Saturday, March 29, 2008

And he seemed like such a nice guy when he first walked into the room . . .

I finally broke down and saw an actual doctor about my tendinitis or whatever it is that's wrong with multiple areas of my left foot/leg musculoskeletal/soft tissue structure.

I can tell that Pharmacist Greg has tired of my asking his free medical advice because when I took off my shoe and sock at work and insisted he inspect my foot . . .

Okay. So I saw a real doctor.

And he seemed friendly and helpful when he walked into the exam room, but that was before he got all vile and malicious and told me in six different ways that I'm getting older. Older!

Did I mention his name is Dr. Buttface?

"What seems to be the problem, Kristin?"

"I have soreness and pain in my ankle and calf plus a stabbing/tingling pain on the outside of my arch."

"Have you had any recent change in activities?"

"Yes, in December I upgraded from walking every day to running every day. I bought really good running shoes though, so . . . "

"Every day? Running is really hard on older bodies and . . . "

OLDER bodies? What's that all about? I'm not older! You're older. I am not older!

"Really, you should probably scale back to walking. Let's take an X-ray to make sure there aren't any stress fractures or other visible problems."

Some time later, like after finding out that not only am I uncommonly unphotogenic on the outside, but even more so on the inside . . .

"Well, I don't see any stress fractures. But here and here, can you see the small bone spurs starting to develop?"

"Yes--what's that from? Is that dangerous? How do we fix that? Am I panicking enough to suit your evil ends?"

"They're not dangerous, it just happens as people age."

Seriously? The age thing again?

"In other words, Kristin, I can tell that I'm not looking at the X-ray of a 20 year old."

Elf. You.

"What I'd like you to do is take naproxin for a couple of weeks and then work slowly back into walking. Brisk walking will give you 75% of the aerobic benefit of running but without the damage to the joints."

"So by 'work slowly back into walking' do you mean it's okay to do 7 days a week but cut back from 6 to 5 miles a day?"

"Well . . . no. Three times a week for 40 minutes gives you a good cardio workout and gives your body time to rest in between. Because as the body ages it needs more recovery time . . . "


"Anything else I need to know, Doc?"

"Whatever exercise you do, keep it low impact. Elliptical trainers are good, as are treadmills."

"What about doing aerobics on a trampoline? That's low impact, right?"

"Umm, no. Trampolines are for kids."


"What about going back to kickboxing? That was a phenomenal workout!"

"Kickboxing? Kickboxing?" Raised and suspicious eyebrow. "Your kickboxing days were over a couple decades ago."

You suck!

"Okay, but what about . . . "

"You know, Kristin, the more we talk, the more I understand the diagnosis."

"What do you mean?"

"You're too hard on yourself. You're not a kid anymore. A person your age needs to think about . . . "

And that's when I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his neck and strangled him.

Dr. Buttface is dead.

I'm writing from jail.

The end.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

How Bossy makes the world a better place.

So. I'm one of the Seattle people on the list for Bossy's Excellent Road Trip.

Hence the little badge





But I'm a little nervous about the upcoming meet and greet. Because it means leaving my little country mouse house. And going to the big city. And meeting. And greeting. All things I suck at. Or SUCK at.

Hubby doesn't even invite me to his class reunions or friends' weddings anymore. Five minutes after arriving (and I'm not exaggerating--I'm talking 300 seconds) I'm asking him, "Can we leave yet? Can we please, please, please? How 'bout if I take the car and you catch a ride home?"

But I have confidence that Bossy will make it all fun and easy and laid back and non-threatening. Cause that's how Bossy is. Plus she's kick-ass funny. And tall. And thin. And beautiful. And possibly dating John Cusack on the side. I hate that bitch . . .

Where was I? Oh, yes! I want to meet that bitch Bossy.

So I'm trying to be all brave and, as Nike suggests, just do it. Plucking up my courage entails reading aobut the events of the trip as they unfold. Looking at photos of the happy people in Bossy's company. And following the links to read the blogs of the people she's already met.

That's how I came across ShallowGal.

I heart me some ShallowGal. ShallowGal makes me laugh til the dog looks at me funny. I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear while I read ShallowGal's posts so that people walking by my house and seeing me through the window will think I'm having a hysterical two way conversation instead of sitting alone laughing at my monitor.

And ShallowGal and I share a lot of the same issues--she's exactly like me! Except younger. And funnier. And more concise. And a better writer. I hate that bitch . . .

But wait! Another reason ShallowGal is my new BFF! She left me a comment that said "blah blah blah . . . there is *NO WAY* from that picture that you're going to be a Grandma!" And she's right! I AM the world's BEST photo editor!

Here's my current paranormally edited profile photo:

And here's how I really look:


Where was I? Oh, yes! Thank you, dear Bossy, for making the world a better place by sharing your fabulous self with us and by forcefully introducing us to new people. I heart me some Bossy too : )

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

I'm leaving my husband

He's doing it again.

Hubby and I were grocery shopping together tonight. I was picking out bananas when I heard an offensive noise that felt like a disturbing attempt at accompanying the store muzak. Looking up, I saw my husband walking toward me. Whistling.

I couldn't hold my tongue this time.

"Do you realize how off key you are?" I accused.

"Yep" he replied, undaunted. "That's why I do it so loud."


In the car he managed to ruin yet another of my heartbroken-teenage-girl-memory songs.

"A total eclipse of my farts . . . " he wails.

Next up was his haunting rendition of Journey's Wheel In The Sky. Haunting as in seriously scary. Like it will give me nightmares for a month. Like I wanted my mommy . . .

And then came The Who's Baba O'Riley.

"Out here in the fields . . . " he shrieks.

Part way through the song I start begging, "Please don't sing the really high parts. Or the really low parts." Or anything in between . . .

He and his trusty air guitar just keep right on jammin' with Pete and Roger.

"I was destined to be a rock star!" he announces proudly. "Only I have no tone. Or rhythm. But I make up for it with enthusiasm! . . . The exodus is here . . . "

I grip the steering wheel so hard I lose the feeling in my fingers. I grind my teeth til my fillings make sparks. "Do you know why I only played the classical station in the car for all those years?" I yell above his tenor. Or counter tenor. Or counterfeit tenor.

" . . . it's only teenage wasteland . . . Because I couldn't sing along with Beethoven and Mozart?" he grins mischievously. Darn it. He got to the punchline before I could.

"THEY'RE ALL WASTED!!" he passionately cries in his best rock voice. And then he launches into a wicked multi-air instrument solo. Townshend windmill and all . . .

I begin to mentally divide our assets.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

The first baby photo . . . oh man, this is going to get *so boring* for you all : )

Beautiful and The Boyfriend went in for their first ultrasound today. Too early to tell the gender though. Maybe next month!

Yes, I'm going to be this insufferable for the next, oh, I don't know, 50 years?

Sunday, March 23, 2008


Geggie gave me this last week:

As blackbird's youngest would say, I less than three you Geggie : )

So the official rule about accepting this prestigious E is that one must bestow it upon at least 10 other excellent blogs.

It would be impossible to choose only 10 out of the manymanymany excellent blogs out there. I'd rather share it with you all.

There are two, however, that I especially want to give a hearty E to:

Mary--I know you have issues with this medium and I love that your sense of justice, community and integrity are reasons you don't blog much anymore. But when you do--wow! Your writing is as deep and well planned and argued as your personal conversations. Your're just so dang eloquent. It's embarrassing to the rest of us who kin reed an' rite only jist good enuf to git along . . .

And Maddy. The way you share about your daily struggles and small triumphs is nearly poetic. Nothing forced, nothing contrived, just honest. And beautiful.

E's all around!

Saturday, March 22, 2008

this is why he calls me the 'anti-Kris'

I'm on the phone with my friend Mary when Hubby walks through the kitchen whistling a happy tune. I interrupt the phone conversation without even excusing myself. I bark out a quick command that has exactly the same tone as though I'm telling the dog to get off the couch. "Stop whistling," I order my husband.

On the other end of the line Mary giggles. "That's right," she says, "you don't allow whistling."

Of course it's not as simple as that . . .

Partly it's because with my history of migraines I have a low tolerance for light and sound. Partly it's because I'm just a bitch about certain things.

A week earlier, Hubby and I had been driving home from a restaurant with Youngest. We'd had a nice dinner, the car was warm and there was a whole string of good old songs on the radio. It was nigh on perfect.

Perfect until Hubby started singing along with the music.

Hubby is tone deaf. He ruins songs by attempting to join in. In other words, Hubby's pleasure turns me into a shrew.

I'm off in another place, harmonizing with the Eagles, when he starts in. His singing makes my eyeballs itch. His persistent and merciless butchering of songs gives me that feeling like my head is going to explode.

But I don't say anything. It's not his fault he can't sing. Ironic, isn't it, that the very thing that made me fall in love with him is the very thing that makes me want to drop him off on the side of the road? I guess it isn't all that ironic. In fact, it's cliche.

Three or four more oldies play and he heartily belts them out. I bite my tongue. Hard. Hubby and Youngest (who I suspect suffers from the same affliction as his father) are having a grand old time. I'm not going to ruin their fun.

I manage to put on my happy face and hum along with them. I'm in a genuinely good mood again when one of my favorite old Cars songs begins to play. I'm quietly singing too when I hear an awful noise. What is that horrible noise? I'm wondering if there's something terribly wrong with our vehicle when I realize . . . the frightening sound is Hubby whistling.

Not only do I despise off key whistling, but I am especially intolerant of whistling in the car. There's no way to escape that noise in such a tiny, closed environment. My family is well aware that car whistling is a line never to be crossed. What's Hubby thinking???????

It's so bad it makes me nauseated. The jollity of the moment is gone. It takes all my strength not to say anything to him. I don't criticize. I don't tell him to stop. I just keep driving and let him whistle his tuneless tune. I want to claw my way out of the moving car . . .

On the other hand . . .

Hubby heard Exile's "Kiss You All Over" on the radio the other day. From the first bass notes he knew it was likely a song I'd loved as a teenage girl and probably still love. And he was right. He knows me that well.

No matter how many of his little habits make me want to run screaming into traffic, I will never be understood and cared for by another human being like I am by him.

Whistling notwithstanding, I think I'll keep him.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

me, not me


not me:

On a Saturday night, me:

not me:

I'm a dog person:

not a cat person:


not me:


not me:


not me:


no, not yum-me:

oh yes, me me me me me!
not so much me:


not me:

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

This "connectedness" crap is getting to me

Where do I start?

Let's start with this: I seem to have developed tendinitis in my left foot from the running. I know, I know--you all saw it coming, I totally overdo everything I try. Fine. Shut up already.

So I'm sidelined. I'm taking a few weeks off of physical activity. (Omigosh--it was all I could do not to buy a mini trampoline so I can still get a cardio workout but with super low impact . . . ) I'm using anti-inflammatories and icing, stretching, blah, blah, blah, whatever.

Hubby's back--2 years out from diskectomy--is still not great. His strength and stamina are embarrassing compared to his former life. So sad. Now that he is no longer under the care of his physical therapist, it's up to him to continue with regular exercise. As anyone who has ever tried to motivate themselves to exercise regularly knows, it's tough to get going and keep going.

The wife is the last line of defense for any married man. Or, more accurately, the nagging wife is the last line of defense.

I hate to nag. I really do.

"Have you gone for your walk today?" I ask--trying really hard to say it only once and hoping he'll take it as the gentle reminder it's meant to be. "I don't want to henpeck you, but we both know how important this is."

This morning, in the interest of helping him, I didn't remind him about the walk. I put on my shoes and asked if he'd like me to come with him so he wouldn't be bored. See how I was being all self sacrificing and martyrish for his sake? That's right--Wife of the Year.

"I need to remember to take my anti-inflammatory when we get back," he said on our way home.

"I do too," I agreed, "and I need to ice my foot for awhile." At this point I hinted around about how great it would be if I had a MacBook Air so I could accomplish great things while lying on the couch icing instead of just reading a stupid old book. He grunted at me. But I digress . ..

As soon as we walked through the door, Hubby sat down at the computer. Dammit. Now I have to get on him about taking his stupid drugs.

Hubby is in the middle of a car project that will eventually bring in some nice coin. He's doing research on engine parts. He asks me how to spell the name of a company he wants to look into. I start with the first few letters and he guesses at the rest, only he hasn't stopped to think about it and his spelling makes no sense whatsoever. And I'm reminded of something.

"You know how you make fun of people who can't diagnose and fix their own cars or who can't automatically calculate their house payment + insurance the way you can?" I ask in an accusing tone. Shrewlike. Bitchy wifelike.

"Umm, yeah?" he answers uncomfortably.

"It's because their brains aren't wired for that kind of thinking, just like your brain isn't wired for the logic of spelling. You've tried and tried but there's nothing you can do about it--you can't spell and it's never going to happen. That's how it is for other people only with cars and finances. So remember that the next time you start to make fun of someone."

"I thought you weren't going to nag me today," is his answer.

"That wasn't nagging. That was lecturing. It's different."

Yeah. Maybe we need not to be together quite so much.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

down on the pharm

Mr. and Mrs. B come to the pharmacy at least once a week. They're a delightful couple in their late 60's or early 70's--I'm not quite sure. They're obviously very much in love with each other even after almost half a century together.

Mr. B came to the counter the other day to pick up his scripts. One of the medications was a skin lotion, the other was Viagra. Whenever we ring up an erectile dysfunction drug we are instructed not to talk about it or say the name of it--just quietly conduct the transaction and put it in the bag. The end. So it surprised me when Mr. B started talking about his Viagra.

"Do you know why I take that?" he asked. One doesn't "take" skin lotion so I knew which prescription he was talking about. "Oh, please don't tell me!" I thought to myself. I think it's terribly sweet that Mr. and Mrs. B are still active and that their intimacy is important enough to them that they're willing to pay the ungodly (and non insurance covered) price of his ED drug. But I'd rather not know the details.

"I take 25 mg a day of the Viagra," he clarified--just in case I wasn't mortified already with his confession, "do you know why?" Well, duh! Of course I know why! But I figured he must be getting at something so I played along.

"Tell me, Mr. B" I answered with produced cheerfulness.

"So I don't pee on my shoes!"

It took me just a split second . . .

Thursday, March 13, 2008

and here's why I feel no guilt . . .

I share a lot about my kids and their personal lives. And I feel no guilt for doing it. Here's a good illustration outlining why I feel no remorse for my actions:

Number One Son hears the familiar beep of a cell phone receiving a text message. He is surprised to realize that the beep came from my phone, not his.

He calls to me from the kitchen, "Are you texting now, Mom?"

I am indignant. "You ask that as though the idea of me texting is a ludicrous!"

I can feel the rub in his voice, "Yeah, well, old people don't text."

He's fair game : )

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

the hand that rocks the cradle

"So?" I ask Number One Son, home for spring break, "is it love with you and your girlfriend?"

Number One fidgets and fights to keep that sly smile from his face. "I remember everything you and Dad told me about falling in love," he confesses. "I remember you told me that once you're in love, all your judgement is gone. I tried to hold off, I tried not to lose my judgement, but yes, it's love."

Hours later, in an unrelated story:

"Hey Mom, guess what?" goes the familiar refrain.

"What, Youngest?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

Comes the singsong reply, "I'm almost as tall as you!"

"You know, Youngest, even when you're taller than me, I'll still have all the control. Go ask your brother."

"Hey, Number One!" I hear him call loudly as he sprints into the other room where his brother reclines on the couch. "Is it true that even when I'm bigger than her, Mom will still have all the power over me?"

Number One doesn't even consider the question. He sighs. Chagrined, he says, "Yes. It's true."

