Oooooh. Scary.

So I was driving home the other day, you know, just me and Gretchen enjoying the summer sun. I’m cruising through the intersection, I have the right of way, I’m not speeding for once, and all is right with the world.

Until this chick in a Miata coming in the opposite direction decides she’s not going to yield and she’s going to turn left. Now, ya’ll know how I feel about Gretchen and the laws of physics. And there was no way a collision would have ended well for that lady and her Miata. So I held up my hand so Miata lady could see it and clearly told her to stop. I did not stop—she had no choice but to stop. Then she–dunh, dunh, duuuuhhh–flips me off.

My question is: what did she accomplish by flipping me off? And this extends to most people when they drive. I mean, does it help in any way? Nope. Honestly, it doesn’t even bother me a little bit—I will probably laugh at the person flipping me the bird while they eat Gretchen’s exhaust.

This is pointless, is what I’m saying.

Also, why be so blatantly wrong in the first place?  She was sooooooo wrong, and I’m not sure why.  But here’s my theory about Miata Lady: Ol’ girl probably thought that her car was fast enough to turn in front of Gretchen before we got to the intersection. And that plan straight up failed. So she got mad at me, and gave me her middle finger of death. Only it wasn’t of death. It wasn’t a finger of anything. It’s. Just. A. Finger.

Oh, and if she really was about her green beans, she would have taken the hit. That I can respect. That would have taken some cojones. Cojones of titanium. I mean, I would have visited her grave and everything if she had stone cold said “Yeah, I’m turning here and no one can stop me.” Of course, Gretchen would have stopped her in the worst way imaginable, but what a way to go.

Much better than a middle finger.

Yeah, I know it’s supposed to be a giant “Eff you” or whatever, but really, “eff you” doesn’t much hurt my feelings anyway.

Now, if she had gotten out of the car wearing booty shorts that said “Juicy” on the back even though she was clearly well into her fifties—actually, no. Age has nothing to with this. Those shorts would have hurt my feelings no matter who was wearing them.

Or if she was wearing that same coral lipstick that all overly tan women like her seem to wear, that may have offended me a bit.

Shortalls may have hurt my feelings. (I know they are supposed to making a comeback, but let’s face it, no thank you.)

A confederate flag would have hurt my feelings. Especially if unaccompanied by a red ’69 Charger.

A bumper sticker with the word Oprah in a circle and crossed out would have definitely hurt my feelings. I would probably have had to fight her.

So, I am putting out a call to everyone to be more creative than the middle finger. Cause, you know, it’s just a finger. Boring, is what it is.

And who wants to be boring when be offensive? Not me.

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Bomb Fixins. Or Making Snap Judgments in Traffic

It’s been awhile since I blogged. Issues, ya’ll. Anyhoo….

So the Big Man and I were headed to the grocery store because it’s the only place we ever go. I looked out the passenger side window when I see this old Ford pickup with all kinds of militia bumper stickers and blasting Lil’ Wayne. He had three large and strange-looking canisters in the bed, each one a different color. I turned to the Big Man and said, “What do you think he’s got in those? Bomb fixins?” He laughed. “No sweetheart, those are actually gas cans.”

Huh. Then it occurred to me that I often make snap judgments in traffic based on what someone is driving. I mean, you already know what I think about ALL hybrid drivers. Even though I know it’s not true. The Destroyer’s friend’s mom drives one, and she may be the only parent in the school district worth talking to. She actually has a commute where driving anything else would be ridiculous. Oh, and she’s really cool, so I feel cool by proxy.

I digress. Here’s my list:

1) VW bug drivers. They think they’re automatically cute because the car is. They wear clothes that are somehow to big and too small at the same time. They are always on their way to somewhere that was trendy last year. Listen, Bug drivers, unless you are younger than 27 or older than 57, the “cute” is null and void and turns into words like “silly”, and “no”.

2) Honda Odyssey drivers. They try to act like because it’s a nice minivan, that’s it’s not a minivan. Especially the men who drive them. I know that you’re dads, and it’s great that you’re actively participating in parental chauffeuring duties, but it’s still a minivan, homie. Same goes for Toyota Sienna drivers. Also, your kids aren’t better than mine, so stop thinking that.

3) Giant truck drivers. Yes, we are all a-holes. And you have to live with it. Because we are awful enough to make you and we know you can’t do anything about it. There’s a word for that…

4) Mini Cooper drivers. For some reason, they seem to think their cars are not clown cars. Why, I don’t know. If I asked someone to randomly draw a clown car, they would without fail draw a Mini Cooper. Oh, and they seem to believe that driving around with your car painted like a Union Jack isn’t douchebaggery at all. It is, though. You might as well paint Massengil on the side of the thing.

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See?

 

5.) Subaru drivers. They are all terrible people who somehow think that they are saving the environment by driving around with bikes attached to the back of their hatchback. They always wear high waters with hiking sandals, and are always on their way to somewhere that will be trendy six months into the future. Stop trying to get me to trade Gretchen for a hatchback like yours. Remember: lifted Excursions eat their dead. (That had nothing to do with anything, I just wanted to say it).

