Right Place, Wrong Time.

I truly believe that there are little “Humor Angels” flying around me just so I can experience it, marinade in it, let it age a little, then eventually write about it.  I enjoy a good laugh.  I enjoy a sense of humor.  I quite enjoy mocking myself.  And as of late, I enjoy a good ol’ fashioned “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” moment. 

No one person is perfect.  I’m definitely not.  I’ve had my share of embarrassing stories, frustrating moments, foot in mouth disease as well as just an over all bad day.  It happens.  

But what I experienced this week was something that just doesn’t happen.  It doesn’t.  Or at least I thought it only happened to other people and I just see, hear or read about it. 

Once you get past my hard crunchy shell, I’m actually a sweetheart.  Stop laughing.  I am.  I’m sympathetic, compassionate, will tread through hell or high water to protect the ones I care about, and honestly, I’m a crybaby titty mouth. 

I get embarrassed watching programs, (ha! I said “programs” what am I 80?) where the characters say or do something completely humiliating.  I blush.  I get nervous.  I actually cover my face with my fingers split so I cannot watch but watch.  I get shy when I witness someone else’s discomfiture.  I do.  Inside I’m saying “Oooohhhhmygosh! That poor person!” but on the outside my face is red and my armpits itch.  Random, I know.

Allow me to paint this picture for you, so you can engulf yourself into my world of “THAT. JUST. HAPPENED.”

Chevron, a local convenient store (slash) gas station where I live.  Unless I’m a complete nimrod and don’t realize they are a National Chain – just go with me here. 

I’m in a hurry because my ex is on his way to drop my son off.  I’m in line anxiously swaying back and forth.  It’s close to lunchtime so there are a few people in front, and in back picking up their all-American lunch of Snickers and a 40oz soda pop. 

I’m third in line.  In front of me is a gal a few inches shorter than me and about a buck sixty.  I don’t see her face.  She’s sporting a ponytail with cute little wisps of hair.  Her tank top is fairly loose and her spray-painted on knee-length sweats are a light gray.  Cute.  But tight. 

A lady and her friend are behind me, both are chatting it up about “So and So at their work”.  I don’t assess their attire – trust me, I was in cut off sweat shorts and a halter-top because I was playing in dirt.  There, I said it.  I’m not a fashionista. 

The cash register is ringing, door chime is chiming, coolers opening and shutting, people bs’ing, TV over the register is displaying CNN and there were a couple of construction workers bickering over the burrito display. 

Then this noise appears out of nowhere. 

PPPFHFFBBBBLLLFPHDFFFBBBBPPPLLLLLRRRREEEEEEET.

**cricket, cricket, cricket**

I stopped swaying.  The atmospheric noise simmered down a bit and everything was kind of in slow motion.  I looked around to see if I was the only one that heard that. 

What was that?  I couldn’t figure it out.  Then it came.  The aroma filtered through the gap between the person in front of me and myself and lingered like a freshly blown out candle.  

Oh God!  It burns!  I cough.  Then I hold my breath – kind of.  Then I start backing up.  Make it stop!  This putrid smell of dead fish and peanut butter or something maybe ketchup, was floating around me.  My throat itches!  I cough again.  I. CAN. TASTE. IT! 

**filter’s broken**

“Oh for F*cks sake!”  Fell out of my mouth.  I can’t breathe.  I hold the cash up to my nose so I could take in the smell of a million grubby fingers over the potpourri of wrong and foul and road kill.

I catch a glimpse of the cashier glaring at me.  What? What did I do?  Apparently we need to switch spots so he can bask in the stench for a bit. 

I looked down at the girl in front of me and I – well I wish I had my camera with me because there is no way, on this earth, that anyone would believe me if I swore it on a Bible; but there was a brown spot on her light gray sweat pants that I know wasn’t there before.  I don’t know what possessed me to glance down.  I honestly have no excuse.  I really don’t.  Aside from the weird fact that I did. 

Yep.  That about sums up my expression.

At this point the conversation in my head went something like this:

Me: Did she just shart?

Me: OMIGOD, she did!

