STFU Fridays: Winter

Let’s just cut to the chase right here and now: if you are going to get all defensive and up in arms because I’m about to take all the people whining and griping about winter, and shit, to task – just stop. Stop right now. Go back to your fucking pity party, where you sit on your computer looking for deals to tropical places that you will never take a vacation to during the winter; go back to your bitch posts on Facebook and Twitter about the cold and the shoveling and all that bullshit too. Just stop and go back to all that shit and do not read ANY FURTHER.

Because I don’t have time for your bullshit defensiveness right now. Really, I don’t.

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I haven’t done an STFU Friday post in a long time, mainly because on Fridays I’ve been inundated with all of your fucking gripings about cold this, and polar vortex that, and OMG my weekend is ruined I have to shovel snow horse shit. Breaking the fucking STFU silence here, though, because – quite frankly – I’m sick and goddamned tired of all of you guys and your panty-waste whining.

There. I said it. Someone had to.

Well, it’s February 21st motherfuckers, and March is just around the corner. In like a lion and out like a lamb, so let’s just all agree to shut the fuck up and move on about this whole winter thing.

Before I moved to California, I lived in Chicago. I will never forget my last winter there. It was a doozy. Some nights the wind chill got all the way down to negative 30, and we had about 38 inches of snow in a period of roughly 48 hours. Now I’m not that old, and a lot of people I hear griping about the weather in the Midwest and East Coast right now have lived in cold areas like that for much longer than I have been away from it; which means that winter must be like child birth in the sense that everyone fucking forgets after a few years what a hard one really is like.

I am so tired of hearing about the polar vortex. Really. Really and fucking truly. First, and foremost – it’s over with! Fucking move on! Stop trying to analyze it, or deny the fact that the whether patterns are getting more extreme, and that the jet stream has changed, because of global warming, a.k.a. climate change. We’re not talking about why it happened – I have no interest in arguing with you ignorant fucking assholes about that. Let’s just all agree that shit is changing, and this is obvious proof of it. Now just shut up about it, because really it has been that cold before and it will be that cold again.

Shut the fuck up complaining about the way people drive in the winter weather, too. Or the way you have to shovel the driveway a lot. Every time I hear people bitching about shoveling I think to myself Jesus fucking a Christ, snow plows have been around and affordable for DECADES. Shut the fuck up about how you have icicles hanging from your roof, and about the fact that your heating bill has been so high the past few months. Probably 90% of the people I hear bitching and griping about all of these weather-related things work in the service industry: doctors, therapists, firefighters, policeman, nurses. In other words, there are plenty of jobs in places that are far warmer all year long where you could all relocate to and never have to deal with the snow driving-slash-driveway shoveling-slash-heating bill bullshit ever again. Until you make a concerted effort to do this, shut the shit up about all the rest already.

Can it with all your complaining about your kids being home from school. If you didn’t want to run the risk of your kids having snow days from school, you shouldn’t have had kids when you continue to live in a fucking place where you know this could be a possibility. Fuckin’ for real, people – someone had to fucking say it, and I know a lot of you that don’t bitch about your kids having to stay home on snow days were thinking it. That’s like saying you are upset because your child has a fever and can’t go to daycare. That’s pretty much been the lay of the land for – oh, I don’t know – since the advent of people having children in daycare. Therefore, you knew what you were getting into. Let your kids jump on the fucking bed after they play in the snow and have their hot cocoa; work from home, and shut the fuck up.

I saw an article the other day about how cities have a “new challenge” with all this cold and snow and ice and shit, in that they have to close down sections of sidewalk next to big buildings so that people don’t get murdered by falling icicle daggers. I’m sorry, new challenge? Huh? This has been going on FOR DECADES. Since the advent of skyscrapers. My mind is just utterly fucking boggled by this, because it is case-in-point proof that you people have never experienced winter before in your entire fucking lives.

But that isn’t really true, is it? The truth is that you guys had a couple easy ones, and – like I said – it was like all of your awful, 30+ hours of labor and delivery, when you tried to squeeze little Johnny out your v-hole. You forgot, quickly, how truly horrible it can be.

So let’s all just agree that you people amidst a shitty winter need to say “hey, look…it’s been a shitty winter, but just around the corner we’ll have spring and then a shitty summer to bitch and gripe about.” Because that’s what’s next, right guys? An extra hot, or extremely humid, summer that you all won’t shut your lily-livered mouths about?

Right. I thought so.

