My job, is made of suck.
Everyone says this, but mine really does.
I've had days where I was doing nothing but scrubbing shit (actual shit, as in fecal matter with pieces of undigested food and the stench from hell) off of someone's ass all day long. Or cleaning shit off the floor. Or dodging getting hit or bit or scratched or smacked.
I work my shift.
I go in on my days off if they need me (ON TOP OF A FULL TIME SCHOOL SCHEDULE)

And when I request the weekend off, I get told "eh, probably not" because we're short staffed by one. But! Another worker can take a week off of work in the middle of the month because she asked for it off. This same worker told me, flat out, not to expect her to offer to take one of the nights I want off, because it's her night off too.

I am going out of town to see my fiance, who I only get to see once a month if we're lucky, and I asked two months ago for that weekend off.

But probably not.

You ever want to rub someone's face off on the sidewalk for no reason other than they did something in the past? Brandon is best friends with a woman he used to date. They dated two years ago, it ended badly, and save for one occasion over a year ago, they haven't had physical contact like that since.
I'm totally okay with them being friends. I even like her and am friends with her, because she's my kind of people. I just keep the knowledge they used to do the naked tango together in a separate part of my brain and I can deal with that.
But when it's brought up in conversation they used to get naked and how often they'd get naked, either by someone else or when Brandon is retelling a story, I want to bash her face in until brain matter is painting the room.
Brandon does not understand how I am perfectly okay with them being friends and I still have moments where I want to shove a railroad spike through her eye. I've tried explaining it has nothing to do with her, or him, or anything other than he's mine and by God, I don't share.
Then Man I Used to Fuck came up. I don't have another name for him, so we'll go with MIUtF for short. He's in the military and is going to be back in our hometown over Christmas. MIUtF and I will probably hang out, as that is what friends do. And while he is firmly in the "used to fuck" category and not going to ever again be in the "plan to fuck" schedule, Brandon has an issue with it. Which I TOTALLY UNDERSTAND. But come on, do you really think I'm going to wreck a good thing for someone who had a chance with me and GAVE IT UP, only to realize later THAT I'M GODDAMN FUCKING AMAZING? He actually called to tell me that he'd made a mistake in picking women, and that comments and posts on FB that he knows are aimed at Brandon make him jealous. Not my goddamn problem fucker, you cocked up and now you can live with it.
But the fight ensued after that, and it ended when I basically said everything his ex's (who have cheated on him) said... which made me feel bad.
How is it that I feel bad after a fight that wasn't an actual fight? There was no yelling, no screaming, no throwing of anything, no slamming doors...

Holy fuckballs, it's been a long time. I don't even remember what the fuck I bitched about on here last... was I still in the Wild Wild West, minus Will Smith? Was I already back East and bitching?

I'm noticing a bitch trend...

Mention of trend, I've come to realize one of my classmates (oh yes, at the ripe old age of almost 30, I am once again a student) is either on meth, or fucking narcoleptic. The bitch has fallen asleep in class, WHILE STANDING UP. I've only seen horses, and cows do that. She's neither equine or bovine, believe me, I've given her a very careful assessment from afar.

And the kicker? Bitch is PASSING WITH FLYING COLORS.

I began the actual hands on portion of my continuing education today, and while it was fun, there is also a slight problem.
No smoke breaks. At all. From seven a.m. until half past noon, no smoking.
I'm going to kill someone.

She Who Birthed Me had a few weeks where she seemed to be the unwanted offspring of Chernobyl and 3 Mile Island all rolled into one cranky little package. Told me I was not being smart, I was making stupid mistakes, I didn't need to be dating an awesome guy, and I should be doing nothing at all but going to school, working full time, and being lonely.
In other words: she was miserable and thought I should be to for her sake.

Oh! Yes! Dating! Oh, well, that is one thing I don't have to bitch about. See, after I got back East, it was like the male gender remembered I had a vagina. Yes, I was shocked too. Even more shocked when the guys who wanted to use aforementioned vagina took me out on actual dates. Like, where you have to sit down and eat with real silverware, not the plastic crap from Sonic.

I ran through... let's call it a 'few' guys once I got back in the dating pool, and while it was fun, I was not looking to get married or seriously date ever again. Did you know most men in this area are giant vaginas? And not the fun vagina either- they're like blue waffle vag that is slimy and gross and no one ever wants near it ever again.

Then I got hooked up with Brandon by a mutual long term friend of ours who proved just how well she knows us in the fact she demanded we start talking. And then sits smug when everything works out.
Now I'm halfway married, friends are picking out what features we need to pass onto future offspring, and how my middle and last initials would be the same. Oh, and when is a good time for a wedding. And suggestions on where.

