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Saturday, 04 April 2009

Express yourself

...so I needed to get some soup. Tomato soup, to be exact. I really needed only one, but what kind of an idiot pulls out a debit card for 97¢? Wait. Don't answer that. A case. I got a case of tomato soup for my tomato-soup-loving huge son.

Back on track.

As this reluctant shopper heads toward the checkouts, I spot a woman, her hair all did-up in those back-comb styles *the kind where if you look real close you can sorta see right through it* and her apricot colored blush was painted on in wonderfully round apples on her seemingly *nip 'n tuck* taut *stretched beyond its limits* skin. She looks above her, spotting the 'EXPRESS LANE' sign, 12 items or less. She smirks and proceeds to load her shit onto the pulley.

OH.
NO.
SHE.
DI'INT.

Pinkie pulls up and gets out of her hum-vee. She notices others are gawking at Plastic Lady but are saying nothing. Cashier *must have been all of 12* is heads down, praying the floor would swallow her up whole while the customer paying has that pinched lip look. You know the one.

We three make eye contact. Plastic Lady is happy, thinking she's gotten away with bloody effing murder. Ha.

"Um," begins I. *it's too early in the conversation to start out with 'what the hell do you think you're doing?* "You DO know that this is the express lane, right?" *and i'm thinking about Tulip here*

"Oh, I am?" *the 'am' is spoken in the softest of fake southern belle mixed with 'you're really a Mennonite' accent*i she batting her eyelashes??*

"Yes. You are." Pause. Wait. Direct eye contact. Pause. Wait.

"Oh." Gawk. Pause. Shuffle. Blush. "I suppose I'll have to move then."

*Tulip, this one's for you* "Yes, you will." Pause. Wait. Direct eye contact. Pause. Wait. "Now." Pause. Wait. Direct eye contact. Pause. Wait.

Well, if that wasn't a 'harrumph! and fuck you!' look, then I've never seen one before. She bruised her bananas putting them back into her cart. Poor bananas.

She wheeled her haul haughtily away, muttering all the while about 'I never saw the sign and blah blah blah' *mm-hm*sher*

The cashier was bright pink by the time I got to her with my ONE item. I expected applause. *didn't Tulip get applause?* There was no applause. There were no flowers.

I paid for my one damn item and left.

Friday, 06 March 2009

Rumpled Sheets

I don't make my bed. I just don't see the point.

I, like countless others, publicly admit to being unkempt in this department. Not making your bed assures your pillow will be in a comfortable position when you get back into bed. The blankets are turned back *who needs a maid!?* and the sheet is already shifted to where it's going to shift anyway.

I'm also dedicated to not putting my back out *again*. Why bend over and run the risk? I consider it preventative medicine. Just looking out for #1.

*h.u.b.b.y. makes his side*
5 o'clock

That's the time I was rudely awoken by H.U.B.B.Y.'s freaking alarm clock. It was set to 'I am deaf' because he's been sleeping in lately. He says it's because his CPAP machine, but we both know that it's because he goes to bed at 2 am and expects to roll out of bed refreshed and happy. Well, I know that. He's in denial.

What made matters worse *what could be worse than jumping 2 feet in the air at 5 in the morning?* is that he thinks that hitting 'snooze' will gift him with more quality sleep. So, wanting lots more quality time, he hits 'snooze' 4 or 5 times. Finally, I blurted out 'K!!! Get UP already!' He did. Grrr.

Needless to say, I've been sitting here for going on 3 hours. I have 2 cups of coffee in my tummy and it's not sitting too well. I guess my stomach was still asleep. The Kid woke up at 7 *wth?* and is watching the morning funnies before I force him to eat something before school.

Today is Friday; the day I take Mother shopping.

I dread Fridays.

Thursday, 05 March 2009

- Þinkie's Lament - Revenge of the Donut

Here's a pastry, there's a pastry... Oh what to do, what to do?

The downfall of having a daughter who is obsessed with baking desserts is all the calories that must not be wasted. I'm into saving the earth, so eating her hard work is the least I can do for the environment.

T is enrolled in tech college for September. She's going to be a pastry chef, and will be studying under the teaching of a top chef who has baked for the Queen. With several decorating classes already under her belt, I think she'll do fantastic.

