NYC Tough

I think I am cursed when it comes to posting pics on here. For the second trip in a row I am having issues accessing my photos and allowing you to share in the fun of my city experience. I hope my writing can keep your attention long enough for you to forget about the visual angle. I promise to load those sons of bitches as soon as I get a quality Internet connection. The Starbucks below our hotel, like every fucking place in the city, is packed with freeloading assholes like me who want fast and free Internet. I contemplated confronting the lady who had clearly set up her 'office' at 6 am today. She was squeezing every last cent out of that $2 coffee she bought 10 hours ago. I am not tough enough for a coffee shop fight in NYC.

My husband, and others who know me well, have mentioned how well I fit into city life. It could be my mouth or my natural "Fuck Off" face. People look at me from across the room and immediately think I hate them. I rarely get approached by panhandlers and when I do they are quick to beeline after my abrupt NO. During my last trip to NYC, I could see what my friends and family were saying. I could hail a cab in 30 seconds flat, push through crowds like a champ and navigate the subway like a local. Could I possibly be tough enough to live in a big city? The answer is no. This trip has made it perfectly clear that I am a suburban mom with only enough sass to survive in my neck of the woods.

While walking back to our hotel on the upper west side of Manhattan, I was approached by a strung out street walker who asked me if she could ask me a question. (You just did.) I loudly told her I had no money for her and she got upset. "That's not my question" she yelled. I kept walking and my husband, who was a few feet behind me, was approached by her at which point she pretended to need the time. She then pulled out a cell phone and called someone. The story in my head went something like this: strung out hooker calls pimp who is walking toward me, pimp proceeds to accost me while she is behind me, I am cornered and taken advantage of. Small town girl gets mugged in NYC by pimp and meth head. The end. My heart was pounding and I sprinted to my hotel, leaving my husband to fend for himself. If that's not tough, I don't know what is.

Today I was once again slapped in the face by reality while taking a solo trip on the subway. I was standing just inside the door making my way to the middle when a large man ran through the door, tackling a smaller gentleman who had just stepped on the train. The big asshole proceeded to push the gentleman across the train and into a metal pole. He was flailing and screaming for him to get out of his fucking way, asking him if he was stupid or what. My blood pressure skyrocketed so quickly, I thought I may pass out. There was yelling from other passengers and absolutely no where for me to move. I was in the middle of the action and I wanted to shit in my new black leggings. I kept breathing and made a plan, it went something like this: they start pushing, I jump over the legs of this guy to my left, I pull out something dangerous from my purse (cell phone, granola bar, floral wallet, tampon) and wield it in order to save myself. Now that's some tough business. Who isn't intimidated by a short chick swinging a tampon around?

I am not tough enough for NYC. I am barely tough enough to visit NYC without having my heart explode or meeting up with someones pimp. This city business is not for me and I am old enough to be okay with that. The jokes about living in suburbia are endless and there have been times I felt guilty for living in a safe, quiet neighborhood while all the cool kids were bar hopping and using public transportation. No more. I'm a suburban housewife and proud of it. It keeps me in clean underwear and off blood pressure medication.

Too Old For This Shit

I wish I had been brave and taken some pictures of the horrors I witnessed the other night in San Jose. The lead up to this story is that our entire trip to San Francisco was built around my husband buying expensive concert tickets for me to see Rhianna. We both love her music and she ranks in my top five people I get to have sex with if the opportunity ever presents itself. My husband can't divorce me or be jealous. I have been giddy with anticipation to see her in person.

I must admit that I am not a concert lover by nature. It usually takes more time than it is worth to wait in a hundred lines, pay outrageous ticket prices and be so far away that you have a better chance of getting laid by the drummer than you do of seeing anyone play music on the stage. My go to music venue is my car, a new CD, cruising down the highway with the wind whipping in my hair while I blow out my shitty speakers. The value adds up with that one. I have always hated people and I have never had a passion for forty dollar tee shirts. The only concerts I have ever enjoyed were those that, only by chance, I ended up at while wandering a new city. They are free and easy to navigate. The worst concert, before this one, was Smashing Pumpkins (look it up) when they played at the Delta Center (Energy Solutions Arena) with some freak show opener. I was in the face bleed section, which is four thousand flights above nose bleed and the sound system in this venue left a lot to be desired. By a lot, I mean everything.

The Rhianna concert easily slipped into first place this weekend as the worst concert experience I have ever had, will ever have and possibly the most painful experience of my life. Including childbirth and getting my impacted wisdom teeth out. It started with a one hour wait for dinner at a BBQ restaurant where we gave up our reservation when we realized we would miss the first part of our concert. We opted to get food at the stadium. As we dragged our famished bodies to the venue we noticed the complete lack of clothing on the majority of women. Booty shorts, stripper heels, sheer tops sans undergarments, dresses that more closely resembled sausage casings than actual clothing and children dressed so inappropriately they could easily get into a bar without ID. It was disturbing.

We made it just in the nick of time and proceeded to wait for an hour and a half for the opening act to come out. We were dreaming of baby back ribs and choking down fifteen dollar chicken nuggets. When the opening act came out, we both knew we had made a terrible mistake. I love rap but I can't get down with guys that rap about pussy, weed and cash then seriously thank God for all they have. Really? At what point during your 'thug' life did you equate misogyny with a love for God. My ears hurt and my soul felt shattered. We should have left then. Instead we walked outside to commiserate with others who had migraines and broken dreams.

After another long intermission, the actual concert started. The smell of weed was pungent and there was a classy bitch dancing next to me who was bouncing her large Latina ass so hard that she dumped a lake of beer around my feet. I'm sure the young ladies (that's a stretch) who had accompanied the clearly retired men to this concert were enjoying their free beer and hourly rate. As my eyes scanned the crowd, I lost what little faith I had in humanity. I became concerned for women who rocked out to songs about being sexually assaulted by men who valued them for their genitalia. I felt gross inside. I wanted to go home.

We left early and I vowed to never pay for a concert again. My heart hurt and I wished I could have gone back in time, bought a CD and driven down Pacific Coast Highway enjoying the scenery and never knowing how depraved our society has become. I am slowly recovering from this trauma. It's a long journey but I think I learned something really important...God and pussy don't belong in the same rap song.

Bugging Me

                                                 Yeah, this really happens.


On Tuesday, I can bitch about whatever I damn well please. Today, you will get a little insight on how I am super annoyed by certain people. If you never get annoyed by other humans and love everyone, well I have nothing to tell you except, good on ya'. That's not me. I could pretend that I love everyone or keep it to myself, but in my mind, that would be lying. We've covered how I feel about lying in previous posts. Not a big believer. I have never been good at pretending to be someone I am not. I've tried to be a quiet, coy wife and a friend who overlooks bad choices but when push comes to shove, my mouth says what my mind has been trying to keep down. It's is just my truth.
I go to the bar with my sister. My heavy drinking days are long forgotten, but as the mother of two, wife to one, employee to a few and human of this planet, I need a little alcohol sometimes. We sit at the bar, ignoring any creeper flirts and drink dark beer. We laugh and cry and question how we turned out as polar opposites with the same fucking parents. There are no answers to most of our inquiries. While enjoying our time together, there are a gaggle of girls who sit next to us and without even looking up, I want to choke a bitch out. I didn't even see these chicks and I whisper to my sister "I hate them don't I?". She peers over my shoulder and with a chuckle says "Umm, yes. They look like really young, sorority sisters who have never been to a bar before." Fact: They have a right to be there. Fact: Someone loves them. Fact: I don't love them and I don't want them next to me. All I can hear is giggling and chatter and hair flinging. They gawk at men and act stupid. By stupid, I mean idiotic. By idiotic, I mean immature, catty bitches who feel entitled. Did they tell me that? They didn't have to.
When I was serving coffee, I came into contact with many people I had a strong desire to Chuck Norris in the gut. Those special folks who complained about every drink, yelled at employees and tipped with five sticky pennies from the floor of their Mercedes. I don't care who you are, that's a dick move. I would put my happy face on and cater to their every need while seething inside and judging. Yes....judging them.
I am open to the fact that I am the only person on the planet who feels this way, and more likely the only one who is dumb enough to write it in a blog. That is possible. I am also open to the fact that we should love everyone and never judge. What I really think however, is that we all do this in our own mind and try really hard to make sure no one knows it. People judge me, they would be forced to. I wear holey stretch pants to my son's class for reading hour, have no fashion sense and curse in my backyard while picking up dog shit. The picture above is a great example of how I show up to my kids' school on a daily basis. I am mouthy, insecure, inappropriate and judgemental. I am not perfect. Judge away. It takes nothing away from the awesome things I can be or who most of us are when other people are busy judging. Does my insecurity make me mean? Maybe. I think we all have a lot to be proud of in our lives and a lot to work on. Just like judging, it is human nature.

