Archive for October, 2009

you women make everything so damn complicated (the voices told me to say that you’re on notice)

I love you.

All you award givers.

I just keep hearing my 5 year old voice screeching in my head all, “Really? REALLY? Nooo. Shut up! REALLY?”

I was given this:

by Spot at What Passes for Sane on a Crazy Day

AND this from Wendi at Bon Appetit Hon:


I don’t know about you, but nothing says fucking awesome like a leg lamp award.

So, here are the “Rules – Verbatim” for me being somehow over the top…I have yet to exactly figure out how I managed that…but I digress. And I’m not yelling at you. It’s the chick who wrote the rules. She was hell-bent on everyone using only ONE WORD. Guess I’m really going to fuck with her brain…hopefully she never reads this or else her head *might* explode.

USE ONLY ONE WORD! It’s not as easy as you might think. Copy and change the answers to suit yourself and pass it on. It’s really hard to use only one-word answers so try your best.

And, of course, the “Rules – How I Fuck It All Up”

I will use as many words as is required. Because I can. Personally, I think it’s harder to string together multiple words and still make it all nice and flowy. One word is a total cop-out. And I’m an anal-retentive perfectionist. There is no other option but to “do my best.” I don’t need your verbal garbage to motivate me. It comes from INSIDE, chica. INSIDE!

After I read the “questions,” I’ve decided to give Tim the honor of answering…first because well, without Tim this blog would be really shitty and second, the last time I answered one-word, nebulous questions, I ended up all freaked out and had to sleep with a nite-lite for weeks, totally paranoid that someone was on a roof with a scope…waiting for me to do all sorts of inappropriate things so they’d have blackmail material. My commentary will be in between these things: ( ) – because I can’t NOT say something. And incase you missed it, that was a double negative, which means I have no choice BUT to add my own opinion.

And just so you are aware at how mentally damaged I am – I still peer outside every damn day, checking for crazies. I’m not convinced that the little blob two houses down is a chimney.

1. Where is your cell phone? Which one? I have lots of phones. Cause I’m kind of awesome. (He’s just bragging…well, not really. He has a million phones. I hate all of them…except the one he calls me on)
2. Your hair? Is not with any of my phones. These questions are already in a completely illogical order. A woman definitely wrote these. (You’re being unfair. Hair after phones makes perfect sense because you have to hold the phone next to your hair)
3. Your mother? What about her? (They want to know….hell, I don’t know what they want to know)
4. Your father? Pretty sure he’s with # 3 (You probably should define “with”…you left it way too open to interpretation)
5. Your favorite food? (he’s busy pilfering through the kitchen…I’ll let you know when he figures it out)
6. Your dream last night? I forgot (That isn’t what you told me this morning…and the Question People expect complete honesty, you know…or they’ll rob us…so if we come home and all the electronics are missing – it’s totally your fault)
7. Your favorite drink? (he refuses to answer because he thinks water is stupid. I tried to tell him that water is actually an excellent answer, since we’d totally croak without it…)
8. Your dream/goal? To not answer stupid questions from a 5th grade chain letter (I think they mean like, long-term…) That WAS my long-term goal…which has now just gone to shit.
9. What room are you in? The one my wife forced me to sit in. (I didn’t FORCE you. You came willingly. Don’t give anyone the wrong idea) I came willingly because you said you had something “cool” to show me. You lied.
10. Your hobby? I got married. I don’t have hobbies anymore (You should’ve said running. Running would have been a good answer) Running is YOUR hobby that I got dragged into.
11. Your fear? My wife will blow up the house (Come on! I only left the stove on without a flame three times…and two of the three I opened ALL the windows and everything…and I called you) And you kept turning lights on and off (That was bad?)
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Not Georgia (Totally second that. Anyone want to put us up for like, forever? We’re completely harmless…unless you steal something. Oh, and Tim knows how to make rockin’ chocolate chip cookies – totally worth about a year of room and board)
13. Where were you last night? Upstairs. Cleaning a streak of shit off the carpet. (It’s not the cat’s fault the turd got stuck to her ass. You really should be more understanding). Not when there’s a five foot long skid mark on MY DAMN CARPET.
14. Something that you aren’t? A woman. THANK GOD. You people (we’re women) …fine, you WOMEN make everything so damn complicated. How do you keep all the voices separate in your head? HOLY HELL (Those “voices” are what tells us not to smother you with a pillow. So technically, you should be thanking them because they actually just saved your life)
15. Muffins? The hell? WHERE IS THE FUCKING LOGIC? (It’s totally logical. A muffin is obviously something you aren’t)
16. Wish list item? A hammer. (But…you already have one of those). And a big, blank wall. (Ummm…why?) If you cannot surmise why I need those items…well, you can start answering the dumbass questions and then maybe it’ll all become a little more clear (If I answer any more one-word “questions,” I might end up in a padded cell with a straitjacket, convinced that Ecuador is spying on me) The hell?
17. Where did you grow up? Far away from these questions (The voices told me to tell you that they don’t like your tone) I DON’T FUCKING CARE WHAT THE “VOICES” SAY (they said for me to tell you they didn’t appreciate that, either)
18. Last thing you did? I can’t remember. The questions have taken over my LIFE. (Your LIFE could commence if you’d stop fighting the questions. USE THE FUCKING FORCE!) Don’t get all Star Wars bullshit on me unless you come to posses a light saber. And if that ever happens, hand it over. Immediately (but, it would be MY light saber) That you would somehow manage to blow up the house with. It’s for your own safety, really.
19. What are you wearing? FUCK YOU (wow…anger management…) Not YOU. The questions (but…the questions didn’t do…anything?)
20. Your TV? I would much prefer to be with my TV. My TV doesn’t ask me questions. (But the TV makes you a zombie…and zombie’s aren’t very lovable. I mean, just sayin)
21. Your pets? Also all women. I’m fucked. (The voices just saved you. Again.)