6.) Classic car drivers. Usually cool cats. Some are older cool cats having mid-life crises. This is case where you have to get a good look at the significant other. If she looks like her name ends with two vowels—definitely mid-life crisis.

7.) Muscle car drivers. I don’t really think anything about them, since I am busy being jealous really hard. That pure, unadulterated jealousy. Except for Mustangs.

 

 

 

It costs HOW MUCH?

So I was reading an article with the oft-quoted statistic that it, on average, costs $241,080.00 to raise a child.  So for me and the Big Man, to properly raise our three would come to $723,240.00.  That pissed me off, because even when they get jobs, I highly doubt that they will be paying any of that back, less long the interest.  BTW, I think those numbers are based on kids who have normal appetites–unlike the Wierdo, who I am pretty sure is part goat.  On his father’s side.  (This is not a joke–he once ate a part of the light switch cover.  No, I don’t know how.)

The last time I went to the grocery store, I spent $141.85 on nothing.  Seriously, I only bought food for the weekend. Two Days.  And I don’t buy fancy, organic, this-and-that-free stuff.  Nope.  The vegetables and fruit I buy are chock full of pesticides, which explains why mosquitos die instantly after biting us.  I am positive the chickens that lay the eggs that I buy live in the poultry equivalent of Shawshank; free-range my booty.  And everything is store brand. My kids eat honey-nut toasty o’s. Sandwiches are made with Kroger mayonnaise, on Kroger Bread, or with Kroger Peanut Butter.  (Although we get a little high-falutin’ with our lunch meat–Oscar Mayer all the way.)

Oh, and having to feed Gretchen, too.  I love her, but she’s a pig.  And when I take all three kids somewhere, I have to take Gretchen so that no one is near anyone else.  So, when gas is 3.75 times 8 miles to the gallon, that equals a butt load of  money.  In technical terms.

Oh, and then.  The Destroyer’s feet grow approximately every 5.7 seconds.  Do you know how much men’s sneakers cost?  Enough that I have considered armed robbery at Foot Locker. I am afraid to go to sleep because when I wake up, all of the clothes that I just freakin bought for the Weirdo will be too small.  So I stay awake at night and look at the clothes to make sure they aren’t shrinking.  While I am keeping my anti-shrinkage vigil,  I can hear in the background the sound of him in the next room growing.   It infuriates me.

It’s Friday.  The post is short.  And I have to go spend money on more nothing.

 

I am officially a horrible person.

Today’s hate is reserved for a small, helpless creature.  If you are soft-hearted in any way, please stop reading–otherwise you will try to find out where I live and commence with the fisticuffs.

My husband, the Big Man, is known as the Big Man for a reason.  He’s six-foot-three and 340 pounds of bricks.  The man can bench press 700 pounds.  People avoid speaking to him and cross the street when the see him coming.  He rarely talks, smiles, or emotes publicly.  These are all reasons that I love him.

Oh, but this post is about a small and helpless creature, isn’t it?  Well, I’m getting to that, keep your shirt on.

A couple of days ago, my husband leaves the house to take The Destroyer to school.  Just like any other day.  Except on this day, he comes in the door holding what I at first thought was a dirt clod. I would have been happier had it been a dirt clod.

It was a dog. Kind of.

Okay, quick backstory.  The only two dogs we have had have been monsters.  One was a hundred-pound Doberman ; the other is a 150-pound Great Dane/St. Bernard mix.  Those were dogs.

This?  This was a closely shaven gerbil covered in God-knows-what.  And my big, hulking, menacing husband brings him into the house.

“I almost ran it over.”  The Big Man is all sheepish because the look on my face…LIVID.

“Okay, sooo….why is it in my house?”

“I couldn’t just leave her there.”  Hold up, wait a minute. One, HER?!?!  How on earth could he tell what it was?  I still wasn’t sure it was a dog, let alone gender. Two, YES YOU COULD HAVE LEFT IT THERE….because that is exactly what I would have done.  I would have felt sad about almost killing it, glad I didn’t, and moved on with my life.  But then I would have had nothing to write about.

So he bathes it in the bathroom sink. And even though the thing is clean…..it doesn’t look much better.  It. Is. Still. Gross.

Geeee-rosss
Geeee-rosss

And then.  It doesn’t bark.  You know, because maybe a cute little yip may have warmed my shriveled, black heart.  Nope.  It emits the same exact sound as the squeaky wheel on the jacked up shopping cart you got at Fred Meyers because you decided to go at 5:30 when everyone and their momma went so you were stuck with it.  (Run-on sentence perfection.) That sound.  Con-freaking-tenuously.

Let’s be clear.  I really don’t have anything against small dogs.  I just like big ones better.  Because you can make them do things.  Like plow the yard.  (I don’t really do that.  Please don’t call Animal Control.)  But this dog, I mean, come on.

