Snarky Heifer

BodyPump: It's Not What You Think. Or, Maybe It Is.

2022-12-30T20:01:00.000-06:00

You know your cute, fit friends are tired of your bitching and moaning about your weight and deteriorating health when one of them claims to need a workout buddy to stay motivated and to be accountable for sticking to an exercise plan. C'mon, man. I know YOU don't need ME to keep you accountable! Motivated? Maybe. Because if my spaghetti arms, large ass, and backfat aren't enough to motivate you to not become me, then, hell yeah, I'm motivation personified!

Don't get me wrong, I love my friend. I know her intentions are good. And, it was a pretty nice way of saying "you need to get off your ass" without making me cry.

But, working out hurts, y'all.

BodyPump is not a creative new kama sutra position. Just so we're clear.

BodyPump is an intense cardio workout with WEIGHTS.

Me (day before first class): Wait. What did you sign me up for again? Yoga?

Well-intentioned friend: It's just a workout class. Don't worry, it'll be so much fun!

Me: Girl. I just watched a sample video of the class. Are you trying to lure me to my death?!

Well-intentioned friend: Hahaha! Calm down. You'll do great!

I show the video to Hubber who suggested maybe I start with something a little more "entry level." But the level of "entry level" workout classes for people who have zero muscles and lots of extra poundage just don't exist at this particular gym.

Since Hubber didn't really help to calm my nervous, I cried to my sister about it.

Me: I'm kinda nervous that I'll be the fattest person in the class.

Sis: What? Nah. That's dumb. There are all shapes and sizes of people at the gym.

Me: But, what if I walk in and everyone stares at me? What if they're all skinny and fit and I stroll in like Jaba the Hut?

Sis: Jaba the Hut doesn't stroll.

Me: How'd you know that?

Sis: Please. I've seen Star Trek!

Me: You mean Star Wars?

Sis: Whatever. You'll be fine. Great, even!

Hubber (overhearing the convo): Wait. Did you just get a Star Wars reference correct?!

So, I psych myself into thinking I just joined the fat girl club and I make my way into the gym... which is in fact full of sporty-fit beautiful people. I haven't felt that out of place since that one time I stumbled upon a nudist colony in Austin.

And, I WAS the fattest person in class. Thank you very much.

Ten minutes into the class, my heart exploded. 20 minutes later, my legs turned to jelly. It was when my chest froze, and I stopped breathing that I died. Twice.

How am I even alive? It's a mystery.

What sadist designed a cardio workout class that lasts 60 minutes?

Anyway. It's been 5 weeks and I'm still at it. Unfortunately, I still haven't learned how to "engage my core" - whatever the fuck that means. And, I can't do a proper lunge without tipping over. And, I still do push-ups with my knees on the ground. And, don't even get me started on planks. When the class does planks, my fat ass is flat on the ground taking a nap. Fuck that.

But, on the brighter side.... I haven't given up. And, unlike that Jazzercize stint 15 years ago, I don't drive thru for a Wendy's Frostie after class. Because I am literally DEAD after each class. It's all I can do to slither into my car, drive home, and collapse.

10 things I hope to be remembered for…

2021-06-01T10:42:00.018-05:00

When I’m gone, I want people to remember me fondly. Which they will, I’m sure… because I’ve never been a tyrant or mass murderer or anything extremely evil like that. Those guys always get a bad rap after death. Obviously. But, they also become infamous. That kind of sucks.

There are also many assholes who fly under the radar. I’ve known a few myself. You know, those people who are complete assholes, treating people like shit, beating their wives, abandoning their children and generally pissing people off their entire lives… and when they’re dead, people say, “Oh, no! He’s gone? Oh, he was a nice guy.”

Uhm. No, he wasn’t it. He was a prick. You don’t have to say nice things about him just because he’s dead. He was an asshole, he treated you like shit and you’ve never had one nice thing to say about him until now! Let’s be glad he’s dead! Because, he wasn’t ever NICE!

Anyway. Luckily, I’m not one of those assholes. I’ve lived a generally good life and plan to continue doing so until I can’t anymore. I have made an effort to NOT be an asshole when being one could have been a lot easier. So, hopefully, when I’m gone, people remember that about me. And, these things, too:

She believed in “giving back” and helping, mentoring and counseling others.
She was half-blind, but she never let that stop her from seeing the bright side of things!
In a world of idiots, she had a lot of common sense.
She told it like it is and people appreciated her for her frank and open, deep conversations. (I think that’s a song, but whatever.)
She was knowledgeable. And, what she didn’t know, she simply faked. That took balls.
Her family was the butt of many jokes and crazy stories, but she loved THEM more than life.
She wasn’t that great of a mother, but she was better than many and she did her best to give her kids a good, fun and memorable life.
No one really knows WHY her husband loved her so much, rumor has it she doused him in magical fairy dust. Also, she had the operatic voice of an angel. Duh.
She learned early in life that things were just THINGS… they didn’t define who she was; and living up to society’s ideas of what makes a person seem “successful” was total bullshit. She minimized her life, reduced stress, shot the proverbial finger at the judgey assholes who mistook her for a failure, and she really lived happily ever after.
She loved beaches and fruity adult beverages more than any other person I know. Hopefully she passed away at an old age on a beach, in a hammock with a piña colada in hand.

The Dreaded "What are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?" Question

2021-05-01T10:20:00.006-05:00

Listing your greatest strengths is almost as tough as listing your weaknesses because you walk a fine line between being perceived as a total douche bag and Mother Teresa. I could go on and how about how I’m patient, caring, funny, smart, approachable, empathetic and humble (see the irony here?).

Some of those would even be accurate. But, I’m not a saint… but I’m normally not an arrogant prick, either. So, I’ll do my best to list strengths that reflect who I am in the most realistic sense:

I don’t beat around the bush. And I’m not talking about THAT kind of bush! (Although, I don’t beat around that one, either!) I’m talking about the fact that when I’m trying to convey a message, I get to the point as quickly as possible. Unless I have a lot to say. In which case, I like to fluff things up a bit. But, not in a bushy way.
I get shit done. I am pretty calculated about getting things done. I pride myself on finding efficient ways of getting to the end goal. I sometimes step on toes along the way; but it’s like having casualties of war. It ain’t pretty, but it happens. And, at the end, I get shit done. Unless we're talking about household shit. I don't get any of that done!
I usually learn from my mistakes. And, when I’m lucky, I learn from the mistakes of others – which has saved me from having to go through my own personal pain and misery.
I’m competitive. Unless it has something to do with exercising and/or sports. I’m ok losing at that stuff. I think my kids have inherited this strength. They just haven’t learned how to properly handle it. They’re both very sore winners. And, one of them is a very sore loser – I won’t name any names, but he’s the shortest person in my house and his name rhymes with Wessy. Word to the wise: do not EVER play battleship or miniature golf with this person. EVER. You have been warned.
I am a multi-tasking queen. This is why I own a tiara and wear it often and proudly. On a daily basis, I have no fewer than 456 balls in the air. And I never drop a ball. Well… I rarely drop a ball. The point is, I can juggle a bunch of stuff all at once without going insane. Insanity strikes only when other people start jumping into my ball air. That’s no good. As my favorite former boss used to say, “…we all know how much you love your balls!” Love might be a strong word; but I’ll go with it.

My greatest weakness is the fact that I can never think of any weaknesses whenever I’m asked this question.

For the record, “What is your greatest weakness?” is the WORST job interview question EVER. Can I add that to my list of pet peeves? As a person who has done A LOT of recruiting, I have always made it a point NOT to ask this jacked up trick question. We all know that weaknesses can be presented as strengths and strengths can be presented as weaknesses. It’s all in how you word your response.

For instance, someone can say that their greatest weakness is that she/he is a workaholic. Saying this “tricks” the employer into thinking that he/she will be a hard-working, loyal addition to the team. But, really, this “workaholic” is probably a person who has to work double hard to get their job done and often finds him/herself working long hours because he/she is incompetent. Same goes for the person who claims to be a “perfectionist to a fault”. I call bullshit on that one, too.

If I were interviewing for a job, and the interviewer pulled this lame ass question on me, here’s how I’d love to respond:

Interviewer: What is your greatest weakness?

Me: Honesty.

Interviewer: I don’t think honesty is a weakness.

Me: I don’t give a shit what you think!

But, alas, honesty is not really one of my weaknesses when it pertains to landing a job that pays in actual U.S. currency. So, without further ado, I’ll play along. Here are a few of my weaknesses.

French fries. They do a number on the waistline.
Kryptonite. And bullets. And ninja swords.
Vodka and clear Rum. As I age and struggle with having (or not having) a healthy lifestyle, I have come to the conclusion that my formally favorite adult beverages (sweet wine, pina coladas, mai thais, fruity margaritas, etc.) are now causing ridiculous headaches and leg swells and should be avoided if at all possible. HOWEVER, on the bright side, my friends, Vodka and Rum, when simply mixed with diet soda or bubbly water, give me the stress relief I need without all the side effects. YAY for science experiments!
Spaghetti Arms. I can’t lift shit, ya’ll. That’s why I married a really strong man.
I project self-expectations. Because I hold myself to high expectations (and standards), I tend to hold those around me to the same. So, as a potential manager of a group of idiots, I may not be a good fit if they’re used to being coddled. And as a parent, I expect my children to be courteous, independent thinkers who show responsibility and make well thought-out choices. I’m failing at all this shit.

Spankings - Not the Kinky Kind

2020-07-29T11:31:00.010-05:00

When I was around three years old, my brother and cousins loved to run around teasing my great-great-aunt. By this time, my Tia Julia was mostly sedentary, living under the care of my grandmother (Mimo). She would sit in a wicker chair by the front door with a rolled-up newspaper in her hand ready to swat any kid that got too close to her. The thing is, she’d fall asleep in that chair and the big kids thought it was awesome fun to taunt her while she slept. She couldn’t swat us in her sleep.

I was terrified of that lady. One day, my brother, feeling extra brave during one of Tia Julia's naps, jumped around in front of her, stuck his tongue out at her, and made the “na-na-na-na-boo-boo” sign with his hands. And, I’ll be damned if that heifer’s eyes didn’t pop right open! My brother and cousins took off, but I was stunned with fear! My brain screamed RUN, but my legs didn't register. She grabbed my arm with one hand and spanked the crap out of me with the other. I can vividly remember the sound of the newspaper cracking, whop-whop-whop, on the back of my legs. She hollered, “¡pos que fregados! …¡pinches niños, agradecidos!” (Roughly translated: "What the fuck! You fucking ungrateful little kids!") The other kids laughed and laughed, pointing at me in gleeful hysterics from a safe distance.

I was traumatized for life.

I’m not gonna lie, ya’ll… I had nightmares about Tia Julia throughout my childhood. I had this one recurring nightmare where we’re back at Mimo’s old house and I have a very strong urge to pee… I can smell her even before I open the door to the restroom; a perfume of dust, mold, and ivory soap. Without even touching it, the door creaks open. I find that Tia Julia’s severed head is sitting on the counter… her eyes fling open and her lips tighten into a smirk! Then, she says, “Andale , entra mijitia…no te voy a hacer daño,” (Roughly translated: "Come on in, darling, I won't hurt you.") as black drool seeps from cracked lips in Stephen King-style glory. But, hell no, I don’t go in! Instead, I pee myself.

