whip stain
The Pants and I were tired and crankety after work the other night. I wanted a veggie burger like nobody’s business, so we went to the place where they make ’em so fresh you get sunflower seeds in your teeth, but still cover them with grease and cheddar cheese so they might as well be a real hamburger. We also ordered these ridonkulous cheese fries that were smothered with bacon, green onions, bleu cheese, and alfredo sauce. Fucking alfredo sauce. Was on them. On the fries. We agreed it was the type of dish one eats in the dark, by oneself, crying.
So as we unloaded the giant grocery-sized restaurant bag full of food from the back seat, The Pants asked if we were that couple who bought lots of food and ate it and went to sleep. I said we probably were, and then we shared a moment of silence.
I hate it when people (including myself) start dating and suddenly their clothes don’t fit. But what’s crappy about that is that I only ever see The Pants when it’s nearing dinner time and we like to make cheesy things and eat them together. Is that so wrong? Also, is it so wrong that I got Cool Whip on my exercise pants and the Cool Whip stain was my reason for not actually going to the gym? What would the gym people think?! They wash their sweaty hair in the drinking fountains, I can’t walk up in there with Cool Whip on my pants!
Anyway. I kind of like how The Pants is always watching where we’re walking in our relationship, pointing out the dog turds along the way.
Watch this, I said it’s fun.
This was my faaaaavorite Merrie Melodies cartoon growing up, and if it wasn’t yours, too, well I’m here to tell you that you don’t know nothin.
Likes: Jesus, Sarah Palin, the death penalty, and being a Mommy!
With some help from my sister, I found this blog, and it’s been like crack, I can’t seem to stop reading about this woman who adopts these special-needs kids and writes about Jesus and just basically wants everyone in her family to be happy all the time, no matter what. I submit her un-prompted explanation of herself as evidence:
I am a pro-nursing, home birthing, alternatives to medicine believing, public school by choice promoting, non-circumcising, pro-life rejoicing, homeless people feeding, adoptive parent advocating, awesome cookie making, special needs loving, anti-child harnessing, 15-passenger van driving, Laura Ingalls-Wilder reading, death penalty supporting, light shining, family adoring, sex outside of marriage disapproving, Grey’s Anatomy watching, beach enjoying, Cinnamon Popcorn munching, Sarah Palin supporting, nose rubbing, Euthanasia discouraging, chit-chatting, fast driving, blog writing, dog loving, aluminum can collecting, size 10 wearing, non-hair coloring, respite providing, cuticle picking, black coffee drinking, hug giving, anti-homosexuality in school teaching, tree planting, picture taking, household bill paying, mega grocery shopping, frugal spending, child advocating, disciplining, husband loving, put God first believing woman of God.
(Her italics, btw.)
I hate these little comma-heavy lists people write about themselves. Now that I’ve discovered this bottomless basement of daily-updated Blog Mommy web rants, this never ending network of bored, religious housewife banter, I’ve found that this “who I am” list is a key theme. Then they’re all “This is who I am, okay? Okay? So if you don’t like anything in this list I’ll tell you respectfully where to stick your hat!” But the deal is that in REAL LIFE, which is what we do outside of being Blog Mommies, nobody stands around in bookstores and at the movies giving each other three-minute orations on the foods they eat, books they read, politicians they support, shows they watch, blah blah blah. And do you know why? Because nobody gives a shit.
Blog Mommies don’t think so, oh no! They sit around reading each other’s masturbatory comments about themselves and just LOL all the live long day. But I ain’t hatin. If my clitoris was mummified and I lived in the burbs and drove a minivan all over the place, I’d probably want to forge lots of cheap online relationships, too. I’d want all kinds of people who don’t really know me telling me how much they love me.
What’s interesting about this woman, if you care to click that link I debated on adding, is that she seems wholeheartedly defiant of the fact that special needs children, or children in general, may have special emotional needs. She writes sarcastically about how her most troubling child, the one she hems and haws (PUBLICLY. ONLINE.) over having adopted in the first place, may have behavioral trouble as a result of being adopted. Haha, just kidding! I don’t really believe that! That’s silly! She just needs to shape up and accept that this is her life and BE HAPPY and LOVE MOMMY.
Oh, Christ. Really.
Well. She gets lots of praise from the other BMs (Blog Mommies) for following her heart and coming up with new and exciting punishments to show them the waaaalk of Jeeeesus. Her most controversial punishment, in my (and her) opinion, is a very short haircut. She seems to think that this is revolutionary in some way, and both the New York Times in 1912 and the Nazis will tell ya otherwise, Mama BM.
It’s funny, or maybe not as funny as it is sad, but as a child, the people in my family who caused me the most emotional suffering, who lied and cheated and manipulated, were those who considered themselves to be hand in hand with old J.C. himself, walkin’ along whatever foggy beach he happened to be vacationing on that Sunday. That’s why I read this woman’s vapid, idiotic thoughts and think how she’d better hope I’m not ever in the same room with her. My sister said she should be “in a cage, with her hair cut off,” and I can’t help but wish that I could put her there.
I guess, on the other hand, you could argue that Hell really does exist for people like this, that they build it around themselves and live in it every day, I just wish they didn’t have the right to adopt innocent children and throw them into the flames, as well. Christian Family kids really creep my shit out, yo. They’re always nervous about harmless shit like TV shows and certain words and sexuality and music a whole list of who knows what else. They get so hammered down into the round hole of their parents’ faith that they don’t know what to do when it comes to real life situations. They’re told to “aaaaaaaaaask Jesus!” like it’s a goddamn game show, and anyways if you’ve invited him to live in your heart then you should be able to hear him loud and clear! But when your bat-shit crazy parents tell you what’s wrong and what’s right, and you’re a KID who’s supposed to be listening to a ghost in your chest, let me just guess what you’re going to decide is wrong and right.
And God forbid you’re a fag. My Christian-school cousins weren’t allowed to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles when we were kids, or wear Halloween costumes, or even say “dang it.” Now one of them carries a gun and blows his anti-homosexual, Evangelical right-leaning load all over anyone on the Internet who will fellate him for being “brave enough!” to do it, and the other is so obviously and painfully gay and lonely, yet still struggling to tough it out and walk with the Lord so that his obese mother and hate-mongering father will still let him live under their roof.
If anything could MAKE you straight, wouldn't it start with Donatello?
Poor thing. I bet he’s got a secret pair of low-rise True Religion jeans in the bottom of his hamper. The ones with the glitter on the butt pockets. I bet his little fairy hands shake when he thinks about them, sitting down there under all those conservatively-striped Old Navy boxer shorts.
One ring to rule them all.
Monday was my first day back to work with my new haircut. I walked into a LOST meeting (yeah, they sit around and “discuss” once a week, with notes) and all the ladies oohed and aahed over it. So Junk Butt thought it might be a good time to whip out the engagement ring her man gave her on Valentine’s Day. Then it was like, Haircut Over. Somebody’s getting MARRIED!!!
Of course, the crazy-ass elderly receptionist from across the hall wasted no time going around telling everyone that I got my hair cut just like hers, inspired by her hair. Which is funny because, her hair is A FUCKING WIG. The sleek, shiny type that black women staple or glue onto their heads in the morning after they’ve flattened their real hair down as far as it will go. She’s never done a very good job of the flattening, though, because it always looks like her head is sprouting gray and black pubes around her hairline, then there’s this waterfall of synthetic black oil pouring down, which she pulls and twists and sometimes, I think, puts on backwards. She puts her wig on backwards and still refers to it as her natural hair. But anyway.
Successfully trumped, I went to my desk, but overheard Junk Butt’s story of walking down to the pier, surrounded by chunks of “beautiful, crystal clear ice that looked like diiiiiamonds!” And this is where her man got on one knee and whipped out The Most Beautiful Ring Ever and proposed. Junk Butt brought her junk butt, and the ring, to my desk, where she asked me where my pointy elf ears were. “You know, the ones that go with your SUPER CUTE PIXIE HAIRCUT HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAA!” Then she showed me her ring, which looks to me like a, well, you know, a sparkly ring. I asked her if she’d been surprised (since she always referred to her live-in boyfriend as “my intended”), and she said oh yes, definitely. “I mean, there had been some ring shopping and stuff, but yes, totally a surprise!”
“You mean you picked that out? You went shopping for that ring?”
“Oh, of course, are you kidding? Boys don’t know about rings! HAhahahhahaha!”
“But…you were surprised? When he gave you the ring you picked out for him to give you?”
“Yeah oh my god it was so romantic! Then I started crying and I was just like oh my god…”
I don’t know what else she said because I can’t get around how stupid and maybe brain damaged she is. And I’ve mentioned before that I just don’t think I understand marriage in general. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it, really. Do people do it for fun? Or as a decision to have children? Or for the free waffle iron? I’d like to think that I deserve some kitchen accoutrements for NOT marrying my high school boyfriend. Shit, I deserve a car for that. Where’s my presents which I brazenly picked out at Target with a scanner and then emailed to you??
Anyway. My pregnant Polish co-worker doesn’t seem to have enough to do between eating whole cans of Hormel chili off paper plates at her desk and making Powerpoint presentations in broken English that only serve to further confuse international students. Because lately the bulk of her activity has been standing by my desk and commenting on me, my clothes, the things at/on my desk, and any fucking thing else she can think of. After The Hair Cut, she told me to dye my hair. “Lieeke a blahhck-red, dark, you know?” I said I didn’t think so. And whooo showed up today with a terrible Walgreens bottle dye job? You guessed it! Our favorite little preggers Polish sausage! She frankly and honestly pointed out that she had Midnight Rose’d herself “for the one-upping” since I had received attention for my hair. Then she sat down and asked me if I knew how old her husband was, told me that he’s 63, and then leaned in and confided that he had paid her a significant sum of money to come “from the Internet” to America and be his wife, and bear his “cheeldren.” She quit her job writing for the Polish-version of Tiger Beat to come to America and this is the only “stupiding” job she could find. She wanted to tell me this because, could we be friends? And also because she is required to use the large sum of money he gave her to pay him back for half of their mortgage and half of the bills every month, and she is not allowed to have a credit card, and she’s noticed that I have bought some things online with a credit card, so would I please buy her some things with my credit card? She would be happy to give me cash.
I responded that I had an appointment and really I just went across the hall and hid in the supply closet until I thought it was safe to come out. She’s already sent me an email of the things she wants from J-Crew for when she loses all the baby weight.
Should I just give her fifteen bucks and a bus ticket to Detroit?
Cupcake Heartbreak 