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!