If I Did Everything The Internet Told Me To Do This Week

Is it just me, or is shit getting real up on Facebook these days? Maybe it’s because I’ve been “liking” more pages lately, so more of their garbage is showing up in my newsfeed. But then again, some of my friends have been putting some crazy things out there lately as well.

I think the world has gone even more insane. Funny, I didn’t know that was possible. But when I start reading articles like “Woman Has Placenta Turned Into Sunday Night Dinner,” I start to raise my eyebrow and wonder just what in the hell is going on.

Sheep

 

I’m Serving Placenta For Thanksgiving…

So that’s the big one. Well, sort of. Apparently it’s becoming a real trend now to eat your own placenta after you give birth.

Now I can do fad diets. I don’t mean that I will actually do them; I mean I can tolerate the existence of them. I can dig paleo. I kind of get the whole gluten free thing (at least for some people). I think those whole body cleanse things are dumb, but to each his own.

But eating your own placenta? I certainly didn’t see that one coming.

I guess some lady had hers turned into capsules and she took one every day for a month too. And now there are cookbooks out there for turning your placenta into a tasty meal.

Let that digest for a moment (no pun intended). …for turning your placenta into a tasty meal…

How would you even bill that to someone? Oh yeah, come over for Thanksgiving! We’re having turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, placenta, muffins. What? Did I say something strange?

And how many different recipes could there possibly be that would warrant an entire cookbook? Is it that special preparation is needed? I assumed at first that a – I don’t know – professional may have to do it, since you are eating a part of the human body and all (cough…cannibalism…cough).

In any case, I shudder to think of how many placenta varietals there are. With bleu cheese, covered in sage butter, sautéed or baked…

Vomit.

… and I’m Not Shaving My Crotch For Movember

Okay, first off: are we all familiar with Movember? It’s a movement to get people to grow out their moustaches and raise money and awareness for prostate and ball cancer. My own personal opinions about awareness campaigns aside, it does raise funding that is much needed for men’s health.

Where I draw the line is when friends start posting things about how ladies are participating by not shaving their cooters.

1. I’m pretty sure that having the vagina of a 10 year old in adulthood (i.e. completely hairless) is just a relic of the porn industry in Los Angeles. In other words, I’m saying it may be a West Coast thing.

I don’t know. This is already making me uncomfortable.

The one time my husband asked me about whether or not all women do it, I had actually never heard (before then) that women did such a thing. I mean that I had never heard before that women shave or wax all the hair off their lady bits. To this day I still cannot grapple with just why a woman over the age of – I don’t know, 12 – would even want to look like that.

But I digress.

That being said, I understand keeping the hedges under control, if you know what I mean. To that end, I get this not shaving the crotcheral area for Movember.

BUT…

2. How exactly would a woman approach her family and friends to donate money based on how much crotch hair she grows?

If it starts to dreadlock, you will donate $100 to the Movember cause.

If it grows onto the side of my legs, it’s $200…

Are you as horrified by all of this as I am?

AND FURTHER…

3. How would this raise awareness?

The whole point of Movember is that all these men are walking around with visible moustaches. Now I’m no vagina scientist, but I’m pretty sure women everywhere will not all of a sudden start flashing their cooters to show off their “Muffvember” cause. (That, by the way, is what these bitches are calling it.)

Will they wear t-shirts?

Participate in vagina walks? What does that even mean?

PLUS…

4. This is vaguely reminiscent of breast cancer awareness on Facebook. Every year, I get an email sometime in October that goes something like this:

Okay ladies! We are REALLY going to fool the guys this time!!!!!! To raise awareness of breast cancer, we are all going to post on our Facebook statuses where we throw our purses down when we get home!!! Nothing more than that though, so mine would be – On the table! The guys will have no idea what is going on!!!! So cute and really supports a good cause.

What in the actual fuck is right, if that’s what you were thinking.

And really, what in the actual fuck to just about anything I’ve seen on the Internet this week. It isn’t just the placenta eaters and the crotch trimmers that are making things online just a little bit wacky. And uncomfortable. It’s the people that post conspiracy theories. It’s the horrible beaten dogs – donate to this cause – prayer request for this animal or kid with cancer posts. It’s the full page privacy notice that went around a few days ago, as if posting some bullshit on your Facebook status will actually secure your privacy.

It’s the influx of selfies.

People of the Internet! Cut this shit out already. I just want to log onto Facebook in between classes to get my online vaginal scientist degree, while the dog eats my placenta and I trim my vaginal hairs in peace. Is that too much to ask?

To All You Jerks Looking For Something To Be Thankful For…

1382349_707553345813_687412509_n

In the previous two years, I’ve made it sort of a tradition to talk crap about people that do that daily thankful post on Facebook.

See post one here…

See post two here…

It always goes the same (the posts on Facebook):

Day 1

Day1

Then by a week in, Day 7

Day2

Somewhere around Thanksgiving, they’ve run out of ideas, Day 20

Day3

And finally, of course, after all this gratuitous thankfulness, December returns everything to normal

Dec1

To quote my 90s self: gag me with a spoon.

Here’s the thing about these thankful posts: if you are thankful every day of the year, that’s awesome. You don’t have to post about it on Facebook to prove it; you can if you want to. Doing it just in November for the occasion of Thanksgiving, when you can’t even come up with things that you are sincerely and unselfishly thankful for, only to turn right around and return to being a blazing, ungrateful asshole every other day of the year … well, it stinks.

What stinks even more than that is how frequently people come to my blog looking for things to be thankful for, during the month of November.

As I said before, I’ve made it sort of a tradition to talk shit about those thankful posts over the last two years on this blog. That means that over the years, the more people have read and searched out the keywords used in those posts, the higher they’ve been indexed on Google.

Translation: a lot of friggin’ people are Googling “things to post thankful on Facebook” and landing on my blog as a result.

