The Particular Art of Pissing People Off Without Trying.

Yall, it’s hot.

And with heat comes discomfort and with discomfort comes agitation and with agitation comes indignation and this all leads me to believe that I’m just a tolerated person.

It was said to me twice in life that folks really aren’t my friends, they just tolerate me.

So, I’ve deduced that in the best of times, I’m tolerable, and in the worst I am patently rage inducing and insufferable.

My lot in life.

I should write a book.

I piss people off without trying.

Truly.

I had a breakdown in my work bathroom (aka the best place to cry at work) because I just don’t feel like I can do anything right in my life.

I know I’m smart, and capable… but when it comes to application I always fall short.

Last week, sucked with my low point being getting read the riot act in front of God and everyone for mixing up two children’s names during attendance.

Same thing happened to me today because I was working on a deadline and declined to help someone, who’ve I’ve bent over backwards for, and they got pissed that the one time I declined because of said deadline I was apparently an asshole.

The perpetual asshole… which I try so hard not to be.

I love my work, I just hate working with other women… people… well, dudes are easy.

Apparently, I don’t know my job according to another staff member… told to me in front of God and everyone. Checked with my boss, and what she said ain’t my job.

God why am I weird. Awkward, unable to stick up for myself but still that asshole.

I got home and had a large glass of wine and contemplated my life and came up with two statistically significant patterns — can’t do shit right, and asshole.

Why.am I this way?

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Inauspicious

Good evening lovelies…

Been a pretty crazy week so far. Have a Hand/Foot/Mouth virus epidemic going on at my daycare.

Fun.

Yesterday, I got my dress in the mail… along with a summons for jury duty…

On the last day of our honey moon….

FML.

I mean getting married on Friday the 13th is bad enough… but jury duty.

This is also my first time ever getting summoned for jury duty.

Uhhh… yay me.

So, after some brain storming, and some realizations about the bureaucracy of marriage — specifically that a marriage license and a marriage certificate are two different things, we changed some plans.

Hokay!

Our county only does JoP weddings on the first, third, and fifth Fridays of the month. Ours was the second. HB knows the probate judge, went and talked to her about maybe an exception… and nada. So, we were just gonna go and do the thing, JoP or not, because we, having never been married, didn’t know there was a difference between the papers.

Apparently it doesn’t work that way.

So, Friday the 13th, were getting the license thing-a-majig, celebrating our eight year anniversary, then going about our business. For a week (doing my illustrious civic duty that following Monday) then doing the actual full court house wedding on friday, 7/20…

Then having a friends and family get together that afternoon at a local decent steak house.

Then we’re gonna drive to our motel on the beach and have a honey moon, returning from newly wed bliss on 7/23.

So, having said all that, we now have a week to celebrate our anniversary seeing as how our first date was 7/14 and our wedding will be on 7/20.

So, that’s the plan.

— Carolanne, HDH

It’s been a minute…

Sorry for my absence… it’s just been a lot.

My schedule changed to 6:30-3:30, and now I have to wake up at 5:15… and anything before 7 am requires an adjustment.

This last week has been insane — I left on Friday at 3:30 and we only had 35ish kids at our center. I came in Monday and there were 76.

Holy crap.

I had to go to Walmart to purchase formula, and I got about $300 worth… the woman in front of me in the check out asked, “Lordy, how many kids you got?”

“76”.

But on the home front, I am planning my upcoming nuptuals. We are now officially one month away from the big day!

We got my ring — a beautiful cushion cut white sapphire.

Please excuse my hairy man hands.

And I was going to wear this sleeveless white dress I got from Torrid, but then I saw my arms in the mirror and noped out on that one…

So, I’m going to order this dress this weekend:

I feel it is more fitting for a JoP marriage.

And that’s pretty much my going ons…

Also, I do have a new hobby — painting HB’S Warhammer 40k models.

— Carolanne, HDH

Okay, Fatass, Get Your Shit Together

Ugh. Went to the doctor yesterday, managed to not have to pay a $150 urgent care copay, and now I get 10 days worth of antibiotics and steroids.

Fun.

Also, a wake up call.

Remember those 40lbs I was all proud of losing last year?

My fat, carb loving ass, gained 30 of them back.

