Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Rare candor, you won't get it again - get it while it's hot

After reading my latest blog installment, a friend of mine told me today that if I didn’t relax, I was going to have a heart attack. Sound harsh? Maybe so, but it got me thinking. Here’s the materialization of those thoughts in word form.

I’m old. You may not be surprised by this. I wasn’t shocked initially either. Then I realized I’m old and judgmental. I already know I’m going to catch shit for this; I’ll buckle myself in now.

I see people post things to various media forums and I’m shocked at the lack of modesty. I’m not a fucking prude by any stretch of the imagination, but for fuck’s sake, if everything out of the void you call a mouth is about being horny you’re not leaving much to the imagination. You’ve also just told me that you are essentially about as bright as an 18 yr. old boy. Congrats on that. Now, I will admit that usually I’m pissed because it’s a chick and she has a nice rack – but c’mon ladies…show us what ELSE you’re working with. Men, you’ve proven susceptible and too gullible to be taken seriously. Also, if I have to look at one more sideways ball-cap, torso bathroom picture, or bicep photo in any manner, I will perform my own hysterectomy with a butter knife and a Flowbee. Like I said; I’m old and judgmental. I’m no longer suitable for social media.

The other thing I came to understand is that I am pretty empathetic. Don’t everyone choke on whatever the fuck it is you’re shoving in your face at once. Please don’t confuse empathetic with pathetic. While it’s true that I’m both of these things, the point I’m attempting to make is this: I feel deeply for and with others. I’m emotionally kicked in the teeth when people are in pain, when they’re happy I celebrate with them. I’m a fucking sponge and it’s miserable and fantastic. Depending on the news that day, I can spin into a depression for a few days if I’m not prepared and not practicing self-care. I spend an inordinate amount of time pretending that I don’t give a fuck and you don’t matter. The truth is, it all matters and it all hurts. I think that I’m attempting to defend myself. In reality, I’m just a tiny human with really big feelings in a really shitty world. I’m basically a two year old – a two year old with a fucking foul mouth.

I give a shit. I give a shit about what total strangers think about me. I don’t know why - if I did, I’d turn that button the fuck off. I’m concerned with my appearance; not because I want you to think I’m hot like those bitches on the internet, but because I’m terrified of being the fat kid in elementary school again. The woman I am today picks her nose in traffic and takes shitty selfies on purpose. I’m concerned with the people that I care about. Do they have enough? Do they need anything? Can I do anything to help? I’m concerned with social programs in my city and state – fuck the rest of you assholes; take care of your own. I think I give a shit about keeping my job. It will depend on if that one guy decides to talk politics at the watercooler again like a dicknose tomorrow morning. I seriously can’t take that shit anymore.

I don’t really know where any of this is coming from or where any of this goes. Maybe if I die of a heart attack, I just want people knowing that underneath all this piss and vinegar I really do have a heart. If you wait till I’m done yelling about you whoring yourself out on the internet you might hear me say that you’re so much more than that and that you can do anything you set your heart to. Just kidding, quit being such a whore and tuck your tits back into your top. I keep getting random dick pics because dudes assume we’re all the same when you open your cock pocket and say dumb shit. Ok, now you can send the hate mail. 

Monday, January 29, 2018

Hell week and the PTA demon

I have been downright toxic for approximately 16 days. I’m not certain if some cosmic bullshit is taking place; some planet is aligned with some other planet thus souring my chi or if magnetic fields are at work, but shit is fucked up. Maybe it’s something really simple like: I’ve situated myself at my desk, doused it in gasoline, lit on fire, and attempted to work through the flesh consuming heat. Maybe I then invited all my co-workers over to roast marshmallows over my rapidly decomposing skin sack while asking me ridiculously redundant questions. Hey, fuckers, ever heard of Google? Could be just that simple, couldn’t it?

Over the last two weeks I have body slammed three different people, poked one person in the eyes, and kicked one woman in the twat. I do this in my happy place. My eyes glaze over while you’re talking to me and I go to my Utopia. I can’t hear shit you’re saying any more and my imagination takes over. I love my happy place. Next time I’m there, I’ll try to send a postcard. A postcard from the edge - that shit was completely unintentional, but unfolded so perfectly I couldn’t omit it. I’m just over-worked. Cry me a fucking river; I know how it sounds. I ought to be grateful I have a job. You’re right, I am…but also…fuck you. It’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to.