To All You Jerks Looking For Something To Be Thankful For …

Just. Fucking. Stop. It. NOW.

If you have to Google things to be thankful for, chances are you AREN’T ACTUALLY THANKFUL FOR THOSE THINGS.

If you cannot come up with shit that is original, real, unselfish, immaterial, and sincere, chances are you SHOULDN’T BE THANKFUL FOR THOSE THINGS.

If you need a month and a holiday, and a holiday that celebrates gluttony and the slaughtering and genocide of entire nations of innocent people at that, to remind yourself that you should be even the slightest bit grateful for the things you have in your life, chances are YOU’S A DICK.

Here’s the moral: we should all be grateful for what we have, every day of the year. Even if it isn’t much. Even if it’s a lot. It could all be gone in an instant, and it is usually the self-aggrandizing November Facebook thankful posters that don’t seem to realize that. If you want to do your little tradition of posting crap on Facebook you are thankful for, fine – by all means, it is your page. But be sincere about it. Don’t post thankfulness for things like your cellphones and your unmistakable talents in whatever you seem to think you are so talented at.

And for God’s sakes, jerks of the Internet: if you have to Google it, you have some major reevaluating of your lives to do that goes well beyond just finding things to post on Facebook.

This Whole Cat Thing Is Getting a Bit Tiring…

So when I first started blogging, I posted a blog called “Hello, Mr. Biglesworth…” It was a long time ago when I wrote it, and still one of my proudest pieces. In a nutshell, I was outlining – in a really silly open letter to cats – why I hate them.

I guess I just didn’t have many blog fans then. Not many people responded to the post negatively. Some agreed to disagree. We all walked away chuckling.

983697_579422125435615_1137414111_nFlash forward to now and this huge controversy started with a picture I posted on Facebook, originally found on Epicfail.com. Again, I found it on the Internet and just thought it was funny. I did not take the photograph myself. The cat didn’t look particularly bothered by the makeup. It definitely looked healthy and unabused. I ended up having to follow that up with a blog post, though, after someone wished me to be “mauled by a herd of cats” for posting the photograph.

That was two weeks ago.

Things have not been going so well since then. I have received death threats – yes, “I’m going to send my cat to kill you” threats. I have been given the lesser form of a death threat, the death wish: “I hope you die in a tragic accident involving cats and you burn in hell.” People have suggested I need mental help. They have offered me online mental health counseling. I have been told that my statement “I hate cats” is aggressive, hostile, abusive, psychotic, and illogical. I have lost multiple Facebook fans, and even one Facebook friend.

To say that this whole cat thing is getting a bit tiring is probably an understatement. It’s getting pretty goddamned old, people. I think it’s time we clear a few things up here, once and for all. See if you can pry yourselves away from your daily task of pampering your forty felines for a few minutes to hear me out.

931157_679669560143_553468030_n

It Is A Fact That Not All People Like Cats

… and those people that do not like cats are actually – in some cases – clinically sane. Or clinically insane for reasons other than their dislike of cats.

There are a lot of reasons that people don’t like cats. It could be because they had a bad experience with one. Or maybe they are allergic: my reasoning for disliking them. There are all sorts of reasons why people don’t like cats, just like there are all sorts of reasons why others do. And why people like or dislike dogs. Like or dislike bubblegum ice cream or red furniture or high heels or the Chicago Blackhawks.

Having an emotional attachment to an animal does not make it wrong for others to not feel the same way you do. It’s called an opinion based on feelings and personal preferences. We are all entitled to them.

It Is A Fact That All Cats Are Gross

I’m going to go out on a limb here and offer a piece of universal criteria for gross. By “universal” I mean that it applies to all things, and is the case for everyone and everything. It doesn’t matter if you are a cat, a dog, a mouse, a person, a plant, a ghost… if you meet the criteria, you are gross.

Anything that shits in a box and licks its own asshole clean is gross.

So cats are definitely gross, because I have never seen a cat shit in a toilet, and I further have seen every cat I have ever seen – in my entire life – lick its own asshole clean. It’s natural! Of course it does it. Still gross.

This isn’t to say that cat owners are gross. This isn’t to say that cat owners shit in a box and lick their own assholes clean (although, you never know…). It just means that cats are gross, and that is a fact by the criteria I outlined above.

It Is A Case In Point Fact That Cats Are Not Humans

I know that a lot of people consider their cats to be family. And human. I myself consider our fish and guinea pig to be a part of our household unit.

But the fact remains that a pet is a pet. Not a human being. An animal. Not all people like them, and more over: not all people can be around them. A lot of people out there have very serious allergies to animals. I am one of them – when I get around cats I wheeze, my throat gets tight, and I even have had asthma attacks from being too close.

The problem with a lot of the cat owners I have encountered, though, is that they actually believe their cats are human beings, and members of their families whose lives are worth more than actual human beings. A lot of them refuse – under all circumstances – to be sensitive to their guests. Now I would never go into another person’s home and demand that they remove their animal, or start bitching and griping about how much a really despise those balls of allergens. But if someone invites me over, it tells me they care about and respect me enough to not let their little box-shitter climb all over me and my things, causing me to have an asthma attack. I mean, if I say nicely that I’m very seriously allergic… would it kill them to put the cat into the other room?

Many cat owners I have encountered don’t give a fuck, though. They just cannot seem to grasp the fact that people are all different. They have different experiences. They have different situations. I have been in a cat owner’s home before, using my inhaler because I cannot breath, and the owner has actually set the cat down on my lap and said “ohhhhh… Pickles wants you to hold her!!!” I don’t dare eat dinner at a cat owner’s home anymore, because I’m allergic to shellfish too and know that even though I nicely say I’m allergic they will likely feed me shrimp.

