One of my favorite photo apps will turn you into a doll. The following image is the result of that and it is absolutely terrifying.
I feel like I need to get every small child I’ve ever met one of these dolls.
One of my favorite photo apps will turn you into a doll. The following image is the result of that and it is absolutely terrifying.
I feel like I need to get every small child I’ve ever met one of these dolls.
Picking on people comes naturally to me. My father was the king of humor, pranks, and shenanigans. Nobody was spared. I grew up never knowing if anything he said was to be taken seriously and respected or if I was in danger of mortal embarrassment.
Injuries were also known to happen as a result of his pranks. I, myself, was traumatized a few times and I know I was not alone. Yet, despite the pranks that failed, his humor has been the theme of his memory since his death. I have not heard many, if any, anecdotes that did not center around some joke he played on someone.
In his memory, I would like to put these pranks in writing. At least the ones that caused the most laughter and/or trauma. Has a dent in the world was not huge to all, but it was to me.
This prank was not only done by him, but was and is used widely in the south. In particular, it is used on city people or people that aren’t familiar with hunting or wildlife.
He would invite and hype up some new recruit to go snipe hunting. They would wake up at 6 am and dress up all in camouflage. Outfitted with black paint all over their face and twigs in their hair, they would all tote a canvas or burlap bag and a stick into the darkness. Dad would drop the newbie off at “his tree” with some convoluted instructions on how to trap and kill said snipe. Seeing as how snipe doesn’t exist, the newbie would be left by the tree for hours while the rest went back to bed.
This was widely considered to be the unofficial initiation into our family for a long time.
For as long as I can remember, my father worked at funeral homes. He would collect the dead during all hours, prepare cadavers, set up funerals, and many other things that go into the business of death.
As a child, I would have to go with him in the middle of the night often to collect the bodies. At first, I was terrified and he played upon that a great deal. But, he taught me invaluable advice which was not to be scared of the dead. It’s the living that hurt you.
The staff at the funeral home were very professional and were good at what they did. They were caring towards the bereaved and respectful at all times. When the home was empty and free of any services though, they brought the morale from depressing to fun in a variety of ways.
At my father’s funeral, the staff told stories about the number of new employees they had lost due to my father hiding in the storage trays, for the dead, during the new employee’s tour of the new workplace. When said employee got close, the tour guide would pull out the tray that my father was hiding in and my father would jump up and scare the ever loving shit out of them. It was priceless, but also traumatic.
That phrase, priceless, but traumatic, explains my father and my childhood to a tee.
In today’s times, this would have landed my father in jail, but the eighties were a different time with different rules. He loved to hoist me up onto the roof of my grandmother’s mobile home. After encouraging me to carefully look around, he would disappear. I would be stuck on the roof from minutes to, what felt like, hours.
Personally, I didn’t enjoy this as much as he did.
One of his other pranks got him in trouble with my grandmother. I was around seven years old and taking a bubble bath in her garden tub which was the epitome of luxury back then. My dad came in to check on me and pulls a turtle out from behind his back. I was terrified of turtles because my dad liked to talk about snapping turtles very frequently. He said that if you were bitten by one, you had to wait for lightning before you could get it off.
Of course, in my child’s mind, I immediately was imagining how tough my life would be with a turtle dangling from my finger for months on end.
So as any terrified child would do I jumped out of the tub and immediately fell and smashed a hole in the sheet rock with my elbow. Which caused my grandmother to get mad at him because ruining her house is taking it too far. Apparently my sanity was fair game.
It’s been 12 years since his death and I miss his sense of humor more than anything no matter how traumatic it may have been at the time. I have inherited his ability to take life with a grain of salt. He and I both use humor and you to get through anything that life throws our way.
I look forward to seeing him again one day and I take comfort in knowing that my sister is up there in heaven with him now keeping him company. And, no, I don’t have any doubts that he made it there.
Some of these might explain my weirdness. My mom is not off the hook for that though, as she was also a factor in my personality.
As someone with no health insurance, I have become a self-titled expert on home remedies and unusual cures. Some I have found through research, some from recommendations, but most have been handed down in my family throughout the generations.
Thousands of remedies have withstood the test of time by being passed down through the generations of families. Even now, many people distrust the medical profession and think they run it like a business. Meaning that if you keep someone sick or dependent on a medication, you will keep generating a profit. I believe there is some truth to that but, having a chronic illness, I cannot always self-treat. Luckily, I absolutely adore my general practitioner. Much like husbands, for me, I went through a lot of horrible ones before I found him.
This Vietnamese soup can cure almost anything! When I feel that telltale tickle in my throat or fatigue creeping up, my husband and I immediately phone in a to go order at the closest pho restaurant. I enjoy the chicken noodle pho, but any kind is enough to render a cure.
