Thursday, May 21, 2015

of Proms and the Age of Chivalry…

GUEST POST written by: Hubber (my better-ish half)

Senior Prom is over. Dresses have been returned, spray tans have faded and sleep has been caught up on.  All in all, not so bad an experience as a parent. We drank, we spent, we drank, we rented, we drank some more. Time to replenish the bank account and the liquor cabinet.  Also time to reflect on WTF is wrong with our progeny. I am serious.  Double You Tee Eff.

We spent hundreds of dollars on things that she absolutely HAD to have, only to determine closer to Prom time that none of her friends were doing that or going there, so by- gawd, she wasn’t either!  Two days AFTER the latest date in which to obtain refunds!  She finally decided which date to take to Prom, two days AFTER the last day to buy him a Prom ticket, so her date actually never went to her Prom, he went somewhere to wait  with a few of the other dates that were made too late and they all met back up again after the Prom was over.

And let’s discuss this “date”…he is a nice enough guy, but seriously lacking in motivation.  Back in my day, we rented cars and tuxes and made plans and if we couldn’t rent a car, we at least shined up whatever ride we owned and put on our best Prom faces.  This kid didn’t rent a tux, and actually couldn’t even be bothered to find a car to drive.  WTF?!  He was perfectly content to show up in a suit, get dropped off by his dad and he actually seemed happy to let his date drive him around.  Chivalry is dead, yo…and I missed the fuckin funeral.  Cuz I would’ve gone to kick that bastard in the nads  for putting me through all that shit when I was growing up.  And woo’ing my Snarky Heifer.  I didn’t start “just showing up” until the wedding, and even then I had permission to do so…

Back to the actual Prom!  My beautiful daughter, who rented a beautiful dress, had nails and makeup done, sprayed on a natural looking tan, and fretted over the smallest details, stayed at the actual Prom for about an hour.  An HOUR! A whole damn 60 minutes.  WTF again…   She was home by 10pm, changing clothes to head out with her friends. So, how much was that Prom ticket again? Just south of a C-Note?! A few duckets short of a Benjamin?! At least she stayed long enough to get her photo taken and to have a dance or two, right?  What? No Prom Photo? That’s right, her “date” was down the street hanging with the other non-dates. At least we have all of the pre-Prom photos we took. At the end of the day, I only spent four hours washing her ride so she would have something nice to drive her “date” around in.  Time well spent…at least one guy showed her some chivalry on her special day…


Tuesday, May 12, 2015

5 Things No One Ever Told You About Turning 40

turning40-1
For years now, I've been hearing about how much my body will change after I turn 40. "Just wait till YOU turn 40...", they'd warn.  And by "they", I mean people at work, aunts, my mom, other people's moms, people on the street, and weird Depends commercials. What they all failed to mention, though, is that shit changes overnight. Literally.  One day you're 39, the next day you're 40 and you don't even recognize yourself anymore.

So, here's all the shit they DON'T tell you about the day after you turn 40:

1: Your bladder will shrink 3 sizes. 
Since the time you were five years old, you've been able to sleep through the night without the need to schlep out of bed to pee (or without wetting the bed). But once you turn 40, not only can you no longer sleep through the night, you have to get up to go pee at least twice a night. And, we're not just talking about the havoc child birth has placed on your ability to "hold your pee in", we're talking about the fact that you can drink 8 oz of water and the next thing you know, Niagara Falls is pouring out of your urethra. Did your body even remember to save some of that shit for sustainable bodily nutrients?  We may never know.

Also, be careful when you're having a sneezing fit... you will have to change your pants if you don't remember to squeeze your legs shut.

Kegel exercises, don't fail us now!

2: You'll go blind.
Not only will your sight change overnight, you'll suddenly be unable to drive at night without cursing oncoming traffic for blinding you.  Which in turn, will cause you to hit curbs more frequently and accidentally, maybe run over squirrels. Maybe. Or, maybe the squirrel was already dead.  Either way, you won't know because you're fucking blind. Also, the squirrel could have actually been a possum. No matter, though, because, again... BLIND.

Also, your computer screen will think you're perpetually drunk and display a blurry screen just to fuck with you.  And, if you were able to read a book without your glasses/contacts when you were 39, at 40, you'll need reading glasses...or in some cases tri-focals...which many don't even know exist.  Did you have Lasik surgery last year? Well, you're going to have to have it again because 40 took your perfect $2,000 vision and pissed all over it.

