Random Thoughts, In No Particular Order...

How is Mario Batali NOT gay?  That just seems so... unnatural.  I think The Gays need to recruit him and then do something about the orange Crocs and his hair.

Point = Made.

  

In other news, I was UNFOLLOWED on my blog.  Since I only have like 6 followers, I instantly notice when the number goes up or down.

This is the first time it's gone down.

Was it something I said?

Something I did?

Did I commit a hideous faux pas by showing up in the same gown as this particular follower at the Oscars??

One thing I know for sure...

It couldn't POSSIBLY have been something I WROTE.

Dear Unfollower,

                                                                                            Love,

                                                                                                  Dani

Moving right along, I happened to stumble across this story.  In a nutshell, a Pentecostal Minister was engaging in a snake handling ceremony, during which, while proving that if you have faith in Jesus Christ, you won't get bit, he got bit by a rattlesnake and died.
The ironic part was that his daddy also got bit by a rattlesnake and died while proving, during a snake handling ceremony, that if you have faith if Jesus Christ, you won't get bit.

"Looky here while I stick my finger in the viper's mouth... begone, Satan!  Ow... Shit!  He bit me!"

Very briefly, I feel the need to mention The Donald's hair:

Seriously.... WHAT THE FUCK??

There is so much going on there that I don't even know where to begin.  He almost looks like a Chinese Crested dog.

The resemblance is uncanny, yes?

Last but not least, Dan had a sleep study thingy done last week.  In case you're new here, his snoring is so extreme as to be LEGENDARY.  LE. GEN. DAIR. EEEE.

It finally came to the point where I gently but firmly encouraged him to discuss the issue with his primary care physician.


Me:  "Get something done about this snoring or I'm going to be forced to kill you in your sleep."

Dan's doctor arranged for him to have some lame-ass in-home sleep study where they attached a wrist thingy that looked like a watch with a little finger attachment, which supposedly gauges the amount of oxygen in your blood to determine if you have sleep apnea.  (Because apparently, we breathe through our fingertips.)

Which he does.  He stops breathing some times for so long that I have to actually weigh the pros of cons of nudging him awake or enjoying the peace and quiet.  (I kid, I kid... *cough*)

He PASSED WITH FLYING COLORS.

Nurse, on the phone with me:  "We have the results of Daniel's sleep study... all his oxygen levels are normal!"

(She said, sounding perky as hell, as if she weren't signing his death warrant.)

Me:  "What?"

Her:  "His results are normal!!"

Me:  "You're a LYING ASS."

Okay, not really.  I did express polite disbelief, may have cried a few tears, and finally convinced her to sign him up for one of those studies where he GOES somewhere and sleeps and THEY have to listen to him freaking snore for EIGHT FUCKING HOURS.


When Dan came home, I informed him of the results and he seemed to have the (incorrect) idea that everything was fine and basically, life would go on as usual.

He was sorely, SORELY mistaken.

Update:

*Sidebar:  In case you're wondering about my ghetto profile pic at the top of my blog, I was feeling kind of bad-ass.  Because, as we all know, there is nothing more bad-ass than a 49 year old white woman in a do-rag.  //flashing my gang signs

Bitches and hos, bitches and hos, I's gonna git me some bitches and hos...

(I had to move the picture down because SOME people THOUGHT IT LOOKED CREEPY, MISTY'S LAWS.)

I stole the look and the gang signs from my son, Notorious K.A.C.E.Y.


Maisy is embarrassed for us both.

Peace out, home skillets.

Passive Aggressive Facebooking: The Jesus Files

*Disclaimer:

This is proof that he helped me with this blog.

(In case you missed it, you can check out Part One here.)

(Also?  The subtitle of this post is "The One Where I Lose Half My Friends On Facebook And Am Disowned By My Family.")

Last night, my blog hits reached the magical number of 66,666.  


