Archive for April, 2013

Things I fucking hate

1. The fact that there are only 24 hours in a day.

2. Trying, trying, and trying to quit smoking.

3. When companies discontinue products I love. Bath and Body works is my primary offender. My favorite lotion was Peace. It was part of the “Peace”, “Love”, and “Happiness” collection and came in a green bottle. I ordered it off of Ebay for a few years after it was discontinued. Then I just boycotted the fuckers for a year. Kroger no longer stocks my favorite hot cereal. Doritos stopped making their Habanero flavored chips that every male in my household loved. I even made a chicken dish with those chips!

4. My husband’s motorcycle. (This week.)

5. My family’s reluctance to refasten twist ties. Really?? The husband will twist the bread bag and pull the excess over the loaf and feel like its properly closed. As opposed to taking 3 seconds to twist the twist tie.

6. That my husband calls me the laundry fairy.

7. Items that go missing in my house which include but are not limited to: socks, hangers, Scotch tape, toenail cutters, and the home phones.

8. The empty and full syndrome. No one empties full trash cans or dishwashers. But they sure as shit leave empty toilet paper rolls and empty boxes in the cabinets. And then bitch when we run out of pop tarts. Or cereal. Or soap. Then throw the fucking package away and tell me!

9. The fact that my boobs are so small. I was ready to go run one day and came downstairs to put on my shoes. Husband looked at me and started laughing.
“Your sports bra is on backwards!”
And it fit.

10. Peeing a little when I cough. Or laugh. Or jump rope.

11. The fact that Bailey’s makes a Bailey’s FLAVORED creamer. Right up there with non-alcoholic beer. What’s the point?

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My best friend’s husband is a DICK

