I’m Officially Part of the iPhone Cult Now…
If you randomly grabbed 5 of my closest friends and asked them to make a list, detailing a few of my most redeeming traits, two very distinct things would happen…
First, they would beat your ass to a pulp. You should never just randomly come up and grab people… especially if you’re a stranger.
Stranger Danger…
Second, as you scan over all the provided scrawlings, you would notice that the word “patience” is not listed anywhere… in any form
Not “patient”
Not “patience”
None of that
I have, in fact, been impatient for as long as I can remember…
Case in point. I have given birth to 4 children… All 4 of them were delivered 2 weeks early. Coincidence? I think not… I subliminally requested all 4 of them to “follow the light” 14 days early… 40 weeks of pregnancy? Yeah, whatever… 38 is my limit
I have gotten a little bit better as I’ve aged… but not to where I could refer to myself as “patient” The way I look at it my own personal level of impatience has placed me far into the negatives, on the patience scale… So, there is no “Oh, I was able to wait, the entire 75 minutes, for the kid’s late field trip bus, without mentally or verbally cussing the bus driver… the teacher… my own child… my husband… or the perky chaperones” claim to patience. That small incidence, alone, would merely take me from a -183 to a -182.5 (still impatient as all hell)
Yesterday, I had a little situation that really placed me on edge.
After years of crabbily waiting for my current cell phone contract to be up, the time was finally here. I had been standing in the brisk shadows of all my iPhone/smart phone carrying friends for too long. Do you know what it’s like to be the only person in a group of 15+ without a “smart” phone? While they were all trolling Facebook, taking pictures and playing the latest Word game… I would just sit there, obviously on a much lower level, absently sliding the keyboard of my beat up Rumor Touch in and out… while staring at a wall.
But now, my time was finally here! It was going to be my turn to phase reality completely out of my life! I couldn’t wait to go out one night with all my friends… and check Facebook, Pin stuff and check my blog stats… It was going to be superb!
The only problem was that I had a 4-business-day wait, until the phone would actually in my hands.
Tuesday, by 4:30PM, was my reported delivery time. There was even a note, in fine print, that my parcel would probably not be delivered until closer to the 4:30PM section of that date. I was cool with that.
This knowledge didn’t stop me, however, from checking the doorway at least 17 times, during the day, though… and also once or twice on Friday and Saturday too…
As the clock flickered to 4:17PM, on Tuesday I began to feel the agitation rising…. Where the hell was my phone?!? I rampaged briefly on Facebook and Twitter about my dilemma…
Apparently, the UPS Driver was paying me no mind…. as my phone didn’t arrive until 4:47PM
and then was born a brand new set of problems…
It took me a good 2 hours to finally summon the courage to power the damned thing on. I honestly felt fear, in the iPhones presence…
I was sure that if I even glanced at the phone “wrong” the screen would shatter…
What can I say? Impatience at it’s best…
Related articles
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- A UPS-themed dream that wasn’t nightmarish – what came last night. (roscoesdreams.wordpress.com)
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Saying Goodbye to yet another School Year…
It is a yearly ritual, for the parents of school-age children, to quietly rejoice as Summer comes to a close…
For that one brief moment in time the Working Mom and the Stay at Home Mom will put their differences aside to join one another in gleefully posting their “First Day of School” pictures onto Facebook… and if you venture out early enough, a minivan convoy can be seen gracefully circling your neighborhood elementary school, a good 4 to 6 hours before the first bell of the day is due to ring.
Those long summer days can wear down even the most patient of parents…
There is only one joyous event that can compare to the returning of the children to school
Image Credit: 123RF.com
…and that’s the release of the children for summer break.
You think 3 months of summer is tiresome?
Try 9 months of schooling…
Let me break it down for you… *the working mom version*
A is for Attendance… Your child has missed 3 days of the entire year. Two were for the flu and the 3rd was a spur of the moment mini-vacation *cough,cough*… I mean dentist appointment… The school records show your child to have 17… SEVENTEEN
B is for Buses… None of which stop anywhere close to your house. At least your children are actively collecting their very own “I had to walk 7 miles, through the desert winds… uphill, to get to school” stories…
C is for Class Parties… In one year, I have purchased more boxes of Capri-Suns and bags of cookies, for the classroom parties than I EVER have for my entire household… and those damned kids can’t even be bothered to bring me home a pity cupcake!
D is for Dinosaurs… and the 163 pictures of their skeletons that you received , on your cell phone, from your field trippen’ 5th grader.
E is for Education… The education YOU’RE receiving regarding tether-ball, fund-raisers and inappropriate text messages throughout the 13-year-old community.
F is for Fees… Start selling your shit now. There’s missing library books, ASB card replacements, PE clothing replacements, page 5 in the Biology book replacement, end of the year dances, yearbooks, end of the year field trips and my all time favorite… the substantial fee your autistic son has managed to rack up in the cafeteria, by hiding his sack lunch and placing a hot lunch on “credit” Yes, my 7-year-old autistic son has a line of credit in the cafeteria…
G is for Grading… A-F, 1-5 … what does it all mean? A plus sign… a minus sign? A happy face? Why is there a “100%” in that paper with the zeros made in the eyes of an unhappy face? Is that bad? “Oh, my child received a sideways purple dollar sign on their midterms… That’s good right?” Can’t we just go back to using scratch and sniff stickers?
H is for Homework… Congratulations, school district, for allowing me to feel like a total moron while attempting to help my 1st grader with his homework. Is there a page missing from that packet? 2 pages? Shouldn’t the written instructions contain at least one vowel?
Image Credit: lastcalc.com
I is for Irate… The feeling that washes over you, at bedtime, when your child nonchalantly mentions that the Science Fair is tomorrow morning and that they should probably turn something in…. this will be followed by at least one more child gasping and declaring that they too forgot about the science fair… How late is Wal-Mart open on school nights?
J is for Jelly… Somehow, during the previous night’s creation of school lunches, a blob of jelly will have ended up somewhere other than on a sandwich. A cabinet door, inside your purse, on top of the dog’s head, on the bottom of your shoe… the possibilities are endless…
K is for Kim… Not the name, the signature…in which I suspect the 8th grader may be getting a little TOO good at writing…
L is for lunches… Bag lunches to be exact. At this point during the year, I despise them… from their stupid little sandwiches to their stupid individual bags of chips… By May I officially hate the way a Capri-Sun feels in the palm of my hand.
M is for Milk Money… Because the 7-year-old SWEARS he will die without having the proper daily intake of chocolate milk.
N is for Notebooks… Every year you stock up on them… every year they become dedicated to something entirely non-school related. There’s a chore notebook, a sketching notebook, the notebook you commandeered for keeping track of your bills…. the notebook that is mysteriously missing all of it’s pages, the notebook that has your youngest child’s name written “mirror-style” on every page”… the notebook that is too far in the dog’s kennel to retrieve… the notebook you use to scratch your lottery tickets on…. the possibilities are endless.
O is for Octomom… and the fact that she gets to deal with this X 400 … good luck with that, Dear. If you’re guessing that I came up empty for “O” …. Guilty
P is for Permission Slips…. or the exact reason the 8th grade was taught how to duplicate your signature, in the first place…
Q is for Quickly… How everything must be done. Take a shower quickly, eat your dinner quickly, get to school quickly, find your brother’s lost library book quickly…
R is for Report Cards… All 58 of them… when I was growing up, I swear that we only received 4 report cards a year. I’m not even sure what they’re reporting on anymore…
S is for Sandwiches… and the fact that 3 boys will use an entire half of a loaf of bread to make their lunches, for the next day. 1 loaf = 2 days… stupid sandwiches
T is for Thursdays…. or as we here in Barstow, call them… Wacky Cake Days. The best cake, ever created… and only the children are privy to it… While you’re attempting to help them with their homework, later that night…. you will smell its deliciousness seeping from their pores. But, you gets none.
U is for Underwear… the boxer briefs you purchased back in August are barely hanging on by a thread… You include them in your nightly prayers… Underwear is expensive and you won’t feel comfortable with them going commando until Summer has officially started.
V is for Violin… the tiny one that you’ve been playing for your children every time they get bent out of shape over generic Oreos, not being able to find their coveted “school shirt” on Fridays and hearing the word “No” in regards to the Scholastic Book Club Flyers, multiple fund-raisers and taking frozen french fries to school, for lunch
W is for Wardrobe… Didn’t I JUST buy them clothes? At least one of the children will end the year wearing the same 5 outfits every week… If laundry doesn’t get done, on schedule… Monday’s outfit may also become Thursday’s outfit.. and then next Tuesday’s outfit. 3/4 of the socks will contain 2-5 holes. Backpacks will only have one functioning strap.
X is for Nothing…. I’m already tired of this list and I refuse to put “X-ray” just because it’s the only X word I can think of, right now…
Y is for Yesterday… You know…. yesterday. When the school had that huge awards assembly and your kid got that kick ass award… but you weren’t there, because you forgot/had to work/weren’t told about it… Yeah, yesterday.
Z is for Zero… Which is the amount of seconds that I wish I had spent compiling this list…
Yah, I’m over it… and I need to go make sandwiches
Come on Summer, we’re ready for you…
Like this:
Costco, where you can buy everything… except happiness
I doubt that I will ever leave Costco feeling satisfied…
Image Credit: Costco.com
I understand that the whole “bulk shopping” thing makes sense, in the long run. Especially when you have a teenager, a pre-teen and a stocky-ass 7 year old…all of the male variety, residing in your home.
For me, Costco always seems like a brilliant idea. With the insane quickness that groceries enter and leave our house, it’s always reassuring to know that you can get more of each item… and still end up saving a few dollars.
Simple, right?
