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! 

Pinhead Left the Portal to Hell in Our Attic

When you rent a house and there's a lock on the outside of the attic door, your first instinct should be to leave that shit locked and never think about it or look at it or even acknowledge its existence in any way, shape or form. Period. The attic is automatically off limits. It does not exist if someone went to the trouble of adhering a freaking LOCK to it. No human being has any business going into that mofo. Ever. End of story. Especially if you're a part of my family; we are all magnets for pesky ghosts and other strange phenomenon.

We take hauntings very seriously, y'all. We don't fuck with ouija boards or any sort of witchery. We keep sage growing in the garden. And, we don't do it to spice up our poultry dishes...we do it in case we need to dry it, roll that shit up, and burn it to ward off evil spirits. Also, we have a death shrine (or "alter in memory of the loved ones we have lost" as Hubber likes to correct me because he thinks "death shrine" is morbid....UHM.... HELLO?! It's an alter for dead people! It don't get much more morbid than that!). The shrine exists so that my grandma's soul doesn't get all pissy when she looks down from Heaven and sees me doing nasty things in my bedroom or hear me using God's name in vain, which we know happens all the god-damned time. Because, hello, again?! I have children! And a husband! So, yeah. Lots of reasons to curse up in here.

Heifer's Death Shrine.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, LOCKED attic doors. Here's what ours looks like:

Obviously NOT to be fucked with.

Whoever locked that shit up and didn't remove the lock when the tenants moved in was trying to tell people not to go up there lest they shalt die a painful, conjuring-style death of astronomical proportions. Message received, loud and clear yo.

So, imagine my bone chilling and hair raising fear when we started hearing noises in the fucking attic.

Me: Hubber. Did you fucking hear that?

Hubber: Huh? Uhm, no. I didn't hear shit. Just turn the volume up on the TV.

Me: That was definitely coming from the attic. It sounds like footsteps... and scratching... and other hounds-of-hell craziness!!! We have to move.

Hubber: You're nuts. It's probably just a family of possums...or squirrels...or birds, even. We like birds.

Me: Are you serious right now?! We do not like birds. In fact, we fucking hate birds. We have seen the movie! Alfred Hitchcock movies ain't no joke, man! Those evil, flying hell birds will peck your eyeballs out and suck at your brains until you shit your pants and die! You better board up the god-damned fireplace this very minute!

Hubber: It's nothing. Calm your tits.

Since that mofo was obviously in denial, I grabbed my holy candle (someone remind me to get that thing blessed one day), lit that bitch up, and walked around the house with it...willing all the bad juju out of the house. The noises stopped so it seemed to do the trick. But the silence was short-lived. A few days later, the A/C vent in the master bathroom started blowing out hot air.

HOT AIR, ya'll. Like air from HELL... or AFRICA. The kind of hot air that feels like a firey demon is breathing on you. My point is, it wasn't a natural kind of air to feel in your Houston, TX bathroom at night when your A/C is set at 68 degrees and every other vent in the god-damned house is blowing out cold air.

Hubber: Hmmm. Well, maybe some critter is up there and detached the A/C ductwork that goes to this vent and we're just feeling "attic air" and the cold air we should feel is actually just blowing around haphazardly in the attic.

Me: Who in the hell are you trying to convince here?! Because, that is the dumbest shit I've heard all day. And I went to work today, so you know I endured a LOT of dumb fucking shit.

Hubber: It's a logical explanation.

Me: No. The logical explanation is that the devil and his noisy, scratchy-ass spawn are camping out above our crapper.

Hubber had nothing else to say. He scrambled around for something long enough to close the vent...then he tapped it closed and said, "there." As if that was the end of that.

Then, a few days later, the noises commenced again. Scratching. Tapping. Walking. You can't hide from the devil, ya'll.

Me: I guess you're going to have to go up there and see if there are any "critters". I need the noises to stop. And, I need my cool air flow back in the bathroom. I can't breathe in there! Do you want me to suffocate and die?

Hubber: What? No. I ain't going up there to see a bunch of beady, little possum eyes staring back at me! They might have rabies!

