There Are Two Types Of People In This World…

Serving food to complete strangers isn’t exactly the easiest job in the world. If you haven’t noticed, food is kind of a big deal to literally everyone on the planet. It’s fucking food. We eat it to survive and it’s fricken delicious. It’s nerve-wracking, complicated, and to be honest, it can suck. I’ve worked in the food service industry for 15 years – half of my life, and I’ve pretty much experienced it all. All the way from degrading ass-grabs, to vicious words of cruelty due to circumstances beyond my control. If you want an amazing experience at the restaurant or diner of your choice, here’s a few tips on what not to do or say to the one who handles your food.

– Talk to us like a human being.
We’re people. We like to smile, and say hi, and have someone say something back that makes fricken sense. For example, if I say “Hi, how are we doing tonight?” and you say “Diet Pepsi, thanks.”, that’s like going on a date and while introducing each other, you immediately blurt out “future husband, baby daddy please.”
It’s just fucking weird, k? Not to mention rude. I’m not saying sit there and talk to me about your great aunt’s weird spreading rash, because oversharing is definitely a no-no as well. But if we make an effort to say hello, its only polite to say it back.


– Pick up after yourself, and your demon spawn.
Napkins full of ketchup behind the condiment caddy, mixed with empty creamers and bent straws. Chewed up only-God-knows-what stuck to the side of a cup thats filled with some sort of half food – half liquid concoction, which is also trickled over every square inch of the table. Gum stuck to the place mat. Broken crayons scattered all over the floor, with ripped up paper strewn around like confetti. Napkins scrunched up as far as the eye can see – which is like a super fun little game to us. Is it poo? Is it mucus? Maybe it’s food that you decided through half-swallow that it wasn’t yummy. Who knows. All we DO know is, is that if you leave your table like this, then we assume you are a complete slob everywhere else. The kind that leaves half-eaten burgers jammed in a cup, dishes undone with garbage piling up around you like a hoarder. Yes. That person.
I’m not saying wipe the table and make sure everything sparkles, but at least put your mound of napkins in a pile of sorts. You would think some of these things are common sense, but a lot of people don’t care. “It’s their job, let them deal with it.”
No, washing off your child’s spit and wiping up their spilled milkshake is NOT our job.. But if we want someone else to sit in our section, we do it, all the while cursing out your whole family’s bloodline.

– Wait to be seated, unless directed otherwise.
The other night while working, I came back to my station after making a salad for a customer and came upon 2 people sitting at a dirty table. They looked at me in disgust, pointing to their table that hadn’t been wiped up yet. “Um, it’s dirty. Do you mind?”
Do I mind? Mind what? Mind the fact that you weren’t seated by an employee, and that you’re somehow upset the table hasn’t been cleared while I’m in the back making a salad? Weird. Because in that case, yes I do mind. You, my dear, are not the only one in the restaurant. But coincidentally, I am the only one in my section. So, please be patient. It just makes things easier for all of us. Seriously, though…


– Don’t eat the whole thing, then say you want it taken back/a refund.
…… No, really, I swear people still do this. So, you eat more than half of it, or even 3/4s of it, and want a refund? It doesn’t work that way. It’s pretty shady, and not to mention, a waste of my time. Because usually when I don’t like something, I know that in about – oh, one to two bites. Tops.


– Not Tipping Whatsoever. Seriously? Are you new?
We make our living off of tips, because I don’t know about you but I can’t really support my children and myself on $150 paycheck every week. We don’t make minimum wage like the rest of the population – we make considerably less than most. Some nights are great, some nights suck. But running around constantly, smiling, getting them everything they want to just get it shoved in your ass at the end of the night really has an effect on people. Especially if we’re in the weeds, busier than all shit, and someone ups and leaves with a big middle finger in the air. It gets to me, definitely. What did I do wrong? It was the ranch, wasn’t it? FUCK.
A few little FML quips: A Server’s Edition.
When I’m carrying your extremely hot plates because I thought I could handle it, and you kinda just look at me and don’t move anything.


When I mess up and get distracted and forget all about your table so instead of looking like a douche, I pretend it was someone else fault and ask “Oh hey, no one has helped you yet? Let me.”


Anyways, like I said – its not hard to not suck. Just be good to your server, and act like a decent human being. That’s all.

End rant. I definitely needed to get that off my chest, people. Especially since I go in to work tonight for an 8 hour shift, all by myself…. Wish me luck, I’ll need it.


When Adulting turns into Black-sheeping.

