Tag: embarassing moments

We Need A Permanent Paramedic Team Just For Me, Apparently!

I know I’m a Klutz.  I also know why I’m a klutz.  It’s mostly because I’m not paying attention to what I’m doing – a problem I assume most Over-Thinkers are familiar with.  I walk forward while looking backward, trip over threads, bread crumbs, dandelion fluff, or forget I’m carrying something in my right hand when I pick something up with my left hand.  The carnage is usually contained to spilled liquids or broken glass, but occasionally I do manage minor body injuries.  Having said that, I admit that what happened two days ago was monumental, even for me.  And I wasn’t even distracted.

I was finishing off the final touches to my year-end books when there was a knock at the door.  Usually, I just bellow for whoever it is to come in but I was feeling good for accomplishing the “Worst Task In The Modern World” and thought I would actually go open the door.  I twirled my office chair around in a sassy/breezy move and stood up enthusiastically with a welcoming smile already on my face.

My industrial, 3-meter long Door Mat* said, “Not today, Lady!  Ha HA!!” and lifted its edge just enough for my slipper to catch.

Time…slowed…down.

No way.  You aren’t doing this now, are you?  I thought we talked about being aware of your surroundings, taking that extra little second to lift your feet?  Have you forgotten already?

No, I haven’t forgotten exactly.  I was just so happy!  What’s the harm in a little sassiness and breeziness?  People do that all the time!  It’s not like I was tap dancing.

‘People’ can do sassiness and breeziness.  You cannot.  Ever.  And, just so you don’t forget, here is a little pain to make the lesson stick.

Again?!  Why are you always using Pain as your main Teaching Tool?  We aren’t cavemen anymore, you know.  And would it kill you to get my arms to take up some sort of defensive position so my face doesn’t take the brunt of your abuse?

No.  Your arms are stupid.  The best I can do is get your knees between your industrial Door Mat and your face.

My arms aren’t stupid.  They are traitorous bastards that only think of themselves and this isn’t the first time they have betrayed me.  And if my knees are the best you can do, I suppose I’m at your mercy, but I will be lodging a complaint about your incompetence.  Just so you know.

Oh!  You should also know that your centre of gravity is such that your knees can’t completely save you.  Your shoulder is going to ram into that shoe rack and your face is going to smear itself across the bottom third of the door.

Seriously?!  It’s 3 meters from here to the door.  I’m going to skid, aren’t I?

At least once.  Maybe more.  It depends on your knees, really.

I don’t suppose you would reconsider, would you?

Nope.

Fuck.

I started shouting with annoyance before I actually came to a complete stop and the second syllable was slightly incomprehensible because half of my face was squished against the door.

GEEZUS!!!

Before I could assess the damage, a small voice on the other side of the door said…..

“Um….are you okay?!”

“Yes!!  I’m fine!  Geezus!”  I had forgotten all about this guy in the 2 seconds it took me to crash – deafeningly I assume – into the door.

“Are you sure?  Do you want me to get someone?”

“NO!  I’m fine!  What do you even need?”

“Umm…I’m here to look at my sled.  Your husband is working on it.  He called me to come and look at what he found.”

Grunt.  “Go through that white door behind you.  He’s in there!”

“Okay.  You’re sure you don’t need any help?”

“NO!”  Why won’t he just leave already?  Gawd!

I pushed myself into a sitting position and took stock.  The shoulder took a good hit, as did my face – not a bruising kind of hit, just an annoying kind of hit – but the winner in this encounter was my left knee.  I pulled up my pant leg and saw the skin peeled off in two places.  Because of the skidding, I suppose.

Oooo…that looks painful.

It is.  And I’m not talking to you right now.

When The Viking came in the house an hour or so later I asked if the customer mentioned anything.  He said, no, why?  I pulled up my pant leg.

The slight scraping off of skin had, by now, turned into two huge, bloody scrapes that were irritated by my pants which was just as well because I was irritated, too.  I was slightly gratified that the amount of pain was equal to the wound itself because most of the time that doesn’t happen – it just hurts like hell but doesn’t even show a mark for a small amount of pity.

Typically, The Viking said, “What the fuck did you do?”

I pointed at the irrational Door Mat and then stomped on it for good measure.  “This Door Mat has to go!  It’s a death trap!”

To prove that I was definitely not a Sissy, I plastered a couple of band-aides on the scrapes and called it a day.

Fast forward to last night.  Those damned scrapes were killing me so I decided to take off the band-aides and have a look-see.

GEEZUS!!

They were actually getting infected and the band-aides were stuck to the scrapes so I ended up pulling even more skin off!

