Fatty Brain Is Totally The Boss Of Me

I can't find my bathroom scale.

When we moved, it got relocated to some box, somewhere, and has disappeared into the abyss that is all the crap I have in storage and/or haven't unpacked.  And it's diving me NUTS.

I am a scale addict.  In fact, I'm a scale WHORE.  I haven't weighed myself in over a month and I have to say, it's stressing me out so badly that I may  need valium just to cope with the withdrawals.  Or Xanax.  Or copious amounts of alcohol.

I need my scale to let me know how I feel each day.  

Oh, shut up.  You don't know what you're talking about.

I've been changing my diet and eating super healthily and wouldn't you  know it, my pants are much looser and I don't feel like my head is being swallowed by my boobs.

Like this.

But without  my scale, these things could literally mean nothing.  Or something.

I mean, it could actually mean several things:

1.  That I got so incredibly fat that my pants stretched out and now feel loose, even right after I wash them.  (Most likely scenario.)

My house, all day, every day.  BYOFP.  (Bring Your Own Fat Pants.)  

2.  That it's all an illusion and my pants aren't actually looser, it's just that I've just lost all the feeling in my lower extremities due to their extreme tightness so they FEEL looser.  

3.  I actually HAVE lost weight, but ONLY in my boobs, which is why I don't feel like they're choking me to death anymore and the loose pants are more of an indication of shoddy workmanship than weight loss.  (Another likely scenario.  Though usually when I lose weight, my head gets smaller before anything else does so I walk around looking like Zippy Pinhead.  Tragic but True.)

4.  There's also a slight possibility that I'm full of shit and totally lying to myself about the alleged looseness of my pants, which may or may not be every bit as tight as they've always been.  

Why no, not at all... Your fat ass looks amazing!!

One of my biggest fears is the dreaded Putting On Of The Pants every morning.  Seriously.  When I get dressed in the morning, I ALWAYS have an "oh shit what if I fattened up like a freaking blowfish last night while I was asleep and now my pants won't fit and I will have nothing to wear and life as I know it will cease to exist and I will become the mother in What's Eating Gilbert Grape and they'll have to reinforce the floor boards under my chair so that the house doesn't cave in under my weight" moment.  Always.  I live in fear of not being able to hike them up over my thighs or my ass or God only knows what other lumpy, bumpy anomaly that might appear without warning on my body and cause me to be suddenly, tragically, Too Fat For Real Pants.  

I HATE when that happens.

On one hand, it's a sad commentary on how body image has totally warped my life.  I know it's a problem for me... and yes, I realize how sad and unfortunate that is.  I also know the psychological whys and wherefores that created this monster in my brain that constantly tells me that my happiness and self-worth totally and completely depend on what number appears on the scale on any given day.

I was bulemic in high school, and have never had a week, or even a day, that I'm not constantly aware of how much I weigh.  I'm always worried that I won't fit in a chair, or a booth, or an airplane seat, or a car, or the world... It's never rational but it's always there, in my head, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, like, "Hey fatty... sure that sidewalk is wide enough for you?  Are you going to fit through those double doors?  What if they find out tomorrow that water actually has more calories than any other substance on earth and you're here guzzling it like you're dying of thirst?  What then, Chunky?  What then??  Sure, have a big ol' salad for lunch... but remember... COWS EAT GRASS, DANIELLE!!  LOOK AT THEM!"

I doubt it will ever go away, but I do have hope that come a certain age, I'll just say "fuck it all" and start wearing whatever the hell I feel like wearing and screw anyone who doesn't like it.  I have fabulous visions of myself at 80 cruising along in my motorized scooter eating a Big Mac and wearing hot pants and a halter top, boobs and belly flapping in the breeze...

I'm sexy and I know it...

I want to embrace that NOW.  I want to be all, "Eff you, scale... I don't need you to feel fabulous!" and then wind up in an expose' of People of Walmart.  

I'm sexy... they hatin'...

Okay, scratch that.

I want to be all, "Eff you, scale... I don't need you to feel fabulous!" and then NOT wind up in an expose' of People of Walmart.

I'm sexy... they hatin'...

The obvious solution, of course, would be to go buy a new scale.  But that brings up a whole different list of problems.

