Running Into a Marathon

Santa running a marathon

A little bit into my run I started smelling a burnt plastic smell, and I became a worried I should strap gas masks on the kids, that some people were cooking up a giant vat of crack in their backyard, and its wafting through the air. I soon came up on dead skunk road kill, which was clearly where the smell came from. Aside from having an imagination that always jumps to the most tragic scenario (possibly from too much law and order SVU), there is good reason why one would think this if you live in my little community. There is a term for a population that wanders around our city, “The Carmichael Crackheads.” It is not PC, but it is the only way to classify the lot. They can’t be called “homeless” because they are all clearly drug addicts and so it makes walking or running around a nuisance because I am a crazy person magnet

I stick to neighborhood streets on my runs because I don’t want to have a Carmichael Crackhead confrontation. There is one part of my loop where I have to cross a major crackhead hangout, and I keep my eyes forward and run faster. There are pedestrians on this road, crackheads and non-crackheads, and with the endorphins pumping, I have overzealous hospitality, so I tend to wave hi, or say good morning to people I pass by. Sometimes they smile back, or grunt, or just look at me like I am idiot. Then there are the demonic looking ones, with bright red faces and black eyes who look at me with such penetrating hatred, I can actually envision them pulling out a knife and stabbing me in the throat. Those are the fucking ones to steer clear of, and luckily they leave a memorable impression, so if I see them around a store or the bus stop, I can turn around or start sprinting.

This morning when I came to this part of the road I noticed a blockade, where the street was blocked off to cars. I ran right into a marathon! All the runners were on mile 14 and I came storming on the scene after just running two, so I was running like a fucking race horse around people who looked as if they were ready to trot on over to the glue factory. I was pushing a jogging stroller with the two kids strapped in, so people were really impressed. They were hollering, “Go mama!!” At first I was really loving all the attention, and cheers, but after realizing how much of a fucking poser I was being, I felt bad for relishing in unwarranted cheering, so I decided not to cross the finish line for the half marathon and turned off course the street before.

I am such a freeloader

Running on the main road when cars aren’t allowed is amazing. Usually I run on that street for a short stint because the stroller is so wide and weaving in between telephone poles and bus stop benches is too much of a pain in the ass especially with having to dodge crackheads. I have been pushed out into the street dodging these obstacles and it is really fucking scary since my kids’ chance of being run over by a big rig has significantly increased, which would in turn leave me completely gutted and lifeless, and lead me become a member of the Carmichael Crackhead clan where I would reside until I died of some disease under the awning of an abandoned shopping center. Good God, I need to stay off of this street.

On my usual morning jogs, which are not adjacent to an unexpected marathon, I notice random tagging around the neighborhood that says, “Kooky.” It is such a funny thing for someone to be spending their time going around and writing on billboards and posts. If the crackheads are leaving these kooky “kooky” messages, then I appreciate their sense of humor and am grateful because these signs lift my spirits when I am out on my runs, sort of like cheering sideline from the marathon. They certainly aren't proving themselves to be Banksy, but their fucked out of their heads on drugs, so what more can you expect?

Memories of Holiday Fun Gone Awry

Picture of my Christmas shoes!!

Ho Ho Holiday time is here. Yesterday I took the kids to see Santa at the mall. I was expecting my daughter to bitch slap Santa by screaming at the sight of him, and then insist the only way she would take the picture is if she is clinging to me and we stand 4 feet to the side of him. She definitely surprised me because she walked up to him and gave her list of gifts; purple play dough, and magic clip dolls.

My son, who is perfect; he rarely cries, keeps himself occupied, and walks around singing, is the definition of a freaking ray of sunshine, reacted just as I expected my daughter to. Right as he was being plopped into Santa’s lap his grip tightened, like he expected me to drop him there and then run for the exit. After it became clear the photographers noise makers and my clapping and jumping up and down like a fucking idiot was not going to make the baby smile, we ended up doing the picture where I am holding the baby and my daughter is in Santa’s lap. My daughter remained hesitant but the promise of future toys kept her from freaking out. When George, that is MY little prince’s name, was in my lap he began smiling immediately, and we got great shots where he looks happy.

When I went to select the picture, the options were the cheese dick picture of us smiling with Santa, and the picture of George emulating Elian Gonzalez while my daughter is clutching to hope that I have not put her in the hands of a psycho. The choice was clear.

My grown up daughter and Elian Gonzalez

Tonight I put the kids in the car and we went on a drive to check out Christmas lights in The Fabulous 40’s, a couple blocks of mansions where they basically strung up every light the Grinch stole from Who-ville. First stop, high end hot chocolate from a place where the owners smoked ten joints before deciding how to price their products. I ordered 2, and poured George about 2 tablespoons into an empty cup, and he immediately spilled it down his shirt. Instead of shouting, “that was like $3 worth of beverage, boy! Get it together!” I took a deep breath and loaded us back in the car. When we drove down the first street of the Fab 40’s Kiki, my daughter, shrieked, “It spilt!! I’m all wet!” The hot chocolate was not hot, by the way, we ordered it at “kids temperature” (this was probably an upcharge). She would not stop with the screaming about her wet bottom so we had to head home.