Me: Then call the landlord!

Hubber: But, they'll want me to check up there first.

Me: Well, sounds like quite the conundrum!

Hubber: Also, it's latched closed. I thought you didn't want to open the latch?

Me: I don't. That's why you're going to do it. May the force be with you.

Hubber: If this motherfucking attic is haunted, I blame your sister! If anyone brought a ghost into this house, it's her and her witchy-ass ways! We should make HER check the fucking attic!

Me: Well, call her, then. I don't care who checks the attic...but this shit needs to get fixed! Especially if anyone wants sexy time ever again! And EVER is a long fucking time, man!

Hubber: I hate you.

He was definitely hatin'....but he finally resigned himself to checking things out up there. And guess what he found? Absolutely NOTHING, ya'll. The entire fucking attic is EMPTY. No critters...no sign of critters. No holes in the walls. No weird ductwork damage. Nothing.

Well, almost nothing. This was the only thing sitting up there in the attic all by its lonesome self:

And, all I have to say is: what-the-fucking-fuck?

Is it some sort of spirit catcher? Pandora's box? Pinhead's portal to hell? What?!

And, what do we do with it? Burn in? Sprinkle holy water on it and see if it starts smoking? Dip it in Roger Rabbit Acme Acid? What?!

It's been a few days now and Torture Monkey has been sitting on a shelf in the living room so I can keep an eye on him.  So far, he's behaved himself. I think. And, yes, he is a HE. I'm not blind. I see the coconut bra, skirt, and lipstick. The mofo is in drag, y'all. It's his disguise. But, I'm not buying it.

If one day we all mysteriously disappear, you'll know he did it. I herby bequeath Torture Monkey to the Ed & Lorrain Warren occult museum.

Also, the A/C is still not working in the bathroom.

5 Perfect Mother's Day Gifts - Part II

In 2012, I wrote about what NOT to buy your mother for Mother's Day. That list is still relevant. Then, in 2013, I wrote about what you SHOULD buy your mother for Mother's Day. That shit is still relevant, too. But, being three years removed from my last thoughts on what Mother's Day gifts are all about, I decided it was time for a sequel post...

PERFECT gifts for your mother on Mother's Day (or any damn day):

1. Laser Hair Removal Gift Certificate
That's right. Screw the No-No As-Seen-on-TV bullshit. Hook a muther up and treat her to the procedure of her dreams! No more mommy beards! No more sasquach arm pits! And, no more herniated discs while trying to shave her nether regions! I mean, do YOU want to be trimming your momma's bush when she ends up an invalid? No. You do not. Unless, of course, your name is Norman Bates and your momma's name is Norma. In which case, you probably do want to shave your momma's bush.

2. Keurig K575
This is the fancy one, ya'll. Not the one-cup, manual operation stuff. Your momma will be able to program the shit out of this coffee maker! All those times she was running too late to make coffee will be ancient history. A caffeinated muther is a happy muther. Remember that. Write it down. Take a picture.

3. Lasik Eye Surgery
Let's face it, folks. Your mom is going blind. She can't see shit. Between contacts and progressive lenses and fucking reading glasses to top it all off, she is one very sad step away from needing a seeing-eye dog.

Wait a minute.

I might have just talked myself out of this one. Seeing-eye dogs are the best invention EVER. Not only are they cute, but you can take them into any building...you can park anywhere... you can rule the goddamned world with a seeing-eye dog. Ok... just wait until she goes blind and get her a fancy dog instead.

4. Booze-of-the-Month Club Subscription
Unless your mom is Baptist or a recovering alcoholic, booze is always a good gift. Just like coffee serves to pep your momma up, booze helps to calm that bitch down. You can't have one without the other. It's screws with the balance of the universe. And, when balance is screwed with, muthers get stabby, y'all. And, stabby means death...and murder...and bloody hell. Nobody wants that.

