Thursday, January 17, 2019

You've Got To Be Kidding Me

From the moment we're born we begin dying. I don't really care how that happens. Whether you were birthed in the backseat of a taxicab in New York, you dropped out your momma's uterus in a kiddie pool with a midwife, or whether she pushed you out with a crew of doctors and nurses present in a hospital. Welcome to the world, you're dying. 

I can't speak for anyone else, as much as I want to or try to, so I'll limit this to personal experience. I don't make good decisions. I make shitty choices. I'll make more in the future. There are things that I work on to help offset the consequences from these choices. There are even things that I do in an attempt to re-wire the circuitry in my brain; a preemptive strike on destructive behavior. 

Most of my shit centers around addiction: alcohol, food, drama, self-pity, people pleasing, and poor self-esteem; I am addicted to being the center of attention and being in chaos. I'm kind of a piece of shit for it. I also do a fuck ton of work to make myself less of a drain on society. Being human is hard. Working on becoming a better human is admirable, especially when you know what you're already up against.

I also lack impulse control. I'm all about instant gratification. I don't want that 5-minute rice in the prescribed 5 minutes, I want it 3 because I have other shit to do. Delayed gratification? What's that? The only type of delay I'm into is one where a dreaded appointment is pushed back or canceled altogether for reasons beyond my control. I love it when I'm not to blame. It's not my fault, it's yours. 

For the most part, I want people to like me. Mostly. That is, of course, unless you're trying to push a pyramid scheme of shitty health supplements on me. Health supplements that, as you tout, will help prolong my life. 

I became acquainted with a little dude I met at a local park not long ago. I was handing food out to the homeless community there, he offered to help my son and me. I was thankful for the help. After spending a couple of hours together, it didn't seem odd to become social media buddies. As it turns out, we were members of the same gym. I think we still are members of the same gym, we just don't fucking speak to one another anymore. 

Creepy McCreepster would corner me every chance he got to enthusiastically pummel me with information about his available products. There was a social awkwardness about him that put my own to shame. I felt sorry for the kid, I bought some shit from him to help get his little business going. Playing it safe I bought collagen tablets because who doesn't want firmer skin? A firm ass and glowing skin; that was the goal. Unfortunately, I don't do pills well. They sat in the cupboard, my ass stayed droopy. 

Relentlessly I received message after message telling me how these products would "change my life." No, dude, you leaving me the fuck alone will change my life right now. When I wouldn't buy more, it became, "Who do you know that I can help?" Fuck off! More like "Who can I harass?" If not being cornered at the gym, I was being inundated with messages on social media. I've had actual stalkers who irritated me less. 

Finally, I decided to tell him to go pound sand. Some of the sales tactics were fucking ridiculous. Laughable even. I remember, at one point he compared my life performance to an underachieving child. He asked, "How would you feel if your child were getting D's and C's in school? Their reasoning, was that they were passing and they were content with that?" Little buddy, did you just assume it was okay to tell me that I am skating by in life just doing the bare minimum? Now we have beef. 

I told him his pitchy bullshit made me uncomfortable. Could we just be friends? To my utter shock, the answer was a hard no. Fine, go fuck yourself, toadstool. I hope your herbal cleanse and Spark energy enhancer keep you company in the long hours of solitude and inevitable financial hardship ahead of you. Failure is imminent. Also, whoever trained you did a shitty ass job, I'd ask for my money back if I were you. 

I take care of myself physically, I don't need to go balls-out with a bunch of synthetic bullshit created in labs and peddled by people with insecurity issues more daunting than the ones I'm packing. And what the fuck for? Honestly? Live longer? For what? It would be different if we all lived in a goddamn Utopia, let's get fucking real though. When was the last time you turned on the television and all the stories were heartwarming? How about even half of them? A third? Right, so how about you take your creatine powder and amino acid supplements and shove 'em straight up your performance elite ass?! Pass me the butter, which I like to call happiness. 

We're all dying here. None of us are going to get out of this with a 'get of jail free' pass. Why not try being less of a piece of shit? We've all heard of carbon footprints. How about the impact we have on others? We ought to have designated people to police douche canoes. Is there a way to form a committee of chosen individuals that one can contact to intervene in situations when someone has proven themselves a certified asshat? What might some possible penalties be for infractions? 

This blog has gone on longer than I originally intended; much longer than my usual 30 minutes or less and satisfaction isn't promised. Wherever you are, little buddy, [probably cracked out on Spark energy supplements] I hope you find your way in the shitty pyramid of health supplements and that you never EVER contact me again. 

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Deranged Shorts by Anxiety Girl

Daymares As Told by Anxiety Girl: Deranged Shorts

I have an overactive imagination and a tendency to pole-vault to the worst possible outcome in any given situation. I manufacture social paranoia on a cellular level. I secrete awkwardness like a perfume. Here’s what happens in my head and what transpires in the real world. Here’s me trying to reconcile the two. These are just a few examples, so enjoy this. It’s taken me many years, but I can laugh at this shit now.

