ABCM Quickie

Not the fun kind of quickie, but just like the fun kind, there's no time for foreplay. Just some brief albeit semi-interesting bullshit. I feel like there should be a comma in that last sentence, but it's 2 AM right now and it's hard to give a crap at 2 AM.

Question for you:

What do people do when they have no job, no prospects, and a reserve of skills that mean jackshit? Why, go back to school, of course!

Yes, you read me right. I'm doing what I have sworn for nearly two decades that I wouldn't do even if someone paid me.

I swore that if Maxwell (pre-haircut)

was the professor and Boris Kodjoe

 
was my own personal, sexy, muscular lecture hall chair (I think my friend On My Soapbox would call that a seat wiener), you still couldn't get my ass into a classroom again.

Well, I've enrolled in an accelerated Ph.D program and I haven't seen hide nor hair of Maxwell or Boris. I feel so betrayed. Now, I don't know who the hell made me think that I could take an accelerated anything after 17 years of absolutely no formal education, but whoever it was did a bang-up job.

So, I came to let you know that I have a new, legitimate reason for not blogging regularly. I will try, between three hour lectures, endless research, and daily assignments where I must write 7- 15 essays, to come on here and complain about shit and comment on your blogs. I suspect, though, that I will have a limited amount of vocabulary left after I've poured it all into 7 - 15 fucking essays per day. That may be a bit of an exaggeration. The dude gives us 7 -15 questions and we must answer each with a thorough 1-2 paragraphs. Yup, smells like essays to me.

I hope professors aren't still uptight, sexually repressed bastards and bitches. My knees aren't as strong as they once were.

Before I lost my mind, I submitted a guest post to Jumble Mash because she's really busy at work right now. That post is scheduled to appear on her blog on Tuesday. Consider that my second and final post for this week, so after you stop by her place, come over here and show an absent, stressed-out bitch some love, will you?

My fried brain and I thank you.

And if any of you would like to guest post for little old me, shoot me an email. Just ask Mynx how much fun it is to be my guest.

I'm not saying Jumble Mash owes me a favor or anything...

Oh, and would somebody do me a solid and run over to The Well-Fed Spirit and tell the zen bitch and her followers that we're gonna be busy for awhile?

I've got mad love for all my loyal subjects readers. Thanks for your continued readership, support, awards, and patience. When I've completed this program, you're all entitled to either one free counseling session or one free e-download of my book.

Of course, I mean a five minute trial session or the ten-page e-book sample.

You're welcome.

Who's Your Mama?

The following is a paid advertisement from Sit On Your Fat Ass Productions and does not necessarily represent the views of Mrs. Hyde, A Bitch Called Mom, or The Well-Fed Spirit.

Just kidding. The last time I had ads on my blog, I only had about 20 followers. Took the ads off, now almost 200. So...the ads stay gone.

What I really want to do is tell you about a conversation I had yesterday in a parking lot.

Apparently, I have a face that says, "Please bore me with your mindless, personal bullshit" because strangers are always coming up to me and telling me all their personal business. Once a lady, in the same parking lot now that I think of it, just started telling me about her illnesses and all the medication she had to take but couldn't afford. She started crying, bawling actually, and people were looking at me like I had done something to her. I would have given her a hug, but...I didn't know that bitch. I didn't know what kind of germs and shit she had. I mean, she said she was sick, right? So I gave her two dollars to put toward her next crack hit and hightailed it the fuck outta there.

In our area we have what might be called a super shopping center. Nobody really calls it that. I'm just making this shit up as I go along, but roll with it. In this super shopping center there is a Walmart/Sam's Club/Home Depot Complex, several smaller stores and restaurants, and my favorite store Aldi. Directly on the backside of this complex, the ass if you will, there are even more stores including, Giant, Marshall's, Dollar Tree, etc. I count at least 24 additional businesses that I haven't named. Needless to say, I live in this shopping center.

