Okay, so. Right before Christmas, I encountered the Octogenarian Athlete. It was a horrible, eye searing event that left me speechless.
Today I saw him AGAIN!! His love of spandex is still abundant. Every time I see/talk about him all I can see is Eddie Murphy in The Nutty Professor when he first becomes thin and he’s out shopping and yelling “Spandex!! ALL SPANDEX!!”
What absolutely did me in was he was standing next to a table talking to a girl.
Who was seated.
At eye level with his “Package” as it was presented snugged in all it’s spandexy glory.
He does NOT wear underwear.
He was gently rocking back & forth.
A benign pelvic thrust, if you will.
Not blatantly obvious. Just slightly disturbing.
Especially if you’re sitting eye level with it.
The girl he was talking to was doing her full-on best to look him in the eye and JUST IN THE EYE.
I, however, could only look at the floor, the ceiling, ANYWHERE but at the O.A.
I obviously do not have the massive self control this young lady displayed.
I fall more along the lines of Austin Powers. “Moley, moley, moley!!”
I’m okay with that.
Of course, I don’t have some strange guy standing around with his dick in my face.
Okay, so. Right before Christmas, I encountered the Octogenarian Athlete. It was a horrible, eye searing event that left me speechless.
Okay, so. T & I are going to lunch. He usually drives because my driving scares the shit out of him. That, and he usually knows where in the hell he’s going. I am hopelessly Directionally Challenged.
Anyway, I go to get in T’s truck. I open the door, put my foot on the running board, AND DAMN NEAR SLIDE OFF.
Me: What in the hell did you do to your running boards??
T: I cleaned my truck yesterday.
Me: Did you OIL them or something??
T: I put Armor-All on all my black. (His words, Hand-to-God)
Me: So you DID oil your running boards.
T: They’re a little slick, I guess.
We arrive at out lunch destination. I grab a handful of napkins and wipe down the running board on my side of the truck. So I don’t die.
T: What the hell are you DOING??
Me: Wiping the oil off. You’re just gonna have to think of some other, less obvious way to kill me off.
Me: I know this is payback for the toilet paper roll last week. You’re gonna hafta try harder. Bastid.
T: Oh Jesus…
I’m relating this story to TWH on the way home. I told him it was a damn good thing I DIDN’T bust my ass because my last words to T, before I lost consciousness, would have been “You’re paying for this!!”. TWH said “No. Your last words would have been “You’re fucking paying for this!!”
I Love that man!!
Okay, so. I work with a man. it has its pitfalls. Like this, for example.
|Yes. It’s the new roll ON TOP of the old roll!!|
Okay, so. I was at lunch with TWH today when this teenage girl walks in with her Health Class/Sex Ed “Baby”. She was holding it all wonky-like. No real Mom could have EVER held her baby like that. I, of course, jump on Twitter and report “At lunch watching a teen girl fail the Mommy Test. Abysmally.” Followed by “It’s like a horror show you can’t NOT watch”. I didn’t Tweet any follow-up information. Thus prompting some of my FB friends to respond with a mixture of horror & concern.
In order to lay everyone’s fears to rest here’s what happened:
I’m sitting in a booth at lunch. It was a banquette seat and the women next to me had piled all their shit right where I needed to slide in to my spot. I totally rubbed my ass all over their purses. I say it’s their fault for not moving it and will maintain that opinion until I DIE.
I’m chatting with TWH & look up to see a VERY young mom walking in with a baby. First I was prepared to hate her because the baby was TINY and so was she. Then I noticed she was carrying her baby in the weirdest & most unsafe manner I’d ever seen. THEN I noticed the baby was plastic. It was a Sex Ed “Baby”!! Upon arriving at her table the “Mommy” plunks her “Baby” down on the table and sticks a “Bottle” in it’s mouth while she whipped out her phone and began texting. Probably about the crazy woman that was staring at her and trying to take her picture surreptitiously over the booth behind her.
No, I didn’t get the picture. Dammit.
I can only guess that this girl is gonna get a crappy grade on this project.
I also hope she has no immediate plans for procreation.
Like I said in response to my friend Stacey O. “If that “Baby” had been the raw egg WE got in High School, it’d have been an omelet by now”.
