Tuesday, October 23, 2012

I Got 99 Problems

And one of them is that Jay-Z is stuck in my head.  But anyway.

Yesterday was another one of those WHAT THE FUCK days.  You may have noticed that I have those a lot.  As a matter of fact, if I wrote about all of them, my blog would contain more information than the Internet.  (That BLOWS YOUR DAMN MIND, DOESN'T IT?  Good.  It was supposed to.)  For example, here's a little story for you.

After I finished at the gym yesterday, I came home and showered, knowing that I needed to drive to the Greenbrier area and run a couple of errands.  After I dressed and dried my hair, I thought, "Oooh.  I'm wearing a badass skull shirt with studs on it.  I think I'm going to RUN WITH THAT MOTHERFUCKER AND GO ALL EDGY TODAY."  So I did.  When I put on my makeup, I outlined my eyes with a wet liner brush dipped in navy eyeshadow, to make them sort of smeary and kohl-ish, then loaded on lots of mascara.  With my jeans and badass skull t-shirt, I put on black boots.  By then, I had put far more effort than I EVER put into getting ready, so I was too bored to do my hair (I HATE getting ready to go places) and just twisted it up into a ballerina bun and dried my bangs with the round brush.  I LOOKED LIKE A ROCKSTAR CROSSED WITH A SEXY SERIAL KILLER.  I LOOKED AWESOME.

Twenty minutes later, I rolled into Greenbrier.  I hurried into the store I needed to grab something from (a store which cannot be named here because if B reads this the name of the store would totally give away his anniversary gift which he can't know about until Thursday) and darted down one of the aisles.  Once I found what I needed, I stood for a few minutes mulling over the selection and deciding exactly what I wanted to get.  Just then, a woman walked by, pushing a shopping cart with a little girl sitting in the toddler seat.  The kid was chubby and sticky and had what appeared to be cherry lollipop staining the front of her Disney Princess shirt.  She waved at me, but I, being me and disliking those little bastards that people refer to as "children," ignored her.  AND THEN SHE SLAYED ME.

This little bitty, brown-haired, three-ish year old PAIN IN THE ASS brought me down a notch.  How?

She looked up at her mother, giggled and said, "Mommy, that lady looks like Tinkerbell."

FUCKING TINKERBELL?  I DON'T THINK SO.  I'M WEARING SKULLS AND STUDS AND GOTH EYE MAKEUP, YOU LITTLE BITCH.  I'M HARDCORE AND IF I WANTED TO, I COULD KICK YOUR ASS TODDLER ASS.  SO CHECK YOURSELF, RUGRAT, BEFORE I WRECK YOURSELF.

(No.  I did not actually say those things.  I'm not THAT inconsiderate of dumbass things like how other people don't want their kids to hear swear words or be threatened by strangers.  But that is TOTALLY what I said in my head.)

Following that little incident, I grabbed what I needed and headed to the checkout.  The dude who rang me up was about twenty-two with shaggy skater hair and and a bag of cheetos next to the cash register that he was likely using to meet the needs of ongoing munchies from smoking too much pot on his lunchbreak.  Still fuming, I pulled my wallet out of my handbag and noticed that, while my credit card was there, my driver's license was not.  I had forgotten it in Blaker's wallet where he kept it while we were at Busch Gardens in case I ran out of the vodka I smuggled in in my bra and needed to actually suck it up and purchase alcohol from the park.  FUCKBUCKETS.

Sure enough, when I gave him my credit card, he asked to see ID.  So, I did what any decent woman would do (no, not blow him behind the counter-- not this time anyway), I acted like I was going to cry. 

Now, you need to understand how monumental this was for me.  I would rather pierce my own nipples than cry in front of a stranger.  Or anybody, really.  But this time, I reasoned, it was okay:  1) because it was fake; and 2) because I had driven half an hour to get where I was and although Blaker is great and I'm really stoked we've been married so long I WASN'T FUCKING DRIVING THE HELL BACK THERE AGAIN TO GET HIS DAMN ANNIVERSARY GIFT.  I'm too selfish to be bothered with that shit.  Therefore, I let my eyes tear up and explained how, " my driver's license is in my husband's wallet and I forgot and I'm so sorry and I can't believe this happened and is there anyway you guys can use something else like perhaps my library card or my SweetFrog punch card to make sure that I am who I say I am?"  By then, between the fake tears and the near-hyperventilation from the run-on sentence the guy was nervous and stuttered out a "Yes, Ma'am" while he busted his ass to get me out of there as quickly as possible.  Score for me.

