Greasin' the Palm...
There was this granny at Hubber's old folk's home who was reading palms at their Halloween party. According to Hubber....she's really a psychic and takes this shit seriously. Well, so do I! So, of course, I had to plop down and give her my hand. I got the worst reading EVER, y'all. Basically, I'm going to die young due to some illness....and if that's not bad enough, no one will really give a shit about me and I'll be all alone on my death bed. She even got all teary-eyed telling me this shit...tracing her old, scrawny fingers along the lines on my hand. "That's all I see," she said, and I wanted to smack her down and stomp on her face with my stilletto heel.
Do free readings always suck? Because they're free? If you pay for one is the news better? If so, why didn't that wench have a tip jar or something?
I should have prefaced this post by telling y'all that all my life I've had a feeling that I would die a horrible, violent death - possibly in a car fire / explosion type thing. So, already, I'm all freaked out about dying. This pyschic granny didn't help matters much. Now I'm totally obsessed with palm reading and witchery and whatnot. So, if I start sending voodoo vibes your way, don't blame me... blame that old granny!
Penis Schpenis
Well, peeps. I've found some writing gigs. I'm writing for a travel agency in the U.K. about places I've never been to before..... I'm composing marketing materials for a Body Armour manufacturer in New Zeland.... but my most favoritest gig EVER (not) is writing blog posts for a "male enhancement" product re-seller out of Australia. Yes. I now know more than any girl should ever know about penises. Tiny penises, thin penises, crooked penises....there is a remedy for all this shit, y'all. I'm just sayin'. If the guy that owned the site gave me a cut of the sales, I'd tell you where to go to buy this magical stuff. But he won't...so screw him.
It's "Back to School" time, bitches!
This past summer was particularly difficult for me. Since we didn’t go on vacation, the time seemed to drag on and on and on. I had grand plans of bringing J to work with me once a week to volunteer….and plans of working from home once a week to get in some bonding time with J while lil J and Hubber went off to school and work….and plans of sipping on tons and tons of fruity, adult beverages while sitting on a beach for a week without a care in the world. None of that shit came to fruition.
The following happened instead:
This past summer was particularly difficult for me. Since we didn’t go on vacation, the time seemed to drag on and on and on. I had grand plans of bringing J to work with me once a week to volunteer….and plans of working from home once a week to get in some bonding time with J while lil J and Hubber went off to school and work….and plans of sipping on tons and tons of fruity, adult beverages while sitting on a beach for a week without a care in the world. None of that shit came to fruition.
The following happened instead:
- I spent four long, excruciating weeks at home without central air conditioning
- After said air conditioning was fixed, the one in my car went to out. So I spent another 2 weeks driving in 100 degree weather without air conditioning
- Hubber’s car broke down
- We spent all our vacation money on fixing a/c’s and cars
- Our pool pump broke and the water was thick and green for 3 weeks
- J finally got braces
- Our pool was infested with ducks. Twice.
- lil J didn’t say “fuck” once all summer
- When my car was in the shop, I got to drive around in a brand new, pimped-out Tahoe
- Although I didn’t have them on the beach, I did have many fruity, adult beverages
- My dog didn’t die of malnourishment
- My grandma celebrated her 90th birthday
- lil J learned to write her name
- J finally got braces
- My tires are bald, but still rolling
- Now Hubber’s car’s a/c is out. Ha! ;-)
Will Blog for Food
I haven’t posted on my blog in forever and ever because I have spent non-work hours and many sleepless nights scouring the internet for “work from home” opportunities. As it turns out, this is a monumental task. There’s a lot of bullshit out there, y’all. I’m here to give you a little advice on some of the shit I’ve learned so far.
First, participating in paid surveys is totally not worth your time and energy. The average payout is like $1 for 2 hours of your time. Basically, YOU are paying them. And I don’t like paying for shit, so I quit. I did, however, find J a gig through my survey research that pays $60…all she has to do is monitor her snacking habits on a palm pilot (which they supplied her with) for 2 weeks. Don’t ask me where I came across that shit, because God only knows, but she’s kinda excited about earning some extra cash by doing close to nothing. Plus, it’s good for me because she owes me $60…it’s a win/win.
Another scheme you should avoid is this google ad thingy you can put on your blog. See it? Yeah, well, unless you have 9,000 hits a day, that shit doesn’t pay off, either. And, although I’d like to think people are actually reading this shit…you’ll see on the right there that I only have 4 followers. And, at $0.00034 a click, it’ll be 62 years before I see $1.
After figuring that the money ain’t gonna roll in while I sit on my fat ass by the pool with a good book and a pina colada, I decided to get serious. So, while I'm whoring myself out doing contract work and making hair bows in the evenings, I'm still juggling my day job and all the fun shit is falling by the way side. Which is sad, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
I haven’t posted on my blog in forever and ever because I have spent non-work hours and many sleepless nights scouring the internet for “work from home” opportunities. As it turns out, this is a monumental task. There’s a lot of bullshit out there, y’all. I’m here to give you a little advice on some of the shit I’ve learned so far.
First, participating in paid surveys is totally not worth your time and energy. The average payout is like $1 for 2 hours of your time. Basically, YOU are paying them. And I don’t like paying for shit, so I quit. I did, however, find J a gig through my survey research that pays $60…all she has to do is monitor her snacking habits on a palm pilot (which they supplied her with) for 2 weeks. Don’t ask me where I came across that shit, because God only knows, but she’s kinda excited about earning some extra cash by doing close to nothing. Plus, it’s good for me because she owes me $60…it’s a win/win.
Another scheme you should avoid is this google ad thingy you can put on your blog. See it? Yeah, well, unless you have 9,000 hits a day, that shit doesn’t pay off, either. And, although I’d like to think people are actually reading this shit…you’ll see on the right there that I only have 4 followers. And, at $0.00034 a click, it’ll be 62 years before I see $1.
After figuring that the money ain’t gonna roll in while I sit on my fat ass by the pool with a good book and a pina colada, I decided to get serious. So, while I'm whoring myself out doing contract work and making hair bows in the evenings, I'm still juggling my day job and all the fun shit is falling by the way side. Which is sad, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
Not having a properly functioning air conditioning unit in Houston is like TORTURE...
And, when I say TORTURE, I mean it. Literally. It's like poor Daniel Craig in that James Bond movie where he's naked and tied to a seatless chair and some guy is whipping his balls from underneath. It's like that. Except I have no balls. Well, figuratively I do. Anyway... I'm not sure why our shit is taking so long to get fixed, you'd have to ask Hubber. But, after two nights in a plush hotel room, we did a little math and figured we better take our asses back home before we did too much damage to the bank account. So, we bought a couple of window units. WINDOW units. To cool our 2,800 sq ft home. Because THAT would work. Sure. Turns out, those bitches can only cool two parts of the house: the master bedroom and the livingroom/kitchen/dining area. We have to close doors and put sheets up in hallways to keep the coolness in. It's very ghetto. And cozy. I'm shocked that my children haven't killed each other yet. They're sharing the living room...which has turned into a quasi campground of sorts. The sofa bed has been out for days. The big couch is fitted with sheets and stuffed animals. The coffee table is littered with empty juice pouches, half-eaten pieces of fruit, empty chip bags and crumbs. Lots of crumbs. I'm just waiting for the ants and roaches to appear. And we can't cook anything on the stove or in the oven that takes more than 15 minutes or so to cook because that shit will kill the coolness with a quickness. And I've resorted to screaming at anyone opening a door, "CLOSE THE DOOR, YOU'LL LET THE COOL AIR OUT, DAMNIT!" because those heifers can't seem to remember that it's fucking hot in that mofo if you leave a door cracked open!
And, god forbid I turn my blow dryer on! My hair has looked like shitballs for a week now.
And as if all that weren't bad enough, our fucking swimming pool is out of service. And by that, I mean: the goddamned water looks like pea soup! So, we can't even escape the indoor heat by tooling around in the pool. We have to all sit huddled together in front of the window unit air conditioner...all the while getting on each other's last nerves.
