Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Santa is fucking tired.

What up?  Christmas is over!!!!!!!!!  YAY!!!!!!  I mean, watching the kids open 3,298 gifts is fun and all, but when you get down to it, you're just watching them open the next batch of garage sale crap.

I know there are a bunch of people who loooove Christmas.  Some of them love it because of some baby who later became a zombie or something.  Some of them love it because they like hanging out with their families (who must be much different than mine).  Some love it because they like winter.  Those people are insane and should be placed on some kind of government watch list.  Seriously...winter SUCKS.

Anyway, I tolerate Christmas and like it on occasion.  But mostly it just stresses me out and makes me wish I lived in Timbuktu so I could just ignore it and not face the pressure of making each Christmas THE MOST MAGICAL TIME OF THE YEAR!

This year was quite magical from a 'holy shit I'm surrounded by lunatics' standpoint.  We have so far had four Christmases.  And it's been interesting.

Christmas 1: Christmas Eve Morning at my folks' house.

This one was pretty tame.  I mean sure Scott and I spent the morning making everyone nauseated by making constant jokes about our sex life, but that's every day.

Christmas 2: Christmas Eve Night at my father-in-law's house.

This is usually a pretty fun event.  And it was I guess.  But the boy had explosive diarrhea.  It was awesome. Fucking kids.  Also, my sister-in-law just couldn't help herself and had to make the following statement: "Your kids are just awesome.  It just doesn't make sense than an atheist would have such kind and respectful kids."  Then she walked away shaking her head in confusion.  While I flipped her off behind her back.  Whore.

Christmas 3: Christmas Morning at Home.

The kids slept until 8:30 because, despite the efforts to try to kill me, they love me.  Seriously, what kids sleep in on Christmas?  Mine!  Suck it!  Anyway, they opened a zillion and a half presents and I sat there thinking that if we chilled out a bit on Christmas gifts purchases I probably wouldn't have to work anymore.  We spend that much.  Apparently we turn into Mr. and Mrs. Rockefeller for like 3 weeks at the end of the year and then return back to debt-ridden fools the rest of the year.  But whatever, they had fun so screw it.

Christmas 4: Christmas Night With the Mother-In-Law.

Always the least fun of all is Christmas night.  We see the same people that we just saw on Christmas Eve except instead of Scott's dad and step mom  we see his mom.  It's stupid.   And a waste of time.  Whatever. So we get there and almost immediately I smell it: weed.  It's a strong ass smell.  Coming from my atheist-comment making sister-in-law and her husband.  Apparently hypocrisy smells like reefer.  I'll be damned.

Dinner is served and suddenly my ten-year-old niece is yammering on about the Connecticut shootings, an event about which Mackenzie has not been informed on the grounds that she is SIX.  So I nicely say that not everyone knows about that or needs to and ask her to please stop.  Then my nineteen-year-old niece (who I assume wasn't listening) says loudly: "Well he was just trying to kill as many people as he could at that school.  He didn't care that they were kindergartners "  *Facepalm*  Awesome.  I make a mental note to prepare for questions in the coming days.

Finally dinner is over and we're sitting around the table talking.  My niece is talking about a teacher at school who is kinda strange and my sister-in-law says, "Is she on drugs or something?"  My niece replies, "No, she's a teacher, of course she's not on drugs!"  Then my sister-in-law (yep, the same one with the weed and hypocrisy) says, "Well so am I and I love pills!" and launches into a speech about how much she enjoys drinking and medicines that were not, technically, prescribed to her.  *More facepalm*  Seriously?  Really?  That's how this is gonna go?  We're gonna point out to children that not only do some teachers use drugs, but that their own aunt does?  Awesome.

So, that's that.  So far.  I have my mom's side of the family coming over next weekend, and that's always a barrel of fun too.  I'll keep you posted.  But first, I'm gonna play Mass Effect 3 for a day or four.

Merry Christmas and shit!

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Normally my kid saying 'bitch' would've been the highlight of the evening. But not tonight...oh no...

