Old Chix - III

Sunday was champagne brunch with the Old Chix (OC) at which mass quantities of food were consumed by all. We also consumed mass quantities of alcohol but fortunately were able to remain in our assigned seats. Nobody ended up passed out on the floor. Thank God. Not that that usually happens, but sometimes it could.

We had all the regulars there, me, Em, Elmo & Cee along with occasional OC, Lo, and new OC, Tee (who happens to be the oldest and looks younger than all of us...I secretly hate her guts..not really...okay maybe just a little).

Em was slightly crabby having had only a couple of hours sleep before rising to make herself beautiful for the get together. Which she succeeded, fabulously I might add, wearing an oversized grayish blue sweatshirt, blue jeans, and pink (yes pink) Uggs. I was particularly impressed with her fashionable garb. I was dressed similarly, except I had on black shoes.

Em is the same OC who watches a marathon of “Bridezillas” and still has the audacity to make fun of me for watching “Real Housewives”. I should have reminded her that “people who live in glass houses”...unfortunately, I didn’t think of it quick enough. That always happen...I never think of a snappy retort until two days have passed and it’s way too late...and since I’m old & have no memory, I can never remember the snappy retort that might work in another instance when I need it.

I think that has something to do with long & short term memory. You know how you’ll put something in a specific place that you’re sure you’re going to remember...keys for example..then an hour or so later, you can’t remember where you put them? Well I always thought that it was just the short term memory loss associated with old age...sort of a pre dementia phase of life...and eventually, when whatever I’d forgotten got to the long term memory portion of my brain, I’d remember. I was looking forward to all this great stuff I’d someday remember..names of people I see every day..money I put away for “a rainy day”...the fucking keys I can’t find...get the picture?. Then I started asking how long it took for something to go from short term to long term memory. Nobody could tell me...soooo...I turned to my old friend, Mr. Google...and guess what? It’s just a matter of seconds for a memory to go from short term to long term memory. So all that stuff I forgot is apparently gone for good. I don’t know whether to be bummed by this or whether it’s a good thing...

Also along for the ride in this pre dementia phase of my life is the inability to focus...which is why I’ve apparently gone off on a tangent about memory loss and strayed from the Old Chix gala....sooooo back to the Old Chix.

Cee & Lo (not to be confused with that rapper dude...these are old white wimmin), the fashion plates of the group, both dress to perfection wherever they go.  The rest of us...mmm...not so much.  Plus they're way more mannerly than the rest of us...

We spent three hours at that buffet...eating and drinking the whole time. One of the things I really like about buffet’s these days is I don’t have to drag out reading glasses to see what’s on the menu. I can just go get in line with a plate and heap food upon it to my hearts content, bypassing the yucky stuff like bran muffins and loading up on the yummy stuff like bacon...and tri tip...and chicken fried steak...and bacon...and mashed potatoes...and fried shrimp...and broccoli beef...and apple pie...and banana pie...and macaroni & cheese...I actually ate all these things, cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. It didn’t seem nearly so bad until I wrote it all down. I’m such a friggin’ pig. You would think, by the way I eat, that I must have suffered some sort of food deprivation as a kid, wouldn’t you? Nothing could be further from the truth.

So before we get to our little foodfest, Em tells me she has a “new app” (she’s a gadget girl)on her phone...it’s some kind of “sound app”...as in “fart sounds”. She’s planning on activating it during the brunch. I think it’s a fine idea so after we’ve all had a little champagne she starts activating the “fart sounds”. Unfortunately it didn’t sound like someone was really farting, it sounded like a fake recording of farts. She & I laughed. Nobody else seemed to think it was as funny as we did. Cee & Lo (again, not to be confused with the aforementioned rapper dude) didn’t really laugh...Lo in particular seemed a little “above” our apparent eternally immature sense of humor. It would have been really funny if it’d sounded like “real” farts. I can’t help it...farts are funny.

I know I'm going off on another little tangent here, but since I’m prattling on about food... have you noticed that York Peppermint Patties (fun sized)are much flatter than they used to be? The diameter is bigger but the patty is flatter...I bet they’re trying to gyp us into paying more for less in some way...like they did when “they” quit making half gallons of ice cream...but charged the same price.

After the brunch I emailed Em to see if she wanted to go to a Xmas party that a friend of ours was having. I usually don’t do things like that but thought it might be fun to get out of the old comfort zone for once. Now she’s the one who’s all sweaty about whether she should go or not...what she should wear....jeeeeezzzzz...apparently I’m not the only one...it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S.  This time, I wasn't the one who left our little gala with her foot in her mouth.  We were talking about planning an out of town OC trip and Tee said she would have to see how her mom was doing (she's really, really old) before she could say if she'd be able to join us.  So Em decided to open her mouth and insert her foot....

Em:  "Well, yeah, unless she dies."

Tee:  Nada...zip...zero...crickets...she covers her face in horror. 

I, on the other hand, laughed because if you had seen the look on Tee's face when Em said that about her mom dying...it was fucking hysterical.  She looked shocked, like she wanted to laugh but knew she shouldn't, and horrified at the thought, all at once.  It was worth the price of admission and then some. 

Merry Christmas

Family Fun

We went to the SIL’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. She doesn’t live far so it’s not like it was a major undertaking or anything and I like her and the rest of The Husband’s family so I was happy to go. Plus, I didn’t have to cook.

The SIL lives in an area of the county that’s largely populated by oldsters. Sort of a “retirement” community...a Habitat for the Elderly if you will. Many, many blue headed drivers bustling to and from the Post Office where they pick up their all important junk mail then rush to the grocery store to get canned soup and stool softeners. There’s a routine and it’s the routine that matters. The routine must be followed. The Husband is big on routines. I’m still on the fence trying desperately to lean away from the dreaded “routine” lifestyle. I may be fighting a losing battle but I keep trying.

The drive was uneventful thanks to Xanax and alcohol. The Husband wanted to drive and his son, the BBS (Brother of the Bad Seed), rode up with us. Hence the need for Xanax...not the BBS, simply the fact that The Husband was driving. The Husband fits right in with all the other blue head drivers in the SIL’s landscape. He’s a total booberdoober who thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to drive at least five miles per hour under the speed limit at all times regardless of the fact that he’s holding up traffic for miles. It makes me crazy. I complain about this on a regular basis. Just for the record...The Husband hates my driving too. He says I drive too fast. One time he told me he hates it when I drive his precious Homobile because he ends up “hating my guts”...those were his exact words...I just laughed....and just for the record, I didn’t take any Xanax before we left and I only drank after we got to the SIL’s house...but I should have.

After about an hour of white knuckled passengeritis on my part we got to the SIL’s house. She loves, loves, loves entertaining...and I have to admit she’s really good at it. She’s the Martha Stewart in the Habitat for the Elderly and she shines. She’s kind of a youngster in the land of oldsters...she’s in her early sixties.

The group for dinner was mostly family but there were some of the SIL’s friends and neighbors too. It was a bunch of old people...the youngest person was the BBS and he’s in his mid thirties. We ended up socializing for about an hour before the dinner was actually ready. I had a couple glasses of wine and chatted with some of the other ol’ wimmen. Most of the men gathered together and talked about “man stuff”...most of the wimmen gathered together and made fun of the men talking about “man stuff”. It’s always the same thing.

Then dinner was served. I ended up sitting at a table of ol’ wimmen and sadly, I fit right in. It was fun, we laughed, and talked, and laughed. Then one of the ol’ wimmen, a friend of the SIL, sitting next to me farted. She just sat there and let one rip...and acted like it didn’t happen. The expression on her face didn’t change one bit. I didn’t know what to do. I looked around to see if anyone else heard it but everyone was acting like they didn’t hear anything. Were they just pretending they didn’t hear it? Was it possible that nobody but me heard it? Now, it wasn’t loud enough to rattle the walls or anything, but come on...I can’t be the only one who heard it. Fortunately there was no major stench involved because if everyone started smelling it and nobody heard it, they probably would have thought it was me.

Then just a few minutes later, one of the family members sitting to my right...who shall remain nameless...farted. WTF??? Again, no change of facial expression. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was being punked. Is this what happens when you get really old? Do you just fart uncontrollably? Do you just get so hard of hearing that you think if you can’t hear it nobody else can? That if you don’t let your facial expression change people will think they didn’t really hear what they thought they heard?

While all this is happening I’m dying inside wanting to laugh and the first farter gets up and walks to the counter to get something and when she’s about three steps away...tiny steps mind you...she farts again. WTF???? And nobody acknowledges it. Nobody looks at each other in surprise, wanting to laugh...and believe me, I’m lookin’ for at least one face who’s heard the same stuff as me...and nobody’s acting like they heard a thing...nada...nowhere...

Now I’m wondering...do you just reach a certain age where you can’t control your sphincter muscles enough to prevent gas from slipping out at inopportune moments? Or, and this is what I’m hoping for, do you just get to a point where you don’t care. Can it be possible that I’m going to reach an age where I can just fart freely no matter where I am instead of doubling over in pain because I’m holding in copious amounts of gas?

For the life of me I can’t imagine getting together with the Old Chix...and having one of us just raise a cheek off the chair to let one rip...and nobody acknowledging it. No matter how old we get I can’t imagine that they all wouldn’t bust up laughing at the offending farter.

I know I shouldn’t worry about stuff like this, but I can’t help it...it's the stoopidist thing.

Grocery Shopping

Usually I love grocery shopping...because I love food.  What I don't like are crowded stores.  I try to shop in the early morning or late evening just to avoid crowds.  Yesterday, the day before Thanksgiving, was horrible.

The Husband and I have to go have family fun with his side of the family this year.  I like his family so it's not a big deal.  Plus, I don't have to cook the whole dinner.  I did, however, get instructions from the SIL (sister in law)to bring a dessert.  No problemo...PW pound cake coming right up.  The only problem is that the last time I made it the crust stuck to the bundt pan.  Now I'm paranoid that it's going to stick again and that the cake's going to be ruined.  So off to the store I go to buy different cooking spray.