After that incident, I learned to take joy in witnessing other kids getting ass-whoopings! I spent the majority of my childhood trying my best to fly under the radar to avoid spankings. My brothers, however, were idiots. Which pleased me greatly, I must admit.

After belts no longer seemed to impress my brothers during their regular disciplines, my dad crafted a long, wooden paddle, designed for maximum pain. He painted it black, drilled holes into it and wrapped the handle meticulously in black electrical tape and leather. It sat on a hook just inside our parents' bedroom door; a constant reminder that poor behavior had dire consequences. Everything about that damn paddle was menacing. But, the boys didn’t give a shit. Even after Mom's threats of brutal beatings, they’d continue being their little assholey selves all the live-long day. “Quit that shit now or I will tell your father when he gets home!” she'd warn. But they wouldn’t quit. Testing her boundaries was their god-given right and daily mission.

They knew that sometimes she didn't follow through with her threats. I think part of her felt sorry for them. But by the end of many days, Mom would be so fed up with those boys that Dad could spot it on her face. “Who’s first?!” he’d ask them without even checking with her to see if they had behaved themselves. When neither one of them offered to go first, he’d flip a coin and get to swatting. Only three swings of the paddle if they were lucky. My sister and I would peek around the corner and snicker at them. Deep down, I felt it was payback for the Tia Julia incident.

But my dad and Tia Julia weren't the only ones who took pleasure in inflicting pain on children as punishment for their wrong-doings. If there were Academy Awards for spankings, Grandpa Lonnie, I think, would have been the reigning champion in Louisiana from 1975-1992. I wouldn't wish the wrath of Grandpa Lonnie on my worst enemy.

Our parents shipped us off to Grandpa Lonnie’s ranch in Louisiana for a few weeks each summer until I was 9 years old (that's when an "incident" occurred that resulted in us never seeing Grandpa Lonnie again; I'll save that for another post.) Jonathan was the last of Grandpa Lonnie's kids still living at home; he was the same age as my brothers. I think I've blocked out a lot of my experiences at that ranch. I remember we went to church a lot. I remember Big Mama produced very elaborate country-cooking spreads for every meal. I remember there were cows... and chickens... and lots of boat rides through the swamp for catfishing. There was also a lot of screaming.

One of the daily chores at the ranch was to close the gate at the end of the long driveway each day before supper. Most days the boys would ride their bikes down there to do it. But, sometimes Grandpa Lonnie would treat them to a tailgate ride if he had trash to dump or whatnot. On these rare occasions, Grandpa Lonnie warned those fools not to let their feet drag on the ground while he was driving. And, of course, they never listened. All three of them dragged their damn feet every time. One time in particular, though, Jonathan's shoe caught on a rock and he tumbled right out of the truck. His legs and arms got tore up pretty bad on that fall.

But, what did Grandpa Lonnie do when this happened? Did he hurry and tend to his dumbass son and offer medical assistance or at the very least, fatherly love? No, he did not! He pulled the truck over, yanked Jonathan up onto his feet and beat the living shit out of him with his fists. “I told you not to drag your feet, boy! You think that fall hurts? This spanking is gonna hurt worse!”

To be fair, it was more than a spanking. It was a beating. By the end of it, his face was bloody, too. And, he couldn't walk. Grandpa Lonnie tossed him like a rag doll into the back of the truck and headed back up the driveway as if nothing happened. I don't know what ever became of Jonathan. Grandpa Lonnie is dead now.

Unlike the boys, I learned quickly how to behave myself to avoid spankings. There was nothing my brothers could entice me to do that I’d risk a beating for. Nothing.

Brain-Dead Mothers. It's a Thing.

2020-07-09T13:53:00.002-05:00

My life can be defined by BEFORE KIDS (BK) and AFTER KIDS (AK). In my BK days, many parts of my body were smaller. I can't blame my weight on my kids, although sometimes it's fun to make them feel guilty about it. What I can blame them for are my enlarged feet. After the first kid, my feet grew half a size; and after the second kid, they bumped up another half size. I'm really not sure how the science works with feet, but that shit is fucked up. Do you know how hard it is to find cute 9.5-10 sized shoes? It's almost as hard as finding plus-sized clothing that doesn't include moo-moos, frocks, and tunics (which, let's be real, are just fucking frocks with a cuter name).

Also, BK, my hair was thick and lush and brown. AK it became thin and grey and lifeless. And, when I'm stressed, it falls out in clumps. It ain't pretty when a woman loses her hair. Not pretty at all. And, I don't wanna hear all the men out there crying about how their receding hairlines have ruined their lives. Men don't know shit about the mental damage that women endure when losing hair. Not one tiny turd.

I think it's funny how men are always so dramatic about their pains and woes.

Hubber: I've got this excruciating pain in my stomach. This must be what child birth feels like!

Me: ....

<giving the are-you-fucking-kidding-me-right-now face>

Hubber: What? You think you're the authority on all things painful?

Me: Yes. I do. I'mma need you to try squeezing a watermelon out of your pee hole before you compare any fucking thing to child birth.

Anyway...

The other thing that happened AK is that I lost brain cells. Most idiots can blame cool shit like LSD, crack, moonshine, and marijuana for their dumbassery. Not me! I blame parenthood. Again, I'm not a scientist, but I'm pretty sure that when you get pregnant, brain cells dislodge and travel down into your womb. I think it's safe to estimate that the average mother loses 10 brain cells a day during that time. And, I carried my kids TO TERM. That's 40 long weeks of brain cell loss. If I were good at math, I'd tell you exactly how many cells that is and how many I have left. But, I'm not good at math; and you know why.

Kids are natural born thieves, y'all. And, they make you dumb. There should be severe consequences for their actions! I demand justice! Time for reparations!

#mombielivesmatter

It should come as no surprise that the brain cells you use to perform mathematical computations are the first to go. I'm living proof of that. I'm currently taking a Business Analysis class that is kicking my ass. Why? Because I can't process the logic behind testing statistic hypotheses. P-values? Z-test? Null Hypothesis? Critical Value? Square roots, n to the power of 6, degrees of freedom! WTF is this shit? And, why can't I get it to stay in my head? Why! I'll tell you why. Because my kids stole the necessary brain cells needed to compute.

And since depleting me of my brain cells isn't quite enough, my kids have also stolen vital nutrients necessary to function on this planet. Did I have seasonal allergies before I was a mom? No. I did not. Did I have high blood pressure? No. Was I able to quickly metabolize crappy food? Yes. Can I do that now? No.

Basically, children have literally sucked the life out of me and have left in their wake, an over-sized, middle-aged, wild-haired, blob whose ultimate goal in life is to end up laid out on a beach somewhere with a perpetual piña colada in hand.

Hobbies During Quarantine?

2020-06-29T17:55:00.000-05:00

Like many people these pandemic-days, we find ourselves in quarantine. For an introvert, at first, being home all the time was paradise. It was all smiles, daytime booze, and no pants! But, it didn't take long for me to start feeling like maybe I was being a little complacent; and dare I say it: lazy. Like, I could be exercising. Or, I could be cleaning. Or, I could be painting the hallway. Or, I could be providing upcycled-t-shirt-facemasks and sack lunches to the homeless.

A friend suggested I work on my "hobbies."

Hobbies? Hahahahaha!

Yeah, thanks, "friend". Way to make me feel like a total loser.

Turns out I don't have many “hobbies” in the conventional sense – due to the fact that they require an abundance of time, nerd-ery, energy and dedication….all qualities in which I am highly lacking.

Over the years, I tried to pick up some hobbies. I learned to sew. Kinda. I learned to quilt. Kinda. I started collecting mounted jackalope heads (still only have the one). I learned to make jewelry. I took up photography. I learned to knit. Kinda. I learned to crochet. Kinda. I made my own laundry detergent (that counts, right?). I made toilet paper roll art. I painted. I drew.

And there was this one time when I decided to collect beer bottle caps! Oh, yeah. It was a brilliant endeavor that cost me nearly nothing because I employed (without pay, of course) others to collect them for me. I currently have 1,568,265 (or so) in my possession. Someday, I’m actually going to use them to refinish table tops and make millions of dollars! (Just like I planned to do 5 years ago.)

I think I've digressed, as usual. Let's get back on track...

I started ghost hunting. I practiced yoga. I learned how to read palms…and tarot cards. I became one with nature, and crystals, and herbs, and moon phases.

The list goes on, people.

After a little contemplation, and just as my brain started to shut down... it hit me.

Maybe my hobby is finding hobbies. Or, maybe my hobby is starting seemingly creative shit and never finishing it. It’s a process, people.

I’d like to be able to say that my hobbies include hiking mountains, scuba diving, robbing banks and other exhilarating activities. But, alas… I am one boring-ass mofo. Suffice it to say, I don’t really have any "hobbies". However, there are some things I love to do and can probably manage to spend my quarantine time more wisely on:

Reading. I learned to love reading from an early age. Growing up, my mom took us to the public library every week. And while my brothers were busy catching up on MAD Magazine and my sister would opt for the picture books and puzzles, I would find a quiet corner and get lost in another world. When I was about 10 years old, I picked up my mom’s copy of Gone with the Wind and I never stopped reading novels since.
Traveling. It seems like forever since we really, truly traveled. Back when we had the RV, we tooled all over there place; albeit sometimes the accommodations were a little crowded and the shared toilet resulted in the feeling of too much togetherness. For the most part, traveling for pleasure is wonderful! I love being a tourist… visiting new places and learning local cultures.
Loafing. As in lounging – not making bread. (Although, I do love a nice, fresh loaf of french bread, too.) I like to veg-out in front of the TV… or in bed with a good book… or on the beach with a piña colada. Or on my backyard patio with a refreshing iced coconut-rum-and-water. You get the gist.
Floating. I love feeling weightless. So, when I’m in the pool, I will float and float and float. And, I’ll ask Hubber to carry me like a newlywed because I’m so light and dainty!
Eating. That’s why I’m soft around the edges. I will try anything once. Except for insects, dung, dolphins, dogs, cats, rodents, skunks and buzzards. (I reserve the right to add to this list in the future; even big girls have standards.) If quarantine has taught me anything, it's that you can make goulash out of pretty much any kind of leftover. And, don't let your Hubber try to tell you that what you made is not goulash. He doesn't know shit about goulash.
Gardening. This might be a true and actual hobby, y'all! I started a veggie/fruit garden a few years ago and have since added a butterfly garden, a few rose bushes, hibiscus, and other wonderful stuff! I guess I'm proud to say that I'm making real inroads in this area. :)

I was going to add mixology to this list so that I could sound like a sophisticated barista/barwench. But, I thought twice because it might make me seem more like a lush. Which I am not. Usually.

Feast your eyes on some gorgeous shit from my quarantine-era-garden below. Enjoy.

Hypothetical Dinner with Famous Dead Person

2020-06-18T21:30:00.015-05:00

Random question my friend had to answer on a pre-employment screening questionnaire: If you could have dinner with any deceased person from history, who would it be?

They're getting pretty creative with this stuff, y'all. But, this one I wouldn't mind answering. I like thought-provoking questions so long as I'm not being timed to answer and it's not a question thrown at me in an interview where I have no time to ponder. "Gandhi!" I would blurt without thinking. Or, "Mother Teresa!" Because these are people who were truly selfless in their plight to change the world. But, give me a few minutes to noodle on it, and well, neither would be my answer. Why? Because, let's face it, I'm not that fucking deep.