Sorry, guys. I know, this must be easy and all for me to say, being that I’m in California and haven’t worn anything but flip-flops in my 14 years here. But I’ve been back to the cold and the freezing in that time, and I just didn’t bitch about it. I actually enjoyed it. Truthfully, you guys should all consider yourselves lucky, for it isn’t until you live in the same, drab weather day after boring fucking day that you realize a harsh winter isn’t that bad in the end. It’s a change of pace. A beauty of nature. Something many people dream of and have never had the fortune to experience.

So shut the fuck up about winter, guys. Seriously. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

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STFU Fridays: Stop Judging Yourself

If I had a second middle name, it would be self-loathing. I hate myself probably more than I hate other people.

If you know anything about me, you know that’s a lot of hate.

I am constantly self-depricating to other people too, which I think is a defense mechanism because I know that secretly, in the annals of other people’s minds, I am being judged. At least where I live – in the trendiest and hipsterest community in all of Southern California – that’s just what we do. And it’s better that I be the one to highlight my malfunctions than someone else do it.

But in my heart there is the person that also doesn’t give a flying fuck. Not a singular fuck that flies. Because in that heart I know that it isn’t all about appearances and looks and set ups, so much as it is what’s inside.

So for this most glorious of Shut the Fuck Up Fridays, I would like to talk about no longer judging yourself (myself).

The Way You Look

Seriously. Shut the fuck up worrying about how big your butt looks already. And while you are at it, shut the fuck up about your hair too.

Every woman loves a compliment. You look pretty. Your hair is gorgeous today. You are more beautiful than the day I met you. And so on. Those things are vital to a healthy relationship – I am not by any means contending that they are anything other than necessary. Coming from the woman that never hears these things (and I mean that my husband has said the word “beautiful” once and “pretty” never in the entire time I have known him), really and truly we should all resolve to shut the fuck up and love ourselves. In spite of how other people think. And/or neglect to communicate.

It isn’t just about the feelings we have about the way we look, either; it’s about being comfortable. Recently I came to realize that all this happy horse shit about looking cute every day is for the birds.

For. The. Birds.

Since then, I’ve embraced my Stay At Home Mommedness and worn pajama pants and/or yoga pants and/or a bra tank top with a sweater, pretty much everywhere. I wore yoga pants out to breakfast with my husband’s grandparents. We went on vacation and 3/4 of what I took were lounge pants and comfy t-shirts. I’m thinking about wearing yogas to my daughter’s birthday party tomorrow. It’s just that life is way too short to spend the majority of it in front of the mirror. And if people don’t love you for your sloppy ponytail that you had to go with so you had time to – oh I don’t know – spend quality time with others, then they are probably not worth having in your life.

Shut the fuck up and stop worrying about looking like that perfect mom you see every time you go to the mall. You know her: she has cute jeans, sparkly TOMS, and the most amazing hair ever. That bitch has like two nannies and a professional cook at home to allow her to look so cute, and she cannot remember her children’s full names – so fuck her and be yourself.

The Things You Say

This is a fine line. A fine, motherfucking line we are walking here, people.

Sometimes the things that you say can and will alienate you from the entire universe. Or get you arrested. Or at the very least get you added onto the NSA’s top wire-tapping list.

But other times, you worry way too goddamned much about not hurting people’s feelings, or saying the right thing, or sounding eloquent, or whatever it is that you worry about – so instead you say NOTHING. Or you LIE.

Shut the fuck up with that bullshit, people. I say a lot of really raucous and blunt things. And I just don’t give a fuck anymore what people think about it.

My husband doesn’t ever come home and/or communicate with me? Of course I’m going to say that to my mother in law when we are chatting about the fact that he didn’t call me back for like four hours when we needed to ask him something while out Christmas shopping. Am I supposed to patsy around that for fear that she may think I’m a nasty person for “bad mouthing” my man?

I’m going to say something right now that you all are going to think is absolutely insane. This bitch is off her fucking rocker. Are you ready?

It isn’t bad mouthing if it’s true.

Stop judging yourself people for saying what you think, feeling what you want, and communicating what is on your mind. People will have way more respect for you in the end than they do for people that stay silent or walk on egg shells out of the big F (fear). Of course there is a way to communicate (for example, if your wife is looking rather portly lately, you should perhaps tread lightly), but I think you all get that we are talking about something much bigger here.

The Way Your Stuff Looks

Yeah, fuck you too Pinterest.

Since Pinterest and Instagram and the Internet, and a general sense of feeling like our lives have to be bigger, better, and more perfect than the next guy, it seems like the presentation of things has become more important than the things themselves.

For example, I wish I had a refund for every wedding I have attended where the food and the cake looked AMAZING, but tasted like utter dog shit. Dog shit rolled in bacon. Rotten bacon.