3. You will need electro-shock therapy for your new psychotic tendencies.
Xanax might help. Or, large amounts a booze sprinkled with fairy dust. But, let me just say that, drastic body/lifestyle changes don't bode well for people with mental issues.  If you were a psycho bitch at 39, lord help us all when you turn 40. Your hormones get all out of whack. People asking stupid questions like, "what's for dinner" will make you burst into tears one day, and make you want to stab a mofo in the throat with a screwdriver the next day.  And, don't let anyone try to steal a french fry off your plate! Blood will be shed! Children will scream bloody murder... Husbands will lock themselves up in bathrooms with video games and dogs will have nervous bouts of explosive diarrhea all over the goddamn carpet if someone tries to steal a fry, yo! Fries are sacred. Like Almond Joys.

I think I digressed.

4. Hair will start popping up in weird places.
We used to make fun of my grandma who spent a few minutes EACH DAY plucking what appeared to be BEARD hairs from her chin.  After she passed away, we used to sit in girly circles sometimes laughing at how she made us help her pluck 'em when she was on her DEATH BED.  Hahaha. But, guess what? That shit ain't funny anymore, y'all. You will need one of those 12X magnifying mirrors and you'll cry when you realize what your face looks like up close, but you'll have to push through it and get to plucking. EVERY. DAY. Until you DIE. For real.

5. Food will do weird things to your body.
And, I'm not just talking about gaining weight.  I'm talking about acid reflux, gas and heartburn.  All of which will send you into a frantic frenzy because you'll think you're dying of some rare form of stomach cancer.  Your entire life up until the eve of your 40th birthday has been spent eating whatever the hell you want WHENEVER the hell you wanted to eat it.  But, suddenly, you'll realize that you aren't able to eat at least 3 hours before going to bed because you will vomit into your mouth just as you're drifting off into deep REM sleep. And, if for some reason you forget that you might die in your sleep if you nibble on something just before bed time, you'll have to prop 874 bazillion pillows up behind you and sleep SITTING UP for fear that you'll choke on your own vomit and DIE. Like the crack whores do. No one wants to die like a crack whore, y'all. But YOU will if you eat after 7 pm.

So, if you're still 39 and facing your 40th birthday soon... you're welcome!  You are now mentally prepared to understand the shit that's fixenta go down.  No, you do not have hairy sasquatch blood... No, you didn't swallow a flesh-eating bug from some third world country... No, you weren't probed by aliens in your sleep. You're just 40.

It ain't the end of the world, but it sure will feel like it some days.

turning40-2

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Addressing Envelopes - It's Like Rocket Science, Only Harder

The fact that "a" should be "an" is not
lost on me. But I liked the message
here, so I went with it. Don't hate.
I just realized that the oldest spawn does NOT know how to address an envelope. That's right. I was in the middle of sitting down to start addressing envelopes for her graduation announcements and I'm all like, fuck this shit - when I graduated high school, my mom made me address the envelopes and lick to seal each and every one.

Lick to seal. Heh. That's what he said!

Anyway... so, I printed out a mailing list and gave a stack of envelopes to the spawn...

Me: Here. You get to have the honor of addressing these envelopes.

Spawn: Addressing? What do you mean?

Me: Uhm. What I mean, is that you need to WRITE ADDRESSES on these mofos so we can put them in the mail.

Spawn: Can't we just print them?

Me: No. I looked up proper graduation announcement etiquette on google... and all those goody-too-shoo beyotches say you have to hand write them.  So, get on it.  You want gifts?  Then you gotta do it right...Because I don't give a shit.

Spawn: Ok. Fine.

* 2 minutes later *

Spawn: Moooooom!

Me: There's no way you're done already.

Spawn: Where does the address go?

Me: You're kidding, right?

Spawn: Uhm. No.  It goes right here, right? <pointing to top left corner where the fucking RETURN address goes>

Me: No. That's where YOUR address goes.

Spawn: I have to put MY address on these? I thought I was going by your list??

Me: Am I on candid camera again? <looking around the room very sure that Hubber hid a camera somewhere>

Spawn: Moooom... I'm serious.

Me: WTF do they teach you in school?!  How do you have all A's?!  You are the epitome of everything that is wrong with our education system!

Spawn: We don't MAIL letters at school, Mom. We E-MAIL. And, text. Duh.

Me: Shoot me, now.

Then, I proceeded to tell her the City, State and zip go on the third line after she ruined the first envelope. AND there's a comma after the CITY!  For safe measure, I went ahead and printed return address labels. It was either that or punch Hubber in the throat.

