Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Da Who Dores

My make up is all fucked up, y'all. And I blame Christmas.

I've resisted very heavily the idea of putting up any and all decorations for Christmas. I haven't written a single card, I've only just barely wrapped any gifts and even those only because they had to go in the mail. I didn't make a single cookie and the only person I've wished a Happy Christmas to is the Salvation Army Bell Ringer (put a nickel in the pot, save another drunken sot).

I tell people it's because there isn't anyone going to come to my wee little house on the east end of the world, but the truth is it's because I simply couldn't bear it. Christmas is about Family, and even though I've got an amazing bunch of friends (and Shush, let's not forget him), my family is far away. M is far away. The idea of a Christmas morning with out her...well. Let's just say there isn't water proof enough mascara.

But still, I missed it. I missed the hassle of figuring out why there are three rows of branches labeled "N" and none labled "L" and I missed the stupid string of lights that has to have it's plug's angle JUST SO or it doesn't work. It didn't feel right though, some how, to put up the decorations made of glued macaroni and glitter. Somehow, that tree leaning lopsided in my living room made Christmas too real. Made it too hard. No go. I'm Grinching it. Fuck those stupid Who's and all their Who Spirit, Mama isn't interested.

On his way home this morning Shush called me to tell me he was bringing home Something that had been given to him by a friend at work and while he didn't know what it was there was a lot of it and I was under strict instructions to open it today.

He carried in boxes and bags and laid them on the living room table. A half dozen happily wrapped boxes (with ribbons AND bows. Show off).

The biggest box was to be opened first, he said, so I did.

Y'all...this is where the tears started.

There, inside a that cheerful Santa paper was a Christmas Tree. A gift from a girl I've never met but who somehow knew exactly what I needed. Box after box contained ornaments, lights and even a star for the top of the tree, somehow chosen in exactly the colors I would have picked.

I can't even begin to tell you how much it touched me. Here, somehow, was the whole meaning of the holiday. The proof that even when you're alone, you've got someone, somewhere thinking about you.

Monday, December 20, 2010

the F-ing X-mas F-ing Spirit.

There are two things in this world that I believe above all other - badly fitting underwear will ruin an otherwise amazing outfit and Nice Matters.

This holiday season I'm pretty well on my way to Poverty. Well, not WELL on my way, but certainly within the Poverty Metropolitan Area. It's okay, I'm happy. I like my job despite the fact I work for about $2/hr when all is said and done. There are more important things. Like not being homicidal. But when it comes to being all Holly Fucking Jolly, I'm just...not. I put up a string of Christmas lights so that we're not the Scrooge House and I wrapped and mailed the presents, but if it were up to me, we'd all just sleep in and then eat waffles in our pajama's on Saturday just like if it was any other Saturday of the year.

Call me the Grinch, it's okay, I can take it.

But, in true Grinch Spirit, my cold, black heart grew a few sizes this morning when a Tiny Tim-esque boy held open the door at the Quick Trip for an elderly woman with a walker and an oxygen tank. Seriously, Kittens. How much more Tear to The Eye can we get? A kid the size of a hedgehog wrestling the door open so Grandma Moses can buy a 4 Loko and a pack of Marlboro Unfiltereds? It was fucking beautiful, that.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010


Sometimes I sit and stare at this template for a while and then, dejected, exit.

It's not that I don't have things to say (seriously, me?), it's more that...I want to say things I can't. The random musings that almost to a one will cause someone to be upset with me about all, or part, or whatever they think it is that I have said.

It's like I've lost my FuckIt.

Monday, December 13, 2010


As more people in my "real" life run across this blog, I find that I censor myself more. Which sort of defeats the purpose I had for this blog to begin with. That makes me sad. I'm not, by nature, a confrontational person. I'm the one that ends the fights, not the one that starts it. To the point that I find that I don't stand up for myself when I should.

A week ago while I was in Seattle on vacation J called me and read me the riot act about having brought Shush up there with me. He didn't want M to get mixed messages about whether or not HE agreed with MY dating while the divorce was still pending. Okay. Fair enough. I think it's not a necessary concern since M is 15 and a pretty sharp kid, but okay. For almost 30 minutes he lectured me up one side and down the other about it. I stood up for myself far more than I normally do, but still, he dug in when he could with comments like "I guess it's your life and I don't have to agree with your choices anymore", and "I just don't want M around 'that kind of thing'". I was furious, I felt attacked, but he IS her other parent and does get to voice his opinion in what she is and is not exposed to. That said, Shush and I have been together since July, and have known each other for about a year. We live together, this isn't just a 'fling'.

AND THEN. Oh, yes, and then.

THEN, about two days later he tells me he's bringing a girl he's been dating for THREE WEEKS up there with him for Christmas. For the record, I'm GLAD he's dating. I'm glad that he's found a nice girl to hang out with and I'm glad that they like each other enough that they want to spend the holiday's together.

What I'm furious about is that he thought it was okay to try and make me feel terrible for having done the same thing. Seriously. Why is it okay for him ? Is it because *he's* the "wronged party" in this divorce? Because he's the one who got left, it's okay for him to move on? Is it because "everyone" (oh, yes, the ever present "everyone" gets a voice in this one too) is "worried" about him, that it's okay for him to bring a girl, but I, the one who "everyone" thinks "is making bad decisions" can't? Or is this some sort of score that needs to be settled? Some "Oh yeah? Well, *I* can move on too! See?". Either way, if he was even CONTEMPLATING taking her with him when he called me then yelling at me was not "being a concerned parent" it was being an asshole. And I thought we were past that. I thought that we'd agreed that we were going to do this differently. I know I've tried. But this? This is exactly why we had problems before.

Why can't I let this go? I didn't say anything to him about it, because, well, I have fought with him enough to last me a lifetime. It's seriously bothering me.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010


I was at Walmart today, a place that makes me want to stab people in the throat on a good day, and I happened upon a pair of women with about eleven children between them.

One turns to the other and says "I'm just so worried about feeding Gavin formula, but I can't keep nursing! Every time I hear a dog bark my milk let's down."

Then the other one says "Oh, I have that problem when I hear fire engines".


Tuesday, November 2, 2010


So, as it turns out I'm not dead and I didn't lock all you kids out because we're having some sort of secret meeting and eating cupcakes and riding unicorns and everyone but you is invited. We were eating pudding and riding hedgehogs, which sounds fun, but I assure you is very pokey about the lady parts.

Probably right about now you're picturing Lady Gaga in her non-meat dress riding a hedgehog and singing about her pokey place. No? Well you are NOW. So HA! I win.

Am I trying to deflect from where I really went and what really happened? Maaaaybe.

The thing about where I went and what happened is, well, it's complicated. And sticky. And smells a little like an old meat-dress.

For starters, my husband found this blog. Let's all wave to J now. I want to take the time to point out that he didn't ask me to take down any posts, let alone the whole blog. I did take down some posts from earlier this year. Not in favor of censorship but in the spirit of saying "what I said, while true, was mean". And we all know that being mean doesn't solve anything. Being mean gives you wrinkles and saggy boobs and no one wants more of either of that.

Things with the divorce are moving slowly, but amicably. I know, right? Did you guys even know that could be done? See, here's the thing. All that anger? It isn't productive. It makes you sick and it makes you mean. And even when it's justified, it's just...well...icky. All that anger feels like a vice. You can't go backwards, because what's done is done and you can't go forwards because you don't want to. You're mired down in the swamp of "but I'm RIGHT" and you don't see that it doesn't matter.

Sure, what happened matters. It hurt. It made me angry. It made me turn into someone that is the very thing that I didn't want to be. Mean. I don't know how many times I've said that nice matters only to turn around and be anything but nice.

No, it doesn't excuse what went on. It doesn't mean that I wasn't justified or right and it doesn't mean that what I said was invalid.

What does it mean? It means that I, right now, am choosing to go forward without anger.

I'm choosing to believe that being divorced doesn't mean you need to destroy yourself or the other person just because that's "how everyone else" does it.

I'm choosing to let go of the things that happened in the past that kept me from being nice.

I'm choosing to go on with life.

It isn't going to be easy. There are still things that make my heart hurt. There are things that I have said or not said, or wanted to say or wish I hadn't, things I've done or not done. There are things. Of course there are. There are any number of things. Infinite things. But above all there is one thing. Choice.

I'm choosing happy.

Thursday, September 16, 2010


You've only just gone to the corner, a brief errand that takes you away from me only for a minute, or ten. I am putting laundry into the washing machine, wiping the counter of crumbs from your endless stream of peanut butter sandwiches and singing something stupid and tuneless.

Your key is in the door and we're sitting down to eat things that are not good for us and watching things that will rot our brains and talking about nothing.

And I am happy.

I want to tell you that I am happy. I want to tell you that for just a moment, everything is so heartbreakingly perfect that misery seems to exist only in theory.

But instead I cry.

Baby, you say, what's the matter?

I'm afraid, I tell you. Afraid that something will happen and you'll be lost to me. Afraid that what could be will be so bleak that my heart will at last break entirely.

You pull me close and my head nestles into the crook of your neck and I know that this is enough. One minute of you, is enough.

For now, what is, is perfect.

Thursday, August 5, 2010


Sometimes I just want to be in a Bad Mood. I don't WANT to be cheered up. I don't WANT to hear all about that one time when you had it so much worse. I want to be fucking miserable and enjoy it.

In that vein, the following things can Fuck Off.

