Holy shit, Christmas is almost here!

My mom and brother are coming out for the holidays this year, and I’m totally stoked! They’re driving which kinda bummed me out, because I had some really fucking hilarious TSA jokes all lined up. Meh, whatevs. It’ll still be nice to have them here. Sharing one tiny bathroom with 4 other people was totally at the top of my wish list this year.


*dramatic eye roll*


And of course I have the wonderful “tofu diarrhea” to look forward to. My mom insists that using soy meat in chili is no different than using real meat. It is. A lot different. Regular chili doesn’t give me explosive diarrhea. The taste isn’t all that different – and that’s how it gets ya. You gobble down 3 bowls unsuspectingly, while the soy quietly works its way to your colon for D-Day. And before you know it, you're icing your binghole and throwing away your favorite underwear.

The best part about this year is that I was finally able to afford presents. Before I never had enough money, so I had to use the lame ass excuse that “My presence is your present. Because I’m that fucking cool and I know you’re totally grateful.” Well maybe in my Gramma’s case I left out the f-bomb. No need to burn the only bridge that leads to homemade cookies and endless advice. Seriously. My Gramma knows everything. Also, I don’t know what she’s capable of so I don’t want to make her mad. Never piss off a Gramma. They’re full of surprises.




Fuck you, young people!

Since they’ll be here in just under a week, it’s crunch time. I’ve gotten a lot of things done, so I’m mostly ready for their arrival. The only things I have left to do are wrap the presents, and clean my house. Except for the “cleaning my house” part. Because who wants to do that on Christmas? Or….ever? Cleaning house is the worst. Around every corner is a wall that I have to scrub Peanut’s crayon drawings off of. Or a lovely little poop streak that Oscar left behind on the floor while doing that hilarious ass-dragging thing. And let’s be honest here - I can’t even get mad when he does it because I’m laughing so hard I can’t see straight. The ass-dragging is one of my favorite things in the world. The simplistic beauty of it is something to be admired. 


So, bloggers….I would like to take this opportunity to wish you good tidings. Happy Chanukah, Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice, or whatever the hell you celebrate. That’s right assholes, I can totally be sensitive and politically correct. I just don’t like to do it very often. Because raising expectations is never a good idea.

See you next year, douchebags!!



Tumbleweeds are the devil. And so am I.

I have had to get used to a lot of major changes since moving from Ohio to Kansas. I visited my family here as a kid, but I don’t have a lot of memories about the climate, culture or community. I invested more in raising hell with the combined efforts of my brother and cousins. And at that…I succeeded. I’m a havoc-wreaking monster motherfucker. So look out, buttholes. Hide your breakables and don’t ever give me candy. I’m like a stray cat; if you feed me, I’ll be back. And if you don’t give me candy when I come back, I’ll meow your ass off and tear your curtains apart. Trust me, it would be a cat-astrophe.



Haha. Cat Humor.


Driving is a lot different out here in the middle of nowhere. I can now go 50 mph down city streets and totally get away with it. I can pull a U-Turn in the middle of Main Street and nobody would think twice about it. Hell, I could stand in the middle of Main Street, butt naked, holding a sign that says “Ask me about my wicked diarrhea” at 8pm on a Friday night and not a soul would see me. And frankly yes, I have been tempted to do so. Because that shit would be hilarious, and also because I’m really fucking weird.


Now, when you’re driving in Ohio, you mostly only have to worry about animals jumping out in front of your car. Deer, groundhogs, raccoons and opossums are among the most popular road kill victims. In Kansas, it’s rare to come across an animal in the road – instead, you have to dodge tumbleweeds. Those bastards are everywhere! And I know what you’re thinking: “It’s just a weed. What could it possibly do to you?” …That’s what I thought the first time I got one stuck under my car. I reached under to pull it out, and it damn near CUT MY FUCKING FINGER OFF. Those shits are deceptively sharp, and viciously evil. I’m telling ya man, tumbleweeds can’t be trusted.


And size is of no concern to them. The ones you see blowing across the sand in western movies are cute and small – but don’t let them fool you. Those are only the baby tumbleweeds. And when Papa tumbleweed comes a rollin’ along, look the fuck out. He will bowl your ass over and rip your jeans, and possibly sexually assault you. Papa tumbleweed is an unstoppable badass. I know from experience – I ran into one at Walmart the other day. Rather, it ran into me. And I wrangled that douchebag into a cart rack and took its picture, as proof for everyone who doubts its existence. Get ready to have your minds blown to hell, my friends:

I had to look like a raging moron trying to muscle that thing in there.

*shrugs*

Good thing I don’t mind looking like a weirdo. It’s pretty much a full time job for me. The shocked and disgusted looks I get are only fuel in the fire, baby. I pride myself on being a one-of-a-kind freak. The kind of freak that makes people so uncomfortable they tell their kids not to stare. Where people just assume I’m mentally challenged and pretend I’m not there while avoiding eye contact. Where I can get away with farting really loud in public, as long as I follow it by screaming: “WHOOP WHOOP!! HOOOOOONK!! I’M A FIRETRUCK!” and spitting on people to put out their fires.


It’s time like those I wish I had a penis, because a wang would sure make an awesome fire hose. Also, I really want to know what it’s like to pee outside without having to squat. Squatting outside is the worst, and I always manage to somehow pee in my shoes. And let me tell you, shoes full of urine aren’t nearly as fun as they sound.

I'm a human lie detector. Really. Try me.

A little backstory here..I've dated this one guy on and off for the past few years. Let's call him Leo. We've never gotten overly serious in the past but he's been staying with me since he lost his job, so we're in that awkward "hold your shit until the other person isn't home" phase. He can be real sweet....and he can be a real douche, too. I laugh at his expense all the time. But hey, at least he's a good sport. Usually. Sometimes.

Anyway, Leo is always giving me crap about watching TV shows like Jersey Shore and Jerry Springer and iCarly. I just can't help myself. And before you say something shitty and I'm forced to punch you in the throat, iCarly rocks and you totally know it so don't even go there.

So on my lunch break today I was at home watching Maury and eating a PB&J sammich. Simplicity is really wonderful sometimes, you should try it. So before I left to go back to work, I noticed that Leo hadn't changed the channel yet. I just figured he wasn't paying attention to the TV and shrugged it off.

When I got back to work I got to thinking, so I texted him.

Here is a summary of our "Textual Transmission:"



Me: "If I ask you a question, will you answer it honestly?"

Him: "Crap."

Me: "lol shut up it's not a bad thing I just wanna know something."

Him: "ok"

Me: "Are you still watching Maury?"

Him: "hell no I aint watchin that shit"

Me: "I don't believe you. You're still watching it aren't you?"

Him: "....yes."

Me: "I knew it!"

Him: "Shut up."

Me: "So was Billy the father?"

Him: "Hell yeah I knew that shit too that baby looked just like him."


*rolls eyes*

If he ever gives me shit for my viewing choices again, I'm totally giving him a swirlie. And I won't even clean the toilet first.

I totally know what I'm doing...I think.

Guess who just got approved for a home loan yesterday?


*points thumbs at self*

That’s right, people. You’re looking at a future homeowner here. It’s a pretty exciting time, and a little overwhelming as well. I feel like I’ve now been officially inducted into the “Grown-up Club”. I mean, I already fit all the other criteria:


1. I am completely self sufficient. …Ok so maybe I pay a teenager to mow my lawn. Big deal. Like I’m gonna get all sweaty and manual labor-ey? Yeah, right.

2. I graduated high school. Barely.

3. I drive a car that is totally paid off – and the fact that it’s paid for is the only thing I like about it.

4. I balance my checkbook twice a week. And 90% of the time I even do it accurately.

5. I know how to unclog a toilet. I will plunge that shit like my life depends on it. (Pun totally intended.)

6. I no longer cringe at the idea of touching poo, boogers or scabs. After being a mom, you can’t shock me. Gross things are my forte.

