Thursday, May 2, 2019

Corduroy & Captain Poopy Pants


When you grow up overweight, there are two undeniable truths: That corduroy is not your friend. Not under any circumstance. Not ever. And that you will, without fail, be the last person picked from a lineup for all group sports – for all eternity or you lose weight and gain popularity – whichever comes first.

Adolescence, for me, was an emotional boot camp. I was broken several times over. It was fucking brutal. At 5’7” and 240 lbs., I didn’t fit where normal girls fit. I didn’t move through life like the other girls. Hell, I didn’t even move like one of the guys. I spent most of my time trying desperately to be as invisible as possible while occupying more physical space than any of my classmates; painfully aware of the disparity.

I wasn’t what one would have considered an academic, nor did I qualify as an athlete or a “jock” as we called them. I tried my hand at the whole “goth” craze that was happening, but all the desirable clothing was designed for someone who wore a size 0 or perhaps a 2 if she were bloated. I desperately wanted a homegroup; a place of residency within the social construct.

I found one.

We inhabited the carwash across the street from the high school. We were the miscreants. We were the smokers, the rejects, the misfits, and the have-nots. We were a sorry bunch of assholes. Cumulative GPA couldn’t have been higher than 3.0 and I attribute that to the hard work of, at best, 3 of us. This would be my family of choice.

Elementary, my dear


Kids are miserable pricks. In elementary school, I was teased, ridiculed, for the last name I carried. I took the last name of my step-father throughout elementary but ended up dropping it because the teasing was horrendous. I feel bad about it now. I didn’t have the fortitude at that age to just say “fuck off.” It seemed like the end of the world for me then. Relentless teasing all over my last name. I didn’t even have acne yet! I hadn’t even hit peak weight! Fucking assholes. My step-dad though, that guy is a fucking Saint. No one puts up with the amount of shit my mother and I put him through and continues to pick up the phone when we call – no one! They’re divorced now. Both re-married. It is what it is. They’re both healthier people now, blah-blah-blah.

I remember recess and dodgeball. Being the team captain was important. I don’t remember how the captain was chosen. I imagine it had something to do with influence; who had the most of it. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it wasn’t randomized. The captains' would then (after deciding who chose first) begin selecting players to form their teams. You remember how this shit goes, right? Back and forth, selections based on favoritism, skill, and apparel. That’s right, clothing. If your threads were tired, you were about as likely to be picked as a three-legged dog with one eye and mange from the shelter. It could happen though, dreams come true for special doggies and kids just like you sometimes.

Such was the case for Jeff. I’ll leave his last name out of this. Jeff was exceptionally bright. He was a math genius and a minority. I’ll leave you to guess which one. Jeff’s intellect was a strike against him in this instance. No one likes a smart kid, especially when it comes to sports. Jeff had a meek nature about him too. He always seemed frightened of things. I think that he may have been ground zero for gluten allergies, probably grass too. Jeff’s second strike against him was his threads. He always wore royal blue pants (floods), and some type of plaid short-sleeved shirt, tucked in. We used to say that he only had one pair of pants that he wore daily. It was a shitty thing to say.

(dodgeball selection process nearly completed)

Jeff, one other bastard, and I are the only ones left to be “teamed up.” The bastard is picked. Motherfucker! Next up: the mathematician??!! Really?! I am last and by default. Fantastic. This is doing wonders for my self-esteem. I’m wearing my favorite burgundy corduroy pants. I hang my head and slowly walk to my place with my team. My thighs are sending signals, giving up my location, to anyone in the immediate area. Discretion is not an option in these pants. Swish, swish, swish. I am further shamed. I am the poster child for latent rage.

“Game on!”

Normal play begins and one by one people are getting picked off. The strategy is to always go for the weakest individuals first. It’s just like in the animal kingdom, take down the weakest, the one with few defenses.

You’d think that Jeff and I would be first to go, but Jeff is quite apt to use others as a human shield and for as large and imposing as I was, people seemed unable to hit me. Is there some law in physics that states that the larger an object is, the harder it is to identify? Did I miss that class? The mechanics of the game seem straightforward: hit the big, mostly stationary object with a ball. Yet here I was, one of last standing team members.  Jeff and I lock eyes. This motherfucker is not using me like a goddamn shield!

The ball is hurled across the court and in extremely slow motion, Jeff, having no other option at this point, catches it. He doubles over, presumably from the force. He stays in this position with the ball curled into his stomach for an unusually long time. Classmates are excited and shocked to see that our very own math fairy has triumphed over his fear of everything not decimal related, but Jeff still isn’t moving. Teachers begin to approach slowly.

We’re told to back away and continue playing elsewhere. Jeff has a death grip on the red ball. He lurches across the blacktop, like Quasimodo, sneering at the other children as he passes.

