Mercury can piss off already

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            

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I Paid For This Shit?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's not what the hell happened. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accessorizing for the Afterlife

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

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

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

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

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

Attempting to put my belongings away in my new temporary home, I was shocked at how well I'd managed to pack for detox and rehab. 

• 1 French maid outfit
• 3 bikini's
• 2 more lingerie outfits, although not of the French maid scope
• Business attire
• 1 silk robe, purple 
• 2 pair of flip-flops 
• Zero personal hygiene products 
• and 1 pair of high heels - stiletto  

So, I ask you again, will I be required to pack for the everlasting or does shit just magically appear as needed? I've seen "The Good Place." They didn't pack, they just died. Even I can manage that. It seems that they just ask for stuff and that fem-bot, Janet, makes it appear. Will there be a "Janet" in my version of Heaven? Can she wipe U2 from all of history? That would be ah-may-zing! Swipe which direction to reject? Yes, that. I would do that to U2 and ambrosia salad. 

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

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

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

Until next time...

Dante's Shade of Lent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tits R Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conceivably, small ones aren't that bad. 

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

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

Insert Foot Here

I’ve talked about being a drunk. I’ve admitted being a bitch. I’ve proven myself a parent whose practices you should avoid implementing in your own home. I’ve ridden the crazy train to the end of the line. There’s nowhere else to go. You’d think so. You’d be wrong…

You know how some people have the instinctive ability to know the things that needn’t be discussed in mixed company? Yeah, I’m not one of those. I’m the woman who will invariably, without fail, attempt to inhale her foot – shoe and all.

I like to wait until I’m at a large gathering of family members, preferably his, to bring up off-color topics; like bodily functions, our sex life, how I sleep in the nude, & other fun idiosyncrasies. I don't realize I've done anything wrong until my audience is all looking at me with jaws agape.

I recently found out that talking about your ex-husband & calling him “Satan” in front of your religious mother-in-law might not have been the wisest choice while trying to nail down an alliance with her. True story. I think I’ll survive it, but she did look at me like I kidnapped a baby.

Leave it me to tell that one co-worker, “I never really liked you in the beginning” while at the company party [sober] and never manage to follow it up with, “but all of that has changed now.”

My kid had head lice about a week ago and my first [very first] thought was: he finally has to cut that fucking mop on his head! Not a very motherly reaction. I get that. I suppose I would have done better to try to comfort him and tell him that head lice happens when you’re in grade school – that I was sorry and it’s a shitty situation. Nope – not this mom. I was glad he was with his father [Satan] and that that mess of a rat’s nest was finally getting fucking whacked off his head. Zero fucks to be had!

I also secretly hope Satan catches the lice, but that’s another story.

That’s all for now. I just needed to stretch my fingers. My mother-in-law has been staying with us for the last couple of weeks, I haven’t had much time to write. She’s also been kicking my ass at the gym after work every day. She may be 69, but she’s built strong & it’s really beginning to piss me off. It’s downright humiliating! Each night I go to bed beat to shit. Maybe I’ll start slipping some ex-lax in her dinner smoothies – see if that doesn’t slow her roll a little.

*I adore this woman - for the record*