Flat Tire Relived

After a very nice, not nearly long enough holiday weekend, I was forced to come back home and get back into reality and the working world.

I headed home Sunday afternoon, and was that a flippin' nightmare. A drive that would normally be a little bit over two hours took me five. Traffic was terrible...honestly, I haven't seen traffic like that in the middle of the mountains in PA in years. And years. When I finally got to within an hour of home, my type of luck proved overpoweringly strong and vengeful. I believe that the luck gods looked down on my very happy weekend and said, “enough! No! Too much!” and shot a lightning bolt from the sky with bad aim (I think the luck gods might get a little tipsy on football Sunday too). On one hand, I could feel blessed as I wasn't struck down by their fury, but I don't...my poor tire took the wrath of their fury and decided at 75 miles an hour to go flat.

This is my third flat tire in two months. These are really expensive tires. This does not please me. (And that is also a story for another time).

With no other option, I pulled over along the side of I80 and called AAA (I hate changing a tire at the side of a highway). AAA told me it would take about an hour to get a truck out to me. I decided I wasn't that opposed to changing a tire at the side of the road after all. After a fun filled weekend of shopping, my trunk was loaded...I mean PACKED. I had to take bags, boxes, and bottles and for all that mattered at that point, a fully grown live unicorn out of the trunk and move it all to my back seat so I could get to my spare. I thought that surely after doing that that the truck would show up to tow me, and I would have to hit him repeatedly with a candle or something now in my back seat. Mr. Unknown Truck driver doesn't know how lucky he was that he didn't. I got the tire and all the fun stuff out and started getting the lug nuts off of the tire. I got stuck on the last one. Couldn't budge that bastard to save my life. After screaming and yelling and cursing up a blind streak that would make a trucker blush, and throwing a tantrum to rival that of most two year olds, I was saved by an angel in a Steelers sweatshirt and a van. This non associated with AAA man pulled over in front of me and the following conversation took place--

non-AAA angel man, “do you need some help with that miss?”

crazed woman at the side of the road with gravel in her hair from a tantrum (now known as crazed woman), “depends, you an axe murderer?” (A girl can never be too safe)

non-AAA angel man, “ummm”, visible confusion, “no.”

crazed woman, “in that case, yes, yes I do.”

Non-AAA angel man proceeds to change my tire. I loved him and would have bore his children at that point.

When he was nearly done, he finally looked at me and asked, “what would you have done if I told you I was an axe murderer?” I told him that I figure if he gave me the opportunity to ask, that I would have asked to hold his axe until he was finished with the tire and safely back in his own vehicle and rolling away. He laughed, I thanked him profusely, and he got back into his vehicle and drove away without putting an axe into my brain.

I managed to go the 50 or so miles to home on a donut tire with out incident except for a number of asses who kept riding my bumper and flashing their high beams because they apparently don't know that 4 ways blinking means hey, I'm having some kind of issue here that is forcing me to drive slower than I want to. I imagine some jackass finally passed me screaming about the dumb broad driving down the road with both turn signals on who can't drive for shit.

The events of the night sent me off to days gone by...right to a night that brought to me another flat tire.

I was dating a very nice guy, Shawn, who had a dickhead of a roommate, Jamie. Jamie has nothing whatsoever to do with this story, but he was a dickhead and it makes me feel good to say that to this day. Haha.

The night I was reliving was a warm evening 10 or 12 years ago. Shawn and I had a date and he was taking me to State College. This was well before the new highway was built and those of you from the area will remember what the road between Altoona and State College was like at that point. When we were far enough along the road to be nowhere, we got a flat. There we were stuck, me in a skirt and top, him in khaki's and a nice shirt. Not a cell phone to be had(of course, I don't remember many of us having cell phones back then), no light to be found, but plenty of muck and mud. I slipped and skinned my knee in my frenzy to not get dirt on my clothes as he was pulling the spare from the trunk. He stopped what he was doing to clean me up with a bottle of water and a towel, which may have been when he realized he was going to be filthy trying to pull this one off, so he took his shirt off to change the tire. There we were...a match made in heaven...me bloody and muddy, him shirtless and well, hot.

But for one little problem...he couldn't get one lugnut loose. He fought and sweated, I made an attempt to help, and it wasn't going to move. Just as we had given up hope and decided we were going to be forced to brave the wilderness, a van pulled over in front of us and asked if we needed help. Shawn thanked him and he walked back to us which was when I noticed the man didn't have a hand. He had a hook. I swear to all that is holy he had a HOOK! Not only did he have a hook, he had a number or pipes and poles in the back of his van he used as leverage to get that bolt undone because he couldn't move it either. With his hook. Though I was mildly freaked out...dark night, lonely road, injured girl, and a shirtless guy when suddenly out of the blue the hook man shows up to help...I never once thought to ask him if he was an ax murderer. Never even crossed my mind. You would think that if ever I were to ask a person, “hey, are you an ax murderer?” that it would be the man with the hook hand. But no. Not in my little world. I ask the guy who shows up in a Steelers sweatshirt. I've decided that I am going to blame the movie I Know What You Did Last Summer. It wasn't released until some time after that evening.

Sadly, the date never did happen that night. We turned around and grabbed a pizza and drank our sorrows away.

I haven't thought about that night in quite some time. I hope he hasn't found himself stranded in a similar situation since. The next hook man might just be a crazed killer. I'd like for him to be safe and happy today.

Get me out of this!

I've told you before that I learned the hard way to take my own vehicle on first dates. It was a lesson I had to learn repeatedly, but the third time (with the Snorter) it finally sunk in.

I'm here to tell you about lesson one. Why this didn't teach me is beyond me to this day. But I'm rather gullible, so I should probably count my blessings that I learned the third time.

If I remember correctly, I was about 20 or 21 when a dear friend who I love dearly to this day decided to set me up on a blind date. She informed me that he was a good friend and that he was completely date-able.

In her defense though, she probably had a few screws loose. I think that's what bonded us...our loose screws complimented each other perfectly. A perfect example of that would be the night we were out partying all night, and at about 6:00 am we were getting ready to call it quits. As we're driving down the road, some perverted old man started making obscene gestures at us, while he followed every turn we made. We knew we didn't want him to know where either of us lived, so we kept driving until we ended up at Sheetz with him in tow. I guess we figured if it was a public location we were safe. We were wrong. He pulled in right next to us, and continued with his disgusting self. I rolled the window down and asked him if he had a problem with lesbians. He just about burst an artery telling me no he didn't but he'd love to watch. She in turn went apeshit. Started screaming at him like a maniac telling him if he thought it was ok to talk to her woman like that she's show him what it means to be ashamed of what was between his legs. By the time she was done with him, I'm relatively certain his penis turned inside out (or outside in??) and is probably still trembling to this day. Ladies, I assure you, there is one less man out there sticking his tongue between his fingers because of her. But I digress.

My dear friend hooked me up with Eric Doe (name changed to protect the guilty...ahhh..who am I kidding, I practiced forgetting his name because I was so mortified by this date). We spoke on the phone a few times and he seemed nice enough. We finally set a date and he was taking me to the Olive Garden for dinner. He pulled up in a car that screams, “I am overcompensating for my small penis” and got out to open the door for me. Because she didn't give me a description of him, I had to go by his word. His word was that he was 5'11 and 190 pounds. He was wrong. Mind you, I was 5'7 and approximately 140 pounds at the time, yet next to him I was an amazon. Giving a little bit because I had heels on, he was lucky if he was 5'7 and was even luckier if he weighed 120 soaking wet. I immediately thought, “how in God's name do I get out of this?!” I could only think to offer him an out. I looked at him and pleaded, “well, this looks like your last chance to back out.” I thought the trembling in my voice would continue the thought with please, please, please. But I was wrong. I learned later he apparently mistook that tremble as anticipation for a night of mind bending sex. Unfortunately.

Unable to come up with anything to get me out of the date, I was forced by sheer lack of a backbone into the car.