For example:

1.  What if my old scale was 50 lbs off and I actually weigh even more than I thought I did?

2.  What if...

Okay, so actually it's just the one problem.  But it's a biggy.

All that's left for me to do is face my Fear of Pants, put on a pair, and pray that they go on, up, and over.

Oh, thank God... THEY FIT!!!

Eensy, teensy, puny little blog posting

UPDATE:  Javi had FIFTEEN kidney stones removed from his bladder, kidneys, and urethra.  He made it through surgery and is home now.  He still can't walk, so he has an appointment in two weeks for acupuncture, but the stones are gone and he is on the mend.  Thank you so much for all the good thoughts, well wishes, happy dances (Grammy) and prayers!!


I just took my little Javi dog to the vet for surgery.  He will need to stay over night and actually won't be allowed to come home until he pees.

Which reminds me a lot of childbirth, somehow.  I remember being told after Baby Numero Uno (hereby forever known as "Shea") that I had to "urinate and have a bowel movement" before they'd let me go home.

I lied like a rug just to get my sore and sorry ass out of there.  After being sliced from stem to stern and having a baby ripped from my loins, I made a promise to myself to never poop again.  I did not share that information with the nurse.  I just said, "Oh yeah... I totally pooped.  Totally.  Now, give me my baby and I'll be on my way."

Javi may not have that luxury.  He's probably going to have to show the evidence.  But he's a smart little doggy so he'll probably spill his water and say, "See?  Pee.  Right there.  Now call my mom."

I'm trying super hard to laugh this morning.  In reality, I'm scraping the funny off the bottom of my shoe, like a sticky piece of something that you're hoping is gum but also could potentially be dog poop.  

We took Javi in to the vet this morning and after I left him there, the vet called to tell me that he might not be well enough to do the surgery.

My choices were:  

1.  Go ahead with the surgery, but he might make not make it through.

2.  Don't do the surgery, but he will suffer and die.

The vet wasn't sure which one I'd want to go with.

Also, even if the surgery is successful and he comes out fine at the other end, he might not ever walk again.

They forgot to tell me that in person.  MUCH better to hear it over the phone, after they told me that the kidney obstruction was the reason he wasn't walking in the first place.

But have you ever been so worried and so upset that you just sat there and nodded your head, even though what you were being told made NO sense and completely contradicted everything that was said to you previously?

That's what I did this morning.  I nodded and "uh huh"'d and agreed and smiled stupidly and kissed my precious doggy good-bye, then got in my car and bawled all the way home.

But enough of that.

I'm going to share a Jessie story (my 9 year old disabled niece).  No one makes me laugh like she does. NO one.  

Last night we had pizza for dinner from Pizza Hut.  Dan and I went to pick it up without telling the kiddos and when we came home and sat down for dinner, Jessie looked at the pizza boxes and said, 

"What's that?"

Me:  "What does it look like?"

Jessie:  "Pizza Hut."

Me:  "So what is it?"

Jessie:  "I don't know..."

We had gotten half pepperoni and half cheese for Tori and Jessie, because one likes pepperoni and the other doesn't.  Usually (always) the one that doesn't like pepperoni is told to pick it off.

So when I flipped the lid of the box and displayed a magical pizza that was half and half, Jessie gasped in surprise and delight and clapped her hands.

"Aunt Dani!" she squealed, "HOW DID YOU DO THAT?"

I'm the bomb, y'all.

I.  Am.  The.  Bomb.

Motherfucker, I'm AWESOME.

That, in and of itself, is what will make me smile today.

A  9 year old thinks I can move mountains, change the world, and create a pizza that only has pepperoni on one half.

I am Legend.

Of Maury Povich, Ricki Lake, Nancy Grace, and Empty Heads

It was with great sadness that I discovered that Maury is no longer available for my viewing pleasure. 

It is also with great sadness that I discovered that Ricki Lake has a new talk show.

And that her talk show replaced Maury.

Okay, here's the unvarnished truth:

I'm not a Ricki Lake fan.

When I look at her, I seriously think she needs to be fat.  

Not in a mean way, but in an "Aren't you supposed to be fat?" way.

