Posts Tagged 'Humor'

Glade Plug-ins are a cock block

Someone once told me my house smelled like a Jolly Rancher.  I remember it well.  Let me clarify; my memory is like my hearing.  Very selective.  I remember someone once telling me I walk like I have a board up my ass, I remember someone telling me that when I talk my mouth moves like I’ve done several lines of cocaine (What?? Thanks!)  And who could forget the brother-in-law who told me the caloric content of iced cappuccinos from Tim Horton’s.  Dick.  Beyond that, I can recall bits and pieces of whatever the fuck I choose apparently- or whatever my sister deems really happened.  She, of course, remembers swimming out of the birth canal.  But the Jolly Rancher compliment??  It always makes me smile.

I have always had a candle fetish.  I like potpourri and incense and cinnamon and tend to impulse buy any new contraption promising to deliver strong scents.  Gone are the days of candles alone!  Wax melts? Scentsy? Wallflowers?  Oil warmers? Febreeze Noticeables? Glade Plug-ins?  Yep, I have them all.  And God forbid when I find a scent I like.  Then I must purchase the spray, the designer one-touch spray dispenser, the decorative things that look like gel, the melting candle cubes, and whatever else I have a coupon for.  I am sure I would give the marketing director at Glade wet dreams.  I wish I could say the same!

The husband does not bitch about much concerning the interior of the house.  Not that he can.  It is an unspoken agreement that it is my domain.  He does not complain about the quantity of candles I purchase; nor does he give me shit about how much money I spend.  Not the he knows.  Another unspoken domain.  But he does not (physically) pay the bills and definitely does not (physically) clean the house.  So we are both happy.  Except for the electrical outlets that I whore out to all my little smell good friends.

We have three kids and a dog.  I do not want my house to smell like we have three kids and a dog.  Therefore, I keep the 16-year-old’s door shut, a three wick candle (or three) in the kitchen, and random plug-ins throughout the house.  I strive to be accommodating.  I make sure I leave one attainable electrical outlet near each of our end tables to allow the husband easy access to our ever disappearing phone chargers.  He still gets angry.  Apparently it is a fucking inconvenience to reach BELOW my plug in and use the other outlet.  Of course, this is only when he is sitting on a certain part of the couch.  If the charger is plugged into the bottom outlet, it does not quite reach past the arm of the couch which causes the husband to have to tilt his head slightly to the left.  Which apparently hurts his fucking neck.  If I move the plug in to the bottom outlet,  this hinders his ability to smoke a cigarette in the garage while using his charging phone.  This also causes him to have to more pronouncedly tilt his head.  Yes- I realize that a longer cord for the charger might solve this issue, but

1.  I REFUSE to buy anymore fucking chargers.  We have had seven I-phones in the past year and I still have purchased three new chargers; two of which we have left that the five of us fight over daily.

2.  It would still piss him off.  Like he mistakenly believes that the electrical outlets are his domain.

My solution?  Charge your fucking phone before you use it.  The husband charges his phone like he puts gas in his car; only when it is below empty  or at two percent.

So tonight the husband moved my plug in to another outlet.  When I noticed, I moved it back.  I figured one of the kids had moved it.  Nope.  So we argued about it for a few minutes.  I tried to rationalize.  I pointed out the fact he still had an available outlet but made the mistake of pointing out the laziness I associate with his lack of understanding.  I know it was a silly argument.  No matter.  He is in bed and I am on the couch enjoying my last Bass.  I will meander upstairs eventually; but I am sleeping with my clothes on tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My white trash love story

I love summer.  I love the heat.  I love laying out.  I love the pool and the grill and my cheap above ground plastic pool.  I just turned to the husband to confirm the pool is plastic.  I guess it is vinyl.  Whatever.  It fits a few inflatable lounge chairs(equipped with cup holders) and a floating beer cooler the husband purchased this year.  Kid #1 found himself in trouble quite often this summer.  I found myself a very capable pool boy.( Having a man-child with ADD does have its advantages!)