To the Olive Garden we drove. We didn't wait long for a table, and the waitress was right there to serve us. Of course, as is normal in the Olive Garden, she had a bottle of wine at the ready and poured us both a sample. I am no wine connoisseur by any means; I know what kind of wine to serve with what food, and what kind of wine I like. Ask me to detect notes and tones and whatever other terms are used in describing wine and I'm lost. He on the other had tasted it and announced, "That ain't no white zinfandel"(for the record it was red wine), started going on and on about wine in such a fashion that I was both impressed and confused. I thought maybe there was hope yet. He understood something I didn't. That he understood white and red wines were very different. That thought did not last long primarily because he ended this long winded wine talk with, “you know, this is like my favorite wine is whatever blah blah brand that comes in the big box.” I was mortified because we had been given red wine and he was talking about a boxed white. I looked at the waitress who I think was wearing the same shade of confusion as was I and said to her, “yeah, I prefer my wine in a keg so I can just lay under the tap.” She got the sarcasm and I think nearly choked on her tongue trying not to laugh. He did not understand the sarcasm I discovered when he looked at me and asked, “they have wine in kegs?” At that point the waitress excused herself, I would imagine to stop herself from peeing her pants in public. I on the other hand was trapped. My escape came in the form of burying myself in the menu. I opted for chicken marsala. He ordered enough food to feed an army.

Once the food was ordered and my comfort level had nearly hit rock bottom, he made an attempt at conversation. Sadly, conversation is not a good word for what happened as he immediately started quoting every sex line from Austin Powers. Honestly, once you realize a guy has lied to you drastically about his appearance, and believes boxed wine to be the best out there, you sort of figure it can't get much worse. Oh, but it can. He can start quoting Austin Powers. Loudly. For others to hear. Leaving one to think, I could have faked death. “DO YOU WANNA SHAG, BABY” or death? Death, please.

As dinner is served and Austin goes away, I think to myself surely the worst has passed.

I will tell you now, never EVER think that. Ever.

Once our plates were in place, and his mountain of food was falling off of the table, he decided to eat mine instead. Before I had even had a bite, he was forking my mushrooms and announced, “you know mushrooms are an aphrodisiac, (quote Austin) Yeah, Baby” and I lost my appetite. As I pushed food around my plate, he found “yeah, baby” to be the perfect segway to start whining at length about his ex. In fact, the remainder of the dinner conversation was focused on his ex. I excused myself at one point to go to the bathroom and discovered that he must have been the only person in the restaurant who didn't pick up on my discomfort. Half of the couple at the table next to us had followed me back to ask me if I would like a ride out of there. Stupidly, I did not take them up on the offer, but did thank them kindly and went back to what had become self imposed punishment. The conversation about his ex continued, and I finally asked him “why don't you call her?” I did not add please, please, please, but maybe he picked up on it that time because when our waitress came to offer us dessert he declined without consulting me, asked for the check, and got us to the car in a heartbeat, whereupon he drove across the parking lot to the payphone and called his ex. He was nice enough to make sure I was ok with it as he was getting out of the car and digging change out of his pocket. I assured him I was and as soon as his back was turned, I made my escape. I dodged and darted my way across the parking lot, hiding behind and below as many vehicles as possible until I had escaped his view and walked home through the woods. In three inch heels.

I went to bed that night swearing I would never again go on a blind date. (I lied to myself)

I did fall asleep rather early, but my phone started ringing around 2:30am and I was dumb enough to wake up and answer it thinking that it was possibly my friend calling to see how things went. It wasn't. It was the last person I expected to hear from. It was him. He was very drunk and after lamenting about his ex standing him up he wanted to know if I wanted to come over so “we could get to know each other better”. I told him I didn't think he was done knowing his ex and hung up.

I think he called a few times after that, but if you can believe it, I played dead every time his number popped up.

Shocking, I know. How could I have let a catch like that slip through my fingers?!?!

Moral of the story: If perfect strangers realize you are having such a terrible date that they offer you a ride home, take it. I assure you, even if they plan on drugging you and making you their sex slave, I think that would be less brutal that sitting through an evening with the likes of him.

late night shakes

There comes a time in life you realize you might just have to accept your place in the big scheme of things. I've never been sure of my place; that's in part because I've had so many roles.

In grade school, I was the the outcast. I think I was even an outcast to the other outcast. I don't think I ever understood why. But, at some point I went from having a few friends to everyone making fun of me as often as possible. Even one of the teachers...a nun no less...never passed on the opportunity to make me feel as small as possible in front of as many people as she could. So, I was awkward, introverted, and maybe a little strange because I never felt like I fit in.

In junior high, I was awkward for a bit, then realized the stigma that followed me through grade school was suddenly gone and I actually had friends. I was happy, had fun, and was probably still a little weird from time to time. Haha

High school came and somehow I turned into the almost horrible wild child who skipped more school than not. I definitely did a lot of things that I would choke a child for now. Whatever possessed me to get loaded and hitchhike to Pittsburgh is beyond me to this day, but hey, I made it and wasn't brutally murdered so I call it a win. Skipped a lot of school, made more friends and somehow managed to become a scape goat for horrible things someone else would do. (There's a funny story there...one night I was hanging out with my usual group and suddenly the crazy bitch in our group grabbed me and announced she was going to kick my ass because I'd slept with her friends boyfriend...I was completely shocked because the friend was freaking out like a nutcase and we were all trying to figure out why until this point. Even more shocking was the fact that the crazy bitch was the one who had been sleeping with her friends boyfriend. Rather than saying that though, I reverted to the nervous child and couldn't say boo. It makes me laugh now because I ran into the girlfriend of the guy a couple of years ago when I went back to Altoona and she went apeshit again when she saw me. Because she wouldn't stop running her mouth I felt a little spiteful and said to her I wonder who he made scream louder...me or crazy bitch...that's right it was crazy bitch. Didn't calm her down at all, but it was funny. Who holds on to a grudge that long?! Really!?)

Just out of high school, I finally came into myself, was smokin' hot for a bit, probably (ok, definitely) did more things that I would choke a child for today and started hanging out with a bunch of gay men and wondered why even though I felt my best ever I could never find a man. Could it be because they were all gay? Hmm, yep, some of us are a little slow on the uptake I guess. But, I started getting myself together and my level of weird had finally become socially acceptable. I still partied, and even started partying with non gay men and women and the love life did perk up a bit, but I apparently got the worst of it out of me in high school.

I realized after a stunt I pulled the other day that I just have to hike my drawers up and accept that I will probably always be a little left of center. There will always be that grade school outcast left in me, and I shall embrace her, because honestly, when you look at some of the things I do, I really don't have a choice in the matter.

I had gone to dinner with a friend and while we were eating he started talking about the coffee shakes at Wendy's. I had a long drive home, and was getting sleepy and craving something sweet, and couldn't get the stupid shakes out of my head. I stopped at the first Wendy's that lit up the night sky and ordered the frosty-icino or something like that. The order was placed without a problem, and I pulled around to the window and the kid handed out my shake and took my money. If you have never had one of these things, they come with the domed lid with the huge hole in it like the ones that came with the icee's from way back. It's a frosty with whipped cream and chocolate syrup filling the dome. I don't know what came over me when that kind handed me that shake. But once he had my money in hand and I had shake in mine, an urge so strong came over me that I wasn't even given a chance to think. Rather than opening the straw and drinking this thing like a normal person would, I wrapped my lips around the hole of the dome and started sucking the whipped cream out and made a sound that went something like “nyum, nyum, nyumnyumnyumnyumnyum” while I bobbed my head from shoulder to shoulder.

I was completely oblivious to anything else until I glanced to the side and saw the poor drive through guy staring at me, dumbfounded, with my change at the ready. He never said a word, I looked around, and said, “oh, I guess you need me to move” and grabbed my change out of his paralyzed hand. It wasn't until I pulled ahead and made an attempt to repeat what I had just done that I realized just how ridiculous that scene must have been. I had an overwhelming urge to go back and blame the guy I had just had dinner with for the incident; if I could have found a way to make that logical, I would have.

