I'd like to start by saying I have never intentionally farted in front of another human being in my adult life. Sure when I was a kid I would do it and laugh hysterically when my mom looked horrified at me, wondering what kind of a daughter she was raising...one who didn't like dolls and was way more content being a tomboy. She obviously made an impression on me that farts are a private bodily function that should never be shared with family or friends.
In our family the term for a fart was a "boom". The question "did you boom?" would always be followed by someone laughing or at least snickering. When my mom was growing up she said they had to call them "fluffies" at her house. I don't know which is worse, boom or fluffy. I always thought it would be funny to have a friend at the dinner table and casually ask them "did you boom?" just to see what my family's reaction would be. I actually regret not ever doing that. It would have been really funny.
So yesterday I was talking to a friend, I'll call her "C". To be totally accurate, we weren't actually talking, we were emailing back & forth. C is my age so naturally we were talking about aches and pains like all old wimmen do. Very pathetic, I know, but we can't help it. C also happens to be the only other person I've ever met who grew up eating peanut butter, lettuce, & mayonnaise sandwiches, which sadly for her, makes her nearly as weird as me.
We were talking about a certain pain we both have in our hips and she was telling me about some kind of move the chiropractor performed. I jokingly asked if this was one of those "pull my finger" kind of moves that people are so fond of (mostly men). I could just picture her sitting there laughing at the thought of me trying to get someone to do this miraculous "move" on me and me farting in the process and being totally embarrassed. What...does she think I'm stoopid??? I'm not falling for that old "miraculous move" stuff.
So even though I've never intentionally farted in front of other people, there was a time....
I was in WalMart where I went specifically to get Hebrew National Hot Dogs because they were cheaper than at the grocery store. Of course I had other things to get so I got all the other stuff and went to the refrigerator section last...perishable items, you know.
Finally I'm done & head to the refrigerator section. When I turn around the corner, there's a kid standing in front of the hot dog section and giving me a really weird look. I call him a kid, but he was probably in his late teens, early twenties...a kid to me. So anyway I'm thinkin' he's some kind of nut the way he's looking at me and all of a sudden he walks away from me toward the other end of the isle, really fast.
When I reach his spot I become enveloped in a huge cloud of fart stink. OMG it was soooo bad. Now I know why he was giving me such a weird look. I interrupted his private farting session. I almost started laughing...yes, even through the putrid stench, I still thought it was funny. As I reach in to get my hot dogs, around the same corner from whence I came, comes a mother and her two little kids. Now I feel like I've just been caught farting because the original Fart Boy is long gone but the stench remains...and I'm right in the middle of it. I know Soccer Mom thinks I did it. Now I'm in a quandary...do I acknowledge the stench and try to explain it wasn't me but the already disappeared Fart Boy? I know she wouldn't believe me. I probably had the same look on my face that Fart Boy had on his when I interrupted him. Kindly, she didn't acknowledge the smell. The only thing that would have made it more perfect is if one of her kids had said something. You know she would have been trying to shush them up so I wouldn't be embarrassed by the fact that (she thought) I had been caught sneaking a fart.
I now think of this every time I see Hebrew National Hot Dogs and have come to accept the fact that I'm obviously never going to outgrow the immaturity of thinking farts are funny...it's the stoopidist thing.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Fat Arms
I was forced to shop for a dress last weekend because I had to go to a funeral. It's so rare for me to dress up that when I do, I'm forced to shop for new clothes since the ones in my closet are seriously out of style. Now you're probably thinkin'...why doesn't she just get herself one simple little black dress that won't go out of style??? What is she? Stoopid? As a matter of fact, I am and well...duh...I've tried that. And guess what??? Apparently when you add on the tonnage it doesn't just go to the thighs and butt. Who knew? I mean, I realize that now I have a fat stomach, but I thought it, along with every lump and bulge, could be covered by a dress and all would be right with the world. I was wrong. Not only can the lower extremities no longer be covered by the old clothes, now the upper extremities are full of flabby flesh too!
Until this weekend...I had no idea my arms were so fat. Okay, maybe I had a little idea, but seriously...WTF??? How do you get fat on your arms? And flab? And how can they be fat and flabby at the same time? I mean if you go from fat to thin I can see where there'd be flab (as in loose skin & no muscle tone), but going from fairly fit to fat why is there flab? We're talking major jiggly here. Apparently I wasn't as fairly fit as I fought (please note that was an intentional error...I kinda got caught up in the whole "f" thing...I was hearing Fudian...as in Elmer...I know I'm weird but I can't help it).
When I have to shop for something, I usually do it alone. I'm not out to socialize. Shopping has never been a "social" thing for me...
except shopping for plants...
I could happily do that all day.
Shopping for clothes, on the other hand, is painful. Clothes only seem to look good on hangers, mannequins, or thin women...none of which describe me...at all. As always, I head for the dark (preferably black) dresses. Someone either told me or I read that black makes you look slimmer. I don't know if it's really true or not. It probably just draws less attention than some brightly flowered number will so people don't notice you...and if they don't notice you, they don't notice how fat you've become...just a theory. Since I now have fat arms, sleeveless options are out unless I can find a jacket or sweater to cover the blubber that hovers between my shoulders and elbows. The quest begins.
