1. I absolutely hate when people put stick figure family decals . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: Weekly Hate]]> I’ve been thinking a lot about the types of days that I have been having and it’s been rough out there. So I’ve decided that along with counting my blessings, some bitching is in order. So, here’s my first Weekly Hate.

1. I absolutely hate when people put stick figure family decals on their cars. Hate. What I hate even more is when they put the names of the people in the family too. Are you asking for a pedophile to come and start talking to your kids- by name? (Thanks to you)

Image borrowed from Vinyllleterdecor.com

2. I hate when people don’t park correctly in parking spaces. They park on the line, they park on a slant and they make it absolutely difficult for me to park. So, if my luck would have it, the last parking spot available is near you so I have to do all of these maneuvers to park my car. Jerk.

3. I hate when people go to McDonald’s and act like they don’t know what they want. People… the menu may change slightly from time-to-time, but trust and believe that the McDonald’s menu is the same. We humans are creatures of habit, especially when we are faced with too many choices- therefore, you know you’re gonna get the same thing you got last time you came to McDonald’s. I always get either a 2 cheeseburger meal or a Filet-O-Fish. So, my biggest question is- do I want beef or fish. If you don’t know what you want, don’t get on line! I don’t want to stand there waiting listening to you say “Uhhhhh. Ummmm.”

Back of the line fool!

Photo borrowed from Flickr

4. I hate when people are more concerned with my health than I am. The other day I posted on Facebook “Should I stop for donuts?” and really the question was related to tardiness. I was wondering “If I stop, will I be late for work?” but I have a friend who I like to call the Food Police. Every time I mention eating something that she thinks I shouldn’t be eating it becomes this big “Oh. My. God. I can’t believe that you eat that. Do you know what’s in that?” conversation.

How do I eat it? Easy. With my mouth wide open. Do I know what’s in it? No. And do I give a shit? It’s absolute goodness- that’s what’s in it. If I want to eat a fuckin’ donut or go to McDonald’s- that’s my prerogative. Mind your own damn business. You sit there and eat your Kale and your nuts and other shit like that. I’ll eat what I want to eat. It also bugs me because I believe in “everything in moderation” so I don’t eat donuts everyday. In fact, this was my first donut in a few months, but whatever, I wanted one and? I brought donuts for my co-workers (win!). Dear Food Police, you eat what you wanna eat and let everyone else eat what they wanna eat. The end.

I’ll have more hate next week. In the meantime. What are you hatin’ on this week? Let me know.

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Bitchface

adj: pertaining to those who hardly ever smile; having a mean/angry look on your face at all times.

Of course this is not a word, but I imagine that if it had an entry in the dictionary, it would be reminiscent of the one . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: Bitchface]]>

Bitchface

adj: pertaining to those who hardly ever smile; having a mean/angry look on your face at all times.

Of course this is not a word, but I imagine that if it had an entry in the dictionary, it would be reminiscent of the one that I wrote above. My dear Mandy shared this on her FB page the other day:

I’d love to give credit for this photo, but I have no idea where it came from.

and I immediately shared it on my wall.

This, folks, is the story of my life.

At least at work.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been called into my boss’ office or told by some other faculty member about how rude, unkind, mad, angry (insert adjective here) I seem (let’s talk about perception vs. reality) and partially because I don’t really smile at others much and I’m not the “HEY! How you doing? How was your weekend? Let’s have meaningless smalltalk” kinda girl. I mean I’m just not.

And when I say that I have come home in tears some days, bawling (I know that’s not how you spell it, work with me) to my husband, asking- am I a bad person? am I really mean? What the FUCK!?

