In an effort to keep my legs from exploding out of their jeans (this is where Gram says "Oh Kelly, your legs are not going to explode out of your jeans, why do you talk like that?" And I say "Gram, have you tried on jeans lately, they're not made of 100% cotton anymore like in the old days, now they're like 90% spandex so although they are stretchy, there is a maximum stretching point.") But back to the point- in an effort to fight off the evil cellulite gnomes that sneak into my room at night, I started going to Zumba.
Zumba is a fun filled hour of gasping for air and trying not to accidentally pummel the person beside you with your flailing limbs. I like it. Most of the time when I'm not gasping or flailing, I'm doubled over from laughing at my own uncoordination. At the end of the hour, I am drenched with sweat. Some ladies there can do the whole workout in a sweatshirt and their hair is still fluffy and perfect. When I am done, my head is soaked, my face is red and the sweat is wicking out of my pony tail and dripping onto my back. In order to keep my sweat contained to just my area of the floor, I take with me a hand towel to mop my head off with between songs.
Last week after class, I draped the towel over my head, put on my coat and left. When I put the car in reverse to back up, I realized that the towel was sort of blocking my peripheral vision so I tucked the front of it on either side behind my ears. I suppose I could have just taken it off my head altogether but I was sweaty and it was freezing outside and the car was cold so I just tucked it and left it up there.
On my way home, I encountered a car who had missed the road and ended up in a ditch. There were two guys standing there with their hands in their pockets pondering the situation. As I drove away I felt sort of bad for not stopping and asking if they needed help so I turned around & went back.
I rolled down the window & asked if they needed help. They both looked at me & Shirley (my car) and said they didn't think my little car would be of any use to pull them out. Then they went back to looking at the ditched car with their hands in their pockets which I figured was my cue to drive away so I did.
As I was pulling into the driveway, I realized that my towel was still on my head tucked behind my ears, which in the dark, and only seeing my head by the glow of the dashboard lights, would have made me look like a weird sweaty nun. No wonder they didn't want my help.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Thursday, December 8, 2011
If You Happened to Look In My Window Today...
Every now and again I wonder to myself what people would think if they saw what was going on inside my house. For example:
My kitchen looks like a hobo has been using it to hoard random items found on the street. Shoes that don't match, one mitten, three weeks worth of mail piled up and falling off the table. Dishes in the sink. Stuff like that. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
Then there's me. I just walked four miles with that crazy Leslie Sansone wearing shorts and two-toned blue knee high socks and sneakers. My hair was plastered back in a pony tail and helped out by two bobby pins in my bangs. Classic Revenge of the Nerds look. The knee socks gave my legs the appearance of lumpy white stuffed sausages.If someone had rang the doorbell, I would have hid. Now that that's over, I've shucked off the knee socks and started to color my hair starting with just the roots for 20 minutes so I look a lot like Medusa on a bad day. And I'm sitting in front of the computer eating a burrito from Taco Bell (left over from last night.) It's all so weird and random.
On another rambling note, I posted this on facebook and I'll say it again:
Dear Men/Boys/Anyone of the Male Gender,
It is Never ok for you to wear "skinny jeans." And unless you are the actual original Lone Ranger, it is also never ok to tuck your pants into your boots. Never. Ever.
My kitchen looks like a hobo has been using it to hoard random items found on the street. Shoes that don't match, one mitten, three weeks worth of mail piled up and falling off the table. Dishes in the sink. Stuff like that. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
Then there's me. I just walked four miles with that crazy Leslie Sansone wearing shorts and two-toned blue knee high socks and sneakers. My hair was plastered back in a pony tail and helped out by two bobby pins in my bangs. Classic Revenge of the Nerds look. The knee socks gave my legs the appearance of lumpy white stuffed sausages.If someone had rang the doorbell, I would have hid. Now that that's over, I've shucked off the knee socks and started to color my hair starting with just the roots for 20 minutes so I look a lot like Medusa on a bad day. And I'm sitting in front of the computer eating a burrito from Taco Bell (left over from last night.) It's all so weird and random.
On another rambling note, I posted this on facebook and I'll say it again:
Dear Men/Boys/Anyone of the Male Gender,
It is Never ok for you to wear "skinny jeans." And unless you are the actual original Lone Ranger, it is also never ok to tuck your pants into your boots. Never. Ever.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Information Overload - Out With The Old, Out With The New
My brain has become so full of information lately that it no longer stores things neatly in files to be found later. The clerk inside my head who processes information is so busy that she hasn't gone home to eat or sleep in weeks. I picture her as Madam Trelawney in the Harry Potter movies.
