Grouchy About TP

Why are there ads and commercials for toilet paper? Which adults out there do not have a favorite toilet paper? Why do people need convincing on this topic? Are there people who are still, I dunno in their thirties, and flipping between toilet paper brands? Is it the damn millienials? I can say that now, because apparently I am an Xennial (somewhere between a Gen X-er and a millennial) so I can blame them for things now. Those damn millennials!

As a grown-ass thirty-something adult, I know which brand of toilet paper I like, and I am not changing. I am not looking for coupons. I am not looking for sales or deals or BuY tHiS nOw ads! I am looking for comfort and plush 2-ply, and I have found it, and I don’t want to see bears wiping their asses anymore. Why Charmin? People are already buying you. Why bears wiping their asses?

And stop trying to come up with inventive ways to use toilet paper. Listen, it is for one thing and one thing only. It’s like how Q-tip prints all the ways you can use Q-tips on the back of their packaging. You can use it to clean your keyboard?! Really? Really, Q-tip? Yeah, I know the medical community came out and said, “Don’t stick things in your ears!” but something tells me they meant penis. Like, don’t stick penis in your ear. You know?

I’m sorry you guys.

It’s 7:30 am and I am already off the damn rails.

Maybe I should go back to bed.

Maybe I should roll out my bulk, two-ply and lay on top of it. Cover myself in it like a sleeping bag. Like a cozy, plush, sleeping bag. Until my husband comes home and finds me, takes one look at me, and mumbles something about buying Charmin.

M.

1. Title Goes Here

I’ve been really into making lists this week. It’s probably because I’m writing a piece of flash fiction that is just a list of things in a kitchen junk drawer over the course of 70 years because this is what my life had come to. Anyhoo, here is a list of shit I have said, either to myself or someone else, in the past three days. I’m leaving this here for two reasons: 1. Posterity and 2. I just wanted to make another list.

  • Why you gotta have an attitude, Siri?
  • You don’t know who Janie Fricke is?! Janie Fricke is an understated, and often overlooked, country music star from the 1980s who won multiple awards between ’81 and ’86, and you know what, I BELIEVE that if it weren’t for the Neo-traditionlist piece of shit Patty Loveless, Janie Fricke would be a household name today.
  • Do people in Japan use forks?
  • Thomas Jefferson copied the original plans of the White House from a French estate south of Paris called Le Château du Rastignac. I hate Thomas Jefferson.
  • Flights are cheap to the Dominican Republic right now, we should go this weekend.
  • Koala Bears are a breeding ground for Chlamydia, dude.
  • I was wrong, Banana Surprise isn’t a sex pose. It’s a kitchen gadget that allows you to poke out the inside of a banana and fill it with chocolate. I ordered one.
  • Skunks are like cats, I read an article one time.
  • Copyediting is kinda fun.
  • LIAR! Wyatt Earp is buried in Colma, California.
  • Another fucking tropical storm!
  • The average income in North Korea is like $1,500 a year, so I mean, I’d be a really rich person if I moved there.
  • “I think I’m down to my last broken heart…” (Twirling my dog around in my arms)
  • Hey Siri, is Hula Girl a derogatory phrase?
  • Ramen Noodles give me a headache. I dunno, probably ’cause the sodium skyrockets my blood pressure.
  • Next time you go, take a cage with you so you can capture the skunk. Then bring it home and de-skunk it, and a make it a pet, and let it babysit for you whenever you need to.
  • Kansas is so far away!
  • I like Jennifer Aniston and Adam Sandler together.
  • I would have ABSOLUTELY stolen the money from the freeway had I been behind the bank truck when money was flying out the back of it. Absolutely.
  • Can I get another Bomb Pop?

Things are Going Well

Day two of my child being 700 miles away at grandparent summer camp.

Me: It’s too quiet.

Dog: Shush, I’m napping.

Me: But don’t you miss him?

Dog: Yes, of course, I’m napping.

Me: Ohhhh, Dukers cuddle with me like Jackson would.

Dog: No. Stop it. Get your hands off of me.

Me: You hate me… (crying)

Dog: Jesus. Here let me hop onto your face, does this help?

