In the last two weeks my trusty old microwave finally met it’s maker, my dryer went wonky, one of my tires shuffled off its mortal coil, my prescription that I’ve been taking forever and was always completely covered by insurance suddenly costs $20 and the pharmacy said when they ran my insurance it said my coverage had ended. (it hasn’t and a phone call fixed it) and I finally got around to being a grown up and switching my Jeep insurance over to the same company as my house and was supposed to get a lovely refund for switching but my gooey tub fart of a mailman (that’s a story for another post) sent it back as undeliverable even though the agent read me the address on the envelope and both my name and address were correct. (Same guy that didn’t want to deliver my 40 lbs of dog food so put a note on my box saying it was too full to deliver that package of 40 POUNDS OF DOG FOOD THAT WOULD NOT FIT IN AN EMPTY BOX TO BEGIN WITH.)(( And there’s still more of his shenanigans for another post.)) I really REALLY want to feel sorry for myself but there’s a naggy little bitch of a voice in my head (that sounds a lot like my mother) reminding of all my shady behavior, especially the frequency with which I bellow profanity at other drivers and death stare people that get in my way at the grocery store or how I always, always, always give an extended honk and flash the bird or make throat slitting gestures at my siblings when pass them in town and past affinity for married men saying this might be karma and at least it’s not cancer and maybe I should just thank my lucky stars all of these things were easily fixable. Man that voice needs a good swift kick in the meat curtains. But all this shit does give me facebook fodder so yay for silver linings. Or something.
I eat breakfast every work day at the same time. Not out of any neurotic OCD obsessiveness, that’s just crazy, but from pure introvert obsessiveness which is totally sane and relatable. At 10:15 every morning the snack bar is almost completely void of the scourge known as “other people” and there are plenty of quiet corners I can hide in and happily devour my grilled cheese sandwich like it was a dairy covered lover complete with soft but inappropriate noises of appreciation, ecstasy induced eye rolling, leg shaking and prolific licking of the fingers with cringe worthy slurping noises. It’s my scheduled 10 minutes of unadulterated joy every day and while it will probably land me with several sexual harassment complaints at some point for now it’s “my precious” and anyone that disturbs it instantly earns a place near the top of my wish list for when we finally institute the purge. So imagine my face when I’m settling into my quiet corner in the huge and empty cafeteria for my daily dose of cheesy euphoria when this low down, no good, shit mitten, muff scratt, tub fart, warthog faced, Shrek looking bag of bitch had the nerve, the nerve I say to Sit.Across.From.Me!!! There’s a whole open goddamn dining room the size of Donald Trump’s giant floppy ass that’s emptier than a condom machine after seventh fleet shore leave but this puerile cunty big balls decides forcibly inserting himself into my quiet place during love sandwich mastication time at the very next table seems like a swell idea. AND THEN doesn’t even have the decency to turn his back to me but sits facing me like some sort of social decency deviant. Dude!!! I sat there stink eyeing him like a disdainful meerkat thinking I could silently make him uncomfortable enough to move but apparently not because as god as my witness THAT MOTHERFUCKER SMILED AT ME!!! What kind of psychopath does that??? And before one of you soft hearted snot rags @’s me with a, “maybe he was lonely” you can just stuff it. Let him get drunk and call 900 numbers and government officials like the rest of us instead of terrorizing attractive (sort of) young (vaguely) women during their daily conjugal cheese visit. For crying out loud there is not a bag of dicks big enough to even respond to that nonsense.
It’s bowling night and I’m shitty as ever
but I also I can’t find my Easy Slide which is powdery stuff that helps you slide. Shocking right? Finally gave up digging through the doorway to Narnia that is my purse and went to go buy some only I’m old and kind of a flake so for the life of me couldn’t remember the name. The only thing that came to mind was Astro Glide because apparently I’m also kind of a perv as well as an old flake. To be fair it’s the same concept but for a completely different sport. Thankfully my brain engaged just enough to keep me from actually saying Astro Glide but still not enough to save me so there I stood just repeatedly saying, “Do you have any, umm…umm..” and turning beat red because sex lube was all I could think of while staring at a kid young enough to be my child. Eww. Finally got my shit together enough to stutter, “sly stuvv.” Dougie Howser just looked at me like I’d taken one too many hits for my glaucoma but figured out what I meant and finished the transaction without further trauma but what the ever loving fuck is wrong with my damn self? You’d think I was a geriatric back alley hooker instead of a mild mannered middle aged former librarian.
Once again it’s been a banner week to be me. Monday we found out our boss’s father had passed away and for some bizarre reason my coworkers trusted me to order something for the funeral. Everyone knows I am not the most competent or practical person in the universe so giving me this kind of crap to do is always a bad idea. Thankfully the coworker I share an office with lent a guiding hand and instead of ordering $70 worth of fried chicken and a sympathy clown we decided on Panera bagels and pastries. I got it ordered all fine and dandy and was feeling really proud of myself until the end of the conversation when the sales person said, “thank you for your order and we’re so sorry for the loss” and me being me, I’d already checked out of the conversation mentally and instead of saying something appropriately solemn and polite like maybe, “Thank you” I had to say in my most chipper voice, “oh no problem, thanks a bunch!”. WTF? I’d just spent 10 minutes discussing with this woman what would be the most appropriate thing to send to a wake (apparently flip flop sugar cookies are not as acceptable as plain short bread cookies, who knew?) and then blew off her sympathy like Marsha Brady ordering penis cookies for a bachelorette party.
Then last night I took Donald for a walk as we are both starting to look like overstuffed sausages. I was too lazy to look very hard for walking clothes and there was a pair of Dave’s old sweat pants on top of my laundry pile so that’s what I grabbed. He’s nearly 6 feet tall and I’m barely 5 so needless to say his pants are a wee bit baggy on me which is fine while I’m putzing around but once I put my keys and phone in the pockets they started to drag just a bit. Of course Donald had to poop at the beginning of the walk and he poops something that looks like the giant mound of dinosaur droppings in Jurassic Park so I couldn’t just kick it under some bushes like I do with the smaller dogs and had to pick it up and drag it around with us for the rest of the walk. Then Donald caught the scent of something and used his 100 pounds as leverage to drag me along behind him, one hand desperately clinging to his leash and the other trying to keep my pants up while slinging around a bag of warm dog poo. Pretty sure I’m gonna end up on YouTube for that performance.
Cripes it hurts to be me sometimes.
Super long, super gross story here. My sinuses turned septic (<self-diagnosis) earlier this week and I ended up taking two days off. Back today but thinking perhaps I should have stayed home as every little thing seems like a huge ordeal. First I had some weird existential crisis over my breakfast sandwich. Took a bite that was too hot, while simultaneously realizing I had forgotten to put salsa on it and also a bit of egg fell off. I had to sit still for a second and fight tears because I couldn’t think of which issue to deal with first. I did eventually take a drink to deal with my burning mouth but had to wrap the sandwich up, turn away from it and pull myself together for a few minutes just to finish a god damn egg sandwich. Also, it took me an hour process that whole sentence into words.
Then had some sort of aneurism trying to talk to hot Colonel. I brought tea and tea cookies in for National Tea Day and put up a sign that said so. Hot Colonel came by and says, “Beth, is it National Tea Day?” Christ, has he not met me?? That is so not a question to ask a jack ass. BUT, it was also HOT flipping Colonel who by the way is also my boss’s boss’s boss. Never mind being adorable AF. So my poor festering head was trying cope with A) Hot colonel talking to me and saying my name in his oh so amazing way. B) Hot Colonel asking me a Captain Obvious question that normally I would have snarked all to hell and C) trying to respond in a coherent manner to basically the head of my chain of command. You can probably guess how well that went. I just stared at him, drooling like a pot head staring at a fresh bag of Doritos after finishing a solo fatty. I may have scratched my pit. I did finally manage to say, “Yes……sir.” And then he thankfully he took a hand full of cookies left. Pretty sure he thinks I’m high.
Also, there’s a funny taste in the back of my mouth that kind of suggests my sinuses may be bleeding. Seriously, I think need to go home.
There’s some sort of excitement going on in my ghetto neighborhood tonight. There are rural fire trucks and cable guys everywhere. I’m guessing a cable line came down but the meth makers are worried about their product and keep calling the rual fire department. They keep showing up, drive around for second and then leave again but the cable guys are still here. Was standing at the window with my dogs watching the excitement of meth heads scrambling to hide their stash when I noticed one of my neighbor ladies. She’s either a tweaker in her late twenties or a normal person in her late fifties. Either way she still does a pretty good job of rocking what she’s got. I saw her come out of her house, dressed like a normal person after work, sweats and a tshirt and pony tail. She surveyed the situation and went back in only to reappear a few minutes later in cute but tight capris and a sleeveless shirt with her hair down and flowing and standing in one of those cute girl poses with one knee sort of bent. Not to be outdone when the Gods of man meat are smiling down on me and practically delivering potential afternoon delights to my door, I sashayed out onto the porch in my own super sexy wear, aka sweats I stole from my ex boyfriend who was 6 ft 4 and 400 lbs. Just imagine a super white sumo wrestler with a goatee and redneck accent and that’d be him. So you can imagine just how seductive this getup really is. (Or how unseductive he was.)The crotch of my sweat pants sags down to my knees and are held up with a safety pin. And being outside braless isn’t really doing me any good as this shirt looks like something I bought at Ozark tent and awning. So I’m just standing here hoping the breeze will blow my way and at least sort of show off my pendulous bosom in the right light. So far I haven’t captured me a hunky fireman but my efforts (or my dogs) did earn me a wave from one of the volunteer fire kids so I’m still calling this evening a win. Bow chica wow wow ya’ll.
I had a unpleasant stomach bug over the weekend and haven’t quite bounced back to my normal, sweet, sparkly unicorn self (< ha ha, sarcasm) and am crankier than Kardashians denied access to a camera crew and wealthy black men. It’s been really hard not to throw the eff word around like glitter at a strip club. I’m normally pretty good at pretending to be interested in what my coworkers are saying. It’s usually not that hard to say, “oh really? And what did she say to that?” and then follow up the appropriate uh-huh’s and sure’s when internally I’m thinking, “You are dumber than a box of hair and I wish I could kill you with fire.” But even that’s been tough today. The most I can muster is a dead stare that apparently says I want to eat your soul with grape jelly and biscuits judging by the way people have started to avoid speaking to me. I honestly don’t mean to be a soul sucking harpy. Usually I’m such an ADD riddled flake that everything is entertaining in some way but since my surprise colon cleanse I’ve just been a big ole pile of angst and loathing. A human grumpy cat that just wants to shout NO! at everyone and conspicuously close the elevator doors on people trying to catch it and openly pick my nose while other people are trying to eat. I’m sure it will go away in a day or two but until then y’all should probably avoid inviting me to dinner.
In an attempt to fight feeling frumpy I went shopping at one of those chain stores that seems to market to women much younger than me. Because nothing says not frumpy like stuffing yourself into Jr size clothing. Thankfully better sense prevailed (rare for me) and I just bought me a nice new belt. In my rat like fervor for all things shiny I got one with a giant cluster of rhinestones on it. Have been walking around all day basking in my own less frumpy fabulousness till I went to the bathroom and realized my lovely new belt had slid down under my muffin top and was making me look like I had an oddly high beer gut. Like someone’s middle aged dad in drag. Also, my shirt had bunched up under the belt on one side. So I guess it was like a drunken, middle aged dad in drag. That was bad enough but then I went and flopped back down in my office chair, sinking into a slouch because I no longer felt fabulous. While hunched over my dangly necklace caught on my belt. I went to reach for my drink and it suddenly let loose and popped up in my face and startled me into making an odd barking yelp noise. Then I got my skirt wrapped around the wheel of my chair and almost pulled it off when I stood up. My skirt, not the wheel. Thank goodness my coworkers are gone because many expletives were uttered. Many pirate ancestors were made very proud. Also, my giant gaudy belt keeps knocking against my desk every time I move. Thunk, thunk, scrape thunk…. all damn day long. Today is not a bueno day. Sniffle.
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.
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.