A Post That Would Really Annoy My Parents If They Actually Read This Website

ETA:  Who’s the worst saleswoman in the entire world?  I AM!  Have an e-book!

With all the news about Toyota going belly-up and killing people through epic incompetence, I have to admit—I’m a little worried about my parents.  They were stalwart Ford owners for decades, largely because they kept buying used cars, and for some unknown reason a lot of people were unloading Fords.  Now, though, they’ve switched their brand loyalty to Toyota.  They bought a Prius and gave my brother their pickup truck, complete with gun rack and dead raccoons, and when someone turned left into my dad’s mini-SUV, they replaced it with a Yaris.

Yes, my parents owned an SUV (“A MINI-SUV!” my mother protested) and a Prius.  Simultaneously.  The irony level in their driveway was enough to kill a man, I tell you.

So they’ve switched to Toyota and Toyota’s having massive recalls and really guys, I just don’t feel good about this.  We owned a 1991 Ford Aerostar when I was a kid, the one that got recalled for having a faulty middle seat that would fall out of the van if it got T-boned.  Mom and dad knew about the problem, they even told us about it, but did they ever get that shit fixed?  Of course not!  Ten years later, that van was a rusted-out hulk in our driveway, seats still proudly intact and completely defective.

Guess who always sat in the middle seat?  Yeah, that would be me.  THANKS, MOM AND DAD, FOR NOT LOVING ME ENOUGH TO GET THAT TAKEN CARE OF.

I can’t really blame them, though—it’s not that they didn’t love me (although they clearly didn’t), it’s just that they are seemingly incapable of returning items to the store.  I was fully eighteen years old before I even saw someone I knew return something that hadn’t worked out.  My first college roommate was all, “I don’t need these binder clips after all, give me back my seven bucks.  Wah-bam!”  And lo, they gave her back her seven bucks.  It was like magic.  I didn’t even know you could do that.

Compare that to my parents’ approach when the printer they bought me for college turned out to be a complete lemon.  “We’ll just have to buy you another one during Fall Break,” my dad sighed over the phone when I told him that tech services, prayer, and an exorcism had all failed to take care of the issue.  I frowned, because A.) Fall Break was a month away, and I had many papers due between then and now; and B.) My roommate’s triumph with the binder clips was still fresh in my memory. 

“Daddy, can’t we just, I don’t know, return it?”

“We don’t have the receipt!”

“Hmmmm…” my roommate said when I mentioned this conversation to her.  Jessica (child of the 1980s, of COURSE her name was Jessica) was not easily daunted by things like receipts, angry store managers, or my parents.  More fool her on the last one, but that’s neither here nor there.  “Bring it with you when we got to my house for Labor Day,” she said, “and we’ll see.”

What happened over that Labor Day Weekend will forever live in my memory:  not only was that the year Madonna and Britney locked lips (this was before Britney had two babies in two years and lost her “teen sweetheart” status), it was also the year Jessica got me a new printer.  Neither one of us had a Sam’s club membership, we were several hundred miles away from the branch that sold my parents the lemon—Jess lived close to Charlotte, they live on the coast—and we had no receipt.  Ignoring all of these very crucial and very damning factors, Jess basically just walked in, found a guy, shoved the printer box into his arms and said, “This doesn’t work.  We’d like a new one.” 

And he gave her one.

I don’t know if it was because his store was also running a deal on that particular printer, so he could be reasonably sure that my printer came from a sister branch.  I don’t know if it was because Jessica was tall and blond with a cute Southern twang.  I don’t know if it was because she also had the aura of a really nice, very Christian pitbull:  friendly enough, but willing to hold on to the death if necessary.  It was probably a combination of all three things.  Whatever the reason, he gave her the printer and we stopped having to use the communal one that was always “mysteriously” out of toner.  AFTER THAT DAY, SHE WAS AS UNTO A GOD TO ME.

