Pounds of ham

My wonderfully hilarious and joyful friend and former co-worker Kelsey made working at the big bank bearable.

Our days were full of old rich people yelling at us to sell more of their bank products or else we'd have another conference call.

During these conference calls they would make sure and remind us of how successful Cathy Sinclair was at the northwest branch and could she please read some letters from her adoring customers to inspire us?

Cathy Sinclair was a suck up lame face. Not to mention really short.

"...and so...just when I thought Cathy Sinclair was done with her exceptional customer service...I was WRONG. She remembered my name and used it 4 times in the same sentence! When she walked us to our car and opened our doors for us she noticed a couple of spots on our passenger side door. She used her fingers and tried to rub them off but they were just the most stubborn spots on God's green earth! She ended up licking the car exterior until it was so shiny that I decided to open up a $25,000 CD and donate to her church's fund for extradited prostitutes......"


We would all roll our eyes at Cathy reading HER OWN PRAISES and hope, just hope, that the 5th time we'd heard that damn letter would be the last.

They'd finish the conference call with a prayer of Cathy and then we'd get back to work.

The call didn't motivate us to sell more stuff. It just motivated us to prank Cathy.





Kelsey in insanely old lady voice: HELLO? IS THIS THE SAVINGS AND LOAN? 

Cathy: Why, this is The Big Bank ma'am. Can I get your name before we get started?

Kelsey: I'M AT WAL-MART AND MY DEBIT CARD IS GETTING DECLINED AND THAT JUST ISN'T ALL RAHT. NAME'S RUTH.

Cathy: Okay I'll be happ-

Kelsey: YOU'LL BE HAPPY THAT'S RIGHT YOU'LL BE HAPPY. I'VE GOT 4 POUNDS OF HAM FROM THE DELI, SO WE NEED TO GET THIS DONE IN TWO SHAKES OF A VIRGINS ASS.

Cathy: Yes, Ruth. I love helping you with this problem already and we are going to get you squared away okay little jam jar? What's your account num-

Kelsey: ZERO FAHV ZERO FAHV FOUR TWO SIX SEVEN EIGHT FOUR.

Cathy: Hmm that account number doesn't seem to be com-

KELSEY: DID I MENTION I GOT 4 POUNDS OF HAM FROM THE DAMN DELI? DO YOU KNOW HOW EMBARRASSED IM GONNA BE TO TAKE BACK ALL THAT MEAT THAT ALREADY DONE BEEN SLICED UP BACK TO THE DELI? IT'S GONNA BE LIKE THAT ONE TIME IN 1986 THAT I HAD TO HAVE MY BACK SHAVED BY THE MAN I WAS TRYING TO HAVE SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH.

Cathy: no no no sweet dear, we don't want that! Now, what's your social?

Kelsey: SCHNOGGING NOSSIN FOUR SCHEMBERLENGER SIX OID;FGSGHOSH

Cathy: Well....I can't seem to find it by that so-

KELSEY: THIS IS RIDICULOUS I'VE BEEN BANKING THERE FOR 43 YEARS!

Cathy: Ma'am that must be the problem you have called the wrong bank, we haven't been open that lo-

KELSEY: I HAVE 4 POUNDS OF HAM FROM THE DELI AND YOU'RE TRYING TO GIVE ME A HISTORY LESSON?!?!?!?!

Cathy::........(typing)...... Ummmmmm

Kelsey: LET ME TALK TO YOUR MANAGER!

Cathy: Uh well I am the manager. I'm sorry I can't find you in the system. Ummmmm.. Ummmm..... Uhhhhh....errr..... (type type type)

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

.......


...........

(type type type)


........

Cathy: I think it's the type of debit card you're using. Looks here like you qualify for our Rewards Triple Fangled Visa Credit card. How about we get you all set up for that right now, Ruth?




And that's why Cathy gets to be the star of the conference calls.

...and that's why no one wants to know about me

My brother-in-law, Spencer,  got me a book for Christmas called, "All About Me".  While I opened it, he suggested I could fill out the book and pass it on to my kids, or perhaps fill it out and hide it in the attic to be opened by husband with one T and I on our 20 year anniversary.

I was wide awake last night and decided to sleep in Adrian's spiderman bed (he's at Grandma's while he's out of school since she is a teacher and also out of school) because it is 60 degrees in his room and I love the way his guinea pig shit fills my memory with dreams of being a child and also never cleaning up a microgram of rodent feces in my life. Is microgram even a word?


The questions in the book start innocent enough... Name, address, height, weight, etc. My ambien and Reeses peanut butter cups have started to kick in and I think, "am I reading this right?" I turned back a few pages where things were seemingly normal and realized that I wasn't asleep or injured in the medicated brain. I was currently in the middle of answering the question "What is one thing you extremely dislike about your brother?"



Uh. He lives in another country.




Not deterred, I continued until I was well into the section about fruits of my labors.



