Monday, March 31, 2008
2) Ungrateful people, especially children
3) Not being Cindy Crawford
4) Having to share my washer and dryer with Jason
5) Did I mention vomit?
7) People who are completely unable to merge
8) Puke and hurl
10) Oh, and vomit
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Jason? Never gets sick. Well, hardly ever. I can count on one hand the number of times he's been ill in the almost nine years that I've known him.
Last night he went to bed around 8pm. He didn't get up this morning until about 9am. He requires about six hours of sleep, as a general rule.
And? This morning? He told me several times that his stomach hurt.
I've been trying to work all day today. I'm on huge deadlines for about twenty different projects. I really, really, REALLY need to get certain things done by Friday. My manager said I could work as much overtime as I needed to get it done (yay, I guess), so I've been spending long nights and weekend hours trying to catch up. Because believe me. At my office, I cannot go twenty minutes without an interruption. Ever. And what I've been working on requires me to actually concentrate. I am not good at concentrating.
Throughout the day, as I've been sitting here at my little desk, trying to check things off my to-do list, my husband has periodically shouted, "Chick! Can you come help me please?"
The first time? Was so I could help him shave his back.
The second time? Was because my daughter was cleaning up her room and he wanted me to make sure that everything she was throwing away was actually supposed to be thrown away.
The third time? Was so I could praise Boy Child for what a good job he did cleaning his room.
By the fourth time he was saying, "Chick! Can you come help me please?" I was feeling a bit exasperated.
I walked into the bedroom and he was sitting on the bed, covered in sweat.
"Yes?" I asked.
And then? The smell hit me.
THE DISGUSTING VOMIT SMELL.
He threw up all over the bathroom.
All. Over. The. Bathroom.
Oh my dear Lord, it was so, so wrong.
He said, as I was knee-deep in the vomitous sludge, "I owe you one". And then, he fell asleep.
He owes me so many more than one.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Today, I took the girls in my Girl Scout troop to Dollywood.
If you have ever wondered what it's like to take several ten year old girls, an eight year old girl, a thirteen year old girl, and one ten year old boy to Dollywood? Well just grab the closest baseball bat and hit yourself in the face repeatedly until you forget what you were thinking.
And don't give little girls your opinion on things.
Trust me on this.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Apparently this Boy who is very tall hit this other boy in the face during dodge ball. Tall boy threw the ball really hard. Boy Child's best friend, Friend Child, TOLD Tall boy not to throw so hard, but he did it anyway.
Tall boy's throw broke Ball-in-face boy's glasses.
A piece of the glass (okay, it's probably plastic. Are any children's glasses actually made with actual glass?) went into Ball-in-face boy's EYE.
Much shrieking commenced.
I was appropriately upset given that I do not know any of the children in this particular scenario with the exception of Friend Child and he wasn't really involved. Since Boy Child wears glasses I said, "Boy Child, next time you play dodge ball, be sure you take your glasses off. I don't want you to get hurt."
And he said, "Mom. I took my glasses off? And then I couldn't see the ball? And Mr. Edwards threw the ball? And it hit me in the cubes."
MY TEN-YEAR OLD SON JUST REFERRED TO HIS NUTSACK.
OH. MY. GOD.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
See, our church? The church that we’ve been going to since we got here and we love? Doesn’t really feel like our church anymore. For a lot of reasons, most of which are way too painful and involved to get into right now. But one of the biggies? Is that someone whom Jason used to work with goes to church there as well and she did and said a lot of things that were horribly untrue and horribly unkind and hateful and mean and terrible and I’m getting really freaking worked up just thinking about it. And she just happens to be related to our pastor.
Now, I have been very honest when I say that I would not want anyone in my life judging me based upon my relatives. I have family members in jail, family members who have abandoned their children, family members who have not abandoned their children but are such horrible parents that we all wish to God they would, family members on drugs, family members who have been on Jerry Springer (no, not kidding, wish I was) and more emotionally crippled, socially retarded family members than one could shake the proverbial stick at.
I know what it is to have a messed up family. I live it every day of my life. The weird part is? They think that since I’m the one in therapy? That I’m the crazy one.
I know, right? LOLtastic.
Anyway, back to my point. I don’t think it’s the pastor’s fault that his relative is a lying box of used sanitary napkins. Nor am I trying to blame him or say that the reason she is the way she is has anything to do with the fact that she attends that church. That’s not fair and it’s not correct.
My problem is, my husband, the man with whom I share my life, lost his job in part because of the lies this person told. I haven’t told the entire story of what happened when he lost his job. Maybe I will someday but I can’t yet. It’s still very raw. And even though he has a new job now, and thank God it seems to lack the multitude of Crazy and In Charge that the last job did, still. It was a huge, huge blow to him. And it just wasn’t. his. fault.
And he doesn’t need to have to see the person that was partially responsible for that. He just doesn’t.
I’ve questioned myself lately if we are the type of people who just run away from their problems instead of confronting them, head on. We don’t have a relationship with my husband’s birth family because of how horribly they treated me and the Boy and Girl Child. That was Jason’s choice, but frankly? I’m glad he made it. I cannot imagine how infinitely more difficult my life would be right now if I had to deal with them all the time. I do not deal well with some of the people in my own extended family. It is very hard. I’m trying hard to get well. I’m doing all this work in therapy and it’s getting easier all the time. But it’s still hard to undo thirty-two years of feeling like I am Wrong and Will Never Be Right and Horrible and Awful and a Mistake. It’s like, if I’m okay, the Earth will stop spinning. It will all fall down around me. All I know how to be is crap.
I don’t know how to be okay. Or normal.
And until I figure it out? I shouldn’t be around people whose lips I wish to rip off. It just doesn’t seem safe.
Easter morning I got out of bed early and went outside and sat on my porch swing. I prayed for a while that I would have some wisdom and understanding, because, frankly? I need all the help I can get.
I felt calm about Easter. I felt at peace. Pretty sure that God is cool with me and my logic.
Later that day Jason went out and sat in the swing, on his own. I feel pretty sure he was reflecting as well.
When he came back in he said, “You know, there’s a church that’s less than a mile from our house. Why don’t we try that next week?”
So we will.
I think we will find our place somewhere.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
I was so pleased because, frankly? It doesn't take much with me.
After he left I noticed that my large whiteboard had the following on it:
1) The words "HANG IN THERE, KEEP MAKING ME MONEY!"
2) The words, "Training is #11!"
3) A large diagram which was labeled, "Percentage of our respective milkshakes which bring the boys to the yard". There was a column labeled 100% which said, "Chick" and a column which said 0% labeled with my supervisors name. My supervisor? Is a man.
Seriously. Wouldn't you like to be my office-mate?
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
"What? My tampon's showing?"
Oh. My. GAWD.
Thus, began my love/hate relationship with I Know My Kid's A Star.
Because seriously. I can't stop watching this crap. I really want to because good gravy, it is horrid. Just horrid. I'm just stunned, appalled and disgusted by these parents. Especially the one who was wearing a skirt so short that she was afraid you could see her tampon string.
First of all, this entire debacle is hosted by...get ready...Danny Bonaduce. Or as I like to call him, Danny Bonadoucewad, or alternately, just The Douche. There are ten children and their parents apparently all living in the same house. They have to compete in various challenges and have eliminations and you know, the basic format of every single reality show on Vh1 these days except this one has kids instead of skankwhores.
Some of the parents seems sane and somewhat normal. The vast majority of them seem to be living our their unfulfilled fantasies via their children. Some of which are actually talented. Some.
There has been only one episode. During which:
-A little girl puked immediately after meeting The Douche. I can't say I blame her, or anything.
-The same little girl donned a pink wig and sang "A Thousand Miles" as though it were a show tune.
-The Tampon String Mom said, "BAM!" to someone and put her hand up in their face.
She didn't do three finger snaps, like I would have done. Also, I wouldn't say Bam. Nor would I wear a cowboy hat, a stripper skirt, and so much eye make-up that the MAC cosmetic ladies would see me coming and shriek, "OH MY GOD! RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!" But that's not the point.
-Some kid did ballroom dancing.
-No, I'm not kidding.
-Tampon String Mom also told her daughter that she was a single mom and basically, it was up to Tampon String Girl to win them the money so they could have a big house. No pressure, Tampon String Girl.
-A girl from Louisiana declared that her favorite game to eat was Squirrel. But she also likes deer a lot. So that's more politically correct, I guess.
And...well, that's pretty much the whole show. Some kid got eliminated. He and his dad went home. Tampon String Mom breathed a sigh of relief that one more day she could get her television time and mooch off her kid.
I would get all self-righteous about the fact that CLEARLY Tampon String Mom and probably several other of the parents would become famous no matter how much their kids suck just because they act all batpoop crazy on television, but eh. I'm writing about it, so I'm obviously just adding to the stupidity.
I won't be buying any of Tampon String Mom's cd's though. That's where I draw the line.
Monday, March 24, 2008
I was hoping I might have some good news today. Nothing in particular, but it seemed like maybe things might be on the upswing.
Okay except for the fact that the crankshaft on my car went out on Thursday. And the car died right in the middle of a really busy highway. And I had to shell out hundreds of dollars to get it fixed. That sucked.
But you know, in the grand scheme of things I guess that was minor. No one hit us on the really busy highway. We were safe in the car. Except Girl Child farted once and I thought Boy Child and I were going to die, but other than that, we were safe.
Nothing interesting or exciting has happened today, though.
I guess that's probably a blessing. After all, something interesting and exciting could have happened and knowing me? It would have put me in the hospital. Then you wouldn't have quality posts like this one. In which I have nothing really good to say.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
I am aware of this particular character flaw. Not sure how to fix it. Not even sure if I should fix it in some instances. I mean, for real. I think I'm totally justified in some of the complaining I do. I mean, I think I'm allowed to be pissed off if I, for example, do all the work of the supervisor, have the same degree as the supervisor (not to mention a MUCH better rack) and he gets paid like, eleven million dollars more than me AND takes the credit for all my work.
I think anyone would be irritated by that, right? Not just me?
For some reason, though, I am finding myself really, really, really intolerant of other people's complaining lately. Which makes me a big hypocrite and probably a huge jerk, but I just. can't. help. it.
I really want to be the type of person who is sympathetic. And understanding. And doesn't try to compare my personal issues with those of other people. There is no assigned amount of pain that anyone necessarily has to feel over something. My sadness isn't worse than anyone else's. The struggles that other people face are difficult, even if they are struggles that I would absolutely KILL to have.
So I find myself avoiding people. Which also sucks, because, well, I don't really want to avoid people.
But also? I don't want to snark their heads off, so it's probably a good thing for me to avoid them.
How does one deal with this? How do you deal with someone complaining, constantly, about things that would you would love to have?
Because honestly? I'm about to shriek at some people to just give ME whatever it is they are complaining about. Just so I can see if it's really as awful as all that.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Today, the Festival of Puke is over and Boy Child felt like doing things like going to Target to replace the DS he recently broke, going to the Mall to get new games, and going to our favorite bookstore to buy...cookbooks.
Since Boy and Girl Child turned 9, they have been asking when they will be able to learn to cook. I've been telling them for a year now, "You can learn when you get a job you twelve sandwich eatin' slackasses!"
No just lying. I told them they could learn when they were 10.
Okay, but here's the thing y'all.
Most of the "cooking" I do? Is making things out of boxes. It's not REAL cooking. I'm not out milking cows and milling my own wheat or whatever the crap people who do real cooking do. I'm hanging with Betty Crocker.
So we got new cookbooks. And all of us are going to learn together, I guess, how to make things with flour and paprika and...you know, butter. Or something.
But for today? We started with boxed cake mix. You have to start somewhere right? Right.
Apparently this cake stuff is pretty hard. It makes your pits all stinky so you have to air them out.
Ginger, as is typical, viewed the entire event with mild disinterest.
Rainbow chip for Girl Child. Yellow cake for the Boy.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Poor little Boy Child.
I had all these big plans for today. Good plans, which including them making their own birthday cakes, because they've been dying to learn to cook. All he's been able to do today is sleep. Poor little guy.
Happy Birthday anyway, right?
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Someday, I will let them read these.
Dear Girl Child,
Recently, you and I were talking and something you said confirmed for me that you are one of the most amazing people I have ever had the privilege of knowing.
You said, “I will be a very, very good mother.”
And you will, honey, you totally will. But what you said next confirmed it.
You said, “Your mother is a good mother. You are a very good mother. I will be a very, very good mother. It gets a little better each time.”
Maybe you don’t understand, to that level. Hell, I didn’t understand until I was thirty. But you do, in some way, get the fact that we all just do the best we can. My mother wasn’t perfect, so I try to be a little better than she was. I’m not perfect, but you know that I try so hard to be just a little better. And you, in turn, will try hard to be just a little better than I was for you. Your daughter? Will likely be the most amazing person either of us have ever met.
And she will have you to thank.
Often when I think about you, I am completely in awe. You are really a beautiful person, inside and out. You have a grace that is uncommon for a child your age. You make so many things seem so very effortless, but at the same time you never make your brother, or any other child, feel stupid or small if things don’t come quite as easy for them. You have self-confidence that rivals a supermodel, but you are never rude about it. You are who you are and you are unashamedly, unabashedly okay with that.
I hope you always know in your heart who you are. I hope you always remain true to yourself. I hope you do become a writer someday, because you, at age ten, display a true talent and voice. I hope you never let anyone make you think that you can’t make it, because I believe, firmly, that you can. I hope you never let anyone deter your hopes and dreams and that no matter what those dreams are, you pursue them with gusto. I hope you never let anyone make you think you don’t deserve as much because you are a girl, because, you my love, deserve the world. I hope you never, ever let anyone make you feel like you are less than amazing. Because you? Are truly an amazing person. I am honored to be in your life and even more honored that you consider me a “very good mother”. Because I totally consider you a “really great daughter”.
Dear Boy Child,
The night before last when I called you at your grandparent’s house and you had to go into the bathroom to talk to me and when you were safely secured, with the door closed and you whispered, “It’s hot as hell mom!”? Confirmed for me that you are funny as hell. Oh, and also respectful and all that crap. So, you rock.
For the last ten years, I’ve watched you all the time. You’ve struggled a lot, and you’ve failed a time or two, but I have always been absolutely amazed at your tenacity. You fall down and you get back up. You accept your fate in life with dignity. Sure you’re small. Maybe the other boys (okay, and girls) are bigger than you. But you? Are fierce. You are mighty. What you have inside is a spine of steel and a heart of gold and no one can ever, ever take that from you.
You teach me more in one day than I could ever teach you in a lifetime. And not just things like what a Kiwi is. You teach me how to be tough and how to be strong. You teach me that it’s okay to be myself. That if I am myself, people are still going to love me. Really, really cool people like you and your sister. You teach me that it’s okay to just horselaugh sometimes, even if it isn’t that funny. And, as I’ve mentioned before, your elaborate revenge fantasies? Amazing. I have no idea how we could fit chocolate laxatives, angry monkeys, and bees all into a box, but if we ever do? You and me babe, are going to take over the world.
For a million reasons and a million more reasons I don’t even know about yet, I am so freaking glad you are my kid.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Nothing good happened.
BUT, nothing bad happened either. Unless you count the soul crushing realization that I'm still the lone financial supporter of my family.
I'm not counting that. It makes my brain hurt.
Nothing good, positive, or life-affirming today either.
Maybe my good luck is broken or some crap. I have no idea.
Monday, March 17, 2008
It's been weeks, lo, months of absolute crap with only small glimmers of goodness, much like the flecks of gold comprising Flavor Flav's grill.
Thus, I'm ready for something good to happen. Today.
I am not deterred by the fact that I got up at the buttcrack of dawn to get here for an early meeting and the person that called the meeting is nowhere in sight. I am not bothered by the fact that it is 8:10am and my hair is still wet enough to wring out. I am completely unconcerned by the fact that everything in my life pretty much has gone wrong in the past several months.
None of it matters. Because today? Something good is going to happen.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
"I WAS CAUGHT DOING THE RIGHT THING!"
I was pleased, of course, and said to her, "What did you do?"
And she grinned, clearly proud of herself and said:
"I have no idea!"
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Also, I know the title has absolutely nothing to do with anything. I wake up every day with a song in my head. Today, God help me, it was Paula Abdul.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Like today? I was driving home from work and for some reason, I happened to look at the side of the road at the right moment and I saw a dandelion.
A single dandelion.
It reminded me of Spring.
Which reminded me of the day my children were born.
Which reminded me, for some reason, of the fact that I won't have any more babies.
My children will be ten in a few days. I'll never have another baby.
And I can't do anything about it.
Oh, and people like this can?
Seriously. What the damn hell?
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Co-Douche#1: I DON'T KNOW WHY THEY ARE SAYING WE ARE IN A RECESSION! I JUST BOUGHT MY FIFTEENTH HOUSE! I THINK I'LL LET MY DOGS LIVE THERE! MAYBE WE'LL HIRE SOMEONE TO LIVE WITH THEM!
Co-Douche#2: DID YOU KNOW I MAKE MORE MONEY THAN GOD AND THAT I DO ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ALL DAY LONG EXCEPT ANNOY PEOPLE WHO ARE ACTUALLY TRYING TO WORK?
Co-Douche#1: WELL, YOU DO HAVE A PENIS, SO YOU TOTALLY DESERVE ALL THAT MONEY!
Co-Douche#2: YOU KNOW THAT'S RIGHT.
Sometimes they have cell phone conversations. Apparently if you are talking on your cell phone? No one around you can hear your conversation. Seriously. Did you know this? It must be true because things like this happen all the time:
Co-Douche#3: NO. I'M TALKING ABOUT THE CREAM. NOT THE PILLS. THE CREAM. FOR THE RASH? RIGHT. I NEED SIX TUBES. YEAH. YEAH. YEAH. YEAH! I'M GOING TO GET SHITFACED TONIGHT! I'M ABOUT HALFWAY THERE NOW! YEAH! HA!
And so on.
So I shut the door. In fact, I often slam the door.
It does me no good. They simply speak louder.
Co-Douche#1: DOES ANYONE KNOW HOW TO TURN ON THE COMPUTER? I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TURN ON THIS COMPUTER. I THINK I NEED TO HIRE ABOUT SIX ADMINS AND PAY THEM MORE THAN THAT GIRL IN THERE. WHAT'S HER NAME?
Co-Douche#2: I THINK IT'S SHERRY.
Co-Douche#1: YES. SHERRY. CLEARLY. I THINK I NEED TO HIRE SOME ADMINS AND PAY THEM MORE THAN SHERRY IN THERE. YOU KNOW. SHERRY WHO HAS HER COLLEGE DEGREE AND DOES MORE WORK IN A DAY THAN ALL OF US PUT TOGETHER.
Co-Douche#2: THAT WILL REALLY MOTIVATE SHERRY TO WORK HARDER.
My name is not Sherry. But they are talking about me. And in case there is any doubt whatsoever? I am not motivated. I am the complete, polar opposite of motivated.
So, not surprisingly, I've pretty much decided I'm over this.
If I want to talk to someone who sits three or four doors away from me, I don't walk to their office. I don't call them, nor do I email.
I sit right at my desk and shout at the top of my lungs:
"HEY CO-WORKER! DID YOU WANT DOCUMENT XXX OR DOCUMENT XYZ?"
And if someone sneezes anywhere in the building, I scream:
"GOD BLESS YOU!"
Really, it's the best plan ever.
At the very least? They are standing in front of someone else's door to talk.
Which is good. Because I don't want to catch anyone's rash. For reals.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Really, I'm not sure if it's good marketing or just the fact that, as much as I loathe to admit it because of the amount of snarking I enjoy doing, most people are pretty nice to small girls.
Of course there are always exceptions.
Case in point, on Sunday we had what shall forever be known as The Cookie Booth From Hell.
It was at Kroger. I thought it was at Lowes and I showed up to Lowes with nary a moment to spare and I was DISMISSED by another troop leader who informed me of my infinite wrongness by bringing out HUGE CARDBOARD SHEETS OF PAPER WITH A SCHEDULE WRITTEN ON THEM. That she, apparently, drives around with.
Anyway. We loaded back up and hauled ass over to the Kroger. Late.
I hate being late.
Kroger wasn't bad though. Lots and lots and lots of shoppers. Most of which politely told us they had already purchased cookies, but some of which bought our cookies. People were generally friendly and nice and came up and spoke to us and didn't just try to ignore us like the old men at Lowes did the prior weekend.
After we had been there two hours a woman who was in such desperate need of a bra that I almost reached into my shirt, whipped mine off and offered it to her, came up to our booth. She surveyed our wares and spoke politely to all the girls, asking them how they were, where they went to school, etc.
She was...okay, she smelled horrible. Like puke and garbage and really, really bad body odor. ADVANCED B.O. people. She was jumpy, she was jittery, and she kept touching her own face.
She moved kind of around the back of the booth where I was standing and she said,
"I lost my wallet. Do you have any money? Can I have some money?"
I told her, no. I didn't have any money. Which was true.
She pouted at me. "I know you have money. You just made change. I saw that money. You have money. You could give me some money."
OH. HELL. NO.
I said to her, "This is not my money. This money belongs to the Girl Scouts. I can't give you any."
(Oh, and seriously? I could have totally taken her. I'm a big old girl. I could have just sat on her skinny ass. So I wasn't worried about her trying any Kung-fu moves or anything and stealing the cash.)
She STARTED YELLING AT ME.
"THIS IS BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! GIRL SCOUTS IS SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT HELPING PEOPLE! I NEED SOME MONEY FOR GAS! I LOST MY WALLET! ALL I'M ASKING FOR IS A LITTLE HELP! WHAT ARE YOU TEACHING IN GIRL SCOUTS ANYWAY!? ISN'T GIRL SCOUTS ABOUT HELPING PEOPLE!??"
The girls? Were completely wide-eyed. Scared, even.
I? Was pissed.
"Girl Scouts is NOT about helping people," I snarled at her. "It's about teaching girls to HELP THEMSELVES."
She stared at me. Blinked.
"You need to leave," I said quietly. "I'll call the police. Leave."
She walked away. About fifteen feet away from us, she started jogging. Eventually, she broke into a run.
The girls all stared at me.
I smiled at them and said, "Well. Let's sell some cookies. Okay?"
They were quiet for a minute. Then one of the girls said,
"Guess what Miss Chickie? That lady who was askin' for money? She's my neighbor! She lives in that apartment house next to my Mee-maw!"
Of course she does.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
So you drop everything and go into someone's office and then someone else who is totally your age but acts like they are about 18 or something and is much thinner than you and shows off boobs that they don't really have and acts all breathy and self-important completely pushes their way in and the someone you came to see is all like, "Oh let me talk to Pushy McBitchyface first!"
So then you stand there and it's really ackward and you start feeling like a big dumbass, because you have no idea why someone wanted to see you in the first place and Pushy McBitchyface is going on and on and on about stickers and rainbows and unicorns and crap.
Then, when Pushy McBitchyface is finally done rambling, Mr. I-have-a-penis-so-I'm- more-important-than-you comes barging right in and someone looks at you and says, "I'll talk to you later. I have to talk to Mr. Penis."
And then you say to someone, "It's a good thing my self-esteem is so low or this might really upset me," and someone just laughs like you're funny. Which you are, but you were totally serious when you said that, so it just pisses you off even more.
And then when someone finally bothers to talk to you, you find out it wasn't even important at all.
Don't you hate that?
Monday, March 10, 2008
The job that he had a second interview on? The one that they called the only other candidate on Friday and said they were giving the job to "the other guy"? The one where the boss wanted to hire him and HIS boss wanted to hire him?
Yeah. He didn't get it. He found out today at 4pm.
Oh and whoever put the bigass KICK ME sign on my back, could you please, for the love of God and Jesus, take it off now? Because I'm really freaking tired of getting kicked.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
One day, Jason and I were listening to the stereo and that Phil Collins song, "Groovy Kind of Love" came on. I knew every word, of course, and I told Jason,
"I used to dream that someday, some boy would love me enough to sing this song to me."
He thought that was pretty funny and probably more than a little bit lame. He said something like, "Do you wish you had married someone more cheesy than me?"
Today, when I came home from the Cookie Booth From Hell, he greeted me at the door. In fact, he threw the door open and sang, at the top of his lungs:
"SHE'S A LADY! WHOA, WHOA, WHOA! SHE'S A LADY!
CHICK'S MY LADY! WHOA, WHOA, WHOA! AND THE CHICKIE IS MINE!"
Sometimes, I just need a little reminder.
No matter how bad things get, I just have to look next to me.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Okay, not everyone. Boys can't come.
Is that sexist? I hope not. Maybe the boys can have an Ultimate Boy party and make everything blue and about earning more money than women for the same amount of work and trucks and crushing things. How about that?
I'm supposed to introduce myself now, in case you don't know me already. Or, in case I guess, you haven't figured out that I'm sort of a Snarky McSnarkster.
I'm That Chick. I'm 32. I've got an unemployed husband, a really craptacular job, twins who will be ten years old in a few weeks and a dog who likes to burp in my face. Also, I'm fat, my toes are extremely ugly and live with secondary infertility.
I'm the total package. Clearly.
I write here every day. Every. Day. I haven't missed a day since sometime in December of last year and that was only because I went to Biltmore and it's all old and romantic and glamorous and crap and they didn't have high speed internet in the rooms and even if they did, I was being cultured. And whatnot.
I also write at Scrivel, with some other funny people. I would be ever so happy if you would read my stories there and, if you are so inclined, vote on them. I don't get money or fame or anything if you do, but I'm really sad and extremely pathetic and it makes me happy to see the stars next to my stories light up.
I want to write for a living but I keep getting rejected, so apparently I suck.
That's about it.
Oh unless you want to give me a job writing (that's not porn) or give my husband a job (also, not porn). Then email me. We'll hang.
Friday, March 07, 2008
The email was really sweet and I really appreciated it, obviously. I just kind of got stuck on the word "deserved".
Because, why do I, or anyone really, deserve a baby when someone else doesn't?
Sometimes I get pissed off when I see people who are pregnant who are treating the children they already have like crap. One of the main reasons I hate Wal-Mart so much is that every single time I go in there some slag dragging around three or four kids who are completely unwashed and nasty looking and she's eleven months pregnant and verbally abusing the children and smacking them and stuff. I get really, really, REALLY pissed off when someone has a child and they don't appreciate that child and do things like knowingly allow the child to be abused. And don't get me started on people who are pedophiles. I wish they were all dead, pretty much.
But when other people get pregnant, especially people I love, I don't get mad. I don't feel like I deserve it and they don't.
And I don't necessarily feel like I deserve a baby.
There are a lot of women out there who don't have any children who would love to have a child. A lot of women would probably be a lot better mothers than I am and teach their children that saying things like "doucheholes" and "assbiscuits" are wrong, instead of being like me and laughing a lot. There are some women who have more money in the bank than me and can stay at home with their baby and probably have a hell of a lot less mental issues than I do. And they can't pregnant either.
I'm not even sure I deserve what I already have.
Okay and honestly? I don't laugh at myself a lot, except when I do things like fall down, but I read this again this morning and actually chuckled out loud. Probably because it's about Boy Child.
So go. Read. Laugh at me. I won't mind.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Well, that's not totally true. Here's what we do know.
They interviewed one other person. Jason was interviewed on Tuesday night. She was interviewed last night. Today, the person who interviewed them was meeting HIS manager to go over the interviews and decide who to hire.
Jason got a call at 2:30pm saying they were still discussing it and it would probably be tomorrow afternoon before they came to a decision.
*BIG HUGE SIGH*
So, it sounds like he's still being considered. So that's good, right?
Oh also? Boy Child is fine. He has a nasty knot on his head and he informed me that he didn't ACTUALLY hit his head on a desk...it was a chair. Don't even ask me how that happened.
But he's fine. So thank God for that.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
*Chick does not recognize the number, but answers anyway, since it's local*
Lady: Hello, Ms. MyLastName? This is Nurse Hatchett (not really).
Nurse H: From Boy Child's school?
Chick: Oh! Yes! Is something wrong?
Nurse H: Well, apparently Boy Child somehow hit his head on a desk.
Chick: On a desk.
Nurse H: Well, yes. We're still not really sure how it happened.
Chick: The Boy hit his head, on a DESK?
Nurse H: Yes.
Chick: Sadly, that boy has the grace of a plane crash.
Nurse H, giggling somewhat apprehensively: Well, um. I sent home a form which will give you the worst case scenario.
Chick: Which is?
Nurse H: Well, if he started behaving oddly. Starts acting strangely, you know.
Chick: He's a 9 year old boy, how will I know the difference?
Nurse H: Well, he seems okay. We sent him back to class.
Chick: Yeah. Okay. Thanks for letting me know.
At least school picture day was YESTERDAY.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
I just heard from Jason. They have called him and requested another interview with the District Manager.
Tonight. At 5:30pm.
He was also told that it was between him and one other candidate.
My stomach is in hard little knots over here. I'm worried. I'm worried about him. I know he is getting very depressed. It is very hard for him to be out of work. I really want this to work out for him. For us...for our family.
I appreciate all the prayers. If you could send up one more for us? I would appreciate it even more.
I know we are just random internet people you don't know, but we really are real and we really do need this to happen.
Because today? Jason should hear about an interview which he had which sounds promising.
I wasn't really going to advertise this, but frankly? We can use all the help we can get.
Oh and also? Typically I don't respond to people who don't bother to leave their names or even a screen name, but even if my husband did have a job? I'm infertile. Even if my husband had like, twelve jobs, I still couldn't have a baby.
So thanks for being a douchehole.
Oh and also? I wasn't going to say anything about this either, but apparently I need to.
My husband has cleaned the entire house from top to bottom, even the windows, and reorganized every cabinet and closet.
He's done more laundry than I have.
He picks up the kids every single night.
He makes the kids lunches every single day.
Every night when I start cooking dinner he says, "Let me finish babe, you go sit down and relax," and finishes up every single meal.
And he is NOT ALLOWED to go to the grocery store. That's my chore and one I enjoy and he never saves as much money with coupons as I do. And since saving money with coupons is one of my hobbies, I'm not letting him have that.
I appreciate that y'all don't want me to get taken advantage of, but um, I know I have no power at work, but I certainly do here, in my own home.
So thanks. But it's all good.
And prayers, or whatever, are appreciated.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Because seriously? Lately? I keep finding myself thinking things that are, um, not kind. About other people. Some of these people I actually like. Some, I don't like, so I feel less bad about being jealous of them.
Really, all I want is to have a day or two that is normal. And not crazy. And okay.
And for my husband to have a flipping job. That would be awesome.
And for my infertile ass to get pregnant, if you can spare a kid.
That's it though. Seriously.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
2) Ponder how we could probably survive nuclear holocaust as long as we had milk, Diet Pepsi, and chicken.
3) Finish up an absolutely ginormous project that I, stupidly, called a 4 hour meeting on Tuesday for.
4) Make that START the absolutely ginormous project.
5) Complain, at length, about how I haven't had time to complete the project because although I'm supposed to work 20 hours for one side of my job and 20 hours for another side? Both managers give me 40 hours of work to do each week.
6) Set up a cookie booth at Lowes.
7) Explain to numerous people that, no, I don't have any more Samoas.
8) See the backside of people walk off and not purchase any cookies because I don't have any Samoas.
9) See #7 except replace the word Samoas with "Thin Mints".
10) Do the dishes which have been sitting in my sink for two days.
11) Wash three loads of laundry (after I go to the market...I don't have laundry detergent either).
12) Somehow convince my husband that he really wants to hang out at the cookie booth this afternoon.
13) Drink numerous bottles of Diet Pepsi, to keep my strength up.
14) Eat something, at some point.
15) Cook a nice dinner for the people I love. It will involve chicken. So I better get to the store.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
The city containing my childhood home did not have a Target. I believe there might have been a Kmart. There was a store called "Hills", which was actually kind of fun to shop at because it was in the dirt mall and you could walk out into the mall when you were done and go to the airbrushed t-shirts store or "The Encounter", where you could look at dresses that Girls Who Were Better Than You wore in pageants.
But we had Wal-Mart.
And when I got to be a teenager? We had Super Wal-Mart.
On Friday nights everyone seemed to be there. You'd see everyone shopping or hanging out in the parking lot. Frankly, there wasn't much else to do.
When I moved to North Carolina, I became so disgusted with Wal-Mart that I refused to shop there. The store was always filthy and customer service was completely non-existent. When my younger sister was hugely pregnant with her first child, she and I ended up dragging this huge desk through the store, by ourselves, because not one of the fifteen employees we passed could be bothered to "assist" us in anyway.
Then I moved here and went to Wal-Mart once or twice, but frankly? There were so. many. people. I hate crowds and I especially hate crowded stores and good freaking Lord, I do not understand why people feel it is necessary to nearly mow down old people and children to get discount tube socks. There are always more. Wal-Mart is not going to run out.
But it's Girl Scout cookie time in Tennessee, and if you are going to sell Girl Scout cookies, then by God you better have a booth at the local Wal-Mart.
It was a warm, beautiful day. We set up our booth, lay out our cookies, and smiled sweetly. And the customers? They came.
It was easy, it was effortless. We sold and sold and sold. In two hours? We made $250.00.
We also? Had to deal with two police cars which came shrieking up on the curb, nearly taking out our booth in the process. And then? A large, handcuffed woman who nearly knocked over our booth as they pulled her out of the store. She very politely said, "Excuse me," and I said to the horrified Girl Scouts, "It's always important to be polite. Even if, um, you are being arrested."
And we ran out of Thin Mints and Samoas.
And next Saturday? I have to do this all again.