Because I am chronically lazy I still haven’t taken the dog crates out of my car from the last rescue transport a few weeks ago. Because I am not very bright I decided to go grocery shopping anyway. And because I lack common sense instead of just putting the groceries inside the dog crates I put them on top which was a sure recipe for disaster because I also lack even basic driving skills. Sure enough on the way home, for reasons I’m too ashamed to mention, I had to stomp on my breaks. The giant tub of butter that I had placed precariously just behind my head went flying and surprisingly missed me, hit the stereo, flipped the station and forced me to watch my life flash before my eyes to the dulcet tones of Neal McCoy’s Billy’s Got His Beer Goggles On. Fuck me. Once I got my shit together well enough to continue on I had to wonder why the lofting Land O Lakes hadn’t killed me because of all the people you can think of that would be killed by a big ass bucket of flying butter you know that would be me. Everyone who knows me knows that would be me. Anyone who has ever met me and heard me speak knows it would be me. Absolutely no one would be surprised by that. Not even my second grade teacher who hasn’t seen me in 40 years would be shocked. So honestly all I can think of is that it’s some sort of autumnal miracle.
One of my coworkers stopped by to say hello and point out that he hadn’t seen me out an about in a while. That he often saw my Jeep in the parking lot but rarely saw me. Oh and by the way he had to chuckle at some of the things he saw in my Jeep. There was a second of terror (which I’m sure showed on my face) as I tried to think of what might have been in my car that would make him chuckle. Recently everything has been in my vehicle from a beat up but lovely tiara to a dying pigeon and huge package of bulk toilet paper alongside the ever present plethora of dog appurtenances so I’m not really sure why my brain automatically went to items of the lewd persuasion but it did, of course. Now I’m no raging harlot but once in a while my virtue IS quite questionable and one or two sordid activities have indeed transpired in my poor defiled Jeep but I was fairly certain any vulgar paraphernalia had been safely stowed away from gnawing pups or taken home for cleaning depending on sanitary demands, but not absolutely sure. Any normal person would have laughed it off or made a joke out of it but as we established LONG ago I am awkward AF and not really capable of rational thought on the fly so of course I went WAY off the deep end of defensiveness and kind of screeched, “why are you monitoring my parking habits?!?”. Because that’s a completely sane reaction. I’m telling myself that he skipped away and snickered at my guileless charm but honestly it was more of a terrified skitter and nervous laughter which, ironically, is often how all those sordid activities in my Jeep usually end.
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.
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.
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.
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.