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?

STFU Fridays: Political Posters

I’m not sure if I’ve talked about political posters before, but we’re going to have a little elaboration today for STFU Fridays. I mean it seems only appropriate now that the conventions are officially over and the vitriolic hate-mongering from both sides of the aisle is about to begin.

Facebook Political Posters:

Shut the Fuck Up

Yeah, sure – everyone uses Facebook for a different reason. Don’t think I forgot that I just talked about that a week or two ago. But at some point, you are going to be permanently hidden from my newsfeed if you continue to post meme after meme after meme after GODDAMNED MEME about your political views, most often in the most radical way possible.

Here are a few of my most recent favorites:

(Posted by four friends)

(Posted by nine friends)

Here’s the thing, Facebook friends: I want you to stay on my newsfeed. I want to hear about when you buy your new condo. I want to know when you get engaged. I want to see the photographs from your beautiful vacation in the Barbados. I want to see all 790 Instagram photographs you post this week of your kid. I want to see all of that and be a part of your life because, after all – we are friends.

What I don’t want to see is your political nonsense being shoved down my throat every time I log onto the computer to congratulate people for their life updates and new pregnancies and amazing jobs.

Shut the fuck up.

Twitter Political Posters:

Shut the Fuck Up

So despite the fact that I hate politics, I do often watch political commentary and the news channels, and I read the Google News Aggregate daily. This political season, I may not pay too much attention because it is usually a lot of frustration for naught, but what can I say – I like to know what’s going on in the world. Typically I watch and read about it all just to find out what else is happening around the world – health, war, entertainment, and other such news.

I also have an humongous crush on Wolf Blitzer.

This is probably the case with a fair number of people that use social media (the wanting to know about what’s going on in the world part). It’s probably the case with a fair number of people that have the Internet. And it’s likely so with probably the majority of people that have televisions. And I think it’s probably safe to say with at least a few of the remaining people that do not have the Internet or do not use social media or do not have a TV, but still have a pulse and read the newspaper.

That means that when I go on Twitter, it is entirely unnecessary for people to be Tweeting the quotes that I just saw someone say on CNN or MSNBC or Fox or whatever channel I am watching over and over and over again, with no other substance in between. I watched the President give his speech this evening. Why was it necessary for me to then read the entire thing quoted on Twitter? I get it: the quote inspired you. THEN SAY THAT!

Or shut the fuck up.

Email Political Posters:

Shut the Fuck Up

I don’t get too many personal emails anymore. Now that we have social media and unlimited texting plans, it looks like email is going the way of the stamped letter.

When I do get emails, they are generally one of two kinds of emails:

(1) Some stupid shit animal or angel photos that have glitter and prayers and chain letter crap on them about how if I don’t forward it to 20 people I’ll die in the next week; or,

(2) Political diatribes.

These upset me because I feel like if you send an email to someone you know, it should be a little more personal and “how are you”/”I’m doing great!” Not a bunch of biased crap about, or in most cases against, any given political ideology. It hurts my feelings, actually. There are some people that I don’t hear from all year until it’s election time, and then they send me forty damn emails a day, my email included in the list of 200 others cc’d, with a bunch of impersonal, political crap.

Seriously, email political posters: take the time to send a sincere email to me once in a while amidst all your politico crap, or shut the fuck up.

That about concludes our Shut the Fuck Up Friday! Now that the games have officially begun, may we all bury our heads in the sand until November 6th has come and gone. I’m sure by now you are all wondering where I stand on the issues, despite my disgust for political posters. Because I’m a woman and pretty mouthy, am I a Democrat? I used to work for them. When I quit because of the local party’s corruption, did I become a Republican? They’re just as bad. I’m not really sure where I stand. Maybe on the issues, where we all should.

Did Somebody Say “Get Me Away From These Douchey Danes!”?

Let me start by refreshing everyone’s memory:

My husband freaked out a little bit because I was sitting around crying being so kidless and fancy free, the Pookies being gone for this 12 day trip away from me. For the record, I was not crying because I had free time, but rather I realized how much of a grave mistake it was to allow such a trip to happen. I wasn’t ready for it. Neither was anybody else it would seem, for when I finally was given the dignity of some contact yesterday, I learned that the cell phone has – in fact – been uncharged and off for the whole week, the allergy medicine has been ignored, and teeth have not even been brushed. I’m also pretty down in the funks because I have been wanting to move home to Chicago for about 7 years now to be closer to my family and it’s just not happening, although that is another story altogether. In any event, I was a little loose around the edges, so Poor Nick did what any husband would do: he sent me away.

I’m going home today, and you’ll all see that it’s about 5 o’clock in the morning, and I’m up: blogging and listening to Tom Jones. You’d think that is a sign that this little mental health retreat isn’t working, when really it’s that the people staying upstairs were having a party. Around 3 o’clock I woke up to the sound of people wading through beer cans outside in the parking lot: yes, you heard what I said. There were about 50 Modelo and Bud Light cans strewn in the parking lot and someone was wading through them, looking for his keys.

Classy establishment, hubs.

