Pintrest? I barely know her!

Published February 3, 2012 by gettejumpsoffabridge

For the past few months, every day on Facebook, I’ve seen a ton of my gal friends (By “ton” I mean like 6, I have less than 300 Facebook friends. And by “Gal friends” I mean women that I’ve known since high school who are now living domesticated lives similar to mine.) had been posting shit about Pintrest. There were hair styles and wedding dresses and recipes and *oh my God* the cutest little center pieces EVER. Problem. I couldn’t see how to make any of these lovely things because I hadn’t been invited to join. I felt like the fat girl at the orchestra lunch table again. It fucking sucked. I wanted to make gum drop brownies and see how Amy likes to do her hair! Finally I just said “fuck it” and asked some one for an invite, and she, of course, obliged. “Careful.” She said. “It’s SUPER addicting!”

That was two weeks ago. I’ve pinned one thing and I’m not even sure if I did that right. Maybe I’m just a functionally retarded monkey, but Pintrest is a damn cluster-fuck. I can’t make heads or tails of anything that’s going on, and to be honest, I just get really pissed off when I log in and can’t figure anything out. I need a book, “Pintrest for Dummies”.

So yeah, it’s not been super addicting for me. On scale of 1 to tar heroine, I have to give it a Plain Yogurt. Not my favorite thing in the world.

Of course, I’ll keep fucking with it. Maybe I’ll be able to figure it out… Or, maybe I’ll just keep looking recipes up on Google.

Grocery Shopping With My Husband a.k.a. Just Stab Me In the Neck With the Pen From My Checkbook.

Published January 18, 2012 by gettejumpsoffabridge

I love my husband. Kurt really is a great guy and I love spending time with him… Just not in the grocery store.

I’m not one of those people who believe in “male and female roles”, except in our house I go to the grocery store. Alone. (I also load the dishwasher, but that’s just because everyone else does it wrong.) There’s a reason I do the shopping alone, because although my husband is a kind, and wonderful man, he turns into an inflamed boil on my inner thigh the MINUTE we step inside Kroger.

Part 1. The Cart:  Now, I am VERY particular when it come to my shopping cart. This is in a large part due to the fact that I’m a touch neurotic. I don’t want squeaky wheels or sticky wheels or any weirdness to the wheels at all. It must have an unbroken plastic kiddie-seat flap, and the plastic on the hand bar must also be unbroken. Once I find the mythical cart, I also carry sanitizing wipes in my purse to wipe down the hand bar and kiddie seat, because God knows how many herpes or SARS or leprosy ridden individuals may have come into contact with that shit before me. Now, I don’t think any of that is uncalled for, but Kurt bitches the ENTIRE TIME. “Just pick a cart already.”, “What was wrong with that one?”, “Seriously? A handy wipe now?” Shut up and let me do my thing, man! I don’t stand there and question your ass when you’re stacking charcoal briquettes! This shit’s an art too!

Part 2. The List: Yes, I make out a  shopping list, but in Woman-World a shopping list is more of a suggestive guide. Kurt, however, was in the Army for 9 years, so to him a list is a FUCKING LIST. To him, you get what’s on the list, then get the fuck out. So, when I pull out a list that has items listed in vague terms like, “cheese” or “pop”, Kurt goes absolutely bananas. For Kurt a list needs to be exact. “Cheddar cheese slices, shredded mild cheddar, diet cherry cola 12 pack.”… Not me. I’m a woman. I already know what kind of cheese and pop I want, why the hell do I need to write it down? So I pull out the list today, and apparently I was standing in some other woman’s way. Kurt freaks! “Gette!” And he guides me and the cart out-of-the-way. Like I’m a kid. Both the other woman and I look at him like he’s nuts. Why? Because we women have grocery store code. It’s called the “throat clear”. She clears her throat, I say “Sorry” and move without even looking up. It’s how the grocery store works, and men just don’t get it.

Part 3. The Forgotten Item:  It’s what we do. “We”, being women. We slowly make our ways through every aisle, whether we need anything from that aisle or not (Suggestive Guide), and by the time we hit the last aisle we remember we forgot something that’s all the way at the other end of the store. When I go by myself, this is fine. I go get the item. Maybe I stand and look at something else, then head to the registers. When Kurt’s with, The Forgotten Item is like the end of the fucking world. He really acts put out by this. Really? It’s a grocery store. You play league softball for fun with other middle-aged men in the summer, if you can do that, I don’t think walking across Kroger twice in a day is going to hurt you. This is my sport. Fucking deal with it.

