Posts Tagged 'Humor'



Things I fucking hate

1. The fact that everyone in my house has beautiful eyelashes except for me! I cannot tell you how many times I have woken up and looked at the husband and asked if he woke up earlier and put on mascara.

2. February. And fucking Valentine’s Day.

3. Same-side-booth sitters. I hate you. And I hate waiting on you. And everyone else hates you too.

4. Some facets of my kids school system. I realize I need to pay for school lunch, school fees, school clothes, and school supplies. I am okay with that. And then they start telling me I have to pay for school artwork (the magnet is the cheapest!) School pictures?? Which season? In the old days, you had to order pictures. Now, they send them home and charge you if you do not return them. Same with Entertainment books they send home for your child to sell. Please–send all of this shit home with my 8-year old who thrills me when she remembers to brush her teeth. One year I bought one of those Entertainment books for her because she wanted a fucking plastic egg that she would “win” if she sold one book. To hell with the trips to Disneyland she could win if she sold 10,000; she just wanted the egg! So we get the egg and of course hers is defunct. I ordered a new one on Amazon for $3.99. The $25 Entertainment book? I found it in her book bag a year later. Fucking egg.

5. Cotton balls. And the cotton in pill jars. Ewwwww.

6. The word butt. Ass? Perfectly acceptable.

7. Running indoors.

 

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Things I fucking love

1. Lists!!! I write lists everywhere on everything about anything. Very often an item on my list is to combine all my lists.

2. Birth control. And the fact that mine lasts for five years and I do not have to endure the monthly issues other women dread.

3. Acronyms. I use them often. Sometimes to remember things; more often when I’m being mean.

4. Guessing what time it is when I have not looked at a clock for a while. Making a wish when it is 11:11 or 12:12 or so on.

5. Manila folders. My filing cabinet is organized. I have folders that are titled, “Shit I don’t know where to file”, “Shit I don’t want to fuck with yet”, and “Shit I’m really mad about paying”. Then I have the standard “Shit to save”, “Important shit”, and “What the fuck is this?” Really.

6. Laying in the pool with a beer in my hand and a lawnmower in the background.

7. Best birthday present ever? An Iphone case with a beer opener on the back. And it’s PURPLE.

8. When my husband wears his fire retardant hat. It’s a toboggan or a beanie or whatever the hell you call it. I have asked him several times to leave it on when we have sex. He will not.

9. Toothpaste with flip top caps. Life changing.

10. Q-tips.

The thick black American Express

I have worked at an upscale casual restaurant for the last four years. I have been a server for almost 17 years. Yes; I have war stories. I like my job. I can put up with almost anybody for an hour. The fact that I cannot hear in my left ear definitely helps! Sometimes, all people want is for you to smile and nod anyway.
I like my job on several different levels. First of all, it is not hard work to me. Simplified, I take your order, bring you your food, fill your drinks, and clear your plates. Most people hate receiving bad service. I love it. I am also Jewish. Jew trumps waitress; I will still leave 20% if I receive mediocre(or bad) service but I will graciously over tip if service is sensational. I believe the definition of good service can also be debatable. My definition of sensational service? I never run out of beer and I do not hear my server’s life story. I strive to do the same; be efficient and shut the fuck up.
I also like the people I work for, most of the people I work with, and I have a several regular customers I truly enjoy. Especially the ones with the thick black American Express cards.
The thick black American Express bears no credit limit. Whenever I open a guest check and catch a glimpse of that heavy piece of plastic, I instantly recount every minute of my previous tableside manner and pray I was as nice as I think I was. And you know the saying ‘once you go black…’ Yeah, I never forget the face of a thick black American Express holder.
So one day two gentleman I immediately recognized as said cardholders sat in my section for the second or third time. They were pleasantly surprised when I remembered what they both wanted to eat and drink. Their order was prompt, their drinks kept full, and I said little. The older of the gentlemen usually pays; he is distinguished looking but does not bear much resemblance to Kevin Spacey nor is he bald which I prefer. The younger one will probably look just like him in 20 years. I cruise by the table to refill their ice in their Iced Tea and the older one smiles and says to me, “You’re so good to us! I could just take you home”.
My response? I laugh lightly and say, “I’d probably come”.
And then I stood there.
Are you fucking kidding me? THOSE are the words I chose?
To say I was embarrassed would be an understatement. My face immediately flushed as I struggled to recover from such an obvious blunder. And I realized I could not.