It is a case in point fact that cats are not humans. If you want to have a relationship with actual people, then you may want to consider putting the pets away for a while. Or else you’ll wind up one of those crazy cat people that has no friends and fifty felines.

Please stop with the angry comments and the death threats and the Facebook fighting and the deletions, people. This whole cat thing is getting a bit tiring. A girl’s allowed to her opinions, just like you’re all allowed to ignore them and walk away.

hi-we-understand-you-are-not-married

Conversation Stoppers

I’m not a big fan of talking to a lot of people in my everyday life. There aren’t many – mostly my mom (sometimes), my dad (too much), my husband (when his job lets him) – but that doesn’t change the fact that many of their conversations with me turn into requests. Or discussion about shit I just don’t want to hear about. It’s hard to have a meaningful conversation when you’re a mom anyway – I usually avoid phone calls simply because they’ll be interrupted constantly with some bullshit that could have waited.

And there are certain things I just don’t want to discuss, namely: medical problems, work, and my mom’s obsession with doing it. To deal with those “certain things,” I’ve come up with some surefire conversation stoppers. We all have them – some just walk away; others say something as simple as “this conversation is over.”

Mine are a little more attuned to the situation.

When My Husband Talks About His Job

My conversation stopper for my husband’s shop talk is to accuse him of scratching his balls or beating off in my presence. Nothing changes the subject from inane conversation about the film industry and all its subtle, bullshitty nuances like suggesting he has some sort of penile problem.

When I first moved here (and I think I’ve told this story before), I went on something of a date with a guy at the department store I had just started working at. It wasn’t supposed to be a date, and I said it wasn’t a date; nonetheless, the guy still put his arm around me and paid for my movie ticket. About half way through the film, I noticed him scratching himself. A lot. I mean it just didn’t stop; and I was only 18 and naive, so I had no clue that this guy was really jerking off as we sat there on this non-date-pseudo-date, until someone told me that’s what he was doing later on.

Since then, I’ve been a little sensitive when a man puts his hand near his crotch. Even my husband. Granted, my husband does scratch his balls a lot. And then sometimes he just rests his hand on his inner thigh – which is fucking weird of its own right. But usually I’m just making the accusation to get him to stop talking.

Last night was the best incidence of this. We were in bed, watching the new Manchurian Candidate. I was writing my blog, my husband was laying there watching and he mentioned something about the movie or the industry – or something that triggered my conversation stopper instinct – and he was doing that weird thing where he rests his hand on his inner thigh.

Poor Nick: “You know this film is interesting because —”

Me: “Are you scratching your balls?”

Poor Nick: “No.”

Me: “You’re jerking off, aren’t you?”

Poor Nick: “NO. I’m resting my hand on my thigh. See?”

And Poor Nick pulled back the covers to show that he was, in fact, resting his hand on his inner thigh. But as I said, it’s a little weird. Why the inner thigh? Why not the outer leg? Or the stomach? Or why not somewhere else – like on the bed, or hold my hand? Why the inner thigh? So I pressed on.

Me: “Do you ever think it’s weird that you rest your hand on your inner thigh?”

Poor Nick: “What?”

Me: “You know … if I were to rest my hand on my inner thigh, wouldn’t you think it was weird?”

Poor Nick: “No.”

Me: “Oh really?”

And then I slid down my pillow so my legs were spread and proceeded to rest both of my hands on the inner part of both of my thighs to prove my point. I looked fucking weird. Psychotic, in fact.

Not another word was spoken for the rest of the evening. Conversation stopper.

When My Dad Talks About His Medical Issues

It isn’t that I want my dad to stop keeping me up to date on his health. Being the only reliable person he has here (and vice versa for me besides my husband), it’s important I know what’s going on.

But lately it’s gotten to be too much. He’s having hip replacement surgery next Friday, so every day these last few weeks have been about getting ready, attending doctor’s appointments, getting our things over to stay at his house for a month, helping him make decisions, and so on. That doesn’t mean we have to talk about it all into the ground, though – especially at the most inopportune times. In fact, it happened just today where it got to a point that I just couldn’t take it anymore.

484306_665623967623_1261580074_nWe were running errands with my dad, and had a pretty tumultuous time doing it. We couldn’t find a stepping stool we needed to help him get in and out of my Jeep post-op. The doctor called in the wrong pain medication, that he has a sensitivity to. And then a bee flew into the car and we had to pull over and run out, while my dad tried to get rid of it so that I wouldn’t get stung and die (I’m allergic). By the time we stopped to get some dinner, I was so not in the mood to hear about medical shit. I just wanted to eat, get a little wasted, find some frozen yogurt, and go home.

The medical talk was almost avoided this time, too, but then on the way home, we were eating our frozen yogurt and my dad started up with his medical talk. He started telling me about some bleeding drug they were going to give him in the hospital, or some shit; and rather than listen, my conversation stopper instinct kicked in.

With my dad, it’s to sing. The only song I could think of at that very moment was – of course – the “my bologna has a first name…” jingle. Before I knew it, the whole car was singing along, and the medical talk had been averted. Conversation stopper.

When My Mom Divulges Details Of Her Sex Life

So I’ve only met my mother’s husband once. It was for about 15 minutes and he made a total of 5 inappropriate comments about my mother’s vagina to me during that time. Since then, he’s cracked numerous jokes on the phone about doing it with her. The worst was when he basically called her a slut in high school.

Hillbilly Husband: “Yeah, you know your mom and I probably even went to the same drive in movies when we were in high school.”

Me: “Oh really?”

Hillbilly Husband: “Yep. The difference is that I actually saw the movies!!! HAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!”

Indeed.

To make matters worse, my mom makes these horrifying innuendos to me all the time. When they are separated (as in she’s here, in California, and he’s there, in New Mexico), they have these marathon phone conversations that sometimes last upwards of eight hours. What in the fuck do they do for eight hours on the phone? They can’t possibly have that much to talk about, right?