(He’s decided his favorite food is crack. He says it’s because it lessens the effect of the questions…whatever the hell that means. I fly the drug free flag)

(Tim just threatened my life because I surmised he did drugs. He’s under the I-don’t-shoot-up flag, too…when he’s not answering questions)


(I didn’t type that last one. I would never yell like that)

22. Friends? Are laughing at me. (Why? What’s funny? Was I left out of an inside joke? That’s not very nice…leaving your wife out like that)
23. Your life? Will be much improved once this is done…damn. DEFINITELY COMPOSED BY A WOMAN…always asking irrelevant, long-winded, pointless questions (I think that’s total bullshit. I’m getting an excellent education) That’s because you’re a WOMAN. A guy wouldn’t give two shits about this (Why two shits? Why not four? Four sounds way more believable than two) I’m not even going to let you drag me down that path.
24. Your mood? Like my life, will be vastly improved after question number….. THIRTY FIVE QUESTIONS?! YOU SAID THERE WERE ONLY A “FEW” DAMMIT! (That’s not a few? I mean, I would agree with you if there were like, 100 questions…or even 50 questions…but 35? That’s shorter than that stupid IQ test on the iPhone)
25. Missing someone? Myself. I think I got lost between deciding if I was a muffin or if I had any friends (I thought we already went over that. The answer is seven) THE HELL?
26. Vehicle? Oh, you mean my getaway car? Yes. Thanks for reminding me. It’s the first shred of sense you’ve made all damn day (You know, technically, it’s MY CAR) Possession is 9/10 of the law.
27. Something you’re not wearing? The man pants. The questions stole them from me. (No…I think you just took them off…said it was too hot in here…or something). The man pants are not REAL PANTS…dammit, woman. Stop distracting me.
28. Your favorite store? The one with a light saber. (Oh…so now you LIKE the light saber)
29. Your favorite color? Green. The red light saber is evil (Who’s going all Star Wars bullshit now?) I’m allowed to. I’ve actually SEEN ALL THE MOVIES.
30. When was the last time you laughed? You mean that diabolical one…just now? (Don’t do that again. Ever. It sounds like you’re planning to rob a bank or hijack an ice cream truck or steal some little kids shoes). Maybe I am.
31. Last time you cried? Men don’t cry. (Why? I mean, I don’t think I’ve EVER seen you cry. EVER. Except that one time you got cayenne pepper in your eye…that was kind of a shitty move by the blender)
32. Your best friend? My wife (The voices told me to say that they forgive you)
33. One place that I go to over and over? (see Question # 35. That’s all I’m allowed to say)
34. One person who emails me regularly? Lots of people email me. I’m kinda awesome. Remember? We went over that in question # 1 (Then…how come all I ever see in the inbox is my name?…I don’t think junk mail counts, you know, cause they send you like 10 emails every minute…I think they meant like, *real* emails)
35. Favorite place to eat? Fucking finally. (Umm…that’s not the name of a restaurant) I’m leaving. I have a date. (Really?! We’re going on a date?!) With my sanity. (You forgot to answer Question 33). I didn’t forget anything. And don’t even THINK about adding some random bullshit for me.

