Drinking Consent

There's a really great wine bar, Stanley's Wet Goods, walking distance from where my Man Friend ("MF") and I live.

I stopped in with a few friends for a post New Year's cheers and to regale each other of our holiday celebrations.  The wine selection is inventive and the new food menu hearty.  While jabbering away, seated awkwardly at the corner of the bar, I noticed small glass vessels with wooden handles on top of the beer and wine taps.  Picture the small glass carafes you usually see at boutique coffee shops, typically used for shots of double espressos.

Horrified, I watched one of the waiters fill one of the larger than life shot glasses with wine.  Nothing perturbs me more than what I witnessed - a metered pour!  When you're paying $14-$24 for a single glass of anything, alcoholic or not, the last thing you want to see is a metered pour.  I'm aware this is a first world problem to bitch about.  But come on... in this economy places like Stanley's is a luxury that should be thanking its lucky stars it even made it through COVID let alone record breaking inflation.  The least a place like Stanley's can do, rather than being way too expensive and coming off as stingy, is just pour a damn glass of wine or beer.  No special pouring glasses or etched measurements on the glassware necessary.

Yes, it's a business.  Yes, they're in the business of high end alcohol and boutique pantry gifts to make money.  Do they need to ensure that every glass they pour isn't a drop over the limit?  No.

I immediately started bitching to my friend group about the liquid injustice.  I made sure to say it loud enough so one or two employees could hear me.  Unfortunately the surly, pissy waitress rushing in and out of the bar to service the tables outside also overheard me.  Problem is our party would be seated at a table with Ms. Piss not long after my bitch session.  She made sure to take her time coming over to the table and even longer to check back if we needed another round or to order food which we informed her we did when we first sat down.  MF joined us late, after the food showed up, everyone slowly winding down.

Agreeing we all wanted one last round Ms. Piss took everyone's order.  When she got to MF he stammered, not having looked much at the menu and I knowing him so well knew that he probably was undecided what he'd even want.  As he mumbled about maybe not getting anything I spoke up, saying "He'll have what I'm having.  So two Lambruscos."  One, I know MF well enough to know that he wanted something to sip on.  Two, he loves Lambruscos.  Ms. Piss smiled at everyone and walked away.

The last round took its time to show up and when it did it was minus one Lambrusco.  Ms. Piss took her sweet time to come back to the table, only to try and serve us the check.  Stopping her with a "hold on" as she was already walking away, I said we were one Lambrusco short. With a sneering smile and a shine in her eyes Ms. Piss looks at the table and says, "I don't serve drinks to someone that is not consenting, especially when someone else orders it."  Smiling back even more sinister than her I replied, "That's nice but he wanted the drink" to which MF responded in agreement.

I'm all for consent. However, does that mean that bartenders should get consent from everyone when someone orders the group a round of drinks? It's absurd.  What the fuck does she care?  He wasn't falling out of his chair and I wasn't ordering the biggest glass of booze they had, forcing it down his throat.  Do your job; serve the food and drink.  I'm not even saying Ms. Piss needed to do it with a smile.  Sell for the business and make your tips from the business.  Don't give me your consent bullshit because you're being snotty.

Just keep in mind the next time you want to order a drink for someone be sure to get their completed drinking consent paperwork first.

First Time Gun User

Technical but important housekeeping for the 1.5 of you out in the world that may read this blog...

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") is just my Man Friend ("MF") now.  Yes, he's special. Yes, he's a man. Yes, he's a friend.  But "My Special Man Friend" comes with an ownership and an intimate relationship that we can no longer claim.  I'll bitch about love and loss another time.

Moving on...

MF has a thing about guns. What they do. What they don't do. What people cause them to do. Now if you know anything about the silly shit MF says, formerly MSMF in prior blog posts, you'll know that he comes out with some doozies.  Some of my best content.  Back in February we were sitting at the kitchen bar, sipping our rabbit https://thesillyshitwesay.blogspot.com/2020/05/sushi-rabbit.html, when we must have gotten onto the fun, relaxing Sunday morning topic of guns and shootings.

I can only imagine that there must have been a grocery store or school shooting recently in the news, which sadly happens all too frequently. My family is also big into guns and shooting trips. Taking a lighter note on the topic, MF says to me "the first time I use a gun I want to KILL!" As usual, I'm totally taken off guard by his exclamation. Laughing and chocking up my silky Peet's mocha I can't help but ask why?  And the answer is there is no answer.  Just because.

For MF it comes down to why wouldn't you kill if you were a first time gun user?  The equation goes like this: First time gun user "A" + gun "B" = Let's kill some mother fuckers!  It's like all the Rambo movies that he loves so much.  First Blood! First gun, first kill!  It's like, go big or go home.

What's really odd about the whole thing is that I can totally see it.  The ridiculous, extreme non-sense humor not the literal action.  MF is not a middle of the road kind of guy; it's all or nothing baby. He abhors guns but if he has to take one up he might as well take a few lives while he's at it.

Maybe this is just knowing someone well or appreciating how silly and fucked up they are, knowing damn well that you fully are too, but I found his stance on first time gun use hilarious. 

Blasting or Banging?

Is blasting the new banging?

Maybe I'm old school but I've never heard the expression "finger blast" or "finger blasting" before.  I've only ever used finger bang or banging.  I'm sure there are plenty of ways to describe anywhere from 1-4 fingers in a woman's vagina.  All 5 fingers would be fisting and that's a whole different conversation.

And since I'm asking questions, is finger banging exclusively for the fuzzy female gremlin?  Or would it apply to someone's other holes?  I've never much thought about it honestly, let alone even remember where the hell I would have ever heard or had explained to me what the hell finger banging is.

But I do remember the first time I was correct with "blasting" for saying "banging". I went to LA's regional BEquinox Burning Man event in June.  Late on the last night I was there a buddy and I walked over to a neighboring sound camp to dance a little more before tucking in. After hanging out a little bit, both of us feeling pretty beat and cold, my buddy thought it would be fun to climb into one of the two blow-up cuddle puddle pools and watch the craziness around us.  The oversized pillows and squishy stuffed animals looked too good to both of us for me to say no.

As he started to step into one of the pools I noticed there were two men and two women at the opposite side, the four of them laying like sardines in a blowup tin can.  I wouldn't have thought much about getting into the pool except I noticed that one of the women was slumped further down into the pool than the others.  As I got closer I was able to see from up above that her bikini top was askew, her nipples being played with by the guy laying closest to her.

Now, the nipple twisting that was going on wouldn't necessarily have stopped me in my tracks.  I've seen a lot of crazy shit at the various festivals, shows, and parties I've been to over the years.  It's going to take more than a little nipple nob play when I'm cold and tired and have partied for days straight to get a rise out of me... What stopped me getting into the pool was realizing where all the other hands on the other 3 sardines were, one arm most noticeably down the girls skirt. Leaning in, grabbing my buddies arm, I said "Yo. I think that chick is being fingered banged. Do you really want to get in the pool?" He just shrugged and happily tucked into the other corner.

I'm no quitter so I got in behind him and awkwardly sat down on a doughnut or dolphin, I couldn't tell which.  I avoided looking at the opposite sex side of the pool as long as I could.  Eventually my eyes drifted over to the guy laying furthest from the banging. Our eyes unfortunately met. We both smiled and looked away. Frankly so long as everyone was consenting to what was going on and seemed happy while doing it I didn't much care. I certainly made sure to wash all my clothes in hot water when I got home.

So where does the debate of banging vs. blasting come in?  After returning home I was out with one of my friends, regaling them with the various stories and experiences from BEquinox and told them the human sardine finger bang story.  At the word banging I was quickly interrupted; "Banging? You mean 'blasting'?"  Um, no.  I meant banging.  Oddly they hadn't heard of or used banging and I had never heard of or used blasting.  Blasting sounds like what your ass does after some bad Indian food.

I still think asking someone if they want to bang or be banged is better than being blasted but maybe it's just me.

On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner! On, Ambros?

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house...

We all know the famous poem written by Clement Clarke Moore in 1822.  Or some version of it.

Every year I throw an annual cheesy bread party (yep, it's what you're thinking it is). The first year started as less of a party and more like a few random friends stopping by with cheap wine for leftover cheese toasted on stale bread.  Over the years it has morphed into a decadent affair, though I almost cancelled the last soiree.  After staying up until close to 4 in the morning putting the last ornaments on the tree just to find it on the ground the next morning, you could say I was less than thrilled. For some God damn reason it has been a huge pain in the ass to keep the Christmas tree standing the last few years.  And this year would be no different.

There was so much to be done the day of the party, none of which involved standing the tree back up, re-trimming it, and rewrapping all the gifts that were smashed and soaked underneath it.  I freaked out for a few minutes and contemplated cancelling the party because that would have been the easy way out.  Instead I took a shot of Jameson to get my mind right and got to work.  The night was a total blast as usual and went by in a flash.  The only time I really got to sit down and relax was during the White Elephant gift exchange.  The favored gift was a tin of sativa gummies which My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") stole from a buddy of ours.  To take the party up a notch, MSMF tore the lid open and immediately popped a whole gummy and passed them around.

Fast forward, an hour later a group of people on the couch were trying to name all of Santa's reindeer.  I thought for sure I could name them all, especially if I sung them.  "Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen. Comet, Cupid Donner and Blitzen..." For some reason it just didn't sound right.  As everyone attempted to sing song their way to figuring out the correct order MSMF blurts out, "what about Ambros?"  Ambros?  Who the fuck is Ambros?

You know Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Ambros?  MSMF has absolutely no explanatio
n, even to this day, why he thought one of the reindeers was named Ambros.  But I think it's the funniest shit I've ever heard.  And he claims it had nothing to do with the edible, even though both of us couldn't spread tangerine jelly on the last round of cheesy breads.  Apparently our motor skills weren't what they were at the beginning of the night. I just laughed and proceeded to slap the toast with my butterknife until I got enough jelly on it.

And I still crack up laughing any time I think to myself on Comet, on Cupid, on Donner... on Ambros!

Cat Butt Crew Cut

I gave my cat's backside a crew cut last night.

It needed to happen.

After cleaning up countless shit foot incidents and leftover poop pucker marks around the house and on newly cleaned bed sheets it was time.

There's nothing like crawling into bed after a long day to feel little pebbles of cat liter around your face and body.

At 20 if this is really my only complaint about Jaja life has been good, to us both.

Your Friend's Friends

Is it just me? Or are your friend's friends fucking annoying?

Like, I don't hate you annoying. And I understand why people have friends that are not me.

But still. 

I have two "good friends", a couple, that I've known for over 5 years now. And literally, for at least the past year or more, I've been saying how badly I'd love to go to Vegas with them.

Hit up the day parties. Gamble a bit. Order room service. I even have a few other friends in Vegas to visit with, so we don't have to be with one another 24-7.

Do you think I've received a heads up about their last few trips to Vegas? No.

You think I received an invite this past trip, where other friends they obviously invited are posting Instagram videos and shit on Facebook? No.

What is a person like me to think?

Oh cool cool. I was busy. No... no I wasn't.  I'm sitting here writing this God damn blog post.

Oh cool cool. Maybe it was someone's birthday. What? I can't celebrate a birthday? I'm like a one-man party monster up in this bitch. Come on now.

Oh cool cool. They didn't remember me or think about it. Yo. I'm like a sister to one of them, so we say to each other and other people. I've been harassing this couple FOR A YEAR + that I want to go with them to Vegas.

A lot of people like to think to themselves, "Oh it's probably not me." At this God damn point my only conclusion is: IT HAS TO BE ME!

And then I find myself thinking, maybe it's not that kind of trip.  Maybe they're not getting turnt up.

THEN WHY THE FUCK ARE THE INVITEES POSTING TURN UP VIDEOS ON THEIR SOCIAL MEDIA FEED!

See. That right there...

This is why I'm saying mother fuckers make me crazy. Literally, LITERALLY, just got a text from a friend that said "Just saw your message. Sorry, just got home from drinks and dinner out."

Where I'm going with this is the hurt. The hurt of not being anyone's number one. Numero Uno. I treat everyone like they'd be my go to person and most of my friends always are. I'm always a more the merrier type. But God damn. Where are the people that have my back? That think to themselves this would be better with her than without her?

I think it's too much to ask in this day and age to ask to be everyone's someone but Christ, aren't I anyone's someone? It's not about the friends. It's about the idea and truth that you're not "the" friend tonight. Or next trip.

If that's the case I wish people would just be fucking honest. Don't talk in non-invites, missed texts and phone calls.

But that's not how most people roll, is it? Being bold and truthful and direct would mean more than likely not having many friends. Certainly not enough to flip through your contact list to pick and choose who goes and who doesn't.  I need to remember that actions speak louder than words.

The senior wolves in my family are all for the most part alone. Savage, stoic, honorable, prideful.

I think about their choices and wonder sometimes if they made the right decisions and yet I find myself always on that verge; am I wrong? Are they wrong?

Expectations, values and ultimately needs always come at a high price. If I feel lonely in my partnerships and friendships than why not be alone and still have my fucking principles? 

Young wolves become a part of the pack at some point.

I think I'm a good person that gives so much and is stupid considerate and yet here I am. Alone. On the couch. At 12:03 Saturday morning wondering why I didn't get a fucking invite to Vegas and being too fucking frustrated and hurt to give a shit enough to stop writing.

And feeling not ballsy enough to go it alone and tell everyone that disappoints me on a regular basis to pound sand. Because the truth of the matter is if we all did that we'd have no one.

So fuck your friend's friends because they ain't me!

Happy Birthday... Buy Some Life Insurance You Old Bag!

Today I got a birthday email from my car insurance company, State Farm.

And I found myself thinking, ugh... okay. I guess that's cool. A few months early but whatever. I guess that's thoughtful. You know what would be really nice is a discount on my monthly premium... that would be an email I'd want to read!

After going off on a mental tangent thinking how awesome would that be if the email said, "Happy Birthday - we're taking $50 off your premium for your birthday month!", I actually looked back and read it.

They sent me a "Your birthday is coming up." email to SELL ME FUCKING LIFE INSURANCE!

Life insurance? Yo, I just laughed out loud. Then I kind of got offended. I know I often post about being old and broken but damn.

Then I found myself thinking, well... its never too early to invest in your future... Which made me realize, Oh. My. God. I am fucking old! Only an old person would say that shit! lol Am I at the point in life where I should consider life insurance?

I do live by the sage advice of one of my favorite t-shirts, Life Fast (Die Young). Minus the dying thing. I also regularly quote Rodney Dangerfield in "Back to School": "Bring us a pitcher of beer every 7 minutes until someone passes out. Then bring one every 10".

So maybe State Farm is on to something. But... life insurance?

If anyone should have life insurance it's my god damn cat that's going on 21 years. That bitch definitely owes me a few years of back Friskies payments or somethin'!

Truth is, no one wants life insurance. We want life assurance. I want her, and I, to live a bagillion years until we no longer want to live and are ready to tap the fuck out. Though I guess that's the reason and purpose for life insurance; assuring that someone else will be ok or provided for when you're gone.

But who exactly are the free loading mother fuckers living off me now that I have to be so worried about that I need life insurance for?! My little kitty puss is so frugal and anorexic I know that savage bitch could live for YEARS without an actual human meat bag of a body feeding her ass. I feel like she's been saving herself up just so she could outlive me...

