So, today is my man's birthday. He turns 33, or the age of Jesus as I like to call it.
You know how sometimes you get in your car and your sense of smell is assaulted by the rotting corpse in your trunk? How the stench hits you like Joe Pesci standing on a stool with a shovel? No? Is it just me?
Thursday morning I was getting ready for work, late as per usual, gathering all the necessary junk that makes my life at work a little more bearable, mix CD, banana, whip, so I was not really focusing on any one thing until I unlocked my car and opened the door. The smell almost made me fall to my knees and whimper "sweet baby spinach!" but being the tough chick I am, I talked myself into getting in the car thinking maybe there was something in the air and I just assumed my car was the culprit.
After I drove a block, I realized that, nope! The car stunk like a 17th century slaughterhouse. I couldn't figure out why "Had I stepped in dog poop?" No, the smell was worse. "Did I accidentally run over an already flattened skunk?" No, the smell was coming from inside the car.
I had all my windows rolled down, my sunroof was open, I was driving 30 miles over the speed limit so that the wind would gush in (just kidding coppers), I was breathing through my mouth but nothing helped. After five agonizing minutes of near hyperventilation, I finally got to work. I was shuddering as I closed the windows and I leapt out of the car before the engine even stopped running.
I bumped into Cowardly Lion on my way into the office and I asked. "Hey, can you sniff me and tell me if I smell like rotting corpse?" and she got this weird look on her face that I interpreted as "Sure! I've been dying to sniff you!" She said I smelled like rainbows and cinnamon which is good, I guess.
All day I thought about that putrid smell. It reminded me of the time we went to a museum to see The Mummies of Guanajuato which is an exhibit of dead people on display in the city of Guanajuato. They were in glass cases but one of those cases had a small opening at the corner which, if you stood extremely close, you could get a whiff of the body. Why would you want to, right? Ask my brother Sergio who stuck his nose in the opening, took a deep breath and now gags every time we bring it up. Ewwwww!
Anyway, unlucky for me, Thursday was a warm day so whatever was marinating in my car was going to get worse by the time I left work. Sure enough, the smell was a little bit more menacing than it had been at 8:15 in the morning. Kinda like Al Pacino putting a gun to your head and trying to make you watch one of his new movies. Yep. That bad.
I was puzzled.
Were the evil squirrels declaring war by sticking a fallen comrade into my tailpipe (not to be confused with the Richard Gere rodent tailpipe fiasco)? They were my prime suspects because I had just sprayed my garden with fox urine so that they would stay the hell out (never mind how I got the fox urine). I've known they were up to something for weeks now because I've been under constant surveillance.
Anyway, I drove home and called Andy so he could help me try to solve this foul mystery.
Bee: Come out here and help me solve this foul mystery.
Andy: It can't be that bad.
Bee: I almost threw up on my way home.
Andy: "Bee the Exaggerator".
Bee: I dare you to get in the car with the windows rolled up and sit in there for 30 seconds.
Andy: Pffft! I'll do a full minute! [opens door] [spins violently around and around] Uh. Wow. Never mind.
Bee: Coming from a guy with no sense of smell, it must be really bad.
Rick (from his upstairs window): What are you two weirdoes doing?
Bee: Trying to solve a foul mystery.
Andy: How many times are you gonna say that?
Bee: It builds suspense?
Andy: No, it just makes you sound retarded.
Rick: It can't be that bad.
Bee: Come down here and say that with your nose in the car.
Andy: Pop the hood. Maybe a squirrel was trying to hide his nuts in there.
Bee: I hope the motor tore his nuts right off. [Pops hood and trunk (or bonnet and boot in British speak)]
While Andy was checking the hood, I went around to the trunk and lifted it up. . .
My mom used my car on Monday to run some errands. She stopped at Shop n Save and picked up some things. Butter, tortillas, oil, soda, chicken breasts.
These are the things she carried into the house on Monday after her trip to the store:
What I discovered on Thursday, after a few days of 80 degree weather, was that she had forgotten the chicken breasts in my trunk.
All 3 of us groaned then Rick laughed and Andy yelled "Get them the fuck out of here!" and so I had to walk what seemed like a mile to the garbage can in the garage with a package of chicken boobs in my hand and my gag reflex on high alert. I bumped into Boomhauer and mentioned the chicken breasts because I didn't want him to think it was my lack of hygiene that was stinking up the place. "My mom left a package of chicken breast in the trunk of my car on Monday"
Boomhauer: Hahahaha! I bet those are ready to eat!
Maria (THE VEGETERIAN) walked by me having just gotten home from work, she looked at me strangely as she made her way down the driveway. I told her about the boobs and she said "oh! I was wondering what that smell was!"
Bee: You sure you don't want to try some yummy meat?
Maria: [Rolls her eyes, pinches her nose] Positive.
Bee: It's not like broccoli smells like roses, you know.
Maria: [runs away]
I have that effect on people.
I walked back to my car and had to explain to Andy why I had put the fetid breasts in the garbage can. According to him, I was now contaminating his garbage can. Well you know what? I'd rather the maggots grow in a contained environment as opposed to the trunk of my car where they can come out and say 'hi!' on a whim.
And so, our foul mystery was solved. Sadly, my car still smells like animal carcass.
