"Beep! Beep" Goes the Weirdo

"I really have to go to buy milk - wanna come?" I asked my sister as we walked, arms linked, from another successful night of wine and frivolity at our friend Amy's house.

"Sure!"

A short drive later and a few snarfs of laughter (we can't help it - our brains go into hyper mode when in short proximity to each other) we arrived at Kroger to buy cereal and milk. No sooner had we steered our small cart into the aisle and were debating the price of "Fruit Rings" to "Fruit Loops" did a man pop from around the corner.

"BEEP, BEEP!" he said and smiled as he hopped in front of us. Clothed in a white dress shirt, dark slacks, a tie and one of the god-awfulest toupees I had ever seen, he was also too tan for winter, and too old to be uttering the words "beep, beep."

"Now," he boomed to his waiting audience of two 'tweens nearby. "I want to buy something that's less than thirteen cents an ounce!"

"Okay - let's find a cereal for me..." Summer and I moved on down the row, leaving the man and the girls behind.

"What about-"

"BEEP! BEEP!" the man interrupted.

"Oh, excuse us!" My sister and I apologized for being in his way as we are children of the children of the Great Depression and were taught that manners, above all else, were to be maintained even when one is contemplating beating the hairpiece off a random stranger by sheer force of will - and a 64oz box of generic Cheerios.

"You want a good cereal! Try this!" he then popped a box of Grape Nuts in my face and added, "put in some brown sugar and serve it hot." He winked. I suppressed a shudder but remained diplomatic on the surface of my freckled and bespeckled face.

"Okay, I'll try it. But if it's not any good - I will hunt you down!" I laughed and tossed the box in my cart and tried to get away.

"Wait! You said you'd hunt me down, huh? In that case - add mustard and parsnips!"

"I like those, too!" I yelled behind me as we ran for the dairy case.

"Are you gonna toss out the box of Grape Nuts now?" Summer asked as we flattened ourselves against the refrigerators of Vitamin D.

"Nah. Sad thing is - it actually does sound good!"

We grabbed some milk, ran through the check-out line and hurried to my waiting van.

"Those poor girls that were with him. I mean, that was probably their dad. Can you imagine having to live with that?!?!"

Summer paused, and her cute, upswept nose turned to face me from profile.

"Holly? That's probably what people say about us and our daddy."

I stared at the red light in front of me, contemplated her observation, and completely lost it as I dissolved into dash-slapping giggles and hornks of laughter.

She's right.

Our dad is the weird guy who makes lame jokes. But, and this is important, he does NOT wear some floppy, streaky toupee.

That floppy, white-streaked mess is all his own.

BEEP BEEP!

Rude, Much?

Actually managing to book a sitter, the hubs and I went to the mall to return a few things - among them were a pair of running shoes that while I loved them - I certainly didn't need two pair at this time, so my pretty purples were to be taken back to Lady Foot Locker.

A tall, slim blonde waited on Harry to take the shoes out of the bag and hand her the sales receipt. He immediately balled up the bag, pulled on the front strap of my messenger bag and shoved the wadded plastic in between my boobs.

"Did you want to keep the other pair?" the girl asked Harry while I struggled to release my strap.

"GOD! That is SO rude!" I said dramatically.

The salesgirl, hereafter known as "Bambi," paused and stared at me with wide eyes. I smiled weakly at her and then, glaring at my husband, I pulled out the bag and slammed it on the counter.

I was feeling a bit jumpy because, well, I had to pee and BAM! closed their bathrooms to the public. Never mess with a gal who has to pee. She WILL do bad things.

"I thought you meant ME!" Bambi giggled and turned back to her register.

"Oh, no, no! Just my mean ol' husband, here!" I laughed.

"Okay, so was there anything wrong with this pair of shoes?" Bambi asked a few minutes later after she had pushed some buttons and scanned some codes.

"Nope. I bought two of the same shoe and the other one is working out just great."

"Oh, did you join a gym?" she asked.

Now, a normal person would've answered her quickly and frankly, but seeing as how I am, at any given time, processing entirely too many thoughts at once, I stood there and apparently stared at her with a squished-up, constipational-like face.