Time to get back at the low carbing again.

Damn. I wish I could be one of those folks who could shut down an all you can eat buffet and never gain a pound.

— Carolanne, HDH

Adjustments and Other Big Words

My older brother, Rob, is getting out of prison in September.

I haven’t written a great deal about my brother because it’s hard. I love him, dearly, because he is my only brother and he is my family.

Rob has not had an easy life.

When I made my surprise trip to see my parents after being sent on a work trip an hour and a half away across Orlando (which all I can say about that is I4 sucks — it is both under construction and despirately in need of construction). My Nana Rosie had been in the hospital the night previously, so it just made sense to bite the Orlando traffic bullet and go see them.

At least the view was nice.

Mom, dad, and my newly released from the hospital Nana Rosie got to talking about my impending marriage to HB and our plans for children.

Mom asked if I still had anything from my childhood. Truthfully, the only thing I have is a baby blanket my Nana Rosie crocheted for me. My mom pulled out this dusty old shoe box with some old moments she’d kept over the years, as moving around constantly and going through a foreclosure when you’re a kid will cause you to lose lots of things.

And this… is me and my hardened criminal brother.

That night, my dad and I got to talking about Rob’s plans — he was having foot surgery this month, because while making license plates at Smith State Prison near McRae, GA he dropped a box of license plates on his foot and it never healed right. He had to fight to get this surgery, even transferring to a more medically inclined prison in Waycross, GA over a year ago… and waited. Now with his imminent departure, he had to really buckle down on administration and the DOC to get that surgery.

If he waited until he got out, the cost would be astronomical. But the irony of it is, that if it had happened not in prison, Workman’s Comp would have covered it… but that’s a different story.

When Rob gets out, he is going to file interstate compact paperwork to go live with my parents in FL. My dad has a job lined up for him, and when he gets enough saved, he will move to a nearby efficiency apartment they have picked out. My parents are already bequeathing him my mother’s jeep, as she doesn’t really go anywhere or do anything.

See, my brother has never signed a lease. Had a car payment. Or done any other real adult things. Other than being institutionalized, he’s lived with family and family friends. He’s never been truly on his own.

That night, during my surprise visit, my dad had a few beers and told me about how all this started… well, to him.

We were living in some shifty apartments in Lawrenceville, GA. My brother had a school bus bully who would rough him up and sent him home with shiners and a busted lip. My dad pulled him aside and taught Rob to defend himself — take no shit. In the days following, it was not Rob who came home with a busted lip, but his bully… whose father showed up on our doorstep with his son and his alligator tears.

My dad explained the situation and there were words exchanged.

But after that, Rob took no shit and stood up for himself.

I remember later, he’d got in trouble for fighting and even bringing a pocket knife to school. Not the asshats who bullied him. The school called the house one day, and I picked it up. I couldn’t have been but 8-9 years old. I called to mom to pick up the other phone, but never hung up my end. I listened with my hand over my mouth to stifle my breathing, about the knife, the expulsion… the charges.

Rob got sent to juvie. When he came back they had to change schools… and again, the same thing…

The third time in juvie was after we bought the house in Monroe, GA.

See, my brother, being the bullied outcast, hangs out with other outcasts and does stupid outcast shit… like getting high on crystal meth and breaking into cars in one of the nearby, more wealthier subdivisions.

Again, juvie.

When he got out, it was around Thanksgiving of 2002 or 2003. He was 17, going to turn 18 that May.

We lived in a nicer neighborhood, apparently. I’d made friends with one of the neighbor girls. She was beautiful, and popular, and friendly to my face. She only ever came around when she wanted something

My brother had a crush on her. I had caught them kissing, some groping and all that jazz. One night, she was babysitting down the street. She called the house phone; I remember taking the call and passing the phone over. She asked Rob to visit her at our neighbor’s where she was babysitting.

That was a Sunday.

Monday morning, when I met her at the bus stop, she said my brother was being annoying.

I’d dismissed it. He’s always annoying.

Friday night, we went out for Chinese and when we got home, police cars and their blue lights suddenly surrounded our house and took my brother away in cuffs. The cops wouldn’t tell us anything but the words “child molestation”. We asked it it was the neighbor girl, and they wouldn’t tell us. My dad knew. My dad went to our next door neighbor, his best friend at the time, hackles raised and screamed at him. Cops pulled my dad away.

