An open letter to children everywhere. Beggardly, greedy and self-centered children, shut it.

Dear Children,

I am so freaking tired of listening to you whine. Everywhere we go, I hear, "I want....", "but everybody has....", "it's not fair....." or "I HATE YOU!!"

Here's the lowdown. You are spoiled beyond belief. And it's not just you. Children all across the U.S. are equally spoiled and entitled far more than you have a right to be. So this is my response to your demands. My manifesto, as it were:

1:  "I'm BORED!"
1a: Shut up. You have an Xbox, a Playstation 3, a Wii, Netflix, DVD's, MP3's, a DSi and a computer. Know what I had when I was 12? Books. Books and a Barbie dollhouse I constructed out of a shoebox, duct tape and furnished with blow-up doll furniture that I had to blow up with my own breath. Sometimes, for fun, I would spin in circles and then fall down. If I was lucky I would break a bone, necessitating a trip to the emergency room. But most times Grandpa just ductaped whatever was hurt and I was sent on my merry way. So go find some mud and play in it, it's good for you!

2. "Mama? Can I have a.....?"
2a. No. Shut up. Every time we go to the grocery store you ask for a freaking car. Or truck. Or $5 frozen dinner. Or candy. SHUT UP! I CAN'T EVEN HEAR MYSELF THINK!! Do you know what would have happened if I had asked Grandma for something every time we went to the store? Neither do I, because I KNEW better than to ask for anything!!!!

3. "So, are these all the presents I get for a) Christmas or, b) my birthday?"
3a. What the HELL does that mean??!! YES!!! The 5 video games, 2 containers of 2490 lego pieces, $45 worth of stocking stuffers and robot dog are ALL you get. Know what I got for my 15th birthday? A F*CKING MIRROR!!! Oh, Grandma will tell you, "but it was beveled glass!" but you know what? It was still a freaking mirror. And let's not forget the gifts of underwear and socks I always got for Christmas. Underwear and socks. Seriously. I got like, 5 toys and the rest of my gifts went on my feet or my ass.

4. "Mama? I want to go to Justice, can we?"
4a. NO! Shut up. How much does a tank top cost at Justice? I'll tell you. $15! But if I buy 2 then they're only $6.99 each. Do you know when I got new clothes when I was growing up? At the beginning of the school year, baby. That's right, ONCE A YEAR. If I was lucky, I might find a sweater hidden in with the packages of tube socks and training bras. Grandma didn't even BUY my clothes, she MADE THEM!!! Every fall, she'd take me to the fabric store and have me pick out patterns for dresses, skirts and tops. If she could have made my jeans, she would have.

Then I would pick the fabric. And do you think she ever let me have a top made out of purple silk chiffon? NO! Because that wouldn't be practical. One time she made me a grey wool jumper (that's a dress with straps, it goes over a shirt). Only it was a trapeeze line, so it me look pregnant. I know this because every time I wore it, those bitches in Home Ec class asked if I was knocked up. And when she couldn't sew my clothes? Then she'd embroider shit all over my sweatshirts and shorts. None of my clothes had tags. Try dealing with that when you're changing in the girl's locker room.

5. "There's nothing on tv!"
5a. AH MAH GAH! I'M GOING TO SMACK YOU!!!  You have the Disney Channel, Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network, Nick at Night, and who knows how many others. Seriously! Know what was on when I was a kid? THREE CHANNELS! After school, my choices were reruns I Dream of Jeannie or Gilligan's Island. And if Grandpa got home from work early? Forget it kid, you were stuck watching Gunsmoke or Ponderosa. But? Every 6 weeks (around the time report cards came out) there was an after-school special! Woo-hoo! Some show about teens getting pregnant, or AIDS or drunk. Or a combination of the three. There was usually a moral tone to the after-school specials.

Oh, and if you wanted to watch cartoons? FAGEDABADIT! Cartoons were only on Saturday mornings, between 7am-11am, and every kid lived for that 5 hour time frame. And even on Saturday mornings, they managed to sneak some learning in somewhere. It came in the form of Schoolhouse Rock. On weekday mornings there was either Sesame Street, The Electric Company or Captain Kangaroo.

