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.

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.

 

 

How Will it End

How did it start?

Someone died.

or someone got sick.

or you had a nightmare.

or you miss someone.

Or…it just does.

How it started doesn’t matter. Once the ball is rolling, you can’t snatch it back. All you can do is move through and wait for it to end, however it ends.

But it’s been such a long day. There’s a deep ache in your jaw that you can’t work out. You’ve kneaded it, stretched and bit back down. It persist, even spreads into your neck.Your head hurts. People keep talking to you and this urge to scream bubbles up from that aching. You bite that back down. You try to focus. You try to hear the words people are saying to you.  You’re pretty sure you sound robotic. You try to put more emotion behind your words. It doesn’t work, they ask what’s wrong. You want to cry. You bite that back down too. The ache gets worse.

Everything is too bright and too fuzzy. There’s cotton in your head, Your skin’s to tight.  When your feet touch the ground it’s like Novocaine in your skin. Nothing’s concrete. You know you’re moving. You know you’re getting into your car.

The first few minutes are fine. You turn on some music. You gravitate toward sad songs, instruments that make your chest tighten. You’re still fine.

But then you’re alone. There’s no one around with expectations for you. No one to judge the behavior. And the ache is so strong.

You think about calling someone. Begging them to meet you somewhere, or come over. To talk. You go through the list and realize there’s no one to call. And then you start imagining.

You imagine closing your eyes. You imagine pressing the peddle down. You imagine  taking off your seat belt. It’s ok, You’re just thinking about it. Thinking is ok. It’s the doing that’s the problem. You imagine how it would feel when the tires start to tug the car, you wonder if it’ll flip. Or if it’ll just slam into something so hard that the sudden lack of movement stops your heart. You wonder if you’ll go through the windshield and if it’ll hurt, or if it’ll happen so fast you’ll just be gone. It’s just a daydream. One that you have almost every day.

Except you’re crying so hard that you didn’t notice your eyes are closed. And when you open them, the speedometer says you’re going 90mph.

You make yourself focus, You stare so hard at the road that you actually feel pressure building in your head. you make fists around the steering wheel. You say, “just get home. Just get home. Just get home.”

Sometimes you have to pull over because you can’t breathe.

Sometimes you get home. You swerved a few times and it’s probably lucky you didn’t get pulled over, but you’re home. And you go inside. And you sit at the table. And you cry.

Hard and loud. And the imagining starts again. It’s not always the same, but it’s unstoppable. You hold still. You hold onto the table. And you think about getting out the letters you’ve written. You know you don’t want them to wonder. To leave them wondering seems cruel. You know leaving them at all should seem cruel, but mostly you just think about how they won’t have to handle you anymore. You think about where you’ll sit the letters. I always picture them in a straight line, in envelopes, on the dining room table. I always picture it happening in the living room. I plan. I have a list of emails, websites, and all their passwords. Notes about hidden money, pictures i loved, things I think are important and who  I want to have them .

I put the dogs up. I give them hugs. I place food and water in my bedroom and put the cats there. I don’t want them stopping me. They have before. So I put them up. I love them.

And then I get the gun and I practice holding it, but I’ve always hated guns. The heaviness. They feel so ugly and brutal. And when I put it to my head it makes my stomach roll. So, usually, I put it back and grab bottles of pills. I play music while I get them ready. Small piles of different pills, lined up. I get some wine, and I start swallowing. I turn off my phone. I lay down. And I listen to my music, try to focus on it instead of the nausea. Instead of the aches and pains.

Overdosing isn’t painless. You know that because you’ve done it before. But before, you didn’t take enough. You had to long to change your mind.

So I make sure to take all of them. From every bottle.

I imagine how long it will take. I imagine trying not to throw up, trying to keep them inside long enough for them to work.

Dying is something I want to imagine. What I don’t want to imagine, is what comes next. Next I have to imagine John coming home and finding me. I have to imagine how quickly he would feel that something was wrong. I picture him panicked because I haven’t answered his texts or calls. I picture him hearing the loud music and thinking, hoping, I’m just in there writing, or drawing my comics. Then I picture him seeing me.

Imagining this stops me. It makes me feel selfish. Imagining him calling my parents. Imagining him trying to get me to wake up. Those things let me get up from the table. Those things let me move around the house, do what I need to do, then go to bed. Without getting out the letters.

Or touching the gun.

Or looking at the bottles.

Even if I’m just going to imagine it all again tomorrow.

I hope it never stops working.

I Prefer the Term Pet Enthusiast.

I haven’t written in awhile. My job doesn’t really leave me as much down time as the old one, plus I’ve been a combination of lazy and dispassionate about a lot of things. Sorry about that. 

In fact, the only reason I’m writing today is because I have been annoyed by a very specific thing which has affected my life and i wish to rant about it. I’m here today to talk about pets.

I’m a huge animal person, and by huge I mean that I currently have residing in my home four cats and three dogs. My cats range in amount of fur from bald to I-dust-your-floor-by-walking. My dogs range in size from furry bowling ball to legitimately requires it’s own couch to sleep on. I love my pets. I never come home to an empty house. I never watch TV alone or sleep without someone to cuddle. They each have their own personalities that come with positives and negatives just like little human beings who just REALLY wished they had thumbs so they could open that damn bag of food. 

Lately, I’ve noticed something about myself and it’s quite alarming. Whenever someone asks me about pets, how many do i have, or if i need to speak about them….I start my sentence with “I have too many animals, but” 

And then I quickly spit out the number feeling this weird level of shame and embarrassment despite that fact that, wait for it…

I…..I….don’t actually think I have too many animals. If I did then I would’ve stopped getting them. I wouldn’t have gone out and adopted that third dog I mentioned, today. She’s a boxer by the way. I’ve also only told one person I’ve adopted her for the exact same reason I avoid telling people how many animals I have. 

