Tag Archives: complaining

Terrible Things are Happening in the World, So I’m Going to Complain About a Skirt.


I’m back!  I just needed to take a brief hiatus so I could collect my thoughts, reevaluate my life, and do some real soul searching. PFFFFFFFFT   Yeah right, I squandered these last few months watching  Duran Duran videos all by myself.  That is only a slight exaggeration. While I did spend an inordinate amount of time ogling Duran Duran, a lots of things happened these past few months.

Let’s see!  I got a tattoo.  It is a seagull loteria card, and it’s rad, and it didn’t hurt, and I still like to stare at it and rub it lovingly.  My parents do not like it, but they have begrudgingly accepted it.  I mean they have to, as I am a 31 year old woman (Oh yeah!  I forgot!  I had a Soft Rock birthday since my last post.  I am year older now!  Listen to this playlist! Seriously listen to it, it is so good.)

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~TRASH BIRD FOR LIFE~

Anyway, I am a 31 year old woman and I can tattoo whatever creatures on my body that I want, AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME.  The only one of my family members that likes my seagull is my oldest sister Lisa.  My other sister Erica laments that it is too large and that when I wear formal gowns it will look declasse.  This is a pretty valid concern though, because I am constantly going to balls and galas, et al. Not a weekend goes by where I am not at the Governor’s Mansion or a high school dance.  My favorite reaction was from my mother, who said, “People always asked me if I ever thought  you’d get a tattoo, and I always said no.  You’ve made me a liar.”  HAAAAAAA! SO DRAMATIC.

Y’all, Truman turned two!  WHAT?!?  We celebrated by doing a whole shit ton of nothing, but he had a great day anyway.   Almost everyday is a great day when you’re two years old.  He is growing and developing!  He is talking more every day and has started Spanish lessons.  His teacher said he is very attentive and makes attempts to say the words.  I am proud of that little bugger!

Just look at that little scamp.

Just look at this little scamp.

We didn’t really do anything for Truman’s birthday because we went on a family vacation a couple days later.  Or, rather, we intended too.  First we had to deal with The Great Evans Passport Debacle of 2013.  I don’t really feel like talking about it, because I am still pissed about it, but I will give you the gist.  We were all packed and ready to leave, when the night before we couldn’t find our passports.  The only passport we could find was Truman’s.  We turned our filthy house upside to find those bastards.  To this goddamned day I do not know where our original passports are.   It was quite the ordeal.  I would like to thank my parents, Expedia, and the Houston Passport Agency for getting us to Mexico.  ::round of angry yet enthusiastic applause::

Mexico was awesome.  Duh.  We went to an all-inclusive resort.  Nothing too exciting, but excellent all the same.  It was mad chill.  I went zip-lining, snorkeling, and ate at buffets a lot.  I got sick twice! I also managed to skin both of my elbows on a water slide.  So you know, memories that will last a life time.  Really though, I had a lovely time with my family and Truman loved every minute of it.

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But let’s get to the real reason I came here–to complain about something really trifling.  I am sorry, just HAVE to bitch about this.  Right then, so let the bitching commence!  Okay, so I had based my entire fall/winter look on this one black skirt, and had already bought shirts to complement it and everything. I even got my hair cut based around this fucking skirt.  I was planning for a 60’s French girly tomboy look, like my all time fashion icon, Jean Seberg.  It gave me a super valid excuse to buy even more stripey Bretonesque shirts.  It was going to be a welcome change from my scruffy summer look of jorts and t-shirts.

Who wouldn’t want to emulate her?

Anyway, so I go to Target yesterday to buy said skirt, and I CAN’T FIND IT ANYWHERE.  It’s like it NEVER EXISTED.  But, I know that it wasn’t a figmentof my imagination because I had previously purchased the same skirt in grey.  Why did I buy it in grey, instead of the more useful black?  I don’t know, because I am dumb.

