STFU Fridays: All Hail Herr Nietzsche

For those of you that haven’t caught on yet, I went to graduate school in philosophy. Yes, I am one of those people. I think a lot. By a lot I mean all the time. I took a little too much to heart the lesson in humility from Socrates, though, so I really do believe I’m a dumbass (thanks a lot, jerk). But I also believe that my education was far superior to anyone else’s, even though it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. (The old philosophy student’s joke was: What is the first thing a Ph.D. in Philosophy asks on the job? Would you like fries with that?) And for five years or so, I’ve been in a perpetual existential crisis. What does it all mean and all that high-fallutin crap.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about Nietzsche lately. For those of you that have no idea who I am referring to: (1) you for real need to wake the fuck up; and (2) he was a German philologist, one of the fathers of modern philosophy, and the dude had a whack mustache. Your Movember ‘staches and wanna-be Fu Manchu hipster shit has all got nothing on Nietzsche’s facial hair.


I will be providing further tutorial on Herr Nietzsche after we discuss this week’s Shut the Fuck Up. For now, let’s leave it at: the dude was pretty rad.

Now I’m getting ready for my kid’s birthday party. It’s in about a week (seriously guys, if it weren’t for Shut the Fuck Up Fridays, I would have no concept of day or time). All I know right now is that it’s turned into the event of the goddamned century.


There are going to be four little girls and a ton of adults there. It’s a tea party. Everyone is getting really dressed up. There will be crumpets. There will be doilies and tule. We will have three cakes and a cake table: a standing princess cake, a Cinderella’s carriage cake, and cupcakes.

And then yesterday we realized that the kids needed games to play. Duh, it’s a kid’s party. It isn’t just eat and go to them. So now we’re making games: pin the shoe on Cinderella, learn your tea party etiquette, and the coupe de grace of the event – the Cinderella pumpkin carriage piñata. (Which I am making.)


So Herr Nietzsche.

Yesterday I had to get the rest of the supplies I needed to make the games, finish the piñata, and so on. My mom called and said that she had a coupon for 40% off the entire purchase at Michael’s, and while I did want to avoid my mother yesterday, I couldn’t pass up on the deal. As we walked around the store, though, picking out the things that I needed, looking at the Christmas stuff, navigating the holiday shoppers, and grabbing impulse buys along the way, my mom went into this little tirade about how the birthday party was “too nice.”

“You’re going to make people feel weird with everyone dressing up,” she said.

“What, a simple Vons cake isn’t enough for you people?” she whined.

“I think you guys are acting a little pretentious with all the decorating,” she griped.

After some hearty thinking, I realized that her problem is she is jealous. She isn’t in charge of the party. She isn’t even throwing it – it’s being held at my mother-in-law’s. My mother has nothing to wear. My mother would have just gotten a Vons cake – to hear that I am baking the carriage cake, a family friend is baking the standing princess cake, and my mother-in-law is baking the cupcakes was just the icing on her own cake of inadequacy.

Now let’s not get all “oh, you are leaving her out…” because you faithful blog followers know that my Trailer Trash Mom is unreliable, a drama queen, and a total flake. Up until yesterday she said she didn’t even think she would be coming to the party – and this was before she heard about all the pomp and circumstance that would be going on.

Nietzsche had this idea that people deemed what was right and wrong in the world by whether they were a master or a slave. Without getting into too much verbiage here, the people that get angry and resentful when something is nice, that find fault in things they cannot do, are the slaves. They see those that can as masters; as their oppressors. Nietzsche says that they have to cut down the masters so as to feel better about their own slave inadequacies. My mother’s slave mentality spews from her constantly. If she can’t afford a nice gift, well then gifts are over the top. If she doesn’t have time to throw the party, well then the party is pretentious and shouldn’t be done.

Basically, it’s about cutting people down so that you feel better about yourself. To this, I say: shut the fuck up.

Shut the fuck up with your bullshit that the cakes should be Vons cakes. Shut the fuck up with this “if I’m not in charge, it shouldn’t be happening.” Shut the fuck up with your underlying resentment over the fact that you squandered away all your money and can’t afford a nice gift. Shut the fuck up with all of it.

