PLEASE: No Outside Food, Turn Off Your Cellphones, Silence Your Assholes

1098401_184942645012006_2101961229_n

Those of you that know me, or have been reading this blog for a while, know that I am not a fan of flatus jokes.

You know what I’m talking about. I’m sure you make them all the time. Maybe you post comics on Facebook about blowing them under the covers; or you tell jokes about your husband ripping them in the privacy of an intimate 20-30 person family party.

Then again maybe you are more comfortable with the wind that comes from the assholes of everyone. Perhaps you are like that woman that I saw once – years ago – on Lifetime’s Wife Swap reruns. She would pass her horrifying (and quite frankly excessive for a woman,  in my opinion) gas into empty plastic bottles, then close the bottles to PRESERVE THE SCENT TO EXPOSE TO HER CHILDREN AS A JOKE LATER IN THE DAY.

Yes. You just read what I wrote. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.

My husband sometimes is the worst because he does not say what all men should say in the presence of a fucking lady, such as myself – “excuse me.” Or even “sorry.” Every once in a while I get up and walk out of the room, screaming as I go like the stark-raving lunatic that I am, something along the lines of: “why don’t you just drop your pants and take a shit in front of me while you’re at it!” Other times I say nothing because I’m fairly certain he would if he thought I wouldn’t mind.

It comes from his dad. Sometimes I think he (my father-in-law) tears the lining of his asshole, he just does it so much and so violently. Violently, like bring in the SWAT guys with the protest beating sticks-violently. Then he’s proud of it. He’ll try and waft it around the room (as if this is even possible) with his hands, then he’ll do it again only that time you think it might be time to call a doctor, or possibly even 9-1-1.

My mother-in-law gets pretty mad about it sometimes too, about as mad as I do towards my husband. You see how this goes.

A few years ago I was in the post office and this lady leaned over the counter, grunting and looking to be in a considerable amount of pain. I almost went over to ask if she was OK; though I’m glad I didn’t. It turned out she just needed to get some wind out herself. I blogged about that, so you’re welcome to read about it HERE if you want.

But first…

As I said, I am not a fan of gas jokes. The F-A-R-T word is NOT allowed in our house. I just think it’s crude and disgusting, and sure I get that everyone does it. But everyone takes a shit on a regular basis too, are we doing that publicly as well? No. No we are not. (At least the majority of us…the others, well you know who you are…) It is not and never will be socially acceptable, in fact I’m pretty sure if I were to drop my pants and take a dump in the middle of the grocery store I would very likely be assumed mentally ill. Even if I didn’t drop my pants but still took a dump while in the butter aisle of my local Vons, things would not go over very well. Why then can people putter around the store as though there’s a trombone festival coming out of their assholes while they pick out their Rice A Roni and applesauce?

You get my point. I’m not a fan of talking about these things. Or witnessing them – especially witnessing them.

UntitledYou can all imagine then my shock and horror, and absolute disgust, when I was sitting in a waiting room and this man sitting there waiting for his appointment kept blowing them over and over, and over again. I was waiting for my daughter, who was dealing with her jerk father in Texas (who has ironically taken a shit publicly in a box and put it in a coworker’s locker, but we’ll save that one for another blog post some other time…).

For forty minutes, or so, I waited with this gassy man and his anus.

It wasn’t even just that. He was sitting there on his computer. A laptop. Tip-typing away, while I read on my Kindle, waiting. He just tip-typed and I knew I had seen him there before. Worse, I will very likely have to face him again. We were just sitting there, then all of a sudden he would blow one. It sounded something like a very long, very slow, trumpet. Then he’d laugh and say “sorry” out loud (at least he apologized, I suppose); but never once did he look up from his typing.

And I say never once because it happened again, the same way. Very long, very slow trumpet. Followed by a “sorry” and continuing to type. Then it happened again, and again, and then another time – until it had been a total of NINETEEN TIMES that this guy had blown his butt bugle slowly, without looking up or getting up to – oh, I don’t know – deal with whatever was going on with his intestines that required him to blow so much air out of them in a relatively public place.

It was just awful.

There’s a sign in the waiting room that says “please no outside food, turn off your cellphones.” This is – quite obviously – for the courtesy of all the rest of us that are sitting there and may or may not be interested in smelling your day-old Chipotle burrito; and/or listening to a loud conversation you have on your cellphone with your Aunt Mable about your cousin Jimmy knocking up his step-sister. I feel like they should add another thing on there. For the goodness of humanity and – at the very least – my sanity.

Because the next time that guy does something like that, I may just do something crazy. Like drop my pants and pee in the artificial tree in the corner of the room, just to show this guy how much fun it is to witness another person’s bodily functions to such a magnanimous degree.

Then again something tells me he might enjoy it.

Flatus

…I know… so much to wrap your minds around on this one. Perhaps this video of a deer in the woods with its own wind-related issues will help you get over this post. Now may we never speak of any of this again.

I Hope You All Laugh Heartily About My Disastrous Long Weekend

1098401_184942645012006_2101961229_n

I don’t even know why the fuck I called it a “long weekend.” It certainly was disastrous, but the concepts of weekend, or long weekend, are relatively foreign to me.