Me: Get off my face you nutso.

Dog: I don’t get you, I mean honestly.

Me: What is your problem? Get away from me.

Dog: Fine, I’ll just walk over her and nap again.

Me: WHY ARE YOU LEAVING ME?!

Dog: …

Illegal Truck, Part Two

The following is a transcript of the conversation between me (parked in the crowded lot of the DeKalb County Tag Office on a day that they were unexpectedly closed, and my husband an hour away in his office.) If you have no idea what I am talking about, get yourself up to speed here: https://missygoodnight.com/2019/06/26/illegal-truck-part-one/

Me: What is that supposed to mean?

My Son-of-a-Bitch Husband: It just means that I read something about them being closed today for maintenance, but…

Me: WHAAAAT?!

S-O-B Husband: It said it might be closed on Thursday, it didn’t say for sure and…

Me: Oh well it is one hundred percent closed on Thursday, there is no might to it, and now we can’t drive your truck to Missouri this weekend and how are you going to tow a boat with my car and…

S-O-B: Hold on, hold on. Open the glove compartment and grab the registration.

Me: Okay, what now?

S-O-B: When does it say it expires?

Me: June 15th.

S-O-B: Oh, okay, so we are good we…

Me: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?! I had until June 15th to get this shit done?! I have been running around like a crazy person trying to, OMIGOD, Imma need to let you go…

S-O-B: Babe, listen I…

Click.

So, yeah. The tags had a 15 day grace period because North Carolina is amazing and I love them and what the hell is up with my husband? Piece of shit, ratchet-ass, you know what I’m going to move on.

So, we drive his truck to Missouri and all is well. We plan to get back to Atlanta on the 31st, which means we can go on the first to the only tag office that is open on Saturday and get the tags switched. I breathe a sigh of relief and accept his apology.

On Saturday June 1st we wake up bright and early and head to Gwinnett County to the one open tag office in the state of Georgia. On the way over I say something like, Do you think we have to go to the county we live in to get the tags? And my husband says, No that would be dumb. Mind you, we have to get the tags today because my husband is flying to Baton Rouge on Monday.

When we get there the line is wrapped around the building. There are double drive through lines and it is hot as shit. We stand in the outside line for about twenty minutes, then I am like, you know what, I’m just gonna go call someone and ask about that county thing. So I walk off to investigate the rules (which apparently my husband has already done quote, extensively). My nervousness makes him nervous, so he has Jackson walk up to the door to read the 85 signs plastered on it and one of them says, “You can only buy tags in the county in which you live.”

So thirty minutes later I am eating a taco made of chemically-engineered beef at Del Taco while expertly giving him the stink-eye.

When we get home my husband does some more research and comes up with this plan: On Monday morning, I will drop him off at the airport at 8:00 am, with the kid and dog in tow. Then I will head over to the DeKalb County Tag Office again, this time with my passed emissions test and all my correct paperwork and I will buy the tags. This is fine because I am also on the title. It is an And/Or Title. I agree, but I feel like something isn’t right. I ask him about three more times over the course of the weekend if he is sure I have all I need. Yes, he knows for sure. He has checked. Again.

Monday morning I battle my way through the morning traffic in Atlanta, then back again to my side of town. I get to the Tag Office to a line out the door. It is 8:07 am. I leave the kid and dog in the car with the air on, because once again it is hot as shit, and neither of them want to be where they currently are. Neither do I. I am nervous about leaving them in the car across the street from the county jail, but I push on. Not a lot of options at this point.

I get into the building by 8:35 am. By 8:45 I have a number. M347. They are calling M117. Awesome. For the next hour I pace the floor, peaking out the window to see that my car with child and dog in it are safe and sound, until the police officer tells me, Ma’am you really need to have a seat. I do not have a phone on me, because my son left his phone at home and I left my phone with him so he had one just in case.

At approx. 10:00 am my number is called. Hallelujah! I run up to the window and give the lovely woman all my paperwork, my DL, and a big smile. Though I am not feeling confident.

Lovely Woman: Hello, Mrs. Goodnight. How can I help you today?

