Thursday, April 8, 2010

Bad Date #86

I worked with weird guy's mother. She was nice. Her son seemed nice. Kind of nervous. (At the time I thought it endearing.) Weird guy's mother convinced me to go out on a date with weird guy. I suppose I shouldn't give away the date by describing him as weird...

We went to the movies. Even though he lived in a small city which had two functioning theaters, he figured we'd drive an hour-and-a-half south to meet up with his sister and his sister's boyfriend. Odd. It was snowing. I would've preferred to stick around town, but whatever. This would give us time to talk and get to know each other. (Or opportunity to drive to the middle of nowhere and dump my body.)

So weird guy starts talking. And talking. And doesn't stop. I figure he's nervous. (Again, slightly endearing. I know. I needed professional help. I got it after this date.) So, weird guy is talking about his mom and his sister and things he did growing up and that the government wants everyone to be bankrupt and it's actually a good thing but they can't come right out and say it because then the government will get in trouble but that's why they send you all those credit card applications and his dad was filing for bankruptcy but before he does he's maxing out these credit cards to buy things and then the government lets you keep them and you don't have to pay for it because that's how it works and so now he's in the process of applying for all the credit cards he can and the trick is to do it all at the same time so they don't know you've gotten approved and that way you get more and hey - he just needs to stop at this gas station for a minute.

And he parks the car in front of the station that's all lit up in the dark of night and turns the car off and takes the keys and goes inside and I'm sitting there thinking, "Please hurry because it's like -12 degrees and it is cold out here and you turned off the heater." And I see him go up to the counter and ask for something and the guy turns and counts off scratch-off lottery tickets and gives them to weird guy and weird guy starts scratching them at the counter with a coin. And I'm waiting. Because it takes awhile to scratch off $20 worth of lotto tickets. And he must have won because look! He's handing tickets back to the guy and getting more.

And twenty five minutes later my feet were freezing and I was not finding this guy so endearing anymore.

He gets back in the car and starts talking again, never once mentioning the strange "I gotta scratch a ticket" thing that just happened, but whatever, at least I can feel my pinkie toe on my right foot again.

I remain absolutely speechless for the remainder of the ride which he didn't notice. But why would he since he didn't pause long enough for me to say anything during the first half of the trip.

We pull into an apartment complex and hoof it up to the second floor and over to a door which opens to reveal a very giddy girl who is just so excited to meet me! Who doesn't love a bear hug from a complete stranger? Come on in and take a seat and we'll just puff on this marajuana before we go.

WHAT?! Oh, yes.

Now I'm sitting there scared shitless because I don't know these people and what they're all into but obviously it's a little more than normal first-time-meeting-you activity and I really, really don't want to experience my first cavity search with giddy girl, and hey, newsflash - you can smell this in the hall you know. It's a quick call from the neighbors and I'm trying to explain to my mother why my date involved an aggressive legal defense attorney. The only thing getting me through at this point was knowing Christian Slater was starring in the movie and let me tell you, he really does make everything all better, no matter what situation you find yourself in. (This was before he went all thinning and bald and was arrested for grabbing some woman's buttocks in Manhatten.)

Once my hosts were all drugged up they pulled their coats on and started shoving items in their pockets. Bottles of soda. Bags of M&M's, Reece's Pieces, and other food items. As weird guy puts it, "They rob you at the theaters, you know. If everyone stopped buying their crap they'd lower the prices but people are too stupid."  This obviously did not go over well with me -- the person who would pay exorbitant amounts of money for her precious movie theater popcorn. Whatever, weird guy. Christian Slater is waiting for me. Let's just get this over with.

And it wouldn't have been too bad if the three high people I was with had sat quietly munching their candy instead of throwing it at the movie screen. I literally sat there praying to God, "Please let us get kicked out of here so I can go home!" Other than the couple behind us telling them to knock it off nothing happened. So I sat there embarrassed and ashamed at being remotely associated with these idiots.

I don't even remember the ride back. I do, however, remember jumping out of the car before it was in park...

** Note: in case any, uh, "Just Looking Out For The Best Interest of Big V" people read this, please note this is an account of a bad date that happened in the past. In the way past. As in "long before I even knew Big V was walking the earth" kind of past. Please don't accuse me of dating guys on the sly because that's just not nice. (Yes, web friends, it has happened. That's why a note such as this is considered a necessity.)

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Dog Lovers Unite!

I was going to go rock-wall climbing last night but by the grace of God that was nixed and an evening with the gals at the cottage was about to ensue. (Thank you, God, for realizing I am in no shape to climb up a wall.) So I sang my way home - yes, sang. As in, radio cranked with Lady GaGa as my duet partner right after Pink and I rocked the Nissan. Anyway. Jolly, I was, as I walked in the house, because what could be better than a glass of wine among friends? Especially when the significant other was tethered to the house with the teen, the baby and the kid in the middle. However, that jolliness did not last very long.

"I just called you," Big V announced.

"Sorry. I was working on my demo."



"The baby needs to go to the hospital."

"What?! Why?! What happened?"

"I don't know..."

"You don't know? Is he bleeding? Can it wait about 3 glasses of wine?"



"He's got spots."

"Spots? Like a cheetah?"

"No. Like on a wine glass."

"That sounds slightly sarcastic. You know, it's better than lipstick. That'd be gross."

"We're talking about the baby!"

"Right. The baby. Spots. Why?"

"Why are we talking about the baby?"

"No, why does the baby have spots?"

"I don't know - that's why he needs to go to the hospital."

And so it was that I learned my baby was covered in bright red spots. Reluctantly I agreed to take him to the ER. Don't judge me - he's the third kid. By this point in the game I know he's not bleeding or having difficulty breathing, so it's not life threatening, and we've already been infected if he was contagious, and my friend's kids are up-to-date on their vaccinations so, really, what's the harm in waiting a bit? But then V told me about some guy he knew that had measles when he was a kid and got a measle in the eye and lost that eye and I'd feel bad if that happened. I'd never make Mother of the Year if the public knew I traded a bottle of Riesling for an eyeball.

We threw the baby in the car (carefully placing him in the proper infant safety restraint system; does that help my campaign?) and promptly forget the diaper bag because who needs a diaper bag when you know you're going to be stuck with a 6-month old in a waiting room for four hours?

The good doctor came in and took a look around. The baby's back. Belly. Head. Scalp. Ears. Hands.  He stepped back, wrapped the stethoscope around his neck, and sighed as he wrote things down on his little clipboarded paperwork.

"Well," he smirked. (Yes, he smirked.) "I can tell you it's not chicken pox and it's not measles...  You've got fleas."

And with that little announcement my head whipped so fast towards V that the papers on the doctor's clipboard fluttered, Dotter covered her face with her hands (she knows how I feel about this dog), and V used every ounce of his being to physically morph himself into the wall in the hopes of not being seen.

"When was the last time you put the flea and tick stuff on the dog?"

No answer.

"V. I can still see you. You are not wall art. When was the last time you put the flea and tick stuff on the dog?"

"I don't like putting that on her - I don't know if it's safe for her."

Seriously? I mean Seriously? Our baby is like a giant cheeto being gnawed on by a thousand wingless insects and you're worried that some product a gazillion dog owners happily use might be unsafe for Satan?!


It goes without saying my night was filled with vacuuming, bombing, washing, scrubbing and lots and lots of itching.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Don't forget to Vote!

Since I had the baby six months ago but still look very much pregnant (I could seriously get contracted as Buddha's belly double) I decided to force myself into doing something other than sitting in front of a computer, or a television, or a chocolate cake. I organized the Office Climb, which is pretty much me and my two male co-workers talking a lot about wanting to reduce our belly size, but doing very little about it. (The one guy keeps hauling in donuts and Coke. He should be forced to scrape up my crumbs with bamboo under his nails.)

Every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday we vowed to climb up this super duper high hill across the street from our office. There's a bike path that defies gravity, so it's perfect for a wanted calorie burn. Except today is Tuesday. And an election. And election days mean two things: (1) you vote, and (2) there's an awful lot of food in this office. Election Officers like to eat. And they eat good. We're talking donuts and orange juice and party platters full of munchies and barbeque chicken sandwiches and potato chips of various flavors and brownies. Lots of chocolate brownies. With chocolate chips mixed inside!

So it goes without saying that after consuming a plethora of chocolatey treats and washing them down with about four cans of cola there is no possible way I'm hefting my butt up a hill.

Life is certainly not fair at all.

I sent Dotter to school today. With a zit. That's right. The poor 8-yr old had a huge pimple on her chin. I tried not to draw attention to it. What the heck is a pimple doing on a second grader's chin? And it was a pimple. It wasn't a bug bite. Or a pimple you could convince others was a bug bite. It was a pimple. Plain and simple. And ready to pop.

Monday, April 5, 2010

The Salsa with the Spice & the Spunk!

I get giddy when I see an envelope in my mailbox with a hand written return address. It usually means a thank you, an invite, or anything other than a requirement to send in some money in exchange for heat or electricity. Imagine, if you will, the overflowing excitement I experienced when I came home to find a HUGE BOX on my doorstep. A BOX, people. A really big box!

Now I know I've told you about the pending arrival of a jar of salsa... I thought I was getting one jar of feisty fun. One. I thought I hit paydirt with a singular jar of Feisty Mama Salsa ... But, oh no - this box was way too big for a single little jar....

This was a party in a box! Invites, plates, napkins, a cute, adorable tunic to wear at the fiesta, and thank you's. The only thing missing was the mustache & sombrero!  (And here I thought I was waiting for a jar!)


That's not all! There was more!

Much... much... more!


Twelve jars from the Mama herself. Blended smooth with a kick... just like a Feisty Mama  should be! Oh.!

Of course the first thing I did was go hide with my loot and a bag of chips, dipping and snacking solo before my crunching gave me away. Then I was forced to share.  Not just the salsa... but also the shirt! Snatched up by the grubby hands of a teen with impeccable taste.

She has given a thumbs up to the shirt ("Oh, yeah, I'm SOOOOO HOT! You know it!") and to the salsa ("This is really good. I mean, it's like really good. You know?") Um, yeah, like I know, right? It's like, totally good.
(Ok. First rule: Feisty gals don't speak Valley. Sorry.)

And so here I sit with my salsa stash and note cards trying to figure out who of my many friends are deserving enough to share this goodness with. I've developed a point system and am judging on (1) How nice you were to me in high school when I sported purple plastic framed glasses, (2) How long you can dance without taking a break, and (3) How well you can say, "Looks like this little lady is stayin' for the party after all" when wearing a sombrero.

In the meantime I'm planning on whipping up a batch of Spicy Chicken Vixens to nibble on while pondering who I'll deem privileged enough to bring a little spicy fun home. Because we all know there's a lot more fun to be had when there's a little Feisty Mama in the house!

Come out, Come out, Wherever you are!

I like how accommodating the Easter Bunny is. He's so in tune with different family traditions and that's why there are so many variations on what happens with all those eggs.

In our house we hard-boil eggs and decorate them. The dye gets spilled on my only unstained dish towel that I own. Fingers look like a judicial booking gone bad. Everyone complains because the purple looks more like khaki. Good times all around.

Then the eggs get stored in the fridge until the Easter Bunny tip-toes in, while we're all sound asleep, and hides those eggs in silly spots around the house.

Although it's not so funny when you can't find one of those darn eggs and the rabbit didn't even think about leaving a stupid map and you know in three days that still hidden egg is going to start smelling something fierce, especially with this warm, sunny weather we've been having....