And kid’s parties are the worst. Maybe not the absolute worst, because baby showers, Thanksgiving, and Christmas seem to be following up at a close second. Or a dinner at home on your average Friday night. More and more, we are finding ourselves judging ourselves publicly viz a viz the Internets. By posting photos, or not posting photos just as we saw someone else post photos we think are way better than ours we have become the most judging, self-loathing people that compare our lives to others in ways that make even a sort-of Buddhist cringe.

Jus stop it already, people. All of your fucking gift baskets and cupcakes look awesome. I have a really hard time believing that you garnish your dinners with parsley on a typical Tuesday night – so quit uploading photos of you doing it, because we know it was just for show and because you judged yourself into doing it. And if the stuff you have doesn’t look amazing… if they are – GASP – just cupcakes with frosting slopped on, or bare walls without a gallery-style set of paintings… oh fucking well.

It’s time we all shut the fuck up and stop judging ourselves. I think we’ll all be much happier doing so. I know I will.

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STFU Fridays: Stop Blogging and Start Writing, People

Blogher13 is on. For those of you not into the whole blogging community thing, Blogher is an annual conference for … duh … bloggers. I’ve never been, so I won’t go on lambasting it for all the reasons I hate conferences in general. For the record, I do. Hate conferences. It isn’t anything against Blogher, just gatherings of the sort on the whole. Conventions and such just aren’t my thing. I’m not into the booths and the sales pitches; nor the big badges. Especially not the inflated fees. And the sitting there laughing and clapping right on cue when the guest speaker says something that is just supposed to WOW us all – in the words of my 90s self: gag me with a spoon. I will, however, discuss something I think everyone at that conference should be talking about.

Writers: stop blogging and start writing, already.

I think there is a huge difference between blogging and writing. One so huge that it contends with the gaping hole that is my big, loud mouth. For this STFU Fridays, I’d like to discuss this – this cavern so hidden, so elusive, and so unrecognized that many of us fail to recognize it is even there.

Blogs Are Not Articles

Your blog is not the Huffington Post. It is not the New York Times. It will never be the Chicago Tribune. Sure, you may one day be featured on one of those sites, or be asked to contribute. But your personal website containing a blog ain’t it.

You know what that means? You shouldn’t be writing your blogs as though they are professional articles. Sure, act professionally, but can it with the unproven “facts,” the absolutely insane claims, and the vague analogies and hackneyed lists that you think are totally relevant content, yet everyone and their mother has blogged about.

If I read one more 5 Ways To Survive Summer, or 10 Things You Should Blog About blog posts, I’m going to shoot myself in the face.

And enough with the product endorsements already? I get it: bloggers (especially mom bloggers) get a lot of free shit in exchange for writing reviews. But man is it the most annoying thing ever to visit a blog and see that all its posts for the last six months were reviews of Chobani yogurt.

Stick it with all that shit. Just stick it. Shut the fuck up. A blog is a web-log. A log of your life, your experiences, your opinions. Make it look nice, sure. Sound fancy when you do so. But don’t pretend that it is something it is not.

Blogs Can Have Good Writing, But You Are Only A Writer If…

… you follow basic rules of grammar and syntax.

…. you be respectful of literary devices and the unspoken rules of the literary world (ex: a journey into the forest is always a metaphor for self-discovery, and rain means shit’s about to go down).

…..you learn to use your motherfucking spell check.

Really. What is so difficult about proof-reading or even just hitting the ABC-checkmark button that all blog interfaces have? Are we living in another arena of time and space where it is actually hard to spell “definitely?” If I see DEFINITELY spelled DEFIANTELEY one more time, I believe that my head will DEFINITELY explode, resulting in a DEFINITELY messy situation.

Definitely.

Bloggers: if you want to be writers, for the love of God just shut the fuck up long enough to do a quick proof-read. If you really don’t want to be a writer, that’s cool. But I’ll be the first to draw the line in the sand, here, and if that makes me a bad person – so be it. The profession of writing has been devalued far more than I am willing to just continue to sit by and keep shut-ted the fuck up about.

Stop Blogging And Start Writing, People

Blogging is so much more than just writing words on a blog-style formatted website. It’s going to conferences. It’s networking. It’s posting on Facebook and Twitter and Hootsuite and Klout and LinkedIN and YouTube and Squidoo and Networked Blogs and Google + and blah blah blah blah blah. It’s posting three to five supposedly-quality posts a week. It’s posting what everyone is posting about, using terms everyone uses, and giving shout outs to your favorite blogs ad nauseum, even if you have never actually read them and only call them “favorite” because you think they’ll mention you back, publicly. It’s doing link ups and hosting link ups and commenting and guest blogging (UPDATE: not to be a hypocrite on the whole favorites shout out thing, but one of mine ironically just talked about this today on her own blog, 25toFLy).

Some of the most popular blogs I know of are the shittiest things I have ever read in my entire life, though. It’s true, and it’s because blogging is not necessarily writing.

I’m not by any means touting my own blog as unicorns and rainbows and butterflies and horses that don’t poop when it comes to writing. And I myself have – on more occasions than I would like to admit – fallen into the trap of blogging instead of writing. Finally a few weeks ago, though, I sat myself down and said: Me, it’s about time you shut the fuck up and get back to being a writer.

Which is why I have a big announcement to make today, on this most glorious of shut the fuck up Fridays. It’s about time that I take my own advice and step back as a blogger, and forward as a writer. This doesn’t mean that I’m quitting the blog altogether. That would mean that I would have to stop bitching and complaining and carping and griping – and I think my most faithful of blog followers know that is just not going to happen. It does, however, mean that I’m going to finally get cracking on finishing my novel. It’s almost done and through the final stage of editing, so to motivate me to really stop blogging and start writing, I’m happy to announce it’s official release date of December 10, 2013. It’s called The Storytellers and promises to make you cry. Scratch that: it promises to make you weep.

In other words, it will be nothing like a blog. I know you will all love it anyway.

When push comes to shove we all have to tell our own selves to shut the fuck up once in a while. That’s what I’ve done and I think you should do too. If you are a blogger, I ask that you consider for yourself what makes you proud of the things you put out there. Is it that they are popular and catchy reviews of Chobani yogurt? Or is it your writing? Stop blogging and start writing, people. Because when written word goes away, what will we really have left? That may be too philosophical for you faithful blog followers to think about, but then again – for many of us – it is perhaps the most frightening thought there could be.

STFU Fridays: The Letter Of The Day Is F

I have had a really horrible week. Really awful. Everyone around me seems to be acting like an ungrateful asshole. My spaghetti sauce in the crockpot yesterday got ruined because it was sitting by the sink cooling and someone – somehow – splashed rotten milk into it. And our city is burning to the ground in this massive California fire. So for this STFU Fridays, the letter of the day truly is F.

But is it the F you’re all expecting?

Fires

So we’ve been staying with my dad after his hip replacement, about 12 miles away from where our apartment is. Just about every day we run home to check on our guinea pig and fish; get the mail; make sure the neighbors have not vandalized our front patio. The usual. Yesterday we had to go out that way for the twice a year dentist visit. As we drove into the city, a huge plum of smoke was seen rising above the west end of town. Yet again, our city was on fire.

For those of you unfamiliar with California’s climate, it’s warm and dry. When the wind picks up, particularly the winds from the East (called the Santa Anas) it isn’t just warm – it’s fucking hot. Yesterday it was 98 degrees with wind gusts up to 60 mph. When those winds blow, all the crazy little fuckers with their pyromaniac tendencies come out with their Zippos and some area of California gets torched. Our community has a lot of small fires every year. This one was not small.

So far over 10,000 acres have burned. That’s getting close to about 15 square miles of forest, homes, a farm, and part of the highway that runs along the ocean. We’ve made national news – woopty doo – and there’s smoke fucking everywhere.

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And as with all things, everywhere you turn someone is taking advantage of the situation. After the dentist’s appointment, and before my dad’s doctor’s appointment, we went to The Burger Barn for lunch. While there, person after person could be heard calling into work on their cellphones, claiming they couldn’t get back to work because of the fires. Bullshit. One guy got up and ordered another Animal Style burger, yelling “yeah, I don’t have to go back to work – I can eat all day!!!” Shut the fuck up, you fucking pig. Have some fucking self-respect, and stop being such a lazy shit.

Worse than that, right before we left, this group of guys from the local college came in. The school had been shut down earlier in the day and evacuated because of its proximity to the fire. They were meeting some other guys that were already there, and one of them shouted from across the restaurant to this skinny little shit, standing in a loose tank top and his disturbingly long mullet. He was being asked if he had finished his poli sci paper, or if the fire had given him an extra day. The kid yelled in response:

“Naw, man … I’m bummed because I finished it last night while I was doing a number two.”

Fucking gross!! Who says something like that?! Shut the fuck up, you mullet-headed punk. People are trying to eat and not get burned alive here.

Family Meeting

And then I hosted a family meeting last night. I really have started to feel like everyone in our family is disrespecting each other (me), being ungrateful for what we (I) do for each other (I do for them), and causing problems that do not need to be caused (I don’t want to deal with). I even printed out an agenda for everyone, and for the most part it was well-received.