If I had dinner with Gandhi or Mother Teresa, we’d be drinking poop water and eating al dente grains of rice with our hands or... toasted crickets, gah! – so, I’m definitely gonna pass on those guys. Then there’s Margaret Thatcher who would most surely have me over for tea and crumpets at high noon. Needless to say, she’s out, too. I’m not a proper Englishwoman with manners and whatnot. And, where I'm from, cookies are not biscuits. And while I like a good cup of Earl Gray as much as the next gal, strong coffee loaded with cream and sugar is more my forte.

I could consider Elvis – who will serenade me and feed me grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Not bad, but will the conversation be stimulating enough for me? I don't know shit about Tupelo, Mississippi or mediocre acting. And, after a few Love me Tenders, that little lip curl will start to irk me.

Maybe Emily Dickinson.... "I'm nobody, who are you?" Or, Sylvia Plath... "I think I made you up inside my head." Nah. Both too profound and serious. Surely they'd serve vegan dishes and cornucopias of self loathing. No, thanks.

What about Catherine the Great... Wasn't she the one who lined up all her husbands and screamed, "Off With Their Heads!" and then used their decapitated heads as soccer balls? Oh, wait. I think that was the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland and it wasn't soccer, it was croquet. Never mind.

So, [although the question wasn't even meant for me,] after much contemplation, I have settled on Oscar Wilde. Good ol’ Oscar will surely provide a feast of all things yummy and delicious. The spread will include roast beef with all the fixings and baked goods to my heart’s content. We’ll sip on sweet, iced champagne, his favorite – and now mine! He’ll tell me all about the Importance of Being Earnest and the Portrait of Dorian Gray. And we’ll talk smack about the Queen and all the rubbish that goes on within the royal family. We’ll slander the name of the Marques of Queensbury for having been the cause of Oscar’s imprisonment and early death... and we’ll make voodoo dolls of all our sworn enemies.

Then, we’ll get serious, and he’ll give me tips on living life without a care in the world and how best to be shameless and daring – his early philosophy of pleasure. Definitely a worthy dead person dinner guest selection.

The End.

“How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being.”

“Women are made to be loved, not understood.”

“Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever then go.”

“I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I’m saying.”

“True friends stab you in the front.”

“Always forgive your enemies, nothing annoys them so much.”

“I have the simplest tastes. I am always satisfied with the best.”

“I love talking about nothing. It is the only thing I know anything about.”

"A dreaded sunny day, so I'll meet you at the cemetery gates. Keats and Yeats are on your side, while Wilde is on mine..." - Stephen Patrick Morrissey

Fears - The Legitimate and The Irrational

2020-06-16T09:07:00.005-05:00

According to numerous scientific studies, the number one fear of most humans is public speaking. I have no source to site here, but I know I read it somewhere; in numerous, very well-renowned publications. And, while public speaking is not my favorite activity (it's not even in my list of top 100 things to do), it's not one of the things I fear the most.

The other day, after proclaiming that I'm one bad mother fucker who isn't afraid of shit, Hubber began ticking off on fingers and toes all the things I'm "afraid" of. His list was quite extensive, and mostly wrong and ridiculous, so I won't bore you with it here. But, after threatening to kick him in the penis if he didn't stop, I got to thinking.

Fears...

I may look like a tough heifer... and I may act like a tough heifer, but deep down, I’m crazy scared! I live inside my head A LOT. What if this... what if that... until I work myself up into a frenzy and new fears rattle around in there taunting me. Now, are they all LEGITIMATE fears? I don’t know. I guess it depends on your definition of LEGITIMATE.

So, to help me understand, I looked up the word LEGITIMATE and according to Merriam-Webster, the nerd of all words, it means:

allowed according to rules or laws;
real, accepted, or official;
fair or reasonable.

And, because I thought all those definitions seemed pretty dull and boring, I decided to see what Urban Dictionary had to say. Here’s what the word on the street is:

Lawfully correct, legal;
Justified, not un-called for;
Something very, very true;
used to describe something in the utmost of truthiness or maybe something SO FRIKKIN DAMN AWESOME, see also: sick, sweet, telk, or godly.

“…the utmost of truthiness”? Ok… I can do this.

My fear of a home invasion

After a very disturbing experience as a young, single mother, I became increasingly afraid for the safety of my child. In the early years, I locked, double-locked and triple-locked all doors and windows. And when I couldn’t afford a security alarm, I set up booby-traps near possible entrances so that if I were sleeping and an intruder tried to creep in, he’d knock over a mountain of Legos and it’d wake me up. I didn’t have a gun, so I kept a metal bat next to my bed so that I could go to town on that mofo when he got in! I checked on the bat before bed every night. I did other things, too, but I’ll stop there before I get labeled with OCD.

After I got married, Hubber became my security system. It wasn't something he was prepared for. But, y'all know Hubber... he's a real trooper! Of course he questioned my logic at first, but when I explained all the violent scenarios that run through my head in bloody detail, he backed off and let me go through my nightly motions of safe guarding the house before bed each night. It wasn't long before he started to help. He'd even stay up in order to be the last one asleep (he still does that, all these years later).

When you're a little nuts, you run the risk of rubbing off on people. And, so it was Hubber's fate that he "inherited" some of my crazy. Now, while we no longer set booby traps, we still have our nightly lock-up rituals…and instead of a metal bat next to MY side of the bed, Hubber keeps a freshly sharpened ninja sword next to his. True story.

Back door isn't quite secure enough, so I put a heavy chair in front of it. If someone breaks in, it will wake us up. Bats and swords will come flying...so beware, home invaders!

My fear of wide-open and enclosed spaces/crowds (and sometimes just people in general):

I have high anxiety, y’all. I’m not medicated for it anymore, but it rears its ugly head in dark, narrow stairwells, big, sweaty crowds, and also when I'm in a wide-open space with no crowd - but I start thinking, "what if a crowd forms around me? what if people start walking close to me and start breathing the air that was meant for me...and then I won't have any air to breathe... and what if I start to suffocate? What if a homicidal maniac is in this room? What if someone bars those closed doors from the outside like in the movie Carrie and I get trampled when people rush the doors to get out? What if I blink and suddenly people are huddled around me asking me for directions, or money, or to complete a 60-second survey related to my current cell phone carrier?!" What if!!

It's not fun inside my head, y'all. But, these are the things that create literal tunnel-vision and make my head dizzy, my knees weak, and my breath short. There is no rational explanation for said anxiety...and there is no method to the madness. It just happens randomly. That little brain trigger that sparks the crazy just decides to flip at the most inopportune times. One minute I'm perfectly fine in the long line for "It's a Small World" at Disney World. And then, BOOM. I gotta get the fuck outta there stat lest I explode into a million tiny pieces. Or worse, stab someone in the eye with the Mickey spork I squirreled away in my pocket for just an occasion (or for extra frozen soft-serve ice cream; either way, sporks always come in handy).

My fear of judgement and failure:

These two concepts, although seemingly unrelated, go hand-in-hand for me. Sure, most people worry about what people think of them... so they pile on the makeup, curl their hair, buy handbags they can't afford and high-heeled shoes that wreck their feet... but, those aren't the things I do to avoid judgement. I work harder to prove myself worthy. I go above and beyond to learn things that improve my standing with people. I learn to work efficiently, effectively with little direction because I want to be seen as competent; someone who can be trusted to "take the lead".

This is starting to sound like a resume pitch!

Seriously, though, I work hard because I work in a man's world where women are seen as inferior until they prove themselves capable (at least 348,000 times). And, even then, EVEN THEN, they aren't quite good enough. It's a tough world to live in when you're headstrong and stubborn like I am. I don't walk around oblivious and complacent. I want more. I strive for more. When I fear I'm being judged, instead of kicking it up a notch, I have a tendency to become lax, risking failure.

I also fear that I'm getting a little too old for this game. I fear I might become irrelevant.

P.S. My resume is ready to go.

What do you know about walking a tightrope?

2020-05-18T15:21:00.000-05:00

Being a tightrope-walker takes a lot of skill, balance, patience, and fearlessness.

You climb the ladder. With each step, the crowd cheers you on. You can do it! When you reach the top, you scan the crowd below. All those tiny, insignificant faces staring up at you in awe. It feels good to be at the top. All the hushed voices below, waiting for you to take a step onto the rope. Two arms out, to keep your balance, you step onto the platform. The next step you take is onto the rope. You tighten your core, close your eyes, and keep going. You pretend no one is watching you, but you can feel their eyes boring holes into the depths of your soul. With each step, you squeeze your feet tightly around the rope. Halfway across, you open your eyes. You lose your balance. Your right foot slips out from under you and before you fall, you try to grasp the rope with your hands. But, it’s no use. You can’t hang on. You hear the crowd below gasping. They’re waiting to see if you’ll have the strength to pull yourself up. You do not. You decide that letting go beats ripping your hands to shreds. So, you freefall. The net below envelopes you like the sweet, secure arms of a new mother. You didn’t make it across the rope that time, but you’ll get up and do it all again as the crowd cheers you on.

Being a tightrope-walker is like being a habitual dieter.

Everyone is watching you. They stare in amazement and they cheer you on; but deep down inside, they’re just waiting for you to fail. They don’t want you to succeed because it’s more fun to watch you fall. Will the net below be able to hold your weight? No worries, tightrope dieter! Slip off the narrow course before you, and you crash land into a safety net full of warm bread, pasta, and ice cream. All the gawkers pat themselves on the back because they knew your mission was impossible. They were right all along. You don’t have what it takes. So, you muddle around through the net, lapping up all the deliciousness while you try to make sense of your life choices. Soon, you forget how hard it was to walk that rope, so you work your way back to the ladder that leads you up to the diet platform; where you repeat the process through infinity.

Being a tightrope-walker is like being a pregnant woman.

Everyone is watching you. They stare in amazement and they cheer you on; but deep down inside, they’re just waiting for you to fail. They watch your stomach expand, wondering if you’re eating responsibly. Are you drinking alcohol? Was that a tuna sushi roll you’re shoving into your mouth thinking no one noticed? Who cares. You keep going, step by step across the rope. Your plan for a natural childbirth is intricately laid out before you. You’re almost there. But, that’s when the pains of labor begin. Your insides are on fire; your baby has razor claws for arms and a bowling ball head… tearing you up while pressing hard against your will to live. The pain is so excruciating that you begin to slip off the rope. All eyes on you. You close your eyes and decide falling is a better fate than the agony coursing through you to the core. You take the shot. You fall off the tightrope and into the blissful, ecstasy of the safety net that is an epidural - numbness from the waist down. With baby in tow, you stumble out of the safety net. In time, you forget the pain and are ready to do it all over again.

Being a tightrope-walker is like being a woman in business.

Everyone is watching you. They stare in amazement and they cheer you on; but deep down inside, they're just waiting for you to fail.You climb the ladder... higher and higher until you reach the top. Now, the only thing to do to get your dream job, is to walk the interview tightrope. Hooray! Look at her go! They all exclaim. With arms outstretched, you soak in all mentoring thrown your way. You take step after step, doing all the things the crowd below is telling you to do. Headstrong and full of excitement, you let your integrity lead the way. You've worked all your life to get to this point. Unlike other tightropes you've encountered, on this tightrope you don't slip. But, this tightrope is rigged. A strong hand pushes you off and you fall, further and further until you land in a deep pool of the blood of many women before you. You are not alone. A few of them lift you up and carry you to shore where you crawl on wounded knees and aching heart... back to the ladder. You put your tired hands on the bottom rung and start climbing again.

