Young Love And A Starbucks Card

When I was in elementary school there was a popular boy who had a crush on me in February. This is the perfect month to be crushing or have someone crushing on you because it can only mean one thing…PRESENTS. (Unless you are married, then it means something else.) My February crush gave me a stuffed Valentine’s Day bear and a note proclaiming his love for me, a love he promised would never end. It ended three days later. But I kept that bear and in high school, when I couldn’t get a boy to give me a pity box of those chalk flavored Valentine’s heart candies, I reminisced about that one February day in 4th grade when someone thought I was lovable. Now I have kids and watching those grade school crushes move in and out of their lives faster than a bowel movement is substantially more painful than the years I spent having no Valentine.

I'm going to take a hard pass on these.

I’m going to take a hard pass on these.

Three weeks ago my son began using hair gel in quantities that would have made the guys from Jersey Shore jealous. His hair was weighed down and lacquered up and my mom intuition told me something was going on.

“What’s with the fancy hair?”

“My crush has a crush on me, so I need to look handsome.”

He also started dousing himself with a can of Axe spray that we keep in the guest bathroom in case someone drops a smelly poo. The cologne smells only slightly better than a turd, but I ran out the good stuff. The romance was on and so was his black button up shirt and his nicest pair of jeans.

And then like wind between your cheeks, it was over. One day he came home from school with a droopy face and told me that his crush liked someone else. He stopped doing his hair and hasn’t showered in a month. It was heartbreaking, but at least we wouldn’t be spending twenty five dollars on a heart shaped box of chocolates or an overpriced giraffe sporting a red bow. Financial crisis averted.

I’m not the only one dealing with the Valentine’s Day gift giving charade. While at work last week, a woman and her 12-year-old son came in for a gift card and after three months of trying to decide which heart shaped card he wanted, they finally handed me one.

“How much would you like me to put on this?”

That’s when all hell broke loose. The son wanted to put 15 on the card, his mother was only willing to give 5 of her own money, which including his 5 only added up to 10. (I’m a math whiz, right?)

“But you promised.” The whining continued as I held the gift card in my hand and awkwardly watched the two of them like I was enjoying a new Netflix original program.

“We are still going to get her a card and a treat, so I think 10 dollars is plenty.” This is the exact moment where I became very jealous, very quickly.

“Fine. Just put 15 on it, please.” She turned to her son to make sure he knew that they would figure this out at home and I’m almost sure she meant that she would just pay for the whole thing and never bring it up again.

Picture it as a heart and then know what I'm getting for Valentine's Day.

Picture it as a heart and then boom…you know what I’m getting for Valentine’s Day.

A 15 dollar Starbucks card, a treat, and a card? I’ve been married almost 16 years and I don’t get shit like that. My husband is jizzing in his pants over getting us a heart shaped pizza and a dollar store card that he will probably sign with his first and last name because he still thinks I’m not completely clear on who he is. This junior high school gal has no idea what kind of Valentine’s Day gifts she will be forced to pretend she loves in 25 years. Like when her husband sends her a box of chocolate covered strawberries and he’s already eaten all but two. There will be no mom there to buy her a Starbucks gift card or a special treat. Your special treat becomes a half eaten Hershey’s bar that your kids forgot about from Christmas. Happy Valentine’s Day to you!

I’ll be over here snuggling that stuffed bear from elementary school, if anyone needs me.

My Hair Is “On Fleek” And Other Things I Don’t Understand

I’m really feeling my age lately. It may be a combination of my desire to be in bed by 10pm and how completely wrecked the skin around my eyes looks, but I think it also has a bit to do with working next to people who are significantly younger than me. The kind of young that makes me do math in my head and realize I could have been their parent. Yeah…that kind of young. But I’m learning a lot of things that I think will really help me in the long run. Like when I want to ruin my own teenagers life with comments like “That outfit is on fleek.” Which brings us to my first lesson.

I wish my hair looked this backwoods Alabama. #hairgoals

I wish my hair looked this backwoods Alabama. #hairgoals

  1. Things are “on fleek” or “ratchet”

When I got to work yesterday with my new haircut, one of my coworkers said “Your hair is on fleek” to which I replied like a senior citizen with “What are saying to me?” I felt like it would have served the whole situation if I had been forced to turn up my hearing aid or pull it out completely so I wouldn’t have to continue to be confused. Having something on fleek is what old people like myself would have called awesome or dope or bomb. Which is what I like to say in my house to keep everyone consistently rolling their eyes and reminding me that people don’t say bomb anymore. Everyone except me. You can also have a ratchet face which is not a good thing. I think it’s like saying someone took a ratchet to you and now you look hideous. I’m not planning to use this one, so I don’t feel compelled to understand it. I’ll just turn down my hearing aid.

What I dream of doing when I see a group text from work. #dead

What I dream of doing when I see a group text from work. #dead

2. Group text is the new backroom cork board

Remember back in the day……yeah that’s where this is going. All the jobs I’ve ever had provided a wonderful space for employees to communicate concerns, find coverage for shifts, or complain about who was taking their tuna sandwich from the fridge even though their name was on it. It was cork board/blackboard/white board in the break room and it gave everyone the opportunity to passive aggressively keep other co workers in the loop. Those days are gone. The cork board has been replaced by group text and I personally would like to ban this practice from any company i have to work for, forever and ever. AMEN. As you know, when a group text is sent you will receive any and all correspondences to said message regardless of whether it pertains to you and regardless of whether you give one flying panty fuck about it. Which I don’t. You also have early morning people, late night people, people with insomnia, and people without kids sending out group texts about garbage bags at 6am on my day off. So instead of trying to guess who wrote “Keep your f@#$%&* hands off my Vanilla Coke” I have to guess who’s number sent a message about the amount of coconut milk in the front fridge. And I have to do it when I’m not at work. I’m petitioning to bring back the cork board or I’m going to be forced to get burner phones every week so when those group texts come through, I won’t feel as guilty about pulling out the battery, backing over the phone with my car, and not covering that shift for whoever is faking illness this particular Friday evening.

