In my area, there’s a giant, statewide yard sale going on all down one of our major highways. As is typical with yard sales, you never know what you’re going to find.
And as is typical with me – you never know what’s going to happen.
I’ll let the pictures tell the story:
By now, you all know how I am and how circumstances conspire to the point that I wind up somehow injured or humiliated in a way that normal people don’t ever have to deal with. It’s inevitable. I’ve learned to just roll with it over the years because hiding and crying about it isn’t my style.
People, women especially, seem to hate getting older and actually admitting to their ages. Me? Please. I’ve managed to survive 33 years so far.
It’s been a challenge.
I’ve got two girls, 6 and 12. A few weeks ago, the oldest broke her pinky toe because she forgot exactly where her bed is located in her room (hint…same spot it’s been in for over a year…) and a couple of days ago my youngest pulled her own stunt.
There’s nothing that makes your stomach sink faster than looking at your caller ID and seeing that your child’s school is calling you. It’s even worse when you answer and can hear your six-year-old screaming and crying in the background. Apparently, her class got an extra recess at the end of the day since it was so nice out. A couple boys were playing tag and came my daughter’s way. She turned and then ran full force into a pole, mouth first.
It did not end well for her, the poor baby. She busted both lips, had to deal with a lot of swelling, and knocked out one of her front teeth. Luckily, it’s a baby tooth so she won’t wind up looking like a munchkin redneck. Right now she’s missing two other teeth that came out the usual way, so she’s looking pretty funny anyway.
This was taken the next morning, so you can imagine how bad it looked right after. She kept complaining about how her top lip kept “overflowing” her bottom one.
Of course I immediately came and picked her up from school, and since there was only five minutes left to the day they also released my oldest so I could take them both home. My husband had come with me, so we’re driving back home and trying to cheer up the youngest by telling her stories of how we’ve gotten hurt too.
I noticed my husband was being really quiet, so I look over to see what’s going on. He’s slumped over, holding his head in his hands and looking panicked. “Oh my god,” he’s muttering.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I mean, I’m about to panic myself, thinking his sugar has dropped or spiked or something.
He shakes his head. “It’s just that there’s THREE of you.”
“….yeah, babe. It’s not like I surprised you with them or anything…”
“WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!” he wails.
I can’t help but bust out laughing. “Dude, I tripped over a crushed can in your yard one of the first times we met. There’s nothing you can do but buckle up for the ride and be prepared.”
He continues shaking his head and looking shell-shocked.
I can’t really feel sorry for him at this point. We were together for four years before getting married. He has seen firsthand how things just happen around me, and it’s hard to feel pity for him when I know how much free entertainment he’s getting out of this deal.
At least life is never boring with me.
Amazon is one of my biggest guilty pleasures in life. You can get on there, pile all these things into your online shopping cart, check out, and boom, they ship it right to your doorstep. It’s amazing. No more getting dressed and running to eight places only to find out no one has it, no cashiers secretly judging you while you check out, and no making accidental eye contact with people crazier than you or trying to avoid people you’d rather not talk to. It’s amazing.
According to the almighty Amazon, a package I ordered should have arrived yesterday by eight.
It didn’t.
Being a time-sensitive shipment, I contacted amazon and let them know if it hadn’t arrived by morning, I would need a refund so I could go to a store and buy what I needed. The next morning, I get up and drag my tired ass to the post office.
The package had arrived, but it was out with the carrier. The same carrier who won’t leave my packages at my door like most do…probably because they’re annoyed by my love of amazon and are tired of lugging me packages and have decided to pay me back by making me pick them up in person. The post office will be closed by the time the carrier makes it back with the package, so I can’t pick it up later and no, they can’t call the carrier to see where they’re at so I can meet with them for it.
My only option is to go find the carrier myself and get the package. They helpfully told me a general route area for me to wander around in looking for someone they really couldn’t give me a description for other than they will be carrying a mail bag and be dressed for the weather.
Yay me.
So I’m off to stalk the mailman in this area. I’m driving down a main road, looking for the mail truck or the mailman himself, and see a young, clean-cut looking man with a black official-looking coat on, a messenger bag, and a black toboggan with the little poof at the top and a small symbol on the front of it.
I immediately jerk my car to the curb, roll down the passenger window, and yell, “hey!” a little louder than I’d intended, but it worked. I got his attention. He jumps way up in the air and dashes over the other side of the sidewalk in a hurry. Whoopsie.
“I’m so sorry to bother you like this, but I’m desperately trying to pick up a package and they said it was out with you.”
The guy looks at me like I’m absolutely bonkers. To be honest, I don’t blame him. I can now see that the symbol on his hat is the Jehovah’s Witness sign.
I panic. I admit it. All I can do is yell, “Sorry, go on about your business!” and swerve back into traffic while laughing maniacally. Because what else can you do when you’ve scared the poor guy half to death over something he has no idea about?
So I’m back on the hunt. This time, I see the mail truck pulled over to the side of the road so I just pulled in behind it and I’ll just wait for him to come back to the truck. Great plan, right?
Except the truck suddenly lights up and takes off before I even have a chance to scramble out of my car.
Shit. So I hit the gas and follow it, taking a right at the light and sailing along behind it.
I’m not so lucky at the next light. I hit red and start cussing, keeping my eye on him so I don’t lose him. Fortunately, he turns into the parking lot of the store right after the light and gets out to go inside. Yes! Some luck after all!
Only…not. Because as soon as I pull in and get behind him again he hops back into the truck and takes off. So we’re back on the road and I’m following him again, only this time it’s through a residential neighborhood and he’s making all these turns and I’m just trying to keep up and not die while I’m living my life like some bumbling idiot in a spy movie.
Finally he pulls over, so I jerk to a stop behind him and rush to his window just in case it’s a trap to lure me into feeling comfortable. I walk up to his vehicle and politely tap on his window to get his attention.
At least that’s what I thought I did.
Judging from the way he jumped two feet into the air and ducked down in his seat, and from my crazy-haired and wild-eyed reflection in that window, I don’t think he perceived the situation the way I did at first. He looked more like he was considering throwing his wallet at me and crying until I went away.
But in the end, after scaring some poor religious guy and the crazy car chase the other guy didn’t even know he was in, I got the package.
Thank you very much!
I’ve mentioned before how the Mr. has been struggling with his health, especially over the last year. First he had digestive issues and then he developed a diabetic ulcer on the ball of his foot that he’s struggled with for nearly a year now. He took as much sick time and short-term disability as he could from his job, but eventually it reached a point where his job felt forced to let him go and he lost his insurance. Trying to get insurance through the state (my job does not offer any health insurance) has been a whole other herd of lions to fight, and in the meantime, he was unable to keep receiving the medical care he had been getting and things got bad for him – and then they took a turn for the worst.
He wound up being hospitalized for three weeks, guys. Diabetes, bone infection, and sepsis are no joke. They will take your body and hold it hostage. The man has been through so many powerful antibiotics that I almost believe he could be immune to herpes at this point.
When a bone becomes infected, there isn’t much they can do. Even with aggressive antibiotic therapy it can still spread and spread quickly – even to your blood. And since your blood goes everywhere in your body it is extremely dangerous. He wound up having the second toe and some of one of the long bones in his foot amputated and was still so septic he had to remain in the hospital for an extended amount of time.
So much time that we wound up spending our very first wedding anniversary in the hospital. I had a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and a piece of cheesecake, in case you were wondering. It was delicious.
It was also not at all how I expected our first wedding anniversary to go, you know? Not that I ever put too much thought into my expectations for it, but still. Everybody always hints around that when you get married your relationship changes, but I didn’t really expect mine to. We had been together for four years beforehand. We had weathered serious issues in that time – the death of his father and subsequent family turmoil, a child custody arrangement on my end, moving in together and job changes. Getting married never mattered much to me but it was so important to him that it became important to me as well. It was less than two months later he developed the ulcer and the issue continued to snowball from there. I certainly didn’t expect the “in sickness and in health” portion of those canned wedding vows to become so front and center so soon.
And while those canned wedding vows may be the standard in wedding ceremonies, I am still me and I still have my shining sense of humor that has gotten me through the many shitty hands of cards that life has dealt me over the years. This whole experience has taken its toll on the Mr., and it breaks my heart to see him so down.
So I made it my personal mission to make him smile in some way every day. The man is my best friend and he puts up with all of my shenanigans and special quirks. He knows my house may be messy, but by god my towels will be folded just so and put in a certain place in the closet. He knows I like sweet, cold things just before bed and that I will always throw my leg over his in my sleep, almost like I’m afraid he’s going to jump up and make a run for it. Losing a toe and some bone? That’s ok, babe. It doesn’t change a thing about how I feel toward you. I’m still going to treat you the same and make fun of you just as much. It’s how I show my affection.
And with that in mind I contacted a friend of mine who makes shirts upon request. And BAM, these beauties came into fruition:
I know that second one has a small print, but it says “You can count on me, but only to 19!” 😉
Everyone who snickered at me when they said marriage changes things was absolutely right. That man is stuck with me now, and I couldn’t be happier about it.
With school having started back up now, I am determined to cook more meals for my family. It sounds great, but half the time I’m running around like a crazy person and then I realize it’s time for dinner and I dint have a plan for it.
Yesterday I decided to make my chicken pasta – one of the girls’ faves and there’s aways leftovers to heat up for lunch the next day. I was excited. I went to the store, got my ingredients, came home, and got busy. I’m frying bacon to crumble, I’m cooking chicken, I’m even chopping veggies up to make the Mr. his own meal since he’s diabetic and can’t have all the carbs pasta brings to the table. As soon as my chicken gets done I throw my pasta in to boil while I crumble bacon and shred chicken. I make my sauce and toss is the whole shebang in a pan and sprinkle on parmesian cheese so it can bake for a bit and all the flavors mix together.
Twenty minutes later, the small wafting through my apartment has me drooling. I’m done waiting. So I throw open the oven, grab my potholders, grab onto my pan…and proceed to slip and flip the pan upside down as I pull it out. I now have pasta all over the bottom of my oven, all over the oven door, and trailing onto my kitchen floor.
The Mr. hears all of the commotion and comes running, worried I injured myself, and finds me staring blankly at this disaster and trying not to cry. I see him, panick for some weird reason, and reach down to grab my pan. I immediately throw it back down because, of course, it’s still blazing hot from being in the freaking oven.
I am the reason we can’t have nice things. Also, our pizza last night was delicious, thanks.
I have an idea.
Scary, I know. But I’m really excited about this.
My mama’s birthday is coming up in November and she truly needs some fun in her life right now. And today on my lunch, it hit me: an intervention.
Don’t get me wrong. She doesn’t have a substance abuse problem. It won’t be that kind of intervention.
It’s for shooting opossums.
Let me explain: she owns a farm that’s about 70 acres and keeps getting stray cats dumped on her. She feels terrible for them, so she leaves food out so they don’t go hungry. Of course, since there’s food around, it attracts scavengers like raccoons and opossums and they attack the cats. So my mama shoots them.
Let me tell you, I have seen my mother run across a house with a gun and no pants waaay too many times. #farmerproblems?
I’m just in the beginning stages of this little plan, but so far I plan to have friends and family writing letters explaining how her “problem” has affected all of our lives (mine is going to be about having to help with body disposal) and consequences if she doesn’t stop (I’m going to make her bag up her own dead critters), a cake in the shape of an opossum that’s been shot – not in the head though (gross!), and varment-themed snack foods.
I’m ridiculously excited to put this together!
