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When you have a teenager you know that life is a turbulent ride. It's even worse with a teenage girl because you have the whole added bonus of PMS to contend with. Your normally sullen teenage daughter can go from fine to bitch in 2.3 seconds. So it's always a bonus when you have a day where she willingly does a chore, smiles at you or simply doesn't jump down your throat because you made the mistake of existing on the same planet. Then there are those other moments. Those sweet times that are few and far between. Those times when you can look at said teenager and laugh. Hysterically. It is even sweeter when what you are laughing at is their own torment.
Let me give you a back story. Drama Queen has a BFF. This BFF has been around for 9 years now. She's as much my daughter as DQ is. In fact, from time to time she practically lives at our house. Since crazee people tend to associate with crazee people, it makes sense that BFF has learned that humor, sarcasm and humiliation are the main rules in our home. And she is good at it. For the past year or so, BFF has taken to hacking my Facebook page. Even if I log out, she is able to get in because my browser remembers the password. Convenient for me on the days that she is not here. Not so much on the days she is.
My statuses always revolve around my butt, my feet, warts and gas. It's become so common that if she isn't around for a while people on my Facebook start telling me they miss her and the hacking. New people on my Facebook are often shocked and I can't count the number of times I've had church people come to me with amazed faces and ask who in the world hacked my account. And because passing gas and warts on the feet is always a great conversation to have at church, I answer.
So the other day BFF was here and we even went so far as to play board games with the two of them. I took time off from work to do so. And what did I get? A new Facebook status. Of course it was about my butt and my feet. Well we had an obligation to go and help with the spring cleaning at church. At first, the girls didn't want to go. In typical teenage style they waited until we were halfway there to change their minds and have us come back for them. So we did. Little did I know that I had posted another status while I was in the car on my way to church.
We picked them up and we headed to church. When we got there they put me and Grumpy to work right away helping go through, clean and organize toys in the kids rooms. DQ and BFF were left on their own. I knew someone would find something for them to do. Imagine my surprise, and utter joy, when I found out they were sent to clean the bathroom. The mens bathroom.
It was a sweet revenge that I could not have planned better if I had had a hand in it. These girls that had taken to hacking my Facebook status were standing face to face with urinals. They later went to the nursery to help, but the entire ride back home they griped about cleaning the bathroom. And I laughed. And I thought to myself that this was one moment I would not forget.
And when a new friend walked up to me that night in church and looked shocked when she asked about who hacked my Facebook, I answered politely with the truth. Inside, I was laughing and saying "The one that is currently cleaning the urinals. Payback is hell".
Friday, March 30, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
That's a Good Question....How Does It Make You Feel?
A couple of weeks ago the school sent home a flyer. They were having a workshop for parents on how to talk to your kids about sex. I looked at it and thought, hm that could be interesting. Then, naturally, I put it aside. After all, when your daughter informs you that people think she's weird because she doesn't know what masturbation is at the dinner table it's a pretty good bet that you have a grasp on having those conversations. So I didn't feel I really needed lessons in how to talk to her. Now don't get me wrong. It's a GREAT program that is much needed in our school system. But we are pretty much an open book around here.
Then they called me. Turns out the first twenty-five that registered got a $25 gift card.
Holy crow sign me up. I may not need lessons, but I always need money. Besides it wasn't a bad program at all. So why not go and see what they have to say and get my $25. Of course I signed Grumpy up too because if I have to get through this so does he. A fact he was less than thrilled by.
So we went. And we laughed. And we actually learned some things. And we role played. We had to be the teen and be the parent. And there was another person to observe. The goal was to see if you did it right. During my time as the parent I had another lady that was so into this. And I learned that I'm stumped with questions. And that "WHAT???" is not a proper answer. But then the fun began. I got to be the teen. And guess who was my dad? Yep. Grumpy.
So I asked the question much like Drama Queen would. I even included the name of The "EX" Boyfriend. And I kept asking. And I kept asking. And he never could get past "Talk to Your Mom". It's the most fun I've had all week.
I learned that I'm okay at it, but really need some practice with that shock thing.
I learned that it's best if Drama Queen NEVER goes to Grumpy with her problems.
And we each got a gift card so we scored $50.
And one poor man learned that even though he has people from church on his daughter's Facebook friends list so that they can watch her....there are ways around that. Which made me learn that I'm actually a pretty smart parent after all because I knew that. He, however, likely left very disheartened with his own parenting.
Then they called me. Turns out the first twenty-five that registered got a $25 gift card.
Holy crow sign me up. I may not need lessons, but I always need money. Besides it wasn't a bad program at all. So why not go and see what they have to say and get my $25. Of course I signed Grumpy up too because if I have to get through this so does he. A fact he was less than thrilled by.
So we went. And we laughed. And we actually learned some things. And we role played. We had to be the teen and be the parent. And there was another person to observe. The goal was to see if you did it right. During my time as the parent I had another lady that was so into this. And I learned that I'm stumped with questions. And that "WHAT???" is not a proper answer. But then the fun began. I got to be the teen. And guess who was my dad? Yep. Grumpy.
So I asked the question much like Drama Queen would. I even included the name of The "EX" Boyfriend. And I kept asking. And I kept asking. And he never could get past "Talk to Your Mom". It's the most fun I've had all week.
I learned that I'm okay at it, but really need some practice with that shock thing.
I learned that it's best if Drama Queen NEVER goes to Grumpy with her problems.
And we each got a gift card so we scored $50.
And one poor man learned that even though he has people from church on his daughter's Facebook friends list so that they can watch her....there are ways around that. Which made me learn that I'm actually a pretty smart parent after all because I knew that. He, however, likely left very disheartened with his own parenting.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Warning! Warning! It's the Wife....
Grumpy got a new phone. Well technically he got Drama Queen's old phone. His was too advanced for his skill set. It required touching the screen and being able to hit the right number, letter or icon. So he downgraded to a standard slider phone. We are all prepay around here. No way would I pay the rates that some of these companies charge for a phone when I can have unlimited for 50 bucks a month.
Grumpy doesn't need unlimited because the only person to call him is me and that's just so I don't have to walk down the hall and bellow up the stairs. Drama Queen needs unlimited text but not so many minutes because she doesn't believe the voice is essential in communicating. Unless of course it's with me and then her voice is going non-stop. So we all have different plans and different phones. When Grumpy downgraded to a phone for dummies he had to switch providers. The old phone was a different one. With this provider he has the ability to download ringtones. To help him out, I introduced him to Phonezoo.
I think that was my biggest mistake. A few minutes later I heard this obnoxious sounding noise from upstairs that resembled the warning signals from Star Trek. I feared what he was doing now. After all I've been listening to his obnoxious email alert for like 3 years now. Who knows what show theme he was downloading.
It was worse than I feared.
He downloaded a ringtone specifically for me. It has all these alert sounds and it makes you think the planet is exploding. Then a voice comes over and yells "Warning, Warning. It's the Wife!!" lovely. That should be quite entertaining to everyone else. Although with those alarms, it would be funny to play on December 21.
He spent most of his day yesterday adding ringtones for everyone he knows. It's like seeing a kid at Christmas. I guess now that he has a phone his brain cells can work he's decided he actually enjoys having a phone.
However, he takes forever to answer the phone now. Apparently he needs to sit and listen to this warning message for a few minutes and snicker to himself. Since he thinks it's the funniest thing on the planet of course.
Now I need a ringtone that says "IDIOT CALLING"
Grumpy doesn't need unlimited because the only person to call him is me and that's just so I don't have to walk down the hall and bellow up the stairs. Drama Queen needs unlimited text but not so many minutes because she doesn't believe the voice is essential in communicating. Unless of course it's with me and then her voice is going non-stop. So we all have different plans and different phones. When Grumpy downgraded to a phone for dummies he had to switch providers. The old phone was a different one. With this provider he has the ability to download ringtones. To help him out, I introduced him to Phonezoo.
I think that was my biggest mistake. A few minutes later I heard this obnoxious sounding noise from upstairs that resembled the warning signals from Star Trek. I feared what he was doing now. After all I've been listening to his obnoxious email alert for like 3 years now. Who knows what show theme he was downloading.
It was worse than I feared.
He downloaded a ringtone specifically for me. It has all these alert sounds and it makes you think the planet is exploding. Then a voice comes over and yells "Warning, Warning. It's the Wife!!" lovely. That should be quite entertaining to everyone else. Although with those alarms, it would be funny to play on December 21.
He spent most of his day yesterday adding ringtones for everyone he knows. It's like seeing a kid at Christmas. I guess now that he has a phone his brain cells can work he's decided he actually enjoys having a phone.
However, he takes forever to answer the phone now. Apparently he needs to sit and listen to this warning message for a few minutes and snicker to himself. Since he thinks it's the funniest thing on the planet of course.
