…because y’all asked for it

What is a blog post? By definition, it is helpful, industry-specific content that that gives readers a useful takeaway and shows you’re an expert in the topic.

If that is what you are looking for, you’ve come to the wrong place. I *am not* for everyone, y’all. I cuss. I drink. I don’t go to church but I do vote. I don’t follow sports unless it’s a game my girls are playing in. I’m kind of opinionated and I mastered the art of sarcasm at the age of 7. Like, I’m considered bilingual and it’s a gift that I’m happy to share with everyone. I’m *that* realtor that wears jeans in the winter and shorts in the summer to show homes. I’m a tad critical of other drivers and a proud member of the grammar police. I have celiac disease and am straight-up bitter about it. I’m seldom wrong and will argue to prove my point. I’m a huge fan of ‘Peanuts’ yet have never named a dog “Snoopy”. I have a hard time making my facial expressions use their inside voice. I am half-Scot and have tendency to tell people about it – even when they don’t ask. I’m not a huge fan of travel but do like to “make memories” with my fam. I can find the bad in *any* given situation; try me. I’m tall but I’m not *that* tall (we will leave weight at “the door” with religion and politics). I sang U2 songs to my girls when they were babies because, after all, I know all of the words to all of their songs. I have been married to my best friend for over twenty years and have two girls that I hope, will one day, be contributing members of society. If you can handle all (or, at least, most) of that, welcome. Otherwise, as my nav system frequently advises me, “make a legal u-turn now”.

y’all, they tried to kill me

On one of the final days of the Team Muehe New England Trip of Summer 2022, Coty decided that we should take the girls to nearby Gunstock Mountain Resort. The “adventure” day pass included unlimited access to the ski lift, rope climbing, and the mountain coaster. [For those that don’t know, lots of ski resorts convert to something similar so that they can remain open during the summer months]. Zip-lining was understandably extra; no biggie because it was only the girls that were going. I was promised: “there’s a gift shop *and* a bar”. Count me in! What could possibly go wrong?

We bought our tickets online and scheduled zip-lining for the girls. We packed sunscreen and water (no snacks…again!) and headed out to make our reservation on time. Upon arrival, Coty announced that he had chosen *that* very day to conquer his fear of heights. Fortunately, for Coty, and not-so-fortunately for me, the zipline tour group that the girls were registered in had two open spots. Yay.

Backstory: I grew up in a house with a Dad that owned single engine planes. We flew. A lot. I learned to ride roller coasters at a young age. Height has never been an issue for me. Coty grew up in a house with a (step)Dad that was into boating. They owned multiple boats over the years so he spent a ton of time on the water. Enter 1999: girl with no fear of heights that gets sea sick easily marries boy with fear of heights and sea legs. Opposites attract, right? #orsomething

Anyways, back in New Hampshire, the girls are clearly excited by the news and suggest that all *four* of us go zip-lining. Whatever. I’m not afraid of heights. Or speed. Take my money. Let’s go. I mean, how bad can it be?

My first hint of issue was the sign that read “closed toe shoes required”. I saw them turn away a little boy in a pair of Crocs. Really? At that point, I should’ve turned to run but, not to worry, I stayed, y’all. After all, someone has to capture the video. #ishouldvewornsandals

While we awaited our turn on the zip-line, we rode the mountain coaster. A few times. It was unlimited so why not? It’s a slow ride up the tracks to the top of the hill in single-rider car. It requires zero effort on your part. Once at the peak, there is a lazy bastard sitting in a plastic lawn chair reminding you to keep your seat-belt securely fastened and to keep all hands, arms, legs, and closed-toe shoes inside the cart. Got it. Not a problem, sir. As I scooted away, I thought to myself, “that’s my kinda job; just needs more colorful language”.

Mallory (left) and Meredith headed out on the mountain coaster.

Getting down the track is much quicker than ascending it: push forward on the handle bars to release the brake while making fun of the morons that scream all the way to the bottom. #ninnies

Finally, it was our turn for the zip-line tour. We were escorted into what I can only describe as a old, retired horse barn sans stalls – open sides, tin roof, dirty floors, and a smell that attracted flies. I was confused to see 12 harnesses paired with 12 “backpacks” on the floor. Wait. What? Y’all don’t carry this shit around for us? What is it I’m paying you for?

Upon instruction, each one of us reluctantly stepped in behind our own individual pile-o-gear. The nazi leader that was touring with our group told us to step inside the legs straps and pull the belt to our waist. I looked around the room while everyone slithered into their first stage of adult trappings. To my dismay, I discovered that I was too – ahem – pleasantly plump to fit into my belt as currently adjusted. For fuck’s sake. A true fat-girl’s nightmare right there in the making. I glanced quickly but didn’t spot anyone taking a video. I panicked and tried to adjust the belts. Turns out, that shit isn’t designed like the standard issue, easy-to-use lap belts provided on all commercial flights. I refused to break a nail so stood and waited for Hitler’s granddaughter to call me out. She did. I caught myself just before the words, “look you skinny bitch; your day awaits you” slipped out of my mouth. Everyone watched as I struggled to loosen my straps to get the belt up to my waist. I longed for a rock to crawl under but had no luck finding one large enough.

Once the belt was up and adjusted (had to loosen the belt to get it over the hips that survived fertility treatment and later birthed two children and then tighten again once at my vodka tonic drinking waist), it was time to get the shoulder straps into place. When I tell you that these torture devices were *not* designed for women that wear anything larger than an A cup, I am not exaggerating. Coty was so kind as to help me with my shoulder straps and tightened them until I lost all circulation to my chest area. I think he was trying to stop me from complaining. Or, perhaps, he was aiming to cutoff my ability to inhale air into my lungs? Please, my darling husband. Do me a favor!

The next step was to collect the black backpack of doom from the dirty ass floor and fling it into place. Now, I know you’re thinking that its “place” was in the bed of the trailer that would be pulled behind the bus that carried us up the mountain. Clearly, I thought the same and sadly, I was mistaken. I heard the guide utter some shit about picking up those bags and getting them onto our backs and I thought I must be on ‘Candid Camera’. Nope. She made a declaration about the weight of the bags – claiming they *only* weighed 28 pounds. Y’all, these bags were full of everything zipline including trolleys, carabiners, handlebars and the ¾” cable used to string the new line our group was apparently installing – at least, that’s how it felt. Twenty-eight pounds, y’all?? I call BS! Coty and I looked like two well prepared Eagle Scouts headed out for a weekend in the wilderness. The girls were unphased and marched forward like the former percussionists they were.

Once we were all in line, she announced, “be careful to *not* drop your gear at any time as the trolleys inside are easily dislocated and broken”. Easily broken? This shit had best be top quality “made in the USA” steel gear capable of carrying me down this damn mountain and safely back to my ugly-ass rental car! All the good little soldiers fell into line with their bags on their backs – ready to go. My decrepit old ass couldn’t bend with the belt in place and attempted a not-so-graceful squat to pick it up. I convinced myself that the worst part was done.

In my true fashion, I was last to leave the barn and served as the caboose in the line. We trekked across a big-ass field to meet up as a group for training. A polite young man told us that we could leave our gear where we were standing as it wouldn’t be needed for the next portion. Music to my ears – get this damn thing off of me!

One by one, we took turns learning how to connect our carabiners to the line, correct hand placement on the handlebars, timing, increasing/decreasing speed, and “braking” – which was not to be confused with “breaking”. Little man motioned for us to gather our gear and proceed to the next area “just up the hill” for the final round of training.

If you read my blog entry about the one and only time I ever skiied, you may be familiar with the conveyor belt that I first learned of while at the ski resort in Taos, NM. Well, since this place is a ski resort in the winter months, they had a similar conveyor belt. Only one problem, it was *not* running. We were expected to take our 38 lbs-o-gear and get to the top of the hill. The girls literally *ran* up the hill with Coty and left me to die – err – catch up. I leaned into the motionless conveyor belt and begged my feet not to “fail me now”. This is where I die. And, as a gasped my last breath, I heard my darling daughters say, “way to go, Karen”; I had made it to the top of the hill. Again, I convinced myself that the worst part was done.

There are no photos of me or Coty in our gear. But, trust me when I say that we were there…

It took nearly 10 minutes for me to catch my breath. I witnessed a couple of former marines time each other while running up the conveyor belt with their bags hoisted high above their heads. What the actual fuck? Since I didn’t have the breath to say the words I could only think, “showoffs; your day awaits you, too”.

One by one, again, we did the first of four lines. This one was short and mostly flat. Meaning, we didn’t gain too much speed and there wasn’t much drop; each of us were given an opportunity to see what we were in for. We were “up the hill” by this point, so I may survive after all.

From the platform, we were instructed to go down “this set of steps, around the corner, and up the spiral staircase”. I’m sorry, what? A spiral staircase? In the mountains? To prove it could be done, the light blue painted spiral staircase stood, in fact, just around the corner. The distance between the center pole and the handrail was barely wide enough for my 48 lb backpack of tricks and childbearing (later childrearing) hips to fit through. I counted the steps as I climbed them and reminded myself that the worst part was done. When I reached the forty-mother-fucking-second step, I heard Mallory say, “Oh, I love this song” and realized that I, in fact, was not in Hell but on another platform ready to approach the next zipline. I was thankful that I would, at least, die while a song she liked played on the radio. Enter teenage boy supervising the out-of-shape, uncoordinated, elderly tourists (maybe just me?) hook their carabiner onto the line and wait until the person in front of them had arrived at the receiving platform, unhooked, gotten down, and safe. Here’s the easy part: jump. Coty and I, once again, racing to the next platform. Most people would glide along and admire the views. I spent my trip wondering if there were more stairs in my future.

Like a recording, we were instructed to, once again, go down “this set of steps, around the corner, and up the spiral staircase”. Fuck me. Another spiral staircase. Who knew I would die in New Hampshire? I counted the steps again as I climbed. I reached the forty-mother-fucking-second step and looked in my direct line of sight hoping to see my darling daughters only to discover that I was not yet at the platform and still had another ten steps to go. By the time I reached the top, I was delirious. Looking back, I think Coty and the girls were there but I was too manic to care. I planned a tombstone that would read: “here lies Karen with the 58 lb backpack of doom that bled her dry, left her breathless, and plummeting to her death in the lovely Gunstock Mountains of New Hampshire. Call today to book your own experience then direct yourself to www.teammuehe.com to give feedback”.

For the final “zip”, I didn’t wait for the all clear or for Coty. I think I was mentally and physically done. I was never so thankful to see a parking lot full of cheap rental cars, “oh, hey – there’s our filthy ride” as I glided above it. We arrived at the final platform only to discover a church group of young teens. I reminded myself to keep my language “clean”. I unclipped from the line and proceeded down the final steps of this dreadful excursion. “Get this fucking thing off of me” were the words I accidentally said aloud as a dropped the 68 lb body bag onto the ground. Not a single kid stopped in their tracks or looked my way. If anything, I recognized glances of pity that I had given the elderly as a young teen bitch myself.

