Archive for January, 2009

January 27th, 2009

Financial Recession Poses A Hairy Problem

Over the weekend, I got together with three of my girlfriends for some female bonding time. With the Super Bowl coming up, we figured this would be our last chance for several days to engage in a booze-fueled estrogenfest and, more importantly, we all wanted time away from home.

Having exhausted our two favorite topics to complain about by the time the third round of drinks arrived, the conversation turned to the economy. Specifically: the financial sacrifices we’re making because our husband and kids just don’t get it. (Okay, maybe we weren’t done bitching about our two favorite topics entirely.)

The scholar among us, whom we call Egghead, said she’s borrowing books from the library instead of spending her Saturday mornings browsing the racks at Barnes and Noble. My friend Ritzy, who loves her some designer-labels, has taken to shopping at consignment stores. A longtime fast food addict, my friend Speedy Mac is learning to cook dinners at home and brown bag her lunch the next day. And me? Well, I switched to a cheaper brand of vodka and have been saving electricity by not cleaning house very often.

After a pause while the waitress sat down a sinfully massive plate of nachos, Ritzy offhandedly remarked that she’s also cut back on visits to her salon. Instead of weekly manicures she’s ditched the acrylic tips in favor of the natural look, and she’d found that she can go 6 weeks between coloring sessions if she poofs her hair up a bit. We all nodded our own faded heads in sympathy as, one by one, we hurried to hide our similarly un-manicured hands.

By that time, the third martini must have hit me, because I chirped: “And, damn it, I miss my bikini waxes, too!”

“God yes,” Egghead agreed. “I’m going through razor blades like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Razor blades?” Speedy Mac laughed. “I tried Nair. The smell just about killed me!”

Ritzy slammed the rest of her drink and signaled for another round before saying, “Let me tell you, girls. Do NOT try giving yourself a Brazilian wax at home. Just trust me.”

We all grew quiet as the waitress set our drinks in front of us, unwilling to meet each others’ gaze. After two long years of regular booze-and-bitch sessions, we’d thought we had discussed just about every female topic under the sun. But that night we’d discovered a new one, and it wasn’t pretty.

Seriously, how do you look your girlfriends straight in the face after a conversation like that?

January 18th, 2009

Somehow, I Think Freud Would Approve

As blogged elsewhere, my husband recently announced that he volunteered to go to Korea for a month for work-related reasons, despite having told me that he wouldn’t.

Just a few days after that, he announced that he would be spending the MLK weekend in Minnesota helping his mother move, because she doesn’t want to hire professionals to do it. This announcement required me to cancel a long-planned trip to see my own mother, since I’d only bought one plane ticket because I didn’t realize I’d need to bring my son along.

Not surprisingly, I’m pissed.

But more importantly, does anyone know the approximate cost of having a naked rubber model made that looks like his mother? I’m thinking of leaving it in our bed as a “welcome home” present when he gets back from Korea and finds me burning rubber to go on my own “work-related” trip.

January 16th, 2009

A Woman I’d Love To Hate

I hate that woman in the cancer treatment commercial: the black lady who says “even the doctor’s hands were cold” then brags how she’d been instructed to come back the next day but never did. You know, like disobeying doctor’s instructions is a badge of honor?

Her inability to use verbs notwithstanding (“they kind…they care”), I just can’t help cringing every time she describes how she took her pain and “put it to work for the patients”. Because you just know she was a busy-body who’d show up in other patients rooms snapping her fingers before planting her hands on her hips and bobbing her head around, reveling in her self-appointed role as the treatment floor’s one-woman pep squad.

Honestly, if I were one of those patients I think I’d wind up dragging myself out of my bed for the sole purpose of kicking that woman’s ass.

January 5th, 2009

Old Slackers Don’t Retire, They Just Get Jobs At Wal-Mart

Shopping options aren’t abundant in the boring little town where I live. Oh, we have a decent shopping a mere 25-minute drive away, but the fucktards who built that mall were oblivious enough to make it an outdoor mall. In Kansas, where it goes from brrr-freaking-cold in the winter when there’s a foot of snow on the ground to sweltering hot in the summer when the temps hover in the high 90s for days on end, extremes that are only interrupted by a handful of weeks when the weather is actually mild. We call that time “tornado season”.