* the telephone that won't stop ringing off the hook
* Ketchup
* mail that only contains bills
* people who insist that there is something Wrong with me
* people who insist there is NOTHING Wrong with me and I should just "cheer up"
* Abnormal test results
* having my office moved to sit by The Evil
* DVR's that cut off the last minute of a show
* opening a new check-out after I've already unloaded my cart on the conveyor and still have to wait for some stupid twat with every newspaper insert for the last month trying to price match.
* fabric softener stains on white shirts
* shoes that stink
* job interviews that last five minutes and result in a form letter telling you to suck it, you're lacking the skills needed to OPEN MAIL and ANSWER THE PHONE
* people who say mean things and then get all butt-hurt when you take offense to them
* not being able to just check out of 'real'
* unanswered prayers
* Lite Mayonnaise
* companies that intentionally spell things wrong like "Kountry Kitchen"
* Reruns of the only episode of the show I've ever seen
* NetFlix not having the last season of a show I DO want to watch
* Pennies
* Left overs that are too dried out to eat
* Commercials talking about how you "deserve" a new car
* dead bugs
* live bugs
* computer bugs
* insomnia
* tepid coffee
* soda machines that eat your money and give you nothing
* lists of things that can Fuck Off
* Shush saying I'm funnier when I'm miserable and it being true
* "verbiage"
* full trash cans
* Pop Tarts. Because I don't have any.
* Paying for parking
* underwear that creeps
* cryptic Facebook statuses
* bad photographs
* Ke$ha
* Marijuana being illegal
* People who think you can legislate love
* Forwarded emails about Frozen Black Headless Dino Angel Sister Jesus who went missing from Bumfuck and urgently needs you to copy this email so that Bill Gates will buy him a Coke at Disneyland

I would make a list of things that can Not Fuck Off, but I've been sitting here for an hour and all I have listed are bacon, cake and kittens.

Friday, July 30, 2010

The Hell?

I am wearing white jeans today, Kittens. THAT IS HOW FAR OFF THE FUCKING DEEP END I HAVE GONE. White. Jeans. Seriously.

Now, let's examine the things that are wrong with this;

1) I am a slob.
2) I work in a manufacturing plant and there are pigeons living in the false ceiling of my office.
3) I drive an old POS truck that hasn't been washed since 2005.

See? I'm not even making this up. I know that's a TERRIBLE picture, but you bitches can just shut up about how I look wrinkled and knock knee'd until you have tried to take a picture of your own thighs, you just don't know how fucking hard it is. THERE IS NO FLATTERING ANGLE. And I don't want to post one of those stupid 'in the bathroom mirror' shots because I hate them and also because the flash makes me look like a white pants wearing serial killer.

I'd keep going, but let's be real here, I need to not be all shouty because there is coffee on my desk just waiting to spill onto my lap.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Pretty Pitty

Some of you may be all too aware that I'm slightly obsessed with a trainwreck of a show called Toddlers and Tiaras. Have you ever watched it? It's HORRIBLE. And by horrible, I mean AWESOME. The kids are brats, the mothers are psycho's and the costumes make them look like the spangled offspring of a whore and a particularly tacky drag queen.

Basically, it's everything that reality television should be.

Sadly, I have no toddler. But I DO have a dog!

A dog who is probably going to kill me in my sleep now.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Norman Branches Out

Remember the movie Psycho? Remember how after you saw it the first time, you showered different and were scared of roadside motels, unmarried thirty something who live with their mother and guys named Norman? And you thought, REALLY, what could POSSIBLY be scarier than the Bates Motel?

I'll tell you what.


SEE THAT SHIT? That's real, right there. I didn't make that up. That's an actual hotel in Tonopah, Nevada. Let me tell you something, kittens. I'd have rather stayed in the creepy, abandoned, broken windowed Sundowner Motel across the street than brave one single night in this shit.

SEE? They're even ON THE DOORS. Like, Hey! Weary traveler! Come on in! We're going to FUCKING KILL YOU WITH OUR BIG RED SHOES! Hee hee! Just kidding. MAYBE.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Table for Awkward, Party of Me

So remember when you were a kid and you thought your teacher lived in the school and then you saw her at the Safeway and you were all WHAT THE HELL? Mrs. Lyle DOESN'T live in a cave behind the coat closet? NO. WAY. Then she said "hi" to you and even though not two hours before you were waving your arm around shouting ME! ME! ME! trying to get her to pay attention to you, now, because you're not at school, somehow her saying hi to you makes you blush and sort of hide behind your mom?

Yeah. Well the adult equivalent of that? It's seeing your male gynecologist at the Victoria's Secret holding a pair of red lace thong panties.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Not Duck Short

My new swim suit arrived yesterday. It's exactly the same swim suit that I had last year.


See, here's the thing. When you buy a plus sized suit (last years was a 16) the skirted bottom is 17" long. To compensate for your having things like, you know, AN ASS. Or, maybe, you know, BEING TALLER THAN A DUCK. The regular sized suit (a still not the sort of size one expects Heidi Klum and her stick legged like to be cavorting around in) is only 13 inches long. Now, you're probably thinking (like I was; because we're dumbasses) that after using a ruler and sort of hopping up and down so you can see in the bathroom mirror where the allegedly 13 inch skirt is going to end and then deciding that after you smacked your shin for the third time that it was probably long enough that you wouldn't have to wax your bikini line TOO exuberantly and anyway, it's only $30 which is a reasonable, because HELLO, It's VEGAS TIME in like two week and you're not going to actually lose that last twenty pounds and the prospect of standing in the unforgiving light and the 4H infested floors of the JC Penny dressing room is enough to make you hang yourself with your amazing new chain & ribbon necklace (shout out to Clairs 10 for $10 clearance and a big FUCK OFF to everyone who just said "you're not 14, why are you shopping there!?") and then you're all FINE, FUCK IT! and just order the damned thing. In black. Because black is slimming, right? You'll totally look just like Heidi Klum in a black swim suit, right? And anyway the blue one you really like isn't on sale and you're not a complete masochist so you can't justify spending $74 EACH PIECE for a new swim suit that you'll wear...twice? Maybe? And anyway, the black goes with your sexy (AHEM, certain people; SEXY, and FASHIONABLE, NOT SILLY) sun glasses.

Then, you wait excitedly. By "excitedly", I probably mean "drunkenly". By "probably" I mean "totally".

True to their word (hello, free standard shipping!) the package arrives in the allotted 4 to 7 days and even though you had a big fight with your husband the night before that wound up with both of you packing and then having a stand off about who had to actually move out and even though you've got a migraine and even though the dog puked in FOUR MOTHER FUCKING PLACES, you take that sucker into the bathroom and put it on.




How can they DO this to me? ME? Me of the pasty, white, white winter thighs with their soft whiteness and the glowing pale? After I told the WHOLE TEN PEOPLE who read this piece of Internet clogging awesomeness that I loved their damn swim suits and I'd wear it in public and now it would seem I meant 'wear it and show my pubic' which isn't NEARLY a good idea. Unless it's true that people will pay you to put your clothes back on and that's why the fat stripper earns the most (is that true? I could use a second job.)

SO THEN. Then, I have to return the damn thing (just the bottoms. The top is perfect) and hope that the replacement (a luxurious 15") will be long enough.

Otherwise, I suggest y'all don't look in the direction of Vegas unless you're wearing welding glasses or want the white, white glow of my ass burned into your retinas forever.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Natural Blonde

Me: I really doubt that truck stop has the worlds best pancakes.

M: I don't like pancakes.

Me: Me either. I like waffles WAY BETTER.

M: But not just waffles, TROJAN WAFFLES.

Me: Um.. I think you might mean BELGIUM WAFFLES.

M: what's the difference?

Me: The Trojan ones are ribbed for her pleasure.

M: They....EW. GOD MOM, you're SO GROSS.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Out my mouth with the blah, blah, blah

My head is all full of rants today. Which is usual, I suppose, because it's Monday. Whose head ISN'T full of rants on Monday morning, am I right?

Of course I am. I'm always right. It's part of my charm.

All things considered I had a pretty good weekend. I had red velvet cake cheesecake on Saturday with a couple of my favorite people and one people I actively have to remind myself not to kick. But the other two I enjoyed very much. And there was cheesecake. And fried cheese. so really, pretty hard not to call THAT a win.

There *was* a little drama on Saturday night. It was prom night and M had bought a dress that she was super excited about. The only problem was it was so short you could see her scary knickers. I had to veto it, of course. Which lead to tears. Of course. Which lead to trying on everything in both of our closets. Which lead to more tears. Which lead to calling Baby Mama to try on everything in HER closet. Which lead to MORE tears and a trip to Ross. Can I get a Hallelujah for Ross? $17 and she had a short zebra print lurex dress with a hot pink sash. Looked cute, fit great and solved the drama. Well, that and the punk heels I let her buy. Zippers and studs. And about 7" tall. Pick your battles, Moms, that's my theory.

Sunday SIL decided that she wanted to do "something crazy". I suggested she pierce her nipples, find a casual encounter on Craigs List and then do some blow, but NOOOO some people are just no fun. So I took her to the place I get my hair done and while she was there I went looking for swim suits.

WHAT THE FUCKING HELL are designers thinking when it comes to swim suits, anyway? I can't be the only girl in the world who doesn't want my thigh fat hanging out for the world to see. And yet EVERY SINGLE FUCKING SUIT ends right mid-thigh fat. You know that part about 3" down from your hoo-ha? Right there. In the widest, palest, flabbiest part of your thigh as if to say, "Hey, y'all! Wanna see the cake I ate in 1990? LOOK RIGHT HERE!" That's fucked up, that's what that is. And really, $120? ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH? Needless to say, I had to console myself myself with pretzel bites and cheese. I mean if the world is going to look at my pale fleshy thighs, there might as well be something to see, ya know what I mean?

I did find a pair of shorts though.

