Years ago, my friend Mr. Mike used to get drunk, play his guitar, and make us sing "Roxanne."
Mike didn't know how to play guitar.
Luckily, the rest of us knew how to sing, or at least play an instrument. Heck, one of us is a Professional Musician (In the pic, Markie's the one in the middle, also the one you hear singing. If your computer has sound, that is.)
Someone would usually take the guitar away from Mr. Mike and give him another beer, or shot of tequila or something.
Then someone else would play and we'd change the words to "Abilene" around in ways that were only funny to us.
Flash forward more than a decade: The Jesus of Cheese and I were just starting to date. We had just discovered homebrewing, and were sampling our very first product: basic mead.
I had quite a bit of mead. Mead makes you happy.
Apparently it makes the Jesus of Cheese play his guitar. I decided it would be great fun to jump on his bed and sing along.
If any of y'all ever witness him playing his guitar, you will find one truth: he never finishes a song. Ever. Unless it's "Roxanne" and I'm drunk.
Then I make him finish it, so I can sing it.
The latest development: we bought the video game RockBand. You get a standard set of songs, the result of which is that Simian Boy's current favorite song is "Mississippi Queen," which seems to have superseded "Ring of Fire," "Weather With You," and "Walking On Sunshine," among others.
It took us a little while to figure out how to use the microphone as a player--the guitar and drums just plug in--but we finally did it. Apparently, I'm the only one in the family who can sing. And I always thought I sucked, but I will at least do it.
My family seemed rather eager to have me sing while they did their bits. So I did. I discovered a couple of things. One of these is that I really don't know the words to "Mississippi Queen," or even "Blitzkrieg Bop." I can fake it pretty good, though.
The Jesus of Cheese bought me "Roxanne" to sing, because it's not part of the standard set.
To do well on the singing in this game, I've found it's best--if you know the song--to NOT look at the lyrics and prompts or hints. Maybe some karaoke performer can verify this for me.
So I just sing it. Sometimes I pretend Mr. Mike is playing really lame guitar with me, and sometimes I pretend I'm jumping on the bed that I eventually conceived my children on.
Do you have any idea how many times "Put on the red light" is repeated in that song? Neither do I, but it's a lot.
Speaking of repetition, I wonder if they have "Love To Love You Baby" or "I Feel Love" for purchase.
Now THAT would be cool.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Substitute Bitch
So I'm in the car line. It was moving, but it came to a halt right in front of me. The van that was parked in front of me was picking up several girls who took forever (okay, five minutes, but in the car line five minutes IS forever) to get to their ride. This car was right in the middle of the circle drive. You can't get any closer to the school door with a car.
Let me note, I was directly behind this car. So I was the NEXT closest car to the door. I could see my kids, 20 feet away, standing with a substitute teacher. They pointed to me. The woman didn't bring them over. I tried to catch her eye and motion for her to bring them over. She didn't. I opened my car door, stood on the running board, and motioned for her to bring them over.
Take note, all the while the car in front of me is still waiting for its passengers.
Finally the car in front of me moved. Then the substitute actually tried to make me pull all the way forward in the circle drive!
Now please note, this woman had just refused to walk 20 feet Southwest to bring my children to me, and wouldn't let them walk over on their own. While five minutes went by with NOTHING HAPPENING.
THEN she wants me to pull all the way forward so she can walk my kids 30 feet Northeast?
Um, no. I was fed up. I refused to go any further than as close as I could get to where they had were standing (this is obnoxious car line behavior).
GEEZ!
I have no idea why this woman wouldn't release my kids.
And I won't say anything to anyone, because somehow, some way, I would end up looking like the bitch.
But it does feel good to tell YOU. Thanks for listening.
Let me note, I was directly behind this car. So I was the NEXT closest car to the door. I could see my kids, 20 feet away, standing with a substitute teacher. They pointed to me. The woman didn't bring them over. I tried to catch her eye and motion for her to bring them over. She didn't. I opened my car door, stood on the running board, and motioned for her to bring them over.
Take note, all the while the car in front of me is still waiting for its passengers.
Finally the car in front of me moved. Then the substitute actually tried to make me pull all the way forward in the circle drive!
Now please note, this woman had just refused to walk 20 feet Southwest to bring my children to me, and wouldn't let them walk over on their own. While five minutes went by with NOTHING HAPPENING.
THEN she wants me to pull all the way forward so she can walk my kids 30 feet Northeast?
Um, no. I was fed up. I refused to go any further than as close as I could get to where they had were standing (this is obnoxious car line behavior).