Now I need a ringtone that says "IDIOT CALLING"
Friday, March 23, 2012
I'm a Prisoner in my Home....
He's back. Not only is he back, but he's holding me captive in my own home. I tried to go outside last night. When I did he sat there, less than 10 feet away, and stared me down. Neither of us moved for a good 3 seconds. Then I did what any strong and powerful woman would do. I backed up, went inside and shut the door. But I continued to stare him down. I may be a prisoner, but I was going to make him uncomfortable.
I told Grumpy that he didn't want to take the dogs outside. They wouldn't be safe. They, too, were being held captive. Soon Grumpy was beside me. We watched. We waited. He sat there and didn't move. Then he saw us. His eyes met mine and I knew that he knew that I was watching him. Grumpy had a bright idea. He was going to go after him. So he did.
He headed outside and towards the tree. That vicious creature had been coming down. I'm not sure what Grumpy had in mind when he headed out there. Maybe he was going to take him to dinner and a movie. All I know is he walked off the deck and to the tree that held him. He stared up towards him, but he had disappeared. Grumpy then proceeded to circle the tree. Like a lion looking for his prey, he walked around and around looking up the entire time. I think I heard him talking, and I kind of wondered what he was saying, but I kept the door shut so that I was safe. If Grumpy was going down, he was not going to take me with him. I was willing to sacrifice him if that meant freedom for the rest of us.
He didn't have to worry. The creature crawled up the tree and sat at the top. Watching Grumpy circle. Probably laughing and thinking he should come down just to see the dude at the bottom run like a little girl. But he didn't. He just sat there and watched. After about 20 minutes Grumpy decided it was pointless. He came back inside and we went to bed. The raccoon had won the battle.
That does not mean the war is over. It's almost bonfire season and I will be able to enjoy my backyard. That raccoon is going down.
I told Grumpy that he didn't want to take the dogs outside. They wouldn't be safe. They, too, were being held captive. Soon Grumpy was beside me. We watched. We waited. He sat there and didn't move. Then he saw us. His eyes met mine and I knew that he knew that I was watching him. Grumpy had a bright idea. He was going to go after him. So he did.
He headed outside and towards the tree. That vicious creature had been coming down. I'm not sure what Grumpy had in mind when he headed out there. Maybe he was going to take him to dinner and a movie. All I know is he walked off the deck and to the tree that held him. He stared up towards him, but he had disappeared. Grumpy then proceeded to circle the tree. Like a lion looking for his prey, he walked around and around looking up the entire time. I think I heard him talking, and I kind of wondered what he was saying, but I kept the door shut so that I was safe. If Grumpy was going down, he was not going to take me with him. I was willing to sacrifice him if that meant freedom for the rest of us.
He didn't have to worry. The creature crawled up the tree and sat at the top. Watching Grumpy circle. Probably laughing and thinking he should come down just to see the dude at the bottom run like a little girl. But he didn't. He just sat there and watched. After about 20 minutes Grumpy decided it was pointless. He came back inside and we went to bed. The raccoon had won the battle.
That does not mean the war is over. It's almost bonfire season and I will be able to enjoy my backyard. That raccoon is going down.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
My Ultimate Broken Heart....
I've had my heart broken before. A few times. I don't understand why they didn't appreciate it when I followed them home or stood in front of their cars and refused to let them drive away. But for some reason they didn't understand that it was true love and they needed to be with me. And I didn't quite get the whole point of a restraining order. Fortunately, it didn't prevent me from accidentally being in the same place as long as I stayed 500 ft away.
Okay, I lied. I've never had a restraining order. the rest, well. What others call crazy I call passionate. That said, I've felt the broken heart. I've listened to sad songs just to make myself cry. I've wondered if I was going to survive the night. I've thrown breakable items at the head of the person that hurt me. We do what we can to survive.
Still, I've never known a broken heart like tonight. My child has had her first heartbreak. The Boyfriend broke up with her. She's taking it fairly well considering. Although I did see a side of me when she mentioned that she wasn't sure whether to kill him or his mom because his mom told him to do it. Don't worry, we have her on meds. They work. I promise.
So as we watched American Idol tonight she laid there beside me with her head on my lap and asked me what was wrong with her. Why were other girls better than her. And my heart was crushed. I couldn't possibly tell this amazing young lady what made her so very special. The love in her heart. The fact that she couldn't hurt a fly. The pure honesty that she speaks with. Even if it means blurting out at the dinner table that people think she's weird because she didn't know what masturbation was and that meant she hadn't done it. The fact that she is who she is and she's so confident in that. The fact that she can sing and melt your heart. The fact that she cannot tell a lie and cannot break a rule. Or her smile. The way it shines in her eyes. The way she would give her prized possession to someone in need if she thought it would help. Maybe simply the way she is satisfied the smallest of things that tell her she is loved.
I summed it up simply with there is nothing wrong with her. It's completely his loss. And it is.
Stalking heartbreakers may have to resume in my life.
Okay, I lied. I've never had a restraining order. the rest, well. What others call crazy I call passionate. That said, I've felt the broken heart. I've listened to sad songs just to make myself cry. I've wondered if I was going to survive the night. I've thrown breakable items at the head of the person that hurt me. We do what we can to survive.
Still, I've never known a broken heart like tonight. My child has had her first heartbreak. The Boyfriend broke up with her. She's taking it fairly well considering. Although I did see a side of me when she mentioned that she wasn't sure whether to kill him or his mom because his mom told him to do it. Don't worry, we have her on meds. They work. I promise.
So as we watched American Idol tonight she laid there beside me with her head on my lap and asked me what was wrong with her. Why were other girls better than her. And my heart was crushed. I couldn't possibly tell this amazing young lady what made her so very special. The love in her heart. The fact that she couldn't hurt a fly. The pure honesty that she speaks with. Even if it means blurting out at the dinner table that people think she's weird because she didn't know what masturbation was and that meant she hadn't done it. The fact that she is who she is and she's so confident in that. The fact that she can sing and melt your heart. The fact that she cannot tell a lie and cannot break a rule. Or her smile. The way it shines in her eyes. The way she would give her prized possession to someone in need if she thought it would help. Maybe simply the way she is satisfied the smallest of things that tell her she is loved.
I summed it up simply with there is nothing wrong with her. It's completely his loss. And it is.
Stalking heartbreakers may have to resume in my life.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Don't Walk Beside Me and Make Me Look Like a Bad Parent...
Today I slept in. It happens. A lot. I like to say because I work late. That might be half the reason. The other half is likely that concept of avoiding work to begin with. Either way it leaves Grumpy in charge of seeing the child off to school. She lives too close to ride the bus so he has to take her. This gives him ample opportunity to look her over. At this point he can see if her ass is hanging out of her pants. Her D cups are hanging out of her shirt. Or the other little things that could cause a normal and attentive parent to pause. For instance, the fact that their teen daughter looked like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman before Richard Gere bought her a bunch of clothes.
So we go to pick her up at school and she walks out of the building. My mouth drops. The only words I can manage to release from my lips are What is the hell is she wearing? Of course if I were Simon Cowell it would have sounded better and included Bloody Hell, but you get the point. The following conversation ensued as she made her way to the car....
Me: What in the HELL is she wearing?
Him: I dunno. Clothes?
Me: Does she have on a skirt?
Him: I don't think so. Just pants.
Me: Those are NOT pants
Him: What are they?
Me: They are leggings
Him: Hm, I thought they were pants
Me: When have you EVER seen me buy her spandex pants?
Him: Well why does she have them?
Me: To wear under her little dress
Him: What is she wearing?
Me: A tank top with a crop top over it
Him: Hm, I didn't notice.
Me: Obviously. You get pissed because she has a boyfriend yet let her leave for middle school looking like she's working the corner.
Him: Well maybe you should pick out her clothes
Me: Maybe you should pay attention to what she's wearing?
Him: I thought it was the style
Me: To look like a prostitute?
Him: Well she's out of school. No big deal.
Me: Except we are going to Walmart. One camera and she will be online tomorrow.
Drama Queen proceeds to get into the car. I proceed to tell her how leggings are meant for under dresses. She tells me what about shirts. I point out that they mean long shirts. Like really long shirts. She shrugs and blows it off. I tell her she can't walk beside me in Walmart. I have no intention of those classy people judging my parenting.
So we go to pick her up at school and she walks out of the building. My mouth drops. The only words I can manage to release from my lips are What is the hell is she wearing? Of course if I were Simon Cowell it would have sounded better and included Bloody Hell, but you get the point. The following conversation ensued as she made her way to the car....
Me: What in the HELL is she wearing?
Him: I dunno. Clothes?
Me: Does she have on a skirt?
Him: I don't think so. Just pants.
Me: Those are NOT pants
Him: What are they?