Instead of the neatly filed drawers in alphabetical order, there is now just a huge in-bin with papers cascading to the floor. Sad really.
What's sadder is that I have full confidence that this system will magically work when I need it too. For example: Yesterday, at one of my jobs, I had the pleasure of learning a new task. I enjoyed this new task very much. However, it taxed Madam Trelawney to no end. Not only did my new task involve math, which both I and Madam Trelawney hate more than screaming babies, but it also involved me having to try to remember where an entire warehouse of ingredients was stored.
I bet you think I'm kidding. I assure you I am not. It was like playing an all day game of Memory, which I also hate. I would ask a co-worker "Where is the Energy Boost?" and they would explain in full detail where in the warehouse to find it. Then I would say "Ok, well, where is the epsom salt?" And they would explain that also. While they were explaining that, Madam Trelawney would throw down the information containing the whereabouts of the Engergy Boost and begin to furiously scribble down directions to the epsom salt. By the time we got to the warehouse, she had forgotton where she put that also. I would forgive her and look for a mysterious third ingredient in hopes that I would just happen upon the missing first two in my search.
Some of the ingredients I searched for had no label and some had a label named something different than what was written down. (Me: Where is the biotin? Co-Worker: Oh, that's in the bin labeled "magnesium sulphate." Of course it is.) I felt like I was trapped in the Legend of Zelda, where you search for stupid Zelda all day long but no one ever really finds her. In the end, you die jumping over something pointy and have to start all over at the beginning. I did level up and gain an extra life after I successfully remembered where the red rumensin pellets where.
All of this was a challenge, and yet, at Thanksgiving, when my sister was bemoaning the fact that she couldn't find the envelope containing her employment papers for her new job, I clearly recalled that she told me the week before that it was in her van. This is info I did not need to retain, but somehow, I did. Well done Madam Trelawney.
Instead of the neatly filed drawers in alphabetical order, there is now just a huge in-bin with papers cascading to the floor. Sad really.
What's sadder is that I have full confidence that this system will magically work when I need it too. For example: Yesterday, at one of my jobs, I had the pleasure of learning a new task. I enjoyed this new task very much. However, it taxed Madam Trelawney to no end. Not only did my new task involve math, which both I and Madam Trelawney hate more than screaming babies, but it also involved me having to try to remember where an entire warehouse of ingredients was stored.
I bet you think I'm kidding. I assure you I am not. It was like playing an all day game of Memory, which I also hate. I would ask a co-worker "Where is the Energy Boost?" and they would explain in full detail where in the warehouse to find it. Then I would say "Ok, well, where is the epsom salt?" And they would explain that also. While they were explaining that, Madam Trelawney would throw down the information containing the whereabouts of the Engergy Boost and begin to furiously scribble down directions to the epsom salt. By the time we got to the warehouse, she had forgotton where she put that also. I would forgive her and look for a mysterious third ingredient in hopes that I would just happen upon the missing first two in my search.
Some of the ingredients I searched for had no label and some had a label named something different than what was written down. (Me: Where is the biotin? Co-Worker: Oh, that's in the bin labeled "magnesium sulphate." Of course it is.) I felt like I was trapped in the Legend of Zelda, where you search for stupid Zelda all day long but no one ever really finds her. In the end, you die jumping over something pointy and have to start all over at the beginning. I did level up and gain an extra life after I successfully remembered where the red rumensin pellets where.
All of this was a challenge, and yet, at Thanksgiving, when my sister was bemoaning the fact that she couldn't find the envelope containing her employment papers for her new job, I clearly recalled that she told me the week before that it was in her van. This is info I did not need to retain, but somehow, I did. Well done Madam Trelawney.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Drama-Cat: Gladys Goes To the Vet
Today was that magical day that happens once a year. No, not Christmas. It was Take Gladys To The Vet Day. Every year we start warning her and taunting her about it weeks ahead of time.
"Gladys! You get to go see Dr. Charlie soon!" we say in our sing-song voice.
Gladys usually blinks her disdain and ignores us. As if ignoring us will make it not happen. Cats are like that.