I'm sure he's over the trauma and is still making fun of me with his friends at this point, so it seems I've come full circle. I think I've found my place in the world. Here's to you drive through guy for being too stunned to laugh while I was sitting there. You're a good boy.

My advice. Don't indulge a craving late in the evening when you are dead tired and probably a little loopy from a drive that is just a bit too long.

I hugged my dogs today

I hugged my dogs today. With everything in me, I hugged them and told them how much I love them. I let them jump on me and get me dirty. I love my dogs. Every now and then I encounter a situation that reminds me I don't do that nearly often enough.

After a few days of being sick, I decided that it was time for me to get out of the box and get real food cooked, so I got my shower and pulled my hair back and realized I couldn't have timed being sick better because my forehead has been peeling from the burn I got at cruefest. In short, I look like an experiment gone bad in some mad scientists lab. So, I cut more bangs. Yay me! :(

Once I felt I wasn't going to scare anyone, I ventured out to the grocery store. Most of the trip was uneventful and went more or less how you'd expect a trip to the store to go. Then I got to the refrigerated aisle. Apparently it's going to snow here ya'll...everyone was buying eggs and milk. (I did notice bread and toilet paper in a few carts too) You might wonder why I took so much interest in other peoples carts? That's easy...as luck would have it, I was following a mother with her two children, approximately 3 and 5 years of age and they were following a woman who must have been 70 years of age who was shopping at a snails pace. I was getting frustrated...for God's sake, I only wanted white chocolate raspberry yogurt...I could see the mother in front of me getting frustrated, and apparently her children were getting frustrated. However, where that mother and I kept our frustration inside (Lord knows I hope people are patient with me when I start moving slower) her children had other plans. It was a moment that should have been proceeded by that whistling old west movie type music that is played right before a gun fight or a death scene; her older son suddenly starts yelling at the top of his lungs “BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP MOVE YOUR BIG BUTT”. Everybody in the aisle froze, except me...the self conscious part of me couldn't help but to check behind me to make sure some kid wasn't yelling at MY big butt...and this poor mother who clamped her hands over her childs mouth and actually ducked as if to say you can't see me, you can't see me. She finally composed herself, and sounding even more mortified than she looked (which I wouldn't have thought possible) apologized profusely to the woman who took it with a grain of salt. When time started again, other shoppers parted like the Red Sea to allow the woman quick escape.

Mercy, I love children, and couldn't imagine life without my niece anymore, but it's moments like that that make me realize I might just love them best when I can give them back. haha

Stranded

Recently I've had a string of bad luck with my car. Considering the fact that I drive for a living, that's a big blaring red mark in the lose column.

The day I'm writing about now was the second incident in this string of senseless attacks from the dark face in the universe that we all pretend isn't out to get us.

I had just finished up at one of my New Jersey stores and was on the way to another. I don't go this route often, so when my car started bouncing I thought I'd hit another rough patch...your basic New Jersey road. After a couple of miles I thought that this seemed to be going on just a little too long and decided to pull off to the side of the road to see if something was wrong with my car. I didn't have to do much more than open my door for the answer as the horrible stench from a burning tire nearly knocked me on my bum. I walked around my car and discovered a lump of rubber that may have once been a tire, but given it's condition I still have questions. I was stunned. I had no clue I had a flat. Not one. Until this car, it was always obvious when I had a flat – the car would shake, the tire would make that fwop, fwop, fwop sound that as sure as a gunshot announces your good mood is coming to a dreadful end, and the steering wheel would inevitably start pulling to the side with the flat, especially when it was a front end flat. In this car, it didn't feel much different than driving over rumble strips. (This may mean that I have to take every terrible thing back I've ever said or thought about those “idiots” who've ruined tires because they claimed to not know they were driving on a flat. I haven't made up my mind on that yet...I'm still positive given what I see people do on the road that at least a percentage of them truly are idiots and don't deserve to be behind the wheel of a car...possibly under one, definitely not behind one though.

As luck would have it, there I sat at the side of a NJ highway, with my handy dandy expired AAA card. (To which I will add, when I am down and out, and feeling all kinds of lonely, I need only to think back to days like this to remind me that I am never alone...Murphy will never leave my side...that stupid card had only expired two weeks prior.) Left with no idea what do to, or for that matter where I was really, I called the manager of the store I just left not quite sure what he could do for me, but I imagined him donning his Superman cape and using his super powers to either mold a new tire from the blob of rubber laying under my wheels or use his super strength to fly me and my car home. I settled for a phone number for a tow place and his advice to call AAA to see it they'd renew my membership and get me a tow. Sadly, he adamantly refused to don the cape. Although his super advice to call AAA worked wonders. They renewed my membership and got me a tow—which incredibly I only waited 25 minutes for.

Once the driver got me hooked up and we were on the way to the tire place, I felt comfortable enough to get all kinds of chatty and probably cursed more than a proper lady should. I've not often been mistaken for a proper lady, so why put on a show for a tow truck driver, right? (On a completely different note here, last weekend I was told by a former coworker that he didn't know what to make of me when we first met, that I maybe came off as a bit straight laced, he's learned otherwise since then. Haha)

Once we got my vehicle to the tire place, I figured I was going to be ripped off three ways from Sunday, so I was already preparing myself to take a second mortgage on the house to get a new tire, and initially I wasn't disappointed; the guy quoted me $160 for the tire. Granted, when I bought my tires I spent $100 on them but they were rated for 60,000 miles, I don't imagine this one was. I offered up my firstborn as payment. Shortly after, the tow guy came back in and told him he gave him the wrong tire size, the price quoter called whoever he was calling again and then told me the tire would only be $130 which was marginally better at least.

I don't know what came over me in there, normally when I find myself in a spot like this I get rather cranky and start cursing on the inside. This day though, I decided to give every human that crossed my path a hard time which turned out to be rather amusing with the group of guys in this place. During this time, one of the mechanics came in and took a phone call that seemed to be an unpleasant experience for him as he dropped the 'f' bomb a number of times. Finally, the guy who quoted me the price (who I will now call Jim for the sake of brevity) looked at him and said, “language, there's a lady here”. To which Tow Guy responded, “hey, she said 'shit' in my truck twice!” Of course, I responded by calling him a tattletale and adding in a weepy voice that I was a scared, lonely, stranded woman stuck on the side of the road in a town I don't know, and that if I felt the need to curse to relieve anxiety then he should support me. I then turned on 'Jim' and said in the same voice, and you! I am a scared, lonely, stranded woman, who sat terrified at the side of the road for someone to save me...shouldn't you at least offer a pathetic woman discount? To emphasize my point I dropped my purse onto the counter as if I carried the weight of the world in there.

In a weird twist I never saw coming, 'Jim' looked at me and said, “Woman, that is a Nine West purse, how much did you spend on that?” (You tell me, do YOU expect a man with grease up to his elbows to be able to identify a Nine West purse?!?!) I was proud to announce I got it for $15 on clearance at Ross, because what woman isn't proud of a great discount?!?! He responded by asking me how much I thought he spent for his shirt, I was clueless so he told me it was free, he spent zero money on it. I was all too happy to tell him if it would get me a discount that I'd be happy to give him my shirt, even though the neckline might not do him justice.

He hemmed and he hawed, asked how I was paying, and I told him if cash helped, I had twenty three dollars in my pocket and at least $7 or $8 in change in the bottom of my purse. He looked at me cross eyed, so I said I guess that means I'm paying by Visa. He finally shrugged and knocked $50 off the tire. I wasn't sure if I should have fainted or peed myself right then because I never imagined he'd actually give me a discount, I was just having fun giving them a hard time.

Never underestimate the power of an offer to remove clothing, even if you don't really have to; sometimes, the thought might just be enough. Happy bargaining!

