Category Archives: seriously?

Okay, Shit’s About to Get Real

*WARNING* Language and anger ahead.  If you’re sensitive, go away now.  If you’re  a snowflake, go far, far away and don’t come back.

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.

No, really,

WHISKEY. TANGO. FOXTROT.

Why is everyone so upset about this Pepsi ad?

It’s an advertisement.  For a fucking soft drink.  It’s no more, and it’s no less.

Get over yourselves, snowflakes of the world, you don’t get to be the only ones outraged. Wait, yes, you do get to be the only ones outraged when your outrage is so clearly manufactured. And, if it’s not, sweet clothespin jeebus, you people need to get out more.  Or maybe just study your history.

How about four young men, staging a protest because they weren’t allowed to sit at a Woolworth’s lunch counter? 

How about separate fucking bathrooms, schools, and being force to sit in the back of the bus – all based on skin color?

You who protest a fucking Pepsi ad hide behind your keyboards, and compress your outrage in Twitter-sized posts.  You weren’t there, on the front lines, fighting for equality. You need ‘safe zones’ everywhere you go. You’d probably piss yourselves if you were ever on the receiving end of true opposition to your beliefs.

If Dr. King, Jr were here he’d slap the shit out of you and tell you to shut up or dig in and work for those people who are still facing inequality and discrimination every day. Not just people of color, but all people.

If Mother Teresa were here, she’d pray for your fragile asses and go back to ministering to the unwashed masses; quietly bringing dignity and a measure of comfort to their lives.

If Ghandi where here, he’d tell you to find your inner peace and project it on those around you.

But none of them are here, and I’ve taken great liberties with what I’m *sure* they’d say if they were.  Who knows?  Maybe they’d dismiss you out of hand for the immature children you so clearly are.

 

 

 

By Now You’ve Probably Forgotten…

…and for me it’s a slowly fading memory, but..

I didn’t leave the planet, I just moved to the country  on Halloween 2016.

You see…we moved.

Gosh, that sounds so…I don’t know, innocuous?   And most of it was not fraught with insanity-inducing happenings, but the stuff that did happen turned me (momentarily) into the hell-bitch from, well, Hell…with a capital “H”.

The packing ladies arrived at the house a couple of days prior to our move, looked around, and proudly proclaimed this an “easy job, 4-5 hours tops” …and then proceeded to pack for 10 hours with one short break.   I had known we had a lot of stuff, but to hear professionals mumbling about “all this stuff…” when they didn’t think we were listening was an eye-opener.

An aside – we’d already spent weeks cleaning/purging/packing prior to this.  There was a lot of stuff…just…so….much.

Anyway, at the point where these two lovely workers were glassy-eyed and looked about ready to collapse from exhaustion, they finished.  We paid them, twice what we’d budgeted, and tipped them generously to boot.

We knew the move would be expensive – though I don’t think either of us thought to double our original estimate, but we’d sold the house and knew that we’d be getting a chunk of change once we closed on it.  So, out came the credit card.  We’re so cute when we’re being all optimistic and totally naïve.

Two days later the moving trucks and six young men came to move our stuff from the big city town (40K population) to the country town (3K population).  They, too, proclaimed this an “easy job” and how it wouldn’t “take long”.  TWELVE hours later, with daylight fading, they were still pretty upbeat but it was not longer an easy job that wouldn’t take long.

It was an epic journey, and everyone was so tired we giggled insanely at every little thing.

Well, almost everything.

The one thing we did not laugh about was the one thing we desperately needed once the packed trucks and our packed vehicles arrived at the new farm in 90-degree weather.

Electricity.  That was the one thing we needed.  It was so important that I’d arranged for it to be turned on three days prior to the move. I’d arranged this, over a series of phone calls, a month in advance.  The last phone call, to confirm, had been the day before the service was turned on to the house.

Guess what we didn’t have?  No, really, guess.

You’re so smart.

