Everyone knows how much I love the grocery store. Well, I didn’t go just once this week, I went TWICE. Why, you ask? Because I’m the dumb ass who forgot something, or some things. Forgetting stuff during Can-Can week is a mortal sin in my book.
I was expecting some friends over Monday night and in addition to some essentials I had, um…forgotten, I wanted to get one of those Dura-Logs so we could have a nice cozy fire.
Anyway, I can’t find the damn log. I have been up and down every dang isle TWICE looking for it. I wish Shop Rite would stop moving crap around. To top it off, I can’t find a single staff member.
I’m ready to sock the idea when I finally see not one, but two store employees talking amongst themselves at the end cap of isle number 14. I squeeze in as closely as I can to avoid being stampeded and stare at them for a good half minute hoping to catch their attention. They look at me and continue on. Great.
So, just to recap real quick…I’m pissed because I’ve walked all over the f’ing store not once, but twice. I can’t find a single employee who can help me and when I do find an employee, I’m completely ignored. Oh, and I’m dodging can-loving freaks like bullets. Do I sound like I’m in a good mood???
Suddenly, I hear this — “look lady, pick a direction and move in it.” When I look up, I realize he is speaking to me. He reminded me of Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz with his fingers pointed in both directions, but not so cute. “You’re holding up traffic.” Geez, if he only had a brain.
The look I shot Scarecrow could have frozen the Amazon. I think I actually saw fear in his eyes. And the log? I passed the whole blasted stack of ’em coming in the front door.
Yesterday I told of my daughter’s special gift of my leftover “incidentals.” Well, at least they had a sticky strip to make her life easier. Would you like to hear about MY hand-me-down?
Hysterectomies run in my family. A tradition that runs 4 generations deep on my maternal side. Anyway, when my mom lost her “womanhood”, she left me a nice surprise but I wouldn’t find out about it until it was too late. Believe me, if I had known it would have accidentally died in a fire.
Mother Nature showed up when I was 14, sitting in my room, on the floor, doing a puzzle. My mother was at work. My father was home. Oh God.
I called my mom in total panic mode. She instructed me to go to the hall closet. In the said closet on the top shelf is where it was, cobwebs and all. What I pulled down completely had me puzzled.
What is it? A headband? A dog collar? I could only wish. For those of you who don’t know, it’s called a Sanitary Belt. Honestly, I think it was a hand me down from HER mother. And the pad I had to use? It looked like it was made for a menstrating elephant. Never mind an 80 pound teenage girl child. Once I figured it out and got it on, it flopped about until dad drove me to the nearest pharmacy where he made ME go in and get some supplies.
Well, 30 years and many therapy sessions later, I’m over it. And whatever became of the belt? It’s hanging in the Smithsonian. Right next to the torture rack.
When the kid was about 2, my monthly visitor Flo, started getting a bit too heavy for my taste. I could get graphic, but I will spare you the bloody details.
It only took about 10 years for my OB to realize that my fibroid was the “first I’ve ever seen in my 30 year career.” It had faster growth than Arnold Schwarzenegger on steroids.
These were my choices: medication that would catapult me into early menopause (having bamboo shoots rammed under my nail beds seemed more appealing) or a hysterectomy. The good doctor thought I should think it through, talk to the hubby. Yeah right. My hubby isn’t the one with the tumor the size of Mount Vesuvius, which by the way, oozed less than I did. I immediately replied with a “let’s rip ‘er out.” No thought necessary.
I think I was most surprised by everyone’s reaction. I thought for sure they’d all be as happy as I was. I felt like I did when I first learned of my pregnancy. I couldn’t wait to share the news. DH thought I should get a second opinion and some thought I would be hurled into a depression.
Well, the second opinion? Thanks, honey, but if you’ve removed one uterus, you’ve removed them all. This isn’t brain surgery. And depression? I had one person send me a link to a Dr. Oz show on just this thing. Give me a break. I was more depressed when they stopped airing “Thirty Something.”
So, I had a Bon Voyage party for my period and on April 7, 2010 my tumor and lady parts were removed and deposited into the nearest dump. I kid you not — I was the happiest I have been EVER! As far as all the incidentals I still had: I wrapped them up in a pretty bow and gave them to my daughter as a gift. She didn’t appreciate it. Ingrate.
Today, after school, the kid and I went to the store to return a gift she had received. I saw the perfect parking spot. Here’s the only problem:
Sure, when I was 19 and weighed all but 98 pounds. Not so much for a middle-aged woman who’s middle has gone south with the geese and who’s as flexible as a 90 year old gymnast.
I thought for a minute. I guess I can always just park somewhere else. Nah, the kid is already outside waiting for me. It would be way too much trouble.
I proceed to haul my fat ass across the middle console and over the passenger seat so I can exit the vehicle. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Well, it didn’t go as smoothly as all that. Here’s proof because my sweet daughter took it upon herself to snap some photos. Stupid iPhone.
After losing a shoe and a little pee, I made it. But I can promise you, that will never be attempted again. You have my word.
As part of my Christmas present this year, my dad transferred all of our family video from when the kid was born to present onto DVD. What a great gift. I couldn’t wait to start watching them.
So, on Christmas morning after we opened our gifts and had our traditional Christmas breakfast, DH, the kid, my parents, my mother-in-law and I sat down to watch a couple of them before the day got too crazy. It was a very relaxing morning and I was relishing every moment. Until we got about 12 minutes into Video #3.
Let me set the stage: It’s Christmas 2000. The kid is 2 1/2 years old. She is coming down the stairs and my husband is capturing her reaction to all the presents Santa left for her under the tree. Priceless.
Allow me to fast forward…
ME: Ok, let’s open the last one over here (crackling of ripping paper). Do you know what it is?
ME: It’s your very own vanity table so that when mommy is putting on her makeup you can put on yours! See, it’s got a curling iron, a blow job, make up, a mirror that lights up….
Wait a minute, back up the truck. Did I say…”Blow JOB???” Yup, leave it to me to turn our G-Rated family video into an X-Rated one. All I wanted to do was run into the middle of the road and pray for an 18 wheeler to put me out of my misery.
The funny part is, DH even laughed in the video and told me what I said. I completely denied it. His response was that he had it on video. Quite unfortunate for me, I never checked.
What did I learn from this? Don’t allow extended family to watch old video without pre-screening them first. I found out the hard way…
While at my local mall the other day, I saw this in the men’s department of Macy’s:
Good God, what do these dummies do after store hours? I tried to figure out his story.
First of all, what’s with the guy behind him? Never mind, I don’t think I want to know.
So, maybe he got this way by trying to change his pants? After all, look at that color. Poor guy. It’s bad enough he doesn’t have a head.
Then I looked again. Really looked…and thought, “What the hell is the matter with me? How did I miss it?” Right there in the open too. I guess it just goes to show they are all the same, human or plastic. Even if it means losing a limb…or two.
Over the summer, a good friend who sells Mary Kay gave me a free lip gloss for being such a good customer. One morning as I was getting ready for the day, I put it on. I’d been dying to wear it. UGH! “What the hell? I loved the sample size when I tried it, why does it look so different? In fact, this looks like lip gloss for dark colored skin.”
I immediately texted my friend and complained to her that she sent me the wrong item. I was so disappointed because she lives in another state and getting the correct item was not going to be as simple as driving over to her house.
Here are our text exchanges from July 29. Lucky for me I never delete my messages:
Me: I hate to sound like an ingrate, but I don’t like the lip color you sent me. It’s awful.
Jen: Really??? I’m sorry.
Me: I went to put it on for the first time this morning and it just looks terrible on me.
Jen: But it barely has any color. I thought it was what you were looking for. Go on my website and pick a different one and I’ll send it to you asap.
Me: When I put it on it was so incredibly dark. There must have been a miscommunication cuz there is no way I would have wanted that one unless it’s different once it’s on. Is this gonna cost u money? I don’t want that to happen.
Jen: No not at all. What is the name of it? Maybe I made a mistake.
Me: LMFAO!!!! Don’t kill me….it’s EYE SHADOW. Oops! I grabbed the wrong one out of the drawer. I was wondering why it was so dry!!!
Jen: ROFL. hahahahaha. You are sooooo silly.
Me: Oh duh, that lip gloss you sent me is in my pocketbook. I’ve been using it for a week.
Jen: Are you drinking?
No, I wasn’t drinking, but maybe I should have been.
I have many, many pet peeves. But let me tell you about the one that tops the list. The improper use of too/to, there/their and your/you’re.
This makes me cringe: “It’s you’re job too get there kids.”
This makes me bonkers: “Their, their, don’t cry. I feel the same way to. Your only human.”
This makes me want to jump off a freaking cliff — what I call the mother lode:
“I, to, love spaghetti so my friend invited us over there house too have some. But they live way over their, on the other side of town. Do you think you’re sister can stop by too pick us up since she’s going to? Thank you, your such a peach.”
So please, tell me…who was your grammar teacher? Dan Quayle?
My husband and I decided long before we married that probably one child would be enough for us. We were completely fine with it but it seems no one else was.
Them: So, when are you going to have another child?
Me: Um, never…
Them: Oh my, I’m sorry.
Me: No, really, it’s okay.
Them: So what is it? His sperm? Your eggs? You know, my husband’s sperm are slow swimmers. Just stand on your head, it’ll turn those bastards into a pack of little Mark Spitzes.
Me: Well, no, there’ no problem there. We just don’t want to have any more.
Them: (GASP) WHAT??? Oh.my.god. That is totally not a real family. No, two is a family, but one? One is a pet.
Okay dude, like really? If I had a dime for every time I got that reaction or something close to it, I’d have to change my name to Ivana Trump. All I know is there are a lot of people walking around with more balls than Yankee Stadium.
So, if we are not a family, then what are we? A pack of dogs? A pet sitting service? Well, she has always been good at fetching my slippers. I guess we should have changed her name to Fido.
I have a slight problem. That problem would be the extra skin, flab, lard, fat — more affectionately known as “The Muffin Top” — around my midsection. Really. I’m not running a bakery, so what gives?
Every day, I agonize over getting dressed. Now of course, if I were willing to give up my size 6 jeans and give in to my “real” size (that would be an 8 or…cough, cough…a 10) I wouldn’t have the problem of spillage. Yes, I can get them zippered and buttoned. But only after a few squats, stretches and very — and I mean VERY — deep inhales. The wondrous sight that awaits me is not pretty. Let me introduce you to my BFF — the loose fitting top with the elastic around the waist, so it doesn’t show belly you wouldn’t want your own mother to see.
Over the summer I attended a wedding. I kid you not, I had to pour myself into not one, but TWO spanx-like devices so that my tummy would appear slimmer. Forget about sitting down all day. And using the bathroom? Well, let me just say when I excused myself to relieve the bladder, my DH was close to sending out a search team. I do appreciate the Spanx. ALOT. Thank you to the brilliant person who invented them. I really do LOVE you! (Disclaimer: if someone tries to hug you, brush up against you, or even get within arms length of you while wearing these contraptions, your cover is totally blown.)
So why buy bigger jeans and possibly look better too? Because I’ve got it under “control.” And anyway, I’m going on a diet Monday. Nachos anyone?