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 |  My Blog....Pearls of wisdom and/or foolish mutterings.....You be the judge.... |
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A little of this, a dash of that......epic mood swings.......A LOT of foolish mutterings and occasionally a few words of wisdom. It's a crapshoot. You never know what you'll find in here... |
| I have to say I've been pretty lazy about getting the pictures uploaded that I took at Mardi Gras. I bought a new IPhone and, truth be told, I've been spending all of my time playing with my new toy. I'm the biggest electronics gadget geek ever. I have also spent a fair amount of time trying to upload the videos we took from the handy cam to my laptop and that has just been pure frustration. Seems that my Sony handycam is not compatible with my Toshiba laptop and the recommended fix on the Sony website just plain sucks and does not work. Consequently, it has been a lot more rewarding to play with my new phone than to fight with the videos. Here are a couple of shots of the floats and some strange lady in dark sunglasses. I promise to get more pics uploaded soon. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Well, I'll be darned. I have had an absolutely charming day with some of the most wonderful people. I am in Houma, Louisiana at this very moment. Hubby got a promotion, moved over to a different division within the same company and his new boss invited insisted that he attend Mardi Gras in Houma this week. The new boss is part of a crew here in Houma, whch just happens to be home to the second-largest Mardi Gras in the US, next to New Orleans. I've never, ever had a desire to go to Mardi Gras. We Texans even have our own little Mardi Gras celebration in Galveston which is just a hop, skip and a jump down the road from me, but I've never had the inclination to make that short trip down there to attend. And I certainly never entertained the idea of getting packed up and jumping in a car to drive six hours into Louisiana to "do" Mardi Gras. So, when Hubby got this promotion and very shortly thereafter announced that his new boss--who is every bit a died-in-the-wool Cajun--wanted us to drive to Houma to "find out what Mardi Gras" is all about, I was less than enthusiastic about it. But, in a calculated move to show what a supportive wife I can be, I feigned interest and dutifully packed a bag and made the trip to Houma with him on Saturday morning. Our first "official Mardi Gras" outing was less-than-promising and I was afraid we were in for a long, arduous week. Last night, we attended the Tableau which is a Louisiana version of the hoity-toity social scene where they "present the Royal Court" of Mardi Gras. It was long and strange, albeit very colorful, with unbelievably ornate costumes and much fanfare and pageantry. It lasted one and one-half hoursl, which in Tableau time is twelve hours Earth time. When we finally got out of there, I was afraid to even think about what the rest of the week might bring. I was so exhausted that I slept like the dead last night. This morning, we walked a little less than a mile from our motel to a viewing stand along the parade route, to meet up with Hubby's boss's wife and family and spend the day eating, drinking and making merry while waiting for the much-anticipated Mardi-Gras parade and the ritual throwing of the beads. This is where things began to improve exponentially. Hubby's boss's wife, Cindy, is a lovely, warm individual who embodies the term Southern hospitality. Not only that, but her children - who are not children, but young adults - were of the same ilk. Absoluely charming, well-mannered, well-spoken young people who were happy to join in the fun with their parents and other "oldsters." without a single complaint. They displayed the same Southern charm and hospitality that their mother did. We met others there, too, who were some of the most friendly and welcoming people I have ever met. By the time the parade made its way to where we were, Hubby and I felt completely at home and not at all out of place, even though this was our first time at this craziness called Mardi Gras. As the parade started, our hostess, Cindy, asked if we had a bag to collect our beads in. Hubby and I just looked at each other with faces that asked, "Beads? We need bags for beads?" Cindy scurried off to get a bag for us and came back with a bushel-size burlap sack, which she placed on a bench behind us. I looked at that bag and smiled at the "over-kill" size of it. Then the parade started. I took picture after picture, so I will be posting a lot of them once I get them uploaded. The pictures can convey so much more than I could with words, but let me just say, if you have never been to a Mardi Gras parade, get thee to one as soon as possible. In Louisiana, if at all possible. I don't know when I've had so much fun. And that burlap bag, well, let's just say that I couldn't lift it by the time it was all over. I could go home to Houston and open a Mardi Gras bead store. I'm completely exhausted from all the fun we had today and I'm going to finish this entry and take a nap. But there is another parade on Tuesday - the BIG parade! And I will be there with my burlap bag ready for another haul, dancing and singing along with everyone else. You'll have to excuse me for now. I have to rest up for tomorrow. No telling what kind of shenanigans these crazy Louisianans have planned for tomorrow. I can hardly wait! |