When I was a kid, we didn't have SHIT. And we were happy. So unplug and get your ass outside before I beat your ass.

Adventures in white trash babysitting, part II, or; babysitting Garrett and Olivia that time they sh*t all over themselves.

Date: April 19, 1985
Time: 9:20pm
Place: Grandview Mobile Home Estates
Assignment: 16 month old twins. Garrett and Olivia.

When I was 18, I was the resident babysitter in my trailer court. I refused to babysit Renee after that one time, but her parents tricked me by going bowling with the twin's parents, thereby sticking me with their porno-obsessed 9-year-old demon-spawn.

Damn.

I should mention that I'm an only child, and therefore had absolutely NO KNOWLEDGE regarding: babies, poop, twins, vomit, what babies eat, poop, changing diapers, bathing babies or most informative pornos for 9-year-old girls. Oh, and poop. I feel I should make that crystal clear.

I arrived at the trailer around 6pm, and that's when I found out I'd be babysitting the porno-addicted demon-spawn, along with the twins. Fine. Whatever, just pay me. F*ck you.

Renee appeared somewhat disappointed that the twin's parents didn't subscribe to cable, so she was not able to watch the latest episode of "Debbie Does Someone. Or Something."

So I watched t.v., talked to my friends on the phone, attempted to ignore Renee, who was trying to telling me the plot of "Deep Throat" (eww) and got the twins into their jammies.

When I walked into their room, I discovered this:


Well, the kids weren't in their cribs yet, but I'm too lazy to draw separate pictures, so deal with this. Basically, the dad had attached screen doors to the top of the cribs, so the kids couldn't climb out of their beds. I was supposed to shut the screen doors and lock the screen doors with a bobby pin.

Yeah.

So I locked the twins in their cribs, as instructed, and Renee and I went into the living room and watched some t.v. I looked through the fridge, but since the mom was on WIC, I felt too guilty to eat her Brie, Belgian chocolates and goat's milk. I'm not being sarcastic. That's seriously what was in her fridge.

After about 2 hours I, for some reason unknown to me to this day, decided that I should check on the babies. Why? I have no idea. Maybe I'd seen "When A Stranger Calls" one too many times. Perhaps I was one of those "overachiever trailer court babysitters" you hear so much about.

Whatever.

Anyway, 2 hours later, I walked into the twins' room, only to be confronted with this:

That's right. Colin and Guinevere had ripped off their diapers and were playing with their sh*t.

Confronted with not one, but two, infants playing with their fecal matter, my mind immediately went in two directions.

Direction 1: Shut the door and walk away. Nobody has to know.

Direction 2: OH MY GOD THESE CHILDREN ARE DISGUSTING!!! Somebody has to clean them up!!! Wait. That's me, right?

That's right. I did the "right thing". I picked these disgusting, sh*t covered babies up out of their cribs and stripped them out of their fecal-covered jammies. I told Renee to run a tub and I bathed the twins.

THREE TIMES.

You wish I was your babysitter, don't you?

I know you do.

However, I'm not a saint. I did strip their beds, but I threw their bedding on the front stairs, where their parents would have to walk over it in order to step inside their home.

That way they would know what I had been through.

And yes. They knew. When they walked into their trailer, their children were fast asleep, hair damp from a recent bath, tushes tucked up into the air, sucking on their thumbs. Sans merde.

Renee was frantically clicking the remote control, trying to find out who Debbie had most recently done. And I was sitting on the couch. Awaiting payment.

Delphine and Guy's parents entered the trailer, shamefaced. Mom dragged the shit-laden sheets halfway through the door, then dropped them. Dad dug deep into his wallet and came up with $22.  I looked expectantly at the 9-year-old porn addict's parents, raising one brow. Dad belched, and then drew his wallet out of his Wrangler's. They knew they owed me.

I forget how much I ended up making, but I do know it wasn't enough to cover the therapy session that evening neccessitated.

The maternity ward doesn't accept returns. I should know.

When I was 32, I had my first child, the product of an obsessively a carefully planned pregnancy. I read every book, magazine and article on pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding, infant development and parenting. I consumed no canned tuna, deli meats, soda, coffee, alcohol, chocolate, or brie. So I was a complete bitch.