I proceeded to call the electric company we’d chosen, and in the country calling someone on a cell phone is an exercise in frustration…and sometimes futility.  I finally found a good signal in a spot about 50 yards in front of the house and within two minutes the helpful young man at the other end of the phone told me his company didn’t service our home. We had to use a co-op.

I proceeded to scream at the top of my lungs at the poor kid, the gist of my screaming was that I wanted to know why someone hadn’t informed me of that sooner.

I scared the absolute shit out of the kid on the phone, and my movers. Every. single. one.

My husband had to tell them I wasn’t normally a maniacal hell-bitch, but no electricity when I had been so careful to make sure we had electricity, that was the proverbial straw.

I’d been working at my job, coming home and packing, cleaning, packing, sleeping little, and so on for weeks.  To say I was at the end of my rope is too cliche.  I was at the end of every rope, ever.

We finished unpacking the trucks, in the dark, and since it was Halloween and we were in the boonies and it was dark, the sounds of the forest scared the shit out of the young movers.  They whispered about curses and witches and ghosts to one another.  I did nothing to alleviate their fears when I said, straight-faced, that the house was built on an “old Indian burial ground” and rumored to be haunted.  One of them asked me if I was afraid of ghosts, and I told him that since I was a witch I had power over the ghostly realm. I honestly think he believed me. Poor kid.

We collapsed into bed that first night, too tired to even care that it was sticky and warm.  All the windows in the house were open, but if any ghosts visited we were too tired to care about them either.

We got the electricity turned on the next morning, but only because I threatened to sit down in the middle of the co-op’s office and cry until they did.  I was desperate, exhausted, in need of a shower, and the nice lady in the office had just told me it would be 1-3 business days before they could get the power on at the house.  Instead, she took pity on me and by the time we drove back out to the house we had lights and air conditioning and a working washer and dryer.

Too bad we couldn’t locate a lot of our clothes.  Somehow, in the move, everything seemed to get separated.  We spent four days unpacking and we wore the same clothes all four days. I’d wash them every night, and we’d put them on every morning.  We finally found all our clothes, so with that and electricity things were looking up.

Then, our real estate agent called..the old house may not have sold after all. Maybe, perhaps.  We need to re-negotiate here. With ginormous credit card bills looming, we listened and we compromised and we got the old house and some land we owned sold.

We spent the rest of the week unpacking everything, and in the end were really only missing a couple of small items and only found a couple more broken.

It’s been a few months now, and we are loving our new home.  It’s magical, it’s beautiful, and it’s where I intend to spend the rest of my life.  I told my hubby that if he ever got the notion to move again I’d go straight for his throat.  After seeing me react to the whole electricity debacle I’m pretty sure he believes it.

Crazy Mother Trucker

Last Friday a snowflake fell on Dallas and the entire world went batshit crazy.

In all fairness, a few pellets of sleet joined the snowflake so there’s that.

Now, my normal commute these days is about an hour.  On Friday, it took me THREE AND A HALF hours to make it from work to home.

I think a Kardashian or two got pregnant, gave birth, and started a search for the baby daddy all in the time it took me to get from Point A to Point B.

I saw TWELVE accidents in a 20-mile stretch of highway.  All of them single-car, none of them looked like anyone was hurt, and every one of them avoidable if people would just pay attention.

But that’s not the worst of it.

Stuck, sitting on the highway with no exit in sight, I had to pee so badly I created a makeshift bedpan for my car’s front seat and prayed that a. I wouldn’t have to use it, but if I did then b. I’d positioned it properly.  (fyi, I didn’t have to test my MacGyver-ish work but I’m seriously considering carrying an actual bedpan for future disasters it was that close)

But that’s not the worst of it.

Then there was the part where I was watching big rigs get stuck on bridges with slight inclines because the bridges were solid sheets of ice, and praying that fishtailing trailer didn’t slam me as I crept past them.

But that’s not the worst of it.