And, when I say TORTURE, I mean it. Literally. It's like poor Daniel Craig in that James Bond movie where he's naked and tied to a seatless chair and some guy is whipping his balls from underneath. It's like that. Except I have no balls. Well, figuratively I do. Anyway... I'm not sure why our shit is taking so long to get fixed, you'd have to ask Hubber. But, after two nights in a plush hotel room, we did a little math and figured we better take our asses back home before we did too much damage to the bank account. So, we bought a couple of window units. WINDOW units. To cool our 2,800 sq ft home. Because THAT would work. Sure. Turns out, those bitches can only cool two parts of the house: the master bedroom and the livingroom/kitchen/dining area. We have to close doors and put sheets up in hallways to keep the coolness in. It's very ghetto. And cozy. I'm shocked that my children haven't killed each other yet. They're sharing the living room...which has turned into a quasi campground of sorts. The sofa bed has been out for days. The big couch is fitted with sheets and stuffed animals. The coffee table is littered with empty juice pouches, half-eaten pieces of fruit, empty chip bags and crumbs. Lots of crumbs. I'm just waiting for the ants and roaches to appear. And we can't cook anything on the stove or in the oven that takes more than 15 minutes or so to cook because that shit will kill the coolness with a quickness. And I've resorted to screaming at anyone opening a door, "CLOSE THE DOOR, YOU'LL LET THE COOL AIR OUT, DAMNIT!" because those heifers can't seem to remember that it's fucking hot in that mofo if you leave a door cracked open!
And, god forbid I turn my blow dryer on! My hair has looked like shitballs for a week now.
And as if all that weren't bad enough, our fucking swimming pool is out of service. And by that, I mean: the goddamned water looks like pea soup! So, we can't even escape the indoor heat by tooling around in the pool. We have to all sit huddled together in front of the window unit air conditioner...all the while getting on each other's last nerves.
Parks just aren't what they used to be...
This morning, we went to the neighborhood park at the butt crack of dawn. Being the first ones there today, I expected to see remnants from the night before strewn all over the place - the way inner city parks are. Boy was I shocked not to find anything spray painted or empty beer cans or syringes or the smell of piss. Because, in town, that's the kind of shit you have to look forward to bright and early in a park... and you're lucky if you don't bump into a homeless person who made a park bench their bed for the night. At our suburban neighborhood park this morning, here's what we found:
that is a kid's shoe up on the pavillion roof....proof that somebody had one helluva party last night!
and...
three shoes and landscaping stones that some kid probably wanted to steal and their parents didn't let them because their parents suck ass (yes, we took one home with us)...
and...
Yeah....those bitches LITTERED! For shame...
and...
This morning, we went to the neighborhood park at the butt crack of dawn. Being the first ones there today, I expected to see remnants from the night before strewn all over the place - the way inner city parks are. Boy was I shocked not to find anything spray painted or empty beer cans or syringes or the smell of piss. Because, in town, that's the kind of shit you have to look forward to bright and early in a park... and you're lucky if you don't bump into a homeless person who made a park bench their bed for the night. At our suburban neighborhood park this morning, here's what we found:
and...
and...
and...
instead of graffiti, there are nicely printed signs with exercising tips and famous quotes!
George Washington can suck my left tit!
I learned quickly that explaining what death is to a three-year-old is not easy. And I’m not smart enough, evidently, to explain it in a caring, round-about way. I blame George fucking Washington for this shit. Because, y’all, why’d that fucker have to die?! If he were still alive, the conversation I had with lil J about death would not have even happened.
Lil J:
Me: George Washington. He was a president a long time ago.
Lil J: Oh. Well, where is he now?
Me: He’s dead.
Lil J: How’d he die?
Me: I don’t know…I guess he was just old and crusty.
Lil J: Oh.
Then, she got out of the car and went to school. And, I went on my merry way to work, figuring that was the end of that conversation. *whew*. But, when I picked her up from school, we picked right back up where we left off.
Lil J: Mommy?
Me: Huh?
Lil J: What happened to the old, crusty guy after he was dead?
Me: What do you mean?
Lil J: Where’d he go?
Me: I guess he was buried.
Lil J: WHAT?! BURIED in the DIRT?!
Me:
Lil J: Poor guy.
Me: Well, everyone has to die some time.
Lil J: But, I don’t want to be dead.
Me: You have a loooong time to live, you’re not old and crusty.
Lil J: Ok.
Then, we got home. And I figured that was that. No more talk of death. We had dinner. We laughed. We played. We argued. We let the dog out. Same ol’ shit. I got Lil J in the shower, scrubbed her down, washed her hair and left her there to play a little while I washed my face and whatnot. That’s when the crying started.
