Archive | holy hell RSS feed for this section

#Blessed

Something has been on my mind for quite a while that I just have to get out in the open.

No, it’s not that Trump is a disgusting, vile pig who needs to be grabbed by the pussy because he’s a chicken shit and coward for not attending the White House Correspondent’s Dinner, although yes, that was something I’ve been thinking about. No offense to chicken shit or pussies.

What I want to get out in the open is that I can’t take one more person being “#blessed” on their Facebook status.

Don’t get me wrong. If you feel that way, great for you.

It’s the insane overuse of the word that annoys me. An example of the use, which I’m totally pulling out of my ass…

Facebook Status:

‘I bought a frozen lemonade at Panera and it was delicious. #lemonade #blessed’

2k likes

55 comments

Really?

It’s a fucking lemonade. Chill the fuck out.

And, seriously. You have that many likes?

I share a video of a cat eating watermelon in a funny hat while dressed up as Princess Leia with a functioning light saber, but it only gets 2 likes.

What is up with that?!

Ahem, anyway… I get the use of the word with the birth of a child or somebody recovering from surgery, etc. But, to use it all the fucking time? What happened to words like ‘thankful’ or ‘happy’?

Nope, it’s not good enough, apparently.

Facebook Status:

‘I’m so #blessed that there was a hidden tampon in my purse when I thought I was out.’

Okay, actually finding a tampon that I didn’t think I had when I’m bleeding to death at that time of the month is a blessing because I don’t want to put pants on, drive to the store, walk, get stuck behind the slowest fucking person in the whole goddamn universe, walk back to my car, and drive home. I don’t want to deal with people when I’m on my period.

Oops, my mistake.

The desire to not have to deal with people is something I want on a daily basis.

So, can you tell by my bitchiness that I’m currently on my period, would kill for a Snickers bar, and found a surprise and unopened box of tampons in a bathroom cabinet earlier?

#blessed

Comments { 2 }

P

ETA: I changed the name of this post because I didn’t want pervs googling people peeing in their pants and getting off on it. Ewww.

I’ve had a cold for the past three days. I am such a fucking baby when I get sick and feel the need to tell my husband I feel like shit every hour. He, on the other hand, is made of steel. Steel, I tell you! I practically have to beg him to help him out on the rare occasion he gets sick.

The thing that pisses me off (pun intended) about being sick, well, besides being sick, feeling like shit, and coughing up my lung is peeing every time I cough. My 15 year-old self would have laughed at my *mumbles* year-old self the first time I had to buy pee pads. I started out with period pads but after the hummingbird and then Ben three years ago, I can pee myself so bad that it goes through my underwear and pajama pants.

So, I held my head in shame when I first bought pee pads and it’s all thanks to my darling children. Damn it.

This is totally fucking karma because when I was a teenager and was at the store with my mom, I would ask her why she bought pads since I knew she used tampons. Like any young person or child, my voice level came across as “WHY ARE YOU GETTING THOSE PADS, MOM?”. I pretty much knew why but teenagers are assholes so there you go.

There are those extra embarrassing times when I may sneeze my nose off or get into a coughing fit and actually pee my pants and the pee might start running down my leg while I haul ass to the bathroom. Just one of the many things to love about motherhood.

Since I’ve been sick this week and coughing my head off, I’ve gone through several pairs of underwear and pajama pants that I’ve been washing every day. I could just easily wear pads (which I occasionally do) during times like this but my vagina is claustrophobic. Or, so that’s what it tells me but I can’t really understand what it’s saying while being crammed up against whatever the hell pads are made out of.

For some reason, I also shun pads because I’ll think “My vagina can handle anything!”

Why can’t men pee their pants also once you have kids? What’s up with that?! Then you can both share the embarrassment together. When are they going to have their vagina stretched out so much that a clown car could drive through? Granted, they don’t have the genitalia, but still.

What really gets me is while coughing and sneezing set off the crotch fountain, there have been times where I’m not doing anything that I deem strenuous but then what do I know? A little pee will just randomly come out. Really, vagina, REALLY?

I used to think those vaginal rejuvenation surgeries were laughable and now I want to kiss whoever came up with the procedure.

Yay to motherhood for making me piss myself.

Comments { 6 }

Last Night, I Woke Up From A Nightmare About Donald Trump Being Elected President. Oh, Wait…

A few posts ago when I posted about being in disbelief over Trump becoming the president-elect, I received some Pro-Trump comments. I didn’t publish them because I want to piss off any fucking idiot who supports him.