I’m sure you faithful blog followers all have a slave in your life; perhaps you just haven’t realized that their bullshit, narcissistic, weakling viewpoints were really just a matter of being jealous that they feel inadequate in one way or another. I think a lot of people call it “those that want people to be as miserable as them.” They are the people that need to make sure everyone knows how much they disapprove of things being nice. They are the people that need to make sure everyone understands that they think nice is wrong for some reason or another (excess, gluttony, whatever). They are the people that would rather not show up for a party because they think it is “too pretentious,” when in actuality they just need to cut others down to size to feel better about the fact that they – themselves – did not throw such a party.

They all need to take a lesson from Nietzsche and shut it right the fuck up.

* * *

Now for those of you that not only need to shut the fuck up, but need to wake the fuck up, here’s a nice little documentary on Nietzsche. It’s shorter than an episode of Dancing With the Stars. And while I know that you are going to be very busy right now pinning photos of cute DIY projects to your Pinterest, and uploading 7,000 photographs of your celebrity crush to your Facebook page, methinks you would all benefit from turning that shit off, shutting the fuck up, and watching this video right now.

All hail Herr Nietzsche!

The Worst Part About California

Don’t believe anything the tourist ads, or the hipsters with their million dollar trust funds, tell you. California has a lot of downsides.

Sure, the weather is typically pretty nice; although, there are even some bad parts to that. For one, you no longer have much change to the seasons, which is sort of depressing. There is something very beautiful about the fall of leaves; about the first snowfall; and, about the beginning of spring and of summer. You don’t get that in California. But it also rains a lot here during the winter, and California is entirely ill-prepared for it. We don’t have proper drainage, no matter how many floods there are. Despite all the landslides of mud and water, which kill people every year, we do nothing to put up proper drainage walls. And don’t get me started on the lack of fire protection.

The bad things about California go well beyond that, though. There’s the cost of living, which is exponentially higher than most of the country. The $27 cake at Whole Foods down the street from our apartment is only $8 at the Whole Foods just outside Chicago. Our electric bills are higher. Our water bills are through the roof (despite the fact that we live right along a body of water). And our rents are almost double what they would be in other, equally as nice, areas of the country.

The hipsters are overruling California, making the environment a terribly narcissistic and pretentious place to live. Every weekend there are local, hippy fests wreaking havoc on traffic and the peace and quiet some of us enjoy – crappy music festivals, art walks where people sell paintings of local scenery, farmer’s markets with absolutely no health standards at all. The last time we went to the farmer’s market, I bought strawberries and the guy put down his macaroni salad and licked his fingers, then grabbed my bushel of strawberries and got macaroni and mayonnaise all over the bag.

Then there is the overwhelming hillbilly population, leftover from all the Okies that came over during the Great Depression to pick fruit. They have racetracks in almost every city it seems. Every county has a fair, and it isn’t a classy fair; it’s an “eat fried butter and wrestle with pigs” kind of event. The streets are lined with trucks covered in mud from their most recent four-bying excursion. Guns are big. Overalls are big. Beating you wife is huge.

Everyone is trying to break into the film industry, which is an awful industry (to say the least). It uses people for everything it can, and then spits them out quicker than you can say “this was a mistake.” The people that actually keep a job for a while are expected to sacrifice everything. My husband is one of them, who sacrifices lunch breaks, weekends with his family, and night after night after night of just a little bit of quality time to satisfy his bosses. He doesn’t even know how many personal days he gets every year, it’s been so long since he took them. And when confronted with the low wages and high demands, the only response is: “most people in the film industry don’t have families.”

The lifestyle in California – even if you are not in the film industry – is so ridiculously fast-paced and high stress, everyone is always rushing. Everyone is always on the go. No one has time to be nice, or to say “hello” to a stranger. That’s considered rude. People cut you off, flip you off, and feel entitled to take your place in line because they are in a hurry. At the grocery store the other day, a woman cut in line in front of us at the deli because she said her daughter was waiting for her. Really bitch? The grocery workers just let it happen, because in California it isn’t what is fair or what is common courtesy, it’s who has the biggest voice.

It isn’t just all this, though, that is the worst part about California. And there are other miscellaneous nuances that make the place miserable. The traffic. The cost of doing anything besides breathe. The horrible public transportation. The jobs. The education. The public schools. The corrupt politicians. The union stranglehold. The homeless. The way people treat the homeless. The beaches with warnings that hypodermic needles could be buried in the sand.

All this and more is not, and never will be, the worst part about California.

No, faihtful blog followers. No there is a much different thing that is the worst part about California. None of this will ever top it, either. “What in God’s name could be so awful, so heinous, to top all of that?” I’m sure you are asking yourself.