Also, I took plenty of Folic Acid before I even got pregnant, tracked my caloric intake and weight, exercised, ate from all 5 food groups and gained exactly 25 lbs. In short, I did everything that the books said I should do. I was prepared, I was ready, and I was uptight. Hungry and uptight. And bitchy.

I'm an only child, so I'd had very little experience regarding babies, and absolutely NO experience regarding newborns. However, as a relentless anal-retentive obsessive control freak, I was used to making my life do what I wanted, and I fully expected motherhood to be no different. Here is what I thought it would be like:
 


Here is what it was really like:


As you can see, there was a discrepancy between how I imagined motherhood to be, and the actuality of it. A BIG effin discrepancy, and I wanted to know why. None of my books ever mentioned the fact that my child would fill 6-8 diapers a day with a runny, foul-smelling substance that could peel the paint off the walls, OR that I would get this substance on my skin and under my fingernails!  

My magazines never informed me that my child would projectile vomit approximately 10 times a day, in addition to crapping on the lovely outfits I placed her in. This necessitated numerous outfit changes for her and myself, which of course led to an exponential increase in the amount of laundry I had to do.

Here. I've drawn you a graph:


I was not let in on the fact that BREASTFEEDING F**KING HURTS, that my breasts would leak 24/7, that I would feel like a cow and that there would be times I would seriously consider allowing the cat to nurse my child, just to give my boobs a rest.

I knew that my infant would need to be fed every 3 hours, but I was never advised that it would take her 70 minutes to eat and 20 minutes to get back to sleep, leaving only 90 minutes for me to achieve all 5 stages of sleep between feedings. Did you know REM sleep doesn't even occur until about 90 minutes after you fall asleep???

I understood that her greatest bond would be with me, her mother, but somebody forgot to tell me that I would be the ONLY person she would allow to hold her. Ever. At all. For 6 months. And that she would want to be held ALL THE FREAKIN' TIME.

I knew she would cry when hungry, wet or sick, but nobody ever disclosed that there would be a lot of times she would just cry. Often. For absolutely no reason. For hours on end. Just to piss me off, I'm sure. For a control freak, that was the worst. I just wanted to know what the problem was, so I could fix it and she would shut up. But do you think she would even give me a hint? Of course not.

On the morning following her first night home, rolling on 2 hours of sleep and covered in spit-up and fecal matter that was not even my own, I dimly recalled that my child had never cried in the hospital, but once we brought her home, she had not stopped wailing.

After thinking about it objectively and logically, I concluded that my infant obviously missed the comfort of the maternity ward. A place where there was order, routine and plenty of helping hands. She undoubtedly had not been ready to be released from the hospital. It became glaringly apparent what needed to be done.

I called OSF St. Francis Hospital and asked if I could return her.

Voice on the other end of the phone: "OSF mother/child unit. This is Becky, how can I help you?"

Me (sobbing): "B-becky? Are you a nurse?"

Becky: "Yes I am Ma'am. What's the problem?"

Me: "Umm...I had a baby in there a couple of days ago, my name's Von. Maybe you remember me?"

Becky: "No Ma'am, we get a lot of mothers through here. What exactly is the problem?"

Me: "Ummm, well...My baby, she won't stop crying."

Becky: "Yes Ma'am, babies will do that. What did you say the problem was?"

Me: "Th-that's the problem. I mean, she's REALLY crying. Like, ALL THE TIME. I only got 2 hours of sleep last night (more sobbing).  I think..I think there's something wrong with her."

Becky: "Do you mean you think she's sick?"

Me: "No. There's something seriously WRONG with her. I....I don't think she was ready to come home from the hospital. Can I bring her back?"

Silence.

Me: "Becky? Are you there?"

Becky: "I'm here. We don't, um...we don't take babies back, Ma'am. We send them home with their parents."

Me (really sobbing now): "But can't you make an exception just this once?? It'd only be for a few days!"

Becky (sighing): "Ma'am, I'm trying to make you understand. We DO NOT take babies back. Ever."

Me: "So what am I supposed to do??? She won't stop crying and it's driving me crazy! I just need some freakin' sleep!"