Me: They are leggings
Him: Hm, I thought they were pants
Me: When have you EVER seen me buy her spandex pants?
Him: Well why does she have them?
Me: To wear under her little dress
Him: What is she wearing?
Me: A tank top with a crop top over it
Him: Hm, I didn't notice.
Me: Obviously. You get pissed because she has a boyfriend yet let her leave for middle school looking like she's working the corner.
Him: Well maybe you should pick out her clothes
Me: Maybe you should pay attention to what she's wearing?
Him: I thought it was the style
Me: To look like a prostitute?
Him: Well she's out of school. No big deal.
Me: Except we are going to Walmart. One camera and she will be online tomorrow.
Drama Queen proceeds to get into the car. I proceed to tell her how leggings are meant for under dresses. She tells me what about shirts. I point out that they mean long shirts. Like really long shirts. She shrugs and blows it off. I tell her she can't walk beside me in Walmart. I have no intention of those classy people judging my parenting.
Monday, March 19, 2012
God Has a Sense of Humor....
I've said it before and I'll keep saying it. God has a sense of humor. My life is proof of that. Don't believe me? Look at just a few examples:
That said, we bought her some shirts and jeans. Really cute stuff. Made for winter. Why? Because we live where there is a 6 month long winter during the best years. We live where you need snow pants to walk to your car. We live where sledding is considered a sport.
This was 3 weeks ago. 3 weeks.
That long hard winter hasn't hit us. No. Instead we have 70-80 degree days. It looks like the 50s is as low as we will get in the foreseeable future.
Drama Queen has no shorts. We donated them all this winter. No capris. No shorts. No A/C at school. 3 weeks later and I have to buy a new round of clothes. And I didn't have a big project this week. And she still has said boyfriend. And there may or may not be a vicious animal taking up residence in a tree that lies between my deck and my fire pit. AND I have to shave my own legs.
God is laughing.
- I had a financial crisis and I prayed for a miracle. 2 days later I was given a project at work that paid very very well. It, however, took 20 hours a day for 2 1/2 weeks to complete. The money was there, but everyone in this house had their life in danger for close to a month.
- Drama Queen went back into public school and I was very worried about this. I told her to 'go and make friends'. In 3 days she had a boyfriend. Within a month she had her first date to the dance. She also received her first kiss. This wasn't what I meant.
- I start planning to get what is needed to host a bonfire for Drama Queen and her school friends, preferably female ones, and the next morning a raccoon throws the squirrels out of the tree that sits 2 feet from my fire pit and moves into it.
- I fear said raccoon because of an 'incident' when Drama Queen was just a baby in which a raccoon attempted to kick Grumpy's ass and get inside my house while I was cooking dinner. It traumatized me so much that I have decided not to cook any longer.
That said, we bought her some shirts and jeans. Really cute stuff. Made for winter. Why? Because we live where there is a 6 month long winter during the best years. We live where you need snow pants to walk to your car. We live where sledding is considered a sport.
This was 3 weeks ago. 3 weeks.
That long hard winter hasn't hit us. No. Instead we have 70-80 degree days. It looks like the 50s is as low as we will get in the foreseeable future.
Drama Queen has no shorts. We donated them all this winter. No capris. No shorts. No A/C at school. 3 weeks later and I have to buy a new round of clothes. And I didn't have a big project this week. And she still has said boyfriend. And there may or may not be a vicious animal taking up residence in a tree that lies between my deck and my fire pit. AND I have to shave my own legs.
God is laughing.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
I'm Just Sayin.....
When someone in the home hands you a debit card and says to pay some on the bills this month, it would be in your best interest to let said person know what you paid and what the company name was. Otherwise said person might see a charge they do not recognize on their account and call the bank to report it. This could result in a frozen bank account, cancelled debit card and a report to your cell phone carrier that you used an unauthorized card to pay your bill. You might potentially blow a gasket on said person resulting in the need for large amounts of liquor to calm down. It won't matter that the person gave you the card and didn't even have possession of it when the charge was made. They won't think to ask you first if it is something that you did. When it does come out and said gasket is blown, it will be your fault. I'm just sayin....
Having an open relationship with your child where you can discuss everything is great. When they are five. When they are a teen and they have a boyfriend, it's not that much fun. You will hear about every time they held hands or every single damned word he said in a given school day. I'm just sayin....
Not everyone that is a good friend in real life is a good Facebook friend. Some people get behind the barrier of a computer and turn into super jerk. Those people will grate on your nerves until you are ready to delete them and punch them in the forehead. When it goes too far your spouse may call them a dillhole which will result in at least 3 phone calls to make sure things are okay. I'm just sayin....
When having a particularly craptastic week it is advised to stay off of the yard sale sites on Facebook. Suddenly every knick knack you see will look appealing. Money that could be better spent on drugs and alcohol will be burning a hole in your proverbial pocket. You may even find yourself contacting someone about looking at two Coach purses they have for sale. I'm just sayin.....
The word douchecanoe will never get old. I'm just sayin....
Scheduling a Girl Scout cookie booth sale on a Saturday at 10am might sound really good in February while your work is slow. However, after a long week of work the thought of being up and out of the house by 9:15 on said Saturday will really piss you off. I'm just sayin....
Moving dessert night to Tuesday so that you can partake of a particularly rich dessert that you suddenly crave will NOT diminish your desire for the regular dessert night over the weekend. In fact, you will find that you want it more this week because of the rest of this list. I'm just sayin....
Having an open relationship with your child where you can discuss everything is great. When they are five. When they are a teen and they have a boyfriend, it's not that much fun. You will hear about every time they held hands or every single damned word he said in a given school day. I'm just sayin....
Not everyone that is a good friend in real life is a good Facebook friend. Some people get behind the barrier of a computer and turn into super jerk. Those people will grate on your nerves until you are ready to delete them and punch them in the forehead. When it goes too far your spouse may call them a dillhole which will result in at least 3 phone calls to make sure things are okay. I'm just sayin....
When having a particularly craptastic week it is advised to stay off of the yard sale sites on Facebook. Suddenly every knick knack you see will look appealing. Money that could be better spent on drugs and alcohol will be burning a hole in your proverbial pocket. You may even find yourself contacting someone about looking at two Coach purses they have for sale. I'm just sayin.....
The word douchecanoe will never get old. I'm just sayin....
Scheduling a Girl Scout cookie booth sale on a Saturday at 10am might sound really good in February while your work is slow. However, after a long week of work the thought of being up and out of the house by 9:15 on said Saturday will really piss you off. I'm just sayin....
Moving dessert night to Tuesday so that you can partake of a particularly rich dessert that you suddenly crave will NOT diminish your desire for the regular dessert night over the weekend. In fact, you will find that you want it more this week because of the rest of this list. I'm just sayin....
Friday, March 16, 2012
Attention Walmart Shoppers:
May I have a moment of your time. Thank you.
I understand that Walmart sucks. Believe me, I have been going less and less because of it. Still, some things are just cheaper. So we all have to go. That means we all should get along as well. In order for me to get along with you, I need you to do a few simple things.
1. Can you please remove the clown nose and put down the ukelele. I really like that you like to be different. Trust me, you are different. However, I cannot possibly take you seriously or prevent my teen daughter from erupting into laughter as you walk by. Do us all a favor and just try to shop like a normal person.
2. I appreciate your need to arrive at that item 2 seconds before I do. I realize that it will give you 2 extra seconds to stand in line since there are no registers open. However, do you think that you could go around me as I walk and not attempt to go through me. My heels and my rectum would appreciate not making acquaintance with your cart.
3. When you get to said item, can you please not spread out in front of it so that I cannot reach the one thing I need most and came to Walmart to purchase? I already know what I want. Can I just get it?
4. You have very cute kids. I love their smile. I love the way they are dressed. It would be a shame if they fell out of the cart that they are standing in while you walk three aisles over and grab yourself a soda. Especially since you placed a very large toy that takes up half of your cart in the back so that all three of them now have to stand.
5. Speaking of your children. Since they are standing, it makes sense for them to reach. When they do that, please do not scream at them and smack them in the hand. All three of them are under three and if you did not want them, I can point you in the direction of the pharmacy.
6. Walmart sucks. I realize that. They never have more than a few registers open at any time. That does not mean that I want you to bring your 1200 items and use the self-checkout. They are intended for those like me that ran in and purchased fewer than 12 items. While I wait on you to ring up the other 1150 of yours, I am forced to watch the kids try and climb out of the cart. If I turn my head I am face to face with clown nose ukelele man. In the meantime the friendly gentleman behind me has decided that I need a butt massage. With his cart.
7. If you ignore the above, then please pay attention to this. If you have no idea how to run your debit card, enter your pin number or work a register then please for the love of all that is holy go to a regular register with a cashier. This is painfully slow.
