Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Five dolla make you holla.

So, this past weekend BF and I went to a bar (imagine that) and got pretty sloshed (imagine that), and he has this brilliant idea to go to the Megaplexxx. If you can't tell by the name of the store, with the three X's on the end, this is a toy store. For adults. Anyhoo, I really wasn't in the mood for all that, what I really wanted to do was go home and go to bed. As in SLEEP. Not the other kind of "going to bed". So whatever, he's been wanting us to go for a while, and he finally convinced me. So we went.

On the way there, I realized how bad I had to pee. (Do you notice how many posts I have about peeing? I'm not a freak or anything, just peeing somehow makes it into my stories. We all pee. Get over it.) So anyway, we get to the store (or more like a freaking MALL), and I head past the rows and rows of plastic penises to the back of the store where the restrooms are. I know what you're thinking, those bathrooms must be disgusting, who knows what goes on in there. I feel the same way, but when you gotta go, you gotta go. When I get to the restrooms, both of them have Out of Order signs on the doors. FABULOUS. I go up to the clerk and ask if there is any employee bathroom or something, because I'm doing the pee pee dance and need one BADLY. He said the water was shut off or something (??) and I wouldn't want to go in there anyway, trust him. Well I trusted him... and asked if there were cameras in the parking lot. He looked at me all weird-like, and said no. (My point was, there could be cameras in the parking lot of a SEX SHOP, people who own those places are probably horn dogs and I'm sure there's some hanky panky that happens in the cars sometimes. Maybe the employees like to watch, I dunno.)

So I find BF in the massive store (after jumping up and down to see over the shelves full of porn, because that place is BIG), and tell him I'm going to pee behind the dumpster. He gives me the "you are so weird, why the hell am I with you" look, but says ok, if you're not back in 3 I'm coming looking for you. I left him to browse and headed outside.

As I'm walking out, I notice a weird older Mexican guy behind me. I had my cell phone in my hand, ready to dial 911 if this weirdo tried to tackle me or something. I go behind the dumpster, which is in the opposite direction of where the cars are parked, and this guy FOLLOWS ME. And then proceeds to say, in broken English, "How much?"


You have got to be kidding me. Seriously kidding me. It took me a second to realize that this guy thinks I'm a prostitute!!! I swear, I stood there with my mouth open for a second and then yelled "NO!" and ran back in the store. (I'm sure that "NO" wasn't the best thing I coulda said, but I was pretty much speechless and scared). Let me help you picture what I looked like that evening: I was wearing jeans, black ballet flats, a turtleneck short sleeved tunic, and my hair was in a ponytail. Nothing slutty, no heels, no short skirt, titty shirt, nothing of the sort. I have gone to my daughter's kindergarten class in the same outfit I was wearing. Maybe hookers are dressing more high class nowadays and they're hard to tell apart from regular civilians, I dunno. Regardless, I SO DON'T LOOK LIKE A HOOKER. Tits McGee says so, anyway.

So when I get back in the store and find BF after 5 minutes of searching, he can tell something's wrong. I tell him what happened, and he got understandably angry, so he put his items down and said, come on, I'll go with you. On the way out, the pee pee dance was a long memory away, and I HAD TO GO so I was running ahead of him about 15 feet. I go out the door, make the left on the way back to the parking lot, and there's this guy on a crotch rocket (not a sex toy, a motorcycle) and as I walk (run, whatever) by, HE PROPOSITIONS ME TOO. Ok. This is ridiculous. I had time to digest what the first guy did and actually get angry, so with this second advance, I started just yelling. As I am, BF who, remember, is 15 feet behind me, rounds the corner. As I'm ripping this biker a new one. He starts running over, and I turn around to walk away, hearing him yell at the guy, "What the fuck is going on, dude? You bothering my girlfriend?". I knew he could handle it, I had to PEE. I was outta there. I heard the engine rev immediately, so I guess the guy knew I was off-limits. Or maybe he just thought BF was my pimp and didn't want me doing business on my own. Either way, my scary boyfriend got rid of the would-be John.

So I did my bidness with BF standing there like a bodyguard, told him to wrap up whatever it was he was buying and let's get the hell out of there. I went and locked myself in the car and laid down in the back seat until he got back. Moral of the story: If you want to go to the Megaplexxx, make sure to dress like a schoolteacher. Not a young, hot one, the old music teacher with the crocheted sweaters and long skirts. If I ever go back, and that's a BIG if, it'll be during the day. When all the old Mexicans are at work.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Putting my foot down on ridiculous Christmas traditions.

BF and I got on the topic of traditions yesterday. Specifically, Christmas family traditions. More specifically, MY Christmas family traditions. I think maybe this wasn't the best idea, as he will probably never come home with me for Christmas now, I've completely freaked him out. Examples:

* Every year, we go to my dad's parents' house on Christmas Eve. I have one aunt on that side, with three cousins within a 5 year range of me and my brother's age. One of these cousins has two kids whose dad is black. My grandfather is from a different day and age, and completely will not accept this... so my cousin is pretty much disowned, the children don't get spoken to by my Paw Paw, and everyone sits there in uncomfortable silence. (BTW, my Paw Paw's actions INFURIATE me, I don't care what things were like when you grew up, they are most definitely not like that today, so adapt and change. It is completely ludicrous that these poor kids have to deal with 50's racism in the 21st century. I could say more, but it would take a while. That's the gist.)

* After we leave my dad's parents', we go to my Mom's mom's house... or actually everyone but me goes (more on that in a minute), where my brother proceeds to get sloshed with my uncles and my mom has two seven and sevens and ends up falling asleep at the kitchen table and my dad just sits there watching the clock, cursing himself for going over there. I, on the other hand, have headed back to my mom's house to wrap every present every male in our family has purchased. Apparently, it's MY job to do this, every year without fail, in the wee hours before we wake up. Complete bullshit. I'm putting my foot down this year. They can use a Wal Mart bag to wrap their gifts in, I don't care, but I'm so not doing it. (See me in the New Year to see if I actually managed to stand up to my 6'3" dad and 6'4" brother).

* After I've pulled my all nighter of wrapping, and my brother's pulled his all nighter of drinking, we wake up at Mom and Dad's on Christmas morning and open presents, then instead of making breakfast we nominate someone to go out and get Waffle House. Funny, it seems like I am always the sucker who gets nominated. This year, I'm putting my foot down. The same foot I put down the night before about wrapping presents. My hungover brother can make the WH run this year.

* After gorging ourselves on the yummy Waffle House food (I always get a patty melt, no mayo no onions and scattered and covered hash browns... great breakfast food), there are usually naps involved, then everyone gets dressed and we go back to my Mom's mom's house for our family gift exchange. I should probably mention that my mom has seven brothers and sisters, I have 13 cousins, and there are 4 great grandchildren. Add in spouses, cousins' significant others or friends, and you've got a recipe for CRAZY on your hands. There are a number of things that have become a standard occurrance at the crazy farm we call my Grandmother's:
* As soon as I get there, I make me a Crown and Sprite from the bar (yes, there's a bar, fully stocked, and it is a complete necessity) in the back living room. I have learned not to make the rounds saying hello without making my drink first, I know I'll need it for the 30 minutes it will take to say hi to everyone, and to help me answer the barrage of questions about when I'm going to get married because you know, tick tock... GRR.

* After I make my rounds, I survey the family to see who seems to already be irritated with someone else. It is a GIVEN that at least one brother and sister will get in a brou-ha-ha, we all expect it, it's just figuring out who's gonna argue that's the tricky part. For the past three years I've actually taken bets and this year I'm going to give odds. Two out of the past three it's been my mom's youngest brother that's been the instigator. I'm going with him this year too. In a family full of Democrats, he's a vocal Republican, and I'm sure he'll have plenty to say during this election year, and with a little Miller Lite in him. (I will say though, this is my Godfather and I really like him, probably the best out of all my aunts and uncles. He's got the same sarcastic humor I do, and I totally appreciate that).

* Now, for the worst part (for me, anyway). My grandmother has a glass nativity scene that she keeps out during the holidays. Only thing is, baby Jesus isn't a part of it. Instead, she keeps him hidden away until Christmas Day, when he was born (duh). It has been a tradition since the oldest grandchild has been able to walk that we line up and carry baby Jesus to the nativity set before we open presents. We, as in, all the cousins. All 13 of us (and now the great grandchildren too). Ok, fine, whatever, like when I was TEN. I am pushing thirty and all the adults THROW A FIT if I say I'm not doing it. The best part... get this. All the adults (all 25 or so of them) stand in the living room around the nativity and sing "Away in a Manger". While taking pictures. And holding sheet music with the words and tune written on it. I seriously didn't realize the weirdness of our tradition until BF looked at me all crazy eyed yesterday when I told him about it. Thinking long and hard about it, IT IS WEIRD. Especially since the youngest cousin is entering high school next year. This, my friends, will be the year I put my foot down. It ain't happening, you may make me still sit at the kids' table but I will not carry baby Jesus to his manger as the chorus of drunken adults sing a Christmas carol. End of story.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Got a light?