Life insurance.

Bitch.  Please.

I have insured that I'm going to live fast and hopefully die happy. Probably broke. And hopefully having done the things I've wanted to do.

As I recently told a girlfriend of mine, "ain't nobody gonna stand up at my funeral and say 'Oh she had a sad and boring life'".  I've never thought that my life was worth enough to insure but come to think about it, maybe it is.

So, can I sell you life insurance? You are getting old...

VAL

God damn. Life has been BUSY! Once events came back post COVID there wasn't a single thing I said no to and there wasn't a single event or concert, etc. that I didn't buy tickets for.  I've actually been trying to get out of things as of late so I can blog, breath, and not feel like warmed over death all the fucking time.

Now that I'm back from the playa and back to "normal", I'm fried. Beyond well done. There's more life in a chicken fried sandwich from Carl's Jr. than there is to me at this very moment.

Circling back to the burn real quick. This yes, my 10th year, was like every other. Blissful, painful. Like Icarus, you fly too close to the sun you're going to get burned. I actually left 2 days earlier than planned. I regret it now but at the time it made sense. Sometimes when you're done, you're done. Days of little sleep and a pounding headache will help move things along.

I came back and realized something that I've known all along, I just wasn't being honest with myself...

I've been carrying a heavy, very heavy weight of mixed anger and sadness concerning a few things in my life. Some of these weights are old, some new.  Regardless of their dead horse factor, I realized on playa this year that I was always moments away from breaking. Every time I hit peak bliss, sheer unabashed joy it was taken from me in a nauseating wave of tears and rage. Anger and sadness mix well together to create blinding rage. People always confuse rage with anger, as that is the very definition. But those that have experienced real rage I believe would attest that it can be applied to any emotion, amplifying it.

Happiness was the gateway for my other emotions to wreck havoc. Rage just amplified the emotion because I haven't been listening, to myself.

We all want a certain level of control in our lives but I feel that I have lost control of my mental and emotional balance. This is the process of regaining it; it has starts and stops and when you think you're over the hump you round a bend to see a massive climb off in the distance.

I was reminded of how I felt on playa not long after returning home by the Netflix documentary, VAL. It was towards the end of the film, of documenting Val Kilmer's life and recent health struggles, that he said something that struck a nerve and has given me pause to think about since. While at home and still in costume, post performance of one of his Citizen Twain shows where he gives his audience a look at the humorous side of Mark Twain, Val looks into the camera and says:

"How do you heal a broken heart? What are the words that heal a broken heart? I know that's not the most important question in the world but that's the ball and chain around my memory tonight."

So often we, I, look to fix something when it breaks or isn't working properly. My health, see a doctor. My car, take it to a mechanic. My toilet won't flush, call a plumber. On and on.

But how do you heal a broken heart?  What are the words?

I suppose I'm in the final stage of my anger and grief. Acceptance. The thing is I'm just not accepting. It's as though I cannot move forward because I cannot complete this stage.

Asking the questions that have no answers. Hearing all the words a million times but still not the right ones. I've tried for some time to patch, repair, and/or replace the emotions that have consumed my life the past few years. To heal.

It just hasn't happened. And every time I think I might be one step closer I come to the reality that I took ten steps back. Grief does not understand finality. It lingers, like a ghost and plays like a broken record.

In school I came up generationally with a class schedule that still had home economics.  Fucking home ec! I don't need to know how to sew a pillow closed or how to make mini pizzas! Both of which I learned! And sure, those skills have come in handy! But God damn it we needed to be taught how to deal with LIFE! Fucking life! And all it's shitty feelings, and shitty people, and how to deal with shit when it goes sideways!

The answer to a broken heart can't be booze and drugs and therapy because damn it all to hell I've been done that. Minus the therapy. And it ain't working. Frankly, I'm getting a bit bored and tired of hearing myself and hearing the same words of advice.

It's like fucking Groundhog Day up in here and I hate that movie!

Inappropriate Laughter

Am I the only person that laughs, sometimes, when it's completely inappropriate and uncalled for?

Typically the more stupid as well as predictable a thing is, the harder I laugh.

I recently got a call from a co-worker, also a friend outside of work, sobbing about a newly minted relationship.  I picked her up in downtown LA to save her the hardship of taking the commuter bus home in tears. Once at my place she dove into various texts messages with the new guy, both of us analyzing and dissecting "what it all could mean".  After an hour of beating the dead horse, I said what I thought the outcome of their next conversation would be and went on with whatever I was doing prior to picking her up.

Soon after, she got an unfortunate text message basically confirming my predicted outcome. I felt like we should have left for Las Vegas.

But rather than saying that I just burst into laughter. And I mean, not just laughter. Like, raucous laughter. Maniacal cartoon like laughter. It wasn't so much gleeful, in the fact that I had been right, but moreso about the fact that the situation and the response I knew was coming was just so - predictable.  He let her down and therefore me and in that instance all I could do was laugh in utter disappointment. For her being hurt again, for me being right again. The whole damn thing.

People can be so shitty to one another.

My go-to responses to most everything in life that don't work out is anger and disappointment. Sure, hurt is often there too but no one has time to digest that. On rare occasions, such as this one, I take the emotional high road; the "Jesus." or "Seriously, God damn." approach with the laughter.

I have hit the bottom of the fucks given well. I believe in the disbelief that someone could say and/or do something so shitty. And sometimes when things get bad, you just have to shake your head and laugh. It's a laugh based in disgust, disbelief, all with your eyes wide open knowing that you were right the whole time. It sucks.

I've been there before. Luckily those that were around me knew not to dare laugh, no matter what the meaning or intention. They say laughter is the best medicine and I believe that. Not just for the taker but for those around them.

As a funny epilogue to the week of inappropriate laughter, My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I were in the car on our way to the gym. As we pulled through a local stop sign, we spotted a few people and a dog sitting out front of their apartment in the grass. As we slowly passed them, I could distinctly see the log laid out on it's stomach, Superman style. MSMF quickly glanced over and said "Aww look at that lazy dog."

Now, I could clearly see that the fucking dog was in a wheel chair with his legs pinned back into the support brace. He must have caught the wheels at the back of the dogs legs because suddenly his tune changed. "Oh no... Wait. That's the wheel dog!"

I burst out laughing. I died laughing! I couldn't help it. It was so god damn funny! I hadn't seen Wheely Dog before but I guess MSMF had. He didn't laugh but I laughed enough for the two of us.

People as well as life can be sad and shitty.

Rather than being reactionary, sometimes it's best to laugh. Inappropriately.

Concentration Camp Ice Cream Topping

"If you could have any ice cream topping, since you just got out of a concentration camp, what would you get?"

"I'm sorry. WHAT?!"

These are the kind of titillating conversations My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I have.

And as a reminder, typically in bed. Right after I wake up.

Or on the couch. When I'm focused on the 40 things I'm not doing, silently guilting myself.

 So when MSMF breaks into my foggy or blame brain with a doozy like ice cream toppings after being in a concentration camp you can understand the level of, "I'm sorry. What the fuck did you just say?"

Which is exactly what I said.

Me: "I'm sorry. What the fuck did you just say?"

MSMF: "If you could have any ice cream topping, since you just got out of a concentration camp, what would you get?"

Me: "No. Dude. I heard you. I'm just not... why a concentration camp?!"

MSMF: "Because you're starving! And it's got to be, I don't know, a big decision which topping you would get!"

Me: "Post concentration camp ice cream..."

MSMF: "Yeah!"

Me: "Ok... I'll try this. I guess I would get... cookie dough? Or peanut butter cup? I mean, a post-concentration camp decision like this is a BIG deal."