"What is one thing your best friend has that you don't that you resent her for?"

Uhhhhhhh.....a social life and boobs that haven't sagged yet?




No way Adrian or "Grandma" Me wants to read that...ever.



I skip over some more of the drama-laden questions, realizing I have zero awesome answers for what the book is looking for. It would frequently ask me to choose my favorite meal,  favorite parent,  or favorite fawn (I had to google fawn...at first I was like....Bambi?). Then after asking such a plain and boring question, the book would ask me to describe how difficult it was to answer. Nothing's difficult for me because I am an open book, Book!



It started to mess with my mind.


Name three things you love about your spouse:


Name Three things you love about yourself:


Now tell which one was easier to write...



This got me thinking...."what the hell? DO I HATE MYSELF?" It's really hard to come up with three things you love about yourself OR your spouse when you're sleeping in a twin spiderman bed with a rodent covered in poo because he's snoring and gives off too much body heat. How does the book know I am not only a bad self-hating robot, but also a mean and selfish spouse-haver with no appreciation?



I decided to skip the chapter after it asked me what age I wanted my children to have sex.


I skipped the next when it asked me to describe the moment I felt the most snuggliest with God, and what verse of the bible moves me the most.



I skipped the next chapter when it asked me to describe in detail my most lucid sex dream and whether or not it has fulfilled any fantasy I have/had.

 The only sex dream I have had is about Bob Saget, and I don't want to read about that in 20 years and Ellis and Adrian can probably be okay skipping on that knowledge as well.




Awwww yeah, DT!







(This was a word purge I did for a new group I joined called GBE 2 (Group Blogging Experience). I had to just write what came to my mind without stopping and trying to add comic effect and interesting ideas. That's PRETTY much why it sucks so much. If you're on FB, you should join, too!)

Christmas.

My favorite holiday has always been Christmas. It's very much annoying to lame people. I start listening to christmas songs in the middle of October.

My standard for Christmas spirit is so high, that it has officially turned me into a giant Christmas asshole monster.

Pretty much any time anyone comes at me with some bullshit between the months of October and January, I kick them in the achilles and scream something about Christmas spirit. I take it incredibly seriously. Almost too seriously. I can't tell you how many times I have grumbled... "well merry effin christmas to you, too". To motorists, customers, best friends, husbands, parents, children in the street, etc.

For me, it never honestly had much to do with the gift getting. Sure, my Care Bears bed tent and Frosty the snowconemaker kicked serious ass....but I remember so many other things being what really made me look forward to Christmas.



1. My parents would give us money to buy them presents. This is coming from two people who literally never buy themselves anything. That ten bucks in our hand was our free ticket to the self esteem ride of the century:

"Look, Matthew, I got Mom this badass keychain that changes colors when you blow on it. She's going to love me so much that my hair will fall out of my head."

"I don't think Mom likes keychains, Mary. I got Dad a calendar with Elvis and Sharpei puppies. He's going to think I'm such a good son, that he's just going to kick you in the side of the brain"

We were always wrong. I still, to this day, have never gotten them that one gift that they never knew they really wanted. I promise, Wendy and Steve, one day. Don't die soon.

2. All the rules went out the window. Also, I could do things I wasn't supposed to do and then hide them real quick and say "Don't ask questions! It's Christmastime!" I only specifically remember using this advantage one time...when my mom walked in on me playing Barbies...... when I was.....12. I was so beyond mortified that that is what I was doing instead of watching Home Improvement and counting my nee pubic hairs. It annoyed the hell out of my mom, too.

"What were you doing? You look like you just got caught doing something."

"what? No I was just flossing my cavities"

"What's going on? I'm serious, what are you hiding?"

"MOOOOoooooom. It's Christmastime! You can't any questions. helllooooooo!"

"Mary, it's October and when would you have had time to buy me a present? And with what money?'

"I am not answering any more questions because it will give it all away, SILLY LITTLE GOOSEY"

I spent the next 2 months racking my brain trying to think of a gift I could give her to back up my story. Not realizing, as I do now that I am a Mother, she was probably franctically searching through my drawers while I was at school, looking for my crack pipe or lesbian porn that I am sure she thought I was hiding.

No, Mom. It was just a Barbie. She was going to prom. I  just didn't have very many friends.






3. My brother is less than a year older than me, so it was always double the presenty fun for me. Especially since I was pretty much a dude. I loved sports and racecars and video games. Brother bear always gave in to me too...which thankfully hasn't messed him up TOO much in our older years. I never had to use up my presents by asking for a playstation...because clearly he would get it and then be forced to share it with his sweet younger sister. IT didn't go both ways (at least I don't think it did.) He never wanted to use my electronic diary or BabyPoopsHerself.

4. The music. It's insane. I don't know how all you heartless people don't break into tears and garland when you hear Celebrate me Home by Kenny Loggins. I can't understand how everyone doesn't blast Brenda Lee's songs about sad bells and marshmallows and rockin the Christmas tree. I looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooove Christmas music.