My name buddy Special Kay  wrote a blog a couple of days ago about her grandmother catching a chipmunk in a Doritos bag. If you haven't read it, well you need to skeedaddle on over there and read it because it's hilarious. The other reason I mention it is because it reminded me of something that happened at our house once that I still laugh about. So, of course I have to tell you about it. It was summer time, and all of the kids were home. This was when they were all much younger. We had a gorgeous Russian Blue cat name Skitty who was the most laid-back cat you ever saw. When anyone sat down for any length of time, Skitty would jump up in your lap and before long, he would literally drape himself around your neck. He would sit right on your chest and curl his back and front legs (I almost said legs and arms!) around your neck. I always said he made himself into a fur cat. Get it? A fur CAT. Well, I thought it was hilarious. Anyway, since he was so laid back, I decided to have a little fun with him. I got a WalMart bag (those things have a million uses, believe me. Just wait, you'll see,) and I put him in the bag and he just layed in there all calm and let me carry him around in there. It was really cool. No, really, it was. My youngest daughter, Kristen, was in the bathroom during all this fun and frivolity so she hadn't seen Skitty in the bag. My boys and my oldest daughter and I were yucking it up and all of a sudden, I heard Kristen coming out of the bathroom. So I speedy-quick shushed everyone up and whispered to them, "Watch this." When Kristen came out of the bathroom, I walked over to her and gave her the bag, saying, "Kristen, I got you something at WalMart." She took the bag and somehow in the exchange, Skitty got a little riled up and started squirming around in the bag just about the time that Kristen got a good grip on it. Her eyes got huge and she held that bag out from her body like she wasn't sure if she had seen (or felt) what she thought she did. She was just staring at it, when all of a sudden, Skitty decided he'd had enough of the bag. He started squirming around for real, Kristen screamed like a wet cat (kind of appropriate, I thought) and dropped the bag. Did you know that even when cats are in a WalMart bag, if you drop them, they still land on their feet? Well, they do. I was laughing hysterically,along with the other three kids. In fact, I was so caught up in laughing that I almost didn't see Kristen coming after me with murder in her eyes. Luckily, I snapped before she got to me and made good with my escape. I kind of had to hide out the rest of the day from Kristen, but she eventually forgave me, even if she never found it as freakin' funny as I did. It's still a favorite family story to tell at family gatherings. That brings me to one more cat story. We had a part Siamese, part I-don't-even-know-what-but-he-was-very-fluffy cat named Solomon for many years. We got him when the kids were all little, so he was ...err...uh...he was used to being a prank cat. Unfortunately, I wasn't home for this caper, but I can still tell it like I was there. I don't know who got the idea, but someone decided it would be a good idea to put a strapless bra on the cat. Obviously, they had to wrap it around a couple of times to hook it. I mean, he was fluffy, but he wasn't that fluffy. Needless to say, Solomon did not like wearing a strapless bra. He went tearing around the house trying to get that thing off of him. The kids were chasing him, trying to catch him and get the bra off, but he was pretty wily. Someone opened the front door - I can't say why. Maybe they were afraid of getting clawed or something. But Solomon shot out that door for all he was worth and he didn't come back until much later that day. Without the bra. Maybe his cat friends helped him get it off or maybe he rolled around in the field until it came off, but he escaped from it somehow. It was my oldest daughter's bra and I can tell you she was not happy that Solomon lost her bra. We don't have any cats now. The cat union probably put the word out about us or something. But man, cats can be a lot of fun. |
| I'm conflicted. My son has come back to the fold. He has blogged two days in a row. I'm trying to contain my excitement to keep from jinxing it. This kid (well, he's a kid to me - he's actually a "grown-ass man", as he puts it - he's 24) anyway, he has a killer sense of humor. He apparently also has an extremely out-of-control imagination, given the nature of his blog this morning. He once wrote of his blog as a nagging girlfriend, and then qualified that with "to make it even worse, my mom likes her." Now that kind of imagination I can go with. But he's gone too far this morning. I think I may have to drive over there and slap a knot on his head. Nevertheless, my mom-pride gets the best of me, so here's a link to his blog. Check him out. PS He's the owner of the adorable Chocolate Lab I write about sometimes. Maybe he should write about Maverik instead of his mom. (hint, hint, Eli) |
| I can't keep quiet any longer. I'll probably get in trouble for this, but I've never been one to shy away from controversy. I am compelled to write about a little-known tragedy of Hurricane Ike. I've held my virtual tongue as long as possible and now the words must come tumbling out. Bear with me as I set the stage. Anyone who has ever lived in or around the Houston area is familiar with our infamous flying tree roaches. Yes, that's right, I said flying roaches. It's not just a catchy name, either. They actually do fly. My first experience with said flying roaches was over twenty years ago, when we had only been in Houston for a very short time - a few months, at most. Hubby and I had finally wrangled all four of our very rambunctious children into their respective beds and had settled down in the living room to watch the latest episode of Wiseguy. (Great series, especially Season One - Sonny Steelgrave and the Mob - Ray Sharkey and Ken Wahl - man! good stuff! PS Contrary to a popular rumor going around several years ago, Ken Wahl is alive and well, just in case you were wondering) But, I digress. Hubby and I were snuggled together on our garage-sale purchased couch, with all the lights off, watching Ken Wahl and Ray Sharkey on our Sears 19 inch television. I caught a glimpse of something in my peripheral vision, but was too caught up in Ken Wahl's simmering sexuality to pay much attention, so I ignored it. A few minutes later, a roach roughly the size of my Toyota Tercel clumbsily flew across the room, this time right in front of Ken Wahl in all his 19" glory (Get your minds out of the gutter - I'm talking about the size of the television! Sheesh!) I started ducking and weaving like a crazed woman. "What was that?!" I screamed. Turns out it was my first encounter with a genuine, welcome-to-Houston, flying tree roach. Flash forward twenty-plus years. Flying roaches have now become just another of life's minor inconveniences after having lived among them all this time. Over time, one learns that they are particularly bad when it rains and how much of a necessity screens are for all windows. Of course, no one in Houston ever raises their windows because it's too damn hot here to have open windows, screens or no screens. With one notable exception - after a hurricane has come through and obliterated the electricity grids so that 90% of the greater Houston area is without power - in the middle of freakin' hot summer when it's boiling hot and the humidity is even worse than its usual 90% because a hurricane has just barrelled through dumping tons of water everywhere. You may remember that my house was not in the mandatory evacuation zone, but the houses of all three of my children living in this area were indeed in said mandatory evacuation zones. So, everyone was bunched up in my small house like sardines. With no power. With the windows open. With a huge maple tree out front. Screens on all the windows, but not on the doors, which were standing open in a (fruitless) effort to create a draft. Hubby was prepared with two generators, but during the day, he used them to run our two refrigerators and one freezer. At night, we huddled in a couple of rooms and ran window A/C units so we could sleep without the sweltering heat. All of the preceeding fancy talk has been leading up to this. Here is where the tragedy comes in. Are you ready for it? One of my son-in-laws (who shall remain nameless the same way they do rape victims to protect their privacy, okay?) was snoozing away when suddenly he was awakened by the most hideous feeling of something crawling into his ear. My daughter said he jumped up out of bed and started banging on his ear, screaming, "Get out!" When I got up the next morning, my son had a pair of tweezers digging away at NAME WITHHELD's ear, trying to remove the bug, which we all eventually started calling Doug. They had already poured peroxide, alcohol and God-only-knows what else in his ear in an attempt to flush it out, to no avail. My son was able to dislodge a leg or two and remove them, so even though we knew what we were dealing with, it was burrowed far enough down in there that it couldn't be seen by the naked eye. NAME WITHHELD went to an urgent care clinic when some of them finally opened back up after the hurricane. They tried flushing Doug (the bug) out with gallons of water over a span of an hour and a half until finally my son-in-law was hurting so much from the treatment that he left there with Doug still in residence. After a while, his ear stopped hurting from the treatment at the urgent care clinic and he decided to leave well enough alone, assuming Doug would disintegrate and wash out in the shower over time. Not so. Apparently Doug was quite the burrower. Recently, NAME WITHHELD started having pain in his ear and trouble hearing, so he made an appointment with an ENT (Ear, Nose and Throat) doctor. This doctor, who was obviously a REAL doctor, as opposed to the doctor at the urgent care clinic, used suction and very long tweezers to finally evict Doug from his cozy home in NAME WITHHELD's ear canal. So, now Doug is gone, or, as my daughter likes to say, "Doug is not bugging NAME WITHHELD anymore." Except she uses his real name. NAME WITHHELD's, not Doug. We don't know Doug's real name. We only know that he was one of those damnable welcome-to-Houston flying tree roaches. Ewwwwww. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the REST of the story. |
