little girls have hairless netherworlds. Sorry, but it’s true. Ladies, you were born to have hair on your vaginas. There, I said it. But you all should accept it.

Before I wax too philosophical, though, let me stay on track. So I announced loudly to my local Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf (there I go with more details again) that I, in fact, do not shave my shit. I mean I was loud, and realized I had made an err when some young, clearly crotch-shaven, women at the table next to us looked over and snickered.

They were on Facebook on their computers, so I’m sure there’s a video or some shit of me yelling it for the world to hear just waiting to go viral right now.

Upon noticing this, I took a look around, as my friend and I continued to chat about all things not crotch-related (because we had already covered that territory). I took in the full scene at my local coffee shop and realized something:

People are really self-absorbed.

Each table contained someone or someones that all seemed self-absorbed. Someone came in trying to get her son in a wheelchair through the door, not a single person jumped up to help. Every which way you looked there were teenagers with headphone earbuds in, guys playing video games, and twenty-somethings checking their Facebook accounts excessively while ignoring each other talk.

The girls that clearly overheard my crotch hair proclamation took no less than 45 selfies.

All the while, it was loud and people were there, so you never would have known it was a room full of people that literally care about no one but themselves.

Now I’m not saying that when you go out for coffee on a Sunday, you’re supposed to engage the entire world and spend all your time meeting new people and helping out strangers.

But if the only thing that snaps you out of your self-awareness coma is some psychotic lady in yoga pants, drinking something other than coffee in a coffee shop, shouting as loudly as she can to her friend that she doesn’t shave off all her crotch hairs in the interest of not looking like a five year old …well maybe if that’s the only thing that makes you realize that others are out there, others exist, and others have things to say (clearly)…

…well maybe you need a reality check.

It’s a big world out there, people.

A lot of hairless and hairy crotches.

Put down your phones and your computers, take out your headphone earbuds, and look outside your bubble for something like twenty minutes the next time you’re at your local coffee shop.

Who knows what’ll happen. Moreover, who knows what you’ll hear.


I Hope You All Laugh Heartily About My Disastrous Long Weekend


I don’t even know why the fuck I called it a “long weekend.” It certainly was disastrous, but the concepts of weekend, or long weekend, are relatively foreign to me.

My husband doesn’t get most federal holidays off. I mean, even when he does he’s usually answering text messages or emails or whatever about work anyway. So “long” is a misnomer, because he’s at work right now.

The other thing is that, um, I’m a SAHM – so I work 24/7. Weekend has no meaning to me, except I have another child (aforementioned husband) to pick up after.


It started innocently on Friday afternoon. My mother in law texted me that she was at jury duty down the street from our home, so did we want to meet her for lunch near the court house. Sure, why not. I’m always up to eat, plus she and my father in law were leaving the following day for a week in Park City (Sundance), so I figured I need to go over their horse care instructions, since my husband would be handling it on Sunday.

While sitting there, my daughter wanted to show her the funny complaint Post-It she “sent” to my husband.


My mother in law took one look at it and announced loudly (I mean loudly, like the rest of the restaurant looked at us): “yeah, I think he needs to add fiber to his diet, or start taking laxatives regularly … even when he was potty training, pooping was so hard.”

Pooping. Pooping was so hard. That’s my man.


Saturday began in what could have been a serious disaster. The kid woke up with a scratchy, allergic sore throat, but right now she’s having a rough time because her dad moved to Texas and she has to go visit him soon (and vehemently does not want to go). So a scratchy, allergic sore throat suddenly became “I think I’m going to blow chunks” which then turned into crying and saying she doesn’t want to call her dad in a couple of weeks, and she doesn’t want to go to Texas, and why can’t I just have donuts for breakfast sometimes???????”

Say what?

In the span of 20 minutes, she went from allergic to nauseous to anxious to panicky to crying to can I please have a donut.

I had a Mom Beverage for lunch.


Sunday was relatively mild. We went to my husband’s parents’ home to take care of the horse and hang out with his grandparents (who stay there during the winter). They made lasagna and a pudding pie for us for dinner, which I’ll get to in a minute. After all the NFL dramas for the day were over, we scurried on home for me to watch my DVRed Flowers In The Attic that was on Lifetime the night before.