This marked the first year the husband actually enjoyed the pool.  Probably because he bought the floating cooler negating the need to physically retrieve beer from anywhere other than right in front of his face.  It also marked the first year I enjoyed him being in the pool with me.  Probably because he bought the cooler ON SALE.

The husband does not generally buy stuff on sale.  I swear if he was ever subjected to the sheer agony of walking into a department store to purchase his own pair of jeans the outcome would be predictable.  There would be two pairs of the exact same jeans hanging in front of him.  One would be marked $20.00.  The other would be tagged $40.00.  He would do some simple math in his head and pick the $40.00 pair because they would be better quality.  Even if they were the exact same pair.  (Hey-he knew I was Jewish when he married me!)

The husband works outside.  In August we had a week of real scorchers.  He would come home, occasionally I would feed the kids, and then we would retreat to the pool with a 12-pack.  Or more.  And stay there.

One evening, the sun was going down and the rays were hidden behind one of our three ugly pine trees.  But we still had a few beers left.  The husband fell silent for a few minutes while gazing into the field behind our backyard.  I closed my eyes and aimlessly floated with a Bass in my hand until he abruptly interrupted my quiet moment of bliss.

“Baby, if that pine wasn’t in the way we could get another hour of sun,” he declared, climbing out of his lounge chair.

I giggled, silently pleased he was getting OUT of the pool to pee.  And then I heard the chainsaw.

Maybe I should have been concerned that the husband chose to operate a dangerous piece of equipment 8 beers in.  Maybe I should have considered the ramifications of him chopping down a tree that directly affects the amount of sunlight that filters directly through the window in front of our kitchen table.  Maybe I should have been worried about what the neighbors thought as the tree brushed against the power lines on its way down.

Nope.  We had one more hour of sunshine! (And no power!)

The ironic part of the story is that my husband is a lineman.  Thankfully, he works for a different power company than the one that supplies our electricity.  Thankfully, that power company is less than a mile from our house.

The trouble truck pulled into the rocky road between our house and the neighbor’s.  (We have about an acre.)  The husband, back in the pool, starts shooting the shit with the guys sent out to fix the problem.  They’re talking back and forth while I’m still floating in the pool.

“You think I should put my bathing suit back on?” I asked the husband.

The pool is now packed away.  Summer is officially over.  Thank God for vitamin D and college football.

Our doorbell sounds fucking stupid

I hate clichés. I hate them even more when they turn out to be true. Or apply to me. Paybacks are hell. That would be an apt description of my summer with my 16-year old, kid #1. The husband and I have been tried on all levels. We have caught him smoking pot, lying about smoking pot, influencing his TWELVE year old brother to smoke pot, and stealing our car. Actually, the police caught him stealing our car. I am deaf in my left ear and like to drink beer. The husband likes to drink beer. This apparently inhibits our ability to be awakened in our solid state of slumber regardless of numerous incoming calls to both of our cell phones and even our home phone(yes, we have a landline!)
So the cops ring the doorbell. Let me explain our doorbell. Our doorbell broke. The husband replaced it. With the WORST doorbell ever. It kind of resembles church bells and sounds exactly like the alarm he sets on our computer every night. His alarm goes off at 5:00 am. Then 5:15. Then 5:30. I hate my husband most mornings.
So said night of kid stealing car and neither kid nor cops able to get a hold of the husband or I on cell phone or landline, the church bells go off at 2:30 am. The husband gets up and tries to shut off computer. He mistakenly thinks he needs to get ready for work. Church bells go off again and he realizes it is not the alarm. The he throws on a pair of shorts and goes downstairs. At this point, I am still discombobulated. Not for long.
The husband answers the door and the cops ask if he is missing a car. Husband looks into driveway.
“Why yes, sir, I am”.
“Are you missing a kid?”
And kid #1 walks out of the back of the cruiser. The husband was tired and I am not sure of the exact exchange. The police handed him a plastic bag with kid #1’s belongings, including but not limited to our keys, his phone, some screens, a bowl, and some marijuana. The car, our Saab, see My husband and his beaterPermalink: https://thefbombmom.com/2013/03/11/the-husband-and-his-beater, sat parked in front of kid #1’s friend’s house awaiting our retrieval. At 2:30 in the morning. When the husband has to leave for work at 6:00 am. We sat at the kitchen table trying to wake up and soaking up the severity and the sheer luck of the situation that had just transpired. We knew we had to leave and pick up the Saab. Meanwhile, kid #1 walks upstairs. With the bag. Including his pot.
“Did he just walk upstairs with that bag??” I asked the husband.
Yes. Yes, he had. The husband corrected that situation immediately. And then we begrudgingly left the house to pick up the car.
Okay. A couple of thoughts here.
#1. I am still unsure of how I feel about the cop sending the kid home with drugs. Don’t they pour them out or something? On the other hand, Kid #1 does not even have his license. I am relatively sure it would have cost an arm and a leg to try to get him out of the numerous tickets he could have been issued. No ops? Possession of drugs? Drug paraphernalia? Curfew? He (WE!!!) is lucky. Almost too lucky. What is the lesson learned here?
#2. The husband and I are guilty of every infraction that Kid #1 got busted for. BUT that was more than 20 years ago. And we never got caught.
Sigh. It fucking sucks being a parent sometimes!! There is more to this story but I’ll save it for next time. I hope you appreciate my hiatus. Because I fucking hated it.