Part 4. Coupons:  BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!! I don’t know which look I enjoy more, the look of pure hatred on the cashier’s face or the look of utter confusion on Kurt’s face when I pull the coupon folder out of my purse. “Yeah, I have a Kroger card AND I have some coupons.” I just say, “some coupons” instead of “a whole shit-ton of coupons” because I just love the look of shock and awe when the three-inch high pile gets handed across the register. Kurt just always looks confused, but he doesn’t bitch when the cashier hands me the receipt and says, “You saved $42.30 today.” Checkmate.

Part 5. Bagging of The Groceries: This generally doesn’t concern most other people, they’re more than happy to let the bagger toss everything all willy-nilly into their bags and then they leave. Not me. I HAVE to bag my own groceries. I HAVE to. I know. I’m a freak, but it has to be done my way, or it’s not done right and it will make me lose my fucking mind. This bothers Kurt to the point that he feels the need to apologize for me. Like the baggers and cashiers at Kroger don’t already know that I’m the fucking crazy coupon lady who bags her own groceries? Believe me, they know. The baggers don’t even come over to the counter I’m at anymore. They fucking know. Why Kurt insists on apologizing is beyond me. I’m making the bagger’s job easier. Shit.

Oh, I make his ass carry all the bullshit in the house, though. That’s what he gets for coming with.

My Positive Affirmation: Positive Affirmations are Bullshit and Knowing That Makes Me Smart

Published January 16, 2012 by gettejumpsoffabridge

I’m going to start off with a warning, I’m foul as hell today. I am just in a shitty, shitty mood. I could blame it on waking up on the wrong side of the bed, or I gained 3 lbs, but let’s tell it like it is… Without going into too much detail, you may want to mark this day on your calendars, because every month around this time I get fucking foul. We women like to treat men like they’re total dickheads if they say we’re bitchy during our periods, but I’ll admit it. It’s SO true. We are nasty bitches. My husband knows when I start, to just come home from work with a bag full of chocolate and not to look me directly in the eye. The man’s not a fool. Due to my seriously foul mood, the pictures that my friends and family are posting on Facebook with the “Positive Affirmations” today are really pissing me the fuck off. Let me tell you why…

Positive affirmations and the whole “Self Esteem Movement” that revolves around it, is a gigantic, steaming pile of BULLSHIT. I’m not saying that it’s bad to feel good about yourself, but repeating mantras about how beautiful and special and unique you are, is not going to suddenly make you beautiful, special, or unique. It may, however, warp your self-image and turn you into a narcissist. On the other hand, telling your children how perfect, special, beautiful, and unique they are WILL turn them into narcissists. The self-esteem movement is bullshit, do you know why? Because in the REAL WORLD (You know, that thing that we all end up having to deal with…) there are winners and losers. The real world doesn’t give a flying fuck about your self-esteem.

I was raised in the 80s. Right smack dab in the middle of the “Self Esteem Movement”, when everybody was a “winner”. Luckily for me, I was raised by a realist who let me know early on, “Uh no, you’re not going to become a ballerina. Why? Because you’re short, chubby, and you’re a crap dancer. Here, read this book that’s 4 grade levels ahead of your class. You’re good at reading.” Did that crush my 5-year-old soul forever? No. I am short and chubby, and I am a really bad dancer… But I’m an excellent reader and I’m fairly intelligent. My mother did me a favor when I was little and refused to buy me a tutu. She taught me how the real world works. In the real world not everyone is going to love you. Not everyone is going to think you’re pretty. Not everyone is going to think you’re funny or smart or a good dancer. In the real world, life isn’t always fair. You have to nut up and deal with it. You have to accept that you’re not going to be a movie star, instead you’re going to be running the fry station at Burger King. Guess what? Life isn’t fair, but at least you have a fucking job and someone has to make my french fries.

What I’m trying to say here is this… Stop it with all this positive affirmation crap to boost your own and your kid’s self-esteem. You’re really not doing any favors for either of you. There was actually a study done in California (The fucking weird shit capital of America, mind you.) that ran from 1987 to 1990 that showed no correlation between high self-esteem and better grades or a lower tendency to commit crimes. High self esteems do, however, create douchebags. That said, go delete that shit off your pages before I, personally, call you out on it.