(Bon Appetit Hon /Wendi…I will move forward with your “rules” in another post)

(Tim was way too long-ass winded)

(I guess I can stop typing in these parenthesis now)

(I think I’ve given myself a complex)

i’ll be in my dungeon for 30 days

***Update*** My nanowrimo username is booshy2. Someone already stole “booshy.” Damn them. So, if you ask “booshy” to be your writing buddy, I accept zero responsibility for their actions…or rejection of your buddy request…since I already told you it wasn’t me.

The good news? The dungeon has internet access.

I know, it’s totally generous of the dungeon so I don’t fall off the face of the planet. Because that’s probably what would happen.

I’ve been toying with this whole write-some-semblance-of-a-novel-in-30-days thing. Otherwise known as NaNoWriMo. If I don’t set myself some crazy deadline, it’ll drag on for decades. And I’m not a patient person, so decades don’t exactly work within my plans for total domination. Soon, you’ll all say “I knew her when…she wasn’t living in a dungeon.”

I work well under pressure. The pressure is what makes my ideas awesome. It’s probably why this blog is totally lame…there’s no pressure. I mean, who’s gonna yell at me all, “YOU’RE LOSING MY MONEY!”

No one.

So, basically, I’m saying I need someone to yell at me.

Anyhow, I have no idea HOW I’m going to do this…I know a lot of you are participating in the self-inflicted torture…but it’s not like we get to sit down together and compare our battle wounds over chocolate. No. That would be entirely non-productive…we’d be too engrossed in trying not to get the bits of flesh and dried-out scabs mixed with the chocolate. No one likes a slightly crunchy, slightly chewy surprise (If you’ve never tried a scab, well, then you’re in denial. And you’re welcome for the trip down memory lane to that time you fell off your bike because you didn’t know how to navigate the curb, which resulted in a massive scab on your knee you gleefully peeled off a few weeks later. I actually just had an egg-burp after writing that…which is the universal precursor to emptying the contents of your stomach).

Instead, we sit in silence…locked away from the world…because you have to get into character…which typically isn’t very in-line with reality.

And this tends to create an uncomfortable tension when your husband is all, “What do you want for dinner?” And you answer, “She’s locked away in the closet. Gagged and bound. With a unicorn. And a giant cupcake.”


And no, I will not be writing anything relating to horror. It’s too gory for me to even think about. I’d probably barf on myself before I even finished killing off my first victim. And then it’d ruin the manuscript…or the keyboard. Either would be really unfortunate.

I’m still not completely decided on what story to write. I know – I’m sure you’re all, “Humor. That’s where this road ends.”

Maybe…but I’d like to think I’m capable of not only making someone laugh…but also cry…or get really anxious…or really pissed…or barf on their pillow.

Well, maybe not that last one.

Though that’d be a huge resume builder: My story was so awesome, I made someone ruin their pillowcase.


If that doesn’t sell your credibility…nothing will.

if it’s swine flu…i’ll shit myself.

Update # 2: update #1 is at the end…which makes no sense unless you’re taking lots of Benadryl. And if you are, then you’ll understand how that move was totally badass. You’ll also forgive me and give me a hug because I forgot what my update was supposed to be. Because of the Benadryl.

Update #3: Tim just told me I wasn’t supposed to take Benadryl for the flu. I tried to explain that it was the logical choice, since it made me feel better the LAST time. Then he said the flu doesn’t make me swell up like a bee sting, which is when Benadryl is necessary.

Update #4: I asked him how much was too much all, “hooow much is tooo much?” while holding the phone horizontally with two hands so the speaker part was right up to my mouth. And he started freaking out all, DON’T GO TO SLEEP. Even though that’s exactly what I was planning to do…you don’t question sleep…or bags of money.

Update #5: Before crazy rumors start spreading, I don’t technically *have* swine flu. Yet.

Update #6: I still don’t remember my initial update…so this is not really an update but more of a lesson on why you should never mix medications.

I *almost* decided not to write anything today.

Because I feel like shitballs.

I don’t even know what shitballs are supposed to feel like…but I’m positive that is exactly how I’m feeling.

I’ve been bragging all, “I’ve never gotten the flu. EVER. Because my immune system is fucking awesome.

Wouldn’t that just be ironic…my first experience with the flu includes a damn swine. I don’t even EAT bacon or sausage…so take your nasty disease and leave me the hell alone. You know, it’s probably my own fault. Not only did I go to the germ-infested gym yesterday…but I also went to the grocery store where anything I touched had probably been sneezed on, coughed on, touched, tested and used as an ass wipe. AND I locked lips with the husband. Normally, that wouldn’t be anything note-worthy. However, the husband has been entertaining a group of Brits at work for the past few days…and apparently swine flu is all the rage over there.