2 big bottles of Jergens for Christmas…

I love my kids. Most of the time. This past year has been trying. My daughter, kid #3, is hitting puberty WAY too early. I never should have allowed her unrestricted access to her massive consumptions of milk. Yesterday she asked me for a bandaid to cover a zit sprouting in the corner of her nose. She’s 9. WTF?
My 12 year old boy appears to be the most even out of the trio. Kid #2 performs well in school, generally does his homework, and wrestles. He has a great sense of humor. During his off season last year, he took Taekwondo with kid #3. When it came time to graduate from white belt to yellow belt, they both were expected to pass a test that included kicking a board in half. He was very proud. While I was upstairs putting laundry away one day shortly after, I overheard him bragging to his brother’s friend that he broke the board. The kid scoffed, “I’m a yellow belt too! It wasn’t that hard…I broke the board too”.
Kid #2’s response?
“Yeah, but did you break it with your penis?”
And then there is my 16 year old. Full fledged teenager. Full fledged hormones. The reason I hardly posted in April. The reason gray hairs pepper the husband’s goatee. The reason stress hives dot my wrists.
Kid #1 is a sophomore. He frowns upon organized sports. He bitches about cleaning his room and searches the internet for insightful essays he can post on Facebook about why cleaning your room is unimportant instead of completing his homework. Of course, I only see what he wants me to see on his Facebook page. He has not yet deleted me, but we assume a limited friendship. He thinks he can outsmart me. Back when he was young and untainted, he befriended several of my friends. He forgot to limit some of said friends. (Thanks SD!!)
One day last year, Kid #1 ‘forgot’ to turn in 7 assignments and brought home an F on a progress report. His punishment? Leave your Iphone on the table. I had an unexpected day off and began cleaning house. While I Windexed the counter, his phone vibrated and a text message popped up. I called the husband to tell him I thought kid #1 was smoking pot.
“Why do you think that?” the husband implored.
“Because he just got a text message asking if he wanted to smoke some pot after school,” I replied.
Now, the husband nor I were angels when we were in high school. Parenting 101 fails to explain the proper method of dealing with situations you once created for your own parents. Yes, paybacks are hell.
Fast forward a few months to a typical evening at the dinner table. A friend of the husband’s had temporarily moved into our basement. Kid #2 was at a friends house. My daughter, blissfully unaware, sat innocently devouring her grilled chicken. Kid #1 declares he wants a lock for his bedroom door.
I immediately tensed my shoulders, envisioning incense and hookah bowls. (I did not find either of those until a month ago).
“Why do you need a lock on your door? You don’t need a lock on your door!” I quickly countered.
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “You know how I like your lotion?”
Silence. I had repeatedly found bottles of my lotion, sometimes scented; other times fragrance-free, littering his nightstand or computer table. Did I really naively believe he was replenishing his dehydrated elbows?
The husband and his friend fell silent, too. Briefly. Then erupted into fits of laughter. I do not know what the husband found funnier; the fact that his kid just told us he likes to jack off or the fact that I was rendered speechless. A fucking first.
I finally gained my composure and waited for the boys to stop laughing.
“Why don’t I just buy you some KY?” I asked Kid #1, trying to make his comfort level match my own. No shame.
“Nah- I’m kind of a dry guy, ” he boldly replied, much to my horror.
I bought him a lock the next day.