The drain in my bathroom sink is a living nightmare.

2019-08-07T16:32:00.000-05:00

I’m not saying it’s literally living. But, I’m also not saying that it’s not. Literally. Living. The jury is still out. Ya'll tell me this shit does not look like that girl’s black hole drain hole in the remake of “IT” where it’s clogged with hair that comes alive and races out from the hole full of bloody goo and strangles her… to almost DEATH:

Am I right? I am right. Thank you very much. Here's what I'm thinking is going to happen one day if we don't cover that big black hole:

Me: Well. Bad news, Hub. It looks like we’re going to have to rip out our entire bathroom now and start all over from scratch.

Hubber: What are you talking about? All we need to do is update the counter top and…

Me: No, sir. If we don’t demo the entire thing, Pennywise will come slithering outta our drain hole. And, you KNOW how much I hate that fucking clown.

Hubber: You need to quit thinking what happens in movies is real life shit.

Me: First of all, it was in the book. So, there's that. Also, let us not forget that movies are based on real life shit, Hubber! And, it’s not just movies… the fucking Simpsons have predicted the future more times than we can ever count! And, don’t even get me started on La Llorona and Amityville Horror! Oh, and South Park. Do not even forget friggen SOUTH PARK, man!

Hubber: Fine. I can honestly see all the hair coming to life. That's a nightmare I can relate to. So, I'll give you that much.

Me: So we can bulldoze the bathroom?

Hubber: No. But, you can start throwing your hair in the trashcan instead of washing it down the drain. It amazes me that there is still actual hair on your head. Does it grow 12 inches every night to replenish the 3 pounds that fall out every day?

Me: That's just mean. And, quit changing the subject. Pennywise. Bathroom demo. I'm sure Homer Simpson predicted this shit. That's what I'm here about right now.

I'm not sure if that's around the time he walked away or fell asleep on me.

But, it doesn't matter because I know that shit was working its way around in his brain for the next few days. That's how the transfer of paranoia works, y'all. It has to simmer and ferment in the brain juices for awhile. He has to imagine a hairy bloodbath in his mind every time he goes into the bathroom until it becomes a problem. And, believe me, he visits that room often.

It's not easy for Hubber to admit that my paranoia has taken root in his mind. He is torn between understanding that the paranoia is completely irrational while contemplating the possibility that in some weird other-worldly-dimension (possibly in the "upside-down") shit like this can actually happen.

Also, in the book, Pennywise was a spider. Y'all know I tossed that little nugget in his pipe for smoking. And, we all know how much Hubber fears spiders.

Next thing I know, the black hole looks like this:

And, while it's not exactly the sledgehammering and complete re-do I was looking for, it's probably something I can live with.

For now.

My life is like a country song.

2019-07-31T16:09:00.000-05:00

No, really. It is. Here’s how it goes:

My oldest spawn left for college. My dog died. I bought a pickup truck. My youngest is a ukulele prodigy. I blew out my favorite flip flops. I shook my groove thang on the Flora-Bama line. We chopped down a dead sycamore tree. My job doesn’t pay enough. It took two years to settle my mother-in-law’s estate and she didn’t own shit except the property we now live on which was falling apart. That being sad…

Hubber is renovating our house. I lost 20 pounds. I can now shoot a 9mm and an AR15. We’ve misplaced the keys to the gun safe twice because we put them in a spot where no one could find them but us. Turned out we’re better hiders than we thought we were. We now have two cats. I gained 20 pounds.

My mom learned tarot and “the good kind” of voodoo. She can also do your numerology… in case you need a life plan. My peach tree died. The high school in my neighborhood looks like a prison, complete with barred windows, barbed wire fencing, and armed guards. My new neighbors blast Spanish reggae music in their backyard every Saturday night. I lost 20 pounds again.

We survived a few mental breakdowns. Stray cats shit in my garden… Hubber is trying to use them for bb-gun target practice now. My sofa is gone so we sit on camp chairs in the living room. I learned how to smoke meat on my new pellet grill. (Smoke meat. That's what she said. Heh.) I still have no swimming pool and summer is almost over. I bought too many plants to fill empty pots, so now I have to buy more pots, but I’ll probably get too many, so I’ll need to buy more plants. It’s a delicate science I haven’t quite mastered.

I twisted my ankle three different times while sitting. I have started plucking white eyebrow hairs. White. I won a calla lily plant as a door prize at my first neighborhood civic club meeting… I was so happy I forgot I was there to complain about my neighbors. I have a self-diagnosed gluten allergy. My sister got married in Vegas and I wasn’t there. My house was haunted, but we cleaned that bitch out.

Hubber falls asleep when I’m talking to him and sometimes while driving – especially if he’s loaded up on carbs. He’s like that guy from that movie who fell asleep in that car that was going over a bridge and he just floated around and didn’t break any bones because he was all relaxed and asleep. WTF was the name of that movie? My boyfriend Robert Downey, Jr. is in it.

Turns out the spaghetti squash I planted is a honey dew melon. The tax man calleth. Twice.

My oldest is a grown-ass woman… but she’s not… but she is… or, maybe not… we’re all still very confused. My parents are falling apart. I tinkle a bit if I laugh too hard… or sneeze… or cough. I tried to quit blessing people when they sneeze, but I kept forgetting to stop, so I just gave in to the madness and resigned myself to my inevitable sainthood. My alcohol threshold is not what it used to be. Alien bugs that won’t die (no matter how hard you smash, zap, or stomp on them) sneak into my house to plot the destruction of mankind.

Put some music to that shit, Blake Shelton!

And, I better get royalties.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2017-10-02T21:37:00.002-05:00

Growing up as a mixed-race individual is not easy. In case you didn’t know, I am the product of a Hispanic/White relationship. But, since my mother divorced by bio-dad when I was still a baby and he disappeared from our lives, I was raised in a very heavily Mexican-American household.

I’m sure the half-black-half-white combo comes with its own challenges. And, although I can’t directly relate, I can relate to the identity struggle in general.

Being a very white-looking girl in a Mexican family where everyone else is creamy-coffee-colored was not fun. At a young age, I was nicknamed Güera (roughly translated: pale-pasty-ass-white-girl) which made my whiteness stand out even more among the brown contingency. And, although I wasn't alone because my brother is as friggen white-looking as I am, he was generally accepted by everyone as Hispanic and wasn’t nicknamed anything racist that pointed him out as an outcast with pale skin.

In my younger years, I found myself always trying to be accepted as a Latina. Sometimes I was accepted, but not always. Sometimes, I just “wasn’t Hispanic enough.” And, on the flip side, I was also never “white enough” when trying to identify with white folks. Basically, I lived in a sort of cultural identity purgatory.

However, as I matured, it became less important as I built my own self-worth without trying to pigeon hole myself into any individual racial identity.

Wow. That sounded fancier than it actually is. Sometimes I amaze myself at how enlightened I think I am.

Anyway, my point here is that just when I thought I was comfortable in my own skin and that my races don’t define who I am, I met someone who thought I was the Mexican-est person she had ever met.

My mother-in-law. (God rest her soul.)

Except, she wasn't nice about it. Nor, was she ever politically correct. And, she thought Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Hondurans, Guatemalans (etc) were all MEXICANS, too.

Me: Uhm, Mom. You KNOW those are different countries, right? Mexico is a COUNTRY... and so is Honduras. Also, Puerto Ricans are essentially AMERICAN.

MIL: Who cares! You know what I mean!

Me: No. No, I do not.

She had two favorite things she liked to do to torture me. First she liked to collect Spanish "literature" so that she had something "nice" to give me every time she saw me. And, by literature, I mean junk mail, coupons she picked up on a rack at the grocery store, and religious pamphlets left by solicitors. I'd show up for a visit and she'd excuse herself to go grab the "mexican shit" she had collected for me since my last visit.

Me: I don't want any of this shit.

MIL: But, it's in Spanish.

Me: Sooo...?

MIL: So.. don't you buy all these things? My neighbor says all the Mexicans use this seasoning, and the coupon is for $0.50 off! Don't your people like discounts? And, here..what about this...?

Me: I have never even heard of any of this crap. And, I'm especially NOT going to read this evangelical bullshit!

MIL: Well, not all Mexicans are Catholic!

Me: WHAT? What does that even mean!?

And so the conversations would generally go haywire because in her mind all that shit was jumbled up. And, it was probably hard to squeeze all the dumb, racist shit out in an orderly fashion. I get that, I guess. Because, I'm a poster child for going off on tangents.

I think that mostly, I was a fun novelty - like a freak show circus act. She probably loved telling all her old crotchety friends that her son is such a maverick for marrying a Mexican! She probably even had them all collecting those stupid Spanish newspapers for me, too!

But, what did I do when she gave me all that shit to read? I bitched about it, then I gathered it all up and acted like I was going to take it home and read it. Why? Because I was raised to graciously accept stupid ass shit people give me so as not to be rude.

I'd carry that shit all the way home in my car. I'd even walk it into the house before throwing it in the garbage.

Because I'm a decent person that way.

And, although I considered it, I never set in on fire in the sink while chanting voodoo curses. Not even once. I swear.

Me: Hubber, the shit your mom says could get her shot one day.

Hubber: Yeah, you're probably right. But, what do you do?

Me: Uhm. YOU could tell her that she's racist and rude! And, that if it were anyone but me, she'da prolly been slapped by now!

Hubber: She's old. She thinks it's ok to say whatever the hell she wants without repercussions.

Me: I think you're an enabler.

Hubber: Word to the wise: Your voodoo shit ain't got nothing on her.

😕

Anyway. I said there were two things she liked to do to torture me and test my patience. The other thing is this: She liked to make me talk to "mexican-looking people" in Spanish for her. EVEN IF THEY SPOKE ENGLISH.

Yeah.

Once, she called me while I was at work.

Me: Hi. What's up?

MIL: You need to talk to this guy.

Me: What guy?

MIL: The Mexican who does my yard. Tell him I'm not paying him shit unless he puts the yard clippings IN the trash can instead of just leaving them there at the curb.

Me: Geez. Ok.

Yard Guy: Hello. Yes, I heard her.

Me: You speak English?

Yard Guy: Yes. I put bag in trash can. No problem.

Me: Ok, thank you so much. I'm sorry about that.

Yard Guy: Is ok, ma'am.

MIL: Did you tell him?

Me: Uhm, seriously? HE. SPEAKS. ENGLISH. I didn't have to tell him anything. He heard and understood every word you said.

MIL: I just heard him speaking to you in Mexican!

Me: WHAT? You mean SPANISH. But, NO. That was English! He just has an accent.

MIL: Bullshit. I didn't understand a word.

Me: I gotta go. I'm at work.

Another time she did that was when the City was widening her road. In her professional opinion, the job was taking entirely too long and the Mexicans were to blame. So, she called me up, walked her ass out there in her moo-moo with a cigarette dangling from her mouth... me on the phone in one hand and hell-raising fury in the other!

We were going to tell those Mexicans to hurry up and get her fucking street done or there would be hell to pay because BY GOSH, her daughter-in-law knows the mayor AND she speaks Spanish, mother fuckers!!

