Yesterday, we put up Christmas lights on the outside of the house. This was my first time doing this (at the ripe age of 38), btw. There was some yelling, complaining, and arguing, but endless Clark Griswold references so that evened it out. It took a couple of hours because my boyfriend had to measure the distance between every gutter hook to the exact 12 inches. He also had to count out the same amount of lights between each hook. I would have just slapped the shit up there and hoped for the best. (It would have looked just fine and it would have taken 20 minutes.)
One of our neighbors stopped to comment on the arduous task it is to put up lights, people walked by with their dogs and children, and countless cars drove by in this span of time.
When we were finally done and back inside, I caught a glimpse of myself in the guest bathroom mirror, and I was shook.
I screamed, “Why didn’t you tell me I looked like this?”
From the other room, I heard, “Looked like what? That’s what you always look like.”
That’s what you always look like.
Ya’ll.
So, this is it. This is when I finally give up on looking even half-decent at home. This is when I don’t apparently care anymore about what my neighbors think of me, because when I say I looked a sight. I looked a sight.
I had regrettably not put on a bra because I was wearing my stained Old Navy sweatshirt from 1994. People aren’t supposed to know you aren’t wearing a bra when you wear a sweatshirt. Those are lies, ladies. LIES. How I know this is because I had no boobs at all in my putting-up-lights-attire. Literally looked like a pre-pubescent 12-year-old boy up top. Where were my bewbs? Well, those assholes had gone off to join up with my fat gut. I guess years of not wearing my bra in the house has not toned my pec muscles after all.
Next on the hot mess runway, we had my “festive” white and black buffalo plaid leggings that showed off some turquoise Hanes Care Comfort underwear that has zero crotch courtesy of my puppy. Too bad I wasn’t wearing them ironically because maybe this could be the next style trend? Also, I should probably throw that pair of underwear away.
The effort I had to expend while barking orders from the ground at my boyfriend who had to climb up and down a ladder repeatedly caused oil production on my face that could rival ExxonMobil.
Finally, we had the hair. I had it in a high messy bun. When I say ‘high’ I mean I had a unicorn horn made of a mess of frizz and tangles on my forehead. My inch-long gray roots made my hair appear to be floating over a bald head. It was a masterpiece of “You okay?”
Special mention to my worn-out plaid slippers that clashed so expertly with the rest of my you-look-homeless-how-do-you-live-in-a-three-bedroom-house look.
So this is how I know. This is how I know that I have unequivocally given up on my looks.
Yeehaw.
What do you wear at home and where you can be seen by the neighbors? Give me the tea.
As I write, I’m anxiously awaiting my Raley’s grocery order. The good people working at Raley’s have been so overwhelmed with pick up orders that the requested orders have been taking a week. A week. Those poor people. I can’t even imagine the chaos and attitudes they are getting from every Ultimate Karen.
I put my order in Saturday and my reserved time slot to pick it up is Sunday (today) between 11 AM and 11:30 AM.
All week I’ve been second guessing my choices and feeling worried they won’t have some of my items.
I ordered some non-grocery things from Target for the first time using their delivery service a couple days ago, and in the special instructions section I wrote a plea. I said, “I know there isn’t any TP, but just in case you happen upon some, like, maybe, someone hid a pack for later (I don’t even know why they’d do that but hear me out) behind the men’s khakis hanging on the wall and they forgot about it- that’s fair game- can you get me some?
I knew it was a stretch so I wasn’t holding my breath. Of course, my “shopper” didn’t find the khaki contraband toilet paper, but he did throw in a bottle of hand sanitizer as a consolation prize. Not all angels wear wings, some work for Shipt and drive a Geo Metro.
I didn’t even know what to add to my e-cart for my Raley’s order. What does one need during the apocalypse? Apparently, three tubs of ice cream. And dry beans. Nothing making sense anymore.
Planning a grocery list during a pandemic is like trying to order off a Cheesecake Factory menu when you’re tripping balls*. There are too many options and you feel like your choices are really, really, really important and you can’t mess up.
My first try at this pandemic panic buying happened Thursday, March 12th. I had the next day off because we were supposed to be preparing to go to Europe, so it felt like my Friday except not really because it also felt like the End Times.
I tried to make a Disaster Prep Food Shopping list before I left school and all I could come up with was:
Water?
Canned food
Snacks…?
TP/Paper towels/napkins
Alcohol (isopropyl and beverage kind)
…
My friend and I just panic wandered aimlessly, throwing random shit we thought was smart into our cart. We ended up both spending $150 on what can only be explained as the items a high af college student might buy.
I bought frozen pizzas, mug cake mixes, chips and salsa, and candy. I did buy two books to make it a more well-rounded shopping trip, but wtf? My shopping cart was filled with PMS-ing-something-fierce-food-items and nothing wholesome or healthy in the slightest.
I should, probably, cut myself some slack, because this is my first pandemic. I don’t know how one is supposed to prepare for worldwide chaos because that’s only supposed to happen in the movies.
So, here I sit socially isolating in my day pajamas, hoping to the pandemic gods that Raley’s hasn’t run out of ice cream because who needs rice and chicken when the world is ending?
*I’ve never tripped balls but I have a pretty good imagination and I’ve been wine drunk, so
I really need to type me up one of those fancy schedules we’ve all seen floating around social media because I’ve been an absolute slug of a human these last few days.
While my friends are out there braving the work world or being altruistic, I’m eating all my quarantine snacks. Someone’s gotta do the good work.
Let me know how this goes for ya’ll — every teacher around the world, wondering if people will finally realize we are worth at least a mil a year
This was my big day yesterday. Hold on tight because this’ll be sure to blow your socks right off.
8:00 Alarm goes off but I can’t hear it because I have my earplugs in. Boyfriend has to poke me with his toe claws repeatedly before I realize I’m not actually in line at Subway deciding between a Classic Tuna or a Cold Cut Combo.
Don’t @ me with why I have an alarm set either. I don’t even know.
8:30 Teeth have been brushed, face has been washed, and my oily hair has been dry shampooed with half a can of the good stuff- Batiste.
8:32 Mini anxiety attack when I realize I’ve been too liberal with my dry shampoo and it’s bound to run out. I then remember that all I’m doing is sitting my fat ass on the couch so who cares if my hair looks like I brushed it with a greasy pancake*?
8:45 The bare minimum with makeup has been slapped on, because I can’t give up entirely just yet.
(My current quarantine makeup routine involves foundation and too much setting powder that settles almost entirely on my eyebrows so they look like ghosts. With no mascara and powder coating my eyelashes, my eyes look like tiny pebbles. And the look is complete.)
8:45 to 10:00 I mean to start my coffee and eat something but several internet fights trump sustenance. This is the point at which I realize this is my new diet plan and I feel a renewed sense of meaning.
10:10 Completely forgetting my new diet goals, I add extra Cinnamon Toast Crunch CoffeeMate in my World Market Texas Turtle coffee because this is what I have to take joy in now.
10:10 to 12:35 I resume my fights on the internet with people who have mush for brains and obsessively scroll through articles on COVID-19, hoping someone will report that this has all been a big joke, haha.
12:40 I decide I need a phone break, and with my keyboard warrior-ing, my battery is at 27% so I charge it in the other room while I eat a Velveeta Shells & Cheese cup. It’s the last one, and I know it’ll start a fight but the fake cheese that coats my teeth is worth it.
1:45 I’m knee deep into the first episode of Love is Blind and wondering why there are no ugly people on the show if the point is to show people that looks aren’t everything. Kinda bullshit if you ask me. Maybe I’ll write a post about it on Facebook.
2:00 Upon passing the hall mirror I realize I never brushed the dry shampoo out of my hair and I look like George Washington after a bender. The thought that it doesn’t even matter that I’ve had chunks of dry shampoo coating my hair all day and my face appears to be sucking in my makeup-less pebble eyes floors me for a minute.
2:06 I decide to make myself feel better by watching women who appear to have zero pores on their faces because nothing I do makes any sense.
2:10 I start grazing through our quarantine snacks, wondering how much I can eat without my boyfriend noticing. I decide 18 M&M’s**, 30 crackers, and 15 pistachios won’t be missed.
2:30 Feeling major cabin fever, I walk outside to get some fresh air and instantly feel like I’m in a war movie about WWII France. Not sure why it’s now a war movie and not a post-apocalyptic movie set in Soviet Russia.
2:35 The fresh air motivates me, and I decide to do something productive. Also my butt is sore from all the sitting. I randomly decide I need to vacuum under the bed.
2:45 I vacuum up a sock and three lost dryer sheets and about halfway into the job, I lose steam because if we are going to die from Coronavirus, do I really want to be vacuuming under my bed? Um. No.
2:45 to 4:25 This time is lost to searching for deep web Coronavirus theories because I’m still hoping this is all fake and the government has the anecdote.
4:25 The boyfriend gets home and we discuss the developing news on businesses set to close in our city. We wonder if the business he works for falls under the category of “non essential” and then we both fall silent for a good hour as we let it sink in that we will be together every day, all day, until we die.
5:30 We have a civil discourse fight over the best meal to prepare since we need to start rationing. We agree to disagree that Rice-A-Roni and plain rice are basically the same thing.
6:30 After cleaning up dinner we have another civil discourse about what we should watch on Netflix for the evening. After a nearly 20 minute debate, we decide on Hunters because during uncertain times, a dark show about Nazis is a sure fire way to feel better.
6:30 to 11:00 We spend the rest of the evening taking turns yelling at each other for being on our phones.
“You’re not even watching.”
“Yes, I am” *takes one last sneak peek at my Instagram feed.
“Babe, get off your phone. You just yelled at me for being on my phone!” *as I have my phone hidden under a throw blanket so I can scroll through Facebook.
“I’m not! Just pay attention to the show!” *as he is, very clearly, scrolling through the comments of a news article.
This is going well.
11:30 I fall into bed, exhausted by my day of doing literally nothing productive and wondering how much better or worse it could get tomorrow.
What are ya’ll doing to pass the time? How’s staying at home with your loved ones going? Be honest.
*I can’t claim this as my line. My friend’s dad said this to her when we were in high school. While funny, it’s admittedly pretty mean.
**He 100% noticed the M&M’s. I can’t get away with anything around here.
Currently deciding whether or not Coronavirus memes are still funny…
I used to love post apocalyptic movies because it was fun to scare myself shitless about the world ending because I was fairly confident it was all fiction. I felt safe knowing it wouldn’t be in my lifetime that we would have mass panic over toilet paper and hand sanitizer while a novel virus made its way around the globe. But here we are.
I’m pretty convinced we are starring in Contagion 2: Shit Gets Real Real. I imagine that, at this point in the movie, our audience is thinking, “Those poor fucks. They have no idea what’s coming.”
It’s at that crucial stage in the movie and in life where we can actually make moves to stop this virus from completely obliterating our lives (I’d kind of like to go back to Saturdays filled with racking up my credit card on shit I don’t need at TJ MAXX, thank-you-very-much), but we got Bubba and Ultimate Karen who think it’s fake news that this is a big deal.
As the drama builds in the movie, there are a few brave, headstrong people who choose to self-isolate, giving up their grande iced soy chai lattes with three pumps to be part of the solution not the problem, while the majority of the world goes about their lives like they don’t watch the real news. This is the most frustrating, maddening aspect of this sure-to-be-an-Oscar winner. The audience is yelling obscenities at the noobs who don’t think they are capable of sitting their asses on their couches for a bit to help the greater good.
In a crucial scene, the protagonists brave the grocery store and its like Soviet-Russia-bleak but make it fashun because the heroine is wearing her new rain boots she bought for rainy Edinburgh. It’s tragic, but beautiful because she risks her sanity (she’s an extreme germaphobe) to buy groceries for her family (the camera quickly pans over the Coffee Nut M&M’s, wine, and Velveeta Shells & Cheese to the heroine’s resolute face to remind the audience how brave she is). Meanwhile, Bubba and Ultimate Karen carelessly have lunch at BJ’s like the world isn’t mere weeks away from imploding.
It sounds like every post apocalyptic movie but the twister is that this is real. It’s.really.happening.
Today in Contagion 2: Shit Gets Real Real:
My boyfriend and I got in a fight about how to walk through the grocery store full of infested people.
I had an absolute meltdown over how many M&M’s said boyfriend had eaten since Friday but it turned out I had eaten the M&M’s.
My state canceled school until April 6th, and the boyfriend and I don’t know what that means for our pay.
I realized that it’s not fair this is happening this year because my class is the sweetest I’ve ever had and I already miss them.
I started precisely 15 internet fights with complete idiots because I’m triggered. Yes, I am, ma’am.
So, how was your day? How are you feeling about the insane movie we’re starring in?
So, like, you know how heavy whipping cream is like a staple of the keto diet? Sure, lots of greens and grass fed meats are pretty key, but
HEAVY WHIPPING CREAM
Have you ever just had a spoonful of heavy whipping cream (of course the fuck not because the majority of you- the odd three or so followers I have left- aren’t psychos)?
Heavy whipping cream is legit heavy. It sticks to the roof of your mouth and blankets your tongue in a thick coat of fat. It somehow makes it into your brain’s pleasure receptors, where it does the version of the Macarena where you just flail your arms around and laugh like a hyena because you have no idea what you’re doing, but YAY, HEAVY FUCKING WHIPPING CREAM.
Once you try a spoonful, it only makes sense to use it in place of your 1% Lactaid when you make yourself an entire box of Pasta Roni. And by you, I mean me.
Oh, I’m sorry.
Did you think I was doing keto, finally?
Excuse me while I laugh in fat and desperate, but still ain’t trying keto.
So, once I learned how absolutely mind-blowing heavy cream is in boxed pasta (like, no joke, better than any of the pasta I ate in Italy), I knew I had to try it in my Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheerios.
Heavy whipping cream in cereal should be outlawed, in case you were wondering. It’s just not fair to regular milk.
These are just some of the delights I ate tonight, along with two mini bags of popcorn, a pudding cup topped off with a giant dollop of marshmallow cream, and some canned corn because I’m not a savage.
