I’ve come to the conclusion that I know I have made it in life when I can afford a house big enough to have a shooshey room. This is a bathroom solely dedicated to the number 2. Nothing else occurs in said sanctuary but the deuce.
I imagine this room with dim lighting, battery operated candle light, spa music in the background, maybe a rainforest track…I’m not sure why I feel rainforest background noise will make dropping a loaf easier and more enjoyable but this is my fantasy retreat. The seat will be cushioned and you can adjust the height of the toilet for long sessions so your legs don’t fall asleep. The john will talk to you. I think a greeting and a thank you would be nice. It would also automatically give you the correct sequence of flushes:
Pre-Flush – this occurs before any deposit is made to prep the bowl
Courtesy Flush – after touchdown, this flush removes the immediate stench so you’re not eating it during the duration of your stay
Mid Flush – to prevent clogs or situations that involved tools
Bulk Flush – this flush houses the majority of your TP use
End Flush – this is the last flush that is just a cleaning mechanism
It would be nice if this genie toilet washed and wiped but it’s not the year 2040, I get shit has to stay realistic. There would be an automatic sink and dryer that doesn’t make noise as well as an extensive reading library at my disposal.
A frantic email exchange sparked this blog entry. My BFF and I are very similar. We walk alike, talk alike, don’t look alike but you get it. She often shares my frustrations regarding society and I couldn’t help but deeply sympathize with her over what she had to endure this morning. Since I was not there, I will let her tell the story:
“I was just trampled by the local high school girl lacrosse team wearing their class of 2016 t-shirts and Lululemon yoga pants with Uggs. Each one of these twatbuckles ordered a double mocha triple calorie drink and giggled over missing homeroom today and bullying a girl with "awful JT concert seats".
I died a little today. Fucking bitches with their untainted Taylor Swift hair. I fucking hate them. I'm almost thirty and wear yoga pants from Target that has blue paint all over them. I can just see those whiny future cougars begging their dad for new "gym" clothes. It's fucking PE.
I understand the snobfest at bread co., they serve macaroni. But bitches steady on my caffeine is unacceptable that early.”
We did not grow up in snobby areas of town but after becoming adults we got jobs there or moved there. When we were 16 we wore sweatpants from Walmart and if we were lucky you got a pair of clearance Abercrombie pants for Christmas that you wore year after year until you gained weight or the bottoms unraveled. Her email pissed me off for several reasons. 1. GO READ THIS
…it should give you the background to my loathing feelings about teenagers today. 2. I’ve been saving for a pair of Lululemon yoga pants for a year
and have yet to be able to afford them. 3. Being an adult forced me to choose getting to drive my car for another month over getting JT tickets. 4. Those bitches were wearing $250 from the waist down. This inspired me to price out what I was wearing from the waist down…$4 Target leggings, $1 boot socks and $20 Target boots. They have 10 years and $225 on me.
I’ve never been one of those girls who kept a diary as a child. Ok, let me back up. I’m human and I had a diary in possession…it had Lion King on it, but I never wrote in it or confided in it like it was my best friend. The only reason I had it was to play that coveted game of ‘you can’t find my diary key’ with my sister and have something to cry over and get my sister in trouble for when she did find it. Thinking back, this should’ve told my parents something was off about me. What child wants a diary for the sole intent of getting someone in trouble? Hakuna Ma-fucking-tata.
Anyway, I’ve never kept a diary or journal but I’m starting this new ‘cleanse’ and thought I’d give people who don’t give a shit, the first hand account of what one of these ‘miracles’ is like. I don’t believe in diet pills, I think it’s a gimmick to get you to spend money and if you’re eating cinnamon rolls and only getting off the couch to get more icing, you can eat an entire bottle of weight loss pills and still feel like a heff. I’m doing society a favor by debunking the myths of diet pills and saving you money buy telling you what really worked. If you feel like I should be compensated for this, I always accept gifts.
Yeah yeah, I know everyone’s body is different and responds differently to different shit, so eat that grain of salt with your colon-cleansing booster.
I blame this entire thing on Dr. Oz. That man is a genius and literally knows everything. I don’t watch his show on the reg because I have a life and work like normal people during the day but my favorite episodes are the ones where he has a life-sized colon on stage and makes people dress up as doodey and run through the colon. Oh Oz…you sexy sexy beast. Ozzy doesn’t promote specific brands of products…again…fucking genius. But he says what shit works. I’ve been hearing all of this jazz about Green Coffee Bean Extract and the great shit it’s suppose to do for you. His taped spiel on the inter webs, a fantastic Women’s Health article and 56 customer reviews later I was ordering products. Women’s Health recommended a ‘daily cleanse’ combined with the green coffee bean shit. Now, I’m not an idiot. Cleanse is usually code for ‘you’re not going to be able to get off the pot’ and I’m a busy bitch. I don’t have time for all of that plus I was reading what they claimed to be perks on the bottle and words like sludge-clearing, clump removal and extreme turned me off. So I opted for the Bethenny Frankel Skinnygirl Daily Cleanse and Restore. I wish she paid me to type that but she didn’t so there’s no bull shit here. I got a free 60-day trial of Triminex Green Coffee Bean Extra with Raspberry Keytones. There’s a bunch of hype about the keytones too but I had had enough research for the day and clicked the option for send immediately. I figured it was free so what the hell. Women’s Health recommended taking both simultaneously so I stocked up on toilet paper and off I go.
The cleanse arrived in the mail a day before the pills and I’ve forever been the poster girl for ants in the pants so I started the cleanse a day early. It’s one of those powder packets like crystal light that you just pour in water. Countless forums said it tastes great and her motive behind the cleanse was making something that tasted good. I would buy a gold dog turd if Bethenny herself sold it to me because I love her that much and she’s the only other bitch who gets dry sarcasm and can throw together a stellar analogy as well as I can on the fly. But girl, that shits nasty. It’s suppose to been green lemonade and it taste like clay with particles floating in it. Whoever would drink this for pleasure is beyond me. It’s not suppose to make you have explosive diarrhea, just make you ‘regular.’ Why do all laxative brands use the word regular, we know what that means…you don’t need to snow blow. Anyway, I started the cleanse yesterday and ate normal. I don’t eat shit on the daily, I maintain a pretty grease free diet with veggies, fruit, tons of water etc. I am a lady and human so I have the occasional Happy Meal once a week, blizzard or fountain sodie for a bad day but I maintain my shit food to small quantities. I don’t have a ton of weight to lose, maybe 5-8 pounds for my body type but I’m mainly doing it as a detox/healthy bitch thing. I play recreational sports that I don’t take recreationally and work out about 4 times a week…ok I usually end up lying on the floor for two of the days but I’m relatively active.
So, I choke down the cleanse literally sitting at my desk waiting to walk down the hall and feel something fall or slide into third and feel a juicy turd but nothing was coming. I ate a banana and watermelon with the cleanse because my stomach is more sensitive than a preteen with her first period. Lunch rolled around and nothing…still no activity. I ate a healthy pizza for lunch and finally go but I don’t think it was cleanse induced. Leave it to the girl with IBS to take a cleanse and be stopped up. REALLY?! I shouldn’t be surprised because that’s just how shit rolls in my life. Literally.
I come home telling my father all the sorted details of my ‘movements’ or lack there of in which he replies ‘you know that’s going to kick in as soon as you get to the game.’ Like always, he was right. My father has been correct about every life prediction he makes for me. Too bad I never listen and it’s unfortunate he can’t predict lottery numbers. By kicked in, I’m talking I felt like I had to go but it was anti-climactic. Nothing happened. So I decided to throw some vodka on it and a ballpark nacho. Still nothing.
My Green Coffee shit arrived and I got to work this morning pumped to spend more time on the toilet than at my desk. I even downloaded some new apps, an emagazine and stocked up on alcohol wipes to disinfect my phone after each session. I might be gross but at least I sanitize after being gross. As I’m eagerly taking off the plastic wrapping, like a kid on Christmas who just opened the coveted Nerf gun they can fire at their sister and not get in trouble (just me?), I scan over the ingredients. My ass is allergic to the most random shit ever. Like EVER. I read the ingredients online because I’m not an idiot and it all looked like it would keep me out of the ER since I refuse to epi pen myself.