So I had some time to surf the net today (obviously, since I'm blogging during work hours), and I came across a blog that really hit home to me. Matter of Fact Mommy (check her out, she's hilarious) blogged about judgemental non-smokers. This is probably my BIGGEST pet peeve in the world. I am a smoker. I like smoking, it is a filthy habit I know, but I like it. I watch the clock at work to see when TM and I can go break. I cannot fathom having a beer without smoking. To me it's like the peanut butter to my jelly. Anyway. Hope I don't offend any non smokers out there (actually, I really don't care, since non smokers...judgemental ones at least... don't mind offending me) but I don't see how it is any way, at ALL, socially acceptable for you to say something about me smoking. Especially if you are a total and complete stranger!! I mean, can you imagine the HORROR of me saying something to a mother whose child won't stop screaming in a restaurant, or to someone making a major fashion faux paus by wearing white after Labor Day, or to some random dude picking his nose? Okay maybe I would make a face or something, but I definitely don't think it's my place to go up to them and tell them I don't agree with their choices and then tell them in detail how stupid they are. It's just rude, plain and simple. I'm sick of being treated like a freaking outcast because I am smoking a cigarette in the SMOKING SECTION of whatever place I may be. I'm considerate, I make sure to have smoker's etiquette and not light up around children, I don't blow smoke in your face, I won't smoke (even when I'm sharing a meal with a smoker) while the other person's eating, and I'll walk a good distance away from (friendly) non-smokers so that they won't smell like a cig.

Seriously, the last straw was when TM and I were at lunch at a Mexican restaurant, sitting in the bar, aka SMOKING SECTION, and I lit up after I finished eating. A random ass dude gets up from three or four barstools down, looks at me all disgusted, points, and yells "UGH, SHE SMOKES". I swear to everything holy, TM had to restrain me. Same restaurant, different day: A patron (again in the smoking section/bar) glares at me and asks the bartender if smoking is allowed in here. Same restaurant, yet ANOTHER day (in the bar... see a pattern??): a couple behind me sitting at table make extremely rude comments in our direction and TM finally has enough... "Don't sit in the BAAAAARRR if you don't like SMOKE!!!" she sneered. Normally I'd be embarrassed of her yelling at total strangers (yes, it's not the first time) but I was proud of my girl. I'm too timid to holler at people I don't know. Anyway, I know you're probably thinking we should just change restaurants, but we're sticking to our guns. These people will NOT run us out of this awesome restaurant with the perfect portion of nachos to split, and margaritas that are the bomb.com. (Noooo of course we don't drink at lunch).

My advice to judgemental nonsmokers: Don't sit in a smoking section if you don't want to be around cigarettes. Simple enough for ME to understand, but it might be a little more difficult for dumbasses who need to remind you over and over that smoking causes cancer. Somewhere, villages are looking for their missing idiots.

I need a smoke now.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Port-o-potty drama

Everyone who knows me knows that I am prone to accidents. These accidents usually involve what I like to call "the weak ankle". I broke my ankle about 4 years ago, and ever since, I have trouble walking in heels, therefore I bust my ass on a regular basis when we go out. It happens so frequently that my friends don't even bat an eye or even try to help me up anymore... they know I can handle getting myself upright again. Anyway, I have an injury from this past weekend that had nothing to do whatsoever with the weak ankle. It started off innocently, the boyfriend (BF), his best friend (BF's BFF), and I went to watch the BF's college rugby team play a game. Of course we had to drink beer, because there's no point in being around ruggers without drinking beer. Who cares that it was 1:30 in the afternoon?? Saturday is a rugby day, as they like to say. But I digress...

So since there was quite a bit of beer consumption, along with that comes the full bladder. Which I never think of until it's to the point where I'm doing the pee pee dance and looking around for a tree to crouch behind. (I'm a classy gal, by the way) Unfortunately, all the trees were within a 15 foot radius of people, and the brush wasn't thick enough to hide me. The only other option was the port-a-potty, which I will do anything NOT to go in since the unfortunate incident backstage at a Pat Green concert where I was so sloshed that I fell back on the seat, mid-pee. *Shudder*