In case any of you are wondering…..The Viking is a TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE nurse!  He started rubbing the scrapes with a vigor reminiscent of cleaning soap scum off a tub with a cotton pad only slightly moistened with peroxide.  I howled, he told me to clench my teeth, I turned gray and considered passing out, he called me a baby, I called him a dirty, miserable rat bastard, he grunted, I grabbed the bottle of peroxide and just poured it on the scrape which started foaming like crazy and he howled at the waste of perfectly good peroxide.

Fast forward to tonight.

I’m going to survive.  It was touch and go there for a while but apparently, The Viking’s cruel and unusual bedside treatments were as successful as they were painful.  Don’t tell him that though – he’ll become insufferable.

 

 

*It saves my floors from customers’ shoes.

 

Corpse Legs

First and foremost, I want to send a huge Shout Out to all the people who sent hugs and luvs and support when my Father passed away last month.*   You all have my deepest gratitude.  Thank you.

The two weeks surrounding Dad’s passing were the most stressful of my entire life and it goes without saying that when I get stressed I do Stupid things and the greater the stress the greater the Stupid.

Two days before the funeral, I ripped through my closet looking for something to wear only to find that nothing fit (thank you Diabetic Medication).  I went shopping and found a dress, then stood in front of the two colors of pantyhose the store had in stock.  And I definitely needed pantyhose to disguise my poor un-tanned legs (thank you, shitty summer).  Light or dark.  Light or dark.  The dark ones were stupidly dark but the light ones were close to the actual colour of my legs, so those were the ones I grabbed.

And now…..a quick word on Anxiety.  There are going to be people at this funeral.  Even worse, Family people.  Family people who know every stupid thing I’ve ever done, have heard all the stories, have re-told all the stories and watched me humiliate myself in spectacular fashion on numerous occasions.  They aren’t terrible people; they just have knowledge I would rather they not have.  And the effort to avoid more humiliation in front of them fuels ever more anxiety.  To be honest, I’d rather stand in a crowd of strangers because those people have no point of reference to compare – they take me as I am, right at that moment, totally unaware that I’m a train wreck waiting to happen.  They’ll be just as surprised as I am when shit happens and it’s easier to avoid strangers than it is to live down the reputation that precedes me at family events.

Anyway, the morning of the funeral, I made myself a promise to just let it happen.  Take what comes with dignity and grace and hope for the best.  Deep breaths.

And it worked.  Until I was getting dressed and realized that those fucking pantyhose were too light!  So light, in fact, that my legs resembled something from The Walking Dead.  I would have tossed them and went au naturel except I hadn’t shaved my legs because I had Pantyhose!  That’s a terrifying choice to make on the day of your Father’s funeral – corpse legs or hairy legs.  I feel another ‘Typical Lori’ story coming.

Just forget about it, Lori.  There’s nothing you can do about it now so stop beating yourself up. 

And that worked brilliantly until I got in the car and saw my legs stretched out in front of me.

Geezus!

via GIPHY

I almost chickened out completely at the Funeral Home, but I put my chin up and wiggled my way through the crowd.  I found the Funeral Director in the middle of the foyer and asked where Mom was – in the Family Room, of course.    I was relieved for exactly 23 seconds until I realized the Family Room was filled with Family.  White spots started dancing at the edge of my vision and my chest tightened.  Fuck me!  I immediately looked for the Sister I was most comfortable with and headed in that direction before I passed out.  Everyone was looking.  Probably without judgement but that would end as soon as they saw myfuckinglegs!

I sat down on a sofa behind my Sister and said, “Look at my legs!  They look like CORPSE legs!”  She turned around, most likely to tell me to keep my voice down when discussing corpses at this particular moment but before she could say anything, I lifted a leg and made point-y/stabby motions at it.  “CORPSE LEGS!”

And then my mind froze, and my vision darkened.  Did I just say the word “Corpse” at a Funeral?  My Dad’s funeral?  Christ!  Not only did I say it, but I shouted it, didn’t I?  Everyone in the entire building heard me compare my legs to a corpse.  In a building built specifically for corpses.  Sweet Jesus!

via GIPHY

At the Luncheon in the Seniors Centre, I hoped to get a cup of coffee and a dark corner.  That wasn’t to be, though.  What followed was a wonderful/terrifying hour of hugging and exchanging pleasantries.  People who were friends of Mom and Dad, came to introduce themselves and they were so kind and sweet.  One of them had been wanting to meet me because my Dad always talked about me.  Oh Gawd!  Really?  What stories do you know?!  A teacher from 6th grade came over.  “Mrs. Venables?!”  She had been hoping to see me, too.  Oh Gawd!   Please don’t tell an embarrassing story from 6th grade.  I hoped I wasn’t the only person in the family she was hoping to see.  My favorite cousins were there, and it was so wonderful to see them again, too.  There were many others and, joy of joys, no one told a humiliating story about me even once.

