This was on the back of the mini van in front of me today.
No, Ma’am.
I mean I get the whole “workin’ wha’cha got” thing, I super do.
But this? Worse not better.
Swagger that boat wagon outta my way, yo.
Just Sayin’.
Tag Archives: humor
Sparkles and sprinkles.
I don’t like fireworks.
NO WAIT.
Scratch that. I hate fireworks with a passion so firey you could use it to light, well, fireworks. (But FFS, please don’t!)
My reasons are many and varied, actually; ranging from my general extreme distain for stupidly loud things, on through to much deeper-seated anxieties.
I am not a fan of fire, for the most part.
Highrise living allowed me to indulge that distain, and I rock a Charbroil Patio Bistro for a grill, and a firepit that “burns” giant sterno cans. No plans to switch any of that up just because I technically can now that we are living at ground level.
But the whopper, the real defining moment in the history of me that probably led to all of my “down with the damn fireworks” and “love America? BBQ, have a beer and effing go to bed already” sentiment is, as so many stories from my childhood are, a story about a time I peed my pants.
Yep.
I was a pants pee’er. Like WAY past when it is ok to do it… like “spare pair of pants in the clinic at school in MIDDLE school” situation..
And one year on the 4th of July, in this very town, probably around age 7 or so, I hopped in our neighbor’s brand spankin’ new super sweet truck with my sister and his daughters and off we went to the local fireworks display.
Details are hazy after that. I remember it being loud, being too scared to get up to pee during the show, and at some point I peed.
I remember lysol and swearing coming in a cloud from the back seat of that truck parked in the neighbor’s driveway the next morning.
And years later when he became a councilman, and then the mayor, all I could ever think was “peed your truck at the fireworks dude… sorry.”
Throw in the fact that they moved the town display from the pee park location to a newer park that is so close to where we live now that the damn windows rattle from the noise of the show, AND that the burbs are crawling with dumbasses firing illegal “home” fireworks off trying to burn my damn house down (it seems,) and I’m about as happy as I am on gynie visit day on the 4th of July.
We have plenty of pictures and old home movies of tiny me crying while someone tried to give me a sparkler and my sister danced around making firey patterns with hers in the background. (WTF, people? “Here kid, here’s your STICK OF FIRE to hold… America, eff yeah!” Just no.)
My nerves are shot, my dog is a quaking mass of panic, the white noise machines in my kid’s room are as loud as they can go to drown all that noise out.
So for pity’s sake neighbors… put that fire shooter down (in a bucket of water, yo,) and grab a drink and come sit next to my fire pit… I just put in a fresh set of fuel cans and I’ll infrared you a burger on my grill.
Let’s end the cycle of suburban holiday pants peeing here and now. It could be your dualie I soil next.
Filed under musing
Direct proportionality. Just Sayin’.
More whine from a toddler = more wine for mommy.
It isn’t a choice people, it’s math. Math is truth, no matter what.
Update! Math is hard… pictures make it easier!
Note the green (representing the level of snot flow from Toddler as whine increases,) line as the cookie whining escalates and mom goes from a simple glass of grape, through into “tumbler” range, and onward into Franzia territory. Public offspring meltdowns may result in a need for consumption of said beverage while rocking and crying in a hot bath.
Just Sayin’.
Filed under Just Sayin'
Time flies?
So.
It’s been a year.
I knew we were close to the date, but wasn’t sure exactly until we got our automated “it’s been a year since you closed on your home!” email from our realtor.
I guess I should stop saying I “just moved back” now, eh?
Still a total fish out of water, but I did finally find a hair stylist I love (if I moved, she’d totes be commute worthy,) and we see a lot more Grayton than we do Mega Coon (YOU BASTARD,) of late; as predicted I haven’t suffered from a lack of 2 a.m. grocery access, and we continue to grow a list of freaking awesome restaurants and funky shops that are local and amazing.
In addition, we are sneezing distance from achingly delish humanely produced Beef, Bison, Eggs, Poultry, Lamb, and Cheese and the pricing is better because I drive to them instead of them driving to the farmers market in the city. (Mmmmmm….meeeeeeeat.)
I’ve even cracked my way into the good graces of one of the neighborhood SAHMs. (Well, Jr did really, they have a kiddo his age and she’s been warm in welcoming us to come play a bit after my working-mom self collects Jr from daycare. )
Guess they figure we aren’t going anywhere; and that crazy blonde lady isn’t going to stop running all over the hood with her tattoos hanging out, dragging her punk band t-shirt wearing toddler behind her in the wagon looking for some playdate action, so they are giving in.
A few months into this family exodus from our urban beginnings, a like-minded coworker told me that although her current address wasn’t her ideal abode locale, it is about blooming where you are planted.
Maybe, just maybe, that is what I am learning to do.
(But seriously… it’s a minivan, not a tank, “ladies.” Let’s keep it cool out there – the waterpark/library/grocery store/dance class/what-the-hell-EVER you are late to isn’t going anywhere, and there will be 800 free parking spots for that monstrosity when you roll up.)
Reluctantly Suburban 