You might remember that before we started this crazy little road trip down memory lane I suggested you bring along a spare tire, a life vest and rat poison.
Have you been wondering where rat poison* was going to come in? No? You didn’t read that part? You just skimmed. OK. Well, we’re going to need it today. I guess you will just be eaten alive by monster rats. Sorry not sorry.
(Actually, I am sorry, because I love you all, and I wouldn’t want to lose anyone of you in such a terrifying way.)
So, as we have all learned, my mom was an ace at finding great motel deals.
These budget hovels saved money so that we were able to afford the expensive treatment for scabies that we’d need when we got home.
One of the absolute best, or rather, most memorable trips we took was to the Mattole River Resort.
Straight out of the California Chainsaw Massacre, this “resort” is situated along the Mattole River in Nothern California.
For those of you not familiar with Northern California, it’s good to be aware that it’s absolutely filled to the brim with hippie hill people.
I don’t want to offend any potential hippie readers I might have. I’m a huge supporter of the notion, “You do you, boo”. So, I’m not hating on hippies, per se.
I’m just accurately painting the scene, people. I’m just setting the stage.
So, after a long day of winding roads, weird little backroad towns, and uncomfortable back seat living, we finally made it to our “resort”.
(I have to mention that before we made it to the resort, we stopped at a convenience store. The whole drive there it got foggier and foggier every mile we drove. If that wasn’t creepy enough, my mom said there were two men sitting out in the front of the store who were straight out of Deliverance. She said we don’t remember this part of the trip, because they wouldn’t let us get out of the car!)
Mind you, when one hears “resort”, especially one who watched their Dirty Dancing VHS on repeat, they think rustic, but posh, nicely furnished and expertly appointed “glamping” cabins.
We all should have known better, for it was my mom (and aunt-I can’t leave her contribution out of this) who booked the place using her discount travel bible.
The Mattole River Resort was far from being a resort.
I remember little snippets from our stay at the Mattole Cult Compound. I think that I blanked out some of the memories to save myself from developing multiple personalities.
I recall that, as we were bringing our belongings in from the car, doubt set in. The cabins were filthy. Positively disgusting.
The woman running the place had promised enough beds, because there was a hide-a-bed in the couch.
When we pulled it out, one of the necessary legs was missing, and instead of a mint on the pillow, there were mouse turds.
Mouse turds, ya’ll.
In the bed.
When my mom and grandma were looking for another set of sheets, a blanket, hell, even a tarp at this point, they opened a closet to find an unexpected surprise.
They had no clue what it was, but it was behemoth and a nest of some sort. My mom said they just shut the door and didn’t open it again the rest of the stay.
I don’t even remember sleeping at this place. As in, I don’t recall being in a bed, covered with a blanket, nothing. I probably slept standing up or in the car. I don’t know how I didn’t just straight run away from my family at this point.
Apparently, we stayed two or three nights. The first night we arrived it was late, so it’s understandable why we stayed. I’m not quite sure why my mom and aunt subjected us to this horror-story-waiting-to-happen for more nights than were necessary.
My mom said it was because there was nowhere else to stay for a bajillion miles in all directions. We’d booked our stay, driven hundreds of miles, and it was going to be fun, damnit.
My mom said, as beautiful as the surrounding landscape was, the Mattole River Resort was, “…horrible in every way.”
Three people who didn’t quite mind the Mattole River Resort were my two cousins and brother.
The daughter of the owner (who, my mom swears, couldn’t have been more than ten years old) took them down to the river and introduced them to pot for the first time.
My brother and two cousins recall that trip being pretty groovy, man.
As for me, I’m fairly certain my weird neurosis about germs, vermin, and motels with anything less than a four star rating is directly related to our typical Smith** Family stay at the Mattole River Resort.
I hope my Family Vacations From Hell series has been enjoyable and at least mildly amusing. I hope my stories bring back funny and warm memories from your own past.
Because I’m a satire writer, everything I write has some sass and asshole to it. These posts were no different.
It’s important for me to point out, however, that as much as these true accounts sound horrifyingly hilarious, they are some of my most beloved memories.
Had my parents been like every other Dick and June, my memories wouldn’t be nearly as wonderfully ridiculous.
This series is dedicated to my parents, because thanks to their annoyingly thrifty ways, my brother and I were afforded a childhood filled with amazing trips and experiences. Not only did we go somewhere exciting (or slightly terrifying) every spring break, we spent every summer at our family’s lake cabin, AKA Heaven on Earth. On top of that, they sent us both to Washington, D.C. on a school trip our 8th grade year, and it was my parents who funded the most rewarding experience to date-my trip to the U.K. and Ireland.