Me: Wait.  Was that spot there before?

Me:  Nope.  Pretty sure it wasn’t.

Me:  It’s wet.  Ok, gonna throw up.

I looked up – again, checking to see if anyone was seeing what I was seeing and by this time things have gone back to fairly normal.  Then I looked down again. Yep, still there.

Mind you, the gal in front of me is at the register by this time.  Pays for her goodies, is very pleasant, chats it up a bit to the cashier and carries on through her purchase as if pooping herself is an everyday normal activity that partakes in her home.  “Oh, I’m good, I just shit myself, but that’s ok, I have like 10 more of these sweats at home.  I tell you this material just isn’t as absorbent as they used to be.”  Yeah, totally imagined her saying that.

My turn.  I step up the counter and my little talking out of place moment that happened earlier left a bad taste in Grumpy Cashier’s mouth.  I’m sure he wasn’t aware of the 30-second torture that felt like 3 days that I just endured. 

“I need two packs of Marlboro Ultra Light 72’s please – and a bottle of fresh air.”  He cocks his head sideways.  Then I let go.  “Did you not smell that? Did you not see that?” 

Grumpy: What?

Me:  That lady that was in front of me just shit herself.

Gal behind me: Oh my God! Thank God we weren’t the only ones who smelled that.

Me:  Smelled it? I tasted it.  Oh my god.  I’m sorry.  That’s embarrassing.

Grumpy:  I didn’t smell it.  She was nice. 

**awkward**

Two men at corndog/burrito/chorizo/deep fried .49 food cabinet:  (chuckle, chuckle) I don’t care who you are, that’s sexy.

At this point I’m crying.  It wasn’t funny.  Or sexy. Trust me. I was a little irritated that that just happened and I could not figure out why, if you feel something coming on, you can’t excuse yourself to the restroom.  Or do what I would do and just bail.  At what point do you stand in line (with the odds pretty much not being in your favor that what you are about to release will be messy) and just let it go? 

I get that you are taking a chance.  The Russian roulette of farting.  Will it be silent? Will it be loud?  “Oh well, that’s a chance I guess I’ll have to take. Six of one half a dozen of another, right?”  How do you arrive at such a decision?  And did you even factor in that it wouldn’t be just air?  Maybe, just maybe it would make a poopy stain? 

For the love.

I told the two women behind me to go ahead because I could not see from the tears I had in my eyes.

The transition from repulsed to uncontrollable hysteria, came from the fact that (after assessing the situation that really only took place in under 3 minutes) this all reminded me of a blog story I read a while back.  I don’t find this funny.  I was actually pissed and embarrassed for the girl.  However – my bloggy friend wrote about a similar accident that happened to her back when she lived in Kansas.

Except the lady that did it – admitted it. 

When I read the story, I couldn’t believe that would actually happen.  So when it came time for me to pay for my smokes, I couldn’t.  I was literally crying from the irony that not only did I call bullshit on her story (because that’s stuff you see in movies – not real life) but the little humor angels I pissed off with my doubt, showered me with some good ol’ fashioned down home bathroom humor.

I’m damaged.  My weak stomach cannot handle foulness.  It can’t.  Not only do I feel horrible for the woman who pooped, and apparently didn’t care – I feel bad that I laughed so hard I cried. 

High Blood Pressure and Suburbans

If you know me - I mean r-e-a-l-l-y know me, then you are aware of my common moments of diarrhea of the mouth that I tend to get when I bare witness to acts of complete stupidity.  Especially while driving.  

I was that girl when I was 17, thinking I was pretty hot shit in my 88’ Chevy Beretta GT.  I totally owned the road. After all, my dashboard thingy ma-jigger was digital.  I was pretty badass, I’m not gonna lie.  People were jealous. 

(click picture to enlarge)

I was brought back to the reality of the dangers lurking on the road when my girlfriend and I decided to throw ourselves through the windshield of her Ford P.O.S. Wagon with the electronic seatbelts that didn’t work.  You know? The ones that move on their own up and down the side of the car as if you are completely unable and too incompetent to ‘click’ a silver buckle into a plastic thingy?   