8. You are an employee. When someone needs your assistance at said self checkout, can you get to them quickly. When you finally do ring their order up and get it fixed, must you get in line behind them, and in front of those of us that have been waiting with ukelele man for 30 minutes. I see that you want a candy bar. Do like the rest of us and wait for the old lady with 1200 groceries to decide what the hell her pin number is.
Another great adventure inside what is the 'good' Walmart in my town. We won't even go into the bad one and what happens there.
I understand that Walmart sucks. Believe me, I have been going less and less because of it. Still, some things are just cheaper. So we all have to go. That means we all should get along as well. In order for me to get along with you, I need you to do a few simple things.
1. Can you please remove the clown nose and put down the ukelele. I really like that you like to be different. Trust me, you are different. However, I cannot possibly take you seriously or prevent my teen daughter from erupting into laughter as you walk by. Do us all a favor and just try to shop like a normal person.
2. I appreciate your need to arrive at that item 2 seconds before I do. I realize that it will give you 2 extra seconds to stand in line since there are no registers open. However, do you think that you could go around me as I walk and not attempt to go through me. My heels and my rectum would appreciate not making acquaintance with your cart.
3. When you get to said item, can you please not spread out in front of it so that I cannot reach the one thing I need most and came to Walmart to purchase? I already know what I want. Can I just get it?
4. You have very cute kids. I love their smile. I love the way they are dressed. It would be a shame if they fell out of the cart that they are standing in while you walk three aisles over and grab yourself a soda. Especially since you placed a very large toy that takes up half of your cart in the back so that all three of them now have to stand.
5. Speaking of your children. Since they are standing, it makes sense for them to reach. When they do that, please do not scream at them and smack them in the hand. All three of them are under three and if you did not want them, I can point you in the direction of the pharmacy.
6. Walmart sucks. I realize that. They never have more than a few registers open at any time. That does not mean that I want you to bring your 1200 items and use the self-checkout. They are intended for those like me that ran in and purchased fewer than 12 items. While I wait on you to ring up the other 1150 of yours, I am forced to watch the kids try and climb out of the cart. If I turn my head I am face to face with clown nose ukelele man. In the meantime the friendly gentleman behind me has decided that I need a butt massage. With his cart.
7. If you ignore the above, then please pay attention to this. If you have no idea how to run your debit card, enter your pin number or work a register then please for the love of all that is holy go to a regular register with a cashier. This is painfully slow.
8. You are an employee. When someone needs your assistance at said self checkout, can you get to them quickly. When you finally do ring their order up and get it fixed, must you get in line behind them, and in front of those of us that have been waiting with ukelele man for 30 minutes. I see that you want a candy bar. Do like the rest of us and wait for the old lady with 1200 groceries to decide what the hell her pin number is.
Another great adventure inside what is the 'good' Walmart in my town. We won't even go into the bad one and what happens there.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Visiting My Happy Place...
When you are little bit crazy with a side of opinionated it can be difficult to avoid confrontation. It's amazing that I've spent so many years working with kids considering how very much their parents piss me off. Fortunately for us all I was raised in the south and we did learn a little bit more than how to install a gun rack in the window of a pick-up. Those who still reside in the south would tell you that we learned how to have manners. They would shout from the rooftops that we learned to say please and thank you and be happy about it. Let me set you straight. They are full of shit. We did not learn manners. We learned how to lie.
Those of us 'ladies' that grew up in the south learned that we don't tell someone when they are a moron. We learned that we are to bite our tongues rather than respond to insults and innuendos. Most of all, we learned that we simply do not say what we feel or what we are going through regardless of how true it might be. Instead we plaster on a pretty little smile and tell everyone that asks how happy we are.
I'm guessing at this point you get a pretty good idea of why I'm happier in the Midwest. Don't mistake that for being ashamed of where I came from. I just happen to be the person that spits out whatever crosses my mind at the time and deal with the consequences later. It does me well up there. There, well let's just say I embarrassed my family a few too many times.
That being said, I would not say that I thrive on arguing. I don't feel some intense pleasure from telling someone what a jackass they are. Well, okay, maybe Grumpy. But otherwise it's just the way it is. Neither good nor bad. Unless it invades my happy place.
Facebook is my happy place. I spend far too much of my life trying to work and pay bills. I enjoy getting together with friends here and people from church, but Facebook is where I can let loose and just be myself. If I ever ran for office, Facebook would be at the center of the scandal. Oh yes, there would be a scandal.
So yesterday I commented to a perfectly innocent conversation about dessert. It was never intended to be a political debate. It was never intended to result in my insistence that the other party was small minded, ignorant and not worth the time it takes me to debate. Yet somehow that is what happened. It was a friend of a friend and they felt the need to use condescending terms to demean people hoping to piss me off because of my political views. Hell, I was raised in the south. I am accustomed to those around me having a lot of crap to say about my political views. I do not fit the mold in which I was raised.
What pissed me off was the comment. The word that was used. The fact that I find it degrading to an entirely innocent group of people. So I said so. After which I was repeatedly insulted to the point where I used the block feature for the first time. I refuse to allow someone to encroach upon my happy place.
Considering the amount of times in life that I manage to blurt out the sheer stupidity of someone, I am thinking that it might be wise to revisit the Xanax idea. I am certain that a couple of those puppies and a mug of vodka would do the trick. Perhaps the world would be a much better place if I just opted to stay away from people altogether. I'm not sure what would be the best idea. With 80% of my friends list having polar opposite political opinions than I do, maybe I should just delete my account until after the election.
Those of us 'ladies' that grew up in the south learned that we don't tell someone when they are a moron. We learned that we are to bite our tongues rather than respond to insults and innuendos. Most of all, we learned that we simply do not say what we feel or what we are going through regardless of how true it might be. Instead we plaster on a pretty little smile and tell everyone that asks how happy we are.
I'm guessing at this point you get a pretty good idea of why I'm happier in the Midwest. Don't mistake that for being ashamed of where I came from. I just happen to be the person that spits out whatever crosses my mind at the time and deal with the consequences later. It does me well up there. There, well let's just say I embarrassed my family a few too many times.
That being said, I would not say that I thrive on arguing. I don't feel some intense pleasure from telling someone what a jackass they are. Well, okay, maybe Grumpy. But otherwise it's just the way it is. Neither good nor bad. Unless it invades my happy place.
Facebook is my happy place. I spend far too much of my life trying to work and pay bills. I enjoy getting together with friends here and people from church, but Facebook is where I can let loose and just be myself. If I ever ran for office, Facebook would be at the center of the scandal. Oh yes, there would be a scandal.
So yesterday I commented to a perfectly innocent conversation about dessert. It was never intended to be a political debate. It was never intended to result in my insistence that the other party was small minded, ignorant and not worth the time it takes me to debate. Yet somehow that is what happened. It was a friend of a friend and they felt the need to use condescending terms to demean people hoping to piss me off because of my political views. Hell, I was raised in the south. I am accustomed to those around me having a lot of crap to say about my political views. I do not fit the mold in which I was raised.
What pissed me off was the comment. The word that was used. The fact that I find it degrading to an entirely innocent group of people. So I said so. After which I was repeatedly insulted to the point where I used the block feature for the first time. I refuse to allow someone to encroach upon my happy place.
Considering the amount of times in life that I manage to blurt out the sheer stupidity of someone, I am thinking that it might be wise to revisit the Xanax idea. I am certain that a couple of those puppies and a mug of vodka would do the trick. Perhaps the world would be a much better place if I just opted to stay away from people altogether. I'm not sure what would be the best idea. With 80% of my friends list having polar opposite political opinions than I do, maybe I should just delete my account until after the election.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Here Lies the Crazee Lady....
It's official. I must write my obituary. I am gone. I've died, gone to heaven and then gone to hell.
My urgent plea to move dessert night and partake of that slutty little dessert succeeded. We bought the ingredients. We, and by we I mean Grumpy, made the concoction. It was everything I hoped it would be combined with everything I feared it would be.
The combination was decadent. I'm pretty sure I committed at least five sins simply by eating it. The ice cream melted into it and I just cannot describe the orgasmic joy I felt along the way.
Then it was over.
And I was sick. Nauseatingly so. The overload of sugar was both fabulous and tragic at the same time. I'm sure I gained 10 pounds with that dessert and it will take four years to remove it.
I don't regret it.
I wouldn't do it often, but holy mother of pearl was it good.
I'd hop on the treadmill, but I don't own one. Besides, I'd probably just have the last piece of this in a bowl in my hand as I walked. So I might as well skip it. In fact, I might as well eat that piece so that no one else is tempted to try. We have to keep Drama Queen on her healthy eating plan, right? I'm doing it for the good of the household. Story of my life.
My urgent plea to move dessert night and partake of that slutty little dessert succeeded. We bought the ingredients. We, and by we I mean Grumpy, made the concoction. It was everything I hoped it would be combined with everything I feared it would be.