What makes this all the more oh-no-baby-what-is-you-doin was that just this past Monday, the day we returned from winter break, I chose to wear jeans to work.
Jeans.
Jeans, after two solid weeks of sweatpants and fists full of homemade Chex Muddy Buddies.
I figured… what did I figure? Was I even figuring?
If you must know, I still have an indent in my stomach from the waistband, and I couldn’t sit at a 90 degree angle the entire day. In case you weren’t aware, most sitting is done at a 90 degree angle.
So, what’s new with me? As you can see, not a damn thing.
What’s new with you two?
(I’m speaking to the two stragglers I have left here).
Have you ever tried heavy whipping cream in your cereal? Did it blow your pants off (just literally, unfortunately) like it did me?
So can we talk a minute about food prepping? Um. I hate it. Like so, so much. I hate cooking and since food prepping is like cooking on kale-flavored crack, I’d literally rather clean the moldy hair goblins out of the shower drain than chop shit for hours on one of my precious days off.
Legit me every time I have to food prep…
Due to my utter distaste for preparing food, I do quasi- prep. I do the absolute fucking bare minimum and then wonder why I end up eating a brownie for lunch instead of garlic butter salmon on a bed of quinoa with steamed organic green beans on the side or whatever fancy shit ya’ll are eating.
I don’t have time for this. Like at all.
I “prepped” a can of peas and a frozen spicy black bean burger as my lunch the other day. Impressive, I know.
Between looking for a side hustle I can do on the couch in my holey leggings, working nine hour days, planning an epic European adventure, trying to maintain this stink hole of a blog, and getting some sleep, food prep just doesn’t fit into the equation.
I’m fully of the impression that if you religiously food prep and this takes up a good majority of your Sunday, this is your hobby, man. Your hobby is preparing healthy fare that all too often ends up tasting like rabbit food for your future self.
I’m not even hating, but that’s literally the worst-sounding hobby ever (really, I’m just jealous you have enough commitment to lose weight and be healthy that you dedicate time to proactive practices that help you be successful).
If you full-on food prep and do anything else besides go to work and sleep, you’re a Goddamn superhuman and I’ll pay you to do my food prepping.
Thanks a million!
(Can you just make sure to pan sear the chicken with lots of seasoning? Leftover blah baked chicken makes me gag.)
Are You Fucking Kidding Me?
Why do I lose weight first in the lamest possible places on my body before any real dent is made in the obvious places?
So like, thanks, body for thinking I needed to lose the fat from my forearms before getting to work on my fat stomach that people think is housing a baby. Sounds right.
Or maybe we could have started with my flabby arms that knock art off the walls when they get carried away?
What’s that? My knee caps were first priority? Oh…
Where’s My Xanax
Speaking of flabby bits.
I’m in need of a new bathing suit for the Cinque Terre and I’m low-key dreading it like the plague (I know, poor me).
The thought of trying on bathing suits with the paper crotch protectors that never make me feel protected from the last person’s crotch makes my skin crawl. I know you try on bathing suits without your underwear WHICH IS HIGHLY FROWNED UPON, KAREN.
Me, walking up to the bathing suits, seeing all of those paper crotches with pubes stuck to them.
I’m also not looking forward to seeing the fat I was going to lose 18 different times over the years seeping out of every edge of the only bathing suit I could find that didn’t scream “64 year-old overweight retiree living the dream in Boca Raton, Florida”.
Oy.
Now I feel bad for the person who has to try on the bathing suit after me (because you know I’m not buying that floral-couch-pattern-from-the-70s monstrosity).
That face you make when all of the fat girl bathing suits are ugo…
I’m really fucking annoyed that I haven’t found freelance writing work. I’m really displeased that every moment of my free time during the last month or so I’ve spent looking for writing jobs that either don’t really exist or are total scams.
What annoys me the most about this is that I set a goal around New Years to write 100 words a weekfor my “book” (I’m putting this in quotes, because until I am seriously working on a book, said book does not really exist). Guess how many of the 800 words I’ve written?
If you guessed zero, You win a rotisserie chicken! Huzzah!
Yes, zero fucking words.
And 800 words since New Years is a pitiful goal. I’ve written longer blog posts than that in one sitting.
So, now, not only am I still not a freelancer, I’m also not really a writer, because I’ve yet to actually write anything of substance, because all I’ve been doing is looking for writing.
Are You Fucking Kidding Me?
So, I was recently asked, “Why don’t you look for a real side job.”
That’s a good question, Karen.
I guess I have a follow up question to your question. What is a “real” job, Karen?
Is cleaning the slushy machine and taking customer’s sweaty dollar bills the kind of real job you’re referring to?
Maybe you see me as more of a burger flipper?
Is that a more real job for you?
Or, maybe you’d get a real kick out of my fat ass doing manual labor?