7. I have things like Vick’s, Breathe Right strips, and heating pads on my nightstand.

8. I can buy alcohol. And Cigarettes. And porn! And I have proudly exercised each of those rights at one point or another. …Except the porn. Okay, okay. So I’ve bought porn. Like you haven’t?

9. I’m old enough to fight for my country. But I swear to God, if there’s ever a female draft for the army I’ll be the first bitch running to Canada, ey. I mean, I love the good ol’ U S of A, but my idea of a fight is a “Yo Momma” battle. And somehow I don’t think that would go very far in keeping me alive during combat.

10. I say things like:

“Because I said so.”

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

“As long as you live in my house, you’ll live by my rules.”

“Knock it off or so help me I will turn this car around!!”



All in all, I think I’m ready to finally have a place to call my own. Where there will be no looky-loos peeking in my windows or realtors constantly traipsing through with strangers. Where landlords will be a thing of the past, and I’ll be paying mortgage instead of rent.

And what’s the best part about looking at houses, you ask? Sweet, sweet revenge. Revenge for all those assholes that knocked on my door during dinner, asking me to show them my house without an appointment. For the jerks that walked through my house with muddy ass boots, while saying my bedroom paint job is hideous and that “something must be done about it.” For the realtor constantly asking me why his sign isn’t in the yard where it should be.

It’s not there because I hid it behind the tree. And I would do it again, too. Because when people don’t see the “For Sale” sign, they don’t circle the block six times to look at the house. Don’t they realize that every single time they drive by, my dog goes ape shit? And damn, let me tell you - that dog has an unbelievably shrill bark. I’m pretty sure it breaks the sound barrier.

But since I know absolutely nothing about pilot lights, roof maintenance, foundations, cabinetry or anything else home related I’ll have to take someone with me to look. Hell, a house could have a missing roof and I would totally buy it if it had a dishwasher.

Man, would I love a dishwasher. Dare to dream, my friends. Dare to dream.

Improvisation 101

So, last night Peanut was in the shower gettin all squeaky clean and whatnot. I still wash her hair, because if I let her do it herself, the end result is usually something like:

"AAHHH!!! THERE'S SOAP IN MY EYES!! IT BURNS!! MY EYES ARE FALLING OUT!!! I'M DYING!! HEELLLP!!"

*sigh*

Her shampoo is tear free.


Anyway...I typically just have Peanut come to the side of the shower stall so I can reach in and wash her hair without getting wet. Usually I have to move the "adjustable" shower head so the stream of water isn't right in my face while I'm scrubbing her cute lil noggin. So I reached up to adjust it - and it snapped off. So now, instead of water coming from the lovely massaging shower head, it's shooting from the wall at 100 mph. Naturally, I screamed like a little girl. My entire bathroom became one big shower - no surface was safe from the scalding hot assault.

Here's a picture for your mind's eye: I'm screaming, Peanut is screaming, the dog is barking, and water is everywhere. I'm soaking wet and my mascara is running down my face, so I look like a really effeminate football player. Peanut is wet and soapy and scrambling to get out of the way, and the dog is trying to bite the stream of water shooting from the wall. Sorta like this:

You would think my first impulse would be to SHUT THE DAMN WATER OFF. Nope. My first impulse was to try to block the stream of water with my hand. Because that's totally gonna make it stop. And just in case you're wondering - no. There was no logic behind that thought. Just pure instinct, baby.


Finally I figure out that I can make it stop by turning those little knobby thingys that have H and C on them.

*lightbulb clicking on in mind*

Yay! I stopped the geyser!

*angels singing*

I handled that shit like a pro. Just like the water company when I forget to pay my bill. I'm so freakin awesome and smart and cool. ....and soggy.


So now, I've got a soapy 3 year old that I need to rinse off. My only remaining option is the kitchen sink. That's right, bitches. I can totally improvise. I mean, I did it when she was a baby so it can't be that hard, right? Surprisingly enough, it wasn't too bad. Peanut was totally cooperative and we managed to get her clean. The only problem I had was lifting her out of the sink when she was done. She was wet and slippery...so I *kinda* dropped her a little bit. But she totally landed on her feet instead of her face, so it's all good.

Then it was my turn. I bent over the sink to wash my hair - no problem there. Then came the brainstorming: how was I going to get my body clean, without plopping my happy ass into the sink and getting myself hurt - or even worse - stuck?  Frankly, I didn't want to end my night by being forced to call 911 and admit to dispatch that I was naked and stuck in my sink.  So I did the famous "washcloth wipedown". It wasn't near as warm and relaxing as a shower, but I didn't want to get a wicked scalding enima either, so I chose the lesser of the two evils.

I'm hoping my landlords will get someone over today to fix it.

I'm not feeling overly optimistic about that, though. I asked them 4 months ago to send an exterminator, and that never happened.  We now have spiders big enough to form their own websites. We practically need a snow shovel to squash those bastards - because when I hit them with a shoe it just makes them angry. Then they say shit like: "Is that all you got? Bring it on, bitch!!"

*shivers*

Damn thug spiders. They talk a big game, but they're bad-ass and they know it. I'm expecting a turf war any day now.

My kid will charm the shit out of you.

As we all know, this past weekend was Halloween.  Peanut was a cheerleader this year, and she was totally into the whole concept. This was her first year doing the traditional trick-or-treating.  She loved it!  She called her Pom-Poms "Boom Booms" as well as "Poop Poops". And honestly, I thought that second one was pure genius.  This child certainly has a bright future ahead of her.

I however, hated trick-or-treating. I remembered it being a lot more fun as a child.  This year, I felt like a pack mule.  By the end of the night I was carrying Peanut's coat, her candy bucket, her Pom Poms...and her. Plus my stupid ass thought flip flops would be, like, totally acceptable footwear.

*sigh*

I can be such an idiot sometimes.

Anyway, I took tons of pictures that night because that's my job as a mom.  Take all the pictures, and 50% of the candy.

....Better make that 60%. I can't let a 3 year old eat all that candy, or I would be a horrible mother right?  Right? Come on, just go with it.  Humor me. After all, I fill your lives with humor by writing this hilarious kick-ass blog.  So you totally owe me, bitches.

Out of all the pictures I took, one in particular captures the essence of my wonderful child in such a way that it would be a shame not to share it:

Omg what a totally cute cheerleader!  She is so freakin adorable!

....Aaaaand she's picking her nose.

Diggin' for gold, apparently.  She's got her finger so far up there she's gotta be touchin brain.

Burstin' with pride here, people.  Simply bursting.

Farts and Daydreams

...My thoughts exactly.

This is the kind of day I’m having. The kind of day where I feel like marching into my boss’s office, dumping a bowl of cottage cheese on his head, and smacking him in the face with a fly swatter. And then I would totally fart as loud as I can and say “I quit!” …and leave satisfied, knowing he will not be able to figure out what just happened for years to come.


These are the things I spend my day fantasizing about. That, and cheeseburgers.


Mmmmmmm….cheeseburgers.


And this is so not a cop out because I can’t come up with a longer post. Because I totally can. They say a picture is worth a thousands words… so if you think about it, this is totally impressive.


*takes a bow*


You’re welcome.

Fuck you, Dora the Explorer. Fuck you.

Dear Dora the Explorer,


Stop yelling! We’re not fucking deaf. Also, stop telling my kid to yell and jump around with you. It's too early in the damn morning for that bullshit. Your voice is annoying, your head is too big, and your shirts are too small. Where the fuck are your parents?!

