Defiant Eyebrows

I cannot be the only person this has ever happened to. I cannot be the only one, who knows the depths of rage that this situation creates.

This situation, wherein I have one single FUCKING black eyebrow hair, dead ass in the middle of my eyebrows, that won’t be plucked, waxed, or otherwise removed.

Dead. Ass. In the middle.

Not only that, but the thing is darker than all my other eyebrow hairs! AND IT WON’T BE REMOVED. I’ve been battling this thing for two weeks now. I tried plucking, and all that did was break the hair, leaving a tiny black dot. Then I tried waxing with one of those wax strip kits. Nope. Then I tried an actual liquid wax kit. Nope. Then I tried plucking again with two different sets of tweezers. Nope.

So many “Nopes” that I now have a bump. a pissed off angry bump where, in my desperate attempts to remove this fiendish hair, I have instead just scraped and inflamed the skin.

Somebody please! Tell me how to free myself from the eternal unibrow hair!!!

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The Day I Couldn’t Find Dad

When we got to my parents house today we couldn’t find dad. At first, we thought he was upstairs so i made a sandwich for lunch and visited with mom. But then we realized he wasn’t there, and he wasn’t on the deck, and his car was here. 

And I noticed Bella, his dog, out on the other side of the lake. We yelled for him. No answer. So I started walking around to the other side of the lake. 

And as I rounded the corner I saw his fishing pole, and his chair, but not him.

And I walked a little farther and then I saw him, on the ground, pale, flat on his back with his feet in the brush at the edge of the water.

And I screamed. And he didn’t move. And I thought he was dead.

I thought my dad was dead today. 

The second time I screamed he opened his eyes. And I ran over and asked him what happened, but he was disoriented and kept looking around. He wouldn’t respond and his eyes weren’t focusing on anything.

I said, you don’t know how you got here, so you?

And he shook his head. And I helped him get up, and I helped him get back to the house.

He doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t remember.

And I don’t think I can be ok now. I thought my dad was dead, his body sprawled on the ground, pale, with dirt in his hair. And I’m so scared. 

I’m Watching My Family Dissolve

I’ve never been close to my extended family. I’ve got one aunt in particular who intentionally calls me, tries to spend some time with me.

The rest, I’m generally an after thought. I don’t get invited to children’s birthdays, or out for drinks, or dinner.Sometimes it bothers me, but mostly it used to be ok because I was so close to my immediate family.

I had my sister, mom, dad, and my mammaw.

About two years ago my sister and I had a fight. Which is the simplest way to put an extremely complicated situation. And I lost her. And it felt like I couldn’t breathe for months, but eventually it eased up. Except for certain moments, moments where you’d naturally run to your sister. Like when your mammaw doesn’t remember who your dad is. And when you’re mom talks about moving out and getting an apartment. And when your dad won’t go to his appointments anymore to check on his cancer.

And now, my mammaw is gone. Her sister took her and she won’t let us talk to her, and she won’t let us see her. She’s selling her condo and getting rid of all her things. And she has dementia, and I’m afraid she’s going to die and  I won’t even know. Or that one day I’ll be able to see her again, but it’ll be too late and she won’t know me anymore.

And I’m not ok. I’m watching my family dissolve away and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Scrollers of the World, Hear Me!!!

 

In this technological age it is so easy to let etiquette drop. With short-hand text speak, “thank yous” and “please” and “Would you like to go out?” have turned into the bastardized “K thx” “Plz” and “DTF?”. Everything we do is about speed and ease. Many would assume that this has signaled the end of etiquette, and in many ways it has, but I am here to tell you that etiquette does still exist! It has simply evolved in a way which some of you, obviously, have not quite grasped. I’m talking to you, cell phone scrollers.

What, you don’t know what a “scroller” is? That’s cool. I am one hundred percent willing to explain what a “scroller” is to you. (Which, from here on out, will not be highlighted by quotations as I am far too lazy for that).

If, mid description, you go “oh yeah, I fucking hate that” then this call for action, or rather call for removal of action, may not necessarily apply to you. If you read this description and find yourself feeling defensive, then buckle up buttercup because you have utterly failed in the realm of cell phone etiquette.

A scroller is as such: A person whom, typically speaking, you absolutely do not want, ever, at all, in any way, to have full free-roaming access to the depths of your technological devices, is in possession of your cell phone to look at one specific thing. One. Fucking. Thing. And instead, they look at more than that one thing.  This happens under multiple circumstances, each involving varying levels of cell phone etiquette fuckery, which I will break down for you.

Because I’m generous like that.

Level 1 fuckery: in which it might not be entirely be your fault. The ALMIGHTY OWNER of said cell phone willingly hands it off to you to show you, inevitably, a photo of a child or pet which is, on the whole, far less amusing to you than them. At some point during your riveting and entirely convincing performance of “Oh isn’t he/she/it/ that cute” You tap the screen and shit goes down. Here is where you error. Here is where you always fucking error. Instead of immediately handing the cell phone back to the ALMIGHTY OWNER, you try to fix it yourself. Fucking stop that. If/when you start opening shit which was not intentionally opened for you, by the GODS, avert your eyes and hand that fucking phone back! Hand it back! No, it’s not embarrassing that you don’t know how to get back to the original photo. No, it’s not awkward that you’re handing it back on a different screen than it began on. You know what is embarrassing? You now know exactly  how active my sexting life is.