I get to the store and immediately realize I've chosen poorly.  The parking lot is full.  Fortunately I was in the car and not the truck so I could squeeze into a smaller space.  My plan is to get the spray and get out...pronto.

I usually grab a cart only because I know that once I get inside a store and don't have a cart, I immediately need one. The first hold up was in the shopping cart area where there were really s-l-o-w people.  Not old, just the meandering sort who have no idea that there are other people behind them waiting to get a cart. These people annoy me...not the waiters...the meanderers.  I don't think that's really a word but I don't care.

Finally a cart is in my hands which fortunately, since I didn't want to take the time to check, has all wheels functioning in sync.  So I think maybe this will be an okay trip.  I usually check to make sure the carts roll properly because I hate having one that has a sticky wheel that always wants to pull you to the right or left and you have to fight just to go in a straight line.  I also hate the carts that make noise with each turn of the wheel...sometimes it's a loud squeak, sometimes it's a thump, thump, thump, with each turn...it makes me feel like E.F. Hutton...and that people are staring.  I'm sure it's all in my imagination but I can't shake the feeling.

I wind my way through masses of people oblivious to the fact they're blocking isles... kids running lose with snotty noses knocking shit over... old folks shuffling along... young folks ignoring their kids with snotty noses knocking shit over, all doing their best to make my quick little trip an hour long torture fest.

I grab the cooking spray...and a few other necessities...at least they seem necessary at the time...in hindsight, they probably weren't...anyway I'm off to the checkout. This is one of those large discount food stores where you unload your groceries onto a conveyor belt and bag your own stuff.  Lines were a mile long.

In the line next to me were two old ladies with painted on eyebrows, bright blue eye shadow, coral lipstick, and pin curls...not carrot red either, solid brown...sisters as I was soon to find out.  When a clerk came and grabbed the one in front to open a new checkstand, I ended up behind her.  The other old lady looked at me and, of course, I felt guilty so I asked her if she wanted to go ahead of me.  Old Lady #1, hereafter referred to as #1, thanked me and told me that Old Lady #2, hereafter referred to as #2, was her sister.  Yadda, yadda, yadda...just go lady, I'm in a hurry (to myself, of course...to her, I smile and nod).

#2 gets her order paid for and rolls her cart to the end of the belt and #1 puts her stuff on the belt.  While #1 is paying, I start unloading my cart.  There's a rhythm to this.  I have a whopping four items.  After paying, I look and see that #1 & #2 (kinda sounds like I'm talking about peeing & pooping now...doesn't it?) are standing at the end and just gabbing.  Neither of them is bagging their groceries.

The cashier, who's probably in her early twenties, sees that the oldsters are holding up the line and asks #1 to please bag her groceries.

Apparently #1 thinks I've complained or am in some way responsible for her mild reprimand by the cashier because she starts ripping plastic bags off the little rack that holds them and throws them at me.  She doesn't say a word but glares at me making a scrunchy sphincter face with each toss (four in all).  #2 glares at me making the same sphincter face and now I can see the sisterly resemblance...thankfully #2 doesn't start pelting me with plastic like her sis.  Fucking hags.

Part of me wants to laugh, part of me wants to tell her to fuck off, and part of me is mortified because I'm sure everyone watching thinks I must have said or done something horrible to this poor old lady to make her behave like this.  Honest, I was just standing there fat, dumb, and happy, minding my own business.  I didn't even complain to the cashier about the Hagathas holding up the line.  Jeez.

In the end I used each of the four bags ole Sphincter Face threw at me, bagged my four items individually, and slunk out of the store hoping to get to my car before I inadvertently pissed someone else off and they started throwing solid objects at me.

I knew it was a bad idea to go to the store.  Looking back if I'd just walked into the store without stopping for a cart, picked up the one item I needed, paid and left...I would have avoided the whole embarrassing bag throwing hag episode...it's the stoopidist thing.

Trying To Be Sympathetic

Occasionally...okay, frequently, I put my foot in my mouth. The other day I had a friend coming over to ride with me after work. I got there early, saddled the horses, and was riding when she got there.

This friend, I’ll call her Em, is a teacher at a continuation high school for troubled teens. These are kids who have trouble fitting in at “regular” high schools for various reasons...some which I think are valid, some are not. The point here is not to get into whether I think that a number of kids these days are raised to think “everybody’s a winner” and that they are entitled to everything their little hearts desire without having to work for anything. The point is made only to show that I’m a little less sympathetic to the plight of Em’s “kids” than she is.

So anyway, Em gets there and brings the horse she’s gonna ride out where I’m riding. I can tell something’s wrong so I ask the dreaded question...

Me: “Is something wrong?”

Em: “I think I’m gonna cry.”

Me: “Why?”

I’m thinking to myself WTF am I gonna do now??? I hate it when people cry...I never know what to say or do to make them feel better. AND even more selfishly, I think...now I’m not gonna get to finish riding my horse...how friggin’ selfish is that??? I’m scum...I know it.

The problem is I’m not big on public displays of emotion. It makes me nervous. I’m sure there’s something screwed up in my psyche that makes me feel this way but like I said before, I never know what to say or do to...and as you’re about to see...it shows. Plus, every time I get nervous, I tend to laugh. It’s really hard to keep a straight face when someone’s crying because they usually look soooo ugly with their face all screwed up and snot coming out their nose, eyes all puffy and red. Personally, I look like a salamander when I cry so I know whereof I speak.

Em: “One of my kids killed himself”

Me: “Oh no” (Yes, it was the best I could do on short notice.)

Em: “I was fine at school and held it together all day but now it’s...” and the tears start

Me: crickets.....I don’t know what to say...I do however, think to my self...selfishly I admit, I wish you’d gotten it all out at school...

Em: “He hung himself” Then she tells me about the kid...he’s the kind of kind you love and hate...took care of his grandma, parents left him...really sad.

Please note, I realize the tragedy this is and that she’s really feeling bad so I, being the eternal Pollyanna (hard to believe, I know...but it’s true), try to find a bright side.

Me: “Maybe he wasn’t really trying to kill himself, maybe he was doing that auto erotic thing and just accidentally hung himself."

I’m thinking at least it would be better if he died accidentally while having a little freaky fun than that he was so despondent he felt there was nothing to live for at such a young age. Looking back I may have chosen poorly. Hindsight is always 20/20...

Em looked up for a second and then said “nah, I don’t think so”. She had stopped crying...probably in shock that I would suggest something like that...

It didn’t even really occur to me that it may have been a little inappropriate until I was retelling the story the next day at work and the Princess looked at me horrified and said “You really said that?????”.

Geeesh...try to make someone feel better and you’re scum...don’t try to make someone feel better and you’re scum...either way, I end up being scum. My apologies to anyone I have offended in the past, present and future.

On a lighter note, I went into the bathroom at work the other day to pee and accidentally farted...audibly...OMG, I was mortified. Being a mature adult, I stayed in the stall until everyone else had left, then I rushed out and washed my hands and left before anyone else came in. I had to wait a long time in that stall...I think the lady next to me was a sneak a pooper...it's the stoopidist thing.

Another Scooter Person

So, what happened was...I’m driving down the road, fat, dumb, and happy, and as I drive past the Qwiky Mart, there’s a Scooter Person with a surrey type cover over her chair. I guess it’s the Scooter Person version of AC...(I know...I’m going to burn in H.E. double hockey sticks for that) and she’s towing what looks like an ottoman behind her scooter...and her lazy ass friend is sitting on the ottoman. WTF???? It’s the Scooter Person Train...headin’ into Qwiky Mart to stock up on cigarettes and Big Gulps.

Now, I know it sounds like I’m constantly slammin’ Scooter People, and sometimes I am. But it’s not the ones who really need them that I complain about. It’s the dumb ass compadres who climb on board because they’re to fucking lazy to walk...and they could...those little scooters don’t have a “high gear” you know...you can walk along side one easily.

A friend of mine saw a Scooter Person tip over as she was leaving a gas station one day. She rode her scooter down to get her daily Big Gulp and pack of cigarettes and when she tried to go out of the parking lot she tipped over and fell out of her scooter. My friend and some other people helped her back up and into her scooter, but what she was most concerned about was losing her Big Gulp. It was the last of her dinero and she bought cigarettes and a Big Gulp. (By the way...being a complete nicotine addict myself I totally understand the cigarettes...not so much the Big Gulp though.) My friend went inside and explained what happened and the clerk replaced the soda. The Scooter Person had her addictions satisfied and went happily on her way...

So to all the Scooter Person passengers riding on the Scooter People Train...I’d just like to say...GET OFF YOUR LAZY ASS AND WALK ALONG SIDE YOUR FRIEND. There, I said it...and I’m glad I got it off my chest...it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S. I realize my bastardization of the Spanish language is incorrectly punctuated...I can’t figure out how to make the little squiggles and I don’t have time to figure it out...

Ten Second Rule

I was sitting at my desk at work and, as usual, nibbling on various foodstuffs...this time it was a semi-healthy version of trail mix with blueberries, currants, cashews, almonds, and yogurt chips that taste like white chocolate...when I dropped a yogurt chip on the floor. I picked it up, annoyed that I’d dropped my favorite piece and threw it in the garbage can.

If I’d been home, I would have picked it up, blew the dust...or God knows whatever else may have attached itself to it off, and eaten it. You know, the Ten Second Rule. Which by the way, is a stoopid rule if there ever was one. And if the Ten Second Rule applies at home, why doesn’t it apply at work? You never see people at work applying the Ten Second Rule...only in the privacy of one’s home does it apply.

Do we think that nobody at work knows we use the Ten Second Rule at home and they’d be horrified to learn that we’re a bunch of white trash slobs who eat off the floor when nobody’s looking? I bet the most hoity-toity among us would wrinkle their nose in disgust if we applied the Ten Second Rule at work but would be right there with us in the privacy of their home scarfing the last bit of a Hershey Bar from their floor.

