Also known as:
At least someone thought it was fun to have a gigantic hole dug out in the middle of the driveway! Maybe she can get a paper route to pay the plumber?
Something strange happened today.
I was sitting in my house ALL ALONE.
THE END.
Oh, I do crack myself up. No, that’s not really the end! Although that is very, very strange.
I’ll start again.
I was sitting in my house, ALL ALONE, when I spotted something moving out of the corner of my eye. It hit something on the mantle of my fireplace and knocked it to the floor. I got up to find out what had flown across the room to hit the angel off of the mantle. The dog got up and started barking at nothing at the other end of the room. Not barking at the door as if she heard something and thought someone had come to the door, but barking at the space in front of the television set. I couldn’t find anything that was out of place as if it had flown across the room to knock an angel off of the mantle.
It freaked me out.
My first thought was a texting “conversation” I had with my cousin who said that my uncle has been talking to her in her dreams. ’Shit, he’s fucking haunting me, this is just what I need.’ I started wracking my brain to remember if he ever threatened that or not. I’m still unsure, but I think YES.
I told my husband. Not the haunting part, just the incident and the freaked out a little part. Of course he had to spread it around his office, so that they all know *For SURE* that he’s married to a crazy.
Hi honey! Thanks for that!!!
Then he called me back to let me know that he had told everyone (in case I was wondering), they had discussed it at length (yeah!), and they had decided that I need to look behind the picture frames to find the BAT that is probably in the house.
AS IF!!
And what EXACTLY happens after your crazy wife finds a BAT (no, not as in BASEBALL!!!) behind a picture frame in your house, genius? Ask your little work buddies THAT, and THEN get back to me.
I’m telling all of my holiday stories out of order this year.
So sue me.
I had a little party on New Year’s Eve that I needed to do some shopping for. Because I am a chronic over feeder and I didn’t have enough food to push on my poor guests. We’ll get to the party later, but so you know… it was good.
We shop at a large grocery store called Woodman’s; it’s Wisconsin based, employee owned, huge as all hell. I love it. Much less expensive than the other chain grocery stores we have in this area, one starting with D, and the other J, who try to rip people off on a daily basis. Woodman’s has multiple choices on every item, good prices, they stock lots of items and/or brands that you just can’t find other places, they have an awesome natural and alternative eating aisle, a different aisle for each “ethnic” cuisine, and their cheese aisle…. well, it’s Wisconsin. I die.
We like our cheese.
Anyhow, I always start at Woodman’s in the produce area. It’s impressive, for sure. However, I was not messing around; I had a list, and I planned on sticking to it to make the shopping trip as speedy as possible. Pineapple was on my list. My kids love a fresh-cut pineapple.
I had picked up possibly four items before I spotted the pineapple. I think we did a happy dance, and I went over to pick the best one. I put my hand on probably two pineapple before I picked up the one I liked and brought it to my nose to smell.
And blinded myself.
I had brought the fruit up to my face in such a way that I didn’t see a long leaf from the bottom coming straight at my eyeball.
My husband is convinced that I’m accident prone, and will tell everyone he meets. It was the positioning, I swear!
Either way, I knew immediately that it was bad. I handed the pineapple to my husband while whimpering ‘my eyyyyyyye’ and stood in the produce section FOREVER holding my face, and periodically checking my vision in my left eye.
It hurt. My vision was blurred. It wouldn’t stop watering. It felt like there was scratchy debris in my eyeball.
The leaf that poked me was barbed. I didn’t know that pineapple leaves were so dangerous. They fool you by looking all pokey on the top, but it’s the bottom you really have to look out for. Barbed.
Eventually we decided that two things needed to happen.
Not necessarily in that order. I will say that it was my call to shop one-eyed.
Fast forward (although the imagery of me walking around all pirated is certainly amusing to some of you).
Load the groceries, drive approximately 1 mile to the ER. Sit in the waiting cue with hacking, deathly ill children who wouldn’t wear their Becky-protection masks. Get ridiculed by bald, comedian, Physician’s Assistant. Get TETANUS SHOT. Get semi-clean bill of health and eye antibiotic prescription for multiple scratches on the cornea and eyeball.
Get no sympathy.
Get release papers which state, Cause of Visit: LEFT EYE IRRITATION.
Condescending assholes. It was barbed, I tell you.
Has anyone ever heard of the internet History on a computer?
Yea?
Me, too.
This is such a shitty week.
So it’s Friday, and you would imagine that it would be the absolute best day of the week… on account that it’s jeans day, for one. Unfortunately, it didn’t quite turn out to be the great day that I expected. It’s not because I wasn’t in a great mood, because I was. I was being productive at work, I had jeans on and was very comfortable. I heard some interesting news that could have excellent ramifications for me later, I talked to the company owner at work about going back to school. Things were good! All around, things were good.
I’m not looking to rehash everything and get myself all riled up again, but out of the blue my good day turned very bad. I had a very unpleasant encounter with a coworker who feels that somehow she is justified in treating the rest of us like shit, and we’re all supposed to just take it. On a daily basis. Well…. this hot-tempered, brown-haired Irish girl has had just about enough of that nonsense as of TODAY, and I will say that my little girlfriend didn’t know exactly what hit her. No, I didn’t hit her LITERALLY. Although it did cross my mind, briefly.
The point is that even though I am generally a very happy, mild-mannered, helpful and easygoing person who tries my damnedest to smile and work hard with a positive attitude and outlook, it is best not to push your luck with me, because I do have a breaking point. If you try really, really hard for several years, you will eventually find it. Probably on a Friday.
And then you’re screwed.
So…. I may have over drank a bit on Friday night. I had a blast right up until that moment when I realized that my fun was about to end abruptly. OK, I definitely over drank on Friday night. It wasn’t pretty for anyone involved.
I’m praying there is no photographic evidence of the evening, and since I’m usually the one with the damned old camera I’m guessing there is none. Although I’m sure the swan avoid the photograph much more gracefully than I would have.
On another note, today is my husband’s birthday. I have recovered JUST IN TIME.
Happy Birthday, Craig… and happy Monday to the rest of you out there!
P.S. Don’t forget to vote tomorrow. Just because you care is reason enough.
Here is something that my kids know about me that maybe someone else’s kids wouldn’t.
If you complain, I will make you pay. It might seem like fun and games on the surface, but in the end I win, because receiving my help is like making a deal with the devil. I will work my magic, but there is to be no further complaining when I’m done. And I mean it.
My friend Maureen’s kids act like they don’t know this. They really should, they’ve been around me plenty. Apparently they don’t pay attention to such things. Case in point:
That’s right. Silly girl sat down next to me and started complaining loudly that her ankle hurt. She even hobbled around on one foot for a while for effect. It doesn’t take long when I’m hung over to send the other kids in every direction to fetch some provisions, like sticks and paper towels and tape, so that I can make everything better. And, of course, stop the complaining. Also the hobbling, if I’m lucky. No, I don’t clean wounds before dressing, obviously. Yes, I insist upon being the first one to sign every cast.
In this case, I also had to insist that she and all of the other kids call me Dr. Frank for the rest of the weekend. She was responsible for making her own crutches. I’m not in manufacturing, I’m a miracle worker! In addition, I’m not an Opthamologist, so I had to send the next complainer away without treatment. I was exhausted from the previous procedure.
Also, I had an ankle biter that was after me. Fully clawed. It makes delicate eye procedures nearly impossible.
This is my day so far. Who knew that work could be so appealing?
This animal is testing me. As was previously reported, this dog has a knack for finding stinky things to roll in. She has done it again. Our rocky relationship has once again hit a rough patch. As in I hate her. Do not question me.
The other day, as we were driving in the car, my kids started talking about names. Their names, my name, meanings behind them, etc. My daughter exclaims “Becky is just perfect because it’s right there in Rebecca!” We laughed.
In reality, I’m not one of those people who just loves their name. It’s one of those things. I think that when my last name was Babe, the shorter nickname of Becky was OK. Becky Babe. (That’s what my aunt Joan always called me, even once I was married. I can still hear her in my head. Really. It’s making me feel a little bit crazy. And weepy.) Now that my name is Frank, Becky Frank just doesn’t really do much for me. I think that Rebecca Frank has a much nicer feel when speaking my name, and sounds nicer as well. I’m not a real formal person, though, so using Rebecca is just ridiculous to me. Either way, I find both Rebecca and Becky to be nonsensical abstract words without any meaning. The name was selected from the Bible for me. Although neither of my parents were religious, my dad did read the bible and it was a name they could agree on.
The alternate name was Pollyanna. Cripes.
I don’t even respond anymore when my husband starts teasing me with other variations of Rebecca. It’s pretty often, just so you know. Becca is my least favorite, so he makes a point of calling me that when he really wants to get under my skin and I have no means of retaliation. Such as when I’m driving, and I can’t strike him. Of course my hands are firmly planted at ten and two o’clock, on account I’m such a stellar driver. There’s also Reba, Rebbie, and his personal favorite, Rebecky.
Would anyone really hold it against me if I filed for a divorce? My kids would eventually heal, and someday I could tell them the story of how their dad continually and maliciously called me Rebecky and they would understand. Empathize, even. Dare I say, take sides?
Back to the drive. We’re in the car and we’re discussing names, and I mention that I just think my name is some random word without meaning and it just never really did much for me. Suddenly, the three of them decided that I should change my name. Not legally, of course, but within the family. I get to pick any name I want and they will start calling me by it, effective immediately. They gave me a full 10 seconds to decide. You can’t pick a new forever name in ten seconds! The pressure. In addition, they started throwing suggestions at me when I was trying to think. Janellie, Monique, Crystal??? Seriously. Who are these people? Who do they think I am? I think they are trying to sabotage me.
Last night I had to apologize to my mom for disliking my name, because it would be a bit awkward if she came to dinner and wanted to know who Janellie is. I have this horrible feeling I’m going to end up with some crazy name like Moonbeam because I can’t withstand all the pressure. It’s like trying to find something you want to eat on the menu when the waitress is taking everyone else’s order at the table and you’re as yet undecided. You end up with a cheeseburger when you really would’ve preferred something better. Something decidedly more exotic and delicious. Healthier. Monique is not a healthy name for me.
It’s been a full two days, and the pressure is most certainly on. They each ask me periodically if I’ve come up with my new name yet, which comes out to roughly twelve times a day. I’m actually considering getting a baby name book from the library.
