Context Is Everything

Today, I was lucky enough to hear these random things, and no, you aren't going to get the context.

From the Toad:  "Revenge is a dish best served with potato chips."

From Weird Michelle:  "No matter what else is wrong with my life, at least I'm not watching Glee."

Day #2

With less than 10 minutes to go in Day #2, I'm calling this one a tie. I'm starting the post before the time's up, and that's all that matters. What's the point to setting yourself up a challenge, if you can't change the rules when you get the flu and feel like you'd really rather have had died instead of recovering?

EXACTLY.

What this is about is a challenged an old forum friend to a 30-Days-in-February writing challenge. We will each spend a lil' bit of time each and every day of February, writing something online. On a blog. Not a Facebook status, not a tweet. Whole sentences with grammar and everything.

And so far, I've failed, and haven't heard from her. The good news is that tomorrow is Monday, and we've decided that Mondays are for Memes. We'll each chose an internet meme and somehow make it even better for having met us.

In the days leading up to February 1st, I had several good ideas (at least the fever made 'em seem good) and of course, once the fever left, it took those good ideas with them.

Here's hoping this isn't totally embarrassing!

Day #1

FAIL.

I have a bunch of excuses, but not one is worth even putting here. Let's call it a fail and move on. Shall we?

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!

Chaos Thy Name is Michelle

So, I've told stories about my neighbor, and I'm not even bothering to give her a nick. Of course, I'll end up referring to her as "Chaos" in the future, but until then...it's all bets are off.

This is the friend who came to my house after having a hysterectomy and after commenting how itchy the healing process had become, asked, "We're good friends, right? You and I are good friends, not just neighbors, right?" I knew where THAT was going and refused to answer any further questions.

Later, when she started to admire my spatulas, I ran.

Mostly, I think she does this for the effect--I'm used to being the totally unpredictable one and here she is, stealing my thunder. Yes, she leaves me speechless at times. Most times, it's speechless from laughing, but still. Speech. Less. Me. Be afraid, I'm buying her a bus ticket to visit you.

A week or so ago, she shows up at my house. I'm sitting on the patio, minding my own bees wax. She's on her cellphone, in the middle of a conversation. She walks over to me and mid-sentence in her conversations with I-don't-even-begin-to-know, leans over and says, "Motorboat me baby!"

As I sit there, totally flummoxed, she stands up, and continues her conversation about her cellphone provider account.

I manage to ask, "You were on hold, right?" She shakes her head "no."

She's weird as hell, but she makes me laugh for all the wrong reasons. And I rejoice that I actually do have friends.

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.

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)

MIA

Yes, I've been MIA. Lots going on, and I'm not doing it. Obviously.

Still working retail. Still getting random weirdness. Still dealing with OPK and assorted crazy.

I promise, tho, I'm working on actually writing again. Soon. Before I go insane from all the words still bashing 'round my head.

Just so you know what to look forward to:

~My brother is a jackass. Possibly the King of Jackasses.

~I've worked retail for almost 12 years now. This qualifies me as insane.

~I still don't like OPK.

~I have a neighbor, a friend really, who attracts more weirdness than I ever did.

~And finally, I'm actually gonna comment on a controversial issue.

Fabulously Full Moon

1) From the WTF File: First person I dealt with yesterday: woman who apparently believed I was blind. She kept pointing to the bottom of her cart and yelling "That! Down there!" I said, "OK" each time, and continued doing my job. This went on for several minutes, until she finally said, "THAT! DOWN! THERE!" and since I was to the point where I was going to deal with "that! down there" anyway, I did just that. As I'm giving her the total, she says, "You must be new; I haven't used you before."

2) From the For The Record File: the 2nd gate is closed. There are no bodies--live, or stupid--near the registers near that closed gate...that means that those registers aren't open. Plunking all your crap onto the counter, and standing there watching as the cashier who are at the open registers collect money from others SHOULD be a clue that you're in the wrong line. But since it's not, continuing to stand there, and loudly saying, "I'M READY NOW" just makes us all certain that what you're ready for is a Reality Check.

3) From the Do I Look Like Miss Cleo? File: I don't read minds. The other people who work here don't read minds, either. When you tell me "Pine Bark Mini Nuggets." and you are blathering about how you need mulch, there's a 100% chance of you getting Pine Bark Mini Nuggets, regardless of what you're thinking you need. Actually speaking the real name of what you need helps others know what it is, exactly, you need. Shoving someone else out of the way as you stomp up to me because YOU couldn't be bothered to sort out your deranged thoughts before paying me, is not going to make you my priority. In this particular instance, I'm very glad I can't read minds, because I'm guessing yours is a very very scary place to be.

4) From the Don't Drink Your Lunch & Then Come See Me File: Since there were two of you yesterday, I liked the woman who just didn't seem to really know where she was or what she was doing far better than the red-faced guy who was talking louder isn't going to make you slur your words less. Asking every person you see the same question, regardless of how many times you've shouted it before, still makes you obnoxious. Switching questions every 5th person (no, they don't all work here) doesn't help, either.

