Category Archives: Seriously?

Just when I thought the list of things that never happen to anyone else but me had ended…

It struck down on me, rendering me numb to every feeling with the exception of embarrassment, anger, and the sensation to urinate.  This is, by a land slide, one of the worst things that could happen to me right now.  I would have rather shit on myself and have the photos splattered across New Orleans on the CBS billboards.

Okay, I lied.  That would be horrible.  But it may as well happen because HOLYFUCKINGSHIT.

Since I haven’t update my blog in a long while, I owe you some background information to accompany this little tale of horror.  How can I put this in order to not go into long, “Oh Jesus, we’ve heard this 8 or 9 times before Georgette”, detail?  In order for my marriage to work, both of us will have to be in life-long comas.  Which is funny, because that is exactly how I felt the whole time we were together.  BACK TO THE STORY.

Because I still don’t have a functioning set of wheels, I borrow my ex father-in-law’s car from time to time.  That’s weird, isn’t it?  Story of my life.  I borrowed it last night to drive out to a neighboring town to visit a friend.  Who happens to have a penis.  To make sure we are on the same page here, let’s do a mini recap.  Not with my husband anymore, still drive around his dad’s car, used it to go chill with another dude.  Okay, good.

I park, we chill, I get up to leave. We walk outside and decide to smoke a cigarette before I head out.  We’re talking, we’re laughing, we’re puffing and inhaling.  And then it happens, like something out of a movie that only features really sucky and unfortunate mishaps.  Out of nowhere (and by nowhere, I mean the tree right next to the car) a large limb explodes into a million wooden shards on the roof of my father-in-law’s Chrysler 300.  I froze.  I knew, judging from the explosive sound, that I had just got fucked in the ass by the devil with no lube.

We run to the car in a silent WHAT THE FUCK fashion.  I stare at the two large dents on the roof of the car for 3 minutes, and as I suck in a breath to probably curse, the windshield cracks.  And at that point, not only did the devil dry fuck me up the booty hole, he shot a load of liquidy fire into my colon.

So there I stand, with my soon to be ex-father-in-law’s royally fucked up ride and a friend.  Who happens to be a dude.  Good.  It’s one thing that a tree limb fucked me over, it’s another that I was at a man’s house while it happened.  Not that I feel guilty, but Im sure that makes me a whore in the traditional southern christian eyes of my father-in-law.

It’s okay to laugh.  I’m sure I’ll also laugh just as soon as my asshole heals.


The bicycle guy.

I was outside of the office building smoking a cigarette like I normally do.  I stand there, puffing away at my cool-girl stick watching cars zoom along the boulevard.  A man comes up on his mountain bike, a bandanna was tied around his head Tupac style, and he has on biker gloves.  You know, the ones with no fingers.  On each handlebar a Dollar General bag was tied, each full of cans I assume he got from other people’s garbage cans.

The man: “Another day in paradise, eh?”
Me: “Yeap.”
“So hows the insurance business treating you?”
“Say, where’d you get that bruise?” as he points to the ginormous teeth marks my son gave me.
“Oh, my son has a biting problem.”
“Let me tell you something … What’s your name?  No, I don’t even want to know your name.  Boy, watch them as they get older, they only have one thing on their minds.  I would know.”
Then he takes off on his 10 speed mountain bike down the road, barely escaping death as he cut off a PT Cruiser going 45 mph.

I finish my cigarette and walk back inside.  10 minutes later the door opens, lo and behold, it was the bicycle man.  I hid behind my computer screen.  My father-in-law gets up.

“Can I help you?”
“This a family run business?”
“Yeah man, can I help you?”
“There was a girl outside in a polka dotted dress, I wanted to talk to her.”
“Yeah, she’s my daughter-in-law.”
“Oh, she’s married?  She told me she wanted my number.  Guess I just have that effect on women.”
He then leaves.

At about this time, I died.  I literally laid under my desk and threw up, and then died.  I have never been so close to death in my life.  I would rather swallow miniature knives and shit them out whole then even think about asking that man for his phone number.

This happened 3 weeks ago.  I still haven’t heard the end of it.  The worst part?  My FIL actually thought I wanted his number. 

 Fuck. That.

Monday. It’s like Friday only suckier.

I ended up bombing the apartment, and we will bomb it again today, just to make sure.  Because, y’know, walking around with little red bumps and scabs all over my body isn’t exactly attractive.