Gratititude

Why gratitude? There are thousands of thoughts, ideas and hilarious quips I could share with you today but I feel gratitude deserves a little time in the spotlight. It may seem insignificant to say out loud what you are grateful for and sometimes it is even easier to berate yourself and others. We spend so much time talking about what is wrong in our lives, what we wish would change, or what others have done to fuck it all up for us. The truth is easy to profess and hard to hear. When you are grateful, the universe provides exactly what you need.
When I started my GratiTuesday lists, it was challenging to find more that a couple things I was grateful for. I felt irritated about what I didn't have, who didn't love me and where my life wasn't going. I would angrily post a couple things and then backspace through all of it. Why should I be grateful? Bad things had happened, people left and I didn't have room on my credit card for those yoga pants I really wanted. Petty? Yes. But that was my truth. As the weeks went on, I had more and more to be grateful for even when life was hard. I was more willing to empathize and I suddenly needed less in my life to feel grateful.
We all have something to be grateful for. Start with being on this planet as a one of a kind human being. No one else looks, laughs, hugs, sings, farts or breathes exactly like you. That is pretty amazing! Begin with that and keep going. There are Tuesdays I am grateful for people I love and blessings I have in my life while other weeks find me grateful for sleep and a good, stiff drink. Let it take you where it will.
We are also working to instill this beautiful ideal into our children. Once a month, sometimes more and sometimes less, we go around the dinner table and share what we are grateful for. You will be amazed at what you hear. My kids, who like normal offspring, beg for video games and throw fits about not seeing their friends, are the most grateful people I know. They talk about their gratitude for our president, for having two happy parents, and for yummy food that mommy is home to make for them. I cry at these dinners, usually more than once. Try a gratitude dinner at your house tonight. It's a looking glass into the hearts of the people who love you the most.

GratiTuesday: My husband; who works extremely hard to provide for our family, free time, coffee, Costco tortillas, people who read my blog (YES, YOU!!), great books, laughing fits, and dying Easter eggs.

My heart is full and I know the Universe has wonderful things in store for me. They may not all be pleasurable but I am grateful to be here to experience them. What are you grateful for today?

Maxi Pads and Oceans

Strangely maxi pads and oceans don't mix. I learned this fact the hard way while on a vacation to Florida when I was 13. As you know, puberty can be a time of uncomfortable questions and even more uncomfortable products that are destined to go where no man has gone before. My mom was terrific about sharing with  me everything she knew in the ways of feminine products but unfortunately she was not educated in the ways of the tampon. I had full reign of over-sized pillows that I could barely fit in my panties and wispy liners that seemed to protect only the areas that needed the least protection. I had wings, heavy day protection and nighttime ditties that felt like humping a pillow for 8 hours straight. Without the climax. Maturation programs don't do justice to the yoga positions you need to maneuver into while inserting a tampon and that tacky side view pic they put on the insert of the tampon box makes my vagina look like a beginning and end destination on a map, with the end being a large lake. Short of fisting myself, I wasn't clear on how to get a piece of cotton that far up. I gave up before I even got started on that project. I avoided swimming, bicycle riding and attractive clothing during the first year of my period and had a sneaking suspicion that there was a better way to live.
Then it was vacation time. Let it be known, that starting with this Florida vacation and every single one subsequent to it, I have had my aunt visit. She purposely regulates herself so that I can be especially uncomfortable while flying, riding in a car for ten hours, going through security and all other vacation related activities. My husband finds it amusing. I find it to be pretty fucking disheartening that I can't enjoy one week away from our house without being bloated, yelling at strangers and needing an entire suitcase dedicated to Kotex. Fuck that bitch.
So I fly to Florida with my best friend and a group of our peers that we hate, me and the bestie are hoping against hope that the rest of the group will miss a layover or get food poisoning so we can really enjoy ourselves. On the second day of the trip, my aunt shows up. This turned out to be our day a the beach and we were headed there in one hour. I put on my swimsuit and packed it with the largest pad I had and begin to wonder about my fate. Will I swim? Will I get eaten by a shark? Will everyone know I have a mattress between my legs? Do I have any other options? It didn't look promising.
When we get to the beach it's like a gaggle of inmates have been let out for an afternoon, everyone bolts to the sand, strips down and dives in the water. I really, really wanted to follow them in. It was hot and muggy and my curly hair wasn't holding up. It  looked like Exxon had dumped a load on my forehead and I desperately needed some cold water. I jumped in, and if you haven't already drawn a diagram in your head, this next part may astound you. The maxi pad swelled to an unrecognizable size and I could feel it trying to peek out from between my legs. I swam and feigned laughter so no one would be the wiser.I would love to say that it was a beautiful day in the ocean but it was not. The diaper was getting larger by the minute and I couldn't focus on anything else. When it was time to go, I did the most heinous thing I have ever done to the environment...I huddled down in the water, pulled that soggy mess from my crotch and tossed it as far as  I could into the ocean. Yes, that really happened. I am imagining now all the sea turtles and dolphins I killed or perhaps the Great White I enticed to come eat a small child. It was not my proudest moment, but I knew I could not walk to the bus with that thing in my suit. I ran onto the sand, grabbed my towel and wrapped myself, pig in a blanket style, for the long ride back to the hotel. Once there, I had to attempt a clean up. It looked like a massacre. Every white towel was covered in bright red pigment and to the chagrin of my bunk mates, there was no showering for anyone but me. My heart went out to the maid, to the ocean life, to my bestie and to the person who probably saw me toss that soppy wet pillow into the ocean. You know there was one person who witnessed my atrocity. They never went to a beach again and have since banned maxi pads in their home. Sorry bout it, stranger.