4 Things I Wish I Hadn’t Said the Moment I Said Them

I have got to be the snarkiest, most foul-mouthed person I know. Seriously. There are so many times that something comes out of my mouth and I am like “oh my God, I can’t believe I just said that.”

Really, I know many of us feel this way; and I have worked really hard to be a kind and generous person. Up until I started blogging, that is. With blogging came a whole new me: I was no longer afraid to say what I felt behind the safety of my own laptop. All of a sudden there were people everywhere just like me – snarly, blunt, and overtly honest. I could control who saw that part of me and who didn’t as well. There were people who swore, and a lot – just like me. And then the “likes” came (speaking of which, if you haven’t “liked” my blog on Facebook, could you get on that already?), and the comments showed up; people agreed with me. It was a whole new world of humor and general misanthrope where I finally felt a sense of belonging.

Flash forward to now, years after beginning to blog, I am confronted with a new evil: I am no longer as kind and generous as I used to be. I don’t mean that I’m becoming a bad person – in fact, I think I am an even better person now that I can feel more comfortable in my own skin. Rather, I mean that while I’ve always been very blunt and told people how I really felt; now my snark has transcended from the computer screen to the in-person conversation. My foul mouth has too. My husband recently commented on how much I have been swearing lately and when asked why he thought that was, he replied “oh it’s obvious it’s because of your blog.”

‘Fuck yeah’ is all I have to say to that.

Now, though, I find myself confronted with more frequent times that I am in person or online and I say something that the moment I say it I cringe inside and wish that those snappy, biting words had not made their way out of my mouth. Recently, I have had quite a few of them.

#1 An Unfortunate Encounter With That Wench From the Swimming Pool

Do all of you faithful blog followers remember when that crazy lady at the swimming pool started yelling at me because my kid was crying and afraid of the water a few months ago? The pool staff had told me already that crying was no big deal and that the other kids would be fine, but this wench wanted to get all up in my face because (first) she thought her kid’s experience was being ruined because of the crying; and (second) I just smiled and said “okay we are leaving” because I didn’t want to get into an argument in front of the kids.

So we had an unfortunate encounter with that wench from the swimming pool last week at the public library.

I shouldn’t be surprised. We live in fucking Smalltown U.S.A., population Every Fucking Asshole You Don’t Want Anything To Do With. I didn’t even recognize her at first – and why would I? I saw the bitch once at swimming class as she got her nasty snaggletooth all up in my face, and that was months ago.

But then I heard her say it: “oh look, honey – it’s the little girl from swimming that was crying like a baby.” That pushed me over the edge, especially because I love the library and don’t want to feel like I have to avoid the place because of that wench. So I said as we walked by: “my you are such a nasty, snaggle-toothed bitch, really you are.”

Of course some of the children heard. Bad momma.

#2 A Tet-a-Tet With My Resident Baller

So I try not to get too into the business of the neighbors in my apartment complex. The majority of them are bucktoothed hillbillies (most notably the one I saw yesterday walking around her front porch in her fucking JCPenny bra). There are a couple of people that seem relatively normal, but then they steer clear of the other residents like I do so I haven’t gotten to know them.

Every day I walk down to the laundry room to insert a buck-twenty-five into the soda machine and get my daily fix of caffeine and aspartame (self-professed Diet Coke addict here, and don’t give me any of that bull shit about how bad it is for me because I don’t give a shit). Today, I walked in and I saw this guy with his pants hanging down so far off his ass I could see his nasty, stained boxers; and he was on the phone talking about picking up some sort of liquor with the child support he just stiffed his ex-wife on.

After he got off the phone he turned his hat around backward and started to take laundry out of the dryer and I guess one of his hella-tight baller jerseys shrunk from size XXXL to S, because he started talking to me about how he hates it when his clothes shrink in the dryer. My response you faithful blog followers ask?

“Perhaps if you were worried less with your baller swagger and more with taking care of your fucking kid bad shit wouldn’t happen to you.”

That was really none of my business to get into.

#3 Target Showdown With Hello Kitty Toaster

You got that right, faithful blog followers! After a wonderful respite from seeing the whoreface with the Hello Kitty Toaster, I (sadly) ran into her at Target earlier this week.

She seemed to be acting nice enough, although she always has this way of getting under my skin. The conversation went downhill when she told me I looked like I had lost weight.

Before describing to you all the conversation, though, let me just say that I can’t stand when people tell others that they look like they’ve lost weight. If you know that someone has recently undergone a major weight loss challenge, that’s great. But if you don’t know that – for sure and without a doubt – saying that someone looks like they have lost weight is like telling the person that you thought they needed to lose weight. I have never looked or felt good when anyone has said that to me, and usually because it is followed up with some bullshit like this:

“Oh you look like you’ve lost weight!”