That I heard, anyway, but I’m willing to accept that as a win.

So, I lived through it.  None of my worst nightmares happened.  I was worried for no reason at all and I should learn from this experience.  Besides, no one will remember my Corpse Legs by next week anyway.  Or will they?

Pre-booking my next Anxiety Attack now.

* Especially you, Catherine – the card was perfect!  Cherie did excellent!  Give him a hug for us.

Dear Me,

It’s okay.  Go ahead – have a moment.  Hell, take three, because you deserve it.  I can’t think of anyone more deserving than you.  Of course I’m biased, but I’m sure everyone would agree with me.

So, you had a little meltdown last week, got drunk and bawled for 6 hours – it happens to everyone at some point.  No need to beat yourself up.  In fact, you should pat yourself on the back for keeping the whole affair relatively quiet – you didn’t do it in Wal-Mart did you?  You didn’t wear a T-Shirt with your full name and address on it, right?  See?  That’s something to think about.

And no one took videos, did they?  Yes, I know you had headphones on and your back to the room, so it would be almost impossible to be certain, but there was only The Viking and Junior around and The Viking wouldn’t take advantage, now would he?  Junior…..well, he does have a cell phone glued to his hand, but I can’t see him adding insults by posting your drama on Face Book.  Remember?  He loves you.

Yes, he does!  It just felt like you were alone in the world.  You have a ton of people who love you and care for you and are now looking at you like you’re a fucking lunatic.  How did I know what you were thinking?  Because you aren’t the only one who has dropped the burden momentarily and then had to face the people who have seen you at your absolute worst.  It’s an embarrassment but it won’t kill you.  In fact, those witnesses are now frantically scouring their brain trying to find a way to help you.  So, just let them fucking help you!  They feel like shit because they didn’t think they needed to pay attention as closely as they should have.

Small problems accumulate until they become overwhelming mountains that block out the sun.  You aren’t imagining anything that isn’t real.  It totally is real!  Stress changes the way your brain performs; neurons and electrons, hormones and proteins behave differently, your body functions at a slower rate – these things are out of your control.  All you can do is recognize the signs.

Did you just tell me to fuck off?!  I’m trying to help you and you tell me to fuck off?!  It’s not all bullshit.  Seriously?!  You think life would be less stressful in prison?  A convent?!  Do they even exist anymore?  And if they do exist don’t the nuns have to work all day and pray every 3 hours?  You have difficulties getting up for 9:00 in the morning.  Yes, you do.  Don’t shit a shitter.

Fine.  Prison it is.  You would get 3 meals a day and I suppose you might be able to spend the rest of your time with adult coloring books.  You won’t have to pay bills or make meals or run errands either.  There might even be a library and I would assume you could take online university courses.  Or not.  How the fuck would I know what you would be allowed to do?  Do I look like a hardened criminal to you?!  I think it’s safe to assume that you can’t pick your meals from a menu and they probably don’t have fizzy water on tap.  I don’t know if you can bring a TV from home or if cable is available in your cell.  And, it’s highly unlikely they would have a Nail Technician or a Beauty Consultant on staff.  No.  I’m not calling Martha Stewart.  Besides, she’s American and would have very little knowledge about the Canadian Penal System.

Speaking of which – how do you know that you won’t get assigned to kitchen duty anyway, with a big broad who makes shivs out of turnips?  What if they make you go out in the yard in the rain?  What if they make you eat tuna salad on enriched white bread?  What if there are no private showers?

You might even have a cellmate.  Well, I suppose you might be able to arrange Solitary Confinement – if it’s an actual thing here – but then you probably won’t be allowed to take your coloring book and pencils in case you decide to poke an eye out.  You might be lucky to get a beat-up copy of The Odyssey by Homer to keep you amused.

Yes…. you would get caught up on sleep but once you’ve accomplished that…..well, what then?  I suppose you could work out.  Maybe there would be a yard somewhere, full of weight machines that you can just start bench-pressing 350 pounds and sweat like…. like…. a dude bench-pressing 350 pounds.

Are you really certain that Prison life is for you?  True, you would have very few responsibilities and money wouldn’t be an issue because Conservatives love their prisons, but there is a lot of downsides, the least of which is the big broad that makes shivs out of turnips.  There is the problem of getting invited to prison as well; you can’t just show up and check yourself in.  That would be the Looney Bin.  I understand that the entry requirements are much less stringent, so there is that…..

They don’t make you have public showers and you might not have a cellmate in case someone decides to poke someone else’s eye out with a pencil.  Your art will have to be done with pastels and crayons while Nurse Ratchet fills a syringe with psychedelic drugs and critiques your work though.

