The People Who Choose To Love Me

The People Who Choose To Love Me
This is my family. Watermark and all.

Monday, August 31, 2015

I'm Starting To Doubt My Genius, And I Don't Like It.

When I was a kid I liked to come up with inventions. I had an idea for putting nursery rhyme pictures on paper towels and submitted that to the paper towel company. I was turned away and was told that I needed to have a patent and possibly a lawyer to submit ideas. Guess what came out six months after I submitted my idea?

Nursery Rhymes. On paper towels. I can't find any pictures of them on the internet because that was before the internet was a thing and everyone just lived life and didn't have to take pictures of their paper towels to prove they were living life to the fullest. Also, what's going on in this nursery rhyme??! 

Then, I came up with the brilliant idea to turn those little delicious covered raisin thingies in Raisin Nut Bran into individual packets for kids to bring to school as snacks. Again, sent my idea in, and again was told, "Nope, you need a patent and a lawyer." But, AGAIN, what came out a few short months after I submitted my brilliant idea??? 

Those whitish delicious bits were packaged alone. As snacks. For kids' lunches. Again, I can't find any pictures of them, but they were real, believe me, you! And, either people were just too busy eating them to take one freaking Polaroid for all of posterity (and so I don't look like a complete lunatic here) or, it was just a super shitty idea and maybe General Mills shouldn't have stolen a seven year old's idea and tried to pass it off like it was their own?? Bastards.

AND THEN, there was the velcro hangman board game idea I came up with. And, once more, my dreams were dashed and my idea was put to use without me being able to reap the monetary benefits from it. 
Ok, so, once again, I can't find a damn picture of what I was looking for but I swear my friend Melissa's brother had it and I vividly remember being royally pissed off that I wasn't receiving any sort of royalties for my idea. So, pretty much this whole damn post is a bust and there's no proof of my genius ideas that were stolen but the lack of proof is starting to make me think I'm not a genius at all and if I had paid for a patent and a lawyer for that crap I would have landed my family in the poor house. Also, is that freaking Vincent Price on the cover of that Hangman game??!

I had these insane dreams the other day when I was napping about how to change the design for the flyswatter into a more effective product. Even though I may never get a patent for the idea, I'm not going to divulge all of my fly swatter secrets in my blog for some fancy fly swatter company to steal from me. NOT THIS TIME, CORPORATE AMERICA! But, trust me... It will be amazing and flies won't know what hit 'em!! Whoa, that's totally my catch phrase!!! This blog post is proof that I came up with that fair and square and if someone steals it, I will sue the velcro off of them. 

I was going in a completly different direction with this post when I started (I was thinking that maybe my calling was to be a crazy inventor like Belle's dad on Beauty And The Beast) but now I'm feeling a little discouraged and not at all like I should be an inventor. I'm pretty sure crazy old Maurice would tell me to never give up on my dreams (whichever one it is that I'm focusing on for that day) and he would clap me on the back and tell me to keep giving it my all. But, he's a fucking cartoon and I'm starting to think everyone in that small provincial town was right about him... I mean, couldn't he have just chopped a couple pieces of wood by hand? 

I still want a pair of these goggles. And, to invent something useful. 

One of these days...

Saturday, August 29, 2015

The Eagles Won't Survive The Zombie Apocalypse And Love Will Not Keep Us Alive.

I love the Eagles. They are right up there in my top ten bands of all time. When I was a kid I was hooked on the cassette tape left at my house by a friend I admired very much. I listened to that and Jane's Addiction pretty much non-stop for a year. I'm pretty sure my friend asked me to mail them back to her and I ignored her request. I wasn't a very good friend.

 The Eagles in their heyday.
At least two of these guys look like they had a rough night before this photo shoot.

When I met my husband he told me one of his all time favorite bands is The Eagles, too. Weird, I mean what are the chances? Only 700,000,000 people drunkenly scream, "THIS IS MY JAM!!!," when Hotel California starts playing in any bar across the world. After we moved in together and things would be kind of tight money-wise at the end of every month for a couple of days before our paychecks would hit, we would always sing to each other the famous song, "Love Will Keep Us Alive." Then, we'd laugh, and then we'd go back to stressing out.

I was thinking about that song this morning, probably because I have a week until we get our paychecks and we ran out of every necessity in the house. How does that even happen? Every month without fail we run out of dish soap, laundry detergent, dog food, and toilet paper all on the SAME damn day. Anyway, how do The Eagles figure that love would keep them alive or, at the very least, well stocked?

We ran out of toilet paper so I kissed my husband. I thought, "Well, maybe love can't keep you alive but it should at least pull it's weight and buy a few household goods." Didn't work. Love is a lazy freeloader.

