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.