Broken Booty-Butt

It’s funny because it’s true.

Bitch of the Moment:

Booty-Butt. That’s what the Girl calls her ass. Not a behind, butt, booty, keester. Booty-butt. The Hubby and I tell her all the time to just say one or the other but nope. Booty-butt is her preferred term for backsides. I must admit, when she says it in her high-pitched little voice, usually with a smile on her face and giggling (because butts are funny,) I can’t help but laugh.

I even laugh when she refers to my ass as a broken booty-butt. It’s about to get all T.M.I. up in here so if you’re squeamish or a dude that doesn’t like to hear or read about girly-part problems, you may want to skip this one. Those that know me in “real” life know of my past medical dramas, to some extent anyway. You’re about to know the full extent. A week and half ago, I had yet another major surgery. Here’s why:

Seven years, five months and nineteen days ago, I welcomed a beautiful baby boy into my life. I was so overjoyed and overwhelmed with love for this little guy who was finally in my arms after trying for so long. I was also very, very drugged – happily so. I’ve always said women who give birth au naturale intentionally must be gluttons for punishment. Hate on me if you want, you Queens of Granola Land, but the pain of childbirth is a badge I did not want to earn. I have a high threshold for pain, except when it pertains to hoo-hahs and medical procedures (I once almost passed out just from having an IUD placed in my cervix – not one of my stronger moments in life.) Anyway, thankfully the epidural was in full effect when my precious 8 pound, 9 ounce, bouncing, baby boy was delivered and stayed in effect for a while after. I am thankful because it hid the fact that all 8 pounds, 9 ounces of baby caused me to have a fourth degree tear. He literally tore me a new asshole. I had asked for an episiotomy beforehand but my dipshit nurse had told me, “Oh honey, it’s better to tear naturally” smiling smugly while walking away. Ladies, we know our bodies, we know what we’re capable of and I knew I was not made to have babies naturally or tear naturally. But, being timid and figuring my doctor and nurses knew better than I since this was my first medical rodeo, I deferred to them. I was a fucking idiot.

Once the drugs wore off, I was in the most pain I’ve ever been in. I thought it was par for the course and that I was just being a big puss because of my known hoo-hah cowardice. So what if I could barely walk and the pain meds seemed to be nothing more than sugar pills? I had a beautiful boy and I’d heal……someday. It wasn’t until after about three weeks that I knew something was really wrong.  Here’s where it gets gross so you have fair warning to back out now. I had to…..go. Due to the pain of bowel movements after childbirth, I was already cringing at the mere thought of having to go but this time it really hurt. But not where it should  have hurt. It hurt up front. I immediately called my doctor and got his cunt of a nurse. I told her that I thought things were coming out of the wrong area as delicately and discreetly as I could. I could not bear the humiliation of actually saying what was happening to me – I was morti-fucking-fied. She basically told me I was mistaken, that couldn’t be happening, but since I insisted she guessed she’d make me an appointment (I really fucking hated that nurse.) My doctor saw me the next day and after inspection told me that there was a “communication error” between my va-jay-jay and ass. Seriously? A communication error? What the fuck does that mean? It meant that the stitching he did on the wall between my vagina and anus that had been decimated by my child’s huge head and shoulders had fallen apart. Excuse me? Apparently, my ass had decided to take a vacation and leave the dirty work to my Miss Priss and she wasn’t having it, and neither was I.

I was referred to a specialty surgeon to correct my communication error. I found out he mostly did surgeries on cancer patients and the type of fistula repair I needed wasn’t one he performed that often – especially on patients not riddled with cancer. Ummm? And his bedside manner was…. it sucked. If he used that same demeanor in his personal life I’m sure he never got laid – which could explain why he was such an asshole. My Hubby is a self-proclaimed asshole and HE thought this doctor was an asshat. He did my first official reconstructive surgery and much like his sex life I’m sure, it was a complete failure. On to the next one.

I was finally referred to someone who specialized in asses. He actually referred to himself as “The Butt Doctor.” I mean, if you have to deal with assholes all day for a living, you might as well have a sense of humor about it. And of all my doctors (and there have been many – I guess I’m a doctor-slut) he is my all-time favorite. He listened to me, cared about me, and took my age and lifestyle into consideration before he tried anything. You see, he could have started out drastically with major surgery which meant wearing a bag to divert “things” while letting my repaired ass heal. Knowing that was not something a 29 year-old, new mother wanted to deal with physically or mentally, he tried several different approaches that weren’t as evasive. Unfortunately, my ass is an asshole and was still on strike. Four surgeries later and I was still having communication errors. Time to take evasive action.

Hello, I’m BitchinMommy, and I had a colostomy bag. They’re all the rage. With an array of powders and adhesive patches, you too can feel utterly disgusting and humiliated. Everyone wants to buy clothing two sizes too big to conceal the latest in shitbag attachments. Let’s not forget, you have no control over the noises that emit from it because you cannot feel when things are “moving” so you have the added bonus of providing your own personal soundtrack wherever you go. I wore that fucking thing for four months. Worst time in my life and I’ll tell you, that’s saying something. But, it worked. On December 27th in 2006, I had the bag removed and my ass was finally put back to work, the bum that she is (ba-dum-dum!)

Don’t feel sorry for me. I lived. I pretty much got to stay home the entire first year of my son’s life while getting paid by short-term disability. Silver linings and whatnot. My stomach is scarred and I’ll never wear a bikini again (even when I got really skinny last year) but hey, I got something even better in return for my troubles. I got a brilliant, unbelievably handsome little guy out of the deal who I love to the moon. Who needs a fucking bikini?

Much to the amazement of most everyone I know, I still chose to have two children after that debacle. It’s because I knew that the doctors would be forced to deliver via c-section (like I wanted the first go round) and my ass would never have the opportunity to go on strike again. I already had so many scars you could play connect the dots on my stomach so the idea of more incisions wasn’t even a remote concern. Though, having two more kids jump around on my bladder did its damage. Jumping on trampolines, running, and even sneezing could potentially create embarrassing instances for me so I cut the two of those out that I could (no love lost there anyway.) Also, due to being pregnant three times in the span of four years and nursing all three babies thereafter, I didn’t notice anything awry in the period department because I wasn’t having them. Boy, oh boy, did I get a rude awakening after I finished nursing Lil’ Man.

Boys, here’s a T.M.M. moment so you can avert your eyes (Too Much Menstruation.) When my periods returned, they brought new meaning to “Crimson Tide.” We’re talking the biggest pad you can buy AND a super plus tampon and still having breakthrough bleeding. I would have to change out every two hours. This went on for about five days and then it would stop. I could almost live with that, my panty supply not so much, but if I set a timer and slept on towels I could manage. But Aunt Flo was a real cunt and would return after only a day’s reprieve and go on for another week, week and a half. That’s right, almost two and a half weeks worth of that raging bitch ruining my body, clothes and sanity. But did she wait another 28 days before showing up uninvited again? Of course not. She would show right back up a week and half later. I should have bought stock in Always pads and O.B. tampons.

During my birthing and nursing stint, the absence of my period hid that fact I had developed two massive polyps in my uterine wall which caused the excessive bleeding and abnormal length of my cycles. Eureka! We have found the problem. This shouldn’t be too hard to fix, right? Wellllll….. kinda sorta. My first option was to take birth control pills – the ones that let you go three to four months without a period – which just seemed so wrong considering I had a tubal after Lil’ Man and thought birth control was a definite thing of the past. My second option was to take a prescription that would lighten my periods considerably but would do nothing to lessen the amount of time I spent enduring them. Using either of those options meant taking pills until I reached menopause which is not anytime in the near future. The last option was a hysterectomy. Great, another fucking surgery. As much as it pained me, I went with the first option.

I tried to put a positive spin on taking birth control again by thinking Hey, at least the adult acne I have recently developed might clear up. Not only did that shit not happen, but I gained twenty (20!) pounds in two months. Alright folks, I have been a lot bigger at certain times in my life than I was at this point, even after the 20-pound gain (I got especially large during the “communication error” era when I had to eat a low-residue diet. Low-residue = foods that don’t make you shit like vegetables, you know, HEALTHY DIET FOODS.) Just a few months before the hellacious periods began, I was thinnest I have ever been and was tired of people telling me I looked sick or older. It also pissed me off when I was informed that people thought I had become anorexic or bulimic. I could deal with putting on weight and honestly, I welcomed my once fabulous ass back as she had flattened out a lot when I got skinny. What I could not deal with was no longer fitting any of my clothes and having no money to buy a new wardrobe. With each passing month I was bloating more and more from the damn periods and packing on ten pounds a month was a no-go for me. Since option number two did nothing to lessen the length of my periods, I skipped right on over that one and started the hysterectomy discussion.

I had to do several tests before they discovered the polyps, one of which lead them to also discover that I had a prolapsed bladder. Ah, so that’s why I pee a little when I sneeze. Time to see yet another surgeon who could correct this at the same time as the hysterectomy. I like this surgeon almost as much as my butt doctor. He is a Urogynecologist and has the same kind of sense of humor about what he does so he’s a keeper. If you can make me laugh and feel somewhat comfortable while I am almost upside down with my feet in stirrups, half-naked and bleeding, you’re alright. He also does the same surgeries as my butt doctor so he can help me with my upkeep ’round the corner (and yes, there is substantial upkeep – it’s a battle against the bag for the rest of my days unfortunately.) Anyway, once he determined the level of severity of my prolapse (ever peed on an electronic toilet with an audience? No? Well I can cross that off my bucket list thankyouverymuch,) he gave me my options to correct it.

I needed a bladder sling. There’s a very long, technical name for the actual procedure but I can’t be bothered to remember what it is called nor could I spell it if I did remember it. Basically, they use one of a few different materials to raise the urethra up and away from the wall of the va-jay-jay. This allows better control and hopefully no more “I peed a little” moments when I cough, sneeze or pick up anything heavier than Lil’ Man. The different materials they use for this shocked me a bit. The first option is having parts harvested (creepy) from me. They harvest tissue from the lower abdomen to create the sling. This causes longer recovery time and more evasive surgery. No thanks. The second option was to harvest tissue from a pig or cow to create the sling. Ummm, a sphincter says “What?” Look, I have enough body issues; I don’t need to add being part pig or cow on to that long, self-deprecating list. The final option was a sling made of fine, yet very strong, mesh. The only downside to this sling is that it could lead to erosion of the vaginal wall if placed too close. However, the fix for that if it should happen is a five-minute, outpatient procedure that would have little-to-no down time. Sold! I am no longer in danger of emitting oinks or moos from my person.

So, back to the point of this long post of ickiness, I had both surgeries done on the 14th of this month. Luckily, I only spent one night in the hospital and my husband took over a week’s vacation to stay home and tend to me during recovery. I did come home with a catheter that had to stay in for a week. If you ever get the chance, I’d pass on that. I was confined to sleeping on the couch due to how the catheter bag had to be set-up. It was horribly uncomfortable and I actually developed a slight bladder infection. I’m fortunate that I was able to get it out after only a week. Some people who have this bladder surgery can go up to a month with a catheter. Shit on that shit. Also, just like after childbirth, no sexy business for six weeks. I should be okay but the Hubby may just die, poor guy. I should be back to work on Monday so all-in-all, recovery has gone well. I’m looking forward to never giving Always or O.B. another dime of my money, that is, until the Girl comes of age anyway. Here in a few weeks I’m gonna take a stab at jumping on the kids’ trampoline just to be sure the bladder surgery worked. I will say, I have sneezed quite a few times and didn’t have to change clothes. This makes me so happy I could pee (but only when and where I’m supposed to.)

Bitchin Moments:

The Hubby and I are coming up on 14 years of marriage. I know he loves me and he knows I love him, although we don’t always show it in the best way or often enough. There are  moments, though, when I am completely taken aback by a display of kindness, thoughtfulness or sacrifice on his part to make my life better. They are usually really simple in nature, but to this bitch, his efforts are monumental and make me love him even more which I didn’t think was possible. Here’s just a few tidbits over the last couple of weeks that made my bitchy heart melt and made me laugh when it physically hurt to do so:

* During my night in the hospital, they changed my pain medication to a less potent variety and I started to really hurt. When they came in to give me another dose, I told them it wasn’t working and my pain was increasingly getting worse. The night nurse was not as understanding or as pleasant as my day nurse had been and tried telling me I was suffering from gas pockets. Yeah, gas pockets that just coincidentally fell right around all five incision points from my robotic hysterectomy. Uh huh. She left me writhing in pain and crying. It got so bad that the mere act of crying made the pain worse because I kept contracting my stomach muscles when I sobbed. My Hubby finally had enough and made the nurse come back in the room. He told her there was no way I was going to be able to sleep hurting as bad as I did and that she needed to do SOMETHING to alleviate my pain. She finally got off her ass, called the doctor on duty and got me switched back to my original pain meds for the night at least. Funny how the more potent pain meds helped me finally get rest, but the nurse assured me pain meds wouldn’t do anything for gas pockets. I think it’s safe to say they weren’t gas pockets. I seem to attract cunty nurses. My man stood up for his bitch and came to her rescue.

* I’ve always had issues with catheters not draining on their own. I have to do this roller coaster type deal, lifting and lowering the damn tube to get the pee to go into the bag. Through many hospital stays, the Hubby has taken it upon himself to do this for me. This time was no exception, at the hospital and the week at home with the catheter. Not many men will volunteer to reroute their wife’s piss, so kudos to him for taking on such an unsavory task and making me so much more comfortable.

* Being confined to the house (re: couch) for a week and having very limited mobility and flexibility meant that when I did take a shower, they were short in duration and for the purpose of hygiene only. Meaning: there was no extra stuff going on like shaving. You have to bend and twist to shave and that wasn’t happening. Since I was due to see the bladder doctor the next day to get the catheter out, I was a bit distraught about the condition of my legs; I had become part yeti. Without hesitation, the Hubby rolled up his sleeves, sat on the side of the tub and shaved my legs for me. Ladies and men alike know, this takes a huge amount of trust on our part to allow our partner to shave any part of our body. He was very careful and took his time and I did not have one nick when he was done. Sure, he missed a few here and there because he may have been too gentle but I’ll take stray hairs over nicks and cuts any day. I also got a few laughs (although pained) from the experience. Listening to him say, “How do y’all shave like that? If I did that, my face would be butchered!” or watching him feel around for hairs instead of just noticing where shaving cream was still perfectly intact to find remaining stubble. I think he was just copping a free feel personally, but he definitely earned it. I should have milked it a bit more and conned a toenail painting out of it. 🙂

* In an effort to get up and around and prevent those dreaded gas pockets from actually occurring, we ventured out of the house once the catheter came out so I could walk around. I’m a bridesmaid in a wedding taking place next month so I wanted to look for shoes to go with my dress. My rugged Hubby trucked along with me to several shoe stores in search of the perfect pair of silver heels. This is not so easy we found out as silver shoes can go from sexy to garish to old lady real quick. Yeah, a lot of men begrudgingly tag along with their wives to shop for shoes. But remember, I cannot bend and twist due to my stitches and bruising. The Hubby had to put the shoes on my wide, hobbit-like feet, fumble with straps and buckles, then give his opinion on each pair I tried on while I strutted around the aisles. “Do you like them? How do my legs look? How does my ASS look? I only wear heels to improve the appearance of my ass so make sure it looks good.” Many other asinine questions and prerequisites were thrown at him as he sat there, dutifully answering each one. And for the record, he picked the ones that eventually won out over all the others. And my ass looks fantastic in them.

* He still, after all the disgusting things he has seen and had to help me clean up and bandage, the crying, pity parties, mood swings, weight gain, scars, sleepless nights in hospitals, and on and on, thinks I’m a sexy motherfucker. His interest in me has not waned and there’s not a day when he doesn’t let me know that. On days I feel I look like utter dog shit, he has never reinforced my feeling that way nor will he put up with me saying that I do in fact, look like a huge, steaming pile. I get perturbed sometimes when he gets “grabby,” especially if I’m cooking, dealing with my three monsters or whatever else is distracting me at the moment. When the estrogen runs high, the inner-feminazi will sometimes come out and scream (in my head, of course,) “I’m not a piece of meat! You do not own this! I am more than a walking vagina!” But you know what, the day he stops will be the day I’ll have something to scream about. His efforts to be close to me reinforce everyday that I am still loved and desired. Even if I have dried snot on my shoulder from this week’s sick kid or I’ve gained 35 pounds, this man wants only me. Folks, you can’t pay for that kind of reassurance.

He has done many things throughout this recent medical drama, and our marriage for that matter, that require commendation but I cannot possibly list them all. You’ve all been here long enough as it is. For my dear Hubby (who also dutifully reads his wife’s blogs though never comments on them directly or indirectly,) you are my everything: my rock, my bitch,  my provider, my best friend, my biggest pain in the ass, my human dictionary and grammar coach, my resident asshole, my lover, my life. Without you, I could not be me. Thank you for all you have done, are doing and will do. I love you more than you think probable and then some. (Everyone else look away, this is private – HA!)

Hugs and kisses on all your pink parts,

Your Bitchin Wife

Later Bitches!

Whoever Coined “Silence is Golden” Had a Son Like Mine

Bitch of the Moment:

I love my son. I love my son. I LOVE MY SON. No, really, I do.

The kid has so many wonderful qualities, I could honestly go on listing them for days and still have more to add. Why, then, does it take so very little to make me forget that long list of attributes completely?

I’ve said this before and I’ll probably say it a thousand more times before this blog disappears into the abyss, but, my kid NEVER shuts up. His talking is relentless. It drains the very life-force from me  and the hubby. It’s physically exhausting trying to keep up with/tune out the endless stream of babble that spews from this kid.