Me, on the other hand, not so much!

Tell, me: What is a person supposed to do when they crave sugary sweets nearly every moment of every day and one of their own offspring betray them and start pumping out the calories a la icing and devil's food? I have a hard time saying 'no' to desserts in a restaurant. How am I to cope when the desserts are sitting on my counter? If it's sitting there, it is sending me subliminal messages:

'Come to me. You are getting hungry. You need chocolate/cookies/cake/pie... You love me. You miss me. Come to me now, Þinkie...' I don't think I could handle the pressure.

Thank God she doesn't know how to make a lemon flan or torte. Yet.

Monday, 02 March 2009

Apparently I'm now a millionaire

12. The magic number. The number from hell. THE number from yesterday. I couldn't escape it.

TWELVE hours of laundry. TWELVE loads. Yes. TWELVE. (*this is not sarcasm or overexaggeration*)

What the aytch? you ask. Times they are a changin', that's why.

I'm not exactly sure what possessed me, but I seemed to have a breaking point yesterday where I just couldn't take it any more. The mess. The sloppiness. The lazyness. The 'yeah, yeah... I'll do it yet.' The 'I did it last time.' No more.

Some of you had the honor (I said I was sorry a million times, alright?!) of seeing the mess of my son's room. Again, sorry. I think the whole snapping thing started with that and my daughter having a friend over on Saturday night- a friend who couldn't handle the 'smell' of 'boy' upstairs. How horrifying!

Let me tell you, that boy had his room cleaned up in record time. You see, when this bitch (see here) has had enough, LOOK OUT. Enough of the excuses. No more Mrs. Nice Guy (*quiet*it makes perfect sense*) over here. I'm fairly certain that he came up with twelve excuses to either do it later, that his back hurt, he didn't feel well, blah blah blah... He even tried telling me that he was only going to do so and so much.

That didn't fly with this chick. Seriously, I thought he was going to have a coronary - having been brought on by his mother's sudden intolerance of shitty behavior, a messy room, a lazy child (*and nine other things that I can't think of at this moment*). We're fortunate enough that H.U.B.B.Y. works at a place where he has free access to a Rug Doctor (woop woop), so H.U.B.B.Y. went over the floor *must have been at least twelve times* and the water was still coming out black. Ew, ew, ew and ew.

Back to the laundry.

When said son does his laundry, he lets it sit in the washing machine until it takes on this odor reminiscent of old moldy cheese making out with stinky feet. Nice. Then, once he's put that ghastly brew into the dryer, he puts it into the laundry basket, hauls it upstairs to his lair and it's never to be seen again. I went upstairs during the 'event' and happened upon piles and piles of laundry. You know, the typical kid thing... try something on, don't like it... pow! on the floor. Or, undress, undress, undress... pow! on the floor, not to be scraped off until mother has a 'clean up this damn mess RIGHT NOW' conniption fit.

"THAT'S IT!" (*be sure to place the emphasis on the 'IT'*it's more effective that way*) this mother hollered at the top of her lungs. "I've had enough!"

I proceeded to haul all of his laundry downstairs and began sorting it. He came down to try to rassle (*i looked it up*) the reigns away from me, but I told him where to go. "If I do it, you'll feel guilty. When you feel guilty, you're less likely to do it again. When you're guilty because you're making your mom go through hell, chances are, you won't do it again" and turned to resume muttering, bitching and griping. (*that ought to do it*)

Mixed with one or two loads of our own, I kid you not. TWELVE LOADS, and it took me (*wait for it*) TWELVE HOURS.

The saga continues today when H.U.B.B.Y. returns from work to suck more terra firma from his rug. Want to know something funny? We're thinking of finishing off the entire rug facial with a little dose of vinegar - just to close the pores a little (*it actually removes the last of the smell and ensures the rug doesn't smell 'wet' (*the smell dissipates very quickly*it also might deter him from doing this again*). His walls and ceiling will be getting re-painted (*sorry*my back hurts*) and new curtains will be hung.

Things are a gonna change.

(*i'll be spending my millions on chiro and massage therapy, tyvm*)