So, after all of this, you are right back where you started from – a lunatic not yet in an asylum.  Just go to bed for a couple of days and ‘adult’ next week.

Also, thank The Gawds that you have The Viking and you aren’t sitting alone in your dark closet.  Okay….you might still be sitting alone in your closet, but at least The Viking will check on you occasionally.

Demon Panties and Dorothy

I’m multi-tasking today – laundry, planning dinner, blog post, playing Carleton the Doorman for two cats and company business.  I consider this a full day bordering on unreasonably expectation-y because my personal preference for any given day includes Solitaire time and a 2-hour nap at 3:00pm which this day doesn’t include.

While I was folding the first load of clothes out of the dryer I came across a pair of panties I’ve never actually worn for more than 14.8 minutes.  They are made of 100% nylon – at least that’s what it says on the panties – but I happen to have excellent proof that they also contain some space-age, super slippery properties they don’t want us to know about.  That’s right Hanes, I’m on to you!

I bought them because they are really quite lovely for Granny Panties; so lovely, in fact, that I bought 2 packs of them.  Yes.  I wear Granny Panties.  Especially Golden Girls Granny Panties.  Because they are fucking comfortable and if they are good enough for Dorothy, they are good enough for me.

Anyway, I washed them and folded them lovingly.  The following morning, I picked out the prettiest one and put it on.  I even paused to admired it in the mirror before I put on my pants.  Everything seemed fine at first.  It was completely fine……until I sat down.

Suddenly my pants went one way and my panties went another!  My pants were aligned with my right hip while the panties remained in place.  What kind of fuckery is this?!  The panties are so slippery that when I sat down, the increased friction of cloth against an immovable force (the chair) caused a fracturing of contact between the Demon Panties and the cotton of my pants.  I’m lucky the chair had arm-rests, or I would have been propelled to the floor!  The ensuing lawsuit would be as weird as the guy who sued Starbuck’s because he got his penis pinched between the toilet seat and the porcelain of the toilet itself*.

I went directly back to the bedroom to change my panties because there was no way in hell I could slip slide through my day.  I didn’t even have to pull my pants down manually – I just wiggled a bit and they fell to my ankles.

And now I’m wondering what Hanes was thinking?  Surely, they have quality control.  Didn’t anyone put a pair on?  Or maybe someone did try them, slipped off their chair, hit their head on the corner of a sewing machine and died.  Also, what am I supposed to do with these Demon Panties?  I could donate them to a Thrift Store, but that’s just passing on the danger, right?  What if a young, single mom takes them then falls off the Bus Stop bench and breaks a leg?  That’s the last thing she needs!

As a responsible member of society, I’ve taken a stand.  I have balled-up all my Demon Panties in a bag, labelled it (in case someone is cleaning out my closets after I’m dead and thinks to donate such new panties) and shoved them to the back of my Personals Drawer where they will never be a danger to anyone else.  I simply don’t want to be responsible for future humiliations and broken bones.

Because that’s just the kind of woman I am.  You’re welcome.

PS:  Maybe I should burn them.  You never know who is going through your shit after you’re dead.  Maybe they’ll sell them instead of heeding the large warning on the bag.  I’ll need a big barrel, some dynamite and a flare gun.

*I’m not kidding!

 

Superman and Spanx

At one point in my life I was an Extrovert.  At least I think I was.  There is a significant amount of evidence to suggest I might have been a badass Extrovert as a youngster.  I’m not that anymore, though and the only explanation is that my inner Extrovert was ambushed, tortured for several decades and killed by my inner Introvert.  The war happened so slowly that I really wasn’t conscious of it.  It took one well-timed meme on Facebook and I was suddenly confronted with the reality that I’m a total and complete Introvert.

Under normal conditions this isn’t a problem.  We work and live at home so there are entire days where I don’t need to see anyone.  It’s lovely.

However, this past month has been filled with occasions where I needed to leave my dark cave and intermingle with other humans.

Mim and Kevin got married on December 23rd and I was forced to dress up and smile and shake hands.  There were a few awkward moments when my brain locked up and I was concerned I may need to run.  Like when Kevin’s Dad introduced himself as Kevin’s brother and I looked at Kevin and then at the guy in front of me and what I wanted to say was, “Get the fuck out of here!  You’re too old to be his brother!”

via GIPHY

And then conflicting thoughts started:

Maybe their parents had too much love for just one kid and by the time they realized it the first love-child was already in his twenties.  It happens and I’m not judging.  In fact, it’s lovely.

Maybe they have different mothers but the same horny father.  This, too, happens and it’s nothing to be worried about.

