I am an asshole. Just an average, everyday prick. I piss people off because I am self-absorbed and unaware and pretty much think about myself always, no matter what.

But I am not without compassion. There are, occasionally, some altruistic tugs on my heart strings. For this reason, I have decided to help any budding assholes (huh, that sounded weird) who may be trying to find their way to full dickhead status but just can’t quite make it. You know, struggling. So every now and then, I’m going to write a chapter in my book, entitled, The Asshole Diaries, in which I highlight one aspect of my douche bag repertoire.

And then I’m going to sell it on Amazon for an obscenely cheap price (which will catch your eye) but exorbitant shipping cost (which will make you utter “dick” under your breath). You know, cause that’s how I roll.

So today, let’s talk about parking.

Assholes park in a very particular ways, and they go something like this:

1. Across two spots, especially if you have one of those lifted 4-door trucks with “Piss on Chevy” sticker on the back. Or Ford. Or whatever it is. Yep. Just go ahead and pull right in sideways. Right across those lines.
2. If you can’t park sideways across two spots, at LEAST position yourself diagonally so you take up just enough of a second spot to make it physically impossible for even the tiniest car to park next to you. Make sure you do this when the parking lot is full, so everybody gets to drive by and see you taking up two spots, but just barely.
3. Another winner is to find the dirtiest mini-van or SUV you can, full of car seats and booster seats and kid crap, and park as close to them as you possibly can. I’m talking an INCH or TWO away from it. Just make sure it’s on your passenger side (obviously), so you don’t have any trouble getting out, but the mother has to wrangle her toddler and baby and spastic children into their seats from the other fucking side of the car then crawl her fat ass through the side door across the center console and into her seat. Because she can’t open her door far enough to wedge the said fat ass in.

Because the ASSHOLE parked too close.

YOU CAN be that asshole.

Aim high.

I’m here to help.

Until Chapter 2…

As I mentioned in my last post, apparently I was really bad last year, because Santa brought my kids guinea pigs.

Okay, fine. We got the kids guinea pigs. But let me explain. Rocket and Ava have been haranguing us for at least 8 months for a pet rodent of some sort – they started with hamsters and moved to guinea pigs – and like any rational mother, I denied their pleas with unswerving resolve, citing various reasons (all valid, I might add), regarding their uniformly inconsistent interest levels, which inevitably result in ME taking on the no-longer-amusing item, which in this case would be a rodent and therefore, not happening.

After a few weeks of this discussion, they suddenly ceased bringing it up. Instead, they started quietly plotting, together. All the sudden they were all into doing extra chores (for which I give them a little cash) and the next thing I knew they had SAVED THEIR MONEY and almost had enough for freaking guinea pigs. They saved for like 6 months. Uncool. Though impressive focus, I must admit.

It was precisely this focus which led me to consider that perhaps those kids meant business, and maybe, perhaps, actually wanted them. This realization came around Christmas, when I was already trying to figure out their “big” gift, and the whole guinea pig package really isn’t that expensive…soooo…yeah. Now we have two guinea pigs.

Ava’s is “Button.” Rocket’s is “Gus Gus.” They are both female.

So they were super happy on Christmas morning and we were all in love and whatnot AND I gotta admit, those things are damn cute. Like super cute.

And they don’t really make too much noise. They don’t eat or scratch my couch. And they’re cute.

So I didn’t hate them.

Until a couple days ago.

Now I kind of hate them.

So a week or so ago Rocket brings Gus Gus into the living room and puts her on the ground. She immediately runs under the couch. Luckily, I was doing something critically important and consequently didn’t have to deal with the guinea-pig-retrieval process. Mac did.

I heard various expletives coming from the living room area as he tried to get the little bastard out from under the couch, along with “ROCKET! You better not EVER LET THAT GUINEA PIG ON THE GROUND AGAIN!!!!”

Expletive.

Pause.

Expletive.

Twenty minutes later the guinea pig is in her cage and Rocket promises with a solemn oath that he will never, EVER leave Gus Gus alone on the living room floor.

And he didn’t, until the next morning.

When he left Gus Gus alone on the living room floor. And she ran under the couch.

Just.Like.Before.

Only this time, Mac was not here to handle it. I was though, so that’s good.

Fucking shoot me.

This is precisely the kind of shit that solidifies my suspicions that I lack a critical mothering gene, namely the one that brings patience and poise and tolerance to moments like this.

When your son tells you he let his guinea pig get under the couch again and you realize you have to handle it.

