So I almost vomited in the parking lot of my high school today…

LTHS

We were driving around today, killing time and enjoying the seat warmers in our rental car, when all of a sudden I realized that we were in my hometown.

The town I grew up in.

Blast from the past, right? ERR. Wrong. Blast of puke from my mouth.

Let me back track. Saturday we embarked on a cross-country trek to the Chicagoland area, for the Thanksgiving holiday and to visit family and friends. Also to pork down enough good food to last us until our next time out here (hopefully that one will be permanent, though that’s another story…).

And I guess we came out to embark on some nostalgia. Like usual.

So I grew up in a town now referred to as Homer Glen. I say “now referred to” because at the time it was just called Homer Township, which was an unincorporated area just outside the city of Lockport. If you know anything about the famous Joliet prison, Lockport is just across the bridge from that. And Homer Township just up the street from there. Now it’s a town, called Homer Glen. Apparently Homer alone (named after the founders HORSE) wasn’t good enough for them. Whatever.

Because I lived in a township, I was bussed over to Lockport for high school. They still don’t have a Homer High or anything like that, though that will likely come one day as the area grows. Or not. Who knows.

So I went to Lockport Township High School. All four years.

Let me just pause there and say: if you came to this blog post by Googling “Lockport Township High School blows big fat monkey balls, no wait monkey balls are too good for LTHS that’s how bad LTHS is…” … well, I agree with you. My experience there was – shall we say – lacking. But really, whose high school experience is actually all that great in the end? There’s always something horrible about it, even if you’re the captain of the football team (or whatever the position is everyone envies).

Moving along.

We were driving around and enjoying the seat warmers and I realized we were in our hometown, and I asked my father just what we were doing. He said hitting up some nostalgia, a blast from the past. Then I started to gag (because if my husband were here, I would be saved from this blast from the past nonsense, but alas my husband doesn’t get in until tomorrow night). Anyway, I started to gag because there is absolutely nothing more nauseating than sitting in the car with my father when he starts on one of these nostalgia tours. At first it’s cute. Five hours later you’re car sick and very seriously annoyed.

He drove past our old house, which is cool to see. Though it isn’t our house anymore so really who cares?

We drove past my grade school.

My father regaled stories about shooting a 75 on this golf course, and eating dinner at that diner that still exists.

Then we started towards Lockport and I really started to feel nauseous because going to Lockport means one thing and one thing only:

A visit to good ol’ LTHS.

We started down the road towards the high school and my father said enthusiastically “does anyone want to visit LTHS?!” I thought he was kidding. I prayed he was kidding. I bargained my soul to the devil to make a visit to LTHS not happen.

A visit to LTHS – for me – is not all cutesy like in the movies. We don’t go in and wander through the halls, remembering my first kiss. Seeing trophies I won in the trophy case. Recognizing a teacher and chatting about how wonderful my life is.

Nope. A visit to LTHS would be taking a look at the woods where my boyfriend and I used to make out and smoke cigarettes. It would be remembering all the times my dad thought I was too dumb to pass a class, so put me in a remedial one in spite of my test scores. It would be being recognized by no one but the security cop that caught me with weed in my locker freshman year. Which doesn’t matter anyway, because my life is nothing to brag much about now anyway. I pretty much do all the same shit I did in high school, that being contribute very little and wear lounge clothes every single day. Wait, in high school I actually had a paying job, which is more than I can say for myself now.

As we pulled in I couldn’t take it anymore and very seriously thought I was going to vomit. My dad kept stopping the car, saying “take a picture here!” and going on and on about all the stories from my time in high school. Or from him covering football games there when he worked for the paper. And on and on he went until finally I just screamed for us to leave before I vomited all over the car and my precious seat warmer.

School was in. I am sure people heard. The lunch ladies were leaving for the day, and may have given me dirty looks as I sat screaming in the car.

I have no shame, though. A girl can only handle so much.

Do you go on nostalgia tours every time you go home, faithful blog followers? Or are you like me: preferring to keep your past blasted back as far back as is humanly possible?

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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.