I don’t know who thought up the time limit for the Ten Second Rule. Does it really matter if something has spent a couple of seconds on the floor? Is it less dirty than if it’s been there for twenty minutes? It just seems wrong, doesn’t it? I mean, you’d never walk across your floor, see some M&M’s under the table while you’re vacuuming, reach out and grab ‘em and eat ‘em before they could get sucked up into the Dyson, would you? Of course not...all because we’ve been led to believe that if you don’t see it fall, retrieve it before the allotted ten seconds is up, and blow it off with the poisonous gas we exhale into the atmosphere, it’s no longer fit for human consumption.

If I actually took the time to think about it, the floor at work is probably much cleaner than my floor at home. I have cats and dogs in and out of my house all the time. But still...depending on the foodstuff of the moment...I’ll observe the Ten Second Rule at home.

I have to admit the content of the droppage has much to do with whether or not observance of The Ten Second Rule can be followed. I mean, nobody in their right mind is going to eat a gob of oatmeal off the floor because it’s texture invites foreign substances (like cat hair...dog hair...dust balls) to cling to it.

You could blow like Katrina and still not feel like you’d done a good enough job to actually eat it.

Moist foods are definitely not good candidates for observance of The Ten Second Rule. Unless you happen to be a kid...they don’t care...they’ll pick up ice cream off the floor and eat it. It never seems to hurt them either, does it? Of course, mom’s far and wide cringe when they see them do this and nearly gag when they have to pull the hair out of the kids mouth that attached itself to the fallen ice cream.

I think I’m going to test observance of The Ten Second Rule at work and see what people do. Just to see if people will start talking about how I picked up food off the floor and ate it. Then I’m going to start going to the bathroom...walk into a stall and wait for someone to come in...then I’m going to let them see me leave without washing my hands. I wonder how long it’ll take before the Bathroom Police start tattling to co-workers that I don’t wash my hands.

It's the stoopidist thing...

Odds N Ends

Went riding with OF (Old Friend of Undesirable Snackage fame) today.  Great ride.  I took the Cartoon Dog with me...she's afraid of everything...the dog, not OF.  Anyway, after our ride, OF did not try to feed me hummus...she did, however, try to make me eat spoiled watermelon and grapes (which she knows gives me the scoots...the grapes, not the watermelon...I know...TMI).  This may be getting to be a habit for OF.  She offered Blondie some salad one time...made of liquid lettuce...you know, the kind that's been sitting in the crisper (aka/rotter) for too long in a plastic bag, and turns liquid with age??  Note to self...always be suspicious of OF's offer of snackage after a ride...

On the way home I went through town and passed two, count 'em, two large Scooter People chugging along down the busy main drag (actually their motorized scooters were doing the chugging, not the Scooter People themselves).  Now, call me crazy, but shouldn't Scooter People be subject to traffic laws like any other vehicle?  These people were driving their little motorized wheelers directly into oncoming traffic.  I almost hit one when he got close to the white line.  Okay, maybe it wasn't that close, but it startled me enough to make my hands tingle...that's what happens to me when I get startled...my hands tingle...weird, I know.

What happens if one of the Scooter People hit your vehicle when you're at a stop sign or stop light?  Do they have insurance?  I'm thinkin' it's highly unlikely...and let me tell you, the way our cars are made these days to dent and cave in to the least little pressure, a 500lb Scooter Person plowing into your fender would probably cause a serious amount of damage.  Think of the carnage...to the vehicle I mean.

I know this is wrong on soooo many levels but this is the kind of stoopid shit I think about...so beware of the Scooter People roaming the streets of your city and give them a wide berth. It's the stoopidist thing.

P.S.  Apologies in advance to all the safety conscious Scooter People who may have been offended by the contents of this post.

Why??

Why do they now make plastic bags that require scissors to open?  I made a cake this weekend (PW Pig Cake...good) and the recipe called for a yellow cake mix.  Easy peasy, right???  Wrong...

They still make it easy to open the cardboard box holding the dreaded plastic bag inside which lies the precious cake mix, but once you get past the cardboard unless you have scissors or a knife...forget it. 

Not only is the bag made of untearable plastic, but the glue holding the top of the bag together is so strong you can't even pull the top part apart.  Oh, I'm sure Hulk Hogan could do it...but for the regular Joe, or in this case, Jane...it's impossible.  Is this really necessary????  I think not.

Everything these days has to be hermetically sealed for "safety"...even a wimpy little bag of M&M's at the checkout stand has untearable plastic.  Fortunately these are still sealed with a "weak" glue that lets you separate the top by pulling on each side as are Lay's Potato Chips...(Not that I have personal knowledge about this or anything.)

Occasionally I try to pull a bag apart just out of spite...just to prove that I can do it...I huff & puff...veins pop out on my forehead...and finally it gives...but by then, you're pulling so hard that when it finally gives, the contents of the bag go flying out all over the place. 

So they make the plastic bag holding the cake mix impenetrable, seal the cardboard box holding the cake mix...and still...bugs can get in the mix.  Exactly what are they protecting me from with all the sealing bullshit????

If I were less trusting, I might think there's some kind of conspiracy going on.  You know...sales are down on scissors...how do we fix that?  Conspire with the plastic manufacturer to create an untearable plastic bag suitable for food, then make sure the extra strength this'll hold anything glue manufacturer is in loop to sell their extra strength this'll hold anything glue to the food plant so they can seal their bags for all eternity...unless you have scissors.

If I were some kind of conspiracy theorist, I just might believe something like that...it's the stoopidist thing.

Hooray...Survivor's Back

I’m a huge Survivor fan...and a Real Housewives fan...and a Flipping out fan...and an Amazing Race fan...but this is about Survivor. A friend from work always has a Survivor pool and we draw names. This time the tribes are called Savaii and Upolu. I have no idea where they get these names. I’m sure they have some magical island meaning that I’m unaware of, but I’m not curious enough right now to use my friend, Mr. Google, to find out.

Last night was the premiere episode when all the tribes get to their island and find out that there’s two players from previous episodes coming into the game. This is kind of becoming a recurring theme on Survivor...bring back popular players from previous seasons. At least they didn’t bring back the Terrible Troll, Russell...this time it’s Coach and Ozzy. Ozzy is the cute surfer dude who all the girls like. He’s an incredible athlete, easy on the eyes, and seems like a genuinely nice guy. Coach, who calls himself “The Dragon Slayer” is a complete buffoon. Totally impressed with himself and completely self absorbed, he prides himself on honesty and integrity. Which is why he’s never won. It’s a game where you’re supposed to be deceitful and... the most deceitful and manipulative player usually wins. Not always, but usually.

My player for season 23 is Keith from the Savaii tribe. This is way better than the last few players I’ve had. Keith is young, athletic, seems like a nice guy, and hopefully will hang in there to the end and make me a winner...it is all about me, after all. The fact that he’s big and strong should keep him around for a while providing he doesn’t turn out to be a complete asshole.

My favorite player is Cochran. I love him. He’s 24, a Harvard law student...and one of the nerdiest guys in the world. This guy is endearingly nerdy...and he embraces his nerdiness. He’s got coke bottle glasses, red hair, and skin whiter than new fallen snow. When beach boy, Ozzie, suggested everyone go swimming, poor Cochran didn’t want to do it. He was embarrassed to take his clothes off because his skin was so white, claiming he was so translucent you could see his organs through his skin. Cracked me up. But he sucked it up and joined in. He’s like one of the nerdy boys from Sixteen Candles. I love him...mostly because he seems like such an underdog and I always root for the underdog. It would take a miracle for him to win but I’m rooting for him even if it means I lose the pool.

Beach boy, Ozzie, thinks he’s running things, but I’m thinking it’s going to be Jim. Jim started out by lying to everyone by saying he’s a teacher. Jim runs a medical marijuana dispensary in Colorado. I’m thinkin’ Jim may be the guy who wins it all.

Papa Bear is a retired NYPD detective, gay, and affable enough that the younger kids will keep him around if they can. He seems like he’d be a fun guy to hang out with.

Dawn is the other oldster in the tribe (41...which to people my age, doesn’t seem old at all...and yes, I know that that’s something old people say). She’s an English professor at BYU. I’m guessin’ she’s Mormon since she lives in Utah, teaches at BYU, and has six kids...I know it’s wrong to assume, and probably politically incorrect...but all the other Mormons I know have bunches of kids too. She looks great for having six kids, but lost me when she started crying about how it was so different from home...waa...waa..waa...I don’t see her making it very far if she keeps up the teary eyed, poor me attitude. Plus she seems like the type who wants to “discuss feelings”...not my cup of tea.

Brandon is the nephew of Russel Hantz...the self professed all time greatest Survivor player who never won...this kid is trying to keep it a secret that he’s Russel’s nephew to the point where he won’t take off his t shirt lest someone see the name Hantz tattooed on his back and arm. So what does he do? He goes fishing with his shirt tucked up over his neck so that it looks like a lady’s shrug...dum de dum dum....made him look like an idiot. During the preview for next week’s show, it looks like he’s going to confess his true identity to Coach. Will he?...Won’t he?...OMG...I don’t know if I can handle the suspense.

Semhar, the “Spoken Word Artist”...(can anyone really make a living doing that?) failed miserably in the challenge...because (spoken in a whiney voice) when she volunteered she didn’t know she would be soooo tired and she didn’t know those coconut basketballs would be soooo heavy. Waaaa, waaaaa.,waaaa...Miss Spoken Word Artist was unable to articulate a good enough reason for the rest of the tribe to keep her around and during tribal council she was the first one voted off (much to the delight of Cochran who was pathetically worried it was going to be him...I thought he was going to cry). So much for Miss Spoken Word Artist’s verbal abilities...maybe she should have offered the boy tribe members BJ’s to keep her around.

