Zoe is learning how to drive. It took her ten minutes to back out of our garage, down our driveway and into the road only to wind up facing in the wrong direction. It took another ten minutes to pull forward and back out again, this time facing in the right direction. As Nate sat in the passenger seat and calmly guided her, I played the part of backseat driver by calling out THAT’S OK, ZOE, WE DIDN’T NEED THAT MAILBOX ANYWAY. NEITHER DID OUR NEIGHBOR.
In the midst of our city, we have a public market that’s been going on two weeks shy of forever but I only just recently discovered it. Apparently, it’s one of those things people just know about because they’re “in the loop.” I never know about these things as I am not in the loop since I can’t find the damn loop without a GPS because they keep moving it on me. Also, the market happens to be located in the dirty, smelly, hairy armpit of our city and I happen to be a big, fat, chicken who hates armpits. But I was assured that the area was perfectly safe during daylight hours and that if I ventured out there right after breakfast, I wasn’t likely to wind up as a chalk outline on an episode of Law & Order. But I wasn’t taking any chances so I dragged my nine year old with me, just in case, because she knows karate.
While there, I bought myself this Jimmy Choo knock off purse. It’s the first purse that I have ever owned that looks both (1) stylish; and (2) not black. As soon as I brought it home, I had second thoughts which grew exponentially until I was grappling with the potential for my $35 purchase to infringe on Jimmy Choo’s copyright, compromise the sanctity of intellectual property in general and possibly violate who knows how many child labor laws in the process. All so that I can walk around carrying a gold billboard on my arm to announce to the world that I am too cheap to buy the real thing.
On the plus side, the gold color is growing on me.
I also bought this. It has kosher salt, garlic, onion, pepper, dill seed, mustard seed, rosemary, rice flour, cayenne and something called natural smoke flavor, which hello? If I had known that people actually wanted smokey flavors in their food, I would have invited everyone I know over for dinner for three straight months after having created my own version. The secret? Inadvertently roasting gloppy grilled cheese sandwiches at 550° for an hour and a half while you watch a few episodes of Real Housewives of New York on your DVR.
I bought this stuff so that the next time I ask everyone what they want for dinner fifty-two times and they respond We don’t know fifty-two times and I wind up yelling ONE OF THESE DAYS, I’M JUST GOING TO SERVE YOU ROAD KILL, I SWEAR TO GOD, I won’t actually be lying to God.
It’s not nice to lie to God. I’m pretty sure She keeps track of that sort of stuff on Her laptop.
We went out for ice cream the other day and Oliver got his own serving which, at first, he eyed suspiciously, then sniffed a few hundred times before sticking his entire face in the bowl without managing to actually touch any of the doggie treats that adorned it. GOD FORBID.
How did I wind up with a puppy who snubs his nose to every doggie treat known to man? Aren’t dogs supposed to eat everything, no matter how disgusting it is? Like poop and stuff? Not that Oliver eats his own poop. I nipped that in the bud because I don’t put up with that sort of thing. My kids never did it which went a long way in my decision to keep them.
I love writing my blog and putting myself and my life out there. I really do. But if I’m being completely honest here, sometimes, sometimes, I wish I had started this blog anonymously. Because sometimes, I don’t want to be the bigger person and take the high road. Sometimes, I want to be petty and small and take the road straight to hell by ripping someone a new asshole on this blog. You know … a good ol’ bitch fest with lots of vitriolic castigation, swear words and some spitting. But I can’t because actions like that have repercussions in real life. Maybe the object of my hissy fit reads this blog and in his/her spare time, grades my kids’ math tests or fills my kids’ cavities or fixes the brake lines in my car, or has marital relations with me or cuts my hair? Is two minutes of going apeshit on someone’s ass worth my kids failing school or me walking around with an asymmetrical mullet?
Eve, a blogging acquaintance of mine, started a new site called Letters to Breathe and there, you can post your anonymous, unsent letters and say what you can’t say anywhere else. You can get the weight off your chest and the monkey off your back and finally tell your neighbor that if he wasn’t being such a bitter turd about the property line, you’d be more than happy to inform him that his wife is banging the UPS guy. You can do it without fear of discovery or consequence or a big oak tree plunging through your roof.
By the way, if you ever see a letter posted there addressed to AssHat Douchebag in which some guy gets verbally castrated and has his balls theoretically shoved down his throat because he once humiliated a shy, young, naive underclassman in front of all his friends in the middle of the senior corridor of a high school over twenty-five years ago, I didn’t write it.
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