Why I Could Never Be a Golddigger

Note, this blogpost is not titled “why I don’t think it’s right to be a golddigger;” or “why I would never be a golddigger.” It’s Why I Could Never Be a Golddigger, which I’ll get to in just a minute.

Why I do think it’s right to be a golddigger, quite simply put is because golddiggers get shit done. Today we were at Target, picking up more canning supplies and body wash, and I saw what was clearly a golddigger with nice clothes, a Gucci purse, tons of diamonds, and a guy about three times her age with his hand on her ass.

Hand on her ass. The dude had to be 70.

While my husband was keeping his body wash separate from mine so that he didn’t accidentally get charged for it, this lady had a cart full of all the terribly useless crap Target has to offer. She had tons of expensive shampoos and hair products. She had – like – four kitchen appliances and a new suitcase. When we walked passed them, she was saying something about how “cute” some Target home decorative thing was and he said “anything for you, baby.”

Anything for you, baby. Words I have never heard.

Golddiggers get shit done. I’m sure there is a happy medium between being a golddigger and being a “give the milk for free” kind of gal. But not only do golddiggers get shit done, they make damn sure they get treated with the respect they deserve.

Why I would be a golddigger, were my husband and I to ever separate – quite simply put is because this cow ain’t giving out milk for free anymore. I have gone on way too many dates where the guy was cheap – something no woman should ever tolerate. My own husband has never actually taken me out on a real date. Our first time out he asked me for my half of the In ‘N’ Out order.

I’m not intending to talk badly about my husband or anything (actually … who taught him to treat women like that?); and there are plenty of things that make up for how cheap he can be. I’m just trying to illustrate just how much milk I have ended up giving out for free over the years. Maybe it’s California because before meeting my husband I dated a lot of guys out here that were very similar – cheap and expecting everything to come to them.

The point is that a golddigger demands the respect she deserves by virtue of her golddigging. Again, I’m sure there is a happy medium between nothing and everything. In the meantime, let’s hold fast to how much respect the golddigger commands.

Now to the point of this post altogether: Why I Could Never Be a Golddigger, quite simply put, is because I’m a slob. A pigslob. I’m an uncouth, unkempt, self-professed gutter whore.

#1 Every other word out of my mouth is a curse word. I mean every other fucking word. I don’t really swear around the Pookies, but every once in a while one slips. And then there was that one time (about an hour ago) that I announced “I think I pulled my left ass-cheek muscle vacuuming today.”

#2 I am terribly unkempt. Today was a particularly long and arduous day. I baked. I cooked. I made a delectable dinner that everyone bitched and complained about. I cleaned the bathrooms. I dusted. I did three loads of laundry. I vacuumed. And I scrubbed down the kitchen. Tonight I was sitting here working on my blog and eating some frozen yogurt to reward myself for all the work I did and I dropped a little bit on my shirt. No big deal, right? Just get a napkin and wipe it off, right? Well the napkins were too far away, and quite frankly I didn’t want to lose out on any speck of my fro yo, so I just licked it up. Licked it right up faithful blog followers, off my shirt. Then I went about my business.

#3 I say what I’m thinking irrespective of where I am or who I’m saying it to. I don’t act like a total jerk about it; and oftentimes I censor myself for a moment or two so as to not be rude. I also avoid conflict, but when I have something snarky or funny to say – I say it.

A great example of this was last night. We went out to dinner to what we thought was a restaurant/sports bar – but that had apparently remodeled since we were last there – to create this faux French bistro theme. Everything seems to be french-themed in our community these days – the fucking Eiffel tower is plastered everywhere, much to the disdain of those of us that actually have lived in or visited France, studied the French, or are Francophone. Nonetheless, it’s close to our apartment and the only other option it seemed was the Italian place next door that specializes in Barilla lasagna and fish tacos (I know … huh?).

When I looked through the menu, I immediately saw that the things they claimed to have added a “French twist” to were the exact same items as were available when it was a restaurant/sports bar. I didn’t know that the French serve BBQ Western hamburgers and turkey with mashed potatoes! The prices were a little higher as well; maybe that was the French twist. But all my old go-tos were the same: BBQ chicken salad, chicken sandwich with fontina cheese, and caprese thin-crust pizza, so I was happy to just go with the pizza. French you say?