Me: I just moved to Georgia and I need to get my tags switched.

Lovely Woman: I can help you with that.

She starts rifling through my paperwork.

Woman: Okay, so in Georgia we require a Title Ad Valorem tax of 7%, are you aware of that?

I tell her I am aware of that, and then I sigh, because this might actually be happening.

Woman: So you will need to pay $700 today in order to get your tags, okay?

Me: Great. (Not really great, but I don’t care anymore.)

Then she starts shuffling papers on her desk, highlighting notes, and clicking on her keys.

Woman: Does anyone have a lien on this vehicle?

Me: Yes, Wells Fargo is our lien holder.

Woman: Okay, so they need to fax a copy of the title over to me. Which isn’t a big deal, it just usually takes a few minutes.

Me: Okay, um, I think my husband filled out the title form, which…

Woman: Nope, still need the title.

Then she looks around me.

Woman: Where is your husband?

Me: Uhh, on a plane, I say.

Woman: Ohhhhh.

Me: Ohhhh?

Woman: Georgia is not an “And/or” state. Georgia is an “And” state. If you want tags today your husband has to be present.

Me: WHAAAA?!

Woman: Unless! You have a power of attorney?

Me: WHAAAA?!

Woman: Okay, Mrs. Goodnight (she starts to hand me all my paperwork back). You need to get a power of attorney and it needs to be notarized and…

She keeps talking but I shut down and have no idea what she is saying. I walk out to the car where I am met with a, Guess what, Mommy! The airport was so crowded this morning with summer travelers that Daddy missed his flight. Haha! That’s pretty funny, huh? Cause he could have come here with us! Anyway, here is your phone back! You were in there for way too long, I’m hungry.

This was June 3rd. Two weeks before tags officially expire. Husband is gone all of that week. On June 8th he comes home for one day. On June 9th we all pile into my car (with valid tags) and drive to Baton Rouge for two weeks. We get home on 23rd. On June 24th I take husband to work and drive back home because I have an appointment. Husband says we will get tags on Wednesday, that is when he has a free morning. On Tuesday he calls Wells Fargo to get a copy go title faxed. They say we should have it by Friday. Le sigh. It is not a ten-minute wait time for title.

And here we are. June 26th? Yeah? I don’t know anymore. We have no tags. No title. No patience. And I am still mad as hell that we have to pay $700 to the state of Georgia, especially because we already paid taxes on this truck.

So what is the point of all of this? There is none. Except maybe don’t move to Georgia? Or maybe don’t put shit off? Or maybe it is possible for your smart, wonderful, husband to be an S-O-B sometimes? Or maybe trust your gut? Or maybe sell all your vehicles and ride your bike everywhere you need to go? Maybe ride your bike up into the Tennessee mountains? Maybe find an abandoned log cabin and start your life anew? Maybe live as a hermit in the Smoky Mountains for the rest of your damn life with 18 feral cats and one goat that thinks you are his mom? Maybe?

M.

A Glimpse into My Life

“Mommy!”

“Mommy!”

“Mommy.”

(Barking)

“Mommy…”

“Mommy.” (Eye roll)

“Mommy!!!”

“Mom…eeeeeeeeeeee.”

“Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom.”

(Loud barking from the hallway)

“Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmy!”

Bark. Bark. Bark. (Skid across the floor) Bark. Bark.

Breakfast time.

Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark…

You get the picture.

M.

Laundry

Here’s the thing: I hate laundry. Hate. It. But somedays I am in the laundry room, folding clothes, sorting socks, and hanging up dresses, and I am all, Wow, you rock, Momma! You do all this for your family. You take care of your people. You show love with acts of service to others. They might not realize all you do, but you know, in your heart, that you will always care for them in this way. Laundry is but a window into your loving soul, and you are the best one to do this all. Then the next day when I am in the laundry room, folding clothes, sorting socks, and hanging up dresses, I am all, Fuck this shit, I’m moving to a nudest colony! You sons-a-bitches don’t deserve me! Yeah, I said it. A nudest colony. And you might think that I don’t have the courage to do that, but I do. I have already looked them up. And yeah, they are all mainly in Florida. And yeah, that means small, wrinkly, old man penis in my face all the time, but look at me! LOOK AT ME! I am a Goddess and they would LOVE to have me there, and you know what (laughs crazily), you know what, they would WORSHIP me! Worship me, you pile of dirty-sock, poop-stained underwear-wearing assholes! Those old, wrinkly men would WORSHIP me!

And then I apologize to my dog for yelling at him and I finish up the laundry.

M.

Things I’ve Said This Week

My husband has been out of town this week, which means I am single-parenting it. And listen, big shoutout here to the single parents. My own mother was a single mom of four, and honestly, whew, I’m not sure how she did it, because when I have to be a single mom for a week at a time, it is rough. Of course I don’t have a support system here in Georgia, so it makes it that more difficult. But I did have some good chats and texts with friends this week that kept me going. Either way, I said and wrote some things this week I am not particularly proud of. I said and wrote them out of passive-aggressive spite, tiredness, and probably low-blood sugar. What follows is a list, to the best of my knowledge, of things I have said and written in various platforms this week. Enjoy!

  • Fuck Class-Dojo!
  • The damn dog is afraid of the fake owl in the garden!
  • I was in the “back room” of the video store, you know, hanging out.
  • Vasectomies for dogs is a thing, so now we don’t have to be mean and cut off his balls, you know?
  • So the alien robots take over the world and everyone dies, except for us because we hide in a cabin in the woods, and when it’s time to repopulate the universe you have to do all the heavy lifting, cause well, I got nothing inside anymore, and eventually the radioactivity that allowed the aliens to beat us, seeps into our bodies and we are able to outlive all the other people on the world. Eventually we are the two oldest living “true” humans, not android hybrids, and we Thelma and Louise this bitch. You in?
  • WHY ARE YOU BARKING?!
  • We’ve all peed in a trash can once or twice, right?
  • The damn dog is trying to hump the fake owl!
  • Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh. Then what happened? Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh. That is very interesting. Go brush your teeth.
  • Oh, someone might die? Cool. But what time does your plane get in on Friday?
  • Do you want me to mail your shampoo?
  • I’m not paying someone to cut his balls off! That is so fucking rude.
  • She’s gonna be Poseidon, so I mean, I think we should go.
  • How many granola bars did you eat for breakfast? Did you eat breakfast?
  • Secular summer camps sound great, but listen, I live in Georgia now, so I have to do a lot of sitting on my sun porch drinking gin and tonics this summer. I just can’t commit. You get it.
  • Go get the damn fake owl from the garden before the dog kills it.
  • OHHH, chicken Wangz and Lil Smokes! Well then, all is forgiven.
  • Go clean your room. Go clean your room. Go clean your room.
  • Yes, but what did the school nurse say after you told her you already pooped three times and your belly still hurt? Did she tell you to go back to class? You need to go back to class.
  • Did we eat dinner tonight?
  • WHERE THE HELL IS BURGER KING?
  • Yeah, I know the owl is FAKE and can’t die! Go get it!
  • Wait, wait. Remind me again who Mad-Eye Moody is.
  • I swear to Baby Jesus, I will send him to his Grandma’s.
  • Just make popcorn, dude.
  • I talked to Mrs. Martin, the school nurse, and she is not happy with you. She thinks you were fibbing about your belly hurting.
  • No technology tonight. Yeah, go watch tv.
  • This is why your belly hurts! Sugar! All this sugar!
  • WHY am I the only one who can pick up towels off the floor?!
  • Mrs. Martin said you could poop in her bathroom.
  • Minecraft.

M.

My Writing Life

Well, stick my head in an oven and call me Sylvia, I’m feeling a little crazy today, y’all. I’ve been consumed lately with what I want out of my writing life. It is a difficult question to unpack because writing is my life, and I write about my life, and I write to share my life with others because I think it is important to do, but also I don’t really like to talk to people, or be the center of attention, because it makes me nervous, and when I am nervous I say whacked out things (see above) out of shear anxiety, mixed with a bit of delusion, and just a pinch of the carbon monoxide blues. But then I want to write so that people can see that it is a good thing to share about your life, even in the middle of a manic depressive episode, because maybe they will do it, and it will help them? And then I think is that the answer? Do I write to help other people look at their own lives and think they have stories worth telling and sharing, and is this all just a cathartic cycle that I want to let others know about?

