What a Terrible Tuesday

Today has been such a terrible day that drinkie time has been pushed up a little bit. I was originally supposed to have afternoon cocktails with some friends before my Trailer Trash Mom’s nightmarish text message put the kibosh on that anyway, so I’m doing it big. Before I describe this Terrible Tuesday to you, though, faithful blog followers, let me first start with a little disclaimer:

Every time I post a blog like this where I’m either (a) venting about my day; (b) describing some horrifically ridiculous situation; or, (c) both a and b, I am not – by any means – trying to solicit pity. I constantly get comments from people that say things like “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that” or “why do you put yourself through that, B(itch)?” And while I appreciate those words of thoughtfulness and encouragement to the highest degree – to the highest – I really do kick back and find humor about all the stupidity that seems to surround my life here in beautiful southern California. All my rants and dramas about my Trailer Trash Mom; all my complaining about my often-jerkish husband and his family that hates me; all my encounters with the assholes in my community – from the horribly opinionated summertime overachieving parents (SOAPs), to your everyday judgmental members of my community – all of what I share with you, my faithful blog followers, is purely anecdotal. I want you to see the bizarre and sardonic humor of it all like I do.

So with that being said, here’s my Terrible Tuesday.

My dad’s afraid of a lizard the size of my pinkie

Okay, so I think I recently mentioned that my father lives near to us and I like to call his home my “Free Laundry and Storage Facility.” Last night we went to do our laundry there (of course the husband always stays at home); and I ended up staying the night because the laundry wasn’t finished, and quite frankly dad had bought donuts for breakfast.

This morning though, it was about 180 degrees in his house, with just one window open. Two things happened at this moment: first, I got up and saw that my blog’s Facebook fan count had grown to literally quadruple what it was last night (if you aren’t a fan, you really should become one …) and then the other shoe dropped and my 69 year old dad flipped the fuck out because of a small lizard that is apparently his arch nemesis.

To sum it up in a nutshell: a few weeks ago, a small lizard, no larger than my pinkie finger, got into my dad’s garage. Since then he has seen it twice and decided that the only way to keep this little baby lizard out of his house is to keep it airtight shut, with the exception of one window.

So this morning, it was already something like 180 degrees in the house and I was finishing my laundry, sweat dripping from places I didn’t even know I could sweat. And then we had bath time, which added another 30 degrees to the house because of the humidity and then there was whining that a donut was not enough and “why can’t you make scrambled eggs?!” and now it was 250 degrees in the house and the heat from the stove as I scrambled the motherfucking eggs was actually blurring my vision.

You can see how the day got started. I wish the high of an additional 543 Facebook fans withstood this drama.

Then my fruit roll-ups were ruined, my cooking utensils put away, and the cabinet was reorganized.

Ugh. So then we got home and brought the laundry in. I went to the kitchen to see that my fruit roll-ups had again been ruined. This is the second time and it isn’t that it’s a bad recipe at all. I don’t want to talk about it beyond that.

But then I was getting to work prepping everything for dinner because my two elderly grandparents are coming over for dinner, along with my Trailer Trash Mom; and I saw that not only had my Ninja been put away when I wanted it to be left out, but my cooking pans cabinet had – again – been reorganized. My husband has never really gotten the whole concept that I need some space of my own, for things to be my way; he also has forgotten time and again that I have steel rods on my spine and a rotator cuff injury from forever ago. The cabinet is organized the way I need it to be organized, for both ease and physical ability, which is “messy” to him, so he constantly reorganizes it. This weekend, the refrigerator was reorganized and it was done so horribly that yesterday I was going to get eggs out and the egg carton fell, breaking three eggs into some fresh vegetables – ruining the whole thing.

You see? I have things set up a certain way for a reason. And it is my space. At this point in the day, I decided that (1) drinkie time was definitely coming early, and (2) tomorrow I will be heading to my husband’s work and rearranging things there so that he can see how it feels.

And in the coup de grâce of this Terrible Tuesday, my mother learned to text message, and showed up 4 hours early

Who shows up to dinner four hours early? I said seven. Not three.

But it gets better than that.

You all know about the antics of my Trailer Trash Mom. About a year ago she married this awful hillbilly guy she knew in high school and since then it’s all been downhill. She’s never really qualified for mother of the year – I mean, abandoning my father and myself when I was only 8 kind of set up the precedent for that. In any event, she’s back from her home in New Mexico, where she resides for part of the year with her husband, the other part here near my grandparents, helping them out.

So she sent me a text message shortly after we got home and it said the following:

Wood you lke to GO SwmMG? G n G n I Wll b there @2 or 3

She apparently was asking if I wanted to go swimming. At my own pool. A little later she sent another, saying she’d bring her bathing suit J N C.

Indeed. My mom texts now, and incoherently (at best).

So then they showed up and it was 3 o’clock, when I told them 7. No big deal, right? Wrong. I had plans. Plans to have afternoon drinks with a couple of my friends that were going to be coming through town. This annoyed me, but I had already started my own early drinkie time so – whatever, right?

Wrong. Then my mom broke out the “souvenirs” she brought from her and her hillbilly husband’s trip to Nebraska.

“Heather, we ate a lot of corn, and Nebraska is the Corn State and all … so I went to Ralph’s down the street and got you guys some popcorn. Sorry, though … I ate a couple of the bags last night when I got to town.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

Then it went where it should never have gone. She broke out the bottle of wine that she got for dinner, as my grandparents were in the other room completely out of earshot.

“I have never heard of this Menage a Trois wine before, but I’ve always wanted to be in a threesome so thought it would be a good one to get.”

Indeed. In. Fucking. Deed.

Please note: it is only 3:30. God only knows what will happen from here. This Terrible Tuesday can only go down – down into the depths of family dinner hell. Who knows what else this day has in store?  But again, we should all be laughing about this, because – quite frankly – it’s freaking hilarious. I’m laughing right now.

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STFU Fridays: JerkMom, One-Uppers, Pinterest Users, Contemporary Ballers

Have you “liked” my blog on Facebook yet? No? Shame on you… Well, here’s something you can really do for me – click the link for Top Mommy Blogs dot com to register a vote for my site as one of the best. Thanks!!

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I have a new, weekly theme on my blog. It’s called “Shut the Fuck Up Fridays.” Quite bluntly put, there are a lot of people in this world that really just need to STFU. But they never do because no one seems to have the balls to tell them so. People are so worried about having positive vibes and not offending anyone that it’s like we’ve let stupidity and asshattedness run rampant for the sake of everyone feeling good.

One of my favorite philosophers – Søren Kierkegaard – said that his mission in life was to make things more difficult for people by telling them the way things are – even if they did not want to hear it. Just under 200 years later, I’d say this was his way of telling people to STFU.

For this, the first installation of Shut the Fuck Up Fridays, we’re taking on JerkMom, One-Uppers, Pinterest Users, and Contemporary Ballers. And I’ve brought along my friend Angry Schoolboy to help.

JerkMom

Yesterday I went to lunch with my dad. We were planning on going to a locally owned place by the airport, but it had a one hour wait with tons of booths open. So screwing that place, we moved on to the closest spot – another trip to Johnny Rockets.

We sat outside and were enjoying our meal when all of a sudden this horribly pretentious-looking woman with nostrils so large I could be inhaled into them came up to the host with her old hag of a mother (similarly as pretentious-looking as she) and her kid in a stroller. There was a sign that said no strollers and she said “can you make an exception on this ‘no stroller’ thing for us?”

Really bitch? Angry Schoolboy has something to say to you:

 

One-Uppers

Have you ever had a conversation with someone that constantly has to one-up you? The first inherent sign of this person is that they constantly “know” or “have experience” with everything you are talking about. I was in a relationship once with a one-upper and I called him on his shit by making up a fact about the US dollar bill and saying “did you know that …” and he said he knew; to which I (of course) had to tell him I had made the whole thing up to prove he’s a dick. The relationship didn’t last long after that.

Recently I’ve come in contact with a lot of one-uppers; the most notable of which responded to every story I told with “Oh yeah? Well I’ve got a story that can top that.”

You don’t say? You have a story that can top mine in every single thing that I do, experience, think, or feel? Angry Schoolboy has something to say to you too:

Pinterest Users

Yesterday I posted a blog about how Pinterest and Instagram have ruined my life, by virtue of making everything I cook or do have to be an event worthy of photographing. I included photographs of things I had cooked, quite obviously to illustrate my point. Then – in a moment of true hypocrisy – I pinned the blog post to my Pinterest board set up for my blog, with a clear title and description of the blog included.

I got quite a few click-throughs, none of whom enjoyed my blog. In fact, they apparently didn’t even read the title or description on the pin because they were expecting a recipe.

I don’t understand, where is the recipe for that cake?

Cute blog, although you could get the point across with less bad words. Are you going to post the recipe for those BLT bites at some point?

LOL on me for thinking you actually posted something on Pinterest that Pinterest is for.

Can you at least include links to the cake recipe next time?

Came for the cake recipe. Left because you have an attitude problem.

Oh, Pinterest users. Oh, silly, silly, closed-minded Pinterest users. Angry Schoolboy has something to say to you:

Contemporary Ballers

This morning I saw on Fabulous and Flawed’s Facebook page an eCard about people that use the term “swag.” I wholeheartedly agree – the majority of the time that I see a person use the term “swag” or it’s derivative “swag life” I cringe.

What the fuck does swag even mean now? When I worked in politics that was the term we used to refer to political buttons and t-shirts; although, I am almost certain that popular culture has completely redefined it, like they did with “epic.” Now I see people using the term everywhere. “I’m so swag.” “Got my swagger.” “Kickin’ it on the roof #swag #swaglife.” Do the people using this term – I can only assume inappropriately or out of its original context – realize how stupid they sound?

If I am way off base and it makes sense or actually means something, well then my bad. If I am correct though, Angry Schoolboy has something to say to these contemporary ballers: