Did you really just ask me the same question twice, even with me answering it already? Did you?
It’s not like it’s been a day and you forgot this info. That I would forgive. But when I tell you one thing and then you ask me the SAME THING LITERALLY 30 SECONDS LATER, I am fucking done.
OH WAIT NOW YOU’VE ASKED FOR THE SAME THING THREE TIMES WHEN I GAVE YOU THE ANSWER ALREADY AND SERIOUSLY, I’M NOT SURE YOU UNDERSTAND THAT NAME-DROPPING WILL NOT HAVE THE DESIRED OUTCOME YOU THINK IT DOES
So I kind of woke up on the wrong side of everything today, and while this isn’t your fault exclusively, you are now making it your problem. Reading, as they say, is fundamental. At least admit you didn’t just read what I wrote. Admit it. Before I figure out where you’re at and drive an ice pick through your ear.
I know I can’t live in an idyllic paradise with fountains of scotch and hills made of cheesecake, but fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I promise to use less words next time.
The One in the Dark Office in the Corner Who Loathes Your Mere Existence
I’ve been saving this story for y’all. Merry Giving of the Thanks! Enjoy your foul.
Now that I’ve retired from roller derby (a subject to be tackled later with a box of wine, a stack of kleenex and less jokes than usual at my dispense), I’m left with a fairly large amount of time on my hands. Time, mind you, that has been used so far to a) watch the movie “Pitch Perfect” four times in a row, and b) cook food. Cooking food equals dishes, pots, and pans. All these items must be cleaned after usage.
Which leads to about the best, most exciting evening ever. You too could share an evening like this. With me. Step into my glamorous life for five minutes (or less). That’s about how long it might take you to read this, and almost as long as it took for this particular enchanted evening I’m about to relate to you, dear readers, to unfold.
It was a Thursday evening, and there wasn’t a thing that was remarkable about this magical Thursday, except that I was left to my own devices for dinner and entertainment. The “entertainment” I chose was to finish up some work, which is hardly amusing. After setting up my laptop in my cozy little place in the kitchen, I decided to procrastinate a little longer on the festivities that awaited me and do the washing up resulting from my lonely dinner (which was probably some form of chicken and/or pasta, because I’m inventive like that.)
So I am doing the dishes, and I have let my adorable and lovable terrier, Mister William Wallace, out in the backyard to do whatever it is he does out there. I look out the screen door, and lo and behold, it appears as if he is, at this particular moment, doing something that he should not be doing, as he is chewing mightily upon something. THERE IS NOTHING TO EAT OUTSIDE, Dog. What is it you have??? My curiosity is now piqued. I dry off my hands and go to put shoes (well, Crocs, which are totes not shoes) on my unshod feet. I need shoes because whatever it is might be gross. I leave the sink area…OH WAIT. Now might be a really good time to draw you a picture of my kitchen. You know how I likes to draw.
As you can see, my kitchen looks relatively harmless. What about now? Do you see any potential “issues”?
So on the way to put on my shoes, these things happen in this order:
1) Trip over laptop cord.
2) Laptop and 30-lb wood cutting board crash to the tile floor.
3) I fall in to the corner of the METAL TABLE that, not shown in the picture, houses all of our liquor.
4) Ribs subsequently feel giant rush of pain.
5) 3 bottles of alcohol careen to tile floor.
6) A lid pops off of the bottle of kirsch that I’ve used exactly one time, immediately filling the room with the scent of alcoholic fruit.
7) None of the bottles actually break.
8) I lay on floor for about 30 seconds in amazement at the entire progression of events.
BUT OH SHIT THE DOG IS STILL EATING SOMETHING BUT FIRST I NEED TO CLEAN UP THIS CHERRY LIQUEUR FOR REAL
I grab the roll of paper towels, look out the door, see the dog is still furiously chomping away, and get back to soaking up alcohol. Throw paper towels away. NOW GO OUTSIDE.
IT IS A TOAD. A GIANT FUCKING TOAD THAT IS ONLY PARTIALLY DEAD. Because this whole time (which has really only been about 90 seconds) he hasn’t been chewing it, per se. He’s been playing with it. With his grody dog mouth.
