Jackhammersasses

You know what can ruin a perfectly delightful evening at the theater? A shitload of jackhammers that’s what!

I took The Girl to see The Wizard of Oz at Heinz Hall last night. She had no idea what we were doing, but she was thrilled to just go to Lulu’s for dinner. Then to follow it up with her favorite movie live on stage? Wooo, was she a happy girl. We had a great “girl’s night” as she calls them.

After the show was over, we made our way down to the lobby and as soon as we got near the front door, we heard it. TETETETETETETETETETETETETET!! (I don’t know how to represent the sound of a jackhammer in text – that’s the best I can do. But you know what I mean). And it was LOUD. Louder than any jackhammer I had ever heard. Not only could you hear it, you could feel it. It was so loud that you couldn’t hear each other talking. So loud that people were looking around for the mysterious invisible jackhammers and covering their ears. We couldn’t wait to get to the car and get our of there.

We got into the parking garage and headed fore the stairs, since we didn’t want to wait for the elevator. It became immediately clear that the horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad noise was coming from inside the garage. And it got worse as we neared our floor. And wouldn’t you know it, we opened the door to discover the loudest, most horrifying construction site ever. Right there on the floor where we were parked, right near our car where six (SIX!) guys running jackhammers.

It was, by far, the loudest, most annoying sound I have ever heard. The girl immediately started crying because it was hurting her ears (even though she had them covered). And the other charming effect of jackhammering? The dust. The nasty, thick, not-exactly-healthy cement dust was so thick, you could hardly see. Even though a parking garage is technically open-air, without any type of exhaust system, that dust just hung there in the air.

I wrapped my sweater around The Girl’s face to keep her from breathing it in, but I didn’t have any way to protect myself. It not only burned my eyes and my throat – I could actually taste it and feel it in my mouth and nose as I breathed. It was gritty and nasty. We were both coughing, trying to hold out ears, and she was crying, and the douchebags just kept on with their TETETETETETETETETETETETETET!!

We finally got to the car (it took longer than it should have because carrying a bunch of stuff, including a six year old while coughing, blinking, and trying to hold your ears will slow you down), only to find that it was completely covered in a thick layer of the devil dust. By the time we pulled out of our spot, The Girl was complaining of a headache and a stomachache. I had a headache. And since I have been suffering from asthma-like issues ever since I had the flu, I woke up this morning feeling like there was a cinderblock on my chest. My throat and chest hurt and I have a terrible cough/irritation in my lungs. Isn’t that nice?

I can’t being to tell you how pissed off I am about this. I understand that they need to get this type of work done and it can’t be done during working hours. But considering that this is the closest garage to Heinz hall, perhaps they should rethink the idea of doing it just as a show is letting out. Especially a show that will attract a lot of children. If they have to do it, they should have at least stopped for 30 minutes or an hour after the show was over to give people a chance to get out of there without putting their health at risk.

At the very least, there should have been signs before you entered the garage letting you know that this was going to be happening. And why in the HOLY BLUE FUCK wouldn’t they shut down parking on the floor it was happening on? FUCKING IDIOTS!
Thanks a lot, Alco Parking, for being the Douchebag of the Day!

Blah

I’m back from vacation, and I am sad to report that it was not my best vacation. Or even my 2nd or 3rd or 4th or even 20th best vacation. It was just one flaming shitbag after another. There was the stress and worry about money (my mom sort of strong-armed me onto a vacation that I really couldn’t afford). Add to that my son who is just dripping with almost-nearly-very-close-to-being-a-teen assholery and it makes things worse. Because even though, on the surface, he may seem to understand that we really don’t have a lot of money to spend on this vacation, he really doesn’t. And his mouth gets in the way of his brain and he pushes me. And then I feel bad because I hate putting the burden of worrying about money on a kid, but at the same time I have to because I have a very limited amount of money and if we want to make it for the duration, then we have to watch it. And then I feel shitty.