Tim was all, If it’s the flu, no, if it’s the SWINE FLU…you don’t mess with that shit.

So, if it’s regular flu…well, too damn bad. That’s no emergency. That’s just inconvenient.

I offered to quarantine myself, all “Just shove a few graham crackers under the door every 3 hours and leave a bottle of ginger ale by the bed.”

He didn’t think it was very funny.

Ooook…I’ve totally reached my limit…and this will go down as the shortest post in the history of booshy.

I think.

Hell if I know…but my brain keeps yelling all, LAY YOUR ASS DOWN OR I’M GOING TO FUCKING REVOLT.

And I have to listen to my brain…especially when it yells at me like that.

Really not very nice, all, FUCK YOU, ASS NUGGET…when I feel like shitballs…


All right…I’m going. Damn.


I totally just tricked my brain to think I was going to pee…cause I stole my iPhone off the coffee table and walked into the bathroom…because I wanted to say that if you have swine flu: I totally sympathize. And I’m going to convince my immune system that I’m not sick. It’s genius.



I’m really regretting not decorating the bedroom. Boring ass walls…

being a bitch is way better than being prom queen.

I know this is totally hard to believe completely believeable but I was never even NOMINATED  for homecoming princess or prom queen or any of those other awards where being pretty and an object of desirability for all the raging teenage hormones were requirements.

The only awards I won were from basketball.

Yes. I have lots of those. Lots and LOTS of little gold colored, plastic women with perfectly uniform boobs, sitting atop a fat stripper pole with an engraved plate at the bottom all, “You’re awesome at beating people up.”

Ok, so maybe some of the awards are way cooler than that…like the clear one shaped like a star…anyway, you can see why I was never nominated. Who the hell says “way cooler” and gets a sparkly crown?  Nobody.

The point is, I was only recognized for being a completely unladylike bitch…throwing elbows, shoving people out of my way with my ass and sweating like a damn pig. It worked and all…MVP and eternal fixture in the starting 5, clutch player with ice in her veins…but it earned me zero friends and millions of enemies people who didn’t like  me. Probably because I was mean and stole the ball. Totally opposite from the whole sharing thing they teach you in Kindergarten. I think I was absent that day.

So, this whole blog thing has been like…well, I mean, I’m still probably a bitch…but it doesn’t seem to matter here.

Plus, being a bitch is way better than being prom queen. Cause bitches are allowed to eat more than three times a month and we aren’t required to match our clothes.

I really couldn’t have asked for more…because my favorite thing to do is shovel food into my mouth while wearing a tutu and an old sweatshirt.

Well, actually, I could use an avacado slicer. And I still haven’t heard from the football people about those damn flags. Problem with that last one is I have to go to the grocery store today…we’ve consumed the last saltine and Tim put his foot down on the mystery meat that’s sitting in the freezer.

I was all, “It’s frozen. It’s FINE.”

Then he’s all,”IT expired in 2001.”

Holy. Shit.

The meat has been hanging out in his freezer longer than I’ve inhabited this house.

The hell, honey? Small lesson in like, looking in the bottom drawer of your freezer once a year…I scheduled it for Saturday. 10 am. BE THERE.

No, it’s not optional.

It stopped being optional at year 5.

Am I still aware of the container of yogurt in the back of the fridge that I purchased the second day I moved into your humble abode?


And why is that different?

Because I’m growing penicillin.

Why? Just in case there’s a shortage.

Then, when people are breaking into pharmacies and screaming at the government for penicillin, we’ll be all, “Weren’t we just the forward thinkers? Totally sucks to be you. The dumbass without penicillin.”

It’s genius.

You’ll thank me.


Tim has informed me that it is impossible to grow penicillin in yogurt.

I tried to be all, “Mold is MOLD. Duh.”

Then he was all, “No, actually, it’s not.”

Apparently, penicillin comes from bread mold.

Damn his scientific background.

And his brain that remembers shit from 2nd grade.

holy shit! it’s a blogroll. for serious.

(There are updates. At the end. Don’t you just love updates that come at the end? I think they’re kind of awesome that way.)

So, I finally got an award that doesn’t require my answering of questions.



Instead, I’m supposed to give you links to OTHER BLOGS.

(damn you, blog gods. there’s always a catch)

I wasn’t entirely sure how to be fair about this “listing”…because there are lots of lovely blogs and lots of lovely writers of those blogs whose smiling faces visit me…and it makes me super excited when I see you, day in and day out, with your witty comments and fantastic ideas.

