Fleet Feet, Marshmallow Mascots, and Embarrassment…

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Having never been an athlete (or even close to it) I never paid any attention to stores catering to that specific clientele. I assumed it would be a room full of very slim, attractive people jogging in place or stretching in impossible ways, eating celery, and talking about fat people. As I fall into the fat people category, that did not seem like a place I should visit. I have only been “running” a couple months, off and on, and at a very slow pace. More like, walking at varying speeds with the occasion quick shamble thrown into the mix. I’m not an athlete. I’m barely a human. So those stores are most certainly not for me.

Mancandy used to be in the Marines. He’s further along in his running journey than I am. He assumes he belongs anywhere. And he got it into his mind that he needed a running shoe. Apparently, all athletic shoes are not running shoes. Runners are athletes. But athletic shoes are not for all the athletes. I guess. Which makes sense really, I just hadn’t thought of it.

Whilst running (or, shambling, which is a better description) my shins have been killing me. I assumed shin splints, talked to a couple runners, read a few articles, and then just accepted my shins would be angry. I didn’t really think much of it. New shoes were mentioned but I had zero intentions of buying shoes specifically made for runners. They are pricey and I’m not really a runner. I don’t know what I am (a shambler…a randomly spirited walker….a wheezer), but looking at other runners and then looking at me will very quickly make that fact apparent.

Mancandy insisted we needed to go into Fleet Feet. I’d never even heard of the place. The name alone obviously wasn’t going to call one such as I. But being a supportive idiot, I went in.

Full disclosure, I did not want to. While I admire anyone who is confident and comfortable with their size/body/abilities/disabilities, I am not there. My body is just a thing. I don’t like it. I don’t really think about it if I can avoid it. And while I will never be a pixie little waif of a woman (which is some serious bullshit as I would LOVE to be a tiny petite ballerina looking thing) I could be more comfortable and healthier. So…running. But, I generally do this alone, under the cover of darkness, so no one can see my inability to move gracefully.

All that to say, the perfect beautiful people munching celery are not my people. And I was quite sure they are a judgy clan. Pretty, perfect-skinned, hairless athletes just waiting for a fat chick in sale rack non-running athletic shoes to mistakenly cross their threshold. My palms started to sweat walking across the lot. Entering the store, there was a whiteboard set up asking guests to sign in. Mancandy wandered off. I blinked, explained to the intimidating salesperson that I was not there for a try on so we didn’t need to sign in, and scuttled after Mancandy. If I made it apparent I knew I didn’t belong maybe they wouldn’t judge as harshly. I poked at shoes whose brands I’d never heard of, cooed over really soft, thick flip flops until seeing the price tag, and tried to appear appropriately shameful of myself.

Eventually, Mancandy decided he DID want to try on shoes (which made me panic as we had not signed up on the whiteboard as we’d been asked). The same intimidating sales person walked up and I immediately threw him under the bus saying I’d TOLD him to sign in and he was the trouble maker. He ignored me and started discussing shoes. It became apparent quickly that she knew what she was talking about, he did not, and this pleased me. Until she asked what I was wearing. I muttered “Fila” and got the look. She told us to sit down. She brought shoes for Mancandy. They talked.

I tried to will myself to stop stress sweating. And blushing. Why was I blushing? Who knows. My body reacted to the stress in the most annoying ways possible. I sat with my offending shoes tucked as far under my body as I could get them and tried to be invisible.

Once Mancandy had decided on his shoes they both turned to look at me. I blinked back. Our salesperson asked if I would please take my shoes and socks off and roll my pant legs halfway up my calf. I blinked again. I asked if I could come back another time. She said I could not. I tried again, I was not prepared for this and my feet were stress sweating and my legs were so pale I am basically translucent and my eczema is bad right now so I don’t even know when I last shaved my legs and at this point, I’m drenched in sweat and tomato red.

Also, because stupid Mancandy and stupid perfect skinned salesperson are continuing to try to convince me, I’ve become the center point of attention in the store. If you have ever been suddenly aware of people’s attention, it has weight. You can tell. And everyone in the store was looking at me. Athletic, hairless sales person calmly shoots down my “excuses” and other than storming out and causing a scene, I had no choice. So I took off my shoes, peeled off my sweaty socks, and stood on a machine thing with my not at all pretty or perfect legs sticking out.

