Category Archives: Random

This is what I think of you.

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*In my world we say what’s on our mind.  This won’t change anything, but I feel a lot better for having written it.

Dear Asshole,

This is not an attempt to open up any lines of communication.  I want nothing to do with you.  I have made that very clear.  I am not looking for a response.  This is my way of getting closure. I know that you’re reading this.  I know that you ask about me.  You should stop.

You can defend yourself to the people that listen to you and still believe the bullshit that flows from your mouth like…well, the bullshit that flows from your mouth.

You are the scumbag.  You are the liar.  You are the philandering (that means cheating, you stupid fuck) piece of shit that you constantly accused me of being.    You went to great lengths to deceive me, why? Why didn’t you just leave me alone?  Why did you think I deserved this?

I already know the answer, because you’re mentally ill.   You play games with people’s emotions for your own entertainment. You get your jollies from deceiving people, it makes you feel superior. You aren’t, you are the lowest life form on the planet.  I’ve coughed-up mucus with more integrity than you.

You wasted my time.  You pretended to be someone you aren’t.  Did you think I wouldn’t find out?  Did you think you could threaten and intimidate the whole world into silence, like you did me?  If you wanted to snort cocaine and screw guttersnipes, you should have done that and left me out of it.  I bet it was great fun running around behind my back and making a fool of me, while trying to control my every action.

Do you realize who the fool is now? Did you use your food stamp card to cut your lines?  How do you look at yourself in the mirror every morning, or afternoon when you finally drag your worthless carcass out of bed, and not become nauseous?  I have never seen anyone so brazen (that means bold, numbnuts) and unapologetic for taking things they have no right to.

People tried to warn me about you, I should have listened. Maybe I would have spared myself the fantastic experience of being relentlessly stalked.  I saw you, you aren’t very good at it.  But, you should be used to hearing that by now…you aren’t very good at anything tangible (that means real, shit for brains).  You’re awesome at creating your own little world, where you are always the victim and everyone is out to get you.  You also excel at being selfish, dramatic, and violent.  Good job, buddy…those skills have gotten you where you are today.

Everything you said you aren’t, you are.  “I’m not a cheater,” lie.  “I wasn’t doing coke,” lie.  “I’m a good man,” lie.  You aren’t a good man, you are a waste of human flesh.  One seriously fucked-up individual.  The more time I spent with you, the more I became like you…boy, am I glad that’s over.

You moved in with me, and then lived off me like a parasite.  You played sick mind games, because it made you feel better about your pathetic existence.  You were jealous of my son, you didn’t love him like he was your own.  He was a nuisance to you.  He took the attention off of you.  He deserves my attention, you do not.  How dare you use him to make people feel bad for you, as you ranted like a lunatic about me on Facebook.  You didn’t care about him, why pretend you did? Did that get you laid?

How dare you tell people you had to leave Florida because of me.  You had to leave because you ran out of people to live off of, you exhausted your supply of trusting people of which to mooch.  I’m not on some committee that gets to decide who lives in the state and who doesn’t.   You make your own decisions.  I can’t make you do a damn thing.  If I had these magical powers you’d be reading this from under a rock in the Hudson River.

People like you are hatched, they aren’t born.

How many women have you done this to?  In case you were contemplating (that means thinking, jackwad) telling your next victim that you improved my life and helped me as a person, like you told me you did with all of your previous girlfriend’s…I recommend you don’t.  I am a better person now as opposed to when we met, but I did all that work on my own.  You deserve and will receive absolutely no credit.  You did nothing but try to break me.  You didn’t succeed.  Through your torture I learned what a strong, intelligent woman I am…and what a weak, miserable prick you are.

I hate your fucking haircut, you psychotic bastard.  Since you sent me about 900 text messages asking me if I liked it, I figured I’d give you the answer.

It’d be nice if you stopped trying to damage my character and reputation.  For someone that hated my blog, you sure read it a lot.  Did you start your own?  “The World According to Bullshit” wasn’t that what you were going to call it? At the time it was an insult, but now it seems like an appropriate name.  Maybe you could put offensive, horribly misspelled cartoons on it?

The demanding that people not associate with me, that was a nice touch.  Were you afraid I was going to tell them what you really are?  It’s hard to elicit (that means get, Mongo) sympathy from people when they find out what a giant douche you are.  Well played.

There’s a lot more I’d like to say to you, but I’m not going to.  I’m going to move on with my life and forget I ever met you.  I was going to say “knew you,” but I never actually did.  I just spent a lot of time with a monster.

I don’t burn bridges, fucker. I blow them up.

Drop dead,

Sara Carpenter

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Cinco de Mayo.

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My grandmother will have been gone for one year on Sunday, May 5th. It figures she’d have picked my second favorite designated drinking holiday to die. If you’re thinking “Gee, Scarp! That sounds heartlessy and bitch-tastic,” these are two qualities I learned from her. You really had to know the woman to appreciate the depths of her douchebaggery. Yes, she gave me a lot. I appreciate her contributions, but she didn’t do it because she loved me. She did it to control me.

