I Suck

I suck at a lot of stuff. I could make a big freaking list of the things I totally don’t excel at.

One of those things is standing next to mannequins. I don’t trust those bastards. And I don’t think they trust me either. I hate the sensation that you’re standing next to solid matter that’s shaped like a human but no one’s home. I actually prefer the headless ones, because it somehow puts me at east knowing that headless things are rarely alive. It’s weird to be out shopping with other people and trying to avoid mannequins without being obvious about it.

I suck at spiders. In general, anything to do with spiders, I’m going to buck at. I hate when I’m reading a happy magazine and BAM! Spider picture. Then, even when the magazine is closed next to the toilet, I know he’s still in there. Real spiders? Even worse. On-the-shoulder spiders? Oh my god. I’d rip my own pancreas out of my body and beat on myself with it to kill a shoulder spider.

Whatever. I know I’m not alone.

Other things I suck at? Staying coherent when I’m angry. I’ll never say the perfect something when I’m mad. I’ll think of it a few hours later and sometimes even say it out loud to myself in the mirror, just so I could see how smart I might have looked if the words had come at the right moment.

I’ve given up getting better at that, though luckily I’m a happy lady, rarely fired up.

Lately, I’ve found that I suck at living in apartments. Due to the circumstances, my family and I have been living in an apartment on the third floor. And it’s lovely. Really, I’m so very lucky the insurance was able to provide this for us. Plus we had to know someone that knew someone to get in, because there were no houses for rent at all. All the families in my area who were displaced filled up the rentals in a hot minute.

I really thought we would be living in a hotel for months. So I’m grateful.

But here’s where I suck. I’m not a dainty girl. I pound around like a giraffe trying to stamp out a fire. The people below us are not tickled pink with that. Also, I gave birth to two stompers and the husband is no delicate flower either. So we’ve learned, because we’re not assholes, to walk softly. We tip-toe around like we are all cast as extras in Nutcracker Suite. But sometimes we forget. Sometimes my giant butterball of a cat hops down from the counter where he was stealing part of the chicken dinner and I cringe. He’s like having a lively wrecking ball as a pet. Loud. Plus, I have three dogs. One is blind, one is vengeful, and the other is a jerk. Don’t get me wrong, I love my pets, but apartment living has really put a spotlight on their considerable flaws.

The blind one, for instance, is an amazing animal. She has been a devoted family dog for 9 ½ years. So obviously, I try to accommodate her needs and she’s doing very well with the three flights of stairs and the disorientating changes in residence, but she somehow has figured out how to tip the garbage when we’re not home. See? I bet you were feeling bad for her. I was too until she gave herself diarrhea three separate times right in a row from eating garbage contents. Now, I have to remember to put the garbage up. In my now smooshed house, I had a very heavy metal, lidded can. Three flights of stairs to make super quick with a blind dog ready to have diarrhea? That’s a recipe for some death by falling. Now that I have the cheap, super light plastic one from the rental furniture company this is my life.

That’s right, the furniture is rented. The plates are rented, the linens are rented. So when I break a glass, if I were to do that making lunch, I might wonder what that means. Who pays for the broken glass? Will I go to rental furniture jail? I’ve no idea. I forgot to ask. Maybe I thought I wouldn’t be such a nightmare, but I am. Okay, fine I’ve broken one glass and one dinner plate. I’m scared.

Did I mention the carpet is white? That the walls are white? No stress about that at all.

So back to my animals. The small poodle mix is actually the perfect size to live here. But he's about 90% house trained. That other 10%? On the white carpet. That sucks. Plus his bladder holds like one tablespoon of urine, but every time I look at him he’s taking the biggest drink of his life. So that’s a lot of stairs. Again. In a hurry. Every time.  

You’d think my ass would be a bit smaller by now, right? No. It’s not. I expect I can crack a coconut open with it, but my butt is not one bit smaller. Perks, not getting them.

Last dog. The jerk. She’s a nimrod. I feel evil labeling her, but it is so damn true. She’s a cocker spaniel. She wants to be a bird dog. Peanut’s so freaking strong. You wouldn’t expect it from her floppy, adorable demeanor, but if I strapped her to the front of a train and she saw a squirrel? She’d be able to drag that locomotive hundreds of miles.

So what has she trained herself to do? Well, Peanut listens for the retractable leash’s click. If she hears it click, she knows the leash is unlocked and bolts, full force. She wants to rip the hunk of plastic from your hand and run to her death on the six lane road close by. She’s so good at it. I spend a good chunk of everyday making sure she doesn’t get her way.

So that’s just some of the stuff I suck at. There’s more. Damn it.


  1. We all have a million things that we suck at; and I must admit that mine are not very similar to yours, umm, at ALL.....
    However, one thing that you most definitely do NOT suck at is writing. so my advice is: Do more of it! =-P

    25 days!!!!! =-D
    xoxo <3

  2. When my 20 lb. cat hops off the bed, there's a noticeable thump, ha ha. That sucks having to tiptoe around your own home. Tell ya what--you don't suck at humor!



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