My husband doesn’t get most federal holidays off. I mean, even when he does he’s usually answering text messages or emails or whatever about work anyway. So “long” is a misnomer, because he’s at work right now.

The other thing is that, um, I’m a SAHM – so I work 24/7. Weekend has no meaning to me, except I have another child (aforementioned husband) to pick up after.

Friday

It started innocently on Friday afternoon. My mother in law texted me that she was at jury duty down the street from our home, so did we want to meet her for lunch near the court house. Sure, why not. I’m always up to eat, plus she and my father in law were leaving the following day for a week in Park City (Sundance), so I figured I need to go over their horse care instructions, since my husband would be handling it on Sunday.

While sitting there, my daughter wanted to show her the funny complaint Post-It she “sent” to my husband.

375722_721642640753_312323801_n

My mother in law took one look at it and announced loudly (I mean loudly, like the rest of the restaurant looked at us): “yeah, I think he needs to add fiber to his diet, or start taking laxatives regularly … even when he was potty training, pooping was so hard.”

Pooping. Pooping was so hard. That’s my man.

Saturday

Saturday began in what could have been a serious disaster. The kid woke up with a scratchy, allergic sore throat, but right now she’s having a rough time because her dad moved to Texas and she has to go visit him soon (and vehemently does not want to go). So a scratchy, allergic sore throat suddenly became “I think I’m going to blow chunks” which then turned into crying and saying she doesn’t want to call her dad in a couple of weeks, and she doesn’t want to go to Texas, and why can’t I just have donuts for breakfast sometimes???????”

Say what?

In the span of 20 minutes, she went from allergic to nauseous to anxious to panicky to crying to can I please have a donut.

I had a Mom Beverage for lunch.

Sunday

Sunday was relatively mild. We went to my husband’s parents’ home to take care of the horse and hang out with his grandparents (who stay there during the winter). They made lasagna and a pudding pie for us for dinner, which I’ll get to in a minute. After all the NFL dramas for the day were over, we scurried on home for me to watch my DVRed Flowers In The Attic that was on Lifetime the night before.

Then we all went to bed, and after the stroke of minute on MLK Day was when shit started to get real.

Monday. MLK Day

I woke up at 4-something in the morning from a noise outside, and couldn’t get back to sleep. Naturally – as most people do now – I grabbed my phone and proceeded to make myself even less sleepy by looking at Facebook and Pinterest and all that other senseless shit.

Then a notification from my bank popped up that the paycheck my husband had me deposit the other day had been returned, and suddenly my account was frozen until the bank reopens Tuesday.

Rather than go back to sleep, because obviously nothing can be done, like a psychopath I got up and turned all the lights on in the house (essentially) and decided to call the bank’s 24/7 hotline. In fact, the account is frozen. I have something like $11 in my wallet until then.

And a shit-ton of credit cards, but what if the zombie apocalypse starts?!

I went back to sleep for about twenty minutes and then was woken up by a small human being climbing on top of me (because kids were made to wake moms up early, right?), and then the usual noise of the hustle and bustle of a typical weekday morning. Remember, we don’t really have any concept of long weekends around here.

Finally I got up and shit really started to get weird.

First I was sitting downstairs and heard my daughter talk, nonstop, to whom and about what I do not know, for forty five minutes.

Then I looked outside and saw a conglomerate of people milling around in the walkway. And I heard what they were all standing outside so awkwardly because of, which I think I need to backtrack on for a second first.

We got new neighbors four days ago. On the first day, they moved all their things in in garbage bags. Garbage bags. Not boxes. The second day, it appeared that there are about ten people living in the two bedroom townhome, I heard one tell another neighbor they are all farmworkers. The third day, they brought over many cages of squawking, loud ass birds and left them on the patio (in spite of the fact that the place does not allow pets).

Then today, the fourth day, in the coup de grace you might call it, the majority of them were outside while the oldest couple in the house had the loudest, dirtiest, nastiest sex I have ever heard happen in my entire life. It sounded like a buffalo was humping a whale, while squealing like a dying manatee.

SexEmail

I went to walk upstairs and finally get ready for the day (it was like noon at this point), when I realized I had not even eaten breakfast, so I grabbed a banana and then went upstairs. While eating the banana, I remembered what I had eaten the night before, though – remember, I said my husband’s grandparents had made us lasagna and pudding cake. And I had not yet showered, so had lasagna-and-pudding-cake-morning-breath, mixed with banana and all of a sudden my mouth tasted like what I can only describe as a dirty baby diaper.

The neighbors were still making their sweet, sweet love outside; the birds were squawking; and my mouth tasted like a dirty baby diaper. I quickly showered and dressed and decided we’d run a few errands to get some fresh air.

On the way to the car, some kids threw a ball and it hit me in the head.

So that’s how my long weekend has gone. How about yours?

MjAxNC0xZjY0MWJlMTIwOWIzMWIw

My Neighbor and I Both Ate Our Emotions Today

1098401_184942645012006_2101961229_n

My neighbor and I both ate our emotions today. Though, while mine was not exactly healthy, it wasn’t quite as horrifying as hers either.

