Friday, April 29, 2016

Green Grass

Me: Oh. My. God! Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!
My Sister: What? What's happening?
Me: You're not gonna believe this!
My Sister: Gasp! Is Tyler Anderson single?
Me: YES!!!
My Sister: Finally!
Talented artists' rendering of me and my sister

Let’s back up a second. I have loved Tyler Anderson since the day he walked into Mrs. Schulkind’s 5th grade classroom. I don’t know where he came from… another school, another state, heaven perhaps?

There he was in his blue izod sweater, layered over a little white button down shirt.

sigh, Tyler.

And there I was with all my 9 year old awkwardness, hair freshly shorn up to my ears and thick, sky blue glasses courtesy of Mom Style.

This crush lasted through middle school and high school. He was an AV club geek and I was a loser. It should have worked but, alas, our love was not to be realized. 

I remember little of those years but I remember with startling clarity the hole rusted through the passenger side floor of Tyler’s car. I remember writing papers in his bedroom and marching to the principal’s office together when we were accused of plagiarizing each other. (We didn't plagiarize each other! It was an honest mistake but our teacher was a righteous cunt!)

Travel forward in time 15 years… my crush and I had lost touch. But then miracle of miracles - Facebook! There he was in all his glory. My Ty-Ty!

Suddenly we were friends again, chatting and laughing only now we were confident adults! I hated my ex more than ever and I have Tyler to thank for giving me the motivation to get rid of my ex without needing to employ the eviction services of Mr. Biggs.

Mr. Biggs aka The Enforcer

And then on day we were both single! We talked all the time about completely inappropriate things, he admitted he’d had a crush on me too and then he found a nice Jewish girl who wanted babies. Those babies fucking ruin my chances every time.

That’s okay, though, because the real Tyler could never live up to Fantasy Tyler.

Real Tyler can’t live up to what I have in the here and now with the Love of My Life who is imperfectly perfect for me. 

Real Tyler would never put up with my dogs and my moods and my social ineptitude.

Real Tyler wouldn’t stand up to me and keep me in check and tell me when I’m getting fat because I made him promise to tell me.

I can’t help but wonder, though, what would life have been like if I’d become the wife of a Hollywood producer? Would I have kids? Would I walk the Red Carpet? Would I be as happy as I am now with my imperfectly perfect manly man?

No, I wouldn’t be happy. I don’t like kids and I don’t want crotch blossoms of my own. Red carpets seem like torture and god knows I’d say something that would get my producer husband black balled for a decade. We’d lose everything and end up living in a box under a bridge somewhere!

Ugh, I’d probably have to entertain if I was Mrs. Hollywood Producer. Who wants to do that? That sounds awful. 

And after all of that he’d leave me for some barely legal slut with a slammin’ bod’ and good fashion sense because - Hollywood Producer.So no, I wouldn’t be happy. I’d be miserable being somebody everybody else wants me to be.

I bet Real Tyler is really bad at sex. I am not giving up mind-numbing, life-altering sex with Manly Man. Not even for fantasy sex. Not when what I have in the real world is right from every angle. I mean, do you know how hard it is to find a guy who doesn’t want kids and doesn’t think it’s weird to have separate bedrooms? It’s hard! It took me 36 years to find one of those and I am not giving him up.

I don’t need to wonder what could have been. What could have been is the life that other people think I should have. What could have been is my nightmare.

What is right now is like waking up on a cold and snowy morning with perfectly toasty toes.

Thursday, March 13, 2014

Peter Pan Figured It Out And So Have I

“Growing up is a trap," snapped Dr. Robbins. "When they tell you to shut up, they mean stop talking. When they tell you to grow up, they mean stop growing. Reach a nice level plateau and settle there, predictable and unchanging, no longer a threat.” 

I have been accused of weaseling my way out of "grown up" life... in my own brilliant way. I don't know what that means.

This is by no means an unusual occurrence. At least once a week somebody tells me that I'm not a "grown up". It hurts. A lot. It implies that these people don't respect me. They don't see me as an equal (which may actually be complimentary). They certainly don't appear to value my life experience and struggles. Worst of all, they seem to want to be the adult to the child they think I am.

Why do so many people tell me that I'm not "grown up"?

Is it because;

  1. I'm a happy, positive, optimistic person? (I am, I took the test.)
  2. I don't have/want kids and am not married in the traditional sense?
  3. My hair is purple and I have tattoos?
  4. Once a month I have Baked Cheetos for breakfast?

Do these few things negate everything that defines me as a responsible and good citizen of the world or at least my neighborhood?

There is far more evidence to show that I do, in fact, suffer from the suckage that comes with being a "grown up", the definition of which continues to elude even my most vigorous of anthropological investigations;

  • I have a mortgage that is paid on time every month. Ditto on the car payment.
  • I have a job that I relish while attending it regularly at least five days a week.
  • I never miss an appointment - as long as it's on my calendar.
  • I run the dog training program at the local prison. Strictly volunteer and from the heart. 
    • The NC Department of Public Safety trusts me!
  • I provide people training for dog owners without a whisper of monetary compensation even if I notice their 60" flat screen TV.
  • I feed my fish daily and sometimes remember to clean the tank if they behave themselves. Ditto on the dogs. Except the tank part, the dogs don't live in a tank.
  • I go to extremes to keep my behaviorally challenged (aggressive, reactive, fearful) dogs safe from the public and vice versa. 
  • I was a CFO for the largest consulting firm in the world for four years. There was math and it was hard. 