Back to the conversation. Let me set the scene for you:

Approximately 1:00 PM on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. The temperature was about 60 degrees, but as it was not that warm when I initially left the house, I was wearing a whole sheep heavy cardigan sweater.

I had just left Sam's Club and was in the parking lot placing my 17-pack of bread in the trunk of my van. The minuscule amount of exercise it took for me to walk from the store to my van with all that bread was enough to encourage a hot flash. I opened the driver's side door and proceeded to remove the five pounds of sheep's ass from my back and toss it into the passenger seat.

As I did this, a young man, a baby really, happened by. And so the following insane conversation ensued.

Man Baby: Damn! Who knew you were hiding all that under that sweater?
Me: Are you calling me fat?
Man baby: Naw, Ma. I'm saying, you looking good. (the preceding comma was not a mistake. 'I'm saying' is an expression all its own)
Me: Do I look like your mama?
Man Baby (laughing his ass off at the hot old lady): You damn sure don't look like my mama. That's just something young guys say to women who look good to them. Like 'baby,' but less offensive.
Me: You think it's less offensive to call me 'Ma' than it is to call me 'baby?' Of all the things I need, one more person calling me 'Ma' ain't one of them.
MB: I thought older women didn't like to be called 'baby.'
Me: So now I'm old?
MB (fidgeting nervously and wishing he had just admired my ass and boobs from a distance): No, um, you're not old, just older than me. A little. I think. Look, I was just trying to give you a compliment. I saw you standing there and when you took off your sweater, I saw your body and I was like 'wow.' I just wanted to tell you how good you looked.
Me: Actually, you were like 'damn', but whatever. What do you like about it?
MB: Huh?
Me: My body. What do you like about it?
MB: Um, your um...the whole thing.
Me: Do you like my ass?
MB (sweating bullets): Yeah. It's...it's nice.
Me: Good. I was wondering if the injections were working or not.
MB: Injections?
Me: Yeah. I get chicken hormones injected into my ass once a week.
MB: Why the hell you do that, Ma?
Me (giving him the evil eye): Because not all black women were born with Beyonce booties. Besides, have you seen the asses on those Purdue chickens?
MB: .......
Me: What? You never heard of that? How do you think Kim Kardashian's ass got so big? The only downside is that you have to keep getting the injections because the hormones don't last long. Think about it: every time you see Kim K, her ass is a different size. That's cause she's in various stages of chicken ass withdrawal.
MB: ......
Me: What I really hate are the side effects. You see this? (I show him a gray hair on my chin) It looks like a hair, but it's really a feather. They grow everywhere that hair grows. EVERYWHERE.
MB: Yeah...I'ma...um...it was nice...yeah. (He starts walking real fast toward Walmart)
Me: Hey! Are you all right? You don't look so good. Watch out for that truck!

That'll teach him to call me an old fat mama.

What?

I'm was merely preparing the lad for his future relationships. Because when you accost women in the parking lot of the Walmart/Sam's/Home Depot complex, all you'll get is crazy.

Okay, this didn't really happen. When he doled out his initial 'compliment,' I grinned politely, got in my van, and drove away.

But now you understand the craziness that goes on in my head.

I told you it was scary.

There's Bullshit Afoot

They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. You know who said that? Some bitch who steals people's shit.

I realize that I am the most creative bitch the internet has seen in awhile. I know. But just because I've got ideas spewing from my every orifice doesn't mean that you can take your pick of them without giving me at least a cursory backlink on your blog when you take my idea and do a whole fucking post on it like it was YOUR idea.

For example, last week on Facebook, my friend Micael Chadwick had this to say: "If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, why does my soul want to scream with every fiber of its being: 'GET YOUR OWN FUCKING IDEAS!!!!'"


When I read this I yelled at my computer screen, "I know, right!" It reminded me of a time when I did a blog post that I will not mention and then a reader did a similar post shortly thereafter and didn't even bother to mention where their brilliant post idea came from. I immediately thought of writing this post, but then life and its incessant bullshit happened, so I said fuck it. 