I guess my answer to your question is I don’t want another real job as I already have a real job teaching and planning lessons for a solid 9 hours a day.
Why is it so insane to people that I’d prefer to sit on my couch in my pizza-stained sweats while I’m using my minimal free time to make some extra money?
And, yes, the fact that the elusive freelance writing job hasn’t landed in my lap just yet but that I could probably start at the neighborhood 7-11 tomorrow isn’t lost on me, but it doesn’t mean that writing jobs don’t exist and aren’t real jobs. I just need to find one is all. So, get off my back fat, Karen.
Where’s My Xanax?
Let’s now do a complete 180 and turn up the crazy a bit.
Ya’ll, I’m legit freaked out about bed bugs.
Super psycho, I know, but once a worry makes itself comfortable in my brain like it owns the damn place, it takes what could be a normal concern and makes it into something neurotic and insane.
So, it started years ago when my boyfriend at the time and I were looking for a hotel in NYC. We kept reading these freaked out reviews about bed bugs.
At first I thought they were ridiculous. “Like, how did one bug ruin your life, Linda?” *serious eye roll*
I legit thought bed bugs weren’t real and they just lived in that weird song all of our grandparents sang while tucking us into bed, but then Google searches became my worst nightmare.
So, what did my insane brain do with my newly acquired knowledge?
IT TOOK IT AND RAN WITH IT NAKED AND SCREAMING UP THE STREET, YA’LL.
So, now I’m the freak who does a complete hotel room inspection when I stay somewhere. I’m also that weirdo who puts her bags in the hotel shower when it’s not being used. I’ve also been known to throw out perfectly good luggage because it could have been infiltrated by nasty bugs. Maybe also I’ve sprayed things down obsessively with 91% isopropyl alcohol (and yes, I know that’s a huge fire hazard).
And, now I don’t know how to be a normal, ignorant-to-the-world-of-creepy-crawlies person when I travel.
What are ya’ll annoyed or worried about lately? Make me feel less crazy, people.
In an attempt to post more regularly, I thought I’d bring back my WTF Wednesday series. I’m not sure I’ll always have enough WTF rants to fill up every Wednesday slot for the foreseeable future, but I’ll try.
UM, WAIT, WHO ARE WE KIDDING HERE?
Of COURSE I’ll have enough to rant about. Complaining is one of my absolute favorite things to do. (Well, aside from guiltily stuffing my face with enough carbs to feed a small village in one sitting.) And, I seem to always have a complaint or ten on hand. So, buckle up, babes!
I’m going to split up my rants into three categories: What’s Annoying Me Right Now, Are You Fucking Kidding Me?, and Where’s My Xanax? for ease of categorizing my issues.
So, let’s get this party started, eh?
What’s Annoying Me Right Now
So, if you know me personally, it’s no secret that I’m looking for side work. I’m specifically looking for writing jobs, but thanks a million for the several suggestions I’ve received that strip clubs are always hiring. As nice as that suggestion is, I really don’t think third grade teachers should side hustle at The Boobie Bungalow. Also, I don’t need to have the guilt of giving some poor old, lonely dude a heart attack right as he’s struck completely blind. I just can’t have that on my conscience right now.
So, I’ve been creeping Indeed like that weirdo who’s the first to like all of your Insta posts (who are you even?).
I’ve applied to so.many.freelance.writing.jobs.it.isn’t.even.funny.
The only two I’ve heard back from are total busts.
The first wanted a peppy, inspired video of why I would be a good fit for their company. Um. There is a very good reason I chose blogging (I.E. WRITING) over vlogging: I have crazy eyes and a face only blogging would love.
So, I had to pass on that one. You’re welcome, whoever would’ve had to watch that video.
The second company to contact me was an educational company looking for writers.
Sounds like the perfect fit, right?!
Let me just list the BS I went through over the last few days with this company (everything I say here, I’d not hesitate to share with them, FYI):
1. For the first informational webinar I signed up for, the host never joined. Legit, just didn’t show. NOT exactly the best first impression.
2. During the second (successful) attempt to participate in the mandatory webinar, the owner told us we could start that day and to email her if we were interested. Alright!
3. After emailing her and not hearing anything back, I sent an email the next day to the person who scheduled the webinar to check to make sure the email I wrote down was correct. She responded with, “Susie Ann (not her real name) is very busy. I’m sure you’ll hear from her.” Maybe don’t tell us we can start that very day then?
4. After finally hearing back from the owner of the company, they got me “started” in their system they use to write in, but gave ZERO explanation for how to work within the system. I’m not a stupid person, but I do need basic directions to brand new things.
5. It took WAY too long to hear from this person on how to proceed. In fact, I spent the better part of a snow day off of work trying to figure out where to write and post, because it all made no sense. This was not how I wanted to spend my day off from being at work. I was mad, ya’ll.
