I'm throwing a party.
I don't do this, the throwing of parties. If I DO decide to get my friends together in one place, I usually choose a place that is away from where I live. Caretta's. Or Copelands. Someplace with alcohol and somebody else who can clean up afterwards.
This is a "There Goes the Neighborhood" party. Aka, a Sarah-Moved-In-And-Really-She's-Quiet-And-Well-Behaved-But-We-Like-To-Pretend-We-Are-Rowdy party.
I've invited everybody that I know that lives within 100 miles of my home.
I keep squashing the little voice inside my head that says, "hey, your house? not that awesome."
It is too. It's fucking great. It might be little and old and goofy looking (especially on the outside). It might be not new and fancy and have hardwood floors. But it IS clean, sweet, and very, very Sarah. It has fresh paint and touches of red and granite countertops and a goddamn HACIENDA, so beat that.
BEAT THAT.
And if you don't like it, well that's all right. Nobody else HAS to like my home, just so long as I do, and so long as the baby does. And we do. We like it fine.
So there's that. A party.
It starts at 7:00 (tomorrow), and so I hope that it's clear that I'm not providing actual supper-type food. I'm going to have munchies, and I'm going to have drinkies. And music. That's pretty much all I am doing. Munchies and drinkies and musicies. Anything else will have to spontaneously happen, or somebody else will have to plan it. No pin-the-mustache-on-the-bandito. No dancing. Maybe dancing. We'll see.
I'm nervous, but I'm excited, too, if that makes any sense. Why is it so intimidating to invite people into your home? Nobody judges homes, right? I mean, maybe if it isn't clean or if it smells like cat pee, but otherwise? Shit, now I'm feeling insecure. I have a cat. I know the house is clean but what if it smells like cat pee...
Anyway, the good side of it is this. I'm taking tomorrow off, so I get to have a special extry long weekend, like extra-crispy, and the baby just happened to be off school tomorrow (not part of the original (recipe) plan), so that's good. Good for my mom, who doesn't have to keep him. Good for him, who gets to wear pajamas most of the day. Good for me, in theory, who gets extra time with the baby, although I have lots and lots of things I want to do tomorrow, some of which involves coffee and alone time with Dexter*, but it's all good.
I'm having a party. People are coming. It's going to be fun. Or not. But who cares.
There will be drinkies.
And possibly dancing.
You should come.
Showing posts with label WordsWithFriends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WordsWithFriends. Show all posts
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Magenta Ho
First, my brother posted a story on his webpage about his experience with bad teachers, which was inspired by this Slate article. So I decided to chime in.
I think I was pretty fortunate to have the teachers I had, for the most part. I can remember being in elementary school in Little Rock, and standing around with the teachers while at recess, while they smoked their cigarettes and we "smoked" candy cigarettes. This seems insane to me, now, but it was totally awesome when I was 9.
As a little girl, I was pretty much identified as one of the *special people* who was *extra smart*, which might have been more the result of good parenting and a relatively balanced diet rather than any genetic nonsense, although my parents are both remarkably smart people (even my hillbilly mother, who offers apologetic "nice ham" to me on a regular basis), and my brother was certainly gifted.
In Little Rock, and before that, in Columbus, Indiana, we went to pretty decent - and completely un-segregated - schools. In Arkansas, our school was in our neighborhood, and there was a big fancy wooden playground and we played dodgeball and kickball with impunity, and I did get to go to the gifted classes where we recorded movies and created log cabin villages out of card board. I was even a little extra special, because I was a year younger than my classmates, having been elected to skip Kindergarten since I was reading Nancy Drew by that time. Reading was easy. Writing, not at all so much, but that's another story.
Things were good, really, until we moved to Connecticut. In the beginning of the 8th grade.
In Connecticut, I was, more or less, average. Not at all special. Short. They kind of stuck me in remedial writing, because I'd never written an essay at that time. I was 11. Give me a break.
But then, in high school, I got the mother load of all music teachers. Instant hate, because I auditioned for the select choir. "I heard you have a brother," she said. I replied that I did. "I heard that he sings in the church choir," she said. It's true, he did, although for the life of me, I still cannot understand why. I replied that he did. "If HE would like to join the show choir, then I am sure we can make a place for you," she said.
The fuck?
I told her that I didn't think he would be interested. I don't even think I told him about this offer. I didn't make the show choir that year.
