Category Archives: Everyday Life

The Polar Vortex Is Not a Shirt

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I’m very distracted by the number of typos in this card. But you get the picture.

Last week, I asked my readers for some ideas for a topic.  One of them suggested Polar Vortex.  So here goes.  This is what I know.  Or more accurately, don’t know.

I have to be honest here.  I did not know what Polar Vortex was.  In case you haven’t realized by now, I kind of live under a rock.  I hate the news.  It depresses me.  When DH puts on the evening news, I zone out on my iPhone like a prepubescent teenage girl.

Now that I have that out of the way, what comes to mind when you hear these two words?  Polar = cold.  Like Polar Bear.  Not that a Polar Bear is cold exactly, but he lives in the cold.  When I think of Vortex, I think of, well, um…some kind of material that you wear to keep sweat from touching your skin?  Or it could be something weird going on in your brain.  Wasn’t there some strange movie about that once?  Probably not.

I looked it up and here is the real meaning:  “A persistent, large scale cyclone located near either of a planet’s geographical poles.”  Well, that’s the short version.  I don’t understand the rest.  This is good enough for me.  So, in layman’s terms, there is a cyclone at the North or South pole?  Am I close?  Again, probably not.  But I have to ask.  What does a cyclone at the North Pole have anything to do with us?  I’m so confused and still feel like I’m in the dark.  Maybe if I tuned into the news?  Nah.

Whatever it means, it’s a bit nuts.  I’m telling you people, this winter sucks minus.  It doesn’t seem to matter what part of the country you are from.  Florida doesn’t even seem safe.  What the heck is going on?  I mean figuratively.  Because we already know  what’s going on literally.  In case you zoned out, it has to do with a cyclone or two (I think).  I mean, I’m not equipped for this business.  My parka isn’t even enough to keep out the cold.  The last time I checked, I’m not an Eskimo.  If I wanted to partake in this crap, I would have moved my buns to Alaska.

Below zero temperatures is cruel.  It’s like a bad joke.  And then we wake up 2 days later and it’s 52 degrees.  People have become so accustomed to minus 10 degrees that when it’s 50, they feel it’s okay to bring out the shorts and tank tops.  Seriously.  I, myself, have contemplated pulling out the tankini and catching a few rays.  The snow?  It’s no longer white and fluffy.  It’s a disgusting mess of mud and slush.  It’s everywhere.  On your car.  On your legs.  All over those really cute riding boots you got for Christmas.

Ok, so is it over?  This Polar Vortex business?  I hope so.  Today hit around the 45 degree mark.  I didn’t wear a coat to work.  And when I got out of work at 5pm and stepped outside, I wasn’t even cold.  Now do that in August and we’d be freezing our asses off.  It’s just so weird to me.  It’s January people.  JAN-U-AR-Y.  Did I get off topic?  Sorry.

And the material you wear that keeps sweat from touching your skin? That would be Gortex.  See?  I know what I’m talking about.  Kind of.

What’s In My Name and Other Stuff

My name is Maureen Catherine.  My close friends call me “Mo.”  My mother wanted my middle name to be spelled “Kathryn.”  But that’s not how Catholics spelled it in those days.  The woman at Town Hall told her so.  Bully.  My father wanted me to be “Dawn Marie.”  I’m glad he didn’t get what he wanted.  I do not look like a Dawn.  And with the way I am with songs, every time someone said my name, Tanya Tucker would be popping up in there.  Every time.  I just know it.  The other day at work someone yelled, “COME ON EILEEN!”  Not good.  Especially since that is probably one of my least favorite songs ever.  Just so you know, it’s still rattling around in my brain.  But I digress.

When I was a kid, I must have asked my mother what my name meant.  Which is really weird for me.  Because I was a simple child.  I didn’t think much.  Seriously.  I’m not hating on myself.  I just was not known for my thinking skills.  I’ll give you an example:  When asked on a test if I was Male or Female, I didn’t know the answer.  I figured I had a 50/50 shot at getting it right so I guessed.  Of course, I guessed incorrectly.  Which happens to be the story of my life (you know, guess the wrong answer, get in the wrong line at the grocery store…).  Unless I had grown a penis overnight, I was female (and still am, I swear).  I was about 7 when I took that test.  And that statement about me figuring I had a 50/50 shot?  That’s not true.  I just took a stab at it and failed.  Accompanied by a mini anxiety attack.  I can still see my 7-year-old self totally freaking out because I hadn’t the foggiest idea what the hell that meant.