My husband thinks he's quite hilarious.  Isn't it annoying when people think they're funny and they're NOT?  Yeah, I hate that...  *Ahem*  Anyway, he's a douche taco.  He does all of this obnoxious crap that's supposed to be funny but really just makes me want to back over him in a monster truck.  (A blue one.  I don't know why, but when I envision it, it's always blue.  With spinners.)  Tonight, for example, he thought it would be funny to trip me.  I was just walking past and he stuck his asshole foot out (while giggling like a four-year-old girl) and tripped me.  I fell directly into the door and severely bruised the last unfrayed nerve I possessed at the time.  Jackass.

So I did what anyone would do: I began to plot my revenge.  It started out simple.  I calmly walked to the counter, picked up my glass of ice water, and dumped it all over him.  Then he called me an un-nice word under his breath.  I didn't hear it and asked him to repeat it.  Mackenzie said, "Bitch.  He called you a bitch."  Nice.  

This meant war.  Oh yes.  Not long after that the UPS dude came and left some of my kids' 1,387,002 presents from Santa on the porch.  I told Scott they were heavy and he needed to go get them and bring them in.  Dumbass fell for it.  I locked him out.  He was in his underwear.  Take that punk.  

When I finally let him in he was kinda pissed.  It may have had something to do with the fact that he was outside in the cold in his underwear covered in the ice water I'd dumped all over him.  Or maybe it was something else.  He's a moody motherfucker.  He got over it quickly though (it was probably the Midol I've been crushing up in his beer), and he thought it was all over.  Rookie.

The kids went to bed at 8:30.  And again at 9:15, 9:23, 10:02 and 10:47.  At that point they were told that if they came out again they'd have to go live in the attic with their oft-discussed but not yet seen banished older sister Rachel.  They're pretty sure she's not real, but with our level of crazy I'm betting they feel like they can't be sure.  All the better.  Anyway, the hubs got in the shower and left his phone on the bed.  He makes it too easy.  I quickly deleted all of the little icons on his home page.  Next, I removed the card with all of his pictures on it, deleted them, and put the card back in.  (I saved the pictures to the computer, I'm not a monster.)  I did everything I could to make the phone look all sorts of jacked up.  He spent the next hour on the phone with customer support complaining about his phone having a virus!  It was GLORIOUS!  And me?  I just sat here chatting with friends on Facebook while pretending to research smartphone viruses.  I'm helpful like that.  Eventually I let him off the hook and we had a good laugh before he fell asleep.  But I think he got the message, which is: 

Dude, your wife is bat shit crazy.  

Monday, November 26, 2012

To commit oneself or not to commit oneself...that is the question.

Lately I've been noticing that my brain never really shuts up.  Yeah, yeah, I know, my mouth doesn't shut up much either, but my brain is worse.  I'm wondering if this is normal(ish) or if I've gone even farther off the deep end than I already was.  So I'm going to give you an example of how my brain works and you tell me: do call the dudes in white coats or not?

Before I begin, I need to explain that my brain answers itself.  While doing so it switches between first and third person pretty much constantly.  So...strike one, right?  Anyway, I'll do the first 'person' in black and the second in blue.  I'll do my commentary about my internal commentary in red.  (Strike two...)

Ladies and gentlemen (or, more appropriately for you lot: freaks and slightly less freaky freaks), here's what it's like to live in my brain for a minute or so.  