The Joy of Genes

In every family it never fails that a child will pick up a habit or carry a trait that everyone notices right away. She got his eyes, her demeanor, Uncle Stan's weird grin, or grandpas knack for cooking. Every now and then a child may pick up a very disturbing habit that might make his or her family ask, “where did we go wrong?” Take for instance Piero Manzoni--(his real name is Count Holy Too Much Name To Spell Batman; considering his name is led by Count, I imagine he had a noble upbringing) this man is known as the grandfather of shit art. Yep, that's right ya'll...poop. I imagine his parents, leading their prestigious lives must have been quite thrilled when they realized their boy was following in the footsteps such names as Monet, Michelangelo, or Rembrandt and were tickled to share his work with their other noble friends. Until one day it went horribly wrong and they were mortified to see their artist son collect some 90 cans of poo to use in the form of art. I've no doubt that if they were still alive at the time, they argued at great length about who's side of the family that came from. Honestly, who wants to admit something like that came from their side? “Ohh, yes...I remember Cousin Bubba collecting his snot balls...that's probably where he gets this.” Unlikely.

(Thank all that is holy that is now out of the way, I've been dying to use poop art guy in some writing and really, how often does that fit into a conversation or a story any normal person would write? It was just one of those weird things I picked up somewhere along the way that stayed with me. I've got a bunch of them people, all waiting to be thrown into some odd sequence of words; the knack for storing useless information comes from my dad if anyone is wondering. I also got my colorful potty mouth from my dad. Family influence isn't always a pretty thing.)

Sometimes, I think a gene gets confused and throws us all a curve ball.

Other times, things tend to stay right on course...in some cases that is a wonderful thing. In others, well, wonderful wouldn't be the word to use. Poo guy could have come by his disgusting flair as a result of a confused gene or Uncle Bubba. The story that follows, well, it shows my side of 'coming by it honestly'.

Those of you who have spent any time at all with me are quite aware that grace and agility are words that a person will never use to describe me. Clumsy, klutzy, and “OH MY GOD SHE FELL AGAIN”, yes...grace...not in this lifetime. I remember a time after one of my finer moments, I said to a girlfriend, “you'd think with all of the gymnastics and dance and cheerleading in my younger days that I'd at least carry myself with something resembling balance.” She responded, “just think though, if you hadn't had those lessons, you might have killed yourself by now.” She had a point.

She'd be proud to know that just the other day I was on the phone with a dear friend while I was paying bills. As I sat in my desk chair, I leaned over to grab some envelopes. They were just out of reach and instead of getting off of my bum to grab them I leaned further. As luck would have it, I toppled the chair with me in it. On the way down I crushed my arm between the chair and the desk and as a result have a lovely new bruise to add to my collection. I will add that there was a certain amount of grace to the fall, as I avoided head injury and managed to remained seated, as if everyone works on their back. Trust me, when you injure yourself as frequently as I do you tend to hold onto the smallest of victories as if you just reached the top of Everest. If ever you see me without a bruise, chances are I've been strapped down in a padded room somewhere. Or I'm dead and had one hell of a make up artist.

If ever I doubt that my clumsiness is something that was bestowed upon me by genes, I will need only to spend a day with my mothers side of the family to be reminded.
My family reunion occurred a few weeks ago. I hadn't been to one in a few years, so I threw in the towel and jumped in the car with my immediate family and we drove our happy behinds 40 miles to join in the festivities. We sang songs...Do You Know the Muffin Man, 99 Bottles of Beer, etc; we played I Spy, and How Many Cows can you take home (that was a horrible game...count as many cows as you can on your side of the road and who ever has the most at the end of the trip wins. The catch however was that all of your cows died if you passed a cemetery on your side of the road. My parents always drove past a cemetery that was laid out on both sides of the road right before we'd get home. Nobody EVER took cows home. Cruel.) Okay, that's a lie. We didn't sing or play games...we did what every well rounded family does, we argued, whined, and asked repeatedly are we there yet?

When we arrived at ground zero, my aunts and one of my uncles were already there. He came out to greet us sporting a fabulous black eye, swelling, stitches, and all. When asked what had happened we were told that he and my other uncle were horsing around the day before and were throwing logs back and forth and my Uncle Will swung a log just as my Uncle Bob stepped in and he ended up getting cracked in the face. Knowing my family, there was no reason to doubt this account of events. That's right, my family makes you think, yep, they've definitely been hitting each other with logs. I think that grants me the right to make fun of rednecks everywhere and not feel a shred of guilt.

We were told much later in the day though that that story was a big fat lie and that in reality my Uncle Bob had been walking along, sober as all get out and walked into a tree. Not only did he walk into a tree, he walked into it hard enough to require stitches. As this sunk in, we all knew this was even more likely than the horsing around tale and told him he should probably stick to the original story.

I'm sharing this so that the next time I do something stupid, I want whoever is with me to know that I never really had a chance. My family walks into trees. I probably am lucky to still be alive.

Happy fourth of OUCH!

I've always found summer holidays entertaining. It may only be because so much of each holiday is spent outdoors in the sun with so many “what are we going to do?” choices. Let's face it, nobody is going to strip down to their skivvies at the Christmas party and do a belly flop across a sheet of ice like someone might do on Independence Day when they throw themselves head first down a slide into a pool--okay, we'll make an exception for that crazy great uncle who had just a wee bit too much eggnog and decides it may be fun to get naked and get icy. For the most of us resembling normal though, there are more options in the summer. This year, I didn't have any plans until evening which is probably why this story came to be.

Over the past few weeks, I discovered that I l-o-v-e hitting softballs. I want to buy a batting cage for the back yard because I enjoy it so much. I find this odd seeing that the thought of sitting in front of a TV and actually watching baseball sounds about as appealing to me as does letting someone strip me down, tie me up in the woods, covering me in honey, and leaving me for a few days. (That's saying something people, I seem to define bug-o-phob over the last few years.)

Because of this new found pleasure, and because I spent most of July fourth with my brother, sister-in-law, and my niece, I got them to go out to The Meadows to hit a few balls with me. Well, we adults hit a few balls, and Olivia rode the coin operated cars.

If you've never been to The Meadows batting cages, they've got softball, little league, teener, and major league cages. The softball cage is definitely for someone like me; which is to say, someone who hasn't touched a baseball bat since little league oh, let's say 25 years ago, but one day gets a bug up their butt and thinks, hey, I HATE baseball, let's go to the batting cages. For reasons I still don't understand—maybe I was declaring my own independence this day—I decided that after three afternoons spent hitting softballs, I was going to step up to the majors. After all, I was hitting more softballs than not. Haha. I learned a few things that day; I can say “WHAT THE F*&#” A LOT in a very short period, baseballs are smaller targets than softballs, baseballs hurt when they hit you, and I might be slightly crazy.

Shortly after I realized I wasn't able to do much more than change the trajectory of the ball when it, without fail, do little more than clip my bat I decided it was time to step up. That was a stupid thought if ever I've had one. I moved into the plate and the next ball came flying at me, and I knocked the hell out of that ball—with my hands. In the background, through the pain ringing in my ears from the agony of my hands wrapped around the bat while they took a whack from a major league ball, I heard my brother say “JC, you hit that outta the park, are you ok?” Before I even thought to answer him, I thought (at a machine, mind you) “you bitch, you will not beat me”. I told him I was fine and turned back to the bitch. My hands were already numbing up quite nicely, so it was a challenge keeping the bat steady, but I pulled myself together to show that nasty machine it couldn't scare me. I managed to hit a few more balls (okay, hit may only count for two of the pitches, clipping a few would be more accurate). I was smart enough to to move back to softball after my time was up, and proceeded to hit quite a few balls. My brother was slightly amazed I didn't curl into the fetal position and cry like a little girl, but he doesn't quite realize the extremes of my competitiveness. If I feel like someone, or something in this case, is trying to beat me, you can bet your dupa I'm going to do what I can to come out on top. Even if it's moving to another cage and beating the hell out of a few balls. I won. I think only crazy people involve machines in their competitiveness.

