- ♫ Songbird ♫
- I'm 25 and clueless, trying to find my way through a world that is becoming more and more complicated. I'm a single mommy, learning the ropes of parenthood and adulthood and trying not to mess my child up too bad in the process. I moved to Kansas almost 5 years ago from Ohio, where I currently live with my beautiful 5 year old daughter, and our dachshund Oscar. I'm a shy person on the outside, but on the inside I'm a total weirdo. I always speak before I think, (yeah, read that one again) I dance like an epileptic, and I laugh at myself constantly. I love fart jokes and dirty language...who doesn't? And if you're one of those people that don't...well then, fuck you. *fart*
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
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 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.”
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.
Monday, June 28, 2010
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.
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?
I’m scared. Wish me luck.
Monday, June 21, 2010
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.
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.”
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?
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.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
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.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
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.
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:
That shit made me late for work. Yay, Mondays.