Happy Friday, everyone!
So it’s been an…interesting week here in these parts, I must say.
So I thought I would share it with you all.
But first, you know those people who have the weirdest shit happen to them on a seemingly daily basis?
Those people who you are like, of course that happened to you?
Well, I am one of those people.
Now, it’s not that I consider myself to be unlucky or anything – I firmly believe in karma. And that if you believe you are unlucky, then unlucky shit will constantly be happening to you.
Just ask my Dad.
His mantra in life is, “Just because I’m paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t after me,” and boy does that attitude make him super fun to be around sometimes.
But I digress.
As I was saying, I am one of those people to whom weird shit just seems to happen, although my mindset is less this:
And more this:
But anyblaseattitude, this week’s shenanigans:
I had to work 14 hours that day. So, I literally left my house at 5am and got home at around 9pm.
And what do I find when I get home?
Ever since we moved in July, Sir Handyman aka the Husband, has wanted to run a cable line to the garage.
Because, you know, every grown ass manly man worth his salts needs to have cable, a kegerator, and a La-Z-Boy in his garage – aka the “Man Cave.”
So I get home on Monday night after working a long fucking day (hubby works too, we just work weird weird hours so he was off Monday) and I come home to find hubby sitting in the dark.
In his recliner.
In the garage.
Looking like this:
Now keep in mind that this…”trench digging” (this is what he kept calling this process. Like he was digging the trenches behind the war front of World War II or something…so noble babe!) left my back lawn looking a little…haggard.
Did I mention the mud?
Needless to say, while hubby is shouting his “King of the Backyard-dom” outside, I am standing in my kitchen looking at the muddy paw prints that are – literally – ALL over my formerly pristine hardwood floors.
Now, keep in mind that I have three dogs – two of whom are 90 pounds and 55 pounds, respectively. So there aren’t just a “few” paw prints.
Oh no, of course not.
It seriously looks like the American Kennel Club decided to get their show dogs all fucking greased up and then paraded them through my house.
Needless to say, I have spent every morning since cleaning up muddy paw prints, what with the morning dew, my muddy backyard, and a dog who seems to love rolling around in it.
But at least Sir Handyman has garage cable, people!
Gotta focus on what’s important here.
Which brings us to Tuesday.
I went and got a tattoo I’ve been wanting for a while.
Now, I’m not the most tatted up person ever or anything, but this was my 7th tattoo.
So I understand the pain involved and it’s never been a big deal to me.
In fact, after years of competitive sports injuries, three major surgeries, and six previous tattoos, I consider myself to have a pretty high pain tolerance.
Now, I have NO fucking clue what was going on with my body on Tuesday.
But as my tattoo artist was finishing my tattoo – literally, putting on the last little line – I felt myself get super fucking nauseous and break into a cold sweat.
And the next thing I know?
I am “coming to” and being held up by two complete strangers.
I fucking PASSED OUT, people.
How ridiculous it that? I mean, really.
That has NEVER happened to me before when getting a tattoo. And it wasn’t even hurting that bad!
The ONLY other times I have ever fainted in my life were when I got too overheated – I am very sensitive to heat sometimes, for whatever reason.
So I blame the hot weather, my adrenaline, and the damned polyester shirt I was wearing that made me feel like I was suffocating inside an oversized Glad bag once I got a little warm.
Needless to say, my tattoo ego was seriously bruised.
At least my tattoo looks bitchin’.
Wednesday’s little event is not all that uncommon.
But against the otherwise ridiculous backdrop of what was this week, I figure, why not just thrown it in here, ya know?
So on this day I was helping out the sister unit and babysitting my nieces.
They are truly little angels with the sweetest dispositions.
Well they were.
Until the littlest nugget turned two.
And turned into Satan’s spawn.
Like most two year-olds, I’m told.
Anyway, I am feeding them dinner.
Chuckie’s Bride angel has a mouthful of pizza.
And apparently she thought it would be a hoot to spit it all over my face.
But at least she’s cute.
With mad spitting and self-decorating skills.
If you aren’t aware, I live in California.
That place where, while we don’t get any of those hurricanes I know a lot of my buddies are dealing with right now (stay safe everyone!), we do get earthquakes.
Which are like God’s crappy roller coasters, I suppose.
But anyway, on Thursday we had an earthquake.
Nothing too bad, just a little 2.9.
For those who need a reference point on this, the largest earthquake I’ve experienced in my lifetime was the Northridge, CA earthquake in 1994 when I was 9 years old.
That one was a 6.7 and it did some pretty massive damage to the city of Northridge. At the time, I lived almost 40 miles away from the epicenter and it was still strong enough to shake every picture frame and knickknack in our house onto the ground.
So while a 2.9 isn’t big enough to level any buildings or anything, it IS enough to make your whole house jolt like it got hit by a truck.
And being that my house was built in 1953, that’s exactly what it felt like: like a truck hitting my house.
Needless to say, this scared the shit out of my littlest dog, Sammie Boo.
The shit was scared right out of her little ass.
The house shook hard once and she immediately crapped all over the kitchen floor in fear.
And then promptly ran to hide.
But on the bright side, I had yet to clean up the muddy paw prints also left on the kitchen floor that day, so at least I only had to mop once.
See me being all positive and ish?
Anyway, that was my awesome week!
I hope yours was equally awesome. Except in the sense that I hope it was way better.
And on that note…Toodles!