Apparently you need to be reminded that you can't catch a star and put it back in the sky by climbing a tall mountain and throwing it at the moon. Also, if burglars could be stopped by yelling at them….this world would be a much happier place. You should be trying to get Swiper into rehab instead. Ever heard of kleptomaniacs? You’re a girl of many resources, Dora. Look it up. Your fox pal has a problem.

I also take issue with how presumptuous you are when asking for my help. When I say “no” you act like you didn’t hear me, and you do it anyway. What if I have shit to do, and therefore do not have the time to make climbing motions? How does that help you anyway? Climb the damn mountain yourself.

And maybe I don't feel like helping you with some random lion that ran into in the wild, find his way to the circus. BECAUSE IT'S A FUCKING LION AND IT SHOULD BE EATING YOU. Also, because I've seen you get robbed on a regular basis, come close to being eaten by the cutest freakin alligators I’ve ever seen, and almost drown because your boat had geometrically shaped holes in it. I wouldn’t consider you the best of company. Because frankly, I don’t want to die and be buried in a land of magical farts and rainbows. Or wherever the hell you live.

And how does that goddamn map of yours know the locations of so many places, even though half of them don't look like they're on the same plane of existence? I wouldn't trust him if I were you. I think he's making shit up. I mean, lollipop forest? Hiccup bridge? Really? Either he’s high, or I’m a dude. And I’ve got boobies to prove my case. What do you have?

Welcome to the real world, Dora. You’re gonna HATE it here. There are no chocolate trees or bubblegum volcanoes, and your parents will be arrested for child endangerment.

Let me know how foster care works out for you.

Sincerely,

-Me

PS – Seriously where did you get the talking monkey with the cute little red boots? Cuz I totally want one.

Crazy fuckers always find me...

Long back story short – I work for a buffalo rancher. We market the meat on the internet so most of our business is done outside of the local area. We get all kinds of weird calls, but today I got one that I think tops them all. So sit back and be amused, people. Or I’ll hunt you down and kick you in the junk.


And trust me, this motherfucker can KICK.

*points thumbs at self*

Ask my brother if you don’t believe me. Any time we fought as kids I fell to the floor and kicked that asshole like I was doing the backstroke. Why? He’s bigger than me, and my legs are my best defense. Although, strangely enough…my worst attribute. Two words: cellulite and cankles. (Thanks a lot for those wonderful genes, dad. I mean, let’s face it – I didn’t get flabby legs from my mom because she’s a freakin' amazon. So damn you and your stupid sperm. I got totally screwed on that one.)

So anyway, I was at work this morning…minding my own business. Because I don’t mind the actual business. Because I’m a model employee!! So anyway I was on the computer checking my Facebook and the phone rings. This dude on the other end had a pretty strange and specific request. He wanted us to ship him a buffalo head. Not a skull – an entire head. Eyeballs, skin, hair, horns, tongue and all. Yeah. A real winner, this one.

*sigh*

Why do the fucking weirdo’s always find ME?

But wait – it gets better! I didn’t bother asking what he wanted it for…because frankly, I didn’t want to know. But he offered up that information anyway, as if it was crucial to the sale. It wasn’t. He wanted the head for a Halloween display – he wanted to stick it on a pike in his yard and wire it so that it was spitting blood out the mouth like a fountain. He already had a deer head and a goat head….but he wanted something bigger. Of course! I totally shoulda had that figured out. I mean it’s common sense, right?

*gagging*

Upon finding out what his (not at all fucking WEIRD) intentions were….my facial reaction was probably something like this:

Except there was no horse in my face, and no shit in my pants.


I got to thinking: and if I saw this shit in someone’s yard while trick-or-treating as a kid I would have had nightmares for weeks. I’ve always been really squeamish, even as a child. Preparing raw chicken for dinner literally makes me gag…but for some reason I have no problem eating it. Probably because I’m a bomb-ass cook and you’re totally jealous.

I remember when I was younger, I went on vacation with my dad and his evil shrew of a wife to Myrtle Beach. One night before we went out for dinner my dad was watching this old western movie on TV. A Native American woman had been shot in the back, and a cowboy was using a knife to dig the bullet out of her back. I couldn’t eat for 2 days. Yeah, I have problems. So does your mom. So shove it.

Forceful Personal Hygiene

So by now you all know of my 3 year old, Peanut. Lately we have been having some personal hygiene issues. Why, you ask? Well, Peanut doesn’t like to brush her teeth. Or wipe when she uses the bathroom. Or wash her hair. She likes to play in the dirt and eat bugs. In short - I have a dirty, dirty child. And when you’re like me (I know, you totally wish you were) you can’t stand seeing dirt under someone’s fingernails. It just totally grosses me out. Wash your hands once in awhile, yo!

Anyway, today I’m talking teeth. See, it is a perfectly normal morning ritual for me to load toothpaste on Peanut’s little mermaid toothbrush, sit on her lap, hold her arms down, pry open her mouth, and brush her teeth. She hates it. She screams open mouthed, while spitting foam like a rabid animal. She cries like I’m torturing her. And sometimes she laughs because “the toofbrush tickles, mommy!”

It drives me nuts. I really wish she would just take the damn brush and do it herself. I mean, the toothpaste tastes like bubblegum! It’s delicious! I could eat it on some crackers with a nice mouthwash chaser. It’s that good.

So, I’ve been trying to make brushing your teeth look cool so she will be more inclined to do it herself.


I’ve tried: “See how funny it sounds when you try to sing while you’re brushing?”

And: “Its fun to DANCE while you’re brushing!”

And: “Only cool people brush their teeth. So that means I’m cool and you’re not.”

Her response to that last one: “That’s ok, I don’t need to be cool. Because I’m already AWESOME.” -She surely is her mother’s daughter.


I’m fairly certain that the only conclusion she’s come to is that her mother is an idiot who dances with a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, spraying toothpaste everywhere while singing Paula Abdul’s greatest hits.

I can’t wait to do that in front of her friends when she’s 16.

*evil cackle*

That must be why my mother embarrassed the shit out of me in high school. Like the time she pulled up in front of the school in a run-down truck with a stove strapped to it, screaming my (first AND last) name and waving like a maniac. Mother’s revenge….I must have forgotten to clean my room or something. Or maybe it was because I got suspended for swearing in German at the substitute teacher. (And I totally would’ve gotten away with it if the assistant principal didn’t speak fluent German.) Meh, whatever.

Conversations with Dishes

Everybody has certain quirks, right? Like...my brother likes to stare at me and drool like a retard whenever we’re in a car together and I’m driving. My boss stretches and says “OKAAAAAYYY” really loud about 5 times a day. (I think it’s a thought-gathering technique. At least I hope it is.) Every time I visit my Grandma, she sends me home with a full bag of groceries from her kitchen. My daughter has to scream “I’m wiping FRONT to BACK mom, just like you said!!!” every time she uses the bathroom – even in public. You know, totally random shit like that.

Well just today I noticed a certain quirk I never really realized I had: when I go to the kitchen to get a drink, I have to take a moment to choose which cup I want to use.


I open the cupboard and simply ponder in my mind:


“I’m not in a plastic kind of mood, plus the only clean plastic cup is neon orange. Ew I hate that one.”

*moves cup out of the way*

“I could go for a glass, but I don’t want the one with Christmas shit on it, and the other ones are really small and I’m thirsty as hell.”

*push to back of cupboard*
*pick a booger*
*fling said booger*

“I would use a mug but I’m not drinking something hot and that just feels wrong…and my favorite mug is dirty too. Shit, I really need to do the dishes. I wish I had a dishwasher because dishes are stupid and they can burn in hell. Where’s that pretty glass that’s shaped like a tulip?”

*peering in cabinet*
*rubbing chin*

“Oh shit, I broke that one a couple days ago. Dammit.  I guess I’ll use one of these fancy ones with the stem on the bottom. Yeah...I’ll sip my strawberry flavored Clearly Canadian like it’s champagne, and I’m a fancy fancy lady with a bidet and a backyard pool and diamonds and shit.”