All I said when the guy got on the phone was, "Sorry! She's kinda crazy. But the quicker you get the job done, the sooner you get her off your back. That should be incentive enough."

I'm not saying my threat was successful, but they DID wrap that shit up the following week and she gave me all the credit for it. Pretty sure she thought I called the mayor.

So, yeah. She definitely kept things interesting in her own fucked-up way. I'm not gonna lie, I was mad at her most days. But now, I kinda miss her.

I guess the moral of the story is: be careful what you wish for. Turns out, being Mexican is highly overrated.

Phone Calls That Don't End in Fiery Deaths

2017-05-04T22:25:00.002-05:00

How old do my children have to be for me to actually feel HAPPY to see an unexpected incoming call from them light up my phone?

Because to date, when I see that it’s one of my spawn ringing in, I have to get my mind right before answering the call. First, I blink 5 times, slowly. I breathe in… I breathe out. I stretch my neck to the left. I stretch my neck to the right.

I consider all the possible reasons the spawn would choose to CALL rather than TEXT (which is the norm). A phone call gives me no time to devise my reply to whatever ridiculous non-urgent problem she is currently having that can’t be resolved via text.

Then, I close my eyes and tilt my head up to the sky…hoping that powers greater than me will take mercy on my ragged soul and make the fucking phone stop ringing. By this time, it usually does stop. And I pray that they’ll just leave me a message. And, I start to believe that God really does give a shit about me.

Then, the follow-up-call ringing commences. No message. Just more goddamned ringing.

In the span of 3 seconds, I start to fear the worst.

Maybe my child has been kidnapped by a murderous bandito and is calling from the trunk of a 1985 Ford Ltd with no way to kick the taillights out and wave her hand through the hole to flag down help from concerned passersby! And the 9 and 1 buttons on her phone don't work!

OR… My child was just in a car accident and is trapped inside the car which is only seconds from exploding into smithereens!

OR… There’s an active shooter at the school!

OR… My child has been car jacked and left stranded in the middle of nowhere with wolves (NOT of the Huge Jackman variety) salivating near her while her phone is about to die and this is the last call she will ever make before she’s torn to shreds!

Fire, blood, and gory death flash before my eyes and I start to hyperventilate.

So, frantically, I answer the phone, cursing myself for being such a fucking selfish, crappy excuse for a mother. My child is obviously in mortal danger! What the fuck is wrong with me!?

Me: Hello? Are you ok?
Tallest Spawn: cry/screaming and blowing out my eardrum: Moooom! Why aren’t you answering your phone? I’m like freaking out over here!
Me: Uhm! I just answered! What in the world is wrong?!
Tallest Spawn: sobbing uncontrollably: My car won’t start! I’m freaking out! Oh my god! What do I do?!
Me: Really? You’re crying uncontrollably about your car not starting?
Tallest Spawn: YES! Mom! You don’t understand! I’m like freaking out over here!
Me: Obviously. Where are you? Are you safe?
Tallest Spawn: Well, I had to like go to Walgreen’s. So, like I went in to buy stuff, and when I got back in my car, it was fine! So, I drove to the gas station to put gas in it for the week. I put the gas in, but then I like tried to start it, but it like won’t even start or anything! I’ve been trying like for 10 minutes or maybe longer!
Me: So, you’re safe. Did you call your Dad?

Meanwhile, Hubber is standing in the doorway shaking his head and rolling his eyes and I am motioning for him to grab his fucking phone and deal with this shit! Ya’ll know I don’t deal well with car problems.

Tallest Spawn: hic-crying now: I don’t know if I’m safe, Mom! There’s a sketchy guy here that keeps staring at me! I’m so scared, Mom! Like, what do I do?! Dad won’t answer his phone, either! Why don’t ya’ll ever answer your phones?!
Me: First of all, calm your tits. If there’s a sketchy guy there, then go into the store.
Tallest Spawn: And just leave my car here??
Me: Yeah! It’s at the damn pump, right?! It ain’t going anywhere if it won’t start! I’ll send your dad over there to help.

So, naturally, Hubber starts asking 21 questions… did she do this... did she do that… what kind of noise did it make… did she put the right key in the hole… etc. etc.

Me:

This is the point at which I normally lose my shit. First of all, none of the disturbing near-death scenarios are playing out like my brain told me they would. Second of all, CAR DRAMA. Thirdly, WTF?!
I think Hubber could sense that I was about to grab a knife and stab a mofo if he didn’t quickly get his ass (and every other living being in my vicinity) the fuck out.

While he was gone, I had an adult beverage to calm my nerves. When he got back, I hesitantly listened to how shit went down at the gas station.
Hubber pulled up behind our helpless little spawn’s car at the gas station. She sprinted out from the store to meet him.
Hubber: Where’s the sketchy guy?
Tallest Spawn: pointing: Over there, Daddy! See him?
Hubber: The guy changing the bags out of the trash cans?!
Tallest Spawn: Is that what he’s doing?
Hubber: YES! He fucking works here!
Tallest Spawn: Oh. My bad. But, Daddy! He kept like staring at me!
Hubber: He’s probably wondering why you’re bawling your eyes out over here like a crazy person!
Tallest Spawn: I’m sorry!!! But, I didn’t know what to do!!
Hubber: Did you check that you used the right key? Did you check the battery like I showed you? If so, remember that Insurance app I told you to download onto your phone? It has roadside assistance! Why is your first reaction to always freak out and drive your mom to drink?!
Tallest Spawn:

Hubber: Give me your keys.
Hubber got in the car, put the key in the ignition. And would you know it…the fucking car started right up!
Tallest Spawn:

Hubber:

Tallest Spawn: Daddy! I swear it wouldn’t start!! Why don’t you believe me!? You never believe me! Why do you hate me?! I hate my life! Why does this stuff always happen to ME?!

Etc. Etc.

My point here is that usually, when the phone RINGS and the call is coming from one of my children, it is usually NOT a fucking emergency. It’s usually some bullshit crap story that makes my right eye twitch, my fists clench, and my brain scream. 9 times out of 10, this is how shit goes down:

For instance, let’s consider this text:

How is THAT “kind of urgent”? C’mon, man! I’m AT WORK. Go talk to the gas station people! Or, call the bank! I don’t fucking know! But I do know that I ain’t gonna be able to solve this urgent issue for you! You are a grown ass woman!

That being said, though… I do appreciate her decision to give me a heads-up text rather than repeated, frantic, and aneurysm-inducing phone calls where I have no clue what the fuck is happening. I hate going in blind, ya’ll! Momma needs prep time.

Another plus is that she "also just texted dad"! That pretty much means I'm off the hook entirely.

Have fun, Hubber!

Pinhead Left the Portal to Hell in Our Attic

2016-08-26T20:23:00.003-05:00

When you rent a house and there's a lock on the outside of the attic door, your first instinct should be to leave that shit locked and never think about it or look at it or even acknowledge its existence in any way, shape or form. Period. The attic is automatically off limits. It does not exist if someone went to the trouble of adhering a freaking LOCK to it. No human being has any business going into that mofo. Ever. End of story. Especially if you're a part of my family; we are all magnets for pesky ghosts and other strange phenomenon.

We take hauntings very seriously, y'all. We don't fuck with ouija boards or any sort of witchery. We keep sage growing in the garden. And, we don't do it to spice up our poultry dishes...we do it in case we need to dry it, roll that shit up, and burn it to ward off evil spirits. Also, we have a death shrine (or "alter in memory of the loved ones we have lost" as Hubber likes to correct me because he thinks "death shrine" is morbid....UHM.... HELLO?! It's an alter for dead people! It don't get much more morbid than that!). The shrine exists so that my grandma's soul doesn't get all pissy when she looks down from Heaven and sees me doing nasty things in my bedroom or hear me using God's name in vain, which we know happens all the god-damned time. Because, hello, again?! I have children! And a husband! So, yeah. Lots of reasons to curse up in here.

Heifer's Death Shrine.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, LOCKED attic doors. Here's what ours looks like:

Obviously NOT to be fucked with.

Whoever locked that shit up and didn't remove the lock when the tenants moved in was trying to tell people not to go up there lest they shalt die a painful, conjuring-style death of astronomical proportions. Message received, loud and clear yo.

So, imagine my bone chilling and hair raising fear when we started hearing noises in the fucking attic.

Me: Hubber. Did you fucking hear that?

Hubber: Huh? Uhm, no. I didn't hear shit. Just turn the volume up on the TV.

Me: That was definitely coming from the attic. It sounds like footsteps... and scratching... and other hounds-of-hell craziness!!! We have to move.

Hubber: You're nuts. It's probably just a family of possums...or squirrels...or birds, even. We like birds.

Me: Are you serious right now?! We do not like birds. In fact, we fucking hate birds. We have seen the movie! Alfred Hitchcock movies ain't no joke, man! Those evil, flying hell birds will peck your eyeballs out and suck at your brains until you shit your pants and die! You better board up the god-damned fireplace this very minute!

Hubber: It's nothing. Calm your tits.

Since that mofo was obviously in denial, I grabbed my holy candle (someone remind me to get that thing blessed one day), lit that bitch up, and walked around the house with it...willing all the bad juju out of the house. The noises stopped so it seemed to do the trick. But the silence was short-lived. A few days later, the A/C vent in the master bathroom started blowing out hot air.

HOT AIR, ya'll. Like air from HELL... or AFRICA. The kind of hot air that feels like a firey demon is breathing on you. My point is, it wasn't a natural kind of air to feel in your Houston, TX bathroom at night when your A/C is set at 68 degrees and every other vent in the god-damned house is blowing out cold air.

Hubber: Hmmm. Well, maybe some critter is up there and detached the A/C ductwork that goes to this vent and we're just feeling "attic air" and the cold air we should feel is actually just blowing around haphazardly in the attic.

Me: Who in the hell are you trying to convince here?! Because, that is the dumbest shit I've heard all day. And I went to work today, so you know I endured a LOT of dumb fucking shit.

Hubber: It's a logical explanation.

Me: No. The logical explanation is that the devil and his noisy, scratchy-ass spawn are camping out above our crapper.

Hubber had nothing else to say. He scrambled around for something long enough to close the vent...then he tapped it closed and said, "there." As if that was the end of that.

Then, a few days later, the noises commenced again. Scratching. Tapping. Walking. You can't hide from the devil, ya'll.

Me: I guess you're going to have to go up there and see if there are any "critters". I need the noises to stop. And, I need my cool air flow back in the bathroom. I can't breathe in there! Do you want me to suffocate and die?

Hubber: What? No. I ain't going up there to see a bunch of beady, little possum eyes staring back at me! They might have rabies!

Me: Then call the landlord!

Hubber: But, they'll want me to check up there first.

Me: Well, sounds like quite the conundrum!

Hubber: Also, it's latched closed. I thought you didn't want to open the latch?

Me: I don't. That's why you're going to do it. May the force be with you.

Hubber: If this motherfucking attic is haunted, I blame your sister! If anyone brought a ghost into this house, it's her and her witchy-ass ways! We should make HER check the fucking attic!

Me: Well, call her, then. I don't care who checks the attic...but this shit needs to get fixed! Especially if anyone wants sexy time ever again! And EVER is a long fucking time, man!

Hubber: I hate you.