The combination was decadent. I'm pretty sure I committed at least five sins simply by eating it. The ice cream melted into it and I just cannot describe the orgasmic joy I felt along the way.
Then it was over.
And I was sick. Nauseatingly so. The overload of sugar was both fabulous and tragic at the same time. I'm sure I gained 10 pounds with that dessert and it will take four years to remove it.
I don't regret it.
I wouldn't do it often, but holy mother of pearl was it good.
I'd hop on the treadmill, but I don't own one. Besides, I'd probably just have the last piece of this in a bowl in my hand as I walked. So I might as well skip it. In fact, I might as well eat that piece so that no one else is tempted to try. We have to keep Drama Queen on her healthy eating plan, right? I'm doing it for the good of the household. Story of my life.
May the Doctor's Hands Be Large and Cold....
Any woman out there can easily agree that this is a curse they do not want to hear. This is a wish you would make to a person you really don't like. Scratch that, we are women. It's a wish you would make behind the back of someone that you don't like. Or, you could be like me. It could be a wish you make to a close friend. Particularly when you find out that she's the proud new owner of an iPhone. One of the few material things in life that you covet. Because she's a dirty little wench who happened to tell you that she was reading your blog for entertainment while at the gynecologist. She deserved it. I don't envy many material possessions. I reserve my lust for Tim McGraw, Shemar Moore, Captain Morgan's and chocolate. I think I'm entitled to a shot of bitterness.
Once I got past the jealousy I had to seriously consider whether it was a compliment or insult that she was reading the blog during her yearly inspection. In the words of a wise women, namely me, what the hell?? That could be a painful laugh if the story was too funny.
Anyways, the whole conversation made me think. About va-jay-jays and exams. Not my friend's. My own. Why I hate them. I mean obviously I hate them because I'm supposed to. No sober woman would dare say she enjoyed lying naked and being fondled by the person that tends to her medical needs or delivered her babies. Yet, for me there is so much more. I've never had very good luck with my inspections. In fact, I am pretty sure that those who performed them spent some time in the closet with a bottle of Jack Daniels first. Not that I can blame them. It has to be traumatic to be looking at a vagina. Unless you are a porn star. In which case it might be considered part of the benefits package.
Back to my doctors. A few years back I had a family doctor I loved. It was a female. I say that because women tend to have their preferences. Some prefer women because it seems wrong to have a man staring into the nether regions. Some prefer men because it seems even stranger to have a woman do it. Me, I would just like sober.
So this doctor was a great doctor. She's the one that put me on Xanax. That equates to instant love. She insisted that I have the exam and I grudgingly agreed. So I'm there, on the table, spread out for the world to see and she proceeds to discuss her hair and beautician with the nurse. I'm not talking a side conversation as she does her work. I mean a full conversation, taking all of her attention. That exam lasted forever. Afterwards, I lie there still exposed and she continues to talk. "Um, hello. Do you mind if I do something completely weird like maybe putting on some panties?"
That doctor moved and no longer took my insurance and I switched. I managed to swing by two whole years before anyone caught on to the fact I was avoiding my exam. At the time, I had another new doctor from the same practice. She insisted. I hesitated. She looked kind of manly so I thought I was safe with no beauty tips going on during the process. Then it happened. Just before I undressed she came to me and she leaned down and said with a smile, "I promise my hands are small and warm".
Way to add to that comforting feeling doc.
Let me be clear. The exam was quick and painless. Afterwards, however, things got a bit weird. She looked me directly in the eye and asked, "Did I keep my promise?"
Really? I just had my nether regions poked and prodded and you want me to confirm that you did a good job? You want me to reassure you that your size was accurate and that I was as comfortable as possible? You are looking for affirmation before I even put my pants back on?
Maybe she was more manly than I thought!
So tell me, am I alone? Is there some code in my chart that says get drunk before doing the exam? Is there something that makes you particularly hate that moment?
Once I got past the jealousy I had to seriously consider whether it was a compliment or insult that she was reading the blog during her yearly inspection. In the words of a wise women, namely me, what the hell?? That could be a painful laugh if the story was too funny.
Anyways, the whole conversation made me think. About va-jay-jays and exams. Not my friend's. My own. Why I hate them. I mean obviously I hate them because I'm supposed to. No sober woman would dare say she enjoyed lying naked and being fondled by the person that tends to her medical needs or delivered her babies. Yet, for me there is so much more. I've never had very good luck with my inspections. In fact, I am pretty sure that those who performed them spent some time in the closet with a bottle of Jack Daniels first. Not that I can blame them. It has to be traumatic to be looking at a vagina. Unless you are a porn star. In which case it might be considered part of the benefits package.
Back to my doctors. A few years back I had a family doctor I loved. It was a female. I say that because women tend to have their preferences. Some prefer women because it seems wrong to have a man staring into the nether regions. Some prefer men because it seems even stranger to have a woman do it. Me, I would just like sober.
So this doctor was a great doctor. She's the one that put me on Xanax. That equates to instant love. She insisted that I have the exam and I grudgingly agreed. So I'm there, on the table, spread out for the world to see and she proceeds to discuss her hair and beautician with the nurse. I'm not talking a side conversation as she does her work. I mean a full conversation, taking all of her attention. That exam lasted forever. Afterwards, I lie there still exposed and she continues to talk. "Um, hello. Do you mind if I do something completely weird like maybe putting on some panties?"
That doctor moved and no longer took my insurance and I switched. I managed to swing by two whole years before anyone caught on to the fact I was avoiding my exam. At the time, I had another new doctor from the same practice. She insisted. I hesitated. She looked kind of manly so I thought I was safe with no beauty tips going on during the process. Then it happened. Just before I undressed she came to me and she leaned down and said with a smile, "I promise my hands are small and warm".
Way to add to that comforting feeling doc.
Let me be clear. The exam was quick and painless. Afterwards, however, things got a bit weird. She looked me directly in the eye and asked, "Did I keep my promise?"
Really? I just had my nether regions poked and prodded and you want me to confirm that you did a good job? You want me to reassure you that your size was accurate and that I was as comfortable as possible? You are looking for affirmation before I even put my pants back on?
Maybe she was more manly than I thought!
So tell me, am I alone? Is there some code in my chart that says get drunk before doing the exam? Is there something that makes you particularly hate that moment?
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Let There Be .... Brownies...Or Cookies....Or Oreos....What??
In our house it is a priority to be healthy. We want to only eat good foods and exercise regularly. We strive to be as health conscious as possible. When you look at the salads and vegetables we have for dinner you would be ashamed for downing that bag of coconut creme Hershey Kisses by yourself in the closet.
Okay, I can cut the crap. The truth is, we aren't perfect. We eat junk. I would live off of chocolate and coffee with a side of liquor if it were up to me. Did I mention how very good those coconut creme Hershey Kisses actually are? And maybe I was in the closet. Maybe I was in the car waiting on Drama Queen to get out of her youth group. Who knows? Does it really matter?
Anyways, we try. We've been on a mission to try and make a few healthier choices. We have eliminated sweetened drinks. DQ might have a Coke or glass of tea occasionally, but even Grumpy went to diet drinks. A fact he is not proud of. Sometimes we cheat. Sometimes we have a dinner that is less than healthy. Meatball subs anyone? But overall we are making steps. One of those steps was to initiate dessert night. Now those Sundays in the car do not count. Our abolishing chocolate and other sweets from the daily menu only counts when Drama Queen is present. Since technically she INSIDE the church and I am OUTSIDE the church, it means I'm free and clear.
That said, we don't cheat between dessert nights. Really it should be called Crazee Lady, DQ and the Mom's feast. Grumpy could care less about dessert night. Most days. Yet it seems the week that I am wishing I had a chocolate IV. The week that I would kill my mother for a candy bar. The week that I offered to take care of a friend's ex for a lifetime supply of chocolate. THAT would be the week he give's a rats ass.
Yesterday I get an email from him. Yes he's located upstairs. We believe in communication. It says something about Slutty and I'm thinking what in the sam hill hell has he sent me now. Then I open it. It is a divine recipe from the Londoner called Slutty Brownies. Are you seriously kidding me? We are an entire week away from dessert night and he is going to send me that?? Brownies, cookies and oreos in one? With the promise of ice cream on top? The one thing that will kill me dead in my tracks.
He is a jackass and has joined my hit list. I will add him to the 'taking care of the friend's ex' list for free. I will bury them together. This is his punishment.
And dessert night has now been moved. It officially occurs today.
Okay, I can cut the crap. The truth is, we aren't perfect. We eat junk. I would live off of chocolate and coffee with a side of liquor if it were up to me. Did I mention how very good those coconut creme Hershey Kisses actually are? And maybe I was in the closet. Maybe I was in the car waiting on Drama Queen to get out of her youth group. Who knows? Does it really matter?