Simple answer: the ghetto trash.

Yesterday I went to pick up some soup, because we’re all sick and I wanted something spicy to clear out my sinuses. I parked my car, went in to get my soup, and came out to find that a car had been parked next to mine, and it was completely blocking me from getting into my car.

The drivers of said car were standing outside of it, two of them making out and one of them smoking a cigarette. Clearly a gang bang was about to happen.

For a brief second I thought about trying to squeeze in, but when I saw that their mirror had been smashed down by my driver’s side door, I decided to just politely ask them to move the car.

I was very nice. They were kids – clearly teenagers, driving their parent’s car. I was very, very nice.

“Is this your car?”

The girl making out put her gum back into her mouth, looked me up and down and said “yeah, what’s it to you?”


“Ok, well I can’t get into my car without scratching up yours … do you think you could move your car just a little?”

The guy smoking said “sure, sorry about that ma’am.” Then the girl piped up again, “you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

The guy had already moved his car by then. I got in my car and drove off.

This is the worst part of California. It’s the medical assistant who acts like you’ve morally offended her because you called to schedule an appointment with your doctor. It’s the cashier at Starbucks who gives you attitude because you point out that she gave you the wrong change. It’s the waitress that acts like she’s doing you a favor to let you pay to eat in her establishment. It’s the girls in the bathroom at Target that tell you you’d better “watch your back” wearing clothing that people don’t like. It’s the trashy kids sitting on cars in the parking lot, making out and dressing like total skanks. It’s the people that are constantly on guard, totally abrassive, and ready to call people out for something they have not even done.

California is filled with it. It’s in even the nicest of communities – which ours is fabled to be. This ghetto trash, these bottom-feeders, are what make California intolerable. Because while the weather issues are annoying, the cost of living sucks, and the hipsters and film industry get under your skin, they don’t get in your face like ghetto trash does.

Is it just me, or are people taking themselves too seriously these days?

We went to Target today. I had to get some of those Clorox bleach wipe things, some of those toilet flusher things, and deodorant. Don’t want my pits to smell bad.

So we went to the “fancy” Target. It isn’t really fancy, actually. It’s in the ghetto-est town in our county, probably the ghetto-est town in the state. I feared for my life the entire time we were there too because I realized I was wearing my White Sox shirt, which happens to be what all the local gang members wear to represent their South-Oxnard drug and killing hood. It’s the “fancy” Target, though, because it has a parking garage and is brand new.

I don’t really know why I call it fancy.

Anyway, we were at the fancy Target and got our items, plus a couple of impulse buys. I spent a buck on an ICEE, which prevented any requests for toys. It was pretty in-and-out. As we left, though, we got in the car; I started the car; and, I went to back up, when a woman walked behind my car with a cart. Okay, no big deal. I didn’t even start to move because I was looking and I waited.

But that bitch stopped her cart behind my car, took her things out, got in her car, and pulled out in a hurry; her cart still sitting behind my car.

Clearly she was taking herself so seriously that she thought she was the only person in the parking lot – or the world for that matter – that was important.

Maybe it’s because I live in California. The land of dramatics. The land of the fruits and nuts and people that think everything they are doing was a part of some sort of predestined-I-am-the-center-of-the-universe plan. But really, it seems like people are taking themselves too seriously these days.

On the Internet

Take Freshly Pressed – WordPress’s daily list of blogs they deemed “cream of the crop”. Every time I scroll through it, it’s filled with all sorts of blogs on dramatics about cross-cultural issues and pithy commentaries on finding inner-peace. Or recipes. Or Blog a Day, which is assigned by WordPress and always particularly pretentious. Earlier this week they assigned people to post photo blogs depicting the word “solitary.” If you look at them now, there are thousands of posts where people have taken these terribly narcissistic photographs of themselves looking longingly into the unknown ahead.

Give me a break. Life is not that afflictive.

Or what about whenever people post things on Facebook these days? They always seem to be about women’s issues or cancer fundraising. Don’t get me wrong, those things are important, but can anyone feel lighthearted at all anymore? Someone once shamed me because everything I posted on Facebook was not about a serious, political issue. Really? Has everyone lost their ability to look at things humorously? Everyone seems to be so busy out saving the world – either by running a marathon, working at Starbucks, or creating political memes – that they seem to have lost any idea of what it means to relax and enjoy life once in a while.

In Person

Look at people we all know, in our daily lives. We all have that one person that never smiles. We all have that one person that never watches funny movies, or never laughs when you tell a joke.