In regular choir, I spent many hours correcting her fat ass. "Haydn," I would say. "H-A-Y-D-N." "Bach was Baroque, not classical." "Bogoroditsye Dyevo" is how that is pronounced.
She hated me back.
By my junior year, I did, finally, make the show choir. By then, the hatred was visceral.
She had a long, long, long, maybe 12 feet long, magenta scarf that she liked to wind around her neck in a very dramatic fashion.
We called her the "magenta ho."
Once, we were on our way to all state try-outs, and she got in her little red mazda as we piled onto the school bus. She slammed her door, and a solid 5 feet of that scarf hung out the driver side door, dragging through the slushy crap on the winter street, all the way to New Haven.
haha.
That does still make me laugh.
When we were seniors, my closest music friends and I convinced substitutes - which we seemed to have, often - that we were supposed to clean out her office when she was absent. We found weed that she had confiscated from another student, one that we secretly discussed her bj'ing. Which probably didn't happen, but it definitely COULD have, and she DEFINITELY WOULD have. I think that guy - who was horrible - had higher standards than that.
Anyway, at the end of senior year, with graduation approaching, I started to get excited about auditioning to sing the solo at our graduation. I KILLED in the Senior Play. I knew I had a fighting chance, although there was a LOT of talent in our class. I secretly realized how incredibly scary that would be, singing in front of all of those people, but I still was looking forward to the opportunity.
One day, in class, the magenta ho averted her eyes and told us that auditions had been held, and so-and-so had been elected. Which is to say, I had not even been allowed to audition. I was PISSED. PISSED.
I left class and called my then-boyfriend, who was in college at the time, crying. He was all, "what's the big deal," and I hung up on him and found my soon-to-be-boyfriend, whose response was, "I will KICK THAT BITCH'S ASS."
You see why that had to happen.
But the best day- the best day- maybe in my entire high school career - was the day she lost her temper with us, the select choir. There were about 15 of us, all lined up in a row, and she chewed our ass. Through her tears, she said, "You people... treat me... like a piece of SHIT. S- H- I- T. Shit."
God, it was hard to not laugh. It was one of those times where you thought you might cry trying to hold in the laughter.
I bet five dollars that I could look at my friend Sarah H. right now, and go, "You people... treat me..." and she would fall apart laughing.
I secretly kind of miss the magenta ho.
Oh- and by the way - she really made it clear that she didn't think much of me as a vocalist. I went by her office once, when I was home from college my freshman year. "Oh, what are you majoring in," she asked. "Well, I was one of 3 freshman to be accepted into LSU's School of Music as a Vocal Performance Major," I responded. Her lips tightened. Clearly, LSU was no longer a respectable school of music in her opinion.
I'd still treat her like a piece of S-H-I-T, given the opportunity.
I think I was pretty fortunate to have the teachers I had, for the most part. I can remember being in elementary school in Little Rock, and standing around with the teachers while at recess, while they smoked their cigarettes and we "smoked" candy cigarettes. This seems insane to me, now, but it was totally awesome when I was 9.
As a little girl, I was pretty much identified as one of the *special people* who was *extra smart*, which might have been more the result of good parenting and a relatively balanced diet rather than any genetic nonsense, although my parents are both remarkably smart people (even my hillbilly mother, who offers apologetic "nice ham" to me on a regular basis), and my brother was certainly gifted.
In Little Rock, and before that, in Columbus, Indiana, we went to pretty decent - and completely un-segregated - schools. In Arkansas, our school was in our neighborhood, and there was a big fancy wooden playground and we played dodgeball and kickball with impunity, and I did get to go to the gifted classes where we recorded movies and created log cabin villages out of card board. I was even a little extra special, because I was a year younger than my classmates, having been elected to skip Kindergarten since I was reading Nancy Drew by that time. Reading was easy. Writing, not at all so much, but that's another story.
Things were good, really, until we moved to Connecticut. In the beginning of the 8th grade.
In Connecticut, I was, more or less, average. Not at all special. Short. They kind of stuck me in remedial writing, because I'd never written an essay at that time. I was 11. Give me a break.
But then, in high school, I got the mother load of all music teachers. Instant hate, because I auditioned for the select choir. "I heard you have a brother," she said. I replied that I did. "I heard that he sings in the church choir," she said. It's true, he did, although for the life of me, I still cannot understand why. I replied that he did. "If HE would like to join the show choir, then I am sure we can make a place for you," she said.
The fuck?
I told her that I didn't think he would be interested. I don't even think I told him about this offer. I didn't make the show choir that year.
In regular choir, I spent many hours correcting her fat ass. "Haydn," I would say. "H-A-Y-D-N." "Bach was Baroque, not classical." "Bogoroditsye Dyevo" is how that is pronounced.
She hated me back.
By my junior year, I did, finally, make the show choir. By then, the hatred was visceral.
She had a long, long, long, maybe 12 feet long, magenta scarf that she liked to wind around her neck in a very dramatic fashion.
We called her the "magenta ho."
Once, we were on our way to all state try-outs, and she got in her little red mazda as we piled onto the school bus. She slammed her door, and a solid 5 feet of that scarf hung out the driver side door, dragging through the slushy crap on the winter street, all the way to New Haven.
haha.
That does still make me laugh.
When we were seniors, my closest music friends and I convinced substitutes - which we seemed to have, often - that we were supposed to clean out her office when she was absent. We found weed that she had confiscated from another student, one that we secretly discussed her bj'ing. Which probably didn't happen, but it definitely COULD have, and she DEFINITELY WOULD have. I think that guy - who was horrible - had higher standards than that.
Anyway, at the end of senior year, with graduation approaching, I started to get excited about auditioning to sing the solo at our graduation. I KILLED in the Senior Play. I knew I had a fighting chance, although there was a LOT of talent in our class. I secretly realized how incredibly scary that would be, singing in front of all of those people, but I still was looking forward to the opportunity.
One day, in class, the magenta ho averted her eyes and told us that auditions had been held, and so-and-so had been elected. Which is to say, I had not even been allowed to audition. I was PISSED. PISSED.
I left class and called my then-boyfriend, who was in college at the time, crying. He was all, "what's the big deal," and I hung up on him and found my soon-to-be-boyfriend, whose response was, "I will KICK THAT BITCH'S ASS."
You see why that had to happen.
But the best day- the best day- maybe in my entire high school career - was the day she lost her temper with us, the select choir. There were about 15 of us, all lined up in a row, and she chewed our ass. Through her tears, she said, "You people... treat me... like a piece of SHIT. S- H- I- T. Shit."
God, it was hard to not laugh. It was one of those times where you thought you might cry trying to hold in the laughter.
I bet five dollars that I could look at my friend Sarah H. right now, and go, "You people... treat me..." and she would fall apart laughing.
I secretly kind of miss the magenta ho.
Oh- and by the way - she really made it clear that she didn't think much of me as a vocalist. I went by her office once, when I was home from college my freshman year. "Oh, what are you majoring in," she asked. "Well, I was one of 3 freshman to be accepted into LSU's School of Music as a Vocal Performance Major," I responded. Her lips tightened. Clearly, LSU was no longer a respectable school of music in her opinion.
I'd still treat her like a piece of S-H-I-T, given the opportunity.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Friend Named Joe
And like a villainess from a 1981 movie...
In other news, this weekend was the Louisiana Derby. Like the Kentucky Derby, but white-trashier. Well, honestly, just trashier in general. It was a gorgeous day, and we wore hats, as one should. My mother has developed a proper hunchback, and in a ridiculously large sunhat, it's very obvious:
My, how I love that woman.
I didn't win anything, and that's unfortunate, but it is so. However, C-Luv won big monies on a single race, by betting a horse with long odds but wearing his middle name for a win. We are talking $53.40 payout. Big monies. Otherwise, he mostly just hung out with his littlest cousin:
Awwwwww.
---
One of my favorite people from the grand state of Georgia passed away, suddenly, a week and some change ago. The night he died, I sang karaoke, because that makes sense to me, and it had been a bad fucking day, and I wanted to drink. So I did. With Melissa. Who danced backup for me, which was... odd.
I went to Georgia the following day. Cried off and on for an entire weekend, and said my goodbyes on Monday. The hardest funeral I have ever - ever - sung. I hope he liked it. I'm pretty sure he was there, fucking around with the piano while the pianist was trying to play. In the spirit of Joe, I'd like to think that was him. Good lord, he'd like fucking with the piano. He also made it snow on us. Thanks, Joe. But really, he was an amazing friend. Thanks for everything, Joe. I hope you knew how much we all love you.
As an aside, Joe was a namer- which is to say, he called everybody something, and mine was Sarie, and he was the only adult human being that could do that without getting a punch in the nose. Perhaps. Nobody else really ever tried. When we couldn't agree on a name for Caleb (I mean, really, "DeMarcus"? I do not think so.), it was on Joe we called, and he said, "Well, I've always been partial to the name Caleb." Hence, history.