Before I get into that, I should first talk about the eating of emotions. We’ve all done it at one time or another. Some people do it often and don’t even realize it. Others drink they’re emotions, which is a whole other issue altogether. They’re sad and depressed, or stressed out. Suddenly they wake up one day and realize they’ve eaten a combination of Thin Mints and Oreos for every single meal, for weeks. It’s OK. Everyone (for the most part) has gone through this phase at one time or another, and once you realize it you get it in check.

Maybe.

I definitely wouldn’t condone eating away your feelings often. First and foremost, it isn’t like someone thinks to themselves “man, I’m having a really shitty day, I’m going to go home and eat kale until I fucking puke.” Actually, if you ate kale until you puked, you’d probably be actually eating kale until you shit your pants, making your shitty day literal. So it’s either that or because kale tastes like a filthy 1970s shag carpet. I don’t know, but I do know that people don’t usually run home and eat away their emotions with super healthy super foods.

That isn’t entirely true, though. I am “Facebook” friends with this girl I went to high school with who tells us all the time about how after a stressful day she goes home to eat a pile of apple slices, or a bucket of celery. It’s really obnoxious too because she always has to add in the precursor: rather than go home and pig out on pizza and cookies like fat people do after a hard day, I’m going to …

Shut the fuck up, bitch. No one wants to hear your fat shaming bullshit. PS we all know the reason you are like this now is because of how you looked back then…

But I digress.

So I wouldn’t condone eating away feelings often, or all the time. But I definitely believe that sometimes a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, or a nice bag of Twizzlers Nibs are just what the doctor ordered. Dare I suggest that many doctors I know do suggest that once in a while letting go and indulging after a hard time is … healthy?

It’s healthy because, simply put, repressing stress is probably the worst thing a person can do to their body. People have to let that energy out, or it keeps building. We’ve all heard the analogy of the bottled up feelings, being shaken and shaken until one day all those feelings come splurging out in an explosion of yuck. This is my entirely unscientific and non medical opinion, here, but I think it’s pretty right on. At least in my experience.

Plus there is a moderate way to destress with food. Don’t keep enough junk in the house to overdo it. Make sure to put what you want in a plate or a bowl so as to keep to your portion size. Find something low fat, or low carb, or low cal that still fulfills your urge to pork down all your rage and hurt feelings until you pass out. There are a lot of ways to get around the really and true badness of bad eating.

This isn’t rocket surgery or brain science here. It’s just fucking common sense.

Today, when I was super stressed out about all the things going on, and a shit ton of money I have to spend to take a vacation to Texas (of all places) that I REALLY don’t want to take, just so my daughter can see her Biological Bum (whom she adamantly does not want to see) and all the issues this is bringing up which is another blog post for another day …I just needed to do something to feel better fast. I needed it so badly, and fortunately there was little junk food in my house to indulge on.

Except the Salsa Con Queso.

1527000_721406928123_359275346_n

I have a weird relationship with Salsa Con Queso. I won’t eat it for a really long time and be totally tired of it. Then I’ll eat it with chips every day for lunch for like three days straight. The plus side of this is that it has a lot of tomatoes and onions and shit in it that is actually good for you. The other plus is that the calories and fat isn’t quite like a Snickers bar or a bucket of neopolitan ice cream might be.

I keep telling myself this. Rationalize, rationalize, rationalize. Regardless of your feelings about my rationalization of this, let’s just agree that there are a lot of things that I could be eating that are much much worse for me to pork away my emotions and frustrations on than this. Okay?

Glad we agree.

I encountered what one of those “much much worse” things was today, shortly after my uninhibited love affair with my Tostitoes and my Salsa Con Queso dip.

Sitting on the couch, working on editing my upcoming book, and yelling up the stairs various threats of punishment that will come if the homeschooling work was not finished “by the time I get up there…” I noticed my neighbor standing on her porch. We live in a townhome, so the proximity was fairly close. She was standing there looking longingly toward the parking lot. She appeared sad, but she sort of always does. Then, in a moment of sheer horror then amazement then fear then entertainment then genuine concern, I saw her pork down one Twinkie after another until she had eaten not one, not two, but TWELVE MOTHERFUCKING TWINKIES.

My neighbor and I both ate our emotions today. Tomorrow I will probably eat my Salsa Con Queso again, since there is still about 1/2 a jar left and watching the Twinkie hog down sort of stressed me out just witnessing it.

Today Was A Strange Day, Indeed

1098401_184942645012006_2101961229_nHave you guys ever had a day that was just so bizarre it seemed like someone may have slipped some magic mushrooms into your lunch? We’re talking crazy strange – like out of this world strange; and it never happens like just one weird thing and then it’s all over. It’s like twenty weird things in one day, and they just get weirder and weirder as the hours plug along until the moment you go to sleep questioning whether or not you will wake up in a mental hospital.

Today was one of those days for me.