Anyways, we try. We've been on a mission to try and make a few healthier choices. We have eliminated sweetened drinks. DQ might have a Coke or glass of tea occasionally, but even Grumpy went to diet drinks. A fact he is not proud of. Sometimes we cheat. Sometimes we have a dinner that is less than healthy. Meatball subs anyone? But overall we are making steps. One of those steps was to initiate dessert night. Now those Sundays in the car do not count. Our abolishing chocolate and other sweets from the daily menu only counts when Drama Queen is present. Since technically she INSIDE the church and I am OUTSIDE the church, it means I'm free and clear.
That said, we don't cheat between dessert nights. Really it should be called Crazee Lady, DQ and the Mom's feast. Grumpy could care less about dessert night. Most days. Yet it seems the week that I am wishing I had a chocolate IV. The week that I would kill my mother for a candy bar. The week that I offered to take care of a friend's ex for a lifetime supply of chocolate. THAT would be the week he give's a rats ass.
Yesterday I get an email from him. Yes he's located upstairs. We believe in communication. It says something about Slutty and I'm thinking what in the sam hill hell has he sent me now. Then I open it. It is a divine recipe from the Londoner called Slutty Brownies. Are you seriously kidding me? We are an entire week away from dessert night and he is going to send me that?? Brownies, cookies and oreos in one? With the promise of ice cream on top? The one thing that will kill me dead in my tracks.
He is a jackass and has joined my hit list. I will add him to the 'taking care of the friend's ex' list for free. I will bury them together. This is his punishment.
And dessert night has now been moved. It officially occurs today.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Who Really Needs Skin Anyway?
Raising a teenage daughter is difficult, but I'd take three of them if it meant I didn't have to deal with body hair ever again. Shaving is the bane of my existence and I do everything in my power to avoid it. It's winter? Cool, those 14 layers of pants will hide the hairy stumps that could likely kill a man. Avoidance is the key. Well no, the key would be winning the lottery and investing in permanent hair removal. Avoidance is the key for poor people. I'm good at avoiding. I do it constantly. Avoiding housework. Avoiding my job. Avoiding the fact that I can't afford what I'm about to purchase. So it makes sense to avoid any unnecessary hair removal. For years it has been a system that I perfected and it has worked perfectly.
Then I got older. Suddenly hair was visible on more than my legs. Short of wearing a ski mask, my hair growth either had to be taken care of or I had to succumb to the idea that people would mistake me for the man of the house. Unless that title also comes with the ability to play video games, nap on demand and eat without gaining a damn pound I don't want it. So that leaves me with hair removal. The one thing I do not love. In fact, likely the one thing I hate worse than teenage lingo.
Now most good girly girls would visit the local salon, pay a few bucks and have the problem taken care of. I might too if I didn't wait until I resembled a furry creature to tend to the mess. But this time around I was so busy that I let the problem grow. It wasn't until Drama Queen pointed that I had the picture perfect girlstache that I thought it might be important to take care of it.
Fortunately, I was in possession of some amazing lotion that I bought a while back. It removes the hair perfectly and it doesn't irritate my sensitive skin. If I even mention lotions my skin will break out. So this works for me. Except that a while back translates into about 8 years. And apparently those lotions expire. Which means that I could rub it all over my face and not once will it do a damn thing. So that meant a trip to Walmart. Don't judge, if you looked like a hairy man-woman you would choose Walmart over the alternative as well. I figured I was wearing pants AND a top so I was automatically in a class above the other patrons.
I purchased a brand name hair remover for the face that I shall not name. CoughNairCough. After visiting the self-checkout so that no one commented on how I grew a better stache than Grumpy, I headed home ready to be a girl for a few minutes. I threw some hair dye on my hair to cover the (bigfoot sized) handful of grey hairs that I had and I slapped on some of this unnamed lotion. Might as well make a full night of this girl stuff right? This was going to be easy peasy. Wait 5 to 10 minutes and the face looked like a female again.
I ended up, after testing that shit, realizing I had to wait the full ten minutes. So I did. I removed it and was pleased to see that you could see the skin again. Went on to handle the hair dye and grab a quick shower. It was during this shower that I first realized something was wrong. The water hurt. As in I felt like a radioactive chemical was coming directly out of my shower head with a distinct mission of attacking my face. With a head full of hair dye I had no choice but to continue, but I prayed to the Gods that I would make it out alive. I just knew that someone was trying to do me in. It didn't dawn on me at the time that perhaps something was wrong.
It wasn't until Grumpy asked what I'd been drinking that I realized there might be an issue. I assumed the consistent burning was normal for this product and that it'd ease off by morning. His question made me wonder what might be going on. I ran to the nearest mirror and realized that he was right. Since that never happens, I had to acknowledge it. It actually did look as though I'd stuck half of my face into a vat of cherry kool-aid.
Now on a normal weekend I would have a couple of days to let it revert to normal. This particular weekend I had a couple of functions to attend. Functions that I didn't particularly want to attend looking like a man, but I didn't want to attend them looking like a messy 3 year old either. So I did the only thing I could do. I panicked. I worried. I swore that I was going to be humiliated the next day at our event. Grumpy told me to sleep and it would clear up.
Of course, he can't be right twice in a row. It violates the woman's handbook of man's conduct. So I woke up and went straight for the mirror. I will say that the red ring around my face was gone. It was, however, replaced by a burn and several sores. It appears that in an effort to eliminate the stache, and what might have been the start of a beard, from my face the lotion had also taken skin with it. Apparently the directions should more accurately read: Leave on for five minutes and you will still have hair. Leave on for ten minutes and the hair will be gone, but it will take three layers of skin with it.
So here I sit at the end of the weekend and I have a ring of sores around my mouth. I've spent the weekend socializing with people and I know that they notice. How do you not? My face looks like something that makes you want to wear plastic gloves and throw out any cups I drink from. I didn't mention it though. I figured starting off with 'Hi, I burned the shit out of myself trying to get rid of that freaky mustache' could make things a bit awkward. I'm sure they felt the same when they opted not to ask if I'd had all my vaccinations.
This is why my lottery winnings would first go to ensure that I had permanent hair removal. It is also why I will brave the salon and let the beautician yank that shit off with wax next time. At least if she removes skin along the way I will be able to sue. Then I can have the permanent removal I want. In the meantime, who really needs the skin on their face? Obviously I don't.
Then I got older. Suddenly hair was visible on more than my legs. Short of wearing a ski mask, my hair growth either had to be taken care of or I had to succumb to the idea that people would mistake me for the man of the house. Unless that title also comes with the ability to play video games, nap on demand and eat without gaining a damn pound I don't want it. So that leaves me with hair removal. The one thing I do not love. In fact, likely the one thing I hate worse than teenage lingo.
Now most good girly girls would visit the local salon, pay a few bucks and have the problem taken care of. I might too if I didn't wait until I resembled a furry creature to tend to the mess. But this time around I was so busy that I let the problem grow. It wasn't until Drama Queen pointed that I had the picture perfect girlstache that I thought it might be important to take care of it.
Fortunately, I was in possession of some amazing lotion that I bought a while back. It removes the hair perfectly and it doesn't irritate my sensitive skin. If I even mention lotions my skin will break out. So this works for me. Except that a while back translates into about 8 years. And apparently those lotions expire. Which means that I could rub it all over my face and not once will it do a damn thing. So that meant a trip to Walmart. Don't judge, if you looked like a hairy man-woman you would choose Walmart over the alternative as well. I figured I was wearing pants AND a top so I was automatically in a class above the other patrons.
I purchased a brand name hair remover for the face that I shall not name. CoughNairCough. After visiting the self-checkout so that no one commented on how I grew a better stache than Grumpy, I headed home ready to be a girl for a few minutes. I threw some hair dye on my hair to cover the (bigfoot sized) handful of grey hairs that I had and I slapped on some of this unnamed lotion. Might as well make a full night of this girl stuff right? This was going to be easy peasy. Wait 5 to 10 minutes and the face looked like a female again.
I ended up, after testing that shit, realizing I had to wait the full ten minutes. So I did. I removed it and was pleased to see that you could see the skin again. Went on to handle the hair dye and grab a quick shower. It was during this shower that I first realized something was wrong. The water hurt. As in I felt like a radioactive chemical was coming directly out of my shower head with a distinct mission of attacking my face. With a head full of hair dye I had no choice but to continue, but I prayed to the Gods that I would make it out alive. I just knew that someone was trying to do me in. It didn't dawn on me at the time that perhaps something was wrong.
It wasn't until Grumpy asked what I'd been drinking that I realized there might be an issue. I assumed the consistent burning was normal for this product and that it'd ease off by morning. His question made me wonder what might be going on. I ran to the nearest mirror and realized that he was right. Since that never happens, I had to acknowledge it. It actually did look as though I'd stuck half of my face into a vat of cherry kool-aid.
