Today's Episode Of: Hey, How's Your Life?

On today's episode of Hey, How's Your Life, our protagonist receives a letter of vehement antipathy from her son. We'll examine the degradation of her mental competencies to the extent that she's been reduced to playing with building blocks and eats paste in the corner. Come join us on today's adventure! 

It was a steep decline. I wasn't at the top of my game to start with. That's truth. I've dealt with some bullshit depression for that last week or two. I may have lost track of time somewhere between "I'm not good enough" and "You don't appreciate me anyway."  Maybe I took a wrong turn at, "I'll just live in my pajamas." 

That day was an absolute clus-ter-fuck! It came fully loaded with half-truths, self-pity, passive-aggression, and martyrdom. All that was missing was some good old-fashioned Catholic guilt. What's a party without the proper favors though? What kind of hostess would I be? So, I brought that too. Later. 

Once I had properly fucked everything right in its keister, I was alone with my shitty coping mechanisms. I turned on the television and began eating my feelings. I decided that I was going to write a letter of entitlement to my partner, ushering in the Catholic guilt portion of our episode. 

For this, I would need paper. I hadn't yet been reduced to building blocks and refrigerator magnets as forms of communication. We'll get there. 

Typical homes have post-it notes or paper on hand; something of that nature. Some means of communicating with other members of the household. Some archaic way of jotting down ideas. Primitive grocery list construction. Not ours. There was no paper to be found. I like to think that I'm environmentally friendly. Really, I'm fucking lazy and prefer the convenience of modern tech. I'm error prone. Last time I checked, spiral bound notebooks don't spellcheck. 

All of this to say I wound up in my kid's bedroom. 

My son was with his Dad (Satan) on this particular evening. With a handful of trail mix in one hand, I picked up a loose piece of paper that I had found on his dresser with the other. It was blank. I turned it over to ensure that I wasn't going to be sabotaging one of his assignments by writing one of my "you done me wrong" notes to The Lobster on it. To my surprise, there was something inscribed on the other side. Initially, I was impressed by the penmanship. That shit quickly wore off as I read what the fuck was on there. 

Some of you have probably received hate mail from your kid. I had not until that night. It was enlightening and complete and total bullshit. 

So, my kid thinks I'm untrustworthy and that I "treat him like an asshole every chance I get." Little buddy, you have not begun to see "asshole treatment." What a vulgar little fucker. He was super hostile. Wonder where he gets that shit? 

I can make light of the situation and crack jokes, but the truth is, it fucking crushed me. How do parents deal with feelings of rejection from their children? I totally thought we were buds. I thought there was mutual respect for one another. I understand that it's within the bounds of "normal childhood" behavior, but it stings nonetheless. Can I fold this letter into a little hat for my pity party? Do I have an appropriate dress to wear? I guess this means I need to crawl out of these crusty pajamas I'm wearing. The ones that are stained with chicken tortilla soup and snot. 

I tailspin into a full-blown depression and decide that I'm a shit wife, a terrible mother and that the only people that really love me are my two cats. The only reason they care for me is that I feed them treats & scoop their shit each day. They're somewhat obligated. If someone wiped my ass on the daily, I'd be indebted also. I may even develop amorous feelings. I mean, you are cleaning my asshole. 

Now I'm faced with a dilemma. I can't tell the demon that I found his letter and let's talk about it. He'll accuse me of invading his privacy. I'm back to being untrustworthy and a terrible parent. I also now have to look at him and know how he feels about me. Is feeding him extra vegetables (all the ones he hates) at every meal from now until the end of time a terrible thing? Do I go to parent jail? What's it like there? Are there any survivors to tell the tale? 

We have magnetic words for the refrigerator. Not the ghetto plastic individual colorful letters - the ones for babies. Whole words. Can I write out phrases like "No, you're untrustworthy"? Would that be a no-no? I'll keep you posted on our progress. Maybe you'll see us on an episode of Judge Judy: Emancipation of the Angriest 11 yr old. 