Dude, (Yep, I say dude even in my mind) I know I was supposed to do something today.  I wonder what it was. Probably something important for the kids.  Fuck Amy, you're a sucky mom.  Jesus!  I want to listen to some Alice in Chains.  Why did that dude have to die anyway?  Shit, what was it that I was trying to remember?  Seriously I am a terrible mom!  BAH!  Nickelback!  Damn you straight to hell Pandora!  What about my station would make you think I want to hear that garbage?  I wonder if Scott has been messing with it.  I shall kill him.  Now seriously, what was I supposed to be doing?  Do you remember?
Nope, and I don't care.  Can we eat yet?  Seriously, there's a big ass carton of ice cream in there that isn't going to eat itself.  You haven't washed dishes in like three days though so you're gonna need to find a plastic spoon or something.  Maybe your finger.  I mean...the boy is two.  He isn't gonna tell anyone that you're eating that shit like a pig at a trough.  And even if he does just say, "Ha! Kids!" and look at him like he's a lunatic ass motherfucker.  
Stop, you're why we're fat.  And weird.  Help me think.  What was it?  Something to do with school?  SHIT!  Was I supposed to volunteer today?  No...what was it? Oh cool!  The neighbors are getting a pool.  Now that hot girl will be out there in her bikini so Scott can stare at her and I can pretend to give a shit even though we both know I don't because I'm staring too. I want a pool.  Also a Mercedes.  But I'd probably just wreck it.  I do that you know. 
Yeah, you have lesbian tendencies and suck at driving, blah blah.  Who cares?  Let's eat.  Also, I kinda want to blow off cleaning the house today and play Skyrim.  Or maybe argue with some idiots on the internet.  
Seriously, this is why people think we're weird.
No, people think you're weird because you won't stop talking.  Ever.  Like not even for a minute.  I can't get a fucking word in edgewise around here most of the time.  But again, food.  How about we go to Bread Co.?  (Panera for those outside of St. Louis.  And Tammy.)  I want some soup.  We can get Starbucks while we're there.  You know, they're next door and shit.  Maybe that hot Australian dude will be there.  Also, it's fucked up that Bread Co. doesn't have baked potato soup on Saturdays anymore.  We should write a letter.  
Yeah, but it seems like a silly thing to worry about when kids are starving and shit.  Plus, a letter?  What is this, 1996?  We'll Facebook those bitches.  First World problems are still problems, right?  Hey remember that time the lady in the Lexus was behind us at the Starbucks drive thru and asked the barista to walk next door to the Bread Co. and bring it to her car?  
Yeah she was a turd.  So what's the ETA on some food?  
We should eat healthier.  Here's a banana. 
Dude, remember the time you ate that rancid banana for $30?  That was bad ASS.  You're AWESOME!
Dude, I AM awesome!  And hungry.  I think I'm going to eat some Oreos.  I wonder if Charlie's hungry.  
Don't tell him about the cookies!  If you do that, you'll have to share and there's only like eight Oreos left!  
I'll give him the banana.  Then I get to eat all of the Oreos AND feel like a good mom because the kid is getting vitamins and shit.  Self five!
Self five.  

So?  Crazy or no?  My brain and I are on pins and needles!

Saturday, November 17, 2012

I *knew* it wasn't my fault!

First of all, I'd like to announce that the test results have confirmed that Scott does *not* have an STD.  So his shit is safe.  For now.  Except for the beard trimmer, or course, which is now mine.

Now, on to today's topic: me being a lard ass.

So, I'm fat.  Don't try to say, "Oh, no you're not, you're beautiful!"  If you do, I will shoot daggers of disdain from my eyeballs.  I know that's what you were trained to say and it's sweet and shit, but let's be real: I'm F-A-T.  I wasn't always this way, you know.  I was very thin until my sophomore year of college.  In fact, as a kid one of my nicknames was 'Stilts' because of my long, mega skinny legs.

Anyway, where did it all go wrong?  When I moved back in with my parents.  My sophomore year of college I got sick of paying for my own food and crap so I moved home (my college was around 20 miles away from my parents' house).  I figured I'd move back in with the folks but keep my job and start saving up to move in with Scott, who I knew even then would be suckered into marrying my loopy ass.  It wasn't a bad plan.  Until it was.  See, Scott was also in college.  Well, he was registered.  He never went because he stayed home to watch this cartoon called 'Recess' that I never liked, but he seemed to love.  I should have re-evaluated my life choices at that point, but I was in love.  Gross.  But I digress.  He'd get done with 'class' (AKA watching TV on his mom's couch while she was at work, completely unaware of his lack of collegiate dedication) and show up at my parents' house to see me at around dinner time.  Here's where me being fat becomes his fault: he wouldn't eat my parents' food.  Ever.  My mother would be cooking a perfectly good meal and he wouldn't eat it.  He felt that it wasn't their job to feed him.  So we ate out.  EVERY. NIGHT.  For a YEAR.  Apparently that was also about the same time that my metabolism decided to change, because by the end of that year we had each gained over 50 lbs.  And we were broke.  Because eating out is pricey.  Why is everything that's good or fun expensive and/or unhealthy?  It's fucked up.  Someone should do something about that.  Maybe I'll write a letter...STAY ON TOPIC AMY!  Sorry, sorry.

