I think if I knew what it was like to be genuinely happy at least 65 percent of the time, I wouldn’t try so hard to find it. The moments where I am truly happy are moments that I savor like a piece of chocolate I have been saving. I let it sink in and I purposely ignore everyone around me so that they can’t ruin it. Sort of as if I were stoned.
Today I had a happy moment, and it was silly, but I loved it and I knew I had to write it down. It was during a football game. Adrian Peterson ran 65 yards to the endzone pushing people out of his way like they were air-filled dummies. I mean he literally turned around while running and pushed this guys face away from him and at that moment my heart skipped a beat and I think I had a lady boner. Such an accomplished football player who stars in ridiculous commercials that showcase his amazing pectoral muscles and furious agility. I stood with my right fist raised, and a surprisingly painful handslap to my dad with my left. The smile on his face let me know that he liked watching the game with me. My son was sound asleep in his bed, safe and warm and probably dreaming about eating spaghetti. I fell into my couch and clapped. My dad yelled “AP ALL DAY!”. I laughed. That play and the few seconds following it made me happy.
I know, it’s kind of stupid. But at this point, if it’s a play in a football game that makes me happy, then so be it. I’ll take it any way it comes.
Turning 21 entitles you to a couple of different things, none of which entails responsibly responsible responsibilities. Since laws vary from state to state, I’m going to say now that in Louisiana (the state that is lucky enough to have me as a resident) and Mississippi, you must be 21 to gamble and watch women with either ridiculously perky boobs or ridiculously saggy boobs strip.
I turn 21 on the 9th. I remember being in high school and dying to be 21. Why, though? I guess turning 21 is like becoming an adult here in America. The government gives us a present when we turn 21. “Here you go, congratulations for living for 21 years, you may now go get shitty drunk, gamble 3 quarters of your bank account away and then use the last of your money on a stripper who looks surprisingly like your third cousin.”
New York, where I grew up, has it set to where you can gamble and hit up titty bars when you turn 18. But I moved here. AND GOD WHAT A LONG 3 YEARS IT HAS BEEN. I HAVEN’T SEEN THE INSIDE OF THE PURRING KITTEN IN FOREVER. And honestly, I really miss pissing my cigarette money down the drain on a 5 pick in hopes to win 128 mil. Id always say “DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY CARTONS OF MARLBORO LIGHTS I COULD GET WITH THAT KIND OF CHEESE?” Well now I can gamble my money away, and with my winnings I can furnish my liquor cabinet for 40 years. Because that is what has become of my life. Gambling, chain smoking, liquor and naked women. Just add a fucking semi automatic and you might as well call me Tony Montana.
Basically what I am saying is, is that on Wednesday, I will attend my first Smokers, Gamblers, Alcoholics Annonymous meeting. I would have added something about strippers in there, but I’m not quite sure what the name is for that type of group AND THEY PROBABLY DON’T EVEN HAVE COMPLIMENTARY DONUTS.
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?”
“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.
If I’ve ever been in love with a terrorizer, this is him.
Watch out. He’ll getchya.
Welcome, Brett Favre, to the land of the purple. SKOL VIKINGS!
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.
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.
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.