I wanted to ugly cry. Everyone was looking. And many of the things I find repulsive about myself were on display. I absolutely abhor being the center of attention and all these strangers (most of whom with slender, runner people physiques) were looking at me.

The freaking machine wouldn’t work. I stood there, on display, sweating and trying not to throw up, for ages. She finally took pity on me and had me use some sort of little metal thing they used when I was a child. She let me unroll my pant cuffs and hide more of myself. I could breathe a little easier. I walked up and down the store, she and Mancandy discussed my shin issues, and just focused on not throwing up.

Three different types of shoes were brought out. The first two were pretty, sleek looking things. They felt like normal shoes. The third pair were unattractive, boxy-looking things with huge soles compared to the other shoes I’d tried on. She explained they would absorb more impact and keep my shins from being so sore. I was too embarrassed and upset to argue, so I tried them on. And made an involuntary “Oooooooooo” sound. They were so soft and comfy. She boxed the other two up, took the try-on socks she’d had me use back (her pretty, long-fingered hands casually touching the super sweaty socks….more embarrassment), and told me they’d need to be replaced in 6 months.

I keep shoes until they fall apart. So, that seemed ridiculous. They were expensive. Then she gave me the parting shot. This particular shoe’s mascot is a running marshmallow. What she did not say but the entire store must have been thinking, I was the embodiment of their mascot. Humiliating, but it tipped the entire experience into the land of farce for me and I was able to laugh a little bit.

There was no way to explain any of that to Mancandy. He’s one of the most self-assured, confident people I’ve ever met. Much to my annoyance most of the time. But I did make sure to go tell my buddy from work who runs insane distances. She told me about ambassadors for the brand, they send you shoes and you wear them and I’m assuming represent them on social media and whilst running. Obviously, I should be the ambassador for this brand.

Hoka, where are you at? I am your marshmallow! I mean, no one ever sees me run, but I could be your ambassador convincing all the scared, shy plump little peoples to run! Have your people call my people.

Also, in the next edition of embarrassing stories I shouldn’t tell but do, other people’s children gave me a stomach bug and I’m still terrified to run(ish). That seems like a recipe for more embarrassment. But, if it goes poorly, it will be a good story for those who enjoy laughing at others.

 

 

 

A wedding….a new friend….and lip gloss…

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There was a wedding this weekend. I attended. And wrangled children. And got into skirmishes. And spent too much money trying to make my hair look like normal people’s hair. And had lip gloss smeared in my hair. It was an event. I’m sitting here looking at my suitcase trying to get up the energy to deal with it. I have to go out of town again this week for work so in all reality it will likely just sit there until I need to do something with it in the morning.

The reality of it is the wedding adventures started out more in line with a disaster. Mancandy and eldest of the Minicandies were in a big spat on the road which caused all candies to turn into vengeful, irritable, unpleasant riding companions. None of us were terribly fond of each other by the time we arrived at 1:30am. The next morning the family O’Candy was one giant mass of pissed-the-hell-off. I, unsurprisingly, found this not at all fun and became even more pissed-the-hell-off. I was my usual mature self and stayed quiet but kept score every time a snarky comment was made, a snappy tone was used, or a broody silence hung in the room. I am pretty sure the O’Candy’s are used to being the angry, vengeful ones. I tried to be polite and hold in my wrath.

I failed.

Without turning this into a giant post (you’re welcome) suffice to say, I got fed up with snappy, nasty attitudes quickly and ended up so having the first panic attack I’ve had since my father died about 8 years ago. It was not a fun adventure. I need time by myself to recharge and settle, having no time to do any of that combined with tons of negative emotions being blasted at me with no ability to influence the situation just did not sit well with me. So multiple O’Candy’s felt my wrath.

I have no regrets. My sister calls that stage banshee mode. She ascertains I’ve hit baby banshee phase and will enter the teenage banshee phase soon. I am not excited about it, but it is what it is. I’d had enough.

All that to say, the day of the wedding came and I was not in the best mood. I actually wanted to set everything on fire and dance in the flames. Instead, I dressed up, put on my girl face, tried to create girl hair, and went to the church. I wasn’t sure where to sit, I’m not family but I’m not really a friend so I wasn’t entirely certain where to plop. I ended up sitting at the end of a pew with extended family. A man with three children around him was the closest person to me. The smallest of his children crawled over him to crawl right up to me on the pew. She got an inch from my face with a big grin and a suspiciously greasy lower face area.