I don't know if you know this about me but I hate compliments. Wait. Before you go thinking that I really do like compliments but I'm just trying to fool you with my false modesty you could not be more judgmental and wrong.
I wasn't one of those spoiled people that had constant praise growing up. "Good job going poopsie in the potty, honey!" It was more like threats. "If you don't figure out the toilet ASAP I'm going to be make you change your own diaper!"
Which is cool because that's how I became *Bee the Intimidator* and gives me a license to wear a cape (I don't though because that would be pretentious). It also helped me not become one of those bleeding heart chicks who take offense when somebody tells them they look like Lars Ulrich. Okay, that one did hurt a little but it's only because I wanted to look like James Hetfield instead.
Anyway, now, as a semi-formed adult (who knows how to use the potty), anytime someone says to me "you look nice today" I always respond with "how did I look yesterday that you have to point out I look nice today? was it the lack of make up and drool on my chin? what? tell me!" because that's how you get people to STOP complimenting you on your appearance. Seriously. I have a mirror. I know when I'm looking fiiiine (which is only on like the 7th day of the 7th month at 9:07 am)!
I usually can get away with saying stuff like that to the ladies but I can't respond that way to OZ because he might get a little upset and decide it's time to replace me with a leaky fire hydrant.
A long time ago, he complimented my outfit and I fuckin bowed! A full on, half body bow! Like some ancient spirit of a geisha entered my body and bent me forward to show my appreciation to OZ-san. I was unbelievably embarrassed and I'm sure my face was maroon in it's blushiness but I played it off like 'yeah, man. I'm always bowing like this because I'm cool like that' I then told the story to my family at some gathering or another and I was the butt of jokes for a few days. I knew I had to excise that bizarre reaction from my 'thank you' repartee.
Recently, OZ has gotten it into this weird habit of complimenting me not only on my appearance but character, work habits and all around great attitude (because I do have a great attitude you jerks!). So now, my knee-jerk reaction is to bow but I half stop myself so it looks like I'm nodding my head regally as if to say 'I agree with you, peasant' but I still feel like an asshole.
This is where you come in. What would be an appropriate response when someone gives you a compliment (besides saying 'thank you', I mean) without having to resort to curtseying? I really don't want him to think his compliments make my day either because, in reality, they make me want to go home and burn whatever article of clothing I was wearing and never smile again. It has to be something that would say "umm thanks but Id rather you kept your comments to yourself" with a side of "you arrogant windbag!" I know it's a difficult task I've given you but I have faith in you sarcasm/smartassness.
I don't need you to point out how creepy OZ is because I'm not a halfwit and have discovered this fact on my own. Has anyone seen my cape?
"I hate 'Bing'. Bing! What a stupid name for a search engine! I don't think it's very reliable either because I searched for 'Bee's Musings' and guess what? It didn't come up! So I opened google and typed in 'Bee's Musings' and it came up #1 so obviously Bing sucks monkey ass."
A ringing endorsement from my Andy for Google and Bee's Musings.
Dark bedroom, approximately midnight, man, woman and dogs snoring. When suddenly! Man is jolted awake by ""noise"" coming ""inside"" the house!
Andy [shakes Bee awake]: Bee! Did you hear that?
Bee [is jolted from a deep sleep]: Whaa?? Who? Cheese?
Andy: Did you hear that? There was a loud bang!
Bee [punches pillow]: No. And if the dogs aren't barking then you were probably dreaming.
Andy: I'm gonna go check it out. You stay here.
Bee: ::sigh:: [gets up]
Andy: Where are you going?
Bee: You know that, of the two of us, I'm the one who can really kick ass.
Andy: I'm tempted to let you go out there and get your butt kicked just to bring you down a notch.
Andy: Ankles? Shush and go back to bed.
Bee: Hell no. [notices Mocha] Mocha! Go back to bed! It's like Scooby and the gang meet the mummy over here.
Andy carefully peeks around the corner, leans his head out of the hallway and slowly makes his way towards the kitchen. I cough. Loudly.
Andy: BEE! What the hell! You want to give away our position?
Bee: "give away our position"? This isn't 'Nam. Besides, why aren't you yelling at Mocha?? Her tags have been jingling the whole time!
Andy: You know what? I'm kicking you both off of my island.
Bee: Oh my goodness! Listen!
Andy: What? WHAT??
Bee: Silence. It's just me and the chickens. [points at him and the cowering Mocha]
Andy: Okay. So maybe I was dreaming.
Andy: It felt real. . . [goes back to bed]
Bee: Does this feel real. [smacks Andy on the butt-ocks]
Andy: Ouch! Now I'll never be able to go back to slee— ::SNORE::
2 hours later, Andy is snoring, Mocha is wheezing, Tazz (who never woke up for the midnight adventure) is snorting. Bee? Bee is still wide awake, tossing and turning. PUNCHING HER PILLOW!
Stay tuned for the illustrated version on Sunday.
As you may know, Andy and I sometimes go wild and visit far off lands. Like Wisconsin and Indiana.