My husband is one I can point to that takes himself way too seriously. When he talks at home, or on the phone to me, he sounds normal. He sounds relaxed. But whenever he talks to someone at work he takes an air of serious superiority. Everything is life or death.

Did I mention he works in video editing? There is nothing life or death about it. They do fucking music videos, baby shows, and Disney-type promos. iCarly is not and never will save the world. Snoop Dogg’s story may be interesting, but it most certainly is not do-or-die.

Even When Serious Is the Last Thing We Should Be

I was thinking of this the other day when I saw the Facebook update of the brother of a friend I used to work with. He had posted some photos from his birthday weekend and when I scrolled through them, in every single one of them he was in, he had this dry, I’ve-got-deep-thoughts-going-on look on his face. Did he really have deep thoughts going on? Do any of us? It was his birthday, for Christ’s sakes. Enjoy it!

Maybe if we stopped taking everything we did so seriously, we’d have to face some cold, hard facts. One of them is that we cannot save the world. Another is that we are not enjoying life if we never laugh. The most important is that we aren’t the only people in the world.

It isn’t immature to relax and have fun. And perhaps it is the people that have thought the deepest that know there is not much of a point to being so serious anyway. The lady at the fancy Target that left her cart behind my car was so rude. But she also was just taking herself too seriously. She really thinks her life is so important that she can’t have even the most basic sense of common courtesy. I feel bad for a person like that who cannot take even a moment to look around and laugh.

5 Reasons Housewives Are Losers

So today I was just sitting here at home, worrying about what kind of cupcakes to bake for my book club Tuesday night, when I logged onto Facebook and saw that one of my friends had attended a Housewife Party last night. Have any of you faithful blog followers heard of these? It’s not like a Tupperware party or playing Bridge with the other gals or whatever. It’s a party where a bunch of arrogant yupsters dress up in the most gaudy housewife garb they can, get drunk, and act like Peg Bundy. Of course none of these people are actually housewives. And these are also the same people that say they couldn’t find any meaning in their lives were they to just be married and have kids.

As I sat here in my leopard printed stretchie pants, looking through these photographs, I have to admit that I was somewhat hurt. This isn’t the first time a friend has attended one of these. And now I’m just wondering if these people can really be called “friends” when they are so arrogant and judgmental.

But the way a housewife dresses isn’t just what makes her a loser; an underbelly of society in these people’s eyes. In my experience there are really five main features of a housewife that make her such a waste of space, a drain on the world’s resources – at least in the minds of the anti-housewives.

Reason #1 Housewives Are Losers: We Dress For Comfort

Yes, the first is about the way we dress. 9 days out of 10, we dress for comfort. So that does mean we often dress ala Peg Bundy. Stretch pants. Comfy tops. Sweaters. Just yesterday I bought myself some leopard printed stretch pants and they are probably the most comfortable pair of pants I own. My favorite outfit is just that – stretchie pants with a dress or tunic and a cardigan sweater. Or we go with yoga pants.

Do you know why we dress for comfort though, rather than cuteness (and, by the way, most of the time we look cute in our comfort)? Because we aren’t sitting at a desk all day. We aren’t processing on a computer or sitting in comfortable meeting room chairs. We aren’t spending our lunch hours in fancy restaurants – we don’t even get lunch hours. Wearing uncomfortable heels for 12 hours of vacuuming, folding laundry, and corralling the children would hurt.

Reason #2 Housewives Are Losers: We Are Immersed in Contemporary Culture

I don’t mean that we’re cool and hip and we dress like yupsters, riding our bikes tandem around Coachella while listening to the musical stylings of Pitchfork on our iPods and shit. I mean that we are more aware of what is going on in contemporary culture on the whole because we’re home for it 24/7.

We listen to AM radio and watch talk shows during the day. We read the news and we read books that are new and popular, because we have the time to. We join book clubs. This morning I realized that my own intellectualism has been debased a little bit because I was reading an article on the Google News Aggregate about Snookie giving birth to her devil spawn early this morning. But then I realized that at least I’m reading, which is more than I can say for a lot of people I know with successful careers. Some of them haven’t cracked a book, magazine, or newspaper since college, and don’t plan on it. It’s a personal choice that everyone has to make for themselves, but I see the added awareness of the world and contemporary culture a plus.

If anything, it gives us more to talk about at a party, other than the most annoying dinner party conversation ever: how our jobs are going.

