Arachnaphobia and Other Southern Pestulence

GUYS.

I'm not really afraid of spiders.  I think they're cool little dudes and I'm totally fine with peacefully coexisting with them so long as they respect boundaries and keep their creepy crawly little asses outside.  Or well-hidden deep in the crevices of my home, even, so long as they're earning their keep by eating the more obnoxious insects and not looking at anyone in my household like sample platters or all you can eat buffets.

And guys, I'm actually pretty proud of myself, as a transplant to the South from Colorado, where the winters were cold enough to kill of most Hell spawn that sported more than 4 legs and generally the only time you encountered a creepy crawly was when you were in an area you probably weren't supposed to be in anyway.  Even then, I think I only know of once that my Mom encountered a black widow (digging in the garden), and anything else you encountered in the wild typically wasn't designed to rot you from the inside out with its bite or sting.

I legit never knew so many creepy crawly things existed until we moved to Oklahoma.  What the hell is a tick, and why are you strip-searching your children with a magnifying glass like the most over-zealous TSA agent ever?  What do you mean you're rubbing used chewing tobacco on your calves because it helps with the chiggers?  I don't know what chiggers are, but that doesn't sound like a very nice word and I'm not really comfortable with you using it in my presence. WHAT THE F*CK DO YOU MEAN THAT WAS A MOSQUITO??  YOU LIE! THAT WAS CLEARLY A PTERODACTYL AND F*CK YOU FOR LAUGHING AT ME WHEN I WENT FULL SPAZ-NINJA JUST NOW.

Seems about right.

Everything's bigger in Texas?  BIGGER?  Oklahoma’s like where God keeps his shrinky-dinks.  Nothing is normal here.  Everything’s huge, fanged, venomed, and mutated in the most accidentally-dunked-in-radioactive-waste ways imaginable, and the heat only seems to make it worse.  BIGGER?  F*ck Texas then.  Texas and Australia can keep their awesome accents and beautiful landscapes and everything in them designed lull you into awe and then brutally kill you. I'm just going to chill here in Oklahoma with my flame torch and not have my broken and battered remains dry-humped by something that Satan himself would be startled by, thank you.

Anyway, it did take me a while to get used to all the bugs.  Seriously.  So.  Many.  

For some back story - years ago, not long after we moved here, my dad came across what he thought at first was a small tarantula.  No big deal, right - he was just going to scoop it up and escort it outside.  But then he got closer to it.

What he described in order to get my mom's and my attention sounded like something out of a pretty awful horror movie.  The spider looked super fuzzy - and was breathing.  Pulsating.  Like, its entire body was moving, but not in any kind of sync, just kind of... rolling.

Now, anyone who lives in the South or has any real experience with spiders already knows where I'm going with this.  See, certain species of spiders carry their babies on their backs, like the most horrifying carry-on luggage you can imagine.  Hundreds of teeny, tiny, wriggling baby spiders hitching a ride on mommy because f*ck your sanity and ability to not have to cry yourself to sleep, that's why. 

Sweet dreams.

And you can laugh, because we were silly city folk, and didn't know that the writhing nightmare before us was a totally normal occurrence in nature (!).  So my dad, being the logical, level-headed person that he was, did the only rational thing he could think of in the split second before you think your entire family is about to be devoured by a creature that’s terrifying and makes no sense and has no business being in this realm – he jumped, with both feet and his entire weight, right on top of this thing.

My Dad, for anyone new here, was about 6 foot 7 and a good 250 plus pounds.  The walls shook.  There was an audible “boom” as the floor bared the sudden, harsh impact of his weight.  The house itself moaned in protest as I’m sure the foundation was shifted, if even just a little bit.

And the spider…. F*cking exploded.

Worst.  Pinata.  Ever.  It was like one of those horror movies where you think they got the bad guy, only instead of going up in flames he suddenly turns into thousands upon thousands of tiny bad guys, coming at you from every angle imaginable. There were teeny tiny spiders scrambling for their lives in all directions, and all my Mom and I could do was stare on in horror, as surely this was the beginning of the Apocalypse and we were powerless to stop it.

This is it.  This is how the world ends.  Not with a bang, but with a nerdgasm.

And my Dad, still not fully understanding what the hell had just happened, began doing the most insane Mexican Hat Dance I’ve ever seen in my life.    Or, more accurately, like Riverdance performed by Andre the Giant on LSD and blindfolded, with someone steadily shooting bottle rockets at his ass as he screams random, frantic expletives.  It was both magnificent and deeply terrifying and, I’m sure, pretty embarrassing for my Dad once we figured out that the erupting Hell beast was nothing more than a momma spider carrying her babies.

Poor b*tch probably just thought she was taking a happy stroll with her little ones to the park or something.  She never saw it coming.

So this morning, when I encountered a similar pulsing nightmare in my kitchen, I knew better than to try to Hulk-smash it with the shoe I’d just retrieved from the living room.  No, this would require strategy.  This would require stealth and focus, and a little bit of luck.

Raid, guys.  It’s creepy crawly genocide in a can.  5/5 stars.  It seems to work best if you squeal like a little girl while spraying it in nonsensical sweeps toward the general vicinity of the spider-volcano.  Crying and whimpering may or may not help, but a sudden, shrill warrior cry is much more empowering.  Would definitely recommend.   

