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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.

Never Do Karaoke Drunk

Let me tell you a story. A story about why I don’t do karaoke drunk. One night Jenna decided at the last minute that she was going to host an impromptu Girl’s Night for several mom’s. It had been a helacious few weeks for several of us and we really need the break. She invited our usual partners in crime- Kari, Hanna and Cat- plus 2 other women that she knew from work who I am quite confident will never go out with us again. We planned to go out to dinner and see a movie. You know, a typical low key, mature mom’s night out. Well, anytime Jenna is involved plans tend to go awry….quickly and often with disastrous consequences. That night was no exception.

The evening started out innocently enough, we all met at a local bar. Jenna chose the bar, which should have been my first clue. Apparently she heard that they offer karaoke and thought it sounded like fun. Well, as we soon found out- let’s just say they cater to men, if you get my drift. We arrived before it got busy. We sat at a table, not the bar. Not sure why that point matters, but I feel I must point it out- especially considering how the night ended. Anyhoo, I was on my best behavior and only ordered one drink….at a time. We were a fun bunch! We ate dinner with minimal outbursts of laughter, had a few more drinks and flirted with the guys at the next table. Cat is a loud gal with an ample cleavage and a small shirt. She hit on at least a gazillion men through out the evening and she always started with “Well bless your heart sugar.” Don’t let the Southern Lady act fool you, that chick can knock back some tequila shooters.

By the time the karaoke started, we were well on our way to feeling no pain. I, in general, think that karaoke is a bad idea and when you’re drunk- it should be illegal. There is not enough alcohol in the entire state to get me up on a stage to sing, ain’t gonna happen folks. The same cannot be said for Kari, Cat and Jenna however. They stumbled up on the stage, still holding their drinks while Hanna and I contemplated the wisdom of running for the door. The dude on stage tried to get them to put their drinks down and he almost lost an eye when Cat waved her hand in his face with her 2 inch long red nails. In fear for his life, he let them keep the drinks. After several moments of studying the song list they were ready. They each took a microphone and started dancing before the music even started. It all went downhill from there. They chose to sing “It’s Raining Men”……in a gay bar…..sigh….Everyone seemed to be enjoying the drunken performance- or at least nobody was throwing half eaten burgers at their heads. Then it happened.

Cat tripped over her own drunken feet and in her desperate attempt to not fall on her ass, she latched on to Kari. All this did, was drag them both down off the stage. They landed ass first on top of a table of 5 men. Kari slid boneless to the floor but Cat landed in the lap of one of the men. In an effort to keep from falling in the floor, she grabbed onto the first available item to haul herself back up. Unfortunately, that item was attached to some guy’s lap. He shrieked and jumped about a foot in the air, but Cat held on like she was riding a mechanical bull and going for the 8 second count. When this poor man finally unlatched her hand from his crotch, she fell flat on her face on the floor. She jumped up screaming “I love weiner. I’m a weiner lover.” Sigh….you just can’t take us anywhere.

Jenna is laughing so hard that she wet her pants, which just made her laugh even harder. Poor Hanna looked ready to crawl under a table to avoid being seen with us, her face was bright red and she refused to look up from her basket of french fries. Jenna finally stumbled off stage and headed for the restroom, to dry her pants no doubt, and the next karaoke duo bounced up on stage. And I do mean bounced up on stage. One guy wearing leather chaps and a matching newsboy cap and the other one wearing a shirt so pink that it could be mistaken for peptobismol. They sang “Girls just want to have fun” while slow dancing. I kid you not.

We finally stumbled out to our car around 1am after spending just enough time in this bar to remind these guys why they are gay. One of the other women- whose name I cannot remember- was the DD for the evening. She had a Lexus, she also married a very rich very old man. Jenna proceeded to plop her pee covered butt right on the plush seats. And she didn’t just sit there, she wiggled around. Sigh….you really can’t take us anywhere. When we finally pulled in front of Jenna’s house and she got out, there was a nice wet butt print on the car seat- which sent Cat and me into gales of hysterical laughter. Sigh…

I woke up the next morning with the mother of all hangovers and smelling like I took a bath in tequila. Matt took great delight in making as much noise as possible. But at least I woke up in the house. I had a message on my phone from Mr. Jenna wanting to know why his wife was sleeping on the front lawn. We have sworn off tequila forever. Tequila is bad.

Tequila is the devil.

Why I Don’t Belong To A Gym

Let me tell you a story. Call it a detour into sheer insanity. Call it a weak moment. Call it pure dumb ass stupidity. Whatever you want to call it, let me tell you about the time I let my better judgement fly out the window and I accepted an invitation. An invitation to what, you may ask?

