Cabin Fever: A Saga

dEAR WORLD:

FIRST OF ALL, I'M NOT SCREAMING AT YOU - I THINK MY BLOGGER IS SO APPALLED AT MY PRESUMPTION AT TRYING TO POST SO LONG AFTER NOT POSTING THAT IT'S REBELLING IN THE ONLY WAY IT KNOWS HOW - unrelenting, UNNECESSARY CAPS LOCK. SERIOUSLY, GUYS, I CAN'T TURN IT OFF.

I HEAR YOU BLOGGER, I HEAR YOU. (WE ALL DO. HA)

Secondly, let's address this twilight zone episode we're all unwittingly living in at the moment, shall we?

so, it's not bad enough that we're reenacting a tom clancey novel and battling a deadly pandemic in the throes of all the rest of the world's insanity. in an epic move completely typical of our country, america took its cue and responded to the news of covid-19 by... buying up all the toilet paper?

can... can someone explain this to me, please?

???

i had to explain to my teenagers, as i handed out split paper towel rolls and sanitary wipes, that the stores had been stripped of even the 1-ply rolls of toilet paper that you buy between paydays when you scrounge together loose change you've shaken out of your furniture and vehicle crevices.

but why, they asked- and i was just as vexed as they were. i shrugged and mumbled a quiet, "'Murica," and left it at that.

oh, but then came the empty shelves where the bleach, lysol, hand sanitizers, hand soaps, and various other cleaning/sanitation supplies once sat. then went the bread, milk, eggs, etc.our local walmart started looking desolate, and it began to feel like a cast off episode of the walking dead just scanning the aisles for what was leftover that i could throw together to feed a football team worth of teenagers. 

the employees became jumpy and a request for smoked sausage prompted a panicked "there's no toilet paper!" from one poor employee, before he ducked and scuttled off into the back room.

so now, loaves of bread and cartons of milk and various other household necessities are rationed to one per person/household per day.

i have 6 teenagers at home. 6. they are out of school for the rest of the year. they're not allowed to go to friends' houses. they're turning feral on me, guys. and do you know what bored, feral teenagers do, when they're perfectly healthy and can't leave the house and the wi-fi lags so bad that it takes 3 hours to watch a half an hour of a show?

they eat.

and eat. and eat. and eat. then they poop, and eat some more, guys, i have a whole litter of them, and not feeding them after midnight is only successful when they're not capable of getting up and feeding themselves.

i tried, world, and i have failed.

if i walk in with one gallon of milk, a $5 loaf of gluten-free, organic brick-bread, and no toilet paper, they're going to turn on me.  all the progress i've made gaining their trust and assimilating them into our world will be lost. 

day whatever this is of quarantine: send backup (with bread and toilet paper); the natives are wild.

(Apologies again for the poor formatting: this is all in caps lock in my drafts and no matter how many ways I go over it, it won't come out right when I publish. It would appear that the machines are rising as well. Good luck world, and may the odds be ever in your favor.)

Quick Update

Who am I? Where am I? Why are there 15 popcorn tins and 5 metric tons of glitter in my living room?

Guys. Christmas was CRAZY.  Speaking of, I hope all of you had an AMAZING Christmas and, if I don't see you before then, Happy New Year! Here's to ringing in the new year urping into a trash can with all the bad experiences of 2018 whirling around our heads like the worst movie flashback ever with lots of hope and good fortune!

The snozzberries really do taste like snozzberries. And Schnapps.

So aside from giving my kiddos Diabetes with all the Christmas candy we bought and picking glitter off of absolutely. Every. Fricking. Thing. In the house (because we all know glitter is the Herpes of the craft world and holiday merchants can't create a product without it), I've pretty much been sleeping and drinking my own body weight worth of coffee every day to keep up.

I'm not quite sure what to do with myself in the days between Christmas and New Years, since the kids are out of school and none of us really know what day it is from one day to the next.  Our washer went out, which is totally the best Christmas gift EVER, considering there are 8 (!) people living in this house, 6 of them teenagers who, for some reason totally unknown to anyone other than them, inexplicably have to change at least twice a day.

That outfit was like, so 2 hours ago Mom. Gah. 

So now, I'm drowning in laundry, tinsel, and candy wrappers.

Send help.  And Starbucks.

Happy Holidays guys!

5 Ways to De-Stress Your Holidays (Without Alcohol...Mostly)

Hello lovelies!

This is totally an accurate representation of my winter bod.

It's December, which means that many of us are currently weeping over eggnog and pie about, well, everything.