Mix in all the ingredients, the spicier the better, and consume! After that and a good night’s sleep, you will wake up as if nothing ever happened.
This rub smells as good as it works. Not only can it be used to disguise the smell of rotting flesh, my dad was a funeral home employee, but it can also be rubbed on the heels of your feet and covered with socks to rid you of a stubborn cough. I am tied on if it smells better or the same as Noxema.
It can also provide relief to sunburns.
I’m not encouraging you to take up smoking. When you hear the telltale scream of a wasp or bee sting, take the tobacco out of a cigarette or from a tin of chew and wad up to press on the sting. It takes the sting out almost instantly.
Don’t do like my brother did. When he was younger, he stole a pinch of my grandfather’s snuff and tried to hide it. He didn’t count on turning green and throwing up for a good thirty minutes so he was busted immediately.
White crusty lips dried out from being sunburned or windburned get instantly better after a night treatment of Desitin on them. Desitin is a diaper rash ointment and tastes disgusting. Please don’t consume it, but it can clear up sun or wind burned lips faster than anything else I know. The next day, you wake up as good as new.
I would just like to throw this one in. Crocs, the shoes not the animal, are absolutely 100% effective as a birth control measure.
Do you have a massive zit that popped up suddenly before a big date or meeting? Instead of naming it and applying for a birth certificate, dab that baby with some toothpaste before bed. When you wake up, Zitty McZitterson will be but a crusty memory on your face.
I don’t know why but only the use of white toothpaste works for this.
Freaks all over the world, including me, love the taste of pickle juice. I hope that any reading this will be happy to know that there are health benefits along with the amazing briny taste! It is amazing, according to word on the street, for cramps and dehydration.
Grocery stores all over the world have caught on to this and now make it as a drink, aka no pickles included, and a popsicle. The world is a wondrous place indeed.
If you use this bar, you will become clean.
I’m kidding. Actually, I’m not kidding, you will become clean. But that is not where I was going with this. If you put an unwrapped, fresh bar of soap underneath your sheets it somehow causes lamp leg cramps to cease.
Leg cramps, a.k.a. Charlie horses, were a nightly torture for me during all four of my pregnancies. Since I have the best luck in the world, I discovered this remedy at the very end of my last pregnancy. For those that are not fluent in sarcasm, I was being very sarcastic when I stated that I have the best luck in the world.
In 5th grade, I was plagued with warts all over both of my hands. They were embarrassing and caused me to keep my hands balled up in a fist so no one would look at them. My mother took me to the dermatologist countless times. After each painful treatment to freeze them off, they would grow back and bring a few friends to join them.
The summer after fifth grade, we made the ten hour drive to my Cajun grandmother’s house for our annual visit. It wasn’t long before she noticed my clasped hands.
Grabbing them, she pried them open and was greeted with the sight of 75 warts. Clicking her head and murmuring curses, she grabbed the bananas and started peeling them.
An hour later, my mother was making an army’s worth of banana bread and I had my warts treated. My grandmother put the peels, slimy side down, on my warts and then taped them down with duct tape. She swore that duct tape was the only one that would work. Every day, we changed out the banana peels and duct tape. Within a week, they had almost all gone away. They never came back.
Modern medicine is an amazing thing, but a doctor isn’t always needed. We got by in the past with herbal and homemade treatments and we can still use them for many things.
Any given week, I will lie forty nine or more times. Don’t shake your head in disgust, these are the same lies I hear told to me on a daily basis. An example of my lies include white lies, lies to avoid hurting feelings, lies about how I come up with the random statistics that I do, and lies to build myself and others up. Anybody who says that they don’t do the same is probably lying about lying.
It is ingrained in us from childhood to give auto-responses to the trigger phrases and words that are part of our cultural greetings, etc. It is also ingrained in us not to be rude and/or tell people things that are considered rude in our society. And now, more than ever before, we have to tiptoe around offending people constantly and being politically correct. In my opinion, this has gotten a little out of hand.
So, am I really living the dream? Which is what I automatically respond to someone who asks me how I am while I’m at work. No, I am not living the dream. That could be no further from the truth. In truth, I am grasping my final shred of dignity so hard my knuckles are white. This alone is preventing a felony charge to head my way.
This is to be answered by only, “I’m great, and you?” I repeat, this is the only answer. Do not tell them about your horrible menstrual cycle, your husband’s snoring, or your battle to get your children to care about their teeth. They do not really care. It is really all just a platitude. It is a carefully orchestrated question that means nothing in reality.
“Living the dream!” is the only reply to this one. Telling them that your day, “Sucks a bag of d786s!” is not appropriate and may even get you written up. Even if you tell them something innocent, such as “I’m going to my friend’s house after work,” they don’t care or even want to know. It was shocking to me when I finally realized that these strangers didn’t really want an honest answer from me.
