Let's Say

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.

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.

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.

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?

Supervision Needed, Aisle 12, Please

So, today was just another day in the Garden Center, until...

This little dingbat came in, plunked the hanging basket of her choice on the counter, and proceeded to question me on where her sister was.

Unfortunately, when her basket was paid for, her even dingierbat sister showed up, with the hanging basket of her choice.

More unfortunately for Ding #2, there was already another customer at my counter.

Did this stop Ding #2 from plunking her basket on my counter? Hell, no. Even as I told her repeatedly that I was with another customer, she kept asking me "how much is this?" and "where'd my sister go?" and "how much is this?" and "tax? what do you mean, 'tax'?" and "how much is it?"

The idiot guy I'm currently dealing with, decides, in the middle of this, to leave the 4 year old boy at the register with the cart, and takes the 2 year old with him into the parking lot. No clue why, but does it matter? I know that if I clear the screen and scan the hanging basket, he'll be immediately back and pissed that I didn't wait for him to come back.

Ding #2 is still asking "how much is it?"

Finally, Idiot Boy returns to claim his palm tree and child. Ding #2 still can't grasp the concept that she isn't the customer I'm ringing up. When I tell him his total (considerably more than her $9.98 hanging basket) she asks, "how much was the tax?" and "didn't you say $10?"

Lovely. He has to cram himself between the Pepsi cooler, his cart, and Ding #2 to sign on the invisible line. She's trying to hand me cash--apparently still oblivious to the idea that I'm currently waiting on someone else.

Finally, Idiot Boy gathers his crap, and his children, and leaves. Ding #2 begins at the beginning and asks, "how much is this basket?" and "where'd my sister go?" I explain, yet again, that it's $9.98 + tax, and she dutifully recounts $32.

Since I am crazy myself, and I always recount the cash, I discover a $20 nestled in the middle of the 12 $1 bills she's handed me. She tries to hand me more money when I give her the $20 back. I end up giving her back $1, then hitting *Cash* I give her the jingle change, and she wanders off.

And everyone wonders why my eyes roll back into my head.

Hostage

Last weekend, we went to visit My Sweetie's fam. I like 'em well enough, although, there are some pretty obvious differences: namely, I am a vile, vulgar thing with a potty mouth, and there's not a potty mouth among them. Even Sweetie's rebel sister doesn't swear.

They are kind, decent people, every last one of 'em (except his brother & sister-in-law, but that's a totally different story.) I love each of them for who they are, honestly.

BUT, it drives me absolutely crazy that his father regards women, in general, as incapable of anything more than cooking, cleaning, shopping, tending children and pets. (Case in point: we were there once when it was time to take down a tree. They were using a chainsaw that was exactly like the one I use every year to trim live Christmas tree lower branches and trunks. He refused to allow me to touch it (Look, yes. Touch? Hell, No. He actually jerked it away and held it practically behind his back to keep from despoiling it. No lie, I felt like Ayla in Clan of the Cave Bear when she touched the hunting weapons and they burned them because a woman touching it would curse it & the hunter who used it.)

I understand that his father is more my grandmother's generation than my own parents. And I get that he's pretty much set in his ways. (Case in point: he nagged My Sweetie for fully 2 years after the Howler was born because I went back to work. Nevermind that I get weird when sentenced to remain at home for extended periods of time; nevermind that I'm competent at what I do; nevermind that I chose to continue to work, instead of shrinking our budget to one vehicle-no extras-no frills. He actually called My Sweetie, one of the hardest working, annoyingly busy people I've ever known, LAZY. When the Howler turned 2, the old man realized, and admitted, as much as he was able, that he finally understood. What we'd been telling him for over 2 years!)

BUT, it annoys the shit out of me that the womenfolk fold, spindle, and occasionally shred themselves to the old man's ideas & will. "If Papa ain't happy, it's some woman's fault" is pretty much the unspoken Golden rule.

He's not a wife beater, and he truly loves his family. He'd give anything (except his tools & power equipment) to save his wife, children, grandchildren, or great grandchildren. He provided for 5 children in the 50's, 60's, & 70's. My Sweetie's childhood was fairly normal and happy.

