I know this really shouldn’t bug me, but damn if it doesn’t. We went to the mall today to pick up my phone from Verizon, (they screwed that up-no phone yet) and we ran into Devil Woman. I didn’t recognize her, she’s lost weight and really changed her hair.
I didn’t smile at her soon enough, I guess, because HOLY HELL she was pissed. She muttered a little insult under her breath as she was walking away. But she did one better! As in sent Bryan text messages about it and felt the need to post on her Myspace: Angel is ready to put her foot up heidi hoe ass, bitch needs to buy a personality.
Ouch. That was below the belt.
I was all set to fire off one hell of an e-Mail telling her which side of her bread was buttered, and that she should exchange her personality for a better one, blah blah blah. I was hurt, actually crying, and incensed.
But, alas, the spirit of Mother Andrea entered me and filled me with Zen.
I sent her an e-Mail apologizing if I was rude, I didn’t mean to be. And is that a new haircut? You know, it really looks good on you. I think your comments are uncalled for, but maybe you’re trying to be lighthearted and playful? I know how hard that can be to convey with just texton a screen. Anyway, gosh, Devil Woman, I’m sure sorry if I was rude and your new do really is just fabulous.
I was so drippy sweet, I wanted to gag. But, as Andrea said, kill ‘em with kindness. Be the bigger, classier, nicer, more mature person. Devil Woman read it, but so far, hasn’t responded. Which, believe me, is just fine with me.
It’s also interesting that this happened when it did. Just today I had my review with my GM and my boss, who both told me to BE NICER! People think you’re, ah, what’s the word? Abrasive! Yes! That’s it!Abrasive! Be nicer! It’s a sign, I swear.
Y'know what I get sick of? Loans.
I take out loan after loan to pay for OUR bills. When Joe lost his job and couldn't make his share of the rent, guess who got asked to take out a loan to help? ME!! Wanna guess how pissed off I got?
Yep, enough to make Beezlebub himself say "Oh man, she is pissed."
Bryan wants me to take out YET ANOTHER loan to pay OUR daycare. Um, dude, I'm short (thanks, payroll) and down to my last dollar. I'm taking a vacation in a week. I need money for stupid things. Like food. I know, how frivolous of me, huh? And I've paid her every other time. Tell me why you can't do it this time? Oh, you're broke too? Well, punkin, I am sorry. Now you know how I feel every effing day. "Can you take out a loan?"
NO, ASSHOLE, I CAN'T! You take out the loan. Ask me again and you'll be even more broke. Why? Oh, nothing. Just some court-ordered child support.
Not that kind of late, I mean late posting a new blog. I haven’t blogged a lot lately. It’s been crazazy over here in Hell. Between the eleventy million spreadsheet reports I have to code, analyze, and distribute and one Regional VP who cancelled his visit (jerk) yeah, I’m tired.
In other news…In nine days, I’ll be in sunny Southern California! Yeah!! (Dad, I know. I know you’re not pleased. Please just let me do this and have fun.) (Love you.) So, I’ve been trying to get all my ducks in a row for that, and trying to get everything else done. For something that’s supposed to be fun, it’s getting pretty stressing.
We’re finally seeing my Dad, my stepmom, and my sister this Sunday. I haven’t seen those guys in over two month. We’re having a belated Christmas of sorts. (Damn skippy Pooker will be in Christmas garb. I need the pics for her baby book.)
Maybe because of the stress, but man. All I want to do recently is sleep. Blissful, out cold sleep. After about 2000, I’m about as useful as lips on a chicken. Yeah, it’s that bad.
Bryan and I are also starting our search for a new house. Amazing what kind of rent people will charge for a shithole. (I should know, right?) I am not paying $1,200 a month for a glorified trailer in a worse neighborhood than I’m in now. What’s that? The last tenant didn’t have a problem with that? Well, good on ya. I’m not them, or on meth for that matter.
I also might be getting a Crackberry tonight, but I will for sure have a cell phone of my own again. Bout damn time, too. Oh well. Better late than never, right?
So, while I’m off working on my tan andgetting snot blown on me by Shamu, who wants to be my guest blogger? Anyone?
Devil Woman reared her ugly head again. Once again, she’s fighting Bryan on taxes this year. But now she’s added a new twist, and changed her story.
Now she’s claiming that she didn’t have any taxes taken out this year, and she owes the IRS money. She wants half of Bryans tax return. Because, y’know, “You had Pook this year so you should befine.” She’s also claiming that T had to have a couple grand worth of dental work done, and the bill is past due, and she might need braces, and she needs money for that, too.
Every company in the US, if you don’t tell them to make changes to your deductions, they take the same deductions as they did the previous year. With that in mind, Devil Woman would’ve had to tell them to not take out any taxes last year. She shouldn’t be surprised that Uncle Sam wants his slice of the pie, but she is. Secondly, even if it was a payroll error and she didn’t tell them to make changes I have a hard time swallowing that she didn’t look at her pay stubs for a full year, or notice her paycheck was larger than usual. My paycheck is the same every time, and I still look at it. Even if it was $50 larger, I’d wonder why. But that’s just me.
Earlier on my blog I said that the tax return money was to be used to emergencies for the kids. I was wrong, it can be used however they see fit. Devil Woman, however, told Bryan, “Well that money is supposed to be for the kids, what have you been doing with yours?!” Bryan fired back with, “Read the divorce decree again, Devil Woman. We can use the money however we want. And besides, if that was the case, what happened to yours?!” To say that little comment made her irritated is like saying Hell is just one big sauna. (BTW, we’re using our tax returns on a new place, so we really need that cash.)
Pook is none of her business, and if she brings her up again, I’m gonna personally shove her attitude up her mammoth-sized arse.
T had dental work done? This is news to us. How odd, since T herself never mentioned it and that kid will give you a running commentary on her life if you let her. Secondly, why wasn’t Bryan informed of the bill, oh I don’t know, when it came two months ago?! And T needs braces now, eh? Gosh, that’s weird…That kid has perfect teeth. Bryan told Devil Woman he’d want to talk to the dentist first, to confirm what she’s saying, and Devil Woman came unglued. “Do you think I’m making this up?” Well, um, yeah, we kinda do. Sorry, toots, but you’re kinda known for making stuff up to get money, so yeah…
Needless to say, Bryan was fuming over all of this. She’s in debt and she can’t get herself out, and wants him to bail her out. Newsflash, Devil Woman, we’re notcongress, and we’re not approving a bail out plan for you. Every time the kids need something, he hands you money. He never asks what you’ve spent your child support on, he already knows the answer: you spent it on yourself.
Like you always did, and continue to do. You’ve got the perfect setup, don’t you? You get your child support payment every month, which never goes for the kids anyway, and whenever the kids need something, you know you can call him up and he’ll pony up the cash. Because what are his options? If he says no, you’ll let the kids go without. If he says yes, he’s just enabling you but the kids have what they need. He’s tried to tell you that for unexpected major expenses, he doesn’t have a problem paying half. But everyday stuff, like school supplies, new shoes, things like that you need to use the five hundred in child support. Besides, Devil Woman, you make more money a month that the both of us do combined, and yet you still need money. I guess sleeping with the boss has its advantages. How’shis wife, by the way? Still married to him? How ‘bout that.
The sad part about all this is I know many women who do the exact same thing. They spend the child support on themselves and then call their exes for money. Now, I’m not saying that Bryan shouldn’t pay child support, nor does he have problems paying it. And if she truly needed more money a month in support, why hasn’t she gone through the courts? Isn’t that what they’re there for? Now granted, I’ve never had to file for child support, so I don’t know the inner workings. And I personally feel that parents who fail to pay child support should be tarred & feathered.
However, in this case, verily I say unto thee, Devil Woman: go to Hades.
There’s been an ongoing debate for a while now as to whether or not men PMS. Rest assured, folks, they do. I don’t know if they’re just feeding off the women in their lives, or if they genuinely need some Midol. Personally, I’d like to get a few of the men in my life some Midol.
When I PMS, run for cover. My moods will change sides faster than a politician. Ican go from 0-bitch in 2.3 seconds. I will be smiling & laughing one minute and screaming obscenities the next. I try to rein it in, because, frankly, I wouldn’t want to deal with me and I don’t think you should have to, either. One innocuous comment from Bryan, one less-than-adoring tone will turn me into a homicidal maniac. However, it’s pretty easy to chart out when I’m due to be a fire-breathing-hormonal-rollercoaster dragon. (Yeah, pregnancy was a joyride. Nine months of hormone-fueled fun!)