During my double take of the ingredients, I notice it’s loaded with apple cider vinegar powder. OF COURSE it is. Last time I had two teaspoons of slaw pickled in apple cider vinegar, I was in the ER throwing up blood and tar. If it was just a facial hive or gave me Jolie lips, I would’ve went for it but with the amount of kryptonite in this shit, I think my stomach would have actually shriveled up and died. PISSED, I called the company to cancel because it was one of those gimmicks where it’s free until 14 days then they charge you $150. 150 DOLLARS?! As in American dollars?! Is this made of coffee beans or panda hearts? So I call to cancel. When asked why I want to cancel, I kindly tell the lady their product tried to kill me and murder is a felony. She asked how many pills I consumed before I realized I was allergic. Really, home slice? Really? I said none because I’m not an idiot and read the label before I took it. I then told her that ingredient was NOT listed online because I checked...premeditation. She asked when I was going to send the pills back to which I told her I was keeping them free of charge and going to poison my sister with them. Don’t go social media weird on me and alert the authorities, I’m not really going to poison her, she’s not allergic to kryptonite…at least not that we know of. But coffee bean bitch on the phone didn’t need to know that.
I’m doing another cleanse packet today to see if it greases my wheels until I can get to GNC and figure some shit out. Not being able to have caffeine AND apple cider vinegar makes me a dick customer but too fucking bad. Work somewhere else.
I haven’t written a blog entry in a long time. I have been very busy shaping the minds of today’s youth, delivering food to the less able and elderly, helping the blind cross streets and looking into building schools in needing countries. AKA observing and compiling idiotic behavior of today’s society and not-so-silently cussing them out as their idiocy presents itself in my daily life.
To catch up anyone who would like amo to gossip about me, I have since moved out of my princess pad and have gotten new roommates. My princess pad came with free meals on the table when I arrived home, random gas tank fill-ups to my surprise, occasional laundry being washed and folded by the laundry fairies, gentle reminders that I’m the favorite child…the usual. Man my parents were dynamite roommates. I never would’ve left the lush life but dudes were starting to raise eyebrows in bars when they asked me if I still lived at home to which I responded ‘Fuck. Yes.’ Society was starting to turn on me and frown upon my inability to kill spiders, cook for myself and shower without reminders. I left the lush life to shack up with my ever-loving sister. We haven’t killed each other in 27 years so I figured why the fuck not. Since embarking on my new independent journey, I have been at my parents house 5 times a week, created a massive honey-do list and have called in every favor I can think of for renovation assistance…so much for independence.
Thus far I have had several ‘butch moments.’ I’ve also given several butch moments. Giving a butch moment is when something is happening that I’m too scared to take care of on my own so I scream for my sister and tell her to butch up and kill it, spray it, stomp it, make it…you get the idea. The ego snack will surprise you. She was successful in spraying a raging bee nest, killing 1 bug (1 was already dead wench) and assisting in the disposal of a fat ass squirrel. She only gets half a butch point for this and I get 1.5 as I was on the receiving end of the trauma. Scene: I’m outside spraying for weeds because I do shit like that now. I’m blind as a bat fucking butcher so I’m crouched down about 11in from the ground spraying, not looking ahead, when I’m face-to-face with the biggest squirrel I’ve ever seen in my life. Squirrels are now added to the list of things that terrify me. I’m not one to disrespect the deceased so I’ll just leave it as a fat ass motherfucker. If I ever thought I was having a heart attack in the past, I now know I wasn’t, because this was it. This was the big kahuna that was going to subtract me from existence. I kept my composure better than a beauty queen on stage being asked about the war in Syria
I kindly returned the spray to the garage and gently let me sister know she had a situation in the backyard to take care of and walked out of the room. I should’ve known that wasn’t going to be the end of my participation. I was forced to ‘hold the bag’ while she shoveled it in. By shovel I mean sweep, by sweep I mean we don’t have a shovel other than a garden shovel and this hearty fuck was too big. So she gets a push broom to ‘sweep’ it in the bag. Mind you, we are standing in grass, there will be no sweeping. This bitch was going to flip that squirrel on it’s ass and right in my face. The best part about this story is everytime she would come down off a heebie jeebie epidsode, I’d flinch or yelp and send her into a tailspin. After 20 minutes of screaming/welcoming ourselves to the neighborhood, he was in the bag…guess who had to carry it to the trash. In the cluster fuck it ended up in yard waste instead of the trash and neither of us noticed it for two weeks. We found that butterball IN THE YARD and it’s now waste but whatever. What trash hauler takes the time to sift through cans to make sure what’s in there is indeed yard waste. They did it on purpose.