When enough was enough (and when we were out of quarters for the cars Olivia so loved) I said, “let's go get ice cream!” After all, who doesn't fix ouchies with ice cream?! Who'd've thunk we could top my stupidity that day? Oh, but we did. Sean and Tiffany had coupons for Meadows ice cream—buy one get one free of equal or lesser value—which was perfect, three of us and Olivia. Sean ordered a medium cone, Tiffany and I ordered small cones, and we ordered Olivia the child size in a cup. The girl at the counter first looked at us and said, “I can only use one of these because only two of those are the same.” Tiffany was nice enough to point out the coupon states equal or lesser value, which took a moment for dumbgirl to process, but she finally smiled blankly and took the coupons and the money back and disappeared into the window once again. We didn't realize the true depth of her genius until she stuck her head out of the window again and handed me my money back and said, “well, I don't need this at all then.”

I was baffled. I stood there for a second trying to let reality catch up to me and finally looked back at my also bewildered companions and asked, “it is me, right?” We stood staring at each other in much the way I imagine dumbgirl must stare at most people when some kind stranger pulled us back from planet brainless and said, “run, don't question it, just run!!” While we didn't quite run, we gave up trying to figure out and decided it was the universe apologizing for the mean machine attacking me.

We sat in the adirondack chairs and enjoyed our ice cream almost as much as we enjoyed watching Olivia try to eat what everyone else had before she decided to stroll off to flirt with an older boy. God help those two. That child isn't yet a year old and she's hitting on 2 year olds.

My hands are now recovering nicely. Very slowly, but nicely. I've no doubt it is a result of free ice cream shortly after the injury. They blew up like overfilled sausages for a few days, my pinkie is still occasionally without feeling, and the bruises make me look like I have some kind of weird skin disease, but you can bet I'm going back to show that machine it is small and weak.

Yay for holiday fun.

A Truck is a Truck is a Truck. Right?

There was a time when I was still working for my old company that I was asked to go train a new hire in the Philadelphia area. Normally when I'd train someone, it would last a week and that person would drive the entire time.

The woman I was sent to train this time had a streak of bad luck leading up to her first day that seriously rivaled my kind of luck. If I remember correctly, her car was stolen the previous week and hadn't yet turned up. She had been driving her significant others truck when, the night before, the brakes stopped working and she wrecked on one of the bridges around Philly. God love her though, she still wanted to get her training in, and so I ended up driving most of the week. Most of the week passed without incident; then she got her vehicle back. I took that as my cue to show her what a genius I can be.

The day she got her truck back, she picked me up and I asked her to stop at a convenience store so I could grab a drink. Those of you who know me know I drink a lot. (and not like that smartasses...ok, yes like that, but not this day.) She pulled into Wawa and I jumped out for a drink and she waited. After I made my purchases, I walked out of the store, paying little attention to anything but my feet (we all know how clumsy I am, and I try to restrain myself from falling over my own two feet when I am just getting to know a person—good first impressions and all).

I jumped in the truck, pulled my water out of the bag and started to take a big drink. It was that moment the guy that had been sitting in the drivers seat chose to say, “I think you're in the wrong car.”
I spit my drink all over the place and screamed bloody murder as if he pulled a knife and announced ‘this is a stickup’. I screamed as if I belonged in his truck and he didn't. While I was screaming I pushed myself out of the truck, falling to the ground, and leaving behind everything...the coveted drink, my purse...In a state of confusion, I jumped up from the ground in an all encompassing panic. While I was brushing dirt from my bum, I looked around to see the poor woman I was training sitting right behind him in the truck I was supposed to get into laughing so hard I thought her head would pop off. A relief really…she was a refuge from having to look in at that man any longer. Plus, I needed to laugh about being an idiot.

I ran/crawled to her truck, jumped in, and through sobs of uncontrollable laughter asked why she didn't yell at me. Her answer?, “because my window wouldn't open”.

I guess she was laughing too hard to open the door. Lord knows I would have been if I had been in her position.

When we finally pulled ourselves together, she pulled up so I could kindly ask the nice toothless man for my stuff and to apologize for screaming like a maniac at him. Once I got through that the guy said to me, “you can always get back in if you like.” My barely restrained, cracking voice nearly gave out to a new fit of laugher, but I thanked him kindly. You know...I only have it in me to deal with one trauma per hour.

The sad part of this…even though both vehicles were American made SUV’s, one was dark green, the other dark blue. I can’t even use an excuse like whoopsie, I’m color blind.

However, I remind myself every time I think of this that they both did have longer blonde hair. I’m grasping, yes…but it’s my reality. Care to join me?

Crazy people in WalMart

Mentioning the criminally insane in Wal Mart in my last post made me think of this story and I thought, well hell, I may as well write about this too.

I was in a Wal Mart on Long Island. The original plan for me that day was that I was to train a new person, give him these stickers for a special project so he could complete it in the store that I am not writing about and every other WalMart on Long Island. As luck would have it, he didn't show up. Because of the nature of this project and that companies location, I was stuck running all over that God forsaken, hysteria-inducing, car-jamming island to complete the project.
That would be how I ended up in this store nearly in the middle of the island at the time of this incident.

It was late in the day, long before the days that the universe bestowed upon me a GPS. I'd already made half of the stops and I was tired and cranky. I pulled into the parking lot and headed into the store where I was greeted by a crowd of people milling about and acting like children because there was a puddle in the middle of the entrance way. Assuming it was water, or at worst, a spilled soda, I carefully walked through the puddle because I was that desperate to get done and get out.

As vendors, we were to sign in on a log at the front of the store. I was doing that and taking notes on prior visits that my boss had asked me get when suddenly time slowed. I heard someone yell, “oh my God, he has a knife!” As I was processing this, out of nowhere I am tackled by some guy and at the same time and seeing for the first time the guy with the knife, who was only an arms length away. Absolute panic settled in. “Is that guy gonna kill me?! Why is this guy tackling me?! Oh my God, I'm going to jail, they think I'm with the knife guy!! He's got box cutters!! TWO OF THEM!! Am I being held hostage?! Why is this guy still on me?!? Is he a bad guy too?! I'm going to die!!”

I'd have cried, but apparently when I am that scared, I can't cry.

It turned out that the guy who tackled me figured out that I wasn't aware of what was happening around me and thought it best to get me out of harms way. (I later thanked him)
So, how did we get to this point? As it was relayed to me, the crazy man with the knives was in the process of being kicked out of the store and decided he didn't want to go. In a stroke of genius he assume that whipping out his junk and peeing in the entrance way would void the decision to kick him out and he'd be welcomed back with open arms and a shopping spree. Enter Michele...(yes, my worst case scenario of a soda puddle, was far beyond my imagination allowed, I walked through crazy man piss. In shoes that were only days old to boot.) over the puddle and through the vendor log, to project land I go. At this same time, the crazy man realized he was not being welcomed back and pulled the knives.

Only a few minutes later, the police showed up and the crazy peeing man went away with two of the policemen relatively peacefully. The remaining officers stayed and took statements, including mine. It was then that I decided to get choked up and as I finished telling them what I could including, “I WALKED THROUGH HIS PEE!” I asked (or begged possibly), “I don't have to come back here, do I? I live 4 hours away and am only supposed to be training someone who didn't show up and I didn't see enough to testify and I don't ever want to come here again.” (ok, maybe I whined)

I don't know what worse...that I experienced that or that I went about doing that project like I was going to be stabbed if I didn't. I think a normal person would have packed it in for the day. Nope, not me. I did that and three more stores that night. I should be medicated.

Moral of this story? Don't walk through an indoor puddle.

Hot sauce

A few years ago, I was walking through a WalMart. We all know what a joy that can be. You encounter rude people, dirty people, perverted people (ask me sometime about the exhibitionists who were arrested in a Wal Mart, on a garden swing, for performing an act similar to eating a popsicle that is best witnessed by only the people involved) and usually at least one person who you are pretty sure just escaped from the local hospital for the criminally insane. If you need verification, ask the guy who trained me for the job I had then. While we were working on software, a sweet little old lady came over to us and asked about a coffee pot or a blender or something of the sort. He started to explain to her, “I'm sorry, we don't work for Wal Mart...” but before he could finish, she piped up with “and I bet you wouldn't know your ass from a hole in the ground.” You have to wonder if she kisses her grandchildren with that mouth. (Ironically, someone else said the same thing to me in a store 90 miles away a year or so later.) Must be a PA thing.