This is just how I am. What the fuck am I walking around all chipper and smiling at every person that walks by me? I don’t want to. Part of that (and excuse me as I use new language, fresh off of the personality styles training I took at work) is my personality- thanks to my upbringing. Growing up in Brooklyn, you don’t just walk around smiling at people cause you feel like it. Fuck around and smile at the wrong person and get your ass cut or somethin’ like that. I think my rules riding the subway when I was growing up were-

1. Don’t look at anyone for extended periods of time (stare at people in nyc and generate unwanted attention)
2. Don’t talk to strangers (duh!)
3. Keep my headphones on
4. Keep my “don’t fuck with me” face on
5. Keep the razor blade that my older brother gave me close by, you know, just in case I needed to cut someone

So, when my BITCHFACE transfers over into my grown-up life, you’ll have to excuse me.

I don’t wear my bitchface with my students, unless of course, they need to know that Mrs. H means business right now. My kids know that I love them. And I definitely don’t wear my bitchface with my friends, my homegirls. Oh no, we laugh, we smile, we joke. But you, yeah you, the person that I don’t really know? You may see the bitchface. But not on purpose, but because that is what it is.

I hate. HATE. When people say “Oh, Dawana you should smile… Smile! It’s a great day!… Smile, it’s nice outside”

What?

How about, you worry about your own self and leave me alone? Mkay? Thanks.

One more story and then I’ll end this rant:

Today, was rough. Pea had about 8,000,345 nightmares last night and I did not sleep. I went in to work, shut my room door before the bell (which I never do, I was just too exhausted) and tried to get myself energized for the 23 six and seven year olds that would be bursting through the door at any minute.

This lady from Georgia works across the hall from me; she teaches Kindergarten. She sees me in the hall and this is our conversation:

“Hey girl, you doin’ alright?“

“Yeah, I’m cool, just so exhausted.”

“You sure? Cause you look like somethin’ is wrong. I can just see it in your face.”

“Whachoo mean you see it in my face? Don’t my face look like this every day?“
(yes, new word. What + you = whachoo, pronounced wuh-chew)

“No girl. Usually your face is like- what? try me. I dare you.

But today, your face is like- don’t fuck wit’ me.“

And that made me laugh. Out Loud. Bitchfaces do laugh from time-to-time ya know.

So apparently, there are different degrees of my bitchface-ness. That was very funny to hear.

I know I have a bitchface. I own my bitchface.

Everyone else? Can just deal with it.

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hoard (http://definr.com/hoard)

n : a secret store of valuables or money v 1: save up as for future use 2: get together

HOA

also known as the Home Owner’s Association,

Though I like to think of them as the Hoard of Assholes.

. . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: Hoard of A-holes]]>

hoard (http://definr.com/hoard)

n : a secret store of valuables or money
v 1: save up as for future use
2: get together

HOA

also known as the Home Owner’s Association,

Though I like to think of them as the Hoard of Assholes.

I imagine a get-together (definition #2) of dingbats sitting around a table wondering who they can waste postage on by sending a letter in the mail to threatening a fine.

Remember that time I got yelled at by that old bag lady that lives across the way from me?

I forgot to mention that while she was yelling at me she said “AND I’VE ALREADY REPORTED YOU TO THE HOA TWICE!” and threw in that she is the secretary of the HOA (OOOOooooOOOOoo I’m so impressed).

I have gotten two letters since then.

One as a “reminder” of the rules and regulations of our HOA, which includes things like:

• Quiet hours between 7 p.m. and 7 a.m. (7 p.m.? What are we, two?)
• Nothing in your windows but white blinds/curtains, whatever (Which is awesome because the woman that lives across from me and the people that live behind me have brown blinds **gasp**Should I report them?!)
• Decorations can only go up ‘x’ amount of days prior to the holiday and need to be taken down ‘x’ amount of days after the holiday.
• You may not leave your garage door open for any reason. If you need to air out your home, you may open it no more than 18 inches.
• Trash can only be put out on Wednesday nights and promptly returned to your garage on Thursday evenings.

Trash…

Ohh trash.

So my second letter came a few weeks ago and it read:

Dear Mrs. H*******,

We were recently informed that your garbage can was in your driveway on a day not designated for trash pickup. (What driveway?! We have like a 1/4 foot slab of cement outside of our garage, that’s not a driveway!) We wanted to remind you that according to complex bylaws (and other stupid rules) that your garbage can may only be outside on designated days. This letter is a courtesy reminder to you and should it happen again you may be subject to fines.

