I Hope You All Laugh Heartily About My Disastrous Long Weekend


I don’t even know why the fuck I called it a “long weekend.” It certainly was disastrous, but the concepts of weekend, or long weekend, are relatively foreign to me.

My husband doesn’t get most federal holidays off. I mean, even when he does he’s usually answering text messages or emails or whatever about work anyway. So “long” is a misnomer, because he’s at work right now.

The other thing is that, um, I’m a SAHM – so I work 24/7. Weekend has no meaning to me, except I have another child (aforementioned husband) to pick up after.


It started innocently on Friday afternoon. My mother in law texted me that she was at jury duty down the street from our home, so did we want to meet her for lunch near the court house. Sure, why not. I’m always up to eat, plus she and my father in law were leaving the following day for a week in Park City (Sundance), so I figured I need to go over their horse care instructions, since my husband would be handling it on Sunday.

While sitting there, my daughter wanted to show her the funny complaint Post-It she “sent” to my husband.


My mother in law took one look at it and announced loudly (I mean loudly, like the rest of the restaurant looked at us): “yeah, I think he needs to add fiber to his diet, or start taking laxatives regularly … even when he was potty training, pooping was so hard.”

Pooping. Pooping was so hard. That’s my man.


Saturday began in what could have been a serious disaster. The kid woke up with a scratchy, allergic sore throat, but right now she’s having a rough time because her dad moved to Texas and she has to go visit him soon (and vehemently does not want to go). So a scratchy, allergic sore throat suddenly became “I think I’m going to blow chunks” which then turned into crying and saying she doesn’t want to call her dad in a couple of weeks, and she doesn’t want to go to Texas, and why can’t I just have donuts for breakfast sometimes???????”

Say what?

In the span of 20 minutes, she went from allergic to nauseous to anxious to panicky to crying to can I please have a donut.

I had a Mom Beverage for lunch.


Sunday was relatively mild. We went to my husband’s parents’ home to take care of the horse and hang out with his grandparents (who stay there during the winter). They made lasagna and a pudding pie for us for dinner, which I’ll get to in a minute. After all the NFL dramas for the day were over, we scurried on home for me to watch my DVRed Flowers In The Attic that was on Lifetime the night before.

Then we all went to bed, and after the stroke of minute on MLK Day was when shit started to get real.

Monday. MLK Day

I woke up at 4-something in the morning from a noise outside, and couldn’t get back to sleep. Naturally – as most people do now – I grabbed my phone and proceeded to make myself even less sleepy by looking at Facebook and Pinterest and all that other senseless shit.

Then a notification from my bank popped up that the paycheck my husband had me deposit the other day had been returned, and suddenly my account was frozen until the bank reopens Tuesday.

Rather than go back to sleep, because obviously nothing can be done, like a psychopath I got up and turned all the lights on in the house (essentially) and decided to call the bank’s 24/7 hotline. In fact, the account is frozen. I have something like $11 in my wallet until then.

And a shit-ton of credit cards, but what if the zombie apocalypse starts?!

I went back to sleep for about twenty minutes and then was woken up by a small human being climbing on top of me (because kids were made to wake moms up early, right?), and then the usual noise of the hustle and bustle of a typical weekday morning. Remember, we don’t really have any concept of long weekends around here.

Finally I got up and shit really started to get weird.

First I was sitting downstairs and heard my daughter talk, nonstop, to whom and about what I do not know, for forty five minutes.

Then I looked outside and saw a conglomerate of people milling around in the walkway. And I heard what they were all standing outside so awkwardly because of, which I think I need to backtrack on for a second first.

We got new neighbors four days ago. On the first day, they moved all their things in in garbage bags. Garbage bags. Not boxes. The second day, it appeared that there are about ten people living in the two bedroom townhome, I heard one tell another neighbor they are all farmworkers. The third day, they brought over many cages of squawking, loud ass birds and left them on the patio (in spite of the fact that the place does not allow pets).

Then today, the fourth day, in the coup de grace you might call it, the majority of them were outside while the oldest couple in the house had the loudest, dirtiest, nastiest sex I have ever heard happen in my entire life. It sounded like a buffalo was humping a whale, while squealing like a dying manatee.


I went to walk upstairs and finally get ready for the day (it was like noon at this point), when I realized I had not even eaten breakfast, so I grabbed a banana and then went upstairs. While eating the banana, I remembered what I had eaten the night before, though – remember, I said my husband’s grandparents had made us lasagna and pudding cake. And I had not yet showered, so had lasagna-and-pudding-cake-morning-breath, mixed with banana and all of a sudden my mouth tasted like what I can only describe as a dirty baby diaper.

The neighbors were still making their sweet, sweet love outside; the birds were squawking; and my mouth tasted like a dirty baby diaper. I quickly showered and dressed and decided we’d run a few errands to get some fresh air.

On the way to the car, some kids threw a ball and it hit me in the head.

So that’s how my long weekend has gone. How about yours?


We’ve Been Watching A Lot Of Documentaries Lately…

… and I’m not sure why.