I don’t wear heels very often even though I love the way they make me feel. They elongate my otherwise stubby legs and change the way I walk. They add a certain sway to my gait when worn. I also know they’re doing wonders for my calves and my ass when I wear them. I used to vacuum the living room in them. That’s not a joke. A friend of mine told me once what a great way to practice walking in them it was. I just figured it was working my ass and legs. It was also the safest way for me to wear heels. I’m not very graceful. In fact, if you’re special, you get to call me Grace. If you’re not, I’ll punch you. I’ll probably break a thumb in the process. 

And so begins our worst-case scenario daymares.

I don’t wear heels because I live on the 2nd floor. At some point, I’m going to have to go downstairs. Lest I carry my heels in hand and put them back on at the bottom, my ass is going to have to trudge down those stairs one at a time. Precariously. Sure, there is a handrail, but it would be my luck that the fucking thing comes loose, and I topple over the side and end up in the bushes with my dress around my shoulders. Not so sexy anymore, huh?

There is always the chance that the railing stays firmly in place and I trip over my own feet. Maybe my own weight buckles the heel, I break my ankle, and I fall down the flight of stairs, drawing the attention of all the neighbors. Being embarrassed (as I would be), I would attempt to pop up and brush it off at the bottom as though nothing had happened. Only then would it become apparent that my ankle was broken. I’d fall forward and faceplant, breaking my two front teeth on the pavement. Teeth that I had only recently paid to have crowns placed on. Humiliation and 2k down the drain; sounds about right.

The reality is, I probably make it down the stairs with only a mild anxiety attack. I’ve only fallen once. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I was embarrassed. Yes, I lied about the injury. There was a scar for a while on the bridge of my foot. I told people it was a sex injury. Never straddle someone while barefoot on carpeted flooring. Rugburn is real and it’s happened before so I knew it would work.

Aggressive driving is problem for me. Don’t fucking cut me off. Don’t be an asshole. We’re all trying to get someplace. Why do you think you’re so goddamn special? Entitlement is a motherfucker and I really hate people who think or act as though their plans are more meaningful than my life. That doesn’t make it justifiable for me to speed up and make certain you know that I think you’re a douchebag.

In a perfect world, I’d be able to flash my lights at you and you’d pull over and I’d challenge you to a dance-off or some shit. Maybe I’d immediately be granted 1 free throat punch. That would be ideal. 

I don’t get off on hurting people, but I really think it would teach cunts a lesson about reckless driving. How many times do you have to get throat punched before you learn to merge onto your desired freeway entrance before it becomes a danger for other motorists? Those last-minute 15/78 splitters in the morning really make me want to throw flaming bags of shit. Human shit is fine, I don’t give a fuck!

Here’s what happens in my head though: I’m super confident that said twatwaffle will see I’m serious about my conviction and will back down. TW does no such thing and speeds up even more to make the freeway exit but at the last second slams on their breaks terrified that they’re going to tap the person in front of them. I end up rear-ending the jackass that refused to merge properly and in turn, I am rear-ended. My car spins out and I total my car. 

Dicknose doesn’t have insurance and I’m now out a car. I’ll end up taking the bus because my insurance won’t cover a rental. I’ll probably get mugged on the bus or be witness to some crime while taking public transportation. It’s not that I have anything against public transportation, it’s just how things play out in my head. Meanwhile, that prick is still doing the same shit the very next week.

Cannonballs in the pool: I don’t do them if it’s not deeper than 6 ft. Why? Because I’m 5’7” and even if I tuck my knees, I’m afraid that I’ll injure myself. What happens if I break my legs? Call the paramedics? Cool. They show up, assess the situation and haul me off to the hospital. 

Have you ever tried to get out of a wet bathing suit? Less than attractive. Oh, they cut it off me? Even better, then all my lady parts are all shriveled up like the California Raisins. Ever see a 39-yr. old woman, who breastfed, soaking wet with bathing suit titties? It ain’t pretty. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be the one to take my own suit off and preferably without any mirrors around; I’d like to be able to eat dinner later. 

I think finding a sympathy card for the paramedics who had to undress me would be difficult. Does Hallmark make one that says: Sorry you saw me naked?

There are plenty more Anxiety Girl scenarios. I’ll write more when co-workers aren’t looking for me to do what they pay me for. I have some other shit I’m working on currently also. Being sick really sucked. I’m getting back in the swing of things. Thanks for sticking around.

Monday, January 14, 2019

Oh, no he didn't!