Becky: "Ma'am, what did you think having a baby would be like?"

Me (snuffling): "Well, I thought it would be like having a dog, only a little harder. Like, I thought she would just eat, sleep and poop. But when she eats she makes my boobs hurt, she never sleeps and she poops on everything!"

More silence.

At this point, I was feeling more than a little judged by Nurse Becky.

Finally:

Becky: "Ma'am, are you going to be alright? Because I really need to be going now."

Me: "Shhh! Wait...holy crap! She's asleep! Awesome!"

Becky (muffled laughter): "That's great Ma'am. Congratulations."

I love you [name withheld]. Here's a flower I drew for you to make up for the humiliation.



This post has a *lot* of asterisks in it. You know what that means, right? LOTS OF SWEARS!

Holy crap you guys! I got an award from Laura, who writes sarcastic and witty stuff at Catharsis. But there's so much more to Laura, you guys! She ALSO writes on the reals at Families Coping With Infant Stroke.

Here's my award!


So yeah, she's pretty much amazing and the fact that she gave me an award is....Well, have you ever seen This Is Spinal Tap?

That's right. Laura goes to 11.


So, there are some things I have to do in order to fully claim this award. I'm supposed to tell you 7 *deep* things about me, and I have to pass it on to 10 other awesome bloggers. My problem is this. I don't like getting *deep* about myself, it makes me uncomfortable. I mean, HELLOO? People can use that sh*t against me, and if they don't? Then I run the risk of being the recipient of the *pity face*. I f*cking HATE the pity face. Don't you dare feel sorry for me, motherf*cker, or I'll kick you in the nuts. There. I bet you don't feel sorry for me now, do you?

Where was I? Oh, right. So I need to do this thing, but it makes me feel uncomfortable so I've come up with a solution. When I make a *deep* statement, I'm going to make fun of it. See? That way you can laugh and forget about all of the pain that went into each heartrending admission. HAHA!!! JOKING! SEE HOW IT WORKS??

1. Before I had kids, I had an eating disorder and ended up in treatment for it. It was anorexia, just so you know. Because there's nothing that anorexics/former anorexics HATE more than being mistaken for bulimics. That's just an insult. Bulimics wish they were anorexics.

2. I spent my entire life, from birth until I moved away for graduate school, living in a trailer court. Growing up in a trailer court defined who I was, who I wasn't, what I wanted and what I would never settle for. Let's just say I never invited friends over and I really related to Molly Ringwald's character in Pretty in Pink.

3. There are exactly 2 people who know every one of my secrets. And neither one of them are my ex-husband or my mother. Haha, now you want to know more, don't you? Well, tough sh*t. Tell me some of your secrets, and hold my hair when I throw up, and never give me the pity face, and we'll talk about sharing secrets. Until then, I'm covered.

4. I have another blog. A secret one. That's all.

5. I absolutely hate seeing people treated as less than human. Treated like they don't count, made to feel ashamed of themselves, having their humanity stripped from them like bark from a tree. Vulnerable. I f*cking hate seeing that and I will do anything I can to prevent it, or alleviate it. Everyone deserves to be treated like a f*cking human being, for God's sake. Do your part. Except for you, Donald Trump. You're a narcissistic assh*le.

6. Ugghhh. I'm so tired. Can't I just be done already? No? Ok, fine. Let's see....um....There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about my ex-husband, and wonder about him. I want to know what happened, where he is and if he's ok. I pray he's happy and at peace. Because at one time we were so happy and so in love. If you haven't gone through this, don't even try to understand it because you can't.

7. Seriously, I'm not done yet? Ok, last one. There are many days that I worry that my son has an as-yet undiagnosed mental illness. When I try to picture him in the future, I worry that something terrible will happen to him before he gets there. He's impulsive, aggressive, loving, kind, affectionate, oblivious, sensitive, hyperactive, socially inept and obsessive. And I would step in front of a truck for him, because he's amazing. 

Ok, so this post didn't turn out at all like I'd planned. It seems that Laura tricked me into being on the reals.

Well played LauraMiri. Well played.