(When it read 66,665 I was merely the Neighbor Of The Beast.  Now I officially am partying with The Beast.)

One of these days I'll fill you all in on my plans to turn Hell into a martini bar when I get there, but right now, I'm focused on talking about Jesus and his tendency towards sanctimonious Facebook Status Updates.


Before I begin, let me just say that I have respect for all religions.  (Even the made-up ones where people paint a chair blue and worship it.  Whatever floats your boat, dude... it doesn't change MY life one bit.)  I'm a big-ass believer in the First Amendment (which I'm going to post here because I'm a smarty-pants and also because with all the hoopla surrounding Gay Marriage, I think some people, none of whom read my blog, I'm sure, but just in case they accidentally stumble upon it, may need a refresher course in American History):

The First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution is also the first section of the Bill of Rights. It is arguably the most important part of the U.S. Constitution, as it guarantees freedoms of religion, speech, writing and publishing, peaceful assembly, and the freedom to raise grievances with the Government. In addition, it requires that a wall of separation be maintained between church and state. It reads:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances."

Translation:

Dear Newt Gingrich and Rush Limbaugh,


You're wrong.


Love,


Dani


Okay, now back to Jesus and his Facebooking.

I was a little startled to discover that Jesus actually has the wherewithall to post Facebook status updates, what with the stigmata and everything.  (I imagine trying to work a keyboard with holes in your palms can't possibly be easy.  Not that Jesus is known for taking the easy way out, but still.  I dunno... maybe he has a secretary.)

You, too, can be a friend of Jesus!

(Um... you can also like MY damn Facebook page, too... I mean, I know I'm not Jesus but I have a real gift for turning plain soda into a rum and coke.  That counts, right? So LIKE me, dammit! LIKE ME!)

ANYWAY.

Lord, I keep getting so distracted.  Maybe it was the 14 cups of coffee I've had so far today?  Naaaah, couldn't be that.  I think it must be my adult onset ADD.

I have a whoooole lotta friends on my Facebook who feel obligated to post Motivational Quotes sharing how Jesus feels.

I have friends who write letters to God as their status updates (which makes sense, now that I know he has his own page), who post the daily God Wants You To Know quote of the day, who (for some reason I've yet to figure out) post randomly, "GOD IS GOOD!!  HALLELUJAH!"  (I'd actually be more inclined to NOT unfriend them if just once in a damn while they'd post, "GOD GOT DRUNK LAST NIGHT AND PASSED OUT IN MY YARD!  HALLELUJAH!!)

(*Sidebar:  I just found out, thanks to the squiggly red line that spell check feels obligated to use to remind me that I'm an illiterate dumbass, that I've been spelling "hallelujah" incorrectly for 49 years.  Well, fuck me hard.  I'm so embarrassed, thinking of all those times I spelled it wrong and no one bothered to let me know.  Assholes.  You know who you are.)

So I'm going to Translate For Jesus a few quotes and images people have recently posted on their walls (Translating For Jesus... I should start a business):

Translation:

For those opposing Gay Marriage:

Ever wonder who created Steve?

Actually, I called them.  They all agreed that he's a douche.

Translation for all of the above:

Even Jesus gets fed up and feels the need to use the Fword when people are just too stupid to get it any other way.  True story.  He told me.

AND for those who believe that re-defining the Bible is a sin punishable by Hellfire and Eternal Damnation:

(Jesus hand-picked these for me personally, just so you know... We had a good laugh together over them):

Praise Jesus and pass the Vodka...

Talk about dodging a bullet...

Come to think about it, they do talk about asses a LOT in the Bible.   I do believe Jesus's mother was riding one the day he was born.

Well, SNAP!

Yes!!!  Let's!!  

And finally, let us not forget the "Repost if you love Jesus" status updates.

Did you know that exactly 72% of all statistics are made up on the spot?