The icing on this shit cake came this morning when I spent 45 mins texting with a PTA demon. Sorry, the head PTA demon of my son’s class. This bitch is constantly up my ass about one thing or another and today it was the kids’ PE teacher. Lady, I truly could not give any fewer fucks about PE teachers at 9 am on Monday morning than I do on this particular morning. I should never expect anything less from a woman who still wears spandex bicycle shorts and fanny packs. I’ll give her credit and say that they are at least leather (or fake leather) packs; no canvas for her. She’s livin large. Stay at home moms are great, but this one makes me want to have my uterus removed so there is zero chance that I’ll get pregnant, hormonal, and do fucked up shit like she does. That boy of hers is going to end up with some serious issues with women. “It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.”

I don’t have anything nice to say, but my mom never fed me that horseshit line about not saying anything at all if you didn’t have anything nice to say. My mom wasn’t a fool. Bottom line: life has been super fucked up and really busy for me lately. I have had some real issues balancing being a superhero mom, stellar employee [I hear you motherfuckers laughing] and a gracious and giving [and I am giving] girlfriend. I know it’s been a while since I’ve written anything and even this probably doesn’t make sense. It’s cool, just go with it. Just be glad we’re not having this conversation face to face and you don’t have to watch my eyes glaze over. If you see it though, don’t worry, I’m just imagining our own personal fight club.

And just as I’m getting ready to close this blog down PTA mom has begun texting me again. I now understand why she wears bicycle shorts; she’s always spinning her fucking wheels. For fucks sake, give it a rest!

Saturday, January 20, 2018


So, the portion of this blog that I was hoping to expand and call ‘Tell me, Tina’ isn’t taking off. This would have been like a ‘Dear Abby,’ where readers would submit questions and I would answer - either by written blog or video response. I say like a Dear Abby but it would for sure be way more fucked up. Apparently, everyone has their shit together though, because I have yet to see one fucking email seeking guidance. Jokes on you guys - it’s my turn. It seems my life is a total fumblefuck as of late, so…let me vent a little. Tina tells it.

Before I even start this shit, I’m going to tell you that I don’t do yoga, regardless of how many pairs of the damn pants I may or may not own. Don’t even start in on me with your crap about how it will “center and balance” my bullshit. I’m not hearing it. Outside help you say? You want to pencil that in for me when??? I work two jobs and have a 10 yr. old boy. I get up at 5 am and go to sleep at 9:30 pm. I am barely able to pull dinner together by 7:30 or 8. I’m ill-equipped to deal with my child’s common core math and if you attempt to make me schedule a therapist appointment that I can’t afford, I will legitimately have a nervous breakdown. I will make every effort to drive to your house first; I want to make sure I do it in your living room during your dinner.

I know I’m sour as fuck. I’m sitting in my chair typing this and watching my neighbor circle the condo complex like he’s the fucking neighborhood watch program. I know he has a little notepad where he keeps a list of all the infractions he encounters and reports back to the board. If I didn’t think he had a camera on his front porch I’d take a dump on his welcome mat. His mom may open the door at any given moment though; if he doesn’t have her chained to the hospital bed, that is. I’m heartbroken that his shoes are actually pretty dope.

My kid continues to lie to me about mundane shit. I so thought I had more time before this nonsense started. The little shit is only 10. At 10 I was still trying to gain approval and people please. This little fucker is bold-faced lying. At this rate he’ll be stealing my car by the time he’s 13 and hooked on booze or oxy by 14. He’ll get some chick named Tilly pregnant at 16 and we’ll all be rich by the time he’s 17 because they’ll end up on some reality show. That won’t matter though because he’ll do something stupid and end up in jail and I’ll spend what’s left of the money on make-up that I don’t know how to apply via Amazon. I’m agoraphobic by now and never leave my home. He’ll be in and out of jail for the rest of his adult life. He’ll always send cash my way when he’s out though. I won’t ask questions about where it came from. Way to go little man!

There is always that one person, that when you think about them, you want to take off your long gloves and slap them repeatedly in the face with them. That one individual that is so self-righteous and pious that the only acceptable course of action is to elbow smash them in the side of the face then throw up on their shoes the very next time that you see them, so that there is no mistaking the feelings they evoke in you. No ambiguity what-so-ever. I’m all about clarity and transparency. Ringing headaches and turning stomachs. Maybe I’m the only one that has one of these? I’m working on it. I’ll get through it. I’m relying on yoga and therapy with a qualified professional.