Some people find control far more fulfilling than love. I’d like to invite all of those people to drop dead at the count of three. Ready? One…one-and-a-half, twoooooo…two-and-three- quarters…Three! Dammit, why aren’t you dead? Well, I suppose it’s just as gratifying knowing that your life is miserable; always has been, always will be. How do I know this? Because, I know things, lot’s of things…almost everything. I’m pretty smart.

My life has been a juggernaut (that means: an overwhelming, advancing force that crushes or seems to crush everything in its path, just in case you don’t understand words with more than two syllables. Yes, I’m being condescending (that means: I’m treating you like you’re stupid)) of activity that I have not been able to escape, since she passed. Recently, things have started to calm down. Calm is awesome.

My grandma spent her final years living in my apartment, with her nurse, and her nurse’s daughter. Several of my neighbors have approached me and said things to the effect of “I miss your grandmother, she was such a wonderful woman. So sweet…God rest her soul,” this always shocks the shit out of me…as I wasn’t aware she had a soul. The lady living in my apartment, I don’t know who in the hell she was….but she wasn’t my grandma.

My grandma was the love-child of Hitler and Zsa Zsa Gabor, not literally, I’m giving you a visual here. She got Zsa Zsa’s looks and Hilter’s Canasta playing skills. I know there is no historical record of Hitler or my grandmother actually playing Canasta…but just work with me. In both of their reigns of terror, everything had to be “just so”. It didn’t matter who you were on the inside, as long as you were perfect on the outside. Had my grandmother had a larger oven, I’m pretty sure she would have been known for something other than baking a delicious ziti.

I watched her manipulate my mother my whole life. I watched her hold things over her head, I saw the enjoyment she got from giving and then taking things away. Recent (unrelated) events in my life have helped me identify just exactly what my grandmother was:  a narcissistic sociopath (Google it, if you identify with more than two of the characteristics…please follow the instructions written above in paragraph two.)

The strangers my grandmother encountered would describe her as warm and caring, that’s because they weren’t aware that underneath the expensive clothes, diamonds, and perfectly styled hair…lurked a giant asshole. She cared what the rest of the world thought of her, she didn’t really give a shit what we thought of her..because she was in a position of power. Anyone that defied her power was excommunicated and sent to live in New Jersey.

She had a lot of things, expensive things. She traveled. She bought enough anti-wrinkle cream to fill the Adriatic Sea. She was never happy. Nothing was ever good enough. Her life was a perpetual state of misery because she lacked the ability to give and receive love. Instead of people, she loved inanimate objects. She grew frustrated when the things wouldn’t return her affections.

I find it very hard to bite my tongue when people say nice things about her. I do it, but I don’t like it. I’d like to announce to the world how she went out of her way to make people unhappy and then played “helpless victim” when shit didn’t go her way.  When my neighbors say, “I miss her,” my first reaction is to laugh, really hard.  I say, “Me too,” but what I’m really thinking is “I miss her spaghetti sauce.”

Her last years of life were lonely, that’s what happens to jerks. They end up alone, because nobody likes them. The people they got so much pleasure out of torturing get to watch as they fade away. The problem is, another jerk is born every minute.

Why is water blue?

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The boy and I had an interesting day of bonding. He was my lunch date on Saturday, although he didn’t really want to be. “I don’t like food anymore, can’t we just go to the toy store?” I had promised him a reward, he was determined to collect it. “You can’t toy shop on an empty stomach, dude. This is serious business,” I said, instead of trying to debunk the “I don’t like food” defense. “I guess you’re right,” he sighed, as we pulled off the road and into a restaurant parking lot.

As we got out of the car, he began to crawl on his hands and knees peering at the undercarriage. “Um, what are you doing?” I asked, as I think any reasonable person would. “There’s a can under there, I wanted to see if you crushed it when we pulled in. You didn’t, can you try to smash it when we leave?” “I’ll try my best,” I responded. I helped him up and led him into the restaurant. We sat outside on the patio, it’s starting to get ridiculously hot here, again. I knew it wouldn’t be crowded and we could quietly chat. He touched the table the way old ladies do when you take them someplace to eat they’ve never been before. “This is nice,” he said, smiling and inspecting the children’s menu.

“Hi, my name is Chris. I’ll be your server today,” the waiter was cheerful and eager to bring us things, I like those qualities in a waiter. “Hi, I’m five. I can ride my bike without training wheels,” my son said with the confidence and demeanor of a politician, while throwing his elbow over the back of his chair. “I don’t wet the bed anymore and… I have a Puffle named Willie. I’m just throwing that out there. What’s your Puffle’s name?” The waiter looked at me, I could see he was taken aback by the little dude. I waited for him to respond, when he didn’t, I wasn’t sure what to say.  I figured things couldn’t get anymore awkward than they were at that moment, so I went with, “Hi. I’m 34. I don’t wet the bed anymore either. I helped name the Puffle, and I’d love a rum and coke in the biggest glass you have”.

