Asbestos Toast

There's always been a room in the house that is completely foreign to me: the kitchen. And not just because I can't/won't cook (that's a story for another time), but just the whole familiarity of it baffles me. This is not surprising, because I honestly haven't had a fully functioning kitchen for most of my life now. When I was a kid my dad and I would heat up our TV dinners in the microwave that we kept in the living room then wash our dishes in the bathtub. When I lived in apartments through college I was always too broke to buy dishes or proper cooking utensils. Now that I own my own home, I have a fully remodeled kitchen but it still scares the shit out of me so I rarely step foot in there.

During the remodel I was reminded of my childhood memories when my laundry room doubled as my "mini kitchen", featuring a toaster and a microwave positioned above my washer and dryer. The filth and dust from gutting my kitchen created a black soot like substance (which I claimed was asbestos) that covered everything in my entire house, including my "mini-kitchen." This resulted in my subsisting on "asbestos toast" for an entire year. I might also add that I did my dishes in the bathtub as well at this point.

Today my kitchen is fully functioning; it's just the person who operates it that's still lacking. I still continue to use paper products, refuse to cook, and have yet to purchase chairs to sit on (this is apparently becoming a theme with me). I really am so lucky and thankful for all the hard work my dad has put into it though. His awesome carpentry skills and my good taste have got me an amazing looking kitchen nonetheless. It's probably time I buy some chairs, get married (so I don't have to spend my own money on all that fucking retarded stuff proper cooking requires,) and start making use of it! 

Keeping Up With The Joneses

Situated at the edge of my pole barn, ice cold Corona in hand, I gaze out at my neighbors' perfectly manicured lawns. It's a miracle I can even partake in this luscious view due to the tall weeds growing up around me in my own yard. I forgot to mention that the seat in which I'm resting is in fact my own spacious, comfortable throne of a lawnmower which is 100 percent functioning I might add. It is also probably the nicest, most luxurious lawnmower I have ever seen, hence why it also doubles as a lounge chair. So why, one might ask, am I not out there mowing my own yard with this Cadillac of a mower instead of white trashing up the neighborhood with my lack of compliance? Well that's easy. I don't have the slightest f'ing clue how to operate it.

When I moved into this home, I was blessed beyond belief when my generous, caring neighbor at the time gave my boyfriend and I a lawnmower. He was probably tired of watching us load up whatever jalopy we could find at the time and hauling it back and forth on a trailer to mow our overgrown grass. Needless to say we were definitely the Clampett's of the neighborhood and it's no doubt he took pity on us. Either way his generosity has not been or will not be forgotten. It was, for me, the equivalent of winning the lottery. The only problem that remains to this day is that I cannot figure out how to drive the damn thing. Humiliating I know, but it's not a pretty sight watching me try to operate a zero-turn mower when I'm used to the old-fashioned kind, or better yet a push mower.

I should probably also address the fact that I have no lawn or patio furniture which makes for an interesting sight for the neighbors and passerby alike. If I'm not on the lawnmower then it's a tossup between my hammock (also given to me) or an overturned 5 gallon bucket. I can't even go down to The Wal-Mart (yes I just crossed that line by incorporating the word THE into the title of an establishment) and buy a damn lawn chair or table for under $150. Who the hell can afford that?! The point I'm trying to make here is that I never had a CLUE how much upkeep goes into owning and maintaining a home until now. It's exhausting. There's always more time and money that can be put into improving your home and there's always going to be a neighbor whose yard looks a hell of a lot better than yours. I guess I'll just continue to kick back on my bucket, watching as cars pass by, being thankful for all that I have and have been given.

Being Pretty Ain't Pretty

It's probably been a year or so ago when someone posted a pic of me on Facebook and I'm like OMFG WTF is that??! So this is what people are talking about when they say someone is "a little too secure in a relationship." It wasn't even that so much as I guess I'd just lost myself in other things, like buying a house and remodeling it. I had put all my focus into my home and pretty much just let myself completely go. I've never really been a girly girl or focused too much on my appearance; I was just lucky enough to have a high metabolism and never have to worry about it. Just ask my sister-in-law, who is also my hairdresser, I had NEVER fixed my hair a day in my life or owned any type of hair product other than shampoo. After seeing this tragic pic of myself online for everyone to see, however, I decided it was time to start.