As it turns it out, Jeff shit his pants playing ball that day. Sure, he may have had a hero moment, but it ended abruptly when he unloaded his breakfast into his royal blue trousers. Given the amount of crap we gave him for wearing the same “uniform” every day, one would imagine that having this experience would prompt Jeff to switch up his routine. Not so much. Jeff showed up to school the very next day wearing royal blue pants and a plaid short-sleeved shirt, tucked in. Bold move, my nerdy friend.

I have no idea where Jeff is now or what he’s made of himself. I’m sure he’s doing well and has soft hands. He has probably never played another team sport just like I have never worn another pair of corduroy pants.

Kids are terrible little beasts. Growing up you will be wise to find someone sorrier than yourself and nurture that. It saved me; it could help you too. Thanks for taking one for the team, Jeff. You’re a real sport!














Friday, April 26, 2019

8 years, 7 months, & 26 days later


8 years, 7 months, & 26 days ago I first made your acquaintance. It must have been an exhausting shift at the restaurant I was working at because I missed all the signs that evening; all the flares going off behind you like fireworks.

I came home, trudging up the stairs of my shared apartment, smelling like an amalgamation of raw fish and fine Italian cuisine. I had pulled a double that evening – working the sushi bar that afternoon and closing out my night at the Trattoria. You greeted me at the top of the stairs; I’d never seen you before. Your nose was predominant and oily. My roommate came rushing out from her room to introduce you.

I stood, frozen on the stairs, exhausted. I fixated on you. You looked down at me from the top step holding a tray of mixed store-bought sushi (even now I cringe) and prosciutto wrapped mozzarella. This should have been the first of many indicators that you were no good. I should have torn you to shreds right where you stood. No one with any class whatsoever brings store-bought sushi to a party and certainly doesn’t serve it alongside said prosciutto. Who the fuck are you?

Moving my eyes upward from the atrocity in your arms, I zero in on your shirt. It’s not terrible, but you obviously think you’re headed for a more tropical climate than that in which we currently reside. You’ve unbuttoned it just enough to let the off-white wife-beater peak through, pushing aside the 3 chest hairs that have made their way up, like a plant searching for sunlight. But the worst offense yet rests on your head, slanted to one side. You are wearing a goddamn fedora. Not just any fedora either, it’s a Disney fedora. Jack Skellington? It’s bad enough you’re wearing a fedora (and cocked to the side like a dick slit) but must you also incorporate a cartoon character? My roommate didn’t tell me that we’d be babysitting on New Year’s Eve. I thought I’d be in the company of adults all evening.

Just then you put down the tray of food poisoning, offered to assist me the rest of the way up the 4 remaining stairs (thanks, Prince Charming), and produced two bottles of wine from thin air. At this point, I have forgiven the oily nose & horrendous hors d'oeuvre choice. I can help you make better choices in the future. Let’s discuss where you went wrong over a glass or two of wine.

Two bottles of wine, some tequila shared childhood trauma, and a trip to Jack in the Box later, and we’ve bonded – soulmate bonded. I’m pretty sure we’re going to get married. There’s just one small problem – your current, live-in girlfriend. Ours will be the shit fairytales are scripted around. Urban, co-dependent, addiction-based fairytales.

I’m persuasive and within a month I was no longer your side bitch. You’d kicked out your girlfriend and I was moving in. I’m just that good, I guess. It’s wretched really. If I thought about it for too long, I was miserable. It wasn’t anything that a stiff drink couldn’t fix though, and you were never shy about pouring me a drink. In fact, since the night that we met, that’s all we seemed to do. Celebrate? Let’s have a drink! Worries? Drink! And when we were angry, we drank too.

It seems like the “getting angry” part came quickly in our relationship. I guess that’s a natural progression when your foundation is greed, booze, hurt, and shame. The most troubling part of this whole mess is that we both had children; innocent children we were dragging through the muck. Convinced that we were creating the modern version of The Brady Bunch, we played house in our dysfunctional way. You had your son 100% of the time. You told me about your ex-wife. You painted her a drug addict and a loser mom. You told me you had "locked her inside the house for her own good" when you went to work. Only now do I question how much of what you say is true.

I’m not beyond reproach; I was looking to escape you. The way you smoked your cigarettes irritated me. To this day, I can still hear you pulling from off your cigarette; your thin lips releasing their grip from the filter and the deep, obnoxious inhale you’d take. You’d pinch the filter between your fingers, like an asshole, and take another repellent drag, drying my vagina. We’d order another round of drinks, all was forgiven.

By this time, however, I had caught the attention of the bartender. He liked a girl who could shoot & hold her whiskey. One evening he called you a “lucky sonofabitch” for being able to land a lady who looked the way that I did but could still handle her drink. It was the highest form of compliment I had ever received. I began to unravel your perfect relationship.

I was secretive and untrustworthy. Your fragile ego suffered and sought to retaliate. You didn’t want to let me go, only humiliate and hurt me. I didn’t want to let you go either; you served a purpose for me. You allowed me to be the worst possible form of myself – you allowed me to be an alcoholic. Indeed, you fed it. You cradled and nurtured the beast in me, and I loved you for it. I needed you for it.