And while I am feeling shitty, let’s put on a bathing suit and hang out with all the fucking skinny bitches in my family. That’s a fucking barrel of monkeys. Even though I was feeling great about the 6 pounds I lost since I started back up on the weight loss plan, there is nothing that knocks you back down to earth than being surrounded by beautiful, thin women in bikinis. Yay me. And without fail, at least two of them will get into some in-depth conversation about weight and exercise and someone they knew who almost died a thousand horrible deaths because of their rampant fatness. And although I know they aren’t talking about me, it still feels like a goddamn flaming stick in the eye, like could we please, FOR ONCE, talk about the weather or your new shoes, or somebody’s hemorrhoids, and hey - how ‘bout those Pens?

And let’s not forget how being together with people you love can often either bring you together or remind you of the growing chasm between you. That’s always awesome.

I’ll skip the whole kid/parents/babysitting dramas that were the theme of the week, but know that they were awesome.

Then – bright spot in the vacation – PENS WIN THE STANLEY CUP! YAY!!!!!

Then shortly after that, I am forced to leave the comfort of the sweet little pub with the Pens fans and the Burgh band and the people of all ages and get dragged to the thumping hell mecca of the young and thin and beautiful. The one where an old or fat woman can stand RIGHTFUCKINGTHERE in front of the bartenders and not even be seen, which is fucking bullshit, since those bartenders should know by now that the old fat woman will tip much better than the beautiful, young, thin, starving college students and part-time hos looking for sugar daddies.

And then, some fucking asshole Rico Suave dickhead (mind you, this is not the douchebag from the last post) decides to hit on me in the cheesiest ways possible. Which, if he wasn’t a Rico Suave dickhead, might have been flattering, but instead was just annoying. He was skeevy and creepy and I told him to go away and that I was old and married and GO AWAY and he proceeds to go on about how HE is older than he looks and the Army was good to him and I was probably in pampers when he was in high school, like PLEASE he was clearly way younger than me and also? I’m not fucking stupid. And then, to really seal the deal, he backs up and looks me up and down and says, “You can’t be a day over FORTY-SIX!!!” It was then that I asked him if he had an advanced directive. He backpedalled and tried blurting out all kinds of numbers that started with 3, but I was done and simply responded with “go away” to each one. Finally, he begged to know my real age and I said forty and then he just turned around and scurried away. My life, ladies and gentlemen – it rocks.

It was after this happy event that Asshole McFakeTanGelledHairDoucherson made a fucking joke of me and I left the bar and sat on the boardwalk and cried because Really? Could this vacation be any more miserable?

The last day was pretty uneventful, but after the 80 dickpunches I had had already, I just couldn’t really enjoy it that much. Plus, it rained.

And then on the way home, we got caught up in not one, but two bad accidents on I-95, one of which involved flaming cars and choking black smoke and closed highway and death. And then we got home. And then it was Monday.

I’m holding out hope that the August In-Law Booze Beach Extravaganza will be better. Otherwise, I’ll keep telling myself, “Only 16 months until My Happy Place. Only 16 months until My Happy Place. Only 16 months until My Happy Place.”

douchebags

Dear Douchebag,
First off, FUCK YOU. Second, id it make you feel like a big man to treat me that way? Do you think your two skanky girlfriends will be more likely to fuck you now? Because I don’t get it. I personally would never again speak to someone who could treat another human being the way you treated me. But I guess that’s just me.

I remember way back in grade school reading the book Blubber and crying my eyes out over what that poor little fictional girl went though. Even though I was skinny and cute, it bothered me. And now, I’m her. I’m Blubber. I’m fat.

And what I have finally learned is that when you are fat, or ugly, or disabled, or mentally challenged, or disfigured, is that you have no rights. You have no right to eat, or dance, or be happy, or sing, or do anything. You have no right to be you, be human, have feelings. I’ve learned that people have a right to put their hands on you and you should feel lucky for the attention. Even if they turn and laugh with their friends afterward about the fat/ugly/disfigured/retarded girl.

I’ve learned that even though I treat people with respect, and I work hard to help people and devote time and money to charity and I make people laugh and I love my kids and I take my grandma to bingo and I worry about the homeless and hungry and pray for peace and love and kindness every night, that I am worthless – a joke. That I am defined by my looks, my body. That I am worthless. That I am a joke.

I guess I always did like to be funny, so…thanks...i guess. I hope you all got a kick out of the fat girl.