MSMF: "That's what I'm saying!"

Me: "I'm not a big fan of toppings really anyway. You know that. So, what would YOU get?"

MSMF: "Toasted chopped almonds."

MSMF has obviously thought this through because he said it without hesitation.

Me: "You'd probably not have teeth. Just FYI."

MSMF: "Yeah. Mangoes then."

Wow.

I feel like this line of thinking is exactly what would enable someone to live through such an unspeakable thing; the ability to swim vividly in your own thoughts, blocking out the brutality of the world around you, internally debating the sights and smells of the topping counter in an ice cream shop.

So, I have to ask.

If you just got out of a concentration camp, and you were craving ice cream, do you know what topping you would want?

Camping Is For Young People

Facing down yet another weekend of camping in Santa Barbara, I've been wondering what the hell I'm actually doing. In the last two and a half months I will have gone camping 3 times.

Did I have fun? Yeah!

Did I eat all the yummy things I don't allow myself at home? Yep!

Did I get back bedraggled and half dead, taking about a week each time to return to normal? You bet your ass.

Trying to have fun by doing much of nothing but hanging out and talking with friends left me damn near half dead for what felt like forever.

All the packing, the prepping, the being awesome. It's exhausting.

The best part about my last camping trip, until August for Burning Man, was being woken up by my younger campmates to Darude's Sandstorm at 8am. We had only gone to bed 4 hours earlier, which for me feels like walking death the rest of the day. These fools laughed like I did but looked good doing it, popping a bottle of champagne and planning the stupid shit they would do next.

I thought about how I was going to try and nap all day in 95 degree heat.

They thought about how they were not going to try and nap all day in 95 degree heat.

That's the difference when you're older; preserving your awesomeness or at least licking your wounds secretly while no one is the wiser, lest they find out and leave you for dead.

The constant mystery for me when it comes to camping is how the fuck I get burnt. Seriously.

I put on all the sunscreen, sit in the shade most the day, and yet as the sun sets I can feel that distinct you've-been-burnt chill on my skin that reminds me of not only how white I am but how the actual hell I even got sun kissed to begin with! I wouldn't put it past my younger, more clever campmates, to pull me out into the sun while I'm sleeping and then slide me back into the shade right as I'm waking up...

Truth be told I never took a nap around them, because I'm no quitter! It's also impossible to do even if you're in the shade. It's too fucking hot but moreso the time together is just too short and previus. So instead you grab a cold one from the cooler, take a swig from the champagne and sit in an inflatable pool like we did.

Nothing says yay fun time like sitting in sweat soup with 10 other grown ass adults. No wonder we were drinking; it wasn't to stay hydrated. It was to burn that memory out of our brains.

I certainly won't forget this one... there's also a 10 hour mix in case you just can't get enough.

Epilogue - Showers: The Innocent Looking Death Trap

Fun follow-up fact to the https://thesillyshitwesay.blogspot.com/2021/06/showers-innocent-looking-death-trap.html post - our shower tub is shaped like a coffin. No joke.

LOOK!

See?  Told ya. Check the shape of your shower/tub before just hoping in and lathering up.

You could find yourself soapy, naked, and crumpled on the floor without your Life Alert to save you!

ASMR - Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response

What in the actual hell is Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response ("ASMR")? My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") sent me an online article the other day about people that enjoy watching videos of other people whispering. Read that again.

What in the actual hell?

MSMF and I immediately started laughing when he asked me if I had heard about this whispering thing. We both agreed that we are just out of touch with the way of things these days.  I joked that I already feel like an 80+ year old woman that says inappropriate and racist things and yells at people to get off my lawn. I liken all this ASMR shit to what bondage was for people in the 80's. Sure, bondage was probably around before it became mainstream or okay for people to talk about. But it didn't really "come out" that freaky shit was happening in the bedroom or at the office after hours until it became normalized. I bet you're thinking of someone right now that you either know directly or know a friend of a friend who gets down with that kinky shit.

Think about. Religion. Gender. Tacos not on Tuesday.

We live in such a "woke" love and let live culture now I frankly am not surprised when someone says, "Oh hey, have you heard that people get all tingly and feel relaxed hearing someone whisper?" Dude, that's how I feel the first few sips from a bottle of wine I'm about to drink! The only thing that would make that sensation better is MSMF whispering into my ear, "Hey babe, want me to pour you some more wine?" You really want to get me off? Ask me if I'd like some fast food with that bottle of vino.

What I didn't know is that I first heard about ASMR earlier this year. I just didn't know it was categorized as ASMR. Randomly on Facebook I saw a video about a lady that has made millions eating seafood online. The fuck you just say?! You read that correctly.

THIS BITCH MAKES MILLIONS FROM PEOPLE WATCHING HER EAT SEAFOOD ONLINE!

See for yourself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_r_kMiQt-R4&ab_channel=Channel4

I feel like I'm not living my best life when there are fucking people out there making their paper off others watching them do things they enjoy.  Shoot, it shouldn't be so surprising as what I just described also sounds like porn lol.

I don't think I've experienced the effects of ASMR but I can say that I derive a sense of satisfaction from watching "Oddly Satisfying" videos on Facebook. MSMF didn't know what the hell I was talking about and even I don't know how to really describe it. But he agreed. The videos were oddly soothing and satisfying. I'm not sure why the last puzzle piece being placed or symmetrical etchings on a fresh piece of wood makes me want to say "ah, perfect" but it does. 

Stay weird fam.

Showers: The Innocent Looking Death Trap

Sorry for the hiatus my non-readers.

Life has been moving at a million miles an hour and I feel like I can't keep up with any of it. I don't have enough time for myself, My Special Man Friend ("MSMF"), my family, my friends, my enemies... working out, cleaning the apartment, checking how many thousands of miles my car's oil change is past due...

Life is hard.

Some days I have to ask myself if I've showered and if not, how many days has it been?  When I take my hair out of it's usual messy bun on the top of my head and it stays in place, it's a clear indicator I haven't washed it in days and explains why there are zombie cats scratching at the backdoor to dine on my pungent flesh.

I'd almost rather chance it with the zombie cats than take my life into my own hands showering.

MSMF knows what I'm talking about.

That poor son of a bitch has almost killed himself, twice, falling in the shower. You know what I'm talking about; that casual, I'm-not-thinking-about-shit step into the tub followed by the tiniest hydroplane of your foot that makes you pee a little and yell out some indiscernible thing or another. 

We have ALL done it.

My modus operandi is typically to not lift my foot all the way into the tub while getting in, causing at least my big toe to smash into the side of the hard porcelain. That shit hurts and I do it way too often. I'm always mad at the tub too, like it's somehow the shower's fault. My shower slips have always been alone, which isn't good, because if I really fell and cracked my head open I'd be a goner and probably considered a suicide. MSMF on the other hand has always pulled his death trap moments with me there to witness. Poor guy. First, to sadly reach out and act like I could save him. Which is just silly because I couldn't save his lathered ass from falling. Second, to sadly try and stifle my anxious giggles by asking "awww babe, are you okay?" four or five times. Girl, you know he's not ok. 

I am truly thankful the last time the shower almost took MSMF from me that he wasn't actually hurt!

Our shower with tub is as generic as they come. And even though I bought one of those shower rods that bows out to allow the curtain to not annoying suck onto your wet skin, as most curtains do, it's still fucking small for two grown ass adults. But we love to shower together, so that means doing the shower shuffle. You know, allowing your shower companion to slip by you or vice versa without ejecting them out the tub. The problem is one or both of us usually has facial wash in our eyes or is completely lathered up, making the navigation of one another safely nearly impossible. Usually we grab onto one another, like a safety handoff between the back of the shower and the water.