Didn’t get to see Semhar’s landing on Redemption Island so maybe next week they’ll show it. I have the DVR set to record so I don’t miss a minute...plus I can fast forward through commercials. Sadly, this is my life...it's the stoopidist thing.

Pizzle

You learn something new every day. This weekend I was hanging out with OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) and I mentioned I had to get chews for the Cartoon Dog from Costco. I was talking about how much the dog loved them and how bad they stink when they’re being chewed. OF asked me if they were “Bully” sticks...I didn’t know but I described them to her...about 18 inches long rawhide chews kind of brownish, different thicknesses but all the same length. OF then tells me that they’re made from bull penises. I don’t think I really believed her...or maybe I just didn’t want to believe her.

So what did I do? I went to my trusty computer, found my friend Mr. Google, and lo and behold there are many brands of “Bully” sticks...all made from bull or steer “pizzle” which, I find, is just another way of saying penis. They also make whips from bull pizzle. Just a little bit of trivia I thought I’d throw in...it could be a question on Jeopardy or Trivial Pursuit...you never know when a little pizzle will come in handy.

I suppose I should be glad that all “parts” of the animal are being used, but it really bothers me to see the Cartoon Dog happily chewing on a dried penis. She’s gets so excited when I tell her to get on the blanket...she just wiggles all over knowing that she’s going to get a treat. It’s a nightly ritual. Takes her less than an hour to devour one.

Do they wash the pizzles before they dry them? Do they smell so bad because of urine droplets left on them? Or worse, because of dried semen?

I’ve tried giving her other kinds of chews in the past, but she doesn’t like them. She only likes the “Bully” sticks. I suppose it’s better than having her snack on cat turds...which she LOVES...or horse shit which she LOVES. Of the three, the horse poop is the least offensive to me but it’s still pretty gross to watch her chow down on fresh, literally steaming, horse poop. Maybe it bothers me less because it doesn’t stink as bad as cat poop...and I love horses.

I think sometimes I’m better off not knowing what things are made of. I didn’t really want to know that my precious Cartoon Dog was gnawing on a bull dick. And I really don’t want to know what’s in a hot dog...or bologna...or Spam for that matter. Now that I know what it means, I’m afraid if I look at the ingredients I’ll see the word “pizzle”...and know I’ve been happily ingesting penises all my life.

But, every cloud does have a silver lining..I do have to admit, now that I know, I’m really looking forward to calling some poor unsuspecting man a pizzle head, pizzleless moron, little pizzle, big pizzle, or any combination that comes to mind...I’m soooo mature that way...it's the stoopidist thing.

Things That Annoy Me

I'm easily annoyed...sad but true.  It's not the big things that set me off, it's the little things.

Such as...

Brazil Nuts...nobody likes them so why do they fill a jar of mixed nuts with a bunch of Brazil nuts?  When I was a kid, my mom would always put an orange and a few walnuts and Brazil nuts in the toe of my Xmas stocking to take up space that would otherwise have to be filled with the more expensive candy.  That's what Brazil nuts are...space filler uppers in the mixed nut jar.

Eye boogers...you can't feel them so you never know you have one until you've been talking to someone face to face for an hour or so, happen to look in the mirror, and see a gob of goo in the corner of your eye.  If you get in the habit of sticking your finger in the corner of you eye in a desperate attempt to keep them free of eye boogers you end up with a dry, red, irritated eye.  I don't know how to resolve this problem.

Breather boogers...Again as with eye boogers, you never have one of these until you're talking to someone and feel the little thing moving with each breath you take.  You don't know if the person you're talking to can see it or not.  I end up being so worried that I can't concentrate on what the other person is saying.  God only knows what I may have agreed to just so to end the conversation quickly and get to a mirror so I could see if I actually had a visible breather booger.  Never once have I been able to see them.  You can try to rub your nose but then you never know if you've just rubbed the booger out of your nose and onto your face so that doesn't really solve the problem...trust me on this.  Sometimes I try just breathing through my mouth, but it just makes me sound like I'm panting or doing that weird Lamaze breathing.  It makes people look at you like you're crazy.

Paper towel dispensers...there's one of these in the office where I work.  Most times when I'm forced to use the bathroom and dutifully wash my hands lest the bathroom police report me for being unsanitary I grab the corners of the exposed paper towel between my thumbs and forefingers, pull down as instructed by the directions on the machine, and come away with two quarter sized bits of paper.  I'm sure I'm doing something wrong, but I don't know what it is.  And who would you ask for remedial paper towel removal instruction anyway?

Bathroom wind machines...these are perfectly useless items.  Instead of the paper towel dispensers, you'll find a mini wind machine in the restroom.  Hit the big silver knob and air blows down while you're supposed to rub your hands briskly in the breeze.  I'm way too impatient to stand there waiting for my hands to dry and get tired of all the brisk rubbing.  I end up wiping my hands on my pants...does anyone really stand there and wait until their hands are completely dry?

I know these are really insignificant things and I have no idea why I let stuff like this annoy me...it's the stoopidist thing.

BM...An Acronymn

Now that we've become proponents for the sport of Boss Mocking, what could be better than an acronym???  And how convenient that BM just happens to be the acronym.  Not only do we have the sport to laugh about we now have a whole new reason to behave like third graders.

Just so there's no confusion about this...in the world I was raised, BM is the acronym for bowel movement.  When I went to work in my current job, there was a Mexican guy who liked to refer to himself as the "Brown Man"...BM for short.  He'd never heard of a bowel movement referred to as a BM.  I'm ashamed to admit I took great pleasure in listening to this guy call himself BM...and I never told him about the other "true" acronym...bowel movement.  Unfortunately for me, one of his friends eventually told him and he stopped calling himself BM.  It was hysterical while it lasted though.

Today, in our office, we managed to achieve an all time high level of immaturity.  Sad but true.  Here's a few of the new acronym usages...

"Is it BM time?"
"Wow, I could use a good BM session."
"Hey, let's have a group BM."
"Time for a good BM."

And then we laugh hysterically when we say it...it's definitely the stoopidist thing.

Boss Mocking

At the office where I work my co-workers and I occasionally...okay...we frequently engage in the sport of “Boss Mocking”. I’m sure this is a sport that all office workers take part in on a daily basis. It’s not difficult and everyone of all ages and sexes can join in on the fun...well, except the mockee...

First rule of Boss Mocking is never, never, engage in mocking when the mockee is around...fortunately, our mockee is gone a lot and when he is here, he really isn’t aware of what’s going on around him...which to our delight is simply more fodder for mocking.

Not that there’s any lack of fuel to fan our Boss Mocking flames...no sir, not here. Imagine a cross between Inspector Clouseau and Mr. Magoo....with a little Pig Pen thrown in and voilé...you have our beloved boss. Okay, maybe not beloved...but I think we all actually like him because the truth is, he’s a really nice guy. In fact it’s his saving grace...being a nice guy. If he were an asshole AND a dunder, he’d be intolerable.

I think everyone should compete in the office sport of Boss Mocking. It’s a great tension reliever if you follow a few simple rules. Keep in mind, that there are always going to be exceptions to every rule.

Rule 1) As stated above, never engage in Boss Mocking, when the mockee is nearby.

Rule2) Never mock physical appearance...clothing and hairstyles are fair game...as are any type of accessories. Physical abnormalities, such as huge noses, Dumboesque ears, warts, moles, and excessive hairiness can be addressed on a boss by boss basis.

Rule 3) Never engage in Boss Mocking when there’s a suck up employee around who’s going to run and tell the Boss he’s being mocked. This only causes non suck ups to hate the suck ups even more than they already do. However, suck ups should be aware that the more they suck up, the more they subject themselves to Co-Worker Mocking which is an offshoot of Boss Mocking...sort of like the flag football of Boss Mocking.

Rule 4) Boss Mocking is supposed to be a fun sport. Never engage in Boss Mocking when you’re really pissed off at your boss. Generally I find if I vent my initial anger to the Princess or other sympathetic employee, it gets out of the system and we’re ready for a laugh filled round of Boss Mocking.

Rule 5) Care should be taken when mocking in writing. Texting and emails should be brief and concise lest them come back to bite you in the ass. Never under any circumstances put the name of the mockee in writing...one line is usually sufficient to express your displeasure.

Email example: Can you believe what a dunder he is?

Text example: can u believe wht a dunder he is

Old Chix Code example: khan ewe beeleeve whuta dunder hee ez?

Occasionally we decide that we’re going to stop ridiculing the boss. One time we even decided we were going to each put a quarter in a cup every time we said something bad about him and when we filled it up, we were going to get pizza. This ceasing of mockery doesn’t work for two reasons...first, you have to keep the cup a secret from the boss lest he know he is being mocked...second, Boss Mocking has become such an ingrained part of our daily life that we would spend the majority of our meager salary putting quarters into a cup.

So instead of deciding to stop the mockery, I’ve decided to embrace it and promote the sport of Boss Mocking worldwide...it's the stoopidist thing.

Doggie Treats

Can someone please explain to me why when a dog sees a litter box full of cat turds they smile and say "yummmmm"?????

The Cartoon Dog (Briley) snuck into the laundry room this morning to steal cat food...or so I thought.  When I walked in, there she was with her head completely inside the litter box.  (She had already decimated the food bowl)

When I yelled at her, it was more out of disgust than any anger.  What on earth could even be remotely appealing about munching on a sand coated cat turd?

I wish dogs could talk and explain to me what they find so wonderful about eating cat turds.  I dunno...they'd probably say it tastes like chicken.

There are few things on earth more disgusting than cat poop.  Dog shit is bad, but I think on the list of disgusting things cat poop is right up there at the top.

Rotting corpses are supposed to be really bad, but having never actually smelled one, I can't say.  Rotting meat smells really bad so I guess a rotting body would be pretty bad too.  "They" say you never forget the smell of a rotting body...I hope I never have to find out.

Speaking of rotting, I pulled a liquid zucchini out of my refrigerator crisper/rotter yesterday.  Thankfully it was in a plastic bag.  This is what happens when I try to be healthy and end up hiding all the "healthy" food in the crisper/rotter.  I always seem to keep the good snackage right out on the counter in easy reach...

Occasionally I'll find a potato in the back of the cupboard that's rotten.  You always smell it first.  I've actually had them sprout really really long sprouts...vines almost...right there in the cupboard.  How come some of them just rot and some sprout???? 

I'm sure I'll end up dwelling on this throughout the day...I can't help it...it's the stoopidist thing.l

Miss Pro Nun See Aye Shuns

OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) emailed me the other day and we were sort of ranting back and forth about liberal/conservative politics, cosmetic applications, teeth whiteners, and other useful work related items, when the topic, as is usually the case with me, changed to food.

OF again suggested humus as desirable snackage...it's sort of become an ongoing joke...she tries to get me to eat it (not very hard)...I try desperately to avoid it.  I told her about seeing a website with low-cal snackage where, lo and behold, there was hummus listed as prime low-cal snackage.  Along with chopped veggies, which instead of calling them what they were...chopped vegetables...they called them crudité.  OF pronounced it crud-eyete.  Cracked me up.  If I'd been drinking, I would have snorted my Diet Pepsi into my nose.  Which, if you've never done this, beware...it burns intensely.

One time I said the word facade only I pronounced it fah-kaid.   Another time I had to read aloud in a class and I pronounced the word stenographer...sten-oh-graffer.  I can't even begin to count the number of times I've done shit like this.  I'm ashamed to admit that I laugh hysterically whenever anyone else does it...probably because I'm glad I'm not the only one.

When I was a little kid, I was in Sunday School (hard to believe, I know) and another girl was reading from the Bible.  She was reading aloud and pronounced the word ewes as eee-wees.  I started laughing and couldn't stop.  Kathy Griffin has dubbed this phenomenon the "Church Giggles"...it's such an appropriate title...I get Church Giggles all the time...always inappropriately.

One of the old chix and I regularly email each other and deliberately spell things wrong.  I know it sounds really dumb, but we're old and easily amused.  It's kind of hard to do...okay, maybe not hard, but a little more effort is required...I've decided to call it "Crepey Crones Clever Codeage" (CCCC for short)..I realize "clever" is stretching it a bit...okay, a lot....but here's how it goes...

eff ewe kahn reed thess ewe tew mae bee stewpud...

It's the stoopidist thing...

Abbie Smalley

I was reading an article a few days ago, probably something about our fabulous congress, I don't really remember what the article was, but as I'm reading, I come to the word "abysmally".  I'm looking at this word, which I've probably seen many, many, times before in my life, and I see "abbie smalley" in my head.  I'm thinkin' WTF is abbie smalley????  Abbie smalley...It took a few seconds before the word finally registered in my head as abysmally.  God, I'm such a fuckin' dork.

P.S.  I told this to one of the old chix who takes great pleasure in mocking me for the tiniest little spelling or grammatical error.  When I did, I made sure I reminded her that when she read "Eminem", as in famous rapper, she saw "eye num".  The poor boy is no longer Eminem...in our world, he's become "Eye-num"...and then we laugh hysterically...it's the stoopidist thing.

That Day

Having recently seen the movie “Bridesmaids”, which is one of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen, and the fact that The Husband frequently reminds me of this incident...and the fact that I obviously have no pride...I decided to share my tale of utter and complete humiliation solely for the amusement of others.

One day several years ago, before we were married, The Husband and I decided to go for a little outing. It was in the middle of winter, cold and rainy, and we decided to go to a nearby town about forty-five minutes from our house because we wanted to shop for a new tv and decided we’d just grab dinner first.

The Husband is an old guy...I may have mentioned this before. He’s the kind of guy who thinks leaving a single dollar bill on the table is a decent tip. He’s really not deliberately trying to be cheap, it just doesn’t occur to him that since everything else costs more, that maybe, just maybe the tippage should be increased too. I remind him of this on a regular basis. I have no control over what he does when I’m not with him and offer my sincere apologies to any waitress or waiter whom he has offended with his less than generous tippage. He can’t help it...he’s old...he’s also deaf, but that’s another story.

Being an old guy who likes his food, The Husband thinks buffets are wonderful. Buffets lose money on The Husband, but make money on me...usually, except when I’m with the Old Chix & we eat for hours before being forced by management to leave. I’m exaggerating...but only slightly.

So off we go to the unnamed all-you-can-eat restaurant. I won’t go in to detail describing the patrons of this particular chow line. If you can visualize a Far Side cartoon you probably get the gist of the view. Sadly, we fit in perfectly.

I don’t really remember exactly what I ate on this particular day...probably some kind of fried food and probably some kind of mashed potatoes and gravy...which I love...maybe a little salad with Ranch dressing, and probably some soft serve ice cream at the end of the gluttonfest. Could be wrong, but it sounds about like what I’d do. Okay, so maybe they don’t lose money on me.

After we left, we went to a nearby Circuit City to look at TV’s. We wandered around for a little while looking at prices and generally annoying sales persons who could tell we weren’t “buyers”, but just a couple of  "lookieloos ". (I’m sure there’s probably a better way to spell that but it’s not important enough for me to check).

It was probably about thirty minutes after leaving the gluttonfest that I started feeling little “twinges” in my stomach...which I tried to ignore...which would prove to be the beginning of my undoing. See, this was still in the “beginning” stages of our romance where I was trying to be perfectly wonderful and all things fabulous to the man of my dreams. Looking back I realize my efforts were totally futile...that I was never any of those things...but that’s not the point...I was still trying.

The more we wandered around the store, the more frequently I felt the “twinges” which were rapidly turning into “cramps”...the kind of cramps that precede an inevitable episode of explosive diarrhea. I was beginning to realize, with horror, what was about to take place.

Now, the dilemma...do I try to make it home or hang around the store and risk the humiliation of pooping in a public restroom??? Anyone who knows me, knows my phobia about pooping in public. It’s a court of last resort. I’ll be a sneak a pooper until the day I die. I’ve accepted this and for the most part, learned to live with it.

After weighing my options, I decide to make a break for the only place I can poop in peace...home. I tell The Husband-to-be that I’m feeling a little sick and suggest that maybe we should go home. (Yes we were living together without benefit of clergy as one of the Old Chix likes to say.) Since The Husband-to-be was also on good behavior in those days, he was quick to go along with whatever I wanted. Thus began the longest drive of my life.

When we left the store it was after dark, and really, really stormy. Wind was blowing, rain pouring down so hard the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. Looking back I’m sure it was the worst storm we’ve had...ever...at least that’s how I remember it now. I may be embellishing the severity of the storm but the rest is totally real.

Once we’re in the car I feel a false sense of security, sort of like the bars that hold you in on a roller coaster...they’re really not going to help you in case of a derailment...you’re still gonna get smashed to smithereens. On a little side note, why is it that nobody ever uses the singular smithereen? It’s always plural. I wonder if it’s really a word...again not important enough to check...sorry, I get sidetracked.

So, when we initially get in the car and I sit down, I feel a little better, like maybe I’ve exaggerated my need for a hasty departure. Keep in mind that there is only a long, long, long stretch of highway between where we were and home.

Once we’re on the highway, and there’s no end in sight, the stomach starts “twinging” again...more severely...and the more we drove, the closer the intervals between cramping came. My poor stomach felt like it was swelling an inch a second...I could feel the gas gurgling around and knew what was coming. I tried doing Lamaze breathing techniques...whoo whoo hee hee..quietly so The Husband to be wouldn’t catch on and think I was less than fabulous. Fortunately he was deaf even then so I don’t think he heard the juicy gurgling noises that, to me, seemed to drown out all noise from the storm outside.

I didn’t dare even try to sneak a fart to relieve some of the pressure in my poor stomach...I knew it would have stunk up the car...badly. All the windows were closed and the heater was on...not prime time for a  sneak-a-fart scenario. Things like this never happen when you can have the windows down and blame the smell on a dead animal carcass that you just passed. I actually knew someone who used that line once. I can honestly say I’ve never done it...yet. I’ve never intentionally farted in front of my husband either...yet...

The Husband then, as now, is a confirmed booberdoober when it comes to driving. He’s the one you hate to get behind because he always drives under the speed limit. Back when I was trying to impress him I never mentioned how infuriating this was to me...nowadays...let’s just say I’m a little more inclined to voice my opinion on his driving skills. That night, however, I was just trying to keep from pooping so I really didn’t want to talk. Try to relax, breathe, stay calm...it’ll pass...every second I was a little closer to home.

When we’re right outside our town on a long straight stretch of highway, I think I can’t make it anymore.

Me: “I think you need to pull over.”

The Husband-to-be: “Why?”

Me: “I think I’m going to be sick”...neglecting to mention that it’s not the throw up kind of sick...more the shit your brains out kind of sick.

The Husband-to-be starts to pull over and immediately the cramp eases...

Me: “No, wait...I think it’s okay” thinking why did I say anything...why didn’t I just wait to see if it would go away...now he’ll think I’m un-fabulous...which I am, but he doesn’t need to know that at this stage of our relationship...

Sometimes I'm fairly certain God plays tricks on us...this was one of those times.

About two more miles passed...

Me: “I think you need to pull over.”

The Husband-to-be doesn’t even say a word, he just starts to pull over. Again, the cramp starts to fade...

Me: “I think it’s okay...keep going” ...why didn’t I just wait??? Didn’t that last time it passed teach me anything?

Finally we’re off the freeway and on the back road to our humble abode. It’s a curvy road, the wind is blowing, rain is pouring down and finally I can wait no more. The pain in my stomach has me doubled over. It’s either pull over or sit in the car and shit myself...

Me: “Pull over...right there” pointing to a turn out in front of an old cemetery.

