once upon a time (there was a douchebag)

Okay, so maybe I got a leetle bit pissed off when I saw this image on Pinterest tonight.

And maybe I went a leetle bit overboard on the “description” when I repinned it.

and the princess didn’t have her heart broken by a man who couldn’t keep his dick to himself for more than five seconds because she was smart enough to say no to the pretty face that was hiding the vile creature behind it. And she had all the time in the world to then pursue her own interests and be the person she was meant to be, reveling in her identity and fulfilling her aspirations fully. She spent as much time as she wanted with the best girlfriends who always built her up and cared about what she was saying rather than pretending to listen and hoping she was soon done. And she hand selected the finest young men to keep her company (and then sent them on their way when she was bored with them) and she read books and made beautiful art and sun bathed and nobody ever left the fucking toilet seat up or made her have to drag their feelings out of them like driving nails into brick because they were such poor communicators that she just wanted to scream into infinity in those miserable moments of complete relationship hell when she would rather be twirling through the living room, singing her favorite song at top volume. She didn’t have to share the remote or watch any sports she didn’t want to, and she only got foot rubs with her pedicures and nobody expected her to have sex with them just for doing it. She smiled every day because she wanted to, not because she was pretending she was happy, and nobody needed her to fetch them a beer or make their food first so that by the time she ate hers it was cold. She played with lady bugs and stopped to smell the flowers every day. Her friends and family thought she was fucking awesome because she was able to live her life to her full potential instead of for some loser who resented her for not wanting him to drink jack daniels every fucking night. And she never had to sleep in the goddamned wet spot. THE END.

Yeah, maybe a little too far.

Maybe.

(Who am I kidding?! That shit had it coming.)

In case you think your friends don’t understand the difference between hot/warm/cold.

I’m sure that you, the reader of my website, are not a jerkhole of any sort, including the temperature/climate type.  Surely, someone with your impeccable taste is intelligent enough and nowhere near enough of an asshat to engage in the behavior I’m addressing with this post.  So please, just let this post serve as a place that you can direct the temperature/climate jerkholes you come into contact with towards, as necessary.

When someone says it’s cold where they are, that means >>news flash<< IT’S COLD WHERE THEY ARE. As in, the temperature is such that they have made the judgment that it’s frickin’ freezing, Mr. Bigglesworth. Or at least very cold. To them.  Which is all that matters about their comment.  This is obvious to people who don’t have their heads up their asses, I’m guessing, but what do I know?

If someone says it’s cold (or hot), I’m thinking, just accept it and move on.  Whatever the temperature is where you are / depth of cold (or intensity of heat) you can withstand / number of brain cells you wish you had horrific weather conditions you are experiencing/have ever experienced – COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT.   Feel the need to make a snide remark that insults the person and/or comment that makes everything all about you again?  Please, please resist the stupidity you feel nagging you at that moment.

No, really. The next time you have the urge to say something like “that’s not cold – you don’t know what cold is” or “pfft, that’s nothing, you know how cold it is where I AM?“ to someone, punch yourself in the face one time (both because you deserve it and because you can do so without feeling any pain). Really! Rest assured that it won’t hurt, because somewhere, someone is getting punched in the face HARDER and even MORE THAN ONCE.

You think it would hurt to punch yourself in the face that once?  Pffft.  You don’t know what pain is.

I will totally burn the bag. Try me.

The Blogher 09 Conference Weekend is over. I flew home on Sunday, to an empty house. My son was elsewhere, and I was going to have to fly the next day to get to him. My husband was still making his way across the country back to our home from his most recent gig.

Being in the house all alone after the Blogher09 weekend was seriously weird. My family wasn’t there, and yet? There were also no head-splitting squees to make my ears bleed, no free drinks being shoved into my hand, and no one at all was smacking my ass. There weren’t even oodles of women photographing themselves kissing one another.

I was really not at Blogher09 anymore. Wow.