Now on a normal weekend I would have a couple of days to let it revert to normal. This particular weekend I had a couple of functions to attend. Functions that I didn't particularly want to attend looking like a man, but I didn't want to attend them looking like a messy 3 year old either. So I did the only thing I could do. I panicked. I worried. I swore that I was going to be humiliated the next day at our event. Grumpy told me to sleep and it would clear up.
Of course, he can't be right twice in a row. It violates the woman's handbook of man's conduct. So I woke up and went straight for the mirror. I will say that the red ring around my face was gone. It was, however, replaced by a burn and several sores. It appears that in an effort to eliminate the stache, and what might have been the start of a beard, from my face the lotion had also taken skin with it. Apparently the directions should more accurately read: Leave on for five minutes and you will still have hair. Leave on for ten minutes and the hair will be gone, but it will take three layers of skin with it.
So here I sit at the end of the weekend and I have a ring of sores around my mouth. I've spent the weekend socializing with people and I know that they notice. How do you not? My face looks like something that makes you want to wear plastic gloves and throw out any cups I drink from. I didn't mention it though. I figured starting off with 'Hi, I burned the shit out of myself trying to get rid of that freaky mustache' could make things a bit awkward. I'm sure they felt the same when they opted not to ask if I'd had all my vaccinations.
This is why my lottery winnings would first go to ensure that I had permanent hair removal. It is also why I will brave the salon and let the beautician yank that shit off with wax next time. At least if she removes skin along the way I will be able to sue. Then I can have the permanent removal I want. In the meantime, who really needs the skin on their face? Obviously I don't.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Teenage Boys: Can't Live With Them and There's Nowhere to Hide the Bodies
I'm an easygoing parent. So is Grumpy. We like to consider ourselves friendly, fun and relaxed. Others think we might need a few more medications to be compatible with society. Either way, there is one topic that we simply do not enjoy. It doesn't matter how common it is becoming or how normal it's supposed to be. When it's brought up, we get horrific chills and begin to gasp for air. Grumpy, in all his liberal glory, begins to look like he might consider owning a gun. We start going over in our heads all of the rules that we will have to implement over the next 5 years. The subject is a sore one and it is becoming far too common around this house.
Teenage boys.
Now don't get me wrong. We want her to eventually go off and get married and spend forty-three hours a day in her own bathroom. Trust me. This is on our must-happen list for our lives. We just want those important other things to happen first. College. A job. Security and stability of her own. Her 35th birthday.
When we put her back in public school this year we did so with the hope that she would succeed. We sent her off on that first day telling her to go out there and make some friends. Three days later she came home and announced her boyfriend and that they were going to the dance together. Excuse me, what? You have a huh? I think I had something in my ears. Can you repeat that please?
Yes she had a boyfriend in three days. Complete with the whole do you want to go out, mark yes or no. As of now (about a month or so into it) they spend much of their school day together trying to find ways to embarrass each other. Just Friday he finally added her on Facebook. That worries me because they are now going to communicate outside the confines of middle school. It does however give us ample opportunity to keep up with said boyfriend and see that he's a decent and upstanding citizen. I will admit that I was kind of won over by the whole humiliating each other at school thing. It sounds so much like something I would do.
That being said, she has also been asked out by other boys. That same Friday that brought her Facebook Friend also brought her newest request. A boy that had her phone number, which I had no clue about, sent her a text and asked her out. Again complete with the whole yes or no thing. She came to me for advice on how to turn him down without being mean.
So there I sat, no liquor in the house, trying to decide exactly how my child took my words of go make friends to mean this. I said friends. As in giggly girls. As in sleepovers and talks on the phone. Not friends as in will you date me.
After much thought I have decided to make room in the back yard. There are a lot of bodies I'm going to have to do away with. She will make it to thirty-five. Now where is my duct tape........
Teenage boys.
Now don't get me wrong. We want her to eventually go off and get married and spend forty-three hours a day in her own bathroom. Trust me. This is on our must-happen list for our lives. We just want those important other things to happen first. College. A job. Security and stability of her own. Her 35th birthday.
When we put her back in public school this year we did so with the hope that she would succeed. We sent her off on that first day telling her to go out there and make some friends. Three days later she came home and announced her boyfriend and that they were going to the dance together. Excuse me, what? You have a huh? I think I had something in my ears. Can you repeat that please?
Yes she had a boyfriend in three days. Complete with the whole do you want to go out, mark yes or no. As of now (about a month or so into it) they spend much of their school day together trying to find ways to embarrass each other. Just Friday he finally added her on Facebook. That worries me because they are now going to communicate outside the confines of middle school. It does however give us ample opportunity to keep up with said boyfriend and see that he's a decent and upstanding citizen. I will admit that I was kind of won over by the whole humiliating each other at school thing. It sounds so much like something I would do.
That being said, she has also been asked out by other boys. That same Friday that brought her Facebook Friend also brought her newest request. A boy that had her phone number, which I had no clue about, sent her a text and asked her out. Again complete with the whole yes or no thing. She came to me for advice on how to turn him down without being mean.
So there I sat, no liquor in the house, trying to decide exactly how my child took my words of go make friends to mean this. I said friends. As in giggly girls. As in sleepovers and talks on the phone. Not friends as in will you date me.
After much thought I have decided to make room in the back yard. There are a lot of bodies I'm going to have to do away with. She will make it to thirty-five. Now where is my duct tape........
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Reasons The Kid Needs Therapy
Therapy is a must-have in life. Hell, we really kind of owe it to the child after all that we put her through. Day after day we find new and embarrassing ways to harass her. Sometimes we even solicit the help of others. What kind of parents would we be if we didn't torture her the way we are tortured when she mentions the boyfriend or dating or begins asking questions about sex? All is fair in love and parenthood, right?
So we have this ongoing joke. Given the drugs I ingest on a daily basis and the amount of liquor I have consumed in the years since it began, I cannot remember what initiated the joke. I do know that it immediately annoyed her. That simple fact made it mandatory that it continue. The joke is that she is a lesbian. Grumpy is constantly telling her that she's a lesbian and that we accept her and love her as is. Sometimes she laughs. Sometimes she gets annoyed. Sometimes she turns it around and creates a scene that would embarrass even the most liberal parent.
So one day we took Drama Queen and her friend out to eat. Because we are all fancy and stuff we opted for Burger King. So we are sitting there and Drama Queen is talking incessantly about things and Grumpy is repeating that it's okay to be a lesbian and we love her anyway. So then she mentions that she has a cold sore and it hurts. Grumpy is not as funny as I am, but sometimes he can go without skipping a beat. So as soon as the words left her mouth his opened to tell her that it was just herpes. Apparently this was the final straw for her because she opened her mouth and said the following. She didn't just say it. She yelled it. So loud, in fact, that I am sure they heard her outside of the building.
"I AM NOT A LESBIAN AND I DO NOT HAVE HERPES"
A good parent would have been embarrassed. Her friend scrunched down in her seat to hide. All eyes in the place turned to us. Mouths dropped. People were amazed. They seemed even more petrified and ready to call children's protective services when they saw that Grumpy and I were not embarrassed. We were not worried. We were not upset. We did not feel guilty. Instead we were enjoying hysterical laughter at the expense of our child.
Now you know why we don't dine at more important establishments.
So yes, we owe her therapy.
That said, this story lives in infamy in our lives. We tell everyone. Seriously. Her first boyfriend will probably not be invited home to meet us any time in the near future for that very reason. So it only made sense when we got involved in a small group through church that we share this funny story. Don't worry, we waited until we saw that they liked joking as much as we did. It made for a very entertaining night. Poor Drama Queen.
It only made sense that we forewarn the group that when we attend the bonfire today she will be with us and eagerly anticipating the fun. It also made sense to tell them that when she walks in they simply need to look at her and say "We accept you" as a greeting.
The good news is, with years of therapy already under her belt she has a fighting chance at being normal as an adult. The bad news is that she has many more years ahead of her to achieve that goal.
So we have this ongoing joke. Given the drugs I ingest on a daily basis and the amount of liquor I have consumed in the years since it began, I cannot remember what initiated the joke. I do know that it immediately annoyed her. That simple fact made it mandatory that it continue. The joke is that she is a lesbian. Grumpy is constantly telling her that she's a lesbian and that we accept her and love her as is. Sometimes she laughs. Sometimes she gets annoyed. Sometimes she turns it around and creates a scene that would embarrass even the most liberal parent.
