It Is Like the Movie I Am Four, But It Is Five and Someone's Not Happy

B was more than a bit dismayed to find out he is not number one in my book. My phone book that is.  It all started when I thought I accidentally butt dialed him:

Me: I think I called you by mistake.

B: I never noticed.

Me: I just know because I dialed #5.

B: Wait. I am number 5 in your phone book?

Me: Um...

B: NUMBER FIVE? 

Me: Maybe it is alphabetical?

B: WHAT? WHO DO YOU EVEN CALL?

He then started to name off all of the people I spend time with on the phone proving that he should at least be number 3.  As his look of horror and disbelief grew with each passing minute, I happened to query:

Me: Well, what number am I in your phone book?

B: ONE! YOU ARE NUMBER ONE! I PUT AN "A" IN FRONT OF YOUR NAME TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE NUMBER ONE.

Me: Huh.  That is so sweet.

B: YOU KNOW WHAT IS NOT SWEET? BEING NUMBER 5.

He then stalked off muttering something about proving your love or something.  Turns out that my contacts do not even have speed dial numbers in my new phone, so the 5 meant nothing.  I have no idea why I even thought it did.  And B is at the top of the list, although I am sure he doesn't believe me.

I See Your Quarter and Raise You a What the Hell Just Happened?

Getting through the security lines at the courthouse is always an adventure. There is one particular court that is always changing the rules - keys out, keys in, no cell phones, who cares about cell phones, feel free to bring your bayonet in by all means.  There is also no telling as to what will set the metal detector off except that it undoubtedly will not be metal.

So it was no surprise that we were waiting there, me and 20 other people, stuck behind a lady that basically had to undress to get through.  I could sense some annoyance coming from behind me, but I decided to focus on my own annoyance instead. First mistake.

As soon as the woman in front of me was cleared and before I could even think to take a step toward the detectors, a woman behind me practically barges her way through me to get into line.  My usual decorum evaporated:

Me: "Oh, EXCUSE ME!

Lady: "What?"

As I stand there with my arms open wide and about to shout "what do you think", she points to the ground behind me and says "There's a quarter."  

Here's where I would tell you that I retorted with a "Nice try old woman. Don't try to distract me with shiny things.  I don't need money that bad" while pushing her out of the way and running through the metal detectors screaming "I am coming your honor."  Sadly, that did not happen.

What happened? I was totally caught off guard and turned to find that there WAS a quarter there on the ground. I then wondered why there was a quarter there and how she knew there was a quarter there and if she was a member of MENSA.  Meanwhile, she was through the detector and off like an apparition.

That is, until I caught up with her on the elevator and she proceeded to answer her cellphone like this:

I AM ON THE ELEVATOR IN COURT AND I CANNOT TALK RIGHT NOW SO I WILL HAVE TO HANG UP, BUT WHY ARE YOU CALLING?

Luckily, I got off one floor after the phone call came in and before I totally lost my hearing.  Later when I relived this event with those that I work with, I could only think of one thing:

I really wanted to pick up that quarter.

Reunited and It Feels and Tastes So Good

B and I weren't the only ones that were happy to have Brad home. Jersey and Brad like to pal around even though it inevitably ends with Brad's head in Jersey's mouth or Jersey chewing on Brad's ear. Until that point, though, it is love.

I submit the following evidence. These pictures were taken after I told Jersey to leave Brad alone and then a few minutes later discovered that she had "trapped" him under my desk:

One of my favorite pics:

And this one:

By now Brad was purring away:

He could feel the love:

And right about here is where it all went downhill:

Until that point, though, it was love. Just like every morning when we wake up and go downstairs, Brad appears in a flash, rubbing against Jersey, wanting to love her, loving their daily reunion.

Speaking of reunions, I had my high school reunion this weekend. I won't even tell you what year. Let's just say it wasn't a single digit. The closer it got, the more I contemplated not going. After all, I knew most of what was going on in everyone's lives via Facebook and the people that I hung out with weren't going to be there. But B said it would be good for me to be social. Please. What does he know? 

What can I say about reunions? Some people grow up and a very large group never change. Some people still feel rejected despite the fact that they are a fully functioning adult, other people just don't care. The best part by far was watching a group of grown ass women shaking it to old school rap like Too Live Crew. As I said to B, "can you imagine if a current sophomore from my school wandered into this room right now?  That girl would say 'what is with all of these old chicks'?"

