Somebody Really Needs To Make This A Game

It's the end of the month so I was doing inventory. Which involves walking around and counting shit in areas that normally I would never go into. There's this one area that reminds me of 90's video games.

Seriously someone needs to get right on that video game set in a tomato greenhouse. They're huge and have boiler rooms and storage rooms and chemicals and all kinds of stuff that would be perfect for blowing up zombies and monsters. The zombies and monsters would be because of the chemicals of course. Can't you just picture the spatter of blood and gore and dying monsters?

Later I was walking by one of the lady's work stations and what do I see?

It's always nice to know there are other perverts out there. I would hate to think I was the only one.

It's Only Embarassing If You Can't Laugh About It

I once mooned my elderly neighbors. Completely by accident of course. I was hanging laundry on the clothesline in my nightie and housecoat. For whatever reason I backed out from under a line already hung with something or other. Whatever it was did it's best impersonation of Velcro and before I knew my nightie was up around my neck and my bare white ass saw the sun for the first time ever. I guess I deserved it for hanging out in my PJ's well past noon like a well fed sloth.

Another time my mom was over for tea and my now ex- husband, was visiting the neighbors. Being as they were drinking beer together and the man had the world's smallest bladder he went around the back of the neighbors house to pee.

Seriously - the man was known for stopping on his way into the house to piss on a tree.

The problem is that our neighbors back yard was connected to our front yard. So there's me and my mom sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea while my ex is taking a leak. With a height advantage of 4 feet or so we could see over the fence right down to his shoes.

It's a good thing men only need one hand to pee, because once he looked up and saw us he waved. I'm not sure how many other men out there can claim their mother-in-law has seen their dick, but I don't think it's very many.

A few years later I'm on my way to a trade show in Toronto and my bladder felt like it was going to burst. So I found a service center and headed for the bathroom.

As I'm sitting on the toilet I kind of look down and think wow those are some pretty manly looking boots in the next stall.

Somewhere in between peeing and flushing another thought hits me that smells like man poo. The light dawns - holy shit I'm in the Mensroom!

I'm sorry to say in my mortification, I did not take advantage of my one and only visit to a mens public washroom to see what was different from the ladies.

It's been a couple of years since my last trade show but we always stayed at the same motel because there was an attached bar and about three Steakhouses within walking distance. It wasn't the finest motel in Toronto but hey trade shows are all about the eating and drinking right?

So anyhow after the evening festivities, while I knew I could still find my room I head back to it. Not quite ready to sleep I sat at the desk and fucked around on the internet. The desk chair was one of those seriously hard wood ones with the butt conforming scoop.

Restaurant food doesn't always sit well with me and since I was alone I was ripping off some farts. Very long, very loud farts. Eventually I went to bed.

The next morning I realized that I could hear the people in the adjoining room like there wasn't even a wall. Since I never heard them arrive, I can only assume that they spent the prior evening listening to my butt-trumpet and if they could hear that I'm pretty sure they heard me giggling like a fucking kid at my own farts.

Just When You Think You've Made It - Wham!

Teenagers tend to go through a period of stupid. If that sounds too harsh for you, we'll say they go through a period of doing stupid things instead. I can't speak for teen girls - my only experience is with boys, but boys seem to do stupid twice.

You make it through one stage of stupid and then life settles. You tell yourself "Whew, we made it", then wham they hit you with another round of stupid. Number two has been a little bit easier on me. His brand of stupid is like hitting a speed bump while going a little bit too fast. Number one's stupid was more like running over a parking curb and then wiping out a couple of parked cars.

First round for Number 2, was relatively minor. He was home from school one day and started messing around with some paper and a lighter. When I arrived home unexpectedly he shoved the burning paper out of the window and slammed the window shut, while the screen held his flaming torch securely in place.

Me: What's that smell?

Number 2: I don't smell anything.

Me: I smell smoke. What the hell is burning?

On investigation I discovered exactly what was burning - one of my brand new vinyl windows. The window that was right next to his bed. It was the closest I've ever come to having a fire in my home and I hope I never get any closer. Of course the window was ruined. I decided that putting it through my homeowner's policy probably wouldn't be such a good idea. Better to pony up the cash and then make him pay me back from his summer earnings.

Then nothing. No stupid stunts. No broken bones. Nothing. I was totally getting ready to say "Whew, we made it!", and then wham.

Number 2: Mom, look at this! It's so cool.

Motherfucking internet, Number 2 decided to try the salt and ice challenge. If you're unfamiliar with this challenge, it's pretty much like what it sounds. They put a layer of salt on their skin and then hold an ice cube to it. Kids see this on You Tube and then they want to try it.

So you remember that salt water has a lower freezing point right? Which means salt and ice is colder than just ice. These stupid kids are risking frost bite on a dare. Or even in the case of Number 2 on a whim.

Some kids are actually going to the point of severe burns and scarring. Thankfully Number 2 wasn't quite that dumb.

The real kick in the pants though? I knew of the challenge and stupidly never once talked about it and how foolish I thought it was. So seriously, if you've got a pre-teen, a tween, or a teen research the salt and ice challenge, and then talk about it.

Submitting once again to Yeah Write, the wonderful community for writers who blog and bloggers who write. So if you want to read some posts by great writers, or submit a post of your own check it out. Come back Thursday and vote for the best five. 

Car Doors Should Remain Closed When You're Driving

My car is pushing ten years old. I've had problems with the doors for at least six of those years.

I drive out to my mom and dad's every Sunday and they live on a dusty gravel road. The dust gets up inside the guts of the door and gums everything up.

At one point one of the back doors could not be unlocked. It didn't get used for a couple of years, until I either figured out how to tear it apart or someone helped me.

The last few years the issue has been a little different. Sometimes when you open the door the handle stays flipped up. Then the door doesn't latch. Since it's become second nature to me to flip the handle down as I'm opening the door, I rarely think of it.

People who aren't used to my car sometimes get a little pissed off though. It's almost like a comedy routine watching them slam the door, progressively harder and harder. Which just makes it bounce back open a little more forcefully.

Then I take pity and get out of the car, run around and close the door for them.

One door in particular, the rear passenger door, likes to be tricky at random times. Sometimes even when the handle is flipped down.

This Sunday we went to my parents for dinner as usual. Me and Louie - the dog. The Asshats think they're too old for dinner at Gramma's right now, but Louie loves his Gramma. Just try leaving him at home - he'll pout for a week.

I have really cute video on my phone of him crying and running around the car on the way to Gramma's. Some day I might even figure out how to get it off my phone and on my computer so that I can force all of you to ooh and ahh over how damn cute my dog is. 

Tonight's dinner was turkey. The smell of turkey cooking is a guaranteed four footed frenzy. Once the dogs all had their dinner - kibble with turkey bit toppings - and the dishes were done it was time to head home. I let the dog in the rear passenger door.

My parents live on a curvy road. Want to guess what happened on the first left bend? The rear passenger door flew open. Which woke the dog up from his turkey induced nap in short order, and leaped into the front seat. 

I really need to do something about those doors.

Coming Clean

Last night The Polish guy and I were showering. No I did not pee on his foot this time. I save that for special occasions.

The Polish Guy: Hey watch it! You're pushing me into the wall and it's cold. Look I'm all shriveled up!

So I looked down and things appeared as usual to me. I had a good laugh.

The Polish Guy: Don't be putting that in your blog.

Me: Well of course it's going in the blog. It was funny.

I'm a blogger. That's what I do - I take stuff that happens in my life and tell the world, or at least the small part of it that reads my blog, all about it.

While My Half Assed Life may be just a couple of months old, I've been blogging for a year now. Almost always anonymously.

At first because it was a new endeavor. Who knew if it would be any good or if I would completely suck.

I kept the anonymous going though because I also need to work for a living. At my last position I knew at any time my neck could be under the axe. That's what happens when you are working for a struggling company. So why give them any ammunition to use against me?

Then I was struggling to find other employment. Hopefully with an employer that didn't want me to sign my soul away for nothing in return.

I've found that employer. Along with a ton of blogging material. Blogging material that will mostly will never make it here. Not because it isn't funny - because a lot of it is hysterical - but because I've had enough HR training to know what constitutes grounds for dismissal and it's time to get smart about that.

So I've done a review of my posts. Some are gone for good. Some may be edited and republished, if the story itself is salvageable without those pesky concerns of losing my job.

Also gone? The anonymous part. So while I won't be broadcasting my full mailing address and how I sign my checks just yet, from now on you'll be seeing me as Vanessa D. Some of you might appreciate that when I comment on your blogs instead of seeing My Half Assed Life graffitiing up your comments.

That's my name - in real life. Even if Asshat #1 likes to sometimes call me Vicky or when he really wants to annoy me Vagina.

I've even got a Google + profile of sorts. I haven't really dedicated much time to it yet but it's there.

If I know you in real life? You'll probably make it here at some point. Don't worry too much though, I'll try to be gentle.

Doing Late Night Demolition and Where Did That Energy Go?

When my kids were small I used to do the night owl thing. Housework got done at 10 pm. Hell I could stay up all night and paint a room if I needed to.

Years ago when there was only one toddler in the household, I was still married. My ex used to have a bit of a drinking problem. Notice I say used to. If there was one good thing that came out of our divorce it was that he gave up drinking. The kids get to have their dad around a lot longer now.

Back then we had the ugliest dining room on earth. There were about 50 layers of wall paper. The old fashioned non-strippable paper wall paper. The room must have been many things over it's lifetime, one of the layers was patterned with race cars. The top layer was painted - just to add to the challenge.

When we moved into the house, there were only two windows that could be opened. The south facing one in the dining room was not one of them. It was actually two old fashioned storm windows put in a single opening back to back. At the beginning of our first summer, I took one out and mounted it on hinges. I busted the glass out of the other and stapled screen on it. We had a nice breeze from it over the summer, but I kind of wanted to seal off that breeze for the winter.

The ex received a used patio door as partial payment on a plumbing job he had aquired and then never finished. Being as the drywall in the dining room was two different thicknesses and covered in all that damn wall paper we (okay I) decided it was best to just gut it. This way we could replace the window and insulate too.

Only it wasn't getting done and the November wind was starting to howl through the gaps around the window.

Friday nights for us were pretty much him drinking with his buddies,  driving home when he shouldn't have been anywhere near a vehicle and then passing out in the living room. The living room that adjoined the dining room.

So one Friday, I decided enough was enough. I sat there on the couch until he came home. I read my book until he passed out. And then I got out the hammer and the pry bar.

Around 2 am, he woke up enough to go take his shower and head to bed. The dining room that wasn't more than 5 feet away from him was completely gutted.

Before the weekend was over, the patio door was installed. By the end of the week the room was insulated and drywall hung.

Sometimes, you've just got to take matters into your own hands. Even if it still took another two years before the room was mudded and ready to paint.

These days, I'm lucky if I can get my dishes done before I hit the hay. My late night ambition deserted me sometime in my thirties and I haven't been able to coax it back. 

Hanging out with the nice folks at Yeah Write for the Weekend Moonshine Grid. It's like going to a really awesome house party for the weekend.

Thank You's, Personnel Appraisals and The Question

Today was all about personnel appraisals, getting ready to give them and getting my own.

The Question was asked. The one I've known was coming and am no more prepared to answer than I was when I started the job.

Are you up for moving into a Management position?

There are a lot of reasons for my mixed reactions to this question. Number one would be the fact that my co-supervisor works ten times harder than anyone I know. If the Mennonite culture weren't so against education, I can guarantee you trying to answer that question wouldn't even be a future dream for me.

Number two would be the honest fact that I am more firmly planted in the "I work to live" camp than I ever will be in the "I live to work" camp. I need to have some sense of how many hours of my life the position would take. Life has to have some sort of balance between the things I love to do and the things I need to do. That and the fact that I was heavily shat upon in my last position. The one where they wanted me to act as a manager but weren't willing to pony up any cash. 

Anyhow that's a decision for another day.

Meanwhile, it's time to publicly accept some blogging awards that have come my way recently. Those are honors I can accept completely reservation free.

The first one was not so recent and right on the heels of my previous thank you post. I fervently hope that doesn't make me a complete douche bag. First for letting this lovely award languish for nearly a month. This is why bills are constantly sneaking up on me - I have no concept of time passing. Second for mentioning that I have a previous thank you post. I hate patting myself on the back - it's such an awkward position. Really have you not ever seen someone try to pat themselves on the back? They look like tools.

Dawn from Life With The Girl Next Door presented me with the Versatile Blogger Award. I think Life With The Girl Next Door might be the Yin to my Yang, or at least the positive to my negative. Also? She's a huge Dr. Who fan and I know some of you out there totally relate to that.

Tamara from The Zookeepers Wife tagged me with a hit list of questions back when we were all going through that Circle of Moms insanity. Do check her out - she studies astrology in addition to blogging so you know she's cool.

Then Vikki Claflin from Laugh Lines presented me with the Leibster. Vikki is absolutely hilarious. Seriously she made me shoot a carbonated beverage out of my nose, which stings by the way. Especially when it contains whiskey. Not only is she funny but if you've seen her Twitter avi - she's rocking this middle age thing - which makes me kind of envious. I mean funny and hot? I occasionally pull off funny, but my hot expired a couple of decades ago. Vikki is also super generous with her RT's on twitter.

Then last night Kianwi at Simply She Goes hit me with the One Lovely Blog Award. Kianwi has a dog named Kody. I have a dog named Louie. I think we both consider our dogs kids in fur which must almost qualify us as sisters or something. Personally of all my kids, the dog has so far turned out the best. Sorry kids, practice makes perfect. If you haven't yet met Kianwi, please do go see her - she is super nice and we all need a little bit more nice in our lives. She lives almost close enough to me for a doggy play date - if it weren't for those pesky international borders.

So all of these awards come with a laundry list of rules, and since I have real laundry waiting to be folded I'm just going to tell you a few random facts.

I despise Play-Doh, but not for the same reason most people despise it. I hate the smell of Play-Doh. Especially the blue Play-Doh. I hated the smell so bad that my kids were only allowed to have it at Gramma's. Lucky for them their Gramma totally rocked and she supplied them with a shit ton of Play-Doh cutters and accessories.

I can't stand wet Band-Aids. So much so, that the only way I will put a Band-Aid on any part of my hand is if the likelihood of you being grossed out by blood is at least 100 times higher than the likelihood of me washing my hands or dishes in the near future. In other words - hardly never.

I love X-men. If my kids didn't like it when they were small too effing bad - that was what we watched. I don't collect comic books or anything, but I would totally collect Hugh Jackman's boots under my bed. I would even take cartoon Wolverine's boots.

I'm super glad I had boys instead of girls. I used to get these looks of pity from other moms at swim lessons and what not, but I think they may have gotten the short end of the stick. Going through pre-menopause and dealing with the drama of a tween or teen girl and her PMS would have me moving on from self-medication into doctor prescribed pharmaceuticals. Or weed. One of those.

As I was typing that last paragraph Asshat #1 was invading Asshat #2's bedroom so he could spit water at his brother. 

I'm a big Negative Nelly most of the time, but for the past while I've had this deep unshakeable faith that good things are headed my way. I hope I'm not suffering from delusions.

Also, now that I'm nearly done? My eyeballs feel like they are being stabbed because I was too lazy to go find my glasses.

Now we all know that the next part of these awards is passing them on. There are so many blogs that I'm currently following and there are so many warm friendly people that I've met over the past couple of months I honestly would not know where to start. So how about if you take a gander at my blog roll? Click the little see all link at the bottom too - they are all awesome and worth the read.

Annihilating The Optiflow

 Dear Water Pik,

You promised me I would use 28% less water to shower, while not noticing a thing because of your Optiflow technology. Your spray setting was so gentle, I added an extra five minutes to my allotted shower time. Still it wasn't enough time to get all of the conditioner out of my hair. You promised me three pulsating jets on your massage setting, yet only provided enough water to run them one at a time. And like a first time lover, before I could say there's the spot, your one single stream would move! Worse still there was no pulsating action, not even a bit. 

January 4th is the day I installed this hand held shower from hell. Today I decided enough was enough. I work in a 55 degree packhouse all day. I deserve a decent hot shower damn it. So I stopped at the hardware store on my way home.

I picked the one that wasn't Water Pic, even if it was that shitty looking plastic chrome. After an hour long battle to get the packaging open, I checked to see if I could just replace the handle. Of course it doesn't fit in the bracket for the Water Pic. Of course. So I tried to untwist the bracket from the shower pipe bare handed. No luck.

I dug around in the bathroom vanity and found the channel locks. Yes they were in the vanity, I've told you about the asshats right? I need them handy in the bathroom. Also? Tools don't seem to like high humidity, those suckers need some oil.

Using the channel locks I try to unscrew the bracket from the pipe. They skid right around, doing nothing to loosen the bracket. Then I remember.

Righty tighty, lefty loosey. Asshole.

I get the old bracket off and look at the new bracket. I notice something very different on the new one.

I can see right through this one. On the old one there's a piece blocking it. Ah ha! I've found the fucking "Optiflow". With my trusty channel locks, I pulled that mother effer right out.

But wait, there's still something in there. So I go digging in the buffet for a nail, and using the channel lock as a mini hammer I knocked out the rest of the fucking "Optiflow".

Then I reassembled the Water Pic and installed it again. I just had the best damn shower I've had since January 4th.

Real Friends Don't Play The One-Up Game

We always joke about men and their pissing contests, but women have their own version of this game. It's the one-up game. We play it to see who has the best/worst husband, who has the best/worst kid or who has had the best/worst day. It sucks. I was reminded last night of how much I hate this game as I crashed a late night Twitter conversation. I was also reminded of one of the people I have truly been blessed to know.

I met Carol at my last job. I can't honestly say we were friends outside of work - she had her very own full rich life. We would take breaks together and talk the way women do.

Carol gave me something my other friends couldn't: perspective, without the one-up game. Sympathy without platitudes. A good swift kick in the ass if I was wallowing in self pity.

Carol raised two boys on her own, way back when divorce was almost a one way ticket to poverty. At the time of her divorce, she worked in real-estate. Real-estate income fluctuates so she had to give it up. Imagine having your child support based on your best months sales while trying to live on it during a slew of worst month sales. So she put away her business suits and spent years working in the greenhouse industry.

Whenever I talked about how hard it was to get by on my income, Carol had a sympathetic ear. She could have ten-upped me if she wanted. I still had twenty-five years of future earnings, but Carol was nearing the end of her working days. At that point, there are not nearly as many opportunities to improve your circumstances, yet I cannot recall one single instance where Carol played the one-up game.

Perspective came when she would count her own blessings. One of Carol's favorite sayings is "My angels are always looking out for me". She would explain this by recounting a time she was in a tight spot and somehow, she would find exactly the amount of money she needed to get through to the next tight spot.

She never told anyone You should count your blessings---she was too damn busy counting her own. Instead she lent a sympathetic ear and gave you time to own your frustrations and sorrows. No one-up game, no judgement, just quiet sympathy and a head shake at the difficulties life throws our way.

Carol wasn't one to let you wallow in it though. If the sorrows of today were still the only thing you were talking about a month later she would quietly ask Well, what are you doing about it. A statement that is guaranteed to get your gears turning. This is bothering me, what am I doing to fix it, change it, or let it go?

Carol has spent more years as a single woman than she spent as a married woman. Yet I never heard anything more than a matter-of-fact statement from her about it: things didn't work out. Instead, she filled her life with other things: girlfriends, chorus, musical shows and even trips. She didn't care if she had to eat eggs on toast for months, as long as her trip jar was growing.

Carol taught me that being alone doesn't mean lonely. That when our friends need us to listen, we hear better with our mouth closed, and that sometimes our friends need a kick in the pants. Every woman needs a Carol in their lives.

Linking up with Yeah Write this week - because like Carol, they give me perspective and sometimes a kick in the pants. 

Zombies Are Serious Shit In Canada

Just so you all know, we take the Zombie Apocalypse serious in Canada.

There you have it - Canada will never provide a safe haven for Zombies.

A Well Spent Day Off

After months of working 6 days a week, I finally took a day off. It happened to fall on the weekend The Polish Guy (formerly the boyfriend, but he wanted his own cool pseudonym) and I have our kids.

I could have spent my day off cleaning, but since I would have just wound up napping and fucking around on the internet anyway, I chose to treat it like a bonus day. I asked my favorite redhead (the step-daughter) if she wanted to go check out Value Village.

Favorite Redhead: I love that place.

The Bonus Son*: Can we go too? I want to go and get some art pens.

So I shoveled some of the crap out of my car and four teenagers crammed themselves into my little Cavalier.

Me: You guys get any bigger and I'm going to look like I'm driving around a clown car full of clowns.

This is how I verbalize my love - they get it.

Value Village is an entertaining store to browse once you get past the funk of old clothing and old people wearing Brut cologne.

We browsed the books and I found five - sometimes my psyche needs a real book in my hand. Three of them are part of a YA series, because I'm a sucker for a series. If it's well written I don't care who the target audience is, I'll read it. 

Proof that women are not kind to each other.

That's right - six weeks to get skinnier than all your friends. 

Then housewares for my next score.

A plug in wall clock that still works. Children of the seventies will remember these, along with those colors - Harvest Gold and Coppertone Brown. Otherwise known as baby shit yellow and poo brown. The plug in kitchen wall clock has gone the way of the party-line. Thankfully so have the colors along with their ugly step-sister Avocado Green.

We hit the handbags. Usually I don't see a damn thing there but cheap cracked vinyl purses. Which if I want a purse that smells that bad, I think I can throw in an extra 5.99 and let it aquire my own purse aroma. But I found a really nice beaded evening bag.

It's one of those things every woman needs at least once in her life, but if you're only going to need it once why buy new.

We discovered the reason Snuffleupagus is such a sad fellow.

Who knew the poor guy lost his Grandmother to hunters and she was turned into a wall hanging. I apologize for the blur, I was feeling so sad for poor poor Mr. Snuffleupagus my hands were shaky. There's some feathers on there so they probably got one of Big Birds relatives too.

The Redhead found a score of her own in belts & scarves.

A belt made of pop-can tabs. She passed on the feather boa, but we had to get the belt. In her words it's sick.

We checked out the clothing a little bit, and giggled like little kids over the skanky lingerie. We're both in agreement that used underwear is a secondhand line that should never be crossed. 

Toss in two picture frames because you can't beat $1.99 and a ceramic elephant because he was cute and fifty bucks later we were out of there.

Today will be my avoid housework by fucking around on the internet and napping day. I might get my new clock hung though. Probably in the bedroom where it can join my telephone clock.

*The Bonus Son is the stepson - he's a great kid and as much a pleasure to be around as his sister, so that's why he's the bonus. One of life's unexpected gifts.

Who Flushed A Potato Down The Toilet?

This Monday is a holiday in Ontario. Family Day, an arbitrary holiday the government made up to get votes.

In all of the years it has been in effect I have never been able to take it off. Even worse? The first year the fake holiday was in effect, I was traumatized by the Asshats.

The fake holiday arrived and I went to work, resentful because it was only my department that couldn't afford the lost hours of work to take it off. I supplied young plants and cuttings to the greenhouse industry. In order to have a geranium to plant in your garden come May, greenhouses need those plants in February.

My staff of two and I worked. All damn day.

Then I went home to a clogged toilet. A clogged toilet with shit in it. I don't know about you but the first thing I need to do when I get home from anywhere is go pee.

So there I am with my legs crossed, plunging that mother effing toilet like there is no tomorrow. Only nothing is happening. That's about when I finally tune into the argument that serves as conversation between the Asshats.

Asshat #1: It's your fault.

Asshat #2: No it isn't.

Asshat #1: You're the one who flushed a potato down the toilet.

My Brain: Wait, what did I just hear?

Me: YOU FLUSHED A FUCKING POTATO DOWN THE TOILET!!!!

Yes, apparently they were horsing around throwing potatoes at each other. When one went in the unflushed toilet, rather than risk getting shit on themselves they flushed. No matter how big your biggest turd is, it will never be as big as a potato. Of course it clogged the toilet. 

At this point, I decide I've already got a mess on my hands anyhow so I peed. In the clogged toilet. The toilet that contained somebody else's shit. It's the first and hopefully last time I ever feel the need to hover in my own home.

After I peed, I told the Asshats that they created the problem and they had better figure out a way to get rid of the turds and toilet paper so I could fix the problem. Then I did what any sensible woman would do in my situation. I went in my bedroom, locked the door and stuck some earbuds in my ears and had myself a great big crying session.

To this day, I have no idea how they dealt with the turds and toilet paper. I don't want to know.

Then I borrowed a home plumber special from my neighbor. A snake - think 10 foot long boingy door stopper thing.

It did not work.

I have no other options left. I start soaking water and piss and probably poo particles out of the toilet using my Vileda twist mop. I took the tank off first, because all the brains in the world will never give me enough upper body strength to lift an entire toilet. Of course one of the bolts was rusted through and broke. Of course.

There's no turning back now so moving forward, I carefully carried the bowl of the toilet over to the bathtub. Once it was in the tub I used my handheld shower and straight hot water to get that sucker as clean as I could. Then I reached my hand up the toilet and grabbed the effing potato.

It had a perfect hole in it from the snake. Too bad the hole would have been a tight fit for my pinky.

My next problem is I don't have a wax seal. This is a necessary part of putting the toilet back together. Now many women would have called their plumber ex husband at this point. Me? I've always been blessed with more than my fair share of stubborn. I head to Walmart.

Walmart is always open right? I'm pretty sure they're open Good Friday, Easter Monday and Thanksgiving. Walmart isn't open. I guess when the government starts handing out fake holidays for votes, even Walmart feels the need to observe. I go home to the toilet still sitting in my bathtub.

Most of the old wax seal is still there, maybe I can still make it work. I don't know if you've ever seen a wax toilet seal but think ear wax formed into a donut shape and you've got a good mental image. I valiantly suppress my gag reflex and smoosh the ear wax back to almost new appearance and start reassembling the toilet.

Once the bowl was in place, I opened my first beer. Luckily, my ex-husband left all kinds of plumbing goodies in the shed so I manage to find some bolts to re-attach the tank. By the time the tank was back in place I was on my third beer.

This year I'm at a new job but I'm still not taking Family Day off. I took Saturday instead. Family day still makes me shudder.

Don't Eff With The Plan

In my world there are a lot of things that get on my last nerve. Top my list of pet peeves is any change in plans.

It doesn't matter if The Plan was made two minutes ago on my way home from work and nobody knew the The Plan even existed. Don't fuck with The Plan, or things won't go well for you.

On any given work night The Plan always involves getting home from work with a minimum number of errands along the way. Preferably none. If I'm forced to run errands I'll do them all on one night. The night I'm supposed to be only cooking dinner for myself and Asshat #1.

That night was last night. I ran the errands, got home late and found out I was feeding both Asshats. With no plan in site other than an oven pizza - which only feeds two people in my house - I did what any sensible woman would do and ordered pizza.

Tonight, errands done last night and an oven pizza about to finally happen ( I love easy meals, don't you?) I head home.

There are one too many Asshats in my house. That's right. The Plan changed again.

To top it off? Asshat #2 dropped his phone and wants me to go take out money for him so he can get a new one tomorrow. Never mind that this is phone #4 destroyed in just two years.

Sorry I'm home now, and on any given night The Plan does not include leaving the house until the following morning.

So the first order of business tonight was to pour a drink. Not for the relaxing benefits of booze. Nope, tonight I drink so that nobody can ask me to drive them anywhere.

PS He buys his own phones, since both Asshats have been forced encouraged to have summer employment as soon as they are old enough to legally do so. 

I'm linking up with Something Clever 2.0 again for Theme Thursday. This week's theme is Pet Peeves. Click the image below to read other blogger's pet peeves. 

 

A Rant Followed By A Touching Story of Tomato Love

This post was going to be all about Valentine's day - in my own sarcastic fashion. Sometimes plans change though and first I've got to do a bit of a rant.

When my ex and I split, it was written into the divorce decree that he would have the kids one weeknight for dinner - in addition to his weekends. Now that they're older, of course the 21 year old doesn't want to go. Hasn't gone for years really - but we'll save that story for another day.

The 17 year old? He still goes. Which is cool. I know that both boys need to have their own relationship with their dad. It's important to their future happiness.

I'm also cool with the fact that work sometimes gets in the way of life - to a point. Tuesday is the regular night. If you can't come Tuesday then you had better come Wednesday.

He didn't. His unreliability was one of the contributing factors to our divorce.

Now 3 nights of planned meals were and will be shot to shit, and everybody's on edge and twitchy because our routine for the week is totally fucked. 

It also means that because I was kind of counting on him, I ran errands after work and didn't get home until after 6. So now not only am I feeding one I wasn't planning on feeding, I'm starting late.

Of course nobody thought to feed the animals. Either that or the animals didn't bother asking anyone else since I think they figure my sole purpose in life is seeing to their needs. Much like kids?

So I threw myself a nice little hissy fit and started cleaning up the days accumulation of crap and garbage. I ask you - why do we need to have 3 bread bags each containing one slice of bread and a crust sitting on top of the microwave? If you have no plans of eating it just throw the shit away.

Then I swept the floors, because I prefer to sweep before I vacuum. Takes care of those big nasty chunks of stick and plastic water bottle from the dog's chewing. As I was walking by the counter with the broom I noticed the piles of bread crumbs on the counter.

Yeah, I totally used the broom to sweep those fuckers into the dustpan.

Anyhow, moving on to Valentines. I'm not a fan but here's a special Valentine's story just for you.

Girl Meets...

Guy.

Has Baby

Has another one.

Gets Fat.

The End

Thank you to everyone who voted for my blog in the Circle of Moms contest. I'm pleased with how well I did and it wouldn't have been possible without you voting for me. It's over now. Whew!

I Will Admit, Occasionally I'm An Asshole

The truth is I can be a bit of an asshole. Sometimes.

Excessive alcohol consumption is of course the fastest road to being an asshole. But it can also be triggered by some things that most people wouldn't even notice.

Things like sitting in my chair. I mean sure, I'll let you warm it up for me, but it had better be empty as soon as I walk in the door.

It isn't like I'll fight you for it, but neither one of us is going to have as nice of a time as we would have if you'd moved. Mostly because yes, I'm going to be an asshole while you are sitting in my chair. 

In fact I won't even take my coat off until you either move or leave, since really in my mind I'm not there yet. How could I be there? My ass is in the wrong chair.

Sorry. I've got no more control over it than PMS. Actually I've got more control over PMS - an Advil will take the edge off of that.

I used to be worse. I had a special bowl and spoon for my cereal. They were completely unique, at least in my mother's kitchen they were, and if someone used them before me? Well lets just say nobody was going to have a good morning. Or at least nobody who could hear me was going to.

How about you? Have you got a "special" spot you sit in?

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A Well Deserved Smack Down

Dear Neighbor,

When you moved here we were all treated to a fine display of you cursing and yelling at your wife. Since it didn't occur again, I put it down to moving day stress and moved on.

During my first opportunity to talk to you, you proceeded to bitch that you couldn't find a job because all of the immigrants were taking the variety store jobs. I put it down to ignorance and moved on.

Over the years we've maintained a civility, and while I certainly wouldn't invite you over for dinner, live and let live has been working out pretty good for us. I even ignored those spindly pot plants you had growing on your step in plain sight. I may not know anything about the cultivation of marijuana, but I'm fairly certain if those had been tomato plants you would have been lucky to get a single BLT out of them.

I even forgave you for luring away our pet squirrel with Sun Chips when anybody knows squirrels are supposed to eat nuts. In fact I probably would have paid to watch you give him that flea bath you talked about.

When I see you walking your dog, I choose to see the proud dog owner in you and ignore your shirt that ponders the mysteries of the universe or as it so eloquently states I Shaved My Nuts For This? I even choose to ignore the massive amount of belly hanging out below the hem.

Now I understand our vehicles are not the quietest ones around. It's called poverty sir. You certainly can't think we choose to live in this neighborhood. I also understand my son's truck is loud. I get it. That's something that happens to old trucks.

You also may have noticed it's winter? You didn't miss that cold breeze flapping your robe around this morning did you? So the reason the truck is running for at most 10 minutes in the morning is because if it isn't warmed up first the defroster can't do it's job. The reason the truck is running at 6:30 is because my son is in fact going to work. Something I have not seen you do in the entire 5 years you have lived here.

When you came and knocked on the door this morning, your request that he not leave the truck running for so long in the morning was almost civil and would have been honored. However this wasn't quite enough for you. As you were leaving you chose to actually enter a vehicle that is not your own and turn it off. And then to really set the tone for Monday - you also yelled and threatened my son. As he was going to work, something he happens to do Monday through Friday.

However we are in luck. A while back Vinny C, from As Vinny C's It provided me with the perfect thing for you.

That's right - you sir need a tanning.

And now I get to award up to three bloggers with this awesome award. Like Vinny, my choices are based on wanting to see who these bloggers spank, and how they go about it.

The Sarcasm Goddess

Deb at Just Keepin It Real Folks

Larks at Lark's Notes This

I promise no spanking for you (unless you're into that) if you go vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Maybe get your friends and family to vote too - since I'm nowhere near my goal of making it into the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th. 

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Vacuum Cleaner Phobia, I'm Sure There's A Name For That.

It's Sunday - aka - I need to get shit done day. Which is also the one day of the week that my animals can seriously get on my last nerve.

Take for instance the Hairy Assed Dog. It's not that I mind vacuuming up the tumbleweeds of dog hair that have invaded every corner in my house. I don't even mind having to lift every chair so I can pull off the gobs that seem to collect around the chair legs. Not at all. I knew Golden's shed a lot and accepted that me and the vacuum were going to get to know each other a whole lot better.

The thing that really irritates me? You are a Hairy Assed Dog. The vacuum cleaner will always be a  part of your life. Sure I don't like it either, but seriously it is NOT an attack vacuum. It won't suck you up or suddenly start chasing you around when it's sitting in the corner unplugged. If you can't kiss and make up, at least quit running around the house like an idiot and generally getting in my way. I can assure you the vacuum is a lot nicer than the clippers.

Then there's the cat. Yes a couple of today's goals do revolve around you. For instance changing your kitty litter and providing you with fresh bathroom facilities. Even though I know you'll shun them in favor of the dirty clothing the Asshats keep leaving on the bathroom floor. I will also try not to curse too much as I clean the shit spatter off of the wall behind the box. God forbid I give you enclosed bathroom facilities and make you claustrophobic as you do your business.

None of those goals involve me following you around the house as you walk seductively in front of me waving your asshole around. I did not wake up this morning thinking it had been far too long since I last saw your butthole winking at me. Kindly stop doing that or walk a half pace slower so I can shove my foot up your arse and be done with it. Here let me stir the kibble in your dish around with my hand to make it palatable for you, even though we both know it's the same damn food that's been sitting there all morning.

I promise I won't ever chase you with the vacuum, so can you please go vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Maybe get your friends and family to vote too - since I'm nowhere near my goal of making it into the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th. 

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So Tantalizingly Out Of Reach

I work six days a week - every week. Being the type of person who works to live and not the type who lives to work, I sometimes resent the whole every Saturday thing. But I get up and go - every Saturday.

A lot of times we're done packing at a decent time. Today, we were done at 2:30.

Just early enough for me to start getting excited. But first, I have to wait for the shipper to clear the floor. The single, no family and possibly no friends shipper.

The dilemma is, I want to help him out. I mean of course I do, since the faster his work gets done the sooner I'm out of there. But if I help him out he starts yakking. Apparently he can't walk and chew gum at the same time, or at least he can't work and talk at the same time.

I've had him actually turn the lift truck off climb down and give me a demonstration of what 20/60 or 60/20 or who gives a fuck vision is. It pretty much boiled down to objects may appear closer than they are. I have no idea if this is the true definition or not - mainly because I don't give a shit.

I keep checking the time on my phone. It's moving fast, I sure wish my shipper would.

Finally he's almost done, except he completely stops working to tell me how the rules for emission testing diesel engines have changed and he might have to say goodbye to his car. Again, I really don't give a shit.

Finally at 3:45 - yeah that's right, 1hr 15 minutes to load a single trailer - he's done.

I ran a few errands and arrived home at 4:30.

I've decided Saturday afternoon naps are forever out of my reach. Thanks Swinger Dude.

How about a pity vote for my lost nap? Go vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Maybe get your friends and family to vote too - since I'm nowhere near my goal of making it into the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th. 

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The Time I Lost My Shit In A Parking Lot

I know every parent has been driven to at least one lose your shit moment. I've been driven to making an ass of myself over it.

The other half and I split when the kids were ten and six. The six year old adjusted well. The ten year old? Not so much. After two harrowing years, I turned to professionals and we started family counseling.

I'm sure Shalom made an opening for us on her schedule after the preliminary phone call. The one where I was trying to talk like a rational human being and anyone who wasn't deaf could tell that the level of chaos in my household was red-lining. At least once during that phone call Asshat #1 darted in and hung up the phone on me.

During one particularly loud chaotic session #1 wanted to know if I had ever smoked pot. Shalom's response was that she was shocked I wasn't already a raging alcoholic. Tip - if your counselor suggests this, you probably should have sought help sooner. 

On leaving that session, it was cold and just starting to get dark. Number 1 got in the front seat while I made sure #2 was properly restrained buckled in. I closed the door and grabbed my open can of pop off of the roof. Counseling sessions were thirsty work.

That's when #1 decided to start pushing buttons.

The button for the lock.

If you, as a child of the 70's should ever be engaged in a contest of thumb dexterity and speed against a child who cut his teeth on Sega Genesis and Nintendo, you are fucked.

So as I would press my key fob, with one hand while trying to shuffle my purse and my open can of pop around so I could open the door with the other I was hearing the lock snapping shut again. 

After a few minutes of the purse and pop shuffle, I start to wonder what the people coming out of the adjoining grocery store are thinking. Watching this wild woman fling her purse from her hand to her armpit with pop flying everywhere. And because I felt like an asshole, I went and gave anyone watching me a true display of how an asshole acts.

I whipped my half full can of pop at the car.

Mission accomplished, Asshat #1 finally let the wild woman who was his mother in her own damn car and we drove home. Thirsty, and with my face burning in shame the entire way.

I promise, I'll never throw anything at you, so go vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Maybe get your friends and family to vote too - since I'm nowhere near my goal of making it into the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th. 

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Mother Effing PMS Party.

The Swinger was off sick Monday and Tuesday.

Yesterday he was back to work.

Ladies, I see your I lived through my husband's Man-Cold and raise you a I lived through The Swinger's Man-Cold.

Poor guy. He hasn't had kids of his own so he didn't know about the most common side effect of taking antibiotics. I would almost feel bad for him, IF he had not found it necessary to give a play by play of his diarrhea.

So after a full day of spreading his plague and pestilence germs around, he called in sick again.

Call it sexism if you want, but we have guy jobs and girl jobs. It really has more to do with avoiding repetitive strain injuries than anything else - so please don't get your panties in a bunch.

I've been wanting to use that expression in a blog post forever!

So now I have to do a quick shuffle of people, because I've used up one of my guys on lift truck duty.

All while my line leader is throwing a hissy fit because the line-up changed. Which prompted her to start shooting out demands like I was wearing a sure I'll be your bitch today sign around my neck.

In the midst of trying to satisfy her demands and squelch my urge to stick my foot up her arse (that's prohibited for some reason) I remember I forgot to turn the effing stacker on. The controls are on the other side of the line.

So I hot-foot it the quarter mile or so I have to go to get to the other side. On the way I managed to ignore my fear of escalators and take the short cut across this baby.

I mean sure I knew it wasn't on (since I had forgotten to turn it on) but those are still chains capable of moving a fully loaded pallet. I see your fear of escalators and raise you one pallet mover.

Then while I was running across the valley of death, another freaking cat-fight erupts. This one even more ridiculous than the last one.

What the frig is going on? Was it a full moon last night because it was like a mothereffing PMS party. 

I told them both to cut it out. They listened as well as the Asshats - so not at all. I had to walk down both sides of the effing half mile long line - again - and tell them to cut it out. Finally, at one minute to the break buzzer, I told them I would see them both in my office after break, because by this time I sure as hell wasn't delaying my smoke to deal with this shit.

After break they were both told to zip it and leave their personal crap at home. I also may have told them that they were no longer in high school and this shit is not acceptable at work. Then I sent them back to work - at opposite ends of the place.

Not five effing minutes later, one has to go to the washroom and of course walks by the other and the screeching continues.

As I'm in my office writing up their warnings, my boss decides to drop by and make chit chat about how the job is going.

Timing is everything dude, and yours was a bit off today.


You know what could make me feel a whole lot better about my day? A vote from you. It'll be just like a great big hug, so go vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Maybe get your friends and family to vote too - since I'm nowhere near my goal of making it into the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th. 

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Homosexuality. You Are Or You Aren't, It's That Simple

I was the first born daughter of a first born daughter. Which means that when I was young and we went to visit my Gramma, there were teens in the house. To this day I suspect my youngest Aunt harbors a small grudge against me. It may or may not have something to do with her saying Shh, don't tell Gramma, and me promptly telling Gramma that my aunt was smoking.

My Uncle had a friend who used to live at my Gramma's. He's behind my attraction to dark handsome men. I don't care if I was only five or six, when he came out of the bathroom in his tighty whities, you're fucking right I looked. It was whole hell of a lot more interesting than my Ken doll. Too bad I made the mistake of asking what that bump in front was. After that I never got to see him come out of the bathroom in only his underwear again. It was a better lesson on the value of keeping my mouth shut than my Aunt's ire over the smoking thing.

Then there were the older boys who lived next door to my gramma. One of them is the reason for my attraction to handsome blond men. My lascivious thoughts may have been mostly unformed, I have hazy memories of thinking that a piggy back ride on his shoulders would be dreamy. Even so, I can clearly remember the attraction I felt.

These vague childish memories of finding men attractive have stuck with me for almost forty years, leading me to believe the attraction was strong.

So doesn't it make sense that people are born with their compass already set and pointing in the direction that is right for them? What gives anyone the right to say different?

I'm linking up late with Yeah Write. It's a super community for bloggers who write and writers who blog.

 

The Pride And The Fall

I've mentioned that I'm supervising solo while the other supervisor is on vacation. It's all good though since we aren't busy and I figure I'll learn a lot. My biggest concern was The Swinger, because he's not a fan of mine.

Friday and Saturday, The Swinger wasn't feeling well. Which is fine - except he kept wanting me to feel how cold his hands were.

My Brain: Dude, you're a swinger. I could watch you wash your hands in bleach and I still wouldn't want to touch them. Now you're sick and you want me to touch your hands! Are you nuts? That's like swishing my hands around in germ stew. 

Finally, I touched them. They were a fuck of a lot warmer than my hands. Then I walked to the washroom like a doctor who had just scrubbed in, and scrubbed my hands with a vengeance.

So Monday, he called in sick. I should have been all Oh my God, how am I going to do all the stuff he normally does. Instead I was all Good, one less day for him to get all pissed off on me.

I learned how to call for a trailer and turn on a reefer. The day went great.

Tuesday he called in sick again. No problem!

My Brain: Yesterday was fine, what's one more day?

This is the stacker - after it was fixed.

Then the stacker got stubborn and wouldn't drop a pallet. The stacker has gears and moving chains and shit.

I have a fear of getting my fingers pinched, or I don't know - severed? I called maintenance.

No more than 30 minutes after maintenance left - the strapper vomited.

I hit the emergency stop and started hunting for a manual. I mean seriously folks - I can thread a Serger so how fucking hard could it be?

Not hard at all. Except first I had to get that carriage way up there to come down. Touch screen computer programming makes it simple, but every time I turn the machine back on it starts spewing again.

What seemed like miles of strapping vomit later, I called maintenance again.

I know how to do it now.

The Swinger is supposed to be back tomorrow. If anyone breathes a word of this to him, I might have to run them through the strapper.

I promise, I'll never run you through the strapper, so go vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Maybe get your friends and family to vote too - since I'm nowhere near my goal of making it into the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th. 

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Trying Something Different

Usually the first thing I do when I get home from work is start reading other bloggers.

That's usually about when everybody decides they need my attention. It's exactly like being on the phone. I think there's some sort of pheromone mom's exude when they are engaged with other things that makes them irrisistable to teenagers bent on aggravation.

Once they start pestering me, they start pestering each other and I start getting twitchy. Once I get twitchy, I get bitchy. I may or may not even get a little itchy and scratchy.

Either way, any chance I had of being entertained by what I'm reading and writing my own post is pretty much gone.

So rather than fight a losing battle, I'm going to feed the Asshats first, fold a little bit of laundry and maybe even wash some dishes.

Then I'm going to lock myself in my bedroom and play some music.

Plus today's real post has pictures of vomiting strappers and stubborn stackers, and lately Blogger has been an asshole about uploading my pictures.

Asshats plus Blogger being an asshole together requires medication which I don't have because you know - Doctors office = germs.

But hey, while I'm cooking dinner you could go vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Maybe get your friends and family to vote too - since I'm nowhere near my goal of making it into the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th. 

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PS. That really is vomiting strappers so if you're hoping it's a typo and the post will really be about vomiting strippers sorry about your luck.

If You Don't Know What You're Looking For, Google Can't Help You

Friday I was risking lifetime mental scars and searching Google Images, trying in vain to find a picture of a scooter. I was willing to settle for remotely similar.

I was not willing to settle for this.

It might be pretty snazzy with the senior set, but it is NOT the scooter I was looking for. I should be grateful that I didn't get back a bunch of pictures of dogs scooting their butts around.

By the way, don't search that ever unless you want to see lots of dog assholes.

So I tried searching by the brand, which I had made note of. Too bad it was only a mental note.

Hmm, it was something to do with moving.

Was it telecommuter? Nah, that's not even close and has nothing to do with moving.

Commuter? Nope that one isn't working.

Transporter? Nope.

This is why my posts usually have no pictures.

Today I took pictures of the actual scooter. It's a Nomad. You can see them here - Does This Scooter Make My Ass Look Fat?.

Now that I knew the right name, for shits and giggles I searched it.

There it is! I guess it helps if you know what you're looking for.

Vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Maybe get your friends and family to vote too - since I'm nowhere near my goal of making it into the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th. 

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A What In Your What?

When a new blog starts getting hit on by the search engines it's kind of exciting. I'll admit I'm vain enough to see how many pages the searcher had to go through to get to me.

The very first Googled search that led to my blog?

Petrified poop hoarders. I'm the second result for that one.

Today?

A cheese grater for your feet. Which seems pretty mundane to me, but then google threw me for a loop.

There are some disturbing individuals out there.

Vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Better yet? Get your friends and family to vote too and help me make my personal goal of being in the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th. 

Does This Scooter Make My Ass Look Fat?

Have you ever heard the saying that scooters are like chubby girls - fun to ride as long as nobody sees you?

We have a little yellow scooter at work for getting around. Up until now, I've been resistant to riding it. Mainly because of the likelihood of wiping out and the large audience available to witness any potential humiliation, since I am the girl who ran face first into the back of a pick up truck.

Finally Friday afternoon was the day. Nobody was around and I had to wait for the Shipper/Receiver to finish his stuff anyhow. So I rode the scooter up and down the warehouse until I felt comfortable. It's a little faster than walking. Colder too.

So I used it Thursday and I couldn't resist asking Does this scooter make my ass look fat? I made sure I didn't wait for the answer, it probably would have been What scooter?

While I was learning how to ride a scooter, the employees were learning how to work scissor carts.

 Scissor carts have two sets of wheels. One set is like train wheels. They don't turn, they're metal and they ride on rails. Those are the wheels used while in the rows.

Then there's the other wheels. Four castor type wheels that are used to move the cart from row to row and to turn the cart. These wheels drop down or up, depending on which way the switch is pressed.

Simple right?

It's never simple. Every time I turned around somebody was unable to get their cart on a set of rails because the castors were down and locked onto the end of the rails which is U shaped. Or, they were trying to push the cart sideways with no castors - just the metal wheels grinding along on concrete - sideways.

Facepalm.

Vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Better yet? Get your friends and family to vote too and help me make my personal goal of being in the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th.