True Story From My Past #1

Published January 15, 2012 by gettejumpsoffabridge

I’m one of those people who is a weird shit magnet. If some weird-ass, fucked-up shit is going to go down, it’s going to happen to me. Due to this anomaly, I have a plethora of fairly amusing stories of bizarre shit that’s happened to me over the years. Since I’m blogging anyways, and several of the few people who actually read this have asked me when the next blog’s going to be, I thought tonight I’d give you guys a bonus. If you enjoy it, I may make True Stories From My Past a regular series. Well, without further ado…

This fucked up story takes place about 3 years ago. I lived in Davenport, Iowa at the time and worked in Bettendorf, Iowa. Those of you who know me at all, know that I tend to be a creature of habit. I stick to the same grocery stores and gas stations, I watch the same shows every week, I order the same thing from the same places on the same days every week. You can set your watch by my bowel movements, I kid you not.

Anyways… Every Wednesday afternoon I would leave my apartment, drive through the East Village of Davenport, stop at the Kwik Shop, Buy a fountain pop, some corn nuts, and a pack of cigarettes. Every Wednesday I did this for over a year without a mishap until one Wednesday I was in Kwik Shop, and I had just began pouring my pop when I noticed a midget walk in. (I know you think I have an obsession with midgets. I kinda do. I want one. I want to keep one to play with like Mary Tudor did while she was having Protestants, Jews, and witches burned and disemboweled throughout England. She was a bitch to cook all those people, but she was fucking cool to have like 15 munchkins as pets.) So this little guy walks over to the fountain drink machine, pours his drink fine, but the lids for his sized drink were out of his reach. The fucker starts jumping at them to no avail. I’m just sanding there watching this shit. Part of me wants to push him off-balance when he jumps, but instead I ask, “I’m sorry, do you need some help?” I was polite. Unassuming. Just what your average bleeding hearts and little people want from us “average” folk. Well… The tiny, little prick snaps! He yells at me, “What? Do I look fucking crippled to you, bitch?!?! Stupid c&%$!” Yeah. He went there. He called me the C word.

*I can handle most anything. You can call me bitch, whore, slut, fat ass, anything you want, just DO NOT call me the C word. I, like most women, will turn into a T Rex, rip open your guts, and eat your entrails for breakfast if you call me that.*

I looked at that 3 and a half-foot little dickhead, grabbed the rest of the stack of the lids he needed for his drink, held them over my head and said, “Jump for them, Tattoo! Jump for them!”

That was the day I was verbally assaulted by a midget. It was also the day that I finally got to call someone “Tattoo” without saying “De plane, Boss!”. That day ranked an 8.5 on my Weird-Shit-O-Meter

Going “Rambo” on my washing machine with an M-16.

Published January 15, 2012 by gettejumpsoffabridge

I hate my washing machine. I’m dead serious. I fucking hate that thing with the burning fury of two suns. Not because it’s a machine that causes me to have to get off my lazy ass and do something, I hate it because it’s a piece of fucking shit. An expensive piece of shit that I have to deal with it until it fucking dies.

My washing machine is a Fisher and Paykel EcoSmart 3.0. I’m telling you all this so none of you ever make the mistake of buying one. This machine is like that bitchy boss we’ve all had at least once that was so high maintenance you wanted to stab her in the eyes with the little chop sticks she used in her hair. “Oh, I’m a millimeter off center… BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP…” The machine is all digital, and some days you can just push the buttons and everything’s fine, but more often than not, that bitch is going stop mid cycle and start beeping at you until you turn it off, find a setting that works and try again. It can sometimes take 2 and a half hours to wash one fucking load of clothes. What makes this REALLY infuriating? The Fisher and Paykel EcoSmart 3.0 retails at $940. Yep. Just under a grand for a steaming pile of excrement. Have I mentioned that I once broke my toe kicking it?

I am serious when I say that if I didn’t truly believe that my husband would have me committed for it, I would tie one of my Dior scarves around my head, throw on one of my husband’s flack vests from the military (that would be just for fun), open up the big gun safe, and go muthafuckin’ Rambo on that bitch with the M-16. I HATE that fucking washing machine.

Shut up bitch, I don’t like you.