Once the four of us were reunited, the girls made a HUGE production over Coty facing his fear of heights. And, I’m over there: “I nearly died. Like four times. Carrying a 78 lb gawd-awful accessory pack. Did anyone notice? Do y’all even fucking care?” I mean, my plan for the day was to ride the mountain coaster and to shop in the gift store. Like the loser I am, I walked alone to the resort bar.

I knew I would need to document this day via a blog entry but also knew I needed time to mentally recover first. It only took 3 months, y’all. As I sipped my first vodka tonic for that day, I read the following on the resort brochure:

“Get your adrenaline pumping on our high-flying Zipline Tour! Soar above the trees from peak to peak, and peak to base, traveling over a combined 1.6 miles on one of the longest zipline tours in the Continental United States. This 1.5+ hour adventure is for thrill seekers and nature lovers alike. You can even control your speed and reach up to 70mph”!

Thrill seeker? Nature lover?! Y’all. No. Just no. #imnotforeveryoneyall

two words, y’all: rail. bike.

When Coty and I were finalizing plans for our trip to New England this summer, I went online to find ideas for new-to-us places to visit. We’ve taken the girls to New England (staying in New Hampshire) two other times; so, I was looking for things to do that we hadn’t before. Googling “things to do with teens in New England” was useless. Bike trails, camping destinations, hiking routes, and whitewater rafting. Surely you jest, Google. I came across the Hobo Railroad at Lake Winnipesaukee and purposely scrolled on. I mean, I guess I like a scenic train ride as much as the next person but I knew I could find something better to do with my time.

The list I compiled included things like sugar shacks (#iykyk) and Ben & Jerry’s (because the fat kid in me will always eat icecream) in Vermont, site of the Salem Witch Trials and the Boston Tea Party in Massachusetts, and lighthouses followed by Cape Cod potato chip factory (because priorities) in Maine. I made a separate list of things that I thought the girls would like: think theme parks and mountain coasters, etc.

Unfortunately, on the Monday, Coty did his own search-o-activities in the area and found out that the Hobo Railroad offers rail bikes. When he told me about it, I must’ve had ‘the look’ on my face because he quickly added “I’ll do all the pedaling”. [I swear that’s what he said].

Where I went wrong was not reviewing the website before we left the house. I had no idea what I was getting myself into…

The drive from the house to the railroad was air conditioned – err – uneventful. We were on time for check-in and assigned to Bike #3. I thought to myself, “good; at least, we won’t be the dumb bastards in the very front making a spectacle of ourselves”. More on that later.

About ten minutes prior to the “scheduled ride” (as the boy scouts – err – guides referred to it), we were escorted outside for instructions and important safety information. Yes, they were serious af. Right. Time to see what’s happening a Facebook… I successfully tuned that shit right out. I looked up just in time to see the *free* drawstring bag that we could utilize during the ride and then keep as a souvenir afterward. I know my face had “yay” written all over it. Boy Scout Ben clearly expected applause or at least a look of excitement/appreciation. He got nada from Karen; it was more of collective moan amongst the crowd. One of the guides came by to say that the bikes were not in numerical order. WTF? He looked like he flunked outta kindergarten sooo there’s that. He had fewer teeth than I have fingers. Now, who wants to guess where Bike #3 was? If you said “third spot in line”, you’re wrong. If you opted to go with “Muehe Luck” and guess first in line, you win. We were FIRST – right behind the boy scouts – err – guides. Awesome. Another guide announced that the strongest adult should sit front right, then the second strongest should sit back left. “Right, Coty that’s you there and Mallory you there” and I parked my fatass in the front left seat leaving Meredith in the back with Mallory. It took some time to get all of our seats adjusted because, um, long legs. [Have you seen my children?]

The guides’ rail bike jetted off for the “scheduled ride” and Coty told all of us to pedal. I looked down and discovered a footrest! Hot damn! Someone was, in fact, thinking of tourists like me when they built this monstrosity — err — rail bike.

Coty, Mallory, and Meredith were pedaling away when one the guides ran by with his orange safety flag (it was his job to stop traffic for us so that we could *safely* cross intersections. And, yes, Coty had to explain that to me because I was clearly not paying attention during the training) and he yelled back at me, “I see you’re working hard”. I didn’t say a word but thought to myself, “mind your own, mother fucker, or the next traffic stop will be your last”. Unfortunately, due to big mouth boy scout, the girls found out I had not been pedaling. Geez Louise. You would’ve thought I was trying to unstuff their favorite teddy bears. I put my feet on the pedals and managed about every third rotation. I mean, seriously; we were moving – not blocking traffic – and that was enough for me.

The girls were in the back, chanting like the little percussionists that they used be: “right, left…left…left, right. Right, left…left…left, right”. Then, they decided to see how fast they could chant the cadence and pedal to the same rhythm. They were laughing – I’m not sure at what – because, clearly, this situation was no laughing matter.

It was at this point that I realized I was living amidst blog material. Team Muehe vacations. Gotta love ‘em! Anyways, I figured it best that I take notes. I mean, who wouldn’t want to remember every single detail of this hell I was forced to participate in? I whipped out my handy dandy iPhone and pulled up the Notes app. I began pecking out the words: Rail Bike. My phone knows me well enough to know that I’d never agree to such bullshit and promptly autocorrected to “robot”. Obvi that *brilliant* idea wasn’t going to work so I switched to voice dictation. It was interesting to see what my phone came up with as it had to decipher my voice amid my huffing, puffing, and cussing plus the girls laughing/singing/rapping in the back row. I’ll hand it to Apple on this: never, at any point, did my phone struggle to add in my side commentary (aka cuss words) as I huffed, puffed, and pedaled. “Rail Bike excursion near Lake Winnie P. {oh my damn, my quads are on fire}

The first words of my dictation were, “this is the biggest motherfucking bunch of bullshit” and then me asking Coty how long the ride was and at what point we reached the bar. I nearly choked when he replied, “five miles and there is *no* bar”. Are you fucking kidding me? Did you NOT read my blog post, ‘y’all, I don’t exercise’? I know that he knows me better than that. Or, he used to. He tried handing me some bullshit about, “it’s a ride with a view” to which I responded, “this is truly the best place to hide a body”. There were no roads – only a lake with some railroad tracks running parallel. #nobodysgonnaknow #theyregonnaknow #howwouldtheyknow

Even though each rail bike was meant to be 200 feet apart, the overachieving motherfuckers behind us got too close. The guides had said, “respect the pace of the riders in front of you”; to which I interpreted to mean, “fat people pedal slow”. How dare they attempt to participate in *our* fun? Did we pack tomatoes or eggs? What do we have that we can throw at these assholes? Slow down; I’ll grab rocks.

Again, I got busted with my feet propped up on foot rest and again I got yelled at, “come the fuck on, Karen. PEDAL!”. [Yes, my children cuss. Are y’all surprised? And, no, I don’t care. If it’s the worst thing they do, I’ve done something right. Cuss all you want. Just be a contributing member of society]. I politely reminded my little darlings that I did not sign up for a work out today and that their claim of “a fucking leisurely ride” was a full-on “fool me once” situation”.

Fortunately, we were in NH and not FL. It was warm but not hellaciously hot. The breeze was just barely enough to prevent sweat running down my ass crack; however, my makeup was suffering. I kept asking, “how much longer until the break”? only to be told that we hadn’t completed the first mile, yet. Maybe I’m the soon-to-be dead body that someone is planning to hide out here?

Annddd…here comes motherfucking Boy Scout Ben, running by with the flag again, and we were forced to stop at a traffic crossing. If you’ve ever been on a surrey bike, know that this thing was similar. That is, getting it moving is no easy feat. To stop for things like “moving cars headed in our direction” was unnecessary IMO. Drivers could undoubtedly see that I was struggling. Like, it’s possible that video exists on TikTok. #troubledtourist Have respect for the old bitch on Bike #3 as she is apparently overheated, overwhelmed, and sober. As I bitched about my quads burning and my ass going numb, Coty had the audacity to tell me, “pain is weakness leaving the body”. Yeah, well I’m good with my weakness staying right the fuck where it is.

At one point, one of my little princesses suggested, “let’s take turns pedaling by ourselves; Coco, you go first”! WTAF? Our bike nearly came to a screeching halt when it was my turn to pedal. #greatidea #aintnoway #feetonthepedalsbitches

We continued to pedal up the side of the mountain. OK – maybe it wasn’t a mountain but it wasn’t a flat surface. We passed a downed tree and I questioned why I could relate. The further I pedaled, the angrier I became that I had put on makeup and shaved my legs for this shit. We were in an area where I could literally foresee a serial killer jumping out at us and I thought, “fine; take me first”. I tried, “Hey, Siri. Call me an Uber”. Go figure. No fucking service.

We were warned by Boy Scout Ben during our safety training, that the third intersection we encountered would be a dirt road leading to a state park on the lake. We were told to “stop, look both ways, and proceed with caution”. Oh, Ben. Sweet, sweet Ben. As we approached the dirt road, we collectively agreed that it wasn’t worth the effort to stop and start again. If this is where and how I die, so be it. Hopefully, the car will be big enough and moving with enough momentum to take me out. However, with “Muehe Luck”, I’d likely go home with a broken hip and Coty would be forced to wipe my ass for weeks. But honestly, he deserved it. After all, this was *his* idea.

Unlike my last bike ride, this time I had water. What I didn’t have was enough water. My water ran out before we hit the halfway point. Do y’all think I panicked? Of course I fucking panicked. We were in the middle of nowhere with some weird ass families that claimed to be having fun. Where are the snacks? Holy shit; I didn’t pack snacks *again*. I refuse to die with an empty stomach! When my autopsy is eventually done, I expect the mortician to find a belly full of chocolate and vodka tonic and a pickled liver. #aboutthatdeadbody

As we reached the half way point, my Apple Watch was obviously displeased. “You’ve closed your rings, YOU’VE CLOSED YOUR RINGS!” Pull over, Karen. You’ve covered steps for the week. Continuing may burn too many calories. Prop your feet; no more pedaling. Take a break. Have a drink. #bartenderineedadoubleshort

The half-way point was literally a place to stop and stretch our legs – something I should’ve done before the “scheduled ride”. As I dismounted my rail bike, I pulled my shorts (and my husband) out of my ass and tried to remind myself that we were on vacation. I decided that I was ready to get home and back to work. There was a homemade (no shit), make shift device that lifts the rail bikes from the train tracks and turns them around to pedal back towards the station. And, guess what? That’s right bitches, last in the line. Who’s making fun of who now? If we could’ve ridden the ass of the bikers in front of us, we definitely would’ve.

Our rail bike had been parked in the sun; so, when it came time to clamber up, we got our free gift with purchase: burnt asses. That should’ve been included in the safety training, Boy Scout Ben.

