Traveling Clothes

Okay, so. We will be traveling to Montana in late October to see my Mother become Ordained as a Deacon in the Episcopal Church. It’s a big deal. We are going to fly (of course) and I have been giving some thought as to what I am going to wear through the airports. Most specifically, my t-shirts. I’m thinking about making my own so as to brighten up the day of whatever TSA agent is lucky enough to get to deal with me. Some of the things I’m thinking of having printed on them:
“Was it good for you too??” (Thank you to Kathie Truitt for that one!!)
“If this won’t get me dinner will it at least get me a Venti Mocha??”
“You missed a spot”  
Last but not least…
“Call me!!”

TWH thinks I’m gonna spend a LOT of time in a little room being asked a bunch of questions.  I’m thinking “Challenge Accepted”.

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I Volunteered for This…

Okay, so. TWH has been working diligently on our “new” shower. I put the NEW in quotations because, God love TWH, he’s already done this giant shower once. We had a jetted tub in our bathroom that did it’s job well when we bought the house. I “Ooh’d & Ahh’d” & clapped my hands with glee when we were touring the house and saw the thing. Then I used it for the first time. I ran out of hot water when it was halfway full, and when I turned on the jets, some sort of nasty, oogy, STUFF came out of them because they hadn’t been properly maintained. Got everything cleaned up & working properly and tried again to bathe in my new jetted tub. I got it filled, got the jets running, climbed in….and discovered the damn thing was TINY!!  I mean, only-came-up-to-the-bottom-of-my-ribcage TINY!!  What a rip-off!!  Pissed doesn’t even begin to cover what I felt at being conned by a bathroom appliance/fixture.  So, I began using our equally tiny, plastic insert, camp-type shower and just dusting the tub weekly. Cursing them both the whole time. (The shower is so tiny, btw, that I have to put my knee in my chest in order to shave my legs).  One day, I’m stepping out of my TINY shower and look over at all the wasted real-estate where my useless tub is and think “We could TOTALLY make that a GIANT SHOWER!!”. I called TWH and he said what he always says “If that’s what you want Baby, I’ll make it happen”. (I LOVE that man!!) So the big assed shower was constructed.  We used it happily…until I broke it. I don’t mean a little broke either. I mean Wrenched-on-the-shower-head-so-hard-I-broke-a-pipe-in-the-wall-and-flooded-TWH’s-closet broke it. Sooooooooo…it had to be redone. Mostly. TWH went to work fixing what I broke and “fixing” things he said needed to be redone anyway.  Now the “New” shower is tiled and grouted. I volunteered for “Haze Removal”. Mostly to assuage my guilt over not doing anything else to help this project along. For those you who don’t know, haze removal consists of scrubbing the tile until all traces of grout are removed from them so you can seal everything. Not really a big deal. Not really a big job. EXCEPT, I chose a “natural” stone to tile my shower with. This means it has all these little nooks & crannies that are FULL OF GROUT and I have to get that shit out before we seal it or it’ll be in there FOREVER. Yeah, that’s an easy job…NOT!!  Now I’m in some scrubby work clothes, on my hands & knees in the shower, Cinderella style, scrubbing this tile until my damn arms feel like they’re about to fall off!!  I think TWH got the better end of the deal by doing all the other shit.  Maybe I didn’t volunteer for this after all. Maybe I was duped…  Sonofabitch!!

Side Note: Twelve MILLION wipe-downs later & the shower is haze-free. I still have to get all the crap outta the nooks & crannies though. That’s gonna have to wait until another day when my arms aren’t like spaghetti & my back isn’t in one GIANT knot.

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There’s Shit EVERYWHERE!!

Okay, so. As I’ve mentioned before, we’re kinda rural where I live. Along with the crazed bus driver who comes through whenever the hell she likes, we are also the dumping ground for other people’s unwanted pets. Pretty much everyone in my neighborhood has adopted an unwanted, abandoned dog or cat.That isn’t to say that they have all decided to keep them inside or on a leash. Oh NO. Most of them run rampant through the neighborhood sleeping in flowerbeds, on/under cars, on other people’s porches, and shitting wherever they please. I can’t tell you how many GIANT dog bombs I’ve come across while trotting the Crackhaid Dawg around the yard waiting for him to do his (tiny Dawg) “bidness”.  As I was coming up the driveway after our latest outing I looked under the carport and up the driveway and there was shit EVERYWHERE!!  The worst thing about this is that I know I can do nothing about it except clean it up and hope I can catch at least one of the four legged miscreants at it later so I can hopefully scare him off. That, or just start letting my Dawg make deposits in as many of the neighbor’s yards as possible as a petty form of retaliation.

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My Work Husband is Mentally Lazy

Okay, so. I work in a two-man shop. It’s just Troy (TWH has dubbed him my Work Husband) & I. Together. ALL DAY. I often tell Troy “It’s a good thing you’re cute!!”. This is not to say, or even imply that he’s stupid. He’s far from it. He’s a whiz with numbers, can remember all kinds of Boxing stats, is super-handy, and can tell you just about anything about any gun or car.  He’s just Mentally Lazy. For example, he actually asked the shop at large once “What day is Cinco De Mayo ON anyways??”. He mispronounces words regularly and WILL NOT bother to use the correct pronunciation after I tell him. He insists on pronouncing Sudoku “Zoodokoo” and I cannot even bring myself to eat in the local Chinese Restaurant because he so badly mangled the name. (Crouching Dragon = CROTCHING Dragon).  We watched LOST for all 7 seasons and by the 7th season I was so glad the damn show went off the air because I would have to watch the week’s episode, practically take notes, then explain the episode IN MINUTE DETAIL to Troy the next day.  He regularly referred to his Grandmother’s being Diabetic as her “Having the Sugar Diabetes”. I finally cured him of THIS particular phraseology by asking him if he categorized it that way so as to differentiate it from the BACON Diabetes. It worked.  Anyways, Troy likes to bring movies in the shop for us to watch when we’re slow. While I appreciate the effort, his taste in movies borders on horrifying. He picks based on title (if he’s heard of it), actors (usually their lesser, crappier works), or (I shit you not) the Cover Art. These are usually a lesser form of hell. Occasionally, we get a movie (like the one this week) that is well known but a TOTAL DUD. It’s plot is lackluster, the acting is mediocre, and I would love to do anything BUT watch it. Except Troy is engrossed and needs some stuff gone over for clarification. Part of me wanted to tell him “I’m not watching, I don’t know, and I don’t give a rat’s ass.” but that would have hurt his feelings and he would have sulked for the rest of the day. Part of me wanted to pull a theory or two out of my ass just to confuse him, but THAT would have hurt his feelings and he would have sulked for the rest of the day.  I couldn’t win for losing.  Mental Laziness is an actual affliction. I suffer from it daily.  Troy, however seems completely unaffected…

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I am NOT a Gracious Winner

Okay, so. Yesterday I posted on FB about my not being a gracious winner.  I am not. At all.  EVER. To be honest, I’m also a shitty loser but who isn’t.  When I get the spot underneath the ONLY tree around my workplace, I can be seen sitting in my Jeep with my arms raised above my head yelling “YES!!  Ha ha!!  Suck it BITCHES!!”. This is my victory cry.  I modify it slightly when I, say, beat my family’s collective asses at ANY game.  I usually stop at “YES!!  Ha ha!!  I won!!  BOO-YAH!!”  Then I do a Happy Dance while going “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh!!”  A-la Emperor’s New Groove.  My family hates playing games with me simply because this may occur. That, and I am the Keeper of Useless Knowledge and usually pick a game like Trivial Pursuit or Scattergories.  Yep, I like to give myself as many opportunities to be an Ungracious Winner as possible.  Trust me, it’s far better than seeing me lose…

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I Told You…

Okay, so.  We’re kinda rural where I live so The Boy takes the bus to school every day.  The following is what happened THIS particular morning.