Blah, blah, blah

Is this a joke?!

I know what days the doggone trash goes out.

I know that I need to put my trash out on Wednesdays.

So I call these fucktards and the lady is so as a matter of fact.

“Well ma’am it may have happened on a day there were going around the complex doing a routine check and so they noted it. You are not being fined, it was just a reminder to only put your trash out on the designated day”

I’m all like LOOK LADY, I know my days of the week and I know that I did not have my trash out on the wrong day. As a matter of fact, I won’t even put my trash out if I don’t see other folks with their trash can out.

“Well like I said this is not a fine, just a reminder.”

I DON’T NEED A FRIGGIN REMINDER, IT DID NOT HAPPEN.

But that conversation was pointless. It was like talking to a brick wall.

HOAs can suck it.

If they send me one more damn letter I may go down there and start a fuckin war.

Maybe I should keep a notepad in my car and start writing down the address of anyone I see violating the “rules.” Like the dude that never picks up his dog poop or the person that had their trash can in the driveway on Labor Day… cause that was a Monday, not a Wednesday. Or the people that leave their garage doors wide open and they are not entering or exiting.

Maybe I’ll become the townhouse snitch. That’s just not how I roll, though.I’m no snitch.

Oh but if these HOA fools keep fuckin with me… It won’t be good.

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I can vent, laugh, cry- whatever.

Except.

When something happens at work.

Then? I can’t blog.

Or laugh or vent or cry or whatever.

Because? God forbid someone from my job finds said post… and I’m convinced . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: The One that I Can’t Really Write]]> I love my blog because its like my diary… or a journal… a public one.

I can vent, laugh, cry- whatever.

Except.

When something happens at work.

Then? I can’t blog.

Or laugh or vent or cry or whatever.

Because? God forbid someone from my job finds said post… and I’m convinced I may have stalkers or just Nosey-Nancy nay-sayers and non-well-wishers waiting for any moment to find something that they can use in a malicious manner to bring me down and them ahead… Then said post will be on my boss’s desk faster than I can breathe in and out and I may be fired, reprimanded- whatever.

I can already see it.

So that post?

That one that I’d like to write?

To tell you about my day and my job and how I feel- how I really feel?

I can’t write.

So I won’t.

I just need you to know that I wish oh. so. badly that I could write about work.

Because if I could?

I may or may not have a lot to say write.

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When we left Florida it was for our family.

First California. And sorry, that places sucks donkey balls.

Now here. Here being Colorado.

It’s a beautiful place, stunning views, but I have met some of the most ignorant ass-backwards people . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: There’s No Place Like Home]]>

When we left Florida it was for our family.

First California. And sorry, that places sucks donkey balls.

Now here. Here being Colorado.

It’s a beautiful place, stunning views, but I have met some of the most ignorant ass-backwards people I’ve ever met in my entire life.

And one of my biggest regrets is ever leaving Florida. I should have told my husband to sit tight, collect unemployment and let the chips fall where they may knowing that he probably would have found a job.

I should have never left the security of Shorecrest, which now, working at a public school I know is the most amazing, mystical almost unreal places I’ve ever worked in my whole entire life.

I miss my friends- Val, Jill and Marion. Oh shit I miss you guys. I have yet to find anyone who has been as accepting of me for who I am and so amazing and down to earth and people that I don’t mind being around.

I think people in Florida are just a little more laid back. There’s a lot of stuffy uptight people here. Which I find amazing because my last school? With parents pullin’ up in Porsche’s and other cars that I can’t pronounce and living in these ginormously large homes… they were not half as stuffy as some of the people here.  It must’ve been the heat, and the palm trees- it’s too hot to be stuck up.