So I get the broom. I lie on the ground and start sweeping the broom under the couch. Ava has positioned herself on the other side with a flashlight, telling me where the guinea pig is at any given moment. At her word, I sweep in the appropriate direction, at which time the bastard furry fucker scrambles over the broom to the other side of the couch and I yell something derogatory.

Rocket’s contribution is to jump on the couch and squeal.

This, of course, scares the shit out of the guinea pig, increasing her terror and scrambling. My annoyance is reaching peak levels.

Georgia found the whole thing utterly hysterical – everybody on the ground like that, the broom, the jumping. She particularly liked the fact that I was wearing elastic-wasted flannel pajama pants and squatting down, resulting in a prime opportunity to PINCH MY ASS as I attempt to retrieve this guinea pig.

So there I was, on my knees with my butt up in the air, trying to sweep this guinea pig out, with Rocket body-slamming the couch, Ava yelling “she’s here! Quick!” and Georgia with her hand down my pants trying to pinch my butt cheeks.

Please, somebody.

Fucking shoot me.

After an hour of this, I got up and said “Done, children. The guinea pig can live under there or die under there or a little of both.”

Luckily, my 10-year-old has more patience than I do, and apparently better broom skills, since she got the damn guinea pig, eventually.

I’m sorry, Santa. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. Now take ‘em away!

1. I must have been really bad last year, because Santa brought the kids guinea pigs.
2. Yes, yes, I realize “Santa” is me, but I’d rather not take responsibility for the presence of those two animals in my house. Let’s call it a temporary bout with Multiple Personality Disorder, wherein I became a person only interested in fulfilling the dreams of youngsters. Blinded by this mission, I make stupid decisions and wonder how it happened.
3. More on that in my next post. Was going to write the story here but realized it would take up the whole thing, which wouldn’t leave room for my flurry of irrelevant, disconnected thoughts. Which are obviously critical.
4. I feel kind of weird right now. Maybe it’s that I’ve been changing the way I eat. And I’ve been exercising. Weird. It’s not really a New Year’s Resolution. It’s more just a “I’m tired of feeling like shit all the time and I’m ready to feel differently but I couldn’t do anything before Christmas so I’m doing it now” type thing. I think I also don’t really know what exactly to do with myself after the insanity of last semester. I was just rushing and rushing for so long and now things are a little calmer and I’m feeling a little lost. Whatever, it happens. Then it passes.
5. On Friday I found a plastic cup in the freezer full of frozen water. In that frozen water were a variety of Legos, mostly the heads and arms of men, signaling to me that Rocket had been experimenting. I then went to the computer and wrote in the homeschool record “studied the physical properties of water.”
6. Yeah, so that’s pretty much how homeschool is going.
7. Another winning area of my life is home organization. My house is so fucking thrashed I’m considering moving out. Just leaving. But I can’t afford that, so instead I’ve started throwing and giving away things, pretty much at random. I feel a pang of sad, like “Oh, I like that.” Or “Oh, I may need that.” But then I remember that every item preserved is an item to be dealt with, and I chuck that shit. I also ask myself if I’m going to care when I’m 89 and dying that I didn’t keep that one candle holder that is just so cute.
8. Doubt it. I’ll be too busy demanding morphine and pissing off my relatives.
9. Speaking of pain, a good part of my life is now devoted to ensuring Georgia doesn’t kill herself. Last week she: 1) fell out the back door; 2.) tripped on a toy and hit the wall; and 3.) crashed into a bush for reasons still unknown. The result was three scrapes on her head.
10. I just kind of want her to stop moving. At least not so much, and so unpredictably. And so rapidly. Just kinda mellow a little. Take it down a notch.
11. And this, my friends, is her new perch. Yeah. I know. Not safe. But you try keeping her off of it. Shiiiit. And yes, she’s up there so often I just feed her there now.

I believe the word you’re looking for here is “winning.”

Have a great week.

I went to the gym today. I know. How clichéd – going to the gym on freaking January 2. There were like 17 billion people there, all of them looking super interested and impressed with themselves. I know I was.

Duh.

New Year’s Resolutions.

I also went to the grocery store, where there was an inordinate number of people in the vegetable aisle.

Coincidence?

I think not.

And I totally get it. I fall into the New Year’s Resolution trap. It feels all fresh and new and possible, you know, to start a new way of living, abandon old habits or take on new ones or get skinny or rich or married or whatever.

So as I mentioned yesterday, I’ve decided to jot down a few of my resolutions for 2012. Though I’ve called it Slacker Resolutions 2012, it could also be entitled “The Aim Low List”, or “I’m never going to do any of this shit anyway so let’s set low expectations to avoid excessive disappointment.”