In any event, I think I’m ready to head home. I realized that, while Solvang is the place for a mental health retreat, it’s also the place for overindulgence, douchey yuppies, and losing all your money to tourism and more tourism.

Last night my wine walk got cut short

I decided yesterday to do the Wednesday Wine Walk that the local-yolcals host to try and inspire business. For $20 you get a glass, a map, and five tickets for wine tasting at the participating wineries. Each ticket gets you two tastes.

I got through two places that were on the list, plus one next door that I had to pay separate for. All of them had (for the most part) the shittiest wine I have ever tasted in my life, coupled with a crowd full of douche bags and dogs walking around sniffing people’s assholes. When I got to the fourth, the fifth, and the sixth, I learned that the wine tasting event was being hosted by wine tasting rooms that did not even intend on being open until said event was over.

That’s right. I bought tickets that said “good for tasting until 7” and the last three places participating closed at 6. The most egregious was that the one I bought my tickets at earlier in the day was one of them.

Just yesterday I was thinking to myself that these people drink a lot. I mean, a lot. I know that in Europe people drink a lot more, but I’m really a “glass a day is good for me” kind of gal. Possibly they keep the alcoholism under control by never fulfilling what they actually sell.

So I went to get some dinner instead, and was too tired to cruise all the way to Santa Ynez as my plan was, so I just decided on this local brewery/restaurant that seemed pretty popular since people were crowded all around and inside it.

And then I realized something else.

All of the food here tastes like a fucking pancake

And I don’t mean a good pancake. I just mean some weird, fucked up pancake that is like the cross between powdered sugar and my Trailer Trash Mom’s asshole. Some of the food I had was good, like the ham and cheese croissant I had for breakfast yesterday, and the turkey sandwich I had the first night into town. But for the most part, everything tasted like that shitty pancake.

There are some things that should not have shitty pancake flavor. The chicken and mashed potatoes I had for dinner at that supposedly good brewery/restaurant is one thing that should not have tasted like shitty pancake, yet did. The salad I had for lunch yesterday too … probably shouldn’t have tasted like pancake. And that was like a spicy pancake, which just boggles my mind to even think about right now. At the time I was eating it I thought it was good, but then two hours later – as the taste of spicy pancake lingered in my mouth – I realized that something was wrong with that shit.

Everyone here thinks they are actually living in Denmark

I’m all for upholding your family heritage and everything, but for Christ’s fucking sakes people!

* Wearing those ridiculous Danish Maid costumes when it’s 100 fucking degrees outside just makes me hot.

* Slapping a Norwegian flag on everything from t-shirts to iPad cases does not justify marking up the price 190%.

* Speaking in Danish when you say you grew up in fucking Orange County is not authentic. Ever skede lederhosen your ass back to Anaheim!

So yeah, I’m about over this place. I’m ready to go home and return to my carefully crafted life of laundry, dishes, cleaning house, homeschooling, and wiping asses (literally, figuratively … you decide). Before the return of the Pookies on Monday, I have a few more things to catch up on anyway. As I sit here, with pancake taste in my mouth, shitty wine burning my gut, and every drunken wanna-be Dane outside wading through piles of aluminum beer can trash, I realize that depressed or not, in a funk or otherwise, it’s about time I ever skede lederhosen my own ass back to Camarillo.

Did Somebody Say Aebleskiver Asylum?

Okay, I didn’t really have any aebleskivers; yet, of course. And I’m not in an asylum. But yesterday I started off my three day tour of this strange Danish town by sharing with everyone the story of how my husband sent me to Solvang, CA, on a little bit of a “mental health retreat” since I’m Pookie-less and in a bit of a funk these days.

Yesterday we established that if you have a case of the funks, Solvang can provide a fix through: (1) the eating and drinking; (2) weird, bizarro-shit; and (3) shopping.

Today the trip continued into this faux Danish town and all it’s glories.

#4 If the fix for a case of the funks is shopping (which we all know it is, and already established Solvang is good for), Solvang is the place for it.

I won’t go into the entire list of things that I purchased; although, I will say this: the majority of it was not for me. It was for my family. I got food, I got souvenirs, I got rosemary olive oil that may as well be gold for what it cost. And while just about everything in Solvang is overpriced, I am happy to say I found some pretty good deals regardless.

The one thing I got for myself that I must discuss at length, though, is something that I never thought I would find up here: a zebra-printed apron. I almost screamed in the middle of the shop when I saw it.

#5 If the fix for a case of the funks is bizarro tourism crap, Solvang is the place for it.

I originally planned on hitting up the miniature pony farm to see the cute 34 inch ponies, but that got scratched after 15 minutes of driving around looking for it to no avail. Instead, I returned to the downtown area of Solvang and went to the Hans Christian Andersen museum.

The museum, itself, was a little drab. It’s a little larger than a room and has a bunch of old copies of the guy’s books, plus a doll house and a head bust of Andersen, himself. Below the museum, though, is the Book Loft – which had tons of amazing books I spent about an hour looking through. I could have spent more, but I was getting hungry.

