Scribbling Dame

Preposterous Pondering.

Sweaty Bridesmaid and Fucking Up August 28, 2012

Filed under: SuperWoman Syndrome — Scribbling Dame @ 12:02 pm
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I was in a wedding this weekend. The couple are some dear friends who are awesome. The wedding was awesome, but I realized I was a complete wreck about it leading up to it.

Dear God please don’t let me fuck up this wedding…

With your own wedding you are nervous about what will go wrong and all the last minute details you still need to handle in only 24 hour days. However, you aren’t worried about messing up–it’s your own wedding. Any little mistake you might make will be the cute tidbit of personality that, along with the gazillion details you’ve planned for months, will make your ceremony stand out. Plus, almost everyone at the wedding loves you and /or was hired by you, so they will let it go.

When you are in someone else’s wedding, if you fuck up, you are FUCKING UP SOMEONE ELSE’S WEDDING! Which means, depending on the magnitude of said fuck up, you could ruin the day and married life of your beloved friends and your fuck up will be FOREVER BURNED IN THEIR BRAINS not to mention captured on YouTube, fifty iPhones and a professional photographer’s portfolio.

So here is me, realizing this about a week prior and knowing my history of fucking up. I don’t fuck up often, but I tend to fuck up in really dramatic, intense moments or in really awe-inspiring ways.

Here are some examples, both involving deaths and pets.

1. I accidentally let my best friend’s dead grandma’s bird out of the house. We tried to get the fucker back inside but were too late and ended up watching it be devoured by a small dog in their neighbor’s yard. This was the equivalent of watching their grandma die again. Funny now. Major tragic fuck up then. I still hate fucking birds.

2. My friend’s dad passes unexpectedly. I rush over to take care of her kiddo while she packs and neglect to close their gate. Dog gets out and we spend hours trying to find him. We see him once, but he takes off (fucker). It’s 100 degrees. We eventually have to tell my friend that in addition to losing her dad, she may have lost her first-born hair baby too. She has to push back her flight to her hometown. We find dog sitting under a tree hours later. This is just now hitting inside joke status, but still makes my stomach turn to think about it. This is why I basically only like my dog.

So, when I fuck up, it is rare, yet epic. And this is why, besides heat, I was sweating like a Republican at a Women’s Convention at my friend’s wedding. Alas, all went well and I only made one teeny weird mistake that was totally fixable and only a few of us noticed. <Relief sigh>.


Fuck You Fish Lady October 1, 2010

Filed under: Mommy Issues — Scribbling Dame @ 10:41 am
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I went to the pet store today to buy a fish for my friend’s birthday–if you knew her you would know this is the perfect gift. Anyway, I stupidly brought along Muffin, failing to recognize that the cuteness of her desiring a pet fish would deplete my fair supply of “nos” that are provided to all moms when they leave the hospital.

So, I find myself at the counter ruminating to the check out girl that I can’t believe I am buying my kid a fish, since it’s like paying to add more chores to my already overwhelming list.

Do you know what that twat says to me?

“It’s really not that much work to own a beta.” She then proceeds to tell me, step-by-mother-fucking-step how to clean a god-damned Beta bowl. No lie. A play by play. What idiot doesn’t know how to clean a beta bowl?

I am shocked, on many levels, but I am a gracious person (outwardly, to strangers at least), so I take the time to explain to her that 1) I do in fact know how to clean a Beta bowl since I have owned many in my life, including a college fish that–no lies–lived for like six years through dorm life and weeks of no food. It was indestructible.  It was also really cute because when I would come home it would swim around in circles, so it had personality. 2)I was merely referring to the fact that I am already swamped with things to do and am willingly heaping another thing which I may or may not accomplish and which will result (or not) in added guilt, which leads to vodka and counseling. You know, hypothetically speaking.

She stares at me with a blank expression at which point I realize I am putting a wedding dress on a dead horse. My guess is she does not have kids. Or much responsibility, besides feeding betas and berating weary working moms by explaining that taking care of them is easy.

My new chore’s name is Friggit.


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