Then we all went to bed, and after the stroke of minute on MLK Day was when shit started to get real.

Monday. MLK Day

I woke up at 4-something in the morning from a noise outside, and couldn’t get back to sleep. Naturally – as most people do now – I grabbed my phone and proceeded to make myself even less sleepy by looking at Facebook and Pinterest and all that other senseless shit.

Then a notification from my bank popped up that the paycheck my husband had me deposit the other day had been returned, and suddenly my account was frozen until the bank reopens Tuesday.

Rather than go back to sleep, because obviously nothing can be done, like a psychopath I got up and turned all the lights on in the house (essentially) and decided to call the bank’s 24/7 hotline. In fact, the account is frozen. I have something like $11 in my wallet until then.

And a shit-ton of credit cards, but what if the zombie apocalypse starts?!

I went back to sleep for about twenty minutes and then was woken up by a small human being climbing on top of me (because kids were made to wake moms up early, right?), and then the usual noise of the hustle and bustle of a typical weekday morning. Remember, we don’t really have any concept of long weekends around here.

Finally I got up and shit really started to get weird.

First I was sitting downstairs and heard my daughter talk, nonstop, to whom and about what I do not know, for forty five minutes.

Then I looked outside and saw a conglomerate of people milling around in the walkway. And I heard what they were all standing outside so awkwardly because of, which I think I need to backtrack on for a second first.

We got new neighbors four days ago. On the first day, they moved all their things in in garbage bags. Garbage bags. Not boxes. The second day, it appeared that there are about ten people living in the two bedroom townhome, I heard one tell another neighbor they are all farmworkers. The third day, they brought over many cages of squawking, loud ass birds and left them on the patio (in spite of the fact that the place does not allow pets).

Then today, the fourth day, in the coup de grace you might call it, the majority of them were outside while the oldest couple in the house had the loudest, dirtiest, nastiest sex I have ever heard happen in my entire life. It sounded like a buffalo was humping a whale, while squealing like a dying manatee.


I went to walk upstairs and finally get ready for the day (it was like noon at this point), when I realized I had not even eaten breakfast, so I grabbed a banana and then went upstairs. While eating the banana, I remembered what I had eaten the night before, though – remember, I said my husband’s grandparents had made us lasagna and pudding cake. And I had not yet showered, so had lasagna-and-pudding-cake-morning-breath, mixed with banana and all of a sudden my mouth tasted like what I can only describe as a dirty baby diaper.

The neighbors were still making their sweet, sweet love outside; the birds were squawking; and my mouth tasted like a dirty baby diaper. I quickly showered and dressed and decided we’d run a few errands to get some fresh air.

On the way to the car, some kids threw a ball and it hit me in the head.

So that’s how my long weekend has gone. How about yours?


Standing Up For Myself

I know what you are probably expecting when you see that title. “Maybe she finally went off the deep end and told off her in-laws!” or “oh em gee, I bet she let her Trailer Trash Mom have it!” Sadly, standing up for myself involved none of that.

So today was pretty blah … most days the last few weeks have been. I’m not sure why. Okay, actually I do – I’m depressed because I hate California and don’t know how to get out of here. Regardless of that, I do know my blahs need to be remedied, and now. So I decided to do the laundry, take care of a sort-of sick kid, and get the polish color on my nails changed before making dinner. You see: pretty mundane and low key so that I didn’t run the risk of being confronted with anything else that would make me feel more blah-ish. And when I got my nail color change, the guy did some accupressure on my foot that made me feel ghads better. So that was a plus.

Anyway, so my mom called at some point this morning and invited herself over for dinner. Of course, not often standing up for myself with people in my real life (as opposed to my blog life, when I do it all the time), I just acquiesced and went along with my day. I was planning on making empanadas and salad anyway, and I always make way too many empanadas, so I didn’t really care. See how blah-ish I am? Not care about my Trailer Trash Mom coming over? Indeed.