It started innocently enough. We’ve been helping my dad get ready to sell his home, and the last step was to replace the carpeting. He garnered a nice discount from the realtor’s brother, so it was scheduled and we all hung out watching and chatting as his disgusting, old berber carpet was replaced with what I can only describe as walking on a cloud.

1478984_720711377013_1621913057_nSeriously, it is so soft I may just stay at his house until it sells, curled up on the fluffy floor with a blanket and a book.

Around noon, one of the guys used my dad’s microwave to heat up his lunch and it smelled so good I had saliva literally pouring out of my mouth – that is the type of drooling we are talking about. When I checked the cabinets, though, I realized that I was being a fucking idiot by even bothering – my dad doesn’t keep food in the house. He eats with us at our house. Or goes out.

So I went to Subway.

While at Subway, I apparently gave off some sort of a moron vibe, though, because suddenly and without warning, these two bitches making our sandwiches called me a “stupid white bitch” in Spanish! It was crazy! I mean… really crazy, mainly because we live in California so you’d think these broads would realize that most people in California – Hispanic or not – know at least some Spanish.

In this instance, I’ve been called a stupid white bitch in Spanish enough times to know how to respond in their native tongue, which is exactly what I did: “fuck you, I’m going to the Subway down the street.”

The strange only got stranger from there.

About a half hour after we all finished eating and the carpeting was still being worked on, my daughter came running over to me crying that she had stepped on a nail that was sticking out of the ground.

Didn’t Mommy say to leave your shoes on? Of course Mommy did. Why didn’t you leave your shoes on?

Radio silence.

Had this happened a year ago; two years ago… even a few months ago, it would have been no big deal. The kid would have still been covered under her last Tdap vaccine and there would be some Neosporin and a band-aid, and all would be done. But as I calculated the time and my husband called the pediatrician, we realized that she’s due for her Tdap in less than 30 days.

So to the pediatrician we went. The carpet still being installed. This dumb white bitch wondering what’s next to come up. It took us 30 minutes to get there, 15 seconds in the office to get the shot, 45 minutes to get back.

1010221_720770648233_2098248793_nThen some non-strange things happened. I cleaned the toilets in my house. I baked some small cakes shaped like owls for my husband’s birthday tomorrow. I uploaded photos of the cakes to Instragram and invented the hashtag #happybirthdayjerkface. Non-strange things like this.

But then jerk face got home from work and the strangeness resumed.

He got me my Hot Men 2014 calendar.

Those of you that have not been around the blog for long, or who skip the majority of my posts may not know: I made an explicit list of requests for Christmas from my husband. They were pretty simple, and for the most part I got them. But I got no hot men calendar, which I had even taken the time to request specific men in specific months.

As Christmas Day, and the days that followed, drudged on, I made it clear that I was unhappy about the absence of my hot men calendar, until finally my mother in law yelled at my husband that he could order one from CVS for super cheap to get me to shut the fuck up already. I think the only thing he needed to hear was that there were options out there for cheap to get me to shut the fuck up, and he was sold.

Today he picked it up from CVS.

Among my favorite months are, of course, January (Wolf Blitzer), April (Vladimir Putin, topless with a horse), July (Hulk Hogan), and September (random nerd in the middle of a Live Action Role Play – LARP). Albert Camus, my motto towards men, and Jim Cantore are in there too. Also, December is FUCKING GANDOLF.

1507023_720793726983_110367318_n

In the coup de grace of the strangest of days, we headed back over to my dad’s house after my husband ate his dinner to help put the TVs and computers and junk back into place. And to start doing some more free laundry.

Suddenly, and again without warning, I realized that my daughter needed her nails clipped. So rather than – I don’t know – go home and clip them later like a normal person, I decided to just do it with my dad’s clippers as she lay on his bed. She doesn’t like to get her nails clipped, though, and started crying, so for some ungodly reason, my dad thought it would make her laugh if he said the following:

“Hey, if you leave them on my bed, I’ll eat them in the middle of the night.”

Say what?

Next thing I knew, he was asking if I would clip his toe nails for him. I don’t even know what to say about that, except that I usually say no and then start to feel guilty because he needs to have one of his hips replaced (he had the other done a year ago), and it’s hard for him to bend over…and I don’t know, I have a guilt complex.

So then he was laying on his bed, and I was clipping his gargoyle toes. Each one that came off included comments from me like “this one looks like petrified wood!” They just rolled off the tongue. Then for added measure, my husband jumped in and I clipped his nails too.

In the end, the only one whose nails were not clipped were my own. I’ll go to the nail salon for that. Tomorrow. That is, if I don’t wake up in a mental institute – which I’m starting to wonder if that will happen.

I mean this strange conglomerate of things today can’t actually be real, can they?

My Horrible Evening At Pukeplantation

Pukeplantation

Am I overwhelming you most faithful blog followers with too many posts? This is something like the fourth in two days, I’ve just really had a lot to say these past few days. I promise, I’ll slow down (maybe).

Went to dinner this evening. Just me and Pookies, which meant that it ended up being somewhere kid-friendly. I wasn’t in the mood for Denny’s or Panera Bread, though; and fast food was of course out of the question. So Souplantation it was.