I stopped off at a grocery store, and when I pulled her out of the car, the butt of her pants was wet and brown. It was mortifying going through the store because it likely looked like she had shit her pants and I was dragging her around like some shitty child abuser. We were fast as lightening and I spent the entire time loudly repeating, “That messy hot chocolate really got you dirty!”

The holidays are about loads of QT and doing activities that go tits up. Taking pictures that perfectly capture just how awry things go will give loads of laughs later on. Just don't take pictures where it looks like you shit your shorts. That would just be sad.

The best of 300 pictures

Rainy Day Play Time

Tomorrow I will stand in rain for easy hair wash

The rain has come and it seems like it is staying for a while. I am not going to complain since California is as dry as… uh, well think of something really dry. Did you say overworked starts-with-p-ends-in-y? Sucio fuck! You totally did. Well, fuck it. You said it, an overworked pussy. So California is finally getting the lube job its been needing for sometime. Thank you to all those people doing the lube dance.

I went to the mall today in order to beat the stir crazies. That was a huge mistake because the real crazies were at the mall since it is much drier than the freeway underpass they usually reside under. After my kids and I sat down next to the play area with our Hot Dog On A Stick lemonade and French fries some total fucking nut started pacing the kids play area. He was without children, and looked like he was off his much needed meds, so we decided to skedaddle before he whipped out an AK-47 and started gunning everyone down.

We went to the Nordstrom ladies “Lounge,” which is a bathroom, with a huge adjoining room that has soft velvet couches and mirrors. So nice, especially since the food court bathroom usually has poo smeared on the wall. Nords bathroom is insider info for mall rats. The only challenge is making it through the store without being lured into to buying something. They got me this time! Ahhh!

After we came home, I looked at the clock and it was only 11am. Don’t judge, but yes, we were eating fries at 9:30am. So, I had a moment of, “oh fuck, we ate fast food for a midmorning snack,” as well as, “what the hell are we going to do for the next 8 hours?” The rats go to bed at 7pm, with the youngest taking a nice 2 hour nap midday, but still, that is a lot of hours to sit and read, clean up spills, try to convince them that swan diving off the sofa

Fucking Weirdo, doing guns, as hippie
Carmen Sandiego

is a bad idea, and constantly shush the inner voice seductively whispering to me, “Turn on Doc McStuffins, then you can surf the web and relax.”

We ended up killing a lot of time playing in my room. I was pulling out clothes from my closet and seeing what kooky outfits I could come up with. My daughter, as usual, was being very demanding and ordering me around. She wants me to drape her in every article of clothing I have with glitter, sparkles or sequins. Then she walks around dragging them across the dirty floor leading to unnecessary laundry and stretching the seams beyond their intended strength. She also comments on everything I put on. Usually she says, “Take that off,” to any piece of clothing that is not a dress, skirt, pink, purple, or sparkles in some way (I am not too sure how I over girled-the-girl, but it really has me questioning nature vs. nurture.) The baby wandered around collecting things and putting them in handbags, then stacking toilet paper rolls.

Now it is after 7, and the kids are fast asleep, and I am looking at a house that is destroyed. Luckily it is going to rain all day tomorrow because we are waking up and cleaning!

Abridged Brain Exercises

I found my baby’s monitor yesterday. It was under the sofa, even though I am pretty sure I looked under there a couple times before finding it. I think my brain is mushy lately. It could be temporary damage from too many libations during the Turkey Day festivities, or because I forgot to take my fish oil when I went out of town. Most likely, it is because I have not been reading before bed because I forgot my book when I went out of town and since being home I have been catching up on all my DVR shows that mainly consists of House Hunters International.

I have been double dosing on fish oil to catch up. My daughter calls them my brain meds. We usually play out a dramatic scene as I take my vitamins. I am feigning illness, and she shouts for me to hurry up and take my medication. Unless I use my brain for a bit more than watching TV shows where people complain about the paint on the wall, or reading kids’ books then I guess this fish oil is a fruitless endeavor. Even though it is quite a brain exercise practicing how to pronounce Quetzalcoatlus from the baby book on dinosaurs.

Concentrating

During 5^th grade my sister’s teacher stood in front of the class and asked the students if they have heard of a book called Moby Dick. My sister’s hand shot in the air and she announced, “Of course! I have read Moby Dick like 5 times already!” Her teacher likely shot her an excuse moi look, and then carried on with what she was talking about. By 5^th grade my sister had read the equivalent of a college English major, the only difference is her books were called, The Great Illustrated Classics. The Great Illustrated Classics are adapted versions of classic novels. My mom frequently bought us these books. They are a font size 16 and have a picture on every other page, so it takes an hour to read a novel that in reality would take a couple weeks. If you are ever looking for some bragging rights, go around and tell people that you read Gulliver’s Travels in 45 minutes.

