March 30, 2007

I think I might have been in a coma and although my calendar does say Friday, I think it’s really Monday. Are you with me on this? Can someone clear this up for me?

Well, I can’t really get into details per say but I will say this: Buying a house and doing an “assumable mortgage” is HELL. There have been few situations in my life where I have felt this much stress and I’m going on auto pilot. I swear I don’t know if I’m coming or going. It’s a strange feeling and I don’t think I like it. But such is life. Hopefully I’ll be back to normal soon. Like I was ever normal. Ha.

My day started off shitty, no other way to put it. First, I woke with a migraine. Well, that’s not entirely true. I mean, I did wake with a migraine but it’s the same fucking one I’ve had for a month. I’ve eaten so many pills that my stomach feels like it’s going to fall out. Stomachs can’t just fall out right? Right? Come on, I’m looking for answers here people and expect them. I’m demanding like that.

Okay, take 2 pills, and get on with my day. I’m walking my daughter to school this morning and we have to cross the street in front of her school. There are signs up that say YIELD TO PEDESTRIANS. To me, that means FUCKING STOP WHEN YOU SEE PEOPLE WALKING IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR. Dontcha think? As we are crossing (and there’s also a STOP sign that hello, means STOP), this lady pulls up to the stop sign. She did stop. I will give her that. So my daughter and I are directly in front of her car. We have the right of way, and I look up at her except she’s not looking ahead. She’s staring out her window, looking to her left. Then she steps on the gas. Ah ya, hi, I’m WALKING IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR. As I’m yanking on my daughter’s arm to get her out of the way (and mind you this is all happening in miliseconds/seconds) the woman finally turns her head to see, Oh shoot, there are people almost touching my bumper. Oh because I’ve hit the gas and not been looking out my windshield as I should be doing if I’m going to DRIVE. I shot daggers out of my eyes at her as she slammed on her brakes and I’m pretty sure I stabbed her in the head with them. She refused to make eye contact with me then. Oh I see how it is, you get to just about run me and my daughter over and then you don’t have to make direct eye contact. Did you feel stupid? I hope so. You need to have your licence taken away or a ninya kick you in the ass. The latter would be nice.

I walked home without further incident and decided I had to get to the bank and then to the post office to mail a package. The bank was quick and painless, although I had to listen to the angry man beside me rip a strip off of the teller, which, although it may be heartless for me to think it was fun, but it was. Let’s just say because of this whole house stuff, I’m not keen on banks. Anyway, I leave the bank and head to the post office across the street. I get in there and yay, no lineup! Just one dude in front of me. The lady behind the counter comes over to assist me and as I’m standing there, I hear this weird noise behind me and hear, “oh look out!”. Now, listen, I’m not too swift these days and being in a stupour for the past month, my senses are dulled. Or maybe it’s the vodka. I don’t know. Anyway, I slowly turn around and then get sprayed on the side of the head/face with 7-UP. Yes, 7-UP. There’s a guy behind me, who had been loading cases of pop into the cooler and one of the 2 litre bottles became angry I guess and threw itself on the floor and split open and as it’s lying on the floor, spinning around, it’s shooting pop up about 5 feet in the air, thus spraying the walls, the products hanging on the racks and me. The postal lady was smart as was the dude standing beside me. They jumped out of the way. I didn’t. I just stood there like a moron, watching the pop spitting out of the crazy bottle spinning like a top on the floor. I think the postal lady told me to get out of the way. Too late. The other chick offered to wipe my jacket off with a paper towel. No, that’s okay because I’m going to go buy a giant bag of brownies and eat them until I vomit. And then I’m going to flush my head in the toilet. Then maybe I’ll pass out. Then maybe I’ll go fight crime. We’ll see. I’ll have to go dig out my super hero costume. Oh shit, it’s at the cleaners.

I hope your Friday is better than mine. Wanna come eat brownies with me?

March 8, 2007

Happy Hump Day. And by Hump Day, I mean eat some chocolate and drink some alcohol. I totally would if, you know, I ate chocolate and drank alcohol. Oh wait, Hump Day was yesterday, today is just Thursday. Thursday gets a bum rap sometimes. Maybe because it was humped by Wednesday? Oh what a play on words. Dontcha love it?

Alot has been going on with me but I think I’ll spare you the unfortunate details. I’m kinda like a secret spy and if I tell you too much about my secret missions, then it wouldn’t be a secret and I’d have to punch you in the face if I spoke of it. And golly, we wouldn’t want that.