“I have lip gloss” was whispered directly into my face from roughly 2 inches away.

“Lip gloss is good stuff” I whispered back.

She grinned and held up her bracelet.

“The lipgloss is in my bracelet.” She explained.

I must have appeared as confused as I actually was. She took the bracelet apart, pulled it into one straight line, and held it out to me.

“Make it into a toy and you can have lip gloss” was whispered into my ear. And I do mean directly into my ear canal.

I explained that I did not know how to make a bracelet into a toy. She was a smidge less thrilled with me. I felt disappointed in myself but was still unsure how to proceed.

Her father was consulted.

He figured out how to make it work.

My new little friend came back to my side, squished up against me, and proudly showed me her bracelet-now-turtle. The turtle shell was opened slowly with gestures reminiscent of Vanna White. Inside the shell was a secret compartment that had the appearance of a mini tub of grease. A tiny little finger swished around in the shell compartment, came up with a glob of grease, and smiled at me while happily smearing grease on her lips and all surrounding areas for good measure. She was a well moisturized little thing, kind of young for skincare but who am I to judge?

I was then treated to a show of her turtles jumping and running skills. When I admired how fast the turtle could “run” across the back of the pew she carefully explained that we were playing pretend, it was not real, but we could keep playing as long as I understood we were just playing.

I solemnly nodded and complimented her turtle for a while more.

Eventually, the wedding started and we had to be quiet.

I felt a little hand on my arm. I was being petted.

She continued to pet me and brush at my hair while smiling happily up into my face. It was disconcerting.

She had very greasy little fingers.

She halfway crawled into my lap. When I moved my arms to accommodate her she slipped back into the pew beside me while explaining she had been about to sit on my lap. I nodded and said she could. She shook her head and explained she had been about to but decided not to and would continue sitting on the pew. I said okay. The purpose of this conversation eluded me, but she calmly explained again that she almost sat on my lap but didn’t. I imagine there was a kid message in that, but I didn’t get it. I still don’t. I put my fingers to my lips and gestured to the wedding, hoping the ceremony would distract her.

“Are they kissing yet?” my new little friend asked with equal parts dread and enthusiasm.

“No.”

She nodded as if that business was complete and launched into a new effort to pet my sweater and slick back my hair. She began concentrating on the effort to give me a greasy mullet. It was a catholic service so we were up and down frequently. She was a patient little thing, pausing to let me stand up along with the rest of the church and going right back to her mission as soon as I was seated again. She eventually stood up in the pew to reach the top of my head (that was carefully sprayed and fussed with so as not to lay flat) and began petting my hair down and back in a windswept yet chicken grease imbibed style that gave me pause. Unsure how to keep it from becoming a scene, I let her stand in my lap to address the front of my hair, slide around to the other side, and accommodated the slimy little hands grabbing my face to turn it this way and that.

In between asking me if the dreaded/wonderful kissing part of was upon us, she mumbled to herself like any good beautician does when they realize my ineptitude with all things girl. Her little forehead wrinkled up and she muttered to me about my hair. I didn’t understand anything she said but it was the same tone I’ve heard my entire life. I was unsure how to avoid the judgmental beautification treatment of my little tyrant when she had had enough of me.

The wedding was moving toward the end and my little friend thought her siblings might be more fun than my frumpy, newly greased up self. They tried to quietly squabble while their exasperated dad tried to quietly strike the fear of dad’s everywhere into them. The older two would settle, but I had befriended a warrior princess who was not the least bit worried about her dad.

After much swimming and squirming up and down the pew, she wiggled over to me to announce that her family was mean to her. I noticed we were at the part she’d been waiting for and pointed out the groom and bride were kissing. She glanced over, shrugged, made a noise equivalent to “ew” and turned around to tear into her brother about being mean. We were able to escape the pews and the crowd and I hid in the back of the church while everyone filed out.

My new friend was apparently done with me though, she kicked me to the curb as soon as other children were available to play with. She did, however, make a long ceremony much more interesting and humorous (although the priest did his best, and was the most epically awesome priest I’ve ever seen). I’m hoping to find more bracelet/toy/grease-pots so I can send a few for Christmas, I figure at the rate she was going she’ll have run out of grease already.