And when she talks about sex, I get that same uncomfortable feeling I get when my mother says the word "nipple" or "vagina."   (Which she's been doing with increasing regularity lately, since she's getting older and the body parts of her friends are beginning to come under scrutiny, in a medical way, of course.  One of her friends had a hysterectomy recently and my mother knew wayyyyyy too many details about the surgery.  It took everything I have in me not to stick my fingers in my ears and sing the "la la" song while she was giving me a second by second account of the entire procedure.  I'm all, "Okay, I get it... she has a vagina.  You have a vagina.  You know how to say "vagina."  How's the weather?")

I will pay you a million dollars if you stop saying the word "vagina."

Anyway, back to Ricki Lake.

Bottom line:  She's no Maury.

Topics on Maury:

I HATE when that happens!

This is good tv, y'all.

Top THAT, Ricki.

She's so busy being sympathetic to underdogs that she doesn't have time to find out who the Daddy is.  

She doesn't even have a lie detector technician on her payroll.  

What's up with THAT, Ricki??

You want to stop bullying?  Stand in line... so does everyone else.

You sympathize with gay teens?  Uh huh... and?  

You manage to locate a real 40 year old virgin?  High 5, babe... are you going to help her get laid?  No?  Then I don't care.

Sex therapy?  SOOOooo 1970s.

Did you find a 14 year old that had sex for a hair weave?  Of course you didn't... because you aren't Maury.

So now I have to watch Divorce Court at 10 in the morning because dammit, if I'm going to sit down for an hour and watch television, I want it to be meaningful.   

Apropos of nothing, I got totally distracted by this picture of Nancy Grace.  I wasn't even looking for it... it just happened randomly.    

Wow.  I just totally got caught in an endless loop of bad Nancy Grace photos.  I want to handcuff her to a salon chair and fix her eyebrows and do something different with her hair.  She looks like a pissed off lhasa apso.

Right??!

(Sorry... I went off on a tangent.  Mea culpa.)

So yeah... I don't want to watch The View.  Or The Talk.  Or The Whatever, featuring a multi-racial group of women discussing avant gard topics.  I have my own girlfriends I can chat with, thank you.  

Do you know what I don't have?  

I don't have any friends who don't know who their baby daddy is.

I don't have any friends who need a lie detector to tell them if their man is sleeping with their mama.

I don't have any friends whose husbands are accusing them of prostitution or having sex for a double cheeseburger or a free pizza.

I need that in my life, dammit!!!

I NEED MAURY!!!

Maury provides a distraction I occasionally need in my life.  I like knowing that out there somewhere are people with problems so ridiculous and so bizarre that my own First World problems look positively mundane.  I mean, yes, I need a job, but I don't need to prove to anyone who the father of my children is.

My husband has Asperger's and occasionally drives me up a freaking wall but he's never accused me of being a prostitute or having sex for a pizza.  And if he's 20 minutes late I'm not concerned that he's got a side job as a pimp after hours.

And yeah, I need to lose weight.  Dammitall that I have too much to eat.

Maury serves a dual purpose:  Makes me feel better about my life, gives me golden opportunity to mock the lives of other people.

Can Ricki Lake do that?

I think not.

At first glance I thought this said "I don't always have room in my lake..." and it struck me as hilarious.  Now, not so much.  But since I'd already uploaded it and put it on my page, I decided to just go ahead and leave it there.  Please pretend it says "Lake" and then think of Ricki Lake.  MUCH funnier that way.

*Sidebar:

This is what the inside of my head looks like right now:

Duhherrrrr....

I haven't had much sleep because I'm worried sick about my little Javi doggy.  He lost use of his hind legs last weekend and after taking him to the vet and being told that he has Renal Acidosis and is in the final stages before kidney failure and having to wait until Monday for his surgery, I've been spending a lot of time lying awake at night and making sure he's still alive.  I won't go in to the trouble we've had trying to even get a vet to see him because we're new to the area and are "non-clients."  Suffice it to say I feel helpless and angry and sad.  We've been trickling water down his little throat (he weighs 5 lbs) and giving him pain meds and holding him and loving him and treasuring his furry Javi-ness, but we can't seem to do anything to make sure he doesn't die or that he isn't suffering. 