This year, I'm finding myself in a situation where, financially, I can't even begin to measure up to the holiday hype that my girls and I became accustomed to. Like a lot of parents, I overcompensated in the past, since I had the means to do it (and sometimes even when I didn't). Growing up, my Dad was a Jehovah's Witness, so I didn't get to celebrate Christmas the way all my friends did. When I became a parent, not only was I excited at the prospect of Christmas for my kids, I had ZERO idea what a realistic Christmas looked like for normal, lower-middle class families. 

Guys, I seriously based MY expectations of what my kids' Christmases should look like on what I saw on  TV and in the movies.

This is not normal, guys. On any level.

Which brings me to my first point:

REMEMBER THE REASON FOR THE SEASON. Okay, now I know that some of you have a religious take on Christmas, and that's wonderful. Some of you don't, and that's okay too. Either way, I'm pretty sure that when you think of Christmas, your first thought isn't, "I wonder how far I can go into crippling debt so my little Suzie has all the same stuff as her friends at school."  

See, aside from my Gibbler-levels of insanity as far as how many presents I got my kids, I also have this thing where I can't stand the thought of someone not having somewhere to go on Christmas. My house was the hub for my family, and friends, and drifters, and whomever else had nowhere else to go on Christmas. Then, I have this other thing where I can't stand the idea of someone not having at least one present to open on Christmas, especially kids.

GUYS.

Especially if you're short on cash, focus on one or two "big" presents for your kids, and then spend the rest of your energy of being a family. Put on your pajamas, pop some popcorn, and watch Christmas movies. Sing Christmas karaoke. Light a bonfire and drink hot chocolate and make s'mores, whatever. Make memories, not reasons to file Chapter 7.  Your kids won't hate you for not getting them everything in the Sears catalog (do they even still have those?), I promise.

And if they do, they're probably going to shove you in a nursing home in 40 years or so, anyway. At least you'll know now to spend your retirement on a yacht instead of saving it for their inheritance.

I was going to put something here about being just kidding, but I Googled "kidding," and literally all that came up was pictures of Jim Carrey. Wut.

Speaking of family, I notice this strange phenomenon that happens during the holidays where people force themselves and each other to interact with people that they hate.

STOP THAT.

Let me say that again, a little louder this time:

STOP FORCING YOURSELF TO INTERACT WITH UNPLEASANT PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE IT'S THE HOLIDAYS. Actually, ESPECIALLY since it's the holidays.

Look. We all have family members we don't get along with. Some of them we can tolerate in small doses, and some of them elicit heart palpitations just at the mere mention of their name. If you're the one hosting a get-together, you DO NOT have to invite these people. If you're attending someone else's get-together, you don't have to go, you don't have to stay the duration, and you don't have to spend any personal time with bitter Aunt Mildred who won't quit asking why you're getting so fat but still haven't given your poor mother any more grandchildren.

I know there's some kind of crazy etiquette that says it's rude not to include everyone that shares any semblance of DNA with you. But you know what else is rude? Getting an obligatory invitation and using it as a means to be a miserable poop stain on what should be a happy time of year.

No, maybe YOU should skip that pie, you joy-sapping {censored}

Now, for those of you that still feel the need to buy something for everyone, or who like the look of extra presents under the tree (I'm not judging, I'm totally guilty of this too), here are a few tips:

PEOPLE LOVE FOOD. I know, duh.  But here's the thing - you know those little tins of butter cookies that you can get at literally any mass retailer? How about those boxes of chocolate covered cherries/blueberries/apparently anything you can smother in liquefied sugar and chocolate and package? Little Debbie snack cakes? Boxes of hot chocolate?

All of these things are under $3 (in most places) and qualify as presents if you wrap them and/or slap a bow on them. Especially for kids. 

If you're crafty, or especially good in the kitchen, you can get tins at Dollar Tree and fill them with fudge, cookies, chocolate-dipped pretzels, brittle, and all kinds of other super cheap but delicious things. 

You know what else is great about food gifts? Unlike that crazy tie or pair of blinky reindeer socks, food is MUCH more likely to be appreciated, used, and NOT regifted. Christmas win!

The rum truffles are just truffles, but I feel great!

Speaking of cooking, here's another de-stressing tip:

YOU ARE NOT, NOR DO YOU HAVE TO BE, MARTHA STEWART.

Or Rachel Ray. Or whoever the big timey chef is these days who has a special recipe for everything and acts like every breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snack should be presented like it's being prepared and served in the White House and is budgeted for people who really have too much money to begin with.

But Sandra, my mother/grandmother/auntie got up every year at the buttcrack of dawn and cooked everything from scratch. It's tradition!