| Remember how I went on and on a while back about finally getting all the paperwork to the lawyers so they could draw up the final accounting to send to the judge for approval so I could FINALLY, after one, two, three, FOUR long years get my dad's estate closed out? Well, that was just the first step, it seems. The second step has been getting those *&%^$ lawyers off their $200/hr butts to do their part. I was as nice as I could be for as long as possible, but I finally was forced to morph into Super Bitch. Seems that is the only thing they respond to. So, on Monday of this week, I waged a phone call and email campaign that I'm sure could win some kind of prize for Most Obnoxious if there was such a contest. It worked though. I actually received an email yesterday and one this morning FROM my lawyer that did not come on the heels of pestering and threats and whining on my part. Apparently the Final Accounting is "this close" to completion, along with the pleading to the judge for acceptance of the accounting and an order releasing me from the stupid bond that ate up $5000. additional dollars from the estate, not to mention the enormous fees I paid to the lawyers. (I should enter that sentence in a "Longest Sentence in the World" contest.) After all of the aggravation and irritation and just plain old bull@$#* I've gone through getting the estate to this point, I'm just holding my breath hoping that idiot judge in the town where my dad lived doesn't pull some last-minute shenanigans. If I can actually be done with this whole chapter of my life sometime this month, I will be the happiest, most grateful person you have ever seen. The real irony of all of this hullaballoo is that the pittance left in the estate account won't even be enough to cover all of the expenses I've incurred trying to settle the damn thing. I'll be happy if I recoup the lawyer fees. Mostly, I'll just be happy to be done with it. One good thing that seems to have come from this is that now, four years down the road, I have stopped receiving phone calls from Dad's widow and her wretched sons. In fact, it's been well over a year since I heard from any of them. That alone is cause for rejoicing. I must admit to being a little nervous with the end in sight, that they might crawl out of the woodwork and start harrassing me once again. Hopefully they (the sons) have come to the realization that it was their mother's greedy machinations that allowed my dad's business (which was the only real money in the estate) to be stolen away by the small-town bank. There are a lot of people making money from that business, but none of them are members of Dad's family. My only consolation is that his widow and her greedy sons didn't get a dime from it. The whole affair did provide me with excellent fodder for my novel. Truth really is stranger than fiction, but it can easily be adapted to fiction, I've found. It's quite good therapy, too, especially when I hold the fate of all the characters in my hands. Oh, the things I have learned! I take solace in the fact that I have emerged on the other side of this life-changing, mind-blowing event wiser and stronger. So much has changed in the last four years. There was a time when I wasn't sure I would make it through this intact. But, here I am. And it's true - that which doesn't kill you, really does only make you stonger. |
| Some days, it just isn't worth chewing through the restraints. I read those words on a refrigerator magnet at my daughter's house yesterday. She has had that magnet for a long time, but it's on the side of the fridge, not the front, so I don't notice it all that often. But every time I do, it makes me laugh al over again and, for some reason, those words seem to stick with me for several days afterward. Maybe because I relate to them so well. Yesterday was the perfect day to read that magnet. In fact, when I saw it, I thought to myself, No kidding! There was never any shortage of drama in the family I grew up in. It was a special kind of crazy - the kind you know intuitively is not just your average brand of dysfuncton. Even as a child, I was certain of that. But the only frame of reference I had other than my own twisted family, was Donna Reed or Father Knows Best or Leave It to Beaver. I didn't want Ward and June Cleaver for parents, and Donna Reed - not so much, but the dad on Father Knows Best who called his daughter 'Kitten'? Yep, that's the tv parent I wanted as my very own. Somehow, I could never imagine my dad morphing into that dad and calling me 'Kitten' and, sure enough, I was right, but it didn't keep me from wishing. I was pretty sure those TV families never had all the drama we did. Not even the Cleaver family, even with that twisted friend, Eddie Haskell. I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that Eddie's family was a lot like mine. Yep, there was a reason we never saw them. I'm thinking that what my family needed was some really great refigerator magnets. It could have made all the difference. For my mother: Being unstable and bitchy is all part of my mystique. I used to care, but now I take a pill for that. And last, but certainly not least: How beautiful it is to do nothing... and then rest afterwards. For my dad: How about a nice cup of Shut the Hell Up? I'm only sarcastic when I speak. Do I look like a people person to you? At least then my brother and I would have known right up front what we were dealing with. There's a lot to be said for refrigerator magnets. |