For the last month and a half, I’ve been sick. Not the norm for me type sick; the mentally unstable, liable to snap at any moment sick. I’m talking tissue and copious amounts of over-the-counter medications improperly administered. Truth be told, I’m still on the mend. It’s all good. I have enough antibiotics coursing through my body right now that I’m indiscriminately killing all the flora and fauna in my system. I am literally where things come to die.

After living in pajamas and being nearly surgically attached to my sofa for four days I decided enough was enough; I was going to improperly take more medication. Medication that didn’t even belong to me.

I hate going to the doctor and after being misdiagnosed and spending $146 at Kaiser the last time, I decided they fucking suck and don’t deserve to be honored with my presence or my hard-earned cash. Suck a dick! Luckily my husband stashed some antibiotics from his last go ‘round with a nasty orbital abscess, so it looked like I was gonna kick this sickness in the taint without having to step foot in the germ breeding ground that is the waiting room of my doctor’s office.

After a couple days of being on horse pills, I was starting to feel better. In fact, I was feeling human enough that I decided to go get my nails done. Before you get all self-righteous about how I’m now putting others in jeopardy, just shut the hell up. I wasn’t contagious anymore. I’m a better human being than to risk possibly infecting others with an unknown virus. I don’t do anything half-assed. I make sure I’m all in. I’ll lick your phone receiver and sneeze in your eyes to make certain that the job is done correctly. Oh, and fuck you very much.

Back to my nails, because this is where it gets glorious.

I’m sitting in the chair while Daisy [Daisy is a Vietnamese name??] is doing my nails. We’re having a broken conversation about the Apple Watch and whether I think it would benefit her husband who apparently has clogged arteries. She seems to want to monitor his heart rate and thinks the watch will help with his overall health. At least, that’s what I’m able to gather. I don’t have the heart [no pun intended…really] to tell her that if his heart rate is 184 while walking there isn’t much the watch is going to do to fix that shit. Maybe he should work on diet and exercise. Communication is difficult though – language barriers being what they are. I feel for her. I smile and nod and tell her I love my watch. I hate this fucking thing. It’s always yelling at me to stand up and breathe. Fuck off, I do what I want.

At one point in the conversation though I notice that she’s broken off and is staring at the manager [male] who sits up front watching his iPad. Her jaw has dropped, and she looks pissed! She gets up, walks over to him and quietly scorns him in Vietnamese. Shortly after, Michael [manager] gets up with his iPad and walks to the back of the salon, out of sight and doesn’t return. Now, there is no one covering the counter to handle walk-in clients or answer the phone. Daisy is pissed and she’s quietly talking to the other girls in the salon.

I, of course, can’t make out what they’re saying but I don’t really need to. One needn’t speak Vietnamese to understand that Daisy removed the manager because he was watching something inappropriate on his little iPad. She’s now walking around the salon whispering to other women, rolling her eyes, and making hushed moaning sounds. Then, with a disgusted look on her face, she points to the back of the salon like she’s ordering a dog to its “place” and makes more moaning sounds. It’s like a mini porno in the nail salon. 6 Vietnamese women are snickering while my nail chick is moaning and I’m watching the whole thing unfold in awe. This is fucking fantastic.

Daisy finally calms down and seats herself across from me. She picks right back up talking about the Apple Watch and where to get it – asking about price and telling me about the other watches she’s gotten her husband in the past. She tells me about what a great man he is and the phone he purchased her for her birthday. Daisy, can I just say: I don’t give a flying fuck about your phone. Can we talk about the manager watching porn during business hours and on-site?? That is amazingly bold! Do you think he has a sex addiction? Doesn’t his wife work here too? Where is she and do you think she knows? Oh my God, she’s gonna tear him a new asshole, isn’t she?

I am never getting my nails done elsewhere and from now, going out of my way to make uncomfortable eye contact with Michael every opportunity I get. Best reintroduction to society ever! Thanks, local nail salon – 5 stars!

Thursday, January 3, 2019

And Some Other Shit You'll Never Hear Me Utter

 And Some Other Shit You’ll Never Hear Me Utter

If you’ve spent any time reading even a couple of my previous rants, you’ll understand that I am a blunt force trauma. I am the drunk clown at the birthday party or the sauced-up uncle at Christmas with one too many opinions about minorities who’d do better to keep his mouth shut in the presently mixed company he’s entertaining.

I don’t have anything timely or of grand importance to write about; nothing about the 116th Congress, Pelosi, or anything along spiritual lines. Instead, I bring you more bullshit, because ultimately, that’s what I do best. I offer you some shit you’d never in a million years hear me say; unless I fall off the wagon, that is. Then, all bets are off and welcome to the shit show.

Looking forward to it!
The only time I’ve said this and truly meant it is when I told my now ex-husband that I’d see him in court. I use this sparingly with people and rarely with much enthusiasm or honesty. I can honestly say that I look forward to going home and putting on my pajamas, the rest of the day is just filler. Oh, friends and weekend fun? Yeah, no thanks. That’s why God invented Netflix and other streaming services.

