Overheard while waiting in the checkout line:
Cashier: Your total is $18.76. Hey – 1876 – that’s the year I was born!
Elderly Customer: 1876? I don’t think so, dear.
Cashier: Haha, I mean 1976. I wasn’t even thought of in 1876…
Elderly Customer: …
Cashier: I don’t even think my mom was a baby in 1876!
A story in two parts
Living alone has it’s perks. One being the ability to rip a mean fart with out judgement.
Or so I thought.
The other day I was laying in bed, enjoying my Saturday morning. It was a great morning – crisp and cold outside, toasty warm inside; Hemo was curled up on my chest rather than on my head. I stretched and let out a little fart. No biggie. I shook it out from underneath the blankets and dozed off. I woke up a couple minutes later and felt another fart coming somewhat reluctantly down the pike (I’d had some beers with friends the night before – you know how it is) and decided to give it a little help. Just a nudge to ease the pressure.
The loudest fart you’ve ever heard ripped out of my butt-hole and trumpeted though the house. I swear the blankets flapped around me. Ernie and Dexter, who were two rooms away, started barking like we were being attacked by an army of mailmen and came barreling down the hallway. Hemo jumped 2 feet in the air and streaked out of the room. It took me 20 minutes and a handful of treats to get everyone calmed down.
Last night I was one the phone with my sister, talking about how my dad’s wife sucks and how significant portions of my life are lost browsing Instructables and convincing myself that not only are tesla coil radios awesome but that I could make one myself by following the step-by-step instructions provided.
As I’m talking I (naturally) make my way to the bathroom. Just as I get comfortable, I tell my sister I’m going to have to call her back.
me: Beth, I’m going to have to call you back. I just farted in the toilet and the dogs are going ape-shit.
her: What? I can’t hear you.
me: Just…I’ll have to call you back. DOGS! CHILL THE FUCK OUT!
Does anyone else have Tom Petty’s “Something in the Air” stuck in their head? No? Just me then.
You know what sucks about the end of a relationship? A lot of things, I guess, but today I’m specifically talking about the awkward exchange of hostages that occurs after you’ve broken up but you are still losing sleep over the casserole dish you left at his house. Sure, it’s only a casserole dish and you could just replace it, but it was a birthday present from your mom. And it has a serving cradle!
So, you make the phone call (or in my case, an email, ’cause that’s how I roll – cowardly) to offer an exchange of prisoners. You always say that you think you may left such-and-such at their house – but you know. You have been losing sleep over that shit.
I negotiated for the casserole dish and my crock pot, and remembered at the last-minute my spare set of car keys; the last person you want to call when you’ve locked yourself out of your car is your ex.
Fortunately I had his grill to offer as an exchange. Unfortunately I also had his pajama pants that, thanks to Ernie, no longer have a crotch and therefore don’t carry much bargaining weight. Sure, they’re 98% intact, but the missing 2% is pretty crucial. I was hoping they would have been forgotten, but no. The man who couldn’t commit a 3-item grocery list to memory has not forgotten about the pajama pants that I borrowed 4 months ago.
A short list of (other) things that suck about breaking up:
a backlog of inside jokes with no one to share them with • showing up at the office Christmas party alone and having to explain why to your co-workers • telling your mom • cooking for one • having to blog about it
Feel free to add your own.
…as in “embarassed.” Or “elementary school was a long time ago.”
Quick – name this shape!
If you said rhombus, you are wrong. But don’t feel too bad because I called that bitch a rhombus, too. Let me back up a bit.
I was trying to describe to my boss the shape of the cord that was missing from his laptop, making it impossible for me to connect it to the tabletop projector (shit, already this story is boring but just bear with me, ok?).
me: I think there’s a cord that kind of looks like a printer cord?
him: What does a printer cord look like?
me: You know…it’s got two rows of pins in it, and it shaped like a weird rectangle?
me: Well, maybe it’s more of a rhombus, but, you know, rounded? At the corners?
him: I don’t know what you are talking about.
me: (trying to use my hands to make the shape I am talking about) Like this?
him: (looks at my mangled gang sign hands)
me: I’m sorry.
In case you were wondering, this is what I was trying to describe:
Please tell me you know what I’m talking about. Otherwise I truly am losing my mind.
Anyway, the point of this story is that the shape I was trying to describe is actually called a trapezoid, not a rhombus. But honestly? I don’t think it really mattered what the fuck I called that shape because Boss Man and I weren’t on the same page. And me attempting to make a shadow puppet it for him with my hands wasn’t helping the situation.