Another time, while standing in line at the school cafeteria, a girl asked me what my nationality was.  I looked oddly at her for a second and then I just turned around and completely ignored her.  Yes.  I ignored her.  Just like that.  Turned my back in the hopes that she would go away.  It worked.  I couldn’t even remember the word to ask my mom when I got home.  But when it came up later in life, I had one of those “aha” moments Oprah is always talking about.  Sorry to the girl who was probably trying to be my friend.  I’m Irish.  And for the record, you are a show-off.

little house on the prairie dress

I loved “Little House” so much that I asked for a prairie dress for my birthday. This beauty touched my toes.  I’m sorry you can’t get the whole effect.  You’re missing out.

Anyway, my mother, or someone,  said my name meant “Mary.”  I was thrilled at this news.  I knew that Mary was Jesus’ mother.  I also knew that Mary was my favorite character (other than Charles for reasons I do not need to explain) on Little House on the Prairie.  When I went to school the next day, I wrote my new name on every single assignment.  Because I figured if that’s what it meant, then I had a right.  Besides it took less time and energy to write it out.  My teacher was not empathetic.  And gave me an “F” on all my assignments that day.  That was the beginning and end of Mary.  It turns out my name doesn’t mean Mary at all.  It means “bitter.”  Hmm.

I was born in New Jersey to an Army father and housewife mother.  We moved all over the country and even lived in Germany for a few years.  I never went to college, but attended a trade school where I honed my typing and shorthand skills.  Skills that are falling by the wayside because I can’t find a damn job but that is a story for another time (or did I already write about that once or twice?  Yes, I am Bitter.  I’m allowed.  That’s my name after all).  I met DH when I was 19.  We married when I was 25 and we settled in Connecticut.  We have one child.  My life is full of excitement and adventure.  Have you seen that new show “Naked and Alone?”  Yeah, well, I did something like that once.  Except I was wearing clothes and I was in my backyard.

So, that’s it.  Are you amazed?  I know.  Try to contain yourself.  I’ve been trying to get TLC to do a reality TV show on me, but they refuse.  I don’t understand.  I could be a big money maker for them.  Big.  Their loss.  They’ll be sorry when NBC comes knocking on my door.  Until then, you can find me hiking Mt. Kilimanjaro.  Just kidding.  I’ll be on my couch. watching reruns of Friends.  I’m so glad Ross and Rachel ended up together.  Aren’t you?

I Need a Wife?

I like that she can make cocktails too

It would be a bonus if she came with a cocktail shaker.

A friend of mine recently asked me to write about the need of a wife for a wife.  I would love to sit here and say, “Lord, I need a wife.  BAD.  I’m tired of the cooking and the cleaning and the laundry and the…did I mention cleaning?”  DH reads my blog.  He would laugh his ass off to a heart attack if I lied.  So, let’s pretend.  A little.  Because I do lots of stuff.  I do.

Aaaah.  I am so tired.  Do you know what I need?  A damn wife.  Seriously.  If I could only at the very least clone myself, my life would be complete.  If I had a mini-me, here is what I would have her do:

  • She would do ALL the laundry in a timely manner.  Meaning, the laundry would be washed, dried, folded and put away.  She would even iron. My clone would save my house from burning down because she would have the memory of a freakin’ elephant and unplug the iron when she is finished.  REALITY:  I do a load when the clothes are spilling out onto the floor.  I leave the load in the washer for a day or two, then when it makes it into the dryer, they sit for another day or two.  I don’t iron anything unless absolutely necessary.  Sometimes even just wearing wrinkly clothes because I can’t be bothered.
  • Every Sunday, my clone would sit and write out an entire weekly menu.  Then write a grocery list, not forgetting a thing followed by going to the grocery store.  Again, not forgetting a thing.  My clone would cut coupons, therefore saving us money.  REALITY:  I write a half-ass list.  Then run out the door when I only have an hour to shop.  I forget half the crap on my list, therefore forcing me to visit my most favorite place on earth several times a week.  I haven’t cut a damn coupon in 18 years.  After all, the little plastic card on my key ring IS the coupon, isn’t it?
  • My clone would clean the house every single day.  I envision Alice from The Brady Bunch.  REALITY:  Hmmm.  Maybe I shouldn’t tell you the reality.  My mother-in-law is reading.  She thinks I’m a clean freak.  I seriously don’t want to blow my cover.  Let’s just say thank the Good Lord for Clorox Wipes and that if MIL calls and says she’s coming over, I have an hour to get my shit together.  It’s also good to have a teenager to make do stuff.  That’s partly why I had her.
  • My clone would make beautiful, extravagant dinners every single night while wearing an apron and then put all the dishes in the dishwasher, clean the pots and pans and wash the floor.      REALITY:  I make dinner about 4 nights a week.  Sometimes 5.  Ok, so the dinners may be the same week after week, but it’s dinner.  I have ruined every single shirt I own because I forget there is such a thing as an apron.  I try to clean the kitchen before I go to bed but sometimes I forget.  Or more accurately, I sit on the couch with a glass of wine and get into lazy mode.  I vacuum up the floor at least once a week.  At least.
  • She would write out the bills, balance the checkbook, put loads of money in the savings account and send us on an extravagant (there goes that word again) vacation every July.  REALITY:  DH does all but send us on an extravagant vacation.  Because The Kid is going to college in two and a half years.  I haven’t touched the checkbook since I accidentally put an extra zero on the end of our mortgage payment in 1999.
  • My clone would drive The Kid around to all her activities.  Even her friends.  REALITY:  I actually do this.  It’s out of control.  I need to start charging a fee.  Professional drivers charge.  So why not?  Too bad all of The Kid’s money comes from me (actually DH, but I’m not talking about him needing a wife, am I?  Ooh, maybe I shouldn’t say that out loud.).
  • My clone would have a cocktail ready for DH at the end of his busy day.  REALITY:  Bahahahaha!  Oops, I just peed a little.  And DH usually makes ME the cocktail at the end of a busy day.  True story.
  • My clone would work on my projects.  Including my office.  REALITY:  That shit is going to be there for life, I’m afraid.  I’ll just throw a sheet over it.  No one will ever notice.
This is my office.  I can't sit in my office.

This is my office. I can’t sit in my office.  Ooh, I think I see a coupon in there.  Think it has expired?

Damn.  That was exhausting.  I need to rest.  And to all you women out there who actually do all that stuff, I commend you.  Or I should say condemn you.  You really make me look bad.  Still.  I think I need a wife.  They clone sheep, don’t they?  So, it’s not completely out of the question, right?  RIGHT?

A Pointless Blog Posting About My Closet

I am a self diagnosed slob.  It’s not just me who agrees with that diagnosis.  DH thinks I should get a prize for it.  So, I’m a little on the lazy side.  But who doesn’t just stare at that wadded up grocery list that somehow managed to work its way into the corner of the kitchen floor every time they walk by it?  It takes some serious energy bending down to that level at our age.  Or any age really.  Please.

My “office” space makes Oscar look like Martha Stewart (Oscar the Grouch or Oscar Madison?  It could go either way.).  Every time I eat, something inevitably ends up on my shirt.  One of the things on my ever growing “to do” list is to buy stock in OxyClean.  And my closet?  That’s a whole different story.  I actually haven’t really entered my closet, like really entered it, in a while.  My summer clothes are kept in a drawer and so are my jeans.  My closet also contains clothes that are predominately to be worn in an office setting and since I can’t find a job in an office setting, they have been hanging there pretty much collecting everything but my dry skin for years.

