Is It Bad When…

Okay, so.  TWH & I are home this morning.  Since we’re both home, we’re trying to take care of some of the “During the Day” kind of stuff that we can’t normally attend to.  Setting up Dr. appointments, & things. One of those things is me calling to book rooms for The Parade.  I know September SOUNDS early to be booking something that happens at the end of March, but trust me, I’m WAY behind on this.

Anyway, I need the rewards number for the Hilton, which TWH has.  I’m loading the dishwasher while TWH fiddles with his computer.  This is the conversation that happened:

TWH: What else did you need to do this morning??

Me: I need to call the Hilton.  I need the reward card number.

TWH: Okay, that’s on a card in my wallet.

He’s still fiddling on his computer.

TWH: (Blurts out random number)

Me: (Grabs pen & paper & jots down random number)  Is that the reward card number??

TWH:  What??

Me: That number you just blurted out, is that thr reward card number??

TWH:  No, THAT number is on a CARD in my WAL-LET.

Me: Well, I didn’t know!! I thought you’d…..  Oh. My. God.

TWH:  What??  (eyeballing me suspiciously)

Me:  We sound like your parents.

TWH: YOU sound like my parents. I sound like ME.

Me: Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.

I know people say that as an adult, you begin to sound like your parents (in my case my Mom & Step-Mom) but is it bad when you begin sounding like someone ELSE’S parents??
In this case, I’m sure I could do worse.

(Note: TWH’s parents have been married for 38 years & love each other fiercely but if you were to over hear a conversation they were having, and didn’t know this, you’d SWEAR they were either headed for divorce court or needed to head for divorce court.  I struggled with the personal anxiety this caused me, as a child of divorced parents, for YEARS when TWH & I first got together before TWH assured me it was just their way.  If you sit back and observe those two, you can see the love and respect they have for each other in the small things they do for each other.   TWH’s parents are a  prime example of actions, not words.)

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Stepping Into the Unknown

Okay, so. Next month is the first ever Aiming Low Non-Conference and I’m going. ALONE.  I can’t think of the last time I’ve done something like this.  Wait….  It was…. NEVER!!  I NEVER do stuff like this ALONE.  I usually drag someone along with me because I like having a built-in person that I know. Someone to talk to.  For an Introvert like me, getting on a plane to go someplace full of people I don’t know is so far out of my comfort zone, I can’t even begin to imagine I can see it from where I’m sitting.  

I was on the phone with TWH earlier confiding how the thought of this actually makes my stomach hurt a little.  I’m kind of a dork y’all.  Okay, I’m a really big dork y’all.  I’ve said before that I suck at small talk. I’m also the queen of the Random, Ill-Timed, Inappropriate Thing To Say.   I am so afraid that I’ll be the chubby loser in the weird looking clothes sitting in a corner just waiting for someone to talk to me because I’m damn near incapable of starting a conversation on my own.  Sort of like High School when I was the really skinny, gangly, bespectacled, buck toothed loser in the weird clothes sitting in a corner waiting for someone to talk to me.  Because I was incapable of starting a conversation on my own then too.
If you’re going to Non-Con and you see me sitting around looking a overwhelmed and maybe about to cry, bring me a Vodka & Cranberry & say “Hi”. Once the ice is broken, I can take it from there.  
The first step is always the hardest.

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And So It Begins (OR My Dowwnward Spiral Into Geezerdom)

Okay, so.  I’m going to be 41 on Sunday.  My eyesight is shit, my joints are starting to ache, and underneath all this color, my hair is mostly white.

And yesterday, I saw my first “Specialist”.  I realize I’ve seen specialists before. My Gynecologist, the doctor who reconstructed my ACL, those are specialists I sought out of necessity.  This is the first specialist I’ve sought out because of an intermittent problem.  Not something immediate, but maybe becoming a bigger problem.

Yesterday, I saw a Urologist.

Yep, it seems that some of my parts are starting to rebel.  Or, as the nice Doctor put it, “These things happen as you get older. And I hate to tell you, they’re only going to get worse.”  He was just a little ray of fucking sunshine, that one.  Also, he DIDN’T hate to tell me. He had a big ol’ shit eating grin on his face when he said that.

He basically informed me that because I was “Pre-Menopausal” (lying Bastid) I would have more & more difficulties of the UTI kind and that unless I did my exercises that the two, count ’em TWO full-bladder-sneezed-on-my-way-to-the-bathroom incidents that necessitated a wardrobe change would also happen more frequently.  Fan-Freaking-TASTIC!!

THEN he said the thing that I ALMOST could have kicked his ass over: “Yeah, you ladies have it really rough as you get older with all your parts. That’s just proof positive to me that God is a Man”.  Really Mr. Doctor Man??  No words of comfort, no magical pill, just “Yep, you’re screwed, you’re gonna get even more screwed (but not in the good, fun way), aaaaaaannnnnnnddddd I’m gonna use this so solidify in my mind that I’m genetically the more superior of the species”

Rotten Braggart Asshole.

I go back to see him in 6 months.

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I Just Want My Damn Shoes

Okay, so.  As I’ve mentioned before, I go to Jackson, Mississippi every March to Participate in the FUN-raising weekend known as The Sweet Potato Queens Zippity Doo Dah Parade.  While it’s only ONE weekend, I shop for it all year.  It could almost qualify as a second job.

Last week I ordered THESE:

These are my new Big Hat Luncheon shoes.  I ordered them from an online store called Starlets & Harlots. They are my go-to store for SPQ weekend outfits & accessories.

When the Postal Worker, a woman, delivered my package today, I had to sign for my shoes. As I was signing the slip, she looks at the box & says “Starlets & Harlots. You getting ready for Halloween??”.  I coolly responded “No, when I’m not painting cabinets in yoga pants and a ball cap, I dress like a tramp. These are for your average Tuesday.”  She stammered “Uhhh….Oh….Okay….” as I closed the door in her face.
Nosy bitch. That’ll teach her to question ME about the origins of my deliveries.  Or give her something to gossip about. Whatever.

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Ch ch ch Changes

Okay, so.  T hired a new guy to work in the shop.  I don’t know that I’m entirely thrilled.  I KNOW that I should give the guy a chance.  I just don’t know that I wanna.  My first impression of him was that he’s kind of a kiss-ass with a sob story. I have zero patience for either.  (Yes, I realize I do my share of bitching, but I am NOT a whiner)  Also, I like MY space and after nearly 14 years, I consider the entire shop to be MY space.  I’d piss all over stuff if I knew it would effectively mark my territory.

I’m effectively unsettled.  I am unsure of how this will change the shop dynamic. The shop dynamic being me acting like a pseudo-bratty-know-it-all-lovable-scamp-with-a-mouth-like-a-trucker and T sometimes playing along, sometimes scolding me, and sometimes just staring in slack-jawed wonderment at my overflowing awesome.  You see where the new guy’s gonna fit in??  Me neither.

TWH suggested I walk up to him, punch him, and tell him “Now you know!!” and walk off, prison style.  I may just unleash my inner Bon Qui Qui.  We’ll hafta wait and see.

If I come back tomorrow and tell you all I’m unemployed, you’ll know it ended badly for EVERYBODY.

P.S.  Speaking of coming back tomorrow, go check out my guest post on The Family Pants.  Mama Pants is doing a guest posting series called Fancy Friday.  We’re getting our Fancy back & we’re sharing how we’re doing it!!  Stop by and tell her what makes you feel Fancy!!

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Yep. I’m THAT Mom.

Okay, so. I was just looking at my FB feed and I saw where my friend Marti posted the harrowing total she shelled out for school supplies for her 2 kids.  In the comment section, someone mentioned all the “Community” supplies you have to buy these days.  Wipes, I get. Kleenex, I get. Germ-X I will supply for the classroom by the GALLON.  The classroom is gonna go through those in no time flat and they’re not cheap.  I’ll happily send some around the first of the year just to help teachers replenish. God knows they have to buy enough crap for their classrooms out of their own pockets.  I have no problem helping with those expenses.

Having said that, when you ask me to buy 3 blue pocket folders, 3 red pocket folders, and 3 purple pocket folders and NOT put my kids mane on ANY of them??  I’m just gonna have to ignore your request, take my fattie Sharpie marker, and write TB’s name right smack in the MIDDLE of every damn folder. I write it in the middle so the teacher can’t cover his name with a label with some other kids name.  I’m sorry, but I bought my kid the GOOD, will-hold-up-all-year-a-dollar-a-pop folders. Why in the HELL would I want to send those to school just so they can go in the “Community” pile so some other kid can walk around with them and my kid can come home with the fall-apart-in-a-week-bought-for-a-quarter folders??  Not gonna happen.  Sorry Teachers.  I bought the awesome folders. My kid’s gonna GET the awesome folders.

I’ll buy some Ziploc bags to make up for it. M’kay??

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