Maybe Netflix is starting to get more lame than usual. I mean they just took Planes, Trains, and Automobiles off the Instant Streaming – just how in the shit am I supposed to watch it at least once a week now?

Really I think it’s that we go in cycles as to what kinds of movies we watch. Sometimes we go for marathon cartoon shows, like the Simpsons. Twenty episodes in one day and all that. Other times we go for scary movies or funny movies. Or new ones.

I should mention that we don’t watch regular television at all, with the exception of sports, so it’s either movies, On Demand, or Netflix…

Or nothing. Often it’s nothing.

ANYWHO, so we’ve been watching a lot of documentaries lately. And I’m not sure why. And all of them have a little bit of weirdness to them.

Here are the three we’ve watched this weekend:


My husband and I watched Mansome Saturday night. Of course anything Morgan Spurlock and/or Jason Bateman is going to be a necessary win, though it was a little horrifying in and of itself in content.

I mean it was all about men and their grooming practices. And their balls.

It also prompted me to look up Jason Bateman on Wikipedia. You know, while I was sitting there next to my husband. I wanted to know if Bateman was in fact “happily” married. You know, while I was sitting there next to my husband…

So he is. And I didn’t realize that his older sister was the one that played Malory on Family Ties. No shit, right? Well I clicked on her Wikipedia page and BOY… does she look awful now. The 80s and Family Ties and show business really did a number on her…

Back to Mansome. So the best parts of this film were when they interviewed this total weirdo with a really long, red beard. Which was totally different in color than the hair on his head, I might add. He won some European beard contest – a little weird to travel across the world to participate in, but whatever gets you going.

And I should mention that – sure – he was all up on taking care of his beard, but in the scene that showed him getting in his car we learned that he wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about taking care of his car.

I’m saying his car was a total piece of shit. Maybe not relevant, but maybe it is. I mean if a guy is worried so much about his beard but not his mode of transportation…

The other completely off-the-hook part was when they showed the product creator and the focus group for this product called Fresh Balls. Basically it’s a gel that men rub on their junk to stop chafing and “batwings” (which I had no idea existed until watching this highly educational film).

And I suppose close seconds in terms of “greatest parts” of the film were when this totally closeted gay guy has his eyebrows threaded to remove five rogue hairs (he called himself metrosexual … I mean, who does that?); and, when the professional wrestler has his friend shave his ass with an electric razor.

Talking Heads: Stop Making Sense

This afternoon, my husband decided he was going to force all of us to sit down in front of the television and watch this.

He said it would be an experience. That it would be a musical experience we all should appreciate.

Now I can appreciate the nostalgia of remembering a few of the songs. And I can appreciate the aesthetics of the post-punk, avant garde era that made up the Talking Heads of the 80s.

But after a while it just got old. Very, very old. And could that bass player be any more doped out, in her 80s pantsuit that had its own wings? Obviously not batwings, because she didn’t (I don’t think) have testicles; but wings flapping out the side of her pants that just made me think of the whole batwings thing. Then I laughed out loud and my husband got mad.

Thanks a lot. Bitch.

At a certain point in the whole charade going on in this concert film, the tall, skinny, lanky, wiggly guy that is the lead singer just randomly started running around the stage like a complete moron. I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life – he just started jogging. Then sprinting. Then jogging a little bit more. Then at a point he got on the ground and sang while dry-humping the air. Then he went back on another jog around the stage.

It was just too bizarre for words.


Finally, this evening, I was bored and we had nothing else to do but vegetate like broccoli. So I decided we would turn on another documentary.

Because you know. The others weren’t enough for the weekend, or anything.

I decided on Microcosmos for no reason other than I was seriously fucking tired of scrolling through the Netflix que. For those of you that do not know of it, this is a French documentary that utilized miniature cameras and specialized microphones to film bugs.

Insects. You get it? Fucking tiny little bugs. Spiders and flies and shit.

Here were my responses:

“Those caterpillars are complete morons.”

“Bees can seriously kiss my ass.”

“Jesus, could those snails suck face any harder? Need to get some Barry White up in there.”

“I think I have eaten one of those beetles on accident.”

“Hey look it’s like the 405 [freeway] only with bugs.”

“What’s so scary about those things is they’re fucking ugly.”

“That’s not a salamander, that’s an underwater dinosaur.”

“Wow look at that bird eat those ants… it’s like a trip to Hometown Buffet!”

“Is it weird this movie is making me hungry?”

So I highly recommend that you guys check out these movies. I’m not sure why. Probably because after all this poking fun and making random commentary I’m afraid of the legal ramifications by the filmmakers. Just kidding, I actually think you should watch them. If anything, for a good laugh.

Now here’s Snail Beauty, or as I like to call it Two Snails Get Busy.

Tube Tops and Toaster Ladies: Weekend in Review

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

Corona Chicks Like Big Dicks

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

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

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

Hillbilly Ass Scratcher

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

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

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

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

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

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

So we meet again, Hello Kitty Toaster

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

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

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

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