GEEZ!
I have no idea why this woman wouldn't release my kids.
And I won't say anything to anyone, because somehow, some way, I would end up looking like the bitch.
But it does feel good to tell YOU. Thanks for listening.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Deja vu all over again
I have strep, again. But my doctor quit--why do they keep doing this to me?--so I had to go to the other doctor at the same office.
First of all, I KNOW I have strep. The test came out negative, but the nurse didn't do it right. I hate to admit this, much less go through it, but that swab test for strep should NOT be gentle. It should hurt, and it should gag you; if it doesn't, they didn't swab hard enough, and they didn't hit the right spots.
Luckily, my doctor agreed that the test was wrong. In fact, I don't even know if they bothered to do the test, since the doc came back in much sooner than it takes the test to incubate (10-15 minutes).
I have a question for doctors: What the fuck is up with giving out Prednisone like candy? I had it last fall for my jaw, and the doc gave me a shot yesterday because my throat was swollen enough she feared I might end up with a blocked airway before the antibiotics kicked in.
Now, that stuff is great in the short term, but it eventually wrecks your immune system. So I'm hoping that for the next three to infinity years I won't need any, because my immune system is fucked up enough already.
The result is that right now I'm a little hyper.
Which leads me to a totally different WTF? rant.
Bras. Research has shown that most women buy the wrong size bra, and the manufacturers are confused.
Idiots.
Have you ever read the instructions for measuring bra size? Here's how: my version.
1. Put on your best fitting bra. Wait, no, don't do that. Just look at the tag, check the size, and go out and buy the exact same one, but new, in all the available colors. Oh, since it's your favorite, the tag is so faded that you can't read it? Oh, crap. Okay, put it back on.
2. Now get a tape measure. I know it's in your sewing kit or junk drawer. Just find it. You can't? Okay, get a belt or twine or something, and your kid's 6" ruler that they couldn't find last week because it was IN THEIR DESK, RIGHT WHERE IT BELONGS!
3. Wrap the tape measure (belt, twine, computer cable that was laying on your desk) around your rib cage, just below your boobs. Take a deep breath.
This is where reality varies from what manufacturers tell you.
I say, whatever the number is, is your band size. It says 34 inches? You're a 34. It says 35 inches? You're a 36. (Some companies actually do sell odd-numbered band sizes, but they're expensive, and damn, there's more than one set of hooks on a regular bra anyway.)
4. Now the manufacturers say to, and I kid you not, ADD FIVE (5) TO THAT NUMBER, AND THAT IS YOUR BAND SIZE!
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
They also say to measure above your boobs, under your arms, and this should be the same as the measurement below your boobs+5. (Mine never has been. It's always been the same, or maybe my first number is 34 and my next number is 35. NEVER 39)
According to the manufacturer, my band size should be 40. If I got a 40, it wouldn't stay under my boobs. It would just be a lace and lycra necklace, and not a very attractive one, at that.
So, my instructions are to skip measuring above your boobs and skip adding 5 to you rib cage measurement. I think manufacturers do this so we buy the wrong size on purpose, and they go back and try again, so they make more money.
5. Finally, measure your boobs. "At the highest point," says the manufacurers. "WELL DUH!" say BeerPup. But not necessarily over your nipples. After seeing a lot of plastic surgery reality shows on TV, I now realize a lot of women's nipples are in weird places, bless their hearts.
Well, back to measuring. Whatever that number is, subtract the rib cage number (the manufacturer says rib cage+5) from it. The cup size is the difference in the two.
1=A (and what the fuck do you think you need a bra for? Put band-aids on your nipples when a bra is socially required, and be glad you saved the money. Acually I suggest 3M brand bandages because they don't contain laytex and are less likely to irritate your skin.)
2=B (see above)
3=C (Lucky you! You get to wear all the cute bras! And they only cost $15 at Target! I hate you.)
4=D (You still might get lucky at Target if you're a 36 or above, but we're getting into armored territory now.)
5=DD (Welcome to the $50 a bra club, unless you get lucky at Kohl's!)
6=EEE (Welcome to the chiropractor!)
You will see, that according to the manufacturers, I am a 40A. Lots of you have seen my Great Rack, and it ain't no 40A.
34DD, thank you.
Before I had kids, I was a 32DD, and it was nearly impossible to find a bra in a normal store. I wore a lot of sports bras, which my husband said functioned something like the package on Pillsbury biscuits. I didn't love the sports bras, since I serously dislike the uni-boob look, but when you're broke and don't want to have to go out and purchase something a Valkyrie would wear, you do what you gotta.
