Buckets

I've heard that everyone has a "Bucket List." I don't actually have mine written down, but there are a few things I've wanted to do, and I realize over the past few years, I've been able to do them.

They're not big things. They're not world-changing things.

But they've been things I wanted to do, and I've gotten to do them.

One of them was this:

See Nick Lowe perform. A year ago last September, that happened. A friend from work, who actually knew who he was and I drove 2 hours to see him. He performed my favorite song (I Knew the Bride) and hers (Allison) Also, heard a few songs I either didn't know were his, or hadn't heard before.

Two:

See Lynyrd Skynyrd. Did that this summer, with My Sweetie, the Toad, and the Howler. They also knew I was in the audience, because they also played my favorite song (Gimme Three Steps) the Howler's (Sweet Home Alabama) and the Toad's (Simple Man) The Howler got the T-shirt, because as parents, we're pretty great that way.

Three:

At first, it was to get myself to Conneaut Lake Park and ride the Blue Streak--one of the oldest wooden roller coasters in America--then it was to take the Toad so he could ride it. Did that several years ago. Gave up being able to take the Howler, because CLP is in sad shape these days. Discovered that it was open this summer, and took the Howler. (She absolutely loved it!) Does that count as 3 items, or one with sub-categories? I think it's a 3-fer, and it's my List. So nyah nyah nyah.

Four:

Eat John's Wildwood Pizza. Ate a LOT of it in 3 years at Edinboro University, but haven't had it since 1992 or 1993. Did that at the beginning of this month. We were in Edinboro anyway, and My Sweetie (always a good sport about my insanities) got ourselves a pizza. It was as good as I remember! Not sure if that counts as a Bucket List item either, but again, nyah nyah nyah.

Five:

Design & build a store display window. A good friend of ours has her office downtown, and I asked if I could do her window for Christmas. Luckily, she was ready for a new thing--and I got to do it! Of course, My Sweetie was, as always, a very good sport about it, and built the fireplace (in 2 days!) and was a good-natured pack-mule for hauling, lifting and moving. He also decorated the tree, helped with the higher stuff this short girl couldn't reach, and in general was helpful and non-grouchy about it. I'm pretty pleased with my first effort and will spend the next month gearing up to do it again in January!

In 14 months, I've completed 5 things I've always wanted to do. Now if I could just get my damned poetry manuscript published, I'd have to start over on with a new Bucket!

That's Not the Funny Part

My sister sends us a Christmas card every year. It usually arrives shortly after she gets home.

That's not the funny part.

This is: one year, she sent us a card, but didn't put a return address, and forgot to sign it. She was kinda mad when I never let her know how funny the card was. We all had a good laugh when we realized what a dip she is.

It gets even funnier, though.

This year, we get a card from her. It has a return address (yes, it was hers) and she had signed it.

That's not the funny part.

This is: She had our address wrong on it.

It got delivered anyway.

No, that's not a funny part.

But this is: I live in the house we grew up in. She lived her for 20+ years herself.

It Really Isn't About You

I hate people, but I especially hate grumpy, pushy, in-a-hurry old hags.

Monday was definitely MONDAY. I misplaced my car keys twice while trying to get out the door. For the first hour or so I was there, the garden center was not my happy place. Still better than being inside, but not by much.

Had Granny in her gators come in, ask me about trees, then wander off. She parked in the loading zone, effectively making her own parking space. It was fun to watch traffic swerve to keep from side-swiping her.

When she got back to the register, of course there was another customer who came up at the same time. And the fucktards who were looking at trees, but couldn't read the signage to tell them how much.

Granny had this gawd-awful light-up wreath with no item number or tag. F'ugly thing didn't even have a model number on it. Granny going in didn't have on a Santa hat. Granny has one on now...and it didn't have a tag of any sort either. Trying to look up these item numbers proved the impossible dream, and calling inside merely got me company in my frustration.

Granny decides to go inside to see if she can search something up for me. So I scan the next guy's crap. Sometime after Granny shut down my productivity, one of those in-a-hurry-hags also joined the line. While that guy was paying, Granny comes back. She's got nothing.