"But Amy," you ask, "isn't it your fault that you're *still* fat?"

Uh, no.  Here's why: because once you get fat it's fucking hard to stop being fat, especially when you are bat crap crazy.  Food makes me feel better.  Then worse.  It's a cycle.  I have a bad day, eat a large cookie dough concrete, feel better for like a half hour and then start to cry because I'm disgusting and ruining the kids' lives by setting a bad example.  I also force myself to imagine my kids graduating from high school, getting married, etc. without me because I died of fatness.  Then I cry and eat some more.  Then I vow to try again tomorrow.  Repeat this over and over again, toss in a few instances of me strongly considering making myself vomit to undo the damage before finally convincing myself that bulimia isn't the answer, and you start to see how it is.  So how can you blame me?  Obviously it's my brain that is fucked up, not me. And if you want to argue that my brain is the only thing that makes me 'me', then you're a godless heathen and I have no use for you.  Enjoy Hell, you piece of shit!

Kidding, of course.  It's obviously my fault and my responsibility.  Maybe one day I'll get it together and be worthy of the nickname 'Stilts' again.  Maybe not.  In the meantime, Scott just made some cookies and they smell amazing.  See?  His fault.  Ass monkey.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Get yourself a lawyer, your shit is MINE! hubs has an STD.  Or maybe he doesn't, but because of his semi-young age he has to be treated for one even though he most likely just has some random ball infection.  (Scientifically known as: Randomius ballius infectionus.)  He also got to get tested for chlamydia and gonorrhea.  It was pretty cool.

See, I'm not suspicious in the least.  I'm far too awesome (and, let's face it, smoking hot) to be cheated on.  How do you trade up from me?  Not possible.  So I knew he didn't have an actual STD.  But if you think I let him off the hook that easily you clearly haven't been paying attention.  Here's the conversation we had on the phone when he was on his way home from the doctor's visit:

Scott: "Well, I have some kind of infection and because I'm under 35 I had to get tested and treated for chlamydia and gonorrhea.  I told the doctor that I didn't have an STD but she didn't believe me."

Me: "Holy crap Scott!  How could you?  I'm SOOOO taking half your shit.  And the cool shit like the PS3, not the lame shit like the vacuum.  Okay, maybe the vacuum.  It's a motherfucking Oreck.  That shit ain't cheap."

Scott: "'s probably just a regular testicular infection, but she said..."

Me: "And your beer brewing stuff.  That's mine.  Also your beard trimmer."

Scott: "ANYWAY, so she's putting me on antibiotics...wait, why would you want my beard trimmer?"

Me: "Dude, I use that shit ALL. THE. TIME.  I don't think I need to say more."

Scott: "You're seriously fucked up, do you know that?"

Me: "Oh!  And I'm taking the kids.  I'm going to start a rock band with them.  Sorta like Slayer except more violent."

Scott: "Are you quite finished?  I'd like to talk to my wife for a minute."

Me: "And your car.  Yeah, it's a piece of shit that I wouldn't drive if I were being chased by a pack of zombies, but fuck you, you know?"

Scott: *Sigh*

Me: "And I'm calling your mom.  I'm going to tell her that you clearly need Jesus and she should double, nay triple, her efforts where your soul is concerned.  I may even show up at her church looking all devout and shit.  Perhaps I'll bring the kids to sell it.  We'll light candles for your tainted soul."