It's breaking my heart.

Even Maisy, the biggest attention hog in the world, is backing off while we give Javi love.  She's been gentle and careful with him because he can't stand up and will even back off and wait her turn when I try to tempt him with a treat.  

Bottom line:  All the funny in my head is temporarily on hiatus.

Let me end with this:

If you remember on Monday, please think positive thoughts.

Please keep a good thought for a precious little black dog.  

xoxo

Close Encounters of the Amish Kind

I got lost yesterday.

I followed a DETOUR sign than took me to a dead end road on a country lane inhabited by the Amish.


(Is it "THE" Amish or just Amish??  Hmmmm.  I put "THE" in front of a lot of words that probably don't actually need it. #uncomfortablemomentofselfrealization)


Anyway, the state of New York apparently decided that it would be a really, really good idea to rip up ALL the roads on EVERY thoroughfare of EVERY town/village between Jefferson and St. Lawrence counties at the exact same time.  Basically, if it's a main route between Point A and Point B, they tore it all to pieces and couldn't figure out how to put that shit back together.


Massive road construction on one itty bitty stretch of road that happens to be the ONLY way to get to Canton has been torn up since APRIL.


Last Friday they decided that, for shits and giggles, they would also rip up the road in front of the post office in my town, which also happens to be the main road that takes me to the high way I need to get on to go ANYFREAKINGWHERE.

Motherfuckers.



It took me 27 minutes to figure out how to get out of town yesterday.

You know what would have helped?

My GPS.  The one Dan got me to help me find my way around upstate NY.

Would you like to know where it is?

It's in Dan's truck, because he likes to set the destination on it and then go a different way.  It's his little way of proving he's smarter than the GPS.  Every time it says "recalculating..."  he laughs like an asshole.

Meanwhile, I'm driving around like an old blind woman heading aimlessly down streets that don't go anywhere, because everyone has lived here FOREVER so they don't think anyone needs road signs.

There are no road signs.

Okay, there are some, but not very many.

And when you ask for directions, people say things like, "Take the old Hermitville road down to Amish Corners and turn left at the town barn..."

So I drive and drive and drive and drive and you know what?

THE OLD HERMITVILLE ROAD DOESN'T FUCKING EXIST.

THERE IS NO PLACE CALLED AMISH CORNERS.

AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK A TOWN BARN IS.

OR WHY A TOWN NEEDS ONE.


So back to the 27 minutes it took me to find my way out of town...

This set me 20 minutes behind schedule.

I had to get Javi to the vet and I gave myself an hour and a half to make the 60 mile drive.  I figured I'd hit a small delay in Canton plus I needed to get gas, so I left my house confident that I would arrive in plenty of time to pee and fill out paperwork.

Oh, what a fool am I.

Road work in Canton backed up traffic for 5 miles.

It took me over an hour to creep forward 5 miles.

An hour.


I was over an hour late to the vet.

I was the last appointment of the day because they were closing for a staff meeting and luncheon.

I held the meeting up for over an hour.

I had to pee so bad I thought I was going to die.

I was so embarrassed  at my lateness that I couldn't bring myself to ask any of them to hang on for a moment while I went to the bathroom or correct any of the four people who pronounced both mine and Javi's names wrongs.

When the appointment was finally, mercifully over I called Dan from the parking lot.


Me:  *bitch moan bitch moan I have to pee fucking traffic bitch bitch bitch complain crampy bloated PISSED OFF bitch moan*


Dan:  "Why didn't you go to the bathroom at the vets?"


Me:  *long-ass diatribe about how I'm not rude*


Dan:  "That's dumb... if you have to pee, you have to pee."


Me:  *further ranting and raving about not wanting to face the traffic jam again and how there's no place to pee for 20 miles and it'll take me over an hour to get there*


Dan:  "So take the back road."


Me:  "WHAT back road?"


Dan:  *stupidly*  "Use your GPS."


*longgggggg pause*


Dan:  "Oh yeah."