I’ve noticed my role in this dynamic has become ‘the sprayer of shit’ and ‘where all lost things live.’ I was somehow dubbed the guardian of spraying weeds, spraying for bugs and doing the manly work around the house. Yesterday I was forced into spraying for bugs in the basement after Butch Cassidy made a big to-do about killing a ‘massive’ bug on the basement wall. She killed that s.o.b with such force, I thought her boot was going to crash through the wall. So I go down there and pick up the spray bottle. Easy right? WRONG! I’m a Graphic Designer by trade and whatever silly dick thought it would be funny to create the packaging label with a very real looking spider should be fired. I thought there was an actual beast on the spray and had a stroke…no wonder my hair is falling out. I now have to walk around with my head cocked to the right just so it looks even stevens. I was nominated to spray yet my sister felt the need to follow me around and dictate everywhere I sprayed as I’m walking through spider webs and she’s yelling ‘OMG WHAT IS THAT?!’ I spent more time thinking bugs were on me and slapping imaginary webs off my face than actually spraying. This adventure is just the beginning. Stay tuned…
I ran across this website that had a ton of cool shit I don’t need but have to have. I’m clearly having a very busy day. I started dragging off the pictures to my wish list, when one of the captions caught my eye. I started reading the others and quickly realized the person who created this website is either high or my long lost pen pal from 5th grade.
I typically write blogs when something ridiculous happens in my life. However, per the usual, shit is off kilter on the reg and it’s too much to keep up with. This blog entry was spawned off of a very traumatic incident that occurred last night in the comfort of my own home. I guess that shouldn’t be odd to anyone since crazy shit could happen to me while sitting in a laundry hamper. I’ll give background by admitting to one of my biggest fears in life, BIRDS! I take that back. I won’t be racist…it’s ANYTHING that flies that isn’t of the human variety. Yes this includes butterflies and ladybugs. I don’t care if you think that shits ‘cute’ and you doodled them on your trapper keeper in grade school. If you don’t want me to attend your nuptials, have your wedding at the Butterfly House. My ass will be in the car drinking with the ac on until its time to take pictures or move to another location. I’ll get a Sonic hearing device, use binoculars and put an earwig in the bride’s ear so she doesn’t miss any of my commentary. It will be like I’m there minus the screaming, flailing and hives. I heard butterflies die if you touch them…it would be like a scene out of a Hitchcock movie if you put me in that capsule.
This traumatic fear/paralyzing phobia, is caused by my mother. Ever since she saw the movie ‘Birds,’ she’s been deathly afraid of them. I always made fun of her and thought she was ridic until I came into my adult years. I can’t blame her because that movie was fucked up and when I was a kid, she SOMEHOW let 2 crows in the house. First of all, how the fuck does that happen? Birds don’t just enter establishments on their own free will, especially a mastodon like a crow. I was at school minding my own biz so I didn’t witness this but I have no doubt the scene was mass hysteria. She called my dad, who was working, in a total meltdown saying he needs to get his ass home as if the house is on fire. She manages to trap them in a closet. Oh….WHO’S closet you might wonder.? MINE and my sister’s since we shared that shit. It still baffles me how she got close enough to close the closet door but whatev. My dad comes home and takes a shotgun to our closet and slaughters those bitches all over our clothes!!! Nothing like going to school with crow blood on your jumper. I feel this and the fact that my childhood bff had a bird and let it fly wild around her house, is where my fear of birds was introduced. Her bird was very nice and small but when shit flies around my head, it’s going to get real.