And so, on that somber note, I'm going to call this done. I have a new (unusual) temp at work, and it's hard to tell her who to screen, so every time the phone rings, I jump out of my skin.
Happy Monday, everybody. And here's to Joe, one of the best I'll ever know.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Stretch Armstrong Runs a Race
It's been a few years since I started running. I started at... Christmas... of 2009. So, a few. I ran a race last weekend, my fourth time in this race, which was my first race ever. I have run this race with two other people, now, and twice by myself. It was both of their first races ever, too, and it's so much fun to be there for that experience.
This race is 2 miles. Last year I finished in 18 minutes. Boom. The year before that, 19 and change, and I PLACED and got a trophy. I still don't know how I missed my trophy last year.
This year, I was coming off of pneumonia and had not run for a solid month prior to the race. I was nervous going in, actually, afraid of how bad it was going to feel to finish last, or, you know, second to last.
There's this big ass loser in our town that I cannot stand, for whom I have a visceral dislike that I can't even pinpoint, there's really no reason for it. This guy typically plays the National Antehm at this particular race, on trumpet. He's all right on the trumpet. Whatever.
This year, he also ran. Make no mistake, I don't care if I did one solid cough the entire race, I was DETERMINED to beat this guy.
The first year I ran this race, and I ran every step, I finished in 24.40. That's not at all a good time, that's super duper slow, but whatever. I don't give a shit what you think. I am a runner, goddammit.
Anyway. This year, I ran about a half mile, then walk-ran the rest of the race. It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, and I decided, well, fuck it. I don't even care. I enjoyed myself. In that first 1/2 mile, I noticed the tubby yellow shirt of The Trumpeter, just ahead of me. I looked at Mel- let's do this shit. We pulled ahead of him, and even though a little while later I started walking some, and Mel ran on, go ahead her, his bright yellow shirt stayed behind us.
In the end, I finished in 24.40 - I KNOW - and was pretty satisfied, considering the state I was in. Had time for some animal crackers and gatorade, when I heard the announcer call the Trumpeter's name, and announce his time.
30.something-or-other.
HAHA. Fat fucker. I beat the shit out of you, and I'm out of shape.
Oh, how unsportsmanlike I am. Fuck it.
I had fun racing, and I'm pretty much ready to get back on the pavement. Daylight savings is here, it's warm enough, and I've got to maintain a significant lead on trumpeters.
In other news, there's been some sad times lately, but during the sad times, there is often a moment where I can see people I love, and this was one of those. Look at these cute girlies:
Now, look at my left arm. It's freakishly long, and bent at an odd angle, and extremely thin. Stretch armstrong. That's me.
The baby is writing in a diary. I did that, when I was little. He doesn't know I took a picture. He also doesn't know I'm going to post a picture of his diary on the internet. PARENTING WIN.
"I went to a britthay at crassgates." I went to a birthday at Cross Gates. He had fun at that birthday party, a party of triplets, who live across the street from me. I'm so glad. I feel no compunction about letting him go over there to play, because I'm pretty sure she can't remember how many first graders are supposed to be there anyway, and so one more doesn't really make an impact.
Oh, how hilarious is the life. Happy Tuesday, everybody. I wish you a long arm, a britthay and a good run, beating out a yellow shirted trumpet playing asshole.
This race is 2 miles. Last year I finished in 18 minutes. Boom. The year before that, 19 and change, and I PLACED and got a trophy. I still don't know how I missed my trophy last year.
This year, I was coming off of pneumonia and had not run for a solid month prior to the race. I was nervous going in, actually, afraid of how bad it was going to feel to finish last, or, you know, second to last.
There's this big ass loser in our town that I cannot stand, for whom I have a visceral dislike that I can't even pinpoint, there's really no reason for it. This guy typically plays the National Antehm at this particular race, on trumpet. He's all right on the trumpet. Whatever.
This year, he also ran. Make no mistake, I don't care if I did one solid cough the entire race, I was DETERMINED to beat this guy.
The first year I ran this race, and I ran every step, I finished in 24.40. That's not at all a good time, that's super duper slow, but whatever. I don't give a shit what you think. I am a runner, goddammit.
Anyway. This year, I ran about a half mile, then walk-ran the rest of the race. It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, and I decided, well, fuck it. I don't even care. I enjoyed myself. In that first 1/2 mile, I noticed the tubby yellow shirt of The Trumpeter, just ahead of me. I looked at Mel- let's do this shit. We pulled ahead of him, and even though a little while later I started walking some, and Mel ran on, go ahead her, his bright yellow shirt stayed behind us.