I’m still unsure about kids, especially greasy ones carrying their own grease pots increase the grease level dips too low, but she completely changed my mood and was obviously her father’s greasy little social companion. We ended up chatting later at the…after wedding party thing who’s name escapes me…reception? He finds socializing a difficult affair (I ended up in the corner with all the older gentlemen and occasionally a younger one cycling through to avoid social obligation) and appreciates the fact his daughter has never met a stranger. It makes it easier for him. I inquired about borrowing her for future awkward engagements. He politely laughed but was obviously distracted. I looked over to catch him staring at my hair.

“Your kid glossed my hair along with the lower half of her face. But it’s okay, you’ve got a smear of gloss along your cheek and into your beard there.”

I believe in equal humiliation.

Thanks, Eva. You were magical. Greasy, but magical.

 

I’m not cool enough for Apple…  

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I found myself in an Apple store waiting for my boss to have his phone looked at. This was after he’d cheerily announced we could walk down to the parking garage (the sun was approximately 8546816841 miles closer to the earth today and was singling out Nashville). I didn’t wear shoes meant for walking. These shoes are dress shoes. You’re meant to look like a dressy individual without very far to walk because you have extremely important meetings to attend. I attended zero meetings, important or otherwise. I also tromped down to the parking garage, maybe ¾ mile? I don’t do distances. It’s enough for me to break into a solid sweat. However far in kilameterwatts that is.

We then had to find someplace to park and the walk across a shorter distance to the Apple store. I have never been in one, but it was easy to pick it out. It was brightly lit with a wall of glass that had sectioned into multiple parts instead of just having a door. There was also a large screen opposite from the wall of glass partitions that had a trendy hipster-looking young lady doing some sort of seminar. She was extremely upbeat and happy. The closer we got, the more nervous I became.

We entered the non-door entranceway and immediately I was uncomfortable. The music was loud, there were a billion people all yelling at each other to be heard over the loud music. The seminar tutorial chick in the back was amplified from invisible speakers. A cute little boy was playing a game on one of the display phones which had the volume all the way up and he was shrieking in excitement. Everything was bright and loud and scary and very peopley.

We stood for an hour or more before a technician could check out the broken phone. In that time we moved around to avoid people at my behest multiple times. However, we are apparently people magnets. So I decided to just stare at everyone. So many types of hipsters. So many cool, hip, older folks. So many bad haircuts and facial piercings and tattoos and pants that I consider high waters but have apparently come back into vogue? We were so bored my boss actually approached a salesperson and invited him to do his song and dance about Apple watches.

Then a small, less handsome but much more tattooed Paul Rudd appeared and started working on the broken phone. I was thrilled. My back was unhappy and my feet were on fire. Just standing still was making me curse softly and steadily under my breath. Another 30 minutes or so, and we were on our way. I was very much over the tattooed cool people. These were not my tribe. My tribe has comfy seating, snacks, and fewer people. It was like a college coffee bar in a movie. Or….New Orleans in a movie. It smelled slightly better than New Orleans, but the same hippy bohemian vibe was present.

I prefer stinky New Orleans.

PS. I will miss the annual Mac & Cheese Festival in New Orleans this year. I am so beyond devastated, it’s delicious and fun and in the best city ever and I’m ready for next year. If you haven’t been, go. Trust me.

PPS. Go see the tree of life while you’re there.

I got home eventually and hobbled my way through a shower and down to water the plants that are doing their best to die in our late September heatwave. My pup went outside with me, as did two cats. She immediately plodded over to try and dig up cat poop (kitty cookies) and eat it. Since she’s mostly deaf, I had to move fast to stop her. My feet screamed. They’re weenies. I redirected her with very stern hand gestures and facial expressions. I started watering plants. Then my pup, old sweet geriatric pup, saw absolutely nothing and decided this was her moment to shine. I saw her go still, bunch her old pitiful muscles up, and launch. There was nothing to launch at, but she started running pretty well for an old pup. I tore after her but I did not run pretty well for any sort of pup. I am, in fact, extremely slow. I was also wearing flip flops that are too big and fall off easily. I knew she’d pay for running, her back end is so weak and I couldn’t let her hurt herself. So I ran faster. If you’ve ever watched penguins run, that’s what I imagine I looked like. I had to do an exaggerated stepping motion in order to not lose the flip flops. I needed the flip flops to have any chance of getting through the rocks in the yard. She was making good time. It took me forever to get close enough to grab her, and I was pretty sure we were both going to end up rolling down the embankment behind my house and just staying where we landed. It wasn’t a graceful stop, but we got stopped. And then we had to get back to the house, and my feet were just all sorts of pissed.