5. Nice, Thoughtful Thank-You Cards
Be real. Be honest. Thank your mother for all the shit you've put her through. Let's face it, childbirth is a fucking miracle. And, that shit wreaks havoc on a muther's body. It's YOUR fault your mom's boobs sag. It's YOUR fault she pees a little every time she sneezes...or laughs...or coughs. Also, she gives you mental therapy without charging you an hourly rate. And, she taught you important life skills... like how to wipe you own ass. Show some appreciation for all this shit. She may not have eaten her placenta, but she's probably still a badass mom.

Car Maintenance And Other Shit I Don't Do...

Back in the day (pre-marriage), if my car needed attention, all I had to do was visit my parents. I’d park behind my dad’s car, blocking him from leaving the driveway. Chances were good that while I was visiting, Dad would need to go somewhere. He’s always been pretty antsy. I would bet that he visits the convenience store down the street at least 5 times a day…there are always lottery tickets to buy, and cigarettes, and beer, and the occasional Slurpee if a kid happened to be visiting. “Here! Just take my car,” I’d say, tossing my car keys at him when he asked me to let him out of the driveway. My car would be returned with a full tank of gas, completely clean, vacuumed, and spritzed with “new car scent”. Also, if he noticed I was due for an oil change, he’d take care of that, too. And, if I needed an inspection or registration renewed, he’d sift through the glove box for the paperwork and he’d take care of that shit, too.

So, it came as a bit of a shock to me when, after announcing that I was getting married, Dad pulled me aside for a bit of tough love.

Dad: After you get married, I won’t be helping you with your car upkeep anymore.
Me: WHAT?
Dad: You heard me. You think you’re slick asking me to drive your car every time you visit, huh? Well, I’m done with that shit. Your husband can do it now!
Me: Fine. It’s a guy thing anyway, I’m sure he knows what’s up.

Turns out, Hubber did NOT know what’s up. Hubber had no fucking clue what up was. But, in my defense, that mofo was WARNED. Short of having him sign a formal acknowledgement, I relayed his duty very clearly. I considered the warning a binding agreement wherefore by nodding his head when I broke the news to him, he agreed to be in charge of all motorized vehicles throughout the course of our marriage regardless of whether he drove the shit or not. Cars would be his responsibility. Period. End of story.

Without regard to his sacred vows, over the years Hubber has tried tirelessly to get me to learn something about cars. But, I remain resistant to his badgering. It is one of our on-going “fights”.

Hubber: You NEED to learn this shit! One of these days, I’m gonna die and you’ll be left to fend for yourself!
Me: In this hypothetical situation, will you die before or after my dad dies?
Hubber: I’m being serious here.
Me: I don’t think you understand. If you aren’t here to do the car stuff, I’ll find some other man to do it… I have two brothers…an uncle…cousins… nephews and if those mofos are all dead, too, I’ll have to find a Sancho!
Hubber: OR!!! You could learn to be self-sufficient!
Me: Hey, look, buddy… you agreed to this shit BEFORE we got married. It was practically part of your vows! So, just do your thang and let me do my thang! You should be thankful that I usually get my own gas!
Hubber: And, what exactly is your thing?
Me: Well, most importantly, I dispose of spiders.

Hubber: (blank stare)

That usually shuts him up for a bit. Because if there’s one thing Hubber hates more than trying to teach me lessons in automotive technology, it’s spiders.

Unfortunately, the oldest spawn has inherited my total disregard for proper car upkeep. She’s already killed the hand-me-down car she was given less than a year ago. And, that car was a TANK. Literally. But, if anyone could wreck a tank TO IT’S DEATH, it’s my female spawn.

And, Hubber isn’t as easy on her as he is on me about car maintenance. He pushes and pushes AND PUSHES that shit on her…hoping that one tiny ounce of knowledge will seep into her brain and spread like wildfire. Unfortunately, she’s her mother’s daughter and she just ain’t wired that way. And more unfortunate than that, she hasn't got a thing to leverage against his badgering. She is scared to death of spiders. And, she doesn’t cook or clean. And, she sucks at babysitting. Basically, she’s got nothing for tradesies... so she’s screwed.