I don’t fucking know. I mean surely, if I can share my stories (and trust me, they really aren’t that good) and people want to read them, then anyone can write, right? Then I think no, because not everyone is as transparent as me, or as sad as me, or as weird as me. And mainly, they just don’t have the time or the proper training, let’s call it, so they might need help. Then I spiral out of control, get into my car, drive to Food Lion and buy only one thing: A box of Oreos. Then I go home, put my pajamas on, crawl into bed, and eat said box of Oreos, while I binge-watch something on Netflix starring Toni Colette. What can I say, I’m a creature of habit.

Okay, whew. Don’t come over to check on me today, y’all. I’m really fine. No ovens are on. It’s just that I get consumed by thoughts about whether or not what I choose to do with my time, my blog, my words, my stories, is actually doing anything at all. And if it even matters whether or not it is. Why does it need to have a deeper meaning or purpose? Why can’t I just do it because it makes me happy and not worry about not contributing to society or community or making money or getting better at connecting with people? See, it’s a slippery slope. I’m gonna go get some Oreos.

Thanks for reading. Or not.

M.

Pulling Out My Hair

All morning I have been putting my hands on my keyboard in an attempt to will myself to write something, but nothing comes out. This has been happening for about two weeks. I don’t mean with this silly, little blog. I have a million topics for this place. Climbing out of this blue spot I have been in. My recent gastro-intestinal upset. Our house-hunting trip to Atlanta. Jackson’s ongoing obsession with Harry Potter. Those are all easy topics for me to slap down here for our mutual reading pleasure. What I’m having a really hard time with is writing other things. Things I need to be writing. Short stories, and flash fiction, and creative non-fiction. Things that I write to send out for consideration. Things that, you know, a writer should care about.

A couple of weeks ago I started an essay about mental health. It’s morphed into more of a lyric essay. I talk about my penchant for weeding, then I talk about the unnerving condition I was diagnosed with shortly after the loss of my daughter. It’s called trichotillomania, which is a really long, crazy-sounding word that means at times of high stress I pull my hair out. Literally. I subconsciously run my fingers through my hair, often times when I am asleep, and I pull strands of hair out. I do it over and over again, in the same spot, until finally I have a little bald patch on my scalp and I have to part my hair to cover it. It sorta sucks. But also, I guess it sort of helps too.

It doesn’t always happen when I am asleep. Sometimes I am fully-awake, but I am distracted. When I first noticed it I was sitting on the couch with my husband. We were watching tv, toddler Jackson was asleep, and I was actually engrossed in whatever was happening in that episode of, probably, The Office. Before I knew what was happening I had taken my pony tail out and began running my fingers through my hair. At some point my husband looked over at me and asked what was wrong. I told him nothing was wrong. Because nothing was wrong. Weirdo. Then after the episode he looked at the spot next to me and asked again what was wrong. I looked over too, and there was a massive pile of my hair sitting next to me. We didn’t really know what to say. Over the next few weeks it got worse. I was waking up in the middle of the night to clumps of hair all around me, and my hand resting on my head. It was exhausting. So I finally asked the doctor and she explained this all to me. I felt relieved, but you know, not really.

So here I am, reliving all of this to write it out on the page, in hopes that I will actually finish this essay, submit it to a publication, they won’t think I’m too weird, and they will publish it, so that maybe, maybe, someone who pulls their hair out realizes, perhaps for the first time, that it is a mental health problem. Realizes they are not alone. Realizes they need to seek help. But until then, I am stuck, you see. Stuck. Unable to think. Unable to write. Unable to help. Stuck with idle hands, wanting to pull out my hair.

M.