Anyhow, some dumbass bimbo driving a Suburban* waived us out. 

It was pouring down rain and we were trying to turn left out of a grocery store parking lot because, well, we were late for my ex-mother in law’s birthday and quite frankly it was going to be a bad night for all involved if we didn’t arrive bearing gifts.  After all, nothing says “Happy Birthday” like grocery store boxed wine and a 99-cent bag of chocolates.

We were car dancing to Barbie Girl, smoking, laughing and carrying on when my girlfriend gassed it out of the parking lot.  I looked right (like a good backseat driver should) and saw bright yellow headlights way too close for my comfort.  I politely told my friend to hurry so we didn’t wreck by saying, “FUCK! CAR! GO GO GO!”  At that moment I flipped my head left and saw another car, in much closer proximity. 

It was too late.  The last thing I saw was headlights.  The first thing I saw after balling up into the fetal position and yelling out, “OOOOHHHH SSSHHHIIIITTTTTT!” was some random woman in my face asking if I was ‘Okay’. 

Yes, as a matter of fact I was just thinking to myself, “Hey, can we please play kissyface with a small car? I so love the feel of the rain on my ass whilst wedged in a windshield”. 

I couldn’t feel my legs and my friend was out in the middle of the street walking around screaming for a broom because she was appalled at the mess she made.

**Obvious signs of discombobulation

We had hit an elderly couple and they suffered minor injuries due to their seatbelts not being electronic.  The firemen and police officers escorted my friend back to her car while I was being un-wedged.  Chaos as we know it had begun. 

I was placed on a board with my head strapped down by tape and I laid there helplessly while I had my skirt cut off of me in the middle of one of the busiest streets in my town.  I do vaguely remember my friend passing out in the ambulance ride to the hospital.  She wasn’t strapped down. 

In the end, I only suffered a concussion and some nerve damage on the legs, and my friend had a pretty nasty concussion herself and a totaled car. 

THIS. IS. WHY. I. LOATHE. DRIVING. 

That day scarred me.  It was over 10 years ago and I still cannot turn left out of a parking lot into on-coming traffic.  I have a fear of low (to the ground), small cars and I freak out whenever I get cut off, followed too closely or have any sort of “close encounter” with inattentive drivers.

My friend? You ask?  Oh she isn’t timid.  As a matter of fact, she scares me the most.  I actually had to backtrack the other day to find my female anatomy that was left in the street in lieu of practically defecating myself when she nearly side-swiped the poor Grandpa that was doing 50 on a highway. 

I saw him.  Driving.  Fast.  We were stopped.  (At this juncture, you are supposed to ‘yield’ to oncoming traffic.  I didn’t make that up.  It’s the law here.  To ALL drivers. Not just female ones.)

My friend goes. 

Then says, “Oopsy, I didn’t see him.”  Really?  You didn’t see the bright red truck doing mach 10 down the highway?  How could you not see him?  Not only did I see him but also managed to pucker so tight I left a pinch mark on the passengers seat. 

I’m the first person to defend a woman.  Ask anyone.  However, it has come to my conclusion that in the state I live in, women can’t drive.  Not only can they not drive, they shouldn’t be allowed to drive anything bigger than a slugbug until they’ve had proper training or at least possess the ability to control the brake, gas and steering wheel in a kosher manner while not applying makeup, making phone calls, texting or anything that involves a mirror or the alphabet. 

**Segue to what this post is really about**

Lowes parking lot. 

Mr. Fricken Awesome and I were there again to purchase more accessories for our yard.  Beings it was a Friday night and the parking lot was virtually empty, he decided to swing the truck around so the tail end was facing the aisle of the parking spot (rather than pulling straight forward). 

(Please see exhibit below to fully appreciate and understand my complete frustration and case in point on why women should not drive without proper training)

Directly across from us there were 4 handicap parking spots separated by very large you’d have to be blind to not see them – yellow poles.  Between the last pole and the sidewalk there was a small gap big enough for; A) a bicycle, B) a wheelchair or C) a very large Suburban. 