Maybe the older one fell out of the sky as a baby, making a huge crater in the middle of Russia, and then crawled for months without food until a nice farm couple found him and raised him as their own.  And then he realized he had super powers and logically decided to become a reporter with the Daily News as a cover for his Super-ness.  Maybe I’m standing here with Clark Fucking Kent!  What does one say to Clark Kent?  What’s the etiquette?  I hope he doesn’t expect a curtsey because I am way past the point where a curtsey is a curtsey but rather an awkward slow fall to the floor.  But he’s fucking Superman – he can just pluck me up and put me back on my feet again like nothing ever happened.  And, I bet he can really get the lid off a pickle jar in a hurry, too.  He probably doesn’t even shout about how I managed to get the lid on the pickle jar so tight that only Superman can get it off because he IS Superman so no harm, no foul.

Fortunately, for both of us, Kevin’s Father correctly identified the emotions racing across on my face and took pity on me.

And then there was the woman who looked me up and down and decided I didn’t meet her standards.  So, I frowned and looked her up and down and decided she didn’t meet my standards.  Apparently, she’s not the kind to back down so looked me up and down again.    I retaliated with another look up and down but with a bigger frown.  And then she did it again and I did it again and then The Viking decided he should break up the war before someone’s face got stuck in a sneer for eternity.

via GIPHY

When it came time to dance I was happily sitting at my table, minding my own Introverted business and suddenly Kevin showed up.  I said that Mim promised I wouldn’t have to dance.  He said he didn’t make any such promise and if it would make me feel any better he wouldn’t twirl me around.  I said that was probably the best idea he had ever had in his entire life.  That scenario was full of terrible possibilities, most of them ending with me on my back, my dress up around my ears and my Spanx letting go.

via GIPHY

I ended up in Emergency again, on Christmas Eve.  And the second Emergency waiting room was packed with only two seats available – one squished between two guys and one beside a lady, but her husband’s wheel chair was blocking access.  My Introvert didn’t even pause.  It said “Fuck this shit!  I’ll stand in the hallway!”  But then the lady noticed me and recognized my Introvert because she said, “Come over here and sit beside me, dear.”

I loved her in that moment.

The ultimate test of my Introverted-ness came when we hosted a Julefrokost (a Danish Christmas Feast) on the 30th for my kids and my ex-husband, Stanley and his wife, Mildred.  Stay tuned because that’s my next post.

I’ve Been Scolded

I hate lectures that revolve around bad habits and lack of effort. Okay…….to be clear, I enjoy listening to lectures that involve other people’s bad habits and lack of effort, just not my own. I would find it endlessly entertaining if someone attempted to lecture The Viking. I wouldn’t recommend it, but it would be entertaining to watch if only for the cursing and tool throwing. If you think you’d like to give this a try, please let me know in advance so I can have a comfortable chair, goggles, old clothes and a glass of wine on hand. And maybe a camera.

Where was I? Oh yes – lectures. I especially hate lectures given by Computer Gurus – they are worse than doctors and born-again Christians. They get that condescending look on their face and say things like “Did you plug it in?” and “When was the last time you cleaned it?” So when my computer needed a restart and it didn’t come back to life, I said, “What the FUCK?! Start, damn you!”

When that didn’t work I threw my hands in the air, rolled my eyeballs, and yelled, “My computer won’t start!!”

The Viking’s supportive, caring and encouraging response was “I TOLD YOU NOT TO PLAY THOSE FUCKING GAMES!!”

After poking and fiddling with it, he decided I blew the video card again. AGAIN! He muttered about my fucking games some more and then bought a new video card. He pushed the power……and nothing. “What the FUCK?! Start, damn you!”

I said, “That’s what I said!”

After exhausting all his ideas and most of his curses, he admitted defeat. “Call Tommy.”

I heaved a sigh & shuddered. “He’s going to yell at me.” The Viking didn’t seem to have a fuck to give about that.

When Tommy arrived I tried to run, but he saw me and said “Freeze, Lady!”

I said, “Aaahhhaaggg!” and waved my hands over my head in frustration.  He laughed because we both know what comes next: the Lecture.

“Do you shut it down every night?”

“No.”

“When was the last time, before this, that you shut it down?”

“Um……7…no, 8 months ago because it threatened me.”

“When was the last time you cleaned it?”

“9 months ago.”

“Do you play online games?”

The Viking decided to take Tommy’s side in the matter. “I told her not to play those fucking games! I told her!!”

Sigh. “Yeeees. I play online games.” Flipping my middle finger at The Viking. Traitor.

“You need this computer for work, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you still play online games with it?”

“Yes. But I have a good Anti-Virus program and Malwarebytes!”

“You do know that online games are played by millions of people and if they get a virus, then you’ll get a virus blah blah blah blah blah…..”  The only thing missing here was a metal table, handcuffs and a bare lightbulb swinging slowly back and forth overhead.

“Can you fix it?” Really, that’s all I want to know.

The short answer came 6 hours later. “No. You need a new motherboard, one of your drives is fine, one can be saved and the other one is toast. My advice: build a new computer.”

Of course that’s his advice.

So, now I’ve been scolded and I have to pay, at a bare minimum, $1500 for a new computer and all the fucking programs. Dammit!

Stupid computer! That’s the problem with machines: they are ungrateful bastards that look for the first excuse to fuck you over. How am I supposed to relax now? Read for 4 hours a day? I fall asleep after 3 pages of a book nowadays and then the tablet falls out of my hand and lands on my toes and then I swear a lot. I almost never fall asleep in the middle of a mission on my games. I suppose I could finish that damned Cross Stitch Baby Blanket project that has been in my closet for 11 years. Or worse, I could clean.

I wish I could point a finger at someone and blame them, but I can’t. No one forced me to play computer games, but in my defense, if computers weren’t intended to play games they shouldn’t be making games for them. I’m only human after all. How much control do they think I have? I already battle temptations involving chocolate and Toffifee and jewelry and cake and shoes.

Now I will have a computer that is useless for anything other than work.  Sigh. The Computer Gawds are no friends of mine. Apparently.

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Is That You, Mildred?

So I was at the grocery store yesterday – just picking up a few things for dinner.  It was nearly that time already but I had other things on my mind all day and suddenly I thought “Shit!  What am I going to make for dinner?!  It’s blisteringly hot outside so I’m not cooking inside.  Bar-B-Que it is!”

And everything went really well, almost right to the end.  Because as I was waiting for the scale to verify the weight of my bags I looked up and…..time stopped for a moment.

Is that Stanley’s* new wife?  Can I even call her the ‘new’ wife because it’s been a while since he married her.  I consider myself the ‘old’ wife so I suppose that would make her ‘new’ wife.

That kind of makes us sound like cars, doesn’t it?  I’m the old trade-in and she’s the shiny new one that smells awesome inside.  EWW…!!  That didn’t come out right.  Not that she doesn’t smell good inside…..but how would I even know that?  Geez!  Let’s just pretend I never said that, okay?

So……I look up from the scale and I see her, but I’m not 100% certain it’s her….I’m in more like the 85 percentile of positivity.  It looks like her but it’s been a while since I’ve seen her so maybe I’m wrong.  This store is a little out of her neighborhood and while I don’t mind her shopping at my grocery store, I would like to know if it is, indeed, Mildred* or not, because shopping like a Meerkat is going to get weird.

Let’s put that aside for now though, because there are bigger issues here than whether she is Mildred or she isn’t.  Namely, did she see me?  We didn’t quite make eye contact before I dropped my head and stared at the screen in front of me.  I diligently started scanning my items while my mind kicked into overdrive.

How am I supposed to behave?  What’s the protocol?  Do I wave?  Should I do the Floppy Wave and keep it loose and friendly?  A rigid, proper wave – my fingers straight and squeezed together, and make Wash On, Wash Off movements?  Maybe a Queenly Wave – my hand cupped, palm towards me with kind of scooping motions?  Or maybe she didn’t see me at all and the guy at the cashier behind her will think I’m hitting on him and I’ll have a situation in the parking lot?

Maybe I should just take a deep breath and plunge into the morass of awkward Divorc-i-ness.  I’m not harboring any bad feelings but I have no idea what the other side feels.  Maybe there is an incommunicado policy in place that I’m not aware of.  Did Stanley tell her that I wanted to give him away at their Wedding?  I thought it was a brilliant idea – the old wife officially giving him to the new wife.  That would have started things off on the right foot, in my opinion, but Stanley threatened death and dismemberment.

Even if I do decide to take the plunge, what do I say for an opening salvo?  Do I holler across 6 cashiers and say…..what?

“How’s that husband working out for you?”

Or “Hey Mildred!!  Lookin’ good!”

Or should I be more formal “Felicitations Mildred!”

By the time I finished paying for my stuff, I had decided to just screw up my courage and make an oblique approach and maybe accidentally bump into her cart.  I could pretend that I just saw her at this moment and not 5 minutes ago when I ducked down like a 3rd Grader.

There was a tiny whoosh of relief when I couldn’t see her.  And then I wondered if she was doing the same thing that I was doing because she had no damned idea how to behave in these circumstances either.  Maybe she hissed at her cashier to hurry the fuck up, then ran out of the store like the hounds of hell were at her heels.  Maybe she even squealed tires trying to get out of the parking lot before I made my way out of the store.  Probably not because she’s an adult, but I still wonder if she felt awkward too?

I’m going to blame this entirely on Stanley.  First, because I haven’t done that for years and second, because he should have let me give him away at his damned Wedding.  This wouldn’t even be an issue if we had started this off on the right foot to begin with.