Linda is a stupid name for a cat

Happy Mother’s Day!! I usually love Mother’s Day. I make the husband take the kids to his mom’s house and I attempt to get some sun and drink some Bass in peace and quiet. Not this year. The high today was 54 degrees. What the fuck? All of the men I know do not care about browning their skin. Yet fathers get their day in the sun in June. So unfair. The husband kept asking what I wanted for Mother’s Day this year. I said, “Nothing! I just want the kids to clean their rooms!”
I should have been careful what I wished for. One out of two isn’t bad, right? I got nothing and the kids didn’t clean their rooms. Kid #1 texted me an r-rated e-card. Does that count?
I did, however, inherit a dog last week. A Pomeranian. Kid #1 kept texting me pictures of a kitten he wanted to bring home. He promised he would take care of it. I hate cats. And litter boxes. And cat piss. And blatant lies. No child of mine would clean a litter box on a schedule that would coordinate with my fervent dislike for cat smell. I told him no and happily ignored his ensuing and multiple pleas for me to reconsider.
My daughter wanted a cat once several years ago. So I begrudgingly relented. A friend of a friend knew someone who wanted to get rid of their cat. That should have been my first clue. The reason I was given? Said cat did not get along with the owner’s other cat. So I surprised my daughter one day and came home with a black and white, part Siamese cat.
“I want to name her Linda,” she said, trying to cuddle the petrified cat.
“Do you mean Glenda,like the good witch?” I tried to clarify.
“No. Linda!”
Ummm… okay. Linda let my daughter pet her 3 times before she darted to our basement. Where she stayed for the next 6 months. Every once in a while, one of the kids would attempt to retrieve Linda from the basement. Linda liked the comfort and solitude of the basement; which she made apparent by pissing on the daughter’s bed. And in her closet. And under her bed. She happily retreated to her basement after thoroughly pissing me off.
After about a year with this fucking basement cat, I had had enough. I knew the cat had lived inside and outside at her old owner’s house so I figured she could use some fresh air. I had the day off work, so after the kids left for school I released Linda. I bid her farewell and went about my day.
A few days later, I was in the kitchen making dinner. The husband came in to sample and squinted out the back door. He pulled the sliding doors opened and yelled at kid #1 to get off of the fence he was hanging over.
“I think I see Linda, Dad!” he yelled back.
“Linda’s in the basement…” his voice trailed off as he saw the look on my face.
“You didn’t,” he turned to me. It was not a question.
“But it’s been 3 days! No one even noticed!” I tried to defend myself.
So in came Linda. Again.
I permitted this nonsense for a few more weeks before I started calling shelters. Apparently I am not the only person who fucking hates cats. All the shelters were full. I had zero takers on Craigslist.
I called my dad to bitch about the futile situation. I’m so glad I did. He came up with a fantastic idea. The woman that lives in the house behind him has cats. Lots of them. And a “Humane Society” sticker on her front door to boot.
“You can walk over to her house and say you found Linda in my yard and ask if it belongs to her,” he suggested.
Game on! I loaded the cat in my car. She was part Siamese so she meowed quite loudly. Kid #3 ran to the open upstairs window.
“What are you doing with Linda?” she cried down to me, sobbing.
I rolled my eyes.
“You guys don’t even like the cat!”
I started the car and made it around the block before that piece of shit broke down. The husband had to come rescue me. Kid #3 was only 4 years old at the time so of course she came with him. And of course she was still crying.
I finally made it to my dad’s house and proceeded with our plan. I knocked on the neighbor’s door and she fell in love with the ‘homeless’ cat and immediately welcomed her with open arms.
Needless to say, we do not harbor what I would call a cat-friendly home. So after all the trouble kid #1 went through sending me pictures and videos of the kitten he HAD to have, he comes home an hour later with a Pomeranian. The same friend of his whose cat had kittens also owned a dog that did not get enough attention. Probably because of all the fucking cats.
His friend’s mom idled in her car waiting to talk to me as all 3 kids AND the husband stuck out their lower lips as they fondled the admittedly super cute Pomeranian. For a second, I actually felt authoritative. But then again, everyone knew the responsibility of the dog’s grooming, access to food, and veterinarian visits would solely depend upon me.
So again, my first logical question for his friend’s mom was, “Why are you trying to get rid of him?”
The mom said the dog did not get enough attention in her house and that Pomeranians are needy little fuckers. Or something like that. I sighed. The dog is 4 years old, potty trained, and named ‘Buckeye’.
I am a huge Ohio State fan. But Buckeye is a stupid dog name. He looks more like a Chewbacca.
photo