In any case, it's not often that you run into Wal Mart shoppers who bring a smile to your face just being who they are. I came across a couple that must have been in their 70's for the third time that day while I was walking up an aisle looking for the fixture I needed. I don't know why, but they fascinated me. They just exuded happiness and comfort or something that gives a person warm fuzzies inside. They each shopped for the other and finished each others thoughts in the way that only years of being together allows.

While they shopped, I watched and was close enough to over hear the wife say to her husband as she pulled down a bottle of hot sauce, “do you want to try this? It says it's hot and spicy.”
Her husband responded, “It doesn't matter, it won't be as hot and spicy as you.” He then grabbed her and kissed her and they both giggled like love sick teenagers.

I refrained from giggling myself; let's face it, people are freaked out by people watchers (which I am), some people are downright irritated by eavesdroppers (but in my defense, they were close enough for me to hear anything they said above a whisper...but I would have gladly taken the heat to witness that exchange).

I don't know why, but I've been thinking about that couple for a few days. Maybe it's the whisper of spring making me feel all romantical inside, or maybe it's the simple fact that from day to day I see so many miserable people who seem to be with the person they seem to so loathe and apparently have no aspirations to be anything more than angry. Whatever it is, I guess it's nice to remember that there are happy people--happy couples--out there who've struggled through their ups and downs, have been spitting mad at each other and still are the spice in the others life.

May we all be so lucky to be another's hot sauce as we grow old.

dating in the animal world

It seems I'm suffering another episode of the can't sleep crazies so I've decided to come on down and share more disturbing events from my life with some of my closest friends and strangers.

I don't have much luck in the dating world, partially because I can be sickeningly shy around new people and partially because I have a knack for ignoring that little itch at the bottom of my spine that is either trying to tell me -hey, you're about to do something you never want to share with another human being- or -hey, something is wrong here DANGER MICHELE ROBINSON DANGER, do not go out with this person-. I've always had that knack, so even though I'm focusing on my move to NEPA for this event, please don't think that means my dating life was normal prior to this night.

I moved to the Wilkes Barre area nearly 8 years ago now. Maybe 7. I guess it doesn't matter much when you discover you've moved to an area with a cancer rate something like 17,000 percent higher than the rest of the state. I say a party is a party, you bring the vodka, I'll bring the radiation.

Shortly after I moved here I met a man (this is a term I use simply because he was in human form and had a voice deeper than that of the average female but I do still have my doubts). I wasn't especially attracted to this man in the physical sense, his lips were too big (think Steven Tyler crossed with Grape Ape), he somehow seemed, umm, droopy and he had an odd bob when he walked (something like what I imagine to be the gait of the spawn of a penguin and a flamingo...don't tell you YOU have NEVER imagined what that baby would look like or more importantly walk like). Physical aspects aside, he seemed to be a nice man...he was able to have a conversation, he was funny, and he read books for fun, so I thought we could at least establish a friendship.

I thought we were well on our way to doing just that when he asked if I wanted to go see his friends band one night. I hadn't been out since I moved here, so I jumped all over it. He picked me up and off to the bar we went without incident. As the night progressed, I was so sure we were well on our way to friendship...he introduced me to his friend, the drummer of the band, and he (the 'man) was all over two other women. The drummer and I hit it off quite well and he gave me his number between one of the breaks and we made plans for dinner. I was having a great night!!

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. Those famous words "LAST CALL" rang out strong and true and the 'man' (whose name I can't remember because I nicknamed him so long ago his real name just kinda slipped away...sadly, I can't share the nickname with you yet, as that might be too telling of what is to come) came back over and told me he was going to start the car to warm it up (it was a cold March night). While he was doing that, the band wrapped up and I chatted with his friend a bit longer.

Finally it came time to kick everyone out and I headed out with the "man". We sat in the car and talked for a bit, about his friend, my move, and other trivial shit that he apparently thought was an invitation to try to attempt to put parts of his anatomy in mine. While I was in the middle of saying something he sort of dove across the car at me like a clumsy missile might dive at a target and suddenly his really, really big lips were on my face. People, what he did to me could never be considered a kiss...it was this weird thing that placed one of his lips between my upper lip and my nose (and his lips were big enough to block oxygen flow to my nostrils) and his lower lip landed in that dip between my lower lip and my chin; once that was arrangement was in place he proceeded to suck on my face while he plunged his tongue in and out of my face much in the way I imagine a plunger would work on a toilet if of course the plunger had a tongue and the toilet a pliable orifice. I was stuck somewhere between shock and disturbed and froze. I think it probably took me near a minute to figure out just what was happening and why I suddenly couldn't breathe. As I searched my mind for the reality I quickly figured out this wasn't chemistry or anticipation, it was something just shy of horror and was finally able to move again and I pushed him off of me. He backed off long enough for me to blink my eyes and gasp for breathe and then to determine that surely I was just playing hard to get and dove back across the seat, only this time he attached himself to the side of my face in much the same fashion he had attached himself to my chin and nostrils. I didn't have much time to freeze or to be shocked by that this time around because he almost immediately snorted like a wild hog in my ear. I reacted to that by jumping back and smacking my head off of the car window and he looked at me as sincere as could be and said "what?, there ain't nothin' wrong with a little bit of snortin'" (yes, that is an exact quote, it is scarred into my memory no less than if I had been branded with those words). I was almost too stunned to say or do anything but I said, actually I think I screeched, MAYBE IF YOU WERE RAISED ON A BARN! and jumped out of the car.

I walked home that night terrified I might be accosted by a pig or a cow or maybe a crazed chicken. Seven miles I walked that night because I only knew the way he drove to take me there. I found out a few months later I could have turned and walked over a bridge and home was only one mile away.

Of course, I never took a call from The Snorter again, and never did call his friend for that date for fear I might see him again.That should be the end, right? Well of course it should be the end, but this is me we're talking about kids. We all know that wasn't the end.

Time had passed and The Snorters calls became more and more infrequent, so when two months or so later I got a call from a local number I didn't recognize, I answered it to discover that it was the girlfriend of The Snorter (oddly, I remember her name) and she informed me they were together when we 'went out' and they had an argument and he blah blah blah and they were talking about me and how much he liked me and she wanted to know if I'd like to have a threesome with them. I was sure I must have misunderstood and asked her to repeat herself and when she did I couldn't think of anything to say so I asked "do you really get turned on by barnyard noises?" and suggested they might consider couples therapy.She never asked again.

I was traumatized and didn't date for the next few months I lived here.

The really sad part of all of this is that this isn't the first encounter I've walked home from. Two previous dates put me in a situation that I've either snuck away and walked home or he flipped and left me 40 miles from home without a car but those are stories for another night. Third time really is a charm I guess. I don't go on anymore first anythings without my own transportation.

Here's my challenge to you: I want each of you to grab your arm or a small juice glass and wrap your lips around it and start sucking...oh yeah...just like that...now, while you are still sucking start plunging your tongue in and out of your chosen object. It seems to defy the laws of physics to me...once I stopped having nightmares I got curious about how he did that because it just didn't seem it should be possible. I never have mastered the technique.

a liar I am

My job has turned me into a liar. A bold, unapologetic liar.