My agenda items were:

1. Mom’s purse (not rifling through it without asking, or digging everything out of it and leaving it all over the floor

2. Being grateful for what people do for us (and expressing that)

3. Listening to mom when she talks and not lying

4. Reiterating that homeschooling, not Barbie dolls, is the #1 priority

5. The new TV rule (no TV before 6 pm, even on weekends)

6. Technology free hour.

Lastly, I raised the complaint jar to 50 cents a complaint, and I added a dollar penalty for every time someone violates the family guidelines. We hung them on the fridge and my dad accrued a 50 cent fine, and my husband a dollar one, before the night was even over. But then after a week of no one getting anything put in the jar, the reward is the jar gets emptied and we use it together as a family – to go out for ice cream, mini golf, whatever.

All seemed reasonable, right? At the end of the family meeting, we went around and everyone got to share their thoughts. My dad expressed full support for me and my feelings. We all seemed pretty excited that this would facilitate more time as a family. My husband’s only comment, though, was “fine.”

When I went to sleep last night, and when I woke up this morning, the weight of that “fine” was hanging over my head. Fuck that. Shut the fuck up with that “fine” bullshit. When we talked about the technology free hour every night (from 8 to 9), Pookie piped up and said that it was really important to her. Lately she has been complaining that my husband spends next to zero time with her. He shows no interest in the things that are important to her. And he spends all the time with her just telling her to do chores or go to bed. God forbid Nick have to put his phone down for an hour, or actually make it home by 8:00 pm to spend time with his family. God forbid we actually have to make commitments to each other. I cannot remember the last time we spent time together as a family. Not running errands. Not dicking around on the phone or computer. But actually spent time together.

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Our family has become like the fire in our city. It’s out of control. Everything is being threatened and destroyed because of the gross neglect that has been going on for some time now. It’s true that we’ve been trying to juggle from one tragedy to the next these last six months or so, but that is no excuse for our family to have fallen apart. When a person says that his hobbies are work, your family is in danger. When a family spends all its time apart and doing their own things, your family is at risk of destruction. When everyone’s treating each other like shit, lying to each other, ignoring everyone, and taking everything anyone does for each other for granted, your family is about as fucked as the trees in the path of the fire that continues to burn west of our home.

Well I, for one, am not going to tolerate it anymore. Like all those people at The Burger Barn, I’m taking advantage of the situation this fire has created. Maybe after having to pay for a shitty attitude enough times into the complaint jar, we will all be forced to do something like go to a movie together, or go out for pizza as a family (instead of what we currently do, which is all eat at separate times). Maybe then the fire will be quelled.

So the letter of the day is F. F is for fuck. As in shut the fuck up, motherfucker. F is also for fire, fire fighter, and fire eater. But most importantly, F is for family. That’s pretty much the only important F there is.

STFU Fridays: Inside Jokes

Seriously. Who over the age of five calls something an ‘inside joke?’ I’ll tell you who:

Motherfucking douches

Motherfucking morons

Motherfucking elitists

Motherfucking hipsters

I am sure there are more, and if you refer to things as an ‘inside joke,’ please excuse my bluntness when I say: it’s about time you shut the fuck up.

When my husband and I first started dating, we went on this double-date kind of night with the friend that set us up and another one of my friends, who happens to be gay. Well the friend that set us up is gay now too, so I guess it worked out for the both of them; but at the time it was really just “going out with friends.” Tangent aside, we were in Nick’s car and he saw a bunch of people walking across the cross walk and said “wow, there’s more Crocs in that group than at a Vampire Weekend concert.” When we all turned to him and said “huh?!” he said “oh … inside joke.”

Stick your motherfucking inside joke up your ass, future husband. That’s what I should have said; instead I went on along this eloquent diatribe about how ridiculous it is to reference in inside joke when no one else on the inside is around to get it.

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And here we see the first reason why inside jokers need to shut the fuck up, on this fine STFU Friday:

#1 Inside jokes are for motherfucking elitists

This is something that just irks me to no end: that I may or may not be “cool” enough to be included in your stupid bullshit inside joke. This then leads to the possibility that said inside joke involves something I may or may not be involved in, which means that I may be excluded for an intentional reason. So that means that it may actually be making fun of me, which is the fundamental reason why inside jokes are elitist and bullshit and should be nuked off the planet by that North Korean crazy guy.

Are you with me?

So the point is that an inside joke implies that it’s on a need-to-know basis, and if you don’t get it, you don’t need to know. When my future husband made that comment about Crocs at a Vampire Weekend concert, I promptly slipped the mix cd I had made for him with Vampire Weekend on it back into my purse. How did I know he wasn’t making fun of me? I wasn’t inside the joke.

#2 Hipsters are elitists, and inside jokes are elitist; therefore, inside jokes are for hipsters

And hipsters need to shut the fuck up. Seriously. Take your new age, tofu-grilling, tight green pant-wearing, Back to the Future sunglasses-donning, Pitchfork-listening, inside joke-making asses and shut the fuck up.

#3 Inside jokes are for douches

There have been a few times in recent memory when someone said it was an “inside joke” and when everyone acted like they didn’t get it, the person said something really douchie like “oh, you wouldn’t get it anyway.”

Really. I wouldn’t get it anyway, you say. It’s funny that you say I wouldn’t “get it” when I went to graduate school, and you were educated by an orange peel and a mismatched pair of socks.

This is a classic douche move – to put others down and keep them in a position of not knowing what the shit is going on, just to make themselves feel superior. And the inside joke is the perfect way to do it. If others don’t get it, but you clearly realize the sheer hilarity of your stupid shit joke; well then don’t you feel like the epitome of humor, while everyone else is just too daft and stupid to understand the nuances of being a humorist (in your mind).

Chances are if it’s too cool to share, it’s too stupid to be funny. Shut the fuck up, douchecake.

 #4 Motherfucking morons

And this leads to the last group of people that I generally consider to be those stupid fuckers (no pun intended) that make inside jokes. Dumb morons. People that make inside jokes because were they to make actual real, “external” jokes, no one would laugh. Or get it, but not in a “we’re all too stupid to get it” way. In a “this makes no sense, shut the fuck up” way. Motherfucking morons with your stupid motherfucking jokes, that are made simply in an effort to protect your sheer stupidity: shut the fuck up.

As you can see, I have strong feelings about inside jokes. I just think they’re another way for people to make themselves feel above others. I’m not even sure how I got onto this little tangent this evening, actually. It just popped into my head like a pair of Crocs at a Vampire Weekend concert. Or like the many times In A Gadda Da Vida pops into my head for no reason at all, other than to annoy me.

Oh, I’m sorry to bring up that In A Gadda Da Vida thing. That was an inside joke. Now I’m the one who needs to shut the fuck up for this most glorious of Shut the Fuck Up Fridays.

 

STFU Fridays: Dinner Next to A’holes

Kill me, faithful blog followers. Fucking kill me. Kill me by inserting some large stick up my asshole, weedling it up there as high as you can before turning and maneuvering it around, causing my internal organs to twist and bend until they get tied up; then take the stick out and leave me to wither away with my fucked up, knotted colon until excrement has no where to go but out my ears.

That would be better than the dinner next to the a’holes that I experienced today.

Let’s first pause to welcome all the newbies hanging around the ol’ B(itch)Log these days. My name is Heather. People call me a B(itch). Sometimes I swear a lot; sometimes I am really serious. This is supposed to be a mom blog, but I usually talk about anything that is either funny and/or annoying and/or about my miserable life and/or filled with stupidity (and possibly all of the above). In real life (if there is such a thing), I’m a homeschooling, stay at home mom and full time writer, who is really – and truly – the nicest person you will ever meet.

We have here a fun, little theme for Fridays. Shut the Fuck Up Fridays is what I like to call them. While I swear and act crass a lot, STFU Fridays go above and beyond anything you’ve ever experienced before in the “foul-mouthed bitch” department. So welcome to my blog, and if you don’t like it … well, shut the fuck up (Fridays).

So back to the a’holes.

AholeSTFU

We went out to dinner with my dad tonight. He’s the guy shoveling food down his throat in the red sweatshirt. As we were walking in I noticed that we were being sat down next to those people sitting behind him. See them? There were actually five: a husband and wife, their nappy-headed bitch of a kid, and the husband’s parents. The nappy-headed bitch of a kid is in 5th grade. Her mom is a stay at home, like me. Her dad is a minister. The grandparents do I don’t know the fuck what, but they are the biggest dicks on the planet.

How do I know all of this? Because the husband (the dad, the minister) was my boss when I worked in pharmacy all those eons ago.

I won’t go into all of the injustices that went on when I worked under his reign. Well, not too much of it. I will say that he was the store manager and a pompous asshole from day one. I will further say that after four years of working tirelessly, sacrificing a lot for the job, and even letting myself be bullied into working for free a few times, he cut my hours to below 20, effectively causing me to lose my health insurance a whole year before I was planning on transferring to four year college (from community college) full time. I will say all of that. I will also describe for you faithful blog followers the time that the rancid bitch wife came in and told me that “one phone call, and your ass is grass if you don’t get my pills for me now.” Or the time that dear old dad back there screamed at me that I was being idiotic about his insurance problem, and that he should have me fired.