Dan:  "Okay, here's what you do.  Turn left instead of right coming out of the clinic.  Go 5, 10 miles up the road until you come to the exit for Farmville.   Remember when we went to go look at the Amish 10 years ago?  That's the road.  So keep going down that road 6, 7 miles or so until you come to the Hooterville exit.  Take that and it should bring you out just above the country store.  Remember when you bought the pumpkin butter?  You don't?  What do you  mean you don't remember?  Remember??  We went for a drive one time when we came to visit like 9, 10 years ago?  Come on, Dani... pull your head out of your ass!  You have to remember!  Anyway.  Follow your road signs... it'll bring you back out to Route 11.  Then you'll be just a few miles outside of Frog's Breath."


Me:  "Okay."


(You all got that, right?)


Dan:  "Just remember... follow the signs."


Me:  "Okay."


This all would have been amazingggg advice if only there had been any signs.



There were no signs.



I drove 15 miles up one way and 15 miles back down again, looking for the exit to Farmville.

There was no exit to Farmville.

Finally, I took an exit that looked like it had Amish somewhere along the way.

Weird Al's "Amish Paradise" floated through my head as I slowly drove along, keeping an eye out for horses, buggies, and pale-eyed children looking creepily at me from the sides of the road.

"Danny isn't here, Mrs. Torrence..."

There was no Hooterville exit.

There was no country store.

There was, however, another fucking DETOUR sign.

I took it.

I drove along, waiting for another arrow pointing me in whatever direction I need to go, but none appeared.

The road narrowed.

The pavement was replaced by dirt and rocks.

I looked for a place to turn around where I wouldn't wind up in a ditch.

Fuck.  Me.

I kept going.

And then, without any warning, the road ended.

Directly in front of me was an Amish farm, being worked on by Amish who wouldn't look at me.

"I don't see a woman in a red car... do you, Amos?"

I sat there in my car, windows down, music blaring.

They ignored me.

"Is she still looking at us?"

This was my golden opportunity... my moment to break the barriers (that only exist in my head) and show that I am a Friend Of The Amish, that I came in peace.

If only I had an offering...


I looked frantically around my car, spying three empty Smart Water bottles, a half-eaten bag of Good n Plentys, and a small furry black dog.


Huh.


I need to clean out my car.


I toyed with the idea of saying something self-deprecating and amusing, like "We need to stop meeting like this!"


For once, my brain worked faster than my mouth and I kept mum.


The Amish kept ignoring me.

"Maybe if we don't look at her she'll go away."

Finally, awkwardly, I made a 27 point turn and headed back towards whence I'd come.

I glanced into my rear view mirror for one more look...

"Look away, English!!!"

As I retraced my route back to the detour sign that had sent me straight into Deliverance, a single thought popped into my head:


"Shit... I should have asked them if I could use their bathroom."

The truth shall set me free.

Today is the day that I am going to end the silence and tell the truth about New York Drivers.

*cue dramatic music*

Sure, we've all seen the horror that is New York taxi drivers.  We've all watched movies where they show New York City being inundated by people who have no respect for traffic signals, lane division, or pedestrians.  And that's all fine, good and well for the city, where the Code of the Jungle is eat or be eaten, kill or be killed.  You're gonna drive that cab like your ass is on fire.  And to those people I say God be with you, and also with you, because ain't no way in Hell I would do your job.  Alaskan Crab Fishermen in the Bering Sea at least have a chance, know what I'm sayin'?  Sure, the waves are big and the deck is slippery, but there's a 50-50 chance you'll come back alive.

Meanwhile, in NYC?

Not so much.

New York, however, doesn't end in the city.  Neither does the bad driving.

I live in the part of the state that is mostly inhabited by farmers, old people who've never left the county or the homestead where they were born, and the Amish.

Even the Amish drive those buggies like they're on a Mission From God.

Once or twice a week I make a round trip that takes me about an hour each way.  I'm already on edge when I leave because of the speed limit situation.  I know it's going to take me FOR FREAKING EVER to get where I'm going because I kid you not, the speed limit changes about 27 times in a 45 mile radius.  

In the first 15 minutes of my drive I've gone from 30, to 45, to 55, back to 40, then 30... 30... 30... 35... PSYCHE!  We meant 30... 30... 30... GAHHHHHH!  