**Hint: It starts with a “B” and ends with ‘cycle’. 

So we are in the process of turning around in the parking lot to grab one of the 300 empty spots and out of nowhere this Suburban* jumps the sidewalk, blazes through the handicap spots and pulls directly into the EXACT spot we were pulling into.  It happened so fast I was sitting in the passengers seat, completely unable to pull my mouth closed. 

I cannot even fathom what just happened.  I saw it.  I witnessed it.  I was there.  Minding my own damn business.  Would getting out and lighting her up one side and down the other have done a bit of good?  Nooooooo.  Mr. Fricken Awesome calmly lit me a smoke and allowed me to tell her off in the cab of our truck.  A little bit of role-playing I guess.  I was the completely un-glued passenger and he was the ignorant, brazen, poor excuse for a driver, brain-dead incompetent woman who should not be behind the wheel of anything other than a dead-bolted pirates wheel that you see on the playgrounds.

I said (in my out loud voice with the windows down), “Have you lost your damn mind? A sidewalk? A fricken sidewalk? Are. You. Serious?  Are you fricken serious?  That did not just happen.  Who in the (lots of very bad words) do you think you are?  THIS. IS. WHY. WOMEN. GET. A. BAD. REP!!!!!  It’s people like YOU (lady who can’t hear me) who drive like you are the only one paying taxes!  Did that just happen?  Did I really just see her drive on the SIDEWALK? Oh. My. God!”

**takes drag of cigarette

“She’s not even MOVING! She’s sitting in her (more very bad words) truck talking on the damn cell phone!  A sidewalk? SHE. DROVE. ON. THE. SIDEWALK!!” 

**flicks cigarette with force

Mr. Fricken Awesome chuckled.

I’m missing the part where this was funny.  I wasn’t allowed to play.  Mr. Fricken Awesome likes to look out for me and not let me enter any danger zone while hungry and menstrual tired. He prohibited me from exiting the vehicle until I had exuded all of my hot air. 

He asked if I was going to make a scene inside and I promised I would be on my very best behavior. 

I was. 

Even though I wanted to walk up behind her with my steel cart that I can barely maneuver and “accidentally” run her over while texting.  Heifer.

“OOhh, did I hurt you?  I’m sorry, I soooo did not even see you there.  Damn.  My bad.”

Ugh. 

There is no moral to this story.  Unless I’m missing a moral somewhere that involves dumb girls who drive too-big-for-their-britches vehicles. 

It’s just what I do.  I point out the obvious futility lurking and I vent. 

*I have nothing against people who drive Suburbans, however I find it kinda ironic that in both instances there was a dumb woman and a Suburban involved.

Just saying.

The One Where I Cry Like a B*tch

Where have I been? 

I’ve been playing this really fantastic game called “Let’s not kill the new puppy that chews up everything in sight”. 

Somewhere between ‘La-La Land’ and the goo that seeped through the cracks of my brain; I was unable to comprehend the disadvantages of having a puppy. 

I live in a quaint house, on a quiet block, in a claustrophobic subdivision with nosey neighbors.  We have a retaining wall in our backyard that, for the past five years, displayed a lovely collection of noxious weeds and a dead tree. 

In the past three weeks, Mr. Fricken Awesome and I have worked our asses off to give our little backyard a face-lift. 

Thirty-seven trips to Lowes and Home Depot, two yards of mulch, one yard of fill dirt, 26 pounds of flowers, 704 pounds of bricks, one new umbrella and patio table complete with candle accessories and a bird-feeder later - we have a new backyard.    That’s without mentioning the backbreaking lifting; pounding, digging, cussing and fit throwing that took place as well.

Boomer.  Our ‘special’ Border Collie pup observed our efforts and attempted to test our patience on a couple of occasions by eating an entire 12-pack of Petunias in one sitting.  He has also been introduced to my psycho behavior in lieu of him enjoying a taste test of my Geraniums that were planted.  Assuming I had nipped his curiosity, I quickly came to the realization that my attempts at disciplining him were wasteful. 

Hindsight.