Everyone deserves a second chance
Wrong. I believe people are inherently good at heart, that much is true. There are some people that I feel are beyond redemption though. I get it, I’m not Judge and jury and who am I to declare someone beyond redemption? You draw a big line in the motherfucking sand when you commit heinous crimes though; the nature of which I don’t even want to get into here. When you hurt the young, elderly, or animals in any way – you are beyond redemption in my book. It’s just a matter of how to deal with you. I assure you I judge more harshly than you would think.

No thanks, I’m vegan
I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with being vegan. I, in fact, tried it for a year. It’s a year of my life that I’ll never get back. I’m not really complaining because let’s face it, my life kinda sucks as it is. Real food would have made that year much less crippling though. For a straight year I felt like shit and wanted to cry every time I went out to lunch or dinner and one of my friends would order something with eggs, meat, cheese, cream, or butter [I just had an orgasm]. I even abstained from eating candy with gelatin. Are you fucking kidding me?!
Way to kill the joy in all things food, vegans. Go fuck yourselves!

I’m a tea person
Coffee is what stops me from punching walls or your face. I stopped drinking 5 years ago. I replaced that alcohol with food. Then the food was becoming an issue, so I had to deal with that. Candy became a quick replacement for alcohol sugars and icky feelings I had to deal with. Soon I had to wean myself off that too. Do you realize how much treatment I am undergoing right now? It’s best not to fuck with me, really. My sanity is delicate. Tea is not strong enough to tackle the bullshit that I have moshing around in my brain; I need coffee to go in there and tear shit up. That first sip of coffee calms me the fuck down. Interrupt me and it’s at your own peril – I guarantee you that much. I don’t even drink the shit when I’m sick. Suggest it and I will laugh at you. I put tea bags in my coffee cup. Take your throat coat and fuck off. Come back when you have a real cup of coffee.

I thought I had more to say but I guess I just don’t care enough. Until next time; I’m really looking forward to it!

Thursday, December 27, 2018

Divorced? It ain't for pussies!

Some days you wake up and life feels comfortable, others [like today] you’d like to crawl back under the covers and play dead. Perhaps call out sick with the runs or a debilitating case of food poisoning. At least that’s accurate for me. I suppose that after the last few days it’s to be expected.

I survived the Christmas holiday suffering only mild trauma.

My son’s an asshole. He’s also 11, so I figure he’s right on time. This year he decided he wanted to hang with his father instead of coming to our home for Christmas. Typically, we split the holiday, but this year was to belong entirely to my ex-husband. This at the behest of my darling child. Fuck you, both.  

I convinced myself I didn’t need to see my kid; he puts a damper on my sex life. I got new socks for Christmas and I wanted to break them in with a romp around the bedroom. Should you ever find yourself in this predicament, don't ask Alexa [or in our case, Echo] to play “sexy” music. You will be deluged with crappy music that will distract you making it impossible to focus on being or feeling sexy. The exact opposite will take place. You’ll be forced to change the playlist. Try coming up with a different setlist and  taking off your panties simultaneously. Now imagine doing that while holding your composure and still attempting to “look hot.” 

So…we caught up on a lot of episodes of tv shows we had missed.

At the last minute, my brat decided that he wanted to casually “swing by” on Christmas Day. He had his father drop him off in the late afternoon. I’m not a fucking moron, he came by for the gifts.

The bumbling Wookie came into the house, plopping down on the couch as if I were supposed to serve his ungrateful ass gifts, or fan him with cash. He proceeded to make an incredibly ignorant statement about Christmas being a holiday dedicated to giving children gifts. "Let the child gift giving begin," he plainly stated. I'm sorry, WTF?! 

First off, I didn’t teach him that bullshit! If anything, I have always tried to instill in him the importance of helping those less fortunate. I will allow him to formulate a belief system all his own regarding religion, spirituality, or the like. Should he choose to be an atheist, that’s fine – it’s his choice. What is unacceptable in my home is the assumption that because you’re a child you are entitled to shit. There is nothing redeemable about being a greedy little prick.

Second, get your little bitch-ass up and get mommy a snack. There are no free rides in this life.  

Curran proceeds to say that his father told him that I had beat him this year. Confused, I had to ask: beat him at what?

My son tells me that his father said as far as gift giving was concerned, I had bested him this year. Oh, that’s fucking fantastic! The father of my son is teaching our kid that we are in direct competition with one another. At least he recognizes preeminence. It only took our entire drunken courtship, an abusive marriage, and a fucking divorce for him to admit I finally did something better than he did. Just one thing. Never the less, I’ll take it! I’m scrapbooking that shit!

