We all have them, the things that you see or do or see others doing that freak you right. the hell. out.
Here’s a partial list of mine:
1.Getting a text from my dentist’s office about how excited they are to see me on such and such date. Really? You look forward to inflicting pain? Dentists are freakishly weird.
2. Having the vet’s office ask me which of my “kids” or “babies” I’m calling about, AND when I’m there and go into an exam room, they announce that so-and-so’s “mommy” is waiting in such-and-such room. I’m pretty sure mating with animals is illegal…wait, it’s still illegal to mate with critters, right? Tell me I’m right. PLEASE. Because, if it’s not then I’ve crossed over from freaked to full-on fecked up.
4. I skipped 3.
5. You just went back to look.
6. Drones. I actually swatted at my hair the other night, thinking the drone overhead was a swarm of bees trying to kill me. In my defense, it was my first droney-bee encounter, and it was high enough above me that I missed. Dammit.
7. My frat-boy neighbors, a/k/a The Dronemasters. They NEVER sleep. Never. Go to bed at midnight? They’re up. Get up at 2:00 a.m.? They’re up. 4:00 a.m.? They’re up! They do this every night, then all their vehicles leave during the day. I think they’re vampires…and now I’m really freaked out. And lest you think I’m that neighbor peering out my windows at the frat boys, may I remind you that I can’t see their house from the only window I have that faces them. I have to go outside to verify this. I’m just looking out for you. You’re welcome.
So, what freaks you right-the-hell-out?
…why I love my husband. so. very. much.
Picture a blender, filled to the brim with:
- Greek yogurt
- protein powder
And by “filled” I mean 8 cups full. The above is what goes into my blender every morning to make the smoothies we drink/eat for breakfast every day.
This morning was no different, at least not until the moment when I pushed the button and the bottom of the glass jar separated from the plastic fluglebinder what screws onto the bottom and fits over the pin that makes the whirly-whoosh go ’round.
It’s very technical, so try to keep up.
Suddenly it looked like some unfortunate soul had blown chunks all over my stove, the counter, the tiny space between the two, the blender and me.
“Feckity, feckity, feckity, FUCK!” I screamed.
Hubby, from the bedroom said, “What happened?”
To which I replied, “The blender came apart and there’s blender-puke everywhere!”
He came out of the room, obviously not able to grasp the concept of “blender-puke” and upon surveying the carnage said, “But, what happened? I mean how?”
“I don’t know,” I said, grabbing paper towels to try and stem the river before it hit the floor. “but, it looks like it separated.”
“How?” He asked, his voice registering agitation.
“Look,” I began, getting pissed, “I don’t have time to argue with you about how it happened right now.”
“What? You can’t multi-task?” He said, his face a deadpan.
I started to giggle, and then he started to giggle, and then we cleaned up the barf.
And that is why I love him. He makes me laugh, even when I don’t want to.
And you thought I was going to relay some sappy story about hearts and flowers and shit like that, didn’t you? It’s like you don’t even know me.
Instead, we just got the tree up but not decorated, and I’m still waiting for all the gifts to arrive (I shop online whenever possible).
My house looks like I’m in the midst of moving, half-full boxes of Christmas decorations and the boxes that hold those decorations are in just about every room.
We just got back from another frigid trip to Missouri. This time to bury my sweet mother-in-law.
It was a sad time, but the snowfall was beautiful.
And this is a short week before I’m off again.
How do rock bands do it?
Nevermind, most of them aren’t as old as me.
If I don’t get back here..Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and to be on the safe side, Happy Easter!
As an executive admin I had to relieve our receptionist at lunch from time to time when I worked for Major Retailer at their corporate headquarters.
This is how the phone exchanges went every time:
ME: Thank you for calling Major Retailer, how may I direct your call?
CALLER: Is Mr. Bigshot there?
ME: May I ask who’s calling?
CALLER: Mr. Biggershot
ME: One moment,please.
Then, I’d hit the “HOLD” button and everything that just took place would disappear from my brain.
Sometimes, I had to go back to the caller 2-3 times before I’d retain the information long enough to transfer the call to the right person.
Before too long, I was permanently relieved from receptionist relief.
I never have figured out why. My guess is they paid me too much to sit up at the front desk and take calls.
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.
My mother calls me, and this is how it goes…
MOM: Hi there, honey, just wanted to let you know I’ve changed my e-mail address and it’s email@example.com
ME: Again? You just changed it.
