I’m Stuck in a Twilight Zone Episode. Help.

There is another life lesson I apparently need to learn:

Eating 5 cupcakes in a day will not resolve all the ills of raising school-age children.

Who knew?

This must be one of those secrets other parents never tell you. You know, like no one tells you about the hemorrhoids until, uh oh, it’s too late.

Or how no one tells you a nurse will insist on looking at your mutilated lady parts multiple times while you’re in the maternity ward. If my husband were to lift our bed sheet in the middle of the day because he needs to see how things are “looking down there,” I’d kick his head because obviously his brain is malfunctioning and needs to be rebooted.

It looks like something ugly enough that Nature deemed it should be covered in thick, coarse hair, duh.

But noooo, you have to allow a perfect stranger to do that very thing. Who makes up these rules? And could there be a worse time to look down there than the first 48 hours after pushing a 14.5 inch Einstein head through it?

Sure, I understand why this stuff is kept a secret – survival of the species, thank you, Mr. Darwin. Who would have kids if they knew about all the crap beforehand? No one.

But, silly me, I thought since I’m well past the stage of new parenthood that I knew all the secrets no one tells you before you become a parent.

Um no.

When your kids get to be school-aged, there’s a whole new set of secrets no one tells you. Like how much you’ll come to hate other people’s kids.

Three days after Parker’s bathroom incident, the same third grade kid stole Parker’s lunch money in the bathroom.

STOLE HIS LUNCH MONEY.

Did you know there is time warp of clichés? I wasn’t even aware such a twilight zone place existed so how did I end up in one? I guess it proves my life is just a bunch of weird Hitchcock movie scenes rolled together, though right now, I’m highly pissed at my screenwriter.

What the fuck, dude? Why don’t I at least look like a movie star instead of someone who just scarfed down 5 cupcakes with homemade buttercream icing?

So yeah, another one of those THAT JUST HAPPENED moments.

And I guess this particular movie scene still lacked a few clichés because I find out on the same day Parker’s lunch money was stolen, the same kid, THE SAME %#@$% KID tried to show everyone Payton’s underwear at PE.

What’s next? Shoving their heads in the toilet? Atomic wedgies? Thank fucking god there aren’t lockers in the school. Do you hear that, Alfred Hitchcock? NO LOCKERS.

But yo, I handled it. Of course I handled it. I’m almost a pro at this shit, which in itself is totally depressing but maybe you’d want to hire me as a consultant to cheer me up. We managed to get that kid’s name and he was addressed by the teachers.

(By the way, have I mentioned the boys both have a new PE teacher this year? One who won’t tolerate any type of teasing and bullying because he was bullied as a kid too. Yay! Not yay that he was bullied, because that shit sucks, but because he takes a strong stand against it.)

You always hear that kids are mean, just like you hear parenting is the hardest thing you’ll ever do, but you don’t quite appreciate the wisdom of the words until you have kids. I knew kids were mean, but knowing it and knowing it – not the same.

It feels like a loss of innocence, both for me and the boys. Is this a right of passage as a mom with elementary school kids, part of you has to accept mean things will be done to your kids? This something I have to become desensitized to.

Yes, he stole your money, but he ended up putting it by the urinals so you did get it back, and who doesn’t like to pick their money up at a urinal?

Yeah, he was mean to you because of who your brother is, but you weren’t physically hurt so…

Yeah, he tried to show your underwear, but it’s not like he showed them much of it, so…

Yeah, they call you weirdo, stupid, butthole, dork, but we’ll just have to ignore them, so…

A parent shouldn’t become desensitized to these things, but I guess a lot of shit happens in life. It’s definitely not a new parenting problem.

There has to be a positive to this, right? Some good, somewhere, somehow will come of it. Right now, I bet MGM is reading my blog and is about to ask me to write the script for a Revenge of the Nerds remake.

Okay, that’s the only good I can come up with right now. Help me out.

I Used To Be A Person, You Know

I’m not sure how or when this happened, but my daily beauty routine now includes plucking gray hairs from my temples.

(A financial tip for you in these tough economic times: Buy stock in Clairol. It’s about to go up.)

If there’s a silver lining to this depressive new step in my routine, it’s that I’m not plucking wiry black hairs from my chin. Yet. It could be worse. I could be my mother who no longer worries over gray hair but transparent hair instead.