So I grabbed a banana, called it dinner, and came upstairs (so slowly she beat me to the top) so I could get in bed and not move again until I die. I am never going back to an Apple store, and I will need to get something to tie the pupster up with when I need to water. I’m too old for these adventures.

Knitting, Football, and Rescue

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Random Stuff from the past week and a pinch (pronounced peench by Papa Poopster):

  1. Football season is here! I love football. I have a billion teams at this point and have someone to cheer for or against almost every game. It’s my fave time of the year. Also, it suddenly becomes socially acceptable to eat chicken wings 24/7. I’m into wings. You may remember that. Sidenote: long term relationships are great and all, but you get to realize all the things your significant other did that were odd or noticeable but not particularly troubling when the relationship started but now fill you a soul-searing and unbearable rage. Yay, love! So, Mancandy has this thing where he tears his fingers apart fidgeting. Not his fingernails, his actual flesh. Fun fact, Papa Poopster does this too. I’m quickly working up from “huh, that’s familiar” to “DEAR LORD STOP OR YOU DIE”. But I digress. Whilst watching football it’s hard to block out the sound of Mancandy tearing his fingers apart. I can HEAR it. So. To keep ourselves from killing eachother we’ve started knitting. Yup. We’re officially old. So now I’m super excited about knitting and have the tiny beginnings of a very knobby, unfortunate-looking scarf I’m extremely excited about. This is completely normal. I’m sure of it. Also, Dak looked so good this week and the Cowboys are on fire! Also also, the refs are killing my Saints. Seriously. Uncool.
  2. Hobby stores are mildly scary. I suckered Mancandy and Minicandy to go to a craft store with me. I wanted the softest scarf stuff I could find. They probably wanted to smother me with fabric. The individuals who inhabited the store, ourselves not excluded, were an odd bunch. The store was extremely hot and humid, so everyone was slightly sweaty. There was an odd smell. There was a man arguing about a sewing machine and an older lady glaring at everyone around her. We got the heck out of there, but I’m not going back there. It was the beginning of a Stephen King book.
  3. I am able to access the security cameras of my most beloved rescue. Watching dogs sleep isn’t creepy, right? Even creepier, you can talk to them. I don’t, I feel like it’s asking for them to have serious anxiety disorders, but the best thing is you can hear. So I’m constantly popping in at odd hours to see if I can catch ghost activity. Don’t judge, I live a boring life. Today, my arm was sore from holding the knitting needle up (I’m that out of shape). So. I popped into the shelter cams to see what was up. One room, sleeping dog. Next room, sleeping dogs. Next room, washer and dryer and… DEAR GOD SOMETHING MOVED. I almost threw my phone. As it happens, it was someone walking in to do laundry. But, for a minute there, my blood pressure and stress responses were tested unexpectedly.
  4. I’m going to be traveling for work quite a bit in the next couple months and there is a place in Knoxville that’s been recommended as “The” place to go for chicken wings. I am beyond excited. Big Kahunas in Knoxville has a chicken wing festival of some sort every year and everything. I’m pumped. If anyone has been please let me know if I should temper my enthusiasm or go ahead and get stupid excited. I’m sure there will be work and stuff I’m supposed to do, but right now all I see is chicken wings.
  5. I ate a massive cookie from Cumbl Cookie in Murfreesboro (highly highly highly recommend) and now I want to puke. So I’m going to lay here in misery and wonder why I can’t lose weight. Have a lovely week people!

Fancy Pants That Fight Back

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Today is Thursday. It’s a workday. And Monday through Thursday I’m forced to dress like a girl. A professional business gal if you will. I decided I didn’t want to wear any of the clothes I had available, so I started digging into the back of the closet for the things I forget I own. I found a pair of grey pants. I don’t even remember getting them. They’re wide-legged with a wide waistband. That’s supposed to compliment a tall, not-skinny woman such as myself. They looked nice when I put them on and I got a bit excited. I checked them out combined with a blouse and vest. I looked like a professional! Hair in a bun and we’re ready to go rule the world of government.

