Thursday, December 13, 2012

Sneak-A-Pooper Fail


I got a text message from OF yesterday (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame).

  OF:  OMG!  I went to Wal Mart with BBQ sauce all over my freaking face.  Nobody said anything.

  Me:  Funniest thing I've heard all day.  Would've been better with pictures...just sayin'.

  OF:  I could not believe it when I saw it in the rear view mirror.  I looked like a 2 yr old.  Nobody               said a thing in the store

  Me:  OMG, The Princess said she just thought she saw one of my friends at the store w/stuff all over           her face but was too embarrassed to say anything.

  OF:  Lol you liar.

  Me:  She has pictures...you'll be in the next "People of WalMart" email...

It made me laugh out loud.  I always love it when stuff like this happens to other people.  Usually these little humiliations happen to me so it makes me feel good to know that I'm not the only one.

I was even more glad it wasn't me this weekend at Bunco.  The monthly game was at the SIL's (Sister In Law) house where the hostess with the most-ess prepared a feast fit for kings...or in this case queens...because we're all women...not flamboyant gay men...in case I need to clarify that point.

OF, Scari, Smellie and I met at OF's house and all hopped into OF's car for the long ride into old folks land in the hills.  OF hosted a party at her house the night before for people from her office where they consumed mass quantities of food and adult beverages...then broke out the karaoke machine...personally, I don't think you could get me drunk enough to sing in public...and I really don't want to test this theory.  Anyway, it was a busy weekend for OF whose stomach is apparently not made of cast iron as was previously thought.

When we got to the SIL's, we spent the first thirty minutes drinking and stuffing our faces.  The SIL had a bottle of Iced Cake Vodka...sounds really good...and it was...just a little too sweet.  I mixed it with citrus punch to try to cut the sweetness to no avail.  It reminded me of drinking sloe gin and orange juice when I was in high school.  Like the latter, it made me feel like I was going to throw up after a little while.  Note to self...avoid cake vodka in the future.

We got through the first round of Bunco fine, but during the second round as we were nearing the end, all of a sudden OF says to her partner "You're going to have to roll for me"...as she jumps up and practically runs from the table.

We finish the round...sans OF...when everyone decides to take a break so we can stuff our fat faces even more than we previously had...and use the bathroom.

"Oh, someone beat me to the bathroom" bemoans poor Smellie while the rest of us stuff our faces.  The bathroom door is right off the kitchen where we're all gathered and you can see from the light under the door that the room is occupied.

Smellie's easily distracted by food and chatter for a few minutes when she turns back to the bathroom and sees again to her dismay that it's occupied..."Oh I missed it again"  she says, thinking that whoever was in there came out and some other lucky full bladdered party goer slipped in before her. Smellie's now on a mission to be the next person in the bathroom come hell or high water.

"Who's in the bathroom anyway?"  yells Smellie to no one in particular.  The bathroom door remains shut...

At this point I get the giggles because I know that poor OF is stuck in the bathroom pooping her brains out wishing with all her heart that we'd all just magically disappear from her world so she could exit the bathroom with some shred of dignity...but noooooo....

"Hey, who's in there?"  Smellie continues her verbal assault...(In her defense, had she known the circumstances she never would have said a word...and I'm sure she felt bad once she made it into the bathroom where her keen sense of smell told the story of the previous occupant.)

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the bathroom door opens and OF, looking six feet tall, is framed in the doorway...all eyes turned...it was an E.F. Hutton moment (there's a blast from the past).

OF musters as much dignity on the walk of shame from the bathroom as is humanly possible.  I start laughing again because every time I get embarrassed or nervous that's what I do...and I'm totally embarrassed for OF...and soooo thankful that it wasn't me.

We, at least me and most of the women I know, get so embarrassed by having to poop in public.  It's like we think people don't really know we poop if we only do it at home.  With the exception of Smellie, who worked in sales for years and spent her days travelling and who proudly declares herself "an indiscriminate pooper" who will poop anywhere, anytime, everyone I know is mortified at the thought of pooping in public.  When most of us are forced to Sneak-A-Poop, we do the courtesy flush to cover sound and try to eliminate smell...everyone knows what you're doing...but we still do it.  Someday maybe I'll be mature enough to poop and fart loudly and proudly.  So far, I'm still an immature wimp.

Most men, and I say most because I'm sure there are exceptions, couldn't care less where they poop. If they gotta go, they go.  They may get embarrassed but if they are, they just cover well by making jokes "better light a match, ha ha ha"etc.  Which, by the way, doesn't work...it only leaves an unpleasant sulfur smell on top of the poop smell.   So please don't think, if the bathroom lacks air freshener, lighting a match will do any good.  Everyone will just know you tried to cover the poop smell with a match.

There is, however, a new wonderfully fabulous product called Poo-Pourre.  You spray it in the toilet before you poop and it magically eliminates the poop smell.  And, unfortunately for OF since she didn't have one, comes with a handy purse sized sprayer...which I will now carry with me wherever I go in case I'm forced to be a Sneak-a-pooper.

Poo-Pourri 3-piece Bathroom Deodorizer Set

I try to get The Husband to spray before he poops.  So far, no luck.  He doesn't even think of it. He comes out of the bathroom and the whole house (which is really tiny) stinks to high heaven. 

"I put that Poo-Pourre on the window sill right by the toilet so that you'd use it"  I tell him in between gag reflexes.

This is his reply..."Well, don'tcha want to know when I've been there???"...Um, no, not really...it's such a guy remark...and it's the stoopidist thing...

Thursday, November 29, 2012

A Backwards Hick Story

I started buying these Sassybax bras a couple of years ago.  They're similar to a Genie bra, no hooks, you step in to them...and they kinda fit like a sports bra but not quite so boobage flattening.  The underwire style is great for riding...less bouncing boobage.  I usually buy the underwire style but on a lark, I bought a couple of the wireless kind to try.  They're like an amped up version of the Genie...the fabric isn't quite so stretchy.

So yesterday morning when I'm getting dressed for work, in the dark as usual, I throw on one of the wireless Sassybax, top it with a tee shirt and a pullover sweater.  Fat dumb & happy I feed the critters and head down the hill to work.

My first stop was a jail in a neighboring county where I had to have an inmate sign some documents. When I got there, the inmate was dressed in striped pants...he looked like the little guy in the Monopoly game on the Get Out Of Jail Free card.  I almost laughed.  I always have the urge to laugh at inappropriate moments...at some point I may need to seek professional help for this problem. Truthfully, I didn't know they still had clothes like that in jail.  I mean, we're way out of Sheriff Joe's territory....the jail in our county gives them bright orange clothes but at least they're solid colored.

So anyway, these documents had little sticky arrows pointing to where the guy was supposed to sign and date the form...and in true dunder fashion, he signed completely backward...signing where he was supposed to date, and dating where he was supposed to sign...this isn't the first time this has happened, but truth be told, they don't end up in jail by being the sharpest knife in the drawer, now do they???

After a hard day at work...okay, not that hard...I run to the feed store to get pelleted feed for the old guys (geriatric horses) and run it over to OF's house (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame). Then off to a barn with a covered arena where I rented a stall so I'd have somewhere to ride during the winter after work.  No one was in the barn when I got there and it was dark so I ended up just turning my Girlie loose in the arena for a while watching her kick up her heels...that's her name, Girlie...I don't like to waste a lot of time thinking up original names.

By the time I get home, get all the critters fed, and stuff my fat face, I'm ready for a long hot soak in the tub.  Off with the sweater, off with the tee shirt...and WTF???  I have my bra on backwards!!!  I've been walking around with my bra on backwards and I didn't know it.  Unfilled cups were hanging off my back all day long.  And I thought the guy in the jail was a dunder...geesh.  Good thing I never took to a life of crime...I'd be signing on the wrong line like all the other dunders.

This is what was hanging off my back all day (minus the tag...I swiped the photo from an eBay ad)......it is the style without the underwire and my hope is that if there was underwire that I would have felt said wires digging in my back and noticed my mistake before I made it out the door in the morning...but who knows???







Swear to God, this was my first thought...Thank God I didn't get in an accident and have to go to the hospital.  You know how your mom always told you to wear clean underwear in case you get in an accident?  That's what I thought about.  Never once did I hear my mom utter the words "make sure you put your bra on with the boobs in the cups".   Mom obviously never thought she needed to tell me to put my bra on with the cups in front.  And why would she?  Even the most moronic among us know the cups go in front...I mean, why bother otherwise?  Okay, some very large people may have overhanging flesh in the back that could fill a cup...or two, but they have other compression garments to combat that particular problem.

One time I made fun of OF for doing something like this.  I have these underwear I love, they're boyshorts.  I was telling OF about them and how wonderful they were...yadda yadda...so when I got a new pack, I gave her a pair to try.   She said she went shopping with her sister, one of the Sister Wives, and when she was trying on clothes, she told her sis that she didn't see why I liked these underwear so much because she wasn't impressed...her sister looked at her in the dressing room and told her "it might be because you have them on backward".  I thought that was sooooo hysterical....hahaha  "you had them on backward"?    "How could you not know?"  

Well now I know...it's the stoopidist thing...

P.S.  I think I would've felt the Melvin from the backwards underwear...at least that's my story and I'm stickin' to it. 