| For the last two nights, I have taken Tylenol PM to help me sleep. Holy crap! Apparently it's been so long since I took any that I completely forgot the TOTALLY FREAKING BIZARRE dreams it causes me to have. My dream factory was on overdrive and I woke up this morning with the following thought in my head: Where the heck did that come from? Dream A: I was traveling the world visiting shopping malls in different countries - but only countries with a history of violence, like car-bombings and such. My companion was a recently widowed woman (her husband died in a bombing at the first mall I visited in my dream - he was incredibly good-looking, BTW.) Evidently, this new friend of mine was able to put aside her grief in order to accompany me on my round-the-world shopping excursion. We weren't able to get any shopping done, though, because bombs kept exploding at each mall we went to.(I hate when that happens.) She and I spent most of our time running away from explosive devices cleverly disguised as large green Rubbermaid containers, sound systems and, last but not least, plain black boxes. My friend and I were able to recognize the bombs at each mall, although we were apparently the only mall-goers with that ability. She was very trendy and had great shoes. Dream B: I was in New York (minus my mall-hopping friend) working at the American Embassy. Yes, I know there is no need for an American Embassy on American soil. Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just telling you what I dreamed. Now, back to my dream--as I said, I was working at the American Embassy in New York. Three women came to see me--an incredibly old Russian woman by the name of Anna, who only spoke Russian, and her two daughters. They were looking for the Russian embassy, which I wasn't familiar with. My boss called while I was talking to the Russian women, who I off-handedly mentioned to him, referring to Anna by name. He started speaking in a quiet voice and told me that I had two choices: one--send the women on their way and forget I ever saw them; or two--warn them the Russian authorities were looking for Anna and risk raising the ire of said Russian authorities. While I was debating what to do, the women walked out on to the street where they were immediately apprehended by a brigade of goose-stepping Russian soldiers (am I mixing up my cultures here or did the Russian army march in goose-step fashion like the German army did? Whatever.) bearing guns with bayonets and lead by a man wearing a Papal robe and a Beaver-fur hat straight out of Dr. Zhivago. The Dr. Zhivago/Pope guy arrested Anna (the old woman--try to keep up, okay?) and proceeded to beat the living crap out of her, while her daughters stood by smiling smugly. Then, a woman walked up and slapped the daylights out of her and told her not to ever step foot on Cuban soil. WTF? Dream C: Still in New York, in this dream, I was on vacation there. I was staying at an old hotel run by a big, tough, leathery old guy with a heart of gold. Guess who was one of his permanent tenants? That's right - Anna, the ancient Russian woman, who had recovered from her beating by Dr. Zhivago/Pope guy, but still had the beating-induced limping gait. There were a lot of mice in the hotel, but Ancient Russian Woman's kitchen was immaculate and I wondered how she kept the mice out of her apartment. I was about to cook dinner in her kitchen, but couldn't find the pans I needed, so I decided not to cook. Next, I discovered that this hotel was the setting for a popular reality show with a really catchy name that I wish I could remember. Just before I woke up, I had purchased a $20 camera to take pictures with, only to discover that my cheap camera had a video feature and I had unwittingly filmed my entire time there. I was a little worried about Anna appearing on film and I felt stupid because I hadn't realized my camera had a video feature. Then I woke up. I just laid there in my bed for a few minutes with a WTF look on my face. Then I came to my senses and got out of bed as fast as I could, before another dream could overtake me! GOOD MORNING, AMERICA! ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Will somebody please shoot me and put me out of my misery? I have spent the last two days fielding calls about a car we are trying to sell. It's the last car from our completely misguided (and when I say misguided, I mean STUPID) attempt at buying used cars at an auction and selling them for a profit. Not one of our brighter moments. So, after many agonizing months, we finally have only one of those damnable vehicles left to get rid of. I posted an ad on Craigslist yesterday and started receiving phone calls within fifteen minutes. It's amazing how many people who are looking for a car on Craigslist have a "mother/sister/wife/grandmother/daughter who has just been diagnosed with cancer and is being treated at MD Anderson" and that is the reason they can't pay what I am asking for the car. Or even anywhere near my asking price. Curious. My ad was very specific with lots of information AND pictures. This is not my first rodeo, folks. I've sold enough of these #@%^& cars over the last two years, that I know every question potential buyers are going to ask, so I make sure that I put all that info in my ad. AND pictures. Still, the typical