So there I was, full bladder and legs crossed, swaying (you know this pose), and finally I decide to just do it. I can handle this, I learned my lesson, never lose focus in the port-o-potty, concentrate, and you won't fall. All ladies know the hovering position, but in order to get out of the plastic toilet with no urine on you, you have to master the hover/hold pants away from seat/don't touch the walls technique. It's very tricky, but I had it down. And was doing quite well, I may add. So this was about a two minute pee (the amount of about a 6 pack, ok?), and about halfway through I hear BOOM BOOM and the freaking port-o-potty JERKS TO A 45 DEGREE ANGLE. I thought the Japs were bombing Pearl Harbor all over again. In the midst of me trying to figure out what the eff was going on, I lost my balance and hit the side of the wall, therefore letting go of my pants, and my feet shifted, therefore moving the pee stream about six inches forward. To where I was peeing on the floor. Close to my shoes. On my pants. Turns out my BF's shit for brains best friend decided it would be way funny to take a running start and drop kick the port-o-potty while I was in it. I could hear the laughter as I had to cut off the pee stream and button my piss-splattered pants, and charged out of the door like a bull running in Pampalona. BF and BF's BFF were doubled over in the car laughing, so I took my pee covered hands and ran them over BF's BFF's face and told him he had cooties. I'm really mature.

So, in the midst of this I don't notice the gash on my arm streaming blood until about 10 min later. I got an open sore injury in the most unsanitary place on earth, next to a sewage ditch. Tits McGee says I probably will end up with a staph infection. Awesome.

Friday, December 5, 2008

My kid's sooooo grounded.

So I have a 5 year old little girl. She's adorable, and normally a really good kid... I know I'm lucky in a lot of ways to have such a (somewhat) behaved child. She's really smart too (I know, all parents say this about their kids), but there are disadvantages to her intelligence. For instance, no more can I say I'm going to "hang out with my friends" because her immediate response is, "So you're going to a bar to drink beer, right?". My brother taught her the difference between his kind of beer (Budweiser), my kind of beer (Miller Lite), and my dad's kind (Bud Light), and trained her at age 3 to go to the fridge to fetch the correct beers according to the person needing one (and now she has it in a koozie and opened by the time she returns). Really, something I shouldn't brag about. Just so we're clear, that was not bragging. Just an example of my kid. Also so we're clear, my family is not a herd of alcoholics. Just so we're clear. Capiche?

Anyway, so my adorable child has a problem with writing on anything and everything. She started kindergarten this year, so obviously they're learning reading, writing, and 'rithmatic. The writing, she's got down. I have found scribbles on everything from the bathroom wall, her blue jeans, backpack, the coffee table, her pajamas, my purse... anything and everything will suffice for a writing surface for her. Good thing we don't have a dog. Now I know kids do this all the time... hence the paint they make so you can easily wash crayon off your walls, but it is getting out.of.hand. A month ago I bought her a brand new comforter, sheets, pillows, everything, because she had drawn a masterpiece (in her eyes) all over the set she previously had on her bed. I sat her down and explained how cool it was to get all new stuff, what a big girl she was, and that this was a special treat. I mean, mommy's had the same damn down comforter since before she was born, so to get a new one in my house is a big deal. Anyway, in that conversation I also threatened her with her life if so much as a drool stain appeared on the sheets. So for the last month, all's good. Then two nights ago I go to put her to bed (which I normally do once her light is off and night light is on, but this time I hadn't killed the lights yet), and I notice HI written on her sheets. HI. Like, oh, hey, here's a little greeting to welcome you to my bed. Upon further inspection, I found two other pen drawings. I lost my shit. Seriously, you know when babies cry and cry and they tell you to just put them down and walk away because you're so upset you may shake them so hard you kill them? Well I had to physically walk away, because spanking her would have ended with me calling CPS on myself. I was that angry. It's like she's testing me to see what will put me over the edge, and that did it pretty much. So, I had to concoct a grounding like she's never had before. My boyfriend's sister came over last night and we removed EVERY toy from her room, except for a couple dolls and all her books. She's also banned from TV and playing outside. I know this may seem a little extreme for a 5 year old, but I'm telling ya, nothing else has worked. In the process of her having to be sequestered in her room, she came out ten (count 'em) TEN times to ask when she was ungrounded. This prompted me to put a calendar in her room with the grounding rules, and if she asks me repeatedly how much longer she's grounded, she has to add a day. We started off at a week, and are now to 9 days. I just hope she's ungrounded by Christmas. Not banking on it though...

Thursday, December 4, 2008

I'm a blogging virgin, be gentle.

So, my best friend (Tits McGee) is like the most awesome blogger ever. I eagerly anticipate when she'll have a new blog up, which depends on the frequencies of crazy mishaps in her life... here lately they've been pretty regular. I decided I needed to jump on the blogger bandwagon and see what all the fuss is about. I doubt I'll be lacking in material to write about, as my life is like a bad reality show sometimes. I can't guarantee my blog will be cooler than hers, but I'll try like hell. If you want some laughs (that won't be) as funny as mine, go check her out here before she kills me for ragging on her.