Reason #3 Housewives Are Losers: We Are Meaningless Realists

Perhaps the most glaring thing about housewives is that we are realists. We are in the real world. We don’t have any pie-in-the-sky dreams of saving the world with our two-bit jobs as a secretaries at the local power plant. We don’t have any idealism that we will cure cancer or stop global warming or end world hunger. It isn’t to say that these notions are bad things to have, in fact the world needs people with these notions to work at least a little bit closer to them; it’s just to say that as housewives we keep our lives and those of us around us in a little bit of perspective.

What this means, though, is that people sometimes call our realism “negativity.” “Oh, you can make a change; you can make a difference!” Sure, I can recycle or raise money for a cause or go out and vote for every election, but realistically speaking there is only so much one person can do. If people want to have an idealism; want to stay away from realistic negativity, that is fine. But just because someone has a job and a vague sense of meaning in their lives does not mean they are the next Steve Jobs or Neil Armstrong; and most importantly it does not mean that our jobs as housewives are unimportant and meaningless either.

Reason #4 Housewives Are Losers: We Worry All the Time

As I mentioned before, I was worrying about baking cupcakes for my book club on Tuesday night. The reason why I was worrying was actually just because it’s been so hot out lately that running the oven is not something I particularly feel like doing. But you see, as housewives we over think and worry about everything.

Sometimes my former self – the young woman in graduate school on her way to a Ph.D. in philosophy and successful teaching career – rears her ugly head and says to me “is this all you have to worry about? Jesus, get a life!” But then I start to think about why I worry about things like cupcakes, vacuuming, cleaning the toilets, what to make for dinner, and so on: because they are a part of my job as wife and mother. Not to sound corny or anything, but I place as much importance and value on my job as any other person in the adult world. Now not all housewives worry about everything that I do, but I can say with certainty that the majority of us do. This makes it even more hurtful for someone to say a housewife doesn’t have a care in the world. Because while your care in the world may be an 8 to 5 kind of care, a housewive’s is 24/7.

Reason #5 Housewives Are Losers: We’re Online A Lot

… but are also clueless technologically.

As a housewife – especially one with kids – life can be a little bit isolating. We don’t get to go to a central location with other human beings every day. Sometimes we have play dates or extra-curriculars, but a lot of the time we have is spent alone. So we go online and interact with blogs, Facebook, Twitter, etc.

On the flip side, we aren’t necessarily equipped with work-sponsored laptops, Blackberries, and other new technologies. While we understand Facebook and how to do our blogs (those of us that have one, that is), we don’t necessarily understand all the other social media and equipment that is out there now. And you won’t often find housewives checking their email while out to lunch with friends, or standing in a group of people completely oblivious to each other because they are too absorbed by their smartphones.

What I always find to be ridiculous, though, is when people judge a housewife because she spends time online every day; simply because those that do that are the same people that can’t go an entire meal without checking their work email. That can’t have a conversation without interrupting it for a phone call or a text message. How are these things any different from each other?

So you can see, I don’t actually believe that housewives are losers. I am one, why would I? Okay, sometimes I believe I am a loser, but that’s more my former self rearing her ugly head again. I guess the real point is that before judging what another person does, we should all consider that there may be meaning and value in it, and that everyone defines that for themselves. And for God’s sakes, if anyone invites you to a Housewife Party – graciously decline. They’re just rude and arrogant.

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!!


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.


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:



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:


The Return of the Lady With the Pink Hat

… or, perhaps more accurately described: Day 3 of “My Kid Is Better Than Yours Hell.”

Last year we made an attempt to go to every one of the Wednesdays at the Library free kids events, offered at our local library. Quickly, though, I learned that such events are home of SOAPs (Summertime OverAchieving Parents), self-entitled Californians, and just basically a sea of the ugliest humanity has to offer.

We stopped going to them last summer after there was an altercation between my father and a psychotic lady in a pink hat. It went something like this: my father was walking into the library to meet us, where we were standing in line to get into the community room where a kid’s show was about to start. He is a candidate for full hip replacement and moves a little slow; all of a sudden a little bastard about two years old ran into him and he almost fell over. My dad looked down and said “watch where you are going” and apparently (I did not know this until recently) the librarian told the kid to stop running. As a side note, it is not okay for children to run in a public library; and had my father fallen he would have broken his hip and had a world of problems just because his parents apparently didn’t care to teach their kid basic manners.

