Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Josh Brolin and the Big Hole

One of my biggest pet peeves is people talking while I’m watching the news.  Let me refine that.  One of my biggest pet peeves is my husband talking while I try to watch the news.  If he’s not interrupting with his own commentary (because he is obviously the authority on the economic state of the country which is why we live next door to Warren Buffett) he is asking me dumb ass questions. 

I turn the news on.
Mike, “What’s going on”?
Me, “I don’t know, it just started”.
Mike, “What just happened”?

By the time we go back and forth and I explain over and over again that if he would just shut the fuck up at least one of us would know what the fuck is going on, the god damn news is over and Entertainment Tonight is on.   Oh, and even though Mike says he thinks it’s trash and bla bla bla man talk bla, he’ll still put his two cents in over the stupid names celebrities name their children* and his giant man crush on Josh Brolin. 

Mike eating Lucky Charms naked while dreaming 
of Josh Brolin as Brand Walsh in The Goonies

Sometimes I just stare at the T.V. and try to guess what the hell is going on while Mike rambles on and on which is really not an accurate way to get the latest news stories because I have a fucked up imagination.  Luckily I don’t talk to too many adults anymore because I am being held hostage by two toddlers and a herd of feral neighborhood cats.

As I sit on my broken couch drinking my lukewarm coffee and looking out my window, I notice that I am slowly being surrounded.  Mother fucking cats are fucking everywhere.  I’m not even kidding.  There has to be about 8 now that hang out at my house and I hate every single one.  I don’t know where the hell they are coming from.  But let me tell you this:  My fucking house is obviously some kind of fucking cat vortex that sucks in fucking feline pussy fucks.  Mike had a friend of his over last year to help us do some yard work.  The guy was up on our roof clearing leaves and he screams down, “You know, there is a bunch of cat shit up here?”  What the Fuck!!??  So now my house is a giant fucking litter box. 

This is just 4 of the 8 feline house assassins living in my yard
 and pooping on my house.  
If they are hard to spot it's because they are fucking cat ninjas.   

When the poop pipe guys came to install our new septic system, things with the cats got really bad.  They had to dig up the yard.  Now, this is Florida and we don’t have soil.  We have sand which and cats fucking love sand which brings me to another fucking fear of mine.  The Sink Hole.  One of those little demons is going to be digging his poop hole in my front yard and all of a sudden… BAM!  My house is gone.  I've heard about this shit happening.  The earth just opens up and swallows you and your house and everything.  It’s for real and especially in Florida because God wants everyone to die in Florida and that’s why old people and serial killers live here. 

I’m just waiting for my house to be sucked into an aquifer.  At least it would take care of the cat issue and I guess it would take care of the broken couch too.  Mike would never know what happened because he would talk over the evening news reporting from the scene and probably come to the conclusion that I ran off with his man crush, Josh Brolin.  Josh and I will live cat free and watch Entertainment Tonight in silence because I will have cut the tongue out of his pretty face.  

*(I'm talking to you, Jason Lee.  Pilot Inspektor? Might as well called the kid Platypus Vagina)

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Corn Dogs and RuPaul

When Mike and I were early in our relationship there were many incidents which, in hind sight, would be a huge red light.  Obviously I was blinded by love and the burn of cat urine. 

Back off ladies.  He's all mine.

There was the time we were in the checkout line in the grocery store.  Our groceries were already scanned and I was ready to pay.  There was a woman behind me in the line and a young girl was ringing up my total.  A boy, maybe 16 years old, was bagging up the purchase.  Mike quickly walked away from the checkout line towards the door and loudly proclaimed, “Jesus, Susan!” as he waved his hand in front of his nose, "You couldn't wait until you got outside"?  The son of a bitch ripped a silent but deadly and pinned it on me.  There was no where to run.  The gaseous toxic smell made it hard to find my debit card.  The looks I got… the fucking looks I got from all those people.   The young people really piss me off.  I wanted to fucking kill the bag boy.  Maybe it was because he was young and didn't know the pain of embarrassment or maybe I just wanted to thin the population of yet another douche canoe in training. 

Then there was the weird week where every time we drove somewhere he would ask me if I was hungry or craving anything.  By the fifth day I realized he asked me whenever we were near an eatery of some kind.  It didn't matter the time of day or even if we had just eaten, he still asked. He was really starting to fucking piss me off.  There is nice and then there is fucking annoying in a weird serial-killer-way nice.  He was approaching serial killer really quickly, especially with the fake super concerned smile while he talked thing.  I wanted to punch him but he was usually driving the car and that could just end badly.  Turns out, for the entire week previous, just as I had fallen asleep, he was whispering, “ corn dog” in my ear over and over again.  He picked a food item I would never have eaten normally just to see if he could infiltrate my brain.  Fucking ass hole thought he could control me with mother fucking mind control.  Guess who’s in control now, you fuck nugget.

When I was pregnant with our first born we had to look for a new car since my 2 seat pickup truck wasn't going to cut it with a baby seat.  People get all  kinds of righteous and angry when they see babies riding in the beds of trucks.  They already get kind of pissed off when dogs are kept back there.  So a new car was in our future.  I sold the pickup which left us with one car and a shared work commute.  It was a stormy Florida morning with tons of thunder and lightening and even more rain.  I was big.  Like, bowling ball exiting my vagina big.  You would thing at this state in my pregnancy my fucking husband would be kind and gentle and loving and shit.  He ran out to the car first and got in.  For some reason I didn't have an umbrella.  Honestly though, I live in fear that an umbrella is just a sure way to die from electrocution.  Why the fuck would I willingly hold a lightning rod in an electrical storm.  It is quite similar to my fear of leaving cats inside the house with a toaster or crock pot plugged in.  Fucking cats are pyromaniacs.  Why the fuck would I leave a fire machine for them to use?  Anyway, I was running out to the car.  It was dark and raining super hard.  Since Mike had just gotten in the car, the interior light was still on and I could see him.  I could see the cock sucker smiling.  I could see him hitting the fucking car locks.  Then the lightning struck and illuminated my face.  My soggy, mascara streaked with rage and death, face.  He unlocked the door.  I got in.  The fucker says, “I just wanted to see your face”.  He just wanted to see my fucking face. 

He didn't stop there.  One night we came home and someone (fucking Mike) forgot to lock the fucking front door to the house.  Let me just say here and now that I HATE fucking horror movies.  I don’t watch them because I would rather have happy fucking thoughts.    I make Mike go in the house first because if there is a serial killer or homicidal maniac inside, the mother fucker who forgot to lock the door gets to die first.  Plus, it will give me a chance to run and save myself.  Anyway, he goes in the house and heads toward our bedroom.  Just as I round the corner to enter the bedroom, the fucker runs around the corner screaming, “OH MY GOD! HE’S GONNA GET ME”!  After slightly peeing my pants, partially from fear and partially from being 9 fucking months pregnant, I just started to cry.  I cried like a little fucking baby because my douche bag of a husband thinks he is a fucking solid gold fucking genius comedian.  I wondered how the fuck I could have married such an ass hole.  Then, a few days later, I realized that all fucking men think they are fucking solid gold fucking genius comedians.  I ran over to my friend Karey’s house.  I called first because it was late at night and I’m fucking thoughtful like that.    I pull in her driveway, exit the car, and walk towards her house.  Karey’s fucking jack wagon husband, Matt, jumps out from in front of his truck and growls at me.  MOTHER FUCKER!  I almost went into labor right there in the driveway. 
                                          Matt                                             Drunk Bear
As you can see, Karey is one lucky lady as well.

The conclusion that I have made from these and other events in my life are that men are genetically wired to die early from “accidental” or “unknown” causes and they are all severely brain damaged from birth.  I've started watching a lot of RuPaul’s Drag Race with my two toddler boys just so they know they have options later in life.  Regardless of their future, I love that they keep asking, “Daddy, are you a woman”?  Solid gold, baby.  

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Gobble Gobble Mother Fucker

It’s not that I hate the holidays.  I actually really like them.  I like them so much that I want everyone else to participate in my fucking joy. 

This is probably why I got pissed off at the two fucking Grinch douche canoe managers at my local grocery store last week.  I was shopping for charity and they wouldn't take all of my coupons.  Two managers came over to me in the checkout line (because I am obviously a bad ass couponing mother fucker who needs the fucking goon squad to make me back down) and informed me that regardless that the purchase was for charity I was not allowed to use the coupons.  I made them say it a few times just so the people in line behind me would know that they were complete asshats.  I wanted to say, “IT’S FOR FUCKING CHARITY YOU FUCKING COCK SUCKERS”, but I didn't because I’m classy. 

I also had to go to the mall and get the annual "terrorize the toddlers" photo for my collection.  I really think it gets better each year.  I'm pretty sure last years Santa retired or set himself on fire after my kids visited.  

I have wondered for awhile why both of my kids growl at me.  The other morning I found out why.  It was 4 a.m. on Christmas morning and Mike’s fucking phone alarm goes off.  Who the fuck sets their alarm for 4 a.m. on Christmas morning, you might ask?   My douche bag husband.  I don’t even know why he set an alarm in the first place since he has never used one and will never use one and even if the fire alarm were going off inside his ear in a an echo chamber with fire ants eating his genitals, he still wouldn't wake the fuck up.  Anyway, it was 4 fucking a.m. and I couldn't figure out where the noise was coming from and then I found it. And I growled.  I growled at my sleeping douche bag husband.  I was already pissed off from staying up until 1 a.m. playing Santa and getting the gifts wrapped and stockings filled and eating cookies.  I also knew that my youngest soul sucking child would be awake in two hours because that’s how he rolls. 

The first holiday meal I cooked for Mike.

I had bought a Turkey and cooked that bad ass bird for hours and it was fucking beautiful.   I made all the side dishes and a pumpkin pie.  Mike apparently named the turkey and fell in love with it for all the wrong reasons and wouldn't eat the fucking thing.  He said it was because the carcass was still in the shape of a bird and he could identify what he was eating.  NEWS FLASH DUMB ASS:  IT’S CALLED A TURKEY

After several years of nobody eating a damn thing I make for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Birthdays, etc… I have given up.  Last year I didn't cook a damn thing.  I really don’t think anyone noticed.  This year I announced I was ordering dinner.  My first thought was to call the Cracker Barrel and they told me they only did ham.  I hate ham.  Mike loves ham.  I called around.  Publix did a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.  I ordered it.  Then I lied to Mike and told him that I had called the cracker barrel too late to order their meal.  Gobble Gobble Mother Fucker. 

I’ll make it up to him next year by making a Pop Tart casserole or something. 


Monday, October 15, 2012

Effing Manners

Did you ever want to punch an elderly woman at a restaurant?  I have.  This weekend Jenny and I went to a local greasy spoon to eat some hot sauce with a side of food.  It was parent’s weekend in Tallahassee which meant a ton of out of town crank pants parents, trying to live vicariously through their children’s lives, dress in Garnet and Gold and take their adult children to Target to buy them a bunch of crap that they will return immediately on Monday morning so they can buy beer next weekend because nothing says I Love You like imitation Fiesta Wear and low thread count sheets.  I’m just talking from experience.   So, it was a little warm outside and the restaurant was packed.  We chose to sit outside.  The sun in Florida is like a blowtorch, so naturally we wanted an umbrella at our table.  There was an extra umbrella and stand by another table which, I might add, had a fully open large umbrella canvassing their table.    The umbrella I spotted wasn't even open, so I decided it was going to be our umbrella.  I went over and politely (for real) asked if I could take the unused umbrella.  Well, to my surprise the blue haired Betty sitting at the table says, “Well, WE could use it”, in a sassy pants voice.
This is where my mind goes:  I have 2 toddlers and I try to teach them about sharing every fucking day.  Over and over and over.  “If I have 2 fucking toy cars and you have no toy cars, the polite thing to do is for me to give one fucking toy car to you and if I don't, you can shove a toy car (or umbrella) up my ass.  It’s called sharing, you fucking geriatric cunt face.  I hope you choke on your fucking frittata and die”. 
I didn't say that, because I have principles.  I simply say, “Well, you’re not using it”, which apparently is just as rude as what I wanted to say because the bitch was pissed.   

This got me thinking about manners and society and crap like that.  Last week I took the kids to the local mall because they have in indoor toddler containment unit next to a Starbucks.  Heaven!!  

This is the indoor playground and the triple threat I had with me that day.  

Anyway, I have one kid in a stroller and two other kids roaming free range as I try to get from a very busy parking lot to the mall entrance.  So, this little blonde twenty something scurries in front of me just as I get to the door and promptly opens and closes the door in my face.  Hello, Douche Bag!  Could you prop open the door for someone who obviously could use a hand?  Fucking bitch.  If I had I free hand, I would grab your cheap ass hair extensions and slam that pretty little face in the door, repeatedly. I wanted to put a pox on her that she’ll be pregnant with triplets by the end of the year and they will be evil soul sucking demons.  But I didn't because the toddlers copy everything I do.  Instead I bite my lip and watch 10 fucking people stare at me and not open the door.  What - The - Fuck?!  Seriously!

When I was 5 months pregnant, I got laid off from my job with the State of Florida.  It was a perfect storm that day.  I got laid off and was told to pack my belongings from my desk.    First of all, what a fucking douche move to do to someone who is pregnant and then telling them to stop crying because I’m just embarrassing myself.  I’m fucking hormonal you fucking cunt.  Secondly, not one person in that fucking office helped me find a box or bag or anything helpful to get me out of there.  I get everything packed up and start to walk out of the office… on the 9th floor… of a 16 floor building… and the mother fucking fire alarm goes off.  The elevators are of course shut down and the stairs are the only option.  There I am, with 3 large boxes, two bags and a purse, in heals and very pregnant, crying, trying to walk down 9 flights of stairs with 1300 other people.  Not one fucking person offered to assist me.  NOT ONE.  I was obviously pregnant AND upset and not one fucking dick machine offered to help.  I wished at that moment that I could go into labor and my water would break so that I could soak some Jimmy Choo’s and cause a avalanche of people slipping on amniotic fluid and bloody show.  It would have been beautiful.  It would have been justice.  Looking back, I should have kept and bottled some of the amniotic fluid.  I'd keep it in a spray bottle and discipline rude inconsiderate people; like, when a cat jumps on a counter top.     

Monday, October 8, 2012

For Shits and Giggles

I had to go to my husband’s boss’s birthday party this past weekend.  The drive on the way to the party was the highlight of the trip.  Immediately when I get in the car Mike snaps, “Is this my car charger for my phone”?  I told him no and then he says it was the one from his car and blab blab blab fart bla blarp.  I reply, “DOES IT FUCKING MATTER!”  Then he accuses me of stealing his phone charger and he knows it’s his and bla blarb fart woopie.  I tell him that yes, I did take that fucking charger out of his fucking car because it was my charger that I had put in his fucking car when I had to drive the fucking dirty 4-runner and that I took it out when I was done.   Anyway, when we got home I went directly to the fucking bag from Verizon on top of the fucking refrigerator and pulled out the fucking charger he never took out of the fucking box when he bought his fucking phone and I hand it to the ass hat.  And I win. 

And then I lost.  I’m pretty sure the host of the party tried to poison me as I spent the remainder of the day getting to know my toilet more intimately. I wasn't all that concerned with my health as I was the septic system that failed over a month ago and we are just waiting for a river of poop to flow downhill into our neighbor’s yard.  It’s okay, they’re renters and I really don’t like the landlords anyway because they moved away 2 years ago and left behind their mean ass cat, Simba, because according to the douche bag that lived there, “he’s a neighborhood cat anyway”.   Something I realize from almost dying at the hands of my husband’s boss’s wife’s choice in catering is, it was probably the scallops and it wasn't as bad as the time my grandma tried to kill me with zucchini.  That was the first time I ever got food poisoning  and I just started to eat zucchini again after 30 years; but let me just say that if you are ever going to be poisoned by someone it better be your grandma because you might kill anyone else.  
There were a few rules at grandparent’s house.  
Not rules imposed by my grandparents, rather my mom and dad. 

  1.  Never drink out of an open container.  That’s grandma’s special OJ/fruit juice/soda in the fridge.  Especially since the time my brother took a big swig of OJ from the fridge and had to sleep it off for the remainder of the weekend. 
  2. Used pipe cleaners are acceptable toys.
  3. If you are near the tennis court and you don’t have a tennis racket you are automatically the ball boy/girl and you better get the fuck out of the way during a match.
  4. Don’t change the channel.  It’s been on the same channel for 50 years.  You’ll watch golf or tennis and you’ll like it.
  5. The only safe food to eat in the house is in the oven.  The oven is never used.  It’s where the windmill cookies are.  It might actually be the only food in the house. 
  6. The cast iron ice crusher will be the closest thing to the Snoopy Snow Cone Machine you will ever have so deal and get grandpa another drink.    
  7. Any time grandma takes you out in the woods to “transplant” flowers you are committing a federal offence.  Those are endangered wild orchids so don’t get caught. 

I was born on my grandma’s birthday and she insisted that I be named Viola, after her.  Mom and Dad named me Susan.  It made for some pretty awesome birthdays though, well at least until she started to lose her marbles.  She started to give used birthday and holiday cards and she would just cross out the other person’s signature and sign it.  One time she gave me a pink box of baking flour with a swan on it.  It was opened and old and had dead bugs in it. My mom was pretty sure they hadn’t made that brand in 20 or more years.  One time my mom agreed to let grandma prepare and bring the Christmas dinner to our house.  This, we all thought, was the biggest mistake ever as the only thing we ever saw grandma actually make was a mixed drink.  She lost the entire Christmas dinner, trimmings and all, on the hour long drive to our house.  My dad thinks they probably left it on the top of the car.  

Me and my grandma on our birthday.  
Now that I look at her, she kind of reminds me of the Queen.  

I bet the car ride home that night for grandma and grandpa was pretty close to the car ride Mike and I had on the way to the party.  I also think that my husband underestimates my extremely short northern girl temper.   Sure; There wasn't a snow storm and it wasn't Christmas and I didn't lose Christmas dinner; it was my fucking phone charger and I was fucking poisoned and I was right. Close enough.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

My Dr. Sucks

I realized the other day when I went to the grocery store in my yoga pants and tank top all stinky from cleaning a house and un-showered from the day before, that I might actually look kind of scary … or homeless.  I've been a stay at home mom for over 2 years now and I think the boys are finally getting to me.  Sometimes I leave the house wearing slippers and a sweater in 95 degree weather and I have dreams about an octopus-bear hybrids that work at Starbucks part time for the benefits.    That octopus-bear has it made.
Sometimes I just drive around in my car so that the ankle biters will fall asleep.  Then I slip the Veggie Tales CD out of the player and insert Tori Amos or the Avett Brothers or anything but the fucking Veggie Tales.  

My friend Rob, whom I used to work with at a fiber optics company which we affectionately nicknamed halitosis because of our deep seeded resentment of the place, called the other night.  He told me that he was going to have a baby.  I congratulated him in an exaggerated apathetic voice and then began to laugh the evil scientist laugh.  He let me know that they are going to hire a nanny.  I then cried myself to sleep.  I cried because I just went to the Dr.’s office to get my medication adjusted so that my family can live another day.  I also stole all the coupons out of the magazines in the waiting room because that’s how I roll.  The Dr. asked my some basic questions:

Dr:  Are you getting enough sleep?
Me:  Not in 3 years (as my two toddler boys grab his post it notes and start wall papering the room).
Dr:  Have you had a change in appetite?
Me:  Well, since I no longer prepare meals for myself and eat the leftovers from my toddlers buffet, yes.
Dr:  Are you having frequent anxiety or panic attacks (at this moment my 3 year old is smashing the keys on the Dr.’s laptop)?
Me:  As a matter of fact, yes!  Right at this moment, douche bag. 

