Gone for the Weekend

It's "Family Weekend" at my daughter's university. Nevermind that I was there 2 weeks ago, amd she was HERE just LAST weekend. Hell, gas is only $2.84/gal and it's just 2.5 hour drive each way. Why do you think I have a paying job?

But don't you worry about the lack of posting for the next couple of days. I have a bajillion tales in my head. I will merely be perfecting them as I sit by the pool and marinate my brain in alcohol. College rules!

Toilet Etiquette 098: Remedial Toileting for Adults

Fucking-A I hate public restrooms! It doesn’t seem to matter if they are truly public, or just shared between co-workers. You’d think that people would just inherently know the rules.

For example:

1. If you piss on the seat, wipe it off! It doesn’t matter if you are facing it and aiming, or if you are hovering and hoping. Wipe your fucking piss off of the SEAT!

2. Don’t forget to wipe the drips off of the porcelain piece in front either. I am not interested in using the back of my slacks to do it for you, thanks.

3. Guys: stand closer; it isn’t as long as you think. And for God’s sake, tear off a piece of tissue before you get started so you can swab the end of your dick. Forget the shaking already! You’re flinging piss everywhere. You also don’t get any extra masculinity points for banging it on the wall to dry it.

4. Do NOT sit there and scratch your pubes. Ever. And if you DO, don’t forget to wipe away all of the crotch crumbs you left behind. Nobody should be able to tell the color and texture of your pubic hair, which insects you harbor or the color of your undies by the fuzzies you deposit. And God forbid you leave tiny pieces of damp tissue behind. And what is all that other stuff? For chrissake, take a shower once a week or so!

5. Wimmin: do NOT leave any used sanitary products within view. Ever. Wrap whatever it is in toilet tissue. If you don’t want to stick your hand into that little metal mailbox thingy in your stall, then don’t. But do NOT leave your stuff on the back of the toilet, next to it or under it. It is full of YOUR bodily fluids. It is YOUR job to carry it out of the stall and bury it as far down as you can into a trash receptacle. If you don’t want to stick your hand in the trashcan, then don’t. Stick the fucker in your purse and carry it home. Nobody cares as long as we don’t have to see it!

6. Courtesy flushes are your friend. Don’t be embarrassed by them. You will avoid those horrible clogs if you use them appropriately. Whether you are a mega-shitter or just somebody who uses an entire roll of toilet tissue at a time, frequent flushing will avoid over spillage onto your shoes.

7. If you need to shit, please, please for the love of God do not let it marinate! Have mercy on our burning nostrils and eyeballs. See #6.

8. If you are a Bowl Speckler, please wipe any remnants of your rectal blowout from the rim before you leave the stall. See #2.

9. Just picked your nose while hatching? Don’t even think of wiping that booger onto the wall. There is tissue hanging right next to you. Use it please.

10. Graffiti is so passé. But if you’re going to write my name on the wall, at least have the fucking decency to spell it right!

Oh, I almost forgot--to the DOCTOR with the lazy-veering to the left-eye who doesn't get paid to clean his piss from the floor? They don't pay you to PUT IT THERE, either! Assbag...

A Few Basic Life Lessons

Be a decent human being. It’s pretty easy to do. Think before you speak. If what you are about to say or do will hurt someone, hold it in for a moment. Is the fallout going to be worth it? While you might think you’re being funny or cute and it may get a big laugh from others, what will be the ultimate effect on your designated target? If you were looking to be a total asshole, then your goal has been achieved. If you just want to have fun, but don’t want to wound anyone, come up with another way that is less painful for all involved. Even those who laugh are flinching inside.

Don't be a cancer. Don't be the one who eats away at someone's insides. Don't be the one who chokes the life out of others. Don't be the one who causes others to have difficulty swallowing in your presence. Nobody should get the bloody shits from being around you.

Consider Karma. It has long been said “what goes around, comes around.” If you believe in any sort of justice in the universe, you need to seriously check your Karma. How long do you think you can go on living a great life if you consistently fuck over other human beings? There is most likely a larger force than you in the universe. And it probably has a different take on “funny” than you do. I think that larger force would find it MUCH funnier than you would to shit on your head, as you shit on another’s.

Look for the olive branch. You know, that thing carried by the dove of peace? Use it for something other than with which to beat someone. The hardest thing for human beings to do is be the first to apologize. Nobody knows this more so than you. Recognizing this, you need to be receptive to apologies when you meet them. Smile, shake hands, think “How do you do?” Then get over it. This will take time and effort. You don’t need to tidy up in one day. But avoid the urge to slam the door of forgiveness in someone’s face. You will undoubtedly be on the receiving end of that door in the future.

Work for the Greater Good. Sometimes it isn’t all about YOU. Suck it up and take one for the team sometime. Don't look for personal glory. Think of others before you waste food, water, electricity or money. Consider adopting a family for the holidays. Better yet, consider doing something throughout the year when “seasonal volunteers” aren’t thinking about the plight of the less fortunate. People aren’t just in need during the holidays.

Make wise choices/Listen to your instincts. They may not always be the easiest or most obvious choices, but you know in your soul what they are. If something gives you a moment’s pause, or tugs at your gut-strings, it probably isn’t the right thing to do. If you feel lighter inside with your decision, you’ve made the best choice for you.

Rid your life of toxicity. If something causes you such stress that you are physically ill because of it, get rid of it! If someone sucks all of the oxygen out of the room just by showing up, dump them! Life is too short to waste on people you dislike, doing things that you hate.

Don’t be a rescuer. It isn’t your job to “fix” people. We must all grow from within. Don’t be an enabler by rushing to “help” one who truly doesn’t need it. Don’t allow anyone to use you as a crutch or vice versa. Nobody likes a co-dependent.

Get over yourself. Believe it or not, you aren’t even #1 in your mother's universe. What makes you think you are #1 in anyone else’s? We all have our places. We are each just one more living being in a vast pool of other living beings. In case you need a reminder: you probably shit just like everyone else.

Keep things in perspective. Sometimes things just are. Don’t blow things out of proportion. Sometimes things aren’t even as they appear. When you have to work hard at maintaining your fury, perhaps it is time to let it go.

Avoid drama. Creating it, feeding it, nurturing it, and resurrecting it. Cut off its air supply, its food supply and any other lifelines. Without these, it will wither on the vine. If you actually thrive on drama, you should seek professional help for your self-esteem issues.

Avoid the urge to act out. Stop trying to look so cool; it looks pitiful. Don’t work so hard at being an individual that you end up just like everyone else. While doing stupid and/or outrageous things attracts underachievers like moths to a flame, it does not endear you to the type of people you actually seek. When you are left with nothing but the underachievers, it won’t much help your low self-esteem.

Take responsibility. Sometimes it is your fault. Rather than looking to blame someone else, suck it up and admit that you were the one responsible for whatever the misfortune. You alone are in charge or your life and happiness. What you think, say and do weigh far heavier on this outcome than anything anyone else does. Don’t give others that kind of control over you.

Fix your situation or SHUT UP. Don’t like your job? Find another one to which you are better suited. Nobody likes to repeatedly hear how abused you are by your coworkers, bosses and customers. If your job is that horrid, why do you still choose to work there? On the flip side, if you feel disdain for the stupidity and cluelessness of your coworkers, bosses and customers, what are they thinking about you? The fact is, you can’t possibly hide that much hostility no matter how hard you try. In the meantime, STFU if you aren’t serious about changing your situation. We are tired of your endless droning. Besides, it's not like you would take anyone else's advice anyway.

Pamper yourself. You should always buy the softest sheets you can afford. With any luck, you spend approximately 1/3 of your life in bed. It should feel like a little piece of Heaven. There is no better way to do that than 300+ threadcount sheets, or the thickest flannels. Oh, and if you are a bedwetter you should literally Pamper (or Huggies) yourself. You'd KILL yourself for messing up those expensive sheets.

Be kind to animals. Just because that's what decent human beings DO. Sure you can still eat things with a face. Just don't intentionally try to make roadkill. (Disclaimer: this message was definitely not sanctioned by PETA)

Meet my Kitties

I need to start out by telling you that I absolutely ADORE cats. All of them. I would adopt an entire houseful if my husband wouldn’t divorce me because of it. I envision myself as a very old lady sharing my dinner on pie plates with about 70 indoor cats. Or perhaps it is they who are sharing their dinner with me. I guess that will depend upon my finances in my old age, now won’t it?

Our current menagerie consists of 5 (soon to be 6) indoor felines. Their personalities are as diverse as their coloring. It seems that we collect weirdoes and oddballs, but they are the coolest cats ever. They come when we call them. They hang with us wherever we happen to be in the house. Sometimes I have 3 on the chair with me--both armrests and back. Sometimes they try to help me computerize by lying on my forearms as I type.

Meep: he actually has a number of names. “Meep” came from a little sound he used to make as a kitten. That morphed into “Mi Pasa” (an offshoot of “Mi casa,” obviously), which morphed into “Pasa.” We vacillate between “Meep,” “Pasa,” and "Pas-Pas"all of to which he readily responds.

He is a Siamese mix and, as such, retains the distinctive markings, blue eyes and vocalizations. But rather than being small-boned and delicate, he is friggin’ HUGE! His paws are bigger than silver dollars. When he stretches on the floor, he is more than 3 feet long from the tips of his front paws to the tips of his tail and hind paws. His weight is almost a hefty 20 lbs. Yeah, I know that there are larger cats out there, but he is the biggest one WE have ever had. He is also totally cool.

He can open doors by reaching up and pulling down the handle. He is a “hunter;” dragging 2-3 lb. packages of meat up and out of the kitchen sink, through the house and up into the master bedroom to present us with his “kill.” Of course, he always takes a chunk out of it first. Royally fucks up the carpeting, lemme tell ya.

For his size, he is actually a big baby. He loves to do the “kitty 2 step” in the crook of my neck. He first nuzzles, sticking his nose in my ear so that I hear his breathing, and 2 steps the pillow. Purring, he is trance-like until one of the other cats sticks her nose in his butt. He huffs off in righteous indignation, vocalizing to anyone within earshot as he streaks off the bed. The usual culprit is Boots, the terrorist to whom you will be shortly introduced.

The next 3 cats were adopted at the same time from an animal shelter we found on http://www.petfinder.org . We went with the idea of getting 1, maybe 2 cats. We couldn’t leave the 3rd behind, since she had lived in that cage for 6 months already.

Cleo: is a tabby with the most exquisite green eyes I have ever seen. She looked positively regal, hence the name “Cleo.” She also goes by “Cleophus,” “Cleefie” and “Fifi.” Unlike a certain psychic friend, this cat is nothing special in the intuition/scam department. In fact, she is as dumb as a stump which has earned her yet another nickname: “Stumpy.”

She will lie around the house, typically in any path used for foot traffic. She will lie behind me when I cook (and no, it does NOT get her treats when I step on her). That is typical cat behavior, I know. But what makes Cleo different is that she n-e-v-e-r moves when you accidentally kick or step on her. You will feel guts squish and see her intestines pop out of her asshole before she will even think about getting the hell out of the way. The only thing she will do is give you a surprised-sounding “Bleh-eh-EH?” in the form of a Scooby-Doo question. Rut-ro, Raggy! A real lap cat, she turned out to be the mother of the 2nd of the 3 cats we adopted.

Luna: Where oh where do I start with this piece of work? Oh God, she is a tortoiseshell, or “torti,” cat. You cat lovers know what I am talking about. A fellow blogger at http://catoutloud.blogspot.com described this breed best: “Tortis are totally off the wall. Too smart by half, and the other half is on hallucinogenics. They are often a challenge to tame. There apparently has actually been research linking the legendary torti attitude to the torti coat…. If you can only have one cat, and you want intellectual stimulation plus something to laugh at, and you aren't offended if your cat loves you today and snubs you tomorrow---in return for watching her chase her tail while hanging by her stomach over a ladderback chair---get a torti.”

She started out rowdy as hell, initially earning the name “Taz.” Then my son (who was probably 7 at the time) decided to dress her up and keep her in his room as he played “family.” This caused her to freak out and now all she does is hide under my bed from “THE BOYYY!” When I am home, she sits near me or on me. When I am in bed, she sleeps the same way. Of all family members, she loves me best. She is a pain in the ass and the subject of a previous post on a “Catastophe,” which is humorous reading if you like stories about flying cat piss.

I purposely left a 7-foot ladder set up in my room after painting because she has such a blast zooming up and down, and hanging over the part that holds a paint tray. I keep waiting for her to tip that part and fall, but she never does. She doesn’t seem to know why I can touch her belly when she is laying on that tray shelf. She is nuts.

Callie: A calico, she is a “special needs” cat. Personally, I thought she was one of the ugliest cats I had ever seen, with fur that looked like someone had colored it by touching her with different colored paintbrushes. When we selected the other two, my husband noticed her affectionately rubbing on her cage. She adored rubbing any fingers you could stick through the cage door. She was the sweetest little girl.

We asked what made her a “special needs” cat. Nobody knew the reason, but she shakes uncontrollably. Her rear legs are weak and don’t look as if they can support her skinny body and she can’t jump up at all. Her rear feet point outward; her hind end resembles a plant stand in this respect. There is no muscle mass in her hind area, her bony spine feels like a stegosaurus to the touch and her hips are very narrow with bony protrusions. Since there was no problem with bowel or bladder control, we took her home too.

Her previous owner was in a wheelchair and now in a nursing home. Callie had lived in that cage in the shelter for 1/3 of her life. While she was bold & affectionate through the cage door, she was agoraphobic when we took her out of the carrier. She immediately bolted under a chair, where she stayed for the next 2 weeks. She wouldn’t let anyone touch her.

We just let her “be.” When she would pass close by, we would lightly give her 1 stroke down her back. This went on for months. She finally let my daughter gently touch her after about 6 months. The rest of us had to wait almost a year. She would freak out if there was more than 1 hand at a time touching her. Her preferred way of getting close to you was to come into the bathroom as you sat on the toilet. She would stay just out of your reach, as if she was used to being touched with a cane from the distance of a wheelchair.

Callie also has what I call “monkey paws.” Her front paws resemble a monkey’s, and she has the ability to grasp and pull herself up rather than climbing like a typical cat might. Her front half is very buff since the only way she can get up on anything is by climbing. This is absolute HELL on our leather furniture, BTW. Finally, she got used to getting stroked with 1 hand and then 2. She still will not let anyone pick her up, but that’s okay. She has blossomed into an attention whore who will poke your waist with 1 claw if you sit at the dinner table and ignore her.

Boots: Also known as “Bootcita,” “Bootita” and “Booty-boo.” She is a tuxedo cat with a little Hitler mustache, which also earned her the nicknames “Ah-dolf” and “Dolphie.” Appropriately, she is the terrorist of the group. She was a farm kitten with a hard-scrabble life. A tiny thing, she was pushed away from the food dishes by the other farm cats. She regularly felt the love when they’d pop her on the top of her head. The first time I laid eyes on her, she was looking up at me with dreamy, half-lidded eyes and two-stepping in place. We knew we were taking her home with us.

She is best described as short and squat. Upon discovering an endless food supply here, she now resembles a short, stout, over-inflated soccer ball with 4 toothpicks for legs. She also has the biggest asshole I have ever seen on a cat! It appears human-sized and totally out of place on her. When she turns around & sticks her ass in my face, I sweetly talk to her in a sing-song voice and tell her, “Booty has the biggest butthole EVER!” She loves it, she purrs like crazy.

When the middle 3 cats came on the scene, Meep was totally out of sorts. He’d been King Shit for so long that he became depressed. He stopped eating and started into liver failure. A costly trip to the vet managed to save him and turn him around. But he never got beyond snubbing these 3, or demonstrating his major asshole-ness by growling and hissing at them whenever he had the chance. Be careful what you wish for, Meep. You just might get it.

The other 3 have avoided him like the plague. Now when he wants to play, it is they who snub him. I mean, who needs that asshole? Enter little Boots.

The one who routinely got her ass kicked on the farm, came into our home and kicked some serious Meep-ass. He didn’t know what hit him. He was about 3 times her size and totally surprised when she kicked his ass as he growled to show her who was boss. He started giving her a wide berth, and didn’t harass her. HAH! That didn’t stop her from harassing HIM!

And in a sweet little twist on feline ass-sniffing as greeting, Boots would nip the back of their thighs when they offered her an ass to sniff. So instead of, “Hey! Hi, how ya doin’?” They’d be all “Hey, hi—YOUCH-what the FUCK?” At least they were smart enough to make sure she was never behind them again. Who said cats are dumb?

Some Freak Fambly History and the story of Freak3, the Marryin’ Kind

Our dads were brothers. There were 6 of them, all of whom should have been rendered sterile by a higher power. If there was ever a fambly that should not have been allowed to breed, it was our ancestral cesspool.

In doing the fambly research, I have found that from waaaaaayyy back, this gene pool needed some serious chlorine. Back in the late 1800’s there were already signs of major fuck-upped-ness with the Scottish and then Canadian side.

A great-grandfather of ours abandoned his pregnant wife with six other children, while he traipsed across the country doing God knows what (other than enlisting for WWI a few years later, stating that he was single and had no fambly responsibility.)

Our grandparents were totally devoted to each other, but they had NO business procreating. She bore 6 boys, loving none except the first and last. Their home was one with military rules and no love. There was physical abuse of the middle 4 sons, while the oldest and youngest were pampered (as best as robots could pamper, that is).

While our grandfather was an “ok” guy, wealthy but choosing to wear golf hats and mesh shoes everywhere, our grandmother was a flaming bitch in fur and pearls. A greater dichotomy didn’t exist. He was down to earth; she viewed everyone as inferior. In my entire life, I received only one birthday card from them. And I remember that it had $1 in it for my 8th birthday. That was probably more than my dad ever got from them, though, other than an ass-whipping for talking at the dinner table.

These non-parents then bred and raised other non-parents. These needy men married co-dependent women, who bred other needy men and co-dependent women. I can honestly say that out of 22 cousins, only I escaped relatively intact. No shit. It took me until my second marriage to banish the fambly demons, but I did it. I am proud of who I have become, the way I have been raising my children, and my ability to throw out all of the fambly bullshit. I thank God for my mother, as I am sure she is the ONLY reason I am who I am. She never took any shit from my father, and she taught ME to never take any shit either.

My cousins, Freak1 (F1) and Freak2 (F2) have a misguided sense of fambly. They both come from shit, and seek to find some connection to strangers through Scottish heritage festivals and genealogy, since there was no emotional connection within their own fambly.

F1 is the editor of a fambly newspaper for those with the same last name, or variations thereof. F2 fancies himself the fambly genealogist, failing to credit anyone else’s input. I have researched much of the history, and fleshed out confirmation of the data but choose not to share with him. I don’t think he is smart enough to not fuck it up. Plus, I am still holding out a sliver of hope that we are somehow NOT related.

Freak3 (F3) comes from yet another branch of the fambly tree. He has 5 freak-o-da-week siblings, and one who is relatively normal. He used to be really cute when he was young, then he let all of his teeth rot right out of his head. That was a goooooood look, lemme tell ya. Anyway…

Feeling like an outcast, he, too, longed to belong someplace. He became a member of the “clan” and active in Scottish Highland games. While F2 was bizzy bein’ a truck driver, F2’s wife (who shall be known as F2.5) became the keeper of the genes, so to speak. She and F3 began IM’ing regularly.

F3 was looking for a woman. Apparently F2.5 was looking for something other than F2. F3 began sharing poetry with F2.5. She swooned. Soon, they declared their love and rejoiced in finding their respective soul mates!

For some strange reason, F2.5 took a liking to me & felt the need to share her innermost thoughts on marriage. Basically, as soon as she could divorce F2, she and F3 were going to wed! She gushed at how she’d found the perfect man! He was so caring, thoughtful and romantic… He was a profoundly deep poet who knew what was inside her very soul!

Never being one to mince words, I reminded her that she’d never even SEEN him, let alone MET him. Not only that, but I gently reminded her that there had to be SOME reason that F3 had 2 ex-wives! She coquettishly told me that they’d “seen” each other on the internet, via some “interesting” photos (her words). Well, at least they knew that their genitals would fit like a puzzle, if one or the other wasn’t lying. Sheesh.

Somehow, he became a kilt salesman, of all things. Prior to this, I think he’d been incapable of holding a job due to previous “work injuries” (fambly speak for “I got tarred of werkin’ so I faked an injeery so’s yood havta pay me monees so’s ah’d go away n not soo ya’s”) This kilt sales job involved travel to various games throughout the U.S. As fate would have it, they finally met at one of the games. (cue angels singing; cue beams of light from Heaven above)

By now it was Christmas, a time for the barrage of fambly letters that this cesspool was adamant about sending year after year. Note to self: Move and leave no forwarding address to anyone.

F1 blathered on (again) about being President of the Clan and its newspaper editor (again), like he was William Randolph fucking Hearst or something. He sent yet another complimentary copy that he was certain would make me want to join the clan THIS time! Er, ummm save the clan’s postage, Sparky, I ain’t bitin’.

F2’s Christmas letter took the fucking cake. In it, instead of his usual run-on sentences talking about his dog and his truck and his dog riding in his truck, he chose to vomit all over anyone unlucky enough to have opened that fucking envelope. Dear God, WHY did I open it?? I should have known what was coming. I swear the stationery was tearstained.

F2 commenced to telling the whole sordid tale of how his cousin stole his wife. And how his wife left him for his cousin. And how his wife was no longer living in his house. And how his wife was gonna shack up with his cousin. And how his cousin was having an affair with his wife. His format? He used their full names throughout the whole letter, in case we’d had any doubt about who was doing who.

Christ on a bike, it was the saddest, tackiest, most miserable Christmas letter I had ever received. What else could I do? I laughed my fucking ass off, and then I wrote him a scathing letter telling him to grow up, that he was an asshole for having sent such a letter and to take me off of his Goddamn mailing list!

Unfortunately, F2 forgot and mailed me a terse Christmas card the following year. He simply signed it with his full name in case I didn’t recognize his name on the envelope. Loser. Leave me the fuck alone!

And Now, Time for Some STFU!!

I was raised to be kind and to never hurt anyone’s feelings. I was taught to be gracious and accommodating. Trained to listen and smile, nodding my head when appropriate, I was never to interrupt. And I was most CERTAINLY not to ignore or tell someone to please stop talking. Getting breast cancer cured me of THAT shit.

There are pretty much 2 ways people look at getting cancer:

1.) OH MY GOD, how TERRRRRRRIBLE FOR ME!
2.) Wow, this is truly a gift. I should REALLLLLY learn something from this experience!

Well… maybe there are two and a HALF ways of looking at it. How about a twist on way #2?

I found that pretty early on, I was in camp #2. Sort of. While I sure did not see what a “blessing” (whatever THAT is) cancer was, and that it was NOT a gift in any way, I began to think that I just might take another look at my life and change that which was stifling me. I realized that I was tired of being the “good-girl,” the doormat, the receptacle for the verbal vomit and imposition of others.

I decided to rid myself of all toxic things in my life. Oh please, I am still a chronic over-eater, and I still cuss more than a sailor. But this is for anyone clueless as to WHY I distanced myself from you or discarded you from my life. You would do well to heed the lesson it took me 36 years learn: Life is too short to waste at a job you hate, and associating with people you don’t like. Period.

Presenting: And now, time for some STFU

Big brother: After mom died, and I immediately discovered I had cancer, you totally dumped the full care of our invalid dad in MY lap. After choosing an assisted living apartment just 2 minutes down the road from your house, it was I who had to hire additional caregivers for him. I was the one who had to grocery shop and take him to the doctor’s office (a GREAT place for a bald, sick cancer patient with a compromised immune system, BTW). It was ME who cleaned his apartment and scooped his cat’s litter box. I was the one who yanked my wig off because I got too hot and nauseated washing his nasty, moldy dishes.

I learned that I couldn’t count on you for SHIT. You were a total disappointment, and I am sure that Mom would’ve come back to HAUNT you, if she had known what you put me through. You should STILL be ashamed of yourself. Oh, and thanks for still not having our parents’ small “estate” settled although Dad died over 5 years ago! Now, STFU!

Fugly: What can I say? Since you were my brother’s wife, I tolerated you for years. I felt sorry that in addition to being homely, you were socially retarded as well. I overlooked many insults, attributing them to “misunderstandings” on my part. Then I opened my eyes to the piece of work that is you. I chose to no longer overlook just how fucked up you are, when you found it exceptionally funny to try cutting me down when I was bald, sick and breastless. But I waited until a year later when I lost my uterus, too.

Thankfully, my husband (whom you coveted) and I had a terrific sense of humor and had already gone through the plethora of jokes about me looking like a man, or resembling a penguin, or possibly attracting members of the same sex when I was looking butch. But I immediately realized that yours were not attempts at humor, but true barbs targeting my soul. Too bad you missed, you bitch. Now, STFU!

Jabba: I can’t even count the ways you have sought attention from your selfish daughter, Fugly, through the years, but they have included half-assed overdoses and persistent whining about your diverticulitis. You have always babbled incessantly about random, mindless shit at every family function I have ever been cursed to attend. I realize now where Fugly inherited her innate ugly and tremendous sense of “stupid.” The immense stupidity which poured out of your mouth was mind-boggling! But I don’t think I could ever again experience such profound shock at hearing stupid comments, as when my mother lay dying in the hospital.

None of us had known Mom was sick. We had just 3 days prior been given her leukemia diagnosis, and she would die in 2 days. You and I were sitting in Fugly’s living room during a “birthday party” for my nephling. As I mindlessly nibbled on birthday cake, I was preoccupied with the thought of losing my beloved mother. In what I thought at the time was your way of “comforting” me, you said:

Jabba: “Your mother is the lucky one. That she is dying, I mean.”

Me: Blink blink blink. “What?”

Jabba: “Do you know how long I have been waiting to die? I have been so uncomfortable! You just don’t know what I have been through!!”

Me: Blink blink blink. “Excuse me; I need to go home now.”


Holy-fucking-shit. Through my tears as I drove home, anger bubbled over and I wanted a “do over” of that conversation because I realized what I should have said to you:

Me: “You’re right! I wish it was you who was dying and that MY mother’s worst problem was that she couldn’t eat food with seeds!”

Now, STFU!

Nephling: I loved you dearly as a child. As an adolescent you took a turn for the twisted and I no longer found you sweet OR amusing. Along with your intelligence (yeah, Fugly, I know he is a Talented and Gifted student), you absorbed your mother’s inner ugliness.

I always felt sorry for you that my daughter, who was younger than you by a year, was so totally able to kick your ass anytime you picked on her. Then you chose to be cruel to my son, who was younger than you by 7 years, because you couldn’t understand his speech when he had his orthodontic appliance in place. Yeah, she kicked your ass again, didn’t she? Good luck trying to become a decent human being. Now, STFU!

Freak 1 (see previous post): You make me sick. I tolerated you because you were “fambly.” Then I realized that I got nothing out of the "relationship” except a skin-crawly feeling of creepy.

Through the years, every phone call you’d make to me would ultimately turn to sex; how much you were/were not getting, what you liked to do, what a great massage you could give, and your date’s response….blahblahblah. Then you really crossed the line by asking me what I liked. How many different ways can I say and spell “ICK?” I would cut those conversations off as soon as I recognized that your tone of voice had changed. You fucking pervert.

When I moved and chose to not give you my phone number and address, you discovered me online through another fambly member. Fuck. Now I had to deal with emails of sex jokes and dirty cartoons (that you’d gotten from your DAD), and actual photographs of you! Thank GOD you never crossed the line and sent nude ones, although I am sure you thought about it. And, OH SWEET JESUS, the IM’s from you!

I put you on my “buddy list” only to keep track of your twisted ass. My skin would crawl and I would hiss, “FUCK!” every time you “found” me. Then you would IM your date-sex talk as if we were old lovers and you were trying to turn me on and entice me back into your fold. WE ARE COUSINS! THE ONLY REASON I WOULD EVER TALK TO YOU IS BECAUSE OUR DADS WERE BROTHERS! BTW, I am NOT attracted to dwarves wearing kilts! I don’t care that you are really into our Scottish heritage and attend all sorts of Highland Games trying to find ass from someone else who is as dweeby as YOU! Now, STFU!

Freak 2: You’ve not yet had the pleasure of being introduced to F1’s younger-by-4-years brother, F2. This piece of work is also quite the “tool.” Other than losing his wife to another of our cousins via an online relationship, he is Creepy with a capital “C.”

About 5’8 and well over 350 lbs, he wears his dark, frizzy hair past his shoulders and sports a mountain-man beard down to his breastbone. Add to this a cowboy hat and a lazy eye to go along with a heavy-lidded look and you have F2. And for those of you who feel safe in your homes, he is an over-the-road truck driver here in the U.S., so lock up your children, mmmkay?

His ex-wife (who eventually went on to marry and divorce that other cousin) told me that he’d been fired from one of his jobs for downloading kiddie porn. I don’t know whether this is true or just sabotage by the angry ex, but I NEVER let him near my children.

After a family funeral, when all of the low-life fambly members were enticed to cross state lines by free food on someone else’s tab, there was a “mini” fambly reunion at a restaurant.

F1 was there, as was F2 with a 35mm camera to record the “happy” event. I made sure to sit on the same side of the table as those 2, so that F1 couldn’t stare at me, and F2 couldn’t stare at and photograph my children. I also made sure to keep about 12 people between us and them but I still couldn’t keep the “creepy” factor from settling over us.

F2 would stand up to shoot, and I would block my kids. He would maneuver; I would out-maneuver. I finally approached him (F1 and F2 both thought for a HUG! F1 nearly elbowed F2 out of the way). I pushed F1 out of the way, and sticking my sharp index finger firmly into F2's breastbone, hissed for him to put the camera away and to not fucking DARE to take pictures of me or my kids. I haven’t seen him since, but he never fails to send me a Christmas card every year signed with his first and last name, as if I could ever wash his creepy name out of my head! Now, STFU and quit sending me cards, you freak!

Ick.

Maybe someone should have told her that there are CREAMS for that.....

And Now, On to my Dad’s Fambly Tree!

(or, “How I Wish I Had a Tanker Truck Full of Chlorine Bleach”)

He shyly smiled, reached for my hand, and looked lovingly into my eyes through his smudged glasses. Uncomfortable, I tried to avoid his gaze. His ripe, white-tipped pimples seemed to mesmerize me. I focused on the dozens of pulsating pustules, momentarily distracted from his words. I had never seen so much oil… A gentle pressure on my hands cleared the thick fog in my head and brought me back into the present. I shook my head slightly, certain that I had misunderstood his question.

“If I wasn’t your cousin, would you date me?”

(Cue the sound of a needle angrily scratching across a record album)

Holy fucking Christ… This can’t be happening…OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG He wouldn’t let go of my fucking hands. I hadn’t even realized what any of this was leading to. On the inside, I was screaming. On the outside, I tried to not let him see how repulsed I was. I kept a weird frozen smile on my face, eyes wide and unblinking.

He actually asked me this question with a straight face. He wasn’t even fucking KIDDING me. Holy SHIT, Batman! I swear to GOD. And for me to STILL have a vivid memory of it nearly 30 years LATER should be a good indicator of how traumatic it WAS (is) for me. I mean, WTF??? What kind of question is that to ASK me? We didn’t even live in the South! Thankfully, he lived on the other side of the country, or I would have certainly killed myself.

Initally, in my kind-hearted (at the time) mind, I had asked myself, “How could I possibly answer this “dating” question without hurting his feelings?” So I just said, “maybe,” scooted out of the house and left him watching “I Dream of Jeannie” with my dad. I shot my mom a look of “he is a weirdo,” and made my escape.

Now, of course, I would just blurt out, “Oh fucking hell NO! Hell-to-the-NO, you fucking FREAK!” and make fun of his lactating breasts, his very-likely miniscule penis and undescended testicles.

I was about 16, and the offending cousin in question (Freak 1, or “F1” for short) was almost 19. Freak-of-the-week. Of the CENTURY, even. And he was in MY gene pool. Ick.

For the week, he also happened to be in my backyard. Since he was visiting from California, it was my job to show him around, to make him feel a part of things. In retrospect, I should have left his ass home to watch Jackie Gleason reruns and eat Cheetos with my dad, watching as Dad chain-smoked his way through 2 packs. Instead, being the dutiful daughter, I bravely introduced F1 to my friends. Funny how every single one of them had something else to do whenever I called that week. Talk about deserting a sinking ship. Bitches.

So, I drove him around in my car, as he annoying flipped through all of the radio stations. We “cruised” all the main drags, covering all of my old stomping grounds. I drove him past my schools. We ate fast food. We went to the new mall (a big deal in the 70’s, lemme tell ya). We stopped for ice cream. We went roller skating. We went to the movies. All fucking week long, I had to babysit this mutant dwarf with the fucked-up giggle. And he never shut the fuck up. He was filled with useless knowledge. It was painfully obvious that he was socially retarded.

F1 was a good 6 inches shorter than me, and built like a rather stout truck with a huge ass. His legs were exceptionally short. In addition to his horribly pimply skin, he had a greasy, unwashed look about him. His short hair and face practically dripped. At least he didn’t stink and his hair WAS always combed. I felt sorry for him because he looked so lost.

Being a Navy brat, he had lived all over the world. I came to learn that he was a very intelligent, articulate know-it-all fuck. What I didn’t realize at the time was that, like his father, he had a very high opinion of himself, fancying himself as the shiznit. And that he considered our week together a string of “dates.”

I don’t quite know at which point F1 ceased seeing me as a cousin and began looking at me as potential “hubba hubba” for his oversexed and obviously underutilized nads. Come to think of it, I don’t know that he EVER saw me as off-limits. Looking back, there had been numerous attempts to touch my hand or brush my boobs. Hang on a minute, I have to vomit.

OK, I’m back (wipes mouth with sleeve)

Our nightly conversations on my parents’ porch were benign enough. We discussed school, tastes in music and movies. The alarm bells (which, unfortunately, weren’t yet fully developed) should have gone off in my head when he steered the talk toward relationships, kissing and *ewwww* sex. He wanted to know if I’d ever kissed a guy. (HELLOOOOOO, of COURSE you fucking retard, it was the 70’s for chrissake!) Then he wanted to know if I’d ever been “touched.” Uh-oh... (OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG thisisnothappeningtome!!!!!)

Then he wanted to know if he could kiss me and touch my boobs, to “see if it feels the same.” With that, I fully recognized what a huge-ass piece of shiznit he really WAS, pushed him off the porch into the picker bushes and locked him out of the house. Hang on a minute, I have to vomit again.

OK, I’m back (gargles, spits, wipes mouth with sleeve)

After telling my mother about the “dating” question (I didn’t dare mention the rest) she helped me avoid him the last 2 days of his stay. Fortunately for my blog, my stories of him do NOT end with this visit.

I’ve gotta give that twisted little fuck props for persistence, though. Shit, I am getting that drooling “I’ve gotta puke” feeling again.

Separated at birth???

The Playpen Incident

The Playpen Incident

I felt it was necessary to elaborate on that last post. I will briefly relate to you that which I term "The Playpen Incident."

High School drama apparently doesn't end after graduation. For various reasons, all of them stupid and immature (on everyone's part), my daughter's "friends" have decided to try making her away-from-home college experience a nightmare. Yeah, good luck with THAT, bitches.

Basically, the 4 girls go to the same university about 2.5 hrs away from home. They have been a foursome for about a year, although the friendships have existed in various mixes for about 4 years or so. Only 2 of them (my daughter & 1 of them)room together. The other 2 knew better, as they would "kill each other" (their words).

Keep in mind that they have NEVER been joined at the hip, and would hang out when there was something to do. My daughter has never been one to call someone just to say "Hi, how're ya doing??"

This summer, my daughter met her boyfriend, who also goes to that university and happens to live 1/2 way between our house and said school. The group dynamics changed from a 4some, to a 3some + others, and my daughter's 2some.

Fast forward to the first week of school. Boyfriend puts an away message up for his AIM/AOL account. Two of the 3 girls(let's call them SheBabies, cuz I am feeling charitable) assume it's about THEM. The two of them decide to barricade my daughter's dorm room door so that she can't get in.

Imagine the following temper tantrum:

L&R get up to her dorm, L tries to use her key & the lock won't turn. The door won't budge. From inside the room, SheBabies have barricaded the door with something. L tells them to open the door.

"NO! YOU CAN'T COME HERE!!!"

L reminds them, through the door, that she LIVES there.

"Well, YOU Can come in but HE CAN'T!!!" came the reply.

L reminds them that she can bring in anyone she pleases.

"But we signed that room mate agreement!"

L reminds them that the agreement was that ANYONE either of them chooses can come in.

"NOT HIM!!"

L starts to cry in the hallway. R is pissed off that they have made her cry. Again. He's been watching her weep over these "friends" for weeks now. She has felt at a loss in how to make things "right" or at least harmonious again. At this point, she feels like too much of an outsider to initiate anything with them.

The SheBabies finally un-barricade the door. L&R get in, L grabs her books and leaves, slamming the door behind her. She spent her day and evening studying in the Student Center.

She went back to her dorm to pick up some items and then spent the night at R's. She was still upset and told me, "I feel like I can't even stay in my own ROOM! I just want someone to HOLD me, ya know?? The only one who loves me out here is R."

Although it made me extremely sad and angry when it first happened, I couldn't help but laugh after seeing this image in my head of 2 toddlers with very large grown-up heads, stomping & screaming their heads off in a playpen while wearing saggy diapers, footie sleepers and holding their blankies on the other side of that barricaded door.

Is there ANY fucking way to sprinkle some magic "Sanity Dust" or "Let's-Be-a-Less-Fucked-Up-Bitch Dust" over that campus? How about a nice dose of "Shut the Fuck Up," or some "Leave-Me-The-Fuck-Alone-If-You're-Gonna-Be-Evil-Psycho-Bitches juice" in the water supply? Out of 22,000 students, she can't possibly be the ONLY one who'd benefit from this!

Either way, my main thought is this: If you want to continue to be friends, Y'ALL need to ACT like it. GET OVER SHIT, already! If you just exist to try to make her life miserable, you need a new existence. You should have learned that from this summer. After all, who had a summer full of hugs and kisses, while YOU had a summerful of nothing but bitching about HER?

I am going to have to remind my daughter that, for liability purposes, she is going to have to remember to keep the siderails up.

Oh, and remember that KARMA is a bitch.

I Could Fuck a Bitch UP

Have you ever encountered such surreal bullshit in your life that you just want to shake your head, tell someone to STFU and then slap the living SHIT out of them? Such has been my overwhelming desire for the past couple of weeks, since taking my daughter to college. At the risk of going to jail for doing some serious bodily harm to a bitch, I blog it here instead.

What have we done to/for our children if they show NO remorse for ignoring the very basic requirements of a polite society? The very basic requirements of belonging to the human race?

I give you this

Now, children, for a crash course in being a decent human being, since you hyenas were never taught by your parents:

A Few Rules for Psychological Happiness--Some of the Basics:

Respect:
The right to exist without harassment. Don't fuck with anybody.

The right to one's own beliefs:
If you do not want to be told what to think or do
then do not tell anyone else what to think or do.

Derogatory Name Calling:
Derogatory name calling is disrespectful! The
right of all people to be happy is greater than
one individual's right of free speech. Speak
freely if your speech does not hurt the basic
rights of another to be happy and live without
harassment. Why should unhappiness exist just so
one person can be happy at someone else's expense?

Privacy:
If what I do or say makes me happy and does not
hurt you (negatively affect you're rights of life,
liberty and the basic needs of happiness) then
WHAT I DO OR SAY IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!

Get Rid of Your Magical Thinking:
Mind reading, fortune telling, assuming - we think we can read other peoples minds and feelings, or foretell the future, and then act as if what we assume is the reality. We often create self-fulfilling prophecies this way.

Don't STAR in the Soap Opera:
Blowing things out of proportion, playing the "King or Queen of tragedy." Some of us are addicted to "Trauma Dramas" and want the excitement and intensity of dramatic scenes while others of us are terrified of conflict. It is quite common in codependent relationships to have one person who is over-indulgent and dramatic emotionally coupled with someone who wants to avoid conflict and emotions at all costs.

Personalizing and Blame:
Blaming yourself for something you weren't entirely responsible for, or for how someone else feels. Conversely, you may blame other people, external events, or fate, while overlooking how your own attitudes and behavior may have contributed to a problem.

Straighten up, and GROW up, you fucking bitches. That's all I have to say about that. For now.

Thanks, son

We were talking about watching TV tonight. HE wants to watch NASCAR. I want to watch Mind of Mencia. I told him I'd watch my program in my bedroom. Here is the conversation:

Son: C'mon, Mom! You're more redneck than Mexican!

Me: Well, I am more COMEDY than redneck. mmkay?


postscript: My husband is 1/2 Mexican & 1/2 German. And since bearing his child, I have always told people that I am "Hispanic by Injection."

Drunken Bus Drivers

Went to a bar with a friend of mine for dinner. I love to people watch. There were all types in there; we appeared to be the only non-smokers. We were also the only non-drinkers. My 12yo son was with us. I was joking around that the ladies sitting at this huge round table were school bus drivers. The time of day was right.

Their collective "look" was also right. What is the outfit du jour of a female schoolbus driver in our district, you ask? That would be short shorts, tight fitting short sleeved shirts, ankle socks and tennis shoes. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention the prerequisite camel toe, since the school district has been instructed to cut sex ed. They figure the kids will see Bus Driver Toe and ask mommy & daddy all about it once they hop off the bus.

Now, you have to keep in mind that these female bus drivers are of all ages. The average age of this group was probably late 40-ish. Average weight was probably 200 lbs, and not at all proportionate to height. Remember this equation, kiddies: Camel toe + late 40-ish + overweight = extremely high ICK factor. And not a single one of them could sit like a lady. They sat as if they were straddling a chair backwards. I thank my lucky stars that the lighting was subdued or I might have been able to detect if the carpet matched the drapes, whether I wanted to or not.

We kept cracking jokes--asking the waitress for shots of "Drunken Bus Drivers." We pretended to be on "Jeopardy": "I'll take 'Drunken Bus Drivers for $500, Alex." One of them turned around & looked right at my son. Holy Hell! He recognized her as HIS bus driver. We laughed hysterically. Especially when we told him he'd most likely have to WALK to school now that she saw him there.

Funny thing about her, though. When she looked at him, I don't think she really SAW him. Her eyes seemed to look toward the OUTSIDE of her head--as if she had the ability to see out the right and left windows of the bus at the same time but not straight ahead. Wow. Who'da thought that Freak Eye would be an asset in a school bus driver!