12 February 2010

I'm going to hell for laughing at this

I hope none of you are first-time readers, because this is bad. I should not even write this. But you know how I am - I can't stop myself.

Today my legally blind 91-year-old Dad and I went to the pharmacy, one of those monster chain stores.

He said he needed to get "bug juice," which means, in Dad lingo, "deodorant." (The apple does not fall far from the tree, does it?)

I found the deodorant aisle. He is one of the last three people on earth to use spray deodorant.

"This one?" I asked, picking up the Right Guard that I was fairly sure I had bought him the last time he was out.

"No," he said. He also rejected all of the other brands that were there.

"Are you sure?" I asked, pretty darn sure about the Right Guard.

"That's not it."

"Well, it is on sale two for the price of one," I said, knowing that would get his attention.

Done. Two cans of Right Guard.

Not done.

"I don't think it was on that aisle," he said. "I think it was in the back corner."

We trudged around the store, Dad picking up random items - pregnancy test, curling iron - and saying "No, that's not it."

"I really think they keep all the deodorant in one place," I gently suggested.

"It's here some place," he said, continuing the search.

Finally he gave up and we bought our two cans of deodorant and went home.

Mom and I were chatting in the kitchen when Dad emerged from his bathroom with a spray can.

"THIS is what I was looking for," he said, triumphantly.

"Ummmmmm.....errrrrr...." I said.

"Oh, no," Mom said softly.

I had to break it to him.

"Dad - that's not deodorant. That's generic Lysol."

10 February 2010

The befoulment of the Jacuzzi

My gym's jacuzzi is broken. No big deal to me - I never go in it for the following reasons:
1) Eeew sweaty gym dudes
2) Enough chlorine to strip paint
3) The only time I went in, it ruined my swimsuit in 15 minutes. Really.

At the front desk there is a big sign "The jacuzzi is closed til further notice. We regret blah blah blah..."

Each locker room door and each locker room ALSO have signs.

And the jacuzzi itself has the steps cordoned off with yellow caution tape and a sawhorse-thingy with a sign saying the jacuzzi is closed BY ORDER OF THE HEALTH DEPARTMENT.

AND the jacuzzi is streaked with brown clods of diatomaceous earth from the filter system, which is why it is closed. It looks disgusting.

Are you getting the picture? The jacuzzi is very firmly, completely and utterly closed.


Last night during aqua aerobics class, a guy with a mullet and board shorts strolled out of the locker room, apparently looked at the closed sign, walked over to the button that turns on the jets, punched the button and went and put his legs in the jacuzzi.

Nancy and I looked at each other.

"Eeeeew," I said. "Can he not read?"

"Male dumbass syndrome," said Nancy.

Next thing we knew, Mullethead had submerged himself in the jacuzzi.

Then another guy came out of the locker room. HE got in the jacuzzi.

Between telling us to keep moving and breathe (I dunno why aerobics instructors tell us to breathe. I am always breathing), our instructor Deb called the front desk to get someone to boot the losers out.

They were sitting there in water filled with filth from the filter system, water that had not been cleaned or chlorinated in at least a week. I guess it is still warm for some reason.

The desk staff reacted with their usual aplomb and efficiency, which meant not at all.

By now, the whole class was hooting and catcalling at the jacuzzi losers. If you don't want to be bothered in life, don't do stupid stuff in front of a class of older women. Just don't.

Finally Mullethead realized something was up (!) and looked around with The Look of the Terminally Dim. He got out of the jacuzzi and walked over and GOT IN THE POOL.

"Eeeeew," the class moaned. The only thing worse than seeing someone soak in filth is to have the filthy person bring their ook into your clean swimming pool.

But you know how they say there's someone for everyone?

Soon enough, Mullethead had struck up a conversation with Iris, the Fox-News-loving, Glenn-Beck-worshiping woman who thinks Sarah Palin should be president because she is "so pretty."

I think they might make a Love Connection! (And next thing you know, they will probably be breeding. So it goes.)

08 February 2010

Boom boom out go the lights

I'm not a particularly speedy driver. I'd rather have a decent amount of following distance than get somewhere 15 seconds faster.

I KNOW. I have been ready for old age since I was 12.

When I'm getting on the freeway, though, I feel it is imperative to enter the roadway at freeway speed. I've never been able to figure out people who toodle down the onramp at 30 mph, with that casual "no particular place to go" insouciance.

I wonder if they see me back there, screaming "WILL YOU SPEED UP, YOU MORON? DON'T YOU KNOW WE ARE GOING TO BE CRUSHED BY A SEMI?"?

So it was with some level of irritation that I tried to get on Highway 126 last night. The little red truck with the oxidized paint job in front of me was going about 40 miles an hour on the onramp and showing no signs of speeding up.

As soon as we hit the highway, I checked for traffic, speeded up and tried to go around the red truck by entering the fast lane.


I just saw the black maw for a split second, but I felt the aftermath. I had, in short order, entered and exited a pothole the size of a tract-home swimming pool.

Ok, maybe not that big. But big. Really big.

I felt and heard my driver's side front tire flopping loosely, so I cautiously pulled over to the shoulder of the road, which was about a foot wider than my car.

I breathed a bit and listened to Goldie panting in the back, then called AAA for roadside service as traffic flew by, the wind rocking my car back and forth.

AAA estimated that a truck would be there in 45 minutes or sooner.

"Um, can it be sooner, please?" I pleaded, thinking of all the news stories I had read about motorists being struck while waiting in disabled cars on the side of the freeway.

It was dark. Traffic flew by. We used the time to tidy up the interior of the car and to try to keep from complete and utter panic.

God bless those AAA guys. Mario turned on his big flashing lights and put out reflective triangles and used a tiny flashlight to wave the zooming traffic into the far lane while Tony risked his life by changing my tire.

Mario said people never slow down. They have seen lots of people get hit. They did not take the situation lightly at all.

Soon I was on my way, the pathetic donut tire taking the place of my shredded tire. I got off the freeway and crept along city streets, feeling my car's terrible handling with that donut tire on.

This morning I went outside and found out why the car was so miserable to drive. The left rear tire had popped, too. I felt like a total ass.

I had driven 5 miles with a flat rear tire, thinking all the while that the donut was the problem. I figured I had bent the crap out of my rim. Yay. More money down the drain.

I called AAA again. Flatbed truck. Biker dude driver who wants to retire to the Yukon. Good luck with that. He told me stories about getting hit, too. About people who didn't even stop after hitting him.

The tire store guys gave me 2 new tires for free because I had tire insurance. So far the rims are ok. If they aren't, maybe I'll get me some of these bad boys.

So people, my people. Be kind. Slow down when you see a tow truck. Those are real people out there.

Kill it yourself

I am a vegetarian. A lily-livered, bleeding-heart, do-gooder vegetarian. Everyone expects me to be squeamish, and I will admit that sometimes I get a little woogy while shopping for my parents in the meat section of the supermarket.

I also get ooged out by handling meat. I have a hard time thinking of the stuff that runs out as "juices," because when I cut myself, "juice" does not run out. Animal juice is just like people juice to me, and I don't like people juice very much.

But you know what I don't have a problem with? Hunting. And raising your own animals and killing them yourself.

If you want to go out and get your own meat, I'm fine with it.

Chasing down wolves in helicopters like Sarah Palin doesn't sit well with me, and I don't like trophy hunting, but if you are providing your family with meat and you are willing to get your hands bloody doing it, more power to you.

I especially approve of people raising their own meat animals. That way you know what they are, WHO they are. You know what they have eaten and how healthy they are. And then, hopefully, you kill, prep and eat them with respect, wasting as little as possible, because you know what was sacrificed for your well-being.

This is why I also don't freak out over people eating eyeballs, brains, cheek, tongue. To me, meat is meat and it seems stupid to get all crazy over what part of the animal it comes from. How is it that eating the side of an animal is fine but ooh gosh no, not the tongue - THAT'S GROSS. Huh?

I love that people make sausage out of blood other "gross" stuff. To me, it shows respect to the animal, which is also what I am trying to do by not eating them at all.
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