This skirt is described as short and flippy, and that is just what I had in mind.  I imagined myself in my little black flippy skirt and stripey shirt, skipping down the sidewalk, carrying a picnic basket, and wearing a giant bow on my head.  I was to be the cutest bitch since Marlo Thomas in That Girl. BUT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooO, Target screwed me over! I still managed to spend almost $100 dollars yesterday, because in a fit of madness I purchased, this, and some other random shit.

I know know, it is seriously the lamest thing to be mad about ever.  Especially since it is just a basic black skater skirt that you can get almost anywhere. They are very popular this season.  Since I started writing this, I have already found several adequate replacements.  I even found a stripey one, and a flirty lil’ denim one. It took me literally five minutes to find all of these skirts.  I spent more time moping about the stupid thing than I did googling it.  IN CLOSING, I am going to be so cute this fall y’all!  Everything is fine and wonderful!  The world is great!  I will try to start writing more!  Here is an entire episode of Charmed Lives, a Who’s the Boss spin-off featuring Fran Drescher.  Enjoy!

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We’re Experiencing Technical Difficulties, Please Stand By.


Today I am supposed to discuss something difficult about my “lot in life” and how I am working to overcome it. Now, I don’t want to sound too much like Joe Walsh, but life’s been good to me so far.  Really, the only adversity that I’ve had to face is being short and not being able to reach the things I want in the supermarket.  This is especially perilous in the yogurt section where I have to stand on the ledge and am in danger of knocking several yogurt containers to the ground with my bosoms.  The worst part about this is, NO ONE WILL HELP ME.  They see me struggling, and they just walk on  by.  Help a height deficient girl out, will ya?

Anyway, so I’ve lived a semi-charmed kind of life thus far (knock on wood), so I am going to talk about some temporary difficulties that have been plaguing me as of late.  I have a raging ear infection in my left ear and it is KILLING ME.  I can’t hear out that ear, so I am constantly going “WHAAA” or “Speak up, child” or my favorite, “Do what now?!”

Seriously though, this ear infection has been a nightmare.  It is so fucking painful, and I had a natural childbirth.  The whole left side of my face is throbbing, all the way down my neck to my collarbone.  It makes it incredibly difficult to be cordial, which isn’t my strong suit in any case.  For some reason (my husband), I put off  going to the doctor because I figured it would just get better.  But no, no, that’s not the way infections work, stupid.  They just get worse, and more painful the longer you wait.  DUH. Last night my ear hurt so much that I couldn’t sleep and I had to watch the Wendy Williams Show in the middle of the night, which is terrible in itself.  “How you doin’?”  Horribly Wendy, I am doing horribly, thank you.

Okay, so on top of my incredibly painful ear infection.  MY INTERNET DOESN’T WORK.  Why am I being punished so?  Has all of my shade throwing finally come back to me ten fold?  Someone was supposed to come and fix it yesterday, but they didn’t come, and in my current state I couldn’t be bothered to call AT&T and have an argument with their automated system.  If you ever want to see me apoplectic with anger, make me use an automated system. I have cried tears of frustration from using an automated system.  JUST LET ME SPEAK TO A PERSON, GODDAMMIT.  Not having the internet at home is a HUGE deal for me, because that’s how I watch TV, and that’s what sets us apart from the apes.  Right now, I am no better than an ape, staring at the wall with my finger in my ear.  I have to write these blog posts at work, which is difficult because I can’t hear, so I can’t hear my boss’s petite feet as she walks up behind me.

So, that’s where I am in life.  I feel a little better now, because complaining is one my favorite hobbies. But If you see me, and I look extra grumpy, offer to take me to get some frozen yogurt or something.  You only live once, FROYO!



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NOT FEELING IT.


I haven’t been 100% lately.  On Friday night I went to the emergency room because I was having debilitating head pain. The pain was so severe and so sudden I thought I had an aneurysm or something crazy like that.  Poor Chad had to get out of bed and pack up the baby to take me to the ER.  He spent the next few hours fending off hobos while I got hooked up with a morphine drip.  After two CAT scans, the diagnosis was clear–ACUTE HEADACHE.  SHIT.  Now I have approximately a million dollars in medical bills because I had a goddamned HEADACHE.  I know, I know, better safe than sorry and all that but we really can’t afford this added expense.