I grab two black dresses and head for the dressing room. As always, I'm sidetracked by other things. This time it's capri's...
which are on sale...
which I don't need...
which I grab anyway. Off I go...
Let me tell you, there are few things more brutal in life than a dressing room mirror...on a wall...in a room bathed in fluorescent light. Why do they insist on that type of lighting? I know it's cheaper, but wouldn't they sell more clothes if people could see themselves in a more flattering light? Like candlelight? It's much more flattering. Or is it just that it's dark and you can't really see things as well? I dunno...I, for one, think it should be mandatory in all dressing rooms.
It was torture. Oh sure, they say water boarding's bad (not really torture though...government says so), and I'm sure ripping someones teeth out with a pair of pliers is no fun (torture...by any ones definition...unless it's done humanely through the marvels of modern dentistry), but seriously...I'm thinkin' I'd at least try the water boarding, just to see if it was as bad as everyone says and in any case, I'm sure my psyche was damaged beyond repair this weekend.
Unfortunately I wasn't blinded by the pasty whiteness of overabundant flesh looking back at me from the mirror. There I was standing there in my Hanes Boxer Briefs...
which I love...
which they quit making...
which I can't even find on eBay...
and my Sassybax bra...(which is probably the most unattractive brassiere made and also the most comfortable I've ever worn).
It was horrible...it was a painful...and I willingly subjected myself to it. Well, actually I wasn't totally willing...if you get right down to it I was kind of forced and left with no other options. And if I'm being totally honest, I have to admit I always wait until the very last minute to begin this type of endeavor...every time...and end up feeling rushed and stressed...I am, without a doubt, the Queen of Procrastination.
I ended up buying a black button up shirt dress only because it fit and I was sick of trying on dresses (all two of 'em) in the torture chamber (aka/dressing room). Next I'm off to find a pair of plain black heels...that I can keep forever in my closet for all occasions. Easy peasy, right??? Wrong!!! The only plain black shoes I could find all had ten inch heels.
I know I may be stoopid, okay...no maybe about it, but I do have a sense of self preservation that screamed at me from my innards when I looked at those heels. (That's kind of a white trash word, isn't it? Innards..it's what you'd pull out of a chicken being plucked.) Forget the fact that I'd be walking on tippy toes all day...I know I'd end up with foot cramps. You know, the kind that start painfully in the bottom of your arch, work their way around to the top, and make your toes turn into misshapen claws? I get them all the time...very annoying...and painful...and they always seem to strike at the most inopportune moments, don't they? Of course I guess when you stop and think about it, is there ever really an "opportune" moment for a foot cramp??? I mean really? I've never heard anyone say "Oh man, I wish my foot would freeze into one of those weird shapes right now" or anything remotely close to that...ever.
On a side note, as I'm sitting her typing, Avatar is playing on one of the movie channels in the background. I liked it, but doesn't it just seem like Dances With Wolves in space? Why does my mind wander like this? Will I ever learn to focus?
So my quest for funeral attire now leads me to the mall in search of plain black heels. Once inside and in the middle, I'm immediately accosted by a dark complected young man with an accent who wants to sell me some type of heated hair appliance...blow dryer or flat iron I think...but.. all I can see are his perfectly drawn on eyebrows. In my heart of hearts, I know he's used one of those eyebrow templates to gain such perfect eyebrow symmetry. I manage, quite successfully, not to laugh as he begins his spiel and actually manage to cut him off mid sentence by...
holding my hand up toward his mouth...
tilting my head slightly down and to the side...
and, saying in my sternest motherly tone "I'm sorry but I really don't have time for this...I'm on a mission to get shoes to wear to a funeral".
It totally worked! Eyebrow Boy actually pointed me to the shoe store nearest his little kiosk (which I had just walked past because it's the most expensive store in the mall).
"They have very good high quality shoes" says my new found salesman friend with drawn on eyebrows in his accented voice as he points to the high dollar store "you should go there".
So what do I do? I go to the high dollar store. I now feel somehow obligated to Eyebrow Boy since he stopped his sales pitch mid sentence and offered me help. The blow dryer or flat iron would have been cheaper. I leave the high dollar store with a pair of high dollar shoes. I know they're not Jimmy Choo's, but for me, it was tough, especially since I know that after I wear them once they're destined to sit unused in my closet.
So I spent the better part of a day on my quest for a dress. As it turns out, the dress and shoes didn't look good together. The shoes are kind of Mary Jane's with heels. I figured I'd just live with it. The funeral was out of town so the next morning I drove with a friend for hours...and hours...and hours...
When we get to the hotel, I remember I don't have a toothbrush. I actually knew this & had planned to stop & buy one, but as usual, I forgot. (Menopausal...no memory) So my friend & I run over to Tar-Jay so I can grab a toothbrush.