In the end, I finished in 24.40 - I KNOW - and was pretty satisfied, considering the state I was in. Had time for some animal crackers and gatorade, when I heard the announcer call the Trumpeter's name, and announce his time.
30.something-or-other.
HAHA. Fat fucker. I beat the shit out of you, and I'm out of shape.
Oh, how unsportsmanlike I am. Fuck it.
I had fun racing, and I'm pretty much ready to get back on the pavement. Daylight savings is here, it's warm enough, and I've got to maintain a significant lead on trumpeters.
In other news, there's been some sad times lately, but during the sad times, there is often a moment where I can see people I love, and this was one of those. Look at these cute girlies:
The baby is writing in a diary. I did that, when I was little. He doesn't know I took a picture. He also doesn't know I'm going to post a picture of his diary on the internet. PARENTING WIN.
Oh, how hilarious is the life. Happy Tuesday, everybody. I wish you a long arm, a britthay and a good run, beating out a yellow shirted trumpet playing asshole.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Mardi Gras Mambo
Welcome to Louisiana! You know what time it is? It's CARNIVAL TIME, bitches, and that means one thing. Pah Rades.
PARADES.
We've been to four so far, this year. Three of which were this last weekend. This is what our Sunday afternoons look like:
My phone sucks. The case always blurs out the bottom.
But anyway, so here is a parade we went to yesterday. Doodle was in a good mood, compared to last week, when it was much chillier, which looked like this:
Awesome.
Anyway, we caught a bunch of shit yesterday, including a new snake baby (all stuffed animals are called babies at my house) for the cat to steal.
Two nights ago was the only walking parade in our town, one that we usually love love love because it's all about moon pies and we usually catch, like, 40. This year we caught 4. FOUR. After waiting an hour-and-a-half.
I'd be thoroughly pissed off, but I am still glad we went, because, you see, I saw my future husband.
THIS GUY IS SO FUCKING HOT.
Wait for it...
wait...
for...
it...
Ohmygod. Where do I start? He's, say, 28 years old. Awful facial hair. Big ol' front butt. Cane. And his shirt reads, "I would cuddle you so hard"
Who can blame me. This must be love.
Here's the baby at the same parade:
He had fun, until the waiting for an hour and a half resulted in FOUR moon pies. After that, he was really over it. Thank God for the snake baby.
I chickened out in the end, didn't get this guy's number. I told Melissa I would. Her response was, "How many beers, boo?"
Knowing that, after six? I'm easy.
Happy Mardi Gras!
PARADES.
We've been to four so far, this year. Three of which were this last weekend. This is what our Sunday afternoons look like:
But anyway, so here is a parade we went to yesterday. Doodle was in a good mood, compared to last week, when it was much chillier, which looked like this:
Anyway, we caught a bunch of shit yesterday, including a new snake baby (all stuffed animals are called babies at my house) for the cat to steal.
Two nights ago was the only walking parade in our town, one that we usually love love love because it's all about moon pies and we usually catch, like, 40. This year we caught 4. FOUR. After waiting an hour-and-a-half.
I'd be thoroughly pissed off, but I am still glad we went, because, you see, I saw my future husband.
THIS GUY IS SO FUCKING HOT.
Wait for it...
wait...
for...
it...
Who can blame me. This must be love.
Here's the baby at the same parade:
I chickened out in the end, didn't get this guy's number. I told Melissa I would. Her response was, "How many beers, boo?"
Knowing that, after six? I'm easy.
Happy Mardi Gras!
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Dancing, drinking Milf Toast
Two stories for you.
1) Today, we went, as we do almost every day, out to grab lunch through a drive-thru. Today's choice was Wendy's. No, I'm not going to bother to couch that and make this less-searchable. Fuck Wendy's.
Anyway, so here's what happened when we got to the order place:
Dude: "HI! We are so glad you came to visit us at Wendy's, would you like to try a baconator today?"
Me: "No, thank you, but thanks for being so excited to have us here! I have two orders. The first one is a kid's meal with a burger only ketchup and mustard, and add bacon, and a Large Diet Coke to drink..."
Dude: "Oh, I'm sorry, we can't upsize your drink like that..."
Me: "..."
Well, fuck that stupid rule.