I know, hypothetical reader, I know.

Still, do you really think the wonderful hostesses of Christmas past would have passed up pre-made pies or boxed stuffing if it meant spending less time in the kitchen and more time with their families? Or, let's be real here - sleeping? Likely not.

I know it feels like cheating to buy a pumpkin pie rather than spend 3 hours making one. But really, everyone piles so much Cool Whip on top of the stuff that it's barely recognizable as a pumpkin pie anyway, right? 

Save yourself some time and headache (and money, in some cases) by buying at least part of your holiday fair pre-made.

BONUS HACK: Make your Christmas dinner a potluck. Assign each guest a side and/or dessert, and guess what? There's plenty of food, and you've just saved yourself a ton of time and money.

I knew this guy would come in handy someday.

Lastly, CUT YOURSELF SOME SLACK.

Okay, fellow Mommas (and Daddys, of course) - listen to me. This is important.

This time of year is crazy hectic. You feel like you have a million things to do and no time to do it in. There are reasons that depression is at all time highs this time of year, and I can't even begin to list them all here.

Make some time for you. Go for a walk. Visit some friends. Read a book. Put the kids to bed a little early and take an extra long bubble bath. Sing Debbie Gibson songs at full volume into a hair brush while dancing around the living room, whatever. And don't feel bad about it. You can't be superparent and take care of everyone and everything else if you don't take care of yourself first.

Now, after you do that, if you still feel those little seeds of doubt creep in about money or presents or whatever, I want you to ask yourself a couple questions:

Are you present and accounted for in your kids' life?  Yeah?

Have you ever heard your child say, "read me another story, PS4?"  I hope not, that would be weird.

YOU are the most important thing that your child needs, whether it's July or December. You're doing just fine, honey. You're doing just fine.

- Sandra

Happy Holidays! If you're looking for the most popular toys for 2018, I can't help you. But, if you're looking for a distraction from the holiday blues, you can join me on Facebook!

Pssst... A lot of people don't know this, but you can put your weed in there I write things besides snarky blog posts, and I also draw portraits. If you enjoy reading my blog and would like to check out some of my other stuff and/or show your support, come join me on Patreon:

Become a Patron!

And Wattpad

Sandra Reviews Stuff

I recently found out that a lot of companies pay for product reviews. Like, they send you free stuff, you use it, say nice things about it to strangers online, keep the free stuff, and get paid.

What the shit, internet?

And here I thought a girl had to post pictures of her skivvies online to make any money.

Naughty, naughty... Cotton Stretch... Hipsters... That's how this works, right?

Nah, apparently my brief stint in silly Amazon reviews was preparing me for something greater. As a matter of fact, Amazon, by my calculations, you owe me a free Prime membership and about 15 cases of Skin Food Peach Toner.  I'm just saying.

I use Ibotta - (Yes, that's a referral link. Yes, I'll be compensated if you sign up. I'm feeding 6 kids, don't judge me.) a nifty coupon app that gives me rebates on stuff I use already. I've done the BzzAgent thing (which for some reason is temporarily shut down so they can tweak the log in?). 

But now, it's time to expand my creativity and embark on a world of writing where I don't post to Facebook as "Only Me." 

Googled "Woman in cape." Humans are a dirty, dirty species.

So I thought, what better way to get into the swing of things than to practice reviewing on the things I'm using right now? Right?

I'm currently chugging a Dr. Pepper and shoving a glazed donut in my piehole indulging in carbonated prune juice a bubblicious soft drink and a lightly glazed pastry as I write this. 

Mom would be so proud. Also, you really CAN find anything on Google.

The Dr Pepper is satisfyingly bubbly, even though it reminds me quickly that I'm in my 30s by how quickly I have to make a mad dash to the ladie's room with a cleansing after effect.  The donut comes from a local place, and has a slight tinge of old oil, but it has super cool ghost-shaped sprinkles on it, so it takes me back to adolescence a little.

This is hard.

It's just a donut, and I now have a tiny orange ghosty sprinkle stuck in between my teeth.  So yeah, I need to go take care of that. ...with my minty fresh Colgate toothpaste!

Total! Whitening! Slays dragon breath and totally doesn't taste like peppermints your Grandma has been carrying in the bottom of her purse since the Depression!

.... I'm fired already.

And This is How They all Became the Brady Bunch

A lot has happened since the last time I rambled posted on my blog, the most notable being that I started a relationship with an amazing guy who has the equivalent of half a basketball team worth of kiddos.

For those of you not well versed in sports, a basketball team has 12 players. Half of that is 6. Six. He has six kids.