Without thinking, even while knowing that I do in fact know the answer, I will say I don’t know if I think someone is accusing me of something. For instance, when my husband says, “Who ate my cheesecake?” I might have cheesecake dangling from my bottom lip, but I will stand by my response of, “I don’t know.”
This cannot mean I have great character. I like to find any excuse to remove some of the shame that this makes me feel by saying it is a panic induced response. I hope I’m not really that kind of person.
Let’s clear something up right now. I have been great a total of three times in my life and none of them involved speaking with the public. I am not great. In fact, I am often one second away from a complete meltdown. My life is a clusterfuck. Even so, I love it.
I will always and forever answer, “Great. And you?” when asked how I am, though. Because you and I both know that nobody really wants the honest answer to that question. This is the only other acceptable response to getting asked how you are other than the, “Living the dream.”
If your life is actually great, I’m happy for you. I don’t need to know that though.
However, I don’t believe it is all great for anyone, no matter what anybody might claim. Just saying.
And also, nobody likes a brown-noser.
This illusion – presented as a moment — has always been named a memory to me – Kylie
To make sure that I start this article off on a hugely depressing note, I would like to begin with a fire that devastated my little apartment when I was a young wife with two small children.
It was a dark night, as nights tend to be, and I had put the children to bed and was preparing myself for the same. I heard my small dogs barking ferociously all of a sudden. This wasn’t like them as they did not have little man syndrome like most little dogs do. Nervous since my husband was at work that night, I got up to investigate.
At first, nothing seemed amiss, but it wasn’t long before I smelled the distinct odor of smoke. Since I knew that I was not at a bonfire, I was immediately uneasy and ran looking out all of the windows. Nothing seemed wrong, so I headed back to bed. As soon as I got comfortable, the dogs started up again. I waited about 10 minutes while also yelling in my loudest whisper for them to shut the hell up. Then, I got up and walked back out to the living room. This time I looked out the peep hole thinking maybe I had a midnight visitor which would be completely uncalled for and unexpected.
I put my eye up to the peep hole, looked out, and all I saw was flame. Four seconds later, I felt the heat from the door that had transferred onto my face causing a slight burn. Panicking, but also realizing how lucky I was to be on the ground floor, I grabbed my children and my dogs in one fell swoop. That is not a little feat for someone who that weighed 99 pounds. Yet, I was somehow able to open the dining room window and get all of us outside in one motion.
Within moments a crowd had gathered around and the fire department was busy doing their job with the fire. They determined that someone walking by had tossed a cigarette butt causing the pine straw that lined the entire building exterior to catch fire. Hours later, I was left with healthy animals and children, minor smoke damage to my lungs, a few burns, and the complete loss of everything I owned. Anything that had not burned was ruined from the smoke or the water.
It was my first time ever considering the trauma of losing these kind of items. I had known of it in the past, but I have never taken the time to consider the implications of memories that can never be replaced or heirlooms that have been surviving throughout centuries burned in a flash.
Being a mother and a woman, I shoved my feelings of loss to the side and moved on with rebuilding my life. The Red Cross stepped in as well as insurance and replaced furniture and clothes in addition to providing a new apartment. This was possible because we did opt to pay the extra nine dollars a month to have Renters insurance, although at the time we never thought we would use it. Isn’t that what everyone thinks?
I thought I got through that time pretty much undamaged until I realized later in life that I was a photo hoarder and almost obsessive with my memory making. All of my childhood photos and the baby pictures of my children were burned in the fire. I often thought about all the albums and scrapbooks I had back then. I missed the countless hours that I would spend pulling out these albums to reminisce about my childhood or adding to them with each little event in my children’s lives.
Starting over is something I have had to do many times. It has never been easy, but mostly necessary and my decision. Losing all of your material possessions adds a new traumatic twist to things. Too ashamed to express anything other than my extreme gratitude that no one was hurt, I didn’t allow myself to grieve for my memories that were lost until many years later.
This is not the end of the story.
As history tends to do, it repeated itself many years later. My children were older and I had remarried and had two more children. My first husband had passed away and I was married to my second husband who turned out to be a narcissistic piece of shit if you want me to put it politely.
During one of his drug induced jealous rages, he hit me where he knew it would hurt the most by pulling out all of my photographs and burning them in front of my face. It was one of many traumatic and cruel things he did just because he could.
These unhappy stories from my past are not ones I tell many people for obvious reasons. But I do get tired of getting told to stay in the moment instead of taking pictures. I am an adult. I know what I should do. I also know that I am doing my best and that is good enough for me. Any issues I have or don’t have is not their business. I will keep on replacing, capturing, and making memories as often as I can. Anyone that doesn’t like that can turn away, walk off, or shut up.