It would be another year of heavy drinking and intense arguments. You’d scream at me in front of the children and pin me against the wall by my throat. I’d beg you to stop. You’d tell me to get on my knees and tell you why I deserved to still be your girlfriend. I would have done anything to make it all stop. I would have done anything to ensure that I could continue drinking. I would have done anything except leave you.

The truth is, I don’t remember how or why those arguments started in the first place. As a first class drunk, I can’t remember if I said something terrible or if I simply forgot to switch the laundry over. I don’t remember if you had gone through my phone and my emails again or if I had passed out on the couch and that’s what had angered you this time. I’m not a defenseless woman but I didn’t fight back for a long time. I was afraid of all that I had to lose. And what did I have to lose?

8 years, 7 months, & 26 days later I know what I lost. I lost someone who was okay pushing me downstairs, dragging me by my hair, violating my privacy, harming me in front of children, and degrading me. I’m not ever fully free of this individual. My dependence on him for the time that we were together was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. His sickness, his ability to control and manipulate, arresting.

The last time that you struck me we had both been drinking Jack Daniels. We had likely been drinking since you got home from work. I had probably been drinking for longer. I don’t remember much from that evening. I don’t remember why we had begun to argue, it seemed so commonplace by that point. I hated you. I hated being with you. I hated fucking you. I hated myself with you. I had lost everything, in my opinion, because of you. Here I was though, in miserable Florida, without my son, treating yours as mine. Sometimes, enough is enough.

After that night, nothing was the same.

You’d always had a problem with self-esteem and your ego often took the driver’s seat. That night when you punched me, I finally fought back. I was tired of being told that I wasn’t deserving of your love. I would never wish your brand of love on anyone. You didn’t respond well to my form of self-advocacy. I’d be dragged around your parent’s home by my hair for a bit. They fucking watched you drag me around their living room! They probably thought I deserved it. Maybe I screwed up your dinner. Doesn’t matter, the next day, both of us with black eyes, finally understood. This is fucked up!

You asked me to leave. I hated you for it. I had left everything behind to be with you, even after you fucked everything up for me in the first place. The reality is, I was an alcoholic – I made terrible choices. I spiraled out of control and one bad decision led to shame and guilt. At the end of each of my bad decisions, there you were, with a drink and a promise: It was all going to be okay. I honestly didn’t care how it ended just so long as you kept me in my cups.

There came the day though, that I was more afraid of you, more afraid of myself, more afraid of not being all that I was intended to be than I was of facing all the shit that I had or hadn’t done. I had not been a mother. I had not been a daughter. We are told that we must forgive ourselves if we are to be successful in our recovery but how do you truly forgive choosing a bottle and man over our own flesh and blood? A child that I gave birth to; felt move within me, I was able to cast aside so that I could stay drunk. I missed him. There’s not an easier way to say that, no way that encapsulates it more clearly than: I missed him.

I’ve been sober for several years now. I’m supposed to want the best for you. I don’t. I’m supposed to forgive you. I do. I think you’re a miserable human being and deserve to have someone bigger than you and equally miserable beat the shit out of you and make you feel tiny and insignificant. I hope that you feel as irrelevant as you made me feel. I hope you get help too. I hope that you end whatever cycle of bullshit you have going on; I pray you don’t pass that on to your son.

Should we ever see one another again, make no mistake, we are NOT friends. You may NOT speak to me ever again. You may NOT speak to, or say hello to, my son. I have crafted a sense of safety and personal freedom. You may NEVER infringe upon that again.

It has been 8 years, 7 months, & 26 days since I first laid eyes on you. God willing, I never have to do it ever again.













Tuesday, April 23, 2019

Suck it!


I am on the precipice of a mental breakdown and my co-worker is a sudden gust of wind blowing manufactured trauma through the office. “Why should I have to ask for a straw?” he grumbles, sending shock waves of disgust coursing through my racked body. Because you just do, you entitled fuckwad. Is it so hard to ask for a fucking straw? Are you so ridiculously entitled that you think these things are your right of ownership? Is it just me, or is it just a goddamn straw? Ask for it, say thank you, and be done with it. Even the marine life is tired of hearing this guy bitch about it. Somewhere, a sea turtle is sharpening a straw against the coral reef; turning it into a weapon. Fuck this straw crybaby!

People who complain about the tax on grocery bags are equally pathetic. Here’s the thing, the people voted on it. So, the majority decided to implement the bag tax. You don’t approve of that outcome? Too bad. Shit won’t always work in your favor. Quit wailing about how “unfair” it is; get yourself some reusable bags. Stop being a sniveling pussy. Or, pay the fucking 10 cents. It’s not price gouging, assholes.

Crash Course: Today, the population of the world is roughly 7,795,482,309. That means more than just you. I could spend an eternity breaking this down into minutia about population and voting demographics, or I could simply tell you that there are a plethora of opinions and that you are not the only one out there casting a vote. A bit egocentric, no?