So I had two classes of wine (not French, I might add) by the end of my not-French meal and was feeling a little lippy. It was loud and there were a lot of people there, so I didn’t think it would be a big deal if I leaned over to my husband and cracked a joke.

“Nick … this place is about as French as my asshole. You know what … I’m going to open a restaurant called ‘My French Asshole and Italian Hoo-Haa.’ Our main dishes will be hamburgers, donuts, and fish tacos.”

My husband immediately leaned a little closer to me, I could only assume to applaud my crass humor (that has never actually happened), and pointed out that the manager of the restaurant was standing right behind me to ask how our meal was.

So you see, faithful blog followers: I could never be a golddigger. It isn’t that I wouldn’t (because I would), or that I would have some sort of moral opposition to it (because I think in many cases it’s the only way to get shit done). Nope, I couldn’t be a golddigger because I’m a crass pigslob.

And on another note, we could also have an alternate title to this blogpost: Reasons That Birth Control Should Be Added To My Water Supply.

My local taco shack now serves douchesauce

Yes, that’s right: you faithful blog followers are getting a double dose of the B(itch) today for I have come to something of an epitome that cannot wait to be shared: apparently, my local taco shack now serves douchesauce.

Awhile ago, I had a bad day and posted about it. Included in there was a pretty (retrospectively speaking, of course) hilarious story about an asshole sneezing in my tacos. We have a local taco shack that we go to maybe once a week or so; being a non-native to California, I gobble up Mexican food like my next door neighbor gobbles up drug-related misdemeanors. In other words, I’m stuck on salsa and tacos and all things spicy. Okay, but I’m a pretty picky eater too and like the healthy food kid options at the places that are a step above your average my-Dorito-is-a-taco-joints, so this taco shack pretty much remains my regular go-to. When I posted about that dude sneezing in my plate (I mean, he literally bent over and sneezed right into my food), it was there. I considered it a one-time incident and can laugh about it now.

The last few times we’ve been there, some pretty bizarro things have gone down, though. There was a fight going on in the parking lot when we left one time. Another time – I shit you not – I heard a guy say to his girlfriend ‘don’t worry about it, baby – you can pay me back later’ as he pointed towards his pants region and winked. So I guess you could say I’ve started to realize this place attracts a particular type of person. That person is – in a word – an asshole.

Today was no exception.

After ordering our food and picking out our table, I was waiting for our number to be called and I noticed a pregnant lady waddle in with the baby daddy. I knew it was the baby daddy because she said as they walked in the door “oh, the baby is kicking so hard right now!” and he said “that’s my boy!!” It was also obvious, though, that they were not really together; and in the event that I’m wrong and they are, the situation is clearly messed up.

So pregnant lady ordered her food and went to pay for hers separately from the baby daddy. Her card declined. She looked around embarrassed, made excuses, said she was just at the bank, then rifled through her wallet for money. Now, let’s not impose judgment on this woman one iota about how if she has no money she shouldn’t be eating out; or any other such thing. Let’s focus on what the baby daddy did – just fucking stood there. When she finally found her cash and was able to use that, he ordered his food and paid for his and then made a comment while they were at the salsa bar that really put his status as douchesauce over the top – “maybe you shouldn’t have maxed out your card on the crib and just had the baby sleep in bed with you, like I suggested.”

Jerk.

Then we finished eating and I was going to throw away our trash and leave our tray on the top of the trash can. Standing in front of the only trash can there, though, was a guy about 50 and clearly angry with the world. I said “excuse me” and he didn’t move. I smiled – looking him directly in the eyes – and said “excuse me, can I just throw out my things?” and he moved about 1/2 an inch, crossed his arms, and scowled as he waited for his food. I squeezed in to throw away our trash and then his number was called. He jumped a little and bumped my tray, knocking all our empty plates, leftover rice, and used napkins on the floor.

He walked out without a word of apology.