I was thinking:

1. "No! I just have to run after a toddler all day so - well - yeah! I guess I did kinda join a gym!" (insert self-deprecating chuckle).
2. "No! I have a lymphatic issue and have to wear good shoes - alllll the time! No heels for me!" (insert self-deprecating chuckle).
3. "No! I don't have time to shave my legs much less go to a fancy-pants gym! "(insert self-deprecating chuckle).
4. "No! I'm good with being fat." (insert self-deprecating chuckle).

But instead, I just said:

"No!"

A few minutes later we were strolling toward Macy's and the comforts of their facilities when Harry turned toward me. "Wow," he said. "I really thought you were gonna bitch-slap that girl for asking you if you joined a gym!"

"Wait - was I rude? Was I really? Oh GOD! I was, wasn't I?" I stopped in mid-pee-pee dance to look at my husband imploringly.

"No!" he said.

Am seriously considering sending her a cookie cake with the words "I'm sorry. I had to pee. I didn't mean any rudeness." (insert self-deprecating chuckle).

***The shoe to start all meltdowns***

The Dreadmill

Ahhh - the New Year.

A time of new beginnings. New DIEts. And new sentences that begin with "This year immagonna..."

I freakin' hate this time of year.

But as my toddler is encroaching upon his second year of life, and my personal space, with an alarming speed, I have decided that I need to at least be able to, ya know, GET MY FAT ASS OFF THE COUCH IN UNDER THREE MINUTES!

We all need goals, people.

So today, January 10th, I stared at The Treadmill. I loathe that name - "Treadmill," it's like someone naming their kid something that will guarantee to get them beat up in the playground. And the name itself just makes me wanna stay far, far, away as I think only thin people with words written on the butt of their sweats ever actually GET on the cursed things.

So I quickly emailed a very smart friend and asked her if she would help me rename it.

And thus began the life of "THE DREADMILL."

I approached the large monster holed up in the corner of my basement with trepidation.

Sighing, I started to look for the button to release it from its resting position and lower the belt so I could then haul my pudgy ass upon it.

Fifteen minutes pass while I yell, scream, cry, giggle and slap at The Dreadmill.

And then I found the knob. Hiding in plain sight.

The fat girl in me wanted to retreat. To go into the downstairs kitchen and pull out a glass bottle of coveted Coca-cola and waddle to the overstuffed leather couch to watch "Dinosaur Train" with my baby boy.

But I pulled up my big girl stretch pants, shifted my boobs back into their cups and re-pulled my ponytail into a sloppy bun.

I was determined.

I was ON THIS.

I was GOING THE LIMIT!

I was out of frickin' breath!

Two minutes in and I'm keeling over the rails like an 80-year-old smoker with black lung. Actually, my grandfather died of black lung and I'm pretty sure that in the weeks preceding his death, he could've ran circles around me - with his walker.

Ten minutes later I shove off of The Dreadmill and duck-walk back to the couch vowing never to approach the beast again whilst sober. About the time I'm deciding to start drinking for my new New Year's resolution my toddler comes up to me, rests his tiny blonde head on my chubby knee and sighs deeply. And I know then - I will be back on The Dreadmill by morning.

Even if it kills me.

Which it probably will.

In Your Face

"Wow. Your makeup looks really good today!" my husband glanced away from the traffic ahead to pay me the highest of compliments.

"Uh. I'm not wearing any makeup," I said.

"I know," he said, smiling slyly. "I know."

Yup - after 8 years of dating and 11 years of togetherness my husband still knows how to compliment me, insult me, and also guarantee a night on the couch - all in one breath.

Now THAT'S talent.

:)

Domistic Bliss and Other Lies I Tell Myself

On Thursday I decided to be Lil Miss Happy Homemaker and whip up a giant pot of homemade vegetable soup.

Here are the ingredients:

Every canned vegetable you have in the house

Every bag of frozen vegetable in the freezer

Four Taters (Potatoes to you non-country folks)

Two cans stewed tomatoes

Two cans of water (I used the tomato can to measure)

A can of Tomato Sauce

Some salt

Some sugar

Some pepper (cracked)

And a can of Corned Beef

Toss in pot and boil for a bit, then simmer and then let it go for hours.

I only had two problems by the end of the day.

One was that I threw my back out AGAIN - obviously because my warranty didn't cover extraneous things like COOKING DINNER and --

Two, this kid kept following me around:

Ever tried to peel potatoes with one hand while simultaneously trying to keep a cabinet from being flung into your shins with the other?