If you're curious about all the other shit I was whining about, just keep reading. If you haven't noticed, there's always some melodrama that threatens the fabric of my reality. As it stands, I'm back to wearing clothes instead of pajamas and The Lobster and I understand we're better together than apart. As it should be. 

How about a fucking cookie?

It's been 168 hours since I last posted. I don't keep track. I'm not a psychopath. During that time some major-league shit has gone down. I've refrained from killing or maiming anyone, thus landing myself in jail. I deserve a goddamn cookie. 

About a week ago I was at work when I received a text message from Satan. He told me that he would be moving and taking our son with him. At first, I panicked and thought, ah dammit Imma have to take Satan to court again. As it turns out, the Great Red Dragon was only moving next door. I didn't need to break out my courtroom pantyhose. 

After a brief phone conversation for clarification on the matter, and a great deal of mental happy-place projecting on my part, that son-of-a-bitch decided to fuck everything up. He said 5 simple words. Innocuous enough until placed together. Once strung together in a sentence, more lethal than an untreated hooker in the tenderloin with undiagnosed STD's. He said, "Next year he'll be homeschooled." 

I'm sorry, you're doing what, motherfucker??? I believe that requires some sort of consent on my part. That's what this piece of paper from the court that says, "Joint Legal and Physical Custody" means, does it not? Have I misunderstood the court's ruling or the definition of "Joint Legal and Physical Custody"? 

It was about this time that he decided to boundary check me. He said, "We'll talk about this when you're in a better mood." 

For the record, I had not yet said:

You are an incredible mumbling shit shovel!

I hope you die, you aggravating dicknose toaster.

What gives you the authority, you waffling cumdumpster zombie? 

So, you see, I had kept my shit in check. There was no need to start picking a fight with me. If it was a fight he was looking for though - by God, I was gonna bring it. Like milkshakes to the motherfucking yard! 

We'll have to sit down to discuss the schooling of my spawn for next year. Honestly though, the story got so much more fucked up.

(cliff notes): Satan told my kid about his plans; the kid got excited. He told my brat that I was on board with this bullshit scheme. I had to pulverize my child's hopes and dreams - grind them into dust. I'm now a huge bitch riding an ugly horse named "I Never Really Loved You." My son dreams of emancipation at the old age of 11 and never being told when to shower again. Satan is a shrieking assmaster wallet. 

As I haven't killed anyone yet or threatened to cut anyone, we'll move on. 

Costco on a Saturday. Shitshow, am I right? Why then do I continue to torture myself weekend after buttfucked weekend? It's not for the samples. The only worthwhile samples are at Christmastime. You can argue with me on that one if ya want to. I have my opinions, you do too. Yours are just wrong. 

Each time that I go, it's a Christmas miracle that I don't run my cart into the backs of someone's ankles. Hey, how about you not be an inconsiderate fuck? How about you move your cart from the center of the goddamn aisle if you're going to have a full-blown conversation with Jenny that you haven't seen in 7 years? Mmmmkay? It's called a walkway for a fucking reason - SO WE CAN WALK!!!

Each weekend I convince myself that I love the deals or that I can't live without (fill in the blank). Each weekend I leave with an elevated heart rate and $200.00 less in my account. God forbid I should have to exchange anything. The process is usually fine, but that line is bullshit. I'd rather just gift whatever shitty mishap purchase I made to someone else. I need a berry smoothie just to relax myself after. 

Then there's the depression that's been riding shotgun the last week or so. It's cool when it's just a day or two - I can manage that shit. After a week I'm done playing hopscotch with my negative self-image and self-defeatism. It's hard to be everything to everyone when you're busy convincing yourself you ain't shit and need fucking help. It's hard asking for help when you feel like a princess who's just complained that her feather bed was too warm. So, I'm back to nearly imploding and running people over with my cart at Costco. 

Maybe I'll just save this pent-up rage and hostility for my family sit-down with Satan. Maybe he'd like to take some depression and rage right up his ass? I'll make sure to shove it up there with his homeschool lesson plan and all his manipulations. There's only room for one master manipulator in this broken marriage - that's me! There can be only one. Go fuck yourself. 