Once I was back to my car I realized that I needed to run to Virginia Beach while I was in that general direction.  "Why," you ask.  "Did you need to go to the really nice mall or the Trader Joe's?"  No.  No, I did not.  I NEEDED TO GO TO THE FUCKING BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA STORE.

Yes, that's right.  There is a FUCKING BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA STORE.

Who in the holy hell knew that even existed?  Not me.  Until my nerdy little boy decided to follow in his nerdy grandpa's footsteps and become a nerdy little scout.  And since his equally nerdy, but in a different sort of way, father is a slackass and forgot to take him to scouts on the last night to purchase his scout handbook, I had to look online to figure out where to order one.  And when I gave up, drank a bottle of wine, and called Barnes & Noble to ask, "Where in hell and damnation can I buy the goddamn Boy Scouts of America Tiger Scout Handbook, motherfuckers?" I was told that I had to go to the FUCKING BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA STORE.

SWEET JESUS.

Turns out, there was one in Virginia Beach, so that was where I headed next.  It was an interesting trip-- I have a sneaking suspicion that all the money those nerd scouts raise selling cookies or whatever the fuck they do DOES NOT go to further the pleasantness of their stores.  I found this one in a shady section of Virginia Beach in which all the store signs were in Spanish and there seemed to be a great deal of people milling around abandoned gas stations smoking things that looked very similar to the crackpipes I've seen on Law & Order reruns.  When I finally made it safely inside the store I saw that somehow I had managed to travel from one extreme to the other.  The guys outside had teardrops tattooed on their faces.  The guy INSIDE was wearing a full Boy Scout Uniform (with shorts) and greeted me with, "Hidey there, little miss!"  Awesome.  (LET ME REMIND YOU OF HOW I LOOKED EDGY.  NOT LIKE A "LITTLE MISS."  ASSHOLE.)  The whole store was nothing but nerd books and nerd clothes and ten zillion nerd badges to sew ON your nerd clothes.  SUTTON WOULD HAVE HAD A NERDGASM OVER IT ALL.  I, on the other hand, immediately developed a headache and a strong craving for tequila.  Since I had no tequila with me (though most likely could have easily found it within a 50-yard radius, along with cocaine and a handful of sexually transmitted diseases) I quickly found the Tiger Cub book I needed and tried not to weep (this time for real) while I considered what a tool my poor, sweet child was becoming. 

AND THIS WAS JUST TWO HOURS OUT OF MY DAY, PEOPLE.  TWO FUCKING HOURS.

And people wonder why it makes me tired to be me.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

A River of Trouble

Back in August, a few of you got the late-night emergency text message reading, "CODE RED!  STAT!  STAT!  My Mom got engaged!"

No, I was not drunk, nor high on hallucinogenic mushrooms.  Although I really wish I had been (both).

Turns out, Mom is getting married.

Soon. 

Thanksgiving Weekend.

The wedding is to be held on a riverboat, with dinner and dancing and champagne.  Let's stop here for a minute.  Now, anybody who has ever met my Mom's side of the family or heard my (totally true) tales of them immediately realized that this wedding was a bad idea as soon as they heard the word "riverboat."  It does NOT make sense to take a bunch of drunk rednecks and put them on the river.  ("But Haley," you say, "drunk rednecks on the river is your typical Saturday in Tennessee."  TRUE DAT.  However, there is a difference between a twenty-year old fishing boat spray-painted camo and loaded with cans of Natural Light puttering down the Hiwassee and a stuffy riverboat complete with linen napkins and champagne flutes docked in downtown Chattanooga.)  I have no idea how many of her own relatives Mom intends to invite, but I suspect that my family numbers will drop by approximately 33% after a chunk of them (most of whom cannot swim) individually tumble into the water while looking for a place to piss after filling their bladders with the moonshine they snuck onto the boat in mason jars in their coat pockets.

