Rich Man, Poor Man, F-Wad!

poverty-no-accidentUnless you have actually been poor, you will never truly understand what a drain it can be on your soul. You can’t say you get it, or you understand any more than I can tell a parent who has lost a child that I get it. I don’t. I can imagine the feelings of devastation, but I can never really, truly get it, until I have been there. And trust me, I pray to every god of every religion, – I never understand that anguish.
Now I’m not saying that I understand what it is like to be homeless. I do not claim to understand the level of poverty that many third world people face each day. I do however know what true poverty by western standards is like. I have lived in a home with no indoor plumbing, where we had a five gallon pail to use as a toilet. I know what it is like to live in a house – for lack of a better word – that only has three rooms left because the other half of the house burned down years before. I could go on, but I’m pretty sure you get my drift. So it drives me stark raving mad when people who have never truly gone without tell me how money is not everything. These people are what I like to call F-Wads.
F-wad is my new favorite word. I’m pretty sure it has been around longer than Jesus. So if it was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.
Recently I had the pleasure, (Maybe pleasure is the wrong word.) of meeting a true F-wad. I was out enjoying a social evening with friends. At some point the topic of conversation turned to charity. We discussed what could be done to help the needy in our country. I explained that I see the world as one country and that I believe those who are literally starving need to be the top priority. This was when the F-wad spoke up. The conversation was really enlightening – if enlightening means pathetic/selfish/self-absorbed/arrogant/f-wad. The F-wad explained that the best way to help the truly poor was to not be poor myself! This was a true eye opener for me. Why hadn’t I thought of that myself? How stupid was I? This was of course the answer to world poverty. Not to be poor myself!
Now I really needed to think about this for a minute. So what the F-wad was saying, was that if I wasn’t poor – if I wasn’t a dreg on society, (His words.) the world would be a better place! Of course! Yes! That makes perfect sense! If the rest of us do our part, to make certain that we are not poor, the world will be a better place. In other words, let me try to break this down for you, so it’s easier to understand. If we do what we have to, to reach a certain standard of living – if we keep that dollar we were giving to the homeless guy who hadn’t eaten in days, if we kick all those disabled veterans out on the street, if we raise the price of canned dog food so the old age pensioners stop eating food meant for our pets, if we stop providing aid to the starving peoples of this planet – we will all sleep better at night! Come on, admit it! The F-wad has a point. Doesn’t he? Think of all the surplus if we stopped helping every sob story out there. I, for one, will surely sleep better at night knowing the dregs of society are no longer dregging. F-WAD.
So did I take it personally? I would have been a F-wad if I hadn’t.
Then I remembered that I too have been a dreg in my life. I remembered that things weren’t exactly cushy in my world. I thought of my own dad who had worked hard his whole life to support his family and pay the medical bills of his dead wife and crippled son. How he had died old and broke, but loved. I remembered my brother who was stuck in a wheelchair, but would take a homeless person back to his small apartment and feed them. I remembered the young woman who stopped us on the street so she could hug my brother and explain to me how my brother had saved her life. How he had taken her home when the rest of the world had shunned her. How he fed her, cared for her, and believed in her, when no one else would. I remembered – and I was proud.
So did I take it personally? I would have taken it personally if I was born with a silver spoon. Rich or poor does not make the person. I choose to believe this F-wad is the exception, not the rule. I have to believe this. I have to believe mankind as a whole is better than this. If this F-wad is not the exception, what hope do we have? What the hell are we fighting for?

Public Property

227795997_keep_calm_and_don_t_touch_my_belly_seriously_answer_2_xlargeScenario: You are standing in line at the grocery store. Okay, more like slumping in line in all your pregnant glory wishing for the line to move faster because it’s been 15 minutes since you last peed and you aren’t sure you can hold it much longer… The person behind you notices you are pregnant. Conversation goes something like “Oh, wow, when are you due?” “Insert date here” “You’re sooo big. Do you know what you are having?” “Insert sex here” “Is it your first?” “Insert answer” “Insert stranger story about either their own children or someone they know”… at this point they think they have gotten to know you. This is when it happens. The worst. As a new mom you won’t even know it at first, but you learn to recognize it. The stranger gets “the look” – the I-love-babies-and-have-no-respect-for-personal-boundaries look- Then they touch you. They place their hand on your belly and try to feel your baby kicking.

This situation happens a lot. I would venture to guess at least once to every pregnant women out there. I know it sounds really nice that this stranger wants to talk to you about your pending arrival, and it really is great when strangers can chat rather than just ignoring each other, but there are a couple issues I have with this kind of scenario.

First, you don’t know me well enough to know that when you comment about how “big” I am that it will be well-received. Many of my girlfriends who were pregnant over the years felt fat, ugly, uncomfortable, and generally had a bad body image. Telling them how “big” they look doesn’t go over well, and although I never saw any of them cry about it, I have a good self-image when I am pregnant and I even have days when telling me how large I am hits a nerve in my eye and this strange liquid seeps out. So don’t go telling random people how “big” they are. We know how big we are. Trust me. We can’t see our toes, we can’t fit behind the steering wheel very well, and we hardly fit our husbands giant t-shirts.. we are well aware that we are huge and it is probably best to leave the size commentary to people who know us…

Second, why the hell is my pregnant body public property? In fact, newborns often have strangers trying to touch them as well. I don’t know about your personal habits, obviously, you are a stranger. However, I am willing to guess you don’t go up to random non-pregnant women and touch their bellies, or to random 6 year olds and tickle their cheeks… so what makes you think it is okay to touch my pregnant belly or my newborn? This doesn’t apply to close friends and family of course. I have a history with you, probably hugged you, cried on your shoulder, maybe even vomited on you at some point… we have a level of intimacy that no longer requires permission to feel my pregnant belly. But you, stranger, you haven’t put in the time or energy to have that kind of access. My belly, my baby, my personal space. Stay out of it!

If you are interested in touching my belly, ask permission. If I say no, don’t get offended. It isn’t that I don’t like you… probably… but I don’t want everyone’s hands all over me. If I was cool with random strangers rubbing their hands on me I would be in a much more provocative line of work making significantly better money than I do now. Talk to me about the baby. Tell me how good I look, and not how good I look for my size, just that I look healthy and well. That is what pregnant people want to hear.

And we really want you to know that a big, round, wiggly, pregnant belly is not an open sign.

Death, Delusions, Dead Horses And Marriage…

zombiekiyaYou know the old saying “no point in beating a dead horse”? It’s true. NO POINT IN BEATING A DEAD HORSE! Whoa. (See what I did there?) This applies to sooo many every day issues. This could turn into one hell of a novel. But for now, we’re going to stick with what I came here for. DEATH. My point? If it’s dead, leave it the hell alone! I don’t care if it’s your dog, your cat, your budgie, your goldfish, the guy you buried in the basement, your ex-husband, (Who coincidentally could be the guy you buried in the basement) or your marriage. If it’s dead, leave it the hell alone. I can’t say this enough! Did you notice? I could say it again? Are you falling asleep? Hey! Pay attention! I saw your eyes glazing over! (But that’s another blog…)

So today’s subject is death. I would like to write a letter to my former in-laws and friends of my now (For many years!) ex. The letter would go something like this:
Dear former in-laws and friends of my ex
How are you? I am fine. (This is the proper and polite way to start a letter, especially when you plan to hit them with a shovel later.) I am writing in regards to my ex, who shall remain nameless. For now we shall refer to him as Horse. I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop, cease and desist in feeding his delusions that we belong together. But.. but you feel bad for him because he is unhappy? Awww. That is so nice of you. Now knock it the hell off. He is dead to me. Why must you encourage him? The relationships he has been in since we broke up have not worked out? You think it is because he still loves me? Of course he does! What’s not to love? But here’s a clue; we did not work out either. The relationships are not working out because he is an ass. Our relationship did not work out because he is an ass. Oh, and for your information, I’m not waiting for him. I’m not in a relationship because I’m so F-ING DELIRIOUSLY HAPPY ALONE! I don’t want him. You can have him. He’s too ass for me!
All my love, The Psycho EX Wife
P.S. I have a shovel, a dirt room, and the skill to use both.

My ex is a dead horse. The marriage died a long, painful, suffering death many years ago. It’s been dead for so long now that there is nothing left for the maggots to feed on. You couldn’t find the ashes to spread them. And let’s be honest, even if there was anything to dig up, it would be a zombie marriage now. Though a zombie marriage would likely be an improvement on the live version.
So, in conclusion, what have we learned today? Not to beat a dead horse. Much as I would like to. There is still so much room in my basement.

I wish that I was Elizabeth Gilbert

Never Put Salt On a Snail.

I wish that I was Elizabeth Gilbert. I would spring from my bed each morning and do ten sun salutations before my feet even hit the floor. I would mediate (levitating) for exactly one hour. After which, I would make my way to the kitchen, where I would enjoy a repast of pizza and cheesecake for breakfast. My morning coffee would be sipped in joyful, silent bliss amongst the fragrant wildflowers in my meadow.

In truth it must be difficult at times to keep up the persona of one who has it all together. (For the record, I’m pretty sure she does!) Unfortunately, even if I had it all together, I’d leave it someplace. I’d be checking under beds. I’d be emptying cupboards. I’d bring in the hounds! In the end I would realize I’d likely thrown it in the trash and have to start all over again. But, I…

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Psychopaths In The Neighborhood…

i_am_not_crazy____pun_t_shirt_design___by_mikaeltrondsen-d4m6elhSo today was going to be a simple, run of the mill story about the dangers of internet dating, but then I had a real life encounter with a psychopath. So now I need to warn you about both! By that I mean psychopaths online and in real life. We’ll start online because those people are crazy.

Sometimes life becomes complicated when you realize that you may actually be related to someone seriously dangerous. Here is the crazy conversation I had with my cousin last night via text. I’m going to change someone’s name to protect the innocent. (Me) Because I don’t want my cousin to know who I am talking about. So for this episode, we’ll call her Sybil.

Sybil:  Are you behaving tonight?

Me: Badly. Drunk.

Sybil: Good for you. Safest place for it.

Me: Under the bridge?! Are you spying on me?!

Sybil: Of course. I’m in the troll outfit. (She also sent terrifying face of Satan with text)

Me: I knew I smelled something.

Sybil: You’re too kind! Eau de goat. My own blend. (She blends goats?!)

Me: I liked your old perfume: Kitty de Litter.

Sybil: I had to quit using it. Bits kept dropping into my goat lunch adding an unnecessary crunchiness.

Me: Is that what was yellowing your teeth? Kitty urine is so hard on enamel!

Sybil: My fangs you mean? No. They were always yellow. A nice sunshine color, I always thought.

Me: Well yes, until they became stained by the blood of your suitors.

Sybil: Suitors and dressers. But they asked for it. Showing up without even a tender kid. I kid you not they would say. So I ate them instead.

Me (now terrified to stop): Hey, at least you got a free meal out of them!

Sybil: Exactly. Had to ditch the cars in the river. (Explains how she knew I was under bridge) Time consuming.

Me: Should have just parked them in my neighborhood.

Sybil: That would have taken care of it.

Last week Sybil explained her diabolical plan to take unsuspecting internet dates swimming with sharks. She plans to make jewelry out of what is left. She said matching toes for earrings, big toes for pendant. She is going to call them toe-kens. Get it? Tokens of their affection! This is the kind of situation people are walking into every day! One day you are chatting and calling the soul-mate you met online – the next you are a toe-ken. I’m kind of surprised that Sybil hasn’t designed shoes yet. Pretty sure she would add a soul-mate or two to the bottom.

All I’m saying, people, is keep your eyes open! Be aware. Unless you want to date Sybil. It’s true, there is no free lunch!

Now my real life run in with a psychopath. I was sitting at my computer beginning my blog when our dogs began barking. I was not the only one home, but no one went to the door. So I did. I peered cautiously through the window first. Then slowly opened the door. A complete stranger stood on my front step, carrying a large bag on one shoulder. I knew immediately that she was going to stab me with the weapon in her hand.

“Gillean Ollsin?” she asked.

“Yes.”

See how stupid I was? The psychopath even knew my name! It was only a matter of minutes until I was someone’s lunch. I do have insanely nice toes. Had Sybil sent her? Did I know too much? Do psychopaths have a union? Do they all know each other? Do they all look the same? Okay, now you’re just being racist. Not even funny.

So it turns out that the psychopath was not actually a psychopath, just a mail carrier. But you see how dangerous this world is? Do you see the situation I knowingly put myself in? Not good. Think next time, that’s all I’m saying.

Aliens Among Us…

My dog may, or may not, have burnt poop popcorn. There is a slight possibility that my want-to-be-a-hippie son burnt popcorn. But if he did, how do you explain the smell of burnt poop? I don’t trust my dog. Something very shifty is going on here.