Then, I got to thinking about what love's role in the zombie apocalypse would be. I mean, it's kind of been a hot topic for the last ten years or so and love really should have been making some preparations just in case the CDC releases a virus to thin the herd.  Maybe just a small bug out bag with a couple of MREs? Maybe love should have thought about taking a class on knot tying or shelter building? I mean, don't get me wrong. Love's great. It makes you feel lightheaded and tingly and it's 80% the reason why most babies were made. But, if love can't build a makeshift shelter that would go undetected by zombies or scavengers, what the hell good is it?

My son made this "castle" this morning and I'm pretty sure this is more sturdy and effective than anything love could build. There's a couple of mix-match shoes, one of my mixing bowls, a dustpan which could be used as a weapon, and you can't see them in the picture but there is a poker chip (for bartering) and a winter mitten in the mix. Love's got nothing on my toddler's shelter making skills.

Also, Don Henley, did you ever stop to think how love can provide clean drinking water for the masses? Because WATER keeps you alive. People say, "There's someone for everyone," but they don't really mean that because some people are just unlovable assholes, so what about those guys? They are just left, unloved, to wither away and dehydrate while love goes around keeping everyone else alive? No. You want to know how I know love can't provide anyone with clean drinking water and keep people alive? It's because love doesn't have a bladder. 

  Love is not as effective as your own urine when it comes to this staying alive business.

So, if this post has taught you anything, it's that a bucket full of pee is worth more than a world full of love if survival is on the line. If it's not a case of life or death, I suppose love is more important than a pot of potable urine.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

When You Have Four Kids Every Day Is April Fools Day

Oh, you thought you were going to sleep?

Guess again, parents! It's 3 a.m. and I WANT MY GD CEREAL!!!

Oh, you just cleaned the house, did you?

Well, we just fed the dogs.

You can't afford to get sick?

Let me just blow you a kiss... OF DEATH.

It seems no matter what my actual plans are for the day, things somehow manage to go awry. And, I suppose that's both the beauty and the curse of having children. I always have to laugh to myself when people get mad about their day not going right because I haven't had an absolute perfect day in more than thirteen years. Except for the day we took the kids to Disneyland. We thought it would be a disaster and that everyone would be hot and grumpy and miserable, and it was actually a very lovely day. So, I guess Disneyland is the happiest place on earth because that's the only place all of my plans for the day didn't fall into a pit of mucus and despair. 
Having kids has taught me to become more flexible in my thinking and to adapt in any situation. I may not like change, but it's an inevitable part of being a human being. For instance, right this second, as I'm typing, my two year old is smacking me over the head with a used up, flattened paper towel roll. Do I stop typing, or just adapt to my surroundings? ....Hold on real quick...

Ok, what was I saying? Oh yeah, so adaptation is the key to human existence. The second we say to ourselves, "This is how I am going to live, with no changes or exceptions," is the second we stop really living. Ok, seriously? This paper towel roll has got to go... 

Oh, you wanted to write your blog in peace and quiet?
Think AGAIN, lady.

It really does seem like some sort of cosmic joke to the analytically brained people of the world that just as soon as you get used to an idea or situation, life throws you a curve ball and you have to either adapt or keep going in a miserable little straight line, never bending, and struggling against nature to keep your orderly life in tact.  

April Fools has always been one of my favorite days because I am a mischief maker and because you just never know what is going to happen and it makes life kind of fun to be in suspense. I know a lot of people who don't appreciate the mystery of April 1st as much as I do, and in my opinion, those people are the ones who have the hardest time adapting to life's changes. 

So, in conclusion, my advice to all humans is to make babies (or adopt four pets of your choice) and really learn what it means to be miserable deathly ill interrupted every five damn seconds hit in the head with a paper towel roll when you're trying your hardest to concentrate. sleep deprived a slave to housework adaptable and happy.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Erroneous On All Counts: Guest Blogger Molly Martinez

 This is written by a dear friend who I happened to have had the pleasure of working with at a job similar to what she is writing about here. I can 100% back up her account of what it was like to work in a market research office. It is, after all, the very first place I learned what a Top Ramen prison spread was. And, a lot of those people enjoyed their spreads immensely. Don't fuck with an ex-con's spread. Molly Martinez recently started writing again and has an already hilarious start to a blog called Erroneous On All Counts. Please check this woman out. She is an amazing writer and friend. -No Trade Jack