And today? I got yelled at. Like screaming at the top of her lungs by my 6,000 year old neighbor intent on telling me that my dog is over the weight limit for this townhouse complex. Really you old hag?

Really?

I didn’t say that. I used my kindest manners and biggest words to explain to her that I was not aware that there was a weight limit, no one told me (and who the fuck are you anyway? The townhouse police?). And seriously? Is the weight limit in this complex 40 pounds? Your neighbor has a huge golden retriever which I know is not 40 pounds I’ve seen labs and other breeds that I know could never be 40 pounds. Go kick rocks lady. (I didn’t say that either) When she was done ranting and raving (cause I think she needed someone to listen to her) not only did she blow me a kiss, but tell me to knock on her door if I need anything. Uhh no granny. I simply said “Well ma’am, it was nice to meet you” **insert eye roll here**.

I miss Florida.

I miss my people.

Sue, Melissa, Devora, Sarah. The list goes on.

I miss driving to Gainseville to go to FL Gators football games.

I miss driving down 4th street and going to Publix to see my girl at the deli who makes chicken philly subs for me even though they aren’t on the menu.

I miss going to that same Outback and sitting at the bar and having them know exactly what my husband wants and that I like my cheese fries without the bacon.

And I had just found this great Chinese restaurant right down the street from my house across from the KMart. Damn it!

I miss going to Magianno’s in Tampa at Westshore Mall.

I even miss my doctor- cause he listened. There was none of that in and out like a fast food restaurant bullshit.

There’s a lot I miss, but we’ll get back.

Cause seriously, there’s no place like home.

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First of all, I wrote a guest post for Katie today. So you can check me out over there as I am a Sluiter (pronounced Sly-ter) Nation recruit.

——————————————–

I was thinking yesterday about a conversation I was having with a friend here and . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: The Non-Mom]]>

First of all, I wrote a guest post for Katie today. So you can check me out over there as I am a Sluiter (pronounced Sly-ter) Nation recruit.

——————————————–

I was thinking yesterday about a conversation I was having with a friend here and how another woman, whom I’ll call the “Non-Mom” felt the need to chime in.

First, people, if you are not in a conversation, but you’re in the same room with someone chances are? They don’t want you in it. Especially if… this happens often and they kinda never talk to you?  They probably don’t want to talk to you. Just sayin’.

Second, I don’t think Non-Moms should be able to chime in on conversations they were not invited in especially when it has to do with children.

We were talking about the good, great and difficult parts of being a mom- the woman I was talking to has a daughter around my age- and how much harder parenting is than we had thought. All of my sisters had children before me and I had the honor of being around to watch my nephews grow up. I had changed many-a diaper and given many-a bottles by the time I become a mom, I thought I’d be great at it.

Yet some days? I feel like I suck at it.

Non-Mom thought she should chime in and exclaim how easy being a parent is because her mom has 8 billion kids, so she’s been able to help out with all of them. And all she ever wanted to do with her life was be a mom and as soon as she meets a man and gets married, she’s going to make babies and be a stay-at-home mom. She “would never work and have children, because it’s not right.” She’s anti-working as a mom. Oh and I could go on folks, cause it got better.

My advice to the non-mom?

First: Never say never honey. Never say you will never work. You don’t know what circumstances will be like. You may have to work, maybe to help out financially or maybe to maintain your sanity. Who knows? Unless you have a great support system- women to go on play dates with and even someone to watch your children when you know you need a break- it may be extremely difficult for you to cope. Women that are moms who work do so in an earnest manner. It is not taken lightly by any means. There are so many reasons moms work. Some women can’t afford not to work. Some women have a true passion for what they do and live out their dreams by both working and being a mom.

Second: Never say being a parent is sooo easy. Oh, it is hard. You have these little human beings that don’t always do what is expected and like to push the boundaries to see how far they can take it. This type of behavior only increases with age. Those moments are fleeting, though, when compared to the wondrous moments like when they take their first steps or say their first words or even lose their first tooth.