Bangin’

“A woman who cuts her hair, is about to change her life.” – Coco Chanel                                 

When life seems to be spinning out of control, I do this thing wherein I drink two glasses of wine, grab my best pair of kitchen scissors, watch a couple YouTube videos, and then cut my own bangs. I know what you are going to say, probably the same thing my husband says, “What the hell are you doing? Go to a salon. You said you’d never do this again. Remember that time you cut your eye a little?” Blah. Blah. Blah. But calm down, I’m a professional.

I will first decide what length I want to go. I decide this by grabbing my hair from the back of my neck, and swooshing it down over my face, looking quite like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family (see below).

Minus the beret and groovy shades.

Then I think, hmm, about right here, holding my hand up to about the beret line. Then right before I make the first cut, I put the scissors down, flip my hair back into place, and text my best friend.

Me: I’m gonna cut my own bangs.

BFF: DO IT!

So then I flip my hair back. Then… ping.

BFF: Wait.

Me: Why?

BFF: Have you been drinking?

Me: Just wine.

BFF: How much?

Me: Like two.

BFF: Bottles?

ME: Glasses, bitch.

BFF: Where’s Jerimiah?

Me: Why?! He doesn’t care, he said do whatever.

BFF: Did he? Let me text him real quick like.

ME: No, stop! Okay, he told me to go to a salon.

BFF: So two bottles?

Me: No, dude! I can do it this time.

BFF: That’s what you said last time.

Me: Last time I was legit drunk. And I had the bad scissors.

BFF: Did you buy hair shears?

Me: Uh, no. Do you know how expensive those are? Whatever, I’m doing it.

So then I Cousin Itt it again, and just as I am about to lift the meat scissors to my forehead, Ping…

Jerimiah: Are you cutting your hair in the bathroom?

Me: Bitch! No. Leave me alone.

Jerimiah: This isn’t like a “new year, new you” thing. Think this through please.

Me: Leave me alone!

Scissors up. Then I realize if I cut where I want to cut, then I cut a lot more hair than I intend to. It’s not so much a bang cut, more like a hair cut and do I even want a haircut? Hmm. What about that video I saw where the girl leans over and lets her hair hang over and she cuts it at an angle?

Me: You know that video where the girl hangs her hair over and they cut it at an angle?

BFF: No, dude. No.

Me: But I think I can probably do it.

BFF: Remember that time you wanted me to dye your hair and we used all the holes in the cap and you had that layer of blonde only at the top and it was like three days before senior pics?

Me: Yeah.

BFF: Shit like that will happen if you do this.

Me: Damn it, man!

Then I stand in front of the mirror. Scissors in one hand, my phone in the other, and I wait for divine intervention. A sign. A signal that this is exactly what needs to happen right now, this very instant. Then suddenly. Ping…

BFF: Dude, I think maybe you should do it.

Me: Why?

BFF: Cause honestly, it’s your life and you only live it once, and who the hell am I or Jerimiah to tell you whether or not you have the forehead for bangs?

Me: Did you pour yourself some wine?

BFF: For sure.

Me: Want me to wait ten minutes then we can FaceTime and do it together?

BFF: Oh, no, for sure not, no. I’m not spiraling here, you are.

Then I cut my own bangs.

Listen, here is my point in as much as I have one: Sometimes when you need to feel a little, teeny, bit in control of your life because things feel like they are totally spinning out of control, then okay, sure, cut your own bangs, but try to limit your control to that. Just the bangs, y’all. Just the bangs.

M.

*Exclusive* State of the House Address

Since Donald Trump got one, I get one too, right?

It’s in two parts because I accidentally turned off the recording, which sounds like maybe I am dumb, but actually, I am dumb.

Enjoy.

#StateOfTheHouseAddress #Trump #DogParks #RentalProperty #Doodles #UnderfundedSchools #CrazyAssNeighbors #NextDoor #GirlsTrackTeams #AOC SkinSuitCreepy #IForgotToWearWhite #ApplaudNow #NonBipartisan

Actual fucking sign that people are ignoring at the school.
Actual post from Next Door (which is basically FB for millennials). I can’t, y’all. Oh, but look! I got 12 “Thanks”! #ImSoPopular

Charcuterie Board Etiquette

If you’re like me up, until recently you had no clue what a Charcuterie Board was. Well, gather round kiddies, I’m gonna tell you all about it. See back in my day we called a charcuterie board a “cheese and meat tray” and more recently, at two am on a Saturday while I sat on the toilet gripping my stomach, I screamed to my husband that I shouldn’t have eaten all those “weird-ass cheeses and meats on that wood plank”. Which is to say, it goes by many names.