So if I want one-stop-shopping, I have two options. I can either go to K-Mart, which is so crowded there is no way to navigate one’s cart down the aisles past the behemoth-bottomed women who stare gape-mouthed at the displays of inferior merchandise. Or, I can go to Wal-Mart, and it’s a sad state of affairs when that place is considered “upscale shopping”.

Today, having run out of shampoo over the weekend, I had no choice but to haul ass to Wal-Mart so I could take a shower before I leave to pick my son up from school. I had a few other things I needed to get, too, so I grabbed the list from our fridge. Since shopping at Wal-Mart usually leaves me feeling the need for a shower, I made a point of heading there at lunch time so I could get home and still have time for the first leisurely shower I’ve had in the 17 days my son’s been home over Winter Break.

But I hadn’t counted on the unbelievable slowness of the old person our local Wal-Mart employs to stand at the door and pass out shopping carts to people as they enter the store. She was all of four and a half feet, if that, which made it darned tempting to just grab a damned cart and pretend I didn’t see her. Unfortunately, she had a blue-veined death grip on the rack of carts kept near the door so the only way I could have retrieved one for myself was if I’d knocked her ass down. (Then, of course, I’d be further delayed while management insisted on filing a police report.)

As I stood there waiting, the old biddy didn’t even acknowledge my presence. No, she was too busy chatting with three other old biddies with whom she’s apparently quite well-acquainted, or so I surmised from their free exchange of details about the various parts of their bodies which began aching yesterday when a cold front moved in.

I coughed. I cleared my throat. I tapped my foot, studied my fingernails and sighed loudly. That, of course, did nothing since the woman is far too old to actually be able to hear. Apparently her eyesight is just as equally bad because she kept right on ignoring me.

Another woman got in line behind me. She, too, was apparently a bit put off that we couldn’t simply grab carts and rush through our shopping. Then a man wearing mechanic’s overalls joined us. Soon, three other people were also waiting — all just as impatient, and all being equally ignored.

“You realize we outnumber them,” I finally said, making no effort to keep my voice quiet. “I’ll get the Greeter lady. Who’ll take down the other three?” And, of course, the crowd of equally impatient people standing there with me all chuckled. Finally, the old biddy huffed and tugged at her little blue Wal-Mart vest before shooting me a rheumy-eyed glance which she no doubt intended to be a drop-dead stare. Then, nodding goodbye to her friends, she began passing out the carts and taking great pains to make sure that I was the last to get one.

“Some people are so rude,” she said as I reached for the cart.

I swear to God, I’d have run the old biddy over and put her out of my misery if I wasn’t worried about criminal charges and medical bills. Instead, I opted for the second-best thing: I whipped out my cell phone and called the store’s office to tell them what had just happened. I was midway through my explanation when I decided to grab my cart and get my shopping done at the same time, which meant I left the old biddy standing there wondering what management was going to do about her. Meanwhile, the influx of shoppers needing carts continued.

Man, I had no idea an old woman could move that fast!

January 2nd, 2009

What, Is Your Keyboard Broken?

Why do some people have such a hard time learning how to look things up online? In the past 24 hours I’ve been asked by two separate people if I know the answers to some seriously stupid questions.

Mind you, these weren’t people sitting next to me, either. One sent me an email asking if I know the lyrics to “Louie Louie”, and the other sent a cell phone text message asking how many tablespoons are in a cup. For cryin’ out loud, if they’re able to use a damn computer or cell phone, why is Googling something so freaking hard?

But, I decided to play nice and send them a link anyway. Okay, so it was this link, but rather than being bitchy I like to think I simply empowered them.

Even so, I can’t imagine for the life of my why my mother wanted to sing along with “Louie Louie”.