With her as an example, I learned how to return shit I don’t need; usually I don’t bother if it’s under five dollars, for I am very lazy, but like HELL will I buy something expensive twice just because I don’t want to go through the “trouble” of returning an item!  My parents, though, have never learned this lesson.  Their garage is a nest of failed power cords and broken dreams.  Their “solution” to a DVD player that didn’t work was to buy a backup DVD player that also didn’t work and hope that when one refused to do its job, the other would step up.  In short, I have reason to be worried about this recall thing.  Because if my parents have their way, they won’t take those cars in until it’s time to sell them for scrap.

…anyone willing to go steal their cars?  For their own good.  SERIOUSLY.

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On Forgiveness

My post on forgiveness could be very short.  It could go something like this:

People tell you that the only way to move on is to forgive those who have wronged you.  They are incorrect.  Also, they are sanctimonious.

That last sentence is unnecessary, but I’m mean and I enjoy saying unkind things.

A few nights ago, I was having a conversation with someone who is very dear to me.  This person said, “I’m constantly annoyed with like, a quarter of my social circle at any given time.”

“And your point is?”

“Isn’t that weird?”

“No, that’s human.  People are annoying.  You get irritated with a quarter of them, and then the next day you get irritated with a different quarter of them and forgive the first quarter because in comparison, they don’t seem so bad.”

“…now that I think about it, that’s exactly what happens.”

Forgiveness is necessary.  We practice it daily, because if we didn’t, we would have no fucking friends.  I love Erika, but she infuriates me on pretty much a daily basis; she has a less…volatile personality than I do, but I know she’d agree that I am one of the more challenging people in her life.  Our relationship is one of constant negotiation, disagreement, apology, and HARSH RETRIBUTION.  Okay, maybe not that last part.  We have to forgive each other on a daily basis, and we do.

Okay, except for the thing about the macaroni and cheese.  I will never be forgiven for that.  I’ve accepted it and moved on.

Every necessary relationship involves forgiveness, because  every necessary relationship involves conflict.  Like I told my loved one:  people are annoying.  I am annoying.  You are annoying.  WE ARE ALL ANNOYING.  And at some point, we will be forgiven or have to forgive.

I mean, every time I talk to my father, I have to forgive him for being a Republican.  We’re talking about REAL SACRFICES, HERE.

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This one’s Been Posted and Reposted…

…and reposted again!  Actually, this is from  Fall 2007, meaning that it actually predates this website.  But I love it so much that I just can’t quit it.  Also, check out the bonus comment from my mother that I have included at the end for your edification.  Yes, despite all my protests, my mother HAS read this website.  Once.  While I was standing there.  And even then, only because she knew it made me uncomfortable.

Happy White Trash Thanksgiving

November 27, 2008

I’m going to be at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving, which means that the Internet is…primitive, and chances for posting will be minimal.  Ergo, I’m reposting the entry I made last year, back when I was still a vegetarian and savaged Tofurkey while the rest of my family savaged the real thing. Enjoy!

For those of you not in the know, I’m a cracker. Seriously, when I was in the fifth grade this little kid informed me that he was a “black-eyed pea,” and that I was a “cracker.” Which I was totally okay with, because at that stage in life I didn’t have much experience with beans, but I knew what a fucking Ritz was. And I also knew that they were delicious.

For the record, I have never learned to enjoy black-eyed peas, but I love black, kidney, and pinto beans with all my heart. Just so’s you don’t think I’m racist, here.

But anyway, I’m a whitey McWhiterson from Whitesville, North Carolina, and while I feel that my Italian-ness somewhat mitigates all that Wonderbread and mayonnaise whiteness, every once in awhile I just have to face the fact that I? Am a motherfucking honky. And nothing makes me face that fact faster than a visit home with my family for a major federal holiday.

Because nothing makes you realize how white trash you are like having your parents try to force you to look at a dead animal.

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Repost Weekends

The other day I was thinking, “Mankiller, you’ve got like, a year and a half of posts that very few people have ever seen because very few people troll through archives as obsessively as you do.”  And then I thought:  “Mankiller, you’ve really got to quit having conversations with yourself, it’s weird.  Also, I hate you outfit.”

Anyway, I thought I’d start reposting older entries on the weekends–that way I wouldn’t have to create new content, and you could see some posts you probably haven’t already.  AND WE WOULD ALL BE HAPPY.  SO VERY, VERY HAPPY.

Ahem.  Anyway.  Here’s a post from February 13, 2009.

Kryptonite. Delicious, Delicious Kryptonite.

My friend Brandy became lactose intolerant in her early twenties, which is just plain cruel.  I mean, it’s one thing to be born unable to digest milk products, but to grow up eating cheesecake and to know what you’re missing?  I imagine it’s something like how Beethoven must have felt after he went deaf.  Except that instead of upsetting your landlords by destroying their pianos so that you can play on the floor and feel the vibration, you’re upsetting your roommates by having violent diarrhea every time you open a box of mac and cheese.

In truth, I’m a little sensitive about the subject, because there was a time when I thought I might be lactose intolerant–when a little swig of milk could make my stomach turn and the mere thought of ice cream made me want to hurl.  Fortunately, though, I am a quarter Scandinavian, and when I crap, I crap whole sticks of butter.  My aversion must have been the result of stress or a stomach bug or something, because my Viking ancestry quickly reasserted itself and I soon found myself chewing on blocks of cheddar and pillaging monasteries for the fun of it.

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Revenge Is Petty, But Oh-So-Sweet

E-book is here.  Buy up, bitches.

I probably shouldn’t be committing this to pixels; this confession may come back to haunt me.  But I can’t hold back any longer:  internet?  I destroyed someone else’s property.  And it was SOOOOO satisfying.

I don’t want you to think that I am some great disrespecter of property rights.  I mean, despite the fact that I keep books much, MUCH longer than I should (and occasionally dump sodas on them, sorry about that, local library), I am generally pretty good about other people’s stuff.  I chalk this up to being the youngest of three children and the baby sister of a girl with personal space issues and an itchy trigger finger.  To whit:  there was a period in my sister’s life when I couldn’t so much as look at her belongings without her screaming, “Mah-ooom, she’s touching my STUFF!”  I learned to leave other people’s things alone at a young age, largely because Catherine is a big giant boo-boo head.

But I digress.

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Boneshaker

ETA:  EEEEEEEEEBOOOOOK.

Cherie Priest, Boneshaker

So ever since I posted this picture, people have been asking me what I think about Boneshaker.  Which I find unfair, because HELLO, the Boyfriend stole it and the love of my life my cat from me.  I had no opinion because I hadn’t read it.  Because it was torn from my arms, ripped from my bookshelf, STOLEN BY THAT GREEDY BASTARD I CALL A BOYFRIEND.

But eventually he gave it back and I blitzed through it and then he started asking me about it and my God, what do you people want from me?  What do I look like, some kind of steampunk-analyzing MACHINE?  Oh, and you know what’s even worse than being asked to just throw out a reaction?  Now he thinks he has the right to an opinion about the damn book, too!

I mean, seriously!  THE NERVE!

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I Was Totally That Kid

Want kids to know what goes where and which end is up?  Go buy my e-book!

I tweeted about this yesterday, but thought I’d post about it with a bit more depth:  Ladies?  Gentlemen?  There is now officially an American school that has banned dictionaries.

See, I know I’m ancient, but I remember being required to bring a dictionary with me back when I spent my days being tutored in capitalist propoganda at an American public school.  The times, how they do change.

I could rant and rail about how ridiculous this is, but really–we all know how ridiculous this is.   What I wanted to talk about, instead, was how this probably went down.  The article states that the volumes were removed ”because a child had found the definition of ‘oral sex’ in the book” 

You know what that means?  That means some weenie TOLD!

Kids?  I was totally that weenie.

When I was in the third grade, I went on a mini-mythology binge.  I say “mini” because my elementary school library had exactly two books on mythology, so I could only binge so much.  Anyway, the Greek myths were pretty successfully sanitized–bowdlerized to the point of nonsense, if I remember correctly–but the person who’d adapted the Egyptian myths had tragically opted for a more honest rendering. 

