While visiting my parents on Sunday I discovered a bunch of old shirts my mom had kept (I’m fairly certain she’s kept everything my brother and I ever touched). They were all from my elementary school days and as a joke I decided to try them on. I grabbed the first one I saw and started pulling it over my head, singing “Fat guy in a little coat…”
Imagine my surprise when the Indiana Beach shirt I got when I was six actually fit. Ok, it was definitely tighter and way too short, but I didn’t care.
Next, I tried on a shirt my mamaw gave me when I was 7:
No freaking way.
I grabbed the next shirt in the pile, my fifth grade cheerleading sweatshirt:
I was so excited that I ran downstairs to the kitchen where the BF and my dad were chatting. I paraded myself in front of them (completely interrupting their grown up conversation), making sure to do some pathetic toe touches and other cheerleader-type moves in the most obnoxious way possible. But seriously, I fit into something I wore in fifth grade and I had a baby five months ago.
I’m kind of proud of that.
Sort of related…I was in Wal-Mart the other day with a friend and we were looking at little girl’s shoes for her daughter. I pointed at a pair of sparkly black flats and said that I wished they were in grown up sizes. My friend laughed and said “I’ll bet those fit you…”
They did. I can wear little girl’s size four sparkly flats. I almost bought them just because, but they were ten dollars and I’m a tight ass.
I guess the moral of this story is that you can have a broken thyroid, have a baby, and carry around a giant fibriod (yes, it’s still there) and still come back from all of it.
The Boyfriend and I were having a lazy Sunday afternoon following lunch at a local Mexican place (I had chilaquiles con huevos…amazing). I had brought my gun to his house in hopes of cleaning it and maybe even firing it for the first time. It’s not brand new, in fact it’s been sitting in a safe for probably 40 years. ..But I have never had the opportunity to fire it and that’s just not ok.
If you’re curious, I have a Derringer .22 that looks like this:
So I was sitting in the chair looking at my gun when The BF asked if he could look at it. I handed it over along with two of the four bullets that were in the case. The next thing I know, The BF asks “Does it shoot?” and takes off outside. I realized what he planned to do and jumped out of the chair yelling “Wait for me!” while struggling to get my shoes on. I was halfway to the back door when I heard a couple of loud POPS. **
I’m not gonna lie, I was pissed.
I threw a bit of a mini fit about him having the nerve to shoot my gun before I got a chance to…and he just giggled like a school girl. Oh yes, he did it on purpose. Apparently, he’s done it to a number of his friends.
That’s just mean.
About a minute into my mini fit I realized I still had two bullets in my hand…So I took my gun back, loaded it, and stepped outside to shoot.
Typically, I would pay more attention to the fact that I was about to make a very loud noise in close proximity to my delicate little ears. This time, however, I was preoccupied because I still couldn’t believe the boyfriend would be so mean to me. I mean, it’s my gun! I should get to fire it first! And I’ve only been waiting my whole entire life! Well, it seemed that way, anyway.
SO being the genius that I am, I just pointed it and pulled the trigger. I did NOT expect such a little gun to be so loud. Immediately following the shot, my ears began doing that awful high-pitched ringing. Of course, I’d already fired once and it only holds two rounds, so I went ahead and fired the next one.
Again with the damn ringing. Or maybe I should say, still. I really thought I’d screwed up my hearing permanently for a minute. I mentioned the ringing to The BF (after he said something that I completely didn’t catch) and he didn’t seem worried. Then, just to really twist the knife, he started mimicking the high-pitched squeal that was going on inside my head.
Lucky for him, I was so excited from getting to actually shoot my gun that I quickly forgave him.
Remember kids, guns aren’t toys. Be safe. And wear ear protection. Amen.
**The BF and I were shooting at his house that happens to sit in the middle of a bunch of fields. We were being extremely safe (with the exception of my lack of ear protection) and no living creatures were harmed by the four shots we fired. Except for my ears. Don’t worry, they’re totally fine now!
My mom and I were standing in the kitchen talking yesterday when she suddenly got a confused look on her face. She ran her hands over the counter, then lifted the coffee cup and stared at the bottom of it for a minute.
Mom: Am I leaking somewhere?
Me: You know, I think you are!
Mom looked from the coffee cup to the counter a couple more times trying to find the source of the leak…
Mom: But where?!
I reached over and dabbed at her ear with my sleeve.
Me: You’ll want to get this stopped… I mean, you don’t want to lose any more than you already have.
Mom: Get what stopped? Lose more of what?!
Me: … Brains, mother. Looks like you’re leaking brains.
Me: Seriously, I’d see a doctor about that.
I can be the nicest person you’ll ever meet…but sometimes? I get these urges to do mean things just because I think they’d be funny.
I don’t act on them.
Well, I rarely act on them.
When I see someone bent over to pick something up, I have this urge to get a running start and give that person a really hard slap on the ass. Oh, okay…I’ve done that a time or two.
If someone is squatted down I want to reach over and give them a little push on the shoulder to knock them over.