Pedaling back towards Hobo Station, we got the opportunity to appreciate the freaks on our “scheduled ride”. I mean, here I am in my cute Judy Blue shorts, a clean white t-shirt from The Gap, and my wrap-around-tie Sorel tennis shoes; these other bitches are in workout clothes. Work. Out. Clothes. What the actual fuck? Please tell me that you are from here? Like, seriously: did y’all pack that shit for a vacation? It’s not a vacation if you’re still working out. The best was the “granolas” (as we call them) in the Columbia zip-off pants. Like, “I’m cold – zip on legs; I’m hot – zip off legs” pants. Who the fuck even wears those? I can tell you. A couple of women with the “business in the front, party in the back” hairstyles and their husbands. They had shoes from Columbia that matched their pants. #trendsetters However, I’ll say this: they showed up with enough water. Hell, I bet they had snacks. Maybe I should’ve made friends?

We didn’t stop at the dirt path intersection on the way back, either. In fact, I think everyone pedaled harder and prayed for a car to take us out. Maybe it was just me? I was subjected to the rest of my family “singing” (in quotations because I use that term loosely) Michael Jackson tunes, then Elvis, then Dolly and I wondered where I went wrong. My pondering did help the ride back go by a bit faster.

I look around and see people my age out here mountain biking and ziplining and I am over here feeling good about myself because I got my leg through my underwear hole, without losing my balance, on the second attempt this morning. Oh, who am I kidding? I was sitting down.

The rail bike ride was Coty’s “one and done” activity idea for the trip. From here on out, I’ll choose the excursions.

we’re not in kansas anymore, y’all

Part of participating in the Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) sports means travel. Being on the top travel team in your club typically means travelling out of state. If you’re not interested in out-of-state travel, drop down a level and all of your tournaments will be regional – from Houston, to Dallas, to San Antonio, etc. All of this information is provided up front, no matter the club. So, yeah – we knew what we were getting ourselves into when the girls signed up for AAU teams. Two years ago, we went to Orlando (see “’tis spring break, y’all”) last year to Las Vegas (which I never got around to writing about), and this year to Kansas Shitty – err – City.

When Meredith has a two or three-day tournament, I typically try to do some sort of cutesy volleyball nail design. This year was no different. I showed them to her proudly when I got home and said, “dangit – I should have had her paint the #28 (her jersey number – thanks to Louis Tomlinson) on my nails” to which she lovingly replied, “no, Karen. Just no.” Oh, I’m *fo sho* doin’ that shit next time! Hell, I might add a shirt that reads, “28’s Mom” on the back in big ass vinyl letters and a fathead! Try me, little girl. Mama don’t play. Just remember: that crazy streak of yours? You got that shit from me.

We booked our flights on Southwest months ago (like September or October) and our hotel through USA Volleyball as this event is a “stay to play” – meaning a certain number of players from each team are required to “stay” where the organization tells them to in order for our team to “play” in the tournament. That way, the hotels get filled and the volleyball organization gets to enjoy a nice little kickback. Everyone is happy. Some of you are nodding your heads as you read this, right? Fast forward to last week. The schedule was finally posted and we learned that Meredith’s team was playing in the afternoon wave on Saturday so we opted to switch to a later flight on Friday.

Around the same time, we also booked a hotel room in College Station so that we could attend Parents Weekend at A&M with Mallory. Guess what? They were the same damn weekend and we didn’t realize it until about a month ago. We had no choice but to divide and conquer. Coty drove to College Station and I took Meredith to the volleyball tournament where he planned to join us later.

The flight that we opted to go out on was *meant* to depart at 9:35 P on Friday. Meredith and I grabbed a quick dinner with 2/3 of Team Kaale at Cheesecake Factory before they kicked us to the curb at the doors of the Southwest Terminal. Meredith and I skated through baggage check and TSA Pre sans Coty experiencing literally ZERO issues and found our way back to the gate. The plane was there so I suggested we back track to Hudson News for two $7 bottles of water and a $12 bag of Cheez-It crackers. As I paid my $26 tab, the first text came through: “Your Southwest flight, Flight 1348 on April 8 from HOU now departs at 10:08 PM. We’re sorry for the delay. Please visit www.southwest.com/status” I showed the text to Meredith and assured her that it wasn’t that big of a deal. We had extra time to run to the ladies’ room and then charge our phones from the seats in the terminal. Forty-two minutes went by when the next text came through. “Your Southwest flight, Flight 1348 on April 8 from HOU now departs at 11:10 PM. We’re sorry for the delay. Please visit www.southwest.com/status” and realize that the effects of the vodka tonic I had at home while packing and the martini I had at Cheesecake Factory had long faded away. I contemplated leaving Meredith in the terminal to locate a bar. This is unacceptable. I feel trapped. In a small space. With people. I don’t like people. I’m wearing a mask. I don’t like mask. Fucking masks. My ears. It’s hurting my ears. Wait. Is it my ears? Is it “da hoops”? Oh. My. God. “The bigger da hoops. The bigger da ho” Shit! Its da hoops! Hoops off and into the backpack. At 9:26 P, Southwest tried messing with all of us when they sent us “Your Southwest flight, Flight 1348 on April 8 from HOU now departs at 9:35 PM. We’re sorry for the delay. Please visit www.southwest.com/status”  All the poor bastards in the terminal were running for the gate. After all, the goddam plane had been there the whole fucking time. Who were we to question? But, alas, the bastards sent another text at 9:27 PM: “Your Southwest flight, Flight 1348 on April 8 from HOU now departs at 10:15 PM. We’re sorry for the delay. Please visit www.southwest.com/status” Oh, heh heh, SWA. You got me. <knee slap> Now that’s some funny shit right there. I might even have to add y’all to my blog. Have to give y’all a little *shout out* for adding a bit of chuckle to my mother/daughter fun trip to the KC for some VB. But, no. Bitches come back thirty minutes later with “Your mother fucking flight, will mother fucking depart whenever we mother fucking feel like it. It may be at 12:09 AM, it may not. We’re gonna say sorry for the delay but we really ain’t. We don’t give a fuck. Y’all can say you ain’t gonna fly SW again but you will. Y’all dumbasses always come back.” We got our final notification at 12:39 A, as the plane was *literally* lifting off of the run way. I know because I wasn’t in airplane mode, yet. I’m a rebel like that. Honestly, I’m just old af and hadn’t gotten to it, yet. Y’all laugh but wait. Old age comin for y’all, too.

Just before we boarded the plane, the gate agents started calling passengers up to give them a voucher. As the first few names were called, other passengers cheered. Like, we thought they had won some sort of prize. I actually texted Coty, “this is some bullshit right here; do they know what my hourly rate is? They had best have a voucher for Meredith and two vouchers for me if they know what’s good for them!” Turns out, we all got one. One. Hundred. Dollars. Mind you, the bastards printed them. I hate printed boarding passes. Welcome to the 21st century, mother fuckers. We all on some sorta electronic devices right about now. Pull that shit up on your phone, fucking tree killer. They finally call “Susan and Meredith Moo-Ay-Hay”. Yup. That’s us, The Moo-Ay-Hays. I took the two pieces of tree and shoved them into my backpack and grumbled about the fact that they have my RR# and email address on file and have had for years and that they could’ve sent them electronically blah blah blah. Oh, and it’s Myou-Ee. I mean, how hard is it? No, there is not an “L” and no, there is not a “C”. And, yes, I am having a full-on conversation with myself walking back to get in line with the rest of the cattle awaiting a hot prod to be herded onto the plane. Well, the universe got me. Not twenty minutes later, I went to get something out of my backpack and got a fucking paper-cut from those damn vouchers! See? One more reason to go paperless…

All evening, there were rumors in the terminal. There was a rumor that our plane and crew were stuck in San Antonio (probably had too much tequila!) and another that we didn’t have a plane due to mechanical issues. Another rumor that we had a plane and a pilot but no copilot and no flight attendants. Now, if those bitches had read my blog, they’d know damn well that this Karen could fly right seat and get all you bitches there safe and sound. Hell, if needed, I could also be a flight attendant. Put the vest over your head and tighten the strap like so; actually, fuck the vest – you only need it for a water-based landing. I checked the map and there ain’t no water between us and Kansas Shitty so y’all good. But, in case of a drop in cabin pressure, some bags gonna magically drop from the ceiling. Strap that bitch over yo mouth and yo nose. Put yours on first on first before you go helping yo little shitlins because if you pass out, ain’t no one here to help they little asses. Note: the bag may not inflate, that means that the fat fucks behind you are suckin up all da air. Don’t worry. We all gonna die anyways. If by chance the pilots *is* able to land this bitch in one piece, attempt to follow the lights on the floor to the nearest exit door. Leave your shit – including your spouse. Oh, wait. That last part might be wrong. It’s likely that you won’t be able to see them due smoke and other passengers that are willing to stomp over yo ass to get out first. That part might be wrong, too. Either way, I can fill in. Although, I would probably spill the drinks and eat all the snacks. That’s not even true. I won’t eat the snacks. I can’t because they aren’t GF. Plus, I won’t spill drinks – I’ll just hand you the can; you don’t need a cup or ice. You’re fine. And, the vodka. I wouldn’t spill the vodka – it’ll just be all gone.

Now, let’s get back to the flight. As you can imagine, it wasn’t full. All of the sane people had ditched the flight and had gone home and slept in their own beds. Us losers had row to ourselves. Meredith was exhausted. She’s never been one to party on a Friday night during the school year (all bets are off on a Saturday night, though). I took out my Lysol wipes and sanitized every surface within 6 feet of my little (I was a germaphobe before it was cool to be) germaphobe. She put the tray table down and went to sleep. For her sake, I’m glad she did. Now y’all, I’ve been on some bumpy flights. I’m not gonna lie: I ain’t a fan. My Dad owned multiple single engine aircraft when I was growing up (hence, my knowledge) and he always joked about getting stock in Sic-Sac Motion Sickness bags <eyeroll>. Anywayyysss…the turbulence seemed a bit much so I pulled up the handy dandy SWA app and it appeared that we were travelling at a mere 22,000 feet and approximately 600 mph ground speed. I almost stood and walked to the front and knocked on the captain’s door to make a request that we climb a good 10K or so but then I remembered that “they” may not take too kindly to that. But, THEN I realized something worse. One time, a friend (not calling her out but y’all know who she is) told me how she interviewed to be a pilot with SWA. Aviation, as you can imagine, is kinda a good-ol-boy network. She described the other SWA pilots as the type that fly “by the seat of their pants”. Now, why I chose this very second to remember that 10 year old conversation is completely beyond me. Perhaps it isn’t turbulence? Perhaps this plane is being pushed past its limits? Here’s me trying to locate a website to convert ground speed (miles per hour) to a *safe* air speed (knots/nautical miles per hour) for the particular model of aircraft we were on. Y’all. Where’s that flight attendant with my vodka tonic?! Damn.

We landed *safely* at the dump – err – MCI (I believe they’re in the process of changing the name to KCI because the acronym MCI is too confusing to the locals) airport just before 2:30 A. To my Fe friends, I shit you not when I say that it smelled like the old Junior High building. Meredith and I stopped and the ladies’ room then dragged ourselves down to baggage claim. The car rental companies closed at midnight and all of their employees were gone. The taxi companies weren’t answering. I was on my phone to schedule a Lyft when we ran into a teammate that was trying schedule an Uber. Neither of us was having any luck. A driver would agree to pick up the fair and then they’d drop it and we’d get a notification that our ride had been cancelled. We’d schedule another ride (for a higher fee) and then it would get dropped again. This went on for at least 30 minutes. No cars. No bars. Complete fucking shit show, y’all. Fortunately, another player from the team was picked up by her step-dad (who had driven up to the tournament to meet her there) offered to drive back the airport to pick us up. It was 3:50 A when he got back to MCI/KCI for us and 4:29 A when I climbed into my full-sized (more on that in a bit) hotel bed. Court call for later that day was 1:30 P.

I’ve only travelled by air with either of our girls without Coty one other time and that was the fifth-grade field trip to Washington DC with Mallory. Completely different scenario – she stayed in a room with friends and the chaperones/teachers were more responsible for her than I was. Outside of that, this trip with Meredith was different. I had to be the responsible parent. I was the one to set the alarm to get up early, shower, do the Starbucks run for breakfast, get back to the room, drag the sleeping not-so-beauty out of bed, and get her to the dance – err – game on time. Meredith takes after me. She is not a morning person. We made it downstairs by 1:10 P and had high hopes for making the court for 1:30 P. The concierge suggested taking the *free* train transportation that we could pick up “just across the street” and it would carry us to “just near” the convention center. Sounds lovely. We walked outside and started to cross the street when we noticed a gathering of people. Hmm. Seems suspicious. It was, in fact, the poor schmucks awaiting the *free* train. I suggest we take an Uber our first day to play it safe. Y’all. My baby child was on time. Mama was late (because I forgot to buy my ticket and I had to look that shit outta my email but it really don’t matter because MY BABY CHILD WAS ON TIME. I did that shit ALL BY MYSELF, too. [PS – I learned later all about that train and wanna tell y’all now. “Just near” means four to five blocks. Uphill. In the cold and wind. OH, HELL NO. Could y’all imagine my fat-ass, carrying my Starbucks, huffing, puffing, coughing, cussing, and making a complete spectacle of myself? Meredith would’ve been all embarrassed and she’d have no choice but to leave me behind. She’d start her own blog to tell stories about her fat-ass mother, Karen, who wears her hair cut too short, hoop earrings too big, cusses too much, Disney hater, cabi clothes all the time, and has a drinking problem. It’s really nothing y’all didn’t already know. <shrug>

Y’all. The first day of play was rough and I felt bad for the two other girls from our team that were on the late flight with us. Meredith had a rough first set but pulled her shit together and my videos were in line with her: I was hitting record at the end of the play and stopping the recording at the serve. WTG, Team Muehe! (I’m happy to report that she pulled her shit together and played well the rest of the tournament. I was hit or miss with my videos for the rest of the trip. Such is the life of a Karen, I suppose). We tied for first place at the end of day one. Guess how we were rewarded for that shit? Go head on, take a guess. You get put in the AM wave with an 8:15 A court call. Gee, thanks. Unfortunately, we lost a strong hitter at the end of day one and our libero on day two. Kansas Shitty was not good to our already small team.

If you played volleyball in high school and you are my age and or close to my age, you don’t know the rules. That shit has all changed. The ball can, in fact, touch the net. You do not need to be in possession (aka serve) in order to score a point. On and on. So many changes. But, here’s some other *important* shit I’ve learned:

  • people with volleyball backpacks walking around a venue a fucking lethal. They think nothing of stopping and turning on a dime and taking this Karen out in the process. Look, I’m old and I’m slow and I’m thinking of 102 other things so pay the fuck attention, OK?
  • Typically, there is only enough seating for the family of the two teams that are currently playing. As in, this game. Right now. If that ain’t your baby child on the court, then you got to go. I don’t care where you go or who you go with. I also don’t care that they play there the next game. See that blonde right there? Yes, #28 – “Meredith – yes, wave honey”. Yeah, that’s my daughter. She’s playing now. So, you need to go.
  • It’s a quick change here, y’all. Team leaves; parents leave. New team enters to warm up; new set of parents come in. Y’all. Some mom was talking shit about me because I moved her shirt. Um, no. It’s time for you to go. I ain’t stealing your ugly ass tournament jersey. You’re just mad because your team just lost and they gonna lose again when we play them at 2 P today (and, y’all they did! Bahahaha!)

It’s probably best that they don’t sell alcohol at these tournaments. I mean it could get ugly. Like really ugly.

Highlights from the tournament include:

  • Karen taking a volleyball directly to the face. Like do not pass “GO”, do not collect $200…it was kinda ugly. The hit went directly to the frame across my nose/between my eyes so split the skin and it bled. My glasses flew off. Everyone was all “oh my god are you okay?” and I’m all “oh my god who saw that and are people looking?” So fun. It didn’t break my nose or my glasses (phew!) and I only got one black eye. Yay. To this day, I firmly believe that Meredith paid someone to hit that ball towards me. There’s no rhyme nor reason as to why it came my way. I’m smart about where I sit – it’s like “a no-hit zone”. Somewhere there’s a video entitled “Karen takes a volleyball to the face” and that shit’s gone viral. I want my cut, damnit.
  • Y’all, the refs at these tournaments were the absolute best. They were calling calls and signaling shit I’d never seen nor heard of. I mean, I feel like I’ve been at this long enough that I’ve seen and heard all the calls at least once or twice. I mean, I’m googling shit left and right like “what the fuck was that call? and what the fuck did he just say? and he does know that this is volleyball, right?” I guess they were hoping to give all the girls a real Olympic experience or something in Kansas Shitty.

I’m gonna leave y’all with this: Full. Sized. Beds. Honestly, y’all. Do we even need to discuss these again? You cannot put two of these in one room and then claim that you can sleep four adults in that space. No. Fucking. Way. Now, the first two nights were decent. Meredith had a bed with four pillows and I had a bed with four pillows. However, when HRH arrived, that all went to shit. Picture it: me. Sleeping in the fetal position on my side. According to HRH, my derrière cuts through the easement and he shoves me back to my side of the property line in a not so gentle way that stirs me from my slumber. This only happens like once or twice or fourteen hundred times in one night. He’s a real keeper, y’all. #imnotforeveryoneyall

y’all, i don’t think i’m qualified

If you have known me for more than ten years or if you have read the majority of my blog posts, you know that I have a background in clinical research. About 11 years ago, when I left my last role in that profession, I posted my resumé online because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to move on or go back. Obvi, if you know me now, you know that I opted to move on (since I’m a realtor and all). For shits and giggles, I never pulled my resumé down. If you’re searching for a job, I highly recommend Phil at Zip Recruiter. He’s the bomb, y’all. Hell, he even has commercials on TV now so he must be good at his job. Below are some of the positions he has sent me:

RN: as stated in my post “i getta say, y’all”, I am not a nurse and have spent countless hours trying to explain that to many, many people over the years. That being said, Phil, I shouldn’t need to explain this to you. While I do possess many skills used by RNs/MAs on the daily (EKG, blood draw, vital signs, medication dispensation, pulmonary function testing, skin prick testing, etc) I am not now nor have I ever been a licensed nurse. Y’all, could you imagine? My bedside manner would get me fired on the first day. “No, I will not get you something for pain. Suck it up, buttercup.” “Sorry it took me so long to get her after you hit the call button. I didn’t feel like having to deal with you again.”

OBGYN: there is only one explanation for this: I started out in OB/GYN clinical research. Outside of that, I’ve been pregnant twice and birthed two children. Barring that, I’m not qualified. Could you imagine me delivering a baby? “Look, bitch. I’m gonna need less whining and more pushing. I’ve got a vodka tonic waiting on me at home. Let’s get this shit done already.”

Lube Technician at Valvoline: now, y’all. There is not a single word on my resumé that can tie me to this job. While I can say that I likely know more about cars than most women (feel free to challenge me on this), I’ve zero desire to work under them. My nails have shellac on them. I can’t imagine that that would be a good combination. It’s a “no” from me, Phil.

Customer Service Representative: this one is just funny af. Could y’all imagine *me* taking complaint phone calls? “oh, you wanna speak to a manager? Bitch, I am the manager. Now what?” “oh, you want your money back? Yeah. We don’t do that here.” “This ain’t the damn Walmart. We ain’t taking a return that you bought somewhere else two years ago. Get the hell up outta here.” “You’ve called a wrong number. Try calling 1-800 I don’t give a shit you asswipe.”

Pharmacist/Pharmacy Tech: I likely have something about drug dispensation on my resumé since it naturally goes hand-in-hand with clinical research. But, ooh, Lordt. A pharmacist? Now, that is a job that I could get myself in line with. “yes, ma’am. I understand that your doctor wrote a prescription for 14 Xanax but I had to keep 2 for myself because I have to deal with your ignorant ass. Do you know when he will be phoning in your refill?” Good call, Phil. Good call.

Engineer: other than the facts that I can do a decent amount of math in my head, write print in all caps at a pretty quick speed, and understand my fair share of science, I ain’t no engineer, y’all. I interned for engineers (hence, the ability to print in all caps) at oil refineries after high school and through college. Here’s the fun part: that shit ain’t on my resumé. What’s your thought process here, Phil? How did you even know this about me? #stalkermuch

Financial Planner/Banking Portfolio Manager: baahahaha! Coty doesn’t let me pay the bills. Hell, he barely lets me have online access to the accounts. I have instructions on which credit/banks cards to use and where. “We use this card for fuel and groceries. We use this card for this and this card for that.” Y’all. I screw that shit up all the damn time. I mean, shit. Just let me live my life.

Java Developer: here’s what I know about Java: it’s a type of programming language and a slang word for coffee. I highly doubt that makes me qualified to be a developer, Phil. Something tells me that is not what the company is looking for. I could be wrong. Just a guess.