Third: I think it’s great that she is going to get married and just pop out babies. It is not easy to get pregnant friends, ask the many women that have tried for years and years with nothing. Also? It’s not easy to keep a baby. Those first few months when risk for miscarriage is high is so scary. Ask all of the women whom have miscarried, myself being one, my friend Katie being another, my friend Devora being another. I could go on…

I asked my Tweeps yesterday what they thought and I received the following answers:

“Until you are one…you have NO idea what you are in store for. #thatisafact” and

“she has no idea…..clearly!”

Agreed.

So Fourth: Until you actually become a mom, you don’t know what it will be like. As I said, I thought I was prepared for mommy-hood because I have so many nieces and nephews, but I was not. Every child is different and when they aren’t your children, you can send them home- back to their real parents. It is not the same. Being a parent is nothing you can prepare for, I don’t care how many children you’ve babysat or books you’ve read. Even being a teacher doesn’t prepare you for being a mom.

It is difficult to find a balance between what is best for your children and family and what is best for yourself. It is never healthy for a mom to lose herself in her family. Depression is real and it is not a joke and if you don’t do what makes you happy, it can creep up on you.

And there are different types of working moms. Work-at-home moms, moms that work outside of the home, moms that volunteer, moms that work part-time.

Come on Non-Mom, wait til you have at least 1 child under your belt before you start telling people who are moms what’s what.

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Anyway, my home girl Katie (who is extremely shocked by my age) posted about her first day of summer break and it turned into a conversation in her comments about hatas (not haters, Katie) hatin’ on teachers saying we . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: School’s Out. For. Summer.]]> Who sings that song anyway? I can’t quite think of it right now…

Anyway, my home girl Katie (who is extremely shocked by my age) posted about her first day of summer break and it turned into a conversation in her comments about hatas (not haters, Katie) hatin’ on teachers saying we are soooo lucky we have the summers off.

I’m going to take this time to sound off for all teachers (sans curse words, I hope Katie will be proud Inside Joke)

First of all, teaching is hard. It is not easy. It is hard. And I only teach Elementary School. I can’t imagine teaching middle or high school and having multiple classes and maybe 100 students that I see in one day and have to maintain grades for.

Teachers do not “get the summers off.” Do you know how many teachers take up summer jobs because we don’t get paid enough to survive most summers? I’m teaching summer school starting July 14th because according to the Air Force, my child does not have any vacation time so my husband and I still need to round up $130 per week to send her to school.

My first teaching job out of college? Was free. That’s right folks, I was an Americorps volunteer and got like $350 or something like that a month. According to the state of Florida, I lived below the poverty line. When I decided to stay at said school and come on full-time? I got paid $25,000 per year. 25K. You can hardly live off of that. My now husband, then boyfriend did a lot of supporting me when I ran low on funds. $25,000 a year to have a room full of fifth graders, one of whom threw a desk at me and called me a bitch. Ohh I don’t get paid enough for this I thought. Book reports, tests, quizzes and homework. All of which had to come home with me at night to be graded. Not to mention planning lessons for Science, Reading, Writing, Math, Social Studies/History and Handwriting.

Fast forward to now. I wake up at 5:45, try to leave for work in time to get there by 7:30. School starts at 8:10 and ends at 3:10. Although the workload is not as intense as fifth grade, I still have many-a homeworks to put smiley (or sad) faces on and tests to grade. Most days, we (teachers at my school) only have a 55 minute break and a 30 minute lunch. Two days a week we have “double plan” which is a little over an hour, and one of those days we spend in a meeting for the entire hour +.  Usually on my break I’m reviewing plans for the lesson I’ll teach when the kids come back, making any necessary photocopies and tweaking any SmartBoard lessons I plan to teach. Whatever I don’t get done at school, I take home. That takes away from my time with my two year old significantly. Not to mention that I have to take out the dog and cook dinner. My husband works 9 hours a day (most days more) so I pick up the pieces in between because when he gets home he’s tired.