No, dear readers, I have not died, nor have I randomly relapsed and overdosed myself into an early grave. I’ve been ‘ghost’ (clever girl) for over a week, setting things up and being pissed at the world for my horrible wishy-washy ways. I’m surprised I haven’t had cover ups on all of my tattoos because I cannot seem to be dedicated to one idea.

While adulting is definitely hard, someone else must have thought about that beautiful little gem before I… Bastards. How dare you be more creative and on point before I had the chance to think of it?


That, my friends, is when it hit me. Right in the face. A sucker punch of creative juices slopped across my tired mug while I was coming back from a long day of laser tag,  movie theater sitting, and experiencing the wonders of 5 Whits…. With a side of Dave and Busters. (Minus the alcohol, obviously. Still clean, and still dapper as fuck.)

Black sheep chronicles.

I know. Amazingly accurate.

So when I’m finished tweaking my site, expect huge things to come. I’m stoked as all hell, and you should be too.

My new beginnings of new beginnings before my previous new beginning…

The People of Walmart, ain’t got shit on me.

Icharacteram constantly on the go, lately. If not for running small errands with the kids, for JHubbs, or with his mother, it seems like I am never ever allowed down time.

Today wasn’t any different. For some reason I let my fiance rope me into going to The Anti-Drug Warehouse with him (and when I say somehow, it’s because this assface cannot keep his eyes open to drive. I do not want to be widowed before married.) to keep him company. Apparently being there 3 days a week, 2 hours a day, isn’t enough.

Now, like all men, he claims that they messed up the time on his appointment, and instead of it being 9:20 in the mother effing AM, it was 10:40 – which is a slightly more humane time.

He said, “It’s just a doctor’s appointment, babe. I’ll be in and out in about 5-10 mins, babe. No one will even see you, babe.” Which, honestly, usually happens. This doctor is no joke. A ‘wam, bam, thank you ma’am’ kinda guy. So, I woke up, grabbed my purse and a cup of coffee, then out the door I went with him like the amazing fiance I am.

Which brings us here.

Since he’s been sleep deprived due to being the bread winner and working from 4-6 AM, he fell asleep within minutes, while I sat there in disbelief at my predicament.

  • My hair? All over the damn place.
  • Makeup? Non-existent. Well, wait, I lied – left over eyeliner was rubbed furiously around every inch of my face during my coma-like slumber, making me look like a cracked out racoon.
  • Clothes? PJ’s, red flanneled, and completely unflattering in every aspect.
  • Bra? HA. Bra’s are for people who actually have chesticles. I, for one, do not.

So, naturally, I hid in the car while he snored and sputtered, trying to crawl into the glove box before anyone could witness this catastrophe.

WHY the Hell didn’t I just throw on a bra? A shirt that wasn’t a 3xl? Perhaps even a pair of ACTUAL pants? I mean, I could be on “The People of Walmart” at this point, and everyone would’ve just nodded as they scrolled through the horrific pictures.

Whatever, right? At least I didn’t have to go in the building. I can just wait it out, and when he was done, we’d be on our merry way back home where I apparently belong.

Until it happened.

I had to fucking pee.

But THIS wasn’t just a normal, ‘oh jeez, I gotta pee – eh, I’ll wait.”

This was like “If I don’t go now, I’m gonna piss myself”, kinda problem. In a panic, my mind raced with ways I could get in and out of the building without anyone seeing me. I imagined myself flipping through the air and into open windows, dashing down the halls with my shirt over my face, and being victorious, I saw myself sitting in the women’s bathroom with a cigarette lit, and a smug little smile on my unwashed face.

So what did I do?

I stayed in the car, like any mildly ridiculous woman-child would do. I held onto my ‘dignity’ (if that’s what you wish to call it) for one more day, and vowed never to leave the house without at least a bra on.

Lesson learned.

Because, Blueberry Scones w/Lemon Glaze.

With a spot of tea? Delicious! Diva makes these CONSTANTLY, and with Fall right around the corner I figured I would share. You lucky dog, you.

