Ok, Boomer

I’m not going to pretend to know what started this #OkBoomer hashtag, mainly because I have been trying not to watch news, or stay abreast on current events as of late because well, shitbag, dumpster fire world, and all, but every once in a while something comes across my social media bubble and pulls me into it. And today it is this #OkBoomer thing. And from what I have gathered it’s a slight, a knock at, a diss to, the Baby Boomers because they have a lot to say about the things Millennials and all the rest of the younger generations are doing, a lot of negative things, and if we really step back and observe, we can see that the Boomers are responsible for a lot of what is happening now. Because it takes literal decades to fuck shit up this bad. Yet, here they are, talking ’bout “Make America Great Again,” but that’s not even what I’m upset about.

I’m upset with the way they have this attitude about how “we,” as in the generations after them, can’t just work hard, pull up our bootstraps when times are hard, make more money, and “get it done” like they did. It’s as if they are so out of touch with reality that they honestly, hand-to-God, believe that’s still a thing that can happen. Uh, no. Times have changed, Boomers. This isn’t 1958. A dollar isn’t what a dollar was. You can’t work a part-time job and pay your way through college. You can’t make $8/hr and raise a family. You can’t have Union jobs now and expect to be taken care of, to not be made to fight for better wages and healthcare.

And a majority of us who are trying to get us out of the mess we are in, don’t remember a world even remotely resembling the one you had. Our childhood is marred with mass shootings in our schools, terrorists attacks, and war. Jesus, our friends are always at war. We all know someone who has been to Iraq, or Afghanistan, at one time or another. And we all know some who never came back. Meanwhile, I saw where that Disney woman, the heiress to the Disney fortune, asked what Millennials have accomplished in their life. What have we done? Um, survived? Is that not enough for you?

My personal favorite is the Boomers whacked-out advice like, “The problem is no one wants to work 70 hours a week anymore,” and “College isn’t for everyone, stop trying to push college on people.” Two things: 1. No college isn’t for everyone, but if you want to be able to survive, and not live paycheck to paycheck, and you don’t want to be in constant fear of losing your job, or going broke if you get sick, then you have to have a salaried gig with benefits, and guess who gets those jobs? College-educated people. And you know how I feel about higher education and critical thinking, you can’t have one without the other… 2. You are right, we DO NOT want to work 70 hours a week, and for the love of all that is holy, if you are working 70 hours a week, you are doing something very wrong. No one needs to work that much anymore. Technology has made our work lives easier, which has allowed us to be home with our families more, which has helped the economy, helped our parenting, helped our marriages, even helped equal out the roles in the home. (Seriously, if you’re working that much you are probably pretty ineffective at your job.) But guess what the Boomers don’t like: Equality. Being at home with family. Men in parenting roles. Because that isn’t how it was done back then, because they still are living in the “way back then.”

I saw this meme the other day that had an older gentleman, a Boomer, and it said, “Back in my day we didn’t get offended so easily…” and at the bottom it said, “Back in his day, they drained a whole pool if a black person stuck a toe in.” And yeah, it made a stunningly great point. But still, that’s not what I’m upset with. Boomers have never claimed to be self-aware, and we know they aren’t, Jesus, they wouldn’t go to a therapist if it meant saving their lives, let alone saving the lives of their children! What makes me upset is this form of nostalgia. That “Back in my day” bullshit. It’s fun for you to sit around in your underwear and yell, “Back at my day” at Fox News, but when it comes up in my newsfeed, you can bet your ass I will have some stuff to say about it.

Whew. I think I flipped my shit, y’all.

Sorry about that.

Actually, no, I’m not sorry.

I’m just a woman, stuck somewhere between a Millennial and who knows what or where else, trying to make my world better, my community better, my family better, by doing what I think is right. Every generation has had its breaking point, and I guess, I hope, this is ours. I hope we can push the Boomers aside (and the rest of the people who have no fucking clue) and actually get shit done. Get our climate straightened out. Get our oceans clean again. Save the damn bees. Elect representation that actually represents us. Educate all the people who want to be educated. Get all kids a hot meal everyday. Raise minimum wage. Lower higher education, prescription drug, and healthcare costs. Pass sensible gun laws. Jesus, there is so much more we want to do, and you know what, we might just do it.

And yes, I know the rhetoric, the discourse on the “Us v. Them” bullshit, unfortunately, that’s what it’s boiled down to. Either you are with us. With this planet, with the younger generations, and making this world better for ALL people, or you are against us. Time to make a choice. As my Boomer mom would say, “It’s time to shit or get off the pot.” Maybe you can relate to that.

M.

