Shame On you. What did you think this title meant?!  Puh-lease!  After all, I’m a happily married woman. Geez! How about this? I will make you a deal, kind of like The Price Is Right only I don’t have a plastic face and a creepy skinny microphone (although I do suggest you control the pet population and spay/neuter).

Get your mind out of the gutter and I will get my hands out of the bag of chips and we will both continue.

My husband and I need a new mattress.  No, that’s not right.  We needed a new mattress about a year ago.  We are past that stage now.  Our spines are begging us for relief and the nightly poking of springs in our back is no longer something we can deal with.

So we decided to bite the bullet (and the pillow, as our backs were killing us).  We then started the hated task of shopping for a new bed.  We did this on a Saturday night because we are total losers and didn’t have anything else planned.

We headed to the first store and began trying out mattresses (by laying on them jackasses.)  You should know that I planned ahead and wore comfy clothes. How do you know how the bed will feel unless you try it out in the clothes you would normally be wearing?

Of course, I wanted to ask if I could remove my bra and underwear, bring in a couple hundred pounds of dogs and get to business. I decided against asking and settled for the dog hair I inadvertently transferred from my t-shirt (that black dog hair really pops atop a white mattress).

One thing we noticed throughout our excursion was there was a common denominator in mattress shopping, and it wasn’t the constant urge to grab a blanket and take a nap (although that urge became quite strong).  Rather, it was the creepy disheveled salesmen.  Was that a requirement for mattress salesmen?

Come to think of it, it probably is a requirement as it’s probably a good thing. Doesn’t that suggest that they have comfy beds at home that they don’t want to leave? I pictured these guys with one hand in their pants and another in a bag of chips, lounging in bed watching Nick at Nite and infomercials  (there I go talking about chips again).

The more I think about it, I couldn’t buy a mattress from a skinny guy. It wouldn’t make sense. It would be like getting a gym membership from a fat person, or advice on love from Jessica Simpson.

The first guy we met was Clark. Yes. That was actually his name. Clark had the body of a guy who never stepped foot into a gym, yet something told me he knew how to please a woman…by giving a great foot massage.

What did you think I meant?  Pervert. What did I tell you about our deal?  Okay. I totally slacked on my end of the bargain too. I’m still eating Sun Chips.  Who wouldn’t be?

Clark was awkward and seemed to physically be in pain when he talked to us. Based upon the smells emanating from him, I suspect he had a mean case of diarrhea.   Poor Clark.   We tried a few beds and decided to leave poor Clark to the sweet sanctity of the restroom, where he would probably read the Play Station manual and wonder what boobs feel like. (I’m referring to female boobs. It was clear Clark knew what men’s boobs feel like, as he appeared to be rocking an A-cup.)

unmade bedAt the next store we met was Sal. Seriously. That was his name. I wish I was making this up. When we arrived, Sal had his shirt untucked, his tie loosened and the smell of cheap whiskey on his breath.  Seriously.  This happened.

Sal clearly had a rough night and was still feeling the side effects of it at 6:00 p.m. the next evening.  The funniest part was that once he saw us, he tucked in his shirt and attempted to button his top button.  I encouraged him not to, as there was no point.  He shattered our illusions of what a mattress salesman could be.  After all, Clark set the bar high.

He took us from bed to bed, talking in cliches and telling us he was letting us in on industry secrets and he was willing to give us a special deal.  He told us he would give us his friends and family discount as long as we didn’t tell anyone.

Yeah, like I believe this guy is willing to risk his job and the five child support liens he’s behind on just so he can give us a deal.  Right….

We went from mattress to mattress trying to decide which one was just right.  Some were too soft, some were too hard, and one had a bear in the bed, which was just awkward for everyone.

Ultimately, I think we settled on a mattress that was in the price range of what we wanted to spend (after Sal’s sweet discount).

Of course, we didn’t stop there.  Nope.  We felt like throwing a little more money Sal’s way.  After all, those garnished wages for his illegitimate kids weren’t going to pay themselves.

So we decided to do something amazingly awesome.  We decided to buy an adjustable base to the bed.  Yes, that’s right.  We decided to jump to the end of our lifetime and purchase a bed that allows us to move it to a sitting position without doing anything more than pushing a button.  We’ve come to a whole new stage of lazy.  A bed that allows you to sit up without effort.  It’s amazing.