This evening, though, as I began to make the empanadas, everyone started complaining about what I was making. No one wanted my corn and carrot empanadas. Not a one of them. No one wanted my spinach and feta cheese empanadas, despite the fact that every time I make them they melt in your fucking mouth. Not a one of them. Everyone wanted ham and cheese. Ham and fucking cheese – not one bit of healthiness in there; nothing special at all. Of course that is what they wanted. I should have just gone to the grocery store and bought them those nasty ham and cheese Hot Pockets. I really should have, but then I would have been standing up for myself, which is something I just don’t do.

But then my mom took it a step further when she walked in the house: “oh, just so you know, I forgot my teeth so I can’t eat any salad or anything really crunchy.”

Okay, first of all: gross. Who goes out of the house without their teeth in? Second of all, I’ll just throw away the beautiful salad I just prepared, as well as the pita chips. Did I stand up for myself and say this, though? Of course not.

And when I asked her what she wanted to drink, I discovered that she had already pilfered all but a few drops of the $25 bottle of wine I bought while on my trip to Solvang last week.

At that point, I should have just given her one ham and cheese empanada in a to-go napkin (no tupperware or paper plate for her) and shuttled her toothless ass out the door. But I didn’t do that either. I just smiled and poured the last few drops in her glass.

You see: I never stand up for myself.

So as my mother drank my expensive wine, my husband began his journey home to his meal of empanadas, but no corn – I don’t want those corn ones, and while the Pookies whined and bitched about how gross my empanadas usually are, no matter what kind they are – I made that shit with a smile on my face. A smile on my face as I looked over to see that my poor guinea pig was being tortured whilst I slaved in the kitchen for close to two hours, unable to rescue him because my hands were covered in ham … and cheese (okay, you can see it was cute). As I always do, I made everyone’s to order like a goddamned short order cook. The Pookies won’t eat salad, so I heated up some frozen corn and peas and mixed in some olive oil and spices. My mother forgot her teeth so I prepared some of the pea-corn mixture for her as well, and baked down her spinach before putting it into her empanada (because, yes, I decided to force a spinach empanada on my mother anyway). My husband wanted two ham and cheese empanadas, rather than just one, so I prepared a whole extra batch of them so he could have two.

Then I got to the bowl of corn and carrot empanada filling I had prepared last night to marinate. Now, I had already prepared 12 spinach and feta cheese empanadas and 8 ham and cheese empanadas. I had enough corn mixture to make another 12 empanadas, for which none of those ungrateful assholes wanted any. As I went to make more pastry for the empanadas, I realized something I have never realized before – the marinated filling I use for the corn and carrot empanadas is exactly what I use as a base for my homemade corn soup. This led me to realize two further things: (1) there isn’t a fucking reason under the sun why anyone should be shitting on my corn and carrot empanadas because they all worship the ground my homemade corn soup is cooked on; and, (2) since no one is going to eat my corn and carrot empanadas, I should just make a batch of soup to throw in the refrigerator.

Here’s where I stood up for myself: as I served everyone their specially prepared dishes; as I watched my mom swig down my expensive wine in her toothless mouth; as my husband came in the door and reminded me just how much he didn’t want my corn and carrot empanadas … I decided it was about damn time I start standing up for myself.

“I didn’t make any corn and carrot empanadas. I made my homemade corn soup instead. No one gets any but me, though.”

I have a feeling that soup is going to taste extra good tomorrow.

In other news, these are the types of things that bring me joy now. 25 year old self – in school, on her way to a career teaching philosophy in a university – is hanging her head and laughing hysterically at how much of a loser housewife 30 year old self has clearly become.

My Kid Is Better Than Yours Hell – Day One

Today began another two weeks in hell. I know what you faithful blog followers are all thinking: don’t you think every week is a week in hell, B(itch)? Well, yes; but this is two weeks in an especially hellish hell. This is two weeks in “My Kid Is Better Than Yours Hell.”

It just so happens that all of the extra, summer activities I wanted to piggyback our homeschooling on this year landed during this week and next. So whereas during the regular school year activities are spread out; this two weeks every day is like a long, death march of kid-related sports and recreational activities stacked one on top of another. What does that mean? More activities and being out of my apartment cave means more exposure to assholes. And it seems like everyone is out to prove that their kid is better than everyone else’s.

