Category: wtf is wrong with me


So my biggest annoyance this summer (besides coworkers that need to be in traction) is discovering the noise my phone makes when there is a weather emergency alert.

The second biggest annoyance is learning that that alert always tells me about storms that are skirting my house.

Well, until tonight.

Tonight the fucker told me about the storm after I almost died in it due to a bitchy blonde in daddy’s high performance automobile.

So that helped.

I feel like summer weather in the desert is the equivalent of being homeless and getting other people’s left overs for dinner during tourist season. It’s like you get a crazy ass summary of other place’s normal weather for about three months and then it’s back eating pigeons that baked in the sun too long.

Or something like that. I’m tired from unpacking so If I sound insane, blame that and not my insanity.

Updates to come about blood spattering my “den” area. I’ve decided this room is now the best form of home security. Nothing says “GET OUT OR ELSE” much like a room that looks like four people were just brutally murdered in it.

The rational part of my brain does keep questioning why I thought this was a good decorating idea, but then the crazy ass part of me walks back in that room and giggles like a child cause it was horrendously fun doing it.

I am realising now that no one may know what I’m talking about. Basically, we “Dexter”ed my spare living room area. Painted it a pristine white and then flung red paint around for an hour. All because Big A little a thought it might be a fun idea. And I concurred and was okay with living with it. I’ve been dying to do it for months, and now we finally did. I’ll try to post video of the room once I find my damn router.

I have nothing else useful to say because I’m too tired and I want to play with my kitties. Good night evil doers.

-Renee

I know, I know. Radio silent for WEEKS and then two posts in the same one? I guess sometimes my life decides to participate in my desire to tell the world about it…

So I guess this story needs to be prefaced by the fact that a couple months ago, Mischief (see Operation: Kitty No Poo) was eaten by a coyote. Yea. A fucking coyote. This shit happens in the desert. In fact it’s happened to our family three times now, because there’s two coyotes roaming our middle class neighbourhoods (note: developed land, cars and cul-de-sacs do not scare off wild coyotes. They apparently see it as like a fucked up obstacle course to get to their dinner) and so we mourned for about a month before I decided I needed the companionship that comes with a cat again and I had finally accepted the fact that Mau wasn’t coming back.

So my mum and I went cat shopping after Big A little a’s bridal shower (and sometime soon I’ll have to talk about her wedding, but that’s for when life ISN’T participating!) and we found two cats at the humane society but they wouldn’t let us take them home because we said we had a doggie door/cat flap and that our last two cats had disappeared. Apparently the people at the humane society thought we were sacrificing cats to the damn coyotes, which is a fucking shame because one of the cats was named Monkey.

Yea. Monkey.

FUCKING MONKEY.

Side note for those that don’t know me that well, I LOVE MONKEYS. I have forever, and I have no clue why, but when I can’t think of a word and everyone would normally say “You know that…that thing” (or in Hawai’i “dakine”) I say ‘monkey’. So if I can’t remember where I put something I say “I put it with the monkey, it’s fine mum” and then she gets pissed at me, probably because she thinks the monkey is pooing all over it and she’ll get monkey pink eye. Not to worry mum, it’s a hypothetical monkey, and it’s very well behaved. Breathe.

Whoa sidetracked.

So we had to forfeit Monkey and a little male kitten I was considering renaming ‘The Doctor’.  So I basically begged mum to take me to some other places, and we went to two Petsmarts but they didn’t have anything but long hairs and I have to have a short hair because of my allergies. I begged her to stop at one more, the one on the way home, just to give it one more chance (even though I knew we were in a rush because we were going to a roller derby that night).

And that’s where we found her. A little kitten with diamond shaped stripes and little tufts on top of her ears that make them look pointed (my mother says she looks like a Lynx – I halfway agree). She looked at me, and I knew I had to have her, cause with some animals you just know. I knew with Mischief, I knew with Pepsi, I knew with Evidence and now I knew with her. We did a little fudging of the truth (the cats didn’t disappear, they died of natural causes, cause what’s more natural than the damn food chain? Nothing motherfucker, that’s what) and the rep started filling out the paperwork.