Mom and Dad, you do you, boo. You’re perfectly imperfect just the way you are, sleazebag motels and all. Love you both.
*Apparently, the cabin was only infested with mice and not rats. That makes it so much better.
**Not our real family name.
Tag: blog
My Brother's "13th Birthday"
When we turn 13 in our family, tradition dictates that you get to have a big birthday celebration- one you won’t ever forget. This momentous occasion may or may not include naked hippies.
The year my brother turned 13, my mom planned a trip to the bay. San Francisco is only 3.5 hours away from us, and we grew up visiting the eclectic Crazy Street People City quite a lot.
You must know that my mom is quite thrifty. Before Expedia or Trivago were even a wild idea, my mom obsessively scoured the discount travel brochures and books. Part of what made all of our travel adventures so memorable is due largely in part to my mom’s awesome motel finds in her travel books (I’m saving her best find for the last post in this series).
My mom swore she found the hidden gem of all hidden gems in the heart of the city.
So, Mom, Dad, Brother, Grandma, and I packed into the car and schlepped over the hill.
The motel was a gem, alright. It was not only located in the center of the city, but it was smack dab in the middle of the worst neighborhood, on the worst street and it was the worst motel on said street.
Because we are budget travelers through and through, we all slept in the same room-Grams and me in one bed, Dad and Brother in the other. My mom ordered a cot from the front desk, and slept with it right up against the door, because she was concerned the homeless man peeing right outside our room might try to come in to use an actual toilet.
Throughout the night, we were serenaded with the sounds of men moaning, shrill female laughter, and the sound of a cat dying… or mating. And, it all sounded like it was right outside our window.
It was sketchy with a capital how-did-we-not-get-bed-bugs.
In the morning, on our way to see Alcatraz, there was a woman going absolutely bat-shit-crazy on top of a guy’s car. Like, she was on all fours on the hood, screaming and pounding her fists into his windowshield. The poor guy looked like he had no idea what to do as he was just sitting in the driver’s seat with his mouth agape.
I would have just turned on my windshield wipers to try to wipe her off.
Ain’t nobody got time for that.
That same trip, we almost met our demise at the rest stop on top of the summit.
The entire weekend was stormy and rainy. As we headed back home, the rain was immense. We felt like Noah’s ark as we parted the waters on the highway home.
As we crested the summit over Donner Pass, it began to snow. Tradition dictates that we always stop at the rest stop on the top of the mountain.
Forget that it was dark, snowing, and the rest stop was seemingly empty, no, we had to stop-it was TRADITION (someone probably really had to go: MOM).
The vibe at the rest stop was bad. In hindsight, we should have just driven the hour more until home.
My mom walked my brother and me into the main area, out of the snow. From there, we went our separate ways to the restrooms.
As my mom was waiting, she noticed two shady-looking men in the shadows. What normal, pure of heart and mind kind of person just lurks around an empty, freezing rest stop in the middle of nowhere, late at night?
She said later that a ferocious chill went down her spine. Something just wasn’t right.
At this point, another vehicle pulls up, and my dad gets out of the car to retrieve something from the trunk.
As the lights from the car pulling up shine into the rest stop doorway, my mom glances over at the two men. From across the room, they give each other a “Not-this-one” look and they subtly shake their heads.
They then disappear.
She’s still convinced to this day that those two men were waiting around to do something bad. She thinks that they noticed that there were two other people in our car and then, when the other car pulled up, they figured whatever they had planned would not work on us.
We all majorly had the creepies the whole way home. The entire car was silent as we counted our blessings/reevaluated our direction in life/cursed whoever’s idea it was to stop at the rest stop (MOM’s).
That, kids, is why you don’t go into rest stops-especially at night! Shady people try to do shady things at rest stops. Always find yourself a Starbucks restroom. Or a tree. Anything is better than an “empty” rest stop in the dark of night.
When we finally arrived home, exhausted, but grateful to all be in one piece, my brother says, “Next year, on my 13th birthday, can we just stay at home and do our usual thing?”
MY MOM FORGOT HOW OLD HER ONLY SON WAS.
My mom felt pretty ridiculous having to admit that she miscalculated and thought he was turning 13, and thus, why he got such a big, super special Birthday.
I think the next year for his birthday we did just what he wanted, and we were all pretty grateful.
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Family Vacations: Road Trips
Sing it in an awfully-out-of-tune-voice with me now:
I’ve come back long ago
Long way down the Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road…
I’ve been humming this song for days now, as I’ve been mentally preparing for this humdinger of a post.