*Update- Sorry, I forgot to pass it on! Here are the amazing bloggers that I am sending my love to:


2. Jillsmo at Yeah. Good Times.

3. Handflapper at Handflapping.




7. Collie at The Collie Chronicles.




Share the love.

I need $5.50. Only from a lot of you.

So I need to have my bathroom completely replumbed, I need a new dryer (preferably a new set), I need a new car and I really ought to have a savings account, just in case. Those are a lot of things, right? Well, I don't want any donations, I want to earn the money. But? Just what can I sell for approximately $4,000? Not much really, unless you're childless and want to buy my children, but if you've landed here you've already realized it's a bad deal for you, really.

Then I realized, I have lots of things I can sell for $5.50, a bunch of times over! And no, I don't mean THAT.

So, for the first time ever, here is my list of things I will sell to you/do for you for $5.50:

1.   If you send me 5 pictures of you, I will come up with 5 witty captions for them.
2.   I will type out the words to "Sympathy for the Devil".
3.   I will edit one chapter of your "Bestselling Breakout New Author Tell-all Novel!".
4.   I will write a break-up letter for you. For $4 extra, I will include drawings. The drawings will suck, just so you know.
5.   I will give you 5 witty retorts to use when someone is pissing you off.
6.   I will send you a picture of me, right when I wake up.
7.   I will tell everyone I know about you, for one whole day.
8.   I will be your pretend telephone girlfriend for 24 hours. Like that time on The Brady Bunch when Jan   was "dating" George Glass. Only I'm real.
9.   I will tell you my best friend's biggest secret.
10. If you already are my best friend, I will keep that one really big secret, secret and instead tell the biggest secret of my 2nd best friend.
11. I will write a report/article for you. But only the first page (double spaced). The other pages cost $3 each.
12. I will tell you about my weirdest dream, and allow you to say that it's yours.
13. I will take you to the trailer court I grew up in, and introduce you to everyone. After that, I'm not responsible for what happens.
14. I will follow your blog.
15. I will read the newspaper to you.
16. I will help you set up your ebay seller account.
17. I will explain the Middle Ages to you. This service will include a brief history of lamprey eels, discussion of Eleanor of Aquitaine, how she was the wife of two kings, and the mother of two more
18. I will tell you why brides carry flowers, why weddings are traditionally in June and where the phrase, "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater" came from.
19. I will give you my opinion regarding what color you should paint your living room.
20. I will contrast and compare Spiderman with Jesus.

Mornings at my house

My 8-year-old son has a very strong will, which I will gladly take responsibility for. His problem? He never knows when to give up. And? His dad died 3 months ago (yes he's in therapy thankyouverymuch), so he goes through about 517 emotions a day. And finally, the kid is a complete drama queen.

This morning he got mad at his sister for eating one of his donuts. The donut he had told her yesterday she could have. Pretty much he told us, f*ck yesterday! this is now and I want my f*cking donut!

Unfortunately, when nobody was looking, his sister very sneakily digested the donut, so he couldn't get it back. He did the next best thing, to his way of thinking.

He hit her.

I don't know if he thought hitting her would make the donut magically appear but I know he's seen me kick soda machines that steal my money. And? I always get my soda.

When her digestive tract refused to produce the donut, we had a complete and total meltdown, and by "we" I mean he.

In the space of .03 seconds, he went from looking like this: 
Awww! He's so cute and funny! Why do you say he's a problem?


To this:

Holy Mother of God why is he SCREAMING like that???!!

Sorry about the sideways view, this was the first time I recorded using my phone. But you get the picture. Totally. Out. Of. Control.

So he went to timeout, until he could "make his body quiet". Shut up, it's part of his therapy.

Before my son's body got quiet, it felt the need to kick me and smack me and say I hate you!!! And you're the WORST MOMMY EVER!!! I hate you more than I hate that Daddy died!!! You never let me do ANYTHING!!!!

During this time I sat with him on the stairs and read a book, ignoring him. He alternated between telling me that he was sorry, and that he hated me.

I determined that his body was not quite calm yet.

After about 5 minutes, his body was still not calm, but his sister's was (yes, she got timeout too, so she could calm her body down. Don't even attempt to f*cking judge me, f*ck you.) so I told her she was done.

Well. That did not sit well with the boy.

OH!!!! OH OH OH!!!! I HATE YOU!!! I didn't mean it when I said sorry! I was just TRICKING YOU!!! You're the worst mommy EVAH!!!! You love HER more than you love ME! *smack, slap, kick*

By this point in our relationship, I have learned to ignore these hateful statements, because what he really means is, I am soooo pissed off right now but I can't say "pissed off" because it's a GROWN UP WORD. And? I really, really, REALLY miss Daddy and my life has not been the same since November of 2009 but I don't yet realize that my anger has been simmering for that long. And? I HAVE TO PEE!!!

So I continue reading and sitting in timeout with him. And finally, his breathing slows, his tears dry and he gives me a hug.

I didn't really mean it when I said all those things. Well, I DID mean it when I said you never let me do anything. Can we go swimming?

Then I take a deep breath, because I already know what's coming, and say, sorry buddy. We have to watch our money this week, remember? Because I took you guys to St. Louis two weeks ago?

And then it all starts again.

And I love my kids more than evah.

Susan? Is that....you, Susan?

I've been spammed before, and I even wrote two posts about my BFF Susan, and her repeated requests for $2,000 usd because OMG SHE GOT ROBBED!

(Seriously though, for this post to make any sense, you really need to click the links and read the posts. They're funny, I promise.)

My blog had never been spammed, though, and I felt like a loser because all the best blogs get spammed. Then? I GOT SPAMMED!!!

Someone googled "people looking for loan $2000usd in usa 2011". And they found my blog, probably because of my Susan posts. So this is what I got last week (verbatim):

I have two kids and a loving husband, I promise to share this good news because of God favor in my life, 2 months ago I was in desperate need of money so I thought of having a loan then I ran into wrong hands who claimed to be a loan lender not knowing he was a scam. he collected 2,000USD from me and refuse to email me since. then I was confuse, but God came to my rescue, one faithful day just checking at loan site as usual so i found out that roberthookinvestment.links@yahoo.com is a reputable loan company.
__________________________________________________
I feel your pain, sister. I have run into wrong hands myself, in the past, and I was also very confuse until the faithful day I kicked his ass to the curb.

Then somebody googled: "I NEED A LOAN IN USA $2000 usd very urgent please help". And I got this:

My Name Is Mrs. Christine Shery Garrett From Canada, An X-Scam Victim and how i get back on my feet and be a personal business owner with cars and landed properties…. This is to announce to the general public about a legitimate lender online. HERE IS MY SUCCESS STORY: I was in a critical search of a genuine loan lending company were i can obtain a loan of $180,000.00USD some lender’s that Came to me sheep clothing i never know they where fraud until i was given the terms of their loan and i agreed eventually i was scammed they scammed me of my hard earn money up to four lender’s that scammed me the sum of $27,000.00USD and i though that all is over that there can never be any other genuine lender until my Husband’s Friend Mr. Garrett Lugard the general manager of Cotsat and cotsat company told me that there is a genuine lender that he obtained a loan of 1.5 Million Dollars At 3% interest rate From that makes him own a private business and a house of his own he Referred me to a company Robert Hook Loan Company ,E-mail: roberthookinvestment.links@yahoo.com Where he obtained the loan of ($1.5 million Dollars) i told them how referred me to them i applied for a loan of $180,000.00USD after my application and i sent to them the useful information for them to process my loan after 4hours i received a notification From their company that my loan has been approved and processed in the next 4hours my loan of $180,000.00 Dollars was transferred into my account. And i promise them for coming to my rescue i am going to spreed the good news to the entire world ROBERT HOOK LOAN COMPANY IS THE BEST IN THE WORLD. And tell them i Mrs. Christine Shery Garrett referred you to them and your wish will be fulfilled…

Honestly, this lady doesn't sound super smart. Scammed by four companies? Wow.

So I decided to email roberthookinvestment.links@yahoo.com, and apply for a loan in the amount of $4.2Million usd. Because I like to play the ponies, and with that much money, I can hang out at the racetrack all freakin' day!

But as it turned out, I didn't have to. Because OMG YOU GUYS! It turns out I have a previously unknown, dead, zillionaire uncle from Nigeria!

