I once asked if water had calories in it. I am not proud of this moment. I was sixteen, but my obvious confusion by the laughter, cleared up immediately once Randy explained it to me. I knew that would happen. I only seem to be able to understand the logistics of something when a man is kind enough to mansplain it. My favorite thing is when they explain the workings of the female reproductive system.
A mansplanation is much like an explanation, but done so in a manner that is easier to understand for us women. You know, because our brains don’t work like men’s do.
One time, I was at the gas station standing there completely flabbergasted about what kind of snack I wanted to eat. Then a helpful gentleman moseyed up behind me, grabbed my hips and said, “Excuse me, little lady. I’m just trying to help you when I tell you that you probably don’t need any chocolate or a cookie. There are bananas for sale upfront at $.89 each.” He winked at me and walked away. So, that is when I got my first felony.
Thousands of mansplanations later, I am a Property Manager of over 185 rental properties which includes having to oversee many different vendors and contractors. Many of which whom are older and maler than I am. Some have no problem getting direction from a woman, but others feel the need to try to argue with me and mansplain everything.
I’ve had them mansplain the way air filters work and where they go, how to reset a garbage disposal, and how to find the cheapest tampons. Yes, they know everything. There is literally no need for us to learn anything.
But without the mansplanation, how would I have learned how to put air in my tires? How would I have learned the price per pound of groceries?
I hope one day to teach my own sons the art of mansplaining. I realize I am not a man, but I’ve experienced it enough to teach it, I believe. I’m sure a man will correct me if I’m wrong in this opinion.
Maybe once society gets this under their belt, we can work on the womansplanation. I’m imagining it to make a lot more sense and to include a lot more logic instead of, “Because I said so.” It might even include graphs and references.
Is it a bruise or is it a horrible muscle disease treatable with only the blood from slugs
He was born dramatic. Any little twinge of pain would cause blood curdling screams to erupt from his tiny newborn lips. It didn’t get better as he got older. Instead, the screams got louder and the fury unfathomable. I clung to the hope that maybe he would be a singer or an actor.
Before the hypochondria set in, he was terrified of external items and situations. Trains were the first terrorizing thing for him and he was sure they were all out to get him. No matter where we were at, if he heard a train, he would absolutely go ballistic. He would alternately panic and run off or just fall down in a heap of dead weight determined to go on no further.
Fall, and October specifically, were a disaster for many years due to his certainty that pumpkins were out to get him.
After the trains, it turned to the weather. Any ominous clouds meant that our deaths were imminent. Any weather at all was a tornado. The beach was not a place to vacation, but a hell on earth where hurricanes murdered people daily.
The weather stage seemed like it had no end in sight. Years passed and then, at eight years old, my son was told about WebMD. As you can imagine, this was my worst nightmare. I would come home from work to his pleading to go to the hospital. He had confirmed his worst fear by diagnosing himself with elbow cancer or sickle cell disease. I spent six months trying to convince him that he did not have AIDS.
This child is number three of my four biological children and holds first place for keeping me green at this mothering thing. Every issue or trial that he puts me through is completely new to me and never to be repeated again. It is also a new scenario for my own mother and any other parent that I have ever asked how to deal with his shenanigans.
Fast forward to now. He is a tall, handsome fourteen year old with a slew of friends and a sharp wit. He is confident and popular and shows no signs outwardly of the social skills I was worried about him having. However, he still wrestles with this hypochondria/paranoia. I try to shield him from as much as I can, but he finds ways to listen or watch the news. He alternates now between worrying about what catastrophe will shortly end all of humanity and what ailment that I am not worrying enough about, which will turn fatal any second.
I wish I could end this article with a statement such as, the extract of hummus ended up curing this! Or, his blood was low on orange juice and a quick infusion fixed him right up.
He is still a ball of nerves, but it has gotten better. However, we are both certain that I am dropping the ball on something. I told him that he has plenty of time to figure out specifically how I’ve failed him. He can tell the therapist when he’s older. For now, I will continue to make him safe and loved. He has learned to laugh at himself when he becomes unreasonable and I think that’s as good a place to start as any.
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.
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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 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.
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Literally overnight, I lost my child. Her love and affection seemed suddenly and completely lost to me forever. She went to bed a sweet, loving child of ten and woke up with a period and an attitude problem. I don’t want to trivialize this. It was not just an attitude. It was awful. I was not prepared for this.
My oldest daughter didn’t menstruate until she was thirteen, just like me. I blame my youngest’s excessive diet of chicken nuggets. Silently, nature declared defeat in the battle against my nurturing.
Suddenly, smiling was only for losers. And I was Queen of the loser club, gathering recruits everywhere I went. Everything that anyone in our household did or said quickly annoyed her to no end. I tried to not get offended by her sudden spurning of me, but my heart ached for the child I knew was now gone.
I called my mother one evening and was whining to her like I tend to do on most days. I told her I didn’t remember ever having an attitude like this or having hormonal rages. She scoffed and reminded me of how I treated her real quick. She also reminded me how I cried and literally stomped my feet at fourteen after being told I had eaten enough chocolate for the night. I locked myself in the bathroom for four hours after not getting tickets to the NKOTB concert, clearing delighting my parents with a break from me.
I have come to accept this inevitable change, but every now and then, I get a glimpse of my baby girl. Even so, I know the monster is just sleeping. I also know, as the mother of a grown daughter, that she will come back to me one day.
She will suddenly find herself calling me every day and missing the things she hates about me now. That is what is keeping me from despair.
I also know that by focusing on the growing pains, I am unable to see the masterpiece that is forming right in front of me. Through this suffering, a vibrant and brilliant woman will rise up ready to change the world.
Her fire, faux innocence, and obsession with cats was obsessively terrifying. We hung on as a nation to see what dumb stunt would happen next on the Netflix series. We were so transfixed that we couldn’t see it was a distraction from the virus being sprayed on us all. I think I remember hearing the planes that did it.
I know. It sounds like a stretch, but at this point, after this year, anything could have happened. Anything sounds more logical than one guy eating a bat in China that caused the whole world to get sick.
I have decided that Carol Baskin was involved. And, just like any great politician, I will stand by my theory, no matter what any doctor from the CDC says
The Warning Signs
If you watch just the first episode you can see she is clearly fighting for world domination. Now that the Tiger King is out of the way, it is only logical that she would try to take down the rest of us. She won’t stop until it is just her and the cats! Ignoring her blatant mental illness, you can see the crazy anger in her eyes as she sits with a Persian cat and wears a sweater with a cat knitted on it. She thinks of herself as a cat. When I was young, I wanted to be a red crayon, but I let that shit go, Carol! I’m an adult. I know I can’t be a red crayon
Ignore this at your own risk. I tried to warn you. She may look like a harmless, deranged aunt from Ohio, but she is not to be underestimated