An invitation to The Seventh Circle of Hell.

One of the nice new mom’s that I met in our neighborhood invited me. At least I thought she was nice. Turns out she’s really a sadistic bitch in cute shoes who lives to torture unsuspecting fools. In my defense, she called early in the morning before I had my required infusion of caffeine needed for making coherent decisions. Before I knew what had happened, I had agreed to join the New Mommy’s Get Fit Club.

What the hell is that?

Apparently a local gym agreed to provide memberships to the Get Fit Club for free in return for some advertising. The only catch is that The Club must have at least 15 members and they must work out together at least once a week. So the president of The Stupid Suckers Club was recruiting idiots members to join her in the weekly torture. Heaven help me, I agreed. Moments after I got off the phone, I was horrified at what I had done. So I called Jenna and conned her into joining us. Well I didn’t really con her, I threatened to chop off her ponytail and completely remove her eyebrows while she slept if she didn’t come with me. Hey, she still owes me for the early morning yard sale marathon. Terrified at the thought of short boy cut hair and no eyebrows, she reluctantly decided to join me. Now I should mention that I abhor exercise. I. Hate. It. I played soccer for so many years that I figure I did enough exercise for a lifetime already. I haven’t set foot in a gym in years and the only way you’ll see me running is if someone is chasing me. With a car.

So the morning of torture arrives and I reluctantly drag my ass out of bed and pick up Jenna on the way cause I knew she’d never show up if left on her own. I wish I had a picture of the get-up Jenna came out of the house wearing. Black stretch leggings under a huge white t-shirt proclaiming Life’s a Bitch, hot pink legwarmers with white skulls, her orange Nike’s and her hair pulled up into a ponytail with a huge scrunchie. Helloooo 1985! I’m pretty sure she was making a statement. Or maybe she thought I would be embarrassed to be seen with her in that outfit. Ha! Nothing embarrasses me, I have kids.

I laughed all the way to the gym in my black yoga suit and staid white Sketchers. The other members of The
Get Fit Club were already there and had already decided on a plan of action for the first day. Spinning. Jenna and I shared a look of horror. She tried to weasel out of it by claiming she had cramps but changed her mind when I renewed my boy hair and no eyebrows threat. You should have seen us as we were led into the spinning class. We looked like death row inmates heading to the gas chamber. Shuffling, trying to walk as slowly as possible, dreading what was coming next. We purposefully chose to be in the back of the room, as far away from the instructor as possible.

I knew immediately that this was not a class I was going to enjoy. In fact, I wasn’t even sure I would survive this class. Jenna and I were directly behind two of the skinniest bitches present. You know the type- hair perfectly highlighted and styled, tanned, doesn’t need any make up, not an ounce of fat anywhere….I. Hate. Them. They spinned their little hearts out while Jenna and I just tried not to die. I don’t even think those bitches were sweating. Meanwhile, Jenna and I looked like we were being drenched with rain from that black cloud of doom that follows us around. The class was 45 minutes long. 45 minutes of hell. 45 minutes of praying not to fall sideways off that bike into a heap on the floor.

Finally it was over. We survived…..barely. The skinny bitches hopped off their bikes and sauntered to the locker room, patting their brow for nonexistent sweat beads. Jenna and I huffed and puffed, bent over double, leaning on each other for support as we staggered towards the door. It took us awhile to make it to the locker room, what with having to stop so we could wheeze in another breath every few feet. We eventually made it to the locker room where we collapsed onto the benches as the skinny bitches paraded around in their cute little thong panties. Did I mention that I. Hate. Them.

Jenna and I recuperated on the benches for a good half an hour before we could muster up enough energy to stand up. Unfortunately we underestimated the side effects of 45 minutes of spinning class on out of shape leg muscles. Have you ever seen a newborn foal try to walk on wobbly, uncoordinated legs? That was us as we staggered around, legs muscles shaking and knees buckling with every step. Finally we accepted that neither one of us was going to be able to drive home and Jenna called her husband to come get us. Mr. Jenna arrived within a few minutes and helped us both out to the car, shaking his head all the way. He’s very used to the bizarre situations we seem to find ourselves in more often than not and he rarely says a word anymore. We lay in the backseat, moaning and groaning and cursing the sadistic bastard who invented Spinning class while Mr. Jenna drove, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter.

And on the way home we made him take us through the drive thru at Krispy Kreme. We earned a donut this morning!