Gas prices are rising. Yeah, it sucks. I get it. While you’re yelling at me about prop 6 and how I fucked up, let’s not forget how it’s not a renewable resource though. Tell me all about your pump woes while you’re filing the Super Duty truck that you purchased of your own accord. I’d love to hear how that wasn’t a choice that you made.

The bottom line is, for better or worse, we’re in this bullshit together. There’s plenty of shit I don’t endorse and don’t cry about on a regular basis. Why? Because I’m outnumbered. The Bachelor, for example. We’re going to make a reality show about a rich guy that several chicks are trying to bang and marry? Fascinating. Color me enthralled. POTUS? I didn’t vote for him. I also don’t bash him or cry about his batshit policies and childish antics with equal fervor.

There is certain to be a backlash. I’ve outed myself as a bag tax loving, gas hike embracing, progressive. I’ll take my lumps like a big girl. What I’ll also do like a big girl, is ask for a mother fucking straw when I want one without being a little bitch about it.  






Wednesday, April 10, 2019

You Drive A Mauve Truck?




So, on my way to work this morning I was passed by a mauve (yes, mauve) Dodge Ram ‘End of Days, Crusader Series,’ truck. My initial thought was: isn’t that a Revlon lipstick shade? I think that’s #237, Rum Raisin. Next thought: that dude is super secure in his masculinity, more power to him! I mean, we are never fucking, but more power to him.

You may question how I can be sure it was a man driving this domineering powder-puff and not a confident, self-reliant woman. Well, I did what any good investigative journalist would do. I punched it and got alongside the vehicle.

Our eyes locked - the moment taut between us. I surmise he was trying to establish whether I was hitting on him or not. He glanced over his shoulder at the median, as though someone else was the focus of my attention. I burst into laughter realizing what had happened and let my vehicle fall behind.

Sir, you’re driving a massive truck the color of a dog’s slick erection. There is no chance in Heaven that I am eyeballing you.

 Image result for dog erection

I began to let my mind wander. What if this dude came to pick me up for our first date? What would happen when I stepped outside and saw the wiener-mobile? Would I pretend that this was a mistake? “I’m sorry, you must have me mistaken for someone else?” then shut the door on him & turn all the house lights off?

I’m not saying dudes can’t drive traditionally “feminine” colored vehicles, but this one was over the top. This would be like Avon and Mary-Kay fucking on your porch and leaving its lovechild behind. It’s what would happen if you turned a dolphin-shaped dildo into a battering ram – a visual assault unparalleled. My vagina has never been so dry. My nipples actually inverted themselves; went into hiding. Witness protection for the titties.

There’s surely any number of good reasons why this guy could have been driving his lady’s truck. Was he helping her make repairs to it? She has a busy schedule between mud wrestling gators and canning pigs’ feet – cleaning the undercarriage may have put her behind schedule to watch NACAR with the girls at the salon.  

And...I'm stereotyping again. I get it. I have premium seats in Hell reserved. Front row, in fact.

Listen, far be it from me to dictate what color car you should drive. Most days I can’t put underwear on without almost falling over. I ask my 11-yr. old son for advice on which shoes I should wear; clearly, I am in no position to throw stones. Just know that when you drive around in a beast of a truck the color of “dog erection,” I am going to formulate a storyline around you & your choices. It’s likely they’ll wind up here too. It’s all in good fun, it just so happens to be at your expense.



























Friday, April 5, 2019

Best Foot Forward, Bitches

I've got an upcoming speaking event. I fucking hate public speaking. It's not as though it's a topic that's foreign to me or anything that I should need to study up on first; I am literally standing in front of a group of peers and talking about my favorite topic. Me. 

The thing is, public speaking is nothing like writing. When I begin to stammer, my voice quakes, and I misuse words or draw a blank, I can't blurt out "backspace, backspace, backspace." Those assholes are stuck with me fumbling around until I get my bearings again - if I ever regain them at all. This ought to be a riot. 

That's not what this post is about though. This is just to crack my creative knuckles. 

Let's have a moment of silence to pay tribute to some true heroes; those people who touch our feet at the nail salon. I SAID SILENCE - QUIT LAUGHING!! 

Sure, the doctor that cures that nasty (and not talked about) rash you have is pretty dope. The veterinarian that takes care of your pet that you were sure wasn't going to make it is a fucking godsend. But have you considered the cosmetologist who's seated on an uncomfortable little stool and fucks with your gnarly feet while barely speaking for hours on end? Probably not. I hadn't given it much thought either until just the other day. 

I was at the salon getting my nails done when the "kind" woman repeatedly asked me, rather annoyingly, if I wanted a pedicure. No, bitch, I didn't want one the first time you offered, this third offer hasn't made me any more ready to kick off my sweaty gym shoes. I have no desire to put myself through that kind of shame. Nor do I wish hardship of that sort on these women. Except for that woman with the platform sandals; she's been eyeballing me hard since I arrived. Fuck her.

Pedicures must be where they make the real money. Perhaps it's why they jam it down your throat like a 16-yr. old boy trying to French kiss for the first time. When that doesn't work, they'll try sneaking it up the back of your skirt; like an over-eager teen who's already been told "no." 

Recalling all the times I have had a pedicure done, I shudder. Some nasty-ass shit happens in those spa chairs. Things that shouldn't be seen, let alone repeated. 

These cosmetologists subject themselves to some downright nauseating sights in the name of the almighty dollar. You can't pay me enough to hoist your lifeless limb, with all its nasty veins, bruises, and skin folds, into the air & then scrub away at foot cheese. Fuck that, and fuck you very much. 

Oh, you're hoping we can make small talk? Sure, let's talk about how you need to take better care of your goddamn feet. Did you know that your toenails are 3" thick and three different shades of yellow? I need a fucking chainsaw to do any real damage to these sonsofbitches. 

There are 4 people right now that are super pissed off at me. Why are you fungus shaming people? I'm not. Get over yourself. Get your situation cleared up and get over yourself. I'm honoring the people that touch your hideous feet. 

Be honest, you don't even like your feet. That's why you pay someone else to touch them. 5 bucks shouldn't even scratch the surface of what these folks are due. I've seen toes that cross the toes next to them like they're creating some forever secret pact. I've seen toenails that are blackened and bumpy. What the fuck is that shit about? Vanity is a fucked up thing. I want to be attractive and feminine but at what cost? To myself and others? 

It's been more than 5 months since I last went in for a pedicure. I'm a cheap-ass. There's nothing wrong with my toes and my varicose veins haven't quite made the "Dear God, put them bitches away" list yet. I'm hoping to achieve this soon. My dream is to never again wear shorts and move to cooler temps. 

I'm naturally of a pale-ish olive complexion. Somewhere between "Mexican looking" and "please don't leave me at the border crossing, I don't know how to knife fight yet." 

Wherever we move, I want to be the darkest bitch in the hood. I want to be the woman the locals flock to for ideas and recipes for multicultural events and potlucks. 

These are just wistful dreams. Let's back to those nasty feet. 

All I'm saying is this: the next time you set your hobbit feet into a tub of water and make bullshit small-talk with someone who's probably been hunched over stank feet for the last four hours, dig deep when you tip. 

Remember, you're no peach to deal with either. You're probably asking for some ridiculous shit like a flower on the wrong goddamn toe, or you're one of those insufferable bitches that are never satisfied. And for fuck's sake, don't immediately try to put on shoes and fuck up the whole damn thing then get pissed like it's their fault. There's a special place in Hell for you bitches. 









Thursday, March 28, 2019

Mercury can piss off already



For the last few weeks, I’ve been in a slump of sorts. I lack the confidence that previously I felt I had in spades. That’s what most call arrogance, unearned or undeserved arrogance at that.

I've questioned whether I’m meant for more than answering phones in a halfway ramshackle office on the industrial side of town. Am I capable of more? I manage the payroll here too, so don’t everyone get dizzy with praise at once. What I mean is, I never earned a degree in anything aside from bullshitting you out of your lunch money or co-dependent behavior. I have a Ph.D. in that one.

I spend the better part of each day thumbing through endless pages of others’ lives on my mobile device and think: how the fuck did this piece of shit get that job? Brazen of me, right? What the hell else am I to do with 8 hours of time on my hands and an inexhaustible amount of self-loathing?

I have writer friends. I dare not read their posts lately although I do make a few exceptions. It sends me into a spiral of tearing apart my own writing. I have no style - no stylistic techniques or strategies. I follow no grammatical rules. I write what the fuck I want, how I want. My brain is a train wreck, thus, my writing tends to follow suit, ergo, the task of writing has proven consternating.

Recently I applied for a job I knew I had no shot of getting. I didn’t apply for the Secret Service or anything, although I do believe my ass would look amazing in a pair of those standard-issue black trousers. I’ve got better sense than that. It was a position at an aerospace tech company. So, as I said, not a snowballs chance in Hell. For clarification, they wanted office support, not unlike what I do now. It’s not as if I’d be given fucking launch codes. 

I threw a tweet out into the void about attaching my Twitter profile to a job application. OMFG! Yep, I did that. Yes, it was for this job. It would appear, by all rights, that I intended to be dismissed, before ever having been considered.

There are a couple of things to keep in mind here. The first being that I keep it real on my Twitter profile. If you read it there, chances are, some part of that shit is real. The second is that if this employer DID happen to glance to at my profile and STILL decided to call me in for an interview, well, that shit is on them! 

Who the fuck sees my profile as an enhancement to my “less-than-polished” resume? In white font at the bottom of pg.3, (everyone loves a 3-pg. resume), I have added: Have knee pads, willing to travel for work.  