It doesn’t matter who you voted for. The fact is, he’s full of hate. He spews hate and it’s disgusting.

I feel like we are turning into that movie, Idiocracy. I blame the idolization of the Kartrashians. And, my in-laws. I enjoy blaming my in-laws for everything just because.

Comments { 0 }

Finding Lost Soccer Socks And Shin Guards Twice A Week Will Be The Death Of Me

Every soccer season is dreadful because it ends up being so time-consuming. I love that the hummingbird enjoys playing but her weekly practices are late and by the time the season is over with, I freeze my ass off and it’s dark when practice is done.

Then, there’s the games. We got lucky because most of her games are at 8:15 in the morning. 8 fucking 15 on a Saturday morning. That’s crazy for me. The most annoying part of her playing soccer is that two days a week I tell her the same thing over and over and over again.

Put the soccer gear in the same place every time so we know where it is.

I don’t know if it’s little mischievous soccer fairies that move these things around but by the time we’re in a rush to go to practice or a game, we can’t find her stuff.

It will be by the door one day and the next, it’ll be gone. She’ll have no idea where it is and I’ll rip the house apart while yelling in my head that soccer sucks and it’s not worth the frustration week after week and year after year.

I hate the fucking soccer season.

Comments { 5 }

The Reluctant Reader

young-girl-reading-jeanhonore-fragonard

I’ve loved reading as soon as I learned to. I gobble up books but also have this book hangover I go through after each book I read. It can be hard to keep up with my reading with a kid in the house who always wants my attention. I naturally assumed since I loved to read, my dna would make her feel the same.

Oh, how wrong I was. Asking her to read and having her actually do it is like pulling teeth. Once she gets started reading, she’ll sometimes get into it. Or, if I suggest reading to her, she whines nooooooo. I love reading her the Ramona Quimby books and she’ll independently read the Princess Posey books which I highly suggest since oh my god she actually reads them, thank you sweet baby jeebus, but again, getting her started up in reading is the biggest pain in the ass.

Here are the stages I’ve gone through with my reluctant reader.

Stage one: You need to read for ten minutes. Yes. Yes. No, you’re not going to see if Samantha is home. You’re going to read. Yes. Yes! Please go and read. Please? Just read. 10 minutes. That’s all I ask. Read. Read now. I got you several different books to choose from at the library today. Maybe you just haven’t found the books that you find interesting yet. So, please go read. Yes! Read! Go!

Stage two: Would you like me to read to you? Why not? Well, let’s have you read to me. Why not? Please? Let’s just sit down and you can read to me for only 10 minutes. You need to ready every day. Yes, you do. Yes. Please read now. Why not, Well, I’m sorry that you have a scratch on your ankle but that doesn’t mean you can’t read. No, it doesn’t. No, it doesn’t. Please, hummingbird. Just read to me for five minutes then. Five minutes! No, it’s not that long. Okay, how about this. You can have a cookie after dinner. Okay, ice cream then. Yes, you can have chocolate sauce but then you have to read for ten minutes. You don’t want chocolate sauce then? Oh, you do. Then, yes, read for 10 minutes. Please just read now. Please!

Stage three: Okay, it’s time to read. We have two hours before dinner. Why don’t read for 20 minutes to yourself while I read too. Why not? No, you can’t watch PAW Patrol. It’s time to read. No. There’s no PAW Patrol while we read. The television is going off. There. Please read. Whichever book you want. There must be something you’d like to read in our library book bag. You picked out all the books. Please, pick something and read. Then, I’ll pick. Here. Okay, then you pick something now. Please, hummingbird. That looks good. Okay, you have twently minutes. No, I said for twenty minutes. Not ten. Twenty. Hummingbird, it’s only for twenty minutes. I’m not asking you to jump off a cliff. Twenty minutes and then you’ll be done for the day. Okay, how about if you read for twenty minutes and you can watch PAW Patrol. No. You can’t watch two. Just one for twenty minutes of reading. Fine, thirty minutes of reading and then you can watch two PAW Patrol’s. No, you can’t watch three. Only two if you read for thirty minutes. Okay. Thank you.

Stage four: Read! Yes! Now! Please, read now! I don’t care if you don’t want to. READ!

Comments { 1 }

Let’s Go To The Vet

That’s right… it’s time for the vet. Let’s chase down our two cats. Ooops, almost had Penny. There she goes again. We’ll, I’ll let my husband grab her. There’s sweet, bigilicious Maisy lying on the couch with no clue about what’s going to happen soon.

And, both cats are in their carriers. I’m lint rolling my shirt because of all the cat hair and accidentally swipe my face with my hand to get off the sweat from my forhead.

Needless to say, sweat and cat hair is an awful combo. It looks like I have to shave my forehead now.

So, into the car we go. Maisy is all chill but Penny, well, Penny wants to sing us a song.

It’s called MEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWAAAAA!

Penny, it’s okay.

MEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWAAAA!

Pennnny, you’re okay. You’ll be just fine.

MEEEOOOWWWWWWAAA!

Okay, Penny, we get your point.

MEEEEOOOOWWWWAAAA!

Meow, meow, meow, Penny. I know, but it will be over soon.

10 minutes of torture Meow’s later….

We’re here, kitties!

MEEEEEOOOOWWWWWAAAA!

We’re standing in the lobby and Penny finally quiets. Hallefuckinglujah!

And, now were in the check up room.

MEEEEEEEOOOOOOOWWWWWAAAAA!

Oh my fucking god. Make it stop.

MEEEEEOOOOOWWWWWWWAAAA!

Hey, Penny. It’s okay.

A dog barks out side the room.

Penny does her sliding across the floor cartoon animal run.

I laugh my ass off.

Now, it’s time for sniffing, and more sniffing, and more sniffing….

But wait. Penny has more to say. MEEEEOOOOWWWWAAAA!

I wonder if they have cat xanax?

The assistant comes in with a thermometer. Oh, joy! The cats will LOVE this.

MEEEOOOOWWWWWAAA!

Let’s do Penny first. I watch as she lies there anxiously as my husband and I talk calmly to her.

And, boom! You don’t have to see it go in to know the thermometer is up her butt. Penny’s not quite sure about this. I sure as hell wouldn’t be either.

Now, Maisy’s turn. The chill cat will be chill while getting her temp.

Hey, Maisy. You’re doing so good. And, up the butt. Grrrrrrr! Hissssss!

Whoa, she’s the chill cat. Where did that come from? She looks at me like mom, if you were poked with that up your ass, you’d hiss too. Touche, Maisy. Touche.

And now, we wait for the vet.

Since both cats have been violated with the thermometer, it’s time to get down to cleaning themselves. But, Penny can’t let us forget she’s not happy so MEEEOOOWWWWAAA!

They hear someone outside the door and instead of running away from the door, they run to it. It’s vet time.

Penny and Maisy have two shots each but neither is up the butt so we should be good.

Finally finished. I’m covered with so much cat fur that I would’t be surprised if by wiping my mouth off to get the cat hair from my lips, I would look like I grew a beard. There’s also little chunks of fur on my shirt and shorts. I look at my husband and he has cat fur hanging from his nose. I start trying to take it off but he thinks I’m trying to pick his nose. Hey dude, I love you and everything but I would never pick your nose.

Anyway, it could be worse. It’s not like I’m putting a thermometer up his ass.

Comments { 0 }

My Ongoing In Law Cycle Of Thoughts

c94c64a74e1f0a102baa2f0dd7115055

My in-laws will be visiting in a little over two weeks and I’ve been trying to mentally prepare for them, especially now with our new house, they’ll be staying with us for four fucking days since there’s plenty of space and we can’t use that as an excuse.

I suggested to my husband that they should stay in a hotel anyway for a much-needed break in between the days but he thinks that’s impolite. Well, fuck. I personally don’t think so and would make it more about them needing their privacy but I didn’t win that one.

With the weeks and months that follow after one of their visits, I start softening up to them and after four or so months, I’ll convince myself that they really aren’t that bad. Then, I start feeling like shit about how much I rant about them and think this time when the in-laws come to stay with us, we’ll actually have a pleasant time. Hey, I never said I wasn’t delusional.

I’ll become so worked up with guilt and feel like a horrible person for the things I say about them. I start convincing myself that I just need to suck it up and stop overreacting. The hummingbird adores them and I keep my feelings to myself and it makes me happy that she’s so happy when they visit.

But then, they arrive. When we greet them, I’m kind of like a deer in headlights with thoughts of all the past bullshit I’ve dealt with when it comes to them and also the simple fact that oh shit, they’re actually here and this visit is really happening.

Within ten minutes, my father in law is talking about every single little detail that happened on their trip here and none of it relates to them. He’ll be saying what he overheard someone else on the plane talk about, go into a thorough overview of a person on his flight that he was nearby and without any knowledge of the person, form all of his own ideas and opinions about who this person might be, what kind of job they have, why they were traveling, etc, etc.

