"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.