Saturday, December 18, 2010

Fuck Healing

Healing is overrated. Cookies. I fucking HATE motherfucking goddamn fucking shit fucking cookies!

But it's not the cookies. It's the lack of sense of accomplishment, right?

No, it's the fucking cookies. Fucking those stupid fucking cookies!

What Jew motherfucker decided it was a good idea to make honey cut-outs? Seriously, WTF? And before I get accused of being an anti-Semite, they were fucking Hanukkah cookies!! OK?!?! Obviously that recipe was made by a Sadistic Jew, or someone who wants me to hate Jews. WTF EVER! I fucking hate those cookies with the passions (of the Christ). Jews killed Jesus, Mel Gibson said so. Fucking Jews, validating the Bible, WTF? Honey is fucking STICKY which is not conducive to rolling it out on a counter top or scooping up the star-shaped pieces with a fucking spatula, ok? Get me?

And I burned my hand. I think I may have burned off my goddamn fingerprint! For fuck's sake, what in Thor's name possessed me to make these fucking cookies?

Yeah, maybe you read my last post and you were thinking "Go, Trbo! Take back your fucking life!" (but maybe without the fucking because maybe you don't have a friggin sailor-mouth like me).

Yeah, I thought the same thing, and we are Disappoint together.

If cookies were the metaphor for my life, if anyone smelled what I was cooking with the last post, then I am fucking doomed. I suck at cookies and I suck at life. There is no redemption here. No epiphany. Just some fucked up cookies, an aching back and a shitty mood.

I told myself I wouldn't do this. I am more than a little tired and I have a buzz going. I'm not, and by not I mean NEVER, an angry drunk. Something, many things, clicked tonight. And here I am, seething like a fat lady cheated out of a couple double cheeseburgers. So I told myself I wouldn't post a blog. After all, I felt the last post was insanely inspirational (for those of you who actually fucking got it for what it was) and I was hoping for a happy ending.

We all hope for these stupid fucking romantic comedy happy endings. This is real life, there are no happy endings. There are death and taxes. That's it, fuckers. No prince charming that falls in love with you despite you acting like an emotional douchebag and we all live happily ever after blah blah blah. Doesn't happen. You keep trucking, taking "one day at a time" until the days pile up on your to-do list like dirty diapers until you can't stand the stench and move out of your house leaving the mess for the landlord. And you keep running. Ok, maybe not you, let's be real here because we're talking about me. You keep acting like the charming bitch with a mouth that may be a bit too big and outspoken, yet has it all fucking together.

Guess what? It's not all together. It's been FAAAARRR from all together for a long time. And there is only so much pretending you can do, bitches, before it all comes back and bites you in the proverbial ass. I'm not going to lay out my gripes. I am going to let you chew on my convoluted metaphors til you choke.

Schadenfreude!

************REAL TEXT EDIT:***************

I text my mom:

Me: I will clean up tbhe rest of my mess in the morning. And if you so much as look at me like you wanna bitch at me I will shove a tray of goddamn cookies up ur ass... love ya mom.

Mom: Ok!

I literally rolled on the floor laughing hysterically and crying at the same time. I need help. for realz.

Friday, December 17, 2010

The Cookies

One of my favorite adult memories of Xmas is baking cookies. Coincidentally, one of my favorite childhood memories is helping my mom bake cookies. I guess it's not so coincidental. You see, I have this need for perfection, and I was naturally good at baking, so one year I decided to make my own cookies that would blow everyone away, and I am pretty sure they did.

It was a testament to my freedom, my independence from my parents, my creativity and my skills, all rolled into one, and I loved every fucking minute of it. Maybe that's why it's been so hard for me the past couple of years. I haven't made cookies since my husband left me. It's been three years since I've made cookies. This might not seem like anything to you, but it's a big deal to me... and I will tell you why.

Every year, since the first year I started making cookies, I had a routine. That routine was mine, my kitchen was mine, my cookies were mine. I owned it. I would look up recipes online and decide which cookies to make. They were usually the most ridiculously involved ones, because, again, I was a perfectionist who would not be outdone. I had one simple recipe, and those were the best, the peanut butter thumbprints with a hershey kiss in the middle. Everyone loved them, after I stopped making them, for a few years, everyone asked for them. I even made some for a wedding 2 years ago, but not for the holidays. Eventually, everyone stopped asking. This saddens me (again, I will get to that and why this is such a big deal to me that I am going off my obnoxious beaten path of humor writing).

I would plan for days when I was going to bake cookies, and everyone was to leave me alone. On cookie day, I would go to the grocery store and purchase my ingredients, one of the rare times that the grocery store doesn't make me an anxious, frustrated mess, capable of homicide with a shopping cart. I'd then stop at the liquor store for a bottle of champagne. When I got home, I would set everything up, then I would put the Trans-Siberian Orchestra on the kitchen CD player, pour my champagne into a ludicrously fancy etched, iridescent blue flute (I remember always filling the glass too much and having to suck the foamy bubbles off the top) and get to work. Every now and then, while cookies were in the oven, I would wander out into the dining room to admire the white-lighted tree with the burgundy velvet bows at the end of its boughs, woodsy, rustic ornaments, golden bulbs and aromatic pine scent.

That was always my favorite part of the Holidays: the decorations. My husband and I coordinated everything. A rustic, gold and burgundy theme with rich fabrics and sparkling metallic trims. It turned our little cape cod into a slightly magical retreat. And it was mine.

Actually baking the cookies was a serious chore. Oftentimes, I would be up until all hours of the night before finally crumpling into bed with achy feet and back, but not before I admired all of my handy work, beautifully laid out in huge aluminum turkey pans and eventually covered in tinfoil. There were usually 3 of these pans, filled to the brim with assorted cookies.

I always felt accomplished. ALWAYS. This is, sadly, one of the fews things in my life that has ever given me that feeling, without fail.

The next day, I would wake and clean my mess, without a hint of dread or complaint. That mess was the result of a huge accomplishment, there was no need of complaint. And everyone always loved those damned cookies. It's almost like childbirth, lots of pain, a huge mess, but completely worth every push and stitch (or dishes and mopping, if you will).

When my marriage fell apart, I felt completely defeated. I stop baking cookies, bought a fake tree and always hated cleaning. You see, I had my own little domestic routine. I was the one who made the best goddamn cookies and everyone wanted them. I made them with my own hands, with ingredients that I purchased, in my own kitchen of my own house that I worked my ass off to buy and keep. I had my own family. I was the wife who made the best friggin cookies in the family. Even though people asked me for them after that, I could never bring myself to go through the motions, because I knew it would hurt too bad, to be doing it on my own, even though I had always forbade my husband to help me or even come near me while I was making The Cookies.

Since my divorce, and the death of my father in the same year, I feel like my life, and my drive to accomplish, has gone downhill. I felt like I was no longer normal. I felt like I had the white fucking picket fence and someone came in with a fucking bulldozer and smashed it to pieces.

A friend invited me to a party this weekend. Usually, I just pick something up, but he told me not to bring anything. Then I thought about The Cookies. It turns out, this group of friends has become very much like family to me. I was driven to make The Cookies. Instead of looking upon this task with dread, I found myself wanting my old routine, my old tradition, that was solely my own.

So here I am, ingredients on the counter of my mother's house, glass of champagne (in a less pretentious glass, because the flutes are packed, but don't think for a moment I didn't contemplate popping over to Target to see if they had any) The Trans-Siberian Orchestra on the kitchen CD player, and the same feeling of excited determination to make the best goddamn cookies.

I don't need a husband or a "traditional" family to be happy. I don't need to own my own little cape cod with hardwood floors. I don't need, nor do I want, to be "normal".

I am going to make The motherfucking Cookies, and they are going to kick ass.


Happy Solstice, my Fellow Cohorts in World Domination.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Proud Mary - I Love You!

So my sister-in-law graduated from nursing school last night. Evidently this school is something akin to Hitler's Concentration Camps and getting through it is a miracle (getting through it with your marriage intact is like the immaculate conception), instead of a tattoo, you will forever bear the emotional scars of Abu Ghraib pyramid sessions. This was made very evident by the first nursing graduate who got up to "speak". I use the term speak loosely because it was more like squeaking out a barely intelligible word or two in between sobs. I mean, seriously, chicky... You're graduating, not giving a eulogy. It's even more unsettling that this emotionally unbalanced woman may one day be tasked with saving my life. If she's crying because she's graduating, what's going to happen if she sees my half split open body and brains seeping out of the side of my head from a horrible car crash with a semi-truck??

Thankfully, that part of the evening didn't last long.

We then end up at some hillbilly bar in Bum Fuck Egypt. I swear, I have never seen so many rusty pick-up trucks with over-sized wheels (with Confederate Flags in the windows, no doubt) packed into one parking lot. Compared with those and the occasional early 90's beater sedans, my brother's black Subaru STI, sparkling clean and sporty, looked quite out of place. As did all of us who still had all of our teeth in tact.

As the nurses pile into the bar with their cute little nurse hats, there was many a call for the need for CPR by the locals (whom you couldn't pay me all the money in the world to put my mouth on). This made me infinitely glad that I choose to fix computers instead of people, because I would have left most of those morons laying on the street dying... Regardless of the fact that it took about 15 minutes to get a drink, causing us all to wise up and double fist, the bartender was a nice guy with several facial piercings who took to calling me "love".

We were accompanied by my mother and my sister-in-law's gay boyfriend who, as it turns out, was my boyfriend for a short period of time in 7th grade. After many accusations of turning him gay and discussions of the dorky photo of the two of us, I was well into my third or fourth vodka tonic. Things started getting interesting when I was having a discussion with a chubby bearded guy at the bar who was somehow part of this nursing graduate party. I remember him bitching about the bartender and me loudly exclaiming that the bartender was awesome and busting his ass to do his job that night, to which chubby beard guy looked a bit embarrassed and scolded me for announcing his displeasure so loudly. It was quite evident that me and this guy were going to clash and, being the instigator that I am, I of course took it to the next level by letting the bartender know, in front of chubby guy, how awesome he was.

It was soon revealed by SIL's gay boyfriend that chubby guy and I were going to clash because of our political views. That's when he started trying to argue politics with me. Knowing better, I just continually taunted him with the fact that I would PWN him in any argument, instead of actually saying anything political. He kept trying to actually argue with me and the SIL stepped in. It was one of those scenes that was completely amusing, but might look like an actual heated argument to an outsider. That's when the pussy whipping started. His wife came over in a fury and dragged him away from the conversation. I chuckled to myself as they sat in a corner and "talked" for an extended period of time. Needless to say, he didn't talk to me for the rest of the night and even abandoned his beer instead of coming near me to collect it. His wife also refused to engage in conversation with me and pretty much shunned any attempt I made at being cool with her, as if I wanted to hook up with her man-boob husband (admitted my him, I don't want to seem like a total asshole here)... (actually, he seemed like a pretty nice guy, despite our differences of opinion and I would have gladly engaged in a political discussion with him under different circumstances and relished in owning his ass).

Then the dancing started... Fortunately, I can handle my liquor and never got drunk enough to actually repeat my last failed attempt at dancing. All I remember from that time was ending up in a headlock by some guy who had the unfortunate desire to engage me in some sort of swing dance maneuver. It was followed by an annoyed glare from him at my inability to twirl around on a dance floor while drunk, lack or rhythm and complete clumsiness and the statement "I'm not supposed to be choking you". No shit, Sherlock. Ever since then, I have preemptively refused to dance, for any reason whatsoever. Even when hot guys ask. Though, I did engage in singing a horrible rendition of some Hootie and The Blowfish song, thankfully not on a microphone.

Things start getting a little fuzzy at this point. One of my SIL's reads my blog and I remember, distinctly, mentioning several times that I was going to put whatever funny thing that was just said or occurred in my blog and how epic it was going to be... Regrettably, I don't actually remember any of those funny things. I do remember where I got the title for this post, and only because my SIL posted it on my wall. It was, however, one of those things you just had to be there for. It involved horribly loud singing on our part to the Proud Mary song which was met with irked gazes from some hot bald guy and his friend. I also distinctly remember being very loud. Actually, it may be more that I know my volume levels are directly proportional to my blood-alcohol level and because everything was fairly fuzzy at this point, I must have been really loud.

Now things really get blurry... I remember having a conversation about sex with one of the gay guys (who happened to be bald) and another guy (who, I remember thinking was pretty damn hot and told me I had a nice smile, which I evidently took as an offer to buy me a drink and took him up on it, much to his dismay). Something about "throwing her legs over your shoulders". I remember being accused by the bald gay guy of thinking he (the gay guy) was hot and being "moist" in his presence. And I remember me and the bald gay guy scoping out some dude in a flannel and a hat (that may or may not have had a John Deere logo on it).

