Garbage Grownups

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.

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.

Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animals: A Christmas Tag

So, Milkshakes and Dumpy can’t act right, so we don’t have any content for you this week (we are the worst). We are hoping to be back next week with a holiday-themed shit storm for your reading pleasure.

Until then, enjoy this Christmas Tag post I got from Cherie on her blog From Michigan to Germany . I hear tell she got the idea from Debbie over at Deb’s World.

What is your favourite Christmas film?  Love Actually, hands down. I have to watch it every single year while I’m wrapping presents and drinking egg nog or it’s just NOT CHRISTMAS AND WE CAN’T HAVE THAT ALRIGHT.

Have you ever had a white Christmas?

In Reno-Town, where I live, it could be a whiteout on Christmas morning or it could be sunny and 50 damn degrees. I, 100%, prefer a white Christmas. We don’t get enough snow, so when we get any I get stoked as hell. So, yes, three inches is a lot to us. In case anyone needed to know, you know.

Where do you usually spend your Holiday?

Up until just a couple years ago, I was still spending Christmas Eve at my parents’, who live a whopping 10 minutes away. Along with my spending the night, we still participated in all of our favorite Christmas traditions- reading our favorite Christmas books, leaving milk and cookies out for Santa, hanging the stockings, etc. (no, I’m not shitting you).

Now, we have our big Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve (because on Christmas Day, we are too present-ed out to cook), hang our stockings, and read our books (no more leaving out cookies, because Santa will just get into the cookie tins, anyway). We are 78, 68, 35, and 30 and we still sit around the fire to read The Night Before Christmas. Only now, my dad has to be bribed with fudge to participate, and he pretend farts and cracks inappropriate jokes throughout. My brother acts like it’s too stupid, but we still end up fighting about who will get to read first.

Then, because I’m totally an adult, I go home to sleep, then drive back over at 7 AM to see what Santa brought me.

The happiest mother-effing elf this side of The North Pole!

What is your favourite Christmas song?

Ya’ll are gonna kill me, but I LURVE Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas is You. Sorry not even sorry.

Do you open any presents on Christmas Eve? 

Since I can remember, the girls (me, my mom, aunt, various girlfriends or wives of my cousins and Uncle Gary-because at Christmas, he’s one of the gals and Grandma- when she was with us) have exchanged “Christmas Eve” gifts. They are supposed to be Christmas-themed and/or homemade and not excessive. Over the years, we have just used it as an excuse to go balls to the wall insane with gifts. Besides opening my stocking, it’s one of my millions of Christmas favs.

Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer?

I really should be able to being a Christmas-obsessed 3rd grade teacher. So, we have Rudolph, Comet, Vixen, Blitzen (that’s one isn’t it?), Buddy (no, wait- that’s an elf)…That’s all I got! I can’t name them all, ya’ll!

What holiday traditions are you looking forward to the most this year?  Making cookies with my mom- that end up being eaten almost entirely by us- has become a favorite tradition. Cookies for daaaaaaays (or, maybe not a lot of days since we eat them all the day we make them).

Is your Christmas tree real or fake?

I’m probably going to jinx the fuck out of myself, but I’ve had the same fake tree since 2004. I’ve had to add a couple strings of lights over the years, but it’s still mostly kicking. When I was a kid we always had a real tree, but it was almost half brown by Christmas Day every year. My mom was tired of the fire hazard and having a dead tree in all of our pictures, while my dad was tired of pretending to water it, so when I was in middle school, we got our first fake tree.

What is your all-time favourite holiday food/sweet treat?

I’m straight addicted to my mom’s Muddy Buddies. We called it dog food when we were kids (Shit, maybe it was called Puppy Chow. Yeah, that sounds more appetizing). I also love the Scottish shortbread my mom and I make. It gives me warm fuzzies and a bit of heartburn- if I’m being honest- because one or ten never seem to be enough.

I know it says sweet treat, but my mouth is already watering thinking of the Christmas prime rib and Yorkshire pudding we have on Christmas Eve.

Be honest:  Do you like giving gifts or receiving gifts better?

Who doesn’t love getting gifts? But, I do love the giving part of Christmas. My mom always says I’d be ecstatic with an old shoe, because I’m just so in love with every gift I get. But, if I find something really amazingly perfect for someone, it’s *almost* better than receiving. This year, the gift I found for the dude could be the most epic gift I’ve ever given him, but I could also be way off and it’ll be a total dud. I think it’s the not knowing that’s so exciting?