Yeah… sure. Would I really be writing this if it was that easy?
“Hey guys… I went to Costco today and stocked up on all the family favorites. I saved a ton and we will eat like kings for the next 3 months!”
The end
Yeah, that’s really entertaining
Now, let me give you the real scoop…
I love visiting Costco for the same reason I enjoy checking out the Wal-Mart aisle that carries the trial-sized items. There’s just something about non-standard sizing that takes my brain to its happy place. I could happily stare in awe at teeny-tiny bottles of conditioner and 82-count packages of light bulbs for hours on end.
It’s not the looking that’s the problem. The ADD part of my brain ADORES the looking… It’s that “taking the next step and making a commitment to buy” where I fumble up. That’s where the OCD part of my brain body-slams ADD Brain, ties it up, sticks a sock in its mouth and duct-tapes it to a far wall of the closet. Yes, my brain has closets… don’t hate.
Costco freaks OCD Brain the hell out. OCD Brain wants NO part of this foolishness! None. While I’m busy noticing that my favorite toothpaste is bundled into a package of 8 tubes, OCD Brain is attempting to do the math.. in my head. Math has never been welcomed with open arms, inside my head…. The inside of my head prefers the luxury of a calculator. OCD Brain forces me to do the counting on my fingers, 3 separate times. Do you know what it’s like to be a 34-year-old woman, standing paralyzed in the depths of a row at Costco… attempting to count your possible financial savings on your 10 fingers? OCD Brain is devious. OCD Brain knows that there is a 93% chance in which I will not be able to come up with the price per unit… and if I can’t stumble across that answer, the package will not enter my cart. We will end up walking away from the multi-pack of toothpaste empty-handed… OCD Brain flamboyantly strutting around, show-boating his achievement; ADD Brain, having long ago fallen from his Duct Taped Wall, peering sadly at the retreating pallet o’ toothpaste, through the crack at the bottom of the closet door.
Sometimes, the math is easy though… and OCD Brain has to resort to other methods…. The most commonly used other method is to make me feel like a damned idiot. OCD Brain is good at that…
“12 can of beans? When the hell are you EVER going to use 12 cans of beans… It’s Summer-time. Are you going to force your family to eat chili, during the Summer-Time? I don’t know… throw the cans in your cart if you want, but I wouldn’t spend 10 dollars on beans that you’ll never use.”
“15 cans of tomato sauce? Why are you even considering buying 15 cans of tomato sauce when you KNOW you still have 2 cans at home, from the LAST 15-pack you bought …over a year ago”
“You DO remember that it’s a 30 mile drive home, right? Those 120 slices of cheese are probably going to get hot.. but, whatever, I guess you like gross warm cheese”
“EIGHTEEN DOLLARS? You’ve bought jeans that cost less than that!”
“Yeah, sure… go ahead and buy that 10 pound log of hamburger meat. I’m sure the people at the homeless shelter will let you cook it up, when you can’t afford to pay your rent…. or when it thaws they can let you use it as a pillow…”
Funny thing is, OCD Brain always shuts the hell up when I’m picking out the Costco muffins….
Strangely quiet.
3 hours later I’ve finally finished and the door attendant is highlighting my receipt
…and somewhere between the 12 pounds of bananas, 2 boxes of Costco muffins and 18 packages of chewing gum, I have still managed to spend 100 dollars.
Like this:
The Beast’s Comeback…
Things had been calm for months, in regards to The Beast…
I was beginning to suspect that he knew that it had been taken too far when he kicked my Mom’s ass…
What’s that? You say that you aren’t familiar with The Beast and my Mom’s Extreme Throw Down Death Match
What a shame…. You really should go back and read it.
Do it for Momma.
So Summer turned to Autumn, which soon morphed into Winter and here we are today… Spring
Momma has healed up quite nicely and was recently able to show me how she has regained a full range of motion with her once-previously gimpy arm.
The Beast and my Mom have both decided to allow bygones to be bygones and are attempting a slightly skittish friendship.
I have been known to take a lot of crap…. You can steal the pudding out of my lunch, you can forget to put 17 hours of overtime on my paycheck, you can shout that my kids are ugly and I dress them funny… you’re not going to phase me.
But, if you mess with my Momma, you should probably go into hiding… and request a prayer chain… and attempt to obtain a time machine
The Beast knows this… he’s not a stupid Beast.
Of course, he couldn’t completely abandon The Action Figure Massacre of 2012 cold turkey….
and then there were a few weeks, in September, when I was led to believe that Dickie and The Beast had joined forces
But, after those instances it was mostly quiet.
Too quiet.
That distinct type of quiet which places a dull ache far into the depths of your stomach
It won’t always require a shock to all of your senses to create a major disturbance
Given the right occurrence, one lone solitary sense disruption can edge your brain towards involuntary shut-down mode.
However, the disruption has to be mammoth.
Larger than you ever know possible.
Life altering
It was insanely ignorant of me to assume that a truce had been formed.