We were discussing whether or not he'd be good in bed. I pointed out the fact that he was a redneck, as obviously indicated by his flannel shirt (which was not being worn in the ever-popular "grunge" style). Gay guy stated that he was good looking (he was) and could probably go home with anyone he wanted in this bar. To which I pointed out that most of the "regulars" in this particular bar were probably toothless trailer trash. He said something about toothless being a benefit and we kind of left it at that. This conversation prompted the next memorable scene.

As we are leaving the bar, I approach Mr. Flannel Shirt with a mischievous grin on my face and proceed to explain, rather poorly, that me and the gay guy were talking about his "abilities" in "certain situations". (Now, I feel the need to reiterate that I just said "gay friend" to a dude in a flannel in a redneck bar) He was smiling, but there was a gleam in his eyes that indicated trouble. Being the badass that I am, I totally ignored this and continued to prod him about how he felt about said abilities. To which he responded "ask her" and pointed to the stereotypical redneck, straw-haired, nasty toothed (ok, I am assuming on that one, because believe me, she wasn't smiling), muffin-topped chick. Rather than leave well enough alone and make a dignified exit, I proceed to go over to her, put my arm around her and explain the conversation me and my "gay friend" had... Trailer-trash was not amused. With a homicidal look in her eye, she ordered me to "get the fuck out of here". I didn't need to be told twice. With the same mischievous grin on my face, I walked ran out of the bar.

We proceeded to cause more drunken mayhem at Kings. There was talk of nipples and being stabbed twice. These might be very painful memories for some (aka my brother/chauffeur, who doesn't drink), so I will not reopen old wounds. Let's just say, despite pissing off at least 2 women, I managed to get through the night with my awesome face still intact.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

Listen, you're a cool guy, but we need to talk. You see, I'm having some issues with the whole concept of me shelling out hundreds and you getting all the credit. That being said, I have told my offspring that you are not real. I'm sorry, but it had to be done. To make up for all the years of me not getting credit for the debt I have put myself in, in your name, I am sending you my list of demands wish list. I have carefully calculated, and the following should, at least partially, make up for all the money I have spent on gifts from you:

1. A year's supply of vodka. 182.5 fifths should do it. Don't be cheap either. Get the good stuff: Rain Organic, preferably, if not, then Gray Goose will do. Also, throw in a bottle of that Crystal Skull stuff, I really want one of those skull-shaped bottles.

2. A tummy tuck. That 8lbs 10oz thing that I popped out, who gave you many years of credit, has caused my abdomen to have a striking resemblance to a deflated balloon. You can help me fix it.

3. A Mitsubishi Lancer EVO... EVO. Don't think you're gonna pull off the lesser model on me. Make sure it has a sunroof.

4. Heroin. Yes, you heard me. I really want to try some heroin and since I don't know any shady drug dealers (and if I did, I wouldn't want them to know I actually want to try heroin, because they would turn my into a drug addict prostitute and I would be stuck with all of the toothless, old and/or stinky clients because of my deflated belly), you seem to be my last hope of fulfilling this wish. If you can't pull that off, maybe some shrooms?

5. Sweetmeats. Just find them and bring me some.

6. One night with David Draiman. Make it happen. We'll need to time this before my tummy tuck in case I become impregnated with his love child.

7. Front row tickets (and backstage passes, like 10 of them) to a Pink Floyd concert. You're Santa, you can bring Richard Wright back from the dead, right?

I think that should do it. Please note that I expect these on or before December 25th. (That's the day we celebrate Jesus' birth, even though he wasn't really born then.) Actually, I celebrate the Solstice, so have these to me by December 21st. You can't discriminate based on religious beliefs, the Constitution says so. No need to bother with the reindeer, goofy costume and all that. You can come in sweats or just mail it. If you send it UPS, please let them know they are not allowed to hold my shit in New Stanton for a day or two, k?

Yours truly,
Trbobitch

P.S. If you can't pull any of that off, for whatever reason, just make Ron Paul president and we'll call it even.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Open Letters: Vol. 1

When you write Open Letters to people like Brett Favre (Faaaaahhhh-v), they deserve their own post. Sometimes, though, things piss you off and you just need a quickie to express your vexation. Since I like to keep my posts fairly long, I decided to condense several open letters into volumes. Why am I even explaining this? It's MY blog! If you don't like it, go play in traffic.



