OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) emailed me the other day and we were sort of ranting back and forth about liberal/conservative politics, cosmetic applications, teeth whiteners, and other useful work related items, when the topic, as is usually the case with me, changed to food.
OF again suggested humus as desirable snackage...it's sort of become an ongoing joke...she tries to get me to eat it (not very hard)...I try desperately to avoid it. I told her about seeing a website with low-cal snackage where, lo and behold, there was hummus listed as prime low-cal snackage. Along with chopped veggies, which instead of calling them what they were...chopped vegetables...they called them crudité. OF pronounced it crud-eyete. Cracked me up. If I'd been drinking, I would have snorted my Diet Pepsi into my nose. Which, if you've never done this, beware...it burns intensely.
One time I said the word facade only I pronounced it fah-kaid. Another time I had to read aloud in a class and I pronounced the word stenographer...sten-oh-graffer. I can't even begin to count the number of times I've done shit like this. I'm ashamed to admit that I laugh hysterically whenever anyone else does it...probably because I'm glad I'm not the only one.
When I was a little kid, I was in Sunday School (hard to believe, I know) and another girl was reading from the Bible. She was reading aloud and pronounced the word ewes as eee-wees. I started laughing and couldn't stop. Kathy Griffin has dubbed this phenomenon the "Church Giggles"...it's such an appropriate title...I get Church Giggles all the time...always inappropriately.
One of the old chix and I regularly email each other and deliberately spell things wrong. I know it sounds really dumb, but we're old and easily amused. It's kind of hard to do...okay, maybe not hard, but a little more effort is required...I've decided to call it "Crepey Crones Clever Codeage" (CCCC for short)..I realize "clever" is stretching it a bit...okay, a lot....but here's how it goes...
eff ewe kahn reed thess ewe tew mae bee stewpud...
It's the stoopidist thing...
Monday, August 15, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Abbie Smalley
I was reading an article a few days ago, probably something about our fabulous congress, I don't really remember what the article was, but as I'm reading, I come to the word "abysmally". I'm looking at this word, which I've probably seen many, many, times before in my life, and I see "abbie smalley" in my head. I'm thinkin' WTF is abbie smalley???? Abbie smalley...It took a few seconds before the word finally registered in my head as abysmally. God, I'm such a fuckin' dork.
P.S. I told this to one of the old chix who takes great pleasure in mocking me for the tiniest little spelling or grammatical error. When I did, I made sure I reminded her that when she read "Eminem", as in famous rapper, she saw "eye num". The poor boy is no longer Eminem...in our world, he's become "Eye-num"...and then we laugh hysterically...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. I told this to one of the old chix who takes great pleasure in mocking me for the tiniest little spelling or grammatical error. When I did, I made sure I reminded her that when she read "Eminem", as in famous rapper, she saw "eye num". The poor boy is no longer Eminem...in our world, he's become "Eye-num"...and then we laugh hysterically...it's the stoopidist thing.
Monday, July 18, 2011
That Day
Having recently seen the movie “Bridesmaids”, which is one of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen, and the fact that The Husband frequently reminds me of this incident...and the fact that I obviously have no pride...I decided to share my tale of utter and complete humiliation solely for the amusement of others.
One day several years ago, before we were married, The Husband and I decided to go for a little outing. It was in the middle of winter, cold and rainy, and we decided to go to a nearby town about forty-five minutes from our house because we wanted to shop for a new tv and decided we’d just grab dinner first.
The Husband is an old guy...I may have mentioned this before. He’s the kind of guy who thinks leaving a single dollar bill on the table is a decent tip. He’s really not deliberately trying to be cheap, it just doesn’t occur to him that since everything else costs more, that maybe, just maybe the tippage should be increased too. I remind him of this on a regular basis. I have no control over what he does when I’m not with him and offer my sincere apologies to any waitress or waiter whom he has offended with his less than generous tippage. He can’t help it...he’s old...he’s also deaf, but that’s another story.
Being an old guy who likes his food, The Husband thinks buffets are wonderful. Buffets lose money on The Husband, but make money on me...usually, except when I’m with the Old Chix & we eat for hours before being forced by management to leave. I’m exaggerating...but only slightly.
So off we go to the unnamed all-you-can-eat restaurant. I won’t go in to detail describing the patrons of this particular chow line. If you can visualize a Far Side cartoon you probably get the gist of the view. Sadly, we fit in perfectly.
I don’t really remember exactly what I ate on this particular day...probably some kind of fried food and probably some kind of mashed potatoes and gravy...which I love...maybe a little salad with Ranch dressing, and probably some soft serve ice cream at the end of the gluttonfest. Could be wrong, but it sounds about like what I’d do. Okay, so maybe they don’t lose money on me.
After we left, we went to a nearby Circuit City to look at TV’s. We wandered around for a little while looking at prices and generally annoying sales persons who could tell we weren’t “buyers”, but just a couple of "lookieloos ". (I’m sure there’s probably a better way to spell that but it’s not important enough for me to check).
It was probably about thirty minutes after leaving the gluttonfest that I started feeling little “twinges” in my stomach...which I tried to ignore...which would prove to be the beginning of my undoing. See, this was still in the “beginning” stages of our romance where I was trying to be perfectly wonderful and all things fabulous to the man of my dreams. Looking back I realize my efforts were totally futile...that I was never any of those things...but that’s not the point...I was still trying.
The more we wandered around the store, the more frequently I felt the “twinges” which were rapidly turning into “cramps”...the kind of cramps that precede an inevitable episode of explosive diarrhea. I was beginning to realize, with horror, what was about to take place.
Now, the dilemma...do I try to make it home or hang around the store and risk the humiliation of pooping in a public restroom??? Anyone who knows me, knows my phobia about pooping in public. It’s a court of last resort. I’ll be a sneak a pooper until the day I die. I’ve accepted this and for the most part, learned to live with it.
After weighing my options, I decide to make a break for the only place I can poop in peace...home. I tell The Husband-to-be that I’m feeling a little sick and suggest that maybe we should go home. (Yes we were living together without benefit of clergy as one of the Old Chix likes to say.) Since The Husband-to-be was also on good behavior in those days, he was quick to go along with whatever I wanted. Thus began the longest drive of my life.
When we left the store it was after dark, and really, really stormy. Wind was blowing, rain pouring down so hard the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. Looking back I’m sure it was the worst storm we’ve had...ever...at least that’s how I remember it now. I may be embellishing the severity of the storm but the rest is totally real.
Once we’re in the car I feel a false sense of security, sort of like the bars that hold you in on a roller coaster...they’re really not going to help you in case of a derailment...you’re still gonna get smashed to smithereens. On a little side note, why is it that nobody ever uses the singular smithereen? It’s always plural. I wonder if it’s really a word...again not important enough to check...sorry, I get sidetracked.
So, when we initially get in the car and I sit down, I feel a little better, like maybe I’ve exaggerated my need for a hasty departure. Keep in mind that there is only a long, long, long stretch of highway between where we were and home.
Once we’re on the highway, and there’s no end in sight, the stomach starts “twinging” again...more severely...and the more we drove, the closer the intervals between cramping came. My poor stomach felt like it was swelling an inch a second...I could feel the gas gurgling around and knew what was coming. I tried doing Lamaze breathing techniques...whoo whoo hee hee..quietly so The Husband to be wouldn’t catch on and think I was less than fabulous. Fortunately he was deaf even then so I don’t think he heard the juicy gurgling noises that, to me, seemed to drown out all noise from the storm outside.