But the point of this post is that, after my victory and the subsequent sweep and mop so that my kitchen floor no longer looked like the sad and squishy aftermath of a really low-budget Scy-Fy movie, I got a little squirmy and started Googling natural ways to repel spiders.  And as I was looking through all the pictures of spiders and the recommendations for citrus and peppermint (because spiders don’t suffer from scurvy and hate Christmas, obviously), I’m thinking about how silly I feel for being squirmy.

I’m the human.  I just annihilated an entire family of spiders with a pump of my finger, like freaking Don Corleone.  Sure, I lost my shit a little, but I left no witnesses.  I’m the master of my domain, the queen of this castle.  I’m at the top of the food chain, dammit.

And then a fly landed on my hand and I almost pissed my pants.

Perspective, guys.  We may be hundreds of times bigger than they are, but they still manage to illicit a certain, um, respect, if you will, because we know on some primal level that the little bastards could easily take us down with a few well-placed nibbles on our puny human flesh.  It's a bug's world, and we're just living in it.

Dammit, Disney.

Catcalls, Compliments, and Outright Hypocrisy

So I've been seeing a lot of conversations about gender roles lately, specifically the objectification of women and how catcalls are absolutely not compliments.

As a woman, specifically as one who has dealt with her fair share of harassment, awkward flirting, and compliments, I kind of feel like someone needs to step in somewhere and throw some actual logic in.

"Learn to take a compliment!"

"Shut your face-hole, you slobbering, chauvinistic caveman!"

"I can clearly see your lady curves, so you obviously wanted attention!"

"Your attention was uninvited, as was your commentary!"

Men, women, sit down.  Shut the f*ck up.  You're both wrong.

Before you get offended and report this page, allow me to explain.

Ladies, raise your hand if you spend an extra couple of minutes in front of a mirror before you leave the house to make sure that your appearance is at least slightly less than horrifying.

Now feel extra silly because you're sitting in front of a computer in a room by yourself.

Okay, now answer me this: what are your personal criteria, for yourself, of what is and is not acceptable for your physical appearance to be seen by anyone who lives outside of your household?  

Next question - why?

Objectification and Beauty Standards

 Alright, so I know that not every woman feels that she needs to put on makeup or do anything special with her hair before leaving her house, and there are plenty of women out there who are totally content wearing sweats and hoodies without worrying about what anyone thinks about it.  There's not a damned thing wrong with that, either.

But, for the majority of women, there are at least a few rituals that we hold on to just as tight as tooth brushing and showering.  We pluck, shave, tweeze, style, moisturize, exfoliate, and contour our way into feeling human in the mornings.  While we can all stand here until we're blue in the face and swear that we only do those things for ourselves, there's a little part of us that does appreciate when someone notices.  In the right context, of course.

Anyway, we're all familiar with the term "sex sells."  And right as you read that, you were probably grimacing as you pictured a bikini-clad supermodel sitting on the hood of a ridiculously expensive sports car deep-throating a bacon cheeseburger while washing said sports car with some kind of magic hose that dispenses already-soapy water that somehow manages to splash and drip just right on her barely-concealed bosom.  Objectified women only sell things to men, right?

Wrong.

But wait - when women do it, it's called empowerment.  Do you see where I'm going with this?  If this were a Maxim cover, it would be sexist; but since it's a women's magazine - well, there are probably still plenty of women giving poor J-Lo the side-eye and calling her a whole bunch of not-so-nice synonyms for "hooker," because women are crazy - but the acceptance is still different.  It's a women's magazine, so it can't be objectification.  Erm... yes... yes it is.  Cosmo is still using half-naked, photo shopped, mysterious-smirk-wearing J-Lo to sell their magazine.

It's called a double standard.  The only difference is perception.  

Let's also address the issue of beauty standards - ladies, do you really think (straight) men are behind fashion, makeup trends, hair trends, diet fads, or any of that other mess that we put ourselves through as fairly typical women?  Do you really think that every man in the world wants a blonde haired, blue eyed, perfect size 2? Does everyone in the world love sushi?  F*ck no.  Just like anything else, people have different tastes.  So tell me then why it is that we have all these "impossible beauty standards" in the first place?

Ladies - you might want to sit down, I'm about to f*ck you up with some truth:  WE DO IT TO OURSELVES.

We can blame men all day long for having to look at Kate Upton staring back at us from the front of magazine covers and claim that we have low self-esteem because these standards have been shoved down our throats since we were old enough to watch television - but ladies, these are the standards WE buy.  These are the supermodels and singers and actresses WE idolized and decided we wanted to emulate.  These are the women WE objectified.

Just let that sink in for a minute.

And while we idolized and objectified these women, it became normal to look at these women not as people, but as pretty faces and fabulous bodies and mascots for products we wanted to buy to be more like them.

Those aren't men's shoes, guys.

And you know what?  If we can placate the green-eyed monster long enough to get over our own insecurities, we could admit that there is nothing wrong with a woman being comfortable enough in her own skin to dress in ways that show off her figure, her sexuality, or shit, however in the damn well she pleases.  Which brings me to:

The Hypocrisy

There are a couple parts to this.  I went off a little in left field earlier, but I haven't forgotten that the original intent of this post was to address the issue of harassment vs. compliments from the opposite gender.  I'm getting to that, but first I think we need to look at the idea that women who wear even slightly revealing clothing breathe are whores.

Rape Culture

Again, this is something that a lot of people want to peg on men in general.  But ladies, let me ask you this:  how many times have you, or a friend, or any female you know, declared that another female was a "whore," "hussy," "slut," "bitch," or was "asking for it," based on her appearance or what she was wearing?