If he thinks something he saw on t.v. is funny, he’ll repeat it literally 50 times a day. And not even the whole joke, unfortunately. Just the punchline, usually. Then he laughs robustly at himself and looks to us to confirm that he is, indeed, the funniest human being on the planet. Better yet, he makes up his own jokes (which usually make no sense whatsoever) and expects a reaction from us other than the dazed and confused look we are prone to responding with. I want my kid to have a great sense of humor. I want him to think of himself as funny and entertaining. I’d just like him to learn what IS funny *and that yelling BOOGERSUCKER at random isn’t, when telling jokes is appropriate *and that screamed across the doctor’s office waiting room at poor, unsuspecting patients isn’t and once a joke is told and the punchline has been delivered, there is no need to tell the SAME people the SAME joke again *as if the big, red, rock-eater joke is going to get infinitely funnier or have a surprise twist-ending the millionth time I’ve had to sit through it.

I’ve sat in this very spot at my kitchen bar and observed my son watching t.v. in the living room. His mouth is constantly in motion. There is no one else in the room and yet there he sits, talking, babbling, squealing, driving pins into my eardrums. He cannot NOT talk. He is a constant source of noise. His incessant chattering sometimes prevents him from hearing me when I speak to him and actually WANT him to speak respond. Therefore, OTHERS can’t hear me because of his mouth and HE can’t hear me because of his mouth.

This obviously causes him problems at school. His teacher’s only real complaint about him is his talking. He doesn’t raise his hand and wait for her to call on him. He’ll sit there and repeatedly say, “Mrs. D? Mrs. D? Mrs. D?????” She told me that she explains to him that she can’t answer him because he didn’t raise his hand and wait to be called on. If she asks the class a question, even if she calls on another student, my son blurts out the answers. I tried explaining to him that yes, he is very smart and we are very proud of him for knowing the answers. We’re happy he is so eager to participate during class, but he needs to wait until he is called on because he’s preventing the other kids from participating and he’s making it hard for them to learn. I told him that he wouldn’t feel very good if he made it impossible for the other kids to learn and they grew up not knowing anything *and then I may have muttered something under my breath about there being enough stupid people in this country that we have to deal with already. His response? “Nuh uh, Mommy. I don’t want them to learn anything. I want to be the SMARTEST KID EVAH!!!!!!!!!!!!“  Ummm. Alrighty then. I got nothin’ for that.

When he is tuned into something, he is amazingly quiet. Specifically, anything scholastic. He has these Puzzle Buzz activity books that he will sit and work on for hours. He can finish the whole book in one evening if I let him. Sometimes I let him just to have a few blissful hours of silence.  The damn things are only delivered about every 3 weeks so I can’t use them to my advantage everyday. I totally would if I could. WHAT? He’s learning, dammit. I’m helping his mind grow. No, really!

If anyone has any tips, methods, torture device recommendations on how to get my kid to just stop talking and listen, please, for the love of all that is holy, comment below. If I don’t find something soon, my kid is going to be kicked off the bus by his bitch of a bus driver (that’s another story) and constantly in trouble at school.  That’s the worst part, in my opinion, because he is so bright. I don’t want him being prevented from showing his full potential or being labeled a bad student because of his constant yammering.

*NOTE: I seriously wrote this blog two fucking months ago. August 28th to be exact.

I know, I suck.

The only part that was unfinished was the Bitchin’ Moments section. And it was pretty much complete. What a suckass blogger I am.

Since I left this hanging, my son DID get kicked off the bus for three days. Then, the bitch of a bus driver decided one day that she wasn’t going to let my son off the bus because I wasn’t at the end of driveway (I was momentarily up to my elbows in a shitty diaper and couldn’t get outside at exactly 3:38 p.m.)

She calls me AFTER she has already left my street and informs me that I will either have to meet her several blocks away OR I’ll have to pick him up from school. To which I eloquently replied, “Ummm, huh? Wait. You have a phone? You can call me from several blocks away but you can’t call me while YOU’RE STOPPED DOWN THE DAMN ROAD FROM MY HOUSE? Why didn’t you let my kid off the bus?” *I didn’t scream at her or even use the word “damn” but in my head, I was ready to shoot her in the face. She then tells me that “we don’t let Kindergarteners off the bus if no one is there to get them.” Which is exactly why I, and the other mother on my street, threw a damn fit when this lazy bus-driving bitch (we’ll call her LBDB) decided to change the bus stop from directly in front of our houses to the end of the street because she didn’t want to have to turn around where every other bus driver has turned around for the last 10 years. When I told LBDB and the school Vice Principal (VP) that I had a house full of kids whom could not be left unattended just so I could walk all the way down the street to get him, LBDB told me that she would watch him walk to my house before pulling away if I wasn’t out there. So imagine my surprise when this isn’t what happened. “Where is my son?” LBDB hung up on me.

This is when BitchinMommy’s head imploded.

There is a reason I don’t own a gun, or missile launcher. I called her back and she wouldn’t answer. I was seeing stars. Big, RED, fucking stars. I texted her asking where my son was and still got no response.

I called the school and demanded that the VP get on the phone since she had been in cahoots with LBDB on changing the bus stop. When I informed her that LBDB had not let my son off the bus and that I had no idea where he was or where he was going to be let off, she was appalled. I told her I had four kids in my house, three years-old and younger, that I could not fit in my vehicle in order to come pick up my son, wherever he may be let off and had no way of getting him home. I was very civil with her, not yelling or anything, but she could tell how upset I was. She told me she’d call LBDB immediately and inform her to return my son to my house. LBDB wouldn’t answer her calls either. LBDB dropped my son off, unattended, at the school. Luckily, he had sense enough to go to the office and people were still in there. The VP had to bring my son home that day, an hour and a half past the time he is usually home. I now want LBDB’s head on a platter. But it gets better…

LBDB texts me back an hour after my son is home and informs me that she was going to tell me she was dropping my son off at the school but because I was screaming at her, she hung up. *This bitch hasn’t heard screaming, yet. Plus, she can’t talk on her phone and drive, implying I’m a dumbass for expecting her to do so. I told her matter-of-factly that I never screamed or even raised my voice to her, that this never would have happened if she had just called me from that phone of hers while she was still STOPPED on my street instead of after she was already a half mile down the road. If she hadn’t changed the bus stop when she took over the route or if she had done like she had told me she was going to do and watched my son walk to the house, all of this would have been avoided. I told her that the school VP was in agreement with me that my son should have been let off the bus and that I would be at the school first thing in the morning to get this all dealt with. I also threw in that if I still wasn’t happy after that, I would be going to the transportation and school boards. LBDB being the uber-bitch that she is, tried to get in the last word.

She texts me back and pretty much said that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been such a shitty mom and had been out at the end of the road like I was supposed to be. LBDB tells me it’s a LAW that Kindergarten-aged children aren’t allowed off the bus without an adult being there to receive them.

Is it just me or is this woman fucking retarded? Laws can be verified, you simple bitch. I’ve already told you the VP is on MY side in this matter and you’re going to tell me via WRITTEN communication that I’m a shitty mom? The amount of stupid that lives in this woman cannot be measured by means we possess today. Even though I was ready to go to prison, I damned near bit a whole through my tongue and explained in the simplest terms I could manage that we were done discussing the matter and we would let the higher-ups decide what was to happen.

After a lengthy meeting with the school VP and the Principal, I was informed that there is no law stating the nonsense she was spouting, that LBDB would drop my son off directly in front of my house from then on (and the other little Kindergartener would be dropped at his,) and if I wasn’t able to be outside, LBDB would be required to let him off and wait until he got to the door. When I expressed concern of retaliation against my son (since he’s already been kicked off the bus for stupid shit – not even his mouth if you can believe it) I was told not to worry, that they’d make sure that didn’t happen. I haven’t gotten a note, call, anything about his behavior on the bus since. In fact, LBDB has been driving the bus far less than before the incident. I can only hope I had a little to do with that. Next time she tries to step up, I’ll have the bitch’s job – if not her head.

Bitchin’ Moments:

Again, this was started months ago so anything I had here is old as hell now. So we’ll sum up the awesome:

I have had several glorious instances of girl time lately.

1) I made a trip back home recently and got to spend quality time with some of my favorite ladies. I got to go shopping with my mom and my baby sister which is always a blast. I also got to hang out with two of my best friends in the whole world. It was badassity. Four days of unadulterated laughing sans kids. Mommy needed a break. Here’s a couple of gems from my trip. I’ve omitted names to protect the innocent ; ) :

During girl’s night at a popular local bar:

H: “I have to go pee but I don’t want to walk across the bar by myself to go.” 

Me: “Just go to the bathroom. You’ll be okay.”

H: “But I don’t know where it is. I don’t want to walk around looking stupid in front of all these people.”

C: “If you don’t go, I’m going to make you laugh until you pee. Hey! Think of it as a treasure hunt! You’re searching for the porcelain prize. If you find it, you don’t go home with wet panties!” 

I almost went home with wet panties from laughing so hard.

During a random conversation about toenails:

G: “I refused to cut my husband’s toenails for him anymore after one of the damn things flew into my mouth while I was clipping them.”

Is it possible to laugh and gag at the same time? If so, I did.

2) I got a last-minute invitation to an all-girls game of Cranium one night. When women, wine and board games come together, you are guaranteed an evening worth videotaping. Watching me trying to mime “Walter Cronkite” is apparently comedy at its finest. I’m surprised no one left that night with wet panties.

3) I made a trip to New Orleans with a couple of friends to hang out on Bourbon and watch the Saints play (ok, this wasn’t an all-girl day, but we’ll say he was one of the girls.) I was very much inebriated by the time the clock struck noon and you know what, it was awesome. It was a totally carefree day, the Saints won in a game so close that it made one’s ass pucker and I got to show the city of New Orleans my new, sexy hairdo. I’m sure they’re all still talking about it. Heh, yeah…..maybe not. But it is pretty sexy, to me anyway.

4) I got to throw a bachelorette party, albeit small, for one of my friends here. Six of us hit up downtown Baton Rouge (2 of us almost didn’t make it due to our extreme lack of direction and attention to our surroundings) and shook our asses.

I learned these things from that evening:

a) If you want to dance to techno, you don’t need glow sticks. All you need is an iPhone in each hand.

b) If you are ever in a situation where you need to learn how to “Dougie,” Justin Bieber on YouTube works in a pinch.

c) If you want to hear some of the funniest catcalls in your life, put a blinking tiara on the bride-to-be. Example: “I just love that shit in yo’ hair. I gots to get a picture witch ‘choo.”

d) If you ever have the need to photograph every single second of an event, contact the bride’s co-worker and friend, R. Just bring a back-up camera. She’s going to take so many photos, she’s going to drain her camera battery completely … and then yours.

I’m afraid to even look at what’s on that camera.

Later Bitches!

If This is Southern Hospitality, I’ll Take Yankees, Carpetbaggers, Etc. Any Day

Bitch of the Moment:

As I obviously don’t blog everyday – so sorry for the long spans of time between posts – so I’m changing the format a bit. We’ll now have the “Bitch of the Moment” instead. I always seem to finally post my blogs days after the irksome events have taken place anyway, so this is more appropriate. On to the bitch.

Most times I am in a store/business here, I actually have to bite my tongue to prevent from asking, “Do you want my damn money or not?!?” Customer service here is practically nonexistent.  With the economy being in the crapper and no one being able to even get a job at Mickey D’s, you’d think businesses around here would be doing every thing they could to hold onto customers. I may not have a lot of money, but what I spend in their stores would at least ensure that some of these “associates” keep their much-hated jobs.

I’ve told you all before, I have worked in retail and other service industry jobs for the better part of my working days. I know those jobs suck. I know customers suck. Managers suck. But as a retail worker you accept the suckdom and go about your day. Your attitude vastly changes the way the suckass customers are going to treat you. It’s not rocket science, folks.