Me: (To TB) Hey, you need to get your shoes on & get ready to go outside & wait for the bus.
TB: It’s only 7:08.  The bus doesn’t come until 7:30.  I still have, like, 10 whole minutes.
Me: Get your shoes on anyways.  It’s gonna take you until 7:15 to do that. (He’s kind of a slow-poke)

7:12 I hear a bus come by our house with a blue pickup truck riding it’s ass & honking like nobody’s business

Me: Son, I think that’s your bus
TB: Does it have *particular number* on it??
Me: Yeah, you can catch it on it’s second pass.  Oh, wait you can probably catch it now while the woman in the blue truck that’s parked behind it is cussing out the bus driver. You might wanna hurry though, it looks like she’s winding down (Yes, we live in the rural South, in a Parish known for two things: Meth & TEEF, & people WILL pull the bus over to cuss out the driver.  We live in a City with less Meth & TEEF & more good schools BTW)

TB takes off across the front yard & gets to the bus JUST AS IT’S BEGINNING TO PULL AWAY.  So he’s now RUNNING ALONGSIDE the bus and blue truck lady is yelling & cussing all over again until the bus driver noticed my Darling Boy Child and stopped, AGAIN, to let him on.

Guess what phrase he’s gonna hear when he gets home this afternoon??  You bet your ass!!  I’m petty like that…

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How I Got My Roomba

Okay, so.  In my last post I mentioned my Roomba (or my You Mother Fucker Roomba as I call it when I want to yank TWH’s chain).  Here goes…
Back in April, my Mother was driving down to Shreveport from Montana to attend her 50th High School Reunion.  On her way to Shreveport, she was coming HERE.  To my HOUSE.  For the first time EVER.   Of course, I went into Defcon 5 cleaning mode.  I had a pretty hefty list of things I wanted to get spiffy for my Mother’s visit.  I’m talking crap like power washing the house, cleaning the baseboards, doing the windows.  Heavy-duty spring cleaning here.  TWH dutifully pitched in and started on the kitchen while I started on the bathroom.  Now, my poor hubby obviously didn’t realize we were cleaning EVERYHTING that could ever get dirty, grimy, or dusty.  Once he realized that, his excitement (minimal to begin with) began to wane and the bitching began.  “How much do I have to do??” “Are we gonna be doing this all day??” “Not to harp on you or anything, (Always a precursor to a good ass riding, BTW) but I’ve had a really long week and I’d hoped to relax some today.  I didn’t realize you were going to clean to this extent and I don’t know if I wanna do all that”  Blah, blah, blah.  I listened quietly, while STILL cleaning (I had stuff to do, after all) until I couldn’t take any more.  I put down my sponge & cleaner, turned to my sweet, darling, Hubby, and uttered the following words “You MOTHER FUCKER”.  Now, any man worth anything KNOWS that these words are cause for two reactions. #1 a sphincter-puckering burst of fear because you have awoken the Screaming Banshee  & #2 a mental review of the list of Appropriate Suck Up Gifts because you are now obligated to buy one of these based on the size of the Hissy Fit that follows those three dreaded words.  Mine was a Roomba.  I had been begging for one of those For-Ever.  My Crackhaid Dawg sheds enough on a daily basis to create another Dawg & keeping up with the drifts of fur had become a second full-time job.  As we were preparing for bed the next day TWH says “By the way, I ordered you a present today”.  I was nice, and didn’t look too smug when I asked “Is it a Roomba??”   Hee hee hee.   So, there ya go. The story of how I got my (You Mother Fucker) Roomba.

Side Note: TWH SWEARS that is not why I got the Roomba.  I disagree since that’s how I relate the events in my head.  That’s my story & I’m sticking to it.  Besides, telling people he found it on woot.com and bought one to shut me up isn’t nearly as entertaining.

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No Son, You’re not supposed to work AROUND this!!

Okay, so. Those of you who’re FB friends (Pretty much ALL of you) have seen the pic I posted of the towels & Dawg blankets stacked on The Boy’s bathroom counter.  This is currently a two week old experiment in will-power to see which one of us caves first.  Odds are on me and you guys are probably right.  This growing stack is putting my OCD into overdrive and before things get too much farther along, I will either mention to The Boy-through gritted teeth-that when I place items on his counter, I’m not doing it for decorative purposes but as a signal that I expect him to PUT IT AWAY.  I do not nag, beg, cajole, or yell.  I prefer instead to use life experiences as a teaching tool.  Much easier on my nerves and infinitely much more effective.  Case in point:  Early in our relationship, TWH was a Sock Leaver. He left his socks wherever he happened to be sitting when he took them off.  For DAYS, if I let him.  Not to say that I am without any faults. I am a Shoe Leaver. I leave shoes in a pile by my back door & all over my bedroom. I have at least confined my mess to two spots.  Anyways, I began by picking up the discarded socks and taking them to the hamper and asking TWH to “Please try to pick up your socks, Honey”. I did this for YEARS.  One day, I came upon a pair of socks in the floor, AGAIN. I bent over to pick them up when I suddenly decided “Shit on this” and I took my “widdle foot” and KICKED THEM UNDER THE SOFA.  Yep, shoved them right on under there.  I kept doing this every time I found a pair. We had socks under the bed, under the sofa, hell, I think I even kicked a pair up under the China Cabinet once.  Eventually, (but before he really caught on) TWH began running low on socks.  “Baby, did you wash me some socks??” he would ask.  “I washed whatever was in the hamper” I would answer with absolute innocence.  One day, The Boy rolled a toy under our bed.  He crawled under to get it and yelled out “Why’s there a bunch of socks under here??”  TWH got down to take a look and Lo and Behold….Sock-a-Palooza.  Then the penny dropped.  TWH came to me, several pairs of socks in hand, and asked “Why are all my SOCKS under the BED?”  I looked at him and said “Oh, they’re not ALL under the bed. Some of them are under the sofa.”  I explained to him that I was sick to death of finding his socks all over the house, that I had asked him NUMEROUS TIMES to pick the damned things up & since that wasn’t working, I’d decided to try a new tactic.  He bitched & complained for awhile.  Mostly about having to find & retrieve all his socks. The lesson, however , was learned & now ALL socks go to the hamper.  Now, The Boy may be a tougher nut to crack, but crack him I will.  I think it may involve several tubes of cheap lipstick and a full-mirror note but he’s gonna get the message… No Son, you’re not supposed to work AROUND this!!

On a side note: my Shoe Leaving is addressed a couple of times a week when we pick up to run the Roomba. (Also known as the “You Mother Fucker” Roomba.)  Why it’s called that is a story for another day.

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I am Such a Secret Softie

While we were out running around today, we went into out local Petco to get some food & treats for the Crackhaid Dawg. They were having an adoption event for the local animal shelter. There was one female dog in there who looked at the families with such hope and longing it brought tears to my eyes. She looked like she’d once had a family and so desperately wanted to have one again. I actually cried the whole time we were in line.   As we were getting ready to leave, I spotted a donation bucket for the animal shelter.  “Wait!!” I said to TWH.  “There’s a donation bucket.  I wanna donate!!”  TWH gives me the change in his pocket which earned him a slightly less than scathing look.  “WHAT??” TWH asked.  “We are NOT just giving them pocket change!!” I declared.  Now, it turns out he’d actually dumped about $7 in change outta his pocket into The Boy’s cupped hands but it still didn’t seem like enough.  TWH sighed, opened his wallet, and pulled out an amount that I deemed worthy, and handed it to me.  It wasn’t nearly enough. It probably never is. I know these places operate on a shoestring budget. There’s never enough of ANYTHING to go around.  TWH says I’m supporting Puppy & Kitty welfare.  I like to think I’m supporting Love & Hope.  So for all my Potty Mouthed Snarkiness, I am a Secret Softie.  Do what you can for the Greater Good.  You’ll be glad you did.

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I Needs Me a Chicken….

So, thanks to another blogger, I am in dire need of a Giant Metal Chicken.  I will be 40 at the end of September & I have decided that’s what I want more than ANYTHING IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD.  Conveniently enough, there happens to be a store that sells just such items in the Old Downtown area where I live.  I KNOW, it’s totally Meant to Be.  Last night, TWH & I were sitting around talking & the subject of my Birthday Gift came up.  Actual conversation between myself & TWH:
TWH: What do you want for your birthday??
Me: A Giant Metal Chicken
TWH: No really, what do you want for your birthday??
Me: A. Giant. Metal. Chicken.  I am NOT playing around here…
TWH: (Makes face of either Disgust or Defeat) That’s REALLY what you want??
Me: YES!!  I have gone downtown & looked at them. I want the one with the giant blue head & the yellow wings. I’m gonna name it Gwenyth!!  It’s gonna be so freakin’ awesome!!
TWH: I can’t believe this….   Then what do you want for our Anniversary??
Me: They also have these Metal Winged Pigs…
TWH was so overcome with my Vision for our backyard & the sheer awesomeness of it that he had to leave the room…

I am SO getting me a Chicken!!

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