So I changed my whole order, ordered the second one, and drove up to issue my complaint.
They were all, yeah, no, fuck you, you can't have a large diet coke. Assholes. I said, "that's ok, I'll call the number..."
Hadn't even picked up our (I'm sure, spit-filled, by this point) food yet, and I called the 800 number. The girl was very friendly. Very apologetic. I told her that, since I was kind of a little person, I needed to get happy meals* but that I wanted a large diet coke, because I don't want a lot of calories, you know? And she was all, yeah, I get it. And then she asked if I spell my name with an "h", and I go "YES! Thanks for ASKING!"
Anyway, so she said she'd call in my complaint and see what they can do, and I'm thinking WORD UP I'm getting coupons for this.
A few minutes ago, my cell phone rang, and it was the Big Mr. Manager from Wendy's.
"OH, HI!" I said. "Can I call you Mr. Wendy?"
He said no.
And then he explained that I can get a kids meal and also a - get this - 32 oz medium drink, and then they could put them together in a 40 oz cup, and the kids meal drink is a 12 oz, so... And I'm just thinking, a) I am mathy, and this is shit, because that's 44 oz of diet coke I'd be paying for (NOT TO MENTION THE CUPS) and I would get, at most 40 oz, but probably less, even, because of ice, you know...
and also, b) why wouldn't he let me call him Mr. Wendy?
and also, c) McDonald's makes this place look full on trashy.
And guess what??? Mr. Wendy did not even give me a coupon. WHAT A JERK.
Here's the second story:
I went out with the girlies this weekend, for a "girl's night" in New Orleans, the kind of thing with dancing until your feet REALLY hurt and then obnoxiously buying flip flops and using your new bff, the lady that works in the bathroom at the Cat's Meow, to get a discount on the flip flops, because really, $16.00 for flip flops is a bit absurd.
It was glorious.
I danced. Oh, yes, I danced.
Anyway, I had recently encountered this term from the Urban Dictionary, which is to say, "TOAST", which stands for Tits On A STick. I'm going to tell you right now, I'm thinner than I've been since college, and I look mighty fine in my size six jeans that are a little too big for me, and that night I wore, too, a MEDIUM shirt, which, over this rack, was... snug. Because I'm a chesty girl. So there. I'm a TOAST. Clearly.
And I'm a milf.
Which... makes me...
A milftoast.
God DAMN don't you wish you could go to Wendy's with me tomorrow? I'm totally telling them that Mr. Wendy himself called me. You don't mess with a milftoast.
*yes, I know, it's only called a "happy meal" at McDonald's, but I was really enjoying being extra obnoxious to that lady today. It's my only joy. Leave me alone.
1) Today, we went, as we do almost every day, out to grab lunch through a drive-thru. Today's choice was Wendy's. No, I'm not going to bother to couch that and make this less-searchable. Fuck Wendy's.
Anyway, so here's what happened when we got to the order place:
Dude: "HI! We are so glad you came to visit us at Wendy's, would you like to try a baconator today?"
Me: "No, thank you, but thanks for being so excited to have us here! I have two orders. The first one is a kid's meal with a burger only ketchup and mustard, and add bacon, and a Large Diet Coke to drink..."
Dude: "Oh, I'm sorry, we can't upsize your drink like that..."
Me: "..."
Well, fuck that stupid rule.
So I changed my whole order, ordered the second one, and drove up to issue my complaint.
They were all, yeah, no, fuck you, you can't have a large diet coke. Assholes. I said, "that's ok, I'll call the number..."
Hadn't even picked up our (I'm sure, spit-filled, by this point) food yet, and I called the 800 number. The girl was very friendly. Very apologetic. I told her that, since I was kind of a little person, I needed to get happy meals* but that I wanted a large diet coke, because I don't want a lot of calories, you know? And she was all, yeah, I get it. And then she asked if I spell my name with an "h", and I go "YES! Thanks for ASKING!"
Anyway, so she said she'd call in my complaint and see what they can do, and I'm thinking WORD UP I'm getting coupons for this.
A few minutes ago, my cell phone rang, and it was the Big Mr. Manager from Wendy's.
"OH, HI!" I said. "Can I call you Mr. Wendy?"
He said no.
And then he explained that I can get a kids meal and also a - get this - 32 oz medium drink, and then they could put them together in a 40 oz cup, and the kids meal drink is a 12 oz, so... And I'm just thinking, a) I am mathy, and this is shit, because that's 44 oz of diet coke I'd be paying for (NOT TO MENTION THE CUPS) and I would get, at most 40 oz, but probably less, even, because of ice, you know...
and also, b) why wouldn't he let me call him Mr. Wendy?
and also, c) McDonald's makes this place look full on trashy.
