Ice cream trucks, changing careers and Marky Mark’s junk

So yesterday I had a meltdown of extreme proportions that was so dramatic that it had my Mr. H laughing, HARD, while I sobbed and fought to catch my breath like a baby.  And I don’t blame him.  I was acting like a child.

I was that six-year-old kid that is told they can’t play outside anymore when all their friends are outside and it’s summer and there’s a sprinkler to run through and then the ice cream truck goes by and you’re the only one locked inside, staring from the window, sobbing like a fucking trainwreck, flailing around on your bed like the goddamned world just ended while someone of an authority figure stands in your doorway and says the classic,

“You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep crying like that.”  Who knows what the fuck that even means but I always knew I didn’t want to be sick so I usually stopped crying.

Fuck, just writing this made me think of one of my MOST favorite Eddie Murphy bits from DELIRIOUS. HA.  It’s ice cream related so it kind of makes sense that I post this.  Actually, not really.

Anyway, back to the meltdown.  Ice cream was not going to work.  Not last night.  A fucking motorcade of ice cream trucks could have driven by and I still would have cried.  It was just that kind of day.  And I’m not a big cry baby, really, unless you count while watching episodes of The Biggest Loser or Extreme Home Makeover but shut up, those don’t fucking count because I think they’re FILLED with subliminal messages to make you loseyourshit on purpose.   It’s either that or I have a special place in my heart for fat AND poor people, yay me.

Anyway.  The meltdown was brought on by the latest episode of,

8 hours a day of motherfucking drama.

“Days of My Fucking International Twilight Zone Life” which is what I like to call my job sometimes because 1. It’s more dramatic than your mother in law and 2. The whiney bitch meter broke yesterday because estrogen was at an all time high in an all male office (me not included obviously).  Seriously.  And so.  As I gobbled down some mexican and chugged some cheap vino, my Mr. H was giving me the side eye.  He does this when I am especially belligerent and has a tendency to flinch a lot when I make sudden movements and so I knew he was calculating what it was going to take to talk me down.  I think when I started in with the declarations of people being dead to me he realized this was going to be *fun.   And so, in realizing the insanity of the situation he was up against, did some quick thinking and put on The Fighter, staring Mark Nice Package Wahlberg, and Amy Adams, who does a great Boston accent, to calm me down.  So there I am, whimpering away, curled up and watching the movie and in my head discussing a number of things.

1. Why did Mark Wahlberg ever do Funky Bunch?  Fucking christ, that was stupid.  What wasn’t stupid was him was packaging up his cock and balls like a Christmas gift in that Calvin Klein spread.

You're welcome.

2.  Is Amy Adams the one that married Borat?  Because I never understood that.  I imagine that gets old, as does the amount of hair he has on his body.  Or is that not her?  Either way, I like her hair.

3. Whatever did happen to Donnie?  Donnie was my least favorite New Kid.  He was always clearly the most white trash outside of ape boy Danny but seriously, the last time I saw him I think he was seeing dead people in that movie with Bruce Willis.  Oh wait.  I just googled him.  Thankthefuckinglord I now know what he’s up to.  “Currently, Donnie is the host of an internet radio show on Friday nights at 8pm PST called “DDUB’s R&B Back Rub” on Cherry Tree Radio.”  Of course he is.  Shit, I’d despise being the junk sibling.

4. Which reminds me that when it comes to twins, it is never good to be the ugly twin.  And you know everyone’s comparing you.

5.  Speaking of comparing.  Mark Wahlberg’s native Boston accent is so much better than Matt Damon’s and especially Ben Affleck’s.  God, Ben Affleck does a terrible accent which is so awkward because it’s your OWN accent. Shit. 

6. Fuck, back to the movie.  If I was a boxer, what song would I playing as I walk out?  Something fucking scary, that’s for sure.  I can’t think of any really angry songs.  Damnit.  I need to make an angry playlist.

And then I decided, two glasses of wine relaxed, that I am going to train to be a semi-professional boxer starting tomorrow.  The last time I decided to be a boxer (after that movie with Hilary Swank in it), I tried taking up jumping rope but that shit was a disaster.  Jumping rope is not for amateurs.   Well, it is a favorite hobby of young kids but shit, it’s no bar crawl. 

Anyway.  This brings me to today.

“You seem to be feeling better today.  What would you like me to make you for dinner?”  I have a very patient and thoughtful husband.

“I don’t care.  I want to go to the store.” 

“For what?  Food?”

“No, a punching bag.”

“And where are you going to put the bag?  Outside on the tree?”  Outside on the fucking tree?  Does that even make sense? 

“I don’t even know what that means.  How am I supposed to make it swing around and around and around fast if it’s bashing against the tree?  God, no, it’s going to be in the doorway of my office.”

“Oh jesus.  You want a speed bag.”  And then he looked at me like I was cute. 

Who in the Christ is that white bitch and who thought THIS match was a brilliant idea?

I’m getting that fucking bag and then I’m going to smash the shit out of it for hours or until it breaks or until I pass out.  I’d place bets on me passing out first.