This is the only place I get to speak openly about my ex. There is a chance he’ll read this. It’s a chance I’m willing to take. I would never in a million years say this shit in front of our child. As far our son is concerned, his father is a good guy. I’m ok letting him think that. Truth is, the dude is present in our son’s life. He loves our son. He was a fucking dirtbag to me, no doubt. Then again, I was a raging alcoholic, so I can’t really throw too much dirt. At the end of the day I still bought the best gift; that’s what really matters. I finally win, motherfucker!

Sure, I feel like ass warmed over and maybe my kid isn't grasping the concepts that I had hoped he would - but I finally win. Eat a dick! 

If you're a divorced momma, this one is for you. 

Tuesday, December 18, 2018

Manstruating - short rant

I have questions, many questions. I usually have questions, this is nothing new. I also have concerns. I don't have concerns, I have grievances. Fat-ass grievances that I'm about to lay out for you. 

A friend of mine posted this article [link below] on Facebook; the title caught my attention. 

Now that you’ve read a paragraph or two and you have a general understanding of the absurdity being sold, we can try to unfuck it all. 

I’m all about being true to yourself or being authentic - if you will, but come the fuck on! This is utter horseshit! The very first paragraph has me wanting to throw pencils at dart boards. All genders can have periods? I must have missed that Bio class. Last time I checked vaginas were the bleeding kind and penises were not. If I'm not mistaken, vaginas usually belong to women and penises to men. Although sometimes men are called penises and women cunts; sometimes men are cunts too. I don't think I've ever called a woman a penis, but I have called one a dick. 

There is apparently a council report [that I would love to get my hands on] stating that: "Trans boys and men and non-binary people may have periods," adding that "menstruation must be inclusive of all genders." 

What does this mean? Does this mean that boys get to be excused to change their tampons during class time? Does it mean that PE will be restricted for them during their "special" time of the month? What the fuck?! Can someone paint me an accurate picture of what boy bleeding looks like; what it entails? According to this article, school counselors will be made available to those children requiring additional support. Additional support for what, phantom cramps? Go fuck yourselves! 

I don't give a shit how it sounds; just because Tommy tucks a maxi pad into his jock strap doesn't' mean he's menstruating. By definition, "menstruation is a cyclical discharging of blood, secretions, and tissue debris from the uterus that recurs in nonpregnant breeding-age primate females at approximately monthly intervals and that is considered to represent a readjustment of the uterus to the nonpregnant state following proliferative changes accompanying the preceding ovulation." When Tommy bleeds from the tip of his dick and his balls cramp up [legitimately] once a month I'll feel sorry for him. Until then, stick to whatever else it is you do that is exclusively yours. 

What's the equivalent of male menstruation? I did some Q&A with my husband last night. We had a good laugh. I had a good laugh, he asked me to stop. I decided that male menstruation would probably look like something being jammed down the shaft of the penis while potato chip bag clips were periodically attached, then removed from the scrotum. The chip clip would cause dull throbbing most of the time but would be removed just long enough to provide brief periods of relief. "That sounds horrible!" you may quibble. Yeah, but I've always wanted to ask him to make me a sandwich while he's bleeding, his back hurts, his [gonads?] hurt, and he just wants to cry at every little thing. Maybe manstruating isn't such a terrible idea. 

I will tell you this: if men were to bleed from their dicks and had ball cramps once a month, I would be much more inclined to give out the courtesy blow job every so often when I was otherwise unavailable or unwilling. Here's to hoping we don't have our cycles sync up. 

Saturday, December 8, 2018

Titty Tantrum

“Why, once my eyes are open, is the first thing that you say to me about some other chick’s nipples?” I said to my husband this morning.

It’s 5 am, this cannot be real. I look around, my two cats on the bed next to me, my phone is plugged in on my right, I’m involuntarily starting to sniffle, and I’m thinking of all the ways her tits are better than mine. Yep, this is real. What the fuck?! A simple “Good morning,” is customary where I’m from.

I should probably explain that the night before, this was humorous (not to me) and that we were having a good time (again, not me) making jokes about the situation. What situation, you ask? Fantastic! I love rehashing painful and embarrassing moments in my life; please hold while I scroll through the Rolodex of shame and self-doubt. Ah, there it is, last night’s dinner date. Allow me to share our date night with you. 

Last night The Lobster (that’s what I call my husband) and I were going to an event to watch a friend of ours perform in a dance recital. Not some shitty, “Look, our kid is doing ballet, you should come to watch because you never helped us move and you feel guilty,” dance recital – but a legit thing. She is an accomplished belly dancer; she’s beautiful inside and out. But enough about her. The whole thing went sideways and got fucked in its own ear when we didn’t anticipate the park where it was located being overrun and couldn’t find parking. We’re fucking geniuses. It was Balboa Park in San Diego and it’s fucking Christmas time. We’re complete assholes. So, in good asshole fashion, we decided to take ourselves to dinner instead.

