Old Chix

Sunday was Old Chix get together...which means eating and drinking and eating, and eating..

The crowd was the usuals, C, M, P, me, and...drum roll...favorite Old Chix alumni, L, who has no secrets and has never met a stranger.

We talked about the usual stuff old wimmen talk about. Hairy chins, fat stomachs, shrinking lips, hot flashes, the fact that wimmen worldwide think there is only one place to poop and that is in the privacy of their own home, spouses and/or significant others.

L is in BIG LOVE after having finally dumped a husband of decades who treated her like the proverbial fecal matter. We now know more about this man than any person who has never been intimate with him should know. We know too much...way too much. We also know too much about the new love...again, way too much. It was hilarious.

And the best part...I avoided washing the weenie (we're talking horse weenies here). Yes, after having over imbibed (at least food wise) I didn't make it to the barn to complete the dreaded task. Darn. I was so looking forward to it too (NOT).

This is why I didn't make it.

What I ate...Round 1
(and drank)

Champagne

Cheesy eggs
Bacon
Home Fries (I keep hoping they'll be good...they weren't)
Tri Tip
Ham
Fried Chicken
Mashed Potatoes and Gravy

and.....Diet Pepsi

2nd Round

Bacon
Cheesy Eggs
Mashed Potatoes and Gravy

Apple Pie
and finally

Rocky Road Pie

The deserts are never as good as they look at those buffets, are they? Or is it just me?

As I sit here with my top button undone to avoid cutting off the circulation in my lower extremities, I no longer wonder why I'm fat. Apparently washing everything down with Diet Pepsi fails to negate previous calories consumed in mass quantities.

Who knew?

Probably everyone but me...it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S.
In the Disney world where I want to live, the process would be completely different. Mass quantities of calories could be consumed as much as your little heart desired with no ill effect or added girth. Chocolate milkshakes would be the beverage of choice with every meal. And old wimmen would never have gray hair, wrinkles, and pimples at the same time. (I have some serious complaining to do about this when I get to Heaven)

The Husband

My husband, bless his heart, (I was told you can say pretty much anything about someone as long as you say "bless his/her heart"...kind of negates anything bad you say about a person) doesn't really pay attention to what I say. He hears what he wants to hear, not what I'm actually saying.

I have a coat rack hanging on the wall. It's one of the few things my mother gave me that's actually useful. Not the most attractive, but useful...it's made from half a wagon wheel with half a dozen hooks hanging along the bottom...she loved that "shabby chic" stuff.

Within the last week or so, two of the hooks broke. Apparently they weren't designed to hold five or six jackets each...they just don't make stuff like they used to. Truth be told, I had the jackets piled so high you could barely fit through the hallway without knocking one or two off every time you walked by.

So I'm standing in front of the bedroom door, folding clothes, and I ask my husband to get some hooks next time he goes to Home Depot.

My husband loves Home Depot..

And Lowes...

Our conversation goes like this...

Me: "Hey, next time you go to Home Depot, can you get some hooks for the coat rack?"

Husband: "Hooks?"

Me: "Yeah, hooks."

Husband: "Hooks?" (Accompanied by a stoopid look)

Me: "Yes...hooks"

Husband: "Hooks?" (Accompanied by an even stoopider look)

Me: (Now mildly annoyed) "Hooks for the coat rack."

Husband: "Hooks?" (Completely befuddled but catching on that he's annoying me)

Me: (Now more than mildly annoyed) "The hooks on the coat rack broke..we need some new ones."

Husband: (Who has finally realized he doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about and doesn't want to say "hooks" again, starts laughing when I stomp over and lift the remaining coats off one of the broken hooks so he can have a visual aid to relate to the word "hook") "Well if you didn't hang twenty coats on one hook, they probably wouldn't break."

By this time we're both laughing...

Sometimes The Husband is the stoopidst thing...bless his heart.

Washing the Weenie

Sounds fun, right??? Wrong. We're talking equine peni here (I've decided to make that the plural for penis...it's probably wrong, but I like it). Male horses get a nasty build up of a substance referred to by professional sorts as "smegma". Being a non professional, I like to refer to it as the boy's "gunk in his junk". A little crass, I know, but the description...fits.

Before starting, make sure there's no one with a camera withing 50 feet of your location. You want no photographic evidence of this event to haunt you in the days to come. And it will. (or the Scottish version...it wull...think Braveheart) It'll be like those pseudo Visa emails with the poor girl all dressed up at a party...

