An Ode To You On Your 40th Year

Fact: I dread getting old. My husband, on the other hand, is thrilled beyond belief to be ancient and unable to control his bowels. He waxes on and on about the possibility that science will reveal a way for him to live well past the century mark. In my mind, that sounds worse than being dipped in hot lava while Celine Dion wails in the background. This difference in opinion exemplifies our marriage and why we have made it work for so long. He seems to have been born with what you would call ‘a zest for life’. I was born wondering why the hell this life thing was so difficult and painfully long. He sees the best in every person he meets, even when they have been complete dicks to him. I hate everyone. He looks at a challenge as something to tackle with passion and a giant grin on his face. I just stay inside and hope no one calls my phone or knocks on the door. We are opposites in so many ways and on the brink of my husband’s 40th birthday, I offer a list of reasons he amazes and perplexes me on a daily basis. An ode to the man who somehow still believes he hit the jackpot when he married me.

Marriage Tip: Marry someone who makes you laugh. You can thank me later.

Marriage Tip: Marry someone who makes you laugh. You can thank me later.

You are a lucky bastard and you know it.

My husband wins random shit all the time. The surprising thing to me is that he actually believes he can win. I don’t have that problem. Our first date was to a concert that he had won tickets to the week before. He told me “I folded my ticket in a special way so that it would feel different when they went to pull the paper out.” That shit actually worked. He wins raffles, drawings, and even Keno. We have a photo of his 1,500 dollar keno win on a one dollar bet. Who does that? My husband…that’s who. I’m over here angrily forcing nickles into a slot machine with the knowledge that I will mortgage my house and sell my children before I ever win a jackpot.

You believe that people are good and will argue that point ad nauseam.

My husband has been screwed over in business upside down and sideways more times than I can count. At one point he was working for a company that straight up lied to his face about the fact that they were selling out and wouldn’t keep his position. Yet, he still showed up and worked his ass off up until the moment they said “We want you to take a commission only position or take a severance.” I wanted to burn that fucking building to ground and drown the owners in green jello, yet he came home and said “It’s no big deal. I’ll find something.” And he did. But not before I raged for hours about how they had screwed him. It’s a trait I admire so much, the ability to not want to kill everyone. He can take a piece of poop and shine it up to the point where everyone thinks it’s just a gorgeous piece of art. I just think it’s a piece of shit.

My favorite people.

My favorite people.

You are a spunky morning person. WITHOUT COFFEE.

I know. I read that sentence and I’m like “Fuck that noise. No one is happy in the morning, especially without coffee.” But it’s true. My husband will roll over to face me in the morning and use his pointer finger to lightly touch my nose and say “Boop. Good morning.” And he does it in a really sing-songy voice that makes me understand why some people keep a large Rubbermaid container and vats of acid in their basement. When I groan and elbow him in the chest his response is “You just need your coffee, princess.” I celebrate your spunk in the morning, dear. Just know that I will never, ever, times a million coffee beans be that person. Even after three cups of coffee.

You believe in me. I still don’t know why.

Living with another person is awful, especially if you live with me. I get angsty when my husband leaves twelve cups and three stinky bowls in his office or when he spends an entire Saturday decorating the inside of our garden shed with Christmas lights. But when all is said and done, that guy is a cheerleader like no other. I’ve tried my hand at everything from a kid’s arts and crafts business (fail) to going to college with two young kids at home (fail) to proclaiming myself a writer who would eventually publish a book and put us on easy street (fail-a-roony). Yet when I come up with another hair brained idea he is the first person to stand in my corner and scream “You can do this!” I’ve never had someone in my life who is more excited or invested in my shenanigans. I’ll take the dirty dishes any day to have that guy in my corner of the ring.

You are a good person. The kind everyone strives to be.

The term ‘good person’ means different things to different people, but I know my husband is a good person because I’ve met my fair share of not good persons. (9 out of 10 people I meet on a daily basis are people I don’t trust or like on any level) He cuddled our babies as newborns and held me tight while I cried about being a huge heifer with leaky boobs. He donates his time and money to people constantly without needing validation. He says please and thank you and then rips a giant, guacamole fart at the dinner table. Which I can look past because he always compliments my cooking. I’m convinced his heart is the size of a Hummer, but I can’t confirm nor deny this as I can’t see through his skin.

That perv stache though!

That perv stache though!

Happy Birthday, Mr. 40! I hope you live to be 150 if that’s what you want. But I will warn you that I won’t make it past 80’ish. I’m sure you won’t have a problem finding another sassy lady to annoy in the morning or fart with at the dinner table while you enjoy your rest home.


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.