Super excited as in: I have to pee before I check for any comments to avoid potential accidents.

I want to reward those who give me and my random, crazy shit a second of their day.

Because that’s totally awesome of you…especially since I’m not like, über famous and I don’t hand out money or presents…though, if that first one ever changes, I swear: Presents for EVERYBODY!

Small presents. Or something.

Now, if you’re a lurker or stalker or whatever label you’d like to assign your stealthy habits but haven’t introduced yourself…well, I love you too. Lots, actually.

But I can’t reward someone I don’t see. You’re like a ghost…love him as company but damn difficult to feed him cause the soup just falls on the fucking floor.

And he can’t exactly hold a mop, either. Which also presents an issue.

My point is, you’ll have to come out to reap the benefits. And, think of it as like, a total bonus because that ghost will NEVER be able to be all fleshy again and have soup.

I mean, only if you want. I’m not trying to de-lurker you. Swear it.

So, moving on…I have IttyBittyCrazy to thank for this award.

(let’s all say thank you, IttyBittyCrazy!)

(trust me, you’ll want to thank her)

(it’s only polite, y’know)


Oh, first, I must go over the “rules” (which we all know I never follow) of the award…

  1. Accept the award (Um. Yes. Check.)
  2. Post it (the image (damn. that’s a relief. thanks for the clarification cause I was totally thinking neon stickies and those would be a BITCH to paste here)) on your blog together with the name of the person who has granted the award, and his or her blog link. (Umm…image + person = not together. Am I fired?)
  3. Pass the award to other blogs that you’ve newly discovered. Remember to contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award. (This is where I totally diverge from said “instructions”)

So, think of this as an early Halloween present…or Christmas or Kwanza or Hanukkah whatever the hell you celebrate.

Though my gift will require some work on your part (SO. SORRY.)

I’m sure you’ve noticed I have ZERO blogroll, except for blog catalog or something…I honestly don’t even know what the link is anymore. I think the last time I looked at it was the second day I was blogging. And that was too long ago for me to remember.

I’m going to add a page that will be replacing buff-tober.

A links page.

Where I’ll add your blog (go you!)

Just let me know if you want to be added.

And if you add yourself to the page, consider yourself a recipient of the One Lovely Blog Award.

(which means you can totally take the image and follow the instructions for the award)

(the actual instructions. not the modified one’s)

(you can come up with your own instructions)

(don’t make me do all the hard work)

(dammit, people)

Anyway, email me…or leave a comment…or something.

It’s all the same to me.

Just as long as you’re not wishy-washy all, “I GUESS.”

UPDATE #1: No one is technically GIVING themself an award. So don’t feel all weirded-out and self-conscious.  Here, wait. I’ve got it:

To All Who Request to Be Added to Blogroll Page: I knight you.

Shit…I mean. I crown you…recipeint of coveted Lovely Blog Award.

Now take it. Dammit.

And plaster it you your blogs with pride.

Update #2: All you bufftoberites…all seven of you: Buff-vember…that just doesn’t work like Buff-tober works. Shit-Vember…now that’s something I can latch on to. I just…didn’t want to spend my month in the loo (sounds so much better than “bathroom”)…or having shitty things happen to me…or doing shitty things to you…hence a few of the many reasons to abandon Shit-Vember. I did it for you, really. Because you’re kind of my friends. I think. Except maybe Jenny. I think Jenny bailed…or got eaten or was beamed up by some freaky one-eyed alien.

the neighborhood hates us

I am totally blaming this on Tim, because he picked the house before I even met him. And he blames himself, too. So I’m not alone in the accusation.

Our neighborhood hates us.

I know hate is a strong word and all…but I’m totally serious. They all want us to move. I’m surprised we haven’t had to yank any For Sale signs out of the front lawn. Actually, they just allow their dogs to shit in our yard and pee on our tree that’s about two feet from the curb. We only have two trees that are actually IN our yard…and one’s turned into a piss-pole.

I think I prefer the sign. The sign’s easier to clean. And it doesn’t leave residue. The canine excrement is way worse.

And said droppings cause severe anxiety for Maddie and Lexi. They go sniff that damn tree all, “WHO THE HELL IS THIS!?!?”  and they’ll stop and point at a foreign turd and refuse to move unless we physically force them. I mean, they’d still be frozen in that one leg bent, tail out position had I not shoved their asses to the front door.

This already has signs of turning into a mini an all-out rant. So just deal with it. Or something. Send me a sympathy card.