Turns out, she’d invited him over for canoodling. They did some heavy petting. She wanted to have sex. He didnt. She got pissed and told her dad that my brother sexually assaulted her.

I read her police statement and tore it apart. She lied and said she never kissed Rob, when I had physically watched them kissing and being handsy. She said he came over unannounced, when I had been the one to pick up the phone. She said he was apparently some sort of contortionist who fully inserted two fingers inside of her body for 15 full minutes, while she was wearing the tight jeans, fully zipped and buttoned up she always wore. My brother is over six foot tall and weighs about 220. He does not have small hands.

At school, it was a nightmare. Her being pretty and popular, and telling everyone got me blacklisted hard core. But people grew wise. Turns out my brother wasn’t the only person she tried that shit with. She would get handsy with other girls’ boyfriends, and got a reputation about her. Folks got wise. Mother’s kept their sons away from her.

My brother became a cautionary tale.

I found out later her daddy wanted to drop the charges but the DA or prosecutor or whomever just picked them up and kept them going.

But this, it fractured our family. I mean, we didn’t have much. My mom lost her job over the small town rumor mill bullshit, had a mental breakdown and got into hard drugs.

At the time, I thought she was possessed by a demon.

I was right.

I didn’t know about the drugs until after I graduated college. I thought she was seriously mentally ill, which she was and still is.

We were told that it it went to trial no jury would not convict him and he would get a minimum of 10 years. He plead down to three and 18 years probation… and a lifetime membership on the sex offender registry.

Because of one lying girl.

He should have just fucked her. “Statutory rapist” sounds better than “child molester.”

And he got out three years later in 2006. My parents had moved to Florida (first time) near my Nana Lynda. He had used an interstate compact to move down.

Until his paperwork went through, he stayed with my Nana Rosie briefly. Within a week someone posted flyers on every door in her neighborhood, emblazoned with Rob’s mugshot and the words “child molestation”.

Sometime during that time, he’d run into that girl’s dad and and gas station — her dad broke down in tears and apologized for everything. My brother hugged his neck, and told him he was forgiven. Her dad didn’t know what she was until later.

But he did not prosper when he got to Florida . His probation officer was some she-wolf who looked at him as some evil pedophile and an actual struggling human being. When I graduated high school in 2006 and moved down to stay with my folks for six months before starting university, his probation officer grilled him about our sibling relationship, my age (18, turning 19 in October), my purpose for being there.

He had a hard time keeping jobs, fell back on paying his probation, got violated, which in turn mucked up his interstate compact, and he was returned to Walton County, GA by some nice Federal Marshalls who bought him a Big Mac and a coke on the trip.

My parents soon followed back to Georgia. He couldn’t stay with my Nana, obviously. And my folks just kind of uprooted.

And he did okay. Got and job with my dad driving trucks after they got their CDL’s together.

The thing is — my brother only does well when my dad is around. He gets up on time, works hard…

But dad isn’t gonna be here forever.

My folks wanted to go back to Florida. My brother was stable enough at the time. But as soon as they left, he started hanging around bad people again… and he got in trouble again… over a stupid, pretty girl.

They were out drinking one night and thought it would be super awesome to go and confront his girlfriend’s friend’s boyfriend for cheating on her.

Long story short, badness ensued. The boyfriend stabbed my brother in the arm (aka permanent nerve damage) and in self defense my brother whipped out his unnecessarily large pocket knife and just Zorro’d the motherfucker. No witnesses, because my brother’s girlfriend was practicing fisticuffs on her friend’s boyfriend’s side piece, or whatever kids call it these days.

Legal shit ensued — “those don’t look like defensive wounds”, “he only got stabbed in the arm”, “on probation”, “aggrivated assault”, “sex offender”, “recidivism”, “plea deal”.

And almost four years later, here we are.

After all this, my brother has become someone I don’t like. I know that’s harsh and circumstantial, but he is bitter, angry, hateful, vindictive, depressed, needy, misogynistic. But, I love him. Because he is my only brother.

My dad constantly tells him, you need to cut the shit attitude.

I think he needs therapy when he gets out. And maybe medication.