What is the best Christmas gift you have ever received?

Until a puppy pops out of a box on Christmas morning, it’ll forever and always be my Barbie Dream House.

Literally the one I had. My mom is going to be really sad knowing had she not “maybe gave it to Goodwill”, I could have paid her everything I owe her and then some…

What would be your dream place to visit for the Holiday season?

I’ve always wanted to go somewhere that’s well and truly cold and snowy. Or, to the cottage and village where Kate Winslet’s character lived in The Holiday.

#englishcottagegoals

Are you a pro present wrapper? Or do you fail miserably?

I mean, I hate to brag, but I’m kind of amazing. Wrapping presents is in the top three of my favorite things about Christmas. I always hope I get a fellow lady when we do Secret Santa at work (But, if I get a dude, I just put it back and redraw, anyway. Shh- don’t tell), because the way I put their gifts together is even more fun than shopping for said presents and women actually notice if it’s nicely wrapped*.

Most memorable holiday moment?

It was Christmas ’94, and I was an idiotic eleven-year-old. I had been given toe socks for the first time.

They were all the rage. I was really excited to stuff my fat piggies into their own warm, snuggly sleeping bag.

While some of the adults were talking after a gluttonous family meal, I was working intently at getting all of my toes into their own toe hole. My big toe was in, then the next three went in seamlessly. As I went to get my littlest piggy (and when I say little, I mean little. I possibly have the shortest human toes on planet Earth), it was gone. All of my toes appeared to have their own hole, yet my pinky toe was gone and it’s toe condom (what else does one call an individual toe cover?) was still limp.

Without thinking, I yelled, “OMG. My pinky toe is gone!”

Everyone froze, their 8th piece of after-dinner-fudge, mid air.

My mom just said, “Oh, honey.”

My dad said, “I knew those would confuse her, Judy.”

My Uncle Gary just laughed and laughed and laughed.

It turns out my pinky toe got stuffed in with its neighbor and 24 years later, even after numerous strokes and some pretty debilitating health issues, my uncle still asks about my missing toe as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

Sexy toe socks ain’t working, hunty…

What made you realize the truth about Santa?  ARE YOU SAYING SANTA ISN’T REAL?

Do you make New Year’s resolutions?  Do you stick to them?

Ain’t nobody got time for that business.

What do you wish for for Christmas this year?

Health, happiness, and the ability to eat myself silly without gaining any weight. I mean, a Christmas miracle *could* happen. You never know.

What makes the Holidays special for you?

My mom. Christmas is so special to me because of the magic she created and then let blossom in our hearts. I’m a huge Christmas freak and it’s 100% due to her. My Scrooge of a boyfriend is forever grateful to her that I have Rocking Around the Christmas Tree on repeat all season long.

Favourite Christmas smell

Mrs. Meyer’s Iowa Pine dish soap and spray cleaner smells like the real thing. I’d spray the cleaner on me as perfume if I didn’t already obsessively spray it on every single surface in my house. I GOTTA MAKE IT LAST THE SEASON.

Also, the way every single one of my mom’s Christmas decorations smell. It’s a smell I can’t explain-a mix of winter berry, peppermint, cranberry, pine, and pure Santa magic.

Honorable mention goes to Bath & Body Works Spiced Gingerbread Swirl. I smell like a cookie all day and I’m not mad about it.

What is the worst/weirdest gift you have ever received?

See above. You could give me your old athletes foot-riddled tennis shoes and I’d be honored you thought of me.

Favourite Holiday drink? ERG NERG (Yeah, I’m bringing that back.)

Oh, and I’m positively obsessed with White Peppermint Mochas from the ‘Bux.

Have you ever spent Christmas in another country?  No, I WISH. But, really, would it be Christmas if we didn’t do every single thing the same, down to the order in which we do stockings, presents from Santa, and all of the other gifts, and how we always eat the same breakfast casserole on the same Christmas plates from 1992? No, I don’t think it’d truly be Christmas somewhere else.

What place/landmark in your town do you love to visit during Christmas? I live in Reno. There isn’t exactly landmarks all done up in gorgeous Christmas decor or expansive Christmas markets full of vendors and delicious treats round these parts. So, does the local Target count for this? They always have their store done up all in red. It’s quite festive.

