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Welcome To Club Awkward

Miss 13 has a boy crush and he’s apparently crushing on her, too. This is all I can say about this situation because I have signed a ‘Right of Privacy’ agreement wherein my sweet daughter will cease all communication with me if I spill all the beans about her life on this blog. That being the case, all you need to know is that she is entering what I like to call Club Awkward…also known as dating. Perhaps it wasn’t awkward for you, but it was for me and I’m almost positive it will be for her because DNA is a motherfucker.

My first boyfriend was a lad I knew in 5th grade who we will call Ryan…because that was his real name. He was cute and popular and everything the movies told me a boyfriend should be. So I asked him via note to my friend, to his friend, to him, if he liked me. And he said yes. That was also the year I was a volunteer at the school library, but instead of checking in books on the day I found out I had a real boyfriend, I jumped on the tables and hopped from one to the other in sheer joy that someone from the male species noticed me. Someone saw me and told Ryan. We broke up that afternoon. My awkwardness would continue to be a thorn in my side for years to come.

Just imagine me jumping on all of those tables.

Just imagine me jumping on all of those tables.

In my younger years, I was out with some girlfriends at a bar and we had some gentlemen offer to buy us drinks, then begin pulling up chairs to our already crowded table. My friends giggled and flipped their hair, completely overcome with the thought of free drinks. I looked at the most attractive male of the bunch and said “No thanks. I brought my own money.” Everyone laughed uncomfortably and I specifically requested my own check at the end of the night. My mom had told me years before that nothing comes for free and that if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

The following year I met up with some out-of-town friends who were in Vegas on Spring Break while I was living there for a year. One of the male companions, a single guy my friend had told me about, was sauntering ahead of us up Las Vegas Boulevard while we followed behind. He had on cargo shorts that looked to be stuffed with either dead babies or room temperature beer. He was oblivious to me and tall and extremely funny, so I put on my awkward panties and decided to make my move.

“Can I have one of those pocket beers?” I eagerly awaited his response while staring at his pants like a hooker in heat.

Do you have beer in that pocket? Please.

Do you have beer in that pocket? Please.

The rest of that story is awkward girl history. That guy married me and did every male on the planet a huge favor by getting me the hell out of the dating market. I damn near invented awkward dating and it would be a fucking shame if I ever had to tackle that beast again. But what if I did?

Last month I found out that I’m on Tinder. You probably are, too. Apparently, if you have a FB page you are linked to Tinder in a social media clusterfuck that I don’t understand. It goes like this…someone you are friends with in real life and on FB is on Tinder. They come across someone they are interested in on Tinder and pull up their Tinder profile. If both of these people are friends with you on FB, then your face will show up on Tinder as “Friends You Have In Common”. So basically you are on Tinder. I contemplated what my Tinder profile would be like if I was actually on the market. I know…yikes.

“Divorced mother of two seeks male (or female) to assist with child rearing, bill paying, and yard maintenance. Must be employed and make more than I make at Starbucks. I’m not a breadwinner, okay? I like reading books, traveling, drinking coffee on my porch, and then drinking alcohol on my porch. Basically I like my porch. And alcohol. I need you to be available for one or two major cry sessions per week and I’m willing to have sex twice per week on scheduled days, but not the same days when I’m crying. Also, not two days in a row or on days when I work. I don’t iron clothes, kiss passionately in public, have elevator sex, watch scary movies, or eat treats from other people’s houses. Inquire by texting me because I don’t take phone calls and I will not send you a picture of my boobs. Trust me…you’ll thank me for that later.”

Me...with everything dating related.

Me…with everything dating related.

See? Absolutely no one would be interested in that scenario, minus my husband. The same man who seems convinced that since we have been married there have been men hitting on me, which doesn’t seem likely considering that they didn’t hit on me when I was single. But the issue is that I’m fucking oblivious and awkward. Case in point….