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But I guess it’s better than Linda.

And I just can’t seem to quit smoking….

April consistently proves to be a busy month in my household. Easter, birthdays, and spring break usually equal an eventful few weeks. This year was not an exception.
Easter fell early this year. I volunteered to host dinner because I ALWAYS volunteer to host dinner because then I can drink beer.
#1. I am a responsible parent and do not drink and drive. With the kids, anyway. Ever.
#2. No other family members usually offer beer at family functions. And if they do, it usually does not meet my standards. (Bass; or any other dark beer).
I should mention a few points here. Both of our families enjoy coming to our house for family functions because deep down they really want to drink too. (Don’t family gatherings naturally equal a deep desire to imbibe?) And even if they do not drink, the atmosphere is always more relaxed.
I remember attending a birthday party for one of my nephews before my sister graciously moved to Florida. My husband did not attend because I do not make him attend anything my sister and her douchebag husband host. I shall explain that dysfunctional relationship in a future post. My dad also attended said birthday party. About halfway through, he asked if my daughter could stay the night with him after the party. I said, “Sure!” and went to hunt down the douchebag to get a beer.
He studied the fridge much too intently before handing me the only beer the refrigerator contained. Bud Light. I shook my head, disgusted.
“No, thanks!” I futilely tried to feign politeness.
“Are you kidding me? You’re an alcoholic!” was his stupid response.
Instead of warning him, “Yeah, you grow up with my sister and see how much you drink!” since his marriage will certainly be affected sooner or later, I simply looked at my watch. Time to go.
I guarantee the douchebag has never drank a Bud light at my house. He beelines for the stocked garage refrigerator at my house every time he visits. It does not contain cheap beer.
Easter dinner just consists of the husband’s family. For obvious reasons. My Jewish family does not celebrate the resurrection of Christ. And yes, I just asked the husband while I was typing whether Easter was the resurrection or the birth of Christ.
The good Friday before Easter also marked the first day of the kids spring break. Years prior, we have gone on vacation. This year, their very short spring break started the Friday before Easter until the Wednesday after. The husband was scheduled to go back to work (YIPEE) on the 10th of April, so he and I decided to go away just the two of us for a few days.
The husband had surgery on his elbow and convalesced at home for 3 months. More accurately, he built himself a motorcycle. I think he agreed to go on a quickie vacation with me so I would like him again.
We decided on a few days in Chicago. We decided the night before we left. On Easter. My mother-in-law took the kids home with her after Easter dinner, and the husband and I left for Chicago Monday morning.
Chicago is such a fun city! The 6 hour drive was not too bad; mostly flat and not very scenic except for the hundreds of wind turbines through Indiana. And the freeway signs once we entered Chicago.
Fist of all, I made the husband Google how many drunk driving arrests were issued in Chicago per year. How the fuck do you drive drunk in Chicago?? It’s hard enough sober! Secondly, the freeway alerts blared the number of traffic deaths so far this year in the city. When we arrived on Monday, the first day of April, the sign proclaimed 222 deaths. The husband and I meandered around the city for almost 2 days. Every time (fucking often!) we heard sirens, I would say, “224!”
I know, I know…that’s morbid. Bu when we left, the sign read 226 traffic deaths so far this year. Essentially a day and a half later!
We ate well, we drank well, and we did other things well!
We came home and immediately celebrated my father-in-law’s birthday, kid #3’s birthday, and the husband’s birthday. (All within 6 days!) The real reason to celebrate?? The husband went back to work!
While we were in Chicago, he found several things he liked at the local Eddie Bauer store. “We” agreed everything he bought should be considered his birthday present.
I still felt obliged to get him something on his birthday. But what the fuck do you buy someone who buys himself whatever he wants?
I decided to blow up a picture I had taken of his motorcycle. It is, no matter how bitter I am, beautiful. The only pictures I had taken were on my phone, though, and were not good enough quality to enlarge to a poster size.
A great Father’s Day idea! But I still had no idea what to get him for his birthday.
So it is Wednesday morning. The day of his birthday. His first day back to work. I have dicked around on the computer trying to enlarge the un-enlargeable photo to the point where I am going to be even later to work than usual. The doorbell rings. Aaaaahh… the UPS guy!!
I grabbed the two packages off the front porch. I knew their contents contained parts for the husband’s motorcycle. Boxes had arrived daily for the past 3 months. I inspected the perfect-sized cardboard and knew they were the solution to my dilemma!
Yes. I sure as shit gift wrapped both boxes and left them on my kitchen table!
Watching him open his gifts later? Priceless!
He opened the first box and pulled out a chrome kickstand. His first reaction?
“How did you know?”
And then he started laughing. And remembered he married a Jew.

