It Must Be A Toomaah

After many restless nights I finally said goodbye to some old friends this morning.  What is the poem .. "If you haven't been able to fit your lard butt into something for 2 decades it's probably time to take it out of your closet, and even if you could why are you freaking wearing 20+ year old clothes you loser?"   Any-Who, there I stood in front of my closet removing much loved articles of clothing that let's face it; will never be worn by this girl again.  Fact.   All snotty and bleary eyed feeling sorry for myself that my favorite jeans will never grace my old ass again, there I stood thinking to myself this probably wasn't the smartest way to begin my Friday but why wait another torturous year by taking up valuable closet space?  So there I stood stuffing my dreams of sizes long past into a bag.  On a high note I was finally able to use the ginormous Thirty-One bag I just HAD to buy that could serve no useful purpose other than to dispose of dead husbands, hold food for Shamu or help dispose of my past.  score

About 10 good minutes into the deforestation I stumbled upon the the most horrific scene that I am still shaking from with the shock of it all.  Hanging quietly in the backedy back back there they were.  I don't even think it registered what I was seeing until I heard myself gasp .. "Holy Mary Tyler Moore!  There's a pair of Coolots in here!"  At that split second all I could muster was the realization that I probably have a brain tumor. I am being totally serious.  Let me be the first to admit that ol' Sally is far from being a fashion plate by any stretch of the imagination but a pair of COOLOTS!!  It's possible I may have blacked out for a moment.  With the speed of a Leopard Cheetah I yanked the evidence from the hanger and thew them into a bag and then the back of my truck to dispose of later today.  The plan is to throw them deep into the woods on some deserted back road with the hope if found, someone will just assume a homeless alien/person accidentally left them behind.  I mean why would anyone past the year 1970 purposely buy a pair?  I hope my tire tracks cannot be traced.



On the way to my office I could not stop thinking about this morning's bombshell  and have been self-diagnosing for a brain tumor ever since.  Coolots in a 37 year old's closet is a grave matter indeed and not one to be taken lightly.  Something is terribly terribly wrong with me.  All this time whenever I heard about some mother just up and leaving her family, vanishing for years until she is discovered by the roadside in Siler City peddling macrame and shark tooth necklaces; I would say to myself while shaking my head ... Kids.  It's got to be her kids.  They they finally driven her bonkers.  After years of keep your hands to yourself and yes you have to brush your teeth ... dirtball,  the poor lady flipped her wig and while driving home just went right past her house and just kept on going.  Now I'm convinced she had a brain tumor and just didn't know it.  Poor girl.  All those years knitting and beading and she's toast.  shame


Now that all arrows point to my toomaah (in my best Schwarzenegger voice) and my days are numbered I must admit that I'm concerned that my husband and so-called friends must be afflicted with brain tumors as well.  There is just no other explanation for people that supposedly love me and have a concern for my well being, would allow me to leave the house in coolots much less purchase them.  Could this be a tumor epidemic or a decade old joke on me?  Think about the howls of laughter at my expense as they watch me running across the field at half my normal pace because of the wind drag from the coolot sails.  Ok, more likely walking.


Since my demise is just around the corner only 2 questions remain.  #1) Should I cancel my teeth cleaning appointment in mid April?  #2) On the slim chance there isn't a tumor after all, is it possible for someone to CSI my fingerprints from the coolots and it lead them back to me?  


Siler City here I come.




 

For The Love of Richard Simmons, Just Tell Me Already

For the past few weeks I have been in a pretty mediocre vibe, knowing that I really need to make some changes in my life but not quite sure where or when to start this transformation.  Typically during times like these I will just ask the man upstairs, Richard Simmons my pseudo life coach or any angel hanging around bored stiff to please send me a sign, just a little nudge in the right direction or something to show me things are going to be alrighty.   Usually my plead for assistance calms me and a few instances here and there settles my nerves and is helpful, but alas this time not so much. 

Why isn't there a handbook on what are "true signs" anyway?  What determines if something is a sign, coincidence, voodoo curse or just a normal occurrence that would have happened regardless?  I am nutso already so my recent vague happenings just make me even more bonkers than before I asked for help in the first place.  I know God's schedule is mad busy but can he not just do a chick a favor and stop by the hizzy?  fast fast - short and sweet.  Pop by all casual in his Jesus sandals and robe, give it to me straight and then move along to the next kooky broad. 