Picture this: It’s a warm, sunny day in Saluda, North Carolina and I walk into an ultra-hip restaurant with my friends and family and a hankering for some cheese. A thin man with a wicked-sweet porn star mustache and uncomfortably skinny jeans approaches our table, and I ask, “Y’all got cheeses and stuff?” And he’s like, “Uhhh…” So I say, “You know, cheeses and like, things” as I make a shape like a board in front of me. Then he says, “Ohhhh, do you mean a charcuterie board?” And I’m all, “Maybe…” Then he winks and says he will take care of me and I’m nervous because I think that might be a sexual suggestion and I’m not into mustache rides… from a skinny dude. Turns out he meant he would bring me meats and cheeses, because the next thing I know this fancy-ass board is placed in front of me, and Boom! I am introduced to the world of charcuterie.

Charcuterie is a French word, duh. (If you couldn’t work that out, then I just can’t help you, it’s above my pay grade.) It roughly translates to “cooked meats” like bacon, ham, sausage, and a bunch of real fancy, French-ass meats. (Side note: The person who prepares a charcuterie is called a charcutier, which means “pork butcher” successfully rendering me a butcher. Which has always been a life goal.) Basically it is shelf-stable meat, right? Forcemeat, emulsified sausages, brined meats that, eaten in large quantities, cause gastrointestinal cancer, as well as diarrhea (see above).

Then there are the cheeses. Oh Cheezus Christ, the cheeses. There is aged cheddars, and goat gouda. There is gorgonzola and stilton. There is asiago and brie. Stop it right now, I can’t take it anymore! I LOVE cheeses!

Whew. Sorry. That was inappropriate and uncalled for, but you know, necessary, in a get-all-your-burdens-off-your-chest sorta way. Thanks for listening. I owe you one.

So I decide, Missy, you can be fancy-ass too. You too, can host a party and have a charcuterie board. It can’t be that hard to do. And so I did it, in these 18 easy-to-follow steps.

Step One: Get a board. This step took me seven months. Listen, I know what you’re thinking, “What the hell, Missy? I just Googled it and I can have one at my house in three hours.” But listen, like most great ideas I get, I sorta, kinda, forgot what I was doing. Sure, I looked on Amazon as soon as I got home last summer, and even placed a couple of boards in my cart for good measure. And whenever I was bored or needed to shop I would look at my boards and picture what kind of cheeses I wanted to try. But I never pulled the trigger. Meanwhile, I did move on to step two.

Step Two: Get some favorite meats and cheeses. This was simple for me because I already knew two things. 1. Trader Joe’s Unexpected Cheese is the best aged cheddar on the face of the planet and I will fight anyone who disagrees and 2. I don’t like hard salami.

Step Three: Invite friends over for a charcuterie.

Step Four: Convince them there will be wine too and tell them to stop asking you questions about the food, they will get fed, look, are you assholes coming or not?

Step Five: Go to Harris Teeter in a panic to get olives.

Step Six: Yell at your husband because you told him to get “fancy-ass beer” to go with the “fancy-ass cheeses” and then roll your eyes when he asks what the hell a “fancy-ass beer” is. “SOMETHING LOCAL!” you scream as you slam the drawer closed when you realize you have nothing to cut cheeses with. (I’m taking the high road here and not including a joke about “cutting cheese”.)

Step Seven: Google “How do you cut cheeses” and find that you need special cheese cutting utensils.

Step Eight: Drive to TJ Maxx. They have everything.

Step Nine: Buy the special utensils, a new wallet, three new dog toys, Christmas ornaments on clearance, two new toothbrush heads, and a llama painting.

Step Ten: Get home and realize you still don’t have an actual fucking “board”.