Level 2 fuckery: In which you are not the only guilty party. In which there is a second obliterator of cell phone etiquette, which I shall call the hander-offer. Yes, it’s awful. But unless you have a better title you can bite it.  In this scenario, the ALMIGHTY OWNER of the phone has handed their device to a specific person for a specific reason, who deftly hands it off to an unapproved recipient of cell phone content, who inevitably reenacts level 1, or if they’re a special bitch, level 3 fuckery, to everyone’s unending humiliation.

Level 3 fuckery: In which, yeah, this is your  fucking fault. Now look here you fucking doucheface. If I hand you a photo of my boring ass dog, I want you to see a photo of my boring ass dog, insist she’s cuter than we both know she is, and FUCKING HAND IT BACK. Why the ever loving fucketty fuck are you intentionally scrolling back through my photo albums? WTF ARE YOU DOING? You’ve scrolled so far back I, the owner of the fucking phone, cannot predict what you’re going to see! Tits? So many. Dicks? At least one. A photo montage of a night full of drunk jenga and tequila shots? thank god for those little stickers I edited on there.

Seriously, look at it this way, pre-cell phones what did a person hand you, in order for you to see a photo of their boring ass family? Their wallet. With totes adorbs little photos inside. And what did you do after you looked at those photos? YOU HANDED THE WALLET BACK. You did not go through the whole fucking thing without permission. You did not hand it over to some random third party. You know why? Because that shit was private! There were probably  condoms in there, nudie photos folded and tucked in sleeves, grocery lists with KY Jelly on them, hit lists, I don’t fucking know! And that’s the point. Aside from what you’ve been handed, you’re not supposed to know.  Think of a cell phone the same way. What you are handed, is what you are invited to view. Otherwise, fuck right on off. After that, anything that happens is on you.

Sincerely, a chick who sexts her husband. Get over it.

Diseases Abound

This post involves stomach issues so, ya know. deal or don’t read.

I don’t know what the deal is. If it’s super bugs, stress, the fucking apocalypse, but I’ve been sick for what feels like a month straight.

Check that.

It has been a month straight. I got a “flu like virus” the week before classes started and its February now so, yay me with my general sense of time’s passage.

Flu like virus

strep

sinus infection

Fine! Fucking bring it on! But this stomach shit? OMG. For someone who survived most of my teenage years with IBS, this month in particular has been the most humiliating of the stomach wars in my entire fucking lifetime. Try getting spontaneously sick leaving a client’s home and being trapped in the building’s basement bathroom for half a fucking hour. Oh look. Now I’m late for my next shift.

Making yourself leave just as you think you might be ok  only to have to stop at every fucking exit along the highway to jack the, usually single, bathroom of the nearest gas station for unreasonable amounts of time until, inevitably, someone knocks and you have to move. Yep. Super not going to make it to my next shift.

Stopping when you can’t find an exit in time and just hoping you miss your own car. Hm, not totally sure I’m going to make it home.

Getting caught by a train and having to stalk a BK’s parking lot so you don’t get violently ill in front of a two mile long stretch of irritated travelers.  MOTHERFUCKING SHIT FUCK ALL I WANT TO DO IS VOMIT IN THE SANCTITY OF MY OWN HOME.

And that was the first go around. Then there was the second. And then there’s today, in which I got violently ill in the middle of a fucking creative writing workshop. Desks all in a lovely circle so everyone could see, full well, the color drain from my face, as it dawns on me that I am so going to heave.

Try to go back to class afterwards. Make it five minutes. Have to ask a total stranger to please hand in my paper due to my stomach’s inability to not upchuck. Literally run to the bathroom. Become painfully aware of the annoying jingling sound your boot zippers make.

Get asked three times if you’re pregnant.

Obviously I’ve pissed off the stomach gods. What was it? My brazen attempts to attend and graduate college? The bagel I had this morning? Green tea? FUCKING TELL ME SO I CAN TOP VOMITING!!!

Oh yeah. I have to work after this until 8pm.

Avoid-It list Pt. 3

It’s been a long time since I’ve made an Avoid-It addition. This is in no way because I’ve miraculously avoided humiliating situations, and more due to general forgetfulness. I’d love to pretend that since the last post I’ve become the epitome of fucking grace and poise, but I just stood up a second ago and realized my boot is stuck to my tights.

Once more with things to avoid…

Showing an in-law a photo of your dogs on your phone, only for her to tap the screen, bringing up the camera roll of most recent shots. Namely, so many tits. Bonus points if your in-laws are conservative southern baptists.

Showing a friend a photo of a hair-do on the phone. Only for her to scroll through without saying anything. You only realize when she whistles at your husband’s dick.

Sitting cross-legged in a pair of knee high boots and tights and getting your boot zipper stuck in the vaguely crotch-area of said tights. Bonus points if you don’t realize until you stand up. Bonus Bonus points if you don’t realize until you’ve fallen out of the chair.

Going to take a drink of green tea and totally missing your mouth, spilling it down your dress which, wow, lookit how see-through that material gets when wet! Bonus points if you’re not wearing a bra.

Getting profusely ill at a gas station bathroom and having to listen to a little girl tell her mommy that she “reeeeeeally” needs to go while you try so super hard to finish vomiting.

Sitting cross-legged and not realizing your shoe is hooked in the torn hem of your skirt, standing up and basically pantsing yourself.

Trying to pick up your fork in a restaurant and inexplicably manage to shoot it across the room and onto another diner’s table.