How hard is it to smile at a customer? Or when you’re through taking care of them, to say, “Thank you.” 9.9 times out of 10, I, the customer, say, “Thank you,” to them and it’s hardly ever reciprocated. What the hell am I thanking them for? They are supposed to be serving me. I am ensuring there is a need for them to be there. I have been pleasant, even trying to engage them in polite small talk. I get nothing in return. I mostly get scowls or complete disinterest if I get acknowledged at all. Then there’s the whole fraternization between “associates” that I get to sit and listen to instead of them paying attention to me or what I’m purchasing. I honestly don’t need to know how pissed off Dominique made you by pulling you off the floor and making you check when she knows you have 2 pallets to unload before midnight. And HELL NO you ain’t working 2 seconds past your break time no matter how many of these customers are waiting in line. Screw her. *Actual conversation I sat through while trying to check out.  Tact is apparently lost in the dirty south.

And God help you if you need help finding something or something rings up incorrectly. They will not lift a finger to research the item or find what you are looking for. I have been in a store here where exactly 7 “associates” walked past my obviously lost ass and not one offered to help me find what I needed. I counted because I’m that type of bitch. 10 Foot Rule? Right. They wouldn’t know or care what that meant if you slapped them up side the head with a tape measure. *Maybe I’ll do that next time.  I always have to walk through the store and pull someone aside to ask for help and I’m usually told that it’s not their area so they have no idea if they have what I need.  This is where you’d expect them to call someone from that area, right? Wrong. They just walk off. Dubya Tee Eff. No customer service at all.

The cashiers are the worst. They don’t say “Hi,” “How are you?” “Screw you and the horse you rode in on.” Nothing. If I have a coupon, I get loud sighs and it literally takes forever for them to verify if my coupon is exactly what I purchased, if it’s been copied, if it’s expired, yadda yadda yadda. You all know how I am about my coupons. I am precise in which ones I use. However, I really don’t think a $0.35 coupon is worth five minutes of their, my or the 15 customers behind me’s time (who are all now ready to kill ME when it’s not ME being the douche canoe.) I’m not part of some mad coupon-counterfeiting ring. I’m not here to steal from Ralph, Leblanc, Albertson or Mr. Walton. I’m just trying to save as much money as I can here and there so I can spend MORE MONEY in YOUR fucking store later on. Imbeciles.

The one that really makes my blood boil is when something rings incorrectly and how I get treated.

Here’s the proper way to handle the situation if you are a cashier:

“Ma’am. The item rang up wrong. It’s ringing $5.99 and the sign/ad said $3.99,” says the customer. “Oh, really. I’m sorry about that. Let me check on that for you real quick.”  This is where the lovely cashier either calls someone from that department OR if they know the department well enough, they run and go check on it. Not drag their feet or piss and moan, but briskly walk to the area in question to verify the price. Once verified, they briskly walk back and inform the customer that either the sign they read was for something else OR they override the price. NOW. In MY retail store, if the customer says something is ringing up wrong and it’s a difference off two measly dollars, we just override it automatically. We WANT our customers and aren’t willing to lose them over $2.00. If they come to me to check out and something rings up at a price exceptionally higher than what the customer says it is and it’s from my department, I will run – RUN – my ass to where the item is and check it out. I’ll even bring back the sign if they read it wrong. That’s the kind of cashier I am. If the customer was right about the price difference, I apologize for the inconvenience, override the price and thank them. I then call someone in pricing to correct the sku so other cashiers and customers don’t have to do what I just did. Again, that is the kind of cashier I am. These other mofakkas around here aren’t as bitchin’ as I am and it sucks.

Here’s the improper way to handle the situation if you are a cashier (this is another of my recent experiences and completely true):

“I’m sorry. Those are ringing up wrong. They were on the clearance aisle. They were supposed to be $1.50 each. They are ringing $2.50 each,” I say. “No, they ain’t. The wash cloths are $1.50, the hand towels are $2.50,” says the bitch of a cashier. “No, the wash cloths were $1.00 each. I checked the UPC on the shelf and it matched these for the $1.50 price,” I say, still being courteous. *Loud huff* “Pam, how much these towels ‘sposed to be?” bitch cashier asks the cashier across from us that works in that department. “You just gonna hafta walk down there and check yo’self. They got me here checking so I can’t do nothin’,” says 2nd bitchy cashier. (My cashier makes no movement whatsoever to even pretend like she may go check it out even though the aisle is literally 3 aisles away.) “Well they ain’t ringing at that price,” says my bitchy cashier. (She starts ringing the other hand towels. When she gets to one of another color but the same style, it rings the $1.50 price.) “See. Those are ringing correctly. That’s the price they are all supposed to be,” I say a little exasperated. “Well. That must be for that color only,” says the c*nt cashier. “Listen, there is an entire row of these hand towels in all different colors but the same style. They are all marked $1.50. There is absolutely no sticker on ANY of the shelves that say $2.50. The wash cloths that coordinate with these in the same style but all different colors say $1.00. I’m not trying to get over on you. If you could just check I’d appreciate it. I’m buying a lot here so $1.00 extra on each of these towels is going to add up,” I say as politely as I can manage. *Glare* “Pam, do you know if they all ‘spose to be $1.50 or just these here brown ones?” worst cashier in the world says. “I can’t help nobody, they got me checkin’!” says the 2nd worst cashier in the world. (My cashier just stands and looks at me. No intention of checking herself or even picking up her little phone to call for assistance.) …… “Fuck you,” I say as I leave my cart and its entirety there for her to deal with. Do I feel bad about my reaction? No. I was polite even when I was treated with disdain, I did not raise my voice and made it clear that I was sorry to inconvenience her even though it is her job to check on things of this nature. She did nothing but disrespect me and the other customers waiting behind me by refusing to provide service to me, the customer. If you hate working with people, DON’T WORK WITH PEOPLE! Plain and simple. I actually boycotted this store for a while refusing to give them one cent of my money. Unfortunately, my options for groceries are limited unless I want to sell my car to finance them. I have started shopping there again but if I can buy something anywhere else affordably, I do.

