A Bowl of Pissy Cheerios with a Wrong Side of the Bed

MAN, I am just PISSY. It is rather unlike me. Usually any proclamation of foul-moodedness on my part is accompanied by a hearty self-deprecating laugh. Contrary to popular belief, I'm a pretty happy person. But the weather? AAAARGH!

I know I just bitched about it, oh, two weeks ago, but I'm going to bitch about it again. Honestly? I really like snow. Which is lucky for me because we get LOTS of it. But I like it in October and November and December and January and February and March and April. I used to think it was totally laughable when I first moved out here and it would snow in May. A fucking riot. I'd call my Jersey family who'd respond with shock and awe every time. I might've even thought it was nifty.

But having just completed my tenth season (we're so cool up here, we don't count how long we've resided here in years, but in ski seasons...) I'm noticing that each year I get more and more stabby in May. Zee's birthday is tomorrow. When she was born, it happened to be gorgeous. Awesome how it worked out that way since there was not much happening in the adult beverages on sunny decks department.

On her first birthday, we'd hoped to have a huge barbecuey bash complete with a bonfire in the backyard. Problem was, on her birthday weekend we couldn't even trek through the snow to GET to the fire pit. And so we never had that bash.

Her second birthday was a bit better. We did manage to swing a barbecuey bash. But it was butt ass cold and rainy. At least it wasn't snowing. Though it did snow later that month.

This year...still snow. We didn't even bother with planning a bash.

Oh, P-Chef, Tennessee never sounded so good.

I've got to go shovel the deck. Again.

Brush-a-Brush-a-Brush-a

Z-Boy: Man, my forearms hurt.

Zube: All four of them?

Z-Boy: Shut up. Dork.

Six months ago I remember telling anyone who would listen that if I never saw another paintbrush again, it would be too soon. It is too soon.

In anticipation of putting our house on the market we are staining and painting the exterior and painting what we gave up on about, oh, six months ago.

I fucking hate painting. I really, really do.

I Don't Fucking Know

There are some things that people should just know. Even stupid people. Usually, I know everything, but once in a while something crops up and I don't have a fucking clue. Generally, I keep it to myself because I'm proud like that and I always like to imagine that some idiot is listening and it is better not to let an idiot hear that you don't know something. Because unlike smart people, idiots have NO IDEA what does NOT reside in their brains. Only what does. And one of the things that resides in an idiot's brain is the misconception that they DO know everything. Because the shit they don't know, well, their brain cells can't fathom its existence.

You know what's awesome? What I just did right there. I turned my not knowing something into an attribute of smartness. Damn, I'm good.

Anywho, I don't know something. I assure you it does not involve driving. In fact, only I know how to drive. Not a single other asshole on the road at any given moment knows how to drive as well as I do. Well, except that one time I accidentally cut someone off (though I'm pretty sure they were going WAY too fast in the right lane because I swear I looked and didn't see anyone) but I've forgiven myself for that one because ten minutes earlier I was being told that, in fact, I had just miscarried. And aside from that being a pretty good fucking excuse (shut up, I know I really shouldn't have been driving, but crying in the car in the hospital parking lot waiting for someone to pick me up was not as appealing as crying at home in my bed, ahem) I am now a bit more reticent with the Road Rage because I try to imagine that the asshole who cut ME off maybe just found out some bad shit, too. And I'd hate to add to their need to cry. So, believe it or not, I wave and smile when people cut me off. You heard it here first.

Where the hell was I? Oh yes. My ignorance. Here 'tis: I haven't a damn clue how to have a garage sale. I have garage sale stuff, and I have a garage. Though not a thing will fit in the garage because Z-Boy has an affinity for collecting transmissions and engines and half built go-carts made from scratch. More importantly, though, I have a driveway. A big one. And shit. Shit to sell. Soon. Ish.

But I don't even know where to begin. I'd toss it all, or give it away, but I feel a little like, being at home, in between diapers and crying and breaking up fights (holy shit, Zee is almost three and Bee is only nine months but did I mention, I'm BREAKING UP FIGHTS already? Zee is bigger, you'd think she'd win, and mostly she does, but Bee has a hell of a grip for such a wee one...) I should take the time to maybe try to earn a little cash. I don't even mind having an Everything's a Dollar Garage Driveway Sale. Well, you know, except for everything that's not a dollar. Like the Playstation 2? X-Box? I don't know what the hell it is but Z-Boy said $20 for it would be a steal. And the $10 video camera, too.

But, alas, I am stupid. And am completely at a loss as to how to begin this process. Advertising, displaying, pricing...ugh.

I'm not sure whether I should feel fortunate or unfortunate that I don't know how to do this. This seems like something that people should just know. But! I know many things that people just don't. Like that a barnacle has the largest penis of all creatures, in comparison to the size of its body. Don't believe me? Google it. I'll wait...

Fuck It, Fight It, It's All the Same...

I like to cuss. I'm certain that if you've even ever been here only once, this confession should come as no surprise. I wouldn't even call it a confession. More a statement of fact. And if this is your first time here, well then now you fucking know. And you'd have noticed soon enough without the warning. I talk like a truck driver and perhaps even moreso now in the presence of adults in real life and here on the internets (Hey you! The twelve-year-old who thinks I'm a MILF! Go do your homework! What are you, Brad's cousin or something?) because I have to reign in the F-Bombs around the childrens. And there is just something so goddamn cathartic about swearing for me.