The other best part? The food. We love food. There was a strolling dinner featuring an Asian fusion station that was fantastic. I think that is all I ate. I also tried the Caprice salad station but it is a little hard to fashion a salad like that on a plate. It just looks like you are eating a piece of cheese on a tomato with random olives. Or so says B.

Can you believe that the planning committee is already talking about the next reunion 5 years from now? Ugh. One girl at the party remarked "it seems like we should be old but I don't feel old" to which I responded "that's what old people say."

I wonder if I will even get an invite.

Crime Watch Wednesday - I Can Stroke You But You Can't Stroke Me

This week's Crime Watch Wednesday is a very special edition from my Mom's hood and highlights the unintended consequences of compliments.

A woman reported being assaulted by a bar manager right before closing time. She was stroking his beard and "complimenting" him when he grabbed her breasts and told her they were "nice, too." She slapped him. He slapped her. No one got lucky that night.

What has dating come to these days? A nice gentlemen tries to pay a classy woman a compliment and he gets charged with assault. The nerve! In other news, perhaps it is not the wisest course of action to stroke a man's beard in a bar at 2:00 a.m. when he is probably drunk, you are totally drunk, and wise decisions cannot be made.

Can you imagine the police report on this incident?

We arrived at the local watering hole shortly after closing time on reports of lewd behavior.  Upon entering the bar, we found a man with a scraggly looking beard, like it hadn't been washed in days, and a 50 year old woman in a too low cut top with a large beer stain on it.  When asked for her version of events, the woman stated "I love a man in a beard and told him so. He then tried to feel me up. The nerve!"  The man, when it was his turn, stated "Yo, this woman I wouldn't think about twice was bending over the bar, showing me the goods, stroking my beard and paying me a compliment. So I paid her one back. What's the big deal?"  He may have called her Sugar Tits too.*

In all seriousness, ladies, do not put yourself in a position where you are alone in a bar after it closes.  If you do find yourself in that position, do not stroke anything on a man lest you be stroked in return.  And that is my public service announcment for the week.

*Special shout out to Mel!  Just don't shout back, okay?

Crime Watch Wednesday: Is it Really an OUIL if You Are Sleeping or if the Car is Not Moving?

This week's Crime Watch Wednesday brings us the tale of a sleepy drunk or drunk sleeper. You be the judge.

A man was spotted sleeping in his car, slumped behind the wheel in the early morning hours. The keys were not in the ignition, but in the console. The car was not running however, the front tire was blown out. The man reeked of alcohol and placed himself at a location approximately 100 miles from where he actually was. He refused all sobriety tests and was arrested for operating a vehicle under the influence.

OUIL, really? The vehicle wasn't moving. Heck, the keys were not even in the ignition. Maybe the guy never even drove the car. Are they solely relying on the fact that he said he was actually 100 miles from where he was? Maybe he walked, or stumbled, there. Maybe he parked his car 100 miles away*, stumbled back there drunk and decided to sleep it off. And now he is facing charges. What's a 100 miles to a drunk? I mean a SLEEPY person.

Is there no justice in this world??

Now THIS is operating under the influence:

No doubt about that one. Hi, Dukes of Hazzard** lady! Also? Rumor has it she tried to get BACK in the car and drive again. After she landed.

That's some scary stuff.

*Okay, now I am thinking of that Proclaimers song "I Would Walk 500 Miles." Maybe the songwriter was in a similar situation? Huh.

**I totally had to Google "Dukes of Hazzard" because spell check was telling me I spelled "Hazzard" wrong. Apparently spellcheck is not a fan of bad 70s TV shows. And by "bad", I mean "hella good."

***In other news, songs and lyrics seem to be a theme around here lately. That is totally unintentional. I cannot plan my day let alone an entire blog theme. Just so you know.

Bopping and Screaming - Just a Typical Thursday Here Folks

Remember way back to yesterday when I told you how I would freak out if there was a mouse in my house? I imagine it would look something like Salma Hayek's freak out over a snake as seen here:

Dude. It's a snake. You do not have to stand on that poor girl's head as I am pretty sure it cannot jump up and grab you. Also, nice screaming and practically fainting at the end after the situation has ended.

Actually, I envision that is how it would happen with me too. Huh.

In other news, I had quite a few emails and comments (or maybe just two) indicating that the authors also did not know that Cyndi Lauper's She Bop song was about masturbation.

We shouldn't feel so bad because Cyndi Lauper said she wanted children to think the song was about dancing (I did!) and then figure out the true meaning as they get older (like me!). Mission successful, Cyndi! Good job!

And here are the lyrics to discuss:

Well I see them every night in tight blue jeans
In the pages of a blue boy magazine
I've been thinking of a new sensation
I'm picking up good vibrations

Do I wanna go out with a lion's roar?
Yeah, I wanna go south and get me some more
They say that a stitch in time saves nine
They say I better stop, before I go blind
Ooh she bop, she bop

She bop, he bop, a we bop
I bop, you bop, a they bop
Be bop, be bop, a lu bop
I hope she will understand
She bop, he bop, a we bop
I bop, you bop, a they bop
Be bop, be bop, a lu she bop
Ooh ooh she do, she bop

They say I better get a chaperone
'Cause I can't stop messin' with the danger zone
I won't worry, and I won't fret
Ain't no law against it yet

I bolded the sections to which you should pay careful attention.

You are welcome.

Crime Watch Wednesday: Of Course it is Valuable, I Use it to Wipe my Ass!

...and we're back!*

Finally, the moment you have all been waiting for...another Crime Watch Wednesday edition. To ring this year in right, albeit three months, late, let me tell you the tale of a woman to whom money means nothing. Literally.

You see, our friend, had a wee bit too much to drink and decided to make her way out of the parking lot. The problem? She had to pay first. No problem for this gal. After all, she had a baby wipe.

Yes, she tried to pay her parking fee with a baby wipe.

The employee called her "confused." The police called her "drunk." I think the police were on to something considering she (1) backed her car into a parked vehicle, (2) didn't know her name, (3) couldn't speak, (4) stated she had several drugs at home that she needed to get rid of, (5) blew more than three times the legal limit for alcohol.

Oh, and she mistook a babywipe for money. A babywipe. You know what this means, right?

She has a child.

Also? She is borderline genius. Why genius? Because babywipes are thick like money and feel gritty too. Why borderline? Because they are WET.

In other news, I have elected to travel around with a large supply of Puffs with Lotion. Why, you ask? They are thicker than regular kleenex and when grouped together can look like a wad of cash. They are also very soothing. Allergies? Check. Parking fees? Check.

Genius.

*Users of Gmail should recognize this saying. It always pops up in the status/chat section. Even if you didn't know it was gone, it will remind you that it is back. Google is nice that way.

Um, Your Baby Sounds Like a Furnace and I Am Pretty Sure That Is Not a Good Thing

Today I had to go to the doctor. You know, THAT doctor. The one that wants you to say "Ahhh" with parts other than your mouth. Yeah, I just grossed myself out with that one.

In any event, I had a bunch of time to kill while dressed in a gown with the opening facing front and a piece of paper over my lap. As in 30 minutes worth of time. Did I mention it was freezing in there?

As I was studying the poster that explained the various parts of a vagina*, I realized that I could hear an ultrasound happening next door. This was not surprising as there were about 50 pregnant women in the lobby when I arrived. So I listened to the WOM WOM WOM sound and thought to myself:

You are witnessing a little life growing and a little heart beating. How precious.

Then I thought:

Wow! That heart is beating fast.

Followed by:

That heart sounds like a train. THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH THAT BABY. WTF PEOPLE? IS THERE A DOCTOR IN THE HOUSE??

Then I got distracted when I heard that my doctor had a phone call and began to think I might have to frickin' call into work if this first thing in the morning appointment went any longer when I realized that damn ultrasound sound was STILL GOING ON. So I thought:

That is one hell of a long ultrasound.

And:

That can't be right.

And it wasn't. You know why? It was the frickin' heating and cooling in the building making that noise.

THE FURNACE.

Yes, I totally thought the furnace was an ultrasound.

The doctor eventually came in, heard the story and immediately revoked my female gender card.

But first he made me open wide.

*The more you know...

Sure I will Do Your Math for You, You Are Only the Cashier

On Friday I stopped at the store in my office building to buy two lotto tickets. After a hard day at work I decided I wanted to become a millionaire. Also? My mom and I entered into a pact to go in on lotto tickets together. I am in charge of January. So far I have bought 3 tickets out of 6. I suck and we are never going to be millionaires.

