exciting update, road rage, and square pies

Everyone stop what you’re doing cause I’m about to ruin your perception of me as a heartless curmudgeon. THE ATLANTIC CAME TODAY!!! WTF are you talking about? OH, the fact that after many months of hoping and waiting and thinking that I should have an allowance and someone to look after my finances MY BENEVOLENCE AND PRIVILEGE GUILT PAID OFF! We had a sort of ice storm today but the mail came because literally neither rain nor sleet nor snow stops USPS and it was FULL of magazines: Bloomberg, Home & Garden, Fast Company, Seventeen, and The Atlantic. Smugness ACTIVATE!! Why do I get Seventeen? I dunno. Before The Atlantic, I haven’t paid for a magazine subscription in years. They just sort of show up. I think Major paid for Women’s Health for me for a year and they just keep sending more and more sister publications. As I opened the mailbox and said out loud “what the hell” because there was so much stuff, I started rifling through the stack as Shiner tried to wind himself around the light pole. And here it is, a red beacon of hope and light and mercy and future counseling school:


So now what’s next? A job?! I got another one of those “zoom” letters today about “we received many applications and are pursuing applicants with qualifications who more closely resemble what we are looking for” or something like that. It’s not like I have it memorized or anything. I am also making zero headway with school. I’m not registered, no one answers emails regarding status update, and I have no funding yet either. So, it’s going well.

I love flipping people off in my car. I’m not allowed to do it so people actually SEE me do it because of shit like this. So this it looks like this lady went back out with her son to find the dumbasses from the initial incident and ended up dying over it. Awful. We went to a hockey game for my birthday and when we were leaving the game and walking back to the car we/I got into an altercation. The truck was parked at a restaurant across the street from the arena and I was still happily buzzed. (This would quickly turn into “oh God, please don’t puke in the truck” thoughts for an hour on the drive home because I can’t have four beers in four hours anymore. Thanks, 33.)  A gaggle of us were walking on the sidewalk when a car tried to plow through us. We stopped. She stopped. I, in my righteous beer indignation and in my visiting team jersey, made a grand sweeping gesture with my arm and said “aaaaafter YOOOOOU!” No middle finger, but I made my point. This is when passenger dude decided he should open the door, stand up and hide behind the open door, and start calling me names that clever broheims call women who dare call them out. You know, like bitch and whore. SUPER CLEVER. I didn’t even know what to say so I just kept walking because one, it was fucking cold and two, Major encouraged me to keep walking. What kind of piece of shit dude wants to throw down with a woman because his lady friend nearly plowed down seven pedestrians? A SUPER COOL ONE! Anyway, that is why I am not allowed to voice my opinion in real time with traffic bullies or hockey bullies or bullies because you don’t know who has a gun and will put one in your brain because they are SUPER COOL.

For some reason I decided I needed to make chicken pot pie for dinner. It’s been colder than normal down here south of the Mason Dixon so it seemed like a good thing to have. I found this recipe on Pinterest and it seemed k8-proof. I went to the grocery store down the road. It’s not my favorite because their options for organic vegetables is just the boxes of organic spinach. Anyway, it was my second trip there in as many days. I was wearing the same leggings I slept in, tunic, black short Zombie Apocalypse boots, and Columbia bubble coat that I unzipped from the bottom because I decided the $50 price difference between a small and a medium size was too much. Brushed teeth and hair. Put cover-up on my awesome hormonal break-outs. There are only four or five ingredients in the recipe plus the pre-made crust I was going to get. We needed a few regular staples. I should have been in and out in ten minutes…except I couldn’t find the fucking crust. I looked in the case near the butter first with all the biscuits and didn’t see the cans there. I walked back to the freezer cases past the pizza. Past the waffles. Past the ice cream. I could only find the frozen crusts that were for one-crust dishes. I NEED BOTH CRUSTS, DAMMIT! I found one of those tiny Marie Callendar pot pies for Major because I was about to give up. I was getting sweaty, which doesn’t take much but the bubble coat was really holding in all the heat. The butter case was occupied by a lady who needed several moments to pick a fucking butter when I was there earlier, so I went back to the case. We’ve been eating popcorn while watching non-illegally obtained movies and going through a shit load of butter. What was directly next to butter? DOUBLE CRUST IN A BOX! A BOX! I was looking for a can the first time. Silly.

Following a recipe 80 percent is my specialty. We don’t have glass circle pie pans but I have a bunch of those white Corning dishes. My cooking ninja skills aren’t so advanced that I know how to compensate for things or if you need to compensate for different pie plate materials. I found a square glass dish because I DON’T NEED SOCIETY TO TELL ME WHAT SHAPE MY MEAT PIES SHOULD BE! Also, it was delicious and we ate the shit out of it. There is a tiny square of it left in the frig. Usually I have way more self-control but I’m pretty sure we ate nearly equal amounts. NOT SORRY.


Just some parting thoughts: Melissa McCarthy and Susan Sarandon should be partnered together in way many more comedies. Jenny Slate is a national treasure. Pregnant Mindy Lahiri already makes me giggle. I thought I lost an orange sport sock forever and Major was just standing here saying good night and PULLED IT OUT OF HIS SLEEVE LIKE A MAGICIAN.


exciting update, road rage, and square pies

excuse me, i’m introverting.

I could write about this all day, every day for infinity. But I won’t. I do feel it necessary to explain why I need to introvert and why you should leave me the hell alone while I’m doing it.

Long weekends mean that Major is home for four days in a row. 24/7 of him. In my quiet space. Should be a blessing, right? I think we finally reached the point where we have been physically together for more than 50 percent of our relationship now so I should be glad to have time with him…Except…except he’s in grad school and when he’s home he’s avoiding schoolwork. Know how he avoids schoolwork? By twirling (literally) around the living room, eating anything that doesn’t move in the pantry and refrigerator, playing with the dog, reading stupid articles out loud to me while I am trying to read, etc. I have a 35-year old toddler when he’s avoiding school. MOM! MOM! MOM! LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!

Introvert doesn’t mean “shy.” If you met me for half a second you would know I’m fairly obnoxious and will generally talk to anyone. Introvert means I get my energy from quiet time, from being alone. I start my day SLOWLY. When I wake up I take about 20 minutes to check social media and email on my phone. Then I take the dog out. Then I drink a big cup of water (hydrations matters!) Then I have a cup of coffee. At this point I’m ready to either work out or do chores or whatever. I don’t interact with a human all day until Major gets home most of the time. It’s fucking great…unless you have a high-strung toddler in your house ruining it.


That’s my placeholder for The Walking Dead and dishes and laundry. I’m also torturing myself by watching SNL 40. Sigh. Umm, I, well, I just should have known better. It’s like an awards show – a big celebrity reach-around fest. Back to introversion:

I’m not LONELY. I just like BEING ALONE for parts of my day to recharge and try to be a functioning human. It’s hard. I have no idea how I’m going to rejoin the working world if that ever happens. Being solitary is amazing. I pick my nose all the time. When I was working, it used to be my lunchtime bathroom stall activity. Now I just do it whenever I fucking please. You don’t have to really get dressed. I wear a lot of leggings and button-up shirts and slippers and my glasses all the time, except that’s because my eyes are shitty and I can’t see without them. I really only take them off to eat because I will always splash liquid or sauce on them BECAUSE I’M A LADY.

If you get offended and think that I am ignoring you, you’re wrong. If I need serious recharge time, I’m not answering the phone/text/Twitter/Facebook/Myspace/Snapchat for ANYONE. Major could text me from upstairs and I would pretend I didn’t see it when he came downstairs. (He wouldn’t really do that. He would just interrupt whatever I was doing face-to-face because his antics are personal. He’s an officer and a pain in my ass.) And I’m so out of my beloved introvert schedule this weekend that I can’t even focus long enough to give you 1,000 words tonight and that’s just how it’s going to have to be. AND THAT’S HOW BAD IT IS WHEN I DON’T GET ALONE TIME.

I’m an introvert, and that’s ok!

I hermit all night, and I hermit all day!

I’m into a serious Monty Python mindset today. I was watching Fawlty Towers on Netflix one day and I realized that all my coping skills come from Basil Fawlty. I had a freak-out of this caliber on a dryer sheet today https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78b67l_yxUc simply because I hated its existence and I didn’t want it on the floor or in the basket or IN MY LIFE at that moment. Dead. Dead to me.


excuse me, i’m introverting.

old crap, get out

I got rid of lots of stuff this weekend. I just wanted you to know. The end.

Ok, but for real, after good chats with HeteroLifeMate (HLM) and Major, I decided I needed a bit more gratitude and less clutter. (Mourtney HATED my junk mail clutter and rightfully so.)

So on Friday I gathered up all the clothes that were in good condition and I haven’t worn in a good amount of time (mostly because they don’t fit) and took them to a consignment shop. The only stuff they didn’t take was because it was “for the fall, darling.” Then I mailed Christmas presents to my dear friends because I am the worst at mailing things. Then I went to Target to get a new carbonation canister for the Soda Stream.

As I was walking around my foot started to hurt, and not in the usual old-lady-with-bunions-way. Something was digging at my toe. I slipped my shoe off and one toenail had cut the toe next to it! Blood was filling up my sparkly Frye ballet flat like Malarchuk on the ice. Look:


But next time someone tries to tell you that being a housewife is easy you show them this picture and say “WELCOME TO THE OCTAGON, BITCHES!!!!” You don’t need no hater with a job to tell you your life is easy.

Yesterday I did my new workout called LIIC: low intensity interval cleaning (TM). You do a chore, like dust, then sit down and check social media for like 10 minutes. If you have six hours you can get two rooms vacuumed and dusted.

Major brought me into the public and we saw the movie “Inherent Vice” and it was delightful. All I will say about the movie is James Brolin stole the show, as they say. HOWEVER, I would like to say more about how to be a rude fucking theater patron.

  1. Arrive 10 minutes late.
  2. Ask people to move “so you can sit together” despite two consecutive empty seats in the row in front of you.
  3. Talk frequently.
  4. Rattle your cup and chomp on ice LIKE A FUCKING COW.
  5. Fall asleep and start snoring.
  6. Get up during a sex scene and leave like a prudish baby GOODBYE DON’T FALL DOWN THE STAIRS

Today I did more spring cleaning things. This is how I dress now to clean and housewife:


I’m confident that normal people do them regularly but here’s the thing: I’m not terribly normal.  I have been in denial about my new awful role in life but on Friday I just faceplanted into it and I have to say, my house quite nearly sparkles. I also have a bag of clothes and my stupid Magic Bullet that was taking up a SHITLOAD of space in the cupboard for donation to Goodwill. Goodbye, useless appliance and goodbye clothes that are dumb and stupid and no one likes you anyway, Bernice! Get out ma life!


old crap, get out