Published January 14, 2012 by gettejumpsoffabridge

Tonight I had a couple of friends, Carrie and Stacy, come out here to the sticks to visit me. It was great. They got here in one piece and weren’t ass raped by any inbred locals. All in all, that’s success. I made a couple of quiches and we ate ourselves into food comas and talked and laughed for several hours.

While we were talking, a photo of a hole that my husband made in our bedroom ceiling (long, funny story I’ll get into another time) was commented on Facebook. This comment got us talking about THAT friend. The bitch that’s your friend, you guess, but really you wish she would just never speak again. We all have them. Either the hypochondriac or the professional student, or the professional mommy… The bitch talks incessantly about one subject (that you could really give two shits about) in great detail. “So Emma just learned how to climb up the stairs at the house so I had to install a gate. Did you know there are 6,000 different types of gates and …” SHUT THE FUCK UP! Or, “I just got done writing this 10 page paper on the molting cycle of crayfish for my biology class and…” YOU’RE 36 YRS OLD BITCH! SHUT THE FUCK UP! You get the point. The thing about this person is that they always want to hang out. Anytime you post on Facebook that you’re going out Friday night, that bitch is going to call and invite herself. Your phone is going to ring and you’re going to think, “How am I going to make this seem unappealing to this girl?”

*Ring ring

Me: “Hello?”

Irritating bitch: “Hey!!!”

Me: “What’s up?” *Knowing damn good and well why the bitch is calling…

Irritating bitch: “I see you and Stacy and Carrie are going out Friday night! That sounds like SOOOO much fun!!!! You guys are a riot!!!! Count me in whatever it is!!!!     *See how she did that? Flattery and assumption.

Me: “Yeah…

Irritating Bitch: “So what’s on the agenda!?!?!

*This is where I, or you, have to do some quick thinking. You have to think of something that she just is not going to want to do. In the past you’ve tried Riverdance, Jeff Foxworthy shows, Opera, Drag Shows… This bitch will go to anything, do anything, and chatter at your ass through anything.

Me: “We’re hopping a flight to Tijuana to catch a donkey show.  Coming back to shoot up tar heroin, then hiring some male hookers for a little scat play.”

Irritating bitch: “Sounds AMAZING!!!! I LOVE scat!!!! Pick me up at 7?”


Your best bet is to just change your number. And delete your Facebook. And quit your job and move too. That bitch can be resourceful.

I’m making a damn quiche, is cleaning really necessary?

Published January 12, 2012 by gettejumpsoffabridge

Last year my husband and I decided that our 1000 sq ft home just outside of Peoria, Illinois wasn’t big enough for us (It really wasn’t, you could wash your hands WHILE you were sitting on the toilet. It was fucked up, really.), so we began the search for our dream home. We looked all over Central Illinois. We looked at some really beautiful homes, but there was always something that one of us just absolutely could not live with. For Kurt, it was always “The yard’s too small. There’s no basement.”. For me, it was “THIS is the closet? Seriously? What do you mean there’s only one fucking bathroom?” Finally, after our poor realtor had a nervous breakdown, she began showing us homes 40 minutes from Kurt’s work. It really was a last resort for her. It was that or murder/suicide, I think. Well, she showed us this house. Small town, good schools, VERY low crime. The house is just over twice the size of the old house, sits on just over a half an acre and has a basement, so Kurt’s happy. The master suite has a 12 by 8 walk in closet and a bathroom with a shower and a jacuzzi bathtub, so I’m happy. What doesn’t make me happy is cleaning this motherfucker.

It’s not that my house is filthy or anything like that, it’s just “lived in”. First off, we have all hard wood floors in this bitch. Yeah, they look pretty but they are a serious pain in the ass to keep clean. We have a cat and I’m sorry, but I fucking flat-out refuse to sweep this entire house 4 times a day. It’s just not going to happen. Secondly, I have a husband who lays shit just where ever. We got junk mail on the dining room table, the foyer table, in the bathroom, in the livingroom, on the breakfast bar, just where ever the fuck he decides to set it. I’d move it, but every time I do, he’ll ask, “Did you see what happened to that Farm King ad I had on the table?” So, there’s some sort of method to his madness I guess. (I picked all that mail shit up for Thanksgiving, he’s STILL looking for half of it.) Third, We have kids. One is a 12-year-old boy. Boys are gross. That should be all I really need to say about that. (We’ll get into the sticky towels and never touching his laundry without rubber gloves and a hazmat suit another time.)

