Lost It

You should start writing again they say.

Well, “They” say a lot, and I generally shrug off what “They” say with my usual degree of self- absorbed laziness and a plethora of not-so-well thought out excuses, but maybe “They” have a point.

meme-thinking-face-1920x1080

There’s an age old saying that probably dates back to Old Testament times when God granted Moses the power to do some stuff, and he responded with “Nuh uh. I can’t do that stuff…” To which God replied, “I gave you the ability to do stuff, Moses, now go forth and do some stuff….’cuz if you don’t use it, you’ll lose it.”

Or something like that.

Cartoon-of-Moses-Meet-God-in-Form-of-Burning-Bush-Coloring-Page

If you don’t use it you’ll lose it.

There they are. Those ancient, dusty words…

And maybe I have lost it.

giphy

Oops. Wrong kind of “lost it”.

Anyhow, at times I can almost physically feel it slipping away…that passion I once had for weaving random verbiage into something mildly entertaining, the way that a kindergartner might weave some fuzzy strips of overstuffed, booger-laden yarn into a pot holder for Mother’s Day. It’s at those times that I give in to the self doubt, and then mentally beat myself up with the assurance that it’s most certainly gone by now…

But then, here we are, and just like that rambunctious little monster that hasn’t been quite right in the head since he was old enough to talk simply has to stick his tongue on the electric fence just to see what happens, I, of course, have to find out.

Who knows? Maybe I do still harbor a glimmer of that former key-stroking glory that once had my adoring one and a half fans so enraptured by my oozing charm and insatiable wit…

Or maybe it’s just a slow night for prime-time programming.

????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

At any rate, let’s consider this a little “stick my toe in the water” test to see if it’s warm enough to dive back into this vast blog ocean once again.

I’ll either sink or swim.

Or get eaten by something really big with sharp teeth.

So check in occasionally for random (and probably highly infrequent because the crazy lady now has a full time job) installments of really inane babbling that will probably leave you having “lost it” yourself.

Until next time…

Here’s a napkin.

napkin

Sop up that drool.

Advertisements

Momisms

Daily Prompt: Verbal Ticks

Is there a word or a phrase you use (or overuse) all the time, and are seemingly unable to get rid of? If not, what’s the one that drives you crazy when others use it?

ar126832201177102

Momisms they’re called.

Those little words, phrases, or pet names that I’ve created and say so often that they drive my family crazy. So crazy, in fact, that they’ll often say them for me now in some mockingly sarcastic tone before my lips can even form the syllables.

I happen to have several of these momisms, and to narrow it down to the most overused one would just seem well…impossible.

I’m grateful for this opportunity to share with you, my adoring one and a half fans, some of my most coveted momisms, in vocabulary form. Pay close attention. There will be a quiz later.

Hubnoxious: A combination of the words ‘husband’ and ‘obnoxious’. I use this word frequently in reference to my 41-going-on-7 year old husband when he’s acting more juvenile than the kids.

When used in a sentence: “Its 7 am. Why are you poking me? Quit being so hubnoxious.”

(Okay that’s 3 sentences but you get the point.)

Red-Doodle: A word often used when addressing my red-headed offspring with hair the color of a cheese doodle.

When used in a sentence: “The floor is not your laundry hamper, Red-doodle.”

(Coincidentally, ‘the floor is not your laundry hamper’ is also a favorite and frequently used momism.)

Man-Squirrel: A name used to describe Red-Doodle’s boyfriend because the boy behaves just like Hammy the squirrel from ‘Over the Hedge’. (In other words, a nervous squirrel with A.D.D hopped up on energy drinks.)

When used in a sentence: “Please tell your man-squirrel to go sit down somewhere, he’s making me and everyone else within a 60 yard radius nervous.”

BerbsieA mutated form of Berber, which stems from the name Amber and is also occasionally used in acknowledgement of the red-haired female child.

When used in a sentence: “Get a move on, Berbsie, we’re already 15 minutes late.”

Slower than Molasses in January: The reason why ‘Berbsie’ has made us 15 minutes late. Because she has one speed, and it isn’t fast. Much like molasses, a slow pouring liquid that would pour even slower, if at all, after being introduced to the biting January cold. While this phrase has been around for decades and isn’t necessarily my own, I say it often enough to consider it another annoying momism.

When used in a sentence: “I swear, child, you’re slower than molasses in January.”

Smallish Male Human: Used when referring to the youngest child in the family, and often written on his school lunch bag lest he forget what he is. Sometimes these words are simply replaced with: ‘the boy’.

