Suzy Snapshot aka/ The Sister In Law

Let me just preface this little rant by saying that I really like my sister in law...almost all of the time..and there will probably be an inordinate amount of F-Bombs dropped in this post...more than usual I mean. I drop F-Bombs all the time so I suppose it really isn't anything new. I don't know why I felt the need to say that.

To begin with...I hate, I mean really hate having my picture taken.

I blame this on my mother who, when I was in first grade, forced a pixie haircut on me and made me wear a dress I hated to have school pictures taken. The worst part was one of my front teeth was missing and when it was my turn in front of the camera, the photographer insisted I smile. I didn't want to smile but my tormentor, the photographer, wouldn't snap the shot until my lips parted showing the gaping hole in the front of my mouth. It ended up looking like I was grimacing in pain. My eyes were all squinted, lips stretched in a straight line...it was horrid. Probably the beginning of what Oprah fondly calls "The Ugly Cry"...which, sadly, is the only kind of cry I know how to do.

I'm pretty sure this incident damaged me psychologically. And since my mom's dead, there's nobody left to contradict anything I might say about the incident. Besides, since it's my memory, albeit not as sharp as it once was, it must be an accurate reflection of the way I saw things then, right? Well, that's my theory anyway.

My SIL loves get together's. She likes to host them...she likes to attend them...she just fucking loves that kind of stuff. I can take it or leave it. Most of the time, I leave it. You know why? Because there's always some fucking asshole with a camera to capture photographic evidence "memories".

When there's a family photo that needs to have everyone involved, I cooperate. I don't like it but, oddly for once, I'm not an asshole about it. I participate...and that's really all anyone can or should expect, isn't it? Well, I think it is.

It's not the "family photo op" that bugs me. Okay, it does bug me a little, but really it's the "Candid Camera" snapshots that the SIL and those of her ilk are after that bug me the most. No matter where the gathering is the SIL is there with her camera. She even took pictures at a family funeral. WTF??Who takes pictures at a funeral? All the grieving family dressed in darkness, looking ever so solemn and mournful...just waiting for the SIL to snap their picture as they wipe tears from their eyes or blow snot out of their nose accidentally streaking it across their cheek leaving a shiny smear to be immortalized in a family "memory". Nobody wants their picture taken with a Rudolph nose and red, puffy salamander eyes.

Never when I'm at one of these gatherings do I throw a fit...I mean, I do in my head...in my head, I've called my SIL every fucking horrible name in the book...and then some. Usually, if I see someone with a camera, I just casually walk the other way or turn my head so I'm not really in the shot.

If I'm cornered deliberately by someone like my SIL sometimes I give her them a middle finger salute, but that's about the extent of my bad behavior. These photo freaks, once they find out you're unwilling, make it their mission to snap your picture. It seems to become a game to see if they can actually get your picture without you noticing.

Guess what they do then??? They post the pictures on fucking Facebook. Never in my life have I posted anything on Facebook. But who knew I didn't need to? Who needs to post their own pictures when you have family and friends who think it's perfectly fucking acceptable to invade your privacy by posting pictures of you that you've never even seen or didn't even know existed?

I've never used Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, or any of that stuff and admittedly I'm sort of a Luddite. But that's neither her nor there. I've never had a need for any of that stuff. If I did, I'd figure it out...until then, meh.

The simple truth is...even though some refuse to acknowledge this, most people don't care about looking at other people's pictures.,,they do it out of politeness. I'm pretty sure my life isn't that interesting to the rest of humanity or even the small group of people I know in this world that they would welcome being inundated with a never-ending stream chronicling the minutiae of my life.

And here I sit writing about that same minutiae...it's the stoopidist thing.

Pee. Ess.  I do see the irony in this.

Pee. Pee. Ess.  I really do like my SIL.

Pee. Pee. Pee. Ess.  I don't think I was nearly as bad with the F-bombs as I thought I was going to be.

Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Ess.  After today I'm going back to the normal P.S. system. It seems kind weird to be typing PeePee all the time.

My Friday

I actually wrote this on Thursday and, being the self proclaimed Queen of Procrastination, never quite got around to posting it then....




Even though today is Thursday, it's my Friday. Thankfully in my current job I work ten hours a day, four days a week. I have to say it's fabulous having three days off a week. So fabulous in fact, that you'd think I'd have nothing to bitch about, wouldn't you?  And you'd be entirely wrong.

Fridays are generally welcome to everyone who is forced, through no fault of their own, to work for a living. Some people like working...or so I've been told. In all my life, I've only met one woman who said she would keep working if she won the lottery. I admit I question her sanity. On the other hand maybe it's just a ruse on her part and she would really only come to work just so she could have the satisfaction of telling her bosses to go fuck off. That would make way more sense to me. I always think I'd like to do something like that but I'm always so afraid of hurting people's feelings that when the time came, I know I'd chicken out. Confrontation is my Kryptonite...and bugs...confrontation and bugs are my Kryptonite.

So sometimes it's called "Casual Friday" but at our barn it's called "Fun Friday" because none of the bosses are at work and everyone can do what they want. There's always lots of snackage and laughing...tons of laughing. I only know this because occasionally I have to work on a "real" Friday and there's a lot of shenanigans going on. Shenanigans I happily participated in.

Since today is "My Friday", I've decided the weekly name is "Fuckwad Friday". Things did not go my way. Admittedly, some of it was my fault. Managing time is not my strong suit. Most of the time I try to tell myself that I work better under pressure. But the simple truth is I procrastinate. Never do a job today that can be put off till tomorrow...that's my motto.

The Husband, man of my dreams, taught me about mottoes...he has many mottoes but his favorite is "A working woman's a happy woman." He tells me this every time I complain about my job. I want to hit him when he says it...really hard...but I don't.  'Cause I really do like him...and there's always the potential elder abuse charges.  Just kidding...sort of. I wonder if there would be "elder abuse" charges if the abuser was an elder too? (Note to self...must research this.)

I forgot my first appointment and managed to arrive in the nick of time...only to be stood up. Back to the office where I attempted to look busy while waiting to leave early for the "All Important Hair Appointment" with Crazy D, The Root Doctor. After puttering around until I had about two hours till appointment countdown, I remembered I had another meeting in another town about thirty minutes away...give or take a few minutes depending on traffic. I blame old age AND menopause for my faulty memory. When I was young and unshriveled I had a spectacular memory...I think...I could be wrong.

The downhill spiral started on my drive south to the neighboring town...and included my encounter with Fuckwad #1 driving something similar to this. Only not as new...and slightly more compact.



Admittedly I've never been a fan of this style of car...but doesn't it look like it should be center ring at Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey with clowns pouring out of it? I wonder how many clowns could fit inside? You have to feel for the bottom clown who must be the most non-claustrophobic person on the planet. I would die...or at least think I was going to die if I had to be bottom clown. It's probably how they train junior clowns...the senior clowns get to ride up front and get out first. It's the clown caste system.

Fuckwad #1 is at the top of the Fuckwad Squad for the day simply for being a booberdoober. Not just a regular, every day, old person booberdoober.  #1 was a RUDE booberdoober. If I'd had the foresight to whip out my iPhone, I could have had video evidence. But since it's illegal to use the phone while driving it's probably a good thing that I lack foresight. The way my luck was going, CHP would've nailed me for sure.

I started out in the slow lane where far ahead of me was #1 behind a semi...all of us were in the slow lane. When I caught up to #1 & the semi, I signaled and moved into the passing lane to go around both of the slower travelling vehicles. Before I could get around #1 to pass the semi, #1 pulls out in front of me to pass the same semi...no blinker, just a buttinsnky move...and after being in such a big friggin' hurry,  #1 just stayed in the passing lane without passing...driving side by side with the semi.