What was that Sal?  It’s ridiculously expensive and if we knew anything about hydraulics or mechanical engineering, we could make this base ourselves for $19.99?  Well that’s okay.  We’d prefer to pay the equivalent of a mortgage payment instead…after all…you’ve got kids to feed (or at least the state does).

nightBecause we didn’t want to appear too eager, we said we would sleep on it (pun intended).  We left the store and went home and did some Internet research on the mattress and the adjustable base. (I admit it…I was looking for a coupon.)  Sal actually wasn’t feeding us a line…he really was giving us a deal.

Considering we made him throw in free Memory foam pillows and a free bed frame for our guest bedroom, Sal might not have been sober enough to do the math and realize the deal he was offering.  We didn’t want to lose it.

So first thing this morning, we returned to Sal’s place of business and bought the mattress and base, dropping far more money than I care to disclose.  But it’s totally worth it, right?  It will be delivered tomorrow and we can’t wait.  So just know that from here on out, I will be writing blog posts from the comfort of my new mattress and adjustable base.

I predict I will also be sipping Ovaltine and my orthopedic shoes will be right by the night stand, in case I have to walk anywhere.  Sweet dreams!

chocloate bar

I’m an addict.  A full blown addict.  My drug of choice?  Well, okay, that’s a loaded question.  My drug(s) of choice include vodka, Chipotle, and anything covered in ranch dressing.  But for my non-food/drink addiction, I’ve become completely obsessed with coupons and online shopping.

I can’t get enough.  I’m a junkie and nothing makes me feel more alive than a coupon for free shipping.

How did I get this way?  I blame this addiction on my friend, The Nanny (not her real name).  She’s a total pusher.  She’s definitely one of those “just try it and see how you like it” kind of people (which is exactly the suggestion that got me a year’s subscription of Cinemax, and a husband who is all of a sudden interested in TV).

She suggested I try this website, called www.ebates.com.  Have you heard of it?  Um, it’s amazing.  I might need an intervention if my love of this site continues (and it will).

Basically, you set up a free account and whenever you want to buy something on line, you go to Ebates first, they give you a tracking number, and then you get a percentage of the money you spent back through Ebates.  I had no idea buying toilet paper could be so fun!

And now that I’ve had a taste of the good stuff (which in my world is an extra 30% off everything at Kohl’s), I can’t go back to my life before…my life on the outside…I’m a changed woman.  This addiction definitely has a hold on me.  In my pre-addiction days, I would simply walk into Target, find what I wanted, make an excuse to swing by the Liz Lange maternity section to check out the dresses, and then check out with my items.

If only life were so simple…Now, in my post addiction days, I go to Ebates, go to a website and then spend the next 20 minutes looking for the best deal.  This entails opening at least 15 different windows checking on prices at different locations, and most certainly entails an anxiety attack for which I have to grab some Xanax (for which I’m sure I have a coupon…)

The saga continues and even after I locate the best deal, the adventure isn’t over.  Nope.  Then I have to google coupon codes to see if I can get anything else taken off my order.

mouseDo I really need 15 gallons of dish soap?  Of course not, but it’s cheaper to buy it by the gallon and mama needs free shipping.  And now our horizon sparkles with clean dishes that smell like a waterfall.

Aside from saving money (and collecting enough non-perishable items to feed a small village), Internet shopping has other perks as well.  Perhaps the biggest perk is shopping in my underwear.  Yes, when I shop in stores, I do wear underwear (most of the time).

However, when I do Internet shopping, that might be quite literally all I wear.  It’s amazing. There’s nothing more freeing than ordering a bathing suit while wearing nothing more than my birthday suit.  Seriously.  (It makes you wonder what I wear when I type these blogs, doesn’t it?)

And another perk?  I don’t have to take my new purchases to my car where I will then spend the next 10 minutes figuring out where to put my new treasures.  Most of the time when I shop, my packages get thrown somewhere and end up getting lost in the abyss otherwise known as my trunk…or my backseat..or the passenger seat…or under my seat.

(Don’t tell my librarian about that spot under my seat.  She still gives me the stink eye whenever I come into the library and I swear she knows I lost that book on CD under my seat.)

Yet another perk?  Not having to deal with the judging glances and stares of the store clerks who think it’s ridiculous to purchase liquor in bulk.  (On a totally unrelated note, the Post Office won’t deliver five gallons of Grey Goose to a personal residence.  Obviously they don’t know a good deal when they see one).