The National Lampoon Vacation movies have always been a staple in our family home because somehow Chevy Chase and the gang got ahold of our vacation stories and made a movie about them.
Not really, and for legal purposes, I have to add that I’m joking.
But, for real, growing up, our family vacations were always very Vacation-esque ridiculous.
This is going to be a three-part series because I’m attempting to not write novels every time I post. So, for the next three days, you will be positively inundated with family vacation stories straight from own personal National Lampoon series.
So, care to take a ride? Make sure you pack a spare tire, some rat poison, and a life preserver because it’s going to be a wild ride.
Literally Every Road Trip
It didn’t matter where we were going whether it was a trip up the Oregon coast or a day trip to some backwoods swimming hole, it was guaranteed that we would have car/boat trouble. I can’t count how many sketchy BFE car repair shops I’ve miserably waited at, while one of our hoopties was getting patched together. I’ve probably been to more car repair shops than to actual landmarks.
I remember once, after days of packing and prepping for our 800-mile, two days of car hell up to our family’s lake cabin, we didn’t even make it five miles out of town before our vintage Winnebago pulled a big nope-I’m-not-going-fuck-you and we had to drive back home, defeated. I want to say we didn’t get to leave for real for almost a week.
One of my mom’s favorite family vacation horror stories is when she and my dad took my two cousins, my brother, and me to the Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park in Austin, Nevada in our ever-trusty Winnebago. She said we were coasting along, everything was going grand, and then, out of nowhere, the engine cover blew off.
This all-important cover is what protects the engine and the inhabitants of the motorhome from the engine movements and the dust and debris from the road.
My mom said that the second the cover flew off, everyone in the motorhome was covered in a thick layer of dirt. All she could see were the whites of our freaked-out eyes.
For the entire rest of the drive to the park, she had to sit on the cover to keep it on. “It was only 80,000 million degrees hot. No big deal.” She said of her hot seat.
Another Winnebago adventure happened after my mom thought it would be a great idea to take the behemoth beast camping without my dad. She wanted to meet my aunt and uncle at some campground in the middle of nowhere. All I remember is that she buckled my brother and I together in the front seat, and she kept saying over and over how everything was going to go great.
Except, it was us and we were in the fucking Winnebago, so it didn’t go great.
Somehow, we got a giant rock stuck between the rear tandem wheels and she had to call my dad to come to rescue us. This was back in the early 90s, so I don’t know how she called him. Maybe they devised a bat signal, only it was a ‘bago signal and was a giant “W” in the sky.
My dad had to deflate a tire to get the rock out-all in the pitch black, in the middle of nowhere, in a freak torrential downpour.
I would think they’d have just given up while they were ahead at this point, but no.
Back when I was about eight or nine, we went on a week-long trip up the Oregon coast. While we were inching along an especially harrowing stretch of the road along the coast, my dad’s axle broke off the driver’s side tire. He was in our old truck, and it was carrying the weight of our 70s-era camper shell and 8 tons of Shasta soda. That was actually pretty scary to watch from the trailing vehicle (we could never just bring one vehicle or one immediate family. No, it was the entire extended family and every moving vehicle we owned. It was straight-up carnival caravanning).
What I remember most about that particular event was that while we were waiting for the axle to be repaired, I ate an entire can of pizza-flavored Pringles, and for the rest of the trip, I was shunned by the entire family for being such an unmannerly pig.
One summer, I think it might have been the same year as the Pringles Incident, we got majorly stranded out in our bay on Coeur d’Alene Lake in upstate Idaho.
Not only were we known for our hooptie cars, our boats weren’t much better. Actually, my Grandma’s Party Barge was brand new 30 years ago, and we’re still riding it, hoping the pontoons don’t fall off.
So, this particular summer we had a speedboat at the lake. I can’t remember now if it was my grandpa’s old boat or my uncle’s. Either way, it wasn’t working for some time and after some extensive repairs, my uncle thought he had it up and running. So, the entire family piled in, other than Grams, because she was the only smart one of the lot.
We got precisely halfway across the bay and the engine just died. No sputtering, just gone and died dead.
One second we were cheering, the wind was whipping through our hair as the boat jumped the wakes left behind by other boats, and the next, we are at a dead stop and the entirety of the boat’s passengers are silent. No one said it, but we all were thinking it: “Typical!”
We spend the next 10 minutes trying to flag down Grandma, who is just a blob of a figure, sitting on the deck of the cabin, we can barely make out. She does not notice us sitting in the middle of the bay, and if she does, she probably really enjoyed her afternoon of silence.