I was moving my flat screen into my apartment the other night when we happened to walk through a cat fight which was AWESOME.  They weren’t really scrappin’, but it was definitely heading in that direction.  The best part?  The fight was between one 11 year old girl with her mother, and about 4 other 11 year old girls and their mother.

“My momma says I can’t hang out with messy people and you’s messy.”
“You have no right to say things about people you hardly know.”
“My MOMMA says YOU’S messy, my momma KNOWS whose messy and whose ISN’T.”
“I am NOT messy.
“YES, you IS.”

And the whole time I am standing there with my dad holding a 48 inch flat screen trying to get through to the stairs.  Both mothers are standing behind their respective children with hands on their hips glaring at me like I was purposely standing there listening to the argument.  Like, “HELLO this is a private bitch fest, who invited YOU?”  So me and my dad awkwardly shuffle between them with the large TV while the girls are still screaming at each other about who is messy and who doesn’t shower twice a day.

The entire time I was thinking, well God.  I have fleas.  THAT’S why I have no friends.  ‘Cause I’s messy.

Some days are better than others. Some days you have fleas.

When I was blogging on Can’t Hardly Wait, I had a twitter account.  I really, still, don’t care for it all that much.  I never had anything useful to tweet, and considering the most exiting part of my day is either when I have a satisfying bowel movement (you know what I am talking about) or when the mail comes, my twittering got kind of lame after awhile.

“Just dropped the browns off at the super bowl and I finally got August’s issue of Cosmo!”

Then having to explain Twitter to my dad is pretty much like explaining why poop is generally a brown color to my two year old.  But this post isn’t all about Twitter.  I just wanted to say that I think Twitter is dumb.  Because I am lame and can never tweet things like “Just landed in NYC, ’bout to go drop a couple G’s on 5th Ave. Then talking with the pope over some java”  I mean, I could… but I don’t even think the pope drinks coffee.

So.  The fleas.  The fucking fleas.  The mother fucking fleas.  I have an exterminator coming on Sunday.  SUNDAY.  Today is FRIDAY.  “Sure, Sunday is ok.  BECAUSE I REALLY ENJOYED THESE FLEAS EATING MY FLESH AND ID LOVE TO SPEND ANOTHER NIGHT OR TWO WITH THEM.”  And of course that obviously means I’m a horrible mother for letting fleas bite my child.  Obviously.  Because I OBVIOUSLY brought fleas into my home purposely, and I OBVIOUSLY put them in my child’s bed and closet, and I OBVIOUSLY am not doing anything about it. 

Actually, last night while Little James was with his father, I bleached my entire apartment.  I wiped pinesol on the walls, I vacuumed my rugs at least 8 times, I lysoled everyone’s mattresses and I did about 12 loads of laundry. 


UPDATED: Bravo 88-9, This is Eagle Eye, We are armed and ready. Roger.

If we used the term “Roger” at all during basic training, we would be punished with the front lean and rest position for 45 minutes.  I never used it, but I was always the one caught with my chin strap undone, and they always called me John Wayne. 

I’m writing this before work because today I am flea bombing my apartment.  Great, right?  Me and little man are officially dirty flea bags.  I got a kitten about a month ago and took all necessary steps to prevent such an infestation, but the little fuckers survived the baths, and flea drops and collars.  My son hated the cat anyway.  He bull rushed her all the time, and was always beating her in the head with his matchbox cars. (Which I understand that it was terribly cruel, but the cat just sat there and LET him do it.)  So I got rid of her.  And now I am left with fleas and it sucks because I have to wear boots to work so that nobody sees my flea bitten ankles.  Everyone’s all “Why the fuck you got boots on? It’s like… 98 degrees out.”  And I’m always “Really?  I’m just SO cold.  Burrrr…

So I bought these cans that will fog up my entire apartment and kill the bastards.  I’m going set them off right before I leave for work.  The shitty part is, is that I have to turn off my air conditioner before I leave.  I live in Louisiana.  So when I come home, my apartment will be a hot, slippery mess which smells like rotten meat.  YAY.

Just wait until I tell you about the Bicycle Guy.


Turns out… flea fog bombs set off smoke alarms, and it just so happens that you have to have maintenance come in and unhook them, AND IT JUST SO HAPPENS that I moved in the cat without their consent.  WHAT THE FUCK.