*smiles approvingly*

“This’ll do quite fine. Ya done good, kid.”

*pats self on back*

Congratulations, people. You’ve just experienced a moment within my mind. Scary, isn’t it?

WTF, Illustrator?

So, I went to Dollar General the other day…because I’m cheap and I can get a full cart of groceries there for $40. Don’t judge me. So while I was there I told Peanut she could pick out ONE toy – and that it couldn’t be more than $5. (I guess I forgot that NOTHING in that store is more than $5.) Peanut picked out a little watercolor set that had 3 paint-by-color pictures in it, and she couldn’t wait to get home and paint. And I couldn’t wait to scrub it out of the carpet when she was done. Really, I was giddy with anticipation because cleaning rocks hardcore.

*rolls eyes*

So, when we get home and I got out all the stuff in the box, I looked at the pictures….and there are no words.  Check it out:

Seriously, wtf? Why is the caterpillar wearing a cast?

And what does a caterpillar have to do in order to break a leg?

Motorcycle accident? Sports injury?

I’m stumped.

Then there was this little gem:

… I don’t even know where to begin.

Why is the dog wearing a Santa hat?

What is the pudgy cat doing with fish bones, is that some kind of weird voodoo ritual?

And what in the HELL is up with the tiny mushroom house?

I simply don't get it.  I have come to the conclusion that this illustrator was almost definitely on acid.

The Fucking Ocean, Dude.

So…last week was shark week. I spent the majority of my evenings watching hour after hour of insane shark attack footage and crazy shitheads that think it’s FUN to swim with sharks. And let me just say - being in a shark cage isn’t gonna keep you safe, pal. Just like that snickers bar that slipped through the lining in my purse last week. Oh, I’ll get that sonofabitch. I’ll get it.

This is why I don’t swim in the ocean. (The other reason being that I live in fucking KANSAS.) I don’t have any desire to get into any water when I can’t see what is swimming around me. I am terrified of the ocean. I will watch it on TV, and I really do think it’s fascinating and beautiful. But I will NOT get on a boat. I will NOT surf, and I will NOT scuba dive. Not in this lifetime. There have got to be all kinds of species in the ocean that we haven’t even discovered yet. Who knows what their migratory habits are like, or whether or not they relish the taste of human flesh?

I have thisWii game that I love to play, called Endless Ocean. It is exactly what it sounds like – you are a scuba diver and you play the game by exploring an imaginary sea and categorizing animals that you find. I enjoy playing the game, since scuba diving is something I could never do in real life. But there is one section of the sea in this game that is called “The Abyss”. It’s…well, a fucking ABYSS. It is this huge dark hole in the ocean floor, and I’m expected to go down there and find the kind of ocean critters that dwell in the deepest parts of the ocean. Uhhhhh…fuck that. I won’t even swim my little scuba chick over it. I did try to go down there once, and maybe got a little less than halfway. And out of the pitch black this HUGE sharky/eel type thingy came right at me and I freaked and got the fuck out of there. And sometimes when my scuba chick is just swimming along, a fucking whale comes out of nowhere and scares the shit out of me. Those bastards are sneaky. So, my fear of the ocean knows no boundaries….including imaginary oceans, apparently.

You can't honestly tell me that THIS ugly fucker

popping up in front of your face wouldn't make you shit yourself.

Hopefully someday I will get over my strange and deep fear of the ocean. I would like to travel someday, and being on this particular planet….if you go far enough, you really can’t avoid it. But don’t expect me to jump in the water. Don’t expect me to put on a mask and flippers and a breathing tank and look for shit on the ocean floor. I don’t particularly feel like donating my leg to the Feed-A-Shark foundation. But if you want to go diving – be my guest. I’ll be the one holding the video camera and saying “I told you so” when I capture your loss of limb on tape. And then I’ll submit the video to shark week so I can see myself on TV. That sounds like what we call a win/win, baby! Booyah!

Sorry about your leg though, I’ll totally help you shop for some wicked cool one-legged pants. Wait, do they even make those?

Aaaaannnd….guess who’s going to spend the afternoon finding out.

*points thumbs at self*

Yay Google!!

There Is Something Seriously Wrong With Me.

My mind is not like other people’s. Last night, I had one of the weirdest dreams I can remember ever having. I literally woke up saying “What the fuck?!” and scratching my head. It was that strange.


So, let’s jump right into it. I dreamed that I was me, at my age, and that my mom had written a musical for a production at the Junior High she works at. (Well, she used to. Her position got eliminated and she got moved down to first grade. It’s a bunch of crap because she was an AWESOME teacher for that age group. But that’s a story for another time.) It was entitled: No More Bonnets! An Inspirational Story of Change.  It was about a group of Amish people who were protesting their boring clothes, and wanted to have the freedom to dress as they choose. Some of the songs titles were as follows:


“I Got Manure on my Jimmy Choos”

“We Want Booty Shorts”

"What's Wrong With Thongs?"

“Farming in My Air Force 1s.”

And last but not least…

“Pimped out Buggy”


I was the lead in this musical. (Because a 23 year old starring in a Junior High play totally makes sense, right?)  In the dream I had performed the entire show once before, but when the curtain opened on a full theater…I froze. I forgot every single word. I couldn’t remember how to sing or act, and I totally lost my cool. Which isn’t that surprising in my case, since I don’t have much to lose in the first place. I pulled a copy of the script out of my pocket, and started to do the show with the book in front of my face – hoping that the rest would come to me after a few minutes. It didn’t.

I was so nervous I couldn’t sing anywhere near loud enough – and some bastard hecklers in the audience were screaming shit like: “We can’t hear you!” and “You suck!” which didn’t make the situation any better. I was off key and didn’t know the notes to the song…but I knew the dance moves! I was doing jazz hands like nobody’s business. I did the chorus line can-can and I “raised the roof”. Because that’s how Amish people dance, of course. But I was so nervous and outright terrified that my face probably read “impending heart attack” instead of “theatrical enthusiasm”.

My mom was whisper\screaming at me from backstage: “You can do this! Relax! DON’T RUIN MY SHOW, YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE!!” And about this time is when I looked down, and noticed that my shoes fell off. Not sure how, when or why…but those bitches were gone. Dancing in socks was difficult.  I was slipping and sliding all over the stage, I couldn’t have kept my footing to save my life. And then I fell off the front of the stage and landed directly in Lebron James’ lap – who happened to be sitting in the front row. I stood up, looked around in humiliation, and ran from the room in tears. Then I woke up.

I usually remember my dreams for a few hours before they’re gone – but I have a feeling this one’s gonna stick with me for awhile. So….lesson learned. I will never eat Cheetos before bed again, if this is what will happen.

I totally don’t remember how to make friends.

I used to have all kinds of friends, but nowadays I don’t have any. I believe I’ve mentioned that I am from Ohio… and well, I do have several friends there. But, if you’ve ever moved before you’ll understand me when I say that it’s just not the same. Talking to friends online or on the phone isn’t as fulfilling as having someone you can invite over for a few beers and video games. Plus I hate talking on the phone for long periods of time. Because when I’m on the phone, Peanut decides it’s the best time to crawl all over me and demand my constant attention and do stuff like scream: “MOM! MOM! HEEEYY MOM! LOOK AT MEEEE!” -While waving her cute little arms like she’s trying to land a 747.


I used to have friends in Kansas, but unfortunately I’ve had a hard time finding GOOD ones. You know, the kind that actually like me and don’t talk shit behind my back. I usually don’t have a problem making male friends (it’s probably the big ol’ boobies) but they only want to sleep with me. (Go figure.) What I want to find is a good, honest girlfriend; a girl close to my age that likes my company and who shares common interests with me, and who needs a “BFF” as much as I do.