Nice people. I will never forget the rejoice we all felt when the douchecanoe of a store manager announced that he would be leaving to pursue his calling to the ministry.

So we went in and I noticed them, but I don’t believe they recognized me. I hope they didn’t. My hair is a different color now than when I worked under him; and it has been quite a few years. I also envision that they were so self-absorbed in their own arrogant and pompous goings-on that they hardly noticed anyone else in the entire restaurant.

There were quite a few times that I wanted to stand up, punch that nasty bitch in her crotch, and spit in the face of the ol’ “fuck you and your health insurance, Heather” manager.

“I Was Smarter Than You In 5th Grade”

One thing that guy did when he was the boss man was always put people down. He would make stupid jokes, that no one thought were funny; and they were always at the expense of other people. I remember one time in the break room he started cracking jokes about how annoying the sound of my voice was to him. Funny because at least my voice sounds appropriate to my gender, unlike him – who sounds like a five year old girl with a plugged nose and an occasional puberty-induced crackle. Fuck face.

Well the two of them (husband and wife) were showing off the bastard kid’s quote-unquote talents to the grandparents, but at every step they took it as an opportunity to take her down a notch. When talking about the science fair, dad said “but no one cares about plants…” (her project was about plant something or other). When she was talking about her math journal, the cunt with the red nails said “when I was in 5th grade, I was smarter than you though because I had no problem with fractions.”

Shut the fuck up, cunt.

“Catholics Worship Priests Instead of God”

Now apparently that little 5th grader is more of a stupid fuck than I thought, though, because at some point in their loud ass fucking conversation (so loud that all of the waitstaff and bus boys that came over to talk to us – as regulars – mentioned that they were sorry we got stuck by those overbearing dicks), the four adults had to explain to her what a Catholic is.

Here was how the grand tee-ton (the one who told me that I was an idiot and that he could have me fired since his son was the all-powerful minimum wage store manager) laid it out: “you see, Catholics worship their priests instead of God.” Nappy-headed 5th grader I previously felt sorry for went on to respond “that’s stupid. Catholics are stupid. Catholics are stupid and bad.”

Sadly, that poor girl is going to turn out to be just like her nasty parents, and even worse grandparents. Catholics worship priests about as much as I enjoy cooking. She too needed to shut the fuck up.

By the time the meal was over, I was about ready to go home and rip up my pharmacy technician’s license. I renew it every year just as a fall back; you know, in case my husband gets laid off or I decide to finally stop tolerating his shit and send him packing. Why the fuck would I want to go back to that, though? Not that it would be the same manager – he’s clearly moved on to greener, more shit-filled, pastures; but that was really just a microcosm of the shit I had to deal with working in the pharmacy. At this point I wouldn’t tolerate it. I would be fired in about a day because every other thing out of my mouth would be, simply stated: oh, just shut the fuck up!

STFU Fridays: Party Season Is Over Just In Time For Bridal/Baby Season

So in the last six months we have celebrated: two birthdays (that I baked my eight hour cake for); an anniversary (that I baked another eight hour cake for); Halloween (homemade costumes); Thanksgiving (handcrafted party to avoid having to do much on Thanksgiving, only to be expected to do much on Thanksgiving anyway); one birthday (that extended into two parties); Christmas (three required family events, plus brunch hosted by me); another birthday (made a birthday dinner); yet another birthday (that extended into three parties); my mom’s birthday (that I didn’t plan on celebrating, but turned into me hosting 12 people for dinner when they all just showed up); and my dad’s 70th (surprise party, thrown by me). In the month of December, I contracted Influenza A (the H3 that was so nasty), and was sick for an entire month. In October my husband caused a car accident; in December he bought me a used car with the meager settlement and took my nicely running Yaris; in January I had to buy myself a rebuilt transmission for said used car after it broke down; last week I had to get a new cooling pump as well. On October 24th a very good friend of mine committed suicide (never got invited to the memorial, though); in January my husband’s uncle died (memorial was in February); and after three days of being in hospice with pneumonia, my first sweetheart – my grandpa – passed away peacefully (resulting in two weeks of funerary activities, culminated in two wakes, one burial, two memorials, a $500 trip to just south of Yosemite where he is buried, and at least five different times that I cooked a meal for a large group of family).

To say that I’m done entertaining and cooking for other people – amidst all the other common bullshit life has thrown at me –  is a gross understatement. I won’t even get started on the fact that my birthday is coming up, and my dad is having  hip replacement surgery – so either my birthday has to be celebrated next weekend when the kid’s home, or it’s not being celebrated at all. I’ll save the “I did all this for everyone else, and they didn’t do shit for me yet another year” rant for when/if it actually happens.

