This isn’t so much of a post as it is an apology to all of the fans of the Lay’s Chicken and Waffles chips since it’s apparently my fault that you can no longer buy them.
Yesterday I walked in from a long day of being forced to interact with people via my second job and was greeted by my mother with, “Well I asked the guy at the supermarket, and they aren’t getting anymore of the Chicken and Waffles chips anymore.”
I grunted in response.
“The guy was really nice though. He said that they had some down in their Hainesport store.”
I grunted again as I flopped on the couch.
“He also said that the Chicken and Waffles chips were the ones that sold the quickest even though they lost the contest.”
I was about to grunt in response again when my mother turned from her computer to give me an accusing look.
“Apparently the stupid flavor that you liked won!” she snarled.
I blinked in shock at my mother because, first of all I wasn’t aware that I specifically liked any a particular flavor of potato chips, and second, I didn’t realize that by my liking a certain flavor of chip that I would be responsible for my mother not being able to buy these
fucking absurd chips anymore. However it was quite apparent from the sparks flying from my mother’s hazel eyes, the steam shooting out of her ears and the fact that I’m pretty sure that for a moment she turned into a she-wolf that I, me, myself, personally caused the extinction of her Chicken and Waffles chips.
It was only after a dig through the Interbutz that I remembered that the Chicken and Waffles chips were one of three flavors introduced for a contest to pick the next flavor. I kinda remember my mother buying the three flavors (Sriracha, Garlic Bread and the coveted Chicken and Waffles) and I vaguely remember mentioning that I liked the Garlic Bread chips the best but that’s about it. I didn’t rave about the flavor and I definitely didn’t bother to vote in Lay’s goofyass contest, yet I still managed to swing the election in Garlic Bread’s favor. Had I realized that my mother was so emotionally invested in her flavor I would have used my alleged potato chip voodoo and made her Chicken and Waffles win.
So my sincere apologies to anyone who liked the Chicken and Waffles chips (and I suppose I should apologize to the people who liked the Sriracha since that’s probably my fault too) and is no l0nger able to get them.
My mother is quite the pistol. Whether she’s insisting that there is a dead cow in the road or smashing apart an entertainment center with a hammer, she’s an endless fount of entertainment. What I neglect to mention on here though is that my mother is the kindest, most loving person that you will ever meet. Seriously, Jewels can vouch for my mother’s sweet personality and super hugs. Aside from her hugs she also does things like rescuing squirrels from swimming pools (long story) and catching mice with a set of tongs and taking them outside instead of trapping them. She also puts up with my shenanigans which automatically makes her a saint., but not only that has supported my dream of being a writer and never stopped believing in it when a lot of parents would tell their daughters to grow up and get a real job. Finally she is incredibly patient and despite being half Irish she has very a long fuse and doesn’t easily lose her temper, and she rarely curses.
That is of course except during her daily trips to Farmville.
As I’m sure that anyone on Facebook knows Farmville is a virtual farm where the player can grow crops, build little buildings and complete missions. It’s simply charming. Unfortunatly the game is full of glitches and between that and Facebook’s new feed system where my mother’s Farmville friends don’t see her posts for them to help with the missions, she flips shit at least twice an evening.
Two minutes later…
One minute later…
Thirty seconds later…
And then I get my riot gear and wrestle the Oozie away from her.
This happens every single night.
I have been planning this post ever since I first heard my mother scream “Fuck you, Farmville!” but I knew that it would take me a while to create. (Yay comics!) Seeing that today is my mother’s birthday, I took the extra time to finally create her tale of Farmville angst.
Happy Birthday, to the most wonderful, supportive, amazing Mumma ever! I love you, you crazy woman!
Much like the annual Battle for the Halloween McNuggets, there is a battle that rages in my family each year as we decorate for Christmas.
(I’m sure that this surprises none of you that my family can’t even fucking decorate for a holiday without wanting to maim each other.)
This battle, however, is slightly less violent than the one for the Halloween McNuggets because it involves my brother and my mother rather than my brother and me. For years my mother has been trying to convince my brother that having an artificial Christmas tree would be just as nice as having a real one only without the hours of work that it takes to string hundreds of lights in its flimsy branches or the mess of pine needles everwhere. Of course the irony here is that my brother bitches about having a real tree but he doesn’t do shit to help decorate it.