Then I hit the open road and at long last, I'm cruising at 55, which is really stupid.  Who the fuck has a state speed limit of 55?  SO annoying.  Anyway, I'm going 55, listening to tunes, singing Highway To Hell at the top of my lungs, when BLAM!

40... 45... 40... 30... 55...

Kill.  Me.  Now.

(*Sidebar:  I was looking for images of bad New York drivers and got totally distracted by funny quotes about dingoes eating babies.  I have no idea how that happens.)

This one cracked me up for a full 5 minutes.

ANYway.

Let me introduce you to the most typical types of Upstate New York drivers.

First, and most annoying, we have The Speed Limit Elitist.

This is the person I want to kill.

This is the person I scream at for 45 miles.

This is the person who incites every type of road rage imaginable and makes me want to totally change my stance on gun control and personal ownership of assault rifles.

This is the person who never goes above or below the speed limit.

Which is fine, but they also don't think you should, either.

They refuse to use turn-outs and allow the 16 cars backed up behind them to pass.

They refuse to pull to the right in the one section of road with a passing lane that lasts about a quarter of a mile.

They refuse to believe that 55 actually means 62.  

Okay, 65.

But I'd be happy with 62.

And without fail, I am behind one of them every.single.time I make my drive.

Every.

Single.

Time.

On the off chance that I actually have enough clear road to pass them, I blow by at about 75 miles an hour, leaning on my horn the entire time.

New York drivers have turned me into an asshole.

Next on the list is the Shoulder Passer.

These are the people who don't believe that traffic laws are actually made for them.  (Which, I've found, defines about 98% of all New York Drivers.  Traffic laws are made for visitors from other states.)

If there is no passing lane, then what the hell... drive on the shoulder!  That's what it's for!  If some idiot won't get out of their way, they'll get out of the idiot's way AND PASS ON THE SHOULDER!

Need to make a left-hand turn without a turn lane?  No problem!  WE'LL JUST DRIVE AROUND YOU ON THE SHOULDER OF THE ROAD WITHOUT EVEN BOTHERING TO SLOW DOWN!

And heaven forbid you are a person who understands that PASSING ON THE RIGHT is against the law, and you actually stop and wait while the person makes their left turn, WE'LL JUST DRIVE RIGHT UP YOUR ASS HONKING THE HORN!

This behavior makes me say very bad words.

Which in turn leads to incidents like this:

I was driving my nieces to the salon to get their hair cut for school.  Keep in mind both girls are mentally and physically disabled, and will repeat EVERY FUCKING THING I say and do.

Which I really, really appreciate.

Anyway, I'm trying to make a left turn into the parking lot of the salon.

There is no turn lane (because that would make sense, of course).

I'm waiting.

And waiting.

And then, some jackass IN A HUMMER... BECAUSE YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN THE AMISH WILL HAVE AN UPRISING... careens up behind me blowing his horn, then at the last minute, swerves around me on the shoulder of the road.

I scream.

Then I say:

Me:  *at the top of my tiny little lungs*  "YOU STUPID ASSHOLE!!  WHAT THE FUCK!  WHAT THE FUCK!  OH MY GOD!  GET A PRIUS, YOU DOUCHEBAG MOTHERFUCKER!  OH MY GOD!"

From the backseat:

Tori and Jessie:  *giggle giggle*

Later that same day, in the pool, I noticed that Jessie was singing a song that she had made up herself.  She has a lovely voice, and even though she doesn't speak clearly, she managed to get THESE words completely right:

Jessie:  *with perfect pitch*  "What the fuck... What the fuck... What the fuuuuck... What the fuuuuuck!"

I am also why we don't have any friends.

And finally, we have The Impatient Asshole Who Is Always In A Hurry And Criticizes Other Drivers:

I wonder who it could be...

I spy with my blind right eye...

Okay, this may shock some of you, but I'm not wildly observant.  

Let me rephrase that:  I'm selectively observant.

For example, Dan and I have been together for 11 years.  (ELEVEN YEARS.  Why yes, I DO deserve a medal.)  During those eleven years we traveled frequently to New York to visit his family and now I've lived here for over a year.  In other words, I've spent a lot of time in his parent's house.  

