I might not look like it, but gangsta is used often to describe me
I work on the south side of my town. Much like other towns, some of the areas are not the best on the “south side.” Some are considered dangerous. I’ve never had any problems.
In fact, I enjoy the people here so much better than on the ritzy side of town. I have broken down on the side of the road and had more than three people rush to help me.
I do avoid nefarious situations, though. For instance, I don’t hang out in dark alleys. I also hate smiling. That tends to keep most people away.
I don’t know that I’ve actually ever met anybody in a gang. But I’m going to go ahead and say, “Yes, I have.”
That means, I have street cred which is short for street credibility. That means I have been validated as someone raised on the streets by others of the same description. Basically, I’m in a club by initiation.
I don’t have a teardrop tattoo yet because I have not ever killed anybody and I don’t plan on it. So instead, I will get eyeliner tattooed on.
In the meantime, I just wear a butt-load of eyeliner. Sometimes, I’ll draw tears on with a sharpie to increase my standing in the gangster community.
Sagging my slacks
I actually have a professional job so I can’t sag my jeans. So I have to sag my slacks. The effect is not the same when you’re wearing a skirt, just so you know. And it’s impossible with a dress.
I don’t fight. I’m too physically fragile for all of that nonsense. But I will throw out a good bitch slap when needed.
I also have a taser and I’m not afraid to use it. But, I have never used it. I also have a gun I’ve never used as well.
But, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve actually had no problems on the horrible side of town that I work on.
A gang is a club
I’m in a club, much like a gang member, except we help the community and try not to shoot people. We discuss current events. Otherwise known as gossip.
We like to read, so some might call us a book club. Regardless, two are in menopause, one has grandchildren, and three have kids under age ten at home.
Gangster is subjective. We are women. We are moms. We will f**k up anyone from any street.
Is gentle scorn or sarcasm really worse than public displays of affection? I don’t think so. Apparently, I am in the minority with this view. I would much rather roast someone than hug them. Sarcasm is how I show my love. In other words, it is my love language.
Am I proud of this? No. It’s just who I am. I am not a very demonstrative person. I get that from my mother. We hugged on holidays and when I gave birth. Because of this, I am the most awkward hugger on the planet.
I have always been the type of person to show my love with gentle scorn, or sarcasm, rather than affection or generic platitudes. You will feel my love by the heat of my sarcasm. Except for my mother, obviously. She doesn’t understand sarcasm and would beat my butt into oblivion.
The people that know me understand that about me. They love me for it. The people that don’t know me well think I’m a huge bitch. They are not wrong, but I’m not the kind of huge bitch they think I am.
A man named Gary Chapman wrote a book entitled The Five Love Languages. In the book, Gary basically says that people show their love and receive love in different ways and it’s all about finding out what you or your partner’s love language is. This book seems to help people find the way to love their partner in the ways they need and understand. You could just ask your partner what they are missing from you in the relationship and save $24.99. Just saying.
My husband is actually the sensitive one that shows his love by holding my hand and doing chores around the house. He thinks he is doing those chores for me since he’s a man and thinks deep down inside chores are a woman’s obligation. He would never say that out loud of course. However, he acts as if he is owed a parade thrown in his honor after he completes them.
Love can be felt and seen in a million different ways. From a text checking up on you to a home cooked meal, love is not always tangible and physical. It is a phone call, flowers when you’re grieving, visits when you’re sick, and tears for you when you’re hurting. I believe that the little things are worth the most. They signify a real, lasting love.
I have always told my children, as they have grown up and experienced falling in love, and then their first heartbreak, if a love starts fast like spontaneous combustion, it will die just as quickly. If a love is built slowly from a solid friendship, it will be more likely to be enduring.
If we focus less on how we receive love and more on the ways we can give it, we might not be such miserable dirtbags sometimes. Despite my snarkiness and sarcasm, I am very thankful for every little act of love and every kindness I am shown.