And here’s the thing…not only do I not feel I have too many, because I am not overwhelmed by them, but my house is clean. There isn’t animal feces or urine everywhere, or anywhere really. The litter boxes even have their own specific room away from our living spaces, and the fur gets vacuumed up every other day. I mop and dust and tidy up every week. My house is probably tidier than most houses with human children living inside. The animals themselves are happy and well taken care of. They have shots and flee treatments and toys and….in all honesty, probably a wee bit too much food ( furry bowling ball).

I almost wrote this post in a way that would explain the intricate reasoning behind my pets, but then I realized that fuck all of the everyone who makes me feel like I need to do that. As a close friend said, (A close friend who, despite this phrase, thinks she has a right to comment on my animals)

I am a grown ass woman.

I pay my bills.

I clean my house.

I take care of those motherfuckingly adorable animals that seem to irk you so badly despite the fact that you don’t pay for them, feed them, clean up after them, or deal with them in your daily life. 

Do I have more animals than is the accepted norm? YUP. I’m also bipolar, bisexual, and sleep WELL past noon unless I have a legitimate unavoidable reason for getting out of bed. 

My bed, by the way, (Because I KNOW you need to know) is covered in fur because those critters sleep with me damn near every night. When I wake up thrashing and screaming, I have multiple globular little eyeballs staring at me in genuine concern. My guest room? Yeah, there’s a brown sweat stain from my sphynx Yoda. He sleeps in there because he gets cold at night, but makes too much noise to sleep in my room. Mishka sleeps on top of my corner book shelf, Ruby sleeps INSIDE that guest bed’s box springs, and Nibbler sleeps where ever the fuck he feels like it because that’s just how he rolls. 

There’s also a sweat stain on the tile, which  I clean up each week, in front of the air vent in our bathroom throughout all of the winter months and paw prints on my kitchen ceiling where he keeps chasing the squirrels he can hear running up there. 

There’s fur on my couches and chairs and in the little corners where vacuums don’t reach. 

Our hall closet is the litter box room. 

Our third bedroom is the dog room. 

And our livingroom coffee table is constantly covered in trash, ashes, and moldy dishes because….oh wait. A human does that one so that’s probably more acceptable to society. 

Here, let me get this out of the way, just cut to the chase for when you inevitably realize there’s another living creature inside my home, which you think you get to judge me on because it wasn’t birthed from my body.

“Did you really need another one?” 

Nope, I sure didn’t. In fact, I didn’t really need any of them. There was a time when I didn’t have them. I view that time as exhaustively lonely and boring as shit. You view it as the time when I wasn’t dangerously close to hoarder status. To each their own. 

“Why?”

Because…I ….felt like it? Why’d you get that new tattoo? Drink every night this week? Quit your job, cut your hair?

Why did you have a kid when you can barely afford it? Hell, why’d you have ANOTHER kid? Oh wait…I’m not allowed to ask that. It’s rude

“Don’t you think you have enough?”

Yep. I also don’t think I have too many. I’m not really getting these animals to fulfill or destroy some imaginary quota inside my head. I got Yoda because…dude..bald cat. I’ve always wanted one. Mishka and Nibbler were because I just wanted another cat, but me and my husband liked two different ones. Ruby got rescued and John refused to let me give her away. Lucy was given to me because her family couldn’t handle her. I kept her because it turns out she’s awesome. Buddy was because John wanted a manly dog and HOLY SHIT HE’S LIKE SUPER AWESOME TOO. This one was because something about her got my attention. She was sweet and scared, and a night doesn’t go by where my pets don’t make me laugh, cheer me up, or make me feel safe. And also everything about her reminds me of this silly dog named Buster that I grew up playing with. But you don’t know about that because you’re not inside my head and you haven’t lived my life. 

“You have too many animals”

You have too many opinions on things which are none of your business and which affect your life exactly not at all. 

Here’s the thing, the way i live isn’t for everyone. Pets are hard work and you will NEVER have a perfectly shiny clean home when you own them. It’s the reality of owning pets. And I know I have quite a few and if that’s not your thing  then that’s fine. It’s even fine that you have your own personal opinions on my pet count. You know what isn’t though? Pushing your opinions on me. Making me feel bad or weird because I don’t walk to the beat of your animal-hating drum (see, what I did there? I made a joke about how just cuz you don’t have 7 animals you must hate animals to kinda highlight how just because I DO have 7 animals doesn’t mean I’m a hoarder who needs your overly concerned questions which are just absolutely DRENCHED in patronizingly good intentions).

It is upsetting when I come home and one or more of them have eaten to the point of possible explosion and therefore puked on what is probably the ONE thing I really wanted to be puke free? Hell yeah. In fact, Lucy has this thing about puking directly on me. It’s disconcerting and makes me smell like uncomfortably warm dog food. She also will viciously attack your ankles if you shove, yell, or otherwise physically threaten me in any way. Nibbler the cat will attack your face. It’s kind of like the face-hugger from aliens only you’re asphyxiating on cat fur instead of  getting impregnanted through your throat hole. 

Would I have more money if I didn’t own them? Yeah…but I’d have even more money if I didn’t buy so many cute t-shirts, purchase alcohol, go out to eat, or buy one-too-many $1.99 songs on itunes. 

And my house would be cleaner…only not really because I’m married to a 20-something dude who just RADIATES dirty dishes. I swear, it’s like they leak out of his pores while he walks through the house. 

Lots of things would be different if I didn’t have them. But to ME, most of those differences would totally suck. So stop being assholes. I’d really like to feel less rage towards you since I kinda like you as a friend/family member and all that mushy stuff. 

Sincerely, your becoming less friendly, pet enthusiast friend. 

 

 

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