Let’s start with tPortiahe facts. One: I’ve never allowed my dog to use the stove before. Not that she has ever asked. Because, holy shit, if my dog asked to use the stove, I’d let her make all popcorn she wanted – burnt or not! Two: If she was going to take up cooking, I’m pretty sure popcorn would not make the short list.

I’ve just had another thought. If the smell of burnt toast means you’re about to seizure – maybe I’m f-ing dying! For the love of god, I’m smelling burnt poop popcorn! This can’t be good! Another thing is that maybe I’m not smelling burnt poop anything. It’s just possible, in fact, more like probable, that I’ve been teleported to some crazy, freaky spaceship, where dog aliens are playing with my brain and I just think I’m smelling burnt poop popcorn! I know it sounds crazy. Right? But it would make perfect sense for dog aliens to make poop popcorn. Though you’d think after mastering flying a freaking spaceship they could make popcorn without burning it!

Why did this have to happen to me? I was asleep in my own bed. I wasn’t bothering anyone! This is just like those movies. The aliens always work at night. But who would have suspected their trusted dog? No one, that’s who! I think my dog hates me. That would explain why she called the dog aliens to come and get me. I should never have allowed her to watch E.T. This explains all those toys she has been dragging outside and throwing around. I thought she was innocently frolicking in the yard, when in fact, she was calling home!

Another thing, the next time I think I have the most brilliant writing experiences in the middle of the night – Pulitzer Prize winning shit – I’ll remind myself that I’m not always the brightest monkey in the box. Though I would like to know where my dog hid the burnt poop popcorn, because honestly, that shit stinks.

Measures of Success

 suc| cess:

the accomplishment of an aim or purpose; the attainment of fame, wealth, or social status. 

-a person or thing that has had

 success, as measured by 

attainment of goals, wealth, etc. 

the fact that you are successful 

in your career or profession

especially when you become

 rich, famous, respected etc

The fact that we measure success by wealth, social status, and becoming respected is problematic, for women especially. How often do you hear people say “I love my job. I don’t make any money, I work overtime to pay bills, but really I am successful because I am doing something I love”? People get careers to make money. When you consider that women can get the same jobs as men and work just as hard or harder but get paid less, that attaining positions of power and authority often requires women to choose between work or family, and that even when women are in power positions they are “bitches” rather than respected bosses… at what point do women get to consider themselves successful? When compared to men, women are very seldom successful, and when they are, they are devalued for it. “Oh, can you believe she is forty and doesn’t want children? She is so selfish! What a cold-hearted bitch.

Seriously.

How dare a woman strive to be successful in a man’s world and by a man’s standards!

How about, how dare society rate success based only on male values and standards? Why isn’t a stay at home mom considered successful? How many times have you heard someone say “You know, she stays home with her kids and raises them. She has really made something of herself”? But why not? She does the jobs of at least twenty people at home and makes NOTHING. She has a job she loves, and is creating the future of the country… why isn’t that success?
I shouldn’t have to grow a penis and make millions of dollars to be considered successful.

That “glass ceiling” needs to be broken so women have more access to wealth and status, and maybe we should redefine success to even out the playing field a little bit.. because really, is it success if you win a race that nobody else had a chance to run?

Ain’t No Perfect Friendship.

friendshipI think the time has come to find a new bff. I’ve been giving this some serious thought the last while. It’s not that I’m lacking in friends. I have friends. In fact I have a few really close friends. I have friends who would jump on the next plane to get to me if I needed them. I happen to love these friends, but, and this is a big issue for me, I don’t really have that one special friend that I connect with anymore.
Friendship is a wonderful thing. Unfortunately, as we get older, we get busy with our lives and don’t stay in contact like we used to. We get busy with our husbands, children, and careers and stop making time for the very people we once found essential in our lives. The very people who would be there for us in a flash if we needed them… or they would be, if we could contact them.
Now, I’m not pointing fingers at anyone. I’ve known a few women with this very complaint. Most of us are single. We may have children. We may not. But we share this one common problem. The friends that we hold dearest no longer have time – or should I say take the time – to call and just say hello. Friendship has become a lost art. It’s wonderful to be there for your friends when they really need you. It’s great that you will be at the hospital if I’m hit by a truck, but why is it so f-ing difficult to pick up a phone and say hello? Are you really so busy with your life that you can’t spend an hour, a couple times a month, going for coffee? Isn’t there more to friendship than being there during our big moments and darkest hours? I thought friendships were built on shared laughter, deep secrets, and long talks about everything and nothing.
Why is it that as we get older we stop taking the time to just say hello? Why do we think it is enough that our friends know we care? It’s not. It’s bullshit. Actions speak louder than words. If we can’t take the time to reach out and share our day from time to time, why bother? I think one thing we all need to remember is that we are mere mortals on this planet, and as such, a time will come when our friends will be gone. It happens. Death will take us all in the end. And then what? Will you cry for the friend who is gone? Will you reminisce and regret the chances, now gone, to make time? Like my dad always said, if you can’t talk to me while I live, don’t waste my time with flowers when I am gone.