If the Buckeyes played in the Super Bowl, I’d watch it

Super Bowl Sunday… Day 26 of the husband being off. I spent the morning cleaning my house, the afternoon at a first birthday party, and the evening not watching the Super Bowl. Since the husband has been off work, there is some futility in putting forth the effort to clean the house. My morning routine rarely falters. I get up around 7:00 a.m. and spend the next three hours trying to get more than what is humanly possible done and make it to work by 10:00 a.m. This never works out. Years of working nights and being ultra-productive in the daylight hours has ruined any possible chance of evening productivity. That and I feel naked without a Bass pale ale in my hand past a certain hour. (Which varies; some days I get off work at 3:00 p.m., some days I am done around 5:00 p.m.). Except for Fridays when I work from 10:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m. I call this my cash cow day.
My husband sleeps in on the weekends. But I swear that man has a “the wife is mopping right now” radar. Without fail, every time I start to mop the kitchen marks the exact time he decides to wake up and meander downstairs for his coffee. This happened this morning at 11:37. Really? The fucking vacuum makes noise. Not the mop! This also applies to cleaning our bathroom. The very same day I choose to spit shine the toilet and sink is the day he decides to shave his head. I am not sure if he does the front of his head over the toilet and the back of his head over the sink, but either way both are desecrated.
And if that wasn’t fun enough, after cleaning the house it was time to go to one of my best friends birthday party for her one year old. Oh my! I have not voluntarily been around that many babies in a long time. Don’t get me wrong- I like my friend and her kid. I like the other kids(babies) that were there. That is just a chapter in my life that has happily passed.
I never really liked babies. They scare me. I don’t mind when they have control of their heads and all but I prefer the talking kind. When I found out I was pregnant I was petrified. I had been on the Depo provera shot for seven years when I found out I was expecting. Four and 1/2 months expecting. Two things here: 1. Missing nearly half of my pregnancy was arguably one of the best things that have ever happened to me. 2. I should have known.
I had gained a little bit of weight, but I run so I was in shape. I had been kind of tired so I was not running as much. I attributed the weight gain to lack of running. I remember beer not tasting good (WTF??) That should have been the clincher. I kept telling people I was losing my “mojo”.(Thank God!) And then there was Old Navy.
My mom and my sister both got breast reductions. After my sister had a baby, she tried to no avail to breastfeed her firstborn. Her double-d’s had graduated to k’s (K!!!!!) while pregnant and cut off my nephew’s circulation in his leg when she would try to feed him. Not I. Gravity failed me. I wear a size 11 shoe and sport an A cup. In fact, the best bra I ever bought was an “almost A”. Or was it barely B? I don’t (like to) remember. What the fuck is that? An A-minus? At any rate, I had bought a tank top from Old Navy that made me look like I had cleavage. I was so excited I went back and bought one in every single color; and even a few of the striped variety. Yup. Two weeks later I found out I was pregnant. Baby came; boobs left. Bye bye cleavage.
My sister loved being pregnant. She swore her nails were beautiful, her hair grew faster, and she felt vibrant. My sister lies. I hated every minute of being pregnant. I hated being tired, I hated trying to shave my legs, and I hated the fact that everything I chose to eat posed an issue of some sort. I especially hated the fact that my husband did not want to have sex with me. I figured he was near expert since this was his third child. He knew the routine; you can’t hurt the baby through intercourse. I still took the time to outline my “What to expect” books and show him that it was perfectly okay to have sex while pregnant. It took me all of the remainder of the ten months to realize he did not think he was going to hurt the baby. He just did not like me fat.
The birthday went well. My friend’s one year old is gorgeous and the food tasted great. The husband chastised me for wanting to pick up a six pack on the way.
“But it’s Sunday!” I tried to rationalize.
And, oh, how things have changed. Came home, did not watch the Super Bowl, and will try to pretend I am asleep so we don’t hurt the baby.

My daddy loves hores

All families have their own traditions. Once, when my daughter was three, she looked at me and said, “I think you might need to send me to one of those people that solves problems.” I hate to think that is the road we are paving…
Our favorite family tradition, before all of our dogs died, was affectionately referred to as “Family Fun Day.” This was the husband’s pet name for picking up dog shit. We had a boxer and a greyhound so “Family Fun Day” proved to be laborious and was met with whiney groans of protest. Not many kids automatically roll their eyes when they see six plastic grocery bags laying on the counter. Ours did.
Another family tradition? Happy plates. If anyone finishes his or her dinner, he or she is permitted to bang their silverware upon their empty “happy plate”. And then there is my favorite tradition. The battle of the favorites. I have been telling each of my kids separately for years that they are my favorite. I actually do have a favorite. Would I ever put it in writing? Fuck no. Then, I would never be able to milk it for what it was worth! Of course, I do have favorite stories, though.
Kid #3 (my nine year old daughter) never ceases to amaze with her creativity. When she was in the first grade, she was very excited about a Mother’s Day project. Her teacher had the students list their favorite things about their mothers. Then, the students typed and laminated their creation.
Kid #3 comes home with hers beaming with excitement. “Happy Mother’s Day, mom!”
Colorfully printed on an 8 x 10 certificate spells out, “My mother…” and then the students filled in five things. In order, mine read:
1. Likes to yell
2. Likes my bottom
3. Pretty
4. Nice
5. Something else I forgot after reading #1 and #2

Likes to yell??? What the fuck? And please let me explain #2. In the movie Madagascar, the animals sing “I like to move it, move it”. For years, I would sing to my daughter, “I like your bottom, bottom”. I imagine her teacher looking over her shoulder as she carefully crafted #1 and #2 and saying something like, “Hmmmm…that’s a good start. Can you think of anything nice about your mother?”
How embarrassing. For weeks, the husband loved this story. He continually hung her “artwork” on our refrigerator, which prior to this incident he only opened or closed. Thank God our daughter is such a budding artist. A few months later, she came home with new artwork.
She had drawn a picture of things her mom liked and things her dad liked. This time, I graciously liked rainbows. Her daddy? Hores. Oh, let’s talk payback. My husband has no affiliation with horses. I have no inkling why my daughter would choose this as the one thing he liked, and nor do I care; but God love her grammatical error. That picture hung on the fridge even longer.
Kid #2? Favorite story? One time, the husband and both boys were wrestling. The husband held kid #2 down and passed gas in his face. Kid #2 turned his head and puked. The husband does not respond well to throw up. I, of course, was not home. No one in my house, thankfully, passes gas in front of me.
Kid #3? He deserves his own page for his story. I will title it, “Willy and the hand jive”. Ewwwww. 4 bass in, 7 words with friends games pending.

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!”

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.


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