To get my mind rolling, I Googled “most common New Year’s resolutions” and pulled the top 10. Then I modified them a bit, you know, to fit.

Resolution 1: Spend more time with family and friends.

Slacker modification: Stop telling my husband I want a divorce every time we fight.

Resolution 2: Eat healthier food.

Slacker modification: Stop eating chocolate in the middle of the night.

Resolution 3: Exercise.

Slacker modification: Park in the far-away spot immediately, as opposed to circling the lot 9 times hoping a closer one opens up.

Resolution 4: Enjoy life more/be less stressed

Slacker modification: Stop saying “fuck” so often in front of the children.

Resolution 5: Quit drinking.

Slacker modification: Buahahahahaha already did that one.

Resolution 6: Get out of debt.

Slacker modification:  Demand that my husband handle that whole debt situation immediately. If not sooner.

Resolution 7: Learn something new.

Slacker modification: Complete one craft.

Resolution 8: Travel to new places.

Slacker modification: Order something new at the taco truck.

Resolution 9: Help others/volunteer.

Slacker modification: Huh?

Resolution 10: Get organized.

Slacker modification: Stop basing laundry decisions on how many pairs of clean underwear are in my drawer.

I don’t know, but I think this is a pretty solid list.

Slightly unrealistic (particularly the not saying fuck one), but still, pretty solid.

And you? What are your slacker resolutions?

No really, do tell.

This could get good.

1. A few days ago in a coffee shop, while waiting for my 12 shot latte, I glanced down at the table next to me and noticed a young woman sitting there with her gum stuck onto the rim of her coffee cup, presumably saving it for later. Her companion must have been delighted to look at that throughout their conversation.
2. There are not many absolutes in the world, but I’m pretty sure the above-mentioned behavior is just not right, no matter what, in any context for any reason. It’s a fucking piece of gum. Get a new one when you’re done with your coffee.
3. On Friday night Mac and I celebrated our 10^th anniversary with a mini-vacation to Santa Cruz, just the two of us.
4. We could have just sat there staring at each other all night, doing nothing, eating nothing, saying nothing, and it would have been more fun than I’ve had all year – simply because, yes, that’s right: NO OFFSPRING.
5. But as an added bonus, we didn’t just sit there. We went to dinner, where we had a real conversation and sat in our chairs the whole time (rather than circling the restaurant in pursuit of a riotous toddler), AND somehow managed to proceed through our meal with no arguments or squealing regarding who gets to sit where and whether or not they can have lemonade.
6. Kids are annoying.
7. Anyhoo, we saw one of our favorite bands (The Devil Makes Three) at The Catalyst, which is this super popular bar/concert hall in downtown Santa Cruz. To be honest, the show wasn’t the best we’d ever seen, HOWEVER, one of my dreams came true on the way home from that show.
8. You think I’m going to say something about Brad Pitt or the lottery or Bob Dylan, don’t you? No. Much cooler than that, people.
9. I went through a sobriety checkpoint, SOBER. I’m not going to tell you how excited I was when I saw it coming, how fun it was to tell the officer  “a bar” in response to his question “where are you coming from” and yet know I was sober as a, um, I don’t know, something sober…a Mormon? A monk? And I got to whip out my license all confident and shit and chat with the officer like a respectable member of society. There was a time not that long ago when a sobriety checkpoint would have seriously altered the course of my life. I’m not proud of this, just glad I’m not still there, doing stupid things that threaten my life and others’ lives and put me on the outskirts of society, in the place where the fuck-ups dwell.
10. Speaking of new places, happy freaking New Year. It’s 2012. I guess that should mean something to me, but it pretty much doesn’t. It’s another year. It will be good and it will suck but it won’t be that bad, guaranteed (see number 9), and I’ll keep trudgin’ along with this family I love who completes me and infuriates me, and maybe I’ll reach some goals, maybe I’ll be offered some kick-ass writing or teaching job somewhere, maybe I’ll lose some pounds – but mostly I’ll just be me, living, just like every other year, whatever that entails. I don’t get particularly excited about the New Year, nor particularly nostalgic about the past one. I am, however, fucking stoked the holidays are over.

That said, I’m glad I’m here. And you, I’m glad you’re here.

Tomorrow I’ll be writing my list of resolutions. I believe I’m going to call them “Slacker Resolutions 2012.”

There’s something to look forward to in addition to what is obviously going to be the best year of our lives. Ha.