I was proud of myself for finding a “new” pair of pants to wear. I was stupidly excited my pants match the rest of my outfit. I felt like an adult. And as I sat down in the car to leave, I suddenly felt like I’d made a mistake.

I’d forgotten why I’d shoved those pants in the back of the closet but it all came rushing back when I was in the car with no time left to go change and not much in the way of clean pants to change into. If you have any stomach that isn’t super flat or better yet, concave in toward your spine, when you sit you get a roll. I do not possess a super flat nor concave stomach. My roll exists and we grudgingly coexist. However, in these pants, my roll was restrained from becoming a roll by the wide and not at all flexible waistband.

I made a wheezy sound when the ability to breathe was taken from me. I squirmed and wiggled and adjusted until I finally ended up yanking the pants up to support my bra’s function and scrooching down in the seat so my roll ended up in the crotch of the pants (which, unlike the waistband, was generously oversized and proves clothes are made to fit something other than human bodies). I drove into work concerned about how the day would go.

I work in an office building. I sit in a cubicle. I get up and down a lot to print, scan, go to meetings, etc. Every single time I sat down I had to try to casually pull my pants up to my bra and relax my roll into my pants oversized crotch. It was an odd slumpy position to be forced into for a long period of time. And when I stood up the waistband of my pants was still doubling as a bra so I ended up with the crotch up at my belly button and the mother of all wedgies. I’d have to try and not in any obvious way pull them down from my ears and back into a normal pants position.

This occurred no less than 2039802937230948.0332 times. My stomach is angry. The pants are angry. I have no idea how to make those pants work. I also feel like my roll has PTSD.

I ended up laying back in my chair groaning and rubbing my stomach by the end of the day. I’m a classy, delicate flower.

As an aside, there is a mystery in the women’s restroom at work. There’s a little credenza type thing at work. I’m super angry that I didn’t take a picture when the oddity began. Someone placed several books on the bottom shelf of the credenza. I wasn’t sure why a library randomly appeared in the women’s restroom for an office building, but I didn’t pay really close attention for a bit. Then one caught my eye because the picture on the front was a stylized drawing of two individuals looking rather intimate for a drawing. It was not written in English, so I can’t know for sure, but I believe it was a rather bawdy romance novel. So, was someone leaving a library for their future bathroom breaks of longer duration? Was it meant as a “free to a good home” situation? It was perplexing. And now they’ve disappeared as suddenly as they appeared. So we’ll never know.

I’m so glad tomorrow is Friday. I’m going to allow my stomach free reign and not care a bit that it’s not flat. At least I won’t suffocate.

Swamp Monster Weekend

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Weekends are a fantastic thing now that I don’t work retail. This weekend has been exactly what I desperately needed.  I’m one of those people that needs alone time. I need to be able to retreat into my space like a hermit crab. One of the major adjustments when moving into Mancandy’s domain was adjusting to not having my own space and therefore, not being able to retreat anywhere. I wish I was someone who felt refreshed being around my family or my friends. While I do enjoy both of those situations, I need time to myself. I didn’t realize exactly how much I needed that until everyone left. A boy scout camp out weekend meant all the male Minicandies and Mancandy would go hang out in the woods and live as nature intended. This left me completely alone for two full days and Friday evening. I have soaked in the quiet. I took a nap (If you’re a light sleeper who lives with other humans you know how hard this can be to manage). I listened to a book on tape while working. I cleaned, and no one messed it up. I took a shower, I cleaned the shower, and I wandered around in my underwear (so I didn’t start immediately starts sweating as soon as I was out of the shower). I cooked nothing and ordered food from Doordash two nights in a row. What? Yes. Complete luxury. The Doordash dude is the only person I’ve seen or spoken to in two days. Just throw me my food, wave, and go on your way, sir. He got it. He may be my new best friend.