I walk into Tar-Jay and there hanging on a rack is a sleeveless black dress. On the rack next to it is a white sweater like thing with 3/4 length sleeves that's kind of drapey and a perfect cover for fat arms. (Is drapey really a word???) So in about 5 minutes I have a new funeral outfit that was way better looking than the original. No fuss, no muss, no stress...
I'd like to return the original dress and recoup a few $$$ but as usual, I can't find the receipt. Why??? Because I threw it away of course...Why? Who the fuck knows????? It's the stoopidist thing.
Until this weekend...I had no idea my arms were so fat. Okay, maybe I had a little idea, but seriously...WTF??? How do you get fat on your arms? And flab? And how can they be fat and flabby at the same time? I mean if you go from fat to thin I can see where there'd be flab (as in loose skin & no muscle tone), but going from fairly fit to fat why is there flab? We're talking major jiggly here. Apparently I wasn't as fairly fit as I fought (please note that was an intentional error...I kinda got caught up in the whole "f" thing...I was hearing Fudian...as in Elmer...I know I'm weird but I can't help it).
When I have to shop for something, I usually do it alone. I'm not out to socialize. Shopping has never been a "social" thing for me...
except shopping for plants...
I could happily do that all day.
Shopping for clothes, on the other hand, is painful. Clothes only seem to look good on hangers, mannequins, or thin women...none of which describe me...at all. As always, I head for the dark (preferably black) dresses. Someone either told me or I read that black makes you look slimmer. I don't know if it's really true or not. It probably just draws less attention than some brightly flowered number will so people don't notice you...and if they don't notice you, they don't notice how fat you've become...just a theory. Since I now have fat arms, sleeveless options are out unless I can find a jacket or sweater to cover the blubber that hovers between my shoulders and elbows. The quest begins.
I grab two black dresses and head for the dressing room. As always, I'm sidetracked by other things. This time it's capri's...
which are on sale...
which I don't need...
which I grab anyway. Off I go...
Let me tell you, there are few things more brutal in life than a dressing room mirror...on a wall...in a room bathed in fluorescent light. Why do they insist on that type of lighting? I know it's cheaper, but wouldn't they sell more clothes if people could see themselves in a more flattering light? Like candlelight? It's much more flattering. Or is it just that it's dark and you can't really see things as well? I dunno...I, for one, think it should be mandatory in all dressing rooms.
It was torture. Oh sure, they say water boarding's bad (not really torture though...government says so), and I'm sure ripping someones teeth out with a pair of pliers is no fun (torture...by any ones definition...unless it's done humanely through the marvels of modern dentistry), but seriously...I'm thinkin' I'd at least try the water boarding, just to see if it was as bad as everyone says and in any case, I'm sure my psyche was damaged beyond repair this weekend.
Unfortunately I wasn't blinded by the pasty whiteness of overabundant flesh looking back at me from the mirror. There I was standing there in my Hanes Boxer Briefs...
which I love...
which they quit making...
which I can't even find on eBay...
and my Sassybax bra...(which is probably the most unattractive brassiere made and also the most comfortable I've ever worn).
It was horrible...it was a painful...and I willingly subjected myself to it. Well, actually I wasn't totally willing...if you get right down to it I was kind of forced and left with no other options. And if I'm being totally honest, I have to admit I always wait until the very last minute to begin this type of endeavor...every time...and end up feeling rushed and stressed...I am, without a doubt, the Queen of Procrastination.
I ended up buying a black button up shirt dress only because it fit and I was sick of trying on dresses (all two of 'em) in the torture chamber (aka/dressing room). Next I'm off to find a pair of plain black heels...that I can keep forever in my closet for all occasions. Easy peasy, right??? Wrong!!! The only plain black shoes I could find all had ten inch heels.
I know I may be stoopid, okay...no maybe about it, but I do have a sense of self preservation that screamed at me from my innards when I looked at those heels. (That's kind of a white trash word, isn't it? Innards..it's what you'd pull out of a chicken being plucked.) Forget the fact that I'd be walking on tippy toes all day...I know I'd end up with foot cramps. You know, the kind that start painfully in the bottom of your arch, work their way around to the top, and make your toes turn into misshapen claws? I get them all the time...very annoying...and painful...and they always seem to strike at the most inopportune moments, don't they? Of course I guess when you stop and think about it, is there ever really an "opportune" moment for a foot cramp??? I mean really? I've never heard anyone say "Oh man, I wish my foot would freeze into one of those weird shapes right now" or anything remotely close to that...ever.
On a side note, as I'm sitting her typing, Avatar is playing on one of the movie channels in the background. I liked it, but doesn't it just seem like Dances With Wolves in space? Why does my mind wander like this? Will I ever learn to focus?
So my quest for funeral attire now leads me to the mall in search of plain black heels. Once inside and in the middle, I'm immediately accosted by a dark complected young man with an accent who wants to sell me some type of heated hair appliance...blow dryer or flat iron I think...but.. all I can see are his perfectly drawn on eyebrows. In my heart of hearts, I know he's used one of those eyebrow templates to gain such perfect eyebrow symmetry. I manage, quite successfully, not to laugh as he begins his spiel and actually manage to cut him off mid sentence by...
holding my hand up toward his mouth...
tilting my head slightly down and to the side...
and, saying in my sternest motherly tone "I'm sorry but I really don't have time for this...I'm on a mission to get shoes to wear to a funeral".