Which, you might think, is not a big deal. Except this dog has eaten toads before. And it has made him violently ill. SO NOW:
1) Yell at dog
2) Observe flopping toad
3) Turn on hose
4) Proceed to try to get dog to swallow water from hose, but really just end up hosing down dog’s face
5) Observe sad, wet dog
So NOW, I grab said Sad Wet Dog, dry him off, and take him inside and deposit him gently into the bathtub. Because if he’s going to vomit up some toad slime, experience tells me that this is the only place where it is acceptable. All over every rug in the house has already happened before. At this juncture, I’ve phoned my good friend and animal lover Daisy, because a) she needs desperately to hear about what just ensued and b) she can tell me if my dog might die and what I can do to prevent that from happening.
How the conversation really goes:
ME: HOLY SHIT YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE WHAT HAS AND IS HAPPENING WTF
HER: Um, maybe you should exaggerate more.
ME: I DON’T THINK YOU UNDERSTAND MY LEVEL OF TRAUMA RIGHT NOW IN FACT THERE ARE MULTIPLE LEVELS IT’S JUST LIKE INCEPTION BUT WITH WALLACE AND LIQUOR AND A FUCKING EXTENSION CORD
ME: IS MY DOG GOING TO DIE WHY DON’T YOU COME OVER HERE AND HELP MEEEEEE
HER: Is he vomiting? Are your ribs broken? Then maybe we should get past this part right here where I have to tell you to be a little less dramatic.
ME: WAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THANKS I AM SURE ALL WILL BE OK BYYYYEEEEEE
HER: You are a winner at life. I mean this literally. Don’t forget to go kill the toad in the kindest way possible.
ME: I WILL (hangs up and leaves Toad to die in yard alone)
Meanwhile, the dog is exhibiting zero signs of illness. He’s mostly confused, because he’s in the bathtub which he hates, he’s wet, which he hates, and evidently has now realized that he misses Toad. Because it’s his new mouf-buddy.
I check outside. Toad has ceased to flop. Which is good, because despite Daisy’s plea to humanely end this toad’s life, I AM NOT IN ANY WAY PUTTING MY HANDS NEAR A TOAD. Toad, if not dead, will be forced to die cruelly and slowly because of my irrational fear. Of toads and toad-related items.
Besides, HAVEN’T I GONE THROUGH ENOUGH ALREADY????
Dog did not die. Dog was fine. Toad did die. Sorry, Toad. I suffered a righteous bruise on my ribs for about 2 weeks.
Dudes. I am here on business. “But you live in Dallas, Stoney. Why is it such a big deal to be in Fort Worth?”
I WILL TELL YOU.
FIrst, the roads are colossally fucked, so why drive to Dallas only to sleep for less than 4 hours? Stupid.
It is 12:04am on what is technically a FrIday morning. I have spent my entire day in a 55-degree room. I ate lunch at 1pm. I AM STARVING. After arriving at my hotel that rhymes with something like “Sheridan” I am not only confronted with the bar having last call at 11:45, but more importantly and discovered after the fact, ALL THINGS IN TOWN STOP DELIVERY AT MIDNIGHT.
areeeeeeee you kidddddddding meeeeeeeee
I am very hungry and tired and cold. God bless the lobby, from which I extruded a turkey wrap after calling every pizza joint in town.
NEVER AGAIN, FORT WORTH!!! I will bring snax next time.
This was originally titled Monday: Please Choke on a Dick, but I figured that would only yield terrible (or AMAZING) search results for all of you.
My husband, when I’m sad or sullen, calls me Sunday Shawn. This derives from anticipating Monday. It starts usually about 3pm on Sunday. It is not necessarily always the case – yesterday was a good Sunday. So, Monday, I guess I should have been more sad-timez than I was, because you sure have shown me. Already. Asshole.
I woke up in a great mood, which is completely uncommon. I don’t understand, Monday. Why must you fuck with me? It started so well. Then, as I was happily eating my 1/2 sandwich for breakfast and packing away my cantaloupe for a snack, I feel a tickling in my nose. Oh, what is that? A bloody nose. Awesome. I wish I could blame all the blow I did last night (because that’s how Sunday nights roll in my hizzy), but no. There is no reason. Not a one. As soon as I finish dealing with that, I leave for work and attempt to get in my car to go, but first I must dodge a swarm of wasps and promptly get hit in the face with our errant yet timely sprinkler. Clean, clean, sprinkler water. Delicious.
Then I walk into work after somehow making it without getting run over by a cement truck, and am immediately called into a sky-is-falling meeting. Upon returning to my desk, an infuriating quarterly newsletter appears in my inbox that is Full of Misused Capitalizations, Punctuation Errors and Ridiculous Statements. It will take all the willpower I have to not spend the rest of the morning DISSECTING AND RIPPING APART this pathetic excuse for a newsletter. Breathe. Not my job. Calm down, English degree.