Dear God, Please show mercy on those who are even holier than Thou.  Love, Dani

Translation:

Super Cali-fabu-listic-maxi-dress-a-docious

I'm wearing my first maxi dress today (at least, first one since the late 60s, early 70s when I was a little girl and we actually called then "at home dresses") because let's face it, I'm hip and cool and if you can wear it, I can wear it better.

*cough*

Long story short, I look like I've been sent down the catwalk dressed by Omar the Tentmaker.

It pains me to say that this is quite possibly the worst look EVER for a short, chunky, middle-aged woman.

In case you were wondering.

I decided to go with your basic, slimming black (which, in my humble opinion, hides a multitude of sin and tummy bulges) with some cunning little purple, white and turquoise splashes of color, hither and yon.  It's quite fancy, in it's own casual "made for hot summer days" kind of way.  It has your necessary boob enhancing bodice... shows the girls in their best possible light without exposing them for all the world to see... wide straps to cover the sensible bra that those of us with bosoms need  to wear so our tatas don't hang down to our belly buttons....

I'm telling you all, I put a lot of thought into this purchase.

And I looked STUNNING in the dressing room mirror.  I looked at least a foot and a half taller, 40 (maybe even 50) pounds thinner, 20 years younger...

I looked like a GODDESS.

A GODDESS in desperate need of a tan, but a GODDESS none the less.

I couldn't make it to the register fast enough to pay for this magical dress.

When I got home I could barely wait to slide this bewitching garment over my head and charm the pants off of my husband with my stunning beauty/instant weight loss/height enhancement/agereduction.

I sexily sashayed into the bedroom and changed into my ensemble, the one I swore to never take off, never, and possibly even wear to my own funeral.

I posed seductively in front of the mirror.

A short, fat, squat, troll who had the NERVE to be wearing MY DRESS posed seductively back at me.

Me, in my magical maxi dress.

Fat bitch having the nerve to stare back at me from my bedroom mirror.

That CAN'T be right, I informed myself.  I looked AMAZING in the mirror in the dressing room.  AMAZING.  

I could have been a super model in that dress in that dressing room.  I seriously almost called Tyra and said, "Stop the search for America's Next Top Model, baby... I got your winner right here.  Oh, and send Nigel to do the photo shoot, por favor."

(I looked so fabulous, dahling, that I found myself thinking in French.  Or Spanish.  Whichever.)

I could hear Dan in the living room bellowing (because he's super quiet), "HEY!  COME SHOW ME THIS DRESS!'

Me:  *in the bedroom, still stunned by the fatty in the mirror*  "No."

Dan:  "Whaddaya mean, NO?  Come out here!  I wanna see it!"

Me:  *obviously too fat to even walk from the bedroom to the living room*  "I can't."

Dan:  *thundering into the bedroom like a herd of overweight buffalo*

Me:  *standing in front of the mirror*

Dan:  *because he's a stupid, stupid man*  "Why'd ya get that?  Is it a muumuu?"

A MUUMUU???

Dear Portion Of Universe Responsible For Condemnation To Hell,

Referring to my uber fabulous maxi dress as a muumuu is, indeed, a valid reason to maim, torture, and kill, yes?

Thank you for your understanding in this matter.

Love,

Dani

After sobbing pathetically for days and swearing vengeance on Dan, the dressing room at the department store where I purchased said dress,  the dress itself, and whatever asshole decided that maxi dresses should be "in" this summer, I decided that it's the mirror in MY bedroom that's flawed.

DUH.

Today, I weareth my maxi dress with pride.

And this has nothing to do with the fact that I have no intention of leaving the house today.  I swear.

Shut up, you Texas douchebag.  You're fat, too.  So neener neener.

Bathing suit shopping

Okay, I'm finally ready to talk about it.

*deep breathing exercises*

Inhale... Exhale.... Inner peace....

Okay, fine... it actually looks more like this:

Ohmmmmmmmmm.....

So here's the scoop:

I had to go bathing suit shopping a few days ago.