From: Fred Wilson <wilson22221111@mail.com>
To:
Sent: Monday, June 27, 2011 12:03 AM
Subject: From Barrister Fred Wilson.... READ THE ATTACHMENT BELOW

Dear Friend,

I am sorry for the embarrassment this mail may cause you, as we have not met before.I am delighted to contact you for a mutual business transaction.It is with heartfelt hope that I write to seek your co-operation and assistance in the context stated below, I am barristerFred Wilson, a solicitor at law in Nigeria ,The personal Attorney to the late engineer Frank. Please, kindly be patient and go through this email carefully which I believe is a message that will be useful to both of us. I got your contact through the help of my sister-in-law that works with the American Chambers of Commerce and Tourism.

Engineer Frank  my late client bears the same last name as yours, who died as the result of Colon cancer on the 8th Nov 2009. I have come to seek your kind cooperation to work with me in this project for you to stand as the next of kin to my late client's fund before it will be confiscated by the bank or the federal government of Nigeria. My late client deposited the sum of ($6.5M) and this bank has informed me to look for the next of kin, or the account will be confiscated.

I want to seek your consent to present you as the next-of-kin and beneficiary of my named client, since you have the same last name with my client so that the proceeds of this account can be paid to you. Then we can share the amount on a mutually agreed-upon percentage by 50-50

All legal documents to back up your claim as my client's next-of-kin will be provided. All I require is your honest cooperation to enable us see this transaction through. Do get back to me with your information as required below to enable me process the application paper work to the bank presenting you as the next of kin to my engineer Frank.

[1] FULL NAME
[2] FULL ADDRESS
[3] AGE AND OCCUPATION
[4] TELEPHONE AND FAX NUMBER
[5] ID OR INTERNATIONAL PASSPORT


This transaction will be performed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law. Thank you as you read this e-mail and I shall wait to receive your positive response.

Yours sincerely,

Barrister Fred Wilson

______________________________________________________
So, here's what I know about my uncle:
1. His name was Engineer Frank.
2. He died of colon cancer on Nov 8, 2008.
3. He has the same last name as me!
4. Barrister Fred Wilson is his attorney.
5. Apparently it's a custom in Nigeria to split my inheritance 50/50 with the attorney?
6. I'm going to inherit $6.5Million usd y'all!

But here's what I don't know about him:
1. Was he a train engineer? Like, a conductor?
2. What took you so long, Barrister Fred? 2.5 years? Do you know how much I could have won at the track by now?
3. What exactly was Engineer Frank's last name? Because you never really say.
4. Can I call you Barrister Fred?
5. How about 70/30?

So I decided to email Barrister Fred with all of my questions.

From:  Shinythings <shinythings@yahoo.com>
To: Barrister Fred Wilson
Sent: Saturday July 15, 2011 9:31pm
Subject: ZOMG THIS IS AMAZING!!!!

Oh WOW! You aren't going to believe this Barrister Fred, but I was just down to my last $10 usd when I got your ZOMG amazing email!! Count me IN! So, what did Uncle Engineer Frank do for a living, again? You said he was an engineer. Do you mean like, a train engineer? Because that would be f*cking AWESOME!!! I've always wanted an uncle who was a train engineer. Do you have his train cap, by any chance? And do you have pictures of him? I don't care if they're of him laying in his coffin, any pictures would be just fine. Actually, if you have any photos of Uncle Frank laying in his coffin, I really would prefer those. I collect photos of people in coffins, it's kind of my "thing".

You aren't going to believe this, but just before I got your email, I got another one from Robert Hook Loan Company and I was just getting ready to send off my application for $4.2Million usd! They came to me highly recommended by Mrs. Christine Shery Garrett from Canada. Ha! I don't think I need a loan anymore, Barrister Fred, amiright?

Just tell me what I need to do!

p.s.-No offense, Barrister Fred, but what took you so long? I could have really used this money last week.

Love,
Yolanda

And *this* is the reason I was always on the outside looking in.

When I was younger, my mom was a sewer. No, that's not looking right. Not the thing that your toilet flushes into. I mean the person who makes things for her 9-year-old daughter to take to daycamp/school. Not to take to overnighters. Or parties. Because I was never invited to those.