Right. They don’t. The answer is in two words: phone sex.

Just the other day, my mother told me that she was “too spent” from talking to her hillbilly husband to go over Easter plans with me. She started talking about vibrators and the demands of a woman separated from love, and all that other hypersexual bullshit, and I just couldn’t deal with it. I didn’t want to deal with it; I mean, if you’re too exhausted to talk about something important, shut the fuck up about your little phone sex crap.

So I pulled out my conversation stopper for when my mom starts up this TMI nonsense: “mom, no one wants to hear about your jerky flavored edible panties…” She said ‘OK’ and hung up the phone. Conversation stopper.

Do you have conversation stoppers, faithful blog followers? Do you say something rude? Do you make implications that are just blatantly false? Do you sing, like me? Or do you just listen to people blather on and on and on, until your mind is numb and your soul is destroyed?

Waltz of the Big Booty Bitches

734132_652927266913_1041377468_n

So on Saturday evening we were celebrating my birthday, a little early. I turn 31 on April 15th, but my dad is having hip replacement surgery next Friday and I’ll be spending most of April taking care of him. All we have is each other here, so we celebrated with a little Game Night with cake this past weekend. There were maybe 15 people there, including my mom.

I was walking into the kitchen to get myself a drink and my mom walked over to me.

Trailer Trash Mom:

trailer_trash-barbie

“So how much weight have you lost?”

Me:

Untitled

“I don’t know, mom … I don’t believe in using scales.”

Trailer Trash Mom:

trailer_trash-barbie

“Oh, well aren’t you just better than the rest of us big girls…”

First, thank you mom for implying that I am one of you “big girls.” And, to further imply that you think I used to be grossly overweight. To be fair, I weigh considerably less than my mother does. I may not be model-stick-thin, but I’m certainly no candidate for an obesity weight study either. My mom is a big booty bitch, and not in the way I’d use it as a term of endearment like with most girls deserved of the title. A Big Booty Bitch could be someone heavier; someone with just a big booty; or someone stick thin with a big heart. By contrast, my mom is overweight, like most mothers. She’s had periods where she was a lot heavier; and periods where she was a lot thinner. Like most women. She’s never been into dieting or exercising, though, so I’m not too sure why she gives so much of a shit about scales and weight tracking. Unless, of course, it’s just a facade to put people down and make herself feel better about her own physical appearance. I assume this is the case.

I didn’t give it too much of a thought until I read this article an HuffPost’s Facebook page today. It was about a poll they had done, inquiring whether or not weight gain was a justifiable excuse to divorce or commit adultery. I won’t go into the details of the article – you can gladly read it yourself if you are interested; I will not even respond to the opinion of the author (who I largely agreed with, actually).

I want to talk about the fact that we – as a culture – are even doing polls and having conversations about this.

Big Booty Bitches Respect the Sanctity of Marriage

(Not Physical Appearance)

One thing the article discussed was the double standard. If a man packs on pounds – for whatever reason – a woman should understand, and try to inspire him to get healthier. If a woman becomes a Big Booty Bitch from a weight perspective, we start discussing whether or not a man should feel justified to cheat on her, or divorce her big booty butt.

Perhaps the reason why we don’t even suggest this when a man’s previously firm areas begin to jiggle is because the Big Booty Bitches respect the sanctity of marriage, rather than a person’s physical appearance. I mean, I would never consider cheating on my husband because he packed on a few pounds. I further would probably only talk to him about it if it became a health concern; and even then, I would try to influence him with the meals I cook and the actions I, myself, take, rather than inflict the emotional harm that a conversation beginning with “hey, you’re kind of becoming a fat fuck…” can cause.

Because of the sanctity of marriage, it doesn’t even enter my mind to consider that it might be justifiable to even discuss options like divorce or cheating. Your vows say “…for better, or for worse…” for a reason.

Big Booty Bitches Are Faithful

(In Ways Other Than Staying Faithful)

Faithful is more than just not cheating. It’s not considering leaving or straying when the going gets tough.

To suggest that we should consider the acceptability (or lack thereof) for divorce or cheating because a person gains weight implies a lot. One is that all people who rapidly gain weight are doing so because they are lazy shits that do nothing but watch TV. This is just not the case – there can be many, many health reasons (physical, medicinal, and mental) why people put on weight. Two is that if a person’s physical appearance changes in any way, that now we should talk about whether or not it’s OK to abandon ship. This would be to say that if a man gets ball cancer, and a woman thinks a man with only one ball is unattractive sexually, she would be justified in divorcing him. Big Booty Bitches would never consider this, though, because sexuality and physical appearance is about a microcosm of what makes up a marriage and a happy life together.

As was the case with the “…for better, or for worse…” there was also a vow “…in sickness, and in health…”

Big Booty Bitches Do Not Find Divorce or Infidelity an Option

(On Most Matters)

When I walked down the aisle, I didn’t think to myself “well, I can always get divorced.” When my husband started acting like a jerk to me because he wanted me to give up my Ph.D. program, and stay in California, I didn’t say to myself “I’ll just go fuck someone else.” That isn’t the way marriage works.

If every time something didn’t go our way, we ran out and screwed our milk man or filed for divorce, we’d have a high divorce rate in this country. Oh wait, we do. Is it because things genuinely don’t work out? Or is it because people consider divorce and infidelity an option from the get go? While there are many instances in which a couple truly tries and tries, or one person has issues that make trying an impossibility, and it doesn’t work; there are also so many people in this country right now who will abandon ship for any old reason. I know a lot of them.

For myself, I don’t believe that divorce is an option, nor infidelity. Maybe it’s the Catholic in me, that has some backwards religious views engrained into my soul. Or maybe it’s because I take a commitment seriously, and don’t just bail when the going gets tough.