Hubber: Why do you want to punch ME in the throat? I'm not in charge of etiquette up in here. As a matter of fact, I am probably the LEAST qualified etiquette expert in this family.

Me: My point exactly! I can't do everything!  Your children should know how to address envelopes!  What about all those thank-you cards I've made her write throughout the years?

Hubber: Well, in her defense, YOU always address all the envelopes.

Me: So, it's MY fault your kids are dumb?!

Hubber: Uhm. I'll be right back... gotta pee <he says as he's shutting and LOCKING the bathroom door>

Then, the sounds of machine guns can be heard through the door.

Me: You're not peeing! You're playing games in there!

Anyway... so, if you're one of the lucky people on our mailing list and your address looks all jacked up on the envelope, THIS is why.

And, on a totally related note - feel free to send money for my booze fund.  It's dwindling.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

The Crazy Cat Lady Dream

The youngest spawn is always asking me what I want to be when I grown up.  As if a) I'm not already grown; and b) she doesn't think I'm anything in particular already. We have discussed the possibility of my being an opera singer, an artist, and/or an airline pilot (so she can FINALLY get to ride on a plane - she's so deprived, y'all)... but all that stuff requires years of training, dedication and skill.  None of which I currently have nor have energy left to gain.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a lawyer, so I went to a high school that catered to preparing students for careers in law enforcement and criminal justice.  As it turned out, lawyer-ing didn't quite interest me.  So, I turned to law enforcement and thought maybe I'd like to be a crime scene investigator... but when I discovered that all the physical shit required of police officers was far beyond my capabilities, I nixed that idea, too.

So, I went to college for a bazillion and sixty-three years and changed my career path at least once a year before I settled on an english major - mechanical engineering (NO)... psychology (NO)... fine arts (NO)... teaching (NO)... business (NO),,, criminal justice again (still NO).... and I can't remember what else.

But here I am, still floundering without a clear path to who I'm going to be when I finally grow up.  I'll be forty years old in a few months, so I figure I'm pretty much screwed.  There is only one obvious path left for me to take:

Me: I think I'll be a "Crazy Cat Lady" when I grow up.
...complete with moo-moos, wiry hair, and lots 'n lots o' cats!

Hubber: A crazy cat lady, huh?

Me: Yep.  Finally!  I have something to aspire to!

Hubber: I would say you've been well on your way to CRAZY for the last 10 years. At least. Now, all you need is for me to die so you can get a shit ton of cats.

Me: Why do you have to die first?

Hubber: First of all, I hate cats. Second of all, Crazy Cat Ladies live ALONE with their cats. So, unless you plan on giving all THIS up <pointing to his body parts and all around the house>, you'll have to wait until I die and your children move out.

Me: Well, shit.  You really know how to bust a girl's aspiration bubble, don't you?

Hubber: It's my goal in life.

Me: But, it's my life's calling!  How could you take that away from me?!

Hubber: If you'd like, I'll just move out into the Minnie Winnie and you three girls can be crazy cat ladies all together!

Youngest Spawn:  YES!  I wanna be a cat lady!!  I love cats!! I want a bazillion kitties!

Ugh.

So much for MY dreams.


Sunday, September 28, 2014

Bed Sheets and Spiders

It really is a mystery how Hubber and I have been able to sleep in the same bed for the past 13 years given the fact that we are not compatible sleepmates. He likes his bed made like a military drill sergeant - and he likes to sleep in it that way, too; with all the corners and edges tucked in under the damn mattress, he'll stuff himself into bed like a sardine.  I, on the other hand, like FLUFF and disorder.  I like pillows everywhere, and blankets and sheets untucked so that that my feet can breathe and whatnot.

Me: NORMAL people only tuck in the fitted sheet, Hubber...because that's what it's meant for... fitting to the mattress.  The flat sheet isn't supposed to be tucked under the mattress! It's supposed to lay FLAT on top!

Hubber: How do YOU know what NORMAL people do?

Me: I'm being serious right now. DO NOT tuck my side of the bed in where my feet go.  They can't breathe when you do that!  They'll suffocate! Why do you insist on torturing me this way!?

Hubber: First of all, feet don't breathe.  Second of all, if you're so interested in NOT suffocating, why do you sleep with your damn nose under the blankets?  All I see is the top of your head.  It's creepy.

Me: I leave airholes up around my nose.

Hubber: That's the dumbest thing you've said all day.

We've had this argument at least 10 times a month over the course of our marriage.  It varies in that sometimes I'm the one calling HIM dumb. But really, we've never really found common ground where the placement of bedding is concerned.  When he's feeling extra nice, though, he'll just tuck in his side of the bed and leave mine alone.  I feel extra love for the man when he does that. But, last night was NOT one of those nights.