Source

Were you naughty or nice this year? 

I feel like I need to know in what context this question is being asked. I was really nice when it came to holding doors for the elderly or giving to charities. If you’re asking about my spending, exercise or food habits, I’ll need an exact definition of what you mean by ‘naughty’ and ‘nice’. For example, I think it’s really nice that I ate my boyfriend’s chocolate pie, because two days before I ate his (and mine), he had commented on his pants feeling a bit snug. That was a really kind act, despite what he might say.

Do you own/wear a Christmas themed jumper or T-Shirt?

So, funny story. I used to own an especially hideous one. I loved it for the five hours I owned it. In our old place, we had this massive, ancient industrial-looking heating element on the ceiling in our bathroom. My dude had to be careful not to have it on when he was standing, as it was literally just exposed heating coils and he was almost gifted with spontaneous male pattern baldness on more than one occasion.

So, the year we found our hideous Christmas sweaters at a local thrift store, I immediately washed mine and then hung it up to dry. My boyfriend thought it’d be smart and time-saving to hang it on the heating element.

Well, it’s just lucky we didn’t burn down our apartment building, because my sweater very quickly became a maroon reindeer and evergreen snowflake wool S’more.

RIP Exact Sweater My Third Grade Teacher Wore in ’91.

*This is a really sexist generalization, as my Uncle Gary loved to make his presents look amazing. He’s the only living man I know who enjoyed that kind of thing, though. So…

Why don’t you play along? I’d love to read how Christmas is special to you. If you don’t celebrate Christmas, write about a holiday you celebrate that’s special to you.


Just a little heads up, my dudes: I’m taking a very short, two week hiatus. Besides the McMilkshake and Dumpy post we are planning on for next week, the blog front will be a little quiet. It turns out I’ve done and signed up for too much this holiday season yet again.

So, (after the diet shit show post next week) the next time I’ll *see* you is after the happiest day of the year. Merriest of Holidays to all and to all a good couple weeks!

The Isle of Skye: The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

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The Isle of Skye is legit an otherworldly realm straight out of a Tolkien novel. One moment, you’re bumping along on a lovely one lane road riddled with potholes, surrounded by strangely-shaped mountains carpeted completely in a soft green and then, you round a bend and you’re somehow in a rough, craggy atmosphere, where a purpley-brown growth is springing out of a mist-covered ground and you are convinced you somehow landed on a planet not in our solar system.
(That was the longest fucking sentence I’ve ever written. It’s probably not even grammatically correct, but we’re just gonna roll with it.)
This is not a homage to Skye. In fact, my favorite part of Skye really had nothing to do with the actual place, as I could have met one of my favorite bloggers (more on that later) in Timbuktu if that was where she lived (and I happened to be traveling to Timbuktu).
This is going to be a post that fully prepares anyone wishing to go to Skye for the good, the bad, and the ugly.
So, let’s just get on with it, eh?
The Good
Really, the best way to show the good side of Skye would be with the pictures I took. So, I’m going to show and not tell. Besides, even my amateur photography would better serve to express its raw beauty than any vocabulary I possess.

This was 10 PM on the Isle of Skye. 

That water, though…

Every conceivable shade of green can be found on Skye.

The coolest coffee shop that served me the best latte I’ve ever had.

The best latte I’ve ever had and my first time trying oat milk = OBSESSED.

Beauty around every bend

The skies really made that green pop.

An old cemetery by the sea

Too beautiful for words

The sheep. OMG the sheep. I loved them so much. I miss those wooly butts so bad.

A stretch of road with no one on it is how I hoped it’d be.

It was so quiet and peaceful at this spot. Right here. Right here is Scotland to me.

It legit looks fake.

What planet is this even?

Out of this freaking world!

Being introspective af

I really hoped we’d see a hobbit at the Fairy Glen.

This is Skye.