"You asswipe motherfucker" I screamed at the top of my lungs...basically to myself since there wasn't anyone with me, windows were up, A/C was on, and music was blaring. Considering my whole kryptonite/confrontation thing, it's probably better that I scream at myself rather than a complete stranger who may very well have their own road rage issues and ram their car into mine just to ensure their status as king or queen of the road. Honestly, I think my way of handling road rage is way more peaceful than Fuckwad #1 if, by chance, he/she was a road rager of the ramming variety...even if my way is completely childish and immature...plus it does make me feel better at the time.

#1 actually sped up enough for me to get around the semi before the passing lane went away and the road became single lanes. But then, when it went back to a passing lane again #1 jumped in front of me again. This time I was a little more subdued...

"Really? You Fuckwad." I didn't even raise my voice this time. Maybe because #1 was at least doing the speed limit. Even though I wanted to go faster than the legal speed limit, it seems wrong to get mad at people who won't break the law with you...even though you really want them to.

All my hysterics were for nothing...as usual. After a brief encounter with Fuckwad #2 who did the same thing to me as  #1 had, for which I'm embarrassingly proud to say my response was only mildly rude..."Are you fucking kidding me?"  That's it... and it was said in my regular speaking voice. There may have been a slightly defeated, resigned, why me, whiny tone...but the volume was definitely low.

It's kind of embarrassing to admit that not only did I actually scream these words out loud in my car but I do this on a regular basis. Never in a million years would I call someone the names I call them when I'm safely ensconced in my car out of earshot...no matter how mad they made me. When someone is a buttinsky in front of me at the store, I don't scream and shout calling them horrible names. I put on the benign old lady smile and act like I didn't notice. Which if you think about it means I'm being a doormat. But in order to speak up I'd have to not only acknowledge but overcome the whole confrontation/kryptonite thing.

What is it about being in the car that makes me allow myself become so enraged that I'm compelled to behave like a spoiled three year old throwing a fit? Do I just think I'm invincible because I'm surrounded by a steel barrier? And I'm not alone in this little bit of juvenile behavior. I bet you could find at least one news story a day that started in road rage. Fortunately most of them don't end up in death or dismemberment...well, at least not the dismemberment part. It would be a little difficult to be involved in a spontaneous road rage incident that allowed the time needed for dismemberment...or the proper tools...that would require a little more planning I'd think.

I made it back in time for the "All Important Hair Appointment" in spite off the best efforts of the Fuckwad Squad. So now my roots are no longer a shade of blinding white. No longer do I look like a member of the Skunk Woman Tribe, however as my aforementioned behavior indicates, I'm still a member in good standing of the Assholian Tribe...it's the stooipidist thing.

All About Lois

The Old Chix got together recently for brunch at a local casino buffet. Dr. Norman, Unofficial Old Chix, was the sole teetotaler. The rest of us got slightly buzzed on champagne. At least I did. But I'm such a light weight drinker it doesn't take much to get me buzzed.

The highlight of the get together, for me anyway, was a chance to see Lois, affectionately known as Anal Spice.  I'm not sure she sees as much humor in her Old Chix pet name as I do. If I'm being honest, I can't say that she sees ANY humor in it at all. I could be wrong. Anyway, Lois got a new job a short time ago that made her kind of a big wig. She works out of the area so we don't see her as much as we'd like.,.although she probably sees us as much as she likes. I think we like her more than she likes us. I could be wrong. I mean, what's not to like?

During the cruise we went on last year, Lois introduced us to her "head gear". She suffers from TMJ and the best the medical community could do for her was give her a mouthpiece that she was supposed to wear at night. Which she did...faithfully...every night. And she didn't just put in it right before shutting out the lights and going to sleep. Not our Lois, the supreme rule follower...no, she put it in a couple of hours before lights out...like she was supposed to...and then she tried to talk with it in her mouth...sounding like Daffy Duck or Sylvester...thuffering thuccotash. No shit...it was hilarious...and she was mocked endlessly, but in a good way. Here's this woman who looks put together all the time...even in a bathrobe, but when she opens her mouth and speaks, cartoon characters emerge from the ol' pie hole. At first you think it's a joke...but it's not. It's one of those instances where you know you shouldn't laugh about it, let alone make fun of her, but you (meaning me and the other Assholians...) just can't help it. Fortunately for us she's incredibly good natured. Although looking back, it could explain why she's not as happy to see us as we are to see her.

But back to brunch...Lois got new head gear. Secretly I couldn't wait to see it. I had visions of bands of metal wrapping around her head all attached to some medieval torture device implanted in her mouth...and I was sadly disappointed. The new head gear that she's now supposed to wear ALL the time...except when she's eating, looks like those clear braces you see people wearing...but it doesn't straighten her teeth out. You could see it as soon as she smiled but then, I knew she was wearing it so maybe someone who didn't know her wouldn't be able to tell.

The new gear forces her lower to jaw jut out from below her upper teeth making her look like Karl Childers. I kinda kept expecting her to grunt "um hmm" in true Sling Blade slang. She didn't, of course, and my high hopes were dashed to smithereens. It does, however, make all her words sound like they have an "sh" sound to them and causes her to over exaggerate her lip movement in an effort to enunciate.

I end up cracking myself up imagining her trying to discipline one of her underlings and wondering how they would ever be able to keep from laughing when they were supposed to be serious. Never in a million years would I be able to keep a straight face in a situation like that. I'd give anything to be a fly on the wall when she has to conduct a job interview with someone who's never met her just to see their reaction. I know that's kind of a weird thing to think about and truthfully, I have no idea what damage to my psyche has occurred that makes me think this kind of shit is funny...it's the stoopidist thing.

Pee Ess:  Lois had the last laugh when we played Watch Ya' Mouth at an Old Chix gala this weekend. All her previous head gear experience made it really easy for her to talk with a simple dental lip & cheek retractor.

It Sounds Wrong

I just saw a TV commercial for Nathan's hot dogs celebrating their 100th anniversary.  It's not that I begrudge them their celebration because I don't. In fact, I think it's quite an achievement to keep a business going that long. Plus, I like their hot dogs.

It looked like a carnival atmosphere with booths set up, hot dog eating contests, and a giant slide for kids to play on...a slide that looked like a giant hot dog.

Immediately in my head I hear kids saying things like...

"Mommy, Mommy, look at that big weenie."
"Mommy I want to ride the weiner."
"I want to go slide down the big weiner".
"Can we go ride the weenie slide now?"

Is it just me or doesn't that sound just a little bit cringe worthy???  It's the stoopidist thing...

Pee. Ess.  If it's just me, please don't tell me...because that would mean the problem is totally in my head and this early in the morning I'm just not ready to acknowledge yet another weird thing about myself.

Pee Ess Problemos

Here I am with yet another example of my ever apparent brain dysfunction. The Old Chix Grammar Queen, Scari, failed to point out this particular grammatical faux pas. She could've saved me a lot of time had she been slightly more thorough in her critiques.

When I send an email or write anything, sometimes I use a P.S. at the end...almost always for something trivial or unimportant. Sometimes I use more than one. Then I got to wondering if there was a limit to the number of "Pee Esses" you could add...and asked someone...who didn't know either.  I always just added as many as I wanted but I always had to have them in some kind of visual balance that's probably evident only to me...because I am, after all, a member of the extremely large and ever expanding Moronsky family...

For example....

P.S.
P.S.S.
P.P.S.S.
P.P.P.S.S.S.

But this is what I see in my head...I'm sure there some weird OCD reason for this that I probably don't want to know about. It's the little tree shape.