On the big day, or sometimes the night before if I'm really on my A-game, I drag the cat carrier up from the basement and wipe the cobwebs and coal dust off of it. Then it sits on the kitchen floor. Gladys senses that it is there and avoids it. She is still in denial that this IS going to happen.
When it's time to depart, I go looking for Gladys. This is her red flag that something big is going down because we usually just leave the house without searching for her first. I sometimes try to bait her into entering the kitchen on her own but it just feels wrong since I know that she is going to see the cat carrier and run the other way. So this year I picked her up and immediately wished I had gotten her back claws removed also.
Cats have a way of growing seven more arms and legs when you are trying to stuff them into a cat carrier. She pretty much spreads all of her limbs out, her back claws grow an extra three inches and you begin to re-evaluate the physics of jamming such a large cat into such a small hole.
Perhaps it can't be done, I say to myself. Then I remember that just last week she wiggled under the dresser in the quilting room which only has about a 6 inch clearance. I jokingly asked her if I was going to have to employ the jaws of life to get her fat body out from underneath it when she deftly swooped back out at me in a failed ambush attempt.
This year my husband was on hand to witness the circus that is Vet Day. He thinks I make it up how dramatic she is about the whole affair. Now he has seen the light. He picked up Gladys and tried getting her in the cat carrier. With the two of us working together, we managed to get her pushed in. We examined each other's wounds and tried to find that one finger of his that she sliced off. Yowling and crying poured forth from the carrier. And continued for the whole 20 minute car ride to the vet.
At first she tried the distressed yowl. I turned the car radio on. Then she started peppering the yowls with growls. I turned the radio up louder. She added hissing to the repertoire. I started to sing along with the radio. That was when she gave up and switched tactics to the Poor Pitiful Me meow. If you've ever watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation you may remember the part where Aunt Brittany accidently wraps the cat up in a box. The box is making terrible noises and thrashing about wildly. That's what Gladys does inside her cat carrier between the house & the car, the car & the vet's.
At Dr. Charlie's, we went into the exam room. (Lights please.) We waited a moment or two. (Camera....Gladys Goes to the Vet Take One....Action!) The nurse came in and opened her carrier and instead of springing out like a crazy baboon, she walked out calm, collected and graceful. Like a movie star on the red carpet. There was no sign of the poofy tail or the big yellow saucer eyes. She walked that counter like she owned it.
Dr. Charlie came in and said hello to her. She curtsied. He checked her ears with q-tips to make sure they were clean. She sat perfectly still, as if we spend every day sticking q-tips in her ears. He pulled her lips back to check her teeth. She smiled and batted her eyes. When it was time for her shot, she acted bored. Needles, shmeedles.
And then for the grand finale (I love this part and I swear some year I will take a video camera) Dr. Charlie opens up the cat carrier door and says "Would you like to go home now Gladys?" And the cat who butchered and maimed us just a half hour before for even SUGGESTING such a thing, put her tail in the air in a delicate curve, and walked into her cat carrier as if she were the queen. (Cut! That's a wrap, folks.)
"Gladys! You get to go see Dr. Charlie soon!" we say in our sing-song voice.
Gladys usually blinks her disdain and ignores us. As if ignoring us will make it not happen. Cats are like that.
Here is the usual silliness we are forced to put up with.
On the big day, or sometimes the night before if I'm really on my A-game, I drag the cat carrier up from the basement and wipe the cobwebs and coal dust off of it. Then it sits on the kitchen floor. Gladys senses that it is there and avoids it. She is still in denial that this IS going to happen.
When it's time to depart, I go looking for Gladys. This is her red flag that something big is going down because we usually just leave the house without searching for her first. I sometimes try to bait her into entering the kitchen on her own but it just feels wrong since I know that she is going to see the cat carrier and run the other way. So this year I picked her up and immediately wished I had gotten her back claws removed also.
Cats have a way of growing seven more arms and legs when you are trying to stuff them into a cat carrier. She pretty much spreads all of her limbs out, her back claws grow an extra three inches and you begin to re-evaluate the physics of jamming such a large cat into such a small hole.
Perhaps it can't be done, I say to myself. Then I remember that just last week she wiggled under the dresser in the quilting room which only has about a 6 inch clearance. I jokingly asked her if I was going to have to employ the jaws of life to get her fat body out from underneath it when she deftly swooped back out at me in a failed ambush attempt.