This is the Skye I want to never forget.
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A tiny Old Man of Storr 
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Hehehehehe
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Portree
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We got to this one before the hordes invaded.
The Bad
The Roads
Holy shit, the roads. Probably 90% of the roads on Skye are one lane. I don’t even know if that figure is at all accurate, but numbers don’t matter here. You’re gonna feel those one-laners and that’s all that matters.
Not only are the majority of the roads one lane, they are full of locals who don’t have time for tourists and their inept driving. One thing can be said about those locals: they have a system and they all religiously abide by it (You pull over if the pullout is on your side. If it’s on the other side DO NOT, FOR FUCKS SAKE, PULL OVER ON THE OTHER SIDE OR YOU MESS UP THE WHOLE SYSTEM, JANET.)
So, yeah, the actual Skye residents drive like bats out of hell and literally everyone else has no idea what they’re doing.
As if that ain’t bad enough, after every other sheep in the road (that’s not a figure of speech, btw, they are literally in the road) is a pothole the size of any one of the Kardashians’ massive fake asses, and considering the entire island is only 639 square miles, that’s a lot of freaking potholes.
Our rental car probably needed all new suspension after a week of those roads, and my chiropractor is rolling in the dough (literally and figuratively).
The Tourists
So, yeah, we were tourists, but we weren’t those tourists. We weren’t touristy tourists. We weren’t literally-push-like-we’re-in-Kindergarten-tourists.
Actually, I encountered pushy, rude tourists the most in really crowded touristy places like Edinburgh Castle and the like.
I don’t recall any one tourist from the Isle of Skye, but that is probably because we encountered 8,565,723 of them. To be fucking precise.
I get it, people want to see beautiful places. We all want to see The Old Man of Storr, the Fairy Pools, the Quiraing. Realizing that doesn’t make it any less annoying that you and literally everyone’s brother are trampling along to see a famous rock structure and not one bit of it feels like it should.
When you look at pictures of Skye, it looks so unspoiled, unpopulated, “unruined”. Unless you’re visiting during the off season, those remote-looking images are straight up false advertisement. It’s hard to take in and truly appreciate the raw natural beauty of the Quiraing when you’re fighting with hordes of tourists with their selfie sticks.
There were quite a few times we drove by beautiful waterfalls or odd-shaped alien formations and didn’t stop because the area would be literally crawling with people.
My favorite waterfall was this one…

…because strangely, we were alone on the road, and there was not a single person for as far as the eye could see. We barely caught a glimpse of the waterfall as we passed, so we stopped so I could run back to take a picture. As I was heading back towards the waterfall, the only sound I could hear was the sound of rushing water and just the wildness that Skye is when it isn’t overrun by people. It was my favorite moment, hands down.

Alone on the road with this made me feel so completely in Scotland.
The Ugly
The Lack of Amenities
The bladder is a sympathetic organ. It feels bad for you when there are no bathrooms anywhere to be found. So, to show how sorry it is, it makes you need to go to the bathroom far more often than is even humanly possible. The bladder is also a stupid asshole.
You know who else is a stupid asshole? The Isle of Skye.
Ya’ll, there are literally no public toilets on the entirety of the whole damn island. Maybe that’s an exaggeration as we didn’t explore every square inch, but where we did go, we didn’t see one. Not a one.
What is the result when a council/area/agency fails to provide public restrooms at popular tourist sites?
Well, let me fucking tell you.
TOILET PAPER EVERYWHERE. EVERYWHERE.
You have no idea the amount of stress I had knowing the bathrooms would be few and far between. And, that wherever I’d find to “wee” behind a bush, there’d already be toilet paper and I DON’T EVEN WANT TO THINK WHAT ELSE.
It was gross. Inexcusable. And, exactly what happens when a place is perfectly happy taking tourists’ money but can’t be bothered to provide sanitary ways to relieve oneself.
I’m just glad that one of my fears- having an attack of the travel trickle in the middle of nowhere- was never realized, because I really didn’t want that to be the highlight of my time on Skye.
The Locals Who Are Jerks
When we arrived in Portree on our first night, it was a really busy Saturday evening. The tiny Co-Op grocery store was a happening place, as everyone was trying to get their provisions for the evening. There is next to no parking in Portree, but we somehow lucked out with a spot directly in front of the store. In case we needed to move the car for some reason, my aunt and uncle stayed in the car and my mom and I went into the store.
As we were looking for a handful of basic groceries, my aunt was approached by a woman who ever so nicely (that’s sarcasm) told her she couldn’t park in the spot we were in all night. My aunt said something like, “We weren’t planning on staying in the grocery store all night, but thanks…”
This woman then proceeded to tell her how annoying tourists are and how she can’t stand them.
She said this to a person who is obviously not a Skye local, but a fucking tourist.
Our first introduction to the Isle of Skye was a woman who told us how much she hated us.
Awesome.
There were a few people who were kind and accommodating, but for the most part, the people we encountered on the Isle of Skye weren’t especially nice.
Even worse, we were told that the general consensus is that tourists suck and that fixing the roads or the lack of amenities is totally not worth it, but the money they get from the hated tourists? They’re cool with that.
Look, I get it. Tourists can suck. Especially the ones who push you out of the way so they can take 18 different selfies in front of whatever isn’t quite as cool as they are. If you live in a touristy town, hordes of tourists invading your area can get old pretty fast, but being rude isn’t going to make them go away.
What took away some of the sting of being treated like an invasive species was getting to meet one of my favorite bloggers, Lorna, from Gin & Lemonade.
Her and her hubby and darling daughter were so accommodating, kind, and an immense treat to spend time with. Because of them, I’ll always love Skye and when I think of my time there, I’ll feel a connection that can’t just be made by merely seeing and visiting, but by experiencing and truly getting to know the good that exists there.
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MASSIVE love to these people.
If you’re reading this and you’re a Skye local and you take offense, take it up with the lady who stands outside the Bank Street Co-Op-the one who warmly welcomes your guests.