MOM: I know, but AOL was pissing me off.
ME: You had Yahoo! mail, Mom.
MOM: Then Yahoo! was pissing me off.
MOM: And I need your cell phone number again.
*she’s just called me on my cell*
ME: Wha? You called me on my cell.
MOM: Yes, but I don’t know what the number is.
ME: I…wha…um….okay. (at this point, there’s no logic I can use to make her understand “Contacts”, so I just go along with it) I’ll e-mail it to you.
MOM: And while you are at it, can you send me all the kids’ e-mails too? I lost the list when I changed e-mails.
ME: Okay, but I also mailed you a typed copy.
MOM: Yeah, I don’t know what I did with it.
I send her the information she asked for and another week goes by…….
My cell phone rings.
MOM: Hi honey, just wanted to let you know that AOL was pissing me off, so I have a new e-mail account.
MOM: …and I’m going to need your cell number, and everyone’s e-mail address again.
ME: *unscrewing the flask and taking a giant swig* Okay, Mom (I say way too brightly)
And another week goes by, and my cell rings again.
MOM: Hi honey, Yahoo! was screwing up my e-mails so I changed accounts…..
ME: *unscrewing the lid to the convenient economy-sized bottle of Xanax* Imagine that………
I got this spam comment on here the other day, and I deleted it because it pissed me off.
And, there’s probably a way to retrieve deleted comments, but damned if I know how.
This post is not about retrieving deleted comments.
It’s about the inability of any blogger to always be on top of her (or his) game.
So Sir Spambot told me he used to come here and read my posts because I was hilarious and uplifting, and now…not so much.
Well, it’s easy to be a critic when that’s all you do.
Which brings me to my next point.
Was this a spammer, or was this an honest opinion?
Doesn’t matter, I deleted it and promptly got all righteous and stuff about how I am such a “brilliant” writer and how dare anyone question my blogging capabilities.
Then I threw up in my mouth a little.
Then I decided I was at least partially right. At least the part about the difficulties of writing a blog for entertainment purposes. The rest? Yeah, not so much.
But, I am honest…or at least I try to be.
Look, whoever you are…if you are a real person…you may have a point. I maybe don’t always have that edge. Maybe I’m not all that interesting, maybe I am boring sometimes, but guess what? This is my little corner of the worldwide web, and if you don’t like it go somewhere else.
I am convinced my house is haunted.
The latest evidence is presented here for your entertainment:
We have cable television. We have a remote controller for the cable television. We use the remote to scroll through upcoming shows, and set reminders for the ones we want to watch.
Anyone who has cable/satellite you can skip this part because you obviously know what I’m talking about. Y’all go have some cookies – they’re warm, right out of the oven – while I explain this to everyone else.
Everyone else – with me so far?
Okay, we set a reminder the other day so that when “Ironman” came on, a small pop-up comes up on the television screen to let us know it’s on. If you mash the “OK” button on the remote, the television will magically switch the channel to the reminder channel and voila! you are watching “Ironman” (or whatever you set a reminder for).
Okay, those of you who went out for cookies come back in here and leave some for the rest of us!
Now, here’s where things get weird.
The reminder for “Ironman” came up as I was in the kitchen and hubby was in the office. Neither of us was within 10 feet of the remote when the channel suddenly changed on its own, and “Ironman” began to play.
We spent the next ten minutes alternately blaming each other for changing the channel and refusing to admit it, and staring at each other wide-eyed while remarking how very weird that was.
I finally gave up and said, “Very funny, Ralph (the name I chose to give our poltergeist), but don’t do it again.”
My house is haunted, y’all.
I’m kinda/sorta/maybe in the market to replace the 8-yr. old 165K miles-on-it car that I really do like. It’s just starting to have ‘issues’, and much as I hate break-ups I hate breakdowns even more.
Besides, at my age, my ass/back needs something comfy to sit in when I drive. And with the elebenty-hunnert grandchildren around these days we need something larger.
After much looking around the ‘Net I decided I want a Chevy Traverse. Hubby is underwhelmed at the idea of getting into payments again, so he has thus far refrained from shopping or test-driving.
I blame him for what happened Tuesday.
I found a very nice-looking Traverse with low mileage and a great price at a dealership near my house, so I decided to go by there and test drive it on my way home.
I’ve always been one to engage in the idle chatter that a used-car salesman will instigate the minute you get inside the vehicle for the test. This time I was tired, and I was trying to get a feel/listen to the Traverse, so I was silent.
ChattyBoy was not…so, he only has himself to blame for this:
ChattyBoy (CB): This is a nice vehicle, isn’t it? And you just never, ever find one for under $20K anywhere. Not ever.
ME: *silent as I’m navigating the turns out of the parking lot onto the street, but I notice there’s something ‘off’ about this vehicle*
CB: Nosiree, never one this low-priced. And…umm…it’s really nice, not scratches, no dings…..
ME: *except the scratched-to-hell inside of the back hatch door, and the chunk missing from one of the third-row seat backs and there’s something wrong with the way this thing handles*
CB: …and an exceptionally nice ride, for what’s basically a large SUV…handles pretty well, doesn’t it? And, the price! Can you believe it? Did I mention it’s also a ‘Certified’ vehicle? Yep, it goes through a 177 point inspection. All that for a remarkable price. So, what’s your budget?
ME: *finally speaking* I don’t have a set budget, it depends on the vehicle and there’s something really wrong with the suspension or else one of the right-side tires is in the shape of a football.
CB: *after a few seconds* You may be right.
ME: 177 point inspection? Really?
CB: *beaming*Yep, it’s got an extended warranty and it’s Certified.
ME: 177 points, and yet the mechanics missed the fact that one of tires may be in the shape of a football…or, there’s something much larger going on and that’s a big problem.
CB: *nervous laughter* Yeah, sometimes I wonder where the mechanic’s heads are at.
ME: So, if they missed this big a problem, what kind of confidence can I have that any of the other 177 points were addressed?
ME *on a roll now* And while we are at it, I’ve seen plenty of vehicles at or below this one’s price.
CB: Really? Where?
ME: At other-much-larger-dealership nearby.
CB: *sulking* Well, yeah..but they do a huge volume…
ME: Look, bud, you’re the one going on and on about pricing…and you know what? I wouldn’t pay that for this vehicle. It’s beat to hell, drives like it’s run the Baja, and is the most vanilla version of a Traverse.
By this time we were back at the dealership and he almost waited for the car to stop completely before getting out.
I walked into the showroom with him as he kept apologizing for the lousy condition of the car and promising it would get fixed.
CB: So, if we fix the problems, how much would you be willing to pay?
ME: No more than $13K (the sticker was $16.5K)…and I mean not a penny more.
CB: *looking crestfallen* I’ll call you.
ME: Yeah, you do that.
As I left I realized I’d just come across as the biggest bitch on the planet, and I also realized I don’t give a shit. I’m there to spend money, my money, and it’s going to be on my terms.
But, I have to admit I’d of been a lot less bitchy if hubby had gone with. He’s the voice-of-reason, and my warrior and protector. ChattyBoy wouldn’t have tried so hard after Hubby gave him that sideways glance the first time the car wonky-wooed to the right.
I told hubby about my adventure when I got home and his only response was, “You really shouldn’t be allowed to go places alone.”
Can’t argue with that logic.
I’ve been away from here for a few days, for the three of you who may have noticed, and being around my grandchildren has brought some unexpected and hilarious theater which I’m about to share:
Five-yr-old-grandson: Oooh…oooh…I hurt my junk-junk! (after flopping face-first into the couch)
Me: Your ‘junk-junk’?
FYOG: (grabbing his crotch ala Michael Jackson) Yeah, mah balls! I hurt mah balls!
Same FYOG: What if the world were made of peanut butter? (as part of a conversation with me and his big sister, the deathly-allergic-to-peanuts grandchild)
Me: Well, sissy would be screwed.
FYOG: *giggles uncontrollably*
Me: Of course, we could put her in a big plastic bubble to protect her.
FYOG: Then she’d be a hamster! (collapses in fits of giggles)
And then there’s the 13-mo. old who is learning to walk….
She is taking some tentative steps when she suddenly flops forward and faceplants on the only square foot of ceramic tile within 20 feet of her!
Much wailing ensued, and was assuaged with application of my frozen teddy bear ice pack for kids – which she promptly shoved into her mouth to soothe her inflamed gums from the four teeth she has coming in right now.
Conclusion? Being a baby is painful, and flopping on the couch face first will hurt your junk-junk.