Pear Shaped

Every day the husband asks me if I'm going to write and every day I give him the same answer.

I don't know.

I just haven't felt like myself lately. To be honest, it kinda feels like being stuck in a bowl of jello. Everything's a little wobbly and nothing feels right.

I worry that it will never feel right.

People keep telling me that it gets easier and over time it hurts just a little bit less but I want to make someone put it in writing....give me a date...something to work towards. I want to know WHEN the hurt will go away.

You know, I'm fairly certain that when my Dad died, my heart died with him. But then I think...if I don't have a heart anymore...then how come I hurt so much?

One of life's great mysteries I guess.

Sigh. This is why I haven't written. I don't want to be known as the person responsible for depressing the whole Blogdom. Sorry guys.

Stranger Danger

I think I must have one of those faces. The kind that says, “I’m open to being approached by oddballs, weirdos and lunatics. Send me your worst.”

Of course leave it to the Universal Powers That Be to make this the one time they actually decide listen. Typical.

I’m fairly certain that you could drop someone who…(well let’s just say they may not be the brightest light on the tree) into a crowded sea of people and they would inevitably suction cup themselves to me.

It’s the face. I’m telling you.

My insides shriek, “Stranger danger!”

My face says, “Welcome.”

It’s a pretty poor combination, I must admit.

Last week I stopped by the store for some girlie things and as I made my way to the front of the line I was greeted with a smile and a “How are you this morning?”

“Fine thank you.”

As I dug in my purse for my debit card, the cashier says, “Girl…you can’t tell me you fine. I see what you’re buying.” With a knowing look she nods towards my girlie things. “There ain’t nothin about you today that‘s fine…believe you me. I can tell already, you gonna have one of them days.”

I glanced uncomfortably at the line of people behind me and thought to myself, well if my face is going to let me down, maybe I need to at least start practicing the angry eyes. That could be promising….

Shrinking Conspiracy

I think my clothes have shrunk.

Being that it‘s been colder than a well digger‘s butt lately, I finally got around to hauling my winter clothes from the depths of the closet and spent the whole morning getting everything washed and sorted when a curious thing happened.

Nothing fit.

Hmm...the Shrink Fairy must have visited my closet. That or that sneaky little washer has been shrinking my clothes again. It happens from time to time. I think it has some sort of vendetta against me. A missing sock here, a shirt shrunk there…I’m onto it now.

It’s just a shame that my entire wardrobe had to fall victim to wicked fairies and a washing machine with a grudge. I mean, obviously it’s just a stroke of rotten luck…it’s not like I put on a few pounds or anything. That would just be silly.

Although….I haven’t exactly weighed myself in awhile. But that’s mostly because scales are vile, evil devices. I had the misfortune to run across one at a doctor’s office that actually talked.

In FRONT of people!

Completely unaware that I was about to visit hell, I stepped onto the scale and promptly fell off with a start when it began shouting my weight to everyone within earshot. Yeah….I don’t go there anymore.

At any rate, it’s too cold to walk around naked so I guess a shopping trip is in order. Maybe I’ll even pick up a scale while I’m at it. I hear the fairies are scared of scales…

Out of Order

I’ve decided that I need to get a car that runs on alternative fuel. Selfishly, this revelation has not come from environmental awareness but from a strong personal desire to avoid the universal powers that be.

As I was pumping gas into my car, I caught sight of a man walking purposefully towards me. I turned my gaze back to the screen and squeezed the pump handle harder, silently willing it to pour faster as I muttered, “Please don’t come over here, PLEASE don’t come over here.”

He came over there.

He smiled warmly and said, “Could I give you something to take home and read?” I glanced down at the booklet in his hand and broke out into a relieved grin as I realized he was not intending to preach or lecture me as is most common in these situations. So yes, gladly I accepted the booklet and bid him farewell.

It wasn’t until I looked more closely at the glossy cover that my smile quickly faded away. There, amidst a vast amount of nothingness was a lone figure followed by the title, “Lonliness…How You Can Cope.”

Wait a minute.

I glanced up to see if the people nearby were being offered the same paper but to my dismay, the little messenger had returned to his car and pulled away. Upon second thought I realized he hadn’t approached any of the others before me either. So what....do I have a big “Out of Order” sign emblazoned over my head? Or maybe it says, “Maintenance Required.”

If I were still single, this would have been one of those cosmic signs that would make me want to go home and slit my wrists. There are those who choose to assume that if you’re single, you are inherently miserable and lonesome. God forbid you are single and fabulous! (I’m a recently reformed spinster…can you tell I’m still bitter? Lol.)

But this brings us back to the matter at hand. Apparently I’m lonely and need guidance on how to cope…which is funny because I didn’t know I was lonely. I wish someone would have clued me in sooner because really, I’ve been playing the bit quite poorly. Jetting away every weekend for fun and adventures with family and friends and waking up next to an awesome guy every morning. How careless of me. I’ll do better tomorrow.