Random Things That Occurred This Weekend:

  1. The one thing I looked forward to and ordered with extreme enthusiasm was wings. I don’t know why as an adult rapidly approaching middle age I’ve become a dude in his 20’s, but wings are my fave. No one else in my house is as enthusiastic as I am, so we don’t do that often. I did my thing with the Doordash dude (his name is Richard and I adore him), sat down with my paper towel roll and drink, prepped what I wanted to watch on YouTube, and dug in. As I’m eating my very first wing (but because I’m a swamp monster I’m already completely covered in sauce) I hear that huuuuurk huuuuuurk HUUUUUURK sound of a cat preparing to puke. I scramble to grab my paper towel and set my wings aside. I’m wiping up my fingers and begging the cat not to when I watch her hurl right in front of me on the carpet. She then glares at me, flips me the bird, and saunters off. I grab paper towels to grab the evidence before the dog can eat it. Dogs are awesome but gross. As I’m grabbing up puke and watching the dog to make sure she doesn’t sneak a snack, she realizes there’s a better target on the couch. My beloved wings. She takes off in that direction faster than an old kid should be able to move. I find myself running across the room carrying my newly acquired gobs of puke carefully. Then I have a dilemma. Both hands are full of puke bombs. I try to squish the puke bombs into one hand and puke oozes out and plops on the carpet. Again. The dog eyes the puke, eyes the wings, and looks at me to see how I prioritize this situation. I’m cursing, but she’s mostly deaf and pretending to be fully deaf. Wings won out and as I grab them in my one free hand she dove for the puke. I tried to pivot and block her with my hip but I’m clumsy, overbalanced, and landed directly in the puke. It was still warm. Not exactly what I was going for. I slammed the takeout box of wings shut with my one clean hand, swoop up the paper towel roll, and grabbed the bag under the takeout box to stick the puke bombs (slightly deflated) into the bag. From there I was able to get my foot mostly clean, get the rest of the puke cleaned up, and wash my hands and foot in the kitchen sink like the true classy lady I am. I eventually got back to my cool but unmolested wings, and thoroughly enjoyed them, but I felt like that was all planned out by the animals and I’d somehow passed a test I wasn’t prepared for.
  2. I got a text from Papa Poopster that Little Poopster got his poop snake this weekend! She has a traditional name, but her name will remain Poop Snake to me. I’m still highly amused by this situation and look forward to seeing if Poopster will revert to pooping in his pants now that he’s gotten his prize. Her pic is the Featured Image at the top of this post. Stay tuned for updates.
  3. I got a video from Mancandy last week that didn’t come through until after my last post. It’s fantastic. If I knew how to upload it I would, but I haven’t a clue how and so I shall just describe its awesomeness. Just know, watching it is probably better. Mancandy had text me about Minicandy schedules. I responded, but in my typical classy fashion, I included the word poop. He responded letting me know that he was having his vehicle read my texts and it was funny to hear the car read that word. I was amused at the concept and sent texts such as “Giant flaming piles of poop” “Aggressively poop all the poops you can poop” “Will it say shit?” “What about damn” “Are the kids with you, I want to try more aggressive words but don’t want to scar them”. In response, he sent the video of the car reading the texts. It was probably the most fun I’ve had other than being left alone to do whatever I wanted. If anyone you know has a car that reads their texts, go wild. It’s fun.
  4. I hear the sounds of Mancandy and Minicandies returning OR a hoard invading the house. I should probably investigate. If I stop posting, the hoard got me. Make my eulogy funny.

Reasons I Should Probably Not be Left Alone…

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Sidenote: I wrote this a long while ago, but it amused me at the time and amuses me still. This is a prequel if you will, a time long before I met ManCandy. It’s bittersweet to remember so vividly a time before Dad was gone, but the event was funny nonetheless.  Ironically enough, I’m wearing the same yoga pants and glasses tonight. Enjoy!

I attempt to do stuff.  It’s a disaster.  I am surprised.  The cycle continues.

Allow me to explain.  I moved into a new place a couple months ago.  There was no slinky looking vent thingy for the back of the dryer.  Apparently, the moving monsters take mine every time I move.

So.  The padre and I get one from Lowe’s and have a long discussion about the particulars of attaching it.  We got a super long one.  Heavy-duty ass-kicking shiny slinky vent thingy.  We were proud of it.

