You’re in for a treat this week, friends. This week was a special week because I got to spend the week reveling in the joys of being a woman. I was particularly cantankerous and bitchy this week. Ask DH (Darling Husband). And my kids. So that picture up there ^… that is not a representation of the week I have had, it is a reminder that elsewhere in the world, there are beautiful white sand beaches and drinks with umbrellas. Just not where I am. Probably not where you are either. But somewhere… As I said in my last post, yesterday was a horrid day beginning at 5:57 AM. I promised to go into it today, and I will, but let’s just go in chronological order.
1) My WTFs began early this week, and in Walmart of all places. (I know! How in the world can WTF-ery take place in Walmart? It’s such a breeding ground of class and sophistication.) We decided that we needed to take a trip to the world’s number one place to go when you feel bad about your life: Walmart. It wasn’t because we felt bad about ourselves, it was because we were in the market for outdoor stuff and their prices are just hard to beat. You know what I mean, right? So we venture in and I am feeling pissy right off the bat because DH likes to drive all over the parking lot passing every parking spot I point out, only parking when I shut my mouth and stop telling him what to do. It was only made worse by the fact that I was subjected to Sunday grocery cart drivers in the aisles of this cess pool. I can’t even go into it, but Sunday driving in the aisles of Walmart. WTF??!
2) After our field trip into the armpit of any major city (Walmart), we came home to brave the 50 degree weather with biting north winds that dropped the temperature another 60 degrees (for those of you who are mathematically challenged, that’s 10 degrees below zero) and work on our yard a little bit. I stepped into the garage to grab something and *squeal* there was a mouse skittering along the back wall of the garage. Please let me inform you all that I am not afraid of mice. I hate rats because they are nasty, ugly creatures, and I hate possums for the same reason. But I am not afraid of mice. I just find them disease-infested vermin that can potentially kill my family members. So I hate them too, even if they are kind of cute. DH asked me what my gasp was about (I don’t scream) and I told him that there was a mouse. His response: ‘Oh, yeah. There are about five of them in here.’ What?! Five Hantavirus-infected, Pneumatic- and Bubonic- plague-carrying rodents living in my garage? My instructions were clear: find them and kill them. So DH comes back with, ‘Would you be scared if I brought one into the house and put it in your face?’ And my response was, ‘I might punch you in the face. Then I would probably cry because I don’t want my entire family dying because you decided to pull a prank on me. I would be scared, but not because I am a sissy… I would be scared because I don’t want to die by way of hemmorhagic fever.” Makes sense, right?
I have mice in my garage… WTF?!
3) I can’t think about that situation anymore. The mice are still there and I am terrified of my garage. So let’s move on. My little Princess Red-Chief has decided that this week she wants to miss as little of her life as possible. Her solution? Waking up at 5:00 AM. I am not a morning person. I would wax poetic on my hatred of mornings, but this is not the time. Suffice it to say that Princess likes to wake up early and then climb in bed next to me and put her icicle feet on my legs. What a fun way to wake up! I cannot convince her to go back to bed and if I kick her out of my room, she will go wake up her brother, Boy Wonder, and the two of them will immediately launch into a continuation of the argument they began the night before which was interrupted by the command to go to sleep. Ahh, early mornings. WTF?!
4) The other day I was driving down the street and I saw the most odd sight. I can’t remember exactly what I thought, but it must have been along the lines of “that is just not right.” It was a simple thing, and I am sure most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it. But I did.
Only what I saw, wasn’t nearly this cool. I tried to Google the exact tableau I was witness to, but apparently, it was a one-off. Let me see if I can explain it without adding qualifying (possibly bigot-sounding) adjectives that would make you readers think ill of me. The man who was riding the scooter was probably about 33 years old. He was probably a touch over weight. His head was shaved. He was about 5’9″ tall. He had tattoos all over his arms, head, and in the three inches between his low-riding shorts and pulled-up white socks. He was wearing a Raiders t-shirt (I know! Right?). Got the picture? My guess is that he had to resort to a scooter because a) he lost his license after his 7th DUI, b) he has no job and can’t buy a car, or c) his dealer took his car in exchange for the drug money he didn’t pay last night. What I didn’t think was “Oh, wow! Talk about green! It certainly is refreshing to see someone who is probably a felon and an active member of a dangerous street gang taking a stand for Mother Earth.” I am going to be honest with you: if the guy was a member of a street gang, I don’t really care. As long as he doesn’t rape or murder women and children, whatevs. People do what they do. (I don’t condone it, I just don’t get involved in something that– at this point in my life– doesn’t concern me. I have too many issues with things that do concern me.) My judgment comes in the form of this: Adults that do not reside in metropolises that warrant long commutes on crowded streets (like the guy pictured above) do NOT belong on scooters. Scooters are meant for kids. (And I would go so far as to say this applies to skateboards, too. Flame away, folks. Flame away.)
Adults on scooters… WTF?
5) And now… the biggest reason yesterday sucked a big, rotten crane egg. (Those things totally stink. I left one under my bed once when I was 9 because I was convinced it would hatch. Once my mom finally sourced the smell, it took another two weeks and three spray cans of imposter designer perfume to rid the north end of our house of the smell. The memory evokes a phantom stench in my olfactory sensors.) Yesterday at 7:00 in the morning my phone rang. Only a handful of people have my home phone number and it was too early for telemarketers, so I looked at the caller ID. It was from my dad’s office, so I picked it up. I was greeted by the screetching of a fax machine. The fax machine didn’t pick up, so every minute for the next ten minutes the phone kept ringing. Now, let me tell you that yesterday was a hectic morning anyway because I had to prepare for dance class, class snack, after-school snack, making two lunches (one for DH, one for Boy Wonder), and prepare uniform for flag-football. DH was late for work, and things were basically in mass-chaos around my house. What I didn’t need was my phone incessantly ringing while my fax machine was putting it’s plastic middle finger up to the entire world.
It’s just a fax, you say? No, friends. It’s not just a fax. This is a much deeper problem, and I am going to give you the Reader’s Digest version of what the bigger problem is. My parents, bless their hearts, have been in a financial fiasco since 2009 when they chose to close their 20-year business. The economic melt-down didn’t help at all. My stalwart, wonderful, knight-in-shining-armour DH rushes in every time they are in trouble and bails them out with his business sense and negotiating skills. DH does this despite the fact that 4/5 of my family are convinced he is Satan in the flesh (thanks to my mom). DH does this despite the fact that I lost relationships with 4/5 of my family after he helped them out and my mom decided to throw he and I under the bus (and then backed over us again) about the help we gave them. I’ve asked DH to stop helping them because things only get worse when we do– and, hell, we aren’t living in Happily-Ever-After-Land ourselves right now. Helping them is a huge time suck and mental burden on DH, so I have encouraged (and all but demanded) that he politely tell my parents that they need to hand over some of their problems to my walks-on-water, sweats-liquid-gold brother. (After all, he is certainly the favored child in the family and quite nearly the patriarch despite the fact that my father is still alive.) So to have another one of their fiascos interrupt an already hectic morning was just the dog-poop icing on a mud-and-dead-leaf cake.
You decide to throw another one of your emergencies on my already-full plate… WTF?!
That’s my week of WTF’s. As always you can let me know what made you say ‘WTF?’ this week, and I will champion the cause, but I have to ask another question: Is WTF Friday getting old? Are you guys sick of reading it? Let’s just spend a few minutes being honest about my blog… tell me what you like and what you don’t because I am losing readers (not followers, but readers). I want to keep you happy, so how do I do that? Let me know in the comments below. Thanks! *Muah*
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