Herein lies the problem: I’ve forgotten how to make friends. I’ve never been overly confident, in fact I’m pretty socially awkward. I have the pure inability to approach a stranger and say “Hey, let’s be friends!” And that would probably come across as weird, anyway. (And really, the fact that I consider that socially appropriate proves how horrible I am with people.) And when looking for female friends I find myself having to throw out the disclaimer that I’m totally not gay – I just need a friend. And then they walk away, while looking over their shoulder to make sure I’m not following them.

*sigh*

Dammit.

I’m a really nice person, once you get past my shy exterior. Really, I am! But I’m also a total weirdo. I don’t say normal things. I don’t enjoy the typical female 20-something activities. These things make it hard to find someone with common interests. I’ve had a few friends in the past that I have nothing but fond memories of…and they were weird too. Super weird. We acted like total idiots and laughed our asses off on a regular basis. …I miss them. I miss the company of funny people that are easy to be around. The kind of people that don’t try to bring pressure or complication into the friendship – they just like to have a good time. But they also genuinely want to be there for you when life gets to be not-so-funny.

So, I’ve been trying to find some new things that will help me branch out and meet people. To clarify, I’ve spent the last 2 years or so being pretty much totally cut off from the world. I mean, I go to work and stuff, but outside of that I don’t really leave the house. It’s difficult for me to venture into the world, or to even spend time outside with Peanut. I have developed the inability to make commitments or connections. I am terribly afraid of people, since the majority of them in my life have done nothing but hurt me and then leave. And not necessarily in that order, either.

I’ve thought of trying to get into a local book club – I checked with the library, but they don’t have a program like that. So then I thought I’d take a class at the local gym; something like yoga or self defense, or a mother/daughter dance class…but that was a no-go too. (Damn small towns.) My only other option with the gym is to join the adult volleyball or basketball team…which I think would end up creating more enemies instead of friends, because I royally suck at sports.

So I have signed up for cafemom.com, which I’m hoping will help me open some doors to new friendships. And I’m going to sign my daughter up for a toddler tumbling class, so maybe I can meet some other moms there too. And if any of you reading this have any other ideas, hook a blogger up! Help me find my place in the world. Or I’m just gonna give up entirely and take out an ad in the local paper that says something like this:

Lonely Loser Seeks Lifelong Friendship

 23 year old brunette; totally weird, kinda pretty, very funny. Trustworthy and genuine. Smart but not too smart, so you know I’m not an uptight bitch. Accepting and open minded, supportive and kind.

Likes: Video Games, Junk food, Laughing so hard you pee.

Dislikes: Stupid people, Exercise, Crowds.

Need not apply if you are:
-Overly religious (and by “overly” I mean trying to convert me)
-A “Negative Nancy” (Don’t drag me down, yo.)
-Smelly
-A Serial Killer – (not sure why that’s fourth on the list)
-Two-Faced (no drama allowed)

Apply by email ONLY. I don’t want to get flooded with phone calls from a bunch of fruitcakes. If you don’t hear back from me it means I don’t like you. Nothing personal. Ok, so maybe it’s a little personal.

The Flashing Owl

While I was on vacation last week, one of the places we visited was the zoo.  I love going to the zoo, and this time was no exception.  Except for the ungodly heat and humidity, which of course required me to bitch the whole time. (We walked for hours. There was some chafing. Enough said.)  Well this time we met a particularly interesting animal, who I created an entire story for in my head, that I thought I should share.  I call him "The Flashing Owl".

See what I mean?  He totally looks like a dude pulling open his trench coat and shakin his junk.









I named him Stan, and the other owl in the corner looked like an embarassed wife, whom I've named Mabel.  Stan is proud of his body, and he likes to show it off.  Mabel doesn't like it so much, but hey - they live in a zoo.  It can't be that exciting, so if that's what Stan needs to get his rocks off, then so be it.  Couples counseling has taught Mabel to choose her battles, and accept her husband for his faults. 

For all of you out there that don't speak owl or are having trouble with the body language, I'm here to help.  This is what was actually happening:

I think I might frame this and hang it in my living room.

Poor Mabel... and as for Stan, I think I might like to have a couple beers with this guy and see what he does.  I have a feeling it would involve public nudity of some sort, followed by youtube blackmail.  And really, what kind of night out is complete without that?  Not one I wanna be a part of.

Airports are Gateways to Hell: Part 2

So…picking up where I left off…


• I go to check into my replacement flight to Charlotte at 4 IN THE MORNING.

• I find out that my daughter’s ticket isn’t accounted for in the system. I have to go all the way down the hallway to customer service for my original flight and get the ticket number. So I do.

• I drag all my shit back to the check in for my replacement flight to Charlotte. I give them the ticket number. It doesn’t help. Apparently I need my daughters’ printed paper ticket from the original flight.


(At this point, we are no longer walking. We are running up and down this enormous check in floor from counter to counter like a couple of crazy people. Also, keep in mind that at every single stop along this “journey” we have to wait in lines that are getting increasingly longer. The clock is ticking closer and closer to our flight’s departure time, and we’re no closer to even getting checked in.  And we have been in the airport for 12 hours already.)


• I dragged all my shit BACK to the other counter at the opposite end of the hallway to get the damn paper ticket printed.

• I then took the paper ticket back to the check in counter for the flight I was 20 minutes away from missing. (And I still had to get through security and to the gate.)

• They said: “Oh, here it was the whole time!”

Me: *shooting daggers with my eyes and steaming from the ears*
“Hm. Imagine that. Are we all set? Can I go now? Thanks.”

After all of that, I run to security and throw all my shit up on the roller thingys and take my shoes off. (By the way, I hope they sanitize those floors often because if I end up having to get warts removed from my feet or some shit I’m gonna be sooooo pissed.) Anyway, the whole time Peanut is crying that she is hungry and tired and has to pee - and that she doesn’t want to run any more. (Join the club, kid.) I was gasping for air, telling her to suck it up and feeling like my chest is going to explode, but still running like my life depended on making that flight.

After riding an underground tram, I find that our gate is at the opposite end of the concourse. And this airport is huge, ya’ll. We had to have run like 5 miles, easily. Thank God for moving walkways. But still, we didn’t make it. The plane was long gone by the time we had arrived at the gate. I sat down for a moment to catch my breath after speaking to the representative at the counter, and then we were on our way to a THIRD flight company for our SECOND replacement tickets; which was, again, at the opposite end of the concourse from where we were.

We got there, waited in another really long line, and then I was relieved to find that the representative taking care of us was SUPER nice. You have no idea how thankful I was for a little compassion at that point. I thanked her tremendously for hooking us up, and was probably a little too enthused because she looked sort of creeped out when I dropped to my knees and thanked the good lord above for sending me an angel. (Ok, so that didn’t really happen. I’m not even religious. But the thought even occurring to me is proof that I was at the end of my rope.)

So, we went to the bathroom and I gave Peanut a “sink bath” - all the moms out there know what I’m talking about. I wiped her down with some wet paper towels and changed her clothes. See, I had packed an extra outfit for her in my carry on – just in case there was an “accident”. Too bad I didn’t do the same for me because at that point I smelled like locker room garbage and I would have KILLED for a change of clothes. But after we got cleaned up we went and got a bite of breakfast and got to relax for the last couple of hours before our flight left. When we finally got on the damn plane, we both fell asleep. For the entire ride.

3 hours later and we were in Ohio! We had an excellent vacation – lots of fun, from beginning to end. We went to the art museum, natural history museum, the zoo, the mall…it was a blast! We stayed with my mom and she introduced us to some of her friends, and one of them took some professional photos of Peanut, which I’m sure will turn out adorable. I swam at my dad’s pool and he took us on a golf cart ride through the golf course he manages. We played this game called “cornhole” (love that name, by the way) and ate lots of good food. All in all….I wish I was still on vacation.