While she's telling me she's got nothing, in-a-hurry-hag shoves up my counter, waves her less than $6 in bows in my face and screeches, "Can you just take my money already? I want out of here!"

I politely (not just politely for me, neither) explain that I'm taking care of this customer and I'll be with her as soon as I possibly can. She shrieks something unintelligible and stomps off.

I finally get Granny taken care of and apologize for the problems. Hag has already stomped out thru the gate with her bag.

I learn later that Hag has been inside, and given an earful to two of my co-workers. Hag was kind enough to blame "the pain in the ass" customer, instead of me.

Schleppin' Them Trees

It's that time of year again--live cut Christmas tree schlepping time. I love being outside, even in the cold, even in the claustrophobically little toothpick & saran wrap hut--I swear it keeps getting smaller!

I don't even mind sweeping the bajillions of pine needles, the pine sap on my gloves & coat, or smelling like Pine Sol at the end of a shift.

What I mind are the people who are even weirder about my being out there. The comments about the cold--today was NOT cold people! COLD is when you can see your breath. Today was sunny and mostly chilly.

What irritates me are the people who come in and say, "We'd like to get a tree. Do we need to bring it in here?" and after I offer them the lovely trimming of the lower branches, taking a nip off the trunk and putting it thru the binder to make it easier to schlep home, they ask again, "So, do I need to bring it in here?" It's like buying a live Christmas tree is brain surgery.

Today's special nitwits were the woman who stood and watched me sweep up the second round of bajillion pine needs, huffed at me, then started to walk off. I'm glad she huffed because I didn't know she was there. I asked if I could help her, and she said, "I need to buy this," disgustedly. She was holding a tree stand. I told her I could do that, and she acted all pissed off. There's a reason I hate people.

The most important man in the world was in today also. He wanted me to follow him around while he figured out how much the trees cost (which he asked me, then repeated everything I'd just read off the sign). He finally chose a tree, then came to me (no, I was not following him around--if he needs an audience, he needs to get his own) and asked if he needed to bring it in. I, of course, went thru the "we can... blah blah blah" bit, so he could ask again, "Do I need to bring the tree in to you to pay?" I got to tell him only if he needed any of that stuff done for him. He dragged the tree in, and couldn't seem to make up his mind if he could trust me to handle the tree, or if he should keep his hands on it. He knows I can't be trusted.

As I trim off the branches at the bottom, he says, "I think it'd be better if I did that." He seriously thought I'd let him trim that tree, right then, right there.

Dude needs behavior therapy, not a chainsaw.

Really? You think I'll just randomly let you have a chainsaw?

Report on the Day

Thanksgiving at the Mumple's:  Loads of people. Each one, odder than the last, no matter how you stack 'em.

This year, we made a new world record. My mother was at my house for a full hour before she pissed me off & I wanted to punch her in the head.

This year, we also got to listen to my mother, who is practically deaf, my aunt is just plain nuts, and my grandmother who, at 94, has forgotten more than she remembers, discuss how to prepare cranberry sauce made from real, whole cranberries.

This year, my sister did her best to imitate a door. She would enter a room, then stop dead in her tracks and stand stock still for upwards of 2 minutes before regaining forward momentum.

This year, my brother did not, I repeat, did not confirm that he is the reigning king jackwagon in creating retail workers' nightmares.

I can't wait for Christmas! (NOT)

The Perfect Gift

We recently started peddling gift cards from other stores. It's been fun, really, and by fun, I mean, yeah, uhm, not so much. I never had any time or inclination to actually look at the thing--I was spending my Christmas shopping season outside.

This day, though, I'm inside, at the self-checkout. A woman comes to me to check out. She has two JCPenney gift cards, pre set for $25 each. She has a blank look on her face, and she says, "I want $50 on each of those please."

I tell her, "I don't think I can change the amount on the pre set cards. I'll try, though." So try I do...and fail I do.

I tell her that it can't be done that way. She blinks at me.

