Some Kids Are Real A-holes

For God’s sakes! I just posted today’s blog post about big girl panties (which ended up being way more serious than I intended it to be), and then we went to lunch. You’d think that lunch would be pretty uneventful and not inspire me to come home and immediately write and publish another blog. But it did.

And I have finally accepted that some kids are real a-holes. Here is the timeline of events that brought me to this frenzied conclusion:

11:45 am

I post What, Exactly, Are Big Girl Panties?. I read it over and shuffle to the door. I promised Panera for lunch this morning in an effort to get the whining to stop, so I must deliver.

11:55 am

We are at Panera, which happens to be right across the freeway from our apartment. I’m super excited because we made it before the lunch rush. Despite that – to my horror – I see that Panera has a line out the door and people are sitting at the outdoor tables complaining about how long their food is taking. We get in line.

11:58 am

My mind is now firing rapidly in trying to decide: stay in the line at Panera that has not moved for three minutes, or go next door to Johnny Rockets? I hem and haw about this. On one hand, what we order at Johnny Rockets will be almost identical to what we order at Panera. Johnny Rockets is a little cheaper, too. On the other hand, the clientele at that particular Johnny Rockets is a special breed of jerk-offs. Two times ago, we were there and some guy let out an uproarious belch, then announced to the entire patronage that it tasted like rotten milk. The last time we were there, some lady threw a fit because she couldn’t bring in her stroller.

The people in line behind us start loudly complaining about how the line isn’t moving and I make a decision: we’re going to Johnny Rockets.

12:00 pm

We’re seated and already have our drinks in a booth at Johnny Rockets. I look outside and see the line at Panera still hasn’t moved. In a minute we order. Then I notice there are two kids sitting in the booth behind us. It’s a family place and I’m here with my own family, so I don’t mind the presence of other children.

Yet.

12:05 pm

I hear the children behind us ordering their food.

“I’ll have a salad with vinaigrette on the side. I’m on a diet.” She can’t be older than 6.

A few minutes pass and they bring out those complimentary french fries for both their and our tables. The 6 year old’s younger sibling, probably 4, yells “Carbs!! EWWW!!!”

12:18 pm

I’ve managed to ignore those kids for a while. There is a baseball game on. We’re playing tic-tac-toe. Our food comes and it’s being hogged down like we haven’t eaten in a year. Then I have a break in concentration and I overhear those two little girls again. They’re talking about how glad they are that they homeschool because so many kids their age are “evil trolls.” The mother isn’t telling them to be nice, or to simmer down. No, she’s asking them for more details about just why other kids are evil and troll-like.

I see now that she is the real culprit in this dickhead behavior.

12:25 pm

We have finished. They have finished. The waiter is bringing out balloons for all the kids in the restaurant. The one thing I like about Johnny Rockets in addition to the cheaper prices, and in spite of the particular clientele at this location, is the kid-friendly atmosphere. He asks what color all the kids in the place want. He goes back and gets them.

That little 6 year old a-hole of a kid at the booth behind us says “I changed my mind, I want pink.”

If I was that waiter, I would have said “You want pink, motherfucker?! How about your pretentious c-u-next-time of a mom takes you down the street and buys you one since you can’t make up your fucking mind!” Being much politer than I, and obviously valuing his job, he took back the blue balloon and brought out a replacement in the little a-hole princess’s desired color.

12:35 pm

The booth of the c-u-next-time mom and the a-hole kids is getting up to leave as we are getting ready to go. I’m sneaking a few more french fries and – of course, because I’m a totally absent-minded slob – drop a tiny bit of ketchup on my shirt.

“Jeez, can’t take me anywhere,” I say to the Pookies and I wipe it off with a napkin. I plan to change my shirt when we get home in a few minutes and grab my purse.

The jerkoff family is passing by our booth with their pink-only balloons and their dieting, waffish a-hole kids.The older one that sent back her balloon stops and sees I’ve spilled a teeny-tiny amount of ketchup on my shirt and turns to the Pookies and says “your mom clearly has a hole in her lip.” Then the 4 year old says “carbs are so gross!”

Are you fucking kidding me?

C-u-next-time mom shuffles them out the door and says “they can handle their own affairs.” We get up and leave. I decide I’m going to stay in my mildly stained shirt for the rest of the day. In fact, when I get home I’m going to make it even more slovenly, and then roam around town for the rest of the day showing how much I don’t give a shit about a stupid stain on my shirt.

12:55 pm

We make it home. Pookie says to me “those kids had a real attitude problem.” I respond “yes, well … we know not to act like that.” Homeschooling begins. I stay in my pigslob shirt.

Some kids are real a-holes. That Johnny Rockets deserves a reality show of its own. Panera better have a shorter and quicker-moving line next time.

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Conversations With Nick: Are You Having an Affair?

… with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut intricately to look like Cher?

I’m not even sure how to get into this one. I don’t really actually believe my husband is having an affair – like sleeping with someone else. I do, however, know that he has something else he loves in his life far more than he will ever even acknowledge me, which could be considered something of an affair. That, in a nutshell is: his career in film.

Obviously this is a regular bone of contention, for a number of reasons that I need not blather on about. Among that bone of contention is the fact that his career is not entirely creative and actually in film, his job includes mostly managerial tasks more often than not (payroll, telephone answering, office managing, scheduling, computer fixing); as well as the fact that it is not sustainable financially in the long term. Then there is the old adage “I guess everything you said while we were dating wasn’t exactly true, or at the very least  are now forgotten promises.” That is all sort of the tip of the iceberg. Needless to say, though, my subconscious reminds me regularly of my feelings about this in my dreams.

Usually my dreams are more like nightmares, and they almost always express the unrelenting homesickness I feel for Chicago. Last week I had the same dream three nights in a row: that we went to one of my favorite delis in Chicago, because of course we lived in Chicago (enter homesickness and forgotten promises). But then when it was time to wrap the sandwiches up in plastic wrap, I got wrapped in it instead and sent back in a To Go box to California. That is a nightmare.

But then I have nights like last night, where it is still painstakingly obvious that my subconscious is trying to work out my unhappiness and concerns with this situation, and more importantly my husband’s affair with his job – but it is so bizarre and hilarious you can’t help but be humorously perplexed.

A few weeks ago, Nick finally agreed to give Chicago a shot for a predetermined period of time. The idea was he would get a job that he can be happy in, as well as exert some of his creativity; yet, broaden it considerably so that he would actually have a shot at finding a job, rather than what he has now which is a very narrow and niche position (quite frankly, he even has difficulty finding what he wants here in LA – the film capital of the world). We made a list of things that would need to happen before said major life change would occur, like financial planning of it all, research over where we’d like to live in the ‘burbs, job searching, etc. But then no discussion was had again about it until finally I brought it up and asked: “so have we dropped this whole “give Chicago a shot”-plan, or what?” This started up the conversation again and of course the job matter is the biggest one, so I asked my husband exactly what kind of job he wanted to tailor his resume to, search for, etc. His response you ask? “One where I can make a lot of money managing and editing in film.” To me that meant “exactly what I have now.” And that was the end of the conversation; we went to sleep about 30 minutes later.

So obviously I had a dream about it all, and woke up feeling like there wasn’t even a point of getting out of bed. California really has nothing to offer me, personally, and I have run out of errands, chores, laundry, and projects to do. But the dream that I had was just so terribly bizarre, I can’t help but wonder what it all meant (besides of course the obvious).

Scene 1

We lived in Chicago-land area, and in fact moved back to the town I grew up in: Homer Glen. My mom was really involved in the church in the town over, where I went to school as well, called Shepherd of the Hill.  The church was a prevalent part of my dream last night. Nick and I became members of the church again and I decided to join the church choir (yes, I was in the children’s choir there when I was little). And I continued to stay in the choir even though Mrs. Schroll – the church’s music director – told me my singing sucked. Those were actually the words she used, too – “your singing sucks.”

Scene 2

While at choir practice one afternoon, a bunch of my friends from high school and other areas of my life in Chicago came to hang out at the church. Of particular note is that there were a few that didn’t seem too interested in meeting up while I was on my vacation there last month, but in my dream they were all about hanging out. They all wanted to take a ton of photos with my camera phone, but kept wanting to put the camera angle really high up in the air so that they didn’t look like they had double chins. They kept wanting to put it higher and higher and I kept dropping the phone, and getting really annoyed. And to make matters worse, the pictures that came out all had people making that God-awful duck face and/or Jesus continued to show up in the photo, walking around behind us wearing the ugliest pair of flip flops I had ever seen.

Scene 3

At home later in the dream, our fence was broken. Not the whole thing, just one slat that kept banging in the wind.

Scene 4

After coming back inside from trying to repair the fence, and continuing to hear it flap in the wind because I obviously did not fix it, I saw my husband talking to something in the kitchen. I walked over to him to see him quiet down immediately and hide something in a brown paper lunch sack.

B(itch): “What the hell are you doing?”

Nick: “Nothing.”

B(itch): “No, seriously – who were you just talking to?”

Nick: “No one! God, what is your problem?!”

And then he stormed out, leaving the brown paper lunch sack on the counter.

After I heard him drive away, I looked in the sack to see he had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat bread in there, only he had cut and molded it very extensively to resemble Cher.

Confused and disturbed, I carefully put Cher PB&J back into her lunch sack and left it on the counter.

Scene 5

Back at Shepherd of the Hill for more choir practice, Mrs. Schroll started screaming at me that I was running late. I came in and she started doing this warm up song we did when I was really little and in the cherub’s choir – the peanut butter and jelly song. It goes something like “peanut … peanut butter … and jelly … peanut … peanut butter … and jelly.”

Choir practice ended shortly after that and Mrs. Schroll yelled at me again, only this time she said I needed to go downstairs to the church kitchen and take the macaroni and cheese out of the refrigerator to heat up because Nick and Cher PB&J would be there soon.

Then I woke up at the sound of my husband shutting the front door to go to work.

Interestingly enough, faithful blog followers, late last week Pookie entertained the idea that Nick is a robot. He rarely shows any emotion for anything and is often very controlled in what he does, and then he admitted that he never dreams (at least what he remembers). Am I just having crazy dreams for the both of us – me and my robot husband? Is this just more of the obvious – that I am terribly homesick and cannot reconcile such feelings, and that my husband will never stop having his affair with his career?

Or is it something else? Or worst of all – is it nothing?

Tube Tops and Toaster Ladies: Weekend in Review

In reality, every day of my life is a weekend. I don’t work and I homeschool, and my husband works most weekends, so it’s all pretty much the same to me. This weekend was no different than any other, although there were also the not-so-usual characters that crept up on all sides of it.

Corona Chicks Like Big Dicks

Really, I am not one to judge on the way people dress or look. If someone is comfortable with the way they have dressed for the day, or are comfortable enough in their physical appearance (or shape) to dress a certain way, then truly I applaud them. My appearance is something I belabor over on a daily basis. Whether I’m sitting at home watching Desperate Housewives all day with the flu, or going out for a night on the town with my husband (psh, when has that ever happened?) – I always put on makeup, worry about my outfit, and do my hair. I understand all too well what it feels like for people to be judging you for your physical appearance, most probably because I had scoliosis when I was little and, well – quite frankly, that’s what we do in California.

Keeping all of my pseudo-openmindedness and general understanding of the need to not judge in mind, let me break from all of that niceness for just one moment to become a total hypocrite and judge the lady that I saw at the mall this weekend, smoking her electronic cigarettes and offending me with her choice of clothing. It wasn’t that she was borderline obese that bothered me. It wasn’t that her hair was stringy and looked like it hadn’t been washed in well over a year. It wasn’t that she was smoking an electronic cigarette in the mall, offending me with the smell of digital carcinogens. It was that she was wearing a freaking tube top that was about six sizes too small and said “Corona Chicks Like Big Dicks.”

Even if Corona Chicks do like big dicks, there is absolutely no reason to put it on a tube top. Even if Corona Chicks do like big dicks and you think there is good reason to put it on a tube top, there is absolutely no reason to wear it to the local mall where small children will see it and wonder just what a Corona Chick and/or big dick is.

Hillbilly Ass Scratcher

So we’ve had one car problem after another, it seems – our most recent of which being flat tires on both my husband’s and my cars. My husband’s was the worst offender, which resulted in a few hours of sitting at the good ol’ boys Grand Central Station: my local tire shop. Have any of you faithful blog followers noticed that when you go to the tire shop, it’s like a convention of guys asserting their masculinity, patting each other gently on the balls, and spewing out niceties that make no sense?

At my local tire shop, this is never lacking. The other thing that is never lacking are the hillbillies. I’m not sure what it is: maybe because the whole chic California culture is a facade to cover the truth, which is that most Californians are from somewhere else or descendants of people that came over from the south during the Great Depression. That’s right, I said it: most Californians are hicks. Biscuit-eating, four-bying, fruit pickers that came over from Oklahoma with their banjos in tow some 80 years ago. Every other goddamn vehicle on the road is a truck or SUV, and almost the entire lot of them are conservative gun toters to boot. At least in the suburban sprawl in which we live, hillbilly seems to be the status quo.

So I think there are a lot of them over the weekend at the tire shop because they all want bigger, better tires to go off-roading and range shootin’ with. It wasn’t until this weekend at my tire shop, though, that I learned two very interesting (possibly hillbilly) lessons, though:

1) The bigger your tires, the bigger your balls; and,

2) It is socially acceptable to pull your shorts down in a public venue and openly scratch your ass.

That’s right, the guy in this photo, here, was the offender. He showed me this weekend that should I have an itch in want of scratching, it would be totally cool for me to pull my shorts down to scratch in open air. Thank you, oh ass scratcher, for spewing your hillbilly venom everywhere so that I may learn to blend with the natives, so to speak.

So we meet again, Hello Kitty Toaster

You all remember that after I got back from vacation three weeks ago, I vowed to delete that rancid bitch of a Hello Kitty Toaster off my Facebook page. She just pissed me off too often, and was always inserting her terribly judgmental bull shit in my life. She also constantly gave me a hard time about my husband’s refusal to spend much time with his family, even though that decision has nothing to do with me and my opinions one iota.

But that sure as hell didn’t stop the public interactions with her. Sunday night the weekend of relatively blasé activity and bizarre encounters with the absolute worst of humanity was coming to a conclusion, and I decided to pack us in the car in PJs and get some frozen yogurt. Sadly, there is only one frozen yogurt place in the town in which we live, which happens to be about a block away from the home of Hello Kitty Toaster and her husband. The entire way there I thought to myself as I always do: please don’t run into them, please don’t run into them. Then about two minutes before we left, I heard my name being called out from across the parking lot, and low and behold it was Hello Kitty Toaster, her husband, and her parents.

They were nice enough. They asked how our trip went. We hugged. They called us strangers because we haven’t been to any family events in a while. Hello Kitty Toaster really didn’t say more than four words to me – she was too busy parading in and out of the frozen yogurt shop to analyze what “yummmmmay flavors they haaaaave.” Afterwards, I went home and stared at myself in the mirror, because I was in pajamas – yoga pants and a striped, Chicago hoodie. I instantly worried about the gossip that would ensue, because that is the way this family works. And then I settled into the quite consolation petty, again hypocritical judgment – this time I noticed that her hair is looking a little flat and was reminded that she is stupider than a rock.

So that was my weekend. I have no Manic Monday posts, because my Monday is more mundane than anything else. I did not do anything adventurous this weekend, exciting, or really new. It was as it always is, albeit filled with the most bizarre creatures humanity seems to have to offer. Happy Monday!