My guard had been lowered for months
Stupid, STUPID woman!
Throughout this week, The Beast and The Hideous Odor Emerging From His Butt have tirelessly waged a deadly nuclear attack against myself and the family… I have never once claimed to be a “fan” of The Beast’s previous gas-y eruptions, but this… this was different
Even if Methane Gas, itself, had a butt and was capable of creating its own flatulence… The Beast would reek stronger
It was the kind of smell that seemed to sprout arms and climb down inside your throat…
Thick… hot…. you could taste it on the air
The Hideous Odor Emerging From His Butt actually managed to pull me from a deep slumber, 3 separate times in one night.
Hiding my face under the covers was fruitless… The Odor laughingly penetrated my lumpy comforter, with ease.
My only option, it seemed, was to hold my breath… and I did, refusing to inhale until I had either fallen back asleep or passed out.
It has now been roughly 36 hours since I last came into direct contact with The Odor
Somewhere between my frantic screams for The Odor to cease and desist and The Hub’s mumbled threats to stick a handful of air fresheners up the Beast’s butt… an uneasy stillness has rolled through.
I’ll have to admit that The Beast has won this battle. The human body could never produce anything close to what we have experienced these few days.
But am I waving a white flag, in regards to the War?
Hell. No.
Like this:
That Red Drank…
I believe that most people have at least one friend who would do anything for us…
Image Credit: cool-ten.com
They’re the ones who we continuously turn to when the going gets tough
When you accidentally shrink your husband’s favorite shirt in the dryer, they will not only allow you to dispose of the miniature garment at their house… they will also scour Ebay for hours looking for the exact replica, charge the replacement shirt and overnight shipping to their Mother-in law’s credit card, receipt for the shirt, wash the shirt using whichever detergent you currently use and covertly place the shirt into your hands, with any identifying stains, cigarette holes and/or tears already applied.
This, is an awesome friend to have.
But what happens when you call that trusted friend, declaring once again that you had spent the entirety of your rent money on liquor and Beanie Babies… and the only response you receive is the dial tone?
Abandonment sucks.
I recently received the harsh slap of rejection from one of my “near and dears”
NyQuil
Image Credit: kaboodle.com
NyQuil and I have had a long beautiful friendship…
Wait, let me re-phrase that. RED NyQuil and I have had a long beautiful friendship. Green NyQuil is evil and gross and currently not allowed within 25 feet of my home.
When Generic NyQuil entered my life, I’ll admit I was weary. Red NyQuil had always been so good to me. If I ever felt I was on the brink of dying, a hefty dose of Red NyQuil and the resulting coma could always provide complete relief. The only issue that I had with Red NyQuil was the cost… If you have to practically finance your cold remedy, you might want to start looking elsewhere.
…and there he was, sitting all proudly next to the Red NyQuil, dressed up in his best Generic wrapper. The price was considerably lower so I decided to give the Generic NyQuil a try.
The first night of substitution was scary. I poured the Generic NyQuil into its generic measuring cup and hesitated… I felt like crap. If the Generic NyQuil couldn’t do the job, I would continue to feel like crap. I was not liking that option. I feared that option. But, without any other viable options, I quickly drank it down. The next morning came swiftly. My eyes opened as the music from my alarm clock filled my ears. I lay there for a moment assessing my breathing situation. Full inhale. Full Exhale.
Success.
Generic NyQuil became the new staple in my medicine cabinet.
Fast forward to a few nights ago…
It was a work night and I had a nasty cough that I could not seem to get rid of. If I wasn’t coughing, I was clearing my throat… every 2.5 minutes. After an hour and 24 throat clearings, I felt my irritation slowly rising. There was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep with all this nonsense going on. Luckily I remembered that I had purchased some Generic NyQuil over the past weekend.
I measured out the now familiar concoction and drank it with ease. After rinsing the generic residue from the little plastic cup, I returned to my place on the couch… relieved to know there was an end in sight to this incessant throat clearing. I continued to fast forward through my DVR recordings and randomly clear my throat…. for the next 2 hours. By the time I entered the 120 minute mark, I was angry. The sound of myself clearing my own throat over and over and over was making me enraged. It was like nails on a blackboard… Every throat clearing was now being followed by random profanity. The NyQuils had never done this to me before… it was almost as though someone had replaced my beloved medicine with Kool-Aid, or something.
As my panic level began to rise, I swiftly prepared another dose and drank it down. I knew it was a bad idea but I could not take another 30 minutes of that sound. I don’t recall what exactly happened after that dose was consumed. I do know that soon afterwards I went to bed…. I know that I awoke, delusional, at around 1AM and yelled at Hubs for “moving around” complaining that I had yet to go to sleep. I sat up twice announcing that I was going to go sleep on the couch, since he couldn’t stop “moving around” I believe that he pretended to still be asleep during my outbursts and no, he wasn’t thrashing around like a mad man…. I think he merely rolled from his left side to his back.