This year my husband was on hand to witness the circus that is Vet Day. He thinks I make it up how dramatic she is about the whole affair. Now he has seen the light. He picked up Gladys and tried getting her in the cat carrier. With the two of us working together, we managed to get her pushed in. We examined each other's wounds and tried to find that one finger of his that she sliced off. Yowling and crying poured forth from the carrier. And continued for the whole 20 minute car ride to the vet.
At first she tried the distressed yowl. I turned the car radio on. Then she started peppering the yowls with growls. I turned the radio up louder. She added hissing to the repertoire. I started to sing along with the radio. That was when she gave up and switched tactics to the Poor Pitiful Me meow. If you've ever watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation you may remember the part where Aunt Brittany accidently wraps the cat up in a box. The box is making terrible noises and thrashing about wildly. That's what Gladys does inside her cat carrier between the house & the car, the car & the vet's.
At Dr. Charlie's, we went into the exam room. (Lights please.) We waited a moment or two. (Camera....Gladys Goes to the Vet Take One....Action!) The nurse came in and opened her carrier and instead of springing out like a crazy baboon, she walked out calm, collected and graceful. Like a movie star on the red carpet. There was no sign of the poofy tail or the big yellow saucer eyes. She walked that counter like she owned it.
Dr. Charlie came in and said hello to her. She curtsied. He checked her ears with q-tips to make sure they were clean. She sat perfectly still, as if we spend every day sticking q-tips in her ears. He pulled her lips back to check her teeth. She smiled and batted her eyes. When it was time for her shot, she acted bored. Needles, shmeedles.
And then for the grand finale (I love this part and I swear some year I will take a video camera) Dr. Charlie opens up the cat carrier door and says "Would you like to go home now Gladys?" And the cat who butchered and maimed us just a half hour before for even SUGGESTING such a thing, put her tail in the air in a delicate curve, and walked into her cat carrier as if she were the queen. (Cut! That's a wrap, folks.)
The queen setting majestically on her Victorian couch.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
My Version of the National Poverty Level
According to the newspaper, my husband and I are a mere 2 kids away from falling below the National Poverty Level, or NPL as I like to call it. NPL makes it sound more like a sport, like NBA or NFL or NRA.
Since I'm mathematically dyslexic and because I don't give a rat's patootie about details (it was in the newspaper but the explaining paragraph looked too boring to read so I skipped it), I'm really not sure how they come up with the figures that define if one falls above or below the poverty level. So I've devised a more clever and brilliantly thought out way to find out where you stand.
I believe my version to be more accurate.
You fall under the NPL if:
1. The toilet paper where you work is better than what you've got at home.
a. You work in a feed mill part of the time.
b. The other part of the time you work on a roving tar & chip crew, therefore the toilet paper consists of napkins from Sheetz and whatever flora you can scrounge off the forest floor.
2. Your welfare/foodstamps friends with multiple kids are eating better than you. The inside of their fridge looks like the midnight buffet on a Carnival cruise ship compared to your pitiful collection of condiments and Ziplock containers of mysterious and fuzzy mold.
3. You hang out at the old folks home in the winter time because they have heat.
4. You buy a cheap pair of flip flops for $7 at Payless and the cashier tells you that you must have mega will power because there is a Buy One Get One Half Off deal going on. And you're like "No, I just don't have an extra $3.50 and I feel bad about spending this much instead of buying the $1 ones at Dollar General."
5. You realize that the jeans you are wearing were given to you buy your friend Mary before she moved away and that was about six years ago. You got your "dressy" t-shirts from another very good friend (who will remain nameless so her boyfriend doesn't wig out on me) when she had her boobs done. And as you look around, you discover that your entire wardrobe was given to you by someone else.
6. You read about the NPL in the newspaper you found on the breakroom table at the mill because you can't afford to buy your own subscription.
7. You dream about robbing a bank but in your dream, someone finds your stash of stolen loot and shreds it into mulch. Even in your dreams you get to be poor. Bummer.
8. When you accidentally get burnt by a run-away firework on the 4th of July you refuse medical treatment because the co-pay to see your doctor is $30. You don't need that arm anyhow, that's why God gives you two of them. Let it burn.