We found ourselves at this trendy noodle house that was once featured on one of those “You should eat here,” shows on television. The Lobster had already been here once, but I was a virgin. I love being able to say that about myself, (virgin) even in this context, even in some half-assed blog. Right…back on track…

It was a cool joint. The servers were dancing. It was a young crowd with an open atmosphere and decent music; no complaints thus far. I even got to poke fun at the hostess. Outwardly, she had it all going on. Long, beautiful hair, smoking hot body, and a pretty face. Then she spoke. Her very pronounced lisp made her sound like she was 5 and I could not have been any happier at that moment. It proved to me that there is a God and that you really can’t have it all.

She guided us towards the back and seated us. I seated myself against the wall in one of those booth-like seating arrangements while The Lobster took the chair with his back to the walkway. I just figured I was smaller, it would be easier for me to squeeze through the other diners. What became noticeable was the fact that the woman sitting across from my husband was wearing a white tank top and no bra. She was a perky young lady and had nipples that screamed at you. To The Lobster’s credit, he did ask if I wanted to trade seats with him. He could see the discomfort and, in fact, hatred, coming off me. I had already seated myself. I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. I’d just scowl and turn back away when she finally realized I was staring at her. I wanted to flick those little buggers until she decided to put some damned clothing on.

I looked across the table at what my staring partner would be. My husband got to ogle some 23-yr. old in a tank top sans bra with a bare midriff and some high waisted jeans, what would my eye candy be??? I got a millennial lumberjack. He, for real, looked like the lumberjack from Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. I was depressed. He had manicured hair and a  t-shirt that was too tight. He was spectacularly average. The Pendleton he wore was incredibly predictable and I didn’t even bother to look if they were skinny jeans he had on or not; I wanted to be able to eat my dinner. So sad, I was so very sad. 

They got up to leave shortly after our arrival. It didn’t much matter, the damage had already been done. Who the fuck does this chick think she is? I’m turning 39 next week, she needs to put her titties on lockdown. Not once when I was her age did I believe I looked good enough to go out in public like that. I never wanted that kind of attention. I’ve never had that kind of self-esteem.

The Lobster and I joked (I cried inside) about the social impropriety and the many ways I (because I’m an insecure slob) I could have made her feel uncomfortable (or tried to). For the remainder of the evening we laughed and ate, and I thought about that chick’s tits. It was a nice date night (grinds teeth).

This morning I opened my eyes and my husband says, “I know what you could have said to her about her nipples.”

I’m sorry, what the actual fuck is happening here?! Did I just wake up in the fucking Twilight Zone??? I can feel myself start to cry. No sir, you can go fuck yourself. I don't want to think about her tits again! Guess I’m not going back to sleep. Now all I can think about is my husband being turned on my some rando’s boobs. He’s probably going to masturbate to them later. Thanks, honey. This is just how I wanted to wake up.

He tried to make it better by fleshing out the idea (intentional usage of “fleshing”) and telling me it was an idea for a Monty Python skit. Cool, it’s still about some other chick’s tits!!! It’s still 5 am!!! Next, would you like to tell me about a “very nice shrubbery”???

Oh, for fuck’s sake – sorry Lobster. Sorry to blog about Rando’s boobs. Sorry to throw you under the bus (not really), but if it makes you feel better, it only makes me look like an insecure twat. I don’t mean to character assassinate; when I mean to, you’ll know it. And as we say in our household: stuff your twat, don’t be one!

Wednesday, December 5, 2018

A case for Christmas closure

Curran is an odiferous 11-year-old sack of skin parading around as my offspring. Except for a few similarities in mannerisms and a likeness in our smile, we are opposites. Like, opposite ends of the spectrum, opposites.

During Christmas, when gift giving rolls around, I teeter on the edge of amputating an appendage, boxing it up, wrapping it nicely, and slapping a bow on it. My sanity sits on a shelf down the aisle “You’ve got to fucking kidding me,” in-between “Oh, we’re doing this again?” and “Not if my life depended on it!”

I’m not special, I know I’m not the only mother who cries herself to sleep every night praying that when she wakes up her kid is normal and not something resembling a vampire.

I don’t think my kid knows what soap is. He’s 11 years old and while I’m not above throwing on a bathing suit and climbing into the tub with his ass to do an instruction on the art of soap application, I still don’t want to see an 11-year-old’s penis. For all I know, he thinks the bar of soap is food. I know for a fact that he uses body wash as shampoo. While that’s not entirely ludicrous it’s still like wtf, dude – there are fucking shampoo AND conditioner right there, savage!

For the most part, my child doesn’t know that I exist; at least until dinner-time, his birthday, or Christmas. When he stands to benefit, my presence is acknowledged. Legit, if I don’t ask, he’d never tell me that he needed something. I must be vigilant. I must pay attention to the fact that the little asshole has had the same bottle of shampoo for 6 months; that shit ain’t right. I need to question why he’s never asked for more toothpaste. What the fuck is going on there? And exactly where are all your socks going you little demon? So, now the real question: how many bars of soap is enough for a Christmas present?