Fraud Support: the only fraud committed around here has been done by Phil. His emails to me start with “Susan, I think you’ll be a good fit for…” What the actual fuck? Or “Susan, are you interested in…” No, Phil, I’m not interested in a job that I ain’t fucking qualified to do. Thanks, though. #asshat “Susan, I’ve been keeping an eye out for jobs you might be interested in, and guess what? I found some that look similar to…” Phil, you’re meant to “keep an eye out” not take your eyes out? Idiot. Make an appointment with an ophthalmologist quick. You’re obvi past due. But, my all-time favorite is “Hi Susan. I bet you’re wondering how I spend my days. Well, mostly, I’m here scouring the internet to match you with opportunities that fit your skills and experience – and I wouldn’t have it any other way! Today, I came across a NEW job post that seems to align with your resume and I wanted to get it in front of you ASAP. That way, if you’re interested, you can get a jumpstart on the competition.” The job? Coding Specialist: As in, ICD-9 or ICD-10 or ICD-11 or wherever they are at nowadays with that shit. Another perfect match, Phil! I mean, I don’t have a background in coding or a coding certification; so there’s that…

Teacher: I honestly don’t know why more teachers aren’t on the 5 o’clock news (and, yes, I realize there’s a double negative in that sentence; bite me). I mean, honestly. I couldn’t do what these *warriors/super heroes* do on the daily. If some little fucker talked back to me to me the way these kids talk to teachers, I’d lose my shit. I’ve heard stories from my girls. Y’all. No way. I’d be drinking on the job and warming some asses with a homemade paddle that I’d carved and chiseled myself! My last position in clinical research was at the director level so there was *some* training involved. To say that it was one of my least favorite tasks is an understatement. “Look, I’m gonna show you one fucking time. Write this shit down. Take some damn photos. Whatever you need because I ain’t gonna show or tell you again. You had best make friends with someone else here (because I’ve no desire to be your friend). Your coworkers/friends will be your lifeline when you have questions or need help. I ain’t it. PS – I’m anal af. I hope you have good communication and grammar skills. Otherwise, you had better take a class because I will fire your ass for sending out shit from *my* office that is worded poorly and/or incorrectly. Use the comic sans font one time. Try me. I mother fucking dare you. But, hey – my door is always open!” If you need more information on my teaching skills, please refer back to “y’all, i’m not cut out for teaching.” And, yes – I know that I write like you would speak when I blog. I am also a member of the #grammarpolice. Leave it alone.

Nurse Anesthetist: if I had stuck with my original educational plan, I think I may have landed here. I mean, medicine is probably not the best career choice for someone that doesn’t like people. However, putting people to sleep seems like a good match. But, alas, I’m not qualified for this position, either. For fuck’s sake, Phil.

Helicopter Pilot: here’s what I can tell you about flying: I know this difference between visual flight rules vs. instrument flight rules. I know to say “clear of the prop” out of the left side window before starting the engine. I know the difference between runways 1 3 vs. 3 1. I know how to adjust the flaps and the rudder. I know how to steer left and right via the pedals and I know how to apply the brake. I know the purpose of the yoke and how to adjust the RPMs. I can communicate with the tower (and not just “mayday, mayday”) using the aviation alphabet. I also know that not one word of that shit is on my resumé. Plus, NOT ONE WORD of that shit deals with helicopters – it’s all about flying a single engine plane. There’s a slight difference between the two, Phil – you stupid asshat. I’m not licensed to fly either of them. But, if you ever die while we are together in a single engine aircraft, I can get us down safely. Plus, I’ll be at your funeral to tell the story. Lemme know if you have any song requests. K? #imlikelytoplayaU2song #imnotforeveryoneyall

y’all wanna borrow my teenager?

Need a bit of direction in your life? Get yourself a teenage daughter. Need driving instruction? You need a teenage daughter. Need fashion advice? Get yourself a teenage daughter. Want to be put in your place? Get yo’self a teenage daughter.

When Meredith was an infant, I worked in clinical research. I drove into the medical center three days per week and worked from home (kept her with me) for two. On the days I was in my office on Fannin, my Mom kept Meredith. As Meredith got older, she got sassier. My Mom would often warn, “paybacks are Hell and Meredith is clearly your payback”. Man, did she ever hit the nail on the head…

If you have a child that does any kind of extracurricular activity, you know how long tournaments/meets/competitions can last. On occasion, I package boxes of candy (think sugary stuff) that the girls can quickly consume between games to give them a boost of energy. This past Saturday, I brought Meredith’s club volleyball team little Easter boxes filled with Spring themed treats. When I attempted to hand them out between games, Meredith handed her box back to me and mouthed, “Go. Away.”. I guess, at least, her teammates took theirs and some even said “thank you!”. And, don’t worry. I showed her. I ate the fucking candy myself. Bitch. After the tournament, we stopped for linner (you know? late lunch, early dinner). In the process of drinking water to re-hydrate after a long day of providing direction to the incompetent refs (see prior entry: we’ve got spirit, y’all) and yelling moral support to my actual kid plus my other seven kids – err – Meredith’s teammates, said water went “down the wrong way”. <Enter choking cough>. My initial reaction was to cover my cough with my hand because, y’all, that’s what we were trained to do as kids. And, for fuck’s sake, old habits are hard to break! I shit you not – Meredith looks at me and says, “oh my god, Karen, why did you cough into your hand?”.  I tried to stop. I honestly attempted to hold it in which made it worse. My face lit up red and I was literally crying. I picked up my napkin and tried to cough quietly into it. I mean, seriously; I was dying right in front of my own kid. Meredith was so caring and offered, “Karen, oh my god, STOP! People are looking!”. At no point did she (or Coty, for that matter) ask if I was OK. Y’all. I can’t even. Like, call the mortician because this is how and where I die.

A couple of nights ago, Meredith drove Coty and me to dinner (she needs to finish recording hours to earn her TDL). With her at the wheel and me in the passenger seat means that I have full control to DJ, right? Apparently not; read on. I tuned into Sirius XM 32 just as the harmonica twang started in U2’s “Trip Through Your Wires” – a song that made many U2 fans contemplate learning how to play harmonica, and many more that did. Meredith actually had the audacity to say, “yeahhh…I’m gonna need you to change this”. I said, “uh, no. I happen to like this song. A lot. One of my favs from this album”. She then adds, “well, the intro sounds dumb”. So, I stoop to her level and say, “yeah, you’re dumb”. You know what? That little shit took her hand right off the wheel to change the station. “Well, you can either change it or I’m gonna drive with one hand on the wheel so I can change it myself!”. Um, excuse me. What? Brat, of course, got her way. She can dis U2 all she wants but they’ll always be the first concert she attended. In utero, of course, but still. #whoneedslullabies #youhadu2sungtoyou #youonlyhaverhythmbecauseofme #yourewelcome

Back in February, Meredith and were meant to #goredforwomen as a support project through National Charity League, #nclwearsred. Moms and their daughters were to wear red, take a photo together, and upload the photo to the NCL page. Easy enough. We were nearing the deadline so I ran up to Meredith’s closet one day while she was at school with the intent of having a red shirt ready to go for her coming home. Y’all. When I say she owns grey, black, white, blue, and the occasional maroon (thanks to Mallory and A&M) I am not exaggerating! I dug through her drawers and found an old sweater from the fourth grade that was red. Good thing it was a head shot because the damn thing barely covered her belly button. But, yeah… let’s judge Mom’s cabi clothes. <face plant> At least *I* have red in my closet.

A couple of weeks ago, I tried on some new hoop earrings that I got as a birthday gift. Now, I typically wear dangly earrings because my “Karen hair style” is short. I showed them to Meredith and asked if she thought they were too big. Her response, “da bigger the hoops, da bigger the ho”. Y’all. Apparently, this is something they say at her school. What the actual fuck?

I remember reading a parenting book back way back when the girls were in elementary school. It suggested that as parents, we should ask leading questions – not ones that could be answered with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. So, instead of asking, “did you have a good day today?” you should prompt “tell me something fun you learned in science today”. Well, let me tell you, I’ve tried that shit with Meredith and it don’t work. It’s better to ask, “how was your day?” and be satisfied with the under-her-breath, grunt response of “Fine.” than to ask, “did you learn any new español today?” and be smacked with, “okay, quiz kitty, enough with the interrogation” Then, she likes to remind me, “you’re white; stop enunciating Spanish words like you’re from Mexico”. And, might I add: those type of responses were never addressed in the parenting books. So, there’s that.

People that drive slow irritate me. I *may* have a tendency to yell things like, “move your ass to the right lane; left lane is for passing, fuck face”. When that happens, I can always depend on Meredith to remind me that they can’t hear me. People that drive around in a car by themselves with a mask on make me laugh. I always point them out. When I see a masked person walking alone outside you can bet I’m going to comment, “fresh air’s gonna getcha!” In both instances, I can always count on Meredith to say shit like, “why do you care, Karen?”. Let them live their life”. Oh, Meredith. I never said I cared. I said they were idiots. Cross over with me and let us poke fun at them together. The dark side is where you belong, my sweet sister in sarcasm. <sigh> Where did I go wrong? Maybe they should’ve put that in the parenting book? I know for a fact it wasn’t in there!

As the girls got older, they obvi grew taller. Mallory passed me years ago and Meredith is determined to do the same. Used to, when they’d leave out the back door, Mals would lean forward to let me kiss her on the top of her head and I’d tell her that I loved her, to be careful, and to have a good day. Meredith, on the other hand, would refuse my kiss – because she didn’t want “my lipstick in her hair”. She’d huff at me as I wished her well and she’d walk out the door mumbling “uh, huh”. She loves me. I just know she does.

This weekend, Meredith’s club volleyball team has a national qualifier in Kansas City and Mallory has parent weekend at Texas A&M in College Station. Unfortunately, for the girls, that means one of them gets stuck with Karen. The lucky winner (or should I say: the one that goes home with the parting gift?) is Meredith. Y’all be thinking of her and sending her some positive vibes. Hell, while you’re at it, think of me, too! I’m gonna need all the positive vibes I can get to survive! #havetheystartedservingalcoholonswaagain #imnotforeveryoneyall

y’all, i don’t exercise

Y’all, today I died and went to Hell – fat girl Hell.

For those not close to Coty, just know that he has a serious case of OCD. He obsesses about cars (more on that in another post) and exercise. People with OCD require routine. Here is Coty’s:  he either runs 4 – 5 miles or does 60 minutes on the elliptical every morning, lifts weights three days per week, and walks Maggie every night. Y’all. Like every fucking day – all seven of them. #freak Me, on the other hand, I play games. On my phone. From the couch. I watch TV. The only lifting I do on the daily is my vodka tonic. And, the bulk of my steps are me getting from the couch to the refrigerator.

Periodically, Coty tries to guilt me into exercising with him. Today, it was, “it’s gorgeous out; let’s go for a leisurely bike ride. I promise I’ll go slow. I’ll take you on the trails (he recently discovered) and I won’t make you go all the (goddam) way to the Bark Park. You’re not 60 so stop acting like you are” (he said with love). Now, let’s just say that I own a bike. And, that bike has a place … which is hanging on the wall of our garage. I bet we bought it ten years ago. We paid stupid money for it a Sun & Ski. My fatass *may* have ridden it one time and that was enough for me. Coty informed me that the tires just “needed a little air” and that it would be good to go. Whatever. I promise him that if he will air up the tires and take it for a spin to deem it safe, I’ll go. That bought me a whole 3.5 more minutes to play a game on my phone. I secretly hoped that the bike would crash and catch fire. Sadly, he was back in before I could finish my game. I stood in my closet for a good ten minutes – telling him that I had nothing to wear. I finally opted for yoga pants (that, for the record, HAVE seen the inside of a yoga studio) and my pink Vineyard Vines hoodie. If today is the day I die, at least I’m wearing a color that compliments my skin tones.

I looked both ways – mostly to make sure no one was watching – and off we went. You know the phrase, “it’s like riding a bike”? Yeah, my decrepit old broken-down hips call bullshit. All I could do was focus on staying upright. Of course, my darling husband goes pedaling off into the day without a care in the world. #skinnybastard He’s steering with one hand and looking back at me and even offered some words of encouragement like “you’re fine”. The grip I had on the handlebars left a permanent imprint. At one point, he claimed that he was doing me a favor, “as a real estate professional, you should about these trails; they’re a huge selling point for our subdivision”. What I heard: “now, you can tell your clients where to hide the bodies”. He kept trying to ride side-by-side with me. I finally had to tell him in a not-so-polite way that I needed the entire width of the sidewalk. He actually asked, “why? You don’t trust me”? No, mother fucker, I don’t fucking trust you. One of your life mantras is “rubbin’ is racin’”. Get the fuck up outta here before you “accidentally” rub my tire and send me flying off to my grave.

We followed the sidewalk out of the subdivision to his new found trails and before I knew it, we were all the fucking way at the dog park. What the actual fuck? How the HELL am I meant to get home? It’s almost two miles, TWO MILES. I can’t walk. Get the car. Water! I didn’t pack water. Snacks! There are NO snacks. Oh. My. God. This is how I die. Video killed the radio star and a bicycle ride killed the fat girl. Coty is all smiling and shit and I’m behind him gasping like I’m taking my last breath. He never felt the daggers I kept shooting into his back with my eyes.  I passed another plus sized lady on the trail (she was smart enough to be on foot instead of a fucking bicycle) and we exchanged looks – isn’t it better to be fat and happy than thin and without tacos? Even my Apple Watch was yelling, “you’ve closed your loops; YOU’VE CLOSED YOUR LOOPS” – translation, “go home, fat girl”.

I did not sign up for this. Coty stopped to tell me, “oh, right around this corner, there’s a little dirt path that makes a circle. Wanna try dirt”? You’re joking, right? The only dirt I’m going near is the dirt I’m about to bury you in. After all, I wouldn’t be in this state of misery if it weren’t for him and his insistence that I exercise. Thinking back, I believe the fresh air must’ve gotten to me. There’s no other explanation for why I would agree to a dirt path. In my mind, I envisioned a high school track with dirt on it – long straights and easy turns. Nope. There were a shit-ton of *sharp* turns, tree branches in the ground to “jump” over, mini hills and me on my fat girl bike. Coty kept yelling back at me, “shift down; stand up to pedal”. Bitch, I can barely sit down to pedal. Fuck the gears; fuck this bike. I’m fucking dying. Right here on the dirt path. Behind the dog park. My life flashed before my eyes and it wasn’t pretty. He added, “we should ride out here more often so we can feel at one with nature”. Look asshat, the only thing you gonna feel is my foot going square up your ass when I get off this goddam bike!

I refused to let Coty ride behind me on our way home. Honestly, I think he took secret video and I fully expect to find them on the internet soon: #fatkarenridesabike Look for it. Periodically, he’d slow to a stop to wait for me to catch up. Here’s the deal with me: if I’m moving, don’t try to slow me down. Momentum. I took two semesters of college physics and it’s one of the only things I remember – a body in motion, stays in motion. If I have to use the energy to stop and then start back up again, I may hurt someone. Since there’s no one else around, that person is likely to be you. #gobitch

There were two places on the trails that had a pole in the middle of the sidewalk with a posted sign, “no motor vehicles”. The first place, was an intersection with cars that were not required to stop. Ask me if I stopped. Ask me if I looked both ways. Nope. Kill me now. Plow me over. This is how I die. Sadly, no luck. The second pole encounter was at a wood bridge that crossed some sort of river/lake/ocean. What the fuck ever. I was intimidated. People were coming towards us so I did my best to fake it and made it safely across the bridge. On our way back, I wasn’t so lucky. Coty yells back, “watch the bump”. Yeah, I watched the fucking bump … crash me in the wall of the bridge. [Note to self: send letter of thanks to City of League City for providing a wall on the bridge or else I would’ve crashed to my death]. I look up at Coty (who stopped ONLY to laugh) and tried to redirect my now bent handle bars back towards the path. I never heard “are you okay?”. In case y’all didn’t recognize it, that’s called love.

We when finally get home, my dismount and following walk look nothing shy of Carol Brady from the episode when the Brady Bunch rides mules down into the Grand Canyon. Coty made some remark like, “that’s the most action those yoga pants have seen since…”. He stopped there because I fucking killed him. I mean, not really. I would’ve killed him if I could’ve caught him. When I complained later, he responded “but did you die”? And, that, my friends, will be on his tombstone.

My shaky legs carried me from the garage to the back patio. Coty comes through and starts explaining the Fitness app on the iPhone and how we rode nearly FIVE miles. I managed the words, “the only fitness I’m currently interested in is fittin’ this vodka tonic into my belly”. He didn’t say much else but did offer to take me out to dinner since “your makeup doesn’t look *that* bad after our ride”. <don’t mind me while I swoon>. I won’t be able to walk tomorrow or the day after. But, hey – let’s get Thai for dinner.

Here’s the good news: I have a follow up with my GP on Tuesday when I’m certain he will ask (because he *always* does), “have you been exercising?” Just think, I’ll be able to respond honestly with “yup, I exercised for six straight days after Christmas (because we were at Disney World and then again on Sunday!”

happy thanksgivin’, y’all

Lordt, y’all. We are home and I’m happy to be back on my couch with my laptop and a vodka tonic finishing up this entry. I survived yet another “fun” theme park based trip; this one to Universal Studios, FL. I will say this, if you or your kid(s) are fans of Harry Potter, this is one you’ll have to suck up and do. I was actually impressed. That says a lot. Alas, I’m not here to post how great our trip was; I’m here to give all the negative points and to complain. #imnotforeveryoneyall

In keeping with tradition, this should’ve been the 5th annual Team Muehe/Team Allen Thanksgiving. However, COVID and Cuomo make for travel to New York rather difficult. When we sorted that NY wasn’t doable, we looked at a trip to … wait for it … Colorado. <eye roll>  Fortunately, Steamboat Springs claimed there was “no snow” and closed the resort we were planning to stay at so we had to regroup. I call BS. The granolas just don’t want us tourists from TX bringing our COVID numbers up north. Either way, I was thankful that we didn’t go to CO; otherwise, this would a drunken fireside post. Let’s face it, skiing was a “one and done” experience for me (see post from December 2018). So, a few texts with Leigh Salsbury later and we were booked for Thanksgiving week at Universal in Orlando. (Y’all thought I was gonna say Disney, huh)? Side note: I, in no way, hold Leigh responsible for my misery. After all, I find misery in all things.

I’m not sure who decided we were driving to FL or why I agreed but I can promise that this was my last car trip to Orlando. We were up and out by 4 A for a miserable day of driving I-10 East. From now on, Southwest Airlines, take my money! And, seriously, Louisiana. What do y’all spend your DOT funds on? It obviously ain’t on your portion of I-10. Damn.

I have learned, over time, that I *am* a basic bitch. Like straight up; I own it. I don’t wanna travel. I’m a homebody and I’ve become quite the introverted creature of habit in my old age. I need *my* coffee. Not shit coffee that’ll put hair on your chest and send you running for the loo. My coffee. With my creamer. I *need* a bath towel that actually wraps around my fatass and a separate towel for my hair. I *need* water pressure; not water spit from a shower-head designed and placed for my vertically challenged friends. I *need* a shower that drains – not one that leaves me standing in my own filth. I *need* my shampoo and my conditioner and my shower soap. I *need* my king sized bed and my body pillow and my ceiling fan (Coty is a bed hog, y’all). I *need* my own toilet (not one I share with three other people) and my own brand of TP. Why even offer singly ply? I’ll just use three times as much! I *need* my carbonated water, made at home with my Soda Stream, with fresh lemon juice. I *need* my clothes (all of them) with me at all times – I always manage to pack the wrong shit – and they need to be where they’re meant to be, not in a GD suitcase. If that makes me high maintenance, so be it. #callmekaren

If you have food allergies, you can relate to this next bit. If not, skip this paragraph. Or, if you wanna read yet another GF rant, trek on. I will have to give Disney props: they can accommodate us weirdos with celiac. Plus, they publish everything making it easy to determine where it’s safe to eat and where it’s not. They go an extra step and actually publish the gluten free menus. Dear Universal Studios, pull your heads out of your asses. The best you can offer is a nasty-ass GF bun that’s nearly inedible? Oh, I forgot: they offer turkey legs and fresh fruit. Don’t worry. I stayed on *my* liquid diet while I was away. #vodkatonicforthewin

Having to wear a face covering at all times just plain sucks. Don’t come for me on this. It is on my list of things I won’t discuss at the Thanksgiving dinner table: politics, religion, and masks. I don’t agree with them and I don’t think they help/work enough. It’s not that I don’t “care” about the health and safety of others or that I won’t be compliant. My face hasn’t fully recovered. I’ll have a serious case of the adult acne for the next week. And, having to smell my own breath inside my mask is enough to keep me quiet. Maybe that was the intent?

Having to use hand sanitizer all day long sucks, too. About to eat? Don’t forget hand sanitizer. Just ate? Here’s some hand sanitizer. Headed to the cue to wait to ride the attraction? Here’s some hand sanitizer. Just put your shit into a locker? Here’s some hand sanitizer. About to get on the ride? Here’s some hand sanitizer. Just come off the ride? Here, have some more fucking hand sanitizer. If the alcohol in it would absorb directly into my blood stream, I wouldn’t complain – err – I’d complain slightly less. The problem with hand sanitizer is that it doesn’t all absorb or evaporate. When I could finally wash my hands, it was literally caked on. I had to wash three times (which I did, sans complaint). Universal Studios took it a step further: the product they used was presented in clear plastic bottles with a white label that read “hand sanitizer” in Times New Roman. Shady af. I’m surprised I lived to tell the story.

Some of the guests at Universal Studios were taking the social distancing seriously. That’s fine. Good for you. But, it’s 6 feet, not 60. Don’t be so fucking extra. I felt for the poor bastards that were trying to post accurate wait times. If you are so worried about being too close to others during the pandemic, then what the HELL are you doing at a crowded theme park? While standing in line 60 ft from the party in front of me, I overheard a lady tell an employee, “thank you for your service”. The kid was literally doing her job and wiping the handrails. WTAF? Did she say that to all the employees that were distributing hand sanitizer?