Recently, Dan and his parents were discussing doing some remodeling in their dining room.  They kept mentioning "reinforcing the ceiling around the chimney."

Me:  *curiously*  "What chimney?  There's no fire place."

Dan:  *patiently, because I'm stupid*  "The chimney that comes up from the furnace in the cellar."

Me:  "Where is there a chimney?"

Dan:  "The chimney in the dining room?"

Me:  "There's a chimney in the dining room?"

*cue Dan, his father, and his mother looking at me as if I just sprouted an extra head*

Like this.

(Sorry.  That probably was offensive to somebody.)

Anyway.

Dan:  "Dani... look in that corner.  Right there."

Me:  *looking and suddenly noticing, for the first time ever, a giant freaking chimney going from the floor to the ceiling in the dining room*

Basically, if an elephant showed up in the living room, I'd be all, "What elephant?"

Dan would be all, "The one next to the chimney!" And I'd be all, "What chimney?"

Before we moved out of our apartment, Dan and I were driving to dinner one night when we passed a huge funeral home at the end of our street.

Me:  "Wow, that went up quick!"

(Insert perfect "that's what SHE said" moment.  I'll wait.)

Dan:  "What went up quick?"

Me:  "That funeral home!  When did they start building it?"

Dan:

Me:

Dan:  "What are you talking about?"

(Have you noticed he says that to me a lot?  Like, A LOT?)

Me:  *assuming it was obvious*  "What do you mean, what am I talking about?  That big freaking funeral home right there!"

(The word "idiot!" is implied.)

Dan:  "Umm... Dani?  That's been there since we moved in."

Me:  "It has not."

Dan:  "YES, it HAS."

Flash forward to me Googling "Buck Funeral Home" when I got home.

This is what I found:

Est. 1920

I have absolutely nothing to say in my defense.

My oblivion is at an all-time high while I'm driving.  (I know, I know.)

We recently moved to a new town (village, whathefuckever).  I repeatedly drive through our town to the next town before realizing I've gone too far, then have to turn around and come back.  This wouldn't be such a big deal if our turn-off wasn't at the only four way stop light in a 15 mile radius.

I will be driving along and suddenly see the giant blue water tower with the name of the next town emblazoned on the front and I'll be all, "Well, SHIT!  How the fuck did that happen??" and I have to turn around and go back.  

Dan will say, "How do you not notice a four-way stop light after you've been driving on a freeway with no other stops for 15 miles?"

There is no answer to that question.

I'm almost positive I stop at it, when it's red... don't I?  I have to, right?

Of course I do.

(Don't I??)

 

Dan:  "What on earth are you doing while you're driving?"

Me:  *sound of crickets chirping in my head*

And then last night, we had The Bridge incident.

Dan:  "Did you notice they seem to be building an embankment down off the bridge?"

Me:  "What bridge?"

(Shut up.)

Dan:  "What do you mean, what bridge?"

Me:  *seriously having no clue what bridge we might be discussing*

Dan:  "The bridge!  The bridge on your way into town!"

Me:  "There's a bridge??  Where?"

Dan:  *this close to having a stroke*  "THE BRIDGE THAT YOU DRIVE OVER EVERY TIME YOU COME INTO TOWN!!  THE BRIDGE OVER THE INDIAN RIVER!!"

Me:

Dan:  "PEOPLE FISH OFF OF IT!  THERE'S A FREAKING BOAT LAUNCH AT THE BOTTOM!"

I refuse to post a photo of the bridge on the grounds that I will look like an ass.

Let's assume, however, that it's a very small bridge that goes across a very small river, just for argument's sake.

Also?  I noticed the bridge today when I crossed it on my way out of town.

Huh.

I wonder when they put that there?

On the other hand, I will totally notice if someone is carrying a knock-off designer bag, and I can spot a bad hair cut through tinted windows in a car speeding past me at 80 mph.  

I also had no problem spotting the giant zit emerging from the back of Dan's neck the other day when he was walking ahead of me into Red Lobster.  

And the woman sitting six tables behind us (whom I had my back to) needed her mustache waxed like no one's business.

I also can tell you the location of every liquor store I've passed between Potsdam and Watertown.

(There are 11.)

So there.