This is a continuous WTF. The groundhog day of WTF-ness. In fact, it happens so often, it really shouldn't be a WTF, but just a fact of life.
My kids love the bath. They don't take one every day, more in the summer because they are walking dirt pits then, but often. Oldielocks is super old at nine, and prefers showers, but every now and then will jump in the tub for good ol' playtime. Middle stays in until she's a prune, the water's freezing, and she is turning blue. Baloney lands more water on our floor than Shamu, it's true.
We have the same ritual when they get out: towels, lotion, pj's. And since they are all girls, we then do detangler/hair serum/ bacon grease whatever it takes to get the tangles out. Otherwise they will wake up looking like a rat convention took place on the back of their hair. I even braid Baloney's because despite the careful combing, she manages to turn into a dread head, every time.
I have them pick up their towels, clothes, put the toys away. In theory this sounds great, but it fails me every time. Then my bathroom looks spotless. Like not a bath was had. And that's a bad thing? Oh yes, yes it is.
You see, I'll walk in, drop my Victoria's Secret undergarments, sit down, and realize I am on a slip n slide to Hades. My booty will slide like a Honda in an ice storm. I land cheek side up between the toilet and the tub, just about every time. I look like an outlandish fool from a cartoon, my face frozen in terror as I realize that if I had a small butt crack before.... I don't now. Arms thrown out like I'm an umpire calling someone safe at home, and my drawers are all potato sacked race at my feet. I'm a hot mess going nowhere fast.
Every mother WTF time.
Why? Why do they wait until they get in the time to realize they have to pee? I can tell them beforehand, watch them go pee, have them sign legal papers that they will, yet someone has to climb out of the tub, sopping wet, and pee. I always get stuck with the storm surge.
WTF... in my bathroom, all the time.
Showing posts with label WTF Wed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WTF Wed. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Up on the hill
We wont touch on why I haven't blogged, besides the fact that I was abducted by Mongolian skunks and sold to a worm trader in East L.A. True story.
Oldielocks games take up our evenings a lot of the time. I've been dying to do a WTF Wednesday, but I'm changing it up. It's Thursday and we are gonna WTF it.
At these games, you have 6-9 year old girls playing softball. Not one of them is headed for MLB any time soon, but some of the parents, oh my sweet jalapeno jelly, they think they are.
There's this dad who is nothing but a walking WTF. He looks like this guy, from Project Runway.
But bigger, with his ipod constantly in his ears, and girly hat on head. He is loud, and likes to crouch behind the catchers fence when his daughter pitches. When I said crouch, I meant plop his knee down, and then his waistband has some form of elastic malfunction and pretty soon the Grand Canyon in all it's crevice glory is staring at you and you turn away before you get the stink eye creepin out. It's bad. He's about 275 by the way. Which in turn provides a lot of landscape. it doesn't matter that a bazillion people are directly behind him, and after a while your brain takes over and blocks the image from memory. Or at least I wish.
he draws so much attention to himself, between the moon baring squat and the shouting. he calls his whole family when she throws strikes. every time. I kid u not. And this is nothing compared to the first game.
The first game, we are sitting on the hillside. My children, myself. All is quiet except for sweat drippin off the pitcher and chants from the catcher. I am snuggled in my chair, when they earth shook. Well, it sounded like it was shaking. The loudest " BRRRRFFFTHHHTPPP" from behind me, and then to keen sense of hearing, a release of sound. "Ahhhh."
WTF? Did someone just rip ass and then sigh? Straight out of the movies, dirty dirty farting and sighing. And it happened again. My jaw was dropped in disbelief, but closed quickly in case any fart vapors wanted to waft my way. I turned my head slightly, to be sly, but I was really really interested in who the foul farter was. I needed to know names and location to stay far far away in the future.
Ol Project Runway, fartin, crack baring dad is sitting on the hill. But it doesn't end there. The most horrific part of all is he was sitting with his legs up, like whoo hoo hee labor, heads coming position. No way. No nasty way. He then does it again. You know,brings the legs back, gives birth to a 6lb, 7 ounce disgusting fart. Complete with afterbirth. I'm surprised he didn't ask anyone to hold a lighter and see if they would ignite. And all I can think is that is some one's dad. Which means someone, somewhere finds that... attractive. I might puke.
Softball season is almost over. And so is my sense of all that is right in the world.
Oldielocks games take up our evenings a lot of the time. I've been dying to do a WTF Wednesday, but I'm changing it up. It's Thursday and we are gonna WTF it.
At these games, you have 6-9 year old girls playing softball. Not one of them is headed for MLB any time soon, but some of the parents, oh my sweet jalapeno jelly, they think they are.
There's this dad who is nothing but a walking WTF. He looks like this guy, from Project Runway.
But bigger, with his ipod constantly in his ears, and girly hat on head. He is loud, and likes to crouch behind the catchers fence when his daughter pitches. When I said crouch, I meant plop his knee down, and then his waistband has some form of elastic malfunction and pretty soon the Grand Canyon in all it's crevice glory is staring at you and you turn away before you get the stink eye creepin out. It's bad. He's about 275 by the way. Which in turn provides a lot of landscape. it doesn't matter that a bazillion people are directly behind him, and after a while your brain takes over and blocks the image from memory. Or at least I wish.
he draws so much attention to himself, between the moon baring squat and the shouting. he calls his whole family when she throws strikes. every time. I kid u not. And this is nothing compared to the first game.
The first game, we are sitting on the hillside. My children, myself. All is quiet except for sweat drippin off the pitcher and chants from the catcher. I am snuggled in my chair, when they earth shook. Well, it sounded like it was shaking. The loudest " BRRRRFFFTHHHTPPP" from behind me, and then to keen sense of hearing, a release of sound. "Ahhhh."
WTF? Did someone just rip ass and then sigh? Straight out of the movies, dirty dirty farting and sighing. And it happened again. My jaw was dropped in disbelief, but closed quickly in case any fart vapors wanted to waft my way. I turned my head slightly, to be sly, but I was really really interested in who the foul farter was. I needed to know names and location to stay far far away in the future.
Ol Project Runway, fartin, crack baring dad is sitting on the hill. But it doesn't end there. The most horrific part of all is he was sitting with his legs up, like whoo hoo hee labor, heads coming position. No way. No nasty way. He then does it again. You know,brings the legs back, gives birth to a 6lb, 7 ounce disgusting fart. Complete with afterbirth. I'm surprised he didn't ask anyone to hold a lighter and see if they would ignite. And all I can think is that is some one's dad. Which means someone, somewhere finds that... attractive. I might puke.
Softball season is almost over. And so is my sense of all that is right in the world.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
WTF # 23
I am all about fabric these days. Obviously.
Which means may trips to Joanns fabric . Joanns is the armpit of society these days. I have been twice in the past 2 days. Went to one that is further away, in Little Mexico. Seriously every store surrounding it started with El. El Laundromat, El Check into Cash, El Meat Counter, stuff like that. The actual fabric store is in a run-down old Safeway left over from the sixties. But I put on my big girl panties and dealt with it.
I spend a good half hour picking out what I need, and get in the cutting line. When Baloney announces she has to go potty. And she's two. SO when the 2 year old needs to jump on the throne, you run and get it done. Because who wants to deal with pee pee pants and puddles in public. I'm looking around, can't find the restrooms, so I go up front and ask. I wait a bit while they finish their conversation about earthworms and plastics, and then ask where the bathrooms are. I am then informed that they don't have "public restrooms".
WTF?!?!?! This big ol Joanns has no "public restrooms." Whatttt. How about paying customer restrooms? It's not like it's Walgreens where you run in and out. It's a place where people sit, look through books, molest fabric, I mean really. I then ask if they have a bush for her to pee in. Ok, so I didn't really...but I should have. I then take Baloney, load her up in the car, drive her across the 4 lane road to Burger King because if Joann's doesn't have public restrooms, I had a feeling that El dry cleaners didn't either. And I don't read spanish. so there.
We head back to Joann's, get Baloney back out, get out stupid fabric cut and go home and cry for 4.5 hours.
And I decided to torture myself again and head to another Joann's today. This time it was a real quick stop. Baloney climbed into the basket part of the cart and was playing with Dora and Diego. She had taken her shoes off, and I told her she needed to put her shoes back on so she could walk. She stands up to put her boot on, and Amazon Scissorhands screeches in her screechy voice. " Oh honey, she has to sit down while she is in the cart."
Um.. WTF? Who are you? Shopping cart police. I'm annoyed with the fact that I am called Honey. I'm not her honey, and I'm not 5, but thanks. Second of all, I like to think on most days I do the responsible parent thing and pay attention to the safety of my kids. She is not even 3 feet tall, so she'd have to be doing the Samba to fall out of the cart, She's not. She's bent over and I am within an arm's reach of bringing her back to safety. I say "she is fine." Amazon Scissorhands tells me that it is a rule that she has to be sitting. I retort with a juvenile "Says who?" I ask where these rules are posted. She says they aren't. Duh. I guess I must have totally flunked shopping cart etiquette 101 in my parent handbook. She then says "Well, we had a kid tip out, so we are making sure that all children are sitting down." I should have asked her if she is checking immunizations and food intake as well. After all, all children need things like food.
Joanns can kiss my fabric covered ass.
Which means may trips to Joanns fabric . Joanns is the armpit of society these days. I have been twice in the past 2 days. Went to one that is further away, in Little Mexico. Seriously every store surrounding it started with El. El Laundromat, El Check into Cash, El Meat Counter, stuff like that. The actual fabric store is in a run-down old Safeway left over from the sixties. But I put on my big girl panties and dealt with it.
I spend a good half hour picking out what I need, and get in the cutting line. When Baloney announces she has to go potty. And she's two. SO when the 2 year old needs to jump on the throne, you run and get it done. Because who wants to deal with pee pee pants and puddles in public. I'm looking around, can't find the restrooms, so I go up front and ask. I wait a bit while they finish their conversation about earthworms and plastics, and then ask where the bathrooms are. I am then informed that they don't have "public restrooms".
WTF?!?!?! This big ol Joanns has no "public restrooms." Whatttt. How about paying customer restrooms? It's not like it's Walgreens where you run in and out. It's a place where people sit, look through books, molest fabric, I mean really. I then ask if they have a bush for her to pee in. Ok, so I didn't really...but I should have. I then take Baloney, load her up in the car, drive her across the 4 lane road to Burger King because if Joann's doesn't have public restrooms, I had a feeling that El dry cleaners didn't either. And I don't read spanish. so there.
We head back to Joann's, get Baloney back out, get out stupid fabric cut and go home and cry for 4.5 hours.
And I decided to torture myself again and head to another Joann's today. This time it was a real quick stop. Baloney climbed into the basket part of the cart and was playing with Dora and Diego. She had taken her shoes off, and I told her she needed to put her shoes back on so she could walk. She stands up to put her boot on, and Amazon Scissorhands screeches in her screechy voice. " Oh honey, she has to sit down while she is in the cart."
Um.. WTF? Who are you? Shopping cart police. I'm annoyed with the fact that I am called Honey. I'm not her honey, and I'm not 5, but thanks. Second of all, I like to think on most days I do the responsible parent thing and pay attention to the safety of my kids. She is not even 3 feet tall, so she'd have to be doing the Samba to fall out of the cart, She's not. She's bent over and I am within an arm's reach of bringing her back to safety. I say "she is fine." Amazon Scissorhands tells me that it is a rule that she has to be sitting. I retort with a juvenile "Says who?" I ask where these rules are posted. She says they aren't. Duh. I guess I must have totally flunked shopping cart etiquette 101 in my parent handbook. She then says "Well, we had a kid tip out, so we are making sure that all children are sitting down." I should have asked her if she is checking immunizations and food intake as well. After all, all children need things like food.
Joanns can kiss my fabric covered ass.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
WTF #22
*this is dedicated to ~Singer, sister of Jinger, this one's for you*
This past weekend we were at the Wal Mart. Wal Mart who never fails in it's WTFness glory. You can always go in, and experience at least one WTF. If it's not some lady trying to impress you with her 10 years of Wal Mart service yet doesn't know the standard policy, or the cutting lady in the fabric department who is really annoyed that you *gasp* asked her to cut you a few yards of tulle, or just the type that Wal Mart attracts.
It was during our family jaunt for Valentines, specifically Littlest Pet Shop- that they didn't have so we could have really just walked out, but nooooo we needed to get snack bags. And if you give a girl some snack bags, chances are she'll need some cans of kidney beans to go with it. I was making chili, and needed some beans, killin 2 birds with one stone and all.
We are in the canned aisle of spaghettios, corn and the like. A mom and daughter duo in front of us, and Shirley to the left. Now, to really relate to this story, I need to tell you about her size. I am not one to point out who struggles, who doesn't, etc, about their weight, but this is essential. She was big. Very big. Normally not something to bring up in a story, but like I said, it's a necessary evil in this case. I'm slinking down the right side of the aisle, minding my own beeswax, waiting to get to the bean section.
And then the sky clouded over.
Big Shirley steps right next to me, raises her larger arms, and practically smothers me.
WTF!!!?!?!?!?!
She is in such a hurry to get to the Spam, no lie-- she was loading up on the Spam-- that she didn't notice me, and my entourage of children, cart and husband. She brushes up on me, like body to body, closer than two sardines in a burrito. I'm getting all kinds of claustrophobic and my brains is screaming wtf over and over, I'm trying to get out of the way. Who just steam rolls people, with no regard to personal space? She was literally all up on me, skin contact, being a large space invader, it was..... gross. because of all the horrors, she forgot deodorant. I swear some pit vapors got on my clothes.
I scurry like a rat with a cat on it's tail and say "Excuse me." I didn't know what to say, I was just glad to be alive. The husband is behind me and is floored as well. She doesn't say a word. She tosses an annoyed look my way, because I had the nerve to be standing in front of the canned gelatin cat puke. My bad.
I hate Wal Mart, for about 10,000pounds reasons.
This past weekend we were at the Wal Mart. Wal Mart who never fails in it's WTFness glory. You can always go in, and experience at least one WTF. If it's not some lady trying to impress you with her 10 years of Wal Mart service yet doesn't know the standard policy, or the cutting lady in the fabric department who is really annoyed that you *gasp* asked her to cut you a few yards of tulle, or just the type that Wal Mart attracts.
It was during our family jaunt for Valentines, specifically Littlest Pet Shop- that they didn't have so we could have really just walked out, but nooooo we needed to get snack bags. And if you give a girl some snack bags, chances are she'll need some cans of kidney beans to go with it. I was making chili, and needed some beans, killin 2 birds with one stone and all.
We are in the canned aisle of spaghettios, corn and the like. A mom and daughter duo in front of us, and Shirley to the left. Now, to really relate to this story, I need to tell you about her size. I am not one to point out who struggles, who doesn't, etc, about their weight, but this is essential. She was big. Very big. Normally not something to bring up in a story, but like I said, it's a necessary evil in this case. I'm slinking down the right side of the aisle, minding my own beeswax, waiting to get to the bean section.
And then the sky clouded over.
Big Shirley steps right next to me, raises her larger arms, and practically smothers me.
WTF!!!?!?!?!?!
She is in such a hurry to get to the Spam, no lie-- she was loading up on the Spam-- that she didn't notice me, and my entourage of children, cart and husband. She brushes up on me, like body to body, closer than two sardines in a burrito. I'm getting all kinds of claustrophobic and my brains is screaming wtf over and over, I'm trying to get out of the way. Who just steam rolls people, with no regard to personal space? She was literally all up on me, skin contact, being a large space invader, it was..... gross. because of all the horrors, she forgot deodorant. I swear some pit vapors got on my clothes.
I scurry like a rat with a cat on it's tail and say "Excuse me." I didn't know what to say, I was just glad to be alive. The husband is behind me and is floored as well. She doesn't say a word. She tosses an annoyed look my way, because I had the nerve to be standing in front of the canned gelatin cat puke. My bad.
I hate Wal Mart, for about 10,000
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
WTF Wed. #21
I once babysat for a doctor and his wife. I lived in a town known for it's college and medical school, so I have babysat for several doctors and nurses. They had 2 little boys who were adorable, the younger one I had watched since he was 2 months old, and was almost 2. This was my little buddy so of course I was going to babysit. Who knows where they were going or what they were doing, I was just the hired help. He was in his residency, going to be an Ob/Gyn. They left, I watched kids....and then it all went medical. I went to use the bathroom, the downstairs GUEST bathroom and there were books all over the place. On the sink was Uterus United, on the wall -several issues of You and your Va-jay-jay, on the back of the toilet was the hardcore female anatomy encyclopedia. It was everything short of a pap smear in there. I was thinking this dude is serious about his fallopian tubes and ovaries.
I was all "WTF" over the family room though. On the coffee table, amongst the matchbox cars and popcorn dishes, was a plethora of other learning materials. Complete with visuals of all kinds of STD's. I had nightmares of Gonorrhea and her sister Chlamydia for days. Not sure why it was on the coffee table though...so their kids could read up on what dad does all day?And.... instead of putting shapes into a shape sorter, they had pull apart female reproductive system, kind of a uterus meets Mr. Potato head. It was violating in about 30 different intellectual ways.
They arrived home around midnight, after I put their own products of reproduction to bed. They both were a little on the sloshy side, and she had some dark purple teeth. Apparently they had been wine tasting, She hands me $50 dollars and off I go.
The next day at work (the daycare) she tells me that I was lucky she was tipsy because I'll never see that amount of cash for babysitting again. WTF?!?!?! I wondered if she realized she gave me 50... for 2 kids... for about 6 hours.... that's nothing special. She made it sound like she had given me a hundred or something. Sureeee didn't. I totally felt like I was owed an office copay after spending the evening in the hoo haa doctor office of horrors.
I was all "WTF" over the family room though. On the coffee table, amongst the matchbox cars and popcorn dishes, was a plethora of other learning materials. Complete with visuals of all kinds of STD's. I had nightmares of Gonorrhea and her sister Chlamydia for days. Not sure why it was on the coffee table though...so their kids could read up on what dad does all day?And.... instead of putting shapes into a shape sorter, they had pull apart female reproductive system, kind of a uterus meets Mr. Potato head. It was violating in about 30 different intellectual ways.
They arrived home around midnight, after I put their own products of reproduction to bed. They both were a little on the sloshy side, and she had some dark purple teeth. Apparently they had been wine tasting, She hands me $50 dollars and off I go.
The next day at work (the daycare) she tells me that I was lucky she was tipsy because I'll never see that amount of cash for babysitting again. WTF?!?!?! I wondered if she realized she gave me 50... for 2 kids... for about 6 hours.... that's nothing special. She made it sound like she had given me a hundred or something. Sureeee didn't. I totally felt like I was owed an office copay after spending the evening in the hoo haa doctor office of horrors.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
WTF Wed. #20
I had an appendectomy at 24, about 5 weeks after having Middle. I didn't feel good, almost like when you start to get the flu, and was just uncomfortable. The pain was very dull, annoying and all I wanted to do was cut whatever it was out with a butter knife. Why a butter knife, I have no clue, probably because I am freakishly medical like that.
I end up pleading with the husband to take me to the hospital. It was a few hours of craziness, and several huge WTF's, including the line "We'll just go in and take a look, and if it's your appendix, we'll take it out." You mean you are just gonna start hacking away and hope you find something good to take out? Frickin Cannibals. Trying to sell my liver on the black market or something.
After my surgery, I end up in recovery and awake to some grandma asking me if I want chap stick. Here I am, high as a kite, moving like an elephant on downers, have no clue where I am at, could have been in Guatemala for all I knew, and Grandma Nurse is wondering if I want chap stick? Give a girl some MAC lip glass, and a pedicure while you're offering. I guess my lips were super chapped. Whatever.
A few hours later, I'm all cozy in my bed, the husband is holding the baby and I remember I had been filleted like a fish. My brother had a huge scar on his lower abs, from his appendectomy as a teenager, so I was getting ready to check mine out. I shuffle my ugly hospital gown wearing self over to the bathroom door, and get ready to check. I open up the blue and pink sack I was wearing and look down.....
I see a set of bandages on the top of my belly button, which I think is weird, because last I checked the appendix isn't in the middle of one's abdomen, but then I notice another set of bandages to the left of my belly button.
WTF!
They just started slicing, hit or miss style all over my stomach? And then, to add insult to injury, the husband says, "there's one underneath your belly button."
Are you for WTF reals?
I am a walking science experiment, if I drink water I am gonna leak like a sieve, I look like I was jumped by a bunch of knife swallowers from the dang circus. In modern day medicine and after having a balloon wand shoved up my hind end, yes they absolutely did, and a cat scan, you're telling me they had to dissect me like a fermented frog to find my appendix.
I started to cry, probably the anesthesia and drugs talking. Three scars. Not one battle scar. but THREE? Someone, somewhere hates me. Bye bye bikini, hello hunchback of Notre dame belly.
When the doctor came in later, the first thing I did was throw back the covers, open my gown and said "WHAT is this?" He laughed, because he though he was Dr. Comedian. He then tells me how they stick a camera in one section and the tools in the other, chop up the appendix like it is beef stroganoff and suck it out. Absolutely disgusting. And create a geometric pattern on my stomach. I was cheated out of a cool 3 inch scar and was given 3 one inch scars. That's not funny.
I have a scar for no other purpose but a camera. They could have at least given me pictures. Life's not fair.
I end up pleading with the husband to take me to the hospital. It was a few hours of craziness, and several huge WTF's, including the line "We'll just go in and take a look, and if it's your appendix, we'll take it out." You mean you are just gonna start hacking away and hope you find something good to take out? Frickin Cannibals. Trying to sell my liver on the black market or something.
After my surgery, I end up in recovery and awake to some grandma asking me if I want chap stick. Here I am, high as a kite, moving like an elephant on downers, have no clue where I am at, could have been in Guatemala for all I knew, and Grandma Nurse is wondering if I want chap stick? Give a girl some MAC lip glass, and a pedicure while you're offering. I guess my lips were super chapped. Whatever.
A few hours later, I'm all cozy in my bed, the husband is holding the baby and I remember I had been filleted like a fish. My brother had a huge scar on his lower abs, from his appendectomy as a teenager, so I was getting ready to check mine out. I shuffle my ugly hospital gown wearing self over to the bathroom door, and get ready to check. I open up the blue and pink sack I was wearing and look down.....
I see a set of bandages on the top of my belly button, which I think is weird, because last I checked the appendix isn't in the middle of one's abdomen, but then I notice another set of bandages to the left of my belly button.
WTF!
They just started slicing, hit or miss style all over my stomach? And then, to add insult to injury, the husband says, "there's one underneath your belly button."
Are you for WTF reals?
I am a walking science experiment, if I drink water I am gonna leak like a sieve, I look like I was jumped by a bunch of knife swallowers from the dang circus. In modern day medicine and after having a balloon wand shoved up my hind end, yes they absolutely did, and a cat scan, you're telling me they had to dissect me like a fermented frog to find my appendix.
I started to cry, probably the anesthesia and drugs talking. Three scars. Not one battle scar. but THREE? Someone, somewhere hates me. Bye bye bikini, hello hunchback of Notre dame belly.
When the doctor came in later, the first thing I did was throw back the covers, open my gown and said "WHAT is this?" He laughed, because he though he was Dr. Comedian. He then tells me how they stick a camera in one section and the tools in the other, chop up the appendix like it is beef stroganoff and suck it out. Absolutely disgusting. And create a geometric pattern on my stomach. I was cheated out of a cool 3 inch scar and was given 3 one inch scars. That's not funny.
I have a scar for no other purpose but a camera. They could have at least given me pictures. Life's not fair.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
WTF wednesday #19
She ain't nothin but a gold wearer....
Mustard and Ketchup had a love child on this bed. And named it Nea.
WTF.......
Who does this? A rousing game of Where's the Baby? Or was this pre- Olan Mills studio, where matching your outfit to the background was the hip thing? Which came first, the sleeper or the hat... the pillows or the bed?
Either way, what a seventie's gold lovin train wreck.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
WTF#18
dear fat,
I've spent days, thinking about how to break the news to you, but I'm not one who sugar coats things.I'll break it to you like this:
You gots to go.
It's been fun, all our little trips to McDonalds, Del Taco, my fav mexican restaurant. Christmas cookies, egg nog, home style cookin. I've appreciated your company, but you're taking over.
You leave your sloppy mess wherever you are. Have you seen my arse? You just moved right in and started rearranging things. I don't even think we need to mention "french fries' and you start creepin all your junk into my belly. Like you own the joint. We don't have the same goals, or plans. I see that cute bikini, and you try to steer me over to the one piece with fat decorating skirt. Not anymore.
It's been real, but I'm getting a restraining order.
So that's the start of my WTF. Ch Ch Ch CHanges around here. I'm trying to get my fitness on, and bought Jillian Michaels 30 day Shred. She's from the Biggest Loser, and I've seen the winners. She must know something.
I pop that bad boy in, and start doing jumping jacks. I can jump, and I keep jumping, then pretty soon, I'm squatting, and pushing, and lifting, and sweating like a whole harlem in church. The girl is ruthless. There are no breaks, there's no let's discuss this. It's make or break. And I swear my bones are breaking. Crack by crack I can feel it. She then has us do more squats, and lifts, and jumping. Then she had the NERVE, to tell me, right through the Tv, looking at me in my sweat drippin eye, that if 400 pound people can do jumping jacks and jump rope, then so can I.
WTF!!!!
First of all, Miss Jillian slave driver, general boot camp, I can jump. Give me some credit. Second of all, my heart is racing, I am panting, and sweating like a filthy beast. Because fealthy beast sweat is the worst of all. 400 pound people ain't got nothin on me. Trying to say I am a weakling. As if. I'm standing here, literally kicking my own ass - which she has you do like a million times in this video. I so wanted to shove a cupcake in her face.
She continues to make me work out, during which I continue to cuss out her mom, her grandma and her little dog too. Seriously I do. Half the time Jillian is walking around, pointing out her helpers so I'd like to see her do this whole workout without crying.
The cool down was awesome. It involved me, laying on my bed, encouraging them to finish. After all, they got paid. Besides I don't think I could have gotten up if I tried.
Here is what the dvd looks like, in case you like to be tortured. I'll let you know if it was worth it.
I've spent days, thinking about how to break the news to you, but I'm not one who sugar coats things.I'll break it to you like this:
You gots to go.
It's been fun, all our little trips to McDonalds, Del Taco, my fav mexican restaurant. Christmas cookies, egg nog, home style cookin. I've appreciated your company, but you're taking over.
You leave your sloppy mess wherever you are. Have you seen my arse? You just moved right in and started rearranging things. I don't even think we need to mention "french fries' and you start creepin all your junk into my belly. Like you own the joint. We don't have the same goals, or plans. I see that cute bikini, and you try to steer me over to the one piece with fat decorating skirt. Not anymore.
It's been real, but I'm getting a restraining order.
So that's the start of my WTF. Ch Ch Ch CHanges around here. I'm trying to get my fitness on, and bought Jillian Michaels 30 day Shred. She's from the Biggest Loser, and I've seen the winners. She must know something.
I pop that bad boy in, and start doing jumping jacks. I can jump, and I keep jumping, then pretty soon, I'm squatting, and pushing, and lifting, and sweating like a whole harlem in church. The girl is ruthless. There are no breaks, there's no let's discuss this. It's make or break. And I swear my bones are breaking. Crack by crack I can feel it. She then has us do more squats, and lifts, and jumping. Then she had the NERVE, to tell me, right through the Tv, looking at me in my sweat drippin eye, that if 400 pound people can do jumping jacks and jump rope, then so can I.
WTF!!!!
First of all, Miss Jillian slave driver, general boot camp, I can jump. Give me some credit. Second of all, my heart is racing, I am panting, and sweating like a filthy beast. Because fealthy beast sweat is the worst of all. 400 pound people ain't got nothin on me. Trying to say I am a weakling. As if. I'm standing here, literally kicking my own ass - which she has you do like a million times in this video. I so wanted to shove a cupcake in her face.
She continues to make me work out, during which I continue to cuss out her mom, her grandma and her little dog too. Seriously I do. Half the time Jillian is walking around, pointing out her helpers so I'd like to see her do this whole workout without crying.
The cool down was awesome. It involved me, laying on my bed, encouraging them to finish. After all, they got paid. Besides I don't think I could have gotten up if I tried.
Here is what the dvd looks like, in case you like to be tortured. I'll let you know if it was worth it.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
WTF Wednesday #17(even though it's thursday)
(yesterday was my brother's birthday so I was busy with all that celebratin' nonsense)
Back to our regularly scheduled wtf-ness.
I'm 18. My friend is 19. She is going to meet this guy, but she wasn't a big dater, and was nervous, blah blah, and asked me to come along. Let me clarify that as much as I like being the center of the universe, I wasn't down with being the third wheel. The driver of the limo. It's awkward, unnatural and I had my own boys to chase. Not that I recommend boy chasing, but hey, it's a rite of passage.
I finally agree, and then as if to sweeten the deal she says, "He's bringing a friend." This could be great, if he's a super hot tall surfer with rockin' skater shoes and dimples. Shallow isn't only for swimming pools. Or this could be bad, if he is shorter than me, with big zits and likes Star Trek. And Dilbert.
We show up at the local miniature golf place. And there is her dude, looking all right, her eyes are shooting hearts out, she's off and running. Leaving me with Juan.
Juan had a very thick accent, despite being from Orange County. Supposedly. The whole "Chu like my hair? Chu like me?" kind of lead me to believe otherwise. He talked about racing, pig racing, his mom, his aunt, his dog, and how he needed a job. And a car. Maybe I could drive up to the OC and see him some time. Errrr yeah. I spent the next hour wondering why I didn't have hair to wash instead of playing putt putt.
It's time to leave, and I did about 90 back flips. Until in the car,she BEGS me to go to the beach with her, so she could hangout with her dude some more. Was she for real? I had just pretty much given her the gift equivalent to giving a kidney, in my opinion, and now she wants me to spend more time? With him? I'd rather stab myself in the ear drum. With a chopstick.
Because I am a saint, and I needed a big fat deposit in my karma bank, I went. We arrive at the beach, and Juan is singing some Mexican polka song. At the top of his lungs. She and her dude walk off. And leave me with Nacho Libre. He tells me all about how he only gets drunk on the weekends, and if I washis girlfriend,he knows of some cute things he would buy me from Wal Mart. Ick. He tries to hold my hand. Telling me that he once proposed to a girl on the beach. She said No, but he's sure it was because he was too much of a man for her, complete with "if you know what I mean."
WTF!?!?!?
I do not know what you mean, I have no intention of knowing what you mean, and I am stringing my friend up by the hair of her arms when she returns and shipping her to Russia. That was my only concern.
I spotted a playground and I was like sweet, I'll just swing until she comes back. And then the jokes started,the really really lame jokes. Like chickens crossing roads jokes. And my head hurt. And I began to wonder why I hadn't gone away to exchange school in Sweden. Or if they needed help in the McDonald's across the way. Maybe they needed the bathrooms plunged. I could plunge bathrooms. Right then, I could do anything else but what I was doing. I start walking to find my friend. He then tried to kiss me. But his B.O. got to me first. And knocked me off my feet. It was HORRID.
I got away, and kept walking. I am now regretting that I am a girl, or that I have any friends, why oh why couldn't I have been born in a forest. Raised by fairies. Been called Tinkerbell. I think he was getting my drift that I was over this, so he then says "Watch this", and unzips his fly and takes a wizz. Right next to me. It splattered, and I was about ten seconds from punching him in his junk. And I am not a junk puncher. But I would have, because the situation almost warranted it. I wished I had mace. Or at least bug repellent.
He was saved by the bell because looky, here comes my "friend."
That was that. I don't think she ever asked me to take one for the team again. Karma bank was full, and I needed to bleach my skin.
Back to our regularly scheduled wtf-ness.
I'm 18. My friend is 19. She is going to meet this guy, but she wasn't a big dater, and was nervous, blah blah, and asked me to come along. Let me clarify that as much as I like being the center of the universe, I wasn't down with being the third wheel. The driver of the limo. It's awkward, unnatural and I had my own boys to chase. Not that I recommend boy chasing, but hey, it's a rite of passage.
I finally agree, and then as if to sweeten the deal she says, "He's bringing a friend." This could be great, if he's a super hot tall surfer with rockin' skater shoes and dimples. Shallow isn't only for swimming pools. Or this could be bad, if he is shorter than me, with big zits and likes Star Trek. And Dilbert.
We show up at the local miniature golf place. And there is her dude, looking all right, her eyes are shooting hearts out, she's off and running. Leaving me with Juan.
Juan had a very thick accent, despite being from Orange County. Supposedly. The whole "Chu like my hair? Chu like me?" kind of lead me to believe otherwise. He talked about racing, pig racing, his mom, his aunt, his dog, and how he needed a job. And a car. Maybe I could drive up to the OC and see him some time. Errrr yeah. I spent the next hour wondering why I didn't have hair to wash instead of playing putt putt.
It's time to leave, and I did about 90 back flips. Until in the car,she BEGS me to go to the beach with her, so she could hangout with her dude some more. Was she for real? I had just pretty much given her the gift equivalent to giving a kidney, in my opinion, and now she wants me to spend more time? With him? I'd rather stab myself in the ear drum. With a chopstick.
Because I am a saint, and I needed a big fat deposit in my karma bank, I went. We arrive at the beach, and Juan is singing some Mexican polka song. At the top of his lungs. She and her dude walk off. And leave me with Nacho Libre. He tells me all about how he only gets drunk on the weekends, and if I washis girlfriend,he knows of some cute things he would buy me from Wal Mart. Ick. He tries to hold my hand. Telling me that he once proposed to a girl on the beach. She said No, but he's sure it was because he was too much of a man for her, complete with "if you know what I mean."
WTF!?!?!?
I do not know what you mean, I have no intention of knowing what you mean, and I am stringing my friend up by the hair of her arms when she returns and shipping her to Russia. That was my only concern.
I spotted a playground and I was like sweet, I'll just swing until she comes back. And then the jokes started,the really really lame jokes. Like chickens crossing roads jokes. And my head hurt. And I began to wonder why I hadn't gone away to exchange school in Sweden. Or if they needed help in the McDonald's across the way. Maybe they needed the bathrooms plunged. I could plunge bathrooms. Right then, I could do anything else but what I was doing. I start walking to find my friend. He then tried to kiss me. But his B.O. got to me first. And knocked me off my feet. It was HORRID.
I got away, and kept walking. I am now regretting that I am a girl, or that I have any friends, why oh why couldn't I have been born in a forest. Raised by fairies. Been called Tinkerbell. I think he was getting my drift that I was over this, so he then says "Watch this", and unzips his fly and takes a wizz. Right next to me. It splattered, and I was about ten seconds from punching him in his junk. And I am not a junk puncher. But I would have, because the situation almost warranted it. I wished I had mace. Or at least bug repellent.
He was saved by the bell because looky, here comes my "friend."
That was that. I don't think she ever asked me to take one for the team again. Karma bank was full, and I needed to bleach my skin.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
WTF #16
2008 is almost over.
wtf?
where did it go?
Oldielocks is 8, and bought lip gloss at Limited Too today. wtf? who said she could grow up?
Middle is 6, and is missing a tooth and pierced her ears. All in this last month. wtf? who said she could grow up?
Baloney is 2, and peeing on the potty. While dressed in a size 6 Snow White costume and beanie on her head.wtf? who said she could grow up?
they are growing up. and getting bigger. and wiser. I have to keep one step ahead of them.
Tomorrow is 2009.
wtf?
where did it go?
Oldielocks is 8, and bought lip gloss at Limited Too today. wtf? who said she could grow up?
Middle is 6, and is missing a tooth and pierced her ears. All in this last month. wtf? who said she could grow up?
Baloney is 2, and peeing on the potty. While dressed in a size 6 Snow White costume and beanie on her head.wtf? who said she could grow up?
they are growing up. and getting bigger. and wiser. I have to keep one step ahead of them.
Tomorrow is 2009.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
WTF Wednesday #15
Goin' to the chapel and we're gonnnnnna get marrrrieeedddd.
I've been to lots of weddings. LOTS. All kinds, catholic, mexican, christian, outside, inside, hotels, parks, military, so many. When the husband and I were dating, one of his relatives at the time..... it's all complicated, but I'm not one to draw the branches of the family tree, but we'll keep it at "relative" was getting married. In another state. Now, let's all say in unison how I'm a west coast girl, still shell shocked about any other place other than So Cal. Second verse same as the first. And of course, this was in Michigan.
We drive to this quaint little town, in a cute little town church. Adorable. Laura Ingalls was playing in the churchyard, I swear. And I *heart* Laura Ingalls and her down home goodness, so you know I was digging this church. Wedding was pretty, quick and easy and it was on to the reception time.
We have our directions, and can't find this place for anything. We call boyfriend/husbands mom, and she tells us it's behind the party store. For those who are not in with the cool crowd, these Yankeeganders call the liquor store A.K.A 7-11 "party stores". I can only imagine why. But that's what they are. They are not a one stop shop to get your Winnie The Pooh birthday supplies. I dunno who would think such a thing.... probably some naive west coast bozo of a girl....if I had to take a guess. They even have drive through "party stores", yes, yes they do. So you can get your drink on all the faster. Apparently.
We pull up and....um.... WTF!
The reception was behind the part store... as in parking. You then gallivanted your way to the door... underneath the party store.
Yes, we are now entering the reception, underneath the vodka aisle. We go sit down at our plastic checkered tablecloth covered lunch table, complete with a bowl of mints that are stale, and pastel, as if they were used at George Washington's baby shower.
I look up and see blue and red lights. The ones that belong on a squad car, in various spots of the ceilings. And they thought I was half kidding when I mentioned if the lights were to warn us if the pace upstairs was being held up. By a thirsty masked hairy and 3/4 naked man. But I wasn't kidding. I was dead serious. I was WTF times a thousand all over the place.
It was time to eat, and we get in the buffet line. We can have 7 layer bean salad. Or ham in some congealed sauce... much like spam. Or green beans... not to be confused with the 7 bean compadre at the beginning of the table. They had some marshmallow fluff dainty cloud thing. But thank god for the rolls. Rolls are safe. Rolls are what get you through when times are tough and you are stuck at a wedding with 3 olives and a dead jellied pig staring you in the eye. Rolls matter.
We had rolls. And decided it was quiting time while the groomsmen were taking shots out of coffee mugs, so we dug our coats out from next to the igloo cooler that housed the capri suns, and snuck out the back door. Of the basement reception hall... beneath the liquor shack.
I have no idea if these people are still married.
I've been to lots of weddings. LOTS. All kinds, catholic, mexican, christian, outside, inside, hotels, parks, military, so many. When the husband and I were dating, one of his relatives at the time..... it's all complicated, but I'm not one to draw the branches of the family tree, but we'll keep it at "relative" was getting married. In another state. Now, let's all say in unison how I'm a west coast girl, still shell shocked about any other place other than So Cal. Second verse same as the first. And of course, this was in Michigan.
We drive to this quaint little town, in a cute little town church. Adorable. Laura Ingalls was playing in the churchyard, I swear. And I *heart* Laura Ingalls and her down home goodness, so you know I was digging this church. Wedding was pretty, quick and easy and it was on to the reception time.
We have our directions, and can't find this place for anything. We call boyfriend/husbands mom, and she tells us it's behind the party store. For those who are not in with the cool crowd, these Yankeeganders call the liquor store A.K.A 7-11 "party stores". I can only imagine why. But that's what they are. They are not a one stop shop to get your Winnie The Pooh birthday supplies. I dunno who would think such a thing.... probably some naive west coast bozo of a girl....if I had to take a guess. They even have drive through "party stores", yes, yes they do. So you can get your drink on all the faster. Apparently.
We pull up and....um.... WTF!
The reception was behind the part store... as in parking. You then gallivanted your way to the door... underneath the party store.
Yes, we are now entering the reception, underneath the vodka aisle. We go sit down at our plastic checkered tablecloth covered lunch table, complete with a bowl of mints that are stale, and pastel, as if they were used at George Washington's baby shower.
I look up and see blue and red lights. The ones that belong on a squad car, in various spots of the ceilings. And they thought I was half kidding when I mentioned if the lights were to warn us if the pace upstairs was being held up. By a thirsty masked hairy and 3/4 naked man. But I wasn't kidding. I was dead serious. I was WTF times a thousand all over the place.
It was time to eat, and we get in the buffet line. We can have 7 layer bean salad. Or ham in some congealed sauce... much like spam. Or green beans... not to be confused with the 7 bean compadre at the beginning of the table. They had some marshmallow fluff dainty cloud thing. But thank god for the rolls. Rolls are safe. Rolls are what get you through when times are tough and you are stuck at a wedding with 3 olives and a dead jellied pig staring you in the eye. Rolls matter.
We had rolls. And decided it was quiting time while the groomsmen were taking shots out of coffee mugs, so we dug our coats out from next to the igloo cooler that housed the capri suns, and snuck out the back door. Of the basement reception hall... beneath the liquor shack.
I have no idea if these people are still married.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
WTF #14
It's December.
Which, before you shout out a big old snarky "Thank you Captain Obvious...", I'm making a point. Point is, I have to go out shopping. A lot. Because I have several siblings and in-law and out law siblings. All kinds of whack jobs in this bunch, but alas, they need gifts.
I go into MACYS, to get something that I already had picked out for Construction Brother. I look and see a multitude of heavenly hosts -er, sale signs. Sorry the Christmas spirit is trying to over take my blog. The jacket I want to get him is on sale. 25% off Men's Action outerwear. And I have a coupon. Someone really, really likes me today.
So I thought.
I take it up to Ken, you know of Barbie and Ken? Blonde, plastic face, equally as plastic personality. I think his hair had no chance of moving, at that moment or in an f-4 tornado.
Ken is super chipper, in a plastic super chipper sort of way. I place the coat on the counter and we proceed.
"69.50 is your total."
"Isn't it supposed to be 25% off?"
"Um....let me..... (pretend to look around and figure out this oh so perplexing problem all the while my plastic hair chills in place)....no... actually the only things on sales are hoodies and things."
"It says outerwear."
"well.... this is considered a shirt."
WTF!!!
(here is a picture of said shirt)
This shirt has a Sherpa lining, because all shirts are made of heavy flannel, Sherpa lining, and then soft silkie-esque lining in the arms. Especially shirts in Southern California, you know we got to have protection from the frozen tundra out here. Good thing you can layer your jacket, you know the other thing with Sherpa lining over this one. Construction Brother, meet the Abominable flannel lovin Snowman.
"That's a shirt? It has lining inside....and it's bulky, with more lining in the arms. No way someone is going to tuck that in their pants.....I'm pretty sure it's a jacket. In fact, I'm convinced."
"Nope, we sell it as a shirt."
"But it looks exactly like that flannel over there, that you are selling as a jacket. The only difference I see is color. Sherpa lining, everything the same."
"It's just what it's labeled as. The hoodies and the jackets are the outerwear that's on sale."
"I get that, I'm just baffled by the fact that you call this a shirt, when clearly, it's not."
"well good news is, with your coupon it's only 59 dollars."
Is Ken Doll serious? Yay, you choked on a dead worm in your salad, but at least it wasn't poisonous, even though there should be no worms in your salad. wtf-ever. Have fun working in MACYS, the idiotic clothes store.
" I guess, even though it would have been even cheaper had it qualified as a jacket in the sale lotto."
"Hee hee."
"Can I get a box?"
"Sure." Ken Doll looks around and his plastic eyes size up the 12 inch pile of heavy flannel and Sherpa shirt. "This is all I have, hopefully it fits."
"I don't see why it wouldn't fit in a shirt box, seeing how it's a shirt and all."
Then I walked my MACYS hating ass away.
and ps, his name really was Ken.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
WTF wednesday #13
When Oldielocks was in K and 1st grade, I walked her to and from school everyday. It was one street over, a short little jaunt, and tho it sucked frozen polar bear balls in the winter, it was actually fun, very mayberry and June Cleaver like.
We had this neighbor on the corner, old lady and her man. They weren't married, both had kids that were 40 or more. Their yard was full of junk yard toys. Like a wooden dog taking a poo, with a bubble sign that said "No! No! No!." Which is good, because all the neighborhood dogs would always read her sign and take a doggie dump in the yard next door. Or so the thought. They had an owl mirror hanging in the tree, a skunk in their rock garden, geese planters, Bows in their bushes, a well in their driveway, really just a big fat Snow White meets Odd Lots and had a cheap plastic hot mess of a baby.
One day, as the hubby and the kids and I were walking home, she was outside. She stopped and asked us about moving, commented on the girls, etc. Then she wanted to show us something inside. Of course, my stranger danger PBS afternoon special radar goes off. Then again, I am 20 something, and there is no way she is going to chop me up and put me in cookies. That would be hell of a lot of cookies.
The inside is exactly like the outside. A cheap china store threw up in the living room, a dollar store was maimed in the kitchen, and an antique shop had started growing in the back room. She starts giving us a tour of her little house, showing us where she kept her clothes,telling me how she has to run *shudder* naked *shudder* from the bathroom to the third bedroom. Of course I am jotting down mental notes, such as, ...never get close to neighbor's windows for fear of catching a glimpse of this wrinkly, leathery naked lady with a white lion's mane streaking around her house, sidestepping the 4 china cabinets and toy train on the floor... somethingoffbeat like that.
Then it happens. The hubby leaves me with the white haired friendly yet loony neighbor, pleading something about snack time, and I am stuck.
By myself.
No way out.
Just me, floating around crap's creek, without a damn paddle or a boat.
Making more mental notes....divorce hubby for treason.....
She invites me downstairs, because she absolutely has to show me where they have card parties with their friends. It's such a cozy place, and she fixed it all up. Everyone loves coming over.
In their basement.
I go downstairs, ignoring the 3 different kinds of carpet remnants on the stairs.
Um......
to sum it up nicely...
a thrift store had explosive diarrhea all over their basement.
The front part is set up like a room. With a bed, and an ugly 50's table. As in you sit on the bed, and throw down a pair of two's. Or an ace of Spades. And gather up your loot of Mentos, or however they high roll. Perhaps bottles of Metamucil. I dunno. There is a T.V. and clothes hanging up. Her bras are hanging everywhere. And a horrific yellow and orange couch. That she probably bought when she turned 40. She has fake flowers in vases, you know, to make the place look pretty. Snazz it up. Impress the homies. There is posters of cats on the wall. And a pile of romance books.
We walk past into the second part, the diarrhea trickles into there, and see Mt. Cardboard box. It blocks the windows. She digs around, showing me junk and then she hands me a box. That she wants me to have. That she knows Hubby will put to good use. And since I am super polite and will not break a sweet old lady with white crazy hair's heart, I smile and accept it. She talks some more and I leave. I kissed the ground outside and ran away. fast. I swear it was cookie making time in there.
I get home, and open the box.
It
is
a
bunch.......
of.......
WTF!!!!!!!!
old, used t-shirts. Folded up neatly. One was in bright fluorescent pink and blue, screaming Daytona Beach, that was probably from Spring Break of '84. Some other crazy throwbacks. Towards the bottom are tons of white undershirts. Used. Complete with stinky yellow pit stains.
Perhaps from her ex husband. Or her son. Or she bought them at a garage sale along with all the other crapola in her house. The hubby is staring. And staring. At the pit stains. I think they are staring back. And then we both collapse into a fit of laughter.
At least it wasn't used underwear.
We had this neighbor on the corner, old lady and her man. They weren't married, both had kids that were 40 or more. Their yard was full of junk yard toys. Like a wooden dog taking a poo, with a bubble sign that said "No! No! No!." Which is good, because all the neighborhood dogs would always read her sign and take a doggie dump in the yard next door. Or so the thought. They had an owl mirror hanging in the tree, a skunk in their rock garden, geese planters, Bows in their bushes, a well in their driveway, really just a big fat Snow White meets Odd Lots and had a cheap plastic hot mess of a baby.
One day, as the hubby and the kids and I were walking home, she was outside. She stopped and asked us about moving, commented on the girls, etc. Then she wanted to show us something inside. Of course, my stranger danger PBS afternoon special radar goes off. Then again, I am 20 something, and there is no way she is going to chop me up and put me in cookies. That would be hell of a lot of cookies.
The inside is exactly like the outside. A cheap china store threw up in the living room, a dollar store was maimed in the kitchen, and an antique shop had started growing in the back room. She starts giving us a tour of her little house, showing us where she kept her clothes,telling me how she has to run *shudder* naked *shudder* from the bathroom to the third bedroom. Of course I am jotting down mental notes, such as, ...never get close to neighbor's windows for fear of catching a glimpse of this wrinkly, leathery naked lady with a white lion's mane streaking around her house, sidestepping the 4 china cabinets and toy train on the floor... somethingoffbeat like that.
Then it happens. The hubby leaves me with the white haired friendly yet loony neighbor, pleading something about snack time, and I am stuck.
By myself.
No way out.
Just me, floating around crap's creek, without a damn paddle or a boat.
Making more mental notes....divorce hubby for treason.....
She invites me downstairs, because she absolutely has to show me where they have card parties with their friends. It's such a cozy place, and she fixed it all up. Everyone loves coming over.
In their basement.
I go downstairs, ignoring the 3 different kinds of carpet remnants on the stairs.
Um......
to sum it up nicely...
a thrift store had explosive diarrhea all over their basement.
The front part is set up like a room. With a bed, and an ugly 50's table. As in you sit on the bed, and throw down a pair of two's. Or an ace of Spades. And gather up your loot of Mentos, or however they high roll. Perhaps bottles of Metamucil. I dunno. There is a T.V. and clothes hanging up. Her bras are hanging everywhere. And a horrific yellow and orange couch. That she probably bought when she turned 40. She has fake flowers in vases, you know, to make the place look pretty. Snazz it up. Impress the homies. There is posters of cats on the wall. And a pile of romance books.
We walk past into the second part, the diarrhea trickles into there, and see Mt. Cardboard box. It blocks the windows. She digs around, showing me junk and then she hands me a box. That she wants me to have. That she knows Hubby will put to good use. And since I am super polite and will not break a sweet old lady with white crazy hair's heart, I smile and accept it. She talks some more and I leave. I kissed the ground outside and ran away. fast. I swear it was cookie making time in there.
I get home, and open the box.
It
is
a
bunch.......
of.......
WTF!!!!!!!!
old, used t-shirts. Folded up neatly. One was in bright fluorescent pink and blue, screaming Daytona Beach, that was probably from Spring Break of '84. Some other crazy throwbacks. Towards the bottom are tons of white undershirts. Used. Complete with stinky yellow pit stains.
Perhaps from her ex husband. Or her son. Or she bought them at a garage sale along with all the other crapola in her house. The hubby is staring. And staring. At the pit stains. I think they are staring back. And then we both collapse into a fit of laughter.
At least it wasn't used underwear.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
WTF Wednesday #12
Christmas is coming. I kind of... sort of.... forgot to blog a bit, but only because I was working on christmas cards, and christmas gifts. It's not like I forgot to feed my kids...again.
back when I was 6...7, I was all about My Little Pony. We actually had horses and a REAL pony, which most kids dream of, but that wasn't good enough for me. Who wants a real live pony you can ride, when you can play with plastic ponies. Who you calling ungrateful? Me? Okay, I'll take it.
I had a few ponies, with super fabulous names like Blossom, Moondancer, Starshine. They had their own hairbrushes, and I would brush their hair all the time- unlike mine. Mine was a hot mess, but that's another WTF for another Wednesday. I would play outside with them, inside, wherever. But since I was a smart cookie, I had dreams. Dreams of a stable. Our REAL pony had a stable, which means that my little ponies needed a stable. Right?
So I asked for this for Christmas
back when I was 6...7, I was all about My Little Pony. We actually had horses and a REAL pony, which most kids dream of, but that wasn't good enough for me. Who wants a real live pony you can ride, when you can play with plastic ponies. Who you calling ungrateful? Me? Okay, I'll take it.
I had a few ponies, with super fabulous names like Blossom, Moondancer, Starshine. They had their own hairbrushes, and I would brush their hair all the time- unlike mine. Mine was a hot mess, but that's another WTF for another Wednesday. I would play outside with them, inside, wherever. But since I was a smart cookie, I had dreams. Dreams of a stable. Our REAL pony had a stable, which means that my little ponies needed a stable. Right?
So I asked for this for Christmas
Christmas morning, I waited for the go ahead. My parents were THOSE parents, with the whole, you had to wake them up, they would make coffee, start a fire, count specks in the concrete, any time wasting activity just to watch us squirm, I swear. When we were all down stairs, I saw it.
My beloved stable, in all it's plastic glory. It wasn't wrapped up, wasn't in a box, it was all set up, BEGGING me to play with it, name it, and raise it. It was sitting on an end table, so I just crouched down and opened it up......
WTF!!!!!
There was.
.
.
.
.
.
.
HORSE POOP IN MY BRAND NEW STABLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I think my jaw fell open, my body turned to stone, my hair fell out and I didn't move.
Apple Jack was eating at the little trough, with a pile of horsey doo doo at her tail end.
The sound of pure evil laughter erupted behind me. Had I been kidnapped? ALL the adults around me, the parents, the aunts, the uncles, grandma, EVEN GRANDMA was laughing. Not just "hee hee hoo hoo" laughing, but peemypantsandrollaroundintit laughing.
WTF! They (meaning one of the sick, twisted people) had taken rabbit food, the little turd like alfalfa pellets, , and had put it in a nice little pile behind my pony. In my stable.
I know Santa wouldn't ever dream of such a cruel thing, so I was pissed about them touching my gift. And about 10 more shades of pissed when one of them freaks yelled "Looks like your ponies made a mess. Guess you need to clean it up."
Poo, especially my little pony poo is not funny. Clearly I am scarred.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
WTF Wednesday #11
I grew up going to church, a denomination "loosely affiliated with southern baptist" they always said. Pretty much contemporary, wear jeans and a t shirt. Communion was once a month, grape juice and crusty bread. You played tag and had donuts afterwards. Very laid back.
When I was around 10, one of my neighborhood friends invited me to her church. She had come to a few church functions with me, so of course, I would go to hers. We pull up and my first thought was, "Wow, this place looks like a church!" Complete with lit up cross, and white steeple. Our church was in a business park. Theirs said St. Patrick's on the outside.
Should have known things were going to be a liiiiitttlllle different when we rolled up at 6pm. In her mom's Cadillac, complete with metal straps on the trunk, making it look like a suitcase. I was used to Sunday morning service, and only six o'clock services during Christmas. I probably would have fell over and died had I know they had MIDNIGHT services.
We bustle into the pew, which, once again, we rows of chairs at our church. Every ones butt parked in it's own spot. I'm not a big fan of space invaders. So we start singing hymns, from back in the day of Jesus himself, that I had never heard of. Once again, I plead naive, only contemporary music was floating around my church, with the exception of Amazing Grace, Joyful, Joyful, etc.
I sit down and put my feet up on the foot rest. I was in awe over the footrest, our church wasn't that cool. Oh wait, that's not a footrest? Its to kneel on? Whattttttttttttttt????? We're kneeling?
So we all get down on our knees, and pray. Except for I didn't pray. I was too busy trying not to laugh, because for me, this was weird. I was peeking one eye open and looking around. The pastor gets done, and everyone starts shaking hands and saying "Peace be with you." Huh? What? Why? So of course, because I don't to stick out like an old grandma in a Miss America pageant, I do it too. And we sit back down, and repeat. About 3 more times. Up, down, kneel, pray, shake. Like a bad case of the flu.
Then, they all filed into a line. By now I am sweating. This place is stressing me out. They all know what to do, and I have no idea what to do. I'm standing in line, I don't know what for, and the Pope-- that is the Pope, right? Looks like the Pope..... I get corrected, it's a bishop. Pope, Bishop, Nuns, I don't know. So the Pope/Bishop places a something on the tongue of the person in front of me. And kisses their cheek.
WTF!?!?!?!?!?!?
I am not opening my mouth like a baby bird, and who knows what that paper thing is he put on their tongue. And then a kiss? EWWWWWWWWWW no. So I walk up there and put my hand out. He hands me the nasty tasting matzo cracker cardboard paper, and leans forward......
I bow my head and say "Thank you your majesty"
My friend whispers something about how I shouldn't call him that. I didn't know!!!!! I didn't want him to kiss me, so I panicked. It seemed appropriate, I think. Call him Father, she says. He's not my daddy, I am sure of that. I don't plan on getting that close to call him anything again. He motions me to the next line. I stand there, and when it's my turn, the pope/bishop is holding out a glass. And everyone takes a sip. FROM THE SAME GLASS.
Double EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. I quickly duck out of that line. I am not swapping spit with strangers. I have already shook hands with everyone and their grandmas in a three row radius. I have enough germs on me to start a measles/mumps/rubella revolution.
We sit back down, where a lady asks if I am Catholic. I say no, I am.... American.
What, I'm ten. Didn't matter because she starts making a stink about about how I shouldn't participate in communion because I'm not Catholic. Of course I think I have just committed a crime, and am about ten seconds away from tears. We say our final Peace Be With You/Shalom/Hallelujah/Ooga Booga and I have to say I have never been back. Let's remember I was ten. Those things stay with you.
When I was around 10, one of my neighborhood friends invited me to her church. She had come to a few church functions with me, so of course, I would go to hers. We pull up and my first thought was, "Wow, this place looks like a church!" Complete with lit up cross, and white steeple. Our church was in a business park. Theirs said St. Patrick's on the outside.
Should have known things were going to be a liiiiitttlllle different when we rolled up at 6pm. In her mom's Cadillac, complete with metal straps on the trunk, making it look like a suitcase. I was used to Sunday morning service, and only six o'clock services during Christmas. I probably would have fell over and died had I know they had MIDNIGHT services.
We bustle into the pew, which, once again, we rows of chairs at our church. Every ones butt parked in it's own spot. I'm not a big fan of space invaders. So we start singing hymns, from back in the day of Jesus himself, that I had never heard of. Once again, I plead naive, only contemporary music was floating around my church, with the exception of Amazing Grace, Joyful, Joyful, etc.
I sit down and put my feet up on the foot rest. I was in awe over the footrest, our church wasn't that cool. Oh wait, that's not a footrest? Its to kneel on? Whattttttttttttttt????? We're kneeling?
So we all get down on our knees, and pray. Except for I didn't pray. I was too busy trying not to laugh, because for me, this was weird. I was peeking one eye open and looking around. The pastor gets done, and everyone starts shaking hands and saying "Peace be with you." Huh? What? Why? So of course, because I don't to stick out like an old grandma in a Miss America pageant, I do it too. And we sit back down, and repeat. About 3 more times. Up, down, kneel, pray, shake. Like a bad case of the flu.
Then, they all filed into a line. By now I am sweating. This place is stressing me out. They all know what to do, and I have no idea what to do. I'm standing in line, I don't know what for, and the Pope-- that is the Pope, right? Looks like the Pope..... I get corrected, it's a bishop. Pope, Bishop, Nuns, I don't know. So the Pope/Bishop places a something on the tongue of the person in front of me. And kisses their cheek.
WTF!?!?!?!?!?!?
I am not opening my mouth like a baby bird, and who knows what that paper thing is he put on their tongue. And then a kiss? EWWWWWWWWWW no. So I walk up there and put my hand out. He hands me the nasty tasting matzo cracker cardboard paper, and leans forward......
I bow my head and say "Thank you your majesty"
My friend whispers something about how I shouldn't call him that. I didn't know!!!!! I didn't want him to kiss me, so I panicked. It seemed appropriate, I think. Call him Father, she says. He's not my daddy, I am sure of that. I don't plan on getting that close to call him anything again. He motions me to the next line. I stand there, and when it's my turn, the pope/bishop is holding out a glass. And everyone takes a sip. FROM THE SAME GLASS.
Double EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. I quickly duck out of that line. I am not swapping spit with strangers. I have already shook hands with everyone and their grandmas in a three row radius. I have enough germs on me to start a measles/mumps/rubella revolution.
We sit back down, where a lady asks if I am Catholic. I say no, I am.... American.
What, I'm ten. Didn't matter because she starts making a stink about about how I shouldn't participate in communion because I'm not Catholic. Of course I think I have just committed a crime, and am about ten seconds away from tears. We say our final Peace Be With You/Shalom/Hallelujah/Ooga Booga and I have to say I have never been back. Let's remember I was ten. Those things stay with you.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
WTF Wednesday #10
When I was in high school, I was an international traveler. Well, I went to Mexico.
On a missions trip. But it totally counts as international.
Our time down there was for a week. We lived in a tent city of about five thousand other Americans. Eating canned ravioli and cup o' noodles. And sweet bottled Coca Cola.
No baths, or showers, and only washing your hair twice, in the hoses that ran in the city parks. And all the while you washed your hair, you would pray that not a drop would get in your mouth. Because it contained something or other that would give you the Hershey squirts something fierce. And who wants that, in another country, with no bathrooms. During the day, all the different church groups went to their "foster" church, and taught vacation bible school. 45 minutes of driving, on bumpy dirt roads, in 85 degree heat, to these little villages. The kids were sooo excited to see us, clamoring excitedly in Spanish, wearing worn out,ripped clothes, hardly any had shoes on their feet. It was a humbling experience.
At the end of the day, we would head back, eat dinner and relax. And stand in line to use the port-o-potty. Remember the part about no bathrooms? To help us Americans out with our modern day conveniences, they trucked in a few hundred port-o-potties. For 5000 people. They had about 20 in a row, all over the tent city. The first day, it's fine. They smell like a rose met pepto bismol and had a chemical reaction. In other words, they smell empty. As in no doo-doo marinating in urine cooking in the hot sun. That stank is reserved for day 3. The end of the week, I'd rather have a bladder infection and a septic system coming out my ears, than go in there. A weeks worth of ravioli reeks havoc on one's small intestine. You could smell it from the mountains of Peru, it was so bad.
To add insult to injury, you had to use them in the dark. If there is no bathrooms, you better believe there is no electricity. When you went to the bathroom, you would go in parties of 3 or more. You had to pull your hair back, because who wants feces mites floating in the air and living in the hair that you can't really wash. Not me. You wore face masks. Because the stench, and well, those poo vapors, they could make a flower wilt. Before it grows.
After you reach the port-o-potty, you would throw open the door and waste 1/3 of a can of Lysol. Just close your eyes and spray like it's a raging wildfire. This is where your friends come in. They shine flashlights through the slats at the top. You now know who your friends are when this happens.
Then you needed to B.Y.O.T.P, not just for wiping but for lining the seat with. Not that you would actually SIT on the seat. Of all the gross things! Hover and release.
Now that you know the low down on Mexico port-o-potty 101, let me share.
When you first get there, I mentioned how they are clean, and empty. And all the boys would try to see how many guys they could cram into one, and then one by one walk out. People would just watch, and seem confused. It was every bit funny and immature as it sounds.
I was standing in line on the first day. A group of girls, very obvious this was their first time to tent city and all it's fabulous tourist attractions, were waiting to use the potty. Some chick with more make-up than a drag queen comes out, and exclaims, "Those are so neat! They even have a little purse holder so you have somewhere for your stuff!!" and walks away carrying her purse.
I stand there, thinking about what she said.
It's my turn so I go in there, and I'm looking around, and then it hits me.
WTF!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That's not a purse holder.........
that's a urinal for the guys!!!!!!!
Of course I'm thinking that she couldn't possibly have thought that the stinkhole would have a purse holder..... could she? I come out and let her know it's true purpose. She turns about 8 shades of red, and everyone dies laughing. No, she really thought it was a purse holder.
Truck stops ain't got nothing on Port-o-Potties.
On a missions trip. But it totally counts as international.
Our time down there was for a week. We lived in a tent city of about five thousand other Americans. Eating canned ravioli and cup o' noodles. And sweet bottled Coca Cola.
No baths, or showers, and only washing your hair twice, in the hoses that ran in the city parks. And all the while you washed your hair, you would pray that not a drop would get in your mouth. Because it contained something or other that would give you the Hershey squirts something fierce. And who wants that, in another country, with no bathrooms. During the day, all the different church groups went to their "foster" church, and taught vacation bible school. 45 minutes of driving, on bumpy dirt roads, in 85 degree heat, to these little villages. The kids were sooo excited to see us, clamoring excitedly in Spanish, wearing worn out,ripped clothes, hardly any had shoes on their feet. It was a humbling experience.
At the end of the day, we would head back, eat dinner and relax. And stand in line to use the port-o-potty. Remember the part about no bathrooms? To help us Americans out with our modern day conveniences, they trucked in a few hundred port-o-potties. For 5000 people. They had about 20 in a row, all over the tent city. The first day, it's fine. They smell like a rose met pepto bismol and had a chemical reaction. In other words, they smell empty. As in no doo-doo marinating in urine cooking in the hot sun. That stank is reserved for day 3. The end of the week, I'd rather have a bladder infection and a septic system coming out my ears, than go in there. A weeks worth of ravioli reeks havoc on one's small intestine. You could smell it from the mountains of Peru, it was so bad.
To add insult to injury, you had to use them in the dark. If there is no bathrooms, you better believe there is no electricity. When you went to the bathroom, you would go in parties of 3 or more. You had to pull your hair back, because who wants feces mites floating in the air and living in the hair that you can't really wash. Not me. You wore face masks. Because the stench, and well, those poo vapors, they could make a flower wilt. Before it grows.
After you reach the port-o-potty, you would throw open the door and waste 1/3 of a can of Lysol. Just close your eyes and spray like it's a raging wildfire. This is where your friends come in. They shine flashlights through the slats at the top. You now know who your friends are when this happens.
Then you needed to B.Y.O.T.P, not just for wiping but for lining the seat with. Not that you would actually SIT on the seat. Of all the gross things! Hover and release.
Now that you know the low down on Mexico port-o-potty 101, let me share.
When you first get there, I mentioned how they are clean, and empty. And all the boys would try to see how many guys they could cram into one, and then one by one walk out. People would just watch, and seem confused. It was every bit funny and immature as it sounds.
I was standing in line on the first day. A group of girls, very obvious this was their first time to tent city and all it's fabulous tourist attractions, were waiting to use the potty. Some chick with more make-up than a drag queen comes out, and exclaims, "Those are so neat! They even have a little purse holder so you have somewhere for your stuff!!" and walks away carrying her purse.
I stand there, thinking about what she said.
It's my turn so I go in there, and I'm looking around, and then it hits me.
WTF!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That's not a purse holder.........
that's a urinal for the guys!!!!!!!
Of course I'm thinking that she couldn't possibly have thought that the stinkhole would have a purse holder..... could she? I come out and let her know it's true purpose. She turns about 8 shades of red, and everyone dies laughing. No, she really thought it was a purse holder.
Truck stops ain't got nothing on Port-o-Potties.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
WTF Wednesday #9
I used to work in a daycare, in my early twenties. I was the head teacher, in the little 2's and 3's room. I had a group of 7 adorable, fabulous kids. There was this super tiny, little blond hair boy, we'll call him "Smalls". Small's mom worked in technology and Small's dad was a pain. Seriously. He would come in and ask about the cubbies. And why Smalls was on the end. He would want to know if Smalls could have something different for lunch, because Smalls didn't like pizza. Or ham, or oranges, or a multitude of normal toddler food. Could Smalls sit on a chair during circle time? Could Smalls be the line leader? Smalls likes the Icky Sticky Frog book, could I read it today? Smalls says that the other kids don't share waffle blocks with him, could I make sure that they share with him?
It got real old, real quick, and many days went by, where I swear my eyes would start to twitch and my ear would explode when I would see them come into the room. I would try to be grossly involved in setting the table for breakfast, or labeling diapers, or choking on my spit, anything but interacting with Small's dad. He had this high pitched voice, that he would almost sing song into a room, so much that I heard Cats offered him a role, complete with tights. Orange colored ones.
Once it was snowing outside, and he wanted to know if we went outside. Uh, that would be a no.
A freezing, no-way-in-hell-or-Antarctica-I-am-taking-7-toddlers-out-in-the-snow, NO. He proceeded to go ask the office why I didn't. He then, tried to call the state to question what the actual weather temperature it could be to take them out. He spent the next two weeks, calling around 10, and coming in to ask if we took them outside that day. "It doesn't have a wind chill of 25, you can go outside," he would sing-song in his annoying Fiddler on the Roof voice. The whole "bundle up 7 kids, hope they all brought boots, jackets, hats, gloves, pray they don't get wet, and bring them all back inside in ten minutes" didn't phase him. He wanted to know why I couldn't take just his son outside. Because apparently the other 6 kids and their tuition paying parents didn't matter, as long as Smalls got his breath of fresh Arctic air everyday. The kicker: Smalls got picked up at 2:30 every day. So, uh, WHY couldn't Daddy Musical take him outside?
Smalls's mom was preggers, and about to have a baby. As were a few other moms in the class. So, one day dad came to pick him up. And mentioned that grandma would be dropping him off the next day, because Mom had just had the baby. He was going to take Smalls to grandma's house, and then bring mom home from the hospital, the next day. He said it was going to be a big surprise. That there was going to be a baby in their house.....
WTF!?!?!?!?!
They, not one time, told this little boy that his mom was going to have a baby. They were going to "surprise" him when she came home. Yeah, big fun fat surprise mom walking in with a screaming baby. Move over, Smalls, there is a new kid who needs to go outside in town. I was completely baffled. It's not like they didn't have 9 months to prepare, and they are so worried if this kid sleeps at 1 instead of 12, but bringing home a sibling? Let's surprise him! I could just hear the melodic "Surprise!" and tried to stab myself in the big toe with a dull toothpick.
Should I mention that, 2 weeks later, mom brings him in and asks for some advice. Seems as though Smalls has a strong dislike for his sister. Hit her in the face. Every chance he gets. Uh... ya think. He's going to run screaming from the room for the rest of his life when someone mentions the word "surprise." Next time you want to surprise someone, give them pack of gum. It will go over much better.
It got real old, real quick, and many days went by, where I swear my eyes would start to twitch and my ear would explode when I would see them come into the room. I would try to be grossly involved in setting the table for breakfast, or labeling diapers, or choking on my spit, anything but interacting with Small's dad. He had this high pitched voice, that he would almost sing song into a room, so much that I heard Cats offered him a role, complete with tights. Orange colored ones.
Once it was snowing outside, and he wanted to know if we went outside. Uh, that would be a no.
A freezing, no-way-in-hell-or-Antarctica-I-am-taking-7-toddlers-out-in-the-snow, NO. He proceeded to go ask the office why I didn't. He then, tried to call the state to question what the actual weather temperature it could be to take them out. He spent the next two weeks, calling around 10, and coming in to ask if we took them outside that day. "It doesn't have a wind chill of 25, you can go outside," he would sing-song in his annoying Fiddler on the Roof voice. The whole "bundle up 7 kids, hope they all brought boots, jackets, hats, gloves, pray they don't get wet, and bring them all back inside in ten minutes" didn't phase him. He wanted to know why I couldn't take just his son outside. Because apparently the other 6 kids and their tuition paying parents didn't matter, as long as Smalls got his breath of fresh Arctic air everyday. The kicker: Smalls got picked up at 2:30 every day. So, uh, WHY couldn't Daddy Musical take him outside?
Smalls's mom was preggers, and about to have a baby. As were a few other moms in the class. So, one day dad came to pick him up. And mentioned that grandma would be dropping him off the next day, because Mom had just had the baby. He was going to take Smalls to grandma's house, and then bring mom home from the hospital, the next day. He said it was going to be a big surprise. That there was going to be a baby in their house.....
WTF!?!?!?!?!
They, not one time, told this little boy that his mom was going to have a baby. They were going to "surprise" him when she came home. Yeah, big fun fat surprise mom walking in with a screaming baby. Move over, Smalls, there is a new kid who needs to go outside in town. I was completely baffled. It's not like they didn't have 9 months to prepare, and they are so worried if this kid sleeps at 1 instead of 12, but bringing home a sibling? Let's surprise him! I could just hear the melodic "Surprise!" and tried to stab myself in the big toe with a dull toothpick.
Should I mention that, 2 weeks later, mom brings him in and asks for some advice. Seems as though Smalls has a strong dislike for his sister. Hit her in the face. Every chance he gets. Uh... ya think. He's going to run screaming from the room for the rest of his life when someone mentions the word "surprise." Next time you want to surprise someone, give them pack of gum. It will go over much better.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
WTF Wednesday #8. Open letter time.
Yes double WTF's today.
To the Dirtbag McGee in Kentucky,
I'm a mom. Not much gets by me. In this house, we work hard for what we got. Whether it's clothes or coloring books, it's ours. We earned it. Through sweat and tears and savings. Every friday we eat pizza. We like to call it Pizza Friday. Not Dirtbag McGee Friday. Last friday you made it all about you.
Money gets lower, closer to payday. We do what we have to, so it was Little Caesar's day. We don't mind 5 dollar pizzas and some rockin' crazy bread. We do, however mind getting declined. Turns out there is a freeze on our card. And racing to the bank ATM, wondering all kinds of crazy things. Turns out our stuff is just fine.
Til we get home. And there is a message on the answering machine.
