Category Archives: not for the easily offended

check in

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I feel like lately I have been asked some strange questions that you don’t get asked before you are 40. I’ve been asked if I’m working out more than before, because you know… Metabolism. I’ve been asked if my husband is okay with the extra pounds that forty gave me. I’ve been asked about potty habits and if I’m sad because I’m too old now… To you know… (Hushed voice) have babies.

First of all, NO, I don’t fucking work out more, I don’t work out at all because frankly, I don’t have time. I actually work. Like a job. You know, that place you go to earn money so you can have a roof over your head, and food on your plate, and blankets on your bed and all the techno gadgets that keep you connected to the people you may not even want to talk to but do anyway because… life! And if you are lucky, you have programmed the gadgets (by you I mean the smart tech peoples) not to tell you what the cheeto said this week that is slowly making you cray-town. Otherwise you may throw said gadget and cause yourself to have to work at said job more than you already do. When I find time to work out, I’ll let someone know, and they will find me on the beach where the cabana boy will be bringing me a series of tasty adult beverages and I will be doing some lifts- of those drinks to my mouth.

Second, I don’t have a fucking husband! I am happily NOT married, for ten years, to an amazing, difficult, handsome, exceedingly intelligent, ridiculously emotionally unkempt, absolutely perfectly imperfect human. He loves me in spite of myself. I love him sometimes to spite myself and other times to keep myself sane because he may be the only reason I am. And (third, if we are counting) he hasn’t pressured me to have crotch fruit. He doesn’t need a fuck trophy to mark the decade he’s put up with my crazy ass. He didn’t ask for one at the 5 year mark even though he may have thought they might be a fun adventure. If he does want a trophy- I will totally allow some breeding with a hot sars stand in. I wasn’t kidding when I said he was handsome. Chicks propo him him on the daily (look at me using current jargon) but he doesn’t even give them a second. He comes home and snuggles up… to his not wife (who doesn’t work out). The not wife who has stayed for ten years of things. The things no one else can know. And that is what matters.

Finally… don’t even fucking start with the potty habits. You have no idea what this bitch has been through. I have been sliced and diced and teased about the the cauliflower and apertures… If you haven’t had your brother and your best girl photo texting you pics of things that may look worse than your ass to make you feel better about the sate of your union, well… you can’t step to potty talk with this bitch. So go get yourself a Squatty Potty and call me when you understand how life changing that shit is (oh, yeah… I said that!).

‘Till we next…

Loser of Fuck Trophies

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Most times I feel secure, really secure in who I am. It’s taken me so many years to come inch by inch to the place where I am now. I have crawled through miles of abuse of many kinds. But we don’t grow or become who we are without crawling through the shit right? Right. None of this is new and it certainly isn’t a new topic for me. But as Mother’s Day approaches I find myself deeper in thought about well, the shit that made me decide I didn’t want to be an actual mother. There may be times I act like your mother, everyone’s mother, and even a motherfucker but whatever… At this point in my life, I have been with the same man for a decade. He is rather amazing. I don’t bring him up in this forum much as he is a private person and I respect that. Yes.. more than I respect you. He fosters a feeling of confidence that lets me know that no matter what choice we make about our future it’s okay- it’s ours together, fuck everyone else.

Speaking of decisions, children… It’s kind-of a big deal. I have never borne children – that I did not drop off at the pool. (That’s for my brother… he loves me extra right now and if I call him drunk, like my own personal Uber he might not complain- might not.) And I have never been pregnant, no, really, I promise… yes I’m in my forties and have been married and divorced and in a ten year relationship and I still promise I have never been pregnant. (Also I am capable. Yes, I promise. I have had this checked as well even though I did not want to have children. Maybe we’ll talk about that some other time.) Yet I act like everyone’s mom. In her oh so kind and loving way, my sister likes to remind me – I have never “birthed a child through my loins”, thus I cannot know what it is like. But then I question the “what”… What “what” is like??? To be parental? To be responsible? To take care of a persons’ physical, emotional and financial needs? Because I do and I have and I am… But yet, I have to chosen remain childfree, childless, sans-children, without offspring, spawn-less, barren of crotch-fruit… winless of fuck trophies. Yes. I, just said that. I have never been accused of being politically correct and don’t think I’m trying to start a trend here. I’m also not saying to my real life friends with fertility issues (who know who they are- and probably reading this laughing) that I don’t empathize with their struggle. This is not about them and they know it. And that is my point… it is their struggle, it is their hand to play . We each go through our own struggle. We each have to play the hand we are given by the fucked up clown of a dealer called life. That douche is laughing at ALL of us without mercy. They (It?) give(s) zero fucks whatsoever whether we call it childless, childfree, spawn-less, barren, spoiled-fruit-of-the-loins, loser-of-the-fuck-trophy or just plain winner of the money train… There are zero fucks given by that dude. As far as he’s concerned, it is initially up to us. Maybe not every single one of us, but most of us. I know that there are some.. but duh, exception to every rule.

I read an article that reminded me that I am lucky to have a friend circle that includes very few that give me shit about this choice… Childfree? Or just me? It was in Bust Magazine- unashamedly feminist but sometimes so poignant that I save the bookmark, share and even print the article… like ‘childfree’. When you are in your forties and have been saying you don’t want kids since you were fifteen… this is a badge. People have been trying to convince me since I was sixteen that I was going through a phase. I would change my mind when I met the right man (and if they weren’t sure – like in my late twenties, the right woman) but always they were certain I was wrong and they were right. Very few people had the courage to sit and have the conversation with me… to ask me why I didn’t want to have children, why I was so certain. Those few people walked away with a different perspective and most understood, whether they agreed or not, why I made my choice.

So whatever your choice this Mother’s Day, embrace it. Be strong in the choice and give zero fucks what anyone else thinks. They don’t have to live your life.

letters unsent

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Part of our jobs as humans is to evolve.. I know, fucking shocker, right?! Well, there may be humans that think think “devolve”… but whatever. They can stew in their ignorance while the rest of us move forward with vengeance. Or something like it. Right now I’m thinking less of those things than of the evolution of self; how hard I have personally worked to evolve. So many turns, to take me from child to now. The labels are ridiculous. But that can be mother post… Tonight is a letter unsent. Because sometimes you need to tell peeps why for real, not for fakes…

I asked a family member if they would like to see a cover band at a local venue. I heard about the show and asked the same day. Covers of their favorite band. Now… I have built solid boundaries and put space between myself and the negativity that was my family life. But every once and a while….. this shit happens…

………………

Saw this show, thought of you. Would you like to go?

Are you wanting to go. Hub says it sounds great. I don’t have money for tickets. Waiting on tax return.

Would love to go but you all ready spend way too much money on us. I appreciate it but please save your money. I love you for thinking about us but please dont

Um, It seems silly that you and your hub want to go but are arguing dollars. Does the show sound awesome?? Because your husband wants to go, you love the band being covered, and I’d like to do this. So… How about you call it happy birthday.

………………

Here’s the part where I get frustrated and it becomes the unsent… because that was reallllllly nice.

Honestly, your false concern for my finances is tiring. You consistently complain about the ways you are “broke” or “behind” or “can’t afford” something. But you are being freely offered a gift and you say no, in a backhandedly nice way. Don’t do that. It’s like refusing a compliment you deserve. What concern is it of yours what I can afford to do?? It’s $50. You are acting like I spend thousands of dollars on you to make yourself a martyr. Save your concern for yourself and the ways you need to improve your own situation. If I would like to spend money I have worked hard to earn, on someone, anyone for that matter, it is up to me. If I offer something and you would like to do it… the expected, no, not expected, the polite response (the one ANYONE else would give) is ‘that sounds awesome! We would love that!’.

So… does that sound awesome?? Because your husband thinks so. He wants to go, you love the band being covered, and I’d like to do this. It’s time for you to stop policing me and what I do with my time and money. This kind of crap is why I don’t often bother. False concern for my finances is not winning you any points with me, it’s pissing me off. You playing like it bothers you on one hand, then complaining to everyone that will listen that I don’t do enough, to gain their sympathy and audience is tiresome and frustrating. No one likes someone falsely modest or seeking attention. You actually deserve it for what you do. You earn attention when you engage with people for real. So, if you want me to engage, act like it. Now, let’s start again and hopefully we can have a better result this time. Let’s try.

………………

Saw this show, thought of you. Would you like to go?

Tom and Zack

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Sometimes its just like that… You are sitting at your favorite place for potato juice then you realize you don’t even fucking drink that anymore. So you order some bourbon and start to relax when you just can’t. There is tension… so you do some social media bullshit. Then it hits you what a mistake that is because the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket- oh wait just us.

After the bourbon settles and I stop looking at news, I am actually thankful. I force people to listen to whatever I want on the jukebox by using my phone to override the next pick. It’s the little things. It dawned on me as I usurped some slash-my-wrist 80’s emo bullshit with some Rage that holee shit! 25 years ago when you were doin whatever the fuck you were doin like oh ya trying to finish high school while navigating teenage motherhood-ish…oh wait, I didn’t have my own kids but I had some my parents made so that was just me. Anyway a pivotal moment in music happened. I can always count on this album to tap my feelings with all the intensity I feel. I don’t need to know the same exact things, that happened – I just need the Rage.

Killin’ in the name of

quarter century of lives lived through pain unheard of

Where was I when things goin down

Kickin’ it safe in my skinny albino alpaca town

Beat a girl to the ground or did you just fuck around

No idea what those boys been through

How those girls feel shamed

All the times we cause the pain

I’m a silly white girl with privilege

Such as it is today

I work for less pay than the pyramid’s top

but what the hell have I to say

Complaints

I make myself sick

I want for nothing

Full belly

Shelter

What more could I wish?

Who am I to complain?

WHO AM I TO COMPLAIN?

Who am I to feel pain?

Who am I to be pissed, when much is denied to so many

and I am the one who took it away

My starting matters not

Nothing

No

Thing

The skin I wore with luck galore

It kept me safe and whole nobody’s whore

but it couldn’t protect the rest

Ask my bro… he’ll protest.

His shape, His life

Mold my love and passion

His skin was no protection

Nor his gender from action and detection

Sad fact is we ARE human

Our race plays only plays a part

but our being our soul… it comes from the heart

Our drive

Kill-love-hate-protect

We have a choice each one

We are the metamorphosis of our choices

We choose what we become…

Do we become the forces?

The same that burn crosses

Let them cause holes in our spirits

Causing tears and fears

Are we inferior

am I in fear of years

Does skin matter so much

Or does our heart determine us

Do we let the established tell us

Or do we

Me

You

Tell them who we are

Do we stand up and testify

Do we take the power back

Take the Power Back

Sportsball!

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Sports are a funny thing. Sports, in my opinion, have the power to bring people together- they can be the great unifier. Sports as a rule, doesn’t differentiate- rich, poor, young, old, impaired, sober, it matters not. Sports wants you. You can have a biker, a priest and a CEO jumping up and down screaming and smiling because their team just scored the winning run in the 11th inning of game two to tie up the world series. I’m sitting here watching the World Series right now. There are people around me who could give a fuck about sportsball, they just want a cocktail. But they are watching. They are watching because it’s on and because it is exciting. It’s not exciting because it’s on, but because the people around them that give a fuck are excited! They are invested in whether the guy who made it to second with two outs will be stranded or if the young kid at the plate will come through and rope a hit long enough to bring him in and tie it up. It’s not about what’s happening on the field it’s about the energy around them… the people around them. Sports does that. Even more so championship sports does that. But sports is also the great equalizer. I sat there and watched a prissy socialite smack her hands against the bar “GO TEAM GO!” Over and over… until she frenzied the rest of the bar into her cause and into her corner thereby wooing her prey (in this case) into submission. That’s the thing, sports demands attention. It takes it. So why not use it.

Sportsball can transform people too… you have Mamoo and Nana (who by day have many grandchildren!) and lead normal lives. Maybe even boring to most. Not so much at their yearly Seattle vs whomever NFL game, trying to check another stadium off their list. Yep, they have a bucket list of stadiums to visit. And Mamoo is FIERCE. Don’t get between that bitch and her Seahawks. But call her a bitch and you’ll find yourself hitin the deck. (I’ll be first in line to punch you). You’ll find these amazing (did I mention tiny) ladies are mostly drunk, (not gonna lie, I fucking love that!) swearin’ like I do (love that too!) and havin’ the time of their lives. No men tellin them how to be fans, just two friends who have raised families and loved and lost and live life day to day- on their terms… they sports it up on their terms too. And they love the sport they may or may not have been introduced to by their husbands, but it is theirs now. Maybe this was always their sport. Maybe they loved all the sports. But now is not the time to get into politics.. whether they wanted to like football, whether they wanted to like this team, whether they are still fans… all we know is they are women, in a mans world and they FUCKING REPRESENT… LIKE BOSSES. Well Fuck Yeah Mamoo!

Lets be real… there many sports to watch. Football and Futbal- soccer… incidentally the most popular sport in the world. All. of. it. Not just the US or Europe you elitist bitches, but the whole fucking thing. I could give a shit less about a bunch of people running for 90+ minutes for 2 or 3 whole points but whatevs, I am not gonna judge (in this case). Enjoy a sport, be inspired to play. But don’t be fooled into thinking those players are role models for your life. They are not. There’s this idea that athletes- check that professional athletes- are gods. That they are these people we should teach our children to emulate. WHY?? Because they play sports on TV? Because they have a big salary? Guess what?!? Money and sports prowess does not a role model make. Sure I can get behind workin out everyday but that’s it. Running fast and kicking far and being strong does not mean you are a good example for kids. Making the world a better place by taking some of the multi-millions of dollars you earn being bigger,faster,stronger… that does. Believing in something and standing behind isn’t on top… that’s good stuff.

So whether or not you like sports is okay with me. I don’t like them all. But I appreciate the way they bring people together in a world that likes to be divided. So cheer on sports fans. YAY SPORTSBALL!!

Words Words Words

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When you sit and try to write to old friends after a really long time it’s a daunting task. And you are friends of a sort. I’ve shared my darkest moments and my triumphs with you and I’ve shared some of your darks and dawns as well. And we’ve all fallen off the radar at one time or another. Some of us because we had real life happening- we had adulting to do and adulting gets in the way every time. Some of us were opening new chapters in our lives, and that chapter didn’t include the space that was created here. Maybe it was a new space, maybe there was no space for “us” at all. That’s okay. Who am I to judge your lives? I hope you aren’t judging mine. I’ve sat at this keyboard (a totally different iteration than the little netbook at the beer bar of old) a good 25 times and tried to write a love letter or a holiday update or just a funny postcard and gotten no where.  It’s too late for a New Years update… That would be forced and awkward. A ketsup post would just drone on and on and insult you. Frankly I don’t think either of us wants that. So where do I start? What do I say to tell you I’ve missed you and I want you and I have things to say that you want to hear… 

Do I just launch into a tirade about the current political bullshit (and by bullshit I mean Trump, in case you forgot who I was) or do I talk about the retarded zealous parents who think they are making informed decisions by are not vaccinating their children (yes, this is still relevant)? Do I give in to the desire to throw verbal shitbags at the fucktards and their ridiculous over the top 2nd Amendment insanity? Do I go postal on the wing nuts that are literally shortening our collective lifespan as a species by plowing through acres and acres of rain forest a day? Hell not just our species but all the species! Or do I forget for a moment that human beings are completely fucked and talk about how awesome my life is. After several years in a hole of crazy coworkers (we are talkin batshit, not just “a bit off” but completely fucking nutter) and under appreciation, bad meds, weight gain and loss (let’s be real, mostly gain), and a lot of uncertainty to be sure… I am in a good place. I am more happy than sad, more loved than lost, more up than down. I think this has definitely caused some creative frustration. Let’s be real, wait… I hate that phrase… I’m calling myself out on using it because if I’m not being real what the fuck am I doing???? So let me restart that: It’s pretty clear from studies by actual doctors and observation of my own past practices (you miss me talkin out my ass.. admit it!!) that depression and trauma breed creativity. At least they do in my case. So I’ve been stunted. Add to that the fact that people I sometimes write about in a not so favorable way have figured out that I sometimes write about them… in a not so favorable way, and you have a constantly blank screen. 

So here I sit with words words words. After weeks of pondering how to start, fuck it. I am just going to. I’ll start with a short list of things that I’m pretty sure of. Some of them may be different than the last time I listed things and some may be the same, I’ll leave it to you to do the homework.

I’m pretty sure that…

… I love my nephew more every time I see him and I didn’t think that was possible

… As Aunt’s go, I am the best. 

… I didn’t realize how life changing It would be to have met my female soulmate, my yang, my forever friend

… for the first time in my life my ratio of friends tips more to the female than the male side

… I don’t know how I feel about that 

… Turning 40 has had more positives than negatives, especially the wine thing, I love the wine thing

… Beer is proof that Gus loves us and wants us to be happy

… adult coloring books have always been around, we just didn’t like crayons, so someone decided to sell one with colored pencils or markers and now… $$$$

… Uggs with a skirt is still not okay

… My job is kick ass and I am awesome at it… I may talk about that a lot more, as I’m trying to decide whether Bourbon or Vodka is better

… I can’t decide if I like Bourbon or Vodka better so I just bring both to the party… It’s one of the many Gemini perks

… Bacon still wins

… yep, still not okay

… Donald Trump is a fucking idiot 

… Pot should be legal. I don’t use it (smoke it, whatever) but I think it would help in so many ways

… Technology has made us retarded for real and shortened our attention- LOOK! A Squirrel!

… I love any kind of music except, poppy country, something that tells me to rape my sister (cringe) and fucking Nickelback. I will take Creed over Nickelback, maybe, shit. Can I stab my eardrums out?

… anyone that would vote for Donald Trump is a bigger fucking idiot

…. I have a lot to say about a lot of things and I will

… Clowns are creepy

… anyone that reads my posts and would vote for Trump should send me a very detailed email about why and expect a very expletive filled response about why those reasons are so not enough

… I should post this shit already so I can move on to the next topic

breaker one-nine come back, over

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Tonight I’m trying to get the thoughts to flow onto the page. I’m sitting at the pub, listening to my favorite DJ’s The Ideals spin sixties vinyl. The pub has overwhelming amounts of inspiration but nothing I can fit into a lovely little flow. Maybe my expectations are too high and I shouldn’t expect my first real post in more than a year to be some epic soliloquy. I shouldn’t expect myself to be able to capture all that’s happened in my life the first time I sit down.

But I want to. I want all the ridiculously funny shit that has happened in the last howeverlong to just spill out as if I had never been blocked. Speaking of blocked… what the eff yo? I feel like my creative process is as dry as the sahara. Though it is not for lack of material… I have spent the last year and a half herding cats, I mean babysitting, I mean playing mom working with truckers. actual truckers.

Before you say ‘oh that sounds like fun’ bite your fucking tongue. really. Being responsible for let’s see… 40 tons x 12… um a lot, no a shitload, no a metric shit ton… as it rolls along at 7mpg (maybe, if we’re having a good day) is stressful. Making sure the drivers trips can be done within their D.O.T. regulated hours and that they are not exhausted is stressful. Taking their eleventeen hundred phone calls a day because they had to sit at a dock for two hours or someone cut in front of them on the 405 while they were doing 45 is stressful. It is like being mother to 12 grown-ass-men who all need your attention but, like most children, don’t simply say ‘hey I’m a little stressed here, can we talk for a few?’ they call and complain. But… I loved it. I loved my job. I loved my truckers. I loved that they respected me and counted on me and needed me. I miss them terribly. Maybe that’s why it is so hard to let the horrible, awesome, funny, ridiculous stories flow. Maybe it’s why I am sitting at the pub on a Thursday night writing about them. And maybe it’s why I am not ready to move forward to the next step. I need time. I need to grieve. I need to decide if I want to go through all that comes with the responsibility of caring as much as I do.

Sometimes, it’s just like that… you have a stressful, crazy job that you think is gonna be the death of you until it’s gone. And you miss the stressful craziness of it all.

HI-Larry-US!

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I know I’ve said it a hundred times.. but I don’t want children. (spare me a lecture, I’m almost 40, I know I don’t want them) This may be an awesome shining example of why. Also, I love Louis CK. He makes me laugh and can pull me out of a funk faster than Xanax or Booze (though sometimes… kidding). To that end, I apologize in advance that this is a clip from the youtubes but will shamelessly plug that you can buy his newest vid for only $5 and download it right to your happy lil compy at home. I’ve seen it, and it is also funny.

But as I was saying… I don’t want to be a parent. Thanks Louie…

[youtube]http://youtu.be/s120QJv6Ikg[/youtube]

this is not about you

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If you build it, they will come….
If you sit and stare at it, words will appear…

That should work right? Okay lack of words is not the problem, it’s too many swirling in my head and not really knowing how to string them together in some coherent way that someone other than myself may want to read. Then again, is that the point? Well, it seems it’s become the point and that may be my issue. I seem to have lost that abandon with which I used to approach my writing. Back then I would sit at some random place with some random beer and write (yes with a pen) the skeleton of what would become my next blog. I continued writing merrily when the pen gave way to the portability of a 15# brick of a laptop. During the brick era is when I found I had readers. I panicked a little (someone reads my shit???) but trudged on affording protection to the guilty, only because I myself wished to remain anonymous. And then all shit hit the fan. I found out family read my shit. Maybe not regularly, maybe not even often, but they did.

well fuck.
The words in my head ceased to allow themselves out through my fingers. And before you say at least had a journal… uh no, the words weren’t hap-nin there either.

well fuck.
Periodically I’d be inspired by something and sorta safe writing would happen. I’d even had a brief reprieve from the verbal constipation while I changed up all my psych meds and had no filter (not a chance bitches, don’t even think it… you shut your pie hole or I will cut you). And on occasion I can still tap into that filter-less freedom. But not often.

Do you realize that when you write a blog it is basically a journal to which you’ve given the world a key. Like it or not anyone… that’s EH-KNEE-ONE can stumble upon your shit or troll for your shit if they really want. Even the most careful person leaves behind crumbs that someone could follow (note you’ve never seen my face and I’ve never said anyone’s name. And no, my parents were not angry activists or suffering from a trauma leaving their tongues partially paralyzed causing them to think hey… sars is a good name for a girl.). So when you start venting about your sister-cousin and her giant goiter… if she can operate her nubbin, she can read your shit. And when you got pissed because you had to lance mama’s boil for the sixth time because she didn’t want the hawt young Dr. Thibodaux to see she’d put on “some weight”… If she can get uncle LeRoy to show her how to find “Dr. Oz on the computer thang”, she can read your shit. Thus I filter. Though I have no sister-cousin or Uncle LeRoy, I do have this ‘I’m not catholic’ “Catholic Guilt” that plagues me. It tells me if I write about my mom or sister or a friend in a not so glowing light, they will read it and be offended. (They probably just felt me type that and will know they have to check my blog) I could just be good ‘ol fashioned venting, but they’ll never know and think it’s something different. And since my anonymity is shot there – my family and friends know who I am… ugh.

So I filter.
well fuck.
At this moment I have a head full of things ready to tumble out but I filter. BUTT… (that was a big butt for those still playing) I have things to say. Things I want, need to say.

I have touched on having a behavioral health disorder (the preferred term around here – I honestly don’t give a fuck what you call it, as long as after you find out you still call me friend) that has been “classified” Bipolar II (and even then, that is a label more for insurance than me). Basically (the super dumb version) is depression with periods of “hypomania” or not quite mania. For me this is linked to anxiety. (yay!) This is a tough topic to broach sometimes as there are those that don’t understand because its all “psycho-babble mumbo jumbo”. And when writing, I don’t preface with: ‘Warning this blog contains bipolar content or mom look away, I’m talkin’ about being fucking nutter right now!’ However, it gets across in a roundabout way sorta. Because I filter the fuck out of things when I am cycling instead of embracing the moment and letting my filter go. According to my besties, I am my funniest, do my best writing when I am anxious. Lots of jokes get made about being bipolar – I make jokes about being a Gemini and bipolar, but the reality is I got off easy because mania is a bitch. I will cut my tangent short here and save it for a depressed day.

Basically what I’m saying is my filter is clogged and I don’t want to pressure wash it. As Zimm said, I’d have to wring it out because you can’t stick that shit in the dryer it won’t fit anymore! So, I’m just gonna leave it at the curb. Let the er Engineers take it with them along with all the other waste. Filter-less writing is better writing.

Sometimes it’s just like that… you have to apologize in advance to the people you love because your intent is not to hurt their feelings. But you just need to say what you need to say, even though you have made clear before “if you don’t like it, don’t read my shit”. This time – it’s a pointed warning. So here it is, and you may never see it again:

 

~posted from my tablet thingy~

[youtube]http://youtu.be/TLjrD-oXkhA[/youtube]