When I see people jumping on a trampoline, I want to yank it out from under them when they’re mid-air.*
When I’m walking through the mall and I get behind a person that’s too busy texting to walk I want to step on the heel of his/her shoe.
Last Friday morning I went to the grocery store with my mom and grandma. Mom was looking at something on a shelf when I noticed a giant box full of dodge balls. I went as far as to pick one up and bounce it on the floor a couple of times…the whole time arguing with myself.
Look! She bent over! How funny would it be to throw this ball at her ass?!
No…No…It’s not okay to throw a ball at your mother’s rear end in a grocery store.
Oh come on…It won’t hurt…it’ll just be funny…
How would you feel if someone did that to you?
But… no one is going to do it to me. And it will be funny!
You’re a jerk.
BUT IT WILL BE FUNNY!
I must have looked deranged standing there holding that ball and laughing to myself. I had conjured up a mental image of the ball leaving my hands, gracefully floating through the air in slow-motion, and bouncing off of my mother’s backside. I’m laughing as I type this, actually. I’m so mean.
By the time I finished replaying the image in my head, mom stood up. Unbeknownst to her, she had narrowly escaped being the target of my meanness.**
*Yes, I realize that yanking a trampoline out from under someone while he or she is midair could actually hurt him or her. That’s why I’ve never actually done it.
Plus? I’ll bet it would be hard to get it completely out from under a person in time.
** I love my mother. HI MOM!
I’m tired of working for ‘the man’ (whomever that is). I want to be the boss, the decision maker, the head cheese. I want to delegate the really crappy stuff (uh, you know, the work).
The problem has always been that I just have NO idea what I could do that would make money. It seems like every good idea has been taken and that’s a real problem. Yesterday I think I came up with a solution.
One of my coworkers was telling us about a mobile mechanic that she hired to change the oil in her car. I guess this guy comes to wherever you are (so in her case, work) and changes your oil or makes repairs. I’ll admit, it seems like a great idea.
I believe I can make it better.
Proud Mary Rollin’ Mechanic!
So you make an appointment, and as the mechanic is pulling into your driveway (parking lot, whatever…) he (or she!) honks the horn to announce his arrival… And the horn plays the ‘doot doot doot doot’ and ‘rollin’…rollin’ parts of the Tina Turner version of Proud Mary.
I’m so not done.
When your friendly mechanic gets out, he (or she…And I’m tired of saying it this way so just assume I mean he OR she from now on) is wearing a full Tina Turner sparkly dress, wig, heels getup.
While changing your oil or fixing your car, the mechanic SINGS and sometimes DANCES to Proud Mary.
Of course, each mechanic would be certified, trained in dance and voice, and prices would be reasonable.
It’s a lot more productive than dinner and a show, huh? Hell, if you want you can eat your dinner while watching your mechanic! Dinner, oil change and a show. All for the low-low price of…um…$39.99 (dinner not included)?
What do I know about reasonably priced oil changes? Mine cost $80.00 a pop.
PROUD MARY ROLLIN’ MECHANIC, GUYS!
The other night, I sent The Boyfriend a text to see if he was off work.
B: I’m actually negotiating a price on a truck right now (not his words)
Me: Show him your boobs. Bet the price will drop.
Me: OR! Throw an old fashioned on the table. Guys help each other out all the time.
B: I was actually thinking cash plus a trade.
Me: Well…it’s risky but it might work.
Then, one evening last week The Boyfriend sent me this random text:
B: You missed Jersey Shore.
For a second, I couldn’t figure out why he felt the need to tell me that. I’ve never even watched a full episode of that show. Then (because my phone is retarded) an earlier text from him came through asking if I wanted to come over to see it.
Me: Sorry, I just got the message about coming over to watch it.
B: I was messing with you. Jersey Shore, really?
Me: Well you are fond of Keeping up with the Kardashians…
B: I’m over that.
Me: Oh, right. Sorry, Khloe and Lamar.
B: That didn’t help, just got old. At least Paris Hilton’s a self proclaimed ho. Those other girls are under the impression they’re good people.
Me: True…So Paris has a show again? Is it your new favorite?
B: I don’t know. I’m over her, too.
Me: Well what are you going to watch? Real Housewives?
Me: Maybe Miley Cyrus will get a reality show now that there’s a vid of her smoking pot on the internet.
B: I was hoping Lindsey Lohan would get one.
Me: I’d watch that…Chick’s a total trainwreck. Too bad Britney didn’t have one when she went off the deep end.
Me: That would’ve been quality entertainment.
Many, many moons ago, I tended bar at a local establishment. The place burned to the ground not terribly long after the events of this story took place, but the memories live on in my heart.
A little dramatic, right?
On this particular day, I was sitting on the other side of the bar. It was a little after 5:00, and my friend Cat had just opened, so the only patrons that had wandered in happened to be myself and our neighbor, Brett.
We were attempting to come up with some new drink recipes when Brett informed us that he had made up a new shot. Curious, Cat began to mix the concoction according to his instructions. I don’t recall the recipe, but I remember Bacardi 151 was involved and it all sounded horrible. Once she had placed it in front of Brett, he lit the shot on fire and downed it.