I know some of you are waiting to hear what I thought about the conference. That will come, but not just yet. I have some things to process… I have a mixed bag of feelings. I will tell you that there were fabulous times and there were also definitely not so fabulous times. I’ll try to find time soon to talk a bit about it – bear with me as I’m away from home right now.

On Monday, I flew to where my son was being cared for while I was in Chicago. After getting myself situated, I sat on the airplane which would take me half of the way to see my son again, waiting for it to take off. I was relaxed, with my head back and eyes closed, just waiting.

That’s when it happened.

A female passenger in the row directly in front of mine let everyone know that she does not, in fact, have a brain in her head. Or perhaps just enough of one to drive her life-sustaining organs and physical movements.

But forget rational thought.

The hobag was spraying perfume. On an airplane. A lot of it.

Um. No.

As what seemed to be every molecule of perfume in a full bottle flew right up my nose, my eyes snapped open. I glowered at the back of her seat, thinking, “Really? No, really?” and “I wonder if they kick a person off a plane for strangling another passenger while intermittently beating them with their own bottle of perfume.” And when the mental answer I gave myself to the latter question was “Uh, probably.” I continued by asking myself, “So, do you think you could get away with just cramming it up her ass?”

I told me that this was, most likely, also a bad idea. I am such drag.

Yes. I am volatile inside my mind. As anyone who has can tell you, though, I’m just a peach when you meet me. *wink*

But there I sat, willing the back of her seat to explode, taking her head with it.

I’m sensitive to smelly things. As the perfume invaded my nasal membranes and infested my brain, the physical symptoms began.

First the intense disgust and nausea set in. And look, if my stomach is going to be doing the “oh baby, we might need immediate evacuation” dance, I better have at least had a full night of partying like it was 1999 (perhaps even in close proximity to a unicorn shaped confectionary item?) while drinking 7x my body weight in liquor and passing out in places other than my own hotel room. (Thereby worrying a large number of people who end up wondering if I am dead, kidnapped, or sitting in jail with a black eye and ripped fishnets.) *coughcoughbloghercough*

Not that I’ve ever been in such a situation, mind you. *COUGH* But, you know, I’m just sayin.

After about 10 minutes of feeling like I was going to puke the puke of outrageous proportions (while repeatedly, mentally ripping the skin off perfume bitch’s face and then making her eat it) the nausea subsided.

Then the sinus headache began.

Ohhhh, the glory of the in-flight sinus headache.

While I willed that to go away, the pressure in my head sang to my internal thoughts, driving them into ever more violent imaginings of how the perfume bitch needed to be punished.

I’m all better now, though, so I’ll just say that there’s a job waiting for her at a Perfume Counter in Hell, but if I ever see her on a flight again, I will grab her carry-on and restrict her access from it. Forever. Because I am going to burn it.

Possibly while she’s crammed inside of it.

Of course all of this and more is worth enduring to see my son again. As I wrote this, I was almost halfway there.

I’d be willing to snort 10 perfume factories and be beaten with a million raw fishheads just to get back to my boy.

I only want to cram him inside a suitcase every once in awhile.

What you get when I’m saving you from the really bad posts I’ve written.

I’ve written a lot of posts lately.

But I haven’t published many.  Why?

No, it’s not because I was too busy taking pictures of my fat ass.

It’s because they are all either weepy and sad or angry and bitter.  And, contrary to what you may think, they are not all about the whole miscarriage thing.

Apparently I’m angry and bitter, and feeling ranty and shitty about lots of things.

And towards lots of people. Whoa, Nelly.  That just ain’t kosher, eh? I’m trying to BE A GOOD PERSON.

See that Tagline up there in my header?

“because survival requires humor”

I really do believe that.

But my funny isn’t sustaining enough for me to write good humor posts lately.  And that PISSES ME OFF.

And also?  I’m tired of eating beans and staring at the $12,000 in medical bills we’ve accumulated these past few months.