Designer Dress...$1000
Jimmy Choo Heels....$500
Duct tape holding your boobs...priceless

Your version will be...

Fancy Barn and Wash Rack $30,000
Fancy "Registered" Gelding $5,000
Photo of "Fancy Registered Gelding's Owner" holding said geldings dick in her hands looking like she's jacking him off...priceless. Your face will be out in Internet land...eternally.

Trust me...it will happen.

When I was a kid, nobody ever told me you were supposed to do this. I had horses and never once did anyone say...make sure you wash your horse's wiener...or pee pee...it never would have been...penis...

not in those days...

those were the days when your mom had "the talk" with you about being a woman...

which my mom didn't...

which is probably why I ended up pregnant when I was sixteen...

I digress..

Had anyone told me about this delightful chore, I probably never in my life would have owned a gelding. Now, as an adult, I've been given a gelding who needs to have the gunk in his junk removed. Regularly.

Today's the day...I'm armed with Excalibur (a horse sheath cleaning product that's probably just KY jelley with a fancy name and the price jacked up...poor choice of words considering the task at hand) and a hose with hot & cold running water.

But first...this morning is champagne brunch with the Old Chix!!!

Then sheath cleaning.

This is what I have to look forward to today...it's the stoopidist thing.

Groomer Infidelity

Like all women of a certain age who refuse to let their hair go "au naturale", I'm forced to visit the hair salon every three weeks to have touch ups on my roots. If not, I turn into Skunk Woman. The roots are blindingly white against my formerly natural reddish brown hair. My hair guy, Crazy D, (who's really not crazy...I just like to call him that because there are some who think he is) says I could wait longer between visits but when I look in the mirror, all I see is white where ever my hair parts. I wanted to go every two weeks but Crazy D refused to do it. He said there wasn't enough outgrowth (even though I see miles) and he was afraid it would do damage or some such nonsense. To me this speaks volumes about his character and ethics. After all, it would be way more financially beneficial to him if I went every two weeks.

So anyway, D has a new salon. Really nice place in a recently remodeled building with two other stores. One is still empty, and the other is a dog grooming shop.

Since gaining my inheritance....aka/Jasper.....aka/The Money Pit...aka/Little Cyclops...(as noted in a previous blog)  I've been forced to use the services of a dog groomer.  Originally I was taking the little guy to the same groomer he started with. The same groomer who made fun of me (rightly so) when I tried to clip him myself. I thought for convenience sake, I could take him to get his hair groomed right next door to my hair guy. We could both get our hair done at the same time. Great idea, right?? The guilt starts as soon as I make the first appointment. I'm being disloyal.

The new place is really big and nice, and doesn't smell like wet dog. There're really big kennels for the dogs to wait after they're done being prettied up. I try to make myself feel less guilty by telling myself it's better for the dog...I still feel guilty.

Anyway, I drop Jasper off at the new place, and go next door to get my roots colored. Both appointments usually take a couple of hours. I'm sitting there gabbing with Crazy D, and the other lady who rents a booth from him. She's new and I don't really know her but she seems nice enough. I always have a good time at D's. Not this time. After about half the color is applied to my head, in walks the old dog groomer with all three of her kids. The new lady is old groomer's hairstylist and she's here for haircut for the family. The ground didn't open up and swallow me and swallow me whole  so I guess God didn't hear my prayers...or the answer was no...either way, I was so fucked...and totally sure I was being punished for being disloyal..

Sweat pours off of me under the plastic drape and I go instantly from laughing & joking to being weirdly silent. My happy switch has been turned off and I've turned into a paranoid freak on the verge of throwing up. I just know D is going to unknowingly spill the beans about my groomer infidelity. He doesn't know that this new customer is my old groomer & I'm terrified he's gonna let the cat out of the proverbial bag. To his credit, I think he put two & two together when she told the story of my inept clipping job... to which I manage a weak laugh agreeing that I was, indeed, stoopid to do it. Please God, I'm prayin', get me out of here. Again...no response. Maybe it would've helped if I'd gotten down on my knees, but at the time it seemed like that would only draw questions from the other people in the shop. It was the longest hair appointment of my life.

When it's finally over I manage stilted, barely audible good byes and practically run out the door. The three shops share a communal parking lot which all windows face. I find out, while calling from said parking lot...in the safety of my car, that Jasper isn't quite ready. So I drive out and decide to go to the grocery store to waste some time. Food is my comfort...it's also the reason my jeans are too tight...kind of a trade off.