I took my vows seriously, and the fact that our culture has become so superficial and material so as to even enter into this discussion about weight gain sickens me to my very core. It makes me want to spew vomit everywhere, and on everyone. Marriage and relationships are about so much more than sex and being perfect for each other. In fact, I always thought they were about the ability to be imperfect and still be loved. What a crazy world we live in where this no longer seems to be the case.

Destroying Your Carpool: A Tutorial

car-door-repair-fail-300x213

Be it a carpool for work, extra-curriculars with the kids, vacations, school – you name it, there are a lot of reasons people carpool. If everyone in the carpool is on the same page, it’s great. But for every carpooling success story out there on the Internet, there are about ten times that in horror stories. It’s as if these people are actually hellbent on destroying their carpool from the start; or, they just don’t care about anyone but themselves.

I’ve mentioned a few times, both in recent blog posts and on my blog’s Facebook page, that my husband has been in a carpool from hell for a little over a month now. What made the situation that much worse was that my husband just thought it was the next best thing to my vagina and a bowl of pistachio-flavored ice cream. The woman he was carpooling with was in the exact, same sector of the film industry as him, so he just lapped that shit up like a lost puppy dog wandering the streets in search of anything. I imagine that every day they sat there and just blew their editorial, industry bullshit up each other’s assholes the whole way to and from work (well, that is when they actually carpooled on the days they were supposed to carpool). I fully believe at this point that were that woman single, I would have had something to worry about. Maybe I still did (or do). That is the depth to which Poor Nick seemed to be taking this relationship, and what he was willing to sacrifice to maintain it. In the end, the carpool is no more, though. Too many things stacked up against their woe-begotten arrangement, which has led me to throw together this little tutorial on how to destroy your own carpool.

Because that bitch didn’t just destroy their carpool. She dropped a fucking nuclear bomb on it.

Let’s go step by step on how you – too – can lay waste to your own carpools. We’ll use film industry ass can lady as our tutor.

Always Show Up Late In the First Leg Of Your Carpool

Doesn’t matter what you are carpooling to, if you want to fuck your carpool up worse than you fucked up your marriage, just always show up late in the first leg of your carpool. By “first leg,” I mean the “to” part; so if you are driving to work (for example), I mean driving there.

Never let the other person or people know you are running late either. When you get there twenty minutes late, act as if there is nothing wrong with you being late.

Film industry ass can lady was the best at doing this. Once I had to use my husband’s car when mine was in the shop and she knew we would be sitting there waiting – half asleep and waiting to go back home – and that bitch showed up twenty-five fucking minutes late. To make matters worse, she was disheveled and her kid was in the car with her. Which leads me to our next lesson in destroying your carpool …

Expect Your Carpool Mates To Run Your Personal Errands

I always thought that no matter what a carpool was for, it was totally tacky to run errands and shit while your carpool mates are in the car. Say you are carpooling a group of kids and their moms to a soccer game. Would you stop at Ralphs and pick up some bread on your way there, then pick up your dry cleaning too (I mean, it is on the way..)? Fuck no, you wouldn’t run your bullshit errands while you are carpooling. It’s rude and reeks of the notion that others have nothing better to do with their time but sit in the fucking car for no reason.

So film industry ass can cunt lady would sometimes have my husband go along with to drop her kid off at school. Happy fucking family that they were: dropping the daughter off to preschool and waving good-bye on their way to pursue their illustrious careers in film industry ass can cunting. I asked my husband where the fuck this lady’s husband was, to which I got no response.

Indeed. Run your fucking errands into the motherfucking ground if you want to destroy your carpool.

Never Do What You Say You Are Going To Do

This must be a film industry thing, because my husband often does not do what he says he is going to do either. I mean with regards to me.

They agreed to meet at the carpool point near her home on days that she drove, and at the carpool point near our home on the days that he drove. He drove a lot of fucking times. I mean a lot. She met at the carpool point near our home once. He went to her every other fucking time.

If you want to bury your carpool, never do what you say you’re going to do. If you say you are going to meet in one place, meet in another. If you say you are going to leave earlier, leave later. Always expect others to cater to you when you don’t do what you said you would do too.

End the Carpool Day By Expecting Everyone To Wait For You

At the end of a long day, I think the last thing I ever want to do is sit around and wait for people. At the end of a long vacation, the last thing I want to do is be delayed in getting back to my regular routine too. I could go on with every scenario in which one might carpool; you faithful blog followers get the point. The real surefire way to destroy your carpool like film industry ass can bitch cunt lady did is to always make people wait for you at the end of the day.

This bitch was so ballsy about it. She’d just show up forty-five minutes after they were supposed to leave, and act like there was nothing wrong with it. Once it was an hour and a half. The worst was when she kept telling my husband to wait for her until it ended up being two hours after the work day ended. He got home that night at 10:15. Family? Household responsibilities? No such thing can exist or be considered for anyone in the carpool, if you want to destroy your carpool.

In the end, the real kicker was that driving to and from this woman’s work in city traffic from my husband’s work, as well as to and from her home since she could never make it down fairly for him, added our gas bill up to such a point that he spent more money on gas in the month he carpooled than in the months he drove himself. Between the extra driving, and the many times she just never showed up, this was the end of this cuntly behavior affecting our lives.

He has yet to tell her she destroyed the carpool. They are off carpool this week and he is probably coming up with ways to justify continuing to do the carpool anyway. I’m sure he’ll blame me, like he always does. Not to emasculate my husband, but he doesn’t really seem to even want to have the cajones to be honest with anyone. But me, of course. If it were me he would have told me I was a film industry ass can bitch cunt face and that the carpool was off on the second day (which is another blog post altogether).

If you want to destroy your carpool, I highly suggest you follow that broad’s behavior, with her nappy ass hair and her disrespect for anyone’s priorities other than hers.