"In fact," I say with an evil smile, "I am so powerful that if I used every ounce of my strength I could talk Number One into breaking up with his girl right now."

Number One thinks about it for a moment. He breaks into a chuckle and tells his little brother, "It's true. She would have to use every tactic and all her powers of persuasion, but she could actually do it."

Note to self: Use superhuman mama strength for good, not evil >: )

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Coming Attractions

Coming soon to a hospital near me
the world premier of
Grandbaby Country Mouse!*

It's the story of 20-year-old Beautiful who finds herself unmarried and unexpectedly expecting. Taking on challenging decisions and complicated questions, Beautiful musters up her resources to face head-on the most important juncture in her young life.

Here's what the critics are saying:
  • "What is she thinking?!"
  • "She's not getting married?!"
  • "Does she have any idea how difficult being a young, single mother will be?!"

You'll laugh!

You'll cry!

You'll be bored to tears with the endless photos the paparazzi will post : )

[*Project is not yet rated. Working title: 'September']

{Editor's note: Both Beautiful and The Boyfriend are very happy and excited to be starting a family together. This isn't devastating news--just a little earlier than anyone had really planned on : ) }

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Yes, yes, yes, I'm a sucker for memes.

The movie meme.

The rules:

1. Pick 10 of your favorite movies.
2. Go to IMDb and find a quote from each movie.
3. Post them for everyone to guess.
4. Strike it out when someone guesses correctly, and put who guessed it and the movie. (I can't get the strikeout thingy to work, so I'm just changing the font color when someone guesses. Yes--the word is technotarded . . . )
5. GUESSERS: NO GOOGLING/using IMDb search functions. I mean, you can cheat if you want, but is it really that important?
6. One movie guess per blogger. (Okay, that's the "official" rule, but I have too few readers--and even fewer who will actually care enough about it to play along--so guess as many as you like : )

1. I'm pretty sure there's a lot more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good looking. And I plan on finding out what that is. (Yeah, this one's a gimme : ) --Zoolander Beautiful, you know what would be perfect to celebrate that you got this one? Orange mocha frapuccino!!!

2. We had the chance but we were scared. We walked away. WE LIVED OUR LIVES IN FEAR! --Strictly Ballroom Mary, I am impressed!

3. "I can't stay married to you, David. I have to stop lying now. I've told so many lies... I don't love you."
"I don't love you either, but I think I could like having you around."
--Muriel's Wedding Yay, Beautiful : )

4. So I married Bob, for you! I had sex with Bob four times for you! So how can you call me a bad mother? --Orange County This one was also guessed by Beautiful, who noted, "One of the most amazing examples of motherly love and sacrifice :)"

5. After that my guess is that you will never hear from him again. The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he did not exist. And like that... he is gone. --The Usual Suspects, good on ya, Cheek. When hubby and I went to see it I thought it was going to be a comedy. I kept waiting for it to get funny. It didn't get funny : ) But I loved it all the same.

6. Oh my God, I'm getting pulled over. Everyone, just... pretend to be normal. --Little Miss Sunshine yay, Geggie : )

7. "I mean, what if next Friday 400 women turn 'round and say 'He's too fat, he's too old and he's a pigeon-chested little tosser?' What happens then, eh?"
"They wouldn't say that, would they?"
"Why not? He's just said her tits are too big."
"That's different. We're... blokes."
"Yeah, and?"
"I never said owt about her personality, like. I mean, she's probably quite nice if you get to know her."
"No. And they won't say nowt about your personality neither. Which is good 'cause you're basically a bastard. And I'll tell you summat, mate. Anti-wrinkle cream there may be, but anti-fat-bastard cream there is none."
--The Full Monty Yay, Nashvegas--you got the "anti fat-bastard cream" reference : )