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?

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.

Flintstone sour gummy vitamins fucking stink

I have not smoked for 9 days, 22 hours, and 7 minutes. I have been at least a pack a day smoker for at least 20 years so this is a huge milestone in my life. I work in the restaurant industry, am married to a smoker, and am constantly(though not always justifiably) stressed. I drink large quantities of beer. I enjoy the act and smell of cigarette smoking. My father smoked. I am orally fixated. All of my friends smoke or used to smoke. Most of my co-workers smoke. See? I have excuses.
Please let me tell you how and why I quit. I have only tried a few times before to quit, even though I never really wanted to. I figured I run, eat pretty well, and seldom have health issues. Belligerent? Yes. Intelligent? No. Those commercials with the smokers talking through the tracheotomy really affected my point of view. I do not like pain and I do not want to be in pain when I am older. And I want nice teeth.
A year ago I bought a Groupon for laser therapy, a form of acupuncture, that was supposed to be 80% effective for smoking cessation. I felt duped. 2 years prior, I tried Chantix. Crazy Bitch. Crazy dreams. I continued enjoying my cigarettes and then my best friend decided to quit because doctors found a nodule on her lung. A few weeks later, another one of my best friend’s mother had a tracheotomy. Then, my boss asked me if I wanted to quit with him and his wife on Monday, March 11. Maybe it was the “happens in threes” theory. Maybe it was just my time…
I decided to try the patch this time. I had already purchased the patch and the box sat unused in my medicine cabinet. March 11th rolled around. I should have set that patch right on my nightstand. Instead, I had to physically get out of bed and rummage through all the shit in my medicine cabinet trying to find that damn patch. It should not have been hard to find considering the box had a bright orange clearance sticker on it. I grabbed the package and read through the directions, which thankfully did not include a mile long list of possible side effects like so many of the commercialized new age drugs that can cure anything from dry mouth to dry vagina.
As I read through the instructions (peel off patch and stick it somewhere), I noticed the expiration date. There was a reason the box was 75% off. I breathed a sigh of relief and went downstairs to enjoy my morning coffee. With my morning cigarette. I resolved to buy another unexpired patch after work and happily went about my day.
A few days later, I had a few more excuses for not yet purchasing the patch. Kid #3 had stayed home from school Monday and Tuesday because she did not feel well. I rarely get sick; yet this bout I did not remain unscathed. I had not felt that bad in years. I always pride myself on being a ‘good’ sick person. Apparently I am not. It’s that patience thing. I do not have time to be sick. I can’t just lay around and not get things done. How fucking frustrating! I contracted a cross between the cold and flu which was highlighted by an acute headache, plenty of body aches, and a nasty cough. I was miserable. The husband was scheduled to get his wisdom teeth taken out that Thursday so I finally decided I would try to quit Friday. I knew he was not supposed to smoke after having the procedure done and I felt like hell anyway. I purchased the patch and waited for Friday.