Growing tired of carrying our own water for those long expeditions, we decided to keep our adventure local this weekend so we went to the great city of Amboy, Illinois. It's a 2 hour drive (which Andy drives roundtrip because I'm supposedly too reckless of a driver. I told him that, out in the country, it's okay to hit things that are trying to cross the road. As a matter of fact, they encourage it!) so we wake up before the birds, pack up Mocha (Tazz cannot handle a 2 hour trip and will let you know by vomiting in his kennel and all over himself which makes the drive oh so fragrant. Mocha on the other hand, will lay in the back seat or look out the window to see if a bird is within her reach) grab some Mickey Dee's coffee and make our way through the construction torn highways.
What's in Amboy, you ask. Well, there's corn.
You have to be pretty hard up (no pun intended) if you need to drive 30 minutes to see boobies. I picture the strippers to be like the one in "My name is Earl"
More importantly, Amboy has peace and quite.
I didn't take a picture of peace and quiet though so you'll just have to imagine what that would be like.
Andy's parents have a trailer (or *caravan* in British speak) where they spend most of their spring/summer/fall weekends so we try and visit them a couple of times a year. I love going there (my mother in law cooks the yummiest food!)and would do so more often but there is always this wall to build or that function to go to... hmm that kinda sounds like I do other things than laze around.
It's amusing to see Andy pretend he's living out in the wilderness and has to chop wood to keep his family warm.
After many tries he finally connects with the wiggly wood.
I hid his face because he's making his "oh shit" face and he would kill me (kill me dead) for posting it on my blog.
We spent a nice relaxing day where we reminisced about olden times:
"I used to know a family who was too smart for my liking! I called them 'The Smarties'" (from my father-in-law)
We discussed world matters
"I'm hoping to be on the first wave of people sizzled if we're attacked" (optimist, me)
"No, since we are so far in, we'd probably suffer a full day before we die" (pessimist, Andy)
We watched the dogs and wondered what they were thinking.
"I wonder if he'll drop another cookie" (Mocha)
We normally go for a walk around the campground but my knee was bothering me due to an old sports injury from when I used to play football for the Toledo Tornados. Just kidding! I would never be caught dead in Toledo. It turns out I had rested my Betty Boop messenger bag on my knee the whole trip and since it weighed the same as a small sumo wrestler (because I had packed the important things that Amboy might not have, chapstick weighs 50 pounds, right?), it killed my knee. I didn't realize it until I went to get out of Andy's car and my face almost kissed the grass.
On our way home, we drove through a town called Waterman, we saw a sign on a bar that said "Mexican Wednesday" and then I joked about how, if I went in there on a Saturday, I would be booted while someone yelled "k'ent you see it says Wednesday?" (get it? because I'm Mexican?) and then Andy said that the people of Waterman are probably really nice and I'm a jerk for implying they're unkind to strangers and then I told him they had a drawing of a stereotypical Mexican man taking a siesta and as far as I was concerned me and the town of Waterman were even Steven. All this happened as we were driving in slow motion because the town of Waterman is this small so we wanted to finish our conversation before we entered the town of Hinckley.
Anyway, jokes on me because now I really want a siesta.
I still feel like an elephants stinky crap. Thanks for asking.
Andy: What's so funny?
Me: I was remembering a scene on Glee when the "Acafellas" were singing "Poison". We were laughing so hard!
Andy: ?? Who were you watching it with?
Andy: You said "we were laughing so hard" I thought you watched it alone.
Me: Oh um yeah. I think. Wait. Who was I talking to?
Andy: Bee, I think you have a Nyquil problem.
Me: No. I'm sure I was talking to somebody!
Andy: Sure you were, babe. Where's your stash?
I have no freakin clue why I remember laughing with someone while watching Glee. If I was chatting with you or on the phone with you, please let me know because I need to convince Andy and "it's driving me out of my mind!"
Here's the Bell Biv Devoe video. The dancing was cheesy but... I cannot believe I used to dress like that! I used to go to "Rave" and buy like 6 of those hoochie stretch skirts for about five dollas.
There are very few pictures of me in that era and for that I'm grateful. The humiliation would be too much to bare. However! I did find this little gem which I'm posting because my brain cells are still swimming in medicine and I would never dream of opening that door of shame if I was lucid but you know what? I find the humor in this picture right now.
I have no idea WHY I was ""posing"" (super models of the world, you may breathe easy) but I blame it on the Southern Comfort. Also, why I didn't get closer to the chair so that it wouldn't look as awkward escapes me. I tried cropping it but then it looked like I was floating and that made me laugh and Tazz started barking. I'm assuming he was trying to talk sense into me.
::groan:: It was New Year's Eve so give the shawty a break!
Like those women who can't hold their liquor and then wake up to find they brought home the ugliest guy in the club, I'm sure I'll regret this in the morning.
The Busy Basics Busy Ball Popper is sure to get you silly with poppin', droppin' colored balls! Pump the plunger and drop the balls onto the spiral track. When they reach the bottom, look out..."
Yours for $24.99!!
I was watching "Glee" (who is Josh Groban?) when the commercial for this toy came on. You cannot make this shit up!
I picture a 21 year old male intern sitting at a marketing meeting with a bunch of executive geezers and they ask around the room what they should call this bubbling balls toy and he's sitting there thinking "huhuhu! they said balls!" so he smirks and says "BUSY BALL POPPER!" and they think it's brilliant!
I rated it on the toys r us website just because I'm not being supervised and I have nothing better to do. I ate all the SherBERT:
By Bee happily childless in Illinois on 9/16/2009
Made me giggle. Threaten men?
