STFU Fridays: “Who Cares” About Kimye

There are two camps of people in this world: those that shout “who cares?” to all-things Kardashian, and those that stand in line for a couple of hours to ask acne-ridden Khloe for her autograph at a Laker game.

I’ve blogged about these people before, and I’m fairly certain that I said a number of times in there that I don’t care. The truth is, as far as my personal life and day-to-day interactions go, the Kardashians don’t even exist in my mind. I don’t wake up in the morning and check up on the buzz over what Scott and Kourtney have been up to. I don’t try to dress like Kim, or do keg stands like Kris. And I certainly do not – never ever EVER – watch their show(s).

Whenever I see articles about the Kardashians, though, I always notice something in the comments. There is always an unprecedented number of people shouting through the Internet – screaming from behind their computers – the same line over and over again: who cares? Who cares about these media whores? Ignore them and they’ll go away, they say. I have more important things to worry about, they argue.

Who cares?

Well today, in spite of the fact that the Kardashians and all of their sordid affairs have no bearing on my life whatsoever; today, in spite of the fact that I too don’t care – I am here to tell all of those people that said “who cares” to the news and the updates of the Kimye wedding to shut the fuck up. You guys have ignored them and “who cares”ed them long enough and it’s not made them go away. In fact, it looks like it’s just made them worse.

Many Things About Kim and Kanye’s Wedding Last Weekend Were – Arguably – Beyond Wasteful. Who Cares? Shut the Fuck Up.

When I read an article this morning with some of the sordid details of the Kimye wedding last weekend, I felt like my brain had been run through a cheese grater repeatedly over some of the stupidity and rampant wastefulness the event represented.

Reportedly, before the ceremony, Kanye didn’t like the most expensive sound system available, which was the sound system they had ordered. He didn’t like the speakers, I guess. He said they were too big. So he demanded that the entire thing be removed and used an iPod until a replacement sound system was brought in.

The money that was wasted on that set up, that Kanye argued went against his “minimalist style,” could have rather been – oh I don’t know – donated to a good cause. As an example, that money could have fed roughly 1500 children currently starving in Sudan, three meals a day, for the next full year.

Now I’m sure that all of the Kardashians and their offshoots, the Kanyes and all the other celebutants of the world give to charity. In some way. But just think about the wastefulness; how much the wastefulness could be that much more.

Honestly, I don’t even know where to go on; in fact, there was so much excess and wasting at the Kimye wedding that I don’t have the word count space to continue. I will say, though, that the golden toilet tower, the disposable marble dining tables with guest names etched into them, and the use of cranes to go to a higher area of the hill the chateau sits upon could have easily fed another couple thousand children – almost anywhere in the world.

And the headless marble statues. Oh, the headless marble statues. Four days before the wedding, Kimye reportedly ordered 30 nude marble statues to be put around the reception area. Somehow, though, only 10 of them made it up the hill, all of whom lost their heads in transit. Headless nude statues to adorn the reception area, and by the way the average cost of that failed endeavor could have clothed between 60 and 70 homeless families of four in the United States, for an entire year.

Spoiled Children and Total Direspect. Shut the Fuck Up.

Reportedly, Andrea Bocelli – arguably the world’s most famous and respected opera singer – sang during Kim’s processional. Afterwards, they had no seat for him to stay.

The Smith family was there too, with none other than little Jaden. I recently saw a meme that suggested a comeback/spin off of Fresh Prince, where Will Smith sends his spoiled kid to Phillie to learn to be less of a douche. I thought ‘little Jaden? Oh come now…”

Little Jaden wore a white Batman costume to Kimye’s wedding. For a couple hours, he even ran around the place knocking over and smashing glasses to the ground, and throwing his cape over people’s heads.

Who cares? If these people don’t have respect, no one will ever be able to change that? Shut the fuck up.

Kim Had a Crotch Dot, Went On A Rampage, and Turned Off the Power Leaving Everyone Inside the Golden Toilet Tower To Poop In the Dark. Who Cares? Shut the Fuck Up.

I guess at the reception a light beam was shining on Kim’s crotch. She went nuts and unplugged all the lights on the dance floor, which the golden toilet tower was positioned to the side of. So it went black inside the golden toilet tower, and rather than tell Kim that she was going a little overboard over a crotch dot, everyone cowered in fear and just peed in the dark.

Sound absurd? It sounds like a massive cluster fuck of diva mixed with narcissism mixed with – who cares!

Well I care, quite frankly because so many people followed the Kimye wedding on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and other social media news outlets this past weekend and following week that they broke records. Are you people with me? They broke social media records. THAT means that enough people – in spite of all the who cares, and what does this have to do with mes, that show up in the comments – a lot of people are paying attention.