Look at that, as if to prove my point, I lie yet again. It's not so much the job that has made me a liar, it's some of the people I deal with that make me a liar. What do I lie about you ask? I have a boyfriend. I say it weekly, sometimes daily, sometimes repeatedly throughout a day. (I had one of those days this week)

There comes a time when you work around truck drivers that being hit on kind of loses its appeal. If by some weird chance there is some man out there who thinks he's going to find love in a truck stop, take this advice to heart.... a) be clean, showers are available and most women would prefer being hit on by a man who doesn't smell like he's been rolling around in pigshit all day. b) have clean breathe, if you plan on moving close to use a bad pick up line, allow the woman to have a chance to hear the pick up line rather than having to focus on the nightmare-ish medley composed of cigarettes, fast food, and some weird funky undertone that might be soured milk. c) don't mention sex or how driving ruins every relationship you've had. d) don't tell me all about your girlfriend as an excuse to talk to me then flick your hotel room key at me and suggest I come over for 'a shower' in a way you perceive to be sexy but makes me want to drive a dull butter knife through my ear. besides, if you're flicking a key rather than a key card in this day and age, I think we can all be pretty sure you're paying by the hour and there will be a few gals after dark willing to 'shower' with you e) keep in mind that if you are going to use a line, chances are we've heard it before and it won't even make a bleep on the radar, be original, if you've heard it before, so have I... honestly, I'm a woman in a truck stop that is predominantly male...I could look like John Kerrys horse faced crack whore cousin, but as long as I have a set of knockers, someone is hitting on me. "Hey baby, I'd really like to get to know you" I'm pretty sure translates into "Hey baby, I am really hoping you are easy because I am looking to hit that before I head across the country in a few hours to never return" Sorry, have a boyfriend. "Hey beautiful, can I get your number" (oh sure, I always hand my number out to perfect strangers in a truck stop) Sorry, have a boyfriend. "Girl, I've been dreaming about you all my life" Sorry, have a boyfriend. It flows so naturally now and usually this works. They do the kicked puppy dog thing and play sad all the while thinking son of a bitch I'm gonna have to pay one of those hookers that shows up after midnight or some variation like that. Somehow I just don't see myself telling the grand kids someday, oh yea, I met your grandfather while I was working in a truck stop and he came in to find some fuel, a shower, and a quick lay if he could work it out.

My lie wasn't working so well this week. In one day, three men would not stop even after I hit them with 'I have a boyfriend'. A couple of others took it like a man (?) and sulked off like that kicked puppy dog, but those three were relentless. How long you been together?, how long you know him?, is it serious?, he treat you right? HOLY SHIT...who knew a simple lie would lead to surprise quizzes. Seriously, I think I failed...I hadn't planned on that ever happening. An easy lie is one thing, inventing an imaginary boyfriend is another thing altogether. Actually, I know I failed. One of these guys looked at me and said, 'so, are you really serious about this guy?' to which I responded, 'of course'. He then informs me that just last week I told him I'd been with my guy for four months. (I told him two months this time) I gave him my oh fuck kinda laugh and said ohhh, he just makes it feel that way sometimes before I ran off to the back. But, I finally got them gone looking even more miserable than most of these guys and after the third one I stormed in and hit a couple of the male store employees with 'what the hell is wrong with men?' and ran through my experiences of the day. Some of the store people weren't at all surprised by this because I've had a person or people sneak me out of stores before so I could dodge the advances of some of these guys. (Yeah, I'm a sissy)

While they looked at me with 'we expected this' type looks, one of them finally said to me--'ok, between us, girl, you got it going on!' (there was a lot of stuff in the middle that I don't remember, but hey, who doesn't feel a little flattered when you're being hit on by a guy who doesn't want to do you in the back of his truck? So it started out well) That went into an explanation about men, and was ended with 'you're one of those women who when a guy decides he wants you, he REALLY wants you and for those of us who do want you, it's all or restraining order.' On one side it sounds like a compliment, on the other it kinda screams stay in a dark hole somewhere because you attract crazy men (most of us know I do indeed have a knack for that)So, I'm curious...I think I should just print up a few generic fill in the name type restraining orders and have them at the ready for these future encounters...or maybe I should just dig that hole and live off the earth...what do you think?

Reasons to not crank text

This should ring bells for a certain someone...

I got a new cell phone today. I texted my girlfriend so I could see what happened when she texted back; of course, we got to talking, or wording, or whatever it's called when you text people....and she gets this brilliant idea to have me text her text record breaking daughter to see her freak out when a stranger starts texting her.

Me, I agree....I send a simple text saying "hey little girl, whats up?" Nothing, nothing, nothing. Then I get a call...same area code different number saying they just got a call from my number, so of course, I thought it was the daughter trying to be sly. I laughed and told her to think about it, she'd figure it out.

I'm still texting my friend who keeps telling me...she didn't get anything. She says she didn't get anything....so I'm thinking she's trying to play cool. I texted again, saying, haven't figured this out yet girl?

well...for some reason, my girlfriend sent another text with the number again. Guess what? She gave me the wrong number the first time. I was crank texting some girl who was probably completely freaked out thinking some pervert is stalking her. She's most likely reported me to the proper authorities who now have my number and should be pounding on my door any second to haul my ass off to jail.

So, two lessons to learn here...first, always verify a number before you text a person with the intention to get a reaction. Second, never ever text a girl who can send over 21,000 messages a month when you are doing it on a brand new phone and on average send about 7 text messages a week.

Priorities

I've decided my priorities are cookies. Yep, that's right, round, little, doughy, sugary, chocolaty, fresh out of the oven, morsels from heaven. Or any gesture that resembles cookies.

This week hasn't been the best of weeks. Some truck drivers don't make the best company in the world. Some are just mean, others are dirty, smelly jackoffs who don't deserve the right to be out in public. I feel okay saying that because I saw a driver on Monday who apparently repeatedly shit his pants and didn't feel weird about walking into a store to make a few purchases, smell the place up, and leave in the same condition in which he entered. The stores I call on offer showers for drivers. I feel that if you are going to shit your pants and are stopping in a place where you can shower, you should most definitely take advantage. That's just me though. That also has nothing to do with what I am writing about now but I just wanted someone else to feel my horror. Hopefully some of you will read this and be almost as repulsed as I was. I figure you can't be completely repulsed, because you weren't there to see first hand just how thoroughly one's poo can saturate one's pants.

Back to mean drivers, the whole point of my story. I do not work for the stores I call on. I service product lines in stores I call on for an outside company. When things aren't happening as a driver would like, it's not always the fault of the people who work for the store. I can promise you that it is most definitely not my fault unless you are really offended by the looks of a cell phone display or I lose it someday and physically attack someone.

As of Tuesday I hated my job. Three drivers in two days decided that they were not happy enough screaming and throwing temper tantrums that rival that of a three year old who lost his lollipop, so they brought me, the outsider, into the loop by taking advantage of my accessibility and throwing things at me. Granted, they all threw like sissies, and it only consisted of a bottle cap, a wadded up piece of paper, and a pack of socks, but it was rude.

Near the end of the second day, in NJ, I am near the checkout yet again as another punk who sounded like minnie mouse decided to go off, which of course, involved throwing something my way. I, at that point felt like a smart ass, and said to the girl behind the counter, let me know when he gets really mad...oh, wait he is...they all seem to think it's ok to throw things at me this week when they get mad. A few drivers in line behind him were appalled as I was telling her about it, one told me I should have thrown things back at them (I should have!) In any case, the punk apparently wasn't strong enough to handle the glares of other drivers so he yelled some more before running out of the store and I went about servicing my product.

Some time had passed, and I was focused on getting done when out of nowhere one of those drivers that had been in line found me and handed me a pack of cookies. Said something to the effect that he wanted to make sure I had some good point in my week and not everyone throws things. The gesture as much as the many, many chocolate chips made my day. And if things keep going like they have been, most likely my week. He was smiling, I was smiling. It was a very nice thing to do.

Don't be like the minnie punk people, hand out cookies. You might just remind a person that not everyone they come in contact with aren't worthy to be the funk you get all over your shoes in the park.

Today was one of those days most people would call 'unusual' or possibly 'strange', maybe even 'bad'. Not me though, today was just a day in the life...


So, after coming off of a miserable weekend and trying to find my motivation, self-esteem, and general over all contentedness, which have fallen to an all time low, I figure things can't get much worse.

Famous last words, I tell you. I honestly should know better. I get my miserable ass out of bed this morning and head out to my car to go to work. Before I'm even in the car, I can see someone has been in there. CDs are all over the passengers seat, my glove box is open, and it's in more disarray than my car normally is. Somebody ransacked my car. This isn't the first time since I've lived here, but it seriously pissed me off. Now because of the reassessment I'm going to paying a crazy amount to live in a house that was probably over-appraised in the first place where it isn't even safe to park my car next to my door under my carport. (Most of that belongs in another story, but you got it anyway.)