Admittedly, I have not learned a whole lot in my lifetime, but one of the few things I have learned is that everyone has different experiences and traumas that make them who they are at any given moment in time. We don’t need to apologize for the way we have chosen to get through this life, or how we heal, or how we grow. We don’t need to explain our idiosyncrasies to anyone for any reason.
I do not plan to stop documenting memories or capturing the images of my life. Legacies do not leave themselves.
The day in question started as a normal but stressful day. It ended up being entertaining as hell and I also felt like I made a difference in a possible future douche bag transition. What I’m trying to say is, There’s a very good possibility that because of my extreme roll reversing humiliation that I might have caused a future misogynistic douche bag in training to turn into a feminist based gentleman.
I’m sure that’s probably a stretch but I am willing to say that that’s a possibility. At the very minimum, he learned there are some women you don’t mess with and he needs to tread carefully before he gets his ass beat by a 5 foot 3 inch, 115 pound girl. Actually, I’m a woman but I like to sometimes refer to myself as a girl because I’m all about wishful thinking.
Before I go any further, you may want to read up on my first article I posted here about this issue. I have published a couple, but this one was the first which touched on the harassment that I face on a daily basis over messenger.Harassment via Facebook MessengerEver since I opened my Facebook page to the public (to advance my Real Estate and writing career),I have been harassed…link.medium.com
Before I begin, I would like to apologize in advance for the massive amount of screenshots I will be posting as evidence of this experience. I have deleted his last name and profile picture and some half assed way to protect his identity from being revealed as an online woman harasser. I would also like to note that as a general rule, he has been much more polite than some of the others, but he caught me on the wrong day and ended up getting a lesson that I hope he will pay attention to.
It all started in response to a Facebook post that I did concerning a car I was trying to sell.
This first screenshot shows him reaching out to me in reference to my car. He expresses that he wants it and wants to know how I will get it to him. Since he is clearly in another country located oceans away, I rather snuggly tell him that he cannot have it unless he comes over here to Georgia and drives it back. I thought the case was shut at that point. I was wrong.
In the next message he plays with me that he does not in fact have the money to pay for the car but that he would be very appreciative if I gifted it to him. That set my nerves a fire because, in my personal life at the moment, I am surrounded by people that don’t want to work and want to be handed everything. I will admit that that is definitely a trigger for me.
OK this is my lengthy and really sarcastic response to his barely veiled attempt to get me to give him my car. I will admit that I had had a bad day so I probably was a little bit harsh but I don’t regret it. I have two daughters and I hope that they will put these jerks in their place when they do this kind of crap to them too.
Before I post the next section, I would like to point out that never did he try to argue with the fact that I said I owned a helicopter.
Things went straight from my response above to his apparent offer for me to come over there and live with him as his wife, and American trophy, so we could start a business together. At this point, I started becoming amused because this is clearly the most ridiculous shit I’ve ever heard. This man must really think American women are some dumb idiots that just fell off the turnip truck. So, I decided to give him what he was looking for.
I am pretty proud of the above work because it is all a bunch of nonsense and shit talking design to make him see that I am clearly messing with him. However, he does not see that and I don’t know if that’s from the language barrier or if he is just really ignorant.
In this message, he tries to backtrack and say he was just enjoying a happy vision of us together in Pakistan. Mind you, at this point, I still don’t know who this guy is or even what he looks like. I don’t care enough to even pull up his profile picture.
I think this one is my favorite response that I sent him. It is a perfect blend of completely over the top sarcasm, but also combines subtle flirtation by comparing him to Justin Timberlake. I don’t know if he knows who that is but I’m pretty sure he looked it up. after this one, I was sure he would not message me again. But once again, I was wrong. This tends to be a consistent theme with me and predicting the behavior patterns of men.
Here he tries to bow out gracefully, but I do not allow it. I continue on with my ridiculous antics.
The uncertainty and nervousness that he is showing in this message is a beautiful thing. Finally, he is starting to see that I am not being genuine with him, or if I am that I am quite possibly bat shit crazy.
I intentionally step things up a notch. This is to increase any uncomfortable feelings he may be experiencing in response to being the harrassed instead of the harasser.
At this point, his unease is visible and palpable. He is pulling out any and every excuse he can to try and get away from me now. He is frantically. trying to shut the can of worms that he pried open with his unsolicited advances.
Please be advised that I am completely aware of the time difference between here and Pakistan. However, I do not want him to become aware of the fact that I own any brain cells yet. He is obviously ingrained to believe that women are morons, especially American ones.
He tries blatantly ignoring my existence, so I purposely sent him a message after a few minutes to let him know that I am still around.
Here he tries to back out of the mess he has gotten himself into. Bless his heart, he does try to do it in a nice way.
This saga finally ended as all great stories must. I was entertained for hours, a lesson was learned by him, and maybe the world is rid of one less douche.
I may not have won the war against the creeps on messenger, but I won this battle.