It totally worked! Eyebrow Boy actually pointed me to the shoe store nearest his little kiosk (which I had just walked past because it's the most expensive store in the mall).
"They have very good high quality shoes" says my new found salesman friend with drawn on eyebrows in his accented voice as he points to the high dollar store "you should go there".
So what do I do? I go to the high dollar store. I now feel somehow obligated to Eyebrow Boy since he stopped his sales pitch mid sentence and offered me help. The blow dryer or flat iron would have been cheaper. I leave the high dollar store with a pair of high dollar shoes. I know they're not Jimmy Choo's, but for me, it was tough, especially since I know that after I wear them once they're destined to sit unused in my closet.
So I spent the better part of a day on my quest for a dress. As it turns out, the dress and shoes didn't look good together. The shoes are kind of Mary Jane's with heels. I figured I'd just live with it. The funeral was out of town so the next morning I drove with a friend for hours...and hours...and hours...
When we get to the hotel, I remember I don't have a toothbrush. I actually knew this & had planned to stop & buy one, but as usual, I forgot. (Menopausal...no memory) So my friend & I run over to Tar-Jay so I can grab a toothbrush.
I walk into Tar-Jay and there hanging on a rack is a sleeveless black dress. On the rack next to it is a white sweater like thing with 3/4 length sleeves that's kind of drapey and a perfect cover for fat arms. (Is drapey really a word???) So in about 5 minutes I have a new funeral outfit that was way better looking than the original. No fuss, no muss, no stress...
I'd like to return the original dress and recoup a few $$$ but as usual, I can't find the receipt. Why??? Because I threw it away of course...Why? Who the fuck knows????? It's the stoopidist thing.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Equestrian Event
I went to watch a famous horse guy last Saturday & Sunday. I was going to refer to him as FHG (famous horse guy) but then I thought it sounded too much like fag, which would be politically incorrect and since I'm trying to be more politically correct, I decided against it. Then I thought about it a little more and decided I liked it...and... since he's from Australia, I could actually call him FAG (famous Australian guy). I think it's way more fun to legitimately be able to call him FAG...adds a nice little touch I think...and...fuck political correctness anyway...at least for today.
Anyway, the FAG from Downunder draws really big crowds. As with all these horsey clinicians, the FAG's audience is made up primarily of women. All ages of women who come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. We women l-o-v-e our horses...I would have put a little heart sign, you know "I -heart-my horse...but I was afraid I'd barf all over from the icky sweetness of it all...plus, I don't know how to do it...I acknowledge the fact that I am a Luddite and have learned to embrace it...happily.
The FAG put on a two day clinic designed to gain more followers. He, and every clinician like him, are sort of like Pied Pipers of horse training, leading us down the road playing their little horsey songs while we happily follow along like a bunch of little money spending rats. The FAG makes mucho dinero off women like me...constantly looking for magical ways to make ourselves and horses better. The older we get, the more we spend.
Now, being an old woman, accepting the fact that I'm fat, wrinkled, and have joints that don't want to bend like they used to, I'm always looking for ways to make my life easier. I really don't want to work very hard at much. So with that thought in mind, I bought a kid sized training stick & string...it's a little shorter & lighter...and it's pink...who could object to being struck repeatedly by a pink stick??? Not that the adult size ways 20 lbs or anything, I just wanted to see if it made a difference for my bum shoulder. The jury's still out on that since I haven't used it yet.
Since I've been to these things before, I pretty much knew what to expect from the FAG. The crowd, however, was a different matter entirely. Is there anything more pathetic than a middle aged woman trying to look like a teenager??? I mean, really? There was one woman who was probably in her late 40's or early 50's who was the personification of patheticism (I'm not sure that's a word). I'll call her Polly, as in Polly Pathetic. PP had streaked her long gray hair and had it piled on her head, and was squeezed into a skin tight tank top that was made of some kind of sweater fabric in a shade that looked like a dirty white t shirt badly in need of bleach. Said top was then tucked into skin tight destroyed jeans that were then tucked into some type of shaggy llama looking knee high off white boots. Imagine Buckingham Palace guard hats in off white with longer flowing fur...that's what the boots looked like. And...she had bedazzled her jeans...heavily? Yes, rhinestones galore adorned her mile wide ass as she pranced around outside the arena. (Okay...it wasn't really a mile wide, but it was too wide to be bejeweled in such a manner...)
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for women doing whatever they can to feel better about themselves...as long as they don't turn into PP in the process. If you have rolls of fat and crepey cleavage, you shouldn't be showing it off in a three sizes too small tank top. IT DOESN'T LOOK GOOD TO ANYONE. The only person who's gonna find that attractive is the ninety year old blind guy sittin' in a wheelchair at the old folks home with drool running off his chin.