“Do you have a mirror?” she asked.  I was 23 years old and a couple of hours in to the first day of my new job. I had already met several charming individuals who wasted no time in allowing their stellar personalities to shine through, I am not including the respondents I had the pleasure of speaking with over the phone. I had interviewed for the position of Telephone Market Researcher for a total of 5 minutes before I was offered the job. I considered this to be a great sign. I should have reconsidered that initial thought. I sure did after about an hour sitting in the swivel office chair in front of a dot matrix computer with a headset attached to it.
Obedient, and hoping to seem helpful, I commenced to look for a mirror. I rummaged through my bag and offered the not-completely-unattractive woman of about 35 my Cover Girl powder compact. Then, in abject horror, I watched as she shoved ½ of it in her gaw with one hand, as she carefully placed a broken piece of tooth slathered with superglue on the corresponding match in the back of her mouth. Once it was placed, and she was satisfied that the glue would hold, she handed me back the makeup with the mirror still steamed up and a spit bubble on the side. I almost dropped it because I was trying desperately not to touch the part which was recently in her mouth. I fumbled it in to my bag and placed the purse under my desk. With my stomach rolling and mouth dry, I made it to the single stall bathroom with the dirty floor and purged my breakfast.
That was the first of many graphic details of disgust I experienced working in the phone bank. The most interesting manner of human beings (and I’m using that term loosely) are employed for “phone work”. It’s a fairly easy job requiring no face to face contact and little to no effort, so the visually unappealing and the lazy make a bee line. All you really need is a good voice and convincing a manner, and that is only for those who happen to care what their success rate is.
This particular marketing research company was strictly for radio surveys. We would call people from all over the country and try to get them to listen to 3 to 4 second clips of music currently being played on the radio and then ask them to rate it on a scale from 1 to 5. I personally listened to mostly alternative rock at the time, so I learned very quickly to ask for the country music stations because if I had to listen to clips of songs I actually liked being played on my favorite station over and over and over ad nauseam, I would never be able to listen to that music again. That, and when I did the country music surveys I had a high success rate because I spoke to customers in a country accent and they ate that crap up with a spoon!
I sat in the middle of a row of 7 cubicle type stations. To my right was a short little feller with the saddest case of cystic acne I had ever seen, offset by a shaggy mop of shoulder length hair, which was either naturally greasy or created that way on purpose with some discount product of unspecified nature. I didn’t ask. To my left was a 45 year old woman pushing 400 pounds with the voice of an angel. Bernita was one of the top 10 favorite people I ever worked with! She had thinning blonde wisps of hair pulled in to a tiny bun, rosacea, and was gay. I was going through my own skewed sense of sexual identity at the time and that fascinated me about her! Her partner was a motorcycle driving butch who treated her terribly. Bernita would often come to work with tears in her baby blues because Shayna had called her some derogatory name or hadn’t come home the night before. It was my mission to make Bernita smile again! Her laugh was infectious and her sense of humor was razor sharp. I needed that in my life. Sitting day after day in a quite uncomfortable and flimsy desk chair trying to talk to a decidedly unenthusiastic public about the music they listened to everyday was boring as hell. I would crack sarcastic comments or mimic respondents, and when she laughed her whole body would shake and her specially purchased “sturdy” chair would rock. Everyone around her would laugh with her, the joy permeated the drab office interior. About 3 or 4 times every day I would walk by her from the bathroom or break-room to get to my station and I would hear “Fuck you, Molly” in a growly girl whisper. I didn’t need to ask her what it was about, it was my hair. She was insanely jealous of my thick, curly hair. It would make me laugh out loud every time I heard it, it was so ridiculous and she was so very serious! I saw her a few years later after I had left for another job and she had gotten gastric bypass, but her laugh was still the same and Shayna had moved on for good. She was a much happier Bernita and was still envious of my hair.
A couple seats from Paul, the greaser, sat Terry. This was her second job, she was earning money to go towards getting her teeth fixed. She is not to be confused with Superglue Maguillicutty, whom I began this reminiscence with, Terry had no teeth to glue back in. Correction, she had 8. Four on the top, four on the bottom. They were yellow and had sundry pieces missing, but they were hers and she was hanging on for dear life. Terry was a “new Christian”, recently out of jail/rehab for (shockingly enough) methamphetamine addiction and sales. Everything out of her mostly empty mouth started with “And praise Jesus”.  Literally. “And praise Jesus, they filled up the vending machine and I can finally have my Reeses”, “And praise Jesus, I found the left flip flop under the back seat of the car where Jimbo threw it last night”. It was cute the first 6 times I heard it. When I realized the, “And praise Jesus,” was her breath before starting a sentence I started making tick marks on a post it note to count how many times she said it in a night’s shift. On one vivid and impressively talkative day, when I was sure she had relapsed on the crank, my tick marks filled the front and back of 3 separate 4’x4” post it sheets! I was saying “And praise Jesus” when she finally left for the night!
Alice was a whore. I am not just talking about a loose woman, she was a real live sex peddler for cash. She was 5’8”, about 60 pounds overweight, and had the henna red hair of an old timey ‘painted woman’. She also had a limited tooth count. Are we seeing a pattern here? This was also Alice’s second job… guess what the first one was? You would think a woman of the night would have a secretive air about her, a type of mystery that makes you wonder what goes on after she gets off work at 9:00pm. Nope, not Alice. She was not only completely unashamed of her alternative profession, but she would speak to her cubicle neighbor of her adventures and have the audacity to call the “date” sick! “Honey, he wanted to put the bottle right on up there, and not the skinny end either! Sicko”. She was terminated because she often showed up to work an hour later than her start time. She needed a “fuckin’ rest, Goddamn it!”
Carl was also a woman of the night. Not for actual monetary transactions, but I am sure he got paid in other ways. When Carl transformed himself in to Miss Sparkle Devine it was an amazing thing to see! I was able to see her in action once, and she was a delight! Then the pancake makeup and cleavage would be washed off his cocoa colored skin and his Armani slacks and button up shirt would go back on for work. He was 6’1” with green eyes and always dressed beautifully for his telephone research job. He would sit with one arm resting on the back of his chair, legs crossed, working the computer with one hand. He was actually graceful! And charming and completely likable! I think about him every time I watch “To Wong Foo, With Love Julie Newmar”.  
The phone bank employed between 20-30 people on a revolving basis. Some were only there a short while, long enough to realize having random people in Kentucky, or Alabama, or Ohio, or Maine, hang up on you with or without screaming bloody murder that you interrupted their dinner or woke their baby up isn’t the most fun a person can have at work. Some were there years before I set foot in the place and are probably still there to this day. I worked there for 2 years and I quickly worked my way up to floor manager. I left when I followed the general manager to her own marketing research business that she opened. I was invited to be her office manager, no more phones again! Being a phone researcher wasn’t a dream job, but it fit my life at the time. The job paid reasonably well for the amount of work actually done and I moved up quickly. When I look back at the monkeys running that zoo I have to remember to not be too smug… I once was one of them.