All the paperwork said her name was Mimi, but when he showed me her “birthdate” I knew I would be changing it. See…my cat was born on 11/17/2014. Yea that’s right my kitten is a damn Time Lady. In fact, she is Lady President Romana(dvoratrelundar) of Gallifrey (Romana is all that fit on the collar tag though. BOO). So yea, my cat kicks ass.

And she has some interesting quirks, which would be a little long to detail considering I only wrote all that above to tell you about what she did yesterday.

Romana punched me in the eye.

I got punched in the eye by a kitten.

What.

The.

Fuck.

How do you live when a kitten’s gotten one up on you? I was sleeping, and I felt her staring and I opened my eyes a couple times, and then SHE PUNCHED ME!!!!!! I’m considering taking away Doctor Who viewing rights as punishment, cause really? What was so important that she needed to PUNCH me awake? And why didn’t she strike me again when I turned over and went back to sleep until my alarm went off?

But seriously I love that damn cat, so I’m putting up with the punching and biting. Because there’s nothing more fucking awesome than a cat that insists on watching TV with you.

-Renee

PS, today I heard someone say “I’m building a fort of marijuana”. I’m thinking I need to start including a daily “Weird shit I heard today” quote just to make myself feel better about half the stuff that comes out of my mouth. Thoughts?

The following is a conversation I just had with my father (my mother was also present)

Me: I’m stealing Otter Pops, deal with it!

Mum: You helped find them, go for it! We had to walk all over, mumble blah blah blah

Me: That’s right! I did all the work (/sarcasm, cause I’m pretty sure I helped none whatsoever in locating the Otter Pops in the hell hole that is Costco cause I was busy trying not to hurt people)

Dad: Ha! If you did all the work around here I’d grumble mumble blah blah mumble mumble

Me: *Deadpan* I’d be more insulted if you weren’t mumbling

 

He tried to make some sort of comeback but failed miserably due to the fact that I went upstairs to eat my Otter Pops in peace.

 

SO!

Hi. I’ve been hiding a bit. Let’s call it stress. I got a little focused on trying to make you guys (hello 5 people!) laugh and forgot that I really started this blog to just vent or talk or whatever. There was no purpose, let’s be honest, but it’s purposelessness was meant for me. So I’ve been taking some time to gather my life, and I was ready to post a couple weeks ago buuuuuuut my computer was possessed and I only just got it working again. Fucking Best Buy. Fuckers.

Total side track, I just checked my search engine terms (I blame The Bloggess for this habit) and someone found this blog by searching for “I found my mother fucking my brother”. I am officially concerned. I have no words. Except I’m not going to try to find out how many pages back I was, cause I just got my computer working and it doesn’t need a damn PORN VIRUS (I’m sure that’ll bring in a couple more hits!) right now THANKYOUVERYMUCH!

So the truth is that I took a stress management class through my work, mostly to help me balance baton and work and buying this damn house, and what I got out of it was that I was letting blogging stress me out too and that I needed to start doing it again, but as a stress RELIEVER and not CAUSER. Or a cause. That was a poorly constructed sentence.

Oh well.

I’m pretty sure that’s not what the City was looking for when they paid for the class, but Fuck It I Don’t Care.

So yes, I’m not dead, nor is my ADD (ADHD? The doctor says it might be. HAHAHAHA Awesome) so expect more from me soon.

My apologies. Take that as you wish.

-Renee

For those of you that were hoping for a positive(ish) post, I’m sorry but you’re going to be disappointed.

Why?

Cause work hates me.

Here’s another thing they don’t tell you on all those damn TV shows. Crime Labs are NOT immune to dumbass technology. Nor is the Police Department immune to the dumbass idea of using about three different programmes to keep track of everything.

And for some reason right now, these programmes aren’t “talking” to one another. Maybe one had an affair or something, but whatever happened, I’m now stuck picking up the damn pieces while the Computer Tech people work on the problem like a really slow bunch of marriage counselors that are milking your time for a damn paycheck.

I might go insane. This happened last year and I pretty much forgot how to function like a human. Boo. No one like Robot Renee.

(Insert bitchy elaboration that I’m not quite sure I can post because it might be toeing the line of vagueness/getting me firedness)

By the way, if anyone else has noticed, my train of thought seems to be a little less random these days. This would be because I have started to take a new medication for my ADHD (yea, you read that right, my new doctor says I have the ‘H’ (which when put that way, sounds a bit like a dirty disease that you need to see someone in a back alley to get rid of, but you just end up contracting something worse when you’re in the alley so what was the point?))……suddenly I feel like scrapping this whole paragraph because now the point seems moot, but I think it works as a great example of the different way my brain works when I forget to take the meds in the morning. Which I did today.

Might be why today kinda drug on….BOO

Anyways, the past couple posts I’ve written were done when I had taken the medicine, so my thoughts are more subdued and linear. And this works WONDERS for what I need it for: my driving and my work (the latter mostly so my coworkers don’t try to kill me when I start bouncing all over the lab. That would be bad for everyone). However, when I come home I want to be all ‘old me’ again, and he has me on an extended release pill that doesn’t really wear off until right before bed. And no one wants me posting when I’m that tired. It’s not pretty.

So my thought is to ask him to just put me on a regular dosage, but I’m wondering if he’ll question my motives. How do you tell your doctor that you want what’s best for you, but you also want to be a little bit crazy because writing’s more fun that way?

I guess first I have to worry about remembering to take my pill that morning and working from there.

But is that something legitimate to ask for? Or am I being really dumb, sacrificing my mental health just so I can write better? Thoughts?

Oh and the ultimate sign that you’re both bored and easily amused is that long moment where you get distracted by the embroidery machine while it’s sewing. Wow.

-Renee

Please forgive the recent time lapse. I had every intention of posting about crazy fuckers on the bus but then I got sick and basically ceased to function. I’m actually currently on day 4 of having no voice, which is a damn shame because I really love to hear myself talk. I’d probably have it back already, but like the moron I am, I just continue to babble to people while my voice either decides to show up for the conversation or make me look like a fool.

My voice is an asshole.

And yes, I do realise that I had all the time in the world to post something when I came home sick on Friday or I while I was spending most of Sunday impersonating a rock, but I was told quite strictly to never post again while I was sick, because I’m not funny, just horribly pathetic. I’m not sure whether this is a compliment or an insult, so choose to agree at your own risk.

So meanwhile, I have no crazy people on the bus stories because the damn bus drivers are on strike (so much for being green huh? Wonderful), so now getting to work each day is an exciting adventure, where the hero (me) ends up just wanting to smash their face against a wall cause they are WAY TO FUCKING CONGESTED to deal with this shit.

I wish I could apparate to work. That would be awesome.

So, I swear, one day I’ll have something exciting to talk about. I’m going to California this weekend (to sit in a gym all day and basically take notes for a judge during our regional competition) so maybe that’ll boast some exciting interesting halfway acceptable stories for you.

Until then, my apologies.

-Renee

PS, if I ever mention that you want me to elaborate on, feel free to say so. Apparently the things I find incredibly mundane in my life are the ones that people find most interesting sometimes

I was probably part of one of the greatest conversations that’s ever taken place in a work place this afternoon. It’s kinda random how we got on the topic, but we were discussing what kinds of religious figures could actually masturbate, and decided that monks probably couldn’t, since they are about giving up the self indulgences.

And of course one of the men took it too far and postulated whether they could help a fellow monk out.

Picture if you will, a Buddhist Monk Circle Jerk. It’s disturbing how amusing I find that image really……

So let me explain why I’ve not been around for a while……

I’m currently trying to buy a house. And for some reason this both scares and excites me, but whenever I get near my computer I feel a niggling sense of responsibility that I think I’m neglecting so I either choose to avoid the computer altogether, or find myself clicking through the archives of Iwastesomuchtime.com

They’re so fucking true to their name.

So basically I’ve come to associate any kind of typing with the stress inducing hysteria that is house hunting and waiting on a fucking short sale. So I have chosen to fucking ignore this blog instead, and I was feeling really guilty about it, so I decided to just let you all know about my excuses. If I wasn’t in such a rush to get ready for dance, I would elaborate on the pain in the ass that has been trying to become a home owner, and how it’s stressing me out so bad my face is breaking out in zits/spots like it thinks I’m back in the eighth grade or something. It’s bloody wonderful. FML.

So yes, I will be trying to update soon with something a bit more coherent, but I thought I’d at least plant the seed of Dirty Monk Happy Time in your brains.

Oh my god, that’s the best random title ever.

-Renee

This post will make you feel better about any weird things your family does at the holidays. Unless it doesn’t, in which case, please share…

We have a running joke in my family. That we can’t make it through a single meal without having some kind of inappropriate conversation. Somedays my brother will just plop down at the table and say: “Just to get it out of the way: Shit, Fuck, Vagina, Cock (and other variants), this is not that dinner”. I think once or twice we’ve gotten really close, but I think everything is null and void if I talk about work at dinner.

So unless you’ve drunk a lot in celebration, you might understand what I’m getting at. My holiday dinner’s are certainly no exception to this rule. Except for maybe the one Thanksgiving we sat in awkward silence trying to pretend my uncle hadn’t gotten as drunk as he did and behaved so appallingly. But to be fair, my brother wasn’t there to make any rude comments, so we’ll never know what it could have been….

So needless to say, no meal today was ‘that meal’. It started over breakfast mostly because we thought mimosas were a good idea, but once you get alcohol in my mother, it’s a whole different train ride. And my brother’s new favourite word is ‘nipple’. Not a good combination.

This was followed shortly by lunch with my Grandmother, and I’m pretty sure we trash talked our way through the whole thing. And she didn’t even bat an eye. She might be going deaf though, so I don’t know how much stock to put into that.

My new favourite “I’m a complete dumbass with a foul mouth’ moment was at my very Christian and conservative Grandparents’s house, and called my brother a Jackass very loudly for the whole family to hear. And then my fuckass of a cousin proceeded to point out that I had said it a bit above my inside voice. Cause no one was aware asshole. In my credit, I was not mortified, just amused. I kinda bent over pretending to be embarrassed and laughed so hard because of their shocked faces.

They have no reason to be shocked. They raised my father and my uncle. They knew this was bound to happen.

That lunch with Grandma might be off the table now.

In other news, my cat had an enema yesterday which got me out of the awkward family gathering with my white trash relatives mentioned above (in the Thanksgiving bit). I never knew constipation could be such a wonderful thing.

-Renee

(To be fair, I really love Christmas and the magic it brings. My family is just unique in that we don’t hide our true selves from each other. I know I make it sound like we’re the worst family ever, but we make our disfunction work for us, and it produces some truly awesome moments. Merry Christmas everybody.)

Now, I think I’ve mentioned that I have some pretty fucked up dreams. I think I talked briefly about the one where my beautiful (albeit slightly ghetto) VW Beetle turned into a cardboard toboggan with multiple types of hazard lights…but that’s not nearly as weird as they get. So I thought I’d outline some here so you would think that I’m even more crazy, and also because I need a post where I’m not raving and bitching about everything around me (though those are kinda cathartic…)

I’ve recently been having a lot of stress dreams. I call them this because they’re the companions to a huge onslaught of stress in my life. And recently, between teaching, choreographing a student’s audition routine, working two jobs at the lab for the same amount of pay and trying to find a new place to live…the stress has been eating away at my soul. (What little was left anyway).

I’ve had numerous flashbacks to college, dreams where I forget that I was taking a class and try to pass the final but I can’t remember where the damn classroom is. Also ones where I’ve been doing the homework and not turning it in, and occasionally forgetting to go to the class. I had one dream where I was freaking out because my brother’s paper was due and he hadn’t finished it yet. Why the fuck I cared about his grade I don’t know, because that kind of mother hening is left up to dear old Mum. (She’ll kill me if she knew I called her that…)

But some of my favourites are those little dreams you have between snooze alarms. For some reason mine are always continuous, but rather choppy because of the constant having to wake up and shut off my alarm. My alarm is the TARDIS (de)materialization noise, so I’d be fucked if The Doctor really showed up in my room…I’d be all like “Fuck off, I need ten more minutes” and then would never travel the damn universe and would hate myself forever, kinda like I hate myself for never going onstage to participate in one of Penn & Teller’s tricks when I was ten…yay for run on sentences and ADD trains of thought. My apologies…wait no…I gave you fair warning.

So my recent favourite was Sunday morning when I decided the snooze button sounded like a great idea even though it was going to totally fuck with my sleeping schedule and I’d probably be way crazy fucking tired come Monday morning. But whatever. And if I had finished writing this on Monday I could tell you the details better, but I’ve suddenly decided that the disjointed version might be way more entertaining. Procrastination working in my favour. Epic Win.

