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Can I Have Fries With That Attitude?

I need to bitch for a moment. Please keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times during this rant. Thank you. I picked Maia up from preschool today and in order to put a stop to the incessant whining and begging, I agreed to go to McD’s for lunch. Please no hate mail. I’m aware that giving into the whining is bad parenting. You weren’t in the car having your ears assaulted by the shrieking, so stuff it.

I get to McD’s and wait in the usual 30 minute line for the drive-thru because I’m lazy and don’t want to go inside, where the whining will start again when she sees the indoor germ breeding farm playground. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with this particular McD’s. They are S-L-O-W like molasses! And rude. Don’t even get me started on the level of rudeness that these idiots display. Every time I bite my tongue to keep from screaming out at them: I understand that your job sucks. I understand that you go home at night smelling like old french fries. I understand that your paycheck barely covers the rent on your government subsidized housing and consequently there isn’t enough left over for toothpaste. I get that. But let’s not take it out on the world at large, m’kay? I just want my freaking double cheeseburger with a medium fries and hold the attitude. I want to scream this, but I refrain. I don’t want to come home and find some special sauce on my burger, if you know what I mean. It just chaps my ass that they can’t even acknowledge your presence at the window. Is it too much to ask for a “Hi. That will be $14.07 please.” Side note- $14 at McD’s, that’s madness. Things did not go smoothly today at good ole McD’s. First there was the whole wait-in-line-for-30-damn-minutes thing, then I finally make my way up to the little intercom to order. The screen that displays your order is broken. I know what this means. It means that my order is going to be wrong. I speak slowly and clearly, as though giving my order to a child. Then I wait. And wait.

Finally I hear “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” For Real? I repeat it. S-L-O-W-L-Y and C-L-E-A-R-L-Y. Then I wait. And wait.

And I hear “Did you say a large coffee?”. What the HELL?! No, you over-paid ass clown. I repeated that I wanted a small strawberry milkshake. Small. Strawberry. Milkshake. “We don’t have strawberry, only vanilla.”

God in Heaven, take me now. Just take me.

I finally finish my order, hear her repeat it back to me and know that it does not matter. It will be wrong when I receive it. I know this. I’ve accepted that this is a test of my ability to control my temper. God is testing me. I really wish he didn’t have so much faith in me. We wait another 20 minutes in between placing our order and the first window. Twenty minutes. 2-0. Insanity. Mase is screaming, Maia is screaming, and I’ve developed a tic in my left eye. Maybe it’s an aneurysm. I should only be so lucky. I finally make it up to pay and hand over my check card. The lady stares at it for a minute then looks back at me. What the HELL? It’s a check card. You swipe it through the little machine and it will pay for my food. Just like magic. Except…

Our credit card machine is broke. We can only take cash.”  I stared at her expectantly, waiting for her to laugh and say Just Kidding. She didn’t. The tic was getting worse. Maybe it’s a brain hemorrhage.

I had to ask. “How long has the credit card machine been broken?”.

“All day.” And with those two words, the tic migrated over to my right eye as well.

“Am I being punked? Where’s Ashton?” She looked confused. Apparently there’s no cable television in her government subsidized housing. Good.

“So, like, do you have cash or what?”.  She actually looked irritated.

“I’m confused as to why I waited 30 minutes to place my order, then it took another 10 minutes for you to get my order right. Then I had to wait another 20 minutes to get to this window. And not one time. NOT ONE DAMN TIME did anyone say anything about the credit card machine being broke. Why is that? WHY IS THAT?”.  I barely even took a breath while speaking, I was that pissed.

“I just told you.” She said it and then she smiled.  She smiled.

I had to take a deep breath and say a little prayer that her blood spatter wouldn’t stain my seats when I committed homicide. “Yes you did. Now let me tell you a little something. How hard would it be to march your over-paid ass out to the intercom and put up a little sign letting people know that your credit card machine is broken? Would that be hard? You could have somebody else spell the big words for you. I’d be happy to spell a few words for you right now. Wanna hear them?”

“‘Scuse me?” She really looked offended.

“Did I stutter? Did. I. Stutter? I understand that this is probably going to be your career, and that sucks for you. Don’t take it out on the rest of us.”

“You need to take your little screaming brats home and get out of my line.” Then she flicked one of her fingernails at me.

I didn’t yank her head through the window and separate her weave from her head. I wanted to. Boy did I want to. But in my county you can only take those Anger Management classes once per year to get out of a conviction for misdemeanor assault. And let’s face it- the year is young my friends, the year is young. So I settled for rolling up my window when her hand came out to give me back my check card. It wasn’t my fault that her 5 inch long fake fingernail got caught in the window. It certainly wasn’t my fault that she yanked her hand back and ripped the fake nail off. Not my fault at all. But it did make me smile.

She started it. Ass Clown.

It’s A Southern Thing

You know that old saying “You can take the girl out of the South but you can’t take the South out of the girl?” Well, it’s true my friends. And make no mistake about it- I am a Southern girl. And proud of it. I know what ya’ll are thinking. I might be a good Southern girl, but unfortunately my inner diva, Buffy, is not. As a good Southern girl I believe in turning the other cheek. Buffy, on the other hand, believes in a bitch slap for a bitch slap.

I got into a little bit of a tiff this weekend with a lady who lives down the street from us. They just moved into the neighborhood and they are obviously not from the South. They have a daughter about Maia’s age and I thought it would be nice to go and introduce them to each other. Being the Southern gal that my mama raised me to be, I took a housewarming gift. I chose a very pretty plant garden in a gorgeous bowl. We walked down the street and Maia rang the doorbell. She was so excited to meet the little girl. While waiting for someone to answer the door, I heard yelling from inside the house. Lots of yelling. With some naughty words thrown in. By this point, I’m looking around trying to decide if it’s too late to run away. A second later the door is thrown open and all that I could do was smile and say “Welcome to the neighborhood.” I introduced myself and Maia and handed her the plant garden. She took it with a most distasteful look on her face. Who doesn’t like a plant garden? Seriously.

“We don’t like plants in the house. They’re messy.”

Wow. I was shocked. Talk about no manners. I stared at her for a moment, not quite sure how to respond to that. Maia chose that moment to speak up and ask where the little girl was and if she could play with her. The mom actually stepped outside so she could close the door behind her. Oh. My. Word. Then she said,

“No offense, but I choose my daughter’s friends carefully. I don’t want her growing up to be a plastic Barbie doll, prom queen.”

What the hell? No offense? You’re calling my kid a plastic barbie doll and you don’t mean any offense? Oh, it’s on bitch. So I responded (well, really Buffy did but I’ll take credit) “That’s okay, really. I’m pretty choosy about my daughter’s playmates as well. Just based on meeting you, I don’t think they’ll be spending any time together.”  And the bitch came back with “I just don’t believe in that Southern girl crap. I want my kid to know that she can do anything she wants, be anything she wants. She doesn’t have to be this little cookie-cutter, Martha Stewart wanna-be homemaker.”


She continued with “I mean, no offense or anything.”

To which I had to reply “Oh, of course, no offense taken. I don’t mind being called a cookie-cutter Martha Stewart wanna-be homemaker. No more than you should mind being called a Tasteless, Low Class, Misogynistic disgrace to the neighborhood….but no offense intended. So please, feel free to go back to screaming at your family at the top of your lungs. The rest of us will just pretend we don’t hear you and hope our children don’t repeat any of the words from your extensive four letter vocabulary. Classy!”

I retrieved my nice plant garden, grabbed Maia‘s hand and marched off that porch. Halfway down the driveway, Maia said: “Mama, I don’t think I want to play with that little girl. Her mommy is really rude.”

Out of the mouths of babes. At least my daughter is being raised properly- with manners and class. Plastic barbie doll, my ass.


Today I have a lovely plant garden on my dining room table and it’s serving to remind me that I am proud to be a Southern woman. It’s also reminding me that the next thing I leave on my new neighbor’s doorstep will be in a brown paper bag and quite possibly will also be on fire.


20 very interesting, enormously important facts about me.

1-Were you named after anybody: Yes. I’m named after my grandmother on my mom’s side. Coincidentally, my aunt is also named after my grandmother. Very interesting at holiday gatherings- never knew who people were yelling at.

2- What’s your favorite lunch meat: Roasted chicken breast, thinly sliced.

3- If you were another person, would you be friends with you: Hell yeah! I’m awesome, who wouldn’t want to be my friend?

4- Do you use sarcasm alot: Who moi? Never. Sarcasm is a state of mind. Punks.

5- What is your favorite cereal: Cinnamon Toast Crunch, hands down!

6- What is your favorite ice cream: Mint Chocolate Chip

7- Do you think you are strong: Physically or mentally? I guess I’m strong physically…for a chick. I know I’m strong mentally. You have to be to put with all the shit that comes with adopting from foster care.

8- What is your least favorite thing about yourself: Just one? I’m a huge procrastinator. Like HUGE. Like REALLY HUGE. I’m also kind of bitchy…but I kind of like that about myself.

9- What was the last thing you ate: Jack in the Box plain hamburger with tomato and some curly fries….I know, how boring. But I’m still nursing my son and he’s severely lactose intolerant. So nothing yummy for me for another few months.

10- If you were a crayon, what color would you be: Hmmm. I’d be Red. But my kids like red so they’ve probably stepped on me a few times, now I have a huge crack in the middle and my lower half is just hanging there waiting to be torn the rest of the way off. Screw it- I’ll be that funky marigold yellow, my kids hate that color.

11- What is your favorite scent: Harvest spice, pumpkin, anything autumn.

12- Favorite sports to watch: NFL Football, College Basketball, National Team Soccer(men and women). I’m a cool wife- crack me a beer and hand me a pom pom.

13- What is your hair color: My real one? It’s been so long, I can’t remember….some shade of brown…

14- Do you prefer scary movies or happy ending movies: Toss up. My life is a scary movie. I hate sappy ending movies, I always wind up wanting to bitch slap the whiny main character. If you’re in the theater and hear a chick screaming “Pull up your big girl panties and shut the hell up”….well, it’s probably me.

15- What is your favorite food: Grilled sweet potato smothered in butter, caramel sauce, marshmallows and brown sugar. My mouth is watering and my jeans are getting tighter just thinking about it.

16- What is the last movie you watched: Wall-e….I don’t remember the last grown up movie I watched…

17- Do you prefer summer or winter: Neither. Hate to be hot, hate to be cold. I like spring and fall, but definitely prefer fall the most with all the purty colored leaves.

18- What is your favorite dessert: I have a sweet tooth, I like them all. But my absolute favorite that I would kill for is Egg Custard Pie. I haven’t had one in YEARS because not only is my kid lactose intolerant, I am too.

19- What is your favorite book: I have a few favorite series. The In Death series by J.D. Robb is a definite favorite of mine. It’s Nora Roberts writing as J.D. Robb and the main character, Eve, is JUST LIKE ME! I want to be her when I grow up. Plus she’s married to a smokin‘ hot Irishman and who can resist that? My other fav series is the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich. If you like to laugh out loud while you’re reading, this is the series for you. Stephanie Plum is a bounty hunter….a really bad one. She has 2 love interests- Joe, the hot sexy cop and Ranger, the smokin‘ hot bounty hunter extraordinaire. Hmmmm, handcuff me baby!

20- What are your favorite TV shows: Dora, Max and Ruby, Backyardigans, Wonder Pets….wait, those aren’t my favorite shows. They’re just the shows I actually get to watch without interruption. Insert sarcastic eye roll here. MY favorite shows are True Blood on HBO, Criminal Minds, Sons of Anarchy, Army Wives…..I might watch too much TV.

So there you go, 20 previously unknown facts about me! Now wasn’t that interesting?

Repair Men Should Fear Me

Let me tell you a story. About the day the air conditioning decided to go kaput. Why did it go kaput, you ask?! Because that day was roughly the same temperature as the surface of the damn sun, that’s why. Seriously, it was supposed to be 103 degrees that day, at only 10am it was already 88 degrees in our house. I gave serious consideration to becoming a nudist. The kids were all lying around looking shell shocked at the lack of cool air. And of course, it was my day to host playgroup. Jenna was the only one who still came after I made the ‘it’s hotter than hell in my house’ phone calls. She suggested that I call Matt. His response- “Call the repair man.” Thanks for the help Matt.

See, here’s how it works in our house. If an appliance breaks- Matt deals with it. If the water heater floods- Matt deals with it. If a baby is shooting puke out of one end and shit out the other- I deal with it. If I forget dinner is on the stove and start a small kitchen fire- I deal with it….well technically the fire department deals with it- Station 9 has a real quick response time and some total hotties working there(which has nothing at all to do with why we’ve had 3 small kitchen fires in the past year). I digress….

So, what I’m trying to say here is that Matt does appliance and household issues. I do baby clean up and start fires. I am unequipped to deal with repair men, I don’t speak stupid and it seems that the repair men who come to my house are the epitome of stupid. I think Matt hires them that way so he can get an afternoon of entertainment, watching them try to fix shit while he sits back and drinks beer. I, on the other hand, find nothing entertaining about a grown man who speaks entirely in grunts and feels the need to show his ass crack to the world. Sigh….Anyhoo, Matt gave me the number of the AC repair man and wished me good luck. I swear I heard him chuckling as he hung up the phone. Bastard.

“Hullo, this is ABC Repair(name changed to prevent a lawsuit). Can I help you?”

“Yes, my AC has gone out and I wanted to schedule a time for repair.”

All-righty, I can schedule you for a service date next Thursday at 10am.”

“Seriously? By next Thursday we’ll all be basted, roasted and ready to eat.”

“Well that is the first available time ma’am.”

“Are you sure? Cause if I recall correctly, you people were just out here to repair our AC less than 2 months ago. Apparently you did a shitty job because it’s broken again. Now, why don’t you check your schedule again before I get pissed.”

“Ma’am, I’ve already told you…”

“Now let me tell YOU something- if you can’t find a repair man to come out here to my damn house today, preferably before it reaches 103 degrees indoors, to fix my damn AC then I will be forced to drag my ass down to your office and let me tell you something- you don’t want me to have to come down there.”

Ummmm, hold please.”

10 minutes of bad hold music…….

“Ma’am, a repair man can be there today at around 11am.”

“Thanks, I look forward to seeing his ass crack. Have a nice day.”

So we waited…..and waited and finally just as we were nearing heat stroke of epic proportions, the repair man showed up, complete with ass crack showing. Sigh….I showed him where the AC unit was and left him to do his thing. I think 11 seconds elapsed before I heard him calling for me. I walked in and was greeted by ass crack. If they’re going to show some ass crack, the least they can do is be worthy of eye candy status. Sigh….

Ass Crack Charlie: Missy, I think this here unit is just shot.

Me: What does that mean in English?

Ass Crack Charlie: Well, you might need to replace the entire unit. It’s leaking from the BLAH BLAH BLAH….(I stopped paying attention at the first BLAH- I don’t speak appliance repair)

Me: How much is a whole new unit?

Ass Crack Charlie: Probly somewhere round near $11,000. Scratching his ass crack and then his head.

Me: 11,000 damn dollars?! That better come with a hot, half naked man to fan me while feeding me grapes.

Ass Crack Charlie: Grunt. Grunt.

At this point my neighbor Chelley, who had arrived sometime in the previous few minutes and was watching with Jenna from the doorway, made a small noise of distress, gave herself the sign of the cross and left the room quickly. She knew, she could see what was going to happen. I could see it in her eyes- she was envisioning me chasing Ass Crack Charlie down the damn street with a wrench. She didn’t want to have to testify against me in court.

Me: Well, I’m calling Matt and you can explain all this to him.

Ass Crack Charlie: Grunt, grunt.

I called Matt and after gracing him with a few choice words, let him deal with Ass Crack Charlie. The conversation took less than 5 minutes and then Ass Crack Charlie hung up chuckling. What the hell?! Are they long lost friends now or is it some weird testosterone thing? I left the room, shaking my head and muttering obscenities about men and their stupid repair monkey’s.

Not even 15 minutes later, Ass Crack Charlie appeared in the doorway.

Ass Crack Charlie: All done. It’s a workin just fine now.

Me: I thought you said we needed a whole new system for $11,000!

Ass Crack Charlie: Laugh…grunt, grunt.

Me: Let me guess. You saw a woman, figured I was stupid and you tried to screw me. Son of a BITCH!

Ass Crack Charlie took one look at my face and took off out the door with me in hot pursuit, wielding a wooden spoon like a samurai sword. Never have you seen an over-weight redneck’s ass crack run so fast. I’m no longer allowed within 500 feet of Ass Crack Charlie. Bastard.

The Reason There’s No Dog Poo On My Walkway

Let me tell you a story. It’s not a story for the faint of heart. Right after we moved into our house I became friends with a neighbor, Chelley. She’s fun in a less psychotic way than Jenna. Having Chelley as a neighbor turned out to be the very best thing that could have happened on our street. She sees the humor in situations the same way I do. Of course I do see her shake her head, give herself the sign of the cross and mutter in tongues occasionally but that’s to be expected around our house. She’s positively unflappable, a great character trait to possess when dealing with our family. Lesser people would have been driven insane by now, Chelley just takes it all in stride. Which is good thing, considering how my morning started out one particular day.

I should start by telling you that I have a long standing feud with the jerks who live down the street. We live in a nice neighborhood, gated and fairly affluent. The kind of neighborhood where it is not acceptable to allow your mangy little mutt to take a dump on your neighbor’s walkway every freakin’ morning. This had been going on for over a year before the fateful day. I had written nice notes, I had called the city, I had begged the homeowner’s association….that little mutt still took a dump on my walkway every single morning. This particular morning however, was the last straw. I was running late for a hair appointment and rushing out the door. I was busy trying to dial my phone and wasn’t watching where I was going. One second I was walking, the next second I was flat on my butt on the front walkway.

I sat there for a moment, shell shocked and confused. Then the smell hit me. Dog Crap. I looked around but didn’t see anything. Of course I didn’t- cause I was sitting on it. Apparently I made the grand mistake of actually setting foot onto my own front walkway without scanning for piles of dog crap first. My high heel hit the shit and then the shit hit the fan. After gingerly moving my extremities to make sure nothing was broken, I levitated levered myself off the ground in a full rage. Chelley, who was drinking coffee on her front porch, looked horrified and was crossing herself so fast that her right arm was a blur. Quivering with rage, I surveyed the damage. My fabulous new shoes- the left one was covered in dog crap and the right one was all scuffed up from the fall. My purse had splatters of dog crap all over the front and my skirt was coated in a layer of crap. I just bought this skirt. I paid way too much for it because I fell in love with the way the skirt made my backside look great and the top that matched conceals the floatation devices on my chest. Now it was covered in dog poo. I could actually feel the smoke coming out of my ears, I thought that was just a myth- it’s not. I stared down at the smeared dog poo on my front walkway for a moment before taking off across the lawn towards the neighbor’s house. Of course, by the time I arrived on their front stoop my poo covered shoes were decorated with bits of wet grass because I neglected to take into account that wet grass sticks to dog poo. Lovely.

I bypassed the doorbell, opting to beat on the front door with my shit covered shoes fists instead. I waited, tapping my crap covered shoe on the stoop. A few minutes later the door was thrown open by the man of the house, and I use the term man VERY loosely here people. Girlyman Greg is about 5 foot 6, weighs slightly more than his poodle and uses terms like “dah-ling”. His wife-Lumberjack Laura- is around 6 foot 3, weighs slightly less than a killer whale and has more facial hair than a Sasquatch. A match made in heaven.
Anyhoo, Girlyman Greg answered the door holding the poodle, who I could have sworn was smiling at me. I find it slightly obscene that this poodle has a better wardrobe than I do. On that particular day she was wearing a hot pink leopard print dress complete with taffeta ruffles and a rhinestone studded collar. What the hell?! They do know this a DOG, don’t they? If I was this animal, I would so totally throw myself under the wheels of a large SUV just to escape the indignity of wearing a hot pink taffeta ruffled dress. Seriously folks, what is the world coming to here? I digress…

Girlyman Greg: Can I help you with something?

Me: Your freakin dog left crap on my door step this morning. How many times do we have to have this discussion?

Girlyman Greg: Dah-ling, I think Lola just loves your yard. She’s makes a beeline for it every morning. I just can’t run fast enough to catch up to her.

Me: Perhaps you should consider wearing something other than spandex bicycle shorts, they are obviously restricting blood flow to your legs and slowing you down. I swear, if you don’t keep that fluff, taffeta wearing rat off my property I’m going to be forced to take desperate measures.

Girlyman Greg: Are you threatening Lola?

Me: Nope. I’m threatening YOU. Keep that damn dog off my property.

I turned around to march back to my house and the heel broke off my shoe. Fantastic. So instead of the dignified exit that I had planned, I limped back to my house with my head held high. I was late to my hair appointment, had to reschedule and pay a $35 cancellation fee.  My hairstylist refused to accept my dog crap on my front stoop story and took no pity on me. I spent the rest of the day plotting the demise of my neighbor.

When I arrived home I had finally calmed down to almost see the humor in what had happened that morning. I stepped out of the car and as I walked up to my door I saw it. A huge, fresh pile of steaming dog crap. Right in front of my front door. You have to be kidding me!! That was the last last straw. The war had begun. I let loose with a stream of curse words that had Chelley, who was again drinking on her front porch, crossing herself and muttering in tongues. She knew that hell hath no fury like a woman with dog crap covered shoes. As she left for the grocery store, she slipped me a 50 dollar bill with the instructions to put it towards my bail. I love that woman.

I had a plan. A good plan. A plan that required the help of friends who are just as unbalanced as myself. I called Jenna and Kari for back up. I really wish Matt had taken a picture of the 3 of us that night, but he refused to get involved- plausible deniability or some such shit like that. Anyhoo, we waited until after dark. Dressed all in black, carrying a small brown paper bag, we crept over to the neighbor’s house. Not exactly stealth-like considering Jenna fell over a bush and Kari twisted her ankle in a hole. Sigh…we waited in the bushes until we were sure that all was quiet on the block. Then, heart pounding and palms sweating, I crab walked up to the front door. Incidentally, nobody ever told me how hard it is to crab walk up the sidewalk. My thighs were burning by the time I reached the front door. I placed the crap filled paper bag on the doorstep, lit that puppy on fire and rang the door bell. Then I took off running like a bat out of hell, laughing hysterically all the way and dive rolling over the bush to join Jenna and Kari. Together we crouched behind the bush, giggling like school girls, waiting for the show. We didn’t have to wait long. A few seconds later, the door was flung open and Girlyman Greg stood there. We heard a shriek, then “Son of a bitch” and saw Girlyman Greg stamp out the fire with his flip flop. Oh it just doesn’t get any better than that. Crap flew out of the bag and covered his foot. Sweet! Jenna was laughing so hard she could barely hold the video camera steady. Kari fell over laughing and tinkled in her pants. I watched in open mouthed delight as Girlyman Greg hopped around on one foot, hot crap dripping off the other one. Revenge is sweet my friends. We sat and watched, bodies shaking with silent laughter, until Girlyman Greg went back inside and slammed the door.

He took his crapping little dog to someone else’s house the next morning.