4 hours later my alarm clock harshly shook me from my sleep. As I staggered into the bathroom, I realized that I felt somewhat better. Not as good as my usual post-Generic NyQuil experiences… but not horrible.
I still felt cheated, though… Where was my standard issue Generic NyQuil coma?
I finished getting ready for work and woke the Hubs, briefly apologizing for last night’s outbursts.
He claimed ignorance and later as we got in the truck and backed down the driveway, I felt a familiar feeling
He turned to drive down our street and I tried to ignore it.
I tried to fight it… to convince myself it was all in my head and as we made one more left turn the sun momentarily blinded me
and I cleared my throat.
Like this:
Dirty Racers…
“You learn something new every day”
That little saying has been around for quite some time. I’ve heard it, I’ve spoken it, I’ve rolled my eyes at it.
But it’s truth…
I awoke, before the sun, on May 12 2012 with one solitary mission.
To survive to see May 13 2012
Somewhere, during the months prior I had made the decision to participate in Barstow’s 1st Annual 5K Mud Run.
It seemed like a decent idea at the time and when you live smack dab in the middle of the desert, anything pertaining to water has the ability to draw you into its clutches. Wallowing around in the mud honestly sounded fun… However, I guess that I forgot my nemesis “running” would also be involved.
To be honest “running” and I don’t really have any beef with each other… We don’t hang out like we should, but if I was ever being chased by a rabid kangaroo… I’m sure we could figure things out.
Any bad feelings towards “running” can be traced back to my old pal “asthma”
“running” and “asthma” have had quite a few altercations
I’ve tried to make them hug it out… but I think it’s pretty much a lost cause.
Other than my 2 mile asthma attack, I think I did fairly well. I managed to finish the race and I didn’t get passed by anyone that looked like they could have been my Grandma’s Mother’s age.
Lessons Learned? Words of Wisdom? But, of course…
I spent more time obsessing over what I was going to wear and how I was going to do my hair than actually training for the race. I’m thinking my priorities may have been a little backwards.
Those muddy pits are a lot harder to cross thru than you would expect… Doggy paddling may be a viable option to look into. Many a runner lost shoes to the muddy pits. Beware
Breathing is extremely beneficial during the act of running. I have created the new international sign for “I’m not a lazy loser, I just have asthma and it hurts to inhale…and exhale” All you have to do is place both hands around your neck, as you heave empty breaths in and out…and scowl. I believe the “F” word fell out of my mouth a couple dozen times, also… The “F” word is optional.
Rolled ankles will be wished upon anyone who cheerfully bounces past you, while have an upbeat conversation with their running partner. The severity of the rolled ankle increases the closer you get to the finish line.
It is frowned upon to flip your 7-year-old son the bird, when he’s yelling at you angrily for not “winning the run” at the 2nd mile mark
Pulling that older lady out of the middle of that deep mud pit will be good for your karma, one of these days… as long as after the race you don’t excitedly point her out and tell everyone within 50 feet of your good deed. No one wants to be known as the older lady that got stuck in the mud pit…
It is perfectly acceptable to heckle any runners who cut the course. It is, however, not acceptable to tackle them, remove their tracker device and throw it into the nearest mud pit… and it is REALLY not acceptable to accidentally hit an older lady in the head, who is stuck in the middle of a mud pit, with the tracker device that you just gnawed off the shoe of a dirty course cutter.
Screaming “WAAAAATCH OUUUUUUUT” as you shoot down the 87 foot mudslide will result in every single person at the bottom staying exactly where they are. If you only make hard contact one other runner, at the bottom… consider yourself lucky. You will not hear the next slider’s screams of terror as you are too busy watching the cartoon blue birds fluttering around your head. Don’t freak out if someone grabs your arm, neck, torso or ponytail and pulls… there is a 57-year-old man presently on a collision course with the back of your head.
Refrain from saying anything encouraging to the runners you pass… if you feel the need for communication just angrily mumble how hard this shit is or declare that you feel like your going to die…. The “F” word works too, unless you’re passing a child….oh, who am I kidding, The “F” word works too…period.
It is frowned upon to flip your 7-year-old son the bird, while he’s crying on the sidelines and loudly asking your Husband “Why Mom still walking? Why her no run? Mom no win race ever!!!” at the 3 mile mark
All’s well that end’s well, though
I managed to finish the race and Dickie only stole 3 of my 4 orange slices.
Like this:
The Muddy Lightbulb…
I was verbally reprimanded, by my Mother… on Mother’s Day (no less), for failing to have Part 2 of my last post published and ready to read.
If you have absolutely no idea what on Earth I’m talking about CLICK HERE!
Don’t be ashamed of your ignorance… I understand. You probably accidentally landed here while searching for pictures of Justin Bieber…
Well, you’re here now… allow me to attempt to entertain you.
First… Go click the link…. read and return
We’ll wait for you… we were all newbies at one point.
