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Wow…been a while.

Friday, June 14th, 2013

Ok, so yeah, I’m still here.
That annoying thing called life got in the way of me posting on this blog.
However, I’m fired up, and full of new shit from the wacky ass world of retail, rescue, and family.
Hang in there with me- more is coming soon!

Dr. Seuss and Teachers

Friday, March 4th, 2011

I teach at school.
At school I teach.
School is cool.
But the kids, oh, patience they can leech.

Kids learn to read and write.
Read and write?
But I do not care to read and write.
But you must learn to read and write.
Or it is upon society you will blight.

Kids learn to do do math.
Math is add and subtract.
And even multiply, and divide.
No, no, no, they cry.
I will not multiply and divide.
I will not do it in a book,
I will not do it when I cook.
No multiply or divide for me.
Yes, you must says I,
One plus two is three,
And three times three is nine.
And that is just wonderfully divine.

And history is wonderful to read
To explore and learn
So as not to repeat
No, no history is dull
And boring to boot

I do not care about some dead men
I just want to buy some loot!
Or go on twitter, myspace, or facebook,
I do not care what is in some old book.

Manners! Oh, how I miss my manners
Please raise your hand, says I
For there are people who want to talk
But there are those who talk and talk
And talk and talk and talk
Talk talk talk talk
All day long
And never are quiet, nor do they follow along
And oh, what pests they can be
Those talk talk talk talkies of yee!

And the state tests.
Oh, the state of state tests
We must not look nor speak nor breathe on these
For they are as secret as secret can be
And all the stress is on these tests
For the kids must be the best they can be
and please be careful, dear student of mine
And watch your pencil and eraser
For the bubble sheets must be clean
Do not make a mess of these,
For that would be awful as awful could be!

They get to go to the dance,
And at the dance they prance and prance,
I can spot in a glance
There are those who are way to near
Too close, too close is what I say
And all they do is turn away
Until I bring out the old yardstick
They they move away right quick!

And the dress code, oh my dear,
Those shorts are way too short, I fear
And your bra straps are hanging out,
You are not appropriate for school, I shout!

Why are you shouting at me, they say
I am only doing things my way
And my way is the best, of course
Although you enforce and enforce,
I test and test, but of course you know
That deep down, when I am all grown
I will someday say to kids of my own
They were right, you know, those teachers of old
They did the best they could, and though
I pushed and whined and cried and fought,
I need to read and do math and learn
So listen up, kids, and do what they say,
Because you too will want to be successful one day!

Baby boomers, burned cats, and cell phones

Wednesday, December 8th, 2010

Oh. My. GOD.
How in the hell can my parents have had successful careers, raised two children who are now contributing to society, and manage to run a household, yet when it comes to technology, be so damn helpless?
I read somewhere that children in my generation are having to take care of their baby-boomer parents. These people are of the generation where computers were invented, cell phones created, and the World Wide Web was brought into the mainstream. However, they are retiring now and living on a fixed income, and are needing more and more help. And that is why they had children- at least, that is what my Baby Boomer parents tell me.
Fine. See if I help you anymore.
It started out as a simple day. I went over to my parents’ house, with the idea of helping to clean up my mom’s garage. She needed some stuff cleaned up for the charity work she does. So I went- after all, she did promise me lunch, and there is not much I won’t do for a free meal that I do not have to cook or clean up after.
Lunch was fun, and we got the stuff cleaned up with no worries.
Then the trouble began.
My Dad went to the cell phone store to upgrade his phone. Bad idea, to let that man go anywhere involved with technology unsupervised. Nevertheless, he went, and came home when he realized he could get the phone cheaper online.
Enter idiot, aka the daughter.
So I go online, and attempt to upgrade the phone.
He needed an account at the site, so I set that up with a username and password. I wrote those down, in case of senior moments, which are happening more and more these days.
Once that was done, I saw that there is an outstanding bill.
You cannot upgrade unless you are current on the bill.
Ok, I told my mom that. However, she won’t pay the bill until she pays another bill, and then the phone bill can be paid.
Good Lord.
Meanwhile, while this conversation is going on, my dad lit a candle in the kitchen. I commented that he trusts his animals around an open flame. He said there had never been any problems before.
Famous last words.
So while I was figuring out the account and looking for the impossible upgrade, I smell burned hair.
As in singed.
A cat had brushed up against the lit candle, and had burned his ass.
Mom hunted him down, and we managed to brush off the black burned bits of his fur. Thankfully, nothing went down to the skin, otherwise, we would have been dealing with a very pissed off cat.
As it was, we were dealing with an unhappy kitty who did not want to he handled anymore than he had to.
Shortly after the burned kitty fiasco, I left, pleading a headache and a need for a very strong alcoholic beverage.
On the way home, I considered what I was getting my parents for Christmas. We were considering an ipod for my dad, so he would not have to carry all those CDs around in his car, which is so 1990. Now, I’m thinking something a little more his speed- maybe an abacus.