Got back.  Now, just in case you are one of the fortunate who hasn’t had to actually visually see me….I’m not a small person.  Nothing pixie about me. Clumsy + fluffy = small space disasters.  BUT.  The dryer is in a corner IN a closet with a shelf right above it (say shoulder level on me) with the water heater tank on that.  And so I crawl back in there (not gracefully….more like a planned fall into a crevice) and Dad walks me through how to get the heavy-duty ass-kicking shiny slinky thingy on.  This involves a lot of him standing around saying “Put the thing on the other thing with the thing and turn the thing so it stays on dammit!!  This isn’t difficult!  What are you DOING!?”

I eventually differentiated between the “things” he was speaking of and got the damn thing on while contorted so that my fat ass didn’t knock the plug out of the wall and simultaneously tightening the “thingy” around the other “thingy” and attempting to live without air.  So, long story short, I get done, flop out like a fish on the bank of a pond, and listen to a lecture about needing to lose weight while I gasp for air and try not to kill people.

Fast forward to this week.  I notice my dryer isn’t really drying anything.  It’s more of a tumbler.  Which doesn’t really help anything.  So I have a flashback to Padre’s comments about the slinky thingy not needing to be too doubled back on itself or the air couldn’t get through right or…something.  And I have this flashback while I’m looking at the slinky thing that is doubled back on itself 987981623 times because we got the long one.

Sigh.

So.  I get the bright idea to cut the slinky thingy to a shorter length so that it wouldn’t bend.  It would just be a gentle curve.  Plus I’d be able to check for blockages better that way.  Right?  Genius.  So I get my girlie toolbox out (the padre apparently felt color coordination might improve my odds of not making a mess of things….silly darling little man) and keep my cell phone in case of an emergency.  I flop around till I land in the crevice again, and I hack the shit out of the shiny slinky thing.

I enjoy this part.  I also don’t remember slicing fingers up hurts.  So.  I did that some.  But, whatever, I got the hose cut to exactly the length I wanted.

And then it hit me.

The dryer had to come back farther to reach the new and improved short slinky thing.

I had nowhere to go.  I had a moment of total shock.  Then I tried out multiple combinations of curse words.  I started to haul the dryer back and tried out some more curse combinations.

I am now pressed between the dryer, the wall, and am basically standing on my head to reach the vent.  Might I also point out I’m not particularly flexible?  I fall over trying to do yoga…so it’s not my friend.  But I digress.

The “thingy” that sticks out of the dryer is supposed to fit inside the slinky thing.  Well.  When I hacked at the slinky thing it stopped being a perfect circle.  I had to hammer and wedge and beg and pray and scream in frustration for a good 10 minutes before I got the slinky thing on the dryer thing.

SUCCESS!!!  Oh I was excited.  It worked!!  Who cares if I can’t breathe!  I don’t need any help!

But then the next conundrum hit me.

How was I going to get out?

Remember.  I’m in a closet in the corner and the dryer is less than a foot from the wall and all of my Amazonian self is stuck back behind it.  And there’s a shelf RIGHT above me.  And a washer beside me.  And no Dad to help haul me out.  I was starting to take back the not needing help thought.

Now I’m going to paint you a picture.  I’m wearing loose yoga pants and still have my glasses on that don’t fit (I sat on them…several times….don’t judge me).

I decide to just go head first and kinda….dive out.  But when I “landed” I’m kind of beached across both machines.  My feet are tangled in the electric chord.  The back of the washer and dryer has the tall part for the knobs.  The dryers tall part is jabbing my crotch and rendering me unable to have children.  The corner of the washer is doing its best to remove my right boob.  But my feet are tangled, so I can’t get away.  No matter how I moved I was being molested/assaulted by machinery.

I manage to kick out of the cord and start to slide off the front of the machines.  ALMOST FREE!!  Until I caught one foot on the damn cord again trying to kick my way forward.  I’m now stuck from my shoulders and up hanging off the front of the machines, one foot flailing wildly, and one caught.

My glasses fell off.

I try out curses in other languages.

I notice the cell phone was flung across the room in my flailing about.

I just hang there for a bit contemplating my life.

I manage to get one arm back far enough to let me lift up a bit (muscles!!  I have muscles!! Whoda thunk!) and move over enough to get the trapped leg out.  I’m dizzy, and my pants are trying to fall down (while I’m upside down no less…quite an accomplishment in epic failuredom).  I can’t see anything, including my glasses.

I eventually just fall over.  Onto my face.  And lay there trying to avoid dog kisses.

I landed on my glasses.

Eff it.