**************
OK, so to recap… on the holiest of all days “Mother”, the bearer of the womb that I first called home, made no attempt to hide her disdain over my lack of blog follow-through. I believe she may have even shook her trembling fist at me… and snarled in my general direction. I also believe that I may have lied and stated that the entry in question had already been written and was hanging out with the other rift-raft currently squatting in my draft folder…
And so here I sit… needing to put words to keyboard
***************
I slid down the cabinet to the chilled tile, defeated. As the side of my face made contact with the floor, I found myself staring, through sweat fogged eyes, at a lonely crumb lying in the grout. Somewhere, in the distance, I heard Hub’s voice… reminding me to pick the butter knife up and put it into the sink when I’m finished dying.
I closed my eyes…
I was in pain and my only option, it seemed, was to play dead. Who was I hiding from? I’m not even sure…
When I managed to re-open my eyes, the same lazy crumb lay motionless in the same grout where I had originally seen it.
I was eye-level with the crumb… we were on the same level.
I briefly likened my crumb to Tom Hank’s volleyball bestie, Wilson, from Castaway…
However, I quickly determined that my crumb was too small in stature to place a hand print face upon…
As I contemplated several very common last names to christen my crumb, a large shadow slowly engulfed us both…. The Beast glanced at me in confusion, inhaled my crumb and moved across the room to creepily smell the family’s shoes.
I closed my eyes…
As I felt a sense of normalcy returning to my limbs, I managed to once again pry my eyelids apart. My crumb was still gone. That had really just happened. I flopped my body onto my back and stared up at the kitchen ceiling.
How had I ended up here? What kind of force could have possibly led to this much raw pain.
Was a do-it-yourself epidural available, for purchase, at any of the near-by dollar stores?
I parted my lips, hoping to convey to Hubs the predicament I was in… a mere 12 feet behind him
The only sound I was able to push out of my mouth was a cross between a whistle and a moan.
Completely unintelligible… However, audible.
Hubs acknowledged my attempt at verbalization by repeating his original request for me to place the discarded butter knife into the sink. Without even a glance in my direction, he also suggested I shower at some point…. preferably sooner rather than later.
I closed my eyes.
How had I ended up here?
I racked my brain, in search of an answer… But, my usually jumbled brain seemed to be even more of a cluster than usual.
Picture the worst house you’ve ever seen on the show “Hoarders” … now picture that same house after an earthquake, which is followed by a tornado. That, my friends, was my brain.
As I struggled to regain any type of recollection, two words flung themselves into the view of my mind’s eye.
Photo taken from: Veteran’s Home of Barstow, Ca. (Facebook Page)
Shit…. Apparently my attempt at some last second “training” for our city’s first annual Mud Run had inadvertently left me slightly comatose on my kitchen floor…
***to be continued***
Yep, I did it again! In yo’ FACE, Mom!!!
Like this:
That one time when I almost died…. again
“That bitch is seriously trying to kill me!”
Photo Credit: teesort.com
As I staggered passed Hubs, towards the kitchen, this is the only sentence that seemed to be able to find its way out of my mouth.
I slowly bent my body into a 90 degree angle, resting my torso dejectedly on the kitchen counter… head slightly propped up against the bread box.
With a slight glance, over his left shoulder, Hubs requested that I try to refrain from pooling sweat where the boys would be making their school lunches shortly.
I attempted to catch my breath, so I could give him a piece of my exhausted mind… but was unable. Between my labored exhales I extracted a butter knife from the utensil drawer with the sole intent of flinging it towards the back of his head. However, you apparently have to be able to physically lift your arm to successfully partake in the flinging of anything and the butter knife clattered to the floor.. making brief contact with my big toe.
I slid down the cabinet to the chilled tile, defeated. As the side of my face made contact with the floor, I found myself staring, through sweat fogged eyes, at a lonely crumb lying in the grout. Somewhere, in the distance, I heard Hub’s voice… reminding me to pick the butter knife up and put it into the sink when I’m finished dying.
I closed my eyes…
***to be continued***
Like this:
The Last Supper with my Sanity…
and then there was dinner…
But, first was breakfast, breakfast.2 and lunch
The third and final meal of the day took place at 11:31PM
As the sushi place denied that they had the capability to create sushi after 11:30PM, we admitted defeat and trudged over to the cafe
…again
3/3.2 of my Las Vegas meals originated at that damned cafe.
So we walked the familiar pathway, stopping at the familiar “Please Wait to be Seated” sign
PhotoCredit: theperfectsign.com
and we waited
A waitress approached and we declared ourselves to be a party of 7
Yes, seven.
3 couples and me, by my lonesome…
Are you asking yourself where the ever-present Hubs was?