The Husband-to-be pulls in to the turn out, barely gets stopped, and I jump out into the dark cold rainy night, yank my pants down to my ankles praying I’ll get them down in time to keep from getting poop on them...grab hold of the car door handle to try to balance myself and keep from falling...squat...and shit my brains out in the cemetery parking lot. There was a brief second where all I felt was relief...I got my pants down in time...and didn’t shit myself.... That feeling passed way too quickly though and the utter humiliation of my situation was right back staring me in the face. If that wasn’t bad enough, since I don’t normally travel with toilet paper in my pockets, I was forced to tap on the window and ask The Husband-to-be to hand me some Kleenex out the window. Any trace of imagined fabulosity has vanished and I didn’t even have a shred of dignity left.

Now I’m forced to pull my pants up and get back into the car with the man of my dreams, who now knows for a certainty that I’m way less than fabulous...in fact, I’ve probably come perilously close to disgusting in his mind...I’m sure of this. To his credit, he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t mention the fact that I’m soaking wet, my hair is plastered to my head, mascara is running down my face, and I’m dripping water all over the place (I hope it was only water). We drive the rest of the way home in silence...we were only about five, count ‘em, five minutes from home...and I just couldn’t wait five lousy minutes longer. I’m sure he was dying of laughter inside...if the situation had been reversed, I would have been hysterical. But, bless his heart, he didn’t even acknowledge the fact that I had just squatted and pooped in a gravel turn out in front of a cemetery in the dead of night.

Looking back, I guess in the end I made the right choice...I mean I think it was better that I actually got out of the car before I shit myself, don’t you? And guess what??? He married me anyway...of course he probably figured...how much worse could it get?

P.S. If I’m ever driving in a car with you and we happen to drive past a cemetery...please don’t ask me if I need to stop...The Husband has asked me that question every time we drive by there since “that day”. I have to laugh...it’s the stoopidist thing.

Sunday

So this morning I got up early to ride.  Since it's about a million degrees (okay...I'm exaggerating...a little) outside during the day, early morning is really the only time I enjoy riding.  I went over to OF's (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) house & we went for a little ride with OF's friend, Blondie,also a rabid consumer of undesirable snackage.  All in all it was a nice quiet little ride.  Nobody got bucked off, horses behaved, dogs got to go swimming, and we were done before it became so hot you could stand in the shade and sweat doing absolutely nothing.  The heat is not my friend.

OF is convinced that if only I try the right flavor of hummus, I'll like it. Though I'm fairly certain she's wrong about this, I agreed next time we got together I'd try some garlic flavored hummus that she thinks is fabulous and is sure I'm going to love.  All week long I've been worried that she's going to try to make me eat hummus again.  This morning I actually baked cookies (PW Malted Milk Chocolate Chip..mmmm) so there'd be something there that I know I like to eat in the event I needed to get the nasty hummus taste out of my mouth.  By the grace of God, fortune, or whatever, today I was spared (Thank you God)...she never even mentioned the hummus.  Now I'm starting to wonder if she's just making up the whole "special flavor" of hummus thing just so that I'll bring desirable snackage to her house. I think I may be on to something here...what does she think I am...stoopid???  Hummus or chocolate chip cookies..duh...would anyone in their right mind actually choose the former???

After being spared the undesirable snackage, OF had a chiropractic move she wanted to try on me.  This sort of makes it sound like she just randomly likes to practice unlicensed chiropractic treatment on people which isn't the case at all.  During the course of several emails, where I whined endlessly about my hip hurting, she responded telling me that she had a "miraculous" chiropractic type move she could do to fix it.  Today was the day.  After she "crossed her heart and hoped to die" that this wasn't one of those "pull my finger" type moves,  I agreed to let her practice unlicensed chiropractic therapy on me.  

I laid down on my back on her floor and OF grabbed my left ankle, twisted it toward my right ankle, and pretty much jerked my hip out of it's socket.  I screamed and tried to crawl away, but she held on...she wouldn't let go...she kept twisting my foot forcing me to roll back over onto my back..unbeknownst to me, the girl obviously had prior WWF experience...maybe she practices WWF moves in conjunction with her field chiropractic moves...I dunno...just a thought...  "I just didn't jerk hard enough" she shouted over my agonized screams.  "Hold still" she yelled "it didn't hurt that bad ya big sissy".  Another jerk and this time I thought I was going to pass out....

Just kidding, I made all that up.  There was no pain involved but that seemed kinda boring so I thought I'd embellish...just a tad.  Embellish sounds so much nicer than lie, doesn't it???  Which is what I did...told a lie...a big fat one too.  Even my lies are fat.   I wonder if the chocolate chip cookies make my lies big & fat too???

Not only did I have to lie about the whole thing, but the "miraculous move" also didn't work.  After we compared notes, it turns out her hip problem was in the front of her hip and mine was on the side.  Probably should've discussed this prior to getting my leg pulled (no pun intended).  I was obviously short changed at birth in the brains department and she obviously loses her layman's field chiropractic license for failing to determine the location of my injury prior to adjustment. 

In closing and since it's Sunday I feel compelled to thank God for yet another hummus free day in my life...it's the stoopidist thing.

Funerals

The older I get, the less inclined I am to do things I don't want to do but somehow feel obligated to do.  I mean, is a distant cousin whose child is celebrating their first birthday going to notice that I didn't show up for cake & ice cream?  I don't think so.  Although I will miss the ice cream, (I rarely turn down any excuse to have ice cream.) I won't miss the kid being tired and cranky from all the excitement and the other hoards of kids running around like banshees screaming and being little effing brats because their parents let them.  Some family functions are welcome, others are avoidable, and then there are those that are totally unavoidable...like funerals.

Seems like lately all I do is go to funerals.  I know it's something I shouldn't complain about because after all, there but for the grace of God, go I.  And I know I should be ashamed of myself, and I am, for feeling inconvenienced by being obliged to attend the services.  The latest one was yesterday.

I forced my son to go with me.  This is my only child...sole fruit of my womb...who is going to have a birthday later this week...who is in his late 30's...who has failed to marry and reproduce.  The Husband's children have also failed to marry and reproduce.  The only one who has supplied us with grandchildren is my stepdaughter (not the Bad Seed stepdaughter) who I don't get to see often enough.  Sometimes I tend to dwell on the fact that my son isn't married with children...actually, if I'm being honest, I dwell on it more than I should.  It is his life, after all...everything really isn't all about me...but it should be.

So I managed to guilt my Baby Boy (BB henceforth) into going to the funeral with me.  I couldn't manage to guilt him into driving though...and it was about a two hour drive...so I took the truck...since it's more comfortable than the Toyota...and I'm old & all about comfort.  The drive down was pretty easy peasy.  We made it to the church on time...early even...then we sat around...for a long time...at least it seemed like a long time to me...and I know it's not all about me...but it should be.

The first portion of this service was at the Mormon Church.  I point this out because there were actually three parts.  The dearly departed (DD henceforth) was Mormon (though I don't believe he was a practicing Mormon...just guessing...because he did drink alcohol...regularly) and his widow is Catholic, very devout. 

Act I - The Viewing:

I've never really understood the reason for "The Viewing"...personally I think it's probably some odd ritual started by someone with necrophiliac tendencies.  Who else would want to look at a dead person?  I mean, really?  I don't get it.  Do they want to do it so they feel grateful they're still alive?  Sort of a "thank God it's him and not me" sort of feeling?   I really don't want my last memory of someone to be of them laying in a coffin dressed in their "Sunday Go to Meetin'" clothes with an "at peace" expression artificially formed on their face.

And that's another thing I start wondering about.  What kind of person dreams of becoming a mortician?  I know it's all kinds of wrong but the necrophilia word keeps popping into my head.  And is there a category of humor called "Mortician Humor"?  Do morticians play little subtle jokes on the grieving families to get around the boredom of their job?  When they're getting the DD ready for "The Viewing", do they play with different expressions other than the "Mona Lisa" at peace expression?  For example:

The Grimace - DD placed with his head slightly turned, lips together stretched disapprovingly in a straight line like he's just heard someone say something entirely inappropriate....

The Hearty Guffaw:  DD laying with his head thrown back tilted slightly to the right, shoulders slightly raised, smiling mouth wide open in death defying laughter...

The Look of Surprise:  DD laying with his eyes wide open, hands raised palms facing up, and his mouth shaped in an "O"...as in OMG you scared me..(please don't imagine a blow up doll here...that's an entirely different expression)...

The Look of Horror:  DD laying on his side with his head turned slightly looking over his shoulder, eyes wide open like "The Look of Surprise"...only scared..mouth open in a silent shriek.. like he's trying to get away from whatever's in the casket with him...

The Look of Hmmmm:  DD laying on his back head tilted slightly to the side, eyes open with a furrowed brow, index finger placed against his mouth...sort of a "How'd I get here?" look.

I bet morticians do stuff like this.  I bet they put clown faces on them too when they're practicing the whole hair & makeup thing.  I bet DD macho men occasionally end up looking like drag queens when morticians are bored.  Can you imagine what would happen if they accidentally left the DD with the "Look of Surprise" on his face when the grieving family arrived?  I know it's wrong on so many levels but I actually laugh at the thought of this.  I digress....

"The Viewing" seemed kind of like a pre-funeral funeral...there was a "special room" with chairs lined in neat rows (no pews).  It was a standing room only crowd so I was watching from outside in the hallway, but it seemed to me that people were just getting up willy nilly

Act II - The Actual Funeral:

This portion of the funeral starts with the Bishop (roughly the equivalent of Preacher/Pastor/Reverend for non Mormon denominations) thanking everyone for attending the DD's celebration of life...no longer is it a mourning of their passing...it's a "celebration" of life.  Sort of odd to celebrate someones life when they can't be there to celebrate with you...just my opinion...and it hardly seems like a celebration without adult beverages...again, just my opinion.  I think it would be more appropriately called a "remembrance"...just my opinion...for the last time...at least in this paragraph.

And why don't they ever say anyone "died"?  Why do they always say passed on?  Sometimes you'll hear people say "my cousin passed"...I know what they mean but it always makes me want to say "passed what?"  I think you should just say "my cousin died"...again just my opinion.