I didn’t dare even try to sneak a fart to relieve some of the pressure in my poor stomach...I knew it would have stunk up the car...badly. All the windows were closed and the heater was on...not prime time for a sneak-a-fart scenario. Things like this never happen when you can have the windows down and blame the smell on a dead animal carcass that you just passed. I actually knew someone who used that line once. I can honestly say I’ve never done it...yet. I’ve never intentionally farted in front of my husband either...yet...
The Husband then, as now, is a confirmed booberdoober when it comes to driving. He’s the one you hate to get behind because he always drives under the speed limit. Back when I was trying to impress him I never mentioned how infuriating this was to me...nowadays...let’s just say I’m a little more inclined to voice my opinion on his driving skills. That night, however, I was just trying to keep from pooping so I really didn’t want to talk. Try to relax, breathe, stay calm...it’ll pass...every second I was a little closer to home.
When we’re right outside our town on a long straight stretch of highway, I think I can’t make it anymore.
Me: “I think you need to pull over.”
The Husband-to-be: “Why?”
Me: “I think I’m going to be sick”...neglecting to mention that it’s not the throw up kind of sick...more the shit your brains out kind of sick.
The Husband-to-be starts to pull over and immediately the cramp eases...
Me: “No, wait...I think it’s okay” thinking why did I say anything...why didn’t I just wait to see if it would go away...now he’ll think I’m un-fabulous...which I am, but he doesn’t need to know that at this stage of our relationship...
Sometimes I'm fairly certain God plays tricks on us...this was one of those times.
About two more miles passed...
Me: “I think you need to pull over.”
The Husband-to-be doesn’t even say a word, he just starts to pull over. Again, the cramp starts to fade...
Me: “I think it’s okay...keep going” ...why didn’t I just wait??? Didn’t that last time it passed teach me anything?
Finally we’re off the freeway and on the back road to our humble abode. It’s a curvy road, the wind is blowing, rain is pouring down and finally I can wait no more. The pain in my stomach has me doubled over. It’s either pull over or sit in the car and shit myself...
Me: “Pull over...right there” pointing to a turn out in front of an old cemetery.
The Husband-to-be pulls in to the turn out, barely gets stopped, and I jump out into the dark cold rainy night, yank my pants down to my ankles praying I’ll get them down in time to keep from getting poop on them...grab hold of the car door handle to try to balance myself and keep from falling...squat...and shit my brains out in the cemetery parking lot. There was a brief second where all I felt was relief...I got my pants down in time...and didn’t shit myself.... That feeling passed way too quickly though and the utter humiliation of my situation was right back staring me in the face. If that wasn’t bad enough, since I don’t normally travel with toilet paper in my pockets, I was forced to tap on the window and ask The Husband-to-be to hand me some Kleenex out the window. Any trace of imagined fabulosity has vanished and I didn’t even have a shred of dignity left.
Now I’m forced to pull my pants up and get back into the car with the man of my dreams, who now knows for a certainty that I’m way less than fabulous...in fact, I’ve probably come perilously close to disgusting in his mind...I’m sure of this. To his credit, he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t mention the fact that I’m soaking wet, my hair is plastered to my head, mascara is running down my face, and I’m dripping water all over the place (I hope it was only water). We drive the rest of the way home in silence...we were only about five, count ‘em, five minutes from home...and I just couldn’t wait five lousy minutes longer. I’m sure he was dying of laughter inside...if the situation had been reversed, I would have been hysterical. But, bless his heart, he didn’t even acknowledge the fact that I had just squatted and pooped in a gravel turn out in front of a cemetery in the dead of night.
Looking back, I guess in the end I made the right choice...I mean I think it was better that I actually got out of the car before I shit myself, don’t you? And guess what??? He married me anyway...of course he probably figured...how much worse could it get?
P.S. If I’m ever driving in a car with you and we happen to drive past a cemetery...please don’t ask me if I need to stop...The Husband has asked me that question every time we drive by there since “that day”. I have to laugh...it’s the stoopidist thing.
One day several years ago, before we were married, The Husband and I decided to go for a little outing. It was in the middle of winter, cold and rainy, and we decided to go to a nearby town about forty-five minutes from our house because we wanted to shop for a new tv and decided we’d just grab dinner first.
The Husband is an old guy...I may have mentioned this before. He’s the kind of guy who thinks leaving a single dollar bill on the table is a decent tip. He’s really not deliberately trying to be cheap, it just doesn’t occur to him that since everything else costs more, that maybe, just maybe the tippage should be increased too. I remind him of this on a regular basis. I have no control over what he does when I’m not with him and offer my sincere apologies to any waitress or waiter whom he has offended with his less than generous tippage. He can’t help it...he’s old...he’s also deaf, but that’s another story.
Being an old guy who likes his food, The Husband thinks buffets are wonderful. Buffets lose money on The Husband, but make money on me...usually, except when I’m with the Old Chix & we eat for hours before being forced by management to leave. I’m exaggerating...but only slightly.
So off we go to the unnamed all-you-can-eat restaurant. I won’t go in to detail describing the patrons of this particular chow line. If you can visualize a Far Side cartoon you probably get the gist of the view. Sadly, we fit in perfectly.
I don’t really remember exactly what I ate on this particular day...probably some kind of fried food and probably some kind of mashed potatoes and gravy...which I love...maybe a little salad with Ranch dressing, and probably some soft serve ice cream at the end of the gluttonfest. Could be wrong, but it sounds about like what I’d do. Okay, so maybe they don’t lose money on me.
After we left, we went to a nearby Circuit City to look at TV’s. We wandered around for a little while looking at prices and generally annoying sales persons who could tell we weren’t “buyers”, but just a couple of "lookieloos ". (I’m sure there’s probably a better way to spell that but it’s not important enough for me to check).
It was probably about thirty minutes after leaving the gluttonfest that I started feeling little “twinges” in my stomach...which I tried to ignore...which would prove to be the beginning of my undoing. See, this was still in the “beginning” stages of our romance where I was trying to be perfectly wonderful and all things fabulous to the man of my dreams. Looking back I realize my efforts were totally futile...that I was never any of those things...but that’s not the point...I was still trying.
The more we wandered around the store, the more frequently I felt the “twinges” which were rapidly turning into “cramps”...the kind of cramps that precede an inevitable episode of explosive diarrhea. I was beginning to realize, with horror, what was about to take place.
Now, the dilemma...do I try to make it home or hang around the store and risk the humiliation of pooping in a public restroom??? Anyone who knows me, knows my phobia about pooping in public. It’s a court of last resort. I’ll be a sneak a pooper until the day I die. I’ve accepted this and for the most part, learned to live with it.
After weighing my options, I decide to make a break for the only place I can poop in peace...home. I tell The Husband-to-be that I’m feeling a little sick and suggest that maybe we should go home. (Yes we were living together without benefit of clergy as one of the Old Chix likes to say.) Since The Husband-to-be was also on good behavior in those days, he was quick to go along with whatever I wanted. Thus began the longest drive of my life.
When we left the store it was after dark, and really, really stormy. Wind was blowing, rain pouring down so hard the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. Looking back I’m sure it was the worst storm we’ve had...ever...at least that’s how I remember it now. I may be embellishing the severity of the storm but the rest is totally real.
Once we’re in the car I feel a false sense of security, sort of like the bars that hold you in on a roller coaster...they’re really not going to help you in case of a derailment...you’re still gonna get smashed to smithereens. On a little side note, why is it that nobody ever uses the singular smithereen? It’s always plural. I wonder if it’s really a word...again not important enough to check...sorry, I get sidetracked.
So, when we initially get in the car and I sit down, I feel a little better, like maybe I’ve exaggerated my need for a hasty departure. Keep in mind that there is only a long, long, long stretch of highway between where we were and home.
Once we’re on the highway, and there’s no end in sight, the stomach starts “twinging” again...more severely...and the more we drove, the closer the intervals between cramping came. My poor stomach felt like it was swelling an inch a second...I could feel the gas gurgling around and knew what was coming. I tried doing Lamaze breathing techniques...whoo whoo hee hee..quietly so The Husband to be wouldn’t catch on and think I was less than fabulous. Fortunately he was deaf even then so I don’t think he heard the juicy gurgling noises that, to me, seemed to drown out all noise from the storm outside.
I didn’t dare even try to sneak a fart to relieve some of the pressure in my poor stomach...I knew it would have stunk up the car...badly. All the windows were closed and the heater was on...not prime time for a sneak-a-fart scenario. Things like this never happen when you can have the windows down and blame the smell on a dead animal carcass that you just passed. I actually knew someone who used that line once. I can honestly say I’ve never done it...yet. I’ve never intentionally farted in front of my husband either...yet...
The Husband then, as now, is a confirmed booberdoober when it comes to driving. He’s the one you hate to get behind because he always drives under the speed limit. Back when I was trying to impress him I never mentioned how infuriating this was to me...nowadays...let’s just say I’m a little more inclined to voice my opinion on his driving skills. That night, however, I was just trying to keep from pooping so I really didn’t want to talk. Try to relax, breathe, stay calm...it’ll pass...every second I was a little closer to home.
When we’re right outside our town on a long straight stretch of highway, I think I can’t make it anymore.
Me: “I think you need to pull over.”
The Husband-to-be: “Why?”
Me: “I think I’m going to be sick”...neglecting to mention that it’s not the throw up kind of sick...more the shit your brains out kind of sick.
The Husband-to-be starts to pull over and immediately the cramp eases...
Me: “No, wait...I think it’s okay” thinking why did I say anything...why didn’t I just wait to see if it would go away...now he’ll think I’m un-fabulous...which I am, but he doesn’t need to know that at this stage of our relationship...
Sometimes I'm fairly certain God plays tricks on us...this was one of those times.
About two more miles passed...
Me: “I think you need to pull over.”
The Husband-to-be doesn’t even say a word, he just starts to pull over. Again, the cramp starts to fade...
Me: “I think it’s okay...keep going” ...why didn’t I just wait??? Didn’t that last time it passed teach me anything?
Finally we’re off the freeway and on the back road to our humble abode. It’s a curvy road, the wind is blowing, rain is pouring down and finally I can wait no more. The pain in my stomach has me doubled over. It’s either pull over or sit in the car and shit myself...
Me: “Pull over...right there” pointing to a turn out in front of an old cemetery.
The Husband-to-be pulls in to the turn out, barely gets stopped, and I jump out into the dark cold rainy night, yank my pants down to my ankles praying I’ll get them down in time to keep from getting poop on them...grab hold of the car door handle to try to balance myself and keep from falling...squat...and shit my brains out in the cemetery parking lot. There was a brief second where all I felt was relief...I got my pants down in time...and didn’t shit myself.... That feeling passed way too quickly though and the utter humiliation of my situation was right back staring me in the face. If that wasn’t bad enough, since I don’t normally travel with toilet paper in my pockets, I was forced to tap on the window and ask The Husband-to-be to hand me some Kleenex out the window. Any trace of imagined fabulosity has vanished and I didn’t even have a shred of dignity left.
Now I’m forced to pull my pants up and get back into the car with the man of my dreams, who now knows for a certainty that I’m way less than fabulous...in fact, I’ve probably come perilously close to disgusting in his mind...I’m sure of this. To his credit, he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t mention the fact that I’m soaking wet, my hair is plastered to my head, mascara is running down my face, and I’m dripping water all over the place (I hope it was only water). We drive the rest of the way home in silence...we were only about five, count ‘em, five minutes from home...and I just couldn’t wait five lousy minutes longer. I’m sure he was dying of laughter inside...if the situation had been reversed, I would have been hysterical. But, bless his heart, he didn’t even acknowledge the fact that I had just squatted and pooped in a gravel turn out in front of a cemetery in the dead of night.
Looking back, I guess in the end I made the right choice...I mean I think it was better that I actually got out of the car before I shit myself, don’t you? And guess what??? He married me anyway...of course he probably figured...how much worse could it get?
P.S. If I’m ever driving in a car with you and we happen to drive past a cemetery...please don’t ask me if I need to stop...The Husband has asked me that question every time we drive by there since “that day”. I have to laugh...it’s the stoopidist thing.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Sunday
So this morning I got up early to ride. Since it's about a million degrees (okay...I'm exaggerating...a little) outside during the day, early morning is really the only time I enjoy riding. I went over to OF's (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) house & we went for a little ride with OF's friend, Blondie,also a rabid consumer of undesirable snackage. All in all it was a nice quiet little ride. Nobody got bucked off, horses behaved, dogs got to go swimming, and we were done before it became so hot you could stand in the shade and sweat doing absolutely nothing. The heat is not my friend.
OF is convinced that if only I try the right flavor of hummus, I'll like it. Though I'm fairly certain she's wrong about this, I agreed next time we got together I'd try some garlic flavored hummus that she thinks is fabulous and is sure I'm going to love. All week long I've been worried that she's going to try to make me eat hummus again. This morning I actually baked cookies (PW Malted Milk Chocolate Chip..mmmm) so there'd be something there that I know I like to eat in the event I needed to get the nasty hummus taste out of my mouth. By the grace of God, fortune, or whatever, today I was spared (Thank you God)...she never even mentioned the hummus. Now I'm starting to wonder if she's just making up the whole "special flavor" of hummus thing just so that I'll bring desirable snackage to her house. I think I may be on to something here...what does she think I am...stoopid??? Hummus or chocolate chip cookies..duh...would anyone in their right mind actually choose the former???
After being spared the undesirable snackage, OF had a chiropractic move she wanted to try on me. This sort of makes it sound like she just randomly likes to practice unlicensed chiropractic treatment on people which isn't the case at all. During the course of several emails, where I whined endlessly about my hip hurting, she responded telling me that she had a "miraculous" chiropractic type move she could do to fix it. Today was the day. After she "crossed her heart and hoped to die" that this wasn't one of those "pull my finger" type moves, I agreed to let her practice unlicensed chiropractic therapy on me.
I laid down on my back on her floor and OF grabbed my left ankle, twisted it toward my right ankle, and pretty much jerked my hip out of it's socket. I screamed and tried to crawl away, but she held on...she wouldn't let go...she kept twisting my foot forcing me to roll back over onto my back..unbeknownst to me, the girl obviously had prior WWF experience...maybe she practices WWF moves in conjunction with her field chiropractic moves...I dunno...just a thought... "I just didn't jerk hard enough" she shouted over my agonized screams. "Hold still" she yelled "it didn't hurt that bad ya big sissy". Another jerk and this time I thought I was going to pass out....
Just kidding, I made all that up. There was no pain involved but that seemed kinda boring so I thought I'd embellish...just a tad. Embellish sounds so much nicer than lie, doesn't it??? Which is what I did...told a lie...a big fat one too. Even my lies are fat. I wonder if the chocolate chip cookies make my lies big & fat too???
Not only did I have to lie about the whole thing, but the "miraculous move" also didn't work. After we compared notes, it turns out her hip problem was in the front of her hip and mine was on the side. Probably should've discussed this prior to getting my leg pulled (no pun intended). I was obviously short changed at birth in the brains department and she obviously loses her layman's field chiropractic license for failing to determine the location of my injury prior to adjustment.
In closing and since it's Sunday I feel compelled to thank God for yet another hummus free day in my life...it's the stoopidist thing.
OF is convinced that if only I try the right flavor of hummus, I'll like it. Though I'm fairly certain she's wrong about this, I agreed next time we got together I'd try some garlic flavored hummus that she thinks is fabulous and is sure I'm going to love. All week long I've been worried that she's going to try to make me eat hummus again. This morning I actually baked cookies (PW Malted Milk Chocolate Chip..mmmm) so there'd be something there that I know I like to eat in the event I needed to get the nasty hummus taste out of my mouth. By the grace of God, fortune, or whatever, today I was spared (Thank you God)...she never even mentioned the hummus. Now I'm starting to wonder if she's just making up the whole "special flavor" of hummus thing just so that I'll bring desirable snackage to her house. I think I may be on to something here...what does she think I am...stoopid??? Hummus or chocolate chip cookies..duh...would anyone in their right mind actually choose the former???
After being spared the undesirable snackage, OF had a chiropractic move she wanted to try on me. This sort of makes it sound like she just randomly likes to practice unlicensed chiropractic treatment on people which isn't the case at all. During the course of several emails, where I whined endlessly about my hip hurting, she responded telling me that she had a "miraculous" chiropractic type move she could do to fix it. Today was the day. After she "crossed her heart and hoped to die" that this wasn't one of those "pull my finger" type moves, I agreed to let her practice unlicensed chiropractic therapy on me.
I laid down on my back on her floor and OF grabbed my left ankle, twisted it toward my right ankle, and pretty much jerked my hip out of it's socket. I screamed and tried to crawl away, but she held on...she wouldn't let go...she kept twisting my foot forcing me to roll back over onto my back..unbeknownst to me, the girl obviously had prior WWF experience...maybe she practices WWF moves in conjunction with her field chiropractic moves...I dunno...just a thought... "I just didn't jerk hard enough" she shouted over my agonized screams. "Hold still" she yelled "it didn't hurt that bad ya big sissy". Another jerk and this time I thought I was going to pass out....
Just kidding, I made all that up. There was no pain involved but that seemed kinda boring so I thought I'd embellish...just a tad. Embellish sounds so much nicer than lie, doesn't it??? Which is what I did...told a lie...a big fat one too. Even my lies are fat. I wonder if the chocolate chip cookies make my lies big & fat too???
Not only did I have to lie about the whole thing, but the "miraculous move" also didn't work. After we compared notes, it turns out her hip problem was in the front of her hip and mine was on the side. Probably should've discussed this prior to getting my leg pulled (no pun intended). I was obviously short changed at birth in the brains department and she obviously loses her layman's field chiropractic license for failing to determine the location of my injury prior to adjustment.
In closing and since it's Sunday I feel compelled to thank God for yet another hummus free day in my life...it's the stoopidist thing.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Funerals
The older I get, the less inclined I am to do things I don't want to do but somehow feel obligated to do. I mean, is a distant cousin whose child is celebrating their first birthday going to notice that I didn't show up for cake & ice cream? I don't think so. Although I will miss the ice cream, (I rarely turn down any excuse to have ice cream.) I won't miss the kid being tired and cranky from all the excitement and the other hoards of kids running around like banshees screaming and being little effing brats because their parents let them. Some family functions are welcome, others are avoidable, and then there are those that are totally unavoidable...like funerals.
Seems like lately all I do is go to funerals. I know it's something I shouldn't complain about because after all, there but for the grace of God, go I. And I know I should be ashamed of myself, and I am, for feeling inconvenienced by being obliged to attend the services. The latest one was yesterday.
I forced my son to go with me. This is my only child...sole fruit of my womb...who is going to have a birthday later this week...who is in his late 30's...who has failed to marry and reproduce. The Husband's children have also failed to marry and reproduce. The only one who has supplied us with grandchildren is my stepdaughter (not the Bad Seed stepdaughter) who I don't get to see often enough. Sometimes I tend to dwell on the fact that my son isn't married with children...actually, if I'm being honest, I dwell on it more than I should. It is his life, after all...everything really isn't all about me...but it should be.
So I managed to guilt my Baby Boy (BB henceforth) into going to the funeral with me. I couldn't manage to guilt him into driving though...and it was about a two hour drive...so I took the truck...since it's more comfortable than the Toyota...and I'm old & all about comfort. The drive down was pretty easy peasy. We made it to the church on time...early even...then we sat around...for a long time...at least it seemed like a long time to me...and I know it's not all about me...but it should be.
The first portion of this service was at the Mormon Church. I point this out because there were actually three parts. The dearly departed (DD henceforth) was Mormon (though I don't believe he was a practicing Mormon...just guessing...because he did drink alcohol...regularly) and his widow is Catholic, very devout.
Act I - The Viewing:
I've never really understood the reason for "The Viewing"...personally I think it's probably some odd ritual started by someone with necrophiliac tendencies. Who else would want to look at a dead person? I mean, really? I don't get it. Do they want to do it so they feel grateful they're still alive? Sort of a "thank God it's him and not me" sort of feeling? I really don't want my last memory of someone to be of them laying in a coffin dressed in their "Sunday Go to Meetin'" clothes with an "at peace" expression artificially formed on their face.
And that's another thing I start wondering about. What kind of person dreams of becoming a mortician? I know it's all kinds of wrong but the necrophilia word keeps popping into my head. And is there a category of humor called "Mortician Humor"? Do morticians play little subtle jokes on the grieving families to get around the boredom of their job? When they're getting the DD ready for "The Viewing", do they play with different expressions other than the "Mona Lisa" at peace expression? For example:
The Grimace - DD placed with his head slightly turned, lips together stretched disapprovingly in a straight line like he's just heard someone say something entirely inappropriate....
The Hearty Guffaw: DD laying with his head thrown back tilted slightly to the right, shoulders slightly raised, smiling mouth wide open in death defying laughter...
The Look of Surprise: DD laying with his eyes wide open, hands raised palms facing up, and his mouth shaped in an "O"...as in OMG you scared me..(please don't imagine a blow up doll here...that's an entirely different expression)...
The Look of Horror: DD laying on his side with his head turned slightly looking over his shoulder, eyes wide open like "The Look of Surprise"...only scared..mouth open in a silent shriek.. like he's trying to get away from whatever's in the casket with him...
The Look of Hmmmm: DD laying on his back head tilted slightly to the side, eyes open with a furrowed brow, index finger placed against his mouth...sort of a "How'd I get here?" look.
I bet morticians do stuff like this. I bet they put clown faces on them too when they're practicing the whole hair & makeup thing. I bet DD macho men occasionally end up looking like drag queens when morticians are bored. Can you imagine what would happen if they accidentally left the DD with the "Look of Surprise" on his face when the grieving family arrived? I know it's wrong on so many levels but I actually laugh at the thought of this. I digress....
"The Viewing" seemed kind of like a pre-funeral funeral...there was a "special room" with chairs lined in neat rows (no pews). It was a standing room only crowd so I was watching from outside in the hallway, but it seemed to me that people were just getting up willy nilly
Act II - The Actual Funeral:
This portion of the funeral starts with the Bishop (roughly the equivalent of Preacher/Pastor/Reverend for non Mormon denominations) thanking everyone for attending the DD's celebration of life...no longer is it a mourning of their passing...it's a "celebration" of life. Sort of odd to celebrate someones life when they can't be there to celebrate with you...just my opinion...and it hardly seems like a celebration without adult beverages...again, just my opinion. I think it would be more appropriately called a "remembrance"...just my opinion...for the last time...at least in this paragraph.
And why don't they ever say anyone "died"? Why do they always say passed on? Sometimes you'll hear people say "my cousin passed"...I know what they mean but it always makes me want to say "passed what?" I think you should just say "my cousin died"...again just my opinion.
After thanking us for our presence the Bishop asked us to sing a hymn. Now, having spent a good portion of my youth being forced to attend church, I've never been fond of hymns. (I hope this isn't some form of blasphemy.) I know this is going to make me sound totally racist, but white people have really boring church. If I ever decide to start going to church again, it's going to be a church with some spirit...and good gospel music. There are very few white people in the world who can sing gospel...just my opinion...but I'm right about this. If I have to listen to a bunch of old white people singing "Bringing in the Sheaves" one more time....I know I'm getting a little off track here and just to set the record straight, it was a different hymn.
Another prayer, followed by the death speech aka/Eulogy. This is where the designated non-clergy person talked about the DD...and talked...and talked...and talked...you get the idea. Now there were a few funny moments in the death speech but the problem was that there were too many long pauses. Again, I know it's wrong on so many levels to get impatient about this, but I did. Never mind that the death speech giver was a grieving family member...who was paying his last respects to his DD family member...who was probably fighting back tears...now I feel like pond scum for even admitting the fact that this made me impatient.
Following the singing and praying, it was time to go to the Catholic cemetery for interment. I whispered to my BB "Lets go say good by to DD's mom & sister & then we'll leave"...alas, a hasty exit was not in the cards for me. When we walked up to my brother to say our good byes, LB (Little Brother) says "Are you gonna ride over to the cemetery with me?" I looked at BB...trapped like a rat..."yeah, ok" I said with a fake smile pasted on my face. I'm such a wimp...
Act III - The Cemetery:
We made it to the mausoleum in one piece in spite of my LB's efforts to kill us. This was a Catholic ceremony and as such, there were definite rituals to be observed. It was uber formal...like all Catholic ceremonies. The first Catholic ceremony I went to was really interesting because I had no idea how they worked...I never knew that Catholic services had audience participation speaking parts other than Amen...who knew???? Live & learn... The mausoleum was made mostly of marble...marble floors, marble walls, marble crypts...and there was a bathroom right off the gathering area. It was one of those "handicapped" types for a single occupant. When you open the door, there was the toilet right in plain view of the funeral audience...which happened...while I was standing outside the door...and it was occupied and in use when the door was thrown open... The guy opening the door was as surprised as the guy using the toilet. And I started laughing...and I couldn't stop...and then I got nervous because I couldn't stop and that made me laugh more...I had the church giggles for the first time in my adult life in a church (okay it wasn't actually a church but it was close enough...and services were in progress...) Oh, I've had them in other places, but never in a church since I was a kid. Kind of brought back fond memories of my mom poking me in the ribs with her elbow for laughing during prayers.
After a little ritual and more prayers we stood & watched the casket being placed on a hydraulic lift and hoisted up third row from the top, into it's designated slot. My brother wanted to put a 49'er sticker on the casket to annoy the DD who was a die hard Rams fan, but he didn't get the chance. LB can be so inappropriate at time...we all laughed...to ourselves...inappropriateness must run in the family. People were starting to stare.
Finally it was over. I have to say during this final ritual, there were two women assisting the priest with his various rituals. One of them would describe for the audience members lacking in Catholic traditions, like myself, each phase of the ritual...both of these women were dressed in navy blue suits. Ill fitting navy blue suits...with white gloves...very unattractive...I wonder if it's a new nun costume?
Anyway, toward the end the one doing the ritual description asked the pallbearers, who were also wearing white gloves, to remove their gloves and "place them gently" on the casket. Was it really necessary to tell them to "place them gently"? Was she afraid one of the pallbearers would rip off his gloves, smack them down on the casket, and say "Later dude"?
That was the last "Act" of the funeral. Now we had to drive back to the Mormon church so we could all gather in fellowship...and eat...potluck style. My penchant for food kicked in and all thoughts of leaving early to head home vanished.
There was Mac & Cheese, sliced roast beef, ham, cheese, rolls, salads, little smokies in BBQ sauce, desserts, desserts, desserts...I did eat some of the other stuff before the desserts, but only because nobody else was taking desserts and I didn't want to be the only one gorging my fat face on the oh so bad for you but wonderful tasting sugary concoctions.
A word to the wise...always make sure your little smokies are heated...the little smokies in BBQ sauce hadn't been heated. I didn't know this until I popped one in my mouth...and was instantly disgusted...it was like a cold congealed wad of greasy goo in my mouth...I wanted to spit it out but didn't know if people would see me do it...so then I'm in a quandary...do I spit or swallow??? Hmmm...I'm probably not the only one who's ever faced this decision...it's the stoopidist thing.
Seems like lately all I do is go to funerals. I know it's something I shouldn't complain about because after all, there but for the grace of God, go I. And I know I should be ashamed of myself, and I am, for feeling inconvenienced by being obliged to attend the services. The latest one was yesterday.
I forced my son to go with me. This is my only child...sole fruit of my womb...who is going to have a birthday later this week...who is in his late 30's...who has failed to marry and reproduce. The Husband's children have also failed to marry and reproduce. The only one who has supplied us with grandchildren is my stepdaughter (not the Bad Seed stepdaughter) who I don't get to see often enough. Sometimes I tend to dwell on the fact that my son isn't married with children...actually, if I'm being honest, I dwell on it more than I should. It is his life, after all...everything really isn't all about me...but it should be.
So I managed to guilt my Baby Boy (BB henceforth) into going to the funeral with me. I couldn't manage to guilt him into driving though...and it was about a two hour drive...so I took the truck...since it's more comfortable than the Toyota...and I'm old & all about comfort. The drive down was pretty easy peasy. We made it to the church on time...early even...then we sat around...for a long time...at least it seemed like a long time to me...and I know it's not all about me...but it should be.