Well…apparently having a purse thrown in your general direction isn’t the romantic gesture that it used to be. Having had dealt with my hissy fits in the past, Hubs wisely waited until I had barricaded myself into our hotel room’s bathroom and removed himself from the situation… When antagonized it’s usually a choice of fight or flight. He knows better than to fight with my lunatic ass, so he flighted his ass right down to the Texas Hold-em tables…
So, back to our stay at the “Please Wait to be Seated” sign… After learning the correct amount of chairs and menus that our table would need, our waitress scurried away. 5 to 10 minutes later a second waitress approached us, asking if we had been assisted. We told her yes, but that Waitress #1 had disappeared. Waitress #2 stated that she would go look into our table situation and raced away. When a 3rd server approached us, another 5 to 10 minutes later, asking us if we had been helped; we pretty much dog-piled on top of him and begged him not to leave.
They keep leaving… but, they’re not coming back….
Don’t go! Just find out about the table, from here.
We were immediately led to a shadowy table in the furthest depths of the cafe. The section in which we were seated contained no evidence of ever having hosted any form of human life.
As we all sat down, Tiny Racer produced a pair of fugitive chop-sticks that he had lifted from the sushi-nazi’s restaurant…proudly declaring himself to be the newly self-appointed most masterful chop-stick utilizer in all the world… other than China.
Photo Credit: http://joannecasey.blogspot.com
As he showcased his talent by picking up various sugar packets and pinching his fiance’s arm(who from here on out will be referred to as Tiny Fiance “TF” … at least until they get hitched), a waitress arrived to take our drink orders. She did not seem to be a very happy waitress and we couldn’t understand why… Didn’t she know that she was in the presence of chop-stick wielding greatness? 4 ice waters, 1 Coke and 1 lemon with ice water later and she was not amused. As she walked away to collect our drinks the question of how she would possibly remember all 7 of those drink orders sprang forth…
“Because we basically ordered 6 waters and a Coke…”
The dialog from the moment we received our drinks to the time we placed our food orders was the kind of conversation you participate in when you’re nearing a certain level of hung-over, sleep-deprivation.
I enthusiastically pimped out the goodness that is known as the Nugget Nachos and explained how these delightful nachos had found their place in every meal that I had consumed, since we had arrived. I used adjectives that I had never heard of before and drew pictures of said nachos in the air, for all to see… I believe my Nugget Nacho Showcase may have lasted a good 20 minutes, in itself.
The fabulous and exciting game of Keno was briefly discussed and TF’s BFF (who shall be nick-named later in this entry) attempted to convey her disgust with the game, claiming that it was nearly impossible to win…
Photo Credit: http://www.entertainmenetwork.com
“No! That game is horrible! There is an ASTRONOMICAL chance of winning!!!”
and she stated her fact, exactly as written… Bold – Caps Loc and all…
I stared at her, baffled…
“Ummm….do you know what you just said???”
For the next 7 minutes I attempted to explain that her choice of words had insinuated that the game was actually a sure win.
It sunk in and we laughed like crazy people for another 7 minutes
and for the next half an hour the word “astronomical” was enthusiastically used in every 3rd sentence we uttered.
TR and his tiny chop-sticks were finally thwarted when we challenged him to pick up a butter knife that was laying in front of him. He claimed to have picked it up on his 9th try, but everyone at the table called foul and stated that his thumb was also touching the knife.
Game over, TR.
As the waiter made his way to our table, to collect our food orders, I was struck with a humiliating thought…
All 3 couples were going to request that their couple-food be placed on one check
2 people, 1 check… 2 people, 1 check… 2 people, 1 check… and then me
“The cheese stands alone…”
When it was my turn to order, I wasn’t even given the chance to be brave and admit my solo-idity. Before I could even take a breath to push the words out of my mouth the waiter interjected…
“So… this goes on a check all by itself, right???”
“The cheese stands alone”
I mumbled yes, my order and some unintelligible profanity… and sent him on his way to the next duo
I believe, at this point, that the waiter may have taken a vow to make my ego miserable for the rest of this cafe experience. I vaguely heard him insinuate that I was TF’s mom… he asked, when the food was delivered, if I was going to need another plate and I swear he fashioned the total on my bill into the shape of a sad face…
and at some point, when I wasn’t looking, he brought TF’s BFF into the mix…
As I glanced at my older very NON-smart phone she noticed it and exclaimed that she once had that VERY SAME PHONE… like 16 years ago… right after she gotten rid of her pager…
“Hi Ho the Dairy-o, The cheese stands alone”
My current phone is a definite sore spot… it’s old, the keyboard slides out, it’s not “smart” and it doesn’t make any kind of sound
…at all
I hung my head in shame and prayed that she would fail to notice the Wal-Mart shirt I was wearing…
as we got up to leave, she decided to try one last attempt to solidify my disdain towards myself.
…and I’m thinking that it’s about time we nick-name her ass
TF’s BFF… will from here on out be dubbed “The Librarian Without a Facebook Account”
Or “The Librarian”, for short…
Photo Credit: thedebutanteball.com
…and considering there’s only maybe…. 3 people who don’t have Facebook accounts, it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out.