Sorry in advance for the sun spot that's going to reflect off my legs and cause y'all to go blind. I can't help it. I'm Irish. That's just what color we are. Be glad you can't see my ass. Be glad of that on a number of levels actually.

I did finally find a swim suit today though. Lands End. Can I get a wooooohoooo? Thought so. I got the Swim Mini and a top with scrunchable sides that hides mah belly./ I can't make it post the pictures, and I can't get it to post the link, so whatever. It's cute. And you can't see my upper thigh fat.

Which means? I can go eat some more cheesecake! Did you hear the angels sing just now? Thought so.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Friends Off

I have had house guests for the last two weeks. While I love these people, OH MY GOD WHY DON'T THEY ALL JUST FUCKING LEAVE? You know what I mean? It's all fine and good to see people that live far, far away and SURE I do love the excuse to do all the stupid touristy shit that is too cheesy to do as a resident but I'M NOT FUCKING KIDDING WITH THE ALWAYS AT MY HOUSE BULLSHIT.

How's a girl supposed to walk around naked?!

Just kidding. I don't do that. It scares the dogs. And the neighbors have that restraining order. But I digress.

But if I WANTED TO, I couldn't. That makes me stabby. Stabbier. Let's be honest, I'm stabby by nature. Much like I would be naughty by nature if I had a less active guilty conscience. Oh, who am I trying to lie to? Me? Not so much with the guilty.

Except for that time I stole a lipstick from Bartells and then snuck in and put it back even though I'd already used it. It's the thought that counts.

So ANYWAY. Last night, I was hiding in the bathroom pretending to poo, but actually watching old SNL skits on YouTube on my iTouch when I had the MOST BRILLIANT IDEA EVER.

But then? Someone started banging on the door asking if I had died in there and I was tempted to pretend that I had, but I don't want to be that girl that died on the crapper Elvis Style, so instead I moaned a little as though I was giving birth to an epic food baby and said that I would be right out.

And do you think that I can remember what my brilliant idea was? NO.

So now? Not only have these house guests eaten all the Oreos they've robbed me of my Best Idea Ever.


Thursday, April 22, 2010

Conspiracy Theory

Things that are proof that the Universe is Evil and conspires against us:

1) Those really cute shoes that are the last pair and really cheap will always be a half size too small. So you'll buy them anyway, because they'll TOTALLY break in, right? Only they won't and you'll have to hobble around with bleeding feet all day because OF COURSE it's the one day your normally sedentary life turns into a MUST RUN EVERYWHERE busy sort of day.

2) You only have a good hair day when there is no one to show it to. You will have a HORRIBLE hair day when there are to be photos taken. That girl you hate? Her hair is always perfect.

3) The next person to sit at the slot machine you just put $20 into will drop in a dime and win $500 on her first spin while you're still close enough to see her jump for joy.

4) If you used to wear a size xxl and now wear a size medium, everything on the clearance rack that you love will be a size XXL

5) The roadtrip you elect to opt out of will be the one that your friends will never shut up about for the rest of your lives.

6) The lipstick color that you LOVE and that looks perfect on you will obviously have to immediately be discontinued. Same with the jeans that make your legs look long and thin and the underware that doesn't ride up and the perfect shade of red nail polish.

7) If you pass a sign that says "no services for the next 60 miles" and you think "I don't really need to pee" you WILL REALLY NEED TO PEE and you'll have to find a bush on the side of the road, dig around under the seats for an only slightly filthy McDonalds napkin to use as toilet paper and pray that no one sees you squat and also that you don't pee on your shoes and that a snake or a rabid badger or a really big hairy spider doesn't creep up and bite you on the ass and so when that piece of grass tickles your ass you'll wind up jumping up mid stream and then there will pee all over your pants and you'll have to ride in pee-pants.

8) The time you don't close all the windows on your computer and leave Farmville open on your desk top when you get up to get a coffee will be the time your boss decides to come by and wait for you to return.

9) The $59 airfare isn't going anywhere you want to go at any time you could go there. Or, worse, becomes available on YOUR flight only after you've booked a non-refundable $250 seat.

10) If it tastes good, it's bad for you.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010


Here is you and here am I. We are alone, for once. The afternoon is fading behind the drawn shades and I lay in the crook of your arm listening to your heart beat.

Here I am and there you are, sweat drying on our skin when the red glow of sunset turns to street light shine. The scent of you and I together hangs like perfume in the air and I am drunk with it.

There are my clothes and there are yours. Pulled on, they cover the marks that testify our need to consume one another whole. I would eat your heart and serve you my soul to have one more moment connected.

Here you are, at last. Here is my heart, yours. Here is my soul, yours. Here am I, yours; always yours.

Self Portrait

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Carry On

Right. So. The Crazy.

Yes, yes. I know this is an Old Topic and I've discussed it to Death. The thing about the Crazy is, it's all consuming. Think you're okay? HAHAHAH. God laughs at your Okay. Check book balanced with enough left over for some shoes you don't need? Kiss your transmission goodbye. Not enough to send you over the edge? Let's add in a roofing estimate $7000 more than you'd planned. Still okay? Well, let's talk about an old dog that's decided to gnaw off the cancerous tumor that's inoperable! What? YOU'RE STILL NOT ROCKING IN A CORNER? FINE. How about if I poke this little whatsit so the washing machine starts to make a funny noise? DAMN IT WOMAN, WHY AREN'T YOU IN THE BOOBY HATCH YET? Fine. FINE. I'll just make this stove burner not turn off, and I'll....I'll....oh! rust out the shower door track! and I'll....raise your cable and cell and insurance bills and then I'll....remind you that you still have to pay for summer camp! Including plane tickets! OH! Hahaha! One more thing! I'll slip in this amusing little tip bit; your in-laws haven't EVER paid rent or a mortgage in their entire lives! And someone just bought them a new house and updated the entire interior! What's that? You don't think that's funny? Well the knob to the kitchen sink just came off in your hands and you still have to roll down the window to use the latch on the OUTSIDE to open your car door. THAT IS FUNNY, RIGHT? Don't you think it's annoying when someone else gets a new car handed to them? Maybe you want to see pictures anyway? OH COME ON. YOU KNOW THAT'S FUNNY.



Why are you hiding under the desk eating a grilled cheese and Xanax sandwich? I haven't shown you what I've done to the fence in the back yard!

Oh! And did I mention that you're going to have house guests for the next month who're going to be less than impressed that your fourteen year old dog sometimes forgets the difference between carpet and grass?

I really can't understand why you're drinking wine straight out of the bottle, because I haven't even told you the BEST. PART. YET! you're going to get to spend every hour you're not at work with your husband! DOESN'T THAT SOUND AWESOME?


FINE. You can have nightmares when you DO manage to sleep, but that is IT. You're not getting anything else.

Except a really huge papercut.

I hope you're satisfied, missy.

So. Yeah. The Crazy and me? We're still here, just....sometimes we're not fit for company, you know?

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Say You Wheel

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Eat It

The problem with most advice about losing weight is it's nothing you want to do. Diet and exercise? FUCK NO. That sounds horrible. I don't want to do that. How about some REAL tricks for avoiding eating things you shouldn't? What do REAL people do? Because let's be honest here, those people who preach in the magazine about their amazing diet that helped them lose those five horrible pounds that kept them in a size six instead of a four? Those bitches? CAN FUCK OFF. Fuck off forever, in fact.

In spite of the fact that I had gastric bypass, I still struggle with the *need* to snack. Do I REALLY need to snack? No. Do I want to? HELL YES, I do. So, here are MY tricks to keep from eating an entire tube of Pillsbury Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough.

1) Brush your teeth. Everything tastes nasty when eaten when you're minty fresh. If you're not somewhere you can brush, chew minty gum.

2) Paint your nails. Do you really want Dorrito textured polish? Didn't think so.

3) Eat it anyway. When I want a peanut butter cup I eat one. It's not going to kill me. By allowing myself to have it, it loses the forbidden fruit aspect.

4) Figure out your triggers and avoid them. In my case, it's "piece" style candy, like M&M's or Jelly Beans. Do I KNOW that the 1/2lb bag isn't the serving size? Yes. Do I feel the need to eat them anyway? HELL YES. So, I avoid them or buy smaller packages. If chips are your trigger, buy the lunch bag sized instead of the family size. The empty bag may trigger the "done" switch.

5) 1/2 hour promise. Tell yourself that if, in a half hour, you still REALLY REALLY want whatever it is, you can have it. Then distract yourself by doing something that requires your whole attention, like cleaning out your closet or arguing with your spouse. My short attention span means I usually forget whatever it was I was going to eat.

6) Protein first. This one came from my nutritionist, but it works for me. I start every day with protein and I eat the protein part of my meal first, then the veg and then, if I still have room left, I hit the carbs.

7) Pack a snack. If I'm out and I'm hungry, you can bet your ass I'm going to find a snack and chances are it's not going to be good for me. (Can I get a WOOT WOOT for Cinnabon?)Unless I bring it with me. I usually have a (100 calorie/mini) Ziploc of peanuts in my purse. The beauty of peanuts (mmmm honey roasted peanuts) is that they don't smoosh or melt.

8) Hand over your clean plate club membership card. Remember that? How your mom wouldn't let you leave the table until you'd finished your meal? Screw that. I usually pause about half way through my meal and wait a few minutes. More often than not, I find that I don't finish what's left because my brain catches up with my stomach and I feel full. Especially in restaurants where the portions are HUGE. Not even just for us tennis ball sized stomach people, huge in general. At some restaurants (and especially with pasta) I box up half of it right away. Out of site out of mind style. Plus? Lunch for the next day!

9) Food eaten on birthdays and holidays don't have calories. Fine, they do. Life is too short to never eat dessert. The month of December isn't a holiday (so no eating an entire plate of cookies every day for a month), but Christmas is, so on the 25th eat whatever the hell you want and enjoy it. Same with your birthday.

10) Fatten up your friends. This is my favorite tip, by the way. I like to bake. I also know I don't need to eat 24 cupcakes. So I bake them, I eat one, I give the rest away. This works out awesome for two reasons. First, EVERYONE loves the girl who brings them cupcakes! Second, if your friends are Little Jazzy Scooter Fat, you look thinner in comparison!

Now, who wants a cookie?

Friday, March 19, 2010

Oh, Snap!

I suspect people think I'm kidding when I tell you that I see things like a fat lady at a bus stop wearing nothing but a bed sheet, or the time I saw a guy walking a rooster on a leash, or that time the mariachi band rear ended the nuns. But I'm not!

This time, I have photographic proof! Proof that I almost DIED getting for you guys! Because that's how dedicated I am to this blog. You're welcome.

It's a Red Neck Strip Club. Seriously.

Thursday, March 18, 2010


It's summertime and we have completed our chores. The sky is the sort of blue that breaks your heart and the neighborhood smells of fresh cut grass as lazy bumble bees buzz the tea roses that climb the trellis.

We are in the backyard, licking melted red rivers of Kool-aide Popsicles from the sides of our hands in the shade of the pear tree. Gram would say we've joined the Blackfoot tribe, with braided pig tails and freckled shoulders, the soles of our feet filthy from games of Freeze Tag and Statuary and Mother May I played barefoot across all the lawns on our side of the street.

There is Heather, sprawled out across the bench and there is Gennie perched on the railing, Stefanie beneath her feet in danger of getting kicked. And here are we; three peas of sisters, side by side on the steps. In the fall the Big Girls will go to Junior High and trade in Sardines and Red Rover for Maybelline and Loves me not. But today, we are children. Today we are innocents.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010


This is the morning that it could all come apart and I know it. I have a rope and it has an end and I am there. The buzz of the refrigerator competes with the hum of the light and the tick, tick, tick of the infernally loud clock to drive me mad and I tap, tap, tap the purple pen with the chewed up edge on the strip of wood at the edge of my desk to drown it out. To drown out the screaming.

In the background the phone rings over the blaring beat of a song that I hate as my email chirps and there is someone talking, but all I can hear is the tick, tick, tick of that damn clock. I know that if it ticks again I will smash it into a million little pieces and then pick them up and eat them so the jagged edge of broken time scratches it's way down my throat to settle in a brittle ball of desolation in the pit of my belly.

I have thrown the clock away in the big green dumpster so the tell tale heart will not cause my end. Instead I have decided that too many pills and a glass of whiskey will taste far better. I begin to clear things into the trash with grim glee.

Click, click, click, Delete and then there you were. Not looking at the camera with your hand resting on my sleeping shoulder, caught quietly off guard in the light of a rain swept day. I put my head down on my desk and wept.

When there was nothing left to fill the cracked jar that holds my resolve, I went to you. You held me in the palm of your hand, eyes closed until wisps of okay swirled through me and I could breathe.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010


Officer Mustache is tapping his pen on the edge of his notebook, already bored and thinking about breakfast, or doe season, or his truck payment. The red and blue lights flash disco ball glitter on my tears stained face. Officer Tightpants is writing down what I say, disinterested as her partner, but deceitfully engaged.

Dispatch crackles in the background confirming that I am in fact who I say, and for a moment I am taken with the urge to laugh. As though I would lie. As though I would claim this mess I call my life if I didn't have to. But instead I choke it back as a hiccoughed sob and Officer Mustache looks for a minute as though he is present.

Well, Tightpants says We have everything we need. She hands me the carboned report and the card for Domestic Disturbance at the Gallatin County Court House before they climb into the cruiser and leave me alone to watch the bushes for the eye shine that means you were serious when you said you would never leave me alone

Monday, March 15, 2010

Navel Gazing Again

Hi kittens.

After a Very Bad Day, I went off my Very Bad Medication and am currently on none at all. Which is...weird. I am jangled and spikey and from time to time weepy and nonsensical. But I'm present. So, there's that. I saw a new (not terribly sympathetic, but at least handy with a prescription pad) doctor today and I should (fingers crossed) be normal-ish in a week or so. In theory. We'll see.

In the interest of clogging the Internet with more of my scintillating self absolution, I'm going to post things that fit into the Navel Gazing genre and have either been posted on prior incarnations of this blog, or have just been hanging about in the drafts waiting to air their dirty laundry.

If y'all need me, I'll be sitting in the bathroom drinking wine.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010


Turns out I'm not dead. I know, right? Had you worried, I bet. It's not like me to disappear from the interwebs for such an extended period of time and I'm very sorry and ready to receive my spankings.

I'd like to say that I was doing something fun, but the truth is that I wasn't. Well, sort of was. But not really. Nothing new or interesting anyway. Faire is still going strong, despite the drowning rain (Hi? We live in Arizona? What. The. Fuck. Mother Nature?) and while many amusing things have occurred (and some UNAMUSING like being asked if the baby I was holding was my FUCKING GRANDCHILD!) you sort of have to be there. Or be a giant nerd. Possibly both.

Also, (and I fully accept that this particular line of whining is growing redundant and also isn't amusing) they've changed my medications AGAIN. As a result, I'm sleeping like hell and that makes me wicked cranky. Literally. When I'm not being unpleasant I am indifferent. Thereby leaving me with out stories to tell you about my hilarious hijinks. Or, you know, whatever the hell else it is that I'm meant to be doing.

It's possible that you'll not hear much from me for a time while they sort out my meds so that I will 1) not kill anyone and 2) care if someone attempts to kill me. Honestly, right now I struggle to give a shit about ANYTHING, so I'm sort of focusing on that whole breathing thing. Turns out if you don't you turn all blue. Then I'd clash with my lipstick and that wouldn't do. So. Yeah. Breathing. I'm going to be working on that.

On one hand, not caring is a bit awesome. People screaming at me? Eh. Spill coffee on brand new white shirt? Eh. Favorite CD scratched? Eh. On the other hand though? Sucks. Balls. Nothing is funny. Nothing is not funny. I guess. You'd think considering the number of years that I've enjoyed a relationship with drugs designed to alter my mental state (recreational and otherwise, obviously) I'd be used to this whole cycle of new drugs making things go all wonky. But I'm not. I'd be upset, but I don't care. I know I SHOULD be upset. I understand that the proper reaction is to be upset, but I can't bring myself to actually BE upset. Does that make any sense? It's like I'm standing here with a set of stage directions Kiki watched a sad movie that made her cry, sniffling, she clutched the damp tissue to her chest in distress. While I can understand, intellectually, that this is the way a normal person would react, I am not reacting that way. It's a bit scary. Or, you know, should be.

Anyhoodle, this is a super long post about nothing (you're welcome) when I could have said in two sentences, I'm not dead; I'm just boring. Come back later.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Thinking about Things

Did everyone enjoy "Let's Gaze At Our Navel and Repost Mopey Entries Week"? Super fun, am I right? L.G.A.O.N.A.R.M.E.W (pronouced lah gone are mew) may make a reappearance later thanks to a sadistic doctor who not only is switching my Crazy Pills but also took away my Ambien because blah blah addictive blah blah and the new stuff gives me nightmares about things like people in trench coats driving yellow cabs right at me while I find myself rooted to the ground thanks to a million octopuses (octopusi? octopi? Octomom? Whatever.) swarming around my feet and biting me with their vampire fangs as I try to scream but can't because instead of sound only blue light comes out of my mouth and then I'm wide awake and wondering WHY THE FUCK I care if Ambien is fucking addicting, it's WAY FUCKING BETTER than either 1) not sleeping or 2) sleeping extremely poorly and waking up sleep hung-over to the point that I am basically useless the following day.

In light of this, you're probably thinking that I am just going to phone it in again this week and guess what? You are SO RIGHT. Because, you know, that's how I roll. Because I'm all gangsta and shit, fo shizzle. (speaking of phoning it in, a big Monday morning Fuck You to Verizon for misdirecting my post Hope so that instead of posting on Saturday and finishing up LGAONARMEW in a reasonable time frame, instead I find it hanging around as a draft this morning and now it's LGAONARMEW part 2 only it's NOT part 2, because I lack four more mopey postings that fit that format. And also my bill? From Verizon? FUCKING UN-REAL. So, Fuck you Verizon! And fuck you Bank of America for other reasons. And also, a big Fuck You to City of Phoenix police department with a special shout out to the officer who ran the red light on Indian School and 63rd because he was TALKING ON HIS FUCKING CELL PHONE.) Has anyone seen my Xanax? Because I haven't had any breakfast and a Grilled Cheese and Xanax sandwich sounds delicious.

Just kidding. Maybe.

Right now I have both a lot of time on my hands and none at all, what with the working seven days a week for 10 weeks nonsense going on up in here. So while sort of five hundred years in the past for two of those days and for all of that I'm chasing about errant actors demanding that they play nicely with the paying customers instead of wandering around playing Jack Sparrow Bingo and even though the other five days are spent trying to use my sixth sense to determine if the other end of the ringing phone is an angry customer, an angry creditor or an angry representative of our corporate office while attempting to repair my fucked up desk top since the IT guy hasn't bothered to call and isn't returning my calls and I am completely techno-tarded, I have WAY too much time on my hands to think.* And I think it's safe to say that that? Is a Bad Thing.**

One thing to bear in mind in the Care and Keeping of your Kiki is that we are best suited to occupations that involve our whole brains, otherwise we think about Things. Not anything important or life changing like the cure to cancer or the best way to transport bacon for on the go snacking, but rather things like, Why do some peoples eyelashes grow down and some grow up? You know what I mean? How some people have upper eyelashes like elephants that grow sort of down and slanty so that they always are sort of looking through them at you and you're left to wonder if it looks like they're looking through a picket fence all the time? And Other Important Things, like who decided to grind up meat and encase it in INTESTINES and then eat it? Because, really, let's consider this. Intestines? Are filled with pre-poop. What about fleshy bags of pre-poop says hey! let's grind up all these left over bits and then stuff them in here and cook and eat it! Not that I'm going to stop eating sausage or anything, I'm not CRAZY, but let's be honest, it's a little off putting when you think about it. Same with Haggis. It's safe to say that most food from Northern Europe is probably the result of a dare. Lutefisk? I rest my case.

Actually, that sort of reminds me of the time that my friend Heather dared me to kiss a boy on the playground and I'm all BITCH, HELL NO. Then later, I wished that I had said yes because she ate those Orange Hostess Cupcakes right in front of me and I fucking LOVE those things even though they're made exclusively of sugar and lard and the orange flavoring that they use to make hand soap.

Damnation.*** Now I want bacon and Orange cupcakes. I bet if I sliced the cupcake in half and put the bacon inside it, then sprinkled it with Xanax it would make an excellent sandwich...

*Holy Run On Sentence, Grammar Man!

** Bad Things have less glitter than Good Things, but unlike Good Things, you really CAN make them with things you have lying around the house instead of driving six hours to find dried Star Anise and then feeling inadequate because you only have one color of ribbon in your house instead of 27 and you couldn't tell anyone the difference between turquoise and teal anymore than you could whip up a perfect ginger infused meringue torte for seven to serve (topped with berries from your own garden OF COURSE) with the mint and lavender sprigged rack of lamb and hand mashed turnips that you picked from your own garden and whipped using cream from the cow you milked this morning right before you wove the angora you combed yesterday unto the cloth you used to sew the sweater you whipped up after you delivered handmade cards to legless orphans in the orphanage you single handedly built out of recycled milk jugs and nails made from rolled soda cans.

***Yeah, I said Damnation. Fuck you. I may LOOK like a spritely 33 year old desert dwelling suburban housewife with the office job and abusive relationship with prescription sedatives, but at heart? I'm a sassy 70 year old Southern Belle with a heart of gold and wit of ice to compliment my nerves of steel and my perchance for gaudy jewelry and telling people to Shush.


We are in the bed room, long past when we should be. Half dressed in the half light, we are close enough to touch, but only our hands do. The air is heavy with thought of the future and effervescent with its promise.

A single finger traces the line of my cheek. You are so beautiful you say and I half laugh, derisive and unbelieving. No, you say, I mean it. You are so beautiful on the outside, but on the inside, you are so luminous it almost hurts to look at you.

I am quiet for a moment and then lean in to kiss you. I am luminous because you give me hope.

Friday, February 26, 2010


I am sitting on the kitchen counter and you stand between my knees. Talk to me you say but I stare over your shoulder. My eyes skip from the worn spot on the cabinet where my hand has opened it a thousand times to the wonky headed black construction paper cat with the yellowed scotch tape tacking it to the door of the cabinet adjacent to it. You get angry because I am ignoring you, but really it's just that I do not want to look at you for fear that I will begin to shout and not be able to stop. There is power in self control that I dare not let slip.

The phone rings and Charley tells me something that doesn't matter and then scolds me for having gotten out of the car the night before to pump the gas as you sat in the drivers seat, ungallant.

How many times have I done that? How many times have I balanced a dozen bags and unlocked front door to bring in the groceries as you sit on the sofa and don't acknowledge me? How many times have I folded the laundry while you complain that I am rolling the socks incorrectly? How many times have I rushed home to do your bidding and how many more times have I called someone other than you when things go pear shaped, because you can not be bothered with me?

This is what I want to say; You don't see me. I know you won't hear me either and so I let my eyes focus on the dust that swirls in the breeze of the fan and say Nothing is wrong even though we both know it's a lie.

Thursday, February 25, 2010


You are shouting in the next room. I can hear you rage, everything that comes from your mouth horrible and meant to hurt. I am beyond tears and still they flow, dropping furiously onto my shirt.

Handfuls at a time I stuff what I grab into a bag. This is mine, this is mine, this is mine. I stuff clothes that don't fit and single shoes on top of damp towels and lid-less hairspray. Bits of jewelry, hopelessly tangled, balled into socks and crammed into jacket pockets fight for space with the cord to the lap top and the birthday card my grandmother sent.

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine; I chant as I cram what is left of my life into a bag meant for trash.

The bedroom door doesn't sit right in the jam and I am lying on rumpled sheets, the scattered contents of my closet half unpacked and piled on the floor in haphazard ruins of a fight surrendered hours later as you sleep peacefully beside me.

Inside my heart the naked thing that guards my soul from you whispers this is still mine.


We are lying on our backs. There are a million stars around us and the river whispers from just over the crest of the hill as it rushes away to join the Snake just beyond the mountains. Behind us, the car door is open and the scratchy radio buzzes country songs from the 50's.

You roll to your side, head propped on your hand and look at me as I look away. There's Orion, I say; but you don't look.

There is a bottle of cheap wine that will give me a headache tipped over and seeping it's last pink drops onto the corner of the moth eaten wool blanket.

A breeze ripples the edge of my skirt. I hear you sigh and I know you are sighing because I am already gone. Whipped away on the breeze like dandelion fluff, I spiral unable to control my rise, unable to prevent my fall.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Je Regrette Pas

Of the things I should not have done
Of the things I should not have said
Of the things I should not have felt

You are not one

If I could have been other than I am
If I could have known you other than you are
If I could have altered the path time took

What apology would have been needed?

There is no season for lament
There is no occasion for penitence
There is no latitude for despondence

Love does not regret the price it has paid
Love does not regret the tears it has shed
Love does not regret the hours it has waited

I do not regret you

(originally posted Tuesday, August 26, 2008)

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Marco Polo

(Originally posted Wednesday, May 28, 2008)

We always danced around each other. I had a boyfriend and you liked me. You had a girlfriend and I lusted you from afar. You and she became "The Couple". He and I were "so cute". Finally, years go by and you are alone and so am I. The Boy plays in the next room singing a song about nothing while we get high in the living room and listen to Ella Fitzgerald.

You're leaned back against the mismatched pillows and I have my head in your lap, legs dangling over the arm rests. You pet my hair and pass me the joint. I miss the way she folded the towels you say at last. I tilt my head back, looking up to you. You blow smoke through your nose and stare at the ceiling. I have nothing to say to this but I know that you have told me something profoundly heart breaking. I should have had her show me how she got them all to be the same size; you say, I should have paid attention. You looked down at me then, eyes red and I understood what love was.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Mad Hatter

Want to see where I hang out all weekend? Check out this super cool site owned by a Richard Lowe Jr. Pretty awesome photo's.

Yes, I probably COULD get a bigger hat. Shut up.

Imaginary Friends

Look! My imaginary friends aren't ALL imaginary! That's KWR221, me and Kristin's daughter hanging at Dave&Busters.

Relatedly, waiters? Not photographers. Although, to be fair, I am not particularly photogenic, so I suppose I can't blame him. But I'm going to.

Also relatedly, Cherry Berry Mojito's are DELICIOUS. Like, really, really DELICIOUS.

Next up, stalking the Blogslur girls in August...I'll bring the prickly pear syrup and we'll hail cabs using our bras and then pass out on Lorrie's floor.

It's going to KICK ASS.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010


I'm sure that very few of you will believe this, but I'm actually not at ALL out going in person. I am awkward and shy until I am comfortable. Which usually works out fine because I'm a total eaves-dropper and not talking allows me to listen much more effectively.

However, being shy? And working in what essentially amounts to a nine hour improvisational play in front of between ten and twenty thousand people a day?



Especially when any number of thousands of cameras are around. It's pretty much like being a Disney character, but with out the big foam head for protection.

Not to mention that I? Am Crazy. Therefore, I'm always at least half convinced that I'm the subject of a photo so that later, they can be like OH MY GOD! This lady was HOMELY! She's TOTALLY the troll from that bridge! (I sit at the end of a bridge most of the day)Yes, I know. I understand that's Crazy. But still. That's why it's The Crazy. Because you think things that don't make a whole lot of sense. Unless, they really ARE thinking that and then I'm not Crazy! I'm right! HA!

It should also be noted that as part of being Not Brave, random bits of flattery leave me...flabbergasted. Yesterday (which was a Really. Long. Day. at the end of a Really. Long. Week.) I was kissed; cheek or hand, by no fewer than twenty random people. Not other players either, which I've come to accept at least some what gracefully (though there are no doubt other opinions about this) but random patrons, both costumed and not. One? Might have been a woman, which, I can't lie, was a little MORE flattering even.

Speaking of women. OH MY GOD. I don't know how many times I have to say this but, Fat Girls? There are flattering clothing options out there, I promise. There is no reason to wander around with your under butt dangling from beneath your cut-too-short sweat shorts. There is NO REASON for you to allow underbelly either. Skinny bitches? You're not exempt here either. Frozen Iguana invented mirrors for a reason. That reason is so I don't see you and have to physically suppress the need to shout OH HONEY, NO. NO. NO. NO.

Because I have to shout other very important things like "If you wish to continue to the joust, you will find easier passage to the right! The Right! No, M'Lord YOUR RIGHT" seventeen thousand times in five hours.

I seriously can not fathom why people feel the need to stand in a line when they can step TEN FEET and pass freely. Is there some sort of sub conscious need to line up behind others? I wonder, if I were to stand in front of a closed door alone, would people line up behind me?

I smell a new Operation Obnoxious....

(PS. Finally met Long Time Commenter Eric's lovely NEW fiance!)
(PPS. Having drinks with KWR221 tonight! Woot!)
(PPPS. No, I'm not REALLY Crazy. I'm insecure. But Crazy sounds far more dangerous and therefore hotter)

Wednesday, February 10, 2010


I know, I know. This blog isn't about my whining and complaining and all my DRAMA. Because no one but a llama likes the drama.

It's no secret that things at my house aren't....good. Haven't been good for some time. It's not all my husbands fault. These things are never just one persons fault. Ever. So while I paint myself as the victim in all of this, no doubt there is another side to the story. There's always another side.

But this is my blog. And this is my side.

We've been together for eleven years, eleven months. That's almost all of my adult life. There is almost nothing major left that we haven't gone through together. Financial messes, lost jobs, moves, illnesses, deaths, major surgery, arguments over the temperature of dinner, buying a home, buying a car, going back to school, picking paint colors and inside jokes. There is no part of my current life that doesn't have something to do with my husband. It's called marriage. That's how it goes.


For almost that entire time I have chased my husband. I've done literally everything that I could think of to MAKE him pay attention to me. It's been years since he saw me in pajamas for longer than the half hour before bed because I know he doesn't like "casual" clothes. It's been years since he's seen me un-made up, hair a mess, chipped manicured and un-shaved legs. Save when I'm sick. And even then, I comb my hair and shower.

When getting his attention in a positive manner didn't work, I'd fight with him. Because at least then he NOTICED me.

A year ago, when I was at my breaking point, I lost my shit. Like, LOST IT. In a fit of rage, I packed what I could and I was ready to leave. I'd had enough. I shouted (which I rarely ever do. I don't like shouting.) that this, this wasn't working. We were broken.

He told me it was ME that was broken and I believed him.

What else did I have? Everything inside my head was a mess. *I* was a mess. I knew I was a mess. Was it possible that it was just me? Of course.

But it wasn't just me. Of course it wasn't.

It's taken me a year and a shit load of pharmaceutical intervention to realize it's NOT me. *I* am not broken. Bent, yes. I'll concede to bent. REALLY, REALLY, bent even. But I am not the whole problem.

And also?

I don't care anymore. I don't care if he shouts at me. I don't care if he doesn't shout at me. I don't care if he pays attention to me and I don't care if he ignores me. I find it annoying when he whines and I want to smack him when he's an ass, but I feel the same way about the people on television and the checker at Wal-mart. It's nothing to do with him personally. I simply...well. I'm done.

Last night, when he started in on my again with the you don't pay attention to me line of whining, I couldn't do it anymore. I told him I didn't care. I told him he hadn't paid attention to me in YEARS. That any time he DID pay attention to me I am suspicious of his motives.

I told him that I am done.

But, then, of course it gets more complicated. That's how it works, isn't it?

HE isn't done. He's not ready for ME; for US to be done. And I? I just don't care WHAT he wants.

But then again, of course I do. I don't like to admit failure any more than anyone else does. I don't know how to separate my life from our life. Everything we own, we own together. Everyone we know, we know together. When I go, because I will, and likely soon, will our friends still be my friends? What will people say? What will *I* say?

What can I say?

There's nothing TO say. Sometimes things get broken. Sometimes there isn't glue to fix them.

Sometimes, you just need to know when to be done.

Dear Clothing Makers. I hate you.


How in the world do the jeans I wore on Monday fit fine (if a bit loosely) and have a size "14" tag and the jeans I'm wearing TODAY also fit fine (though also a bit loosely) and have a size "10" tag?

How is it possible that my size medium shirts fit pretty much the same as the large and they both fit almost the same and an extra large, except that in different brands where the medium is too large and the extra large is too small?

It makes NO SENSE.


Tuesday, February 9, 2010

The one where I whine

For the last four years, my husband has spent at least one day, usually two and sometimes more hunting.

For the last three years, he's also spent an entire week at hunting camp. Some years two.

For the last seven years, he's spent at least one evening a week competition shooting. At least one other night a week preparing supplies. Every few weeks he goes to a meeting about the club or a special event or something.

And I? Have encouraged every minute of it. I think it's good to have separate interests.

Apparently, he disagrees. Well, not exactly. He thinks it's FINE for him to have things to do that take up his evenings and weekends and don't involve me. But GOD FORBID I am not spending every waking moment attending to him.

For the last week or so, I've spent part of each evening getting ready for Faire to start. Either sewing or packing or mending or what have you. My sewing machine is in the dining room which is at one side of the the great room that includes the entry way and living room and leads to the kitchen. Basically, I'm in the middle of everything. Usually while I'm sewing I'm also doing laundry or making dinner and I'm always with an ear to what's going on in the living room, whether it be the program on TV or whatever he's talking about to whomever is there, interjecting my opinion about whatever it is (you know how I do). I've also made dinner every night, baked cookies, done laundry, cleaned the house and done the maintenance my car needed like topping off fluids and airing the tires. In short? I've been BUSY.

Then, as scheduled, as discussed for the LAST TWO MONTHS, Faire started and M and I were gone from Friday evening to Sunday night about nine.

Before I decided to commit to working seven days a week for two months, I asked him if he would mind. Not because I wanted permission, but because later, when he started to whine, I wanted to be able to rightly point out that he'd had his chance to object. He didn't. He said he thought it was a good idea and that I should go and have fun.

Only, apparently? He either didn't mean it, or didn't think I'd actually DO it. Because he's been a complete and utter ass about the entire thing.

The first thing he did when I got home Sunday, bubbling over with what a good time I had, the people I'd met, the things I'd done and seen (and OH MY GOD DO I WANT A ROBOT CAMERA EYE) including six separate Jack Sparrows on one day; he started complaining about how I'd ignored him.

Excuse me? What the fuck? For twelve years I've never ONCE said anything about the time he spends on his hobbies. The thousands of dollars we spend each year to support them. Well, that's not totally true. I do say things about it, but I don't complain. I encourage it. Because that's what you SHOULD do when someone finds something they enjoy, right?

Last night, exhausted from nine straight days and knowing that it was just going to get worse, I stopped at the grocery on the way home, made dinner (steak and gourmet mac & cheese with a ceasar salad), did the laundry, shampooed the carpet, worked on a few little costuming items that I'd agreed to make or repair and stripped and re-made the bed. All while engaging in a conversation from my corner of the room.

At 9:30, as I waited for the dryer to finish so I could toss in the final load? He starts complaining AGAIN.

What do I say to that? I'm sorry for ignoring you? Because a) I'm NOT ignoring him and b) even if I was, I wouldn't be sorry.

What is so terribly hard about being happy that I've found something I enjoy? Is it necessary to poke holes in my little happiness bubble? And if so why?

I know, I know. Complaining to you guys doesn't fix anything. It's not like I don't KNOW what needs to REALLY be done to ultimately stop the complaining.

I just don't understand why he can't be nice.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

The Man

It's not that I believe in ghosts so much as that I don't disbelieve. There are things, I think, that are inexplicable. Unless they can be explained by the presence of an energy that feels the need to hang around.

The house that my parents live in was built in the mid 1920's and was purchased by my great grandparents for a shockingly expensive $20 a month. To make ends meet Grandma Fred (yes, Fred) sold eggs and chickens and kept a garden. Back then, the suburb was an apple orchard and the trains ran through the valley on coal fueled steam. Great Grandpa raised fighting chickens (I know. But it *was* the 20's and they had a very different view) in the back yard and Gram was charged with feeding them. To this day, she won't touch chicken skin.

Grandma Fred lived in that house for about 60 of her 86 years and so it's really no surprise that from time to time the attic that had been her bedroom and then was mine would grow cold. No surprise either that when you were sick, you'd feel her sit down beside you and lay a hand on your head. It wasn't scary, it was just Grandma. It was her house and that's all there was to it.

So, too, when Grandpa Jimmy (Grams husband) passed did it make sense that he would return to his home to pass the time knocking around in the basement workroom or sitting on the front porch watching the neighborhood go by.

It's just the way things were. Are.

When I was a very little girl, just slightly more than six, our little family took a road trip through the northwest in a red Volkswagon van. It had one of those pop-up roofs and a wee adorable kitchen. We camped in it at night, Mum and Dad on the folded down seat, myself tucked up underneath it and CK nestled in the stairwell (she was three).

Near the very end of our trip, as CK, Mum and I dozed, Dad drove us through a twisty mountain pass on a two lane road. Around a blind corner, a drunk driver crossed the center line and struck us head on, rolling the van into the side of the mountain. We were lucky, the other side was a cliff.

I remember nothing of this trip, save for the this.

When I woke up, dazed, the side of my face destroyed by gravel, my arm was trapped under the vehicle. I had no idea what had happened, just that I was stuck and I was scared. I recall pulling my arm from the window (I think I broke it myself doing that) and then looking around for someone; an adult, to tell me what to do.

The roof of the van had come off when we rolled and through where the top of the van should have been, I had a clear view of the side of the highway.

God, was I grateful to see The Man. The Man (because that's how I've always thought of him) was in his sixties, grey haired and bearded; dressed in Levi's, boots and a work shirt.

He called me by name and told me to take off my seat belt. I did and then I dropped to the ground. He didn't come any closer, but that he was there was enough. He told me to unbuckle CK and I did and together we crawled (her femur was broken, but crawl we did) out on to the gravel. The Man stood a bit aside and he told me we needed to get far away from the van, it was going to explode.

It's eerie how quiet chaos can be.

By now, though, I could hear the horn blaring, I could hear Dad shouting, his pants burnt off, his tennis shoes melted to his feet, he was screaming for us, for Mum. I shouted back, but I doubt he heard me.

In the most serendipitous stroke of fate, the next vehicle on the scene was a motor home driven by a retired EMT.

They bundled CK and I into the motor home, the wife of they EMT's friend rocking CK back and forth and plying me with juice. Neither of us cried, there would be time for that later. Who were we? Where were we going? How old was I; was CK; were our folks? Where were we from? Whom could they call? It was a pretty boring game. I watched through the window as they led my father away from the wreckage, watched him hit the pavement only after they pulled Mum out on a backboard made of the table and laid her away from the smoking van.

"My mom is dead" I told them in the implicit logic only a child can conjure and of course, they assured me she wasn't. "Yes, she is. She's allergic to bees. If she wasn't dead, she wouldn't want them near her." The ladies looked at one another and one left to shoo the bees away with a white paper plate.

The roadway was scattered with nickles and Choc-o-dials. I could see one of my shoes on the yellow line. The hillside was scattered with poppies. There was a skid of red paint on the black top. The doors of the cabinets on the wee kitchens facade hung open, the plastic contents tumbled into a heap in the gravel.

Several minutes later, though it's hard to say how long, the van did indeed explode and I turned to the woman that had stayed with us and told her The Man had said it would.

"What man, lamb?" she asked

"THE man," I looked around for him then, but he was gone.

Much later, when I was grown up, my Mum (who had indeed died) told me that she too had seen The Man, she had seen him in the Summerland before she decided to come back. The man told her that he would watch me. Watch us.

From time to time, as I grew up, The Man came back. Never to the degree he had that day, but back still. In the corner of my eye, I'll see him in the hallway. I'll catch his scent, a mix of pipe smoke and the ocean, in a breeze. I'll turn around and expect to find him.

Am I crazy? Yes. But that's not the point. The point is that some time, some where in my past, The Man has come to see me as his. In times of great stress, I feel him more.

The day that M had her accident, I was sure The Man was on the porch.

I'd say he's not a ghost. Not exactly an angel (I rather get the sense that he was a bit of a trouble maker. And he's definitely a jokster. I hope he reads the interwebz, and if so I NEED MY DAMN EARRINGS BACK and I better not find them in the kitchen cupboards again) but something close. Some sort of other. The sort of other that makes a bump in the night.

It's not so much that he portends disaster, but rather that he shows up to stand just behind and beside me to remind me that I am strong enough to sail a stormy sea. So too, does he show up when things are about to change. Just before a move. Right before I make a big decision. When I need a push because I refuse to just leap.

This morning, I thought I smelled the ocean.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Keeping Him in the dark

At risk of being repetative, one more Operation Obnoxious story.

Scene: Sitting on the tailgate of my truck in the driveway drinking a glass of $5 wine.

Door to Door Jesus Lady: How're you today miss?
Me: (holds up glass of wine) Exxxxxcelllllent
D2DJL: I'd like to talk to you about God.
Me: Okay
D2DJL: Do you know God?
Me: Yes, we're on a first name basis. I call out to him from time to time*
D2DJL: That's wonderful. Let me ask you one question though.
Me: Okay, but just one. This wine isn't going to drink itself!
D2DJL: Will you go to Heaven?
Me: Only if He doesn't look under my bed. **

*during sex. Obviously.
**No, I don't actually have that under the bed. It's in the top dresser drawer.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Operation Obnoxious

I almost never make New Years resolutions, but I did this year. Rather than follow the trend of making a resolution to do something I know I should but don't really want to do because it's torture, like quit drinking or work out more; I decided to make one about something that I tend to not do, but really DO want to. Thusly, I resolved to have more fun.

Being a severe type A kind of person, I tend to forgo fun in favor of things like cleaning the bathroom and alphabetizing the DVD's. Because, you know, that's what I SHOULD be doing. At least in my version of The Crazy.

Also, in spite of my loud mouthed interwebz alter-ego, in person I am not terribly outgoing and that too tends to curb my ability to have fun.

It's been a month and I was pretty much sucking at this resolution. So Saturday, instead of doing laundry, I took M to a movie and Sunday, instead of arriving on time (I KNOW) for a dinner party, I stayed and hung out with some friends.

Yesterday, I decided to ramp it up with a little project I'm calling Operation Obnoxious. My theory is this; people will go out of their way to be polite when put into an uncomfortable situation. So, I'm going to introduce the situation for my own amusement. I'm sorry, minimum wage workers of the world. It has to be done.

Mission Number One.
The Post Office

PO Lady: How're you doing today?
Me: I have a headache
PO Lady: That's too bad.
Me: Can I ask you a quick question?
PO Lady: Sure
Me: Does this hair color make me look too much like a zombie?
PO Lady (pause)
PO Lady: No! Not at all. It looks great.
Me: Well, if you're sure
PO Lady: I am. It's great with your skin tone.

Mission Two

Checker: Did you find everything you need today?
Me: no
Checker: What can we help you find?
Me: Quick lime?
Checker: Is that something you cook with?
Me: No, I need to dispose of a body.
Checker: Um. Maybe hardware?

See? It's not TOO terrible, but it's VASTLY entertaining.

Yeah, yeah. I'm going to hell. I know.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Three Awesome Things You're Going to Want

Some things are made of awesome.

For example, this wine glass necklace.

which can be found here. Sure, it's a bit tacky and a bit less than elegant, but COME ON. It's a glass of wine ON A NECKLACE. It comes in a set of two, which is a good thing because since CK suggested it, I imagine she'll call dibs on the other one.

And how cute is this?

It can be found here. Be sure to check out all the other UBER CUTE robots!

Or, your ass will hate you but your mouth will LOVES you, you can spring for the cupcake of the month club! Which is brilliant on any number of levels. I've not tried them, but the concept of a pair of cupcakes arriving in the mail every month is pretty awesome. AND they come in a jar, so they're not all squashed. Which I suppose makes them "jar cakes" or maybe more of a parfait.

But ain't nobody don't like parfaits, am I right?

Friday, January 29, 2010

Bet I'll get some interesting Google Searches from THIS one.

M is very joiny. She signs up for EVERYTHING. Which would be fine except she can't drive and *I* wind up driving her all over town. (That's a lie. Usually I make her ask other people for rides because I have things to do).

This year, after many years of begging I finally consented to let her work as a cast member at the local Rennaissance Faire. And by local? I mean AN HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES AWAY EACH WAY.

Anyway, the Faire entertainment director holds cast workshops on Wednesday night (a scant 45 minutes away). They're a good way to bond with the other cast members and we usually go.

Except this week, I was pretty sure I had maggots eating my brain (or that I was turning into a zombie. Could go either way.) and so I just dropped her off and holed up for the two hours they did dancing and singing and whatever else it is they do fully costumed on the play ground of a school.

As we're driving home M cheerfully announced

" I learned how to FLUFF!"*

Um. What. The. Fuck.

I assume that some of you are thinking something wholly innocent** and if that's the case I urge you to click here . Unless you're at work. Or around children who can read. Or don't like porn.

If you don't like porn what the fuck are you doing HERE though?

(* she meant arranging your lady lumps so they're properly supported and presented in your corset. But that's far less interesting. So I'm not telling that part of the story)

(**I know, right? Who doesn't know what fluffing is? Some people are so repressed. I bet they still wear white underwear, too!)

(PS. Sorry about the soda you just spit onto your key board)

(PPS. No, I'm not.)

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Hell Bound

See that girl in the center? That's Mich. She was raised in a strict Mormon household in a mostly Mormon small town. Which is not a BAD thing. I was raised Mormon and *I* turned out mostly fine. Except for that lingering need to torment Missionaries. But I think they like it when you answer the door topless, it gives them something to pray about later.

Where was I going with this? Oh. I remember. Mich.

I have ALWAYS been an advocate of good underwear and even back in the day, I spent my allowance on it. One day, as we're standing around in the ladies blow drying our bangs so that they stood at least six inches high, I whipped off my shirt (for whatever reason. Who knows with me. I took my shirt off a lot back in the day. And by "back in the day" I mean "yesterday") and Mich let out a yelp of surprise.

I was wearing a RED LACE BRA! Oh my God! The scandal! The horror!

Mich, at 19, had never EVER in her ENTIRE LIFE worn colored underwear. Ever. EVER. White Hanes briefs, white cotton bras and white socks were all she'd ever known. Because colored underwear? WAS FOR WHORES.

I'm not kidding. That's exactly what her mother had told her. WORD. FOR. WORD.

See, this is the road to hell:

1) colored underwear

2) Holding hands with a boy

3) kissing a boy

4) letting him touch your boobs

5) sleeping with a boy before marriage.

6) hell

So I did the only thing I could do. I took her to the mall and bought her colored panties!

Then, about a month later, she was sleeping with three different boys, then engaged to another one, then dropped out of college, then broke her engagement because she met an all together different boy and then met another boy. I think she married that last one. But we lost touch for a while, so I'm not totally sure.

So maybe there was something to that theory.

I prefer to think of it as encouraging sexual liberation as a way to come to terms with a repressed upbringing.

I also believe all those boys owe me at LEAST a beer for explaining the finer points of giving oral pleasure. Which I learned from my friend Staceys drunk ass mom who used a banana as a cock and giggled as she told us that done right, a blow job will get a boy to do just about anything for you. That's the same night she taught us how to do tequila shots and the proper way to roll a joint. She was an excellent roll model. I miss her.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Rest in Pieces

I have not always been the sweet, kind girl that y'all have come to know and love.