You can read up about more of Molly's hilarious adventures at... Erroneous On All Counts!

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

The Moral Of The Story Is To Not Be A Jerk In School

A while back, my husband and I made the move from California to Arizona. We decided to start fresh in a new place that has a lower cost of living. With four kids though, this means a lot of emotional upheaval, A LOT of things to pack (mostly dress up clothes and five beds), and throwing a lot of stuff out that takes up a lot of room that we have been uselessly hanging on to for nostalgic purposes.

I had not one, NOT TWO, but THREE boxes of old poetry, essays, journals, and scraps of paper that I had poured my heart out onto as a kid (mostly around age sixteen) that were just stacked up in all of my many closets over the years collecting dust and probably a few vermin.

Anyway, based on the few key words I picked out from the pieces of paper I flipped through, and the amount of times I mentioned the band Suicidal Tendencies, I can sum up my entire adolescence in three pictures. I don't even need captions for them but I'll put them in there anyway because I like to.

 Middle school me. I was terribly uninformed on the fashion of the times and liked to wear a pair of pink and purple overalls that my grandmother made. They had little hearts embroidered all over them and I liked to wear them WITH ONE STRAP UNDONE. That's right. I was that white kid.

Phase II. This one lasted awhile until I realized John Hughes and Molly Ringwald could only be replaced by Clerks and Randall Graves, which brings us to Chapter 3...

The Final Chapter. 
 This is what the latter teenage years, all of my twenties, and, let's face it, all four years of my thirties have looked like. He's my belly button twin. 

I think I have grown immensely as a human being over the years, but I still have a long way to go in the attitude department. And the patience department. I wasn't necessarily a bad kid but fostering a bad attitude gets you almost nowhere. I have learned over the years to appreciate hard work and taking responsibility for my actions, even though it's waaaaay easier to push the blame off on some schlep and take all the glory for myself.

I have been better at making friends (and keeping them) and I have met some amazing people over the years. My friend Rhondda is one of these people. If it weren't for her over the last three years I would have surely gone insane from living in a small town with almost zero like minded people. Rhondda is hilarious and our daughters are best friends and we can sit for hours and talk about anything from child rearing to alien invasions and she never once has judged me based on my opinions, beliefs, or cynicism.