So one day we took Drama Queen and her friend out to eat. Because we are all fancy and stuff we opted for Burger King. So we are sitting there and Drama Queen is talking incessantly about things and Grumpy is repeating that it's okay to be a lesbian and we love her anyway. So then she mentions that she has a cold sore and it hurts. Grumpy is not as funny as I am, but sometimes he can go without skipping a beat. So as soon as the words left her mouth his opened to tell her that it was just herpes. Apparently this was the final straw for her because she opened her mouth and said the following. She didn't just say it. She yelled it. So loud, in fact, that I am sure they heard her outside of the building.
"I AM NOT A LESBIAN AND I DO NOT HAVE HERPES"
A good parent would have been embarrassed. Her friend scrunched down in her seat to hide. All eyes in the place turned to us. Mouths dropped. People were amazed. They seemed even more petrified and ready to call children's protective services when they saw that Grumpy and I were not embarrassed. We were not worried. We were not upset. We did not feel guilty. Instead we were enjoying hysterical laughter at the expense of our child.
Now you know why we don't dine at more important establishments.
So yes, we owe her therapy.
That said, this story lives in infamy in our lives. We tell everyone. Seriously. Her first boyfriend will probably not be invited home to meet us any time in the near future for that very reason. So it only made sense when we got involved in a small group through church that we share this funny story. Don't worry, we waited until we saw that they liked joking as much as we did. It made for a very entertaining night. Poor Drama Queen.
It only made sense that we forewarn the group that when we attend the bonfire today she will be with us and eagerly anticipating the fun. It also made sense to tell them that when she walks in they simply need to look at her and say "We accept you" as a greeting.
The good news is, with years of therapy already under her belt she has a fighting chance at being normal as an adult. The bad news is that she has many more years ahead of her to achieve that goal.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Dear Rodent....
Dear Rodent,
I am superwoman. I can take down men three times my size thanks to my willingness to hit below the belt. I parent a teenage girl and deal with the drama, talking and crazy questions that come with it. There is little in my life that scares me.
This may not have been evident when you creeped out from behind my trash can last week. When I jumped about 4 feet off the chair and held my feet up in the air. As I gasped for the breath it would take to call Grumpy to come downstairs. During that four seconds that you looked at me and the room moved in slow motion, it may have seemed that I had left my cape in another room. In fact, I was contemplating whether the danger of standing in a chair on wheels on the hardwood floor was worse than the danger that would come if you scurried across my feet.
You even looked at the cat. My protector. The one barrier I have against rodents such as yourself. Because I know that even if you appeared smaller than the size of my fist, you hold the power to take me down through cardiac arrest. I know that you spend your days and nights crawling across my cabinets. Potentially touching my silverware or my food. I know that you reproduce faster than a Duggar. The cat simply stared at you and licked himself. So you turned and went back into your hole. But, my friend, you underestimated me.
Of course it may not have seemed that I was superior to you three days later when you walked out of that same hole, around the trap that was set, and stared me down. This time you came closer to me. This time you came by my desk. You came out long before the late night rendezvous I expected you to have. You were showing me who was boss in this house. I probably didn't look like the king of the home as I sat with my short legs lifted in the air and screamed. You probably went back to your dwelling with a chuckle as no one in this house (and trust me there are too many people in this house) came to my rescue. I'd bet you sat at that hole and watched me run across the floor to get out of the room. I'm sure you told all of your buddies about how I made Grumpy watch for you while I took a shower. Maybe that is why you headed in the direction of the shower to begin with. It was a form of mental torture. Yet, you underestimated me again.
That night it became my mission to catch and/or destroy you. Those traps were filled with other things. Apparently you were lactose intolerant. How about a bite of meatloaf? My friend Google said peanut butter would work. And today I went out and bought poison. We had tried the humane way. Now it was time to end this battle.
Murphy's Law number 5,678,456,400 says that if I go and buy more stuff to remove the rodents from my home, it will go into the trap I've already paid for while I'm gone. And you did. Apparently meatloaf is your 'thang', So you left my home today. My feet are again on the floor. And I'm hoping you didn't produce 16 children that will torture me for taking away their daddy.
How do you like me now?
Sincerely,
Crazee Lady
I am superwoman. I can take down men three times my size thanks to my willingness to hit below the belt. I parent a teenage girl and deal with the drama, talking and crazy questions that come with it. There is little in my life that scares me.
This may not have been evident when you creeped out from behind my trash can last week. When I jumped about 4 feet off the chair and held my feet up in the air. As I gasped for the breath it would take to call Grumpy to come downstairs. During that four seconds that you looked at me and the room moved in slow motion, it may have seemed that I had left my cape in another room. In fact, I was contemplating whether the danger of standing in a chair on wheels on the hardwood floor was worse than the danger that would come if you scurried across my feet.
You even looked at the cat. My protector. The one barrier I have against rodents such as yourself. Because I know that even if you appeared smaller than the size of my fist, you hold the power to take me down through cardiac arrest. I know that you spend your days and nights crawling across my cabinets. Potentially touching my silverware or my food. I know that you reproduce faster than a Duggar. The cat simply stared at you and licked himself. So you turned and went back into your hole. But, my friend, you underestimated me.
Of course it may not have seemed that I was superior to you three days later when you walked out of that same hole, around the trap that was set, and stared me down. This time you came closer to me. This time you came by my desk. You came out long before the late night rendezvous I expected you to have. You were showing me who was boss in this house. I probably didn't look like the king of the home as I sat with my short legs lifted in the air and screamed. You probably went back to your dwelling with a chuckle as no one in this house (and trust me there are too many people in this house) came to my rescue. I'd bet you sat at that hole and watched me run across the floor to get out of the room. I'm sure you told all of your buddies about how I made Grumpy watch for you while I took a shower. Maybe that is why you headed in the direction of the shower to begin with. It was a form of mental torture. Yet, you underestimated me again.
That night it became my mission to catch and/or destroy you. Those traps were filled with other things. Apparently you were lactose intolerant. How about a bite of meatloaf? My friend Google said peanut butter would work. And today I went out and bought poison. We had tried the humane way. Now it was time to end this battle.
Murphy's Law number 5,678,456,400 says that if I go and buy more stuff to remove the rodents from my home, it will go into the trap I've already paid for while I'm gone. And you did. Apparently meatloaf is your 'thang', So you left my home today. My feet are again on the floor. And I'm hoping you didn't produce 16 children that will torture me for taking away their daddy.
How do you like me now?
Sincerely,
Crazee Lady
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The Exit is to the Left..
One of three things has just occurred and now you sit staring at the screen.
1. You completely believe that I am awesome at its finest and you are waiting with bated breath on my latest entry so that you can stay up to date on the happenings of my life.
2. You currently parent a teenage daughter (or son) and you can somehow sympathize with the misery and struggles that these alien lifeforms have invoked upon us.
3. You stumbled to this site through another means and you are fearful that you will not make it out without being somehow warped into believing that child-rearing during the adolescent years is scary and frustrating while still being funny as hell.
If it is one of the first two then I would like to take a moment to welcome you to my humble abode. I don't provide milk and cookies, but I'd be glad to offer you a frozen mixed drink from the pouch. You have not entered a typical mommy blog and you are certainly not looking at the average mommy. I parent a teenager and that means I need a thick skin, a good sense of humor and possibly protection from warfare at any time. Hanging around here long enough will ensure you also have the tools you need to raise, and potentially torture, your own teen.
If, however, you fall into example number three then I have to advise you to leave as quickly as possible. I am on a mission to brainwash all parents into my way of thinking and I can't promise that you won't be next on my list. Your accidental landing on this page could result in such dangerous symptoms as fits of laughter, the ability to tease your own child and a sense of calm that comes from knowing you are not alone. You can quickly collect your valuables, place your seat in the upright position and find the nearest exit.
1. You completely believe that I am awesome at its finest and you are waiting with bated breath on my latest entry so that you can stay up to date on the happenings of my life.
2. You currently parent a teenage daughter (or son) and you can somehow sympathize with the misery and struggles that these alien lifeforms have invoked upon us.
3. You stumbled to this site through another means and you are fearful that you will not make it out without being somehow warped into believing that child-rearing during the adolescent years is scary and frustrating while still being funny as hell.
If it is one of the first two then I would like to take a moment to welcome you to my humble abode. I don't provide milk and cookies, but I'd be glad to offer you a frozen mixed drink from the pouch. You have not entered a typical mommy blog and you are certainly not looking at the average mommy. I parent a teenager and that means I need a thick skin, a good sense of humor and possibly protection from warfare at any time. Hanging around here long enough will ensure you also have the tools you need to raise, and potentially torture, your own teen.
If, however, you fall into example number three then I have to advise you to leave as quickly as possible. I am on a mission to brainwash all parents into my way of thinking and I can't promise that you won't be next on my list. Your accidental landing on this page could result in such dangerous symptoms as fits of laughter, the ability to tease your own child and a sense of calm that comes from knowing you are not alone. You can quickly collect your valuables, place your seat in the upright position and find the nearest exit.
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