Poor little plastic “Baby”. She’s gonna grow up to be a Methhead/Hooker Barbie because of her shitty infancy.
Ah, yes. Springtime. When the days are longer. I can play in the flowerbeds when I get home. I listen to children riding their bikes & neighbors mowing their lawns before dinner.
And the drunken bitch down the street screaming profanity at her children.
I love springtime.
Okay, so. TWH & I are originally from this tiiiiiiiiinnnnyyyy little town in north Louisiana. This town is dry. I shit you not. After I have no idea how many years of hard fought council meetings and such, the Pizza places were finally allowed to serve BEER. Yep we’re progressive as hell here in the Bible Belt.
My hometown being dry led to the existence of a small town (I think it was ACTUALLY a village) called Dixie Inn. Dixie Inn was a red light, 4 liquor stores, and a Hamburger Happiness when we were growing up.(It’s that and a couple of restaurants now) It’s just outside the city limits and it’s sole purpose is to make sure the citizens of my small town can get liquored up at will. Many a high school weekend began with us pooling our money and driving out to Dixie Inn to procure the finest Boones Farm and Budweiser had to offer.
When we went back to our hometown for Easter a few weeks ago, I took the opportunity to meet up with a girlfriend I hadn’t seen since high school. We agreed to meet at a Mexican restaurant there in D.I. TWH & I got there early. (Side note: TWH was there mostly because his folks sold their house in town and moved out to their place on the Lake Claiborne which is 40 minutes or better from anywhere and I have no idea how to get to or from there. In another 5 years or so, I may be able to do it on my own but it’s still new and I’d wind up in Arkansas if I tried to make the trip myself) Anyways, we went in & got a table. We decided to have a drink while we waited. Our server came by and we both ordered a Top Shelf Margarita on the Rocks. And a water. Ya gotta stay hydrated. Our server turned to go then paused. She turned around and asked “Top Shelf… You mean Patron right??”. We said yes, indeed, that’s what we meant by Top Shelf and server girl very nearly SKIPPED off to the bar. I asked TWH “Is it just me or does Server Chickie seem a little extra excited about our drink order?”. TWH said he figured they’d probably had that bottle of Patron for YEARS and they were gonna have to dust it off and break the seal on it to make our drinks. I’m surprised there wasn’t a band.
P.S. TWH says that if I keep blogging/tweeting about drinking that people are gonna be surprised when they meet me & I’m sober.
P.P.S. I argued that, conversely, if they ever meet me and I’m shitfaced they’ll think it’s par for the course.
It’s kind of a win-win don’t ya think??
Okay, so. I just read a guest post over at Yeah. Good Times. that reminded me of my Grandmother’s funeral.
Part of my snark comes from my less than stellar childhood. My Dad was basically a selfish dick and my Mom did what she could but she had her own baggage to carry so we foundered along as best we could but the cracks were HUGE.
Anyways, about 7 years ago, my MeeMaw passed away. (My people are from East Texas. MeeMaws are real, not just a product of Chuck Lorre’s Imagination.) TWH & I loaded up the kids and drove to Texas for the funeral. I think it was Texas. I’m the worst passenger EV-ER.
We were standing around at the pre-funeral, socially awkward, thingie where I was completely overwhelmed by seeing family I hadn’t seen in close to 20 years when my wayward father comes up to us with a tall blonde woman in tow. He had left my stepmother about a year or so before (after 17 years) and moved off to Ohio or somedamnwhere. We make our niceties and introductions and then it happened…
Tall blonde woman looks at TB and exclaims “Oh my Gosh!! Look how big you’ve gotten!! I remember seeing pictures of you when you were BORN!!” Did I mention TB was SIX?? What. The. Motherfucking. Hell?!?! I just stood there gaping and trying to do the simple math. The penny dropped for TWH far sooner than it did for me. This wonderful man put his hand in the small of my back, guided me away, and said to That Man and his Tramp, “We have to go over here, now” while giving That Man a Death Glare. The rest of the funeral was a blur. I remember standing in a corner with TWH in front of me telling me to calm down as I gasped for air like I’d been sucker punched. I remember making small talk with relatives I adored and had missed terribly. I remember weeping for both the loss of my MeeMaw and my own hurt and confusion during the service. I remember the graveside service was hot & sunny. I remember practically running for the car after it was all over in an attempt to get away from That Man. I had no words. I had too many words. Most of them profane. I couldn’t talk to him.
I could, however, talk to my Mom. I called her sputtering and babbling. She told me something that didn’t really come as a surprise. “Honey, she’s been around your whole life. She’s not new. She’s just new to you.”
Oh. Uuuuuhhhhh… Well HELL!!
I tell this story, aloud, to people sometimes. I tell it with humor. Sort of a “You know you’re at a Redneck Funeral when…” kind of thing. I can laugh at it now. I could laugh at it just a few weeks after it happened.
Maybe that’s my superpower. Being able to laugh at things. Maybe I’m just more in need of therapy than I think.
Who the fuck knows??
However, after reading Elder Daughter’s post. I know things could have been so much worse.
Okay, so. I work in the Public Service Industry. I cut hair in a small, 2 person shop. Our main clientele are Law Enforcement & Military. I learned to cut hair on a Marine Corps base so obviously, these kind of haircuts are right up my alley.
Occasionally, we’ll get someone in who is, well, a Complete Asshole. You know the type. Someone who, for whatever reason, has deemed themselves “above” just about everyone else. They’re overly educated. They have money. They’re really, really good looking (and have yet to discover there’s more to life than being that). Whatever. They’re a jerk of the highest order.
We have one such client. He’s an officer in the military. He walks in, grabs a bunch of magazines (or half the paper, whether there’s a full shop or not) sits in the chair and makes it abundantly clear that he is in no way, shape, or form going to hold a conversation with you.
The following is my letter to this guy and ALL of his ilk.
Dear Colossal Asshole,
While we appreciate your business and whatever business you’ve sent our way over the years, you do not have to be such a Total Dick.
I can assure you that neither T or I are under-educated morons who cut hair simply because we were too lazy or stupid to find other means of employment.
As a matter of fact, I am relatively certain that if you ever bothered to actually TALK to one of us instead of suffering what you perceive to be our blatant stupidity in silence, you might find out that we both have higher than average IQ’s and can talk about a wide range of subjects.
I am truly sorry you have to suffer the Human Race daily and that it’s such an obvious burden. I am acutely aware of the jackassery and dumbfuckery that people commit daily.
I am a barber.
I have to see Fuckwads like you.
Unlike you, I choose not to let the bastards get me down.
Perhaps you could start slowly. Be nice to the people who do shit for you.
It may change your life.
OR keep being an Asshole.
Okay, so. I may (or may not) have said before that my general approach to child rearing is “Raising My Kids With Love & Sarcasm”. My children, obviously, have learned their lessons well.
Take for example THIS conversation I had in the car earlier. Part of it was me on the phone with TWH. Part of it was TB, who was in the car with me.
Me: Hey Baby!! Are you almost home??
(TWH has been away on business for a few days)
TWH: Leaving the airport now. What’re you doing??
Me: Just dropped off the Dawgs at the groomers for the weekend. You’re coming home to a Dawg-free house.
TB: So what?? You’re leaving too??
Me: What the hell?? No. You. Didn’t!! (To TWH on phone) Your son just called me a DOG!!
TB: No I didn’t!! I… Uh… Just meant… I Love You?? (As he leans over to try to hug my arm)
Me: Get. Off. Me.
TWH: Let me let you go. You and TB obviously have some things to discuss.
Me: You just don’t want to be a witness.
TWH: And THAT
Yeah. Remember a couple of weeks ago when I posted all gushy-like about my Little Boy growing up and becoming a Young Man??
He’s a Cretin.
Okay, so. I’ve mentioned before that I work in a Barber Shop. I see Male People all day EVERY DAY. I see these super-cute, meticulously dressed guys come in the shop with THE nastiest feet EV-ER!!
Really Fellas!?! You go to the gym. You shop all A&F, Hollister, whatever. You have those stupid looking white Oakleys. Aaaaannnnnddddd… you have nasty, un-groomed, Sasquatch feet. I’m amazed you don’t click on the tile when you walk. Did you think no one would notice your flip-flop clad feet were crusty, hairy, and disgusting??
There’s no shame in a pedicure guys. None. At. All.
Consider it a public service if it makes you feel better.
It’ll keep ME from throwing up in my mouth ALL. Damn. Summer.