Hide Your Nuts, People

All the freaks seemed to find me today - an assortment of oddballs that popped up wherever I went. The result of spending my day surrounded by strange strangers has left me feeling rather, um, normal by comparison. Perhaps I am delusional, and I am someone else's epitome of oddity, but at least I'm not these folks -

First: School Picture Photographer (a.k.a. The Bunnyman)
Today was school picture day, so I had to go through the yearly horror that is waiting in line and having my mugshot snapped. I have found that pictures of me are slightly more tolerable if I smile without showing my teeth. True, it can get a bit smirky, but at least my eyes aren't all squinty and bizarre, right?

So that was my plan.
The toothless smile.
Check!

The photographer whose station I end up with has a stuffed blue rabbit attached to the top of his camera. (Note: I loathe Blue Bunny ice cream, so he was already on my bad side.) Anyhow, he wasn't happy with the smirky smile I was trying to cling to while looking relaxed and casual and not at all like someone who's being told to tilt her head fifteen degrees to the left and tuck her chin under just a bit.

Once he's got me all posed up, I can tell it's time. He's about to take the picture. I try to keep my eyes relaxed and fight the urge to blink. He says, "Okay, now give me a great big smile just like - this guy!" And as he says it, he opens his hand that is just to the left of the camera. In the center of his palm he has drawn a big smiley face with Sharpie marker.

It was the schtickiest thing I've ever seen.
And it made me grin.
Damn you, Bunnyman.
I shall curse your name every time I look at my squinty little eyes on my new ID badge.

Second: Fellow Target Shopper (a.k.a. Talkative Tampon Lady)
I was in the politely-dubbed feminine hygiene (where the clean women shop, I guess) aisle at Target tonight when this twentysomething woman appeared next to me and proceeded to narrate her entire tampon selection process.

"Hmmm, tampons, tampons, tampons. Oh, yes, over here. I need the regulars. Reg-u-lars, not the supers. Hello? Generics? Where do they hide the generics? Oh, here. Man, I just LOVE having my period." 

And she did it all in this singsongy voice. I half expected her to throw in the occasional "tra-la-la!" as she went on and on.

This seems like the sort of thing that should either be a completely-interior monologue or, if it must be spoken aloud, done in a quiet, talking to myself tone. But not this lady. She was in full-volume conversation mode. Made eye contact and smiled at me too. Like we're besties now or something.

Third: Woman at the Checkout (a.k.a. Visibly Neurotic Lady)
She had a TON of stuff on the conveyor belt, but they only had three lanes open, so I ended up in line behind her. I was kinda zoned out, looking at the mints and skimming the magazine covers, when I noticed the continual prattle of the lady in front of me.

I looked up and quickly figured out that she was methodically going through her pile of purchases and telling the cashier in what order they should be rung up. It wasn't just your run of the mill don't put that loaf of bread under the laundry detergent stuff, either. It was more along the lines of: "Ring up the blue t-shirt first, then the pink one. No, wait! Do the socks before the shirts!" And she had a twitchy, frantic quality about her as she did this. Like she was REALLY worried things might get rung up out of order.

I thought that she might be buying for more than herself and wanted the items bagged according to who they belonged to, but she was ignoring the bagging process entirely. She was fixated on the ringing up - the order of the ringing up.

It was odd enough just at that, but she also kept apologizing to the cashier. "Oh, I'm sorry. I know. I know. Oh, wait! We need the Life Savers next!"

It got to the point where the maternal instincts within the high-school aged cashier kicked in, and she started soothing the woman with, "It's okay. You're fine. We'll get it all right. You'll be fine."

Then the couple who were fighting - loudly - about the fact that he'd wanted to go to Wal-Mart instead of Target pulled in line behind me. Obviously, their entire shopping experience had been nothing but a series of disappointments, and he was about to enumerate them to her and once and for all prove how dumb she was to have dragged him into this damn store.

I was so glad Visibly Neurotic Lady was done.
She was in WAY too fragile a state to be exposed to that.

Today, I Confess ...

... as I heard the classroom door at my daughter's daycare close behind me at drop-off, I let out a little sigh of relief.

... I have read only one book this summer. It was a diet book. And I didn't finish it.

... I need an inordinate amount of "me time".

... when Ace of Bass comes on the radio, I turn it up and sing along. I know all the words.

... I knew there was dog pee on the carpeting, but I really wanted to check my email and eat lunch, so I did those things first and let it soak in a bit longer.