On Monday, I was so excited because I purchased a new wrinkle defense system and could not WAIT for bedtime so I could wash my face and apply these miracle creams. The next morning I hopped right out of bed and inspected my face, especially around the eyes, hoping to see a miraculous reduction in those fine lines in just one night. I was disappointed. The fine lines are still there.

This is what my life has become, over-enthusiasm for wrinkle cream. That, and being surrounded by people who don’t appreciate awesome poetry. What the hell? Someone else got 175 comments on her poetry and it didn’t even rhyme, nor was it in the shape of a penis. If I were a mean(er) blogger, this is where I would say “fuck you too.” But thank god I’m not that kind of blogger.

I used to be a person, you know. A person of interest! I used to take pride in my intellectual abilities. Now my pride stems from knowing the best way to remove dead skin from my heels, my homemade cookies and my children. Not that I shouldn’t be proud of my children, but my god, really?

Where did I go?

Did you know I wanted to be a primatologist? I wanted to roam the jungles in Gombe with Jane Goodall and pick parasites out of each other’s hair, ooh and ahh over chimp poop and what its contents meant. I thought chimpanzees were the most fascinating beings on earth. I had this career revelation at the beginning of my junior year in college.

What happened?

I don’t know. Realizing it would mean transferring to an out of state college with a tuition rate over ten times higher than what I was paying, parents without the means to support it. At the naïve age of 21, it seemed insurmountable without both the financial and emotional support of my parents. And, gesh, I would be throwing away 2 years of college too. Two whole years! It seemed like a long time at 21.

It was just a silly dream, I told myself. Who am I to reach so far? I’m nobody, nothing special.

Did you know I played the piano once? I was a kid, about Payton’s age. And I loved it. But I quit because I was too shy to get up in front of people and perform at a recital.

I never wanted to play for anyone else. I didn’t care to show it off to other people. I simply wanted to play for myself. I still do. There are moments I’ll hear a certain tune played on a piano and I have a visceral reaction. My heart swells and my fingers ache to draw sound out of ivory keys again, even now, 25 years later. I want to do it again. Why don’t I? I don’t know.

Did you know I voice trained with an opera singer? Yeah, I did. I always wanted to learn how to sing, again not for anyone else but for myself. I swore I would do it before I turned 30. By god, I would have the balls to get in front of a stranger and show them how terrible I sang! Surprisingly, the embarrassment didn’t kill me. More surprisingly, my teacher survived it too. I was pretty good, actually. She said I had a natural ability and only needed training a bit. But maybe they say that to all those with mediocre ability. That was six years ago. I’ve completely lost my range.

I thought for sure when my son started going to day-care I would get back on my way of being Grace. I would pick right up where I left! Wherever that was.

Blake is in preschool now and here I still am, no closer to getting back to Grace than three years ago when I started this mom gig.

I look in the mirror and see those gray hairs, those fine lines starting around my eyes, and I don’t even know who I see.

Who is that?

Insomnia is a Bitch!

You know what I did last night when I couldn’t sleep? I came up with 28 ideas for sequels to The Little Engine That Could and this morning I’m looking at them thinking, “How high was I?” and the answer is “Pretty high” because I don’t even remember writing some of these. I should probably delete them all but I’m going to stick them all at the bottom of this post as an example of why I shouldn’t really be allowed to speak to anyone, ever.

Alternate versions of The Little Engine that Could:

The little engine that should have.
The little engine that couldn’t care less.
The little engine that did and then found out it was overrated and then got disillusioned with life and stopped showering.
The little engine that did it with a prostitute and got syphilis.
The little engine that tried to do it but couldn’t and then later he found out that when he was born they weren’t sure if he was a train or a tractor so the doctor just made him into a train because that was easier but turns out? Totally a tractor.
The little engine that needs to stop being such a douche canoe.
The little engine that tried but failed because sometimes life isn’t fair.
The little engine that died from overexertion and later his parents were all “WHY? Why didn’t he just wait for a bigger train?” And no one had an answer.
The little engine that resented being called that because he thought it was racially insensitive and he started a big protest group then someone explained to that it was “engine” and not “Injun” and then he was all “Oh. I’ve wasted my life“.
The little engine that refused to unload his cargo because he was a hoarder.
The little engine that we all made fun of in school and later he got cancer and now we all feel bad.
The little engine that could do better.
The little engine that isn’t even applying herself.
The little engine that is just asking for a smack in the mouth if engines had mouths.
The little engine that refused to let men into his caboose because his father made him homophobic.
The little engine that could if he wanted to but he “just doesn’t feel like it right now”.
The little engine that accepted Jesus Christ as his personal savior but then found out that engines don’t have souls and he hoped there was at least an engine purgatory, but no. There wasn’t.
The little engine that would have if he knew it was even an option.
The little engine that didn’t care for Asians.
The little engine that pretended he did it so much that he actually started to believe he actually had done it even though he never had.
The little engine that bullied you in third grade.
The little engine that’s way too concerned about Obama’s birth certificate.
The little engine that doesn’t have time to talk to you right now.
The little engine that can’t take a hint.
The little engine named Luka that lived on the second floor.
The little engine that was offended that he kept being referred to as “that” and would prefer “The little engine *who* would appreciate it if you’d use less hurtful words”
The little engine that could, but didn’t. So maybe he couldn’t. I mean, we don’t really know if he could unless he tried and succeeded. Never mind. The little engine who might’ve if he wasn’t such a damn baby.
The little mermaid who wanted to be an engine because she got sick of being a human but didn’t want to crawl home to her father after her divorce because he’d be all “I told you so“.
The little engine and the half-blood prince.
The little engine that ate my sandwich. You. mother. fucker.

Just What I Needed!

My day to day life is pretty much the same all of the time. Yes, the weekends add a little more but 90% of it is the same as a Monday or any other day. I guess it’s just the life of a mom with toddlers. I rarely know what day it is, all I know is when it’s time to eat or time for a nap. I’ve gotten pretty lost in all of it. Lost in the monotony. Last week was a little different.

We were out of beer and I didn’t want to cook. I did what we do every now and then, get a Take ‘n Bake and drop by the grocery store for some beer. While I was checking out, the cashier was gracious enough to ask for my ID. 33 and lookin’ at least 3 years younger. Hells yeah. I ain’t gonna lie, I was struttin’ it a bit when I got home.

I went to get my eyebrows done and the lady told me that I had awesome skin, very tight. Really? Sweet! And all this time I thought my previous eyebrow lady was lying to me.

A couple of days later, as I was in the locker room at the gym a lady says to me, “I was thinking about you yesterday.”

Huh? I have seen this lady a total of maybe 3 times in my life. Our only other encounter was when she complemented me on my bag. I had thanked her and told her how much it meant to me since I had designed and made it one late night. Then we told each other to have a good workout.

“Yeah,” she said, ” I was watching this show and I thought about you.” That then lead to a short conversation.

But as I was working out, I had to smile. Some random stranger noticed me and thought of something I would like. Wow. And here I’ve been feeling pretty invisible.

A few days later I went to my laser hair removal appointment. As Cori is doing her stuff, I am trying to nervously chat while she is working away with her little laser gun. Then she says, “I’m gonna miss you coming in. Some people you just don’t want to leave.” Well gosh Cori, thanks.

After those few pick me ups I felt like I could rule the world.

Then I had to get more beer. (Yea, we go through a lot in this house.) I had the same cashier. There were two people in front of me. Very obviously older, like grandparent old. She asked both of them for their ID.

First bubble shattered.

Ahhhh fuck it, I’m still gonna tell myself she asked for my ID because I look so young.

Still Alive and Kicking… Just Busy!

I wrote here before about how the month of September was bringing with it a lot of changes for me, changes that have been in the making just in the last 10 months with the fallout from the legal bullshit generated by my ex and Wifey back in December and the subsequent hit in child support that became effective in May.

The part I find the most amusing is that, they both bought new cars with MY money that THEY receive every month. Interestingly enough, Wifey’s is the same model of SUV I’ve been driving for the 6 years I was married to the man she is now married to – only brand new. Hmmm. And they went to Maui, Hawaii for a week (8 yrs almost to the day after ex & I went). Don’t think they had too much fun though since one or both of them read my blog while staying at the Ritz-Carlton there. (Yeah bitches, I see you.) Of course, it could just be a coincidence and it was actually someone else that happened to be staying in the very same hotel at the same time they were – NOT!

[Update: Apparently Wifey finished off her very indulgent and expensive month with a boob-job, exchanging her no-cups for C-cups on her anorexic body. Seriously? My husband, (for) the money, my kids, the latest version of my car and now boobs like mine? LMAO! Bitch, you can keep trying but you will never BE me!]

