WHAM! Out of Nowhere!

I hate…HATE…when people from my past pop up out of the blue and start yelling at me, especially when I have no idea why.

I logged on to facebook earlier, and saw that I had a new message. I clicked on it, thinking it was probably my sister, but it wasn’t. It turned out to be someone I was friends with a few years back, someone who I ended up NOT being friends with thanks to a ton of drama that I won’t bore you with.

He informed me that I needed to stop telling his wife things she didn’t need to hear about him.

And that makes perfect sense, I have no business whatsoever contacting this woman and stirring up trouble in their marriage.

The thing is, however…

First of all, last I spoke to this guy, he wasn’t even dating anyone, let alone married. I haven’t heard from him, I haven’t contacted him, I haven’t so much as THOUGHT of him in ages and ages and ages…how was I supposed to know he got married? And how should I even know WHO he married?

I don’t. That’s the fun part of this. Not a clue who his wife is.

And yet, for some reason (one that I’m particularly interested to find out, although I’m not going to push the issue), this guy is convinced that I was the one who wrote (did he mean online? a letter? a text message? Sure wish he’d clarify…) to his wife and passed along what apparently are deep, dark secrets about him.

I keep laughing as I think this all over, because it’s so…dumb. I replied to his accusations, calmly and truthfully, stating that not only did I not do whatever he thinks I did, I don’t even have the time to go causing problems for someone I couldn’t care less about at this point in time.

I have a husband and child and home to care for, plus at least half a dozen projects outside that desperately need my attention, plus a brand new diet/exercise adventure I’ve embarked on, cats to pester, upcoming mini-vacation to think about, naps to take…

Seriously.

Of course, this also brings up a couple questions in my mind…for instance, since I know that I didn’t write/say anything to this unknown woman, who did?

And who blamed it on me?

More importantly, what ever happened to my favorite pair of fuzzy striped socks?

 

On a More Ridiculous Note…

I have yet to post here anything much about me, and although I find it to be irritating when I come across a blog that is nothing but “me, me, me and more me”, I thought I’d like to try it out. Just once, you know, to see if I’m really as dull as I have always suspected.

I’m not even really sure how to go about this.

Like, do I just jump right in? Ok, we’ll do that.

I once had a pet turtle, it was given to me by a friend for my 16th birthday. Because she knew I liked turtles, she thought this would be a good idea. Come to find out, turtles are smelly critters and they’re awfully slimy and a little bit icky. However, I loved him/her. Not quite enough, apparently, as my affections did not stretch far enough to feeding it the gold fish that it was supposed to eat.

I didn’t know that turtles could not live on turtle food alone.

So one day, I was sitting on my bed reading, and I thought, Oh! I bet Turtle (I had named him/her, but I can’t remember what it was I named him/her now) would like a swim in the bath tub.

And so I prepared to let it have a swim in the bath tub, a fairly regular occurance that I now realize my mom was probably not particularly enthusiastic about.

When I reached down to collect Turtle, I felt something was wrong. He/she wasn’t moving at all. In fact, he/she was wedged sideways between the wall of his/her tank and a rock (stuck between a rock and a hard place, no less), and his/her head was drooping down into the water. Turtle did not cringe away from me as he/she normally did. Upon lifting Turtle, his/her head remained limp, and although this sounds frightful, I gave him/her a little shake….causing limp head and legs to quiver in a pretty disturbing manner.

Turtle had committed suicide.

The gold fish, on the other hand, the ones that my friend had presented me with along with the turtle, were still thriving. In fact, 3 of the original 4 still live at my mother’s house, 10 years later.

I can’t eat sea food. Is that a rather tactless way to change the subject? It’s not like people eat turtles, though…or do they? Probably they do, somewhere. I find that offensive for reasons I will not go into now.

As I was saying, no fish, shrimp, oysters, crab, lobster, or squid for me, thanks. The smell of it makes me gag. The sight of crab legs, even frozen ones, makes me race for the nearest vomit-receptacle. Too much information? Sorry.

Speaking of fish, my best friend (who shall remain nameless) is afraid of them. Just putting that out there.

I have a strange obsession with painting glass objects. Clear bores me. I have, however, refrained from painting our drinking glasses, due to the fact that it would be weirder than even I’m prepared to be.

I read Twilight, Harry Potter, Jane Austen novels, the Bible, the news paper, self-help books, crappy romance, sci-fi, and comic books. I go through two, sometimes three books a week, and I re-read most things…dozens of times over. I have a fear of new books. Sometimes I get past this fear, sometimes I don’t.

I firmly believe that breeding an army of fanged ducks, and training them to be search-and-destroy ducks, would be a fabulous way to begin taking over the world. At one point, there were 144 rubber duckies in my house.

I have since unloaded them onto my sister, for my niece to play with. My sister has since gotten sick to death of picking up over 100 rubber duckies, and has unloaded them onto my mother for my niece to play with when she visits. My mother is currently in the process of trying to convince me that I should take back the ducks for my son to play with.

I give vague responses to any suggestion that I should have anything further to do with the ducks, and to date, I haven’t gotten stuck with them again.

Aaaand….that’s my limit, right there. Until next time…

Beware the invisible monkee on the sidewalk!

I’m Not Usually A Raving Lunatic.

I’m all out of sorts because the wind and weather is clogging up my entire head and making my nose bleed, which is why I’m here instead of where I’d like to be. And because of that, stuff is wandering through my mind as though it’s public property instead of the no-fly zone that it actually is.

No, I don’t know what I’m talking about either, so don’t feel bad.

Am I the only person who feels like the other shoppers are judging me when I go to a store? Is that completely ridiculous? I mean, I never purchase fruit, ever…and when I’m in the check-out line, loading my groceries onto the belt, I feel like the tiny little yoga mama behind me is scrutinizing the amount of carbohydrates I’m about to pay for…like she’s thinking, “She eats waaay too much pasta, no wonder she’s as big as a house!”

…and occasionally, when I feel that way, when I think that’s what they’re thinking, I want to turn around and reply to her, “I only LOOK as big as a house to YOU, because you’re like, 4 inches tall. You freaky little midget. Buy some stilts or something. Gah.”

And then I feel not only guilty, but also insane. Because she’s got a hand basket full of grapes and celery and organic bananas and one bar of dark chocolate and some pomegranite juice and maybe some shrimp.

Also because she hasn’t said a word, she probably hasn’t even realized I’m there except that she can’t get to the register yet, and maybe she’s not even a yoga mama.

On the other hand…she probably is.

Which only makes me feel worse, because…yoga?! Isn’t that for bendy people?! It occurs to me that I’m not even entirely sure what yoga entails, and I’m suddenly reminded of yogurt…frozen yogurt…screw it, get me the Ben & Jerry’s Karmel Sutra and I’ll be happy!

But by then it’s too late, because now the cashier is scanning my carbs and the bagger with the nicely tanned legs and sun-bleached hair is mixing the frozen broccoli with the toilet paper and smashing my store-brand bread beneath 4 cans of cat food.

And, oh man, it’s so much worse when I go to Wal-mart.

I see clothes and flock to them like a moth to a porch light.

Granted, I usually get burned the same way, because at Wally World, the clothes almost always look so much prettier from a safe distance, and it’s not until I’ve got my hands on them that I realize they’re all made by Miley Cyrus or only fit to be worn in an extreme emergency, like all those times that all your clothes just vanish and you realize you’re out in public naked.

I mean…

It’s frightening.

But, somehow, I usually find a couple of things that I could do something with, and when I’ve hunted through the size ‘enormous’ and the size ‘paper thin’ and finally found something somewhere in between, I pluck it off the rack, and instantly fold it so that the size on the hanger or the size on the tag is out of sight, out of mind.

Because it’s nobody’s business what size I’m reduced (or enlarged) to wearing.

Except then, I’ve got to wander the rest of the store with a pair of pants or a shirt tucked awkwardly beneath my arm, and all the larger ladies I pass are probably thinking “I know what SHE’S up to, holding those jeans that way”, and all the smaller ladies are probably thinking, “Why bother buying clothes at all, you HOUSE?” and I break out into a cold sweat and feel like throwing up the whole time.