While I was there buying the tickets, I noticed that they also sold scratchoffs. I love me some scratchoffs, or scratchers as some call them. I, however, cannot call them that because it sounds weird to me. Anyhow I tell the cashier that I want a specific scratchoff and she proceeds to pull off the wrong one. After explaining which one I want, I decide that I want the one she pulled off because it is now lucky.*

That is when the REAL confusion began. The lotto tickets were $2, the first scratchoff was $2, and the second was $2. That came to $6. I gave her a 10.

Cashier: How much do you owe me?

Me: $6. I gave you a 10

Cashier: How much do I owe you?

Me: $4

Cashier: [holding a 10 and a 5] Is this 10 yours?

Me: Yes. You owe me $4

Cashier: Did you give me this 5?

Me: No.

Cashier: How much was this?

Me: $6. You owe me $4.

Cashier: I need to change this $5 from the main register to give you change.

Me: Okay.

Cashier: Now what do I give you?

Me: $4

Cashier: [blank look]

Me: Take the 5 singles out of the register and put the $5 bill in it. Give me 4 singles and put the other single in the lotto register.

Cashier: Okay.

Me: By the way, you owe me 20.

No, I didn't say that last part. But I could have. She would have given me a 20. And the 10. And the 5. That is what we call a bad day.

And that last minute scratchoff? Totally a winner. A $2 winner.

At least I got my money back on that one. The others were a bust.

Now, if I could just get my sanity back.

*One time at another location I asked for a scratchoff and got the wrong one. I went back in and asked for the right one and the woman behind the counter pulled out this mangled ticket that looked like a dog ate it. I won $50 from it.**

**I just realized that the foregoing example was poor because it was not the wrong ticket that was the winner. Great. Now my whole theory is shot and I just have to buy all of the scratchoffs I see.

***Please send money.

Is That a Long Tube of Cotton Sticking Out of Your Ear?

The other day B picked up a small box I had received in the mail, held it to his ear, shook it and said "What do we have here?" in a weird British accent. I said "Tampons." He put them down and said "Whelp, I wont be needing those."

I hope not.

But if he does? I have PLENTY. You know my little obsession with buying bargains/deals? Well, when I wasn't looking, I apparently bought an entire store of tampons. I seriously keep finding them everywhere. I could supply a whole village. Well, if they only all just used one which would be weird. You get my point.

Instead of supplying a village, I decided to come up with some creative uses for my abundance of product. In no particular order:

Wine stoppers (who wants to come party with us now?)

Drain clogs

Upside down hanging ghosts (perfect for Halloween!)

Tie to a stick for a cat toy

Use as a newfangled way to "drink" vodka

Use as earplugs when the cats won't stop hissing, yelling and crying (like now)

Use as a newfangled way to get the cats to drink vodka so they will be quiet

The options truly are endless.

This picture was taken by my Mom's house. How fun are those fall decorations?

*This insane post is brought to you by too many hours at the office and not enough hours in the bed. At this time I would like to thank my sponsor, i.e. the law firm. I couldn't have done this without you. Cheers!

A Deal is Made and No One is The Wiser

No one was around when the stranger quietly approached me with an earnest look on her face:

Girl: Do you have any extra?

Me: I may have a few. How many do you need? One, two...?

I was hoping it wasn't more than that. I was very protective of my stash.

Girl: Just one.

Girl: I can't get my hands on any.

Me: What value do you have there?

Girl: Seventeen.

Me: I have just what you need.

Girl: Are you sure?

Me: Trust me.

With a slight flick of my wrist, a transfer was made. I commented about how it seemed so shady. We were whispering after all. She laughed heartily and said "I won't tell, if you don't."

I then steered my cart toward the bakeware while I pondered how many 20% off coupons I would need for my purchase.

This Means War! a/k/a Battle of the Mags & Rags

Speaking of wars, Marie Claire and I are at war. She sends me multiple invoices in different variations of names and prices. I then cancel them all with large and angry strokes of then pen and then order the magazine from an online retailer for a very cheap price.

This is war! I wonder who will win?