It is 10:35am, Monday. Please show some mercy. I’m eating cantaloupe, for Christ’s sake. ISN’T THAT ENOUGH DO-GOODING FOR THE DAY?
Evidently not. My friend just told me that she got in really late from a business thing in Vegas, got 2 hours of sleep, and her car wouldn’t start. Clearly, both our karmas suck.
Yeah, I know, November. Let’s all tell everyone what we’re grateful for this month! I’m totally doing that, I promise. But the world deserves balance, and I’m here to provide that shit. YOU’RE WELCOME.
10. Laundry. Come on, man. I have way better stuff to do. This takes up what seems to be half my life. I want Middle Ages. Cleaning clothes once a year. Sounds awesome. Smells not awesome. Fine. You win, stupid chore.
9. You’re, your, they’re, their, and every grammar mistake grown-ass people should have learned how to correct by now. Especially those who make 6-figure salaries. Hire a fucking editor to spellcheck your goddamn emails and newsletters. AREN’T YOU EMBARASSEDIMBARRASED – oh fuck it.
8. Not being Awesome at All The Things. I realize this is impractical and sets an impossible standard. But I do hate it. On the list it goes.
7. Being out of coffee. Although this probably ties with #1.
6. Clock Spider.
5. Lima Beans. They are gross.
4. The dentist. Look, she’s very nice, and my teeth are worth thousands of dollars. But if I don’t get the gas every time, just be prepared, lady, for the white-knuckle situation that’s about to ensue.
3. Nickleback. Not just today. Every day.
2. Entitled assholes who feel like the universe owes them cupcakes and SO MUCH MORE.
1. Sensor paper towel dispensers. I hate these. With my entire heart. So much.
Alright! Now back to superhappytime. I love EVERYONE! Have a great weekend!!!
It’s 7:05 am. My husband has just told me that for some inexplicable reason, our garage door is open. Not wide open, but like, person-crawling-in-size open, 3 feet off the ground.
I bolt out of my Hunger Games-reading stupor and say quietly, “what the fuck,” because this is exactly the way I need to be woken up on a Monday. Unfortunately, said husband is leaving for work. We both stand in the garage as if to say, SHOW YOURSELF MOTHERFUCKER!!! But alas, no one does. Husband moves to leave. “You’ll be ok,” he says winningly. “I put your .38 by your desk.” Somehow this is supposed to comfort me, and I guess it does a little, while I walk through the house turning on every light. This will be a non-showering day. Awesome.
Husband leaves. I proceed to do some dishes while my trusty Lady Smith sits beside me on the counter. I look out the front door when finished only to find that THE GARAGE DOOR IS NOW ALL THE WAY UP, WIDE OPEN.
There are only 2 possible reasons for this:
1) There may be someone in the neighborhood who has a garage door opener that is somehow on the same frequency (but this never really happens, does it)
2) SOMEONE WAS IN MY GARAGE.
Neither of these thoughts are comforting.
Did I mention that I have a broken leg? And that I have just quit smoking in the last week? I am the slowest and angriest person you have ever met. No matter. I proceed outside with phone and gun in hand, sort of trying to conceal it as there is a little old man walking his dog and I really don’t want to alarm him by looking insane. I stare into the garage like it holds some ancient mystery. Like the Ark of the Covenant is deep inside it. I am really just looking for evidence that someone has been up in here trying to steal our…our what? Our priceless bags of Salvation Army clothes? Our double-sink granite vanity that we will never install that weighs literally 500 pounds? Our two completely hideous Christmas trees? No sir, there is nothing in here for you. Trust me. While I’m standing outside the garage in my pajama pants holding a gun, I attempt to close the door by just reaching my hand inside and pushing the button. The door will not close completely though – when I press the button, it will get to the ground and then bounce back up like something is blocking its path. I decide to enter the dark and frightening chasm that is our garage. I close the door with the button again, this time holding the door down as it hits the ground. Mission accomplished, door fucking closed, may I go on with my Monday now? I HAVE NOT HAD COFFEE YET.
I text my husband to tell him the door was wide open. He phones immediately and I ask him if there is a way to secure the door. There is. I do it. He says:
“There are only two reasons this would happen.”
Yes, I am well aware. Happy anniversary, baby.
Well, if it’s reason number two, the killer/sink-and-Christmas-tree thief is gone now, and if not, he might as well come on inside. I’m a bundle of joy in the morning. And it’s a Monday. You just hit the jackpot, buddy.