Tag Archives: wtf

Doomed

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So about a week ago the youngest child, Cindy Lou Who,  came down with a nasty cold.

Yesterday The Lovely Rhonda started to feel crappy, and today she spent all day more or less in bed and says she doesn’t know if she’s EVER been this sick.

I just sneezed four times in a row and my eyes are scratchy.

I think it might be coming for me.

Here’s the thing, though.

When you TYPICAL people feel a cold coming on, it’s like you get to spin a wheel like on Wheel of Fortune.  And here’s what YOUR wheel looks like:

spin the wheel for normal people

Don’t pretend this isn’t your wheel. You suck.

But I’m not LIKE you people anymore, for reasons that my nurse practitioner cannot fathom, and when I feel a cold coming on my wheel looks more like this:

spin the wheel

I hate all of you until the cold medicine kicks in again.

So yeah.  You can all just bite me.

Ugh.

That time I unfriended someone

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So the other day one of my FB friends posted this:

food stamp ecard

And they captioned the post with something about nail salons, tanning beds, maxed out credit cards and financed BMWs, indicating that they felt that a lot of people who receive food stamps are somehow able to afford a rich lifestyle.

And I chose not to get excited about it.  I mean, I could have been offended on a few counts.  For starters, Coach isn’t properly capitalized and neither is iPhone5.

Oh, and also the vast majority of people receiving assistance are not soulless jerks just taking advantage of the sheeple taxpayers.

The person who posted it got a few responses; I myself related how I was on food stamps in nursing school.  When I graduated, my mother gave me a Coach purse as a graduation gift.  I left it at home when I shopped for food.  A few months after graduation I got a good job and stopped the food assistance.  I remember calling them and telling them I didn’t need it anymore.  They sounded surprised that I called.  I guess some people would have just let the assistance keep coming until the yearly re-application process.

Anyway, the next person who commented was very angry and said that this was an insult to poor people and other things like that.  I really do agree and so I commented back that I had chosen not to get excited about it, I feel that this sentiment applies to a gazillionth of a percent of those who receive aid of whatever type, and so while I wouldn’t perpetuate it, neither would I get excited about it either because life is too damn short.

Then the poster commented that we were missing the point, and in the course of further back-and-forth comments it became apparent that this person feels themselves to be an expert on the subject of the sort of people receiving food aid due to information gathered while “people watching” at the grocery store.

I commented again that it is impossible to know what someone’s situation is just by what can be observed.  I related how I currently hold a temporary disabled parking permit due to foot pain.  No one looking at me would know that every step I take is at best uncomfortable and at worst quite painful, because I don’t show it.  I look like anyone else.  But my feet hurt all the time, often to the point that I dread stopping at the store on the way home because it will involve walking.

I also pointed out that it is impossible to know a person’s situation based on what the person is carrying around because when they ran into trouble, lost their job or got sick or whatever, their Coach purse didn’t magically convert to a Walmart bag.

Also?  Knockoffs can be quite convincing.  Fauxch anyone?

The poster’s next comment is what caused me to withdraw from the conversation and abruptly unfriend:  Wish I could get a parking permit and some benefits!  Thanks taxpayers!

Except that I added the punctuation and capitalization etc. because yeah.

So, here’s the deal.  I work with people who have serious mental illness.  They survive on state and federal benefits.  Without those, they would be on the streets or in prison or the hospital.  None of these options are particularly pleasant.  We house them and feed them and care for them with food stamps and financial assistance.  They don’t own Coach purses and iPhone5s unless someone gives them one, and frankly nobody does.

And?  I’m a taxpayer and have been since I was 18 years old.  I pay into the system and therefore if I need assistance during a rough patch, whether it’s for food to feed my kid and myself with while I finish school so I can get a better job, or whether it’s to reserve the privilege of parking closer to the store so I don’t hurt any more than I have to (when I can find a damn space, and when there aren’t other spaces nearby that are nearly as good which I take so the old ladies can have the disabled spots because old ladies) — having paid into the system, I can tap it for a little help when needed.

The poster, it should be noted, is trying to start a business using one of those annoying “sell things to your friends” schemes — perhaps the most obnoxious and notorious one, but I’m not going to identify the poster or the scheme here — and often posts about how they are building their business by having meals at restaurants and coffee at Starbucks with other like-minded individuals, i.e. shallow people who think it’s okay to make their friends and families uncomfortable by shilling crappy goods at them without provocation.

And drives an Audi.

And is a soulless jerk.

I chose not to engage any further because I’m not great at arguing, and because this person was not so important to me that I felt I needed to continue.  I’m not going to change this person’s mind.  This person will not grow compassion via a conversation on Facebook.

I also chose to end the whole thing because I have recently become acquainted with the Fuck-Off Fairy, and she has made my life so much better.  I don’t have to absorb the toxic bullshit of every unimportant little worm that comes along with an opinion.  I can walk away and know that the uninformed, absolute sewage spewing from this person’s mouth just defines them as someone I don’t want to know at all, and that’s perfectly okay.

I recently had a discussion with my daughter about this fairy, although I named her the Bug-Off Fairy because my daughter is nine years old.  I want her to get acquainted with this fairy at a MUCH younger age than I did.  It will make her life so much better.

 

 

Crowning glory

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So a few years ago I was driving along minding my own business eating a Milk Dud and a cusp broke off one of my six-year molars. Alas, I had no dental insurance, so I had it examined to be sure it wasn’t going to just fall out of my head and then went on my merry way.

Fast forward to the present time. I now have double coverage, making a thousand-dollar crown essentially free of charge. Time to get that thing taken care of. I went in for what I thought was going to be a consult appointment one Friday — “Oh no, you’re getting your crown today!”

Lovely.

So they filled my jaw full of Novocaine and went to town on that thing. And I got a delightful caveman tooth that they mixed up and molded on the spot, as though we were in kindergarten and it was Play-Doh time. “Come back in three weeks,” they told me.

The next day I had a migraine.  Good times.

So it was that this afternoon I settled into the dentist chair and tried not to freak out at the thought that they were going to pop the caveman tooth out and put the new one on WITHOUT ANESTHETIC.

The Lovely Rhonda said it would be no big deal.

The Lovely Rhonda, it turns out, is a lying liar of big fat hairy lies.

They popped the temporary crown off without incident, but then they had to go and poke around at it and clean it off and scrape at it with their ingenious pointy little horrible dental tools.

Then the dentist warned me: “So, uh, this part doesn’t feel too great. But it’s quick and not really worth numbing up half your face, and that also would make it harder to test the fit properly. So, uh, I just like to warn people that it will feel kind of…. icy. And then it warms up and that goes away. So uh, here we go.”

And then she drove a railroad spike of frozen steel into my jawbone for a hundred years.

Okay, it was really really unpleasantly coldly painful for like five solid long horrible seconds and then it throbbed for hours.

Five seconds is like half an hour in a dentist’s chair when someone is doing something unspeakable to your live, defenseless, naked tooth.

Then they told me to avoid eating or drinking cold foods or drinks on that side for a little while. THANKS FOR THAT, HELPFUL HORRIBLE DENTIST PERSON.

Ugh. Time for Motrin and bed.

But, it could be worse. Young Neville goes to the vet to get the big snip tomorrow.

That would probably be worse. Maybe.

This thing that happened today

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So this evening I took it upon myself to finish the project I started yesterday.

Yesterday evening I got a wild hair to clean the minivan, Moby Titanic.  It had been a while and the filth level was teetering on the brink of acceptable levels of sloth.  It’s one thing to say, “Oh dear, sorry about the mess, you know how it is with kids” to the poor co-worker who has been forced to hitch a ride to lunch with you, as you toss a few library books and a stray sandal into the back seat.  It’s quite another to say, “Oh, you’re riding with me?  Give me about ten minutes to stuff all the crap into the stow-and-go compartments and hang half a dozen Little Tree air fresheners to hide the smell of moldering graham crackers and despair.”

And so it came to pass that I spent a carefree ninety minutes clearing away various bits of domestic detritus from the van’s interior,  vacuuming every last crevice and cleaning various of the grimier bits with spray cleaner.

It was during this time that I spied something between the front passenger seat and the mini-console next to it, something that I had long since given up for lost: my car keys.  They disappeared around New Year’s, because the last few days before you get married are obviously the ideal time for your keys to come up missing.  Evidently they had fallen there at some point during the frenzy of preparation or possibly the night we went to the drag show where I had a certain number of adult beverages, numbering perhaps three.  For me this is something like depravity.  Don’t judge.  Anyway, a stray Home Depot receipt or similar had then fallen atop them, concealing them completely from view in the narrow dark little space.

So this means that for seven months we drove my keys around, wondering all the while where they could possible have gotten away to.

I didn’t have time to wash the van’s exterior what with all the OCD detailing and lost-keyring-finding exultation going on, so this evening I fired up the garden hose and went to town on that thing.  It turns out that beneath the crusty layer of filth, it’s a fairly nice white minivan that we have.

My nine-year-old joined me in this which is to say that she pranced around with a soapy washrag taking swipes here and there at random locations on the van and then entreating me to spray her with the hose.  I enthusiastically reluctantly agreed  and thus was she soaked to the point of drippy saturation.  When she wanted to go in the house a bit later I got her a towel and brought her around to the back door so she could strip down out of view of the neighbors.  If we let her drip all over the newly-installed floors our handyman would probably kill me on sight.

My kid is what you could call an enthusiastic nudist, charmingly free of self-consciousness and all too ready to get naked whenever the occasion calls for it.  In another year or two this might become cause for alarm but for now it’s just the exuberant innocence of youth and I for one applaud it.

The Lovely Rhonda might have applauded it also up to tonight, but maybe not so much any longer.

I am not sure what in the world caused me to say it but my mouth opened and words came out:  “Hey Delia, I dare you to go over and press your naked butt up to the patio door.”

Perhaps it was that I remembered seeing a perfect print of her nose and mouth to the glass surface of one of the French doors a couple of days ago, and perhaps also it was that I possessed the knowledge that TLR was seated at her desk just on the other side of the doors.

Very possibly it was just the whispered voice of mischief keeping me from getting too close to sainthood.  Nobody likes a goody-goody.

My child doth not disappoint.  She raced over to the door and gave it the full moon, laughing and grinning like the juvenile delinquent that I am evidently raising her to be.

I am sorry to say that I then dared her to wave it back and forth, which she did.  At this point TLR came over to the doors and under pretense of unlocking them,  lowered the blinds in each one without a word and then yelled through the closed doors that she would never be able to get that sight out of her mind.

I laughed until I cried.  Eventually she let us in.

I am still laughing.  I am a terrible person.

Ode to Buttsong

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Found on the back porch:

Buttsong

One early morning I heard noise from Debra’s butt.

“Debra, you have a buttsong!”  “What?!” 

“There’s no such thing as a buttsong!”she yelled out loudly.  So,

“Yes there is” I yelled on back, “You just don’t know!”

So we spent the whole day arguing, laughing to and fro.

Now, I think, “Oh how funny was that, oh!”

This little masterwork comes to you, dear reader(s), courtesy of Rhonda’s oldest, the originator of the “buttsong” concept.

The eve of the thing in the place

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So tomorrow morning at the most ungodly hour imaginable we will be harassing our children into clothes and stuffing them in our friend’s van for the quick trip to the airport.  The housesitter has been engaged, rides to and from have been arranged, tickets printed, clothing packed, lists checked and rechecked.  I’m not sure it took this much advanced planning to launch the first space mission.

This dramatization of actual events will give you both an idea of how things are progressing:

The Lovely Rhonda:  Did you pack your stuff?

Me: No.  I don’t like that bag.  I want the suitcase.  The one in the middle kid’s closet.

TLR: Ugh.  (sends kids out to play so we can sneak down hall and get suitcase)

Me:  This suitcase is tiny!  I can’t use this tiny suitcase!  What the hell!

TLR: Ugh.  (shows me where there is room in all the other suitcases for the rest of my stuff)

Me:  My stuff will be spread out all over the place!  This sucks!  Why can’t I have a real suitcase!

TLR:  Ugh.  (opens bottle of wine)

As long as our wine stock holds up, I should make it out of this thing alive.