“What is a Puffle?” Chris asked. “The thing that makes me want a drink,” I responded, hoping he’d walk away without any further questioning. It didn’t work. My boy might have a future as a Jehovah’s Witness, as he insists on spreading the good word. “Willie is Jr. Flappers’ pet. Jr. Flappers is my Penguin. Willie is red and fluffy. He doesn’t have any arms or legs…but he still rides a skateboard pretty good. I play with them”.

For anyone keeping track, my little nugget of awesome is claiming we are harboring an arctic creature in the simmering heat of Florida, and are forcing a long-haired, quadriplegic, life form to entertain us by riding a skateboard. No, I haven’t replaced his nutritious breakfast with frosted LSD and please don’t call PETA.

All of these things take place in the virtual seventh circle of hell known as “Club Penguin”. Disney thought it would be a great idea to create a social networking site, infused with games, and of course…Puffles. “I have a membership card, wanna see it?” Yes, they sell membership cards. Yes, he carries it with him. “Jr. Flappers has an igloo, you should stop by sometime.” Yes, he just invited someone over to his igloo.

“That’s awesome, I have a daughter. We haven’t reached the Puffle stage yet, I guess.” I was thankful that the waiter had experience wrangling small children and I didn’t have to try and explain. You can’t control what they say, resistance is futile. You can either be embarrassed or embrace it. I want him to be able to carry on a conversation. These are the things that are important to him, so this is what we talk about.

Sometimes, admittedly, he throws me a curveball. “Mommy? Why is the water blue?” he asked as he was getting ready for a bath. I tried to pull up all the long forgotten Earth Science information I still had stored in my head. I said something about reflection from the sun and depth of the water, but I was clearly just making it up as I went along.

He stared at me blankly for a minute, “No, I mean in the toilet…why is the water blue? Everyone knows why the sea is blue.” Apparently,  my long-winded explanation about the ocean bored the hell out of him. “Oh, I put stuff in there to help me keep the house clean,” he thought about my answer and then, “Does it help you concentrate?” I laughed and responded, “Uh, sure.” I still haven’t figured out where that one came from, I guess he must do most of his thinking on the potty.

The toilet cleaning tablets went in the tank on Sunday, but had they gone in on Saturday…I’m sure the waiter would have heard about that, too.

Where have all the lunch ladies gone?

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“Brandy said she was praying to a book of matches or something,” he said in that slow, surfery Californian way. We were talking about Mary Ann. I wasn’t asking about her in gossipy, water cooler chatter way; I was concerned for her well-being. Up until a few weeks ago, Mary Ann ran the cafeteria in the Shipyard. Apparently, behind the smile and the friendly demeanor…Mary Ann was hiding something.

I’d seen her the day she allegedly started asking for forgiveness from the fire-making implements. She walked around the parking lot, with her arms raised towards the sky…mumbling something about God to herself. I didn’t really think much of it. Her boss is a dick; I thought maybe he’d insulted the Chicken Pot Pie or something, and she had stepped out for a breather. No, she was having a nervous breakdown.

Lucky her, it happened at work. Everyone got to watch as the cheese slid slowly off her crackers. Brandy had been given the assignment of running the cafeteria and making horribly transparent excuses for why Mary Ann was out. I found out today that she wasn’t coming back, I can’t say that I blame her. I wouldn’t want to come back either.

Everyone has their theories, like a giant game of Clue for the stupid and insensitive. “I think she’d been out with Mark, you know Mark? The chubby guy with the Mustang that the doors don’t open on…” I did know Mark. I also knew that the doors on his car didn’t open. It’s hard not to notice a 50 something year old man with plumbers crack, hoisting himself into a bucket of rust outside your office window…everyday. On rainy days I place a little wager with gravity, betting that his orthopedic sneakers would lose their grip on the peeling paint, and he’d take quite the tumble. He is strange, most boat Captains are. He’d been inviting me to Mexico to see his Yacht on a regular basis since mid October. I’m not special, he does this to all the young women. I’m also not going to Mexico to see his Yacht.

Mark’s being accused of taking the lunch lady out on the town and slipping her ‘shrooms. I don’t think this is true. Not because I don’t think Mark is capable of drugging someone without their consent or knowledge. Mostly, because the guy telling me this story is a moron. I had to stop him a few weeks ago from trapping and hugging a wild racoon. I don’t know why I felt the need to emphasize that the raccoon was not domesticated, there. It’s not like people have visions of throw pillows and carefully arranged furniture when you say the word “raccoon”.

I didn’t really want to talk about the wild and crazy personal life of Mary Ann. She was obviously under a great deal of stress and lacking the proper tools to deal with it. It doesn’t matter to me what caused it, it’s really none of my business. I was more or less asking because I thought she and the guy I was talking to are friendly. I guess I was wrong. He wasn’t speaking about her as if she was a friend. He was trying to distance himself from her, like the CDC recently released findings that insanity is spread mainly by droplets made when people with it cough, sneeze or talk. I found his behavior to be, for lack of a better term, shitty.

