Ok, so I had my Professional Bra fitting the other day and purchased 3 new bras that were Professionally fitted for my gigantic honkers. Yes, they were very expensive but they put things in the proper place so handing over my Amex wasn't that difficult and I headed home all hap-hap-happy that I *finally* have some good, well-engineered bras that *seemed* to be comfortable in the dressing room.
The Good News is, I look great! These bras are a marvel of engineering. They lift and support and are actually pretty for something so...so HUGE. The Bad News? I hate these new bras. Hate. Them. Wearing a bra in the dressing room for 1 minute does not give you an indication of how they will feel when you wear them going about your business all day. The underwire turned into a painful vice, the edges of the cups are digging into my underarms, the boning on the sides digs into both my side and my arm right at a nerve so my arms keep going numb, the stitching feels like it was sewn with fishing line and I swear there is sandpaper on the band. They are so flipping uncomfortable after wearing them for an hour that I want to scream.
Unfortunately, in a fit of optimism, I tossed all my old bras as soon as I got home with the new bras so I'm kind of screwed.
So I will have to continue in my quest for proper and COMFORTABLE support for the F-Troops, as TheManTheMyth now refers to me and my boobs.
And they say romance is dead.
Oh, yesterday we, my sister Bippy and I, took Thing 2 shopping for bras and despite the hilarity that ensued and had people outside the dressing rooms laughing when we came out, I promised her that I would not blog about it so I'm not. Besides, you really had to be there.
And speaking of Big Boobs and Celebrity Sightings, I saw retired porn star Jenna Jameson while we were shopping. I wanted to smack that bitch down. Why, you ask? I'll tell you why. Girlfriend is tiny. She made Thing 2 (5'6, 95lbs) look like an Amazon. And she recently gave birth to twins. THAT'S why I wanted to bust her ass. And I have no idea why I'm talking like I'm straight outta Compton. Must be that torture device I'm wearing that's affecting my brain.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Dis, Dat & de udder ting
After posting about the kitty who seemed to have adopted me, I haven't seen him since and frankly, I'm bummed. He's such a sweet, affectionate boy and has lots of charisma (pronounced "ka-RAZ-ma" in Perkins lingo). I'm hoping that he actually belongs to someone and is a pedigreed Blue-point Siamese which would explain the presence of his cojones. He's definitely well-fed. I know this because a) we fed him and b) I picked him up to give him cuddles and he had some heft to him.
Today, I finally went and had a Professional Bra Fitting and color me depressed and dismayed. I knew I had packed on some El Bee's in the last year due to my unfortunate addiction to Crack but Cheezus Christ on a Cracker! An F cup?!?! Damn. Thing 2 saw my 3 new bras, which cost the equivalent of a Coach bag, and was flabbergasted to discover that one cup completely covered her head. She fearfully asked me, "Am *I* going to get THAT big?" Stay away from the crack and you'll be fine, kid.
Registered the offspring for school this week. Registration for the two of them cost only a hair more than my 3 new bras. This does not include their school supplies. Gone are the days when all you needed was a PeeChee
a couple of pencils and some notebook paper and you were set for the year. Did you know they don't even make PeeChees any more? What are girls supposed to write their future married name on?
We won't get the list of required school supplies until a week or so after school starts when the kids will bring home their lists and announce that they have to have everything on the list the next day and if they don't bring this stuff to school the next day, they will get Marked Down which will affect their grades and totally screw up any chance they may have had of getting into a good college and then they'll be stuck living here at home until they're 37 and it will be all my fault because I didn't rush out and get the supplies the second they brought home the list and it's not THEIR fault I don't have the money to buy this stuff at the last minute just GET THE STUFF, Mom!
So I will then rush out to the nearest Tar-zhay, knowing damn well that the only things still in stock are Hello Kitty binders and extra-wide ruled notebook paper which means I have to drive over to the over-priced office supply store where they will be out of every third item on the list and the next day, the kids will come home from school and tell me that the teacher said they don't need those items for another week so don't rush out buying this stuff.
And I will blink, and then wordlessly reach for the bottle of vodka.
Today, I finally went and had a Professional Bra Fitting and color me depressed and dismayed. I knew I had packed on some El Bee's in the last year due to my unfortunate addiction to Crack but Cheezus Christ on a Cracker! An F cup?!?! Damn. Thing 2 saw my 3 new bras, which cost the equivalent of a Coach bag, and was flabbergasted to discover that one cup completely covered her head. She fearfully asked me, "Am *I* going to get THAT big?" Stay away from the crack and you'll be fine, kid.
Registered the offspring for school this week. Registration for the two of them cost only a hair more than my 3 new bras. This does not include their school supplies. Gone are the days when all you needed was a PeeChee
a couple of pencils and some notebook paper and you were set for the year. Did you know they don't even make PeeChees any more? What are girls supposed to write their future married name on?
We won't get the list of required school supplies until a week or so after school starts when the kids will bring home their lists and announce that they have to have everything on the list the next day and if they don't bring this stuff to school the next day, they will get Marked Down which will affect their grades and totally screw up any chance they may have had of getting into a good college and then they'll be stuck living here at home until they're 37 and it will be all my fault because I didn't rush out and get the supplies the second they brought home the list and it's not THEIR fault I don't have the money to buy this stuff at the last minute just GET THE STUFF, Mom!
So I will then rush out to the nearest Tar-zhay, knowing damn well that the only things still in stock are Hello Kitty binders and extra-wide ruled notebook paper which means I have to drive over to the over-priced office supply store where they will be out of every third item on the list and the next day, the kids will come home from school and tell me that the teacher said they don't need those items for another week so don't rush out buying this stuff.
And I will blink, and then wordlessly reach for the bottle of vodka.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Dear Soaker*
A couple of weeks ago, I went out to my car and saw a cup of water and a handful of kibble next to it. I assumed TheManTheMyth had put his cup of water on the ground when he got in the car and forgot about it. I couldn't explain the kibble, though. A day or two later, I got the explanation: TheManTheMyth was heading to his truck early one morning when a cat came running out of the dark at him, yowling and demanding attention. Since Kitty was so insistent, weaving in and out of his legs and purring, TheManTheMyth assumed that Kitty was hungry and went and grabbed a handful of Lucy's kibble and some water to wash it down. While Kitty was gobbling the food, TheManTheMyth continued on his way.
When he told me about this, he described the cat as a gray cat. Knowing we have raccoons in the neighborhood, I jokingly asked him if Kitty had a black mask and a ringed tail. Hardy har har, said TheManTheMyth.
Well since then, Kitty has taken to hanging around our house, hoping for another handout. This morning, I was getting ready to take a shower and I heard the familiar yowling right outside the bathroom window. It was Kitty, sunbathing in a patch of sunlight but he had heard me through the window and was letting me know that if I wanted to toss him some kibble, he wouldn't decline it.
Still in my robe, I go outside and Kitty comes a-running. He proceeds to purr and rub against me legs, flopping onto his side while I scratch his head and ears. But he reminds me he wants food so I go and grab some of Lucy's kibble and he starts gobbling away:
Obviously, he's not a raccoon.
He ate every bite and demanded more so I also went and got him a dish of milk. He thought he had died and gone to Kitty Heaven.
Once he had finished his breakfast, he needed to discuss some things with me:
such as when he'd like his meals, and that he likes his ears scratched just so and why yes, he DOES like sitting in laps while his ears are getting scratched.
But here's the problem(s):
Yeah, them's are Big Balls. What we've got heah, is failure to fix a feline. I'm pretty sure that Kitty is one of the feral cats that have been living in the shrubbery behind the neighbor's house that backs up to the freeway.
The last thing I need right now is another animal. I already have a very jealous Special Needs dog
who demands the majority of my time, attention AND money.
I know I need to be responsible and at least catch Kitty and take him to get neutered. Who knows how many litters he's fathered. And if, IF, I get him neutered, it's only right that he get vaccinated so that he doesn't catch any icky diseases. And he'll need flea control, too. Oh, and a name. "Kitty" doesn't quite work for a big, strong male cat with powerful lungs.
I'm screwed.
* This was from an episode of Gilligan's Island where Gilligan mis-read a note that actually said, "Dear Suckers." "Dear Soaker" has become part of the Perkins Family Language and is only used regarding unplanned animal adoption.
When he told me about this, he described the cat as a gray cat. Knowing we have raccoons in the neighborhood, I jokingly asked him if Kitty had a black mask and a ringed tail. Hardy har har, said TheManTheMyth.
Well since then, Kitty has taken to hanging around our house, hoping for another handout. This morning, I was getting ready to take a shower and I heard the familiar yowling right outside the bathroom window. It was Kitty, sunbathing in a patch of sunlight but he had heard me through the window and was letting me know that if I wanted to toss him some kibble, he wouldn't decline it.
Still in my robe, I go outside and Kitty comes a-running. He proceeds to purr and rub against me legs, flopping onto his side while I scratch his head and ears. But he reminds me he wants food so I go and grab some of Lucy's kibble and he starts gobbling away:
Obviously, he's not a raccoon.
He ate every bite and demanded more so I also went and got him a dish of milk. He thought he had died and gone to Kitty Heaven.
Once he had finished his breakfast, he needed to discuss some things with me:
such as when he'd like his meals, and that he likes his ears scratched just so and why yes, he DOES like sitting in laps while his ears are getting scratched.
But here's the problem(s):
Yeah, them's are Big Balls. What we've got heah, is failure to fix a feline. I'm pretty sure that Kitty is one of the feral cats that have been living in the shrubbery behind the neighbor's house that backs up to the freeway.
The last thing I need right now is another animal. I already have a very jealous Special Needs dog
who demands the majority of my time, attention AND money.
I know I need to be responsible and at least catch Kitty and take him to get neutered. Who knows how many litters he's fathered. And if, IF, I get him neutered, it's only right that he get vaccinated so that he doesn't catch any icky diseases. And he'll need flea control, too. Oh, and a name. "Kitty" doesn't quite work for a big, strong male cat with powerful lungs.
I'm screwed.
* This was from an episode of Gilligan's Island where Gilligan mis-read a note that actually said, "Dear Suckers." "Dear Soaker" has become part of the Perkins Family Language and is only used regarding unplanned animal adoption.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
What's Under There?
If you're playing along, you will have said, "Under where?" and I will snicker to myself, "You said Underwear! Heh heh. Heh heh." Juvenile humor, yes, but it's funny to ME, dammit! And I need that humor today. Why, you ask. I'll tell you.
Today, I went shopping for something I hate, hate, HATE to go shopping for. Worse than shopping for a bathing suit, I went shopping for new bras. I knew it was time when the underwires on two of my bras decided to escape and stab me in a delicate area.
Now the reason I hate shopping for bras is because I am what you would call "Full-figured." Translation: I've got big, giant, 100% natural hooters. It's both a blessing and a curse. These days, we're leaning more toward curse than blessing. Trying to find a bra for the "Full-figured woman" that doesn't look like something you harness to a mule is a challenge. So off I go to my local higher end department store and head up to the "lingerie" department where I peruse racks upon racks (Pun intended. Heh heh.) of bras. I find several styles in my size and head to the dressing room.
I used to be paranoid about hidden cameras in dressing rooms but now, if someone is getting their jollies by looking at my pasty white sagging breasts, then bless their perverted little hearts because believe me, ain't nuthin' sexy about me these days.
Anyways. I try on the first bra. Nope. 2nd bra. Nope. Bras 3, 4 and 5. Nope, nein and nyet. 100 bras later (only a slight exaggeration), I finally tried on one that fit in the cups, the straps didn't carve into my shoulders, it was comfortable yet supportive and lifted the girls back up to where they belong. Yes, I thought, we have a winner! I'll just get several of this one, I said to myself as I preened in front of the mirror. And then I turned to see how it looked in the back and gave a shriek of horror. The skin of my back in between the straps was squeezed together so much it looked like I had some serious cleavage. You could have tucked a rose in there. And a pencil.
That was the final straw. I'd been trying on bras for over an hour and I was Done. Sadly, I know I must continue my quest before I'm reduced to rigging up some duct tape, elastic and dishtowels into a makeshift bra.
Pray for me.
Today, I went shopping for something I hate, hate, HATE to go shopping for. Worse than shopping for a bathing suit, I went shopping for new bras. I knew it was time when the underwires on two of my bras decided to escape and stab me in a delicate area.
Now the reason I hate shopping for bras is because I am what you would call "Full-figured." Translation: I've got big, giant, 100% natural hooters. It's both a blessing and a curse. These days, we're leaning more toward curse than blessing. Trying to find a bra for the "Full-figured woman" that doesn't look like something you harness to a mule is a challenge. So off I go to my local higher end department store and head up to the "lingerie" department where I peruse racks upon racks (Pun intended. Heh heh.) of bras. I find several styles in my size and head to the dressing room.
I used to be paranoid about hidden cameras in dressing rooms but now, if someone is getting their jollies by looking at my pasty white sagging breasts, then bless their perverted little hearts because believe me, ain't nuthin' sexy about me these days.
Anyways. I try on the first bra. Nope. 2nd bra. Nope. Bras 3, 4 and 5. Nope, nein and nyet. 100 bras later (only a slight exaggeration), I finally tried on one that fit in the cups, the straps didn't carve into my shoulders, it was comfortable yet supportive and lifted the girls back up to where they belong. Yes, I thought, we have a winner! I'll just get several of this one, I said to myself as I preened in front of the mirror. And then I turned to see how it looked in the back and gave a shriek of horror. The skin of my back in between the straps was squeezed together so much it looked like I had some serious cleavage. You could have tucked a rose in there. And a pencil.
That was the final straw. I'd been trying on bras for over an hour and I was Done. Sadly, I know I must continue my quest before I'm reduced to rigging up some duct tape, elastic and dishtowels into a makeshift bra.
Pray for me.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Shopping at the Swap Meet
The Antique Swapmeet was back in town at Vets Stadium this weekend and since I had nothing better to do, what with waking up at 5:00am for no reason on a Sunday after whooping it up the night before at the Jackrabbits MC awards party where I was awarded a gift card to the Crack House for all my hard work at making our 2009 Hare & Hound a rousing success, I decided to go and see what I could see and perhaps spend some money on stuff I didn't need and have no place to put and how's THAT for a run-on sentence, eh?
So I jump into the Red Rocket (it doesn't always look like this. Really.)
and off I go. I really didn't have anything in mind to look for, just whatever caught my eye, knowing full well that the odds of me heading home empty-handed were quite large. Especially since I didn't bring much money. You can't spend what you don't have, doncha know. After a short time, I realized that I did have a reason for being there and that was for yet another round of People Watching. Seriously, the Antique swapmeet is prime for people watching. Where else can you hear the punch-line of a conversation between 2 gay guys that went, "But you don't wear underwear!" or listen to a Jamaican Rastafarian speaking fluent Japanese with his "Jah mon!" accent? And there's always some interesting stuff up for sale so I had some good blog-fodder here.
Are you the King or Queen of Your Castle? Do you have delusions of grandeur? If so, then you must have this to remind your minions that they are in the Presence of Greatness:
And a Royal Person does not have plain, boring bathroom fixtures. Oh no. Only marble carved with the heads of lions will do. Nothing says "Class" like a lion staring out at your feet while you drop a deuce and then wash away the residue.
And Royalty always has plenty of jewels. What better way to let people will know you are a person of Wealth and Taste than by wearing this:
It weighed a ton so make sure you have servants there to catch you as you stagger under the weight of your Royal Attire.
There was the usual "Vintage Clothing" sellers. There's always some interesting finds mixed in with the usual Average White Band concert tees and old nightgowns:
If you're going to a disco party and need a floor length gold leather dress that zips completely in half, I'm sure we can find one for you.
Or maybe you're being shipped off to Band Camp:
Seconds after snapping this photo, I heard squeals behind me and was almost knocked to the side by the two gay guys who had just zeroed in on it. They had a lively debate about where they could wear the jacket and hat before realizing that only an anorectic would fit into it and anorectic was something these boys were not, I'm just saying.
Going to Vegas in the near future and need something to do? Perhaps this will help:
There was also a "How to Strip for Fun and Profit" book along with some "erotic" paperbacks that, based on the titles and cover photos, were just bad 1970's stag films turned into books. They were kind of funny in a creepy way.
And speaking of creepy, there was an abundance of things that were just, well, creepy. Like dolls. I don't like dolls. I did when I was a little girl and had a babydoll but since I've become a grown-up, dolls just give me a case of the willies. I so don't get women who collect dolls but they probably don't understand my collection of Del Taco calories so I guess it's a draw. So I'm walking along and and see that someone is selling a child in a coffin:
This doll was almost life-size and to see her (it) just laying in that box was just plain wrong. And creepy. But not as creepy she is:
She stares blankly across the aisles at THIS:
For some reason, I keep hearing Courtney Love singing "I am doll parts." But seriously, somebody is trying to sell old, dirty doll appendages and they put a $55 price tag on the bowl of arms. Yeah, good luck with THAT. "Some day you will ache like I ache."
When I was a little girl, my Gramma had a Sock Monkey that sat on her bed. For some reason, I was absolutely terrified of that damn monkey. Something about the eyes. So I know that I will have nightmares after seeing THIS monkey:
There's just something about the eyes, I tell you.
There was one more creepy thing I saw but this was creepy in a cool way. I think.
These remind me of those Victorian "Sleeping Beauties" portraits of dead people and by portraits of dead people, I mean portraits that were taken AFTER death.
There used to be a vendor that sold old funeral and mortuary items that would have been a good companion to these photos but I haven't seen that vendor the last couple of times I've gone. It was always odd to see an antique child's coffin, wicker body basket and embalming equipment right next to the stall selling old toys and dishware.
The last few times I've gone to the swapmeet, I've seen this portrait of an old Orthodox Jew titled "The Diamond Cutter:"
And every time I see it, I tell myself "Next time, if it's still unsold, I'm buying it." So, next time I go, I AM buying it. Next time.
By this time, I had walked every aisle and my hips, knees and feet were begging to be put out of their misery so I headed for the exit. I did end up buying one skirt (not "Vintage") that I will probably wear until it shreds.
Then I went home and plopped on the couch. I had gotten in my 10,000 daily steps and dammit, I had earned my rest.
So I jump into the Red Rocket (it doesn't always look like this. Really.)
and off I go. I really didn't have anything in mind to look for, just whatever caught my eye, knowing full well that the odds of me heading home empty-handed were quite large. Especially since I didn't bring much money. You can't spend what you don't have, doncha know. After a short time, I realized that I did have a reason for being there and that was for yet another round of People Watching. Seriously, the Antique swapmeet is prime for people watching. Where else can you hear the punch-line of a conversation between 2 gay guys that went, "But you don't wear underwear!" or listen to a Jamaican Rastafarian speaking fluent Japanese with his "Jah mon!" accent? And there's always some interesting stuff up for sale so I had some good blog-fodder here.
Are you the King or Queen of Your Castle? Do you have delusions of grandeur? If so, then you must have this to remind your minions that they are in the Presence of Greatness:
And a Royal Person does not have plain, boring bathroom fixtures. Oh no. Only marble carved with the heads of lions will do. Nothing says "Class" like a lion staring out at your feet while you drop a deuce and then wash away the residue.
And Royalty always has plenty of jewels. What better way to let people will know you are a person of Wealth and Taste than by wearing this:
It weighed a ton so make sure you have servants there to catch you as you stagger under the weight of your Royal Attire.
There was the usual "Vintage Clothing" sellers. There's always some interesting finds mixed in with the usual Average White Band concert tees and old nightgowns:
If you're going to a disco party and need a floor length gold leather dress that zips completely in half, I'm sure we can find one for you.
Or maybe you're being shipped off to Band Camp:
Seconds after snapping this photo, I heard squeals behind me and was almost knocked to the side by the two gay guys who had just zeroed in on it. They had a lively debate about where they could wear the jacket and hat before realizing that only an anorectic would fit into it and anorectic was something these boys were not, I'm just saying.
Going to Vegas in the near future and need something to do? Perhaps this will help:
There was also a "How to Strip for Fun and Profit" book along with some "erotic" paperbacks that, based on the titles and cover photos, were just bad 1970's stag films turned into books. They were kind of funny in a creepy way.
And speaking of creepy, there was an abundance of things that were just, well, creepy. Like dolls. I don't like dolls. I did when I was a little girl and had a babydoll but since I've become a grown-up, dolls just give me a case of the willies. I so don't get women who collect dolls but they probably don't understand my collection of Del Taco calories so I guess it's a draw. So I'm walking along and and see that someone is selling a child in a coffin:
This doll was almost life-size and to see her (it) just laying in that box was just plain wrong. And creepy. But not as creepy she is:
She stares blankly across the aisles at THIS:
For some reason, I keep hearing Courtney Love singing "I am doll parts." But seriously, somebody is trying to sell old, dirty doll appendages and they put a $55 price tag on the bowl of arms. Yeah, good luck with THAT. "Some day you will ache like I ache."
When I was a little girl, my Gramma had a Sock Monkey that sat on her bed. For some reason, I was absolutely terrified of that damn monkey. Something about the eyes. So I know that I will have nightmares after seeing THIS monkey:
There's just something about the eyes, I tell you.
There was one more creepy thing I saw but this was creepy in a cool way. I think.
These remind me of those Victorian "Sleeping Beauties" portraits of dead people and by portraits of dead people, I mean portraits that were taken AFTER death.
There used to be a vendor that sold old funeral and mortuary items that would have been a good companion to these photos but I haven't seen that vendor the last couple of times I've gone. It was always odd to see an antique child's coffin, wicker body basket and embalming equipment right next to the stall selling old toys and dishware.
The last few times I've gone to the swapmeet, I've seen this portrait of an old Orthodox Jew titled "The Diamond Cutter:"
And every time I see it, I tell myself "Next time, if it's still unsold, I'm buying it." So, next time I go, I AM buying it. Next time.
By this time, I had walked every aisle and my hips, knees and feet were begging to be put out of their misery so I headed for the exit. I did end up buying one skirt (not "Vintage") that I will probably wear until it shreds.
Then I went home and plopped on the couch. I had gotten in my 10,000 daily steps and dammit, I had earned my rest.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Blocking and passing
Anybody who watches motorsports knows that the object of the race is to be the first one to cross the finish line. It's not uncommon for the lead guy to have someone much faster come up from behind and try to pass. Slower guy in front doesn't want to be passed so he will try and block the other guy. He'll do whatever he can to keep from being passed, even if this means swerving from side to side. This is a part of racing. I get that. But it shouldn't be a part of frigging WALKING!
I was taking my daily Walk For Fun and Health this morning at the El Dorado Nature Center. The trails are mostly rather narrow. So I'm walking along at a healthy brisk pace and come up on a slower walker. This guy wasn't walking, he was LUMBERING along. In the middle of the trail. I have to slow my pace because he was quite a large person and I couldn't pass without one of us being sent into the wall of bushes that are filled with many, many spiderwebs.
Every time he would lumber to the side, I'd attempt to make my move. But just as I would attempt to pass, he'd swerve back, blocking me and preventing me from passing. He knew I was there. I don't walk quietly and gracefully, or so I've been told. In fact, you could say that I pretty much stomp when I walk. I can't help it. My family tells me the house shakes when I walk. I try to walk quietly and gracefully, coming in on little cat feet but to no avail. So I'm stomping right on this guy's ass, jingling my keys, clearing my throat to let him know I need to pass and he Will. Not. Move. He'd swerve to the left and I'd dart to the right, only to have him swerve back and cut me off. WTF? I don't care if he was listening to Slipknot at full blast on an iPod or if he was completely deaf, he knew I was there, he could feel my breath on his neck, fercryinoutloud, and he Would Not Let Me Pass.
Just as I was ready to bark, "Move it, Buster!" we came to a wider area and I was able to pass him on the inside and continue on my way. I glanced back just in time to see some new walkers get trapped right behind him. Yep, he caused a bottleneck. And didn't seem to care. I just don't get it. It's not like he's going to lose points or that podium finish if he lets the faster walkers pass.
I'm pretty sure he's that guy in the Prius I always seem to get trapped behind. The guy who drives just enough under the speed limit, in the fast lane, to keep you from changing lanes and going around him because the flow of traffic in the next lane is such that you can't get over and he's getting some perverse thrill out of all the cars bottlenecking behind him.
Bastard.
I was taking my daily Walk For Fun and Health this morning at the El Dorado Nature Center. The trails are mostly rather narrow. So I'm walking along at a healthy brisk pace and come up on a slower walker. This guy wasn't walking, he was LUMBERING along. In the middle of the trail. I have to slow my pace because he was quite a large person and I couldn't pass without one of us being sent into the wall of bushes that are filled with many, many spiderwebs.
Every time he would lumber to the side, I'd attempt to make my move. But just as I would attempt to pass, he'd swerve back, blocking me and preventing me from passing. He knew I was there. I don't walk quietly and gracefully, or so I've been told. In fact, you could say that I pretty much stomp when I walk. I can't help it. My family tells me the house shakes when I walk. I try to walk quietly and gracefully, coming in on little cat feet but to no avail. So I'm stomping right on this guy's ass, jingling my keys, clearing my throat to let him know I need to pass and he Will. Not. Move. He'd swerve to the left and I'd dart to the right, only to have him swerve back and cut me off. WTF? I don't care if he was listening to Slipknot at full blast on an iPod or if he was completely deaf, he knew I was there, he could feel my breath on his neck, fercryinoutloud, and he Would Not Let Me Pass.
Just as I was ready to bark, "Move it, Buster!" we came to a wider area and I was able to pass him on the inside and continue on my way. I glanced back just in time to see some new walkers get trapped right behind him. Yep, he caused a bottleneck. And didn't seem to care. I just don't get it. It's not like he's going to lose points or that podium finish if he lets the faster walkers pass.
I'm pretty sure he's that guy in the Prius I always seem to get trapped behind. The guy who drives just enough under the speed limit, in the fast lane, to keep you from changing lanes and going around him because the flow of traffic in the next lane is such that you can't get over and he's getting some perverse thrill out of all the cars bottlenecking behind him.
Bastard.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
124 Million
$124,000,000.00. That's the jackpot for tonight's multi-state Mega-Million lottery. That's a whole lot of money. Lots of zeros in that number.
When I'm out doing my daily walk, I don't listen to my iPod for 2 reasons: first, I want to hear the sounds of nature, such as water rushing in the stream, squirrels chattering, the honking of the Canada geese who chose not to go back to The Great White North and the sounds of hawks screaming over my head as they swoop down on some poor unsuspecting critter. Second, I do my best thinking when I'm walking (and when I'm in the shower but that's not a good visual these days) and listening to music will only distract me plus I may end up singing out loud and disturbing the lovely sounds of nature.
So. As I'm walking and thinking today, I thought about that 124 million and what I would/could do with that kind of money. Oh, there's the mandatory expenditures: college and/or bail money for the offspring, a fleet of KTM dirt bikes for TheManTheMyth and an entry to the world famous Enduro at Erzberg for Thing 1. Of course I would get a new car since I'm so over my 1 year old leased Saturn that gets the crappy mileage. I would definitely get a Luxury Sedan but which Luxury Sedan? BMW? Mercedes? Cadillac? Jaguar? Maserati? Eh, with 124 million dollars, I could buy one of each. But no sports cars or "exotics." They don't interest me, never have. Oh! But TheManTheMyth would get his dream car, a 1967 Shelby GT500.
And yes, I would be able to get the material luxuries, such as Chanel handbags, shoes and a classic Chanel suit that I would probably wear once a year (if that) but it would NEVER go out of style so as long as I didn't gain or lose a significant amount of weight, I could wear it forever. Oh, and I would definitely get "freshened up" with the latest in cosmetic rejuventation. Nothing major; some Botox or perhaps a brow lift and a breast lift to get things back to where they belong.
But there's one thing I have always promised myself that if I were to ever win the lottery, it would be the very first thing I buy. Something I have always, always wanted for my very own:
Yep. My very own Skee-Ball game. With the prize tickets spitting out even if I don't redeem the prize tickets but it has to have the prize tickets. It's not the same without the prize tickets. I have wanted my own Skee-ball game ever since I can remember. I love Skee-ball. It's totally addicting. If I'm someplace that has a Skee-ball game, I will body check any preschooler who tries to get between me and the game. Don't even think about it, you little booger-eater; I will slam you to the ground if you even try.
When I'm in any hotel with a casino and arcade, I will bypass the casino for the arcade and happily spend $100 for tokens and then stand bent over for hours, flinging wooden ball after wooden ball at the holes. Of course I'm unable to walk upright after a marathon session but that's what a hot shower and a massage are for. The only problem with spending hours in the arcade instead of the casino is that the arcade does not have cocktail waitresses bringing complimentary martinis but when I get MY Skee-ball game, that won't be a problem now, will it?
Skee-ball. Yeah, I dream BIG!
When I'm out doing my daily walk, I don't listen to my iPod for 2 reasons: first, I want to hear the sounds of nature, such as water rushing in the stream, squirrels chattering, the honking of the Canada geese who chose not to go back to The Great White North and the sounds of hawks screaming over my head as they swoop down on some poor unsuspecting critter. Second, I do my best thinking when I'm walking (and when I'm in the shower but that's not a good visual these days) and listening to music will only distract me plus I may end up singing out loud and disturbing the lovely sounds of nature.
So. As I'm walking and thinking today, I thought about that 124 million and what I would/could do with that kind of money. Oh, there's the mandatory expenditures: college and/or bail money for the offspring, a fleet of KTM dirt bikes for TheManTheMyth and an entry to the world famous Enduro at Erzberg for Thing 1. Of course I would get a new car since I'm so over my 1 year old leased Saturn that gets the crappy mileage. I would definitely get a Luxury Sedan but which Luxury Sedan? BMW? Mercedes? Cadillac? Jaguar? Maserati? Eh, with 124 million dollars, I could buy one of each. But no sports cars or "exotics." They don't interest me, never have. Oh! But TheManTheMyth would get his dream car, a 1967 Shelby GT500.
And yes, I would be able to get the material luxuries, such as Chanel handbags, shoes and a classic Chanel suit that I would probably wear once a year (if that) but it would NEVER go out of style so as long as I didn't gain or lose a significant amount of weight, I could wear it forever. Oh, and I would definitely get "freshened up" with the latest in cosmetic rejuventation. Nothing major; some Botox or perhaps a brow lift and a breast lift to get things back to where they belong.
But there's one thing I have always promised myself that if I were to ever win the lottery, it would be the very first thing I buy. Something I have always, always wanted for my very own:
Yep. My very own Skee-Ball game. With the prize tickets spitting out even if I don't redeem the prize tickets but it has to have the prize tickets. It's not the same without the prize tickets. I have wanted my own Skee-ball game ever since I can remember. I love Skee-ball. It's totally addicting. If I'm someplace that has a Skee-ball game, I will body check any preschooler who tries to get between me and the game. Don't even think about it, you little booger-eater; I will slam you to the ground if you even try.
When I'm in any hotel with a casino and arcade, I will bypass the casino for the arcade and happily spend $100 for tokens and then stand bent over for hours, flinging wooden ball after wooden ball at the holes. Of course I'm unable to walk upright after a marathon session but that's what a hot shower and a massage are for. The only problem with spending hours in the arcade instead of the casino is that the arcade does not have cocktail waitresses bringing complimentary martinis but when I get MY Skee-ball game, that won't be a problem now, will it?
Skee-ball. Yeah, I dream BIG!
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