I’m still making a pittance working for myself but it’s not nearly enough to make a dent considering I am writing such fat checks for those pathetic losers that sit on their asses all day. It just warms my heart to know that I take care of SO many god-damn people.

Among many other things I’ve cut back on lately I had to cut Lil B’s preschool back from 3 full days to two mornings a week and even though it’s fairly close-by the two round trips for 2 & ¾ hours of school doesn’t allow for much child-free productivity but at least he’s still getting some pre-K experience. Not that my ex-husband gives a sh*t as he continues to claim it’s a ‘luxury’ he’s not willing to contribute to (being the delusional prick that he is). Apparently his luxuries are far more important than our kids. Or food for that matter. But as long as he’s comfortable.

The motion to modify child support was filed in September due to me being sick of paying what adds up to be DOUBLE every month… but it may be December before I see a penny more and DBD will no doubt drag the process out as long as he can. DBD seizes every opportunity he can to stick it to me for going against his wishes and giving birth to our child and (gasp!) expecting him to financially support him. Ever. Shame on me for ever even thinking he would.

Yeah, I’m such an evil bitch for having, caring for and advocating for my beautiful child and his best interests.

No doubt that times are tough right now and I’m feeling the pinch of all the financial changes of the last year plus the pressure of the house not being sold, the holidays approaching and so much that remains unresolved.

But on the other hand I wonder if the house hasn’t sold because there’s still a way to keep it that I haven’t yet found, like a very lucrative job or a loan modification – or both. I did just get a referral for someone else to talk to about a modification and it has been a few months since I tried with the mortgage company so maybe it will turn out differently this time.

I’m exercising every option I can right now and still feel it will all work out somehow – eventually. Honestly, I don’t want to move. 10k worth of square feet and all of the things I have accumulated over the past 6 years I have lived here would take a lot of effort to move. And I’m not quite sure I have the time nor the energy to do it!

“If we study the lives of great men and women carefully and unemotionally we find that, invariably, greatness was developed, tested and revealed through the darker periods of their lives. One of the largest tributaries of the RIVER OF GREATNESS is always the STREAM OF ADVERSITY.” Cavett Robert

“The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.” – Dolly Parton

Fantastic!

My three year old son, Lil B has decided to occasionally address his parents by their first names, instead of mommy and daddy. Just started happening recently. Anyway, earlier in the evening, while trying to get my attention, he walked into the kitchen where I was standing and said, “Grace!! I need to show you sumpin!”

So later that evening…

Situation: Lil B in the upstairs bathtub while I, his mother, wash my face at the sink. He looks up at me and says,

Blake: “I love you Grace.”

And then I heard a wet plop. I think it was the sound of a chunk of my heart melting onto the floor as I laughed with amazement at the random things my kid says and how stinking fantastic it is being a mom.

…or, should I say, how stinkin’ fantastic it is being “GRACE”.

Evening Special.

You’ll be relieved to know my arms have fully recovered from being shredded and I can type again. Call me crazy, but I think it’s time I added in actual weights to this strength training routine, which I’m sure will cause my arms to amputate themselves in order to escape the pain. During any upcoming blog outage due to the loss of my arms, I recommend you go here, here, or here.

But in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this Evening Special right here on my blog!

Despite the aura you may get from my blog, I’m entirely capable of going days without drinking. In fact, I was out of vodka for 1000 years. Actually, it was more like four weeks. Or possibly two. Fuck, I don’t know, it felt like 1000 years. By late Friday afternoon last week, I’d had enough of this recession-induced state of sobriety.

Honestly, how do teetotalers do it? Shit.

It’s not a coincidence that Friday was payday and my son and nephews’ favorite holiday, National Scream and Fight Until Mom Is Ready to Beat Us Day. Their celebrations of this day went on and on and ON for so long that time warped upon itself and I was stuck in a Twilight Zone hell hole of screaming, fighting children.

It’s as if the acrid scent of my patience worn thin hit the boys’ olfactory bulb in their brain and they knew I was weak. They became demented with power, and their screaming and fighting escalated to a special pitch so high that not even dogs can hear, but all mothers around the world CAN hear and know you are a failure as a mom because you can’t control your own kids in your own goddamn home.

It was then that I yelled today, after it continued on when I spent the day trying to do something nice for them, and they were fucking wrestling at dinner in a PUBLIC restaurant, I tell ya… “That’s it! We’re leaving to go home early so we can go by the liquor store!”