And of course, of course, this happens on a Monday and the Humane Society isn’t open.  So my hopes of getting rid of it before the kids get home were dashed to the ground and shattered.  I wasn’t too worried about The Destroyer or Wondergirl, but I knew if the Weirdo caught sight of–

“We have a new dog?!?!” Dang it.  Before his backpack even hit the ground, he named it Squeak.

“No we don’t have a new dog.”

“Please?”

Okay, so look at these eyes:

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Now you tell them that we don’t have a new dog.  Because that is just what the green beans I did.

“NO.  And stop touching it.  It will think we like it. It is going to the Humane Society tomorrow.”

Then the Big Man picks it up, takes it over to his chair, and flippin’ cuddles with it! “Stop being so awful. She wants to be your fwiend.”  Fwiend?  FWIEND!?!?

I swear. Everyone is against me.

Everyone.

I’m so petty, I am actually pointing at the dog, glaring at it, and pointing at the door.  Repeatedly.

I slept way angry that night.

I find out where the Humane Society is, and of course it’s on the other side of town.  Which in a regular car isn’t a big deal.  In Gretchen, however, you can see the dollars flying out of her exhaust pipe.  Whatever, this thing is out of here.  TODAY.

It was not to be.

I yell the F-word at the top of my lungs.  “FISH STICKS!!!!”  (We stick to SpongeBob cussin’ around here.) The Destroyer had a track meet and we had to be supportive parents and such, so getting rid of the dog had to wait until the next day. Fish Sticks, indeed.

The next day.  This is it.  Homeboy is gone.  I gassed Gretchen up and burnt SR-14 to a crisp getting to the Humane Society.  I am mumbling like a crazy person, “They better take this dog.  I am not playing, they better take this dog. I even had a plan for if they tried not to–I was going to throw the dog at them and run out. That’s how horrible I am.

But they took the dog.  Turns out it was a Chihuahua.  And it was a boy.

That’s it, I guess.  Don’t judge me.

I almost kill someone every week. Because they do not respect the laws of physics.

So, today’s hate is directed at people who ignore the laws of physics.  Those of you that know me well are rolling your eyes right know, cause you know where this is going.  That’s right, we are going to talk about my truck. Stop rolling your eyes.  I’m talking to you, Baby Sister. 

Anyway, I drive this:

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Ain’t she beautiful?

Her name is Gretchen.  Also known as the War Wagon.  Because if Wondergirl is in it at the same time as either The Destroyer or The Weirdo, and they happen to be looking at, touching, or existing too close to her, war breaks out.  Then I have to intervene with threats of going nuclear and wiping everyone out.

But I digress.  Back to hating. 

Where I live, Gretchen is fine.  Admired even.  She doesn’t bother anyone and they respect her.  But let me cross the bridge into Hipsterville, USA.  Somehow, as soon as Gretchen’s mudders come in contact with the pavement over there we get problems. From two groups:

 

1.) The microcar/hybrid driver.  These effin people.  I swear.  They like to be in Gretchen’s personal space.  For instance,  they are so busy being smug that, even though they know for a fact that they see Gretchen in the next lane, they just don’t care.  They just straight up cut her off. And then REFUSE to speed up. Then look in their rearview mirror and are shocked to see her moose-guard inches from the back of their head.  SHOCKED, I tells ya.  Or, (man I’m getting worked up now) OR Gretchen will be parked on the street, and one of them will be parked under her bumper.  Then, because Gretchen doesn’t have eyes in the back of her head and they were invading her personal space anyway, the smug driver comes out and is shocked, SHOCKED to find a dent in their hood. The nerve.  Gretchen doesn’t want to hurt you guys, but the laws of physics dictate that if you don’t respect her size and velocity, she probably will.

2.) Bicyclists.   Man, oh man.  First off, can I just say, that nobody likes these people.  They are even complete douchebags to each other.  I’m not talking the casual bike rider here. Or even the person who rides as a means of transportation. No. Oh, no.  I’m talking the “I-am-who-Lance-Armstrong-took-drugs-to-try-to-be-even-though-no-one-knows-or-cares-about-who-I-am” bicyclist.  They cause accidents and somehow, SOMEHOW, are never, ever, ever, at fault.  (Sorry about both the caps and italics, but the hate is real in these streets.)  These mickey-frickeys actually feel like they can lay hands on Gretchen.  That’s right folks, they actually hit her. With their hands. While she usually takes it well, THIS is how angry it makes me:

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Except angrier.

How come they never consider the fact that the only thing keeping me from following them until they are one block from their destination and running them down is my that I am a Christian and murder is not loving your neighbor?  And that I would probably run out of gas.  Honestly, just those two things.  Not even the fact that my kids are always in the truck with me would be considered during my vehicular rampage.  They do not respect the laws of physics, because if they did, they would know that if Gretchen hit them back, blood and Lycra would be everywhere. So much blood and Lycra.

Well, you will probably see a Gretchen-and-I-almost-killed-someone-today story every once in a while.  It happens more often than you would think.   

It’s Friday.  What are you hating on today?