THERE WAS TOTALLY NON-DESCRIPTIVE AND NON-SPECIFIC BONING, Y’ALL.

Now, here’s the hilarious part:  I knew that reading about boning was not acceptable, and that, if caught, I would be subjected to all sorts of tortures (no TV for a week, arrrrrrrrrrg!).  But I kept this book out, y’all.  I kept this book out for WEEKS.  I kept this book out until they were finally like, “Mankiller, either you give it back or you pay for it,” and then I handed it over and was all, btw, it has bad stuff in it.

“What kind of bad stuff?” the librarian asked.

“Inappropriate stuff,” I said.  I knew the word for “sex,” since FANG! had come home from health class sometime during the middle of my second grade year and said, ”Talulah, do you want to hear about something COMPLETELY DISGUSTING?” But I couldn’t imagine saying that word to an adult.  What if they’d had it? 

But back to my conversation with the librarian:  “Inappropriate stuff, okay,” she said, and then went and called my parents.  If Iremember correctly, she and my mother had a conversation about it and I was later told that the book would now only be available to fifth graders.  I was thrilled:  I was sure my prompt action had earned me a special place in crappy-Protestant heaven.  I walked around, surrounded by an aura of smugness, and everyone kindly and gently didn’t ask me about what I’d been doing with that bad, dirty book for all those weeks.

So yes:  I was totally that kid.  I harshed the mellow and deprived my fellow children of a more well-rounded education.  I was a tattle-tale.  If I had bothered to look in a dictionary, I probably would have turned it in as contraband, too.

So my question is, how many of you were narcs?  Be honest, now.  You’re among fellow assholes.

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How Things Are Going to Be/for Your Edification

So I wrote an e-book.  It is here.  I am not saying that you have to buy this e-book, because times are hard and there are plenty of worthy causes to donate to right now, tomorrow, and forever.  But let me lay this out so we’re all on the same page, here:  my e-book costs you, the buyer, 3.00USD.  That was about as low as I could price it while still turning anything resembling a reasonable profit (in this case,  1.21 USD).  The rest of that $3.00 is lulu’s, and I don’t begrudge them it, since they’re allowing me to distribute this thing and also, they gave me that WICKED SWEET cover with a smoking gun on it.

But if you read my previous post, you will know that the first hundred dollars this e-book makes are pledged to Scarleteen.com, and after that they get 25 percent.  The truth is, I never expected ”The Dumb Whore Brigade” to make more than $100, because my readership is low and so is my profit margin.  I was just trying to account for the best case scenario.  BUT.  I would like Scarleteen to get their $100, and to that end, I’m going to include a link to “The Dumb Whore Brigade” in every post from now until doomsday the end of February.  I’m not doing this to annoy you.  I’m not doing this to guilt you.  I’m just doing it because if a lady writes a series of essays about her vagina, the sex ed org she’s donating the profits to* DAMN WELL better profit.

And now, on to the real post of the day.  Which, not coincidentally, is about vaginas.

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The Dumb Whore Brigade and Other Stories

Over the past week or so, I have been working on A Project.

That Project is finally…DONE!

Behold, I made an e-book, which is being sold on the appropriately titled lulu.com!

Yeah, I know.  You’re all, “Excuse me, but  since when do I need to PAY for your ramblings, Mankiller?”

Well, since I wrote some highly personal stuff about my wagina.  Sorry, but I don’t want that to live on this website forever.  I do have some boundaries.  They’re few and rather porous, but they ARE there.

Also, well.  Let’s read the introduction, shall we?

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Ill-Advised Self Portraits

A few years ago, I was trying to get a decent shot to put up on facebook.  I failed.  Hard.  With somewhat entertaining results.

Is it just me, or do I look strangely Lohan-esque in this one?  It’s something about the crazy hair, the greasy face, the glassy eyes, and the vaguely disgusted expression (end of a looooooong workday, if I remember correctly).  I definitely look like I need to quit doing all that smack and go crawling back to Disney, begging for mercy.

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