I've made my big move, and I'm now hanging on the East Coast where it's hot as fuck and overloaded with humans.
I love it.
That being said, I moved out of Stepmother's city, state, and goddamn TIME ZONE, but the cunt wad can't let me go.
Months ago, I deleted the bitch out of my cell phone, she never called anyway, and if I need her, I'll slit my own throat.
But, she didn't delete me.
The following is an exact quotation of the text messages she sent me.

Unknown Number: Perhaps you want to consider returning (name retracted) check for the bed to her. It really wasn't yours to sell and I think it would be rotten to take advantage of such a sweet lady.
Me: Who is this? The bed was mine, and I would have brought it on my move if there had been space to do so.
Unknown Number: You know who this is... your a little too old for games. Funny thing is I have a receipt for the bed with my name on it. Technically what you did is called theft :-)
Me: I had removed your name from my contact list. The bed was a gift, according to my father.
Unknown Number: Again, I would encourage you to do the right thing and return her money. GIVE her the bed for all she has done for you.

1.) It was REALLY hard for me not to correct their usage of "your" instead of "you're". And I just love the little smiley face after the subtle accusation of theft, really I do. I thought I left this school yard bullying tactics behind when I got out of grade school, and that woman is certainly old enough to have left those things behind four or five decades ago.
2.)I did sell my bed. I was just going to leave it there, someone offered me $200 for it, and I said "okay".
3.) I promptly sent the messages along to He Who Made Me, and asked him, politely, to get his wife the fuck off my dick before I figured out a way to rip her head off from hundreds of miles and a few time zones away.
4.) I think her getting cancer was just karma's way of paying her back for being such a rotten cunt.

Viva la change! Or some shit.
I'm getting ready for a second big move in less than a year. I came out to BFE in hopes of finding myself. And I kind of did. I realized I'm a city girl to the bone, and while nature is awesome, I like my pizza delivered and my transpo of the public variety.
I am going to start nursing school. Well, I plan on it anyway.
And I'm probably going to be looking to make another move in the next few years after getting my LPN.
You see, I'm running home to Mama. And nursing school. Mainly Mama and family and friends who don't give a flying fuck about my parentage and that I'm weird and have a brain that has weird bursts of genius. They love me, get my jokes, and know that when I pet them, it's because I'm stresesd the fuck out.
But Mama isn't going to be staying when I get there (yes she is, but not after the new year, she's looking for her own pot at the end of the rainbow), which is fine. That woman has done more than enough for me over the years, I'm not going to hold her in place if she wants to go somewhere else that will make her happy.
That being said, I'm going to be hunting up a roommate of either gender to help with the bills, because I know I can't float a house on my own. Which fucking sucks when I'm a goddamn grown up and can't afford a house payment and bills.
After I get my LPN, I will need to find a new school to get my RN, because the college I'm going to does not have an RN program.
That brings me to the other change that might come to pass.
California. The land of silicone, earthquakes, hard bodies, and L.A. weirdos. I figure, I've managed to make it through the worst Montana can throw at me, why not try my hand at the land that is rumored to be the next great island resort. Maybe I'll get lucky and a hottie in LA will decide I'm the woman he can't live without and he'll keep in a lifestyle to which I could quickly become accustomed. (Let me have this bubble, I have so few)

That being said...


... I'm terrified of this shit. Fucking. Terrified.
I want to crawl in my bed, pull the covers over my head, plug my ear buds into my head, and just zone the fuck out. If I could, I'd bliss out on bud and good beer and figure out the secret of space travel. This the same fear kept me married to an emotionally stunted, cold, mean man who would just as soon slap me down as hold my back. And I'd rather be cold and dead than let another person hold my strings that way.

I had to work on Mother's Day, which was the best one I've had in years. No one to remind me that I had no children, no one to remind that the children I did have were "born asleep". (worst fucking phrase in the world, hands down.)
I got a gift card to one of my favorite shops in the world, from an unknown sender. I asked my "admirer" about it, and they said it wasn't them. I, naturally, blew through the gift card as fast as my hot little fingers could log onto the website. I have a gift coming it's way to me via FedEx as fast as the postman can walk!
So Mother's Day started off pretty badass for me, all things considered. Until I got the text message from The Donor that it was his wife's birthday. Now, his wife and I aren't friendly. I'm pretty sure she dislikes me, and while I don't dislike her, I'm not putting myself out there when she's made her feelings clear to me through actions. I avoid her, she avoids me, we're both happy.
Since I did not promptly offer to throw her a parade, I am an uncaring person.
I called an old lover, because I needed someone to talk to, and halfway through our conversation they piped in with that they'd faded out of our conversation and hadn't heard anything I'd said for the last minute or so. I got off the phone with them, because, despite their honesty, I wanted to reach through the phone and rub their face off on the sidewalk.
Yes, tell someone you'd blanked out of the conversation, but Christ, it makes the person you were talking too feel like they're an unwanted invasion on your life.

I spent that night crying in my pillow.

I'm so sick of people being two faced pricks. I'm sick of being pushed aside because something new is in your face, but you'll get back to me when it's gone. But not back to me fully, no, you mince and shuffle about while I sit here confused and wondering what the fuck is going on because you're too goddamn chickenshit to tell me straight. I have to find out, on bleeding FACEBOOK of all places, just what was going on, and when I let you have it for being a douchepickle, you hem and haw and disappear again.

I'm not about to be the good daughter and stay in bum-fucked-NOWHERE simply because YOU have decreed that it's immature of me to move across the country for schooling. If I was eighteen and fresh out of high school, such a move would be considered an adventure. Provided I was moving to a school of your choosing and being around people handpicked by you to ensure I had no life outside of what you deem acceptable. Since I am not mean enough to tell you that I am moving because I hate it here and I miss my family, I'm just going to let you think you're King of the Mountain while the rest of the royal party runs as fast as we can in the opposite direction.

I'm about ready to send a mail bomb to my idiot exhusband. I saw an email from him sitting in my inbox a few days ago, and I stupidly opened it. I expected it to be something about taxes, bank accounts that *I* had to close (via fucking telephone and smoke signals) because he was too bleeding lazy to go to the bank office in the town he lives in. (For the record, there is no bank office here for me! None! Whatsoever!) Nope, it was a long, rambling, disjointed account of how happy he is since I left him and he's found a new love. She's wonderful, and perfect, and so much better than me. She understands him in ways I never could. She loves him, whereas I was merely pretending for the almost ten years I was married to him. She is funny where I never was. She is beautiful and smart and his mother adores her.

She's the same girl he dated in high school fourteen years ago, she still lives at home with her mother, and her best (and only) friends are Ben and Jerry.

If you have to waste that many pixels telling me how great someone is... I'm going to know you're lying. I was married to that skin sack (skin sacks are worse than blood bags- blood bags are useful, skin sacks are not) for almost a decade, he lies worse than a cheap toupee. I read his email through once. And read it again. Then I laughed so hard that I spewed a hot beverage out my nose and had to spend the rest of the day carefully cleaning up my computer.

I... almost feel guilty for bitching. I've got the usual (perverts, debt, exhusband being a douchebag), but nothing that won't correct itself (except for the exhusband part). Nothing major, nothing with illness, nothing with people expect things from me that I won't, or can't, give them.

If I could live anywhere... I think I'd stay in the Northwest.

I love it here, the nature is breathtaking every day, and it is very nice to drive twenty minutes outside of town... and be so far away from everyone that I can't see lights. I can look up at night, and see hundreds of stars that aren't visible to me anywhere else.

The log cabin homes I love, look natural here, instead of like some wanna-be nature girl trying to pretend she's in the woods while living in downtown Philly.

I can hear coyotes singing on warm nights.

I saw a bald eagle and an osprey have an aerial fight over the river where my dog had their first swimming lesson.

Things like that are hard to beat.

I could not live here by myself.

I would need a big farm/ranch (which, despite what locals say, are not the same thing) with a few houses loosely clumped together for my family to live in. My mother, sisters, brothers, friends, all of them would need to be here.

I don't know how we'd work it out, with everyone needing to work, but we'd do it. Because this is a fantasy world and everyone would be happy and we'd live happily ever after.

In this fantasy world, I'm a writer. Who makes the NYTimes Top 50 with every book. I'd say top 10, but that is an unbelievable amount of stress, and I don't want stress in my fantasy world. I want happy, sunshine, unicorns and glitter in my fantasy world.

Also, in this world, Justin Bieber would not exist. That kid scares me.

Husband had surgery 3 weeks ago and has been home ever since. He's not scheduled to go back to work for 2 more weeks. On one hand, I'm glad he's listening to his doctor and not going to work too early but on the other? I'm losing my mind with not having any alone time.

I can't blog too much because he wants to know what I'm doing. If I'm reading, he wants to know what I'm reading. If I go to the bathroom, he taps on the door to tell me he has something interesting for me to see when I get out. I think he's bored out of his mind.
And the house is a mess. I get it if he feels too crappy to move around but he can still tell the teenagers that live here to clean. I'm going to have to make another "bitch list" this weekend for the boys to read every day so they are reminded to clean up.




The hubs and I are going through a "dry spell" he's been working long hours out of town. He leaves well before dawn and is home really late. Lots of overtime, except he's on salary for a tiny, shit-ass company which means they can squeeze all the overtime they want out of him and not really compensate him in any way. And, because it's a smaller company they fit through a loophole that allows it.
That on top of a huge pay cut last year, reduced health benefits and having to work around jackasses constantly - is why he's now looking for another job.

I love to cook. No joke, I love making food and watching people I care about eat everything I've made. I don't like the clean up.

My favorite thing to make is pasta sauce. I use it for all my pasta, and even my homemade pizza. I have been known to reheat a bowl of it, grab a few hard rolls, and dip the chunks of bread in it like it's tomato soup. Healthy? Probably not. But damn good.

I buy either organic tomato sauce and paste, or Contadina brand. If I'm really lucky, I get some homemade sauce and paste from friends of mine who garden.

Get the smallest cans of each (I cannot remember the proper ounce measurements). For each can of sauce, add half a can of water. For each can of paste, add three cans of water. Spices. A touch of sugar. Meat of your choice (ground reindeer is rather tasty if I say so myself).

Combine everything in the pot. Bring to a slow boil. Reduce the heat and let it simmer for two hours (or more if you like it thick). Serve it up, and watch it disappear!

Or, you know, if you don't like pasta, don't make it. I'll never know!

Scent is both our strongest memory trigger, and the weakest of our five senses. Unless you're pregnant, than bloodhounds wish they had your nose.

I don't know how true this is, but the scent of hot cotton reminds me of my youth. Either sun-dried on a line, or fresh from a dryer, that warm tang makes me feel safe and loved.

Citrus is almost as safe to me, and I know exactly where that memory comes from; my mother would peel oranges for me at the kitchen sink, piling the pieces of peel on the back of the sink for... whatever it is mothers use orange peels for, and hand me a slice at a time, saving the baby pieces for last.

I still pile orange peels on the back of the sink, and will press sheets fresh from the dryer against my face.

Tips. Everyone has one 'sure fire' tip for just about everything. Mine is always have plenty of white vinegar, lemon juice, and apple cider vinegar on hand. And maybe a few extra bottles of conditioner if you've got a school age daughter.

I use a rotating mixture of white vinegar/water or lemon juice/water to clean just about everything in my house. Windows, floors, toilet, tub, kitchen sink, even wood floors can be safely cleaned with vinegar or lemon juice (disclaimer: I've never used lemon juice on a wood floor, so I'd suggest a spot treatment before hand)

Apple cider vinegar is great if you've got a dog, or if you have long hair. I rinse my dog after her bath with a half-half mix of ACV and water. I put two teaspoons of ACV in her water bowl each morning in the summer time to add some "punch" to her flea repellents. (She's eighty pounds, so ask your vet if you do this trick, your dog(s) probably won't need as much).
When I know that I won't be washing my hair every day (weekends, camping, road trip) I will take a quart of water (I use plain tap water), add two tablespoons ACV, and give my hair a second rinse with that after I rinse out conditioner.

Children get lice. It's like the flu when school starts, it just passes around from child to child. What people don't tell you is that lice are now becoming like a 'superbug' and they're not responding to OTC or even prescription treatments anymore. Because we've been slapping those little buggers with the strongest things we've got, they've gotten used to them.
A friend of mine, whose three daughters all got lice at once and those same said girls gave it to Mom, and all four of them have hair as curly as Orphan Annie's, she needed a cure like Blue needs a clue. Behold! The cheapest, biggest bottle of conditioner you can find! Use one bottle per head, let soak for a few hours. (She said three, she just stuck everyone in pretty little shower caps and they went about their day). After soaking in the conditioner a few hours, strip everyone down, hop in the shower (but don't actually shower yet), and using a nit comb, comb out their hair. (While you're doing that, someone should be washing all the laundry, or sticking everything in a deep freezer to freeze dry those little fuckers). The conditioner makes the hair and scalp too slippery for the parasites to cling to, thus they come right off on the comb.

I also say make your own laundry soap instead of buying it from a store, but that's a personal opinion.

Yesterday was a huge couples day. You know, the one with the chocolate, with the roses, and an almost-law of giving jewelry?

I was single for the first time since I was nineteen years old this year. And I fucking LOVED IT. No card buying, no pretending to like the half-wilted ugly bunch of flowers he picked up at the last second, or faking my way through sex that he believed to be romantic because he *asked* me before shoving his pitiful little dick in my body, no matter my answer.

I only got pissed off once, when an older woman apologized to me for the fact I was single this year. She said it like someone had died, and she was lamenting their passing with me over the coffin.

I just looked at her like the idiot she was; I mean, really? You want to apologize to the chubby, mildly attractive girl because she's single and HAPPY ABOUT IT? When you yourself are married to someone who hasn't been on a first name basis with soap and water in at least a month, and no one likes you? At least people don't avoid me when I walk into a room.

Also, I got to come home, drink a Captain and Coke, and watch whatever the fuck I wanted on television.

II failed last week, because real life made it impossible for me to get time to sit down and answer Celeste's questions. So, this week, you're getting a twofer from me!

First up, Celeste:

What is your least favorite food? Did you dislike it for a reason other than taste?
Fat free cottage cheese. The taste reminded me of that thick flavor you get on the back of your throat when you're really sick and you've had snot dripping down your throat.

If you had to be an animal (but you get to keep your human mind), what would you be?
A dire wolf. Because they're ten pounds of badass in a five pound bag.

Which of your five senses would you give up if you had to?
Probably smell.
I read too much, I listen to music, and even when you're nose is stuffed up, you can still taste some things.
My job, both my current one and the one I'm in school for, require that I deal with some people who are not on a first-name basis with soap or personal hygiene.
And if you've ever smelled an infected wound, you know how disgusting it can be.

What is your favorite thing about yourself?
The fact I try not to meet a stranger. I have to overcome a few things in my town, namely the prejudice of bloodlines, and being a perky little pain in the ass helps.
Also, being friendly to everyone is a good way to let someone know when they're not welcome in your bubble of life. If I freeze you out, it's on purpose.
If we're going vanity, it's my eyes, my lips, and my boobs.

Aliens land on the planet and they don't seem friendly. What would you do with yourself and your family?
I'd start throwing virgins at the aliens (it's always virgins they're after) and then high tail it for the wilds, with a pit stop at a grocery and a gardening store on the way.

What's the dumbest thing you've done as a dare?
Gotta go with Charlotte and Celeste.... shots. Oh, in the name of a the bouncing baby Jesus, why did I do shots?

Have you had any nicknames as an adult or a child? What's the story behind them?
Crazy. No joke, that was my nickname, and I earned it in high school, after a rather bad break up with a local bad boy. I might gotten into a physical fight, but I truly don't remember.

What book, or series of books, did you read as a child that had the most affect on you?
The Grimm's brothers tales, and I'm pretty sure they're another reason I've got such a warped view of relationships.
The original Little Mermaid is enough to make any little girl swear off falling in love.

And now... Winnie! (I would have said "second" but she's second to no one)

What song do you want played at your funeral?
The pas de deux from Sleeping Beauty

I'm giving you a credit card with no limit. You can purchase anything you want, no matter the cost. What do you buy?
I would first pay off all my bills. And my mother's bills. Then I'd buy myself the Zeal phone. And a truck. And a house.

If you could record a conversation with any person, living or dead, who would it be? Why?
It's a toss up. MLK Jr. or Marilyn Monroe. Both of them are icons of their generation, and subsequent generations. He will forever be a martyr for the cause, she will forever be a whore. I want to see how they saw themselves, and get their opinions on the world now.

Show me your favorite piece of artwork. Who is it by? Why do you like it?
You didn't say that it had to be visual art, and I'm taking advantage of that loophole. One of my favorite poems is HOWL by Allen Ginsberg. I don't know why I love it like I do, I just do. I think that is what makes art, you feel a visceral connection to it that you cannot explain, you just know it's there.

What makes you cry?
All kinds of things make me cry. The quick flash of Camp Leatherneck during the Super Bowl had me tearing up in my drink. But I can drop thirty pounds on my foot and not bat an eye.

Do you like to shop?
Sometimes, I don't like shopping for clothes, but I adore bra shopping when I can find a place with my size. I like shopping for books, but not groceries. I can spend hours in pet boutiques, but don't like PetsMart.

Do you believe in an afterlife?
Yes. I've had too many experiences to not believe in something after this grand ride called life.

Tell me about a time in your life when you were happy.
I was visiting my best friend. We were piled on the couch with her kids, watching a cartoon movie. Nothing really going on, just relaxed. It was a time of true happiness for me.