Thursday morning I transported the husband to the dentist. They had given him a prescription for some hallucinogenic drugs that would knock him out during surgery. After the procedure, the nurse gave him and I instructions. She asked if he was a smoker. He feebly nodded.
“So am I, “she said conspiratorially, “Just make sure you leave the gauze in.”
What the fuck?? Are you kidding me? My one chance to have the husband NOT smoke for a few days. Ruined!
He lit up in the car. I angrily resolved to stick with my quit date.
The next morning, I rolled out of bed and stuck on my new patch. The hardest part of not smoking for me is not having that first cigarette in the morning. I am not one of those people that can wait a little bit before I light up. Nope- I stumble down the stairs and beeline for my coffee and cigarette. So Friday morning I poured my coffee and detoured to the living room as opposed to the garage. I kept busy and tried not to think about smoking. And I made it.
Somehow, I always imagined if I made it through just ONE morning the next would be easier. And it was. Day #2 was a Saturday. I put on the patch and went to get my coffee.
The coffee in our house is a volatile subject. I like my coffee strong; the husband likes it weak. This discrepancy has caused us to engage in heated arguments. He calls my coffee ‘Jew crack’. I call his coffee ‘hillbilly pisswater’. There was a stretch of time when our coffee maker was really fucked up and brewed Jew crack. I left work one day and went to the doctor because I thought I was having a heart attack/ panic attack or both. Thankfully, it was just the super strong coffee. Since then, I have limited my coffee intake to a cup or a cup and a half.
For the first few days after I quit smoking, I texted the husband to ask him if he had brewed the espresso we sometimes make because I felt so jittery. No, no he had not. Someone explained to me that since coffee is a stimulant and tobacco is a depressant, I was drinking straight stimulant without offsetting the caffeine with my cigarette. Sigh. I stopped enjoying my coffee. I also mistakenly thought the cold and flu symptoms would go away once I quit smoking. Wrong again. I should have known there would be repercussions when I stopped doing something I had been doing for 20 years.
And then bitch mode kicked in. The husband calls me passive aggressive. Not this week!
My new best friend? Sugar coated lemon drops. I have never been a gum chewer. The patch was giving me a weird looking rash so I took it off and have been free balling it since.
I finally started feeling better Thursday. I have an app on my phone that tells me how long its been since my last cigarette and the health benefits of quitting. For the last few days, the app has told me nerve endings have begun to regenerate and my sense of smell and taste have begun to return to normal.
This may or may not be true. I did go to grab kid #3 Flintstone vitamins this morning and almost threw up. Those sour gummies smell like shit! Thankfully, the Bass still tastes great!(I’m saving my lungs; fuck my liver!)
Oh, and the husband got dry sockets.