Cup O' Crack 

For this week’s #fbf, I decided to re-post my Cup O’ Crack craziness. Currently, I’m on spring break and steadily eating my way to This-Isn’t-Even-Funny-Anymore-Get-a-Grip town. On my way home from brunch yesterday, I almost stopped at the store to get the ingredients for Cup O’ Crack. Thinking it wasn’t wise to have more than one serving of Cup O’ Crack in the house, I got a king-sized Reese’s and a bag of BBQ sunflower seeds. When I got home, I ate my loot, fell asleep on the couch, and woke up an hour later to sunflower seed shells everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can’t even right now. So, how about I just wrap this up and get on with it…
When I’m stressed, worried, tired, happy, celebrating, mourning, or basically, whenever I’m breathing, I eat. I eat in a big way. I’m not proud of this, but it is what it is. Until I figure out how to separate my emotions from food, I’ll continue digging into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Buttah Core after a shitty day.
Sidebar: If you like peanut butter, you must go, right now, and buy this. I’m not shitting you. Slap on your wrinkly jeans, get your coat, car keys, and get your ass to 7-11. It’s that good.
So, I’ve recently taken to enjoying nightly, almost-instant microwaved marshmallow heaven, and its mind blowing. 
Let me tell you just how fucking fat I am.
Are you ready?
OK, I pour enough mini marshmallows to fill a large mug about halfway. Then, I get my Chex Mix ready (I’ve thought about using something far tastier, like Fruity Pebbles, but those would most assuredly send me into a diabetic coma. So, I go with the healthier, smarter, er…least ridiculous option of plain corn cereal).
Pro tip: Only microwave the marshmallows for about 30 seconds. Any more than that and you will have a sticky, gooey explosion of epic proportions. Then, your boyfriend will attempt to microwave his leftovers and there will be an altercation. Apparently, marshmallow and spaghetti don’t pair well.
Once the sweet, sugary, pillowy clouds of fluff are nicely melted, I pour in about a 1/2 cup of Chex Mix and mix carefully. Gotta get those little tasteless shits covered in goodness.
Then, I eat that shit.
It’s sticky, sweet, crunchy, warm, satisfying. It satiates Martha*.
Oh, didn’t I tell you I’ve named my stomach fat? Her name is Martha. The fucking bitch.
When I’m eating this Cup O’ Crack, I’m in another world. I’m riding technicolor stripper boot-wearing unicorns. The sky is dotted with cupcake clouds and cotton candy snow floats down around me.
No, that’s crazy.
I’m actually sitting on the couch in my stretched out skull-print pajama pants, watching Drop Dead Diva, with marshmallow strings hanging from my chin.
Such a glamorous life I lead.
Jealous?

I wasn’t even playing. THIS is Cup O’ Crack!

*Apparently, my fat used to be called Martha. I must have forgotten I’d already named her. Eh. Martha…Bertha…pretty much the same name.