As is usually the case at large events, bathroom time is at a premium. During breaks, lunch, etc., women rush to use the bathrooms. The older you get, the smaller your bladder gets. Doesn't seem fair. There's never enough women's bathrooms to go around...lines are a mile long. At this particular event, there were a line of portable bathrooms. I'm always reluctant to use these. Partly because you can see the previous users poop. It seems wrong to see someone else's poop. I feel like I'm being so intrusive. The main reason is I'm always afraid something is going to reach up and grab my butt. I know how truly stoopid this is but I can't help it. I have no valid reason to think this. No one has ever tried to grab me through the hole of a port a potty before...I obviously have mental issues I should deal with.
In my search for the perfect bathroom, I found a little building near the parking lot that had two separate bathrooms...one for the boys, the other for the girls. There was still a line, but it wasn't as long as the other places. After all the men were done, the women standing in line started using the mens bathroom. Never in my life have I intentionally gone into a public mens bathroom...sure, I've stumbled into them in a drunken stupor occasionally, but I've never actually got to the point where my pants were down. Usually the urinal is a dead giveaway...in case you ever find yourself in this predicament.
So, since I wasn't the least bit intoxicated, I decided to wait for the women's bathroom. Here I am standing in line with a bunch of strangers, listening to them gab. Finally it's almost my turn. Only one woman in front of me. When the current user exits she tells me & the woman in front of me that there are two stalls...score!!! So in I walk with the lady in front of me. After locking the door behind me, I turn around and see that there are, in fact, two stalls...if you can call them that. Rather there were two toilets sitting in the room with a partial divider separating them and NO DOORS. Now, I don't know what to do. Is it going to be weird if I turn & run out or more weird to sit there and pee looking into the face of a complete stranger? The stranger in the bathroom with me apparently thinks nothing of the lack of privacy...I, on the other hand, am mortified. However, since the pressure in my bladder was becoming unbearable, I stayed. Yes, I pulled down my big girl pants (literally, these are big girl pants) and sat twelve inches from a complete stranger and chatted with her while we both peed. The whole time I'm chatting with her, all I can think is...thank God I didn't have to poop. It's the stoopidist thing.
Anyway, the FAG from Downunder draws really big crowds. As with all these horsey clinicians, the FAG's audience is made up primarily of women. All ages of women who come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. We women l-o-v-e our horses...I would have put a little heart sign, you know "I -heart-my horse...but I was afraid I'd barf all over from the icky sweetness of it all...plus, I don't know how to do it...I acknowledge the fact that I am a Luddite and have learned to embrace it...happily.
The FAG put on a two day clinic designed to gain more followers. He, and every clinician like him, are sort of like Pied Pipers of horse training, leading us down the road playing their little horsey songs while we happily follow along like a bunch of little money spending rats. The FAG makes mucho dinero off women like me...constantly looking for magical ways to make ourselves and horses better. The older we get, the more we spend.
Now, being an old woman, accepting the fact that I'm fat, wrinkled, and have joints that don't want to bend like they used to, I'm always looking for ways to make my life easier. I really don't want to work very hard at much. So with that thought in mind, I bought a kid sized training stick & string...it's a little shorter & lighter...and it's pink...who could object to being struck repeatedly by a pink stick??? Not that the adult size ways 20 lbs or anything, I just wanted to see if it made a difference for my bum shoulder. The jury's still out on that since I haven't used it yet.
Since I've been to these things before, I pretty much knew what to expect from the FAG. The crowd, however, was a different matter entirely. Is there anything more pathetic than a middle aged woman trying to look like a teenager??? I mean, really? There was one woman who was probably in her late 40's or early 50's who was the personification of patheticism (I'm not sure that's a word). I'll call her Polly, as in Polly Pathetic. PP had streaked her long gray hair and had it piled on her head, and was squeezed into a skin tight tank top that was made of some kind of sweater fabric in a shade that looked like a dirty white t shirt badly in need of bleach. Said top was then tucked into skin tight destroyed jeans that were then tucked into some type of shaggy llama looking knee high off white boots. Imagine Buckingham Palace guard hats in off white with longer flowing fur...that's what the boots looked like. And...she had bedazzled her jeans...heavily? Yes, rhinestones galore adorned her mile wide ass as she pranced around outside the arena. (Okay...it wasn't really a mile wide, but it was too wide to be bejeweled in such a manner...)
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for women doing whatever they can to feel better about themselves...as long as they don't turn into PP in the process. If you have rolls of fat and crepey cleavage, you shouldn't be showing it off in a three sizes too small tank top. IT DOESN'T LOOK GOOD TO ANYONE. The only person who's gonna find that attractive is the ninety year old blind guy sittin' in a wheelchair at the old folks home with drool running off his chin.
As is usually the case at large events, bathroom time is at a premium. During breaks, lunch, etc., women rush to use the bathrooms. The older you get, the smaller your bladder gets. Doesn't seem fair. There's never enough women's bathrooms to go around...lines are a mile long. At this particular event, there were a line of portable bathrooms. I'm always reluctant to use these. Partly because you can see the previous users poop. It seems wrong to see someone else's poop. I feel like I'm being so intrusive. The main reason is I'm always afraid something is going to reach up and grab my butt. I know how truly stoopid this is but I can't help it. I have no valid reason to think this. No one has ever tried to grab me through the hole of a port a potty before...I obviously have mental issues I should deal with.