In case you think I'm making up what kind of kid I was, Rhondda has brought proof! She was at my daughter's old school and saw this beauty hanging up on the wall from 1997.

I am at the top right. I'm pretty sure this was the face I wore all day, every day, until after I graduated high school. The sun was  in my eyes a little here, but I had resting bitch face for a total of six years growing up.  Now that I think of it, I was probably not a great fit for the Drill Team. Mostly because you're supposed to smile and stuff, but also because I hate the Macarena.
Everyone else in the picture was lovely and I still talk to a couple of them via social media now. I so wish I would have figured out the secret of just being a nice person at this point in time. It would have made life a lot easier. But, poetry wouldn't be the same without self inflicted misery, now would it?

Friday, August 21, 2015

Ain't No Party Like A Bedtime Party!!

Bedtime... (Just imagine me wistfully sighing while I say the word)

I look forward to bedtime ALL DAY LONG. It will be 7:00 a.m. and I am double checking that the clock actually means a.m. I get SO excited for 7:00.  At the dining room table when everyone is complaining about whatever food I just took one to three hours of my day to prepare, it doesn't even phase me that one kid keeps running to the trashcan to spit (what he thinks are) indiscreet bites of his entree out, or that a fart was slowly released over the crowd of familial diners, or that milk is spilled an average of three times per day during any given meal. Nope. None of this bothers me one little bit, because I know something the five year old and the two year old don't know.

I know how to tell time.

Better step up your time tellin' game, kids.

By now, you guys know I love pictures of things. And, I love matching up pictures of random crap to my emotions. So, here it goes.


Me. Before Bedtime.

"I don't care who said what!!! Get ready for school NOW!!!"



"Get in your beds or I will disown you."

Me. After The Kids Are In Bed.

"I'm going to party like it's 1999, so, no. You may not get back up for water."


"Maybe you didn't hear me the first time. No. More. Water. Go. To BED."
Several moments of silence pass...
They are all asleep...


Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Be A Part Of The Blog!!

For all of my awesome readers out there across THE WHOLE WORLD (I was surprised to see so many people reading in Thailand and Portugal!!) I will be posting a blog compilation of all of my readers' personal horror stories at work, or your most self deprecating stories of being unemployed! The special Reader's Contribution Blog will be published September 1st! That gives you plenty of time to type up a brief memoir of the times you wish you wouldn't have had!! I can't wait to see everyone's responses. Have a great day!!


To submit an entry PM me via Facebook or email me at!

The Unmistakable Stench Of Death

We have six people, a Mastiff, and now two Great Danes living in our house. Laundry is a never ending spin cycle of mundane torture around this joint. I hate it. I hate it with a white hot hatred of a thousand burning suns. Coming from a lady who is practically see through, that should mean a lot. Because I also hate the sun.

I just googled, "six people, a mastiff, and two great danes," and my search turned up zero pictures of anyone as idiotic as I am for allowing this to happen. But, there were lots of ads on the sidebar for booze and insane asylums. Score.

Sounds cozy!

My mother-in-law posted this on my Facebook page tonight. I love that woman so much.

Ok, back to the post, I guess. I am even procrastinating when it comes to writing about laundry. That's how much I hate it. Between things my dogs have drug across the yard, a not-so-potty-trained toddler, three girls who are huge fans of midday costume changes, and the two adults in the household, there is a shit ton of laundry. And, no one likes to do it. I binge wash everything in the house about once a week that I have let pile up in the laundry room. And, for about ten minutes every week our laundry room is sparkling clean. 

Well, awhile back, we all noticed a smell coming from the laundry room but everyone assumed it was layers of wet things baking in the room that conveniently has a door on it so we can try our hardest to just shut it out of existence. The room that shall not be named.

I want this poster for the laundry room (shit, already blew it)...
I mean, the ____ ____ door.

Anyway, the stench that was coming from the _____ _____ was so bad. So, so bad. My husband swore there was something either dying or dead in there. We washed everything in the ______ _____. I bleached the washing machine's innards. Then, I used apple cider vinegar in a hot, empty cycle. Then, I bleached it again. Still, the smell was all consuming. It wouldn't stop smelling. 

The only adjective I can really use to describe the smell so that you'll understand what I'm talking about is "barf-o-rama." 

Man, I really loved the movie Stand By Me. Remember the lady who barfed in her purse?? 

After awhile the smell faded and we didn't want to pour gasoline on the stacks of pee pants and blankets so much anymore in the _____ _____. We went on about our lives and nobody barfed on anyone or anything for a long, long time. 

Until yesterday.

 If you're having a hard time figuring out what this shriveled little son of a bitch is, it's a snake.