So tell me, what’s been happening with you? Yes, you. I’m serious, give me a run down of your activities and goings on and maybe your life experiences are more shitty than mine are right now and that will make me feel better about myself. I’m sweet like that. *Blink, blink, blink*

Oh, did I tell you?????????? Well I’m going to anyway, so brace yourself. Someone, other than my one other fan, recognized me! I’m not even kidding. I was in the mall, shoplifting shopping and I was looking at purses. There was a lady, about my age or so (25ish *cough*) and she was kinda staring at me. And by staring at me, she was booring holes in my back with her laser beam eyes. It was sort of creepy. I kept looking at the purses, all the while, continuing to watch her out of the corner of my eye. Finally after about 5 minutes of this, I looked her directly in the face at which time, I thought if she tries to attack me, I’ll throw my cell phone at her and then run away screaming for someone to arrest the crazy lady and then I’d call 911 for extra protection. Then I realized, I’d be without my cell phone because I had just thrown it at her and thus not able to call 911. Bad plan. I decided to smile at her and catch her off guard, because maybe she was a mall purse snatcher. I mean she didn’t really look like a purse snatcher nor particularly crazy for that matter either but you just never know. I then decided I’d walk over to the rack of necklaces and see if she was still eye laser beaming me. She was. Then I see her coming towards me. She opens her mouth and I’m thinking, oh, my God, she’s going to eat me. No, barf on me. No eat me. Anyway, I’m frightened at her open mouth. However, she wasn’t trying to eat me because I then heard words coming out of her mouth. Went something like this:

I love your blog!

OMG, you do?

Yes, it’s quite pretty. Where’d you get it?

Thanks! Where’d I get it? Ah, well, I guess the internet but I made it, kinda.

Wow, you make jewelry?

Jewelry?

Yes, like your watch.

My watch? Oh.

It’s at this point, I’ve just realized, she didn’t say, ‘I like your blog‘, she had said, ‘I like your watch‘. Geez. Talk about feeling like a, oh, I don’t know, a fucking MORON. So when I said up there, someone had recognized me again, ya, that was apparently only in my deluted, retarded head. Sigh.

My youngest son is sick today. He was up all night until 4am, ah, being sick. That about sums that up. Moving right along……

I have to do some more packing this weekend because I eventually have to move. Like in less than 2 months. Can you say, S.T.R.E.S.S. Moving is just not fun. I can’t think of one fun thing about it. Digging through all of your belongings, getting boxes, tape, wrapping breakables, finding that long lost donut hidden in the back of your closet (oh come on, we’ve all had gross donuts in our closets.), wondering, when in the name of fuck, did I buy that sweater? It’s puke green with shitty brown stripes, trimmed in orange diarreah fringe. Surely it must have been purchased while drugged? I dunno. Anyway, the whole process is just hard. And not hard like hard candy because hard candy can be quite enjoyable now and then, but hard, like, hard. Yaaaaaaaaaaahhhhaaaa.

As I sign off for now, I want to leave you with one thought. Ummm, hmmm, you know, honestly I can’t think of a frigging thing right now, so, ah, this is awkward. I swear if I think of something profound to say, I will come back and say it. Not even kidding you. Enjoy your Thursday, you know, the day that gets the bum rap.

February 2, 2007

Do I look shifty to you? Would you think I’m someone who smuggles soup in my purse? Should I be wearing an orange jumpsuit? Well apparently some people think all of the above.


I was at the bank the other day and after I came out, I decided to drive over to the gas station to grab a bottle of water and some peanut M&M’s healthy snacks. I didn’t even actually park in the gas station parking lot, I parked across the street and walked over.


I go up to the counter with my purchases and the cashier/owner asked me if I put gas in my car.


No, I just have the water and M&M’s.


She looks out the big window at the gas pumps and then looks at me with a very suspicous look on her face.


Are you sure you didn’t get gas?


Yes I’m very sure.


Again, she looks out the window and then back at me.


So you didn’t get gas?


No I didn’t. Geez what is this woman’s problem?


You’re sure?


OMG, I didn’t even park here. My van is parked across the street. Holy accusatory.


If I didn’t have a major hard on for M&M’s thirst for water, then I would have told her to shove it.


Next day, I’m at the grocery store and picked up my son’s Pediasure at the pharmacy. We have it paid through Family Services for Children with Disabilities so the pharmacy just issues a manual receipt to show that we’re not stealing it so I can get out the door without any hassle, HA. I go pick up a few groceries and get to the checkout and pay for my groceries. As I’m bagging them, the cashier sees I have 5 boxes of Pediasure in the cart and the receipt is laying right on the top box.


What’s that? Pointing to the boxes.


It’s Pediasure.


Give it to me.


Pardon?


Give me a box so I can ring it in! You didn’t even pay for that! Why didn’t you tell me you had it?


Ummm it’s paid for. Hence the receipt that I got from the pharmacy that’s laying on the top of the boxes.


It’s paid for?


Yes, that’s why I didn’t mention it when going through the checkout. Not like I tried to hide 5 giant boxes right on the top part of the cart. *Smile* *Fakely* (Is that a word?)


She glares at me and goes back to her other customer. Geez. I’m walking towards the door and there’s a lady (sometimes a man) (I don’t mean that the lady is sometimes a man, I mean that sometimes instead of the lady, they put a man there, but I digress), that stands at the door to offer customers change for the carts, provide fliers, and also harrass people apparently. My favorite part.


Whoa. Get back here.


Pardon?


What’s that?


It’s Pediasure.


What’s that? Is that for kids? What is it? Hmmmm?


It’s a nutrition supplement for children. That’s why there’s a fucking teddy bear on the box.


Did you pay for it?