More than anyone in that Kardashian-loving demographic are: kids. Teenagers. College kids. In other words, by not caring and choosing to be better than paying attention to any of these whorish, diva antics of the family that loves to drink and drama, we are letting the people who care learn from them. Next thing you know you’re daughter is getting married and a light beam shines on her crotch, so she takes the example her fave celebrities did and throws a narcissistic temper tantrum, only rather than cower in fear your guests flip the fuck out. Your boss is there, you get fired from you job. Friends never return your calls. Family disowns you.

That may be a little bit of an over exaggeration, but what I’m trying to say seems pretty clear. By choosing to ignore these antics, and by not speaking up, we are allowing these shitty people to dictate how our kids are going to act. Who cares? Why aren’t people caring enough to stand up and say that these people have a serious problem?  This sounds like the old story of Polly, who got raped and stabbed in a New York alley whilst apartment dwellers looked on and just didn’t want to get involved to speak up and speak out.

Why aren’t people standing up and saying why they don’t care?

I think maybe instead of telling people to shut the fuck up, what I’m really doing is telling them to speak the fuck out. Speak out against this Kardashian bullshit. Between their over the top antics, their wasteful spending, and their negative contribution to the world as narcissistic divas who have brains in their assholes – it’s time for people to stop talking shit and start doing something.

Like try to find out how many children in Sudan the Kardashians fed last year with their gobs of money that they have no problem throwing around and wasting.

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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: 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.

STFU Fridays: Seasons Greetings, Faithful Blog Followers!

Seasons Greetings, and kiss my fucking ass that is!

There has been a lot of talk about Christmas letters lately. Blogs are talking about them. People are talking about them. My grandpa fell the other day and is in the hospital recuperating, and keeps whining that he won’t get his Christmas letter done in time now. Apparently the letter is the thing to do.

So I’m leaving my own letter on your doorstep, faithful blog followers. Only instead of being printed on flowery paper with all sorts of bullshit no one wants to hear about on it, my ol’ yule log of greetings is in a paper bag and lit on fire. Instead of talking about me, for this Shut the Fuck Up Friday I’m talking about you…

drunkSanta2

Your Christmas Letter Informed Me About All Of Your Perfect Childrens’ Achievements

I don’t give a fuck if your kid placed first in soccer for the eighth time. I don’t give a shit if your kid is an honor roll student. As far as I’m concerned, he/she is on the honor roll of my asshole. You know why I don’t care? Because everyone’s kid is awesome – whether they are on the honor roll or the fucking dean’s list of losers that will never make it past 8th grade. Stop comparing yourself through your kids to other people. It’s cool that you want to encourage them; I, myself, have been known to brag on occasion. But a lot of times you’re just making them feel like they have to live up to certain Christmas letter standards, or they are a total failure to you.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Christmas Card Included Oh-So-Unique Portraits of Your Beautiful Family

NOT!

The choice to not remove the huge wart/pimple/hair from your face prior to the photo shoot was probably the wrong one. And while your portraits were clearly of you guys, you do know that your photos look just like everyone else’s, right? The kids walking in between the parents, looking back at the camera. In sepia. The family playing in the field in jeans and matching denim shirts. The beach images of the you guys writing your holier-than-thou family crest in the sand. Seriously, people – get over yourselves. I appreciate seeing your kids, since chances are I’m too much of a dick to just get in the car and drive out to see them, but let’s not put on any heirs here either: that picture is going in the trash come December 26th, right along with everyone else’s. Save your money and just send a polaroid.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Verbal Diarrhea Informed Me Of All Your Hardships

Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ, do you people not understand that a Christmas letter is supposed to spread cheer? Like happy news? We received a letter in the mail last week that was six pages long; line after motherfucking line of sadness and hardship and “this person got laid off” and “these people’s house got foreclosed on.” Shit, by the end of the sixth page, I had taken two Valium and a shot of Canadian Club and considered driving myself off the pier in empathy.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Blatant Lying Made Me Realize You Are Delusional

Although by contrast, we received another letter that was all unicorns shitting rainbows, and babies puking glitter – it was just that perfect. Life is great! Life is wonderful! I took a dump last week and it came out in bricks of gold! It concluded with “nothing ever seems to go wrong for us these days,” which is sweet but for God’s sakes: (1) grow up, and (2) stop lying. Life sucks balls. You don’t have to drag us down with all your problems, but the least you could do is be a little more realistic and humble about any good things you do have.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Medical Problems Were Your Christmas Letter’s Centerpiece

What is it with people and sharing all their medical dramas over their Christmas letters? Call me crazy, but I always thought I’d save the stories about my bleeding asshole and weird smelling tits for either my doctor, my husband, or my shaman (disclosure: I do not have a bleeding asshole or weird smelling tits … or a shaman … at least not yet).

My grandpa is the worst with these – his letters always detail his medical dramas and the problems he has making his bowels move if the Nebraska Cornhuskers aren’t doing well. And there was that one time my Trailer Trash Mom wrote a couple paragraphs in grandpa’s letter about her unpleasant discharge – that was a real crowd-pleaser.

Shut the Fuck Up

So seasons greetings, motherfuckers. Please keep your vaginal discharge and your honor roll students to yourself. As you write your Christmas letters this next week, just keep in mind that when in doubt: shut the fuck up!

STFU Fridays: Restaurant Loudtalkers, Illegible Texters, My Mom’s Gut

Here I am. It’s Thursday night. I’m in my pajamas. As you see, no make up. I’m just hanging out. I’ve written a lot today – both a blog post, as well done revisions on my new blog book coming out soon. I also went bowling and to the library. Those were pretty good times. I should be spending my night relaxing and reading my new Hem biography with a nice glass or two of skim milk.

But I’m just so fucking excited for this week’s Shut the Fuck Up Fridays that I cannot wait to post it. So I’m writing it early and posting it tonight because it is just that good. At least as it’s worked out in my head.

Shall we begin?

Restaurant Loudtalkers

Have you ever been in a restaurant, only for someone to be talking so fucking loud that you just want to break a glass and cut the motherfucker to get him to shut the hell up? It’s not always men – that’s sort of sexist for me to say “him.” In fact, more often than not, it’s been the broads.

Once we were out to eat and these three humungous women (I don’t mean their physical girth … well, they were a little heavy, but I mean like Amazon Women – tall, muscular, and quite frankly frightening); these women were loudly rambling on about their new marriages, the inadequacies of their husbands, and how nice it would be if they didn’t have to get porked every night. In the middle of the goddamned restaurant! In front of children! I will never forget as they pounded out of the restaurant, little Pookies clung to me in fear then asked what they were talking about. I really appreciated that.

Today’s experience was no different. We were picking up take-out salads and this old guy was shouting – literally shouting – to the person sitting right across from him. MY NEW NUMBER IS 7-9-5-4-4-3-7 … NO!! 7!!! 7!!!!” Then he kept going on and on about how his grandkid was in soccer and his son was getting a promotion and his fantasy football club was meeting up again and blaa blaa blaa blaa blaa, in the highest decibel possible. In the five minutes I waited for our food, I learned more about this guy’s life than I have ever wanted to know about another human being, a complete stranger no less.

Walking out, I was so overwhelmed by the Restaurant Loudtalker that I immediately turned into this crying lady who has the balls I don’t have to say what’s making me cry:

Illegible Texters

The other day I was talking about how my Trailer Trash Mom started texting and it is – like – seizure-inducing to read the things. I’m not talking about texters like her, though. I’m talking about the people that text, Tweet, email, Facebook, Instagram – whateverthefuck social whoring you want to reference – shit that just looks stupid.

B4

L8

Ta2

H8er

Seriously. There are very few acronyms I find to be acceptable alternatives to basic English literacy. OMG is one. WTF is another, with its variants WTS and WTH. B4 and L8 are not; nor is Ta2. H8er just makes me emotional again:

My Mom’s Gut

Everyone has been asking what the conclusion of my Terrible Tuesday was the other night. My mother and grandparents came over to dinner; it was such an awful day and I was essentially wasted by 6 o’clock. Before that, though, my mother announced that she was going to bring my grandparents over around 2 or 3, instead of when I invited them to come over, at 7. Being a generous host, I canceled my afternoon plans and made sure to be home by 2.

They showed up at 4:45.

So I had laid out some appetizers since they’d be there for so many hours before dinner. Just some chips and dip, and some caprese salads. I spilled an enormous amount of chips with dip on my chest, licking every one of them up with no comment from the crowd. Then I served dinner – again, relatively healthy. Nothing too bad and pretty low cal.

To be precise, I served some garlic bread, nonfat tortellinis with fat free feta, bar-be-qued sirloin (even though I don’t eat red meat), and a medley of vegetables (brocollini, asparagus, and snap peas). My mother – having just returned from her couple of months at the trailer with her hillbilly husband – was not used to eating such an healthy meal. It’s all Ramen, chili dogs, and McDonalds for those two, so her gut was a little ill-prepared for such an easily digested and nutritious meal.

As everyone sat and let their food digest before taking a piece of red velvet cake for dessert, my mother suddenly leaned forward and scooted to the edge of the couch. She spread her legs and positioned her hands on her knees, then puffed out her chest and let out the most uproarious and earth-shattering belch I have ever heard another human being let out.

My grandparents sort of sat there as if nothing was going on, although my grandfather did verbalize what she had just done by saying belch, like he normally does when he does it.

To make matters worse, when she was done letting out the gut-busting, time-stopping esophageal foulness, she wiped her mouth, giggled and said “I guess I’m ready for dessert.”

While everyone else ate their dessert – acting as though not a goddamned thing had happened – I snuck to the bathroom and sat there, tears leaking from my eyes at the horrifying display my mother had just turned the evening into. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was my Trailer Trash Mom’s gut rot. No one will ever know, but in the end it was all emotional and teary and STFU: