Sunday, August 31, 2008
1. Stop by Large Super Center in order to pick up a low-cost movie or cd on a whim.
2. Leave with a HUGE bill and a receipt showing you've just purchased a Plasma TV, a PS3, two SD cards and a partridge in a pear tree.
3. Go back to Large Super Center and return everything only to drag his wife back on the same day to pick out another tv that is bigger than the last one and spend three hours crediting back and recrediting your account.
4. GO BACK A FOURTH TIME to the Large Super Center with receipts to pick up new extra large tv and plop it in the back of your semi-bro-in-law's truck.
5. Spend five hours setting up the new tv, plugging cables into various receivers, devices, orifices, and what not and generally bore the ever-lovin' crap out of any female within five feet.
6. GO BACK TO THE F'N LARGE SUPER STORE AGAIN to get a price adjustment since the new, larger tv had the audacity to be on sale the next day.
7. Murder husband in his sleep with a set of Gold-plated, platinum-tipped Monster cables that cost more than your first car.
And that, folks, is how to successfully buy a new television set.
(the pre-murdered husband and his new touch-screen remote control, his Otter Box'd Iphone and a Jollipop that almost won).
Saturday, August 30, 2008
It's about four minutes but I thought it was cute enough to share:
Friday, August 29, 2008
We have spent the day running errands as one is oft to do when presented with an extra day off work. We started by going to the bank and then ran to the DMV to quickly snap my picture for my brand new "25+5" license.
And then time stopped.
For the DMV is a great equalizer. It makes no matter of your age, ethnicity, gender or even how much cash you have in overseas markets. No, at the DMV you are a number, a problem, a person who must surely have the wrong form or a person who filled out the form clutched in your sweaty hand quite incorrectly. So as we entered into the area that Time Forgot I was given a number. A magic number that would tell me when to go to the numbered windows at the far end of the sad, tiny and dingy room.
Thirty minutes later and my nose has reddened from it starting to run and my hair, once curled, flipped and pouffed, had taken on the texture of old fettuccine noodles. Finally, my number was illuminated on the large red screen hanging from the ceiling and, not looking first for small children that had passed out from sheer boredom, I ran to window #7 and happily shoved all of my forms at the man behind the plastic safety glass.
He smiled, looked over my paperwork and then shoved it back toward me.
"Sorry, but I can't help you today," he said.
A small piece of me broke off, shriveled up and died on the grimy blue carpet.
"What?! Why?! What did I do?" I semi-shrieked at him.
"You forgot to answer all the questions on the Renewal Form," he grinned, clearly enjoying my panic-stricken face.
"You're kidding! I looked over that darn thing four times already! How'd I miss that?!"
He chuckled and then spent an extra ten minutes telling Harry and I about how he still drives his big Dodge Ram Diesel truck, gas prices be damned.
"Wanna change anything on here?" he asked me, referring to my height, weight and hair color.
I thought about it and since I filled out the information about four hair colors ago and more than a few pounds ago I decided to do what was right: "Nah - you can leave it all just like it is!"
So, as I sit here tonight and type on my Mac that hates me with a fiery passion that only a virtually inanimate object could, I realize that life is pretty darn good sometimes. I mean, if you can find humor at the DMV and life at a chubby gal department store - what's not to live for?
Oh - and cake. Gotta have cake.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
It's Saturday night and as I sit here in front of my space heater, laptop propped on my lap (covered in a Harry Potter throw blanket) and watching non-Olympic television I can hear my husband in the guest bathroom playing with his new GI Joes and I have to wonder: What have our weeekends come to?
Last weekend was a reunion and pageant filled stressfest that happily concluded by Monday so this weekend should have been a snoozefest. Instead, Harry hops out of bed at 7am to go to the mall to sit with other men equally as obsessed with a tall black man and his retro'd footwear packs.
I opted to stay in bed and had just flipped on the tv and begun to watch "Josh and Drake" on the Disney channel before my cell phone rang.
I sleepily lunged for it and flipped it open.
"Hello?" I said into the pink phone while I fought against falling back asleep into my cooling puddle of drool on the satiny pillow case.
"How much do you love me?" I smiled. Harry always does this before buying me something or bringing me something that he knows I want or must have. I grin and stretch.
"A lot, why?"
"Cuz I left my wallet at home and need for you to bring it up to the mall to me."
"Fine. What time do I need to be there?" I ask while peering at the clock on the bedside table that read 7:15am.
"Fine. I'll be there by then."
I hung up the phone and contemplated running away from home before remembering how much I truly hate to pack. So I got up and slapped on some lipstick so as to not scare a fellow driver into a four car pile up from my ghastly pale face.
Forty minutes later I arrive at the mall with some Chick-fil-a chicken minis, a large diet coke and a man's wallet.
I swear, after last weekend's pre-ten-year-reunion cleaning fest and today's "fetch me my wallet, bitch" errand - I should have enough brownie points to earn me something really cool. Or shiny. Or both.
Instead - we bought a Plasma tv for our basement.
:) Oh - and I got a hair cut and a new hue for my impending 25+5 birthday:
Monday, August 18, 2008
Here's a few shots I snapped set to a jiving melody by the band that was (is?) my husband's favorite. Enjoy. Or don't. Up to you, really. :)
Thursday, August 14, 2008
I say nothing to the absent-minded waitress but just pick around the worst bits of my overpriced garden fare. When our main courses arrive I search for a steak knife but can only zero in on the tiny butter knife that has bits of bread still stuck to it. Those of you out there who enjoy eating a good steak know that cutting one with a butter knife is akin to having a surgeon go at a gallbladder with plastic cutlery from Wendy's.
9Ignoring that dining faux pas I attempt to maul my meat into an edible piece.
"I'll get you a knife," Harry said as he looked at me with THAT look. You know the one. The look that says "Holy crap - she's going to make a scene, she's going to say something and we'll never be able to come here, or the surrounding towns, ever again."
"No, I'm fine. Really. I'm fi- what the hell???" I started to answer him but was distracted by the fact that my butter knife was getting stuck on something.
My plate. Was cracked. All. The. Way. THROUGH.
Sighing, I heaved the perfectly-cooked filet to my crumby butter dish and flagged down our waitress who was heading toward the bar. Again.
"Can I get a new plate, please?" I asked nicely so as to calm Harry's red face. "Mine is cracked all the way through and I'm worried I may get eat a chunk of plate!"
Ten minutes later the bitch brought me a bowl, a freakin' BOWL for my $40 chunk of cold meat.
And then overcharged us for Harry's mashed potatoes.
As if my night couldn't get any worse - Harry went and slept with someone else.
When I pleaded him to leave with me, he said, "No, no. I'm enjoying this too much. No."
So I took a picture as proof and blackmail:
Yeah, she's cuter than me. I know this.
My crankypants attitude was still front and center when I found out that Harry's 10 year reunion is this coming weekend and his friends will be coming to stay with us at our (filthy, unwashed, unmopped, un-everythinged) house. I have been picking up like a madwoman and was finally ready for my mom's friend to come help me with the heavy housework. Unfortunately, she ended up in the hospital so I resorted to calling in Summer to come help me late last night.
"Whatdoyouwantmetodofirst?"She asked, still hyper and talking without pauses at 10:30pm.
"Maybe you could vacuum while I work on the counters?"
"I'lldothecounters! Magicsponge? YouDOhaveaMr.CleanMagicSponge,right?"
I'll give it to my sissy - she doesn't stop at "good enough." She cleaned out my cabinets, Magic Sponged every surface in sight and then followed me up to the guest bath where she scrubbed the tub and sink while I worked off a water stain in the toilet bowl that first appeared when Moses parted the sea.
And then I did something that I knew was a bad idea.
I had her help me take out the trash.
