Teenagers are worse than cats…

Standard

Minicandy, Mancandy’s 16-year-old son, is in AP Chemistry. As someone who absolutely hated chemistry and fought like a banshee to get through it and never look at it again, that seemed like poor decision making. But no one asked me. He is also afflicted with the disease known as teenager. The once sweet child has turned into a demon spawn of sarcasm and snark. I’d like to point out I did not have children because:

1. I’ve seen how that happens and ew.

2. I didn’t like teenagers when I was a teenager, and I sure as heck don’t like them now.

3. My patience level has decreased as I age.

Teens

One thing I’m mildly insane about is education. I know how much I struggled in college and it cost me tremendously. I never developed much in the way of study skills in high school. So I was extremely offended to realize once I got to college I couldn’t get through just skating by on my memory anymore. It hurt my pride, hurt my feelings, and in my idiocy, it took me much too long to learn how to study. Take someone struggling to figure out how to study under pressure and dump some catastrophic stuff on them, and they break. Or close enough to it. So yeah, I’m a big fan of teaching kids discipline and study skills before the lack of them causes them dearly.

Teenagers think I’m full of shit and should shut up. Which is also rude.

teenager-tn-ayjr-noun-a-person-whose-sole-purpose-is-9594989

This weekend the Minicandy decided he was going to make me go insane and also homicidal. A large chemistry test was about to happen, half on Friday and half the following Monday. On Thursday he tells me he doesn’t need to study. He feels confident. He’s fine. When I suggest he study to be sure he’s fine, I was given the brush off. When I pointed out that the decisions we’d been talking about, and how to decide between good and bad and that in this case he was making a bad decision, he shrugged flippantly and walked out.

A slow burn started.

Once Mancandy tuned in and realized there were zero plans to study on Friday (after the first half of the test has been taken on his good flipping feeling), he insists a book and notes are produced.

“I didn’t bring my book home.”

We blinked at him. Several times. And my sassy side blurted out “Oh, that’s because you had no plans to study, right?” (I was still butthurt from the night before and was not about to let that go any time soon).

Missing my sarcasm completely he happily nods and grins at me. Like I’m the stupid one who just caught on.

The slow burn is now accelerating. Innerds are catching fire.

He then asks if he can go to a concert. At some random kids house. For an unknown length of time with unknown people.

We do not acquiesce to his desire.

He was displeased.

He continued to bring up the concert, his lack of socializing, how unreasonable we are, blah blah blah. I told him, with no small amount of restraining my own snark, that he had decided to make a poor choice. He’d even been given a reminder it was a poor choice. Then, when he could have corrected that choice, he decided to flash us the middle finger and gallivant on while blaming everyone but himself for his grades and their impact on his social schedule.

Then he had the audacity to invite one of the random individuals (of the female variety) to come swing by and “talk”.

Sidenote: One of the things that I don’t understand about teenagers is what in the holy hell do you have to talk about? You literally do NOTHING. You have zero experience with anything. You can maybe talk about video games and how much food you can cram into your face at one time. That’s it. Now, I realize that’s unfair. I remember being quite opinionated as a teenager (and that hasn’t abated). I waxed poetic about all sorts of topics I knew nothing about. So sure I was right and I could solve all the worlds problems. But seriously, I have zero patience with that crap. My point on this was the fact it circumvented the fact Minicandy was being minipunished. He got his way. He got to hang out, not studying and trying to impress another teenager of the opposite gender.

My gizzard was ablaze.

Mancandy and I have this fun thing where I get angry, he ignores me hoping I’ll stop, I don’t stop, and he tries to win me over with ice cream. I realize it is not a compliment to be so easily won over, but I freaking love ice cream. Don’t judge me.

ice-cream-head

Mancandy is not really worried about the social interactions and shunning of discipline but he also doesn’t want to listen to me bitch about it anymore. So he recommends ice cream. I agree, tell him to grab his on-my-poo-list kid and get rid of the other one and I’ll throw a bra on and we’ll take our classy selves to the DQ.

Sidenote: I had tried doing all the hair curling things my coworker with the most amazing yummy hair ever recommended. It sort of worked. Kind of. But my hair is not yummy and wonderful like hers and that did not help my mood. I want to be yummy. Instead, I will give you indigestion.

I stomp out of the house, ready to be soothed with ice cream and candy.

A tiny creature in a white lace dress and black converse is standing in the driveway.

I do my usual slow blink.

It does not help me comprehend.

Mancandy is awkwardly inviting tiny waif child to get ice cream with us. She awkwardly agrees. Minicandy awkwardly lurches to the car. I stand blinking while my liver and spine catch fire with my gizzard.

Sidenote: there is a hiking trail named Fiery Gizzard in Tennessee and that makes me so happy.

So. I’m sitting in a vehicle with Mancandy who was going to owe me SO much ice cream after this. A little waif of a kid. And Minicandy. Who I sincerely wanted to throttle. Who was also smashed up against tiny Thumbelina in the middle rather than sitting on the other side of the car like a normal damn person. I don’t know why that fired my already fiery innerds, but it did. I held my tongue and glared daggers at Mancandy.

Mancandy was studiously avoiding looking at me. Hardcore avoidance. We get out of our subdivision, not even to the main road, and Mancandy asks Thumbalina why she seems so nervous.

She started crying.

Mancandy Man-panics and screeches to a halt on the side of the road. His eyes were wide, really white, and doing that “horse about to panic” thing. He asked her if her parents knew where she was.

She cries harder, makes whimpering sounds, and stutters out “n-n-n-n-n-n-noooooo” in a wail.

I don’t know how I wasn’t charred to death internally at this point. I turned around and mentioned in a calm voice that if I were her mom and she called to tell me she was someplace she wasn’t supposed to be I’d be upset. However, if I found out after the fact, like looking at her GPS on her phone which she was apparently already doing, I would be so much more upset.

This does not calm Thumbelina. She starts awkwardly telling us a story through her tears. Now, to be fair, she was tiny and crying and I understand why the guys were stupid. She looks like a baby bunny. A crying, lace clad baby bunny. However, she was telling the age-old teenage story of how her parents treat her like a child and she just wanted to be able to do something. It was a selfish, bratty, typical teenager statement told in the most endearing, pitiful manner possible.

Mancandy then asks her if we should take her back to her car so she could go home. Showing more teenage stupidity her response is no, she’ll go home later. She’s supposed to be at the concert so if she goes home early they’ll know something is up. And then she and Minicandy had a whispered conversation that I guess they thought we couldn’t hear because….we were facing the other way….about turning off the phone so GPS wouldn’t track her.

I was livid. To the point, I didn’t even want ice cream. I rarely get that angry. Ice cream is the most important thing ever.

I was ready to light everyone on fire with my eyes.

1b2817e2860aeb43a88e1227ed358bb7

Then Minicandy starts getting an attitude about being punished and us being overprotective and how teenagers don’t deserve to be treated the way they are. And while I wanted to do bodily harm, I restrained myself and tried to respond calmly. Mancandy redeemed himself by making a few solid points that seemed to get through to Thumbelina. Minicandy, however, was firmly in showing off for the little lady mode and kept throwing out sarcasm and snark.

Mancandy has quite a temper, but for some reason when Minicandy hits below the belt there’s no immediate response. It makes me crazy. So I swung around in the seat and tore into him. If teenagers were really mature they wouldn’t be lying to their parents and then blaming their parents for getting caught in the lie. If teenagers were really mature they would be honoring the promises they made instead of blaming everyone else. If teenagers were really mature they would have discussions instead of being sarcastic twits. If teenagers were really mature they would take care of business, act responsibly, and be given trust. That being punished is supposed to be punishment, not hanging out in the driveway full of angst and hostility and then getting a freaking ice cream treat. But if teenagers are caught lying and acting like idiots constantly, they don’t deserve trust and since they were ruining my lovely ice cream excursion with their stupid teenage whining they really need to JUST SHUT UP. That all went from a quiet, intense voice to something akin to a screech. I don’t think they could even hear the words, just the tone.

He came back with “You made me come get ice cream! I’d much rather be at home with Thumbelina! I don’t want to be with you! I had no choice!”

I don’t think what came out were even words. I just launched into demon tongue and had to physically restrain my own self from injuring him. His eyes got big, but I knew he wasn’t going to back down in front of his little lady. I looked him in the eyes and told him as calmly as I could manage (which was not as calmly as I’d have liked), that I was having a really hard time not ripping his face off of his skull right at that moment so he really did need to shut up. Right flipping then.

We got to the DQ drive up around this time and I was trying to decide if I even wanted any. I don’t think I’ve ever been sitting outside of a DQ and wondered if I wanted any. I then wondered if I was having a heart attack or stroke or something.

toast

Distracted by ice cream and whispered conversations with Thumbelina, Minicandy actually stopped talking to me. Thank God.

Mancandy and I start discussing Nirvana (it came on the radio) and the conspiracy theories around Cobain’s death. Thumbelina, showing some actual personality outside of her teenage parasitic selfish annoyingness, got excited talking about the various theories. That’s the thing that kills me. If teenagers were just useless little vapid things all the time they wouldn’t get under my skin. But occasionally the human beings way down deep in that murk of annoyingness float to the surface and I find myself liking them. A little. Not a lot, but still. And within 3 seconds she floated back down into the murk and she and Minicandy struck up the conversation about how restrictive and stupid parents are. And me. I’m not a parent. But I’m super stupid too. Just so you didn’t think I’d been spared.

Teens2

And, to top off my annoyance, they are both slurping and slopping ice cream around in their mouths while they talked and breathed and annoyed me. It sounded like someone in flip flops running through mud. Mancandy was asking questions of Thumbelina who was happily answering around mouthfuls of ice cream and brownie. Minicandy was chiming in while slurping and sloshing. I tried to just sit there and be quiet.

I managed two miles, tops.

It shouldn’t be that hard to just be quiet and eat ice cream. That is kind of my idea of heaven. But I couldn’t. We got almost back to our subdivision before I lost my mind. There was some combination of snarky comment, rolling eyes, sighing dramatically, and extra loud sloppy slurpy sounds, and I snapped. I don’t even know what I said. I just started at a normal tone and escalated until I was yelling about disgusting mouth sounds that made me nauseous and were so freaking rude and dear Lord close your freaking mouths when you chew you disgusting creatures!!!! I was also turned in my seat on my knees hovering over their stupid slurpy faces before I even realized I’d moved.

Everything got very quiet. I sat back down in my seat and tried to count to 10 and pace my breathing.

When we pulled into our driveway the kids basically tucked and rolled out as fast as possible. I did the same, as I’d seen our neighbor and was so excited about an actual adult that I basically tackled him and forced him to talk to me. Thankfully, he’s old fashioned and tries to always be super polite. So I forced that poor man to stand out in the heat and talk to me about their weekend plans while we sweated and I slowly burned from the inside out.

He watched Mancandy walking over to the teenagers standing beside Thumbelina’s car. I’m sure my face was doing weird things. He looked back at me and grinned.

“They’re the worst, aren’t they? Teenagers?” he happily asked.

I responded that I needed a night of adulting, where we talked about our latest medication routines and cholesterol levels and went to bed early and no one gave me attitude for TRYING TO HELP THEM. Ungrateful little turds.

He promised we would do so.

I went inside furious with everyone and everything and didn’t enjoy my ice cream. Mancandy came in first and I only had a few minutes to quietly but intensely rip into him about allowing a teenager to ride with us whom we KNEW was lying to her parents. We were essentially kidnapping!

Minicandy came in just then so I hushed, grabbed my phone and my pup, and started to walk upstairs. I could not believe I was the only one who thought that the entire situation was a mess. I wasn’t sure who I was angrier with. And suddenly the deceptively quiet sounds of a dangerous Mancandy came to my ears. He was calmly asking Minicandy if he’d encouraged Thumbelina to lie to her parents. The response in the negative was barely audible. Then the wrath of an extremely unhappy Mancandy roared into being. In the scariest, ugliest tone, he ripped Minicandy a new one. In a much more cohesive, well thought out manner than I would have given him credit for. And while Minicandy doesn’t like when I’m upset with him, when Mancandy is genuinely angry, everyone hunkers down and gets nervous. Even teenage boys who mistakenly think they’re big and bad.

I was SO proud of Mancandy! He’d controlled his temper much better than I had. And that is not the usual around here. Minicandy left the room tail tucked and miserable looking. My gizzard finally stopped burning.

Batman

For those concerned: No children were harmed in the making of this blog. And they weren’t in real life either. Despite wanting to harm them more than I wanted ice cream. Which, for the new folks, is a hell of a lot.

I am going home for about a week in a couple days. I’m ready for a break from the teenage manchild. For those of you considering the miracle of bringing another life into the world, take this as a warning. They are hideous little selfish goblins. That’s it. I’ll let you know if it gets better. But I’m guessing it will just be more of the same as the twins are hitting the teenage stage of life and the youngest isn’t far behind.

Just typing that made me want to move back to the mountains and hide.

Here’s to hoping they eventually get past this stage. Because they will definitely not survive me if they stay in it forever.

Butt Faces

Standard

For those unaware, Mancandy is conservative. In some ways, he’s a redneck trapped in a Midwesterner. He says organization hilariously (think Organ-I-zation), and I’m pretty sure he’d say pop instead of coke if left to his own devices. To be fair, I’m a Yankee trapped in a southerner. I love boiled peanuts and crawfish and the angrier I get the thicker the accent gets, but I don’t go to church and don’t own a dress and tend to agree with those on the left more often than those on the right. I don’t have a problem with contradictions or depth of character, I enjoy it. But, occasionally I do want to beat him with his own arms. More on that in a minute.

The Mancandy family also leans conservative, especially his mother. She is very much a fox news sort, while my mom is much more of an MSNBC type. Again, I don’t mind people having different opinions. Most of my friends and extended family are conservative. Mother O’Candy is extremely hardcore to the right. I suppose the fact Mancandy and I are a unit (a rather odd unit, but still) meant she assumed we shared similar political and religious ideology. I politely declined invitations to church without explanation and whenever politics is brought up, I stay quiet. I don’t particularly like to fight, especially when it will change nothing, so I try to avoid political battles whenever possible. Also, I can’t fight. My sister got that talent, she’d quick as a whip and flings insults with casual grace and speed. I resort to “well your face looks like a butt” immediately and it goes downhill from there.

I was added to the Candy family group chat last holiday season. It started as a way for everyone to coordinate during a difficult time. It has become a way for the Candy family to talk to an audience. Brother Candy’s fiancé is also added to this group. We hardly ever participate. It’s usually strictly a Candy affair. I’ve wondered why they don’t just text each other directly but didn’t want to actually participate in the conversation that would guarantee, so I just muted the group. The inability to remove yourself from group texts is sincerely one of the most annoying things in the universe. Right below mosquitos and fire ants.

Part of the reason I muted the conversation is that every political hot button topic is brought up. For instance, immigration was brought up in the form of “When will those bleeding heart liberals learn….etc.” When fired up, the comments may range from that tone to more aggressive or openly hostile terminology to discuss those of my ilk. I have never responded because even though it’s highly offensive at times and often inaccurate assumptions and gross generalizations to boot, the statements are made under the assumption it’s a group in which it is safe to blow off steam. I’ve stayed quiet in the group text and in my home whenever these rants occur. For years I’ve stayed quiet.

Mancandy ruined it. This annoyed me because 1. I obviously didn’t want to make a thing out of it and 2. If I had decided to make a thing of it I had a glorious conversation ending rant ready to roll out. I had the element of surprise and the boon of choosing time and place. I’d carefully constructed my future performance to be classy, elegant, cold, and perfectly timed to show the hubris and arrogance of many of their comments. I was prepared and often rehearsed my future takedown mentally while ignoring more of the same types of rhetoric.

And he ruined it. That day he was the ruiner of all things good in the world.  And I couldn’t beat him to death with his own arms because he was honestly trying to help. Granted, he did it in the same way we explain to children that calling the fat kid fat isn’t very nice. With that sing-song tone and gently chiding manner. I was in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher with Mancandy while he and Mother O’Candy talked. I ignored the political discussion until I heard my name. I tuned back in to hear him say, in that god awful tone of voice, “Kristin doesn’t really think the same way we do about politics. She tends to agree with the democrats.”

The silence was deafening. My beautiful element of surprise was gone. I stared at him while holding a dirty plate and dripping dirty gunk on my feet. He happily ignored me and jabbered on, something along the lines of “she’s a dummy but she’s my dummy and sometimes she’d funny and she cooks better than I do so…what can you do?” Now at this point, he would object and say he said nothing of the sort. And to be fair, he didn’t. But it was damn well implied.

The betrayal ran to my soul. He’d taken away the one defense mechanism I had. The knowledge I could challenge it all out of left field (ha, the left charging in out of the left) and choose the time in which I did so was everything. The one subject I was not likely to continue to stay quiet on was the Me Too movement. It’s too personal. I have left the house in the past to get away, but I wanted to use that topic as my pièce de résistance when it was time to strike, should I decide to do so. I had a script. Dammit.

I don’t remember what else was said. I have no idea how long it took me to realize my feet needed to be scrubbed clean of plate gunk. But I am sad I didn’t get to have the last word. And also begrudgingly grateful Mancandy kept me from having to engage his people in battle.

But I’m still mad.

And his face looks like a butt.

Swamp Monster Sunday

Standard

As a certified swamp monster, I have funky skin and features and…well….I’m just an odd duck. So, the fact I have – in my mid-thirties mind you – fallen in love with makeup (especially colorful eyeshadow) is just the weirdest damn thing ever and mildly embarrassing.

I work for the state of TN and as such, I’m supposed to look like a professional human. Swamp monsters with colorful sparkly glitter smeared all over their faces are not encouraged. So, I bought a few really bright, really fun palettes with all these dazzling awesome colors…and have absolutely no reason to smear them all over my face. It’s been bugging me. I’m too old for this; I don’t even know what I’m doing or how to apply makeup, but I am right this moment resisting the urge to buy a palette of nothing but yellow eye shadow. Do I EVER wear that color? No. Would it likely make me look jaundiced and even less attractive? Likely. But my brain has never been a fan of logic, so I just want it. Here’s a picture of it (That I stole from ColourPop’s website. Not sure if I’m allowed to do that, blogging rules are not well explained, but it’s free advertising and I own nothing of value….so let’s just cross our fingers and hope).

yellow_palette_a_800x1200

As part of the swamp monster package, I am also the owner of a weird body. It’s overly large, pale, ungainly, and uncoordinated.  I have been telling myself I’d lose weight (and become hot in the process….which is COMPLETELY different from losing weight….but I digress) since around the first time I heard someone refer to someone else as fat. My earliest memories are disliking how much bigger I was than the other kids, I towered over them and outweighed them and had to wear a training bra at like…6. Since my weird body decided to malfunction regularly and I go to various specialists quite often, my endocrinologist is extremely interested in things like…my BMI, my proportions, my insulin levels, my exercise routine (I lied and said I had one of those), etc. I really do want to be healthy. So, I actually have to get an exercise routine (ick). And maintain it. And not eat my feelings. And other people’s feelings.

So. I tell you all of that to tell you that I woke up intending to do none of the things I have done today. I woke up and just wanted coffee. That’s it. But, once I got up and got moving, I wanted to puzzle. Mancandy and I are working on a puzzle because we’re old and that’s what old, boring, antisocial people do. We puzzle and we drink coffee (our version of drinking and knowing things).

Mancandy was not in a puzzling mood. I found that annoying, but it’s hard to motivate someone to puzzle.

“Please come sit with me and be as frustrated and annoyed with 87616814 pieces of cardboard that have various portions of leaves that are all the same color.”

Though he did not want to puzzle at that exact moment, he claimed he would want to puzzle soon. That statement made zero sense to me, but I shrugged and tried to figure out what I wanted to do with my beautiful precious time off. I thought of all my pretty, shiny, colorful eye shadows just sitting here while I slather myself in boring colors day in and day out. I decided to play.

The Blue Moon palette was the first thing I saw, so it’s what I decided to smear upon my face hole flaps.

Blue moon

I meant to take a picture to show you how unskilled I am at this. But, I didn’t. I’m going to insert a picture from Pinterest showing what this might look like were I talented. It’s not at all what it looked like, but whatever. It’s my story. Enjoy this much better representation of blue eyeshadow. This is not me (so obviously not me that it’s funny to write it, but please don’t sue me if this IS you, because I’m super jealous and also I don’t have anything worth suing to take).

BM Look

Instead, I went downstairs and announced extremely loudly, “I’m blue and bold, bitches, lets puzzle!”

I found this to be a funny statement. I usually crack myself up. Unfortunately, I had not looked to be sure Mancandy was awake. He was not. But he jolted awake at my declaration and restrained what looked like a fairly strong urge to throttle me. He also looked at my face, which was 1/3 bright blue, and just said: “oh my”. I felt like I should probably be offended by this, but chose not to be. Mostly because he says stuff that could be insulting all the time and I don’t have the time it would take to be offended.

We puzzled for a while. I got 5 pieces into the puzzle and felt remarkably accomplished. Set low goals and you’ll never be disappointed, my friends. We decided we should move the elliptical machine my boss gave us (yay boss!) into the air-conditioned part of the house. As obviously that was the only thing holding me back. So we did. And then he announced he was going to mow.

I hate that moment. I feel like I should do something equally horrible, but I don’t want to do any horrible things. So I declared I would work out. While he mowed. And then I realized I’d said it out loud, the elliptical was inside, and I actually had to do it now. Dread set in.

So I worked out. Put on a sports bra and athletic shoes and everything. I don’t understand these people that say, oh yes, the endorphins, it is a rush, working out is fun, blah blah. I apparently don’t possess endorphins. I spent every single minute of the time I spent on the elliptical screaming internally that I was not allowed to stop yet.

Fun fact, the elliptical is third hand and I am grateful to have it, but it squeaks like you’re skinning something alive. So the longer I worked out, the louder and more aggressive the skinning of the thing became. The cats were horrified. They may be scarred for life. The dog equated skinning alive with thunderstorms and fireworks and started panting and stress whining as if to duet the shrieking machine. So the entire time I’m on the damn thing the dog is singing along to this really annoying shriek squeak, and the cats are running around trying to escape the demonic noise but unable to find a place to do so.

Within 4 seconds I was drenched in sweat. Not just a little glisten, no ma’am and/or sir! I take sweating seriously. So my shirt is stuck to me and my sparkly blue face now has rivulets of blue running down it and on down my neck. It looked like I was painting some sort of river scene across my face, but in my typical “enthusiasm makes up for lack of talent” way. I stopped when I was pretty sure I’d just have to fall sideways off of the machine because I had jelly for legs and was gasping so hard I thought I might pass out. Probably 4 minutes in. No, it was more than that, but not as long as it should have been.

I sat down on the tile floor (likely leaving an impressive butt outline in sweat) to cool my rumpus and contemplated puking. When that didn’t sound like fun anymore I got up and started up the stairs. That was a mistake as I likely can’t go back down now. I’ll just live up here. Please fling food up occasionally. This will be my new diet plan.

I shambled my sweaty, miserable, gasping, slightly nauseous self into the bathroom. Stripped down. Turned on the shower. Turned around to set my hair tie down by the sink and accidentally looked into the mirror.

I looked like I’d eaten a smurf alive…aggressively….in a very messy fashion. My hair was plastered to my sweaty skull and there was blue smeared all over my face. I don’t even know how it was possible to be that gross, but I managed.

A shower has never been so lovely. And now I have to look forward to doing that same thing over and over and over until I’m less horrible at it. Dying young is kind of looking mildly appealing. But that doctor will get to hear all about the “exercise routine” I’m working on.

Just need some W-D 40. Or the cats may not survive it any better than I do.

 

Latest Weebs Adventures, Turdlette Slings, and Stuff…

Standard

Weebs loves to watch. He’s a super creepy little man and he will stalk me all over the house while I’m doing chores. It usually makes things like laundry or loading the dishwasher more fun because he stares in wonder at everything. So as I was switching laundry he comes creeping up behind me and flattens himself to blend in with the carpet that he does not match at all. I try to get pictures because it’s ridiculously cute but if he sees my phone change to camera he immediately does something less cute.  He will lay as flat as possible, even his ears go sideways and flatten out, but he’s got a gut on him and it flows out on either side and ruins the predator vibe he’s going for. I love it.

I like to get my chores going as soon as I wake up on Saturday morning for two reasons. 1. If I don’t I will wait until bedtime Sunday night and be extremely angry and tired on Monday. 2. If I look super busy right away I can choose the easier chores and Mancandy will usually feel bad and is left with the chores I avoid like the plague and wanted him to do anyway. And I don’t have to say a word. This doesn’t always work, but when it does I feel extremely sneaky and clever.

I started out with towels because if I got busy with something else and forgot them it wouldn’t be a big wrinkled mess. I don’t understand ironing, it doesn’t work for me…I’m pretty sure it’s voodoo. So if it shouldn’t be wrinkled I have to catch it right away when the dryer finishes. Which takes more attention to detail than I possess without a lot of coffee. So I was pulling towels out of the dryer and throwing underwear in (same reasoning). My little fat predator was watching every move. If socks dropped he swatted at them (from a good 2 feet away), what he lacks in depth perception he makes up for with determination.  He made little happy chortle sounds (to himself, as all great predators do) and waited with huge eyes to see what would happen. His world was made even more exciting when I stepped beside him (he immediately grabbed my sock, got a nail stuck on it, scratched me for holding onto his foot, and fought like a small tiger while I unsnagged his nail) to begin the lovely process of cleaning the litter boxes.  He LOVES playing defense while I try to remove what he deposits.

As I go I can usually avoid his swats at the scoop quite easily. He’s not exactly athletic. However, every now and then he uses a surprising amount of dexterity and his aim is true and he wins the round. Today he wasn’t even swatting at the scoop that often, he’d become sidetracked by the bag eating the scoops contents and was talking to it. All cats should talk to inanimate objects like this cat does. It’s the best.

I let my guard down. As I was moving several large, fresh movements o’cat bowels he struck. A little brown foot whipped out from underneath the scoop and smacked up and over. He has never been that quick nor that coordinated. I was neither of those things when cat crap attacked my face. MY FACE. I had to go wash (and there is NO amount of washing that suffices) little skid marks off of my face. And then go back and corral the freed turds from the great outdoors and get them back in the bag. And not squish the cat who was back in predator mode trying to make contact to smack his freed friends around the laundry room.

He will not be helping me with chores anymore.

My life is a dumpster fire. Swamp monster level 100 today folks. Happy Saturday!

Relationship Tests….AKA….that time I was super swamp monsterish and Ish. Got. Real.

Standard

I have been trying, genuinely, to stick to my low carb, really strict diet. It’s not horrible; it just takes effort that I generally don’t put into, like, anything…but I was doing okay. There have been some rough patches where I decided to fat girl swan dive into sugar saturated anything. I have this self-destructive streak that ensures as soon as I see any results (like the fat waddle under my chin shrinking and a jawline kinda peeking out) I immediately have cravings so intense it’s physically painful.

Thanksgiving was rough. I went wild. Like, hog wild growled if anyone touched my food, or got near my food, or walked into the room while I was sticking my head in the feeding bucket. I told myself when we got back to TN I’d get back into my groove.

Ha.

We got back late on Sunday and when Mancandy offered to order delivery I was completely on board. One last Harrah before reining in my out of control inner child. Chinese sounded good after gorging on Turkey and stuffing.

I was hungry so even though it did not taste amazeballs, it was what I had, so I stuffed it down my gizzard. It was a disappointing Harrah. Mildly sad, I unpacked, sorted out animal medication and supplies, and glared at Mancandy who was thoroughly enjoying his dish. I do not care to suffer alone.

Keep in mind it tasted like cardboard and I ate every last bit. Tell me that doesn’t indicate a mental issue.

But alas, we had to go back to work so our routine needed to go back to normal. Comfy pj’s, brushed teeth, sleepy time meds down the hatch, and into peaceful slumber we crept. Except right before I was really asleep my stomach moved. Not just a gurgle or blurp either. That sucker moved from its normal location to my throat in a move that made me break into a sweat immediately.

I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I knew it wasn’t good.

I flew into the bathroom and through the door to the “water closet” at lightning speed. I didn’t stop to grab a trash can. That was a tragic mistake on my part. Of course, our trash can has little cut-outs so it wouldn’t have been great, but I digress.

I honestly didn’t know what to do. Kneel? Sit? WHAT IS GOING ON AND WHERE IS IT GOING TO COME OUT! I was drenched in sweat, everything hurt, and I was insanely nauseous but did not trust that I was safe to assume puking would be the only fun I’d have. I decided I’d rather clean up puke, so I sat.

I pictured the scene from aliens where the wee little alien protrudes through the ribs. In my mind, it would be bursting from my gut. I was about to open the door and grab a towel from the stupidly tiny towel closet when I heard a throat clear.

Mancandy was in the bathroom! Code red! This is NOT a drill!

I’m dripping sweat and cramping like my guts were in a vice grip. This was about to be real ugly real fast. He needed to leave.

“Um, are you okay?”

I went into a coughing fit that ended in a gag, and a weird “glurp” sound I’ve never made before.

I can hear him shuffling his feet and breathing his not sweaty normal breath.

“Can you just throw a towel down outside the door? I think I’m going to be sick.” Understatement. Such a massive huge gigantic ridonculous understatement.

“Can I do anything to help?” He was being so nice. I doubled over on a particularly vile cramp and my body flashed hot and cold at the same time.  My mouth was doing that gross drooling yet dry thing that happens right before you puke.

“No. Thanks. Oh god, I can’t talk, it’s go time.”

And it was.

I will spare you the details, mostly so I can keep a tiny amount of my pride intact.

But it was bad. So very, very bad.

I basically exploded.

There wasn’t room for embarrassment in the middle of it. I was just trying to survive.

There are little adorable frogs that puke up their guts, shovel out whatever offends them, and swallow their stomach back into the correct location.

I envied them. Desperately.

The violence of the episode ensured it was fairly short-lived. However, the after party meant I had to brush my teeth over and over, a quick sink bath to be less sweaty and gross, and then pass through the bedroom to get to the cleaning supplies and mop (it was a war zone).

He was sitting on the bed. I felt it was my duty to warn him, “Don’t go in there.” We blinked at each other.

He finally said, “That was really loud.”

I immediately blushed so hard my ears turned to fire and the shame made me wish to melt through the floor into a swampy mess of monster downstairs.

Side note: I inherited my Dad’s natural defense mechanism, involuntary scream puking! It’s a great party trick. Think puking, but while you’re heaving up your guts you scream out your rage. Involuntarily. Just BLAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGG at the top of your lungs.

He’d never been exposed to that little quirk. He was startled. I didn’t know what to do. I nodded and went to get cleaning supplies. I was walking as quickly as I could through the room on the return trip, dreading the job ahead, and he cleared his throat again.

“I don’t even really know what just happened. I thought you were trying to die politely without bothering me but I couldn’t stay and listen to….that. I didn’t know humans could make those….noises”.

How does one respond to that? I just went into the bathroom, slammed the door, and tried to get through as fast as possible. I may never eat Chinese food again.

By the time I got everything cleaned up I was cold and everything hurt. I did not want to go back out to the bedroom. I didn’t want to talk to him. I was pretty sure we probably shouldn’t talk ever again. You don’t come back from that. I’m a swamp monster at best, but listening to a swamp monster blarg is probably on a totally new level of not good.

I contemplated crying, it seemed like the correct response (very girly), but it was too much effort and I couldn’t spare what little water was left in my body. I kept my face down and shambled to the bed, crawling in on my side and staying as far away from him as possible. Humiliation doesn’t cover what just happened. I may have PTSD. He probably does too.

I could just feel him wanting to talk to me. I curled up, tried to shrink my giant self into a smaller form, and prayed he’d just fall asleep.

“Did you know there’s some kind of frog that pukes up its own stomach?” he murmured from the other side of the bed.

I couldn’t help but smile. I muttered that I had been jealous of them a little bit ago.

“Dear God that was so loud,” he said.

“Shut up” I replied.

“K.”

 

 

The War

Standard

I’m doing battle. They don’t realize it, but we are at war. We have a garbage can and a recycling can in our kitchen. The garbage has a built in incentive to remove it regularly, it reeks if you don’t. We’re both fairly quick to take that out to the big garbage can in the garage. The recycling, however, ends up the leaning tower of plastics. It has become an art form to stack recyclable stuff on top of the can, I’m assuming everyone (kids and in-law types included) assume that if your piece drops then you are responsible for taking it out (not that they do) so there are intricate little towers built every single time. Like a weird Jenga. And there’s this assumption by all that taking recyclables out means only taking out what’s actually in the can. Anything that can be stacked to the side should be left inside to fill up the empty can immediately upon returning from the garage.

I enjoy when the small humans are here because I can make them take care of these things. However, there are down sides. Putting liners back in the cans must be brought up every single time. If they don’t put a liner in they then forget liners existed and all the snot rags and bits of leftover food end up in a concrete of grossness at the bottom that I then have to scrape out. Also, when taking trash/recycling out to the garage they feel it is appropriate to leave the door to the garage wide open. Letting my very very precious air conditioning escape, along with all of the animals. Trying to catch cats that don’t want to be caught in a hot, stinky, messy garage is the epitome of herding cats. By the time I get them in the two “normal” cats are angry and look for something to pee on. The dog is chewing on mysterious items I then have to wrestle her to take back. And the special cat is busy twirling his stress and usually has some sort of grease or oil all over him leaving little black kitty prints on the floor.

Not only this, but everyone overlooks that the lid of the garbage can is disgusting. I’m the only one who manages to see the gunk on it. Well, the dog notices and tries to help, but I don’t know what it is most of the time and refuse to let her do so. I have this crazy notion that if you smear some sort of thick mucus type substance on the lid of the pain, YOU should clean it up. My gender does not equate with I want to clean up all of your most disgusting habits and secretions so that you don’t have to spend another second away from your video games.

I’m just about to the point of temper tantrum. Which none of them have seen yet, and so thereby do not fear. They will learn. They will feel my wrath. And if they let out one single molecule of the deliciously cooled air in this house I will smite them and make my name legend. The end.

PS. I feel this post is proof I would be a bad mother. They would not live long. The end, for realsies.

I Hate Math. So There.

Standard

I hate when I ride with Mancandy when he needs to stop for diesel. I tend to enjoy hanging out with Man O’Candy, and I LOVE his truck (he has a huge old work truck that I find delightful because I’m really a guy in my mindhole), so I forget every single time. But as soon as he’s back in the truck there are immediately numbers flung in my direction.

To preface the rant about to happen, I suck at math. And when I say I suck at math, I mean I know it’s a huge weakness (like diagnosed learning disability level weakness) and I avoid it at all costs in order to look more intelligent than I actually am. I wouldn’t mind looking slow so much if he wasn’t eerily good at math. We have so many books about math and calculus and physics and crap in this house and zero percent of them belong to me.

Mancandy and the mini candies LOVE math. Love and then some extra good gooey happy emotions. It’s the bee’s knees to them. They’re little wierdo’s fathered by a large weirdo. They enjoy trying to figure out physics problems while we’re stuck in traffic. Gag me with an oversized spoon. They’re all happily arguing about the effect (or is it affect? I can’t ever figure out which is which.) of gravity when an object moves upward (12 year old to 12 year old: “Not acceleration dummy, it would decelerate because gravity would steadily pull at it!”)

So I’m sitting there all innocently being crap at math, and a random duo of numbers heads my way.

“280 and 12, GO!”

I jump. It was a loud go and I’m starting to hear warning bells in the back on my mind. This is bad, but I’m not sure why yet. I just know I won’t like it.

I’m instantly defensive.

“Why are you yelling at me!? Go where!?”

And I remember at exactly the moment he gives me a look that says I’m a slightly broken thing he might be able to fix. Welcome to Enraged Italian 101.

“I am not doing division! I suck at it, there will be carrying of numbers, and I need to write it down, and you KNOW this makes me feel stupid! Why do you do this to me!?”

I get a sassy grin and “Practice makes perfect!”

I cannot adequately express the tangle of things in my brain. Violence, shame, anger, and amusement. And all sorts of other things sprinkled in, like seasonings. I don’t want to, but refusal just makes it worse. He’s as stubborn as I am, and despite being so pissed I’m vibrating I don’t want to actually start a real fight because I’m scared of a math problem. But just the idea of having to work through it terrifies me, and THAT makes me even more angry. There is no win in this, just humiliation and craptastic math skills.

I then try to stumble through it. Out loud. While he laughs and doles out praise of extremely simple thought processes that makes me angrier and stupidly happy all at once. When I’m trying in vain to finger write on the roof of the truck so I can see what stupid number I JUST came up with he seems really proud of himself. I’m going to put a dry erase board in that truck with markers so I can actually figure out the problem next time. And for the smarties in the crowd, the rules his jerk self made up involve no calculators. So my phone is out, even though I tried to be sneaky with that.

I don’t do emotions. They’re dumb. And it’s amazing and embarrassing showing off a huge weakness. Especially to someone you know is epically good at the thing you suck at.

Moral of the story: Dating someone good at math is great for most situations. Except when they try to make you better at math. Or just never go with them for fuel again. Or get stuck in traffic in the truck while all the people around you foam at the mouth over a physics problem. Cause that’s just not normal.