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RV To Hell

8 Jul

The summer of my 7th grade year, my Ma and Stepdad decided to fuck up a vacation by going round trip from South Dakota to New Mexico with all four of us and my Ma’s terrier.

To make it even better, we went in a 4 bedroom, one bath, 400 square foot hellhole dubbed The Widowmaker.

South Dakota is like God’s little joke on America, with it’s vast plains of WHERE THE HELL ARE WE. The Big SD does feature Rushmore, which, if you’ve never been, is a rock–that’s all. You go, you snap a picture of you and your dog as presidents on the mountain. However, since it was Monday, and we were leaving for New Mexico only on FRIDAY, we had some time to kill.

So, we made time for:

1) Crazy Horse–another rock, but unfinished. Well thank God I saw that before I died.

2) The Rootin’ Tootin’ Cowboy Salootin’ Dinner Show–Oh, how I wish I were just dicking around about this one. We chose the RTCSDS based on their claims of being the set of the movie Dances with Wolves, Grace’s favorite movie. Upon arrival found a sticky note taped to the floor with the words “Kevn Costnar stood here,” on the way to the food line, where they handed you a metal plate and metal cup and filled your plate first with SEARING HOT BEANS, invited you to sing on stage and crush your soul.

That was all we did. 5 days, folks, 5 days.

So then, to really round out the fuckery, we moseyed on down to The Land of Enchantment–New Mexico (henceforth The Land of Broken Dreams).

Northern New Mexico=Mountains and Ski Areas=pretty.
Southern New Mexico=Desolation=Our chosen destination!

I got chased through a thornbush thicket by a band of rogue deer while wearing a wetsuit carrying flippers and a Sonic Size Dr. Pepper in Roswell.

Mark of a terrible vacation? When the IHOP Brain Teasers are your highlight.
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Nachos of Unimaginable Laziness

29 Jun

I’ve eaten nothing but sharp cheddar cheese, taco sauce, and tortilla chips for 3-4 days now. I put shredded cheese into a bowl, dump on a shitload of taco sauce, lay on my bed, and shove the masterpiece into my face with chips.

I eat the world’s laziest nachos.

Husband: “Didn’t you eat that for breakfast?”

Me: “What of it?”

Husband: “Wait. You ate that for dinner last night, too.”

Me: “…”

Husband: “Give me the taco sauce.”

Me: “Step off.” And then I run my dairy-fied ass up the stairs and out of sight.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I am a real person with a real job and everything. I’m not a homeless person or 4 years old–I just have no idea what real people eat for food. All I have in my pantry is frosting and pasta hidden behind my altar of toasted corn triangles.

I feel like an asshole at the grocery store when I look at other people’s carts, and they’re all, “FRUITS, VEGETABLES, GRAINS, NUTS, PROTEIN, WATER, ALL NATURAL PRODUCTS AND HAPPINESS.”

My cart is filled with, “SODA, CHIPS, 4 JARS OF TACO SAUCE, 6 BAGS OF SHREDDED CHEESE, AEROSOL CHEMICALS, NECESSITY OF A SOCIAL SERVICES VISIT.”

They judge me, as they stand in line sadly, “Oh, look at that sad, oily, 12 year old buying her shitty food for her shitty sleepover.” Yeah, no, I’m 23 years old and married with nice shit and about as much nutritional value as sugar-coated acid-filled baby tears.

Donkey Punchers: Ruining the Lives of Servers

28 May
You know what’s an inappropriate phrase to use in any social situation?
Donkey Punch.
Let me set the scene for you.
My husband and I took my sister to lunch at our favorite Mexican Food Restaurant in Dallas yesterday. I won’t tell you the name of it, but it rhymes with Ma Macienda Manch. They have a frequenter card, but the stamps aren’t plain circle punches–they look like burros.
We asked our waiter what the stamp was. He relayed a story of having to hunt down a manager to find out, and in the spirit of contribution, I said—rather loudly—“Bring me the donkey puncher!”
I knew the second the word left my mouth what I had done. I wheezed the air out of my lungs in response to my own idiocy, and laughed myself into tears.  The waiter and my husband stared at me, wordlessly. My sister, as awkward as myself, burst into laughter. Mother of Mary and Joseph, what the hell did I just say. I’m now that girl.
“She must have been drinking,” you say? No. I’m just completely socially inept. This is not a new story for me; this is not even something that phased most people I know as out-of-character for me. I am incapable of not offending people in most standard social situations. What to wear, what to say, who to speak to—Awkward Queen reigns like Oprah reigns the housewives.