I have a receipt right here. I don’t pay cash for it, but I have a manual billing receipt issued by the pharmacist.


Who’s it for?


Nunya. Nunya fucking business you old bat. My son.


Well I learn something new everyday.


That’s great, haha. Did that sound fake? I hope so.


Did you get porked?


Did I get porked? First I’m made to feel like a criminal and then I’m practically assaulted sexually with the pork talk by an 80 year old woman.


Did you get your pork? If you spend more than $150, you get free ribs. Here’s a coupon.


Oh. Oh. Great. I was really craving pork. *snort*


I gotta go, get on my black and white stripped sweater and get out the old ball and chain, get my left boob tattooed and make a shank so I can escape later and maybe get a strawberries n’ cream from Starbucks.

November 19, 2005

This is an excerpt from the book I’m kind of writing. I’ve made a slight effort at it because my friend Karen said I should. She didn’t pressure me or anything but after she suggested it, I was like, I’m totally going to do it! Well I’m still totally, kind of doing it, but I guess it will be awhile in the making. It was supposed to be for a certain website and it did have a deadline….ummm November 30th to be exact, but there is no way on God’s green earth that I will have it done. However, having said that, I’m still plugging away at it and someday, maybe, when I’m like 80, I’ll have it completed. It’s based on my life, all true, which when reading it, it sounds like I’m slightly mental. I swear I’m not. Well not, exactly not mental…..I mean I’m flakey at times but I promise in a good way and I am capable of mothering my children, well most of the time. Ha ha. Thank you in advance if you take the time to read it. I appreciate it!

Once upon a time at the ripe old age of 18, I “worked” for a vacuum cleaner company. I probably shouldn’t write their actual name but it sounds similar to Pirby. I answered an ad in our local newspaper. I was excited at the prospect of making “big money”. It clearly stated that. In all reality, I made ZERO dollars. I’m pretty sure I could have sued them but what did I know at 18? Not a whole hell of a lot. So I go to the interview and they talk about how easy it is to sell vacuums and how much moola you’re going to rake in. To a teenager, that sounds like Heaven! It would soon turn out to be hell, which, honestly, is a very far cry from Heaven.

So after hearing the head honcho guy spill his beans about how great it’s all going to be, I decided to sign up. I’m gonna be rich!!!!!!!!! Woo freakin’ Hoo! We are told to show up for our demonstrations the following day at 9am sharp. So my mom drives me over and I can tell she’s not exactly thrilled about this. I’m thinking, geez, don’t parents ever lighten up? She’s thinking, this is a scam. But she lets me find out all on my own, because, well, I was 18, I knew everything. Ha.

I get there at 9am sharp, along with a few other kids my age and a few a bit older. We’re all sitting around in sweaty anticipation about the prospect of learning about vacuums and then going on to sell them and be wealthy and early retirement, like at age 23 or something. How frigging naïve………..no, how frigging stupid. So Dave the Dinosaur comes in….I call him Dave the Dinosaur because the guy was HUGE and had big teeth like a Tyrannosaurus Rex. He wore all black, had a shaved head and quite frankly looked like a hit man in some bad B movie about the Mafia (abso-freaking-lutely no offense to the Mafia). But he was slightly impressive at the same time. So DTD brings out the “Pirby” deluxe model. If someone brought out that vacuum today, it would be the laughing stock……..all big and bulky and not very sleek at all. Like a big bumbling shitbox. Anyway, he places it in front of himself and begins to describe the Pirby like it was a mistress that he meets on Thursday nights. It was kinda creepy. He stroked it. It was weird. We’re all mesmerized by the sheer size of his hands…..I envision him choking some guy for not paying his rent on time. After his foreplay with the vacuum he proceeds to tell us that he’s now going to show us how to open the case, assemble the vacuum and how to put it all back in the case. Great. Then he informs us that he’s only going to show us ONCE. One time. One. That’s it. I look around and see the others looking a tad shocked as well. I mean this thing had more attachments than a hooker has toys in her cheap, hot pink, fuzzy hand bag. I’m thinking, there is no way we’re all going to remember how to do all of this with one shot at seeing how it’s done. Not a freaking chance. So DTD whips open the case and in about 90 seconds has this monstrosity put together. I’m getting a little light headed because there is no way any of us will remember what he just did. Then he plugs that bad girl in (he kept referring to IT as “she”, “her”….Ummm ok) and runs it several times over the carpet and his eyes are slightly rolling back in his head. I’m thinking this guy is going to start making love to this thing. And I’m pretty sure he’s moaning as he’s vacuuming. You know, I’ve vacuumed many times in my life and I can honestly say, I’ve never thrown my head back and moaned like I was makin’ it with Brad Pitt. Never. So after his sexual escapades with the vacuum, which I’ve secretly, now called “Whore in a big black box”, he tells us to pay attention closely because he’s going to put the whore, I mean vacuum back in her box. Her box? That’s creepy. Anyway, we’re all sitting on the edge of our seats, waiting for the moment he opens her box and puts her in it. And let me tell you, I’ve seen slower flashes of lightening in the sky on a dark night. He whipped that sucker, no pun intended back into that box like you wouldn’t believe. He shut the case, smiled and said, that’s all there is to it. Really? Because I’m pretty sure not one of us will ever remember any of this. We’re all still contemplating the fact that you’re clearly having an affair with your vacuum cleaner. So after a slight uncomfortable silence, DTD tells us to be ready at 6am sharp tomorrow morning because we are being picked up and traveling about an hour and a half away to begin the task of going door to door trying to sell these sex machines, or cleaning machines, whichever you prefer. It’s at this point that I should have removed my name from the list, called my mommy and went home and watched my soap operas. But I didn’t. My name remained on that list and I was ready at 6am sharp the next morning. Oh gawd.