So, when she killed her car, we decided she didn’t deserve a “good” car… just a “reliable one”; one that we won’t expect to survive more than 2-3 years.

Hubber went out and found an old car with very good mileage and bought it. The passenger window didn’t work and the radio had two modes: OFF and ON+LOUD. (The volume didn’t work…and neither did the cassette player…  and all the stations were a bit static-y.) But, the car had new tires, a great engine and only one previous owner.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

Unless you're the spawn...in which case, no auxiliary input and/or USB drive is like a death sentence.

Car-Killing-Spawn: But, Daddy, how will I listen to my music?!
Hubber: You don’t need to listen to music when your focus should be on driving and not dying!
Car-Killing-Spawn: Daddy! I’ll DIE without my music!
Hubber: Tough shit!
Me: (serious eye roll)
Littlest Spawn: That’s what you get for killing Tank, Sis! How do you think Tank feels right now – all dead and everything?! You don’t deserve music! You're lucky to even have a car!

Two days later…

Hubber: Don’t be mad.
Me: Why would I be mad?
Hubber: I just spent money we don’t have.
Me: Please tell me you bought me a baby platypus…
Hubber: Uhm. No.
Me: ….it better not be that gas-powered margarita blender…
Hubber: …no….
Me: ….or the portable hot tub…!
Hubber: I will be buying that hot tub soon!! But, that’s not what I bought.
Me: a ninja star coat hook?
Hubber: Please just give up already.
Me: Fine. I give up.
Hubber: I bought a new radio for Julie’s hoopty ride.
Me: What!? I thought we were teaching her a lesson!
Hubber: I can’t help it. I like to put smiles on my daughters' faces.

So, there you have it. This is why we will always get away with NOT doing car stuff.

Boom.

Car stuff isn't all I don't do. I also don't do windows... or yard work... or heavy lifting... or any variation of running. This is why I have a husband. I will, however, kill spiders and fetch beer. It's a good thing Hubber loves a nifty beer wench.

Whatever Became of Mr. EXcalade?

Hubber used to have this colleague who started his own chauffeuring business on the side. He bought a Cadillac Escalade around prom season and constantly pimped himself out to anyone who would listen to his spiel.

But, he kept calling his car an EX-CALADE. It drove Hubber batshit crazy. At least once a week I’d get an earful about how much it bugged him that the guy couldn’t say the word “ESCALADE” properly.

At first, I asked Hubber to give the guy a break…  maybe he has a lisp. But, then, I met the guy to try to help him build his website and I got to experience his blatant disregard for proper pronunciation first-hand. Honestly, I couldn’t get past it. I started counting the number of times he said the word wrong. It’s what I do when someone uses a particular word (or fake word, in this case) a lot. I quit listening to the message because I get stuck on that word and my mind completely shuts down so that it can focus on counting the number of times the word spews forth and attempts to turn my brain to mush.

After our first meeting, I told Hubber there was no fucking way I’d be able to work with that guy.

Hubber: Right?! It’s because he says Excalade, huh?

Me: He said it exactly 53 times during our 30 minute meeting.

Hubber:  Could it be that he doesn't know that he’s saying it wrong?

Me: Oh, he knows! He’s doing it on purpose to fuck with us. It’s like those people who say “ax” instead of “ask”! They know they’re saying that shit wrong! They think it’s cute!

Hubber: Well, it's not cute. These people are a menace to society. I’m going to have to quit my job to get away from this idiot.

So, one day, before Hubber went completely AWOL (or worse, homicidal), he decided to confront the guy.

Hubber: Maaaan. If you call your Escalade an Excalade one more time, I’m going to have to punch you square in the fucking mouth.

Mr. Excalade: What are you talking about? It IS pronounced EXcalade.

Hubber: The letters E and S together make the “essss” sound not the “exxx” sound.

Mr. Excalade: Oh, I’m not saying the name of the car. I’m saying the name of my company! I spell it: X-C-A-L-A-D-E. It’s a play on words, man! Don’t you get it?!

Hubber: It is NOT a play on words. It’s a word you fucking made up and it sounds ridiculous, like you don’t know how to pronounce the name of the car properly.

