Short Note to H’sMa
Dear H'sMa,
I'm as helpful as the next girl, and I'm more helpful than a son of yours I could name *coughgarandcough* so it's not a problem for me to do an extra thing or two when I've borrowed your car and am going to bug Honey at work. However, a few issues did present themselves yesterday.
1. Just because I called you on Honey's cell to tell you I was bringing home fish, that wasn't me trolling for you to pay for same, or to pay for anything else that happened to get listed. I only called so you wouldn't put something out to thaw, then promptly leave it out for a week or two once you realized I had supper covered.
2. By the time I picked up the mega-list you socked me with on the phone, I felt like someone had beaten my lumbar spine with a baseball bat. This isn't your fault–people at Meijer's were absolute assbags yesterday. However, when you're fully aware that I'd kill for a Vicodin and no jury would convict me, it's wise to find out who's cooking LONG before 8:00 pm. If I'd known a couple of hours before that, I might have actually been able to EAT that meal I spent $20 to pick up for us. As it stood, however, I got very little potato-crusted cod goodness, because by the time I got done cooking it, I hurt so bad I couldn't sit there and hold the fucking plate.
3. Bitching about the cost of fish you were never asked to pay for after you ate it and sang hosannas about how good it was is horrible form. Again, no one said you were paying for it, you're the one who OFFERED to do so, and I don't think you have a fuck of a lot of room to bitch about it in hindsight.
4. It is especially bad form to do so when I'm upstairs, unable to go back down due to aformentioned pain. Doing so loudly enough for me to hear you in the bathroom over three TVs and a flushing toilet is just plain shitty manners.
5. Have the grace to at least:
a. Have this conversation with me.
b. Put your brain in gear before you open your mouth. Then, when I pimpslap your clueless ass, you'll know how you earned such an honor.
Once more, since you seem to keep forgetting, Honey is not my keeper or my mommy. If you don't like the way I act, there isn't shit he can do about it. For further notes, see January 7th's blog entry, subtitled "Telling your Mommy on me doesn't change anything."
6. Most importantly, if you're just dead-assed set on giving me a list that subjects me to an extra half hour of running around the mosh pit known as Meijer's, give me the whole damned list. There's nothing more frustrating than wishing for a crane to pull your ass from a car because moving feels like a ten-year-old is sitting on your back and kicking your kidneys, only to find you saying, "Oh, good, you're back. I have some groceries to get at Hel*Mouth."
When you say that, I think, "Ah! How wonderful to know that fucking myself out of sex tonight was all worth it! I'm giving Honey a Valentine's Day present that will make him worship the snootch I sit on and I won't be able to let him thank me because you couldn't be arsed to make this eternal pain worthwhile by telling me to get Snacky Cakes and Cheezy Poofs for Garand's lunch! I just love thinking I've saved you a trip out in the cold only to find out I'm not good enough to score Little Debbies for a guy who should have got off his dead ass during the last three days off he had and gotten his own shit."
Perhaps I sound harsh. Perhaps you're feeling wounded by reading this letter. Let me tell you, "wounded" doesn't begin to describe walking out of the bathroom to the sound of you bitching behind my back over things no one asked you to do in the first place, after waiting until after I was in near-unbearable pain to decide to let me know that I was also cooking that food I bought. It sucked. It sucked syphilitic donkey penis.
I don't want it to happen again, so here's what I'm going to do. The next time you start getting bright ideas on the fly, I'm out of it. I won't be shopping, I won't be buying, and I sure as fuck will not be cooking. If you want something like this to happen, it's your baby.
Oh, and one more thing. Fuck you and your offers to pay for the food. I would have appreciated the offers to pay had there been no whining afterwards. You have easily ten times the income I do, and I think your offer to help with it was great. However, the backbiting whining bullshit earns you a hearty FUCK YOU and a sincere wish that you keep your money. Take it in your hands, fold it until it is all sharp corners, and shove it up your candy ass.
Sincerely (oh, you have NO idea how sincerely),
Serra
Whiplash Smile 
Leave a comment