So, let's say that it's about 7:30am, and let's say I'm in the garden center at the register. Let's say a woman who worked here briefly rolls in the gate. Let's say that she's 60 if she's a day, and that she's got her long gray hair up in a pony tail. Let's say, also, that she, and her liver spots, are in all their early morning glory.
Let's also say that she's not wearing a bra. And even though temps are somewhere close to 80 degrees F, there's cold weather indication going on.
Let's say EWWWWWWW.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
We Don't Go Out Much
And this is exactly why:
The Howler is at her grandparents' house for the week. That means, NO KIDS! PRAISE THE LORD--NO KIDS!
It also means that we had the opportunity to go out and have a nice, but high priced meal, at a restaurant, without the benefit of wondering if the Howler would have an unsuspecting adult tied to a chair with duct tape.
We went to Red Lobster, mostly because our hometown is pathetic enough to not have an Olive Garden, and while I love the one local Italian restaurant, I wasn't in the mood to look at the owner (he's an ass) or his wife's ass (as she bends over while wearing her low-rise cords.)
The waitress was a bit gung-ho, but I assume that's the new, all invasive grab for dining dollars that's going on--drive the diners to distraction by asking them, literally every 3 minutes, if "everything okay?"
Shortly after our meals arrived, a woman in a gray pantsuit stops at our table and says, "Meals okay and all?" Startled (with full mouths) we nod and she enters the ladies room.
The Flypaper for Freaks magnetism has now extended into dining out: She had nothing on her person that would lead the casual observer to know that she worked there.
The Howler is at her grandparents' house for the week. That means, NO KIDS! PRAISE THE LORD--NO KIDS!
It also means that we had the opportunity to go out and have a nice, but high priced meal, at a restaurant, without the benefit of wondering if the Howler would have an unsuspecting adult tied to a chair with duct tape.
We went to Red Lobster, mostly because our hometown is pathetic enough to not have an Olive Garden, and while I love the one local Italian restaurant, I wasn't in the mood to look at the owner (he's an ass) or his wife's ass (as she bends over while wearing her low-rise cords.)
The waitress was a bit gung-ho, but I assume that's the new, all invasive grab for dining dollars that's going on--drive the diners to distraction by asking them, literally every 3 minutes, if "everything okay?"
Shortly after our meals arrived, a woman in a gray pantsuit stops at our table and says, "Meals okay and all?" Startled (with full mouths) we nod and she enters the ladies room.
The Flypaper for Freaks magnetism has now extended into dining out: She had nothing on her person that would lead the casual observer to know that she worked there.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Jeepers Creepers
I've got a Peeper.
Yesterday, I got to meet the one neighbor, who live the other way--opposite all those mangy kids. He's definitely a little swishy, but that's not all. Oh, no, that's not all!
I met him because I noticed he was mowing the teeny tiny yard of Damien's house. He kept looking at me (sitting on my front porch, smoking, talking on the phone.) Then I noticed he was mowing the welcome mats at the house immediately behind the slumhouse. I decided to go find out just-exactly who he was and just-exactly what he was doing. He pointedly asked me if I was on the phone earlier when he was mowing at the slumhouse.
For no reason whatsoever, he told me his address repeatedly before telling me his name. During the course of the conversation, he pulls out his wallet (think George Costanza) and hands me his drivers license. Apparently, years--no, decades--of attracting freaks has inured me to their freakiness, because all I could think to say was, "Oh. Nice." and hand the thing back. Thinking about it today, he's probably licking the finger sweat/oil from where I touched it.
I finally escape, and am filing my latest and greatest (yesterday's post.) There's the doorbell--and it's Mr Jeepers. Says he came over to just tell me how cute and adorable my house is. Not the outside, the inside. He's really really clear on this point. My response? "What, are you peeping in my windows?" and laugh. His body language says he's horribly intimidated, but he can't bring himself to leave until he's told me this most important secret: (no, he didn't admit to being escaped from the Booby Hatch) zip codes, and city limits; how they interact and impact on the realities of his current address.
In all honesty, I'd be less disturbed if he were wearing a tinfoil business suit carrying an umbrella named June. I'm certain that he's the guy who sometimes walks in front of my house and just stands there, staring at my house.
Um, yeah. I don't think he's a pedophile--he's never out and about (or wandering, mowing, or staring) when the kids are all amok in the world. But now, I wonder if he came over and complimented my house in some weirdass effort to gain entry.
Jeepers Creepers, I gots me a Peeper.
Yesterday, I got to meet the one neighbor, who live the other way--opposite all those mangy kids. He's definitely a little swishy, but that's not all. Oh, no, that's not all!
I met him because I noticed he was mowing the teeny tiny yard of Damien's house. He kept looking at me (sitting on my front porch, smoking, talking on the phone.) Then I noticed he was mowing the welcome mats at the house immediately behind the slumhouse. I decided to go find out just-exactly who he was and just-exactly what he was doing. He pointedly asked me if I was on the phone earlier when he was mowing at the slumhouse.
For no reason whatsoever, he told me his address repeatedly before telling me his name. During the course of the conversation, he pulls out his wallet (think George Costanza) and hands me his drivers license. Apparently, years--no, decades--of attracting freaks has inured me to their freakiness, because all I could think to say was, "Oh. Nice." and hand the thing back. Thinking about it today, he's probably licking the finger sweat/oil from where I touched it.
I finally escape, and am filing my latest and greatest (yesterday's post.) There's the doorbell--and it's Mr Jeepers. Says he came over to just tell me how cute and adorable my house is. Not the outside, the inside. He's really really clear on this point. My response? "What, are you peeping in my windows?" and laugh. His body language says he's horribly intimidated, but he can't bring himself to leave until he's told me this most important secret: (no, he didn't admit to being escaped from the Booby Hatch) zip codes, and city limits; how they interact and impact on the realities of his current address.
In all honesty, I'd be less disturbed if he were wearing a tinfoil business suit carrying an umbrella named June. I'm certain that he's the guy who sometimes walks in front of my house and just stands there, staring at my house.
Um, yeah. I don't think he's a pedophile--he's never out and about (or wandering, mowing, or staring) when the kids are all amok in the world. But now, I wonder if he came over and complimented my house in some weirdass effort to gain entry.
Jeepers Creepers, I gots me a Peeper.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Truth in Advertising
Today, the evil entity I work for held a blood drive. I give blood for 2 reasons: the Howler needs that community service badge, or I suggested we do a blood drive at work, and feel obligated, since even the Weasel was excited to git r dun.
I gave blood today.
I understand that in yesteryear, giving blood was a simple matter of rolling up yer sleeve, and getting jabbed. Nowadays, it involves reading a long boring missive telling you a) all the reasons you cannot give blood--and because some schmoe didn't hear the 45billion newscasts about blood borne pathogens, the reasons why those reasons exist; and b) all the reasons you should make every effort to give blood, even if it's just so you can say to yourself, "I am not a totally self-involved asswipe."
The screening process takes longer than the actual bleeding, but as long as it's happening inside an air conditioned anything, I'll take it.
The questions they ask are more than a little invasive: Have you ever received money, drugs, or other payment for sex? Have you ever had anal sex with a homosexual male? are just two examples.
After they drained my blood, I ate my crackers and moved on...
My 10 year anniversary service prize had arrived. I picked it up, jokingly told a few co workers that it was my payment for 10 years of taking it up the ass with good humor, and left the building.
It occured to me on my way home, that I had lied to the Red Cross. Technically, I have accepted money, and other payments in exchange for a form of sex, or at least, humilation explained with a sexual metaphor. Does that disqualify me now?
I gave blood today.
I understand that in yesteryear, giving blood was a simple matter of rolling up yer sleeve, and getting jabbed. Nowadays, it involves reading a long boring missive telling you a) all the reasons you cannot give blood--and because some schmoe didn't hear the 45billion newscasts about blood borne pathogens, the reasons why those reasons exist; and b) all the reasons you should make every effort to give blood, even if it's just so you can say to yourself, "I am not a totally self-involved asswipe."
The screening process takes longer than the actual bleeding, but as long as it's happening inside an air conditioned anything, I'll take it.
The questions they ask are more than a little invasive: Have you ever received money, drugs, or other payment for sex? Have you ever had anal sex with a homosexual male? are just two examples.
After they drained my blood, I ate my crackers and moved on...
My 10 year anniversary service prize had arrived. I picked it up, jokingly told a few co workers that it was my payment for 10 years of taking it up the ass with good humor, and left the building.
It occured to me on my way home, that I had lied to the Red Cross. Technically, I have accepted money, and other payments in exchange for a form of sex, or at least, humilation explained with a sexual metaphor. Does that disqualify me now?
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