I decided to venture into my closet, I would say about 17 days ago, because DH and I were going to go out to dinner.  It was a chilly evening and I thought a cute sweater with some jeans would be good.  My closet is not nice.  The Kid has a huge walk in closet.  I don’t know who designed this house, but they got it wrong and it pisses me off.  Really pisses me off.  I have the type of closet that is about 2 feet deep by 6 feet long with bi-level doors.  Is that what they are called?  Bi-level?  I don’t even know.  But the type where when you pull on the knob, they fold in half.  Hey, I never claimed to be a closet OR door aficionado so get off my back.

Well, when I opened my little bi-level doors, I was smacked in the face with a major mess.  The shelf at the top is spilling over with pocketbooks I’ve had since the Bush administration.  The first Bush.  Lingerie that I will never, ever wear because they were my mothers (there’s a very good explanation) and shoes that have sentimental value to me.  Including caked-on-dried-up-mud-on-the-heels wedding shoes from 1992.

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98% of my tops are hanging from wire hangers.  And anything that has not been worn since my first temp job at a now-defunct pharmaceutical company seems to have a slight layer of dust on them.  Okay, so maybe a bit more than “slight.”  It seems that a very wet cloth is in order.  And forget about the floor.  I have shoes that fell out of style when The Fanny Pack came into style.  And dust bunnies that have grown into full grown rabbits.  Big ass mean rabbits with fangs.

          No Wire Hangers!

No Wire Hangers!

Since I was trying to get ready to go out to dinner with DH, and I’m pretty sure he was talking about going out to dinner that evening not next Tuesday, I had to pick something and get out.  Quick.  But there was another problem.  I soon discovered that nothing fit.  Nothing.

So, I need to clean out my closet.  Not only because it is the pig sty from hell but because what is the point of allowing clothes that do not fit take up perfectly good real estate.  I thought for sure that that would be a project I would do while recuperating from my surgery.  But it turns out that I can’t stand for more than a few minutes without it feeling like a big rubber band has wrapped itself around the middle of my leg.  

And anyway, I really hate projects.  What will happen is I will be all enthusiastic and start tossing clothes into a heap.  Then I will look at this heap and it will suddenly feel overwhelming.  And then I am going to want to do everything BUT clean up that heap.  Like go pour myself a glass of wine or try to run around the block with my broken knee because that pain would probably be better than the pain of cleaning up a mess that I willingly created all on my own without anyone telling me to.

Yesterday I decided to bite the bullet and start on Project Closet regardless of what my knee felt like.  I pulled on the little knobs and opened the doors.  I started to the right by grabbing a fistful of hangers with dresses on them.  I stared at these dresses for a minute.  Placed them back and closed the doors.  Then cursed in my mind.  Well, actually I cursed out loud but no one was there to hear me so it’s basically the same thing.  Then went downstairs and watched reruns of “Grey’s Anatomy” before they killed off Dr. McSteamy.  Damn.  I miss that man.  And maybe I’ll clean my closet tomorrow.  Maybe.

Use Your Words

textWhen I was a teen and was crushing on or dating a boy, I would wait with anticipation for the phone to ring.  And when it did ring, no one in the house stood a chance.  I would run, climb, claw my way to the phone before the second ring was halfway through.  I would knock over a brother standing in my way if I had to.  Then I would stand tethered to the wall while we had a conversation.  An actual conversation.  Where words were spoken.  When the conversation ended and we said our good-byes, we hung up (“Hang up.  No, you hang up.  No, you hang up first.  Okay, on the count of 3…”).  It was that simple.  And the boy always called me.  It was never the other way around.

I am always telling the kid that she needs to have an air of mystery when it comes to boys.  I don’t want her making the same mistakes I did.  I would bend over backwards and make sure I was available.  I would always answer the phone.  Always be around.  So my advice to her has always been to play a little hard to get.  Be yourself, be kind.  But don’t be so readily available.  Make them work for you.  Give them a little bit of a challenge.  I mean, don’t be the queen of Iceland, but leave them wondering.  Even if just a little.