I waddled behind her down the drive, pleading with her to pick up the bags and not to drag them on the concrete.
"They'll break! Sis! No! Summer! You can't drag them!" All the while she cackled and kept right on dragging one Hefty after another down my driveway. The bags were filled to the brim with old eggs, meat, ice cream and other gooey perishables that were sure to make an exciting exit in the near future. She stopped two feet out in the road, plopped the bags down and then streaked back to the garage stopping only to complain loudly, in my lovely subdivision, about her female problems. Repeatedly. And with a little dance.
I rushed behind her as fast as my chubby little legs could go and picked the trash out of the middle of the street and watched while it poured out on to the street that was so clean you could practically eat off of it.
"ACK! SUMMER! DAMMIT! LOOK!"
To laugh even louder while she banged down the driveway with two trash cans in tow. I left only to come back and find her chucking various spilled garbage straight into the bagless can.
"Summer, no!" I yelled, feeling a bit like the exasperated mom following around a two year old with a mind (-less?) of their own. "Summer! There's no bag - you have to have a bag!"
"Naw!" I could hear the thunk of sour cream as it oozed down the inside of my pretty and pristine garbage cans that, after five years of use, had ceased to smell.
I shoved her out of the way with my elbow and began rearranging the bags and cans so that the trashmen would have an easy pick up.
"Yeah, you're weird. They'll pick it up no matter what," she said slowly as if, at 11:30pm at night she may finally be winding down.
"Well, I'm so glad that you came to help me!" I said in a high-pitched sincere-like voice!
"Me too!" she said as she filled a bag with all her "found" loot (magazines, books, coupons, food, soda, shiny baubles) and rushed to her car like a pale and sparkly streak.
So, as I sit down to launder the guest towels I think over my last few days and know that I could never be domesticated.
It takes too much work.
I see now the appeal of living beyond one's means.
For my 25+5 birthday - I want a subscription to Merry Maids.
Or the men's Gymnastics team. :) I bet they understand the importance of proper trash can placement. Yeah... THAT'S why I would like to have them. YEAH. That's it!
Happy almost Friday, folks!
Monday, August 4, 2008
Yup - that's me. With the same hair I have now.
I mean - COME ON - I was - what? - sixteen? in this shot. Virginal, brace-faced and with a limited vocabulary of curse words and not a highlight in sight. Summer, my lovely sis, is the one perched between the mefolk and was playing her bit in "Anything Goes." Who knows why I was there. Maybe to shine shoes. That was me - the play bitch. The thespian minion.
Anyhooo - here's me circa 2000ish (sorry for the pantslessness here - but I'm going for a point - I swear!):
And me, nowish (sorry for the EXTREME close up - I was trying to show off my CHI!):
So - this is what I've discovered: I have a fifteen year old's haircut.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Just a little post to say that I'm supposed to be ready, showered, shaved and shiny by 2:00pm and it's now a bit after 1pm and I'm still clicking and clacking away on my 'puter 'stead of washing the skank from my bod.
Why the rush?
We have a 2pm lunch date with our friends, their newish baby and four juicy steaks.
So - I guess the least I can do is not smell like day old ickies, huh? I mean - they're gonna hand me their extrememly fragile babykins and I really don't wanna smell like this morning adult Romper Room session with yesterday's eyemakeup somewhere around my second chin, right?
All right, fine.
Since I've now voiced my "meh-ish" of hygeine for the day (really and truly want a Holly-sized bubble, climate-controlled and easily transportable in which to be a truly kept woman for Xmas) I will go and hop in the shower, scrub the necessary parts and, just to torment the neighbors, sing some really old and really worn-out Alanis Morisette song that will make them all start hunting for new abodes far far away from me and my twangy angst-ridded voice.
.... Nope... still here.
All I know is that if I'm still sitting here at the kitchen table, bra-less, dirty and with a half-braid in my sticky hair when Harry comes home I'm in deeeeeep sh -
ACK - THE GARAGE DOOR! RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN!