Why don’t you merge?
Can you not see
There’s room now on the track?
Okay, I guess
You’ve changed your mind
And want to come in
So I speed up
But then you do, too
And CUT in the goddamned line.
I have to slam
Upon my brakes
So hard my coffee flies
Now my car’s a mess
And I am planning
I honk, but you
Do not respond
My temper starts to burn
I honk again
Because if not,
However will you learn?
But still there’s
No response from you
I shake my fist
In beats of two
From my lips spew
I just don’t know
What else to do
What happens next,
I can’t believe
Is what I really see…
As if our roles
Have been reversed,
flip the bird
I feel my pulse begin to race
I fight the urge to quicken pace
Engaging in a high-speed chase
So I can punch you in the face
But I know I’d get
In trouble, so
I fight the blinding urge
OHMYGOD would you STOP with the coughing, already? All you do is cough cough cough and it’s so loud I can’t hear my stories!!! And when you finally catch your breath you just complain about your stupid tuberculosis or Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome or whatever. It’s like you don’t even care about ME at all.
Just take some damned Delsym or go to the emergency room or call 911 or something. I don’t care WHAT you do, just SHUT THE FUCK UP. I’m going to miss the end of this awesome movie about the detective and and the sexy maid and and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT.
Great, now the fucking kid’s got it, too. SO SELFISH, DUDE. You suck.
I’m not a good mom.
My son’s class has two Room Moms. They are young and cute and thin. They are BFFs, and they love to make crafts they find on Pinterest. They chaperone every field trip and organize every holiday party.
They make me itchy.
I don’t know their names (though they’ve told me numerous times); in my head I just call them call Perky Mom 1 and Perky Mom 2 and can’t think of them as anything else. When I see them I’m genuinely scared of what might fly out of my mouth; there’s a very good chance that I’ll accidentally say something inappropriate — you know, like “I want to stab you” or “Pinterest THIS, bitch.”
To be safe, I never volunteer for anything.
I’m not a good mom.
When I do attend PTA meetings, I take a travel mug filled with booze. I take a sip every time a PTA officer asks for volunteers, or when one of the Perky Moms mentions a Pinterest craft.
I’m not a good mom.
“Martha the Talking Dog? Really? I know it’s educational and all, but wouldn’t you rather watch Adventure Time? Or the Naked Pops episode of Regular Show? Look, I’ve got it right here, all queued up on Tivo…”
I’m not a good mom.
Sid the Science Kid is a total cunt nugget and I don’t mind saying so.
I’m not a good mom.
My kid has to remind me 15 times to give him extra money on Ice Cream Days, and even then there’s no guarantee that I’ll remember.
I’m not a good mom.
Every December, I forget to move that FUCKING STUPID FUCKING ELF at least twice. It’s only thanks to my son’s blind, determined belief in Santa and all things North Pole that I haven’t managed to completely destroy Christmas.
I’m not a good mom.
I forget all about Easter until the day before Easter. And then I’m up until 3:00 AM stuffing plastic eggs and hiding them in the backyard, trying to navigate through a minefield of dog poop with a fucking Spiderman flashlight.
I’m not a good mom.
You want to wear a green wig to school? A superhero cape? A faux-hawk? The tuxedo t-shirt? Your Mad Hatter costume from Halloween? All valid fashion choices, as far as I’m concerned.
I’m not a good mom.
Two words: Cupcake Breakfast.
I’m not a good mom.
I let him watch too much TV. I let him eat too many French fries. I let him play too many video games. I often forget to make him wash his hands before dinner. I don’t care if his socks match. I don’t always make him eat his vegetables.
I embarrass him with my sweet dance moves when an 80s song comes over the speaker at the grocery store. I force him into every photo booth we see, whether he’s in the mood to make silly faces for pictures, or not.
I’m not a good mom.
Yesterday I taught him to say “butt cheeks” in Spanish.
I’m not a good mom.
I hover. I make him hug and kiss me too much. I tell him too often that he’s awesome and clever and handsome and the Best Kid in the World. I rarely enforce Time Out.
I encourage him to jump on the trampoline with me, despite the safety hazards. I let him climb things. I sometimes climb things with him.
I tell dirty jokes and cuss when he’s within earshot.
I never, never let him win at Monopoly.
I don’t always make him stick with things; sometimes I let him just give up. Other times, I insist he keep going no matter what.
I make him hold my hand in the parking lot, whether he wants to or not. I still stay with him every night until he falls asleep, even though he’s probably way too old for that now.
I love him too much.
I’m not a good mom.
I’m not perfect; I screw up all the time. I’m not a Pinterest mom, and I can’t help with math homework unless I have a calculator. But still, I do my best — every single day.
I don’t beat myself up about the mistakes, because I know HE knows I’m doing everything I can to keep him safe and happy. I just cherish every moment, and believe in my heart it’s enough.
I don’t just love him – I like him. I tell him this all the time but, more importantly, I show him. I laugh at his jokes, I play with his toys, I ask questions and listen to his answers.
I make him know he’s loved — even when he doesn’t want to know it. And I know that, whatever direction his life may take, he’ll always have that to hold onto.
I’m not a good mom…
I’m a fucking great one.
This will come as a shock to no one, but sometimes I can be a little fucked in the head. Nothing too nut-tastic – I’m not sitting naked on my couch in a tin foil hat or screaming about Barack Obama’s birth certificate, or anything – but the typical depression stuff can grab me with its big, beefy bear paws every so often (usually thanks to shitty circumstances or some selfish dickwad hurting my feelings) and bat me around like a tiny baby bunny that’s been stunned into helpless immobility.
Being the bunny sucks. I HATE being the bunny.
Because being the bunny means I’m weak. It means I don’t have control over my own destiny. Some asshole bear’s got it instead, and while it knocks me around I’m nothing but a worthless mess of self-doubt and bad decisions. I can’t seem to do anything but dwell on my (numerous) failures and compare myself (unfavorably) to every other person on the planet – even the ones I’d normally mock, like that perky bitch who’s always Room Mom (I felt so much better about my Scooby Doo valentines until I saw her crafty Pinterest bullshit) and that blogger whose awful writing annoys the hell out of me but who still manages to be featured on every “favorites” list and speaks at all the events and gets a zillion comments on every post.
Now, when the Depression Bear strikes I’m usually pretty good at putting on my Happy Bunny face, using sarcasm and totally contrived bravado to distract people from all the insecure, anxious bullshit that’s underneath. I make jokes and pretend that I’m the coolest thing ever and never-never-never talk to anyone about the real dirt (making my problem someone else’s problem just isn’t my style).
This strategy usually serves me well… but when the bear’s at its most fierce I just don’t have the energy to pull it off. My acting chops have never been that good, and sometimes there’s no hiding the fact that, really, I’m not awesome at all – I’m just fucking sad, and this asshole bear is eating me alive.
Which brings me to the past 6 months of my ridiculous life. I like to call this time “The Era of Extraordinary Suckage” – notable for its unusual length (that’s what she said), massive scope and relentless, dogged determination to grind me into a gooey mess of uncertainty, disappointment and raw emotion. It’s been one hideous mishap/misstep/mistake after another, and with each one I’ve become a little more frozen in place. I don’t trust my own judgment about people or situations anymore, and that’s left me paralyzed. I’m too scared to do anything. So instead, I do nothing. And then feel like a loser. Which makes me want to cry. Which makes me want to sleep. Which makes me want to do… nothing.
Obviously, for the last few months I’ve been a real treat to live with. No! I’m kidding! I’ve been HORRIBLE to live with! I’ve been sullen and withdrawn and useless. I hide in my room. I rarely return phone calls or emails, and when I do I’m distant and detached. I’m like a phantom to my friends and family, and they’re all crazy worried. The only person I’ve managed to keep up appearances for – the ONLY person – is the Bean. He’s the ONE thing I’ve managed to do right. He’s the ONLY thing that’s kept the bear at bay. He’s the ONLY thing that can still make me really smile because… well hell, y’all. Just look at him.
Anyway. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that this has all been leading me to a big do-or-die moment. I knew it was coming, but didn’t actually get there until a couple of weeks ago, after a day that was particularly hard for no good reason. I spent the entire morning wallowing and dwelling and feeling sorry for myself and in the middle of it all this thought just hit me, like a punch upside the head: SNAP OUT OF IT, DUMBASS. This stupid bear is going to gnaw you to bits unless you stand up on your little bunny legs and FIGHT the bitch.
So I did.
My first therapy session was yesterday and it was super fun. No! Kidding again! It wasn’t fun at all! It was just me on a couch, talking ad nauseam about the Era of Extraordinary Suckage — with some tears and bad jokes sprinkled in for kicks. My therapist Dr. D (who is awesome, really) listened, asked a few questions, charged me a boatload of money and said he’d see me again next week.
Which, okay, doesn’t sound so great on the surface… but you know, something about just being there made me feel a million times better. When I stood up from that couch, I felt 20 pounds lighter – all of that emotional baggage I’d been carrying around, shed just like that. All it took was 50 minutes and a willingness to purge.
I’m not 100 percent yet, and I won’t be for a while. But what I’m finding is that sometimes being okay is just a matter of taking action. No one else can fight that bear for me; I have to do it myself. But if I can just get up off my ass and do something, I can beat it. I can. I might be just a scared, sad little bunny… but I’m also smart. And scrappy. And make no mistake about it – my little bunny claws are WICKED SHARP.
So that bear had better look the fuck out.
I’m trying to understand why every person in the world* loves Downton Abbey so much but so far I’m drawing a blank. I suppose I’d get some insight if I actually WATCHED Downton Abbey, but what I’m finding is that the more people try to make me feel like a stupid asshole for NOT watching Downton Abbey, the more I think Downton Abbey itself is a stupid asshole — and the more I want all of its terribly sophisticated viewers to suck a nut.The millions of status updates* I see every day about how pretentious amazing and pompous wonderful and gaggy romantic Downton Abbey is have not helped. And really, whatever minor chance there was that I’d EVER want to watch this show was destroyed forever on Super Bowl Sunday, when the TV gods dared to schedule both shows at the same time (cue dramatic soap opera music here) and every single person in the world* seemed to suffer from spontaneous amnesia, suddenly forgetting that technology like TiVO and DVRs and VCRs and computers exist and make it possible to actually record BOTH SHOWS AT ONCE (Gasp! Eureka! What? No! Really? YES!).
Honestly, I haven’t felt this disinclined to watch an overly hyped historical drama since Mad Men.
Look. I understand that you guys love Downton Abbey and I’m happy for you, I really am. It’s good that you’ve found a show you like, something that makes you feel tingly in funny places and gets you Wikipedia-ing things like the Spanish Flu. I’m sure the history is rich and the costumes are stunning and the romance is sweeping… but the way you all keep talking about it makes me feel like a vegan who’s accidentally stumbled into a butcher convention. Stop it! I don’t care how delicious it is — I don’t want your gross meat in my mouth!
(Unless it’s bacon. Mmm bacon.)
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is please everyone stop trying to make me watch Downton Abbey. Unless they add zombies or extraterrestrials or do an episode that’s made entirely of bacon, I’m not watching the show and you can’t make me. And the fact that YOU watch it doesn’t make you any better than me, either. Whether I’m a fan not, I’m still just as smart and sophisticated as you are and that’s a fact.
Now please shut up so I can hear what’s happening on Honey Boo Boo.
A few months ago I applied for a job and got a call back. It was an okay job. Not perfect, not great – but 2012 had really punched me in the nads and I desperately needed the work, so in true Beej fashion I overlooked every negative and convinced myself that this was the ABSOLUTE BEST JOB EVER — and went about the business of making it mine.
As it turned out, “making it mine” involved navigating through an unreasonably long and complicated interview process. Phone interviews, in-person meetings, extensive email exchanges, really REALLY stupid personality assessments, complex written assignments… each step was like some kind of death challenge I could survive only through cunning use of my skills, wit and charm.
You know, like Skyrim or something.
But, whatever. Fuck it! This was, after all, THE ABSOLUTE BEST JOB EVER! And I AM BEEJ! I can do anything! This is nothing, a mere bump in the road. I shall win. Win. Win at all costs.
So I unrolled my pack of weapons and magic and went at it. I jumped through the fiery hoops and slayed the scary monsters and juggled the knives and danced the jigs and the whole time I just smiled, smiled, smiled like my fucking teeth were on fire.
And it was working, y’all! They loved me! They said so! Repeatedly! And I loved them, too, I swear I did – even if they didn’t offer dental.
In every interview, every email, they begged me for more. They showered me with attention and love and glowing praise for my amazing talent and mind-bending smarts and incredible beauty and keen fashion sense and it all felt a lot like this:
This job was mine. In my head I was already a-sit at my new desk, chewing the end of a pencil as I thought up yet another brilliant piece of work. I went on a mental shopping spree with all my extra scratch. I planned trips to the doctor, since I’d finally have health insurance again, and worked out my entire first-week wardrobe.
All I had to do now was sit back and wait for the call. Which was just about to come in. Any minute now.
Three days after the day they’d said they’d let me know, I called. No one called me back. I waited another day (didn’t want to seem too desperate) (and you’ll appreciate the irony of that in just a minute), then emailed. No one responded. I called again.
To an outsider it would’ve seemed obvious that they’d chosen to hire someone else — but to me? NOPE. Nothing “obvious” about it. As far as I was concerned, until I heard it from their lips or saw it in black and white, hope was still alive. Seriously! There were a million other possible explanations!
Perhaps a large bookcase has fallen on top of the Hiring Manager and he’s trapped. Or maybe he’s contracted a burning case of explosive diarrhea and can’t get to the phone. Should I call someone to check? Ebola could be eating his face, for chrissake! Who KNOWS what tragedy has befallen this poor man??
The silence was deafening. I mean really, COME ON. It’s so douchey to leave me hanging like that. At least have the balls to give me the “It’s not you, it’s ME” speech or something! (Although in hindsight, I’m not so sure that would’ve made a dent. At this point, I was pretty much set to lose my shit no matter what.)
And so the Beej-to-totally-non-responsive-hiring-manager email blitz began.
“Hey, there! Just checking in! Any decisions about that job yet?”
“Hey, again! Haven’t heard from you, hope everything’s okay…?”
“Hey, you. Sorry to bother you again, but I’m really starting to get worried over here, sure hope you’re all right!”
“Listen, if I’m not hired for the job that’s fine, but I just really need to know one way or the other. Could you please get back with me?”
“Hey, I’ve had another opportunity come along [lie] and just really need to know what to tell them. If you could let me know whether I’m still being considered for the position, I’d sure appreciate it…”
“You know, it’s really rude for you not to respond. I’ve had lots of other offers [lie] and unless I hear from you soon, I’m going to have to start exploring other options [empty threat].”
“(tap-tap-tap) Is this thing on? Hahaaa! But seriously, give me a call.”
“Okay, I’m starting to get a little angry over here, mister. I poured my heart and soul into that interview process, and all I’m asking is for you to just tell me one way or the other.”
“FUCK YOU, HIRING MANAGER! Just FUCK YOU! I hope Ebola IS eating your face right now! I HATE YOU!”
“Listen, I’m sorry. I might have gone a little overboard just then. It’s just that I really need to know, you know? So could you please? Let me know, I mean?”
I couldn’t let it go. I KNEW I was acting like a total nut job… I even had the sense to be embarrassed about it. But I just couldn’t stop until I had my answer.
Now, if this had happened five or ten years ago I would’ve been over it within a day or two. I would have puffed my chest up — Oh yeah? Well, I didn’t want your shitty job anyway! YOUR LOSS, muthafucka – and bounced right back to find something even better without so much as a wince. But my bravado’s been slipping over the past few years. I don’t know if it’s an age thing, or a woman thing, or just a Beej thing – maybe it’s just one unfair, totally by surprise, we-fucking-love-you-no-wait-who-are-you-again? rejection too many — but whatever it is I just can’t seem to take the hard knocks like I used to. Even when they come from a job that, in all honesty, really wasn’t that great to begin with.
Anyway. The whole story ends exactly how you’d expect it to. I did finally get my response, and it was… well… let’s just say no restraining orders have been filed and I’m really glad about that.
But I do hope they’ll still consider me for any future positions that might come up.
- The endless cycle of Beej’s hair: grow out, get bored, cut, cry, grow out, get bored, cut, cry, and so on
- A “party” where you are expected to buy shit is NOT a party. It is a SALE.
- Hiding Out and Soul Man: Proof that both racism and statutory rape were a lot funnier in the 80s
- Side topic: Theories of post-80s life progression for Rae Dawn Chong
- The awesome sex dream I had about Matt Damon and how my cat ruined it
- The Vermont Country Store’s “Sexual Wellness” section: Because old people need vibrators, too
- The fact that it’s possible to get a pimple after the age of 40 is one of life’s greatest Fuck Yous.