Who Gave You Permission?

Ever wonder who gave someone the impression that it was okay to ask you the most asinine of questions available to them? Is there a moment when they ask themselves, is this appropriate or any of my fucking business in the first place? I ask myself this all the time. Here are some of my favorites...

I go to the gym. I know, you think I talk about this too frequently. It's my fucking story, just listen. I'm going somewhere with it, I promise. This is where I introduce Grant. 

I met Grant three days ago. Grant approached me after a particularly strenuous treadmill run. I don't know about anyone else, but the last thing I want to do after a workout is talk to someone while I'm dripping sweat. 

He casually walked up to me at the paper dispenser; the one you use to wipe down your sweaty-ass machine after use. Standing there, dry and ready to start his workout, he asked, "Hey, how far did you run?" I'm drenched. I sound like I've been sucking from the tailpipe of a 1971 diesel Chevy Silverado that's been rolling coal. I stare blankly at this dumb motherfucker. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm Grant." He puts his hand out to shake. 

Um, Grant, is it? Let me make a couple of things clear. Your name is the last of my concerns right now. Let's start with why you think it's cool to approach and ask me some personal shit. I didn't ask you how many sets you did and what kind of weight you were pushing, did I? No, Grant, I did not. Do you know why Grant? Because weirdos do that shit. 

I do not shake Grant's hand. Instead, I wipe sweat from my forehead and armpits. Real classy. 

Maybe Grant would like my average pace and how often I run too. I understand my rationale is a bit extreme for most of you. The way I see it, the gym is for working out. If I wanted to chat, I'd come prepared and bring my own buddy. I wouldn't partner up with a stranger here. That's how people get stabbed in alleys and rot dismembered in luggage. Grant's probably not a killer. I think I can bench more than him. That's not the point. The point is: where does this line of questioning stop?

Hey, Grant, my husband and I have sex on Wednesday's if you want to pop by and inquire as to which position is my favorite. Dinner is usually right after if you want to stick around, but you'll have to help with the dishwasher - those are the rules. 

I need a sign to wear around my neck that clearly reads: Don't talk to me - ever. Don't ask me stupid questions - ever. Life would be much simpler for me this way. Maybe I just need more sessions with a therapist. 

How does that make you feel? I love getting asked this question by someone I'm paying to help me make sense of my feelings. Here's an idea: I'm paying you, how about you tell me what the correct answer is? Then I save myself some money and you, the undoubted torture of having to listen to my bullshit. Everyone comes out a winner. 

You know who isn't a winner? The loser at the grocery store checkout lane behind me that asks, "Have you tried those yet? Do you like them?" after seeing one of my purchases. If I answer that I have tried them and, yes, I like them - sometimes I'll hear, "Oh, really? I didn't like them." THEN WHY THE FUCK DID YOU ASK??? I understand if you're trying to get an idea about a product you've never tried, but if you have and you don't like them, keep your shit to yourself - ESPECIALLY if you find out that I, in fact, do like them. You jackass! I don't recall asking for your opinion. 

Where's my sign? I'm just not fit for social interaction anymore. Can I retire from life? Can I spend the rest of my days watching daytime television and phoning the HOA for minor infractions made in my complex? I think I'll just walk around CVS and ask the store clerk what their opinion on all the products are and then argue with them for the hell of it. While I'm at it, I'd like to see the store manager about the length of these receipts. You are killing trees and doing irreparable damage to the environment. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! 

By the way Grant, it's still none of your fucking business how far I run. Worry about your own damn workout - maybe you'd see some better results, okay buddy? 

Ease Into The Cat Shit

"Ease into the cat shit," is what my son tells me this morning when I give him my intentions to write about last night's mishap. So that's what I'm going to do - I'm going to ease into the cat shit.

I didn't wake up yesterday with the thought that at some point I'd be cleaning cat shit off a white comforter. That's just how my how blessed I am. Envious yet? 

Having cats has been a joy; often offering more relief than my husband and kid. Sure, I have to scoop shit from a plastic box and occasionally clean the contents of their little kitty tummies from off the floor, but they never leave their dirty fucking socks anywhere or give me shit about taking the trash out - because opposable thumbs. 

Neither of them has ever muttered shit under their breath thinking I couldn't hear them and if they smell like shit, it's because they lick their assholes; a forgivable offense - because of opposable thumbs, dammit! Cats are assholes, this is fact. Mine just provide more relief than agitation. 

Yesterday was a mindfuck. 

Let's "Bob Ross" a painting of yesterday's events together. Not the kind with happy little trees, but the kind where I drag a comforter covered in cat shit out into the living room like Spud from Trainspotting in the scene where he's shit the bed. 

Picture it: I'm chillin' on the sofa, the husband is sitting on the fucking coffee table [again] playing video games, and the son is on the loveseat with headphones on - tuning us out as usual. Each of us, respectively ignoring behavior in the other two. It's brilliant! 

I look at my darling child and in a loving manner say, "I said take a damn shower." He, with complete adoration and respect, rolls his eyes. He gets up 7 minutes later with a real sense of urgency, heading into his bedroom to gather belongings or talk shit under breath. It's one of those two things. 

A few moments later he ambles back into the living room complaining about something. I'm not really listening. If something isn't bleeding is it really even relevant? Wait, did he just say something about my cats? He has my attention. 

The husband is still playing, hasn't moved, doesn't seem to give two shits about shit. This is only funny now as I write this, given the nature of the topic. 

The kid tells me that there is brown stuff on his comforter that wasn't there when we changed his sheets a while ago. He says that the cat took a shit and wiped its ass along the length of his comforter. Naturally, I think my son's a pussy. I'm convinced it's a hairball and my kid is overreacting. Fucking drama queen. Now I have to go inspect. 

Well, it's cat shit. 

I've determined it's cat shit. How you may ask? The same way my kid figured it out. Touch. That's right, we both touched - with our hands - cat shit. Now I have to apologize for calling my kid a pussy because that shit happened too. 

I drop the comforter in front of The Lobster and ask for a little help here while I go and put fresh blankets on my kid's bed. My son, already in the shower, can hear me out in the hallway, confirming the legitimacy of the cat shit. He's laughing. It's authentic cat shit. 

The Lobster hasn't moved and what's worse is he's looked at me as though I have no right to ask for his help. I will not forget this moment. It's immortalized in my word. I snatch the comforter from him. "I don't need your help. By the look you just shot me, it's clear that you mean to say I have no right to ask," I jab. He continues to play. Men reading this: don't let this be you. 

From the shower: "Am I still a pussy?"

Me: "No, kid. Sorry. My bad." 

We'll leave The Lobster out of the rest of this story because when they find his remains, this blog could prove to be problematic. We will discuss some more from the kid though. 

The young one and I spent some time chatting this morning. In and of itself, a rare occurrence. Journalistically, I'm compelled to probe or investigate to ensure our accounts of events lineup with one another. In so doing, I'm often delighted with the revelation of new material. 

Curran told me that when his discovery was first made, he'd thought it was perhaps sand or even mud from his shoes. This tickled me. We'd been inside all day, when would we have had the opportunity to go to the beach and track sand or even mud home? I pictured him sticking his finger into the hairy brown mess on his comforter and raising it to his nose for closer inspection; which incidentally is exactly how that shit went down. 

I'd like to mention how satisfied it makes me each time I type "shit" throughout this blog in any context other than that of bodily waste. It's so fucking perfect! Last night, it was NOT fucking perfect. Nothing was fucking perfect.

Let's recap, shall we?