National Poverty Day. No Sex For You!

The first thing I would like to bring to your attention is your attitude. Holy crap, did you see that accident?! No? Wow. You’re really sick. I mean that nicely of course, as in whoa that’s sick! But not really. You like the title? Yes you do. Stop lying. Honestly, I think you may have a problem, but not with the lying. You’re super good at that. Now admit it, the only reason you are here is because you think poor people can’t have sex! You read the title and thought, Awww, that’s terrible. No one will have sex with the poor people.

So being a pervert is what brought you to this page. Hey, I don’t mind – fact is I knew you’d fall for it. I knew if I put sex in the title you wouldn’t be able to resist this page. I think you should know that I’m not actually going to write about poverty, or sex. Okay, now I’m lying. Thanks. I didn’t know lying was contagious, asshat. And just so you know, poor people are having sex. Rich people are having sex. My goldfish is having sex. The only one not having sex around here is you. I think it’s because you’re a perv. It’s really nice that you care about poor people though. There are lots of us out here. So I’ll give you brownie points for caring about the poor people. But the perv thing… that’s just creepy.

So now that we’ve talked about the sex and the poor people, I think we should address your pervieness. I was talking to the police about you and they said the only way to avoid getting arrested for reading this blog was to send them money… lots and lots of money. The police don’t really have time to be out collecting money from you pervs though, so they said I could collect the money for them. I’m thinking a cool $500 is a nice place to start. You can send me your money through paypal or just mail me your credit cards. The police are greedy so they will take anything. But let’s not tell them I said they were greedy.

They might get upset because they’ve been super sensitive ever since the government took their guns and tasers away and replaced them with fluffy kittens. They still get really riled up over pervs though. No one likes a perv, buddy, so just keep moving along – unless you brought your cheque book. Form a line to the right. No sex for you!

I’m a Genius and this is Important Shit.

helenI’m the kind of person that people go to with their problems. I think the reason for this, is that they want good advice and since I’m so smart and have the perfect life, they think they can trust me. (Which of course, they totally can) Now I don’t mean to blow my own horn – except I totally do or I wouldn’t be on here telling you this- but I give the best advice! If you have a cold, I might suggest chicken soup. Then again, I might suggest that you find every enemy you ever had and French kiss them. Haven’t you always wanted to make your enemies sick? Wouldn’t you love to see those mofos hacking phlegm and snot all over their shoes? Of course you do. Nothing would be more fun. Well maybe shark fishing with my ex-husband’s head.
For the next few minutes we are going to imagine a tranquil meadow covered with our favorite wild flowers. Aren’t they beautiful? The colors so vibrant. Breathe… breathe. You can also hum if you like. Humming totally helps! (Unless a bear or fire breathing dragon show up in your meadow. Then you should shut the hell up.) I’m pretty sure my soul is smiling now. I feel so much love! Remember, when we hate others, we keep ourselves in prison! Love is the answer. Unless you have a pet shark and there isn’t any evidence. Then sharks are definitely the answer.
The thing about being a genius is that I feel so good when I give advice to the people I care about. Another thing that is nice, is how they always follow my advice to the letter! And why wouldn’t they? I mean, if I’m a fricking genius, why would they not do as I say? They came to me for advice. Right? They ask what they should do. Right? They must think I know a thing or two about something. Right? Right.
So then here’s the thing, why don’t they take the fricking advice?! Why did they spend hours talking to me and asking all these important life changing questions, when they weren’t going to do as I advised?! Why did they waste my time? Where can I buy a shark? What time is it on Mars? Seriously, do Martians switch to daylight saving time?
My cousin had a squirrel once that threw acorns all over her driveway. Pretty sure she had it coming.