The first portion of this service was at the Mormon Church. I point this out because there were actually three parts. The dearly departed (DD henceforth) was Mormon (though I don't believe he was a practicing Mormon...just guessing...because he did drink alcohol...regularly) and his widow is Catholic, very devout.
Act I - The Viewing:
I've never really understood the reason for "The Viewing"...personally I think it's probably some odd ritual started by someone with necrophiliac tendencies. Who else would want to look at a dead person? I mean, really? I don't get it. Do they want to do it so they feel grateful they're still alive? Sort of a "thank God it's him and not me" sort of feeling? I really don't want my last memory of someone to be of them laying in a coffin dressed in their "Sunday Go to Meetin'" clothes with an "at peace" expression artificially formed on their face.
And that's another thing I start wondering about. What kind of person dreams of becoming a mortician? I know it's all kinds of wrong but the necrophilia word keeps popping into my head. And is there a category of humor called "Mortician Humor"? Do morticians play little subtle jokes on the grieving families to get around the boredom of their job? When they're getting the DD ready for "The Viewing", do they play with different expressions other than the "Mona Lisa" at peace expression? For example:
The Grimace - DD placed with his head slightly turned, lips together stretched disapprovingly in a straight line like he's just heard someone say something entirely inappropriate....
The Hearty Guffaw: DD laying with his head thrown back tilted slightly to the right, shoulders slightly raised, smiling mouth wide open in death defying laughter...
The Look of Surprise: DD laying with his eyes wide open, hands raised palms facing up, and his mouth shaped in an "O"...as in OMG you scared me..(please don't imagine a blow up doll here...that's an entirely different expression)...
The Look of Horror: DD laying on his side with his head turned slightly looking over his shoulder, eyes wide open like "The Look of Surprise"...only scared..mouth open in a silent shriek.. like he's trying to get away from whatever's in the casket with him...
The Look of Hmmmm: DD laying on his back head tilted slightly to the side, eyes open with a furrowed brow, index finger placed against his mouth...sort of a "How'd I get here?" look.
I bet morticians do stuff like this. I bet they put clown faces on them too when they're practicing the whole hair & makeup thing. I bet DD macho men occasionally end up looking like drag queens when morticians are bored. Can you imagine what would happen if they accidentally left the DD with the "Look of Surprise" on his face when the grieving family arrived? I know it's wrong on so many levels but I actually laugh at the thought of this. I digress....
"The Viewing" seemed kind of like a pre-funeral funeral...there was a "special room" with chairs lined in neat rows (no pews). It was a standing room only crowd so I was watching from outside in the hallway, but it seemed to me that people were just getting up willy nilly
Act II - The Actual Funeral:
This portion of the funeral starts with the Bishop (roughly the equivalent of Preacher/Pastor/Reverend for non Mormon denominations) thanking everyone for attending the DD's celebration of life...no longer is it a mourning of their passing...it's a "celebration" of life. Sort of odd to celebrate someones life when they can't be there to celebrate with you...just my opinion...and it hardly seems like a celebration without adult beverages...again, just my opinion. I think it would be more appropriately called a "remembrance"...just my opinion...for the last time...at least in this paragraph.
And why don't they ever say anyone "died"? Why do they always say passed on? Sometimes you'll hear people say "my cousin passed"...I know what they mean but it always makes me want to say "passed what?" I think you should just say "my cousin died"...again just my opinion.
After thanking us for our presence the Bishop asked us to sing a hymn. Now, having spent a good portion of my youth being forced to attend church, I've never been fond of hymns. (I hope this isn't some form of blasphemy.) I know this is going to make me sound totally racist, but white people have really boring church. If I ever decide to start going to church again, it's going to be a church with some spirit...and good gospel music. There are very few white people in the world who can sing gospel...just my opinion...but I'm right about this. If I have to listen to a bunch of old white people singing "Bringing in the Sheaves" one more time....I know I'm getting a little off track here and just to set the record straight, it was a different hymn.
Another prayer, followed by the death speech aka/Eulogy. This is where the designated non-clergy person talked about the DD...and talked...and talked...and talked...you get the idea. Now there were a few funny moments in the death speech but the problem was that there were too many long pauses. Again, I know it's wrong on so many levels to get impatient about this, but I did. Never mind that the death speech giver was a grieving family member...who was paying his last respects to his DD family member...who was probably fighting back tears...now I feel like pond scum for even admitting the fact that this made me impatient.
Following the singing and praying, it was time to go to the Catholic cemetery for interment. I whispered to my BB "Lets go say good by to DD's mom & sister & then we'll leave"...alas, a hasty exit was not in the cards for me. When we walked up to my brother to say our good byes, LB (Little Brother) says "Are you gonna ride over to the cemetery with me?" I looked at BB...trapped like a rat..."yeah, ok" I said with a fake smile pasted on my face. I'm such a wimp...
Act III - The Cemetery:
We made it to the mausoleum in one piece in spite of my LB's efforts to kill us. This was a Catholic ceremony and as such, there were definite rituals to be observed. It was uber formal...like all Catholic ceremonies. The first Catholic ceremony I went to was really interesting because I had no idea how they worked...I never knew that Catholic services had audience participation speaking parts other than Amen...who knew???? Live & learn... The mausoleum was made mostly of marble...marble floors, marble walls, marble crypts...and there was a bathroom right off the gathering area. It was one of those "handicapped" types for a single occupant. When you open the door, there was the toilet right in plain view of the funeral audience...which happened...while I was standing outside the door...and it was occupied and in use when the door was thrown open... The guy opening the door was as surprised as the guy using the toilet. And I started laughing...and I couldn't stop...and then I got nervous because I couldn't stop and that made me laugh more...I had the church giggles for the first time in my adult life in a church (okay it wasn't actually a church but it was close enough...and services were in progress...) Oh, I've had them in other places, but never in a church since I was a kid. Kind of brought back fond memories of my mom poking me in the ribs with her elbow for laughing during prayers.
After a little ritual and more prayers we stood & watched the casket being placed on a hydraulic lift and hoisted up third row from the top, into it's designated slot. My brother wanted to put a 49'er sticker on the casket to annoy the DD who was a die hard Rams fan, but he didn't get the chance. LB can be so inappropriate at time...we all laughed...to ourselves...inappropriateness must run in the family. People were starting to stare.
Finally it was over. I have to say during this final ritual, there were two women assisting the priest with his various rituals. One of them would describe for the audience members lacking in Catholic traditions, like myself, each phase of the ritual...both of these women were dressed in navy blue suits. Ill fitting navy blue suits...with white gloves...very unattractive...I wonder if it's a new nun costume?
Anyway, toward the end the one doing the ritual description asked the pallbearers, who were also wearing white gloves, to remove their gloves and "place them gently" on the casket. Was it really necessary to tell them to "place them gently"? Was she afraid one of the pallbearers would rip off his gloves, smack them down on the casket, and say "Later dude"?
That was the last "Act" of the funeral. Now we had to drive back to the Mormon church so we could all gather in fellowship...and eat...potluck style. My penchant for food kicked in and all thoughts of leaving early to head home vanished.
There was Mac & Cheese, sliced roast beef, ham, cheese, rolls, salads, little smokies in BBQ sauce, desserts, desserts, desserts...I did eat some of the other stuff before the desserts, but only because nobody else was taking desserts and I didn't want to be the only one gorging my fat face on the oh so bad for you but wonderful tasting sugary concoctions.
A word to the wise...always make sure your little smokies are heated...the little smokies in BBQ sauce hadn't been heated. I didn't know this until I popped one in my mouth...and was instantly disgusted...it was like a cold congealed wad of greasy goo in my mouth...I wanted to spit it out but didn't know if people would see me do it...so then I'm in a quandary...do I spit or swallow??? Hmmm...I'm probably not the only one who's ever faced this decision...it's the stoopidist thing.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The Tournament
Last weekend I went to a poker tournament at the B.I.L’s (brother in law) house. Usually I’m the only female who plays. This time I conned O.F. (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) into going. “It’ll be fun” I told her.. “for forty bucks you get to play and have pizza & beer and you might win some money”...she said she’d been “wanting to try new things” and “I like pizza & beer” so off we went...since I don’t like beer, I took a couple of Mikes Hard Lemonade’s (pomegranate flavor) so I’d have some adult beverages to drink.
When we got there, I opened one of the Mike’s and O.F. put the other one in the communal ice chest which held mass quantities of beer. After I drank the first one, I went to get the second and...it was gone...out of the corner of my eye, I saw the culprit...sitting at another table with my only other adult beverage in front of him. Now tell me, what kind of man drinks a pomegranate flavored sissy adult beverage in front of a bunch of men when there’s tons of beer available??? A girly man, that’s what kind. Asshole...I had to beg another adult beverage from my SIL (sister in law...who is a saint, by the way). I wouldn’t have minded if I’d brought a bunch of them, but I was in a hurry and didn’t have time to stop at the store...I know I’m being childish and petty now...and now I’m starting to be ashamed of myself for being so petty...but I really wanted that pomegranate lemonade...anyway...
There’s a usual cast of characters at these things and when I look at groups like this, myself included, we all look like a bunch of Far Side people. No shit.....sad but true. It’s mostly a bunch of gray haired, middle aged-to-old men wearing print, button down shirts, to cover the ever present paunch... with a few youngsters thrown in for good measure. My hair isn’t gray thanks to Crazy D the hair guy but I had the requisite over-blouse to cover my own muffin top...which is just the cutesy way of saying paunch...which is just another word for fat. We all had it...at least us oldsters did....
So yet another oldster problem...my complete lack of memory, is never more apparent than when I go to any kind of social function. I always, okay, nearly always, remember faces...but I never remember names. This isn’t usually a problem since I can say “hi, how’re ya doin’, long time no see...yadda, yadda...” You don’t have to remember names for that. The problem starts when I take someone like O.F. along who doesn’t know anyone...therefore, I’m forced to be polite and make the obligatory introductions. Here’s my brilliant way of dealing with the problem...say I’m introducing O.F. to Neighbor Bob... “Hey Neighbor Bob...this is O.F...O.F, Neighbor Bob” then, when they’re shaking hands or saying hello...I whisper conspiratorially in Neighbor Bob’s ear “that guy over there in the print shirt...I can’t remember his name...what is it?”...Neighbor Bob whispers back in the same conspiratory manner “that’s T shirt Bob” or “Mike”, or whatever...then I go to that guy and say “hey, Mike, this is O.F....O.F., Mike” and so on and so on...pretty soon I’ve introduced O.F. to everyone and everyone thinks I know their name...pretty brilliant shit, huh??? Sometimes I amaze myself.
It’s actually a really fun, goofy, group of guys, there’s the B.I.L. who had a stroke a couple of years ago and still has a little speech impediment which...makes him sound a little retarded (I know it’s a politically incorrect term...I don’t care)...he uses this to his advantage... on a regular basis. Neighbor Bob, aptly designated so as not to confuse him with the other Bob (T shirt Bob), and because he lives next door...Jeff,super nice guy, ex husband of the BIL’s ex wife...long story, he's on the short side, one of the few non-paunched he bears a striking resemblance to Droopy Dog...these guys are the regulars. Then there was another guy who I’ve seen before who I think was named Mike...I could be wrong about this...in fact I’m probably wrong...I probably just made the name up because it started with the letter “M” and he looked like Meatloaf...he really did...the singer, not the food. We were sitting at the table & I whispered to O.F. “Doesn’t that guy look like Meatloaf?” she started laughing...“Yes”. I think (actually, I know) I’ll call him Meatloaf from now on...the main thing about this guy though, was how fast he could suck down a beer. I couldn’t believe it. He’d open one and in an instant it was gone...like magic. Un-fucking-believable.
At the end of the table was one of the youngsters, a kid probably in his 30's...which really doesn’t make him a kid, now does it? But compared to me, he’s a kid. Anyway, this guy, (I’ll call him The Kid) is one of those types who’s the life of the party, loves being the center of attention, and probably is wherever he goes. Nice looking guy, laughing, singing, making jokes and being just generally entertaining. The Kid is the kind of guy that your daughter would want to marry and the type of guy that you would hope she wouldn’t marry. He’s the type of guy who ends up being sixty years old with a comb over, driving a red Corvette, wearing an open front shirt from which the gold chains around his neck peek out. The Kid lacks substance...something that ninety per cent of all young women would overlook....and ninety per cent of all old women wouldn’t live without. Things sure change when you get old, don’t they?
I always wonder about people like this. Are they really naturally this outgoing or do they behave like this because they’re insecure and need attention? I guess this is just one of life’s great mysteries. Okay, I know...it’s really not even close to being one of the great mysteries of life...just something stuck in my pea brain that I ponder occasionally.
As the game was coming to an end, O.F. and I were sitting there watching The Kid hold court (while he consumed numerous brewskies) at the end of the table when all of a sudden, he jumped up and announced to the table “I have to go make a pee pee”. Any trace of masculinity, real or imagined, vanished before my eyes...I looked at O.F. and said “did he just say he was going to make a pee pee?”
She was laughing and nodded her head...I think she mentally revoked his man card when she heard it too...it's the stoopidist thing.
When we got there, I opened one of the Mike’s and O.F. put the other one in the communal ice chest which held mass quantities of beer. After I drank the first one, I went to get the second and...it was gone...out of the corner of my eye, I saw the culprit...sitting at another table with my only other adult beverage in front of him. Now tell me, what kind of man drinks a pomegranate flavored sissy adult beverage in front of a bunch of men when there’s tons of beer available??? A girly man, that’s what kind. Asshole...I had to beg another adult beverage from my SIL (sister in law...who is a saint, by the way). I wouldn’t have minded if I’d brought a bunch of them, but I was in a hurry and didn’t have time to stop at the store...I know I’m being childish and petty now...and now I’m starting to be ashamed of myself for being so petty...but I really wanted that pomegranate lemonade...anyway...
There’s a usual cast of characters at these things and when I look at groups like this, myself included, we all look like a bunch of Far Side people. No shit.....sad but true. It’s mostly a bunch of gray haired, middle aged-to-old men wearing print, button down shirts, to cover the ever present paunch... with a few youngsters thrown in for good measure. My hair isn’t gray thanks to Crazy D the hair guy but I had the requisite over-blouse to cover my own muffin top...which is just the cutesy way of saying paunch...which is just another word for fat. We all had it...at least us oldsters did....