Men, on the other hand…Not so much. For example, Bryan will have weeks when he’s just…What’s the word…A jerk. He doesn’t break down bawling because oh my GOD, I can’t find my black shoes, and nothing else matches, and I hate my life! No, he doesn’t do that. He just gets touchy. You ask him if he took out the trash, for example. “No, I haven’t taken the trash out yet! Can’t you see I’m busy, jeez! If you will give me just 3 freakin’ seconds, I’ll get it done!” Whoa. Okay then, sor-ree!
One of my friends posted a status update saying he was “nursing his new tattoo.” I commented, “Aww, poor baby. Man up! ;)” He replied with, “Everything has to be about appearing tough with you huh? Maybe I am just stating that I am taking care of it so that it doesn't get ruined. Obviously I "manned up" enough to get a 9 1/2" tattoo across my hip so I want to take care of it. So take your sarcastic pity and shove it!” Whoa. Dude. Seriously. It was a joke. So, me being in a less than chipper mood m’self, replied with, “Dude, seriously. It was a freakin' joke. Take it for what it's worth. Jesus Christ. You can take your PMS and shove it up your ass. I've got enough of it here between one psycho exwife and my Mother, thankyouverymuch.”
Now, I’ve known this guy since High School. By now he should know that I have a sarcastic sense of humor. However, if he’s PMSing like me, I can see why he got snippy. Heck, I get snippy even if I’m not PMSing and we’re out of coffee. (Actually, I don’t think ‘snippy’ is a strong enough word.)
The guys at my office are being just effing peachy today, too. It could be that it’s Monday morning and unless you’re crazy, you don’t like Mondays. I prefer to think that men across the United States right now are PMSing.
And to them I say: MWAH HA HA HA! Suckers! I go through this every month, and I get cramps! Pull yourselves up by the bootstraps and cowboy up. Don’t be such a wuss. Oh, and I put some Midol in the breakroom next to the coffee pot. Just FYI.
Everyone has something they're genetically predisposed to. Cancer, high cholesterol, being a loud mouth, etc. I've got a few things I'm genetically predisposed to, and therefore, I cannot control, and they're clearly not my fault.
Speeding: Um, yeah, not my fault. My Dad taught me how to drive. Like me, he pretty much views the speed limit as more of a suggestion, not a law. He also got his boss to lend him the use of his Ferarri Pina Ferina for the day when I turned 16. (Hell no I wasn't allowed to drive it, are you crazy?!) (And yes, I was spoiled. My Daddy loves me. Neener neener neener.) So, with those factors in mind, is it really any surprise that I speed a lot? No. And as you can clearly see from my superior argument, it's not my fault. Speaking of arguing...
Arguing: My Mother can argue and negotiate something to the death. She can also bring up the most obscure point, and somehow tie it into whatever argument she's hoping to win. My father, on the other hand, doesn't back down and doesn't give an inch. Watching those two growing up, I learned quite a bit. Lesson number one: anything can be somehow related to the topic at hand. Lesson Number Two: badger, pester, and annoy until you win. Lesson Number Three: Never back down. Even if you've got irrefutable proof you're wrong. (Arguments and debates are always a fun time in my house.)
Swearing: Back to Dad again. He can get very creative when he swears. (Man, Dad, bet you never realized just how much you taught me, huh?) Now, keep in mind he spent a lot of time in the Military. From my understanding, the Military prides itself on creative cursing. So, again, it's no shock that I swear. A lot. I am trying to reign it in, for Pook's sake. I will die if her next word is a curse word. And, well, the Spudleys soak up stuff like sponges, and well...Let's just say I don't want that phone call from Bryan's exwife asking where they learned such language. Funny, though, both my parents were shocked when they learned the extent of my filthy vocabulary. Can't imagine why...
Puncuality: More precisely, the lack thereof. My mother would be late to her own funeral. I don't know if it's lack of planning, inability for time management, or whatever. She's late to everything. Well, so am I. As much as I try, I'm always 2-3 minutes late to work. And everything else. I blame it on my Mother. (Granted, my boss doesn't find that little excuse nearly as viable as I do.)
Of course, there's all the crappy health stuff, too. Breast cancer, skin cancer, alzheimers, dementia, poor eyesight, high cholesteral, yada yada yada. Those things can be either avoided entirely or managed with the help of a doctor. Unfortunately, the only remedy for speeding is the local PD saying "Ma'am, it seems we've had this conversation before." "No, we have not. Your partner and I have, however." The only remedy for my agrument skills is someone saying, "You're kidding me, right? You don't seriously believe the crap you're saying, do you?" The remedies for puncuality are either A) a very laid back boss or B) getting fired. Lucky for me, I got the first one.
Dearest Douchey Dave,
I know, how dare I have the audacity to use your checkout line for my WIC checks to get the formula I desperately needed? I had an eighth of a can left, and wouldn't you know it, the baby still needs formula? Whoda thunkit?
Now, I'm going to give your douchey self the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you'd had a craptastic day. Maybe you'd encounted some Mother using her TANF card to get smokes & beer and it ticked you off. Maybe you thought I was going to be the same thing. (I assure you, I'm not.) Maybe your wife left you. Maybe your dick of a boss called you to work the late shift, and you had a date with the hot blonde from Produce. Either way, you decided that you were going to take it out on me.
I lined up my formula cans, all nice and in a row for you. I told you before you even scanned the first damn can,
"This will be purchased using WIC." I tried to be nice. I tried to be cordial.
"WIC? Oh, geez." You, Douchey Dave, replied. WTF do you mean, 'Oh, geez'? Is it that hard of a concept? You scan, the little screen tells you the total, you accept my voucher. The hardest part is verifying that the name on the ID matches the name on the check.
You scan the formula. All the while, you're sighing loudly like I"ve done something terrible, and I'm sooo putting you out, and you have better things to be doing than being a cashier. (Like the aforementioned blonde from Produce.)
Finally, after lots of eye rolling, Douchey Dave, you're done. I hand you my vouchers and say congenially,
'Give me just one second, and I'll give you my ID."
"Do you even have your drivers license on you, ma'am, I need to verify this."
By this time I'm wondering if I whispered. Maybe you didn't hear me? But, still, I'm trying to be nice here. You're making it hard though, Douchey Dave.
"Yes, I do, I have it right here." I hand it over, "I'm sorry, it took me a second to get it out." I feebly smile.
"Whatever, ma'am." I look up to see if you're making a light-hearted sarcastic comment. You are not.
I get my reciept, mumble to have a good night, and slink out to the parking lot. My boyfriend knows I am on the verge of crying, ashamed, and outraged.
Listen up, Douchey Dave. You make what, $9-$10 an hour? Chances are if you had a kid, you'd be on the Good Ship WIC, too. Don't act like you're better than me. You're not. For one thing, you're at least 40, if your skin, wrinkles, and hair are any indication. And yet you're still a cashier. Your high school reunion must've been embarassing for you. Here's a thought: I make $3 more per hour than you, and I can still barely afford to feed myself. I don't live extravagantly by any means. I buy store brand crap, it's cheaper. I shop the sales. If I'm out of smokes and I'm broke/it's a choice between food or smokes, I go without. Unlike a lot of smokers, who would find the cash. Here's a statistic for ya: per Lisa, my case manager at WIC, WA state has seen a 30% increase in the last year for state aid of some form. 30%, Douchey!
"Get a better job, then!" you might say. Sure, because the job market is just booming right now. I'll get right on that. Maybe if I'm lucky, I can be a cashier, just like you!!!
"Should've shut your legs, then." you might say. Well, I didn't and I don't. I like sex. A lot of sex. I like sex like a crack addict likes crack. It's a drug, and I've been addicted for awhile.
"Should've had an abortion, then." you might say. Not an option for me.
"Should've given the kid up, then." you might say. Again, not an option for me.
Either way, Douchey Dave, drop the pissy 'tude. I'm no different than the other millions (literally) of parents out there who, thanks to G. Dubya, need a bit of help. Either you get the dildo out of your ass, or next time me and Mr. Manager have a nice little chat about how you can improve your 'tude.
Have a nice day, and thank you for working at Albertsons!
According to the pedi, here are some signs I clearly don't love my daughter....
1) You heat up food in the microwave.
2) You give her infant Tylenold when she's in pain.
3) You let her cry it out when you know damn good and well all she needs is a nap.
4) You feed her crackers.
5) You give her a teething ring that hasn't been sterlized in the last 24 hours.
Seriously. So I sent an e-Mail to her pediatrician, because she's drooling more than usual and she's fussy more than usual. She sent an e-Mail back asking what I'm feeding her, is it hot or cold, what have I been giving her, have I tried teething stuff, and do I let her fuss it out a lot?
I told her I've been giving her formula, baby food, crackers, teething tablets don't do shit, and yes, I've tried teething rings, she just throws them petulantly, and yes I let her fuss it out when she's tired and only needs a nap. Holy shit did THAT piss her off.
How dare I heat up her food in the microwave? Don't I know that can cause hot spots? Maybe I've burned her! (No shit Sherlock EVERYTHING you heat up in a microwave has hot spots. Ever heard of stirring or shaking? She's not burned, for heavens sake, it's not like I pop it in there for 30 minutes. Yeesh.)
I'm giving her infant Tylenol? She could overdose! (Yes, if I gave her the whole freaking bottle. Look, teething tablets & infant Anbesol don't do shit for her so damn skippy I give her Tylenol. I give her maybe an eighth of a dropper full. I highly doubt she'll OD on it.)
Well, if I let her fuss it out all the time, she'll just learn that I don't love her. Maybe she's crying out for love. (Bullshit. She's held and played with quite a bit, thank you very much. I let her fuss it out when I know damn good and well all she needs is a nap. I think what she's learning is that Mama & Daddy aren't going to prolong nap/bedtime just because she wants to play. She's loved very much, and trust me, woman, she wants for nothing.)
I give her crackers?! CRACKERS?! Omigod, she could choke! (Funny because she gums them to the point that they're mush and then eats them. We watch her pretty closely, and she hasn't choked yet. She's learning to feed herself, and the firmness helps ease her pain. So screw you, she's still getting crackers.)
I don't sterilize her teething rings daily? She could get an infection! Maybe that's why she's fussy! (Hell no I don't sterilize them all the time. Why? Because we tried them for about a week and she hated them. Since then they've sat. They were clean when we gave them to her. If she had an infection, would'nt she also have a temp? She would? Okay, because she doesn't have on so piss off.)
I know this woman truly does have the best intentions of my child at heart. But honestly, don't lay the Mommy Guilt trip on me. I'm doing the exact same things Mama's for decades have been doing. She hasn't overdosed, been starved for love, choked, been burned, or had a major illness from my Mothering skills. So screw you, Ms. Highandmighty. I swear to God if it weren't for the fact that you're the only pediatrician in my city in my HMO, I'd switch. Get off your high horse. Oh, and you have a 'stache. FYI.
Everyone makes New Years Resolutions that by January 2nd, they've broken. So-called experts say it's because they're unrealistic and unattainable. To that I say, "Oh yeah?" Well here's some resolutions that are easy and I know I can keep!
1) Gain weight. Yup, by the end of 2009 I intend to be a veritable lard ass. How do I complete this lofty goal? By eating every deep fried, drenched in ranch sauce food on the planet.
2) Go into debt! I want to be so far into debt that I cannot even feed myself. If I just blow my paychecks on useless shit, alcohol, and gambling, I should accomplish this pretty quickly.
3) Be the worst Mother I can be. Ignore her when she cries, blow my money on crap for me instead of trivial stuff for her like diapers. I've had plenty of examples, so this goal should be pretty easy.
4) Get fired from my job. Turn in projects late, uncompleted, mouth off to the customers, and tell my boss off too. Finally tell my receptionist how I feel. Tell the sales reps that with a few exceptions, I would gladly bitch slap them all.
5) What anal-retentive bitch said "Cleanliness is next to Godliness"? Yeah but being a slob is so much easier. I vow to never pick up a bottle of Windex, shake a can of Comet, wield a mop, or hear the washer again. (Why, since I'm going to buy new clothes all the time. See resolution number 2.)
I think if I work hard, I should easily accomplish and keep all my 2009 Resolutions. I know, you're in awe of me. I'm only human, folks. Just a woman trying to make the world a crappier place to live.
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