However, on this faithful day I think MSMF couldn't be bothered with the buddy system transition and went to pass alone. He caught the lip of the tub with the edge of his foot which took out one leg. With nothing to hold onto the other leg followed. To me it just looked like he threw himself out of the tub! All I saw was the lather of body wash, legs, dick and balls, and the shower curtain with rod flying through the air. All of which came down with a hard thud.

I was so scared MSMF had hurt himself, I just stood there in shock for a moment. I've only seen this kind of shit in movies!

Thank God he was okay. And thank God he didn't grab me and take me with him. As I picked him and the shower curtain and rod up off the floor we both nervously laughed and attempted to finish our shower, even with the shower rod and curtain hanging all half cocked and uneven from where it once hung.

MSMF didn't even come away with a bruise. It's a shower death trap miracle! The thing is, I feel like we cheated death and now the shower wants payment.

I asked MSMF if we should install those little shower floor petals with the non-slip grip material in the tub to prevent either of us falling victim to another fall but we both agreed. Neither of us are old enough or smart enough to swallow our pride and prevent near death experiences in the future.

We like to keep our lives exciting.

Why Won't You Just Shut Up?

Why won't you just shut up?

And I mean you, yes you. But also me, yes me.

What is it that makes it impossible for some people to shut the fuck up?

I suffer from this problem. Its like there's something broken between my brain, my heart and my mouth. There's no amount of Imodium to fix the spurting and sudden oral flood of thoughts and emotions that come out. If something stupid or wrong is being said I am physically incapable of just internally thinking "well they're fucking stupid" and just moving on with my day. Instead, I can't let it go. I HAVE to say something. And if this person is being belligerent about whatever they're saying or doing, I take it upon myself to get all in that mess and attempt to correct or fix the situation. Why? WHY!?

Is it stubbornness? Stupidity? An obsession with being right? Loving to argue? Hear yourself talk?

Christ.

Why can't you just shut the hell up and move on? Not everyone has to be engaged and what does it matter if this person doesn't see your point of view or agree with your opinion? Fuck em! Let. It. Go.

This past weekend I got into a stupid argument with one of my girlfriends while on a gals trip out of town. What was the topic you ask? Guns. Guns on Bureau of Land Management (BLM) land. I'm not the biggest fan of guns but I support the right to be able to own a gun. I also support and understand the need to have land and areas that people are allowed to recreationally shoot said guns. My girlfriend was arguing that guns shouldn't be allowed on BLM land. Which to me was totally stupid because that's one of the few places you are LEGALLY allowed to have a God damn gun! We both dug our heels in, causing our third girlfriend to try and play moderator. That didn't work out for her either. Eventually she got on my case about "not dropping it" which leads us to the purpose of this post - why didn't I just stand down?

First off, it never goes over well when anyone directly says or insinuates that someone should be quiet. I've never actually seen anyone in the history of ever shut the hell up when directly asked or told to do so. 

Maybe I just know the wrong sort of people. Maybe I am the wrong sort of person.

Which brings me to my next point. Secondly, you can't just call a conversation or disagreement dead because you say so. And the fact that someone says "you're now making this into a problem because you won't drop it" is just gaslighting. You draw a person in to the discussion but then want the topic dropped when someone makes a level headed argument for why you might be wrong or for why they disagree with you and you refuse to discuss the matter otherwise. I'm sorry but no. That doesn't work for me.

At one point I did actually say to my girlfriend "fuck you". And to the other I said, "why are you even interjecting yourself into this?" as her involvement only made matters feel more one sided and like I was being ganged up on. They certainly made me feel like the bad guy, which I said. My girlfriend can have her opinion but if I didn't agree with her or drop it I was the bad guy making a scene. 

Yeah. No. Hence the "fuck you". There's my "walk away". That's my stand down.

It's unfortunate things got to that point because once it does, as my Grandmother would say, "Goodnight Irene". I got on my phone and started looking up other places I could go. My shut down mode basically equates to Big Sean's 2015 song "I Don't Fuck With You." They wanted to save the evening but I was good with not. We went to two different bars after that, both of which I made merry in my own way. The next day was much the same. And even now, being back home and into the new work week, I find myself bristled by the whole thing. Certainly didn't need or want to spend over $700 on the weekend just to be generally disappointed and gloomy about friendships in general. I should have trusted my gut mid-week before the trip and just backed out, as our fourth girlfriend did.

You win some, you lose some. Though maybe you should just shut up some.

I Think I'll Pick A Fight

Why do people pick fights when they're tired or hungry?

Doesn't that sound like the absolute worst thing to do when you're tired or hungry; go and make the situation that much worse by making someone mad at you?

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") decided to pick a fight Saturday after work. Not only was the poor bastard up at 5am but he fought 2 hours of traffic after work to get home. In the heat. With no air conditioner. Did I mention that he was also hangry?

Now, most people that know me would not encourage anyone, and I mean ANYONE, to start a fight with me. But this guy rolled in hot, guns loaded. Like Michael Jackson, homeboy was lookin' to be startin' somethin' - yeah yeah.

And sadly I took the bait. Well, kind of.

It's tough when someone is snappy. On the one hand you want to give them the benefit of the doubt or just take the high road but on the other hand, shit. You're probably in the same boat. Every person has their chores and worries and work bullshit and family drama. Blah blah blah. The point is that everyone has it. And if your own particular bullshit is getting too overwhelming or imbalanced, I believe it's up to that person to at the very least say something. People are not fucking mind readers and I'm not Miss Cleo, "yeah man". I come from the practical, hard knock camp of belief that you should do something about your grievances.

I engage to a certain point in an argument and then things will go in one of two directions; I either stay in the ring until the job is down or I get to a point where I just throw in the towel and walk away. I did a little bit of both with MSMF. Ultimately there's no honor in fighting with someone that you love. And that you know loves you.

There's always room to do better. Communicate more. Let stupid shit go. Love a little harder.

It's easy to get caught up in the details but what's the point? I think what matters more is to have heard or to have said "I love you" rather than some dumb shit you're probably going to feel bad about later.

So before you walk into a situation and pour gasoline all over it and yourself, as these important questions:

Am I tired?

Am I hungry?

Am I being shitty and need to check my attitude?

Don't Ask Why. Some Things Just Are.(Why So Derpy? Cont'd...)

You know, I got a little heat from My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") for tearing into our short term roommate and calling her "Derpy" or now "The Derpster" or just "The Derp".

But God damn the bitch is Derpy!

And every time I try to be nice to her or respond to one of her random questions or comments I immediately regret it the next time she does something stupid. Which is always!

Once again I went into the bathroom to find the floor mat hanging half assed off the bathtub. Completely soaked. And once again I have to ask - what in the actual FUCK is The Derp doing in the damn tub that would toss that much water out of it? More here on the first soaked rug:

https://thesillyshitwesay.blogspot.com/2021/03/why-so-derpy.html

I deduced that she must have thrown herself an at home spa day while MSMF and I were in Palm Springs. The foil wraps and smell of acetone wafting from the trash can gave her away. I was over it. I told her to dry the rug and take care of her shit. God forbid she throw away the trash and clean up after herself more than once in 4 months.

The following week she leaves for work in the morning and locks herself out. As I'm opening the door, "Forgot my keys! he he he". Yeah. Whatever Derpster.

She really outdid herself two days ago. The absolute worst absentminded derp to date.

The bloody pads in the bathroom trash, haphazardly wrapped and tossed in, absolutely grossed me out. Making matters worse they continued to build up in a nasty pile as the week went by. I swear to God I can almost smell the dank of old blood. I'm sorry ya'll but it's true. Fucking makes me gag and furious. I have to go through this every month. I haven't had a period in maybe... 10+ years, so I'm good. But even when I did have my periods I was clean. And kept my sanitary issues to myself. But nooooo, not this Derp.