After thanking us for our presence the Bishop asked us to sing a hymn.  Now, having spent a good portion of my youth being forced to attend church, I've never been fond of hymns. (I hope this isn't some form of blasphemy.) I know this is going to make me sound totally racist, but white people have really boring church.  If I ever decide to start going to church again, it's going to be a church with some spirit...and good gospel music.  There are very few white people in the world who can sing gospel...just my opinion...but I'm right about this.  If I have to listen to a bunch of old white people singing "Bringing in the Sheaves" one more time....I know I'm getting a little off track here and just to set the record straight, it was a different hymn.

Another prayer, followed by the death speech aka/Eulogy.  This is where the designated non-clergy person talked about the DD...and talked...and talked...and talked...you get the idea.   Now there were a few funny moments in the death speech but the problem was that there were too many long pauses.  Again, I know it's wrong on so many levels to get impatient about this, but I did.  Never mind that the death speech giver was a grieving family member...who was paying his last respects to his DD family member...who was probably fighting back tears...now I feel like pond scum for even admitting the fact that this made me impatient.

Following the singing and praying, it was time to go to the Catholic cemetery for interment.  I whispered to my BB "Lets go say good by to DD's mom & sister & then we'll leave"...alas, a hasty exit was not in the cards for me.  When we walked up to my brother to say our good byes, LB (Little Brother) says "Are you gonna ride over to the cemetery with me?"  I looked at BB...trapped like a rat..."yeah, ok" I said with a fake smile pasted on my face.  I'm such a wimp...

Act III - The Cemetery:

We made it to the mausoleum in one piece in spite of my LB's efforts to kill us.  This was a Catholic ceremony and as such, there were definite rituals to be observed.  It was uber formal...like all Catholic ceremonies.  The first Catholic ceremony I went to was really interesting because I had no idea how they worked...I never knew that Catholic services had audience participation speaking parts other than Amen...who knew????  Live & learn... The mausoleum was made mostly of marble...marble floors, marble walls, marble crypts...and there was a bathroom right off the gathering area.  It was one of those "handicapped" types for a single occupant.  When you open the door, there was the toilet right in plain view of the funeral audience...which happened...while I was standing outside the door...and it was occupied and in use when the door was thrown open...  The guy opening the door was as surprised as the guy using the toilet.  And I started laughing...and I couldn't stop...and then I got nervous because I couldn't stop and that made me laugh more...I had the church giggles for the first time in my adult life in a church (okay it wasn't actually a church but it was close enough...and services were in progress...) Oh, I've had them in other places, but never in a church since I was a kid.  Kind of brought back fond memories of my mom poking me in the ribs with her elbow for laughing during prayers.

After a little ritual and more prayers we stood & watched the casket being placed on a hydraulic lift and hoisted up third row from the top, into it's designated slot.  My brother wanted to put a 49'er sticker on the casket to annoy the DD who was a die hard Rams fan, but he didn't get the chance.  LB can be so inappropriate at time...we all laughed...to ourselves...inappropriateness must run in the family.  People were starting to stare.

Finally it was over.  I have to say during this final ritual, there were two women assisting the priest with his various rituals.  One of them would describe for the audience members lacking in Catholic traditions, like myself, each phase of the ritual...both of these women were dressed in navy blue suits.  Ill fitting navy blue suits...with white gloves...very unattractive...I wonder if it's a new nun costume?

Anyway, toward the end the one doing the ritual description asked the pallbearers, who were also wearing white gloves, to remove their gloves and "place them gently" on the casket.  Was it really necessary to tell them to "place them gently"?  Was she afraid one of the pallbearers would rip off his gloves, smack them down on the casket, and say "Later dude"? 

That was the last "Act" of the funeral.  Now we had to drive back to the Mormon church so we could all gather in fellowship...and eat...potluck style. My penchant for food kicked in and all thoughts of leaving early to head home vanished.

There was Mac & Cheese, sliced roast beef, ham, cheese, rolls, salads, little smokies in BBQ sauce, desserts, desserts, desserts...I did eat some of the other stuff before the desserts, but only because nobody else was taking desserts and I didn't want to be the only one gorging my fat face on the oh so bad for you but wonderful tasting sugary concoctions. 

A word to the wise...always make sure your little smokies are heated...the little smokies in BBQ sauce hadn't been heated.  I didn't know this until I popped one in my mouth...and was instantly disgusted...it was like a cold congealed wad of greasy goo in my mouth...I wanted to spit it out but didn't know if people would see me do it...so then I'm in a quandary...do I spit or swallow???  Hmmm...I'm probably not the only one who's ever faced this decision...it's the stoopidist thing.

The Tournament

Last weekend I went to a poker tournament at the B.I.L’s (brother in law) house. Usually I’m the only female who plays. This time I conned O.F. (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) into going. “It’ll be fun” I told her.. “for forty bucks you get to play and have pizza & beer and you might win some money”...she said she’d been “wanting to try new things” and “I like pizza & beer” so off we went...since I don’t like beer, I took a couple of Mikes Hard Lemonade’s (pomegranate flavor) so I’d have some adult beverages to drink.

When we got there, I opened one of the Mike’s and O.F. put the other one in the communal ice chest which held mass quantities of beer. After I drank the first one, I went to get the second and...it was gone...out of the corner of my eye, I saw the culprit...sitting at another table with my only other adult beverage in front of him. Now tell me, what kind of man drinks a pomegranate flavored sissy adult beverage in front of a bunch of men when there’s tons of beer available??? A girly man, that’s what kind. Asshole...I had to beg another adult beverage from my SIL (sister in law...who is a saint, by the way). I wouldn’t have minded if I’d brought a bunch of them, but I was in a hurry and didn’t have time to stop at the store...I know I’m being childish and petty now...and now I’m starting to be ashamed of myself for being so petty...but I really wanted that pomegranate lemonade...anyway...

There’s a usual cast of characters at these things and when I look at groups like this, myself included, we all look like a bunch of Far Side people. No shit.....sad but true. It’s mostly a bunch of gray haired, middle aged-to-old men wearing print, button down shirts, to cover the ever present paunch... with a few youngsters thrown in for good measure. My hair isn’t gray thanks to Crazy D the hair guy but I had the requisite over-blouse to cover my own muffin top...which is just the cutesy way of saying paunch...which is just another word for fat. We all had it...at least us oldsters did....

So yet another oldster problem...my complete lack of memory, is never more apparent than when I go to any kind of social function. I always, okay, nearly always, remember faces...but I never remember names. This isn’t usually a problem since I can say “hi, how’re ya doin’, long time no see...yadda, yadda...” You don’t have to remember names for that. The problem starts when I take someone like O.F. along who doesn’t know anyone...therefore, I’m forced to be polite and make the obligatory introductions. Here’s my brilliant way of dealing with the problem...say I’m introducing O.F. to Neighbor Bob... “Hey Neighbor Bob...this is O.F...O.F, Neighbor Bob” then, when they’re shaking hands or saying hello...I whisper conspiratorially in Neighbor Bob’s ear “that guy over there in the print shirt...I can’t remember his name...what is it?”...Neighbor Bob whispers back in the same conspiratory manner “that’s T shirt Bob” or “Mike”, or whatever...then I go to that guy and say “hey, Mike, this is O.F....O.F., Mike” and so on and so on...pretty soon I’ve introduced O.F. to everyone and everyone thinks I know their name...pretty brilliant shit, huh??? Sometimes I amaze myself.

It’s actually a really fun, goofy, group of guys, there’s the B.I.L. who had a stroke a couple of years ago and still has a little speech impediment which...makes him sound a little retarded (I know it’s a politically incorrect term...I don’t care)...he uses this to his advantage... on a regular basis. Neighbor Bob, aptly designated so as not to confuse him with the other Bob (T shirt Bob), and because he lives next door...Jeff,super nice guy, ex husband of the BIL’s ex wife...long story, he's on the short side, one of the few non-paunched he bears a striking resemblance to Droopy Dog...these guys are the regulars. Then there was another guy who I’ve seen before who I think was named Mike...I could be wrong about this...in fact I’m probably wrong...I probably just made the name up because it started with the letter “M” and he looked like Meatloaf...he really did...the singer, not the food. We were sitting at the table & I whispered to O.F. “Doesn’t that guy look like Meatloaf?” she started laughing...“Yes”. I think (actually, I know) I’ll call him Meatloaf from now on...the main thing about this guy though, was how fast he could suck down a beer. I couldn’t believe it. He’d open one and in an instant it was gone...like magic. Un-fucking-believable.

At the end of the table was one of the youngsters, a kid probably in his 30's...which really doesn’t make him a kid, now does it? But compared to me, he’s a kid. Anyway, this guy, (I’ll call him The Kid) is one of those types who’s the life of the party, loves being the center of attention, and probably is wherever he goes. Nice looking guy, laughing, singing, making jokes and being just generally entertaining. The Kid is the kind of guy that your daughter would want to marry and the type of guy that you would hope she wouldn’t marry. He’s the type of guy who ends up being sixty years old with a comb over, driving a red Corvette, wearing an open front shirt from which the gold chains around his neck peek out. The Kid lacks substance...something that ninety per cent of all young women would overlook....and ninety per cent of all old women wouldn’t live without. Things sure change when you get old, don’t they?

I always wonder about people like this. Are they really naturally this outgoing or do they behave like this because they’re insecure and need attention? I guess this is just one of life’s great mysteries. Okay, I know...it’s really not even close to being one of the great mysteries of life...just something stuck in my pea brain that I ponder occasionally.

As the game was coming to an end, O.F. and I were sitting there watching The Kid hold court (while he consumed numerous brewskies) at the end of the table when all of a sudden, he jumped up and announced to the table “I have to go make a pee pee”. Any trace of masculinity, real or imagined, vanished before my eyes...I looked at O.F. and said “did he just say he was going to make a pee pee?”