Let me clarify:  how many White people do you know who can't understand why it's okay for Black people to call other Black people the "n" word, but not okay for White people to do it?  Let's forget for a minute that generally, when a Black person says the "n" word, it isn't meant with the nasty connotation it would have if a White person said it, while when a woman calls another woman a name like that, it's clearly venomous.  Point is, to people who have never experienced racism and don't know how deeply a word like that could actually cut, hearing it used so nonchalantly by the very people it slurs somehow takes the sting out of in their minds.  "It doesn't bother them," they think, "so it must not be as bad as I thought it was."

So if we always know that "fucking bitch" is always on the tip of men's tongues, do you think that maybe, at least for some of them, we put it there?  Or at least suggested it?

Why would you expect men to be hesitant about throwing those words out there, when we as women are so quick to use them as weapons against other women?  Saying "she's begging for it" is victim-shaming before anything has actually happened to her and sends the message that men aren't in control of their own behavior when lady lumps are present - which is both ridiculous and frankly a pretty harsh insult to men in general.  Men have been controlling their primal urges around scantily-clad women for generations, let's not assume that men have suddenly devolved into brainless, helpless sexbeasts when they're aroused.

My God, the one on the right is foaming at the mouth already!

That's not to say that it's all women's fault that our society is more inclined to blame the victim, but the overall perspective is obviously extremely flawed and it's going to take a major shift in attitude from all of us to fix it.

F*cking 50 Shades of Grey

Ugh.  I hate that this keeps coming up guys, but sweet baby Jesus.  Ladies - I just - and I'm just going by numbers here - but based on the success of these books and movies, let me just say that you're all full of smelly, steaming dog poo.  Why?  Because these stories are nothing but smut and objectification.  Yes, I realize it's fiction.  But what's the point of a good book?  To get lost in the world of the story.  To live vicariously through the characters in the book.  

And holy cheeseballs, ladies - you know what?   I'm just going to get right to the point.

That guy you just flipped the bird for whistling at you - was he good looking?

Don't look at me like that, you know what I'm talking about.  And I already know the answer.  See, it's okay for Mr. Magic Mike to whistle and hoot and holler, and you might blush and giggle and roll your eyes, but you probably won't get mad.  You might even be a little bit flattered, even if what he just said made your stomach lurch a bit.  

Wait, that's not what syrup's for...

Just like it's totally okay for Christian Grey, a handsome, wealthy sociopath, to do all kinds of awful, unmentionable things, in a f*cking murder room sex chamber.  You skipped right over the sociopath part, huh.  Because he's handsome, and wealthy.

But what if he wasn't handsome?  Or wealthy?  Ick, right? 

That's a whole different movie, ladies.

So those "uninvited" come-ons might be more "invited" if the guy looked like Channing Tatum, yes?  And I know, not all of you think that way, but ladies, I know at least some of you have been doing it, maybe without even realizing it.

It's f*cked up, is all I'm saying.

Perception

So... I could probably write another 200 words on this one, but I think this video clip sums it up pretty damned well. 

... point is, ladies, there's nothing wrong with flaunting it if you've got it, but for goodness' sake, expect that some men are going to openly admire it.  

Are there some jerky guys out there?  You betcha.  Do they make up the entirety of the male species? Likely not.  So before you get uber-pissed at that guy that just shouted some lame line at you and then dodged behind a mailbox, stop to consider that maybe he saw a pretty girl and, in his nervousness, what was meant as a smooth Nicholas Sparks line popped out sounding more like a pervert with Tourette's.  

"Smile," is sometimes more of an attempt at an icebreaker than a skeezy come-on.  Or maybe, just maybe, a stranger saw your resting bitch face and thought you were having a bad day, and was trying to cheer you up.  "Wow, you're really beautiful," is a f*cking compliment.  It's what comes after that should determine whether you respond kindly or kick him in the balls.

Look, I get that it's exhausting some days when you're being bombarded by predatory stares and awful come-ons that run the gamut from slightly awkward to file a f*cking restraining order.  But, can we maybe try to be fair and acknowledge that not every dude who crosses our path is two seconds from dragging us in an alley and doing unmentionable things to us?  

I HAVE A BOYFRIEND!

And sometimes, it takes guts to approach a beautiful woman, so sometimes dumb shit falls out.  It's okay to turn men down politely when they're not being outright douchey, and you might just make some poor schmuck's whole day by being kind to him even after he had a total derp moment.

Here's the thing - actual compliments don't have to be invited.  That's why they're compliments.  But men, a compliment is generally defined as something nice that you tell someone that makes them feel good.  

Here's a good rule of thumb:  if you would punch someone in the throat for saying what you're thinking about saying to your mother, your sister, or your daughter, then maybe just keep it to yourself.

Hey, you!  Are you full of Beryllium, Gold, and Titanium?  Because you're Be-Au-Ti-Full!  Why don't you join me on my Facebook page and...  eh, I suck at this.  I post stuff on there sometimes.  

Periods - A Comprehensive Guide for Men

Ah, Aunt Flo.  The Crimson Wave.  For the love of God, don't look her directly in the eyes.

Don't run away crying just yet, gentlemen - I know, periods are scary and the women who have them scarier - but never fear, just like any other demon, this one can be conquered with knowledge and a little bit of bravery.  And chocolate.  Guys, seriously, NEVER forget the chocolate.

Because there's nothing like an outdated stereotype to get the ball rolling.

Look, I'll spare you all the medical jargon and get straight to the point.  If you're old enough to read this blog, you already know where babies do and don't come from and the mechanics that make procreation possible.

Still, if I had a dollar for every time I heard a man scoff at a woman doubled over with cramps or insist that we just "suck it up" and "quit being such a baby," I'd have enough ones to dump in a decent-sized swimming pool and wade into like Scrooge - friggin' - McDuck.  You suck it up, assface. Just kidding, I love you.   Also, quit looking at me like that.  I'm bloated and feely and I don't want to f*cking talk about it.  Now hold me.  Get the f*ck away from me.  CHEESEBURGER!

The Horror

...basically, once a month a woman's uterus gets all hormonal and decides it wants a baby.  Like, now.

When it doesn't get a baby, it gets even more hormonal, becomes irrationally angry, and starts shredding its own walls down around it like a screaming, teenaged were-banshee who just found out One Direction split up or something.

Or, like, this guy practicing Jui-Jitsu in the darkest depths of the lady-bits.

Have you ever been kicked in the balls?  Dumb question.  Okay, so remember that time you got kicked in the twig and giggleberries - and imagine that, even after that horror, your testicles responded not by retreating safely into your stomach to lick their wounds and seek therapy, but by throwing a full-blown hissy-fit and ripping your manhood out all the way from your stomach down, and then forcefully spitting it through your pee hole in unpredictable bursts. (**women DO NOT menstruate through their pee holes, but if you don't already know where it exits, I'll spare your imagination that monstrosity.**)

Pain does things to people, man.  And when you're emotionally unstable and in pain and having to rush to the bathroom every half hour to clean up the foul, disgusting bowels of Hell that keep exiting out your fun zone, it does something to your brain.  This is why women are crazy.  This is why women are crazier on their periods.  Our own bodies rebel against us at every turn.  We can't even trust our own built-in recreational zones.  How's that for f*cked up?

Not only that, but in some twisted joke from the Universe, women's periods tend to sync up when they're around each other for any length of time.  Like, if they live together.  Or work together.  Or pass each other in the wine grocery store.  What the royal F*CK, Universe?

On a (semi) side note, where the hell do they find poor, sadistic bastards willing to work in women's correctional facilities?  That's hundreds of women all bleedy and stabby and forbidden to have or do any of the things that make that time of the month bearable - ALL AT THE SAME TIME.  That's nightmare fuel there, guys.  Like, I imagine that for one week out of every month, those facilities just lock down, all the staff stays at home, and they just let the women do what they're going to do, Lord of the Flies style.  Then at the end of that week they send the Correctional Officer they like least (the Red Shirt, if you will) to check out the scene and assess the damages before they send anyone else back in.

F*ck this.  I'm becoming a Priest.

The Money Pit

Go ahead, laugh for a minute while you make the connection between vaginas and the amount of money that men will spend to ensure access to said vaginas.  Or that they will pay after access to that vagina has been restricted, because no one ever thinks about prenups when they're in love.  That's not what I'm talking about here.

No, obviously, when your nether regions look like something Stephen King wouldn't even write about because it's so gory, you have to have ways to keep that shit in check.  Cue the feminine hygiene industry, which makes approximately too much f*cking money on things that are just going wind up looking like Rob Zombie movie props and be thrown away.

If you've ever accidentally wandered into the feminine hygiene aisles at your local store, you'll already know that there are ridiculous amounts of products designed for just this thing.  To the unexperienced observer, monthly items boil down to pads or tampons.  Not so, grasshopper.  There are hundreds of brands and even more types, sizes, absorbencies, and God only knows what other features that differentiate one product from the next.  Here are just a few:

"Feminine Wipes."  Supposedly, these things are meant to keep a lady's bits fresh and flowery, while still maintaining the delicate PH balance of her amusement park.  So, baby wipes.  They're f*cking baby wipes.

"Douche."  Nope, not Kevin from the frat party or the guy who cut you off in traffic the other day - this stuff is supposed to literally flush out all the nasties in a woman's nasties.  Because obviously our bodies aren't proficient enough at cleaning themselves out while they're shredding our baby makers from the inside out and spitting the remains out our hoo-has like some military-grade tommy gun on crack.  Know what an enema is?  Yea, it's that, but for vaginas.  I know, gross.  Also, this crap was proven unsafe several decades ago, but women still feel the need to try to one-up nature, so here it still sits on the shelf.

"Pantyliners."  Exactly as the name suggests, these are just light little "liners" that go in a woman's undies to protect from the extremely light blood flow that tends to happen at the very beginning and very end of a period.  I have no joke for these, they're actually pretty handy.

"Tampons."  Here's where it starts to get crazy, guys.  There are several different types and absorbencies of tampons, and good luck guessing which a woman will need from one period to the next.  There's "Light," "Regular," "Overnight," "Heavy," "Sport," "Teen," "Tween," "Super," and "Dear God, is Someone Being Murdered in There?"

"Pads."  Now, this one's even worse than tampons, because for some reason someone in the feminine hygiene marketing team thought that giving us 5 billion wing-size choices was helpful somehow.  What the f*ck are wings and why do pads need them, you ask?  Well, they're these helpful little flaps on the sides of pads that are meant to protect panties from overflow, but are more likely going to twist around and glue themselves to legs and ass cheeks.  So then when a woman tries to pull down her panties to use the restroom, the pad itself is either going to dislodge from the panties and hang from her nether regions like the weirdest accessory ever, or she's going to get a nice, unexpected waxing in approximately one square inch of somewhere very sensitive.  Yay wings.

Pads also come in dainty choices like, "Light," "Heavy," "Overnight," and "Give up and buy the adult diapers already, lady."

My crotch shouldn't be making crinkling noises as I walk.

So guys, if you ever find yourself having to buy feminine products for your lady, never fear, brave soldier - here's what you do:

1. Make her write down what she needs.  All of it.  Brand name, absorbency, scent, color, street name, whatever.
2. Find the nearest lady employee.  Look lost and pitiful, but not disgusted or annoyed.
3. Hand the lady employee the sheet of paper with all your lady's needs on it, shrug sheepishly, and simply say, "my wife..."  Continue looking lost and pitiful.
4. Lady employee will do all the work for you, all the while thinking what a total sweetheart you are.

Bam.  Done.  You're welcome.

The Insanity

Guys, freaking hormones.   For real.  They're like angry little electric charges that get all fired up and bounce around inside a woman's body, exploding every time they come into contact with each other because they're currently just as confused and unstable as the woman is.  

She'll seem bipolar.  She'll want to cuddle and she'll tell you what a beautiful, sweet man you are one minute and then slap your hand away and tell you to go eat your Facebook girlfriend's shit the next. (Your Facebook girlfriend is obviously that one random chick who liked that one random status that one random time 3 years ago.  Duh.)  She'll be chugging Mountain Dew and shoving chocolate cake in her facehole like Honey Boo Boo and then suddenly start bawling because her pants are pinching her bloated tummy and Oh my God, she's so fat and why don't you find her attractive anymore?

Because crazy isn't sexy, and even Heather Graham can't make that shit not look crazy.

She'll develop sudden onset Tourette's over little things like shoes left in the floor and the fact that she has to wait three more weeks to see how the Walking Dead cliffhanger turned out.  Mood swings. Weird cravings.  Even weirder OCD moments.  Guys, I know.  I don't even have any sound advice for dealing with it, other than maybe, go fishing or something.  Get a hobby.  A one week out of the month hobby.  You're not getting any for that week, anyway.

The Aftermath

So your lady finally transformed back from the snarling, angry she-beast to the sweet, easy-going Goddess that you originally fell in love with.  Congrats!  You've survived another month!

Enjoy these next three weeks, guys - you've earned it.

Absolutely Ridiculous and I Must Have It

Some days, I feel like some lone weirdo walking in the world, lost in my own insanity and bound by the constraints of socially acceptable (read:  not weird and/or insulting) behavior.

But then, sometimes, I come across something that gives me hope.  Some little light beaming far from the bottom of the abyss of darkness, that says, "hey, you.  You're not so weird.  There are others like you.  Proceed."

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you - Abusive Balloons:

I've finally found my spirit animal.  So what if they're not actually an animal.  Shut up.

Guys.  GUYS.  I want to buy a frackjillion of these and just carry them in my pockets.  I want to personalize them and unleash them randomly when I'm so struck by someone's stupidity that I am without words.  "My brain hurts now, so here's a sack of my breath, which is about as worthwhile as whatever dumb-sh*t thing just fell out of your mouth."  

The most beautiful part of this is that said person has to stand there and wonder what the hell you're doing for at least thirty seconds while you blow up the balloon. 

And then, rather than tying it off so that the other person has a momento of our conversation (because of course they would want one), I'll just hold it up long enough for them to read it and then let it go so that it will violently fly away making that wheezing, farty sound that balloons do, much like whatever sound I heard come out of the other person's mouth when they said whatever dumb-sh*t thing they just said.

Or, I could tie it off, and use one of the safety pins I'll be carrying in my other pocket to pop the balloon, thus accurately expressing my disappointment in humanity at that very moment.

POP!  *Mic drop*

It's whimsical and awful all at the same time.  Like a happy clown whose flower ninja throat-punches you rather than squirting you with water.  Or a Disneyland character who goes in for a hug and ends with a super wedgie.  Don't tell me you don't want at least a dozen of those at your disposal.  I mean, really.  

Cynicism and Insomnia

I just want to point out that you know you've reached the milestone of actual adulthood when a new appliance excites you.  Specifically, a new washer, since my last one decided it didn't want to drain and spin anymore but would act like it was still going through all the motions of a normal wash cycle. So basically the little green light would come on saying that the load was done and ready to be switched over to the dryer, yet when I would open the lid I would be met with a pile of sopping wet clothes and enough water to run that bubble bath I could have been relaxing in if I didn't have to keep resetting the washer to drain and spin 4 times a f*cking load.  That's like 3 hours per load of laundry, guys.  I could have been using a washboard on the back porch and been more efficient than that.

And before anyone tries to tell me that I could have just rung the clothes out myself, let me just remind you that the whole purpose of an appliance is that they are supposed to do all the work for you.  Ain't nobody got time for all that.

Besides, somewhere in the rinse cycle, the damn thing also forgot to actually rinse the clothes - so I'd be left with little pieces of scent booster and whatever else might have been on the clothes that made it necessary to wash them in the first place.  

Anyway, I upgraded to a pretty little front-loading model that cleans in half the time and spins so hard that the clothes come out almost dry.  Eat that, washer who refused to even do the most basic parts of your job.

You're fired.

Guys, my new washer plays a little song every time it finishes a load.  I'm not kidding.  It's like it knows it's done a good job and is so proud of itself that it has to announce it to the world with a tinkly little melody.  Like a magic trick in a kid's movie.  Brrrrring, *star shine.* *Jazz hands.*

I already know I'm going to want to kill it with a sledge hammer by this time next week, but for now it kind of makes me feel like a Disney princess.  Except for the helpful woodland animals that do all my chores for me.  And the Prince in shining armor.  And the happily ever after complete with castle and epic f*ck you to all the people who have ever been mean to me in my life.