EXERCISE: the most dreaded word in the English language. I have always had a fear of physical activity, dating all the way back to grade school when I would get Dr's excuses to sit out in PE class. Since I could hardly walk to my mailbox and back without getting winded, I figured it was time to run off some ass. So that's what I did. I formed a running posse and we started hitting the pavement regularly. We also started going to the weight room, riding bikes, and doing P90x and other workout DVDs in the basement of a friend's house. Although I'd still rather be lifting beer bottles than weights, I confess it really isn't so bad after all. And the bonus: working out actually WORKS! Who knew?!

With the exercising underway it was time to turn my attention elsewhere. I had NO IDEA there was so much involved in being a girl. It truly is exhausting! Between tanning, flossing, whitening, exfoliating, filing, shaping, moisturizing, bleaching, waxing, tweezing, highlighting,  conditioning...who has time to eat, breathe, or sleep? While it's safe to say I'll never be a girls girl, I am putting forth some effort to look presentable in public. It's definitely not an everyday effort because I sure the hell don't intend on wasting my time looking good at work. Besides, I need to blend in well when I'm there for my own personal safety. I have also come to terms with the fact that I will never be a boy, as much as I have hoped and prayed to be since I was five. I'm just taking it one day at a time, making healthier choices, being the best ME I can be, and hopefully not looking completely unfortunate in the meantime.

The Chartreuse Microbus

I ‘m not real sure how the lyrics of a C.W. McCall song came about to describe our shit brown 1992 Ford Aerostar. It happened somewhere in my teen years when we were still cruising around in this beast, chasing guys in Mustangs down Hwy 157 and drag racing her down Main St.

Back in the early 90’s my grandmother and great-grandfather decided that they needed to purchase brand new matching vans for our company business. Throughout the years the vans got passed around within the family and basically just became one single van in my memory. The best memories come from when my mom drove the Aerostar. We went EVERYWHERE in that thing. She would haul my brother and I, and half the neighborhood across the state or anywhere else we desired to venture. During the summer we would load up on lunch breaks and go to Linton, Brazil, basically anywhere with a Dairy Queen, or if we were feeling really adventurous she would take us down to Southern Indiana on various road trips. We would basically drive from town to town in search of sought after beanie babies; you know the ones that were kept in the glass cases that no one thought they could afford. I actually remember purchasing the purple Princess Di beanie baby in Corydon, Indiana on our way to go spelunking in Squire Boone country. Mom would also load up all our friends and take us to the old drive in movie theatre on 67. Whichever one of my friends was dating my brother at the time got to sit in the “back seat”, and because of this, the seating arrangements altered about every other weekend.

No seating arrangement could possibly be more entertaining than the one we had on our way to Kings Island one summer. My brother and I each got to take a friend, so she and I started out in the back while he and his friend got the bucket seats. We were just sitting back there minding our own business, munching on some Cheetos and listening to K-Ci and JoJo, when my step dad suddenly takes a sharp turn. Just as she was chasing her Cheetos with some Mountain Dew, one of the bucket seats comes out of the floor and flies back into our seat, causing her to regurgitate her food all over the poor kid’s hair.

Unfortunately, the Aerostar was retired about 10 years ago, when on one of those 1,500 trips to Dairy Queen she decides to peter out right in the middle of the damn drive thru. She had to be pushed by random strangers while my mom and sister looked on in shame. It was the end of the road for the chartreuse microbus.

From Riches to Rags

I wonder if my doctor would write me a prescription for Xanax if I told her that I have a near anxiety attack every time I log onto my online bank account. It's funny because I haven't always been this hard up for cash. In fact growing up I was considered "rich", or at least by Clay City, Indiana standards. We had an inground pool, four-wheelers, golf-carts, go-karts, all the latest fashion, you name it. I never went a day without in my life. Anything I ever wanted I got without having to ask twice. We traveled regularly, went on lavish vacations, and spent winters in Florida. I even had my own Motorola flip phone in the 5th grade.. we're talking like circa 1995. NO ONE had a cell phone then! I was pretty much a BIG deal! What the hell happened?!