My mother finally won the battle though because, since I’m at my mother’s this Christmas and I have a beautfiul artificial tree that would otherwise be sitting in the attic, she insisted that we use my tree this year. I was thrilled because with being the writer who works from home, a large portion of the decorating would fall to me, and not only is a fake tree easier to decorate than a real tree, my tree is also pre-lit. Boo-yah!
But then I should know that nothing is ever that easy for me.
I was opening the Christmas tree branches last week when I looked up to see a large section at the top of the tree had gone out.
What the hell?
My tree is supposed to be a closed circuit system which means that if one bulb goes out the rest of the string will stayed on.
“It has to be a bad bulb,” my mother insisted.
“No it’s a closed circuit!” I insisted right back. “It’s got to be a fuse.”
Mummas gave me a skeptical look.
“Don’t anybody move! Hold it right there! The fuse is out,” I rumbled. ((Bonus points if you get that quote.))
Thirty minutes later I walked into the dining room in defeat.
“I tried replacing the fuse, but it wasn’t that,” I grumbled.
“Where did you get a spare fuse?” my mother asked suspiciously.
“I took the one that was in the light of the Christmas star tree topper.”
“Aaaaaaaaah!” my mother shrieked.
“Calm down! I put the other fuses in it so it’ll still work… I think.”
Mumma gave me another skeptical look. “It’s definitely a bad bulb now,” she added. “You’re going to have to take out each bulb and see which one isn’t working.”
“Like hell! Those lights are a bitch to pull out!” And then I felt my pupils dialate as the truth dawned on me. “Holy shit!” I gasped. “Despite our best efforts our tree has unionized! One bulb decided not to work and they all followed suit.”
“We can just string a single set of lights in the dead zone,” my mother suggested ignoring me since she has long since because used to my absurd declarations.
“Oh no we won’t!” I yelled.”There’s no unionization in this tree! I don’t know what these fucking bulbs want since they only have to work one month a year! That’s it! I’m going maffia on Jimmy’s ass and he’s getting back to work or getting thrown off a bridge!”
And in true maffia fashion, my problem was solved with a gun.
After deciding that I wasn’t going to accept be pushed around by my unionized tree, I jumped onto the faithful Interbutz (the second time that he has saved my ass at Christmas time) and looked up the best way to find out which of my non-working bulbs was the union leader. The most recommended solution was the PROLight Keeper Gun which would test the electrical current on the string of bulbs to find where the circuit was broken.
Jimmy refused to cooperate with the first electric method where you attach the gun to the string of lights and fire away–this is supposed to be the easiest method so naturally it wouldn’t work–but then I tazered him with the metal end of the gun and he finally gave up the leader. I ripped that sucker out and I’m happy to say that the rest of the bulbs went back to work after that.
It was only later that I realized that there were more than just rebellious bulbs involved in this scandal.
Son of a bitch.
FYI, entries for the giveaway have ended and I’ll be announcing the winner later this week!
Also my latest BirchBox video is up and as usual I have to be all arrogant as usual and say that even if you don’t give a mummer’s fart about makeup, the video is rather entertaining. There’s a shoutout to my Wonder Twins in there.
(The blooper reel is coming soon.)
Despite our ten year difference in age, my brother, (known as Gator on here), and I are very close. And as with all siblings who are close, we tend to antagonize the shit out of each other. As a matter of fact, I just remembered this weekend that I found out that I liked pumpkin pie when I ate the last piece of Thanksgiving pumpkin pie only because my brother likes it and I wanted to get revenge on him for doing something (I don’t remember exactly) to annoy me and .
While there are always new and traumatizing ways to annoy each other, one battle in particular has been raging for years:
The Battle for the McDonald’s Halloween McNuggets.
The Happy Meal is one of McDonalds’ most evil schemes ever. The lure of fast food is kryptonite enough for the average American child, but throw in a toy that comes with that salt-laden, diabetes-inducing garbage and you have children’s Nirvana. In October of 1993(?) and 1996(?) the Happy Meal weapon of choice toy was a plastic Chicken McNugget dressed in different Halloween costumes. There were six nuggets, each with a different face and costume with could be mixed and matched between the nuggets. It was pure evil marketing genius. I was a teenager at that time so I managed to avoid being snared in these heinous traps but my brother was only a kid and fell for them hook, line and cholesterol. My mother was not one to overindulge us in fast food, however my brother did manage to collect all twelve Halloween McNuggets that were released in two waves.