She blinks at me some more.

She begins rooting through her purse, and says, "I'm going to give you $50 for each, okay?"

I tell her, no, I'm sorry. If she wants $100 in JCPenney gift cards, she needs to get me two more $25 cards.

She blinks at me.

Then she blinks some more.

"So how much is it again?" she asks.

I tell her that to have $100 in these gift cards, she'll need to get me two more $25 cards. She blinks.

Then she walks away.

She comes back, a few minutes later, with ONE $50 JCPenney gift card.

Uhm, OKaaaaaaaaaaayyyyy.

I ring that up, she blinks and pays. Then she blinks some more as she wanders off through the store.

I take the cards back the endcap where they're being displayed...and the $50 JCPenney gift cards are UNDERNEATH the $25 ones.

I stood there blinking for a moment, then went back to my register to blink some more.

Close Enough For Government Work

This lovely rainy morning in PA, I was scheduled to work from 10am to 7pm. I was scheduled, happily, I might add, to be outside selling Christmas trees.

I spent all of 1 hour outside...happy, AFTER they decided to get my passive-aggressive ass a heater. The toothpicks & saran wrap hut is always a happy place when I do actually have a little bit of heat that I don't have produce my-own-self.

Anyway, about an hour into my lovely rainy day in PA, I have a real-live customer. He plunks his two Christmas cacti on my counter and I scan 'em. I'm still in my happy place. I hit the total button, and he hands me a $20 bill and a nickel to pay for it. I owe him $1.01 in change...and as the drawer comes open, I gots nuttin'.

Well, actually, what I have is great big fistfuls of AIR. Apparently, no one thought to tell the money girl to put, you know, money in that drawer.

So, okay. I've played this game before. Call and get the guy his change...and they'll bring me money so I can continue my day in my happy place.

Guy takes his stuff to his car. He comes back, in time to see one person bring me ONE dollar and ONE penny. He saw the gaping black hole-ness of my money drawer, so he knows I do not have any money...and that the one person who came outside WITH any money did NOT bring me more than ONE dollar and ONE cent.

What do you think this jackass does?

You'd be correct if you say, "He chooses something ELSE to purchase and brings it up to me....and hands me another $20 bill to pay for it."

That's right: he KNOWS I have no way to give him change. So he hands me another $20 bill to pay for $8.46 cents worth of crap. He tells me, "I only have 20's."

I tell him, "I don't have any thing more than the $20 bill and the nickel you just gave me a few minutes ago."

He tells me, "I only have a $20."

I tell him I can call and see if they can bring me his change from inside, OR he can go inside and pay in there.

He begins to dig thru his wallet, and he comes up with one $5 bill and two $1 bills. He hands that to me and says, "There, close enough."

I tell him I need another $1.46. He tells me he doesn't have it. I tell him I cannot accept $7 for the $8.46 purchase he's making

He says, "it's all I have."

I ask him, "Did you see my empty drawer last time?" He scrounges thru his pockets and hands me another $1 bill. "There, that's close enough."

I tell him, "No sir, it's not. I still need 46 cents."

He blinks at me for a few minutes, then hands me 44 cents. I declare it "Close enough for government work!" and then, after he leaves, they close my happy place and send me inside.

Let It Snow

As long as it's still snowing, I intend to use the opportunity to share some thinks from last December. Mostly because I wrote 'em out with pencil and paper, forgot about 'em, and found 'em again today. And it did snow last night. So there.

While I didn't get any QT in the garden center in December, I still got a doozy of a quiz regarding the fresh cut live trees we were selling.

A few days after Thanksgiving, my mother was blathering her way across local landlines...talking incessantly at me. She began quizzing me on whether or not I would be returned to the garden center. Then she asked if the "Fresh Cut" trees were in yet. (Not that she wanted one--it was a test.) When I said, "Yes" she asked if we were actually selling any. Again, I said, "Yes" She demanded to know HOW we were selling those trees, because, "You only have but FOUR of 'em, and they're in front of the garden center."