Dammit, Disney.

It even makes music every time you turn it on to start a load, and makes a little ding every time you choose an option.  Actually, aside from when it's washing, it makes a lot of noise.  Like LG wants you to think that their washer makes chores magical.  Baby toy sound effects magical.

F*ck.

I'm off to find my screwdriver.

  

Facebook Releases New Emojis...

Oh, Facebook.

For a while now, we've all lamented the fact that there was only a "like" button on Facebook, which often times was just used as a way to acknowledge the existence of a post so our friends didn't get all butthurt that their life-altering musings weren't important enough to warrant a few seconds of our time.  If the post contained anything other than good news or witty thoughts, we felt obligated to clarify in the comments that we didn't "like" that Grandpa just passed away, but we're sending thoughts and prayers and metaphorical casseroles or whatever.

...but ain't nobody got time for that sh*t.

So, because we're lazy in the most literal sense of the term, we're demanding that Facebook expand the emoji options, to cover the most obvious and universal reactions to Facebook posts:

1.  The "Quit Attention-Whoring" emoji.  

Maybe just an eye-rolling smiley or a little caricature of Kanye West.  Yes.  We need this.  I didn't even realize how badly we needed this until just now.

You know you've gone too far when even Kanye is unimpressed by your 15th "tell me I'm pretty" post this week.

We all have that friend.  You know the one.  The one that either posts what they're doing every second of the day, or just constantly needs to be reassured that their right to occupy space is still valid.  "Like if you love me.  Ignore if you hate me."  "Rate me.  27 different ways."  "If I died tomorrow, would you cry?"  "If I was lost on a space station somewhere in the Zenon galaxy with only hours to live and a phone only half charged, would you still Snapchat me?"

Ugh.

2.  The "I'm Actually Seriously Re-evaluating my Friendship With You Both on Facebook and in the Real World Right Now" emoji.

There's something about the anonymity of being online that makes aaaalll the skeletons come parading out of peoples' closets.  Sometimes those skeletons are really, really scary and covered in decades worth of supremely undesirable characteristics. 

Like maybe your best friend from childhood suddenly declares their deep-seated racist beliefs.  Or that seemingly harmless, funny guy at work reveals that he likes to make lamp shades out of human skin in his spare time. Or your mother just confessed to only pretending to like bacon because she was worried what the world might think of her, but she's newly single and spunky and to hell with what everyone thinks, she's going to live her life her way now.

Nope, sorry Mom, I think that might just be the deal breaker.

3.  The "What the f*ck did I just read/see?" emjoi.

Totally self-explanatory.

...but sometimes people need a gentle reminder that not all things should be shared with the world.  Or with anyone other than a licensed therapist.

4.  The "I like this post, but for the love of God, don't message/text/call me just because you see me online" emoji.  Also known as the "I'm Here but Busy" button.

Sometimes you're at work.  Some days you're just antisocial.  I can't be the only one who avoids certain people's posts because they will inevitably try to contact me as soon as I acknowledge them on Faceboook.  

5.  The "I literally lost IQ points reading/watching this" emoji.

The snozberries DO taste like snozberries!

To be fair, I appreciate dumb humor as much as anyone else.  So no, I'm not talking about lame puns or stupid things that people post to be ironic or make a point.  Something has to be really, really, mind-numbingly ignorant to actually incite my rage on behalf of my intellect.

Non-educated rants.  Racism, bigotry, closed-minded drivel.  People who think their opinion matters more than others' because they're pretty or wealthy or connected.  People who have found a platform to speak but apparently have no idea what is actually coming out of their face holes or keyboard strokes.  People who base entire opinions on hearsay and feelings rather than any actual logic, reason, or intelligent conclusions they came to on their own. 

Opinions are fine, guys, but holy righteous indignation, Batman - back it up with something valid.

6.  The "I totally agree, but there's no way in hell I'm sharing this because you write/spell/punctuate like a dyslexic 2nd grader" emoji. 

Again, in fairness, text lingo doesn't bother me.  You want to save a few seconds by dropping vowels and abbreviating, that's cool, I can usually navigate my way through that.  If you're just not an apt speller or writer, that's okay too.  Not everyone is.  Typos happen, all the time.  That I get, too.

But it takes longer than 10 seconds to translate two sentences into something coherent, we have a problem.  If you're making fun of people for misspellings and grammar errors, holy sh*tballs make sure that you're properly using "they're, their, and there."  Also, "you're" and "your."  You don't get to be a spelling/grammar Nazi and not know how to use the English language properly yourself.

7.  The "Trump" emoji.  

For those posts that are so ridiculous that they seem harmless and funny at first, but then people get super heated really fast for no reason and suddenly you find yourself gnoshing popcorn while being witness to WW3 on Facebook.

See this finger?  See it?  It smells like my next mail order bride and White Supremacy.

The Trump emoji would allow you to convey that you can already see how quickly things are going to escalate and you want no part of it.  Also known as the "I'm Taking a Break From Mankind for a While" and "F*ck This, I'm Moving to Canada" emojis.

8.  The "Fact Check" emoji.  

Maybe this one can auto-post a link to Snopes or something, with a friendly reminder that f*cking Wikipedia IS NOT a reliable source and that The Onion is a damned satire site meant for entertainment purposes only.  Read:  NOT REAL.

9.  The "Countdown" emjoi.

For those people that you like alright, but post stupid sh*t incessantly.  This would remind them that you value your friendship, but you'll only put up with so much shenanigans.  Three strikes, friend, that's what you get.  "Keep scrolling if you hate Jesus."  That's one.  "Trump for President!"  That should wipe you out right there, but I'll be fair and only count it as one.  So that's Two.

Tread lightly, friend.  Tread lightly.

10.  The "I Know You In Real Life and I'm Getting Pretty Sick of Your Sh*t" emoji.  

Mom told me I could become anything I wanted, so I became Wreck-It-Ralph.

This one would be for those people who like to tell the world how absolutely awesome they are at their job, parenting, and life in general, while forgetting that there are actual people on their friend's list who know their real day-to-day bullsh*t.

Look, it's kind of an unspoken rule that we only broadcast meaningful, preferably good things to the world.  This is a good thing.  No one needs - or wants - to know all the dark, dirty details of our lives.

But when I see you with your $200 hair cut and $75 manicure and name-brand clothes screaming profanities at your unbathed, poorly dressed kid at the store for being a f*cking brat and wanting breakfast at 4 o'clock in the afternoon and then run across your Facebook post about how haters gon' hate and your kid is your whole world and you're the best mom ever, it kind of makes me want to punch you in the face.

"Oh sigh, I'm the only person who ever does any work around here I should just quit so I can be appreciated," says the person who shows up a half an hour late every day and then spends 90% of their time on their phone.  

"I get so tired of being surrounded by uneducated Oompa Loompas and having to dumb myself down to get through my days," says the person who dropped out of high school in the 10th grade to fish and smoke weed and hasn't picked up a book since they had to clean their room when they were 10 or had a job, well, ever.

STOP.  IT.  You're not fooling anyone.  

What say you, dear readers?  Are there any other Facebook emojis you'd like to see and would totally wear out if you had them?

In the meantime, you can totally test out the new Facebook emojis on my Facebook Page.

The Spaghetti Rule

I joked a while back about seeing all these posts online where people were disappointed that liars' pants don't actually catch on fire, and I thought, "what a good reason to carry a lighter."

So while we disregard the fact that this is now the second post in a row that suggests I might be a pyromaniac (I'm not - that one time at work was mostly a joke and we were all freezing, ask anybody), I just want to bring this whole subject back up for discussion.

Full disclosure, sure, I lie sometimes.  We all do.  Even beyond the obligatory "oh, that haircut's not so bad," and, "no, those pants absolutely do not make you look like a sausage roll at all" to spare someone's feelings.

So no, dear readers, this isn't a long-winded lesson in morality, but more a deep-thoughts session where I expound on the thoughts rolling around in my own brain, if for no other reason than that I cannot stand to not know why people do the things they do.

If I were to guess where most lies come from, it isn't so much fear of consequence as fear of vulnerability.  You tell the customer who's screaming in your face about not selling him beer on a Sunday or whatever that for Christ's sakes you didn't write the law and he's being a total tool for taking it out on you, and you risk him firing back that you're an asshole for not being cool enough to bend the rules just this once, just for him, and shit man, he might actually have a good reason for being such a jerk - like maybe he just buried his dad and all he needs in the world right now is to sit back with a cold one on his dad's grave and cry - and then you will feel like an asshole.

Damn.  Now I want a beer.

Even if you're right.  Even if there's not a damned thing you can do about it.

Then there's this funny thing in relationships where we swallow all the small things, because - what's the point?  Then one day you break and you tell your spouse that they're an inconsiderate clod when they bark at you for forgetting to take the trash out, and suddenly you're hit square in the face with every. single. f*cked up thing you've ever done, some of them surely things that you didn't think were that big and/or that you've totally forgotten about and - holy sh*t.  I said that?  God, I'm an asshole.

...and then for a while you take every angry thing they can dish out because for some stupid reason, you think you deserve to be punished for everything you did.  Everything that went unaddressed.  Everything that was maybe brought up at some point but was ultimately pushed back and compartmentalized, because, who wants to deal with all that?  

Or you snap and say something horrible, and the person you snap at has no retort whatsoever - they just break down into unintelligible sobs and begin apologizing profusely.  Nobody want to be that asshole.

Or maybe nothing's said at all, until one day you wake up and you realize that you loathe the person you used to love most in the world, and at that point there's no going back.  Or, you answer the door and have divorce papers shoved in your face, while you're standing there legitimately not understanding what is going on or why.

Now that I think about it, I have been a bit of an assbutt lately.

Why do we do that to ourselves?

How hard is it to tell someone to pick up their own damned socks the first time, instead of silently gathering them up until the sight of the billionth sock 5 years down the road makes us want to suffocate them with their own foot stench marinated affronts to fabric?  Why do we pretend that all that obnoxious stuff isn't so bad, until it's so obnoxious that it destroys everything around it?

When I was a kid, my Dad put it to me this way (some poetic justices taken - but not many):

You go to a friend's house and they invite you to a spaghetti dinner. For whatever reason, you just don't feel like spaghetti right then.  Maybe you just had spaghetti the night before.  Maybe you're craving  tacos instead.  Maybe you've already made plans with someone else.  But, rather than risk hurting their feelings by just turning them down, you say, "oh, I can't, I hate spaghetti."  Which is dumb because spaghetti is delicious.  But whatever.

