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. 

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. 

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2018/12/16/boys-can-have-periods-schoolchildren-taught-latest-victory-transgender/

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. 

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!

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!

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?

I 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!

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.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda

This photo was taken outside my local grocery store yesterday morning. I walk the 500 ft. in the mornings on the weekends to get my coffee because it makes me feel superior. Then I pay some super shitty chain to make my coffee while I stand there with plaque on my teeth, messed up hair, and no bra – so it completely negates my gained advantage. I’m barely above growling at people.

What I want to know is, how fucked up must one be to do this degree of damage? It seems clear, as it only really can to another person who’s driven completely shitfaced, that this poor fucker forgot where their brakes were located. I hate it when that happens. Sadly, trying to “Fred Flinstone” your car to a complete stop doesn’t work either.

I need more information to discern the level of drunken fuckery that happened here, too many variables. I’d need to understand tolerance, size of the individual, type of alcohol consumed…that kind of stuff. All before I could even compare it to my own drinking and decide how sauced they were. For all I know, this was a housewife on her third bottle of wine.  For her – treacherous. For me – Patsy Cline songs and too many cigarettes. And that would just be a warm-up.  

Ah, but there’s more…

It appears that I must give credit to the driver of the vehicle. They parked on the most convenient side of the building. I wasn’t there, so maybe “parked” is the wrong verb. Maybe they just came to a stop. The location of the alcohol in this store is, you guessed it, on the same side these folks came to grinding halt at. Just beyond the doors and slightly to the right is Mecca – the liquor department; though I doubt they ever made it there. Good thinking though. Practical.

I’m not sure if they ever set foot inside the store. The passenger lost their Taco Bell right outside the door. My theory is: the driver forgot where the brakes were, they popped the curb stopper, smacked the wall, then the passenger opened their door and let go of the last thing they ate.

Now, because I’ve been in similar “catch me if you can” scenarios, I know that if the car still runs, so do you. So that’s my theory. If they were able to get away, they did. They probably were shaken though and would need to stop somewhere for a drink. CVS is across the street and they sell hard alcohol. Bottom shelf vodka is 5 bucks. They’d want to start saving for repairs to the vehicle and the wall. Eventually that shit catches up to you.

But I wouldn’t really know anything about being a big fat drunk doing stupid drunk shit. I’m just a girl getting her coffee with an active imagination and a cast iron stomach. Now, will someone please get out there and clean up that fucking vomit.

Smoke em if ya got em 101

I live near some pathetic drug users. I'm not supposed to partake because it fucks with this whole “sobriety” thing I'm working towards, but I can critique them; most definitely.  What truly needs to happen here, is mandatory classes, led by me, on how to do and care for your drugs properly.

I have this neighbor. He’s not a subtle drug dealer, selling to other residents from the trunk of his vehicle in the communal parking lot. He’s also not very smart. He approached me once and attempted to strike up a conversation about his neck tattoo, which was clearly some kind of glitter body paint that was flaking off. He was either convinced that it was real, or he was coming off a serious trip. He should probably stick to smoking weed, which he totally fucking sucks at, but at least he won’t end up talking to strangers about fake, girly glitter tattoos, like he’s some hard-ass who did time and his cellmate gave him this prison tat.

This guy has a nasty habit of making me want to straight knee-kick him. Every night at around dinner time, when it’s most offensive, because we’re trying to eat, this muthafucker decides to light up. In and of itself, not so big a deal. The smell of pot is fucking glorious. It’s the sound of his death rattle, cough-up-a-small-hairy-animal hacking, that makes me want to crawl over the balcony and throttle him to a bloody mess. “LEARN HOW TO INHALE YOU USELESS PIECE OF SHIT!!!” If emphysema and Slimer from Ghostbusters had a baby, and that baby had a cold, his cough is exactly what it would sound like. Fucking disgusting.

From my kitchen, through open windows and an open sliding glass door, I yell “For fuck’s sake, learn how to hold your smoke!” Seriously, my Mom can smoke weed better that that. He ought to be ashamed of himself, yet there he is, out on his balcony, pretending to die every night, getting my hopes up like a child promised a toy at Christmas only to find that their parents didn’t order ahead, and the store is sold out. Not that that has ever happened to me – nope…never.

There is performance with the drug in question, then there is upkeep or maintenance of paraphernalia. You’d better be able to do one well. I feel like, in our little community here, we have two halves of one whole.

