Phone Calls That Don't End in Fiery Deaths

How old do my children have to be for me to actually feel HAPPY to see an unexpected incoming call from them light up my phone? 

Because to date, when I see that it’s one of my spawn ringing in, I have to get my mind right before answering the call. First, I blink 5 times, slowly. I breathe in… I breathe out. I stretch my neck to the left. I stretch my neck to the right.

I consider all the possible reasons the spawn would choose to CALL rather than TEXT (which is the norm).  A phone call gives me no time to devise my reply to whatever ridiculous non-urgent problem she is currently having that can’t be resolved via text.

Then, I close my eyes and tilt my head up to the sky…hoping that powers greater than me will take mercy on my ragged soul and make the fucking phone stop ringing. By this time, it usually does stop. And I pray that they’ll just leave me a message. And, I start to believe that God really does give a shit about me.

Then, the follow-up-call ringing commences. No message. Just more goddamned ringing. 

In the span of 3 seconds, I start to fear the worst.

Maybe my child has been kidnapped by a murderous bandito and is calling from the trunk of a 1985 Ford Ltd with no way to kick the taillights out and wave her hand through the hole to flag down help from concerned passersby! And the 9 and 1 buttons on her phone don't work!

OR… My child was just in a car accident and is trapped inside the car which is only seconds from exploding into smithereens!

OR… There’s an active shooter at the school!

OR… My child has been car jacked and left stranded in the middle of nowhere with wolves (NOT of the Huge Jackman variety) salivating near her while her phone is about to die and this is the last call she will ever make before she’s torn to shreds!

Fire, blood, and gory death flash before my eyes and I start to hyperventilate.

So, frantically, I answer the phone, cursing myself for being such a fucking selfish, crappy excuse for a mother. My child is obviously in mortal danger! What the fuck is wrong with me!?

Me: Hello? Are you ok? 
Tallest Spawn: cry/screaming and blowing out my eardrum: Moooom! Why aren’t you answering your phone? I’m like freaking out over here! 
Me: Uhm! I just answered! What in the world is wrong?! 
Tallest Spawn: sobbing uncontrollably:  My car won’t start! I’m freaking out! Oh my god! What do I do?!  
Me: Really? You’re crying uncontrollably about your car not starting? 
Tallest Spawn: YES! Mom! You don’t understand! I’m like freaking out over here! 
Me: Obviously. Where are you? Are you safe? 
Tallest Spawn: Well, I had to like go to Walgreen’s. So, like I went in to buy stuff, and when I got back in my car, it was fine! So, I drove to the gas station to put gas in it for the week. I put the gas in, but then I like tried to start it, but it like won’t even start or anything! I’ve been trying like for 10 minutes or maybe longer! 
Me: So, you’re safe. Did you call your Dad?

Meanwhile, Hubber is standing in the doorway shaking his head and rolling his eyes and I am motioning for him to grab his fucking phone and deal with this shit! Ya’ll know I don’t deal well with car problems.

Tallest Spawn: hic-crying now: I don’t know if I’m safe, Mom! There’s a sketchy guy here that keeps staring at me! I’m so scared, Mom! Like, what do I do?! Dad won’t answer his phone, either! Why don’t ya’ll ever answer your phones?! 
Me: First of all, calm your tits. If there’s a sketchy guy there, then go into the store. 
Tallest Spawn: And just leave my car here?? 
Me: Yeah! It’s at the damn pump, right?! It ain’t going anywhere if it won’t start! I’ll send your dad over there to help.

So, naturally, Hubber starts asking 21 questions…  did she do this... did she do that… what kind of noise did it make… did she put the right key in the hole… etc. etc. 

Me:

This is the point at which I normally lose my shit. First of all, none of the disturbing near-death scenarios are playing out like my brain told me they would. Second of all, CAR DRAMA. Thirdly, WTF?!
I think Hubber could sense that I was about to grab a knife and stab a mofo if he didn’t quickly get his ass (and every other living being in my vicinity) the fuck out.