Confusing message. Why do I want to pop the balls? Are the balls evil? Can't we all just get along?
To mock and use as blog fodder. But also to pop balls.
Short, nice hair, carrying a little holiday weight. From 1999/2000-08. Possibly stoned.
Well, I want to buy it just so that I may set it in a dark corner of my room, point it out to people and ask "Would you like to play with my busy ball popper?"
I don't think they'll publish it though because:
"If you wish to make changes, click the appropriate Edit button below. If everything is correct, click the Submit button to finalize your review. Please note that the approved reviews may take 3-5 business days to appear on the site."
It's a sad day when I can't send uncensored nonsense onto the Internet. I need Al Gore to come to my rescue! (Am I too late for the Al Gore jokes?)
Andy just said this wasn't funny and I have a dirty mind. He's killing my buzz, man!
No, seriously. Who is Josh Groban?
Nyquil? My Nyquil!
My droopy eyes shine brightly as I struggle with your childproof latch.
I curse the sadistic bastards who designed your container. They mock me!
I push down and turn the lid, nothing!
I blink until my watery gaze focuses on some random diagram...
I immediately notice their trickery!
After years of practice they have changed the rules!
Like all perverted heathens, their new dictum is "pinch and twist"!
Many attempts, and tears, later, I successfully snap the top off and victoriously hold it up in the air, "In your faces, evil bottle manufacturers!"
My hand shakes, I pour 6 ounces of your emerald liquid into my tumbler.
I breathe deeply of your intoxicating aroma, my sinuses clear.
The taste of your bitterness numbs my tongue, I gently swallow.
You coat my throat as you inch your way through my esophagus.
Warming my heart on your journey to my large intestine.
I feel a deep burning sensation as you mix with my stomach acid.
You slowly spread throughout my veins until coherent thought is abandoned...
The drowsiness overcomes me instantly.
The need for sleep and a last trip to the bathroom battle inside me.
The fear of wetting the bed is too powerful.
I lumber through the hall, crashing into imaginary vases.
Your influence over me terrifying but... in a non threatening way.
A way that says you will cradle me with the same love a wino protects his last few ounces of Chablis.
As I make my way back to the safety of my bed, my ears start tingling.
Allergic reaction? Probably.
In the far distance, I hear the chimes of antique bells lulling me to sleep.
My lids, heavy. My whispers, slurred. My drool, flowing freely.
Do you hear that?
Those are the labored snores of one who is blissfully medicated and dreaming of swimming in an emerald river.
Also available in cherry flavor.
**This post is brought to you from under my blankies while I'm valiantly fighting off what I'm hoping isn't the flu but it feels very flu-y to me which sucks and my beloved Nyquil seems to be too far for me to reach which only leaves me the option to call out for Andy but that just takes too much energy so instead I'm gonna try and devise a rope toss fashioned out of toilet paper and hope it's strong enough to pull it to my my side. Or maybe I'll just sleep. Anyway, I decided to raid my draft folder for post that didn't quite make the cut so if they suck you know why. Like always, I absolve myself of any actual blame for being mediocre. God! I feel like an alien is trying to claw his way out of my throat! If I survive, and I'm not amongst the 30-90,000 predicted victims of the swine flu (relax, I don't really think I have the swine flu just a plain old regular phlem producing flu but the flu is the flu no matter what fancy name you give it. kinda like a rose I guess), I'll see you guys next week.**
Last Monday, Labor Day, Andy and I went to a double feature. Let's step back for a second so we may discuss the meaning of a *double feature*. In the olden days, days of poodle skirts, sock hops, the ability to disguise hickies via a kicky polka dot scarf and girls who would go away to visit aunts in other states for about 8-9 months and come back all weepy and smoking cigarettes, a double feature was something you paid oh I don't know, a nickel, to see two movies.
It was usually at the drive-in (and you would really only see one because you were typically too involved doing other things, like knitting) and you had those metal box thingies you'd attach to your window (the last time I went to a drive-in, Before-Andy, we had to tune our radio to a certain station and what fun is that? I used to love forgetting to remove the metal speaker thing and then remember when I couldn't put my window up while driving on the highway!) (by the way, I know I went to see Wolf with Jack Nicholson but I can't remember what the second movie was. . .).
In the year 2009, we did not pay a nickel to see 2 movies and instead paid $14 to see one movie (matinee), went home and then came back to pay $18 for the second movie.
The first movie we saw was District 9, totally Andy's pick. I liked it well enough but I wouldn't recommend it to everybody. For example, I'd tell my brothers Rick and Sergio to go see it but I'd discourage my brother Dan and sister Nancy from seeing it. Because of their delicate sensibilities.
The movie left me with more questions than I care to live with after seeing a movie but I don't want to voice those questions for 2 reasons. One, you wouldn't know what I'm talking about and two, I don't feel like ruining it for other people. Maybe tomorrow.
We left the theater and went home to feed the dogs, feed fish, and load clothes in the washer (BECAUSE I NOW HAVE THAT OPTION).
We went back to the movie theater to see Julie and Julia. I learned a few things about myself that day.
The first was that I can simultaneously make fun of old men who sit in yellow corvette convertibles while parked in a handicapped section and jamming to Barry White's "can't get enough of your love baby" all the while I'm dry heaving.