Later in the day, I went to the Old Mission Santa Inez. The mission nearby where we live sits on a busy street, and is always noisy. There is a garden in the center of it, but “peaceful” is never something I envision it to be. Old Mission Santa Inez on the other hand, is a quiet gem nestled above rolling hills and vineyards. There is an awesome outdoors Stations of the Cross installation; and there are benches that you can sit on to just relax.

Clearly this mental health thing is working, because while I was sitting in the quiet outside the mission, I realized that this is the first time of true quiet I’ve had since my vacation almost six months ago, to Chicago. What is wrong with that picture? Everyone’s lives are busy. When you have kids, there is always noise (except when the kids are in bed). But I think in our house, we go beyond that. Something is always on – be it a radio, a cd player, a computer, or a TV. We never just sit and enjoy the quiet together.

This has got to change or I will for sure be admitted to Aebleskiver Asylum, and for longer than just a few days.

#6 If the fix for a case of the funks is gambling away all your life’s savings, then Solvang is the place for it.

I didn’t actually gamble away all our life’s savings. I only gambled thirty bucks. And I lost it all.

There is an Indian Casino just a few miles North of Solvang, and I’m familiar with it because my mother used to come up here all the time to gamble in the middle of the night with her boyfriend; and also because on my birthday this year I came up and won about 300 dollars on Keno.

No such luck this time. At 30 I gave up. During the day, the place is also filled with tons of old people smoking cigarettes, so 30 minutes and 30 bucks was about it for me.

So now I’m heading out again – for some more of #1 (the eating and the drinking). The credit cards are going to have to rest now, and my liver will pick up the slack. On the third Wednesday of the month, Solvang has a Wine Walk – $20 for a glass and 5 tasting room tickets. After the Wine Walk I’m going to venture up to Santa Ynez (the town) to eat dinner. Much like Solvang, Santa Ynez has it’s own theme – only rather than Danish, it’s the Old West. Who knew in the middle of wine country you could find so much weirdness?

Did Someone Say Funky Pea Soup?

So if you aren’t following me on Facebook, you’ve missed some of the fun that has gone on in my terribly mundane life these last few weeks. Most importantly, you missed the part where I had a little bit of a meltdown because Pookies is on this 12 day trip away from me and we are going on 6 days now incommunicado. That, in combination with my general unhappiness with life as is (I want to move back to Chicago so bad I can taste the pizza) led to my husband worrying so much about my mental health that he decided to send me on a three-day jaunt to Solvang.

I’m fairly certain the decision to do so either came because (a) he knew I was about to get a visit from Aunt Flo and would be particularly bitchy in addition to all this other mental drama; or, (b) considered it to be far cheaper than sending me to a funny farm with straight jackets, rolling meadows, and electroshock therapy for a few months.

Okay, I don’t really think I would need shock therapy, but I do feel pretty in a funk these days.

So today was Day One of the mental health fix.

#1 If the fix for a case of the funks is eating and drinking, Solvang is the place for it.

For those of you that have never been to Solvang, CA, it’s kind of like a faux Danish town. It’s in the middle of wine country and the fresh, local, and Danish food is a big attraction. But it isn’t just the Danish food: it’s any food.

Dinner tonight was at Pea Soup Andersen’s, where I had a turkey sandwich and mashed potatoes. Unlike the rest of the people in the restaurant, I ordered my gravy on the side, which I was thankful for because the serving-size was a full crock.

Did you faithful blog followers get that? A fucking crock of gravy.

#2 If the fix for a case of the funks is doing a bunch of weird, bizarre-o shit while drunk, Solvang is the place for it.

There is a lot of Scandinavian heritage stuff everywhere. Every corner has a fucking windmill on it. And Hans Christian Andersen is their town hero. It’s a little weird. A little local-yocally. But it’s good if you need to get away and slow down so your brain doesn’t fry completely.

After rolling into town, I got everything settled into the hotel, which also has a windmill on the front of it. I drove around a bit, made a little bit of a plan for tomorrow, which will include: visiting the Santa Inez Mission, checking out the 34 inch miniature ponies on the pony farm, wine tasting on the Solvang wine walk, going to the Hans Christian Andersen museum, shopping at the All-Year-Long-Christmas store, and making candles in the candle shop. I’m also going to the casino and thinking about getting a pedicure at the nail salon with a large head bust of Andersen himself in the window.

Could this get anymore random?

#3 If a fix for a case of the funks is shopping … well, we all know that a fix for the case of the funks is shopping, and Solvang is the place for that too.

Tonight at Pea Soup Andersen’s, I picked up: strawberry-rhubarb jam, pumpkin pancake syrup, cinnamon honey, wild blueberry muffin mix, and 9 cans of pea soup, tomato soup, and pea-bacon soup. Tomorrow will no doubt include more shopping. My biggest fear is that I just got my TOMS catalogue and there is a TOMS store in town. That could equal major damage to the pocketbook.

 

I’m heading off to bed soon. Another part of my funk is that I’m sleeping more. I’m considering it a good thing for the moment simply because when my little sweetsies gets back next Monday life will again get crazy in the kid-way.

What a Terrible Tuesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it gets better than that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you fucking kidding me?

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

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

Indeed. In. Fucking. Deed.

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