BUT, he cannot seem to grasp the idea that the womenfolk are worthy of anything except being womenfolk. And certainly, his daughters or granddaughters should submit to their betters--their men, or more specifically, HIM. (Case in point: my one sister-in-law lives right next to her parents. She had a room in her basement fixed up--Papa did most, if not all the construction work for it--and it promptly flooded every time there was a substantial rain. The indoor-outdoor carpeting would need to be rolled up, wrastled out the door and dried in time for the next rainfall, so it could flood again. After spending several months in this Groundhog Day-like nightmare, she announced that she'd rather live withOUT the carpet, because it was too stressful, taxing, and tiring to continually deal with the flooding-rolling-dragging-drying of the carpet. She stated, absolutely, that she did not care where, who, what, or how the carpet never re entered her home, she just flat out did not want it--Absolutely Not Ever Again. What does Papa do? He waits for her to go to work, then returns the carpet to her basement. What does she do? She quietly cries and seethes and takes it. My response to the story is that the old man would not only NOT have access to my house any longer without supervision, but he'd be given a deadline to remove the carpeting from my house. She told me it was disrespectful to do that to him; I countered with he isn't respecting YOU very well, and he's not going to until-and-unless you put a stop to this. Classically, I am wrong, and I misunderstand the situation.)

In his favor, he wore a Princess crown for the Howler's birthday because she asked him too. He most recently took her, in her pajamas, to drive around the county in search of the Thurston Classic balloonists' takeoff point Sunday morning. He fixes stuff, and charges cheaper interest on car loans than the bank.

BUT, Friday night, at the big deal balloon take off, he was a jackass. And we all got held hostage to the Man.

He didn't want to go, and argued against it. He was informed that we were all going, and there would be no supper cooked for him. So he went too. (Case in point: in building the house they live in, he planned a dining/kitchen area that would not hold the dining room furniture and the appliances. The only reason the smallish cramped kitchen area--there is at least one cupboard that is practically inaccessible unless you stand on your head, sing the Star-Spangled Banner backwards while someone else holds your ankles to the chair for safety--got added was because my mother in law refused to move in until he changed the plans. The dining room is cramped, and the kitchen is cramped. My bathroom has more room, and it can't hold 2 people at the same time unless one is in the shower or standing in the toilet.)

Not having been there before, we were ill-prepared. No chairs, no umbrellas, beating down summer evening sun. It was hot. It was bright. It was a loooooooooong wait.

While everyone was in a make-do attitude, there was an garbled announcement that take off may be delayed by an hour or more. We were hungry, hot, tired, and sweating. At one point, the old man commented that he hadn't seen anyone he knew to me. I commented that I hadn't either. He promptly informs me that "Wall, you don't know anybody, anyway." Nevermind that I went to college for 3 years less than an hour away. Nevermind that between church and work, I did know people from the area. Hell, I once went to Baltimore to visit my sister, and ran into someone I knew from college. At our niece's baby shower, I knew the owners of the Inn where it was held. But, go figure, I certainly couldn't know anybody. My response was certainly clear, "Don't you tell me that I wouldn't know anybody here. I know people YOU don't know from here, so do not begin to tell me who I know and who I don't."

I'm already oozing annoyance, when the Committee (above mentioned sister in law is known as The Committee because there's not a decision that can be made in 30 seconds that certainly can't be made in 3.8 excruciating years in her hands.) begins clucking about how hot, tired, sore footed, and hungry everyone is.

I decide that rather than take it upon myself (and not have it thrust upon me anyway) to make the decision to leave before lift-off, I would take a poll--yet another learning experience I'll never have to repeat:

I begin with the Howler--not out of a sense of childhood entitlement, but to be sure that her voice was heard without the whinging that comes from being smallest and lastest. I move on to the old man. He announces that, "YES, I'M HERE AND I'M STAYING." and then goes back to talking to total strangers and ignoring the rest of us. My Sweetie abstains, the wuss. The Committee announces that she also refused to answer, and will not be cajoled or coerced into an answer. You can see where this is going, right? "I want to leave, but the old man doesn't, so we'll all stay here, in the hot sun, without chairs, bleating about how sore our feet are, watching each others' faces turn into lobster ornaments."

Nobody's going anywhere. Nevermind that the Committee has driven herself, and can load any takers into the vehicle. Nevermind that My Sweetie drove, but I have my keys with me, and we can load any takers and go. The OLD MAN HAS SPOKEN.

My Sweetie, bless his heart, tries to find his way out of the dilemma of having been raised to accept being held hostage & made miserable or pacify his anger-vibe producing wife. He fails, by asking quietly if I would like to take the Howler and any takers (with continued bleating in the background) and go--he'll stay with Dad.

Do you see the problem yet? Seven people--SIX of them adults--and the only one willing and able to stomp the Commandant's tyranny to dust cannot, out of "respect" and the open air-public access placement of the party.

Through clenched teeth I told My Sweetie that this was not the time nor the place for this particular conversation, and he'd better just go back to his indecision. I refused, for the next hour, to make any decision--I'd do what my menfolk told me to do. And grind my teeth, aggrivating my TMJ.

I was angry at my father in law for having no concern for anyone except himself. I was briefly angry at my husband for being a dishrag. I was angry at my mother in law and sisters in law for being unable to make a move against the old man's statement. I was angry, at myself, for not foreseeing this when we arrived, sans chairs and shade producing implements, and I was angry at the old man for the womenfolk he so thoroughly held hostage.

Finally, My Sweetie made the decision to leave, and I dutifully followed. He stopped, I stopped. The Howler questioned, I sent her to her father, because, and I quote, "I'm not allowed to make decisions, baby." (Hopefully, someday she'll wonder about that, too.)

We did see the balloons take off.

Then we all headed to a restaurant. I sat far away from my father in law and managed to dampen the death-vibe and keep it from spilling over and poisoning my wonderfully-herself daughter.

I tactfully got my sister in law to drive my daughter homeward, and once I knew the AC was on, and no one would hear, promptly let forth a spitting diatribe against this sort of jackass, self centered chauvanstic passive idiocy. The language I used was vile, vulgar, and most definitely not ladylike. (I know, big shocker, for those who know me RL)

My Sweetie didn't like it, but I told him, the next time we do something like this, either we won't be doing something like this, or I'll leave his ass, with the Committee, and leave. I will NOT be held hostage by an old man who treats me as second class because I can't piss my name in the snow. I will not cater to a man who has no concerns for the feelings and opinions of me and my daughter because we're not men.

I don't expect the old man to change his ways--but dammit, I'm not going to sit back and have my daughter see-hear-learn that making Papa happy at the expense of herself is okay. It's not okay, I won't be doing it any longer, either.

Columbus

Real coversation:

Columbus with a garden cart: Where am I going?

Mumple:

C: Which direction am I going in?

M: Are you ready to check out?

C: How much are those daisies? *waves hand indiscriminately*

M: $29.98

C: Which direction?!

M: What can I help you find?

C: Where are we going then?

M: What do you need?

C: Which direction then?

M:

C: Which direction?

M: For what? What are you looking for?

C: This is from the CLEAR. ENTS. RACK. Where am I headed?

M: uh, OK. What were you looking for?

C: To check out! *sounds exasperated*

We get to the register, and as I try to scan the plants (and identify the clearance tags) Columbus grabs them away from me and demands to know the prices of the CLEAR. ENTS. RACK. ones. I read the tags to her. She demands that I tell her what they scan. I explain that they scan regular price, and I reduce the price myself. She shoves the plants back at me and tells me, yet again, that these are CLEAR. ENTS. PLANTS.

M: Yes, ma'am. I reduce the prices here at the register.

C: What does this cost?

M: *scan & read aloud*

C: And this? What does this cost? *pointing--the CLEAR.ENTS. PLANTS. are not to leave their earthbound connection to the cart

M: *scan and read aloud*

C: And this? What about this? Why can't you just tell me?

M: *deep breath, continues on as before*

C: How much do I owe you? Can I get a subtotal? What is it?
C: Are the CLEAR. ENTS. PLANTS. the right price? Are you sure?

M: *finishes transaction, thank God*

C: *looks directly at the 12 foot by 20 foot gaping hole in the fenceline known as a gate and asks* Now, what direction am I going so I can leave?