- Pump Up the Volume was Christian Slater’s finest film – despite the presence of Samantha Mathis — and if you say otherwise I’ll punch you in the throat
- I have become convinced that I’m growing jowls
- NOEL does not mean what I thought it meant
- I want to adopt a potbellied pig and name it Amy Swinehouse, but I’m concerned this would seem disrespectful
- My anagram name is BLEW THE JELLY and I think this is wonderful
- How I walked into Home Depot for light bulbs and walked out with new blinds, a $500 gas grill, photos of a man with pomade in his hair and no light bulbs
- What the fuck is this Daniel Tiger bullshit and how can we put a stop to it?
- The multiple ways in which I continue to fuck up my life daily
- Fart bubbles
- Adam Carolla will never not be a douche
- Capri pants are a crime against humanity
- Mean girl drama wasn’t cute in high school and it’s even less cute at age 40
- Boob shrinkage
Obviously none of these ideas were good enough to publish on this here fine, highbrow blog. I passed them all up and wrote a poem about hair in my ass crack instead.
How I felt when the election coverage really started gearing up:
How I felt when the Republicans picked Mitt Romney as their candidate:
What I see every time I look at Donald Trump:
How I feel every time Michele Bachmann opens her mouth to say something:
How I felt about all my friends on Facebook BEFORE the election posts started:
How I felt about them AFTER the election posts started:
How I felt about Todd Akin’s rape remarks:
How I felt every time I read a post from someone suggesting that people in my political party are baby haters, family haters, country haters, god haters or some combination thereof:
How I felt watching the election returns:
How I imagine Todd Akin felt:
What I will look like next time I’m in Washington or Colorado:
What everyone at Romney headquarters looked like at the beginning of the night:
What everyone at Romney headquarters looked like by the end of the night:
How I felt during Obama’s acceptance speech:
How I hope we can all feel, now that it’s finally over:
Here’s to the next four years. Let’s make it work, y’all.
So this week I learned that David Gandy exists. Do you know who David Gandy is? No? Well, let me enlighten you.
THIS is David Gandy:
Uh, yeah. David Gandy EXISTS, y’all. He exists like a motherfucker. He can exist the hell out of me, anytime he wants. I found him by accident, doing something on the Internet that was probably really important, like paying my mortgage or researching a cure for diabetes or something. But then I found a slideshow of David Gandy photos and I was all, “FUCK THE MORTGAGE AND THE DIABETES. I’M IN LOVE WITH DAVID GANDY” and I spent the next hour or so just looking and drooling and looking and drooling and looking and drooling and so on.
I’m sure there are plenty of people already at work on that diabetes thing, anyway.
Lucky for everyone, the Big Bean happened to be sitting next to me when I came across this amazing gift from the sex gods and as I clicked from one flaming loins photo to the next, our conversation proved that (1) the Big Bean uses humor to mask his own insecurities and (B) We old.
ME: Oh. Oh, my. Wow.
BIG BEAN: (turns up volume)
ME: Oh, dear. (sharp intake of breath) Holy SHIT! Wowza!
BIG BEAN: (looks annoyed)
ME: (loud whistle)
BIG BEAN: Okay, what the HELL are you looking a—
glances over and sees this:
ME: I know, right?
BIG BEAN: I really could have gone all day without seeing that.
ME: Well, I couldn’t.
clicks to this one:
BIG BEAN: What the hell is this, anyway?
ME: It’s David Gandy. He’s a supermodel.
BIG BEAN: He’s not so hot.
ME: No, of course not. I mean, unless you’re really into guys with rock hard abs and bodies made of chiseled stone and magic sexy fairy dust.
BIG BEAN: Which you’re not into at all.
BIG BEAN: That must be the most uncomfortable bed in the world.
BIG BEAN: I guarantee, that guy was performing manual override just before this picture.
ME: Manual override?
BIG BEAN: Yeah, you know. Squeezing the weasel.
ME: (confused stare)
BIG BEAN: Pounding the flounder? Polishing the rocket? Beating the meat? JERKING OFF, honey. Come on, learn your slang. See there, where his pants are undone? And how exhausted he looks? That guy just had a jerkathon.
BIG BEAN: Kids these days, and their fucking fashion.
ME: Oh. Dear.
BIG BEAN: Is that guy humping a pillow?
ME: How come you never stand like that in your underwear?
BIG BEAN: Are you kidding? I do that all the time. I just did it a little while ago when I was changing out of my work clothes.
BIG BEAN: Um… someone should really tell him he’s doing that wrong.
BIG BEAN: Well, hell. Even I‘d fuck that guy.