Self-Empowerment: How The Fuck Does That Happen?

I've been taking a self-empowerment class at my local New Age book store. Well, I'm using the term "taking" loosely. There were three classes over the course of three weeks. I missed the first one, showed up for the second one, and arrived late to the third one, which was tonight. In my defense, I didn't really feel like being empowered the first week. And tonight, I had the brilliant idea that it would be "breakfast night", but not just that, I was also going to make eggs-to-order. Now, usually when I make eggs for my whole family, I just throw all ten of those bitches in one big pan and scramble them up. Takes no more than a few minutes. But since everyone got to have it their fucking way tonight, I ended up having to make four omelets and two over-easy in addition to their pig slices and French toast. Mmm, pig ass. Yummy. So my defense is that not only am I a bitch, but a lazy, dumb bitch at that. I plead dumbassness, your honor. I should have been a lawyer, right?

After taking one and three quarters classes, I don't feel anymore empowered than I did before I started. They must have covered a lot of shit in that first class. I have just as many questions now as I did before. No, that's not true; I have way more. Don't get me wrong, it was a fun class. The teacher is a rocking guru bitch and I will take any class she teaches. The class provided guidelines on how to empower yourself. It gave us a jumping off point and we were supposed to take those jump-offs and figure out what is holding us back from fulfilling our destinies or being all we can be or whatever happiness-and-light bullshit is supposed to happen.

Bullshit, indeed. I didn't want guidelines and fucking suggestions. I wanted answers! I wanted her to tell me what I needed to do. I wanted to walk in there a fat, jobless screw-up and walk out a fucking Mother Teresa wannabe.

Ah, but Mother T never said 'fuck', did she? Another dream dead and stinking. I wouldn't give up 'fuck' for anything in the world. I wouldn't give up 'fuck' if you paid me in diamond-studded chocolate bars stuffed inside 50 Prada handbags. I wouldn't give up 'fuck' if Denzel Washington was naked under my Christmas tree with his bank book and keys to a beach house in Waikiki in one hand and two divorce decrees (both his and mine) in the other. Oh, and four nannies on standby so that I wouldn't even have to talk to my kids if I didn't want to.

Damn, I lost my train of thought...What the hell was I rambling about? Oh, right, bookstores. No, that's not right...Gandhi? No...Cursed dreams of indirect motherhood! Give me a minute to scroll up and read what I was bitching about. Try to guess what's wrong with this picture in the meantime:


Did you see the baby? Nice, huh?

So as I was saying before my neurons abruptly stopped firing, I'm still basically clueless as to how I can get my life in something vaguely resembling order. She gave each of us questions, specific to our birth dates, that, once answered, should help us rise into the enlightened beings we are all destined to be. This was my first question: How do I open myself and communicate my love? Lady, I've been asking myself that question since the time my husband, then boyfriend, asked me, "What do you have against PDA (public displays of affection)?"  and I said "While it's true that female dogs like to fuck with an audience, this bitch right here prefers to be petted in private." If I had the answer to that question, I'd be home right now with a pint of Ben & Jerry's watching Tivo'd episodes of Rules of Engagement instead of sitting in the hot back room of a bookstore resisting the urge to flat iron the frizzy, blonde hair of the annoying woman next to me.

Is she serious? How do I open myself? What the fuck does that even mean? I'd venture a few guesses, but I don't want to lose any of the lovely four followers I gained today. The rest of you already know about the bullshit I sometimes let spew from my brain onto this poor, unsuspecting computer screen, so you wouldn't be too surprised.

Well, it's late now. The snore train just pulled into the station. Destination: Keep My Ass Upville. If I don't go to sleep before the train goes full steam ahead, all the prescription painkillers cum sleeping pills in the world won't help me get a good night's rest.

Oh shit! He stopped breathing!

Damn! He started again.

Random Acts of Dumbassness, Preempted

There will be no pictures or videos to judge this week. You won't see anyone making a fool of themselves for a minuscule amount of internet fame. No, today I have a very personal and unfortunate example of something that is random, senseless, and dumb to be sure.

Last night a dear friend of mine was killed over a parking space. You read that correctly. He was celebrating his birthday in an area of town notorious for its lack of parking. He got into an argument with a woman over a parking space. The woman called two male friends to, I don't know, defend her dumb ass honor or something. One of the men blindsided my friend with a brick to his head, killing him instantly.

Brian was an 18-year veteran of the Baltimore City Police Department. He risked his life everyday for a city that didn't give a shit about him, same as my husband and the 3000 plus other officers. He was a loving husband and father and now his children will never hear his voice again, never see his face again...because of a parking space.