Scrub a dub dub in the tub…

Saturday, September 25th, 2010

In my house, no one goes to the bathroom alone. No, you do not have a human escort. Your companion is usually of the animal variety. Yogi is the classic bathroom buddy. He races in as soon as he sees anyone headed in that direction. Once you sit on the can, he sits right at your feet, looking soulfully into your eyes. Well, as soulfully as a dumb dog can get.
I do wonder what he is thinking when he is observing this process. Is he wondering what he can do to help, or what we are doing, and why we do it so many times in the day, and why we have to get out of bed to do in the middle of the night. Most of all, I think he is just wondering when he going to eat again.
The other night, I was soaking in a lovely lavender- scented bubble bath, reading a juicy murder mystery. Yes, I read in the tub (I bet you do too- come on, reading the in the bathroom? Is like an Olympic sport!).
John is on the can, which is located close to the bathtub. I am trying to relax and enjoy my book, when my vision was suddenly assaulted.
John dangled a half-used roll of toilet paper in front of my face.
Now for a little backstory- I am lazy, as you may know. When the TP roll is used up, it is hit or miss if I will replace it with a full one. If the roll goes empty on ME, I will usually pull down a full roll from the shelf, but it is not very often that I will put it on the spindle thingy. John has many theories as to why I do this, but I have one that is most applicable- I. Do. Not. Care.
Back to the tub incident.
John dangled this roll, and said, “Really?!”
I started to laugh, because I thought it was hilarious.
He did not find my hilarity nor the TP issue amusing.
Now, to defend myself (this is my story, after all) there WAS some paper left on the roll. Maybe about 5 squares, but it WAS on the roll.
I see now reason why John was so upset. After all, there was TP on the roll AND on the spindle.
Nevertheless, he did not see the humor in the situation.
His threat was to take all the half-used rolls of TP and store them in the garage, giving them to me when I hollered for him to get me TP because we were out.
I did not find that funny at all.
I guess he and I have different senses of what is funny.
Later that night, his knee was acting up, and he could not take any ibuprofen because it would interact with some other medication he was on.
I did the good wifey thing and found some acetaminophen in the first aid kit. I even brought it to him, and helped him take it.
He said that I was forgiven for the TP spindle roll incident, and that he will never say another word.
Yeah right.
I think it was the drugs.

Designer Diapers?! WTF?!