We end up finding an old splintery oar to row, row, row the boat painfully, slowly to the closest shore, which happened to be the one opposite of the cabin. We tie up at a forgotten dock, and trek it, on foot, back to the cabin. We had to go all the way around the bay, on the tiny road that barely had room for two cars, taking turns carrying my brother who, despite being told multiple times by our mother to put on shoes, did not put on his effing shoes. I’m pretty sure he came into contact with poison ivy that trip. Kinda serves him right, the dweeb.
We call it the “*Smith Curse”. It started many decades ago. If more than five family members assemble for a trip, the trip will go to shit. But, those are the only ones worth remembering.
The other night, as my mom and I were laugh-crying about these crazy memories, we hear my dad’s voice, from the TV room say, “Don’t mention that damn Winnebago!”
*Not our real family name
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Monday Musings: What Are Your Blog Reading Requirements?
I was just talking with a friend about the purpose of reading blogs. She’s a devoted reader of mine and, apparently, I’m the only blogger she reads. She was saying that unless she’s friends with or related to the blog writer, she’s probably not going to spend her time reading their personal stories. I can totally respect that some people have to know the blogger/writer to want to read about their embarrassing encounter with the Porta Potty or their personal preference when it comes to stand mixers.
I totally get that.
I’m pretty much the opposite of my friend when it comes to online reading preferences.
I love reading about someone’s awesome vacation to some exotic locale or reading about how they make a mean enchilada casserole with a recipe they got from their crazy Aunt Marge.
Maybe that’s totally weird?
Maybe I’m entirely too interested in complete strangers’ fun family stories or how they studied abroad in Ireland (read about one of my favorite blogger’s experiences doing just that here)?
Whatever it may be, I can definitively say that I’m a devoted blog reader, and I appreciate my committed readers more than words can express.
Throughout the last two years and some odd months, I’ve connected with, gotten to know, and enjoyed reading so many bloggers.
I love you all. I truly do. We are a tribe, and I’m so fortunate to be a part of it.
Just like my friend, however, I have some requirements that must be met in order for me to spend so much of my time reading blogs.
These are some of them:
1. You’re a real person who responds to comments and engages with your readers. If you never respond to comments, or it takes you far too long to respond, and I’ve long since forgotten about your post, I will grow weary of dedicating time to read and comment.
2. Posts are well-written and purposeful. We all make grammatical errors (like that one time I made a massive one in the title of a post *cringe*), but if the mistakes take away from the message, this teacher can’t even.
3. The topic is one in which I can relate to in some way, shape, or form. This is a pretty straightforward one. If you write about something I can hardly come up with a comment for, then your topic is best left to those who can. There’s nothing wrong with that. I write about back fat, rogue chin hairs, and how I have a tendency to inhale baked goods. Those topics aren’t for everyone, either.
And, that’s it, really. If you respond to comments I spend time crafting, you don’t have grammatical errors every line, and your posts keep me wanting more, I’m hooked.
So, I’m curious-what are your blog reading preferences and requirements? Let me know in the comments.
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Camping Capers
I went camping for the 4th of July weekend. As with everything that I get myself into, it was definitely not uneventful. Oh, no.
I’m going to surprise you all by saying I’m not a real tough-cowgirl-up kind of chick.
Shocking, I know.
First, I really hate to be dirty. Especially my feet. OMG. My feet. During the summer, when flip flops and sandals are standard, I soak, scrub, pumice, and moisturize my feet to the point of obsession.
I can’t get in bed knowing my feet have God-knows-what on them, and so help me if even the tiniest speck of dry skin catches on the sheets.
Ya’ll might as well commit me now.
Next, I positively hate being hot and sweaty. If I can avoid ever being overheated during the summer, I’ll do whatever needs to be done. If that means blasting my AC and having a fan directed at me 24/7, so be it. I’ll pay an exorbitant electric bill for the sake of comfort any day.
Eventually, though, I do have to venture outside and away from my comfortable 68 degrees. When this happens, swamp ass and underboob sweat is just inevitable. At some point during the summer, I just resign myself to the reality that I’m going to sweat from every crack and orifice, and I just have to deal.
Also, if I know getting to the bathroom is going to be a pain (i.e. needing to get dressed first, finding shoes in the dark, walking half a mile to the campsite toilet, etc.), I’ll have to go the bathroom precisely eight times in the night.
Lastly, I’m a germaphobe. If there isn’t running water wherever I find myself to wash my hands precisely every hour on the hour, forget it.
As I mentioned before, this past weekend we went camping. It was at a gorgeous campsite in California.
While there, the worst.possible.thing that could happen to a germaphobe happened.
My darling, one-of-kind, beloved boyfriend put the roll of toilet paper-the very roll he took into the Sani-Hut (and don’t even get me started on Porta Poops), and almost certainly set on the pee-soaked floor*- in my clothes bag.