In the meantime, I need a plan in case we bump into each other again.  I need a suave and elegant opener and then hope to hell I did my hair that morning.

 

*I’ve changed his name to protect his identity and privacy.  Because I’m just that kind of person.

*I’ve changed her name to protect her identity and privacy.  Because I’m just that kind of person.  What?!  I like the name Mildred and it goes quite nicely with Stanley.  Mildred and Stanley – see?  It rolls right off the tongue.

VICTORY! or not

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers again, hosted by the stupendous Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This time we’re using a wonderful prompt photo by Roger Bulltot.

“HA!  I told you this wasn’t the way out!”  Cheryl crowed, twerking enthusiastically in a well-rehearsed if seldom used victory dance. 

Steve rolled his eyes, studying the map.

“YeeHaw!!”  Slapping her ass and shuffling like she was riding a horse.  “Gawd, it’s great to be right once in a while!”

He traced the map with his right index finger, muttering about medieval architecture.

Cheryl was now trotting in circles chanting ‘LOOOOSER’.

Steve went closer to the wall and pulled a vine aside.  “Hey!  Here it is!” 

Cheryl stopped to stare, wilted in disappointment and let her head fall back.  “Fuuuuuuck!”

If you would like to read more 100 word stories by very talented people, click the blue button.

Mim’s Mine

I’ve been teetering on the edge of depression for the past couple of weeks.  I haven’t been feeling well and bills are piling up and my teeth are bothering me and I’m really tired and have every reason in the world to just go to bed and not get out for a week.  Of course I can’t get away with that which adds resentment to depression but that’s life.  Right?

But just when I was certain I was going down, Mim sends me this on Facebook. (The rest of this post is gibberish unless you watch the quick video).

Mim:   I think I’ve asked you almost all of these this year alone.

Me:    That just means you have an amazing Mom. And it also means that I have ALL the answers. You can pray to me if you want.

Mim:  Ooh If I rub a statue of you will it give me good luck? Or will a talisman of you keep evil away? What kind of chant do I have to utter while I pray? Oh! If I work my way up through the ranks can I wear a fancy costume like the pope!?!?

Me:  You just asked me 4 more questions. Yes – if you make a statue of me and rub the butt it will give you good luck AND keep evil away. I currently don’t have an official chant but now that you’ve brought it up I’ll get R&D to come up with something. If you can work your way into the higher echelons I promise to give you a very fancy costume. Do you like sequins? And what’s your feelings on mini disco balls?

From the video we moved over to a private message.  And so I don’t lose you, you should know that my cute little Mim is an Insulation Apprentice and is currently working on a Gas Plant site where every safety precaution is enforced.  Also, she’s the only female on a good sized crew.

So, the Viking comes in the house for a coffee and finds me weeping on my keyboard.  “What the fuck?!  What’s wrong?”

I suck air into my lungs.  “Mim!!  Oh my gawd!!”

I try to contain myself and read her message out loud.

“You wanna hear something funny? We have to wear personal gas monitors and I farted and it set off my monitor. Now everyone knows I farted!”

The Personal Gas Monitor vibrates, flashes and rings all at the same time!!

“Startled me at first and then I started laughing.”

The Viking laughed so hard he scared the cats!  So we were both weeping.

I sent Mim this….

Fart GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

“Hahahaha it wasn’t even a big fart! It was just a fluff. Just a “pff” but there’s a hole in the crotch of my coveralls and it snuck out!”

I asked what all the guys did.

“I guess they’re pretty used to setting off their own monitors so all I got was ‘ooh, somebody farted’ in a whimsical sing song voice.”

“I thought I was being all inconspicuous too cuz I knew it was going to be just a little bastard fart (a little stinker with no pop).  Didn’t think my stupid monitor would give me away!”

“I think the only reason I haven’t set it off before is because my other pair of coveralls don’t have a hole in the crotch.  Brad told me it makes him proud to have such a woman.  I think he was being sarcastic though.”

So I have a question that I need to ask when I have a minute.  Two questions now that I think about it.

  1. What are her coveralls made of that they can contain a fart?  Do farts accumulate in the legs and when you take them off at night a big green cloud of stink floats out?  Wait.  That kind of explains men’s locker rooms. Is all men’s apparel made of the same stuff?
  2. How do they know that an alarm on a monitor is a fart and not H2S?  I suppose maybe a billowy feeling in their under-carriage is a good indicator but what happens if you fart at the same time as H2S arrives?

Shit!  Now I’m worried.  I need to know stats – what are the odds?  See?! This is why we need science!