Choking back laughter, I tell her, "Those are the ones on DISPLAY, so you can see pricing and general size DUH." Oh, yes, I did too DUH her.

Undaunted, she demands, "Where are the REST of the trees, then?"

"They're INSIDE the fence."

Still confused--or convinced I'm lying--she demands to know how we're watering the those fresh cut trees if they're inside.

So I pronounce each syllable slooooooowly for her: "They're In Side The GAR DEN CEN TER FENCE, Not In Side The Build Ing."

Mom's still brighter than the woman who rolled in the gate on a cold late April day and said, "WOW! It's certainly warmer in here than it is out there."

Valentines Suckage

We all know how much I hate Hallmark sponsored holidays. I hate the hype. I hate the in-yer-faceness of Valentine's Day. (for the record, the only made-up holiday that is worse than Valentine's Day is Mother's Day)

Soooooooooooo....
In honor of the impending lovefest, I'm going to tell you about a bad date (or two):

The first was in college. We'll call him Bob, and say that while living on campus, his parents lived about an hour away. He managed to talk them into letting him have the car, to make it a "real date." I don't remember most of the date (yes, I was sober, no, it wasn't memorable) until he tried to tell the cop that was about to write him a ticket that he was wearing contacts--his license said he was to wear corrective lenses. I should've known then what a lying ass he would turn out to be, but I was young, and stupid (WAS, people, WAS. Past tense. Don't start.)

The second was, oh, hell, in the late '90s. We'll call this one Joe. He invited me to stop by his apartment, and, in all honesty, I was lucky to make it out alive. Nothing dramatic enough to have police involvement, and certainly nothing traumatic....unless you consider that there was a very real chance that I was going to permanently stick to the furniture. Oh, and after I was stuck, that black dear-God-I-hope-its-only-mold growing in the corner of the bathroom would probably eat me.

I consider myself lucky that most of my truly frightening and skeevy encounters with people all involve working in retail, not love. But then, most of my dating history is from a time when the Weirdness Goddess thing hadn't fully kicked in, I count my cynical little blessings every February, though.

The Last of 2010

It really wasn't very great.

GOOD RIDDANCE!

(and resolutions? I'm planning a few revolutions, actually. If I can get some minions together. Stay Tuned for more...)

Good News and Bad News

The Good News is that I am now, officially, for reals, smaller than I've been in almost 20 years. HAH!

I now, also, officially, need to earn more money, so I can buy smaller clothes. Cute clothes! Smaller clothes! Did I tell you I've somehow managed to drop a whole size? Yeppers. Very exciting at my house.

The Bad News is that they've fired Special Ed. They did it in a shitty way, of course. On Christmas Eve. If it's for what I think it is, he probably should've just been written up--Final Notice--mostly because, and I hate myself for saying this, but they should've warned him because he's just a young dolt rebel without a clue.

I do feel bad for the little fuzz ball, but, well, not bad enough to care, because it means no blog fodder from him. Dammit.

But then, now that I truly think on it, I really really really don't care.

Tis The Season

for a lack of reason.

Case in point: I was, of course, at the Return desk. Which means that I get to stand near the main entrance....and immediately to my left, outside the desk, is the Seasonal department.

And at this time of year, that means that I get to hear the compressor that keeps those dammed blow-up things run, and hear the drone of obnoxiously loud music, and see the blinks, blips, and flashes of every sparkling, lite-up thing we peddle.

A man walks in thru the doors. He looks to his right (my left) and sees and hears all the gloriously commercialized motorized lit up joy that is the Christmas department. He then turns to his left (to me) and says, "Hey, I heard that you have those lights." pause..."on a string." longer pause, hand motion in a spiral..."like you'd put on a tree or something."

Jaw hanging open, I say, "What we have in Christmas lights is all right over there." and I point to all the motorized, noisy, sparkling Christmas joy that we peddle.

"You sure they're there?" he asks, as he looks, again, at all that Christmas joy.

"A-yup."

Fa La La La La...

There's a reason I hate the holidays. And most of it involves my mother, and her controlling perfectionism. That gets totally swollen and out-of-control starting about....today.

She went to visit my sister last week. She left on Wednesday. On Thursday, I had a 3 hour conversation with her that was mostly her telling me how to do things that didn't involve or effect her anyway. Friday and Saturday, My Sweetie had a 30-45 minute conversation with her each day. On Sunday, the day before she came home, I had a 65 minute conversation with her about....everything we'd already discussed, nothing important, and a repeat of her narrow, rigid, and pissy attitudes and opinions. Yeah, baby.

She got home on Monday. I talked to her for 30 minutes upon her arrival...about all the same shit we'd talked about on Thursday and Sunday. It was like a Reader's Digest Condensed version of the same-old controlling behavior.

Didn't talk to her yesterday, but today, the drain backed up. Luckily, it was small and caught early. But My Sweetie wasn't home to take care of it, and I had crap I had to run around town to get down that absolutely had to be done this morning...because school was letting out an hour early for the holiday break.

She was informed, and off she went to church. Fine.

She showed back up, in time to call Roto-Rooter. He's able to come today, but that means she's crawled right up my ass. If I try to do anything, I'm either going to get told HOW to do it, HOW to do it BETTER, or have to justify doing it at all. Loudly. She's hard of hearing--remarkably enough, her hearing loss is directly proportional to how much control she does NOT have at that moment. (and when that's not an issue, she's deafer if your nerves are jangling from having been subjected to biting your tongue off to keep from bitch-slapping her)

Today, after the drain was cleared, but before My Sweetie got home, and before the Roto-Rooter dude was packed up and paid, she first informed me that the guy (yea, she was THAT specific during this conversation) that died on Monday wasn't a "real Jew." She knows this, because the obit said he died Monday, and there was a viewing, and he wasn't buried IMMEDIATELY.

This, of course, also prompted her to inform me that one of my sister's friends is a "real Jew" and therefore it not only makes my mother (by proxy, apparently) an expert on modern Jewish traditions, it also means that any person who claims to be Jewish but doesn't do EXACTLY as this woman does (or as my mother supposes she does--I mean, she's seen the 10 Commandments starring Charlton Heston, too) is not a "real Jew."

The hell of it is this: Somehow, in her informing me of all her glorious (and OMG flawed) knowledge of Jewish tradition and law, she also began informing me of the sexual orientation status of several people we both know. As if she hasn't A) already informed me of this information at least 2x a year for the last 10 years; and B) I didn't already know well before she began informing me. (I want to add here that if she doesn't like you--and by "you" I mean 99.9% of the population--it means Man=GAY; Woman=WHOOO-ER. She's very much hung up on everyone else's sex life.)

Anyway, what it comes down to is simple: I am not HER, so there's absolutely no way I can ever talk out my ass the way she does.

Clash of the Titans

So, you want the Easter Egg story? Wooo boy. You're a brave one.

We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)

The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)

Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:

Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"

My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."

Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.

Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!

My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.

Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.

My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?

Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)

My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.

Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*

My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!

My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?

Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!

My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.

Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!

My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!

Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!

My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?

Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.

My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.

Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.

My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.

Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.

Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.

The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)

He's a Keeper

And here's why:

First, the back story.

My mother desperately loves Christmas. She wants everything "perfect"...and of course, this is impossible. Because she tried too hard, I grew to loathe Christmas. Okay, loathe is probably overboard, because there are parts of it that I love. But in general? I hate it. I don't care. Let me have the parts I like, and screw the rest.

My mother, in 1999, saw those gawd-awful spiral trees and bought one. For the Toad. (of course, way back when, he was "the Boy") If you don't know what they are, they are basically a cheapass piece of curvy plastic that is suspended, ala fishing line, from a cheapass pole. The Boy couldn't have cared less whether or not we owned, let alone put up that fucking tree. You'd have thought it was the 2nd coming the way she talked about it.

Flash forward to 2000. Shortly after we started dating, it was the Christmas season. That meant decorating...and that we had to put out the lighted spiral tree she bought for the Boy. She had called and asked if we put it out--and he had no clue what she was talking about. But that wasn't hint enough for her. Of course not.

One Sunday night early in the Christmas season, my brother suddenly appeared at My Sweetie's house. We were getting ready for supper at My Sweetie's house, and the Boy was blissfully unaware, zoned on a video game. My Sweetie--the guy whom my mother had yet to formally meet. Did I say we were at his house?

Anyway, my brother shows up, to warn us that the Gator is on the warpath. Now, by "warpath" I mean, she was looking for a fight, and by God, she's going to have one. And she chose her favorite target--me. Over her favorite subject--the Toad. The issue of the minute was that spiral tree.

She had driven past my house, and there, brightly lit, was every other outdoor decoration we owned...except that tree. Unfortunately, it was freezing rain, and that tree had, in it's cheapass way, decided to blow a bulb and not light. Or whatever.

The Gator shows up at My Sweetie's house--remember? The guy she's never met. And she bursts into his home, and proceeds to rant and rave, spitting and frothing at the mouth. Like a lunatic.

Over the fucking tree.

She accuses me of leaving the Boy at our house, in the dark (never mind that at 11-almost 12 years old he's certainly old enough to turn on a light by himself) and then she begins about the fucking tree.

At some point, she had me by the shirt, near my collar. Basically by the throat, spewing all sorts of enraged, insane accusations.

I pry her fists from my shirt, and she begins to calm down. My Sweetie is going about getting supper actually on the table, and at some point, the Boy becomes unzoned and says, "Hi Grammy. When did you get here?" That may have been what calmed her down.

Supper is on the table, and, in an effort to not appear totally certifiable, she introduces herself to My Sweetie, with a slam on me.

God love him, he simply said, "Nice to meet you, I guess."

After supper (she's gone by now) we head up to my house so that My Sweetie, the Keeper, can try to fix the fucking tree. First, he tries, out in the freezing rain no less, to figure out which bulb is burned out. When his fingers are close to shattering from the cold, he drags the fucking tree inside. It's the fuse. He changes the fuse, lights the tree, sets it back up outside...

And likes me anyway! And he stays. And he comes back. And he still likes me! And I see as much, if not more of him. And he still likes me! And he laughs at how insane my mother is.

Even my sister, who always takes the Gator's side, upon hearing the story of the Fucking Tree, remarks, "You're not gonna let this one get away, are you?"

Yeppers. He's a Keeper. Wait 'til I tell you about the Easter Eggs.

Shhhhh! Don't Say It Out Loud!

Two days, people. Two days.

This is the obligatory Birthday post, and I'm hoping that since I'm posting it early, it will be out of the way, and so will all that crappy, vomiting, sparking appliance karma will just fly right by me.

I have to work, and we have made absolutely no special plans. There are no new appliances (although I did have to have my windshield replaced today) so I'm hoping there are no surprises, no explosions of any kind, and that I can breeze through this in clean clothes and unscathed.

Pray for me to escape!

Cryptic

We got home from visiting the Sweetie Fam for the holiday, to find a cryptic message from my sister:

Light Bulb blew
Sat. 11PM 4-3-10

Apparently, it was up to us to figure out which one it was to replace it.

Priceless

Wiper blades (2)..............................................$25

Full Tank of Gas for Trip Home......................$57

Speed at which yer travellin' when the Man decides to slap ice off wiper blade........65 mph

Replacement Wiper Blades from Small Town off Interstate Auto Parts Store..............$40

7-year-old Voice from backseat saying, "Daddy, that was really stupid"...............PRICELESS

Resolutions

New year. Resolutions. Ugh.

Don't do it.

My Favorite Christmas Think

Is that my Sweetie makes up words to traditional Christmas carols. And, if anyone knows who Harold is, please let him know.

An example:

"Jolly Old St Nicholas, lean your ear this way,
don't you tell a single soul what I'm going to say
Billy wants pair of skates
Judy wants a bell
Jimmy wants the kid next door
To go straight to Hell."

Yeah, that's the true Christmas Spirit.