JUST BURN IT ALL.
So, if you just ignore all of the above paranoias, I’m a real joy to be with out in the good ol’ outdoors.
Really.
I’m being serious.
Once I procure/figure out a way to wash my hands with actual soap, and if I just accept the fact that my face will be so greasy the bright sun will reflect off it all day long, I’m actually a real camping star.
I’m of the belief that if something unsavory (like cleaning toilets or setting up camp in 90-degree weather) needs to be done, it’s better to just do it right away and as quickly and efficiently as possible. I can set up a tent, cot, and camp stove in record time if it means I get to sit in the shade during the rest of the camping experience.
Also, I don’t complain too much. As long as I have s’mores and a summer beer to look forward to later, you will only hear me complain about the heat and my dirty feet a minimal amount of times.
This past weekend did not deviate from the norm. There was just a little bit of complaining, and a whole lot of loving-being-outside-of-the-city.
The part of this camping adventure I was most looking forward to was a swim in the pond, because I bought a donut floaty, and I simply couldn’t wait to flail my gorgeous bod atop it.
The float and swim was simply glorious. I’m a fat chick, but I also grew up going to a lake cabin every summer of my life. I can swim like a fucking majestic mermaid.
It wasn’t until exiting the water, that I questioned our decision to take a dip in a pretty questionable pond.
The great debate is still on going, because my boyfriend positively swears that what was all over my legs were little worm things.
No, I don’t care that he dual majored in biology and microbiology, those little effers were leeches.
After positively freaking out and making him run back over the rocks in his bare feet to inspect and remove the vile creatures that were sucking my life blood straight out of my pudgy, translucent legs, my first thought was, “Where else are they?”
Me: “Are these like ticks?”
Him: “Uh, no. These worms aren’t anything like ticks.”
Me: “No, like, would they possibly be elsewhere on my body?”
Him: “OMG. You had one worm on your leg. The other thing was a twig or some dirt!”
Me: “Are you blind?! They were all over my legs!”
Him: *rolls eyes clear back into his skull* “OK. Sure. They were all over your legs…”
Me: “OK. So, could they possibly have found their way to other parts?”
Him: “No, babe. I highly doubt it.”
Me: “Are you sure? Because if water can go through my bathing suit, maybe tiny water monsters can go through my suit, too?”
Him: “OMFG.”
So, after I was reassured that the worms (leeches) almost certainly didn’t find themselves in my more delicate regions, I felt mentally stronger and more ready for the next camping obstacle I’d likely face (this time it was being eaten alive by mosquitos and the TP incident).
The struggle is real for an outdoors-loving germaphobe freak.
*After making it clear my disgust with his dirty deed, he swore up and down that he nestled the TP roll in his underwear and that he most certainly did not put it on the poop-caked floor. I feel just a tiny bit better.
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The Cupcake Incident: Flasback Friday
For Flashback Friday, I thought I’d share one of the first posts I wrote when I first started this blog. I think it got a measly two likes. It’s pretty much terrible, but it’s so incredibly accurate when it comes to my best friend, Cupcake and I.
The back story behind this little exchange is that I was attempting to diet, and I was in the I’m-so-starving-I’d-lick-the-remnants-from-a-chocolate-wrapper-found-in-the-garbage-yeah-I’m-serious-so-fuck-you-and-your-judgy-eyes stage.
I’d asked my teacher friend and classroom neighbor to help me resist the myriad treat situations that occur constantly at our school (really, any school, anywhere).
She was also “dieting”.
Two weakling, enablers trying to help each other diet.
It was comical.
Also, she had no idea the extent of my gluttony, or that I could sniff out a cupcake from three miles away.
Without further ado: The Cupcake Incident
Sitting at desk. The whiff of cupcake starts wafting in from room next door.
Phone call is urgent, sweaty palms.
Child: “This is Ms. S’s room. How may I help you?”
Me: “Well, aren’t you just the most professional-sounding 3rd grader I’ve ever heard. May I speak with Ms. S?”
No response. Phone is dropped on table.
Ms. S: “This is Ms. S…”
Me: (whisper voice, barely audible) “Cupcake? I smell.”
Ms. Silver: “Uh, this is Ms. S. Hello?”
Me: (slightly more audible) “Birthday cupcake? Cupcake?”
Ms. S: “I don’t know who this is. I don’t have cupcakes. You are mistaken. Good day.”
Me: (yelling voice) “You know who this is, and I want CUPCAKE!”
Click
Running for the door just as a darling child delivers very roughed-up cupcake.