When used in a sentence: “Aww look, the smallish male human has fallen asleep in the back seat and is drooling on himself”, or “have you fed the boy yet or should I?

Get up, clean up: The same 4 words used any given morning when the job of getting the kids up and out of bed has befallen me. Their rooms in the morning tend to look like a hurricane passed through the night before, hence the ‘clean up’ part. These words must always be barked in shrill mom-tones as bedroom doors are rapidly flung open to achieve the desired effect.

When used in a sentence: “Get up, clean up.

Kapeesh?: A shortened way of asking, “Do you understand what I am saying to you?” Often used to drive a point home at the end of a lecture. Not necessarily my own word either, but used so frequently by my mother when I was a kid that it has now become an integral part of my own vocabulary.

When used in a sentence: “Come home late one more time, and you won’t see the light of day for a month, Kapeesh?”

You spill, I kill, you know the drill: A phrase directed toward the ‘smallish male human’ to let him know that he’d better be careful while eating food anywhere other than the kitchen table. He’s heard this phrase so often that he now says these words for me as he disappears into his room with a bowl or plate.

When used in a sentence: (in mocking tone) Yes mom, I know…”You spill, I kill, you know the drill.”

It is what it is: Another way of saying, “Oh well, you can’t change it so you might as well accept it and move on.” This phrase was formerly used so often in conjunction with the words “quite frankly”, that now the ‘red-doodle’ will add the “quite frankly” part in mocking jest  for me every time I say this phrase.

When used in a sentence: “We aren’t millionaires again today…ah well, it is what it is.”

(followed by the echoing “quite frankly” from the red headed child)

End of Story: Meaning ‘I expect to hear no further argument on the subject’. A phrase inherited by my father but now spoken more frequently by my husband than myself because I’m more of a pushover than he is.

When used in a sentence: “I don’t care if you are on the phone with the man-squirrel for the 20th time today, I said put your laundry away…end of story.”

I think that pretty much sums up today’s lesson in momisms.

Like all good things, this post must come to an end, and quite frankly…

It is what it is.

End of story.

 

Anxiety

225718_253112734701752_4593376_n

There are times I feel I’m floating
there are times I feel I’ll drown as
life’s current keeps on pushing some
times upstream sometimes down while I
choke on murky water as fear presses in
around until calm flows in and settles
when I touch the solid ground then I’m
lifted up and rushing somewhere down
the stream once more reaching for
something to cling to brushing
past the peaceful shore faster
I am being carried torment drags
me out to sea and I’m trying not
struggle as the pain envelops me so in
stillness I surrender sinking to the
depths below and I see that light is
waning as much further down I go
and as hope reaches the bottom
I push up with all my might
through the darkness that’s
subsiding thinking I may
be alright gasping as I
break the surface fill
my lungs and I exhale
just in time to be
sucked under stretch
ing out to no avail
then a hand comes
out of nowhere
from the one
who heard
my plea I
leave all
I’ve known
behind
me reach
for Him
and I
am
f
r
e
e

Sagging Stupendous!

Daily Prompt: Game of Groans

Think about an object, an activity, or a cultural phenomenon you really don’t like. Now write a post (tongue in cheek or not — your call!) about why it’s the best thing ever.

I personally think every male on the planet should start “sagging”.

What is sagging, you ask?

Why its only the greatest cultural phenomenon ever!

According to Wikipedia, sagging is defined as: a manner of wearing trousers or jeans which sag so that the top is significantly below the waist, sometimes revealing much of the underwear. Sagging is predominantly a male fashion.

I, however, believe sagging is best defined here:

BaggyPantsXrayDrawing

You see, they just can’t help it. Their elongated torsos make it difficult to wear their pants in some normal, boring, mainstream manner.

Ooo la la…Am I right ladies? Nothing hotter than a scrawny butt sticking out from over the top of some seriously huge jeans. Add a belt around the knees, and the ensemble goes from daytime casual to evening wear in and instant. It’s a great look for frequent trips to the ATM, pawn shops, liquor stores, job interviews, first dates…

When I see this look I instantly think, “Wow. That young man right there has it all together. He has a bright future ahead of him for sure.”

Just think of all the perks that this phenomenon brings with it, too, girls. I mean, you know exactly what you’re getting because you can see it all gloriously displayed over the top of their sagging South Poles.

Oh! And If you ever decide you just need a little break from your doting sagger, a brisk walk in the opposite direction will provide sufficient alone time. Pretty hard to give chase with your pants around your ankles.

