Just a slump, or did my brain die?

nodon't
WTF is wrong with my brain lately?

I wish I could say I had an obnoxiously amazing excuse not to post lately. Like, I went on a vacation around the world, or my husband FINALLY decided to stalk me too.  We’ve both been caught up staring into each others bespectacled eyes and sniffing each other, and couldn’t get anything done. The fanfiction that has been could be written on the subject has already  could fill three notebooks!

Naw, it ain’t like that. I just couldn’t think. I had ideas. Plenty of ideas! I just couldn’t put my ideas into words. I was beginning to think my brain had rotted. Maybe a portion of it did. The part that is used for math. You know, the part that doesn’t work anymore. No one would notice anyway. It’s not like I was a math wizard saving the world with my revolutionary math equations. Damnit. That sounds cool.

  It’s not like I care.  I don’t.

Anyway, if I was gonna be any kind of wizard I’d rather have the power to make all cats love me, and make my husband obsessed with me. I have small dreams, really.

I was actually starting to get desperate. I almost posted some of my husband fanfiction just to get something on this wasteland of a blog. Take a gander at this…

“He was so overcome by her choice ass Victoria Secret supermodel hair and hairless mustache and beard areas that he bought her a fluffy cat. She named it Cookies and would pet that fluffy cat while her masculine husband’s muscles rippled as he put together bookshelves for the many, many books he purchased for her everyday”.

The. Damn. End.

I have others, but that one is my favorite. My hair is lit, and I’m missing facial hair. I know, I missed my calling as a fanfiction writer, but I figured everyone would eventually get tired of hearing about my husband, and fairly certain my husband would kill me or possibly run away from home. So, I thought not.

my fanfic

I’ve sat here for weeks trying to force words with awkward and sometimes abysmal results. I even read other blogs with some salty results. My daughter caught me one afternoon reading one witty, and cleverly crafted blog post. I was ranting how it, “wasn’t shit” and “that bitch probably had a pancake ass”. My daughter asked why I was screaming and crying while looking at the computer? I told her to mind her own damn business and leave me alone to die. She did.

I’m not sure how other people combat writer’s block, or if I can actually claim writer’s block since I ain’t shit. Maybe I’ll just post all of my husband fanfiction from now on when I can’t think of anything to post because I can’t promise this won’t happen again.

Things are gonna get really weird in here, guys. Prepare your goggles and OSHA approved hazmat suits to prevent that second hand embarrassment.

I apologize…sometimes.

 My husband and I have a good relationship.

That is a stand alone statement. We do. We love each other very much, and we have a specific way of dealing with things when we are angry with each other. We call each other stupid names and try to make each other laugh. Why? Because we hate to fucking be mad at each other, duh.

But I have a confession to make. I hate to apologize. Hate it with every fiber of my being. I will apologize to children and the elderly with no problem. Probably because children are so adorable, and the elderly will die soon and no one will know that I apologized. It’s just so hard to apologize to other adults. Even when It is very clear that I am wrong. I have to work up to it. Do some light eating and a little stretching. A small part of me floats away to Jesus when I have to say I’m sorry to anyone. Especially if they are a gloater. Nothing will get you marked off my friendship bracelet list faster than being a damn gloater after I have apologized.

I understand that this is a serious character flaw, and I’m not proud of it. I mean, I do it…eventually. It’s just, I don’t do it willingly or immediately. That’s probably when most people would like their apologies.

This year, I have decided to change my behavior, and  an opportunity presented itself when I made a complete asshole out of myself. I know, shocking!

My car has three different handles on the side of the driver’s chair that work the seat position. I have always assumed that one specific handle worked the recline function. Some people like to lay down when they drive. I like to sit straight up, at attention just in case someone tries to attack me. Always vigilant. Always prepared.

Well, my seat was not in the proper position when I got in it after my husband drove it, and the handle that I assumed controlled this function was not working when I tried to put it in “bitch, this ain’t a drill” position. I’m also blessed with a surprising lack of patience.

I’m such a catch.

I sent my husband a snarky text about how the seat was basically laying down and the handle was broken, so I couldn’t change the position. His reply to my sass was calm and sedate as he stated he would show me how to work it when I got back to the house. I flounced around like the angry toddler that I was and flung myself in the car and drove home. Sure that he was going to be wrong. He magically put my car in position while I was putting things away. I came back outside. Didn’t say thank you, and got in it. I had to leave again.

This time the seat was actually leaning forward, and I was so pissed that I pulled over and was trying to fix it while a stream of swear words tore from my lips. I called him. My call was full of accusations of breaking the handle on my seat and knowingly adjusting my seat too far forward…and also being made completely of cat turds.

That got his attention. Not the cat turd comment, but the totally baseless accusation and total lack of appreciation for him moving my seat. Even though it was in the wrong position. Wrong. He was mad. My husband doesn’t normally get mad at me. When he does it’s usually because I’m going out of my way to be an asshole. Like, what we are now referring to as the driver’s seat debacle of 2016.

I get home and he comes outside. I’m angry and he is angry. I have accused him of breaking the handle on my seat with his stupid cat turd hands and he says I’m too stupid to use my car, and will prove it. We open the door of my car, I step aside, and he bends down.

As he does, I’m thinking how awesome it’s gonna be when he has to say he’s sorry for breaking the handle with his stupid sausage hands. All of that smugness vanishes as I see him grab a completely different fucking handle and sarcastically recline my seat all the way back and then sassily lean it all the way forward. Then he turned and looked me dead in the eye, and he knew it and I knew it.

I had been using the wrong fucking handle the whole damn time.

With a smile on his face, I could feel the “I won” radiating from his body. Mine however was oozing the stink of shame as we walked back inside. I was gonna have to do it. I didn’t want to, but I had no other choice. I was wrong and had behaved badly all evening. A huge portion of me wanted to feign diarrhea and just run to the bathroom and stay there all night, but he wasn’t expecting an apology. That was worse. He was expecting me to pretend I had diarrhea or pretend it didn’t happen and just walk back into the house.

I took a deep breath, and apologized. Then I hugged him. He froze. Probably wondering if I had a weapon to stab him in a murder/suicide type scenario. After realizing he was in no danger of being stabbed to death in a crime of apology shame his body relaxed. It would have been the perfect time to stab him if I was going to murder/suicide due to apology shame, but it was fine. He had accepted my sorry.

Then he made fun of me. Exactly like I would do to him if he had made such a stupid mistake.

I still may not be as good of a person as my sister, but I’m trying.

I’m also thinking about labeling the handles on my seat.

 

 

 

 

I hold my dignity in my shoes.

my shitty face

This morning when I walked out into the brisk weather to take my dog to go pee, I felt a sense of deja vue when the back door slammed behind me.

BALLS, BALLS, BALLS.

My brained panicked, and anyone who knows me really well, knows I am not the best when I panic. I tried the door first. It was locked. WHY THE HELL WAS IT LOCKED?! I blame the cat. The dog looked at me. I looked at the dog. One of us was going to have to be smarter than this situation, and I was kind of hoping the dog was going to step up. She walked away and immediately dropped a deuce by a tree. Thanks, dog. I love you too.

I was starting to get really cold. My pajama dress wasn’t cutting it. Of course I wasn’t wearing a bra. My boobs were just flailing in the bitter cold like a couple of angry house shoes. Just sad and tattered. Seen better days and would have liked to have been rolled back up into the safety of a bra, but no, I was supposed to be in the shower. NOT stuck outside with a dog taking dump. I was frantic for half a second. I did what I normally do when I get nervous and panicky.

I giggled and bounced in place.

It didn’t help my situation, but it did fix the me being cold. I started sweating. Great. I was about to get in the shower when the dog wanted to go out, so I was gross. My hair was so greasy you could have fried a thousand orders of fries in it. God, why would I look presentable when I knew I was going to have to walk somewhere and talk to people in my hour of humiliation. With no cellphone, no keys, an empty dog, and a cat who was probably plotting on us both I started walking to my landlord’s house.

Yes, it took me that long to decide to go there. I was kind of hoping I could save myself without anyone seeing me, but I had no other options. Me and my house slipper titties were going to on an adventure. Oh, and the dog too.

Thankfully, my landlord’s wife had a key. She gave me a shawl to cover up with because she mistakenly thought I was hugging my chest because I was cold. Nope. I was hugging my chest to hide my no bra shame. I already looked like a grease ball mess. I didn’t want to add no bra to the list. I was just glad I was wearing shoes.

Oh, did I mention my pajamas were inside out? They were. Why? Because I do not care. They are pajamas for crying out loud. You sleep in them. What does it matter if it’s right side out or not? Unfortunately, it matters when other people are going to see me in said pajamas, greasy french fry hair, and house slipper titties. Thank God for the shoes. All of my dignity was in those shoes. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had.

I’ve learned some things about myself today.

  1. I don’t wear bras at important moments when bras are critical.
  2. My hair produces an insane amount of grease in a short amount of time. If I’m not careful it’s going to start a grease fire one day.
  3. The cat is an asshole. I cannot trust him.
  4. The dog isn’t any help “in the clutch”.  Also, she doesn’t understand when you scream ” You aren’t any help IN THE CLUTCH”!
  5. My husband isn’t as surprised as he should be when I tell him “I got locked outside and my titties were swinging freely again”. Like, didn’t even bat an eyelash. That reflects poorly on us both, I think.
  6. I really, really, really need to get one of those fake rocks to hide a key under because this isn’t the first time this has happened. Last time I was barefoot without a bra. The shame leaked out at an alarming rate since there were no shoes to catch, and hold my dignity.

Halloween has been cancelled until further notice. You know why. Don’t look at me like you don’t.

This past weekend was Halloween. I bought a crap ton of candy and treats for the trick-or-treaters.

candy bitches

And decorated my house like an expert….

you tried

It’s almost too scary.

And then we opened our doors to the masses.  My family has this tradition every year. We buy a ton of candy to hand out to all the trick-or-treaters, watch kid Halloween movies, dress up, decorate our house, and eat as much of the Halloween candy out of the bucket as we can while we wait. We were jazzed.

Then people started flooding in our door. They weren’t just coming for candy and leaving. They were sticking around. Which we loved, but we ran into a very big problem when everyone went home.  Someone done fucked up. That’s honestly the only to explain what my husband found in the hallway on his way to the bathroom.

In a very puzzled voice he called out to me, “Wendy, did the kids flood the bath-…..” that’s where the words stopped and the loud gagging started. I got up from my seat in the kitchen, and peeked my head into the hallway to find him bent over attempting to hold in all the candy he had consumed earlier in the evening. Tears in his eyes, he looked up at me and whispered,

  “Someone pissed an ocean in here, and out into the hallway”.

Frightened, I realized I was standing in pee, and screamed. “NOOOOOOOOO, OH GAWD EVERYTHING’S COVERED IN URINE”! We then began a ridiculous conversation that was sprinkled with gagging and swear words. Bless my husband’s heart. When we walked into the living room to hold our conversation in a neutral, pee free zone, he caught a whiff of pee, and followed it all the way to our couches.

The piss bandit had struck my living room furniture.

I would like to say that I remained the voice of reason, but all I could smell was pee, and we had already discussed burning the house down and starting over somewhere else. Somewhere free of pee. My husband had made his mind up, and he looked at me with more determination than I’ve seen in a while from his normally laid back face. “You can sit on these if you want, but I’m never sitting on them ever again. You’ll have to kill me first if you want me to sit on one”. I said I agreed, and said, “no, we sit on the floor now. The piss bandit got us good”.

My husband nodded his head, and then started moving the couches out of the house. They are outside right now.

I went back inside and started cleaning the bathroom. I want to say that it was a modest amount of pee, but that would be a lie. I would love to say I behaved like a lady, and cleaned without resorting to swear words or gagging and vowing revenge, but that would also be a lie. I cleaned pee of the walls, bathtub, cabinet, and of course, the floor in the bathroom and the hallway.

Oddly enough I did NOT have to clean the toilet. It was completely clean. HOW? Part of me wants to know how this terrible deed was done, and the rest of me wants to remain blessedly ignorant. Now, a few words to the piss bandit who exploded in my bathroom without so much as a “hey, I blew your bathroom up with pee pee and then got it all over your couches”.

Dear Piss Bandit,

You don’t have to explain or apologize. I already know. One day, maybe so far into the future that you think you’ve gotten away with it, but mark my words, Piss Bandit. I will get you back. You will come home and smell a very familiar smell, and wonder where you know it from. You will take your shoes off, and start to walk across the floor in your house and notice that your socks are wet. Hmm, that’s weird. It’s been a long day hasn’t it, Piss Bandit? You just wanna get a snack and sit on your couch. You’ll go into your kitchen and a eerie sight will fill your vision. All of your glasses from your cabinets are out, and on your table full of…what is that? Apple juice? You don’t remember buying apple juice, do you? Oh, well no reason to let it go to waste.

    You’ll grab a glass, and head back into your living room. Man, those socks sure are wet aren’t they? Plopping down onto your couch, you realize it’s wet too, and there’s that familiar smell again. What is that? You put the glass to your lips, and just as tilt the glass to take a drink, it hits you. With a deep knot of dread, you know what that smell is. You realize that I’ve peed on every single surface in your house. From the doorknob, to the every square inch of your floor, your couch, and all those glasses on your table. Why do you have that many glasses anyway?

I bet you’re wondering how I managed it? Never you mind. Aren’t I dehydrated? Maybe a little, but that’s what they make Gatorade for. I buy the red kind and call it Revengerade.

      Rest in pieces Piss bandit,

Your Nemesis

me as tina

My husband being on a business trip turns my brain into useless mush

My husband has been on a business trip since Monday, and the adult in me would like to point out that I’ve been responsible. The other 90% of me needs that 10% to sit down and remember how often we listened to that Meghan Trainor song while eating candy.

that girl

I’ve cleaned, I’ve read a ton of Jane Austen, stared at old photos of my husband, and even written a little bit of husband fanfiction.

be interested in my fic

It’s gotten pitiful, but he threw me a bone. Of course, I made it weird. I always make it weird.

I'll be home

I’m starting to wonder why he likes coming home at all. I basically stalk, harass, and otherwise act like a fan. I don’t think it’s normal wife behavior to wish you could draw better so you could draw illustrations of your husband dressed up as different Jane Austen heroes, but there it is.  That’s how I love. In the creepiest, grossest way possible. Apparently he likes it.

northanger funny

He’s probably just REALLY gratefully I’m not a talented artist of any kind because if I was, there would be many portraits of him in full regency swagger, complete with cravat and smolder.

I make my husband do stupid things, and pretend it’s for “us”.

You see this picture?

hot mix

I forced my husband to take it for me today while we were on our way to the airport. I spotted this dump truck with these hilarious words on the back,  and started laughing. I threw my phone at him and started screaming, “TAKE A PICTURE! MAKE SURE IT’S CLEAR”! Then I told him it was for our safety that he was taking the picture. Since I was driving I would probably crash us into another car, and we would all die in a fiery explosion. It was better this way. Better for him if he just did what I said.

He didn’t ask why I wanted the photo. He just started snapping pictures like crazy. He did not ask a single question. That says a lot about our marriage. Probably that he knew I was going to do something stupid with the picture, and couldn’t wait to laugh at my stupidity.

And I’m okay with that scenario.

OR, that I was going to do something GENIUS with it. It was the first thing. I made a stupid post to Facebook so all of my friends could laugh. I was practically dancing in my seat the whole time.  Here’s the super awesome hilarious joke that I posted on Facebook for my friends and family:

hot mix
My mix tape so vicious. I had to get a dump truck just so I could drop that hot mix on ’em. OH!   

This literally made me laugh for an hour with tears streaming down my face. I do not care if anyone else finds it funny. I do not! I’m putting it on my fridge.

I think Domino’s is trying to date me.

Opening my email, all I can see are coupons from Domino’s. Just temptation as far as the eye can see.

witch pizza

Gah, not again Domino’s. For the past few months Domino’s has been pitching some mad woo at me through my email. Now, I’m not going to lie. This is the best form of flirting, if someone was going to flirt with me, but Domino’s, I’m a happily married woman!

I can’t just ditch that for a hot and fresh fling with you, Domino’s. I mean, it’s not like I’ve already written a carefully worded dear John letter to my husband or anything….

Dear Douglas,

We both knew this was coming. Well, maybe not you, but all those pizza coupons for great deals couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Didn’t you question where I was getting them? Your lady was getting courted by a dangerous lover with promises of pizza.  I know you’ll never understand my reasons for leaving you for Domino’s since you don’t like pizza.

Are you even a person?

Who doesn’t like pizza? Maybe we’re just too different. Domino’s gets me. Don’t look for me. Pizza has me now.

Your Runaway Wife Who is probably neck deep in pizza,

Wendy

                                                                                                                                                            loveatingpizza

Jr. High is horrible, and I’m glad I don’t have to go back.

Today my oldest child got in my car after school with a little less pep in his step. I understood and we discussed all of the things bothering him.

Jr. high is tough as balls, man.

When I look back, it was tougher than high school. Every morning when he gets out of my car I sit in awe of him a little bit. He gets out like it’s no big deal. I cringed every morning when I was in Jr. high, and sometimes tried to talk my mom into letting me stay home. Sometimes I cried. On my braver days I took a deep breath while unbuckling my seat belt, just hoping a few people would be absent that day.

My son and I talked circles around his day until he felt better, but it wasn’t me that he really needed. He needed his father. I tried, but I couldn’t understand some of the things he was having problems with, and I was having a hard time giving any advice that was worth receiving.  Thankfully, his grandfather was home and he wanted to spend the afternoon with him until his dad got home from work, so I drove the short distance to his grandparents home. I’m so grateful my kids have such an awesome support system. Later, my husband brought him home…in a better mood. It was like both men had worked some kind of magic. A magic I’m glad they have. Tomorrow’s another day, and he’ll get up like it’s no big deal. I’ll be amazed that he has more fortitude than I ever had.

I’m sure we’ll face many more days like this, but it’s nice to know that even if I can’t help, there are others in our family that can, and will.

Female mystery? I’ve still got it in spades.

kitty

*I’m a damn lady. I just wanted to get that out of the way. Right off the bat before I go any further and completely shame myself.  a dainty lady with tiny NOT sausage hands, and a long swan-like neck. I mutter this to myself while slathering face bleach on my entire face on a weekly basis. It helps. No, but I just needed everyone to be clear on that fact. I am a pretty lady in frilly, fancy dresses with absolutely no appetite at all! *

(deep breath)

I’m strange. Shock and gasp! Sit down you sarcastic, asshole. So, hear me out without adding your smarmy two cents. So, my husband and I have been together for 15 years, we started farting in front of each other the second it was clear that neither one of us was backing out because we are probably the two gassiest people on planet earth. If we had held our farts in any longer we might have both blown up in some kind of weird, less romantic Romeo and Juliet.

“They just couldn’t be together because they held too many farts in. It was tragic…and smelly. Someone crack a window”. Anyway, so yeah, farting right off the bat was a green light, but I just recently told him what my childhood pet’s name was that died when I was sixteen. Like, yesterday, and it wasn’t for safety reasons because I don’t trust him with my password to everything…because that isn’t it. I was too embarrassed. Too embarrassed. Let that sink in for a second.

I’m not too embarrassed to let him hear AND smell my unholy fajita farts, but I’m too embarrassed for him to hear the name I gave a beloved kitty when I was four.

It was Middie Meow Meow.

I’ll wait while you collect yourselves. I understand how ridiculous that name sounds, but I was four, and I’m pretty sure it was supposed to be KITTY, but I had a hard time saying kitty.  Also, meow is the noise a cat makes so, choke on that you jerks! I was a tiny four year old genius. I properly identified, and assigned the correct sound to the right animal. Thank you very much, Sesame Street.

I have become much better at naming pets since the Middie Meow Meow debacle of 1985. Don’t believe me? The following is a list of the names of my pets and their awesome names.

B.F. Pickles (you don’t want to know what B.F. stands for)

Gromit

Pookie

Kevin

Puddin Meowington

Monty Chunkee Monkee

Mo Mo

Ci Ci

See? Completely normal.   Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go hide under the fridge until the embarrassment wears off.

The sexy gorilla could be your boyfriend, but you’d be covered in poop at all times.

handsome gorilla

I was trolling the internet after my husband made me begrudgingly tromp all over the land we just purchased. I was gross, smelly, and I should have been in the shower instead of sitting on the couch, but it’s my house, and I do what I want. An article with the title “handsome gorilla” caught my eye, and I just knew it was going to be wonderful. With my bean soup all over face, I clicked the link and was rewarded with cute pictures of an adorable gorilla doing poses like peoples. Reading the article was not so cute. Apparently ladies were flocking to the zoo this adorable gorilla is located and clamoring over how sexy he is. Wut? I mean, I could see if gorilla ladies are going nuts over him. He seems like he would be hella sexy to gorilla ladies, but not people ladies. What in the world could he offer you? Let’s just SAY he decided to wife you….

Hope you like having all your dates at the zoo. Oh, you were hoping he could take you to that new French restaurant? NOPE. He takes one step outta that enclosure, and he’s getting a whole ass full of tranquillizers.

You decide matching couple shirts are a good idea, so you guys can wear them together you buy some, and take them to him because, you know, he can’t leave the zoo. He snatches them from your manicured hands through the bars and rips them into little pieces, and flings a tiny bit of poop at you. Don’t catch no feelings, girl. That’s only gonna get you a hair full of poo.

He’s already got kids, and three wives. Still think he’s dreamy? Still think it can work between the two of you? He ain’t a one woman gorilla, girl. Don’t catch feelings. Do you really want to be a stepmother to a bunch of gorilla babies? That’s a whole lot of tiny adorable baby gorilla poo being thrown your way, and you know you won’t be able to afford presents to win their affection the easy way after the dry cleaning bills.

Still thinking he might be the one? Go ahead and introduce your parents to him. Of course, you’ll have to drive your parents to the zoo. When your mom attempts to hand over a homemade lasagna, the gorilla slaps it across the gorilla exhibit. There is a tense silence, so your father attempts to smooth things over by extending his hand for a manly handshake. Big mistake. The gorilla feels challenged, and just rips your dads arm right off and chunks it near the lasagna. Suddenly, the sun is blotted out as a storm of poop begins of fall down of all of you.

As you slow motion run past your mom’s ruined lasagna and scoop up your dad’s arm, you send one last tearful look towards the gorilla enclosure. He’s picking his nose…majestically. That’s when you finally realize he was never yours.