Cupcake nonetheless.
Drool is now escaping.
Ms. S appears at door, tries to intercept, unsuccessfully.
Cupcake frosting already entering mouth.
Ms. S (the bitch) tries to swat frosting out of mouth.
Instead of cupcake, the smell of revenge is now pungent.
Ms. S is more elderly, thus, escape successful.
Entire cupcake is lodged in mouth.
Delicious.
Exchange ends with both Ms. S and culprit crouching over frosting remnants on tray, greedily licking fingers. Animals.
*It is necessary to note that no child was injured in cupcake incident. Nor were children present during bloody exchange. They were outside getting exercise, like civilized human beings.
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WTF Wednesdays #17: I Wish Upon a…NOPE
Have you ever heard of Wish? If not, I can sum it up pretty plainly: It’s an online shopping mall of horrors.
Basically, you can get anything from Bluetooth headsets to refrigerator cover organizers (you didn’t think you needed one, did you?) for insanely low prices.
Now that I think of it, I have been meaning to get a pair of Geordi la Forge sunglasses.
The only catch is that 99% of what you buy ships from China, so it may or may not ever make it to you.
The positive to this is that, five months from now, when you’ve completely forgotten you’d ordered a $2 waffle/pancake/egg/cake baking mold, it’s like a mini surprise Christmas when it arrives.
That is, if what you ordered isn’t utter crap.
To be fair, out of the five or so things I’ve ordered off Wish, I recall only one thing totally sucking.
So, to that, do not order clothes from Wish unless you weigh precisely 80 pounds, soaking wet.
I was feeling like playing it dangerously, so I ordered this hideous gauzy, lime green monstrosity. It was similar to this:
When I finally got it, three years later, the gauzy neon look was totally out. Not to mention, the XL size wouldn’t even fit over my fat head. Had it fit, it would have made a fabulous choker necklace, as it was My Size Barbie size.
So, I wasted $7 and three years of my life waiting for something I forgot I ordered. Not a big deal in the whole scheme of things.
Wish is harmless, if you go into it knowing you can’t be in dire need of any item you deem worthy of buying, and you understand that the quality is just a notch above the Dollar Store.
Lately, I’ve been bombarded, accosted by Wish ads on Facebook. I swear, every other post is a random Wish ad.
Why this is of any interest to myself (and, hopefully, you) is the nature of what Wish is advertising.
It’s weird af.
And, unlike most ads on Facebook that are creepily accurate and timely (I’m not even ashamed to admit that I was googling “hemorrhoid cream”-it’s great for undereye puffiness-and not five minutes later an ad for Preparation H showed up in my Facebook ads), these “suggestions” are downright nope-eff-you-Wish.
The following are not things I’ve previously Googled.
I swear.
WTF?! Why? Please tell me this is a mouth trainer for when you want to make a face that expresses surprise, but your facial muscles are too weak, so this helps make them strong, and literally nothing else.
What.in.the.holy.hell is this? I have so many questions.
Is this a fake pregnancy belly? (I’m only guessing that, because the description says, “LIZ 5-7 Months…”)
Why does one need an artificial pregnancy belly? Is this for a messed up April Fool’s joke? A scam? A weird fetish? Also, why is this not $2 like everything else?
$221 for a fake blob of flesh is not a steal! I say!
OK. This thing is actually kind of cute…
EXCEPT IT’S A MINIATURE PENIS WITH EYES AND AN ASS CRACK.
Is this a pencil topper or something?
Source
Now, this next one is definitely PG-13, maybe R-rated. If you’re an innocent, dainty flower, maybe you’ve read enough. Just sayin’.
So, when I first saw this one, I legit thought it was just a regular old hammock. These were my thoughts:
What have you got now, Wish?
What is that?
Is that a hammock?
Two people in a hammock? That’s just asking for trou…
Wait.
What the hell are they doing?!
OMG.
My virgin eyes!
I think they’re…doing it in a hammock!
I had to get confirmation.
Me: “Babe! Look at this hammock for sale on Wish! They are being quite unsafe! Imagine me, just me in a hammock. I’d just be innocently trying to get into the damn thing to read or nap, and I’d probably get wrapped up, spin like an out-of-control gyro meat machine, and end up flat on my face. Who is crazy enough to attempt sex in a fucking hammock?”
Him: “Yup. That looks exactly like what they’re doing. We’d probably break the damn thing, and, with my luck, I’d get a potted plant up my ass.”
Behold, you can buy a sex swing hammock for $31 on Wish!
(Not sure I’d trust it. But, that’s just me.)
This one…
OMG.
Sorry, I was gagging on my diet root beer.