Now I do typically enjoy Souplantation. Typically. We used to live in the heart of Los Angeles and had a really nice one. One that had everything, plus amazing customer service. Their space was bigger than any restaurant I had ever been to. And it was walking distance from our apartment – just awesome.

The Souplantation out here is a far cry from that; although it was still decent up until recently. In the last few months, though, it’s become a little ghetto. Or perhaps more accurately, it’s become proof that the town in which we live is going downhill. More white trash. A lot people running into each other and acting like total pigs. Basically the entire swath of the state of nature, all packed into one tiny restaurant with a 210 person capacity.

Sad to say, today was the last time we will ever go to that Souplantation. By the time you get through our experience, hopefully you will support my decision.

4:45 pm

We cruise into the Souplantation parking lot. It looks like the dinner rush is starting to get there a little early, but then again it shares the parking lot with Ross – dress for less – so maybe it’s just overflow from early high school prom shoppers.

4:50 pm

Finally inside, we are beginning to make our way through the line. A family of four has come in behind us. The husband is holding a baby that looks like it hasn’t been bathed. Ever. The husband begins sneezing. I start to push Pookies a little quicker down the salad bar. I notice the fourth in their group is a teenager. He has blue hair, in a flock of seagulls cut. He has handcuffs hanging from his belt buckle. Maybe he’s just broken out of jail. He starts sneezing too.

5:00 pm

I’ve paid and we’ve found a booth as far away from the rest of the people that are already seated. Kids are screaming and running around. The family of four sit near us shortly afterwards.

5:05 pm

I go to get drinks. The drink bar is in complete view of the table, so I go alone. The kid with the blue flock of seagulls hair cut walks past our table, and it looks like he has said something. I rush back to the table.

5:15 pm

Finishing up the salad and it’s starting to get packed. People are sneezing, coughing, belching, and ripping ass everywhere. The woman sitting at the table next to us actually lifted her ass to blow one – I kid you faithful blog followers not. You know I’m not a fan of ass jokes, this is really happening.

I decide we are not at Souplantation. We are at Pukeplantation. Time to get some Pukeplantation soup.

5:18 pm

I’m waiting at the soup bar to get the chicken and alphabet soup. There is a rather portly man in a hooded sweatshirt and khaki shorts filling four bowls. I assume he is getting them for multiple people. Or that he really likes the soup. In spite of all the belching and burping and blowing and puking and sneezing and snotting, I will admit – that soup is tasty. He is taking forever though, so people are getting in line behind me, and I inch a little closer. He turns around and rips a belch so loud, so ferocious, that I swear I see his lips quiver. Like Barney on The Simpsons. Or worse.

As I’m dishing up the soup, I realize he’s belched a piece of chewed food onto my sweater.

5:25 pm

I have had about enough of this place. Having totally lost my appetite wiping the stranger’s food off my sweater, I sit and wait quietly. The lady sitting next to us rips another one. Her husband tells stories about “Rod in seasonal” grabbing his ass. He’s wearing a Home Depot polo shirt. I assume he works at the Home Depot in the same shopping complex. I make a mental note never to go this Pukeplantation or that Rip Ass-Grab Butt Depot ever again. I consider running to my car and speeding home to drink heavily and forget about this place.

But the deal with Pukeplantation is that dessert is always a given. Fat free frozen yogurt is a healthy way to dessert anyway. I sprint to the yogurt machine so that we can leave soon.

5:32 pm

There are four exits from this particular Pukeplantation. The one closest to us is in the back of the building and we are parked in the front, but rather than wade our way through the belches and boogers of this rancid state of hillbilly nature, we walk out the back door and just traipse around the entire building to get to my car.

While walking I am informed of what transpired when the blue haired flock of seagulls, jail break walked past our booth while I was getting our drinks. As he walked by, with his handcuffs clanging against his leg, he leaned over and said “hey … your mom’s hot …”

From there we ran to my Jeep.

We will not be returning to that place. Ever. Again. Would you? It concerns me that so many of these experiences are cropping up more and more around my community. Is it just that I’m hanging out in the wrong places? Or is pigslob hillbilly becoming the status quo?

My Conversation With Non-Hottie Maintenance Man

Big sigh full of bullshit, faithful blog followers. Big sigh of bullshit.

So a few days ago we received a note on our front door. It read that the apartment complex is happy to announce they are participating in some energy efficiency program, and were therefore planning to come and install new lighting fixtures in all the units. I’m sure for all the go-green-love-the-Earth-hippies out there, you are patting your self-gratifying-selves on the backs right now in honor of another win for reducing humanity’s carbon footprint. Hip-hip-motherfucking-hooray for you guys.

Okay that was a little mean and I really and truly have no problem with being environmentally friendly. I just resent how much it costs to do right by the world. Obviously, my only response to this note from the apartment complex management was not a jump for joy in honor of saving the world, but rather the simple question: how much is this going to cost me?

I’m a little done with unforeseen costs from this place. Between raising our rents, which I am still not comfortable agreeing to (despite how many times my husband says he’s tired of moving), and our ever-rising utility bills, I was already annoyed. Then my shit started getting stolen off the front porch. So I called the management, and they in fact said that the electric bill would probably go up a little from this new lighting fixture, but these lights are saving the planet.

Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense to me, either.

So the guy came over this morning to install the new fixture. Let me lay out the scenario.

It was morning(ish). I was tired. I have PMS. I still have a cold. And my allergies are totally off the hook too. I was also super depressed this morning, and by super depressed I don’t just mean “down” I mean I had a problem getting out of bed (but that’s another story and I’m not getting into that because this is a funny blog).

So when I got out of the shower, I was kind of lagging and I put on my robe because I knew this guy was coming over to put in the new light fixture between the hours of 9:00 am and 5:00 pm. I knew it was not going to be Hottie Maintenance Man because the note said they were independent contractors coming to do this work. So I didn’t much give a shit how I looked.

I have three different robes. One is pink and short, and my lady parts can be seen if I bend over too far.If Hottie Maintenance Man were coming over, I’d wear that one. One is red and I’ve had it forever, so long I don’t even remember when or where I got it. It’s also from my smaller-chested days, so sometimes the girls will arbitrarily flop out of them for no apparent reason. Then there is my purple one that fits properly and goes all the way to my feet. A full body robe.

This is the one I chose to wear while I finished getting ready and waited for the guy to come.

While putting on my makeup, the doorbell rang and after only a few seconds of not having answered it, the guy started fucking pounding on the door with his fist. I can’t stand it when people do this; as if I’m supposed to just be standing behind the door all day waiting for you to grace me with your presence.

I answered the door and he was a gargoyle.

I don’t mean to be a dick. I mean, it’s National No-Bullying Month and I do not, under any circumstance, want to judge others for the way that they look.

But allow me to anyway, simply because he offended me. This guy clearly hadn’t even showered today, which was evident by how badly he smelled and the green in his teeth. Standing at my door was this dude, his belly hanging out of the bottom of his stained polo shirt that was just about as green as his teeth. He was standing there with a ladder and a shitty look on his face.

He looked me up and down – up and down – as he breathed heavily through his rotten teeth and hairy nose.

Then he said it.

“Ma’am I’m here to install your new lighting fixture. Do you think you could cover up and compose yourself before I come in?”

Are you fucking kidding me, dillhole?

No … seriously. Who says something like that? Cover up? I was more covered than I would have been had I been wearing clothes. And compose myself? I’m sorry. I am not screaming and crying. My hair looks fine. And I’m almost completely made up. COMPOSE MYSELF MOTHERFUCKER?!

That’s not what I said, though. No … this special breed of dillhole, douchesausage gargoyle needs a special response. Fortunately, my whit was sharp as a tack today, so I knew exactly how such a prude would easily be offended.

And I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty sure he was. He didn’t say much more to me the rest of the time, except that it would in fact be raising our electric bill.

What did I say faithful blog followers when this special gentleman asked me to “cover up and compose” myself?

“Hah! Sorry, I thought you were the regular building maintenance man, here for my weekly schticking. If you see him on your way out, let him know I’m ready for some of his Italian stallion.” 

And then I walked back to finish putting on my make up while he installed the new lighting.

Phineas and Ferb, and the Moon In My Pants

Somewhere between my pants ripping open in front of thousands of people at a children’s event this afternoon, and a horse almost hitting our car on the way home, this day got a little weird. I wasn’t at all surprised, though, when we finally got home after the longest day in history, to see that the moon was – in fact – full.

Am I making any sense? I hope not. Now you feel how I did all day. Let me go in chronological order:

2:00 pm – Heading to Phineas and Ferb LIVE at the local Civic Arts Plaza:

I got a Groupon for cheap tickets to this Disney LIVE show. We have been to Sesame Street LIVE a bazillion times; plus the Yo Gabba Gabba Concert and some Nickelodeon Dora thing. Phineas and Ferb was a new experience, and the Groupon was really cheap so I figured – why not?

Every time we go to these things I think that to myself. Why not? It can’t be that bad, right? Wrong. Kids. Kids everywhere. Screaming. Annoying parents dancing in their seats to try and entertain their kids, as if their kids aren’t entertained enough by the nonsense onstage. More kids. More screaming.

Today was no different. It’s also always a money suck. You of course feel like you have to buy souvenirs, so this time was an $18 Agent P purse and a tambourine. I didn’t even really know who Agent P was at the time of sale.

3:00 pm – Walking into Phineas and Ferb LIVE at the local Civic Arts Plaza with about 2,000 other people:

So we were walking in and super early. I mean like an hour to hour and half early. People were going to their seats and then this crazy, volunteer seat usher started yelling at people to stop going to their seats because it was too early. We decided to mill around for awhile.

That’s when we bought Agent P in purse form and the tambourine, which much to my happiness lit up. We got a pretzel and lemonade too and milled some more.

4:00 pm Ripping a humongous hole in the back of my pants in front of about 2,000 other people at Phineas and Ferb LIVE: at the local Civic Arts Plaza

Finally around 4 o’clock, the crazy, volunteer seat usher allowed everyone to go to their seats. You can imagine in a large Civic Arts Plaza, this meant that close to 2,000 people then flocked en masse to the doors to get in.