Because farts are funny, and all, but this?  This is not funny.  This is depressing.

And depressing farts don’t really make very good humor posts.

So I’ll go back to writing my private, weepy, rantlike, depressing, shitty posts on my computer. And then not publishing them.

But I’ll whine to you about it.  SINCE THAT IS OH SO FUNNY, RIGHT?

Just punch me in the face and get it over with.

*farrrrt*

(don’t laugh, that was a depressing one… couldn’t you tell by the tone? amateurs.)

Dear Hasbro, Disney, Mattell, et. al

In the spirit of calling Lotus’ missing mojo back from it’s prolonged vacation, here’s a rant I’ve been brewing since Christmas day. This may not actually call that spoiled mojoho back all on it’s own–it’s hard to top foot rubs and chocolates, but I’ll do my best to contribute to the siren song.

*Ahem*

Dear Revered Big-Brand Toymakers,

Beloved gods of toys, who bring joy to millions of children, I am but a humble mother of one who extends these unworthy suggestions for your gracious and almighty reflection:

• If you are going to rate something 3+, then please make the fracking little pulls and knobs actually operable by 3 year-old fingers. If my kid can’t open Wall-E’s trash compartment and shove the little plastic pieces of trash in there on his own, then take that mofo off the shelf and back to the drawing board. “Maaaaaaaama! Waaaaaaalllllleeeeeee!” has been the theme song of my day, and I’m beginning to fantasize about telling my kid that his Wall-E died and throwing it in the trash. Any future therapy bills will be sent your way.

• Make your trains so that my 3 year-old can put them back on the tracks all by himself. Believe it or not, I don’t want to stop what I’m doing every 90 seconds all day long, to keep a train going ’round and ’round on a little plastic track. Hard to believe, I know.

• Make knobs for twisting easily twist-able. My kid did not train for Christmas with a Grip Master. He does not have miniature He-man fingers. I do not want to wind up that stupid toy even one more time, as long as I live.

• Make on/off switches larger than the head of a pin. And while you’re at it, don’t hide them underneath fur and up the ass of the toy! Okay? Really. Why is that necessary?

All I ask is that you make some small modifications to these toys so that your intended customer can use the damned things without constant parental assistance. I like playing with my kid, I really do. But I don’t live in your fantasy world, where I hover in the background wearing an excited smile, just waiting to be needed while made-in-China character toys break down.

Thank you for your prompt consideration.

Sincerely,
Kat
A Loyal Customer

___________________________________________________________________________

When she’s not busy ripping the toy industry a new one or dying her hair pink, Kat blogs at Just Kat Stuff about a little of everything.  She claims to defy description.  Go over and see if you can sum her up.

Random ranting and jabbering. It’s late, and I’m tired.

So, why the hell is it that there is ALWAYS more to pack than I think there is going to be ahead of time? Ugh. I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off here. Speaking of that – does anyone else say that? I think I picked it up from my parents… who did actually keep and slaughter chickens for food when I was a kid. Which leads me to remember a time when my dad actually chased me around the yard with a chicken-head on a stick. I was about 4. He thought it was hilarious. I? Was terrified. Just another look into what made me into the fine woman I am today!

On a completely unrelated note, I wanted to rant for a minute about something that seriously peeves me. I HATE IT when people in a parking lot sit in their cars behind someone else who is planning on leaving soon. HATE WITH A PASSION. These asshats feel that their inability to drive around and find a different space – one which they may actually have to WALK A BIT from – is reason enough to make the people leaving feel rushed. Not to mention the people trying to use the damn parking lot aisle to drive somewhere else – oh hell no! If you want to go anywhere on that aisle now, you’re just going to have to queue up behind Mr. or Mrs. ASSHAT and wait until they park their lazy, fat ass in their most desired parking spot.

And I’m sorry if you are one of the people in question here, but, seriously, if you do this, look at your head… you are NO DOUBT wearing your ass for a hat.