He was definitely hatin'....but he finally resigned himself to checking things out up there. And guess what he found? Absolutely NOTHING, ya'll. The entire fucking attic is EMPTY. No critters...no sign of critters. No holes in the walls. No weird ductwork damage. Nothing.

Well, almost nothing. This was the only thing sitting up there in the attic all by its lonesome self:

And, all I have to say is: what-the-fucking-fuck?

Is it some sort of spirit catcher? Pandora's box? Pinhead's portal to hell? What?!

And, what do we do with it? Burn in? Sprinkle holy water on it and see if it starts smoking? Dip it in Roger Rabbit Acme Acid? What?!

It's been a few days now and Torture Monkey has been sitting on a shelf in the living room so I can keep an eye on him. So far, he's behaved himself. I think. And, yes, he is a HE. I'm not blind. I see the coconut bra, skirt, and lipstick. The mofo is in drag, y'all. It's his disguise. But, I'm not buying it.

If one day we all mysteriously disappear, you'll know he did it. I herby bequeath Torture Monkey to the Ed & Lorrain Warren occult museum.

Also, the A/C is still not working in the bathroom.

5 Perfect Mother's Day Gifts - Part II

2016-05-03T21:51:00.000-05:00

In 2012, I wrote about what NOT to buy your mother for Mother's Day. That list is still relevant. Then, in 2013, I wrote about what you SHOULD buy your mother for Mother's Day. That shit is still relevant, too. But, being three years removed from my last thoughts on what Mother's Day gifts are all about, I decided it was time for a sequel post...

PERFECT gifts for your mother on Mother's Day (or any damn day):

1. Laser Hair Removal Gift Certificate
That's right. Screw the No-No As-Seen-on-TV bullshit. Hook a muther up and treat her to the procedure of her dreams! No more mommy beards! No more sasquach arm pits! And, no more herniated discs while trying to shave her nether regions! I mean, do YOU want to be trimming your momma's bush when she ends up an invalid? No. You do not. Unless, of course, your name is Norman Bates and your momma's name is Norma. In which case, you probably do want to shave your momma's bush.

2. Keurig K575
This is the fancy one, ya'll. Not the one-cup, manual operation stuff. Your momma will be able to program the shit out of this coffee maker! All those times she was running too late to make coffee will be ancient history. A caffeinated muther is a happy muther. Remember that. Write it down. Take a picture.

3. Lasik Eye Surgery
Let's face it, folks. Your mom is going blind. She can't see shit. Between contacts and progressive lenses and fucking reading glasses to top it all off, she is one very sad step away from needing a seeing-eye dog.

Wait a minute.

I might have just talked myself out of this one. Seeing-eye dogs are the best invention EVER. Not only are they cute, but you can take them into any building...you can park anywhere... you can rule the goddamned world with a seeing-eye dog. Ok... just wait until she goes blind and get her a fancy dog instead.

4. Booze-of-the-Month Club Subscription
Unless your mom is Baptist or a recovering alcoholic, booze is always a good gift. Just like coffee serves to pep your momma up, booze helps to calm that bitch down. You can't have one without the other. It's screws with the balance of the universe. And, when balance is screwed with, muthers get stabby, y'all. And, stabby means death...and murder...and bloody hell. Nobody wants that.

5. Nice, Thoughtful Thank-You Cards
Be real. Be honest. Thank your mother for all the shit you've put her through. Let's face it, childbirth is a fucking miracle. And, that shit wreaks havoc on a muther's body. It's YOUR fault your mom's boobs sag. It's YOUR fault she pees a little every time she sneezes...or laughs...or coughs. Also, she gives you mental therapy without charging you an hourly rate. And, she taught you important life skills... like how to wipe you own ass. Show some appreciation for all this shit. She may not have eaten her placenta, but she's probably still a badass mom.

Car Maintenance And Other Shit I Don't Do...

2016-01-18T23:00:00.000-06:00

Back in the day (pre-marriage), if my car needed attention, all I had to do was visit my parents. I’d park behind my dad’s car, blocking him from leaving the driveway. Chances were good that while I was visiting, Dad would need to go somewhere. He’s always been pretty antsy. I would bet that he visits the convenience store down the street at least 5 times a day…there are always lottery tickets to buy, and cigarettes, and beer, and the occasional Slurpee if a kid happened to be visiting. “Here! Just take my car,” I’d say, tossing my car keys at him when he asked me to let him out of the driveway. My car would be returned with a full tank of gas, completely clean, vacuumed, and spritzed with “new car scent”. Also, if he noticed I was due for an oil change, he’d take care of that, too. And, if I needed an inspection or registration renewed, he’d sift through the glove box for the paperwork and he’d take care of that shit, too.

So, it came as a bit of a shock to me when, after announcing that I was getting married, Dad pulled me aside for a bit of tough love.

Dad: After you get married, I won’t be helping you with your car upkeep anymore.
Me: WHAT?
Dad: You heard me. You think you’re slick asking me to drive your car every time you visit, huh? Well, I’m done with that shit. Your husband can do it now!
Me: Fine. It’s a guy thing anyway, I’m sure he knows what’s up.

Turns out, Hubber did NOT know what’s up. Hubber had no fucking clue what up was. But, in my defense, that mofo was WARNED. Short of having him sign a formal acknowledgement, I relayed his duty very clearly. I considered the warning a binding agreement wherefore by nodding his head when I broke the news to him, he agreed to be in charge of all motorized vehicles throughout the course of our marriage regardless of whether he drove the shit or not. Cars would be his responsibility. Period. End of story.

Without regard to his sacred vows, over the years Hubber has tried tirelessly to get me to learn something about cars. But, I remain resistant to his badgering. It is one of our on-going “fights”.

Hubber: You NEED to learn this shit! One of these days, I’m gonna die and you’ll be left to fend for yourself!
Me: In this hypothetical situation, will you die before or after my dad dies?
Hubber: I’m being serious here.
Me: I don’t think you understand. If you aren’t here to do the car stuff, I’ll find some other man to do it… I have two brothers…an uncle…cousins… nephews and if those mofos are all dead, too, I’ll have to find a Sancho!
Hubber: OR!!! You could learn to be self-sufficient!
Me: Hey, look, buddy… you agreed to this shit BEFORE we got married. It was practically part of your vows! So, just do your thang and let me do my thang! You should be thankful that I usually get my own gas!
Hubber: And, what exactly is your thing?
Me: Well, most importantly, I dispose of spiders.

Hubber: (blank stare)

That usually shuts him up for a bit. Because if there’s one thing Hubber hates more than trying to teach me lessons in automotive technology, it’s spiders.

Unfortunately, the oldest spawn has inherited my total disregard for proper car upkeep. She’s already killed the hand-me-down car she was given less than a year ago. And, that car was a TANK. Literally. But, if anyone could wreck a tank TO IT’S DEATH, it’s my female spawn.

And, Hubber isn’t as easy on her as he is on me about car maintenance. He pushes and pushes AND PUSHES that shit on her…hoping that one tiny ounce of knowledge will seep into her brain and spread like wildfire. Unfortunately, she’s her mother’s daughter and she just ain’t wired that way. And more unfortunate than that, she hasn't got a thing to leverage against his badgering. She is scared to death of spiders. And, she doesn’t cook or clean. And, she sucks at babysitting. Basically, she’s got nothing for tradesies... so she’s screwed.

So, when she killed her car, we decided she didn’t deserve a “good” car… just a “reliable one”; one that we won’t expect to survive more than 2-3 years.

Hubber went out and found an old car with very good mileage and bought it. The passenger window didn’t work and the radio had two modes: OFF and ON+LOUD. (The volume didn’t work…and neither did the cassette player… and all the stations were a bit static-y.) But, the car had new tires, a great engine and only one previous owner.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

Unless you're the spawn...in which case, no auxiliary input and/or USB drive is like a death sentence.

Car-Killing-Spawn: But, Daddy, how will I listen to my music?!
Hubber: You don’t need to listen to music when your focus should be on driving and not dying!
Car-Killing-Spawn: Daddy! I’ll DIE without my music!
Hubber: Tough shit!
Me: (serious eye roll)
Littlest Spawn: That’s what you get for killing Tank, Sis! How do you think Tank feels right now – all dead and everything?! You don’t deserve music! You're lucky to even have a car!

Two days later…

Hubber: Don’t be mad.
Me: Why would I be mad?
Hubber: I just spent money we don’t have.
Me: Please tell me you bought me a baby platypus…
Hubber: Uhm. No.
Me: ….it better not be that gas-powered margarita blender…
Hubber: …no….
Me: ….or the portable hot tub…!
Hubber: I will be buying that hot tub soon!! But, that’s not what I bought.
Me: a ninja star coat hook?
Hubber: Please just give up already.
Me: Fine. I give up.
Hubber: I bought a new radio for Julie’s hoopty ride.
Me: What!? I thought we were teaching her a lesson!
Hubber: I can’t help it. I like to put smiles on my daughters' faces.

So, there you have it. This is why we will always get away with NOT doing car stuff.

Boom.

Car stuff isn't all I don't do. I also don't do windows... or yard work... or heavy lifting... or any variation of running. This is why I have a husband. I will, however, kill spiders and fetch beer. It's a good thing Hubber loves a nifty beer wench.

Whatever Became of Mr. EXcalade?

2015-11-24T16:22:00.000-06:00

Hubber used to have this colleague who started his own chauffeuring business on the side. He bought a Cadillac Escalade around prom season and constantly pimped himself out to anyone who would listen to his spiel.

But, he kept calling his car an EX-CALADE. It drove Hubber batshit crazy. At least once a week I’d get an earful about how much it bugged him that the guy couldn’t say the word “ESCALADE” properly.

At first, I asked Hubber to give the guy a break… maybe he has a lisp. But, then, I met the guy to try to help him build his website and I got to experience his blatant disregard for proper pronunciation first-hand. Honestly, I couldn’t get past it. I started counting the number of times he said the word wrong. It’s what I do when someone uses a particular word (or fake word, in this case) a lot. I quit listening to the message because I get stuck on that word and my mind completely shuts down so that it can focus on counting the number of times the word spews forth and attempts to turn my brain to mush.

After our first meeting, I told Hubber there was no fucking way I’d be able to work with that guy.

Hubber: Right?! It’s because he says Excalade, huh?

Me: He said it exactly 53 times during our 30 minute meeting.

Hubber: Could it be that he doesn't know that he’s saying it wrong?

Me: Oh, he knows! He’s doing it on purpose to fuck with us. It’s like those people who say “ax” instead of “ask”! They know they’re saying that shit wrong! They think it’s cute!

Hubber: Well, it's not cute. These people are a menace to society. I’m going to have to quit my job to get away from this idiot.

So, one day, before Hubber went completely AWOL (or worse, homicidal), he decided to confront the guy.

Hubber: Maaaan. If you call your Escalade an Excalade one more time, I’m going to have to punch you square in the fucking mouth.

Mr. Excalade: What are you talking about? It IS pronounced EXcalade.

Hubber: The letters E and S together make the “essss” sound not the “exxx” sound.

Mr. Excalade: Oh, I’m not saying the name of the car. I’m saying the name of my company! I spell it: X-C-A-L-A-D-E. It’s a play on words, man! Don’t you get it?!

Hubber: It is NOT a play on words. It’s a word you fucking made up and it sounds ridiculous, like you don’t know how to pronounce the name of the car properly.

Mr. Excalade: Well, I have a buddy who is an expert in marketing and he says that any company name or new product name starting with the letter X is 90% more likely to be successful.

Hubber: That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve heard all year!

Mr. Excalade: I’m serious! He’s an expert! He had statistics and everything!

The next day, by some mysterious circumstances that I wasn’t made privy to, Mr. Excalade was “transferred to another department” and we never spoke of him (nor heard from him) again. I'm not saying that Hubber was somehow involved in foul play...but I am saying that the guy was never reported missing... so.... who really knows...?

And to this day, anytime I see the “clever” use of an X in front of the name of a business, I think about this guy and wonder if his business ever took off.

Then, today, I saw this truck:

... COULD IT BE...??

I shoot the finger at asshole commuters

2015-09-18T18:38:00.000-05:00

About three hours after posting my unemployment rant, I received a job offer. How’s that for good fucking karma?! The universe DOES love me after all. I don’t care what my horoscope says. Turns out, if you bitch and moan just enough, but not too excessively, the karma gods will look down on you with favor and bestow upon you great fortune.

But, don’t brag about that shit too much… because the universe hates a showoff. When you brag to other poor, unemployed losers too much about your sudden good fortune, you get flogged with experiences that will test your endurance for assholery.

And, I have a really short fuse. In case you didn’t know.

Turns out my new (old) job is only 17 miles from home… but with traffic and never-ending road construction, it takes at least 50 minutes to drive one way. FIFTY minutes. 5-0. You do the math. It's like I'm driving 25 hours a fucking day! Unless you are driving a 1983 Mini Winnebago uphill in high wind, it should NEVER take you more than 30 minutes to drive 17 miles anywhere. Ever.

This is what shit looks like in Houston 24-7. No joke.

And, if re-joining the wonderful world of commuters at rush hour (which, let’s face it, is any fucking time of the day in Houston) wasn’t enough punishment, I also have to endure many, many, many asshole drivers. The worst of them is the one who follows two inches behind me. TWO inches. That’s the buffer between me and the asshole who thinks that riding my ass will move traffic along faster. I deal with at least three of these particular assholes daily.

“Look, Dick! We are all going no-fucking-where fast, yo! Kindly get off my ass and let me breathe! I’m already a loose cannon behind this fucking wheel. I don’t need you adding to my anxiety! Don't make me take out my gun!” That’s what I want to scream at them. But, because I don't really have a gun and because I fear road rage retaliation and think I’m still too young to die in a fiery car crash, I simply shoot the bird at them and smile...to be nice...so, they don't kill me.

Maybe I need this bumper sticker:

Just Another Unemployment Rant...

2015-09-02T10:42:00.003-05:00

I would like to take this time to send enormous amounts of ju-ju to my comrades on the open job market. It sounds fancy, huh? "ON THE JOB MARKET". But, it ain't, y'all. It's actually pretty horrible, demeaning and perpetually bubble bursty. Basically, it sucks. And, if you happen to be a slightly mental person on the job market, it's especially hard on those noodles inside your brain that help you to function in a somewhat "normal" fashion each day.

And, if by chance, you just turned 40 and found yourself unemployed, all "normalness" is pretty much out the window. That shit is nowhere to be found. NO. WHERE. Ya feel me?

I read somewhere that job hunters in my "career level" can expect to be "on the hunt" for about six months. Six, long, excruciating months of being rejected over and over and over and over again. And, if that wasn't bad enough, all the rejections come with PRAISE! They praise your background... tell you how wonderful you are... how smart and capable you are... how you're such a strong candidate and that the decision NOT to actually hire such a fan-fucking-tabulous person was sooooo hard on THEM!

Way to build a bitch up just to kick her square in her lady parts when she's on cloud nine thinking she'll be starting a new job in no time! Assholes.

I'd almost rather they'd reject me with brutality. Like... "I'm sorry, you looked great on paper, but then we saw you in person, and you are just too damn fat to work here". Or... "We are only interviewing you because we have to prove that we actually interviewed at least one woman...really, we have no intention of hiring anything but a dick." Or, even... "I'm sorry, we really can't afford you unless you'd like to work for half of what you're actually worth."

Brutality would at least not fuck with my self esteem. I know I'm fat. I know I'm a woman. And, I know I won't work for fucking peanuts. That is the kind of shit that I OWN. I don't get myself all in a tizzy over it anymore.

If my skill set and experience isn't a perfect match, I can understand the rejection... I am applying to positions out of my "industry", so I can understand the hesitation from employers.

But, if I hear one more time how I am "over qualified" for a position that they took the time to interview me for TWICE, I might have to throat punch a mofo into kingdom come. For real. The job was in my salary range. I could do the work AND THEN SOME. But, they think I might get bored and not be fulfilled. WTF? I'm sorry...when I was in the business of hiring people, smart, competent candidates were hard to come by and I snatched them up at every opportunity. I didn't say, "thanks, but you are just waaaaay to smart to work here."

But, now that I think about it, maybe I AM too smart to work there.

Fuck-em.

When does my next unemployment check hit the bank?

Where Have I Been? UNEMPLOYED. That's Where!

2015-07-27T14:31:00.000-05:00

Life is literally a bitch right now, ya'll. It reminds of that Depeche Mode song about how God has a sick sense of humor. How does it go again? "....I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors..." oh, never mind. This ain't the time for sing-songy shit. This is the time for bitching and moaning.

Balancing unemployment and responsibility is really cutting into my leisure time. First of all, plans to lay out on a beach with a pina colada in one hand and a trashy novel in the other have been foiled. And, so much for sending the youngest spawn off to summer day camp every day. You can't do THAT and pay rent when you're living on unemployment checks! Don't even get me started on sending the oldest spawn off to college. I'm still paying on MY fucking student loans from 20 years ago and now I'm taking out more for her! Thanks, universe! Thanks a lot for kicking me in the teeth when I'm already down!

Needless to say, this shit has really taken a toll on my sanity. My kids are all up in my face 24/7. And Hubber is over here planning imaginary vacations...

Hubber: Hey, Wife! Check this out! We could go to Disney World for only $569/person!

Me: WTF? Are you mental? We have NO money.

Hubber: The bank account says we do...and I think we should high tail it out of this shoebox and see the world while we have the chance. Usually you're too busy "WORKING" to take a trip like this!

Me: You have officially lost your mind if you think it's smart to spend our life savings on frivolous shit when we have no income! And, you wanna take the kids? That's double the cost!

Hubber: But, I have faith in you! You will land a fabulous job soon! So, why not take advantage of this little break!?

Me: How am I the responsible one in this relationship all of a sudden? Do you have a brain tumor?? I think you have a brain tumor.

Hubber: Fine...let's just you and me go to New Orleans!

Me: Now you're talking!

I think we're both going a little stir crazy up in here. Something's gotta give. But, in the meantime....

5 Unique Father's Day Gifts That Are Sure to Please!

2015-06-05T21:05:00.000-05:00

I'm not gonna lie, Father's Day gifts are hard to buy. Growing up, I never knew what to get my dad. He didn't wear ties like other dads... he didn't drink coffee... he rarely bbq-ed... he didn't play golf... mostly he worked, smoked (a variety of things) and drank. And, I was too young to purchase booze and whatnot.

But, even now that I am old enough, I prefer not to indulge in his addictions. So, normally, I buy him nuts. He loves nuts.

Don't we all? Heh.

So, if you know a father who is hard to buy for, here are a few unique gift options that are sure to surprise him:

1. Bag of Dicks
www.dicksbymail.com
This bag of gummy penises is a great way to tell your friends, family, loved ones, or enemies to 'EAT A BAG OF DICKS'. It's the perfect gift for that douchebag, deadbeat dad that never even remembers your birthday. What better way to show him how much you care than by having a BAG OF DICKS delivered right to his door?

2. Jar of NOTHING

www.beyondthekitchensink.com

Does the dad you're shopping for always say he wants "nothing" when you ask him what he would like for his birthday... christmas... father's day... etc.? Do you end up buying him crap he probably didn't want because you searched high and low for a whole lotta nothing to no avail?! Well, look no further, my friend. This jar full of absolutely NOTHING will be the best gift EVER... because it's what that mofo asked for! I say we start giving the people what they want!

3. Bucket of Cleaning Supplies
www.walmart.com
You know how dads are always giving moms appliances for gifts to remind them of their place in the household? Well, it's time to return the favor! What better way to remind the dad in your life that EVERYONE'S cars need cleaning and that he's just the man for the job?! Feel free to throw in a push broom for driveway sweeping and some yard-quality trash bags. Oh, and maybe even a new water hose. Dads can always use a long hose!

4. Light bulbs and batteries
www.walmart.com
Speaking of reminding dads of their place in the world, a basket full of light bulbs and batteries makes the perfect gift! He'll never run out of these household essentials if you keep him well stocked. No more blinding fits of rage when he can't find a 9-volt battery for the smoke detector with its vicious, never-ending beeping. And, no more stealing lamp bulbs when the closet light burns out. This gift is SURE to be a daddy crowd pleaser!

5. The BULLET nose hair trimmer
www.thebullet.tv
The more hair a man loses on his head, the more hair he grows in his ears and nose. This is a proven, scientific fact, ya'll. And, often times, the mofo doesn't even realize this because his eye balls are getting old, too. For those dads, we need to do a little nudging. Getting him a nose/ear hair trimmer is the best, most passive aggressive way of letting him now that he's starting to look like a neanderthal.

Also, the website boasts this magnificent and totally ridiculous claim:

So, if silent grooming tools and referrals from elite military forces are selling points that float your boat, this gift is for you!

Here's what I want to know... who are these elite military forces? Are they from the middle east? Have they been surveyed? And, WTF does this scary gun have to do with grooming unsightly nose hairs? I'm both confused and intrigued. Small, efficient, maintenance free AND silent? Sounds like the perfect B.O.B. to me! I wonder if it vibrates? Hmmmm.

Ok... I digressed, as per usual.

So, that's it folks, the TOP 5 Unique Father's Day Gifts for that special dad in YOUR life! You're welcome.

Spanx, Non-bras, and Other Shit I Refuse to Shop for with Spawn...

2015-06-01T22:00:00.000-05:00

Before I had kids, I loved to go shopping. Shop, shop, shop! I could shop till I dropped! But, now, nearly 19 years into motherhood, I have learned to completely and thoroughly LOATHE shopping. Very rarely is shopping all about me...and when it is, I'm riddled with guilt because I'm buying MYSELF something when I could be spending money on spawns.

What the hell happened to me?! I used to be a blissfully happy, self involved shopper! Kids schmids! Even the first few years of motherhood weren't so bad. Although, I'm not exactly sure when the turning point...well... turned... I'm betting it was around the time the oldest spawn moved into the dreaded tween years.

That's also when I decided that I hate middle-schoolers. But that's a rant for another day.

The prospect of shopping now is accompanied with blistery hives, dry mouth, cold sweats, irritable bowels, and lots and lots of cursing. The cursing is especially pronounced while shopping with the oldest spawn who is now an "adult". Kinda.

During prom season, I had to add "all undergarments" to the freakishly long list of shit I refuse to shop for with her. I made this addition to the list in my head when we were sifting through Spanx and shit at Kohl's. She found it prudent to try on 538 vajillion different fucking styles of "body shapers" and "bras that aren't really bras, Mom!"