The annual clusterfuck party season is over in this house. I’m done making decorations. I’m done putting together costumes. I’m over baking cakes. And if one more person walks into my house with their shoes on – traipsing dirt all over my carpet – they will be receiving a visit to the throat with my five-fingered friend named Fist.

So it would appear, though, party season has ended just in time for bridal and baby season to begin. Let’s spend this Shut the Fuck Up Friday examining the evidence:

Weddings Are Being Talked About Everywhere

I have three weddings coming up this summer of close family members. Please don’t get me wrong: I am super duper excited for all of them. They are each cousins, and having been an only child, they were more like brothers and sisters growing up. They still are (to me, at least). And each of them couldn’t have found better partners in crime – I love all of them and am so happy for them.

But goddamn does wedding talk get on my nerves sometimes. For one, my wedding was the most bare-bones, low-key wedding ever. I still have mixed feelings about that, which means that sometimes when I see a Bridal Expo sign, or drive by the bridal shop down the street from my house, I cry. There was very little “what the bride wants – this is her day” at our affair. Again, I did enjoy the time with my friends and what family was there. There was a lot of specialness in it all, and yeah – it’s not about the wedding, but the marriage. But there may be a little jealousy there, because as with many things in our lives, a lot of our situation (beyond the wedding, itself) was just dysfunctional.

The other day I was talking to my aunt and mentioned that I had asked my cousin when her bridal shower/bachelorette stuff was going to be. She said “oh, she won’t know – that’s supposed to be a surprise!” I had no idea that a bridal shower or bachelorette party was supposed to be a surprise. Why don’t I know? Because no one ever threw me one. The closest thing I had to a bachelorette party was shortly after I got engaged, we went on a girl’s night out. Everyone said “this is your last night of freedom!” but it didn’t feel like it. There was no drinking. There was no dancing debauchery. There would be no tittie flashing and screaming “wooooo – bachelorette party!!” at my affair. No, we sat in a bar, awkwardly sober, while one of my friends (that I no longer speak to) dry humped a complete stranger on one side of our booth. I was home by 10:15.

We had our Catholic wedding a few weeks before my brother in law and Hello Kitty Toaster had their “Celebration of Marriage” and she was thrown a huge bridal shower by my husband’s extended family. After my girl’s night out, the closest thing I came to a bridal shower was being allowed to take notes on what gifts she had received.

Baby Belly Photos Are Showing Up In My Newsfeed

487659_10200438668384263_1494975773_nAnother set of people I am unequivocally happy for: the twenty-two good friends I have giving birth between the months of May and July (and the number keeps growing). Let’s start with a note: I didn’t even know that I had twenty-two friends. No shit. Now I do because they’re all pregnant – and again, I am so excited for them. I’m thinking about planning a day at the end of July to just go and visit every, single one of them. I already know what cute little outfits I want to get each of them. And I am super excited to throw a baby shower for one of them (the only party that I actually *want* to throw).

But dammit, ladies – cover up. I am very familiar with pregnancy. It makes me nervous. Childbirth makes me feel faint. Every time I watch those Discovery baby shows, I get short of breath. I don’t need to see naked belly photo updates. I’ll take the clothed ones – we can see your bump nicely under your Motherhood top. We don’t need the stretch marks and the belly button popped out. I further don’t need commentary on your constipation, or your milk leakage. I will celebrate your baby in all the ways you want me to – at your pretentious “gender reveal party;” at your ultrasound where eight of us are crammed in the room. I will “like” and comment on photo after photo of your many, many ultrasounds. I will even hold your leg for you, or hold ice chips to your mouth in the delivery room – I am that committed of a friend. But I can’t take the uglier side of pregnancy and childbirth. I won’t look at your vagina as it gives birth to life. I will not discuss your fire-y hemorrhoids that started as soon as the baby dropped. And I will not enjoy your gargantuan stretch mark belly pics.

Entertaining season, or party season, has officially come to a close in our house. But it looks like the party is just getting started. Do you have a party season in your house faithful blog followers? Ours this time around was particularly arduous, and I would be lying if I didn’t say that after it has all come to an end I am still left feeling that the world is completely off its axis since some very important people were lost during all of it. As bridal and baby season ramps up, we should all keep in mind that not everyone has the same experience as us. Some are better, some are worse. Being modest and happy for each other seems the best course of action.

But just know: if your pregnancy talk gets too detailed, or your wedding jargon is reminding me just how hard mine was for me, I reserve the right to tell you to shut the fuck up.