I was feeling better because of the laughs but now…….well……I’m right back to square one!  I read an article today that said intelligent people are less likely to be happy than stupid people because of blah, blah, logical conclusions, blah, blah, blah analytical thought processes blah, blah serious contemplations of fact and if that article is anything to go by I’m a damned genius!

Even so, I do feel better.  The Viking has been cursing the Gawds lately – at the top of his extremely effective lungs – about dirt and time and junk and people and air …….

Shrek GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

……but I’m still okay.  I guess you lose again Life Obstacles!  Also, scrolling through Giphy looking for farts is enough to make anyone feel better.

But mostly, it was Mim.  And she’s mine.

What Do You Mean It’s Not Your Birthday?

Hey!  How are you?  It’s been a couple of weeks since we last had coffee.  I couldn’t get my shit together last week which is nothing new to those who know me.  I start one thing, get interrupted with something more important, get side tracked and then forget where I was with the first thing.  My mind isn’t an orderly, organized mind.  It’s a mass of jumping beans dancing to a Mariachi Band.

On Friday, I planned a Happy Birthday phone call to my Father.  He’s a busy man, always gadding about, bullshitting with friends:  coffee at A&W, crib at the Senior’s Center, lunch with friends, bowling, curling and other sundry events.  My call was timed for 1:30pm which should be after lunch but before naptime.  I missed that deadline (surprise!) because….well….shit happens around here; it was almost 2:00 when I called, but at least I hadn’t forgotten altogether.

Dad:  Hello?

Me:  Hey Dad!  Happy Birthday!

Dad:  What?

Me (louder):  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

Dad:  Well, thanks, Lor.  Even if it is 4 days early.

Me:  What?

Dad (louder):  IT’S NOT MY BIRTHDAY!

It’s sad when a parent starts going downhill.  They’ve always been the strong, wise person you can depend on no matter what happens.  I guess age has finally caught up with the old guy.

Me:  Of course it’s your Birthday, Dad.

Dad:  It is not!

Me:  Dad!  It’s the 5th of May!  Your birthday!

Wait.  5th of May?  That’s not right.  Who’s birthday is on a 5th?

Gawd Dammit!!!  My older sister is born on March 5th!  Dad is on May 9th!  Fuuuuuuuuuck!!

I started to laugh.  What else can I do, right?

Dad:  The bastards moved my Birthday, hey?  Maybe I should call you on March 29th next year.

Me:  Hahahaha!  You can if you like.

He shouldn’t have been surprised.  I find calendars challenging and it’s not a new thing.  Birthdays, holidays, special days, week days, weekends……it clutters up my chaos.  And there’s no rhythm to most of them.  Easter can fall anywhere from the end of March to the middle of April.  How am I supposed to work with that?

And Birthdays!  Gawd!  Everyone has to have one!  Can’t we just schedule the 15th of every month to celebrate Birthdays?  Bakeries wouldn’t have to be baking damned cakes every day…..they could just make a whole shitload on the 14th.  The staff at Swiss Chalet could just hire a few local singers to stand in a corner annoying everyone all at the same time.  No need to embarrass the staff and force them to hold Sparklers which may or may not light their hair on fire.  They could have a 6:00pm song and an 8:00pm song.  Done!

Mother’s Day & Father’s Day – why can’t these days be celebrated on the same day?  All the women can go to a Brunch Buffet and all the Fathers can gather at a Sports Bar for beer and chicken wings.  Or vice versa – this isn’t a stereotype exercise.  Mothers in the morning, Fathers in the afternoon.  Done!

We also have Remembrance Day, Labour Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Canada Day (4th of July for my American friends), Valentine’s Day, Groundhog Day, Family Day, Naked Gardening Day and Thanksgiving and that’s just the main days I have to keep track of.  Who planned this mess?  Can’t we just designate the 1st weekend in every month a Special Whatever Day and give everyone the Friday and the Monday off work?

And let’s make a law about commercialization.  I walk into the grocery store on the 16th of February to find an explosion of Easter shit.  I think “HOLY SHIT!!  Is it Easter already?  Cripes!  I don’t have a plan!  I don’t have a turkey or ham!”  My blood pressure skyrockets and I feel faint.

Last year they were hanging Hallowe’en costumes beside Santa suits.  That’s just wrong on so many levels it’s hard to pick just one beef.  They’re killing me with conflicting messages.

As for Dad’s Birthday…..well….he might be irritated but he’ll get over it.  If it makes him feel better to do unto me what I have done unto him, it’s all good.  I totally deserve it for being such a useless User of Calendars.  And if he forgets to call on my birthday I probably won’t even notice because I’ll be in a panic about Easter.

So how has your last couple of weeks been?  Anything new and exciting?  Spill!

 

As always, a special thanks to Part-Time Monster for Weekend Coffee Share and Nerd in the Brain for hosting.  You rock.