While Brett was patting himself on the back for his great feat of bravery, two new guys walked through the door. They were obviously college students who looked like they might have only recently turned 21. Maybe it was the wide-eyed look of innocence on their faces that gave it away…maybe it was the fact that they were both wearing clothes that seemed to have been picked out and freshly ironed by their mommies that morning. At any rate, Brett and I watched the newcomers closely as they sat down at the bar and ordered.
One of them seemed quite taken with Cat, and in a misguided attempt to impress her he accepted the challenge Brett extended to try this wondrous new shot. Cat mixed it and handed it to him, and he was about to knock it back when Brett shouted “WAIT!”
Startled, Mr. J.C. Penny set the shot on the bar and gave us all a questioning look. Cat already knew what was coming and immediately put on her disapproving face.
“You’re not doing it right if you don’t light it on fire, dude.”
The kid looked down at the shot and then back at Brett a few times and you could see the wheels turning in his head. On one hand, he wanted to impress the lovely Miss Cat. On the other…well, it’s a flaming shot. Eventually, he looked to me as if I would become his ally and steer him in the right direction. I believe this was his fatal mistake. I gave him my friendliest, most encouraging I’m-on-your-side look and said, “Well what are you waiting for? Do you need a lighter?”
Cat stood behind the bar, hands on her head, yelling at him NOT to take the flaming shot (that had mysteriously been lit by now) but Brett and I were yelling over her to JUST DO IT ALREADY!
The next thing we knew, the kid had the shot in his hand and was slowly bringing it his lips…after a brief hesitation, he tipped his head back and emptied the shot glass into his mouth.
And then immediately did a flying leap off of his bar stool, slapping himself about the head, neck and face screaming “MY FACE IS ON FIRE! MY FACE IS ON FIRE! I’M ON FIRE!”
I tried to be concerned, I really did…I might have even moved to put him out…But it was really hard to see what was going on through my tears of laughter. I stood there, clutching my stomach and practically howling with that special kind of laugh that makes you look like you need medical attention while, I assume, Cat and Mr. J.C. Penny’s friend extinguished him.
Cat was rather upset with Brett and I, and she completely failed to see the humor in the situation. I even detected a hint of blame in her attitude.
The kid was perfectly fine. In fact, he stuck around for a few more drinks and even left his phone number for Cat. She obviously never called him.
**I would just like to mention that the fire that destroyed this bar was not in any way related to the events in this story.
My mom refuses to get a cell phone. I have one, my brother has one, my dad has one…hell, for a while even my grandma had one.
She could never figure out how to use it and frequently thought it was broken because the battery was dead but still…
It’s frustrating to me that mom won’t join the rest of the civilized world and just get a damn cell. She’s the only person I know that I can’t get a hold of if she isn’t at home. For the most part, it just annoys me that I can’t call her if we’re meeting somewhere and I’m running late. I also spend a lot of time worrying that she’ll have a wreck or there will be an emergency and no one will know. I can’t help the worrying…I got it from my mother. YOU’D THINK SHE’D UNDERSTAND.
I’ve tried to reason with her, but it usually goes like this:
Me: Mom, I really wish you’d get a cell phone.
Mom: I don’t need one.
Me: But what if you have a wreck and are laying dead in a ditch somewhere?!
Mom: Well if I’m dead I can’t use the phone anyway.
Me: Good point. What if you’re ALMOST dead in a ditch somewhere?
Mom: I’m not getting a cell phone.
She’s getting stubborn in her old age.
Just kidding! I mean, she IS stubborn, but…Uh…Moving on…
I got to thinking about it one day, and if she got in a wreck and couldn’t communicate, the paramedics could find someone to call by going through her cell phone book or call history. I tried bringing this up to her but it didn’t sway her at all. I really do worry that something will happen to her and no one will know who to call…
So I’ve decided to go a different route.
I’m going to write my mother’s emergency contacts somewhere on her body. I’m thinking the lower back might be best because she wouldn’t notice it right away.
That’s right, an emergency contact tramp stamp.
Since I can’t get my hands on a real tattoo gun I’ll have to settle on a permanent marker for my artwork. I’ll have to figure out a way to do this while she’s sleeping and it’ll likely have to be a little at a time so I don’t get caught before it’s all finished.
The way I see it, I’ll get my way somehow. Either my mom will discover her emergency contact tramp stamp and give in about getting a cell phone OR she won’t see it and I’ll be able to have some peace knowing that my mom has “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY CALL ASHLEE AT XXX-XXX-XXXX” written on her back.
One day last week, a coworker noticed a pair of shorts that had been draped across the back of an extra office chair. Curious, we attempted to find the owner.
Mind you, we didn’t try all that hard. Our efforts included picking up the shorts, saying “I wonder who these belong to”, and shrugging our shoulders.
My coworker decided to put them next to our outgoing mail area, thinking the owner would likely see them in such a high traffic area. I decided it would be a good idea to also scold the person for being so careless with his belongings.
The next day, the shorts and the note were gone. I hope the owner read my note and has leared to be a little more responsible. I mean, naked children in Kazakhstan, for crying out loud!