Y’all may not have noticed, but I am quite the Judgmental Judy. I criticize anyone and everyone. Like, I’m just that way.  It’s not that I think I’m better. I’m not. It’s not because I’m racist; I hate everyone equally. It’s just me. <shoulder shrug>  Well, theme parks are a breeding ground for freaks; there are sooo many people to make fun of! I find myself thinking, and often saying aloud under my breath, things like:

“all the clothes in your closet and you opted to wear that?”

“I know you think you look good but you don’t”

“have you ever actually done yoga or do you just wear the pants?”

“Lawd, when did you last wash that head?”

“your kid doesn’t need a leash, he needs a spankin’!”

“Hang up and walk, asshat”

“The 80s called and they want their mullet back”

“your mom must be so proud”

I have bruises on my arms from being smacked by Coty and told to shut it. Bitch, please. I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking. #coverthatshitup

And, don’t get me started about the Christmas carols, before Thanksgiving, on repeat! I can tolerate some songs but others make me wanna rupture my own eardrums so that I’ll no longer be subjected to them. Do you know that there’s a grown ass man that recorded, “All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth”? WTF, son? You from Mississippi or something? Get yourself some implants and find another classic to ruin. The Jackson 5 Christmas album needs to die. If I have to listen to young Michael singing about how he saw his mommy kissing Santa Claus, Rudolph, or Frosty the Snowman again, I may hurt someone. Don’t come for me on this, either. Michael grew into his own talent but was lacking that shit on their early Christmas album. Lastly, “Linus & Lucy”, “My Favorite Things”, and “Hallelujah” are NOT Christmas songs! (Come for me on this. I’m happy to prove you wrong). I reminded Coty of such every. single. time. I heard those damn songs. He was so appreciative.

Lastly, I’ll close with a bit of good news (for y’all, anyways): we are travelling after Christmas, too. Yay.

i only travel for y’all, y’all

If you’ve been following me for any amount of time, you know that I draw the bulk of my inspiration from every day life experiences; however, from the feedback I’ve received, some of my best work has come from my family vacations; which, in my humble opinion, we may take too often. [I do believe that was a complete mother fucking run-on but I’ll deal with that later because #grammarpolice]. With family vacations comes a shit-ton of togetherness. Like, so much togetherness I feel like can’t get away from these people even to use the damn toilet. For Summer 2020, this was no different. So, I’ve decided to be more positive in my outlook (cough, cough) and write an entry about why I love to travel. Here goes…

A list of things that I *love* about travel. Stay with me and be patient. The list is quite long.

Suitcases: black is, in fact, slimming and is not just meant for swimsuits and yoga pants. So, yeah, all of our suitcases are black. I like to blend in. That’s why.

Packing: choosing all of your favorites from the closet, folding them neatly into the suitcase, and closing the zipper without issue. It’s a straight-up brain exercise to calculate the number of panties and pairs of socks you’ll need. Plus, it’s an opportunity to pack a pair of shoes per outfit. Coty loves that.

Airports gift shops: holy fuck! Where else in the world can you find your choice gluten free snacks, a variety of bottled beverages (even if non-alcoholic), every type of candy and gum you can think of, nail files and clippers, condoms, magazines, t-shirts, hoodies, phone chargers, medications, and an assortment of now-required face coverings? It’s better than the GD Walmart!

Flying: the drive to Hilton Head Island, SC, to see Meredith’s little bestie, Alex, would’ve taken 15 hours from LC. Instead, we flew Southwest and were in JAX in two hours and a short rental car ride away. In turn, the 15 hour drive home from Gatlinburg was cut into a two hour rental car ride to Nashville and 2 hour flight from BNA back to HOU. Shout out to the crew on SWA for getting us there and back safely! And, even better: we were early to arrive at JAX and HOU! #thisiswhyiflyswayall

Rental cars: where else can you find such a variety of cars in all shapes, sizes, colors, features, and price? Ford, Volkswagen, GMC/Chevrolet, Hyundai, Kia, Dodge, Nissan. Who doesn’t love options? I mean, it’s like a massive fucking used car lot; just pick the one your want test drive!

Single-ply toilet paper: is this not the best invention ever (right behind sliced GF bread, of course)? I mean, thinning out the toilet paper means consuming less. It makes us all a tad more environmentally conscious. Bloody genius!

Flat sheet used as fitted: the cheap-ass Scot in me is proud of the bastard that thought up this idea! Why spend the extra money on a fitted sheet when you can order flat sheets in bulk and save money? Besides, who the HELL can fold a fitted sheet anyways?

Bar soap: I find that opening a fresh bar of soap and smelling it for the first time to be quite satisfying. Call me weird. And, the logo imprint? Adorbs.

Shampoo/conditioner/shower gel/lotion: OMG! I love these cute ass bottles and appreciate that I don’t have to pack my own. Hell, I always steal any that are leftover at the conclusion of our trip!

In room coffee: thank you, hotel chain, for the free in-room coffee. I appreciate the fact that I don’t need to trek down to the lobby to spend $7 on a cup of Starbucks.

Lack of outlets: I always appreciate the opportunity to teach my girls (and, let’s face it, Coty) a lesson in sharing. “Your phone and your watch are charged; Mommy’s turn” – it’s like being back in elementary school again. Ah, for the good ol’ days…

Hotel provided hairdryer and iron: yes, I’m the weirdo that dries and flat irons my hair Every. Single. Day. even when on vacation. I sooo appreciate the hotel providing a hair dryer so that I don’t have to pack mine. In addition, I’m the type that irons my clothes before I pack them and again when I unpack. I’m certain that my suitcase would be over the approved 50 lb mark if I pack my iron.

Shower curtains: thanks for the privacy, yo. Why didn’t I think to hide in here sooner?

Towels: I love the look of a stack of freshly washed and folded white towels. In a word: yummy.

Hotel room carpet: due to my allergies, we’ve always had hard surface flooring in our master (yes, Houston Association of Realtors – MASTER) bedrooms. I miss the warmth of carpet under my feet first thing in the morning. Having it during vacation was a nice change.

Sharing a toilet/bathroom: another opportunity to teach the girls (and Coty) a lesson in sharing. The girls have learned some important lessons like, “Daddy is gonna steam up the entire hotel room while taking his shower so plan to put on your makeup elsewhere”.

Vanity kit of q-tips and cotton balls: thank goodness they supply these for people like me that forget to pack them!

Eating out: no grocery shopping, no cook (aka Coty) complaining, no customers (Mallory and Meredith) refusing their homecooked meals? Sign. Me. Up. Now, you bitches order what you want but you best eat it sans complaints!

Wearing a mask: I’m safe. You’re safe. We’re all safe from the ‘Rona. So says the CDC and every other post on my FB feed anyways. [do not come for me on this] Plus, did you see the matchy Hannibal Lecter masks that wore as a family? LOL

Now, y’all know me better than all that. So, here’s a list of things that I *hate* about travel. Stay with me and be patient. The list is quite long.

Suitcases: I mean, I like black and all, but shit. This trip, Coty left me at baggage claim and went to get the rental car. It’s a good thing the girls were there because I was about to haul off with bags that weren’t mine! #ineedtartanluggage

Packing: why do I even bother? The shit that I ironed previously looks like it’s been rolled up in a ball and stored in a dresser drawer. I packed black shorts and nothing to wear with them except my black sandals. No worry; I’ll buy something. It was meant to be “cooler” in Tennessee so I packed a pair of jeans and a hoodie. Neither item left my suitcase. And the brain exercise to calculate number of needed pairs of panties and socks? Fail. Good thing there was a washer/dryer at the cabin.

Airports gift shops: I just spent $27 on three bottle of water and a bag of Baked Lay’s. I’m gonna have to sell another house when I get home if we continue at this rate!

Flying: if this mother fucker in front of me tries to lay his seat back any further, he’s gonna be in my lap! WTAF? I’m about to lose my cherub-like demeanor. My ass hurts and my legs are cramping. Who designed these fucking seats and what size was the model they used? #imnotthattall “Please remain in your seat, with your seat belt fastened, when the captain has the seat belt sign illuminated”. No problem! If it will get us there faster and off this plane sooner, I’ll do whatever the captain says!

Rental cars: between Coty and I, we’ve owned forty-one cars (yes, 41) excluding Bradley (Mallory’s MINI Cooper). We like cars and we don’t keep them long. Tags due? Time to trade ‘er in. Needs new tires? Time to trade ‘er in. Killed the battery by human error and by no fault of the car? Time to trade that bitch in. That’s just how we are. Now, give us a car that’s been smoked in with 35K hard miles on it [let’s face it, NO ONE treats a rental with kindness] and you get to deal with a pissed off Karen, err, Coty. But, that’s an entry for a blog post all on it’s own!

Single-ply toilet paper: WTAF? Who is responsible for the idea of rolling tissue paper meant for gift wrapping onto a cardboard cylinder and calling it toilet paper? I don’t care if there’s a shortage; I’m gonna pull on that goddam roll three times as many as if I were home using my Charmin! However, triple-ply TP made from single ply TP ain’t the same as my Charmin…

Flat sheet used as fitted: This restless sleeper is annoyed af at sheets that can’t stay put. Don’t be so cheap and lazy. Spend the money. Get the fitted sheets. Oh, and who can fold a fitted sheet? Um, me. I can fold a fitted sheet. #memumtaughtme

Bar soap: Do people really use bar soap outside of a hotel stay? That shit gets stuck in my rings and under my nails. I’m not a fan – cute imprinted logo or not. And, as my girls discovered the hard way this trip, bar soap is not always self cleaning. Did you ever see the episode of  ‘Friends’ where Joey reminds Chandler what he (Joey) washes last and what Chandler washes first? Yeah, that.

Shampoo/conditioner/shower gel/lotion: Whose genius idea was it to use tiny bottles with tiny caps? What an adventure to try to remove the cap from a wet bottle with wet hands! Plus, my decrepit, arthritic hands don’t have the strength to squeeze the product out of the bottle. This trip, I managed to nearly empty a full bottle of shower gel in one fail-swoop. PS – it missed the washrag.

In room coffee: There is sludge in my cup. Like actual put-hair-on-your-chest sludge. You can claim that the coffee grounds are manufactured by Starbucks but I call ‘bullshit’. Off to the lobby we go…and, by “we”, I mean Coty. That was their plan all along, wasn’t it? #sucker

Lack of plugs: would it kill the assholes that build hotels to add an outlet to each side of the GD bed? I’ve seen these cute hacks about how to tuck your phone into a bed sheet or to use your suitcase as an additional night stand. No need. Instead, yes, please, let me charge my phone on the complete opposite side of the room. Makes perfect fucking sense.