*sigh*

Back to the real world. Has anybody else ever noticed that being a grown-up totally sucks?

Airports Are Gateways to Hell.

Finally, I'm back at it!  And you totally missed me while I was gone, huh?  I knew it.

For those of you just tuning in, I was on vacation last week. I went to Ohio to see my family and (what’s left of) my friends. I was excited to go home, but not so excited about the whole “getting there” part. I had to go to Denver International Airport, which is like the most enormous airport EVER. So naturally, I was a total wreck.


Well, we get through security and whatnot and arrive at our gate. Apparently the plane we were supposed to get on had been delayed, so we sat there for an hour. Now, I have a 3 year old child – and 8pm in a busy airport didn’t really get along with her. Suffice it to say that she was being a little monster, and had seemingly made it her sole mission to make me bat-shit crazy. We probably sounded something like this to the hundreds of people surrounding us:


Me: “Peanut, please come sit down. Do you want to color?”

Peanut: “No! I want some candy! Let’s go get some candy!”

Me: *sigh*
“No, you’re not getting any candy. It’s too late at night for candy. We’ll be on the plane soon, so come sit down with me. I’ll read you a book.”

Me: *pulls out like 8 books for her to choose from*
“Here, which one do you want to read?”

Peanut: “I HATE THOSE BOOKS!”

Me: (turning red with embarrassment, hanging my head)
“Get over here and sit down. Now.”
*Doing the super angry “I’m dead serious right now so KNOCK IT OFF” mom look*
*Pointing at chair next to me*

Peanut: (doing this weird throw-a-fit-while-walking thing)
“Aaaahhhhh I’m HUNGRAAY!”

Me: *sigh*
“Okay fine. Let’s go get some [fucking] candy.”



After an hour of this, we finally boarded the plane…and sat there for another hour. Apparently there were computer problems, then paperwork problems, then maintenance issues. Then the captain comes on the intercom with this classic (and not at all alarming, by the way) message: “This is bad. This is really, really, bad.”

*blink*

Awesome.

He proceeds to tell us that the airport we intended to fly into was closing all of their runways for construction. Our flight had been cancelled, so we had to de-board and make our way to customer service to get our tickets changed. At this point, it was nearly 10:00 pm. I had to drag the 2 carry on bags and the car seat back out of the plane and get in line. Where I spent the next 3 HOURS standing. At one point I imagined that if I were to get an X-Ray of my feet right then it would surely look like somebody dropped a glass vase and tried to put it back together with scotch tape. They hurt so bad I literally couldn’t stand, so several times I had to pop a squat and sit for a few minutes. Yeah – never wearing those shoes again.

The flight had been entirely full, and I was about halfway back in the line. There were no remaining flights out with that company for the next 2 days. I was hot and probably smelling like a big sweaty lumberjack – not to mention that I was completely exhausted, and at this point I was reaching nervous breakdown levels. My ride had dropped me off and left, and was 3 hours away by now. I couldn’t afford a hotel or a cab to get anywhere but the airport.

Finally I get up to the representative at the customer service counter – who, for the record was a total DICKWAD. He was totally arrogant and snarky and really just needed a swift slap in his wrinkly face. I would have been more than happy to oblige, but I thought it might hurt my chances on getting a decent replacement flight so I bit my lip. The next flight out was the following morning, and since there weren’t any direct flights it had a 2 hour layover in Charlotte, North Carolina. I wasn’t happy about that – but I just wanted to get to my mom’s house in Ohio and start my vacation. Plus I wasn’t totally batty about the thought of postponing my vacation. No way, dude. Not gonna happen.

This whole time Peanut is sleeping in her car seat on the floor, which I have been dragging on the floor behind me every time the line moved for the last 2 hours. The douchebag dude at the counter apparently didn’t listen to me telling him I had a child, and couldn’t see her from where he was sitting. So when he transferred my ticket for the next flight, he neglected to transfer HERS as well. And that’s when things got even more horrible and shitty and just grew into a big ol’ clusterfuck of problems for me to deal with. And that is a story for another day.

I'm On Vacation So Kiss My Ass

Yeah, so the title of this post pretty much says it all.  I am visiting my folks in Ohio, and our week of fun is almost up.  So when I get back to Kansas and my normal boring stank-ass routine, you'll be hearing from me.  See, you shouldn't have gotten your hopes up!  Because when someone gets their hopes up, I like to take a nice healthy dump on them.  I'm selfless like that.  See you soon, blog-land!

I'm Gonna Google Your Anal Glands

I rather enjoy my job. Most days. Sometimes I have those days when I feel like burning down the building, but we all have days like that, right? Right? Oh shut up, assholes. You know you’ve thought about it at least once. Anyway, I typically enjoy the company of my female coworker, let’s call her Marci, and her dog. See, Marci has a truly wonderful dog that comes to work with her every day – her name is Shelby, and it’s her job to greet everyone that comes into the office. She takes it very seriously. Marci rescued Shelby from the local shelter awhile ago, and they’ve been best buds ever since.


Well today, Shelby has been chewing on her ass. Constantly. So Marci decided to take her to the vet. When they came back Shelby’s tail was shaved at the base, so of course I was all “What happened?!” Turns out her anal glands were acting up?

What in the HELL are anal glands? And do I even wanna know?

Yes.

Yes I do.

What can I say? It’s a curse when you have the thirst for knowledge like this one.
*points thumbs at self*

So naturally, I turn to my good ol’ trusted friend, Google. You see, I am an avid Googler. I’m Google-icious. I’m a Google master of the rarest kind. Yeah, you wish you were as cool as me.

So I go to Google and type in “what are anal glands?” and it turns out that they are the things in your dogs’ binghole that allows them to lay their scent. Like, you know how dogs always whiff each other’s asses? Yeah, apparently they’re just sniffing each other’s anal glands – getting a feel for their new friend’s own personal brand of nature made stank. And now I know something I didn’t know when I woke up this morning – courtesy of Google.

Marci used to be a veterinary technician, so she knows all about things like this. So I asked her if anal gland issues are an easy fix, and if Shelby was going to be ok. She was like: “Oh yeah, they just had to drain them, she’ll be just fine.”

*blink*

*blink blink*

Dude. I don’t even wanna know what that entails.

So I Googled it too.

And I now know how to drain my dog’s butt stank ….or any dogs’ for that matter. So if your dog ever needs his anal glands drained…call someone else. Because then every time I saw your dog after that it would be all weird and awkward...we wouldn't be able to look each other in the eyes, and every time I would try to pet him he'd freak out when my hand got close to his dingleberry zone.  And to be honest I just don’t need that kind of tension in my life.  So google it yourself and get to it.  I'm sure your dog will love you for it.  After the pain in his binghole fades, that is.

Tying Up More Loose Ends....Hehe - Loose Ends.

Yeah, so I’m posting twice in the same day. Shut up, you know you like it. Plus I spent all weekend writing shit down so I wouldn’t forget to blog about it, so why be wasteful? Because one of the most wonderful things about my [completely unpopular] blog is that writing it helps me to look at myself from an outsider’s perspective. And laughing at myself often helps relieve some of the “doom and gloom” mentality that follows me around and can be such a pain in the ass.