Thursday, September 2nd, 2010

I am very easily amused. When I see something that makes me laugh, I will most often times go into a giggle fit that will last for a while. Just this evening, I was watching some quality reality television (Police Women of Memphis), and actually watched a commercial break. Most of the commercial breaks, I am up getting something to eat, taking care of some furry creature or another, or going to the bathroom. This time, I actually had a chance to sit.
One the screen- in HD, no less, shows a toddler clad in a jean-style diaper and a white button down t-shirt. He is walking down the street- presumably Rodeo Drive- and people are dropping everything to look at him. Apparently, his high-styling diaper has caught the attention of these snobby fashionistas.
I look down at what I am wearing- a pair of gym shorts and a ratty t-shirt and I’m thinking that this kid looks better than I do. Imagine me walking down rodeo drive wearing what I am in- I would send those fashionistas running for the hills!
Back to the commercial- I see these people ogling this kid, and then catch the tagline for this particular brand, “The coolest you’ll look while pooping your pants.” This makes me laugh myself sick. I realize that they are available for a limited time only, so apparently, you can only look cool shitting yourself for a limited time. I post these thoughts on facebook, and my vet (yes, I am facebook friends with my vet- she came to my wedding too) adds that some people can look cool crapping themselves in a paper bag. This starts a full on giggle fit for me (and yet another reason why I love my vet- she has a wonderful sense of the absurd).
This makes me wonder if the adult diaper world would use an idea like this one to style-up their products. I am sure adults, more so than infants and toddlers, are concerned about how they look when crapping themselves. This can open up a whole line of designer depends- not just jean, but stripes, polka dots, and even plaid. And why stop there- let’s bring in the big names, such as Armani, Chanel, and for the men we can have Hugo Boss. This can even show your styling skills in the care home- next thing you know, the old folks will be ordering the young’uns to bring them their favorite designer depends in, and be sure to get the right size, damn it!
As I am taking my dogs out in the yard for their evening constitutional, another thought crosses my mind- why not have styling diapers for dogs? I do know that there are diapers for dogs- I have seen them, and considered purchasing them for an elderly dog we had who had issues with bladder control. We all have seen dogs dressed up in all sorts of costumes- even I am guilty of dressing of my two in Santa and Mrs. Claus outfits (they looked adorable). So why not do designer doggie diapers? That would really make a statement at the dog park, for sure.
All of these thoughts lead me to wonder what is next for kids? I mean really, jean diapers? Come on. Ok, maybe I am really jealous and wanting them in adult styles for when I need them. That’s it!

Revenge of the Swamp Ass

Sunday, July 25th, 2010

I live in Phoenix, Arizona.  It is, literally, one of the hottest places on Earth.  However, since I am a native (second generation, thank you very much), I have Phoenix in the blood, and will most likely live here for the rest of my life (or at least until I can afford to move somewhere cooler without any snow).

Living in Phoenix, you get to experience some things that most people don’t.  There is the phenomenon of the liquid-state of asphalt- which has been known to happen when the temperature gets to be about 120 degrees.  Of course, there was that one time the airport was shut down due to excessive heat- a first in the airline world.  And there is the all-time favorite of frying an egg on the sidewalk- which I have done several times.  I do not suggest eating, though- tastes like dirt.

My least favorite heat-related experience has to be the one known as revenge of the swamp ass.  Any one who has lived in a part of the world where there is heat combined with humidity has experienced swamp ass.  This is when your ass and upper thighs sweat, causing your pants to get soaked. When you stand up, it looks like you pissed yourself.  But no, this is just the consequence of swamp ass.

There are some things that have come to be known as causes for swamp ass.

One of them is having leather seats in your car.  I understand that most people see this as a luxury, and pay lots of money to have this upgrade in their car.  However, being a Zonie, I see leather seats as a guarantee than I will be looking like I need junior depends for the rest of the day.

My husband, who I love dearly, has leather seats in his car.  Since he is not a native, I can forgive him this dumbass mistake in car purchasing.  However, do not ask me to drive his car from May to September.  That is when the heat is the worst, and swamp ass is most evident.

What kind of pants you wear can also determine the likeliness of swamp ass.  In Phoenix, the temperatures can soar over 110 in midday, and have been known to get as high as 120.  This is NOT the time to wear jeans, in my opinion.  However, jeans are a good choice when it comes to swamp ass- you may have it, but other people will not see it.

I prefer to wear lighter materials in the summer, such as linen or khaki.  This is not good when it comes to swamp ass.  These materials are thinner, and as a result, are more likely to be transparent when exposed to moisture.  And also, they will show where the moisture is located.

One hot afternoon, a friend and I decided to go to an upscale mall, located in Scottsdale.  A mall, in my world, means shopping, food, and most important, air conditioning.  Not a bad idea.

So I thought.

We took my car, which thankfully has cloth seats.  There was free parking in a covered garage which meant the car would be somewhat cooler than if it had been out in an open lot.

As we got out of the car, I headed to the mall.

But my friend had a different idea.  She wanted to go to a cooking store, which was across the street and about a block down.

Since I do NOT cook, I did not see the point in this exercise.  Also, it meant that we would be out of the air conditioning for more than five minutes, which is exceeding my comfort zone.

I went with her.  Enter dumbass, stage right.

So we walked across the acre of parking lot and across the asphalt street, chatting all the way.  It is not until I looked in a shop window to check my hair that I saw it.

The beginnings of swamp ass.

I had my friend check my butt to see if it was showing.

She said it was not too bad.

I said that I needed to get in into some AC ASAP so it would not grow into a monster and take over my pants.

She is skinny, but does sympathize with those who are not, and understood my need for climate control.

We went into the cooking store, and did some shopping.  I even found some stuff in there (not really cooking stuff- more gadgets to sit on the counter, gather dust, and be donated to charity in two years).

It is on our way back to the mall that the demon swamp ass made itself known.

We had to use the potty in the mall.

When I was done, I checked myself out in the mirror, and turned to make sure I had nothing on my ass.

Swamp ass had just claimed a new victim.

And here we were, in an upscale store, and I had a massive wet spot on my ass that looked like I had no bladder control.

That meant I had to go shopping, and carry the shopping bag over my ass somehow to hide the monster’s invasion.

I bought shoes.

It was a good solution.

In the summer, when you see gila monsters checking into hotels and trees whistling for dogs, know that you may be the next victim of swamp ass.

And in the fall, when everyone is enjoying the crisp air and the turning leaves, I will be breathing a sigh of relief, knowing that I have survived another season of swamp ass.

SATC, Phoenix style

Sunday, July 18th, 2010

This was written a few weeks ago, when the movie Sex and the City 2 premiered.

It is three A.M. and I am jacked up on caffeine, wearing full makeup, a glitzy shirt, sparkly sandals, and huge earrings.  Allow me to tell you how I arrived at this destination.

My college friend Heather came to town on her vacation.  She lives in Tucson, about 2 hours away, but she and I have not seen each other in forever.  It has been almost five years- the last time I saw her was at my wedding.  So she came into town and we met for lunch and window shopping.  While out and about, I saw an advert for Sex and the City 2, which was showing at midnight tonight.  I suggested she and I go see it- we had both wanted to.  We bought our tickets and parted ways, promising to meet up again at the theater around 11.

Being someone who is compulsively early (ok, not for everything, but early for Manolo Blahniks on the big screen), I left my house at 10.  Got to the theater complex, parked in an awesome spot, and went inside to line up.

There is when the pre-show began.

As I walked my way towards the end of the line, I saw three men.

And they all were gay.

All the rest were women.

And these women were trying very hard to be one of the Fabulous Four in SATC.

I saw shoes of all colors and styles- some in fashion and purchased at Sacks and Nordy’s, other in questionable taste and purchased from Stripper’s R US, if there is such a place.

There were earrings- some real, most fake.  And there was a girl with a bunch of blue feathers in her hair.  Not quite sure what kind of statement she was looking to make, but it sure was one that still showed she needed her mom to get her into an R movie.

I saw a woman with an infant in a carrier.  Shortly after, we were treated to the show of her (and her mother) cussing out the manager for not permitting the baby in the theater.  Apparently, children under 3 are not permitted to see R movies after 6 PM.  Who would have thought- why hire a babysitter?  The kid is going to sleep through the movie.

Sure, provided that he could handle all the screaming queens in the back when Liza Minelli appeared on screen.

Heather and I were close in line to these queens.  They were the full package- guy liner, tight jeans, tight shirts, and loose lips.  They had more estrogen in them then I did!

We thought they were just trying too hard to play the part of the diva queen.  Ladies, word to the wise- REAL divas do NOT wear shoes from Goodwill bin!  Or if they do, they call them vintage, not “shoes from some dead guy my boyfriend found for me.”

Then there was the issue of the gender confused.  We saw a person- cannot say if it was a man or a woman- all dressed in black, alone in line.  Would have been a crapshoot to determine the person’s gender- he/she was carrying a handbag, but had very masculine features.  Heather mentioned how sad it was for gender confused person to be alone in a movie- perhaps there should be a support group.  I laughed myself all the way to the seat.

We scored seats in the front part of the stadium section where the metal handrail is.  Perfect for a footrest, and no one in front of us!

Heather went to get her popcorn, and I was relaxing and watching the previews.

Until the kicking started.

The little blonde Brittany (I call them all Brittany, just to make life easier) was kicking the back of my chair with her Payless platform.  And it was pissing me off.

I turned around, and politely asked her to stop kicking my seat.

She and her other clones all went silent, but the kicking stopped.

For five minutes. There was dead silence after my request, then a whispered comment- I heard the word bitch- and then giggling.

And then the kicking began again.

I waited a minute to see if she would stop, but this Brittany was persistent.

Using my quick reflexes, I reached around just as she was gearing up for a kick and grabbed her ankle.

I told her, very politely, that if she did not knock it off, I was going to break her cheap heel off and shove it up her ass.  And for the record, this is me being a bitch.

She stopped.  And there was no giggling.  But I am pretty sure I heard the word bitch mentioned again.

And I am OK with that.  After all, it has taken me 31 years to refine my skills, and I am not going to waste an opportunity to use them.  And if the Brittanys and her clones did not like it, they can kiss the fattest part of my ass.

So began the movie- or shall I say, the previews.

Why is it that there re always as least 20 minutes of previews before a show?

And really people, do I care to see what the latest in the pigtails and braces league is hollering about, what with the newest Twilight movie (New moon eclipses the dawn, or something like that).

Then the show begins.

Overall, it was pretty good.

Heather gave it an awesome and very concise summation- it is porn for women and gay men.  There are great clothes and shoes and jewelry, sex scenes (no frontal nudity, but lots of innuendoes), scandal, and karaoke.  What more could a girl ask for?

It was great chance to be with my girlfriend, and also helped me realize I am happy with who I have become.

I am 31 years old, and do not qualify to shop in “petites” or even single digit clothing sizes.  I have an attitude, and have no qualms about expressing my opinion when I am pissed off.  Over the years, I have learned to temper my tongue, but on some occasions, words escape my food hole before going through the editing process between brain and mouth.  But for the most part, I am a nice, adult woman.

As I was driving home on the deserted 51 freeway, I was considering where I am at in my life.  It was about 3 AM, and the road was clear, it was a full moon and lovely night.  The moon roof was open, and I was rocking out the Michael Buble (as much as anyone can rock out to him- but he is soooo smmmmoooooottthhhhhh).

I was merging to get on the 101 west to get to my house, some assclown decided to speed up out of nowhere, cut me off, and then slowed down in front of me.

Did I smile, shrug, and laugh it off?

Or did I honk the horn and give him the one fingered salute out the moon roof?

I am confident you can guess correctly.  And to give you a hint- it involved me being a bitch.  And I am OK with that.  After all, I think I’ve earned that right.

Dinner and a show…?

Wednesday, July 14th, 2010

John and I had no idea that it was going to be such an interesting night.  It started off by us not having any groceries in the house (used up the grocery money going out to eat) so we ended up going out to eat (vicious cycle, you think?).

We went to our favorite little diner-type place.  It is a family owned restaurant in the local municipal airport, and we have been going there for quite some time.  We are such popular customers that the owners know us, and we run the facebook fan page.  Seriously.

The restaurant has a fan page.

And my husband, aka Geek in Residence, started it.

So as we were parking, we noticed the lot seemed fuller than usual. Since this was not the Wednesday night dinner buffet (aka dinner trough), or the weekend breakfast buffet (aka breakfast trough), we thought it a little unusual.  We should have gotten a clue when we saw all the political signs on the cars.  We did notice a funny bumper sticker, “Don’t tell Obama what comes after a trillion.”  It is from this sign that we deduced the Republicans must be in the house.  That, and the various NRA stickers plastered on cars as well.

So we walked into the restaurant, and into the chaos.  Normally, the place is pretty quiet and we just come in and sit down.  Tonight was a different story.  There were tables that were not cleared, and people milling all over the place.  The bullshit was flying pretty fast and furious in the dining room as well (which I am sure was in violation of the health code, or at least the moral code).  The lobby was decorated in assorted campaign posters, and John and I were both accosted by pollsters when we came in.  One of them asked how I was doing this evening, and I told them that I was hungry, henceforth cutting off all other political overtures.  John just walked on through, counting on me to clear the path with my mouth.

So we sat down, and noticed that the staff was running around like chickens with their heads cut off.  One was going in six different directions, and another had this rather homicidal grin plastered on his face.

We sat, and someone grabbed us two iced teas.  We looked around, and we saw large clusters of people, many of whom were well dressed and groomed.  I smelled politicians.  As we waited for our server, Chris (the one with the homicidal grin), to come over, John and I then conspired on ideas of what to tell the pollsters who were sure to accost us as we left.  Now, I am a proud US citizen, and am registered to vote.  John cannot vote, as he is not a citizen.  Relax, he is a legal resident alien- he pays taxes, works, and is an overall productive citizen- he just can’t vote, serve on a jury, or be President (thank God).

Back to our excuses.  John’s was that he was waiting on the results of his deportation hearing, and his civil liberties have not yet been restored.  My excuse was going to be that my rights were pending the outcome of my assault case (if anyone asked, I was going to say that someone had come between me and my coffee).

We giggled over those for a little while, and watched the politicians ooze their way around the room.  I swear, there was so much oil in this place, you could use it to squeeze a Cadillac into a doghouse.

It is then that our server came over.  He was wearing that psychotic grin because he was stressed out.  He was running ragged, and was trying to train a new server to boot.  Poor guy.  He took our orders, and ran off again, leaving John and me unsupervised (bad idea, looking back).

Left to our own devices, John and I were observing the meeting.  We overhead that the meeting was a congressional district one, and it was indeed the Republicans.  We saw the meeting start- they said the pledge of allegiance, of course.  Then it was down to business.  I guess they save the pledge to the NRA and the ritualistic sacrifice of the Democrat for more private meetings.

As the business was conducted, we heard lots of applause and some random cheering.  I was wondering if they were giving out doorprizes.  There was even someone filming the meeting!  John and I were wondering if someone famous was going to be there, or maybe they were just waiting for the sacrifice.

So as we were dining, and enjoying the political show, another began out in the main room of the restaurant.  A family was seated at a large table- a mom-type person, a dad-type person, and two small children-type people.  Both of the children types were screaming like sirens.  The mom-type was looking around the room, shaking her head, and smiling.  In other words, she was not doing a DAMN thing and letting her spawn holler their way through my dinner.  Normally, I have no issue with kids, but when they piss me off, I start off with the dirty looks, then I revert to being my default mode, which is bitch.

Just before going to bitch gear, I noticed how one of the children was screaming.  He lying on a bench made of two chairs pushed together, with his feet kicked out and crossed out at the ankles.  His hands were crossed behind his head, looking for all the world like a relaxed kid, watching TV at home.  Instead of being quiet, though, this little shit was screaming.

For no apparent reason.

And his little brother in the high chair was matching him note for note.

And the fucktard mother was doing nothing except looking around and smiling, as if to say, “Aren’t they cute.”

I came to the conclusion that they must be Democrats, screaming because they are not getting their way and looking to someone to do everything for them.

After I composed myself (I erupted in a giggle fit), the owner came over to sit with us for a little while.  We chit chatted, and shared our observations about the politicians, pollsters, and life in general.  Another customer asked why she was not in the room with all the politicians, and she gave an awesome answer.  She mentioned that if you scratch chicken shit, it smells like chicken shit.  Overall, a great reason for staying the hell away from all the chicken shit that was oozing around in the banquet room.

The customers at the other table and I got to talking, and I mentioned about the ritual Democrat sacrifice that took place at the beginning of the meeting.  The man stated that he would not be having the chicken.  My reply was that it was no coincidence that the special tonight was meatloaf so the chicken should be OK.

We laughed some more, and then it was back to the people watching.  It was interesting watching how the people were dressed at this meeting. There was one older man who was wearing Sansabelt slacks, with a belt.  And the pants were pulled up clear to his armpits.  His teeth were also very large, and he liked to smile.  He gave the impression of a horse, wearing slacks.  Did these republicans not get the memo that the symbol for the party is an elephant?

While we were digesting (and digressing) we over head the new server complaining about how mean the owner’s son has been to her.  Now George is a nice guy, but he IS a guy.  And he is 24, making his mental age about half that.  So George can be a little mischievous when it comes to breaking in new servers.  This time, he was harassing the new girl about her most recent question of what name should she put on the time card.  Now, once explained, her question had a little more validity, but coming into the middle of the conversation, it made us wonder about her intelligence level.  Then George told us about the stunt he pulled on the poor girl.  He made her empty the hot water from the coffee pots.

Normally this would seem like a pretty regular thing to do at home.  However, for those of you who have never worked in a commercial restaurant, the water supply is hooked up to the coffee pots, so there is a constant supply of water to the pots.  Therefore, you do not need to empty the hot water.  This poor new server emptied four pots out of hot water before she smelled the rat.  This was not as bad as the last new guy, who jousted at this windmill for an hour until the owner stopped him.

John and I were next in the intelligence questioning category.  Our restaurant has a dessert case, and it is like food pornography.  It is always filled to the brim with delicious homemade goodies.  John and I thought we saw brownies in it.  We asked for a brownie for our dessert.  Chris, our poor server, came back to us with the homicidal grin in place.  There are no brownies.  We insisted there were, and he said there were not.  He brought over a tray of yellow cake slices, which looked like brownies, and made us think they were brownies, but were indeed not brownies.  It was the case of the disappearing dessert, or maybe the dessert dumbasses.

We had cake, with a side of Marie Antoinette.

While the dessert debacle took place, the meeting was still going on.  Me being me, I was thinking up ways to disrupt it.  We asked Chris if the Democrats had met here at any point.  He said no.  We were thinking about how funny it would be to walk in the middle of the meeting (after one of the bouts of seemingly random applause) and point at someone and shout, “We saw you at the Democrat meeting last week!”

At this point, we figured everyone would turn around, whip out their previously concealed weapons (remember the NRA bumper stickers) and assault the pseudo-Democrat on his way out the door.

It is at this time (after we scared our server off AGAIN for me being in yet another giggle fit) we decided that we had worn out our welcome and needed to get home.

Forget Monday night football.  I’m doing dinner at the airport!!!

Holy Shit! Snakeinmypool!

Wednesday, July 14th, 2010

Everyone is entitles to a few phobias.  I have a few, and my husband (and quite a few of my family and so-called friends) thinks they are ridiculous.  However, the one morning two of my phobias collided in a most unpleasant manner, I was curled up on the couch in a fetal position, barely refraining from screaming.

It started out as an innocuous summer Monday morning.  John and I ran the pups, and then he went to do some maintenance pool keeping.  Since I am not one to have a hand with chemicals and water, I elected to supervise.  John lifted up the pool filter cover, and saw a snake.  There was a snake in my pool filter.

A snake.

In

My

Snakeinmypool!

And it was alive.

There was a LIVE snakeinmypool.

I ran screaming into the house, leaving my brave and snake-phobia-free husband to deal with it.

Granted, it was a small snake, but it was a SNAKE.  In my POOL.  SNAKEINMYPOOL!

John said that he was just going to lift it out with the strainer and put it in the bushes.

OH HELL to the power of NO.

There will be no going from snakeinmypool to snakeinmyyard.

Even though I do love animals, I love the cute, furry, cuddly ones- not snakeinmypool.

I convinced him (read threatened) to put the snakeinmypool over the back fence, which runs alongside the frontage road of a freeway.

Which he did.  Thankfully.

However, the snakeinmypool will have me checking the filters before I get in.

In addition to the other precaution I take when I get in the pool.
I did mention I had two related phobias of the pool.  No, they are not rational ones, such as of the depth or the strainers on the ground.

My second phobia is of the pool creeper.  You know the thing that is connected to the hose that crawls around the bottom surface of the pool when the pump is on?  That thing.  I am afraid of that thing.

I do not know when or why this fear started, but I cannot get into ANY pool when the creeper is running.  Now I did not have a pool as a kid, so it could not have stemmed from some sort of backyard creeper phobia.  Luckily, I live in Arizona, where every other house has a pool, and our neighbors were cool enough to share theirs.  Thankfully, they did not have a pool creeper, so it could not have come from that.  It may have come from a party one time where not only there was a free-roaming pool creeper, there were the snake-like things on the bottom of the pool that constantly whipped around, sweeping the bottom of the pool.  That freaked me out, and I did not go into the pool.  And before I get into my own pool, I have to pull it to the side and secure it so it will not randomly creep off on its own.

That is where the pool creeper and snake phobia fears are related.  This morning, when John found the snakeinmypool, the creeper was running.  In my irrationality, I was convinced that one was related to the other.

Now that I think about it, in a somewhat more rational state of mind, I think the pool creeper reminds me of a snake, with it weird movements and sneaky, creepy locations.  Ergo, the snakes and pool creepers, to my id (or some other part of my mind- I think I slept through that day in psych 101) are one in the same.

My husband does not understand.  As we were making lunch, I was still freaking out over snakeinmypool.  He started to dance, saying it sounded like a beat to a song.  He even mocked me, saying that it was a little harmless snake, most likely more afraid of me than I was of it.

I doubt it.

Although I can now say that I have a really cool sounding phobia: Ophidiophobia.

My other really irrational phobia is of clowns.  They are just creepy.

One time, I worked for a company that had a booth at a health fair.  In order to attract people to the booth, they hired one of my fellow employees to dress up as a clown.  Granted, I knew the person behind the greasepaint and goofy clothes, and still kept my distance most of the day.  When John and I went on a cruise, I kept a wary eye on the ship’s mascot, some red v-shaped thing.  You never know where they will pop up and surprise you.  I also will not go to children’s birthday parties if there are clowns, nor will I ever hire any for my own children.

I do not understand my fear for clowns, but I do know that there are a lot of other people out there with the same fear.  There are support groups on the Internet, and even an “I Hate Clowns” page on facebook.  After googling the phrase “fear of clowns”, this is what popped on Wikipedia, “Coulrophobia is abnormal or exaggerated fear of clowns.”

Now, if a clown ever shows up carrying a pool creeper in one hand and a snake in the other, I think I will run screaming from the room and curl up on my bed in the fetal position.