“Really? Not really… thanks though.”

“Oh come on … what have you been doing to drop the pounds?”

“No, really … I haven’t done anything.”

“Heather … we were all talking a few months ago that we knew you had put on some weight recently. So what’s the secret?”

And then I said it, that thing that I regretted as soon as it came out of my mouth: “Well, thanks for confirming my suspicion that you are all a bunch of shit talking gossipers, who apparently thought I was morbidly obese, but no I have not done anything to lose weight.”

Then I said good-bye.

Really, it felt great to say that. I regretted it, though, the moment it came out of my mouth because I know that the shit talking gossip I mentioned invariably hit a fever pitch after that one.

#4 Footrub Orgasm

So I went to another new nail salon today. It wasn’t because I am unhappy with my new, non-Korean Hooker one. It’s because I found a gift certificate in a pile of things my Trailer Trash Mom left behind after moving out of my father’s house to the place, so figured I would just use it because (first) she won’t care; and (second) she owes me way more than a pedicure.

So I went to this nail salon this evening and the experience was alright. Just alright, though – nothing special, really. It was busy when I got there but dwindled down to just me by the end when the guy doing my pedicure started rubbing my feet. I was reading a book and heard a slight grunt, though, and looked down to see the guy having what appeared to be an orgasmic experience rubbing my feet.

“You really are enjoying that, aren’t you?” I said, realizing the minute it came out of my mouth that I shouldn’t have said it. It was just rude of me. He laughed and acted embarrassed, then stopped rubbing immediately, painted my toenails, and disappeared into the waxing room in the back.

So you see, my moniker is true: I really am such a b(itch). A b(itch) who can’t keep her mouth shut, apparently anywhere at this point.

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So … I guess I was right about that whole hooker thing

Well, I’ve been sitting on this one for well over a week, faithful blog followers – and now that Mother’s Day and my Trailer Trash Mom are behind us, I can tell you the wonderful news I received last week. Apparently, I was right about that whole hooker nail salon thing.

Some of you have not been around for long enough to know just what the fuck this crazy bitch is talking about now, so let us review.

A few months back, I went to my regular nail salon – of many years as a client, having a major problem with ingrown toenails – and saw what appeared to be a young woman held hostage in the storage closet of my nail salon. That same day, I was checking my blog stats and someone had come to my blog by Googling the term “Korean hooker hostage.” Was that woman in the closet of my nail salon the Korean Hooker Hostage?

I know, I know – you are all saying that most of those places are run by the Vietnamese. Well, I was under the impression that mine was by Koreans because (1) they spoke Korean (I used to work for a guy that was married to a woman from Korea), and (2) the owner once told me they were Korean. So my theory was loosely plausible.

Then I went back a few weeks later and this crazy shit involving the owner’s husband and one of the young women that worked there went down. He was visiting because he was off work for the holidays or something and he went in the back with the girl and like 15 minutes later they came out and she was eating a banana, only in a seductive-“I’m going to shove the whole thing down my mouth with my head tilted back and my eyes closed” way.

Then the employee weirdness died down a little only for it to be replaced by perverted customers. One lady that seemed to be on crack was there spewing her crackheadedness all over the place, another time the woman sitting next to me leaned back and had an orgasm while sitting in the massage chair, and finally, the last time I was there an older man waiting for his wife had some sort of an erotic oral event with his pretzels.

So then I went on vacation and had a pedicure done while out in Chicago with one of my friends. It was the greatest experience of my life and for the same, exact price as I paid for that slum house near my home. I vowed when I got home to find a new nail salon, which I have been searching for ever since we returned. Last week I found it, and I got validation of my former place’s hooker house at the same time.

I was just sitting in my chair, reading Great Expectations and relaxing while the woman took care of my awful ingrown toenails, and all of a sudden I heard “Heather!” from across the salon. I looked up and it was one of the women that worked over at the Korean Hooker House. She came over, talked a little bit about nonsense and my vacation, and then she told me that she had recently quit the slut palace. When I asked as nonchalantly as possible, she spilled everything.

1. For some reason the owner and her husband have the impression that people will think that place is the “cut above” if it is run by Koreans instead of Vietnamese. They are all Vietnamese – most of whom were born in Vietnam and immigrated here. They tell everyone they are Korean though. Not really being up on my inner-Asian-dialogue, I have no idea why this would be and did not ask.

2. In the back of the salon, there is an office and a storage closet that employees other than the owner, her husband, and her brother are not allowed to go into. That means that everyone who comes in and out of the place is not allowed to go into these secret caverns – except under one circumstance: if they are taken in there with the owner, her husband, or the brother.

3. Two of the newer girls recently hired (I wonder if one is the banana blower) are currently having affairs in said office/storage room with the owner’s husband. Everyone knows. No one apparently cares.