In other news, I really need to start reading the magazines I have. It has become a problem. Take a look:

Yep. And I even cleaned some of them out last month. They just keep coming. And I keep not reading them. Then I find deals on other magazines I want to read. And those come. And I don't read them. Then my Mom gives me some. Sometimes I read them.

Hell, how do I even know how to work my computer? Do I even know how to work my computer? Who knows. I haven't read the magazine since 2008.

I am even having trouble paring them down. At first I said nothing before the first of the year. Yes I have magazines from November of 2008 but I think (a) I like the topic/actor/actress/person it mentions and want to read about it/him/her, or (b) this is a good magazine, I just need to read it.

You can see where that has gotten me.

In my defense, it is easier to catch up in the fall when there are a lot of TV shows on with commercials. I am one to let the commercials play and catch up on my reading in the process. Now, in the summer, the only show I am watching is True Blood and there are no commercials! Damn them! And thank them! True Blood with commercials would be torture. But maybe I would get some reading done.

What do you think? Toss or know one day I will eventually read?

Or wait until the magazines start to spill out from that table and force me to do something about them?

I am sure you know where my answer lies.

Did You Happen to Lose Your Hair?

Walking out of Walgreens the other day, I noticed what looked like a bunch of hair. Upon closer inspection I found...it was a bunch of hair. Most likely that fake ponytail type hair that you can buy at drugstores, like Walgreens actually.

This begs the question...wouldn't you notice if you lost your hair?

It is not like that time recently that Britney Spears lost a big chunk of hair in the middle of her concert (although that probably hurt a heck of a lot more since hers is glued in), but still. You had a big mess of fake hair on your head. Later you don't. Seems to me you should notice.

Also, although it was kind of the person that found the hair to place it up on the metal thing I saw it on, in case the owner discovered she did, in fact, lose her hair, it was also kind of...GROSS.

Did they know it was hair when they picked it up? Does that make it any better? I think not.

Thoughts to ponder.

Hey Babe, I'm Getting Stuff Done!

You all know that if I am awakened while in a deep sleep or dreaming, I say some off the wall stuff. Remember when I told B to be careful not to knock the lamp off the bed? That's what I am talking about. So the other day B came in really early to say goodbye before he left for work:

B: Bye

Me: Hey babe, I'm getting stuff done!

Me: Wait...what?

B: What are you talking about?

Me: I have no idea.

B: Okay, well you just keep "getting stuff done" then.

I didn't tell him that at the time I was dreaming that I was mowing our roof and that the lawn mower had three wheels like a tricycle with the back wheel being the big fat plastic circle kind found on children's toys.

I wish I could say it was the pain meds from the surgery, but I hadn't even taken any.

Of Clowns, Crisis and Life Medic Bracelets

Yesterday, B informed me that I had failed as the nosy neighbor. ME! Failed!

B: You know, since your office window faces the street, I would expect you to pay a bit more attention as to what is going on down there.

Me: What is going on down there?

B: I don't know...only 2 police cars RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR HOUSE.

And there were. Two police cars, parked the wrong way in front of our house. The policemen, however, were nowhere to be found.

Me: Where are they?

B: I don't know.

Me: What are they doing?

B: Something about an alarm.

Me: Huh. Someone's house alarm has been going off for some time.

That is when my mad observational skills kicked in, way after the fact as usual. I then recalled hearing the faint house alarm for quite some time and being mildly annoyed with it. Apparently not annoyed enough to go to the window to see what was going on. I am a fine neighbor.

However, after B had pointed it out to me, I was ON THE CASE. This meant I went from window to window to figure out what was going on. All I figured out was the neighbor that belonged to the house where the one police car was parked was totally nonplussed and sweeping away at his sidewalk. Truly, not a crisis by any means.

While passing by one of the windows, I noticed the nonplussed neighbor's wife come home. Nonplussed neighbor had gone into his home. First she attempted to pull into her driveway, but since the police car was blocking 3/4 of it, she really couldn't do that. After about 5 minutes of her staring blankly at the cop car, she turned around and parked on the street. She then proceeded to take her HEADPHONES off. Yes, she was wearing a full, huge set of headphones on IN THE CAR. Safety at its finest there. Then after a LONG 10 minutes, she finally got out of the car and made her way up to the house.

