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. 

   

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 9^th 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.     

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.

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.  

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!

Voodoo, Zombies, and Getting Groovy

When I was pregnant with my first kid I was so super excited and everything was going to be wonderful and there was sunshine and rainbows and mother fucking unicorns with glitter and all kinds of happy shit.

 

Then, I went into labor. 

So, Lamaze is a bunch of voodoo bullshit.  For real.  8 weeks of Lamaze classes and breathing and holding onto little bags of ice to experience the pain of labor and “don’t take the drugs, it will harm the baby”.  Really?  Freaks.  Let me tell you something you natural-ass stinky mother fuckers;  if I were alive during the middle ages and had to go thru 24 hours of what I went thru with my first born, I would have died and so would my child and fuck you all and your delusional hippie ways.  Fuck you.  As I went into my sixth hour of contractions I grabbed the attending nurses’ hand and with tears streaming down my face I looked into her eyes and said, “I don’t wanna be a hero, give me the fucking drugs”.  The drugs don’t even work that well either, but at least it’s something. 

Then the baby is born.  Babies are really creepy and look like zombies when they are born. My baby was sucked out of my vagina by a vacuum so looked like a zombie gumby.  His head was, and still is in the shape of the exact pattern bowling pins should be placed.  We thought it would morph back to a “normal” shape.  Nope!  Don’t get me wrong, he is beautiful and I love him to pieces, but his skull is really messed up.

I didn't even know what planet I was on in this picture.  

Look at the shape of that kids head!  Whoa.

I went through all the cliché new parent crap about everything must be sterile and blarg bloop blarg.  So, our cats killed a mouse and left it on the porch.  Dead animal removal is not on my household chore list so I told Mike to take care of it.  He didn’t.  I asked him over and over and over again to remove the mouse from the porch.  Eventually it was on the porch so long that the mouse was now flat and petrified and still on the mother fucking porch.  It must have gotten stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe and tracked into the house because the flat dead mouse ended up in my infant’s mouth.  WHAT THE FUCK!  Seriously, my baby boy was sucking on a mouse carcass.  I have never wanted to kill someone as badly as that moment when I pulled the decaying rodent from my baby’s mouth.

Now I have to deal with 2 toddlers who like to mimic everything.  It’s not just the swearing and I do a lot of that.  You know when you’re in Target and your kid starts chanting, “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK”?  I do.  I keep telling Mike to stop trying to be all sexy in the house.  You know, like when I’m bent over loading dishes into the dishwasher and Mike thinks it’s time to do some club dancing in the kitchen and he comes up behind me because for some reason he thinks that I’m going to be turned on while I’m doing household chores because he is a fucking dumb ass and all he’s really doing is coming closer to getting his eye gouged out with the ice cream scoop because it’s the only weapon I have available to fight off his advances.  The toddlers think it’s funny and so they do the same thing to me.  Do you get that?  Yeah?  Because Mike doesn’t seem to get it when I tell him that the kids mimic every single fucking thing we do and that includes getting groovy with mom. 

Now that I’m thinking about it, here is a list of *activities that are not sexy nor are they in anyway intended to be flirtatious or a sexual advance:

Doing the dishes

Loading the washer and/or dryer

Folding laundry

Shaving legs, armpits, etc

Changing dirty diapers

Cooking

Cleaning ceiling fan blades

Mopping the floor

Vacuuming

Putting groceries away

Mowing the lawn

Decorating the Christmas tree

Scrubbing the toilet

 

*The above list IS IN FACT sexy if a MAN is doing it.  I repeat… A MAN 

Fear The Wookie

When I was little, my parents would tell me the tale of the Mad Chipmunk of Lovells.  It was an angry rodent that lived at the edge of my parent’s property and apparently it would chew your fucking face off it you ventured too far away from the house.  They probably should have just been honest with me and told me about the bears or wild cats or any of the other actual man eating creatures that live in the woods.  Honestly though, the chipmunk really did the trick and to this day the little fuckers creep me out.  There were a bunch of bears living around our house and we even had one that would hibernate under a neighbor’s trampoline.  That trampoline was so fucking awesome. It wasn’t like today’s trampolines. This one was built into the ground, surrounded by a concrete border with big metal springs holding the trampoline over a giant hole (That’s where the bear lived) and I’m honestly surprised that any of us kids survived playing on that thing but it doesn’t really matter because it was that awesome.   

I was thinking about that damned chipmunk in the shower this morning.  I had just dyed my hair and I was rinsing out the holy-crap-black I apparently bought.  It was on sale and I had a coupon.  Sometimes we have to live with these choices.  The manufacturers of hair dye really need to take into consideration that some people have really long dry hair that soaks up most of the tiny bottle of dye on just a very small portion of hair.  I am now sporting a 3 toned style of Goth black, kind of red, and gray. 

Anyway, anytime I get in the shower or brush my hair or get pissed off at the kids; a ton of fucking hair falls out of my skull.  It is really fucking amazing how much hair I lose in one day and still I am able to maintain a full head of hair.  I do fear that my days are numbered though especially since one of my nervous habits is pulling out individual stands of hair with I deem to be “crunchy” and thus unworthy to reside on my scalp. 

I like to leave little surprises around the house for my husband.  One of those gems is the shower wookie.  

As my gift to Mike today, I pulled the shower wookie out and left it in the bottom of the tub. 

All women know what the shower wookie is and all men fear the shower wookie.  Mike even went down to the hardware store and bought a special shower wookie extraction tool.  He doesn’t hunt deer or bears or gators, but damn if he isn’t proud when he hunts down and kills a shower wookie.  He likes to show off the shower wookie to me as if I don’t know that I am capable of producing such a hideous creature.  I am fully aware of it.  I am also totally grossed out by my own hair once it leaves my head.  Mike is grossed out by it too but in a completely fascinated way.  He will call the entire family into the bathroom so we can view the fresh kill. Now that I think about it, maybe the shower wookie contributed to the fail of our septic system.  It is that fucking evil looking. 

Mike would probably like if I ended things here, but I have to tell you about his fucking gross ass hair too.  Not his ass hair literally.  I don’t think I ever want to go there.  We will leave his mangina out of this.  I finally got him to shave the dead squirrel that has been eating all of his food off his face.  He loves to MANipulate his facial hair and by that, I mean; he likes to shave weird shapes into his face and he thinks it’s sexy.  Let me tell you something:  THERE IS NOTHING SEXY ABOUT A DEAD SQUIRREL ON YOUR FACE!  Once anyone begins to grow facial hair I can assume one of three things:  

1.        You are a depressed ass hat

2.        You are a fucking ass hat bent on taking out revenge

3.        You are a fucking lazy ass hat

Mike will go for weeks, even months without shaving, usually just to piss me off.  He’ll say he’s going to shave and then create chops or a goatee.  My friend Jenny has a special name for a goatee.  She calls it Prison Pussy.   Then, as if the facial hair isn’t enough, when he does shave it off, he leaves me this mess around the sink.

                                    Mother Fucker.  That’s dove soap, bitch. 

At least the shower wookie clings together with its peeps in some kind of cult like solidarity.  Mikes fucking facial hair likes to divide and conquer making it impossible to clean up.