So, I haven't really been straight with y'all. I haven't been going on about the many ways that my body is out to destroy me because let's face it, it's boring-ish and whiney, plus it's downer stuff to read...except, well this is some sorta craziness that I just have to share.
While I'm really happy that hubby found a job, I can't do the happy dance cause I totally jacked myself up Thursday night. I'm still not sure how it happened, but, I may want to look into calling Johnson & Johnson and having them recall the band-aids. No, seriously. Either they've got a case of tampering, or my body has become more insidious than I've ever given it credit for.
First, my skin springs the trap by developing a hair bump sounds so much better than zit! on my inner thigh of all friggin' places. Don't ask me how a 38 year old woman gets a hair bump zit on her inner thigh like only her skin still thinks it's 16 cause everything else thinks it's 90... anyway, so this hair bump zit is very sensitive by Thursday, so after showering to go out, I put a band-aid on it. Not even the cheap-o Dollar Store non-brand, but the real Johnson & Johnson band-aids. cause I'm worth it, so says Loreal.
Everything seems fine for awhile, but after an hour or so of walking around Walmart, I'm sweaty, cause for some God-only-knows-why reason, it could be 12,000 degrees outside and 10 degrees inside Walmart; I will sweat like a nasty-ass-pig within 5 minutes of being inside Walmart. As I was saying... due to my Walmart induced sweaty-ness, the band-aid was becoming noticeable (feeling) to me as I walked around. We get home and I'm putting things away and my usual bopping up and down off the couch to get this and move that, when the band-aid starts getting down right painful.With that, Hubby goes out for a ciggy, and I make the colossal mistake of removing the band-aid.
Holy-fucking-hell-on-a-popsicle-stick!
It seems that my demonic sweat turned the adhesive on the band-aid into nuclear holocaust adhesive inside of four hours because when I pulled off the band-aid SKIN CAME WITH IT. That's right, y'all. Just like you hear those horror stories about kids being taped up with duct tape as a practical joke and then having to go to the hospital and winding up with skin grafts... Yeah. Well mine are obviously much, much smaller. In fact when I showed Hubby the four skinless red lines up either side of either end of where the band-aid had been he just scoffed, because in all honesty, they look like nothing. Except they're on my INNER THIGH. As in: being rubbed by cloth every time I move my leg a scintilla. As in: being pressed on and rubbed with cloth when I walk because of my ginormous size that I mentioned I can no longer hide from thanks to bleepedy-bleepin'-Best-Buy.
Skinless red lines which, before my own personal mutilation, I would have slathered with Neosporin and covered with A BAND-AID. But now I can't do that because Band-aids are no longer my friends. After a life time of trust, they have betrayed me. Nor can I cover it with gauze because I'd still need to use medical tape to keep it on and the band-aids may be into cahoots with the medical tape cause it's Johnson & Johnson brand too.
So, I can't cover the wounds, but I still need to slather it with Neosporin and sit on the couch pants-less eating Dryer's Drumstick ice cream which needs to be declared illegal cause it's so good you want to eat the whole thing which will put you into a diabetic coma, thereby making it a killer to soothe my poor-wittle-wounded self while I heal up and Hubby waits on my every need before he goes back to work...
But, no. Why? Because we have a roommate now. A male roommate. One that I'd rather die than sit around pants-less in front of, mainly because I like him as a person and wouldn't want to scar his brain irrevocably with that image, because then he'd be too distraught to ever move out and we'd be stuck with him living with us forever and ever all thanks to nuclear band-aids.
So now instead of my own personal fantasy that has less than a snowball's chance in hell of coming true healing, I get to walk around the house uber-slowly with my legs all spread and not touching like I've got shit in my drawers a Sumo wrestler all day. Oh, woe is me (backwards hand to the forehead) the mental and physical anguish that I can muster for a jury to award me millions am suffering... Your Honor. slight swoon for effect (be sure to land in a comfy chair)
I'll have to make it a joint frivolous lawsuit against Johnson & Johnson for previously mentioned reasons and Starbucks for putting too much caffeine in their double shots thereby raising my blood pressure and causing me insomnia which tampered with my decision making abilities and THAT ladies and gentlemen of the jury was the underlying cause of the nuclear band-aid incident and the medical bills incurred by the month long sugar coma from too much Dryer's Drumstick ice cream, also named as a defendant in this lawsuit.
We are trusting you, fine people mega watt smile and eye contact with the hard ass of the jury with an added slight head nod to them alone to do the right thing and award our client 97 million dollars pain and suffering. Thank you. fake ass sincere smile We rest our case.
It is ever so slightly possible that I need to layoff the Boston Legal reruns.
For those of you that love my rants, Merry Friggin' Christmas. For those of you that don't, you're in the wrong place, leave while you can because I have more than one 'rantee' today... "Leave Stanley. Run, run, go, go, run".
Alright, now first of all let me start by saying that I'm thoroughly pissed off from the moment my eyes are subjected to the harsh glare of mid-day these days. You'd think (at least I would) that a personal, breakthrough with the magnitude of the one I had a few weeks ago, followed by another one a couple of weeks ago, would have calmed me down some. You know, helped me quell the inner fires that I'm so longing to burn everyone at the stake upon. But, no. No, these breakthroughs have left me ready to stab random people on the street for the major infractions of breathing and blinking. I'm aware of it, although unsure of how to quell it, so for now, I simply have stopped carrying mace to use on people just for the fun of hearing them scream.
OK, that said, I still have two big ass rants to share with y'all today. You're welcome.
What The Fuck, Hubby's ex-boss from before I met him? Two months ago, you called Hubby up and offered him a little side job and asked him to bring his code-reader to diagnose a vehicle. So Hubby does. All nice and neat, he shows up on your doorstep at oh-early-thirty with his code-reader and some tools in hand ready to do your bidding some 50 miles round trip from our home. He gets there, is shown to a complete and total piece of shit that a blind ghetto rat would push into any body of water to simply be rid of it, and does, as you asked him to, get codes on and diagnose this craptastic hunk of recycled beer can that's trying desperately to pass for a vehicle that your dumb ass took in on trade. Hubby does the diagnosis, tells you that it's such a piece of shit that it would take more than it's worth to fix it, You still want Hubby to fix it, and after two hours of your southern-drawl-salesman-speak, you send Hubby on his way with nothing more than a 'we'll see' attitude and your fake ass smile. Not so much as a nickle for his time or gas or any other damn thing after you told him on the phone that you'd pay him for the diagnostic no matter what.
Obviously, with being handed that sack of ass-reaming-lies, Hubby never went back, nor did he ever see a dime from you. Then Saturday, you have the nerve to show up here in your brand spankin' new pick-up truck with your perfectly groomed wife and make all polite-conversation-and-fake-friendship-like so you can ask Hubby to come to your shop Monday (today) and work on some vehicles for you. Again with the I'm-helping-you-out attitude even though you can plainly see with your own two eyeballs that Hubby is already working on his ex-wife's piece of shit that has already had an entire engine replacement that he was only told about when he finished replacing the radiator and various other small items and found that the head gasket is leaking so now, for the sin of trying to help someone out, he's up to his ass in alligators. And so, Mr. Cheap-Ass-Ex-Boss-Salesman-Think-My-Shit-Doesn't-Stink-Cause-I'm-A-Fucking-Millionaire you want Hubby to drop what he's doing so he can drive 50 miles to work on your garbage for less money than the gas it takes to get there. AND you've got the brass balls the size of coconuts to call my house at 8 something in the am to find out where Hubby is, like he's your employee, when Hubby never, for one solitary second, agreed to do the job. What the fuck is wrong with you, you cheap ass bastard?
Not to mention that I know all about how you asked Hubby if I was a lesbian the first time you met me, so you're lucky that I don't drive the 50 miles roundtrip my damn self simply to slash your mother fucking tires. Fuck you, have a nice day.
And then, there's our old buddy Best Buy...
Dear Best Buy, what the fuck are y'all thinking? I guarantee you that by placing full length and huge wall sized mirrors in your ladies room that you will loose sales. No woman who has, say recently quit smoking, or who has never lost the massive tonnage that was gained during a non-Hollywood pregnancy does NOT want to wash her hands staring at an actual-life-sized-holy-shit-when-did-I-turn-into-Jabba-the-Hut fucking reflection of herself.
When she's at home with her little over-the-sink-medicine-cabinet sized mirror, she can delude herself into the belief that she's not quite so big. Because she doesn't feel like she could out-weigh an 18-wheeler. She still has a mental image of herself from high school when she did aerobics during P.E. and wore stretch jeans and cropped-mock-turtle-neck-sweaters and hung around with the football players drinking beer after games and giggling cutely.
So she is not ready to be smacked in the face with the reality that she is now almost 40 with a child-fingernail-induced scratch on her upper lip, her hair looks all slack and sweaty and pulled back into a pony tail and that she didn't put on make-up because her Hubby said that they were just going to pick up a VW part from the parts store to finish up the ex-wife's headache-car and then he changed his mind and after getting said part, he went to His Nirvana in Blue and Yellow 'to get out of the heat', whereby his wife, in an attempt to not look quite so bad, went to the bathroom only to be hit with each and every single self-esteem demon that she has ever had in her life, and in fact, it looks as if she has eaten them, because she seems to be almost half as wide as that wide-ass mirror and holy-fucking-hell I am NOT staying in this store for one more second because I was not prepared for this mirror since Best Buy doesn't sell clothes and I didn't realize that I look so bad that I could blind Medusa. So now, I want to have both a nervous-breakdown-crying-jag and a full-out-postal-homicidal-killing-spree-targeting-all-the-skinny-girls-in-the-store-*fuckingBarbies*.
So that she comes out of the bathroom at holy-shit-it's-a-charging-bull speed, laser-targets her husband, grabs his arm and her child and says as calmly as possible, "We are leaving THIS SECOND." In an 'if you have a brain in your skull you will not argue, but will simply follow me' tone of voice that also implies that if they don't follow, they will have to do their own laundry and cooking and will be single for the rest of their lives because it's not easy to get a new wife when you've been castrated and you have to sleep sometime. Then again, it will be easier to get the replacement wife when you're filthy stinkin' rich, which you will be when you sue Best Buy for the loss of your family jewels, because any male judge will rule in your favor with his legs uncomfortably crossed from behind the bench. And then Best Buy will be the punchline to every junior high school boys' joke for the next 10 years and Circuit City will come back and you'll be the ones with all the sad, empty, unlit buildings all over town. All because of your fucked up mirrors in the ladies room.
I suggest you change them now.
I know, y'all think I'm hideous for talking about the step-son that way. But I have two saving factors. First of all, if the kid was actually an idiot I'd be less pissed, but I have major issues with people who actually possess finely functioning brains that refuse to use them and basically spend their days acting like dumb-asses. It irks me. (not to be confused with pre-coffee dumb assness, or the occasional dumb-ass day) And secondly, I have said pretty much everything that I've said to you to my husband, (and in a much kinder way, to the kid himself) so it's not like I'm talking behind anyone's back.
Like when I tell y'all that I honest and for truly didn't know that it was Friday till half an hour ago because Dumb-ass turned my calendar back to July for whatever dumb-ass reason he had and with hubby not working, I have lost track of days without looking at my calendar. Luckily for him, he left yesterday morning to go back to his mother's (you heard the Hallelujah Chorus, right?) which explains how I'm still a free woman and how he's not dead.
Alrightey then, with that said, let's get to it cause I hate running late to begin with... *grumbleFuckergrumble*
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I know women go to the bathroom in packs, but this is ridiculous.
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Because obviously, terrorists would never break the rules and drive off the paved road...
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If they won't give me a penis, I'll make my own! I mean what were they thinking, there's a knock-off Venus de Milo over there!
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What insurance company wouldn't be thrilled to see this?
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Sweetie, I know we just finished watching Temple of Doom, but that is not snake surprise.
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...and next up, our keynote speaker for the annual Shoplifters United convention...
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Hell, Lucy had a sturdier psychiatric help stand for Charlie Brown.
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...right... next up, PooPoo Splash Court. because the developer let his 2 year old name the streets. Down the way is Red Ball Road and Yellow Slide Place...
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Ahhh, marketing to single mothers, I see.
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Cliff was overwhelmed with returns this week...
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Would Dr. Oz call this an unhealthy bowel movement, even if it saves lives?
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In his defense, Jim was only supposed to be entered in the pasty and under-developed category.
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That Sam, always out to prove he was the stud of the class...
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Kim Jong Il didn't let Clinton into his bedroom...
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This is why everything that used to be made in Taiwan is now made in China.
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Is it totally wrong that my first thought was to enter with the step-son?
In all honesty, I didn't think I'd be posting again so soon. I mean, I'm ready to tear my hair out over here and that should be keeping my hands way too busy to type.
First of all, when it's just Hubby, Munchkin and myself, I'm neurotic about keeping the house clean. In part because I'm simply neurotic and in part because when one lives in 540 square feet, a single dish in the sink can make the kitchen look like you've neglected it for weeks. One unmade bed turns into a pig-sty of a bedroom and God-forbid the neatly placed coverings come off the falling-apart couch, cause then you have not only a tangled, wrinkly mass of blue fabric hanging to the floor, you also see quite clearly, from every room in the house, the many rips in the upholstery of the second-hand couch that were once small tears, but thanks to an inquisitive two-year-old who shall remain nameless *eyeroll* they are great big flapping cushion-innards-showing rips so the living room looks as if it were destroyed by college-student-rock-stars.
In other words; I have a system that, when utilized, keeps this place from looking like a ghetto shack.
I also have a budget. One that has to be adhered to strictly to keep the lights and the phone and the internet on while still providing enough sustenance to feed two adults and a child for two weeks at a time, which isn't as easy as it sounds when your two-year-old is a total might-as-well-be-crack Milk Junkie of the highest order. As in two gallons every 3.6 days.
Don't judge me, Mamas. I hear your tongues clicking. I don't do juice. It's milk or water; so the kid wants milk, he gets milk.
Anyway, as stated last time, the step-son is here. He was supposedly sent with money for food. Because in all honesty, this kid eats like... well, I don't even know what. Nothing I can think of eats as much as he does. He's a bottomless pit. Like, for realz, yo. Like, if I spend $200 on groceries every two weeks to get our normal household occupants through, I need to double it to add the step-son for one week and not be stuck with nothing but top ramen and water for the second week until the check comes in. Seriously. Not even exaggerating.
Locusts. I guess the closest thing would be a swarm of Locusts.
So here we are on Tuesday evening. New roommate is at work ~ at a bar, so he comes home semi-sloshed between 4 & 5 am which I totally hear, because the door is right by our bedroom and I have 'Mama hearing' in case the Munchkin needs me. Dude is always very considerate about being super quiet and he only comes in and goes straight to bed on the couch, but still. The bar closes at 2 and I could totally be on the computer until he comes home, but we never know when that's going to be, except that the pattern, as I've already stated, seems to be between 4 & 5 am. Driving. Me. Nuts.
And then there's the food-Hoover-step-son who is still just as mopey as I stated in my other last post mentioning him, except now he's more so because he rolled his truck and is just a big ass ball of mopiness now. And he's still a huge 6'7" along with the munchkin and the roommate and the 6'4" Hubby and my non-smoking weight gain of fat ass trying to fit into a trailer built for two anorexic midgets, or one shortish normal-weight person.
Anyway, the Hubby called the ex-wife (aka step-son's mother) who knows about the four months of unemployment, and says that if step-son is coming she needs to send him with some money for food, cause we just can't do it any other way right now. So she does. A credit card. With $20 on it. (which they totally told me was like $60 so I wouldn't go stupid on them) And what do these two geniuses do with the card? They go to fast food twice and now the card is empty. *deep cleansing breaths* And to top it off, the drought that we've experienced for nearly the entire summer has picked the last couple of days to break. So, today, we have rain, and Hubby can't work on the ex-wife's car in the rain so he and Munchkin and step-son are sitting around watching movies and eating up food we can't spare if we want to continue to eat anything with a nutritional value above dirt for the rest of the time till payday, and the aforementioned weather means that step-son will be here now through Thursday at the minimum.
Dear Lord God Almighty, please, please, help me because Jail Sucks. And I don't want to have to suck anything while I'm in a jail in Texas because I'm sure the woman's facility contains people of questionable gender that could bench-press bulls and tractors and shit, and I don't want to be some Bertha's pudgy-love slave.
So, please God, please keep me from killing these men with the intelligence and foresight of 12 year olds and just for fun taking out the other guy who keeps telling me the exact number of motorcycles that are going by on the highway outside as if I give a good God damn, and where to get the best hamburger as if I'm two seconds into my Texas residency. Oh, and btw, now my two year old has started to tell me to "Shu-Hup" the second I take a breath and look as if I'm going to speak and won't give me hugs or kisses cause he only wants to spend time with 'the guys'.
Whatever I have done to deserve this God, I choose the quick painless death of tripping over too many feet in the living room and going head-first into the wall and crushing my cranium along with being electrocuted by the wires in the wall when my head passes through to the next room, instead of starving to death with a bunch of locust-like, authority-on-nothing-important, think-they're-grown, non-planning slobs who take up so much room that I have to go outside to change my fucking mind. Amen.
PS. Is this because I became part of The Bloggess' Army on twitter and have been writing unkind things about William Shatner because of 'his feud' with The Bloggess that she totally made up kind-of.
Therefore, you didn't think it was funny when I said that William Shatner chose the ending for the Sopranos finale, or that William Shatner wouldn't hand Julia Roberts the phone in Steel Magnolias, or that William Shatner told W & Cheney about WMD, or that William Shatner drinks out of the milk carton, or that William Shatner is the leader of the underwear gnomes...
It is, isn't it, God. You're a Shat-fan, God. A Kirk-loving-trekkie.
And I, am totally screwed and going to hell.
*UPDATE* PPS. Oh, just fucking beautiful. Shatner and the Bloggess made up, and I'm still over here going to hell. Besides, who the hell else am I going to vent at in a completely passive-aggressive manner to release my fire-hazard-cause-it's-over-capacity (among other reasons) home situation? Now I have to find some other iconic twitterer to take out my misplaced-anger upon. Damn it. Cause, lets face it, Shat was perfect in this capacity, aside from the obvious going to hell part. If anyone has any ideas on who to target next, let me know. Thanks
All these things going on, and I'm still not sure what to post about. Cause I'm conflicted. And because none of it's funny (which will get me a poke in the funny bone from Don) and because I have finally become tainted in so far as recognizing that I have readers and followers before I write... Which, btw, is not good. You either become all commercialized or meek cause you don't want to offend people. And I hate that shit. Who wants to read someone that censors themselves before they go to print? If I wanted to read that kind of thing I'd get a newspaper. The beauty of a blog is supposed to be that you, the reader, get to read something either made up and hilarious or real and hilarious or not so hilarious, but totally relate-able or not hilarious or relate-able, but totally true; you know, like instructions and shit.
But when you start to write a post and catch yourself saying inside your head, "No, don't write about that, you'll loose people." It may be time for a break in order to get a new perspective and a slap in the skull. Because, lets face it, the only thing a writer should be saying to themselves in their heads is, "How the hell is this coffee cup empty already?!?!? Do I have coffee gnomes? OMG, what kind of home-poisoning do I have to do to be rid of coffee gnomes, and is it dangerous for my kids?"
But in all reality, my problem is not coffee gnomes. My problem is that I'm an insomniac and writing comes much more easily for me in the wee hours of the morning than at, say, 4 pm. That and I'm having to payback a karmic debt and it's seriously sucking because of the timing and spacial restrictions...
