Holy Social Suicide, Bat-faced Man

I'm pretty sure i hate every single person on FaceBook right now. Or at least, ....oh yeah, ALL OF THEM. I can't say that there so i'm saying it here. Probably, it's just what time of night it is, but i don't care how many pounds of the food you posted pictures of you ate for dinner or how happy you are about falling asleep next to whoever or how awesome your dumb baby is or how you can't wait to wake up and go to the gym. Fine. My posts tend to be boring and/or drunk+confusing this late too which is why i don't make them public. FaceBook should be fun. It's not all about your every thought. That's what blogs are for. So get one. And then see how many people choose to read your poorly thought out bullshit sentences. Not many. I take that from experience. BAM! Right back at me!

Wuddaya say? I said this:

I work with children. Children are people. My Momster taught me A) not to lie to people, and B) to stand up for what i believe is right. Today, a conversation broke out amongst the child-people about girls liking girls and boys liking boys. Being a staunch believer in letting people express and explore their opinions, i decidedly sat back and let it play out until it reached a point where my experience and open-mindedness would be helpful - or until someone was rude or hateful.
At one point a very young girl told the room she had a girlfriend. Another, older, girl said something about how that wasn't weird because friends that are girls are called girlfriends. She was quickly corrected by the first girl who informed her that she liked this girlfriend more than a friend and she felt like they might get married when they turned 11 - because she had been told it wasn't illegal after you turn 11. As i was opening my mouth to clear up that misconception, one of the other girls went, "Ew!"
I got mad. I did. I didn't convey my anger, in any way. I did, however, respond to both things.

~No one can get married unti they're 18, not 11. And if you marry her when you're grown, that's fine. It's not gross or "ew". People who love each other get married sometimes, and that is awesome. Whoever thought that was gross, people are who they are and they love who they love - that's their business and not anyone else's. We aren't discussing this any further.

All of the kids eventually filtered away from my area, but the little girl with the girlfriend hung around. When no one else was in earshot she asked me if i thought she was gross. My heart just sort of puked inside me at the thought that someone so new in this world already was doubting and feeling badly about herself. My mouth said,  "Not even a little. I think love is a hard thing to figure out. I still have trouble and i didn't even start to try until i was way older than you. You're fine."

I hope she heard that.

Nice try, February

So February tried to kill me yesterday. I think it gave up because i twarted it so thoroughly with my bad-assedness. It's partially my fault for continually expressing my complete loathing for this most putrid of months, but mostly it's February's fault for sucking so hard. Anyway with 12 hours to go i refuse to back down. Give me your best shot, dick-month.

Here are the two most obvious ways February tried to extinguish my life yesterday. Possibly there were other times my demise was planned, but these two things stuck out:
First, i had to open the BASP yesterday. So instead of rolling out of bed at the last second and trudging over to my boss-neighbor's already warmed up car for a ride, i had to get up early and preheat my own car. It was -24° with wind chill. My car door was frozen shut so i was exposed to the elements far longer than i had planned when i ventured outside in just a hoodie. That could have been an attempt to kill me, but we can all agree it was weak so i'm not counting it. I She-ra-ed the door open and all was well. When i actually started driving to work my brake light came on. My brakes were a tad soft but i wasn't too worried. I knew i probably just needed some fluid - something i could easily remedy between shifts. After the BASP i was driving home, going down Dodge Street hill/curve when BLAMMO! no brakes. None. Gone. Car in front of me, going 35, headed right for a red light. Miraculously, the light turned green and i skidded around the right turn without killing myself or anyone else. Stupid February didn't realize there was no school yesterday. If there had been, i definitely would have slammed into a minivan driven by a parent who had just dropped their kids off at the school right there or plowed through some family walking through the cross walk. I didn't touch my gas and luckily no one was coming from the opposite direction, so i made the left onto Gilbert just fine. I had to blow the stop sign at Fairchild too, and once again lucked out as no one else was at the intersection. I had enough momentum to make it to my neighborhood service station and rolled to a stop inches from the owner's truck. Nice try, February.

But, wait! It wasn't quite through with me. After filling the completely empty brake fluid chamber, my hood wouldn't latch. The main latch was stuck, but the manual one was holding so i decided i could worry about that after works. And i did. I doinked with the piece of shit for 15 minutes and got the son of a bitch to close all the way. Or so i thought. After closing BASP hours later, i hit the interstate to meet up with Reester and Silly Seesters for drinks, dinner, and some games. First semi passes me and BLAMMO! the main latch gives. The manual one held, but the hood was flapping like hell. I put on my hazards, slowed my roll, and got off at the next exit which was 6 white-knuckled miles down the road. I jumped up and down on that motherfucker and banged the shit out of it with a ratchet. It just would not budge. I took the back roads at 45 and avoided having the hood flip up, break my windshield, obstruct my vision, and kill me. Again, well played, February, but i win this round too.

First thing this morning i yanked open that hood and slammed it shut with all the force of a Hulk Smash. Fixed it. Works like a goddamn charm. Guess i just made February my bitch.