Mr. Excalade: Well, I have a buddy who is an expert in marketing and he says that any company name or new product name starting with the letter X is 90% more likely to be successful.

Hubber: That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve heard all year!

Mr. Excalade: I’m serious! He’s an expert! He had statistics and everything!

The next day, by some mysterious circumstances that I wasn’t made privy to, Mr. Excalade was “transferred to another department” and we never spoke of him (nor heard from him) again. I'm not saying that Hubber was somehow involved in foul play...but I am saying that the guy was never reported missing... so.... who really knows...?

And to this day, anytime I see the “clever” use of an X in front of the name of a business, I think about this guy and wonder if his business ever took off.

Then, today, I saw this truck:

... COULD IT BE...??

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?

Where Have I Been? UNEMPLOYED. That's Where!

Life is literally a bitch right now, ya'll. It reminds of that Depeche Mode song about how God has a sick sense of humor. How does it go again? "....I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors..." oh, never mind. This ain't the time for sing-songy shit. This is the time for bitching and moaning.

Balancing unemployment and responsibility is really cutting into my leisure time. First of all, plans to lay out on a  beach with a pina colada in one hand and a trashy novel in the other have been foiled. And, so much for sending the youngest spawn off to summer day camp every day. You can't do THAT and pay rent when you're living on unemployment checks! Don't even get me started on sending the oldest spawn off to college. I'm still paying on MY fucking student loans from 20 years ago and now I'm taking out more for her! Thanks, universe! Thanks a lot for kicking me in the teeth when I'm already down!

Needless to say, this shit has really taken a toll on my sanity. My kids are all up in my face 24/7. And Hubber is over here planning imaginary vacations...

Hubber: Hey, Wife! Check this out! We could go to Disney World for only $569/person!

Me: WTF? Are you mental? We have NO money.

Hubber: The bank account says we do...and I think we should high tail it out of this shoebox and see the world while we have the chance. Usually you're too busy "WORKING" to take a trip like this!

Me: You have officially lost your mind if you think it's smart to spend our life savings on frivolous shit when we have no income! And, you wanna take the kids? That's double the cost!

Hubber: But, I have faith in you! You will land a fabulous job soon! So, why not take advantage of this little break!?

Me: How am I the responsible one in this relationship all of a sudden? Do you have a brain tumor?? I think you have a brain tumor.

Hubber: Fine...let's just you and me go to New Orleans!

Me: Now you're talking!

I think we're both going a little stir crazy up in here. Something's gotta give. But, in the meantime....

5 Unique Father's Day Gifts That Are Sure to Please!

I'm not gonna lie, Father's Day gifts are hard to buy.  Growing up, I never knew what to get my dad. He didn't wear ties like other dads... he didn't drink coffee... he rarely bbq-ed... he didn't play golf... mostly he worked, smoked (a variety of things) and drank.  And, I was too young to purchase booze and whatnot.

But, even now that I am old enough, I prefer not to indulge in his addictions. So, normally, I buy him nuts. He loves nuts.

Don't we all? Heh.

So, if you know a father who is hard to buy for, here are a few unique gift options that are sure to surprise him:

1. Bag of Dicks
www.dicksbymail.com
This bag of gummy penises is a great way to tell your friends, family, loved ones, or enemies to 'EAT A BAG OF DICKS'. It's the perfect gift for that douchebag, deadbeat dad that never even remembers your birthday. What better way to show him how much you care than by having a BAG OF DICKS delivered right to his door? 

2. Jar of NOTHING

www.beyondthekitchensink.com

Does the dad you're shopping for always say he wants "nothing" when you ask him what he would like for his birthday... christmas... father's day... etc.? Do you end up buying him crap he probably didn't want because you searched high and low for a whole lotta nothing to no avail?!  Well, look no further, my friend. This jar full of absolutely NOTHING will be the best gift EVER... because it's what that mofo asked for!  I say we start giving the people what they want!