Me: What in the world is wrong?!
Lil J:
Me: Oh, for pete’s sake. No one lives forever. It’s ok. Really.
Lil J: But, I don’t want to buried. I don’t want to be dead. I don’t want to be old and crusty.
Me: Oh, baby. It’s ok. You’ll be an angel.
Lil J: I don’t want to be an angel! I want to be a person!
That’s when I noticed Hubber in the doorway looking absolutely mortified.
Hubber: WTF?!
Me: Uhm. It’s all because of George Washington!
Hubber: What is wrong with you?! You don’t say shit like that to a baby!
Me: Baby?! She’s almost FOUR!
Hubber:
Lil J: Ok, Daddy.
So, basically, I’m the bad guy and Daddy is the hero because in his little made up world, no one dies. They just go away to Neverland or some shit. What happens when someone she knows actually DOES die?! What then?! And we can’t even explain this shit in a religious type of way because we haven’t introduced Lil J to CHURCH or GOD or anyone except 8 lb, 6 oz baby Jesus for crissakes!
Anyway, so now….NOW….I’m sticking to the story that: NO, we won’t die… because, she asks me at least once a day now whether or not we’ll die. I say, “no,” and change the subject quickly. That seems to do the trick. For now.
POST UPDATED:
Holy shitballs, y'all...I just got this over email....is it a sign??
I learned quickly that explaining what death is to a three-year-old is not easy. And I’m not smart enough, evidently, to explain it in a caring, round-about way. I blame George fucking Washington for this shit. Because, y’all, why’d that fucker have to die?! If he were still alive, the conversation I had with lil J about death would not have even happened.
Lil J:
Me: George Washington. He was a president a long time ago.
Lil J: Oh. Well, where is he now?
Me: He’s dead.
Lil J: How’d he die?
Me: I don’t know…I guess he was just old and crusty.
Lil J: Oh.
Then, she got out of the car and went to school. And, I went on my merry way to work, figuring that was the end of that conversation. *whew*. But, when I picked her up from school, we picked right back up where we left off.
Lil J: Mommy?
Me: Huh?
Lil J: What happened to the old, crusty guy after he was dead?
Me: What do you mean?
Lil J: Where’d he go?
Me: I guess he was buried.
Lil J: WHAT?! BURIED in the DIRT?!
Me:
Lil J: Poor guy.
Me: Well, everyone has to die some time.
Lil J: But, I don’t want to be dead.
Me: You have a loooong time to live, you’re not old and crusty.
Lil J: Ok.
Then, we got home. And I figured that was that. No more talk of death. We had dinner. We laughed. We played. We argued. We let the dog out. Same ol’ shit. I got Lil J in the shower, scrubbed her down, washed her hair and left her there to play a little while I washed my face and whatnot. That’s when the crying started.
Me: What in the world is wrong?!
Lil J:
Me: Oh, for pete’s sake. No one lives forever. It’s ok. Really.
Lil J: But, I don’t want to buried. I don’t want to be dead. I don’t want to be old and crusty.
Me: Oh, baby. It’s ok. You’ll be an angel.
Lil J: I don’t want to be an angel! I want to be a person!
That’s when I noticed Hubber in the doorway looking absolutely mortified.
Hubber: WTF?!
Me: Uhm. It’s all because of George Washington!
Hubber: What is wrong with you?! You don’t say shit like that to a baby!
Me: Baby?! She’s almost FOUR!
Hubber:
Lil J: Ok, Daddy.
So, basically, I’m the bad guy and Daddy is the hero because in his little made up world, no one dies. They just go away to Neverland or some shit. What happens when someone she knows actually DOES die?! What then?! And we can’t even explain this shit in a religious type of way because we haven’t introduced Lil J to CHURCH or GOD or anyone except 8 lb, 6 oz baby Jesus for crissakes!
Anyway, so now….NOW….I’m sticking to the story that: NO, we won’t die… because, she asks me at least once a day now whether or not we’ll die. I say, “no,” and change the subject quickly. That seems to do the trick. For now.
POST UPDATED:
Holy shitballs, y'all...I just got this over email....is it a sign??
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)