I searched for a burrito pic and this came up. Explains the E-Coli outbreak I think. #gross

I searched for a burrito pic and this came up. Explains the E-Coli outbreak I think. #gross

3. This mass hysteria about Chipotle

The one thing folks at my work want all the fucking time is the chance to run over to Chipotle for a burrito that outweighs my left leg by three pounds. I’m a sucker for a good burrito, but this whole thing is out of control. Even when they are serving up E-coli burritos, people cannot and will not stop thinking about/talking about/eating those giant foil wrapped belly babies. I’ve had the Chipotle and only because my daughter made such a fuss for the entire week we were on our road trip about finding one and eating there and maybe eating there again the next day. Calm your tits, teenagers…these burritos made with fresh ingredients that are the size of a Mini Cooper have been around for a hot second. (No one says hot second anymore, so I have to keep it going.) Ten years ago I was eating at a burrito joint in downtown SLC that served massive turd burritos with twelve pounds of guacamole and enough rice to feed a family of four. I think what has happened is that this Chipotle has made a name for itself on the internet web with You Tubers and other famous people I don’t understand pushing Chipotle bowls the way my neighbor growing up used to push weed. It’s a drug, guys. And it’s not even that good. There I said it.

4. My movie and music references are as outdated as the term ‘hot second’.

Pretty In Pink is 30 years old this year which means that it’s a decade older than most of the people I work with. “What is Pretty In Pink?” And then I fall to floor of heart failure or more likely because I slipped and was unable to catch myself. I brought up Nine Inch Nails in conversation once and got blank stares. “You know, Trent Reznor…lead singer.” Crickets chirped and someone changed the subject to Chipotle or something being ratchet and I just stood there in shock. It seems unfair to be almost finished with your teen years and never have had the experience of rocking out to Head Like A Hole. I feel like that’s child abuse and I won’t stand for it.

This shit keeps me young. Seriously. It also gives me new ways to connect to my teenager in ways that probably make her cringe and want to be adopted by a band of carnival workers. Which in itself is worth every group text I get on my day off.

Yes, We Are THOSE People

It’s nearing the end of January, which means I have had my Christmas decorations up for 2 full months. That may seem long enough for most people, but it’s not nearly long enough for me. Not because I have some far reaching admiration for Santa cookie jars or an unwavering need to ugly cry at the sight of handmade ornaments sparkling on my tree. My reasoning is less sentimental and more ridiculous…I’m just giving zero fucks about doing what I’m “supposed” to do this year. Including, but not limited to, taking down my holiday decor in a timely manner.

(I took this picture of my tree today, so rest assured it is still up and sparkling.)

Offended by this? Good. Cause I'm offended by your face.

Offended by this? Good. Cause I’m offended by your face.

I used to be that person. I would spend three days setting up my Christmas decorations precisely when I was supposed to, right after Thanksgiving. Then I would not enjoy them for an entire month because I was busy getting prepared for the “perfect” Christmas celebration. Then during the first week of January, like a good little girl, I would pack away all the snowmen plates and carefully stash the fake pine garland in a giant Rubbermaid container. All the while telling myself “Next year, I will decorate earlier so I can actually look at these decorations that take 60 fucking hours of my life to set up.” Well, this was the year. The decorations were pulled out from our midget sized basement the week before Thanksgiving because guess what, motherfuckers? I wanted to see them while I ate a vat of gravy and sucked down enough wine to paralyze an elephant. And I enjoyed the shit out of my Christmas mantle this year. I finally felt like one of those fancy decorating ladies on Pinterest who have boards full of ideas on re-purposing milk jugs and tampon strings. I was that lady.

Santa Village is a bustle of activity well into February. And August.

Santa Village is a bustle of activity well into February. And August.

Then Christmas came and went and I was still digging on my Christmas decor. Specifically my tree that we all decorated as a family (begrudgingly, I might add) with old ornaments from my childhood, new ornaments from Target, and a shit show mishmash of handmade crap the kids have brought home from school that are nearly coming apart at their Popsicle stick seams.  I’m still enjoying my tree today. We have the tree lights on every night and it gives off a warm glow that says to people passing by or coming for a visit “We don’t give a fuck what you think, this is our house, and we will enjoy this tree until July if we want to.”

I’ve seen numerous posts on FB about how offended and put off people are about us renegades who refuse to clean up our holiday decorations in a timely manner. One post went as far as to call people with Christmas shit still up in January “psychopaths”. This person has clearly never met a real psychopath cause they are substantially more frightening than a middle aged white woman with icicle lights and a blow up Santa in her front yard. I’m not planning to burn a body in my backyard like a real psychopath, I’m just too lazy to take down the Santa village and I like sparkly lights.

Someone made this quote meme with my picture on it and I'm grateful. #pignose

Someone made this quote meme with my picture on it and I’m grateful. #pignose

This is my new year, new attitude stance on everything that I used to be a perfectionist whack job about….I DON”T GIVE A FUCK, EVEN IF YOU DO. Byron Katie got it right with this quote “What I believe about me is my business; what you believe about me is your business.” So I’ll just take my psychopathic self over to my Christmas tree and enjoy some sparkly lights while I savor another cup of coffee and avoid packing up these handmade Christmas quilts. I have more important things to do…like nothing.

Shameless Ask: If you like, love, or laugh at any of my rantings on this blog, please consider sharing them on your social media pages. This gets me closer to my dream of winning the lottery and being able to buy myself a publishing contract. #dreams #yolo #idontreallylikeyolo