Dear UPS,

Let me start by saying that I love you for delivering my many packages in a timely manner and not using them to play hacky-sack or dodgeball (as I am convinced the assholes at USPS do, because they are always late and wrapped in that plastic that says, "Gee, we're sorry we fucked up your stuff. We certainly hope it wasn't anything valuable, or fragile - as the box indicates with the big FRAGILE sticker, though we're sure that's just decoration. We'll be more careful next time. Maybe.").

However, I do have a HUGE gripe with you... Why, UPS? Why do you insist upon holding my package in New Stanton for a day (sometimes 2!!)?? You do understand that New Stanton is less than an hour away from me, right? I mean, I could see if it got there at 5:00pm... but they get there at 2:00 or 3:00am. You mean to tell me that you can't throw that bad boy on a truck (not really throw it) and deliver it to me that day?

I understand what you're trying to do. You don't want my expectations to be too high, because you guys are so fucking fast, but come ON... One more day isn't going to have me expecting to receive my packages an hour after they're shipped! Besides, you do realize that your tracking page shows me where my shit is, right? When I consistently see it sitting in New Stanton for a day or two, it makes me sad - and angry. Whatever awesome thing I am anticipating is sitting in the armpit of Pennsylvania, so close, yet so far away, instead of in my hands where I can admire it. How would it make you feel if I died that day, without ever getting to see whatever awesome thing I purchased, all because you decided to hold it in New fucking Stanton for an extra day? Not too good, I suspect (or maybe you would...).

I want to also add that I especially hate when you do this on Friday, because my package inevitably sits until Monday. Even though you do deliver packages on Saturday, evidently you feel whatever paltry thing I have is not worthy of being delivered until Monday. I am pretty sure it's a conspiracy to torture me. I get all excited seeing that my stuff made it to New Stanton by Friday until I look at the estimated delivery date and it's not until Monday. Then I spend the entire weekend in anxious anticipation of the item and distressed by the fact that I am spending my entire 2 days off without it when it is sitting in some shithole less than an hour away from me.

Why do you enjoy torturing me? Schadenfreude?

Going forward, please just drive the extra 40 minutes and bring me my stuff, k?

Sincerely,
Trbobitch

--------------------------------------------------------

Dear Coworker (you know who you are),

Please work from home. Every day. If you can't do that, please stop turning up the A/C in summer and turning down the heat in winter. Seriously, I know you're old and chubby, but I thought old people were supposed to be cold all the time? Maybe if you would stop eating all that questionable Chinese Food, you wouldn't be hot all the time? Just please stop making me wear gloves at work, it's hard to type.

Sincerely,
Trbobitch

P.S. Please stop breathing like Darth Vader. I will buy you breathe right strips.

--------------------------------------------------



Dear Vodka,


I love you, don't ever change (being on sale doesn't count as change).

Your loyal consumer,
Trbobitch

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Real Text: The Teenager Went Down to Georgia

So you've heard of real sex, right? Tell me I am not the only on who remembers that!?! Anyway, I thought it might be funny to post real text messages I receive, because I am too lazy to write... Trust me people, I can't make this shit up!

So you all know my mom went to Georgia to see her boyfriend... This was the text conversation we had after she got there...

It was around 6:00 on the day she went, she was supposed to get there early afternoon and I gave her very specific instructions to call/text me when she got there. I hadn't heard from her and visions of psychotic axe murders were running through my head (some of you may wonder why I wasn't concerned sooner... I am too self-absorbed to care about such things until hours after I should care...) Anyway, I finally realized I hadn't heard from her and texted:

Me: U get there ok?? Everything good?

(she didn't answer)

Me: MOM!!!

Mom: What?

Mom: I'm doing fine! having a good time. Is zach ok?

Me: All is well glad ur having fun and that Eugene* is not a psychotic axe murderer.

Mom: Oh my hes chasing me around the room with an axe and i give him 30 min to stop . Help!

Me: Dammit woman don't make me fly down there with my samurai dagger of doom!!!

Mom: Already been stuck twice. Thank u!


OMFG... Yeah. That's it. I don't need to write a closing paragraph, that speaks for itself... Help?


*Names once again changed to protect the elderly