There is a post that an author wrote recently.  One of my Facebook friends shared it (click here to read it).  Everything about this is smack-you-in-the-face true.  Why didn’t it occur to me that in this day and age it is difficult to uphold an air of mystery?  Nothing is sacred anymore.  That being said, I have been approaching the whole thing incorrectly.  And now, I’m afraid it’s a bit too late to fix.  I was advising her as if we were living in the dark ages.  I forgot about technology.  I should have been taking a different approach.  From a different angle.  Now what the hell do I do?  Take away her texting privileges?  Good Lord, the girl would “totally die.”  I think she’d rather have an arm cut off.  It would take her twice the amount of time to text, but at least she could.

Like the article says, “conversations” don’t end.  Until bed time or they literally cannot physically have their phone on them because of field hockey practice or dance class.  For the love of God.  It’s insane.  I’m not so sure I could handle all this back and forth banter.  It would be enough to drive me absolutely up a tree.  She could have her best girlfriends over and I would go upstairs to her room to find them all sitting on the floor texting.  Who are they texting?  Who knows.  Maybe each other.  To avoid actually speaking.  Because they don’t know how.

Well, I try to look at the bright side.  At least I don’t have to fight with her over who gets to use the phone.  And keeping an air of mystery?  How about stop responding to a text within 4 seconds?  At least make ’em wait 5 seconds.  That should leave them guessing.

If That’s What Makes the World Go Round, I Think I Wanna Move to Mars

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The world is filled with thousands of different personalities.  And we all have to coexist.  We have to figure it out.  We have to either decide to get along with people who are completely different from us or not.  We can let these people make us miserable.  Or we can accept them for who they are.  It’s a fine line.  And it isn’t always easy.

In my experience and at my age, I have pretty much dealt with just about all types.  I, myself, like to say I’m more upbeat than not.  I am laid back, loud, definitely obnoxious but yet a tad bit shy.  I have the patience of a 2 year old trying to unwrap a lollipop.  I can also become very angry if I am pushed too far.  But to my credit, I have to be really pushed.  Like off a cliff.

I work with all types of people.  Most of them are young.  2 or 3 are about my age.  A couple are my father’s age.  In all honesty, I like them all.  Even the weird ones.  The cranky ones.  The moody ones.  Because they are human beings.  And under the crank, mood and weird, there is good.

At My Retail Job a couple of days ago, I was pushed off a cliff.  A very high cliff.  It ended with me saying some very unkind things, loudly, in the middle of the store.  With customers around (I think…I had on my rage blinders, so I can’t say for sure).  One of my other coworkers was trying his damndest to get me to settle down, bless his heart.  Needless to say, it didn’t work.  After threatening to quit, I stormed off shaking like an oak tree caught in a hurricane.

Unfortunately for me and for whoever is at the other end, once that switch is flipped it’s very, very difficult for me to use any sense whatsoever.  It all goes out the window.  All of it.  DH and I have had a disagreement or two in public, and I have been very vocal about it.  He has better sense than I do.  He keeps his mouth closed until we get home.  Me?  The entire world pretty much sees what an ass I am.  I do the same thing with The Kid.  Every single time I regret it.  For days.  Every apology in the world just doesn’t make me feel better.

So yesterday when this person — let’s call him/her “Pat” — pushed me over that edge, I lost it.  Without giving too many details, Pat was a bit too derogatory and condescending for my taste.  Maybe it’s my own insecurities that got the best of me.  But I do not like being spoken to like a 5 year old.  It just doesn’t sit with me well.  There is a way to speak to people.  To communicate.  With that being said, I was less than professional in return.  Which also sounds suspiciously like not communicating.  Hmmm.  I do happen to see the error of my ways.  And am accountable for them.

Which made me do this when I got into work this morning:  apologize to the coworker who was trying to calm me down.  Because he did not deserve that.  And apologize to my manager.  I even tried to apologize to Pat.  Not for being angry, but for behaving unprofessionally.  Because I deserved to feel angry.  And no one can take that away from me.  I took the high road.  “Pat” does not see the error of her/his ways.  But that’s okay. Pat has to live in this world with him/herself.  I did, however, make it very, VERY clear that I will not be spoken to in that manner ever again.  Right now, Pat is not speaking to me.  I think it’s for the best.