While he was gone, I had an adult beverage to calm my nerves. When he got back, I hesitantly listened to how shit went down at the gas station.
Hubber pulled up behind our helpless little spawn’s car at the gas station. She sprinted out from the store to meet him.
Hubber: Where’s the sketchy guy? 
Tallest Spawn: pointing: Over there, Daddy! See him? 
Hubber: The guy changing the bags out of the trash cans?! 
Tallest Spawn: Is that what he’s doing? 
Hubber: YES! He fucking works here! 
Tallest Spawn: Oh. My bad. But, Daddy! He kept like staring at me! 
Hubber: He’s probably wondering why you’re bawling your eyes out over here like a crazy person! 
Tallest Spawn: I’m sorry!!! But, I didn’t know what to do!! 
Hubber: Did you check that you used the right key? Did you check the battery like I showed you? If so, remember that Insurance app I told you to download onto your phone? It has roadside assistance! Why is your first reaction to always freak out and drive your mom to drink?! 
Tallest Spawn:

Hubber: Give me your keys.
Hubber got in the car, put the key in the ignition. And would you know it…the fucking car started right up!
Tallest Spawn: 

 Hubber:

Tallest Spawn: Daddy! I swear it wouldn’t start!!  Why don’t you believe me!? You never believe me! Why do you hate me?! I hate my life!  Why does this stuff always happen to ME?!

Etc. Etc.

My point here is that usually, when the phone RINGS and the call is coming from one of my children, it is usually NOT a fucking emergency. It’s usually some bullshit crap story that makes my right eye twitch, my fists clench, and my brain scream. 9 times out of 10, this is how shit goes down:

For instance, let’s consider this text:

How is THAT “kind of urgent”? C’mon, man! I’m AT WORK. Go talk to the gas station people! Or, call the bank! I don’t fucking know! But I do know that I ain’t gonna be able to solve this urgent issue for you! You are a grown ass woman! 

That being said, though… I do appreciate her decision to give me a heads-up text rather than repeated, frantic, and aneurysm-inducing phone calls where I have no clue what the fuck is happening. I hate going in blind, ya’ll! Momma needs prep time.

Another plus is that she "also just texted dad"! That pretty much means I'm off the hook entirely. 

Have fun, Hubber! 

I shoot the finger at asshole commuters

About three hours after posting my unemployment rant, I received a job offer. How’s that for good fucking karma?! The universe DOES love me after all. I don’t care what my horoscope says. Turns out, if you bitch and moan just enough, but not too excessively, the karma gods will look down on you with favor and bestow upon you great fortune.

But, don’t brag about that shit too much… because the universe hates a showoff. When you brag to other poor, unemployed losers too much about your sudden good fortune, you get flogged with experiences that will test your endurance for assholery.

And, I have a really short fuse. In case you didn’t know.

Turns out my new (old) job is only 17 miles from home… but with traffic and never-ending road construction, it takes at least 50 minutes to drive one way. FIFTY minutes. 5-0. You do the math. It's like I'm driving 25 hours a fucking day! Unless you are driving a 1983 Mini Winnebago uphill in high wind, it should NEVER take you more than 30 minutes to drive 17 miles anywhere.  Ever.

This is what shit looks like in Houston 24-7. No joke.

And, if re-joining the wonderful world of commuters at rush hour (which, let’s face it, is any fucking time of the day in Houston) wasn’t enough punishment, I also have to endure many, many, many asshole drivers. The worst of them is the one who follows two inches behind me. TWO inches. That’s the buffer between me and the asshole who thinks that riding my ass will move traffic along faster. I deal with at least three of these particular assholes daily.

“Look, Dick! We are all going no-fucking-where fast, yo! Kindly get off my ass and let me breathe! I’m already a loose cannon behind this fucking wheel. I don’t need you adding to my anxiety! Don't make me take out my gun!” That’s what I want to scream at them. But, because I don't really have a gun and because I fear road rage retaliation and think I’m still too young to die in a fiery car crash, I simply shoot the bird at them and smile...to be nice...so, they don't kill me.

Maybe I need this bumper sticker:

Just Another Unemployment Rant...

I would like to take this time to send enormous amounts of ju-ju to my comrades on the open job market. It sounds fancy, huh? "ON THE JOB MARKET". But, it ain't, y'all. It's actually pretty horrible, demeaning and perpetually bubble bursty. Basically, it sucks. And, if you happen to be a slightly mental person on the job market, it's especially hard on those noodles inside your brain that help you to function in a somewhat "normal" fashion each day.

And, if by chance, you just turned 40 and found yourself unemployed, all "normalness" is pretty much out the window. That shit is nowhere to be found. NO. WHERE. Ya feel me?