Over the years, my brother lost interest in playing with the Halloween McNuggets and my mother grew more attached to them. They were no longer toys but my mother’s favourite Halloween decorations. She became so protective of these plastic bits of commercialism that when a house guest admired them, she counted the nuggets after they left to make sure that they hadn’t taken any.
About ten years ago–when my brother was the teenager and I was a so-called adult–my mother, knowing how much I love Halloween made a remark about my having the Halloween McNuggets after she was gone.
“What?!” my brother sputtered. “They’re mine!”
“You haven’t looked at them in years! And your sister loves Halloween,” my mother told him.
“I don’t care! And I like them, too!” my brother insisted.
I had been just about to tell my mother that she wasn’t going to be “gone” for a long time so let’s not entertain the topic until my brother became belligerent and I knew I had to check him.
“Since when do you like them?” I glared at him.
“Since always!” he glared back.
“Alright, then you can share them,” my mother replied.
“I’m not sharing! They’re mine!” my brother insisted.
“You won’t even share?” I shook my head at him.
“No! They. Are. Mine!” my brother snarled.
Thus began the battle began.
Every October, when my mother pulls the McNuggets out of the attic and decorates the television stand with them, my brother and I argue over who will have custody of the nuggets. My brother insists that they were his toys. I point out that Mom bought them and took care of them. He counters that she doesn’t even always remember which face goes with which costume so that shows that he knows the nuggets better. (And I have to tell you that in typing this out I’m even more aware of what a bunch of fucking lunatics we are in this family–especially because it only gets worse.)
“Is it true that Gator and Kat are fighting over the Halloween McNuggets?” My aunt specifically called to ask my mother this.
“Oh yes, this battle has been going on for years. I’m not worried about making provisions in my will about the house or the car, but I had better leave some clause in there about these nuggets. I told them that they had to share, though Gator insists that he won’t,” my mother replied.
“Well they were Gator’s toys so he should get them all,” my aunt told my mother. “I’m sure that Kat didn’t want them at the time or we would have bought her some.”
I happened to hear this through the phone and was thunderstruck.
“What the fuck? I was a teenager! Of course I didn’t want them then! But Gator didn’t want them for years after he had them!” I shouted back.
“Your brother and your cousin used to play with them all together!” my aunt shouted through the phone back.
“Then I’ll take Shell’s!” I threatened (though I wouldn’t really take my cousin’s nuggets.)
“I have a few of them that Kat can have!” I heard my grandmother shout through my aunt’s phone.
“This is all because Gator won’t share!” I yelled, at which point my brother entered the argument so that there were five of us having one phone conversation and yes I realize how fucking mental this all is.
And so the battle rages on.
My aunt is on my brother’s side, my cousin is on my side, my grandmother is trying to be Switzerland, and my mother is terrified that she is going to die and my brother and I will kill each in a fighting for custody of The Halloween McNuggets. It’s been pointed out to me that I could find another set on eBay, but to be completely honest, the battle itself has become more the point of contention than the actual spoils. I’ll admit that I’m being antagonistic, but it would be funny to find out that my brother was doing the same thing, and did not want the nuggets but saw an opportunity harass me when our mother made a small, innocent remark about bequeathing them to me.
UPDATE 2020: First, I cannot believe that this entry is eight years old. Second, my brother has since graduated college, completed his Masters, and has a career as a teacher. In 2017 he bought his first house, and when that October came around, the Halloween McNuggets took up residence with their rightful owner who is, I will admit, my brother.
I’ve discovered why people lose things during a move.
It’s because that while you start out packing things all nice and organized–Wonder Woman collection in one box, nunchucks and other weapons in another box, handcuffs, vibrators and flavoured body paint in a third–you eventually get to the point where you don’t give a fuck where things are packed as long as they are in a box and the hell away from you.
It’s particularly unwise to be disorganized while packing when your mother is offering to help you unpack.
(“Kat, I was unpacking your towels and came across a box labeled “Sir Thumps-alot” that was mixed in with them. There’s a buzzing sound coming from it.”)
Despite my mother’s help, I’m still settling in so I’m way behind on my blog roll and on returning the comment love. I’ll catch up soon though. I usually wouldn’t do another post before I’ve caught up, but writing helps me maintain what semblance of sanity I have so I’ve decided to tell you about the moving day madness.