 

So, I’m worried about my dog. When I’m on vacation, he won’t be able to come with us. I am leaving him in Kansas with my grandparents – but I worry that he will give them trouble. See, Oscar is sort of strange - in his own charming little way. (See picture to the left for proof, and no - I don't know how he decided that upside-down was his best look.) His eyes are all googly - they kinda point in different directions, and they never really look right at you. I’m pretty sure he can see alright though, because he doesn’t run into the walls or anything. He knows a couple of tricks and he understands basic commands, but he’s not really sure what dogs are supposed to do – so he makes it up as he goes along. So far, he’s decided that being a dog consists of sitting in the windowsill all day, licking the floor every few minutes, turning all Peanut’s Barbie dolls into amputees, eating garbage whenever the chance arises, and barking at everything that moves. And moving isn’t even really a requirement either, he’ll bark at anything. He’s not picky.

Oscar is the biggest sweetheart – with me and Peanut. He loves us, he worships the ground we walk on, he never wants to leave our sides. But Oscar doesn’t like other people. If anyone he doesn’t know tries to pet him or pick him up, he yipes and squeals, then freaks out and runs away with his tail tucked. He’s always been that way, and I’ve never really figured out why. But despite all that, I love the little booger. I love him through his garbage rampages and backyard digging habits (his favorite game is "See how much dirt I can get on my nose".) I even love him through the rainy days when he won’t poop outside and uses the rug by the back door instead. He’s a member of our little family, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

The only problem is – now that I’m leaving the state for a week, he’ll have to stay with someone he doesn’t know. My Gramma has accepted the challenge – what a brave woman. I love my Gramma to pieces, but I worry that Oscar will give her a run for her money. Or just a run. Because that little shit is fast, and I doubt she could catch him. But I’m also worried that his little behavioral issues will be hard for Gramma to cope with. For example, he hates his crate. He thinks it is the root of all evil. He refuses to walk into it on his own, and he’s even figured out how to get out of it once or twice. (It’s one of those metal ASPCA crates - he’s like frickin Houdini – I still don’t know how he did it.) But I imagine Gramma will put him in there at night. Oscar is used to sleeping between my feet at the foot of the bed – he will not take kindly to the new sleeping arrangements. My guess is that he will howl like the little hound dog he is….until he pisses Gramma off and she’s forced to take him to a Kennel.

I would feel horrible if he gave my poor grandparents a hard time, because they don’t need that stress in their lives. So, everyone out there in blog-land – pray for us. I mean, I don’t necessarily believe in the Christian God (but I capitalized it anyway because that’s proper or whatever), but please – pray for my dear grandparents. And pray for my little googly-eyed monster. Pray that there will be peace in the household, and no barking. Pray for “good boy behavior”, instead of garbage antics. Pray for carpet without little round stains on it and fully intact furniture.

If this all goes well, I will be happy when I get home – and Oscar will be too. So happy, in fact, that he will probably get too excited and pee on me a little. And I won’t even mind, because I love him. And because it all comes out in the wash.

Airports Make Me Want to Poo

I’m leaving for vacation in about a week, I’ll be flying home to visit family and friends. And I just found this out 3 days ago. See, I’m the kind of anal retentive person that likes to have plenty of advance time, so I can demonstrate the appropriate amount of stress and anxiety before leaving. I wanted to wait and go towards the middle of the month – but it ended up being cheaper if I leave next week. Like $300 cheaper – crazy, huh? So now I am scrambling to make arrangements for my pets and buy all the things I’ll need and pay all my bills before I leave.

I should probably put it out there right away that I HATE flying. I have to take an abnormal amount of Xanax just to get through the whole ordeal. And the plane really isn’t the worst part. It’s the airport. Since I live in western Kansas, I’m only a few hours away from Denver so that’s the airport I fly out of. And yeah – it’s enormous. There are people everywhere you turn. The food is greasy, bottles of water cost $8, and I can barely figure out how to flush the fancy toilets.  It’s crazy and hectic; there are kids running and screaming, people talking, intercoms buzzing, people rushing in every direction, signs and lights everywhere, unbelievably long lines to wait in ….Jesus, I’m getting the shit fits just thinking about it. (When I get really nervous or anxious, I have to poo. I don’t know why, it’s always been that way. I call them “shit fits”. And I know you totally wanted to hear about that – so you’re welcome.)

I didn’t used to mind crowded public places, but now I’m totally afraid of them. I used to be a real social butterfly, but since this anxiety has reared its ugly head, I have had trouble being around a lot of people at once. I’m totally paranoid – and there is a reason behind that. Over a year ago, I was attacked outside my babysitter’s home after dropping off Peanut. A man ran at me from behind the house and held a knife to my throat, and forced me into my car. He tried to drive off with me but I put up a helluva fight, and escaped out the passenger door and ran inside before he could get us out of the driveway. I am so glad to be alive, and thankful that my mind worked quick enough to get me out of danger before it was too late. But they never caught that dude, and to this day I worry about the fact that he is still out there somewhere.  (DUN DUN DUNNN!)

But if that jerkwad were to come after me again, I would be ready. I carry mace with me now, as well as a taser. It’s so cute; it’s the size of a pager, hot pink – and 400,000 volts. So watch out, unknown assailant. I will tase you right in the junk.

So anyway, that experience taught me to be paranoid in public places. I know from experience how quick an attack or a kidnapping can happen – so I’m paranoid that someone will run up and grab Peanut before I can stop them. It’s really a crippling fear, so in public places I make Peanut hold my hand the entire time. She can’t get more than 3 feet away from me, and if she is out of my sight for even a second I’ll have a coronary.

So this year I am trying something new. I’m going to put all my effort into not freaking out. I’m gonna tell that anxiety to kiss my ass, and march through that airport like I own the place. I’m determined to have a good vacation, from beginning to end. I’m not going to let my anxiety continue to ruin my life. I’m going to face my fears and force myself to attend as many public venues as possible. Sounds fun, right?

*Gulp*

I’m scared. Wish me luck.

I'm gonna go kill some Mexicans. Or maybe just sit here and feel sorry for myself.

So, I work for an internet company that ships products to people’s homes all over the country. I don’t want to give too many details, but I will tell you that the products are perishable food items. So anyway, one of our longstanding customers called and placed an order a couple weeks ago. Usually when I take his order, I get his address information from our electronic database, which is exactly what I did on this order. Well, SURPRISE!! The goddamn database was wrong this time. This tends to happen fairly often because our techie guy who manages it is pretty much a big ol' dumbass.

Anyway, I find out at the end of that week that the order got shipped to the wrong address. So instantly I have to take the heat for it from my boss, because this customer orders so often that “I should’ve known it was the wrong address just by looking at it.” So I call the customer and let him know what happened. His response: “Well, I could run over to my old house and see if the people that live there now would give me the package…” And I’m thinking “Holy shit, this is the nicest man in the world and I’m totally SAAAVED!!” But then he calls back. Turns out, the people that live at his old address are Mexicans that don’t speak English.

*sigh*

Shit.

So, I offer to re-ship this guy’s order the following week, with a little extra somethin somethin for his troubles. He is super nice and seemed totally satisfied with that answer. I apologized over and over for the mistake, and assured him that he would have his replacement package in a few days.



(A week later he calls back)
Customer: “Uhh…I think you forgot to ship my replacement package last week.”
Me: “I remember sending it out, did you not receive it?
Customer: “Nope, never got anything.”
Me: “Ok, let me put you on hold for a moment while I look up your order and see what happened.”


So I put him on hold, find his tracking number, and track the package. I see the fateful word “DELIVERED” written in green at the top of the webpage. At this point, my heart is beating rapidly and I’m on the verge of tears because I know in the back of my mind that something must've gone wrong – and it was probably my fault.

This is about the time I come to the realization that I submitted his order with the SAME wrong address that it was shipped to before, and that I’m a fucking moron. So, I suck it up and confess to the customer that I messed up his order once again. Again, he is super nice about it and actually just feels bad for ME…probably because he figured out before I did that I was going to have to pay for the bad shipments. So, in a last ditch effort, I call the phone number that was attached to his old address – and someone actually ANSWERED! I thought for a moment that it would all be alright. Then, when I say who I am and where I’m calling from I got sadly disappointed, because all I hear is: “Uhh…no comprende. No Englais.”

