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.