Two buildings away from my own, and on my walk to my mailbox, I pass an apartment that reeks. It smells not of the common smells one would assume, like garlic, or curry, or dog shit, or even baby shit. It is a distinct, unmistakable, and unforgiving smell. It’s bongwater.

Do you remember accidentally spilling the bong on your mother’s living room carpet and thinking, oh shit, I am totally fucked! That is never coming out!  then scurrying around the house for all the cleaning supplies you could find? Windex, carpet cleaner, dish soap, Lysol, and Febreze all tucked under your arm for good measure. Damn right you did! You knew good and damn well that shit was a permanent blight on your mom’s carpet, and your ass.

Imagine walking past a home that smelled so much of bong water that it permeated concrete walls. Either someone is excruciatingly clumsy, or someone needs to clean the various smoking devices in that home. C’mon now people, the shit you’re smoking can’t even taste good any more if you’re using 3-year-old water. You don’t recycle your bath water, do you? That’s fucking disgusting. I’m not saying clean your bong every time you smoke, but once a week is a real goal. It’s attainable too.

For these reasons I’m thinking it’s time for simple instruction. I’m going end up killing my neighbors. You’re not supposed to shit where you sleep, so this may be my only recourse. I’d like to start using the clubhouse by the pool for classes. They’ll begin on Monday nights. Monday’s already suck dick for most people. Now they’ll have an excuse to hate it even more. When they’re done, they can go home and smoke their weed. Properly. Probably for the first time in their whole miserable lives.

Just because I’ve always wanted to, and because I was subjected to catechism classes, I want a ruler to slap assholes with when their doing shit incorrectly. “No, Margaret, that’s not how you clean the interior of your glass bong! What did we learn in last week’s lesson about cleaning tools??? Soak first, then gentle swabbing!!! No wire bristles!” **Swat**

This could work. I’m building a better community…for…well…me.

For love or money

If you’ve never had the pleasure of purchasing new home furnishings out of necessity, let me tell you why it sucks balls.

I’ve got an 11-yr. old child. He’s pretty much the male version of me; so basically, an asshole with a curfew. Much to my chagrin, keeping him locked in a closet and feeding him protein shakes and vegetables is frowned upon by child protective services. I’d come up with something less savory, but believe me, these foods are torture for him; that’s enough for me. The thing with kids is, they grow up. In so doing, they require new furniture. This twin size bed he’s in isn’t cutting it anymore. Poor little asshole’s feet hang over the end of his bed. It’s not my fault his father is a sasquatch. Won’t make that mistake again. If this most recent marriage fails, it’s nothing but midgets for me from here on out. *Sorry honey*

I’ve had to do research on the different types of mattresses out there. I’m old now and shit's changed since the last time I bought one of these. Spring mattresses, I’m familiar with. Memory foam, I’ve heard of. In fact, that’s what’s on my son’s frame. What the fuck is a latex mattress?! Fools are allergic to latex, right? How fucked up would that be? Get a bed, unbeknownst to you it’s latex, and for the unforeseeable future your shit is fucked up 7 ways to Sunday. Or, at least until you figure out you’re sleeping on a giant condom.

After much debate I decided I wanted an old school spring mattress. Or do I? My rational was that latex was expensive, and well, the whole condom thing. Then I started thinking about sex. That’s right, sex. If you’re a family member, you may want to close out this application and just walk away now, before it’s too late.

Spring mattresses provide “assistance” to my partner when he’s on top, so that’s a tally mark in the spring category. Spring mattresses also tend to blow out over time and sag, like my boobs and ass, so we can safely strike that tally. Blank slate. Let’s talk memory foam. If you’ve never had an opportunity to defile a memory foam mattress, we’re in the same boat. I have been able to sleep on one though. In my experience the bed conforms to your shape. It kind of sucks you into it. It’s quite comfortable…unless your trying to have sex, I imagine.

So, my husband and I talking pros/cons about memory foam and it occurs to me that if I’m on top, and my knees sink into this mattress, this is going to create a fuck ton of work for me without the spring-back action that our old mattress provides. I already don’t like this idea. I feel like Artax in the swamps of sadness, unable to go further, so tired, giving in to the mattress. I don’t give a shit if it’s hypoallergenic, it’s unsuitable for lovemaking. There Mom, I didn’t call it fucking…are you happy? (Of course, she’s still reading. I said stop, so naturally she grabbed popcorn)

I should have just taken my chances locking my spawn in the damn closet. It would have been much easier than deciding between comfort, price, and whether to cripple our coupling. No need for new furniture, this broom closet suits the child just fine.