What You’ll Need: Scones

  • 2 cups of all purpose flour
  • 1 tbsp of baking powder
  • 1/2 tsp of salt
  • 2 tbsp of sugar
  • 5 tbsp of unsalted butter, cold
  • 1 cup fresh blueberries
  • 1 lemon, zest finely grated
  • 1 1/4 cups heavy cream (then a little on the side for brushing the scones)

What You’ll Need: Lemon Glaze

  • 1/4 cup FRESHLY squeezed lemon juice
  • 1 cup confectioners sugar, sifted
  • 1/2 tbsp unsalted butter, melted

Instructions, and stuff:

Side Note- Okie dokie, artichokie… Yes, I really do say that all the time, btw. Shrug. Anyways, here’s how to, and some pictures I decided to take while baking these. YES, they take time, and sometimes you have to start over because you don’t like the outcome, but they are extremely worth it. I promise you that. Just take your time, follow the instructions, and put on your fat pants/sweats for the amazing outcome. 😉

  • Preheat oven to 400 awesome degrees, and get out one medium bowl for the scones, and one small for the glaze.
  • Combine flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar by whisking gently. Take your cold butter, and grate it into the dry mixture.
Like so.

Like so.

  • Toss together lightly, so evenly distributed.
  • Grate your lemon very finely, til the while shows – get alllllllll of that lemony goodness.


  • Fold your blueberries and zest into the mixture..


  • Make a “well” in the middle/small hole, and pour your heavy cream in it – then fold just to incorporate – DO NOT overwork the dough.


  • Form the dough into around 10-12 mounds, and put on parchment paper, NOT wax. Parchment will make it so the bottoms do not burn. Because after all that hard work, that would suck immensely.
  • Leave in for about 15-18 mins, until golden brown. Take out, set on bakers rack, and let cool.


  • Take the left over heavy cream, and brush lightly over the scones, and wait to dry.
  • After everything has cooled, mix together your lemon juice, confectioners sugar, and unsalted melted butter. No lumps.


  • Drizzle lemon glaze all over those bad boys, and wait like 5 minutes to set.
  • DIG IN!

Let me know how it turns out, ladies/men! 🙂 I’d love to hear from you.

August is basically the Sunday of Summer.

Procrastination at it’s finest. August marks the time of year I suddenly remember everything I wanted to do over the summer. Weeks and weeks of plans going awry, and no one to blame but myself. Damn, I was supposed to be tan and gorgeous right now; instead, here I am all pasty and chubby with a huge zit on my chin for good measure.

I can’t be the only one with this issue? Next weekend we’re going to Camp where we can let the kids run a muck with plenty of sugary treats to fuel their obnoxiousness. But, instead of planning for solutions to the horrors that lie ahead, I sit back and breathe deep.

Because. They. Are. Just. Kids.

I will never, ever get them again at this age, and I refuse to ruin their fun so I can have it ‘easier’. Soon starts the dreaded “Back to School Shopping“, and when we ALL have to listen to our children try to beg and plead their way out of an education – bargaining with their lives, and expecting us to comply..

/evil cackle.

Muahahaha! Oh, you will go to school, my pretties… And you will make excellent grades or I will hide your precious remotes, and batteries… I will change the WiFi password (GASPS) and take that secret with me to my grave…

It’s time to set the shit‘lins up with school sports, time for activities to begin, and time for your forearm to get a good ol’ workout from swiping that credit card a million fricken’ times.

“Do the kids really need mouth guards? Really, wait – see, these are their baby teeth, they’re supposed to come out.”

….. FINE. $18 mouth-guards it is. Each fucking one. /rolls eyes

worriedI’ve been trying to figure out different ways to start being more ‘on my game’ when it comes to remembering everything I have to do for EVERYONE, since there’s no ‘honey-do’ list here. There’s just a shit, i have to do it all’ list. So, instead of sucking at life like I’ve done before – I’ve actually started PLANNING.

I kept forgetting small things – like, meeting with my counselor at 5 because I had to run to the grocery store 32 times due to not being able to grab everything I need in one trip. Well, you know, that would just make too much sense.

The Number 1 Lie We All Tell Ourselves:

– “Ill remember that, I don’t need to write it down.”

BULLSHIT, brain! You liar! LIES! I have not thought that once, without completely forgetting what the Hell I was falsely telling myself I’d remember. Seriously. Not once. So now, I am writing in this cute little journal the things I need to remember. Even things I like, or just little doodles because I get bored out of nowhere and need to entertain my toddler-like mind.

So far, so good. Things are going smoother, and I don’t feel like such a shit mother for not remembering things like my son prefers strawberry oatmeal over peach.

You know, because that’s important.

Wait, I need to write that down. But I could’ve sworn I did..

After darkness, the light follows.

I am the poster child for procrastinating my life away. At 29, I’ve accomplished basically nothing besides my sobriety, and giving birth to an absolutely amazing little boy who has the world at his fingertips.