I always seem to have poor luck with store clerks, as they either think I’m crazy, or they feel as if I’m the one they are supposed to tell their darkest secrets to.  Maybe my face looks welcoming, or maybe they figure I look disheveled enough that no one would believe me if I told their secrets anyway.  Whatever the reason, I usually leave a store with a hand full of groceries and a head full of secrets (and a belly full of free samples.  Duh.)

My Internet shopping also helps local commerce.  I’m doing my part to keep Mailman Ricardo working delivering those packages, all the while nearly exposing his own package in those short shorts of his.  Isn’t it great that I’m helping keep the Post Office running?

If you are considering getting into Internet shopping and coupons, I would definitely tell you to give it a try.  If this post and all my amazing reasons hasn’t convinced you, I will send my friend The Nanny over to encourage you to try it…just once…just to see if you like it.

I didn’t know my husband in high school, which is probably for the best as I have no desire to ever see that guy in Fubu clothing.  (Seriously, that’s what he wore in high school.  Of all thing things I joke about, this is not one of them.  I wish it was.)

Fortunately, I didn’t know him then so I was able to marry him without being aware of his horrid past of Thug Looney Toons shirts and overalls with only one strap buckled (because it looked so much cooler to have that other strap just dangling down, the metal part hitting you every 5 seconds).

Since I didn’t meet him until later in life, I didn’t get the pleasure of seeing his school pictures.  In all honesty, he won’t show me any of his school photos because he says I will endlessly ridicule him.

He’s not wrong.  If I can get my hands on some of those photos, I will scan them and upload them for your viewing pleasure.  (First I will also need to find a scanner…and then knowledge of how to scan photos.)

I can only imagine what my dear husband’s school pictures looked like.  I can’t go back in time (but if I could, I definitely wouldn’t have let myself fall in love with ChipotleHello fifty pounds.)  Although I can’t time travel, I feel like I have the next best thing.

No, it’s not Doc from Back to the Future.  My husband works at a university and apparently this year they made everyone take school photos (or so my husband tells me).

Because I know you are just dying to see his picture, I have secured a copy (unbenownst to my husband) and will post it here on the inter webs for all to enjoy.  What did he wear?  Did he use one of those little combs they give people to make sure his ‘do was perfect?  I know you have so many questions.  Well wait no longer….here it is.

Amaze-balls, right?!  There are so many things I want to say about this picture.  Where to start?  First off, I must say that I’m disappointed in the choice of background.  I was really hoping for neon zig zags or extremely large pencils that serve no purpose other than to take up space in the background.

And where is the over sized number for the year he graduates?  How are we to know what grade he is in without the classy wooden numbers?

And is this the only option they gave him for a photo opportunity?  That’s disappointing.  Where is the one of him propped up against the piece of shit car with the cheesy hood ornament?  Isn’t that a requirement for all school photos? (Or maybe that’s just mine.)

Did he not have a Letterman jacket?  (Not David Letterman for those of you under the age of 30 that may be reading this blog.  A Letterman jacket is a type of jacket.  OMG.  You guys are so young.)

Did he value anything other than that tie he seems to be overly excited about rocking?  Where is the photo of him with his favorite instrument? (Which in high school, may have been his organ if you know what I mean…)

Overall, I say he looks particularly handsome, and I’m proud to call him my husband.  I say I’ll hold on to him for a while longer (he’s the cute one in this couple).  And now the big question:  How many wallet sizes should we order?

clinking lemonade glasses

Summer has arrived, and with it comes an influx of bored kids who should probably be going to summer school, or should at least take a shower every couple days.

Seriously. Yes, you’re growing the coveted hair under your pits, but that doesn’t mean you can’t take some soap to it every now and again.  It won’t fall out.  I promise.  It hasn’t worked on my pit hair and it won’t work on yours.  I can smell you from here.  No joke.

Every summer for as long as I can remember, kids have been setting up lemonade stands.  I like to think it’s because they’re miniature entrepreneurs, but I’m beginning to think it’s because they want to sit around and do nothing while acting like they’re working.

I suspect their inspiration comes from every single person in Congress…and/or Ce Lo Green.  Seriously, that guy has creepy small hands and we all know he doesn’t really do anything on The Voice except remind me I need a manicure.

My neighborhood is no exception to the lemonade stand epidemic, and I’ve noticed that one or two of them seem to pop up each year.