You wanna know what the worst thing was?  Other than having to hear my hubby on the phone telling me how pretty the snow looked from in front of the fireplace at home while I struggled to maintain some control over my bladder?

It was the mother trucker from hell in front of me. She appointed herself shoulder police, and since we were in the far right lane and no one was really moving, she had ample opportunities to block drivers who tried to take advantage of the unused shoulder of the highway to move up in the world. She’d pull off to the shoulder every time someone broke from the pack and tried to maneuver their way around.  Once an SUV came up alongside me, and I guess she saw them at the last second and pulled hard to the right forcing the SUV off onto the embankment and down in some slick/frozen grassy area. I thought for sure he was going to roll it, but he managed to maintain control and got around her.  She wasn’t happy, so she decided to stay on the shoulder because no one, by God, was going to do that to her – the SHOULDER POLICE – again.  Since she seemed content to now be the person using the shoulder to move along, I inched my car up until I was about halfway down the length of her trailer.  It was at that point she rolled down her window and started gesturing wildly and screaming at me.  I rolled down my window, utterly perplexed as I had not tried to use the shoulder to pass her but was, in fact, passing her in the lane. You know, the right of way, the part you’re supposed to drive on.

The conversation went…

CrazyMotherTrucker:  Do you want to get run over, bitch??!!

Me: What?

CMT: DO YOU WANT TO GET RUN OVER??

Me: But, you’re the one on the shoulder and I’m nearly passed you now so why don’t you just let me get in front of you and….

CMT: I’M COMING OVER NOWWWWW!!! RIGHT NOW!!

Me: (realizing at this point she had about 40,000 lbs. on me) Uhhh….

And she did…she just kept coming, and I had nowhere to go because right next to me was another truck and he had nowhere to go and so on.

So I stopped.

And I prayed.

And I held my breath and my bladder…the last one just barely.

And she juuust missed me by an inch or two as she did just what she screamed she would.

Crazy. Mother. Trucker.

 

 

Things That Freak Me Right The Hell Out

We all have them, the things that you see or do or see others doing that freak you right. the hell. out.

Here’s a partial list of mine:

1.Getting a text from my dentist’s office about how excited they are to see me on such and such date.  Really? You look forward to inflicting pain?  Dentists are freakishly weird.

2. Having the vet’s office ask me which of my “kids” or “babies” I’m calling about, AND when I’m there and go into an exam room, they announce that so-and-so’s “mommy” is waiting in such-and-such room.  I’m pretty sure mating with animals is illegal…wait, it’s still illegal to mate with critters, right?  Tell me I’m right. PLEASE. Because, if it’s not then I’ve crossed over from freaked to full-on fecked up.

4. I skipped 3.

5. You just went back to look.

6. Drones.  I actually swatted at my hair the other night, thinking the drone overhead      was a swarm of bees trying to kill me.  In my defense, it was my first droney-bee           encounter, and it was high enough above me that I missed. Dammit.

7. My frat-boy neighbors, a/k/a  The Dronemasters.  They NEVER sleep. Never.  Go to       bed at midnight?  They’re up.  Get up at 2:00 a.m.?  They’re up.  4:00 a.m.? They’re             up! They do this every night, then all their vehicles leave during the day.  I think       they’re vampires…and now I’m really freaked out.  And lest you think I’m that             neighbor peering out my windows at the frat boys, may I remind you that I can’t see their house from the only window I have that faces them.  I have to go outside to verify this.  I’m just looking out for you.  You’re welcome.

So, what freaks you right-the-hell-out?

Because…

….there’s never, ever, not ever, not for one minute…a dull moment in my life……..

Christmas went well.  It was a hunnert degrees outside, and Santa looked like he would melt inside his suit when he visited the gaggle of screaming grandchildren gathered to meet him on Christmas Eve.

Months of preparation and the entire gift-opening extravaganza was over in 12.4 minutes.