I popped into the bathroom to take a shower and while changing, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.

A blood smear on the toilet seat.

I quickly turned off the shower, put my pants back on, and cleared the bathroom in a grossed out rage. I texted her, "Hey - there's blood on the toilet seat...". Her reply, "Eeek sorry I'll go clean that right now". This is just in line with the other stains and odd marks near the light switch and in the toilet that I've spotted over the last few months. Does the Derp not notice the shit stains when she uses the can? Does she not know that you should wash your hands after using the bathroom, which she doesn't?

Fuck man. Just re-reading all that makes me want to choke a bitch.

And I'm definitely not taking that damn trash out. I told her this morning, since this weekend is slated for cleaning up the place, that the trash her is her responsibility. As if that's anything. Adding a bit of passive-aggressive knife work I said, "Thanks. It's starting to smell funky."

Funky Derp.

Ugh.

Kids Should Be Seen & Not Heard

Doesn't every parent know that no one, and I mean no one, wants to hear your fucking kid screaming?

Maybe parents become desensitized from listening to years of screaming. Or maybe they think to themselves, oh they're just a kid being a kid.

No. Ok? No.

I wasn't allowed to run around, screaming at the top of my little girl lungs. And when I ventured to, my Mom was all over that shit. I know it's super old school and probably a cancelled turn of phrase, that kids should be seen and not heard, but I'm still here for it.

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I were in Palm Springs last weekend. And it was awesome.

Except for the grubby ass kids screaming shit at each other even though they were face to face in the pool or jacuzzi. Kids must know they annoy the shit out of me because it never fails that they'll slowly draw closer from wherever they're hanging out, like I'm some go-fuck-yourself-kid homing beacon. Search, annoy, destroy. Repeat.

There was one girl in particular with such a high pitched scream and yell it pierced my ears. My neuro disease makes me super sensitive to lights, sounds, etc. especially when my threshold is low. After what felt like an hour of non-stop screeching I finally said "HEY! You guys. STOP! It hurts my ears. You don't need to yell. You're right next to one another and can hear each other just fine." They quieted down but as kids do, eventually their voices picked back up because they have the consideration and memories of turnip.

Kids are not smart or malicious at the age this group was at but like I said, kids and I are like magnets. After the " you can hear each other just fine" chat and their subsequent we-do-what-we-want-at-the-vocal-levels-that-we-want, MSMF and I went for a dip in the jacuzzi. Like clockwork, here they come. They just haaaadddd to go in the jacuzzi. We were out!

I recounted the interaction with the kids to a group of grown ups in the jacuzzi later the following evening to which MSMF added, "Yeah, she told them to shut up!" Now, see here. I don't think telling anyone to shut up is particularly smart or sexy. Even in the heat of an argument. No one ever listens and it just proves to piss yourself and anyone else off even more. And I certainly wouldn't tell someone else's kids to shut up! I'll tell the parents to tell their kids to shut the fuck up but I wouldn't directly tell the kids to silently drown themselves. Little pricks.

People love to make excuses for their kids bad behavior; "they're kids", "they're not hurting anyone", or "what's the big deal, they're just playing?" This is a tough one because I get it. You gotta grocery shop, you gotta travel. You gotta live life and if you have a kid it's made a shit ton harder, especially when they're really little. However, I recently read an article where someone wrote a note for a mom, her sister, and their combined 4 kids saying "kids should be seen and not heard".  The mom and sister were indignant which blew my mind. They weren't at fucking Chucky Cheese or the local playground. The kids were running around, screaming and dancing, in the middle of a restaurant.

Put a leash on those God damn things or do what my mom would do if I was acting the fool; grab the inside chonky fat of the inner thigh and pinch! That'll shut a kid right up!

Memories Are Like Broken Records

I have certain memories from my life, some painful, some angering, most of which are unpleasant that are like lost souls. They refuse to find peace, wandering in my mental and emotional subconsciousness and consciousness like ghosts unable to ascend to heaven or down to the depths of hell.

These skeletons revisit on occasion, sometimes during a stare off into space, but mostly in my dreams. I had a particularly visceral visit the other morning, after I went back to sleep when My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") left for work.

And it was awful.

Painful and stinging. Even typing about it now my eyes are starting to burn and water. The specifics are irrelevant, this is more a contemplation of the why.

Why do some life experiences refuse to settle and fade?

I often hear it said that a trauma or memory has not been resolved when it lingers. That someone has not found closure. I have even read where there is justice there is healing. But some of us don't have that luxury; not everyone obtains for themselves or receives from others that which was taken from them. Justice and closure means something different to every person. And sometimes it's just not going to fucking happen. Period.

If I had it out with every memory in limbo and explored every last option of communication or action, I still feel like it would remain a scar on my brain. Life can sometimes be a war; you might lose a few battles but you must keep winning the war.

I'm not all doom and gloom but why does such useless anger and/or pain keep dragging its dead carcass around in my life? Go away bro, nobody wants you here. I feel like a fresh brain and my icky memories are like a pack of hungry zombies. It's like fucking Walking Dead up in here sometimes.

I experienced pretty significant trauma early on in my life and I feel like maybe my ability to process mental and emotional ordeals is just damaged. My Mom and I both knew it was therapy time when I started manifesting ridiculous life obstacles and rules into my day to day life. I couldn't sleep with my back to my bedroom door. I would sleep flat under my sheets and leave a tiny breathing hole, so in case someone broke into the house, they wouldn't "see" me. I couldn't turn one light off without turning on another one. Shit like this.

I still call the therapy I went through "finger therapy" but the appropriate term is Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing ("EMDR"). It's used to treat PTSD and trauma disorders as well as other types of mental heath issues. It was pretty cool, honestly. It's not every day a lady looks at you and says, "Ok, I want you to think about your father while watching my finger move side to side."

My therapist would have me think about all kinds of random things, seemingly arbitrary to me but I'm sure made perfect therapy sense to her. And at the end of all of it, I was less skittish and neurotic. I consider being able to vacuum with no one home a success!

Sometimes I think I need a little bit of finger wagging again to unblock a few broken records, as my childhood therapist put it. Memories and incidents in our lives can get stuck in parts of our brain, like a broken record, and keep repeating the trauma rather than processing and letting it go.

I've never really contextualized my lingering ghosts in this way but I'm intrigued to know if EMDR could help. I've always been about moving forward and bettering oneself.

Life is too short to live in the past or to let your zombies chew on your current and future happiness.

While writing this post I found a short, succinct article from the New York Times about how to revisit the ghosts of your past.

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/05/13/smarter-living/how-to-revisit-the-ghosts-of-your-past.html

Cover Me

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") runs hot. Body temp hot. On warm nights my way too hot temps make him melt, so I try to snuggle up as close as I can without catching him on fire.

When we first slip into bed MSMF is fully covered by the flat sheet and comforter, dick pillow wedged tightly between his legs. But as the night creeps along, he tosses and turns, kicking most of the covers off. (For more on the dick pillow, read here: https://thesillyshitwesay.blogspot.com/2020/09/dick-pillow.html)

Usually somewhere in the early morning hours, I'd guess between 3-5, MSMF must get cold. Without fail, if he doesn't immediately feel covers to toss over himself he will wake me and say:

"Hey baby?"

(belligerent grunt sound) "?"

"Cover me..."

I wish ya'll could hear it. It's not a simple statement or demand. MSMF's tone and the way he says "cover me" changes. Like he's going under enemy fire and he may not be coming back alive with some blankets.

I always get a kick out of the request because the fucking covers are literally right there! Like, RIGHT THERE! Piled up along the side of him, left right where they were when he kicked them all off.