And that is how I wound up being investigated by CPS…

A Star Is Born: A review of some other asshole's review

We can have differences of opinion. Secretly we both know the winningest one, the one with the most weight in any argument, is mine. It stands to reason that the appraisal of the movie, A Star Is Born, should be no different.

Office talk on Monday’s is always the same; I pretend to be interested in their sports talk, and they pretend to give a shit about what I did with my kid over the weekend. It’s no-win situation. I need at least 1.5 cups of coffee before the desire to shoot myself in the face subsides. I’ve also learned that after 3 cups, that desire turns outward and becomes homicidal, so it’s a precarious balance. Learning is fun.

This Monday we got on the topic of MoviePass and how we wish it would lick our balls with its fucked-up restrictions. Fast forward a bit (because I don’t feel like writing a saga) and we’re discussing A Star Is Born. For those of you that live under a fucking rock or don’t have a girlfriend who has dragged you to see this yet, it’s the story of Lady Gaga…but before she became The Gaga. It’s her humble beginnings. For me, it was about her husband. Wanna know why? Of course you do! Nosy motherfuckers.

In this film her husband, played by Bradley Cooper, is a drug & alcohol addict. Naturally, I’m all in. I don’t really give a shit about Gaga anymore. I mean, sure, her story is compelling, and she can sing. I’ll give her that. But for me, the real story is the relationship with her husband and his struggle with addiction. Admittedly, there are parts of this film that are hard for me to watch. I identified with his character. I also wanted to scream at how poorly he snorted his drugs. How fuckin’ wasteful!! I guess if you’re filthy rich, you can coarse chop your dope not worry about dropping rocks in the carpet; must be nice – fucker.

My co-worker tells me that the movie isn’t believable, that’s its major flaw. He says to me that Bradley Cooper’s character would never have reacted to the events that took place in the way that he did. I’m trying not to ruin it for those of you gentlemen who still have plans to take your lady to see it in hopes of getting laid.

Here’s the thing: I’m an addict, you Richie Cunnigham, have never known the hurt of wanting anything more than the occasional soda that’s been stricken from your diet by your doctor. I take that back; there’s the time your wife wouldn’t put out for a whole 2 weeks because you swore in front of the kids and gambled the “date night” money on soccer bets. That must have been rough. So, don’t tell me that you know how an addict would act, or react after coming out of a rehabilitation facility. YOU don’t have a fucking clue. Please refrain from assuming you understand how anyone who has suffered addiction and sought treatment will react. YOU don’t.

His indignation irritated me, clearly. To toss a movie entirely on this one bias seemed really fucking stupid, especially considering he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. I didn’t think it was the best movie ever written, but I thought it was good. I certainly thought it was good enough to get a dude laid for taking his girl to see it and being the “sensitive type.” I cried like a little bitch.

You’re entitled to your opinion of this movie too, just know that mine is rooted in experience and therefore more valid. If you have experience and your opinion differs from mine, well…kindly keep that shit to yourself. No one asked you anyway.

Halloween Halldark

Once a year you’re allowed to show up in costume and make demands of others. This year why don’t you show up as someone with a conscience and I’ll give you what’s left of my attention and time.

Happy Halloween,

Your fucking doormat

#Halldark, for when you care enough to send whatever

Aging apathy

They say as we get older we become more confident – more comfortable in our skin. We perhaps spend less time focusing on the trivial details of our physical self and see the whole of our existence and our accomplishments as the more important evidence of a well lived life. I’d like to declare bullshit. Complete and total bullshit!

I’m nearly 39 and I’m no closer to being “okay” with aging than I am with letting a stranger watch me take a shit. I don’t have a cabinet full of expensive anti-aging serums or wrinkle creams, I’m not made of money; I’d honestly rather spend my cash on good food. Then, I can get fat, feel shitty, complain, buy expensive running shoes, then run until I feel terrible again, and finally gloat. It’s painfully fucked up, really. It’s nowhere near confident, that’s for damn sure.

I really miss my 20-something year old complexion. I remember what it felt like to not have to use moisturizer, to just be naturally supple. There was a time when I had natural color in my cheeks too. Now if I want color, it’s store bought. My natural shade these days is something comparable to Behr Complacent Studio Clay MQ2-27. Sallow skin – sallow, sad, skin. If eating small children was guaranteed to give me my youthful glow back, I’d start looking for recipes. No one is going to miss the little asshole that screams at his mom from the front of the cart at the store. Don’t look appalled, you know you’ve rolled your eyes at the inattentive mother and the unruly child.