Being summer, the coups de grâce of the assholes in my community are out in full force: the Summertime Over-Achieving Parents (hereafter referred to as SOAPs). After ten months of ditching parent-teacher conferences, shirking out on volunteer requirements, and generally ignoring their children’s’ school and otherwise needs, SOAPs now have exactly two months of summer vacation to prove to themselves that they are the best parents on the planet.

(No, this is not one of the SOAPs’ kids hitting the ball … it’s a miniature me in the making.)

So on this, the first day of “My Kid Is Better Than Yours Hell,” two SOAPs at this evening’s group tennis lesson pitted themselves against each other to such a degree that a fight almost broke out. There were a number of reasons this was a recipe for disaster from the get-go.

Recipe for disaster, reason #1: Both SOAPs were clearly yuppies. They both drove these terribly pretentious-looking SUVs with movies constantly playing in the backseat so the kids will stay shut the fuck up. One talked on the phone for the first 20 minutes of class, only on his blue tooth – blowing niceties and canned, corporate euphemisms up the ass of whomever was on the other end of the line the entire time.

The point is that yuppies always have something to prove; their status as yuppies depends on it.

Recipe for disaster, reason #2: Both SOAPs were men.

Need I say anymore really? This little “my kid is better than yours” argument between the two guys was not really about their kids. No, no, faithful blog followers – it was totally about the size of their dicks. Had I a ruler in the backseat of my car, I would have been the hero of the day by just getting it out and settling the whole thing without the need for 40 minutes of arguing that came to near-blows (over who’s little bastard enjoyed Wimbledon more).

Recipe for disaster, reason #3: Both SOAPs’ daughters sucked terribly at tennis. Yes, I did say they sucked at tennis, which could ironically point the “my kid is better than yours” finger at me. But seriously, as a tennis player myself and someone that can simply observe what is going on, I can say with absolute certainty that those two little girls are just not into it. Neither one gives a fuck about tennis one iota. One kept letting the ball whiz past her head without even caring whether she swung or stood there. The other kept trying to just launch the ball over the fence, rather than actually learn the fundamentals.

This is two-fold. First, because their daughters suck, the SOAPs had to argue more to cover up that fact. Second, because their daughters don’t give a shit, it’s obvious the SOAPs put them in tennis just to prove something. What? Who knows; or cares for that matter?

Recipe for disaster, reason #4: The tennis pro utilizes parent pressure. I already knew this because it is our second group session with him. He’s actually pretty awesome. He always seems to roll out of bed about 15 minutes before the evening class; sometimes smelling like whiskey. He drives this crazy, old van that I imagine him saying “if this van’s a rockin’ don’t come a knockin'” about twenty or so years ago. The first time we met him, he opened the door of his van and a ton of tennis balls and cans came tumbling out – perhaps the most hilarious thing I have seen in a while. He’s very serious about the sport, though, and is an amazing player through all this nonsense, so we have decided to stick with him for the long term.

One of his teaching paradigms is parent pressure. He reminds the parents each week that if the kids are serious they should be practicing daily. It seems only right, actually – I mean, unless you live next to those very tennis courts, chances are your kid needs a ride to practice every day, making it the SOAPs’ responsibility. And today he inquired on who had their kids watch some of Wimbeldon. One of the SOAP daughters raised her hand, prompting the other SOAP to yell “why aren’t you raising your hand honey?” And here is where the fight ensued. These two doucheblazoons proceeded then to argue about who’s kid was more interested in watching Wimbeldon. “Well Katelynn was glued to the TV the entire time.” “Oh yeah, well we nicknamed Amanda ‘AK’ after Kerber.” It got worse and worse until finally the two SOAPs stood up with that yuppy, machismo, puffed chest “you want to go” look and – fortunately – class adjourned just at that very moment.

So today was “My Kid Is Better Than Yours Hell” because these two pompous, yuppy assholes subjected us all to their verbal pissing contest. Tomorrow is day 2 and I can see that we are off to a roaring start. On the docket is: swimming class, zoo animal science camp, homeschooling, and t-ball. I wonder what hellish things are in store for us through all of that?

Wacky Wednesday: Private Posts, Old Man Hit and Run, and a Bank Confrontation

I’ve got a lot to say today, b(itch)es; and I’ve had a lot of tacos and a lot to drink. Let’s get to it before a barf and/or pass out.

Private Posts

While on my vacation home to my sweet, home Chicago in March, I had lunch on my last day there with my childhood friend Taryn. One of the first things she said to me was that she admired how much I put myself out there on my blog. I remember thinking to myself “WOW!” because I thought everyone thought I was some big asshole for being so open, honest, and (quite frankly) real. And it’s true, I don’t believe in lying or hiding or any of that nonsense that people seem to do all the time. I have no problem sharing with the world who I am because I am comfortable with it. And while I share things about my life that others might not, it’s still the truth and that – I believe – is our utmost responsibility as human beings: to always be honest.

In the years that I have been blogging, I feel like I have done a lot. I’ve posted over 230 posts, the majority of them on humorous observations or satirical social commentaries. I put together a compilation of my “best blogs” from the last year and published it to eBook. I was Freshly Pressed even – a feat I never thought would happen because I’m crude and crass and make up my own swear words that are so offensive sometimes even I cringe when I read them. And I have over 500 faithful blog followers – followers who contact me frequently and say they love what I write. To be clear, I fucking love what they write too. In fact, I can’t wait for my actual book-book to be up and running on eBook because I look forward to the comments and suggestions from you wonderful and terribly talented writers/readers.

I’ve also made a lot of enemies, it would seem. I’ve made an unprecedented number of people mad with my comments about parents that do not vaccinate their kids. One guy emailed me sometime last year and said that he believes me to clearly be a “whore.” And I’ve apparently angered some of my husband’s family and friends for being so honest in my observations and experiences with them as well. Regularly I hear about how so-and-so didn’t like it when I said that my husband did nothing for my birthday, or when I am honest about the fact that he lies to me a lot. Interestingly enough, my husband reads every one of my blogs. Every night he comes home and we talk about them. We talk about it when I say our marriage is a “shit hole” or when I blog about how he lied to me yet again. What’s great about it is that he knows like I know – we are both human. We aren’t perfect, we don’t have delusions about that. It is what it is and that we can talk about it is a lot more than people who hide behind false smiles and “oh, it’ll be fine as long as we have love” and other such bull shit.

But I’ve become increasingly wary of some of the trolling that goes on around my blogsite too. My mother in law is a blog follower, which was very sweet of her; although now it appears that some of the hostility my father in law expresses over his messages might be fueled by some of what I say in my blogs. And today, one of our friends was having a comment thread-conversation on her Facebook about their new system of grocery shopping and cooking, and I commented very nicely commending them for their great compromise and system; and how lucky she is to have a husband who cooks because mine – like most women – never really does anymore. Her husband (my husband’s “friend”) replied quite angrily, though:

…my husband was horrified that someone he thought was his friend would say such a thing. He actually suggested what I did, which is that the guy is off his rocker and nothing but a bully and a troll. And terribly misinformed – we don’t even know where he got some of this, since my husband works one job and sitting on my ass couldn’t be any further than what I do. We have not even spoken with Señor Douchecanoe in years (he isn’t even connected to either of us via Facebook, blog, etc. anymore; we only remain connected to his wife) … so it goes without saying that he was a little out of line.

This incident made me realize, though, that some of my posts have got to go private. I have no problem sharing any of them with my blog family, my friends, or anyone really that requests to read them. Not all my posts will go private; just ones that hit a little too close to home for those with minimal intellectual capacity and ability to understand that not everyone operates the same way they do.

If you are a faithful blog follower, and would like the passcode to the privated posts, email this b(itch) at hchristenas@gmail.com or just request one when you happen to hit on a post that is marked as “private.” I promise I will share; unless of course your name is Hello Kitty Toaster or Señor Douchecanoe.

Old Man Hit and Run

So I almost engaged in an Hit and Run today with an Old Man. We were pulling out of the parking lot at the bank and my phone rang. It was the sheriff’s department, so I thought it appropriate to answer. I was also driving around in a parking lot, really – going from one to another – so I thought it would be OK to do. (PS the sheriff’s department was calling to let me know that the attempted break-in at our apartment this morning – one in a series of attempts at our complex – was not ’emergency’ enough for them to write a report or care.)