Neighbors are the worst

Oh my flobbin' glob! I miss the days when the Latino gigolo and freaking Carl lived upstairs. Sure, i'd hear concert piano all the time, but the gigolo was really good at it. And yeah, it sounded like he was dropping a dozen bowling balls at once at least once a day. Sometimes listening to Carl's psychot girlfriend work out, yell at him about everything, and slam doors constantly sucked. But at least they walked like humans and NOT FRAGGLESNACKIN' ELEPHANTS ALL THE FLAPPIN' TIME! And to think, there's going to be baby up there soon screaming its fool face off at all hours. Oh gawd, what if they start that pacing shit to calm it down? They'll wear a chasm in the floor and fall through. Who the fuck has a baby in a downtown rental with a neighbor like me living downstairs? Don't they know i'm unstable? Don't they know i could explode this house at any time? Don't they realize i will be more likely to do so if i can't sleep because some dumb baby is bawling all night and ruining my life? They have to go. This is ridiculous. It's worse than the hookers who lived up there after Carl and the gigolo - always wearing their clompity-tromp high heels and going up and down the stairs draggin' dirty tricks around all damn day and night. I'd take the tramps back, even though they killed my tulips and had sex parties with hookas in the back yard right outside my bedroom window.

There, i said it. I'd rather share this house with a gigolo or dirty, sweat pants-wearing Carl or even actual actual prostitutes, than with a human baby.

The Truck. A True Story

Once upon the 90s, i knew a girl who ate like truck. This tall, slender, dark-haired beauty was graceful and, to me, so seemingly elegant. She also smoked like a chimney and had a tendency to eat piping-hot macaroni and cheese straight from the pan, with a wooden spoon, in about 4 bites. All while talking and smoking a cig.
Back in those days, i was living in my first apartment and going a little heavy on the freedom from my parents thing. We were all drinking our weekend meals and substituting after dinner mints with joints.
One special Friday night, a group of people, including The Truck, gathered at my place to get our drunk on. We pooled our money and came up with $72 which was enough for 5 bottles. When The Truck and her buddy returned with the booze, she had a bag from McDonald's. It was a "cheese bergie" she had gotten with the left over money. Her buddy also had a bag with him, but it was full of green stuff to share with everyone. It was understood that the bergie was only for The Truck.
We sat down in a circle on the living room floor. Before the first shots were even poured, The Truck tossed her food bag over her shoulder. "Are you not going to eat that?" I asked. To which she replied, "I already did." I admit, i was impressed - that was quick even for her.
Half hour later, we're all 3 or more shots in when the first joints get sparked up. One for clockwise, one for counterclockwise.

Let me just say right now, the events leading thus far might be hazy, or even incorrect. Friday or Saturday? $72? $52? Whatever. Hell, i can't necessarily remember exactly who all was there. All the things that come next, however, i can recall like they happened a minute ago. And, if you ask anyone else who was there, they would so back me up.

Anyway, a joint gets to The Truck. She hits it, holds it, and passes it along. As i myself am mid-hit, i hear the sharp intake of breath which signals the start of one of The Truck's famous coughing fits. I mean, she could make geese change direction midflight. For what else makes that noise but a tortured and dying goose?
So the signal comes but i am too engrossed with inhaling to look over. But the coughing fit doesn't come. Instead, it was just one loud, puncuated bark. And then silence - from everyone.
Silence, as we all ponder what has just magically appeared in the middle of our circle: a puddle of saliva with an intact cheeseburger dead center and with 2 whole fries stuck on for good measure. I didn't even know she'd had fries.
For 30 seconds, no one breathed. We look from the burger to The Truck. She's just sitting there, staring at the cheeseburger, with thee most transparent look on her face - Can i eat that again?
We all get our heads wrapped around what had just happened and start laughing insanely. One of my dear friends, whom i shall refer to here as The Mother, gives The Truck a dirty look and says, "Omigawd! You cannot eat that." and he proceeds to scoop the re-burger up with a towel just as The Truck reaches for it. Which only makes us laugh at an even more frenzied pitch.

And i just remember, she looked so sad.


Update bonus: The Truck still hitting the mac'n'cheese like boss, 17 years later!

Not to brag...

Had a rough day. It's cool. I still managed to sort roughly 14 pounds of sequins. I mean, it was like an 8 oz bag to start but once you make 5 piles... The maths check out, damnit! What the fuck did you do today, smart ass?

Anyway, the wine helped. With the maths and the sorting. And the all the other else (wink wink).
Sweet dreams

10 Years

I woke up today very aware of the date but feeling good. I started off strong, even if i did decide to wear the locket that i barely wear anymore. I got a text from Reester Seester right off the bat that simply read "Love you." I didn't make a connection to the date and thought it was pretty random for so early and perhaps she meant to send it to her husband (failing to realize they would've been driving to work together at the time). Shortly thereafter i received a text from Momster reading "Hang in there, Moo. I know this is a tough week for you." I got a little catch in my throat there with the thought that what happened all those years ago still affects my parents. They lost something that day too.

Work went well on my first two shifts. I spent a little extra time in the baby room (by a little i mean half an hour versus 2 minutes). Yesterday i prepped all of lunch for today and instead of staying in the kitchen all day, i played with and read to the preschoolers for a majority of my shift. I was barely aware of how far out of my way i had gone to make that possible. It was almost like an unconcious tribute to SPK. By the time i got to the third shift of the day, i was highly oversensitive. Being around kids his age was tough, and i don't know why. And i don't know why i insist on saying "he". The sex was indeterminable. What i had wasn't actually a baby yet. A baby is a thing that can survive outside the womb. A baby is a boy or a girl (98% of the time). A baby has skin.

I love my life. I don't want children. But i guess, even if i ignore it 363 days a year (the actual due date is a doozie too), i still wonder what he would look like. Would he be funny, spastic and creative like me, or studious, moody and quiet like his father? Or some combination the world has never seen? Would he have bugged me into getting a dog?

Once upon a time i thought i'd never be okay. But i am. All he ever was was a dream - he's just one that doesn't fade.