Tuesday, June 28, 2011


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.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

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.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

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".

Saturday, June 11, 2011


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.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

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.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

OMG I Farted!

I'd like to start by saying I have never intentionally farted in front of another human being in my adult life.  Sure when I was a kid I would do it and laugh hysterically when my mom looked horrified at me, wondering what kind of a daughter she was raising...one who didn't like dolls and was way more content being a tomboy.  She obviously made an impression on me that farts are a private bodily function that should never be shared with family or friends. 

In our family the term for a fart was a "boom".  The question "did you boom?" would always be followed by someone laughing or at least snickering.  When my mom was growing up she said they had to call them "fluffies" at her house.  I don't know which is worse, boom or fluffy.  I always thought it would be funny to have a friend at the dinner table and casually ask them "did you boom?"  just to see what my family's reaction would be.  I actually regret not ever doing that.  It would have been really funny.

So yesterday I was talking to a friend, I'll call her "C".   To be totally accurate, we weren't actually talking, we were emailing back & forth.  C is my age so naturally we were talking about aches and pains like all old wimmen do.  Very pathetic, I know, but we can't help it.  C also happens to be the only other person I've ever met who grew up eating peanut butter, lettuce, & mayonnaise sandwiches, which sadly for her, makes her nearly as weird as me. 

We were talking about a certain pain we both have in our hips and she was telling me about some kind of move the chiropractor performed.  I jokingly asked if this was one of those "pull my finger" kind of moves that people are so fond of (mostly men).  I could just picture her sitting there laughing at the thought of me trying to get someone to do this miraculous "move" on me and me farting in the process and being totally embarrassed.  What...does she think I'm stoopid???  I'm not falling for that old "miraculous move" stuff.

So even though I've never intentionally farted in front of other people, there was a time....

I was in WalMart where I went specifically to get Hebrew National Hot Dogs because they were cheaper than at the grocery store.  Of course I had other things to get so I got all the other stuff and went to the refrigerator section last...perishable items, you know. 

Finally I'm done & head to the refrigerator section.  When I turn around the corner, there's a kid standing in front of the hot dog section and giving me a really weird look.  I call him a kid, but he was probably in his late teens, early twenties...a kid to me.  So anyway I'm thinkin' he's some kind of nut the way he's looking at me and all of a sudden he walks away from me toward the other end of the isle, really fast. 

When I reach his spot I become enveloped in a huge cloud of fart stink.  OMG it was soooo bad.  Now I know why he was giving me such a weird look.  I interrupted his private farting session.  I almost started laughing...yes, even through the putrid stench, I still thought it was funny.  As I reach in to get my hot dogs, around the same corner from whence I came, comes a mother and her two little kids.  Now I feel like I've just been caught farting because the original Fart Boy is long gone but the stench remains...and I'm right in the middle of it.  I know Soccer Mom thinks I did it.  Now I'm in a quandary...do I acknowledge the stench and try to explain it wasn't me but the already disappeared Fart Boy?  I know she wouldn't believe me.  I probably had the same look on my face that Fart Boy had on his when I interrupted him.   Kindly, she didn't acknowledge the smell.  The only thing that would have made it more perfect is if one of her kids had said something.  You know she would have been trying to shush them up so I wouldn't be embarrassed by the fact that (she thought) I had been caught sneaking a fart. 

I now think of this every time I see Hebrew National Hot Dogs and have come to accept the fact that I'm obviously never going to outgrow the immaturity of thinking farts are funny...it's the stoopidist thing.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Fat Arms

I was forced to shop for a dress last weekend because I had to go to a funeral.  It's so rare for me to dress up that when I do, I'm forced to shop for new clothes since the ones in my closet are seriously out of style.  Now you're probably thinkin'...why doesn't she just get herself one simple little black dress that won't go out of style???  What is she?  Stoopid?  As a matter of fact, I am and well...duh...I've tried that.  And guess what???  Apparently when you add on the tonnage it doesn't just go to the thighs and butt.   Who knew?  I mean, I realize that now I have a fat stomach, but I thought it, along with every lump and bulge, could be covered by a dress and all would be right with the world.  I was wrong.   Not only can the lower extremities no longer be covered by the old clothes, now the upper extremities are full of flabby flesh too!

Until this weekend...I had no idea my arms were so fat.  Okay, maybe I had a little idea, but seriously...WTF???  How do you get fat on your arms?  And flab? And how can they be fat and flabby at the same time?  I mean if you go from fat to thin I can see where there'd be flab (as in loose skin & no muscle tone), but going from fairly fit to fat why is there flab? We're talking major jiggly here.   Apparently I wasn't as fairly fit as I fought (please note that was an intentional error...I kinda got caught up in the whole "f" thing...I was hearing Fudian...as in Elmer...I know I'm weird but I can't help it).

When I have to shop for something, I usually do it alone.  I'm not out to socialize.  Shopping has never been a "social" thing for me...

except shopping for plants...

I could happily do that all day.

Shopping for clothes, on the other hand, is painful.  Clothes only seem to look good on hangers, mannequins, or thin women...none of which describe me...at all.   As always, I head for the dark (preferably black) dresses.  Someone either told me or I read that black makes you look slimmer.  I don't know if it's really true or not.  It probably just draws less attention than some brightly flowered number will so people don't notice you...and if they don't notice you, they don't notice how fat you've become...just a theory.  Since I now have fat arms, sleeveless options are out unless I can find a jacket or sweater to cover the blubber that hovers between my shoulders and elbows.  The quest begins. 