I have The Confederacy of Dunces on my bedside, again. I think I have started this book and put it down at least 5 times. When I go through my books in the garage I always pull it out because I want to finish it. I think Neon Bible is a great book, and people only have rave reviews for COD, but for one reason or another I put it down midway through, and then have to start at the beginning when I start it again. I can perfectly call to memory when Ignatius’s mom drunk drives their car into the balcony after they have watered down drinks and pastries at a dive bar. It is as if the book and I have a negative attraction working against us. I don’t even set it down because I am bored. I usually get a new book that I have been looking forward to reading, and it gets first priority.

After I finish the book I am reading now, I am back on COD! This time I am not going to put the book down until I finish it. I already looked it up, and it is not available in The Great Illustrated Classics. Whan whan whan.

RHOBH Recuperation from Shark Tank (& Wine) Hangover

Too much Shark Tank? Or wine?

My Thanksgiving weekend with the family has ended. We had a feast every night for three days, and the last one was a real ding-dong doozie. My family drank 9 bottles of wine, and the next day our tombstones were resting in the front yard. I am still dehydrated, tired and bloated as fuck from eating a large pizza to cure my hangover. I am thankful to be back home and I really need a night of recuperation, complete personal time. Since my family watched Shark Tank for a total of 15 hours over Thanksgiving weekend, I need of some light entertainment. Shark Tank is a great show but the music gets me too tense. I find myself hiding behind the couch cushions anticipating Mr. Wonderful assassinating someone’s dreams by calling them a greedy pig and telling them to get the hell out of his sight. I put on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills because I guess a bunch of grown ass women screaming in each other’s faces and crying over a broken nail relaxes me.

We are bursting with Shark Tank potential

I watch RHOBH because of the little dogs, these women have about 4 each, and they are cute little fluffiness, the only kind of dogs I like. My neighbors have pit bulls, which are fucking terrifying. They look like the type of dogs that roam around junkyards and have spiked collars. I know, “Pit bulls aren’t bad dogs!” screams every person who has a pit bull (before that pit bull attacks someone.) The thing is, I am afraid of dogs, and dogs smell fear, so they know I am the easiest one to pick off and pit bulls are the most effective at picking off. When I walk into a room with a dog, I am the first person the dog goes over to, sniffs my lady parts as I try and shield it as best I can with my hands. I laugh from the awkwardness but in my mind I am thinking, “this dog is going to kill me, and he is starting at my vagina.”

Dog lovers are a special kind of people. They don’t seem to notice how dogs smell, or that male dogs have a slimy penis that shoots out as they look you in the eyes with their tongue hanging out. Owning a dog would be a good appetite suppressant for me though. One year I worked at a distribution center and one of my friends was an older hippie lady. We ate lunch in the employee lounge and she always wanted to watch Animal Planet. I probably lost ten pounds that summer because I can’t manage to get a bite down while I am watching a hairy ass gorilla scratching its exploding butthole on TV.

I like my dogs to be self-cleaning and defecate in a litter box, or Yorkshire terriers. I have a soft spot for those little fur balls. My mom’s dog is a 12 year old Jack Russell.  For the past 4 days I had to follow my 1 year old son around screaming, “Nooooooo!” as he toddled to her dog repeatedly shouting, “Dog! Dog!” Jack has a life littered with trauma; he was attacked by a coyote, ran over by a house boat, almost drowned when he fell through an icy pond, and dognapped for over a month (this was the darkest time of my mom’s life, and then one day he was tied to the door knob. She must have been doing some crazy visualizing.)

The face of a dog who can't be trifled with

The dognappers probably returned Jack because he is such a little shit, and my mom enables his shit behavior. Jack flips his dog bowl over and spills his food across the kitchen floor. We think it is because he would rather have prime rib, but for fucks sake, he is a dog! When Jack gets his psycho growl and begins barking at my little defenseless baby, my mom looks at me and says, “Jack has arthritis, and the babies hurt him, so keep them away.” This would be fine if Jack didn’t follow the kids around anticipating the cookies, crackers and cheese that fall from their little baby hands.

I am glad to be home and spared from the duty of keeping my kids away from my mom’s dog. I am the master of my domain, and can spend the next couple weeks recuperating from Thanksgiving by watching awful TV. By the time Christmas rolls around I will be able to do it all again, as long as I have not been eaten by my neighbors pit bull first. My mom and I will stay in communication daily with our brilliant ideas for Shark Tank (keep your eyes peeled for ice cream croutons). We are modern day Thomas Edison, thinking up crap that can be made in China for cheap. No matter what we think up, we know Daymond is the perfect shark for us!

Healing