And I blame my mother.

Exhibit #1. The stupid swimbag:
It was hot that summer. Fortunately for me, terrycloth is very absorbent.

My mom took two bath towels and sewed them together, threaded some braided rope through it and Bingo! I was ready to be mocked by my peers. Just so you know, I had no say in what the towels looked like, so she picked these:
Yeah, fringe was really big in the '70's. Shut up.

Then? Just in case there were some of my peers who were still willing to accept me and my homemade swimbag (and there weren't, just so you know), my mother sent me to camp with a lunchbucket*. My grandpa apparently gave it to her for me to use, and I believe it was originally meant to hold lunch for a large man who worked a long, hard day. I was 9, so I spent my days rolling down hills and making placemats out of wax paper, leaves and crayon shavings.

So while all the other girls had lunchboxes like this:
That's right Paul, I see you looking at me.

Or this:
I was *totally* convinced I had her superpowers and I insisted my friends call me Jaime Sommers

Or this, even:

There are no words. I mean it. 

I was toting this around:

My *lunchbucket*


That's right. I was a farmer. Mom, I love you and I know you love me and I know money was tight but...really? You really didn't think I would be mocked? I traded the homemade fudge you gave me for grapes and beansprouts, just so the other girls would accept me. It didn't work.

Then? I turned 14 and went to high school. Our gym uniforms looked something like this:

We looked like teenage convicts in our one-piece polyester zippered gymsuits. On the first day of school, the gym teacher handed out our suits and a sheet of white iron-on letters. Our first name had to go on the right leg and our last name had to go on our left leg. I think. I don't know, I've been drinking. Whatever.

Anywhoo, I brought my gymsuit and the iron-on letters home that night and gave my mom the teacher's instructions. She took one look at the letters and said, Oh, I think we can do much better than that.

So instead of this:




I got this:

Y

That's right. My mom embroidered my name, in cursive, in different colors, on the legs of my high school gymsuit. And she dotted the the i with a flower.

True story.

She was so proud of her handiwork, I didn't have the heart to tell her I would be mocked for the next 4 years.

I won't make you re-live my Freshman and Sophomore years in high school with me (because we only needed new gymsuits every two years). Suffice it to say that high school did NOT live up to my expectations.

And don't even get me started on the sweatshirt she embroidered with a hotdog, along with bottles of ketchup and mustard.

I sh*t you not.

*Author's Note: Today my mother informed me that I actually asked to use my grandpa's lunchbucket. So it appears that I had a hand in my own humiliation.

Well played, younger self. Well played indeed.

This just may be my jump the shark moment. Maybe.

I know Jillsmo, I know.

My guest blog was L-A-T-E.

But? my purse got stolen this week.

And some racist jerks from my hometown decided to verbally bash me on my own blog for being that one salmon, swimming against the stream.

swimswimswim.

But did you know that with IntenseDebate you can actually change a stalker's rant into an guilty admission of racism and closeted homosexuality? Well, you can.

Jill very kindly gave me until Friday, so while she and everyone else were getting drunk at #wineparty, I was stuck at home IN REAL LIFE! Ha ha on her though! I still drank.

But? OMG YOU GUYS I GOT ASKED TO DO A GUEST BLOG!!!

I was incredibly honored to be asked by Jill, over at Yeah. Good Times, to write a guest post about a judgemental, holier-than-thou asshat named LZ Granderson. LZ is a contributor to CNN and he wrote an article entitled, "Permissive Parents: Curb Your Brats".

Whether your the parent of a perfect child, the parent of a handful or childless, those are fighting words, any way you look at it.

Well played LZ. Well played.

I considered writing a counter-article, which I would call "Entitled Adult, Curb Your Desire For The World To Always Go Your Way. Because It Won't. Life's Just Like That Sometimes."

I took incredible offense to the article written by LZ, because of the judgemental, close-minded and one-way-only nature of his tirade.

Why? Because I am the parent of a handful.

So you can check out my guest post, along with my friend Jill's awesome blog. Seriously, you need to follow that sh*t. And? I could actually drop the eff bomb on her blog. On my blog I can only drop the *ff bomb, because my family reads it.