8. "Look around! You couldn't find a whiter, safer or better lit part of this city. But this white woman sees two black guys, who look like UCLA students, strolling down the sidewalk and her reaction is blind fear. I mean, look at us! Are we dressed like gangbangers? Do we look threatening? No. Fact, if anybody should be scared, it's us: the only two black faces surrounded by a sea of over-caffeinated white people, patrolled by the triggerhappy LAPD. So, why aren't we scared?"
"Because we have guns?"
"You could be right." --Crash, this one goes to Kuckie : )

9. "Whatever you do, don't shave your legs."
"Well, then you definitely won't let it go too far."
"Megan! It's a *first* date!"
"Yeah, well, I married a first date, missy, and you know how it is. You're out with a guy, you find him attractive, and suddenly everything he says sounds brilliant. Hairy legs are your only link to reality. "
--Return To Me Good job, Kate! Not only do I love the line "hairy legs are your only link to reality" (and omigosh--the truth of it!!!) but I love Bonnie Hunt's delivery : )

10. If there is a war on drugs, then many of our family members are the enemy. And I don't know how you wage war on your own family. --Traffic Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful. Isn't that girl getting obnoxious with answering all the leftover questions? Too bad somebody didn't teach her some manners!

Monday, March 3, 2008

my job is disgusting, y'all!

Remember back during the interview phase when I said I was interested in the pharmacy job because I thought it was a position that wouldn't include cleaning a restroom? Seems I didn't think things through well enough.

How did it not occur to me that each and every day at work I would be swimming in an oozing, repulsive sea of germs?

Sooooooo, people come directly from their doctors' offices to us. I guess I should have seen that coming. And during cold and flu season, they come with their coughing and their sneezing and their general extrusion of germs. Directly to us. To me. Coughing and sneezing into their hands and using those same hands to give me their prescriptions. And their money. Money fished out from dirty, germy, damp pockets. Gag.

But that's not the worst of it.

People also hand me their empty, used medicine vials and ask for refills. We don't reuse the vials. We recycle them. But customers insist on handing their foul, dead bottles to me anyway. Every single time this happens, I have a clear vision in my head of this person waking up every morning for a month, using the bathroom, likely not washing their junk-wiping, ball-scratching hands, then taking their morning meds. And at the end of this honeymoon, they hand the entire infested bundle over to me. Gag.

But that's not the worst of it.

Customers fish money out from coat pockets and jeans pockets and the bottoms of purses. This money is dumped on the counter--along with crumbs and lint and hair, which is all left there for me to take care of.

People take Kleenexes out of their pockets, use them, and leave them on the counter.

A man today, in the middle of paying for his prescription, took a napkin out of his pocket--a napkin he had been using to blow his nose--opened it up, started blowing, stopped in mid blow and finished paying, WHILE HOLDING HIS NAPKIN HANKY OPEN. Super gagatrociousness!!!

And still, that's not the worst of it.

We've had bleeders. A young man who had just had his wisdom teeth removed and was still quite high came in with his friend to pick up his post-op meds. He should have stayed in the car. Instead of drooling blood down his face and onto his shirt and onto the counter, he should have stayed in the car.

In another nauseating tooth removal event, a woman in her 60's--old enough to know better!--came in, removed the bloody gauze from her oral surgery site and asked me to help her place it where it needed to be. I felt very confident as I called a pharmacist over to assist that which I am most certainly not qualified to do.

I can't deal with blood and snot and drool and unwashed potty hands. I'm the girl who can't stand to be near anyone brushing their teeth. Seeing someone else flossing makes my stomach quiver. Hearing another person gargle gives me that taste in the back of my mouth like I'm about to throw up. And God help the child who dares to eat cold cereal in my vicinity--what with all the chewing and the crunching and the slurping and hhhggggcchhttthh

Sorry. That was me dry heaving.

As bad as all this is, Beautiful's boss had it even worse today. Beautiful and her boss went to lunch together. At the end of lunch, without any warning--just like a 3 year old--Beautiful suddenly vomited. On the table. And herself. And . . . Yeah. You get the picture.

Beautiful's boss quickly fetched towels and helped clean Beautiful up and then she . . .

Oh dear.

Oh F*#%!!!