6. After asking for some assistance for how to navigate, I was told to ask the super helpful woman from before. Um. No thanks. I’ll just bow out here.
So, I’ve decided to walk away from this “opportunity”. My boyfriend and one of my friends said that if they are this horrible at responding to simple questions, what’s going to happen when my pay for my writing doesn’t show up?
So, basically, I’m just really annoyed I wasted an entire day and several hours to this when I could have been doing something more productive, like looking for less stressful freelance work or binge watching The Office.
Are You Fucking Kidding Me?
Whenever it snows or rains, literally all the idiots come out in droves. It’s like they think, “Weather makes me straight up lose my mind. It’s a blizzard outside, so now is a good time to be on the road.”
When you combine idiocy with entitlement, you have an even more potentially lethal combination.
This makes me so mad, I can feel the vein in my forehead pulse as I type.
On a daily basis, I see fools driving like they are the only people who matter. I see people driving reckless as fuck and for what? So they can be first in the drive thru line at MacDonald’s? (Yes, I meant to spell it like that. You’re supposed to read it in a country accent.)
Unless you need to poop or you or someone in your car is going into labor, SLOW THE EFF DOWN and be courteous to others.
Also, can we all quit being such self-involved assholes?
On Sunday, I witnessed a woman purposely hit the plastic SLOW sign in the middle of a crosswalk. Like, she veered to hit it. How in the fuck evil does a grown woman have to be to purposely hit a sign that reminds people to slow down for people, namely children, to cross the street? Who hurt you?
Then, that very same day, my dude went to put air in his tires. There was a line, and the person trying and failing to add air to their tires was an elderly woman. It was snowing, freezing cold, and a line of people sat waiting impatiently instead of helping.
GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.
Like, pack your shit and kindly fall off the face of the earth.
In case you were wondering, my non-douchebag boyfriend helped the woman put air in her tires, because we aren’t terrible people.
Where’s My Xanax?
So, about that “job” I decided against? It was the last semi-promising side hustle I’ve found. I’m employing my travel money saving tips for my upcoming trips, but I’m probably going to need a teensy bit more than what I can save from my paychecks. This is partly due to my way smaller than what I was expecting tax return. Anyone else really unhappy about this? I was going to rant about my tax return and forgot because I had so many pressing rants #rantlife.)
I need some way to make some side money that doesn’t involve compromising situations, and it’d be nice if it wasn’t a time-wasting scam.
I don’t think there is such a thing as a legit writing side job.
Anyone who has found one is welcome to speak up and share their secrets, because it’s getting harder to sleep with my twitching eye.
So, what is really burning your biscuits right now? Tell Aunt Fatty!
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The word on the street is that blogs are no longer relevant. That is simply not true. There are plenty of people who are not bloggers who still read blogs. I am sure there are. You can still make your mark in this platform, however saturated it is. I say, “The more the merrier!”*******
I have also heard that you have to have a niche or be a good writer to be a successful blogger. This is also not true. You can have next to no writing skills and a blog that is more bipolar than Demi Lovato and still get incredible traffic. I would normally save this for the blogging course, but I want to give you a little taste of what you will get when you sign up. So, listen to this!
All you have to do to get blog traffic that is busier than the 405 in L.A. is sell your soul to the devil himself. This includes and is not limited to writing soulless drivel that has zero talent whatsoever, but that sells a brand, and losing all sense of who you were as a writer before you decided blogging was the way forward.
In a nutshell, blogging does not mean writing, so you could write…
…and you could get 1,000 people to visit your blog within five minutes of hitting publish. Try it before you knock it.
Don’t worry about being bad at grammar and spelling. Today, even the world’s leading news agencies have no standard online, so why should it be expected of you? Who needs to know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’ with spellcheck and autocorrect…********
So, I’d be surprised if I didn’t convince you. This course will teach you the no fail********* methods for getting rich while blogging in your stained sweats. It’s a no brainer! See you in the course!
*My six-figure salary includes my inheritance. I am disclosing this information for legal purposes only. I will always be completely transparent with you, otherwise.
**By ‘work’, I am referring to sending a text to the contacts I have at Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, BuzzFeed, and a few top retail brands. But, you can totally do this without connections. Totally.
***Legally, I need to state that not anyone can “make” it as an independently wealthy blogger. It is estimated that there are currently 152 million blogs in existence. There are not 152 million millionaire bloggers, but don’t let that kind of negativity stop you!
****This special price of free does not offer a guarantee. There are no promises the course will load on your computer or will be compatible with your operating device. There are no returns or refunds, because it is free.
*****I am legally obligated to state that while I am not taking money from you in the form of payment, I will be making money off of your participation in this course in the form of traffic to my site, which feeds my advertisement payout.
******The time frame the live course will run is non-negotiable. 2:30 PM EST on a Tuesday is a perfectly reasonable time and day. What? Do you all have jobs?
