Monday, January 23, 2012

Sunday Drive

The Husband and I went on a shopping expedition Sunday morning to look for flooring to replace the carpet in our house. Destination...Lowe's. Unfortunately for me...The Husband his precious Homobile (pronounced hoe-moe-beel). It took us twice the time to get there than it would have if I’d been driving...The Husband is King of the Booberdoobers, without question. By the time we got to Lowe's I was bleeding profusely from the mouth from biting my tongue.

The Husband even walks slower than I do. Once we got inside the store, I headed for the flooring section, looked around, and The Husband was ambling along about twenty feet behind me...kinda the reverse of all those Muslim countries. When he finally joins me in the flooring isle, I’ve already made up my mind what I want but now I’m forced to stand idly by listening to him explain what he thinks we should get...I automatically go into smile and nod mode.

Once we got the flooring decisions all solved, The Husband decides we should go to his mom’s house & visit her for a little while. Okey dokie...another little jaunt in the Homobile. (Every time we go in his car, I hear a little song in my head...Going to town in the Homobile, the Homobile, the the melody of Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush...weird, huh?)This time, however, we’re in a town...with traffic lights. I cringe every time we come to a light...The Husband actually slows down when approaching a green case it’s getting ready to change. I kid you not...he does this. When he actually has to stop for a red light I can feel the rage from the drivers behind us because The Husband sits at the light after it’s turned from red to green for a couple of seconds before he slowly meanders through the intersection. There may have been two cars that actually made it through the intersection on the green light before it turned red...I may be exaggerating here...I think only one got through.  I know the drivers left behind are screaming profanities at's what I'd be doing in their position.

As it turned out, mom was at church so we ended up making the trip for nothing. On the way home though, The Husband nearly drove off the road about three times. I’m not sure if he was really not paying attention...or deliberately trying to yank my chain...which he does frequently. He thinks it’s funny that I scream when he drives off the shoulder of the road. Yep...that’s my of my dreams. It’s the stoopidist thing.

Sunday, January 22, 2012


Went to Costco & WalMart this weekend.   Thank God WalMart doesn't give free samples.  It's bad enough at Costco to wade through the hoards of people at each table offering a free sample of some sort.  They actually stand around the little tables at the end of each isle four or five deep to get a thimble full of the latest energy drink or a cupcake paper containing two air popped chips.  (They should actually plan their snackage sampling a little better if you ask the chips first, then go to the drinks...just sayin'.)

Nobody seems to care that they're blocking isles with their over sized shopping carts, as long as they get their free shit.  I'm pretty sure people actually plan trips to Costco solely for the free snackage.  I can't prove this yet...but I'm workin' on it.  I have to admit to sampling some of the things they're giving away.  But not many...and I make sure I'm not being a " Fucking Aisle Blocker"(hereafter referred to as FAB's) when I do it.  Doesn't it seem rude to stand there with your hand out, waiting for your free stuff while people who might actually be in a hurry are waiting for the slightest space to weave their cart through the masses?  Heaven forbid you should say "excuse me" with the hope that someone drooling over organic brown rice will step aside & let you pass.  Talk about dirty looks!!!   Jeez...they look at you like you just asked them to kill their firstborn child...

Okay, does this sound familiar, or is it just me???  Have you ever gone to Costco with a friend who samples the snackage, looks at you and says "ewww, this tastes like shit...try it..."  WTF...why would I want to try something that tastes like shit?  Are they secretly trying to tell me to eat shit?  Or they smell something and say "ugggg...this stinks...smell it"...Really?  You just said it stinks...why are you doing this to me?  Sometimes I think they do it just to see if they can get me to eat or smell something disgusting.  Sadly, it usually works.  Embarrassingly enough, I'm usually so stoopid that I fall for this...often.  One of the Old Chix does this to me on a regular basis.

The FAB's at Walmart are different than the FAB's at Costco.  There's usually a homeless person at the Walmart parking lot entry/exit with a cardboard sign asking for "help". A homeless person who always seems to have a cell phone. We just automatically call them homeless now, don't we???  How do we know they're really "homeless"?  And how come nobody ever calls them "hobos" or "beggars" anymore???  Why is "homeless" more politically correct than "hobo"?  Who makes these rules?  Walmart is a FAB's free for all and you never know what kind of person you're going to run into.  I think many of them are me crazy (could be) or paranoid (also could be), but some of the Walmartians look downright scary.

Every time I go to Walmart, I'm afraid someone is going to take my picture and I'm going to show up as one of the "People of Walmart"....or "Walmartians".  Emails go around showing people in all kinds of weird clothing.  I think some of them must be dressed up for Halloween or some kind of costume party.  Nobody would intentionally go out looking like that, would they?  I also think whoever takes these pictures must have a fetish for fat people but I can't tell whether they're repulsed or secretly enthralled and trying to hide it because most of the Walmartians in the snapshots are the large and lovely variety.  I try to go to Walmart really early in the morning when there's hardly anyone there. Most of the freak show types are still home climbing into bed after partying all night and so far, it's been relatively safe.

One day I mentioned to Curly that I was afraid of ending up in a "People of Walmart" photo montage...she said "you mean in the background?"...until then, that had never occurred to I have yet another thing to worry's the stoopidist thing.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Our Daily Walk

The women in my office decided we should start taking a break during the day and go for a walk.  Hard to believe I would agree to this but I did.  So far since the first of the year we’ve walked exactly one time...yesterday. The Princess and I usually find a reason not to’s too cold...we don’t have the right shoes...we just ate and we’re too full...we’re too busy (this is a totally ridiculous reason and we all know it...we work for the government...need I say more?)..

Yesterday though, one of the newest additions to our office, I’ll call her Curly because she has long curly hair, was determined that we would walk. Curly refused to listen to any excuses and was actually acting kinda like a drill sergeant to get us motivated. See she, unlike The Princess and I, is actually watching what she eats and is actively trying to loose weight. The Princess and I like to talk about it but when it comes to actually doing it, we can find a million excuses why we shouldn’t start until the next day...usually it’s because we want a cheeseburger and fries. The Princess and I do split the cheeseburger and fries now so I guess in our own pathetically small way that’s our attempt at healthier eating habits. Not so for Curly...she munches on carrot sticks, drinks spinach laden smoothies (which she forced me to taste...and I have to admit...tasted good), avoids sugar, and rarely participates in our fat laden lunch feasts. It should be noted here that Curly is something of a Cougar with a ten years younger hubby that she’s trying to remain relatively svelte for. Not so for me & The Princess.

So off we all go on our daily walk...first one of the, Curly, The Princess, and Wendy. Wendy’s a cute little Mexican girl who works in our office part time while going to school full about a work ethic...this girl works circles around the rest of us. Unlike Curly, Wendy eats burgers with us...and humors the oldsters in the office by walking with us. Actually I’m the only oldster of the bunch for this session...but compared to Wendy all of us are oldsters.

It was really cold outside when we left the building. I had on a really heavy jacket, ear bags (soooo much better than ear muffs), and looked kinda like that kid whose mom bundled him up like the Michelin Man in “The Christmas Story”. Our route was through a residential area and the first part was all down hill...piece of cake...not too tough, except my thighs were rubbing together and I was afraid the friction was going to wear a hole in my pants...or worse, start a fire...what if my pants burst into flames??? How would you even explain something like that??? And how embarrassing would it be to have people know that you’re so fat that the friction of having your thighs rubbing together made your pants catch on fire? I wonder if that could really happen? If you were so fat that your thighs rubbed together constantly, and you had on a synthetic material that melted could your pants actually melt onto your flesh? I think some fabrics melt under extreme heat, but there’s probably not enough heat generated by thigh friction to melt fabric to the point that it would burn the skin...otherwise our emergency rooms would be filled with female burn victims...with thighburns. Men have sideburns, women have thighburns. I think about this kind of stoopid shit all the time.

Once we hit the bottom of the hill, the trouble began. Now we’re forced to walk uphill. I guess we could’ve called a cab at this point, but it kinda seemed like defeating the purpose of the walk. This is probably why I liked downhill skiing instead of cross country. Easy peasy going down and then you ride the lift back to the top. All fun and no work...that’s the way I like it (Uh huh, uh huh...get it??? KC & The Sunshine band????)

We all walked really fast downhill but I noticed that once we started uphill, none of us were as perky...or as’s way harder to gab when you’re gasping for breath. I could feel myself starting to sweat under the mammoth jacket I so stoopidly wore so I unsnapped the front to let some cool air in.

How does a person sweat when it’s so cold outside? Does sweat freeze? If you got really hot working outside in cold weather could the sweat freeze on your body? Actually it would probably be absorbed by whatever clothes you were wearing, but would the clothes freeze? If your clothes freeze wouldn’t you die from hypothermia? I guess if you’re clothes got wet enough to freeze at least your pants couldn’t catch on fire from the friction of your thighs rubbing together...but then if the heat from your thighs rubbing together caused thawing would the ice melt leaving you looking like you peed your pants?

I’ve decided until all these questions are answered to my liking that I will not succumb to Curly’s browbeating and allow myself to be placed in these life and death circumstances. I think I should warn The Princess & Wendy too. They probably never thought they’d be taking such precarious risks with their lives just by going for a walk either. Whew...good thing I thought about it. I may have just saved our's the stoopidist thing.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Rotten Food

I'm really fortunate to have a wonderful woman come and clean my house once a week.  "D" is worth her weight in gold and I'd give up a lot of things before I'd give her up.  It's really nice to come home after work and find every thing done.  It means I can spend my days off doing stuff I like instead of cleaning the house.  When my mom was alive, D cleaned her house and my mom loved her too.

If I have extra food left over, I usually ask D if she wants some.  You know, like a bag of oranges that's just too much for me and The Husband to eat.   Lots of times I end up with bananas that are overripe...because there's only about a two day window when I'll eat them.  They have to be all yellow with no green on the top...and here's the most important brown  I won't eat a banana with brown spots.

I know that overripe bananas are really good for banana bread or muffins...but I don't really like banana bread or banana muffins.  If someone gives me a piece of banana bread, I'll eat it to be polite, but it's not the sort of thing I'd waste my time baking.  If my bananas get overripe I throw them away.  I know it's wasteful and I should be more frugal, but the truth is I'm just way too lazy to be that frugal.

That being said, D likes to bake so one day when I was home I asked her if she wanted the bananas (they were really overripe...way past the brown spot stage).  "Yeah" she said "your mom used to give me rotten fruit too."  I'm speechless and completely mortified.  It actually never occurred to me that I was asking someone if they wanted my rotten food.  To this day I cringe inwardly every time I think about this.

One of my friends, OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) is very, very, very frugal when it comes to not wasting food.  My grandma was like that.  Grandma hated wasting food...but she was around during the Great Depression so that's kinda understandable....OF wasn't.  I don't know why OF has this thing about not wasting food, but she does.  We frequently argue about whether something is still safe to eat or not.

I have to admit that one time when I left milk in the refrigerator too long, my son came over and poured himself a big glass only to be disgusted when it came out in chunks.  Chunky milk....yum.  He will never let me forget it and always checks the date on my milk cartons before he starts pouring.  I try not to let things get that far but any case, I surely wouldn't try to tell someone that chunky milk was still good to drink.

I happen to be of the opinion that food, say a store bought roasted chicken, after the initial meal, shouldn't be eaten if it's been left in the refrigerator...sitting in it's tray of congealed fat and drippings...uncovered...for a week.  OF, like Grandma, thinks it's perfectly fine.  "It's still good" she says, offering me jerky like strips of roasted chicken.  If I was inclined to eat doggie treats...which I'm not...except when I was a kid and ate a Milk Bone, I'd buy a bag...they sell 'em at Walmart.

OF likes to point out that she's a trained professional who works at a health department and it's her job to know about things like what the spoiling stage is for food.  I like to point out that her field of expertise is inspecting septic tanks. Yikes...I hope there's a difference in the areas of expertise at our local health department.  Yesterday OF all knowingly declared "butter never spoils".   "Yes it does" I said "it gets rancid".  We're laughing at this point and I think she knows she's wrong but doesn't want to admit it...that's her story and she's stickin' to it come hell or high water.  (FYI I Googled the spoiling stage for butter and the general consensus is...3-4 days sitting on the counter...1 month in the refrigerator...and 4-5 months in the freezer...give or take a little depending on whether it's salted or unsalted.  If it's darker on the outside when you cut it, it's oxidized & should be thrown out.)

OF and I bought some bread at Costco a couple of weeks ago.  Since it was a two pack we each took a loaf.  A couple of days ago, I noticed the bread on her counter and mockingly asked if she was going to eat it.  Even she had to admit that it was past the eating stage..."but I can give it to the dogs" she said.  Yesterday when I was leaving her house I saw something laying in the driveway.  It was a hunk of the bread.  I would have loved to seen her face when she saw that the dogs wouldn't even eat it.  I bet she grabbed it and threw it in the trash before I could see it and make fun of her...too late.