What does it mean to be "grown up" anyway? Should I let society define me, should I define myself or do I remain beyond definition? I'm still not sure. Right now I feel happy, my booty is doctor certified healthy and I straight up shit rainbows.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

Lord Help Us, It Snowed In The South

Hey Southerners, here's some things you should know about snow, cars and driving.

1. Don't remove snow from your car with a shovel, you idiot. Use a broom. Preferably a push-broom and watch the paint job.

2. That snow you couldn't be bothered to clear off the top of your car? It's going to kill the person driving behind you when it flies off and hits their windshield, blinding them or breaking it. Either way, the poor schmuck behind you is going off roading because you couldn't be bothered to take a broom to the roof of your car, you lazy bastard.

3. Clear the snow off your headlights and tail lights. It's not rocket science. Snow isn't see through.

4. Stop fucking tailgating. Assholes.

5. Your windshield washer fluid is frozen because mechanics in the South don't believe it gets this cold. Put a bottle of water & dishsoap in your car to spray on your windshield so you can see where the hell you're going.

6. Go home and stay there. Nobody can drive on ice. Nobody.

7. Stop complaining. It snows like this down here once a decade. Fucking enjoy it.

Seriously, how Jacquie Lawson sappy e-card perfect is this scene?

Turns out that Sidekick is a genius.

Monday, January 6, 2014

Yeah, It's Cold. It's Called Winter.

Local schools have a two hour delay tomorrow. Not for snow. Not for freezing rain. There's a two hour delay because it's going to be cold in the morning. The school official types don't want kids to have to wait for their busses in near zero temperatures. Fucking pussies.

Parents, you need to toughen these kids up. Yeah, I know we're in The South but c'mon. Kids can't stand in the cold for 10 minutes?

When I was a kid we didn't have delays because it was cold. Fuck the cold! We had delays for real, tangible shit like a foot of snow or a goddamn hurricane. We also had a school superintendent from Nova Scotia so we didn't have snow days either.

I say that if these kids can zip down a ski slope at top speed or sit in a hunting blind for hours in freezing temperatures, they can certainly wait for a bus for a few minutes in single digit temps.

I don't know, how about dressing the kids in winter clothes or waiting with them? In your warm car.

It's probably a good thing I don't have kids because my tough ass kids would stuff all those cold kids in their lockers. Also, I'd want those kids out of my house as often as possible.

Even in 1989 we knew how to dress for The Cold. Oakleys, Guess jeans and Timberland boots. That's how the cool kids did it.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

A Guide For The Unsophisticated Slop Dropper: Flush

I have never potty trained a child but I was, myself, potty trained and I'm pretty sure that I remember one of the key tenants of potty training being flush the toilet after you use it.

I assume that the fully grown human beings surrounding me every single day were also once potty trained. However, it seems that FLUSHING THE TOILET 101 was an elective and not a mandatory course requirement.

Whenever I go into a public restroom I have to flush the toilets. Every. Single. Time. Why? Why aren't these women flushing their bidness off to the depths of the city sewer system?

At least twice a day this happens;
Stall 1: Goddamn it!
Stall 2: EIW!
Stall 3: What the hell is that?
Handicap Stall: Fucking hell.

And then:

You know that when a toilet is flushed it sprays shit and piss three feet into the air where it lingers and waits for us to breath, right? You all know this. Everybody knows this that's why we flush and get the hell outta there.

So it's not like I'm primly walking through the public shithouse just flush, flush, flush, la, dee, da. I'm balanced on my right foot with my left elbow on the stall wall using my left foot to maneuver the water-saving-dual-flush handle up for #1 and down for #2 while covering my mouth and nose with my left forearm. I'm like a fucking Circ De Soleil acrobat in there. Except in the handicap stall where the flushy thing is on the other side of the toilet and my delicate balance is thrown off making the risk of falling into stranger shit, like, 98%.

Anyway, after all this I obviously can't use the bathroom because there's all that shit and piss in the air. Shit and piss from other people's bodies is in the air all around me! It's on my hair, my skin, my clothes! It's on my lips.

I can't use another bathroom because you know the situation isn't any better over there. I am going to get kidney disease or stones or some kidney related disease because half the women's mothers never explained that there isn't a monster in the toilet so FLUSH THE FUCKING THING and now I can't pee anywhere but at home.

The other half of the women what? What is happening in the stall that makes them leave their slop droppings behind? Do they think I want to admire their endeavors? Like "Oh wow. Look at that shit. LOOK AT IT! I wish my shit could be as smooth and as cylindrical as this shit." or "Somebody remembered to take her vitamins this morning. Good on her!" (Because vitamins make our pee fluorescent yellow. I'm helping you out in case you don't take a multivitamin). (Psst, take a daily multivitamin, People).

Have they been in the stall for so long tugging up Spanx and tucking in shirts that they've forgotten they just peed out a quart of soda and used half a roll of toilet paper so they walk away like "How'd I get in the bathroom?"

Can society get lower than not removing their own waste when the technology is not only readily available but so simple to use that a dog can do it? I just don't know.

Somebody get this dog a Mensa card.