Now, sometimes I can find bras that fit and don't cast an arm and a leg, though I usually end up in a 36D because it's "Good enough."
So that, dear bra manufacturers, is why women wear the wrong size bras.
First of all, I KNOW I have strep. The test came out negative, but the nurse didn't do it right. I hate to admit this, much less go through it, but that swab test for strep should NOT be gentle. It should hurt, and it should gag you; if it doesn't, they didn't swab hard enough, and they didn't hit the right spots.
Luckily, my doctor agreed that the test was wrong. In fact, I don't even know if they bothered to do the test, since the doc came back in much sooner than it takes the test to incubate (10-15 minutes).
I have a question for doctors: What the fuck is up with giving out Prednisone like candy? I had it last fall for my jaw, and the doc gave me a shot yesterday because my throat was swollen enough she feared I might end up with a blocked airway before the antibiotics kicked in.
Now, that stuff is great in the short term, but it eventually wrecks your immune system. So I'm hoping that for the next three to infinity years I won't need any, because my immune system is fucked up enough already.
The result is that right now I'm a little hyper.
Which leads me to a totally different WTF? rant.
Bras. Research has shown that most women buy the wrong size bra, and the manufacturers are confused.
Idiots.
Have you ever read the instructions for measuring bra size? Here's how: my version.
1. Put on your best fitting bra. Wait, no, don't do that. Just look at the tag, check the size, and go out and buy the exact same one, but new, in all the available colors. Oh, since it's your favorite, the tag is so faded that you can't read it? Oh, crap. Okay, put it back on.
2. Now get a tape measure. I know it's in your sewing kit or junk drawer. Just find it. You can't? Okay, get a belt or twine or something, and your kid's 6" ruler that they couldn't find last week because it was IN THEIR DESK, RIGHT WHERE IT BELONGS!
3. Wrap the tape measure (belt, twine, computer cable that was laying on your desk) around your rib cage, just below your boobs. Take a deep breath.
This is where reality varies from what manufacturers tell you.
I say, whatever the number is, is your band size. It says 34 inches? You're a 34. It says 35 inches? You're a 36. (Some companies actually do sell odd-numbered band sizes, but they're expensive, and damn, there's more than one set of hooks on a regular bra anyway.)
4. Now the manufacturers say to, and I kid you not, ADD FIVE (5) TO THAT NUMBER, AND THAT IS YOUR BAND SIZE!
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
They also say to measure above your boobs, under your arms, and this should be the same as the measurement below your boobs+5. (Mine never has been. It's always been the same, or maybe my first number is 34 and my next number is 35. NEVER 39)
According to the manufacturer, my band size should be 40. If I got a 40, it wouldn't stay under my boobs. It would just be a lace and lycra necklace, and not a very attractive one, at that.
So, my instructions are to skip measuring above your boobs and skip adding 5 to you rib cage measurement. I think manufacturers do this so we buy the wrong size on purpose, and they go back and try again, so they make more money.
5. Finally, measure your boobs. "At the highest point," says the manufacurers. "WELL DUH!" say BeerPup. But not necessarily over your nipples. After seeing a lot of plastic surgery reality shows on TV, I now realize a lot of women's nipples are in weird places, bless their hearts.
Well, back to measuring. Whatever that number is, subtract the rib cage number (the manufacturer says rib cage+5) from it. The cup size is the difference in the two.
1=A (and what the fuck do you think you need a bra for? Put band-aids on your nipples when a bra is socially required, and be glad you saved the money. Acually I suggest 3M brand bandages because they don't contain laytex and are less likely to irritate your skin.)
2=B (see above)
3=C (Lucky you! You get to wear all the cute bras! And they only cost $15 at Target! I hate you.)
4=D (You still might get lucky at Target if you're a 36 or above, but we're getting into armored territory now.)
5=DD (Welcome to the $50 a bra club, unless you get lucky at Kohl's!)
6=EEE (Welcome to the chiropractor!)
You will see, that according to the manufacturers, I am a 40A. Lots of you have seen my Great Rack, and it ain't no 40A.
34DD, thank you.
Before I had kids, I was a 32DD, and it was nearly impossible to find a bra in a normal store. I wore a lot of sports bras, which my husband said functioned something like the package on Pillsbury biscuits. I didn't love the sports bras, since I serously dislike the uni-boob look, but when you're broke and don't want to have to go out and purchase something a Valkyrie would wear, you do what you gotta.