But, I guess human nature is shitty. Hell, it’s not just human nature…it’s nature in general. The British guy that does the voice overs on the nature shows where animals eat each other; you know, “As night falls on the Serengeti plain…”?  He always points out that, “the weakest members of the herd are stalked by the hungry Cheetah”. For all I know, racoons surreptitiously plot against the members of their um…(flock? gaggle? pride? Forgive me, I never learned the proper term for a group of raccoons. You never did either, so don’t try and get all intellectual on me ) for not having the best paw/eye coordination.

We naturally distance ourselves from people with ailments that we don’t understand. I guess we’re afraid or deep down inside we’re assholes.

Psy is a moron.

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Sometimes I have tunnel vision.  I get so focused on what I’m doing that the rest of the world ceases to exist, then something happens that makes me take a look around and say “What the fuck is going on?”.  I had one of those moments today.  I was watching the “Today” show.  I use the term “watching” very loosely here…I mean it was on and I was walking past the TV.  I find it to be the least obnoxious of the network morning news shows.  It has nothing to do with what they report or how they report it, I think I just prefer the sound of the voices. That, and I really enjoy Willard Scott trying to coherently wish octogenarians a happy birthday.  I can’t decide whether the suits at the Today show have a really sick sense of humor and they get their rocks off by making us watch his brain slowly deteriorate into the consistency of strawberry jam…or he pre-games with Kathie Lee and Hoda every morning…and they all get Smuckered before the cameras start rolling.  It gives me great pleasure to know that even on the days when I can’t get my ass in gear…I’ll always be more alert that Willard.

Anyway, so it was usual mindless drivel, videos of dogs howling, and the anchors doing their best not to talk about the Middle East going to absolute shit. Then, they all started talking about the musical guest of the day and how excited they were.  They were raving about this dude, his name is Psy.  Have you seen him?  You have to have seen him. Well, if you haven’t..you’re very lucky…unless..of course you’re blind…and in that case…yeah, I’m an asshole.

The only way I can accurately describe Psy is…he’s what happens when a laboratory unsuccessfully combines the DNA of Richard Simmons, Fun Dip, and a nameless, rejected Pokemon character.  He was performing in “The Plaza”, as they call it, for hundreds of adoring fans (whom I would like to nominate for immediate euthanization).  I think he’s supposed to be a singer or something, but it sounded to me like he was reciting the P.F. Chang’s menu over a muzak version of “Who let the dogs out?”.  Psy is evidently spearheading a national movement to dress like Liberace while channeling the dance moves of your drunk Uncle Chuck at your High School Graduation party.   If you don’t have a drunk Uncle Chuck, you know someone that does. He’s the guy that brings his own beer coozie to every event and tries to mesmerize the ladies with his “shopping cart” swag once the Natty Light kicks in.

Every so often America goes through a strange, foreign, dance craze thing…it may be because I’m getting older, but this one is really painful to watch…more so than the Macarena.  What’s even more painful is the level of production that goes into a Psy performance.  He has an intricate wall of lights flashing behind him. I advise you not to look directly at the wall o’ lights…because…I assume that’s how he gains control of your mind and makes you believe he actually has talent.  There are also back-up dancers, I legitimately feel bad for them.  Can you imagine having to go through life knowing that your 15 minutes was riddled with the ugly shame of being “Psy Back-up Dancer # 3”?

Seriously?  What is wrong with people?  Yes, yes…we all need a little brevity now and again.  This isn’t brevity, this is stupid. Hey, fun fact: “Gangnam Style” actually means “dance like a jackass” in Korean.

I move that Psy and Kim Kardashian get their own reality show, where they are sent to a remote island in the South Pacific and we get to watch as they forget how to breathe.  So say we one, so say we all.

Wednesdays with Rodney

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Rodney called again today, like he does every week to check on me. Such a nice boy. I became acquainted with him about three years ago.  Every Wednesday morning, like clockwork, my phone rings. Recognizing the number on the caller I.D, I usually answer it  “This call is for Say-ra Car-pin-tar,  if you are not Say-ra Car-pin-tar, please hang-up.  If you are Say-ra Car-pin-tar, I need to ad-vise you,” blah, blah, blah.  My name is a grand total of five syllables, it’s not exactly a tongue twister, yet Rodney always seems to fuck it up.  The way he pronounces it makes me think he learned everything he knows about diction from a Speak & Spell. I have never actually seen Rodney, but if by happenstance I struck up a conversation with him in a smokey bar, I might assume that he had a different profession. His deep, monotone voice, automated personality and strange speech patterns are reminiscent of…someone who makes a living…I don’t know…sucking dicks in exchange for crystal meth.

Rodney has been my “account advisor” on a credit card account gone horribly wrong for quite some time.  He works for a law firm in the area that has been given the posthumous assignment of trying to get me to pay the money back.  I’ve always been incredibly honest with him.  “Yeah, I can’t pay you, Rodney.  It was looking good for a while, but not so much anymore.” I said this week.  I’m not lying, things were looking up.  I was given a raise and full-time hours at my current place of employment.  The raise I was planning on, the full-time gig was quite by accident.