No wonder our children in this town are either bullies or bullied. It seems almost obvious that so many kids are on medication for anxiety and depression around here when parents are such jerks – even to each other. I’m pretty horrified by the way some of the people in my community treat each other; and apparently my local taco shack is the Grand Central Station of it all.

‘Now serving douchesauce’ should be included on their menu. Of course, I won’t stop going – the tacos are good and the company has nothing to do with the assholes that eat there. But one day I’m going to finally speak up and be the b(itch) I am on this blog. Then it’ll be b(itch)sauce that’s being served.

My Trailer Trash Mom Returns

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It isn’t often that you find a sequel that can be called good. Usually they suck – the plot line has gotten old; the characters look way too aged if years have gone by; and, more than anything, some of the flare from the original just isn’t there. Don’t get me wrong – there are a lot of sequels that are just as good (if not better) than their originals. Back to the Future 2 and Die Hard 2 are ones I can think of off the top of my head.

But then there are sequels in real life. Those are rarely ever good. A reoccurring dream replays itself over and over again during the night – usually in the format of a nightmare. Some banking problem never seems to get resolved. And then there is the worst: some drama-ridden hillbilly from your past resurfaces to spew their hillbilly shit all over the place again.

Those of you that have been around for a while remember the saga of my Trailer Trash Mom a few months ago. For those of you that weren’t, here it is in a nutshell: my mother (I call her my Trailer Trash Mom) hasn’t ever been eligible for Mother of the Year, really, but has gotten particularly use-y and trash-y since she married a hillbilly from New Mexico exactly one year ago last Friday. Around Mother’s Day, she volunteered me to cook a big family dinner in honor of my grandmother, which turned into the biggest hillbilly shit brawl before said family dinner that I had ever seen.

Enough about the original, though – let’s move onto the sequel.

Friday of last week I got a phone call from my mother. I don’t usually answer her calls anymore; but this time she called from her hillbilly husband’s trailer line and I didn’t recognize the number. She BS’ed with me for a few minutes before saying that her hillbilly husband was going to tell me all about their anniversary plans to celebrate one year since they eloped to the county courthouse (the witnesses were the checkout ladies from the Goodwill she bought her wedding frock from, I shit you not faithful blog followers).

But when her hillbilly husband came on the phone, he didn’t say a damn word about their anniversary.

“Heather? Listen… are you going to let Alexis go to Colorado with her dad?”

“What? Oh, um yeah – I agreed to it and I really have no reason not to.”

“You know it’s going to be hard to get her back once she’s across state lines.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I mean if he doesn’t want to come back. Look, I have experience with this! EXPERIENCE!!”

“Okay. Well it’s a little late for this and I think you are being a little paranoid. I’m sorry, I thought you were going to tell me about your anniversary plans.”

“Look, all I’m saying is your mother and I have been talking and we decided we should let you know we’re going to be suing you for grandparent’s rights.”

“Uh huh…”

“What you don’t think we will? When I get to California with your mom in August, I’m stirring up the dirt!! I’LL GET MY GRANDPARENT’S RIGHTS! I WANT VISITATIONS AT MY HOME IN NEW MEXICO – AND NOW! LET THEM THROW ME IN JAIL IF THEY HAVE TO!!!”

“Uh huh…”

“I GOT RIGHTS!”

“Uh huh… look, if you aren’t going to tell me about your anniversary plans, I really need to get off the phone now. We’re on our way to Chuck E. Cheese.”

“HAVE FUN EATING AT A RESTAURANT OWNED AND RUN BY A RAT!!”

And then he hung up.

‘What the fuck?’ is what I said too. I have met this guy – in person – for a total of 20 minutes, over two years ago when they first started dating. He told me then that he and my mom had been busy for a few weeks “keeping warm if you know what I mean.” A few weeks later my mother asked me if I knew of any types of gondola rides that “allow for private time,” and also if I knew where she could buy some crotchless panties for a woman her age. At that time, I didn’t think things would last too long; but then one day she was “visiting” him in New Mexico and called to say they had eloped. Since then it’s been one hillbilly shittin’ thing after another: trailer dramas, moving dramas, hillbilly-mother-in-law dramas. And I’m sure none of you will forget when my mother showed up at my father’s garage sale to sell some of her own wares, and displayed them on a Poise pantyshields box she dug out of the dumpster behind my grandparent’s assisted living facility.