Sometimes it's the simple things in a relationship and frankly I love covering him. I pull the sheet and comforter all the way up over his shoulders, tucking him in like a little bug in a rug. And every time I do MSMF lets out a little "mmmhhm". It's the sweetest.

I thought MSMF knew this middle of night blanket abandonment was happening but nope. Turns out he doesn't remember a damn thing. Not one cover up session. When I told him just how funny his ask was and the way in which he asked it, he couldn't believe it.

Now in addition to the cough cough coughs I sometimes like to roll over while turning out the light and say, "Hey baby? Cover me."

Beggars Be Dead

My 19 year old calico has turned into the worst beggar at dinner time.

She sits at the top of the couch, as close to the edge as she can possibly get without falling - which she has done once or twice, and screams at My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I. Not your average, "meow" or "meuw".

More like, "MEOW MOTHER FUCKER! FEED THIS CUTE SCREAMING KITTY PIE HOLE RIGHT NOW!"

And it's not even in the cute, cat like tones. Say the above line but in like a Samuel L Jackson kind of way. She screams at us in THAT way.

And really, it's our own fault that she's like this. She weighs 4 pounds 11 ounces, per the doctor, and is way too petite. It's not that we don't feed her. She's always been like this. It's that she wants the good shit; filet mignon with a red wine reduction, chicken curry with vegetables, cod in a creamy herb sauce... basically anything that we eat that's boujee and isn't some mashed up unknown kitty meat in a can.

I've tried some nights to stone wall her and not feed her but ignoring Samuel L Jackson embodied as a cat is kind of difficult. You break eventually. And she knows that.

I have this great sticker at my bar that says "Finish your beer. There are sober kids in India".

Frustrated by the amount of money I've spent on specialized kidney cat food for Samuel L Jackson, I said to her: "Poop! Go eat your food. There are starving kitties in India". MSMF followed up with, "Yeah Little, those homeless kitties are still hungry."

Now, I would never call MSMF "savage" in any sense or meaning of the word but what he said next was downright savage. 

"No wait. You know what Little? You remember those homeless kitties you met on your night out? Yeah, well they're not hungry. They're dead."

He took the India thing and went a step further. Years ago Samuel L Jackson got out one night for salacious kitty escapades. She showed back up at the apartment the next morning wide eyed and smelled funny. She lived high on life for one night but the thing was MSMF was right; any of the toms and alley kitties she had hung out with that night are probably no longer begging or roving the alleys for scraps. They're probably long gone.

It's not every day a kitty lives to 20, which Samuel L Jackson will be in June.

We wax and wane between supporting her beggar ways because when it comes down to it we don't want this beggar to pass. So she gets her way.

Here's Jaja, aka Samuel L Jackson aka Poop aka Little aka Chicken Legs sitting pretty for a morsel.

The Mystery Cough

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") has a mystery cough.

If I'm being honest, mystery cough is putting it delicately.

More like, mystery wretch.

He coughs with such force and so frequently in the mornings that I can hear him gagging and dry heaving downstairs. He tries to hide it, but I know it's happening. The sound of someone almost vomiting is very distinctive.

My favorite coughs are the ones MSMF tries to suppress in bed while laying next to me. Suddenly his body will seize up and he stops breathing. To get him to breath and cough I tease him by saying "cough cough cough cough". It always gets him laughing... and coughing.

It's like this day in and day out.

What makes his cough a mystery is the fact that it only happens here in the Westside and only when MSMF is in bed. When he stays in Ventura or we travel somewhere else his hack disappears.

I'm betting on the pillows or dust but he thinks it might be my hair products.

I have no clue what the hell could be causing it but it seems to me the only way to figure it out would be to come up with a list of suspects and start testing solutions. You'd think MSMF would make a list and get to it but so far he hasn't; he just self-induce vomits instead.

After two days of dry heaving I'd be over it. I guess everyone has a different cough till you puke tolerance.

Here are my theories and suspected likelihood that I'm right:

1. My Shampoo/Conditioner    0 out of 10

I'm not buying this one. For starters, MSMF would never be able to take a shower with me which he often does. As soon as I lather up, he'd be throwing a lung and falling out of the tub wrapped in the shower curtain. My second line of reasoning for my hair products not being the root cause is the simple fact that we snuggle on the couch together all the time. I sit between his legs, leaning back onto his chest. His face is practically IN MY HAIR. Yet he doesn't cough on the couch! MSMF thinks that because he sleeps so close to my hair that it must be the reason he coughs. Unless he's huffing my golden locks I'm just not buying it.

2. Pillows    5 out of 10

I feel slightly ashamed to admit how old my pillows are. The body pillow at the top of our bed that the cat sleeps on is from... college. I graduated in fucking 01', so yeah, there's that. I said it. I just aged myself and the body pillow. While the pillows we put our heads on are much newer, they miiight not be from the last decade. That's a lot of drool and tears and God knows what else built up over the years. But could they be causing MSMF's cough? Maybe.

3. Dust    6 out of 10

I'm ashy. Like, really ashy. No matter how much scrubbing or lotion I put on this body, I shed. Horribly. Dust is mostly made up of dead human skin cells, so there's nothing shocking here. And as often as I'd like to say that I keep the house perfectly clean, the truth is downstairs, yes. I vacuum and dust at least once a week. But upstairs... meh. What can I say? I do the best with the time I have. A few months back I deep cleaned the bedroom. There wasn't a dust bunny that I didn't take care of. MSMF said that his cough improved, I noticed a slight change. If his coughing subsided for a week, he was certainly back at it on week two.

4. Nasal Drip/Stomach Reflux    7 out of 10

Ultimately my money is on nasal drip or some nighttime version of acid/stomach reflux. I should know, I had this issue quite a few years back. I'm sure going to bed after drinking a bottle of wine by myself didn't help, however, every morning I would wake up and have to clear my throat for the next hour or so. It just felt raw. Like I was snoring with my mouth open all night or something. A trip to an ear, nose and throat doctor exposed my leaky stomach valve; I needed to stop drinking (anything) late at night and I had to elevate my bed 3-6 inches only at the headboard. This produced the weirdest feeling. You wouldn't think just a few inches at the top of your bed would make such a big difference but it did. If I didn't feel like I was being raised out of bed for lift off, I felt like I was slowing sliding off the bed.

The type of cough MSMF has just sounds like and convicts me to some version of 4. Dust and old pillows also might be playing a part. But who the fuck knows!? MSMF actually has to give a shit enough about this himself to figure it out. I'll help but dude some shit you have got to instigate on your own.

Cough cough cough cough.

C Word vs. B Word

Which is worse?

Calling someone a cunt or calling them a beaver?

Most often these terms of endearment are reserved for women but I'm an equal opportunist when it comes to name calling.

Let's start with cunt. At best, most people can't stand the word and I would argue many of those same people wouldn't use the word at all. It might even bother you, dear reader, to see the word because you're hearing it in your head - aren't you? Cunt. Cuuuuunt. Cunt cunt cunt.

I don't remember the first time I heard the word let alone the first time I used the word but I do fondly remember the time I called my former boss a cunt.

My work husband and I were on our morning break and I was at my breaking point. He and I had spent years under the same boss' constant scrutiny, ruthless judgement and general tyranny. I don't remember how it exactly rolled off my tongue but it was something to the effect of, "God damn it. She is such a fucking cunt!" Oxygen left Earth for the split second my work husband inhaled - he was aghast. Of all the wrongs he and I suffered he still couldn't compel himself to hear the word let alone accept the use of it to define our boss, as a woman or her unacceptable behaviors.

What's funny is the sheer impact and force of the word cunt in his mind must have been so great that he ended up using it to describe our boss a few years later. It was my turn to be shocked; mostly because it conveyed to me just how pissed and disgusted he was with her. It took time but she wore him down.