The month of May has taught me many an important lesson, the most poignant? Humans are extremely flammable, especially when they are coated in gasoline.  I have a co-worker, who is a lovely woman with a charming British accent and two grown children.  Both of her children live halfway across the planet, one of them owns a farm and I assume, also has a charming British accent.  While working on the farm a few weeks ago, she decided to clear some brush by burning it.  The ground was moist and to speed up the process she added an accelerant,  everything was going to plan until the wind shifted, thereby causing her and the brush to burst into flames.  Can you say ouch? Yeah, it’s a terrible situation. I was asked to fill in for my co-worker while she tended to her daughter.

I’m not a monster, I was in no way doing a happy dance because someones life took a turn for the suck.  I wasn’t sitting around thanking the heavens that I was going to be able the capitalize off of misery, but I was glad that I’d be able to help out the nice people I work for and put in a few more hours.  I was kinda feeling like I was going to be able to get back on track, save some money and pay some things off. That feeling lasted all of 96 hours, it ended abruptly when my grandmother died.

My grandmother, in addition to being the woman that birthed my mother, was also my tenant.  She lived in my condo with her full time caregiver.  In exchange for not having to live in one of those boarding schools for old people, she helped me with the bills there.  Her passing has put me in a financial situation that “fucked” can’t begin to describe.  Thunderfucked doesn’t even cut it.  Yeah, it’s pretty bad.

I dealt with deafening sonic boom of reality crashing down on my face the way every 33 year old woman living in my body deals with stress, I drank a bottle of wine…then decided to file bankruptcy.  It seems like the cowards way out,  I don’t particularly like the thought of this.  There just doesn’t seem to be any way around it.  I keep reminding myself it’s like every event in life. Millions of people have done it before me. Millions of people are doing it right now, but for some reason I feel like it’s a private psychosis.  Weddings, babies, divorces…most of us have been through something like this…but we all tend to act like these events are life experiences that only we’re having when we’re going through them.

After speaking with an attorney, I found out…that I don’t have enough money to file for bankruptcy.  How fucking hilarious is that? I’m so screwed that I can’t even legally claim that I haven’t got a damnthing [intentional omission of space for comic effect]. I have to save money to claim I have none…is anyone else laughing at the irony here?

I probably should have kept this to myself, but then that applies to a lot of things in my life.  I decided to share.  For the past few years, I’ve been making myself sick worrying about financial obligations.   I’m tired.  I want out.  I know I’m not the only one that feels this way.  I concluded, in the company of both Ernest and Julio Gallo, that this is bullshit and I shouldn’t have to spend my whole life worrying.   While I will miss my Wednesday’s with Rodney, I know he’s only calling for one thing.  He’ll have to find someone else.

“Casual Friday” in Douchebagotropolis

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Picasso had his blue period, Hefner had his blonde period, and I am having my I can’t get shit on paper period, period.  I feel like every ounce of creativity has been sucked right out of me, this must be the way Britney Spears has felt her entire life. The usual 800 insane things bouncing off the interior walls of my cranium have been replaced with other things.  These thoughts are not entertaining, not even to me. I’ve been this way for the past few months.  This is strange and I’d like it to stop.  Incidentally, I’m so distracted I just walked into my own bathroom, turned on the lights, startled a little green lizard on the tile floor, said “Oh, sorry.  I didn’t know anyone was in here,” and closed the door.  I was halfway across the house to use the other bathroom when I realized what I had done.

Yeah, we have lizards here in South Florida.  Little ones, they’re always scurrying around and sneaking into the house.  We have big ones too. They don’t scurry and you’d notice right away if one of those sonsabitches walked into your living room…your first clue would be that your dog is missing.   I’m not sure if you have them anywhere else, I mean, I know that lizards exist elsewhere.  But, I’m pretty sure those places are not Iowa.  Iowans have potatoes, they’re slow moving and there’s a lot of really delicious things that can be done with the potato…lizards…not so much.

You can always tell a tourist here, because they’re leery of the lizards.  It’s ok folks, they don’t bite, well actually they do…just not very hard.  You have to have great hand/eye coordination to find that out.  Mostly our tourists are of the drunk variety, ergo, very little coordination at all.  I met some tourists of the Iowan persuasion this past week, they were neither intoxicated nor lizard-phobic.  Their names were Rusty and Big Hoss, well those probably aren’t their names at all…but it is what we called them.  Rusty might have actually been introduced as Rusty, or that may have been what was written on his t-shirt- it’s hard to say. Big Hoss was tall and did not bear any resemblance to the guy on Bonanza.  I’m pretty sure his name was Bob.  Anyway, he and Rusty were visiting one of the boyfriend’s friends.  They might have been two of the most polite people I’ve ever met.  Behind closed doors they could be card carrying members of The Third Reich…but on the surface they were gentlemen.  I’m still a little worried that they didn’t know what to make of the boyfriend, he is kind of a force of nature in the personality department…and he tends to give everyone a nickname.

We met up with them at an outdoor purveyor of dollar draft beers one night.  They did a lot of standing around and observing, at some point Rusty apologized to me for interrupting me in conversation.  This is either before or after I wandered away from the group and got up on stage to sing with the band (the guitar player insisted).  For the record, I don’t recall him interrupting me at all and even if he did, I probably wasn’t saying anything profound anyway.