“What’s the liquor store, mama?”

Good god, there must have been a mix-up in the hospital nursery because I have explained what a liquor store is 100 times and they never remember. It’s genetically impossible these children are related to me… in whatever way.

“It’s where you go to buy alcohol. I’m out of vodka and I’m going to buy some.”

For whatever reason, my explanation prompted high-pitched giggles and more rolling on the hiking trail, which in itself inspired Parker to leg lock his brother yet again, which caused Payton to go into yet another fit of screams and hyperventilation because OH MY GOD, THE HORRIFIC TORTURE DEVICE THAT IS A LEG LOCK!

“And when we get to the liquor store, I’m going to tell the workers it’s all your fault I’m buying alcohol!” I said this as a joke to the boys because if I don’t laugh at the screaming and fighting, I’m going to smack them upside the head.

“Hahaha! We make auntie drink! Hahaha!”

Little shits think they are funny.

“Get your shoes on and get back to the truck.”

The boys ran to the car and buckled themselves in while I brought up the rear, yelling at them to look for cars before crossing the main street to go back to the parking lot. Since I’m not an X-men mutant and can’t make pay the bill in reverse time, those fuckers went at it AGAIN, fighting in the goddamn car. I whipped around, shot red lasers from my eyes at them and yelled, “OH MY GOD, STOP IT BEFORE YOU DRIVE ME CRAZY AND I RUN DOWN THE STREET IN MY UNDERWEAR!”

“Oh no,” Payton said to Parker. “We’re going to make GG drink!”

I loaded the dog, and the other 4 innocent children into the car and then proceeded to put on a movie for the Satan children whelped upon me, so we could go on our merry way back home to the ‘burbs and to the liquor store where they proceeded to make Father Beelzebub proud by doing the exact opposite I instructed and touching every motherfucking breakable bottle in the goddamn store. They generally ran wild, making me wish those child leashes disguised as backpacks were not inappropriate for in this day and age.

At the check out, I could literally hear all the way from Hell Satan’s chest swell with paternal joy when the cashier sardonically chuckled at me and said, “You sure have your hands full.”Again, this is where I resort to humor to keep from throttling my kid and I replied, “Heh. Why do you think I’m here?” I grabbed the nondescript brown bag and dragged the kids out of the store by their ears.

As we reach the door to exit, Tyler who is 8 turned around and yelled to the ENTIRE DAMN STORE…“My aunt NEEDS to drink!”

Shit motherfucker.

The employees all turned and looked at me and one picked up the phone, I just know to call the Betty Ford Clinic. You may not know this about me, I can run fast and was gone before she got to the area code.

Instead of taking crazy boys to the liquor store ever again, I’m going to invest my time in planning out my revenge as an old lady – like shitting my pants when THEY take me to the store.

The moral of this Special?

Never make jokes about alcohol to children.

Don’t take your children to the liquor store.

DON’T RUN OUT OF VODKA, FOR FUCK’S SAKE. ALWAYS KEEP A BACK UP BOTTLE.

Hate Mail. Heh.

I’ve had hate mail before.

I’ve never published it though because typically it’s directed to single mothers. I can take it but I don’t want to hurt your feelings so they never see the light of day.

But today’s piece of hate mail – courtesy of Michelle M. (who can be reached at michy949@gmail.com) – is targeted directly at me, and me alone – so, WHOOPPEEE!, I can publish it.

Subject line: I heard about your website and now my thoughts, as a woman you are a disgrace to the gender of women in this country.

Let me tell you the things that you are:

1. You are weak. Okay.

2. a mother whose child will grow up embarrassed by the things they have so willingly (for money) put on the internet about his life. He is so young yet he will soon come to despise the fact that you have placed his life all over the internet for all to read. (Now, because of you, he can never even try to love his father). If I were in this for money I would have thrown in the towel after the first year without a dime of profit. I write here and share my story here because if I can help one – just one single mom – avoid some of the mistakes I’ve made in the past than I’ll sleep easier at night. And if I can inspire one person to enjoy every moment and just be… then, again, mission accomplished.And if Blake ever wants me to stop writing about him, I will and there will be no questions asked. But by then he’ll have his entire life on Facebook anyway so it won’t really matter an this blog will probably be in a “look how they used to use the internet” museum.

3. VENGEFUL. Against who?

4. a weak women. Hmmmm… okay. Would you like to meet me in that alley over there? I could give you a grammar/spelling lesson too 😉

5. a weak mother. Gotcha.