Fucking crazy, right?

So after a few days of speculation, I realize that there are a couple of possibilities that made this sequel a clear path down the trail to psychosis:

1. They live in a tiny, aluminum trailer in New Mexico. It’s fucking hot in New Mexico. Maybe the air conditioning broke and their brains are now fried.

2. They ran out of crazy pills and thought that rather than pay another copay, jelly beans would be an adequate substitute.

3. One hillbilly brawl ended and now they are looking for another hillbilly brawl, because (quite frankly) brawl and shit is what hillbillies like to do.

All I know is that from now on I’m back to not answering numbers that are unrecognizable.

Christmas (sort of) in July

So last night I was still not giving much of a shit about parenting or cleaning up like a slave or anything, so I decided my husband and I should watch a movie on Netflix to bide the time until we went to bed and began another night of trying to abuse each other with punches, kicks, and obscene noises in our sleep.

It ended up being the most amazing experience of my life. No hot actors. No steamy love scenes. Even still, words cannot adequately describe how wonderful it was. I will try.

10:15 pm

Poor Nick begins cruising through the Netflix Instant Que and – as usual – is suggesting we watch some weird shit like reruns of Twin Peaks. I don’t know what it is about that show that is so fucking weird – maybe the guy and his fucked up gum-chewing-slow-dancing-psychosis – but I am not interested. Ever.

I suggest we move out of our Instant Que and look for something that Netflix recommends.

10:30 pm

Fifteen minutes into looking through movies, we are still looking through movies. There are two things we do that are both laborious and exaggerated in how long it takes us to agree on something: decide where to go out to eat and pick a movie to watch on Netflix. It’s like it never fucking ends, but thankfully tonight we’ve moved onto what Netflix recommends for us rather than our Instant Que full of that weird Twin Peaks crap.

Pookies watched a lot of Ned’s Declassified School Survival Guide (kill me, now) and Wonderpets on Netflix recently, so the top recommendations are children’s movies. I stop paying attention because I am growing overwhelming bored and check my Facebook on my Air Jordan. I hear Poor Nick mumbling under his breath and ignore it – as I usually do; although, I do catch when he says “why are they still recommending Christmas movies?”

I look up at the TV and begin to scream.

10:35 pm

On the screen is an image of my childhood: The Christmas Toy. I don’t have many memories from my childhood with my mom, since I only saw her a few times a year after she divorced my dad and moved across the country, but The Christmas Toy was one of them. Every year we would watch that movie and eat Chex Mix and actually have good times together (versus the rest of the time when she was a Trailer Trash Mom, hanging out in the local lounge trying to pick up men whilst I sat in a nearby booth).

Perhaps my all-time favorite kid’s Made for TV special, this is the Jim Henson version of toys that come to life at night. One of them (a stuffed tiger named Rugby) is unaccepting of the fact that he will not be the Christmas toy every year after his first and tries to go put himself under the Christmas tree.

After screaming, and then screaming a little more, I spend the next 10 minutes trying to convince Poor Nick to watch it.

10:45 pm

Poor Nick gives in. He begins the movie and within 30 seconds I am crying.

11:00 pm

Fifteen minutes in and I am holding Poor Nick’s hand so tightly he looks like he is in pain. He may possibly be in pain because watching children’s movies is pure torture to him; but it seems that he is writhing under my utter excitement. Regardless of this, I can’t stop – this is just so exciting to me.

When Mew – the stuffed mouse filled with catnip – comes onto the screen, I begin to coo. Poor Nick stands up and walks away. I continue to coo.

11:15 pm

Poor Nick returns after doing I do not know what (I also don’t care – The Christmas Toy is on the TV). “Are you still watching this junk?” he says and I grow offended that he would utter such atrocities about my Christmas Toy.