We can apply this principle to many areas in our lives. It’s the small actions, done consistently, that add up to cause the biggest difference made. Being a giver will always bring more back to you than being a taker will.
Love is not what you say. Love is what you do. Also, romantic love is not always the strongest kind, only the most glorified.
The true story of when I ran myself over with my own car.
I ran myself over with my car. I had never felt more like an idiot in my life. I am lucky to be alive, actually. What a dumb way to die.
The morning started just like any other with me being frazzled and running late. I rushed through my morning routine, grabbed my work, and darted out the door. This is the same as any other weekday except on this particular morning, I was on the phone with a friend. She called me at 7:30 am to try and help me with getting my lazy ass out of bed, but we ended up chit chatting as I rushed around.
I hopped in the car, cranked it up, put it in drive, and got off the phone with my friend. Then, I realized, as I was backing up, that I had forgotten my lunch in the house. I jumped out and headed to the house to go get it. I saw the car moving in my peripheral vision.
I turned around and was horrified to see my car backing up out of my driveway with my driver side door hanging open. I raced back to the car, in my heels, and grabbed the edge of the driver’s side door just as the car backed up out of my driveway.
I hung on as the car drug me across the street and into the neighbor’s yard before finally coming to a stop against the tree between my car and the neighbor’s house.
Luckily, the tree stopped serious damage, or worse, to myself and anything else.
The pain was not instant. It seemed to be on a twenty second delay. It came with an intensity that almost knocked me on my back again. Lunging, burning pain in my ankles, knees, and back. Blood pooled up on my knees and my ankles started swelling. I started mentally berating myself for not letting go of the car.
Then I started laughing. Then, just as suddenly, I stopped laughing. That was the moment I realized all of my neighbors had caught this on their cameras.
My family has extremely bad luck, but most of us have two nipples
I never thought I’d write about my Aunt’s nipple. At least, I’m not writing about my Uncle’s testicles. Yet.
This story has been passed around more than my high school best friend since this incident happened. People at bars have heard it. People at church have heard about it. I created a children’s book about it and read about it to my son’s kindergarten class. OK, well, maybe I didn’t do that. Yet.
I will preface this story by saying that my Aunt, my Mother’s sister, was very sexually active back in her day. She continued to be sexually active long after her day passed, also.
Breast cancer runs in our family and has caused many tragic, untimely deaths. So, in an effort to be proactive against cancer, my Aunt had a double mastectomy. She went ahead and had reconstructive surgery soon after and had those puppies lifted and enhanced.
Fast forward a while later. This is where things get foggy. I’m not sure if it was eight weeks or eight years, but she had taken her bra off during the night and her nipple fell out of her bra onto the floor. She reportedly yelled, “Shit!” out loud.
Honestly, I don’t know what I would’ve done. I can probably say that I wouldn’t have gathered my nipple up, set it aside for the night, and worried about it the next day.
Maybe she didn’t worry about it the next day despite what she says. Because to date she still does not have a nipple on one side. Yolo, I guess.
I may be the black sheep, but there’s a herd of us in my family.
I don’t care if my butthole color offends anyone. You read that correctly. Bleaching one’s butthole, aka spinchter, is now a thing.
Now, not only do we have to groom ourselves meticulously in our nether regions but we also are being pressured to bleach our anuses. Well, I guess we don’t have to. Because I’m not going to. There is no beauty standard or ideal worth much pain or effort for me at this point in my life. Much less a sudden standard about my butthole color.
What is anal bleaching?
I am so glad you asked. Butthole bleaching is the process of dying your asshole so it is lighter than the color you were born with.
Why bleach your anus?
I don’t know. You tell me. I guess there’s also self-esteem issues regarding the color of one’s sphincter. Your guess is as good as mine.
I would love to be informed if this is somehow deemed medically necessary. If I find out anyone’s insurance actually covers this, I quit. I quit everything.
I am not ashamed to tell you that I researched this vigorously. You can buy a cream to do this yourself or you can go professional and get it done at a place that actually does sphincter bleaching. Either way, you will use a cream that is most likely cancer-causing just to make your butthole blend in with the rest of your skin.
I just want to know why this is not a disorder of some kind. Are mental health professionals not concerned?
So, if you, or someone you know, actually plans to spend their hard earned money to have their butthole bleached, please email me. I will give you my cash app info. At least that way your money will be going towards a good cause. The good cause being anything other than a butthole bleaching.
Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, if you or anyone you know, enjoys a butt bleaching, please do not let me know. That’s weird AF.
I got my love for shocking people from my mother. No filter, no care for political correctness, and no f*&ks given were also handed down to me, via the maternal side. We also have the same straight face that makes messing with others extremely fun as no one can tell if we are kidding or not.
As a child, and now as an adult, she provided me with love, laughter, confusion, and fear. All the things that make up a great parent, in my mind. Over the years, and despite what I told myself growing up, I have adopted some of her ways as my own. Others, I have left for her to keep to herself.
Hoe Up/Hoe Down
This advice is a gem that I have passed down to my own kids. There comes an age, usually in middle school, when the size of a shirt or a pair of shorts suddenly become the size of a peanut. The tiddly bits of young ladies are almost exposed because they are so short! I sound like my own grandmother right now, but it is what it is.
It was during my own dress like a whore phase that my mother sat me down for a chit chat. She told me, “You have to hoe up or hoe down. You can’t do both or you’ll get a reputation.” The reputation threat didn’t really bother me, because I didn’t care what people thought of me. However, I thought that was really good advice because I wanted to show some kind of illusion of being classy while also submitting to the mating dance of the hormonal, like the other teens.
So when I wore a cleavage bearing shirt, I would wear long pants. When I was rocking some booty shorts, I would make sure my cleavage was covered. Even though I am old as dirt now, I still use this advice often with my children, others and even on myself when I’m feeling particularly whore like.
This is She
If you answered the phone at my house and you were heard replying, “This is her” to a person asking to speak with you, you were no better than a convicted felon. My stepfather was the editor of the local paper and my mother may have been the first grammar Nazi. I never understood the big deal of it all until I watched my children trying to date people who couldn’t speak correctly. Then I understood.
Don’t say fart or crap. That shit is fucked up.
My mother had her own version of bad words. The word fart being the dreaded F word in my house. It was hugely offensive. We had to call it a motor boat. Imagine my surprise when I got older and learned the other definitions of motorboat.
We won’t talk about how many odd looks I got for gasping in response to someone saying the word fart.
All births deserve flowers to be sent and all deaths deserve hand delivered casseroles. Nothing cures grief faster than some tater-tot casserole. All wedding showers will get a money envelope. We don’t give a f$&k about your registry. Have fun buying that new toaster with your new husband, because you are getting what we decide you need.
Furthermore, any necessities that you notate on your registry are to be ignored. We will buy what we want. If it is a cute child, or even an ugly one, we are buying for, we will pick out a cute gift. Otherwise, you will get cash. Those are the only options.
It doesn’t matter how old you are or what the other kids are doing. Nothing is open after midnight except legs and Walmart and you don’t need to be in either of them.
Don’t slam the door!
This was a disrespectful action equitable to flipping the bird or worse. I don’t know if the cost of a door used to be ludicrous or what, but door slamming, aka door damaging, was a big deal back in my day.
I guess the price of doors was a lot higher when I was a kid. Because my mom lost her ever loving mind when I slammed one.
I grew up thinking that dogs were boys and girls were cats in the pet world. I’m going to tell you that I was not 17 before I knew this was not the case. Just please politely mind your business. Once again, I would like to thank my mother.
Never leave the house in underwear that is not in mint condition, lest you die suddenly. It is apparently a huge deal for any EMTs or funeral home workers to see underwear that has been tainted.
Of course now that I’m older and I understand the bodily functions better, I realize this is not reasonable in any way.
This article just covers the ludicrous that my mother taught me in my childhood. The good things she instilled in me would take several books to record. Maybe one day.