    P.S.                                                             

   P.S.S.                                                          

  P.P.S.S.                                                       

P.P.P.S.S.S.                                                 

I guess in the end, when I visualize the letters I just need them to be symmetrical. If they're not, then I feel compelled to add another so it's balanced in my head.  (Jeeez, when I look at this in writing it sounds really fuckin' cuckoo. It never seemed so cuckoo when it was just in my head.)

Then I got myself all screwed up because I thought about them as the words instead of just letters...like you're supposed to. You know, post script, or post scriptum...if you feel the need to be picky,  In a nutshell it means "written after" or "after the writing". I like the second one better...it makes more sense to me...I don't know why.

So all this time the correct abbreviations and words should have been...

P.S.                                                                Post Script              
P.P.S.                                                             Post Post Script
P.P.P.S.                                                          Post Post Post Script

...and on...and on...

This hurts me in my head because I can't have the same number of Pee's and Esses...

It's always wrong to have multiple scripts but posts are limitless... according to every Google Search-worthy site I looked at.  You can have "after the after writing"...PPS... and it makes sense to me. It even makes sense to me to have "after the after after writing"...PPPS.

Here's another weird thing I just realized...I'm saying it in my head as I'm thinking about it...and now I wonder if everybody does this or just me? I hear the rhythm in my head..."after the AFTER after writing"...inflection is very important here...but probably only to me. Apparently I need an audial and visual balance...I never knew how weird I really am.

Now I'm in a quandary...because in my head, PSS works perfectly too . Even the words work for me. PSS...after the writing, writing. Doesn't that mean the same thing as after the after writing? (You may need to hear it in your head the way I do...with inflection...AFTER the writing, writing. Aren't they both the writing after the after writing? So shouldn't P.S.S. be equally acceptable?

Yet another reason for me to be bitter about all the fucking rules I'm expected to follow that I had no voice in making...it's the stoopidist thing.

Pee Ess...This is how I'll do it from now on.

Verbally Inadequate

How is it that some people know exactly the right thing to say...at exactly the right time? And why can't I be one of them?

Some people are so verbally gifted they can articulate a thought the instant it enters their brain...and not only do they not sound stoopid, they manage to sound supremely intelligent to boot. Unlike me who stumbles through life stubbing my forehead on the ground while trying to get my foot out of my mouth. Why can't I be like those other people?

Obviously at this late stage of my life chances of me ever blossoming into any sort of verbal judo black belt are slim to none. But it would be nice to...occasionally...be able to deliver a witty retort...preferably one that actually made sense. Instead out pops the good ol' stand by "Oh yeah... well.... so????? Or the equally fabulous "fuck you".

Was there some kind of class I missed in school that taught stuff like this? One of the many, many, classes I cut in favor of partying and doing stuff I shouldn't have been doing? Did I fry my brain with drugs and alcohol to the point that neurotransmitter function was slowed to a snails pace? Is that why I'm slow?

It's not that I'm a complete imbecile. I may not be at the top of the smart scale but I can, most of the time, form compete sentences. Not always...but most of the time I can even spell correctly...and when I can't, I'm smart enough to use spell check. Although I have to admit, spell check doesn't help at all for shit like there/their, your/you're...etc.

Sometimes I do think of a fabulously witty comeback but it's always several hours later when it can do me no good. And it's not like you can shove those witty little jewels into the brain vault for future use because they never fit into the slots like you think they will. Oh, you think...I can't wait until somebody says "this" to me so I can say "that" to them...but it never works out that way. The "that" that you've been saving never fits in with whatever their "this" is. Does that make sense?

When you have it drilled into your head from the time you learn to talk that you're always supposed to be polite it's really hard to change that kind of thinking. Maybe because my mom forced me to polite I never developed the skills necessary to deliver a well placed barb.

Maybe I just don't have the killer instinct. Because it's either that or I'm slightly imbecilic...maybe a combination of both...it's the stoopidist thing.