Bullied Chivalry

He's Adrian. He generally doesn't do wrong. He's nice to humans, animals, insects, and his favorite Jesus. He thinks prayers and sending handmade cards will fix any social or economical problem. He considers being nice to mean people as a valid attempt to rock the universe in his favor and eliminate his cavities. He pretends to get grossed out when Daddy with one T kisses me but I see the corners of his mouth secretly beaming; he gets exponential happiness from viewing any form of love. He can draw better than your kid and spell better than your whole family.

He is genuinely worried about never finding a wife and has been since he was about five. That's a long three years of disappointment in the opposite sex. It's hard to tell him that females will get better when the only improvement he's had in prospective wives since Kindergarten is that they stopped shitting their pants and started growing awkward and ugly adult teeth. It's difficult to imagine your perfect vision of a spouse in a first grader with dirty shoelaces and a no-belt-tuck. No wonder a few years ago he asked if he could just marry his sister. 

He was at his Nana's this past weekend and I missed him, like always. When he came back on Sunday, I hugged him too tight and smelled his hair like I was an orangutan mom searching for bugs. He always smells like judgement (?)when he comes back. As much as I hate his Grandpa's cologne, it still smells like Adrian coming home.

I was a few miles away when I got the text message:

by the way, he was crying hysterically when we picked him up on friday. something about boys being mean to him on the bus

I don't have a "boys will be boys" attitude. I will rip out a little kid's liver with my nubbins of fingernails if they make Adrian cry. 

Me: Hey, buddy. Did something happen on the bus on Friday? 

Adrian: well...yeah....(looks ashamed and sad) 

Me: Well...tell me who made you sad, honey,  and where do they live. 

Adrian: It was Todd. He...just...wasn't saying very nice...things..to me. 

Me: TODD THE ONE WITH THE ATHLETE MUSCLES? 

Adrian: well. yeah. 

Me: How could this have happened? Doesn't he realize how stupid and awful he is, and that you're awesome and articulate?

Adrian: NO! He doesn't realize that at all. He said I'm ugly and I'll never have a girlfriend and I don't draw good. 

....

.....

..............

I pulled my car into the McDonalds parking lot a few blocks from our house, and slammed it into park. 

"He. Said. WHAT."

Adrian has that look on his that he wish he could take back what he just said. Like the way my face probably looks when at the exact moment I open the back door and I realize I've already set the alarm. He couldn't take those words back. I couldn't undo the opening of the door. Now the alarm was going to blare and I was about to yank out Todd's hair. 

I tried to get more information about the context of this little verbal scuffle with the feral  kid, but he wasn't forthcoming with more details. He knew he had added enough fuel to the fire to make sure I took care of any of his problems, like the amazing helicopter mom I am. 

He assures me that the daycare director talked to Todd and told his parents and all was well and happy, and could we please just get happy meals and listen to Michael Buble sing about Christmas? 

Monday afternoon I trotted into his daycare to pick him up. I had not thought much about the heartless bullying incident until I turned the corner and saw Todd The 8 Year Old Athlete with Muscles  rolling a ball back and forth with another small child. Not sure why, but I immediately assumed the other child was in on the ploy to destroy my perfect offspring. 

Adrian had spotted me and had run back to another room to get his backpack. I walked right up to the assholes and stood between them. I stopped their probably athletically-rolled ball with my high heel. 

"Hello Todd"

He looked surprised I knew his name. 

"Uh. Hey." He tried to awkwardly grab the ball under my heel. I pushed down harder on the rubber and intensified my stare. I turned slowly to face the other mongrel. 

"How are you BOYS today? Being Nice? Making good decisions? hmmm?"

My voice was dripping with hatred of their souls. By now the Teacher has taken notice that I'm bullying some elementary school children and comes to stop me. Adrian also caught the last little exchange between myself and the little fuckhead. 

"Yeah. I'm being nice"

"Well, YOU BETTER BE GLAD." I then gave him an aggressive white mom head jerk as the teacher was tugging me into another room.

Teacher: What is going on????

Me: What's going on??? What's going on??? Those boys SAID things to Adrian on the bus. Things that weren't NICE. He was bawling his eyes out!

Hearing the words come out of my mouth, I now know I am overreacting to a minor infraction and that Miss Holly is going to think I'm batshit crazy. 

Miss Holly turns to Adrian. "What did they say? I'm sorry I wasn't here on Friday, did the other teachers talk to them?"

Adrian: Yes. But the other kid is nice, Mom. He and I read books together. I think he's probably really confused why you just took his ball with your shoe and stared at his heart. 

I turn to Miss Holly and start to try to explain-

Mary: I'm thinking I just-

Miss Holly: AH HELL NO. NO ONE MAKES MY ADRIAN CRY. 

I saw a fury grow in her that I thought only a Mother could nurture and give birth to. The way she stormed off with her clipboard and the red in her cheeks made me know that I didn't have to worry about this godless child hurting my angel again anytime soon. 

The director of the daycare catches me on the way out. She asks if Adrian had told me what happened, and I just told her that I knew Todd was being mean and he was upset. She kind of coyly asked if I had learned what had started the altercation. I said that if I had, I don't remember because my eyes started bleeding hatred from my heart and I was shell-shocked. 

Daycare director: Well...ha...um....there was a girl that Todd was being to. And...Adrian kind of likes this girl, I think. Maybe he has a crush, I don't know. But Todd said something about her being ugly and Adrian said... 'You're wrong. She's very sexy'....

....

......

Me: ........

 Director: So then Todd and all his friends were making fun of Adrian for using the word sexy.

Adrian is eight. As awful and embarrassing as it is that he used that word, I can guarantee you that little 2nd grade girl has never felt more like a bombshell sexpot in her entire 7 years of living. I like to imagine her having a whole new spark in her glitter-shoelaced step. I know he is definitely thinking that once all her adult teeth come in and she gets braces and her first eyebrow waxing, she will be first in line to be his wife. 

Watch out, single ladies 

The 2nd post I've ever written about dog sex

(NTRK Day whatever, since I took the weekend off)



Adrian ran back into our room, screaming and grabbing his face like Macaulay Culkin.

"Charlie is kind of pooping in my room!"

Charlie is a yorkie. Mat got him for us last year for Christmas. We've had him almost a year with no problems. He has only had a few accidents and the only complaint I have about him is that when I am not paying attention he licks my armpit or cleavage, whichever is closer.

I grabbed my slippers and ran into Adrian's room. Charlie was hunched over in a poopingish position but wasn't running from me like he normally would if he was taking a shat in the house. I went to pick him up but he looked funny. Almost like he was in a state of pure ecstasy, yet also extremely invaded.

"Look at his poop, Mom!"

That's when I saw it. It kind of flopped against the ground and pulsated. It was huge and purple and veiney. I screamed. Charlie glanced up at me, annoyed that I interrupted.

"Adrian, go get Dad"

I hear him wailing as he runs down the hall "Whaaaatttt's happenninnnnggggg"

When he ran into my bedroom to get Mat, he was extremely distraught.

"Daddy you gotta come quick. Oh my god, it's not poop. It's not poop. It's....it's coming....it's out of his....oh my god hurry up and get up, it's out of his....it's from his.....privates penis...oh my gah come on!"

Mat calmly walks in the room as I have leaned down and am at a loss for what is going on with my life. I have always had male dogs and have NEVER seen anything like this before. I wasn't even for certain it was what I was fearing it was. I thought it was a tumor that fell out of his stomach. It was so big. Charlie weighs a little over 11 pounds and I am pretty sure his doggy chub was 9 inches. Little Ron Jeremy is still in hunched over position, throbbing and moaning and wanting a cigarette.



Mary: Mat, what is it?

Mat:....

Mary: IS THAT HIS DICK?

Mat: Yeah. Yeah. That's his dick. Damn, Charlie, putting me to shame.

Mary: I think he's dying or something. I think his intestines are falling out. Something is falling out. That's not okay. Look at him.

Mat: Yeah but he looks...like...he's all right.

Mary: I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY IT'S PULSING.



At this point, some of it got on my foot. Yes, that happened. I can't go into further detail because this is a family blog. But...let's just say I didn't get there in time to stop what was now happening.

As I was yelling and trying to keep myself from offing myself, Mat picked up Charlie and carried him with his one eyed purple people eater facing away from him, all the way to our bathroom. He shouted at Adrian to look away. When I cleaned off my foot (sick) and went to follow, I found Adrian in the corner of the kitchen, facing the wall, crying.



Adrian: What's..(sob) .happen....ing......(sob)

Mary: He's fine.  Can you tell me what Charlie was doing right before he pooped Tarzan's dong out of his urethra?

Adrian: He was...just...hugging my pillow pet. He was hugging it over and over again and then started growling at him and biting at him.

Mary: Okay. Are you ready for this?

Adrian: (sob) yes...(sniffle)

Mary: Sometimes, when penises think they're having sex they get real big.

Adrian: OH MY WORD. and slimy???

Mary: Meh, that one's really disgustingly slimy. He's okay, though. He just thought he was making sweet doggy sex to your pillow pet.

Adrian: Why didn't it go away when we told him to stop?!?!

Mary: Adrian, I'm cool with talking about this all night if you want to but do you really want to ask more questions.

Adrian: Ug. No. Goodnight.




I got him a glass of water and tucked him back in, talking about Disneyland to clear his little mind of k9 penis veins.

I walked back into our bathroom, expecting Mat to have done whatever it takes to have this wrapped up and taken care of. At this point it had been a good twelve minutes since orgasm dog started his thing, surely by now this was over.

No.

Mat is in the doorway, his phone to his face. Charlie is hunched over his gross self on a bathroom rug.



Mary: Uhhh, could we not get this session wrapped up?

Mat: If this goes on for 30 minutes it says we should take him to the vet.

Mary: Take him to the vet right now. Those blood vessels are about to burst all over my bathroom.

Mat: It says here not to manually release him or assist him in any way, because it could cause more damage than good.

Mary: Ummm...yeah....you don't...have to worry...about that.

Mat: It says to get a cold and wet cloth and put it on it.

Mary: I nominate you to put a cold and wet cloth on it. You seem like you'd be good at that.

All of a sudden, Charlie breathes out deeply and lays down on his side, panting. He's now done. How nice for him.

Mat: Ah, there it goes. It's going away.

Mary: I'm so grossed out by him right now. Just. Make him go away. He's like a trucker on the side of the highway.

Mat: I'm just glad we've already had sex today because this would have killed the mood.



If anyone would like to see a picture, we MAY have taken one. I may have been sending it to a few select friends at different levels of zoom all day. I am not sure about the beastiality laws and distribution of naked dogs, etc. Just text me if you want some of that.

Nonperks of being a sixth grade (wall)Flower.

(NTRK Day 5)

Sixth grade.

I had my braces off before everyone else so you would think I was a goddess compared to the sea of brace faces.


Pre-teen hormones hit me a lot differently than it did most girls. All I had to do was listen to Lisa Loeb's "Stay" and think about my mother, who was alive and healthy in the next room, and I would be a crying sack of ugly on the floor. I still to this day can't watch Forrest Gump without getting a lump in my throat because I associate it with missing my mother, who was never gone. Weird and needy. That's Mary!

If only I could have one of those boyfriend things that all the girls who wore yellow boots had. They seemed to make you not cry on the floor. They seemed to get you past your Disney movie love stage, that was still clinging so desperately to me and my stretch pants.

I decided to make a tall boy in Miss Beasley's math class mine. I put wet n wild red lipstick on my cheeks and instead of doing my math homework, I wrote him a love note. I remember the nervousness of handing him the note mixed with the sudden immediate regret of not doing my homework. What balls of steel I had! He hadn't ever even talked to or acknowledged me and I decide I'm going to remind him that the girl who sang "Oscar Meyer Wiener" in front of the whole school was one bad bitch with some heavy emotional love for him.

Math was my 2nd class followed by Science and Vocal Music. I made it through all those unscathed. This game plan was working. I wondered what would happen when I saw him in Math the next day.

Lunch was here and I was excited about stuffing my plain face with my usual lunch of french fries and a blue bell cookies and cream ice cream sandwich. I was probably looking around to make friends when I walked past his lunch table. He was smiling, a bit uncomfortably. I have always thought he was a nice guy and this wasn't his instigating. One of his friends yelled "THERE SHE IS!" and cleared his throat. That's when I noticed the paper in his hand.

"'My heart skips a beat every time you walk by. I love coming to math because I get to sit close to you. I love your K swiss. Let's be boyfriend.' HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA LOOK AT HER SHE HAS CRAYOLAS ON HER FACE, EVEN!"

This sounds like the most embarrassing moment of someones life, but it wasn't that awful. It was kind of a meh, I tried, that sucks. I'll go sing it out and jump on a trampoline.

I was still a child. Obviously, boys couldn't make me cry but I wanted to cry every day at school because I missed my mom. I probably wasn't real ready to get it on with one of those 12 year old fetus-faced boys, anyways.



(I know my friends that have known me forever hate it when I don't use names. I know for a fact the recipient of the note reads this blog sometimes, and I can't call him out. The one who read the note out loud in the lunchroom was Brooks. Who sucks)

That blog..you know the one that's pointless...? (NTRK Day 4)

I often wonder how people would refer to me if they were talking to a friend and the friend didn't know who I was.

"Mary...you know, that obnoxious loud girl who breathes funny?"

"Mary...you know, she got lost in the parking lot and was crying in the bathroom?"

"Mary, you know Mary! Droopy-eyed democrat girl...?"

I am always surprised at the go-to description I give for people because they're never effective. Especially with husband with one T.



Mary: So I was talking to Cassie and I-

Mat: Who the fuck is Cassie?

Mary: Cassie. You know, my friend that likes Owen Wilson movies?

Mat: Okay. Continue.

Mary: Wait, but do you know who I am talking about?

Mat: No clue.

Mary: Are you serious? Cassie! Cassie. The one who smells like potatoes and friendship.

Mat: Go on with your story.

Mary: Do you know which one she is now? Cassie?

Mat: No, I've never met her. Just keep going, it doesn't matter.

Mary: It DOES matter. Cassie! She always uses prepositions at the end of her sentences. I always call her "girl" even though I hate when people say that.

Mat: Yeah, no idea.

Mary: WILL YOU PLEASE AT LEAST JUST TRY TO REMEMBER CASSIE. YOU'RE NOT EVEN TRYING OR LISTENING. CASSIE!

Mat: You can say her name as many times as you want. It won't help....

.....
.....

Mary: She's the one you said always wears baggie dresses so you can't tell if she has a nice body.

Mat: Oh yeah. That girl's name is Cassie? hmph.




If I'm talking to a friend about you and my friend can't figure out who I am talking about, I vow to say something super positive about you as the first reminder. Even if it's really hard.

"Julie, you know Julie. The one with..the...really..ummm...fresh breath..?..."

Sssssstrange Fascination, fascinating me...(NTRK day 3)

(NTRK is an acronym for November to Remember Kinda)


I have trouble sleeping.

The problem isn't physical, it's only mental. I have always joked with my friends that it's ADD but when I try to sleep it's almost the opposite. I can't stop focusing on a thought.

Sometimes this thought is a worry.

 "What am I going to do if I see a wasp tomorrow?"

 "I'm so sad that husband with one T didn't compliment me today"

"Why are there so many mean and poor people?"

etc.

But most of the time it is something completely random and senseless, making it all the more frustrating. I can't even explain it. I once couldn't sleep because I couldn't stop thinking about how the top of the easy cheese gets hard and what the hell are you supposed to do with that little tip of hard nasty hell cheese? I obsess over this thought.

Last night my thought that kept me up until nearly 2AM was The David Bowie lyric: "Time may change me, but I can't trace time."

It bothers me that he didn't make the statement prettier by saying "Time may change me, but I can't change time."

I mean, why the hell not!?  It makes sense, it's true, and it sounds 140% better. It flows right off the tongue.

I've listened to this song since I was a zygote and I don't know why my brain decided to pick last night to let it take over my life. I almost fell asleep and then I imagined David Bowie sitting on the basket of my banana seat bike, explaining the lyric to me. I imagined the written lyrics in every known language. I scribbled out multiple papers in my head with that damn lyric. I sang what I felt like should be the correct lyrics to some angels and some giraffes.

After 45 minutes, I said "ENOUGH MARY"

My first tactic to remove the thought is to take a walk. I take 3 laps around the couch and 2 around the island. Then I drink some water. Last night I threw in a jolly rancher.

I got back to bed and fell right back to sleep. My first dream was about my 9th grade zoology teacher. I don't remember how this related back to the song lyric but somehow it did. I turned to face the strain! Leave me alone, Bowie!

Time may change me, but I can't change time! (You probably even thought that's how that song went, am I right or am I right?)

After washing my face and singing a few other songs in my bathroom with the fan on, I finally got the mediocre lyric out of my head.

When the song comes on my iPod, I always sing my lyric You know, because it MAKES MORE SENSE. But this morning, on my way to work after my 3rd cup of coffee, that crazy pale bastard finally won.

I embrace change. Ch Ch Ch Ch Changes.

November to Remember Kinda. Day 2

Today is November 5, Monday. I have to go back to work today after being off most of late last week for my aforementioned assaulted neck and ear. Here's a picture of my swollen temple on my corn bag so you can feel ultra sorry for me and buy me a vacation to Zurich. 

My new job, let's talk about that. It's hardly "new" anymore. I have been there since May, with visions of free food,  proximity to coffee, and vision insurance dancing in my head; I went strongly into training knowing everybody was about to be blown out of the water. 

That didn't so much happen. I have never had a job that I didn't do well, but these last 3 months were my first quarter on "the floor" and the floor was not kind to me. I basically have a lot of people that I need to sell something. Every time they sell my thing, it goes to my number. If they don't want to sell my thing, they tell me to get the fuck away, and I go find a break room to cry in. I then call customers and try to make friends for the rest of the day, getting shot down every which way by everyone who wants to squash my smiles. I've been working on the weekends, working every evening, never leaving when I am supposed to, and I am still nowhere near where I want to be quota-wise or building relationships-wise.

Do I suck at this job? It appears so. But I am working very hard. I'm used to seeing how something could be done better, and taking those suggestions to someone in the same office as me, and those changes getting implemented. At Giant Computer Corporation, it's more of a "You have suggestions about what? Stop complaining and work harder." Then that's usually followed by an inside joke I don't get to be a part of because I'm still new and I still suck, so I go eat a muffin and think about a vacation to Helsinki. 

We'll have to see where this goes. I have new ideas to try to implement this quarter to see if they will make a difference. Hopefully Giant Computer will see something in me and bring me on to bigger and smilier things. I would eventually like to be a strategic lease rep. They only have a handful of people they support, so they are much less likely to get made cry in a break room 1/3 of the week. They also have the opportunity to travel to their geographic area to visit customers. I think I would love that. So that's on the goal list. I'll keep you advised through my November to Remember Kinda how the job is treating me. 

I also got a new scarf. It's so pretty that I refuse to acknowledge out loud how much it makes my face itch. 

"What'd that person over there pretend to say?"

November to Remember Kinda. Day 1

Here is my first entry in my November to Remember Kinda challenge. I originally decided since my job was sucking all the life all out of me I would promise myself to write every day in November.

But then November 1st happened and I got sick. Not sure what was/is wrong with me. Basically I had an ear infection and then the ear infection raped my neck. While kicking it and making it cry. Which in turn, made me hug a fluffy pillow and wrap my neck in hot corn for 5 days. I think I'm on the home stretch. I at least hope I am because I have to get out of my bed and get my mouth out of the kids' Halloween candy.

So here I am, November 4. Promising you that I will be here, every day for the rest of the month. It probably won't be funny or interesting or even readable. But it will jump me up in blog hits and get me that much closer to a book deal. Which is really all this is about anyways, can I  get a what what?

We had my family Thanksgiving today. It's my Mother's very selfless new idea of having holidays on random days, that way all of us divorcees and our offspring can be ALL HERS! It's a very good tactic. And it means I get to have a triptophan week of sleeping, which is better than ambien and sex combined when it comes to quality of sleep! Here's a picture of all of us today. Adrian looks slightly like he hates happy things, but getting everyone to look happy in a picture just doesn't happen.

Lofty Dreams...

I remember passing by the place when I was a kid and thinking it was scary. Such a negative image would come to mind when I would see  "Garage Loft" apartments. I always imagined sleeping under an Oldsmobile and breathing in exhaust fumes while getting kicked by a naked hobo with bad breath.  

When I was 18, though, I was obsessed with being different than everyone else. I wanted to be a musician. For my art to expand, I needed to suffer. Nobody likes a happy musician. All the best Beatles albums were made once they all grew out their beards, stopped smiling, and started doing drugs. I was ready to get out of the suburbs and suffer in the city with my non-conformist boyfriend and our Rauschenberg paintings.  

I imagined these apartments to cost around $200 a month. I mean, there weren't walls or ceilings, so they had to be dirty cheap. When we met the landlady to look at the apartment, she was dressed way too nice and spoke way too well for this to be the suffering ghetto we imagined. She showed us a two-story loft, that was 1600 sq feet, and had two walls of windows. I imagined little emo babies, living in the bedroom at the top of the stairs. There wasn't even a railing, so they'd have the cutest view of the cement floored living room below.  It was $2100 a month. We tried to kind of swallow and pretend like that wasn't a big deal, but I think I almost pooped my waitress uniform when she spoke that number. We made less than that in a month, AND we had two other bills. (ha!)

We asked to see a smaller cheaper one, like maybe, the smallest and cheapest one they had. She showed us one that was vacant in the very front. It just seemed so perfect and small, 800 sq feet with floor to ceiling windows and 18 foot ceilings with exposed pipes. We loved it and I could immediately see myself looking out of the windows with the forlorn face I was sure I could eventually have. I'd be listening to Janis Ian and writing my teenage angst to tune of A, C,  and D as those were the only chords I could play. 

The apartment was $660 a month. That was double what we had budgeted. I have no idea how we got approved. We got two parking spots, that were on the same floor as our apartment. We got to park right beside our door, inside! No more scraping ice off my car and getting my identity stolen! Okay, it wasn't the suffering we thought we'd be doing but it was even better. It was fancy and expensive and we were ready to sell out. 

We went antique shopping for furniture since we only had $60. I tried to be tricky/criminal and moved a price tag off a wobbly card table to a butcher block-style coffee table. When we tried to check out, the owner of the place called the booth renter to make sure that $14 was right for this antique wood table. I could hear her screaming through the phone. We played dumb and pretended like we were going to buy it anyway, but oops, I forgot my other $340. It was a little defeating. How could our decor possibly compete with our neighbors? 

We got creative. We had a big piece of glass that we set on top of a wooden table made of a record box and 4 legs. We filled the empty record box with pictures of us and our dogs. We bought that old card table and some fabric and tacked the fabric all the way around the table. We bought a used couch cover and covered an old hand-me-down couch. We attached spotlights to microphone stands with big metal clips. 

This was on their website. The 2 story loft. Who wouldn't want this place with these 2 hotties?

These are the only crappy pictures I could find. That's my "artwork" above the handmade lamp.

That TV was awesome. And yeah, those are bunny ears. 

Our first night there, I could barely sleep. It was so exciting. I kept wanting to open the curtains and stare at the city. I worked as a waitress, so I was always up late anyway and slept most of the day. We didn't have cable or internet so mostly we listened to music and fought. We LOVED to fight. You're lazy, no you're lazy, no you don't appreciate my talent, no you need to brush your teeth, STOP SMOKING, you're so selfish, stop quitting your job. After our first big fight the first night in the new apartment, I felt like it was already tainted. I laid in bed thinking about my parents' house. There was carpet and grass and my parents at that house. Finally fell asleep at almost 4 AM, thinking about stupid decisions and low self-esteem. 

I was woken up slowly by progressing loudness. It was 7:45 AM, according to my alarm clock. Why were people talking? I peeked out the window and saw people. People that were awake for exercise. Loud, stupid, healthy people with matching shirts on. It was a marathon. I had to get up. They were so loud. I tried to open the windows and have a happy attitude. 

I heard a banging at the door. When I answered it a man in scrubs stood in front of a Ferrari. He gave me a goofy condescending smile and pointed to my Honda accord parked next to my door. "NOPE. My spot." 

I found out that the landlady had told me wrong and I actually had to park in the parking garage. This meant I had to park in a PARKING GARAGE in DOWNTOWN OKLAHOMA CITY and walk up a dark flight of stairs by myself every day. Remember how I fear getting thrown in the back of a van? Parking garages aren't really conductive to that kind of fear. My boyfriend, Chad, was at work. I called him bawling about the parking spot. I didn't even want to live there if I had to park in a parking garage. He told me I was overreacting and to go back to sleep. I couldn't go back to sleep because people were running for a good cause outside our window. 

The rain was wonderful in the loft. I opened all the curtains, turned on Diana Krall, and watched the drops fall on the windows. That was when the place was wonderful;  Chad wasn't there and I was alone in the rain.

I got home from work at midnight and when I walked in, Chad was looking at something intently across the street. I took off my apron and picked a fight. 

When we had that settled, we discussed what he'd been looking at. On the curb in front of the florist (Floral and Hardy, how cute is that?!) there was an arcade game. It was HUGE. It had a sign on it that said "free". We decided we had to have it. People kept driving by and looking at it and we already felt like it was ours. We had so much space and it would look more than appropriate on the cement floor. Problem was, it was almost two in the morning and we knew someone would come back for it when the sun came up. We didn't have any friends, let alone any friends with a truck. We needed a dolly but had negative twelve dollars in our bank account. So we opened my trunk and leaned it onto the open part of the trunk. Chad lifted up the other side and I drove, up a very steep hill, with him carrying the other side. Then we shoved it onto a blanket that we dragged into our home. We had an arcade game. Word spread in the building, and all the rich people were knocking to look at our decor. Ferrari guy even complimented the homemade microphone stands. 

We only lasted there about 3 months, because of a little billing problem. By that, I mean, we ain't gots no money. While walking the dogs we stumbled upon a place in a non-respectable area with sign in the yard. "4 RENT $300". It had no dishwasher or laundry facilities. The lady that came to show us the place was wearing a giant pink t-shirt with an upside down Tweety bird. She owned not a single tooth. Before she let us in to give us a tour she yelled at us. 

"I AIN'T GOT NO PROBLEM WITH YALLS PEOPLE HAVING A PAST. EVERYBODY DONE FUCKED UP ONCE OR TWICE SO YA GOT BAD CREDIT OR BEEN TO JAIL OR STUFF I AINT CARE. I JUST CAINT HAVE NO ONE THAT MESSED WITH KIDS OR DID TIME FOR CRIMES WITH  GUNS OR BOMBS OR NOTHING"

This place would clearly be much better for us. 

You wish, Hoodie criminal!

I have to overcome my fears. 

Okay, not at all of them. Just some of them. Well, at least one right now.The reason it's really important right now is because today is cold. It hasn't been cold in like, 8 months. When it gets cold, people wear hoodies. And when people wear hoodies, I think they want to throw me in the back of a van. 

I've always said, if I got kidnapped I think I could talk my way out of it. I would pretend to enjoy it and be happy until the kidnapper just loved the shit out of me. Then I would tell him I was going to go for a walk and think about how happy I had been in the basement he'd thrown me in. He'd be so happy that he made me so happy that he would let me go and I would sprint (walk fast) to the nearest restaurant so I could be rescued and eat, essentially solving both of my biggest problems in one act. For some reason in my head, I picture this restaurant having pancakes. I really can't explain that. 

Anyways. Even though I feel like I am confident in my escape skills, I still fear the process.  

One day I was getting out of my car while working at the bank. I turned and saw a man in the same general area as me, heading in my general direction. I screamed. I screamed and took off sprinting, looking back to see if he was still coming to get me. I got in the bank, out of breath and almost sobbing as I told the tellers that a man in a hoodie had been chasing me. That's when he walked in and made a deposit in his granddaughter's Kangaroo savings account. 

How do you come back from that? It's tough. I told him I was sorry and said something super cheesy and old fashioned like, "you scared the bejeebies out of me!". He didn't acknowledge my apology and never really spoke to me again. Even though he ALWAYS talked to the employees who hadn't ran from him screaming like a monkey. What a judgmental asshole. 

Is it an ego thing? Do I think everyone wants to put me in their car/basement? I really don't know. I don't even feel safe when I'm with other people, in the middle of the day, in a parking lot full of cameras. 

One day a few weeks ago, my friend Amy and I were walking out of work. We work at a very large company and sometimes have to walk far to get to our car. There's a crosswalk that stretches across the multiple parking lots. It was an incredibly nonscary time, like 1pm or around there. Amy was casually telling me a story that I wasn't listening to because I was certain the person walking behind us wants us to be his. I kept looking over my shoulder to try to subtly make him feel subordinate but it was to no avail. He was gaining on us. Never mind myself, I had to save Amy. She's very little and had no idea we were about to get hit in the back of the head with a laptop bag. I wasn't going to stand for it. I finally lifted up my hand to shush Amy and turned around and stared our attacker straight on. 

"LISTEN, YOU NEED TO WALK THE OTHER WAY OR GET IN FRONT OF US. YOU'RE WALKING WAY TOO CLOSE TO US AND MAKING US UNCOMFORTABLE"

The way this computer geek looked at me, like how dare I think that because I was on the sales floor I could question his walking speed, was enough to halt the rumble we were about to have, West Side Story-style (snap, snap). He said, "I'm just walking to my car, it's right there." , like it was obvious and simple. I'm still not sure if I stopped an imminent stalker attack or just insulted a friendly co-worker leaving for Quiznos. 

I realized I may need an intervention because today it reached a new low. 

We were at Adrian's soccer game, it was fucking cold, and people were wearing coats, like cold people tend to do. 

The one on the left must have kidnapped the other one. 

It was about five minutes until the end of the game and I asked husband with one T to take Ellis to the car and get it nice and warm for me. So he left a little early, and I had to walk to the car with Adrian once the game was over. As we're walking, discussing his badassnes on the field, I noticed my heart is racing a little bit and I can't put a finger on what I'm so uncomfortable with. Then suddenly, just like the big machine that locates all the mutants in Xmen, I notice I am surrounded by men in hoodies. Most of them are even wearing sunglasses in an even more obviously criminal fashion. 

The gate to get into the soccer fields is small and allows only one person to pass through at a time. I have  spotted a killer in an OU hoodie that is plotting how to take me out and leave my adorable soccer player behind. We seem to CONVENIENTLY get to the gate at the same time. He smiles at me and Adrian and notions me to go right ahead. A 'ladies first' gesture, if you will. 

The only thought that came into my head was

"You wish, Motherfucker! I'm smarter than that!"

I gave him a condescending and all-knowing smile and said my thoughts in a kid friendly manner. Something like, "Yeah, no way. YOU'RE going first". He was confused but went ahead of me, complying with my demands like a good criminal.

So yeah, this needs to stop. No one wants you, Mary. You breathe too loud and talk too much and don't brush your teeth most Saturdays. Get over yourself. 

Porch Noodling Competition 2012

From Mary's perspective:

I was pulling out of the garage to go get my eyebrows debushed when I noticed something out of the corner of my hairy eye.

What the hell...? I thought. Is that a bear? From my car in the street, I could see movement behind the reed plant that looked like human movement. But I kept seeing bear so I kept on thinking there was probably a small bear on the front porch. Then the bear looked up and it had skin on its face. It was a human. A human on my porch, dangling its toes in my pond.

Okay. Keep in mind that our pond is more like a puddle of incest than a pond. I don't need to mention again the amount of brother/sister sex these fish are having. It is not big enough for a foot, even if that foot belonged to a little old Asian lady. Here are some pictures so you can really zone in on the awkwardness of this.

How did scream, "DANGLE YOUR FEET IN ME"?

She walked all the way up the driveway and sidewalk. For 2 years. 

I walked up, expecting her to either shoot me and run or just run, yelling at me that she'd won while carrying a couple of inbred fish she'd stolen. Both scenarios involved running away, embarrassed by being caught being completely inappropriate and disrespectful of others. She definitely didn't run away at all.

Pond creeper: Oh hi!

Mary: Um...hi

PC: She having so much fun!

I notice there is a little girl sitting next to her. She's adorable, with an afro and all pink clothes. Her hands aren't so much adorable as they are 10 inches into the bottom of our fish poo pond.

PC: You live here?

Mary (picture fake nice condescending awkward voice Mary): Yeahhh. Uh huh. I do.

PC: We enjoy your house for so many year. Since she were little, 1 years old, we come play in your water and fish. Now she 3 and You NEVER HERE. IS SO FUNNY!

Mary: Yeah, uh huh. Well, yeah, we both work...so.

PC: I think you Asian!

Mary: I'm sorry, what?

PC: You have the herb in your garden. We use the herb to make tea that make it so much better for no to pain anymore. HAHA. I say HAHA. I think you Asian so I take your herb, you thank you. HAHA.

Mary: My basil? You took my basil for your creepy headache tea?

The little girl, this entire time, never looks up at me. She is scooping the water/fish shit out with her hands and dumping it on the rock next to it. It's making the entire porch smell like a tuna sewage factory. Husband with one T had come out for just a moment without his shirt on, looked at me like I was crazy, and walked back in to leave the matter to me, the lady of the house.

PC: Yes yes. Is good for this. (rubs her temples) I don't know what translate to, just herb for tea. I like it very much. Is so funny that you not Asian. HAHA.

I knock on the door to get Mat back out on the porch. I am too non-confrontational to deal with this. I would be okay just listening to her rambling while being uncomfortable at night thinking she was watching me sleep. I am not very good at "handling" things. I tend to "avoid" them and then just call my mom and cry if they get worse.

Mary: Honey, should...I...do....something?

Mat: Was she just SITTING OUT THERE? I thought you invited her! WHO IS SHE?!

That was my cue to do a nice smile/ wave goodbye and start heading for my car,  which is still running in the middle of the street.

Mat: Uh. Hey. What are we doing here?

PC: Oh hi. You live here. We enjoy your pond for many years. I babysit and we play in pond. HAHA.

Mat: What the hell? Ya'll need to GO.

Mat doesn't really beat around the bush or concern himself with things like small talk or compassion.



From Porch Creeper's perspective

Oh, look. A beautiful pond. I would like to stick my body parts in it. Oh look, basil. The only person who grows basil is an Asian person and since they're Asian they are just like me and will enjoy me sitting on their porch while they're gone and letting my charge play amongst super fun fish shit. Let's continue to do this for 2 years. Oh look, here comes a big lady,  who the hell is she? She mumbled about something and I was confused why she was interrupting our daily porch time. Her eyebrows is bushy. Here comes her son. Or is that her dad?  He has a hairy chest like a Venezuelan. He is saying something to me about going. I laugh a lot. We don't go. We will never go!

My Irish twin...

I had to let you know about my brother.


Today is his 30th birthday! He's less than 11 months older than me. That makes us Irish twins. Not sure if you realize it or not but I kinda love the shit outta him.

Dressed alike for family pics in December

A possible indicator of this could be this post , this one , or that one, and even an honorable mention in this other one!


Here are few little Matthew stories:

When we were little, my mom was a bad ass toy slinger for Discovery Toys and sometimes it would take her out of town. I can't imagine that career line took her anywhere too exotic; she was probably in Bixby or something. Our dad was responsible for making sure my brother and I didn't die. He had made us a big steaming bowl of macaroni and cheese that I am sure he was adorably proud of. Matthew and I were 4 and 5, playing on the floor with some rocks we had pulled out of the flower bed. They were those big white crystally looking pointy rocks. We saw Dad coming and scrambled up to the table to get in our seats, leaving a few of the rocks in the pathway of the casserole-toting/loving dad of ours. When Dad felt those ridiculous unforgiving crystal points of the rocks against the sensitive bare skin on the arch of his foot, he immediately stumbled around awkwardly and tossed the steaming food onto the table.



"WHO PUT THESE ROCKS HERE? WHOSE ROCKS ARE THESE?!?"

Matthew and I looked at each other, terrified, and Matthew looked at my Dad with his sweet little face and said...

"They're your rocks Dad......I painted them for you."

"OH. WELL. UH. I GUESS I BETTER BE CAREFUL WHERE I PUT MY ROCKS."

My next favorite story is the one about the time he locked me out of the house and I peed my pants.


Oh wait. That totally sucked and I hate that day.




Here's another cute picture.

I'm sure if I wasn't blocking, we could see his little boy ball huggers

When he was 16, he drove the 1989 Toyota LE  to school. He gave zero fucks that it was a giant silver van. I, on the other hand, pretty much only cared about finding purses that would make my boobs look the biggest when I wore it cross-body. I pretended like I didn't even know him when he was in that van. (I hate 1998 Mary too, okay?)  He would pull up beside me at school when I was spitting my game at an upperclassman and start waving at me enthusiastically. I would yell at him about it later and rip the phone cord out of the wall so it would kick him off AOL. He would just laugh at me and think I sucked. Which. I did.

One day, my "boyfriend" "Amus"  didn't give me a ride home from school because he didn't like me. I was wandering the halls asking friends for quarters to call someone to pick me up. Matthew walked by and asked why I was still there and said a cuss word or two about Amus. He said to come on, he'd take me home. I looked out the window to the parking lot to make a mental record of the cool people that could possibly view this happening. I shook my head. NO way I was gonna be seen in that giant metal thing. He walked out to his car and it only took me about 45 seconds to change my mind. I could just duck down in the passenger seat. I ran out there to catch up with him and hopped in the passenger seat and ducked down on the floor. He drove a few feet, put the car in park and jumped out. 

Matthew: Get out of the car, Mary.

Mary: What? No! Everyone is looking. 

Matthew: I'm not taking you home like this. 

Mary: Shut the freak up and close the door and get back in the car. OH MY GOD. You're so embarrassing. 

Matthew: I'm not driving. (Starts waving at people and pointing to me crouched down in the floorboard)

Mary: STOP! Matthew stop! 

Matthew: If you want to get home, you have to drive. 

Mary: I am not driving this thing while juniors and seniors are still in the parking lot. 

Matthew: Then you're not getting home and I am going to continue to wave at people. 

Someone with a cool Mitsubishi pulls up behind us and lays down the horn for us to move. They probably have swoopy hair and bad grades. Them seeing me like this was unacceptable. I jumped across the console and yelled at Matthew to get in the car. I had a driver's permit and I was gonna use it. 

Mary: Get in the car, Matthew. Now!

We drove through the parking lot. 

Matthew: Roll your window down, Marigold. Wave at the boys. 

Mary: I hate you. 

Matthew: WOOOOO! HEY GUYS! MARY'S IN THE CAR! WOOOO! LOOK OVER HERE! SHE'S DRIVING THIS THING HERSELF AND SHE LOVES IT! SHE WANTS YOU TO LOOK AT HER DRIVING! 

He was such an ass and pushed me so far that I ended up hurting myself I was laughing so hard. I was so angry, but he was so ridiculous and embarrassing that I couldn't take it and ended up waving at cool people just to make my brother think I was careless and fun like him. 

I'm not real sure what we are wearing/doing in this lovely picture

So....he makes me very happy.

I'll leave your birthday present right here right now. Enjoy. 

Happy birthday to a guy who never cares that squished balls ruined a good picture

I wish, more than anything, we could see our striped socks in this  picture. You know we had them .

Proof I was nice to you at least one day. Even if you had a temperature of 112 and it was just for the photo op.

Dad made us pose like this, the next picture in the stack was me pointing at a pumpkin.

Did you get me a present that year? I hope it was a hacky sack.

My thighs weren't crushing you THAT bad

Nothing says I love Fupa Bear like matching head to toe sweatsuits.

I wouldn't want to touch my 12 year old wanna be sexy face either.

Always waving! hahahahaha

One armed attractiveness gene display

Have a happy birthday! Don't let any girls wearing tights as pants in LA get you down. If you come home to beautiful Oklahoma, where it's only 106 degrees but a mansion costs 200k, I will make you a birthday cake and then stare at it. 

For the love of the lack of the game

I didn't have boyfriends in high school. It's a little hard to understand because I wasn't ugly. I just had zero game. The only thing I knew about romantic relationships was what I gathered from watching Disney movies and my parents.

Disney movies involve boys not wanting sex but instead wanting to come to my family's thanksgiving dinners and look at cute baby pictures of me wearing silly hats.

My parents don't fight, they have no insecurities or jealousies, they have an intricate level of trust that I will never understand, and they would rather be with each other than anyone else.

You may see how this would set me up for an unrealistic expectation of high school love.

This could be an extremely long blog but I shall keep it short in hopes that you'll read it and comment on it.

We'll start with a guy I will call Amus. Because that sounds like anus and he was anus-like.

I met him at the beginning of my sophomore year, when he was in the same talent show as me. He played the guitar for a cool girl who sang some cool song. I sang something from a musical by myself with no band. Neither here nor there.

He loved him some Jesus and we would go to church on Wednesdays, where he would play the guitar and I would think of the things we could do if we didn't both love the big prude guy upstairs so much. He called me gorgeous and drove a hipster car, so I would make him my boyfriend. He came over to my house and met my parents and laughed with my brother over how often I spilled things and broke stuff.

Clearly, he loved me.

But people started telling me otherwise. They said he just thought I was hot and wanted to take off my clothes. When I asked him about it, he said "Well, it's not like you really thought we had some deep love connection, right?"

WRONG.

If I knew then what I do now, I would've ignored his ass and looked hot and happy at school until he regretted ever letting me out of his sight.

But, I didn't know, and Amus knew that. He somehow convinced me keeping it casual and not telling anyone was the only way to make it work. I excitedly agreed, just please keep holding my hand in the car and singing Third Eye Blind. I knew where his classes were, and would wait outside of them. Sometimes he would walk right past me and then I'd cry. One time we ended up at the same house for a night o drinking, which we didn't do because of Mr. Jesus. Not only did he drink, he didn't speak a word to  me the entire time we were there. I had a friend of his take me home, and I bawled in the backseat in the fetal position the whole way home.

His friend only said one thing, "He doesn't even like you"

I decided to move on but he didn't want me to. I have a feeling this is because I told him once we had been together for a year, we could make that sweet nasty high school love. He had other girls but would still make me feel like we were kinda sorta a little bit together. I would cry and tell him I loved him. I begged him over and over again to come to my recitals and plays. I requested kindly that he acknowledge me at school. He refused and I was like 'that's okay he still loves me, as long as sometimes he calls me and tells me that.'

Then the summer came. I turned 16. Went to church camp. Listened to N Sync. Got awesome boobs. Gained some self esteem. Was doing good and being strong and awesome and fun.

Then Amus came back. He's all, "let's be together so we can still do it". He took me the lake, where he had floating candles in the water. He had borrowed his friend's trailer. By trailer, I mean a home where he thought he could he could drive his car into my innocent garage. But I had the strength of the Virgin Mary (pun very much intended) and I told him if those were his intentions he needed to take me home. He took me to a gas station, where my friend was waiting to rescue me, and NEVER TALKED ME TO AGAIN. Not at any social functions, not at school, not on myspace 5 years later, NEVER.

Pathetic. That was a long and extremely sad one. Here are just a few more short examples of my complete and total lack of game while I was in high school.

- I chased and chased and chased this guy who worked at the bingo parlor. I would sing Mandy Moore with my eyes closed, thinking of him being my boyfriend. When he did finally ask me for my number, we spoke for 3 hours. It was a great conversation. He said he had really enjoyed talking to me and would call me again sometime.
               Me: When do you mean by sometime? I need to know when?
              Him: hahahah okayy miss bossy
              Me: No I want to know the time and day you intend to call, I don't want to be like, waiting around forever.

      He never called again.

- I had been dating a guy for 4 days when I cried on the phone with him because he wouldn't take me to a non-formal dance and instead wanted to see the birth of his nephew or something.

-  I met a guy at church and then searched on AOL for anyone I could find that also went to his school that could give me info on whether or not he had a girlfriend. I think I wrote 12 emails.

- I met a guy at a lockin who agreed to come to my parent's house afterward to make out with me on the couch. As he was leaving in his Dodge 2500, I said "I've never had a boyfriend who drove a truck before!"  He never called again.

- I liked a boy who invited me to his house to watch a tape of a band performing. His friends were there too and I wanted them to like me so I acted really, really dumb.  I also wandered into the kitchen and found his mom, where I professed my obsession with her son and suggested me and her hang out sometime. He REALLY never called again.



I am sure I have some stories about me also breaking some hearts. I didn't realize how much of high school involved the love of the chase.

 It's much more fun to paint myself as a victim, though, so feel sorry for me and tell me how much of a catch you're sure I was in 1998.

I just want to see a black guy in public that ends up not being an everyday black guy.

This is getting ridiculous.

I sit here, a humble woman. A humble woman wearing a Thunder t-shirt, a thunder necklace, and orange nails. My face is smeared with wrinkle cream that's endorsed by the NBA.

I'm not racist, but I

Wait a second, when people start sentences like that they usually follow it up with something offensive and stereotypical that makes people cry. Kind of like when I start a sentence with "Bless her heart". You can be damned sure "her baby looks like John C Reilly" is coming out next.

But not in this case.

I'm not racist, but I want every black guy I see in public to end up being Kevin Durant. Especially when these black guys are tall and wearing a hat and sunglasses.

It's not fair. I don't get to run into Thunder players and that's the only true thing I want out of life. I don't need money, trim thighs, a 2013 Gwagon, or baby smooth skin on my face. I DO need to watch Kevin Durant picking up a prescription from Walgreens.

I have been to a few Thunder games, so I have seen them in person. That's not even close to what I want. It doesn't have to be Kevin Durant. It could be any other play who currently plays for the Oklahoma City Thunder.  I would prefer him to be Kevin Durant or James Harden or someone who is not Russell Westbrook.

I'm not sure why it is, but Russell Westbrook angers me. I will scream at him to pass to KD the whole game. When he misses a shot I yell at him and call him mean names. When Kevin misses a shot, I post "It'll be okay buddy face, keep your head up!" on his Twitter. I'll yell at Russell the whole game how much he sucks,  then I see he scored more points than anyone the whole game.

Anyway, I'm getting off point.

I was at the nail salon today. The same nail salon I was patronizing when I saw Kevin Durant's mom. She's kind of a big deal because KD LOVES THE ABSOLUTE SHIT OUT OF HIS MOM. I thought she would be my "In", but she ended up kind of hating my soul.

Mary: You're Kevin Durant's mom, right?
Wanda: Yes, I am.

Mary: Uh, do you know how much I love him?
Wanda: No I don't.

Mary: Can I please come hang out with ya'll on Mother's Day? I'll bring a pie or something. Please.

Wanda: You just made me lose at Scramble with Friends.

Mary: Can we call Kevin?

Wanda: As much as you be stalking us you should know he's at practice!


That's pretty much how the whole conversation went. I compare it to my yorkie, when he jumps up and tries to kiss me on the mouth,  I kick him in his mouth and don't feed him.

At this nail salon, a hot black girl and her man walk in. Her man is tall and wearing sunglasses and a hat. He doesn't take them off when they sit down for their pedis. I start to realize that this means he's famous and I need to attack.

I adjust my seat so I can see behind his sunglasses.

Eh, he's got acne scars. I don't think my boys have any scars. They're perfection and I want to tuck them into bed at night while singing them a Judy Garland song. Except Russell Westbrook.

Maybe he plays for the Heat? Maybe he came into town early so his hot girlfriend could hit all the awesome OKC shopping.

I google Heat players on my phone and alternate staring at him, straining my neck, and looking at my phone. I look in the parking lot to see if he had a nice car.

I'm starting to get frustrated and consider asking him to take a pic with me. Then I can judge his reaction on whether or not he's famous. It's a pretty solid plan. If he's confused and scared, he probably works at Big Lots and is 35. If he seems slightly annoyed but says yes, he's gotta be someone famous and I can figure it out later based on the facebook comments I'll get after I post the picture.

I am about to put my plan into action when I realize his girlfriend is staring at me with the hate of one hundred thousand Pentecostals in her eyes. Her expression says,

"Why are you staring at my man? I specifically chose this man because he has good credit and acne scars and a big gut so I don't have to deal with you trying to steal him with your emerald green bedroom eyes."

That's when I realized he had a gut. A pretty large one. He wasn't anyone famous or athletic.

So the moral of the story is:

Whenever someone posts on Facebook that they saw Kevin Durant at Dillards, or the movie theatre, or at the Mercedes Dealership, or in a parking lot at Cool Greens. Don't get jealous. Don't throw your computer in an it's not fairish kind of rage.

I vow to stop staying at home taking pictures of myself and watching documentaries and go everywhere I possible can, all the time, when they have a game at home.

Maybe then, and only then, will I finally stalk a tall black guy who actually deserves it.

When did we stop being cool?

I like to think I was pretty cool in my day.

By "my day" I mean 7th grade and on. Before that I had a bowl cut and loved Mickey Mouse and little orphan Annie. I loved these things well beyond the age of 12 but I learned to open my mouth only when I liked cool things. Like Home Improvement and sex.

I know husband with one T was cool in high school. I know this simply from stalking his high school yearbook and looking incessantly at his smoking hot high school girlfriend's profile picture (It's a private page or else I'd also be stalking how much less cute her offspring would have to be)

I decided to start spray tanning. I thought, if I can't lose weight, I may as well be orange. It's helped me be a little bit happier this last 2 weeks of my job.

I go to the tanning place. You probably don't realize this, but you have to be 17, brown, and cool to work at a tanning salon. I ask for a month of unlimited spray tanning.

17 year old tan cool girl with a lot of bracelets: (doesn't look up from the computer) Do you have the groupon?

Pale, old, but thought she was still cool Mary: Uhhh no. There's a groupon?

cool girl: Yes, it's for 60 days for $30. If you don't have that, you have to sign up for a 6 month contract.

Mary: Oh. Okay. Well give me a second to buy it my on Iphone. I have an Iphone because even though I'm older than shit, I'm still really cool.

CG: Let me know when you've bought it.

Mary: (15 minutes after searching on my phone and not wanting to admit I wasn't cool enough to find it): Ummmm was it from today? I can't find it.

CG: It's not a groupon, it's some other company. But whatever, I know it's out there.

Mary: (tap tap tap on phone and want to cry because pretty girl is being mean)

Mary: (why the hell do I care what she thinks anyways? Bitch, I have a benz and a salary and you work at the tanning salon and you'll be just as old as me in 11 years.)

Mary: (gah but she has so many bracelets)

Mary: Well, I can't find it and I have wasted far too much time looking for it. I am TOO BUSY and TOO AWESOME to stay in here anymore. So. What do we need to do?

CG: I'll just say you had the coupon and give you that rate. (Her eyes said "because you are old and not cool)

CG: Now I need to give you a tour since this is the first time you've been here. This here is the Princess Extreme Brown Half and Half bed. It had shoulder lamps, a lavender mist so you don't smell bad, a scanner that scans your forehead and wrist and adjusts the temperature so you don't burn, satellite radio, a face air conditioner, and a vibrator to keep you from getting cellulite.

Mary: Oh. Wow. Tanning beds have changed since I was in high school.

CG: Oh yeah. We even have people who have skin cancer that come in here. They have made so many advances in technology in these things that they aren't even bad for your skin anymore. Seriously.

Mary: (Okay. Maybe you're cooler than me but you're an idiot. YOU CAN'T SAY THINGS LIKE THAT)

Mary: Oh wow, that's great! Thanks a lot, high five!

Suddenly a song comes on that moves me. I feel such incredible impromptu passion for this song that I'm uncomfortable.

Mary: Do you happen to know who sings this? This song is amazing.

CG: I'll look in a minute.

CG: (Without looking up or even turning around) It's Seal.

Mary: Uh. Oh. Well. That clearly shows how lame I am. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA AM I RIGHT? LAAAAME. I MEAN. I DON'T LIKE IT THAT MUCH! AHAHAHAA

CG: Your spray tan is ready.

When did we stop being cool?

I went to the snow cone place one day and the 16 year old girl who worked there was crying when she came out the window. I immediately wanted to die on the cross for her. I asked her a few times if she was okay, then kinda started crying myself, because she was breaking my heart.

She ducked down and another woman came to take my order, I asked that woman if the crying girl was all right and she said "YA. SHE 16 AND ALL HORMONES."

As I got my snow cone, I started to drive away when I realized I hadn't gotten husband with one t his snow come. I pulled back around, and they didn't realize I was there but the window was open.

"OH MY GOD, DID YOU HEAR THAT LADY?! OH MY GOD SHE'S SO CREEPY. LIKE, LEAVE ME ALONE."

I realized she was talking about me and I started to cry like a cabbage patch baby.

I'm creepy and not cool.


Mat came home from the gym the other night and as he sat drinking his chocolate milk muscle disgustingness, he said, "You know, I always say hi to the kid that works at the gym and I can tell, he totally doesn't think I'm cool. I want to be like, I may be 32 but I'm still fucking cool."

"Oh my gosh, honey, I'm not cool anymore either!" I tell him about the tanning place chick and the snow cone girl.

I've decided the only way to counteract this is to make sure they know I think I am cooler than them. The next time snow cone girl is crying I'm going to tell her to put a smile on her fat face and give me my snow cone that I'm going to eat in my expensive car that my rich husband who doesn't make me cry (often) gave me. Then I"m going to drive to my real job, that doesn't pay me in free high school football tickets and gummy bears.

OH and tanning place girl, TANNING DOES CAUSE CANCER. You don't get to say whatever you want just because your gams look like my 7 year old anorexic son's.

Who cares if we're sexually aroused by our vegetable garden? Who gives a shit if we listen to the Little Mermaid soundtrack in our car at full volume?

We're still cooler than all of you.

Best Planned Week of Life

I have been dying to tell everyone I know for 3 months. I got an offer from Giant Computer Company INC  today! I don't really know what I'll actually be doing but it involves selling, being nice, and numbers.

Go Mary!Yay for raises and vision insurance!

In the midst of my negotating, I accidentally gave myself a week off in between my notice here at the credit union and my start date at GCC. (That's not its real name, I just don't want it showing up on search engines. If you must know, it rhymes with yell, fell, and bell)

What am I going to do for a week? My thoughts were.

*Make a tornado shelter with my mom hands
*Get a massage from a beautiful big chested man
*Get my first black eye
*Paint the baseboards in my bathroom
*Clean all the things!
*Juice and vomit fast

1. You can't make your own tornado shelter. All you paranoid assholes in Oklahoma cancel your appointments with all the companies. If I have to wait until AUGUST for a storm shelter, then panic attacks and pooing myself will happen for the rest of April, all of May, June, and July. I actually googled "dig my own tornado shelter" and Google came right back with, "NO, MARY."

2. The only massagers we have in Oklahoma are non hot females and don't have big hands. Bible Belt fail.

3. I'm still working on how can I get a black eye in a super awesome way. I go to an outdoor camp with Adrian and his class next week...maybe I'll get punched by a grizzly!

4. This just sounds not fun at all and probably won't actually ever happen.

5.  Just click on that link. Ally is everything and I want to be plus good looks and impending fame.

6. A neighbor of mine is moving out of her house she once shared with her husband. Now ex husband is moving in with his 18 year old homewrecker of a girlfriend. I can't compete with no wrinkles and a youthful disposition. I gotta amp up the hotness at least temporarily to get husband with one T through the temptations.






And.............my family is really cute.