Happy Veterans Day*

Riddle me this. Have you ever been so pumped up after you read an article, or a book, or watched a documentary about humans doing awesome human stuff that you were all, shit yeah, I could do that too! So you get really pumped about doing said thing, and you Google everything you can about it, then right when you’re about to drop $1200 on a pilot class, or $300 for the Marine Corps Marathon entry, you’re like whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m afraid to fly in a plane.

But then, three nights later, after a fairly shitty day, you’re sitting in your shower, eating pizza rolls, and drinking wine while you watch Downton Abbey on your phone, and you’re like, you know what?! Nah, screw the MCM. I can run that bitch if I want to. And, yeah, I am gonna learn how to fly a plane, right after I watch this second season. Then you keep watching Downton Abbey, until you fall asleep, and your partner wakes you up the next morning when he is trying to take a shower before work and he’s all, “What happened?!” And you’re fully clothed, asleep in the shower, with a dead phone, and pieces of pizza rolls around you like you had some sort of witchcraft seance and the coven left your ass because you drank all the wine. So your partner helps you up, and you sleep off the wine and pizza rolls.

Next day, you wake up feeling refreshed and better about your life choices, when you open your email box and BAM! There’s the receipt for signing up for the Marine Corps Marathon. And you didn’t just sign one person up, you signed two people. Why did you do that? Then you finally remember calling your best friend for moral support the night before and, oh Christ on the cross you’ve signed both of you up to run this.

So then you have to call the Marine Corps Marathon people and explain that you are not in the best shape to participate, and that your friend is, uh, pissed that you gave her address, so can you please un-register, and they are like, “Well ma’am, you have enough time to train for the Marine Corps Marathon. It’s not for another eight months.” And you’re like holy shit, it’s a sign. You SHOULD run the Marine Corps Marathon, and you have eight months to train to do it. And you feel pumped, and so ready to do this, this is exactly what you needed and the universe in all her infinite wisdom has guided you to this exact moment.

And then eight months later, while you are eating frozen waffles on the couch, watching Downton Abbey, your friend calls to see if you ever got a refund and you’re all, “Nah, the Marine Corps probably needs that money more than I do. It was meant to be a gift, anyway.” Then she calls you a liar, and asks what you are eating. You tell her that she doesn’t even know your life and that you happen to be eating broccoli, so she can shove it somewhere the sun don’t shine, and also you are glad you will get to see her over Christmas break.

The end.

Happy Veterans Day to the Marines, and all the other Armed Forces.

M.

*Loosely based on a true story

Things I’m Mad About Today

Listen, some days are better than other days. Ya dig? I went to see my therapist on Monday afternoon this week. I usually go on Thursday or Friday mornings, but she was all booked up when I made my appointment. And she’s so booked up through the holidays that I had to pick another weird time for my next visit, a Wednesday at lunch time. Her lunch time. She is seeing me instead of eating on schedule. WHAT?! I didn’t realize that seeing your therapist was like going to church, the holidays are in big demand (check the list for a bullet point that relates to this). I mean I get it, family and what not, but come on, y’all that is jacking up the people like me who have to go every two weeks. Okay, deep breathes. That kinda put me in a foul mood all week and today that foul mood, mixed with sad documentaries I watched last night, mixed with reading the news this morning, has really blown up. So this here post is just a list of shit I am currently mad about. Read at your own risk.

  • The woman, in the documentary I watched last night, died and it was a total surprise, and her and her wife were together for 40 years, and her wife really needed her, and I can’t stop thinking about being left partnerless when you have all these amazing plans. First I was sad, now I’m just mad.
  • That family who was murdered in Mexico. I have questions, mainly because I didn’t read past the headline. Like, were they missionaries? Or were they living in Mexico to avoid religious persecution here in the US, because of Mormonism+Polygamy. And if either of these two things are accurate…
  • Why are people doing missionary work in Mexico? In Honduras? Anywhere outside of the USA? Listen, I am a globalist, don’t get me wrong, I think we should be helping all people who need it. But I also personally know people who travel to different parts of the world to do “missionary work,” and I KNOW for a FACT that the biggest reason they go is to SAY THAT THEY WENT. It is not to help those people, it’s a combo of feeling better about yourself and being able to tell people you went to Thailand on a mission trip. I’m not impressed, assholes. You know what would impress me? If you went to Detroit and helped build new pipe lines, and helped them get water that isn’t slowing killing them. You know what would impress me? If you went to the coal mining regions of West Virginia and set up a mobile health care center, some Doctors Without Borders type-shit, but you know here, in the US, where people also need vaccines and access to reproductive healthcare. You know what would impress me? If you did mission trips in pockets of the Deep South where racism is most prevalent. If you went down there and preached the “Good word” to those white folk who still think it’s funny to dress their kids up as the KKK for Halloween. Also, why are we still persecuting people for their religious beliefs?! I am not into polygamy, but I don’t give two fucks if my neighbors are, that’s they bidness.