Rugby has made it to the Christmas tree at this point and is opening the Christmas present box so that he can get in it. He opens the box and Meteora comes out. Meteora is some sort of space queen Barbie doll, and she doesn’t know she is a toy yet. I squeeze Poor Nick’s hand again and start singing loudly the Meteora song. “Are you fucking insane?” he says and I continue to sing, even louder.

11:25 pm

After everyone has returned to the toy room, Mew is caught in the hallway by one of the parents. In the law of the toy room, if a toy is caught out of place by a human it is frozen forever. As I always do at this point, I gasp and hold my hands over my mouth – repeating “oh Mew!” over and over again (you can see how seriously I take this). Mew becomes frozen and Rugby goes to say his peace to his best friend, who has been thrown in the cat’s bed downstairs.

I begin to cry and Pookie walks out, still being awake because she thought she saw a ghost earlier. I catch her up on the story and she begins to cry also at Mew’s having been frozen.

Poor Nick looks at us like we’re complete idiots, but stays seated and I now believe he is as enraptured in The Christmas Toy as I am. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure he was enraptured by what to do about his wife-gone-bonkers.

Rugby’s love for Mew is so moving that Mew comes back from being frozen. The two return to the toy room, a big song is sang, then Christmas morning Meteora and a second Mew join the room. Pookie and I are now sobbing uncontrollably.

11:35 pm

Pookie is back in bed and I grab the remote to give The Christmas Toy five stars (Poor Nick has given it two) as I dab my tears from my face and blow my nose. He takes the remote to get everything turned off for the night and I have forgotten to add The Christmas Toy to the Instant Que so that I can easily access it regularly to watch, so ask Poor Nick if he will add it.

“You want to continue to put yourself through this?” he asks, but doesn’t need an answer and puts it in the que, where it shows up right next to Twin Peaks on Recently Watched.

Like I said, clearly the most wondrous night of movie-going I’ve had in a long time. And people don’t think I have good taste in movies. Well you know what I say to them? You are lovely, Meteora. Yes, so lovely and smart and brave and strong. So exciting, Meteora. Even lightning bolts seem dull when you’re along. How can you say “bad taste” to a movie with song lyrics like that? Tears are forming in my eyes again now even, as I write this.

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That belch tasted like rotten milk…

Six of the most horrific words to ever exit the mouth of another human being while sitting in an outdoor Johnny Rockets – a crowded public venue.

The day was already bizarre enough as is. Every day seems to be here in beautiful and unpredictable-weathered California. We had an early morning phone call that swimming class was canceled because a kid in the earlier class had taken a dump in the pool, so I figured – what the hey, we’ll go out for lunch today.

We go out for lunch most days, but not usually “sit down”-type lunch that takes time and effort and “quiet down, we’re in public” on repeat. I’m not saying we go to McDonalds every day, just usually grab salads and sandwiches to-go as we travel from place to place during the daily activities. Because that kid took a growler in the pool, though, we had some extra time and Johnny Rockets was the place of choice simply because it was close and has grilled cheese.

The lunch was fine; service was good; atmosphere was as acceptable as a California-restaurant’s atmosphere can be. There was a guy sitting behind us who was running for city council, and apparently everyone knew because they all had to stop and gab with him about his race (having worked in politics and spent time with most of the politicians in the forefront of government today, I am usually unimpressed by such pomp and circumstance).

We were finishing up our lunch, though, and the check had just come, when all of a sudden the man sitting next to us let out the most uproarious, outrageously loud belch I have ever heard.

Now, I have heard some loud belches in my time. Growing up with just my father, burping was something regularly done in our house. My grandfather (my mother’s dad) still insists on saying the word belch while he does it in a room full of people. My husband – well, we all know he’s a pig.This guy at Johnny Rockets today, though, really took the cake.

What made it barf-worthy, though, was not the belch, itself. No, no, faithful blog followers. It was what he said afterwards to the guy he was lunching with – who, I might add, flinched not one bit at the guy saying it. What was it he said, you ask?

That belch tasted like rotten milk.

Fucking sick. I’ll be taking the Pookies elsewhere from now on if that is the kind of clientele that frequent our local Johnny Rockets.