The husband and his beater

I do not have convertible hair. My hair is curly. And thin. When I wake up in the morning it does not look like it did when I went to sleep. When I ride roller coasters it does not fall back into place with a few light brushes of my fingertips like girls with straight hair. Humidity? Sex? Rain? Fucked! Often times, I painstakingly spend more than an hour trying to straighten my curly locks. I apparently am not good at that either; my hair is so fine(not in the complimentary or slang sense of fine) that it tends to singe and break off.
During my first midlife crisis(when I was 30) my hairdresser talked me into chemically straightening my long curly hair. What the hell? Why not cut off 6 inches too? So I did. Except I still had to use a flat iron to straighten my hair everyday. And since I have never had straight hair I did not know saturating my hair with heat protective styling products was an absolute necessity. After about 3 weeks, I started noticing patches of bald spots. I freaked out and went back to the devil hairdresser to try and get things fixed. You can’t fix bald.
“What am I supposed to do?” I implored, near tears.
“Umm… buy a wig until it grows out,”.
No apology. No admittance of any wrongdoing. No “I’m sorry I straightened your hair, didn’t tell you how to take care of it, and it all fell out”.
What did I do? I bought a wig. Sort of. I went to Sally’s Beauty Supply and bought a fake ponytail. Or three. Wigs are fucking expensive. And even when all my hair falls out, I am still ultimately just a hairless Jew. So I would slick back my remaining hair and pop in a fake ponytail. I had curly ponytails, straight ponytails, and blonde ponytails. A few of the ponytails snapped into place with a simple hairclip. My favorite one was more complex and required a hairnet and drawstring. The amout of time it took me to get ready diminished. Unfortunately, it still did not help with the whole arriving on time thing.
I grew fond of my fake ponytails. I even thought they looked good on me. Washing them proved to be a mild pain in the ass, though. I would have to soak them in the bathtub with a special shampoo and try to gently comb them out. Then I hung them various places around the house to dry. The kids became accustomed to fetching my hair.
“Hey! Can you run upstairs and grab my hair? I need to leave!”
One time the husband and I were at my cousin’s wedding. We needed to travel from the hotel to the ceremony and it was drizzling lightly outside. I had straightened my hair for the occasion so I asked the husband to grab the umbrella out of the car.
“The car is right there,” he said pointing at the vehicle parked 10 feet from the hotel door.
“Baby-we’ve had this conversation a thousand times. Please just grab it for me!” I answered.
One drop!! That is all it takes for one piece of my hair to shrivel up into its own inevitable curl. Am I a freak about my hair? Yes. This proves 2 things.
1. Noticeably singeing the majority of my hair was detrimental to my self esteem.
2. I have no business owning a convertible.
But the husband wanted a beater. Don’t get excited. He drives a medium sized pick up truck. That fucker guzzles gas and he works 20 miles from home. We had been talking for a while about purchasing a smaller car for the sole purpose of driving to and from work. A 2004 metallic blue convertible Saab, however, is not my idea of a ‘beater’.
The Saab previously belonged to the husband’s sister. Though she enjoyed the Saab, the Saab had issues. At one point she purchased an entire new engine. The husband had worked on her car often and longingly. When she decided to depart with it, she offered the husband a deal he couldn’t(and wouldn’t) refuse.
The Saab IS beautiful. We paid his sister $1500 and had it towed to our garage. It took the husband less than 10 minutes to fix the car. At this point, I was less mad about the $1500 and wished like hell I had straight hair.
The Saab gets fantastic gas mileage. And the car is sweet. It took me all summer to really start enjoying driving around with the top down. I even experimented and came up with a sustainable hairstyle that could survive a topless commute.
The husband and I went to another wedding last August. One of his work buddies got married in a little town about 45 minutes away. Of course the husband wanted to drive the Saab. I reluctantly agreed but told him we could not put the top down until we were on our way home. It was August; too humid to straighten the hair and there was no way in hell my curls would remain intact for that long of a car ride.
After the wedding, we started driving home with the top down. The husband pulled into the grocery store so we(I) could get beer. I looked in the mirror.
“I’m not going in!” I told him emphatically.
You know those pens with the little trolls with the fuzzy hair on top? The ones you rub between your hands and their fuzzy hair goes every which way? Yeah. He rolled his eyes and begrudgingly went in to get the beer.
My best friend chose that moment to call and say hi. So I did what I do best and started bitching. I told her the husband was irritated because I wouldn’t go in to get the beer and she started laughing. She called me a diva and said I was such a freak about my hair. I told her I would send her a picture. I snapped a picture of myself with my Iphone.
She called right back and apologized. The bitch also made that picture her background photo on her phone and says she laughs every time she looks at it.
And that is my Saab story.


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