Why, you ask?  

Because my bathing suit from last year doesn't fit me.

*long pause*  

I knowwwww, right????

What the fuck, even?  It's made out of stretchy stuff.  It's supposed to fit, like, forever.  

It's a goddamn rule.

It's a tankini, for Fuck's own sweet sake... How do you outgrow a tankini???

Here's how (in case you were wondering):

You get so damn fat that the bottoms squish your belly UPwards, creating a muffin top so large that the rings of Saturn migrate to earth to encircle you.

Then your boobs grow to such mammoth proportions that the tank portion of the ensemble resembles two pigs fighting their way out of a gunny sack.

It still fits.... right?  Plus my tan makes me look thin!

There was nothing left to do besides face the dreaded Fat Girl section in Walmart and buy a new suit.

Dear Walmart,

Just because I'm a tad on the "plump" side doesn't mean that I have Jungle Fever.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Love,

Dani

No.

Nor do I wish to resemble a fat giraffe.

Am I a tiger?  Am I a leopard?  Am I a wildebeast?

Ohhhh, I get it...  I'M A ZEBRA!

I found myself going through the racks humming, "In the jungle, the mighty jungle..."

Then it occurred to me:

If I wore anyone of those bathing suits in the jungle, not only would I be the slowest member of the food chain, I'd also be the fattest.  In other words?  I'd be dinner.

There are very few things I hate more than trying on bathing suits, for the following reasons:

1.  I'm always positive they have security cameras trained into the dressing rooms and someone, somewhere, is calling his buddies over to "Check out the fat chick trying to yank that suit up over her enormous granny panties!"

Rat bastards.  I know they're there.  I know they're watching.

2.  I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who leaves my panties on when trying on bathing suits, so the thought of having my pantied crotch coming into contact with someone else's UNpantied crotch skeeves me the hell out.

Shut up.  It is too a logical fear.

3.  I hate doing the Walk Of Shame when I emerge from the dressing room and hand over the five suits that didn't fit and make me look like Jaba The Hut to the (usually elderly and judgmental) dressing room attendant, who announces loudly (because she's 900 years old and deaf), "Too small, huh?"

Anyway, I finally settled in a bathing suit that wasn't hideous and would (hopefully) camouflage my ever expanding girth (girth is only good if you're a dude).

This is what I bought:

This is how I look in it:

Okay, fine.

THIS is how I look in it:

I'm the brunette.

Have a fabu weekend, me loverlies!!

The one where I go off on another tangent about the DMV

I've always associated the DMV with things like people who don't bathe or brush their teeth and waiting in line with 400 other people for hours at a time because only one employee is working while the rest sit at their desks and cruise the internet, pausing only to glance up and give the waiting peons the finger...

Oh, and in case I didn't mention it, FUCK  YOU.

But today?

Today I added the DMV to my list of Bastards Who Need Killing.  (Don't worry... if you were on the list, I would have sent you a notice.  If you haven't heard from me, you're safe.)

Dr's Orders.

So yesterday was the whole Detour fiasco in which I couldn't GET to the DMV.  (Or was it the day before?  I don't remember.)  Oh yeah... it WAS the day before.  I needed a day to recover from my ordeal.

Today I decided to make another attempt, after calling the DMV and getting specific instructions on how to get there.

I had everything I needed:  My detour directions, Dan's paperwork all filled out (he turned in the plates on his truck because he stored it for the winter and drove my car instead, since his truck doesn't "handle well" in snow), proof of insurance, blah blah blah...

I drove the 15 miles to Canton, NY, where the DMV is, and then another 5 miles to find the detour.  Eventually, finally, after discovering that EVERY SINGLE FUCKING STREET IN CANTON is being worked on, I made it.

Glory halleluiahhhh, I sang to myself, as I gathered up my shit and followed the unwashed masses into the building, clearly marked as Dante's 7th Circle of Hell.

