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You Take The Fucking High Road and Shove It…

November 10, 2016

Yesterday gave me a faint hint of what it must be like to have a mood disorder. I started off the day buoyed by a Facebook feed full of inspirational Pantsuit Nation posts and moving video feeds from Susan B. Anthony’s graveside. This was going to be the day I’ve been waiting my whole voting life for – a woman was going to be President. In a nod to the suffragettes I voted wearing a petticoat instead of a pantsuit like so many other women.

While I was nervous, because really, who wasn’t? I thought my bourbon fueled evening was going to end in glorious drunken celebration. Instead, after a fuckton of liquor I went to bed before it was over.  I couldn’t watch the guys on CNN fuck with the maps any more trying to make sense of why all their predictions were as wrong as the clusterfuck that was unfolding. When I went to bed there was still a path to a narrow victory. I woke up at 3AM and asked my husband how it had ended up, and then sobbed for the next hour. (New rule in our house indicates that crying needs to happen before bed, not once the other party is asleep.)

Now I’ve liked Obama well enough, but I’m not going to lie, I was disappointed 8 years ago that we were electing another man, historic as his appointment was, I wanted a goddamn woman to be President.  We’re not only due one, we’re overdue for one. Nations with lower opinions of women than the US have had female leaders.  I’m not a dyed in the wool feminist, but fuck me we’re just as fucking qualified to run this country and Hillary was overqualified to be the first female President. And no I don’t want to hear your bullshit conspiracy theories about her, or that she’s evil, blah, blah, blah. Most of the people spewing that shit haven’t got a clue why they think that any more than we have the slightest clue how Trump is going to “make America great again.” You just like the way it sounds in your own head.

Yesterday, my country broke up with me based upon the rumours, innuendos, and lies told by a lot of angry old white men for the last 30 years.  God am I tired of angry old white men. My whole life they’ve been trying to tell me what I can and can’t do. What my limitations are, making decisions for me, and spending way too much fucking time worrying about what I do with my twat.  Sweet Mother of Cheezits get a new fucking hobby?

This morning well meaning friends, bloggers, reporters and social media tried to tell me to take the high road.  That the world isn’t ending.  That there are limits to the damage that the angry old white men can do in the next four years.  They showed me pretty maps that said that the future will be better because all the 18-25 year olds voted democratic. (I’m pretty sure Snopes will be calling bullshit on this for years to come.) They warned me that unfriending people who differ in opinion with me won’t accomplish anything. Guess what? I don’t care. If you threw your vote away to “protest” you should be cunt punted for being stupid.  Guess what? Some of those votes had the chance to make a difference.  Your vote does in fact matter. You shouldn’t be allowed to vote if you don’t understand and appreciate that simple fucking fact.  If you voted for Trump intentionally because you want what he represents then you and I have very little in common in our core beliefs and I’m not totally sure you and I should be friends to begin with. If you stop seeing my snark in your Facebook feed consider this your explanation.

Well, guess what? I don’t want to take the motherfucking high road.  Right now I don’t even want to know where it is located.  Don’t fucking program it into my Waze.  Y’all want to be hopeful, y’all go right ahead. That’s your business, but not this girl.  I’m sad. I’m disappointed as fuck in my country.  I’m completely disillusioned by the electoral process. I’m afraid for people I love who are people of colour, LGBT, women, or trapped in communities where their beliefs are in the minority. I’m ashamed that my nieces and nephews are going to have to watch this epic world altering clusterfuck unfold and have it shape their futures. I’m angry that I’m going to be forced to listen to that arrogant ignorant prick for the next 4 years.  That he will appoint the worst of the worst to the positions of power.  I’m terrified of the fact that he will have the nuclear codes.  And gawd… his smug fucking children? We’re going to have to hear and see them gloat – because you know they will.

But more than I’m afraid of what HE will do, I’m afraid what the people who think he’s so fabulous will do. Many of them will take this as tacit approval to turn off the few filters they have in place and just unleash all their pent up hate. Sure, eventually they will realize that all the reasons they voted him into power were wrong – they won’t have jobs, they will pay higher taxes, and without insurance they won’t be able to afford to pay the ER bill for the 3rd degree burns they got at a cross burning.  But they will have plenty of time to wreak havoc on the country before they get that slap in the face.  Which I will enjoy. Immensely.

So, with this in mind, you’ll pardon me if I ask you to keep your hopefulness to yourself. Enjoy it all you want.  Do what you need to get through this.  Take the fucking high road.  Me? I’m gonna stew in bourbon and wallow in pity for a lot longer. It’s my fucking right.

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From The Realm of Things I Do Not Understand: Sanctimonious Parents

October 31, 2016

This morning I read a New York Magazine article Pets Are Not Children, So Stop Calling Them That thanks to someone in my Facebook feed liking the article. (FYI I’ll be reviewing our friendship status when I’m done here.) While I’ll confess it doesn’t take much to fuck me off, this writer made a good solid effort at it. Especially since it’s been a year since I’ve been annoyed enough to write a blog post.

sally

First of all, it doesn’t diminish the life of a human child that I consider my two Black Labs to be my children. If it makes you uncomfortable that is an issue entirely of your own making, and most likely stems from the fact that you want praise for increasing the population count in an overcrowded world. Bully for you. You figured out how to fuck without a prophylactic. Being a parent doesn’t automagically make you a better person than someone who chooses a different path. I know you think it does, but you’re wrong.

The article implies that because I did not birth my dogs I am not entitled to call myself a parent. Not all parents give birth to their own children. The more noble of us choose to take on an unwanted child and raise and care for that life. In essence a parent is nothing more than a guardian. As a guardian it is your responsibility to keep your ward safe, sheltered, nurtured, fed and to guide it through life. If you’re halfway decent as a parent your ward will be happy, healthy, well behaved and will enjoy their life. You choose to be the guardian of a human child and I choose to be a guardian of a canine.

olive

Why should it bother you if my husband and I choose to refer to each other as “Mom and Dad” when talking to our dogs? They are just monikers. Not all parents choose to use those same terms. I know plenty of people, myself included, that refer to their human parents by their first name. Doesn’t matter what you call someone. What matters is what relationship you have with them.  Our dogs look to my husband and I to provide them with the same love, care and guidance that a human child would. They look to us to fill the role of guardian, of parent, and we do that. In spades.

Where I really have you beat is that my children love me unconditionally. Yours will spend much of their life resenting you for the myriad of mistakes and transgressions you will make as the parent of a human child. Mine will forgive me my sins and omissions before I’ve even made them. Maybe this is what makes you so uncomfortable. I have to work really hard to fuck up my kids and make them ungrateful selfish brats like yours that undoubtedly scream “I WANT IT! I WANT IT! I WANT IT! I HATE YOU!” in the toy aisle at Target.

The author goes on to say that parenting is how we shape our future. Well, perhaps we’d be better off if the well parented animals ran the place. All I need to do is watch 2 minutes of a Trump rally to see what the blessed job of human parenting gets us.

When Friends Get Lost

September 9, 2015

So, we all have those friends whose names pop into our heads and we wonder whatever happened to them. Most of the time we can Facebook stalk them and satisfy our curiosity. Sometimes we reach out and make contact. Other times we click away and read something stupid on Buzzfeed and move on with our lives. In recent years I’ve reconnected with a lot of my old childhood and college friends. We don’t spend a ton of time together, but we meet, we drink, we Facebook. I like old friends because they knew you before life was complicated and you were fully formed. They knew you when you were awkward and weird.

carmen2

In college I had a roommate named Carmen. We met in college in Switzerland, went to Kenya on Spring Break one year, and later, back in the States, we were roommates in San Diego for a year. I liked Carmen a lot as I recall. Everyone did. She was bright in all the senses of the word. She was fun to be around. She was pretty, yet unassuming. We were good friends.

carme1
Unfortunately, as we would come to find out, we weren’t suited to be roomies. Some people are. Some people aren’t. I’ve learned over the years that I don’t like having a roommate- The Poor Bastard excluded. I’ve had some great roommates and I’ve had some horrible ones. (Some day I’ll tell you about the one who was dating a mortician.) Carmen and I just didn’t have the stuff to make it work, and close to the end of the school year we parted ways.