Last night I did the following: 

Called my kid a pussy - to his face

Asked for the assist in a situation and was SHUT DOWN

Touched cat shit with my bare hands 

Cleaned up after an incontinent cat 

Made angry dinner

Did angry laundry

Took out angry garbage [in the motherfucking rain] 

Cleaned up angry dinner dishes

and scooped the fucking cat box to prevent another disaster

All these things I did alone, except for the touching of the cat shit. Thanks for taking one for the team, kid. These acts all took place in the span of two shitty [smiling again cuz I used "shitty"] hours. I may not be able to reach stuff on the top shelf in the kitchen or open jars with lids that are fastened too tightly, but I can think of a few things that I can do just fine on my own for a couple of weeks. 

Men: Don't let this happen to you...

What the fuck happened to Delia's?

Some of you may remember this trendy little catalog that came out every few months back in the '90s. I loved turning the pages of that catalog and imagining all the outfits I'd buy if I had my own money. I imagined how adorable things would look on me if only I had a different shape - a shape more like the girls' depicted in the magazine. I loved and loathed that catalog. It was Delia's. It influenced my teenage sphere. 

Back then, everything was floral or had a rainbow pinstripe down the side of it. Bright colors screamed I'm adorable, you should pay attention! Never was there lack for platform sneakers and fuzzy backpacks were the rage. I'm half surprised that shipments weren't sent out with courtesy Ring-Pop or candy necklaces. Maybe they were? I just don't recall because I ate mine with such enthusiasm; not realizing they were meant to be an accessory, not an appetizer. 

I always wanted to be a Delia's girl. The only thing standing in my way was this meddlesome excess 40lbs and shitty disposition. If I could drop some weight and maybe smile a little, I might have a shot. So, you know, basically be someone else. 

I don't know what got me thinking of this shit-tastic catalog again recently. Maybe I was lamenting the loss of my youth and how I squandered it hiding from imaginary boogiemen when the real destroyer of hopes and dreams was always me. [That's not too heavy for a blog is it?] 

Perhaps I was melancholy about the state of my skin-suit. However diligently I workout, eat well and stay focused on my mental health, my body tells the story of a woman tied to the back of a pick-up truck and drug a hundred miles across rough terrain. Clearly, rainbow pinstripe pants and a furry backpack will ease this malaise. 

For shits and giggles, I went to what I thought was Delia's website. Why not make matters worse by revisiting my youth and all the clothing that still isn't appropriate for me? This time by both age appropriateness as well as size constraints. It's bad enough that I wear Adidas track pants and off-the-shoulder sweatshirts [that's not a typo] like a forlorn Spice Girl, now I'm lurking through a publication that targets 20-something women like I have a snowball's chance in hell. I've become the desperate, recently divorced woman at the hors-d'oeuvres table with just one more question for the guy that would clearly prefer to be literally anywhere else.

Well, kids, turns out Delia died and took with her all her trendy outfits and accessories. Figuratively died, not literal. As it turns out, the company went bankrupt back in, oh - I don't give a fuck when - read about it yourself.  

https://www.businessinsider.com/delias-relaunches-amid-90s-fashion-craze-2018-11

What I did find most interesting was that some other jackwads' bought the company up and are re-branding the bitch. It's so great! I can continue to torture myself with unattainable ideals and unrealistic expectations. Why can't I wear a size 0, have multicolored hair, pouty lips and own something called a Glam Goddes Chain Skirt? That's right because I'm 39 and eat butter for dessert and have no fucking intention of changing that shit-ass behavior. 

The new Delia's is something called Dolls Kill. Let me tell you, it's some fucked up shit. This is supposed to be a remake of the innocent '90s fashion trend that was all hair braids and lip gloss. This tangled mess is Hot Topic [but, like '90s goth Hot Topic] meets every little girl with Daddy issues and a smattering of I did too much Molly at the rave. 

You can shop by Doll, if you're too lazy to contrive an outfit on your own, [I rather like this option] or you can pick out your individual elements. I'm a fan of the Knuck If Ya Buck Fringe Set and Clear The Way Vinyl Set. I've already placed my order; don't want them to run out of my size. I'm sure after this blog an influx of 40 yr old women will be nailed to their computers frantically placing orders for vinyl pants and mesh tops with nipple pasties. 

Well, at least you all know what I want for Christmas.