Six o’clock in the morning comes early when you’ve not gone to bed until like 1am. But I was up and ready to walk out the door when the big blue Pirby van pulled up. I was the last person to be picked up. There were 8 of us all together. Dave the Dinosaur is driving and his partner Shirley is in the passenger seat. We’re in one of those work type vans and there are 6 of us in the back, all eagerly anticipating the huge amounts of money we’re going to make. Ya. We range in age from 18 to 21. Four boys and 2 girls. We talk loudly about everyday things, MTV and what we’re going to have for lunch. It was all quite exciting. I swear. So we arrive in our destined city and DTD parks the van in a vacant lot and begins to explain the ropes of selling things door to door.

I’m thinking that sex machine should be pretty easy to sell by the expressions on Dave’s face when he was pushing that thing across the carpet. He made it sound so effortless. That we’ll be raking in sales before we turn the corner. All we have to do is learn the technique of getting people to let us in their homes to show them our demonstrations on how the vacuum works. DTD explains that we will, on occasion have doors slammed in our faces but that comes with the territory and not to take it personally. Ok, no problem. So after about an hour of explaining how to sell people on letting us in their homes, we are paired up.

My partner is Robert, a 19 year old with bad acne. He’s a sweet lad though and perfectly harmless and really quite intelligent. So we’re shoved out of the van and dropped off on a street corner and told to “do the neighborhood” and they’ll come back in 2 hours to pick us up. Not a problem. We timidly walk up to our first house, ring the doorbell and wait. We hear muffled footsteps from inside and then the door opens. We both just stand there like brain dead morons. The woman asks us if she can help us. Ah, well, sort of, kind of, maybe. She looks at us like we’re the dog shit she cleaned up earlier and is now somehow stuck to the bottom of her shoe. She’s about to wipe us on her door mat. She decidedly, with precision, slams the door in our faces. That went well. We slump away from the door and without a word go to the next door. Ring the bell. Wait for the muffled footsteps. Old man crotchety opens the door and says he ain’t buying. Slam. Wow, another great success. On to door number three. This one’s gotta go well right? Ring the bell, wait for the muffled footsteps……..you get it. Young mother with 3 snotty nosed, dirty faced, droopy diapered kids opens the door. Her hair is in a crappy half ponytail and her white tee shirt is well, kind of brownish in spots and she’s got one pant leg rolled up and one down…..I’m guessing not quite on purpose. Oh she’s definitely not going for this. I speak up and say wrong house, sorry. I couldn’t bear to burden this woman with having to tell us to go fuck ourselves and that does she look like she really wants to sit and watch a stupid vacuum cleaner sales pitch while trying to contain her bratty rug rats ? I couldn’t do it to her nor to myself or pimply Robert. So we head back to the sidewalk and finally speak to each other. We’re not feeling really good about this at all. And we remember what DTD told us. In order to get paid, we have to have at least 3 sales pitches during the week…..EACH. Three! That’s huge. At the rate we’re going, we’ll never get three demonstrations under our belts. But we’ve got two hours to kill before the BBV (big blue van) comes to pick us up. So we keep on going, door to door and after about 20 doors being slammed in our faces, we get a hit! A married couple in their 40’s I’m guessing, want me to come back later that evening to do a demonstration, that they are in the market for a new vacuum. I’m excited! This is going to be great! If I get this sale, I get a commission and the sale and have a demonstration under my belt. Wicked awesome! We continue on until the BBV comes back to pick us up. Robert also got a hit for a demonstration, so we were on cloud nine when DTD came back to get us!