phone call goes like this: Caller: Hi, I'm calling about the Honda del Sol you posted on Craigslist. Me: Yes? Caller: What year is it? Me: 93 Caller: It's a Honda del Sol? Me: Yes Caller: How much do you want for it? Me: $1500 Caller: I only have $450. Me: ...... Caller: Can you take $450. Me: No Caller: It's a 93? Del Sol? Me: Yes Caller: My mother has cancer. She's being treated at MD Anderson and I really need a car. Me: I'm sorry to hear that. Caller: So how much do you want? Me: $1500. Caller: You won't take $450? This conversation is repeated with unbelievable frequency all day long until finally, I snap. The next caller gets this: Caller: I'm calling about the---- Me: Yes, the del Sol. Do you want to see it? Caller: What year--- Me: It's a '93, just like it says in the ad. Do you want to see it? Caller: How much will--- Me: $1500 - it's in the ad. Caller: My sister has--- Me: Save it, buddy. Call me back when you're serious. CLICK So, I changed my ad - took the phone number out, so they have no choice but to contact me via email through Craigslist. The very first email I get says, "You forgot to put your phone number in the ad. How much will you take for the car? I only have $1000 because my grandmother has cancer. Call me at XXX-XXX-XXXX." I'm waiting for the one that says, "I really like this car, but I don't have any money. I knew someone once who had a mother who had cancer. Will you just give me the car for free?" |
| I only have a couple of things to say tonight - really quick before the blog police show up on my doorstep and demand that I make an entry. I hate when that happens. I feel so violated. I want Tor to hurry up and get back here where he belongs. I have a great "oxymoron" story to tell him. It's too good to hold on to, though,so I simply must tell you all. I was in my local WalMart the other day and got held up by the Basket Nazi - you know the one. She stands at the door and checks your basket on the way out, then draws the official yellow highlighter line on your receipt. Yep, that's the one. This particular Basket Nazi does her job with great zeal. Mind you, I am in there practically every other day, so she is accustomed to seeing me. Unlike a lot of other sneaky WalMart patrons who try to scurry past her as she is checking someone else's basket, I always roll my cart up beside her with my arm extended, holding my receipt out for her perusal. I get my standard yellow mark and I am on my way. Bada bing, bada bang. Yeah, well not so the day my son was with me. He bought a giant-size bag of dog food for his giant-size dog and obviously, there are no WalMart bags that will accomodate giant-size bags of dog food. He's young and he couldn't care less about his receipt, so he didn't grab it after he checked out. I knew we were in trouble when we approached the door and I saw Basket Nazi standing there. Sure enough, she held out her hand like a stop sign (completely unnecessary, since I ALWAYS stop for her, but whatever.) She took my receipt and scrutinized it like she was looking for weapons of mass destruction on there. Then she wanted to know why the dog food wasn't on there. My son piped up and told her it was his and he didn't get his receipt. Sorry for the inconvenience, yadda, yadda. Basket Nazi then tells him, "well, I have to have it." So I stood there blocking traffc, while my son went in search of his receipt, which he did not find, because I'm sure whoever was behind us in line accidentally grabbed it along with their receipt. Finally, he comes walking back to the doorway that I am blocking with Basket Nazi and tells her that he can't find it - it's gone. She says, "Okay then, go ahead." Well,that was nice and pointless. I guess she figured that since I didn't try to make a run for it with the receiptless bag of dog food, we must have actually paid for it. My son wanted to go back and ask her if 50 pound bags of dog food were high theft items. I wouldn't let him. I said, "Just be glad you didn't buy forks too or she would have never let us go." I mean, you have to know if you see someone leaving with a 50 pound bag of dog food and some forks that they are indeed stealing the dog food and are on there way to their car to chow down on that dog food. However, that's not the oxymoron part. While I was waiting there for my son to traipse half a mile to the register where we checked out, I noticed that there was a sign tacked up on the closet door behind Basket Nazi. It had obviously been made and printed on a computer printer. This is what it said: INCLIMATE WEATHER CLOSET 1)umbrella bags 2)umbrellas 3)rain hats yadda, yadda, yadda They should not let people print signs unless they are sure they know how to spell the words they will be using. I was in there again today and it's still there. Nice. Did any of you see the movie "Napoleon Dynamite"? And if you didn't, why not? It's hilarious. Those of you who haven't seen it should just skip this next part because you won't get it: I have chapped lips and all I've been able to think about all day long is, "My lips hurt real bad." In the Napoleon voice, of course. Webster's Dictionary defines drivel thusly: to talk stupidly and carelessly. I ask you, is not the title for this entry spot-on perfect? |
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I'm so far right the Tea Party looks like a bunch of hippies!