There I was, 2 hours into REM sleep, dreaming about unicorns, beaches and hunky football boys when the bedroom light is switched on.

Me: WHAT THE F-....!?

Hubber: <angrily shoving the sheets under the mattress> You untucked my sheets with all your tossing around!

Me: So you turn on the fucking light? While I'm dead asleep?

Hubber: Yes.

Me: Have you lost your damn mind?!

Hubber: I can't sleep without my feet tucked in! What if spiders crawl in from under the bed?!

Me: <stupified> I hate you right now.

Hubber: Not more than I hate you, you spider loving wench!

The man clearly has issues.


Saturday, August 16, 2014

I've Been Cheating On My Blog

I agreed to participate in my friend's 30-day blogging challenge.  You know, one of those things where they give you a topic to write about every day and you have to put your thinking cap on and get all clever and shit?
Anyway - I'm starting to feel guilty, like I'm cheating on my blog.  And, I don't think it's fair to my blog that I'm writing everyday this month on someone else's blog, so I decided to share links to my "guest blogs" here for your reading enjoyment. And, so that my blog doesn't somehow give me ojo for neglecting it.

16. What are you 5 greatest accomplishments?
17. What is the one thing you wish you were great at?
18: What is the most difficult thing you have had to forgive?
19. If you could live anywhere, where would it be and why?
20. Describe 3 significant memories from your childhood
21. If you could have one superpower, what would it be and what would you do with it first?
22. Where do you see yourself in 5 years? 10 years? 15 years?
23. List your top 5 hobbies and why you love them.
24. Describe your family dynamic of your childhood vs. your family dynamic now.
25. If you could have dinner with anyone in history, who would it be and what would you
eat?
26. What popular notion do you think the world has most wrong?
27. What is your favorite part of your body and why?
28. What is your love language?
29. What do you think people misunderstand most about you?
30. List 10 things you would hope to be remembered for.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Since when is Women's Size XXL equivalent to a fucking US Size 10?

I never used to have a problem shopping for clothes online - that is until the sizing charts got all fucked up.  Take for instance this cute top from Rosegal.com:

Trendsetter Colorful Stripe Print Asymmetric Batwing Sleeve Women's Summer Blouse

...only size available is Large.  Darn.  Although I'm mostly wearing XL or XXL in regular size clothes... sometimes I can fit into a Large if it's made just right.  Sometimes.  So, I check out the sizing chart, and I find this:


First of all, let's dissect the "Product Info" size chart.  After getting pissed off that I had to do math to understand what the fuck any of it means, I finally succeeded in converting that shit into inches and measuring my "bust" to realize, that the the XL would probably fit if they had one in stock. Which they do not. Of course.

Then, I couldn't help but see they've provided their "Women's Wear" sizing chart for all their other products on this page.  I can only assume that they've put it here to confuse the shit out of shoppers who can't figure out what size they are and why this chart is different from the "Product Info" chart.  And, since when is an XXL equivalent to a fucking US Size 10?  Don't we have enough insecure women in the world already? Do we really need for size-10-women to start thinking they are extra EXTRA large?!  What the fuck is wrong with these retailers?!

Also, I normally buy XXL clothing... and if I hadn't carefully reviewed this totally asshole-y size chart prior to purchasing, I woulda flipped my shit when my XXL blouse came in and it didn't fucking fit!  I'd be all like: well, shit, I guess I'm really NOT extra EXTRA large... I guess I must be a fucking whale!

Bitches.

But, the fun doesn't stop there, y'all.  Oh, no.  There's much more assholery going on in the retail world.  Take, for instance, those condescending bitches at Chicos.com (where the old ladies shop).  I found this skirt that I thought I had to have:

image enlargement

It's got crocheted accents... it's cute, flowy, and best of all... has an elastic waist band!  So, I clicked around searching for the size chart because they like to confuse the old women who shop there with fancy low numbered sizes.  But, I will not be taken by this tom-foolery.



C'mon, now.  Did they really think that by calling a size 18 a "3.5" or "L" instead, it would really make me feel skinnier?  Do they really think it's helpful for old ladies' self esteem to only have size options between 000-4.5?  Or, maybe they think the older women get, the stupider they get and can't possibly remember what their REAL fucking size is?

That's probably it.

Anyway -- needless to say, I got myself all worked up in my quest for fair sizing charts that I didn't end up buying shit.