The second is that I hate watching people eat in movies. In real life too but I don't really have an option if I'm to socialize with others but in movies I want to throw things at the screen. But not my nachos. People in movies love to chew and talk. Chew, talk, then pick up their drinks and attempt to do all 3 things at once. Why? Do directors think that the entire population was raised by Brad Pitt's character in Kalifornia (he picked his feet on the kitchen table while eating, if I remember correctly).
The third is that I hate watching people kiss. In real life too but I usually just spray them with toilet water but in the movies I get all sorts of the ickies. Especially when those kissing are people in their senior years (because now they're also kissing to "can't get enough of your love baby" in my head). Sorry, I don't mean to sound like an age-ist but that's how I feel and the last I heard I had the right to feel icked out at whatever I wanted.
Also, if anybody has seen that movie, do you remember the part where that Julie chick is saying "Bon Appetite" over and over then her husband says it like 3 times and then starts mauling her and the last time he says it he practically throws his junk in her face? How boorish right? He was all "Bon Appetite, here's my crotch!" I whispered that to Andy and he sprayed the old ladies in front of us with soda.
*If you're wondering where Nemo comes into the whole story because he was in the title, he doesn't. I think Nemo's dead. Tell your children.
**I just read this and now I know why I didn't hit publish but you know what? I'm sweating right now and cold at the same time so I'm going to hit publish anyway. Tazz keeps crying. Can dogs predict the future? Is he trying to tell me something?**
I had to stop at Shop n Save on Wednesday to pick up some miscellaneous items my mom needed.
I stood at the entrance and pulled out my list so that I may study it and map out my path. (Only, mappers usually know the geographical details before they execute their mapping.) (I assume.) Granted, I only had 7 items on my list but those 7 items would be the cause of a wild scavenger hunt that would nearly bring me to tears!
It all started when I couldn't find the tomatillos. What's that, you ask. It is a small green tomato that is grown in a husk.
Its yummy uses are for salsa and... throwing at people? I'm not sure what else since I'm not a cook. I took my cart and rolled here, over there, next to the sauerkraut and nuthin'!
I stopped and asked one of the veggie organizer dudes where they were and he was all 'The what?' me 'TOE-MAH-TEE-YOS' my latino friend looked at me as if to say 'why does this chick need tomatillos' so I said to him, in Spanish, 'Mi mami quiere hacer salsa' (my mommy wants to make salsa) and then he said 'OH! Tomatillos!' Lost in translation? I don't think so since I speak PERFECT Spanish (that is the one thing I can brag about)!
He pointed me in the right direction so I took my wobbly
SELF cart and made my way to the other side of the produce section. As I was sorting through them, I was hearing my mom's voice in my head "do you even know how to pick out tomatillos correctly?" I answered, out loud, 'how hard can it be?' and the man next to me gave me a dirty look. Like I was asking him a personal question. However, the fact that he was all defensive answers it all.
My next item was a loaf of bread. But not just any loaf of bread since my mom had written 'package has the word *butter* on the top'. Ummmm okay?
DO YOU GUYS HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY VARIETIES OF BREAD ARE IN THE BREAD AISLE??
I called my mom and asked her for other distinguishing features to this buttery bread. Clue #2 yellow bag. Okay narrowed that down to 10 so I closed my eyes and eeny meeny mineey moed it.
Next up, cumin (Q-MEN or COO-MIN).
That should be easy, right? Went to the Aisle of Spice and looked high and low for cumin with these specifications "don't get the one in the bottle because it's more expensive. Look for a plastic bag with a white sticker that says 'comino de Mexico' ". While looking at each individual bag, because I could not find the cOminO, some lady asks me "can you move your cart?" and I did because I thought she needed to get a closer look at the oregano but all she did was park her cart where mine was and leave to go on her own hunt. I may or may not have moved her cart to another aisle.
After putting a BOTTLE of cumin in my cart, I moved on to look for the next thing on my list. Cream Soda. No, that wasn't on my list but for 79 cents I was taking it home. Chicken legs. I went to the back of the store and stood over the amputated chicken limbs trying to decide which was better. Smaller legs but a larger quantity or larger legs, smaller quantity? What to do? Whaaaat to do? I hadn't realized someone was clearing their throat and tapping their foot behind me.
"Oh, I'm sorry! Please go ahead." to a European lady giving me the stink eye. She sighed as if I had just taken the last schnitzel and proceeded to rustle through the packages pretty much doing the same thing I was minus the apparent disregard for chicken bruising. And then she started mumbling under her breath.
So I went in there and mimicked her because I thought maybe this was proper market etiquette. Only she had an advantage over me because she was taller and had gorilla-like arms.
She stopped once to huff at me again and I smiled at her and took over more space because clearly we were both looking for that ONE perfect package that had the right amount of legs that were the perfect size. . . EUREKA! I found it! I held it up triumphantly and gave her a sideways-half-turned-lopsided smug look and she tried looking at it over my shoulder but I walked away with my prize without giving her that pleasure.
::sigh:: I'm tired. Shopping for groceries isn't as fun as they make it out to be in movies.
Okay. Next is "80% Ground Beef". Crap! I had walked away from the dead animal section because I wanted to get away from the lady! Now I had to go back. I wobbled my way back and tried to guess as to what "80%" meant. Oh! Here is an 80% lean ground chuck. I put chuck in my cart and went "Poor chuck" out loud again and realized my latino friend from the veggies was following me at a distance.