Overnight, my dog enjoyed his new oasis by first eating all but one of my candles that were part of a centerpiece for the patio table.  Yes, a French-vanilla buffet was had in my yard.  Can dogs digest wax? Really?  I’m torn between taking him to the vet and sticking a match in him to give off the ambient lighting I so enjoy in the evenings. 

While picking up the leftover pieces of wax on my grass, I noticed a rather large hole in the garden area.  Dessert was my Petunias and Delphinium.  I know I had more flowers in there but I cannot find them under all the dirt he dug out. 

I’m bald now from all the hair I have pulled out.

While throwing away the wax and chewed up flowers I found my pup with his ass hanging out of the lawnmower bag. 

**head tilted sideways**

I walked around to the back of the lawnmower and observed my dog-playing house inside the lawnmower bag.  The entire side completely ripped out where he had placed his most prized squeaky toys and has decided that was their resting place. 

For fear of being that person you read about in newspapers who lands a one night stay in the local jail for cruelty to animals, I’ve opted to place him in puppy time-out and make him write an essay on “why we don’t eat Momma’s effing flowers”! 

I’m still working on my transition from Blogger to WordPress.  I’ve decided that a Masters Degree in ‘What the Fuck Does This Button Do’ is necessary.  I’m not exactly sure why all of my efforts are going towards this stupid blog.  It’s not like Ellen is pounding down my door begging me to enlighten her and the world on my thoughts of stupid people or Wal-Mart dwellers. 

Regardless, it’s still my place where I get to dictate how much yellow tape is necessary and where I get to throw mild temper tantrums. 

I have a couple of good stories to share in the future.  Like the one where I try to explain to my kid why I hate periods and he is confused by my distaste for punctuation. 

Until then, happy blogging!  I’m off to find an inexpensive electric fence for really cute puppy I just HAD TO HAVE!

PSA: Yep, I'm THAT Boring.

So I’m in the process of changing things up a bit.  Being the extremely anal-retentive person that I am I tend to bite off more than I can chew.  And so what we have here is a major cluster f*ck on my part.  But never fear!  Your friendly neighborhood ‘she-ra’ is here to make damn sure things settle and all is good in the blog world. 

Ok, I’ll stop speaking ‘Spankinese’ and dumb it down for ya.  I registered the domain www.thatsfuntosay.com just so I don’t have to have the silly “.blogspot” in my HTML name.  However, I don’t have my DNS properly set up yet, and in the process, I’ve decided that I wanted to switch from Blogger to Wordpress.  Oy.  Again, prior to doing this I tried to direct my .blogspot domain to my real domain but failed miserably in that attempt because it just directs you to GoDaddy.  So I switched it back and said “screw it” for now (or at least until I can pull my incompetent head out of my arse and figure this out). 

By doing the above – if you understood any of that – Blogger deleted ALL MY COMMENTS.  And if you know anything about my trivial self, you know that my comments are like gold to me.  It’s rare that I get one and now that they are all gone I feel violated. 

So.  To my few readers (and I love each and every one of you), please note that I will eventually be all grown up and have my own domain and everything!  However in that process (the one where I actually follow through and move to Wordpress) you will have to re-follow me because when I transfer everything over I will be a virgin all over again.  (I mean that in a non-sexual and non-offensive way.)

I wish I had something riveting to write about today other than my lack of brain cells, however I don’t. 

This Public Service Announcement was brought to you by “More Random Shit You Could Care Less About” in association with “You took me away from Twitter to read this?”

Another WTF Moment

I was raised by the saying, “BE YOURSELF”, I don’t understand what is so wrong with that? 

Live your life for you, not for the Jones’.   Lead by example, do unto others and have integrity.  And if your sister keeps beating you up, don’t fret, you’ll soon be big enough to kick her ass.  Oops…different blog.

Moving on.

It’s not ok that your five-year old daughters “dream” is become an exotic dancer.  A story I was told over the weekend.  I don’t have a daughter.  I would be that Mom who kept her daughter chained to her bed for fear of being brainwashed by the scantily clad wearing kids that I see prancing around half naked because that’s what Paris Hilton and other Hollywood-esque reality-based tarts thinks is “Hot”.