I was working the other day, making drinks at the Bux, and a handsome fellow in military garb looked over and said something that I didn’t understand because I was working and not listening. All I heard was “Mandy”. And I forgot I was wearing a name tag. So obviously I assumed he knew me.

In all my coolness, I pretended to know him and said “Hey you, how’s it going?”

He replied with “No. I was just saying that I liked your hair.”

“Thanks. I didn’t wash it today.” Because obviously he needed that information.

As I handed him his drink, I made some comment about it being very small and probably not enough coffee for the day. He smiled and then something happened with his eye. Like he had a eyelash in it or something and it closed at me and the first thing I thought was “Does he have an eyelash in his eyeball?” Then I told my husband about that weirdo and he’s like “I told you that you get hit on.” And I’m still convinced there was an eyelash involved. Cause the awkward club is never ending. Welcome, dear daughter. I hope you find a human with warm pocket beers who will save you from the hell of dating forever. The end.

red eye

What If Trump Is A Symptom Of A Bigger Problem?

Those of us who are not following the masses into Trump super church rallies to watch him ridicule Mexicans/women/everyone not white may be looking around thinking “How did this happen?” And there are many reasons. Some are based in political history that I don’t understand and won’t attempt to preach about and other reasons may be a little closer to home. My take on all of this may not work for you, but since I’m a grown up and I can write a blog (along with 99% of the world) I’m going to share my theories with you. Feel free to click away and watch a YouTube makeup tutorial at any time.

Fame and fortune in just three easy steps.

Fame and fortune in just three easy steps.

Problem number 1: We love to make stupid people famous. And apparently President.

When we are willing to vote in a reality TV star to the highest position in our country, you have to wonder if we haven’t become so blindly obsessed with this celebrity culture that we can’t see straight. Media outlets are creaming in their panties over the numbers that Trump brings in and it shouldn’t come as a surprise…they are giving us exactly what we want. A train wreck, a celebrity, a constant gag fest of commentary, and a human who doesn’t care what you think about him. Guess what? That’s every reality show on TV and a shit ton of shaming videos on YouTube that get more views than a Playboy  magazine in 1978. And we are so busy being absorbed into this media jerk off session that we can’t turn off the TV or switch off the internet long enough to realize that we have done this to ourselves.

We are burning this motherfucker to the ground. Trump or no Trump.

We are burning this motherfucker to the ground. Trump or no Trump.

Problem number 2: We are ignoring the real problems in our own communities and OUR OWN HOMES.

Like oh..I don’t know…racism and bullying, You think Trump is the only one being a racist prick? Think he’s the only American promoting a bullying agenda? Hardy fucking har. People are following him and supporting him because they are him. Maybe not you and maybe not me, but enough people. Racism is alive and well in America. I live in one of the least diverse, whitest states in the Union and you can bet your sweet ass I’ve seen racism. I saw it in my own home growing up. My dad used terms that I still have to Google to understand when he would describe people of different ethnic backgrounds. When I moved to Vegas at the age of 20 and had African American neighbors for the first time, he gave me a stern warning about locking my doors. I know I’m not alone in growing up with extremely racist and hate-filled commentary. Trump has simply tapped in to our cultural acceptance of hatred. Maybe not you and maybe not me, but enough people. Trump is a bully? My neighbor calls her grand-kids “little fuckers” when she is disciplining them behind closed doors. I only know this because she leaves her windows wide open and screams at the top of her lungs. My son has been picked on at school and currently isn’t allowed to play football with his peers because he’s “too small”. Instead he’s ridiculed until he hides behind the portables and cries. We are bullying our own children, who in turn are bullying others. Maybe not you and maybe not me, but enough people. Yeah, Trump is a problem, but he is only a symptom of what we already are, folks.

This is the monster WE have created.

This is the monster WE have created.