When I was in college, my roommate Nadira (in the center) was an exchange student from Turkey. English was her third, or possibly fourth language. She was completely fluent, but the nuances of American slang were lost on her.

Like many colleges ours had legends that passed from year to year. One of which being that if your roommate died, you automatically got straight A's for that semester. It was called the "Grief Rule".

Some one told Nadira this and she asked me if it was true. Of course I said that it was.

Then, I turned evil.

Every night before she went to sleep I'd tell her to "rest in peace". For months, she thought that this meant simply "sleep well" and so she began saying it to other people. Who looked at her oddly, but no one said anything, figuring, I suppose that it was some idiom that failed to translate correctly from Turkish to English.

We had one class together, Abnormal Psychology. On Halloween, the class loaded into a yellow school bus and took a two hour trip to Well Springs. The local asylum for the mentally ill. While there we toured the grave yard. As the professor lectured about how the insane are often abandoned by family members Nadira spotted a head stone. That said "rest in peace".

It took me three weeks to convince her that I wasn't ACTUALLY trying to kill her, I was just teasing her.

(semi-relatedly: Those hula hoops? OMG did we have fun with those. Looking back, it's a wonder we weren't repeatedly sent to the RA's office for screeching as we tossed bottle caps tiddlywinks style down the hallway and into the hoops as a drinking game. Or hula hooping in the elevator (harder than you'd think), or rolling them with chop sticks while someone pushed us in rolling office chairs in a race to the end of the hallway (also a drnking game). Mostly at about 2 in the morning.)

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Public Service

I find my analytics endlessly entertaining. And a leeeetle disturbing. But! In the interest of assisting the world in their quest for knowledge, I've chosen the repeat searches to address here. So search no more, Kittens!

Q) bio fit bra + transgender
A) Yes, sugar, you CAN wear a bio fit bra. Even if you're a man. We don't judge here. One must be fabulous mustn't one? Maybe order on line though. Just saying.

Q) Blogger + granny + saggy
A) What the fuck, man? Are you referring to my granny panties? Because shut up! They're comfortable. Until they get so big that they blouse around your buttocks and then scrunch up until you've got panty lines that would make Stacey London fall down dead. Then it's time to buy new ones. Or go with out. If that's what you're in to. Not me so much. Ever zipped your pubes? Then you know why. Not that I've ever done that. I tend to...well never mind what might or might not have happened when my waxer went away for the holidays and I tried to use J's hair clippers for a bit of maintenance and wound up looking like a mangy porn star.

A) I have nothing to do with the dumification of the interwebz. I place blame for that solely on the likes of Perez Hilton and his propensity for drawing white dribbles down every "celebrities" leg. See how I just used "propensity"? Proof I'm not at fault.

Q)Fear of Outhouses + snake phobia
A) Yes. Very much. Have you ever USED an outhouse? I rest my case.

Q) SriLankan homely aunties with bra and panties still photos
A) So are you offering me these or asking me for them? Because I don't care WHAT you've heard I don't hang with exhibitionist sri lankan aunties. Very often.

Q) Turd farming unflushed toilet
A) Might I refer you to the fear of outhouses reader? I suspect you two have much to talk about.
Also? Gross.

Q) Why don't the British fix their teeth?
A) Beats me. Perhaps they're less obsessed with the superficial implications of popular standard of beauty than Americans? Or maybe it's just too expensive? Or maybe they don't want to offend the Queen who may or may not have British Teeth Syndrome because if they did she'd chop off their heads and then where would they put their hats?

Q) Shamwow Party with Xanax
A) Oh. My. God. Yes. I am so there. There is nothing in the world I enjoy more than a party that involves hooker punching, disturbing weasel faces pitch men, absorbent material and legally prescribed narcotics. Unless it's a party with ILLEGALLY prescribed narcotics, hookers wearing absorbent material while punching weasel faced overly loud pitchmen.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Defense Exhibits A, B, C & D

I understand that I have a touch of The Crazy. I understand that it makes me a bit difficult to deal with.

But COME ONE, PEOPLE. You're killing me here.

Exhibit A

As you can see, we have a small kitchen. This kitchen has a designated location for refuse. You know, so we don't wind up on Hoaders.

Exhibit B

See? I bet YOU can figure out where the trash belongs, can't you? Perhaps in the TRASH CAN, for example? The trash can that has been in the EXACT SAME FUCKING PLACE FOR ELEVEN MOTHER FUCKING YEARS, for example? The trash can that I empty daily? The trash can that is FOR FUCKING TRASH?

Exhibit C

Which leads us to this:

Exhibit D

I had no choice. It was that or this

Thursday, January 21, 2010

This is why I can't have nice things

See that? That is my husband driving my $40,000 (new, probably about $25,000 BUT STILL) truck down a dirt road so jacked up that if he stuck his hand out the window he COULD TOUCH THE GROUND.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Ten Things

This is a tag from Larry the Cheeto, who has a blog and it has a link, but I don't remember it, so don't be a lazy ass and just find it on the blogroll, MKAY?

1) When I'm having a very shitty day, I go out of my way to be extra funny. Because laughing is contagious. So is herpes. One I'd like to get from you, the other? Not so much.

2) I hit the snooze three times every morning. Not because I fall back to sleep, but because getting motivated to leave a warm and comfy bed is the hardest part of my day.

3) I'm SLIGHTLY (a lot) addicted to those idiotic games on Facebook. I can't help it! My little Farmville calfs are so cute!

4) I don't match my husbands socks on purpose. He accuses me of such behavior and I deny it.

5) Twice last week instead of buying food, I spent my money on clothes.

6) I wish that one of my eyes was a camera. If I was going to have any part of my body be robotic, it wouldn't, contrary to popular belief be my hoo-ha, it'd be my eye. And it would also shoot lasers. Obviously.

7) I haven't washed my car in four years. I do vacuum the inside though. Why I care that the inside is clean if the outside isn't, I'm not sure. But I do.

8) I believe cake is a completely acceptable breakfast. It's not that different from a doughnut or a muffin when you get right down to it. And wouldn't a slice of cake just be SO MUCH BETTER?

9) I am very bad at planning things. In fact, I shouldn't ever be allowed to plan anything ever, because I'm not going to actually ever finish planning it. I am the idea girl, people, not the planning girl. See also: why there's never any food in my house because the grocery store requires that I plan what I'm going to cook and HELLO! not happening!

10) My favorite song right now is the Timbaland/Justin Timberlake song "Carry Out". It's completely filthy and totally catchy.

Don't judge me, Frozen Iguana.

I'm supposed to tag some people, but remember what I said about the planning? Yeah.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010


I simply don't understand why people want to make me screamy. I'm not a shouty, lathered up kind of girl. I have a wicked bad temper, yes. I get snappy, true. But all out DON'T MAKE ME STOP THIS CAR? Not so much. There is very little in life that to me, is worth getting myself all worked up about. Shouting almost never solves anything.

Except when it does, apparently.

M, as you know is full of The Drama. The child lives to be on stage. Or at least with an audience. In October, she was accepted to an acting school. The school runs sessions and the next session started in November. so I paid her deposit and we waited. When it came time to start class we learned that the adult class she was meant to be placed in was doing "love scenes" and because she's not yet 16, she couldn't participate. No big deal, we'll just start after the new year when the class schedule resets.

Classes were set to resume on 1/6. So I called on 1/5 to confirm that she was in fact scheduled for Wednesday at 7pm and that classes did indeed start the following day. This is how the conversation went:

Me: I need to confirm that M is scheduled to start classes tomorrow.
Hunan: Yes, that's correct, Saturday at 1pm
Me: No, Wednesday. She has prior commitments on Saturdays
Hunan: I will check
(several minutes of holding)
Hunan: Okay, yes. I moved her to Wednesday, she can start on Saturday.
Me: No, she can't. She can't come on Saturday, that's why she's in the WEDNESDAY CLASS.
Hunan: Oh, yes, I see.
Me: So class starts tomorrow?
Hunan: I will check
(several minutes of holding)
Hunan: No, class will begin on 1/13
Me: So not this week, next week?
Hunan: yes.

Seems fairly straight forward, right?


Last Wednesday we drove all the way to the other side of town during rush hour traffic.

And found the office dark and locked.

Apparently they had MOVED. And did they put the new address on the door? NO. Of course not. That would just be silly! Instead it said "we've moved to the x mall!" Which, as you can guess is NOT HELPFUL. Like AT ALL.

So I start calling their office number and high tail it the 20 miles to the general area of where they may or may not be. And does anyone answer the phone? NO. OF COURSE NOT.

About call number 6 I get a poor guy in ANOTHER STATE that not only has NO IDEA where they are but has no idea if there is even a class that night. And has no contact information for anyone that MIGHT have it.

Awesome, right?

About that time the battery on my phone dies.

And that's when I get all shouty.

I call them back on M's phone and find out that not only is class canceled, but that THEIR OWN OFFICE (granted in a different state) has NO IDEA where, exactly they are.

I express that this? This is wholly unacceptable. I firmly insist that I get a call back, from a manager the following business day.

It's been a week. Guess how many call backs I've gotten even though I've called every single day? If you guessed NONE you're completely right.

Now this isn't an inexpensive class. This is college tuition expensive. This is used car expensive.

This? Is complete an utter bullshit. At this point, as far as I'm concerned John Robert Powers acting school in Scottsdale Arizona is a sham. Their utter lack of customer service and professionalism is so complete that I caution ANYONE who has any dealing with them whatsoever to seriously consider finding someone else to give their money to.