Scott: *Click*

So the bottom line is: I'm a terrible wife.  No wait, the bottom line is that even though Scott doesn't actually have an STD, it is customary for all men under the age of 35 to be treated for them when any sort of infection occurs.  If you're thinking that 35 seems like an arbitrary cutoff for such things, you're right.  But I didn't go to medical school because my parents were too cheap to send me anywhere that wasn't going to be free.  So I guess I have to go with the flow on this STD thing.

Vishnu help him if the test comes back positive though...

Saturday, November 10, 2012

You, sir, are scary. And if I'm saying it, it should really tell you something, because I've got a high tolerance for weird.

Most of my friends know about my insane neighbor, but since he struck again today I figured I'd go ahead and share the story in its entirety.

Shortly after we moved in, our neighbor K, his wife C and some super old lady who I'm hoping they didn't steal from a nursing home came to our house to welcome us.  They gave us fresh bread and he gave us his business card.  Apparently he is a photographer/videographer or something.  So far, so good.  The next thing he gave us, however, was the first sign of trouble to come.  Apparently he had been taking pictures of our house as it was being built and saved them to a flash drive.  Okay, a little odd, but not yet scary.  For shits and grins we looked at the pictures.  Then it got weird.  Out of 220+ pictures, right around half of them were close ups of shirtless construction workers who clearly  had no idea they were being photographed.  One young man with a nipple ring was featured in over thirty photographs.  So our 'creepy ass motherfucker' radar started going off.  And we returned the flash drive as quickly as humanly possible, because we didn't want to become accessories to whatever freaky shit was going on over there.  

We sat back and started thinking about this.  Did he forget those pictures were on there?  Because there's no way anyone sane would give those to someone else, right?  I mean, obviously we would think that shit was creepy!  So was it a mistake, or did he really not think it was weird?  Either way....ewwwwww.

So we kept our distance, because...dude.  Our next encounter with K was one day when I was out back with the kids.  Kenz was swinging and Charlie was probably eating bugs or something.  Maybe vandalizing some property or promoting his pimping business, I'm not sure.  I was reading so how the hell should I know what he was doing?  Anyway, suddenly K is standing two feet away from me.  He's like a ninja, I'm serious. He looks at me and says, "I know all you women are all in to the royal wedding.  Are you going to watch it and dream of being a princess?"  Well, it's quite obvious that he doesn't know me or else he'd have led with "How 'bout those Cardinals?" or "Dude, have you played Skyrim yet?"  But in the interest of being polite I said that it wasn't really my thing but I did hear a lot of women were interested.  He then said, "You probably like it and just don't want to admit it," and left.  Okaaaayyyy....

A few weeks later it was spring and K and C's plants were coming up.  These people are obsessed with their plants.  I don't even know how to describe the relationship they have with them.  If I had to do so with one word I'd go with 'inappropriate'.  Anyway, Scott's brother was over and sitting on our couch.  He'd been sitting there kind of quietly for about a half hour glancing sporadically out the window and suddenly said, "Why is your neighbor going from plant to plant, laying down on his stomach to examine it and then writing on a clipboard?"  We all peeked out and sure as shit there was K, laying on the ground, gently rubbing a tree while writing on a clipboard.  Now, if he had some sort of prize-winning garden or something I would still think he was odd, but at least I could remotely see a justification for the behavior.  But the dude has a bunch of random bushes and two trees.  This occurs every weekend from spring through fall.  Every. Weekend.  

Here is a list of the other things he has done.  Some we have witnessed, some we were told about by other neighbors who are equally freaked out.

-He has been seen looking at neighbors' gas meters and writing the information down on a clipboard.
-He has been caught using binoculars to look into windows.  He didn't seem to think this was inappropriate.  You could tell this by the fact that he was standing on a huge landscaping rock at the entrance to our section of the subdivision at the time.  On his tiptoes.
-He and C drive their car around the neighborhood and stop in front of each house at least a few times a month to do Krishna only knows what.  They talk about something and then move on.  You'd think they wouldn't stop and stare at your house if you were outside at the time.  You'd be wrong.
-He has called city hall to complain that a two story house was being build nearby that would block his view of the sunset and was angry when they refused to revoke the building permit.  
-He sneaks into houses that are under construction late at night, stays inside for an hour or so and then comes out to go home.  I'm not sure what's going on in there and I have no interest in finding out.  I'll just say that I check the sex offender list regularly. 
-Every time we play in our back yard he stares at us out the windows to make sure the kids don't accidentally put a toe on his lawn.  Sometimes he comes and stands on the patio to stare at us instead.  
-He is one of those people that hands out religious pamphlets for Halloween instead of candy, and then wonders why the neighborhood kids routinely skip his house.  
-He stalks people.  I mean literally.  He follows them around the neighborhood to watch them.  He also stares out his windows waiting for neighbors to get home so that he can accost them with his nonsense about how they must have roaches because he found one in his kitchen and there's no way they could have come from his house, or that their sprinkler watered 2.783 centimeters of his lawn and he didn't like it, etc., etc., etc. 

Anyway, today I watched him move the new neighbor's survey stake because he didn't like where it was.  You know, because you get to just decide where your property line is.  That's totally how it works.  Then the neighbor came out to discuss it with him and K laid down in the grass and started explaining where he thought the imaginary line was.  I shit you not, this went on for over an hour.  I didn't want to watch, but it was like a train wreck.  The new guy would take a few steps away, K would follow him.  He'd point at his watch and try to turn around and K would keep talking.  Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse for the poor bastard, C came out.  Double teamed!  The whole conversation started over.  Now both K and C were on the ground pointing out the imaginary lines.  At one point K pulled chalk out of his pocket and tried to draw a line on the grass.  I shit you not.  That shit is official, y'all.  Nothing says, "Permanent and legally binding" like chalk.  I'm convinced they'd still be out there talking if it weren't for the fact that a piece of plastic blew off of an under construction house down the road and landed in K's yard.  He turned to look at it (probably making a mental note to remember to call the builder and complain that his grass blades were bent) and the new neighbor fucking bolted.  It was glorious.  

So this dude is a psycho.  And I get to live behind him.  Woo fucking hoo.  

Fortunately for me, my lovely husband has made it abundantly clear that he is no fan of K's by shooting hate rays from his eyes whenever he sees him and giving the distinct impression that he is trying to blow up his head using the Force.  This has kept K from speaking to me and my children for the past year or so.  SCORE!

Unfortunately for my poor new neighbor, he seems to have made a friend.  I'll be watching for the 'For Sale' sign.  Should be any day now...

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

I don't think stuff like this happens to normal people

So tonight I learned a couple of valuable lessons while shopping at the mall.  

First, it seems that most people, upon finding themselves locked out of a dressing room, go and get the salesperson to unlock it.  What they do not do is crawl under the door laughing like a deranged hyena.  Apparently people crawling around on the floor makes others in the dressing rooms nervous.  I guess they're afraid that I might see their Justin Bieber undies or something.  Whatevs dude, I just wanted my purse back.  There's tens of dollars in there.  So to everyone at the Fat Girl Store (aka Lane Bryant): I apologize.  And get new underwear.  You're like forty five.  

The next valuable mall-related lesson I learned tonight is to avoid smelling things at Bath and Body Works. From my understanding when most of you open a bottle of lotion and take a whiff it goes off without a hitch. Not so for me.  I opened a bottle of their Warm Vanilla Sugar lotion and somehow it ended up all over me.  And the shelf.  And the lotion bottle.  Fortunately there was a mirror right there so I got to see myself in all my non-normal glory.  At this point I had the chance to salvage some dignity by quickly and discreetly wiping the lotion off.  But of course that's not what I did.  Nope, I decided it would be more fun to give myself a mustache with it.  But given that it was white it looked like something..........else.  The best part was that my mom was there and she had to pee quite badly.  She couldn't stop laughing (because face it, I'm hilarious).  My shenanigans almost cost her a pair of pants and undies (probably Bieber...lame ass).  At that point I was getting strange looks from several clerks, customers and a child in a stroller.  In other words, nothing new.  

All in all I didn't accidentally kill myself or others and I didn't get arrested, although it was touch and go there for awhile.  I'm calling it a win.