I’m upset, too. I don’t want Trump to become President of the United States. But we have to take some accountability as to how and why this happened. We created a monster. We stopped shoveling our neighbors’ driveways and started obsessing about the Kardashian clan. We stopped treating one another as we would like to be treated and started laughing at YouTube videos of people being abused or shamed in public. (Sound like a Trumpy move?) We stopped taking care of the people in our own homes and started dividing ourselves into divisive groups based on our hatred of others. Now those groups are ganging up and they are mad. They want their voices heard and they falsely believe that Trump hears them. They want a revolution. Maybe not you and maybe not me, but enough people.

dog and ice cream

Your Dog Doesn’t Need A Latte

We took my grandma out for dinner a few weeks ago to an extremely clean, very sneeze proof buffet (which is the only kind I will even consider eating at). Everything was going along smashingly until my sweet grandma turned to me and said “Do you think that’s a service dog?” Across the restaurant, placing its paws on a previously disinfected table, was a small breed white dog with no collar and absolutely no tell-tell signs of being a service dog. I gagged a little thinking about these dog owners dragging a handful of rogue dog hair back to the salad bar and having it drift into the ranch dressing while their loving little poodle made a tootsie roll on the table. I wanted to scream “Take your fucking pet home and stop ruining it for real service animals, jackass.” Instead I just glared in their general direction, covered my entire body in hand sanitizer, and sprinted out the front door.

Your dog looks like he's really enjoying that espresso. #nope

Your dog looks like he’s really enjoying that espresso. #nope

Before we all have a come apart about my insensitivity towards animals and especially service animals, let me calm your tits with this little tidbit of info…I love animals and my family and I raised service animals for many years. Guide Dogs For The Blind allowed us to take their puppies for the first year of their training in order to get them acclimated to living with a family, learning basic commands, and being socialized in public places. While training our service dogs in public places, they were required to wear a vest that clearly stated their purpose. The first time my brother and I were in charge of taking our yellow lab on a grocery store adventure, we both began bawling in the parking lot at the thought of our little puppy dropping a load in the bread aisle.

“Please don’t make us take him in there. He’s going to poop and then everyone at school will see us cleaning up poop in the grocery store and we will never be able to show our face in public again.” The teenage drama was thick, but we all survived that trip and many others with our service pups.

Dog Poop

We not only took our dogs to grocery stores, but to restaurants, schools and many other public places. It was cool and not weird because they were actually service animals and not someone’s sweet little Bichon Frise wearing a ruby encrusted collar and licking the salt shaker at a fast food restaurant. The truth is…your dog doesn’t need a latte or a buffet salad and if they aren’t a service animal, they need to stay home.

Working at a coffee shop has opened my eyes to how entitled people feel when it comes to their pets and frankly…it’s disgusting. Last week we had to ask a customer to please take her pet outside after finding out it was not a service animal. We kindly asked her to take her four legged friend outside and she rudely stomped out the door yelling “You need to calm down.” Yes, we are the one’s who need to calm down. Another time, a woman placed her small dog on top of the condiment bar where patrons are meant to add sugar and cream to their coffee. Her sweet little Boo Boo began rubbing his shaved rectum all over the counter while she checked her phone and opened a straw. That’s not service dog behavior, that’s fucking disgusting. And that is terrible pet owner behavior. I don’t take my kids to Target and let them wipe their bare asses on all the two liter bottles of soda while I completely ignore them and scroll Facebook. (Or do I? No…I usually don’t). Unless your pet is a service animal, having been trained on how to act in public, they don’t need to go inside every fucking business establishment you frequent on your Saturday afternoon errands. That is what drive through windows and dog sitters are for.

Lookie lou...you can get your latte without taking your dog inside. #shocking

Lookie lou…you can get your latte without taking your dog inside. #shocking

You love your pet, I’m compassionate to that. I love your pet, too. Especially when Mr. Tickles isn’t rubbing his ass on my condiment bar or sniffing for a place to poop atop a table in the only buffet restaurant I can eat at. Or used to be able to eat at.