The F*ck It List

I’m old, man.

I have less taste buds and muscle mass, but I also have way less shits to give about things I used to care about. Or rather “things I didn’t care about but cared about people knowing I didn’t care about them.”

I know, right?

Let me tell you, getting old is great, but apathy is liberating! Why haven’t I tried this before? While some people are busy cultivating a stupid bucket list, I’ve been pecking away at my F*ck It list. Go ahead and judge. Seriously. I no longer care about your judgement!

I now present to you:

Shelly Mazzanoble’s Official F*CK IT LIST:

The Mediocre Outdoors

I didn’t move to the Pacific Northwest for the hiking, skiing, or five active volcanoes. The first time my friend Dan and I tried this “hiking” thing so many of my friends were fond of, we headed to Mount Rainier (where all beginners go for their first hike) and devoured two footlong Subway sandwiches, seven pounds of trail mix, four power bars, and a gallon of Gatorade before we completed one loop of the parking lot. We seriously spent more time debating banana peppers with the Subway Sandwich Artist than exploring the majestic wonder of the PNW.

This is sacrilege, people. Like a real, big affront to the Teva-wearing, tent pitching, fly-fishing men and women who surround me. It’s offensive. Like wearing mesh panel convertible pants to a wedding. I mean, who does that? Oh, I don’t know– maybe EIGHT PEOPLE AT MY WEDDING!)

I adore a good, cold day drink on a nice, covered patio. But I also like going home– to sleep. In my Heavenly Bed. And eat my perishable food that has been kept cool in my dual cool zoned refrigerator while sitting in front of a fully-charged electronic device. When it comes to the great outdoors I’m definitely less Bear Grylls and more Naked and Afraid. (Only not naked because I also love wearing clothes. Especially ones that don’t sound like a cacophony of 7,492 shushing librarians when I walk.)

Suck It, Adventure

There was a time when it felt like my duty to throw myself out of an airplane or take a spin on that stupid roller coaster atop of the Stratosphere casino in Vegas, or even want to go to Vegas, but I’m over it. There’s plenty of ways to enjoy myself that don’t involve a 30-page waiver and a camel-toe inducing harness.

On vacation in Australia my more adventurous friends wanted to go white water rafting. I agreed because I liked the sound of stories that began with, “That time I went white water rafting in Australia…” (Non-adventurous people still like sounding adventurous.)

The night before, it rained like the wrath of 1,000 pissing horses. So much rain we thought our trip would be canceled because surely the entire continent would be untethered from its island roots and float even further down under. But alas…turns out lots of rain only meant lots of water and lots of water meant gushing, surging roaring death traps, which apparently some people are into. Our Class 2 introductory rapids just got promoted to Class 837.

I was a hot, bloody mess the whole damn time. I’m surprised they didn’t just find a nice, muddy bank to pull over to and leave me to the yellow-bellied sea snakes. I mean, I wasn’t helping. In fact, I was actively not helping because “helping” required you to keep one butt cheek on the edge of a very slippery raft and the other butt cheek dangling inches over the angry rapids. Umm, no. My butt cheeks were planted in the middle of the boat, which kind of screwed things up for the rest of the passengers. The guide kept yelling at me to GET UP AND PADDLE, but I pretended I couldn’t hear him what with those roaring rapids in my ears. Was that even English he was speaking? Hard to tell. And get this! Everyone else was having a blast! Even the kid who broke his collarbone was having a grand ol’ time as paramedics belayed him up a cliffside. (I was so jealous of that guy.)  

When it was finally over, the tour group took us to a bar to get us drunk enough to buy the commemorative photo package. When I went back to the bar for my sixth attempt to block out the day’s events, the photographer grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed in my face.

“YOU!” she yelled. “YOU WERE WONDERFUL!”

“What the hell?”

“Your face!” she screamed. “So expressive! I could have shot you all day.”

MY FACE??? My face that was expressing horror and terror and impending death was f’ing wonderful? YOU WERE STEALING THE SOUL OF A WOMAN RIGHT OUT OF THE HANDS OF THE GRIM REAPER! How dare you exploit my pain and suffering for your profit AND YES I WILL BUY THE WHOLE PACKAGE!