Are teachers psyched when school gets out? Well I think that’s an understatement. On the last day of school I had my friend/team member play Britney Spears Til the World Ends super loud and one of the Kindergarten teachers and I broke out into a spontaneous dance party. I spent all year with 22, sometimes 23 6 & 7 year-olds in one room. It is exhausting.

But in the summers? We don’t just lay around. For teachers who don’t work it’s a time to recuperate. Reconnect with their families and children (if they have any) because truly, we don’t get that valuable time with our kids when school is in session. Some teachers, as stated earlier, have to work second jobs over the summer. Some teachers (like me), spend a lot of time going in and out of their classrooms preparing for the upcoming school year.

You see people, states evaluate educational curriculum and make any necessary changes. If and when the states make changes, schools have to make changes, which means us teachers need to make changes to our curriculum accordingly. (I am speaking only for public school teachers, I’m not sure how it works in private schools) So next year, our school has set up goals to coincide with our new curriculum map. One of our goals is that all first graders know 200 sight words by the time they leave first grade. So? I will be spending my summer creating the resources that my fellow first grade teachers will use to make sure our kids know their sight words.

Never seen a curriculum map? Oh… this should be fun. Click here to see a First Grade Reading Curriculum Addenda (so not the whole map) in Denver Public Schools (No, I don’t live in Denver).

Oh wait, this is my favorite. Check out the Denver Public Schools curriculum map for First Grade Math, it’s 131 pages (not uncommon)! And yes, we teachers have to read and follow every single page. I keep my curriculum map in a binder on the book shelf behind my desk.

Did I mention that our pay depends on our student’s achievement? I bet your job’s not like that. I bet your boss doesn’t come into your classroom (cubicle, office, desk) and watch what you are doing and check off boxes on an evaluation sheet and then review it with you. At the end of the year, if a large majority of my kids haven’t scored Proficient or better on our District Standardized assessments (yes, my 1st graders take standardized tests. This year, I think we took….maybe 5?) I can be subject to a decrease in pay if I have 2 consecutive years of crappy scores or they can just tell me (like they did this year) that I will not be getting  a raise.

You read right, next year, I will not be making 1 penny more than I did this year.

And? We have to pay an arm and a leg to receive our teaching licenses. We have to go to in-services for points or take college courses. We have to take subject-based exams (like the Praxis), state exams, exam after exam to obtain our licenses. Then, we have to pay a butt load to renew our licenses. If your license is not valid? You can’t teach. My Florida license is up for renewal next month. That’ll cost me a pretty penny. (I realize I don’t live in Florida any longer, but if I let my license expire and we happen to move back? I’ll get charged a late fee and reinstatement fee and a “I’m charging you this because I can” fee)

The number of hours that teachers put in to do what we do? Cannot even be calculated. We work way more than 40 hours per week. And lest you forget, you would not be able to read this if it weren’t for a teacher- whether that teacher be your mother, a nun, or your local public school teacher.

So no. Teacher’s don’t “get the summer’s off” and we’re not “lucky” because of it.

We work hard.

We are dedicated.

We love what we do. (I always say if you don’t LOVE it, you should not be a teacher as it is not for the faint of heart)

We are underpaid.

We are blessed. Working with children, is an amazing gift. Educating the future? I can’t see myself doing anything else.

And it is a calling with little-to-no recognition. Some teachers get love and appreciation from students or parents and some? Never hear a kind word.

I am proud to be a teacher and poo-poo to all you that “wish” you had a job where you had the summers off. This ain’t Japan, we don’t go to school year-round. We don’t make the rules, we just follow ‘em.

And? If you want “summers off” so bad, go back to school and become a teacher.

Go ahead.

You can do it.

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“1, 2, 3, 4, 5 people are in my family

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 people are in my family

we are best friends that love each other

that’s my family (that’s right!)

that’s my family (that’s right!)”

and this is my daughter’s current . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: Highway Patrol]]> There’s this Yo Gabba Gabba song that goes:

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5 people are in my family

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 people are in my family

we are best friends that love each other

that’s my family (that’s right!)

that’s my family (that’s right!)”

and this is my daughter’s current favorite song of the moment. Although against my will, it has become one of my favorite songs of the moment as well.

I’ve never thought my family was any different from any other family (and still don’t think so). There are, however, many asshats who feel the need to make my family feel as though we are outcasts, aliens- if you will and we don’t belong here.

My husband is not too keen on having his face all “out there” on the web…

My husband was born and raised in the “big city” of Omaha, Nebraska. Since we now live in Colorado (not necessarily the most diverse place on earth) and Nebraska is only a 7-8 hour drive away, we try to visit as often as possible.

We thought going up for Memorial Day would be fun and on our way back, we were pulled over outside of some dumb ass town in Nebraska that no one cares about by the Nebraska Highway Patrol.

When my husband asked what we were being pulled over for, the gentleman told him that he was going 6 miles above the speed limit.** Really? I thought you had a 5-10 mile kind of “blanket” in regards to the highway. Whatever. What do I know? ** My husband nicely told the officer that he was merely going along with the speed of traffic and that he didn’t realize that going 6 over warranted being pulled over. To which the police officer responded “Sir, we’re pulling people over for going 3 miles over the limit now” (Pff yeah fuckin right. Like you don’t have better shit to do)

Anywho, the officer asked for the rental agreement, wanted to know whose name was on it (mine) and then asked my husband to “step out of the car” and come with him to the cruiser where they could “discuss the matter further.” What? Since when do you need to get out of the car for going 6 miles over- give me a ticket or not sir, fuckin pick one.

I am in the car, heart racing, thinking what the fuck is happening right now. I was just hoping that my husband could keep his anger in check long enough to get back to the car safely. Also, in the back of my mind, I was thinking “I bet this guy is leery because my husband has two black people in the car, one of whom is 6 feet tall, 200 pounds.” I watched my husband get into the passenger seat of the police car and slowly close the door. All I could do, was pray…

I know, I know- pulling the race card is not cool, but it’s a reality folks. It’s my family’s reality. I cannot tell you how many times my husband has absolutely blown his top on some fucktard for being super, duper rude to me somewhere- whether it be California Pizza Kitchen in Hollywood or podunk town Nebraska because of what color my skin is. Racism is not dead. It just isn’t. Why did people pressure President Obama to get his birth certificate? Wouldn’t that have been something to have been clarified BEFORE the dude became president? Whatever. That’s another blog post on ignorant people.

When my husband returned to the car, with a “warning” in his hand. He told me what unfolded on his trip to the police cruiser.

While walking to the police car the officer asked him questions like “who are those people in the car” and “who’s the guy in the back seat” and “do you have any drugs or weapons in the car.” Yes, officer. While traveling with my wife, two year old and dog in the vehicle, I also have an AK-47 and a fuckin bag of coke. Arrest me now, please.

My husband being the smart cookie he is recorded the conversation and when the officer asked why he was taping it, my husband simply replied “Sir, I’ve seen too many tv shows.”

Good boy hubby.

The officer called in my husband’s license and asked if he had any outstanding tickets or warrants out for his arrest. My husband said “Sir, I wouldn’t be able to work for the Government if I did” (The officer chuckled uncomfortably cause he knew that was a dumb ass question- my husband is a Government employee and is currently employed on an Air Force Base here. Your record needs to be so clean to work for the government- you can’t even have a fuckin 6^th toe! Kidding… sort of)

He proceeded to say “Did you know that I could have the car towed because your name is not on the rental agreement?” Really fuck face? I guess you don’t need to know how to read well to be a Nebraska state officer my husband’s name was CLEARLY on the rental agreement as an additional driver!!!! Once the officer saw that, he had nothing to say but “oh.” And seriously?! Why are you threatening to tow our car? For going 6 over or for having “that guy” in the back seat and “those people” in the car?

He asked my husband where we were coming from (visiting family in Nebraska) and where we were going (back home to Colorado) and if we always rent cars when we take road trips (well sir when you have your wife, brother-in-law a 2 year old a 70 pound dog and luggage, you can’t really drive a 4-door sedan, so this was more reasonable for us).

He continued to ask other dumb ass questions that had nothing to do with anything before letting my husband go with a “warning.” If we were an all-white family, would this have happened? Is it not okay for my husband to have a black wife and brother-in-law. When I say we looked like a family driving in a mothafuckin’ station wagon. We rented a Chevy Traverse, which is like a damn bus. The car was filled with baby toys, diapers, wipes, food splattered everywhere. No loud music. 6 miles over (give me a fuckin’ break). A car seat. Baby and dog in the backseat.

Who the fuck was this asshole to ask my husband who are “those people” in the car? Who the FUCK do you think we are OFFICER. Protect and serve asshole. Protect and serve. That’s your job.

Anyway. It’s beyond frustrating. And the stories that I could tell about my family being violated would fill a book. Maybe I’ll write one. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll let “sleeping dogs lie” and ignorant people stay ignorant. What do they say? Ignorance is bliss?

Whatever.

I pay my taxes like everyone else I will not stop blowing the horn on people who make us feel like we are anything but U.S. Citizens and a family unit. This is my family.

Come on…don’t copy- get your own material. Nobody likes a cheater! Original & Hand Written Plagiarism Will Be Detected. This site is being monitored by CopyGator. Mmkay? Thanks.

You had to have seen the Hangover to appreciate that line. See below…

Aaand I digress. I wake up the other morning to an absolutely foggy Colorado day- foggy like I can’t see the traffic light until I’m right up . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: Morning Drive: Being a Ra-tard]]> K, first off, I’m not calling anyone a retard.

You had to have seen the Hangover to appreciate that line. See below…

Aaand I digress. I wake up the other morning to an absolutely foggy Colorado day- foggy like I can’t see the traffic light until I’m right up under it foggy.

It was chilly, there was frost everywhere and I’m driving next to this ra-tard in his PT Cruiser with his fuckin window down. What the… are you on crack? Is it not freezing cold outside? Not only were his windows down, but his sunroof was open.

Really fucktard? Really?

I’m thinkin’ “this dude’s windows have got to be broken, why the fuck else would he be driving with his windows down? I pull up next to him and he’s just chillin with all windows down.

Wait for it…

Waaaaaait for it…

And the dumbass award goes to…

**PSA: (Almost) All photos were taken at a red light. I do not take pictures and drive. You shouldn’t either.**

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Ladies, is it really that hard for you to drop your nasty ass tampon . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: Public Service Announcement: Ladies, Clean It Up]]> I know I should be telling y’all how Colorado is and all that stuff, but since we’ve been living in a hotel the last few weeks, I’ve frequented a few restaurants and I really need to do this…

Ladies, is it really that hard for you to drop your nasty ass tampon or pad in the tiny receptacle that is provided to you in public restrooms? I am a germaphobe as it is. I want to fuckin vomit all over myself- then you when I have to see the remnants of your red storm by my sneaker in those tight ass public restroom stalls. And to top it off?! If I am out alone with my daughter and I take her into the only open stall because I need to pee really bad and your nasty shit is on the floor- of COURSE she wants to touch it- she’s 22 months! Then I spend the entire time not only crouching over the toilet trying to pee (God forbid my ass goes anywhere near the toilet seat), I am also standing and shouting no! don’t touch! dirty! leave it! and trying to entertain a 22 month old long enough to pee, wipe, wash and go.

You nasty broad.

You annoy me.

Whoever you are.

Take five seconds and either flush your tampon (it’s 2010- aren’t they all flushable?) or open the tiny ass white trash can and put your shit in there. If it falls on the floor… hey, it’s yours! Get some tissue if you don’t wanna touch it and pick it up!

Save us me from having to see that and wanting to gag after I pee.

The. End.

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