I like to make fun of OF for stuff like this but it's not like she doesn't do the same to me.  And truth be told, I'm glad I'm not the only one who tries to give my friends rotten food.  It's the stoopidist thing.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Broken Heater

A couple of mornings ago I turned on the thermostat, heard the little click that always sounds but the heater didn't start.  I didn't think that much about it because it wasn't really all that cold and I just figured the pilot light had blown out.  Since The Husband was home I figured I'd let him relight it.  He was sleeping at the time and I didn't want to make a bunch of noise and risk being called a "Clanker".  This is what The Husband calls me when I'm up clanking around making noise in the morning thus depriving him of his required eight or nine hours of beauty sleep each night.

After he got up, The Husband checked and the pilot light was still on so he decided that there must be a problem with the thermostat.  "It has to be the thermostat because the pilot light is still on" The Husband tells me in his most know it all voice.  I don't really care...I just want to be able to get warm when I want to...but I smile and nod to acknowledge his wisdom.

Since he loooooves Home Depot, it gave him a perfect excuse to be Mr. Fixit and wander around the do-it-yourselfer store for a couple of hours.  I actually like Home Depot and can waste a lot of time myself wandering around looking at stuff I don't need.  If I had my druthers, I'd pick a smaller hardware store but there aren't many of them left.  To me, a good hardware store is one of life's simple pleasures.

To make a long story short, The Husband got the thermostat installed and still...the heater wouldn't come on.  So now we know that it isn't the thermostat.  This happened once before and I reminded the man of my dreams that the repairman who fixed it replaced some little part that ignited the burner.  The Husband said "Oh yeah"...I don't know if he really heard what I said or was just giving me the usual "yeah, yeah, yeah".

He was reading the thermostat directions at the time trying to decide if the problem could still be solved without calling a repairman.

Yesterday while I was making soup, The Husband started taking the heater apart.  Trying very hard not to sound like a doubting Thomas I asked "Do you know what you're doing?"

 "No...but I might as well try to fix it instead of buying a new one" was the semi-testy reply.

He decided, after reading the heater manual, that he would order parts and try to fix it himself.   The Husband knows nothing, I mean nothing, about any type of appliance repair.

It's now been three days. The temperature outside is about twenty-five degrees, and I'm sitting at my computer with a space heater aimed at my chair.  All three cats are laying on the floor in front of the heater, dogs are huddled in their beds, and the heater is in pieces.

I only wrote this to point out that PP's (Penis Possessors) feel compelled to do this kind of shit when it would be easier, quicker, and probably more economical in the long run, to call a repairman to fix the problem.  It's the stoopidist thing.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

For Lack Of A Penis

The Husband and I went to his mom's last night for a little "Family Fun".  It was MIL's (Mother in Law) birthday and all the kids got together and bought her a big flat screen TV.  Her regular TV died and she was left watching a 19" box of a TV that looked really little after watching big screens. Funny how not too long ago everyone was fine watching a 19" TV but now, anything smaller than 40" seems tiny.  Apparently size really does matter.

So, there we all were, the MIL, her two sons, two daughters, and all the spouses.  Then the fun began. I'll start by dividing the mob into two groups...the PP's (Penis Possessors), and the NPP's (Non Penis Possessors).  For anyone who's a little slow, the PP's are the men...women cannot claim PP status by virtue of occasional usage of the appendage.  I would think everyone would know this but sometimes if you don't spell it out, there's going to be someone who inevitably says..."well I use it whenever I want so that makes it mine"...No, it doesn't...if said appendage is not attached to your body you can't be a PP, no way, no how.  That's

The three PP's began by hurrying to get their Leatherman tools out of their pockets so they could use a knife to get the TV box open.  The #2 son won the Leatherman race thus winning rights to slice open said TV box, which he did with the utmost care and the least amount of speed possible.  I could've run around the block in the time it took him to slice that packing tape.  That's assuming I would ever be inclined to run around the block...which up till now, I haven't been.  It could happen...maybe...probably not.

Once the box was opened, out comes the styrofoam packing piece by piece until finally a beautiful flat screen TV emerges being gently cradled by three sets of PP hands.  Apparently all PP hands must touch the new toy to leave their mark...kinda like a dog lifting it's leg...just sayin'.

While one of the PP's started unhooking the 19 incher and cable box, another PP started reading the "Quick Setup" instructions. I'm proud to say it was The Husband who was actually reading directions...God love him. The third PP started attaching the stand to the TV.  I was asked, grudgingly I might add, to steady the beautiful new toy on it's side so the PP could attach a screw in the bottom of the stand.  I nearly fainted in shock...a PP just asked a NPP for help...WTF...that never happens at my house.  At my house, PP's are all knowing...and if they aren't, they act like they are....and they never, I repeat, never ask a NPP for help unless there's something they're totally unable to do hold up trusses and attach them at the same cases like this even the most die hard do it yourselfer PP is forced to accept help from a NPP.  I should note here that at my house, the PP hates to ask for help because the NPP always has friendly suggestions as to how the task at hand could be accomplished easier, better, or more quickly than the original plan allows.  Most PP's...definitely the one at my house...don't appreciate these helpful suggestions from NPP's.

The MIL has cable service for her TV that goes from the wall to a cable box, to the TV. Two remotes, one for the TV, one for the cable box, she uses to control the functions..  The PP who was connecting the cables, who up until this point I'd always thought was a certified techno geekster who knew everything about gadgets...I may have misjudged...., got everything hooked up and we all watched excitedly when he turned the power on.  It worked!  Hooray!  Oh come it's only getting two channels and everything else is snow?

Now, the former gadget expert PP starts clicking on the remote for the TV going through various setup's to see if he can figure out the problem.  He shoots me a pitiful look when I suggest he use the second remote that controls the cable box...apparently it's not only my own PP that doesn't appreciate my helpful suggestions.  Now call me crazy, but isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing over & over hoping for a different result?????  Well guess what???  Gadget Man PP is insane!!!  Who knew??  Yes, he kept going through the same functions on the remote over and over and over and over......

Then the powers that be...PP powers mind you...decide that there must be something wrong with the cable box.  This is the same box that was working fine on the 19 incher before they unhooked it...but now it must be broken.  Because surely, none of the PP's could be doing anything wrong.  Oh no, not them... Sadly, The Husband wrongly accused Gadget Man of making a mistake during the setup because he used a scan channel feature that he didn't have to...after being so proud of him for reading the directions I realized he's still just a PP and unlikely to change his ways.

So now the new TV is only getting two channels clearly...all the other ones are snow.  Gadget Man PP decides to unhook the cable from the box and feed it directly into the TV (this is also something I suggested earlier and was told in no uncertain terms that it didn't work that way...just sayin').  After much male dithering, more reading of start up guides, and suggestions from the NPP's which were totally ignored, the cable is connected directly to the TV.  It works, but still only the two channels...all the others are snow.

Gadget Man PP declares "There has to be something wrong with the cable box" and much to my dismay, The Husband readily agrees with him.  I reply "How can it be the cable box if it was working before and you still get the same two channels with the box and without the box?"  Again I'm ignored by all PP's.

The cable box gets hooked back up.  Gadget Man PP's not giving up control of the remote...and again he starts going through the setup input mode...over and over and over and over.  Still only two channels.

Now, having some experience with multiple remotes prior to the invention of the Harmony remote (which is one of the greatest inventions known to man) I try to get the point across, in my most non threatening NPP voice that there should be a way to change the channels using the cable box remote.
After lengthy denials by all PP's they finally ask the NPP who lives there with the MIL how she changes the channel.  A side note here...this particular NPP is The Husband's sister who is bipolar and kinda kooky so they would never in a million years think that she could know more than a PP.  When she tries to tell them what she does, Gadget Man PP starts to spring into action, but finally like a voice in the of the other PP's says "just let her show us".  Originally I thought this was one of those rare occasions when a PP was reasonable, but in hindsight, I think he was just impatient and didn't want to try to figure out what kooky NPP was trying to tell them.  I could be wrong about this...but I don't think so.

The kooky NPP grabs the cable box remote, starts pushing buttons, and the channels all start changing like they're supposed to.  All's right with the world, the new TV works like a charm. All thanks to the PP's...who immediately begin the self congratulatory speeches. (I made that last part up...about the self congratulatory speeches...but they really wanted to be self congratulatory.)

It appears that men don't automatically, by virtue of a penis, know how to fix cars, repair leaky faucets, BBQ steaks, or hook up TV's any more than women automatically become infant experts simply because they have a vagina.  The difference seems to be that women...not always...but usually, know feel compelled to act like they know how to do stuff simply because they're's the stoopidist thing.