Reflections On A Middle-Aged Fat Woman (6 page)

The man finally reaches the counter after one lunch break, and two smoke breaks, and asks the lady about applying for a permit. She pulls out the forms and said that the fee was going to be $500. He scratches his head and thought that that sounded like a lot of money. "Ma'am, why does it cost so much to get a permit to let off fireworks?" he asked.

"Let off fireworks," she said. “That’s illegal here!"

The man scratched his head once again and then asked, "What are all of these people here for?"

"Sir, this is the tag office," she said.

The man, quite confused by this time, looks up and asks, "Where does the city get its permit to let off fireworks for the community each year?"

The lady, quite at a loss for words looks up and says, "Wait right here, I'm gonna go get my supervisor."

Enjoy your 4th of July wherever you are and remember this: Let the professionals shoot off the fireworks, because they have a permit. Just don't ask to see it.

Rescued By Upper Management — July 2, 2008

After being gone on vacation for ten days, I decided I would have to make a trek to the local grocery store to replenish my deleted food supply. I stepped into the pantry, which is not a good thing. First, it's under the stairs and is not very big. Second, if I am stepping into it, it means that I have recently cleaned it, (highly unlikely) or I have completely exhausted all of my edible reserves. Actually, this not such a bad thing. I only need to make one entry on my list which is "everything.” (Saved some time there.)

I have three weeks of Sunday paper coupons that I haven't been through and I need to clean out my expired coupons from the coupon caddy. (Which is really just an old stained envelope.) This takes me about two hours to do and to get myself together. So with my coupons and list clasped firmly within my grasp, I stride confidently out the door.

As I pulled into the parking lot, the first thing that I noticed was that the lot was fairly empty. I pulled into a space four places from the end near the cart return area. I could have had an end spot but I like to be near the cart return thingy.

I walked inside, got my cart, and the first thing I noticed was a bunch of suits purveying the scene. I guess there must have been at least ten of them checking out the place. As I started up and down the aisles, dodging a mother with three screaming kids, I noticed that the suits seemed to be following me.

At this, I did a self-assessment. I didn't have any toilet paper stuck to me. My fly wasn't open. I didn't have a booger swinging. I didn't know what the deal was but they were beginning to make me nervous.

I reached the end of my list and was disappointed because I had forgotten my pencil; I had wanted to mark off "everything" on my list. I rounded the last corner and there they stood. It was suits of varying styles and levels and all had the word Vice President in their name tag. And they only had one purpose in mind: Me!

What happened next was truly quite remarkable. They wanted to know if they could use me in a demonstration of how to properly check out a customer. (Sure!) They swept me over to my favorite aisle and began throwing questions at me. Do you have your valued customer card? (Uh!) Do you have any coupons? (Uh!) What made you decide to shop with us today? (Five 12 packs of Diet Coke for 11 bucks. I knew the answer to that one.)

The suits unloaded my cart, offered me a chair, brought me a latte and proceeded to bag my groceries properly. Cold went with the cold. Bread and eggs go on last and didn't try to stuff my entire order into three small bags. After this feat was accomplished, the biggest suit told the workers nearby that that was how to properly check out a customer.

I walked out to the car still not quite sure what had just happened and looked at my receipt. I spent over $248 on my groceries. (OMG!) As I was loading my groceries into the car I noticed several of the suits coming outside loosening their ties. I was excited to have been a part of their demonstration until I heard one say to the other, "I think this new policy is going to work. We keep the customer distracted so they can't look at what they have spent until they get out to the car."

Head Colds — January 13, 2010

Sniffling.

Sneezing.

Congestion.

When all three of these occur at the same time it usually portends the arrival of one of my least favorite things: a head cold.

There are two key contributing factors that make me miserable when I have a head cold:

1. Runny nose — I hate blowing my nose. Always have, always will. Mom used to say that she had to chase me around the house when I was a kid, hold me down, kicking and screaming the whole time while she repeatedly yelled "BLOW!”