Then it happened. I was just walking, wearing a pair of old jeans that I only recently had noticed were really starting to wear. And in slow motion I started to feel them rip in the back – not bent over, not even tight – and they kept ripping. Pookie announced loudly “um, momma – your pants have a huge hole in the back of them and it’s getting bigger!!”

4:15 pm Waiting for Phineas and Ferb LIVE at the local Civic Arts Plaza to start:

We were sitting there. I with my sweater now tied around my waste. Kids. Kids screaming. A bunch of nonsense going on. We were just waiting for the show to start, and I was trying to mentally piece back together my dignity.

Then I crossed my legs and this kid sitting in the front of us started randomly reaching back and stroking my foot. He did it three of four times. He didn’t turn around to see what he was stroking. I was a little too weirded out to say anything. The seating was tight, so I had nowhere else to put my feet. It just really was so bizarre I didn’t know what to think. Kids. Kids screaming. Parents dancing in their seats. More kids. And this yokel stroking my foot every couple minutes.

Fortunately when the show started he stopped.

6:30 pm Heading Home from Phineas and Ferb LIVE at the local Civic Arts Plaza:

We were on our way home. The plan was to stop there and pick up a new pair of jeans and then go get some dinner.

There was tons of traffic so we took the back roads. They are just two-laned highways surrounded by fields. Everyone knows about these backroad shortcuts, so there were a lot of cars around.

Then, as we got close to home, a guy on a huge, white horse suddenly came riding out into the road. The horse came about a foot away from running into my car. I slammed on the brakes, as did all the cars behind me. Someone honked. The guy on the horse started screaming and swearing at everyone before he rode off.

This – by far – was the craziest day in a long time. I’m not sure which part was more upsetting. Getting yelled at by some crazy volunteer? My pants ripping to shreds, leaving the moon in my pants to hang out for the rest of the day? The kid rubbing my foot? Or the horse almost ramming into my car?

Or was any of it upsetting? Seems pretty status quo for crazy stuff like this to happen at this point.

Hottie Maintenance Man and My Trailer Trash Mom’s Crap Pants: A Love Story

Those of you that follow me on Twitter and Facebook (if you aren’t, well why the hell not?) have seen me bitching and griping all morning about how my mom was supposed to come over for breakfast around 10 o’clock and did not show up. Well, she eventually showed up, and in her grande, late entrance proved yet again why she earned her title Trailer Trash Mom.

A quick rundown on my Trailer Trash Mom, for those of you that are relatively new faithful blog followers. My mom left my dad when I was eight, and she high-tailed it shortly thereafter across the country to be the “other woman” for a guy she met at a bar. My dad raised me alone, with regular visits to see my mom in which I was subjected to one boyfriend after another, and slowly watched her descend from normal person to crazy hillbilly. When my dad and I moved to California, she was still living near Seattle, but decided that her dream of moving back to California where she grew up would then be coming true. That’s right, she followed us and started using us in every way she possibly could. In my adulthood, she’s lied to me, she’s stolen from me, she’s mooched off of me, she’s flaked out on me time and again, she’s eloped with some hillbilly she hardly knows, and she’s basically become a wart on the asshole of society. Many of you are probably asking: whycome you still have a relationship with this woman, B(itch)? Simple: my grandparents think she’s the greatest thing next to stick butter, so I need to let her hang around (within reason) for the sake of having a relationship with them while they are still alive. And plus, after all is said and done, the stories that come out of interactions with her have me rolling around, laughing hysterically after the fact.

But I keep my distance.

So yesterday, my Trailer Trash Mom called and asked if she could come over this morning to hang out for a bit. Wanted to see the Pookies and all, so I figured it would be OK and even asked if she wanted breakfast. She said she’d bring donuts, to which I said “NO!” (stupidly), and then we resolved that she would bring a carton of eggs and I’d make eggs and toast and we’d eat the raspberries we picked yesterday.

The time was set: 10 o’clock.

This morning 10 o’clock came and went. While I was finishing putting on my make up and doing my hair, 10:15 rolled on by. I checked my phone: nothing from my mom. 10:30 came and I went ahead and made breakfast, figuring she wasn’t going to show up. I called my husband to start my bitching. I then was mad, so start Tweeting and Facebooking. 10:45 rolled on by and we were done eating breakfast. 10:56, I saw Hottie Maintenance Man outside (there is only one good looking maintenance man in our complex, and he happens to be “assigned” to our building). He was repairing the light above the stairway that goes to the apartments above us. I looked. And looked some more.

And then I saw my Trailer Trash Mom walking up the walkway to the apartment.

Quickly I opened the door lest she ruin my future look-a-thons with Hottie Maintenance Man by coming onto him with her teeth falling out or something, and creeping him out. This was my biggest mistake of the morning.

What I should have done was let her open the door and come in. I’m still kicking myself for not, because by opening the door I opened the flood gates for her to start making her excuses right there, in front of Hottie Maintenance Man.

There, standing in front of Hottie Maintenance Man; with the Pookies at my side and neighbors walking by, my mother blathered out her hillbilly nonsense:

“Hi! Sorry I’m late. Grandma and Grandpa and I went out for Mexican food last night, and I had way too many beans. Anyway, I was drivin’ here and went to let one from all those beans and I accidentally crapped my pants.”

Yes. Yes, you read that right faithful blog followers. My mom was late because she shit her pants, thinking it was just some arbitrary gas leftover from last night’s spicy beans.

What the fuck?! is right. I may swear a lot, and I may be uncouth, but goddammit I’m a fucking lady. That is just too much for me.

Hottie Maintenance Man started to laugh. I turned around and walked in the house. My Trailer Trash Mom followed and said she wanted cheese in her eggs.

What, Exactly, Are Big Girl Panties?

Sometimes when I’m out to lunch with my dad, he’ll say something along the lines of: “yeez, Heather … you should probably stop woofing down those french fries like there’s no tomorrow, or you’ll have to upgrade to big girl panties.” The oddity that is our father-daughter repertoire aside, I always think of this when I hear someone say “time to put on your big girl panties.”

Of course when people say that, they don’t mean you’re getting a little hefty around the backside. Well maybe they do, but for all intents and purposes we’ll assume that what they really mean is: it’s time to act like a big kid. They mean that it’s time for you to grow up. For you to make a decision you don’t want to make. Follow through with an action you don’t want to do. It means that you need to make a sacrifice, be an adult, and act your age.

And it means the big R. Responsibility.

I can think of  a few examples in recent memory that I wore my big girl panties.

Yesterday,

in the grocery store parking lot

Yesterday, in the grocery store parking lot, a skirmish unfolded and I was confronted with the need to hitch up my big girl panties and move along quietly. A woman parked next to us as we were getting out to walk into the store, and she therefore was walking in about the same general area as us from car-to-grocery. As we all crossed the lot to the store, a car pulled up very quickly and started honking, the driver yelling “hurry up!!” Rude, I know, but having the Pookies in tow meant I needed to keep it down to set a good example.

“Some people are in such a hurry,” I said calmly as we finished walking into the store, but then the woman that had parked next to us turned around and started screaming at the car. “Bite me you son of a bitch!” she screamed, causing everyone in the parking lot to turn and look. Inside she was my personal hero; outside she really needed to pull up her big girl panties and move on.

Last Friday, over text message with my Trailer Trash Mom

I invited my mother over for dinner over the weekend and she accepted. I know what you all are thinking: I was being too kind. I was, but then I really wanted to get more dirt on what is going on with her Hillbilly Husband/New Mexico trailer-drama. What can I say, I like a good story. So she told me she’d let me know which day worked better with my grandparents’ schedule and then I didn’t hear from her for a few days.

Friday I texted her and said: “Hey, I just went and got all the food for dinner. Do you know whether Saturday or Sunday will work best yet?” and she responded that they were invited to a family tailgate party for the UCLA-Nebraska game, and had decided to (a) extend it into a whole-weekend-family-affair, that I was (b) excluded from on account of the fact that I don’t like either team. This is how that family usually rolls, so I wasn’t the least bit surprised.

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t really like my mom, so it really wasn’t that big of a deal. It was still rude that she handled it like that, though, and if I were to let it get to me I probably would have said something nasty. But did I get upset, and scream and cry about it? No. I pulled up my big girl panties and put the extra food in the freezer for us to eat later next week; then waited to smile when Nebraska got creamed.

But what if you don’t want to put on your big girl panties?

This morning when I woke up, I was immediately smacked in the face with my very real “big girl panties” problem: our rent is being increased significantly. The problem is very complex. We’re trying to move to the Midwest – something I have been waiting to do for about 12 years now. Signing a 10 or 12 month lease (the two options we were given besides month-to-month) will lock us in here for another full year. A lot can happen in a year, and as I said I have been patiently waiting and working towards this for 12 years. It will also increase our rent even at that. Another option is that we pay the month-to-month rate and starve to death. There’s also the fact that this place isn’t even worth what we pay now – we had an attempted break-in a few months ago, my outdoor vase was stolen just last week, and a child of one of the neighbors was kidnapped on the 4th of July. But moving to another place while we buy some more time to figure out the whole Midwest move thing will cost a lot of money and lock us into another lease.

Ugh, I know.

You can see why I don’t want to pull up my big girl panties on this one. We’re stuck between a rock and a hard place and in the end the only one that will really be suffering, acting like a big girl, and sacrificing for it is me. I’ll have to stretch the budget to make it work. I’ll have to go another year waiting. It’s very frustrating, to say the least.

So while I do believe that there are a lot of instances when we need to let ourselves upgrade to big girl panties, figuratively speaking of course; I also believe that there may be a time to say “enough is enough.” Is there ever a time when we shouldn’t have to put on our big girl panties? What, exactly, are big girl panties, anyway? I always thought they meant adulthood. Sacrifice. Responsibility. Stuff you do but don’t want to.

But is always sacrificing, never taking risks, and settling for less really living?