Good riddance, carpool!

Funeral Fails

179792_659737873403_1749471205_n

So I mentioned almost two weeks ago (the last time I blogged, actually): my grandpa passed away on February 6th. It’s been very difficult to get through it – my grandparents and I have had a very special relationship from Day One.

Fortunately, the funeral events are finally over with. Between my husband’s uncle dying last month and my grandfather passing away on the 6th, we had a total of four funeral days this past week to attend. Are you with me on the overwhelmingness faithful blog followers? The schedule went like this:

Sunday, February 10th 

Scattering of Uncle Stevie’s ashes, breakfast with the family, and memorial luncheon

Tuesday, February 12th

Grandpa’s wake near our home and birthday dinner for my mom

Friday, February 15th

Grandpa’s wake near his retirement home – 250 miles away outside Yosemite area, followed by a military burial, followed by a memorial church service, followed by a reception in the church, followed by photos and flowers by the graveside, followed by scattering bird seed around near their old home (like my grandpa used to do), followed by a family dinner at the casino.

… followed by my husband and I driving home just 24 hours after we had made the trek up

Sunday, February 17th

Grandpa’s memorial and celebration of life locally (they lived around where we live for the majority of their careers, then moved back for the last two years of Grandpa’s life), followed by a reception, followed by another party at our house

To say I am tired of all this shit doesn’t really even cover it.

But in the last week, I have spent an unprecedented number of hours and days with my mom, and quite frankly a lot of people – something that is typically considered a nightmare to misanthropes such as myself. I was talking to my Uncle John yesterday, and said that this is the most time I think I have ever spent with my mother; and his response was that he knew I was ready for some space. That’s putting it nicely, though. It was a fucking nightmare. My worst nightmare, wrapped into a huge ball of anxiety and sadness and missing my grandpa.

And there were a number of funeral fails, or death-related pet peeves that came out of it all.

Funeral Fail #1:

Expecting Everyone To Grieve The Same Way

179783_659293169593_1073053114_nSure, I was sad about the fact that my husband’s uncle died. He was hit by a truck while walking across the street – a tragedy in itself; and his life was very tumultuous as well.

But I also didn’t know him too well, so expecting me to break down crying while we scattered the ashes was a little weird. And still, I was asked by one of my husband’s cousins if I never cry at a funeral, or if it was just them. I understand, people are sensitive with their pain, but my God. I said “I just am glad Stevie is finally at peace in the ocean with the other surfers” and I got a cold shoulder.

I’m sure it didn’t make things any better that I proceeded to then walk back from the edge of the pier to wait for them. I just couldn’t be expected to start sobbing, or be interrogated for not doing so – especially when I was trying to keep myself under control after my grandfather had just passed away a few days beforehand. Nonetheless, it made me think about how many people out there truly do expect people to all grieve the same, exact way.

Funeral Fail #2:

Scheduling Funerals On People’s Birthdays

48119_659676985423_1001985731_nI understand the already-sensitive nature of scheduling a funeral, wake, memorial service, and so on, between the schedules of the churches, parties involved, and funeral homes. But I also think there is something inherently wrong with scheduling funeral events on someone’s birthday.

Two of the dates of my grandfather’s funeral events were scheduled on people’s birthdays. What was particularly frustrating about this was that everyone expected to be able to leave the wake and just chipper up for the birthday celebrations immediately afterwards. To make matters worse, the first was my mom’s. Even in a time of grief and sadness, she still managed to try and micromanage and drama up the entire thing.

First she yelled at me for suggesting that we have a potluck-type thing at my house, since my grandma would no doubt be too exhausted after the wake to go out into a restaurant for dinner. Then she yelled at me for saying it should be potluck, and then told most of the people coming over just to not really bring anything. And in my mother’s typical fashion, when everyone sang her “Happy Birthday,” she just had to call her Hillbilly Husband out in New Mexico, put him on speaker, and involve him in the festivities. She always does that – puts him on speaker, as if this will rectify the fact that the family has either never met him, or only met him for a brief time years ago. This is as if to make OK the lies this guy has told, the fact that they eloped and never really included the family in any kind of celebration afterwards, and all the other egregious offenses that have occurred since this Trailer Park King entered into our lives … but I digress.

None of it would have been necessary had we just been able to schedule the wake the day before.

Funeral Fail #3:

“Do You Remember Me?”

Let me start this final rant off with something nice: I very much appreciated all of the people that came to visit and mourn and pay their respects to my grandfather. He was an amazing guy, who made a lot of friends and treated everyone he knew like family.

To their credit, most of the people that came to any of the three of my grandfather’s funeral days were very understanding of the fact that I might not recognize them. “Of course you wouldn’t recognize me – the last time I saw you, I held you as a little baby!” and so on. Those people were fine.

But then there were those motherfuckers that had to just expect me to know every faceted detail about them, in spite of the fact that I haven’t seen them since I was five. And then there was the lady whose pants fell off while she was looking into my grandfather’s casket (I shouldn’t joke about it, I’m sure it was embarrassing) who kept saying “well, I would expect you to remember me, but I just can’t remember you…”

By contrast were the vast number of people who said the words “oh, I didn’t know your mother had a daughter …” – a statement which speaks volumes, but we will gloss over for the moment.

Yesterday’s was the final straw for me. A woman walked up to me and said “Heather, do you remember me? You used to be my pharmacy technician! Are you still there?” I said that I was not. That I haven’t worked in the goddamned pharmacy since I graduated from college almost six years ago (I left out the expletives). I thanked her for coming to “my grandfather’s memorial,” which is when she said that my grandpa had hired her to work at the church we were in. But then, right as she started to walk away, she turned around again and said “I can’t believe you don’t remember me – I mean, I got a lot of medicine at that pharmacy while you were there…I thought you would have at least taken the time to remember me…”

Really bitch? My grandfather – who, you just explained to me, you wouldn’t have a job here if it weren’t for – just died and you are giving me shit about the fact that I couldn’t necessarily recognize you from a two-bit, part time job I had just to give me some extra cash while I was in college – over half a decade ago? REALLY?!

The moral of the story is that people should really just stop dying. Since that is not going to happen, I suppose the other moral is that when you have multiple funeral events to attend, and are in a position of extreme sadness and grief, you should probably just fix yourself up daily Valium-Wine cocktails. That’s essentially what I did (well, the wine part) this last week. God only knows what I would have done had I not…

155248_660010077903_2141334020_n

By the way, doesn’t my grandma look amazing for a woman who just lost her husband of 63 years? I think so. While I am absolutely devastated at the loss of my grandfather, I think I can speak for both myself and my grandma when I say that this next phase of life in his honor is pretty exciting. I’m starting it with making a quilt out of his shirts for my grandma, having her come over more to teach me to cook her most famous dishes, and letting my grandpa wrap his arms around me every day as I wear his oldest and most cozy cardigan sweater. I love you, Grandpa.

48 Hour Technology Strike

Keep track of my strike time at http://countingdownto.com/countdown/223092

I’m going on strike. Not from a job because – I think we all know – I don’t work. I mean I work at the most thankless job on the planet (housewife and SAHM), but there is no monetary compensation for that.

Yet.

No, I’m going on strike from technology. For the next 48 hours I’m ditching my cellphone, laptop, and iPad, and I think you should too. Here’s why:

#1 There Is A World Outside Your Cellphone

I just have had it up to about my eyebrows with sitting at dinner with people that spend the entire time texting and BSing on their cellphones. My husband is notorious for doing this; and the most egregious part is that he’s just scrolling through his apps doing mundane updates that are entirely unnecessary. It’s so rude, and reeks of the implication that the only world that exists to the people committing this etiquette faux pas is within their cellphone and computer. That the world in which I am – sitting across from them at the table – does not exist when the world of technology is around.

There is a world outside your cellphone. And your computer. Not getting Facebook updates is manageable, dare I say – not a big deal.

Just today I read an article about the growing problem of Facebook addiction, in which it was reported that as many as 1/3rd of people that were interviewed admitted to experiencing feelings of envy when viewing photographs and other updates of others on Facebook. This implies a number of things, but as for this point I think this has a lot to do with the fact that some of us think there is no world outside of Facebook.

1313897240072_6858395Do you faithful blog followers actually believe that life is as wonderful and exciting as it appears to be for some people on Facebook? Every photo is from a party; therefore life is a party? Every update is positive, fun, and full of excitement; therefore nothing bad ever happens to the people on your Facebook page? Nonsense! The only reason why people post on the social networks great and wonderful and awe-inspiring news is because it’s looked down upon to report anything real that happens. People call reality “bad” and “negative” – two words that have been demonized by our terribly childish social network culture.

There is a world outside of your computer. A real world. A world where you are not alone.

#2 Capturing Photographs Is Not the Point

408471_654010086933_88692490_n

Recently I realized that I spend more time capturing some moments than actually experiencing them. A blogger, I’m constantly trying to shoot things that can be used for my blogs; but now it’s leaked into every aspect of my life. Yesterday I snapped over twenty photographs of my car being towed. The experience from beginning to end was captured on photograph, and yet when it came time to recall the tow truck driver’s name today when AAA called to survey the experience, I had no idea. The guy really went the extra mile in taking care of us and I was so focused on my own photographic evidence that I couldn’t even take the time to learn his name.

The point of having a good meal is not to capture a photograph of the food. The reason for going on a hike is to get exercise, fresh air, and experience the outdoors. I have friends that have so many photographs of their experiences that I wonder if they even would remember what happened if it weren’t for the photographs, much like I can’t recall the tow truck driver’s name.

And is a memory not sufficient anymore to prove that something happened? Take a picture of your kid at this park, then that park, then this other park, then another. We get it! You take your kid to the park. We would have believed you if you just said it once. 7,000 shots a day of the kid running in the grass gets old. Really old. This isn’t to say that the kid isn’t cute, or the food doesn’t look as tasty as you describe it.

It’s just that technology is replacing even our most intimate moments and experiences.

#3 Technology Really Makes Me Hate People

And lose respect for them. This person didn’t respond to an email I sent in due time. A text message got ignored. People didn’t “like” or comment on my blog.

How many times have you Tweeted someone for them to never respond? How many times have you followed a blogger only for them to ignore you, as if they are too “big” to follow back?

The list of Internet etiquette grievances is a long one – not just mine, but the conglomerate list of all the billions of people using the Internet regularly. Sometimes it makes you hate people to be connected all the time. It makes you hate how not everyone operates by the same standards you do. And it makes you loathe the ways in which they think and act – from political posters on Facebook, to people that use their cellphones and computers as a way to bully; technology has just made it easier for the whole of humanity to act like assholes.

While I am definitely a fan of general misanthropy, I get too angry when I’m online too much.

#4 I Need a Break From Web MD

Slide1

I need a break from Web MD. And the news. And Google flu trends. And Sickweather.com. I’m such a hypochondriac, with a glaringly unhealthy level of OCD, that I am obsessed with what’s going on around, who has which diseases, and whether or not I have [insert obscure, unlikely disease here].

I need a break from all that nonsense – I wash my hands; cover my cough; and avoid sick people. How exactly does checking up on where people are sick in my area every day make us any more safe? Am I going to avoid running errands because a few people Tweeted that they had the stomach flu in my area? No. No – we still need milk, eggs, and bread.