Whew. I need a Tylenol.

  • Speaking of church and religion. How bout those people who don’t go to therapy, but really need to go to therapy, but pretend like going to church is like going to therapy and think that God has healed their broken bits. Nah, dog, that’s now how it works. Faith is good, don’t get me wrong, but faith ain’t helping you get to the root of the trauma. Faith is just telling you to ignore that trauma by “forgiving” the people who hurt you. And while therapy also wants you to forgive, it certainly wants you to also do some actual work on yourself so you can get to the point of complete self-awareness so you realize how shitty you sound when you tell someone who had just lost a baby that they need to just “pray a bunch” and they will feel better.
  • While I’m on the topic of therapy let me address the people who think therapy is dumb. You know why you think that, cause you’re scared. You are scared as shit about therapy. Cause you see how it works and you know it requires work and deep-diving into your life and your mistakes and your trauma and that scares the shit out of you so you are all, “That’s some whackadoodle shit, Missy.” And I smile and laugh and say, “Oh I know,” but inside I’m feeling very sorry for you because you just aren’t ready, and I’m afraid you never will be. Listen, I know because I was that person. And “I know there’s pain… why do you wrap yourself up in these chains, these chains…” #WilsonPhillips
  • The Dakota Pipeline leaked oil. Duh. You see why people didn’t want it built now, or nah, you still dumb?
  • Drug smugglers sawed their way through Trump’s “Impenetrable” border wall. Duh. You see why people didn’t want it built now, or nah, you still dumb?
  • This picture:
  • I had to go to the Walmarts the other day because it was the only place that I knew I could find all the weird-ass shit that I needed at that exact moment, and I saw a woman with a baby who wasn’t dressed appropriately for the weather and a toddler standing up in the cart while she was rolling it into the store and she was yelling about who knows what into her cell phone and I had a moment of, “That poor mom” then I was like no, you know what, people can do better than that. Which made me remember that I desperately wanted another baby and I would have another awesome kid right now, meanwhile this crazy lady got two and she’s probably treating them like this all the time and how in the world is that fair and it isn’t. This happens to me sometimes. I get very angry at the unjust world we live in. It’ll pass.
  • But before it passes I will think about all the other unjust things, like about how that McDonald’s CEO that slept with a subordinate was being paid $5,317/ hour and that the normal McDonalds employee is making $8/hour and what the actual fuck, y’all?!
  • It’s Native American Heritage Month but none of my motherfucking FB friends wanna talk about that. Meanwhile, I read how Native American Reservations were the first form of concentration camps and that Hitler saw what we were doing over here and was all, “Oh snap, that’s a great idea!” And then modeled his camps after that. But, yeah, nobody wanna talk about that, huh?

Imma stop. Imma stop you guys. I don’t want to make you all any more mad than you quite possibly already are, and you know what, I am going to feel better tomorrow. I am. But today, today I am going to let myself be angry at the world that we live in, because sometimes we just need to do that. I’m going to go scream into a pillow now, then bake some cookies.

I hope your day is better than mine.

I love you.

M.

Not About a Dead Dear

If you’re reading this right now, I’m alive! Well, maybe not. I wrote this two days before today and that means it’s Sunday. Or is it Monday? No, today is Wednesday, but I wrote this on Sunday. Or Monday. Or at some point when I was not 35,000 feet above the ground, but I planned to post it while I was 35,000 feet above the ground. I did this so that I wouldn’t use my blog as an excuse to write while I was on the plane, because I don’t need to be writing a blog post right now, I mean, not right, right now, but on Wednesday at nine am, because I really, actually need to be working on a project for my friend Megan who I work on projects for sometimes. But it is sort of a boring project (sorry Megan, but you know what I mean), so I have been putting it off all week in lieu of writing blog posts, but not writing actual writing, like that damn essay I’ve been working on for four months now about that time I walked into my Uncle Arthur’s barn and saw a hanging deer bleeding out and then we all ate deer chili. What? What, Missy?

Uhhh. Huh huh.

What, y’all?

Huh?

I don’t know.

I think what I am saying is that I am in a plane, probably above your head, right… right… now! And I am working on some editing, not writing an essay about a dead deer, and even though that is what I need to be doing right… right… then! I am not doing it then, and I am not doing it now.

Hey, do you guys remember Beavis and Butthead? Remember? On MTV? I didn’t watch it a lot because we were poor and didn’t have cable, but sometimes I did get to see it at friends’ houses and they always did this laugh, you know which one I mean: Uhhhh huuuuh huh huh. It was usually right after someone said a word like: Penetration.

Uhhhh. Huuuuuh. Huh huh.

I guess my brain is fried. That happens sometimes. Next stop, California!

Happy Wednesday!

M.

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.