5) I can tell it's the Full Moon because they all want to stand right up next to me--totally in my personal space, leaning in, breathing heavily. Ewwwww.

Not Funny Really, But It's Really Funny

Today was really fricking HOT! It's still really fricking HOT!

My Sweetie says, "I'm gonna call the fam. I worry about my old people in the heat."

I sez, "Yeah, well, I do too, but if you'd just remember to put out an extra bowl of cold water and add ice cubes, they usually do okay."

He sez, "My old people aren't as bitchy as your old people."

I sez, "Yeah, that'd be why I don't always give mine ice."

Funny isn't always nice, yanno.

Mr Fabulous

He works in the Paint department. He's one of those annoying optimists. Miss Piggy likes him.

Anyway, Mr Fabulous, the 80's called, and it wants its fashion back.

'nuff said.

Soap Is Your Friend

I spent today at the wrong end of the store--the lumber end. Bleck. On top of having to look at two of the most loathsome creatures ever to darken the store's doorway... and those were two that worked there. At least they understand the concept of SOAP and what it's used for.

Apparently, because it's January, a lot of the building type guys don't understand that, despite the cold weather, they STINK. As in, burn your nose hairs stink.

I know the difference between "showered within the past 24 hours, sweaty & dirty from work" smell (not highly attractive, but tolerable) and the "been on top of my woman, haven't seen soap nor hot water for at least 3 days, sweaty, ewwwww, it makes my eyes water" stench.

And for some reason, even in the middle of summer, outside, in the sun, digging in the yard, lawn mowing, blah blah blah sweaty people do NOT stink like this.

Now why is that? Do you men actually think that smell is attractive? IT'S NOT. Soap is attractive. And it's calling your name right now.

Compliments

You know, I gotta say, one of the best compliments EVER is when you walk into where you work, and the good-looking younger guys stop and look at ya, before they realize who you are.

Then, when they tell your Sweetie how good you're lookin'...Well, that just about gives you an big ol' ego.

YAY me.

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...)

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.)

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!

BMOC

A few weeks ago, I attended my class reunion. It's hard to imagine that it's been 25 years since I graduated from high school. Most days, I don't feel a day over 107 or so, and in some ways, I haven't changed. I discovered this weekend, that in some ways, neither did anyone else. All things considered, we still look pretty good.

High school wasn't that great pinnacle of youth for me, as I didn't feel like I fit in much. I was, to be honest, shy almost to the painful point, and I didn't have the same opinions as everyone else. Mostly, I waited to college to figure out that I could be who I wanted to be, and have been working towards that since.

But I like going to these things. I'm shallow enough to admit that I enjoy seeing how life has kicked the crap out of others and comparing it to how life has kicked the crap out of me. In some cases, I really do enjoy seeing that those few chicks who were ever-so-much-better-than-thou are overweight--to the point that Omar is making their dresses; and that the BMOC is overweight, balding, and not-quite-as-fab as he was so convinced he was.

Thing is, I proudly admit that I color the gray in my hair, and while Omar isn't making my outfits, I do not buy clothes that promote the idea that I am not aging. I'm lucky enough to find an outfit for the occasion that is attractive, and doesn't lead anyone to think, "God, does she realize how old we are?!"

This time, I heard a lot of comments centering on the idea that I haven't changed much--apparently, in high school, I was smart, funny--hilarious actually, and relatively pretty. Go figure. That's not how I remember it, but I'm also shallow enough to want to believe it.

But, this post is about that BMOC from high school. Wasn't he fantastic? Popular. Athletic. Class Officer. Fab-U-Luss, you betcha.

For anyone not sporting their glasses that Friday night (and yes, that vanity sucked in many!) he is overweight. Maybe not grossly overweight, but he's certainly not in any shape that would be considered smaller than a pear, or a large melon.

His hair is also thinning. Not as much as that football player guy who, despite the weight gain and the male pattern baldness is still mostly attractive, but, you know, Mr BMOC has a comb over in his future. I'm guessing before the next reunion, if the bellyweight and cholestrol don't get him first.

Anyway, Mr BMOC was never, in my opinion, a very nice person. Even as children, he was cruel in his jokes on those of us who were quiet and/or shy. And he always loved having an audience for those jokes. Nothing overtly dramatic, but cruel, just the same. Cruel enough that I still flinch when first spying him in room.

Mr BMOC married his soulmate. I say that, because Mrs BMOC was equally cruel. Except that she had a penchant for hitting me in the stomach. Once a week, at Brownies meetings, she'd nail me as soon as I got there. If she missed me coming, she'd be sure to get me before we left. Try walking home in February in western PA crying, 'cuz HELL YES it hurt, and trying to catch your breath, 'cuz HELL YES it hurt. And then trying to convince your mom that nothing happened, and your eyes and cheeks were red and chapped because it was that cold out. My stomach still clenches, and I flinch, whenever I see her anywhere. Hell, sometimes I do the reflex reaction when I just think about her at those Girl Scout meetings.

Mr BMOC was obviously sober that Friday, and hugged me, told me I looked good, as he worked the room.

I had to go outside and have a cigarette to get the stink off.

Just Imagine...

This one has a visual that you'll need to help me with.

First, imagine an OF standing waaaaayyyyyy to close to you. Then, imagine said OF bringing his hands up to either side of your face, fingers spread, cupped to make a sort-of-maybe-looks-like-a-circle. Finally, he speaks, "9 or 10 inch pot!"

Stare at him in absolute amazement that he's allowed out without supervision.

He repeats, "9 or 10 inch pot!" (hands still all-up-in-yer-face)

Blink.

"9 or 10 inch pot!" (hands still all-up-in-yer-face)

Now it's your turn to speak, "What kind of pot?"

"9 or 10 inch" (tilts hand signal so his fingers, just barely not-touching you, encircle your face)

His supervision comes over and says, "you know, a round pot." 'cuz, that was the part that wasn't clear. Thanks so much for clearing that up!

Blink.

Ask, "With or without plants already in it?"

OF sez "9 or 10 inch pot"
Supervision sez "Er, ah, without I guess."

Other than the whole stranger standing in my personal space, and the hands all-up-in-my-face, and the lack of coherent customer thought processes & sentence structure, this was all perfectly normal, right?

It's Time for ... Family Feud

Grrr Argh.

And this will be the RD Condensed version: my brother is a very self-centered person. He is currently in the habit of borrowing my Sweetie & my (step) Dad's tools and keeping them for upwards of a year. There are things he borrowed at the beginning of his "little" project--and at least one none-too-cheap item is currently unaccounted for.

His MO is that he will call me (or the Gator) and ask if he can borrow something. (No lie, a few weeks ago, The Crown Prince called me and wanted me to go into my attic and look through the stuff he's still storing here for an I-don't-know-whatsis. When I told him to c'mon over and look, he suggested that my Sweetie do it when he got home from work...and when I insisted that he come over whenever he wanted and help himself to looking through his stuff for the whatsis, he said, "It's not that important.") Gator always says, "Of course, your Majesty" and I usually say, "I'll give him the message and we'll let you know." The Crown Prince ALWAYS gets his way, one way or another.

Currently, though, the menfolk in the family (My Sweetie and My S.Dad) are working on getting the other 1/2 of the duplex ready to be rented to new and hopefully improved tenants. The C.P. spent a few hours "painting."

After spending upwards of 3 hours in the same building as S.Dad, the C.P. leaves (and of course, the job is unfinished! Why on earth would anyone expect him to actually FINISH what he started?!) and waits patiently until I get home from work to call and ask me to go tell S.Dad that he's borrowing this one thingybob.

I ask him a legitimate question: "What if he needs that tonight for what he's working on?"

The C.P. calls me a "smartass" and hangs up. Hasn't really spoken to me since. (Yes, devastating, I'm sure.) The Gator promptly takes up his cause: I am assinine, and she will continue to bitch at S.Dad and My Sweetie, until one, or the other, agrees.

So far, neither has agreed. And she won't mention it to me. I talked to my sister last night--the Waffle. She usually sides with my mother, on all things, simply because she'd rather pick her own fights with me, but partly because she'd honestly rather fight with me than with the Gator.

Waffle actually agreed with me...and even reminded me how The C.P. got his name.

The Ringing in Yer Ears

Saturday, at work, I got to spend time with ol' Smiley. You know what's coming next, don't you? YES! Another story about getting paid to be really really stupid.

Imagine, if you will, two registers right smack next to each other. Imagine, also, if you will, ol' Smiley running one of them. Keep in mind that both registers currently have phones that work hanging on them.

Ol' Smiley is at the left hand register. Suddenly, there's a noise, remarkably like a telephone ringing. First, Smiley glances around to see if anyone acts like they can hear that obnoxious ringing noise. Next, she picks up the handset of the one closest to her (I know! I was surprised, too!)

Apparently, the bad ol' telephone just kept on a-ringing.

You guessed it! It was the phone on the other register. The one right smack next to ol' Smiley.

She hung her handset up. The ringing continues. She glances around again. Nope, no one else seems to be able to hear it--no one else is going to answer that other phone.

She picks up her handset again, listens carefully to the dial tone (and still hears that nasty ringing noise,) holds her handset out and looks at it as if it were some sort of curiosity. Like you do, when you can't figure out how the magic trick works.

She shrugs, hangs the phone back up on it's hook.

The ringing continues.

I dodge customers, carts, two school buses, a parade, and Godzilla, and answer the damned thing that is still ringing.

When I'm off the phone, I walk carefully back through the battlefield, dodging landmines, small dogs, and three picnics. I tell ol' Smiley, that the phone on the register right smack next to her works, too.

Yet again, I'm explaining that I'd try to be nicer if ol' Smiley tried to be smarter. (And I ask, yet again, how in the hell does she find the building to come to work every day?)