I gave him a look as if to ask "Que onda vato?" but I don't think he understood because he scurried away.
Next on my list, milk. Ahhhh finally! Something I could pick out without having to tear my eyelashes out!
A tiny woman stood between me and the 2% and I found myself sighing and tapping my foot like my European lady friend with the chicken legs. It didn't work though! The tiny woman stood her ground! Okay, plan B. "Excuse me!" as I lean around her in all my extra poundage glory. She didn't seem to mind my invasion of her space. Weird.
Last item on my list, Jalapeños. For the love of... ! I remembered seeing the Jalapenos next to the tomatillos! All the way at the entrance of the store. Oh well. I walked back to the produce section and waved at my veggie organizing latino friend who was staring at me but he looked away. My list said she needed one pound of Jalapeños. I didn't see a single weigh station in the area. I wondered if my mom would get mad if I eyeballed the pound.
"Mom, I can't find anything to weigh the Jalapeños, does it have to be ONE pound?"
"Are you still at the store?"
"Yep. Does it have to be a pou--"
"It's almost 6:30! How long have you been there?"
"I got here a little past five I think. I couldn't find a few things-anyway! Does it have to be a poun--"
"Andy hasn't come down to dinner and I told him his plate was ready. Now it's cold."
"Mom, I need you to answer my question because I am going insane over here!"
"Calm down. What?"
"Jalapeños, pound yes or no"
"::sigh:: Okay, bye."
I look for my veggie organizer dude who doesn't want to make eye contact with me.
"Donde esta la vascula?" (Spanish for 'Where in the freakin hell is the damned produce scale because I need to get out of this hell hole??')(well, sorta)
He points to the scale behind me. Of course.
I weighed the damned Jalapeños and made my way to the register. Along the way, the hunger within took over and added 4 candy bars, a cheese danish, something called "Crust" and some Italian seasoning (in the hopes that I would one day make bruschetta again).
I arrived at my house tired, sweaty, and hungry... with melted chocolate on my butt. Just like in the 90s.
The life lesson in this story?
One, I don't want to grow up. Two, I should stop talking to myself out loud. Three, people are mean. Four, wobbly carts make your hands hurt. Five, moms have no sympathy and will often say things like "2 of the tomatillos you picked out were rotten."
If you have ever read my "about me" on this here blogus, you know I've claimed to have some fish. I say *some* because, like my beauty and figure, they've come and gone.
Every single one of our fishes/fish/fishi have passed on to the great big lake, ocean or skillet in the sky. The last one to leave us was Millhouse the Cromis. He was a brave little guy who was with us for 7 years. Andy and I at one time thought he was the one responsible for the murders of Krusty the Clown Fish the First and Second, Marge Simpson , Monty Burns the Arrow Head Crab, Smithers the Shrimp, Moe Sizlack the ugliest fish alive, Homer the Crab, Maggie the Starfish and Chili Palmer the Beta Fish (even though Chili Palmer was in an entirely different tank) since he was the only survivor. Now that he has left us, I'm wondering if the serial killer is still living in my house disguised as a well meaning snail who pretends to clean and looks innocent while quietly eating fish testicles.
Due to the lack of fish life, Andy decided to take apart his tank and rebuild it at another time. A time when serial killers would no longer have a place in aquatic society.
Then I received an email from a dear friend asking if I'd like her 3 fantail goldfish because she was moving and couldn't take them with her. I said I'd love too but I didn't have a tank for them (Andy's is a saltwater tank and the fantails are fresh water fish, salt would make them go like this "IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BUUUUURNS!!)(Only in fish speak), could I buy the tank they were currently in?
And this is the beauty I was blessed with.
She gave me a terrific deal (practically free) for the whole setup and I have to say that I absolutely love standing in front of it and talking to Larry, Moe and Curly (Three Stooges names suggested by my sister-in-law, Crazy Ez)(I tweaked them a little)(or Bee'd them if you will).
I have now designated them as my advisors in all things important like what I should make for dinner tomorrow.They are not entirely sure but they definitely gave me a big fins down when I asked them if I should grill up some fish.
So ladies and gents, please welcome
Larry O. Pompadour:
Big Moe (not to be confused with Moe Sizlack):
Curly The Acrobat:
Don't tell the other 2 but Larry is my absolute favorite! He likes to swim over and give me his shocked look hen I tell him I'm going to clean.
Thank you, AP, for thinking of us when looking for a home for these little guys. I promise to keep all shifty characters away from them and install metal detectors in case a wise guy wants to smuggle a switchblade.
They can have beer, right?
This past Saturday morning, Andy and I woke up extremely early SIX-THIRTY! He got up and put on his big boy pants so he may take the dogs out, go move our cars and open the back gate while I decided to stay in bed and send my support from there. With my eyes closed. And hugging my teddy bear.
I was all snuggly when I heard my car alarm go off. I jumped out of bed, because I know how over reactive my man can be, and ran to the front door. Meanwhile Andy ran the length of our long driveway and came into the house through the back door, which doesn't make sense because my car was parked in the front but whatever, yelling "BEE! WHERE IS YOUR KEY FOB???" (as my car alarm was going nuts waiting to be shut off) (as he was holding my car keys with my, ehm, KEY FOB that shuts off my car alarm). So I say "you are holding it" in English because that is the only language he understands and he bellows "NO I'M NOT! WHERE IS YOUR KEY FOOOOOOB??" so I take this thing that he's holding that he claims is NOT my key fob, walk to the front door, push the button on this imposter key fob and miraculously shut off my car alarm.
I slowly turn to look at him and he's just standing there, seething. Then he walks into the bedroom and I look at the time. 6:45 which triggers the rage within me. When he came out of the bedroom I let him have it boys and girls. I can't even remember what I said but I'm sure it was mean (because my voice was all snarly) and I ended it with "so you better apologize"
And he did.
I don't recall the last time Andy said 'I'm sorry'. Wait, I do. It was that one time he accidentally elbowed me in the head while he was sleeping. But that one shouldn't count because I smacked him on the stomach to wake him up and told him what he had done and he opened one eye and said 'oh sawrry' ::snore:: I'm sure that in the rule book (The Marriage Rule Book) there is an entry that clearly states that half conscious apologies are invalid in the states of Illinois, Wisconsin, California, Hawaii and maybe Alaska.
Anyway, the reason we were up so early and moving the cars around was because we needed to make room for the delivery truck that was dropping off our BRAND SPANKIN NEW WASHER!!
The delivery dudes (or "happy marriage makers" as I call them) arrived at 7:01 and, after they installed it and hauled away the old washer, were gone by 7:15.
I was so happy, I was doing dance moves I haven't been able to do since the late 80s.
I have to thank my mother and father-in-law (or "fairy godparents of smiling, happy couples" as I like to call them) for their awesome gift. They took pity on the people I have to interact with at the Laundromat and decided to intervene on their behalf. They knew I was down to my last nerve and the chains holding me back from doing serious damage to people hogging all the carts, dryers, tables, wouldn't keep me back for much longer.
Thank you Mom and Pop R.!
Here is a picture of my beautiful new washer. See how it spins for me??
Here is a picture of it standing nobly next to my dryer (which will hopefully be replaced in March).
My heart sings for you, my beautiful washer!
Later that morning, Andy cleaned out the garage (with some help from me) (but it was mostly me standing around saying stuff like "ewww! Look at all the spider eggs!" and Andy correcting me by saying "They're spider SACKS, Bee" and me saying "look, they can be spider eggs, sacks or balls for all I care because they are still EWWW!" and then him telling me to get out of the garage because he didn't need me jumping around every time I thought something was crawling on me and knocking over his elaborate balancing crap-o-stuff.).
After the flood of 2008, we stored a bunch of stuff in the garage. Materials, tools, stuff I bought on ebay which years later has me wondering what kind of drugs I was on (must have been good ones):
I know I just became cooler in your eyes.
When I opened the box, I was stunned. Was I thinking about changing careers and trying to break into the clown industry? Holy crap!
To answer your unspoken question, no, I never wore them. Just opening the box now makes me want to disinfect my body. And to some extent, my mind.
We took a break in the middle of the day to have lunch at Costco. I know I've said I don't eat any of the samples because I'm afraid of contracting small pox, eating more than my daily recommended intake of other people's skin flakes AKA dust and being pressured into buying 80 lbs of crab salad (and I don't even like crabs, edible or otherwise) but my mom came with us and hit every sample table from the front to the back of the store.
She'd walk away with portions for herself, Andy and I. By the end of our stay, we had to be rolled out of there. The freakin place was packed but now I know why people go there at around 1 o'clock. Why pay $8 per person at Corner Bakery when you can eat for free?
After we were able to tear my mesmerized mother away from the Costco blender demonstrator (who thinks he's so cool because he has a Madonna microphone) (but I'm not impressed unless he sings Lucky Star and shines one me wherever I are), we made our way home and lived happily every after.
Well, until the free booze wore off.
You guys know how much I love my Andy and how the one goal in life is to make him happy, right? Well, I know how much he loves chocolate chip cookies so I put on my apron and channeled the dutiful housewife within.
Don't ask me what the hell happened because if I knew what I was doing, they would have obviously come out perfectly and not looking like a science experiment gone wrong. A YUMMY science experiment.
I called Andy over and after he laughed at me for being unable to follow simple instructions ("" simple "" according to him but to me? When they ["they" being the evil instruction dictators] tell me "room temperature butter" and it's 75 degrees in the house it's not really my fault the butter gets goopy!), he said they tasted like heaven. Well, he didn't actually say the word "heaven" but that's what I heard.
At least I didn't burn or melt anything (that didn't mean to be melted).
I went to JEWEL (grocery store) with little niece Natalia today because my mom still has the shingles and supposedly can barely move therefore cannot make me my dinner! Personally, I think she's faking it. Yes, I know the pharmacist gave me the third degree when I went to go pick up her Gebnumbsyourbrainatin (spelling?). He asked me if I had ever taken that medication before and then shined a light in my eyes. After I explained my mom had shingles he raised his hands (as if to say 'stay away from me, short sweaty girl) and said "Ohhhh! That is very painful!" then he took my hundred dollars and ran back into the alley. Where was I? Oh right! Jewel.
My cooking expertise has been exhausted since I made a pot roast on Wednesday so I was trying to plan a meal by the seat of my pants. No recipe, no safety net. As I was walking around aimlessly with my 6 year old know it all, I thought "hmmm how about some sandwiches?" (because I don't eat those enough). I went to the deli and grabbed one of those number things because people are vicious at the deli. Seriously. We can find people of all walks of life and bitchiness at the deli.
All of a sudden I hear "NUMBER 55!! NUMBER 55!!" I jumped up and waved my number in the air. Me! That's me! And kinda did an 'in your face' type of dance to the man with number 56 (how about not stopping at the sample section buddy!). This cranky old lady came to stand in front of me and waited silently for me to direct the next 3 minutes of her life. Well, she was really old and slow so it would probably be more like 10 minutes.
I innocently asked for "Sarah Lee Brown Sugar Ham". How dare I? Did I not know they had STOPPED PRODUCTION of this ham over a YEAR AGO??
Ummm, while I do like to keep up to date with the cured and processed meat industry, I leave that for special occasions. Like when I'm comatose drooling onto my pillow or Tazz. Whichever is closest.
So I reasonably ask "well, is there anything similar you have in stock?"
"THE KRAUKAS THAT'S RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE!"
The fuck? Did I step on her oxygen line by mistake?
Normally, if I wasn't trying to be a role model-ish type of person for my 6 year old niece, I would have jumped over the counter... okay maybe not jumped since my pole vaulting days are over, I would have climbed over that counter... no, it's kinda high. I would have walked all the way around the counter and then stuffed the old lady's face into the fucking Kraukas but I was trying to be a civilized woman so I instead asked her for a pound and a half of ham. THINLY SLICED. That woman got her workout for the year!
After I asked her for a pound of the BLT salad and turned to see where Natalia was, the old mummy started yelling "HELLOOOO HELLOOOO HELLOOO!!" and waving her arms like a schizophrenic goat ON ACID.
I went up, grabbed my GD salad and excused her behavior by saying "Well, that's old people for you. Feel the need to poison you before they die"
I was thisclose to losing my cool in front of the little niece.
I was ashamed of myself until I started telling Andy the story and he laughed and said:
"Bee got served by a mummy!"
So now all I can think about is revenge and how I want to go back and give her a tour of the bottom of my left foot. All close and personal-like.
The ham was good though.
Did I forget to mention Andy dyed my hair the weekend of my reunion??
Let me take you back to Saturday day of the lord August 22, 2009.
I was looking at my hair in the mirror and wondering how it was possible that the maroon/red highlight I paid $150 for only lasted 3 weeks leaving behind a brassy orangey pukey color. I made the decision that I would NOT go to my reunion looking like the Hamburglar's less fortunate sister. I looked through my cabinets and found an awesome dye I had from last year.
Here was my dilemma. I have never dyed my own hair. Or anyone else's for that matter. I went to the only other person who was home, ready to plead my case.
Bee: Will you dye my hair?
Andy [without looking away from the computer (before it went Kapluey)]: Sure.
Ahh that is love for you right there! Your heart is feeling all warm and fuzzy...
Until minuets later. When you're frantically squirming because you're sure he is applying the dye incorrectly and he's patting your head with his big paws, massaging the dye so hard you're sure you're scalp looks like this:
Bee: Dude! You're taking too long in one spot! Don't swirl my hair like that because it'll get tangled! It's not lathering! My hair doesn't even feel wet!
Andy: Settle down! It's fine! Bee! It's fine!!!
He squirted another miniscule drop of dye on the same spot he'd been working for 10 minutes and then shoved my head this way and that with his ginormas panda hands all the while I was stomping my feet because I knew my new nickname would be Streaky Sheila.
Andy: Stop fidgeting you big baby!
Bee: No! No! Stop! You're going to mess up my hair! Oh lord oh lord oh lord!!
Andy [jumping up and down]: You're freaking me out!
Bee [stands up]: Just give me the bottle! Give me the bottle!! I'll finish it! Oh man! I am so screwed holy crap!
We walk to the bathroom.
Andy [frenzied]: What was I doing wrong? I followed the instructions!
Bee: This should be quick Andy! It's not your fault, I blame myself!
Both of us hopping. I'm serious.
Andy [pacing]: Don't ask me next time okay?? Just don't!
Bee: No way am I going to this reunion. No way!
And of course the love I mentioned earlier turns to culpability.
Bee: If you had only applied the color to my hair and not my scalp, I wouldn't be freaking out!
Andy: If you wouldn't leave things to the last minute we wouldn't be having these issues! What do I know about dying hair?
Bee: Get out of the bathroom!! Get out get out!!
As I'm hysterically applying the rest of the dye and almost passing out from the noxious fumes, I can't decide if I'm angry at Andy or not. On the one hand he was trying to help and on the other hand he was too obstinate to relinquish control once I told him to stop.
I paced for 25 minutes and then took a shower to wash the dye off. As I was brushing my hair later, I couldn't bring myself to look in a mirror. Logically I knew it couldn't be that bad because the hairdresser dyed my hair black and nothing will alter black unless you bleach it out so I guess I don't know why I was in near tears. Lucky for me, everything turned out okay. My hair didn't fall out and it looked awesome.
Stay tuned for the illustrated version on Sunday.