4. The woman that was talking to me said that the final straw for her was when some young women that did not even speak a lick of English started coming in and just sitting around in the break room and the office. They were not employees. There were three of them (by her count). She finally asked one how old she was and was informed the young girl was 16.

So I was right. I was right. I was right. I WAS RIGHT! This doesn’t happen often. Usually I am terribly, terribly wrong. Usually I’m only right about things that are inappropriate and funny, and inappropriately funny. But not this time – this time I was spot on. What a crazy thing to be going on, and probably bad that I found out because now I feel justified in all of my other crack-pot conspiracy ideas. On to figuring out if my suspicions about all the neighbors are true too…

For some completely unrelated, yet inappropriately funny, stuff:

Pretzels and Hairy Legs, Another Day With the Korean Hooker Hostage

So I’ve decided, faithful blog followers, after this – our fourth installation of the Korean Hooker Hostage – I’m going to now have to go to a different nail salon and see if this is just normal behavior for these places.

Today was my biweekly appointment. I showed up and there were no other customers – it’s after the holiday season is over, so it makes sense that they were slow. Or … maybe people are catching on to the seediness of this place.

In any event, this morning I had forgotten to shave my legs (being married, pedicures are the only reason I do that…), so it was like a four foot shrub appeared the second my pant legs were rolled up. I apologized and my nail lady said something that was possibly the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me:

In my country, no one shaves their legs.

Then she pulled up her pant legs and showed me hers, which were hairier than any legs I have ever seen. Ever. I will probably never shave again now that I know this is another stupid American imposition on women. Feeling liberated, I sat down and smiled and almost forgot that I was supposed to be investigating the Korean Hooker Hostage situation again.

So I got through the majority of my pedicure with no incidences. I even read a magazine – something I rarely do (usually I bring a book). I learned about the new trend of Internet picture uploading – fridging (taking a photo of yourself sitting in your refrigerator … I know, I almost had a seizure at the thought of such stupidity too). Finally, I did remember my mission and looked around a little, but saw very few employees at all; and the storage closet in the back was closed (alluding either to another absence of the Korean Hooker Hostage, or her being locked in).

Toward the end of my pedicure, though, an older woman came in with her husband. She sat down for a manicure appointment and the husband sat down in the waiting area, opening a brown paper bag he had carried in with him.

To begin, he had no teeth. He had no teeth and was about seventy years old. Seventy years old with no teeth and gray hair, and a pot belly sticking out over his Wrangler jeans. This toothless, gray, overweight, elderly gentleman in Wrangler jeans proceeded to take out a variety of pretzels from that brown bag, one at a time, and licked them one by one. All seductively.

The first was a pretzel actually shaped in the pretzel fashion. Very slowly, he stuck his tongue through each of the holes – one by one. His shriveled, nasty, seventy year old tongue made its way through the snack until he was done with it, when he finally put the entire thing in his mouth and swallowed it. Whole.

The second was one of those long, stick pretzels, which the gentleman proceeded to perform fellatio on for no less than five minutes. At this point I figured that since he had no teeth, he probably had to soften the Rold Golds until they were swallowable, but still – what the hell with the seductive way of doing it? The guy looked like he might blow himself at any moment as he licked the stupid stick pretzel over and over and over again while his wife sat near me, seemingly unaware – gabbing about the fact that her single daughter is pregnant again at forty. Gee, lady… I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that your husband can’t even eat a pretzel without turning it into something the Gay Sailor Brigade would be envious of.

I tried to get a snapshot of the elderly, toothless man in Wranglers having sexy-time with his pretzels, but it would have been far too obvious at the position I was sitting in relative to him. Lucky for you, though, faithful blog followers, when I got home I found we had some of those stick pretzels in the pantry. This, combined with the fact that I have absolutely no shame, produced the following three snapshots:

He began with about five minutes like this, same look of desperation

He then proceeded to mash the pretzel into the inside of his cheek, repeatedly with eyes closed.

And then I left to miss the rest of the display. Now I am horrified, with pretzel crumbs all over my shirt.

So what’s next? Well, to review, my nail salon is a place of controversy and perversion. The place is so hyper-sexual and shady-seeming, I fully expect the police to come bursting in at any moment I am there. I am fairly certain there is a Korean Hooker Hostage being held captive in the storage closet, the owner’s husband is having some sort of affair with the lady that can deep throat a banana, the customers are perfectly OK with having anal massages in the pedicure chairs, and going for the big “O” (moaning included) in front of the entire place, and now even the bystanders in the waiting area are contributing to the controversy.

I, for one, will never stop going there until I witness some shit go down. But I have to find out if this is everywhere or just the one place I happened to select – of all the nail salons California had to offer.