Then, we hear about the people who have died, for example a church member’s sister’s uncle’s grandmother who they have no idea about or never met and that will give me a bang my head against a spike moment. We also hear about how much my mother in law misses her over 100 turtles even though it’s been like five hours since she’s seen them.

By the two-hour mark, not only am I ready for them to go to their hotel room that they don’t have, I’m ready for the entire visit to be over with. But, what’s that? They brought a few gifts for the hummingbird. Hmmm, I can’t imagine what the theme of these gifts will be. Oh, look at that! A shirt with a turtle on it and lookie at the other one, a turtle purse.

At this point, I’ve gone into the kitchen at least once but more like twice to get a few shots of vodka. I can’t forget how the father in law will also discuss ALL the fucking construction in detail that he saw while driving up from Boston. Oh. my. god. A text usually goes out to my mom around this time with something usually along the lines of “help!”.

It will be about time for the bird to get into bed and once she’s tucked into her room, the four of us sit there while my FIL goes back to talking about the construction he saw on the way up here. He wonders what they’re doing if it’s road construction and make assumptions. If it’s something he saw being built like a new construction site, oh lawdy, he goes through the details of how it’s going to be built, with lots of detail and with a fine tooth comb even though he doesn’t know what the hell it’s actually going to be.

And again, this is all assumptions but since he loves to hear himself talk and lecture he seems pretty sure of himself that what he’s saying is fact. Oh. my. god. By now it’s been a good four hours since they’ve arrived and while it may be a little rude, I’ll turn on the television and put it on closed captioning and turn down the volume so he can continue with his lecturing and so I won’t fall asleep because the man is like human ambien.

What has become a little escape for me turns into a nightmare because the FIL starts reading the closed captioning out loud. And, he has 20,000 questions about what’s on when I haven’t yet seen it myself. He’s like my 7 year-old when watching things. Is it really that difficult for a 60 something grown man to not be able to draw conclusions for himself??! I mean, he seemed pretty capable with talking about construction bullshit and the people on the plane and in the airport and AGGHHH!

During this time, my MIL will take some passive aggressive starter strikes at me about how the house looks or how the hummingbird is being raised and how that’s not the way they did it when her kids were growing up.

I’m finally done and head off to bed completely wiped out. But the thing is they get me so wound up and are so fucking exhausting to be around that I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ll end up being too tired and mindfucked to sleep.

The next morning, I absolutely dread opening the bedroom door while hearing them out in the kitchen while the hubby gets breakfast together.

My FIL will always ask how I slept and if I’m doing okay. I’ll tell him no, no I’m not okay and I slept like shit because you two stress the fuck out of me so I’m sleep deprived and pissy from the lack of sleep I had that may have been resolved if you would have just stayed at a damn hotel.

Okay, that’s what I’d like to say but just say a simple fine. There’s of course not much breakfast table chatter since my FIL won’t shut the fuck up. He’s like one of those talking dolls that has a string in the back and once you pull it, it talks for a few seconds. Except, his string doesn’t have a stopping place.

There’ll be plans to go out and see the sites but oh darn, I’ve come down with some mysterious ailment and would be better off staying at the house while they go out with the family.

The non stop talking from my FIL and the passive aggressive bullshit from my MIL continues for the rest of the visit and finally the moment arrives.

They’re LEAVING!! HALLEFUCKINGLUJAH!

I put on my fake sad face and it’s all I can do to stop myself from shoving them out of the door. Finally, they’re gone and the bird will feel sad so I’ll console her while in my head a mariachi band plays to celebrate there departure. A few weeks after they’ve left, I’ll start to recover and get some of my sanity back.

After a month or two, the husband will mention that his parents are looking forward to come up and visit us again soon. My eyes meet his and I give him the death stare followed by a ‘they were just here!” A few months later, my daughter will start asking when she’ll see her grandma and grandpa again and I start to feel myself weaken.

The hubby and I go back and forth about what’s a good time for them to come and visit. I weaken some more and think this visit won’t be as bad as all the other ones, despite my 21 years of knowing otherwise.

Because damn it, maybe it’s all me and not just them and I’m sure I was just being on edge when they came for a visit last time.

This visit, I’ll make sure to do all that I can to have more patience.

They arrive and I will make this visit work in my favor.

Two hours later and two shots of vodka down the hatch and I’m ready for them to leave.

And the cycle repeats.

Oy!

Comments { 2 }