Also, imagine all of that extra storage space they have for wallets, afro picks, guns, knives, your jewelry, a refreshing 40 oz. malt beverage…there’s just so much room in those over-sized jeans! Saggers are like the SUV’s of the fashion world! And if you’re ever tired of walking, ladies, you can just hop right into those size 80 jeans and hitch a ride because there’s plenty of room.

And a note to saggers everywhere: Please, by all means, continue to approach my gorgeous daughters with your pants around your ankles, sideways hat, and an ample handful of that which you are over-compensating for with your oozing charm.

Image

It makes me all warm and fuzzy right down to my toes when you dashing gentlemen shout things at them from across a parking lot like, “Ooo gurlll…let me holla at you fo’ a minute” and then, to make absolute certain you have their full attention, follow it up with “What? Where you goin’ gurrlll. I just wanna axe’k you sumfin.”

That right there has ‘future son in law’ written all over it.

I’m sure my husband would agree, too.

Now waddle on over and give us a hug.

Welcome to the family, son.

Thoughts On Aging

DailyPrompt: Mind Reader

Who’s the last person you saw before reading this prompt? Whether it’s a family member, a coworker, or a total stranger, write a post about what that person is thinking right now.

 DSCN1368

 Well, it likely defeats the purpose of the whole mind reading assignment, but it’s easy enough.

The last person I saw was me.

Yep…looked in the mirror about 10 minutes ago and thought, “Man this aging business sucks.”

Things are starting to sag that never sagged before, and I used to pride myself on things being firmly packed into place in my 20’s. A push up bra? Pffft. I never even owned one.

Not to mention the occasional grey hair that I used to find that has now turned into 6 dozen or more. As I was gazing into the visor mirror busily plucking them in the car the other day, grumbling each time I’d find another, my husband and daughter told me to just quit while I was ahead. “You’re going to get 2 for every one you pull”, my husband advised. Yeah, right. It’s more of a 10 to 1 ratio these days. “But why are they all thick and wavy?” I asked. I don’t even have wavy hair! Are these someone else’s grey hairs and God just made a mistake by giving them to me?

My only saving grace now is that I don’t have crow’s feet…yet. I have a 25 year old face on a 40 year old body. Thank you, Mother Nature.

I swear my freckles have at least quadrupled over the years, too. Once upon a time, you could take a pen and play ‘connect the dots’ on my face, arms, and shoulders. Now, after half an hour in the sun, you can’t even find my face under the mass of orangey-brown freckles. At least I hope they’re freckles. Could just be liver spots.

My memory is slowly going. My husband can tell me something 50 times, and I won ‘t even remember it the next…wait…who are you again?

When I was a kid, I swear I had a cast iron stomach, too. People would dare me to eat things, and I, being the ever vigilant attention seeker that I was, would gladly oblige them. Tin cans, earthworms, failed math tests…you name it, I could ingest it as my peers looked on with open-mouthed fascination. The way to everyone’s heart seemed to be my stomach, and I could trot off down the road afterward without a care in the world.

Yesterday, people… I ate grapes. Nothing out of the ordinary, just some plump, sweet, juicy, burst-when-you-bite-them red seedless grapes. An hour later, as I was curled up in the fetal position wishing for death, wondering exactly what I did to bring the wrath of God down upon my intestines, I realized that those “eat anything and pay nothing” days were long gone.

Now, if I just get a whiff of pizza, I have raging heartburn for the next 3 days. I can’t even drink orange juice without a cherry tums chaser, and I absolutely love orange juice! And tacos? Tacos are like death wrapped in a soft flour tortilla. Even the mild ones are like a stroll through hell.

Why oh why does my body have to do this to me?

Oh, that’s right…because 40 is only 3 and a half months away, that’s why.

Welcome to adulthood, sweetheart.

Maybe you shouldn’t have been so eager to wish for it when you were a kid, hmm?

Commitment to Crazy

Image

As I stood in the kitchen last week, watching my 12 year old son bawl his eyes out because, and I quote, “Jonathan says he rubbed his nuts all over my food when I wasn’t looking and now I’m too paranoid to eat it,” I thought to myself, “Self, why don’t you write anymore? It’s not like your life is any less entertaining and chaotic than it used to be. I mean…a houseful of teenagers, a husband that sometimes behaves like an overgrown teenager himself, world’s worst excuse for a pet rabbit, a half crazed lizard that thinks she’s a dog…it all screams blog fodder to me.” Besides, my one and a half adoring fans are probably wondering where I’ve gotten off to.

So, here it is. My commitment to try. To once again grace the world with my quick wit, humor, and wisdom. (It’s been a long week, just let me have that one, okay?) To boldly go where at least 85% of all other bloggers have probably gone before. To don my shiny red cape of awesomeness and fight the never ending battle for truth, justice, and the American way. Oh. Wait. That’s Superman. Got a little ahead of myself there. Can’t help it, though, I’m excited.