Let me review. Wife comes home to find a cop car, parked the wrong way, in front of her house blocking most of her driveway. Her husband is nowhere to be found but the broom and rake he was using are just laying there haphazardly on the ground. Yet, she takes 15 minutes to get into the house? I call that insanity and told B so:

Me: Mrs. Neighbor Lady just arrived home wearing clown makeup...

B: Clown makeup?

Me: Well not really, but she might as well have it was so bright and thick I could see it up here. Anyway, she tried to get into her driveway.

B: How did that work out for her?

Me: Not so well.

In the end, all was well. I saw two policemen leave laughing about a false alarm and another lady neighbor explaining something about a life medic bracelet shorting a house alarm? I am not sure. I stopped listening. As B said, it was way more exciting when we didn't know what was going on.

And I was a heck of a lot happier before I saw the clown.

Clowns scare me.

One Step Forward...Thirty Years Back

Remember the double secret blind date guy who had quite the double blind date? Well, he started dating someone new, someone older, someone closer to his age. This is a big thing for him as he typically dates children. However, despite dating someone older and presumably more mature, he still has stories:

DSBDG: So, you know I have been dating that OLD woman.

Me: She is younger than you, right?

DSBDG: Yeah, but she is still an OLD woman. She is in her 50s or something.

Me: But you are still older than her, right?

DSBDG: Whatever. Anyway, we were out the other night and she told me that she wanted me to meet her friend because she thought I would like her.

Me: Wait. Are you still dating this woman?

DSBDG: Yes.

Me: Okay, so she just wants to introduce you to her friends?

DSBDG: Well, kinda, but not really. She said she thought I would like her friend because she was my type and sexy.

Me: Wait. What? Huh?

DSBDG: Yeah, she thought we would hit it off.

Me: Like a threesome?

DSBDG: Unfortunately, no. I think just more of a side thing.

Me: She wants to SHARE you??

DSBDG: I guess.

Me: Um, okay. Since when did you get all Big Love and...ew GROSS.

DSBDG: No Big Love. We aren't getting married.

Me: Whatever makes you happy DSBDG.

DSBDG: Oh, I am happy.

DSBDG: Funny thing though. Last time I dated women whose collective age was 100, I was dating 6 at the same time.

Me: Um, you might want to check your math.

DSBDG: [silence]

Me: 100 divided by 6...

DSBDG: Oh. Yeah. Right.

Lock your children up. At least the female ones.

Your Mom Might Be a Lesbian If...

You have this email exchange with her...

Mom: I just used my new Cherry Chap Stick. Is Katy Perry going to come kiss me?

Me: Ha! You are NUTS!

Mom: Have you ever tried it? It is VERY cherry and smells so good. Hell, I would kiss a girl just to taste it.

Me: Please STOP! No, I haven't tried it but I will have to with that ringing endorsement.

Mom: Don't buy it, I have another one over here. The smell goes away pretty quick and I don't want some random girl grabbing you and kissing you although your co-workers might find it interesting.

Me: You are really too much right now. You need Twitter.

And you might be a dork if you have this email conversation later:

Me: Do you mind if I blog about your cherry chapstick email?

Mom: Not at all.

Me: And do you mind if I imply that you might be a lesbian but then say that you are not?

Mom: Nope.

Yes, my Mom is not a lesbian.

Yes, my Mom is hip. She raps AND knows who Katy Perry is.

Yes, I am a dork.

Who Created This Mess?

Ever since I posted this picture:

and talked about how B's dresser always looks like that and how my dresser is always neat (and it is), B has wanted me to rectify the situation. It is burning him up how all you readers out there think that I am this nice neat freak and he is a mess. B is right. It is simply not true. Sure my dresser may be neater than his, but on any given day, that is about it. I am by no means a slob, but things do get messy.

You know what makes me REALLY messy? A project. A project such as putting your desk with your newly neatly organized bins together. It doesn't help that B set everything up and that he left everything that I had on and in his desk on my floor. Yeah, that stuff pretty much stayed there for a week.

So before you got those beautiful pictures of my desk area, the place sort of looked like this (thanks to pictures by B with my camera).

It starts off with some stuff on my desk:

And goes on to stuff on the ottoman:

And then stuff on the end table:

And then on the floor behind the desk:

That is messy. What a bunch of junk! Actually, B said he had never seen such an odd assortment of things in an adult's desk. So what if I had bobbleheads, a troll doll, a stuffed lady bug, a magic 8 ball, makeup, and gum? Doesn't everyone have that in their desks?

