Christmas Cuntkies

Hey Christmas: go fuck yourself. Go fuck yourself with your stupid lights and stupid expectations and your stupid overspending and your stupid cookies. Seriously. Just go away already.

Alright, I’m not really that much of a grinch. Yes I am, but I’m fine with Christmas sticking around if people give me stuff.

I’m really revealing how much of an asshole I am, aren’t I. Shall we start over?

So Christmas cookies are my current bane of existence. There is a fucking timeline of just how the 2012 bake-a-thon derailed from a quaint, seasonal activity, to cursing obscenities and renaming them Christmas Cuntkies. And I am sure you all will not be surprised that I finally just gave the fuck up. Screaming.

Screaming so loudly the neighbors thought I had either cut off a limb, or finally won my ride in the paddywagon.

Last Thursday

11 o’clock at night, or as I like to call it:

the razor-lined chastity belt hour

I was desperate to avoid doing it with my husband. Running out of excuses (headache had been cured by Tylenol, I clearly wasn’t tired because I was still up and keeping myself busy), I decided to sit down and start planning a Christmas activity. Something quaint. Something that required research and planning. This would surely keep him from trying to get some.

So I sat down and made the list of cookies that I was going to bake. Fortunately, it worked in fending off Poor Nick’s attempts to engage in the thirty most awkward seconds of my life.

Unfortunately, I had no idea what I was signing up for.

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Last Friday

10 in the morning (ish)

Grocery shopping.

This trip to the grocery store would have been normal had I the foggiest idea just what in the fuck I needed to make my ridiculously ambitious (unrealistic) list of cookies. Here is where I admit something pretty big. While I bake cakes like a boss and wield pies like a hooker in Vegas wields her hoo-ha, cookies are always a mixed bag for me. If it’s a cut-and-dry chocolate chip, I’m fine. Anything else and I don’t even know what’s in it.

I was there until almost noon. I was there for so long that I forgot where I parked.

Later that day…

I started making the cookie dough for the first three batches. Then I remembered that I had committed to go to my knitting group, which happened to start approximately 15 minutes after I began the dough. So I finished the dough for those batches and passed the project on to Pookies and my mom. I figured if my mom’s hands were busy, they were less likely to steal shit while she babysat anyway.

Later that night…

I got home from knitting to find that those motherfuckers baked about 12 cookies and left the dough sitting out to spoil. Some of it was even shaped on the cookie sheets and then just never put in the oven.

Not only that, but for some ungodly reason there was flour everywhere. Fucking everywhere. I didn’t leave any part of the dough preparation to them, so I don’t even know why the shit was taken out. But it was and so there was flour on the floor. Flour all over the trash can. Flour on the carpet.

Even flour in my underpants (although that’s another issue altogether).

Saturday

For three hours, I cleaned up the debacle of flour. I cried a little as I threw away all the spoiled dough. In the end, I cursed and pouted and told my husband when he got home that Christmas cookies were not for me.

Sunday

Christmas cookies were for me again! I was back on the horse and ready to bake on Monday. I also began to consider whether or not I might be suffering from bipolar disorder, with such drastic cookie-related ups and downs.

Monday

The whole fucking day was devoted to baking cookies. Then a ream of bullshit came streaming out of nowhere, from problems with my husband’s crashed car situation to dramatics with my mother to a stream of errands for the upcoming princess tea party birthday party we’re having this weekend. The pinata I had worked on making from scratch fell apart. Three more little girls got added to the roster of kids.

So in the end I only got one batch of cookies done on Monday. Here’s were things really started going downhill because it was no longer just other people acting stupid, it was me learning just how poor I am at baking cookies.

I made peanut butter kiss cookies. They are supposed to be round and compact and cute looking. They came out looking like flat tits.

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Tuesday

I started off the day baking sugar cookies with peppermint chips. They looked fucking rad when they went into the oven. I thought surely this meant my cookie-baking nightmares had come to an end. The remaining 18 dozen cookies I would bake would be magical. They would reaffirm the Christmas spirit in our household. I even thought about putting on some Frank Sinatra Christmas music and prancing around in a Santa hat and shit.

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They came out looking like dog vomit. Fucking dog vomit with parts that you could see through, there was just so much grease.

I wasn’t ready to be discouraged, though. I threw all of them into a tupperware container for my husband to eat (he’ll eat anything) and moved on to the pecan turtles I saw on Pinterest. I know what you are all thinking: that’s awfully ambitious of you, B(itch)! With not one success yet, you moved on to something that you have never made, that can be a little complicated.

Yep. That’s exactly what I did.

What can I say? Maybe I wanted to doom the whole thing. Those little turtles looked like piles of dog shit when they came out.