I grab two black dresses and head for the dressing room.  As always, I'm sidetracked by other things.  This time it's capri's...

which are on sale...

which I don't need...

which I grab anyway.  Off I go...

Let me tell you, there are few things more brutal in life than a dressing room mirror...on a wall...in a room bathed in fluorescent light. Why do they insist on that type of lighting?  I know it's cheaper, but wouldn't they sell more clothes if people could see themselves in a more flattering light?  Like candlelight?  It's much more flattering.  Or is it just that it's dark and you can't really see things as well?  I dunno...I, for one, think it should be mandatory in all dressing rooms. 

It was torture.  Oh sure, they say water boarding's bad (not really torture though...government says so), and I'm sure ripping someones teeth out with a pair of pliers is no fun (torture...by any ones definition...unless it's done humanely through the marvels of modern dentistry), but seriously...I'm thinkin' I'd at least try the water boarding, just to see if it was as bad as everyone says and in any case, I'm sure my psyche was damaged beyond repair this weekend. 

Unfortunately I wasn't blinded by the pasty whiteness of overabundant flesh looking back at me from the mirror.  There I was standing there in my Hanes Boxer Briefs...

which I love...

which they quit making...

which I can't even find on eBay...

and my Sassybax bra...(which is probably the most unattractive brassiere made and also the most comfortable I've ever worn). 

It was horrible...it was a painful...and I willingly subjected myself to it.  Well, actually I wasn't totally willing...if you get right down to it I was kind of forced and left with no other options.  And if I'm being totally honest, I have to admit I always wait until the very last minute to begin this type of endeavor...every time...and end up feeling rushed and stressed...I am, without a doubt, the Queen of Procrastination.

I ended up buying a black button up shirt dress only because it fit and I was sick of trying on dresses (all two of 'em) in the torture chamber (aka/dressing room).  Next I'm off to find a pair of plain black heels...that I can keep forever in my closet for all occasions.  Easy peasy, right???  Wrong!!!  The only plain black shoes I could find all had ten inch heels. 

I know I may be stoopid, okay...no maybe about it, but I do have a sense of self preservation that screamed at me from my innards when I looked at those heels. (That's kind of a white trash word, isn't it? Innards..it's what you'd pull out of a chicken being plucked.)  Forget the fact that I'd be walking on tippy toes all day...I know I'd end up with foot cramps.  You know, the kind that start painfully in the bottom of your arch, work their way around to the top, and make your toes turn into misshapen claws?  I get them all the time...very annoying...and painful...and they always seem to strike at the most inopportune moments, don't they?  Of course I guess when you stop and think about it, is there ever really an "opportune" moment for a foot cramp???  I mean really?  I've never heard anyone say "Oh man, I wish my foot would freeze into one of those weird shapes right now" or anything remotely close to that...ever. 

On a side note, as I'm sitting her typing, Avatar is playing on one of the movie channels in the background.  I liked it, but doesn't it just seem like Dances With Wolves in space?  Why does my mind wander like this?  Will I ever learn to focus?

So my quest for funeral attire now leads me to the mall in search of plain black heels.  Once inside and in the middle, I'm immediately accosted by a dark complected young man with an accent who wants to sell me some type of heated hair appliance...blow dryer or flat iron I think...but.. all I can see are his perfectly drawn on eyebrows.  In my heart of hearts, I know he's used one of those eyebrow templates to gain such perfect eyebrow symmetry.  I manage, quite successfully, not to laugh as he begins his spiel and actually manage to cut him off mid sentence by...

holding my hand up toward his mouth...

tilting my head slightly down and to the side...

and, saying in my sternest motherly tone "I'm sorry but I really don't have time for this...I'm on a mission to get shoes to wear to a funeral". 

It totally worked!  Eyebrow Boy actually pointed me to the shoe store nearest his little kiosk (which I had just walked past because it's the most expensive store in the mall).

"They have very good high quality shoes"  says my new found salesman friend with drawn on eyebrows in his accented voice as he points to the high dollar store "you should go there".

So what do I do?  I go to the high dollar store.  I now feel somehow obligated to Eyebrow Boy since he stopped his sales pitch mid sentence and offered me help.  The blow dryer or flat iron would have been cheaper.  I leave the high dollar store with a pair of high dollar shoes.  I know they're not Jimmy Choo's, but for me, it was tough, especially since I know that after I wear them once they're destined to sit unused in my closet.

So I spent the better part of a day on my quest for a dress.  As it turns out, the dress and shoes didn't look good together.  The shoes are kind of Mary Jane's with heels.  I figured I'd just live with it.  The funeral was out of town so the next morning I drove with a friend for hours...and hours...and hours...

When we get to the hotel, I remember I don't have a toothbrush.  I actually knew this & had planned to stop & buy one, but as usual, I forgot.  (Menopausal...no memory) So my friend & I run over to Tar-Jay so I can grab a toothbrush. 

 I walk into Tar-Jay and there hanging on a rack is a sleeveless black dress.  On the rack next to it is a white sweater like thing with 3/4 length sleeves that's kind of drapey and a perfect cover for fat arms. (Is drapey really a word???)  So in about 5 minutes I have a new funeral outfit that was way better looking than the original.  No fuss, no muss, no stress...

I'd like to return the original dress and recoup a few $$$ but as usual, I can't find the receipt.  Why??? Because I threw it away of course...Why?  Who the fuck knows?????  It's the stoopidist thing.