Even though I'll never sleep, do laundry, or go barefoot anywhere in my house again, I am thankful for three things after knowing about this jerkwad's existence.

1. I held off doing laundry for so long that my husband had to wash his own clothes and he was the one who found the snake. 

2. It was dead. 

3. It will ALWAYS be dead. 

These are the three things I am not grateful for, in no particular order.

1. It existed. In my home. 

2. My middle daughter will also never sleep again.

3. It was a baby and all I can imagine is a thousand other baby snakes roaming behind things in the house, growing, waiting, slithering...

Oh, and a fourth thing I am grateful for is a super amazing, awesome family who totally gets me. Right after my husband found this creature born to torment me, he said, "Hey, you should totally turn that into jewelry!"

And, when my daughter got home from school and I showed her the lifeless reptile, she said the same thing. We rock this family unit business. I think I'll stick to good old sterling silver jewelry if I want to wear a snake, though.

 If you are my husband and you are reading this, this necklace is bookmarked for Xmas purposes.
You're welcome.

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Back To The Future (Negative Five Years Of My Life And The Reason I'll Never Direct A Movie)

I don't know what sort of super human powers my uterus wields as a weapon against my brain but I have managed to produce four tiny humans who have the ability to slow time almost to a complete stop whenever they are asked to do their chores.

One minute they are spinning in circles so fast that they could burn holes into the hardwood floors with their heels, and the very next minute after I ask them to clean ANYTHING t...i...m...e...  s...l...o...w...s...  d...o...w...n...  s...o...  s...l...o...w...  t...h...a...t...  I...  c...a...n...  l...i...t...e...r...a...l...l...y...  h...e...a...r...  t...h...e...  u...i...v...e...r...s...e...  w...e...e...p...i...n...g...  f...o...r... 


I can't handle watching the kids clean slowly. This is why I usually end up doing things for them. Yeah, yeah, yeah, they'll grow up to be sponges and never learn how to properly function in society... I've heard the whole lecture about not being a helicopter parent, and I don't care. I would rather loom over my child and snatch the cleaning supplies from their hand than watch them wash down the bathroom counter at the speed of smell.

If the rate of speed in which one cleans was measured in the speed of cycling, the photos below would accurately depict the difference between my cleaning and the kids' cleaning.

How I clean.
How my children clean.

I have written an entire manuscript for another Back To The Future sequel in my head based on my children doing chores and defying every law of time and space known to man without the use of futuristic technology. It starts out with a 27 minute long scene of my daughter moving a sponge over two square inches of table so slowly that the entire audience is lulled to sleep with the calming, repetitive motion of barely wiping anything tangible up. 

I hope Christopher Lloyd agrees to be in the new movie. Coincidentally, this is the exact same face I make while I watch my kids clean.

After the entire audience is fast asleep, the movie really starts to get good. There will be two more scenes in the movie, both about 30 minutes long. The second scene will be me condescendingly showing the children how to use a broom and teaching them that dust is basically all of our dead skin slow dancing in the air together until it dies and settles onto everything in the house. The third scene will just be me weeping into a bowl of broccoli alfredo penne pasta in the dark. The audience will only be able to hear the audio in the last scene BECAUSE I DON'T WANT YOU TO SEE ME LIKE THIS!!! 

And, boom. The movie is a huge success, I rake in a ton of cash, and I hire a fucking maid because it physically pains me to watch the children scrub a toilet.

Monday, August 17, 2015

Who Else Uses A Banana To Prop Open The Dishwasher? Oh, Just Me?

We found out that when you run the dishwasher and microwave at the same time a fuse blows or the electricity-ma-bob clicky thingy outside has to be clicked back into place for things to work again in the kitchen. I don't know what it's called but it's super annoying. I should probably research this stuff before writing about it. Anyway, if you click the switch back into place but the dishwasher is still closed, the fusey-click-a-doodly has to be flipped again and it's this whole vicious cycle of running back and forth just so you can finish microwaving your damn frozen burrito. You have to prop the dishwasher open or unplug the microwave before you flip it. I have solved everything, guys.

 If you ever want to make your entire family roll their eyes at you, prop open your dishwasher with a banana.
Works like a charm.


Sunday, August 16, 2015

Deez Balls Of Energy In This Crazy Mixed Up Universe

Our family made a huge move a few months ago to a city where we knew only a few people. We moved into our awesome house in a neighborhood that backs up to the kids' school and slowly started meeting more people in the neighborhood. We seriously have the best neighbors. I think its funny how life brings you to a place where you are basically forced to get to know complete strangers and they can either become lifelong friends or eternal enemies.

We live in a neighborhood full of kids and have made friends with a couple of the parents on our block, and they all pretty much rock at life. One neighbor in particular makes me laugh until I pee almost daily. She is my neighbor-soul-mate. I've never been very good at making friends because I have a super shitty attitude but this lady makes it's hard not to love her. You can't help it. She knows every Wilson Phillips song. She can do the Cabbage Patch. She introduced me to Bloody Marys (I don't know if Bloody Mary is capitalized, but it seems like it should be) with gigantic green olives. She was basically carved from diamond.

This is her skull. Her skin is beautiful, too. 
It's sparkly like the vampires in Twilight.

So, one night while the kids were gone and we were partaking in a few mason jars filled to the brim with liquid magic (Bloody Marys), we got to talking about how people are in your life for a reason and shit got DEEP. We talked about life being a lesson and how you need to learn certain lessons in order for your soul to move on to the next lesson until you're a supreme being and you can yell things like, "If you won't bow before a sultan, then you will cower before a sorcerer!!"

I don't think my neighbor and I would be evil sorcerers, but you never know. Power changes people.

Anyway, after about six Bloody Marys, it was decided. We were destined to be friends. And, she totally sealed the deal by singing Savage Garden and Kriss Kross on my back patio after we sang a duet of Heart To Heart like the twins in The Skeleton Twins (I am obsessed with that movie). I was, of course, Bill Hader in the reenactment. If you still haven't seen that movie I don't know what to even say to you, except that I'm not mad, I'm disappointed.

My neighbor is the yin to my yang, the Kristin Wig to my Bill Hader. She is my skeleton twin. Or, as she so eloquently put it... 

"We are balls of energy. BALLS. Of ENERGY. We found each other in the world. We're like... You know... DEEZ NUTS!!!" She said this with an absolutely serious face while motioning toward her crotch, so I knew this was from the heart and not just my diamond skinned neighbor blowing smoke up my Bloody Mary.

I hope that when we reincarnate next time we will end up meeting each other and owning a vodka distillery together in Russia. It would just be super convenient if we had barrels of vodka laying around to mix up our friendship juice before we sang Outkast and Blondie songs on my Siberian back porch.

Thursday, August 13, 2015

I Always Have Every Intention Of Not Doing Nothing

Every night I say to myself, "Ok, you wasted today on nonsense art projects and blogging, but tomorrow you will get your ass in gear!"

And then, tomorrow happens.

Yesterday's Intentions Were:











 What I Actually Accomplished:




The day wasn't a total waste even though I didn't do a single thing I told myself in a very stern internal voice to do. I made a homemade journal, took a nap on the warm laundry pile, and finished this blog entry. Looks like someone I am needs a beer to celebrate all of her pseudo-accomplishments!

 Only took me 4 hours to finish!

*Look how cute bangs are.

*This is an older picture of my bangs. They look just as cute today but my phone is a pile of crap that is half eaten thanks to my dumb dog so you'll just have to take my word for it. 

To see more of my bangs once I get a new phone or camera, follow me on Facebook!

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

The Only Thing I'm Good At Is Writing Lists Of Everything I'm Bad At

I think the reason I started this blog was to work through some personal issues that seem to be the root of the problem that is my lack of a career.

If I had a nickel for every time I changed my mind about what I should be doing for a living I'd probably have about $2.15 and, for whatever nonsensical reason, coming up with a new profession or passion every six months isn't profitable enough to be a career on it's own. Pffft.


I wish I could write something poignant, and insightful, and painfully beautiful about The Great Job Depression Of My Adulthood, but I'm afraid blogging a list of job titles I've held in the past in a large font accompanied by the strike-through option is what I'm reduced to.


I've been sitting here staring at this list trying to think of the other 30 things I've tried my hand at for a living and I'm drawing a blank. In all fairness though, there's a movie playing right now starring Bill Hader and Kristen Wig and it is soooo hard to concentrate through their hilarity. 

Amazing movie. I highly recommend watching this if you're going through a mid-life crisis. Even if you're not in the middle of an emotional breakdown, it's probably still great.

Oh yeah, there was that time when my husband and I opened our own art gallery. I guess, technically, this would fall under entrepreneurship so I'll just lump that in there with my failed kids' graphic t-shirt business, Spit & Vinegar Apparel, that I started without researching. 


Oopsie daisy!!

My entire life has been a series of impulsive (don't get me wrong, it's been a blast!), barely thought out decisions that have all accumulated into this person I seem to have become. A mother of four who waitresses part time and tries her hardest, but usually fails, to care about the environment.  I guess, if it has to be simplified, that's what it is. 


I was trying to draw a bunch of these to compile a book and to try and relieve stress from being a stay-at-home mom, but it kind of backfired because this drawing gives me panic attacks.

FLEA MARKET FLIPPER (see previous posts for deets)

And, through all of these failures and opportunities squandered, the one thing I have managed to do is be an attentive mom of four amazing kiddos, and knowing that I'm trying my best at holding that job title kind of makes all of these other things not matter so much.

Ok, so I was sitting, blogging, ten feet away from my child when she decided to stuff herself into a Home Depot bucket and I didn't realize what she had done until she screamed for help, so maybe 'attentive' isn't the best adjective for my mothering skills. But, I did help her out of the bucket and told her to hide her face so no internet creepers would know her identity... I'll count it as a draw.



Nailed it.

Monday, August 10, 2015

Meeting Someone Who Immediately Asks For Permission To Fart Next To You Is Kind Of Nice

I started working this week at a new job and I trained for the new position over the weekend with a couple of awesome ladies that I hope to become lifelong friends with.

The first lady is in her fifties and has the abs and biceps of a 22 year old male model. She also hunts for her own food and is probably in my top ten most interesting people I've met and liked right off the bat. In between training me and suffering from a super stiff neck, this woman told me the most awesome stories about her life, including one about auctioning off a bull that no one but her could get close to because it was insane with rage or something like that. Throughout the entire story I was imaging her as a female version of Crocodile Dundee so I missed some parts of it due to daydreaming up a new blog entry.

My new coworker.

The second lady who trained me is in her early twenties and pretty much rocks at life. She has the apathy of a goddess and the mouth of a sailor and I think I love her. 

As soon as we sat down to train she basically told me training is fucking stupid and she hates doing it and everyone learns from actual hands on experience so writing things on a piece of paper is pointless. Did I mention I love this lady?

I don't know what it is about people who are brutally upfront about their hatred for things and can verbalize said hatred in a string of cuss words used as adjectives, nouns, and verbs, but I am instantly smitten. Basically we sat down at a table and she cussed about the training and being pregnant for awhile and I was like, "Fuck yeah, I get you, stranger." And then, something weird happened. 

Ok, maybe not X-Files weird, but weird nonetheless.

After she shifted uncomfortably in her seat and asked my permission to fart at the table (because she is pregnant and didn't feel like getting up to walk twenty feet away to release gas), I laughed and gave her my permission and then... I started to open up to this complete stranger. About really inappropriate things. Like my period and how I throw up every month from the pain of my cramps. And, I realize I'm blogging this to a bunch of strangers now but normally I don't say these things to strangers. I talk about politics and religion before I talk about my menstrual cycle to people I don't know because I think it's icky and I get really irritated by women who insist on this being an acceptable topic at any and every social gathering or event they find themselves at. 

Unless you are talking to someone who has a stethoscope around their neck and a speculum in their hand or an art student who's primary focus is Georgia O'Keeffe paintings, shut the hell up about your stupid period. I didn't Google it but I'm pretty sure there's not a book similar to the beloved children's pooping book titled, "Everyone Bleeds," that can turn this topic into a semi-comical or in any way acceptable conversation.

 Hey! This really does look like a Georgia O'Keeffe painting!

Anyway, I caught myself before I told her the number of people I've slept with, or my social security number, or the combination to my junior high locker I had twenty years ago, and tried my hardest to focus on the training session. But, it was difficult because I weirdly looked up to and respected this woman who is at least ten years my junior and I NEED HER TO BE MY BEST FRIEND. Ok, I'm not that needy, but after she pops that kid out I'd love to buy her a beer and listen to her describe her life using only bodily functions and profanity.

Great. Now I have this song stuck in my head.

Anyway, I guess the new job is cool. I don't think I can consider serving food as a "career path," but it seems like a great gig with some fun people and I have a feeling I'll fit in just fine.

Oh, and I just Googled, "Everyone Bleeds," because in every blogging or writing article that gives tips on how to be an awesome writer it says, "Do your homework." There's no book, but there is a song by HATEBREED (appropriately all caps) that is titled, "Everyone Bleeds Now." Which, could also be the title of a book about female troubles for people like my husband to read who have to live in a house full of women who's cycles will surely all sync up. I think I will write this book. It will just be a step-by-step tutorial of my husband's hilarious solution to dealing with a billion females on their periods at the same time. It will teach you how to both build a man cave and put together 5,000 piece jigsaw puzzles. Upside down. In the dark. For one week out of every month.

See? Looks like fun!!
Well, more fun than cohabiting with four menstruating women, anyway.