I waited in line for 20 minutes before finally getting my turn at the Pearly Gates.  I handed over my paperwork and smiled brightly at the grim faced employee as she perused my offerings.

"Where is the photocopy of Daniel's license?" she intoned.

Me:

Her:

Me:  "Huh?"

Her:  "Where's the photocopy of Daniel's license?"

Me:  *because I'm too fucking stupid to live*  "What license?  He turned his plates in.  I'm here to get them back."

Her:  *looking at me to verify that I am, indeed, too fucking stupid to live*  "His driver's license."


Ohhhh... you mean the ONE DAMN THING I DON'T HAVE?

I gathered up my paperwork, tucked my tail between my legs, drove the 46574395 miles back to Dan's workplace, stomped up to him, and informed him I needed a copy of his motherfuckingdriverslicense.

Five minutes later, I was back on the road to Canton.

25 minutes later, I was still stopped in traffic because, as previously stated, New York decided it would be a FABULOUS IDEA  to rip up alllll the roads in St. Lawrence County AT THE SAME TIME.


Eventually, I made it back to the DMV.

Once again, I carried in allll my paperwork and stood in line with the unwashed masses who had just eaten very garlicky and oniony lunches and hadn't brushed their teeth.

Finally, I made it up to the window and faced yet another grim and snarly employee.  I handed over my paperwork and smiled brightly as she perused it.

(Because I'm Mary Fucking Sunshine.  Did I forget to mention that?  No really, I am.  I hate myself sometimes for being so damn perky.)

Then, she stabbed one pointy, chipped nail at the date on my insurance policy and hissed, "This document was issued to you more than 45 days ago.  I can't accept it."


Me:  *blink*  *blink*

Me:  "This policy is good until October.  This is May."

Her:  *jabbing at the date again*  "You received these documents on April 7th.  That was more than 45 days ago.  I can't accept it."

Me:  "But it says that it's good through October..."

Her:  *going full-throttle bitch and stabbing some arbitrary booklet on her desk*  "IT SAYS HERE THAT I CAN'T ACCEPT DOCUMENTS DATED MORE THAN 45 DAYS AGO."

Me:  "Are you freaking kidding me?"

Her:  "No, I'm not FREAKING KIDDING YOU.  Next!"

Me:  "So what do I do?"

Her:  "I suggest you get out of my line and call your insurance company.  NEXT!"

Fucking.

WHORE.

Visions of leaping over the counter and beating her to death with my (really incredibly awesome) Ed Hardy Becca Bag with the chain handles flashed through my head.

This one, right here.  Now step off before I maim you with my incredibly awesome bag, DMV bitch.

I called my insurance company.

They kindly told me they would fax the necessary info over post-haste.

I got back in line behind the after school crowd (because by this time, I'd been there for over a freaking hour) and waited.

NATURALLY, the window that opened up when it was finally MY turn was the window with the very same bitch that I'd almost killed with my purse.  (In my mind, that is.  She has no idea that she was dead and bleeding on the floor while I skillfully tap-danced on her stupid pointy head.)

Go on!  Do it!  Those really adorable sandals are made for tap-dancing on heads!!

She looked at me and said, "I refuse to help you.  NEXT!"

No lie, people.

I stood there red-faced, sweating, and trying not to cry until another window opened up.

I got what I needed and left, willing my tears not to start until I was safely in my car.

And then, just because my day wasn't shitty enough, I spent 5 minutes trying to unlock the wrong damn car.

Again.

Because yes, I'm still driving the ^%^%$#@!!! Le Sabre.

I pushed the unlock button on the key fob, heard the answering click indicating the door was unlocked, reached for the handle, lifted...

Nope.  Wouldn't open.

Me:  *Push button... click... pull on handle...*

Nope.

Me:  *Push button... click.... pull on handle...*

Nope.

Times infinity.

Until I noticed that the car beHIND me was unlocking every time I clicked the unlock button.