Anyways, I have two girlfriends coming to visit tomorrow and I’m really excited about it. I don’t get a lot of visitors here. We don’t know anyone in this town and my closest friends are at least 40 minutes away. These two friends, Carrie and Stacy are driving two hours to get here, so their visit is special… That and they’re funny bitches. I’m going all out. I’m making Quiche Lorraine and a crab Quiche for them, the thing is… I don’t want to clean the fucking house. I want to sit my ass on the couch, and watch tv. I already have to make dinner tonight, why do I have to clean too? “Have the kids do it.” you say? Don’t make me fucking laugh!!!! These little monsters are cute, but they’re about as useless as the tits on a boar.

“Two tears in a bucket, fuck it”, I suppose. I’ll half ass it. I’ll send Carrie and Stacy the link to this, then at least they’ll know what to expect.

They’re coming to take me away… Not today, but soon.

Published January 11, 2012 by gettejumpsoffabridge

I honestly think that my husband and kids are trying to drive me crazy. I’m not talking your average sitcom crazy either, I’m saying that these people, who are supposed to love me, will not settle until my ass is committed into a nut hut. I can’t say for sure, but I think the cat may even be in on it. Of course, that could just be my paranoia talking.

I’m a housewife and my husband (Kurt) has a job with the government that causes his shifts to change every three months or so. For the next three months, he’s on second shift and I’m alone with our 12-year-old son (Jon) and the girls (ages 13 and 14. fucking joy) every damn night. Jon is a little asshole. I know, I know, “That’s your child you’re talking about!!! How dare you?!?!?!”. I love him, I really do, but he lies, he has a bad attitude, he talks back, he’s rude, and those are his better qualities. If I were 12 too, I’d kick his ass just like I did Cory Greenwood’s in sixth grade when he stole my fruit roll up. However, I’m his mother and ass-kicking by parents is frowned upon in today’s society. Generally, I rely on technology to keep Jon occupied and to keep me from wanting to beat him. The usual things, video games, iPod, laptop,and cell phone. (Don’t give me your liberal “Those are TERRIBLE parenting techniques!” bullshit. I watched Telly Tubbies and Blues Clues with him when he was little, but now he’s a REAL person and he’s a little bastard sometimes.) It keeps my sanity and his too. He can be intolerable to me with his rap music and smart-ass attitude and to him, I’m “lame”.

Today I got a call from Jon’s math teacher. Jon hasn’t turned in but one assignment in the past week. Well, shit. Kurt has decided to ground him. Not just to the house, no, but from EVERYTHING. No iPod, no laptop, no video games, no cell phone, no nothing.

Am I upset? Yep. Not because my husband’s being extreme (Like I said, Jon’s a little asshole, he deserves this.), but because I have to deal with it and enforce it. I have to deal with the screaming and name calling and door slamming, and dammit, I’m sick of dealing with it! I know being a parent isn’t supposed to be easy, but this fucking sucks!

I hate it when I run into women I went to high school and college with. They’re married, and have kids too. They usually have three or four kids. They, their husband and the kids are all matching and shiny and dressed in Abercrombie and they say to me, “Don’t you just LOVE being a mommy?” I look at my husband in his jeans that he’s been wearing for six years because he refuses to buy anything new unless the old ones fall apart first, my son is wearing “homie” jeans a shirt that’s too big and my husband keeps telling him to pull his “Goddamned pants up!”, the girls are looking disgusted and bored and texting their friends, and I have cat hair on my sweater and bags under my eyes. I sigh, look her square in the eye and say, “Nope.” You may think I’m horrible, but at least I’m honest. I’m trying my hardest to raise decent human beings and feel like I’m failing, and no, I don’t love every second of it. It’s hard and stressful and thankless and I, at 34 years of age, need Xanax to keep my composure half the time. Is that weak? Maybe, but I just don’t care because I’m tired of being strong. I miss being single and eating bad Chinese take out over the sink. I miss it being just me and my husband. Hell, I miss sex. We’re too fucking tired for sex and if we’re not too tired, nothing kills a sex drive like screaming at a 3 kids for 5 hours straight. I honestly cannot remember a time when I wasn’t at least a little bit tired. Thank God for coffee. I’m not sure who invented coffee, but I’d like to give him a “thank you” hand-job.

So that’s it. Welcome to my life. Probably a bit harsh for a first blog, but it is what it is.