Step Eleven: Eye the trees in your backyard suspiciously. You have that old hand sander that you bought yourself for your 35th birthday. You could probably make a new board in the next three hours.

Step Twelve: Resign to use a big “platter”.

Step Thirteen: Start to cut up the cheeses and meats, realizing that you have no idea which utensils works for which cheese, abandon the utensils and saw at the bricks of yellow and white until they are start to crumble all over your counter.

Step Fourteen: Call your friends and tell them you have a horrible migraine and you can’t host the party. Send sad, sick emojis and promise a kick-ass party to make up for it.

Step Fifteen: Cry in your bathroom while you eat the crumbles of cheese from a ziplock bag.

Step Sixteen: Six months later happen upon a charcuterie board at TJ Maxx, snatch it up quickly and run to the register before you forget what you are doing.

Step Seventeen: Run over to Trader Joe’s and buy five bricks of aged cheddar, some asiago, some other cheeses that sound yummy, ham, salami, and some soft goat cheese. Get crackers.

Step Eighteen: Pull out the board and all these cheeses at your Super Bowl party likes it no big fucking deal and you do this all the time. You don’t label anything, or make it look fancy, least your friends think you have lost your mind. But you know, you kinda wish you had more time to plan.

Actual fucking cheese and meat tray at my Super Bowl party this last weekend. No one ate the goat cheese. I will get better. Or not.

Enjoy.

May you live your best charcuterie li(f)e.

M.

For the New People

There are probably some things you should know about my family, for those of you who are new here, and maybe for some of you who are old here, but who like to hear my crazy stories. So I took some time to tell you a bit about my husband, Jerimiah, and our son, Jackson. Let me first say there is much more to know about them, but these are some basics. I am actively trying to get Jerimiah to start a podcast with me called Peanut Butter and Petty (in which he is Peanut Butter and I am Petty, duh) and we discuss our lives and regular, everyday things so you could learn more about us because I know you want to know more about us, but you are too afraid to ask. He is in refusal mode, as it sits. I’m close though, y’all. Really close. I think Jerimiah’s hold up is that he thinks he isn’t as “funny” as I am, and that we wouldn’t have anything to talk about. Meanwhile I’m like, two things: 1. No one will listen to that bitch except our friends Dave and Beth, your mom, my mom, and my sisters and 2. You give me too much credit and our “boring” life not enough. I really just want an excuse to drop $100 on one of those really fancy microphones so I can look cool in my videos, but that is neither here nor there.

So here we are. The first video is waaaaay off topic and the second one, though it may seem to be mostly about me (let’s be real, I am selfish and this whole thing is always about me) actually strives to give you a glimpse inside my son’s life. So enjoy! Or don’t, I’m not the boss of you. Ps… the three pictures below will only make sense after you watch the first video. Sorry, Jerimiah, but it had to be addressed. ❤

**UPDATE** Jerimiah replied to this blog post on my Facebook page with the following claims:

  1. The shorts were Levi’s not JNCO, although I was known to sport a pair or two. See attached pic.
*I concede on the shirt being green and red. But that is all.

2. While I was the proselytizing Juggalo trying to get his Juggalette, I never owned a shirt, but did attend one concert.

3. My green on green combo was hard to beat, let’s be honest here.

4. While you might make 50% of the shots you take, you miss 100% of those you don’t take. Remember that. 😂


A “wife beater”. While I do not agree with the term and know that it is offensive, I didn’t create the name. Also, don’t hit your fucking partners, you assholes. And remember, mental and emotional abuse is just as bad.
See, they existed. Still do, in fact. You can buy these bad boys on eBay for $30. No, Jerimiah, they are not your size. Ps… His were actually blue, remember?
This is as close to the actual shirt as I could find. I had to Google: “Vintage Adidas Front-Button Shirt”, but still this one is not exactly right. His was green and I not so, umm, easy on the eyes.
A bit about Jerimiah. And laundry baskets, and some tips on “changing a man”. Also, who wants to buy a used Poodle?
A little bit of soccer, little bit of basketball, a little bit of we are not good at either. Learning about Jackson Riker!