So yet another oldster problem...my complete lack of memory, is never more apparent than when I go to any kind of social function. I always, okay, nearly always, remember faces...but I never remember names. This isn’t usually a problem since I can say “hi, how’re ya doin’, long time no see...yadda, yadda...” You don’t have to remember names for that. The problem starts when I take someone like O.F. along who doesn’t know anyone...therefore, I’m forced to be polite and make the obligatory introductions. Here’s my brilliant way of dealing with the problem...say I’m introducing O.F. to Neighbor Bob... “Hey Neighbor Bob...this is O.F...O.F, Neighbor Bob” then, when they’re shaking hands or saying hello...I whisper conspiratorially in Neighbor Bob’s ear “that guy over there in the print shirt...I can’t remember his name...what is it?”...Neighbor Bob whispers back in the same conspiratory manner “that’s T shirt Bob” or “Mike”, or whatever...then I go to that guy and say “hey, Mike, this is O.F....O.F., Mike” and so on and so on...pretty soon I’ve introduced O.F. to everyone and everyone thinks I know their name...pretty brilliant shit, huh??? Sometimes I amaze myself.
It’s actually a really fun, goofy, group of guys, there’s the B.I.L. who had a stroke a couple of years ago and still has a little speech impediment which...makes him sound a little retarded (I know it’s a politically incorrect term...I don’t care)...he uses this to his advantage... on a regular basis. Neighbor Bob, aptly designated so as not to confuse him with the other Bob (T shirt Bob), and because he lives next door...Jeff,super nice guy, ex husband of the BIL’s ex wife...long story, he's on the short side, one of the few non-paunched he bears a striking resemblance to Droopy Dog...these guys are the regulars. Then there was another guy who I’ve seen before who I think was named Mike...I could be wrong about this...in fact I’m probably wrong...I probably just made the name up because it started with the letter “M” and he looked like Meatloaf...he really did...the singer, not the food. We were sitting at the table & I whispered to O.F. “Doesn’t that guy look like Meatloaf?” she started laughing...“Yes”. I think (actually, I know) I’ll call him Meatloaf from now on...the main thing about this guy though, was how fast he could suck down a beer. I couldn’t believe it. He’d open one and in an instant it was gone...like magic. Un-fucking-believable.
At the end of the table was one of the youngsters, a kid probably in his 30's...which really doesn’t make him a kid, now does it? But compared to me, he’s a kid. Anyway, this guy, (I’ll call him The Kid) is one of those types who’s the life of the party, loves being the center of attention, and probably is wherever he goes. Nice looking guy, laughing, singing, making jokes and being just generally entertaining. The Kid is the kind of guy that your daughter would want to marry and the type of guy that you would hope she wouldn’t marry. He’s the type of guy who ends up being sixty years old with a comb over, driving a red Corvette, wearing an open front shirt from which the gold chains around his neck peek out. The Kid lacks substance...something that ninety per cent of all young women would overlook....and ninety per cent of all old women wouldn’t live without. Things sure change when you get old, don’t they?
I always wonder about people like this. Are they really naturally this outgoing or do they behave like this because they’re insecure and need attention? I guess this is just one of life’s great mysteries. Okay, I know...it’s really not even close to being one of the great mysteries of life...just something stuck in my pea brain that I ponder occasionally.
As the game was coming to an end, O.F. and I were sitting there watching The Kid hold court (while he consumed numerous brewskies) at the end of the table when all of a sudden, he jumped up and announced to the table “I have to go make a pee pee”. Any trace of masculinity, real or imagined, vanished before my eyes...I looked at O.F. and said “did he just say he was going to make a pee pee?”
She was laughing and nodded her head...I think she mentally revoked his man card when she heard it too...it's the stoopidist thing.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Anniversary
Most women are sentimental about birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, Valentines Day (please note it's Valent-i-n-e-s...not Valent-i-m-e-s...hey, just sayin') and pretty much any other day they think should be celebrated as a "speshul occasion". I obviously was born without the "FCG" (Feminine Celebration Gene). Truth be told, I have no use for holidays...unless it happens to be one that's a paid day off work, but that kind of goes without saying...
Except Christmas. I love Christmas. I wish it were two weeks before Christmas all year long. People seem kinder, and more willing to help each other. If I were king, it would be two weeks before Christmas all the time....and in the Disney world where I want to live, this is how it would be.
See, the problem with not really caring about special occasions is that I tend to forget them...on a regular basis.
Like my anniversary...I forgot it...again...like I do every year...
One of the OC's (Old Chix) usually reminds me. I don't know how she remembers when I got married...but it's always been really helpful that she'd tell me before the actual date so I didn't look like a complete asshole and have to admit that I'd forgotten...yet again.
Yes, OC failed me this year. No last minute phone call...no email reminder...nada.
So yesterday (the forgotten anniversary date) I come home from work all fat, dumb, and happy, which admittedly is my usual state, hop on a horse & go for a little ride around the block, get home, feed the horses, grab the dogs dishes to feed them and while I'm outside, I hear the phone ring.
Still holding the dogs dishes I go inside in time to hear the answering machine pick up...it's The Husband (who is working out of town). Since I'm still holding the dogs dishes, I figure I'll just stand there and listen to him and call him back...then I hear the dreaded words...
Husband: "I just wanted to call & wish you a happy anniversary"
Me: (To myself) "Fuck, fuck, fuck"...
I drop the dogs dishes and grab the phone before he can hang up...and came up with the perfect line..
Me: "Ohhh..I thought you forgot..." In an "oh so happy you were thinking of me" voice.
How friggin' perfect was that????? Personally, I think it was a stupendously fabulous recovery...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. Gonna have to have a chat with OC for her failure to remind her fellow OC of important "speshul occasions".
Except Christmas. I love Christmas. I wish it were two weeks before Christmas all year long. People seem kinder, and more willing to help each other. If I were king, it would be two weeks before Christmas all the time....and in the Disney world where I want to live, this is how it would be.
See, the problem with not really caring about special occasions is that I tend to forget them...on a regular basis.
Like my anniversary...I forgot it...again...like I do every year...
One of the OC's (Old Chix) usually reminds me. I don't know how she remembers when I got married...but it's always been really helpful that she'd tell me before the actual date so I didn't look like a complete asshole and have to admit that I'd forgotten...yet again.
Yes, OC failed me this year. No last minute phone call...no email reminder...nada.
So yesterday (the forgotten anniversary date) I come home from work all fat, dumb, and happy, which admittedly is my usual state, hop on a horse & go for a little ride around the block, get home, feed the horses, grab the dogs dishes to feed them and while I'm outside, I hear the phone ring.
Still holding the dogs dishes I go inside in time to hear the answering machine pick up...it's The Husband (who is working out of town). Since I'm still holding the dogs dishes, I figure I'll just stand there and listen to him and call him back...then I hear the dreaded words...
Husband: "I just wanted to call & wish you a happy anniversary"
Me: (To myself) "Fuck, fuck, fuck"...
I drop the dogs dishes and grab the phone before he can hang up...and came up with the perfect line..
Me: "Ohhh..I thought you forgot..." In an "oh so happy you were thinking of me" voice.
How friggin' perfect was that????? Personally, I think it was a stupendously fabulous recovery...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. Gonna have to have a chat with OC for her failure to remind her fellow OC of important "speshul occasions".
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