My favorite magazine is “Victoria” (yes, I still order paper magazines because OMG how can you not touch and smell things you read for fuck’s sake you barbarians??) which is just as pretentious as it sounds but is full of lovely little old lady fripperies like doily patterns and china advertisements and recipes that include more than three ingredients (none of which come in a box with a packet of “cheese food” so I’ll never make them but still the pictures are glorious!); and instructions for setting your table for an odd number of people and so many more old fashioned stuff and sundries that make my dork heart happy even though I’m far too lazy to ever invite people over to my ghetto hovel anymore. Much less give a rat’s ass where they sit or if they even have a napkin let alone a perfectly folded origami swan linen one with hand stitched edging. (Use your sleeve and then let the dogs gnaw it clean like a real person you finicky fucking princess. Although if I really like you I might break out a ten year old wet wipe from the bottom of my purse. Antibacterial and everything because you totally matter to me and shit. ) It does however strike me as a wee bit bizarre that I have the heart of a sweet little old lady but the sense of humor of a deeply disturbed 12 year old boy (I mean really, who doesn’t enjoy a good holocaust/blonde joke about yo mama now and then) ((No, no I don’t, this is wrong. Please don’t take that seriously, I’m promise I’m just kidding inappropriately)) and the vocabulary of a functionally illiterate prostitute from Jersey. I’m pretty sure with this unique combination of personality traits I’m going to need at least one of you to vouch for me in court before too long. Or walk me on a leash. It’s a toss up.
Unfamiliar soldier (US): Hi Beth! I’m blah blah blah from Charlie Company blah blah blah and I own the students in blah blah blah and I just got here blah blah blah. (If I don’t have to deal with you on a regular basis and you don’t come bearing gifts I’m not going to bother to remember who you are or what you do. It’s not your fault, I’m just that lazy. And kind of an asshole.) I’m just going around getting a feel for the place and learning who everyone is…
Me: (interrupting) Oh you’re a good person then! I rarely leave my cube or care what everyone else does.
US: (Looks startled then laughs like I’m joking) Oh well it’s good to get to know the people you work with. So what do you do?
Me: (deer in headlights: wait, what do I do again? Dipshittery on Facebook isn’t my job! Say something!) ((Babbles incoherently about education and training development)) So feel free to stop by anytime. Especially if you have snacks.
US: Oh do you bring in snacks a lot?
Me: No, I meant you. You bring snacks.
US: (Looking increasingly uncomfortable) ((laughs nervously)) Oh, ha, yes. What kind of snacks do you prefer?
Me: Oh I’ll eat anything but cheese is always a good choice.
US: Ha, good to know. (Bolts like a rabbit)
And that boys and girls is how you use advanced social awkwardness to alienate coworkers and get a reputation as an addlepated nut monkey. You’re welcome!
After my morning walk I always go through Panera for a tea and cookie as a reward because I’m a giant, slobbering toddler that needs bribery and doesn’t understand the irony of processed sugar after walking my ass off. So I drive thru and get my usual but when I get to the window the ladies that work there are arguing. Someone pushed the Lemonade button on my order but I never get lemonade and they were confused. It was a little disturbing to know they know my order by heart and feel strongly enough to argue about it. Like it’s a certainty they can always count on, the sky is blue, the sun comes up in the east and the clown car lady with the dogs always gets tea. The only other person in the world that knows my order by heart is my brother, so I’m spending as much time with the Panera crew as I do my own family. That’s terrifying and completely pops my delusion that I’m even mildly a responsible adult with my shit together. They finally realize they can just ASK me as I’m sitting there blankly staring at them with Zeus dripping drool on my shoulder, also staring at them. Things got mildly better when they decided to just give me my order for free since they made me sit there while they figured it out and also because, “You come here all the time.” Fuck me, I’m an addict. I thanked my dealers for the free hit profusely because even though I’m an awkward disappointment of grown up I can at least pull off gratitude like a normal person. As I pulled away I heard one of them say, “She’s so sweet!” and that made everything ok, obviously they don’t know me at all.