A little later, we were standing in line, and all of a sudden this psychotic lady in a pink hat came over and started screaming – literally screaming – at my father for getting into her kid’s way and for telling him to watch where he was going. He hadn’t yelled; he hadn’t even spoken harshly. He was just minding his own business, walking into the public library; and followed up almost being knocked over with a “watch where you are going.” Apparently this was an annoyance to this lady, though, because she kept screaming louder and louder until finally she stopped when someone said to get a librarian to ask her to leave; and then we all went into the show. Afterwards, her little bastard, fucktard of a child was pulling antique books off the shelves in the lobby of the library and screaming so loudly that she and her friends were asked to leave by the library staff. After that, we didn’t attend anymore of the Wednesday Summertime events.

Until today.

Today was the balloon show. We went to the one last year and it was really good and so after much begging and pleading, I caved (assuming that nothing would be going on). The event was already overwhelming as is. They let more than the maximum capacity into the room; kids were screaming and talking and running around; and the show, itself, was a little bizarre (to say the least). Nonetheless, everyone was having a good time until this little kid stood up in the middle of the seated children and started screaming.

“Austin sit down!” I heard a lady yell from behind me and I looked over, and to my dismay the lady with a pink hat was standing right there. She was not in a pink hat again, but I could never forget this woman’s ugly-ass mug.

Austin did not sit down, so – in the middle of the show – she flopped herself to the front of the room and trampled over a bunch of small children to lean in and pull her little asshole out of the area. Just then, a man whose children she had trampled over, said quietly “ma’am, please don’t trample over our kids just to get your son under control.”

With fire in her eyes and a vein popping out of her head, this psychotic bitch plopped Austin down behind us, and trampled back over to the front where the man was standing on the outskirts. On her way, she kicked me in the kidney (I was seated on the floor).

“Don’t you talk to me that way! Don’t you talk about my son that way!!!” she started screaming – screaming, fucking screaming – with her finger in his face.

“Don’t trample my kid!” he said and then the librarian came over and told them both to cut it out.

Crazy pink hat lady grabbed Austin and sat down in the nearest chair (which was right next to me, where I was seated on the floor), so we got up and moved to the back of the room. She sat there for a few moments, with a crazy look in her eye, and then all of a sudden she had her hands in a meditation pose and was muttering to herself. At this point, the balloon show had reached an all-time bizarre point, where one of the people in it had fully submersed himself into a large balloon. This was – by far – the craziest thing I had ever witnessed, between Psycho Susan and her little bastard in need of ADHD meds and the guy bouncing up and down inside a balloon.

Then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the man who had asked the woman not to trample the kids went to leave and crazy pink hat lady – with a crazy look in her eyes – followed him out into the lobby and proceeded to scream at him to try and pick a fight, leaving her kid inside the show, completely unaware of how much of a psychotic bitch his mother is. At the height of the screaming, I heard her yell “how dare you say these things about my son!!” and he simply screamed back “it’s not about him, it’s about you – you psychotic cunt!” He was asked to leave and she returned just as the show ended to gather poor Austin. We shuttled out of the place immediately.

It doesn’t get much more bizarre than this, faithful blog followers. We are only three days into “My Kid Is Better Than Yours Hell” with eleven more to go. It seems like the people in my community are all looking for a fight. To be honest, though, I’m just glad it didn’t have anything to do with us this time.

Why is everyone so angry?

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

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

Private Posts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Man Hit and Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Bank Confrontation

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

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

B(itch): “I’m sorry …?”

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

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

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

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

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

People I Am Jealous Of

I really do have a list of people that I am legitimately jealous of. I never used to get jealous, but now I do. This isn’t like a psycho, jealous girlfriend, though, who gets all crazy and shit when her man even looks the opposite way. It’s much different than that; in fact, I wish it were that simple.

I’m super duper jealous of the arrogant, pompous assholes who thinks their shit smells like roses

Sorry, that was not the most eloquent way to put it, but I had to get my point across. Today on Facebook I saw some post of some arrogant prick I only know in passing. He was rambling on and on about how he realized that the reason he has such wonderful people in his life is because he is a wonderful person. After vomiting out the rage this welled up into my throat, I realized that I am super duper jealous of this guy. I wish I could be as arrogant and self-important as him. I wish I could say “oh, I have such wonderful people in my life because clearly I am a wonderful person!!” Maybe then I wouldn’t question myself so much when every other god-forsaken person in my life does.