A few days later we met up with them at the beach…this was weird day.  Initially, it was just me and 10 dudes on the sand.  There was enough testosterone surrounding me that I was afraid I was going to start sprouting chest hair through osmosis.  They all sat around ogling bikini fillers and I tried not to feel invisible.  It started to rain, and the lifeguards evicted us from the shore….something about lightning and danger…wussies.

The boys went back to the car and I took the opportunity to meet my friend Leah at the “World Famous Elbo Room.”   If you ever see Leah and I in a picture, looking like we’re having a fantastic time, we totally are. She is fun in flip-flops.  The Elbo is two-story building on a corner of A1A and a street you’ll never remember the name of even if I told you.  There’s an upstairs bar, a downstairs bar, and an outside bar. It’s a shithole, a very busy shithole.  If you get down this way I recommend you stop in for a drink, just remember they only accept cash and no one gives a rat’s ass where you’re from or how much money you make.  It only looks like it’s tourist friendly, it’s not. Also, if you ever come visit sunny Fort Lauderdale, please refrain from telling every sun-kissed blonde you meet that you’re “still wasted from the night before and your feet hurt from dancing.”  It’s probable that she lives here, has enough beer in her system to send you staggering to the nearest trash can to puke, and isn’t going to dance with you…no matter how much money you claim to make.

I’m told The Elbo Room is famous for being in a 1950’s surfer movie no one has ever seen.  It is not famous for its cleanliness.  It always smell like a whale’s unmentionables in there.  Charming, I know.  As we stood trying to decipher what the pleasant aroma was, a man struck up a conversation with us.  He looked normal enough, until he whipped out his iPhone and showed us a close-up photo of his crotch.  In the picture, he was fully clothed in khakis and a button down shirt, so it must have been “Casual Friday” in Douchebagotropolis.  Conversations like this send a normal person running in the opposite direction, I think you’ve figured out by now….this girl….not normal.  As Leah dragged me away from the creeper, I was in the midst of inquiring exactly why he had a crotch self-portrait in his phone while contemplating challenging him to a dance-off to see just how wasted he was, and she…was laughing.

The moral of this story is fourfold. The little reptiles are harmless.  Steve Jobs didn’t intend for you to use his phone that way, you filthy prick.  Rusty and Big Hoss are always welcome.  Thank you Leah.

Don’t pee in the pool.

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“I have to PEEEEEEEE!!!!,” my son shouted at me for the 86th consecutive time from the confines of the community pool.   It’s his new thing, announcing his need to perform basic human functions at a decibel that can be heard from anywhere in a 3 block radius.  I’m used to it, but the gaggle of condo commandos that had congregated under an umbrella at a table near the pool were obviously unnerved. They all turned to look at me, their skin permanently bronzed and leathery from years of retired-life sitting underneath a palm tree in the Florida sun.  I’m not judging, good for them…but holy shit, there’s this stuff…it’s called sunscreen…when applied liberally to the epidermis, it can help prevent you from looking like a talking saddle in a Hawaiian shirt.

As the sound of Frank Sinatra reverberated off of the buildings surrounding the pool, they asked to borrow one another’s reading glasses to inspect the “musicpod thing” one of them had ordered from “the inter-web”.  I dutifully grabbed a towel and escorted the boy to the bathroom.  His little dripping body was leaving a puddley trail of footprints the entire way.  I didn’t want them to think I was letting the boy use the pool as a giant urinal.  He giggled, pretending to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex making tracks to be discovered by a “Paweontowogist”  (that’s Paleontologist, for those of you that don’t speak 4 year old) as we strolled past the judging eyes of the Condominium Association Elite. The alpha male of the AARP members, a big guy, who used to be a New York cop, called out to me “Don’t let him have an accident! Hey, and when you gonna cut that kid’s hair? He looks like a fairy, for God’s sake,” as he gesticulated wildly.  I smiled and said “Never”.  It wasn’t the “I’m sorry my kid is interrupting your Sunday Jazz and incontinence breakfast” smile.  No, it was the “I’ve peed in your pool and I’m probably gonna do it again” smile.  They’ve done it too, everyone has.  Just because you stand around telling people where to park and yelling at kids for running on the patio doesn’t mean you’re immune to being too lazy to get out of the water when you have to go.  As far as his hair goes, I like it long and until my son demands that I shave it all off, it’s going to bounce off of his shoulder blades.

Ever since my son mastered the art of using a toilet it’s become quite the topic of conversation in my home. It’s like some mythical portal. If it weren’t for human waste and automobiles, the only thing the kid would probably say to me is “I don’t want to talk right now”. When he’s not using the can himself, he’s offering its services to anyone he thinks could benefit from taking a big dump.  We don’t entertain a lot, but last week during a family dinner he took it upon himself to tell my Aunt Lois that “if she needed to frow-up or had to poop, she could use his bafroom”.  Aunt Lois didn’t appear to be experiencing any gastro-intestinal distress, but perhaps he thought if there was a sudden issue he’d give her his blessing.  I’m always telling him that he needs to make our company feel welcome…his interpretation is totally not what I meant.

My mother is always quick to point out that “none of her children acted this way” in regards to the fascination with the toilet.  I’d like to point out that I have yet to visit the emergency room to have a french fry removed from neither my son’s left or right nostril, nor has a volunteer fire department been called to assist his safe extraction from the boughs of an extremely tall pine tree.  I’m not discounting my mothers parenting skills, I’m just stating the facts.

I’m not worried about his fixation, something else will take its place in a few months.  I worked with a girl who’s kindergarten aged son was obsessed with Justin Beiber a few years ago.  Every time the kid heard his music or someone said his name he would shriek and go into a trance-like state singing “Baby, baby, baby…ooooh” and do a little leaping jig.  Yeah, I’d talk about shit…using a bullhorn…on the courthouse steps with my son everyday, rather than have to endure that embarrassment.

This is an attempt to collect a debt…

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I was in my son’s room clawing through a large blue plastic bin, filled to the brim with tiny, plastic monster trucks. “I should just dump it out, that’ll make this easier,” I suggested out loud to myself. Make what easier, you ask?  I forget.  That’s been happening to me more often than I’d like to admit lately, I can’t seem to complete a thought without some kind of interruption.  My internal monologue just can’t keep up with the to-do list. Somehow, “find my car keys” gives way to “hey, where’d that bruise come from?” and in a spilt second turns into “I was just doing something…hmmm…what was I in here for? Oh, I know..fold the laundry.”

“Mommy, can you shut-up, please?  I’m twying to concentwate,” my boy asked as he sat atop a pile of stuffed animals.  “It’s not nice to tell people to shut-up,” I corrected. The sound of my voice was muffled by the hood of my sweatshirt, which had slid around the side of my neck and was actively trying to suffocate me.  “What? I said please,” I was surprised that he’d actually heard me. “Did you find the white car yet?” Right! The white car…that’s what I was looking for.  No sooner did I refocus when the phone rang, it was a bill collector.  My phone rarely rings anymore with someone I’d actually like to speak with on the other end.

After I was advised that this call may be monitored for quality assurance and this was an attempt to collect a debt, I started laughing.  Do I think owing someone money is funny? Nope.  Do I enjoy being badgered by some snotty bitch who’s just learned the correct way to use the word irrelevant? Not at all.  What’s humorous about this situation is that I knew exactly how it was going to end before she even finished verifying that I was, in fact, the very delinquent Sara Carpenter.  If you’ve never been lucky enough to have to politely decline that advances of a collection company…good for you…and can I borrow some money?

“Ms. Carpenter, why are you laughing? This is a very serious matter,” the nasal voice scolded  me.  Why is it that some people think that by putting on a head-set and sitting at a desk surrounded by three felt covered walls gives them all the powers of Grayskull?  Who are you to tell me what’s funny and what isn’t?  I saw terrifying footage of a news reporter being mauled by a pit-bull the other day…laughed my ass off.  Funny is a personal decision. “No, it isn’t.  It’s an unpleasant situation. Serious implies that the balance of the free world hangs in my ability to repay what I owe,” I replied.  Two can play this game.

“You do realize that while you’re laughing your credit score is being damaged by this unresolved amount due?,” the condescension continued.  “You have my account history in front of you.  My laughter is irrelevant.  I’m sure that you can see that my credit is already sufficiently screwed.”  “We don’t used that kind of language here.”  “What kind of language? English?  Well, my Latvian is rusty, but for the purposes of keeping with the professional nature of this conversation…I’ll try.”  “That’s not what I was saying,” she continued.  “Oh, right. You were saying that I wasn’t allowed to laugh, telling me which words I can use to describe my financial situation, and implying that I am blissfully unaware that I can’t pay my bills.“  “No, I believe you misunderstood me.  I’d like to help you resolve this matter, while I have you on the phone I’d like to update our records.  Are you working and if so, may I have the name of your place of employment?”  “My comprehension level in regards to the English language is rather extensive. I suggest you pay more attention to what you are actually communicating as your attitude is being perceived as combative, superfluous, and my personal favorite… condescending!”  “What?” “To recap: treating me like a moron is unnecessary and will only afford me the opportunity to prove that you are an idiot. Get to the point sweetheart, you can Google the big words on your own time,” and then there was silence.  No amount of “heellllooooo? Are you still there?” was going to get around the fact that I’d been hung-up on.  I hate being hung-up on, almost as much as I hate being told what’s funny and what isn’t. Perhaps she is anti-Google? Or maybe she didn’t like the fact that I wasn’t about to be brow-beaten by a twit with a script and a quota. The world will never know.

“Mommy, who are you using big worwds on this time?” my son asked as he balanced a ginormous, floppy, yellow stuffed chicken on his head.  “No one, honey.” “I fed the piggy $1.36 wast night, you can have it if you need it” he said as he motioned to his piggy bank.  It’s amazing what a child can absorb from under the security of faux poultry, he knows that when I break out the large vocabulary I’m usually talking to someone about money.  It’s not that I enjoy deflating the egos of collection company employees (well, that’s not entirely true).  I know they’re just doing their job.  What I find irritating is the repeated phone calls and the manner in which they communicate,  they’re all bullies.  I owe the bank money, I know that these people are supposed to try and get it from me any way they can. Receiving phone calls at 15 minute intervals from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. is not going to make large sums of U.S. currency materialize in my bank account.  Nor is giving them the phone number to my place of employment so that they may harass me while I try to earn the money to pay them back.

It’s not like I just sat back and let the debt accrue, there was a time when I made regular payments to this collection company to clear up the balance.  When it became too difficult to make ends meet, I had to suspend the payments.  I told them I’d reinstate them when I could…and I meant it.  Until that time comes, I will probably just have to ignore the 256 “Unknown Number” calls that come in to my phone an a daily basis. Oh, and if you get a call from a collections agent who uses the words “superfluous” and ‘irrelevant” to describe your financial matters…well, you can thank your friendly neighborhood Scarp.

Thanks for everything Bob Villa

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You fuckers with the last name of “Smith” have it easy.  You never walk into a professional situation, say “Hi, My name is Steve Smith,” and have people assume that you make Steve’s for a living.  My last name is Carpenter,  because people are stupid, I am constantly being accused of being a wood-worker.  I spent the better part of Saturday at a trade show, working for my new office, with my first and last name hanging from my collar on a name tag.  It was my job to greet people and make them feel welcome.  I don’t know why, but I was more than a little thrown off when old men in woven panama hats kept asking me “how I got my butts to look like that?”.  They weren’t creepy old men, so I know they weren’t referring to my posterior, but were trying to get free carpentry advice.   Even though everyone else was walking around with name tags that said “George Baker” or whatever, no one implied that they were Keebler Elves or inquired about their knowledge of yeast or flour.  The only butt I am familiar with is my own, it’s not a topic I will address without the help of a bloodstream pulsing with alcohol.

I don’t correct people when this happens,  it’s simply not worth it to me…and I find it to be hilarious.  People can’t seem to wrap their brains around the fact that I am not an actual carpenter.  When I do correct them, they are either embarrassed or they tend to walk away from me acting like they’ve been mislead.  I realize this isn’t my fault…but I don’t like to disappoint.  I’ve seen enough episodes of “This Old House” to push my way through a conversation about joinery and wood glue.  Thank God for PBS and Bob Villa.  Mostly people want to tell me everything they know about wood and move on…you’d be surprised how much people know about wood.

Saturday, I found myself engaged in conversation with a man that either had an unusually unhealthy attraction to tree products or was desperately trying to think of things to say whilst hitting on me.  I am in no position to speculate, but I had to be excruciatingly polite during this whole strange interaction.  This is something that I can do, but it takes a whole lot of effort on my part.   Here I was, standing on the deck of a very large, expensive sail boat watching a man crawl around on his hands and knees, rubbing the teak.  “You’re a carpenter! You must be able to feel the soul of this wood,” he moaned as he peered up at me.  I am not the Lorax.  I don’t speak for the trees, living or deceased, but I could definitely hear that the soul of this wood was saying; “get off of me dude, or I’m pressing charges”.

I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t.  He seemed genuinely connected to the wood and I wasn’t about to lose my job over a disagreement involving talking bark.  For all I know, he could have been the tree whisperer.  I looked around to see if I was on camera, I wasn’t.  Luckily, a group of small children walked on to the boat and curiously came over to see why the man was crawling.  He explained to them that he was feeling the grain and got up on his feet as soon as their parents came over to escort them away from the crazy man fondling the boat.   I used this opportunity to introduce the man to one of my superiors and sneak away.  Immediately upon doing so, I came face to face with a couple who read my name tag and did not assume that I carried a hammer in my back pocket. The couple, who were holding cans of beer and much to my jealousy…looking a bit shit-faced, asked if I was any relation to Karen Carpenter.  They then started to sing…a very slurred version of “Close to you”.  About the time they got to the “one the day that you were born” part, I had to interrupt.  I didn’t want to have to explain to my boss that I’d let his display turn into a very sad, lonely karaoke bar.   It is not in my nature to halt such behavior, I normally encourage this kind of insanity…it keeps life interesting.  I wanted to join in with the singing, but knew that it probably wouldn’t go over well and didn’t want to start the week off looking for a job.

I have two scripted responses to the any relation to Karen Carpenter question, because this also happens to me a lot.  I either go with “No. But, rainy days and Mondays always get me down,” or “No. Why? Do I smell like vomit?” Because I was I work, I went with the cheesy “rainy days” response. Due to their level of intoxication they found this to be hysterical.  They high-fived me and repeated what I had said about five times.  Wobbling away from me, they finished their rendition of the Carpenter’s classic and turned around to shout “Sara, you’re good, you!” as they polished off their drinks.  Some people genuinely appreciate a bad joke.  I smiled and waved, fighting back the urge to yell back “No. You! You’re good”  which everyone knows is the proper response to that statement.

I still have a job.  No one said anything to me about the wood groper…or the songbirds.  Like I said, you Smith’s are lucky.  Count your blessings.