Peeking Over the Hill

We’ve established that I work in an office but for the sake of this story, it should be noted that most of the girls I work with are in their early to mid-twenties, so at 33 I am the oldest of the bunch.

That being said, we’ve got this young guy whose had to frequent our office on a pretty regular basis here recently and he’s notorious for killing time by leaning across the counter and flirting with the receptionists. On the days he calls instead of coming in, he lays on the ‘charm’ by referring to the girls not by their names but as, “Sweetie…Honey…Darlin.”

Be still my heart.

My sister was the lucky duck who took his call the other day and I giggled as she rolled her eyes and pretended to gag. Come to think of it, at one point I think she did actually look a little green but in an act of true professionalism, she persevered and dutifully jotted down his message before passing it off to me to deal with.

When I called him back a short time later, I braced myself for the barrage of idiot pet names that he normally subjects the girls to. But as I finished up my little schpeel, do you know what he had the audacity to say to me? “Thank you…ma‘am.”

Ma‘am?? MA’AM!!!!!

That was the moment it hit me.

Oh my God….I’m OLD!!

I’m the girl they call ma’am!

When did this happen? Someone should have given me some warning! It’s not as if on your birthday you’re issued a new driver’s license labeled, “Over the Hill“ instead of “Under 21.” I mean, sure I may go to bed a little bit earlier than I used to and maybe my ass is just a wee bit wider that it once was…but so what.

When I got home I threw myself face first onto the couch next to my husband and whimpered, “There’s a young guy that flirts with all the girls in the office except me. ME he calls ma’am!”

My husband laughed and rubbed my back. “Aw, Darlin…That’s just because he isn’t old enough to know what a real woman is. It’s the difference between a boy and a man. Let him have his fun with the little girls, I’ll take you over them any day.”

Have I mentioned that my husband is pretty awesome? With that kind of sweet talk, peeking over the hill doesn't seem that bad at all.

The Devil Wears Brown

I work for a company that gets daily UPS deliveries. And by a stroke of luck, it just so happens that my office is where the boys in brown choose to plop their packages before literally sticking their little signature pad in my face without regard to whatever else I may be doing. God forbid I’m on the phone or in the middle of writing something because then comes the dramatically loud sigh or the vigorous clearing of a throat…plainly signaling me drop whatever I’m doing at all costs so that they may have my undivided attention.

Some days I’m tempted to offer them a lozenge from the depths of my desk. Of course I’d have to pry it from the bottom of the drawer but surely it’s still good. It’s only been there since last Christmas…or was it the winter before that?

No matter.

Pluck off that bit of lint and they’ll be none the wiser.

If they choke on it…even better.

Nevertheless, most of the time I do stop to sign the proffered tablet just so I can rid myself of them. Though between you and me, I’m not even sure why I bother. Before I’ve even gotten past the first three letters of my name, their hands are already snaking towards the tablet, fingers visibly trembling with the desire to snatch the thing right out of my hands.

The pressure to write faster than I can blink has become so great that I’ve taken to sneaking from my office when I realize they’ve entered the building. On the days when my warnings come a bit late, it’s admittedly less like sneaking and more like hurling myself out the door. Though of course not every escape attempt is a successful one. I once ran face first into the UPS man’s chest, nearly knocking us both over. Imagine my disappointment when instead of reaching out a hand to steady me, he handed me the tablet.

Always the gentleman.

Personally, I think they take great fun in watching me scribble my signature with tortuous speed. Maybe if I sign as, “Asshole” next time they’ll get the picture.

Toot Toot For the Home Team

Alas, baseball season is nearly over.

Evenings spent drinking beer, eating peanuts and cheering and cursing at the field have always been a favorite pastime of the husband and myself. I’m even keen on a lively round of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” though halfway through I always find myself lamenting over that I did in fact, forget to buy cracker jacks.

This generally results in a silent, doe eyed plea cast in the hubby’s direction until he heaves a heavy sigh and makes for the concession stand, appeasing his wife and helping himself to a beer for his troubles. It’s win-win, see.

Now, I’m a firm believer in supporting your home team. Paint your faces, wear your jerseys, wave your giant foam fingers until your arm hurts! But…exercise caution if you are a fan in enemy territory. Many a rowdy, brash, drivel for brains rival fans have passed through the gates at Turner Field. The ones that made it out, left with a healthy appreciation for the passion and depth of home town loyalty.

Now, I say this with the utmost innocence. After all, what would a sweet, southern girl such as myself know about devious behavior? I’m as pure as the new fallen snow.

…Until you are a Philly’s fan standing behind me for the better part of an hour, cheering far too loud and far too long for any call that went against my Braves. Then a lady may just have to forget that she is a lady and come to her team’s defense the best way she knows how.

By letting rip a toot-aimed right at the Philly loving little bastards.

Manners be damned!

These are desperate times and call for desperate measures.

The heat that flooded my face after the assault wasn’t me having the grace to feel abashed…it was pride. Pure, unadulterated satisfaction washed over me as I spared a glance over my shoulder and found the enemy in full retreat.

The Braves may have lost that night. But I took home a victory.