In my search for the perfect bathroom, I found a little building near the parking lot that had two separate bathrooms...one for the boys, the other for the girls. There was still a line, but it wasn't as long as the other places. After all the men were done, the women standing in line started using the mens bathroom. Never in my life have I intentionally gone into a public mens bathroom...sure, I've stumbled into them in a drunken stupor occasionally, but I've never actually got to the point where my pants were down. Usually the urinal is a dead giveaway...in case you ever find yourself in this predicament.
So, since I wasn't the least bit intoxicated, I decided to wait for the women's bathroom. Here I am standing in line with a bunch of strangers, listening to them gab. Finally it's almost my turn. Only one woman in front of me. When the current user exits she tells me & the woman in front of me that there are two stalls...score!!! So in I walk with the lady in front of me. After locking the door behind me, I turn around and see that there are, in fact, two stalls...if you can call them that. Rather there were two toilets sitting in the room with a partial divider separating them and NO DOORS. Now, I don't know what to do. Is it going to be weird if I turn & run out or more weird to sit there and pee looking into the face of a complete stranger? The stranger in the bathroom with me apparently thinks nothing of the lack of privacy...I, on the other hand, am mortified. However, since the pressure in my bladder was becoming unbearable, I stayed. Yes, I pulled down my big girl pants (literally, these are big girl pants) and sat twelve inches from a complete stranger and chatted with her while we both peed. The whole time I'm chatting with her, all I can think is...thank God I didn't have to poop. It's the stoopidist thing.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Fat Pants
Since I've gotten old and fat, most of my pants no longer fit. In the past few years I've gone up at least two sizes and am trying to make it to a third. Actually, I'm not really trying to make it...I'm just not trying very hard not to make it. Does that make sense?
I mean, I can't even keep up with daily food journals so how can I be expected to count every little friggin' calorie??? Jeez, come on. I don't even really know what a calorie is...I know it's some kind of measurement, but of what? (At this point, I usually Google to find out...and I will...in a little bit.)
One of the benefits of being old is not caring so much how you look. I mean, I try to be "presentable" most of the time. But if I'm clean and comfortable...I'm pretty much done. My favorite thing to wear is flannel draw string pants. They have got to be the most wonderful clothing invention ever. I would wear them everywhere if I could. And the truth is I could if I wasn't afraid of ending up on one of the "People of WalMart" emails that circulate regularly. (I have to admit I'm extremely paranoid about this.)
My favorite jeans are Levi 560's (loose fit for chubby girls). And of course, since they're my favorites, they've been discontinued...a long time ago...so long ago that I'm having trouble even finding them on eBay.
One day I was whining about my problem to a friend of mine who suggested I try Wrangler Q Baby's...with elastic in the waist..."but you can't see the elastic" she said..so I guess that makes it okay?? Has it really come to this?? Do we all just end up fat and wearing pants with elastic waists? Like toddlers?
Since I trust this particular friend's judgement, I tried them. She was right. I was hoping she'd be wrong since I really didn't want to be buying pants with elastic waists...but comfort won out and was way easier than trying to loose weight to fit back into the old jeans. Of course I didn't throw out the old jeans because a miracle might occur (that would be me losing weight) and where would I be if I didn't have the good old jeans hanging around?
So now I'm basically wearing pull ups for adults...but they're comfortable. Next thing you know, I'll be putting pin curls in my short, dyed carrot orange hair with bald spots in the back that people are too polite to tell me about. It's the stoopidist thing.
I mean, I can't even keep up with daily food journals so how can I be expected to count every little friggin' calorie??? Jeez, come on. I don't even really know what a calorie is...I know it's some kind of measurement, but of what? (At this point, I usually Google to find out...and I will...in a little bit.)
One of the benefits of being old is not caring so much how you look. I mean, I try to be "presentable" most of the time. But if I'm clean and comfortable...I'm pretty much done. My favorite thing to wear is flannel draw string pants. They have got to be the most wonderful clothing invention ever. I would wear them everywhere if I could. And the truth is I could if I wasn't afraid of ending up on one of the "People of WalMart" emails that circulate regularly. (I have to admit I'm extremely paranoid about this.)
My favorite jeans are Levi 560's (loose fit for chubby girls). And of course, since they're my favorites, they've been discontinued...a long time ago...so long ago that I'm having trouble even finding them on eBay.
One day I was whining about my problem to a friend of mine who suggested I try Wrangler Q Baby's...with elastic in the waist..."but you can't see the elastic" she said..so I guess that makes it okay?? Has it really come to this?? Do we all just end up fat and wearing pants with elastic waists? Like toddlers?
Since I trust this particular friend's judgement, I tried them. She was right. I was hoping she'd be wrong since I really didn't want to be buying pants with elastic waists...but comfort won out and was way easier than trying to loose weight to fit back into the old jeans. Of course I didn't throw out the old jeans because a miracle might occur (that would be me losing weight) and where would I be if I didn't have the good old jeans hanging around?
