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.

            

·      

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*

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...