Are you fucking kidding me? It's bad enough we're fighting wars for oil, power, stupid pride, and because-we-can. Now we're fighting wars over parking? Is doing five minutes of exercise you probably are in desperate need of anyway worth killing over? You killed a man or had him killed because you had to walk? Really dumbass?!

I hope it was worth it for her. I hope that taking a good man's life was worth her being "in the right" about the argument. I hope that having his children grow up without a father in a world where they need a positive male influence was worth her revenge. Was it worth it, you ignorant, petty bitch? Because if it wasn't, and his wife and babies have to suffer for naught, I hope you rot in the abyss of your own guilt.

I am begging you, my friends, readers, and anyone who just happens upon this blog by divine "accident" please learn to control your anger. People are dying over things not worth dying for. It's senseless; it's violent; it's futile; and most of all it's counterproductive.

Please go to my other blog and read my dedication to Brian Stevenson, husband, father, friend, and hero. My mother used to say, "Give me my flowers while I can still smell them." I urge you to give out several flowers today. Hug your children. Kiss your spouse or significant other. Thank your parents. You may not get another chance.

And for anyone who is hurting today, I'm sending out powerful blessings of love and peace for you. Please accept my gifts and pass them on.

My Date With Mickey

Ah, Mickey Mouse. He's an American treasure. As a kid I watched him as often as I could. I would race to the TV, glue myself to the sofa, and sing all the songs. Oh, how I longed to be a member of the Mickey Mouse Club, but my mother never got around to doing whatever the hell it was she had to do to sign me up. Drug addicts have much more important things to do, you know. Even to this day, I love Mickey Mouse just as much as the next person. I just don't like to see him when I'm eating, especially when I'm eating in an establishment where I am paying for the pleasure.

Hubby and I were at Shucker's Restaurant in Fells Point celebrating my friend's birthday. This is supposedly one of the many awesome seafood restaurants for which Maryland is known. To their credit, before I saw the mouse, I was enjoying my seafood quesadilla. It was fucking delicious; lump crab meat, grilled shrimp, and bay scallops encased in two warm tortillas smothered in melted cheese with sour cream and salsa on the side. Sweet mother of buddha that shit was good!

There we were about eight of us in total, laughing, talking, drinking, and enjoying food that we presumed was safe to eat, when this little gray mouse peeked his head out from behind one of the tables nearby. You could have chopped my ass up and served me for dinner, 'cause I was done. For the next ten minutes or so, while we tried to locate our waitress, Mickey continued to scurry playfully throughout the dining room without a care in the world.

When "Heather" finally reappeared (I don't know if that was her name, she just looked like a Heather. Don't get all fucking snotty, you know what Heathers look like. I apologize to any Heather who is not young, skinny, and super perky. I'm old, fat, and bitchy, ergo, I don't like those bitches.), she explained to us that there was nothing she could do. The exterminator came every week, but because the restaurant is on the water, the mice keep coming back. But she assured us that there were no mice in the kitchen. What the fuck? Do the mice live in the water and just pop up to the restaurant to place their order every night? When she realized her "it happens all the time" excuse wasn't exactly instilling us with confidence, she brought the manager over. He said the exact same thing. It was like they were reading from a script. Then he asked, "What do you want me to do?" What do I want you to do you ask? Oh, that's easy. I want you to take this delicious quesadilla, wrap the little mousey inside, and stick it up your saggy, nonchalant ass. That's not too much to ask is it?

I tried to stick it out for my friend. She was still waiting for others to show up to her celebration and, wonderful friend that I am, I didn't want to bail on her. However, when Minnie showed up to find out why the fuck Mickey hadn't come home yet, I took that as a sign that it was time to go.

Here's my question: were we making a big fuss over nothing? Is that something that should be expected at restaurants on the waterfront? I ask because while our whole party (all black and/or mixed race people) was upset and disgusted, the rest of the patrons (all white as far as I could tell) didn't seem bothered at all. This is a real question. I'm not trying to be controversial or any shit like that. I am really curious. Is this a racial thing? Cultural? Rich vs. middle class (Fells Point is where "people with money" live)? What do you think?

Just to let you know, any racist comments that are made will not even see the light of day. As soon as I read the first racist word, I will delete it without bothering to read the rest. So don't even waste your time, you dumb, cowardly anonymous fuck.

That is all.

I've Been Tagged

Ok, I've never been tagged in a blog before, so don't laugh if I completely screw this up. You know I suck at the whole computer html code what-the-fuck-is-that thing. Here goes.

1. Tell who tagged you: Mynx @ Dribble

2. Favorite YouTube video: Coochieness:  There Goes My Bangs Bitch

Whether you like this vid or not, you will be singing this song tomorrow.

3. A photo that makes you go awww:


That's my baby girl. She's cute when she's not being obnoxious.

4. A funny T-shirt:


Did I mention I decorate cakes for extra money? Well, it's not really extra when you don't have any income to begin with.

5. Something geeky: um, yeah, I'm gonna have to get back to you on this one.
6. Link or pic relating to your fave movie:


7. A link to the newest blog you've discovered:
Rachel Gardner, Literary Agent

8. A photo of something on your wish list:

Paris. Yes, I want the whole fucking city.

9. Here is where I'm supposed to tag seven other blogs. In lieu of that, I'll post links to some of the blogs I follow and love. I'm a rebel like that.

The Well-Fed Spirit (that's my other blog, btw)
The Bitchy Waiter
The Ranter's Box
The Journey
Dribble
Hello, Sailor
Secret Pleasures WARNING: this blog is naughty

If none of the links work or if the videos don't load, well, I tried goddamit. Deal with it.

Must Love Insanity

Occasionally, I feel the need to share something deeply personal about myself with strangers. I don't care who it is: old men on the bus, pharmacists, homeless people, babies. I will run my mouth like Martha Stewart's bitch ass assistant in 2005. Usually, my lips get loose after I've had a few, but I swear I'm stone cold sober right now. No, really. Stop fucking laughing. And while I have made some good cyber friends from this blog, I haven't actually met any of you, so... Although, if anyone has the urge to invite a random bitch for a weekend visit, say the word and I will leave in the middle of the night with neither warning nor note. Hell, they can survive on ramen for two days.

I was trying to make myself write something, any fucking thing yesterday when I came across a poem that I wrote a few years ago. Plus, I feel the need to redeem myself after totally ripping off Shakespeare a few days ago.You can click the "next blog" button at the top of the page if you hate poetry. I hate dumbasses, so I completely get it. Hey, hatred is hatred.

For those of you who don't mind reading the shit that goes on in my head (and you don't, that's why you're here), this one's for you. Well, not really, but read it anyway. Keep in mind whose poetry you're reading. There will be no flowery prose here.

Pretense

My name is Pretense
Some say I'm a bitch
I don't scare easy
Cry hard,
Blink or flinch.
Shit, you can't faze a witch.
It doesn't matter if you got yours
'Cause I make sure I get served.
Oh, you didn't leave your heart at the door?
Then you got what you deserved.
I don't care if you weep
Don't give a fuck about tears
Don't want to hear about your dreams
Could care less about your fears.
I'm Pretense, baby
We've been here before
I warned you, I warned you
To leave your heart at the door.
Don't leave yourself open
Don't let yourself be played
It's not always easy
Living this masquerade
Yet...
Some evils are necessary for survival
Some evils are necessary for survival
Some evils are necessary for survival
If I repeat it enough times
That'll make it true
Repeating a necessary evil makes you
Numb to that shit, too.
Repetition leads to memory
Memory leads to defense
Defense leads to pretense
Ain't that a bitch?


As you can see, even my poems are bitches. That's how I roll.

Random Acts of Dumbassness

I was driving down Eastern Ave this afternoon when I saw something that lit a big spark of inspiration in me. It was a man dressed in a wife beater, camo capri pants, tube socks, flip flops, and a straw hat. Take a minute to truly appreciate the visual. I'll wait.

"He looks like a dumbass," I thought, but couldn't say aloud because I had my son's soccer team in my van at the time. From the smallest spark grows a mighty flame. It was then that I came up with the idea to do a regular segment on this blog entitled, you guessed it, Random Acts of Dumbassness.

This is how it will work: I will troll the internet for pictures and/or videos of people engaged in the art of stupidity. I'll also keep my eyes peeled in the real world. Then I will post said media here for all seven of my followers and you guys get to vote on the winner.

Ready?

Contestant #1: Throw Nana From the Gang


Yes, somebody's nana is throwing up gang signs. Don't wear red in the wrong part of town, Nana.



Contestant #2: Sex Education



Children, pay close attention to the way Sapphire claps her ass cheeks together and spins around the pole with one leg. There will be a quiz.



Contestant #3: Worst. Tramp Stamp. Ever.



Come one! Come all! Step right up, folks! (damn, I didn't even have to try for that one)



And last, but not least, Contestant #4: If Mama Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy



Mommy, this red one looks like the one you keep under your bed.

Cast your votes now! There are other dumbasses waiting for their 15 minutes of shame.

Ode To The One I Love

If you've been keeping up with my awesome life, you know what happened to me recently. In the midst of all the pain, somewhere in the nether regions of my mind, I heard my doctor say she wanted me to stop drinking. Thinking back on it for the past few days, I thought it was a drug-induced memory. But after the hydrocodone cloud dissipated, it became an actual event. I was curled up in the fetal position on the examining table, that stupid paper sticking to the side of my tear-soaked face, and she said those six dreaded words: I WANT YOU TO STOP DRINKING. 