*******It should be noted that the majority of the blogs making the big bucks were started in 2005. Though they made their mark 14 years ago, this doesn’t mean you can’t stand out among the hundreds of millions of blogs today. You just have to shine extra bright is all.
It has been discovered, after myriad messages (some really embarrassing and many most wouldn’t send their best friend) sent back and forth between Amanda “McMilkshakes” and I, that we are certified garbage grownups. What is a garbage grownup, you ask? Well, just keep reading. You will soon either feel an equal amount of disgust and pity for us or you will feel like you have found your people.
Hell being the DMV or the grocery store on a Sunday…
How Does One Clean an Oven? Asking For a Friend
A: What’s an oven? As a Garbage Grownup, I have to tell everyone that I do less than half of the cooking at my house. I can microwave my ass off, and do okay with snack type things (think peanut butter and celery). And, I can make eggs. Otherwise, the cooking isn’t up to me. No one in my house wants to die of food poisoning, so we just leave it to Chef John. My other classic move when it comes to food is to spend a fortune on groceries and then eat out all week because we don’t have any convenience food in the house. I don’t know how Chef John hasn’t driven me into the wilderness and left me for dead yet.
As far as other household chores are concerned, I have one word for you all: Febreze. You’re welcome. I use it on EVERYTHING and it helps to mask the fact that I haven’t cleaned my couches in at least 6 months (and that’s being generous).
Strangely, I think I know what happened here…
K: I have never cleaned my oven, because I am too afraid the self-cleaning function will stink up the place (This happened to my parents when they were readying their house to be sold. We are all fairly certain the smell permeated the walls and will remain for all eternity). I am also concerned the chemical cleaners will be baked into our frozen chicken cordon bleu.
So, I read on Pinterest that you can make your oven like new with just, in my case, three boxes of baking soda and a gallon of vinegar. No mention on the article how you are supposed to get the dried mixture out. So, this is now our oven:
NEVERMIND
It’s just too embarrassing. I couldn’t share a picture. I just couldn’t do it.
It has been like this for a year (just use your imagination), because, oh well.
(Who does this? Who starts a big production of cleaning and then just stops in the middle for a whole year?)
One last teensy way I fail at being a real adult in the arena of Householding is that I don’t own an ironing board. I’m sure many people don’t own ironing boards, because who the fuck irons anymore? But, sometimes (like two times a year) you’ve just got to bite the bullet and pull out your rusty dusty iron.
So, what do I do to iron, then, since I don’t own an ironing board? Well, I’m glad you asked, Karen.
I use every flat surface in my house.
Subsequently, every flat surface has been ruined permanently by my too-hot iron. The real kicker here? Our coffee table has a stainless steel topper on it. Did it ever even once cross my mind to use that before, during, or after ruining my kitchen table, dresser, my duvet cover, or the wall? No. No, I did not.
Why Our Razors Are a Year Old, But Still Brand New and Other Hygiene Things
A: Shaving is a pain in the padded ass. I always get out of the shower with all the cuts bleeding, looking like I got into a fight with a small but ferocious alligator while I was in there. And have you ever gotten antiperspirant in a newly sliced armpit? Pass. Hard pass.
Another fun fact for lackluster hygiene is I have enough hair for three people, and I’m not washing this thing every day. It makes my arms tired and gives me a bad attitude. Well, a worse attitude. I firmly believe that God invented dry shampoo and gave it to us because he loves us and wants our arms to be rested. It would be bad manners not to take advantage of such a thoughtful gift.
K: I am a terrible excuse for a female*. I have a love-hate relationship with all forms of beauty. Don’t get me wrong, I love makeup and the perfect beach wave and I have more trendy beanies and chambray shirts than is even close to normal, but I hate the process.
Ya’ll know what I mean by the process.
I often dream of the Jetsons and the robots they had for everything. I want to live the robot life, ya’ll. If someone or something would shave my pits every day, I wouldn’t have armpits that could rival those of my boyfriend. I would also not have to warn said boyfriend- every six months or whenever I think the situation downstairs is getting ridiculous- that there are pubes everywhere and he may just want to burn the bathroom down, because like glitter, pubic hair never.goes.away.
You’re Supposed to Have Money in Your Savings Account?
A: About four years ago I got really sick with no insurance -another example of how I’m a horrible adult because you’re never supposed to not have insurance- and I still owe that hospital a lot of money. The last bill they sent was for $132,000.00 As a result we were completely wiped out and just when we were starting to recover, I got pregnant. The mature grownup thing to do would have been to go back to work right away and start building our nest egg back up, but this post isn’t about how I make terrific decisions is it?
I stayed home for 8 glorious months and loved the absolute shit out of my daughter while it was still an option. I’ve since gone back to work full time and am finally seeing some progress but it will take time to be on top again. My bi-weekly eyelash appointments are making it slower of course, but those are the breaks and my lashes are fabulous.
