Tuesday, April 11, 2017

The Husband...An Ongoing Saga

Tonight The Husband had his first experience with Press N Seal...

If you haven't experienced Press N Seal, it's basically a souped-up version of old fashioned plastic wrap. You know, the kind your mom used to think was the greatest invention since waxed paper and tin foil? The stuff that would only stick to stuff you didn't want it to and was nearly impossible to straighten out when it got into a wad straight off the roll.

Well, imagine that stuff magnified tenfold...or a hundredfold (must pause here to Google what a "fold" actually is...).

Don't get me wrong, the new stuff is fab. It just takes a little getting used to. A little patience. Once it sticks to itself, you might just as well throw it away and start over. It takes way longer to unstick it from itself than to throw the wad away and start afresh.

Tonight after dinner, I'm sitting in the chair fat, dumb, and happy after feeding my face when I notice The Husband trying to tear a sheet off the Press N Seal roll. He has his back to me and the noise is what snagged my attention. I never really knew how noisy the sound of plastic wrap not tearing could be...and you can't rip it unless you use the handy little serrated edge...which he hadn't noticed.

After a few seconds of muffled hysteria, I started accidentally snorting. Watching his arms flailing up and down with each unsuccessful attempt to rip off even a snippet of wrap, I expected to soon witness The Husband throw the box in the trash...after throwing it on the floor in disgust. You could hear the wads of Press N Seal making that sucking noise when he tried to unstick it from itself, and straighten it out into some kind of single semi-usable layer.

I soooo wanted to grab my phone and hit the "video" button...and almost did. But then I felt guilty because there he was standing in boxer shorts and a baggy tee shirt...not exactly his "best look"...plus he heard me snorting hysterically so the element of surprise was kinda lost. Uncontrollable snorts of laughter sort of eliminate the possibility of surreptitious actions. Just a little friendly advice...in case you feel the need to act surreptitiously. I know I often do.

Imagine my surprise when, after several loud, thrashing, seconds, The Husband actually stopped and looked at the box.  And Halle-fucking-lujah, he found the serrated edge.

He never ceases to amaze me, that man of mine...triumphing in the face of adversity, and forcefully mastering that little bitty cardboard box of plastic wrap...it's The Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. I actually did Google the "fold" thing. Remember, in the "olden days" when we had to actually look up that kind of shit in a book???

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Misophonia...WTF???

So, I got a text from Old Chix, Scari, a while back. She thinks I might suffer from Misophonia. I had no idea what this was...as usual...so I had to turn to Google for help...again, as usual. I really don't know what I did before Google. You can find out pretty much anything. It's pretty amazing when you stop and think about it.

Misophonia, it turns out, means hating sound. But if you suffer from this syndrome, you're basically annoyed by certain sounds. Which, I'm guessing, applies to every single adult on the planet. I could be wrong, but I'm obviously not the only one who suffers from this "disorder" since there are several websites dedicated to helping sufferers such as myself...and the rest of the human race. I'm thinking pretty much everyone on the planet has some kind of sound or noise that they hate. Don't they?

Why does there have to be some "diagnosis" for every little quirk people have? Can't we just allow people to be quirky? Why do we have to make them feel like they're crazy just because they have a little quirk? We all have 'em...I mean, some quirks may be worse than others, you know, like way, way worse. For those with extreme quirks, maybe a little dose of psychotropic medication is in order. But for most of us, our quirkiness is what makes us, us...

There was one link to a website that offered a "self-test"...along with a disclaimer at the top of the page that there was no current diagnostic test for Misophonia. That's one of those things that makes you go...hmmmm? They've invented a test for the untestable syndrome. The website also suggested you should make use of the information and tools available to see if you do, in fact, suffer from this malady. You know, Google, Facebook, forums, etc. All the usual self-diagnostic tools...

You might wonder why The Scari One would say such a thing...you know, basically saying I'm nuts. Well, one night on an Old Chix adventure I had to share a hotel room with her. The next day I merely mentioned that her breathing was annoying and asked if she could please try not to breathe next time we have to share a room. Some people just have no sense of humor.

The Scari One thinks she's a silent sleeper. Why? Because her dearly departed husband, Richard, told her she was. I could see why she might believe that, were it not for the fact that Richard was deaf as a door knob. Jeeeeez, the guy had to have closed captioning on the television because he couldn't hear it...so it stands to reason he wouldn't hear any annoying, squeaky, high-pitched nose-air noises in the middle of the night. But believe me...they're there...in all their annoying glory.