Hotel provided hairdryer and iron: It’s a damn good thing that my hair is short and thin. Otherwise, I’d still be in the hotel room trying to dry my hair. They must get those hairdryers on a discount because they don’t work with a shit. And, am I the only one that has a shirt that was stained by a hotel iron? How do they always manage to spit out iron water droplets on my white shirts?

Shower curtains: Um, no. Just no. There is no way in HELL that these things are clean and sanitary – even when we aren’t in the midst of a pandemic!

Towels: First of all, in a room for four people, we are gonna need more than four towels. I have two girls with long hair. They use two towels each per shower. And, while we are on the subject, let’s talk about the size of the towels. I’m guessing that the model they used to design an airline seat is the same model they used to determine towel size? Shout out to the big girls that feel my pain on this one!

Hotel room carpet: have you ever considered the number of bare feet that have come in contact with hotel room carpet and level of funk growing in it? Think about it next time you stay in a hotel. I bet you’ll keep a pair of flip-flops next to your bed just like I do. You’re welcome. #germaphobefromwayback

Sharing a toilet/bathroom: why does this room like it is getting smaller by the second? Like, let me the HELL up outta here already. Two queen beds? Yeah, Coty – I’m gonna need you to scoot your ass clear over to the other side. Um, who is snoring? Do you want to die? Why don’t hotel rooms have ceiling fans? I need my white noise. Why are the guests in the room next to me up at 6 AM? Are you people not on vacation? Stop talking. Stop laughing. STFU. I’m trying to sleep! We have five toilets for four people in our house at home. How did I think we could survive here with one fucking toilet?

Vanity kit of q-tips and cotton ball: seriously? Is this the best y’all can do? I also forgot to pack dental floss, a sewing kit, my shaving creme, some hair products, and the winning lottery numbers. Apparently, these people don’t have a full appreciation for my level of vanity. I mean, I am a blogger *and* a realtor, y’all.

Eating out: Lawd! Enough already. “Do you have a gluten free menu? Oh, you offer a burger without a bun or a dry salad. How very accommodating of you”. I’m ready to be back home to hear Coty bitching at the stove/grill and the girls refusing to eat whatever he cooks. At least, at home, it’s *safe* to eat. PS – did you know that the peanuts on Southwest Airlines have gluten in them? FML.

Wearing a mask: Not only are my glasses fogged up but my face is sweating and breaking out like a GD teenager plus the back of my ears of chafed. Fuck this shit. #overitalready

i getta say, y’all

Like all parents, I want my girls to be successful. I want them to be happy; too, but that’s not with this is about. So, it occurred to me as I am watching friends’ children graduate from high school and start their next chapter that I have an opinion (I know, completely out of character for me) about what my girls “grow up” to be, y’all.

First off, get a job that when you name it, people know what you do for a living. Example given: nurse, teacher, pilot, porn star, etc. In my previous life – err – career prior to becoming a realtor, I was a clinical research coordinator. For starters, say that three times fast. When people asked me what I did for a living, I’d say with pride, “I’m a clinical research coordinator”. Those conversations went something like this:

Them – “what do you do for a living?”

Me – “I’m a clinical research coordinator”

Them – “research? Oh, you work in a lab?”

Me – “nope; I work with human patients. We work with pharmaceutical companies to test new medications and vaccines, etc before they go to the FDA for approval and ultimately hit the market for public use and consumption.”

Them – “oh, you’re a nurse.”

Me – “yup, I’m a nurse” <eye-rolling face plant>

Do people not realize that new medications are extensively tested in humans before they’re available to the general public? We used (they still use) fancy terms like “clinical trials”, “double-blind”, and “placebo controlled”. We are the ones that help write the statements that the announcer reads through quickly at the end of a commercial for prescription drugs…”don’t use if you’ve ever had an allergic reaction to blah, blah, blah. #dumbass Known side effects may include but are not limited to diarrhea, constipation, hair loss, headache, bad driving, inability to spell, loss of sleep, and thoughts of homicide”. But, I found that as I would explain this to people, they would glaze over. I *may* have one more than one occasion just said, “I’m a nurse” when people would ask. To this day, my brain automatically types “trial” when I’m trying to type “trail”. So, yeah – get a job that people are familiar with. Trust me, it’ll make life easier. #imastayathomeson

Second, get an education or training for a job that will always be needed and can never be phased out. Now, stop and think of the people you know that had a job and, at some point in their career, they were replaced by a computer or the like. We see this every day. Don’t believe me? Have a look at the checkout lines next time you’re in the grocery. Poor bastards.

Third, have a known career that people respect and value. When there’s a disaster, be the person that can explain the given situation and answer questions. Be a source of knowledge that people look to with confidence to have your wisdom bestowed upon them.

Fourth, get a job that doesn’t require wearing a goddam face covering! I’m working on this entry from the plane and, believe it or not, am being compliant with my mask. [PS – I’m currently taking a break from my Hannibal Lecter face covering and wearing a softer mask that my friend, Erge, made for me; it reads, “Back the Fuck Off!” and “6 Feet, Mother Fucker!”. I have extra appreciation for people that get me!] Because, y’all, wearing a mask sucks. Like, literally – sucks into my face every time I take a breath! I feel for the people that wear this shit even when we’re not in the midst of a pandemic. #myglassesarefoggedup Besides that, my damn facial recognition doesn’t work with a mask on. I’m gonna need Apple to update the iOS. This will continue to be useful and beneficial after the pandemic…you know, like for bank robbers and shit. #imisstheoldthumbprintaccess I have, however, discovered one positive to wearing a mask: it covers my face’s inability to use it’s inside voice. Y’all can’t see me giving my infamous “go fuck yourself look” for the time being!

But, fifth, and MOST important is to get a job that you won’t get fired from even if you fuck up 100% of the time. We’ve all been there. For Coty and I, we’ve been the employee sitting across the desk in HR being informed that “you’re part of the latest ‘reduction in force’”. On the contrary, we’ve both also been the manager delivering that message. I never want either scenario for my girls. I’ve fired and been fired and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Well, actually, there are a couple people that I would wish it upon… #icanmakealist

So, all that being said – err – typed, here’s what I propose: I have encouraged my two to get an applicable degree that would allow them to be a meteorologist. Yes, a meteorologist. Hear me out – err – read below:

  1. Tell someone that you’re the local weatherman (in their case, weatherwoman) and people know exactly what you do! Plus, they’re impressed.
  2. Your job will never be phased out because someone has to explain the weather predictions and patterns to morons like me! We will always *need* people to go out and stand in a ditch full of water and tell us that the streets are flooded. We *need* people to stand out in hurricane force winds, wearing a yellow slicker, and describe what the see and feel. Otherwise, we’d never know it was windy and rainy out. And, since my girls have a bit of a background in theatre, they’ll do well at this! Thanks, Team Stonebarger.
  3. People will call and ask you exactly where that hurricane is headed and what their chances of snow really are (obviously, two separate phone calls. I’m not a complete idiot, y’all). Then, they’ll quote you, all proud, “well, my friend is a weatherwoman and she said blah, blah, blah!” Plus, you could make up a complete load of shit and people will believe what you say and won’t hate you for getting it wrong! They’ll come back for information again and again. I mean, how often do you look at the weather forecast? It’s wrong like 98 percent of the time but you still keeping checking it!
  4. Wear your mask during the pandemic but take that shit off before you step in front of the camera. We’re gonna need your facial expressions so that we can truly know how bad it is outside.
  5. But, y’all – how many times have you checked the forecast only to have the opposite occur? The forecast this past Sunday was sunny skies all. damn. day. Well, the rainstorm that we got caught in at beach volleyball said otherwise! If you made mistakes like that in any other career, you’d be certain to get the boot for sure!

I had a conversation about colleges and education with a friend recently; we will call her “Kendra” because, um, that’s her name. I was explaining where I want the girls to go and what I want them to major in. She actually had the audacity to say to me, “we have to remember it’s not about us”. Wait. What? Since when? Bitch, please. Getting these two girls into the world was no easy feat. Who paid the fertility doctor and later the maternal fetal medicine specialist, genetics counselor, and obstetrician? Me. Who endured all the therapies, drugs, (plus their wicked side effects – that’s the research coordinator in me), and procedures? Um, me. [for fun, go Google trans-vaginal ultrasound; good times, y’all] Who was humiliated by the lactation consultant? That would be me. (That’s a story for another post). But, lastly, who has the scars to prove it all? Also, me.

So, yeah. I getta say, y’all.

i don’t cook, y’all

Offended by foul language? Skip this post…

A week or so ago, my darling husband suggested that we try “one of those online meal plans” because his sister, Kristen, raved about her experience. I took the time to search several sites to find one with gluten free options #havingceliacsucks and even asked my friend, Jill, to elaborate on her experience that she had mentioned prior. She raved, too, and even offered a coupon. <That should’ve been my first clue: don’t buy just because you have a coupon!> I finally found a site that offered GF options, ordered two meals, and waited. Fast forward to today. Meredith had basketball; so, I offered to cook while Coty took her to practice.

I don’t cook, y’all. Today, the universe reminded me why. Here’s my review of Home Chef’s ‘Acapulco Fajita Beef Skillet’:

Difficulty level – “easy”. Yeah, no problem; I got this. The recipe claims that “prep & cook time” totalled 25 – 35 min. Bullshit. At the 35 minute mark, I was still chopping! Two poblano peppers – washed and seeded – one diced, one sliced. Two red bell peppers – cleaned, deboned/deribbed – whatever – and sliced thin. Two yellow squash – quartered and sliced thin. Two red onions – one sliced and one diced. Two limes – juiced. And like 4,000 cherry tomatoes – *quartered*! Who quarters cherry tomatoes? Apparently, this dumbass right here. “Mix the pico and set aside”. Pico? PICO? I did all that chopping to make *pico*?! Fuck me. For those that choose to try this recipe, buy pico at the grocery and save yourself half an hour! Next up, “brown the ground beef”… Now, those that know me well, know that I don’t even buy meat at the grocery (because I refuse to touch it) so this was a challenge. I considered donning my dish-washing gloves but decided to suck it up and press on. I dig a skillet out of the cabinet and light the burner. Somehow, in my graceful attempt to transfer the package-o-raw-beef to the stove, blood went all over the counter, dripped onto the stove, and GOT ON ME! <insert audible cussing here> Cook meat. Drain. Remove. Cook veggies, add meat, add seasoning blah blah blah… long story short, it was a shit ton of work!

It took nearly 90 minutes of being on my feet to cook this crap. Like, me and my decrepit old back won’t sleep tonight and I won’t be able to walk tomorrow. I texted Coty about 30 min into this Hell and instructed him to tell the girls to “eat it or plan to die”. He must’ve heeded the warning because they all ate it and didn’t complain once; in fact, they complimented me! But, y’all…never again! If you wanna know about the second meal kit we got, you’ll need to ask Coty because I’m done with this shit. Now, where’s my vodka tonic? And, to answer your question: no, it didn’t look like the dish in the picture. Lying bitches!