5.  We would always adopt a family. I remember getting to pick out a coat for a girl the same age as me, and it was more fun than picking out something for myself had EVER been. I can't explain the kindness most kids have in their stinky little souls at Christmas! It's mind-blowing. They just want everyone to feel as happy as they do, even if its only temporary materialistic happiness.

I have passed this tradition on to my own family. Last year Adrian got to pick out a boom box for a child his age. Even husband with one T got in on the spirit.. "Shasta says here she likes fur stuff. This girl is gonna love the shit out of those boots!"



This year, even though our fundage is lacking, we adopted a family of 3. I kept scrolling through the bigger families that weren't getting adopted and wished so much that we could do it. There was one family of 8, and 6 of those 8 people were elderly. Uch. Sorry, I'll stop.

Long story short, I thought if I could get my work to adopt a family, then we could all donate and take over one of the bigger families. I ran it by the higher-ups and sent out an email asking for everyone to donate just $20 for a family of five to have a Christmas they otherwise couldn't have. Donations were due in 6 days. By day 5, we had $60. I cried all the way home. I took it personally, "Does everyone hate me that much that they aren't willing to donate money to a family that needs COATS AND SHOES AND BACKPACKS, simply because it has my name on it?" (Hence the "too much" Christmas Spirit I mentioned above)

The next day, after a reminder email was sent out, everyone stepped up. They donated almost 400 dollars and our company matched it. I got to spend 800 dollars on a family of 5 that had only asked for coats, shoes, warm clothes, and backpacks. Well. We took those requests and met them, then took the remaining 600 dollars and went batshit crazy on present buying! These kids are going to have a bettter Christmas than anyone I know! As corny as it is....I hope it will make them believe in Santa Claus. Because Santa is the one who brings this kind of crazy awesomeness.

 I hope no one gets into any sort of physical or verbal altercation this yuletide. It seems to be rampant on Facebook. The moral of the world is, "Remember when everyone else is wrong, just flip them off and go buy some less fortunate children some warm shit and some fun shit"

Mary Christmas to my favorite followers and readers!

I'm so rich and tired.

I have been feeling uninspired lately in the blogger world. Probably because I have been kicking ass and taking names at my real job that gives me money and purpose and a reason to put on mascara.

I was reluctant to share this story because I don't want anyone to think I am a drug addict, a drug abuser, or really really fucking stupid. Mama just has trouble sleeping because I can't stop thinking about important things like new ways to do my hair or how long it's going to take to get an under eye wrinkle on the left side of my face to match the right side.

I got to the point where Ambien was only helping me sleep until about 3 AM, at which point I would get up, eat a bunch of pop tarts, and think my life sucks when it clearly doesn't.

I told my doctor my concerns and he decided to have me try a medicine called Trazodone.

Trazadone sucks.

I took one at bedtime like a good mother/banker and laid there massaging my own thumbs and worrying about homeless dogs and the permanent marker on Adrian's neck.

Two hours later, around midnight, I decided to take 2 Ibuprofen PM because the stress of my lack of sleep was making my neck allegedly hurt. First I googled, "If I take ibuprofen with Trazadone, am I going to die". Google said hell to the no, take that narcotic and don't look back....so I indulged.

Ibuprofen PM is just Ibuprofen and Benadryl. I've been knocking back Benadryl since I was a zygote so that shit pretty much does less for me than a laffy taffy and a cold pillow.

A short while later, I decided to break down and take one of my leftover Ambien. I had to work the next day and I was desperate for some z's. So were the giant bags under my eyes and my work performance.

Woooooo! Partayyyyyyy! Hollla atcha Mammmmaaaa!

Well. Not really. The truth is, I went to sleep. I was sleepy.

I got up the next day and went to work. I was still really sleepy and not real cute.

I checked my email and noticed a few not very fun messages. I had recently gotten a new credit card and was receiving a lot of emails from the credit card company. I opened the most recent one and read a warning about possible credit card fraud done on my account at 3:13 AM, and to please call the company if I was, in fact, making those transactions as an actual human being.

It all started coming back to me. Those of you who take Ambien may understand this...it's not like being schnockered off 4 bottles of wine kind of black-out. It's more like "Oh yeah, that's why my hipbones are sore and I don't fit into my pants." It's a kind of "wha happened?" I compare to both infantile amnesia and dementia. Neither of which I remember having but I imagine it's very similar.

This is all put together by the phone calls and emails I received, along with my browser history and fuzzy memories that were also clouded by lots of cereal-eating.

I apparently decided to go get on my computer at 3:12 (seriously) and order some accessories from Aldo. I remember thinking about what outfit I wanted to wear the next day and wishing I had purple feather earrings. ... I typed Aldo in wrong and it took me to a totally bullshit and everyone knows it website where it said I won $1,000. I apparently believed it and gave my credit card number to 5 different "offers" to qualify for the $1,000 I had won.

I actually kind of remember thinking..."I always see this spam and assume it's fake...but clearly they can't just promise something they don't deliver so what the hell, I will try it! I need and deserve $1,000 more than anyone so it could be at least kinda real."

ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL Unsolicited sales calls....

I figured out all of this out today because I got an email from best-giveaways telling me "based on the offers you 'qualified' for, click here for your $1,000 gas and grocery rebate". It was basically some ridic form you fill out annually to get a rebate on the taxes you pay for gas and groceries or something.

Just. You know. FML.

 I was looking at my credit card statement and unfortunately remembering signing up for a machine that rejuvenates your wrinkles...and then a monthly subscription to makeup....and then a fake eyelash delivery service....and a credit monitoring services....



I am not kidding. I did all of that ACTUALLY thinking I was getting 1,000 dollars.


I know you're all dying to know where this story leads so it can end happily with me being wrinkle-free and one G richer....but you'll be sad and disappointed....and probably sleepy.
 
The offer kept taking me to more things I had to sign up for to win my $1,000....
 
and I just kept typing in my credit card....
 
I have been researching all the stuff I did today... they're all "trial memberships". On the rejuvenation one, I have to wait until I get it and then mail a written statement requesting a cancellation and the reason I didn't like it and return the machine within 8 business days or else they will charge me $187.89 for the machine.
 
You know how restricting that is?
 
To have to wait two or three days to get it...then keep it for at least one business day so they know I used it....then mail it back (fee on me to mail back) WITH a written explanations...all within 8 business days?
 
That's how they COMPLETELY RUIN YOUR LIFE.
 
 All 5 "offers" I signed up for are the same excruciatingly stupid and awful processes.
 
So... they have only charged me 1.00, .79, 8.74, 1.25, and .05 but they all have these ridiculous stipulations and if I don't correctly cancel them all with the requirements they will charge me 48.95, 18.99, 124.99 (that's the mineral makeup..but oh I get to keep the makeup bag it comes with as my "bonus gift"), and 11.99 per month until it's properly cancelled.




The Trazodone is supposed to make you extremely relaxed and worry free. Apparently, I was so relaxed that I was like..."no way this is a scam! This free shit is gonna be awesome."
 
 
 
 
 
 
Phone call number 3 of 2,145:
 
weird area code phone number guy: Hi is this Mary Brown? I'm from a puddle under a tent in India and I need to verify your account validation.




Mary: um yeah I dunno what that means...I took 2 sleeping pills last night and ordered a bunch of stuff I don't want or need.



WACPNG: Did you order Costolin? Credit Reporting? Bare Minerals?



Mary: Um all of the above sound vaguely familiar. Why are you calling me?



WACPNG: It doesn't show you've cancelled anything?



Mary: I have to wait for all my packages to arrive apparently.



WA: Well. Did you at least sleep good?



Mary: I WAS BUYING SOMETHING CALLED COSTOLIN AT 3:12 AM...WHAT DO YOU THINK?



WACPNG: Well okay Marie. You call customer service when you receive those packages and no stress, okay?



Mary: Okay, love you sugar.
 
 
 
 
I have properly cancelled everything I stupidly did, and my credit card company advised me exactly what to do. I cancelled my credit card and didn't open ANY of the packages I received.
 
Can you believe someone actually has to use a monthly eyelash delivery service? I mean, I look good with some falsies, but if I sign up for a recurring monthly service someone just pepper spray me like an occupier.

Kendal giving me hell. Duh.

Pictures of 2 of the 194 packages I received

I blog for myself because I love myself.

I am the most self-absorbed human in North America.

I tried to write a novel and then I was like,

"Hey novel, I murder you now with my awesome verbage and typing, suck on that!"

And then the novel said,

"Wutcchu talking about playa-hata? You're 64,325 words behind and you just ate 8,500 calories worth of laffy taffys and whoppers. And what..?"

So I bowed down and accepted defeat. My cousin sent me an except of her novel and it was phenomenal. I actually wanted it to keep going. When I was writing my novel, It was so hard to not use made up words and lots of parenthesis to explain my blabbering. But that wasn't the biggest problem.

I don't know how to write about anything but myself. I tried to take a different stance and ended up changing it to half Adrian's point of view and half my point of view. Then I tried to write Adrian's chapter and ended up eating a giant bowl of Honey Kix and putting my new deodorant on excessively and excitedly because that shit smelled like pomegranate and bubble baths.




Speaking of myself, let me tell you more about my...self.






I have been in three earthquakes in the last four days.

(Kendal said it best)

I redid a mortgage for a member three times today because she wanted a "prettier" number.

I'm under a tornado warning right now.

I love how they put exclamations to make my impending death funner.

 My husband left me to go play golf in California.

I just got some new Spanx that make me feel like Ashley Olsen.

Wow. I feel so much better now that I've talked about myself.






Feel free to make me an offer of famousness. Either by writing, singing, or mortgaging.

Love you all.

Foreign Exchange Toddler Monkey

Favorite brother with two t's was in town from Ecuador a few weeks ago. If you don't know why my brother is in Ecuador, you've basically just insulted my soul and burned my heart with a cigar. But, you can click here to catch up with all the cool, attractive people.

He has been in Ecuador for a year and a half or so. You would think he has been there since 1996. He was like a foreign exchange toddler.





I got dressed up real-nice for his arrival


Matthew: What dat?

Mary: That's a dog. A yorkshire terrier.

Matthew: Goat?

Mary: NO. A DOG.

Matthew: Okay. Coffee?

Mary: No, no coffee until you learn to use a CELL PHONE.


We were driving home after the bar closed and I was getting a plethora of text messages from my many adoring friends and fans. I was trying to respond to one when I swerved into the curb at Walgreens, which ISN'T an awesome thing to do at 2:30 in the morning. I threw my phone at foreign exchange toddler and instructed him what to write.

Apparently this....

Equals this.....

Matthew:  How do I type?

Mary: Apparently, you don't. How did you even get on that screen?

Matthew: I can't have a cell phone in Ecuador because they just keep getting stolen.

Mary: Oh that's nice. I'm sure things will be a lot more pleasant for you somewhere safer, like Zimbabwe or Palestine.




 We were getting family pictures made (in matching outfits per my mother's strict instruction) when he suddenly realized....

Brother is like 11 feet tall, with no torso. He needed to book his seat on his airline for the next day, and he needed to do it early so he could make sure he got an exit row. But we were knee-deep in JC Penney inappropriate cheesiness and had no internet handy.

I offered him my phone and attempted to instruct him on the intricate navigation of the mythical Iphone. He shrugged me off much like he did in 1988, when he kicked me in the face in the pool and broke my nose.

I sat next to him and tried to help, but he couldn't get the whole "zooming" in thing. Ecuadorians only use their forefingers like a bunch of damn orangutans.



"You're not a goat, Matthew. You have an opposable thumb. Try it out."

He booked the exit row and we all high-fived. Then I looked at my screen and noticed it said "Error reaching URL"



"Matthew, you didn't book your exit row. You didn't do anything. Are you trying to play a game, now?"



He had "Cut the rope" up on my screen now but was frantically chopping the rope as quickly and eagerly as he could. He was so proud, too.



"Yeah, good job Brother. You're doing a great job! What a big AMERICAN boy you are!"



I didn't have the heart to explain to him how truly advanced and difficult the game actually was.

A little view of the chat that inspired this blog:




mattstepflow: Could you not get one through your credit union?


me: I don't want them knowing my business

as jersey shore as that sounds

you probably have never watched Jersey Shore so that's not even funny.

mattstepflow: It's kind of funny, but I haven't ever seen an episode before

me: I feel like you were like a foreign exchange student when you were here..."and this is my IPHONE! Push the buttons. Isn't it fun?"

12:00 PM mattstepflow: I felt that way.

"What's that?"

12:01 PM me: "this is a TOILET. and that's an AMERICAN BABY"

12:03 PM mattstepflow: "Why is the AMERICAN BABY in the TOILET?"

Saturday Sensationalisms!

I've decided I wasn't famous, so I closed my eyes and changed my brain ala Charlie Sheen. I'm starting...................

Since my pageviews on Saturdays are pitiful and sickly, I'm going to use the day to post something of mine that is pleasing to me. I'm kind of like Oprah,  except I'm a medium-sized white girl from Oklahoma who has no money or assets!

My first sensationlistic suggestion (damnit, I should totally have put that on the banner) starts today.... So get excited.


My favorite flower is.........

Just wanted to remind you of the new exciting theme post for Saturdays!





Celosia!

I mean that thumb.

Because I always enjoy flowers more whenever they are living in the ground and not dying on my desk after a fight with husband with one T about which one of us was better at playground kickball.

Celosia(s?) are beautttiiffffuuuulllllll! They look like coral, and sometimes I accidentally call them Cialis. Which is a medicine that makes old men's penises get erect or stay erect. And I don't care who you are, that's hilarious.

My husband ripped my beautiful flowers out of the ground to build a pipe or something and I threw such a fit that he planted 5 more different colors for me this year. But they died because I stepped on them. But the original one he planted came back! It was resurrected like the Jesus of Nazareth of pretty flowers.

It's not even a perennial. How's that for a miracle?

I'm hungry and I'll kill you!

My nightmares are just ridiculous. I wish they would be about actual scary things instead of random inappropriate ADD thoughts like they currently are.

I had a nightmare a few nights ago that Christmas music was playing in my living room, and no matter how much I tried to turn it off, I couldn't.

I somehow came to the realization that the only way I could stop the creepy Christmas music was by killing the naked Cuban angel rappelling on my backyard fence.

I had been reading The Hunger Games before I went to bed. If you hadn't read it, it's about people killing each other as entertainment for rich people. It's super fun.

It got me thinking.

If I was thrown into a situation where I had to survive and kill people so they wouldn't kill me, what skill would I fall back on?

So I made a list of my best skills:



Playing the guitar.



Don't question why I gave myself a rockin bod and a bikini. Just go with it.




Singing.

Figuring out what percentages are using this formula

Crying.

Drawing a stegosaurus.

Making people laugh.

Arguing.

I decided this would be my best negotiation tool in keeping myself alive. Those people may want to stab me with a spear but I think I could probably talk them out of it. Explain why they're wrong in wanting that, what led me to knowing they're wrong and I'm right, and why they should probably team up with me and tell their Grandkids about me.

Big Hipped Mary-Haters

Most weekends of mine consist of Dateline and pancakes.

But my favorite Matthew (brother) (with two t's) was in town from Ecuador and I was gonna take him to drink some booze and meet some hotties with bodies.

Husband with one T's younger brother, Spencer, came out with us, too. He's gay. Yay! And super fun. He said, as we were leaving, "I'm the only gay one, right? I don't want to have to fight for all the gay attention."

Spencer and I are driving to pick up my brother from my parent's house. My parents live in a family-oriented neighborhood with the word "Farms" in it, even though there are no farms nearby to speak of. A long stretch of the neighborhood road is upon me, and I am happily driving along and thinking about how fun I am. I notice an ugly and probably sexually inactive mother of three, walking with her children. She turns suddenly and shouts something at my car and raises her arm in the air like Harry from Harry and the Hendersons.

I immediately have become concerned that perhaps her hips had exploded. Maybe her kids had an "I'm ugly" stroke or something and she needs to use my cell phone. I stop beside her and roll down the passender side window, leaning over the console to have a sweet conversation.

I wasn't even speeding.

Story tomorrow about a big-hipped Mary-Lover from the same night!

Are they having secs?

Adrian has been feeling under the weather lately. I think it's just because of our Oklahomaass weather, that changes so frequently, his poor brain/allergies can't keep up.

Late last night, almost 11, I was watching the show "Revenge" in the living room by myself. I had put husband with one T to work that evening on building the kids a contraption for stuffed animals. I figured if they were up off the floor, MAYBE they would stop having scorpions crawl all over them and ruin my smiles. So husband was tired and was sleeping and I was watching ridic shows in the living by myself and polishing off the cookies I had made before I set the oven on fire.

Good Son walks in the living room crying. All emotions he feels manifest themselves into tears.

Sad, Guilty, Disappointed, Broke =

Slightly Mad, Slightly Annoyed, Slightly Upset, Pees Pants =

Happy, Rich, Not getting kicked by mean sister, Humored =

I lost all my teeth and look like a cute little crackhead =

Last night, however, he was crying because he couldn't stop sneezing and underneath his nose was sore.

=

That's a thermometer, not a ciggy

I was feeling lonely anyways, so I got him a cookie, some triaminic, and a blanket. I let him stay up and watch "Revenge" with me as long as he was quiet and cute.

Adrian:  baba? (mama with lots of snot)

Me: yes?

Adrian: They're having sex, right?

Me: Oh god Adrian. Please do not pretend like you know what sex is.

Adrian: Hellooooo. I do.

Me: You have no teeth and you are wearing Thomas the Train pants. We can't really talk about sex, yet.

Adrian: It's when you have a girlfriend and you shut the door and kiss. Oh my gosh, they're kissing and having sex!

Me: .............

Adrian: Is it okay for me to say "Be back in a sec? Because if I say it at school and it sounds like sex people might make fun of me."

Me: That's okay. Just don't say, "Be back for some secs."

Adrian: (giggles and turns purple) oh my gosh you just said sex. Mom. Oh my gosh. Oh my word. 

Me: Yeah, I'm awesome like that. It's bedtime.

I feel like this video kind of goes with this story. I decided every Monday to let them take the mattress off their bed and bounce themselves until they're concussed. This was a video I took of the hoodlums.

Stinky McStinkMouth

Sometimes, I smell bad.

Mostly on what I like to call, "No Shower Saturdays".

Only quitters shower on days they don't have to work.

I prefer to look like this on Saturdays while I watch documentaries and fold other people's underwear.

But this is a story about the worst I have ever smelled.




Sometimes when I get down, I like to dance it out. I dance the shit outta that sadness until I am so happy that I throw up.






But this is one instance I decided to drive my sadness. It doesn't seem to have the same effect when you say, "I automobiled the shit outta that sadness". I don't even recall what I was upset about but I am sure it was something extremely horrible. Like being told I loaded the dishwasher when the dishes inside were already clean. You have to clear your mind after that kind of abuse.




I cranked up some Korn  (okay maybe it was the Bye Bye Birdie soundtrack, no matter) and took off driving. Not caring where I was going. Not caring what beings were walking the earth that night. Not caring about the souls of the divine righteousness.





I got really carried away there for a second and I'm sorry.

I was weeping and looking at myself in the mirror. I do this often because my eyes get a really pretty color of green when I cry.




Oh look! I have a picture of me crying. Don't worry, Mom. I'm happy 86% of the time.







Nevermind the sympathy...look how green my eyes are!








So I'm staring at my disastrously pretty eyes, when all off a sudden I thumpity thump over something in my car. I break a skull on the front tires and the ribs on the back tires.




I feel like killing a small animal seems appropriate for the mood at hand so I keep driving and checking myself out in my mirror.






I'm suddenly murdered in the mouth with a thick and smelly taste I had not had the pleasure of experiencing before.




I start screaming because I cannot breathe the air in my car. It's like a cartoon smell: thick and yellow and pungent and lingering.





I pull over in the middle of a scary dark road and roll down my window to take some deep breaths into my asthma-lungs. The air outside is no better. AND it's cold. So I blast my heater to warm myself up.





This is when I get murdered in my mouth again. But this time, it's like murder that got nuked in the microwave. Think about how much worse a pile of dog poo is when it's hot and melted instead of frozen and dried out. It's an entirely different entity.







It fills my hair and clothes and car. I run away from my car, swinging my hair around and yelling words my daddy shouldn't know I say.





I come upon the deliverer of the smell. It's half of a dead skunk on the road. The other half is on my tire, in my heater, and subsequently in my mouth and hair.




I go back to my car and turn it off. I turn off the heater and ask Jesus to allow me to safely turn my car on without being blasted with roadkill revenge. He obliges and I turn the car on, thankful the smell has finally escaped my vehicle and I can shower the rest of the vengeful skunk death out of my hair when I get home.






As I get home, I stop in my driveway and hose my dead friend the half-skunk off my tire before I pull it into the garage. The smell was gone but I didn't want decomposing animal on my tire.






I pulled my car into the garage and came inside the house. Husband with one T met me in the entryway to make sure I wasn't still a sad lollipop but I stopped him from embracing me.




Mary: Hey, don't hug me, I hit a sk-

Mat: ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! MARY! What the hell is wrong with you. GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!







My confusion was present because apparently my nose and the odor had decided to become buddies and get used to each other. I still smelled as bad as when my face first got murdered, but my nose hairs had been singed off and my brain adapted to my new life as the smelliest creature in the land.





I was in the garage like a wet golden retrievor, trying to figure out where I would live.




Mat: (through the door) Mary- what is going on?

Mary: I hit a skunk with my car and then I invited the dead skunk soul into my vehicle by turning on my heater. Do you smell me or the car?

Mat: YOUR CAR IS IN THE GARAGE? MARY OH MY GOSH PULL IT OUT. YOU ARE SMELLING UP THE ENTIRE HOUSE.





I pull the car out, ashamed out of my grotesqueness. When people drive by with sympathetic faces I scream at them "LOOK AWAY. I'M HIDEOUS. GO LIVE YOUR LIVES!"





I called Mat from my cell phone and convinced him I couldn't wash with the hose because it was 21 degrees and I needed soap that smelled like flowers. He said to run to the bathroom as fast as I could and to not let any air in with me. I had to take my clothes off in the garage and then sprint to the shower, which he already had running for me.





Mat: Don't turn that down.

Mary: But it's scalding my skin and burning my flesh.

Mat: Yeah, but I still think it's neccessary.




I washed my hair 4 times. Mat gets me some dish soap, we talked and thought maybe the dish soap would be more concentrated. It still smelled.



So we tried laundry detergent.




When that didn't work I just rubbed lawn fertilizer all over my now balding head. (okay, no I didn't. But everything else is true!)




I eventually told him he was going to have to accept the new me. I got out of the shower and blew my hair dry. The whole time I was blow drying my hair, Mat was staring at the ceiling and whispering to Father God.




Mary: I HAVE TO GO TO BED. IT'S 3 AM AND I HAVE TO WORK IN 4 HOURS.

Mat: I know, baby. I know. But...um....do you think you could sleep in the guest room? I'm sure it just needs more time.

Mary: I seriously cannot still smell.

Mat: I think the soap made it worse. It's like it just made it mad and more determined.




I slept in the guest room. When I went to work the next morning I smelled just as strongly. I had to tell everyone at work to disregard my stench.




The president of the bank kindly asked me to move my car. When that failed to stop the branch from stinking, he sent me home.



I had to park my car blocks away for the next 4 to 5 days. I wasn't able to use my heater for over a month. I think I asked people all the way out to 180 days "Can you smell me? Do I smell like dead skunk revenge?" because I was so paranoid. It was the gift that kept on giving.





The moral of the story is...if you ever hit an animal while in the middle of a drama/cryfest in your vehicle...immediately turn off your heater or air conditioner or else your spouse and employer will detest the very smell of you for 3 to 4 weeks.

Stop The Hate of Wonderful Things

I would like to remind everyone who is not a normal, functioning member of society and is instead a bikini picture girl, that you can drive your car into a large unstable trash can full of carcasses.



Yay. Let's dance around in bikinis, cowgirl hats,  and Ray Bans like we did 10 years ago, WHEN WE WERE 20.




Whatever, I know I am jealous. I know one day I hope to be a BPG. But I won't be. Because I love popping out them babies and eating them krispy kremes.




BUT if you BPG's continue to bash these temperatures we're having that are below 110 degrees, then I will find you. On Facebook......and probably delete you.





"I HATE this weather. I miss the pool parties and the lake!"

Translates into this:

"I'm hot. Go look at my bikini pictures and my drunk duck face white-bikini pictures"







"Go awayyyy 50 degrees. I want my summer back."

translates to:

"I have no fucking job. If I did, I would hate it to be 114 degrees because it would give me sweat creases in my work pants and make me smell like a Hungarian wrestling match"







"NOooooo! I'm not ready for Fall!"

is actually meant to be translated as:

"I hate not having a sweatstache! I love bikinis and hate ACTUAL adorable things like scarves and peppermint milkshakes from Braums."







"Was excited to go to the fair, but now it's too cold. FML"

"I wish I could wear my Sponge-Bob bikini to the fair. Since I can't, I'll wear my bikini in my living room with a hoody casually slung over my toned shoulders, and pose for pictures I take with my own arm/hand so I can post on Facebook to make everyone know...........Fall can kill the fair, but it can't kill this awesome shit that is my exposed torso."








I would love Summer exorbitantly,  too. If all that made it differ from Fall is the addition of snow-cones into my diet.



And if instead of working, I could to go a waterpark all day.




Without my kids.



And if Husband didn't make me feel  like a selfish penguin because I want the AC on a level that will cost us $450 a month instead of $390.

Non-sweaty wife = Happy life!




and if I owned a boat, jetski, koozie, trucker hat, boxer or golden retriever, OU ice chest, and a face that sucks a donkey without makeup.



I think this is hate blog and I'm sorry. I love all you SWBR.




(shirt-wearing blog-readers)

The decent guys are all in the friend zone...where we left them...

This is what a man's back should look like until he's 57. I'm not asking for a lot. Or an alot. Actually, I am a horrible artist because this TOTALLY looks like a 12 year old boy's back and I look like a pervbag. Imagine it being bigger and less pre-pubescent and creepy, mmmkay?



I had been aching for this customer to ask me out for weeks. He was attractive and funny and awesome at ordering checks and filling out his deposit slips. He was 6 years older than me but I needed a man anyways (conflicting with my little boy picture above).



When he finally asked me out he had an entire day date planned for us. Taking me to a river, hiking on a mountain, sailing and drinking on a boat, laughing at my jokes, etc.



He was great. Marryable. Loved him some Mary.



Then he said something nice and pulled me in for a hug. When I wrapped my arms around him and felt his back...it felt like this.

I immediately wanted to go home.

I made one of my friends break up with him, via text, from my phone and told her to delete any responses and not tell me what was said by either party.

I refused to go out with a guy because his back felt like a 60 year old man's.




I took a poll from some of my favorite people and these are the best reasons I have ever heard for ending contact with an otherwise dateable man.



"The pores on his nose were too big."



ew. It has nostrils, too.















"He kept saying 'Ready Freddie?' I may be a horrible person, but at least I'll be a horrible person that never has to be called Freddie again"




Am I ready?




















"He didn't tell me about his fake leg until I slept over and heard him take it off."




A fake leg is cute when it's on a fucking elephant.















"He started quoting japanimation to himself and when I asked what he was doing he started quoting them to me."





Did he use subtitles?





"Ugh. He looked at the wall too much when he was around my friends"



Agreed. So much cuter than her friends.



"His feet didn't touch my floor when he sat on my couch. He was like a hobbit."



I bet his back was cute, though.



"He was 20. His teeth should have been more shiny."



No excuse for this.



and the best.....

"Unfortunate Lucky jeans from like, 2002."

"Jeans were TOO nice and they made him look gay"

"He said "toodles". Come on. That's not hot."

"Because he ordered red wine"

"Because he was 3 years younger than me and wore too-white sneakers"

"Because he was a used-car salesman"

"Because his closet and office were too organized"

"Because his texts were like a 12 year old girl. LMFAO. No."

"Because he wore pleated pants on casual Friday and owned mandals"

Yes....that's right. Those were all said by the same person. This is her.



Except with lots of cats.