It really doesn’t take a lot to make a customer happy, even when you have to tell them they can’t have what they want. It’s how you finesse them. “Hey. How are you today? Thank you for waiting. Did you find everything, ok? This is such a cute shirt. I’d buy it but I can’t wear white. I have three kids with dirty hands. Is that all for you today? Any coupons? Your total is ….. We thank you very much. Please take our survey if you get a chance – you get a coupon for it! You have an awesome weekend!” Ask anyone I work with. They’ll tell you that’s how I am with EVERY customer verbatim. I don’t care if they’re old, fat, ugly, poor, stinky, whatever. I treat every customer with respect and 9.9 times out of 10, they leave with a smile on their face and that’s why I get good customer service awards at work all the time. And you know what, it took almost no effort at all. Smile. Be polite. Pretend to care. Say thank you. Or get the fuck out. Mmmkay?

Bitchin’ Moments of Late:

Even though I really would love to throttle him most days, I have one of the sweetest little boys on the planet. He started his first week of Kindergarten on Monday. He also rode the bus all by himself for the first time. As we were waiting for the bus to arrive, he asked why I had my camera. I told him I planned to take a picture of him getting on the big boy bus. Once the bus arrived, I took a picture of him stepping onto the bus. Once he got on, he turned to face me. The driver was telling him where to sit and he just stood there. I told him to go take his seat but he just stood there. I asked what he was waiting for. He said, “I’m waiting on you to take the picture, Mommy.” He then stood next to the driver, smiled and waved. It was precious. He then said, “Bye Mommy, I love you.” It’s the first time I’ve ever been teary-eyed sending him off to school.

Yesterday, when he got home from school, he told me about a little girl he had met. He said that she had been bullied and had been crying. I, of course, interrupted and told him to make sure that if he or anyone else around him was being bullied that he needed to inform the closest adult so they could take care of it. He told me that someone had stepped in but that the little girl was still upset. He tells me, “So I gave her a big hug and told her it was going to be ok. Then, when I got back to class, I drew her a great big heart to make her feel better. I’m gonna give it to her next time I see her.” Isn’t that the sweetest thing? He may be a wild child most days, but I’m so glad he has a kind heart and is empathetic to those around him. I’m a very proud mommy indeed.

In other news, the girl is potty-trained! Holla! It is such a relief not to be buying diapers for two kids at the same time. She’s still in pull-ups at night but we’re slowly weaning her off those as well. Her reward for going poop is a sucker. I swear, she makes herself poop just to get a sucker. She LIVES for suckers. It’s hysterical. I can’t even clean her up before she squeals,  “I want sucker. I want a pank sucker!” No, my child doesn’t have a southern accent at all. I hope I don’t pay for this reward system with a mouth full of cavities.

She also went to her very first movie yesterday and sat all the way through it like a big girl. She saw the “Snerps” as she calls it (re:Smurfs for those of you without children.) Then she got to spend the day at the mall shopping and playing, and getting spoiled rotten by the best Aunt on the planet. We love you, Aunt G. I don’t know what we’d do without you.

So, yeah. I think that’ll do. Thank you once again for tuning into my profanity-laden ramblings.

Later Bitches!

I Don’t Want No Scrubs

Bitch of Every Day:

I abhor laziness. If you want to get on my really bitchy side, be a shiftless layabout. You can call me a lot of things, but lazy isn’t one of them.

Here’s a little background on me for those that aren’t in the know. My Mom is the hardest working person I know. Currently, she is 59 years-old and she works in a junkyard. Yep, you read that right. My Mom sorts scrap metal Monday through Saturday and she is almost a senior citizen.

Growing up, I had a scrub for a stepfather. He only worked during the spring and summer doing lawn work which he was able to do on a huge riding mower (that my Mom paid for) so he was lazy even then. Not to mention the fact that my Mom would go with him most weekends to help and she was the one weed eating the properties he took care of. During the winter, he did dick. He sat around the trailer, smoking cigarettes and pot when he wasn’t verbally or physically abusing one of us. He has about 20 spots reserved in Hell right now, if he isn’t already there. After years of trying to escape from him (he’d always find us,) we finally were rid of him when I turned 15. Since then, we’ve only seen him a handful of times and last we heard, he was living under a bridge somewhere supposedly wasting away from cancer. I’ll be nice and say I hope he met his end quickly if he is, in fact, already dead. That’s all I can offer in the way of compassion for the douchebag.

Watching my Mother work at a plant to make enough money to support all of us while putting up with his deranged ass instilled a very strong work ethic in me. It also taught me what to look for in potential life partners so I, and any children I might have, wouldn’t have to put up with that nonsense. I’m not going to take shit from any man, ever. I’m not what you would call a feminist per se, but in that area, you can call me a Femi-Nazi. You can’t work, tend to your home or even LOVE your children? You have no place in my life.

My loathing of laziness isn’t only directed toward life mates. It is applicable to family, friends and co-workers.

Most family members that I don’t associate with are the ones who have nothing to offer society in any way. They can’t hold a job, can’t man (or woman) up and take care of their kids, won’t kick their drug habits or if they have duped some poor, unsuspecting soul into being with them, can’t seem to stop abusing them in some way or another. To me, blood is NOT thicker than water. I will cut a family member completely from my life with no guilt at all. I’ll give them a few chances to straighten up and see their error of their ways; I’m not a total bitch. But too many chances, and I become an enabler. If you’re a shitty person, I’m not going to condone your unforgivable behavior just so you can feel warm and squishy. Blood or not, if you’re a scrub, you’re out.

I’ve disassociated myself from lifelong friends for the same things. Some have been so close that I would refer to them as family instead of friends.  It killed me to do it but I can’t let people like that affect me or my family. They will drag you into that mess and it will either break you financially, emotionally or even physically. I know many who succumbed to pressure and began using drugs, stealing, etc. from the influence of scrubs. I don’t want my kids emulating those types of behaviors in the future. And they will. How do you think most of my family and friends wound up going down that road? They saw it in their homes every day growing up. Luckily for me, I’m was pig-headed enough to fight those urges because I wanted to do something with my life – to have a better life than I had. They weren’t as driven, I guess.