The insane thing about this ransacking is that wit all of the stuff in my car worth money...a bluetooth, perfume, etc etc...they didn't take any of it. Basically they raped my car for about $2 or $3 in change.

If there is a better way to start a day, I can't imagine what it is.

So, I get over all of that and head to my first store. That is its own special treat and I ran into a situation that I had to go somewhere else and come back later. Incredibly pissed, I decided to head off to my second store, which generally doesn't take very long at all. To waste time though, I sat and chatted with the manager for 40 minutes or so as he had time available. When I decided it was time to head back out, I got into the car and started the engine and as I was turning the key I realized I was sitting on something. Something that I hadn't been sitting on when I got out of the car.

I reach under my butt and pulled out a cell phone. Not my cell phone, but I had a few seconds of worry as I reached into my pocket for mine that I got a new phone and had completely forgotten about it. In my bafflement about where this mystery phone came from, it dawns on me that I am STILL sitting on something that wasn't there before. I reach under my butt again and this time pull out a Garmin GPS. It took me a minute to figure out what it was...and I was reaching under my butt yet again to see if I would find something else that might magically appear under there. (Nothing else appeared.)


I'm trying to figure this out. My doors were locked (lesson learned). My windows were up. My sunroof was tilted up, but that interior door that I guess blocks the sun was half way closed so that I could block some sun and still let some air in or out. That is the only way anyone could have put anything in my car and it seems highly strange to me that both a cell phone and a GPS would actually get to my seat and not get stuck on that interior thing.


I tried to turn the cell phone on. It was dead. I tried to turn the GPS on and it was near dead (I'm thinking that's what those bars were...but I've never used a GPS so I could be wrong...that could be just like a cell phone and be the signal strength)

I immediately started calling people to question my sanity. I know I've been less than happy lately and I thought maybe I'd gone completely off the deep end. I was assured repeatedly that although I've been moody I still seem pretty rational.

So, I'm left with questions. Maybe someone out there has the answers...

How do you suppose these things ended up in my car?

Do you suppose I am suffering fugues in which I go on thieving rampages and simply can't remember that I've been on a thieving rampage?

If someone did put this things through my sunroof, why would someone put these things through my sunroof? (one of the people I called looked the GPS up online and it's a $400 unit...who just throws something like that in someone elses locked car?)

Is it a little too odd that on the same day my car is raped the universe bestows upon me electronic presents?

And finally, do you suppose I will always be granted electronic presents from the air (or is my bum the giver of gifts?) every time my poor car is maliciously molested?

One day in Vegas

If I should have learned anything by now, it's that I can't go anywhere without one catastrophe or another, so I don't know why I find myself surprised when I'm in the middle of a new one.

That leads to my first day in Vegas, a day that made me want to turn around and come home.

Let me start with the background. I am cheap, although I prefer to think of it as thrifty. In preparation of my brothers wedding, I searched the four nearest airports for the lowest fare to get to Las Vegas. Turned out to be out of Allentown. I booked it, printed it and paid for it. Not once did I pay any mind to BUS on my ticket because I've seen this before and it usually means business class or what have you. (Turns out I must have seen something similar.)

The big day arrives and I head down to Allentown at 3 am. People told me I didn't have to be there until 5, but what I failed to understand was that that meant do not show up before five because nobody comes to work at the airport until 5 so you're just going to sit around playing with yourself and five days worth of luggage anyway. Luckily I wasn't the only one who didn't understand that. A couple of other people strolled in and waited along with me. One of those people looked at us and asked, "are you all here for the bus?" Of course, that made me smirk and think 'yeah, ya nutjob (albeit very hot nutjob) Greyhound is down the road.' Understand that at this point I'd long forgotten anything printed on my confirmation except the time of me flight. Imagine my surprise that after being shuffled through security we are all loaded onto a bus. A friggin bus. At an airport. Who'd've thunk! Then we're all DRIVEN to Newark and shuffled through security again. I get on the plane finally (on which I could not sleep to save a life) and think well ok, if that's my big problem for this trip, at least it's out of the way now and I no longer have to wonder when hell will rain down on me. Oh, the naive mind. Such a simple gal I am.

I am in Vegas. Oh, how wonderful, it's 35 degrees warmer and life is good. My brother picked me up at the airport, took me to the hotel, I got checked in and tell him to call me in 4 hours so I could nap and shower (3 am is early people, especially if midnight arrives 3 hours later at your destination) before having dinner with him, my parents, and the brother who was getting married. I meet some very nice people from Arizona on the way to my room, I got my nap and shower and think this is going to end up being ok after all. Poor, poor me.

I called my brother who had a job interview after he dropped me off and couldn't get ahold of him. (I found out hours later that the interview turned into a job on the spot.) I finally gave up and headed down to the lobby for a cab. I was in the Stratosphere headed to the Riviera. Cab ride $5.90. I handed the non english speaking shit a 20 and asked for 10 back. By my math that is nearly a 90% tip. That is a pretty decent tip by my standards for a 5 minute ride. While he's digging for my ten he asked me for a dime which completely confused me but I was in no mood to try to decipher what ever language he was speaking and started digging for a dime and could only find quarters. I assume because I was taking so long to find change that triggered his insanity to break loose and he started screaming at me. Honestly, I didn't understand most of it but what I did get was "THIS IS VEGAS, YOU HAVE TO PAY TO GO PLACES IN VEGAS" (which is completely untrue because there's a boat load of free shit in Vegas if you get out of the casino's long enough to look...you can even drink free in the casinos as long as you have a slot machine or table in front of you). I was stunned. I let him yell at me for a minute or so and finally did my usual mental health check that I use when odd situations like this pop up--"Am I awake?" Check. "Have I taken any mind altering drugs?" Nope. "Is there any indication I am hallucinating?" Nope. When the check list was complete, I let the wrath of the bus ride and lack of sleep loose on him and called him words that would make most truckers blush and followed up by grabbing my money out of his hands and pitched the quarter at the back of his bald head (which to my amusement smacked him dead-on and made a nice audible thup). Getting out of the cab, I showered him with more nasty words before slamming the door and telling him to go stick certain parts of his anatomy in certain farm animals where ever he came from. He wasn't the only one to to witness the last of my charming words because the door man came to me as I was crossing the drive to ask what happened and I think I regrettably yelled my story at him. He broke my anger by asking if I got his name (I didn't). I had to laugh, because I was far too shocked to even think about his name.

I found my parents. My brother called and we all went to dinner. Surely, with my adventures to this point, hell has come and gone. We had a nice dinner and then went to gamble. I stuck $60 in a slot machine and lost it all, my dad sits beside me, sticks $5 in and wins $300. I gave up. We left and everything was good again...then Sean takes me back to the hotel. I ran into those nice people from Arizona again and we exchanged the type of idle chitchat you have with complete strangers who you keep running into on the way to the escalator that leads to the elevators we need. Ya'll who know me, know that I can't usually do two things at once. That has not changed because as I'm talking to them I loose my footing getting onto the escalator forcing me to fall shoulder first onto the the really hard metal stairs. That would explain why I rode halfway up the damn thing on my face somewhere between hysterical laughter and excruciating tears as I decided that maybe this wasn't the night for me to go see the show I wanted to see. When I finally pulled myself up, I turned around half expecting those people to be there with me for some reason. Being smarter than I am, they weren't; but they were at the bottom looking up at me with looks that wouldn't have better expressed 'what the hell was that?!' if they had spoken it. I managed to give them a thumbs up and yell down 'and it's only day one people' before turning back in total humiliation praying I save my sobs at least until I get to my floor.

Most people come home from Vegas broke or rich. I come home banged up and bruised.

To hell with the show, I'm going to bed.

Maybe tomorrow I can convince my brother and his bride to let Elvis marry them.