Oh, you'd like to know what happened with the aerospace job? Sadly, but predictably, the position had been filled. They thanked me in a formulaic template letter.

I didn’t apply because I wanted to or intended to leave the shitty job I already have. I love these pieces of shit I work with. I also hate them and wish death on them in horrible, ghastly ways at least twice a week. I once threatened to leave my used tampons on Tim's desk if he didn't stop pissing on my toilet seat. If that's not hardcore, I don't know what is. There is a designated Men's room. Quit pissing all over mine. Last time I checked, I have a vagina and piss sitting down. Unless you do too, you should be using the other restroom - the one located next door. So much love between us. 

That aerospace company is going to miss out on having someone like me on their team. I'm marginally motivated, somewhat punctual, and my vernacular is flowery as fuck. 

I didn't get the stupid job, so the fuck what! I still don't know what my passion is. Maybe that's ok? What I know is this: I took the fucking shot. You miss out on 100% of the shit you don't try. If they had come back and said, "You're just too much," I would have been proud of that. At least I was something. At least I was trying to live.












            
·      

Tuesday, March 19, 2019

I Paid For This Shit?

I'm a proponent of "gettin' your shit right."  What does that mean?  Allow me to elaborate.  

If you're a jackass, you need someone to tell you as much.  Probably because you are a jackass and are incapable of seeing the error in your actions and/or behaviors.  It's human, don't go stick your head in the toilet; there may be help for you yet. 

I consider myself to be reasonably self-aware.  I'm not infallible, just capable of seeing where I've been a douche canoe, given enough time.  Usually, there is a fair amount of passive-aggressive, "woe-is-me" type behavior that takes place first.   I might spend a few days complaining to friends about how shitty my life is, or sleep in the adjoining room - you know, to drive the point home. 

Eventually, I get to the place where I'm willing to look at my own bullshit.  I won't admit it to the person I have the conflict with though.  Why the fuck would I do that?  I'm not willingly sinking my own battleship yet.  I have to exhaust all other avenues.  I want to come to a mutual understanding that we've both made mistakes.  When I've sucked my thumb for long enough, I'll seek professional help.  That's where this story begins. 

The Lobster and I had been experiencing difficulties in some areas of communication.  I would ask, then speak firmly, then with some disdain, finally, I'd given up and gotten downright pissed off.  This had gone on for some time surrounding a particular issue.  I felt pretty hopelessly about the situation, but more importantly, I felt invalidated.  My battleship was taking on water fast. 

I know that I can't change people, much as I would like for that to be the case. I'm only able to change my behavior and responses to stimuli.  Barring a full frontal lobotomy, the only option I saw available to me was to allow Kaiser to drain my checking account $65 each visit for a copay until I was able to stop being a fucking asshole.  This was clearly going to cost me a lot of money. 

I walked into the psychiatry department at Kaiser Permanente on a sunny Monday morning.  I'd had my ritualistic cup of coffee and had already been into the office for a brief stint.  I was able to escape without anyone irritating me or asking me to do some lame shit that they're capable of, just too lazy to do on their own.  By all rights, this day was supposed to be a slam dunk.  I was supposed to walk in, they were going to take my money, & then they were going to start fixing the broken shit in my head. 

That's not what the hell happened. 

I gave the little therapist man with the soft eyes the run-down of my troubles. I told him that I understood that I can't change people; I can only change me.  So, how to do I go from how I'm feeling, to utilizing some healthier coping skills?  What are some better communication tools? Clearly withholding sex and not preparing dinner isn't working.  He just eats cereal and jerks off in the bathroom once I've fallen asleep in the other bedroom.  I can't blame him.  Pornhub is in my "recently viewed" items as well.  No shame.  

I could choose to be happy about the fact that apparently, I'm not crazy. My points are valid. But also, this dude, for all his $65 bucks, is not helping me.  He told me essentially, he ain't got shit for me.  

I paid money to tell this guy, who according to his business card, is an addiction specialist, how the program I work has taught me to handle these situations; how I have a part in all of my interactions.  It's my job to find them.  I know where I can improve, that's why I'm here, motherfucker - help me.  I know where not necessarily how.  Show me how to stop being such a throbbing tool.

Then, in typical therapist form, he folded his little hands, clasping his fingers together. He brought his hands up to his face and rested his fingers on his chin. I shit you not, he said, "This can't feel very good, can it?" Yes, asshole, it feels magnificent. Like getting laid on a Thursday in the middle of the afternoon in a field of tulips. What the fuck kind of question is that? Did you all rebrand the whole "How does that make you feel?" bullshit?  Incredible.  I'd hip-throw him into a wall if he weren't so little and kind. 

Our session ended with him telling me that couples therapy was needed, which I interpreted as, "You're not the jackass here." 

The Lobster and I are making progress in our communication and will continue to work towards relationship growth. I think it helped to hear that my feelings are valid, even if my hearing it had to come from a little Hispanic man with soft eyes, small hands, and a moose knuckle that I paid money to stare at for 45 minutes. 