So I was pulling from the bank lot into the pizza place lot and this old man about the age of one hundred and ninety four walked in front of my car, leaned on the front hood and started yelling at me to get off the phone.

(1) That guy is not the phone police. Regardless of whether anyone believes it is right or wrong to talk on the phone while driving, it’s my fucking business and I did not hurt a soul. Normally I don’t drive on the phone – but this was in regards to an emergency situation (well, to me … not to the sheriffs); and I was in a fucking empty parking lot.

(2) By contrast, I see people driving around like jack asses on their phones all the time. Again, their and the police department’s business.

(3) Old fucking wrinkle ass leaning on my hood and refusing to move while he screamed at me, quite frankly scared the shit out of me. The guy was nuts! And Pookie started crying hysterically because he scared her too.

(4) I told the sheriff what was going on and he said “… back up and run the guy down … no wait, that was a joke I shouldn’t have made. Are you okay ma’am – do we need to come help?” By then the old wrinkle man had left, us traumatized although forgiving of the cop for not coming to take a report for the attempted break in of our apartment, given his sardonic sense of humor.

 Bank Confrontation

So then we parked our car by the pizza place to have lunch and there happens to be another bank (not mine) in the same lot. We got out of the car, a little shaky from the confrontation with the hundred and ninety four year old man, and all of a sudden a woman came running and literally screaming out of the bank.

Crazy hoe bag : “You can’t park here!!”

B(itch): “I’m sorry …?”

Crazy hoe bag: “This is for bank customers only.”

B(itch): “This is right in front of the restaurant door. The only thing closer is the handicapped spot.”

Crazy hoe bag: “No … this is for bank customers only.”

Pizza joint employee intervening on my behalf: “We OWN this entire lot … you can park wherever you want ma’am.”

Someone, anyone … please elucidate for me just what the hell happened today. It was like a day of wackos … Wacky Wednesday, I’d say. Everyone was out to police others, cut each other down to size, and assert their control over the world – even in the stupidest and most illogical ways. Never a dull moment, faithful blog followers. Never a dull moment.

Prepartying With My Trailer Trash Mom

I don’t think that “party” is really the most appropriate way to refer to what has gone on the last few days with my Trailer Trash Mom and her Mother’s Day Mayhem. More like psychological and emotional abuse. Drama. And a lot of trailer trash, hillbilly shit.

But since we’ve officially entered the 24 hour countdown to this ridiculous event – this event that my Trailer Trash Mom planned, committed me to do all the cooking for without asking me first, demanded a cake that takes roughly 6 hours to bake, and then intentionally destroyed said cake out of anger; since we are in the countdown phase, it’s time to start the preparty.

Since all of you faithful blog followers can’t drink excessive levels of mimosa with me tomorrow morning before we head over to the assisted living apartment complex my grandparents live in (yes, I will be drinking mimosas until the moment I click my seatbelt), I thought we could do a little preparty of the blog-friendly kind with a little preparty countdown.

Prepartying With My Trailer Trash Mom –

Some Fun TTM Stories

#5 About six years ago my aunt got remarried. They had their ceremony at my grandparent’s old home right outside of Yosemite, sort of in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of desert and brownness everywhere. My aunt decided she wanted to have a “theme,” though, so they decided it would be Hawaiian. It was a Hawaiian-themed, trailer trash wedding, in the middle of the desert, with brown dirt everywhere you looked, in my grandparent’s backyard. Everyone wore a Hawaiian-themed outfit, none of which matched, and they went to Party City to buy a bunch of those hula girl and palm tree cardboard cut out wall hangings. Yes, fucking cardboard hula girls hung all over the goddamned place.

So my mom was the maid of honor and as such decided that she would be taking charge of the all the arrangements. She acted like this pig shit Hawaiian themed, hula girl cardboard cut out wedding was the wedding of the century. Quite frankly, I was embarrassed for her – even my aunt said she was going overboard. Then someone made the mistake of questioning my mother’s judgement on the placement of the tablecloths and she flipped her shit. She threw her trailer trash ass around for about 20 minutes, slammed the door to her bedroom, and cried for about 45 minutes until she walked out of her room as though nothing had happened.