And this is not because I don’t like helping people – I used to flag down people in the parking lot when I was about to leave work and had parked in a desirable spot. It’s about the huge sense of entitlement and disgusting laziness I see displayed in the people who do this. The only reason I can think of that excuses this behavior is a need to park close because of some type of physical illness/infirmity/handicap. But, most often, when I see them park and get out they are all perky and youthful, and clearly not handicapped.

Not physically, anyway.

Is My Baby Gay? WHAT?!

So… I’ve been noticing the Google ads on my myspace page more lately. Is it just me, or is there some FREAKY crap advertised on this site?

Have you guys paid any attention to this stuff? An especially disturbing link caught my eye yesterday, so I typed the URL into another browser window, and then I just stared at the screen with my mouth hanging open.

What was the URL?

http://www.ismybabygay.com/

Can I get a “WTH?”

This is what I saw:

Fine print reads:

[Results of your baby's sexual preference will be mailed to you within two weeks of receiving the printed saliva sample. All results are backed by IsMyBabyGay's money-back gaurantee. If the sexual preference of your bay is incorrect, we will refund 150% of your purchase price. Results are intended for entertainment purposes only. All results are final. Not available outside of the United States.]This is wrong on SO many levels. I don’t even know where to begin! I can’t believe this exists!

Okay, as screwed up as the world is, I guess I can believe it, but that doesn’t mean I’m not disgusted by it.

See, first of all, this crap shouldn’t even be an issue. We should not be even remotely concerned with this about our babies. Then there’s the wording down at the bottom, which is just utterly confusing and ridiculous. Money-back guarantee? They will refund 150% of purchase price if they are incorrect? JUST HOW DO YOU FIGURE THAT OUT?? Also, it’s for “entertainment purposes only.” So then, how can it be wrong or right anyway!? Notice that, in addition, “all results are final.” THEN HOW CAN IT BE RIGHT OR WRONG!?

Clicking takes you to this:

Fine print reads:
[The cost for this service is $19.99. You will be able to pay for it after you print and have the baby lick the sample paper.]

“Hey, Braden, would you mind licking this piece of paper so I can find out of you like doing guys?”

I am utterly weirdified.

Continuing:

Fine print reads:
[Note: Please use standard white paper to assure a proper sample. This patent-pending process will allow us to perform standard tests on the paper.]

I feel disgusted having clicked this far, even for the sake of curiosity.

Patent-pending process?!?

Are you with me on how NUTS this is???

Here’s the “test sheet”:

The Directions:

Fine print reads:
[Note: It is important to moisten the paper for 15 seconds. If the baby's mouth is dry, please have them drink water and then moisten the sample after 5 minutes.]

This is hilarious. Let’s just put aside the fact that the test is BONKERS. Look at this, they want you to hold a piece of paper to a baby’s tongue for 15 seconds. “It is important.” Dude, my kid’s not letting me hold anything to his tongue for 15 seconds!

Also, “If the baby’s mouth is dry, please have them drink water and then moisten the sample after 5 minutes.”

“Braden, what the hell is wrong with your mouth? It’s too dry. Here, drink this water so I can hold this paper to your tongue for 15 seconds. You better sit still for it too, or I’m putting you in the closet again.”

*shakes head*

Almost done!

Fine print reads:
[Note: Please mail the sample using standard USPS first class mail. You will receive our IMBG Testing Center's mailing address after you pay for the service.]

Payment screen:

Note the “happy family” pictured. Notice how the parents are all smiles and the kid looks bummed. This whole thing is really wacky.

I wonder if there’s someone out there who is willing to test my kid’s saliva to find out what his favorite color is… or what his favorite food is…. I’m curious, cause he can’t talk yet, and I’d like to know. Or maybe someone can test my child’s SPIT and tell me what profession he will choose one day or WHO HE WILL MARRY AND HOW MANY KIDS HE WILL HAVE!?

*sigh*

If these people get rich I hope the world just blows up.