And guess what??? Mr. Wendy did not even give me a coupon. WHAT A JERK.
Here's the second story:
I went out with the girlies this weekend, for a "girl's night" in New Orleans, the kind of thing with dancing until your feet REALLY hurt and then obnoxiously buying flip flops and using your new bff, the lady that works in the bathroom at the Cat's Meow, to get a discount on the flip flops, because really, $16.00 for flip flops is a bit absurd.
It was glorious.
I danced. Oh, yes, I danced.
Anyway, I had recently encountered this term from the Urban Dictionary, which is to say, "TOAST", which stands for Tits On A STick. I'm going to tell you right now, I'm thinner than I've been since college, and I look mighty fine in my size six jeans that are a little too big for me, and that night I wore, too, a MEDIUM shirt, which, over this rack, was... snug. Because I'm a chesty girl. So there. I'm a TOAST. Clearly.
And I'm a milf.
Which... makes me...
A milftoast.
God DAMN don't you wish you could go to Wendy's with me tomorrow? I'm totally telling them that Mr. Wendy himself called me. You don't mess with a milftoast.
*yes, I know, it's only called a "happy meal" at McDonald's, but I was really enjoying being extra obnoxious to that lady today. It's my only joy. Leave me alone.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Beach Bunny. As per usual.
Turn your head to the left. Like, as if you were laying down. Unfortunately, I can't seem to edit these picturs, so you are stuck looking at them sideways. Life's tough. Like, for example, I am super-tan but it is chilly out today so I can't show off my tan lines. FIRST WORLD PROBLEM.
Anyway, so this weekend, here's what we did.
Friday night. Pizza, wine, boat. My dad bought a new boat, a sun-something, catcher or craft or something, and it's a pontoon boat. A party boat. Sorry, but it is. And yes, I am bragging.
My mother asked me and the teens to go for a "cruise," on the boat at sunset. Which is to say, around the canals all around her neighborhood, largely cooing over enormous houses we wouldn't mind owning.
(turn your head)
The teens were not fighting, although it looks like they were. Boat rides at sunset with pizza and wine are nice.
Saturday, we did nothing. Like, I went to CVS and stuff, but mostly stayed in pajamas all day and watched Lifetime and read books and knitted. I've got some socks under commission, and I want to finish them so I can start quilting again. I know. We'll see.
But seriously, very veg-out day, the kind of day where I ate an avocado for supper (and loved it, of course.)
On Sunday, the kids and I went to church, as we do, and then rushed home because the baby and I were planning to go to the beach with T-Rex. Yes, the T-Rex from work. So we threw a few waters and diet cokes in the cooler and put on our swimwear.
For the record, I recently purchased new swimwear, but it's not in yet, and this is a very good thing because the bathing suit I wore yesterday is seriously at least 10 years old, and so ratty you can see the elastic in it. I have another suit, too, but it's too big. Hah! Bitch.
Anyway, so we were at the beach for about three hours. During which T-Rex and I laid there, trying to not expend any more energy than necessary, while Doodlebug did this:
Anyway, so this weekend, here's what we did.
Friday night. Pizza, wine, boat. My dad bought a new boat, a sun-something, catcher or craft or something, and it's a pontoon boat. A party boat. Sorry, but it is. And yes, I am bragging.
My mother asked me and the teens to go for a "cruise," on the boat at sunset. Which is to say, around the canals all around her neighborhood, largely cooing over enormous houses we wouldn't mind owning.
(turn your head)
oh, hey, look. Blogger rotated the pictures for us. Lucky us. This is my mom driving. She drove for like, ten minutes, then handed the wheel over to an eight year old boy who drove largely with his feet. Boat is two days old. Just saying.
Saturday, we did nothing. Like, I went to CVS and stuff, but mostly stayed in pajamas all day and watched Lifetime and read books and knitted. I've got some socks under commission, and I want to finish them so I can start quilting again. I know. We'll see.
But seriously, very veg-out day, the kind of day where I ate an avocado for supper (and loved it, of course.)
On Sunday, the kids and I went to church, as we do, and then rushed home because the baby and I were planning to go to the beach with T-Rex. Yes, the T-Rex from work. So we threw a few waters and diet cokes in the cooler and put on our swimwear.
