Social Media is Kicking My ASS
For awhile there, I was the queen of the internet....blogging, tweeting, myspacing, facebooking, texting, etc. I was even able to keep up with a web site and all the crap I get paid real money to do. Then, something happened. I lost my damn mind. The next thing I knew, all I had going for me was the work I get paid for, texting and my personal facebook page (yes, I have two accounts). All this internet shit is overwhelming. Remember when no one knew anything about you? Back in the day when you CARED how much postage stamps cost and cell phones weighed 15 pounds? Now, cell phones fit nicely under your bra strap and you can use rolls of postage stamps to wipe your ass because they aren't good for much else.
Wait.
That wouldn't feel very nice, would it? And what if the stamps rolled off and stuck to your cheeks mid wipe? Ok, so maybe you wouldn't wipe your ass with them....maybe you'd give them to your three-year-old as a treat for going potty. Although, my kid would prefer to have "silver monies, please"....which is better than "paper monies" I suppose. Hell, if Lil J would poop in the goddamned toilet, I'd give her stamps, coinage AND duckage! But nooooo.....I keep throwing all my dough away on new panties from Target instead. Shit. Literally.
Anyway. I digress. What the hell was I saying?
Oh, yeah. Social media is kicking my ass.
Maybe I'm the one who is a schizophrenic psycho...yeah...
I am fairly new to the whole psychotherapy thing. Is it just me or does everyone leave their therapist's office feeling like a total fuck-up? Don't get me wrong, I like my therapist, but I hate having all my faults and problems brought to the forefront. I liked it better when I could pack that shit away in a deep closet in the bowels of my brain....you know, back there where all the geniusness is screaming to be free. I'm actually paying money for someone to tell me I'm screwed up. Tell me something I don't know, damnit!
One of my girlfriends calls her therapist THE-RAPIST. Heh. That's something clever I would normally have come up with if it weren't for all the crap eating away at my geniusness. And, what the hell is the therapist writing down while we chat? I took a peek at the paper and it looked like she was mind-mapping a presentation on Newton's Law of Physics. I must really be fucked up. OR....maybe my geniusess was falling out of my ears as I talked and she was breathing it in?! That bitch! I bet that's how she made it through graduate school!
Also, it's funny how people in the waiting area all seem paranoid. I like to make up stories about why they're seeing shrinks. I was totally convinced that one guy at my last visit had obsessive compulsive disorder. He came in carrying a magazine...which I think he used to open the door, then he put it down on the seat and sat on it. When he got up for his appointment, he left the magazine there. Where his ass just sat. His ass is so nasty, HE wouldn't even touch the magazine after that. Yeah. And, y'all think I'm a screwball. Then there was this woman with shifty eyes and dirty, wrinkly clothes. I believe she was on crack... I'm thinking she stole shit from her family and they threw her ass out on the street. She pawned her wedding ring for enough money to buy a hit (is that what you call crack??), a bottle of Boone's Farm and a visit to her therapist. Smart.
I am fairly new to the whole psychotherapy thing. Is it just me or does everyone leave their therapist's office feeling like a total fuck-up? Don't get me wrong, I like my therapist, but I hate having all my faults and problems brought to the forefront. I liked it better when I could pack that shit away in a deep closet in the bowels of my brain....you know, back there where all the geniusness is screaming to be free. I'm actually paying money for someone to tell me I'm screwed up. Tell me something I don't know, damnit!
One of my girlfriends calls her therapist THE-RAPIST. Heh. That's something clever I would normally have come up with if it weren't for all the crap eating away at my geniusness. And, what the hell is the therapist writing down while we chat? I took a peek at the paper and it looked like she was mind-mapping a presentation on Newton's Law of Physics. I must really be fucked up. OR....maybe my geniusess was falling out of my ears as I talked and she was breathing it in?! That bitch! I bet that's how she made it through graduate school!
Also, it's funny how people in the waiting area all seem paranoid. I like to make up stories about why they're seeing shrinks. I was totally convinced that one guy at my last visit had obsessive compulsive disorder. He came in carrying a magazine...which I think he used to open the door, then he put it down on the seat and sat on it. When he got up for his appointment, he left the magazine there. Where his ass just sat. His ass is so nasty, HE wouldn't even touch the magazine after that. Yeah. And, y'all think I'm a screwball. Then there was this woman with shifty eyes and dirty, wrinkly clothes. I believe she was on crack... I'm thinking she stole shit from her family and they threw her ass out on the street. She pawned her wedding ring for enough money to buy a hit (is that what you call crack??), a bottle of Boone's Farm and a visit to her therapist. Smart.
I Believe I've Created Two Monsters
To know me is to know that I am ALL about my birthday. My birthday season (which usually lasts approximately two weeks - or a month, depending on my mood that year) is my favorite time of the year. I expect those who love me to wish me a Happy Birthday Eve, Eve, Eve...then Happy Birthday Eve, Eve....then Happy Birthday Eve...then, of course HAPPY BIRTHDAY! During this season, they are to shower me with gifts, be at my beck and call and allow me to get away with murder if need be. My peeps absolutely LOVE it!
