Category Archives: Humor

Mwah ha ha ha ha

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Mwah ha ha ha

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It’s true

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In the red

I say this rather as a matter of fact.  Not to whine or complain. If anything, to vent I reckon.

I took on a massive amount of credit card debt supporting my fiancé while he was unemployed for the first 4 years of our relationship.   He went back and forth through 8 separate detoxes trying to get sober from alcohol.  He would get a year, then relapse.  Get a month then relapse.  And so on.  At his worst he was drinking a quart and a half of vodka a day.  Everyday.   He was vomiting blood many mornings.  (Esophageal varices)

His parents and other family had turned their back on him.  Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if I had asked him to leave. I loved him and as bad as things got, I didn’t have the heart to turn him to the streets.   He was suicidal, at times.   I felt like it would be my fault if something happened.  At one point he texted me he was leaving this world.  He did hang himself.  Police found him in respiratory arrest in the basement of a local building, emergency responders cut him down..  He was very lucky to have lived.

Today he has over 2 years of sobriety from alcohol.

On the one hand,  I feel it was a good decision to go into debt to support him.  Every person is valuable and worth saving.  On the other hand, when half your monthly income goes to paying debt it’s a suffocating feeling.   Especially when you are out of work on medical.

I feel mixed about my decision.  Had I left the relationship years ago I would not be in the massive debt.  Had I not helped him, he might not be alive.  The kids suffer from the debt the most.  There are things they go without.  So I guess that’s what hurts today.   I wonder if I’ll ever be able to pay it off?

Here is a song that made me laugh and reminds me of me.  Right down to the panic attacks.  LOL

To all those who are in the red for whatever reasons, know you are most certainly not alone, and this one‚Äôs for you! ūü•É

 

 


Drive-thru Only

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Let me just say that when I decided to bring my 4 year old niece into the ‚Äúfamily friendly‚ÄĚ restaurant I had no idea what I was in for.

I should have brought a lasso and my Vera Wang tote bag filled with Vodka nips.

When I got there the first sign of trouble were the other pre-schoolers milling about.  Running in circles they were free-range children with rule of the roost while their parents were seated eating.  Only an occasional half-hearted calling of the children’s names by each parent could be heard.   You could tell it was as if the parents were resigned that they had already lost the battle.

The restroom smelled like SeaWorld in Orlando.  I gagged when I walked in.  I don’t think it had been cleaned since the late 90’s.   Ummm, nope not going to be using it.

Then it happened.  My own niece  defiantly joined the other free rangers, defiantly protesting to me not to be hungry. They all hudddled in the center of the restaurant,  these free-range kids.  Dancing, chatting, frolicking, rolling on the carpet!

Oh hell no……

The food comes and I’m trying to put the habeus grabus on her and get back to our table.

Soon as we get there, she breaks loose and heads back to the chicken collective.   I follow in pursuit.  From our table to the chickens, back and forth we go, several times before I start wishing I had brought a lasso.

Nothing seems to work, there is strength in the chickens’ numbers.  No amount of limit setting is working with my niece.  It is in this moment as I am so overwhelmed I just want a very strong drink.   My nerves are shot.  I wish I had a nip or two of marshmallow Vodka in my purse.

Why can’t the people who build these family friendly restaurants just start constructing bars in them?  Oh wait, they’d fail to be family-esque.

The first place I’d personally put a bar would be at Chuck E. Cheese. Been there enough times now to want to bring along ear plugs at very least.

Drained and exhausted we leave with out one bite of my niece‚Äôs food being consumed. ¬†As soon as the car pulls out onto the main thoroughfare, I hear the dreaded words,‚ÄĚI‚Äôm hungry now.‚ÄĚ

 


Confessions of a Germaphobe

 

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I slide in on the heels of a middle-aged woman, so the door swings open and I never touch it.

I reach for the automatic paper towel dispenser, pull off a piece and head to the bathroom stall.   Naturally, my hand does not want to touch any part of the handle of the stall while opening it or closing it.   So I use the paper towel as a barrier between the door and my hand as I open the bathroom stall handle.