Here are some examples: 

• Went to the beach and it was covered with black Jingle Shells, Lady Slippers and unbroken Angel Wings.  This never happens.
• Accidentally Goodwilled my comfortable (fatty-boom-ba-laddy) pants and stuck myself the with the 2 sizes too small version that I was forced to wear (hideous) for my lunch date with my mother and sister back home and I didn't see anyone I knew.  Unheard of luck.
• A childhood friend I had no contact with in over a decade found me through fb a week after my mother and I were reminiscing about her family as we drove down our old street.  ESP awesomeness
• Worried that the kid's games will take place at the same time this weekend on opposite sides of town while my husband works and I'm alone until the long awaited schedule shows they are 7 hours apart.  Whew.
• Started the week with a drawer full of clean panties and my son replaced the toilet paper and didn't leave me stranded.  Magic.
• Parents bought a slew of smoke alarms for our 500 sq. ft. birdhouse to add to the 4 we already have installed.  Should we be practicing stop, drop and roll?  Just tell me!
• Had a 3 day stomach virus so I was amazingly able to button the only clean work slacks that I own.  Straight up Voodoo Luck.
• On this mornings drive I got behind a VW Golf, my first car who's wheel fell off in front of the entire town and a school bus with the same number of the one I crashed into at the end of my street during high school.  What are the odds?

Some other scary fantastic "signs" have been going on, like not having to go to the ladies room on my 2 hour drive back home through Never-Never-Farmland Extravaganza where it never fails that somebody (me) has to stop 1,000 times on Deliverance dirt roads.  An uninterrupted drive home with all of my favorite old school tunes on a super crap day, a peppering of happy morning kids,  finding a can of .59 cents Coke that was not circa 1942, finally saw a donkey in a field of cows that I had been trying to locate for over a month, Annie decided she doesn't want to be a Go-Go Dancer and my husband washed the dishes without me having to cry about it.

There isn't enough margarita mix available for me to try and decipher all these going-ons.  For goodness sakes Richard Simmons!  Are things on the upswing or are you buttering me up for a colossal heaping of whoop-ass life lessons?  Send me a fifth of Kettle One and let's talk about it.

Would I lie to you?

All Funked Up

I'm in a terrible funk and have no plans of getting myself out of it any time soon.  Truth be told I am pretty wary of people who are habitually in a good mood, always wanting to spread around some cheer and happy thoughts.  Keep your it could always be worse unsolicited crazy-talk and leave me in my cloud of funkness and Swiss Cakes you wackadoo.  Even this morning I was perfectly happy in my mood of doom and gloom with lips in full sneer, brow wrinkled, shoulders all hunched over and pissed off at the world when this one hundred thousand million year old man opened the door for me at the gas station.  He even had the nerve to smile and tell me to have a nice day!  "Shove it Gramps" was only a breath away but I hadn't the nerve ... this time. 

What's so great about being in a good mood anyway?  You can't get away with half the crap you can during an epic "funk phase".  For instance during my day off last week after I completed the drudgery of my day off duties with running errands, laundry, vacuuming, dusting, yada yada yada,  I sat down on the couch and mashed ass for 3 good hours until the kids got home from school.   Normally I would not allow myself to sit and stew for that amount of time without feeling terribly guilty for days afterwards but during my time of blahness it's totally encouraged.  Eating an entire box of Wheat Thins in a single sitting on a happy mood day would be unacceptable but on a funk day would be forgiven.  Standing in front of your closet in a full-throttle ugly tizzy while yelling at your husband that you have nothing to wear and blaming him for breathing while he stands there shell-shocked ...  Good Mood Day = Graceless.  Funk Day = Tolerable.  Mad at the world, face in a perma-scowl, hating your job and everyone else that gets in your way is perfectly fitting during a funk phase yet severely frowned upon on a normal basis.  

Sometimes I just don't want to look on the bright side of life.  Instead I prefer crying and moping, ho-hum myself around town and sulk with a little rain storm cloud lingering above my head.  Who wants to be upbeat and perky when you can be glum and sullen? 

Besides, frown lines are sexy.