So basically it went like this. I’m in England. This should be awesome right? No. I’m with some kind of group. I think it was a performance group. Maybe my baton students, maybe some group I made up. No idea, that’s where it gets fuzzy. All I remember was that my dad was there, which was a weird detail in and of itself.

So we’re going to this hotel that we’re staying at, but it’s fucking huge and we’re trying to park. Problem is that I’m driving an American style car in England so I keep driving on the wrong side of the road even though I freaking love the fact that I could have been driving on the left. Fail.

So we drive into this clustersuperfuck of a parking lot and get told to go to this specific section (which has two kinds of identifiers, like a floor and a sector. Nothing in England is huge enough for this kind of system. They don’t have the room. Now if it were LA I could see this, but I don’t dream about LA. So I’m trying to find my damn parking spot but there are little houses all over it and strange back roads that aren’t labelled and people are standing on the side of the roads offering mead in large mugs which is probably the worst idea ever. I’m blaming that one on the fact that I’ve been helping out with bringing in DUIs. Thanks work for slipping in there. Hateful.

So I was either on the phone with my dad, or he was in the car, or running along next to the car telling me to hurry up but offering no help in that obnoxious way he does. Then suddenly I’m driving by a windmill/ferris wheel sort of deal and it crashes either killing or wounding everyone riding it but I’m too busy trying to park that I don’t pay it any mind. Yes, I’m a cold heartless bitch in my dreams. I try to make up for it in my life though, I swear. So yea.

Whoever’s slipping me the drugs, I don’t know whether to tell you to stop or give me more. I’m disturbed, but it could be way more interesting.

-Renee

Today is my birthday. It is also my mum’s birthday (yes, I was that mean child that decided I was the perfect birthday gift. Most days she disagrees).

So I feel the need to tell you something about my mother but I’m not entirely sure where to start, because, well, I love my mum but she can do some crazy funny shit.

She also taught me how to swear, so if you ever are offended/impressed by that, blame/thank her.

So I need to preface this so no one thinks I’m being insulting and rude about the birthday girl. I fucking love my mother, she’s amazing. But sometimes she does things that just make me go: “Hold on. Keep doing that while I fire up my camera.” Like the time we threw my uncle a surprise party and the whole family’s in the garage waiting to surprise him and my mum gets down on the ground, ass in the air, to look under the door’s tiny crack to see when they’re there. Totally took a photo.

But to be honest, my favourite instance of this would probably our trip to St Thomas. We had gone there for vacation, but it was also my parent’s 25th wedding anniversary and they wanted to go back to where they honeymooned. It was pretty, but really awkward if you thought about it too hard.

So for those that haven’t been to the island, it’s way super easy to get lost. Our directions to the hotel included the direction ‘turn at the red building/former police station’. It failed to mention that the building was like 5 minutes from being condemned and a sun-bleached pink. We ended up on some strange journey into the scary parts of the island and I got yelled at a lot. Didn’t help that you drove on the left side of the road in an American set up car. It’s weird. Trust me. You feel like you’re doing everything wrong and just want to pull off to the side of the road and cry.

Which segues perfectly into what this whole story consists of. But to be fair there will probably be some pit stops along the way.

Let me preface by saying my mum HATES to let my dad drive. She thinks he’s out of control (he is) and unsafe (just a tad) and likes to do it herself. So it says something significant when I say that she was so uncomfortable driving on this island that she made my dad do it. There was more than one time I told her to turn right and she totally turned left – almost into a car. It stressed her out so much that she gave up entirely and let dad drive.

This is where it all goes sideways. So we are heading into “town” (read: tourist central) to go have lunch or shop at the kiosks or whatever…I forgot the details because the journey there was so damn scary/hilarious/scary that I forgot what happened after I took the picture of my mum at the end of it. We end up somehow on this upward slanting road trying to find a parking spot and eventually curve around, realising that we’re on top of a mountain and now we must head down.

Also, there’s no parking.