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So my track record at that point was: spoiled dough, flour in my ass, peanut butter titties, dog puke, dog poop. That was when I began screaming. I may or may not have thrown cookies on the floor yelling “these aren’t Christmas cookies! They’re Christmas CUNTKIES!!!”

I calmed myself by eating about three-quarters of a bag of marshmallows and decided I would consider trying one more batch later in the evening. But then shit went to hell again in the other realms of life – I learned that I didn’t have enough tape to finish wrapping the family Christmas gifts, so had to go out and run yet another seemingly endless errand. Then my mother showed up to stop by on her way home from a funeral. I thought I was going to have an opportunity to wield my sword of snark at her for letting the dough get spoiled on Friday, but she walked in and I noticed she had a huge tag hanging from her sweater.

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“Uh … mom, did you wear that sweater to the funeral?”

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“Yeah, why?”

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“Because the tags are still noticeably hanging from it.”

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“Well how else do you expect me to return it after I wore it today?!”

And with that, I was done. Today I had to resume the princess tea party bullshit preparations. I got back to the baking I can actually do successfully – cakes, scones … basically anything that requires little enough attention to allow me to drink copious amounts  of wine whilst I stir.

No more Christmas Cuntkies for me, faithful blog followers. I guess I’ll just have to buy them.

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A Hootin’ and A Hollerin’ Hillbilly Brawl Garage Sale

So as I mentioned yesterday, we are housesitting for my dad. Sort of as a last minute decision, we decided to have a garage sale of our things we wanted to get rid of, as well as to let the oft-promised lemonade stand finally come to pass. Really I think garage sales are the most disgusting things ever, but we did it for the lemonade stand. This had to be done at my dad’s house eventually, unless we wanted to be like those apartment dwellers that hang up their WARES AND LEMONADE FOR SALE on the nearby STOP sign – and we figured this weekend was easiest so we wouldn’t be bothering my dad at all.

But I wasn’t just going to have a plain old, humdrum garage sale. That would be too normal. I decided, instead, to make it as absolutely hillbilly as possible. I decided to make it an A Hootin’ and A Hollerin’ Hillbilly Brawl Garage Sale.

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Of course we put signs around, and to be honest our signs were pretty badass. They were large and on foam core board. About 1/2 way into them being made, though, I realized that this was far too classy for my A Hootin’ and A Hollerin’ Hillbilly Brawl Garage Sale, so I decided to post an ad on Craigslist too.

It read:

A Hootin’ and A Hollerin’ Hillbilly Brawl Garage Sale

I’m just kidding. Unless Uncle Cletus shows up unannounced and with his banjo, it is unlikely there will be any “a hootin’ and a hollerin'” at this garage sale. Of course there will be, though, if you find our WARES FOR SALE so spectacular that you yelp and shout uncontrollably out of sheer, second-hand finds ecstasy.

Have you ever been to a garage sale and felt like you needed to shower after you got home?

Ever picked through a pile of items strewn about in someone’s front yard and gotten some sort of unidentified, gelatinous gunk on your hands?

Was there ever a time when you saw an item you actually wanted, but it was in such disrepair that you thought your dollar might be better spent on that rotten potato you saw at the Farmer’s Market that no one wants, despite its striking resemblance to Rick Moranis?

You will have none of those problems at our garage sale, this Saturday in East Ventura.

We have:

Kid’s Clothing (Sizes 2T — 5T, 6 and 6X)
Kid’s Toys
Baby supplies (Strollers, Highchairs, Baby toys)
Books galore
Kitchenware
Adult’s Clothing (Women’s Sizes M-L, Men’s Size S)
Lawn furniture

. . .. And much more

Also featured, we will be  selling lemonade and baked goods. For 25 cents you can procure yourself a glass of the freshest lemonade this side of the Conejo Grade, whilst perusing our used, yet in quality condition, WARES FOR SALE. I have included a PhotoShop of Rick Moranis holding our lemonade sign in hopes this will entice you to come.

Hope you can come out. Leave Uncle Cletus and the banjo at home.

The Sale

We basically just threw everything into boxes and threw it out on the driveway. A few years ago when I was working in politics, I helped with a garage sale fundraiser and they set everything up very nicely on tables, only to bring in about $100. In just two hours, my worthless shit spewed around on the lawn made me over $170.

Possibly the classiest part of the event was when my mother showed up. That’s right, my Trailer Trash Mom came to help out – being trailer trash and all, garage sales are her thing, and when she called to mention that she was leaving for New Mexico next week, I happened to mention the sale in jest. She brought some of her own things to sell, not a single one of which did. And in the defining moment of the event, she set them up on display on a turned-over Poise Pantyshields box she had gotten out of the dumpster at my grandma and grandpa’s assisted living apartment complex.

Yes, faithful blog followers, you read that right. A Poise Pantyshield box dug out of a dumpster to display her mugs and miscellaneous wares.