We live in an area where the…how shall we say…”culture” is not conducive to Tim and I.

At all.

In fact, the reigning “culture” that occupies every single house in our subdivision – save ONE who are Korean or Japanese or something – gives us the evil eye all WHY DON’T YOU JUST MOVE THE HELL ALONG? AT LEAST THE ASIANS CAN COOK.

And we would…we’re trying. BELIEVE ME, PEOPLE. It’s an all-hands-on-deck effort at this point.

It’s just not working. I have no book deal. I am not independently wealthy. No one wants to give us a house on top of a mountain for free…greedy bastards. I should start a fund. A “Get The Bold’s Out” charity. All proceeds will be tax deducitible…or something along those lines…hell if I know.

I have nothing against other races. I even dated an African American for TWO DAMN YEARS. I experienced and endured the racism that comes from an interracial relationship. It’s not fun. It really shows you the darker side of people. A side that is very scary and makes you realize that those with the best intentions on the surface are really hoarding something evil and revolting underneath the façade.

The BEST thing that came from my “taboo” relationship was that I learned not to see color. I see people. 

To this day, I still don’t notice race unless it’s either pointed out or I make a conscious effort.

What I do notice is arrogance. Arrogance and really mean people with a stick up their ass.

And apparently that’s what lives in our neighborhood…arrogant people with sticks up their asses (that their dogs try to remove during the daily walks…quite a sight, really)…even though we give out awesome Halloween candy every year AND smile and wave to their stupid ass kids who walk down the middle of the damn road and then flick us off every time we drive by like we’re in THEIR WAY.

Fuck you. Asshole.

That’s what I want to say…but I’m afraid they’ll beat me up or chase me or something. It’s already happened once…a few years ago…and had I not had some shred of commonsense I’d probably still be in a ditch somewhere.

I know. Totally harsh…but I was CHASED by a vehicle containing three VERY LARGE MALES while I was running solo early one morning. They hunted me after I cut through someone’s backyard where there was no road for them to follow…and then I had to dart inside bushes and behind trees when I realized they found me again and were gunning it down the road, trying to catch up to me. I squatted in the bushes and tried not to breathe as I watched them inch their car along, looking for me. I’ll never forget praying they wouldn’t see me…six eyes searching a tiny swath of scrub where I sat…only feet from the road.

Tim says it would have been a crime of opportunity. All I know is I’ve never been more afraid for my life. Ever. I had to creep and crawl all the way home. Two miles of sheer terror where I had to keep to the tree line and duck and cover if I heard a car. The second I made it inside the garage door without them finding me, I lost it. Literally. I broke down and starting bawling.

I now run with pepper spray and a huge sense of mistrust.

I  mean, it’s like moving to the middle of Mexico City and obtaining residence. We just don’t fit.

I don’t think we want to fit.

We want to move.

You people are mean.  And well, you’re always all, “We’re having a party. But you’re not invited. Ever.”

So we’ve holed ourselves up. Prisoner to our property. It’s sad, really.

And we’re never having an open house…because we’re afraid things will get stolen and then sold back to us at fifty times what we bought it for ten years ago…blackmail bullshit.

Actually, I think maybe we’ll give out carrots and celery this year. Stuffed in those paper Halloween bags, stapled at the top, so you have no idea you got rabbit food until you get home…and by then you won’t remember who gave it to you…so you can’t seek out revenge.

Though, come to think of it, we’ll probably get blamed for any shitty candy, whether we were the guilty providers or not.

Dear Anyone Within a 10 Mile Radius of Our House, 

It’d be awesome if this was the year you decide to stop giving out shitty candy. I’m tired of cleaning toilet paper out of the trees and wiping egg from the windows because your cheap ass gave out those disgusting fruity tootsie rolls and milk duds.

Sincerely, me.

PS: A tip for “good candy” is chocolate.

PPS: Yes, chocolate is MORE EXPENSIVE than raisins…and there are less pieces per ounce. It’s a sacrifice I think you need to make, dammit.

PPPS: No, I will not reimburse you.

rite of passage. as long as you don’t, like, kill the teacher.

We all go through those rites of passage as a kid…in order to become, you know, a grown up.

Why we’re so eager…only our child brains would know. It’s like all the anticipation and build up to shaving your legs…and then after the first time you’re all, SHIT. THIS SUCKS. And now you’re telling me I have to do it EVERY DAY? DAMMIT!

Our parents tried to warn us…tried to give the whole, “Stay in school as LONG AS YOU CAN” speech because becoming a grown up means you can’t get away with spitballs or screaming at the top of your lungs just because you feel like it or kicking someone who was mean in the shin. If you do partake in any of said activities, you just get the evil eye all, “GROW THE HELL UP.”