In addition to my two.

Now, his oldest is in college, and his second oldest lives with his mother, so that leaves us with his remaining four and my two.

This is beginning to sound like one of those awful word math problems where Susan buys 50 watermelons and 85 bundles of grapes, which wouldn't be far off from what you might see on one of our grocery receipts.

Six kids, aged 12 through 16. Teenagers. We have SIX teenagers in our household.

I'd like to say we had to let Alice go, but she ran screaming before we could explain that we just couldn't afford her any longer.

You would think the biggest expense would be food (it totally is), but I never expected to spend so much on deodorant, mousse, and toilet paper.  Oh my goodness, so much toilet paper.

Dear Charmin, if you're reading this, send help.

My house smells like gym socks, 6 different brands of heavily-applied perfumes and colognes, and pizza pockets. There's not enough Glade in the world to mask that, guys.

Thank goodness they're all good kids, because I really don't think my sanity would allow me to run a juvenile detention center. As long as the fridge and pantry are full and the Wi-Fi is up, it's all good.  And speaking of Wi-Fi, who knew having control of the password would magically make chores done and grades stay respectable?  

Anywho, we were trying to move from Oklahoma to Colorado over the last few months, but were waiting on the courts to make a decision since I have kids from a previous marriage, and that apparently means that my autonomy legally depends on my ex's whims until my youngest daughter's 18th birthday. Long story short, he opposed the move, drug out the proceedings, threatened to take custody of just my youngest daughter, and then managed to get the move blocked. 

Because this is so much better than Colorado.

So, this is where we're at for the time being.  I keep trying to tell myself that everything happens for a reason, but poverty in lieu of opportunity seems a bit like overkill. Still, it could be worse. I could be without a healthy sense of humor, but here we are.  I could be dying of some yucky, incurable disease, yet I'm mostly only susceptible to random bouts of the sniffles.  Our kids could all be toddlers, potty training and leaving everything in their wake destroyed and unidentifiably sticky. 

I could still be married to my ex.

*Shudder*

Have an intolerable ex that you wish you could pretend didn't exist? Have so many kids that you're considering starting your own sports team? I can't help you! But, we can avoid reality together on my Facebook page.

10 Simple Ways to Survive a Horror Movie

Does anyone remember Mystery Science Theater?  It was basically this old show where a group of guys watched really bad movies and commented and captioned the movie as it was playing.  So basically what all of us do with our friends when we're sitting at someone's house too drunk to actually go do anything and too bored to do anything else.  It was fantastic.

And I really, really want to do this with horror movies, guys.

I talked about my Mom's obsession with bad horror movies when I was growing up in another post. These days, it's rare that I can find a horror movie that I can actually get into and not feel like I've just wasted at least an hour and a half of my life at the end of it.  First of all, you can't be spooked by something that's just completely impossible.  I'm not talking about the ghosts and ghoulies or whatever masked/burnt/robed/fanged creature we're supposed to be afraid of - I'm talking about the stereotypical characters and the dumb-shit choices they make throughout the course of the movies.  All of them.

Clearly, the government is conspiring to dumb us down so we all die horrible deaths in the case of a Zombie Apocalypse,  mutant insect/bird/mammal/shark invasion, deranged sexually frustrated undead serial killer rampage, or whatever the f*ck was going on with the trees in that one movie no one wants to admit that they actually watched.

I have no idea what you're talking about.

We all know the jokes about surviving a horror movie; "don't be the Token Black Guy," "don't be the Slutty Bimbo," "don't drink or do drugs unless you're the quirky stoner guy, because he always survives."  Best to be the pretty, perky, smart, non-drinking, non-smoking, lily white virgin, otherwise your ass is never going to make it to the sequel(s).

Dear reader, if you ever happen to find yourself at the center of a poorly written horror movie, I want you to forget all the above advice.  I mean it.  The answer to survival is simple:  DON'T BE A DUMBASS.

1.  In the Case of a Zombie Apocalypse:

So you wake one morning to the sound of restless moaning and unsettling shuffling.  As the fog lifts from your tired and possibly hungover brain, you realize that you're not hearing your disgusting roommate's morning tryst (or your parents, gross), but rather the beginnings of a Zombie invasion, brought on by some clumsy lab tech or big corporation conspiracy or some shit.

This is the moment all those hours of Call of Duty have been preparing you for.  You're ready.

Ready for what, numbnuts?  They're zombies.  Reanimated dead bodies.

Check your windows and locks.  Secure?  Good.  Now check the weather.  Oh, it's above 80 degrees with high humidity?  Ok, cool.  Or cold and snowy with a wind chill factor of 4?  Even better.  Now what?