Fuck.

Me.

Hard.


Long story short(ish) I drove my sad, sorry, and sweaty self to the store, bought a bag of tortilla chips, a jar of super hot salsa, a jar of queso, and Tom Collins mix, and came home.

If I don't have my bright and shiny red HHR parked back in my driveway tomorrow, heads will roll.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Two posts... two posts... two posts in one!

Lately, I've been feeling like I'm wandering aimlessly through life with spinach stuck between my teeth and a giant KICK ME sign on my back.

I feel pretty... oh so pretty...

Yesterday was one of those days that proved, without a shadow of a doubt, that my destiny was not planned by the stars, but rather by a sadistic little troll with a hideous sense of humor.  

It started simply enough:

Write grocery list

Fill out paper work for DMV

Meet Dan for lunch

Go to DMV

Go shopping

Right?

A monkey could do this.

First stop:

Dan's work.  Hand over my car to have tires changed (because yes, I'm still driving around with my snow tires on because my husband, who is an automotive technician and works at a freaking dealership, "hasn't had time" to change MY tires) and pick up a loaner.

A breeze, it was.

I climb into the anonymous, temporary car, collect my husband, and hit the Mongolian Grill Asian Buffet for lunch.

And here's where it started to go bad.

I'm not a giant fan of buffets.  Of any variety.  (Please don't kick me out of the Fat Girl Club... please?  It's nothing personal... I just get skeeved out by the thought of millions of people breathing on my food.  Sneeze guard be damned... I once was in line at the salad bar and watched a person ahead of me USE HIS HANDS to serve his lettuce, and then PUT SOME BACK BECAUSE HE TOOK TOO MUCH.)

(Also?  What is this trend of overly-permissive parents allowing their small children to serve themselves at the buffet?  Let them trail along side of you and point to what they want but come on... they lean in, breathe on the food, cough, sneeze... and, um, in case you didn't notice?  THE SNEEZE GUARD DOESN'T COME DOWN THAT LOW.  Your child may be precious in YOUR eyes, but I personally don't want their little mutant germs.  And since they aren't mine, there's a pretty good chance that I don't find them all that adorable.  No offense.)

So anyway, we went to the Asian Buffet for lunch because Dan loves nothing more than a buffet.  As previously stated, me?  Not so much.

He had half an hour for lunch.  Basically, it takes me that long to circle the place, find something I might like (I'm not a giant fan of Asian food, sorry), wait for them to add fresh stuff to it so I'm not scooping up other people's backwash, inspect it carefully when I sit down, looking for stray hairs or random ick, and then tentatively eat it until I gross myself out enough that I can't finish it.  (I'm a pain in the ass at buffets.  I really am.  That's when my OCD rears it's ugly head and makes me look like a freak.)  I managed to come up with a plate with a smattering of three different items on it within the time it took Dan to make two trips, and then I nibbled for 5 seconds while he said repeatedly, "Are you gonna eat that?  I need to get going.  Are you done?  I need to get going.  Are you finished?  Are you finished?  I need to get back to work."  


(Which wasn't annoying.  At all.  Really.)

This may or may not have been in my vows.  I don't think I was paying attention.

ANYHOO.

I was given the bum's rush out of the restaurant, took Dan back to work and dropped him off, (where he proceeded to chat with his co-workers for a good 10 minutes in the parking lot before heading inside... apparently it's okay if he's late as long as he's on the premises)  and I drove my hungry self the 15 miles to the DMV to take care of business.

Except the road leading to the DMV was closed.

SHIT.


I do not know my way around the town (village?  WTF ever) that the DMV is in.  I know how to get there because I turn right at Pizza Hut and it's about half a mile down that road.

The road to Pizza Hut was closed.


NOOOOOOoooooOOOOooooo!!!


I continued aimlessly down the highway, looking for a freaking detour sign.

I found one pointing into a gas station.