Fast-forward about 20 years and here I am being ambushed on the daily by flying fuckers with a cause. Like lions, dinosaurs and snakes…I feel birds can sense your fear. They know I’m terrified and purposely look for me in parking lots AND MY OWN HOME! When I walk down the street, birds sneak out from behind bushes and fly right into me. I know they’re laughing…I’ve heard it. This isn’t even in my head because my BFF bitch saw it first hand (she’s a bitch because she’s witnessed this and laughed her ass off on all occasions instead of helping me. If you find crickets in your pillowcase, it wasn’t me Stace.) The big crows wait for me in the parking lot at work. I think they are retaliating because they know what my dad did to their ancestors and as of yesterday…turkey’s now have my number.
That’s right, I was mauled by a 20lb butterball! So what if I was inside and it was outside, IT ATTACKED ME! I had just sat down with a fat plate of pizza next to the window, when I look over to take in the view when I’m suddenly accosted by Thanksgiving dinner. This bitch could’ve easily fed a family of 25 and it had no problem staring me down from the garden. For new friends to the blog, I do NOT live in the country or a wildlife provoking area of any sorts. Walking 50ft into the woods to take a dump is not my style nor is digging ticks out of my ass crack. Under no circumstance should turkey be in my yard unless it’s on my sandwich that I’m enjoying picnic style. Please don’t send me messages about being a murderer or imposing animal cruelty because I don’t have time for that…well I do but I just don’t give a shit. I’m a carnivore, get over it or read something else.
Once this beady-eyed bastard blinked first, I immediately started screaming, jumping around and breaking out in facial hives. I yelled for back up (my dad) and started desperately grasping for my invisible rape whistle. He thought I was a lunatic…naturally, until he walked to the window and said ‘Holy shit, that IS a turkey.’ I might be blind but I can distinguish a winged creature from miles away…I sense that shit. I’m assuming it heard the commotion because it attempted to fly over the fence heading to the front yard. Look, I knew turkeys had wings but I didn’t really think they could fly pigeon-style. They are fat as fuck. This only led me to my next conclusion…this turkey was a super human, roid-raged dick with a vengeance. Yes, I eat turkey, but not even close to the amount of 6 piece chicken nuggets I eat and I’ve NEVER been assaulted by one of my bros. I used to take home the classroom chickens in grade school to take to the farm of a family friend, who I only knew by the name Marty Meat, so maybe that got me in good with the whole species. If this is true, those mafia members better spread the fucking word to their other winged behemoths.
I was sitting in my mother’s chair when this violation occurred. She’s out of town, thankfully, or else she would’ve been in the emergency room suffering from a heart attack. I took one for the ultimate team yesterday with no gratitude. In between my screams, jumping and commotion, my dad was pushing me to the front door to ‘follow it.’ This man didn’t just meet me. I have no clue why he thought I’d want to FOLLOW this fucker but I did as I was told and snapped pictures that I was told to text my mother. When I calmed down, I realized he wanted to skizz her out from afar and I was immediately on board.
20 minutes later, I was down to 4 faint facial hives and a rashed-out neck and ready to take down my first slice that is now cold. I put the coveted triangle piece to my mouth when I hear it…raging, high-pitched gobbling! This jack off was back and he was going to let me know. I ran back and forth from the front of the house to the back looking for this taunting beast but couldn’t find it. Ok jokester, hide from me. But if you so much as THINK about pecking my window tonight or gobble scream in my direction, it’s game on pecker fuck. I have no doubt, he went back and chest bumped his bros.
I’ve recently made the decision to cut the chord and move in with my sister…out of the nest I’ve been so cozy in for 20 something years being showered with free diamonds and jewels aka toilet paper and an unlimited food supply. I’m not a world traveler by any stretch and never went away to college. I am used to the tampon fairy magically restocking the closet, replacing q-tips, refilling the TP roll…I hope that fairy has a change of address form.
As reality sets in, I’ve realized a few things that could potentially be a problem.
