Archive for January, 2013

80 coupons and the goldfish

I cut coupons. I download them, too.  Sometimes I even upload them onto one of the (several) dreaded loyalty cards I begrudgingly possess.  I won’t lie; I also seek out the youngest cashier in the store with the fleeting hope she/he will override the three or four coupons I try to sneak in when I know I have not bought the allotted amount of items (see things I hate; I do not attempt this at self check out lanes).  But I am what I would like to think of as a courteous couponer.  I offer customers with significantly less items than I a chance to go before me.  I hurry the hell up with my coupons and have them somewhat organized.  I would never allow an innocent customer standing in line behind me unload their entire cart without forewarning them if I planned on using 80 coupons.

I have never handed a cashier 80 coupons.  But I sure as hell stood in line behind somebody who did.  Let me set up this scenario.  The husband just had surgery on his elbow because of tendonitis.  This, I am sure, will elicit a multitude of future posts seeing as though he is off work for the next THREE months.  At home.  All the time.  So day one, after surgery, I drove him and his bedroom eyes to fill a prescription for even more bedroom eye pills.  I am quite proud of my supermarket sweeping abilities and took advantage of the 20 minutes I was allotted for fill time to take a quick trip through the store.  I filled the cart, then scoured the three open checkout lanes closest to the pharmacy.  The self check out lanes at this particular store are only located by the entrance not close to the pharmacy, which is just as well because Meijer self check out lanes fucking suck.  I prefer the turnstile type bagging over the error filled conveyer belt lanes.  I will self bag at Kroger; not at Meijer.

My twenty minutes expired; my drugged up husband waiting in car.  I spotted a lane with an Amish family loading up the last of their two carts.  A lone man with a single goldfish (no shit!) in a plastic baggie stood behind them.  I should have known better as I made a beeline to the lane and unloaded the contents of my cart.  Not surprisingly, I had done well in my 20 minutes.  And then that Amish woman turned to the cashier and handed her 80 coupons.  Really.  There was probably more than 80.  I stopped counting.  The cashier was actually a customer service manager.  Apparently there is some sort of shift change/cashier shortage thing going on around 2:30 in the afternoon at Meijer. She was not what I would call an efficient scanner.  Twice I considered loading my cart back up, but a quick glance at the other two available lanes nixed that option.  I have zero patience anyway.  80 coupons??? What the fuck?  And the guy with the goldfish just stood there.  I bet he was scared to try to check that fucker out at the self check out lane.  Not once did the Amish woman glance back and offer an apology.  She was too busy searching through her own two carts to try to find the items that the rejected coupons were meant for.  That is by far the closest I have ever come to leaving my groceries on the belt.  (I mean, who hasn’t left their cart in the middle of the store before?)  Instead, I left my items there, rolled my eyes at the lady now standing behind me, and told her I would be right back.  I ran to the pharmacy, picked up the prescription, listened to the pharmacists quick drug lecture, and went back to the lane.  Yup.  Still scanning.

When I finally made it out to the parking lot, I drove by that Amish family still loading their car.  I stopped to show the husband.  “Look, baby- she had a coupon for every one of those fucking items!”

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Things I fucking love

1. Devil food cookies (this week)

2.  Red wine

3.  Dark beer (but mostly just bass ale) oooh ooh Heineken dark #1 though but they don’t sell it in the 12-packs

4.  My husband (this week)

5.  Finding money in the laundry

6. Not having any laundry

7. Magazines

8. Kevin Spacey. And bald men in general.

I’m poop and puke

So my husband and I have a strict policy at my house- I deal with poop and puke; he deals with blood and guts.  I think I got the short end of this deal seeing as though no one has broken a bone for several years and he blows off any other injury.  My mother in law scares the fuck out of my daughter every once in a while about various ailments.  She swears my daughter has chronic bronchitis(she does not).  I swear she says this  because I smoke and she wants me to feel guilty.  I also run marathons.  A real live oxymoron.

My daughter hit her head on the bathtub once at my mother in law’s house and my mother in law proceeded to tell her, in detail,  how life threatening even minor head injuries can be.  So now my eight year old tells me (or calls to tell me!) every time she bumps her head on anything!  One day, the mother in law started talking about how she decided my husband (her son, who smokes more than I do and definitely does not run marathons and definitely has chronic bronchitis) does in fact have COPD.  My daughter, sitting right next to me scared shitless again, asks, “What’s that?”

I am wholly excited for the new year seeing as though last year was full of shit.  Literally.  Our toilets are volatile to say the least;  heightened by pop-can sized poop and lack of timely flushing and or lack of flushing at all.  When I start noticing my daughter using our toilet as opposed to the kids toilet or the overwhelming stench of three day old urine, I am forced to investigate the current state of the porcelain affairs.  And I have it figured out.  Either kid #1 or kid #2 plugs the toilet and does not tell anyone.  Being innately lazy 12 and 15 year old boys, instead of: A. unplugging the toilet or B.  telling someone, they continually piss on top of the piss and pop-can sized poop.  In October, my 12-year old was having a sleepover(which I very WRONGLY worded as a slumber party on the invitations he passed out and I’m still being chastised for) and I cleaned the entire house.  Husband and I were sitting on couch waiting for the mayhem and guests to arrive when I looked at him and asked, “Should I go remove the sign in the kids bathroom that says “Flush the fucking toilet” before his friends get here?”