Now, sometimes I can find bras that fit and don't cast an arm and a leg, though I usually end up in a 36D because it's "Good enough."
So that, dear bra manufacturers, is why women wear the wrong size bras.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Rollers (partial re-post)
One speeding ticket on State road 2 in Minnesota, on the way home from college in 1987.
One speeding ticket on State road 1 in Minnesota, on the way home from college in 198...8?
Stopped for a headlight out on State road 52 in Minnesota, just after stopping to buy beer, in 1990. Got a warning, and he told me to enjoy my beer once I drove the final 2 blocks to my destination. It was a 6-pack of Leinenkugel's.
In all of my trips from Texas to Minnesota, I have NEVER been stopped. I've nearly been killed by other drivers, though--damn that US 81 through Nebraska!
I talked my way out of one ticket in Euless, TX in 1996. I even had empty beer bottles in the back seat in plain view, but the guy obviously thought my husband (then fiance) had drunk them and that's why I was driving home instead of him. The whole experience pissed off my husband, because "women can always talk their way out of tickets." I cited the first two examples I gave here, and told him to shut up.
One ticket on I35 on the way back from seeing ElllyHnowP in Austin, TX, just after it splits East and West and goes down to 60MPH. The cop scared the crap out of me because he came up on the passenger side while I was yelling at the kids about juice. He laughed at me, but not in a mean way. He was nice but gave me the ticket anyway.
One ticket in Roseau, MN on the way to my grandfather's funeral. The cop was a woman, and a total BITCH. Yes, I was speeding on the way out of town--the "55MPH" sign was about 10 feet in front of where I pulled my car over. I was driving my mom's car, with the kids in borrowed baby seats. First, the woman bitched about my speeding. Okay, whatever. THEN she kept asking whose car it was? My parents'. WHERE was I from? Texas, like it says on my driver's license. Was I from Minnesota? Yes, I grew up here. But WHY did I have a Texas license? Because that's where I LIVE, [BITCH]! They WHY was I driving someone else's car? I flew here. From WHERE? Texas. WHOSE car is this? My PARENTS, like I said before.
I told her, more than once, that I was going to a funeral that is over 100 miles from any commercial airport. You can only get there by driving. And it's obvious that I was related to my parents, since my middle name used to be my last name, and last name on the car insurance was the middle name on my license.
Then she bitched that the insurance was expiring in three days. She didn't ask for a renewal card, but if she had, I had it.
Then she bitched about how the car seats were not adequate for the size of the children (they were borrowed). But she "gave me a break" on that. Then she drove off.
I sat there and cried for about 15 minutes. I didn't expect any forbearance because I was going to a funeral, but geez! A little intelligence on her part might have been helpful.
Apparently, the woman had a huge reputation. If I showed up in court to fight the ticket, it would have been automatically dismissed, I was told, because this cop was such a pain in the ass for the local judge. My dad told me a few stories about her, and actually called her a bitch. It's the ONLY time I've ever heard the man utter the word.
But the next time I got stopped in Minnesota made up for the last time. Here's how that went (according to what I wrote in my blog.) (Oh, I was just arriving in my hometown for Christmas in 2006):
"Where ya headed to?"
"Well, I'm here now."
"Just arrived? Just now?"
"Just now. I grew up here."
"Do you have any idea why I stopped you?"
"Did I not slow down fast enough when the speed limit changed coming into town?"
"No, you did that fine, but I clocked you back there on the highway anywhere between 55 and 70. I didn't stop you until we got here because there's no shoulder back there and I didn't want to cause an accident."
"Oh. Well, I was mostly looking for deer."
"I'm just going to write you a warning. It's not a ticket or anything."
I look at the warning. Deputy Porter had very clearly written my middle name, which was my last name before I married The Jesus of Cheese, proving to his superiors that I really did grow up there. He started to write my last name as "Friendly" and corrected it, then didn't bother to write down my address. My license plate, according to him, was from the state of "YV" and only had five numbers. He didn't record anything about my driver's license, though if he'd asked, I could have also given him my now-surrendered Minnesota number: H-636-368-585-151.
Why I can remember that when I can't remember anyone's phone number, I have no idea.
So, in review, this is how you get out of a speeding ticket in Warren, Minnesota:
1) Be from Warren. No one FROM Warren ever gets a ticket IN Warren, unless they're below the age of 21.
2) Confess to a crime you have not committed. I knew damn well I did my speed reduction correctly.
3) Show knowledge of local concerns. I had hit a deer four years ago in the exact spot on the road when I first noticed the cop behind me (um, 6 miles before he stopped me ;-)).
It was nice of him to not give me a speeding ticket. And to not give me a ticket because I had my son in the front seat (airbag violation) without his shoulder harness on, and also my rear view was mostly blocked.
I'm also glad he didn't find the illegal immigrants we had hidden under the Christmas presents.
One speeding ticket on State road 1 in Minnesota, on the way home from college in 198...8?
Stopped for a headlight out on State road 52 in Minnesota, just after stopping to buy beer, in 1990. Got a warning, and he told me to enjoy my beer once I drove the final 2 blocks to my destination. It was a 6-pack of Leinenkugel's.
In all of my trips from Texas to Minnesota, I have NEVER been stopped. I've nearly been killed by other drivers, though--damn that US 81 through Nebraska!
I talked my way out of one ticket in Euless, TX in 1996. I even had empty beer bottles in the back seat in plain view, but the guy obviously thought my husband (then fiance) had drunk them and that's why I was driving home instead of him. The whole experience pissed off my husband, because "women can always talk their way out of tickets." I cited the first two examples I gave here, and told him to shut up.
One ticket on I35 on the way back from seeing ElllyHnowP in Austin, TX, just after it splits East and West and goes down to 60MPH. The cop scared the crap out of me because he came up on the passenger side while I was yelling at the kids about juice. He laughed at me, but not in a mean way. He was nice but gave me the ticket anyway.
One ticket in Roseau, MN on the way to my grandfather's funeral. The cop was a woman, and a total BITCH. Yes, I was speeding on the way out of town--the "55MPH" sign was about 10 feet in front of where I pulled my car over. I was driving my mom's car, with the kids in borrowed baby seats. First, the woman bitched about my speeding. Okay, whatever. THEN she kept asking whose car it was? My parents'. WHERE was I from? Texas, like it says on my driver's license. Was I from Minnesota? Yes, I grew up here. But WHY did I have a Texas license? Because that's where I LIVE, [BITCH]! They WHY was I driving someone else's car? I flew here. From WHERE? Texas. WHOSE car is this? My PARENTS, like I said before.
I told her, more than once, that I was going to a funeral that is over 100 miles from any commercial airport. You can only get there by driving. And it's obvious that I was related to my parents, since my middle name used to be my last name, and last name on the car insurance was the middle name on my license.
Then she bitched that the insurance was expiring in three days. She didn't ask for a renewal card, but if she had, I had it.
Then she bitched about how the car seats were not adequate for the size of the children (they were borrowed). But she "gave me a break" on that. Then she drove off.
I sat there and cried for about 15 minutes. I didn't expect any forbearance because I was going to a funeral, but geez! A little intelligence on her part might have been helpful.
Apparently, the woman had a huge reputation. If I showed up in court to fight the ticket, it would have been automatically dismissed, I was told, because this cop was such a pain in the ass for the local judge. My dad told me a few stories about her, and actually called her a bitch. It's the ONLY time I've ever heard the man utter the word.
But the next time I got stopped in Minnesota made up for the last time. Here's how that went (according to what I wrote in my blog.) (Oh, I was just arriving in my hometown for Christmas in 2006):
"Where ya headed to?"
"Well, I'm here now."
"Just arrived? Just now?"
"Just now. I grew up here."
"Do you have any idea why I stopped you?"
"Did I not slow down fast enough when the speed limit changed coming into town?"
"No, you did that fine, but I clocked you back there on the highway anywhere between 55 and 70. I didn't stop you until we got here because there's no shoulder back there and I didn't want to cause an accident."
"Oh. Well, I was mostly looking for deer."
"I'm just going to write you a warning. It's not a ticket or anything."
I look at the warning. Deputy Porter had very clearly written my middle name, which was my last name before I married The Jesus of Cheese, proving to his superiors that I really did grow up there. He started to write my last name as "Friendly" and corrected it, then didn't bother to write down my address. My license plate, according to him, was from the state of "YV" and only had five numbers. He didn't record anything about my driver's license, though if he'd asked, I could have also given him my now-surrendered Minnesota number: H-636-368-585-151.
Why I can remember that when I can't remember anyone's phone number, I have no idea.
So, in review, this is how you get out of a speeding ticket in Warren, Minnesota:
1) Be from Warren. No one FROM Warren ever gets a ticket IN Warren, unless they're below the age of 21.
2) Confess to a crime you have not committed. I knew damn well I did my speed reduction correctly.
3) Show knowledge of local concerns. I had hit a deer four years ago in the exact spot on the road when I first noticed the cop behind me (um, 6 miles before he stopped me ;-)).
It was nice of him to not give me a speeding ticket. And to not give me a ticket because I had my son in the front seat (airbag violation) without his shoulder harness on, and also my rear view was mostly blocked.
I'm also glad he didn't find the illegal immigrants we had hidden under the Christmas presents.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Good Fences Make Good Neighbors
I just learned that Dubya is moving to Dallas after his term ends.
Damn. I hope he doesn't move near me.
The few times I dealt with Secret Service measures, it sucked. For everyone else; not for me. President Clinton came to town for a Democratic fundraiser, and he landed at Dallas Love Field, went down the tollway to wherever he was going--Irving, or something (so why the fuck didn't he just land at DFW?)--and back again.
I had just left work in downtown Dallas and gotten on the tollway when I noticed an overabundance of police cars. And an absence of people behind me. Way, WAY back, I thought I saw some black cars. There was a sqaud car blocking every on-ramp from downtown all the way home.
The radio traffic report kept saying: "The tollway is being shut down for an injury accident. Now on to the news: President Clinton just landed at Love Field and is en route to Irving for a fundraiser."
I just kept traveling with the lucky commuters who had gotten on the tollway with me. Strangely--oh, maybe not--the police in the area were NOT concerned with stopping anyone for speeding, and the drive was remarkably light since they stopped all on-ramps at the same time...and the tollway became exit-only.
It's the only time in my life I drove 80 MPH past a cop and didn't worry about a ticket.
I've never EVER driven from downtown Dallas to home that fast.
Thanks, Bill!
Damn. I hope he doesn't move near me.
The few times I dealt with Secret Service measures, it sucked. For everyone else; not for me. President Clinton came to town for a Democratic fundraiser, and he landed at Dallas Love Field, went down the tollway to wherever he was going--Irving, or something (so why the fuck didn't he just land at DFW?)--and back again.
I had just left work in downtown Dallas and gotten on the tollway when I noticed an overabundance of police cars. And an absence of people behind me. Way, WAY back, I thought I saw some black cars. There was a sqaud car blocking every on-ramp from downtown all the way home.
The radio traffic report kept saying: "The tollway is being shut down for an injury accident. Now on to the news: President Clinton just landed at Love Field and is en route to Irving for a fundraiser."
I just kept traveling with the lucky commuters who had gotten on the tollway with me. Strangely--oh, maybe not--the police in the area were NOT concerned with stopping anyone for speeding, and the drive was remarkably light since they stopped all on-ramps at the same time...and the tollway became exit-only.
It's the only time in my life I drove 80 MPH past a cop and didn't worry about a ticket.
I've never EVER driven from downtown Dallas to home that fast.
Thanks, Bill!
Crazy
The BeerHound and I were at the Other Grocery Store a little over a week ago. All we needed was beer and water--we were shopping for the NASCAR race the next day.
When we got to the checkout, she shortest line was the tobacco line. The woman in front of us only had about 8 items.
But then, she kept asking the price of this, that, or the other tobacco item, and doing it in a manner that she seemed to be deliberately interrupting the checker. And in between, she was double-checking and disputing the prices of the other stuff she was buying. The last thing to be rung up were some flowers and stuff, and it was pretty obvious that she had taken three bunches and shoved them together, as if they were one item. The checker caught it, of course, so she suddenly decided not to buy one bunch because, she said, she thought it was only a buck or two and not six--as if she hadn't checked every price of every item!
Then. THEN! She decided to actually choose a tobacco product to buy, which wasn't any of the things which she inquired about earlier.
Then, I think she paid with a check.
Eight grocery items, two packs of cigarettes, twelve minutes.
Finally our turn, the checker got us out of there in about two minutes. We actually got out the door before GriftLady, since she still seemed to be browsing on her way out.
Once we got out the door and loaded the stuff into the car, we watched the woman push her cart to her car, which was parked all the way over at the adjacent strip mall in front of Subway and MasterCuts.
"Bet you five bucks she doesn't bring her cart back," I asked BeerHound.
"I'm not taking that bet. No wait, look!"
The woman had begun to push the cart back toward the store! But then she took and abrupt left, lifted the cart over the curb, and parked it on the grass on the side of the grocery store.
Sometimes, being a Tool can be taken to neurotic levels.
Now, I know I'M crazy. But at least I'm not crazy THAT way.
When we got to the checkout, she shortest line was the tobacco line. The woman in front of us only had about 8 items.
But then, she kept asking the price of this, that, or the other tobacco item, and doing it in a manner that she seemed to be deliberately interrupting the checker. And in between, she was double-checking and disputing the prices of the other stuff she was buying. The last thing to be rung up were some flowers and stuff, and it was pretty obvious that she had taken three bunches and shoved them together, as if they were one item. The checker caught it, of course, so she suddenly decided not to buy one bunch because, she said, she thought it was only a buck or two and not six--as if she hadn't checked every price of every item!
Then. THEN! She decided to actually choose a tobacco product to buy, which wasn't any of the things which she inquired about earlier.
Then, I think she paid with a check.
Eight grocery items, two packs of cigarettes, twelve minutes.
Finally our turn, the checker got us out of there in about two minutes. We actually got out the door before GriftLady, since she still seemed to be browsing on her way out.
Once we got out the door and loaded the stuff into the car, we watched the woman push her cart to her car, which was parked all the way over at the adjacent strip mall in front of Subway and MasterCuts.
"Bet you five bucks she doesn't bring her cart back," I asked BeerHound.
"I'm not taking that bet. No wait, look!"
The woman had begun to push the cart back toward the store! But then she took and abrupt left, lifted the cart over the curb, and parked it on the grass on the side of the grocery store.
Sometimes, being a Tool can be taken to neurotic levels.
Now, I know I'M crazy. But at least I'm not crazy THAT way.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
I Won! I won! I...oh, who cares?
Once the local radio station asked the trivia question, "What is Meat Loaf's real name?" A lot of people called and guessed, but no one actually knew it. I knew I'd read it somewhere, so out of curiosity I looked it up in a 3-year old magazine, thinking surely someone else would answer correctly before I found it. Nope! But I was too scared to call the station myself, and had The Boy do it. So he won, even though I answered the question. It was a gift certificate for a local restaurant, which we never ended up using.
The answer is Marvin Lee Aday, by the way.
Once at lunch a few years ago, I won some lingerie. Some bar/grill places near the local tech companies have "Lengerie Shows" on Fridays, give out tickets for a drawing. I was there for the cheap filet mignon, but left with a black teddy. There was a bit of an Ick Factor, since the lingerie model had actually warn the piece.
The one I remember most, though, was when I won a turkey. Our family's life insurance company would have annual branch meetings at the church every October, and all members--anyone with an insurance policy was entered, myself included. Usually my Great Uncle Arnold won EVERY YEAR. I think he bribed the agent. When I was 11, instead of Arnold's name, they called mine! When everyone started laughing, I ran in the bathroom and hid and cried. I thought they were laughing at me. And they kind of were. I told my mom to just give Arnold the stupid turkey if she could just get everyone to wipe their condescending smiles off their faced when they looked at me. (Yes, I knew how to correctly use the word "condescending" when I was 11.) Then on Thanksgiving, I had some kind of nasty stomach virus and I couldn't eat any of the stupid turkey, anyway.
The answer is Marvin Lee Aday, by the way.
Once at lunch a few years ago, I won some lingerie. Some bar/grill places near the local tech companies have "Lengerie Shows" on Fridays, give out tickets for a drawing. I was there for the cheap filet mignon, but left with a black teddy. There was a bit of an Ick Factor, since the lingerie model had actually warn the piece.
The one I remember most, though, was when I won a turkey. Our family's life insurance company would have annual branch meetings at the church every October, and all members--anyone with an insurance policy was entered, myself included. Usually my Great Uncle Arnold won EVERY YEAR. I think he bribed the agent. When I was 11, instead of Arnold's name, they called mine! When everyone started laughing, I ran in the bathroom and hid and cried. I thought they were laughing at me. And they kind of were. I told my mom to just give Arnold the stupid turkey if she could just get everyone to wipe their condescending smiles off their faced when they looked at me. (Yes, I knew how to correctly use the word "condescending" when I was 11.) Then on Thanksgiving, I had some kind of nasty stomach virus and I couldn't eat any of the stupid turkey, anyway.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Bye, BeerHound
This past week, my sister The BeerHound has been down for a visit. When I booked her flight, she asked to please fly Northwest because American has lost her luggage--well--EVERY time she's flown here, except for once. So I booked her on Northwest, since the price was the same.
She actually came for the NASCAR race last Sunday, but was given bonus days off work so she stayed a couple extra. Lucky me! Because we painted my bathroom.
It turns out that my bathroom is bigger than my kitchen, because it took a LOT longer to paint the bathroom, and I'm not done yet.
Sick of painting, we went to the outlet mall today on our way to the airport. Then we got a call from the school--my daughter is "faking" illness again! (It's really a panic attack, but she's only 8...) I quickly dropped The BeerHound at the airport, just in case my daughter actually ralphed or something.
Alls I gots to say is, thank God BeerHound didn't fly American.
She actually came for the NASCAR race last Sunday, but was given bonus days off work so she stayed a couple extra. Lucky me! Because we painted my bathroom.
It turns out that my bathroom is bigger than my kitchen, because it took a LOT longer to paint the bathroom, and I'm not done yet.
Sick of painting, we went to the outlet mall today on our way to the airport. Then we got a call from the school--my daughter is "faking" illness again! (It's really a panic attack, but she's only 8...) I quickly dropped The BeerHound at the airport, just in case my daughter actually ralphed or something.
Alls I gots to say is, thank God BeerHound didn't fly American.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
They Picked A Good Restaurant, Anyway
The other night, we were at this steak restaurant. We ordered steaks, of course. It was a good time. Nothing huge to report. Except...
Well, there was this other group there. We didn't see them eating, but we saw them when they left, and then when we left, they were disbursing. It was weird enough to comment on.
We watched them walk out. There were about 20 of them, mostly women up to age 45, and young men, none of whom were over 25. Not that weird, but yet they were. As they left, the guys left first, all in a group of maybe 7 or 8. Then the women left in groups of 4 to 6, but they all walked close together, almost hanging onto each other. That was sort of weird, too. But here's the really weird part. Most of them had the same haircut, and they were wearing new clothes, and seemed pretty unsure of themselves.
I made a joke at the time, that they must have been part of the evacuees from Eldorado, TX. The Mormon splinter group who were raided for practicing polygamy and various other...dirty old man deviancies.
Well, it was a joke at the time, but after looking at them more closely, I'm not so sure I was off the mark about who they were.
The haircut. It looked like a haystack. Even one of the guys had it, like he sat down in the wrong chair, or didn't know a guy shouldn't wear a "shag."
The really had no idea what they were doing. All sheep, no shepherd.
They arrived in only three, maybe four van-type vehicles.
There were no children with them. There were NO older men. They weren't a work group, because people who work together don't touch each other much (if at all) and don't act like they don't know what's going on. They weren't from a local church, because there are always several male Pastoral types with a group like that, and in this group, there was an ominous absence of Pastoral guidance. And in a church group, a couple of somebodies always drag their kids along.
If they were evacuated from that polygamous hellhole, they have my sympathy. I can't imagine how it could be, to try to adjust to the real world. I just don't know.
I started out thinking this story might be funny, but it isn't.
Well, there was this other group there. We didn't see them eating, but we saw them when they left, and then when we left, they were disbursing. It was weird enough to comment on.
We watched them walk out. There were about 20 of them, mostly women up to age 45, and young men, none of whom were over 25. Not that weird, but yet they were. As they left, the guys left first, all in a group of maybe 7 or 8. Then the women left in groups of 4 to 6, but they all walked close together, almost hanging onto each other. That was sort of weird, too. But here's the really weird part. Most of them had the same haircut, and they were wearing new clothes, and seemed pretty unsure of themselves.
I made a joke at the time, that they must have been part of the evacuees from Eldorado, TX. The Mormon splinter group who were raided for practicing polygamy and various other...dirty old man deviancies.
Well, it was a joke at the time, but after looking at them more closely, I'm not so sure I was off the mark about who they were.
The haircut. It looked like a haystack. Even one of the guys had it, like he sat down in the wrong chair, or didn't know a guy shouldn't wear a "shag."
The really had no idea what they were doing. All sheep, no shepherd.
They arrived in only three, maybe four van-type vehicles.
There were no children with them. There were NO older men. They weren't a work group, because people who work together don't touch each other much (if at all) and don't act like they don't know what's going on. They weren't from a local church, because there are always several male Pastoral types with a group like that, and in this group, there was an ominous absence of Pastoral guidance. And in a church group, a couple of somebodies always drag their kids along.
If they were evacuated from that polygamous hellhole, they have my sympathy. I can't imagine how it could be, to try to adjust to the real world. I just don't know.
I started out thinking this story might be funny, but it isn't.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Commercials
Today is Dale Jarrett/UPS Day at BeerPup's Brewhouse. The last commercial posted here is still running on TV and always makes me cry. But in a GOOD way.
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