Those are necessities, you know.

Would You Like a Shell With That?

Recently, realizing that I had quite a few taco kits in our pantry at home and thinking that B might like some tacos after having to put up with chicken the past couple of weeks, I sent him a text to see if he could pick up some fixings. A short while later I got a call from B:

B: What kind of text was that?

Me: What do you mean?

B: "If you pick up beef, shredded cheese and lettuce, we can have tacos tonight."

Me: Yes...

B: What else is left? The shells??

Me: Yes, and the spices, both of which we have in the pantry

B: So basically you want me to pick up everything necessary to make tacos except for the shells?

Me:....and the spices

[At that point, I could barely even contain my laughter as it was apparent how ridiculous my text really was. And I was laughing even harder inside knowing that I had thought about leaving off the lettuce so he wouldnt think he was buying everything.]

B: Okay. You know what?

Me: What?

B: If I pick up steak, we can have steak tonight.

Holy Mammaries!

Today I had the lucky opportunity to get my first ever mammogram. And when I say "lucky" I mean "forced-on-me-by-some-evil-doctor-that-thinks-he-is-doing-good-and-doesn't-he-know-those-don't-start-until-your-40". Having heard how they like to take your breast and squash it until you can eat it with some blueberry syrup, I was less than thrilled. I went anyway.

Boys, you may want to stop reading here.

You've been warned.

I arrived at my destination with the mindset that I would completely forget everything I had ever heard about mammograms and act like I know nothing. A blank slate of sorts (kind of like Echo for those of you that watch Dollhouse. FYI - if you like Joss Whedon, watch Dollhouse). While waiting in line to check in, I noticed that they had a "take a number" setup for those getting blood work. As a line started to form behind me, a guy says "are you here for blood work?" Ha! "No," I respond, "I am here for the pancake breakfast." Okay, no I didn't say that, but I should have.*  Those lucky dogs got numbers and were in and out before they called my name.

When my name was called I followed the nurse to the imaging room that had been painted some obnoxious pink color. Okay, I know pink is the color for breast cancer and also for girls, but really? The last thing I want to think about when I am getting a mammogram is breast cancer and I am well aware that I am a girl. Not to mention that the pink I am referring to was like a Pepto Bismol pink but with orange in it. Can you imagine? You might not want to try. In fact, I thought I might need some Pepto Bismol to help my stomach from just being in the room. Obviously, I did not know the fun was just beginning.

After changing into a pink (of course!) patterned smock thing which "opens in the front please" on top of my polka dotted work skirt and knee high boots - ROWR (just imagine if those blood work guys could have seen me then), I filled out a form, ON PINK PAPER. Overkill much? The tech asked me if I had heard awful stories about mammograms. Wait! There are AWFUL stories? WHY WAS I HERE???? I nonchalantly acted like I had heard absolutely nothing until she said "we are going to use compression which means..." at which point I interrupted her to assure her that I knew exactly what compression meant. I did not need to hear what was going to happen.

So the machine? A silver tray where the tech not so gently plops one of your girls on top and then molds it around until it does her bidding. The compression? A piece of plastic. Seriously, like a tray. Maybe I could get a drink to go on that tray? I was nervous as heck, sweating bullets and they wouldn't even let me apply deodorant today. Side note: I currently have a stick of deodorant in my purse as I was not about to go an entire day without deodorant. That would be a crime.

Back to the machine. The compression? It REALLY compresses. I did not look because I didn't think that was something I wanted to see but it was very uncomfortable. In fact, the tech said "some women find this uncomfortable." Some women? Let me guess those that don't find it uncomfortable HAVE NEVER HAD IT DONE. Oh and it was twice per girl - once from the top and once from the side. SHE COMPRESSED ME FROM THE SIDE. I may never be the same again. My girls are crying. Well they don't have tear ducts, but they are quite sad. My left one especially. During the second phase I actually said to the tech:

"Huh....just when I thought you couldn't possibly compress anymore, you go ahead and surprise me."

She did not really find that amusing. You know what I didn't find amusing? Having to check to see if I still had nipples.**

* This joke is very timely considering IHOP was giving away free pancakes today. No pancakes for me though, just for the girls.

**I do. Don't worry.