That said, there is one swear that I use with the utmost discretion. I reserve it for only the most deserving of recipients. That is the word cunt. It isn't that the word bothers me especially. Honestly? I'm always afraid that when I use it someone will say I'm not a real feminist and so I make especially sure that when I'm calling someone a cunt, it is worth any hassle I will get. I've got to tell you, I haven't received my card in the mail just yet, but I'm a member of the Feminist Club just the same. And I don't even pretend not to be. Like, "Oh, OF COURSE I think women should be equal, but I'm not a FEMINIST! Ew! They're, like, hairy and ugly and stuff!" I'll say it loud and proud. I'm a feminist.

And yet, I cannot rectify the fact that I'm a feminist with the fact that nothing gives me more pleasure than calling someone I don't like a fucking cunt. I suppose I could equate it to calling someone a prick. But that'd be a lie. It just isn't the same.

Still, though? At the risk of ruining my feminist street cred and all? My former coworker is a FUCKING CUNT! And that is ultimately why I quit my job. I hadn't wanted to say anything while I was still working because, though none of my former coworkers read my blog, it would be easy peasy for them to find if they put in a little effort. And, well, let me call a spade a spade, Cunt was looking for every opportunity to throw me under the bus since she had already succeeded in getting my coworker fired and seemed bored with her lack of a victim. Now that I'm gone and I've come to realize that I don't give a rat's ass about burning bridges (why should I worry about burning bridges when employers don't have to worry about the same?) I'll spill it.

In the end, this was a good thing. I had been finding my job not leg-humpworthy for years. And I think my ex-boss is losing her damn mind what with nearly humping Cunt's leg on a thrice daily basis.

What is really cool, though, is that knowing I was leaving eventually, and knowing that I decided when I'd leave, and knowing that they could all fucking kiss my ass because I knew shit they didn't know and they needed me to stay and I could leave whenever I fucking wanted, well, it gave me power. I'm power-trippin' yo. Hence the unabashed use of run-on sentences. I found my voice. I spoke up for myself in a way I hadn't for the eight years I'd been there.

I don't have the intestinal fortitude to go into the details of Cunt's cuntiness, but I thought I'd share an e-mail I sent to my boss with you. Mostly because I read it and smile and thought you might, too. And it sort of sums things up so you'd get the general idea of what happened. Because some of you have so kindly asked.

Without further ado...Here it is...An e-mail to my ex-boss...

Boss,

Here’s the thing. I totally get that you need to back up Cunt at this point. She’ll be staying and I’m not. It behooves you to sing her praises. It would be silly to do anything else from a business standpoint. It even makes sense that, in order to buoy Cunt, I be painted as incompetent. That’s fine, too. She needs the boost, not me because I’ll be gone.

That said, working with The Two Cunts (the sacchariny sweet one when you and Delores are around and the condescending, snotty one when you are not) is disconcerting to say the least, offensive to say the most. I am staying past April 7th for your and Delores' sake, despite Cunt. But while you backing her up makes good business sense for you, me tolerating condescension from her and being treated as though I’m incompetent does not make good personal sense for me.

Last night I almost decided to rescind my offer to stay past my originally planned resignation date of April 7th. I’ve decided against that because I don’t want to do that to you or to Delores. But, once April 7th comes, I am prepared to leave if I find working with Cunt too stressful. I’d likely be willing to come in and train Delores hourly if it comes to that.

I also want to add, I was a little thrown by your response to my e-mail offering to leave notes about the groups that had absolutely no acknowledgement of the project I was taking on. I mean, I don’t need anyone to do an interpretive dance to “Wind Beneath My Wings” or anything. Heck, I don’t even need a thank you. But it would have been nice if it had mentioned, after singing Cunt’s accolades, “That’d be cool, Zube.” These aren’t notes My Predecessor gave me, nor would I have expected her to. It is stuff I figured out on my own over the past eight years.

Anyway, I’d hate for our relationship to spiral downwards in the upcoming weeks. Seriously. That’s what I fear most. But I also don’t want to willingly play the part of sacrificial lamb for the next six weeks.

Zube

Suffice it to say, my ass was not harrassed outwardly and I worked the remaining weeks I'd been asked to stay.

But now, thank the dieties, I'm done. And on that note...

$#@!%&

Here is what I know. It isn't EVERYTHING I know because, well, that's a whole fucking lot. If you've known me for any amount of time then you already know this. So we'll say this is just a smattering of things I know.

I know that I live in the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.

I also know that sometimes it snows once the ski resort closes.

I know that this snow, if you ask me, is fucking useless.

I know I probably have no right to bitch about snow because of my aforementioned knowledge of living in the Rocky Mountains and knowing it snows.

I know that I don't care if I probably shouldn't bitch about the snow.

Because if there's anything I know how to do it is bitch.

Lasly, I know I got a little slack there for a week. I'm unemployed and I've been trying in vain to thoroughly enjoy it. But it is difficult to be cooped up in the house, the very SMALL house, while it is snowing outside with two kids and one sick husband.

Ugh.