Follow by Email

Monday, July 25, 2016

Lucky II

I have the craziest luck sometimes.

Especially when it comes to vehicles.

Last year, we decided to go on vacation to Connecticut to visit my niece and nephew.  And I suppose their parents as well, but mainly the two babies.  Of course, the day before we left, my air conditioning in my van went out...and it was supposed to be like 90* with a thousand percent humidity.

Against my better judgment, we took it to this little shop here in town.  They were pretty much the only ones open on a Sunday anyways.  $500 later and they fixed it, right?


We weren't even out of Ohio when the fucking A/C stopped working.  Less than an hour into a 9 hour trip.  With 7 people.  In a minivan.  In 90* heat with a thousand percent humidity.

The drive there and back sucked monkey balls to the point that I didn't even blog about it after.  And I blog about poop and the voices in my head, so that should tell you something.  Let's just say that when I got home, I made a grown man cry I was so pissed.  (Let's not mention the fact that it took them an ADDITIONAL FIVE DAYS AFTER WE GOT HOME to fucking fix it right...)

Fast forward to this summer.  Guess what goes out?

If you guess the A/C in my van, you'd only be partially right.

Cause so did the A/C in the truck.

And the A/C in our house.

And it's 90* with a thousand percent humidity again.

And we took the van in to get re-charged, hoping against hope that was all it was...and of course it wasn't and they had to order the part and it won't get fixed until tomorrow.  Costing just under another $400 dollars.  Oh, and fixing the A/C in the house will cost another $900.  Cause of course we need a new compressor and that shit is expensive, yo.

And don't forget my husband has hurt his arm and is off work for four months.  We have disability insurance, but that's only 60% of his income.  So not much extra money right now.  And of course I want to go to see my niece and nephew again (and possibly their parents too, since I suppose they will be there as well...) but I am afraid of trying to leave the state and having another air conditioning unit breaking.

Lucky, right?

Yeah, fuck you.

I'd play the lottery but I'd probably get a paper cut from the ticket and end up with my thumb amputated after I get gangrene from the infection I'd get from the ticket being touched by the gas station attendant who handles money that has cocaine and malaria all over it.  But not before failing a random drug test at work because of the coke residue that entered my system from the cut.

Wait, I have to take an anti-malarial medication for my Sjogren's.  I'm covered there, at least!  Finally, a win!  Plus I'm pretty sure I just came up with a brand new excuse for failing a drug screen that my clients have NOT come up with, so there's that as well.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016


Charles:  So some "college girl" stopped by today selling books.  She asked if I had kids and I told her I had an 18 year old.  Then she mentioned the toys in the back yard, and asked if I had nieces and nephews.  I wanted to tell her they were mine, but I just went with it.  She left, though, after trying to talk about how she is from Wisconsin, but yet wanted to give back to the community.  Like, what the fuck?  You don't even LIVE in the community.

Me:  You should have told her they were yours.

Charles:  Yeah.  "They're mine.  I don't have to share.  I'm an adult."

Later on, talking about people coming in our yard to do things like meter reading or door to door sales:

Charles:  I kinda hope the next time someone tries to sell stuff to us its another college girl.  I'm gonna turn around and yell "Hey guys!  That place sent us a college girl this time!  It was worth the money!"  Then when she goes "But I really am a college girl" I'll say "And yeah, the last one was a French Maid.  And the one before that was a chef."

Me:  Oh my God.  Please do this.  And video it.

Charles:  Nah, I'll just go "You're late.  You were supposed to be here a half hour ago."

Me:  "So come in and get naked."  Wait, you'll probably get someone who's into that kind of stuff and is all like, "OK..."

Charles:  Yeah, then I will have to boot her ass out. (Mimes kicking someone out the door.)  We'll be put on a list of places to never go.  "Like, those people are freaky.  Don't go there."

Me:  Yeah, like a "Do Not Call" list, but for door to door salesperson.  We will be banned for perpetuity.  This is sounding more and more like a good idea.  Let's do it.

Monday, July 4, 2016


*Note:  I am well aware that I have not written a post on my son's birthday this year.  I assure you that this is not because I have forgotten.  In fact, I have not and the only reason I got out of bed that day was because Alexis had dance (Nationals, baby!  Though by the end of this week I was so done and wished that her team sucked so we didn't have to go to the invite-only Big Show at the end of the week...), and in case you missed it, I am apparently a dance mom.  In keeping with the spirit of last year, I have decided to again write a post with the usual inanity and bluntness and propensity to offend as I usually do.  Enjoy!