Thursday, October 11, 2012

Bacon Mac & Cheese

I went to another town yesterday with Smellie Noellie and we stopped at a little sports bar (The Happy Viking) for lunch that has one of her fave Mac & Cheese dishes...Bacon Mac & Cheese to be specific. We’ve gone a couple of times before and I’ve gotten hooked on the Bacon Mac & Cheese that Smellie forced me to eat...really...she actually shoved it down my throat despite all my protestations that I shouldn’t be eating such a high carb meal. It was heaven...the Mac & Cheese...not the shoving down the throat part...okay, she didn’t really shove it down my throat...and I never really protested about eating high carb anything...but it was her idea to go there originally.


So yesterday I’m in heaven savoring each bite of the cheesy macaroni with smokey bacon knowing there’d be a bunch left over so I could eat it last night. Then the unthinkable happened...

After work, I went to OF’s (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) house to ride and I put the container of precious Bacon Mac & Cheese in her fridge. It seemed like a good idea at the time and I didn’t want to leave it sitting in a hot car where it might spoil and give me some horribly gross stomach problems since I would still probably try to eat it...it’s that good.

I was about half way home when I realized I’d left the container sitting in OF’s fridge. Shit...oh well, I’ll just get it tomorrow...I thought.

My phone rang about 7:30 last night. It was OF...

OF: “Hi”

Me: “Hey, what’re you doing?”

OF: “Standing at my sink eating Mac & Cheese”

Me: “It’s good, isn’t it?” “Fuck, fuck, fuck”....I shout silently to myself.

OF: “Yes, what’s in it? Bacon?”

Me: “Yes, isn’t it wonderful”. I’m dying a little bit inside at this point. I want to shout “don’t eat it”...but I can’t.

OF: “Well, I just had a little, I didn’t heat it up, I wanted to make sure you left it for me.”

Me: “You have to heat it up” resigning myself to the fact that my scrumptious snackage is lost to me...really, how can I say “NO I didn’t leave it for you...I’m just stoopid and forgot to take it home”.

You’d think that I’d been starved as a child by my obsession with food, wouldn’t you? Nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve never been hungry a day in my life. I don’t know why food is such a big thing for me. It’s the stoopidist thing.











Sunday, October 7, 2012

Me & My Husband Day

The Husband has spent the last several days getting ready to go on his annual "hunting" trip.  I hesitate to call it a hunting trip because he never actually brings home any game.  Well, he did once, but that was a long time ago and since then, nada, zip, zero.  But the hunting trip is the only time he actually relaxes, so I'm happy to see him go.  It's the getting ready part I have a problem with.  I suppose it's not really a problem but it would be if I had to be personally involved.  As it stands, I pretty much just observe his comings and goings during the planning/prep stage of his annual jaunt. The Husband runs back and forth to town several times a day for important things he forgot the last time he went.

Occasionally I'm pressed into service for some chore that requires more than one person.  This is a rare occurrence because The Husband hates to ask me to help him do anything.  Why?  Because I tend to offer helpful suggestions as to how he might do something faster, easier, or better. Since I don't have a penis, my suggestions are never taken seriously.  I've learned to accept this and truth be told, it gets me out of a lot of stuff I'd rather not have to do.

We had to hang new blinds in the bedroom and put up a new outside light before The Husband left for his adventure.  The blind job was first and most important since the ones currently hanging were ancient and had broken spots all over.  Totally white trash...but if the shoe fits...

Since I'd hung blinds before, I knew you didn't have to be a rocket scientist.  I ordered the kind that fit inside the window casing to make it even easier. You just butt up the bracket on each corner, attached it, insert the blind, and you're done.  Easy peasy.  I took the old ones down, threw them away, and laid out the new ones.  The small blind was unpackaged and all the parts needed were opened.  I'd glanced at the directions and they had great pictures...I'm a visual learner...if I can look at something and see how it works or visualize it in my head, I'm good to go.  Not so with The Husband. I don't think he's a visual learner.  After all these years, I'm still not really sure what kind of a learner he is.  He may have reached his maximum learning capacity...for my sake, I hope not.

Into the house comes The Husband, armed with his cordless drill, level, and a step ladder.  Man Stuff. He sees the long blinds on the bed still wrapped, completely ignoring the smaller unwrapped blinds and tells me "You need to get these unwrapped"...like I hadn't done my job...jeez, I was just trying to make it less confusing for the old guy by having one window laid out ready to go...next time I'm going to unwrap everything and have it in a big pile and let him sort it all out...I'm very mature that way.

I point to the small unwrapped blinds and hardware and calmly reply "This is everything we need for this window".

Having been through this before and knowing that there's metal around the inside of the window casing I add "You'll probably need a drill bit to start holes for the new brackets".

"No I won't" he says as he unscrews the old brackets.

I hand him the new bracket and the first thing he says is..."How does this work?"

Instead of being snarky and saying "Well you have the penis, don't you know?"  I say "You just butt the bracket into the corner with the opening facing out...it doesn't matter which one you use, they're interchangeable."

He takes the bracket and one of the screws and tries to attach it...but it won't screw in.  Down the ladder he comes and heads toward the door...and I can't help myself..."Where are you going?"

"I need to get a drill bit" he mumbles heading for the tool shed "I thought it was a self tapping screw but it's not."  I'm sure he added this last bit of information to let me know that he could have been right..if the stoopid blind company had given him proper screws...I'm also sure he hated having to get something to start the hole after me suggesting it to begin with.  I have to smile to myself.  Will  there ever come a time when he'll listen to me?  At this point, I don't think so...but I continue to hope.

After blind hanging we went to Home Depot to get a new outside light for the back door.  The Husband broke a light bulb inside the light and couldn't get the metal part out.  When we look at the light selection, he points to the ugliest light they make and says "That's the light I'm getting".

The light in question is painted white with a round globe that has to be removed in order to change the light bulb.  "I don't want that one, it's ugly" and I point out "and you have to take the globe off to change the light bulb".

"I'm leaving the bottom off" he proudly says...like he's just invented electricity.  "Then I can just unscrew the light bulb".

"Why not just get one with an open bottom?"  I ask...thinking it wouldn't look so white trash if we had a complete light instead of just a bare bulb hanging outside our door.

"No" he snapped "this is the third light I've had to replace because the bulbs break off inside and they were all open from the bottom."  He's really pissed off about this whole light thing.  I'm kinda stunned because I had no idea we'd had three different lights...guess I should pay more attention.  I don't have any problem changing the bulbs...I just have to get a chair to reach them so it's a pain in the ass.

Since I don't really care what kind of light we get and since he obviously does, I keep my trap shut...until we get in the car.   I'm driving, as usual, and when we turn out of the parking lot I can't help but say "If you've had to replace three lights because you break the bulbs off doesn't that tell you something?"  The inference being if he'd didn't squeeze the fragile glass bulb in a vice like grip it wouldn't break.  I have to also add "I've never broken a bulb off in the light".

"That's because you never change them" says The Husband "you always have me do it".  Which is true...when he's home.  But he works out of town...a lot.

"Who do you thing does everything when you're gone?  Elves?"  is my standard reply...

The Husband, bless his heart, is unable to come up with a witty retort so that's apparently the end of this conversation...it's the stoopidist thing.






Thursday, September 27, 2012

Little Things



Little Things That Bug Me

People who say "No Worries"
What does that mean???  Does that mean they have no worries and are trying to flaunt their fabulously wonderful life in my face?  Are they trying to imply that I have no worries?  Because if they are, let me tell you, they're fucking wrong.  Is the English language becoming a spoken version of texting filled with misspelled or abbreviated words and incomplete sentences?  Are they subtly trying to give me an English test?   Next time someone says that to me, I'm gonna ask them exactly what they mean.

Thursday Night Football
Do we really need another day with a football game?  Isn't all day Sunday, Sunday night, and Monday night enough?  It really screws up my DVR scheduler when they have football games that start Sunday afternoon and go into the evening.  Truth be told, I actually like football, but I hate watching Monday night since they took Hank Jr. off.   It's just not the same without his song.

Mocha Anything
Simply calling it "Mocha" doesn't mean it stops tasting like coffee.  I hate coffee and I'm kinda sick of people trying to get me to taste "mocha" flavored treats that they say don't taste like coffee.  All things mocha taste like coffee to a coffee hater.  I know this is weird, but I've never actually had a cup of coffee in my life...and I'm not even Mormon.

Thong Underwear
I even had to be specific in the title because it could have been confused with the thongs you used to wear on your feet.  You know, the ones that they now call "flip flops" instead of thongs so they don't get confused with the Melvin inspired underwear of the same name?  Basically that's what they are...a continuous Melvin.  Everyone remembers a Melvin, right?  When someone would sneak up behind you, grab the back of your underwear and yank it up the crack of your butt?  Do you know a single person who left the Melvin in place?  No, we all did a little dance pulling the underwear out of the crack of our butt.  Now there's millions of people willingly giving themselves Melvin's via their choice of underwear.  Why do they call them Thong's anyway?  Maybe they should call them Eterna Melvin, or Melvinesque, or Melvinitas.   Who thought up this stuff anyway?  If you don't want a visible pantie line, don't wear panties.  Easy peasy.

Stale Butterfingers
You're all ready to take a bite out of a fun sized Butterfinger and when you're teeth sink in, instead of the sweet crumble buttery confection, your teeth make contact with a cement like substance that makes you worry that they're going to break.  Not only do you have to worry about breaking your teeth, but as you chew, the cementish interior packs itself so hard into your teeth that you 're afraid to pry it out for fear that your fillings will come out with it.  This ruins the whole Butterfinger experience for me.  You'd think with today's technology that they could make a Butterfinger whose inside wouldn't get rock hard wouldn't you?

When I stop and think about it, there's lots of little things that bug me.  Some of them are so petty, that I'm too embarrassed to even admit it.  I don't know why I let little things bug me, but I do.  It's the stoopidist thing...