I could go on all damn day…but today is about a rite of passage…the BIG one…probably bigger than turning 21 and getting to drink.

Because without a LICENSE AND A CAR you can’t take yourself to pilfer the liquor store while the owner is eyeing your digging for bottles all, “The HELL? Who let HER IN? Where’s your ID, kid?”

Then you get to proudly whip out your license all, “I AM 21. SEE! Says right here.”

Liquor Store Man: It says UNDER AGE in a red bar right next to your picture.

Me: Well, that’s because I have to GET A NEW LICENSE. The red bar doesn’t just DISAPPEAR. Duh.

So, the lesson to be learned: though liquor may trump a new ID, make sure your trip is like…the day AFTER your birthday or after you get a new ID…or you take someone else who already got the ID-without-a-red-under-age-bar…cause the smart ass was all, “Is that so? Well, WHAT TIME WERE YOU BORN? I bet you’re one of those 11:59pm babies. So, technically…you’re still UNDER AGE and there’s no way you can checkout in a minute cause I close at midnight.”

Right then I wanted to kick him in the balls. Grown ups kick in the balls…not the shins.

Anyway, the driving…the license…that part came first. Well, even before the actual license I had to go to drivers ed.

The BANE of my existence as a freshman. Cause not EVERYONE had to go. It was optional. But my mom was all, “You’re going to drivers ed. Period.”

I had no choice. When she ends sentences with “period” you know it’s serious and there is no arguing…she’s made up your mind. Any little peep of resistance will be met with Darth Vader like terror…your room ends up being destroyed from her rage and then you’d be in trouble cause it is now a classified disaster area. And the whole, “but YOU DID IT!”…Bad, bad idea.

So, for a few months, every day after school I had to sit in a classroom and learn about driving. And even after all those hours, I only remember two things. One was the first day, because I was late. The first day of drivers ed also happened to be the first day of basketball tryouts…and basketball came before drivers ed. I had to get a pass from my coach all, “umm…I have to go to drivers ed? And I’m late?”

I walked into the drivers ed class, totally interrupting (knock? Who knocks?) and getting the “YOU BETTER HAVE A GOOD DAMN EXCUSE” look from the teacher. I gleefully whipped out my note all, “I have a paaassssss!” Score a point for me.

The only other part of the “classroom” portion I remember is a video we had to watch. It was a REALLY OLD video and a REALLY OLD TV…so it was all blurry and had that really annoying white line that kept going up the screen every few frames…anyway, there was one part where the perspective was shot so it looked like you were sitting in the driver’s seat. It was a bright, sunny day – the sun shining right in your front window and the voice in the background asked you what you saw. And then the teacher paused the tape all, “What did you see? Did you know the sun can really impair your driving??”

We all BARELY saw the upcoming stop sign…but at least we saw it, right? Then he starts it again and the sun disappears and what is there, right before the stop sign in the middle of the road, but a kid. Chasing a ball. NO ONE EVEN SAW HIM. I still think about that moment in the video whenever it’s sunny…and I pay extra attention.

So, after we went through FOREVER in the classroom, it was time for the fun. DRIVING. We had to clock a certain number of hours in the car with the teacher. Mr. Ellis was his name…I also had him for AP US History my senior year…always wore loafers with no socks…a frumpy, fairly heavy-set man whose dress shirt was inevitably un-tucked somewhere along his belt line.

Mr. Ellis told us we had to pair up and then we could split the hours any way we wanted. You could get it over with in one shot by driving to Florida and back…break it up into multiple sessions…anything you wanted as long as no one missed school.

So, my friend, Whitney (Hi Whitney!) and I decided to do a few after school sessions, driving around wherever Mr. Ellis told us to go. I drove first while Whitney sat in the back, doing homework or reading her book…I mean, she had a few hours to kill. We ended up driving to North Georgia to this dam…the point is, lots of windy, twisty roads.

Now, the special driver’s ed car is equipped with a brake pedal on the passenger side…for the instructor…incase he sees a need to like, help you stop. He told us in the beginning he had only used it a few times in his however many years of teaching…and that he was sure this class would all be perfect little drivers.

As we were getting up towards the dam, well, I was having fun. I was DRIVING. That’s all that kept going through my brain. I’m driving. I’M ACTUALLY DRIVING!

Mr. Ellis: Now, you’ll turn left up here. Remember to do a full stop.

Me: Ok.