We have a 'house guest'. One of my husband's friends, has found himself in the position of being homeless, and not for any illegal or jacked reason. In fact, the friend's situation is quite similar to a family member of mine, so I understand and am sympathetic. Also, I have spent a little time in the rank & file of the homeless, so, again, I'm sympathetic.
But there are already two adults and a turbo unit living in a space the size of a postage stamp. So let's add another grown person to the space, sleeping on the couch that is in the room with the TV and that room is also the room I have to go through to get to the computer and you now see my inherent problem with the house guest. Not to mention that I have a total thing about anyone outside my immediate family using my shower... and well... let's just say that yesterday was the first full day (second night) of 'house guest' and last night (this morning to those of you on a normal schedule) I had a nightmare about an ape-load of people in my (dream) huge kitchen and they were all trying to 'help' but doing everything wrong and I finally started telling everyone that they had to leave the room and go somewhere else... and I distinctly remember saying, "I just can't take it anymore, y'all have to get out of here" more than once. UmmmHmmm. I think I have issues about the whole 'house guest' situation in the space I'm in, don't you? I won't even go into how it's totally killing me creatively, because now, at 3 am when I'm wide awake and could be posting wonderfully funny-insane posts coming out of my sleep-deprived skull, or watching TV for ideas, I feel forced to stay in my bed and stare at the ceiling while hubby sleeps and I can't. Whoop-fucking-ee.
And in true Billy Mays style... But Wait There's More!!!
I just got told that hubby is putting a radiator into his ex-wife's car and so his son is coming to stay for a couple of days to help him and drive it home once it's done. So now, we'll have munchkin in his bed, house guest on the living room couch and step-son on the living room floor while I lay wide ass awake staring at the ceiling at 3 am for at least two days.
I may start sleeping in my Toyota Echo (smaller than a Corolla) for some breathing room.
So it is, that until further notice, the only posts you can be POSITIVE about are the LMFAO Fridays, because I have huge issues with posting crap just so I have something to post cause it's Monday or Wednesday or whatever. I will post when I have something worth sharing. I'm not going to dry up into the atmosphere, but I'll spare you shit posts like this one from here on out. Good Luck, God Bless, and I'll see you on Friday.
So, some of you, who shall remain nameless (Joan from The Retirement Chronicles) thought that my mental spewing in the last post of Q & A was caused by my being on something... I am here to tell you that I'm drug free people. Yeap, true story. I'm really that friggin' crazy. Seriously, I've been admitting freely for some time now that this blog is written by an insane person, y'all just haven't believed me. That was a smattering of the kind of thing that goes through my head, if not daily, weekly at least. Now do you realize what a fruit cake I am? And don't I hide it well? *hugemanicsmile*
Although, on Fridays, my psychotica is your gain... Happy LMFAO Friday and a wonderful weekend to y'all!!!
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No need to send a reporter for this crash, Sally... the billboard says it all.
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Kevin had progressed dangerously from shoes to rams.
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This is what happens when you're too cheap to spend an extra $30 for the zoom feature.
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That's odd, my grandmother never claimed her DVD player was part of an age discrimination conspiracy.
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The new Child-ID program now includes age-progression pictures just in case.
Surprisingly, suicide rates of young children are on the rise...
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I told you Fox News thinks all Americans are too stupid to tell the difference! I said that just the other day, didn't I Florence? They're reporting on geography issues the same way they reported on the Bush presidency!
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Ahhh, that Walmart generosity...
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"I coulda been a contenda..." Instead he's an unemployed dumbass.
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Jane was instantly suspicious when Tommy asked her to sit down while he took his shot...
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Isn't he just the cutest thing? He was on sale, and I simply couldn't resist!
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When you're homeless in the smoldering wreckage, then can I say, "I told you so"?
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Note to self: First hit button on garage door opener, then pull into garage.
ps. best to do that last bit on all four tires
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I love my SUN, and your point is?
*psssst, didja notice the Texas license plate? I told y'all the drivers down here are stupid as sticks.
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Tina now understood why criticizing one's teammates was generally reserved for after the performance.