My daughters, however, are beginning to overshadow my favorite season with their own birthday celebrations. WTF? Who do these little heifers think they are?? No one's birthday is more special than mine!
Take lil J for example. She's only three years old and she's already in love with her own birthday...she sings "happy birthday" to herself at least once a week...all...year...long. I'm pretty sure it was the second song she learned to sing (after Twinkle Twinkle Little Star). And if I come home from shopping, she asks, "what did you buy me??" and although I remind her that it's not her damn birthday, she doesn't care. She thinks every day is her birthday and that any time I go to the store, I should come home with a gift for her. And, she asks me to make her a vanilla cake with strawberries in it randomly, months after her birthday!
Then there's J. She's 13 and she's a little more sneaky about stretching her birthday out by weeks. The weekend before her birthday, we had to go to a family dinner thing. The weekend after her birthday, we had to endure a slumber party (10 screaming, giggly girls). That's two cakes, people. TWO. And she's nowhere near MY age! But that isn't the end of it...two weeks after her birthday, I get to drag her and 3 of her closest, dearest friends (that she happens to not be hating at the moment) on a trip to the Kemah Boardwalk. I draw the line after that. This shit is getting totally out of hand.
I'm beginning to think I might be a bad influence on my children.
To know me is to know that I am ALL about my birthday. My birthday season (which usually lasts approximately two weeks - or a month, depending on my mood that year) is my favorite time of the year. I expect those who love me to wish me a Happy Birthday Eve, Eve, Eve...then Happy Birthday Eve, Eve....then Happy Birthday Eve...then, of course HAPPY BIRTHDAY! During this season, they are to shower me with gifts, be at my beck and call and allow me to get away with murder if need be. My peeps absolutely LOVE it!
My daughters, however, are beginning to overshadow my favorite season with their own birthday celebrations. WTF? Who do these little heifers think they are?? No one's birthday is more special than mine!
Take lil J for example. She's only three years old and she's already in love with her own birthday...she sings "happy birthday" to herself at least once a week...all...year...long. I'm pretty sure it was the second song she learned to sing (after Twinkle Twinkle Little Star). And if I come home from shopping, she asks, "what did you buy me??" and although I remind her that it's not her damn birthday, she doesn't care. She thinks every day is her birthday and that any time I go to the store, I should come home with a gift for her. And, she asks me to make her a vanilla cake with strawberries in it randomly, months after her birthday!
Then there's J. She's 13 and she's a little more sneaky about stretching her birthday out by weeks. The weekend before her birthday, we had to go to a family dinner thing. The weekend after her birthday, we had to endure a slumber party (10 screaming, giggly girls). That's two cakes, people. TWO. And she's nowhere near MY age! But that isn't the end of it...two weeks after her birthday, I get to drag her and 3 of her closest, dearest friends (that she happens to not be hating at the moment) on a trip to the Kemah Boardwalk. I draw the line after that. This shit is getting totally out of hand.
I'm beginning to think I might be a bad influence on my children.
Look at that face! Don't you just want to grab her up and squeeze her?Houstonians Are Assholes When It Rains
Most people around here pray to the 8 lb, 6 oz baby jesus for rain - they're sick of all the yard watering and low rivers and shit like that. Me? I could give a rat's hairy ass if it rains or not. I'll tell you why. First of all, I love the rain. Just about as much as I love doggies! I love it when I'm comfy, cozy, snuggled up under a stack of blankets, indoors watching tv, fireplace going, A/C turned down to freezing....or I love it when I can be carefree, outside, letting the rain slide down my bare skin. That's nice. But, that is not my point. My point is this: people that live in Houston drive like idiots in the rain. IDIOTS. It's like some of them are a bunch of desert people who have never seen precipitation fall from the sky and land on their cars and on the road...they go 20 miles an hour in a 60 and ride the breaks, their noses plastered to the windshield. There are others who like to scare the desert people into shit fits so they swerve around them and gun it, making them go even slower. Then, there are my favorite jackasses. You know, the ones in the huuuge trucks? The ones that like to jet through rising waters, causing those around them to stall from flooding? The ones who like to jump on and off the freeway via the grassy knolls instead of the exits intended for such nonsense?
And you know when the worst possible time is for rain? Rush hour. Which in Houston lasts from 6:00 - 9:00 a.m. and again from 3:00 to 7:00 p.m. Rush HOURS. Monday through Friday. No exceptions. Unless an accident occurs, of course. Accidents have been known to increase these time frames up to an hour or more. If that sweet baby jesus really loved us, he'd save the rain for the middle of the night. Which could also work for me in that it's easier to stand out in my backyard in the rain in my birthday suit when everyone else is asleep.
Most people around here pray to the 8 lb, 6 oz baby jesus for rain - they're sick of all the yard watering and low rivers and shit like that. Me? I could give a rat's hairy ass if it rains or not. I'll tell you why. First of all, I love the rain. Just about as much as I love doggies! I love it when I'm comfy, cozy, snuggled up under a stack of blankets, indoors watching tv, fireplace going, A/C turned down to freezing....or I love it when I can be carefree, outside, letting the rain slide down my bare skin. That's nice. But, that is not my point. My point is this: people that live in Houston drive like idiots in the rain. IDIOTS. It's like some of them are a bunch of desert people who have never seen precipitation fall from the sky and land on their cars and on the road...they go 20 miles an hour in a 60 and ride the breaks, their noses plastered to the windshield. There are others who like to scare the desert people into shit fits so they swerve around them and gun it, making them go even slower. Then, there are my favorite jackasses. You know, the ones in the huuuge trucks? The ones that like to jet through rising waters, causing those around them to stall from flooding? The ones who like to jump on and off the freeway via the grassy knolls instead of the exits intended for such nonsense?
And you know when the worst possible time is for rain? Rush hour. Which in Houston lasts from 6:00 - 9:00 a.m. and again from 3:00 to 7:00 p.m. Rush HOURS. Monday through Friday. No exceptions. Unless an accident occurs, of course. Accidents have been known to increase these time frames up to an hour or more. If that sweet baby jesus really loved us, he'd save the rain for the middle of the night. Which could also work for me in that it's easier to stand out in my backyard in the rain in my birthday suit when everyone else is asleep.
A Toddler's Words of Wisdom
Lil J is full of....wisdom. Today, she said, "Snakes are extremely shy creatures. You can't just walk up to them and go 'coochie-coo' or you might frighten them."
I bet y'all didn't know that shit, did you?! You can thank Lil J next time you find yourself in the company of a snake and you feel the sudden urge to say, "coochie-coo" to it. I'm pretty sure that goes for anteaters, too.
Lil J is full of....wisdom. Today, she said, "Snakes are extremely shy creatures. You can't just walk up to them and go 'coochie-coo' or you might frighten them."
I bet y'all didn't know that shit, did you?! You can thank Lil J next time you find yourself in the company of a snake and you feel the sudden urge to say, "coochie-coo" to it. I'm pretty sure that goes for anteaters, too.
Memories are a MOFO
My sister remembers all sorts of crazy shit, but tends to forget the biggest details. That shit gets on my nerves, because then she gets my mind all twisted up trying to figure out whatever it is she's talking about. I especially hate when she brings up stuff that happened when I was in high school and college, because, frankly, I spent most of those years in a drunken stupor, my life full of all kinds of debauchery. How the hell am I supposed to remember shit that I probably didn't even realize was happening at the time? I sometimes find myself going through old boxes, reading letters, looking for pictures and crap like that because she gets a thought in my head that starts driving me nuts.
Sis: What was the name of that restaurant you and Mel went to in 1992 that had the really good noodles?
Me: WTF?
Sis: Remember? It was over there around Shepherd....near that Sears.
Me: 1992, really?! I have no fucking clue.
Sis: But I remember you pointing it out to Mom when we were going to Sears one day.
Me: We haven't gone to Sears with Mom since we were kids.
Sis: Yeah, like 1992.
Me: You're a freak of nature.
Sis: So, you don't remember?
Me: No, but now I want some noodles!!!!
That's how our conversations go. I have been thinking about Vietnamese noodles now non-stop for days! And for some reason, I just HAVE to have the ones from whatever fucking place she was talking about me going to in 1992. So, I call my friend, Mel, and that bitch thinks I've lost my mind. And Mom can't remember what she had for dinner yesterday, much less what noodle place I talked to her about in 1992. I'd really like to find these damn noodles and strangle my sister with them.
My sister remembers all sorts of crazy shit, but tends to forget the biggest details. That shit gets on my nerves, because then she gets my mind all twisted up trying to figure out whatever it is she's talking about. I especially hate when she brings up stuff that happened when I was in high school and college, because, frankly, I spent most of those years in a drunken stupor, my life full of all kinds of debauchery. How the hell am I supposed to remember shit that I probably didn't even realize was happening at the time? I sometimes find myself going through old boxes, reading letters, looking for pictures and crap like that because she gets a thought in my head that starts driving me nuts.
Sis: What was the name of that restaurant you and Mel went to in 1992 that had the really good noodles?
Me: WTF?
Sis: Remember? It was over there around Shepherd....near that Sears.
Me: 1992, really?! I have no fucking clue.
Sis: But I remember you pointing it out to Mom when we were going to Sears one day.
Me: We haven't gone to Sears with Mom since we were kids.
Sis: Yeah, like 1992.
Me: You're a freak of nature.
Sis: So, you don't remember?
Me: No, but now I want some noodles!!!!
That's how our conversations go. I have been thinking about Vietnamese noodles now non-stop for days! And for some reason, I just HAVE to have the ones from whatever fucking place she was talking about me going to in 1992. So, I call my friend, Mel, and that bitch thinks I've lost my mind. And Mom can't remember what she had for dinner yesterday, much less what noodle place I talked to her about in 1992. I'd really like to find these damn noodles and strangle my sister with them.
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