So, I’m doing well…as I was saying. Clearly, things are fabulous. Life is amazing. I’ve never been happier. Since no one wanted to utilize the ‘Tell me, Tina’ option that was made available to them in a previous blog, [which is understandable given the tangent I just flew off on] I decided to unload. I must say, I feel lighter. Thanks for that. I can see now why no one wants me advising them in any way, shape, or form as to how to maneuver their way through life. For fucks sake, I’m ready to take a shit on my neighbor’s door step. His shoes, and the fact that his mother is a hostage in that house are the only things saving his ass; I’m not that camera shy. Just ask my friend with the vomit on her shoes how photogenic I am, she’ll have plenty to say about my character. It may be hard to hear her though; she’ll have to yell down at you from way atop her high horse. Shit…there I go again. Where the hell are my fucking yoga pants???!!!

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Saturday, January 13, 2018

you lying little shit (shithole)

Children are shitty little lie factories. It’s a given that they are going to lie to you. If you haven’t resolved yourself to this fact of life [starts singing Facts of Life theme song] then you are clearly forgetting your own childhood, underestimating the evil in your spawn, and setting yourself up for a lifetime dependency on antacids and laxatives. You will remain in a perpetual state of burning rage or contraction.

In a good week, I am able stop myself from lying to people at least three times. This shit comes at a price. Every time I’m reluctantly honest, a puppy dies somewhere. Kidding; it’s just a hamster and no one really likes them anyway - toothy little fuckers. For real, truth is fucking hard, you guys. No one likes doing real work when the alternate route is a trip to Cancun in comparison. I always have my bottle of Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion, SPF 4. We’ll gloss over the shit-ton of times when honesty is indeed the road less traveled by yours truly. I’m growing spiritually though. Sometimes these growth spurts come with ease and I feel all Buddha –like and others I feel like someone shoved a white-hot metal rod right up my ass. Growing up for me didn’t stop at adolescence; thanks addiction and destructive coping skills! I am an Afterschool Special!

It should come as no surprise to me, getting an email from my son’s teacher that he’s not completing his homework assignments on time; the very same assignments that he told me that he a) either never had or b) had completed. Lying little shit looked me dead in the eye said “Yep, I finished my homework. I finished my math homework.” As his mother, I knew EXACTLY what that meant. You have to know what to listen for. So, what other homework was there? “Oh, I guess I still have 30 mins of online compass learning.” Oh, you guess? You evasive little shit! Sit the fuck down and stop trying to play me like a chump. Clearly I don’t talk to my child like this [all the time] hence the lack of quotation marks around my responses, for those of you that literary minded. I was calm, but firm. I made sure his homework was done, but I really, really wanted to shake the little turd. Don’t lie to me. You’re not good at it, and you’re essentially telling me that you think I’m a moron. I’m not a fucking moron. I gave birth to you; I know your moves before you make them. I laid down the framework for your DNA. I laid down the framework for your DNA – fuck me.

It’s almost comical to watch him fumble around his lies. Fumblefuck: new term - watch it blow up. The shit he thinks now is so important to hide, is so damn trivial, but I’m not going to waste too much energy trying to convince him of that. I already had the talk where I tell him that I appreciate honesty, that lying makes trust harder in the future, and that these things are minutia in comparison to the car he’ll total or the girl he’ll get pregnant. I told you that I’m in the running for Mother of Year, right? He still thinks he needs to lie about a little hole he put in the wall [because maybe the cat did it] and whip cream that is missing [because again, the cats did it with their brand new opposable thumbs]. It’s wrong that I enjoy watching him tangle himself in his bullshit every so often, isn’t it? So much of me in him… so fucked…

So here we are: all privileges revoked. This is horrible. This is why I wish he wouldn’t lie to me. I’m miserable. We now have to “do stuff”. He’s insufferable, I’m miserable, and we’re doing it “together.” This sucks balls. My 10 yr. old is teaching me a valuable lesson about truth. If I am not honest, there is a good chance that I’ll be forced to interact with people as punishment. I think I’m ready for a some changes. I’m pushing my personal limits. New goal: 6 occurrences of reluctant honesty per week from my current 3. I don’t always “honest” well, but I sure as fuck don’t “people” any better. When the student is ready, the teacher appears. Thanks, kid!

Wednesday, January 10, 2018


So, I got this email the other day. Please feel free to enjoy it as much as I did. (copied from my email)


My name is Iris and I'm reaching out to you on behalf of a team of professional content writers. I came across your site, and I wonder if you accept articles from guest writers at all? If so I’d like to offer to contribute an article to your site.