Every time I see this, I can’t even.
I’ve paid close to $50 for Spanx that are intended to do literally the opposite of what these $5 tights that wouldn’t fit an American infant are trying to do.
Why, why are we trying to make oddly placed bubbles of thigh fat fashionable? Is this a thing? Please tell me it’s not.
Wish, what the ever-loving fuck?
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Chrissy Teigen's James Brown*
I’m a satire writer. I felt the need to start with that, in case you’re new here or you haven’t already realized that 90% of my blog is humor-based.
So, I think almost anything is laugh-till-I-pee funny.
It’s true.
My friends either love or hate going to the movies with me, because there’s a 110% chance I’ll be the loudest one laughing at every.single hint of a joke.
I laugh at myself and my ineptness. I laugh at fart and poop jokes. Hell, I laugh at farts. Every fart. I laugh at the fact that my boyfriend and I call each other Miss and Mr. Poopy Butthole (instead of the usual “Honey” or “Sweetie” *gagging noise*). I laugh at my students’ corny straight-from-the-dollar-special-Scholastic-knock-knock-book. Like, I genuinely laugh. I laugh at puppies simply being puppy-y. I laugh when conversations turn awkward. I laugh at my dad’s pronunciation of a Yoo-hoo as Yo-ho.
I fucking think everything is funny.
Well, almost.
Not everything is funny.
What makes me stop dead in my tracks during a laughing fit?
What makes me instantly get on my high horse soap box?
You want to know?
It’s when people pass off utter, on-purpose stupidity as “cute”.
I’m all for laughing at silly things like this:
Because it’s not stupidity, it’s a misunderstanding, turned hilarity.
source
Recently, I stumbled upon a stupid af BuzzFeed article about–are you ready for this–Chrissy Teigen’s butthole.
Get this, despite having had sex with her husband, however many hundreds (thousands) of times, she had no clue he’d spied her butthole.
Apparently, she had always assumed her coffee crumpet was the one sacred place left on her body that her husband had not seen.
Chrissy, didn’t you ever wonder why all of your friends were getting their assholes bleached? No, it wasn’t for health reasons. SMH.
I really don’t aim to be a snotty bitch, but, really? How can someone be that dumb?
Furthermore, why are we perpetuating the stupidity by glorifying it?
All images from BuzzFeed, obviously.
I was planning on completely dismissing this article as a slow news day at BuzzFeed, until I continued reading (why did I continue reading??), and was forced to choke down her grammatically incorrect, cringe-worthy tweet.
There are at least 11,378 fools out there who either didn’t even notice the lack of any understanding of grammar whatsoever in her post or they just didn’t care.
WE NEED TO START CARING.
As an educator, it is literally my job to spread knowledge and to stop the scourge of ignorance.
Why are we continuing to share, repost, retweet, and glorify stupidity masked in I’m-pretty-so-it’s-OK?
So, I did my due diligence as an educator, and I commented on the poor grammar and lame subject of an article someone actually got paid to write, and I was met with being called a “judgemental bitch”.
I will be honest, I was my usual snarky, dripping-in-satire-self, but I simply can’t sit by, as someone’s stupidity is celebrated, and do nothing.
In hindsight, maybe I should have privately messaged Chrissy, and said something along the lines of:
“Chrissy, sweetie, I’m not being mean when I say this, and really, I’m just trying to help you, but you might want to invest in a basic human anatomy book. While you’re at it, you might want to also add to your Amazon cart, “Grammar For Dummies”. Actually, no. What am I thinking? You’re paid for your good looks. You don’t need basic common sense. Nah. You’re good. Forget I even said anything.”
Too much?
While I’m at it, ladies, can we stop playing the dumb, because it’s perceived-as-cute-card?
Maybe Chrissy Teigen is secretly a rocket scientist, but since women are still more valued for their looks, she plays that role, because a girl’s gotta eat?
Either way, I don’t care how “judgemental” I’m perceived to be, I’m going to continue fighting ignorance one snarky, time-wasting social media comment war at a time.
*James Brown= slang for butthole.
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Pure Gold
My mom is a great storyteller. Family stories have been passed down, retold countless times, and loved since I can remember. On Sunday, my mom told us a story I had never heard before, and how it’s even possible she never told us this doozy, I do not know.
Because it’s pure gold.
Back in the time of Mom Jeans, VHS, and Kenny Loggins cassette tapes, my mom and her brother had a battle of epic proportions.
It was Christmastime, and my uncle was visiting, as he did every year. My cousin and I were young, and likely we were the reason the whole fam bam was at the park in the middle of December.