#4 My mother had another meltdown a few years after that pig shit Hawaiian wedding, again in front of her whole family at my grandparent’s home.

She had been dating the guy that was formerly Marvin Gaye’s drummer for some time and that whole Madonna tour thing happened (he told her he was going on tour with Madonna and wanted her to be his groupie, which she believed only to show up at the Fresno International Airport to find out there was no such tour). The truth was that the guy was married, but before my Trailer Trash Mom found that out, she organized a huge family gathering for everyone to meet him over Thanksgiving.

I saw my mother planning that shit for about three months for the blessed day. Then, the guy never showed up. He didn’t just “not show up,” though – he called and said he was almost there and that his cell phone reception was “in and out,” then four hours later he still had not showed up so my mom proceeded to call him every few minutes until his wife picked up and asked her to please stop harassing them.

She stayed in her bedroom for two days that time, and her brothers and sisters all refer to it as “the Thanksgiving we will never forget.” As you see, my Trailer Trash Mom has a lot of issues beyond just being into this hillbilly crap.

#3 After my mom dated the drummer guy, she tried to find any other black man that could fill his shoes. She started spouting off that stupid “once you go black you don’t go back…” stereotype every time someone asked what she was looking for in a man.

She found a guy equally as loserish as her current husband, who happened to be an alcoholic and hillbilly all wrapped into a nice package, which my mom liked to call “the big D.” At the time, my mom was coming over to my dad’s house to hang out with me when I was there using his computer or printer or eating all his food (whatever reason I was there), and every time her boyfriend dropped her off he’d make it a point to tell my dad jokes about dicks and balls.

#2 My Trailer Trash Mom’s family are just as trashy and dysfunctional as she is.

The ultimate decision I made on the whole cake and food thing for this party tomorrow was to just redo the cake, make all the food, show up, hold my head high, and walk away with my dignity intact and a firm resolution not to be treated that way by any of them ever again. My Trailer Trash Mom has told her family a lot of lies about me, and while I don’t really care what they think or say about me, I knew I wanted to be the bigger person in all of this. And I didn’t want to ruin the day for my grandma and grandpa, who have little to do with all this nonsense.

I tried to repair the cake only for it to fall apart today. I put together a new dessert – a simple white cake with mocha cream and some chocolate tulip cups filled with custard. We made chocolate and marshmallow-covered graham crackers and packaged them nicely in to-go containers for all the moms coming as well. I made three appetizers: my famous deviled eggs, my amazingly simple BLT bites, and cubed caprese salads. I even carved an owl into the side of a watermelon to go along with the fruit salad skewers I made. And I should mention that I did all of this not feeling well, having eaten a bad bowl of creamed soup a few days ago, as well as worsening allergies set off by feeling so sick.

I didn’t have the space in my refrigerator to keep all of this food, though, and was going to have more to take over tomorrow anyway. So this evening we piled all of the stuff I had already prepared into my husband’s car to drive the food to my grandparent’s home, where they could store it in their mini-fridge.

While there, I saw two things that again reminded me why after tomorrow it is imperative that I walk away before things get even uglier: an invitation to a cousin’s engagement party, and an invitation to a cousin’s graduation party. We were invited to neither of them.

#1 I fully expect there to be some sort of hillbilly brawl tomorrow. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because up until this point everything has been hillbilly pig shittin’ dramatics. Or maybe it’s because of those invitations I saw. Probably it will involve me – it always seems to, although I prefer to avoid the drama.

But then it’s always the people that avoid the drama that cause the most by being so avoidant. Since I’m going bombed on my Mother’s Day morning mimosas, maybe this time I should just embrace it. When I worked in politics, some campaign workers and I were at a bar one night when a fight broke out. I turned to run only to see all of my campaign friends flailing themselves into the center of it all. I suppose it’s time I embrace the hillbilly brawl and jump in, head first. Since I’m walking away and never looking back, I may as well give them a show right?