If I could get away with it I wouldn't mind doing what I've seen a lot of old men do and that is to hold a finger to one side of the nostril and blow as hard as they can out the other side. A shooting stream of snot, usually yellowish-green in color, will be expelled just like that. Gross, I know, but it sure beats using a rumpled up tissue that you've already used a gazillion times and is covered with dry snot. Now, that's gross! (If you do use old tissues please throw them away at some point. Nobody, and I mean nobody, likes to pick up used snot rags.)

2. Being congested — When your nose is so clogged up you are forced to breathe totally through your mouth and end up with a severe case of cotton mouth. Or, my personal favorite, that wet spot left on your pillow when you have drooled out the side of your mouth all night.

Another thing about being congested is tat it can ‘ake cumbunication biffidult. B's become D's and P's become V's and so forth and so on. Trying to have a conversation with someone is nearly impossible. The following conversation took place when I tried to make a doctor’s appointment to get some relief from my current head cold:

Voice: “Thank you for calling Medical Associates, for the appointment desk, please press one.”

Bleep!

Another voice: “Appointment desk, may I help you?”

Me: ”'ello, I meed to nake a bointment flease.”

Voice: “I'm sorry, can you please repeat that?”

Me: “I need to make an abbointment. I gotta ‘ead colb.”

Voice: “Oh, it sounds like you have a head cold. What's your name and which doctor do you need to see?”

Me: “I meed to see Br. Ricci and my last mame is Valmer.”

Voice: “I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name.

Me: "Balmer!”

Voice: “Let me look that up. I'm sorry, did you say Dalmer?”

Me: “No! I'm not a serial killer. Falmer.”

Voice: “I'm terribly sorry. Could you spell it for me?

Me: “V-A-L-M-E-R, Valmer!”

Voice: “I'm sorry. I'm not finding anything for V-a-l-m-e-r. Are you a new patient?”

Me: “No, 'old on a second.” And with that I put one finger to the side of my nose and blew as hard as I could. "It's Palmer," I said. "P-a-l-m-e-r"

Skunky Valentines — February 14, 2010

I was looking through Valentine's Day cards the other day trying to find just the perfect ones to give to family and friends when I became totally disgusted at how expensive they were—five bucks for a card—I don't think so. Anyhow, being the somewhat intelligent and extremely clever person that I am, I remembered getting valentines when I was in school for everyone in my class and they all came in one box.

Voila!

What a great idea! They each came with their own envelope and were generally large enough to be sent through the mail. The sayings might be seen as childish, but others might think they were cute and I could always insert a heartfelt hand-written note inside. Plus, there were usually thirty cards in a box and they came relatively cheap. It sounded like a good idea...

...but?

...but?

I didn't know it would be so damn hard to find a box of ordinary old-timey valentines. Geesh! Here I was at Wallyworld and the only thing I could find was Hannah Montana, Jonas Brothers and iCarly, and they weren't even regular valentines; they were stickers and activity sets. No, thanks! You can keep them!

I left there and went to another store, then another and finally ended up at Dollar General, where I struck gold, or so I thought. They had boxes of valentines but the cards didn't come with any envelopes. Crap! I reached further down into the display where the cards were and I pulled out the very last box of valentines and it had envelops. I was excited that something had finally gone my way, made my purchase and tore into the box of valentines as soon as I got into the car. It wasn't too long before my excitement began to fade as I realized that all of the cards had the same picture on them: a skunk.

Have you ever received a skunky valentine?

If I remember correctly, the skunk valentine was given to someone that you didn't like and for some reason I received quite a few. What does that mean?

Do my family and friends really want to receive a Valentine's Day card that says "I love you...and...You’re a stinker too?"

Happy Valentine's Day!

...Stinky!

New Signs Of The Apocalypse — February 19, 2010

Sports Illustrated
publishes a weekly feature entitled “Signs of the Apocalypse” where unusual happenings in the sports world will merit a one or two sentence mention on topics ranging from hoodwinked hoodlums in Ireland to men's figure skaters bitch-slapping a NFL lineman because his parking place got taken.