Please note that losing half my family to a fatal wedding drowning would not upset me in the least, and MIGHT even get me on Dateline (yet again, my second-in-line lifetime wish).

Anyway, once you move beyond the particulars of the wedding party deathtrap, you get my mother and her intended, Chip, who have apparently learned to ballroom dance for the occasion.  DOES THIS SOUND SAFE?  Not just no, but HELL NO.  My Mom can't walk across the room in a two-inch chunk heel with someone holding her hand for stabilization.  Yet she plans to FOXTROT ON A RIVERBOAT?  AWESOME. (For the record, I will indeed laugh at this if I am still sober enough to be conscious.  I know what you're thinking--I could be one of the drunken fall-off-the-boaters.  Sadly (for you, not for me) I am an extremely strong swimmer, even in icy November water, so PUT THAT IN YOUR FUCKING PIPE AND SMOKE IT, ASSHOLES.)  You can rest assured that I plan to have EMS on standby to haul her ass off to the hospital and get her hip replaced, as necessary, seeing as how we all know how graceful Mom can be.  (My daughter gets it from her Ya Ya.)

Let's not overlook the fact that this wedding will be blending Chip's Yankee-Family-From-Michigan and my Mom's Family of We-Ain't-Got-No-'Lectricity-In-Our-Trailer-Where-I-Married-My-Cousin.  What will these northerners THINK when they meet us?  I mean, seriously.  Honey Boo Boo's family has to have a translator closed-captioning for the masses so that normal people can understand what the hell they say.  Shouldn't that be a concern for us as we blend at this soiree?  I FUCKING THINK SO.  But does anybody ever listen to my GREAT IDEAS?  Not really.  Surprised, aren't you?

Aside from the logistics of it all, people keep asking me how I feel about the wedding.  Who CARES how I feel about the wedding?  What people SHOULD be asking is "HOW IN THE HOLY FUCK DID YOUR MOM FIND SOMEBODY TO PUT UP WITH HER?"  The obvious answer, of course, is because she's MY mom.  Everybody knows I'm awesome.  But Chip barely knows me so that can't be the answer.  What IS the answer?  I don't know.  What I DO know is that Zach and I are both eternally grateful to Mom for snagging herself a new future.  MOM WILL NEVER COME LIVE WITH EITHER OF US.  She's in Chip's hands now.

Hallelujah.  Praise Jesus.

And that, my friends, is reason enough for a drink.  Salut! 

All Your Prayers Have Been Answered

Alright, everybody. 

For years now, you guys have been telling me to write a book.  Well, high five for Haley, my tome of genius is under construction.  Please start saving up your money now to purchase multiple copies because I am not only certain that it will be published, but also positive that it will be ON THE FUCKING NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER LIST INDEFINITELY.  Otherwise, I wouldn't waste my time.

In the meantime, I ran into a problem-- I miss blogging, but don't have the time or extra material to use in Starrtrippin', which is why I have not written much lately.  After careful consideration, I am granting what I pretty much KNOW would be your one wish if you were trapped on a desert island-- HALEY IS STARTING A REVOLUTIONARY NEW BLOG.

The new blog WHAT WOULD HALEY DO is an advice column for the world at large-- how to navigate through your days HALEY-STYLE.  (You're all like, "Fuck yeah!  That's the best idea EVER.  Let's go have a drink and celebrate!"  It's okay.  I encourage day drinking.  And recreational drug use.  Particularly if you are planning to take your kids duck pin bowling in Portsmouth.)

I encourage my readers to FUCKING PARTICIPATE in this new venture.  The blog address is:

http://whatwouldhaleydo.blogspot.com

and I will start giving my stellar advice as soon as you start emailing me shit to write about.  Please send it to:

whatwouldhaleydo@gmail.com

In the meantime, never fear, Starrtrippin isn't dead, it's just taking a back burner (um, not that it was ever really a front burner, but my theory is that if I wrote more often than I do, you would be overwhelmed with my awesomeness and COULDN'T FUCKING HANDLE IT).

So.  SEND ME YOUR PROBLEMS, YO.