Grab a beer.  Pop some popcorn.  Find a good spot where you can see out a window and wait it out.

What do you mean am I crazy?  Do you not understand the dynamics of a zombie invasion?  Sigh.  Allow me to explain.

A zombie - again, a reanimated dead body - has a few disadvantages compared to living, breathing, barricaded you:

DECAY.  That's right, that dead body that's lumbering around your porch sniffing at your door jam is rotting by the second.  Even more quickly if the weather is hot and/or particularly humid.  They'll be hosting all kinds of bacteria and flies and maggots, which will be helping the decay along.  The soft tissues go first - skin, eyes, then the muscles and tendons.  It won't be long before an attempt to pry open a door or break through a window would result in a pretty nasty skinning or detachment of a limb altogether. Superhuman strength won't do it any good if it's losing body parts every time it touches something. Pretty soon, that scary once human thing will be a steaming pile of bones and putrescence dripping between the slats on your porch.  Oh yea, and the smell of putrid flesh will bring plenty of...

NATURAL PREDATORS.  You might just get to see a dog run away happily with an arm or calf, or vultures peck furiously at all that tantalizing open flesh.  A rotting body wouldn't last long stumbling about trying to find its own prey without being quite literally picked apart by animals, especially if the poor soul had the misfortune of being a zombie anywhere in the country. 

RIGOR MORTIS.  Ah, yes.  When a body dies and there is no longer any nerve impulse, muscle fibers contract, causing the entire body to stiffen.  It's happens more quickly in extreme heat or cold, or if the body was under stress before death - like if someone was suffering from a deadly zombie virus or, I don't know, running from zombies.  It may or may not last long depending on several circumstances, but I'd imagine it could disable long enough to be attacked by a predator, hit by a truck, fall off a tall thing, or be incinerated by a wood chipper.

Because if Bobby taught us anything, it's that wood chipper beats all.

So you've got a few weeks, maybe a couple months, maybe even a couple beyond that to let the virus make its full rounds, so unless one manages to find its way in, you're golden.  And if one does manage to find its way in - well, in true bad horror movie fashion, the damn things can't run.  So when it comes in, run and grab your chainsaw or wood chipper or whatever, run back in, take it out, and chuck it out a window.  Done.

Also, don't forget to re-secure wherever it came in at.

2.  Eek!  A Vampire!

Wait... are we talking like, old school Dracula or that sparkling bastard child of Tinkerbell from Twilight?  Like, 80's inter-city leather-clad biker rebel teens from The Lost Boys or the only role I didn't hate Tom Cruise in from Interview With the Vampire?  

Well, if we've learned anything from Hollywood, the typical weapons against Vampires are garlic, crosses, holy water, and a good old stake through the heart.  Legend also has it that a Vampire has to be invited in, so if you're bored or want to be a dick about it, just refuse to let them enter your home and then laugh at them as the stand at your door and hiss at you like a pissed off cat.  Throw in a few "bleh, bleh, blehs" in there for extra measure.  

But Sandra, I didn't know they were a Vampire when I let them enter my home.  I really did want to learn how I could save money and cut my cleaning time in half!

Never fear, dear reader, the answer is simple.  Always, always keep a jar of beetles in your home. Why, you ask?  Because according to Hollywood, Vampires turn into bats, and bats eat beetles and other insects.  So you whip out the jar of beetles, which will remind the Vampire that he hasn't eaten since that morning, and he will turn into a bat to devour your offering.  While he's busy eating his lunch, you'll simply hang up a bunch of industrial-sized fly strips, and voila!  Problem solved.

Of course, if Hollywood is wrong or the Vampire can't be distracted by beetles...

  Idjuts.

3.  Oh, Mummy!

Well, this one is obvious.  When confronted by a mummy, simply locate the end of their wrapping and pull.  Their wrappings will unravel, and they will be left embarrassingly naked and vulnerable. They'll be so busy trying to cover their ancient leathery naughty-bits that you can grab your trusty Dirt Devil and  suck them right back into the nether-world where they belong.

Also, guys, if there's anything under those wrappings, it's a centuries-old skeleton held together by nothing more than, like, herbs and crazy hoodoo.  Whistle for a f*cking dog, geez.

4.  Oops, You've Summoned a Demon Again.

It can happen to the best of us.