Fat, alcoholic bitch say what? (I know, a little too Hannah Montana, but hey, if the alcoholism fits...) How cruel can one bitch be? I mean, you strip me of my patience, my confidence in your nursing staff, my dignity after having me wait so long that I was in tears from frustration and pain, and now you're saying that I, A Bitch Called Mom, Dr Jekyll and Mrs.Hyde, can't even have the one solitary pleasure in her life? Check the obits, people. There's about to be a doctor of internal medicine position open real soon.

So as I sit here semi-sober after having been dry for a whole fucking week, I think the time has come to write a poem to the one I love...Jose Cuervo.

Ahem...

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

What? I said I was semi-sober. I'm sure Shakespeare won't mind.

Franklin Scare Hospital

I thought I was making that name up, Franklin Scare Hospital (a play on words for Franklin Square Hospital) but as it turns out, I'm not the only person who's had a near-death experience there. Several people I've spoken to since they almost killed me on Thursday, have told me their own personal horror stories about having been treated there.

Okay, I didn't almost die, but no thanks to Dr. Lopez with his lackluster attitude about my health. Here's the scoop:

I had been having severe abdominal pains for more than 12 hours straight. I know you're thinking, "menstrual cramps" right? Me, too! But these weren't any ordinary (as if there is such a thing) menstrual cramps. They started at around 9 PM on Wednesday evening, and those suckers refused to stop. I called my doctor's office  Thursday morning and the nurse said, "Come in now! We're putting you in as an emergency appointment."

Emergency, my ass! They had me waiting a whole 'nother hour in that wet, dreary waiting room. It wasn't until they saw my black ass crying that they thought, "Hmm, shit must be serious." I was seconds away from demanding my co-pay back and taking my chances with the ER. I'm sure there's something I can get at Panera Bread for $5. So Dr. M. did her thing and decided to call an ambulance to come and get me. Guess I'm taking my chances with the ER anyway. As an aside let me just point out that 911 was busy! Note to self: move to a city where the criminals don't outnumber the good guys.

When I get to the hospital, I have to lie in the doorway for about 15 minutes while the EMTs check me in, put that little plastic bracelet on my wrist, and then roll me to my own little cubby hole. Yes, the EMTs did this, not the nurses. That should have been my first clue. I lay there for 15 more minutes before anyone even acknowledges that I have, in fact, come to them for care. When a nurse does come over, I asked her to please give me a heat pack or pad to help ease the pain. "Oh, we don't have heat packs at this hospital." That should have been my second clue. A second nurse comes to inform me that they are sending me to "flex care" so that I can be seen sooner. "Can you walk down there?" You know how long hospital corridors are, right? Flex care was 1 1/2 corridors away. Strike three. Why the hell am I here again? Oh, right, I'm fucking dying.

Just when I was about to ask this bitch if she'd rather I run or skip, an angel appeared. She looked like she was coming back from lunch, but she took one look at the expression on my face and knew that my walking was a bad idea. She got a wheelchair and rolled me down the hall. God bless her. I waited in flex care's waiting room for 20 minutes before someone called me back. I had to follow her (read walk) to the last exam room. In all fairness to her, the room was about 50 feet away, but it may as well have been a mile.

Skip through some disgusting details and I'm back in exam room 5 waiting for test results and Dr. Lopez. The P.A. comes in and asks, "How's the pain medicine working?" I ask, "What pain medicine?" I'd only been there for three hours in agonizing pain. Who needs pain killers? The nurse gives me some drugs and for the first time in almost 24 hours, the pain subsides.

Dr. Lackluster comes in an hour later and says this (I swear to holy hell these were his exact words): "Well, we can do one of three things. I can just give you some pain meds and send you home; we could do a sonogram to maybe figure out what's causing the pain; or I can admit you, but you look too good for that." Let me see, I think I'll pick...a) send me home to die. So he's trying to figure out if I'm actually in pain or just drug-seeking AND hitting on me at the same time. Wow. I guess that means he'll fuck the shit out of a good-looking crack whore.

Oh, did I mention that I was fucking freezing the whole time? Everyone kept promising to bring me more blankets. I never got them because every time someone would check the closet, it was empty. Apparently, that first nurse had given me the last one. Lucky me.

If you ever see me bleeding to death in a gutter and my only chance of surviving means going to Franklin Square, please, I beg you, let me die in the gutter. There's at least dignity in that.


Hey, now that you're done laughing at my expense, check out my other blog The Well-Fed Spirit. I hardly curse at all over there. ;)