Where my disdain for laziness has affected me negatively, perhaps, has been at work and home. I have definitely alienated a few co-workers (and boyfriends/spouse) when it was apparent I didn’t approve of their work ethic. If you don’t do YOUR part and I have to take up the slack, I’m going to be pissed about it. I do enough. I don’t like work or chores either but I know it has to be done so I do it. If you do your part, everything gets done faster and you don’t have to endure me being a bitch. Deal? Screw around on your own time, not mine.

Where I currently work, we are usually so busy no one has the time to even consider being lazy. There are a few exceptions. When the flow of customers finally ceases or is sporadic, I don’t sit back and relax or chat. I start hanging clothes, cleaning the desk area that is now trashed due to the frenzy of customers or straightening racks. I know if I do it NOW, then I won’t be staying late after work doing it when I’d rather be at home with my family. Lazy co-workers prevent that from happening some nights and it chaps my ass. Messing with my family time is like messing with my emotions. You will incur my wrath.

One of the biggest and longest running sources of contention with my hubby has been his initiative to do things around the house (or school when he was still in college.) He is a habitual procrastinator. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard, “I was gonna do it tomorrow/later/when…..” If I wanted it done a week from when I asked him to do it, I would have waited a week to ask him. I don’t expect my husband to jump when I say so like some über control freak. I have gotten more forgiving lenient in my old age and will let my requests slide until the next day without being a bitch to him. But, I don’t think expecting something to be done on the SAME DAY I ask is that big of a request. I sometimes think he procrastinates just to demonstrate his control in those situations.  Trying to show he’s the Man and not bowing to the Little Woman’s demands when she reminds him to take out the damn trash. Which brings up the other (bigger) issue.

Why is it, after thirteen years together total, I still have to remind him to take out the trash? That’s HIS job. Shouldn’t he know when it goes out? Now, this past Sunday I didn’t have to tell him. But usually, it gets to be around 11:00 p.m. on Sunday night and I’ll notice the trash is still full throughout the house. When I ask when he’s going to take it out, he’ll usually mutter something about forgetting it was trash night. It’s the same day every week, even on holidays. Why is it that hard to remember? His other job is to empty the dishwasher. I’ve told him a million times, if the sink is full of dirty dishes, it’s because the dishes in the dishwasher need to be emptied. But does he notice? When I tell him it needs emptied, it will be the next day if not the day after that before he gets to it. And I refuse to empty it. Again, I do enough shit around here. There will be maggots in the sink before I empty the dishwasher. I’ll hand wash a dish here and there that I absolutely have to have before I empty the damn thing. I told you before I was pig-headed.

I can’t fully blame him for his lack of initiative around the house. See, growing up, he had chores he had to do, well, a few anyway. After he would complete his chores, his mother would go behind him and redo it. When he got to be a teenager, he’d finally had enough. If she was just going to redo it anyway, she could do it in the first place. If you are so anal-retentive (as I am and she really is) about your house that you will go behind someone and “fix” what they’ve cleaned, then you haven’t properly trained them. Also, beggars can’t be choosers. If you want the help, you can’t expect the helper to be as neurotic as you are – unless you’re paying them, of course. Your kids need guidance from you on how you want things done, but only to an extent. So his mom had to do everything because she wouldn’t let him do anything. So, he honestly was accustomed to not helping around the house when we got together. He didn’t know how to work a washing machine for Christ’s sake. I took the time to show him how to do certain things I could use his help on and thought that’d be that. Not so much.

I still have to ask for help all the time. He doesn’t notice the filth, nor does he really care about it. If I left for a month to go on a trip and came back, my house would probably look similar to some of those on TLC’s Hoarding. Instead of copious amounts of ceramic cats and old newspapers, my house would be filled to the brim with Dr. Pepper cans and shitty diapers. There’d be paper plates littering the counters, floors, the stove, everywhere. Everywhere except the garbage can. Seriously, you’re 10 feet from the garbage can. Why the eff are you laying it on the counter for ME to throw away? It bothers me because it shows a lack of respect for my time, the hard work I put into our home  and my feelings. He knows how important it is for me to have a clean house and that things be organized. Yet, he makes no effort to help keep it that way. I pick up after him as much as I do my kids. Maybe more than my kids. So, we butt heads about it every few months (really, I just talk at him and he mutters and nods. Things get better for a few weeks then revert back to the same old shit.) He is the bread-winner in the home; I only work weekends in a department store. I, however, take care of at least two, if not all three kids all day by myself the entire week-long. It’s more draining than any “real” job I’ve ever had. I still manage to clean, pay bills, fix things and cook while caring for them. I’ll trade his “real” job for my “playing house” any day. He wouldn’t last a week and he knows it. So why he doesn’t step up to help is beyond me.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s an awesome dad to my kids. He has a great job that he actually likes for once and seems to be well-respected there. He and I still find new things to talk about everyday so we’re never bored together. And it doesn’t hurt that I still find him to be very, very cute. 🙂  He is definitely not a SCRUB. He just needs to SCRUB around the house a little more often.

Bitchin’ Moment of the Day:

My kids are funny as hell. I wish I could remember all the things they say on a daily basis but anyone that knows me, knows my memory is shit. I blame it on brain rot from all the Diet Coke I’ve been drinking over the years. I need a little recorder I can carry around so I can save it verbatim when the funnies happen. Here’s just a couple from the last few days:

Via the oldest:

“My name is Penguin Man. I can freeze people, launch fireballs out of my butt, and make mountains crumble!” Someone thinks he is a superhero whose superpower involves farts. Awesome. I truly do have a boy.

Conversation today with the girl:

Me: “Who is that on your shirt?”

The girl: “Da Princesssssss.”

M: “But what’s her name?”

G: ” I dunno.”

M: “That’s Cinderella.”

G: “Cinner Grella.”

M: “No, Cinderella. Cin-der….”

G: “Cinderrrrrr.”

M: “Rel-la.”

G: ” Gorwillaaaaaa. Cinderrrrr Gorillaaaaaaa.” Runs off laughing maniacally.

Another shining example of how well my children listen to me.

Later Bitches!