My Retail Job is not a big deal in the big picture.  It will not be forever.  It gives me something to do while The Kid is off doing things that really does not require my help.  But I feel like I’m contributing.  It may be a little.  And when I say “a little”, I mean a puny little.  This job also gives me confidence.  I can call it mine.  And I happen to like it.  Right now, I have to coexist with this person.  I have to make it work because I spend more than half my week there.  So, I will repeat after me…”I am filled with love, forgiveness and peace.”  This I can do.  Let’s just hope there are no cliffs.

Fido Is Coming For Dinner

I am not a cook.  I never claimed to be.  In fact, it’s a joke among my family and friends.  Sure.  I can cook up something real good when I am in the mood.  But I need to be in the mood.  Which is rarely.

I really, really loathe the “what’s for dinner” question from DH.  He asks every day.  No really.  Every.single.day.  It doesn’t matter what time it is.  The question could come at 9am.  It could come at 4pm.  After a meal.  Before a meal.  Whether he is hungry or not.  Every single day.  I really do try to make myself unavailable.  You know.  When I see him coming, I pretend I’m on the phone.  Or go into the bathroom and feign diarrhea.  I’ll even try to change the subject before he brings up that subject.  Because I always know.

Every week, I sit and make a plan.  I plan every meal.  Every week.  The problem is sometimes I make crap that I know the family may not enjoy because it’s easy.  I also plan a meal I’ve made a bazillion times.  There could be a chance that they are sick of it, but I don’t want to know.  Because it’s easy.

Tonight, I had plans to go out for drinks with a friend.  Not dinner.  Just drinks.  But I knew that we would probably order some appetizers.  Which means that I would probably not be eating dinner.  You know, when I got home.  I generally like to make dinner for the family on nights like this because otherwise I’ll feel guilty.  But guess what it has to be?  Easy.

I found a recipe online for beef stir fry.  Who doesn’t like stir fry?  It had 5 ingredients or less which is my rule for making a meal.  Unless I am in the mood, of course.  Which is — say it with me — rarely.  I bought some stuff at My Retail Job.  You know.  The “beef.”  I added some carrots, broccoli, garlic, soy sauce.

I had a nice time with my girlfriend.  We shared some damn nice appetizers.  When I got home, I asked the question I truly didn’t want to know the answer to.  “How was dinner?”  They both looked at me like I just crapped my pants.  With total disgust.  DH’s reply?  “Why did you give us Alpo?  And by the way, we saved you some.  And I’m gonna make you eat it.”

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This is tonight’s dog food, er, I mean, dinner. Okay, probably not the best choice.

Ok, so I’m not the best beef picker outer.  Maybe it was full of a little too much grizzle.  I really didn’t have much of a choice.  But damn.  I made dinner.  Hey, at least they got some vegetables.  Isn’t that what matters most?

Maternity Wear Third Floor

Have you seen pregnant women these days?  I see them all the time at My Retail Job.  They are cute as a damn button. Cute.as.a.button.  Why?  Because maternity wear designers stopped making tents.  Either that or tent designers stopped making maternity wear.  I’m glad for the modern pregnant lady.  I’m also a bit jealous.  15 years ago, all that was available was the Coleman Special XXL.

I was so excited to start showing.  I couldn’t wait to wear maternity wear.  Because I was so impatient, I would go into a dressing room and strap on whatever size belly I wanted and had at it.  As I tried on one dress, or shirt or pants after another, I felt more and more horrible.

All DH heard from the other side of the curtain was “Oh God”, “ooohhhhh no”, “Give me a break”, “Dear Lord”, “You’ve got to be kidding”, “What the f***” (before WTF was fashionable) and finally “I give up.”  He would feverishly bring me more and more things to try on.  I remember it just getting worse and worse.  One tent was as awful and ugly as the next.  And lest I remind you, I wasn’t even big yet.  I hadn’t gained much weight.  I was barely showing.  My booty was still a size Small, so were my thighs, arms and boobs.  You can just imagine how these articles of clothing looked on me when I was showing.  Lucky for you, I have attached a pic.  Enjoy:

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Maybe a belt would have made things better. But probably not.

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So, today’s expectant mom?  I guess I just should have thrown on a t-shirt from my drawer.  Or a wrap-dress from my closet.  Because that is basically what they are wearing.  These new age maternity clothes are fitted and flattering.  Seriously.  Why didn’t I think of that?  Can I rewind time?  Can I ask for my uterus back?  Because I want a do-over.

I swear I had a dress just like this.

I swear I had a dress just like this.and 14 of these

…and 20 of these.

 

The Big Flush

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I have some words of advice for women who use the bathroom at their child’s preschool during menstruation.  Don’t put your tampon in the toilet.  I actually broke my own rule this day.  I usually never put a tampon in the toilet.  Even if I was at Caldor.  Or the mall.  Or a campground.  Because they are not good for the system, whether it be septic or sewer.  I know, I was very thoughtful.  Usually.

I was dropping The Kid off at her preschool when I realized I was having a problem down below.  I found a bathroom in the hall and used it.  The toilets were of the teeny tiny kind.  The kind where when you sit, your knees hit your chin.  And your ass cheeks hang over the side like a 1/4 Pounder shoved into a mini croissant.  Unless you are 4, probably not a good idea to try.  With or without your period.

I forgot my head, and suddenly realized I dropped the thing into the toilet.  I flushed.  It swirled around and around.  Like the Merry-Go-Round at the mall.  Needless to say, it didn’t go down.  Another flush.  And another ride around the rim it did.  I started to break out in a major sweat.  And felt like I had to poo (when I get really nervous, I get the sensation.  And I’m not talking about that kind you have from being on top of a cool mountain).

Now, there was a way to rectify the situation.  Stick my hand in and pull the sucker out, wrap it in toilet paper and toss it into the can.  Garbage can.  I even could have just left it there.  No one would have been the wiser.  But the old Catholic guilt was eating away at me.  Instead, I proceeded to the office of the school’s Director and told her about my problem.  There is nothing more embarrassing than having a woman who you do not know watch your bloody tampon do pirouettes in a toilet made for munchkins.

I got reprimanded.  “Mrs. M., please do not use the children’s bathrooms anymore.  We have toilets for big girl’s down the hall.  And no tampons.  Please.”  I was expecting her to slap the back of my hand and send me to the corner.  It was then that the thought of going fishing occurred to me.

Whenever I see the director around town, I literally run in the opposite direction.  Or hide until she goes away.  Not that she would remember that I was the tampon lady.  But just in case.  So, if you see me cowering at the local craft store between the acrylic and latex paints, you’ll know why.

See a Penny, Pick It Up

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See this dollar bill?  I saw it on my run this morning.  I almost ran right over it without a thought.  Actually, I did have a thought.  I thought, “what the hell can a dollar get?”  Then I had a second thought.  I remembered as a teen I saw a quarter on the sidewalk.  My dad asked me why I didn’t pick it up.  My reply was that it wasn’t enough money to buy anything with.  So, in honor of that moment with my father, I picked up the dollar bill.

When I got home, I thought of what I can buy with one dollar.  It seems there isn’t much. Well, unless you take your dollar bill to the dollar store.  But then you have to pay tax, so that doesn’t count.  It took me some time, but I came up with 10 things.

  1. 9 pieces of Bazooka gum (ten, if you didn’t have to pay tax — stupid tax)
  2. 4 paperbacks from your local library sale
  3. A song from i-tunes
  4. A tip for a pole dancer
  5. One scratch off lottery ticket
  6. Small fries from the dollar menu
  7. Pencils
  8. Raffle ticket
  9. 2 limes
  10. The Monday-Saturday local newspaper

So, you can read a book and eat some fries while watching a stripper.  Not such a bad life.  Oh wait, that would be 3 dollars.  Never mind.  So then I thought that I would have good luck today.  Even though that expression refers to picking up a penny, there is inflation after all.  I didn’t get hit by a car, I had a good day at work, I ran 4 miles without having a heart attack.  Yeah, it was a good day. Can’t wait to spend that dollar though.  What should I get?