Upside Down You Ain’t Turning Me

I’m with you kids from Stranger Things. I ain’t going near the Upside Down. I don’t like somersaults, headstands, hanging by my feet and most of all any activity where vomiting is a probable side effect. I always take Dramamine if I’m approaching anything resembling water. I don’t eat adventurous food (unless you consider a salad bar adventurous and then screw it. I’m all over it.) And you will never find me on a cruise because HELLO! Come on up to the Lido Deck for your complimentary norovirus RIGHT F’ING HERE.

You know where else you won’t find me? Casually licking the cotton candy from my fingers as I wait my turn to ride the SCREAMING RAPTOR FLAMING GATOR DOOM DEATH FIRE COASTER. Oh hells no. Those days are over. Or rather day because it only happened once. It was Darian Lake 1988. I skipped school with my brother and his friends to spend the day at the amusement park. Somehow my brother convinced me to ride an upside down coaster. Now, I love a good roller coaster. Fast, wooden, rickety, side-ways tilted, neck jostling. But I do not appreciate being flung around in a loop-the-loop. Know what your life looks like as it passes before you? It looks upside down.

Somehow I survived, but I was clearly confused and suffering a rare form of Stockholm Syndrome towards The Viper. I went on the damn thing again. Ugh! And that was the last time ever. The only corkscrews I enjoy these are the ones that unplug my favorite Trader Joe’s tempranilo.

HELLicopters: The Devil’s Transport

Basically if I lived in Adventure Bay and needed to get out of a jam, Skye would be the last member of the Paw Patrol I’d want saving my ass. Look, Skye, it’s not because you’re a squeaky voiced, goofy-grinned, talking dog. It’s your prefered method of transportation. I don’t do helicopters. Not even hot pink ones. Just go get Rocky or Zuma or even Mayor Goodway, ‘k?

Helicopters are like super drunk people who can’t walk a straight line and need to lean on telephone poles and other drunk people to stay upright. There’s no good reason (other than aero-mechanics–but, whatevs!) why they should stay airborne.

We went to Hawaii for a babymoon and thought it would be fun to do a helicopter tour. Why look at a waterfall from the ground when you can soar through the mist 4,000 feet above? And because we were stupid jackasses with terrible judgement (see: BABYMOON) we chose the doorless option.

First shitty thing to happen was having our weight WRITTEN DOWN ON AN INDEX CARD and propped up on the instrument panel so the pilot could tell the bloated, insecure pregnant chick when to shift her burgeoning weight to her left ass cheek. You see, weight distribution matters on a helicopter because they’re assholes. I’m pretty sure Marlene from Columbus, OH didn’t want me to know she weighed 183 pounds and I sure as hell didn’t want her to know I was a pregnant stress eater. Also, doesn’t the pilot need to actually read those instruments he so carelessly covered up? How am I supposed to trust this guy? And how did I gain 8 pounds before the end of my first trimester?

I treated my first and only chopper ride much like how I treat snorkeling: DON’T LOOK DOWN DON’T LOOK DOWN DON’T LOOK DOWN! Who cares if that’s where all the good stuff is?

 

Clowns, Chainsaw, and the Houses They Live in

Aw piss off, carnival haunted houses and the seasonal lunatics who work there! They couldn’t have considered Cinnabon or a Dick’s Sporting Goods as a viable career alternative? If I wanted to pay money for people smeared in novelty make-up and tattered pants to yell in my face, my son would have his own PayPal account.

A few friends and I thought it would be fun to visit a haunted house sponsored by the worst radio station in the county. That should have been our first clue. The second clue should have been the sounds of people literally shitting themselves from inside, but nope. Still thought I could totally handle it! Spoiler alert: I couldn’t. I’m a chicken shit. I yelled like an awkward, overdramatic B-movie queen understudy who was a stellar method actor.

Know what happens when asshole carnies hear fear? It makes them hot and sweaty. They want more. Out come the clown pants wearing maniac revving the chainsaw in your face. Out come the cold spaghetti on the back of your neck. Out come the zombie surgeons and throat-slit starlets and decapitated doll heads with their bleary stares. These schulbs make it their minimum-wage mission to hunt you down, corner you in a cobwebby corner and breath in your ear. F’ing assholes jerks. Not today, Chuckie! Nobody puts this baby in a corner!

Tanning My Hide

Back in my impressionable teenager days, the most important thing you could bring home from vacation was a suntan. The quest started before you even went on vacation.

Step 1: Purchase a package from a tanning booth and stop there on the way home from school every single day for the 32 days leading up to vacation.

Step 2: Once you built your base tan, sit in the sun every single day from 8:30-5:30 until you look like a vintage rugby ball.

Step 3: Visit the tanning booth at least 13 more times when you get home to really seal in those UV rays.

It was hugely stressful to make sure you CAME HOME WITH A DEEP, DARK SAVAGE SUNTAN. I had to be the MOST HEAVILY PIGMENTED PERSON IN SCHOOL or I might as well just eat a handful of boogers or say no to alcohol at the homecoming dance. LOOOOOOOOOOSER!

Now fast forward a handful of decades later when the effects of Young Shelly’s SPF -40 Floridian Spring Breaks started to surface. Literally.

One day I stumbled into a skin care event at a department store. I was immediately ambushed by a woman in a lab coat.

“Let’s analyze your skin!” she said, pushing my neck into a little white box.

I had some time to kill and she was wearing a lab coat so I let her.

Inside the box was a little, mirrored device that transported me to the 10th level of hell. Clearly I had been here before because the face I saw reflected was the love child of Carol Channing and a cat’s anus.

“WHO’S FACE IS THIS?” I shouted at the woman in the labcoat.

“That’s you, sweetie!”

“But what are those around my eyes?” I screamed

“Crow’s feet,” she said.

“And THOSE?”

“Sunspots.”

“EEK! What are those holes?”

“Those are your pores. Gnarly, right?.”

Curse you, young Shelly and your stupid tan accelerator! (And curse you, Lab Coat Valley Girl!) Young Shelly left me with this crepey, discolored, freckled swath of skin that was going to turn to dust and fall off my bones the next time it rained.

Nowadays when I go near the sun I lather up the SPF. If I see the beginning of a tan line or a new freckle I immediately run indoors and repent. Do you know how hard it is to return from a South Florida vacation even whiter than how you left? Hard. 

Take Me Out to the Ballgame, Where I Shall Sit on My Ass

Get behind me, gym class! I ain’t playing you no more! Softball was the bane of my school-age existence. I would immediately develop a stomach cramp and hives on days we were forced to play ball, which still wasn’t enough to get me out of class. I can’t hit. I can’t catch. I can’t throw in a straight line unless I turn my body 45 degrees. I’m that uncoordinated.

I tried to be on a team when I was 10 and the only time I got on base was when I deliberately walked into a pitch hoping it would end my career. Turns out I didn’t need to be that dramatic. My parents were very supportive of my decision to hang up the cleats and spend the rest of my summer watching soap operas and making macrame plant holders. Watching their daughter suffer through a sporting activity was worse than watching her intentionally get hit with a softball.

I Like Bad Taste and I Cannot Lie

I’m a devoted member of Bachelor Nation. I follow every Housewife on Twitter. I’ve been known to cry watching Say Yes to the Dress. But did you know I have terrible taste in music too? It’s true!

The other day at work I was listening to a random Spotify playlist and this amazing song came on. I checked who the artist was and was pleasantly delighted!

“Hey!” I shouted, forgetting I had headphones on. “I like Selena Gomez!”

“Stop talking,” my co-worker said. “Stop it right now.”

Gentle co-worker, I’m 184 years-old. I DON’T CARE! This Selena girl is going places!

I like boy bands. I still seek out that MMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmBop Hanson song at least once a week. And thanks to the movie, Sing, Quinn and I have almost daily dance parties featuring Taylor Swift and Carly Rae Jepson. Why didn’t I ever appreciate the genius of “Call Me Maybe”? It’s brilliant!

I dance like nobody’s watching and sing like… an asshole. But I also love like I just don’t give a damn and live like a liberated mother f’ing who just happens to be listening to the Backstreet Boys. Seriously, it’s amazing. You should totally try getting old.