But, as a family, we will support Rob. As we always have.

— Carolanne, HDH

Until the Drugs Wear Off…

Oy!

I feel like a bag of smashed assholes.

Been sick since Saturday.

We were supposed to go see my folks for the holiday, but felt kinda poorly Friday night. I’d had a sucky week between Snakey and the week being capped off by crippling IT issues of me three-waying our IT dude in NC (who promised to buy Bosslady and I lunch for dealing with suck fuckshit) and our ISP tech support dude legit pseudonym of “Steve” — I’m assuming because of his thick Calcutta accent he definitely was not a “Steve” — all while in a dusty closet filled with server equipment almost in tears because our org had deadlines we MUST meet regardless of the status of our internet. We have a Verizon hot spot — which can’t catch a goddamned signal from the tower, and it turns out our data system considers it “insecure” and refuses to connect… which tosses our idea of getting a laptop and visiting the golden arch burger place to leech off their dubious internet.

So, there’s that.

My logic that evening was to see how I felt the following morning and MAYBE make the three and a half hour trip to my parents with HB.

Negatory.

Woke up Saturday with a sore throat… not so debilitating, but enough to make me want to be around either of my ailing grandmothers and give them whatever I was incubating.

No worries! Gots lots of shit to do around here — finish painting the living room, mow the lawn, put together the flower bed I’ve got all the stuff for, etc.

By Saturday afternoon my body just noped out on me.

Spent the whole weekend laid up on the sofa, taking cold/flu drugs, napping, and alternately binging “Santa Clarita Diet” and “Star Trek Voyager”. The former I highly recommend, and the latter I recommend after season 4 (aka when Seven of Nine starts… and not because of the form fitting cat suits).

My company has an interesting policy — if you call out the day before or after a paid holiday, you ain’t getting paid for that holiday.

So, I hauled my sick ass into work and told my boss that if she decided to send me home, I wouldn’t argue. Turns out, I was very fucking needed today. And I did it — even though I tossed and turned all night, coughed my brains out, produced at least three quarters of a gallon of milky yellow snot mixed with blood, have little to no voice, the squirts (apparently all the decongestants are diuretics as an effort to dry you up and, well, that fluid has to come out somehow), and was generally a walking biological hazard. Fortunately I was on enough drugs to maintain a temp in the 99’s, but I had a massive case of the sweaty swamp ass chills.

I need to invest money in Ricola, kleenex, and Lysol.

And all my sick drugs have worn off… and I feel like a sack of tore up rectums.

HB is bringing food. I know beggers can’t be choosers, but I would love some goddamned egg drop soup, or hot and sour soup, or just an entire cheap Chinese buffet, but I don’t actually want to go to one because of the whole biological hazard thing… and needing pants. Restaurant workers tend to frown on people patronizing their establishment in their underwear and an oversized tee-shirt with no bra.

Ugh…

How was everyone’s weekend? Hope it was much better than mine! Seriously, I need to hear some awesome good things to live vicariously through.

— Carolanne, HDH

Shower Wine

God fucking dammit to hell and back.

*sigh*

Forgive typos. On mobile. Also have been drinking… therapeutically.

It has to be me. Seriously. I can be so perfectly fucking polite, kind, nice, supportive, and fake it until the cows come home and Pluto is declared a planet again.

But why the actual fuck do I have to earn the ire of every snakey as bitch I work with? Maybe I’m not fucking snakey enough to be in their snake clique or whatever.

Fuck.

Okay.

Story time.

At my workplace, I’m in charge of employee files and all kinds of HR shit. At any time, a person can ask to see THEIR OWN MOTHERFUCKING FILE. So, one of the girl that started the same day I did was having a hostile workplace situation in her previous place of employment. I had to call her references. She was curious and asked me what they said (because she is well fucking within her right to know) and I said, “they told me you aren’t eligible for rehire.” I did not provide this information without her soliciting me. She ASKED ME.

That’s it.

And let me express thoroughly — she’s super fucking able to look at any of the info in her file and read this information.

Any goddamned time.

We’ll call this girl Sweetie. Cause she is!

Sweety, whose supervisor is not my supervisor, mentioned it to her supervisor, who will be known as Snakey. Sweety was upset by what they said, naturally.