But it’s also a matter of not just health, but of the news. This is another thing my husband is horrible with – he is obsessed with the news, and occasionally I am too. It isn’t just one article on something that happened, or a study that was done; it’s all of them that show up in the Google News Aggregate. While I don’t think it’s good to stick our heads in the sand, sometimes shutting it all off is for the best. There is nothing I can do about the fact that North Korea issued another threat to the United States. The fact that emergency room visits from energy drinks have increased by 47% bears absolutely no effect on me.

Obsessing over all of these things is just another way that technology has a hold of our lives, just as in the case of cellphones leading us to believe there is no world outside, and photography applications robbing us of having actual experiences.

Realistically, 48 hours off technology is nothing. I still remember a day when I never used a cellphone or a computer. When I never used a computer – oh what I would give to say I still did that now. What I would give to be able to say that any of us could be successful at anything without all the advances computer and cellular technology can offer. Sure, my Klout score may go down about a point from being offline for 48 hours. I may offend someone much in the way I have been offended by not responding soon enough to an email or a text message. But think of all the things that can come of unbinding myself to the chains of my technology. I don’t even know what the next 48 hours holds. It’s kind of exciting to know that they won’t involve a cellphone or computer.

The real question isn’t “why should I do it?” though. It’s “can I do it?” Can you?

When Your New Car Breaks

184739_654152521493_214642313_n

Try and stay positive!

I absolutely loath when people say that. First, and foremost, I think talking about people being “negative” or “positive” is – in a word – childish. Those are just more labels we as a society use to peg people that we think are doing something either right or wrong, by our standards.

So I really and truly want to punch people in the nads that throw that “try and stay positive” crap in my face. Sometimes, you just have to be realistic. Sometimes staying positive is a recipe for getting your own self punched in the nads.

When your new car breaks, I would highly recommend not trying to stay positive. I would highly recommend flipping out, because as soon as you come down from your moment of temporary insanity, it’s a lot easier to figure things out realistically.

I bought a new used car approximately three weeks ago. My husband crashed his car into some 16 year old on the way to work back in October, and after months of deliberation the insurance company finally decided to total out his car. My Yaris got amazing gas mileage; I needed something bigger … so we did a little swap. I got the money for the insurance pay out and bought a 2004 Jeep Grand Cherokee. I did the research. I drove it multiple times. I did everything right; and (despite the fact that I was pretty sure the private dealership was owned and operated by the leaders of the local mob) it seemed like the right decision.

I should be clear, I have been hit (not hit others) in quite a few car accidents since moving to California, so I have a lot of experience buying cars. The Jeep was my fifth purchase.

Now today I was driving on the freeway from our lunch out to Barnes and Noble. I made it no more than two miles down the road, though, when all of a sudden my car started jerking, and violently. I got off at the next exit, called my husband then my father and both said I should try and make it home. When I put the car back into “D” though, it made this horrible, loud thud noise and the entire car jumped. It was barely drivable after that.

We ended up getting towed. Within a few hours I learned that the entire transmission needs to be rebuilt, of course not a covered item on the 90 day limited warranty. Blah blah blah. Let’s get to the positives.

But wait! I said I didn’t want to try and stay positive. I said that when your new car breaks you should let yourself freak out, rather than living in a false sense of naive idealism that everything will just magically work out for you!

Those aren’t the kinds of positives I’m talking about. I’m talking about the stories that come from being towed.

Humanity Is Evil

480832_654152611313_271389699_n

The tow guy got there and attempted to drive my car up onto the tow ramp. But as he was backing the Jeep up to pull it on, this crazy broad pulled up behind him and started honking her horn. Then she yelled “get out of my way!!” The tow guy pulled the car in front of his tow truck, which was a huge mistake. No less than twenty cars then proceeded to drive past the tow truck, no one stopping for him to get my poor, broken Jeep up onto the ramp.

You may be thinking this is normal for a street, but then I have to tell you the best part: I was in a goddamned parking lot with about ten others rows that people could have driven down instead of the one we were in.

Nothing says “this was a good a experience” like a harsh reminder that humanity is evil.

Some People Are Truly Amazing

14930_654154672183_243688893_n

But then – when all seemed to be at a total loss – a woman walked up to me and said “is that your car being towed?” I told her that it was, and then told her that no one was letting the poor tow guy get it up on the ramp, though.

She said: “hold on, I just had lunch with my ex-husband and I’ll have him pull up and block the driveway until your car gets up there.”

No, I am not kidding you, faithful blog followers. The guy pulled up and blocked the way, then pulled forward and asked if he could help with anything else. I thanked him, he drove off. Then the woman asked if we were being picked up, or if she could drive us home.

As horrible as this world is, every once in a while there is a light of hope hanging on.

People Are Full of Surprises

734741_654153205123_581412347_n

Once the Jeep was loaded, we just had to get into the tow truck and ride with him to the auto care center, closer to our apartment (about fourteen miles away). There, my dad was going to meet us and help me get everything handled.

As we got into the tow truck, the tow guy – who seemed like your average, run-of-the-mill tow truck driver – took the kid’s stuffed bear, set him in the middle of the backseat, and clicked him in. Pookie smiled, said thanks, and held the bear’s hand the whole trip.

I have never seen a service person, who deals with the nastiness of public on a regular basis, show such an unbelievably humbling sweetness in my entire life.

The only other note of excitement for the trip was that we had to go through a weigh station, since we were over a large hill that the heavy truck was going to have to go down. I had never been through a weigh station before, and always thought it was some sort of complicated ordeal involving scales and measures and paperwork and police. Sadly, it was not as exciting. We pulled through it, just driving slowly, and continued down the hill.

When your new car breaks, I highly suggest freaking out. Don’t listen to those assholes that tell you to try and stay positive, because there is nothing positive about car repairs. There are, however, pretty awesome reminders you can learn along the way – no matter how ugly or unbelievably touching they may be.