This morning when I turned on the television to catch up on the news from overnight every channel I turned to was showing breaking news: Tiger to break his silence. Watch the LIVE broadcast in just a few minutes.

Every damn channel.

Do we really care that much that the all-time greatest golfer in the world couldn't keep his putter in his pants?

The pundits and talking heads across all the networks were all in a dither as to whether his wife,

Elin would be there to stand beside him.

Did Tiger have plastic surgery to repair the damage caused by the nine-iron that she had allegedly went upside his head with on Thanksgiving night?

OOOOOhhhhh, I'm just shivering and shaking with anticipation as to what he is going to say. Is he going to admit to all of the affairs? Is he going to give details? Are they staying together or getting a divorce? Is he coming back to play golf at the Master's Tournament in April?

Is he really a sex addict? Is that even a real condition? Will his sponsors believe him? Will they be happy with what he says? What does his mom think about all of this? What would his dad say? Will this situation help him to become a better man? Will he gain a new respect for the game of golf and its fabled history?

All of those questions and many more are what warranted this extensive news coverage. Are you kidding me?

I'll ask again. Are you kidding me? I can understand the sports networks covering this, but CNN, HLN, the Fox Business Channel; I thought I even heard QVC throw a shout out about it.

Aren't there starving people somewhere we need to know about? Aren't the people in Haiti living in tent cities? Aren't we fighting a war on two fronts? Weren't we having a health-care debate, recently? Aren’t there way too many natural disasters occurring these days? Do you wonder if Congress will ever get anything accomplished?

Wait! You had almost forgotten about those other issues, hadn't you?

Almost.

For me, all it took was a thirty second flip through the channels to bring my reality back into focus. And my focus isn't on Tiger. Is yours?

Sharing A Tailgate — March 19, 2010

Since spring is finally here, and with it, the advent of warmer temperatures and the unofficial beginning of yard sale season, it was no surprise that I decided to celebrate the Fred Sanford in me by participating in my first flea market of the year. I have junk, I love junk and I like to sell junk.

Normally, I like to have a yard sale at my house, but during one of my recent undercover assignments (mystery shopping) I discovered a flea market, where, for a small table fee you can bring your own stuff to sell. I immediately liked the idea of this—no hauling and setting up of the tables from the basement to the front yard which can really be quite a task for one person. I also didn't have to worry about the amount of junk I wanted to sell—whatever fit in the Mustang was what was going to the flea market with me.

I had done everything the night before except pack a lunch to take with me. I did that early the next morning and I was out the door by 7:30 a.m. Now, depending on where you are from, 7:30 a.m. can be early, right on time, or why bother going. I almost fit into the why bother going category because when I pulled into the parking lot 45 minutes later the place was packed. I was beginning to panic because I had driven almost around the dealer area and there wasn't a table to be had.

I found a spot in the very back row between a guy that makes signs and license plates for folks (Jim Bob loves Sue Ellen) and a group of people that had about five or six tables filled with everything but the kitchen sink. (They did have a blue bathroom sink that they were trying to sell.)

I spent a half-hour frantically setting up my table, moving things here and there, doing my best to get everything set up just right. It was close to 9:00 a.m. before I started to calm down and sent Mom a text telling her that I had almost blown it by hitting the snooze button one too many times.

Not long after, I made my first sale of the day (a box of books for five bucks) and started to notice the dealers around me. It wasn't hard to notice the guy selling license plates because his equipment was hooked up to a generator that ran the entire time he was there.

(HUH?) (WHADDYA SAY?) (NO, I DON'T NEED A LICENSE PLATE now, maybe later.) (The generator ran out of gas as I was making that last statement.)

The group on the right of me consisted of three women and a Hispanic male and took turns conversing in English and Spanish. It turned out that they were grandmother, mother, daughter and son-in-law and they had been flea marketing for years.