Mr. Ellis: Good. Now, see where the road goes up over the dam?

Me: Yes.

Mr. Ellis: Go that way.

So I went, Whitney in the back, reading and not paying much attention to what’s going on.

I look over and notice small sweat beads forming on Mr. Ellis’ forehead. I’m trying to figure out why, cause it was like, freezing outside and the car wasn’t TOO warm…

Mr. Ellis: Keep your eyes ON THE ROAD. And you’ll want to take the next curve a little SLOWER.

I’ll want to? What? Is that a warning or instructions? Cause those are two totally different things…I took my foot off the gas to slow down…then we were like, crawling…so I put my foot on the gas again. Just in time for the next curve, I guess, because the next thing I know, his hand shoots up and grabs the OS (oh shit!) handle, entire body rears back in his seat and he slams his foot on his special brake.

And through all this, Whitney…always calm Whitney…is just hanging out in the backseat, giggling to herself with her book…no clue that I almost took us all on an up close and personal tour of the dam wall.

Mr. Ellis: What did I say about the NEXT CURVE?

Me: Go slower.

Mr. Ellis: Do you think you accomplished that?

Me: Umm…Yes. I do.

Mr. Ellis: The correct answer is no. No you didn’t. You took it FASTER.

Me: It didn’t FEEL faster.

Mr. Ellis: Just get us off this damn road. Anywhere but a road with a deep shoulder or a few hundred foot drop is preferable…almost saw my life pass before my eyes.

Me: Are those directions or a story? (He always told stories about his life…I guess to make things relevant)


As I was about to go around another curve, Mr. Ellis was all, “Well, you get to be lumped into the category of my using the brake. Aren’t you lucky.”

Me: Really?! I’m one of the FEW?

Mr. Ellis: You do realize that’s not a GOOD thing?….DAMMIT! SLOWER ON THE CURVES! THE. HELL. Pull into that parking lot. You’re time is up.

Me: But I haven’t gone for 3 hours yet…it’s only been 2 hours and 40 minutes.

Mr. Ellis: No, it’s been three hours.

Me: But…


So I do…and Whitney and I switch…then I hear him all, “You better be a VAST improvement…cause my heart cannot handle another one of HER.”

Yeah, so Whitney was like, All Star driver…whatever. I fell asleep in the backseat while she took her turn after getting nauseous from the praise by Mr. Ellis all, “WOW! That is EXACTLY HOW TO TAKE A CURVE, Whitney. PERFECT!”

To make things even more embarrassing, I had the unfortunate situation where my mom WORKED AT MY SCHOOL. So nothing ever went unnoticed. If I didn’t tell her, someone else did. And the next evening at dinner, my mom was all, “So, Mr. Ellis tells me you have a lead foot.”

Me: A what?

Mom: A lead foot. Says you almost took him careening over the dam.

Me: He’s totally exaggerating…and what’s a lead foot?

Mom: You’re about to get your license and you don’t know what it means to have a LEAD FOOT??

Me: Uhh…NO. Why would I ask if I knew? Wait, lemme guess, I’m supposed to get the dictionary.

(We always had to get a dictionary or an encyclopedia when we didn’t know something)

Mom: I don’t think that’s in the dictionary…a lead foot means you like to drive fast…you know…because lead is really heavy so a lead foot means it is heavy on the gas?…

Me: What? Nooo…Lead isn’t heavy. It comes in those tiny little sticks for mechanical pencils that don’t weigh anything. They should say like…a sand foot…cause those sandbags at the store are like SUPER HEAVY. You know, lead is a really bad example.

Mom: Wow. Maybe we should try a second round of drivers ed…

So, whatever. I didn’t know what a lead foot meant…and Mr. Ellis was like, WAY EXAGGERATING. I think the speed limit was around 25…I was probably going 45…

OK. FINE. So it’s fast enough to get your license suspended.

No, I’ve never had my license suspended.

Yes, I’ve been in accidents. But only one was “technically” my fault.

There wasn’t even any damage to the cars.

Stupid lady went nutso cause I barely touched the back of her car with the front of mine because SHE SLAMMED ON HER BRAKES ON A GREEN LIGHT. A GREEN ASS LIGHT!

Whatever, lady. I was good after that little episode…the episode that made me MISS MY BASKETBALL GAME, by the way…which really pissed me off.

The ticket doesn’t even exist on my record anymore. Erased. Gone.

Cause I was a good driver…and I didn’t hit anyone else for…well, since then.

And that was…TEN YEARS AGO.

Shit. Ten years.

I’m getting old.

this is where you ask those burning questions

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