Category Archives: Guess You Had to Be There
All I wanted was pizza for us. Two of the grandkids and their daddy stopped by spur-of-the-moment, so it was Capt. Pizza Hut to the rescue.
Pizza was ordered, and I drove to pick it up.
I walked into the teen-eyenie storefront place to a pre-show for WWE Smackdown. (Is that right? I don’t watch wrastlin’)
Tall Skinny 40+ yr. old Dude (TSD) was red-faced leaning over the counter and accusing a terrified 17-yr. old boy of “denting my car”. The kid’s eyes were big as saucers as he tried ineffectively to apologize.
TSD was not satisfied and proceeded to point at the kid, out the window to his damaged car, and back at the kid telling him that is not how one reacts to denting a door. One is supposed to stop, render aid, drop and roll…or something like that.
That’s when Big Burly also 40+ yr. old Dude, who had been watching like the rest of us, stepped up and said, “Duuuuuuuuuude…you need to chill”
To which TSD, still seething (but not seeing BBD yet), replied with “You gonna ma-..” before realizing BBD had kick-ass written all over him.
Really, the dude was big. Even under his jacket I could tell he didn’t spend his spare time exclusively playing World of Warcraft (again, is that right? I also don’t do video games), but spent a good deal of it deadlifting Volkswagens and Prius’, perhaps even the occasional Leaf.
BBD took the silent pause to add, “He’s a kid, man, just chill out here. You don’t need to get in his face.”
TSD, not sufficiently recovered from his near ass-beatin’ experience, pointed to his Kia and said, “He opened his Mustang’s car door and slammed it right into mine.”
TSD’s little blonde wife came in at that moment, and nodded, “That’s right, and there’s a big dent in the door.”
It took everything I had not to say something smart-ass like, “You drive a POS Kia, dude. A good windstorm will crumple it.” But, for once I thought before speaking.
I am afraid this will become a habit. But, I digress.
By this time the Pizza Hut manager had joined the fray, and offers to provide insurance info, or call the police, were made. The POS Kia was inspected, tongues clucked, and then TSD and LBW were comped the pizza they’d been there to pick up. They left.
And that’s when I said, “Very nice of you to speak up, young man.”
Others said the same, but I still wonder if I should have added the high five or fist bump?
Yeah, well guess what showed up in my mailbox?
The original wandering t-shirt, and the replacement t-shirt that the good folks at 6 Dollar Shirts sent me.
And every day since then I’ve forgotten to take a picture of the two of them side-by-side to have for this post.
Every. Damned. Day. For. Over. A. Week.
I suck at picture taking, and apparently hate my own blog because I’ve also been meaning to post this for over a week.
So, anyway, now I have two t-shirts.
Take my word for it, because if you wait for pics…
One Saturday afternoon a quiet suburban couple, on a quiet suburban street were enjoying the peace and quiet of a home they shared as empty-nesters.
Suddenly, the door bell rang and the husband answered the door.
In burst “Wendy”, claiming to have just come from “your neighbor’s house”, and saying she wanted her guys to “shampoo your living room carpet”.
“We’ll be in and out in 30-40 minutes. And it won’t cost you a thing.”
The husband, either too flummoxed by Wendy’s fast-talk or seeing this as a way to get a free carpet cleaning so he wouldn’t have to do it, let her in.
He completely ignored the fact that anything ‘free’ is usually expensive. Especially when it shows up at your door on a Saturday afternoon.
Wendy’s “guys” followed her in the house dragging a large box with the word Kirby on the side.
By this time, the wife had emerged from her quiet reading room and seeing the “Kirby” logo new this would not end well.
Unless by ‘well’ you mean costing her and the husband a lot of money.
I guess it’s a matter of perspective.
Two and a half hours later, and the carpets, furniture, walls, and bed were vacuumed and one room’s carpets were clean and fluffy.
The house looked great. And it smelled fresh and clean.
The wife asked if in lieu of buying the Kirby, for the same amount of money would the guys just come over every weekend and clean her house.
The guys didn’t like that idea.
So, lo the husband presented the credit card and the Kirby changed hands, and all was good and well in the quiet suburban home on the quiet suburban street.
A few days later the doorbell rang again.
This time, the husband refused to answer the door.
It appears he is learning.
I didn’t listen.
He was right.
And not in a blatant, roll-over-you or fall-on-top-of-you way.
No, my car knows that if it’s going to kill me it will have to do it subtly.
Like, pretend it’s been shot and make me think that I’ve been shot.
That’s what it did on Sunday.
I was driving home from the store when I heard the loudest BANG! come from the driver’s side door.
I looked for a hole in the door. Nothin’.
I looked for blood running from me, somewhere. Nothin’.
Then, apparently because I hadn’t died from the non-shot shot, the driver’s side window suddenly SUH-LAMMED! down into the door frame.
I admit a twinge of pain in my chest as I reacted to that one.
Or it may have just been that I’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
Fortunately, I remembered.
I got home, and since hubby was mowing the front yard he yelled over the lawnmower “Shut your window!”
“I CAN’T. It’s GONE!” I replied, as I proceeded to wave my hand around in the window frame where there should have been a hefty piece of tempered glass but now there was just dusty, grass-filled air.
As if the fact that I was gone a short time mattered, hubby said: “You were gone for like 5 minutes. What happened?”
I shrugged, “I have no idea, but the glass is inside the door. Maybe we can get it out and I don’t know, duck tape it in place.”
He looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.
Needless to say, that idea went nowhere. Fast.
Also needless to say, I tried anyway and got nowhere. Fast.
The next morning I was waiting at the dealership – the only place that could fix the car quickly – and I spent the day at home, playing with my new Kirby.
That sounds way more kinky than it is.
A Kirby is not a “who”..it’s a “what”.
It’s a fancy-schmancy (read ‘expensive’) vacuum cleaner, and hubby bought me one recently.
When I went to pick up the car, the bill was well over $400 and included words like “replace” and “regulator” and probably “flugelbinder”.
I admit that I grew faint reading the numbers. So much so, that the ‘Service Advisor’ (why isn’t anyone just a plain-old mechanic anymore?) offered me a hefty discount if I promised not to die right there on the service-bay floor.
So, although well-played Vlad (my car’s name is Vlad, because he’s an Impala – wait a moment, you’ll get it) you failed to kill me…barely.
Better luck next time.
So, Sunday before my car tried to make me think someone had shot me, I was going to the store.
I got in my car, and started it; cranked the a/c up to full-arctic-blast.
I was pulling out of the driveway, when I saw a lady and her goat.
Yep, a lady had a black and white goat on a leash.
She was walking the goat.
Walking. The. Goat.
And, I don’t even live in a rural area.
I got in the car, muttering something about it being elebenty-bazillion degrees outside and how I must be hallucinating.
I drove down my street, and there was goat-lady again.
She was walking past a house, and the residents were standing outside.
Not one of them was trying to hide their shock at seeing a goat on a leash.
It was weird, but weirder yet is someone in my neighborhood has a goat that’s trained enough to walk on a leash.
I told my husband about it when I got home, and of course Bugsy, the Insane (my crazy cat) was listening to the conversation.
He was unimpressed.
I realize ‘placemarker’ is two words, but I’m kinda in a hurry.
So, I have posts to write about thinking I was shot, when it was only my car window thingy breaking.
About buying my first Kirby.
About the incredibly crazy young man who took me to the shop in the courtesy van to pick up my car after I realized I’d have to spend money to get it fixed and no one was shooting at me.
I’ll get to all this later this week.
I ain’t promising nothin’….
The other night I went to a pre-K graduation at a church-sponsored pre-school.
I’m looking forward to the day when there’s a cap and gown ceremony for kids who go from bottle to sippy cup, because we just don’t praise these little germ factories enough. But, that’s another rant for another day.
At the graduation, each little white gown and cap festooned 4 or 5-yr. old stands on stage, announces their name and says what they want to be when they grow up.
There were the usual aspirations – doctor, fireman, veterinarian, etc.
And the usual “cute” ones – fairy, princess, fairy princess, and pop star.
And then there was ‘Travis’ who told us all that when he grows up he wants to be……………………a dog. Personally, I think Travis is brilliant…and right on.
Just one thing that makes me giggle uncontrollably is autocorrect.
From my local IT professional last week, I received this text on the day I was expecting him to come to the office to work on some computers.
“won’t be there today…i’m six”
To which I (logically) replied.
“okay, hope you get older soon”
And then, over the weekend, from baby girl I get this lovely autocorrect:
“we want the walk mount”
“the tv walk mount”
By the end of this I could not read the screen through the tears.
And, I think I peed my pants a little.
Aardvark. Awkward. *dammit* Awesome.
A conversation between me and Baby Girl (BG)
ME: So, how was your camping trip with the family?
BG: Awesome! It was SO much fun!
BG: Except for the first night, when MJ projectile vomited everything everywhere and AJ wouldn’t go to sleep and cried all night. But other than that it was great!
(MJ is 5, AJ is 1)
ME: Eww…and on a camping trip, too! So, what did you do with all the stuff she puked on?
BG: Put it in a trash bag and then in the car.
ME: Bet it smelled *great* by the time you got home.
BG: I don’t know, it went right in the trash. Do you know how disgusting vomit smells? Yeah, try that in an enclosed space like a small tent. I thought I was going to puke, too.
ME: What caused it?
BG: I dunno. Coulda been the McNuggets, or maybe the s’mores. You know how sensitive her tummy is.
ME: Yeah. So what all did you do?
BG: There were a lot of hiking trails and we found a cave. It was really beautiful.
ME: Did you get that baby backpack to use?
BG: No, it was like $200. I wish we had though, because we took the jogging stroller and the trail was full of rocks so hubby had to carry the stroller most of the way and I had to carry AJ. And she kept crying because she wanted to get down and eat the rocks, dirt, pretty much everything.
ME: And this was the first night/day?
BG: Yep. The second night we were FREEEEZING. It was like 40 degrees, but I swear it felt like 4. And AJ wouldn’t sleep, and MJ was cold and I was wearing everything I brought and I was still shivering. So, I didn’t get any sleep.
BG: But, other than that it was great and on the way home MJ said it was so much fun and we should do it again.
BG: Well, mom, it’s been three years since the last camping trip and now I remember why. I’m sure, once the trauma fades from memory, we’ll do it again.
ME: Ha! Ha!
BG: Oh, and did you see the picture I posted on Facebook of the GIGANTIC tarantula in the bathroom?