Oh, you’re confident about the aging process?? Great!! Let’s find a casting director and get you in a commercial for advanced age Maybelline! Me? I’m busy being cast in the next commercial for antidepressants; we’re reading the 3ft long list of possible effects. *This is actually listed as a possible side effect of Zoloft “trouble concentrating, memory problems, weakness, fainting, seizure, shallow breathing, or breathing that stops.”* Last time I checked, breathing that stops, is dying.

https://www.rxlist.com/zoloft-side-effects-drug-center.htm

At this stage in the game, I have more products in my cabinet to ease the discomfort of occasional urinary tract infections, yeast infections, hemorrhoids, and constipation than I have things to increase pleasure. That is to say, I own one pair of CFM (come fuck me) pumps - those poor things are collecting cat fur in my closet, and I own zero lingerie, seems so impractical. I have 17 varying sizes of gauze pads but have zero personal lubricant. Strike that. I have coconut oil. Even that, I used for medicinal purposes. Don’t ask.

A while back I consulted my husband about buying a yoga swing. If you think anyone really uses those things for yoga, well, bless your pea-pickin heart. What a simple sweetheart you must be. I thought I’d like to spice things up a bit. Really, I was desperately trying to hold on to whatever notion of sensuality or being a sexual being that I had. All of that came screeching to a halt when I played the tape through in my head and envisioned myself getting caught in the straps and injuring myself, possibly breaking an arm or an ankle. Never mind the completely unattractive visual of being snared in this contraption naked and twisted, fighting to keep balance and eventually face-planting or pulling a groin muscle.

Also, did you know that some people have complete playlists on their phones for sex? People create mood music playlists and I don’t mean like one or two songs. What the fuck is that? Don’t people just listen to the dishwasher anymore? It took me a long time to realize that listening to my upstairs neighbors was creepy. In my defense I didn’t know Pornhub was free so I was making the best of my situation.  Yes, Tom and Diane, I know what you two like. Shame on you guys for not walking your dog more frequently too. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.

So, to recap: I’m a super creepy neighbor and I’m not very exciting. I am however, the person you want to be in the company of if you should injure yourself. I have plenty of gauze and various other medical supplies.

Social media zen

I decided to conduct a little experiment. I recently cut back on my social media masturbation. I decided that there must certainly be better things to do with my time than troll shitty posts made by shitty people; thereby making me, a shitty person. This is that account.

There are several social media sites that I toy around with. Some are easier to stomach than others. Reddit is easy. It’s for cute clips of animal videos and the like. That’s all I use it for. I don’t engage with others on this site. I don’t read bullshit comments and I don’t care about cliques or groups. In fact, my husband does most of the research & development for me – he’s usually the one to send me video clips. Our relationship works best when he does the heavy lifting.

Facebook is high school where everyone is running for class president. Everyone is a fucking expert and their ideas just need to be heard. Above all else, their opinion is King Shit. Sprinkle some political Kool-Aid in there, add a pinch of intolerance, a huge helping of ignorance, and there you have it – Facebook.

Twitter – at least here people are straight up about not giving a shit about you. Unlike Facebook, messages of support and well-wishes are few and far between. If you get one, you can almost be certain that shit is for real and not some fake, bullshit, comment someone posted while eating a sandwich & watching a video of a cat and a hamster playing together. If someone on Twitter takes the time to write something kind instead of “Quit crying, it’s not like I fucked your Mom again,” chances are, they meant it. For this reason, I enjoy Twitter. I can count on people being openly hostile. I’d much rather have someone tell me to go fuck myself than have them feed me some bullshit about “Hope you feel better soon. If you need anything, just ask,” and when I do, they fucking ghost.

Change was imperative. I was getting sucked into the back and forth drama of people who couldn’t spell correctly and were arguing against their own interests, but clearly weren’t aware of it. Easy fucking words too. I won’t go into much detail just in case you’re one of the unfortunate assholes I’m talking about. It must be a terrible way to find out that you’re stupid; reading my bullshit blog and finding yourself here. Oh, fuck, there I am.  *refer to why I spend more time on Twitter* So I set out to make changes with the best intentions at heart.

I thought that if I stopped logging onto these social media sites I would be forced to get in touch with nature. I would spend more time outside. Maybe I’d be mindful or whatever the fuck spiritual bitches do. I pictured myself going on some earthy hike and munching on granola. Maybe I’d take a break and meditate on some rock and joggers and bicyclists would pass behind me and be like, “Wow, that chick is deep and grounded.” I’d be all Zen and one with the universe. The key to earth’s mysteries would unlock themselves. But that’s not what happened. Not. At. All.

My “refresh” finger has been super itchy. I’ve tried flipping through pages on the Kindle. Not. The. Same. I’ve tried flicking my kid in the ear. I think that’s child abuse. I tried borrowing a book from the library and turning pages in real a book and while that’s slightly more satisfying, I’m not enlightened, I have no desire to eat granola, and the world still perplexes me. So, I’m no closer to being better than any of you. What’s the point in punishing myself then? I was happier sitting on my couch yelling into my phone about some twat not understanding what the hell they were talking about and why don’t they just walk off a bridge. *refer to why I spend more time on Twitter* What else did I do with my time?

I was able to spend a shit-ton of time invested in mediocre films on Netflix. A big thanks for that. I rented films from the Redbox that I returned on time. Probably because they sucked, and I had nothing better to do with my time. I did a lot of running, not outdoors like I thought I would, because that would be too outdoorsy. I ran inside on the treadmill where I could compete with the jerks next to me. I’m so fucking far from spiritual. I’m not sure why I ever thought this experiment would work. Bottom line: I’m just a miserable bitch. Social media doesn’t change that. If anything, staying engaged keeps me from interacting with the public, and that’s probably best for all involved.

The microwave standard

I probably shouldn’t be a dick about this, but let’s talk about the office microwave.

Listen, if I wanted to drink an El Monterey egg & sausage burrito, please know that I’m fully capable of making that happen all on my own. But when you, office co-worker, stink up the microwave with your hydrogenated trans fat, artery and ass blaster, you kill my coffee. Every. Fucking. Time. My chamomile tea tastes like artificial egg and rabbit pellet sausage. That shit they’re calling cheese is a crime against humanity, and you’re leaving remnants of it on the turn table because you’re so fucking eager to put that brick of death into your stomach that you can’t clean up after yourself. And now what? Now, my coffee cup is stuck in that primordial ooze. What a lazy and inconsiderate piece of shit you are. Shit in, shit out, as they say.

The inside of our microwave here looks like someone stuffed a Gremlin in it and turned it to the popcorn setting. I refuse to clean the shit though. I don’t even like cleaning the microwave in my own home, I sure as shit don’t intend to clean up after a bunch of grown ass men who refuse to grab a spray bottle occasionally. For fuck’s sake, we have Clorox wipes! It’s not even a multi-step process; ya lazy bitches.

I don’t care if the science project growing in there makes all these guys sick, it’s not as if I didn’t warn them. What I do give a shit about is the integrity of my coffee. I’m 38, I don’t drink anymore, I’ve given up the hoards of candy I was eating, and I don’t put shit up my nose anymore – let me have my coffee, I don’t have much else that I derive enjoyment from. 

I will re-heat my cup of heaven three or four times. I truly want to savor it. I tune you assholes out when I drink my coffee too. I may look at you, I may even nod, but I haven’t heard a damn word. That’s how it ought to be.

Most often in workplaces you hear rules put into play about the reheating of fish or vegetables. I, personally, would rather have you use the microwave for these purposes than to zap your prepackaged sodium stink bombs. Your leftover Tilapia and broccoli aren't likely to leave crusty cheese on the tray or exploded pepperoni on the sidewalls of the microwave. If it does, you’re more likely to clean that shit up out of shame and incomprehensible demoralization. No one likes to be the person that brought the banned food AND left it painted all over the inside of the communal cancer spreader.

The stuff that’s growing stuff in our microwave has started growing its own little baby stuff. Our microwave is an ecosystem. Scientists are going to be contacting us to harvest Penicillium from John’s crusted cheese, Tim’s lasagna sauce, and Steve’s pepperoni explosion. Fuck it, maybe I’m the asshole here and should just let these guys contribute to science. I’ll get a single burner coffee warmer for my desk and shut the hell up about it.

It’ll be lunchtime soon. Honestly, it doesn’t matter what anyone puts in that hotbox, it must all come out tasting like El Monterey, Italian mold, and plastic eggs. Glad I stick to a strict diet of swear words, caffeine, and 7-11 bought delicacies.