For the record, I recently purchased new swimwear, but it's not in yet, and this is a very good thing because the bathing suit I wore yesterday is seriously at least 10 years old, and so ratty you can see the elastic in it. I have another suit, too, but it's too big. Hah! Bitch.
Anyway, so we were at the beach for about three hours. During which T-Rex and I laid there, trying to not expend any more energy than necessary, while Doodlebug did this:
Not kidding, sand ended up in some really unusal places on that boy. The kids' bathtub looked like the beach after his bath. But so totally worth it.
I love the beach.
When we were done, T-Rex mentioned Outback, and it was on. We went to my house, everybody cleaned up a little bit, and we went out to eat. Shoved more food than was at all appropriate down our yaps, and then called it a night.
I went home, put on pajamas, bathed the kid, and settled in for some iPod Book Listening until it was time for Mad Men. And then I admired my non-sunburn, and put some lotion (on it's skin, or else it gets the hose again.):
Sorry for the unintentionally sort of sexy shot. Seriously. Also, I have a lot of wrinkles in my neck.
About half way through Mad Men, I migrated to my room, where I watched the latter half before falling into the kind of sleep you can only have after a day in the sun.
Talk about a pretty much perfect Sunday, wouldn't you say? Not a horrible weekend, overall...
Monday, June 20, 2011
Boss's Best Friend
I like my boss. I do. A lot. I even kind of love her.
But she makes me crazy.
I think I am her best friend. She cries to me. Laughs to me. Calls me at odd times.
She can't live without me.
I am supposed to be super indespensable to her, so I guess I am glad that she does these things, but it also make me a little crazy.
Or maybe I'm just in a bitchy mood. Tough to say.
But right now, I gotta go - the boss is calling.
But she makes me crazy.
I think I am her best friend. She cries to me. Laughs to me. Calls me at odd times.
She can't live without me.
I am supposed to be super indespensable to her, so I guess I am glad that she does these things, but it also make me a little crazy.
Or maybe I'm just in a bitchy mood. Tough to say.
But right now, I gotta go - the boss is calling.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
BFF E
(my friend the T-Belle says that. The "e" stands for "EVER," but she means like "Best friends forEVER," not "Best Friends Forever EVER," even though that's ultimately what we end up with.)
I have fabulous friends. I am for sure the mediocre/crazy one, but here's an example.
My friend Kirry and I totally just had a complete conversation on her Facebook page that ran from "thanks for calling me Bobby Jindal," to "Whitney Houston is crazy," to "Bobby Jindal's last good movie was Signs."
AWESOME.
I love my friends.
I have fabulous friends. I am for sure the mediocre/crazy one, but here's an example.
My friend Kirry and I totally just had a complete conversation on her Facebook page that ran from "thanks for calling me Bobby Jindal," to "Whitney Houston is crazy," to "Bobby Jindal's last good movie was Signs."
AWESOME.
I love my friends.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Writer
Sarah Be My Writer.
I am NOT a writer.
I AM a Bullshitter. Tee hee. I want that on a business card.
Today, I've written a press release... a scathing letter from my boss to her bosses (which ended with the obligatory I-love-you-so-much-kiss-kiss) about something they need to get done... and some other junk. I've also offered to write a database to track our assets.
Aside: "assets" makes me laugh.
Aside: I am WAY sugared up and a little spacey today and it's great. The doc has me on steroids, too, so, I mean, come on.
Aside: Assets. TEE HEE.
Anyway, I can write, though. And I am a BADASS speller. If there is a typo or a misspell on here, there is a pretty good chance I meant for it to be here. I like to make up words. Not as much as my friend does, but I do like to.
Tomorrow's my birthday.
Have a happy day.
I am NOT a writer.
I AM a Bullshitter. Tee hee. I want that on a business card.
Today, I've written a press release... a scathing letter from my boss to her bosses (which ended with the obligatory I-love-you-so-much-kiss-kiss) about something they need to get done... and some other junk. I've also offered to write a database to track our assets.
Aside: "assets" makes me laugh.
Aside: I am WAY sugared up and a little spacey today and it's great. The doc has me on steroids, too, so, I mean, come on.
Aside: Assets. TEE HEE.
Anyway, I can write, though. And I am a BADASS speller. If there is a typo or a misspell on here, there is a pretty good chance I meant for it to be here. I like to make up words. Not as much as my friend does, but I do like to.
Tomorrow's my birthday.
Have a happy day.
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