Once you hear those sounds, those rhythmic little nose-air noises, you focus on them...and you can't un-hear them. And when you try to synchronize your breathing to the same rhythm, the person making the fucking noises all of a sudden changes rhythm...All you want to do is sleep but the fucking noises won't stop. You don't even remember picking up the pillow and walking over to the sleeping offender, gently placing it over her face. All you're thinking about is making the noises stop...

Okay, obviously I didn't actually do this...but I kinda wanted to...it's the Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. Guess who else suffers from Misophonia?  Whoopi Fucking Goldberg, that's who. Yes, the Dreadlocked Goddess from The View is a fellow Misophonia sufferer. So at least I'm in good company...

P.P.S. Note to self...must make sure to take psychotropic meds next time I'm forced to share a room with anyone who makes annoying nose-air noises while they sleep.


Friday, December 2, 2016

Turning The Table

I never know if it should be turning the tables or turning the table. Since I didn't know which was correct, I flipped a coin (in my head) and guessed. The singular won the toss. We oldsters are easily distracted by shit like this. And now that I look at it, doesn't it seem like "table" should be spelled t-a-b-e-l? It rhymes with "label", so you'd think it'd be spelled the same wouldn't you? Odd that I only just noticed this after decades of reading and writing it. This happens to me more than I care to admit.
 
Usually, when I go somewhere with Scari, of Old Chix fame, she's the one who publicly embarrasses me...by something she says or does. If not about me, then directed toward me. For example...

One time a couple of decades ago, we were in a fairly nice department store, in the fragrance section. You know how they have testers sitting on the counter? Well, next to them were the "real" products, one of them being a scented stick of deodorant. Scari picked up the deodorant, popped off the lid, hiked up her shirt and started to stick it under her arm...like she was gonna use it right there in the fancy perfume section. 

Once she got the desired response...which was my horrified gasp, she cackled like an old chicken and put it back. She does this kind of shit all the time...loudly...and in front of people.

Today when we were at Costco, it was really crowded. Maybe because it's getting close to Christmas, or because it was the first of the month. In all honesty, if I'd remembered it was the first of the month, I never would've gone shopping. Crowds annoy me. Mostly because they cause lines...long, slow, checkout lines. Truth be told, I never really shop...I buy. I go into a store usually knowing what I'm there for, I get it, and I leave.  Easy peasy.

When we were headed to the checkout area, winding our way through the masses, I noticed a display at the end of an aisle. 

"Do you need another box of Preparation H?" I asked Scari...loudly, and in front of people.

I know it was really immature of me to  do this, but I have to admit, it was really satisfying...it's The Stoopidist Thing.


P.S. She tried to hit back with the "do you need Depends"? But it was weak and too slow...she might as well have said, "oh yeah, well so?"

Thursday, November 24, 2016

Budding Picaso's? Mmmm Not So Much

Everybody seems to be an artist these days...or at least they try to be. I'm no exception. Even knowing full well, and completely accepting the fact, that I have absolutely no artistic ability whatsoever, I got sucked into going to a painting class for adults...one that included free wine. Have you been to one of those classes? They're usually held at a bar or restaurant, where they can serve adult beverages. It's a great way to cater to the wannabe artist in all of us. Especially those of us who can't even draw a decent stick figure...that would be me.

I have family members, who shall remain nameless lest they be forever humiliated by having their names associated with yours truly. They decided to take a road trip vacation, driving from Georgia (the state) to Dallas (the city...in a far away state). They're posting their comings and goings on FB and it's fun to see what they're doing on the way. I'll call them R&D, even though they have nothing to do with research and development, which, when I say the letters is the first thing that comes to mind. R is the husband and D's the wife...just in case it needs clarification at some point.

R has been a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan...since the Staubach days...and that's a long time ago. D, his wife, is a Cowboys fan too. I'm not sure if she's really a true fan, or if it's just her way of surviving life with a Cowboys fan. In any case, she's nothing, if not a good sport...and quite possibly the nicest human being on the planet. No joke... she is the definition of "nice". Always. She's never an asshole.

Sometimes I wonder what that's like? Never being an asshole. Sadly, I'll never know. In an effort to be truthful, I'm really not that sad about it.

Being a really thoughtful husband, R booked a class for he & D at a local paint & sip place in Dallas. It was D's birthday and the class looked to be geared toward couples. I'm just guessin' at this because each of their "paintings" was half of a "Fall In Love" theme...with a fall colored maple leaf on a wood background.

These gigs always have a "theme" picture that everyone paints. Usually, in the area where I live, the class is sponsored by local vineyards and/or restaurants, or a combination of the two. It's good for both businesses, and everybody really does have a good time.

When you sign up, it's billed as a sip & paint complete with wine and snackage. The one I went to provided a tiny plastic cup of wine and dubious snackage...nothing that I would consider proper snackage. You know, like Triscuits or Wheat Thins alongside a cheese and salami tray? Or a big bowl of chips & salsa. No, this one had cheese, but it was weird cheese...the oddly flavored cheese favored by the granola eating crowd...cheese with pieces of "stuff" in it.

When the class starts, the instructor guides you through the creation of your masterpiece. If you finish the thimble sized glass of wine you can buy more, which almost everyone does. What amazed me was how serious everyone was about the painting. I was in the minority thinking that the whole painting thing was just an excuse to eat and drink...kind of like a Bunco game.

People were painstakingly trying to copy the instructors' exact brush strokes. I had to quit looking at my neighboring artist's paintings because they were obviously offended when I laughed. But it was funny...and really hard not to laugh. Here's a bunch of grown assed people thinking that what they were doing was so fabulous that hysterical laughter was verboten! There must be no mirth allowed during masterpiece creation!

When everyone was finished they were all so proud, showing off their paintings. Everyone was complimenting each other on how fabulous their pictures were. Honestly, I'd say 99.9% of the finished masterpieces looked like a kindergartner painted them. No shit.

Everybody thinks as they get older, they get smarter. Nobody gets smarter, they just learn more stuff. You're born smart or you're not. Some people are really, really smart, some people are moderately smart, and some people...are just the low watt bulbs.

There were a lot of pretty smart people in my painting class. All oohing and awwing over their paintings...smart people who should've been able to see with their own fucking eye holes that their painting abilities haven't improved since they were five years old...it's the Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. The class was fun and if you get the chance you should go. Just be sympathetic to oddballs, like me, who find it physically and emotionally impossible to contain their laughter at your toddler-like painting attempts.





Saturday, November 12, 2016

Some Things Just Make Me Laugh

Even when I'm sitting alone in the living room, sometimes I laugh out loud. Tonight, for example, I was watching a comedy show on TV. There were a bunch of different stand-up comics and one guy, Tony Roberts, made me laugh out loud.

Please forgive my eternal immaturity...it was about farting. He was talking about farting while you're sitting and having it come out like a bubble in your jeans. And I've had that happen!!! I started laughing out loud.

But I'm actually kinda curious about where it goes. I mean you can feel the bubble and it goes up or down the ol' butt crack. Does it pop? I've never heard the pop, and now that I think about it, I'm not really sure I've ever felt the pop either.  When I accidentally blow spit bubbles, there's a definite pop...which usually results in little spitlette droplettes going unplanned places. This is always embarrassing.

Fortunately, I've never had anyone around when this sort of fart bubble thing happened...and until I heard this guy joking about it, never really gave it much thought. Now that I know it's happening to other people, though, I'm gonna have to start asking some questions. Old Chix beware...

Like, for instance, if the bubble never popped, would there be no fart stink? Or, is the entire bubble composed of fart stink? If it's the latter, would that make it spread eau de flatulence all along its path? Would it be better to move a little in an effort to try to pop it and let things air out more quickly?

What if your jeans are too tight? Would that make an eterna-bubble that would never pop until you took your pants off? I mean, it would be okay if there was no stinkum until poppage had occurred. Of course, then you'd probably walk funny, like a penguin, trying to prevent poppage. Other bubble farters would probably recognize this poppage preventing gait and laugh, secretly, behind your back...or butt...thankful it wasn't them doing the penguin walk.

Do you think this is how the term "bubble butt" got started?

Obviously,I have way too much time on my hands...it's the Stoopidist Thing.

Saturday, November 5, 2016

Food Rubes

Have you ever had a friend who made you feel like an idiot? Maybe it was intentional or maybe it was completely unintentional. It happens. I'm sure I'm guilty too. I guess we probably all are at one time or another.

My friend, Char, who is famous for having undesirable snackage, likes Thai food. Not long ago she took one of her friends to a Thai restaurant where she thought the food was really good. Her friend was not impressed with the cuisine and made it clear that the food in the restaurant Char liked was sub-standard. In a nutshell, this friend told Char that if she ate Thai food at the place where the friend ate, Char would then know what "good" Thai food was.

"It was some Thai restaurant in Boise," Char said.

"Boise"? Unable to keep the WTF tone out of my voice as my head jerked around to look at her.

"Idaho?" thinking that maybe, just maybe, there could be a Boise somewhere in Thailand.

I mean, I might have been able to understand it if she'd said the best Thai food was in Bangkok, but Boise, Ida-fucking-ho??? Which is pretty much what I said.

"I know, huh," said Char, we were both laughing at this point, "It made me feel like such a rube".

I started laughing even more because "rube" isn't generally a term that's widely used these days.

"You're a Food Rube" I said, realizing that I, too, had similar experiences. "We're both Food Rubes."

Who would've thought that Boise Idaho was the Mecca of Thai cuisine? Certainly not Food Rubes like us. But then, we Food Rubes aren't generally known for our sophisticated palates, now, are we? If we were, we wouldn't be such a thing as Food Rubedom, would there?

Not to wax philosophical or anything like that, because, in addition to our unsophisticated palates, we Food Rubes aren't generally sought out for our philosophical genius, but it seems that good food is an individual palate matter.

Most people have preferences, spicy, mild, sweet, sour, hot, cold. It's kinda freeing having the unsophisticated palate of a Food Rube, and just be able to shove everything in the ol' pie hole at once, and call it good.

Living in the land of Food Rubedom allows one the freedom to think that KFC is the absolute "best" fried chicken in the world, or that a double Quarter Pounder with cheese is at the top of the burger ladder. Only a true Food Rube would think that peanut butter, lettuce...iceberg, of course...and mayonnaise on bread is a truly wonderful sandwich.

I'm always surprised by people who, when they were kids, loved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or bologna sandwiches and then when they become adults, think they're inedible. When you ask them if they want one, they look at you like you just asked them to eat a dog shit sammie. Why is that? And they always make that scrunchy face...like they just smelled a fart or something really gross. All of us true Food Rubes know that face well, don't we? Or they do that ultra sophisticated "universal barf gesture" where they pretend they're sticking a finger down their throat and gag themselves.

Happily, one of the benefits of getting old is that you don't care so much what other people think. I mean, there are way worse things you could be than a Food Rube. You know, like a rapist, murderer, pedophile, or even, God forbid, a Food Snob...it's the Stoopidist Thing.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

Two Old Women Get On An Elevator....Based On An Actual Event

Two old women get on an elevator. I call them old...because if you're over 60, you're old. And anybody who tells you different is a big fat fucking liar! Why the big deal about being old anyway? It's not like you're dead. You can still have fun...it's just that what you think is fun and what someone, say 20-30'ish, thinks is fun are probably way, way different.

The old gals checked into the hotel earlier in the day. Not a cheap pay-by-the-hour kind of place, mind you, it was a pretty upscale hotel. And, just to be clear, they've probably never stayed in the pay-by-the-hour kind of hotel in their life.

After dinner, they went back to their room on the third floor. Being old means you're almost always in for the night by 8 o'clock. There are exceptions, but they're few and far between. They finished dinner around 7'ish and decided to call it a night.

Not long after the gals left the hotel restaurant, an old guy walked in. He looked a little scruffy. White hair poked out from underneath a well-worn baseball cap, and a long sleeved denim shirt covered the belly hanging over his Levis. He was alone and even though he looked like a hobo, he wasn't...he'd just finished work for the day. After a quick dinner all he wanted to do was get up to his room on the third floor and go to bed.

Once they got back to their room, the old gals flopped down on their respective beds. Bedspreads down, of course, because since they don't get washed after every guest you know they're filled with other people's cooties. Just for the record, I spent decades laying on bedspreads in hotels until someone pointed out to me the fact that they weren't changed and cleaned like sheets after each guest. It kinda grossed me to think about all the other people's bodily secretions that I've probably laid on throughout the years. But then I decided to look on the bright side and reason that it's helped build my immunity system and is probably one of the reasons that I don't get sick a lot. Though, even after using this Pollyanna outlook, I now turn down the bedspread, because it's just too creepy to think about laying on some stranger's dried bodily secretions. It's one of those "ewwwww" things.

So anyway, the old gals futzed around for a while and decided they should live a little and go down to the hotel bar and have a drink...or two. I mean how often did they get away like this? So back on went the shoes and out the door they went.

In the elevator on the way up to his room, the old guy stood there with a toothpick in his mouth. He felt a rumbling in his belly, a little pressure building...

When the elevator door opened on the third floor and he started to walk out, he looked up and saw the two old gals waiting to get on.

"You should probably wait for the next elevator" said the old guy to the two old gals.

They smiled at him and walked into the elevator...

"Oh my God!" said one of the old gals, and as the doors started to close, trapping them in an elevator of fart stink all the way down to the lobby they heard the old guy laughing.

Yes, this is the man of my dreams in action. I am sooooo thankful that I wasn't with The Husband when he did this...it's the stoopidist thing.