Our toilet battles have caused financial, parental, and tremendous marital strife.  Generally, I can successfully operate a traditional household plunger.  The problems arise when I am unsuccessful because I am no longer holding up my end of the deal.  We own several toilet snakes, plungers, and any new gadget promising to relieve an irritable toilet bowl.  Like I said, I can operate the plunger.  I read in one of my girly magazines(which are actually now WOMEN’s magazines) that quickly pouring a bucket of cold water into a clogged toilet could help unplug it.  Often, this has worked.

My house was built in the late 70’s.  Hence, the only bathtub in the houses happens to be in the kids bathroom.  So one night I was looking forward to a nice, long, relaxing bath.  I started running the water, popped open a Bass, and then…crinkled my nose.  Sure as shit, the toilet was clogged.  I tried to no avail to unplug it.  I paused the running bath water and went to seek reinforcements. Husband was napping so was far from pleasant when I had to ask him to help.  As usual, the plunger “was a piece of junk”.

“I’m sorry I did not pay $30 for a plunger,” I feebly,(or half-assedly, take your pick) replied and went to get a bucket of cold water.

This was met with much amusement from the husband, who did not listen as I tried to explain the logic of WOMEN’s magazine.  In his defense, he has saved our family thousands and thousands of dollars in household repairs.  He can do/fix anything!! Really- cars, computers, electric, washers, etc.  Anything except  drywall, which he can do but refuses.  In my defense, I just wanted a fucking bath.

We argued for a few minutes and when I finally had him good and pissed off, he threw the plunger(that had been submerged in said shitty toilet water) in my half filled bathtub.  Ruined!!  Still crouched beside toilet in a very uncompromising position, I took my foot and pushed him slightly.  I will stick with my version of the story and pushing him slightly.  I will not publish the ensuing events; but needless to say, he did not get laid.  For a few nights.

A couple weeks later, my 12 year old ran upstairs to tell me brown stuff was leaking out of our kitchen ceiling.  Located directly beneath the kids bathroom, I should not have been surprised.  This is where I held up my end of the deal.  That was not a fun clean up.  I called the husband and told him what was going on.  He instructed me to get a pot and a screwdriver.    “Poke a hole in the ceiling and catch the  stuff(shitwater) in the pot”.

A deep discount from one of my boss’ companies and $500 later, a large portion of our ceiling was replaced.  Our kids bathroom toilet is now duct taped shut.  No joke.

things i fucking hate

1.  Self check out lanes at grocery stores- they NEVER work quite right.  I DID fucking bag it.  It IS a fucking cucumber.  And yes, I did buy two 8 oz. or more Folger coffees.  I only went there in the first place because all the other lanes were full with two carters or those nascar mucus carts.  And I still have to wait because I chose to purchase alcohol and god forbid you get my cigarettes right on the first try.  WHY even have self check outs if you have to have an army of personnel correcting the multitude of shortfalls?

2. Paying at the pump at gas stations.  I am perpetually in a hurry.  I do not want to enter my zip code, loyalty card, social security number, and my firstborn’s middle name! And no I don’t want a fucking car wash– I JUST WANT GAS!!

3.  The word “pop” used in conjunction with anything interior design-related.

4.  Public bathrooms.  And anything that is motion sensored inside of them.

5.  Flatulence.  And the word fart.

6. Toothpaste stuck to the sink.

7. The stick figure families people put on the back of their cars. You know the ones; the mom, the dad, the kids, and the dog. I bought five for my husband this year for Christmas and all five of those stick figures were sticking up their middle fingers.

8. Always, always being late.

I want a king size bed

And some ADD meds so I can figure out this whole blogging thing.  Actually, any basic computer knowledge at this point would be beneficial to the creation of my blog.  And apparently I am so attached to my Iphone that it actually pisses me off when my new laptop does not autocorrect my misspelling.

More on that later.  Happy New Year!

I suppose I should give some kind of background about this blog and its purpose.  I tend to say the use the f word quite freely and I’m a mom.  I’m also married and in the service industry which obviously increases my admiration for the word fuck.  I do love my job, my husband, and my kids.  All three prove to be a constant source of entertainment.

I have three kids.  Two of them are not really mine but they live here and I give them a bunch of money so I consider that close enough. Besides, SHE had to do the hard part!  Honestly I do not know how anyone that gives birth would ever voluntarily do it again.  Not that that is how we roll in my family… my husband and I were drinking beer(something  I like to do as much as I like to say the f word) and talking to one of his much younger friends a few weeks ago.  This guy and his wife are trying to get pregnant.  Husband says, “I don’t know anyone who has a kid on purpose!” Husband also refers to his sperm as swimmers.  I was on the shot for seven years when I got pregnant.  I was actually at an appointment to get my next dosage when they told me they could not give it to me.  Because I was pregnant.  Four and a half months pregnant.  WTF??? No choice there.  Those swimmers are strong.

So kid #1 is 15.  He is named after a rock star.  The husband swears he was NOT named after his favorite bands lead singer. (Yeah- I know lots of Laynes).  Kid #2 is 12 and HE was named after a housing development.  Again, husband tries to deny this but the ex-wife was best friends with his sister when she was pregnant with kid #2.  One day we were driving to said sister’s house (post divorce-pre-remarriage) and directly across the street from where she lives is a housing development bearing kid #2’s first and middle name.  And not a common combination.  Again…What the fuck?   Kid #3 is 8 and would bitterly tell you she was named after a piece of paper.  I wanted to name her after my mother so I am willing to bet she will be happy later in life to know I just kept the first letter as opposed to naming her Phyliss.   Unless I am really mad, I will not tell her I wanted her to be a Phillip.

I am probably going to be done for the night(4 Bass ales in-3 words w friends games pending).


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