Next I begin prepping for the “hover”. ¬†Women develop great muscle tone in their legs by hovering over the toilet seat. ¬† Because I have germaphobia,¬†I can’t use the outer layer of toilet paper provided,¬†¬†because God knows what might linger on that puppy. ¬†Blowback, splatter, or spray. ¬†Things that can’t be seen with the naked eye. ¬† What if the person before me had explosive diarrhea? ¬†dear God….microscopic fecal matter or worse blood borne pathogens lingering. ¬†My thoughts race a thousand miles an hour and my heart beats a thousand beats per second. ¬† I want OUT of this horrid public bathroom that smells like a raw sewage backup with febreeze¬†misting in through the air.

I have to unravel several sheets of said toilet paper round and round many times and then discard that before¬†I can even think of it, as “safe” to use. ¬†Then I’m clear to for take off, ready to void.

Oh and that’s the other thing, pooping? Ummm no.¬†I would rather prairie dog it til’ I get home before I’d use a public rest room. ¬†That’s pretty much a cardinal rule of “no can do” with my¬†OCD/¬†germaphobia variant.

Once I’m through, and am all buttoned up, I grab another piece of toilet paper to grab¬†the door handle with and¬†let myself out of the stall. ¬†Before I exit , I throw that into the toilet and turn around quick-like and kick the flusher handle¬†down with the bottom of my shoe.

I return back to the automatic paper towel dispenser to get a piece, with which to turn on the water faucet at the sink and also use it to pull down the soap dispenser.  I then wash my hands.   I return back to the paper towel dispenser to get more paper so I that I can dry my hands and grab one extra square to let myself out of the bathroom.

It is a well-choreographed dance like movement in an operating theatre.   A waltz I know well after being diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) in my late teens.  I have it down to a science now and can do it so quickly I do not think about the routine.  I get in, and get out in nearly the same amount of time that the next person does.

Once back in college, I felt a sense of shame about having this lengthy public bathroom regimen, knowing (at least intellectually) it was irrationally based behavior.   Come on, if someone was watching, it looks bat-shit crazy.

Then one day I observed one of my professors who held a PhD, using the same bathroom, who had just had a bowel movement and left without washing her hands.

I no longer felt ashamed after she walked out.   I believe I may have washed my hands an extra time, just because.


Colonoscopy “prep” by MasterCard

4 Rolls of toilet paper                        $  4.59

1 Pack Lime Jello cups.                      $ 2.59

1 box of chicken broth.                     $ 2.99

1 Rx for G0-lytely bowel prep after insurance copay.                                   $2.50

Look on my face after finishing the last¬†8 oz glass of that slimy, nasty, fake-ass-lime-flavored gallon of Nagasaki-in-a-bottle, that I had to¬†drink¬†every 15 minutes for almost 3 hours, to clean out my colon, so the doctor can feed some “flexible” scope the entire length of my colon tomorrow morning………..

priceless.

(There better be a gold star in this for me somewhere, because that Go-lytely did NOT go lightly)


Stop with the macram√©

Grelotredstamina

I live in a GLBT¬†nexus¬†here in the¬†Pioneer Valley and I love the diversity. ūüŹ≥ÔłŹ‚ÄćūüĆą

Public same sex¬†kissing and¬†afffection¬†is an abundant eye candy, you¬†don’t find most places.

If it wasn’t for my repressive Catholic upbringing I may have even been bisexual, by now.

I love freedom of expression and I embrace diversity.

That said, one thing I hate is when your freedom of expression interferes with my freedom to breathe.

You granola-earthy-crunchy-pot-smokin-bitches deciding to make an art project and braid your armpit hair into some sort of macramé thing, needs to stop.

Can you not smell yourself?

I mean when you have a colony of circus¬†fleas taking up residence on you, there’s something very wrong.

Get acquainted with a razor and cut that bush back.

And while you’re at it, get a bar of soap and bathe,¬†’cause ya smell, and it‚Äôs not good.

I’m not sure if it’s¬†your diet of¬†tofu and garlic. ¬†Are you trying to ward off vampires? ’cause girl your warding off everyone around you.¬† Hell it’s causing a gag reflex when I even sit near you. ¬† Honestly,¬†one would¬†have to be in such a dope induced haze, not to be close to you and¬†not¬†notice the smell.

And it’s not just¬†the garlic, that smell….its intermingled with sweat , sex , and a pot cloud that hasn’t been washed off in weeks.

The patchouli oil you wear does it no justice.  It only adds a dirt smell into the mix.  It can’t cover the buds you’ve been smokin’ and the smegma in yer panties.

Remember.  Soap.  It’s does the body good.

Rant over.


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