So we head down this mountain, at probably at 50-60 degree incline and slowly begin to realise that this is a one way street on this side of the mountain. And we’re going the wrong damn way. There were two instances where we had to pull over and back up so that the car going the RIGHT way could go around us, but the one that nearly killed my mother was when we had to back up about ten feet, take a 90 turn onto a driveway, and head up a 70 degree-ish incline. Yea. Can’t believe we didn’t die.

Best part, dad kept going the wrong way down the mountain when we finally got out of that situation.

And the whole time my mum is swearing that when we get down she’s going to kiss the ground for letting her live.

And she totally did. It’s on my “Mum’s greatest hits” picture reel…okay, if I had one it would be…

She was kinda pissed I made her hold it so long, but I’m pretty sure it only made her seem that much more grateful…

-Renee

PS. If you’re ever wondering why I don’t really talk about my dad, it’s because he’s funnier than me and I don’t want you to feel cheated. Sad, but true.

Have you ever looked down at the supplies for a craft project that you want/have to do and know that somehow, someway, you’re going to fuck it up beyond comprehension….?

Welcome to my life. I have absolutely no artistic talent. I have always blame this on the fact that my parents decided to have a second child.

No there’s logic here, hear me out!

When I was four and five, we lived in a three bedroom house, and the third bedroom was my art room. This room because fucktard’s room when he was born. He can draw and all this artisty shit and I blame it on the fact that he sucked all the artistic talent from that room that I would have had if he wasn’t born.

So now you know why the following story happened. I can’t do crafts and asking me to will end in disaster. Or as I decided to call it “Tim Taylor-ing the whole thing”.

Okay here’s the set up:

We use these dryer things to dry swabs before sending them to DNA. They have trays that you put the swabs in and then slide them in. They’re probably a great set decoration on CSI somewhere. Since they are used for DNA purposes we clean them with bleach to kill any DNA that could possibly be behind it. Bleach is corrosive. And I don’t care how strong the glue and plastic of these things are, things are bound to get cocked up. This is why we can buy more.

I also have a moronic supervisor (thankfully not my immediate…she has no power over me, it is kinda awesome). She has no common sense whatsoever and a terrible memory and I can’t stand her.

Add these two things together? Welcome to last Friday.

Dumbass is cleaning the tray and the bottom falls out. Had I seen it I probably would have laughed out loud and gotten myself into trouble. As it was I was dealing with our Biohazard Trash (which will probably contribute to the cancer. YAY!) and all I heard was her saying my name the second after it happened. (A) WTF why is something breaking automatically by fault? I have no (B)….She hands it to me asking me to fix it after just saying that it could probably just super glue it back together. I blink at her a bit, and thank god she couldn’t see my jaw hanging wide open under my mask cause I couldn’t believe she couldn’t glue it back together herself or how the hell this was my damn problem.

So I set it aside and ignore her like I normally do, but when she leaves at the end of the day she tells me that she’s going to email the person the swab dryer ‘belongs’ to (yea she’s fucking up OTHER people’s equipment) and let them know what happened so she doesn’t freak out (she was going to freak out anyway…) and that she would probably MacGyver it back together….if I even knew who that was…

REALLY?!??!?! FUCK YOU AND YOUR PATRONIZATION!!!!!!! FUCKING WHORE!

Plus two lines of glue really isn’t MacGyver’s style. It’s totally beneath him. To be honest it’s totally more Tim Taylor’s style. So I took it upon myself to fix it just to prove a point…it’s not like we don’t have kick ass super glue at our discretion….

So yea this is where I fuck up. Since I don’t use our super glue EVER I didn’t know how fast it was going to come out so it ended up pooling all over the bottom of the tray, not just on the two grooves I needed it on…SO…..I put the tray where it should go and try to clean up the extra glue which is now all over the counter and my fingers and almost ending up gluing the damn thing to my hand…now my fingerprints are on the damn thing in glue…there is just no denying this one. So I kept trying to make it better, simultaneously making it worse and finally deem it relatively okay and go get the rest of my work done.

About an hour or so before leaving I decide that the tray is dry enough and that I should probably put it out on the analyst’s counter so she knows it’s done. Fifteen minutes later…it’s glued itself to the table.

Thank you Tim for teaching me how to royally fuck things up. Cause that one was spectacular.

Although I was quite amused by the outline of the tray on the counter. I guess I always leave my mark!

-Renee