FUCK!

I did my best to explain 100 different ways that we knew they had signed for two separate shipments from us that they didn’t pay for. But all I got back was “No comprende. No mas. No Englais.”
Don’t “no comprende” me, asshole. You know EXACTLY what the fuck I’m talking about. Free box-ey? You no pay for? Enough free food to feed your family for a month? No? Still nothing?

*sigh*

Why did I take German in high school instead of Spanish? What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s not like we’ve got a bunch of Krauts continuously flooding over the border and slowly becoming the majority – so how in the HELL could I think that language would ever be practical?

So, then I had to confess it all to my boss. The fact that I screwed up not only once, but twice. He had me add up the cost of the product and shipping on both of the mis-shipped orders, and let him know what the total was. And now I owe the company $140. So naturally, I had to go into the bathroom and cry for a few seconds, followed immediately by some yelling at the mirror like a drill sergeant and pulling myself together. (Come to think of it, maybe that's why my coworkers looked at me like I was crazy as SHIT when I came out.) I wasn’t mad that I had to pay – I fucked up, and I should have to reimburse the company for my mistake. I was just mad that I did something so STUPID – and that I did it twice. And by the way, that $140 was the only spending money I would have had for my upcoming vacation. I’m a single mom that lives from paycheck to paycheck; so that is A LOT of money to me. It’s my gas bill, or my phone bill, or half of my rent.

So anyway, these Mexicans ended up pretty much stealing our stuff and totally getting away with it. I mean, I could maybe understand accepting the first package, but they really signed for the SECOND one too?! Isn’t it illegal to sign for and accept a package that doesn’t belong to you or some shit? If not, it should be. Because of assholes like this. I mean, if I got a several pound package delivered to my door that I didn’t order…I wouldn’t sign for it. Mostly because I wouldn’t want the company to call me and demand some sort of payment. (Cuz let's face it, if I refused...they know where I live.)  But also because I’m sort of a good person. Kinda. Well, a better person than some people out there (the prison population). Definitely better than those freakin Mexican assholes.

I Would Be The Coolest Vampire EVER.

I've always hated the way I look when I smile. I have a freakishly wide, toothy smile - but my eyes always squint up all tiny and weird. Sometimes it almost looks like they disappeared off my face. I also have these really sharp teeth, I call them "fangs", and I think that's a pretty accurate description. Every time I smile at someone, I get really self conscious. This is why:

This is what people really see when I smile (Ok, so I exaggerated a little when I took this picture):

And this is what I think people are seeing:

Ok, so maybe this is more like me after I drink a Cherry Limeade Crystal Light. That shit is delicious, but it always makes my mouth red so I look like a crazy vampire. On second thought, maybe that's not so bad. I mean, maybe it's just me, but I make one helluva sexy vampire. That pussy Edward wouldn't have shit on me.

A Shitload of Post-Its and My Little Desk Toilet

I have anxiety. Tons of it, shitloads of it....more than one person could ever need. You know what stage fright (or any kind of nervousness) feels like? Yeah? Well, I feel that every single day. All the time. Some days are worse than others, I've actually had panic attacks so bad that I couldn't stop crying...or even catch my breath. My chest tightens and my throat closes and it feels like I'm drowning and all I can do is just freak out more and more until I have no choice but to take a pill to stop it. So....it's shitty. Super shitty. But most days aren't like that. I can usually talk myself down (I have a few little mental tricks) and keep my sanity for the most part.

One of the things I like to do to calm my mind is organize things. All this backstory is a lead into the fact that I fucking LOVE post-its. I bow down to their superior sticky/noteyness. I am the queen of post-its, I use them everywhere. I even have a post-it app on my smartphone. I also have one on my bathroom mirror that my mother left for me the last time she visited that says "have a great day!! (ridiculously smiley face)". I love it. I look at it every morning. But since it's no longer sticky, and slowly getting covered in hairspray and dust, it'll have to be taken down soon. Dammit.

Anyway....

In case you don't believe me, here's some proof:

Exhibit A: My desk at work.

I know what you're thinking (besides "holy shit this girl has problems"); and yes, I always need to have more than one color choice. It wouldn't be nearly as pretty if they were all that ugly piss-yellow color. But it gets better. I like to leave notes for myself that will help my disposition, should I happen to be in a crazy-ish mood. And they truly do help. You know what they say: "If you can't laugh at yourself....then you're an asshole." Or something like that. Whatever.

Exhibit B: My favorite thing on my desk.

Not only is it a note to myself that literally spells out how awesome I am....but it's held up by a little foam toilet. How fucking cool is that?! I got it at some food expo years ago. (Yeah, idk why there was a booth at a food show that was giving away these things either...but hey, who cares? It's a tiny toilet I can keep on my desk!)

Also I thought I'd include this picture of my desk chair....and "The Mysterious Stains":

I don't know when these weird ass stains appeared on the seat of my chair, but I'm assuming it happened when someone else was sitting there. Because I would remember if I shat myself in my office chair. And the worst part is that when someone else needs to use it (like the dude that fixes our computers and shit)..I know they're thinking: "Eww.. dude, I so don't wanna sit in that shit!" And then I'm embarassed. But I swear these stains aren't from me. Unless they're some kind of residual fart stains. Because I fart in this chair a lot. lol - What? It's not like I share an office with anyone. And the windows are usually open. Usually. :o)

My first blog, yo!!

Ok so I actually thought about this a long time before I decided to post a blog. I mean, who gives a damn about my thoughts and opinions? But then I thought again, and honestly, I think I’m one funny motherfucker. Which lead me to believe that my gift needed to be shared with the world. So sit back and take it, bitch world. You know you like it.

So today, I woke up just like every other morning…looking forward not to the work day, but to the TV shows I get to watch when I get home. Because I’m a real winner. So as I’m getting out of bed and therefore breaking ties with my wonderful dream (which for some reason was about me, going into a mall, and stealing everything I could get my hands on. -Something I could never do in real life, but at the same time was AWESOME. Yeah, I’m a real moral mystery.) I hear my 3 year old daughter; let’s call her Peanut, screaming at the top of her lungs out of genuine fear and panic: “SPIDER! AAHHHH SPIDER! SPIDERRRRR!!!”

At first thought I couldn’t help but giggle, because she totally got that from me. But then I have to run into her bedroom, with my heavy duty boot held high over my head, ready to tackle that motherfucker before it bites her. And I also wanna kill it before it has the chance to crawl on me anytime in the future; because I may be a real tough bitch with a shoe in my hand, but if any kind of bug gets on me I will lose my FUCKING mind. So yeah, I’m a real badass, truly her knight in shining PJ’s. So there I am, in my comfy flannel pants and tank top, with some wicked bed head and pillow marks all over my face – I bet I scared the shit out of that spider in his last moments.

*evil cackle*

Ahem.

I digress.

So, after I kill the evil arachnid, (yeah that's right, I know big words) I go about my regular routine. Let the dog outside, shower, make breakfast, get dressed, feed the fucking fish that Peanut wanted so bad but never pays attention to…blah blah blah. Then after arguing with Peanut about how to do her hair, what I chose for her to wear, and whether or not (NOT) she can skip brushing her teeth today, we’re about to head out the door. Then I realized I forgot to grab a packet of drink mix for my bottle of water, so I headed back into the kitchen to grab it. At this point, the dog had already eaten his breakfast, spent a good amount of time outside, and went into the crate. And since the kitchen is in the back of the house, I hadn’t noticed this wonderful little present he left for me until right then:

*sigh*

That shit made me late for work. Yay, Mondays.