As everyone knows I am more than a little partial to swear words and insults in particular. The wackier and more obscure the better. However, if you’re a squirrel fellating, dried up old, sneering sack of fetid rectal discharge that looks like a geriatric drag queen without make-up application skills that may have fallen off an Arkansas Incest wagon and look old, hard and worn out enough to quite possibly have serviced most of the soldiers on both sides during the civil war, trolling attractive(ish) and docile, young(ish) women on facebook for shits and giggles and the best insult you can come up with is “fat ass” then perhaps it’s time you logged off and go change your Depends. Or burlap flour sack, whatever you ancients are wearing these days.
Bless your heart, stay classy doll.
So I’m in the checkout line buying Chapstick and Twizzlers (don’t ask, it’s been a rough week) and the cashier bags the Twizzlers but hands me the Chapstick and I just stare at the kid like what the… and then I’m all “whoa there young fella” never mind that it was a girl, it was a Twizzler emergency and also I’m a feminist. So then there was an odd moment of terrified staring from the kid and confused staring from me …and possibly the sound of crickets somewhere off in the distance. Then slowly the kid took the Twizzlers from the bag and cautiously handed them to me. I forcibly placed them in my purse with a huff and finish the transaction. Then walked away with the satisfaction of someone who just taught a young child a very valuable lesson about the importance of Twizzlers. And also access to mental health care.
Over the summer I bought my incredibly not spoiled dogs a pool to splash around in. Sometimes when we go walking they’ll take my arm off trying get in dirty water so I thought maybe I could fix that by getting them something clean to roll around in. But apparently a bright pink baby pool with crystal clear water just doesn’t have the allure of dirty, scum covered, swamp stinking, pond water because they wouldn’t touch it. I even tried picking them up and putting them in there with me but they would struggle like the rabbit in Fatal Attraction and jump right out again. As usual I was quite the entertainment for my neighbors when in all my portly glory, I tried to wrestle a 100 lbs Lab into a tiny pink baby pool looking very much like someone having a seizure while trying to tango with a fat dog only to have him whine like I was trying to drown him and jump out again after we were both good and soaked. I finally gave up and being a meticulously conscientious house keeper I tossed it in the corner of the yard and left it there to slowly rot with the rest of my tiny ghetto shanty. Lately it’s filled up with rain and leaves and slime and with the cold weather the filthy little thing froze over. Or started to. There was still a bit of water beneath the ice which my dear sweet Angus unhappily found out. For some reason he jumped up and was prancing around on it in his fabulous Angus fashion, like the star of canine River Dance when it gave way. It was just enough to wet his feet and legs but I think he must have jumped two feet in the air then ran straight to me in the house like ninja hounds of hell on steroids were chasing him, then stood and barked at it like a badass through the screen door and dribbled fear pee on my hardwoods while I dried him off. What a brave little soul he is. Sniffle, I’m so proud.
Thought I might start planning to think about contemplating a scheme to start dating again. I figured I’d read some pretentious and unrealistic dating advice articles then peruse some dating sites then maybe by March, when it will have been a year that I’ve been single I might dip my toe back in the dating cesspool. So I read some depressing and ridiculous articles then went to look at dating sites. Started with Match. The options in my age range and area were quite frankly terrifying. I know these rural areas are known for their inbreds but it kind of looked like an entire extended family of the genetically challened got a group rate. Sooo..no. Thought I might have better luck on an interest specific site like dog lovers. W.T.F. I fear many of the candidates there may have taken the name of the site a little too literally. (Shudders) Sooo..hell no. Surely a site for vegitarians would have some potential right? Oh for the love of fuck no. There were like 5 men under 70 and they were all rejects from the other sites. Soooo… if anyone needs me I’m going to just be over here researching tips for being the best dog hoarding spinster I can be and trying to decide if being a gluttonous, angry hermit is really that bad of a lifestyle. Yay me! But also, FML.
Learned a valuable lesson night before last about altercations with neighbors over barking dogs at 1130 at night. They were of course right to be upset but addressing the situation with profanity aimed at my dogs only sparks my inner asshole and escalates the problem. After a few exchanges (mine were wittier) she finally saw reason and asked me politely to take my dogs in the house which I did because I’m all magnanimous and shit. Of course about 5 minutes later I could hear my momma’s voice reminding me she did NOT raise a foul-mouthed, ill mannered, white trash, hooligan (she did but not for lack of trying ) so by morning I had worried myself into a tummy ache. I decided after work that a pie was a reasonable apology for late night insult exchanges and ran it by their house.
Bad idea. VERY very no good dirty rotten idea. Once I explained why I was there and handed her my peace offering she puckered up and started to cry, hugged me without permission and 30 minutes later I knew all about her baby being sick, her brothers legal problems, got introduced to said ne’er-do-well brother who impressively tried to pretend he had manners and not a meth problem, was forced into another unsolicited hug, talked about issues with another neighbor and the death of her dog. So the moral of the story boys and girls is if you go stupid in the middle of the night and insult your neighbor’s brother’s penis (he brought it up so it was fair game) among other things and then feel the need to get an apology pie do not take it in person. Either send that shit in the mail with a real pretty note or toss it from the road as you drive by and don’t look back.
Another awesome couple of days of being me. First I was supposed to pick up some gas cards for a coworker whose husband is in the hospital far from where they live. I figured while I was as Casey’s I’d grab a pizza. Got the pizza and forgot the gift cards. You know, the REASON I was there in the first place. Then this morning I needed black dress socks to go with my black skirt. (socks and skirts, yes I really am that classy) I searched in the pile of clothes in the basket, and the pile on the table, and the one on the bench in my bedroom and the pile on the couch and in the load that’s been in the dryer for three days (I rock housekeeping skills). Finally gave up and grabbed a pair of white tube socks thinking I could stop at the Dollar Store on my way in to work and grab some. Got to the store, grabbed some cheap socks and got the bright idea to change socks standing next to car in the parking lot. In the wind. In a skirt. Dropped my shoe on the ground (light weight, sparkly Toms knockoff) and sure enough the $%^&ing wind blew my shoe under the car. There I am circling the car in a crouch trying to get my shoe, wind whipping my skirt up around my hairy man legs (god made long skirts so you wouldn’t have to bother shaving in the winter) and unflattering tube socks. Thankfully it finally blew on out the other side so I could grab it. Went back to changing my socks and in my irritation yanked off the white sock now covered in Dollar Store parking lot filth and threw it the passenger seat, of course if fell straight into the Panera bag with my breakfast in it. Granted everything was wrapped up but it was just the idea that crack whore goo from the parking lot might be sharing space with my precious Panera. Dammit some days it’s hard being me. Most days actually. Ok everyday. sniffle.
Fun, middle of the night adventures in my yard. Some how a small opossum made it into my yard. Which is bizarre by itself as it’s a 6′ fence and i hadn’t realize they were such good climbers but whatever, one made it into the yard . Now it’s not unusual for the dogs to run out the door like a herd of wildebeests being chased by hyenas. But usually once they get out there they scatter into the yard. This time however they all stayed in a cluster around something so I knew doggy dipshittery was afoot. I get out there and realize it’s some poor opossum and Lindy is just laying on top of it trying to protect her find from the other dogs. I got him away from them and it was all curled up. I know they play dead sometimes so I was really careful but it let me rake it into a trash can without any movement so I figured they had killed it. I was going to walk it through the house and put it out back to bury in the morning but halfway across the yard I felt the trash can start to move in my hand. My poor neighbors. I screeched and started to run for the fence and then lobbed the whole thing, 13 gallon trash can with frantic possum inside over the 6′ fence. I’m really sorry for that poor possum. The whole night had to be a traumatic event between being cornered by my dogs then being shoved in a trash can and then an impromptu flight over a fence with a terrifying screeching noise. But seeing as how this morning I feel like I might have pulled something in my back I’m not all that sorry. However I do think I’ve invented a new sport and I’m looking into trademarking Possum in a Can Shot Putting. The only rule is you have to wear house slippers and sing like the fat lady at the end of an opera to compete.