I don’t remember it being a particularly hostile break-up, but 25 years has a way of breaking down memories. I don’t know what we said to each other then. I know that we’ve not spoken since that time. Once, about 7 years ago I looked for her on Facebook, but didn’t find her. I found someone I thought might be her on Google, but with no photos, I couldn’t be sure. I moved on. Until last night. No idea why, but she crept into my mind and I went looking again thinking maybe I’d reach out if I found her. And find her I did. Or rather, I found her obituary.

So. Fuck. She’s dead. She died young. She died horribly. And along with her passing died any chance we might have met again as adults and remembered why we were friends. Now all I have left are some jaded memories and a couple of snapshots. At least that’s something.

carmen3

Why Facebook Gives Me Grief

August 28, 2015

Still as true today as it was 7 years ago.

A Surly Girl's Guide to Life

It’s been a year now since Parrish passed away and those who knew and loved her experience their grief in unique ways. While I frequently go to pick up the phone and call her to get her take on the latest installment in our family saga only to realize she’s now got the divine 3rd person perspective; it is really when I log into Facebook and see the box entitled “People You May Know” that I truly miss her the most. Because, the problem is, that while I may know these people, I don’t have a clue who they are, and my one resource for this information, Parrish, forgot to leave me CliffsNotes.

It’s not that I don’t remember anyone or anything from high school. The problem is that I remember my fabulous 80’s wardrobe better than I remember the names and faces of my classmates. I remember old boyfriends…

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Chasing Sara

April 26, 2014

Since my coach took away the option to listen to music while we train for our Ironman, I’m stuck spending a lot of time alone with my own thoughts. As y’all can imagine, that’s a bad idea. I spend a lot of time thinking about all kinds of shit that would be better left buried in the relatively shallow depths of my psyche. Contrary to popular belief, I ain’t all that deep.

catch-that-roadrunner

The last few weeks I’ve been obsessed with another girl on my team, Sara. She’s this nice, pretty girl that is always just ahead of me on every run work out we do. I literally chase her around Los Angeles on the weekends. Usually just as I almost catch up to her she jackrabbits off ahead of me. She’s the Road Runner to my Wile E. Coyote.

During our 14 mile run last weekend I decided that if they were to make a documentary of my quest to complete an Ironman, the working title would be “Chasing Sara… a Middle Aged Woman’s Quest to Catch Up With a Perky 20-Something Blonde With a Perfect Ass.”

During this week’s run, after cursing her with “Damn you Sara!” each time she passed me on the run course, I started doing a little mental compare and contrast activity to keep myself busy. I compared Sara’s inherent qualities to mine. Here’s a basic breakdown so you understand better my obsession with Sara.

Sara vs Surly

Sara for her part is tolerant of my obsession in that way that all well-raised young people are tolerant of the elderly. She’s too well mannered to say “Surly, you’re one weird ass old woman. Leave me the fuck alone.” Which really, is what she should say. It’s true, I am. And I should. Only chasing Sara, and the fleeting hope that I might actually catch her, is what distracts me from the aches in my legs, stiffness in my shoulders, and the seemingly never ending stretch of asphalt under my shoes.

Sara - As I See Her

Sara – As I Only Ever Get To See Her – From Behind

One thing that Sara and I do have in common, other than thinking I’m a freak, is that we’re members of the Dead Relatives Club. We’ve both lost people important to us to cancer. Doing something to help find a cure binds us, although if she didn’t know me from this experience, odds are her gut instincts would warn her to cross the street if she saw me approaching – and, again, she’d be right. I’m lucky she’s a good girl and a good sport, as chasing Sara is now an integral part of my making it to Cast Iron Bitch status.

Feed Me, Seymour!

February 24, 2014

So, you know, as I always say, I’m all about the live and let live. Judge not lest ye be judged, and all that shit. You know, unless you’re just begging for me to weigh in and judge you. Which, apparently, some of you are. Just when I thought I was gonna get a little time off too.

As we’ve established over the years, I’m usually on top of all the trends. In the know, as it were, on all the latest and greatest. It’s usually pretty hard for you all to slip one by me, but I’ll admit that this time, you blindsided me. Maybe it’s all this Ironman training I’ve been doing. I’ll admit, I’m tired and a little distracted. But still.

Last night I was laying in bed (never mind what I was wearing) and channel surfing when I landed on TLC‘s show Strange Sex. I like strange. I like sex. Seemed like a good call. I thought maybe I would be in for a little “Bronie” or foot fetish discussion. You know, strange, but in a colourful fun and yet expected way.

My Little Bronie

My Little Bronie

But alas, no. Instead I got something I had never heard of before. I know, shocking. It’s called Feederism. Basically it’s getting off by feeding another person. Now sure, I can hear you sayin’ “Well Surly, what’s wrong with that? I like to feed my man strawberries and whipped cream in bed. A little chocolate in the right place and, well you know…” Yeah, yeah. That’s not what we’re talking about. That’s fuckin’ amateur hour and as unusual as getting caught by your mother whacking off when you’re 13. No, this is on a whole other level. And fuck me, it ain’t sexy AT FUCKING ALL.

Basically this couple’s relationship consists of him feeding her copious quantities of food and then fondling her fat. Sure, nothing too weird there. I mean heck. Dave fondles my fat all the time. (Poor bastard doesn’t have any other choice if he wants to get any.) And more power to this guy for liking big women. Not a problem. Fat chicks deserve love and sex too. However, this couple goes, in the words of Madness, one step beyond. The goal for their relationship is that they want for her to become so fat, approx. 1000 lbs, that she is incapacitated and needs him to care for her completely. Sure, we’d all like to be waited on hand and foot. I’ve been trying to get Dave to do that for years. But tell me where the sexy is in having your partner clean the mold from between your rolls of fat? Come on, tell me where it is!

Like I said, I’m good with you getting your kink on. But can you do me a favour and leave the Big Mac’s out of it? I don’t like to think of what you might be doing with the fries.

PS. You owe me a huge thank you for not posting videos from YouTube of people being fed and having their fat fondled. You’d never eat ice cream again.

Are You Ashamed of Your Anus?

January 28, 2014

There comes a time in every relationship when you have to have THE TALK. That happened for Dave and I last night. There’s been something bubbling under the surface and I just needed to confront him about it. So I asked him point blank. “Have you looked at my anus lately? Do you feel like it’s the wrong colour? Are you ashamed that it’s not pink enough?” He gave me that look. You know the one. The one that says “My imaginary 22 year old mistress doesn’t ask me these kinds of things.” What he said was “You need to get off the internet.” And promptly went back to watching John Stewart. The poor bastard wants a way out but knows he’s trapped.

Ah. The utter shame and humiliation. It was hard enough to live with rosacea flareups and missing eyebrows. Those I can cover up. I put on makeup and have bangs. If you don’t look too closely you might confuse me with a 40 something whose body hasn’t turned on her. But a brown anus? That you can’t hide. Even if you’re not looking directly at my anus, you’ll suspect my secret shame.

Yet there is hope on the horizon. A cure. Apparently you can slap some Clorox* on your anus every night for a month and it will bleach away your shame. Afraid that like a bad home perm you’ll screw it up? Not to worry, you can go to the spa and request that they do it for you. That’s right. After you’ve asked the esthetician to wax your twat to resemble a 9 year old girl, just ask her spread your cheeks and bleach that brown right out of your ass. Sure. You might get burned. But what’s a few weeks of anal lesions in the pursuit of the perfect pink sphincter?


*If you’re enough of a fucktard to try this at my suggestion you’ll get exactly what you deserve.