I read somewhere that job hunters in my "career level" can expect to be "on the hunt" for about six months. Six, long, excruciating months of being rejected over and over and over and over again. And, if that wasn't bad enough, all the rejections come with PRAISE! They praise your background... tell you how wonderful you are... how smart and capable you are... how you're such a strong candidate and that the decision NOT to actually hire such a fan-fucking-tabulous  person was sooooo hard on THEM!

Way to build a bitch up just to kick her square in her lady parts when she's on cloud nine thinking she'll be starting a new job in no time! Assholes.

I'd almost rather they'd reject me with brutality. Like... "I'm sorry, you looked great on paper, but then we saw you in person, and you are just too damn fat to work here". Or... "We are only interviewing you because we have to prove that we actually interviewed at least one woman...really, we have no intention of hiring anything but a dick." Or, even... "I'm sorry, we really can't afford you unless you'd like to work for half of what you're actually worth."

Brutality would at least not fuck with my self esteem. I know I'm fat. I know I'm a woman. And, I know I won't work for fucking peanuts. That is the kind of shit that I OWN. I don't get myself all in a tizzy over it anymore.

If my skill set and experience isn't a perfect match, I can understand the rejection... I am applying to positions out of my "industry", so I can understand the hesitation from employers.

But, if I hear one more time how I am "over qualified" for a position that they took the time to interview me for TWICE, I might have to throat punch a mofo into kingdom come. For real. The job was in my salary range. I could do the work AND THEN SOME. But, they think I might get bored and not be fulfilled. WTF? I'm sorry...when I was in the business of hiring people, smart, competent candidates were hard to come by and I snatched them up at every opportunity. I didn't say, "thanks, but you are just waaaaay to smart to work here."

But, now that I think about it, maybe I AM too smart to work there.

Fuck-em.

When does my next unemployment check hit the bank?

Spanx, Non-bras, and Other Shit I Refuse to Shop for with Spawn...

Before I had kids, I loved to go shopping.  Shop, shop, shop! I could shop till I dropped!  But, now, nearly 19 years into motherhood, I have learned to completely and thoroughly LOATHE shopping. Very rarely is shopping all about me...and when it is, I'm riddled with guilt because I'm buying MYSELF something when I could be spending money on spawns.

What the hell happened to me?!  I used to be a blissfully happy, self involved shopper!  Kids schmids! Even the first few years of motherhood weren't so bad. Although, I'm not exactly sure when the turning point...well... turned... I'm betting it was around the time the oldest spawn moved into the dreaded tween years.

That's also when I decided that I hate middle-schoolers. But that's a rant for another day.

The prospect of shopping now is accompanied with blistery hives, dry mouth, cold sweats, irritable bowels, and lots and lots of cursing. The cursing is especially pronounced while shopping with the oldest spawn who is now an "adult". Kinda.

During prom season, I had to add "all undergarments" to the freakishly long list of shit I refuse to shop for with her. I made this addition to the list in my head when we were sifting through Spanx and shit at Kohl's. She found it prudent to try on 538 vajillion different fucking styles of "body shapers" and "bras that aren't really bras, Mom!"

Oldest Spawn: (in fucking tears, ya'll!) This one makes me look soooo fat...!

Me: are you fucking kidding me right now!? You want to see FAT?  Huh?! Here, LOOK! This is FAT! (throwing up my shirt and grabbing handfulls of REAL fat) 

Oldest Spawn: Moooooom!  Stop it!

Me: YOU stop it!  I just made up my mind. I'm not buying you any Spanx.  And no fucking "bra that isn't really a bra".  What the fuck does that even mean?!

Oldest Spawn: It's just the cup thingy, Mom!  With no straps! To lift my boobs!

Me: the stick-on things?

Oldest Spawn: I don't know how they stay on! I've never seen them but I know they exist!

Me: That's it. You're going commando from the waist up.

Then, we left the store, empty handed and utterly pissed off at each other. I already suffer from people-itis. So, putting me in a crowded store with the most majestic queen of drama is just asking for trouble.

And THAT, my friends, is when I added "all undergarments" to the list of shit I won't go with her to buy.