We spent the remainder of the afternoon driving around while our other team members were out on their door to door assignment. My appointment was for 7pm. I was soooo nervous but excited too. It’s fast approaching the time and DTD gives me a few pointers. Smile a lot and praise the vacuum like it’s some kind of goddess. Ok sure Dave. They drop me off and wish me luck and I’m thinking, I can do this and I’m going to sell it and make lots of money! Oh the mind of an eighteen year old. Seven o’clock rolls around and I timidly ring the doorbell and the wife answers the door and welcomes me in. Their front door opens into their living room and their living room has nice white carpet. Nice white carpet to practice vacuuming on. Lovely. So I take the whore out of her box and proceed to tell them all of the wonderful features and how it will change their lives (as per Dave…..FREAK) and how the price is so worth it. Not only is it a vacuum cleaner it’s a carpet cleaner. You just change the attachments, add the special carpet soap and the water. Well Mr. and Mrs. Naïve ask me to show them how to use the carpet cleaner part. I’m a little hesitant because good ole Davey really hasn’t shown us how to use it as a carpet cleaner. We’ve seen him moan and make love to it but never seen the carpet cleaning demonstration. Shit. But I’m thinking, I’ll just wing it, it’s pretty easy right? There are instructions in the box, so I’ll just glance at them. I get it all set up and add the soap. Now it really didn’t say how much soap to add, so I decided to just dump some in from the bottle. Never even thought, well maybe I should just add a cap full. Big mistake. I turn it on and am slowly gliding this big whore over their nice white carpet and the soap and water is mixing all around inside. Their 12 year old daughter is watching from the kitchen and I look over at her and smile but she’s go this look of, well, disbelief on her face. I see her eyes look down at the carpet. I then, slowly, avert my eyes to the vacuum and to my horror, there are huge billows of fluffy soap suds EVERYWHERE. It’s like a soap massacre and there’s no end to it. This machine is spitting out soap at an alarming rate and it’s now spilling into the kitchen on their shit green linoleum. Mr. And Mrs. Naïve and Now Pissed Off are looking at this mess with huge bulging eyeballs. I stand there like a stupid ass not sure what to do in this horrid situation. Oh wait……….MAYBE TURN OFF THE VACUUM. I quickly, but not quick enough, turn off the vacuum and survey the scene. It’s not good. Their once pristine white carpet is now soggy, slightly off white and soaking with bubbles everywhere and their puke colored linoleum is in no better shape. Daughter runs from the bathroom with bath towels in her small arms and we begin mopping the mess up. I’m thinking how in hell do I get out of the lawsuit that I’m sure will be filed against me? I do the only thing I think will get me out of this mess. I cry. I become hysterical. I figure if I act like a wing nut then they’ll take pity on me and think I’m most likely not quite “all there” and surely to God, they wouldn’t sue a mentally retarded teenager. The wife comes over and starts soothing me in her still slightly pissed off voice but I can tell I’m winning her over. The husband is not quite as convinced but wife is also soothing him and reassuring him, that she can get out the brownish stains that I’ve caused with the ever so wonderful Pirby. We get things relatively sopped up and I pack the whore away in her big black box and at the end of all demonstrations we are supposed to leave Dave’s card so the people can call him with their order. Well I decided I should definitely NOT leave Dave’s card because then they could absolutely track me down and begin that lawsuit so I told them I’d have to get it from him when he came back to pick me up. About 20 minutes later, the BBV shows up and I lumber out the door with the big box and the Pirby Goddess securely packed away inside. I tell the people that I’m just going to load the vacuum and come right back in and give them Dave’s card except I said his name was Chuck. I open the back door, load in the shitbox and jump in myself and tell Dave that it went SUPER and that we should get a push on it and put the pedal to the metal and blow this Popsicle stand and that the wifey poo will be calling him tomorrow with her order. He’s ecstatic! Whew, I got out of that one. Of course Dave is going to ask me what their names/phone number is and I of course wrote down fake names and a fake phone number. I might not be the brightest bulb at times but I am quick thinking at times, particularly if I might get my ass sued.


I got home at 1am and DTD tells me to be ready at 6am the next morning….well actually that morning. My mother is not very happy about this job, if you can call it that, at all. But she decides that I have to figure this all out on my own. I sleep for a few hours and get up and am ready to walk out the door at six. We again travel 90 minutes away and again have to go door to door in the hopes of snagging new pray, ummm customers. After a couple of hours of pounding the pavement, I get a hit! A stay at home mom with 3 kids decides that she really needs a miracle cleaner that will make her life easier. I’ve got just the machine for her. My appointment time with her is for 4 pm. Dave drops me off and tells me that he’ll be back in the standard two hours to get me. I ring the door bell, slightly more confident today but still a little nervous because of yesterday’s “mishap”. As I’m setting things up, the mom decides that I’m going to be her sounding board, her confidant. Ummmm, I’m 18 lady, and barely out of diapers myself and you want to tell me your life story and how you’re not really happy with your life and your husband can be a jerk, blah blah blah? I’m starting to get a wee bit uncomfortable but decided I would listen to her ramble on if it gets me the sale. The visions of being rich are so overpowering. As I’m just about set up, the front door opens and in walks the husband. And he looks PISSED. He comes over to us, looks at his wife and asks her who the hell I am, like I’m not even in the room. She starts to explain, mentions the word vacuum cleaner and then he freaks. He starts ranting and raving about how he works his ass off and how she just sits around and watches soaps and eats chocolates all day. Ok buddy. At this point, I’m thinking it best if I just pack my shit up and get out. I’ve been in the house for a total of like 20 minutes, so that means I’ve got like 80 minutes to wait outside for Dave. Oh joy. While jerk wad is yelling and pounding his chest like a retarded King Kong, I get the Pirby Goddess packed in her big black box and quietly sneak out the door while they’re still having their “disagreement”. I go stand on the street corner, with this huge black box and attachments hanging out the side because I didn’t have nearly enough time to pack it correctly, like I even could pack it correctly if I was given the time. Cars are driving by, and their passengers looking at the little shit standing there with the Vacuum Goddess like a big frigging dope. That was my last time holding that box. I quit the very next day. I still have nightmares about that piece of shit vacuum cleaner. ***Shudder***