6. someone who sounds retarded on every video you take of yourself and your son. (ie: living room date and video for ford fiesta)…they are sub-par and you sound illiterate, lost and stupid. Your son picks his nose: not funny but actually disgusting. You obviously have not taught him manners but only contribute to a rebellious attitude. You are rebellious. So is your son. I think it’s funny that you think a kid picking his nose is disgusting. Your children (if you have any) must be loads of fun. Rebels? Yep, I’ve been trying to talk to Blake about that. He’s just been so rebellious lately with the whole nose picking thing. Maybe it’s because I let him drive my car the other day and let him smoke a cigarette. And you should see my tattoo, it’s like an inch high. So rebellious. In fact, one day he and I are going to lead a revolution. I hope that lastsentence gave you a heart attack.

7. a “proud woman” who only perpetuates disgrace and hardships towards women. As a feminist, I see you only as contributing to the weak factors of women in this world. I think you should look up the definition of perpetuate and then read my blog because that just doesn’t make sense at all, but whatever… you must enjoy that crack you’re smoking.

8. selfish. (you make money on this website but you only create stories of hardship, loss and pain for the gender of women. Please see #2. If I’m selfish for anything it’s that I monopolize my readers’ time with my dribble.

9. egotistical. (for some reason) That one hurt.

10. STUPID and once again A DISGRACE TOWARDS WOMEN. That one really hurt. Now you’re starting to piss ME off.

and I add a bonus:

11. A STEREOTYPICAL WOMEN WHO HAS *OBVIOUSLY* BEEN HURT (and cannot get over it nor grow past it). LEARN AND MOVE AND ON AND BECOME A ROLE MODEL FOR WOMEN IN THIS COUNTRY….NOT A VICTIM!!!! I can’t recall ever calling myself a victim and if I have, please show me an example. If I’m a victim it’s to my own poor judgment in men. I blame myself for my decision in choosing my ex-husband but I would do it all over again to be where I am today, with a three-year-old sidekick who makes my heart leap every time I see him.

And I add my own personal bonus — You should really find something better to do with your time… like blogging! That would be fun!!

Just Don’t Call Me Fat.

Did I ever tell you the one about when I was on probation for assault?

I know. Your mouth is agape right now and you’re thinking, Grace, assault? It just doesn’t go together. Grace keeps her cool, especially under pressure. Who could’ve pissed her off to the point of assault?

But, if you’ve been a long time reader you’re going, “Yep! I knew she had a criminal record.”

Only one person on this planet could drive me to assault and then get assaulted and then tattle on me – my baby daddy. Yep, the one that flops his dick against the door frame. You’d think if he can handle doing that to himself there’d be nothing I could do to harm him.

Ex lives in Oklahoma (there’s a little hint about why I hate Oklahoma). He’s the President of The White Trash, Oklahoma Division. He lives on 80 acres with his brother and his wife, with their 4 children, and his parents. Ex lived in a trailer on the land with New Wife for years. Every car they owned was bought at an auction. And every car had red interior. And most had no headliner. And most had bondo as a body color. The mom actually handmade a windchime from a coat hanger and old cans of corn – CRAFTY!

He spent 18 months not contacting me or my son and not paying child support. In fact, he wasn’t even on the radar. Then shows up with New Wife, a lawyer, and a hard intent to see his kid.

After several times in front of a judge he finally was awarded visitation. So, ding-dong goes my doorbell, and there he stands with his wife standing behind him with a video camera. Which pissed me off immediately. Because What. The. Fuck. Right?

I step out onto the front porch and close the front door. Tell him that I wanted the camera removed. This is when he starts flailing about like a fish out of water, yelling, “This is public access! This is public access!” And I’m all like, “Dude. Chill out. My front porch is so the opposite of public access.” This is when his head starts spinning and smoke literally starts pouring out of his ears like Elmer Fudd. I try calmly to instruct his wife to get her ass back in the car and I’ll let my son out when he’s not making such a spectacle of himself.

And when you tell someone with smoke coming out of their ears to stop making a spectacle of themselves, well, it doesn’t go over well. In fact, it made this little, short man come toe to toe with me. Literally. His front shoe was touching my shoe and he got about a quarter inch away from my nose and informed me I was nothing but a whore.