The list started with shoes when she was 12ish. It goes something like this:

1. tennis shoes
2. groceries
3. jeans
4. flats and sandals
5. boots (this is when, after visiting 15 stores and STILL not finding the perfect back-to-school shoes, Hubber officially became in charge of all spawn feet coverings)
6. dresses
7. deodorant
8. shampoo/conditioner
9. jewelry
10. winter coats (this is when, in one of my blinding fits of rage while shopping for a trip to Colorado, Hubber officially became in charge of coats, jackets, and other essential outerwear)
11. make-up
12. gifts for friends
13. scarves
14. panties/bras
15. leggings
16. tops
17. nail polish (don't ask)
18. all clothing
19. all undergarments

Basically, we now put money in her bank account and just send her on her way. She has ruined my zest for shopping forever. 

She'll make some unsuspecting and naive man very happy some day. I just hope he's rich.

How NOT Drinking Alcohol Can Kill a Mofo

Much to Patsy's dismay, I recently fell off the wagon.  Well, it wasn't really to her dismay in that I never actually TOLD her I started boozing it up again.  But, if she DID know, that heifer would be dismayed for sure.  Know what I say to that?  Fuck it.  Fuck Patsy and her skinny ass self.  I did my research, bitch!  A single shot of straight vodka only contains 100 calories... and ZERO sugars.  That's right.  NO SUGAR.  And, according to Lance Armstrong's peeps, wine has even fewer calories.  At first I was like, "should I trust Lance's peeps?  Lance is a crack whore... maybe I should do some fact checking"... so I dug a little deeper and found some amazing news from the Calorie King. Only 96 calories in 80 proof vodka!  If the fucking king of calories says it, it must be so!

Also, 96 upside down is 69.  My lucky number! And... I made it six weeks without consuming alcohol. That's gotta be some kind of world record or something.  Where's my fucking prize?

During this time, I learned a very important fact: Being sober for long periods of time will give you homicidal tendencies.  No joke, people.  Why do you think sober people are so fucking loony?  It's because they are fighting hard, every second of their lives, not to kill a mother fucker.  When you consume adult beverages (in moderation, of course), you enjoy that "I don't really give a fuck" attitude.  Which is nice when you're like me, genetically prone to craziness.

My excessive sobriety almost made me kill:

1. my neighbors for being inconsiderate assholes every fucking day
2. a waiter for accidentally looking like that creepy red-headed guy on CSI Miami
3. my daughter's friend for suggesting that I was too fat for my jacket because it wasn't zipped up
4. my sister for suggesting that I am fat by asking me to go to the gym with her
5. my dog for taking a gazillion hours to find the perfect spot to take a shit
6. my nail lady for suggesting that my entire face needed waxing
7. the ice cream truck man for charging $2.25 for a fucking popsicle
8. the snow plow driver who splashed me with slush when I was scraping ice off my windshield in a fucking blizzard

...and that's just to name a few.  So the fact that I'm officially off the bandwagon pretty much means that I bought a one-way ticket to heaven.  I'm like Mother Teresa - except way hotter.

Parenting: I think I'm doing it wrong. Again.

I don't know how the hell it happens...

...but every time I punish my kids "for their own good", I end up punishing my damn self, too!  When the little spawn gets in trouble, she is punished by not being allowed play dates, not being able to watch TV, and not being able to play with her toys or "do artwork".  That only leaves books.  And when the books get old, that heifer is all up in my shit....talking my ears off and driving me up the wall.  There isn't enough medication and booze in the world to get me through those days without going insane.  If I duct tape her mouth shut and tie her to a chair, it's considered child abuse.  What about parent abuse?!  Where are the laws for that shit?!

And, don't even get me started on the teenage punishment.  Along with telephone/internet curfews and no extra-curricular outings with friends, the oldest spawn has currently been punished by actually having to read.  That's right.  Books = Punishment.  The problem is: I have to read the damn books, too, because how else will I know what the fuck she's reading in order to quiz her on it?

Spawn:  Can I pick the book this time?

Me:  It has to be a chapter book and it cannot contain illustrations.

Spawn:  So, Calvin and Hobbes is out?

Me: .....

Spawn: Mooooom!  You know I haaaaaate to read!  Why do you torture me?!

Me:  How are we even related?  I'm ashamed to call you my daughter right now.  There are 693 books in this house, how many have you even attempted to read?

Spawn:  I read the first part of Twilight, remember?

Me: One chapter of the first book hardly counts.

Spawn: I saw all the movies... it's the same thing.  Besides, I read books at school all the time.  Smart books by famous, dead authors.

Me:  Name one.

Spawn: ......

Me: Exactly.

So, here's what she picked:

Who the fuck is being punished here?!