I just now realized that it's entirely conceivable someone could come to my counter and spew all over the place!!!

I'm quitting. Right now.

beautiful Spring

My friend Angie, whose blog is Island Hearth & Handcrafts, is a doll maker. I've known her for 7 or 8 years now and have had the privilege of watching her evolve from crafter to artist. And I don't think it's a stretch to use the word artist.

She makes dolls in a variety of mediums--carved wood to sculpted wool. And they're all extraordinary. And compelling. And it's the oddest thing to sit in her living room chatting about kids and movies and politics and food and all the while her hands are busy and at the end of this every day activity she has created magic.

Where she truly shines is in crafting faces. Her dolls have always had personality, but the more adept she becomes at mastering the subtleties that make a visage human, the more each carefully revealed face has not just personality but life.

I could write ten thousand words, but the photo of her latest creation should speak for itself. Come, be awed with me--here is Spring. Doesn't her lovely expression hold such secrets!

Update: I forgot to mention that lovely Spring is anatomically correct beneath the flowery dress! She's just beautifully proportioned. And no overly trimmed landing strip for her! This girl has a good old fashioned delta going on : )

Saturday, March 1, 2008

the rube I am

Hubby and I had to leave the house by 3 in the morning to get to the airport in time for our fabulous Las Vegas adventure. You remember--the one where we stayed at Circus effing Circus?

I didn't have time to put on make-up and didn't care at that hour of the morning. I figured I'd have a chance to apply Bondo and a coat of paint in the lot of the park-n-ride while Hubby was inside filling out the paperwork. It would have been a flawless plan except that we arrived just as the shuttle operator was climbing into the driver's seat. It was a mad dash for me to load the luggage while Hubby scrawled our info onto the registration card. There would be no leisurely make-up application in the car.

Oh well. We were plenty early, the airport ladies' room would suffice. I would buck up and brave being seen naked faced in public long enough to check in and go through security.

The handsome ticketing agent noticed our address. "I went to high school there" he mentioned. I was guessing he was about 10 years younger than me. Hubby asked the young man, "What year did you graduate?" His answer shocked me, "1984."

How dare he. How dare he look 10 years younger than me but have graduated a year ahead of me! Grrrrr.

"Oh," I said in surprise, "I was '85. What's your name?"

"Don W."

"No way! Don W? I remember you! We worked together at that pizza restaurant!"

Don smiled politely. And blankly. Don had no recollection of me. Don was football star, top-tier popular. I was a quiet second in the social strata. We may have worked together, but it was only for a very short time and, after all, it was 20ish years ago. There wasn't even a flicker of recognition across his face . . .

Not only was I standing there feeling stupid for bringing up the subject of our mutual (and evidently forgettable) teenage years, but also the airport was a balmy 80 degrees. Celsius. Making my non made up face sweaty and blotchy. I felt like a million bucks . . .

But really? Our trip was wonderful. Hubby and I had a great time together--just the two of us for a change. We did the tourist thing--looked at the fun themed hotels and window shopped. Went to some interesting shows and did a tiny bit of gambling. Neither Hubby nor I can stand to chance our money like that, but we were both willing to play the nickel machines just enough to get free drinks. We sat together pushing the slot machine buttons every so often, but mostly we talked and laughed.

I suck at gambling. I don't understand the machines. Too many choices. At one point I accidentally hit the "maximum bet" button. I panicked. Hubby reminded me, "Kristin--it's 75 cents--calm down." I am indeed a country mouse : )

On our last night there we went to the Freemont Street Experience. In one of the funky old casinos there was a sign advertising deep fried Twinkies. Deep fried Twinkies!!!! I had to try one. It was served just like a corndog--on a stick. It tasted a lot like . . . a Twinkie . . . deep fried . . . on a stick . . .

Hubby took a bite and accidentally pulled the stick out too. I jokingly commented that he got the "Twinkie bone." Naturally, that led to some mature and sophisticated repartee. References were made to going down on the Twinkie. And about getting Twinkie splooge on his shirt. I am such a grown-up. You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but . . .