It's Independence Day Weekend, bitchez!  Let's celebrate 'Merica!  For those of you not from the U.S.A, this is the weekend that we celebrate the mistaken notion that the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776 (it was actually just officially adopted on this day, thus showing that U.S'ians aren't bothered by things like historical accuracy or fact checking.)  There are a lot of traditions that go along with this, and most of them are as fucked up as all get out, so of course I am going to dissect them here.

First, let's start off with a tradition that is not necessarily limited to the Fourth (capital F, bitchez, cause it's a goddamned government sanctioned holiday and we don't get mail that day.  It's THAT important.).  Catching lightning bugs.  You may know these as fireflies.  Who thought up the good idea of releasing small children out into a yard to catch these poor mothafuckers who are just trying to get laid, to either be squeezed to death in a toddler's hand and smearing their yellow glow shit all over the fucking place, or they go into the jar of death and torture.  There are a lot of variations on this jar of death and torture, FYI.  When we were little, it was a margarine tub with fork holes stabbed in the top.  Some people perpetuate the whole American consumerism thing ('Merica!) and purchase a special receptacle to capture those things.  My kids get a mason jar with holes stabbed into the lid, which I then superglued to the ring.  Cause nothing says 'Merica like being inventive.  But seriously, once those little guys are in the jar, they are desperately trying to climb out to get their freak on, and the kids are pounding on the lid to get them to fall to the bottom...and let's not even talk about the ones who inadvertently get smooshed a'la that scene in Scream where the girl gets all tangled up in the garage door.

Then there are the sparklers.  Let's give children hot pieces of wire that shoot sparks and let them run free, in the dark.  Cause nothing says Independence Day like being branded by your five year old after sundown.  Plus all that smoke inhalation and fumes from the sparklers, year after year after year, surely can't be healthy for you.  But hey, this is America, land of the free!  Health care is not seen as a right, yo, so no need to treat the lung cancer from the smoke inhalation!

Fireworks.  OK, in Ohio, they are illegal to shoot off in your backyard.  People do it all the fucking time.  Which is great until the cops show up, or someone loses an eye.  Plus, does no one see the irony in firing off something that is going to remind the combat veterans of this country of combat in celebration of the freedom that we have, that was earned through combat?  Be respectful of the vets, bitchez.  They are the reason your dumb asses can shoot that shit off.  And the dogs, too.  I imagine that more Valium is consumed by the canine population this week than any other.  And there are the stupid "fireworks" too, like the snakes and those popper things that you throw at people's feet, while screaming "Dance, mothafucker!  Dance!"  (At least that's how I do it...)  We had some pretty interesting ones tonight, like a pooping dog and a chicken blowing up a balloon.  Cause, 'Merica!

Nothing says Independence from Oppression like sparks blowing out your ass.

Parades are also kinda fucked up if you think about it.  First of all, let's take the emergency response vehicles and have them drive at 5 MPH down the road with their sirens blaring.  Cause hearing is just an extra sense to have, doncha know?  And who cares if there is an actual emergency.  There's a parade, dammit, deal with it your own fucking self.  Then let's let the perpetuation of misogyny come with the princesses being paraded down in sports cars.  And of course it's the middle of July so it's usually like 90* with 99% humidity in Ohio, so their make up is slowly melting and I am sure that they are silently cursing whatever possessed them to run for Little Miss whatever.  Then there are the floats, wherein people throw candy into crowds for children to get.  This usually involves them having to run into the streets, because by god if the obesity won't get them, modeling running into the street surely will.  If, that is, they did not get an eye taken out, either during the parade from the errant Tootsie Roll or from the fireworks and/or sparklers from the night before.

Apple Pie...ok this is one thing that we got right (is it American?  IDK, to be honest, because like most Americans I am unconcerned with things like fact checking or historical accuracy.  At least about my baked goods, that is.).  Sweetened apples, baked into a flaky crust, served warm with ice cream on it.  Great huh?  No, we have to fuck things up royally here in 'Merica and even the innocence of apple pie was corrupted by an infamous movie scene where a young boy let himself loose on a poor unsuspecting pie.  That is just a bacterial infection waiting to happen there, folks.

And now I want pie.  The innocent kind, not the corrupted movie kind.