Moving day was as I imagine childbirth is like in that during it I was sweating, cursing and the male members of my family were terrified that I was going to flip out and scream and cry at them, and that by the end of the day I was exhausted and bleeding.
I awoke at around 4:30am on moving day. And when I say “awoke” I mean that I just decided to pull my zombie ass out the bed since I hadn’t actually slept in over a week. I had a few things to finish packing before my brother and BFF arrived to help with the move, so I got out my pile of newspaper to begin wrapping. Kira, however, decided that I wasn’t under enough stress so she decided to play “Let’s Be As Obnoxious As Possible”.
This game begins with your dog blasting into your pile of newspaper like a fucking maniac and scattering them all over the place.
Then she grabs your Domo stuffed animal which you are trying to pack along with the other Halloween things and takes off with it.
(Seriously, Kira does not play even play with her own stuffed toys so this was completely just her being a brat.)
((I don’t have a picture of this because I was too busy chasing Kira down to get the damn animal back. I eventually decided that I didn’t care and let her shake the shit out of it.))
Finally, when your BFF brings you doughnut for breakfast (because pink doughnuts are the breakfast of champions, ya’all), your dog proceeds to smack around the bag containing the doughnut with a fury that would be the envy of any pimp.
After playing this charming game with my dog, I then heard tales of my mother trying to take apart and move an old entertainment center from the spare bedroom where I would sleeping. Apparently the screwdriver wasn’t working so she just took a hammer and smashed the bastard apart.
I was unaware until that day that, not only had I received my love of slutty boots from my mother, but also my destructive nature. To prove that the psychotic apple doesn’t fall far from the insane tree, I too employed a hammer about an hour later when I was trying to take apart an inversion table. The only difference is that I called my hammer Mjolnir and declared myself to be Thor while doing it.
We were in the final process of carefully moving haphazardly throwing the furniture into my mother’s house when I nearly split my forehead open. BFF was holding my iron coffee table frame with the legs facing out and I decided to headbutt the bottom of one leg. This was not BFF’s fault at all, I’m seriously just a major klutz who walks into shit like this. And what made the situation even worse was that while my mother and BFF searched in panic for a bag of ice to stop the swelling I could not stop laughing. Again this is about par for me to be laughing my face off while blood trickles down from a huge goose egg erupting on my forehead.
Once the swelling subsided, and the final pieces of furniture were moved, we went to do what I do best–drink Tequila–because when you have a possible concussion it’s a good idea to suck down two margaritas as quickly as you can.
I might not have drank my ‘ritas as quickly except that our waiter was totally vibing on BFF and kept bringing us booze. And I drank it because that’s the kind of friend I am to sacrifice my liver to get my bestie some nookie. Unfortunately BFF was not drinking so the efforts of our enamored waiter did not impress him at all.
Don’t worry, I still drank enough for two people.
Thus concluded Major Moving Day.
Mini Moving Day Mini Post tomorrow.
Christmas this year was marked by slutty shoes, squid, my dog and a bunch of hoes. And this is tame by my family’s standards. Between still recovering from a hellacious battle with food poisoning, my grandmother being sick, my brother being late, and mother being sick and late and sobbing, Christmas Eve was rather subdued. It was kinda like going into a mental asylum right after the patients’ doping drugs had kicked in.
My aunt, BFF, and Kira, however, were bouncing off the fucking walls and provided the majority of material for this sequel to A Very Katsidhe Christmas. Like that post, this one looks long, but it’s all conversation so it goes quickly.
I’d already shared the first trauma of the evening in Sixty Squid A-Screaming because finding a box full of undressed squid was enough to warrant a post of its own, so I’ll just jump right ahead to where BFF arrived and helped me clean the squid.
The sudden sound of kissy noises made through my mail slot and Kira’s subsequent furious barking heralding the arrival of BFF.
“The squid were whole!” I immediately screamed as he walked in the door. “I’m talking eyes, tentacles, sand!”
The poor boy barely had time to get his coat off before I was yanking him into the kitchen, which pissed Kira off because I was robbing her of her requisite greeting rubs.
My grandmother, aunt and cousin, M., arrived about half an hour later.
“The squid were whole!” I again screamed by way of a greeting, and then filled them in on the gory details.
“You did good cleaning up the puke stain from your carpet, Kat,” my aunt remarked eyeing the location where stomach had erupted onto it. “I cleaned it as best I could and then just dumped Mop N’ Glow on the area so it wouldn’t smell.”