But then...then... it happened again. Now I'm calling bullshit.

Maybe you don't know that it's bad manners and all sorts of fucking assholeness to take a fellow writer's idea and pass it off as your own. It is. I know how hard it is to come up with fresh ideas all the time to entertain your readers. That's why my ass isn't on here everyday wowing you with my brilliance. I'd love to, but some of the shit that goes on in my brain should actually stay there. 


This, however, is not one of those things.


Every time I read an article or blog post that sparks an idea for my own genius, I make it a point to mention from whence that genius came. I expect the same respect especially if you have the nerve to call yourself my loyal reader, or worse, my friend.


Let me be clear about what I mean. I do a blog post about, say, cute kittens (which I would never fucking do) and you love it because your kitten is incredibly adorable. You make a comment and inform me of such. Next week your kitten does the cutest backflip trying to catch a toy mouse and you must blog about it. That's not what I mean. That's your cat and your experience and you're a weird cat person and I expect you to write about cutesy bullshit stuff.


No, what I mean is this: I write about, say, stem cell research and its pros and cons and then you, dear loyal reader, write about the exact same thing the very next day. And nowhere in your post is the sentence, "I was reading a post on ABCM and it got me thinking..." That's what the fuck I mean.

Unlike Micael, I don't mind if you borrow my ideas. To the contrary, I'm an attention whore and anytime someone uses an idea they got from me, I feel good. Important, even. But I want my fucking credit and from this politically correct, non-confrontational post and beyond, I will call your ass out. I will post a link to your stolen post so that all of my actually loyal readers can come to your blog and call you a thieving bitch. Or something like that. 


Don't think I don't love you though. I do. This is what we crazy bitches mothers like to call 'tough love.' I both adore and welcome any opportunity to express my tough love.


Pay close attention to the number of followers to your right ~~~~~~~>.


If the number goes down, you'll know that I have offended the perpetrators. 


I don't give a fuck.


But then, you knew that, didn't you?






On a totally unrelated note, I want to say a GI-FUCKING-NORMOUS thank you to all of my friends for sending me your love and support during my time of bullshit overload. This is probably a sad thing to admit, but you guys in my cyber world are some of the best friends I've ever had. For some reason, I don't have a lot of friends in real life...I wonder why that could be?


Oh, yeah. I'm a bitch.


Anyway...


Big kisses and inappropriately long hugs to you all! 

Indecision

i love you
part-time
in the moment
temporarily
from time to time
i don't mind
our incompatibility
they say that opposites attract
your yang to my yin
your sin to my sin
your vodka to my gin
your excess to my lack
my nightmare is your dream come true
you look a little confused, boo
don't you know who I am?
it's me
the center of your world
it's me
the one who makes your toes curl
muscles tighten
eyes roll to the back of your head
i'm the one
who makes and
breaks your bed
and that's not even my best room

i hate you
part-time
in the moment
temporarily
from woman to man
i can't stand
our incompatibility
i don't talk and you don't listen
you lose, i win
when i sin, you sin
just like that?
what are we missing?
you don't know how to love me
you say
i say
you did fine yesterday
what the hell happened
to today?
i'm still me
well...
maybe i have changed
a little
reassessed my game
a little
stopped placing blame
just a little
my vision is sharper
hard to believe, but
still true
i'm a different person
a brighter star
a better me
and you, boo
you're still you.


If this poem seems familiar to some of you, it's because I shared it once at The Well-Fed Spirit. Just wanted to let you know that I'm still here. This bullshit, too, shall pass. Thank you so much Bruce for checking in with me and making me realize that bullshit is bullshit. Love you to itty bitty pieces!


Hope all is well with all of you. I miss the hell out of you guys. I will try to get caught up on all your lives as soon as I can. Promise.


There is a light at the end of this tunnel. I see it...but I haven't reached it yet. 


Love and big hugs,


Mrs. Hyde