Strolling the grocery isles I have a brief, albeit rare, flash of brilliance. I'll use the old entrance off the back street to get my dog. No one will see me. I feel physical relief when I think of this.. Duh, why didn't I think of this earlier instead of acting like a trapped rat??? After buying chips (Lays), chocolate (Dove), and Diet Pepsi to wash everything down with, I leave the comfort of the grocery store, drive down the side street and park in front of the building...and there I find a giant sign on the door that says "No Entrance"...and it's so far away from the other side of the building that even if I knock, there's no way anyone's going to hear me over all the fans, blow dryers, and barking dogs.

My mouth starts fill with saliva, like it does just before you barf...great, I think.. I'm gonna throw up, I know it. I tried to sneak around the side of the building on foot but there was a fence around the parking lot...and no gate. WTF???? How come there's never a fucking' building code when you need one? If it was me building a fence, I know there'd be some stoopid building code requiring a gate every ten feet. Or some equally idiotic and arbitrary rule requiring the fence be climbable so people wouldn't hurt themselves trying to break in. This was a wrought iron fence...with pointy things on top. Given my age and level of un-physical fitness, it was non-climbable.

So now it's time to put on the big girl panties, suck it up, and drive back into the parking lot. Act like an adult. I manage to disguise myself by resting my elbow on the door and shielding my face from the sun with my hand. I'm sure nobody recognized me. I get out of my car and make my way into the groomers shop boldly walking to the central staircase connecting the three shops looking down nonchalantly the entire way while digging frantically in my purse for absolutely nothing. Aside from the hyperventilating and sweat covering my upper lip, I'm sure I looked perfectly normal.

Really.

The groomer, a young gay kid whose name I don't even know gasps in horror when I tell him my woeful tale of groomer infidelity. I don't even know this poor kid and here I am babbling like an idiot to him. I wonder what he thought? He actually gasped in horror, literally, the way you'd imagine only a gay guy could...complete with his hand over his mouth, eyes bugging out..I nearly laughed out loud...it was almost worth the whole adventure.

The last and most ridiculous thing I did. I kid not. I tried to hide the dog under my shirt when I left and walked down to my car. Now, even for a small dog, he's way too big to fit under my shirt as evidenced by the fact that his feet and tail were sticking out. The only part I was able to cover was his head and neck. Why would I even attempt that?

Why am I such a weenie about this stuff? Why can't I change groomer's if I want to? It's my money, isn't it? So why do I feel guilty and disloyal?

God forbid I ever think I need a new hair stylist. I'd feel so disloyal I'd have to move to another town just to avoid running into him, otherwise I'd be living in a constant state of paranoia. I'm actually starting to feel ill just thinking about it... it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S. I wonder what the dog thought when I shoved him under my shirt?

Stoopid Thing I Did

I did this years ago, proving that not only am I stoopid now, I've always been stoopid.

Once upon a time, I had a little VW Bug. It was a fun car to drive and cheap on gas. Anyway, I stop at the local mini mart to get gas. Park the car at the pump and go in to pay for my gas (this was pre-ATM, pay at the pump days...many moons ago...). So, I go be boppin' in to the store, all fat, dumb and happy, give the clerk my money, walk back out to my car and stand there for a while waiting for the tank to fill up.

Finally done. I put the pump handle back and get into the bug...still all fat, dumb, and happy, look down and see that I forgot to zip my pants up and the tail of my bright turquoise blue, tucked in shirt is sticking out of my fly for all the world to see (I should note here that this was a brief time in my life when I was able to wear a shirt tucked into my pants...pre muffin top days so to speak).

I'm sure everyone was pointing and laughing....hell, I had to laugh. Here I was thinkin' I'm Joe Cool and all the while, I'm just a huge goober.

Looking back, it's painfully obvious that I've never been cool....it's the stoopidist thing.

One Eyed Jasper

A few weeks ago I came home right before dark. All the dogs, Jasper, Roxie, and Briley, who's quickly becoming renamed the Cartoon Dog, run to greet me. They're always overjoyed to see me. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside when I think about it. Then I feel guilty when I get annoyed because they're in my way...