I’m doing my best as a parent to get my kid gifts that will drag his ass out of his comfort zone and out into the fresh air, or at least away from a gaming console. In so doing I’m preparing for a massive amount of eye rolling and whining. I expect some passive-aggressive body language and maybe even some gaslighting. Remember when I said that there was no resemblance? Strike that, spitting image.

Am I doing the right thing? Do I get him what will make him happy but surely lead to a life of diabetes and heart disease? Or, do I force him out into the sun where he may burn upon introduction to the elements. Oh, but his little chubby face will be all aglow with Cheeto dust and adoration if I cave. His stiff fingers, rigid from hours of playing, his ass fused with the couch; he will become a piece of smelly furniture – like our own rank, pubescent Alexa.

Fuck it, I liked it better when I was a drunk and could blame shitty gift-giving on the booze or better yet, just forget to show up to your function altogether. There I said it. Being an alcoholic had its benefits; a constant and ever ready excuse. No one ever expected anything from me. Tina? Nah, she never shows up. Kinda miss those days. “Oops, did I gift you my panties? You mean I just a wrapped a pair of my own? I could have sworn those were Victoria’s Secret I bought. Must have been a little tipsy. My bad.” Ahhh…those were the good old days.

So, it’s settled, an official ban on Christmas in my home. I’m not about to start drinking after all this time and I’ll be damned if I get another gaming system in my house. I’ll staple my labia together with a Swingline before that shit happens. I’m dead serious. When the Xbox learns to load the dishwasher or perform oral sex, I will consider it. Until then, go fuck yourselves. This Christmas bullshit is too much stress and if I end up with nothing but a t-shirt again this year, it isn’t worth the effort. Soap and shampoo for everyone, motherfuckers!

Tuesday, December 4, 2018

Office Party or Die

Each year it falls on me to coordinate the office Christmas party. This year, my spirit is broken enough that I’d just as soon slit my own wrists with a rusty earring than attempt this exercise in futility.

Here’s the thing, I work with these assholes, the last thing I want to do is plan a party that I’ll have to suffer through. Keep in mind I will not get useful feedback from anyone, I will not get a thank you from anyone, and each idea I pitch will be met with criticism. Did I forget to mention that my boss is a cheap prick and I’m on a budget that closely resembles that of a college student living off Top Ramen?

want to care about morale. I want to believe that the guys in the office work hard and deserve a reward for all they’ve done over the course of the year, but the reality is, I just don’t. That ship sailed a long fucking time ago. The truth is, I work with 6 dudes who wouldn’t remember how to replenish toilet paper and basic supplies if not for me, or some other underpaid, moderately attractive woman in my place.

Let me put it in some perspective for you, dear reader. Last year we went bowling. We settled on bowling at the very last minute because all the other ideas that I pitched were drop-kicked into the wastebasket. There was a dinner cruise idea. That apparently was too pricey and too cold, per the boss. It didn’t matter one iota that the rest of the crew were into it. Oh, and wives were to be excluded from the event.

There are 7 of us total in the office. If you include wives and/or significant others it would bring the total for festivities to 14; not exactly a bank breaker. We’re not Wall Street, but we’re certainly not a fucking start-up either. The youngest member of the team, aside from me, has been here for 14 years. I think we can fork out a little extra for the wives even if Mark’s is a massive buzzkill. As it turned out, I made sure to wear socks that day and brought my own hand sanitizer because we were going bowling!

If I recall correctly, eating at the alley was frowned upon because the food was expensive. Booze was okay though. My boss has a habit of getting sauced and annoying. Normally I would relish the opportunity to record this kind of behavior and circulate it around the office for weeks to come just for fun at his expense, but every second I spent there was another I was certain I was closer to owning my very own orange jumpsuit. Even as I type this, I am stricken with anxiety about the upcoming holiday.

Today my boss asked, “What are we going to do for the holiday party?” I have ideas. We can go ice skating as an office. I would love to see my grumpy, old, conservative co-workers flail about on ice skates. I’d love it even more if they fell. It’s like watching little kids eat shit on their bikes, but so much better. It’s 4 yrs. of “Do you know where the toner is?” It’s 4 yrs. of “Christina, why isn’t the printer printing?” And my personal favorite, “Where did my toolbar go?” I hope they all fall.

I thought about a murder-mystery room or one of those escape rooms. I quickly decided I didn’t want to be stuck in a room for any length of time with these guys that I wasn’t getting paid for. Back to square one, slitting my wrists.