Benefits to your site:
  • High quality and fresh content for your site
  • Well written and relevant to your audience
  • SEO optimised article

If you’re interested, let me know and I can get some content ideas over to you!

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Best wishes,
Iris (and the Content team)

Next, please see my response. Maybe Iris deserves a break, but I'm thinking "not so much." (copied from email)


I'm terribly sorry that you stumbled upon my little excuse for a blog page, that's about 40 mins of your life you'll never get back. As to whether or not I accept work from other writers...

It's clear you haven't spent much time on my page. I have appx 14 people who read my shit. Adding your people to my blog would only do them and their work a disservice. My "audience" consists of my two cats, my boyfriend and my 10 yr. old son - wouldn't want to lose your people/product in all that commotion.Thanks though; awfully human of you to reach out. 

If my "site" starts getting more viewers I'll be sure to keep you in mind. For now, I'd just like to make sure that I'm able make the rent and I'm fortunate enough to have a different flavor of ramen each night. 

Best wishes in your search, 
Me (and my cats) 

I may have come off as ungrateful with Iris, but I assure you, I appreciate all 12 of you. Thanks for your continued reading.

Sunday, January 7, 2018

Old people don't give a fuck

Does getting older come with its own set of rules and regulations? A handbook, or owners’ manual, if you will. This is a very fucking serious question I’m posing here. I’m pretty clear that at some age [yet undetermined as I clearly haven’t reached it] someone shoulder taps you and asks you to turn over the operation guide you’ve been functioning with and hands you a new one. It’s the only explanation I’ve got for the horsefuckery that I’ve witnessed with old people.

Yesterday I went to the grocery store to rent some videos and retrieve supplies to get me through the near deadly round of the flu that I was gifted. Don’t jump down my damn throat; I was careful not to spread contamination. I only touched what I bought and only licked and carefully placed where I wanted others to find, that which I hoped would make my intended targets ill. It was planned though, so it’s all good. That blonde that chewed her gum too loudly and obnoxiously took selfies had it coming; “maybe” I had to sneeze. “Sometimes” you can’t direct those things – at least that’s how it went down in my fantasy-land. She was horrifying though, that part was real. I stumbled through the store in a daze on a mission to retrieve a few measly items and when I had gotten them into my arm-cart aka basket, I made my way to the check-out.

We’ve established that I have an arm-cart. I’ve just coined this term by the way, so when this shit blows up later, you know where it came from. You’re welcome. Arm-cart, remember that. Let me paint you a picture: sweat pants, wet hair, vacant stare, t-shirt and probably a little drool from the left…no right corner of mouth. Got it visualized yet? Great. I have a fire log and frozen lasagna in my arm-cart so obviously I’m in great shape. I’m now slow motion walking towards the register. From the canned foods aisle comes speedracer with her wheelie cart; we’re both headed for the express lane. There is a brief moment of hesitation when we see what’s about to happen; one of us is about to take our earrings off. 

This hoe has hella shit in her “for real” cart. I am about to die with my two motherfucking items. She doesn’t hesitate and pulls her Cadillac in ahead of me. How is this ok? Is there a supermarket police? You dirty old bitch! Swear to God, if my mother didn’t raise me to respect old haggard ass ladies such as yourself and I wasn’t about to die of consumption, I would club you with this frozen lasagna. But I’m a grown-up, so I keep my mouth shut and just huff loudly. I cannot roll my eyes hard enough; they hurt too badly. I’m not sure this old lady can see me through the 15 layers of makeup she’s wearing anyway. Avon hasn’t made that shade in at least 12 years so I know she’s dedicated to her causes, I don’t know if I really want to get into a fight with her; she goes the distance.

I stand there patiently waiting my turn, when the next person takes their place in line behind me. I turn around to see that this person has but one item. I glance at her to notice that she is wearing the store uniform. Deductive reasoning drops me off at the conclusion that she works for the store and that this is her lunch break. It’s a cup-o-soup. I let her go ahead of me. Hey! Did you see how that worked you old hag? That’s called curtesy and decency. Try it sometime.  As I left the store that employee was filling her soup with hot water at the Starbucks and as we passed she looked me squarely in the eyes and said “thank you so much for letting me go ahead of you, we only have short breaks; I really appreciate it.” Yeah, that owners’ manual you get that allows for douchiness as you age; you can keep it. I’ll keep my scruples.