Scooby Snacks

The things I say (oy!)...........

RE: my buttocks:
Scooby: "If my butt gets any bigger, somebody's gonna put a flag in it and claim a new continent."


RE: Terry Schiavo:
Former Roommate: "She was bulemic. She probably doesn't want to be fed anyway."

Scooby: "If you say anything like that again, the next thing you'll see is me coming at you from across this table like Luke Duke on the General Lee."

The Memory-Go-Round

Something small like a smell or a sound can trigger a memory. An old, familiar song can remind you of something you thought was long forgotten.

We've all been on the memory-go-round at one time or another. Some of us may still be riding....spinning endlessly around and around. Sometimes the memory-go-round never stops so that you can step off safely. Sometimes it spins so fast that you feel like you might vomit. Sometimes you lose your grip and get thrown off.

You might land on a soft spot of sand and get right back on to ride some more. Sometimes you get the wind knocked out of you and have to take a break. Other times, you bleed.

If you're lucky, a playmate might give you a hand up, dust you off and make sure you're okay. You're playmate could be the one and only playmate you've had for the last 10 years. He might be the one you've run to for 17 years whenever you've been hurt. He might be the playmate that knows your heart and soul and wants to keep playing with you anyway. Or, he might be the one who sees that the memory-go-round isn't safe for you to ride on anymore and takes you to the slide or the swing set instead.

Riding the memory-go-round can be fun but you should never stay on for too long. Sometimes you just have to close your eyes, reach out for your playmate, and JUMP. If he's right, he'll be there to catch you. Mine was.

Sucking a Bullet from a Gun

The following are the things that have made me consider dropping a live appliance into my bath water:

1. The "homeless" vet who was standing by the highway again today holding his cardboard sign saying that he needs money to get to Montana. Go west, oldish man.
2. The 'mone rage that's begun because I start perioding next week.
3. The anxiety of weighing in this afternoon at Weight Watchers and the expected disappointment when they tell me that I've gained a couple.
4. Hearing Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" over and over in my head because my ass has exploded for about 10 hours straight. Thank you, Correctol.
5. The spawn of Satan (a.k.a. my new cat) who is retarded and mean and who woke me up at 3:03 a.m. this morning by jumping on my head and biting me.
6. The sore and inflamed 'gina I have due to a yeast infection incurred as a result of excessive amounts of antibiotics.
7. The sun ISN'T supposed to come out tomorrow.

Bright spot in the day: even if tomorrow is cloudy, it'll still be Friday and I'll be heading off to spend the weekend with KC.

The Saddest Little Vet

Signs, signs, everywhere there's signs. The one that sticks out in my mind today happened to be cardboard and was being held by a little man claiming to be a homeless 83-year old veteran (or was it veterinarian?) needing money to get home to his family. Call me crazy, call me a skeptic, but something strikes me as odd here. Several things actually. The man does not appear to be homeless. I know this because I see the homeless every day downtown near where I work. He doesn't look a day over 60. Sure, he had a gray goatee....that was nicely shaped, of even length, and the rest of his face was cleanly shaven and far from being 83 years worth of wrinkley. His coat was clean and in good shape. Likewise with the rest of his clothing that could be seen. He had no bags or backpacks on or around him and frankly he did not appear to be destitute whatsoever.

Even so, I did find it in my shriveled and pathetic heart to feel sad for the little man. Not sad enough to give him any money, of course. Obviously he was in some dire need for money or he wouldn't be standing on the corner at a stoplight holding a cardboard sign. If his family was so dang-ol' important to him he could call them collect and have them Western Union him some money to the closest grocery store and he could buy a one-way ticket to paradise.

There's usually always an alternative to begging. Unless you're begging for ice cream. I'm SO not too good enough to beg for THAT. If those crazy Taliban could just accept that we live differently from them and just TRY a little Marble Slab or Coldstone.....I just know that the middle-eastern woes of the world could be cured.

Playing Nascar

I spend all day at work trying incredibly hard to please people and to make them happy. People call me with all their problems and I'm the one they expect to make it all go away. This can be a little frustrating some days. Each day there's something and someone new calling in "needing" something from me. If you're one of my friends who just happens to be on the same stretch of highway at the same time as me, and if you also happen to be on the cell phone with me at the same time as when I'm completely fucking with another driver....then you've heard the simple pleasure and joy in my voice as I screw someone over purposely.

It's not just random people that I feel the need to fuck with. If you're being fucked with, you're one of "the chosen." You've done something to piss me off. Either you've fucked with me on the road thinking I'm some wimpy woman driver who will back down or you've fucked with some other unsuspecting driver who IS wimpy and WILL back down.

Let me tell you a story about my ride home today. I'm driving on the interstate going at least 5-10 miles over the speed limit. I notice a maroon Explorer riding my ass like he's driving himself to the Emergency Room. He gets into another lane to pass me at the speed of light only to slam on his brakes when he realizes he needs to be in the exit lane I'm in. So, he proceeds to wedge his ugly Explorer ass 4 inches in front of my front bumper to get between me and the car in front of me. Right then, I get a cell phone call from a friend....let's call her MBFLIK. Okay, how about just "my friend Flik."