Regrets are huge in the addiction recovery lifestyle, causing most addicts to continue using – the weight of the guilt overpowering the will to become clean and start fresh.

Honestly, I do have some regrets (who the hell doesn’t?), but mostly I am grateful for where, and who I am now. If it wasn’t for my crazy, horrible past, I wouldn’t be the strong-minded woman that I am today. My struggles and past experiences are a part of me, no matter how shitty they were, no matter how hard I wish that they weren’t, they aren’t going anywhere. Personally, I find it’s better to embrace them then try to fight against something that cannot be changed.

At 17, I was in a tragic car accident which left 2 of my friends permanently disabled.. I had survivors guilt for a long time, since mentally, I was fine. Or so I thought. I’ve broken more bones than most. I’ve fallen off cliffs, I’ve been homeless, and I’ve been in more trouble with the law than any respectable mother should ever be. I’ve lost friends to overdoses, to freak accidents, and to suicide because of their addictions… It’s a wake-up call every single time.

The turning point of my pointless existence happened when I found God – not when I hit rock bottom. I had hit that years ago. Shit, I lived there for 6 years. For a long time I resented what happened in my life, and couldn’t follow someone who was supposed to be my ‘savior’, supposed to ‘shield me from evil’. Where was he when I needed him? THAT was the damn question that continuously went unanswered.

Until recently.

When I was in inpatient, I was withdrawing so horribly I couldn’t sleep, my arms and legs were restless, my skin crawling constantly, and I was so damn exhausted from the chase.

The chase of getting the money everyday to get what I needed, the chase of finding the drug, the chase of that initial feeling of carelessness that you experienced when you first started. I needed something else in my life. Something was definitely missing.

Something big.

I laid there thrashing, and looked over at the night stand and saw the Bible. In a last attempt to get some sort of sleep for sanity, I begged Him to take away the pain and to help me get some peace. Some fucking rest. I pleaded, I sobbed. I snotted. I have never felt so low and pathetic as I did that night.

Amazingly, a few moments later, I was fast asleep – dried tears stained my face, and when I woke, I was still gripping the Bible like it was the hand of God itself… If that’s not a sign I needed faith in my life, I don’t know what is.

Now, I wake up every morning with a new found sense of ambition. This inner light that I can literally feel with every breath I take..

It’s about damn time, because I’ve been in the dark for far too long; it is indeed my time to shine.

#adultingishard lesson no.043 – The Sock Pile Of Death.

FEDUPThe never ending pile of socks. The ones that mock you from across the room, the ones that have no pair in sight, but deep down you know it’s match is in there… Waiting. Hiding. Lurking amongst the array of sizes, colors, and brands… Evil foot cover. I loathe you.

But, being someone who is attempting to Adult, shit has gotta be done. No matter how bad I want to pawn it off on little booger man with promises of ice cream. I mean… That wouldn’t be too bad, right? Socks matched, put away, and the kid’s happy eating ice cream. Win-win situation, people. But, alas, I’ll do it myself and wake up feeling like a better Mommy/Housewife for it. Right? No? I didn’t fricking thing so.




…belong in here.

Notice how the top picture has a sock in it that says Rebel? Yes, that one is taunting me. Mmhmm, you’re a rebel, I see that. No fucking sock to match you with unless it’s hidden between a sheet, or stuck between a couch cushion, or even perhaps turned into lint from the Washing Machine Monster – which is a story for another time.

I remember when I was younger, Diva would hand me a basket and tell me it was my chore for the day, and me being the little asshole I was, I’d just grab whatever sock was somewhat the same size and call it a day. I was 12, who the hell cares about looking good at 12? You were lucky if my hair was brushed, and didn’t have sap in it from the trees, or sand falling out of my clothes from the sand dunes behind my house. Socks were not on my top priority list. Hide-and-seek was, and this was cutting into my play-time, and I was JUST NOT HAVING THAT SHIT. Get outta here, socks. I’ve got awesome child-hood things to do. Memories to make, and crap.

So, of course I grew up throwing socks into a pile, and therefore having to do this stupid, stupid chore myself. Because JHubbs is for, (and I quote) “I do manly stuff, like take the garbage out, kill spiders, and scratch my nuts inappropriately. I don’t “match socks” or “do dishes”. That would be too helpful.”

Okay, so maybe he didn’t exactly say that, but it could happen.

Anyways – the moral of the story is, do not wait until the last minute to match your socks because then you’ll bitch at your husband for taking out the garbage and scratching his balls.

Or, something along those lines.