So now I'm basically wearing pull ups for adults...but they're comfortable. Next thing you know, I'll be putting pin curls in my short, dyed carrot orange hair with bald spots in the back that people are too polite to tell me about. It's the stoopidist thing.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
On Boycotting
The boycott of the Homobile continues, unbeknown to The Husband, which in essence makes my boycott meaningless. The purpose of a boycott is to bring attention to the fact that you're no longer doing something. Thus, my boycott is failing miserably since The Husband has no idea I'm even boycotting. Yes, I am cutting off my nose to spite my face and punishing myself for something someone else did...that's how stoopid I am.
When I "casually" mentioned the fact that he was driving the Homobile, The Husband said he wouldn't be driving it next week. Finally...my boycott will have meaning. I'll actually be able to pointedly not drive the precious vehicle and when asked (Please God let him ask) I'll be able to finally make my boycott known. I realize the pathetic immaturity of this whole boycott. And the fact that I'm actually looking forward to the minute I make it known to The Husband is completely embarrassing to admit.
I've actually spent more time than I care to admit daydreaming about how the conversation will go...
Me: "Jeez, I just spent a fortune putting gas in the truck."
Husband: "How come you're driving the truck? Why don't you drive the Homobile? It's cheaper." (Of course, he wouldn't call it the Homobile because he doesn't know that I call it that behind his back.)
Me: "I'd rather drive the truck."
Husband: "Why?"
Me: "Because...every time I drive your precious vehicle you end up getting mad about something and it's just not worth it..." (I would be appropriately dramatic here...of course)
Husband: "I don't get mad every time...you're being a little dramatic.." (I know he's got me here...but I continue on my charted course....)
Me: "Yes you do...you told me every time I drive it and you're in it with me that you end up hating my guts but the time we get where we're going." "So it's just easier not to drive it."
Husband: (Remember...this is my dream conversation) "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to make you feel bad...(I know I'm stretching it here)"
Reality....
Husband: "Oh, okay."
It's the stoopidist thing...
When I "casually" mentioned the fact that he was driving the Homobile, The Husband said he wouldn't be driving it next week. Finally...my boycott will have meaning. I'll actually be able to pointedly not drive the precious vehicle and when asked (Please God let him ask) I'll be able to finally make my boycott known. I realize the pathetic immaturity of this whole boycott. And the fact that I'm actually looking forward to the minute I make it known to The Husband is completely embarrassing to admit.
I've actually spent more time than I care to admit daydreaming about how the conversation will go...
Me: "Jeez, I just spent a fortune putting gas in the truck."
Husband: "How come you're driving the truck? Why don't you drive the Homobile? It's cheaper." (Of course, he wouldn't call it the Homobile because he doesn't know that I call it that behind his back.)
Me: "I'd rather drive the truck."
Husband: "Why?"
Me: "Because...every time I drive your precious vehicle you end up getting mad about something and it's just not worth it..." (I would be appropriately dramatic here...of course)
Husband: "I don't get mad every time...you're being a little dramatic.." (I know he's got me here...but I continue on my charted course....)
Me: "Yes you do...you told me every time I drive it and you're in it with me that you end up hating my guts but the time we get where we're going." "So it's just easier not to drive it."
Husband: (Remember...this is my dream conversation) "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to make you feel bad...(I know I'm stretching it here)"
Reality....
Husband: "Oh, okay."
It's the stoopidist thing...
Friday, April 15, 2011
Stoopid Pondering
People say things and you know they're wrong when they say them. Like flustrated...it's not a word. Someone at one time combined flustered and frustrated and the idiot who heard them, thinking it was a word, repeated it. (Maybe it was Karl Pilkington...every time I hear the word "idiot" I think of him.) Is this how words are born? Someone dunders and voilà a new word is born from a dunderism?
When someone famous does it the people in the new word business make it an official word. Sarah Palin misspoke and said refudiate...it wasn't a word. Like flustrated, it's a combo of two words...refute and repudiate. How come when Sarah says it, they make it a real word? Now I've got nothing against Sarah Palin, but from the utterance of her dunderism, a word was born, and I can't help wondering if that's the case with all words.
This morning I heard a woman on TV say "Never say never". This makes no sense to me. Now, I know people say "never say never 'cause it'll bite you in the ass every time". I'm sure I've probably said it myself. Doesn't make it right though. I'd get it if she'd said "Don't ever say never", that would have made sense to me. But if you're never supposed to say never, aren't you breaking your own rule even as you're making it up? I'm sure there's a correct term for this, but I don't know what it is.
I kind of like dunderism...it's not a real word and the word "dunder" is actually the dregs from cane juice used in the distillation of rum. (I just looked it up.) I've always used the word "dunder" as a synonym for "bonehead" which probably isn't a "real" word at all. (Okay...I just Googled both and according to the Urban Dictionary, "dunder" means dirty underwear...LOL...and "bonehead" means an asnine person, usually a male...double LOL)
When someone famous does it the people in the new word business make it an official word. Sarah Palin misspoke and said refudiate...it wasn't a word. Like flustrated, it's a combo of two words...refute and repudiate. How come when Sarah says it, they make it a real word? Now I've got nothing against Sarah Palin, but from the utterance of her dunderism, a word was born, and I can't help wondering if that's the case with all words.