I pick up the phone just in time for Flik to hear me scream, "Okay buddy! Get ready for some SUV to be rammed up your Explorer ass!" Flik immediately starts laughing. She recognizes that I've been crossed. I proceed to tailgate the Explorer just as he did me. A little taste of his own medicine, don't you see? As we merge onto the 4-lane highway, I then pass HIM at the speed of light and trap him behind me as I slow down to keep pace with the old guy in the grandpa car next to me going 5 miles under the speed limit. My friend Flik is still on the phone with me and happens to be merging onto the same highway I'm already driving on at nearly the same moment as I'm driving by. I give Mr. Explorer a small reprieve and speed up.....but only so that I might catch up with Flik. I'm giving her play-by-plays on the phone as we drive. By this time, there's a Dodge truck who cut in behind me between me and the Explorer. I'm not sure how that happened, but I'm choosing to think that the truck cut off the Explorer to get behind me. That gives me some small satisfaction.

I catch up to Flik, pass her and then move into her lane so that the truck can pass me. No need to punish the innocent, really. Then I quickly change lanes again to get in front of the Explorer so that I can slow down and keep pace with my friend Flik. We're laughing hysterically as she describes the incensed expression on Mr. Explorer's face. I purposely drive 5 miles out of my way just to fuck with that little bastard a little longer.

And so, as warning to you all....don't drive stupid out there. There may be someone willing to drive more stupid than you. She just might think that she can outshow, outrace and outhink you....because she watches Nascar. And she's right. Now let's be safe out there.

Dentiquette

I went to the dentist today for my regular 6-month cleaning. Why is it that I forget every time that I HATE having my teeth cleaned? Everyone is always so nice when you walk into the lovely office that is decorated ever so tastefully. Comfort surrounds you as you sink into a soft, plush loveseat to wait pleasantly and peacefully until your name is called. Ever so gently and sweetly they call your name and take you back to the leather chair with the wonderful little headrest. I always think that I'll be able to just lean my head back and take a little nap while they get their silly little cleaning out of the way.

And THEN, the serious business of attacking your teeth and gums from all angles with razor sharp little ice picks begins. Pick, poke, prod. Scrape, scratch.....screw you, you crazy hygienic bitch!!! Not the floss! Not the floss! Don't you see that's why my retainer is called PERMANENT? It can't be removed! Can't you even TRY to be gentle? Is it really necessary to MAKE ME BLEED in order to clean my teeth? Can't you see that my brow is furrowed, my toes are curled, my butt cheeks are clenched and my hands are balled into fists? Can you READ this body language?

And please, for the love of God, stop asking me questions about the weather and my job. You don't really care about the answers and frankly I'm concerned that you're delaying your own progress with idle chit chat. Get in and get out and shut the hell up in between. How exactly do you expect me to answer you when my mouth is wide open like a carp?

These could be the very reasons that rednecks, hillbillies, hicks and bubbas HAVE NO TEETH. Maybe all y'all ain't sa stoopid after'n all.

Big Bottomed Girls

Plans have been made for KC to come spend the weekend with me again. I asked him to call me just before he left so that I'd know approximately when he'd be here. He's from another city, so the drive can be lengthy. The phone rings just a few minutes ago.

Scooby: "Hello?" (I already know it's him...the glories of caller ID)

KC: "Hey. Just calling to tell you that I'm getting ready to leave."

Scooby: "Okay. Good. Drive safely."

KC: "Can you hear the song I'm playing?"

Scooby: (listens) "For the love of God....is that 'Big Bottomed Girls?'"

KC: (belly laughing) "Yeh....he.....es. Except it's 'Fat Bottomed Girls'. I'm playing the song for you. The song reminds me of you."

Scooby: "You're an asshole."

KC: "Oh honey, you know I love your ass or I wouldn't mess with it so much."

Huh? And this is supposed to make me feel better? MEN. The Y chromosome strikes again.

When a Woman Needs a Man.....Dammit

I had company staying at my apt most of last weekend. Male company, that is. We'll refer to him as KC. For those of you keeping up, you'll now know that I had two male fish on my line at the same time.

Any woman knows that when you're having a man stay with you, you need to either A) schedule your pooping appropriately (such as finding an appropriate public pooping area where no one will recognize you or your smell) or; B) wait to poop until the male has gone. There may be more options, but I chose plan B. As soon as KC left the area on Sunday afternoon/evening....I headed to the loo to do the doodoo. How many times have you plugged the loo with your own doodoo? It's a rarity for me, quite honestly. But in recent months my butt has gotten bigger, so perhaps the poop chute follows in suit. Leave it to me though, to NOT have a plunger. What self-respecting single woman really wants to go out and purchase one of THOSE?? Fortunately for me, I have another full bathroom in my apt. I figured I'd wait it out. See who's more subborn....me or my poop. Poop has to disolve over time, right??? These are rational thoughts.