November 15, 2005

We have an air conditioner. So do alot of other people I’m sure. Big deal. But it was brought to my attention earlier this year, that I’m white trash because of it….not me personally but anyone who owns one. And not by anyone I know but I was reading at a MSN group and this one chick posted that she was upset because her neighbor had just installed an “in the window” type air conditioner. She went on to say how she lives in an upper class community and it’s just unheard of to have an air conditioner in one’s window. All the rage apparently, is central air. Well, la de friggin da.

I’ve had my air conditioner since I was 22 months pregnant with my daughter, Maddy. We lived back east and the humidity was enough to kill a small cow. It was often suffocating in the summer months, sweat pouring down your body even when you were just sitting still and not even barely breathing. It was horrid. Add to that, a child living in your womb, and well, it sucks.



I begged hubby to buy me an air conditioner. He said sure, it would be an early birthday present. I was elated! We found one on sale, had lots of BLT’S, no, wait, BIG’S, nope, BTU’S…something like that. Anyway, we bought that baby and came home and I immediately had my darling man installing it. I loved that thing. How I would stand in front of it and let the cool air wash over my sweaty, get this child out of me, pregnant body. It was pure Heaven!



When we moved out west, we left the humidity behind but still had hot temperatures to contend with during summer months and who wants to sweat while playing online? Sheesh. So we get out our AC every summer, without fail. But I did notice that not many people here having AC’s. Or they are all fancy schmancy and have central air. So after reading this girls post about how anyone with a window AC is definately white trash, it made me think……..OMG am I white trash?



What else constitutes “white trash”? Is my favorite color “shiny”? Well I do like glitter and shiny stuff. We eat CheeseWhiz…is that part of the list? I think it could be. I have used a hot glue gun to hem my pants (I can’t sew) and I’ve often safety-pinned a button back on my shirt because I couldn’t sew it back on. I recyle tissue paper. I reuse water bottles after I’ve drank the bottled water out of them. Doesn’t this make me “crafty” as opposed to white trash-ish? I’m not quite sure. I mean I don’t have central air, but I want to stay cool, so I have to use my window AC.

So I wonder if our neighbors talk about us when our big white AC goes in the window?



House 124….”Oh George, did you see house 1**? Oh my gosh, they’ve put in their white trash cool air blower in. Shameful. How could anyone live like that George?”



House 132….”Susan, come quick!!!! House 1** is putting in that thing again. In their window! How dreadful! Don’t open the door if they ever ring our bell. And for Godsake don’t let our children play with their white trash children. Lock the doors.”



House 141…”Donald, I will not live in this neighborhood any longer! I will not! You can’t make me! Look…Look…Look! House 1** has put in that, that, that, eye sore once again! God, I will not live like this.”



I can hear it all now. But I refuse to give up my AC. Maybe someday I will be all rich and shit too and have the totally popular and very stylish central air but until then, I’m using my white trash bathe me in cool air, box in my window!!! Hmmmpphhh.

November 14, 2005

Yesterday was our family day. Most Sunday’s the 7 of us go out someplace….could be to a park, a picnic, a special event or it could be us renting movies and pigging out or going shopping. The point is we’re all together for most of the day. Anyway, yesterday we went out shopping and later on Sean, Amanda and Maddy had an early supper at McDonalds. So hubby stops at the grocery store to get himself, me and Matt something for our supper. We get home, put grocies away and make supper. The 2 little ones are playing, Sean and Amanda are settling in for the night and Anthony, Matt and I are sitting down at the table, enjoying our supper. We’re chit chatting, about nothing inparticular, when out of the blue Matt says,

“Hey, if you could choose any scent for your poo, what scent would you pick? I’d pick coconut.”

Anthony and I look at each other and are wondering if we should perhaps put Matt in therapy. I’m like, wow, how about we talk about the scratch on the table because the poo topic is not one I usually enjoy while eating. Now don’t get me wrong, I LOVE a good poo story, I mean who doesn’t? But talking about poo while I’m eating, just isn’t appealing. Maybe I’m a freak, I dunno. Anyway, so we turn our focus back to Matt and I say,

“Ummmm, well that’s really not what I want to talk about since I’m eating.”

Then Anthony pipes up, “Well come on, let’s answer anyway, can’t hurt.”

Ya, well I’m pretty sure noone’s poo is going to change to a wonderful fragrance such as coconut or flowers or whatever, so what’s the point? But they’re both looking at me now, like I’m the big party pooper…..no pun intended.

Anthony says, “I’d like mine to smell like apples because that’s my favorite scent. Nothing better than the fragrance of an apple orchird.”
That’s great honey. They turn their focus on me again. Waiting. I’m thinking, oh my gawd, I can’t believe we’re actually deciding on what our poo should smell like. It’s poo people, it’s going to smell like shit. Period.