I want to punch my television, computer and newspaper in the junk every time I see or hear about little toddler girls competing in beauty pageants.  I was watching a program the other day and I saw a blip about how a little girl (age SIX) was making demands on her parents because her competition was ‘cuter’.  This child was overweight and had more makeup on her little face than most women can afford in a year. 

Other little girls in the room were barking orders as well as they pouted in their expensive dresses and unruly 80’s inspired teased hair while the Mom’s ran around frantically convincing themselves that this is a life altering competition!

The mom tap-danced around the little she-devils demands and pleaded with her daughter to not cry because she was going to run her mascara!  AUFKM!? If I had any powers at that moment, it would have been to teleport to that specific time with baby wipes in tow to wipe that shit off the little girls face and hand the mother a beating with my “get a clue” bat. 

Hey lady!  How about you quit living your failed dream of being a princess through your daughter who doesn’t stand a chance of being normal because you’ve enabled her to submerge herself in the idea that FAKE is healthy. 

**beating head with remote** 

I quickly changed the channel and started festering over the expectation that young girls have to live up to now.  Where dressing like a tart, wearing 14 pounds of makeup and letting their almost ta-ta’s hang out is socially acceptable. 

It’s not just girls; it’s boys as well regarding clothes and parental pressure.

“Pants on the ground, pants on the ground, looking like a fool with your pants on the ground…”

It’s echoing through my damn head as I type this.  The day my son decides that his ass doesn’t need to be covered is the day you will find me restraining to slap the stupid out of him. 

Being a ‘Football Mom’, I’ve seen the dad’s first hand, that publicly humiliate their son’s because they didn’t perform to “dad’s expectations”.  Really Dad?  So because you failed as a football star you decided to shove your dream down your kids throat? 

There is also the ‘sponge’ factor.  Kids pick up on anything you say.  Anything they hear, anything that sounds or looks funny.

When my son was four we were walking through the mall and there was a young woman (late teens or early twenties) sitting on one of the benches. 

“HELLZ YEAH, SHE’S HOT!” came flying out of his mouth. 

I’m pretty sure my head spun the entire 180 degrees without my body following as I stopped dead in my tracks and said, “WHAT did you just say? WHERE did you hear that?”  My son said his teenage uncles say it all the time.  I knelt down to his level and said “I don’t EVER want to hear that from your mouth again.  We do NOT talk about women like that.  EVER!” 

My son’s one-on-one time with shit head number one and two was immediately limited to supervised visitation. 

And just this morning, I was standing outside watering my dead flowers when I observed two girls giggling and walking down the street.  Again making an assumption on age, they couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve.  Coming down the street in the opposite direction were two boys, younger than my son.  As soon as the girls passed them, one of the boys turned to the other and said, “I would tap that”. 

I cannot control other people’s kids.  As much as I want to round them all up and give them a come to Jesus talk about respect and the wonders of Ivory soap. 

I can only hope that I’m doing my son right by keeping him locked up in his room and never letting him out until he’s 40!  Seriously.

I can’t control the girls out there whose parents have chosen their own life over their kids’ life.  But I can dictate how my son treats those girls.  I can control how he talks to girls and about girls and his elders as well as his friends.

I can also enforce a “skirts must cover your ass” and “I don’t want to see your training bra” dress code for the girls that enter my house. 

You don’t have to agree with me on this.  I really don’t care.  I just think that it’s sad that there are parents out there who are showing their little girls that makeup and prizes are better than slumber parties and mud pies.  And giving your son knuckle loves for fetching you a beer and encouraging dick-head behavior and distasteful comments doesn’t make you ‘Parent of the Year’. 

There’s nothing wrong with competition.  Sports, talent shows, music recitals – whatever. Have at it!  It builds character. 

But when your daughter is screaming at you because Sally is prettier; or your son is resentful because Chet can’t throw a football but gets a hug from his dad anyway for trying his best – it’s a problem.

Just saying…