Because I’m totally awesome, (and addicted to sugar), I always stop at whatever lemonade stand I see (so long as I have a quarter and a hankering for artificial flavoring…which is always).

Last week Matt and I saw a lemonade stand in our neighborhood and immediately stopped to grab a few cold glasses.  It was on a Tuesday night, and we were headed to meet my friend The Nanny (not her real name) and her husband for Taco Tuesday night, but we figured we could take a sweet treat before we went (and after too.  Hello Dairy Queen…)

We grabbed a couple quarters, got out of the car and headed over the the small lad and lassie who were manning the booth.  (And by “booth” I mean a card table with some questionable stains on it.  And yes, I said lad and lassie.  Deal with it.)

quartersWhen we arrived, the lad and lassie made no attempts to sell their product.  I was expecting some sort of hook like “It’s the perfect day for some lemonade” or “What can I do to get you some much needed refreshment?

Instead, I got two kids with a thousand yard stare, one of which had a lazy eye, which made the stare particularly troublesome. I decided to focus on his nose in an effort to keep myself from following the stare of the lazy eye. (Who knows where that would lead.)

“Hi there,” my husband said.  He’s a real genius when it comes to dealing with kids.  “Whatcha selling?”  See what I mean?  Genius.

“We have lemonade” the lassie said in a completely monotone voice.  She may not have had a lazy eye, but her enthusiasm left much to be desired.  (As did her wardrobe.  Stripes with polka dots?  Child please.  You can’t pull that look off.)

We will take two, please” my husband said.  That guy is quite the charmer.  He slid two quarters across the dirty table and awaited his refreshment.

They are a dollar a piece,” Lazy Eye responded.

Seriously?!  A dollar a piece?  That’s two dollars for approximately 8 ounces of lemonade!  I could buy an entire container of Country Time for about three bucks, and it most likely wouldn’t have been handled by creepy kids with grimy hands and an eye condition.  What kind of robbery was this?

“Um, okay,” my husband responded, trying not to appear flustered for fear Lazy Eye might actually wail on him.  “I will have to go back to my car and get some more money.”

glass of lemonadeHe headed to the car while I stood there trying to make small talk with the lad and lassie (yes, I’m back to using those terms).  Those kids definitely didn’t have much going on in the conversation department.

I asked them if they liked Elmo or if they had any GI Joe dolls, but they didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.  They were obviously idiots.

My husband returned with two dollars and gave them the cash.  Lassie then proceeded to pour our two glasses of lemonade.  (I was definitely glad to see she was pouring, as I’m pretty sure her brother didn’t have the best hand-lazy-eye-coordination.)

Lassie handed us each a cup of lemonade and we walked away.  We got back to the car and we each took a sip.  Ew.  It wasn’t even cold!  What?!  Would it kill the kids to throw an ice cube or two into the mixture?  Who was their supervisor?

They clearly didn’t care about repeat customers or quality assurance.  Who am I kidding?  They were probably already packed up and three towns over by the time we took our second sip.  Those kids were total scammers and we were suckers.

Aside from the fact they needed a lesson in marketing and placement of their stand (along with a pair of corrective lenses), they also needed to learn about keeping the customer happy….and inflation.

Although I know times are tough, I’m pretty sure inflation hasn’t increased 75% in the last fifteen years.  If so, I need a huge raise…and Abercrombie and Fitch is still overcharging for their t-shirts.

Maybe I’m getting old, but I don’t think a dollar for 8 ounces of lukewarm generic lemonade is a deal.  I had half a mind to go back to the stand and ask for my money back, but feared I would throw the remainder of the glass in their faces, and I didn’t want another assault charge on my record (nor did I want to put anything in that jacked up eye).

Instead, we decided to chalk the incident up to stupidity (much like my reading of the “Twilight” series).  The worst part of the entire experience (aside from the acidy after taste), was the fact that we never got back the two quarters that we initially offered.  Hopefully they use those additional funds to invest in a business plan…or a co-pay for a visit to the eye doctor.

guy asleep with lemonade

top of beeer canOkay, I held off as long as I could, but I caved. (No, I’m not talking about the diet that lasted all of 12 minutes, although that is a totally legitimate guess.)  It’s time to talk about the glorious train wreck that’s better known as The Bachelor/The Bachlorette series.