BUH.

I am just not feeling it guys.  I don’t want to be an adult and have responsibilities.  I just want to lie in bed, watch Pretty Little Liars, and eat cherry pop tarts.   POOR ME.  Anybody want to cheer me up?

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Tuesday can suck a nut, y’all


Yes, yes it is Tuesday, and AGAIN I want to complain.  My god, what a shiteous day it’s been!  I am in a truly terribly mood.  The school I work at is having their big 4th of July program on Thursday, so all day I have to hear extremely grating versions of patriotic songs sung at top volume by 35 4-year-olds.  Because it is beyond absurd, the only upside to this deafening noise is hearing the kids sing:

If tomorrow all the things were gone,
I’d worked for all my life.
And I had to start again,
with just my children and my wife.

I am allowed to be annoyed by these screechy displays of patriotism because we all know that I am a patriot in my own right, being I’m best friends with Barack Obama and all.  Yesterday I was watching Stephen Fry in America, which is a really great show,  and I told Chad that I’d really like to visit Washington D.C..  Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure Secret Service has my picture on file and I will be tackled to the ground if I even attempt to enter the White House.

I don’t really understand how the small things in life irritate me so much more than the bigger catastrophes. For example, today I was losing my shit because somebody drank all the coffee at work, but last week was filled with much bigger ordeals and I handled them all with ~grace~.  The dog eating my paycheck was just too dumb to even be mad about, and having my credit card number stolen didn’t even make me break a sweat.   But having to help someone use the copy machine at work makes me want to shoryuken a hole in the ceiling. I do not care if shoryuken is not a verb, I am using it as one.

An artist’s portrayal of the author. SWEAT DROP, SWEAT DROP SWEAT DROP!

Soon soon soon I will get to go home and laze around with Truman and end this crapola work day.  But, by no means will it be quiet at my house.  His Granna bought Tru a toy drum that is filled with various percussion instruments and he loves to rattle and shake them.  For a 10 month old, he has a remarkable sense of rhythm.  I chalk it up to the variety of music we’ve exposed him to.  Bang a gong, son, bang a gong. He has taken to hitting the cat with his drumsticks, but luckily the cat likes it rough, so errybody is happy. Eventually Truman will pass out, exhausted from his percussive endeavors, and I can watch my third favorite cooking competition show, Masterchef, or as I like to call it–Mean Chef, Mean Chef, Fat Chef. I will leave you with this George Michael song that I can’t get out of my head. It’s vaguely patriotic, don’t you think?

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It is Tuesday and I want to Complain.


I have been up and down emotionally lately (typical woman, amrite), going from having a general sense of well being, to being incredibly despondent and sighing a lot.  ::SIGH::  Things aren’t all together terrible, but one of my favorite activities, right after judging people, is complaining. I miss the days when my best friend Bridget and I would go out to a bar only to complain about being at said bar and make fun of all the poorly dressed, misguided young girls there.  Good times. Buh.

Tuesdays are always the worst days of the week.  Mondays get a bad rap from Garfield, but they’re really not all that bad.  You are still groggy from Sunday Funday, and can reminisce about all the kick ass times you had over the weekend.  Tuesday is when shit gets real, and it drags and drags and drags.  Tuesdays are the equivalent of going to the post office AND waiting around for the cable guy to come.  Not to mention there is never anything good on TV on Tuesday nights. Lately, every day has seemed like a Tuesday.  People keep telling me I look tired, which is probably one of the worst things anyone can say to a woman.  I DON’T KNOW HOW TO APPLY CONCEALER PROPERLY, OKAY. I also don’t own concealer.  These dark circles under my eyes give me character.

Now, on to the true grumbling.  My house is disgusting.  It is as if we have been struck down by the Plagues of Austin. We have fleas, we have roaches, and for a while I thought I was living the Amityville Horror because of all the goddamned flies.  We have tried combating these pests, we used a natural flea powder that left our house smelling like Gold Bond for three days, we treated the dog and cat, and we vacuum constantly (that’s an exaggeration), all to little relief.  The fleas actually aren’t THAT bad, I have been to people’s houses where you look down and you have about fifty fleas on your ankles.  At my house it is just a minor annoyance, only one or two venturesome pests will bother trying to get up on you, the rest take residency on the cat .  Now, let’s talk about the roaches.  I keep my kitchen clean, but these little bastards have taken up residency in our dishwasher. D: My google research tells me that I’m shit out of luck and have to call the exterminator.  If I could find an exterminator that accepts payment in puns or awkward dance moves, that would be ideal, because we don’t have the money for that sort of extravagance.

Speaking of extravagances, this brings me to the thing that depresses me most about my house–the utterly foul dog piss stained carpet.  My dog Dignan, well, he’s not long for this world.  He has diabetes and is constantly having accidents on the carpet.  I HATE CARPET.  We hesitated buying this house because of it, but Chad said he would pull up the carpet and stain the concrete.  Over a year later one room has been stripped of the shit and there is just dust everywhere from an unfinished project. ::SIGH::  Really, there is really nothing worse than coming home from work, opening your front door and having the pungent smell of dog pee waft into your nostrils.  My carpet looks like the most depressing Jackson Pollock painting ever created.  I had a little hand held Bissell but it puttered out because I had to use it so much.  Again, carpet cleaning is something we can’t afford right now.  Poor army crawling Truman has to be contained to certain areas of the house because I can’t stand to see him dragging himself over the filthy floor.  WOEEEEEE IS ME.

God, I was going to bitch and moan some more, about being creatively unfulfilled of all things (LAME), but lamenting over my nasty house made me feel both worse and better at the same time.  I just had to write it out bro. On a less whiny note, I had a nice Mother’s Day.  Chad bought me the new Rufus Wainwright album, which I love, and have listened to back to back exclusively since I received it, and he bought me a pair of yellow striped shoes.  Chad is special, because this is not the first time he has purchased me shoes, and he is always successful.  He is a brave and wise man. My nieces and nephew served me steak and chocolate cake and made me feel special on my first official Mother’s Day.

Here we are looking precious on Mother’s Day. Photo courtesy of Aunt Amanda.

This weekend my parents  are coming to visit, and HALLELUJAH they are bringing their upright deep carpet cleaner with them.  Things are looking up!  I know, I know, if my biggest problems are dirty carpets and being creatively unfulfilled ::rolls eyes::. then my life is pretty cherry.  But I love to complain, please don’t strip me of that one joy.

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BLARGH


I am having a serious bout of writer’s block y’all.  It’s not that I don’t have things to write about.  I suppose I could discuss my daily tweets to Obama, or the Selena party I attended, or even the never ending battle with Truman’s snot.  I just don’t FEEEEEEEEEL like writing.  ::pouts::

You know what else is bothering me? I can’t find a dadgum pair of jeans in this whole entire godforsaken city that will fit my rotund ass!  I have tried several stores, and I thought I had finally scored at American Eagle of all places (where I, in an ever continuing effort to be  as awkward as possible, called the 18-year-old salesgirl ma’am). But alas, they turned out to be too big. SHOCKED FACE.   I will still wear them because the world is already well acquainted with my butt crack and I don’t mind looking like a just took a huge dump in my pants.  I just can’t wear maternity jeans for the rest of my life y’all, even if they are super nice skinny ones from the Gap.  Maybe if I start calling them jeggings, I will be okay with it.  WHO I AM I KIDDING?  I HATE THE WORD JEGGINGS.

Crazy first world problems.  I am done with this post.  I am all riled up now.  Here are some pictures of my son looking adorbs.  BTW, it is totally his fault that I need new jeans in the first place.  He is worth it, I GUESS.

nom nom cat tail.

nom nom rattle

I have been soothed now.  This kid’s picture is like a balm for my grouchy soul.

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