For some insane reason, the topic of who was faster on foot between my mom and my uncle came up in conversation. My uncle swore he’d literally beat the pants off of my mom.
Well, that pretty much sealed the deal.
My mom and uncle readied themselves for a foot race that would easily rival that of Usain Bolt…if he were middle aged, out of shape, and if he considered tight Lee jeans appropriate running attire.
Quite handy for the two marathon runners was that the particular park where we were had parallel bridges, not too far away from each other. My grandmother, humoring her two always-picked-last-for-sports-children said she’d call “ready or not”.
I guess now is a good time to paint the scene.
My good ol’ Uncle Gary, or, My Own Personal John Candy was one of the best parts of my childhood. If my mom was a good storyteller, it’s only because she learned the craft from the king of all storytellers-her older brother.
He was round, and, just like Santa, when he laughed, his belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. (And he laughed a lot, because he always had a new, mildly inappropriate joke up his sleeve.)
In essence, he was pleasantly, perfectly plump (he wouldn’t have been Uncle Gary had he been any different).
As for my mom, it was she who I inherited my overly curvaceous bod, cellulite, and body hair from, so…
I think the picture is fairly clear.
They were 100% the kids who cheated on running the mile in PE class (or walked the entirety, coming in with a record time of 12 minutes).
Basically, we had a pair of real marathon winners.
I don’t think my mom even took the race seriously. She probably figured she’d have to embarrass him by beating the pants off him in front of God and everybody, or that he had a cheat or a trick ready and waiting.
This was why she was far more concerned with what he was doing at the starting line, instead of readying herself for moving more quickly than she had in years.
She was staring him down, incredulity and an ounce of fear growing, as his Rocky-esque stance proved he was ready and actually serious.
Suddenly, Grandma called, “Go!” and it was all just a blur of color block windbreaker and handlebar mustache.
My mom was glued to her spot. Stunned.
Pretty quickly, she couldn’t contain her laughter and broke down in hysterics.
She said, “At the starting gate, I collapsed in laughter. I saw him there, this 300 pound man, with his 32 year-old shoes flapping, going like the wind.”
As my mom was dissolving into a puddle of tear-soaked Jordache, Grandma was yelling, “Go, Judy! Just go a little bit, Judy!”
After listening to this story, it was only natural that I dared my brother to our own relay race.
I was fairly certain I’d beat the crap out of him. I’d only been an aerial yogaist for five weeks straight, and all of my walks to 7-11 had to make me more capable of movement than him.
The last time I was witness to him doing anything that resembled physical exertion was when we went on a family picnic five years ago, and I dragged him on a “hike” up to a lookout, barely half a mile away. It was not his favorite.
I figured I’d finish and have time to bake a cake before he came across the finish line.
As he confidently, unwaveringly got into his runner’s stance, I began to doubt myself as a shoe-in for first place.
Maybe he runs during his time off? Had I somehow completely missed that aspect of his life?
I said to my mom, “I think I’m kinda scared!”
She replied, “Maybe you should be. Sometimes fat people surprise you and they run like the wind!”
Spoiler Alert: I lost miserably.
Not only did I lose, I came incredibly close to eating asphalt.
You know when you are trying to go faster than your body can catch up and your head has literally a head start? Well, that was me the entire 20 or so feet we ran.
Not only did he beat me by running a hell of a lot faster than me, he did so with bare feet.
When my dad yelled, “Go!” (BTW, my dad was excited enough to watch this spectacle, that he actually paused the golf he was watching, and said, “Now, I gotta see this.” as he practically ran outside), I thought my body would be moving quicker than it did. It was like I was in slo-mo, shlepping through molasses. Before I could even start actually moving, he had propelled his body through the finish line with his Fred Flinstone feet.
It wasn’t even a competition.
Moral of the story: Don’t underestimate people carrying around some extra weight, because they can move. With the exception of this fat chick. I can’t move quickly for anything.
Also, family stories are better when you don’t try to reenact them. Don’t let history repeat itself, people!
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Flashback Friday: Sudden Summer Shame
Happy Flashback Friday!
I just realized that some of my newer readers might not know that I used to write for the U.K.-based online magazine, Shopper Lottie. It got to be a little much on top of working and coming up with content for my blog, because the Shopper Lottie content had to be original and not previously published. I guess I’m really not the writing machine that I would like to be. Still, it was a really awesome experience, and I still adore the magazine creator, Charlotte.
Since it’s almost summer break, I thought I’d share a post I wrote for Shopper Lottie about that fun realization when you’re super not summer body ready.
Let me know what you think in the comments!
Six Summer Fashion Tips For When You “Forgot” to Get That Summer Bod