… on that note, I wish I wasn’t hated by so many people. I’m jealous of people that are well-liked.

The other half of this guy’s pompous little rant was that people who are always miserable and think nothing but assholes and idiots surround them can be sure that what is around them is merely a reflection of who they are. Well, I may be a bitch, but I try really hard to not be an asshole and I know that a complete moron I am not. I believe that I am surrounded by a lot of them, though (as many of us are) because I know how to deal with them.

This begs the next jealousy I have though: I’m jealous of people that are well-liked.

Despite the fact that I have this bitchy, bitch-all-the-time, “tell it like it is”-attitude on my blog, I spend a considerable amount of time trying to be a really good person in my personal life. I go way out of my way for the people that I love. I hate cooking and I prepare great meals for my husband almost every night. Birthdays are always a huge ordeal in our house – because of no one but me. I have let myself get railroaded as well by a lot of people when being so nice; and I just let it happen because I just don’t want people to hate me (which they end up doing anyway). I used to go to writers groups and have given a lot of thought and detail to my critiques when none of the people even looked at my work. I gave up 10 years of graduate school and my career for my husband to have some more time in film. And I have done almost all of this with a smile.

I consider myself to work towards doing what is in the moral right all the time as well. I believe that lying under almost every circumstance is wrong. I believe that using people for my own advantage is horrible. In a cut-throat, dog-eat-dog world, I truly would get eaten alive.

This is why I am jealous of people that are well-liked, though. I don’t get it at all because I try really hard to be a good person and to be good to other people, and yet I am hated vehemently by a lot of people.

I’m jealous of Snookie because she is so goddamned stupid.

Stupid people don’t think. Not thinking means less anxiety about life in general. Not thinking also means never having to take responsibility for your actions. I’m super jealous of people that have no sense of responsibility.

Responsibility to some means being an adult. That is true to me, but more than anything responsibility is just a huge, dead weight hanging along my shoulders, making my neck and head pound, and weighing me down into the ground. Snookie doesn’t have any of that shit. The only thing weighing her down are her belly rolls and her big ass, leopard printed hair bows.

I’m jealous of people that have happy marriages…

…because my marriage is a shit hole most of the time. I’m sure that my marriage is the more realistic – mine will be the one that lasts forever, whereas the “pie in the sky right now” ones will fall apart as soon as something goes wrong.

But goddamn am I jealous of those people.

I just wish I felt like a wife sometimes, instead of what I feel like (which is a roommate, an acquaintance, someone less important, someone that is of no matter, someone that it is okay to lie to, to sneak around behind the back of, and to treat like a slave while giving not even an ‘I love you, thank you, you look nice today, have some more wine.’ in return). I would even settle for just being told I am pretty at this point, which I don’t even know has ever happened.

I am hella-jealous of Gold Diggers and Bridezillas

Those bitches get shit done. I know for sure now that had I been on Bridezillas I would have had more from my wedding than I did. I wouldn’t have had to make all the fucking food myself. I wouldn’t have come away with only one photograph of my husband and I actually standing together – ONE.

Gold Diggers get shit done too. Those bitches have got nice purses, nice hair, and look awesome in their skinny jeans. I have the Target special purse with a hole in it that change falls through, a shitty hairdo, tons of clothes that have fallen apart, and my husband has never actually taken me out on a real date.

Let me repeat that for you, faithful blog followers: never taken me out on a real date.

I am jealous of those gold-digging bitches and Bridezilla witches something fierce.

I am jealous of people that can lie and use people easily.

Just because I think it is horrible to lie and use people doesn’t mean shit. I wish I could lie to people and use them for what I want and not feel like total ass about it. I lie about something looking nice when it doesn’t – just to spare someone’s feelings – and I even feel bad. If I were a filthy liar and a fucktard user, I’m sure my life would be so much easier.

I really really wish I could be one of those writers that has a huge platform and follows a formula for some canned bullshit and makes lots of money for it.

I have a few friends that are writers and have done so well for themselves. I am super jealous of them. Not that I think they are better than me or I want what they have. Just that I am jealous that they have a platform and a support system of friends and family that I just don’t have. I have family and I have friends, but so few of them read or are interested in what I write, or so far away from me that they don’t know how to share my writing with others. (Of course I have you faithful blog followers, and every other writer in the world should be jealous of me for that …)

But I write for myself mostly anyway, so it shouldn’t matter; except that if I am just doing this for myself, why not just do it in my head and stop belaboring over it all the time? Because I am really doing it for myself ONLY because I have no real platform. Because I believe that I actually do have something to say; although, it seems like everyone wants you to cram it into some formula and I just have to ask – “is it literature if there is nothing literary about it?”