It's talent, I tell you, TALENT.

Wanna know HIS talent?

He will only poop in a clean diaper.

And - he can clear a room in thirty seconds flat soon thereafter.

In that way he takes after his father.

Who is so proud.

And he'll tell you himself - when he gets out of the potty.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL YOU OUT THERE WHO CELEBRATE IT, HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO THOSE WHO DON'T AND HAPPY 25TH OF DECEMBER TO THOSE WHO ARE PERPETUALLY CONFUSED OR WHO DON'T LIKE GIFTS BECAUSE THEY WERE DROPPED ON THEIR HEADS, OR RAISED BY WILD GRINCHES OR --- I DON'T KNOW, ARE TEAM EDWARD OR SOMETHING.

(hee hee)

Throwing the Game

The rugrat is now 20 months old.

That's a full-on toddler for those of you who don't know and over a year and a half for those of you who can't do math.

He's a ball of energy, so sweet, and so forgiving - and other times he's hell-on-size-8C-shoes, but I digress.

Yesterday my husband and I are playing "football" with the kid.

"Here, take the ball from Daddy! TACKLE!" and they'd both tumble to the ground in a heap of giggles and exposed buttcracks (neither can seem to hold up a pair of pants with or without the aid of a belt or a butt).

Eventually Daddy decided to try tossing the football at the kid.

Who is still working on fine motor skills.

So, ya know, the football, covered in blue smiling smurfs, beans him right in his grinning, gap-toothed face.

"Oh no! I'm sorry!" Daddy scoops him up and covers his little face with kisses and the game was back on.

Several minutes later my husband looks at me and says: "Wonder if that hurts? I better try it out." I watch in disbelief as he takes off his glasses, removes his hat and positions the football a few inches from his face.

WHOOOOOOSH!

The football, so carefully aimed, flies OVER his curly head, past the baby gate, down the hallway and into the laundry room.

"How in the HELL did you miss THAT?!?!?" I cried in between gasps of hornking laughter.

"Ahahahahah! I'm AWESOME!" he said.

And then got tackled by a toddler seeking revenge and packing wooden blocks.

Eye for an Eye

Three hours spent sitting in an exam chair, trying to memorize the eye chart before the doc lumbers in is really no way for a relatively young person to spend her day. I finished TWO books while waiting and had used all three of the mirrors in the exam room to fix my eye make up, my lipstick and my hair.

I was the picture of perfection.

And impatience.

I huffed, I snuffed, I puffed and I tantrumed (internally) until the doctor came in and declared my eyes no longer icky (I paraphrased him. A lot).

"Give her an eye rinse and then we'll try some lenses..." he muttered and walked out of the room. He had barely cleared the door when I was instructed to tilt my head back and look down. What happened next has only been documented in Chinese torture cells before - the woman --- SQUIRTED MY EYE WITH WATER!

"Aaaack!" I choked as I fluttered my eyes and gripped the chair.

"Next eye!" she half-screamed at me in a sing-song voice.

No sooner had I dabbed the dribbles from my right eye did she start spraying my left one. Her aim was less than stellar as I felt the water pool in my cleavage and nestle close to my earlobe.

When it was over and I was being consoled by another assistant, one that I had bonded with when I admitted to her that I was off Seasonique as it was "The Devil's Birth Control," she asked if I was okay.

I stuffed my bra with tissues (the first time since middle school) and fanned myself with my Sookie Stackhouse novel.

"I feel like I was just accosted by a clown with a seltzer bottle!" I said as I continued to mop up my person.

She started at me for a beat and then we both dissolved into mutual hysterical laughter.

So, the moral of the story is, even if you have to wait for three hours to see a doc and you're sprayed in the face by a sadistic nurse with a Bozo fetish, please try to keep smiling - after all - no one really wants to wait on you anyway. :)

PS - I'm in trial contacts now. If I "fail" the test these next few days - I'm banned from Bausch and Lomb for 6 weeks. If I fail it again and my eyes revolt and start resembling raisins again - I will be out of them for 6 months. Failure for the third time is the final straw and I will then be forever known as "Melancholy Holly and the Four Eyes of Ick."