Dr:  Do you no longer enjoy activities you used to find enjoyable?
Me:  I no longer do activities I enjoy, ass hat. 

Dr:  Do you ever have thought about hurting yourself or other?
Me: (out loud) Nope.  (in my head) are you fucking kidding me?  There is a fine line between reality and fantasy.  For example:  at this moment I want to punch you in the throat and bury you next to my husband in the backyard and make a crude memorial to you out of tongue depressors which would be a really good distraction for the two kids about to ruin your office and cost me 2k for your cute little laptop they are about the throw off the table, mother fucker.  Now give me stronger meds!

So, I leave the doctor’s office with both kids screaming because they didn't have any fucking lollipops and one of the kids decided he didn't have any legs so I had to drag him across the parking lot while the other one declared his hatred of me.  I was pretty much homicidal by the time I left but I have to give myself a little credit.  After all, I did wear a bra and shoes and I scored some great coupons in the lobby.  

Friday, September 28, 2012

Man Slave: A Girl Can Dream.

I was watching the morning news and saw a story about a wife in a bitter divorce battle who hired a hit man to take out her husband.  Son of a bitch probably didn't do the dishes.  I know, because I immediately looked over at my kitchen sink and saw the empty promise sitting in the stainless steel abyss.  One night this week.  One fucking night off this week.  Not even a whole night, just 3 precious hours and the dishes went undone.  Doesn't my husband realize that this is why I’m absolutely psychotic?  What Mike doesn't understand is that me getting out of the house and some light household chores on his part is a fantastic insurance policy.  It’s mostly free and guarantees personal protection for up to 24 hours. Then I asked myself, why isn't my husband more afraid of me?   I do some pretty damned crazy shit and he should be crying himself to sleep every night. I even accidentally dyed my hair black, but it just looks like I'm trying too hard.  

The toy industry is obviously run by a single man with no children.  (Trust me. This is going somewhere)  Noah had a little motorcycle toy with no volume control that talks.  It doesn't just talk, it screams “NINJA WHEELY TIME”.  One night there was a pretty fierce thunderstorm and I had just about been pushed over the edge by my family.  The motorcycle was repeating the fucking phrase over and over and over again.  I grabbed that fucking toy, ran out the back porch, and like something out of an old sci-fi movie, hurled the mother fucker over the privacy fence as lightning crashed around me.  That is not the only thing that has ended up over the fence:   A watch that my step-son set an alarm on that went off every fucking night at 3 a.m., an alarm clock that would randomly play music, a Backyardigans microphone toy with no volume setting.  All kinds of crap has been slung over that fence.   I even tried selling some stuff in a garage sale, but those garage sale people were onto me and no one would take that crap.  Sometimes I wonder if the toys will want to take revenge on me.  I've watched Toy Story about 2 million fucking times now and I am fully aware that toys are fucking evil bastards bent on vengeance.  I keep one eye on that fence at all times.  
And to all the fucking hippie mother fuckers who think I'm littering, it's called free range.  

Sometimes wish I had super human powers so I could lift Mike over the fence or just will him over the fence or use my awesome mind powers to turn him into a man slave.  Yes!  I want a man slave.  He could be my very own personal Princess Leia.  Now, a dumb ass hole who clearly does not value his genitals will say, “Would that make you Jabba the Hutt?”  No ass hat, that makes me a bad ass mother fucker with mind control.   I would still need a whip and some iron restraints for him in the event he tried to run away.  I could just use my mind control, but toys can be fun too.  I kind of think I already have a little mind control of Mike.  I mean, he’s still alive and I give myself 100% credit for that.  

I know what you're thinking.  Yes, they are real.

Graphics by Karey Mortimer.   
 If you are interested in her awesome powers of graphic shenanigans, let me know.  
She does commission work!