They’re staring now. What kind of question is that anyway? How does Matt come up with this stuff? Well they’ve stopped eating now, waiting on baited breath for my answer. Finally I relent because clearly they’re not going to let me NOT answer this.

“Sweet Pea body spray. That’s what I wish poo smelled like guys.” Can we finish eating now? Geez. You just never know what or where our dinner conversations will go. Welcome to the Nuthouse.

October 15, 2005

October 12, 2005

Once upon a time, I decided to make meatloaf. I called my mom to get her recipe. I’ve had her meatloaf many times, as has my husband and older children. It’s good. Good as any meatloaf I’ve ever been exposed to. So I write down all the ingredients, and instructions on what to do with the ingredients. Instructions? Is that right?


Anyway, I follow the directions, place it in the oven and patiently wait for it to be done. I’m excited about this since I don’t often experiment in the kitchen. And if I do, look out people, because you never know what you’ll get.


Ding ding ding, timer goes off on the oven. Meatloaf is DONE! Yay! I put on my blue and pink oven mittens, and pull it out. Ummmmmmmmm. Hmmmmmmmm. That’s funny…it looked pretty normal when I put it in to cook but let me tell ya, coming out, it didn’t look good. At all. Actually saying it didn’t look good is being kind. It looked like, well SHIT. Hard, molded, rubbery shit. I’m pretty sure I put everything in. And I’m pretty sure I cooked it at the right temperature and at the right time. Not 100% sure. But pretty sure.


Fast forward about 15 minutes. Hubby comes home. Walks over to the stove and says, and I quote…..”What the hell is that?? We’re not eating that are we? Is that supper”? Well, honey, it actually IS our supper. Sorry. I’m not sure what happened. But it’s meatloaf. “Meatloaf????? Who’s frigging recipe is that? Why is it all rubbery and hard looking? And blackish”? It’s my mom’s meatloaf recipe. “Ummm, well I’ve eaten your mother’s meatloaf and it does not look or smell anything like that”. Well he does have a point. Okay, so what to do with it? Anthony says, let’s give it to the raccoon.


Okay, the raccoon…..we had a raccoon hanging around our home (we lived out in the country, surronded by woods) and it would try to get into our garbage. And sometimes it would succeed. Raccoons love garbage. So issue solved. We’ll give it to the raccoon. He’ll have a nice meatloaf supper. We won’t but hey at least someone will enjoy it.


We end up having cereal for supper…yum. Later on, once it’s dark, we set the “meatloaf” outside and turn on the yard light so we can watch him come up on the deck and have his meal. We were watching out our livingroom window, lights off as not to scare him away. A few minutes later Mr Raccoon comes up on the step and sees the meatloaf. He comes closer, smells it, puts his little paw in it….and scoops a little bit out and puts it up to his mouth. THEN HE RUNS AWAY. What?????????? OMG. The raccoon runs away? He’s going to leave a meal just lying there? Raccoons EAT GARBAGE for shits sake. So why would he not eat my meatloaf? My husband laughed his ass off. Pretty sad when a garbage eating nocturnal scavenger refuses to eat my meatloaf. Nice. Needless to say, I have never made meatloaf again. Actually, I was forbidden to make it again. EVER.

October 11, 2005

Once again I find myself in a public bathroom with my daughter. No big deal right? ‘Cause we all take our kids to the bathroom when we’re out shopping. BUT I’m sure most people don’t have the “deep” conversations that I seem to encounter with Madison AND they always happen when the bathroom is CROWDED. With people. Lots of people.



So last Saturday, the whole family is out shopping at one of the big malls here. We’re just about done and getting ready to head home….GOD why couldn’t we have left just 2 minutes earlier? Daughter tells me she has to go to the bathroom. I said, Come on, you just pee’d like 10 mins ago, you can wait until we get home. She then tells me, she doesnt have to pee, she has to poop. GREAT.



We get to the bathroom and I’m thinking, let’s get this done fast and get out. Let’s not talk. Let’s stare at the walls and have zero conversation. Hmmm, well that doesn’t happen with Maddy. She’s just not the silent type. Particularly out in public. In the bathroom.



I see her thinking and slightly straining. OH GOD. Here it comes (no pun intended). Maddy says, in a rather loud voice, “Why won’t it come out”? I smile at her. And my mind starts whirling. What won’t come out? The booger from your nose? The stain on your shirt? The gum in your hair? No, none of the above. I am silent. My plan is to ignore her. Not really a good plan with Madison.



“Mom, why won’t the poop come out”? I know my eyes rolled several times as I hear the snicker snickers from outside the stall. In my deranged, stalker/pyscho mom whisper, I say, “I don’t know. Why not finish this at home”? Wrong thing to say. “Mom, I have to get the poop out here, I can’t wait to get it out at home because it’s already on it’s way”.

Okay, I hear laughing now and it’s not coming from my pie hole. Okay Maddy, let’s finish this up. I’m starting to sweat now. Are the stall walls closing in on me? I’m pretty sure they are now. A minute ticks by….I hear a plop, then another. Thank Sweet Jesus. It’s done. Let’s get the hell out of here. Wait. Wait.