The Cartoon Dog is hopping up and down in front of me, I swear she's got springs in her legs and every jump seems to say "Hi, Hi, I'm so glad you're home!!! I can't control myself I'm so happy to see you! That's why I'm jumping all over trying to get your attention!" I feel guilty for all the times I spoke crossly, scolding her to get down and vow to be more patient in the future. I know I'll fail miserably sometimes...but I'll keep trying.

Roxie is the Princess.,,she's the most polite and well mannered dog anyone could want. Roxie plays with the Cartoon Dog. She's exceedingly patient with her, shaming me for my impatience. Occasionally the Cartoon Dog will overstep her bounds and Roxie'll pin her down & show her, quite literally, who the top dog is.

Then there's Jasper, the former inside boy who's now an outside dog. Jasper hates the Cartoon Dog. She tries to play with him but he wants no part of her. When he tries to nip her she just laughs at him and runs off, racing in circles around him. Jasper loves it when Roxie pins the Cartoon Dog down...he rushes over and acts like he's part of the top dog action.

Anyway, it's almost dark and the dogs are outside the car door, blocking my way into the house, as usual. The Cartoon Dog sniffs Jasper and he snaps at her. It's a strange sounding snap and I notice the difference. The Cartoon Dog notices it too and backs off. But, I'm in a hurry, also as usual,and go into the house to get their dinner ready. After eating, everyone canine comes in and sacks out on their respective beds in the living room. All's right with the world, or so I thought.

Next day I get home and the scene repeats itself, including Jasper snapping at the Cartoon Dog. This time when he snaps at her I see a flash of red underneath the bangs hanging over his eyes. So now I'm thinking, great, he's cut his eye, wondering how much this is going to cost me. So I run in and put my ice cream in the freezer, come back call him over which immediately causes the Cartoon Dog to rush over, because heaven forbid another should get attention without her getting her fair share. I'm holding the Cartoon Dog at bay with my left hand and lift up Jasper's bangs to see how bad the cut is and there under the hair is his eyeball hanging out of the socket...

Talk about gruesome scenes. It was like a horror comedy movie. I couldn't fucking believe it. Here's this poor little dog running all over the property, acting like nothing's wrong...with his eyeball hanging out. I wondered briefly, between shudders, if he could still see out of it.

(I realize that's wrong on so many levels. But if you stop and think about it, if it still worked, he could see what's behind him while he's running, or...  I'll stop now., but the possibilities are endless.)

Of course these things never happen during normal business hours, when my vet is in the office but fortunately there's a 24 hr. vet in a nearby city. So, I call and tell them I'm on the way. After a brief, but inevitable, wait in the lobby, we're escorted to the exam room.

The tech on duty seems nice and asks me when I discovered the eyeball hanging out. I must have made some sort of disbelieving noise and/or looked at her like she was crazy because she hurriedly said "Well, we have to ask".  So I told her that I'd discovered it a couple of weeks ago but decided to wait to see if the eyeball would pop back up and re-insert itself into the socket...kinda like those toys kids play with. You know, the handle with a cup shape on top attached to a ball on a string. Swing the ball up and try to land it in the cup. Fortunately she laughed...then I told the truth, that I had seen it right before I called their office. No way the eye was going to be saved.

Jasper spent the night at the hospital and came home the next day with a cone around his neck to keep him from scratching his empty eyeless socket and ripping the stitches out. The cone lasted over a week before he managed to get it off. The Cartoon Dog immediately chewed it into little bits. Jasper doesn't feel the least bit sorry for himself and doesn't even seem to notice he only has one eye. Life goes on.

Dogs are so much cooler that we are. I would have felt soooo sorry for myself if I'd lost an eye...it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S. I'm thinking of changing his name to Little Cyclops.

Bumper Sticker

I followed a truck that had a bumper sticker which read "Everything is sacred. You make a difference."

Really? Everything sacred??? I don't think so. I think there's plenty of things that aren't sacred. Take cat shit, for instance. What in the world is sacred about cat shit? Nothing that I can think of, that's for sure. I mean, maybe somewhere in a far away country, long, long ago, people may have worshiped cats, thus making everything about them worthy of worship, including their excrement. But now? I'm thinkin' no.

You know, I think a potato peeler is a really handy little gadget, and hat's off to who ever invented it. But sacred??? Mmm, I don't think so.

If everything is sacred what's left to be un-sacred? How can you define a sacred thing if you don't have an un-sacred thing to differentiate it from? Doesn't there have to be a balance? A Yin & Yang???

I'm sure there's probably some philosophical thing I'm missing here...it's the stoopidist thing.