Things Got Out of Control Last Night

I walked out of my bedroom this morning and the hallway looked like we had been robbed, except nothing was missing and the front door was still locked.  WTF?  I was home alone last night with the girls who are one and five.  I’m pretty sure the one year old had nothing to do with it since when she is up in the middle of the night, she assumes everyone else should be up too.

Me - Shylee?  Honey?  Do you know what happened to the hallway?

I walked towards her room and noticed that some expert ninja robber had also attacked her room.

Shylee - Oh, good morning.  (So nonchalant, and so Shylee.)

Me - What happened out here?

Shylee - (Still unaffected by the fact that our house is in shambles.)  Oh yeah, sorry.  Things got a little out of control last night?

Me - What happened last night?

Shylee - Ya know, we had a party and things just got carried away.  These kinds of things happen all the time.

Me - We?  You had a party with someone?

Shylee - Yeah, just me and the bears.  No biggie.

Me - The bears?  Like your teddy bears?

Shylee - Yeah, they are a riot.

Shylee proceeded to the bathroom and closed the door behind herself. 

What just happened?

Domestic Goddess PTSD

Tonight Shylee was taking her plate to the trash to dump the food left on her plate.  Eating everything on your plate is way over-rated, and even I am aware of my cooking skills, or lack of.  It wouldn’t be fair to her, or the lucky kids in Africa.  As she was taking it to the trash she dropped her plate smashing it into a thousand pieces.  I was across the kitchen and covered my eyes (for good reason).  When I looked out of behind my hands I saw Brian frozen in a Heisman pose holding Shylee up in his hand that wasn’t deflecting glass (or a football).

I cleaned up the mess while Mr. Heisman and Shylee supervised.   They’re really good at it.  While I was sweeping, it got me thinking about why I closed my eyes and hid behind my hands, my PTSD.  Last time Shylee smashed a plate, pieces flew everywhere, and I got a piece in my eye.  It was just a micro fragment, but it sounds much tougher if you leave that part out.  I’m fairly certain I developed dish PTSD.  As a safety measure, I decided it’s best I don’t do dishes.  Or laundry for that matter.  Just to be safe.

It got me thinking about my dish PTSD and if I ever had to discuss it with someone else with PTSD, you know like a WW2 Vet.

Me - I think I have PTSD.

Actual Hero - Yeah, me too.  I’ve seen some shit.

Me - Yeah?  I couldn’t see shit!

Actual Hero - Wow, what happened.

Me - I don’t want to talk about it (for embarrassment reasons).

Yep, that’s how my brain works.  I hear a dish break and I close my eyes and imagine myself talking to dead people.

Does the Carpet Match My Drapes?

I have considered just hanging out with other redheads because then there would be no "fire crotch" jokes, no stepchildren refrences, no friends with wimpy little tempers, and I could have an afternoon without explaining the whole soul thing.  But without my ginger-less friends, life would be boring.  First of all because if I only hung out with redheads, I would have like four friends; one being my mom and another being my daughter.  But the main reason I keep you blondes and brunettes around is because you are fucking awesome.  My friend Danelle sent me a link to a post called, "The 18 Most Offensive Things People Say To Redheads".  You can read it here.

 

And in other news of awesome redheads...

I could have told you that buddy.

 

Wutchagonnado? Not a damn thing!

March Mustache Madness

Sorry Riotters, I have been unbelievably busy lately.  Two kids, a husband that works nights, a full time job, and a pathetic addiction to The Walking Dead and Candy Crush have sucked up every free minute I had.  So since I was so busy, I thought I would create a new blog.  Yep that’s how my mind works.  The new blog is still being developed, but check it out here.  No matter how busy I am, My Ginger Riott is very important to me. 

I don’t usually blast my upsetting life events out there, but today I just can’t hold it in anymore.  Today is March first.  That means today is the first day of the much hated (by me) Mustache March.  Guys spend the whole month growing caterpillars on their faces.  Lovely. 

Last year Brian won Best Overall Mustache at work during the March Madness (the one you don’t have to have talent to participate in).  Does he have a thick glorious mustache you ask?  No.  His mustache grows in blonde, except for that two inches just under his nose so from any distance further than three feet he looks like a fucking blonde Hitler.  Oh, did I mention we live in Germany?!  Claudia, the secretary who works with Brian is German.  Every time she would walk past his door she would just glare at him and snap her two fingers under her nose as she toed past.  Lovely, Brian.

It’s not just me that hates Mustache March.  The majority of women who are married to men who participate in Mustache March hate it too.  This is the month of sleeping on the couch (it’s like camping!), kisses on the cheek instead of the lips, and a month of mean mugging to the back of said mustache wearers head.  Some women retaliate by not shaving their legs.  I did this once, when I was young, and very very retarded.  Not only do I have to deal with Mr. Prickle Lips, I can’t cross my legs or put lotion on.  Heaven forbid my legs touch on accident.  The moment those babies come in contact, my body reacts like a spider just crawled up my leg, which also looks like a stroke/seizure hybrid.  

Sure mustaches look great from a distance.  Who doesn’t make steamy eyes at Tom Seleck (Magnum PI age)?  But the only reason women like his mustache is because there is no real chance of ever making out with him.  One, because he hasn’t been a hunk in about 20 years, and two he has security for such tests.  No one likes being stabbed in the face, and that’s exactly what you get when you kiss a mustache man.  A thousand little prickles in the face for one kiss. 

Guy at work today:  Real men have mustaches.

Me:  Debatable. I say real men shave that shit off.

Guy at work today:  What about Chuck Norris?

Me:  That’s different.

Guy at work today:  What?  Why is he different?

Me:  Because it’s fucking Chuck Norris.  He is like the poster child for gingers, and when you kiss Chuck Norris, you would expect to get stabbed in the face.  Chuck Norris will stab you in the face with his face.  He’s Chuck Norris.  That face stab will also make you instantly pregnant.  That’s just what happens when you kiss Chuck Norris.

For the rest of the men out there, unless you walk your big blue ox to the woods where you chop wood all day, please get rid of your face hedgehog.  Only 30 more days to go.  I’d really love to stay and write more, but I mustache.