She also hit on every cotton-pickin’ hillbilly that came up to the event, and tried to start picking through the neighbor’s dumpster. You see, my dad’s neighbors recently got a divorce and the nasty bitch that got to keep the house ordered the largest dumpster known to mankind to throw out the ex-husband’s stuff. He showed up during our garage sale and they started fighting; then he helped throw out the trash as he attempted to haul away things he wanted to keep. My mother, being the trailer trash that she is, confirmed that she will be returning tonight to jump into the dumpster and pick out the things she wants.

So that was it – my A Hootin’ and A Hollerin’ Hillbilly Brawl Garage Sale. The last time I attended a garage sale as a purchaser, I was looking for an antique typewriter (which I found), but felt the same way I do right now: like never participating in one again. I also need to take a shower to wash this hillbilly brawl filth off before it seeps in and I start losing teeth.

The Day My Trailer Trash Mom Went Insane

I know I’ve already put up a post today, but this really deserved it’s own, separate discussion with all you faithful blog followers. For this will forever go down in history as the day my Trailer Trash Mom went insane.

I actually think my Trailer Trash Mom has gone insane before. There was that time when I was in 6th grade and she cried uncontrollably for six hours straight at the kitchen sink because Patrick Swayze went to heaven at the end of the movie Ghost. There was also that time she was dating Marvin Gaye’s former drummer and showed up at the Fresno International Airport asking for her plane ticket to tour Madonna with him, even though she had no actual information beyond something he had said months prior. Yeah, my Trailer Trash Mom has issues – this is why I usually try to keep her at a distance.

So the Mother’s Day gala of the century is just a few days away, and she is now out to prove how angry she is at the world by abusing me over the whole meal preparation thing as much as she possibly can. I realize, now, that the reason she is throwing this little shindig (mostly in her own honor) is because last year I didn’t really do anything for her for the day. This may explain why I caved and continue to take her drama.

When she showed up at my house today to take Pookie to swim lessons so that I would not be interrupted in my six hour cake bake (yes, the cake I was baking takes roughly six hours to bake), she walked into the kitchen and saw all five layers of the cake cooling. This means that the majority of my work was done – the two red velvet layers, the two french vanilla layers, and the thick layer of sticky fudge to hold it all together in the middle were all done. All that was left was to freeze the layers for a few days and then stack the layers together and ice the cake on Saturday night.

My Trailer Trash Mom

Heather, it looks like these layers are going to break apart

Me

Yeah, they are fine. That is how they have to cool so that they fit together properly when I put the cake together. They will not break, just don’t touch them.

Note: my Trailer Trash Mom again has revealed to me at this point how little she actually knows about baking and cooking. Her cooking tastes like shit and the last time she baked anything she almost burned down our apartment doing so.

My Trailer Trash Mom

(Mumbling) Oh yeah, you know everything Heather … you know everything …

My Trailer Trash Mom then left and took Pookie to swimming. 

I should also mention at this point that I was at my dad’s house. I was baking bacon a week or so ago and spilled grease all over the bottom of my oven, which caused smoke to permeate through our entire apartment, setting off the fire alarm and causing a neighborhood ruckus. Afterwards, the grease melded with whatever else was at the bottom of my oven so that now it looks like I was cooking human intestines in the bottom of the damn thing, and I have yet to find the time to clean it out. So today I gathered my things and went to my dad’s house – he has a nicer oven anyway.

My Dad With the Harry Caray Glasses

…walked out to the kitchen to get a Diet Coke

Uh, Heather … what the fuck happened to your cakes?

(Yes, my dad said “fuck” … he says it all the time, which is particularly ironic given how much he bitches at me for saying it so often in my blogs.)

Me

What do you mean? They’re cooling.

I walked into the kitchen and saw that my mother has destroyed my cakes. That’s right, my Trailer Trash Mom broke apart my cakes – the most egregious of which was the fudge that was supposed to hold the entire thing together.

I began to cry.

My Dad With the Harry Caray Glasses

Wow, your mom is one vindictive bitch!

Yes, dad. Yes, she is. I see now why they divorced over twenty years ago.

The remainder of my day was spent shopping and drinking copious amounts of wine. My husband says that I should just say ‘screw it’ altogether on the dessert. My Dad With the Harry Caray Glasses says I should just go buy a box set and make a new cake. I just can’t get over how insane my mother is. All the crying episodes about the movie Ghost, and the whole Marvin Gaye’s drummer thing, doesn’t compare in the least bit to a directly malicious act. I have yet to even bring it up with my Trailer Trash Mom. I’m sure she’ll just spew more of her hillbilly shit all over the place.

Or maybe it will be like an intervention. I don’t know, I still can’t even decide what to do about the cake. No matter what, I think this really was the day My Trailer Trash Mom went insane. Like really insane – who even knows what will happen next.