Again, Sweety is well within her rights to know what the fucking everything in her file said.

Snakey goes to my boss (and Snakey’s as well) and for a lack of a better term, tattles.

Bosslady says she’ll say something to me (never did) and meanwhile Sweety is upset because she thinks she got me in trouble.

Fuck.

That’s how you earn the ire of the goddamned office fucking bully.

Shit.

How do I do this every goddamned time?!?!? There’s something wrong with me.

Why!?!?!

Now Snakey is doing what Snakey office cunts do best… pissing me off and getting me in trouble.

God motherfuking dammit.

First it was her ‘not taking it the right way’ after I asked her not to print cause I had blue paper in the printer. She said I said “hey, don’t print cause there’s blue paper in the printer” bitchy, condescending, whatever.. I replied, I didnt want to be responsible for fucking up what she was printing, but nicer… cause I work in a place with kids and saying ‘fucking up’ is bad, m’kay.

Or when I went to our boss and she lied through her fucking teeth that she didn’t have a problem with me and her perpetual bad attitude is ‘the way she is”… after two weeks of her passive aggressive fucking sniping at me. She gaslighted, making it sound like I’m the crazy one because I actually pay attention to this shit. I document and I analyze.

Or that she “tattled” on me (which she says ‘were adults, you can come to me and I’ll come to you if we have a problem’ sort of hypocritical bullshit) that I didn’t know what a form was. Well, turns out that the reason I didn’t know what the form was is its because its not my fucking job, it’s hers. And I asked her three mother fucking times to show me what the form was, to see if it was my mother fucking job, and she ignored me each time.

No… absolutely no tension or negative feelings at all…. what so ever…

Ugh.

Or, even better, where she will gossip about me (even though we have a huge no gossiping policy) in Spanish to her two teacher buddies, that will no longer give me the time of day in spite of the fact I have been nothing but pleasent to them.

And I understand about 45% of that they say. They think they’re being sneaky because they’re taling in spanish, but bitch, I speak three motherucking languages pretty decently, and Spanish is one of them. I understand “ella is loca” and and don’t appreciate it directed at me.

Seriously, I had one of the children come up to me while i was doing counts crying, asking me to be picked up and soothed, and her teacher buddy told the child “she doesn’t want you” and took them away from me, screaming.

The actual fuck?!?!

But today is the cake.

Just ugh…

Apparently, she enrolled a child after I did counts, didn’t tell me, and they never got marked present. Sounds innocuous, yes. But then our Internet went down for the rest of the day and our head office blew up my boss, who was out of the office at a family function, and she got in trouble.

Fucking shit.

I took my blows. Snakey lied through her goddamned teeth, saying the child was added at 7am and not after counts. I promised it would never happen again and I would ensure all counts were correct no matter what

But now, head office will be all kinds of in our shit for the rest of the year… and she was gloating.

To get the child marked present, I had to call an out of town contact who would square things away in the system. Snakey told me to call the Lakeland office, after I asked for this persons cell. When I found out he wasn’t in his office after calling, I went to call his cell, which I had to dig for, and Snakey already had him on his cell phone (that she wouldnt give to me) and was just shooting the goddamned breeze like there was no care in the entire wolrd. I stood there and waited until she told me this child was squared away in the system — full 10 minutes — then called my boss when she was able to look in the system and confirmed this child was taken care of.

Fuck.

This has to be my fault. How do I end up with some female in the office always making trouble for me. Why!?!?!

I try my hardest to be kind, polite, professional, receptive.

This has to be my fault.

Statistically I can’t count myself out as a variable when i end up being bullied in the office at every single place I work at. The pariah… most hated.

There has to be something wrong with me. Maybe I’m broken or shitty or bad.

Sorry for the swearing…. and typos… and drunken tirade.

Fuck.

I didn’t want to write about this. I wanted to talk about how happy I am the floor is fixed or how beautiful the paint I picked out is looking in the living room or about how I’m going to buy my engagement ring next week (after having to sell my last one and feeling like a shitty human person for doing it) or how daddy-o is renting us a room on the beach for our honeymoon, or that today is my brothers birthday)

Anything but this…

Sorry. There’s something wrong with me. I must be a bad person.

— Carolanne, HDH