1.) My sister and I are both HIGHLY terrified of bugs and spiders
2.) My sister and I are both HIGHLY terrified of things that fly that are not human
3.) Neither of us have ever been allowed to cut the grass because my dad has extreme OCD over the lawn and who is allowed to cut it, sit on it, touch it or breathe near it
4.) Plumbing…clogs, over flows, broken parts...no clue. If you can’t glue it or kick it, I’m out of solutions for repair
5.) I have to change my address on my whole life…I wonder if I leave bills with my parents address if they will accidently pay one or two. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?
6.) Shit is expensive. What do they make spot shot out of...panda hearts?
While all of these things may be considered ridiculous, they are very real fears. Whatever fuckers are laughing, be prepared for a phone call to come kill, fix or hang something. Over the weekend we learned to ‘butch up.’ We both killed a bug and together we figured out how to get the slider back on the track after my sister ran in to it. This was more out of fear as my parents were due home any minute and I just finished breaking the water disposal thing on the fridge. Evidently fear makes us more knowledgeable in the way of home improvement. Not more than an hour after the celebrations wound down, her dog came in the house with, what I swore was, a cicada on his paw. Of course he ran right over to me because we are besties. My flannel shirt and sanity went straight out the window. Fast forward mass shrieking and hysteria…it was a leaf…and my dad got it off his foot. Baby steps people, baby steps.
*Holy fuck, I just googled spider images to flare up this shit and will NEVER do it again. I’m not going to be able to sleep ever again…well, at least not tonight. You assholes are NOT worth it so insert funny bug thing here. I’m completely skeeved out. I’m checking my sheets 16 times before I get in my bed and if my fitted sheet pops off one corner, someone is getting bitched out.
My sister is also going to attempt to do yard work on her own. Godspeed sister, godspeed. I’ll watch you from the window with an ice tea and 9 and 1 dialed on my cell. I guess you’re getting tall socks for housewarming. Another part of not living with your parents anymore means you need a ton of shit. Things you thought just came with a house…like windex, Clorox, room spray, toilet cleaner, dishwashing liquid etc. If I were a dude, I’d steal napkins from McD and squirt QT soap into a Gatorade bottle mixed with water and call them my multi-purpose cleaner and wiping/wipe-up cloths. No one would think twice. Reason 32847 why guys have it better than girls. If we don’t have guest towels, we get the stink eye. Well guess what…you can use the same fucking towel I did because I’m not spending $10 on your own personal towel or taking the time to wash the shit. I’m going to be a fantastic hostess, I can already tell. P.S to all of the fuckers thinking they are going to ‘drop-in’ I HATE the drop in. So if you insist on doing it, bring me something to make me not hide under the windowsill until you leave my porch. I always need bread, booze and guacamole. If you’re feeling frisky, bring me toilet paper, paper towels or gas for my butch’s lawnmower.
My parents used make fun of me for watching all of television's most quality programming : ‘Hoarders Buried Alive,’ ‘My Strange Addiction,’ and ‘Extreme Couponing’ to name a few. Thanks to ‘My Strange Addiction,’ the people who are addicted to not spending money have taught me you can save on your water bill by not flushing number 1. ‘Hoarders’ taught me where you have piles of shit, you have bugs, rats or feral cats so lets stay the fuck away from that noise. ‘Extreme Couponing’ has helped me start our stockpile of tampons, Velveeta stove top meals, Neosporin, bug spray and Cottonelle flushable wipes!! It’s not so funny when I get all my shit free IS IT?!
Most…ok ALL of my posts are filled with sarcasm, cussing and the day to day cluster fuck that is my life but I have to take a 5 second break to promote something awesome! American Eagle is doing a campaign called Live Your Life. It’s supporting and promoting young adults to live the life they want to live. Happy, positive, healthy and most of all FUN. Just you being you. In case it wasn’t painstakingly obvious, I am me. Inappropriate, disaster, sarcastic, raunchy, often over the line but I’m me. I love hard and try to live carefree.