I'll tell you what happened. I went from high class to PWT basically overnight. It just came out of nowhere. No fair warning or explanation just basically "Well, we're broke. You're on your own. Good luck". I was 18. I had just started college. I went to college because it was "what I was supposed to do" according to everyone I knew. I had no decided degree or any idea what I wanted to do with my life but was suddenly paying out of pocket to be there. All these accounts I had that were supposed to pay for my college were suddenly gone. So here I was thrown into the big, harsh, angry world without a dime or a clue. I think I became so mad at the world and my situation that I pretty much gave up and sailed my way through college. I never tried, I never went to class, I never made any long term goals. I somehow managed to graduate with a BS degree in Psychology, never having once bought a single textbook. My college professors thought I was some sort of freak of nature. They thought that I had found a way to cheat the whole system and that if other students could do what I did that their establishment would be out of business in no time. I guess I am just a freak. I failed 3 courses, was on academic probation my entire five years I was there, and still managed a 3.2 grade point average. In fact, when graduation rolled around I was told I couldn't graduate because I had failed a class due to lack of attendance. I actually had to use my unmatched photographic memory and trace back through my notes and agenda to figure out which days I had missed then find excuses as to why I had missed them. I fabricated an entire story about being sick with some unknown illness in which I found a doctor to write me excuses for those days I had missed, somehow convicing both the doctor and the professor of my fabrication. I know what you're thinking. Why not use all that brain power and energy on something productive and actually make something of myself. I guess I never thought of that.

Keeping Up With the Fritz's

I hate small talk. I hate it when people say “tell me about your family” or “do you have any brothers or sisters?” Umm do YOU have about 3 hours of wasted time that you’re never going to get back? Or why don’t you ask me how many mothers and fathers I have instead. I've had 3 moms, 3 dads, 18 grandparents... you get the point. I don't just have a family tree, I have a whole damn forest. I'm not complaining about this more than unique arrangement. In fact, I wouldn't want it any other way. Nuclear family? BORING. Just think about how many presents I received every year at Christmas for instance. I would be lying if I said it didn't have any negative effects on me as well though. Perhaps my lack of interest in marriage or the desire to have a family of my own. I just don't see the point I guess. Maybe someday.

Does this explain why I'm 50 shades of fucked up? Not hardly. That would take about 100 more blog posts and hours of self-revelation to even skim the surface of that issue. Sometimes I think I should reproduce just because I can't imagine the world without someone as badass as me. I'd hate to see all the genius knowledge and world-view philosophies my dad passed on to me go to waste. Even Dad is having another go at it with my 1 year old brother. Yes, I am 28 years old with a 1 year old brother but who's counting. He is probably the most awesome thing in my life at the moment, maybe ever. I can't wait to watch him grow and carry on the Fritz tradition, yet while hopefully maintaining some normalcy in his life. Who am I kidding? Normal people suck. I hope he lives a big, crazy, completely non-traditional life just like his big sister.

The Art of the Drunk Text

“Attention!” “Put the cell phone down and put your hands where I can see them!” I should probably employ someone with a megaphone to follow me from bar to bar and shout this over my shoulder every time my hands start to wander from my beer to my cellular device. It’s just too easy to use alcohol as a crutch for explaining lewd behavior. “No, I didn’t text you, Vodka did.” This is the best explanation you’ve got the following morning when you’re perusing through your phone deleting texts that even you yourself are too embarrassed to read. It’s as if erasing them from your inbox will create the illusion that it never even happened.

There’s nothing more mortifying than waking up to the realization that you did indeed engage in drunk texting the night before. It all begins when you start to drift in and out of your drunken state. The pounding in your head and the body’s desperate plea for hydration consume your immediate thoughts tricking your mind into thinking you are safe. However, once the body acknowledges these basic needs the mind is free to walk through other necessary details- Where am I? Who am I? How did I get here? Where’s my car? Where’s my pho—FUCK. And that’s when it hits you. It wasn’t a dream after all. As you desperately try to piece the night back together you begin the scroll of shame through your outbox. Which drunk text were you guilty of? Was it the “I’m in love with you and everyone else I know” drunk text? Or the “I hate you and everyone else I know” drunk text. The classic “I’m soooooo drunk” text?

The “Whrt I’m saying is so pathetic I’m gonnajumble it up to the poimt it’s nt readable” text?

The “come over” text?

The “come get me I need a ride” text?

Or just simply “Hey” to a number that should be off limits in any event text? You know you’ve really outdone yourself when the number isn’t even stored in your phone and you’ve drunk dialed on memory alone.

Whichever route you decided to take it’s likely that no amount of damage control is going to redeem you the following morning, so don’t even try. Take it in stride and move on with life. We’ve all been there. Sending an apology text just shows that you are thinking about them sober which is even worse. Avoiding drunk texting altogether is highly unlikely and with all the latest technology drunk Tweeting and drunk Facebooking are bound to be inevitable as well. I’d say we’re pretty fortunate though that technology has brought us this far. What did they do in the old days? Send drunken telegrams? Leave drunken letters in one’s mailbox?