They don't make Clif's Notes for the Pretty Little Liars books, y'all (believe me, I've looked).  My eyes are bleeding just thinking about all the teen angst and drama that I'm about to endure with this round of punishment.  Kill me now.  Put the barrel of your gun right in my face and blow my head away to smithereens. Twice.  Just to be sure I'm good and dead.

I'd swear she was switched at birth if it weren't for the fact that she was the only white baby born at the county hospital the week of September 7, 1996. There was one Vietnamese baby and the rest were black.  I bet all those kids read!

To make matters worse, she has to bring her Geometry book home twice a week for studying.  GEOMETRY.  I don't know shit about Geometry except for pie-r-square.  Oh, wait... I can probably decipher all the basic shapes unless they have more than 5 sides.  And, even then, it's a crap shoot, what with all the parallellagrams and other similar bullshit that is absolutely useless in real life.

High school math makes me feel like a goddamned idiot.  Those teachers need to step it up and earn their keep so I don't have to do this shit at home!  I specifically chose NOT to be a school teacher because:

1. I hate kids
2. I hate math
3. I hate people in general
4. I refuse to wear panty hose; and
5. Cafeteria food sucks.

My point here is that parenting is a bitch.  When you do it "right", you suffer like a mofo.  When you do it "wrong", you end up in a prison for the criminally insane.  Either way, you're screwed.  Both literally and figuratively.  Neither of which would be considered a pleasant experience in my book.

What's the proper protocol for telling your neighbors they're a buncha assholes?

Until now, I had never lived in an apartment complex.  I take that back.  When Hubber and I first got hitched, we leased a swanky condo in the Medical Center.  But that place doesn't count because it was badass and the neighbors weren't assholes. Our neighbors were doctors and scientists and geniuses who went to bed at reasonable hours and minded their own fucking business on a regular basis.

Those were the days.

Back then, we were cool in our multi-family residential community.  Now, we're just a tired married couple with kids that drive us batshit crazy living in a shoebox apartment in the suburbs under the assholiest neighbors in the universe.  Not all our neighbors are assholes.  Most of these peeps are nice and quiet.  But the mofos directly above us need to be hung by their balls from the rafters.

Seeing how I'm not all that experienced at sharing my ceiling and walls with others, I'm not privy to the proper protocol for telling the three guys living above me that I'd like them to all die horrible, bloody deaths.  Do I just knock on the door and when they open up, simply punch them in the face with the pointy end of Hubber's ninja sword?  Last night I dreamed that a tornado struck all Wizard of Oz style and took out their apartment.  I looked out of my window and saw all of those assholes swirling around in the tornado on their way to back to Kansas (the land of Kansasholes, a place they are obviously from).

Wanna know why I hate them so much?  Let me lay it out for you:

1. Their fucking dog is an asshole. He whines/cries/barks non-stop when they aren't home (if Bobo the Sasquatch hunter lived here, he'd swear the dog was a squatch in disguise). These episodes usual occur during the day at my most optimal writing times. Which, NATURALLY, makes me want to kill a mother fucker.

2. They skateboard in the house above our living room and down the stairs right outside my bedroom.  Why they haven't fallen down the stairs proves that the universe is against me and I must take matters into my own hands.  An invisible wire strewn across the top flight of stairs might do the trick.

3. They sit on their patio and smoke and toss cigarettes down onto my car.  This tells me they might enjoy being blown to smithereens by an anonymous package of dynamite delivered to their door.

4. They think they're UFC fighters.  They wrestle around all night... banging into walls, slamming doors, screaming and pounding the floor. ALL. NIGHT. Or maybe they're a gay trio and they're just into kinky shit.  Either way, I'd like them to keel over and die.

5. One of those mofos is so heavy-footed our dishes rattle any time he moves.  This is the same mofo that has to get up to pee every night at 2:30 am.  You can set your clock to him. I don't want to set my fucking clock to him.  I want to sleep!

6. They don't scoop their dog's poop. You might think I'm hating on their dog, too... but I'm not.  It's not that crybaby dog's fault that his owners are inconsiderate assholes.

7. Sometimes they smoke the most potent weed in all of creation; leaving our apartment smelling like dead skunk for days.  Try explaining that shit to a 6-year-old.

So, those are my grievances, in no particular order.  All our other neighbors are fine.  I don't wish explosive diarrhea on any of them.  But the assholes upstairs have got to go!

I should get my mom to start a petition.