The one I am the most jealous of, though, is myself a few years ago.

A few years ago – just a few years – I had my shit together. I was in grad school. I had a plan. I was happy. I was confident in myself. I felt good about myself. I knew what I wanted and how I was going to get it.

Now I’m a pile of rubble and dust of what that person was. I am no longer in grad school, and I have no career. I have no plan for what will make me happy and feed the intellectual part of my soul that is so so so important to who I am. I have lost all interest in everything. I lack all confidence in myself as a result of my Trailer Trash Mom, my in-laws, and my husband telling me every chance they could why I am such a bad person. I no longer know what I want, except to get the hell away from California, get the hell back to my sweet, home Chicago, and to have a normal life again. And I have no idea how to do any of that.

Blah. I have had a real shit-house of a day and wish I hadn’t. It seems like every day is a shit-house, though; really nothing more than a consequence of how unhappy I am with my life right now, and how stuck I feel between a rock and a hard place. This is the B(itch)Log, though, so anyone that doesn’t like my rants can kindly show themselves to another blog. Perhaps the “My life is wonderful and unrealistic and I shit rainbows”Log would be more appropriate.

Or, maybe that guy was right on my Facebook. Maybe I’m surrounded by bull shit, assholes, and idiots because that is what I really am. Whatever the case may be, my day exposed all these jealousies – every single one of them, really.

I think I’m going to go find myself a big, leopard-printed hair bow to start emulating Snookie. Maybe that’ll ease a little of the green with which I feel.

If I Spoke in Real Life the Way I Do in My Blog

As pictured in The New Yorker Magazine

It occurred to me today that I would be a lot less tense all the time if I were able to let the snarkfest that is my blog out in my regular life as well.  Think of the possibilities:  for one, I could be more honest; for two, I could poke fun freely at all the things I love to poke fun at without the fear of consequences.  Have any of you ever seen that New Yorker cartoon (pictured above) where the dog says “On the Internet, nobody knows you’re a dog?”  On the Internet, you can craft whatever personality you want – be it nice and sweet when you’re really an asshole; or a complete socialite when you’re really shy and quiet.  This is all the more reason we should always be cognizant of this fact:  that who our online personalities are may or may not actually reflect who we are in real life.  Never believe what you read on the Internet is the old adage, which remains to be the case today.

In my case, it isn’t that nobody knows who I really am because I have crafted some deceptive identity on the Internet, though; it’s that (as many of us experience) the Internet is often the only place I really express myself to the fullest extent.  By and large, it’s my writing in general (not just online) that I allow myself to really come out.  And this morning it finally dawned on me that life would be so much better if I could be as snarky, witty, and silly as I am in my blog in real life, since a synthesis of the writer/blogger Heather and the in-person Heather best describes the real me.

Imagine what chaos would ensue, though, if I were to say some of the things I say on this blog in person…

Remember my blogs about Mr. Biglesworth and Cat Day?  I imagine actually saying face-to-face to a cat owner (or even just cat lover) would be disastrous.

Or in my recent blog about Why I Hate Wal-Mart… I can only begin to imagine what those crazy Wal-Mart shoppers would do if they heard me talking about their precious store of deals and roll-back prices in the way that I did.

I can’t even begin to fathom what my mother-in-law must think of some of my posts, and were I to actually say those things to her in person…

 And were I to tell any of the many people I encounter that actually inspire my B(itch)Log Lessons in Grammar and Punctuation, I imagine I would actually have fewer friends than I already do.

I think some of my more recent posts would have been the most inflammatory as well were they said in person.  As time has gone on, I have become more and more comfortable with just speaking what I really think and feel – as long as it’s from the safety and security of my private laptop.  That’s the thing about bloggers:  they often get accused of never putting their money where their mouths are.  In other words, they talk an awful lot of shit but only if they can hide behind their modems and computer screens.  Ultimately, though, I think if I were to actually say some of these things in person it would unambiguously cause people hurt feelings.  It would probably be rude.  It would almost certainly create enemies out of people I otherwise enjoy spending time with.

In the end, it’s about finding a balance – one where you can feel comfortable being honest but not cross the line.  To be funny and witty, but never move into bully territory.  Can I do such a thing?  Only time will tell…