I could dedicate an entire blog just to musings about this wonderful show, but I try to refrain because I know my readers really want to read about my life, and how I manage to do nearly impossible things, like get myself kicked out of the local library.  (Not so much kicked out, as encouraged to stay away for the next 60 days.)

Every week I desperately want to do a recap of the show, where I point out all the ridiculous things I notice (like last week’s episode with the constant thunder and complete lack of rain drops).  However, instead, I decided to be more creative and combine two of my favorite things:  making fun of The Bachelor/Bachlelorette, and drinking.

I tried to figure out how to add Chipotle and Ryan Gosling in there, but I’m not that big of a genius, so let’s just start with drinking and The Bachelor/Bachelorette.

Here are the rules:  Whenever someone says or does one of the following things, you have to take a shot.  Yes, a shot.  Not a drink of beer.  This game isn’t for pussies, and neither is The Bachelor/Bachelorette.  Go big or go home.  Actually, you probably are at home watching the show, but whatever.  Get out your finest liquor (or liqueur if you are a total douche), and take a shot every time the following happens:

1.  Someone says “I think I’m really falling for her/her.”  —-2 shots

Who actually says this? No self respecting guy would ever say these exact words.  Ever.  In real life, a guy would get punched in the dick for saying something like this…probably by me.  Hey douche bag, return your man card and grab some Tampax because you clearly have a vagina.

2.  The Bachelor/Bachelorette says “I’ve got some fun dates planned this week.”  —3 shots

Really?  You planned the dates?  It wasn’t some ABC intern making $2 an hour being forced to purchase hookers for Chris Harrison while staving off his sexual harassment and ass grabs?  Yeah, we all believe it’s you that’s the mastermind behind these dates.

You thought Bermuda was a made up island invented by The Beach Boys for their catchy “Kokomo” tune, but we are supposed to believe you were able to secure the helicopter and $5 million yacht for the afternoon. Sure… (“Way down in Kokomo…”)

3.  Someone is able to identify the quiet unknown girl/guy by name before his/her name flashes on the screen.  —pass out a shot to everyone else in the room

Every season there’s a candidate that no one knows exists.  He’s that random creepy guy in the corner braiding his ponytail and writing in his journal.  He’s the guy that never gets a one-on-one date, and the guy I’m pretty certain is just one of the extra camera guys who is off duty but wanted to get in a shot or two.

 

If you can identify that guy’s name, you deserve to pass around shots to everyone else in the room.  You also deserve to get a hobby because that’s seriously pathetic.  Come to think of it, you should drink too.

4.  Whenever someone says “I really like it best when it’s just the two of us.”  —2 drinks

Yeah, it’s just the two of you…and the camera men…and the lighting guys…and the producer…and America.  Yeah, it’s a real quaint date.  Maybe you guys should go to the Olympics…you know…for some alone time.

5.  Someone says “He’s/She’s not there for the right reasons.”  —slam a beer

Yeah, cuz the rest of you are all there for the right reasons…definitely not for the free tripp and the 8 week long kegger.  Yep.  You’re there for love.  The way you shed your shirt and flex your pecs every time the camera is on you definitely makes that clear.

6.  Someone says “I really want to find love.”  —punch your neighbor in the face.  (Passing out shots got kind of boring and this will switch it up a bit.  I told you this game wasn’t for pussies.)

Of course…you’re there for love.  And by love, you mean the cover of “Us Weekly” and by “lasting relationship” you mean you want to get an agent and do Dancing with the Stars.

7.  Someone says “This is really hard.” —1 drink

drinking glasses

Oh yes, it’s a rough road being on the show.  Lounging around all day in 5 star hotels and pools in exotic locations always stresses me out.  The free food and alcohol makes it positively excruciating.  Shut up, quit your bitchin’, and ask the production assistant to get you another session of spray tanning.

You don’t look quite orange enough for the camera yet.  And stop shaving your chest.  You’re a tool.

8.  The Bachelor/Bachelorette says “Will you accept this rose?”  — punch yourself in the face.  (You might as well, because hearing these lines is already killing brain cells, so why not top it off with a blow to the face?)

roseRight…like a girl/guy isn’t going to accept the lame ass rose that some 16 year old picked up from Walmart approximately five minutes before the show began taping.  Why do they even ask this question?  It’s not like someone is going to turn down the opportunity to enjoy another week of slamming beers and doing push ups by the pool.  Puh-lease.   

I would accept a rose from The Bachelor/Bachelorette if it meant I got to lounge around for another week and boss around Chris Harrison.

There you have it for now.  I’m considering adding more rules as the season goes on, but I wanted to get you all started with this game, as I know you were desperately looking for something to make that show even more enjoyable than it already is.

If you are planning on playing this game, may I also suggest that before you start, you get a note from your doctor keeping you off work for the next day?  I guarantee your hangover will thank you.

 

photo (15)

I wasn’t a nerd in high school…or at least I don’t think I was.  Come to think of it, I have no idea what I was in high school.  One thing I know I was for sure in high school was fabulous, because…come on.  Duh.

Either way, I don’t think of myself as the super nerdy type, although I’m sure my AP schedule of classes in high school probably painted a different picture, as did the sweet mini van I drove.

I lovingly named that van Sniper.  He didn’t have cup holders or a working radio, but I loved him nonetheless, even when his window got stuck rolled down in the dead of winter.  Wait…I totally was a nerd.

Regardless of my nerd status in high school, I’ve come to the realization that I’m a total nerd now.  Yeah, I know, you’re shocked because I come off as so totally cool and awesome and you just can’t believe I’m a pocket protector, suspender wearing nerd.  (Obviously I think all nerds look exactly like Steve Urkel from Family Matters.)

Why am I a nerd?  I’m sure there are a variety of reasons, but the one I will admit to today is that I’ve been reading classic novels recently…on purpose…without being required to…for fun.

Yes, for fun.  I know.  Next I will be doing multiplication problems for the hell of it and reciting poetry for my Friday evening fun time.  (Don’t worry, vodka will still be involved.  There are some things about me that will never change.)

I’m not sure what prompted my desire to read classic novels.  I’ve always been a reader and don’t usually discriminate against many genres of books, although I refuse to read romance novels.

It’s not so much that I refuse to read them because they are poorly written and the story lines are pathetic, but more so because I wouldn’t be caught dead reading a book with a photo of Fabio on the cover.  (Wil Wheaton? Yes.  Fabio?  No.  A girl has standards.)

Whatever the reason, I’ve been inspired to start reading classic novels.  Okay, so maybe it’s not super nerdy, but I think it borderlines on “eats her own boogers” and “always smells like cheese” kind of nerdy.  (And by the way, one of those descriptions actually applies to me.)

I guess it’s not so much the reading of the classic novels that’s nerdy, it’s the second part of this activity that ensures my nerd status.  I actually go to Spark Notes on line and read the summaries to make sure I’m understanding all the themes of the book, the writer’s intentions, etc.

I KNOW!  I want to give myself a wedgie, throw my head in the toilet and flush myself away.

Seriously, what is wrong with me?  How sad is it that I want nothing more on a Friday night than to curl up with a classic novel, read a few chapters, and then look up the Spark Notes on line to make sure I caught each element of foreshadowing?

It’s not only sad, it’s embarrassing.  I’ve lost it.  I’ve lost my cool status.  I need to hang up my pom pons (yes, that’s really how you spell them), turn in my “Most Outgoing” award and resolve myself to the reality that I’m a big fat nerd.  (Literally, I’m big…I’m fat…and I’m a nerd.)

But come to think of it, I don’t really think being a nerd is half bad.  Aside from the influx of acne, the braces and the video game obsessions, nerds end up winning in the end most of the time.  Let’s face it, Steve Jobs and Bill Gates were most definitely nerds and look at where it got them.

If being a nerd gets me to a bank account half the size of either of those dorks, I will go buy the glasses with the white tape around the nose right now.  Well maybe I won’t, I need to get back to The Secret Garden

I always have issues with my contacts.  This should come as no surprise to those of you that either (1) read this blog or (2) have personally met me.

Come to think of it, I usually have issues with most things in my life, which is why this blog practically writes itself.   (If only this blog could respond to my emails and do my laundry…)

The time recently came for me to go to the eye doctor for my yearly exam. Believe me, I wasn’t keeping track of that in my planner.  (Who am I kidding?  I don’t have a planner.)  Nope.

I made the appointment for the eye doctor not so much because I’m diligent about my eye care, but because I was running out of contacts.  With the way they had been shredding in my eyes (and with the way I had swallowed a few of them), they were a precious resource and I knew I needed to stock up.

I made my appointment for Friday afternoon.  I figured if I was going to torture myself and allow someone to blow air in my eyeballs, I might as well do it on a Friday, when I knew a happy hour would follow.  (Yeah, like Friday is the only day I go to happy hour.  But for purposes of this story, play along.)

The doctor was different than my regular eye doctor and this guy had the personality of my left tit.  (In case you don’t know, my left tit isn’t particularly funny…or friendly.)  He (the doctor, not my left tit) put drops in my eyes and told me it wouldn’t hurt at all.  Um, isn’t that what Michael Jackson used to say to the kids in Neverland?  (Too soon?)

After he put the drops in my eyes I asked him if they were dialating drops.  He responded that they were.  What?!  I had a happy hour to go to.  How was I supposed to go anywhere with dilated eyes?  I was going to get pulled over for drinking and driving for sure with my pupils the size of grapefruits and there was no way a boob flash would get me out of a ticket this time.

He completed the exam and sent me out to the waiting room…or at least I think that’s where I went, as I couldn’t see anything.  Before I saw the doctor I told the assistants that I wanted a new pair of glasses.  I’ve had the same glasses for three years and figured it was time for a change.

So when I was shuffled back to the waiting area, I was immediately pounced on by two employees who undoubtedly made their money on commission. (Or at least I hope so.  If not, one of them was just really into me.)

Because I couldn’t see anything, I asked the assistants to pick out some glasses for me to try on and I would trust their judgement.  They walked around and picked out different frames as I sat there and hoped they were pulling frames from the female side of the wall.

They came back with several pairs and put each one on me separately.

“What do you think?” Thing 1 asked.

“Um, I can’t see anything,” I replied.  Who was this chick?  I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person who can’t see when her eyes are dilated.  Was it her first day on the job?

“Well,” said Thing 2, “We can take some pictures of you in the glasses on your phone so you can see yourself.”  She was obviously the brains of this operation.

“That would be great,” I replied, but I won’t be able to see them on my phone either.”  Didn’t these people realize that if I couldn’t see my face in the mirror straight ahead, I had no chance of seeing myself shrunken and pixelized?

“If you’re going to take photos of me in the glasses, can you text them to my husband?” I asked.  I knew this was the only way I was going to get anywhere with these brainiacs.

Naturally, they thought this was the greatest idea ever.  (Duh, of course it was.)  They then took my phone and took pictures of me in different frames.  I told them who to send them to and prayed they sent them to my husband and not my pharmacist (who is also on speed dial.  Don’t judge).

I sat back and waited for his response.  I heard my phone ding indicating I had a text, but since I couldn’t see, I had to have Thing 1 and Thing 2 read the texts back to me.

“Um,” Thing 2 said, “He responded.”

“What did he say?” I asked.  Did I seriously have to hold their hands through this process?

“Um,” she said awkwardly, “He said that you need to send different pictures because these look like prison photos.”

Seriously?!  You’ve never known embarrassment until you’ve heard a text message from your husband read to you while you sit with dilated eyes.  These girls clearly thought I had an abusive husband.

“Oh,” I said, trying to brush it off.  “I’m sure he’s kidding.” I said, trying to make light of the situation, and keep them from calling the abuse hot line once I stepped foot outside the door.

About that time I heard my phone ding again and Thing 2 once again read the sweet words from my dear husband.

“He said to take the pictures from further away because the close up ones are scary and he doesn’t want to puke up his lunch.”

Ah, such kind words from my soul mate.  We then took more pictures from further away and sent them to him.  He made a decision and I thought we were done with the whole embarrassing fiasco.

But then I heard the beep again.  Uh oh.  What in the world could he want?  “Get the third pair,” Thing 2 read out loud.  “But don’t spend a million dollars though.  Did you find a coupon?”

I’m not sure how to recover from something like that.  At that point I was pretty sure these girls just wanted me out of the store and away from the grasps of my clearly domineering husband.

I looked down at the price tag of the frames I had selected and looked for the price…and saw nothing.  Frick!  No wonder the doctor was adamant about dilating my eyes!  He knew I wouldn’t be able to read the prices on the glasses and he could gouge me on the frames like he gouged me in the exam.  What a marketing scheme!

Because I wanted to get out of the store with some semblance of my dignity, I said I would take them and gave Thing 1 my credit card…or at least I hope it was my credit card.  I have no idea.  I signed something and hurried out of the store, hoping not to run into anything or anyone I knew (although I wouldn’t recognize them if I did).

I am now waiting for my glasses to come in and I have no idea what the frames look like, how much they were, or if I’m even going to like them.  What I do know is that, at least according to my husband, I won’t look like a prisoner in them.  Oh, and I also need to find a new eye doctor.

Don't hug me!11

I’m not a super affectionate person.  I like my own space and prefer for you not to be in it.  This is not only because chances are good I’ve farted and at any given time I’m surrounded by a cloud of stench, but also because I don’t like people touching me.  (Unless it’s John Mayer.  Then my body is not only a wonderland for him, it’s an amusement park and there is NO wait.)

I guess I just don’t understand the convention of hugging. It makes no sense to me.  Why is walking up to someone and holding down their arms while holding their body close to yours a sign of affection?  To me, that’s a sign of false imprisonment and I know my rights.

Back off or spend the night in jail.  Seriously.  And I’m not above kneeing someone to get out of an embrace.  In my world, that’s self defense.

photo credit: Viewminder via photopin cc

photo credit: Viewminder via photopin cc

Don’t get me wrong, this dislike of affection has nothing to do with my childhood, although I’m sure Oprah and Dr. Phil would say otherwise.  (Aren’t they the authorities on all emotional issues?)

However, my lack of love of hugging isn’t the result of my younger years.  I had great parents and an awesome brother, so that definitely isn’t the reason I shy away from touching.  (I say that because chances are good they read this blog and I’d still like to get a trip to Europe for Christmas….HINT HINT.)

I’m not sure why I don’t like to hug, but I never have.  My mom used to think there was something wrong with me because I never wanted to hug hello or goodbye.

She also thought there was something wrong with me because I collected dog figurines, read the large print of Reader’s Digest and took a daily dose of Mylanta to keep me regular.

However, I think those are issues to be discussed another day, most likely with a licensed professional.

As long as I can remember, I’ve hated the social custom of hugging.  I’m completely uncomfortable when someone hugs me and I have no idea how to respond.

Those friends that know me well know just to say hello and throw out a fist pump.

What better way to show you care than a head nod and a “Sup?”  I don’t need your body shoved against mine to show me you missed me.  You can demonstrate that sentiment just fine with a note and a Starbucks gift card.

When someone hugs me I usually stand there frozen, unsure of how to react.  Should I hug back?  Should I just stand perfectly still so the hugger knows how awkward it is?  Should I fake a coughing spell and pull away quickly?

I feel like none of these options are correct, and I’m not sure how I handle these situations.  I honestly don’t know what I do, probably because the whole duration of the hug I’m thinking about how much I hate hugging.

Don’t judge me for this clipart. I just
discovered Paint and have no idea
how to use it. I’m a blogger,
not an artist. Deal.

Believe me, I’ve tried to analyze this from every angle, and I’ve pondered many questions about this issue.  Is there a deeper rooted problem?  Do I have walls I need to break down?  Is there a place that still sells Icees?

Seriously, is there?  I have a serious craving and I’m hoping they’re still 79 cents.  I’ve got a coin purse full of pennies and a craving for sugar water.

I realize I’m in the minority, as most people seem to like to embrace.  I know I’m in trouble when someone looks at me, opens their arms and says “Sorry, but I’m a hugger.”  Um, why is this okay?  How is apologizing for something and then immediately doing it completely acceptable?

photo credit: 427 via photopin cc

This picture perfectly encapsulates how I fell when someone hugs me. These dogs get me.
photo credit: 427 via photopin cc

If that was allowed, every time I saw a kid wearing those roller skating shoes I would apologize and then immediately punch them in the face.

Really?  You can’t walk to the restroom?  You have to roll there? You’re an ass.

In some instances, these “huggers” seem to think their need to hug everyone is an adorable attribute that everyone loves…like dimples…or the incontinent neighbor who smells like cat pee.

However, I don’t think it’s cute nor do I think it’s socially acceptable.

The next time someone says “Sorry, I’m a hugger,” I’m going to respond with “I understand.  But sorry, I’m a dick grabber.  Beware.”

So the next time you see me, please resist the urge to run up to me and physically assault me with a hug.

I’m not sure how I will respond, but I can assure you that a genital grab might not be out of the realm of possibilities.

For all you guys out there, I suggest you wear a cup.