5 Reasons Why I'm Failing at Adulting


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1.When my students do or say something turdly, really, just once, want to say, “I know you are, but what am I?” I know… but it would be so awesome to give them a little dose of the ridiculous excuses/responses/attitudes they give me every.single.day.

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2. Every year when I renew my car registration, I don’t put the new sticker on my license plate until I get pulled over. It’s like tradition. It is just so hard and takes too much effort to wipe the dust and grime off of my license plate and place the new sticker over the 10 that are already there, about to fall off. Pure unadulterated laziness.


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3. Every month, since I was 11 (why, God?) Aunt Flo has visited. One would think that after three decades of this ridiculousness, I would know to be prepared. Yet, every month, I ruin a pair of panties and I have to waddle into the store, with an entire roll of toilet paper wrapped around the crotch of my underwear.

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4. I love to wait until the bitter end before a credit card payment is due. That way, the extra money I was planning on using to pay down some of the debt can be used to buy new shoes or way too many Salted Caramel Mocha Frappuccinos far before I have to make the payment. Winning.

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5. I buy bananas for one sole purpose: I like to watch things slowly wither and die. For what other purpose do bananas serve? I sure as hell never eat them.

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When You Know You Need a Vacation

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Image courtesy Buzzfeed
Yesterday, I got a new student. He’s a spunky, sweet kid from the south. I am sure he will be a wonderful addition to our classroom. As for his opinion of me? I am going to have to be extra awesome-teacher for the next few days, let’s just put it that way.
When you get a new student, it behooves any good teacher to make a great first impression. I made sure we got all of our dedicated brain breaks throughout the day-“Hey, this is a really fun classroom-we get to do a YMCA kids Just Dance video between math and reading?!”. I made sure to emphasize the positive reward system and incentives-“If I make good decisions, I get to eat lunch with the teacher? Baller status!” I made sure my students really showed what they have been learning about ancient Rome-“Wow! They know so much about an ancient civilization. I want to be like these kids!”
After that, it all went downhill. Clark Griswold-sledding-like-a-fool-downhill-like.
Every day, I do a read-aloud about our social studies topic. In the middle of reading about Julius Caesar’s ultimate demise, someone farted.
I know, I know. What the hell is it with farts? I know.
I have always been excellent at ignoring fluffs. If you don’t, you lose instruction time, there is the potential for embarrassing the culprit, and it is just not good role model behavior. This year, however, farts have become exponentially funnier. I don’t know why.
But, I am a freaking human, alright?
I could feel it building inside. I tried to ignore it. I tried to focus on Brutus killing Caesar, “Et tu, Brute” and all that.
There wasn’t a single laugh or even any acknowledgement that it had happened.
But…it went “Bloop”.
Bloop
I couldn’t hold it in. I started laughing. I didn’t dare look at anyone. Maybe it would stop. I kept my face behind the book.
Reading…long pause…expectant re-positioning. Silent laughing. More reading. Longer pause. Not-so-silent laughing. 
Fuck. I cannot believe this is happening to me. AGAIN.
OK. STOP.
I can’t.
Because, it went “bloop”.
Bloop.
At this point, I am too far gone. You know when you are not supposed to laugh? During funerals? When someone is telling you something sad? When you are getting bad news of some sort? But, someone told you a joke before the bad news and you are still laughing, or the person talking to you has a crusty booger and you just can’t even?
It was like that. I knew I shouldn’t laugh and so, that is precisely when I can’t control laughing. 
My best friend in high school will relate, because we were the most hated students in Ms. Gibb’s class. We had laughing fits, on a daily basis, over stupid shit, like Ms. Gibb’s flock of seagulls hair. Once we started, we could.not.stop.
It was like that as my poor students sat, wide-eyed, watching their demented teacher lose her shit.
A few brave souls attempted apprehensive, “hehe’s”.
One student said, monotone, teacherly, “Are you OK, Ms. P?”
No. I was not OK.
Eventually, I did collect myself and we carried on, but not until we discussed why I was laughing. I was not laughing at the person who farted. We went over that it is a natural bodily function that is funny. Right?
The same student who asked if I was done losing my shit said, “Ms. P, that wasn’t even a fart, that was my shoe…”
It.wasn’t.even.a.fart.
What an excellent first impression for my new student. Teacher of the year right here.
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Image courtesy of wm-n.glb.shawcable.net
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Image courtesy of housetalkn.com