Thursday, October 22, 2015

Can't get no love?

I was listening to that TLC song "No Scrubs" and I realized that during high school and college, I was the scrub. I was sitting in the passenger side of my best friend's ride.

Of course, I do that now, mostly, too, because I fucking HATE driving.

Does it count as being a scrub if you hate driving, and that's the reason you're hanging in the passenger side?

Would it be better if I sat in the back?

I think this may be a reason I'm glad I'm married - I can default to the husband driving and not worry about feeling like a scrub.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Friday night is for relaxing, right? Sure it is.

How was your Friday night?

Mine was terrible, thanks.

I got stung by a wasp that was IN MY HAIR.

I fucking hate nature.

Yeah, so I thought I'd be a grown up and go to the market to get some fresh fruits and veggies to make for dinner. Instead, I end up getting stung, having a panic attack, going to urgent care, and also involving my neighbor.

The husband was at work, and was going to be late. I drove home from the market, and, for who knows what reason, I reached into my purse for something. I felt a pretty painful jab, but figured it was the teeth on the zipper of my bag snagging my forearm.  What else could it possibly be, right?

My right arm and hand started feeling funny and weird - buzzy and tense and ache-y - but I thought it was maybe because I pack-mule carried too many bags to my car. I kept flexing my arm and fingers and looked for a cut or something, but I didn't see anything. Also, I was driving, so I wasn't looking too close.

I pulled into the garage and turned off the car and, because I am vain and always want to look at myself, check the rearview mirror. And there is a wasp. IN. MY. HAIR.

I screamed.

And realized I didn't get snagged by my zipper, I got stung.

And then I really started panicking, because I had been stung by a wasp, and it was in my hair, and I was alone having to deal with this.

I debated just laying down and dying, but my manicure was pretty terrible, and also there were a lot of groceries in the car and I didn't want to waste that money.

For half a second, I thought about just pulling the wasp out of my hair, but then realized that was the height of foolishness.

So I took my keys and opened the car door, and nudged the wasp onto my keys, which I immediately shook outside the car and then slammed the door shut.

And continued to panic.

I called the husband, who told me to go to urgent care, except neither of us knew where one was.  He told me to go next door and ask the neighbor for help. I didn't want to, because I was having a panic attack and a wasp had been in my hair, and there is only so much foolishness I want to share with people who I see on a daily basis.

In the end, I went next door, and my nice neighbor drove me to the urgent care. Probably the most comical part was getting in and out of his very giant truck. I am not tall. It was like practicing the high jump.

Then at the urgent care, they put me in the pediatrics room. I'd like to think that it was because it was the only room available, but it was probably because I was a big fucking baby.

I managed to calm down, finally, and because I tend to end up with double size reactions to bee stings, I got some steroids for the sting.  The after effects of the panic attack and a nice dose of Benadryl, and I was asleep by 9pm.

Next Friday night? Taco Goddamn Bell for dinner.

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

To sleep, perchance to dream.

The husband was away this past weekend. The girl, too, obviously.

I spent the weekend alone, except for those goddamn cats who are making it their goal in life to get on my very last nerve.

I'm not a good sleeper. I used to be a good sleeper. I'd easily sleep in late - until midday. That stopped even before I had the girl. I wake up a lot during the night and read for a while until I fall asleep. That's why if you drive past my house at 3am [why are you driving past my house at 3am?], there's usually a light on in my bedroom. I'm re-reading something that I know and enjoy, something that will lull me back to sleep. Something entertaining, but I already know how it ends, so I won't stay up until 5:30am to find out what happened, and then get mad when the alarm goes on at 5:40am, and boy, oh, boy, work is going to be an adventure in keeping my shit together.

So, usually, my bedside light is on until way super late.

The hall light is also on, because I don't want to trip over a cat meandering around my bedroom door.

The front porch light - which I forget even exists - is also on, because . . . it just is.

The kitchen light over the sink is on in case I need to refill my water bottle.

The laundry room light in the basement is on so the cats can see what they're doing when they're eating and doing their business.

Fine. I'll stop lying. Here's the truth: When I am home alone, all of the lights on because of monsters. I LOVE scary movies and scary stories and scary everything, until I am by myself in the dark, and then I am cursing myself for being an idiot for remembering every scary part of The Strangers or reminding myself not to say Bloody Mary three times when I am in the bathroom stress peeing.

So every light in my house is a nightlight, and planes can probably use my house as a beacon to guide them to the nearest airport.

Shit. Aliens can probably use those lights, too.

God damn it.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

I'll never quit you.

Women's clothing is THE WORST. The worst. It's so hard to find things that don't have superfluous stitching or that actually fit well or that are not made of polyester.

I love these pants. I love them because they fit absolutely perfectly. No gap in the back. Not tight or too high or low at the waist. Perfectly hemmed for my favorite shoes. They have pockets, despite being dress pants [WOMEN NEED POCKETS, TOO, PEOPLE].

I am constantly complemented on them. People ask what brand they are because the fit is amazing. I love these black pants. I will wear them forever.

But only with long tops, because the zipper keeps sliding open.

I have no idea what the deal is. They aren't too tight, and they zip up just fine. Several days of the month, they are a bit loose in the tummy area. And yet? I have to check my zipper every time I stand up because it will invariably have come open.

So I do a little dance with my pants, because I love them and am going to wear them no matter what.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Life in these damn burbs.

There are few things more depressing or stultifying than municipal buildings built in the 1970s. God. What was wrong with people? Cocaine can only be blamed for so much.


Oh, my god, I DO NOT CARE that your kid is an honor student. NO BODY CARES. Your kid doesn't even care. Especially the middle school one.

PS Your dog is not smarter than that person's honor student. Your dogs eats shit - its own, other dogs', even people's. That is not the sign of intelligence. Just stop it. You lost in the Parenting Capades. Stop trying to overcompensate.


Yes, I will buy your Girl Scout cookies. Because I believe in what the Girl Scouts stand for - proudly LGBT-friendly, gender positivity, strength of character. And also because OMFG SAMOAS.


This Target isn't big enough for the both of us. Step away from the clearance rack and put down that bath mat. It's the exact green I need. Move it, or I will end you.


This construction on the direct route between my house and the nearest Costco and the market where I get my vegetables is going to be the final push that sends me careening toward murdering people who DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW TO FUCKING MERGE. I HATE YOU SO MUCH.


Nobody wants to be part of the block party. Stop making it a yearly thing.


Yes, the suburbs are monotonous and homogenous and devoid of interest, but very rarely do I have to avoid stepping in someone's vomit.