Monday, March 11, 2019

Accessorizing for the Afterlife

I've conceptualized the afterlife. For the most part at least. I still have some questions. 

When we die, and we go to Heaven, because that's where my ticket is stamped for, do we need to pack a bag? If so, I could be fucked. 

When checking myself into rehab, I did a stellar job of packing for the occasion. I remember, only now, being shitfaced-hammered and haphazardly emptying the contents of my dresser into my luggage. Furiously, I grabbed at items on hangars in my closet and fumbled through the motions of folding. I placed the items into my suitcases as best I could, seeing double and barely able to stand. 

You may scoff, but this is a legitimate question. The last couple of weeks I've been daunted by thoughts of mortality, dying, Heaven, Hell, and where I'll set up my lawn chair once I get there. If limbo is real, I hope they don't serve ambrosia while playing U2 over a loudspeaker. That would be the most excruciating way for me to spend eternity.  

Once I had arrived at my rehabilitation center and had a chance to unpack, that's when I understood the gravity of my situation. I'd need to call for backup. Houston, we have a problem.

Attempting to put my belongings away in my new temporary home, I was shocked at how well I'd managed to pack for detox and rehab. 
  • 1 French maid outfit
  • 3 bikini's
  • 2 more lingerie outfits, although not of the French maid scope
  • Business attire
  • 1 silk robe, purple 
  • 2 pair of flip-flops 
  • Zero personal hygiene products 
  • and 1 pair of high heels - stiletto  
So, I ask you again, will I be required to pack for the everlasting or does shit just magically appear as needed? I've seen "The Good Place." They didn't pack, they just died. Even I can manage that. It seems that they just ask for stuff and that fem-bot, Janet, makes it appear. Will there be a "Janet" in my version of Heaven? Can she wipe U2 from all of history? That would be ah-may-zing! Swipe which direction to reject? Yes, that. I would do that to U2 and ambrosia salad. 

I've done some pretty terrible shit in my time on this planet. There's plenty of time for me to fuck up some more too. I've also done some halfway redeemable crap. I'm middle of the road as far as human beings go, I think. Then again, isn't it always the ones who fancy themselves that usually have the biggest, foulest load of shit in their pants? I digress. 

Will it always be sunny in Heaven? Should I pack dresses? Will it be windy? Perhaps a coat is in order? Should I count on bringing plenty of underwear or can I just bring a week's worth and trust that no one is going to bogart the washing machine? That brings me to my next question: BYOB? [Bring your own bleach]

Time is running short. I'd like to touch on what one should pack for an everlasting Hellscape, but I have to go pick my kid up from school, so it's kind of the same thing. 

Until next time...




Saturday, March 9, 2019

Dante's Shade of Lent



Hey, did ya'll know that Lent is upon us? Fan-fuckin-tastic! 40 days of guilt and shame; like I can't do that shit on my own. Thanks! 

I was raised Catholic. By "raised Catholic" I mean to say I was forced to attend catechism classes. I much rather would have been reading Sweet Valley High books or Seventeen Magazine.

I had my First Holy Communion when I was 12. From there it was simple spitting distance to a position as an esteemed altar girl on Sunday's at Spanish mass. Pretty sure that even then I just wanted to compete with my Cousin who'd done that shit voluntarily because she was a believer and loved the Lord. I also probably wanted to get after some of that Holy wine. I had a heavy paw while helping the Father's hand lifting the cup to my eager face. Still, I'd make my Grandmother proud.

I'm a recovering Catholic these days. What does that mean?

Simply put, it means this: I attend services when I feel like it. Usually, they're of the Christian faith. Why? Less guilt, more acceptance. I still attend Catholic mass on Easter. Why? Because I'll go directly to Hell if I don't. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. I attend Spanish services on the rare occasion my Grandmother is in town and we are in each other's company on a Sunday. She lives in Mexico so you can gather how frequently that shit goes down.

Every year when Lent rolls around, I squirm with unease. What am I going to part with? I'm certain I'm going to Catholic Hell anyway, so does this practice even matter? Does my eating a steak on Friday really change the trajectory of my eternal soul?

Here's the thing: God is supposed to love us, right? And all our shitty debt has been paid, right? So, if we believe and do our best, is that sugar on my cereal going to mean infinite damnation? Really? And if that's the nail that closes my coffin forever, why am I seated in front of this computer recounting Dante's Inferno and the circles of Hell, tallying up my misdemeanors and criminal offenses? What the fuck is the point? Have you read that shit lately?

For being lustful or having desires of the flesh, I am subject to having my soul tossed about amid violent winds during a storm, forever without rest. Are you fucking kidding me? Shit, I was "agitated" and wanted to screw just the other day. I had been thinking about it the whole ride home from work. I planned to walk in the door and proclaim my demand: "Here, on this piece of furniture, now!" 