Now, I've never called anyone a beaver. But My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") has. Many times.

The first time I heard him say, "Oh, those beavers" I was like "Oh shit! Dude. Duuude. No" Then we both awkwardly stared at each other like, what? What did I say? Turns out MSMF loves the term beaver and what's funny, he doesn't think there's anything wrong with it. Well, not until recently.

Every time he's referred to a good friend or mutual acquaintance as a "beaver" I've just laughed because I know he's just saying "that girlfriend" or "that chic".  And I've tried to tell him calling someone a beaver, especially a woman, is probably NOT the right nomenclature but shit, who am I to be the Politically Correct Police? Jesus, I am the last person. Remember, I'm Borat.

https://thesillyshitwesay.blogspot.com/2020/12/youre-like-borat.html

The cunt vs. beaver debate reached a crescendo on St. Patrick's Day. We met JZ and Beyoncé out for a drink and figured we'd consult two decently level headed humans to see what they thought. 

They thought we were both inappropriate and fucking insane.

In fact JZ insisted we stop the debate altogether, sighting his disgust with us due to his having gone to cotillion and finishing school. He also warned MSMF, "I would avoid any discussion involving another woman's reproductive parts." MSMF and I were already a few drinks in, so we just laughed and kept arguing with one another under our breath.

What I found even funnier is that MSMF finally realized that calling someone a beaver was pretty fucking offensive. He didn't believe me when I told him to slow his roll on the use of the term, ooooh no. He only realized and accepted the severity after someone else schooled him on his beaver sensibilities. Thanks babe.

MSMF now swears he won't say beaver anymore but now I'm on the warpath. I find it so damn cute and funny that there's no way I'm letting the use of it die.

Ultimately, use of any offensive word or misdirected/misunderstood name calling hinges on who you're talking to. Before the great beaver debate, MSMF and I discussed the use of cunt with my New Zealand girlfriend and she found absolutely no problem with it. And I quote, "People use it all the time in Europe. It's almost normal, cunt this and cunt that. People will walk up and be like, 'Oh hey cunt!'"

So, what say you - are you on the cunt side of the fence? Beaver side of the fence? Both? Neither?

Why So Derpy?

Ok, I gotta rant here. I have the derpy-ist fucking roommate. Seriously.

There. I said it.

I know My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") is probably saying "Baby..." and silently judging me for being a judgmental, name slinging biatch but damn it. Home slice cannot go one day without doing something fucking stupid!

So, I made the painful but adulting decision to take on a roommate for a few months two weeks ago. And ever since Ms. Thang moved in, she's been hell bent on a mix of obnoxiousness and fucking shit up around the apartment. Now, I may be a grown ass working professional woman living in an apartment that had to take on a roommate but God damn it that doesn't mean that I don't care about my place looking nice or that I don't have nice/expensive things in said place!

If something is going to get fucked up it better be me doing it. And trust me, I have messed up before. But it's rare. *que some better than thou anthem song*

Ok, here's the list of charges so far... IN JUST TWO WEEKS!

(Technically a week and a half because she didn't move in right away.  Noted, in my defense).

1. She broke my outdoor hanging lamp while moving in.

Technically, it wasn't her but some dude. This gets better. I'm not sure exactly how it happened, however, after hearing a massive crash and Ms. Thang leaning into the front doorway saying "we broke your lamp" I find her (without a mask) and some dude (also not wearing a mask) carrying a massive computer desk monitor. She called him a "good Samaritan" that was just there to help her out but all he did was help himself into my damn lamp! I've had matching lamps hanging on either side of the front door since I moved in and sadly with one broken, both have to be replaced. Ugh.

(Fun Fact: Now with the glass missing from the lamp, the property repairman broke the candlelight timer inside the lamp a few days later because he knocked into it causing just the light to fall out)

2. She tracked dirt on the floor and carpet on the stairs.

MSMF and I loosely follow a no shoes in the house rule once you clear the front door hallway. Ms. Thang was aware of this but somehow managed during her first morning at the apartment to muck up the hallway floor and stairs. I knew it was her and waited until she got home to mention it; I'm not her Mom so I wasn't going to clean it up. Even MSMF commented on it when he got to the apartment that evening. So what happens when she gets home? I point it out to her and she goes, "oh. ok!" and goes up to her room. Hello! Earth to derp?

3. Her general curiosity and banter.

As I said to a girlfriend of mine this past weekend, the Derp and I are not friends. Nor do I want to be. Sure I want things to be respectable and easy between us but for the most part I want her to stick to her room or to her own shit and stay out of ours. She also has this weird giggle laugh that just makes me want to say, "Guuuuuurrrrrrl." Any time MSMF and I are cooking or watching TV, we get 20 questions. I don't want to play 20 questions after a long day and just want to relax in silence doing whatever MSMF and I are doing. And the tough part is MSMF is all for engaging her, which just makes her engage more! 

4. She soaked the bathroom floor mat.

Again, I'm not sure how she managed to pull this off. But literally I came home from sushi one night and found the bathroom rug soaked. When I left for dinner she was taking a bath. Ok, cool. I like baths too. No big deal. But what the hell was she doing in the bath? Water aerobics!? Now, I've gotten out of the shower before without a towel and yes, you get the floor mat wet. This wasn't wet. To repeat, THIS WAS SOAKED! I can only imagine she was replaying scenes from Splash or Free Willy in there.

5. She has no sense for turning lights off.

I guess when people don't pay the bills for things they don't have an appreciation for the thing they're not paying for. Home slice's internet and electricity is included in her rent. Since moving in, I've had to remind her and/or turn the lights off myself almost every time she turns them on. I wait the cursory 5-10 minutes hoping "she's coming back" in my mind but no. She ain't comin' back! She's thoughtless and careless to the ways of the light switch. You know, that thing you flick up and down and the lights go on and off? I'm sure if I start charging her for part of the electric bill she'll turn the fucking lights off.

And for her Derpy Coup de Grace:

6. Ms. Thang dumped her coffee all over the bottom half of the stairs.

I heard it happen. I was sitting at my makeshift work desk when I heard the tell-tale signs of derpy shit happening downstairs. The sound of blundering, fumbling, and ultimately - "oh no". I was already too pissed to get up and see what happened. After 5 minutes of hearing her walk back and forth from the kitchen and the paper towel roll depleting, I hear "hey I spilled some coffee but everything's good". Bitch you KNOW everything is not good. But I walked downstairs and didn't immediately see anything wrong. She holds up a towel she got under the kitchen sink and asks, "what should I do with this?" Seriously? What do you want me to do with it?! Channeling the Buddha I say to her, "just wash it the next time you do laundry."

She pops off to work and I jump onto a conference call. But something told me that wasn't the end of the derp.

Sure enough, I went downstairs to inspect the cleanup and found a fucking disaster when I turned the lights on. There was coffee splattered on the fabric storage boxes, coffee INSIDE the storage ottoman that functions as a seat near the front door, coffee on the wall and underneath the ottoman... seriously a coffee bomb went off. And yeah, I was left to clean it up because what was I going to do? Let it sit there all day and screw shit up even more?

All she had to say about it when I sent her pictures of the mess she left behind was, "oh I'll be sure to check next time". Next time? NEXT TIME? There isn't going to be a next time Queen Derp!

Good lord, what else does she have in store?

In an insanely short amount of time she has helped me realize that my ability to tolerate a roommate is nonexistent. That ship has sailed. Or I should say my ability to handle a 20-something derpster has left the building.

The perfect sound that describes what I think about when I see or hear her is the little jingle Beaky Buzzard sings to himself while flying.

Peep the clip around the 1:09 mark. The derp and character is spot on!