Rock Star

Gone are the days that I can party like Keith Richards, and still manage to ace a final exam the next day. I’m facing some harsh reality here, people. Some sympathy would be nice. I can’t even party like the high school chess club, and find myself able to claw my way out of bed the next day. Or even two days later. What’s happened to me? And to any of you perky little bitches who still get carded, and are thinking about answering that, I will find you. And I’ll have my friend, Rica hurt you. (You’re welcome, Rica.)

My hubs and I took our daughter to Santa Barbara this past weekend for their last soccer tournament of the season. The fact that we were away from home, made it imperative for some of the parents to get together and trash the pool in true rock star fashion. Alright, I’m totally lying. But we did have an old guy giving us the stink eye from his poolside balcony. That’s close enough to rock star for me. We were so badass that we closed the place. At 9pm. After cleaning up and putting the chairs away. I see you nodding. Total rock star, right?

In hindsight, I felt bad. I’m sure all the noise was a downer for the old guy. He’d probably popped a Cialis and was ready to roll. That, however was not our problem. The kids were having fun. And we were checking the pool occasionally to be sure no one was floating face down.

We were 146 miles from home, I had a full cup of beer, a pool half-full of kids, it was dark, and Fred was wearing sunglasses. We were going to party like John Belushi, til 9pm. If it killed us.

I was moving preTTy slowly Sunday morning. The only momentary burst of energy came from my unfortunate walk through a large web. This spurred some sweet dance moves, that probably looked like I had a cracked-out spider monkey riding my face like a little pony. Between that and my big night, I was wiped out for the rest of the day. Fortunately our games didn’t start until 1pm. We all dragged our bad selves to the field, gave one another silent looks of solidarity and quietly watched our girls hand the other team their asses. I don’t mean to say there was no cheering for our kids. We were proud… in a shhhhh please talk quietly it was a fun night last night sort of way.

Payback is hell. If Cialis dude could have seen me yesterday morning, two days after my two-drink binge, he would have had the last laugh. Perhaps it was the fact that I was sitting in the sun, watching soccer for two days, on top of our Saturday night “rager,” that caused my Monday morning to present such a challenge. Whatever it was, even today, I’m still wiped out. I’m going to blame it on the June-gloom weather. I’m pooped. I’d be totally screwed if I’d had to take a final today.

I almost hope I’m coming down with something, so I have an excuse for being so worthless. Hopefully tomorrow is better.

You’re welcome.

You know how sometimes when you’re tired and pissy, and you just want to stay in bed and read David Sedaris or Anne Lamott all day? Oh, ok. Maybe that’s just me. Like, every day.
Alright, I’m exaggerating. Maybe just Mondays.
Ok, and Wednesdays.
Well, alright, maybe half the days of the week.
For sure though, on days after I’ve been away all weekend. Like today.

So being the generous girl that I am, I don’t want you to have to endure whatever heinous shit that might pop out of my brain today. So I’ve decided to give you a break.

I hope your Monday hasn’t been a cluster fuck of epic proportions. My positive attitude can be perfectly overwhelming sometimes, can’t it?

Hey, you’re welcome.

Excuse me. What?

Most people look at me like I have a penis on my forehead.* Let’s just be clear… I don’t.  The expression varies, from one person to the next. But when you lack filters like I do, you become accustomed to the range of looks. So of course, I understand other people with no filters. I do, however try to remain aware of others’ feelings. And I do my best not to be hurtful. I guess I expect that other no-filter people will do the same.

Oh, and I totally apologize if you actually DO have a penis on your forehead. I didn’t know, and it was insensitive of me to publicly make light of it.

I’m always taken aback when someone, under the guise of being a jokester, blathers on in a purposely pointed and passive aggressive manner. The technical name for this personality type is asshat. I see several of you nodding your heads. Glad I could clear that up for you. It’s totally my pleasure. More on this later. I’ll bring it back around, I promise.

So recently I was in Starbucks, having coffee with a friend. I find myself trying to get out of the house more often lately, since my husband is unemployed. And it’s impossible to hear myself think with his “singing” and whistling I like to stay out of his way. He’s on a generous severance package, so I’m not worried yet. I only throw up once a week, and the diarrhea and heart palpitations are totally manageable. Ok, maybe I’m feeling some stress. But I choose to remain positive and confident that he’ll find a comparable way better position than the one he just left. Around here we don’t speak in terms of “if,” but “when.”

So as my friend and I are saying hi, an old friend of my husband’s stopped to say hello as well. Now, folks, you know how when you carve out a sliver of time to hang with your girlfriends, you’ve got important stuff to cover—tit sag, the efficacy of botox, my kids’ lack of initiative, her mom’s vaginal atrophy. Ya, people. It’s totally a thing. I’ll bet you didn’t know you can get a prescription dildo for something, huh? I’m such a fucking wealth of information. But that’s all I’ve got for you on that. Google it. I’m honestly afraid to. There’s just shit I don’t need to know/see. But hey, you can go for it. Though don’t blame me for any weird lists you may end up on.

Ok, so obviously, in this limited amount of girlfriend time, when you’ve got stuff to cover, a half-hour review of photos, and financial rundown of your husband’s friend’s millionaire-friend’s parent’s estate and business holdings isn’t really on the agenda. Especially since I’ve sat through the recounts of the sycophant follies before. Several times. Now, in addition to the millionaire memoirs, he told us he had sold his home, and was in the process of moving to Reno. You know what that means if you live around here. For those of you who don’t, “moving to Reno” is code for “things are sucking ass, financially.” Humor aside, people… I felt bad for him.

I gave him my husband’s new cell phone number, hoping he would excuse himself and go make the phone call. Maybe they could commiserate. However, he opted instead to make the call. loudly. while sitting at our table. He couldn’t wait to do the, “I’m sitting here with your wife” schtick. It really should be legal to carry, and use a cattle prod on people. Seriously. I’m seeing a business opportunity. Bedazzled cattle prods with cute decorative carry-along cases. A perfect gift. My genius never ceases to amaze me.

Eventually he hung up and ran out of photos of other people’s crap to show us, and decided to perform a little asshat contortion before heading out the door. He felt it was necessary to impart his wisdom on the horrors of the job market. And to assure me that my husband’s severance will run out, and he’ll be sorry he left his job.

“He’ll be begging to go back and do that two-hour drive home every day. Just you watch. You guys will be moving to Reno by September.” (insert dickish, self-satisfied cackle)

It was like watching a passive aggressive thrill kill. He, of course tried to package it like humor. But the intent was transparent and pathetic. And he enjoyed it, far more than an actual friend should. He enjoyed the fact that my husband’s out of work. I didn’t feel bad for him any longer. What an asshat. (I told you I’d bring it back around.)

At that moment I felt, for once, what it was like to look at someone with the “ohmygod you have a forehead-penis” look. Though I’m sure there was far more disdain in my eyes than anything. Always trying to remain positive on the outside, I was saying, “Ya, uh huh, it’ll be fine.” On the inside I was assuring myself that he was a pig, raised by monkeys, and though difficult with his little cloven hooves, probably still throws his poop.

It’s sad that financial issues bring out the worst in people, and bare their true colors. It’s also sad that someone who has been a friend for over thirty years would impart such an unfathomable lack of sensitivity and social aptitude. Fortunately, he’s not my longtime friend. And the feelings I’m experiencing have more to do with standing by my man, than the loss of a friend poo flinger.

Eventually my friend and I got to get back to our girlfriend conversation. And I learned some really important shit that I’ll pass along. Here you go… the most important nugget I’ll offer today: vaginal atrophy… use it or lose it.

You’re welcome.


*Wouldn’t a forehead penis-placement save SO much time, y’all? If I could patent that, I totally would. Think of the time it would save. I don’t need to point out specifics here. But you know what I mean, ladies. And that doesn’t begin to cover the ease of camping and road trips. It’s pure genius.

Gummy revolt

If you had four gummy bear vitamins left unattended on your counter, what would you do? Ok, ya, judgy-mommies, if you actually chose to come back after yesterday, I understand you wouldn’t have any gummy bear vitamins. Just play along, ok? (Lost? Read yesterday’s post, you’ll understand what I’m talking about.) I mean, c’mon, these lonely gummies are like the drunks passed out in the corner at a fraternity party. Some things are bound to end up with Sharpie eyebrows. Or worse.

MY gummy bear cannibal scene. Awesome, right?

We’re all about playing with our food here. Technically, I know, this is playing with other people’s food. Which is probably frowned upon in certain social circles. But since we’re the deviants in our circles, whatevs. It’s not like I’d ever make a snowman with a penis out of your mashed potatoes at a formal event. Some people can be so touchy about their mashed potatoes. Anyway, the way I see it, they left the gummies there. So they had to expect that someone like me would come along and mess with them. Am I right?

My thought was if they noticed them, the offending vitamin shunners would pick them up and eat them. Of course the “eat me” theme was already on the table. So I stuck with it, while still trying to hold on to our PG rating. Although I’m pretty sure I’ve already screwed that pooch at some point. Anyway, I went with a gummy bear cannibal scene. I had to step back and admire my work. I will admit that I’d seen this done once somewhere. So I really can’t take creative credit. But timing is everything, my friends.

Yes, it says, “Sacrifice” on the napkin.

But then, check this out. I couldn’t even bask in my own glory for a while. I came back a few minutes later, with all my smug satisfaction, and my son had outdone me. And I may say, handed me my ass. I think he wins this round with the sacrificial bear scene. Well played, Grasshopper. I tip my hat to the rising master. And I bow my head in reverence and defeat.

You’re the man. Now take your vitamins.

P.S. Kids, I never made a snowman with a penis at a formal. They’re lying. It never happened.

P.P.S. To a certain unnamed formal date who knows who he is: ipzay ouryay iplay.

P.P.P.S., yes I know gummies are condoms in German slang. I just didn’t feel like typing “gummy bear vitamins” every time. And it made me giggle. And snort. And it was an opportunity for a fun fact. You’re welcome.

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