It's frickin XXXXX-XXXX fraud department for our bank.
WHAT THE Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!?!?!?!? How about triple WTF's covered in whipped cream and nuts on top.
Seems to me, Dirtbag McGee, you took some money. That doesn't belong to you. From OUR account. Placing "skimmers" on gas pumps, atm machines, card machines in places such as Target, Wal Mart, grocery stores, etc. Low life scum,such as yourself, out there stealing numbers and making fake cards. Actual fake frikkin' cards. With anyone's number. The card is never out of their sight. It's not stolen off the internet. Or anywhere. Stolen from unsuspecting people, who sweat, work, spend hours away from their families, just so you can get wasted. And buy some nice knock off purses and cheap leather jackets. And a Magic Bullet Blender. You seem like the lazy type.
Dirtbag McGee, you stink. You smell like the 400 dollars you stole. But, as smart as you think you are, you're not. They caught you at your game. They smelled stinky moldy butt from a mile away and knew something was up. So, my money is still mine.
Get a job.
Get a life.
Take a bath, DirtBag.
(and I can joke about this, simply because the fraud department rocks. They caught it within minutes of it happening. Besides, go ahead, take my money, I wiped my butt with it. Not really, but 10 year old humor gets me through life.)
To the Dirtbag McGee in Kentucky,
I'm a mom. Not much gets by me. In this house, we work hard for what we got. Whether it's clothes or coloring books, it's ours. We earned it. Through sweat and tears and savings. Every friday we eat pizza. We like to call it Pizza Friday. Not Dirtbag McGee Friday. Last friday you made it all about you.
Money gets lower, closer to payday. We do what we have to, so it was Little Caesar's day. We don't mind 5 dollar pizzas and some rockin' crazy bread. We do, however mind getting declined. Turns out there is a freeze on our card. And racing to the bank ATM, wondering all kinds of crazy things. Turns out our stuff is just fine.
Til we get home. And there is a message on the answering machine.
It's frickin XXXXX-XXXX fraud department for our bank.
WHAT THE Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!?!?!?!? How about triple WTF's covered in whipped cream and nuts on top.
Seems to me, Dirtbag McGee, you took some money. That doesn't belong to you. From OUR account. Placing "skimmers" on gas pumps, atm machines, card machines in places such as Target, Wal Mart, grocery stores, etc. Low life scum,such as yourself, out there stealing numbers and making fake cards. Actual fake frikkin' cards. With anyone's number. The card is never out of their sight. It's not stolen off the internet. Or anywhere. Stolen from unsuspecting people, who sweat, work, spend hours away from their families, just so you can get wasted. And buy some nice knock off purses and cheap leather jackets. And a Magic Bullet Blender. You seem like the lazy type.
Dirtbag McGee, you stink. You smell like the 400 dollars you stole. But, as smart as you think you are, you're not. They caught you at your game. They smelled stinky moldy butt from a mile away and knew something was up. So, my money is still mine.
Get a job.
Get a life.
Take a bath, DirtBag.
(and I can joke about this, simply because the fraud department rocks. They caught it within minutes of it happening. Besides, go ahead, take my money, I wiped my butt with it. Not really, but 10 year old humor gets me through life.)
WTF Wednesday #7
Growing up,it was quite obvious that my mom and dad had different ethnicity's. My mom, who is welsh, danish, German, etc., is a short little lady who does have dark brown hair, but green eyes. She gets fairly tan, but still, you can tell she is Caucasian.
My dad, is American Indian, Spanish (from Spain they say) and Mexican-Indian. The whole dark beady eye, thick black hair, saggy baggy cheeks, Indian beak nose, and moccasins. Ok, so not really the moccasins. He looks a lot like this guy. (Geronimo meets the 2000's.
My grandma, my dad's mother is a short little American Indian lady, who will tell you, is "built like a brick shithouse." She married my grandfather in the sixties, so while he is not biologically related, he is, in every sense of the word, my grandfather.
We call him Pompa. He hails straight from the hollers' of Pennsylvania. He wears white undershirts and jeans, complete with big belt buckles. He is tall and skinny. He has sideburns that sometimes attach to his moustache. He zips one-liners all day, in a hillbilly accent. It's hilarious.
As long as I can remember, my Pompa would sit down with me, and we would go over my "blood." I would count off my fingers and say "I have Indian blood, Mexican blood, American blood, and donkey blood." Yes, I said donkey. Why? I dunno
I got a little older and never really mentioned it any more, my bloodline, but it was always in the back of my mind. Donkey blood, really?
So, when I was around twelve, we went back out there for a visit. A bunch of us were sittin at the table, and I asked him why I had donkey blood.
He laughed until he choked, and said
"I damn near pissed ma' pants. Hollywood, you don't have donkey blood, you have HONKEY blood!!!
WTF!?!?!?!
All my childhood, I had been thinking and trying to figure just where the "donkey" part of my blood came in, but really, it was honkey?(which is "Used as a disparaging term for a white person.") I never knew it as bad, after all that's what he called my mom, that and Old Lady. He used "honkey" left and right, when uh, he was as white skinned as they come, blonde hair and blue eyes.
I still, to this day, as stubborn as I am, think he really meant donkey.
My dad, is American Indian, Spanish (from Spain they say) and Mexican-Indian. The whole dark beady eye, thick black hair, saggy baggy cheeks, Indian beak nose, and moccasins. Ok, so not really the moccasins. He looks a lot like this guy. (Geronimo meets the 2000's.
My grandma, my dad's mother is a short little American Indian lady, who will tell you, is "built like a brick shithouse." She married my grandfather in the sixties, so while he is not biologically related, he is, in every sense of the word, my grandfather.
We call him Pompa. He hails straight from the hollers' of Pennsylvania. He wears white undershirts and jeans, complete with big belt buckles. He is tall and skinny. He has sideburns that sometimes attach to his moustache. He zips one-liners all day, in a hillbilly accent. It's hilarious.
As long as I can remember, my Pompa would sit down with me, and we would go over my "blood." I would count off my fingers and say "I have Indian blood, Mexican blood, American blood, and donkey blood." Yes, I said donkey. Why? I dunno
I got a little older and never really mentioned it any more, my bloodline, but it was always in the back of my mind. Donkey blood, really?
So, when I was around twelve, we went back out there for a visit. A bunch of us were sittin at the table, and I asked him why I had donkey blood.
He laughed until he choked, and said
"I damn near pissed ma' pants. Hollywood, you don't have donkey blood, you have HONKEY blood!!!
WTF!?!?!?!
All my childhood, I had been thinking and trying to figure just where the "donkey" part of my blood came in, but really, it was honkey?(which is "Used as a disparaging term for a white person.") I never knew it as bad, after all that's what he called my mom, that and Old Lady. He used "honkey" left and right, when uh, he was as white skinned as they come, blonde hair and blue eyes.
I still, to this day, as stubborn as I am, think he really meant donkey.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
WTF Wednesday #6
When I first moved to Ohio, I was craving Mexican food. I had spent all my life, surrounded by cheesy enchiladas, homemade tortillas, salsa that made you sweat, the good stuff. I had spent a few months exploring the land of Hoggy's BBQ, Bob Evans, Jersey Mikes, so I hadn't really notice the lack of cultural choices, besides Taco Bell. On the recommendation of my boss at Chili's, we went in search of a place called Nacho Mama's. He raved about this cute hole in the wall restaurant, with true authentic Mexican food. And if you know anything about So. Cali, it is that every hole in the wall restaurant can make you go weak in the knees with their scrumptious meals.
We head north of the city, and see this little white building with a weathered blue roof, and I swear I started salivating at the sight of it. This has got to be it, I thought. It looks like a dive, but it would hold the secrets of mid western Mexican.
We walk in, sit down, it's fairly busy. Doesn't quite have the smell of "back-home" food, but it could hang.
They bring out the salsa. I dip my chip and... take a bite, of this watery tomato paste with herbs concoction. Maybe the little Mexican grandma in the back took the day off....there is a little Mexican grandma in the back, right?
I order chicken enchiladas, rice and beans. My staple. The husband gets a burrito. We are talking, enjoying our young life, when our food came. I should have ran out the door, headed for the nearest plane, and flew back to my beloved Cali. I took one look and.....
WTF?!?!?!
It was a flour tortilla, with chunks of chicken, with some watery tomato sauce. The beans were pinto, probably from a can, and the rice. OMG, the rice. I double checked to see that we were in Chopstick Charley's Cafe, because to my horror, I had a ball of WHITE rice on my plate. WHITE, as in steamed, as in to sit under beef and broccoli, not sit next to enchiladas. No seasoning, no nothing.
I tried the chicken. It was as dry, and as plain as the cardboard I packed my moving boxes in. I had never tasted chicken so gross in my life. The soggy tortilla and tomato sauce. *gag* I looked around at all these other people gobbling up the Pace Picante meets Heinz platter, like it was GOOD.
I was horrified. Culture shock. I think I ran out and bought a sombrero and guacamole, and danced the salsa. And quickly, very quickly, learned to make my own.
(nacho mama's closed down not long after that. I wonder why.)
We head north of the city, and see this little white building with a weathered blue roof, and I swear I started salivating at the sight of it. This has got to be it, I thought. It looks like a dive, but it would hold the secrets of mid western Mexican.
We walk in, sit down, it's fairly busy. Doesn't quite have the smell of "back-home" food, but it could hang.
They bring out the salsa. I dip my chip and... take a bite, of this watery tomato paste with herbs concoction. Maybe the little Mexican grandma in the back took the day off....there is a little Mexican grandma in the back, right?
I order chicken enchiladas, rice and beans. My staple. The husband gets a burrito. We are talking, enjoying our young life, when our food came. I should have ran out the door, headed for the nearest plane, and flew back to my beloved Cali. I took one look and.....
WTF?!?!?!
It was a flour tortilla, with chunks of chicken, with some watery tomato sauce. The beans were pinto, probably from a can, and the rice. OMG, the rice. I double checked to see that we were in Chopstick Charley's Cafe, because to my horror, I had a ball of WHITE rice on my plate. WHITE, as in steamed, as in to sit under beef and broccoli, not sit next to enchiladas. No seasoning, no nothing.
I tried the chicken. It was as dry, and as plain as the cardboard I packed my moving boxes in. I had never tasted chicken so gross in my life. The soggy tortilla and tomato sauce. *gag* I looked around at all these other people gobbling up the Pace Picante meets Heinz platter, like it was GOOD.
I was horrified. Culture shock. I think I ran out and bought a sombrero and guacamole, and danced the salsa. And quickly, very quickly, learned to make my own.
(nacho mama's closed down not long after that. I wonder why.)
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