I don’t have insurance where I work (cheap boss) and Covered California (which I pay for) isn’t super wonderful, so I can’t really afford to take any chances with this option yet either. My best recourse is to pretend that I’ve suffered some form of brain damage, probably temporary, while installing Christmas lights. This will render me incapable of managing the task I’ve been assigned. If I can point to toner and handle menial tasks my cover here won’t be blown. It should also allow me to keep conversation to a minimal. In this fashion, I should be able to keep from throat punching Leo or ripping out Mark’s eyes. It’s a win-win situation.

Who will plan Christmas? I don’t give a single, solitary, fuck. Not one. I hope Mark’s wife is a noodge. I hope she monitors his beer intake with raised eyebrows and makes everyone uncomfortable. I hope Leo’s wife complains about the menu again and how nothing says, “free-range” and then refuses to eat but tries to do it casually with forced laughter. I hope Sam gets belligerent drunk with Sean again and forces people dining at nearby tables to stare and feel pity. Craig and Rick are the self-respecting ones, I kinda like them. Their wives don’t suck either. Still not enough to make it worth my while to plan this shit-tastic holiday event. I’d rather shave my asshole with a daisy razor. 

On that visual note, I hope all your holiday planning and events go smoothly and are more fulfilling than mine. Merry fucking Christmas!

Monday, November 26, 2018

Death of a sex life

The saddest thing you can do is watch your sex life die. From the time we commit ourselves to a relationship, that’s exactly what starts happening. Here’s how it went down with mine.

[this is where I tell you that I still have sex, it’s just irregular and usually with clauses, conditions, or caveats – oh my!]

You probably think it’s especially morbid to talk about the death of my sex life. It’s cool; my husband and I already laughed about it. I got the green light to write to my heart’s content. That’s probably even more fucked up. The truth is, when it’s on – it’s red hot. When it’s not, well…we’ll get there.

I was in the shower, as I often am when these strokes of genius come (not cum) upon me; I knew I had to write. I couldn’t tell ya what sparked the topic of this blog. I have the shittiest memory recall ever. Maybe I was trying to think of a reason to get out having sex later that evening, maybe I was recalling one of our encounters – doesn’t really matter unless you’re a pervert and using this as yank material. The point is, I was overanalyzing…again.

I remember being 19, single, and making a concerted effort to pick out the “sexy panties” before going out for the evening. Great efforts were made in wardrobe selection and makeup application. Eat very little, drink plenty – that was how I lived. If I didn’t meet Mr. Right, I was pretty sure I’d get drunk enough to have a good time and probably meet Mr. Sure-To-End-Up-In-Jail. He was bound to provide entertainment and most likely another reason for my family to want to exclude me from holiday gatherings. Looking back, it’s a wonder I never spent time at the county jails bailing fuckers out.

Then, after some relationship hopping, most of us will settle on that one asshole we wish to call ours indefinitely. It happened to me, it’ll happen to you too. Fresh into this new relationship you’ll find that you can’t seem to keep your hands off one another. My husband and I found it exceptionally difficult to not have sex with one another. There was this magnetic pull that made it ok to have intercourse in cars outside of restaurants and engage in risqué behavior in public. We couldn’t help it. Pheromone junkies.

At some point, usually after a couple of years, stuff starts to slow down. At least for one of you. Admittedly, I am the car on the train that tapped the brakes.

In our relationship, things just found a natural rhythm. Sex was still a part of it, but by year 4 it was planned. Wednesday was sex night. Come Hell or high water, we were getting naked on Wednesday night. Even close friends knew that night was off the table on my social calendar. Pretty sexy, huh? Nothing like a little pre-planned sex to make you feel romantic, hot and bothered. Granted, it left a little to be desired in the way of spontaneity, but it served its purpose. We each got our cookies. It kept him in bed with me instead of the dispatcher at his work and it kept me from seeking attention from the toothless fuckers at the 7-11 near my work. I love a man in uniform.

Fast forward two more years and that tap on the brakes is now me double-pumping the brakes with both feet. That Wednesday night sex-session now has further stipulations too. I need a highlighter, protractor, pencil compass, and to consult the phases of the moon all before I can concede to coitus. Oh, and if I’ve already eaten dinner, you can forget all about any of it. I’ll be too full to even consider any of this. Death. Of. Sex.

Like I said before, when we’re on, it’s red hot. Each time I say, “why don’t we do this more often?”  Because planetary alignment is a thing and it’s fucking rare. I just compared our sex life to planetary alignment. That shit is way fucked up. Frequency is important and your odds at witnessing cosmic shit decrease if you’re asleep at 9 pm every night in flannel pajamas.

19 yr. old me is disgusted with 38 yr. old me.
38 yr. old me is far more confident than 19 yr. old me, she’s just tired and full.

I think there is a switch that gets thrown at 45 when I’m all pheromones again. Unfortunately, I think that’s when my husband slows down. Hopefully, we’ll be living in Australia by then and all the controls on the vehicle will be on my side. No brake tapping for him.