Seriously.

DETOUR ----->

I turned in, to see if there was a hidden road somewhere around, or maybe even a wardrobe that opened into Narnia, with a pit stop at the DMV.

There wasn't.

I went into the gas station and said, "How can I get to the DMV?"

They directed me back to the road that is closed.

Which, in case you were wondering, is no fucking help at all.

I gave up on the whole DMV thang and headed to Walmart to do my shopping.

First stop at the Walmart:  Turn in Dan's prescription.

Second stop at the Walmart:  The bathroom.

Which is where I noticed the gianormous blob of sticky brown sauce from the chicken I'd scarfed down at the Asian Buffet dripping happily down my chin.

Two of it's sisters were dripping down my chest.

Fuck.

Me.

This wouldn't have been nearly so awkward if I hadn't spent five minutes flirting shamelessly and coquettishly with the morons at the gas station when I was trying to appear helpless and Damsel-In-Distressish while asking how to get to the DMV.

As the icing on the cake, I did the mandatory teeth check in the bathroom mirror, when what to my wondering eye should appear but a thin, green strand of cabbage from the one damn bite of eggroll that I took, glued to my front tooth.

"I'll take 'Kill Me Now' for $500, Alex..."


Just to be safe, I made sure I hadn't started my period (I mean, seriously... why not?  The one thing that would have made my dripped on, green toothed ensemble complete is an enormous blood stain the size of a salad plate on my rear end, no?) and went about my shopping, pretending I was a different person than the pathetic human who was dressed just like me who entered the store earlier and turned in a prescription.

(I kind of wanted to go back to the pharmacy and say, "Did you see my fatter, older twin in here earlier?  She's such a mess... all we can do is love her the way she is.")

Long story short, my shopping was pretty much completed without incident and I headed out to the parking lot to load up my shit, steal one of my husband's Xanax, and go home.

And then it happened...

I couldn't remember what the car looked like that I drove there.


I was totally not paying attention when I got in it.


Also?  I couldn't remember where I parked.


Shit.

Just... SHIT.


Was it blue?  Silver?  Gray?  Something... I know it had four wheels and was some kind of sedan...

I think I parked over by the pharmacy...I viewed the sea of light colored sedans parked over by the pharmacy and tried to see if any of them rang a bell.

Ummmm... this one??

This one??

THIS ONE???!!!

My Lean Cuisines melted as my panic set in, while I wandered frantically from car to car, clicking the key fob to see if a door would unlock.

After 10 minutes of stupidly and pointlessly pushing pushing buttons in front of light colored sedans that didn't belong to me, I finally found a Buick LeSabre that answered the siren song of the key fob and unlocked when I pressed the open door key.

(Oh yeah... It's the one with the dealer plates from the dealership Dan works at slapped on the back.  Duh.  Also?  I parked next to the shopping cart thingy so I wouldn't have to walk too far to put my cart away.  Heh heh.  I forgot.)

And then I couldn't figure out how to open the damn trunk.

I pulled, I lifted, I looked to see if I could find a latch...

WTF??


I unloaded my purchases into the back seat and drove home, fuming.

I stopped at the dealership to inform Dan indignantly that the trunk doesn't work.

He said, "Really?  Huh..." and then took the key, unlocked it, and it popped open.

Mother.

Fucker.


Who opens a trunk with a key anymore??? OMG, Buick... get with the damn program!!!  Have an open trunk button on your keyfob like everyone else!!


Dan:  "Didn't you see the trunk button on the keyfob?"

You know those times when there is literally no way to prevent yourself from looking stupid?

This was one of those times.

Bite me.

In other news, today is my beautiful son Shea's 26th birthday.  Happiest of birthdays to my most precious oldest child!!

I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always,
As long as I'm living
My baby you'll be.

My Sunshine Boy 

Growing up too fast....

No comment.

He must have been left Home Alone...

All growed up... I love you, Shea.