K: I am full on a moron when it comes to money. Well, let me clarify for anyone feeling aghast right now- I pay my bills, OK? And, I actually have excellent credit. Like, really excellent. I am not just using ‘excellent’ as my adjective of choice. By some strange miracle, I have been able to maintain truly excellent credit, all while balancing an idiotic amount of credit cards. When I am still living in a tiny apartment at the ripe old age of 78, I will have to tell myself, “Well, at least I had good credit…”.
I think it is pretty ridiculous that all around me there are people my age and even younger buying homes, appliances larger than a crockpot, and nicer cars than a used 2010 Hyundai. I actually have friends who own two refrigerators. I own zero refrigerators.
It isn’t ridiculous that people are smarter with their money than I am, but that I spend my money on an inane amount of soap from Bath & Body Works (that I am having a hard time fitting in my tiny apartment). Or, that I spend actual money on a home design game (I am not even shitting you- I have spent real monies on decorating a fucking designer entryway FOR A GAME ON MY PHONE). Or maybe it’s just a lot ridiculous that I have been paying for a monthly succulent subscription (while at the same time wondering why I don’t have a garden of my own). I have eight succulents so far. How many is too many succulents?
How I Almost Shit My Pants in My Car and Other Tales of Woe
A: Once upon a time about 8 years ago, I danced and performed hula with my niece. The shows were short, so our costumes had to be ready in advance, allowing for quick changing between songs. Her mama was out of town and mine was in the hospital, so the baton of preparedness was passed to me. I promptly dropped it twice and then gave it to my 11 year-old niece because I was ill-equipped. “Why is the steam button on this iron broken??!!!” It wasn’t. You just have to add water to the fucking basin if you want it to make steam.
Good thing my sister made her daughter ready for real life because we would have had some messed up outfits for the Reno High show. I still don’t iron very well, but I do know where the water goes. I’d call it a win.
K: I actually wrote the full tale of what-the-fuck here, but long story short, I was mere seconds from shitting my pants in my car. It came out of literally NOWHERE. I had just had my first ever chiropractor adjustment and I was on my way home and BAM- situation.was.dire.
I was in the middle of a residential neighborhood and was actually *silent inner scream* contemplating squatting behind a rhododendron.
I don’t know about any of you, but the realization that you are going to almost certainly defile the seat you sit in everyday, is something that changes your very psyche.
I ended up making it, but I had to run into a luxury apartment complex that was just closing. There was a lady behind a desk and I am not even sure if she saw me sprinting as I desperately clutched my ass (as if that has ever helped) or not, but the thought that she might come into the bathroom after what happened in there, and I’d have to make eye contact with her through the stall gap and say, “Yeah…I don’t live here… but… as you can see… it was an emergency,” made me clammy as fuck.
To make matters even better, I got locked in. I got locked into the apartment complex office I busted into to take an emergency poo. I eventually found a way out through the gym door that led outside. I then had to wait, like a wild half woman/half animal freak, for a car to enter through the outer gates to make my hurried, shameful escape.
I swore I’d find myself on the evening news. I was nervous for a least a week after.
You know shit like this never happens to Jill, with the bleached asshole, Range Rover, and yoga addiction.
#1 Garbage Mom
A: Let’s just get it out in the open: I am the worst mom on the face of the earth. It isn’t on purpose, I’m just not good. I don’t like being judged for not being good, so I cheat and then I get caught, and it makes me look a hundred times worse. I could tell so many stories here but I am the most embarrassed about just one.
So, I was supposed to be making Ava’s baby food at home. I made a huge production of it and pinned all kinds of recipes. I even got a special silicone mold to hold all the different foods I was planning to make. It was going to be epic.
Well friends, sorry to disappoint you, but it did not go down like that. It didn’t taste good, it didn’t smell good, and it took way longer than I anticipated.
My sweet girl has never been a sleeper, and what little free time I did have I wasn’t interested on spending it making baby food. I wanted to spend it sleeping. But, I wasn’t going to let the people who told me I would hate it win, and so I went and bought all the baby food flavors I could have made on my own if I had been inclined to do so, and I put it in my own containers.
The problem is, I left the store bought containers where they were found and my secret was discovered and mocked for a long time. I should have just told the fucking truth but hearing “I told you so” just really makes me mad, and as a Garbage Grownup I’m more comfortable lying than I probably should be.
PS: There’s a reason Gerber is a million dollar company.
So, tell us, how are you a garbage grownup? Come on, ya’ll know you’ve burned an iron shape into your curtains too.
This is the way to Starbucks and the answer to all of my adulting questions, right? Yeah, this is it. (It was not it.)
*Being a female means a lot of different things, but I was referring to the run of the mill, girly female here.