There’s more chatter about to sprout from her sweet, heart shaped lips. She gets up off the toilet and turns around and looks in the toilet. OMG. “Mom, where is the big piece of poop? I see the little one but I know a big piece came out and I felt the water splash on my butt from the big piece but it’s not there. Where did it go? Did it go down that hole in the toilet by itself? Is that possible? Mom, mom, mom, where is my big piece of poop? I felt it come out. Where did it go”?



Is it wrong to want to flush your child’s head in the toilet (minus the poop of course)? I again was praying for the damn bathroom floor to open up and swallow me whole. Apparently noone upstairs is listening. I quickly wiped her butt, pulled up her pants and in a crazed, looney whisper, said, “Let’s not discuss the poop ever again. Please”.

As we exit the stall, I see some looks coming our way, some snickers, always the damn snickers. As I was helping Maddy wash her hands, I was hoping a fat, singing clown would walk in and start vomiting, because then they’d forget about the poop conversation. They would definately be telling their friends about the obese, puking clown and not the five year old girl who wanted to know where her big piece of poop went.

October 10, 2005

Maddy was 3 years old at the time of this conversation. And let me tell you, she’s a beautiful child and she’ll talk the ear off of you if you let her.



She’s been talking since she was 18 months old…I mean really talking. Strangers used to stop me out in public and ask me how old she was because they were shocked at how well she spoke. Too well at times.



We were at the grocery store one day (she was about 21 months old at the time) and we were walking by the checkouts. And it was BUSY. Lots of people around. She pointed to the upper floor of the grocery store and said, “That’s where the bathrooms are, right mommy?”. Yes honey, that’s where they are. “Mommy, DO YOU HAVE TO POOP?”. Ummmm, no I don’t Maddy (I’m saying this in the standard clenched teeth, pycho mom whisper, you know the one I mean). “Yes you do mommy, you said you have to poop”. No, no I didn’t say any such thing. Oh and she’s practically yelling these questions at me. Just for fun. Just wanting to make sure EVERYONE in the goddamn store hears her. Then she laughs. She thought it was hysterical that she was embarrassing mommy about body functions in the grocery store. And for the record, no I didn’t have to poop…made no mention of that. She just dreamed that all up on her own.


Fast forward to a few months ago at the mall. She’s 4 1/2. We’re in the public bathroom. The BUSY, CROWDED public bathroom. She’s peeing. The stalls are full. As we’re in our stall, she says, “So does everyone have fur on their privates”? WHAT?????????? Where does this child come up with this stuff?



Ummmmm, well….what do I say? I can hear the snickers all around. I’m starting to wish that old familiar scene where the floor opens up and it swallows you whole, happens. I’m begging in my mind for that scenerio to take place. But it does not. SHIT. Okay so Miss I’mGoingToAskMyMotherTheMostEmbarrassingQuestionsPossible Thang is waiting for an answer. If I don’t spit something out soon, well, she’ll ask it again. Oh and I’m sure Suzy Q and Betsy Loo in the adjoining stalls are also waiting for an answer. So I say, “Well Maddy, when you get older, like a teenager, you will get…..hair on your privates”. Whew. Thank God, I’m in the clear. BUT alas, I’m not.



She then says, “Well mommy, when you peed, I didn’t see any fur on your privates, how come”?



Sweet Jesus, where is that bolt of lightening when you want to be struck down? So now, there are more snickers. Great. My fur status is known to the strangers in the freakin public bathroom. Time is ticking by soooooo slowly. Where is the end of the world when you want it? Holy. So I say, well sometimes adults shave their hair. I’m saying this as quietly as one can in an echo-ey, grand canyon-ey accoustics style bathroom, which by the way, isn’t all that quiet. Nope, sure isn’t.



So now Suzy Q and Betsy Loo are intrigued. I can tell they are still in the stalls on either side of me…waiting for the next round. They’re not wiping or flushing yet ’cause they want to hear it all. Beeyotches.



Okay, so I’m thinking, that’s it right? No more questions from Miss 20QuestionsPlusOneMore. WRONG. “Mommy, how come daddy has fur on his privates then”? OMG. Just kill me now, someone, please. Okay so I’m thinking, this sounds BAD. Little girl saying she knows about her mother’s lack of fur and her father’s for sure fur (there’s not much, just for the record, wanted to clarify that so noone thought he had a jungle there.) But anyone with small children knows that at some point, they’re going to see you come out of the shower or getting dressed….all purely innocent.



Anyway, I’m beyond the fact that it sounds bad and just wondering, how to answer that question. Suzy Q and Nosey Parker are STILL in the adjoining stalls. “Well sweetie, sometimes people don’t shave it all, they like to leave some”. HOLY SHIT. I can’t believe I’m having a pubic hair conversation with my 4 year old. In a public bathroom. With strangers. LISTENING. So she then says, “Well my privates are bald right now and I dont know if I’ll shave or not”. Well that’s great honey. You’ve got a few years to decide on whether you want fur or no fur. No rush.