“I know, that was a good idea. I felt horrible that you had cleaned up as much as you did though,” I told her.
“It was really thick, too,” my aunt continued because this is my life. “I just closed my eyes and held my breath.”
“Uh…huh, yeah I think it’s time to open the wine now,” I told BFF.
After a glass of wine and giving the savages the first course–Crab and Asparagus Soup–everything was pretty calm. Except for Kira.
When Kira was a puppy, she barked at my aunt and my smartass aunt barked back at her. Kira has never forgiven her for this and as such she barks and growls whenever my aunt moves an inch. Since I was in the kitchen, and Kira knew I was too busy to execute any threats, my shouts of “Kira hush!” were completely ignored and she continued to growl and glare daggers at my aunt until my mother showed up and distracted her.
“The squid were whole!” I screamed at my mother when she walked in the door.
I had just finished frying said squid and put them on the table along with the spaghetti and marinara sauce. My aunt got her spaghetti at which point Kira suddenly forgot her grudge and wanted to be besties with her. Basically, Kira wanted my aunt’s spaghetti.
Kira knows a number of tricks including sit, shake, high-five, and down, but one of her most impressive tricks is her ability to speak. If you ask Kira to speak, she doesn’t bark but will yodel in a way that sounds like “hello” or “hearf” which I take to mean “here” as in “put some food hearf”. Lately though Kira has been making a new sound that sounds suspiciously like “hoe”.
My cousin was well aware of this so as Kira pawed at my aunt and wagged her tail my cousin her, “Kira, what is your aunt?”*
“Hoe,” Kira responded.
(Yes, my dog has incredible timing which you know if you’ve read this entry.)
The thing is though, that Kira gets so much attention–and usually food–for saying this that once she starts she will keep saying “hoe” all night. Thanks to my cousin’s laughing, Kira continued to smack my aunt with her paw and call her a hoe.
I ignored the debacle and told BFF that the next dish was almost ready.
“I’m not eating anything called a snot-knocker!” my grandmother suddenly announced.
“What? What the hell is a snot-knocker?” I asked her.
“You just said that the snot-knockers were almost ready to come out of the oven.”
“The croissants! I said that the croissants are almost ready to come out of the oven!”
“Hoe,” said Kira as she nudged at my aunt.
My aunt ignored Kira and instead asked my mother how she could stand wearing the hooker-heeled shoes she had worn that night. (See where I get my love of slutty boots?)
“Because she’s a real woman,” BFF answered for my mother.
“Haha! And what am I?” my aunt demanded.
“Hoe,” Kira reminded her.
(My dog is a fucking genius, I swear.)
My brother finally arrived, but at that point I was getting tired and cranky, so instead of greeting him with a scream about the squid, I snapped at him that it was nice of him to finally show up.
“You’re lucky I came at all! You still owe me restitution!” he told me.
“Restitution for what?” my mother asked.
“Last week we saw that girl that Kat was going to introduce me to, and the girl told us that she had just had a three-way with her new boyfriend! If Kat hadn’t waited to hook me up with her that could have been me, but noooo she had to wait.”
“That’s sick!” my mother gasped.
“Hoe,” Kira agreed.
(I say again, a fucking genius.)
“Kat owes me restitution!” my brother pointed an accusing finger at me, and I was about to say something really snarky when my mother interrupted.
“Gator, is that the kind of girl that you really want? To do that sort of thing! And she’s not even married!”
At which point we all nearly choked from laughing so hard.
“You’re right, Mom, you should definitely wait until you’re married to have a threesome!” I howled through my laughter.
“That’s not what I meant!” my mother yelled turning red.
I returned to the kitchen to finish the last dish when BFF turned and told me, “You know, Kat if you were a real woman you would be wearing heels while you were in here cooking, too.”
“Yeah, well, we know I’m not one of those,” I told him as I grabbed a piece of Cod with my bare hand, gobbled it down whole, and finished cooking.
I’ve been asked by readers how I remember exactly what people have said when I’m regaling ya’all with conversations I’ve had with, say, my family for example.
I can answer this questions by citing a quote from “Psychology and Aging”:
Posttraumatic stress disorder is a severe anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma.”
So there you have it.
*We were actually able to video this but it features family members who don’t want to be publisized so I’m going to try and edit it and then post it.