Until I get to the register, when I can finally release my death grip on the item(s).

But then, oh and then, things get really out of control. Because the cashier must unfold the clothing and remove the hangers, and they get such a good look at the size.

And I know, I just KNOW, that those skinny girls who won’t look at you because it might mess up their hair and nails are sneering beneath all that make-up, and the big girls who talk too much are relieved that other people buy clothes bigger than a size 10, and the whole time I’m feeling like I should have just dropped dead at the entrance to the store and saved myself all the humiliation.

And I have to console myself that those lacquered bean poles are probably covering up a pepperoni pizza of a face, and that the chunky girls all have bigger thighs than I do.

And it isn’t ever until AFTER I’ve left the store that I begin to think rationally again, and realize, You know what? We’re all just people who need to cover our asses, be it with low-rises, or a mumu.

Not that I’d be caught dead in either, cuz I mean, what’s so wrong with plain old blue jeans? Except that they’ve been out of style for the last decade, I mean. At least, I think they have. Not that I know anything about fashion. I throw on a pair of jeans, a hoodie, and some flip flops and call it good.

Which is why yoga mamas and shiny hard-as-nails beauty queens scare the living day lights out of me and make me angry all at once. Why do they have to dress so…so…particularly ‘in’? And be so damned tanned? And have highlights and lowlights and French manicures and tiny little waists?

Oh, right, the yoga. That’d do it.

I think. I dunno, yoga IS exercise, yeah?

Ever meet someone who is witty, brilliant, personable, beautiful, magnetic…and realize at a later date that they were huge, or at least bigger, and you think, “Huh, didn’t even notice that, they were so dazzling in other ways”.

They freak me out, too, because come on, why do you gotta be so friggin’ confident about being a giant? Yeah yeah, so you’ve been freakishly tall, or overweight, or whatever all your life and finally decided that you’re happy being YOU…pssh. Can it. You’re making all the other freakishly tall or overweight people who try to shrink themselves look bad.

Ok, I don’t actually feel that way. It’s commendable and fabulous to be fine with having exactly the body you have, hair and fat and freckles and big feet and all.

Every time I step on a scale, I have a mental melt-down. It doesn’t matter what the scale is telling me:

“Good morning, fatty-fat-faticus, you’re looking rather enormous on this fine day.”

“Well hello again, friend! You feel less large this morning!”

“Ah, we meet again…and NO, you haven’t lost any weight…but HEY, look on the bright side, you haven’t gained any, either!”

It usually adds that last part super speedy-like, before I chuck it out the window.

Regardless. I go a little mental for a few minutes.

First, I close my eyes before placing my feet on the scale.

Because everyone knows if you don’t look, you can’t see anything you don’t want to see.

Of course, by the time both feet are in place, I realize that I WANT to see, be it good news or bad, and so I take a quick peek.

Hmm.

And before I let it sink it, I hop off the scale, lean down to adjust it so the line is precisely on the 0 even if that’s where it was to begin with, and then I get back on feeling more certain of myself.

Again, hmm.

Didn’t we see that number LAST week, I wonder.

And the scale, damn it, ANSWERS me.

“No, I’m pretty sure you’re up about 2 pounds this week.”

And I say, “No, no…last week, I was wearing shorts. Today I have shoes on, so that’s at LEAST 5 pounds.”

And the scale, damn it, ANSWERS me.

“Yeah, but last week, you also had a towel wrapped around your hair. You remember, you just got out of the shower.”

That’s the point where I get off the scale, kick it unceremoniously back under the hamper, and go in search of a strong drink…only to discover that the strongest drink available to me is tea.

Why can’t I have a hidden bottle of whiskey around here somewhere?

Oh, right, because whiskey is disgusting.

But I mean…tequila? Gin? Vodka? Anything?

No dice.

Because I’m not much of a drinker, unless we’re talking iced coffee. And that doesn’t make me slur my words and forget that I have limbs, so what good is it?