One of my biggest life passions is to bring attention to Breast Cancer Awareness. I have volunteered my Graphic Design services to my local affiliate for two years and would love nothing more than a larger platform to speak about volunteering, breast cancer awareness and sharing others success stories including my own. The winner of this campaign wins the chance to do just that…show what inspires you and what you’re passionate about. Living YOUR Life.
I’m not a Girl Scout, I won’t be hounding anyone to vote for me but if you have the time, click the link below to take you to my page and hit vote. I know it’s no Tag-A-Long but you do get a 20% off American Eagle coupon for voting. You don’t have to sign up or do anything to vote, just click.
I appreciate everyone who knows me as Ellen supporting me, and my new friends who know me as the Blogging Wench helping push me to continue to promote my passion. https://live.ae.com/#/entries/5862
I should’ve known the post from a few days ago 'It's All Making Sense'
wasn’t going to cover the experience I encountered yesterday at the good ol’ DMV. Your favorite place and mine…shared hell. My first attempt at renewing my driver’s license was unsuccessful due to the fact that I trusted my mother. There comes a point in everyone’s life where they stop taking their parents responses as the end all, be all truth of the world. Well friends, my time is rapidly approaching. I’m either getting smarter or she’s on a down swing because shit’s been cray.
This cluster fuck started 2 weeks ago when the Midwest was hit with the mother of all blizzards. I’ve had my SUV for 11 months and this was its first real test in the snow. The night leading up to the blizzard, I received a 30minute lecture from my mother regarding the 4-wheel drive, traction control and other settings that would turn my vehicle into Big Foot. She informs me that everything is already on and I don’t need to push any buttons or that it was automatic. Being an adult, I should’ve either called the dealer (because I’m a lazy piece of shit) or read the manual (yeah right…those pages have been serving as napkins since I drove that bitch off the lot). Neither option seems feasible so I took her word. I leave work to find unplowed roads, other drivers walking on the highway, cars sideways….basically every scene from The Day After Tomorrow. My shits sliding all over the place. I make the second mistake of calling her AGAIN to make sure I didn’t need to turn anything on. 3 hours into my normal 15-minute commute, I’m stuck on a hilly road awaiting my fellow travelers to slide off in a ditch so I can drive by when something catches my eye in the rear view. It’s some idiot driving on the shoulder at a 45-degree angle, using the guardrail to pop wheelies. As this NASCAR gets closer I realize it’s none other than my sister.
I call her asking how the fuck she’s speeding around writing her name in the snow while I’m sliding all over the place. She informs me that I have to push a mother-fucking button to get my shit straight!! After that I was monster trucking my ass over, around and through cars! I get home and call my mother out on her ‘slip’ to which she replies ‘oh…hahahahaha’. Glad she thought it was funny.
So yesterday morning I say ‘Mom, you just renewed your license, did you need your birth certificate?’ she replies ‘No, you don’t need it.’ As she’s holding the card that clearly says I need it. I take her word and left it. I get to the DMV at which point the douche behind the counter informs me that I DO need my birth certificate and the SS card, expired license, bank statement with my name and address, credit cards and college ID were not enough to prove I was a U.S citizen or who I said I was. Sketchy motherfuckers pulled over on the side of the road don’t even need to provide that much documentation to prove their identity and purpose for being on the planet!
I should’ve just stopped and gone back another day but I am dick and waited until the day it expired to go. My second trip proved equally annoying but for a completely different ball of mishaps. There was no one else there…rare. I stroll up and the woman doesn’t stop her conversation with the other woman to her left. She continues on as if I’m not standing there. I start clanging shit around and knocking over penholders to call attention to myself…nothing. After about 5 minutes of clearing my throat which caused me to choke on my own snot, she puts her hand out as if to say ‘you can hand me your shit now.’ I went through all the formalities that lead up to the dreaded vision test. My goal was to ace this without my glasses so I wasn’t one of those losers with a restriction. She asks me to read the top line of letters. I nailed them ALL. I take my head out of the contraption and started internally celebrating, blowing horns and farting confetti when she says ‘uhh aren’t you going to read the rest?’ matching her attitude I said ‘uhh I did. There aren’t anymore it’s just a white box.’ She tells me there’s a whole third column I should be able to read. This contraption is one of those genius inventions where you have to press your forehead, that 65,000 other people’s greasy ass foreheads have been on, to light up the screen in order for me to read shit. So I do what any sane person would do and start ramming my head into this lever like a mental patient thinking the machine was broken. Never did it dawn on me that my right eye is basically blind nor did it dawn on her to stop me. After I felt a bruise forming I said to myself ‘hey shithead, how about you put your glasses on.’ I cave and put them on and all of a sudden the letters appear. I still think she was fucking with me but whatever. At least, I aced the sign portion, which is so stupid because the words are written on the fucking signs anyway. If I don’t know what the shape or color means, I’ll read it…well based on the above I guess I don’t read it because I can’t see that far.
She then starts grilling me and quizzing me about whether or not I wear contacts when I don’t have glasses on and every time I replied no she got more steamed. Look bitch, I’M the one that’s blind and YOU’RE mad?! With the most pissy ass attitude I’ve heard since this morning when I went off on someone who cut me off, she says ‘Well you know you have to wear your glasses all the time now. I put a restriction on your license’ to which I replied ‘Well whoopty fuckin doo…aren’t you god.’ I say this as I’m putting my glass away back in my purse. She says ‘Yeah so you have to wear them ALLLLL the time when you’re driving.’ I reply ‘OOKKAAAYYYYY’ and zip my purse shut with glasses securely inside.
In hindsight maybe I shouldn’t have returned her whorish attitude because she could’ve saved me from the next blunder…the picture portion of the proceedings. Not only did I wake up early to give my hair Kate Beckinsale waves, but I had successfully sheltered it from the wind, mist, snow and rain for 12 hours. I perk up, slap my cheeks a little and put on my best smile…or so I thought. I should’ve known when she had the picture on the screen and asked me if I was ok with it that it was bad. Since I was far away in the picture station and was a jack off and put my glasses away to prove I’m a badass, I said sure that looks great. As I’m standing there, this one-hit wonder starts zooming in on my mug. 120%, 150%, 200%, 250%...and she wasn’t stopping. Okay okay, I get it, don’t be a bitch to someone who’s playing god with the next 6 years of your ID flashing life! She then throws me my paper copy to which I’m faced with the horror. I am of ‘standard’ weight for my height and am by no means a hef. HOWEVER, I have a raging double chin, a forehead and t-zone so greasy I could fry bacon on it and my right eye is sliding off my face. Seriously bro, you couldn’t have gotten off your high horse for 5 seconds to tell me I look like I had a stroke in the parking lot, stuck my thumb in my mouth and blew or that I looked like I should be gobbling?!
I go home trying to convince myself it’s not that bad. I walk in and my sister was in a pissy mood going off about fuck know’s what when I cut her off and, being the good sister I am, ask if she wants me to put her in a better mood. I took one for the ultimate team and knew my humiliation would make her instantly giddy. I didn’t even notice my melting eye until she pointed it out as well as asking my why I told them I was 110lbs. In my defense I NEVER said that. They just left it on there from the last time. I believe her exact comment was ‘Yeah, you’re 110…IN YOUR FACE!’ We love each other. After she was done, got off the floor and dried her face from laughter tears, she calls my mom in the room. She grabs the paper and says ‘oh it’s not that bad!’ as tears start streaming down her face from withholding her outburst of hysterics. My dad was coming home in 5 minutes and I thought for sure he’d be on my side. He walks in, says the same thing as my mom but wasn’t laughing or hiding it. He returns to the scene after some time and says ‘Yeah, I’m going to need a wallet of that and some 8x10s.
Just wait until those assholes have to renew theirs. I cannot WAIT until they get their pictures. And since when do they zoom so fucking hard. All in all, my ending advice is don’t piss off the bitch taking your picture. She WILL fuck you over. Hard.
The ‘Chef’n Bananza Banana Slicer could be the most pointless gadget in the world but TheBloggess brought this to my attention and now I have to share. First of all, there are so many dirty jokes and puns swirling around in my head right now, I’m not even sure where to start or which to open with. Luckily the unfortunate souls who bought this product did it for me…