Now, my posts won’t always be humorous. Sometimes my life can be downright sad. Keep tissues handy just in case.

Sometimes I’ll be in a thoughtful mood, or perhaps I’ll want to just hop up on my soapbox and rant and rave about the injustices of the world.

Whatever the topic may be, I’ll do my best to at least make it worth reading. That’s a promise. It may not be every day, but it will be more often than every 6 months. Deal?

So, on that note, lets all have a group hug. (ooof) Okay, not that hard. And don’t touch me there. Buncha animals.

It’s good to be back. Stay tuned for forthcoming insanity.

Disclaimer: no rabbits, lizards, husbands, or teenagers were harmed in the making of this post.

 

Happenings in the Hood: Weave Got a Problem

1335371460_women_wrestling

If you’ve been following along at all with the insanity that is my life, you’ll have read about the antics of one very umm…”special” woman in this story:

Happenings in the Hood: Entitled Much?

In a nutshell; I was still painting after regular work hours to finish a job one night when this woman that I had never met before saw me through the open window, and decided to make a very rude and ridiculous request…no…demand of me. She expected me to drop what I was doing; a job that needed to be finished yesterday, and paint her bedroom door because it was a beautiful natural wood color and she wanted it white. After arguing with me for several minutes, (actually, she argued. I responded very politely) I didn’t meet her demand and she stomped off cursing at me and calling me things colorful enough to make a street thug blush.

She proceeded to cause such a big stink over such a silly little thing, that the next day found her hurling obscenities across the parking lot at the Assistant Manager. Over a door. She was in and out of the office after that, still yelling and carrying on. My husband, (the Manager) told her that it was not an emergency and we would get to it as soon as we could. That wasn’t good enough, though, and she was still being so obnoxious about the whole thing, outside screaming in the parking lot, trying to attract attention and get other residents involved, that I was finally told to just go paint her door to shut her up. I haven’t wanted to do a job less in my life.

All was quiet after that, though. Painting her door seemed to have appeased her.

For about 2 weeks.

Now, I had already known that after that whole door fiasco we hadn’t heard the last of her. Call it a gut feeling. She just seemed rather…no…extremely unhinged and if she could get that wound up over a door, I could only imagine what would happen the next time something ruffled her entitled feathers.

Believe me, she didn’t disappoint either.

This past Tuesday, as I was engrossed in a new painting assignment, I heard such loud yelling outside that I assumed the closed windows in the apartment had suddenly turned into paper.

So I, being nosier than the cat that curiosity killed, went outside to investigate. I dialed my husband in the office as I went to let him know that a fight was ensuing somewhere on property. He assured me that he already knew and was about to come handle the situation.

The source of the yelling was coming from 2 buildings away. Miss Entitled was yelling obscenities at another woman in the breezeway and repeatedly screaming, “I want my money, I want my money.” So, naturally, I had assumed that this whole argument started over borrowed cash that hadn’t been paid back yet.

Wrong.

Apparently her very loud demand was aimed at my husband, who had still not come out of the office, but she was screaming these words at her neighbor across the hall.

You see, her mother had paid her rent several months in advance and Miss Entitled now wanted a refund so that she could move out. She wanted to leave because her neighbor had ticked her off. Given her recent history of unreasonable anger though, I wasn’t surprised that she was on the outs with her neighbor.

To get the full impact of the ridiculousness of the situation, though, I’ll need to backtrack to the previous Sunday when the fight had originally started. The following information was given to me by my husband as he received it from witnesses in the building and the innocent party that was involved:

Her neighbor went to start her car that day only to find that her battery was dead. So, she knocked on Miss Entitled’s door and asked if she would be willing to give her a jump start. Miss Entitled proceeded to launch herself into a fit of rage over the request. Her neighbor slowly backed away and said, “Nevermind. It’s fine. I can ask someone else to do it.”

It didn’t end there, though. Miss Entitled was relentless and started waging a half-crazed war against her neighbor that resulted in her wielding a knife and threatening to kill her, her kids, and her boyfriend. Her neighbor naturally called the police and was holed up in her apartment out of fear until they arrived, which was just in time to find Miss Entitled out in the parking lot attempting to slash her neighbor’s car tires with the knife that she was brandishing.

Miss entitled was arrested, and spent the next 24 hours in county lock-up. I had heard that her mother had paid her bond, which must have been true because here she was again, right back at it.

I couldn’t make out every word that she was screaming at her neighbor because a lot of it just didn’t make sense, but I’m pretty sure more death threats were wedged in among the stream of continuous profanity.

All of the sudden, I saw her neighbor come flying across the hallway with catlike swiftness and arms flailing so wildly that it looked like she had stumbled into a swarm of bees.

huge.1.7906

For the next 3 minutes or so, all I saw was a blur of weave and 3 inch nails. I have to admit, I was highly entertained. If I were a betting woman, my money would have been on the neighbor.

I called my husband back and said, “You’d better get a move on. Things just turned physical.”

He came rushing out the door and yelled to his maintenance man across the parking lot to call the cops and come help him break it up.

His maintenance man was already one step ahead of him, though, and the cops were on their way.

When the 2 were finally separated, Miss Entitled came crawling out of the breezeway, most of her weave dangling off her head by the few strands that didn’t get pulled out, yowling like a cat in heat and screaming “Owwww! Ouch! Owwww!” at the top of her lungs to try and elicit sympathy from the parking lot full of onlookers that were now gathered to witness the event.

I have never seen such a pathetic display of drama in my life. It was clear that she was nowhere near injured except for maybe her pride, but she carried on as if every bone in her body had been broken.

It was about that time that it was made known that the police were on their way, which resulted in Miss Entitled switching gears and now walking around the parking lot yelling, “I ain’t goin’ back to jail. I just got out. I ain’t goin’ back!” I remained the innocent bystander, of course, but I wanted to yell back at her, “Then stop doing stupid stuff!”

I half expected her to take off knowing that the police were now en-route, but she stuck around and stood her ground on the false assumption that her neighbor would be the one being hauled away this time because she had thrown the first punch.

She spent the remainder of her time in my husband’s face screaming, “I want my money!” again until the cops came.

When the police finally showed up and got the story from the parties involved and several witnesses, they cuffed Miss Entitled and loaded her up in the cruiser again to the tune of her admonitions that it should be her adversary in the cuffs instead of her.

They booked her again on harassment charges though, and deemed that her neighbor was merely exhibiting self-defense because she, her children, and her family were once again being threatened by Miss Entitled.

She was released on bond paid yet again by her mother, (I’m seeing a pattern emerge with this entitled behavior here) and my husband received a call that night from the after-hours emergency service, informing him that she didn’t have her keys to get into her apartment. After asking the service to let her know that it was a $20 charge to go unlock her door, (as stated in the lease) he never heard back from her again that night.

The next day I showed up to work to find her back at it a third time. She was stomping back and forth between the office and her neighbor’s apartment, beating on her neighbor’s windows, screaming obscenities and calling her colorful names. I even shot some video on my phone of her carrying on. Fortunately, her neighbor wasn’t even home this time, though.

Come to find out, the night before, her apartment door had been kicked in and her TV was stolen.

This somehow became my husband’s fault, too, as she stood out on the sidewalk cursing his name at the top of her lungs, and screeching the accusation that he worked together with her neighbor to break in and steal her TV. Somehow the price of the TV went up with each accusation she hurled, too, until she decided that $2000 dollars was a reasonable price that my husband owed her for the 50 inch flat screen Wal-Mart special that everyone already knew her boyfriend broke in and took the night before.

We’re all fairly certain that she herself even orchestrated the theft. She was just trying to cause another scene now for whatever reason. Maybe somewhere in her delusional mind she actually though that she’d receive some sort of settlement cash from the office for her missing TV.

She was more or less told to take her complaints elsewhere by the Assistant Manager, though. She then busted out a window of a different neighboring apartment in her anger, and that’s when the police were called. Again.

They didn’t book her this time, though, probably because they were just as sick of listening to her as we all were, so they told my husband to just hand her walking papers right then and there.

The usual procedure is that he gives problem residents like this is a 7 day notice “without opportunity to cure”. This basically means they have 7 days to pack up their crap and be gone and there’s nothing that they can say or do about it, or else he starts eviction proceedings that will go on their permanent rental history. They’ll then be lucky to have anyone rent to them again if it goes to eviction.

However given the recent antics of this off-the-rails ghetto princess, the police told him to make an exception. He gave her written notice that she had until the end of the business day to get a U-haul and go.

So she did; relatively quietly, too, much to our shock. We all stood and waved goodbye with smiles on our faces as she and her U-haul drove off that afternoon. I did a little happy dance and went back to work.

My husband had 5 different residents come in and thank him for her removal that afternoon.

She hadn’t made any friends during her less than 2 month stay in the hood it seems.

I still wish her best of luck, though, and some much needed medication wherever she goes.