My Trailer Trash Mom, Part Deux – the Trailer Was Destroyed

So my Trailer Trash Mom’s trailer was apparently destroyed yesterday.

I think I mentioned to all you faithful blog followers last week that my mom is married to a hillbilly that lives out in the rednecked New Mexico version of the Ozarks, in a trailer. She spews her hillbilly shit all over the place all the time now; has since she eloped with this guy last October. To make matters worse, the guy is a total liar (as most psychopathic hillbillies are), and as such there is a constant stream of stories from him over why they can’t move from New Mexico back to my mother’s lavish life in California. At present she – and she, alone – can only visit, which she has been doing now since the beginning of March.

Apparently, the trailer they were trying to sell on the land – the one where hillbilly husband claimed 15 Mexican migrant workers had essentially begun squatting in, refusing to leave; that trailer fell victim to a hail storm yesterday. That’s right: all my Trailer Trash Mom’s hopes and dreams of having a property to sell in New Mexico were destroyed yesterday when a supposed storm ripped through their land, dropping hail the size of my head (her description) – and while this sign of End Times storm was not apparently bad enough to be reported widely in the news, it was bad enough to completely destroy the trailer that the Mexican squatters were inhabiting, which was the only ticket my mom had out of New Mexico.

I’ve asked this before (and recently): at what point do you call bullshit on all of this? Apparently, for my Trailer Trash Mom, she has not reached that point yet. She instead took it out on me.

My Trailer Trash Mom waltzed into Pookie’s swimming lesson today and she actually had a snarl on her face.

My Trailer Trash Mom

Heather, what is the plan for this weekend?

Me

Um, what do you mean ‘what is the plan’? I am making dinner for 15 of your family members on Sunday and bringing it to Grandma and Grandpa’s apartment.

My Trailer Trash Mom

I thought I was coming over Saturday to help you.

Me

Well, I don’t remember you offering help, and that is nice of you but I’m going to an opera gala Saturday evening so have already prepped everything and the cake is even done and frozen.

My Trailer Trash Mom

Heather! Some of us don’t actually like your cooking!

Now you all may be pausing to wonder just what the fuck is going on. Last week she said that she had volunteered me to single-handedly prepare this grandiose meal because I am “such a good cook.” Now apparently she meant to say she wanted to come over and use my kitchen because a lot of them don’t actually like my cooking.

Keeping in mind that my mother has a tendency to try and pick fights with me when she is in a pissy mood, I simply replied:

Me

Whatever

A few minutes went by.

My Trailer Trash Mom

So what kind of vegetables are you making?

Me

Well, I was going to make —

My Trailer Trash Mom

Because you know that some of us there don’t have teeth.

Yes, faithful blog followers, my mother is correct. Some of them do not have teeth – at least real ones, that is. This includes my Trailer Trash Mom. Makes her even more trailer trash-y, doesn’t it?

Me

Green beans, mom.

My Trailer Trash Mom

So do I have any change?

Me

What?

My Trailer Trash Mom

So do I have any change? I gave you $60.

Me

No, Mom – no change. $60 barely bought the meat. We’re having roasted trip tip, green beans, mushroom risotto, the triple layered cake, and I’m making BLT bites, deviled eggs, and caprese skewers for appetizers. You do not have any change.

A few more minutes went by, and this time it was awkward.

My Trailer Trash Mom

So I was thinking about it and we’re going to use Grandma’s dishes.

I should mention that my grandparents live in an assisted living apartment complex. This means that they don’t actually cook their own meals – they meet with all the other elderly people that live in those apartments three times a day and have meals served to them. This means they have no kitchen in their apartment, except for a little microwave and a mini fridge.

Me

Mom, who is going to do all those dishes?

My Trailer Trash Mom

Well, we are.

Me

Who is we? We really cannot stay much past dinner and gifts.

My Trailer Trash Mom

You and I. Heather, this is a special occasion. I am not going to have it ruined with your trashy plastic plates and silverware. You can just find the time to stay and do the dishes.

I did not continue her conversation any further. Had I, I may have told her where she could shove her Mother’s Day dinner, her dirty dishes, and all of her ingratitude for all the things I do. Later in the day she yelled at me some more about how she didn’t like the way I had set up the new bed in the spare bedroom of our apartment. Then she capped it all off with a random tirade about what I don’t know – I didn’t pay attention to a word of it. Clearly my Trailer Trash Mom has some trailer trash issues that need to be resolved so she can stop taking them out on other people. The other possibility is that she’s been away from Hillbilly Husband for far too long, and is itching to get back to the trailer they rent off the property that held the trailer they owned, which my Trailer Trash Mom has never actually seen but was apparently destroyed yesterday by hail.

New Mexico calls, Trailer Trash Mom! New Mexico calls!