She was laughing and nodded her head...I think she mentally revoked his man card when she heard it too...it's the stoopidist thing.

The Anniversary

Most women are sentimental about birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, Valentines Day (please note it's Valent-i-n-e-s...not Valent-i-m-e-s...hey, just sayin') and pretty much any other day they think should be celebrated as a "speshul occasion".  I obviously was born without the "FCG" (Feminine Celebration Gene).  Truth be told, I have no use for holidays...unless it happens to be one that's a paid day off work, but that kind of goes without saying...

Except Christmas.  I love Christmas.  I wish it were two weeks before Christmas  all year long.  People seem kinder, and more willing to help each other.  If I were king, it would be two weeks before Christmas all the time....and in the Disney world where I want to live, this is how it would be.

See, the problem with not really caring about special occasions is that I tend to forget them...on a regular basis.  

Like my anniversary...I forgot it...again...like I do every year...

One of the OC's (Old Chix) usually reminds me.  I don't know how she remembers when I got married...but it's always been really helpful that she'd tell me before the actual date so I didn't look like a complete asshole and have to admit that I'd forgotten...yet again. 

Yes, OC failed me this year.  No last minute phone call...no email reminder...nada.

So yesterday (the forgotten anniversary date) I come home from work all fat, dumb, and happy, which admittedly is my usual state, hop on a horse & go for a little ride around the block, get home, feed the horses, grab the dogs dishes to feed them and while I'm outside, I hear the phone ring.

Still holding the dogs dishes I go inside in time to hear the answering machine pick up...it's The Husband (who is working out of town).  Since I'm still holding the dogs dishes, I figure I'll just stand there and listen to him and call him back...then I hear the dreaded words...

Husband:  "I just wanted to call & wish you a happy anniversary"

Me:  (To myself) "Fuck, fuck, fuck"...

I drop the dogs dishes and grab the phone before he can hang up...and came up with the perfect line..

Me:  "Ohhh..I thought you forgot..."  In an "oh so happy you were thinking of me" voice.

How friggin' perfect was that?????  Personally, I think it was a stupendously fabulous recovery...it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S.  Gonna have to have a chat with OC for her failure to remind her fellow OC of important "speshul occasions".

Snackage

Today I went riding with an old friend, she's old like me and I've known her for quite a while so I guess you could take the "old friend" either way.  We met  up with another friend of hers, hereinafter referred to as Blondie, and had a great ride.  After the ride we went back to her house.  Now, this is the same friend who is the only one I know that grew up eating peanut butter, lettuce, and mayonnaise sandwiches (I know it sounds gross).   When we compare our lives, we've had a lot of eerily similar things happen and have a lot of similar tastes.

Sadly, we parted company today when it comes to snackage similarities.  After our ride we went back to O.F.'s (Old Friend) house were she and Blondie were able to indulge in adult beverages.  Since I had to drive, I stuck with water.  OF wanted to know if I wanted snacks...well, duh...have I ever turned down snacks???  She says "how 'bout chips & dip & cheese & crackers" .   Yum...I can't wait.  Now call me old fashioned, but when someone says "cheese & crackers", I automatically think Triscuits or Wheat Thins and some Cheddar, Monterey Jack, or...if I'm really adventurous, Havarti.  I know it's pretty white trash, but, it's what I know.  Say the words "chips & dip" and I automatically think Frito's & bean dip.

Imagine my horror when I realize that OF has turned into a junkie...a health food junkie.  Yes, there before me was a spread that the reigning Queen of Healthy Eating, Michelle Obama, would have been proud to call her own.    Healthy delights such as Special K crackers & chips...goat cheese...yogurt dip...and last, but not least, the piéce de résistance...a tub of hummus.  I had heard of hummus before, but I never thought anyone really ate it.  I mean the name itself has kind of a phlegmy sound to it, doesn't it?  Just saying the word "hummus" makes you sound like you're clearing your throat.  And who knew Special K made crackers??  I thought they only made funky cereal that you had to add a ton of sugar to before you could eat it. 

Surely, this was a joke.  I kept waiting for her to say "ha ha...just kidding...the real food's over here" but she never did.  She & Blondie ate all this healthy shit like there was no tomorrow (probably why neither of them are Chunky Monkeys)...I nibbled...politely...longing for some serious snackage.

I know I should be eating like those two, but even though I want to be able to fit into my "only slightly smaller" jeans, I can't bring myself to eat salted styrofoam shaped like a chip dipped into a tub of stuff that makes me think of clearing my throat. 

So I came home and ate a Marie Callendar frozen dinner and had a big bowl of Mint Cookie Crunch ice cream...I can't help it....it's the stoopidist thing.

Note to self:  Must remember to fill a gift basket with "real" snackage and take it to OF's house as a hostess gift next time.

Weener Schmeener

Every time you turn on the news these days, it seems all anyone can talk about is Anthony Weiner showing his weenie to various women on the Internet. Is anyone but me gettin’more than a little sick of this? I mean, aren’t there more important things for news people to dwell on other than some stoopid schmuck who waves his wanker in public? I realize the fact that he’s a member of Congress makes it somewhat newsworthy. But it’s getting to the point that “journalists” are ignoring way more important shit going on in the world and concentrating solely on Anthony’s exposed “pudenda”. By the way, I had to look up that word after reading it in a Christopher Hitchens post. I love Christopher Hitchens.

Now I know that all the politicians on the right are just loving this whole weener thing, and the guys on the left are just wishing he’d resign. I don’t want him to resign just because he wagged his weenie, I just want him to resign because he lied about it when he got caught. If you do something wrong, at least have the balls to own up to it...jeez. (Although I have to admit it seems kind of pervy to take pictures of your crotch and then send those same crotch shots to strangers, it seems stoopider yet to send them through the Internet...through an account traceable to ones self as did the good congressman.)

This whole thing does make me wonder what makes a person want to do something like that. I know I’m old and didn’t grow up in the whole “Facebook” era, have never played “Farmville”, and probably never will. Still, is there something in the water we’re drinking these days that makes people want to send naked pics of themselves to strangers? And what’s with the whole “sexting” thing? Being the Luddite I am, simple texting is beyond my capabilities, and being the repressed, menopausal, slightly dementia stricken oldster I am, sexting will likely be forever out of the question. Besides, at my age, how many people are there out there who would want to try sexting with me anyway?

People have no sense of privacy these days. In fact, they really don’t even seem to feel a need for privacy and they obviously have no respect for anyone else’s privacy. On the other hand, if they don’t feel a need for privacy, they probably wouldn’t even understand another’s need for privacy now would they?

I, on the other hand, tend to go way overboard in the “sense of privacy” department. Hard to believe, I know. A couple of years ago...or more...I can’t remember..(dementia worming it’s way into my brain)... I was working in the yard and didn’t come in after dark. I was all dirty & hot, and stanky...very stanky. So I’m standing in the kitchen and I felt a pain in my chest. Okay, I thought I’ll just lay down on the couch for a couple of minutes and see if it goes away. Well, it didn’t go away, it started going down my arm..my right arm..in a rhythmic fashion. This didn’t seem like one of Martha’s proverbial “good things” to me. Since the Husband was out of town, I thought I’d call my OC (Old Chix) friend and have her drive me to the hospital.

Unfortunately for me, said OC who is something of a tight wad and was married to a tight wad, refused to have two phone lines installed (dial up days) in her house so she could get phone calls while she was on the Internet. This was before she was gigantically into texting and had a cell phone with her at all times...hey, I wonder if she’s into the sexting thing too??? Ewww. She’s much older than me...(5 months) so that’s an incredibly gross thought.  Can't you just picture some gray haired old lady sitting in her rocker...no teeth...sexting away to some poor schmoe who thinks he's found himself a babe?

Anyway, on with the story...I can’t get a hold of OC so now I’m debating whether to drive myself to the hospital or not. I live a long way from the hospital and really didn’t know if I should try it or not. And more importantly, I’m filthy dirty and stanky to boot. So now I’m in a quandary. You’re probably thinking my quandary is whether or not to drive myself to the hospital or call an am-ba-lance, right? Wrong...I’m debating whether or not to jump in the shower and get clean before I go to the hospital or just drive down there all stanky. Here’s the problem...I know some of the coppers in this town and if I die in the shower, one of them is gonna come to my house and find my dead body laying on the shower floor in God knows what position and they’re gonna take pictures of my naked body and show them to their friends. I know in my heart of hearts this would happen. The whole time I’m thinking this I can hear them in my head saying “whoa, she looked way better with her clothes on”. I know...it’s stoopid...but I can’t help it.

My dilemma, sad but true, was worrying about someone I knew (but not in the Biblical sense) seeing me naked or having strangers in the emergency room smelling me all stanky. Is this not the stoopidist fucking thing in the world? Here I could be dying of a heart attack and those were the things I was worried about.

Unbelievably, I chose cleanliness and risked being mocked in death by former acquaintances who may or may not have lived up to my extremely low expectations of them. Like I would even have known...I would’ve been dead.

Since I’m sitting here able to write this the whole situation turned out well for me. I made it to the emergency room...clean as a whistle...literally...and much to my delight, found that if you tell them you’re having chest pains, they don’t make you sit in the waiting room...they take you right in and hook you up to a bunch of monitors. (Note to self...must remember this and use it for all real or imagined maladies in future ER visits.)

So here’s what the big diagnosis was...acid reflux...no kidding. I didn’t even know I had an acid reflux problem. I don’t get heartburn or indigestion or anything like that. I mean occasionally I’ll burp and a little burp juice will come up, which is really nasty...but doesn’t everyone???

I ended up going to my regular doc afterwards and asked her about it. She said that an acid reflux attack mimics the symptoms of a heart attack...I said “Well, how do you know the difference?” thinking I could avoid making a fool of myself in the future by rushing to the emergency room with another simple acid reflux problem. “You don’t” she said "you just go."

Obviously not the answer I was hoping for...it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S. It's never happened again so far...knock on wood.