The adults at my house engage in a White Elephant gift exchange.  The concept, for those who don’t know, is to gather gawd-awful items you already have, wrap them prettily, and then every person gets a number and we pick packages based on if we’re first, second, and so on.  After the first pick, the next person can either ‘steal’ a person’s gift or get a new one from the stack.  And so it goes.

The idea is to give someone you love a hideous/disgusting gift.  It’s a Christmas Spirit thing.

Of course, there’s always that one relative who doesn’t get it.  That person invariably brings a truly magnificent gift.   This year, it was a giant bag filled with gorgeous household knick-knacks, wall hangers, and so on.  It was the FIRST gift picked, so you just knew the receiver wasn’t going to hang onto it.

Except the receiver, my youngest son, literally guarded his loot and threatened anyone who came near.  He looked like a dog guarding the food bowl as he’d place his body between the would-be thief and the bag…growling and giving the thief the stink-eye.

The kid’s got game when it comes to intimidating looks.

I thought we were going to have a brawl a time or two as shouts of “cheater!” and “That’s not how this game is played!” fell on son’s deaf ears.

For my part, I’ve got so many knick-knacks and crapola around already I’m thinking of changing my name to Pier One Kirkland’s (got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?), so I didn’t want a giant bag with more dust collectors.

In the end, son got to keep his big bag and I got a coloring book and crayons..perfect..no, really, perfect for when the grandkids come over.

I think we need to explain the White Elephant rules one. more. time.

Christmas Day is usually quiet and laid back at our house. I won’t get out of my jammies all day, unless we have company for dinner – which we did this year.  It was still quiet, as all the grandkids were occupied with their new stuff.

The very next day I came down with the latest version of norovirus.  This was the day we were supposed to start taking everything down because the day after that we were going to visit my mother some 700 miles away. Instead, I spent a day and a half praying to the porcelain gods and wishing I could sleep until it all passed. I mean, really…you get the pukes and a raging fever with body aches all at once.  Seriously?  ONE is bad enough, why oh why do we have to get both?  Then, I spent the next four days (three of which were at my mother’s house) with a come-and-go fever, cold sweats, and zero appetite. Good times.

But, it doesn’t end there…as we were preparing to leave on our long road trip (a day and a half behind schedule) – and let me tell you just how excited I was for that, having been so sick so recently – when my sister’s frantic calls and texts began.  Her husband was admitted to ICU with sepsis.  How he went from a healthy, cutthroat, corporate attorney to death’s door can be attributed to the medical profession.  He had a biopsy, it got infected, then it really pissed his body off and he wound up in the hospital for a solid week.  He’s home now, with a PICC line for antibiotics.  Out of the woods, be definitely still on the mend.

And that was just last week…hell, part of last week.  The rest, though, was anti-climactic after all that led up to it.

I even rang in 2016 asleep, on the couch at mom’s, for the first time since I was a child.

It was a hint for this year.  Keep it quiet, dude. I need my rest.

I Knew This Was Coming

So, my car spends one week in the shop and you know my trusty service advisor’s boss had this convo with him.

Supv: So, what’s with the Impala?

ServAdv: Yeah, lady claims it makes a weird grinding sound and won’t go when she turns to the right.  Usually only when it’s cold, though.

Supv: And?

ServAdv: We can’t find anything wrong with it.

Supv: Is it still under warranty?

ServAdv: Yep

Supv: So, how much you going to charge her?

ServAdv: $144.50 and we’re telling her the trouble is that her car is due for the 30K mile injector cleaning.

Supv: Excellent.  Can’t let a car sit here for a week and not charge the customer something.

Cue laughter.

And, guess what the car started doing 4 days after I brought it home?

I’m taking it to a real mechanic next week and having him diagnose it, then I’m taking that info to my trusty service advisor and have him fix the car.

And also guess what?

The car I sold, to get this car, just turned over 200K miles and is purrin’ like a kitten.  Running perfectly, no problems at all.

Grrr…arrghh…