But, your friend, being a good friend, remembers from then on that you "hate" spaghetti.  So the next time you go to their house for dinner, they make sure it's not spaghetti.  So even if you really, really want spaghetti - too bad.  Tacos.  No spaghetti for you.

Then, later on, they catch you eating spaghetti.  "Hey, I thought you hated spaghetti!"  So you then either have to fess up to lying or pretend that whoever was cooking the spaghetti at their house is just a really awful spaghetti cook.  Which is mean.  Either way - AWKWARD.  And totally unnecessary.

It would have just been easier to be honest the first time, and told them, "Nah, I don't really feel like spaghetti tonight, maybe later."

Which is dumb, because spaghetti is delicious.  But whatever.

Side note:  this is how many of my life lessons were learned, if that makes anything clearer as far as my own ramblings go.

Anywho, I refer to this as the Spaghetti Rule:  just be honest the first time, and you'll never have to backtrack or lie more to get out of that first "little" lie.

Hey, tacos are awesome, but sometimes you just want some damn spaghetti.  

Do you really hate spaghetti and fail to find anything helpful in this blog post?  Post your complaints on my Facebook Page. 

Just Hand me the Flamethrower and Look Away

So here's something that probably too many people already know about me - my mother is a hoarder.

That's not an exaggeration, people.  I didn't know there was a term for it other than "what the hell could you possibly need 10,000 back issues of Knitting Weekly stacked fort-style precisely along the front of the couch when you don't even knit?" until about 3 years ago (thanks A & E!).

There may or may not be a couch under there.  Or a body.  

Or Darth Vader riding a unicorn.  The entry to Atlantis?  Who knows?

Full disclaimer:  I'm not a perfect housekeeper.  Not even close.  Also, I get that hoarding is a mental illness that is usually rooted in something deeply emotionally debilitating. 

The point of all this is that, because of my mother's hoarding, I bounce between OCD and a touch of hoarding impulses myself.  I'll hold onto shit that I know I probably won't ever need, just because I feel like as soon as I throw it away or get rid of it, I or someone else will need it.  But in my defense, I have no problems actually getting rid of things that have zero sentimental value if they've been sitting in my house collecting dust and taking up space forever. 

A miraculous thing happened way back when I was still with my girls' dad - our house burnt down. Now, before anyone gets all offended, the house fire itself was devastating, in that my daughter and I were in the house when it started and my daughter suffered a few burns.  All of her stuff was lost, all of our pictures, a lot of things that held sentimental value that couldn't be recovered or replaced.  But ultimately, my daughter was okay and that was all that mattered.   Stuff is just stuff, and I have yet to look back and really mourn anything that was actually lost in that house fire.

People around us were really amazing - donations poured in, in the form of vouchers, money, and basic things you kind of take for granted until you don't have them; toothbrushes and other toiletries, small appliances, socks and underwear.  Things that you're so used to just having that you don't really expect to need them but not have them.

When my husband and I split up several years ago, I was again in a very similar situation, starting basically from scratch.  And again, family and friends graciously stepped in and tried to make sure I had all those basic things, and then some.

But - and I'm not complaining here, just making a point - when people become generous, they become really generous.  As they're going through their things trying to find things they think someone might need, they come across odds and ends that have been shoved to the back of a closet or drawer, and they think, "I've never had a need for this, maybe they can use it.  After all, they don't have anything right now."  

Well, I know they don't have one of these, and this one's just been sitting in our basement causing shenanigans...

To be clear, I am truly grateful for every single thing that anyone ever gave me in my time of need.  I'm not looking the gift horse in the mouth or crap-talking peoples' generosity in the least.  The point I'm trying to make is, this is how it starts.

Clutter.  Well-meaning, generous as f*ck clutter.  

At the time of this writing, I have 37 coffee mugs.  37.  Just let that sink in.  I don't own a coffee shop.  I'm not a member of the most ridiculously populated book club ever.  What the f*ck will I ever need 37 coffee mugs for?  Some of them are tiny, like freaking Saki cups.  Who the hell only drinks two ounces of coffee at a time?  Are they dollhouse coffee mugs?  I don't own a dollhouse!  WHERE ARE ALL THESE RIDICULOUSLY TINY COFFEE MUGS COMING FROM???

This is an abomination and I demand an explanation.

Anywho, the point of this rant was actually more along the lines of the behavior of the people I cohabit with, not the amount of useless clutter in my house.  

Can someone please explain to me how trash and dirty laundry can find its way 2 feet from the trashcan or laundry basket, but not INTO the trashcan or laundry basket?  How is it easier to stack trash all Tetris-like on TOP of the can, when all one has to do is flip a lid and toss said trash INTO said can?  Or why it seems acceptable to leave one sheet of toilet paper on the roll when there are quite clearly 5 more full rolls two feet two the left in the cabinet?  Why are the crevices in my couch populated by chip bags and empty water bottles, and my shelves filled with sad, empty boxes?

Anyone?

I have this weird ritual where I wash laundry, fold it, and place it neatly into designated baskets to be put away.  No one seems to understand that, once the clean laundry is in the basket, the next step IS NOT to rifle through it until it's half in the living room floor and jumbled into a mass of now-wrinkled fabrics that my cats then deem their personal territory for sleepy-time.

....and this whole post is really just me procrastinating the inevitable chore of cleaning my house.

*sigh*

...Oh, NOW I get it!

Hate cleaning your house?  Well, I'm not going to do it for you, but we can procrastinate together on my Facebook page.