No.  No, it can't.  Because the key here, dear reader, is avoiding the situation altogether.  Do you know Latin?  They call it a dead language for a reason (rim shot).  Sanscrit?  No?  Then for the love of God and all things unholy, DO NOT EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, ATTEMPT TO READ THESE THINGS.  Especially not out loud.  Especially not in a barely-standing, abandoned mansion, cabin, or warehouse.  Sweet Baby Jeebus people, the bimbo to your right and the fact that the book itself appears to be bound in human skin should have tipped you off.

Why the f*ck would you even pick that up?  What the hell is wrong with you?  Did Ash and his boom stick teach you nothing?

Also, just as an added precaution, don't buy any pretty knick-knacks or vaguely symbolic-looking jewelry from shifty-eyed street vendors, don't accept any gifts from anyone with a deep Cajun accent (because we're going from what we've learned from Hollywood, right), and for God's sake, how hard is it to be nice to Gypsies?

5.  It's a Bird... It's a Plane... No, It's a... Sharknado?

What. The. Ever-loving -  you know what?  Fire your writers.   If you're that hard up for an acting job, you deserve whatever you get.  I'm looking at you, Tara Reid.

And if, for some crazy reason you ever do see a shark spinning around in a tornado in your real life, for goodness' sake get to a shelter or hunker in your bathroom, because that shark is the least of your worries.  That poor guy was just swimming along minding his own business - maybe hunting a seal or flirting with a cute girl shark - suddenly got swept up into Mother Nature's fury, and now probably feels about like you did that one time that asshole kid spun you too fast on the merry-go-round and you spent 20 minutes urping up everything you'd eaten the entire week before that.  He ain't worried about you, is all I'm saying.

Move along.

6.  Those Pesky Portals to Hell

Ugh.  If I had a dime for every time - yea - no, I'd still be broke.  How many times do you crazy kids have to inadvertently unleash the contents of Hell on the world before you figure out that Hasbro is not your friend and Ouija boards are better left in novelty stores and far, far away from your coffee table?  Or attic.  Or wedged deep inside the walls of your home.  How the hell did it get wedged into the wall of your home?  Who the hell knows, that's why you shouldn't buy the damned things to begin with.

But if your sense of adventure got the best of you and you've suddenly found yourself in some other-worldly Grand Central Station, I'm pretty sure that Google is your only friend at this point.  There are millions of websites dedicated to this type of thing.  I mean, you probably should have Googled "how to use a Ouija Board properly so I don't doom myself to horrifying death and dismemberment by demon" or some shit BEFORE you used the Ouija board, but you know, hindsight and all.

...and if Google has no viable answers, well, it was nice knowing you, friend.

Or maybe, like, roll a 5 or an 8.  Can't make things any worse.

7.  Does This Clown Taste Funny to Y- OH GOD!

Obviously, the kids in IT epically failed their Riddikulus Spells, because clowns are f*cking horrifying.

Especially when played by Dr. Frank-N-Furter.

But this was no ordinary not-so-subtle indicator that your mother hated you because she hired a clown for your birthday instead of a cowboy, otherwise you could just tie his comically large shoes together, boop his big red nose, and spray him in the eye with his own trick flower while you made your getaway.  No, this guy is quite literally nightmare fuel.  Or rather, nightmare-fueled. This psychotic mother could actually turn into his victims' absolute worst fears and torture them mercilessly in deeply psychological ways until he drove them to their own self-destruction.  He's the f*cking Hannibal Lecter of  circus entertainment gone awry.

Now, I'm a big Stephen King fan, but it's excrutiatingly clear that this is a man you never want to cross.  He can kill you 3 billion ways with super-insane and suspiciously plausible detail, and make the reader/watcher root for the villain during the course of your demise.  

That's the only answer I have for you if you ever find yourself in the plot of a King story - don't be the asshole.  Or a side character. Be the quirky underdog with some weird talent that only shows its merit at the most crucial time in the story. The rest will manage to work itself out with awesome plot twists you never could have thought up on your own. You just can't out-King King.

8. Reanimated Serial Killers:

Not to be confused with zombies, these are the bad guys that someone failed to verify were actually dead.  No double tap, no wood chipper, no fiery inferno that burned all the way into ash under the watchful eye of someone actually paying attention, just some stoner intern that looked at a limp body and said, "eh, close enough."

You had one f*cking job.

RUN.  That's it. Fire doesn't kill this fucker. Drowning doesn't work. Weird horror movie crossover deep-space face-offs just result in even weirder and more confusing sequels. But for some reason, this horrifying, indestructible being can't move his feet faster than an arthritic elderly man taking a brisk walk, and yet has a higher body count than logically possible.  So take off your heels, frantic blonde lady who is inevitably wearing half a button-up shirt covering a cup size that is probably higher than your scripted IQ and stilettos, focus your attention in front of you, and make like there's a Pumpkin Spice latte waiting for you at the finish line.

Non-fat, sugar free, half-caff, of course. Duh.

9.  Possessed Dolls    

Okay, I loved the Child's Play movies when I was a kid, but let's be real here - this is probably the stupidist scenerio ever if you're looking for something scary.

But Sandra - yes, I know, dolls are creepy, with their waxy skin and dead eyes and propensity to whisper sweet voodoo spells into your ear as you drift off to sleep.  But come on - 

There's at least one toddler exactly like this at every daycare center across America.

My two year old niece would rip this dude a new one over a cookie. He's maybe two feet tall. Sure, he houses the soul of a serial killer, but have you ever given a 3 year old the wrong color sippy cup? Refused them entry into the bathroom to watch you poop? Taken away a permanent marker with the lid off, or turned off Paw Patrol before they got their fix?

Call a mom. We got this.

10. The Dream Killer

Ah, the guy who gave even the kids who didn't live on Elm Street in the 80's and 90's nightmares.

Featuring, "Oh hey, isn't that Johnny Depp?"

This guy. This was the one who invaded dreams and lured hormonal teens with their deepest wishes and then gutted them with their worst nightmares.

I have bad news, guys.  This is adulthood. Freddy Krueger, the dream-killing psychopath whose history never fully came out until later, lesser quality sequels demanded some kind of filler to provide the appearance of depth, is nothing more than the embodiment of transitioning from care-free, angsty teenager-hood to soul-crushing dream-withering adulthood.  Look at him smirking with his Walkman. He already knows. There is no escape. We're all doomed.

Quick, somebody call Stephen King.

Well, That Escalated Quickly

Believe it or not, I've actually been writing a lot lately.  A lot.

I haven't posted anything consistent in a while, because I've also been drowning in feels for some ungodly reason.

I think that burrito I ate last - wait, nope.  What - shit, that's an emotion.

I go through these weird cycles where I contemplate life on every level imaginable.  Like, in a past life I must have been a philosopher or spoiled socialite or something, because I find myself miserably, deeply unsatisfied with the day to day grind of work, sleep, repeat.

And I know - aren't we all?

But guys, I'm really, really starting to think something's wrong with me.  I once went on a tangent where I bought every foreign language dictionary I could find because I was pissed that I couldn't effectively communicate with every. single. person.  I met.  And I don't even like people.

But, now I can say "hello, how are you" "where is the bathroom," and "there's a pen on the f*cking table, professor" in seven different languages.  That's about as far as I got, because trying to teach one's self six different languages all at the same time causes some hilariously strange linguistic cross-overs.  I'm pretty sure that I stumbled into some Klingon somewhere in there, but I have no idea if my syntax is correct because I don't know anyone who speaks Klingon that I can converse with in the language.  Fml.

Or should I say, joder mi vida, vaffanculo, vie de merde - eh, you get the point.

Oh Google image search, you just get me.

... and nothing says "first World problems" like a rambling white girl with enough spare time to try to teach herself six new languages just because she got bored.  This isn't an "I'm so smart I'm bored with my life" post, I swear.  It's more an "I'm not adult enough to adult" post.  

I mean, really.  The language thing is kind of a metaphor for my whole life.  It's like the kid who's so excited to get a puppy, but then they get a puppy, and within a couple weeks they're tired of the responsibility of feeding, walking, and poop-scooping, so the poor dog just sits in the yard looking forlorn until one of the actual grown-ups takes up the slack.  Only instead of just getting one puppy, I tried to adopt six.  Six f*cking puppies, guys.  That's a lot of poop.  I balk at loading the dishwasher - I don't have enough time to clean up that much poop.  AND I'M THE GROWN-UP.  No one's going to swoop in and out-adult me here.

I think one of the suckiest things about being an adult is that, face to face, in the real world, everyone's so afraid of offending people that they refuse to disagree.  Sure, on the internet, everyone's ready to argue just for the sake of arguing, but how often do you see an actual, intelligent debate that actually touches on important points and isn't laced with profanities and wind up sounding like a bunch of toddlers arguing over the best flavor of ice cream?

Yes, this absolutely DOES make sense.

No, in real life, people avoid topics that they know will bring conflicting viewpoints to surface, unless they are surrounded by people they know already agree with them.  Others just try to placate the person whose view opposes theirs to avoid conflict.  Still others just pick whichever side is popular at that particular moment and fake it into the fucking ground.

I can't be the only person who craves intelligent conversation and debate.  For cripes sake, I already know what I think, give me another view to look at.  Give me something that makes me think outside the box and question the assumptions I already have. I'm suffocating here, dammit, TEACH ME SOMETHING. Don't fucking humor me, put on your big person pants and be honest, or take your wishy-washy fake ass elsewhere, I'm too gaddam old to be babysitting toddlers masquerading as adults.

You know what else sucks about adulting?  Maturity.  Or rather, the expectation of it. Why the f*ck can't I giggle when someone says "duty" without people looking at me like I'm a complete idiot?  You know you want to laugh, don't be all judgey just because I don't give a shit enough about what people think to worry about which way their opinion of me is going to slide if I crack up every time one of my kids tell me that stupid knock-knock joke about the interrupting cow.  Screw you, that sh*t's funny.

Re-moooo-ve the stick from your rear end.  MOO.

Guys, why is it that none of us seem to think we're accomplishing anything in life unless we can physically feel our souls being crushed?  Work.  Relationships.  Trying to live up to other peoples' expectations.  What the fuck?  And this stupid idea that our real selves somehow aren't good enough for the world. Fuck the world. We are who we are for a reason. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to let society dictate "normal?" This is the same society that thought the Earth was flat and that it was a perfectly sound method of proof to toss suspected witches into fire and water to see if they'd survive. Witches. Society thought witches made weather destroy their crops and stole the sun when we had an eclipse. Christ on a cracker, it's not rocket science, people. Society be dumb.

If society were a person, it would be the lobotomized guy shoved away at the back of the mental hospital that's been in a coma for the last 20 years but still manages to occasionally sit up and yell random words into thin air while he hurls his own feces at the wall.

Which explains the shit out of this.

So this post has been sitting in my drafts for months, and now as I write, my Mom's sitting in a hospital battling Lymphoma and a severe case of everybody-suddenly-cares-when-shit-happens.

Edit: my Mom passed away in August. That's how long this post has been sitting in my drafts and how long I've been holding this shit in, but I'm going to publish this mostly as-is because it needs to be said.

And I'm going to get a little bit personal, because it's relevant to my whole rant. My mom had a hard fucking life. To the point of basically having to cut everyone off and live like a hermit in a house that's barely standing but was irresistible to her because it happened to be exactly just too far out of the way for anyone to bother to go see her. Not that anyone but me would have, anyway. Because see, my Mom was one of those people who spent her whole life being worried about whether people liked her or not, and got shit on as a result. I love my Mom. But I thank my lucky stars every day that I didn't inherit her inability to feel exactly zero guilt at telling someone to fuck off when they're intentionally skipping all over boundaries and being a total pain in the ass. And, in case you couldn't tell, I'm a little bitter about the fact that everyone wanted to run to her side when she got sick, but were nowhere to be found all the years that she was building up to this shitstorm.

But yes, tell me all about your fond 5 minutes you spent talking to her while she was checking you out at Walmart, and how much you miss her at a family function she never went to anyway.  Tell me how much you're hurting, while I'm single-handedly taking care of all her personal affairs and making all the arrangements, going through her personal belongings and trying to make sense of the fact that, within the time-span of just a couple weeks, I went from making plans with my Mother for when she got better, to holding her hands and looking into her eyes literally as she took her last breath. Cry on my shoulder while my sister and I are cooking for 50 people to eat, leave a mess, and leave. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Because nothing aids the grieving process like abstaining from throat-punching people exactly every second of every day.

And you know, I'm going to go even further in left field and point out that no one on this damn planet seems to have any kind of selflessness or loyalty anymore. What happened to investing in people? Like, the average human spends roughly 80 years on this planet, if they're lucky enough to make it to old age. In all those years, how many relationships do you suppose those people have that are genuine? Ones that lasted decades and didn't hinge on obligation or convenience? How close do we really even get to people anymore? I guess it's not really that far into left field, after all. We don't forge real relationships because we're scared to death someone will see the real us and run screaming for the hills, telling everyone in the path along the way what a horrible, hideous, human we are along the way.

This all escalated quickly and now I'm sure anyone who's gotten this far thinks I'm some kind of psychopath, but the point is - FUCK ALL THAT.

Fuck worrying about what people think. Fuck thinking that the only way to coexist peacefully with others is to stuff yourself into the same mold they wear or hide away completely. Fuck treating people like commodities, or letting other people treat you that way. Life's too short for that shit.  Live your life, love people, be freaking weird, take risks.

Also, avoid trying to learn more than one foreign language at a time. Unless you really want to, I guess. Then, conquer that shit. I believe in you.  You can --

MOOO!

Dammit.

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.