Imagine that, having eternal unrest for wanting to fuck my husband. I'm not off to a good start on this whole "Inferno Safari."

Let's move along to the next circle: Gluttony. Might as well just skip to the punishment on this one. Who hasn't gone after the extra dumpling or indulged in too many cocktails? Who hasn't bought a pair of shoes that were a little on the pricey side but also been proud of that shit? Better settle in, shitstains. Guess what's in store for us?

In putrid stink we wallow around on our hands and knees, sightless, to symbolize how selfish and ignorant of our neighbors we are. I'm not ignorant of my neighbor. The son-of-a-bitch next door smokes so much weed you can't help but know he's there. This can only be half true for me.

Are you getting the gist of this yet? What's the point in performing or sacrificing if I'm fucked right out the gate?  The rest of the circles are greed, wrath, heresy, violence, fraud, & treachery. Do some research on your own, I can't do all of this for you. 

I'm sorry Grandma, I suck at this Catholic thing. I really wanted to make you happy, but cows taste good and so far I'm already a sightless mess rooting around in vile slush after having been beaten around in a violent storm. I think this Lent thing might not be my shade of dedication. 










Monday, March 4, 2019

Tits R Us

Had an uplifting talk with my mother-in-law about boobs the other day. I highly recommend it. 

If you believe your life may be lacking that semi-awkward, probably inappropriate, what's certain to be a hilarious conversation, may I suggest the topic of tits? 

We were on our way home from church; that's where all side-splitting stories begin, after all. 

I don't recall what launched this line of conversation. Perhaps I was trash-talking some woman I saw in church. Not outside the realm of possibility. In fact, right up my alley. Had I begun singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"? Who knows? 

Here we were though, in my car, on our way home from Sunday church, talking about breasts. 

There are times when I'd like to have a nicer, fuller, rack. Out with my husband, all the other bitches are wearing nice cocktail dresses - losing morsels of their dinner in their cleavage, I'm frantically checking, ensuring my tits don't look like they belong to someone 40 years my senior. 

Are they droopy? Are they wrinkled? There's so much space between them, should I paint a rainbow on my chest? Maybe place a leprechaun with a pot of gold near one tit and a happy little cloud near the other? You can paint a landscape between my tits. It's depressing. 

I feel as if I should be protecting my mother-in-law's identity. I know she loves me but being associated with me is another thing entirely. Even my own mother will deny ties to me if I do stupid shit. There is a small chance my mother-in-law, or someone she knows will read this. I'd hate for this to be the blog that embarrassed her. I'm pretty adept at screwing shit up

I struggle to get my boobs into a sports bra as it stands. I can't imagine hoisting big 'uns into and out of an Ace bandage with spandex and added shoulder straps. Fuck that. 

Lobster's mom told me that she envied me. She's seen my bras [true story] and would be thrilled to have my size breasts. She's only a few inches away from being able to tuck hers into her belt. I reassured her that even small titties can be sad...so very sad and droopy. We'll get there, back to why she's seen my panties. 

For the last couple of weeks, Lobster's mom has been visiting with us. I truly love having her. My home has never seen so many of its repair projects completed. It's a beautiful thing! She's also a marvelous gym companion in the evening.

While I'm gone at work during the day, she has been doing my laundry. I don't ask her to do this, so you all can just chill the fuck out. When I get home though, she's neatly folded all my thong underwear into cute little squares and put them away for me. She's Marie Kondo'd my panties. 

I tell her that even with little boobs, you still face troubles; especially if you've had children. For instance, I have enough skin towards the top that I could probably wipe away tears if needed. They're still a nice little handful, but it's the quality of that handful that's questionable. 

If my boobs were a lawn ornament, they'd be one of those Christmas inflatables that people leave on their lawn. Not when they're nicely inflated and lit up at night - no. My boobs are the daytime model. The kind that are propped up by a yardstick, waiting for nightfall and someone to turn the air compressor on. 

Sometimes I picture little Lego men marching out across my torso carrying toothpicks. They come to a halt under my boobs and sound the trumpets. In synchronicity, they hoist up my girls and wedge the toothpicks under my deflated windsocks. The trumpets sound again and they march off into the vast canvas of my back. 

I also need to remember Summer. Heat is a bitch when you've got fun bags. The only time I like to sweat is when it's intentional. The only places I enjoy sweating from are places I know I'm supposed to: my head & sometimes my underarms. Everything else is pretty much trickle down from my head. In NO way do I enjoy sweating underneath my breasts. I don't enjoy excusing myself to the bathroom to mop up my tits. I don't like titty sweat stains either. Not particularly sexy, if you ask me. 

Conceivably, small ones aren't that bad. 

My husband sent me a lovely photo today with the caption: "Men love these." 

So, there you have it, men appreciate anything that resembles a boob. All that really matters is that there are no more than two and the yolks aren't broken. Notice he even added butter pad nipples? Extra points for accuracy.