Which, on a sidenote I would like to debate because I’m the furthest thing from a whore, and he should know this because he was flat broke and I never asked him to pay me for sex.

But you can’t reason with someone that is that wound up.

So, with his hot breath blowing my bangs backwards I said, jovially, “Would you like for me to open the door so you can bang your dick against my door frame as your war cry?” Then I snorted and giggled.

This is when he stuck his finger in my face and almost poked my eye out. He said nothing audible. It sounded something like I would imagine a heart attack would sound like.

And then he called me fat!

And the gloves were off. Something from the depths of my inner being. Something from the very tips of my toenails created this large, fitful wad of spit to fly out of my mouth and spatter all over his face! At the same time my brain was saying to my mouth, “What the fuck did you do that for? Now RUN!” And, I walked quickly back into the house. As he turned to his wife, now sitting in the car with the camera and yells, “You got the zoom on that?” And I immediately wished I had a copy. Because how cool would that be to put on Youtube today!!

Then the cops show up. He presses charges for assault. And I was on probation. I had to stand before a judge and promise to not spit on anyone for the next 90 days. And I kinda figured I could agree to that since I had spent my entire life never spitting on anyone before.

After about 6 months of visiting B and paying child support he drifted off the radar again. I was in Belize with my family and my cell phone rang. It was his now EX wife on the other end. She informed me that he had buried himself in the house and was in the midst of a shootout with the local police. And I was all like, “Did you spit on him?” And she was all, “No! He just went crazy!” And I was all, “Bitch, he was crazy before!” And she was all, “What should I do?” And I was, “He’s not my problem! And I’m on vaca!”

And I haven’t spit on anyone since.

Hedrid, the Carpool Nazi

I have another personality that only breaks through when I am forced to sit in carpool lane. I am a carpool Nazi, named Hedrid. Don’t ask. I wish your children dead. I wish you to disappear into thin air so that I may move immediately to the front of the line. But mostly, I just wish you’d stay IN YOUR FUCKING CARS! Just sit there and wait for your child to enter your vehicle, then depart.

Why is this so impossible for some people?

It makes me wonder how these same individuals function in the world around them. The rules state clearly STAY IN YOUR FUCKING CAR IN CARPOOL LANE. By getting out of your car you are establishing what exactly? Did you not rebel as a child and this is your big chance? Do you know me personally and have a vendetta? At the grocery store when you see “15 Items or Less” do you disregard that, too? Want to know what I think – I think you’re just a douche. Or one of those hopeless Helicopter Moms that doesn’t believe your precious can actually put themselves in a car without your assistance. And you probably still wipe their ass. And that all equals douche in my book.

I knew I was behind Mr. Impossible on Thursday in carpool lane. I knew he was going to get out of the car as soon as he got up to the front. It was obvious he was a carpool lane virgin. Something must have been awry with his wife today. As he stepped out of the car, opened the passenger doors (both back ones), he then walked up to the front door of the school to retrieve multiple children. You could see the carpool teachers cringe at the sight of him. Out walked his eldest child, at least 8 years old – WITH A FUCKING BLANKET. Oh, and just to really make me need Advil – SHE WAS SUCKING ON ONE END OF IT! It took all my willpower to keep from flooring it and running over her and her ignorant enabler. That’s it! People who get out of their cars in carpool lane are nothing but a bunch of enablers!

Since I’m not afraid of a little assault charge and all, I have been known to roll my window down and call people stupid. There was this one time, this chick was PARKED in the carpool lane, so I drove around her. But I wasn’t quite out of her way. I didn’t know what she was doing. Her car was PARKED and vacant. For all I knew she had gone into the school and died and her car would be police evidence and not be moved for days! So I went around her. And out she came, banged on my passenger window (which my sister happened to be sitting beside). I rolled the window down, and I swear to you she stuck half her body into my car and started violently pointing her finger and swearing at me and I think she placed a spell on me or some such shit. So I pressed the roll up button on my car and watched her boobs get more and more squished as the window pressed up on her body – and she’s all yelling, “What the hell? You’re rolling your window up on my body! My body is in here, lady!! AAAAARRRRRRKKKKKK!”

So I stopped the window and asked her if she had learned her lesson about leaning into people’s cars. Then, you know in all my brilliance and creative brain material, I came up with this, “Oh. And you’re the one that’s stupid!” Because that’s how I roll. And by then it was time for me to scoot up 4 more inches in carpool lane.

And that’s all folks, true story.