Except they didn’t because we didn’t get married at a church because they tend to frown on people like me.
What can I say about that day? It was exciting, it was nerve-wracking and stressful trying to get everything done. We made it, we got married, and then I almost starved because they made me get pictures done while everyone else was eating. I had a great picture of me taken while trying to cram a whole cupcake in my mouth for that first-dance thing. I haven’t seen it yet,but I bet it’s a thing of beauty.
For the wedding, we rented a shelter at the park where we had our first (this is so not a date) date. Here’s my brother helping with setting up our decorations:
And my fabulous sister-in-law:
My un-biological sister:
And my lovely aunt, who hurt her foot and leg a few days before the wedding, but came anyways to help decorate:
All of whom I owe massive thanks to for helping me pull off my wedding. They showed up early, they showed up injured, and what they pulled off was better than I imagined. They hung lights, they hung paper lanterns, they hung balloons, they stapled down tablecloths and wrapped ribbons and made centerpieces. It was amazing! You can see some of it here:
The wedding itself was short and sweet, but very Christian – Darrick did have his requests after all. I figured I owed him since he puts up with my shenigans. Like slapping him with raw bacon.
I haven’t gotten all my pictures back yet, but here’s some teasers:
I’m trying very hard not to laugh in that one because Sophie had just farted.
That sign says “lost my balls.” I’m so proud.
It was an amazing night, and everything I could have asked for except one thing – my dad. I held it together all day. I was too busy and nervous for anything else. It wasn’t until the ride home alone with Darrick that I let myself feel that missing piece and started crying.
He held my hand and said nothing.
I got up at five this morning to shower and try to do something with my face to make it more presentable, and had a little bit of time before waking up the girls.
I got bored.
I had already slathered my hair with the plethora of products to try to tame it down and still had the hair gel by me. I look at it.
I look back at Darrick, looking comfy as all get out with his arms propped up behind his head and snoring like it pays him money.
He has no hair on his head….but he has armpits.
This morning, he woke up to teeny, tiny dreadlocks in places I’m pretty sure he never expected.
I love to make people laugh. It’s just how I’m wired; it must be the Sagitarius nature.Today, the new materials planner at work came over to my square of the plant floor.
I think he was sorry.
I happened to be speaking to the receiving coordinator at the time, and he joined in our conversation. At one point he said, “I’m quick!” and we both heard, “I quit.”
The receiving coordinator freaks out and the poor guy immediately backtracks to correct our impression. Then he gets to joking around and says, “What would I do with my three kids?”
I chip in with “Well, you eat them.”
He looks at me aghast. I have to continue.
“That way, you can survive longer since you have no money for food, and you don’t have to worry about feeding them or what they’re doing.”
Probably not the right thing to say, but boy was his face hilarious.
We have a lot of automatic doors at my workplace. Usually, it isn’t a problem. They’re actually entertaining. The sensor doesn’t see you if you come at it from an angle and it’s funny to watch people wave and jump to get its attention. Occasionally people walk into it because they don’t realize the doors didn’t open. One day when I came in, a big panel was missing off of one – turns out someone had hit it with the forks on a hilo because…idiots? I dunno. I’m sorry I missed that one.
But I’ve never had a door start to open and then just stop until today. I had ny head turned talking to a lady driving the tugger cart and damned if I didn’t slam into it with my left boob. She dies laughing and actually has to stop the tugger before she accidently hits someone, I’m hopping around hanging onto my very sore and angry lady bit, and I realize that’s going to leave a bruise.
Well, shit. How am I going to explain that one?
Because while I didn’t mind being the butt of a joke because of my ability to hurt myself in strange and often inexplicable ways, I do occasionally like to be taken seriously by my fiance and I’m not sure he can do that if he finds out I walked into a door that automatically opens…even if it wasn’t my fault.
Stupid door.
Maybe I’ll just tell him a stray llama bit me. That’s believable, right?
Domestically Dippy 