This morning I heard a woman on TV say "Never say never". This makes no sense to me. Now, I know people say "never say never 'cause it'll bite you in the ass every time". I'm sure I've probably said it myself. Doesn't make it right though. I'd get it if she'd said "Don't ever say never", that would have made sense to me. But if you're never supposed to say never, aren't you breaking your own rule even as you're making it up? I'm sure there's a correct term for this, but I don't know what it is.
I kind of like dunderism...it's not a real word and the word "dunder" is actually the dregs from cane juice used in the distillation of rum. (I just looked it up.) I've always used the word "dunder" as a synonym for "bonehead" which probably isn't a "real" word at all. (Okay...I just Googled both and according to the Urban Dictionary, "dunder" means dirty underwear...LOL...and "bonehead" means an asnine person, usually a male...double LOL)
I know thinking about shit like this is a waste of time, but I can't help it. Maybe someday dunder will actually be defined the way I choose to use it...maybe I could get Sarah to start using it so the definition could be changed to suit me...obviously I have way too much time on my hands...it's the stoopidist thing.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Monday
So here's the food intake for Monday...again I failed miserably
Less than a handful of pecans
1 Asian Pear
1 Baby Bella
Handful of almonds
Handful of almonds
Handful of almonds
1 Butterfinger Egg (this is really small)
2 Hershey's Rabbits (these are really small too)
1 York Peppermint Patty - (again...really really small)
1 Hershey's Rabbit (still small)
1 Costco Dog on a slice of white bread (almost no mayo w/ketchup)
1 Skinny Cow Mint Ice Cream Sandwich (this was wonderful)
1 Klondike Ice Cream Sandwich (why didn't I just stop with the Skinny Cow?)
Could have been worse...I guess.
After work I went & rode. So at least I got some exercise lifting the saddle. Sometimes I like to fool myself and think that riding is good exercise but really...the horse is the only one who gets much of a workout. I try to do a lot of posting thinking somehow it's gonna make my ass smaller...so far, no such luck.
When I finished riding I stopped at the gas station...this is the first day of the Homobile boycott...and maybe the last. Fuck me runnin'...diesel fuel was $4.39 a gallon...and that was the cheapest place I could find. So, figure the truck gets around 20mpg...the Homobile gets 50mpg...I don't know how long I can hold out...just to make a point. And the sad thing is, The Husband doesn't even know I'm boycotting his precious vehicle so basically, I'm only making a point...to myself. How stoopid is that???
The good news is that the silence has ended at home so that's a plus. And we have to have pie tomorrow at work for a co-worker's birthday. We use any excuse to have pie..with ice cream...or cake and ice cream...or pastries. Weekly meetings are simply another excuse to eat...we never actually accomplish anything or learn anything of value. It's the same at every workplace I think. Managers think they need to have meetings to tell worker bees things they already know. Worker bees (like me) just use meetings as an excuse to eat. Worker bees just smile and nod at the manager and think...just shut the fuck up and let us eat without having to listen to your useless drivel...it's the stoopidist thing.
Less than a handful of pecans
1 Asian Pear
1 Baby Bella
Handful of almonds
Handful of almonds
Handful of almonds
1 Butterfinger Egg (this is really small)
2 Hershey's Rabbits (these are really small too)
1 York Peppermint Patty - (again...really really small)
1 Hershey's Rabbit (still small)
1 Costco Dog on a slice of white bread (almost no mayo w/ketchup)
1 Skinny Cow Mint Ice Cream Sandwich (this was wonderful)
1 Klondike Ice Cream Sandwich (why didn't I just stop with the Skinny Cow?)
Could have been worse...I guess.
After work I went & rode. So at least I got some exercise lifting the saddle. Sometimes I like to fool myself and think that riding is good exercise but really...the horse is the only one who gets much of a workout. I try to do a lot of posting thinking somehow it's gonna make my ass smaller...so far, no such luck.
When I finished riding I stopped at the gas station...this is the first day of the Homobile boycott...and maybe the last. Fuck me runnin'...diesel fuel was $4.39 a gallon...and that was the cheapest place I could find. So, figure the truck gets around 20mpg...the Homobile gets 50mpg...I don't know how long I can hold out...just to make a point. And the sad thing is, The Husband doesn't even know I'm boycotting his precious vehicle so basically, I'm only making a point...to myself. How stoopid is that???
The good news is that the silence has ended at home so that's a plus. And we have to have pie tomorrow at work for a co-worker's birthday. We use any excuse to have pie..with ice cream...or cake and ice cream...or pastries. Weekly meetings are simply another excuse to eat...we never actually accomplish anything or learn anything of value. It's the same at every workplace I think. Managers think they need to have meetings to tell worker bees things they already know. Worker bees (like me) just use meetings as an excuse to eat. Worker bees just smile and nod at the manager and think...just shut the fuck up and let us eat without having to listen to your useless drivel...it's the stoopidist thing.
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