Oldest Spawn: (in fucking tears, ya'll!) This one makes me look soooo fat...!

Me: are you fucking kidding me right now!? You want to see FAT? Huh?! Here, LOOK! This is FAT! (throwing up my shirt and grabbing handfulls of REAL fat)

Oldest Spawn: Moooooom! Stop it!

Me: YOU stop it! I just made up my mind. I'm not buying you any Spanx. And no fucking "bra that isn't really a bra". What the fuck does that even mean?!

Oldest Spawn: It's just the cup thingy, Mom! With no straps! To lift my boobs!

Me: the stick-on things?

Oldest Spawn: I don't know how they stay on! I've never seen them but I know they exist!

Me: That's it. You're going commando from the waist up.

Then, we left the store, empty handed and utterly pissed off at each other. I already suffer from people-itis. So, putting me in a crowded store with the most majestic queen of drama is just asking for trouble.

And THAT, my friends, is when I added "all undergarments" to the list of shit I won't go with her to buy.

The list started with shoes when she was 12ish. It goes something like this:

tennis shoes
groceries
jeans
flats and sandals
boots (this is when, after visiting 15 stores and STILL not finding the perfect back-to-school shoes, Hubber officially became in charge of all spawn feet coverings)
dresses
deodorant
shampoo/conditioner
jewelry
winter coats (this is when, in one of my blinding fits of rage while shopping for a trip to Colorado, Hubber officially became in charge of coats, jackets, and other essential outerwear)
make-up
gifts for friends
scarves
panties/bras
leggings
tops
nail polish (don't ask)
all clothing
all undergarments

Basically, we now put money in her bank account and just send her on her way. She has ruined my zest for shopping forever.

She'll make some unsuspecting and naive man very happy some day. I just hope he's rich.

of Proms and the Age of Chivalry…

2015-05-21T17:56:00.001-05:00

GUEST POST written by: Hubber (my better-ish half)

Senior Prom is over. Dresses have been returned, spray tans have faded and sleep has been caught up on. All in all, not so bad an experience as a parent. We drank, we spent, we drank, we rented, we drank some more. Time to replenish the bank account and the liquor cabinet. Also time to reflect on WTF is wrong with our progeny. I am serious. Double You Tee Eff.

We spent hundreds of dollars on things that she absolutely HAD to have, only to determine closer to Prom time that none of her friends were doing that or going there, so by- gawd, she wasn’t either! Two days AFTER the latest date in which to obtain refunds! She finally decided which date to take to Prom, two days AFTER the last day to buy him a Prom ticket, so her date actually never went to her Prom, he went somewhere to wait with a few of the other dates that were made too late and they all met back up again after the Prom was over.

And let’s discuss this “date”…he is a nice enough guy, but seriously lacking in motivation. Back in my day, we rented cars and tuxes and made plans and if we couldn’t rent a car, we at least shined up whatever ride we owned and put on our best Prom faces. This kid didn’t rent a tux, and actually couldn’t even be bothered to find a car to drive. WTF?! He was perfectly content to show up in a suit, get dropped off by his dad and he actually seemed happy to let his date drive him around. Chivalry is dead, yo…and I missed the fuckin funeral. Cuz I would’ve gone to kick that bastard in the nads for putting me through all that shit when I was growing up. And woo’ing my Snarky Heifer. I didn’t start “just showing up” until the wedding, and even then I had permission to do so…

Back to the actual Prom! My beautiful daughter, who rented a beautiful dress, had nails and makeup done, sprayed on a natural looking tan, and fretted over the smallest details, stayed at the actual Prom for about an hour. An HOUR! A whole damn 60 minutes. WTF again… She was home by 10pm, changing clothes to head out with her friends. So, how much was that Prom ticket again? Just south of a C-Note?! A few duckets short of a Benjamin?! At least she stayed long enough to get her photo taken and to have a dance or two, right? What? No Prom Photo? That’s right, her “date” was down the street hanging with the other non-dates. At least we have all of the pre-Prom photos we took. At the end of the day, I only spent four hours washing her ride so she would have something nice to drive her “date” around in. Time well spent…at least one guy showed her some chivalry on her special day…

5 Things No One Ever Told You About Turning 40

2015-05-12T23:30:00.000-05:00

For years now, I've been hearing about how much my body will change after I turn 40. "Just wait till YOU turn 40...", they'd warn. And by "they", I mean people at work, aunts, my mom, other people's moms, people on the street, and weird Depends commercials. What they all failed to mention, though, is that shit changes overnight. Literally. One day you're 39, the next day you're 40 and you don't even recognize yourself anymore.

So, here's all the shit they DON'T tell you about the day after you turn 40:

1: Your bladder will shrink 3 sizes.
Since the time you were five years old, you've been able to sleep through the night without the need to schlep out of bed to pee (or without wetting the bed). But once you turn 40, not only can you no longer sleep through the night, you have to get up to go pee at least twice a night. And, we're not just talking about the havoc child birth has placed on your ability to "hold your pee in", we're talking about the fact that you can drink 8 oz of water and the next thing you know, Niagara Falls is pouring out of your urethra. Did your body even remember to save some of that shit for sustainable bodily nutrients? We may never know.

Also, be careful when you're having a sneezing fit... you will have to change your pants if you don't remember to squeeze your legs shut.

Kegel exercises, don't fail us now!

2: You'll go blind.
Not only will your sight change overnight, you'll suddenly be unable to drive at night without cursing oncoming traffic for blinding you. Which in turn, will cause you to hit curbs more frequently and accidentally, maybe run over squirrels. Maybe. Or, maybe the squirrel was already dead. Either way, you won't know because you're fucking blind. Also, the squirrel could have actually been a possum. No matter, though, because, again... BLIND.

Also, your computer screen will think you're perpetually drunk and display a blurry screen just to fuck with you. And, if you were able to read a book without your glasses/contacts when you were 39, at 40, you'll need reading glasses...or in some cases tri-focals...which many don't even know exist. Did you have Lasik surgery last year? Well, you're going to have to have it again because 40 took your perfect $2,000 vision and pissed all over it.

3. You will need electro-shock therapy for your new psychotic tendencies.
Xanax might help. Or, large amounts a booze sprinkled with fairy dust. But, let me just say that, drastic body/lifestyle changes don't bode well for people with mental issues. If you were a psycho bitch at 39, lord help us all when you turn 40. Your hormones get all out of whack. People asking stupid questions like, "what's for dinner" will make you burst into tears one day, and make you want to stab a mofo in the throat with a screwdriver the next day. And, don't let anyone try to steal a french fry off your plate! Blood will be shed! Children will scream bloody murder... Husbands will lock themselves up in bathrooms with video games and dogs will have nervous bouts of explosive diarrhea all over the goddamn carpet if someone tries to steal a fry, yo! Fries are sacred. Like Almond Joys.

I think I digressed.

4. Hair will start popping up in weird places.
We used to make fun of my grandma who spent a few minutes EACH DAY plucking what appeared to be BEARD hairs from her chin. After she passed away, we used to sit in girly circles sometimes laughing at how she made us help her pluck 'em when she was on her DEATH BED. Hahaha. But, guess what? That shit ain't funny anymore, y'all. You will need one of those 12X magnifying mirrors and you'll cry when you realize what your face looks like up close, but you'll have to push through it and get to plucking. EVERY. DAY. Until you DIE. For real.

5. Food will do weird things to your body.
And, I'm not just talking about gaining weight. I'm talking about acid reflux, gas and heartburn. All of which will send you into a frantic frenzy because you'll think you're dying of some rare form of stomach cancer. Your entire life up until the eve of your 40th birthday has been spent eating whatever the hell you want WHENEVER the hell you wanted to eat it. But, suddenly, you'll realize that you aren't able to eat at least 3 hours before going to bed because you will vomit into your mouth just as you're drifting off into deep REM sleep. And, if for some reason you forget that you might die in your sleep if you nibble on something just before bed time, you'll have to prop 874 bazillion pillows up behind you and sleep SITTING UP for fear that you'll choke on your own vomit and DIE. Like the crack whores do. No one wants to die like a crack whore, y'all. But YOU will if you eat after 7 pm.

So, if you're still 39 and facing your 40th birthday soon... you're welcome! You are now mentally prepared to understand the shit that's fixenta go down. No, you do not have hairy sasquatch blood... No, you didn't swallow a flesh-eating bug from some third world country... No, you weren't probed by aliens in your sleep. You're just 40.

It ain't the end of the world, but it sure will feel like it some days.

Addressing Envelopes - It's Like Rocket Science, Only Harder

2015-04-29T20:53:00.000-05:00

The fact that "a" should be "an" is not
lost on me. But I liked the message
here, so I went with it. Don't hate.

I just realized that the oldest spawn does NOT know how to address an envelope. That's right. I was in the middle of sitting down to start addressing envelopes for her graduation announcements and I'm all like, fuck this shit - when I graduated high school, my mom made me address the envelopes and lick to seal each and every one.

Lick to seal. Heh. That's what he said!

Anyway... so, I printed out a mailing list and gave a stack of envelopes to the spawn...

Me: Here. You get to have the honor of addressing these envelopes.

Spawn: Addressing? What do you mean?

Me: Uhm. What I mean, is that you need to WRITE ADDRESSES on these mofos so we can put them in the mail.

Spawn: Can't we just print them?

Me: No. I looked up proper graduation announcement etiquette on google... and all those goody-too-shoo beyotches say you have to hand write them. So, get on it. You want gifts? Then you gotta do it right...Because I don't give a shit.

Spawn: Ok. Fine.

* 2 minutes later *

Spawn: Moooooom!

Me: There's no way you're done already.

Spawn: Where does the address go?

Me: You're kidding, right?

Spawn: Uhm. No. It goes right here, right? <pointing to top left corner where the fucking RETURN address goes>

Me: No. That's where YOUR address goes.

Spawn: I have to put MY address on these? I thought I was going by your list??

Me: Am I on candid camera again? <looking around the room very sure that Hubber hid a camera somewhere>

Spawn: Moooom... I'm serious.

Me: WTF do they teach you in school?! How do you have all A's?! You are the epitome of everything that is wrong with our education system!

Spawn: We don't MAIL letters at school, Mom. We E-MAIL. And, text. Duh.

Me: Shoot me, now.

Then, I proceeded to tell her the City, State and zip go on the third line after she ruined the first envelope. AND there's a comma after the CITY! For safe measure, I went ahead and printed return address labels. It was either that or punch Hubber in the throat.

Hubber: Why do you want to punch ME in the throat? I'm not in charge of etiquette up in here. As a matter of fact, I am probably the LEAST qualified etiquette expert in this family.

Me: My point exactly! I can't do everything! Your children should know how to address envelopes! What about all those thank-you cards I've made her write throughout the years?

Hubber: Well, in her defense, YOU always address all the envelopes.

Me: So, it's MY fault your kids are dumb?!

Hubber: Uhm. I'll be right back... gotta pee <he says as he's shutting and LOCKING the bathroom door>

Then, the sounds of machine guns can be heard through the door.

Me: You're not peeing! You're playing games in there!

Anyway... so, if you're one of the lucky people on our mailing list and your address looks all jacked up on the envelope, THIS is why.

And, on a totally related note - feel free to send money for my booze fund. It's dwindling.