Really. He is.
I have great friends. I have several best friends. And then I have ‘Carol Green’. My best best friend.
I have known Carol Green since I was 5 or 6. Carol Green, her moniker, came into existence during high school out of sheer necessity. My mother was quadriplegic and I often times needed to leave school to check on her. More often, I did not. For 3 out of the 4 years I spent there, the school secretary thought the home health aide that worked with my mother was “Carol Green”. Carol Green called, and I left school. With Carol Green.
We were in Brownies together. We played softball in the same little league. One year we attempted to perform together in our elementary school talent show. I played the piano and she sang “The Rose.” I forget why it did not work out. We went to the coveted 8th grade dance together. And then we entered high school.
Carol Green has introduced me to every bad drug I have ever done.(She HATES when I say that!) I introduced her to her dick husband. Does that make us even?
I contemplated creating a separate category for Carol Green because I have so many Carol Green stories that I love. In fact, I may have if I understood how to navigate Word Press and this blog in general.
Carol’s birthday is in August. At the end of August. Like the 30th or the 31st. I am a horrible friend and can never remember. Hands down my favorite thing about Facebook! Last year she called me on December 9th to wish me a happy birthday. (My birthday is on the 10th). I fucking laughed.
Why is her husband a dick? He is a Virgo. So is she. In fact, I would have posted this entry a week ago but I had to remind myself about the ins and outs of Virgo personality and that led me to several hours perusing the internet about Virgo personality, Virgo married to Virgo, Sagittarius(me), Aries (the husband), and Sagittarius and Aries. Not that I blame EVERYTHING on Carol Green, but I promise I would not be so fascinated by the whole horoscope thing had I never cohabitated with her. She went through a phase where she would not date guys she was astrologically incompatible with.
“He’s cute but he’s a Libra!!”
Again, Carol Green tends to deny such accusations. She forgets because of the drugs.
I actually went on a date with said dick husband. He was friends with a good couple friend of mine. I drink a lot; which summarizes much of our date. We ended up going to visit Carol because she was home from the Navy. The dick was smitten. Granted, it was not until a nasty break up years later that I brought up the fact that the dick was smitten with her and suggested they go out.
The dick is not always a dick. But he is like the girl with the curl; when he is bad, he is very bad. He has female tendencies. He collects shit, tends to be controlling, and makes my husband look like a fucking angel.
Point in case. Carol purchased a membership to a popular gym. If she drafted a few of her friends to attend a class with her, she would receive a discount. I hesitated. I have joined a few gyms in my LIFETIME but this gym is particularly fueled by commission apparently. I run. I do not do squats and stupid shit like that. But Carol asked, so I obliged. I went to this anonymous gym with her and her buddy Jamarr immediately asked me to fill out paperwork. I sighed and picked up my pen. Should I change the last few digits of my cell phone number? Should I lie and say I do not believe in technological advances and therefore do not own a computer, making it virtually impossible that I could have an e-mail address? (Which, on a side note, is a Hotmail address which I never thought was outdated or passé until the husband’s sister laughed about it when she was trying to transfer me money from her Chase account. Bitch.)
I finished the paperwork and begrudgingly sweated through a cardio kick-your-ass class with Carol. Afterward, I lamented to Carol that I gave my real e-mail address and cell phone number to Jamarr. She did not understand. I told her Jamarr’s future now rested upon me joining his gym and that he would relentlessly bombard me with texts and e-mails. She innocently pretended to be surprised.
A few weeks later, I had had enough. Every time I call Carol on her cell phone, I am subjected to listening to some dumb ass country, Christmas, or Top 40 song I have no desire to ever hear again. Enter Facebook. I posted a message on her page that read:
“As much as I love and appreciate you, I think your blatant disregard (that is bordering upon complete subordination) of my musical preferences is driving me to reconsider your position in my friend hierarchy — you have now been replaced by Jamarr. He calls me more often anyway and I seriously doubt if I ever called him back that I would be subjected to Christmas, country or Pink. Ho ho ho”
Within 5 minutes of the posting, the dick had called Carol to ask, “Who the fuck is Jamarr?”
Carol is my rock. I love her more than my sister. I do not know who is crazier; my father or her mother. We have grown up together. (Maybe.)
Carol served in the Navy for 5 years. Hence, she was married twice. Isn’t that what people in the military do? Get married? Get more money? (And I’m the Jew!)
I missed her when she left for the Navy. Carol picked her tours well, though. She was stationed in San Diego and Hawaii. Which makes for a very happy best friend!
When she got stationed in San Diego, I drove cross country with her to help her move into her new digs. I was real gung ho about the trip until I slept with her ex boyfriend a few weeks before the trip (who ended up being husband #1) and remembered that every (2) bad car accidents I had ever been in occurred when Carol was behind the wheel. (Yeah- that was a real dick move on my part. Here’s where I blame it on the drugs.)
The drive was beautiful. Our soundtrack? Beck (top 5 concerts) and The Doors. I took one joint with me since Carol could no longer partake. Thank god she fell asleep in Arizona. I do not have the best memory. But I vividly remember smoking that joint! It was 7 a.m. and the blue sky was cloudless. Cacti bordered the ‘freeway’ and mountains peppered the horizon and The Doors blared from the car stereo. I can’t even remember which car(separate entry) of hers I was driving. Caroline woke up and I was completely enamored with the scenery. After asking me a random question, it took her all of 2 minutes to ask,
“Are you stoned??”
Hawaii? I flew. I went with another one of our friends. Carol lived outside of Oahu in a beautiful house. She embraced the Hawaiian lifestyle. (Her mom-when she chooses to talk to her- STILL gets mad when Carol asks her take her shoes off at her house!) The flight to Hawaii lasted FOREVER! Thank god for beer. They actually cut us off on the plane in the 7th or 8th hour. Don’t get me wrong. The attendants loved us. We had pretzels, countless wing pins(is that southwest?), and a handful of new best friends.
Carol greeted us in Hawaii and we drove to her house to throw a few things in a smaller suitcase to go stay in downtown Oahu for the night.
“Where’s the key to your suitcase?” Carol asked me.
“My suitcase doesn’t lock,” I slurred. Probably because I had made Carol stop and buy a bottle of Malibu. Malibu!! What??
Back to the airport we went. So my drunk ass could collect the right suitcase.
Hawaii stories stay in Hawaii. Bars open until 4 a.m.? $530 bar tab at 3:00 in the afternoon? Coconut bras? I’ll stop there. I will say I can not believe she ever moved back!
But I am thrilled that she did. I can’t decide if she will ever really like her dick husband. I mean, we all go through ups and downs. Sometimes he is really mean. Mine is too at times. I don’t know the answer. I just want her to be happy… because she makes me happy. This morning she sent me a text.
IMG_5085
And I fucking laughed.


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