Time flies and I'm still using the second bathroom and am occasionally flushing my main toilie just to check to see if the poop has disolved. By Thursday there is still no progress. Shit. Literally. How can this be? Does poop NOT disolve? If not, where does it go and what does it doodoo once it's gone from sight? What's a girl to doo? The solution is to A) take the plunge and buy a plunger, or; B) call apt maintenance. Which option is less humiliating? And where in the hell do you go to buy a toilet plunger? Surely they're not hard to come by. These are the times when a single, independent, allegedly self-sufficient woman WISHES SHE HAD A MAN. She wishes she were in a relationship that had been established long enough that plugging the loo would be funny and not something to use against her in a breakup. Men don't mind buying these things. Men look at each other with pride when they see each other carrying plungers around. They think to themselves, "Wow! That manly-man must have really laid some pipe!"

And so, the singleton search for the plunger is on. I checked the grocery store when I picked up my prescriptions. Looked by the bathroom items, looked by the brooms and cleaning items....no luck. Great. Now I have to head somewhere else after being told by Satan at the Grocery Store that I looked like shit. (is there a theme here?) So I head to Super Target. Surely Super Target has one. They have everything. They're the equivalent of Super WalMart but without the cluster fuck that only just BEGINS in the parking lot. As I wander Target avoiding any customer service people who may have been tempted to ask, "Can I help you find something," I head to the "manly" areas of the store. I go through automotive, tools, lighting, etc. No luck. Maybe it was somewhere else, maybe not. This was when I realized that Target is really marketed towards women and women with children. The "manly" sections in Target left a whole lot to be desired. This explains why you rarely see men shopping alone at Target. Really, if Target were listening, they'd take note of the fact that they're excluding an entire toilet plunging shopping base and would beef things up. I left with my poopy thoughts and still private humiliation.

As I left, I prayed to God: "Okay, God. You know I'm in a sitch right now. I'm going to the WalMart. You know the one, the HATED WalMart. But only because I'm desperate. Please, please, PLEASE DO NOT MAKE ME GO TO HOME DEPOT. They'll know I don't belong there. I look bad today, but I don't look like a lesbian construction worker. My manicure will give me away and they'll laugh at me and throw me out. If you do this, I promise I'll go to church on Easter Sunday. Best Regards, Scooby."

I now felt that God was on board with me and my mission. I bravely enter the hated WalMart and was of course, greeted at the door by the geri in blue. How sweet.

Scooby: "No, I don't need a basket. I'm just buying one thing."

Geri: "Are you sure? You can take one just in case. "

Scooby: "Thank you, no. I'll be okay."

As I walk away, I'm secretly amused thinking about putting a toilet plunger in a basket and driving that damn thing all through the store, up to the counter, and brazenly putting it at the very end of the roller-counter-thingie so that it could proudly ride up to the check-out clerk. Oh, to have those balls.

God was with me in the WalMart (a.k.a. the "WalMarts" if you're of a certain heritage south of our border) and I found the toilet plunger.....WITH THE PIPE. Good Lord, they make this hard for a woman.

Do you know how far they've come with toilet plungers? We're not just limited to toilet plungers on a wooden stick. Not just the choice between an orange or black plunger attachment. We now have plungers that shrink to fit under shelves in counters. I LOVE that idea. And I'd love to hide my shame under a counter. But, being the borderline OCD that I am, I have to think about the germie ring that the plunger would leave under the counter IF EVER (God, let's hope not) it has to be used again. Eureka! Now they have a plunger that has it's own little suitcase. You put the plunger in the suitcase, do a little twist, and the suitcase lid closes. Plunger hidden. Except for an obnoxious handle sticking out of the top. This is MUCH more suited for my OCD purposes and somehow, in my mind, a plunger in disguise is no plunger at all.

Are You The Woman That Forgot Her Brain?

So I was at the grocery store this afternoon picking up a couple of prescriptions. I'm innocently, quiety and patiently waiting in line at the "pick-up" counter.

Enter Mystery Grocery Store Employee: "Are you the woman that just had surgery?"

Scooby: (long pause) "Um, no."

Employee: "Oh, because you look like the woman that just had surgery." (she giggles and walks away)

Scooby: (long pause) "GREAT."

Another shopper then looks at me and giggles too. I choose to believe it was the "I can't believe she just said that" giggle, and not the "Oh my God, you DO look like the woman that just had surgery" giggle.

It was a fucking good thing Miss Overly Friendly Grocery Store Employee left when she did. ILL PEOPLE stand in line at the pharmacy. ILL PEOPLE who are anxious for drugs that will make them feel better. ILL PEOPLE who would not give a second thought to coughing and spewing infectious green phlegm on mystery grocery store employees who make them realize that not only do they feel bad, THEY LOOK BAD TOO. Bitch.