P.S.  There's lots of little things that I love too...












Saturday, September 22, 2012

The Bunco Squad

If you want to see a group of seemingly normal women turn into a bunch of screaming meemies, (What is a meemie, anyway?  I'm not sure that's really a word, even though people say it all the time.) give them some dice, a little bit of adult beverages, good snackage, and watch the fireworks begin...in other words, Bunco.

I think we were on our way back from a trip to Costco when the original idea for Bunco came up.  OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) and I regularly purchase staples like hunks of smoked Gouda, giant bags of M&M's and dry roasted Macadamia nuts for me (the Mauna Loa ones in the blue can...not the purple bag of "Gourmet" macadamia nuts...yuck)...vats of hummus, goat cheese and quinoa salad for OF (You can see why her snackage is undesirable...at least to me...), and dried bull penises or penes for the dogs sold under the unoffensive name... "Gourmet Premium Bull Sticks".   Really, I mean, who would buy it if the package said "Dried Penises"?  Not me, that's for sure.  Truth be told, if I'd known what it was when I first bought it, I would've passed.  Unfortunately, my little psycho dog, Briley, loves her some dried bull penis...and let me tell you, dried bull penis is 'spensive...not to mention, stanky...very stanky.   So don't be stoopid like me and let your dog get hooked on them.   I bet you never really knew what the plural of penis was, did you?  Me neither, so I looked it up.  You can use either "penises" or "penes" (pronounced pee-neez).  See it's true...you really do learn something new every day.

OF likes to sample all the stuff at the ends of the aisles at Costco.  Once in a while I'll sample.  On my way to get dried penises, one of the demonstrators offering samples finagled me into trying a little Dixie cup of coconut water.  She was good, I'll give her that, because it looked kinda like gray water...not something one would ordinarily drink.

"Oh it's filled with vitamins and anti oxidants, and it's really good for your skin" the demonstrator gushed.  "You can mix it with juice or just drink it plain" she prattled on as I grabbed the mouthwash sized paper cup and swigged away.

I bravely fought the gag reflex...thank God I didn't down it in one gulp... but I know I sounded just like my mother, God rest her soul, and probably looked like her too when my face uncontrollably grimaced and I said "Uuulck...that's terrible".  (Uuulck isn't really a word, it's more of a sound made at the back of your throat when something is really, really gross...I'm sure everyone has their own personal version.)

I could tell the demonstrator wanted to laugh but instead she said sort of sheepishly "Most people mix it with juice."

...there was no juice sitting on her little cart to use as a mixer...just a casual observation...

OF, who fortunately for me missed my little near vomiting episode, wandered up so I said "Try this coconut water...it's suppose to be really good for you".

I don't know if I'm just an asshole or if misery really does love company, probably a little of both, but I was instantly rewarded by her look of utter disgust as she downed the entire cup of crappy coconut water in one swig.  I laughed out loud at the look on her face...even the demonstrator couldn't help but laugh and I don't think they're supposed to do that, are they?  We watched a couple of other people, including another demonstrator, try the horrible free sample and everyone had the same reaction.  I could have stood there all day watching the reaction on peoples faces.  If I'd been smart and less of a Luddite, I'd have used my fancy new iPhone and recorded people's reaction to the fabulous product they so eagerly sampled.  Would've made a great You Tube clip.

Back to the Bunco idea.  I'd never played but it seemed like a good idea when I mentioned it to OF. If nothing else it seemed like a good reason to eat, drink and be merry...like we need a reason.

"I don't know how to play" OF said when I broached the Bunco idea.

"Neither do I" I said.  "But it can't be that hard."

We both looked up the Bunco rules on the Internet and as it turns out, the game IS basically a reason to eat, drink and be merry.  On another little side note here, what did we do before the Internet?  Is there anything you can't find on the Internet?  I don't think so.

Both of us bugged people we knew to come and we almost ended up with a full group of twelve for the first game...apparently we don't have as many friends as we thought we did.  Stuffed animals were able to fill in quite nicely where vacancies occurred confirming my original thought that brains were not necessary to play the game of Bunco.

By the third game last weekend, the cast of characters was established...at least in my mind.

OF... who needs no introduction.

The Sister Wives...LS and BS...not to be confused with the polygamous gang from the reality TV show of the same name...they're just plain old lesbians, not polygamous religious folk.  LS is a shrink and as it turns out, the life of the party.  BS is a teacher and OF's sister.  The managed to get hitched during the brief moments when it was legal in CA.

Scari...one of the Old Chix, who's old like me...actually she's quite a bit older...almost six months.  I like to say that...she's quite a bit older.  Like me, she's an orphan...unlike me, she's a widow.  Scari lives with and for a clowder of cats, some feral, some tame and she's just a little bit shy of being the "Crazy Cat Lady".  I figure in a few years, she'll have this claim to fame as well.  Contrary to what you'd imagine, in spite of all her feline friends, her house doesn't smell like cat pee.  Someone once described us as the "Evil Twins" when we worked together...we might be just a little bit evil but we're fun...and she's quite a bit older so we really couldn't be twins, now could we???

Smellie...short for Smellie Noellie...Smellie works with me, has giant boobs and is a work out junkie currently in training for a Tough Mudder race.  We're getting ready to take a little work related jaunt to South Dakota...Smellie arranged the flights...she scheduled us on a flight at 0530 hrs...as in 5:30 in the fucking morning.  This means that I have to get up at 2:00 a.m. to be at her house by 3:00 a.m. so we can be at the airport by 4:30 a.m....  Note to self...don't allow Smellie to make future flight plans. Fortunately she has a good sense of humor and is the only human I feel comfortable being a passenger in a car with.

Natasha...she works with OF and is an immigrant from some Slavic country.  Sometimes I call her The Ruskie.  I think she was a scientist back in the homeland...now she checks septic tanks (or something like that).  Natasha tries all sorts of secret dice rolls which involve shaking the dice for an inordinate amount of time.  Since you want to get as many rolls as possible in each round this proves that despite her superior intellect, she lacks common sense...a trait that seems lacking in a good many super smart people...just my opinion.  I don't know her but she seems okay.

The Mouse...truth be told, I don't know what this girl's name is.  I just call her The Mouse (not to her face, of course) because she seems really timid and hardly ever says a word.  She works with OF and does some kind of inspections for the Public Health department.  The Mouse livens up a bit after consuming a couple of adult beverages.

Andie...who also works with OF.  Single mom and the only one of us who actually knew the rules of the game.  Andie just got a part Mastiff puppy and when OF puppy sat for her, the little critter got her first taste of horse shit...literally.  The next week she ended up at the vet from some parasite she picked up...allegedly from eating said horse shit.  OF probably won't be asked to puppy sit anymore.

SIL #1...My sister in law...married to Gadget Man, both retired and living in a nearby community composed mostly of blueheads...code for old people.  SIL1 loves to plan get togethers and annoys her brother, The Husband, to no end because she plans family gatherings right in the middle of the day.  I'm sure it never occurs to The Husband that some people actually like family gatherings and attend because they enjoy the company... not just out of a sense of familial obligation.  SIL1 has a wicked sense of humor.

PD...this is a friend of SIL1 who lives in the bluehead community too.  I call her PD because she sounds like Paula Deen.  PD is a gen-ewe-wine southern belle...or she was at one time before she became an oldster like the rest of us.  She's all charm and drawl.

SIL #2...My other sister in law...married to The Husband's brother...SIL2 is always nice, I mean always.  You can't say anything bad about her because she's sooooooo nice.  Although she did play poker with us a couple of weeks ago and got b-o-m-b-e-d...I admit I was secretly happy to see that she's not perfect.

Betsy Gainey, BG.  OF and I both used to work with the now retired BG.  She's unpretentious, laughs allot, and is really lucky when it comes to rolling dice.

So there you have it, the cast of characters for the Bunco Squad.  The Princess from my office is supposed to play, but so far has been a no show.  She apparently thinks kids and a family are more important than hanging out with a bunch of drunk ol' wimmen.  I'm sure there's gonna be a ton of blog fodder in the whole Bunco thing.  If nothing else it's a good reason to eat, drink, and be merry...like we need one...oh wait, I said that before...it's the stoopidist thing.








Smooth Move

I've had a bum right shoulder for a while now but it's finally getting better.  So of course, the left one is now going bad.  At first it was just a little nagging ache that would jab me when I tried to throw a saddle on a horse or a flake of hay overhead.  Fortunately when the first shoulder was hurt I bought a synthetic saddle so I could still ride.  Thanks to the bum shoulder I had to use the fake saddle again yesterday.  I can throw it on using only the semi-good shoulder.

After riding with OF, I went home and by the time I got there it was dark.  Since I'm too impatient to look for a flashlight, I was wandering around in the dark looking for dog dishes...found them and headed for the barn to feed the horses.  There's a light in the barn so I didn't have to wander in the dark down there.  Just going to and from.  From is where the trouble started...

On the way back from the barn was the first smooth move of the night.  I was just walking along fat, dumb, and happy...but the ground wasn't where I thought it was.  Have you ever gone down a flight of stairs, reached the bottom, and mistakenly thought there was another step?  Then you jam your leg down on the floor because there's not a step where you thought a step would be?  That's what happend here...only minus the stairs...which does make me a collosal dunder.  It jars your whole body.  Why is that?  It doesn't seem like I'm putting that much force into walking down the stairs themselves so what's up with that jarring, jerking feeling when there's not a step there?  Anyway, for some reason the jolting and jarring feeling was felt directly in the newly injured shoulder.  Really?  Take a misstep and it hurts the shoulder?  How is that possible?