... I'm starting to think that buying beige carpeting was a bad idea.

... I'm better at forgiving the dog than I am at forgiving people.

... I am looking forward to going back to work - but not necessarily to seeing everyone.

... I'm pissed at Austin's mom for putting a chastising little note in my daughter's cubby, reminding us we need to RSVP for her son's birthday party, even if we're not coming. Like she's Emily Fucking Post. And like I've ever met her or could even pick her kid out of a line-up.

... I can be petty.

... I screen.

... I feel all giddy about how clean my teeth are after I use my Waterpik.

... I hid Chutes & Ladders because I can't stand playing it.

... I can't put the apples and bananas in the fruit bowl unless I tear off those ugly stickers first. I turn the pears so their stickers don't show.

... I inflate my self-esteem by judging people in the supermarket based on what they have in their carts. I know that I am superior to anyone buying a Swanson's frozen dinner, and I roll my eyes at the Lean Cuisine people.

... when something stressful happens, my first instinct is to drive to the bakery and buy a cupcake.

... I am a praise junkie.

... I paid $2.99 to watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High on pay-per-view instead of finishing up the painting in the kitchen. Judge Reinhold rocks.

And Then I Laugh at His Pain

My Ants in the Pants skills are steadily improving, 

but about half my shots still hit that poor firehouse dog 

right in his plastic crotch. 

L Is for Literate

You need to use a comma with direct address, Numbskull.

How to Drain All the Sexy from a Porsche

Put 

Green 

Bay 

Packer 

license 

plates 

on

 it.

The Little Things Mean a Lot

Let it be noted that at 9:00 PM on Sunday, I toyed with the idea of calling in for a Monday sub just 'cause I felt like I needed "a day". I didn't do it. But the pile of little things that grew into a big stack of baggage on my shoulders after that made me wish - over and over again - that I had.

Sunday, 9:45 PM, Thing #1 appears:  According to the Self magazine online quiz, I am overweight. Only by three pounds, mind you, but still. Ouch.

Monday, 6:00 AM, Thing #2 rears its ugly head:  In a fit of industriousness, I moved the fridge and cleaned under it Sunday afternoon. Felt fine at the time, but this morning the folly of my actions became evident. Large doses of Tylenol were required. And I mean kidney-damagingly large.

Monday, 7:02 AM, Here comes thing #3, Folks: I nearly ran over my neighbor and his dog as I pulled out of the driveway this morning. I was looking down the street for oncoming cars instead of directly behind me, which is where they were. Now I feel dumb. And potentially dangerous. Worst part: He's one of those chatty older guys who will probably go all paternal and use the tone on me next time our paths cross. And I'll have to fake maturity and comfort while politely acknowledging my mistake. I suck at that. (Granted, it would be worse to confront a jury of my peers had I actually run the guy over, but that's not really my point here.)

Monday, 11:55 AM, Ladies and Gentlemen, meet thing #4:  My para is in Vegas for the week, and her sub is about 150 years old. I'm in no mood to talk to anyone, which explains my day's lesson plan, but feel enormous pressure to entertain this woman. Unfortunately, I got plenty 'o nothin', so the hour ends with me feeling like a bad hostess. I didn't even offer her a beverage. And she's coming back tomorrow. 

Monday, 1:48 PM, A priest, a rabbi, and thing #5 walk into a bar:  A colleague made a crack about how I don't understand the importance of schlepping my kid to the Sears Portrait Studio every three months because I adopted a toddler. "Oh, well, when they're BABIES, they change so fast." Yes, I never had the baby experience - doesn't mean I'm not a real mom. Doesn't mean my child doesn't grow and change in amazing ways every day. And maybe I wouldn't have chosen to buy into the portraiture cult in any case, since I think they're overpriced and unnecessary. And kinda tacky. Of course, I say none of this. I grin. I bear it. I curse my parents for raising me to be so damed polite.

Monday, 2:11 PM, Wow, thing #6 sure got here in a hurry: I can't even write the details here, but, those of you who know me, ask me about it in person. Use the code word darkness to ask. I will look around furtively to see if the coast's clear before I divulge the information. It involves another colleague. And it's both infuriating and AWK-ward!

Monday, 3:44 PM, And then there's thing #7: I'm driving home in a complete funk. It's cloudy and grey for the fifteenth day in a row. I am fat, crabby, and a bit misanthropic, so I decide to turn on the radio. There he is: Beck, and he's singing just for me, "In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey ...." I brace myself for the inevitable lyrics, "Sooooy un perdedor. I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?" I decide to smile and sing along. Real loud-like.

I Know What Boys Like

We do a little thing every spring where we create two-week's worth of phony holidays to celebrate at work. It's silly stuff about wearing fake tattoos and building make-your-own sundaes and such - fluff, basically, to keep morale up during what is traditionally a bit of a slump during the year. We all share a laugh and blow off steam by being just a little bit silly. 

All but one of us, that is.

I got word through the grapevine that someone in our office got his undies in a big ol' bundle and went after one of our own. His complaint: the holidays we'd chosen were too girly. Sure, Wear No Make-Up Day is decidedly feminine, but we had actually gone out of our way to make sure that nine of the ten days on the calendar were friendly to both genders. (Office demographics: over 20 women, 4 men). 

Hearing about his tirade motivated me to take down our current calendar and replace it with ...

March Man-ness

A Celebration of Straight, White Male Stereotypes

Monday, March 23rd - Bitch About the Dumbass Women You Work With Day

Tuesday, March 24th - Bodily Function Jousting Tournament

Wednesday, March 25th - Talk About Your Car Day

Thursday, March 26th - Malt Liquor and Porn Day

Friday, March 27th - Scratch Where It Itches Day

Monday, March 30th - Eat Cookies the Dumbass Women You Work With Baked Day

Tuesday, March 31st - JARTS, Anyone?

Wednesday, April 1st - Homophobic Comment Day

Thursday, April 2nd - Tater Tot Festival

Friday, April 3rd - Wear That Sexy Cologne You Bought at Walgreen's Day

Party on, Dudes!

(And just 'cause I'm on a forgiveness kick doesn't mean I'm not allowed to get pissed off once in a while. So no bitching about that. Consider yourself warned.)

Surefire Signs That I'm Not the Slightest Bit Interested in What You're Saying

•  My vocabulary has all but disappeared, and the only things I'm saying are "Um, hmm" and "Oh" over and over at polite intervals.

•  I am completely avoiding eye contact. And not just in that cagey, looking-at-your-forehead way. I mean you're totally looking at the back of my head while I'm shuffling through papers on my desk or glancing out the window - as if looking for my getaway car to arrive.

•  If you do catch a glimpse of my face, you may notice that it's wearing an expression akin to that of a fox who's contemplating chewing off its own paw to escape from a trap.

•  I seem to be nodding an awful lot. Maybe a little too much even. And rarely in sync with what you're saying.

•  I'm trying SO hard not to roll my eyes at you that my face is starting to hurt.

•  When you ask me a question, I reply, "Huh?

• I'm subtly rocking from side to side and bobbing in time to the music I'm imagining in my head in a futile attempt to drown out your voice.

•  I back out the nearest door and close it when you're in the middle of a sentence.

Who Am I To Judge?

I have a bad case of remodeler's envy going on right now. I am fixated on tearing apart our kitchen and bathroom - both of which would require a full-on gut jobs. Unfortunately, we don't have a couple extra grand hiding in a coffee can on top of the fridge, so all I can do is dream.

Unable to actually change my surroundings in any real way, I've been gettin' my fix at HGTV's website, specifically in the Rate My Space section. People send in pictures of rooms in their homes and invite others to rate their spaces on a scale of one to five. 

It is, in a word, glorious. I have learned that ...

a. my hideous kitchen ain't all THAT hideous after all, 

b. lots of money doesn't necessarily lead to lots of style, and 

c. judging others can be a whole lotta fun!

I know I'm being shallow and judgmental when I cruise this site, but that's kinda what it's designed for, so I'm just going to set guilt aside and revel in this a bit.  

It's hard to say which I like better - the people who totally own up to their room's ugliness and desperately seek the counsel of others OR the folks who've dropped a small fortune to create a room befitting the home of one Blandy McBlanderson, Mayor of Blandsville, USA. (Hardwood floors. Granite countertops. Beige paint. Yawn.)

What could possibly be finer than seeing the crap that other people treasure? There's just something about seeing someone's butt-ugly rooster collection cluttering up their kitchen that gives me a tiny, gleeful surge in the superiority center of my brain. And I'm gonna chase that high. Yes, I am.

Speaking of high... there was one twentysomething who was seeking advice for updating her kitchen. I wanted to comment on her page that, based on the shocking number of liquor bottles on top of her fridge, I felt she needed AA more than HGTV right now. Of course, I'm too nice to actually post that to her. So I put it here instead. 

The comments/advice are also fabulous. One woman actually suggested that someone should stencil seashells on the walls to liven up her bathroom. Um, I don't think the '90's are small enough in our metaphorical rearview mirror yet for their trends to be considered retro, so ixnay on the encilstay. Okay?

I also give a thumbs-down to anything that involved using a hot glue gun. 

And all things described as "country" and/or "shabby chic". 

And all rooms with a sign with the word ANTIQUES on it. 

Man, I am GOOD at this judgmental stuff!

The question now is whether I post pictures of my pad on the site and face the judgment of others...

Brownie Points

Attention, Shoppers! Lori over on register #3 just joined Weight Watchers!

Sometimes the only way I can find to get a few minutes of peace, quiet, and time to myself is to go to the grocery store. Yes, ironically, I go to a public place with a bunch of other people in order to be alone. Those of you who have ever lived with a three year-old who wants to be with you all the time, no matter what you're doing, will understand this premise.

I took a reprieve from being needed the other night by going to the store to pick up a few necessities. It was great. I lingered in the produce department, mulled over whether to buy the whole wheat crackers or the onion-flavored ones, and generally reveled in knowing that this was an environment in which no one was going to ask me any questions. Or so I thought.

Register #3 had the shortest line - just one lady ahead of me - so that's where I went. As I was waiting, I could hear Lori, the cashier, asking the woman ahead of me if she was in Weight Watchers. I looked up and saw that she was buying WW brand yogurt, so I figured the question was a little less-invasive than I'd first thought. I started unloading my stuff onto the conveyor belt. Soon Lori was picking up the cottage cheese this woman was buying, reading over the label with her, and talking to her as if they were sorority sisters, telling her that if she bought the 1% instead, she could save SO many points. 

Uh, oh. Lori was one of those employees - the ones who go beyond the training manual conversations (Did you find everything OK? Paper or plastic? Have a great evening!) and actually talk to you. So you have to talk back and stuff. Crap. She was gonna kill my "me time", and I knew it.

When my turn came, Lori whipped through things pretty quickly, until she got to the cheese. Or, more correctly, cheese product. You see, I have a bit of  a thing for Kraft Fat Free Singles. I find their sharp cheddar flavor particularly to my liking. 

Anyhow, Lori scoops up the Kraft Singles and starts inspecting the label, "Oh, are these good?" I answer politely, 'cause that's what I was raised to do, and Lori takes up two minutes of my precious "me time" to quiz me about my fake cheese. I felt like I was being interviewed by Mike Wallace. We discussed texture, flavor, calcium content, how real cheese is three points per serving, etc. 

I started to feel very self-conscious as she rung up the rest of my groceries. Part of me wanted to explain to her that the brownie mix was really for my child. We're planning on making a big, heart-shaped brownie for Valentine's, I swear! I quietly hoped she'd noticed all the fresh vegetables I was buying. How I buy ingredients rather than pre-packaged meals. For some dumb reason I wanted her and her Weight Watchers cult-addled mind to approve of my groceries. She was judging every item I'd bought, and I felt so stinkin' aware of it that I wanted to scream. So much for my relaxing sojourn to the store.

I guess that a job as a grocery check-out clerk is probably one of the worst ones you could have when on Weight Watchers. You're surrounded by food every minute you're there, and you can't help but browse people's carts in the process, I guess. And if you happen to be a talker to boot, well ...

It reminds me of when I worked at Dairy Queen - way back in the day. About a third of the girls who worked there were bulimic. Seriously. They had HUGE issues with food and had gotten a job that included access to twenty-pound bags of Oreos. Slow nights were awful, watching them daintily nibble on a salad they'd brought for dinner - and then pound down a quart or two of soft-serve and a veritable buffet of toppings. Then they'd disappear into the bathroom for a while. 

I didn't know what to say to them. It was obvious what was happening, and they were girls I considered friends, but I just didn't want to get into it with them. I'd seen enough after-school specials to know it was serious and that I probably couldn't help, and maybe just a tiny, shallow part of me liked being able to judge them. Just a bit. I feel tremendously guilty about that now, but that's who I was at seventeen. 

They say you shouldn't judge a man until you've walked a mile in his shoes. Maybe there should be a companion statement about not judging a woman until you've experienced her relationship with food.