So, anyways…
The Librarian plotted to steal one of my flip-flops
…while I was still wearing it
…and walking
If you’ve ever had someone stick their entire foot underneath your entire foot, while you’re wearing a flip-flop, you know that it will make you stop dead in your tracks… It’s like instant brakes.
..and awkward
Instant awkward.
… like most of my life
Like this:
Eating Nachos, Like a Boss…
Strange things seem to occur in Las Vegas…
The consumption of meals at very odd hours, seems to be one of these strange things.
The notion of a proper breakfast, lunch and dinner are completely thrown out the window.
I believe that an individual’s alcohol-intake may contribute strongly to that…
Don’t get me wrong… Most will attempt to have a total of 3 “meals” within the longest period of time that they are able to spend awake conscious
…and this Vegas trip was no exception
Mid-day on Friday Hubs, myself and 3 other couples headed off to Las Vegas, for the finale of the 2012 Monster Energy AMA Supercross Series.
Friday night was officially our designated Drink, Drank, Drunk night…
I even managed to completely surpass my own comfort-level of intoxication, sober up and then obtain a happy medium buzz for the remainder of the night
Party on, Wayne. Party on, Garth. This picture was taken about 20 minutes and 2-3 Cranberry and Vodkas before I entered “Oh, Shit… I’m wayyyyy more drunk than I wanna be” Zone…
Drink, Drank, Drunk night affected the following days meals, as follows
Breakfast: Hubs and I crawled into the cafe at the Golden Nugget at around…. 3:30AM We were on our way up to the room, for some much-needed sleep and wisely decided that obtaining food would probably be an awesome idea . I ordered the Nugget Nachos, Hubs ordered Chicken Strips and Fries. When I awoke at 10AM, the Nugget Nachos were completely gone. No trace of a Nugget or a Nacho to be seen anywhere. I’m assuming we ate them. I’m also assuming that they were delicious. The Chicken Strips and Fries apparently did not receive such a warm welcome, as they lay cold and saddened nestled deep inside their carry-out container.
Breakfast.2: Waking up is hard to do… with a hangover. I peeled myself out of bed at 10AM. As I lurched around the room in agony, I realized the unthinkable. I had a stage 4 Hangover… and no water. Wait, let me correct myself. There was a water. A beautiful large bottle of Fiji water. Beckoning for me to partake in its refreshing liquidity… All I would have to do is close my eyes and pretend that I never saw that $7.00 price tag hanging around is neck. Knowing that this was not an option, I resigned myself to the reality that I was going to have to drink water from the bathroom sink. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a slight glisten coming from ice bucket. A flashback of Hubs being heckled for this very bucket floated around the edges of my now increasing headache. There’s ice in that thar bucket! Sure enough, the bucket which was once full of ice was now half ice and half melted ice. I perched atop the lowered toilet lid, as my shower ran, and selfishly drank the bucket dry.
Lunch: By about 2 PM some feelings of normalcy were begining to return to my body. My stomach quietly screamed at me, reminding me that my 3:30AM breakfast was merely utilized to keep my body functioning, as I slumbered through those remaining morning hours. The cafe, once again, seemed to be the easiest choice. As we settled into the eerily familiar setting, I entertained vague fleeting memories regarding the delicacy that is known as the Nugget Nachos. “I shall have it again!” I decided and vowed to remember every scrumptious bite this time. My nachos were ordered, prepared and delivered… They were quite a sight to behold. There was nothing nugget-y about these Nachos. The platter and mound of Nachos stacked atop it was easily the size of my head. These Nugget Nachos were large and in charge….. and surprising not as delicious as I remember them to be 11 hours prior… I consumed nachos for the next 20 minutes, only pausing briefly to bring oxygen deep into my lungs.
Only when my stomach begged for mercy, did I stop to look at my platter. Confusion overwhelmed me. Where was the spot that I had been eating from, for the last 20 minutes? A distinct Nacho-y aftertaste filled my mouth, however the platter told another story… and was it possible that there were even MORE nachos on my plate than when I first received it? Were the waitresses silently refilling the Nugget Nachos, when they came around topping off the glasses of iced tea? I was baffled. Shit, I still am baffled.
Other than the strange assortment of a large pretzel, generic gummy worms and various tiny flying bugs that were eaten at the actual Super Cross event…. the next meal eaten, before my head hit the pillow, would have to be dinner.
Dinner was nuts…. Dinner is going to need an entry all its own.
But, I’m not just going to leave you hanging… that would be rude.
So, here’s a picture to tickle your funny bone
According to Tiny Racer’s Fiance… this is TR’s super-secret annual Super Cross ritual. A separate bag carrying his favorite fedora, a 60 dollar bathrobe and the bible he stole from a Motel 6 at the age of 7,is carefully packed within a mixture of packing peanuts and bubble wrap. Now who’s the Drama Queen, TR?
Stay tuned…. for dinner