So I get all the animals fed and I'm in the living room and I trip over a round foam pad (used on the gimpy back).  In this second smooth move of the night I manage not to fall thanks to my un-cat like reflexes and a Jerry Lewis type move that sends me jerking and staggering sideways like a drunk.  Again, the shoulder took the brunt of said smooth move number two.  This time it really hurt bad.  How can not falling hurt so bad?  I could understand it if I'd actually used the bad arm/shoulder to break my fall right before I hit the ground...but I didn't even put any weight or anything on it...just a huge jerk to my entire body. 

How come everybody tries so hard not to fall?  It's comical the lengths that people will go to not to fall.  Giant running steps, head down like a bull charging, arms flailing wildly...usually for nothing because you end up falling anyway.  So not only do you look like a dork when you fall, you end up looking like an even bigger dork for the lengths you go to to avoid it.   If you're lucky, you manage to get up relatively uninjured...if you're really lucky, nobody's captured your smooth move on video.

I think when we're kids, we should all be taught how to fall, not to avoid falling.  Falling is inevitable at some point so why not learn that tuck and roll shit from the get go?  Parents should teach their kids how to fall and pop right back up...preferably uninjured.  Although I can see how some parents would take advantage of this parenting technique and use it as an excuse to lump up the young 'uns. 

"Uh no, Occifer, I din't hit the kid, I was just teaching 'em a new tuck n roll move".......

Old people worry about falling, because they might break a hip...everyone knows when an old person breaks a hip, it's the start of a downhill road...they end up in the hospital with pneumonia and die...all from a broken hip.  Okay, it's a bit of an exaggeration to suggest that every old person who falls and breaks a hip dies...but they all think they're gonna. 

Now, not only do I have to worry about falling and  breaking a hip, I have to worry about getting injured by not falling.  I have some complaining to do when I get to heaven.  Hopefully it won't be because I died of a broken hip.  It's the stoopidist thing.

Friday, August 24, 2012

Food Police

I'm eating a York ice cream bar.  It's my newest favorite thing...I'm kinda like Oprah that way...I have many favorite things.  Except I don't have the $$$ to share my favorite things with a whole studio audience full of strangers who love me.  Wouldn't it be great to be Oprah for a day and give shit away to people?  Not shit literally, only someone with a freakish psychological disorder would literally want shit, but stuff, you know, they'd love?  I think Oprah should start a new show like the old "Queen For A Day" ...I know I'm dating myself...and call it "Oprah For A Day".  Might boost ratings on that new network of hers. I'd watch it.

The York ice cream bars are wonderful, but they should have a stick.  They're round, and you have to hold them in the wrapper when you eat them so the chocolate doesn't melt all over your hands, so you kind  of have to keep turning them around in the wrapper so you can get an edge to bite off.  Not a well thought out design if you ask me, which obviously they didn't, but they're soooo good I struggle through.

I'm eating after The Husband has gone to bed.  I've become a closet eater...not that I'm actually eating a closet, I mean, how could someone eat a closet???  It's just an empty space for putting stuff...mostly stuff you throw in and close the door so it looks like the rest of the room is neat and orderly. No, I'm hiding in the dark so The Husband doesn't see what I'm eating.  I waited until he went to bed before I started chowing down.  I feel guilty but I'm really not doing anything wrong, so I don't know why I feel guilty.  I guess I feel guilty because I'm eating all the things The Husband can't eat...ice cream, M&M's, cookies...the good stuff.

The Husband’s doctor put him on a diet.   I am now the Food Police.  It's not a job that I asked for. I don’t want to think about what I eat let alone monitor the food intake of another human. I now find myself measuring a quarter cups of trail mix into baggies for The Husband to take in his lunch. I  have to buy whole grain bread instead of the soft white of my childhood that sticks to the roof of your mouth. Labels now have to be checked for calorie, fat, and sodium content...and the print is so small that it's really hard to read.  All through the grocery store, I have to put glasses on and off, on and off...all in an effort to make The Husband's road to Skinnyville as painless as possible...for him at least.

The older we get, the easier the weight goes on...and the harder it is to take off. Lately I’ve actually been thinking about trying to shed some lbs, but I haven’t really got past the thinking part to the doing part. So maybe this is a good thing for both of us. I mean, if I have to fix him healthful things to eat, maybe a little healthy lifestyle will rub off on me and with little or no effort on my part I’ll magically lose lbs too. It could happen.

Old men, for some reason, refuse to acknowledge they’re getting old and keep trying to do things they used to be able to do when they were younger. Like work outside in the sweltering heat digging ditches. I know it’s probably wrong to generalize, and I’m sure there are some men out there who acknowledge that old age is wreaking havoc on their bodies and act accordingly, but I’ve just never met one. I’m sure there was a time when The Husband would be able to spend the one day off from his sedentary job digging ditches in triple digit heat without nearly suffering heatstroke and keeling over, which he did weekend before last,...but those days are gone... forever.

Fortunately, The Husband had a regularly scheduled checkup with the doc the very next day. So I called the doc’s wife who just so happens to work in her husband’s office and told her about The Husband’s little heatstroke episode...thinking that the Good Doctor, who’s the same age as The Husband by the way, would tell The Husband “don’t do that”. Wrongo bongo...Becky, that’s the doc’s wife, said “my husband did the exact same thing”. Great, I’m thinkin’...the Good Doctor, despite being a highly educated and trained health care professional, has no more common sense than my goober of a husband. What is it with these old men?????

The whole diet thing’s been a long time coming. For a while now, I’ve been threatening to buy The Husband suspenders to keep his pants up. He doesn’t want to wear suspenders because that’s what old men wear. Hello???...Dude, you’re old...and I don’t want to see you embarrass yourself in public with a bad case of plumbers butt..(this is what I say to myself...). Every time I threaten to buy suspenders, The Husband tells me that the older he gets, the more his butt shrinks. I just don’t have the heart to tell him that no, your butt isn’t shrinking, your stomach is growing...but the butt is still the same size as it always was.  The only reason you can still wear the pants is that you button them up under your stomach.  I've said this to myself many, many times.  Why is it anyway, that men's butts don't grow like women's butts do?  You don't see too many men around with fat asses unless their body is morbidly obese, but there's plenty of small to average size women out there with gigantic asses.  They like to call it "pear" shaped.  Sounds much more pleasant, but all it really means is that you have a gigantic ass in proportion to the rest of your body.

The Husband is having a much easier time with the whole diet thing than I am...probably since I’m the one counting the calories, sodium, and fat content of everything he eats. All he has to do is eat. Or not eat, as the case may be. “Don’t eat that much” I’ll say when he gets out the strawberries and a plate to put them on. “You can have a cup of strawberries...not a platter of strawberries”...I get a scrunchy face in reply.

Yesterday I found the zip lock bag holding the Nilla Wafers unzipped. Since I never, I mean never, leave zip lock bags unzipped...and since there’s only the two of us living in the house...I didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to figure out who the culprit was.

“How many Nilla Wafers did you eat?” I asked...because inquiring minds want to know...along with the Food Police.

I got a scrunchy face look from The Husband before he said “five”.

“Why? Did you count ‘em?” he continues accusingly...making me wonder if I should have taken on this job of Food Police and...leading me to believe he had way more Nilla Wafers than the admitted five.  Just a hunch...

“No” I snap back at him...a little testier than I intended “you never zip the damn bags up when you get stuff out of them”.

My hope now is that even if he doesn’t lose a pound he’ll finally learn how to close a zip lock bag properly... if only to hide his snackage sneaking ways. Of course, there’s probably as much chance of this happening as there is of my lbs magically disappearing because The Husband is on a diet...it's the stoopidist thing...

























Monday, July 2, 2012

The Impostor

Who’d a thunk it??? Somewhere, somehow, someone switched my OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) with an impostor. I think the real OF who, like myself, was a card carrying member of the Invertebrate Club, may have been abducted by aliens. Left in her place is this unknown creature who looks like OF, walks like OF (tripping and stumbling into holes) and even talks like OF, but who doesn’t slink away on her belly at the slightest hint of confrontation. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.

A couple of months ago, OF & the Sister Wives, Mini & Maxi,(newly named...by me) bought a patio boat together. The boat stays parked at OF’s house and they all come & go from there, hauling the boat to what ever lake they decide to spend the day on. Sometimes the whole gang goes, i.e., kids & grand-kids of the Sister Wives, sometimes just a few go. This past weekend, OF was staying on dry land and just one of the Sister Wives, Mini, was taking the boat. Mini was going to meet one of her boys and one of the grand-kids at the dock.

I found this out because, in addition to my keen powers of observation noting OF’s truck hitched to the boat, while we were hanging gates and moving horse panels I asked her...

“Are you going out on the boat this afternoon?”

“No, Mini’s coming to get it” she said “I thought Maxi was coming too, but she decided not to go so it’s just Min” by her tone, I could tell OF was clearly not okay with this scenario. She was worried about Mini trying to unload the boat herself...and more worried about her truck and/or Min's driving skills.

While we were tying baling wire around the last gate, in true hobo's ass fashion I might add, Min shows up and starts bustling around, putting stuff in the boat and walks down to the barn...

“Where’s the keys to the truck?” Min’s obviously not talking to me, so I keep my mouth shut...so does OF. I wonder why she doesn't answer...did she really not hear her?  If I heard it, OF had to have heard...so why doesn't she say anything?

I’m sure Min thought OF hadn’t heard her so she asked again “Hey, OF, where’s the keys to the truck?”

“Just a minute, I’m almost done” OF says trying to tighten up the baling wire...

Sounding a little exasperated, Min said “I need to leave” “I’m supposed to be at the dock”.

“I’m going with you” said OF still tightening wire “I don’t want you to have to do it by yourself”.

Clearly as surprised as I was by this revelation, the ball was back in Min’s court...

“Why? I can do it” “I need to leave...I’m going to be late”...punctuality had suddenly become vitally important and it appeared  Min was none too thrilled thinking someone was questioning her abilities... “They’re going to be waiting.”

“Min...they can wait. It’s only going to be a few more minutes. I don’t want you to do it by yourself.” It was a tone of voice I’d never heard coming out of this person I thought was OF.  It was...forceful...

I immediately want to disappear because there’s obviously going to be more of this unpleasant confrontation brewing and even when I’m not involved I get all sweaty just thinking about it...and we were already all sweaty from moving gates and panels and stuff...I didn’t need to get any sweatier...

The final wrap done to the baling wire and OF starts heading inside the barn...but Min’s not giving up so easily...

“OF, what is the problem?” “I’ve driven the boat & trailer before...”

“Not by yourself” OF said getting more and more agitated “One person can’t do it alone”...she’s actually kind of yelling...I’ve never heard her talk like this before...I'm in shock...

“My son’s going to be there, I won’t be alone”...the shrink part of Min is starting to take over and she’s now becoming deliberately calm...in the way that some people have of talking when they’re trying to reason with a kid throwing a tantrum or talk down a crazy person...each word becomes over enunciated and they try to make their voice very monotone and soothing...and which, unless you’re a crazy person or a kid throwing a tantrum, only sounds patronizing. “Do you think my son can’t help get the boat unloaded?”

I instantly become engrossed in everything on the barn floor. I start kind of walking in itty bitty circles, idiot like, I know, but I don’t know what else to do. I look at little bits of hay on the floor, pieces of dirt, more hay...I just want the earth to swallow me up... What if one of them asks me what I think? What do I do then? Do I answer? Can I answer? I don’t think I could even formulate a word, let alone a complete sentence at this point. Whose side would I take? I’d have to side with OF...she’s my friend...but from the little I know of Min, I’m sure she wouldn’t forget the taking of sides. I give a little glance toward Min feeling like a deer in the headlights and give the universal Oh Shit What Happens Now look (which to the unknowing consists of having one’s mouth stretched in a straight line as far across the face as possible causing the cords in the neck to pop out and eyebrows to raise simultaneously).

“Just humor me on this Min” came the loudly...with ...each...individually...enunciated...word...

"Okay" says Min...being a shrink, she’s pretty practiced at knowing when to say Uncle. I don’t think it makes her like it any better, but it makes her smarter.

We all start heading up to the house and not knowing what else to do I ask OF if she wants me to pick her up at the dock and give her a ride home. She did, and I don’t think I was ever so happy to get in my car...lest war break out again and forcing me to choose sides.  It was the stoopidist thing.















Thursday, May 31, 2012

Strawberry

Will somebody please help the Strawberry Patch people with their signage?   I'm not just referring to the uneven hand painted lettering.  It's the spelling...

Every year around strawberry time, I secretly hope the Strawberry Patch people will by some miracle get new signs.  I know they have kids in school who must know how to spell...so why all the horribly misspelled signs?

You know the ones I'm talking about...Farm Fresh Strawberry For Sale...really...only one?  Who wants just one strawberry?  It's Strawberries...plural...as in more than one...

We Are Close.  I know you're close...if you were far away, I wouldn't stop at your strawberry patch stand.   (That's probably not true...I might drive many miles to get fresh strawberries...please note I said strawberries...plural...not just one.)  Attention all Strawberry Patch people...Closed is the word you want here.  Unless it was meant to be Close...as in close the door or We Close At Six.  That would work...in a different sentence.  Come on Strawberry Patch Kids...fix the signs.

It's easier to translate a live performance of Strawberry Patch lingo than it is to read their signs.  How much you want...thees wan good...you take thees wan...we ahh crows...I get this...accents are understandable and even when they're not, the accompanying smiles and nodding by all parties make it seem like everyone understands each other.  Most of the time I walk away wondering what I've been smiling and nodding about.  They probably told me I'm a fat old bitch who's not fit to eat their strawberries (plural) and I smiled and nodded like I knew what they were saying while they were looking at each other and laughing their asses off.

While we're on the subject of Strawberry Patch people...don't act like you've never heard the rumors of how the strawberries are "really" fertilized...just like back in the old country, right?  OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) once told me that the Strawberry Patch people are pretty closely monitored by the health department...but she tells me rotten food is still good to eat too...  Because she works at a health department with the food inspectors OF knows how long food can be rotten and still be safely consumed.   Did I mention that OF's job is inspecting septic tanks???  Now if she were to tell me exactly how much "fertilizer" from the old country could safely be put on strawberry plants leaving them fit for human consumption...that I might believe...since it's truly her area of expertise.

I really don't believe the vicious rumor about how the plants are fertilized.  If I did, I wouldn't start chowing down on them right out of the basket on the way home...like a starving Armenian, would I? Does anyone remember your parents telling you about all the starving Armenians when you were a kid?  I always had to clean my plate because of the starving Armenians...I didn't even know what an Armenian was.  No, if I believed the vicious rumors I'd wait until they were properly washed...like you're supposed to, right?  But nearly every time I buy strawberries (plural) I start eating while I'm driving, pitching the little green tops out the window.  So I must not believe it, right?  It's not littering when it's plant matter your chucking out the window, is it? I tell myself I'm feeding the birds and bugs.

One of the reasons I continue to stop at the Strawberry Patch stand is the owners work their asses off. Every day, seven days a week, they're bent over in the hot sun taking care of their gardens.  I am completely humbled by their work ethic. I don't know how they do it.  They earn every penny they make.

Maybe I should just paint a sign with correct spelling and grammar and in the middle of the night, switch the signs at my favorite Strawberry Patch.  But if I did that, other patch patrons might think the original Strawberry Patch People were gone and that cheap impostors had taken over and stop patronizing their little stand.  Then how would I feel???  Guilty... because I pretty much feel guilty about everything in the world.  The Strawberry Patch People would lose business because of me and my need for correct signage when all they want is to sell their strawberries...note I said strawberries...because nobody can eat just one.

It's the stoopidist thing...

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

They're Everywhere

OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) has a sister who's a lesbian...with a wife...they were among the fortunate few who managed to tie the knot during the brief time it was legal for same sexers to marry.  I call them the Sister Wives...not to be confused with the polygamous gang on the reality TV show of the same name.  It just seems to fit...

BS & LS, Big Sis & Little Sis...shortened to eliminate keystrokes, really are big & little.  BS is about 6'15" and her wife is about 4' 2.  I think of LS as the Mighty Morphin.  I don't know why the Mighty Morphin thing pops into my head every time I think about LS.  I know there's a cartoon about Mighty Morphins but I've never actually seen one so they could be the complete opposite of what I picture in my mind...what I picture is sort of a little whirling dervish...maybe the Tasmanian Devil would be a better fit for LS...at least I know what that looks like.  The weirdest part is I don't even like cartoons, but cartoon characters pop into my head all the time.  Every time I see a group of old people, which would be my friends and I, I see a Far Side cartoon in living color.  OF thinks we're not old...she's wrong.

I could probably ask LS why cartoon characters pop into my head...she's a shrink...but I'm always secretly worried that she's analyzing everything I say...and if she's not, I don't want to encourage it. The first time I met LS she was sitting across from me on the couch and said these exact words to me..."I don't chit chat"...I didn't know how to respond...I can't even remember what I said...probably something brilliant like "oh".   Being a chit chatter, I didn't know if I should say "nice meeting you" and leave or just stare silently at her.  But if I stared silently, being a shrink, she might start asking me questions about why I was staring silently at her and try to analyze that.  If I deliberately tried not to look at her, she might want to know why I was avoiding looking at her and try to analyze that...either way, I lose.  I don't really need a shrink to tell me why I'm a chit chatter...I already know...I'm shallow...and perfectly content to remain shallow.  I'm much happier making fun of myself and others than trying to be Serious Sam all the time...especially with people I don't know.  It seems kinda rude and creeps me out when complete strangers ask me personal questions.  Why do they, "they" being strangers, want to know personal things about me? Ewwww...

BS is the complete opposite of LS...she's easy going, laughs at stoopid shit, and...chit chats...thank God! They're like night & day.   Even in the world of Lesbos, opposites attract...who knew?  BS calls the world of Lesbos "the church"...she'll look at someone and say "she's a church member".  I went to a horse clinic with OF & BS and there was a woman sitting next to us with a dog.  OF looked at me and said "she belongs to the church"

Being something of a doubting Thomas, I said "no she's not...how do you know"?

"You can just tell"  BS said, adding "look at her hair, it looks like she went to a barber shop".

With that comment OF said "you can't really tell like that when they're horse people." Looking down at the frayed hem on my jeans and filthy boots I  was inclined to agree with OF.

Still BS insisted this woman belonged to her "church".  So then I find myself looking at women with crappy haircuts and wondering if they're all lesbians.  They couldn't all be lesbians just because they have a crappy haircut, could they?  Have I been surrounded by lesbians all my life and just never knew it?  Are they everywhere?  What about all those years of being taught not to judge a book by its cover?  Should I have just assumed that all women with short hair that looks like they chopped it off themselves, dressed in work clothes and boots belong to the "church"?  Or that all men with girly man voices and flitty hands who dress immaculately are gay?  Okay...if I'm being honest, I may have assumed it about the men...but probably not about the women.

On a side note, BS may be on to something about the hair...every time I get my hair cut really short, one of the Old Chix always says to me "I don't know why you do that...it just makes you look like an old lesbian."  I don't know why I like her.

I wanted to ask the woman with the dog if she was a lesbian just to see if BS was right.  But really, how do you walk up to a stranger and ask something like that?  Guess I'll never know about barber shop chop lady.

OF said she's never sure how she should introduce LS to people...should she call her BS's partner...wife...what?  I'd probably wonder too.  What's the right thing to say?  Because in these politically correct days of easily offended masses it's hard to find something that won't offend someone.  I'm now worried that I'll slip up and call The Husband's car the Homobile in front of BS & LS.  I really like them both and wouldn't want to offend either one of them.  Would they even be offended?  I don't think BS would.  I think she'd think it was funny...not so sure about the Mighty Morphin though...she might want to analyze why I felt the need to name the car in a way that may be derogatory to certain persons.  Oh God, please don't let me slip and mention the Homobile around the lesbians.  Like Lucy, I'll have some 'splainin' to do.  (Remember Ricky & Lucy???...I Love Lucy???...get it???)  I hate having to be careful about what I say.  Maybe that's why I don't like being around strangers.  Yet another thing for me to worry about LS analyzing....it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S.
I think OF should just introduce LS as her sister in law...problemo solved.

P.S.S.  Note to self...must remember to eliminate the term "lesbos" from vocabulary when lesbians are present.












Saturday, May 12, 2012

A Cause For Celebration

I need to mark this day on the calendar.  It's definitely a cause for celebration...maybe not for everyone, but for me, it's a day to shout "hallelujah".  I went in to the bathroom tonight and there was a new roll of toilet paper on the roller...unused...the end still glued down.  I'm still kind of in shock about the whole thing.  Hard to believe, I know, but this has never happened before.

So, what happened was, The Husband went to bed early and a little while later, I went in to the bathroom to pee.  Lo and behold, the new roll of toilet paper was placed on the roller...with the paper, still glued down, coming over the top of the roll like it's suppose to. I'm fairly certain this last part was an accident.  I couldn't even wait until after I peed before checking to see if The Husband was sick or something.

Not caring that he was sound asleep I threw open the bedroom door.

"Are you okay" I asked The Sleeping Husband loudly enough to rouse him...okay, I shouted...(he's a little hard of hearing which he refuses to admit...which is a whole other story).

"Yeah, why?" came the startled reply...in hindsight, I probably scared the old guy and made him think I noticed he'd stopped breathing or was having a seizure or something.

"Because" I said  "you put a new roll of toilet paper on the roller".

The Husband made sort of an unintelligible grunting noise from the bed in reply...he doesn't think I'm nearly as funny as I do...it's the stoopidist thing..


P.S. Sadly, this is the sort of thing that I consider a highlight in my life....






Thursday, April 19, 2012

The Old Guy




From as far back as I can remember I've been in love with horses. When I was a kid I lived and breathed Walter Farley and Marguerite Henry books. I've never met a horse I didn't like and to this day I can find something good about the worst of them. If money were no object I'd take in as many abused, neglected and old broken down horses as I could just to let them have a little peace and comfort...but unless I happen to win the lottery, it's probably not gonna happen. The old broken down ones tug at my heartstrings the most.

I'm not in the horse rescue business because horses are expensive to keep.  God forbid I should end up being like one of those hobo's ass rescuers who show up in living color on the Fugly blog.  I have three of my own and I don't need any more equine mouths to feed with the price of hay being as ridiculously high as it is. Not to mention vet bills...I cringe every time I have to call the vet. 

There's a couple of different roads I can take to get to and from work.  The flow of traffic usually determines which way I go which means I always choose which ever way the booberdoober in front of me isn't going.  I just don't have the patience to follow someone who wants to drive ten miles per hour under the speed limit.  The first way is definitely shorter in distance but the other way offers me peace of mind and keeps me from intentionally ramming the poor schmuck in front of me who has no idea he's become the target of my road rage.  The long way led to the old guy.

Like most horse owners, I always look at horses pastured along the road when I'm driving.  I do try not to drive off the road while I'm doing this.  Does anybody really keep their eyes "on the road"?  I don't think so.  Anyway a local rancher has a barn and corrals alongside the road and I always look to see if horses or cattle are in the pens.  The first time I noticed him there weren't any cattle in the corral, just a big ol' gray horse munching on a pile of hay.  The next couple of times I drove by, I could see that he was a little ribby, but since he always had a pile of hay in front of him, I never thought too much about it. 

For the next month or so my life was relatively booberdoober free so I didn't have to take the long way by the barn.  When I finally saw the old gray horse again, all I could think was "holy shit he sure went downhill fast".  He looked like a walking skeleton...munching on a pile of hay.  I immediately wished I hadn't seen him. 

The following day was booberdoober free but I drove by the barn anyway, mostly to see if the old guy was still alive, silently praying I wouldn't see him laying there dead. To be honest, I'd really rather have the Disney version of life where everyone lives happily ever after and the little rabbit always makes it to the hole in the nick of time leaving the bobcat scratching his head and finding his chow somewhere down the road out of my sight.   I prefer to avoid the harsh realities of life whenever possible.  Until I felt myself sigh when I saw he was still standing there I didn't know I'd been holding my breath.  On the rest of the drive to work I start wondering if the guy who owns the barn would give the old guy to me.  I know the barn owners last  name but what would he think about some strange woman calling and asking he'd give away his horse? 

As soon as I got to work I called my friend, D, who's pretty fearless, knows everybody, and more importantly, is a fellow horse lover.  (She has ten by the way...not that she's a hoarder or anything...really.)  I asked if she'd seen that old gray horse by the barn.  D said she hadn't really noticed him so I told her how he'd gone downhill pretty fast and asked if she thought the owner would give him to us.  Notice how I said "us"...I pretty much guilted her into helping by telling her how pathetic the old guy was and in the end, I think she agreed to call the owner just to get me off the phone, probably thinking the owner'd tell her to go pound sand.  Bless her heart.

(FYI, I wanted to call the Barn Owner, BO, but it made me think of stinky body odor, then I thought about calling him BM, for Barn Man,but it obviously made me think of bowel movements, so I simply left him an unnamed "he" most of the time....just thought I should clear that up.)

D called me back after she talked to the barn owner who said he'd be happy to give us the horse but he'd have to clear it with his dad.  The next day when he called her back he asked D if we were sure we wanted the old buy?  He said the old guy was twenty-nine, couldn't be ridden, and was pretty much on his last legs.  Since the younger horses were pushing him around, the old guy ended up in the corral by himself so he could eat as much as he wanted without being run off from the feed.  He wondered why would we want him?

"We're just a couple of crazy women who like old horses" D told him.  He didn't get it.  Most people wouldn't.

Yikes!  Now I had to call OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) and ask her if I could put an old horse in her barn.  OF said sure...we could put him in what she jokingly calls the "medical unit"...which is basically a stall with mats and a gate.  Bless her heart.

I went to the barn that afternoon to pick up the old gray horse.  D was supposed to meet me and she wasn't there yet, but the barn owner was there.  I recognized him from riding with him years before, shook his hand and introduced myself.  He's a really nice guy who figured either nature was gonna run its course or he was going to end up having to shoot the old gray horse.  He kinda laughed when he asked again if I was really sure we wanted to take him.  I laughed and told him I was sure.  He still didn't get it.  Most people wouldn't.

When I led the old guy to the trailer he seemed a little stiff and wobbly on his feet.  Holy shit, I thought, what if he can't step up into the trailer???  He sniffed the trailer floor...another holy shit moment...it never occurred to me that the old guy might not load well.  This was obviously not a well thought out plan...I mean, how much pressure do you put on an emaciated horse to get them to load?  At what point is he better off with a bullet?  Thank God I didn't have to find out.  After a little sniffing, he managed to haul himself up and in.  After I got him loaded, D showed up and we both thanked the barn owner for giving us the old guy.  On to OF's place...with another mouth to feed.

Please God, don't let him die in the trailer.  That's what I'm thinking all the way to OF's place.  I didn't want to leave the old guy loose in the trailer because I was afraid he might need something on each side to lean on.  I tried to go really really slow around the curves in the road.  D followed me and was probably shocked at how slow I was going.  How come I never noticed this many curves in the road before?  Jeeez...can't they build straight roads?  Why do they have to have all these curves?  I finally hit a straight stretch and got to speed up a little.  I just wanted to get there before he died in the trailer.  I started to relax a little in a short straight section of road.  It was a brief respite.  I shouldn't have sped up...up ahead was a four way intersection with a traffic light and the intersection had a giant hump in it.  I knew this hump was there because many a time I've felt like my car was going to go airborne trying to make it through the intersection before the light turned red.  Yellow light...go very fast (Remember Starman?) This was a fairly new intersection, and you'd think they could have done a better job leveling it before the final paving, but nooooo, they left that giant hump in it.  I know it sounds like I'm exaggerating here, but really, I'm not.  The light at the intersection turns yellow.  Please God, the prayers continue...don't let him die in my trailer.

I was in a quandary...do I stop or do I go?  There's nobody to tell me what I should do.  D's the one who I'd usually ask about all things driving related but she was in the truck behind me.  I didn't know if I should slam on the brakes and throw the old guy against the trailer wall or speed up and make a mad dash through the intersection?  I didn't know what to do.  Which would cause him more problems?  I had no idea.  If I went flying over the hump in the road will the trailer go airborne?  Will the horse go airborne inside the trailer?  Would all four feet go in the air and, more importantly, would he land on all four when he touched down?  I'd never thought about this.  I'm guessing it'd be the horsey version of an E Ticket ride.   "Please God", I prayed, "just don't let him die in my trailer"...as I gunned it through the intersection.  Why?  Because I just wanted to get there before he could die in my trailer.  I know...it's a stoopid reason.  But it worked.  He didn't die in the trailer...although he was a little wide eyed and sweaty when we got to OF's place. So was I...

God love her, D laughed about the intersection debacle when we got to OF's house.  "I didn't know if you were gonna go for it or stop"..."and then you went".  Looking back, it was pretty funny.

After a couple of days, OF said "I think we should call him Earl"..."it fits him".  And so the old gray horse got new name.  At first he didn't seem interested in soaked pellet mush, until we started adding a sweeter senior mix to it.  Seems old Earl has a taste for the sweet stuff...don't we all.  The first time I heard him nicker for his food was a couple of weeks later.  It made me smile inside.

I'm so friggin' grateful to have friends like OF and D who, without any hesitation, said yes to some scatterbrained idea to try to help an old horse out.  They get it.   Most people wouldn't. 

Most people would think it was the stoopidist thing.


P.S.  Before & after's of Old Earl.  He's now 29 and lives entirely on a diet of soft senior pelleted feed. 















Wednesday, April 18, 2012

I'm A Moron


Like many people my age (oldsters), I'm forced to wear reading glasses.  Anymore, I can't read anything without them.  I used to try.. okay, sometimes I still do... reading a number out of the phone book sans visual accouterments.  Mostly I just get annoyed that I've wasted time trying because I end up needing the glasses after all.  I don't know why I still try this but I do...and yes, I do know the definition of insanity.  Sometimes it seems like if I hold the book at a certain angle in direct light, I can still make out the numbers I need.  So there I'll be holding the book in front of me, angled away from me, with my head tilted up, looking down my nose at the book...trying to decipher the blurry print.   It's kinda pathetic that I still feel the need to try, isn't it?

I used to have reading glasses everywhere.  Being a sucker for a good deal, or at least what seems like a good deal at the time, I've purchased several sets from TV shopping networks.  How I manage to lose them is a mystery...they're like socks...they just disappear.  Am I unknowingly putting them in places so I don't lose them?  Am I going to move a carton of ice cream in the freezer and find a pair of glasses that I don't remember putting there?  Who would put glasses in the freezer anyway?  Old people, that's who.  Why?  So they wouldn't get stolen of course.  Who would want to steal reading glasses anyway?  Oldster burglars?  Please God, don't let me find reading glasses in the freezer.

So far I've managed to avoid the dreaded "old lady chain" that holds the glasses around my neck, but I know it's coming.  The problem with my aged eyes is that I have to use the readers to see print, but I can't walk with them on.  Oh sure, I can leave them on the bridge of my nose and walk around with my head down looking over the top of the glasses but they always feel like they're going to slip off, and besides, it looks weird.  If I put them on top of my head they get stretched out.  I need a chainless solution.

Yesterday I had to take a packet of papers to a woman in another office.  I'll call her "J".  I know when I get there I may have to read something so I throw a pair of glasses in my jacket pocket. Always be prepared...that's my motto...I have many mottos...I get them from The Husband who has a motto for every occasion...his favorite is "A working woman's a happy woman"...technically I'm not sure this qualifies as a motto.  Anyway, back to my journey of delivering papers...J is on the other side of the building so I have to wind my way through aisles of cubicles, a maze of hallways, and locked doors that need a magnetic badge pressed against them to open. I like to call them magic keys...I know they're not really magic.

I'm thankful I had the foresight to put the glasses in my pocket since I had to try to actually see what J was showing me on the wad of papers I shoved in front of her.  After we talked about work, we started chatting about non work stuff...killin' time on the government dime.  While we're talking my glasses fell out of my pocket.

Me:  "Oh no, my high dollar reading glasses just fell under your chair".

J:  "Well I don't want to move 'cause I'm afraid I'll roll over them"...I think she thought I was serious about them being "high dollar"...which they aren't.

So I bend down and start looking around but can't see them.

J:  "Maybe they went under the drawers".

I look but the drawers sit flat on the ground.  I see a metal clip under her chair and start to think maybe that's what I heard fall.

J:  "Let me get out of the way so I don't roll over them" as she eases out of her chair with a move that would make any contortionist proud...and the chair doesn't move...I'm impressed.

We're both hunched over and can now see under her chair, and plainly, there's no glasses there.  I can't figure out how they could have bounced so far away when J turns to me and says:

"What's on your face?" as she busts up laughing.

Okay, so I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer...but really???? I'm wearing the glasses that I've been searching the floor for.  Yep, right there perched on the end of my nose.  I look at J who I've only recently met and who now, rightly so, thinks I'm a moron and start laughing.   There's no reasonable explanation for what just happened other than the fact that I'm now "officially" an old fart. I expect bright orange pin curls are just around the corner.

All the way back to my office I keep laughing.  Then I start to notice that strangers are looking at me as I walk along the halls laughing.  I'm sure I looked like a crazy person hearing voices in her head and laughing at what they were telling me.  People avoided me and got out of my way.  Nobody wanted to make eye contact with me and I could see some of them elbowing their partners and not so subtly nodding their head toward me.  "Watch out for the crazy lady" was written all over their faces...which started me thinking...

Next time the grocery store's crowded I should try looking at the food in my basket and laughing out loud, all by myself, as I push the cart toward the checkout stand and see if people move to another line to get away from the "crazy lady".  I wonder if it would work?  Never in a million years would I actually do this, but I really want to.  I know...it's the stoopidist thing.


Monday, April 2, 2012

Anal Spice


I went to dinner with some of the Old Chix last week. Only four of us could make it this time. Me, Em, Cee & Lo. All of us are well on our way to sixty...and, unfortunately, not in dog years either. We went to a different casino this time that had a brewery. I don’t like beer but fortunately for me they served other adult beverages so I had my fave....pineapple grapefruit juice with vodka. It doesn’t have a name...trust me on this. Every time I order it the cocktail waitress asks me what it’s called and I just repeat the ingredients “pineapple grapefruit with vodka”...it’s not a Greyhound...that’s just grapefruit and vodka. I found this out the hard way...by believing the cocktail waitress knew what she was talking about when she said “Oh, that’s a Greyhound”in her chipper little size 0 voice with clothes to match. Finally, I thought, my drink of choice has a name and I was just too stoopid to know it. I nearly gagged when they brought me a chimney glass filled with plain grapefruit juice and vodka. Now when the cute little waitresses try to tell me a name, I just make sure they know I only want half grapefruit and half pineapple with a healthy dose of vodka for good measure. They can call it whatever their little heart desires.

Remember the Spice Girls?  Well, I thought about calling the Old Chix the Old Spiceters.  Why you ask?  For the sole purpose of renaming Lo..."Anal Spice".  Kinda sounds like a candle fragrance in a gay porno shop, doesn't it?  The new name is a perfect fit for her....even she would have to admit it...then she would have to spend hours analyzing why she feels the need to analyze everything. Fortunately Lo, aka/Anal Spice, and hereafter referred to as AS, has a wonderful sense of humor and can laugh at herself...unfortunately she is also compelled from her innermost being to analyze everything in the fucking world.  AS has moved on from the familiar phrases like "your plate is too full" to "she keeps long accounts" or "you're keeping short accounts".   Huh????  What happened to simplicity?..."she has too much to do" or "she holds a grudge"?  AS is good natured enough to laugh with us when we mock her about this...which we do...at lease Em & I do...but we're kinda the assholes of the group.

I can totally see AS reading self help books.  It seems like every time someone reads the latest self help book, new catch phrases roll off their tongues to make them sound like they've got "it" all figured out.  But every one's version of just what "it" is, is different, isn't it?  Talk about a boon for the self help writers!  They get to define "It" for their latest book of invaluable information which will change your life forever...yes forever!  And you'll be able to feel oh so much better about yourself once you realize that the new "it" is the one you've been searching for all your life.  The previous self help book you read had "it" all wrong.  Alas, you must read the newest book to find that the forever life changing "it" from the old book wasn't "it" at all, and everything you thought you learned about the old "it" was now pure hogwash.  But just read the newest book and your life will change forever....It's a vicious cycle, isn't it??

Fortunately for me, I read mostly for entertainment.  No self help books here.  Oh sure, occasionally I read something because I need technical information about something I'm trying to do...usually horse related...or gardening related...or cooking related....but generally I read strictly to be entertained while I'm lounging on the couch eating fattening snackage.  It gives me a reason to sit on my ass and basically do nothing but live in a fantasy world.  Sometimes I feel guilty about this, sitting around doing nothing when there's always chores that need doing, but not often enough to keep me from doing it...sitting around reading I mean...not the chores.

Never, not once have I felt the need to analyze what I've read.  One time the wife of a work friend wanted to share books, so okay I thought, we're just going to trade books.  I knew she was kinda cuckoo before I agreed, but I didn't realize she was going to want to "talk" about the books after we read them.  Boy, was I surprised.  I was trapped by a crazy woman telling me how a certain book made her feel "all dark" inside. (It was a fucking murder mystery.) I started hearing the Twilight Zone theme running through my head.  I did a lot of smiling and nodding.  We never traded books again.

I would never last in a book club where everyone read the book and then had a little get together to "discuss" the book.  Because frankly, I don't care.  It doesn't matter to me what anyone else thinks about the book.  It's enough that I was entertained for a few hours.

I've never felt the need to peruse the shelves of self help books at Barnes & Noble.  If I wasn't stoopid, I might worry about why bad things happen to good people.  I don't spend much time wondering about the "why" it happened.  It just happened.  It's the stoopidist thing...


Sunday, March 11, 2012

Saturday At Costco

Saturday is not the day to go shopping at Costco if you don't like crowds...unless you can get in and out in a hurry when they first open.  OF(Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) and I chose poorly.  We braved the Costco crowd to get stuff we could have lived without.  My necessities included dried mangoes, almonds, Asian pears, cat food, cat litter, and bread.  OF's list was half & half, t shirt, skort, beer, cat litter, strawberries, and some kind of healthy looking pre-made salad...she looked for her favorite humus dip but alas...they were out of it...for the second time in a row.   All of these things we could have waited to get and my frustration level wouldn't have reached a near all time high.  Every time I choose poorly like this I swear I'll never do it again...but I do...over and over and over...obviously I'm insane.

I can't get over the fact that so many of the shoppers are completely oblivious to the people around them.  Most of them don't even have the decency to apologize or even look sheepish when their loitering at the snackage stations forces everyone else to wait on them.  Have people always been this rude, obnoxious, and self centered or do I just notice it now because I'm old and impatient?  Am I'm just being self centered?  Being forced to wait for all the snackage seekers blocking the isles to move on to the next free snack is really not going to throw my life into complete chaos...even though at the time it feels like it.  Maybe its expecting too much to feel that people should be considerate of others.

Most of the time I don't sample the snackage items offered not because I don't want to try them, but because I'm afraid I'll get food stuck between my teeth.  Then I'll be walking along, fat, dumb, and happy, smiling at people only to find out when I finally look in a mirror that I've got wads of bread, chips, or whatever the sample  happened to be, packed so full between my front teeth that it looks like I was trying to caulk the spaces along my gum line with snackage bits...it's truly disgusting.  I know other people notice because food stuck between someones teeth is one of the first things I notice about people when they smile.  That and spitlette crusties in the corners of their mouth...I also notice when they accidentally blow spit bubbles and have spit strings between their upper and lower lips.  It makes me want to wipe my mouth continuously.

I watched one woman get trapped in a main isle in front of a snackage sampler who had the audacity to leave her cart halfway in the isle while she stood in line at the snackage station...she was there for a really long time...I think she took more than one sample...isn't there a rule against that?  The flow of traffic kept this poor woman from going around the loitering lady's cart.  I only noticed her because I was trapped behind the same woman's cart. I was immediately impressed with how patient she appeared...and I wondered if she, like me, was inwardly raging and wanting to do serious bodily harm to the woman blocking our path.

One woman even managed to block an isle without a cart...she just stood there talking to another shopper forcing everyone to make detours through other isles.  I actually waited in front of her for nearly a full minute hoping she'd step aside but noooooooo....she never moved her fat ass a single inch.  The guy she was talking to didn't say anything either...he could have pointed out that nobody could get around her.  His lack of action  made him a target of my anger as well...fortunately for them it's been drilled into me since birth that one must always be polite.  Someday I'm hoping I can overcome the dreaded "Good Manner Syndrome" for just one day and see what it feels like to tell people exactly what I'm thinking.  I'm sure I'd end up regretting it when the "Guilt Syndrome" kicked in...then I'd feel like shit for hurting people's feelings...but just once it would be nice to know how it feels to say whatever you think.

On the way out of the store, when we were in line to have the handy receipt checkers look at our carts to make sure we hadn't stolen anything, I accidentally bumped the woman in front of me with my cart.  This bundle of joy was probably in her late twenties, early thirties, about five foot six, wearing a baggy yellow t-shirt hanging down to her knees, and jeans...I'm guessing she weighed in at about 250 lbs.   She was a chunky monkey to be sure.  The baggy yellow t-shirt only enhanced her humongous waist length, and unfortunately, bra-less boobage (that would've done any pasture animal proud by the way) laying atop her protruding girthage.  When she turned to glare at me I couldn't help noticing the sloped forehead and low, heavy brow bone clearly indicative of her Neanderthal lineage.  I couldn't tell if her knuckles would drag the ground since she had her hands on the shopping cart handle...but I bet they did...in fact, I bet they were covered with callouses.  The stink eye she gave me, in spite of my profuse apology, kinda scared me.  Good thing I suffer from "Good Manner Syndrome"...she might have whupped me if I'd said something like "quit holding up the show fatso".

Maybe the "Good Manner Syndrome" that my parents drilled into me isn't such a bad thing after all.  Could be I've survived all these years simply because I've been taught to be polite instead of saying what I think and pissing people off...wouldn't that be the stoopidist thing...

P.S.  OF calls shopping carts "buggies".  I've never heard anyone  call a shopping cart a buggy, have you?  Just another "stoopid thing"...




Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Sleep Deprivation

I don’t sleep as well as I used to when I was younger. I don’t know if it’s just because I’m old or if there’s some other reason. It’s annoying though. Little noises wake me up when they shouldn’t. But not regularly enough that I can say I’m a “light sleeper”. One night I fell asleep on the couch and The Husband came in through the noisy, squeaky back door, wandered around for a while before finally going to bed...and I slept through it all. If he’d been a serial killer, I’d be dead without even having put up a fight. That actually made me feel a little creepy...the fact that someone could be walking around me while I slept and I was completely oblivious to it. I can only pray that he didn’t take photos of me drooling while I slept and is waiting to put them on some kind of Xmas or Birthday card as a “surprise”....please God, say it ain’t so.

Here’s a weird thing that wakes me up. When the electricity goes off in the middle of the night, the sudden silence wakes me up. What’s up with that? How does no noise wake a person up? I can see enormous thunder claps waking a person up, but insta-quiet? Does this happen to everyone or is it just me?

Sleeping with another person adds countless trials and tribulations to getting a good night’s sleep. Snoring interferes with my sleep...not my snoring...The Husband’s...duh...even his breathing can make me lose sleep.

It’s not so bad if I fall asleep first, but if The Husband manages to conk out before me I’m doomed. Unfortunately for me, The Husband can lay his head on a pillow and be out in twenty seconds. I lay there for a while, toss & turn a little, then finally drift off. Not him....he lays down and sleeps like a baby...and it annoys me to no end that he can go to sleep so easily. I know it’s really immature of me to get so irritated by the fact that he falls asleep before me, but when I’m laying there, trying to fall asleep, I just want to reach over and hit him... because even the sound of his breathing annoys me. Have you ever tried to synchronize your breathing with the other person you’re sleeping with? Well, let me tell you, it doesn’t work. You think it’s all going well, you think you have the rhythm of the breaths down and then suddenly they move or shift a little and their whole rhythm changes rendering your feeble attempt at breathing synchronization useless.  I know I’m fighting a losing battle but I still keep trying to make the whole synchronization thing work. (And,yes, I’m aware of the definition of “insanity”.)

Snoring is another obstacle to overcome when you have to sleep with someone. Sometimes The Husband snores like people in cartoons snore. Like Brutus in the old Popeye cartoons... I swear I’d see his lips flapping every time he exhales if I suddenly turned on the lights. I’m ashamed to admit it but when I’m really tired and he wakes me up because his snoring is so loud I elbow him viciously in the ribs. Okay, viciously is probably too strong a word. I don't intentionally break ribs or anything like that..sometimes he does let out a little grunt of pain though. What’s even worse, and I know this is wrong on so many levels, is I get an intense feeling of satisfaction just knowing I’ve cause him some discomfort. The sad part is, it only stops the snoring for a few seconds then we’re right back where we started.

Every time I see one of those commercials on TV advertising a miracle product that cures snoring I beg The Husband to buy it. “I don’t snore that much” he always says, or “I only snore when I’m really tired”. Well I’m really tired too, but I don’t fucking snore...in fact, I can’t even get to sleep because someone else’s snoring is a major contributing factor to my sleep deprivation. Why do people who snore never believe they do?

Gas is another thing that can send me into orbit...figuratively speaking, of course. And we’re talking The Husband’s gas...not mine. If you go to sleep all fat, dumb, and happy, and the stench of another persons flatulence is so putrid that it wakes you out of a sound sleep...your only recourse is to leave the room and go sleep on the couch. I know whereof I speak...Oh, sure, you could try the vicious elbow trick, but when they grunt in pain, they’ll only squeeze out more putrid farts. There’s been more than one occasion when The Husband has gone to bed before me and when I finally decide to go to bed, I open the bedroom door only to become engulfed in a cloud of fart stink so foul I’m sure there’s some kind of dead animal in our room. He thinks this is funny when I tell him about it the next morning...really. I, of course, don’t see the humor in it like he does...but then I’m the one suffering from sleep deprivation...not him.

I have to admit, under normal circumstances I can’t help but laugh when someone farts. Just last week at work, The Princess and I were talking to one of the men we work with, I’ll call him “D”, when all of a sudden he let a little popper slip out. D walked away from us really fast...maybe there were lots more where that one came from, I don’t know, but he definitely am-scrayed into his office pronto. D’s the sort of guy who’s usually really proper and would never dream of farting in front of us deliberately so I’m sure he was mortified. The Princess and I looked at each other and tried not to laugh because we didn’t want to embarrass him, but you know how it is when you try not to laugh and you start making all kinds of weird snorting noises through your nose??? We intentionally turned our backs to each other hoping that would stifle the laughter, but then one of those nose noises would happen and we’d start laughing again.

Things are always funnier when you’re trying not to laugh at them, aren’t’ they? Why is that?

It’s the stoopidist thing...