3. Bucket of Cleaning Supplies
www.walmart.com
You know how dads are always giving moms appliances for gifts to remind them of their place in the household? Well, it's time to return the favor! What better way to remind the dad in your life that EVERYONE'S cars need cleaning and that he's just the man for the job?! Feel free to throw in a push broom for driveway sweeping and some yard-quality trash bags. Oh, and maybe even a new water hose. Dads can always use a long hose!

4. Light bulbs and batteries
www.walmart.com
Speaking of reminding dads of their place in the world, a basket full of light bulbs and batteries makes the perfect gift! He'll never run out of these household essentials if you keep him well stocked. No more blinding fits of rage when he can't find a 9-volt battery for the smoke detector with its vicious, never-ending beeping.  And, no more stealing lamp bulbs when the closet light burns out. This gift is SURE to be a daddy crowd pleaser!

5. The BULLET nose hair trimmer
www.thebullet.tv
The more hair a man loses on his head, the more hair he grows in his ears and nose.  This is a proven, scientific fact, ya'll. And, often times, the mofo doesn't even realize this because his eye balls are getting old, too. For those dads, we need to do a little nudging. Getting him a nose/ear hair trimmer is the best, most passive aggressive way of letting him now that he's starting to look like a neanderthal.

Also, the website  boasts this magnificent and totally ridiculous claim:

So, if silent grooming tools and referrals from elite military forces are selling points that float your boat, this gift is for you!

Here's what I want to know... who are these elite military forces?  Are they from the middle east? Have they been surveyed? And, WTF does this scary gun have to do with grooming unsightly nose hairs?  I'm both confused and intrigued. Small, efficient, maintenance free AND silent? Sounds like the perfect B.O.B. to me! I wonder if it vibrates? Hmmmm.

Ok... I digressed, as per usual.

So, that's it folks, the TOP 5 Unique Father's Day Gifts for that special dad in YOUR life!  You're welcome.

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.

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…

5 Things No One Ever Told You About Turning 40

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

...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:

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.

This Summer Was a Bust!

As this summer draws to a close and I cheer that school will be back in session soon, I realize that we didn't really do shit this summer.  Usually we take a "family vacation" to somewhere.  Disney. Destin. Colorado. Somewhere!  But, nada this year.

No pina coloadas pool side.  No running around with mouse ear hats.  No trekking up mountainsides. No zipping down roller-coasters. Nothing.

Instead, we worked.  And, I chauffeured.  A lot.  I blame myself, though. It started with my constant nagging to the oldest spawn.  Nag, nag, nag.  I was all about "get your ass out there and find work!" and, "hell no, I'm not buying you those expensive ass jeans!" and, "how can you sleep until noon?!" and, "if you're not going to get a job that PAYS money, you will work for ME for FREE!"

It's that last nag that did me in, I guess. Because, what did she do? She got two damn jobs.  And, she has no car and no driver's license. (She failed driver's education.)

So, there's that.

Then, there's the youngest spawn.  That heifer is up in my face on a daily basis.  From the moment she was conceived, she's given me grief.  Horrible pregnancy, death-defying child birth, terrible 2's, 3's and 4's, not to mention the constant jabbering.  The girl cannot keep her mouth shut to save her life.

Littlest Spawn:  I've got a lot on my mind, Momma... I've got to get it out!

Me: No you don't.  Keep that shit in and save it for your Dad!

But, no matter what I tell her, she can't be quiet.  Even when she's alone and there's no one to talk to, she's busy running her mouth - singing songs, talking to people on the tv and whatnot.

So, when the opportunity to ship her off for a week presented itself, we were all over that shit!  She was invited to spend a week in Florida with one of her friends.  We let her go under one condition: that she call/text home at least 3 times a day.  She agreed.  So, we bought the little heifer a phone (after vowing that she wouldn't get one for another 2 years), loaded her up with swimsuits, sunscreen, bug spray and toothpaste, and sent her on her way!

Day 1 - she texted twice and called once.
Day 2 - I texted her three times and she replied with one-word answers:

• My Text: Hi, babycakes...what's shakin'?
• Her Text: nuthin
• My Text: How's it going?  What are you doing?
• Her Text: good. having fun. gotta go.

It was enough to want to rip my eyes out.  My kid is thousands of miles away and she doesn't even miss us?! WTF?!  Turns out, I missed the little monster.  Whodda thunk?

Day 3 - she called once, after not replying to 2 of my text messages.
Day 4 - I called and texted her all fucking day and she didn't reply until that evening with a "good night" phone call.
Day 5 - I called her.. I called her friend... I called her friend's mother... none of them were responding.  Where was my baby?  Was she ok?  Did something happen?  Something must have happened! I'm on the verge of sending Hubber down there to pick that lil heifer up and bring her home when my phone rings.

Littlest Spawn: Hi, Momma!  I had a great day!  We went to the beach and to the pool and I met a lot of new friends!
Me: Why didn't you get in touch with me all day? We had a deal. THREE times a day!
Littlest Spawn: Sorry!  I forgot!  But, I'm fine.  I'll do better tomorrow.  I promise.
Me: Fine.

But, she didn't do any better.  Day 6 and 7 were the same.  My stomach was in knots the entire week.  And, I'm pretty sure I pulled most the hair out on the right side of my head.  My sanity was worse off during that one week that she was gone than in all the other 12 weeks of summer combined!

The moral of the story is this:

Even though your kid gets on your last nerves with all their yammering, begging , whining, and simply just being... you will miss their snotty nosed asses when they're gone.

So, although my summer was a bust, I learned an important lesson: If my kids are going to have a fun summer vacation, it's going to be with me. We will either all go, or none of us will go and we will all suffer through a non-vacation together.

Being Absent

**Caution: this entry will NOT make you laugh.  Don't read if seriousness ain't your thang.**

I've been absent for months now.  Absent in mind.  Absent in spirit.  That's why I've been absent from my blog.  I miss it, yes.  But, I don't have anything to say.  Or maybe I do.

Or...

Maybe I don't.

You know that commercial about depression?  The one that talks about how "depression hurts".  That ain't a lie, y'all.  It hurts your brain.  It hurts your body.  But more than anything, it breaks your spirit.  And, it catches you off guard.

For me, it comes in waves.  One morning, I get out of bed feeling refreshed and ready to start my day - the next morning, I feel a heavy weight pushing against me as I struggle to swing my legs over the side of the bed and push myself upright.  If it weren't for my obligations as a mother and wife, I may not have been able to make it out of bed on those bad days.

Gotta make sure the girls get off to school.
Gotta make sure the dog goes out.
Gotta make sure there's dinner.
Gotta make sure there's gas in the car.
Gotta go to work.
Gotta return calls.
Gotta get the girls to dance class... to troop meetings... to work.

It's all normal, everyday stuff, I understand.  I'm smart, I know this... but I'm also a little mental.

It's not every day that I feel blue... but when it strikes, it's hard to snap out of it.

And, there's no trigger for the sadness.  It could be that my pants are too tight.... it could be that we ran out of milk... it could be a song on the radio... it could be the youngest spawn's high-water pants... it could be just as simple as having to step outside.  Or, it could be nothing at all.

The solution is easy, they say.  Go to the doctor.  Get some exercise.  Change your diet.  Blah blah blah.  But, it's not easy in my brain.  My brain says it's easier to deal with the waves.  It's easier to try to ignore it.  It's easier to just be left alone.  It's easier to put on a face for the sake of others.  It's easier to force myself to navigate through a "normal" day.

But it's not easier. It's just what I do.  It's just what I tell myself.

Given this mental crap that's consumed me lately... I will say that my family have been troopers!  Hubber gives me my space...he loves me unconditionally all the time.  The littlest spawn continues to baffle me with her charm and wit... she keeps me on the ball.  The oldest spawn melts my heart with her smile...she encourages me with her own strengths and youthfulness. They are my world, and I am theirs.  And, as Mother's Day approaches, I am thankful for them and for what they unknowingly do every day to keep me sane and present - especially on those days when I feel most absent.