Since I'm mathematically dyslexic and because I don't give a rat's patootie about details (it was in the newspaper but the explaining paragraph looked too boring to read so I skipped it), I'm really not sure how they come up with the figures that define if one falls above or below the poverty level. So I've devised a more clever and brilliantly thought out way to find out where you stand.
I believe my version to be more accurate.
(This is my family in the 1940's making apple butter in their backyard. I might be poor but I get it honest.)
You fall under the NPL if:
1. The toilet paper where you work is better than what you've got at home.
a. You work in a feed mill part of the time.
b. The other part of the time you work on a roving tar & chip crew, therefore the toilet paper consists of napkins from Sheetz and whatever flora you can scrounge off the forest floor.
2. Your welfare/foodstamps friends with multiple kids are eating better than you. The inside of their fridge looks like the midnight buffet on a Carnival cruise ship compared to your pitiful collection of condiments and Ziplock containers of mysterious and fuzzy mold.
3. You hang out at the old folks home in the winter time because they have heat.
4. You buy a cheap pair of flip flops for $7 at Payless and the cashier tells you that you must have mega will power because there is a Buy One Get One Half Off deal going on. And you're like "No, I just don't have an extra $3.50 and I feel bad about spending this much instead of buying the $1 ones at Dollar General."
5. You realize that the jeans you are wearing were given to you buy your friend Mary before she moved away and that was about six years ago. You got your "dressy" t-shirts from another very good friend (who will remain nameless so her boyfriend doesn't wig out on me) when she had her boobs done. And as you look around, you discover that your entire wardrobe was given to you by someone else.
6. You read about the NPL in the newspaper you found on the breakroom table at the mill because you can't afford to buy your own subscription.
7. You dream about robbing a bank but in your dream, someone finds your stash of stolen loot and shreds it into mulch. Even in your dreams you get to be poor. Bummer.
8. When you accidentally get burnt by a run-away firework on the 4th of July you refuse medical treatment because the co-pay to see your doctor is $30. You don't need that arm anyhow, that's why God gives you two of them. Let it burn.
(This has healed nicely on its own since the picture was taken and yes, that really is my arm and I really didn't go to the doctor.)
9. Your front bike tire went flat two months ago and your husband still hasn't fixed it. - Oh wait. That falls under "Cheap and Simple Repairs Your Husband Could Do But Just Conveniently Forgets To Do."
Welcome to the NPL. Go Team Poverty!
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Pro's & Con's of Running
In the past few years I have gone from fitness fanatic to world class couch potato. Running was my exercise of choice followed closely by whatever workout they were doing on FitTv or Lifetime in the morning. For years without fail, I would wake up and do Fit & Lite with Denise Austin. Then Lifetime took her away. Gilad kept me trim and limber on the FitTv Channel until Directv ditched it. Then my dog died and I ditched running. It was an easy transition into slobdom. Pass the Doritos please.
Every now and then I put on my sneaks and hobble outside to do a few lame and labored miles. Grudgingly. In this month's edition of Runner's World it had an article to get people motivated to become morning runners. It said to list the pro's and con's of running. So I shall. Here they are:
Pro's to running:
1. Running makes me look like a goddess. (Only in my mind but that's all I need really. As long as I think I look good....)
2. When I run I get to brag about having ran. (What? Oh, that's nothing. I already ran 5 miles this morning.)
3. It minimizes the cheese on my thighs.
4. It gives me Awesome calves. When I flex them they look like chicken cutlets. This in turn minimizes the fact that I have cankles. (Thanks a BUNCH bad genetics.)
5. You can see my knee caps instead of just stretch marks and cellulite.
6. My heartbeat slows down to like, 3 beats a minute. Running makes my heart so efficient that I'm almost clinically dead. This is fun because it freaks out the people at the Red Cross when I make a blood donation.
7. I eat like walrus and look like a gazelle.
Con's to running:
1. I'm too lazy to run.
2. You have to do it consistently for it to work.
3. More specifically, you have to do it consistently for months and months.
4. I don't like running in the cold.
5. I don't like running in the heat.
6. I don't like running in the evening.
7. Mornings don't work for me either.
8. My whole day has to be planned around the run because I hate having to take more than one shower a day.
9. I sweat like a warthog. Seriously. I can soak an entire ball cap, including the bill. Ask my old running partners.
10. I sometimes have to wake up at 3:30am to be at work and then if I work 12 hour days, I don't feel like running at the end of it.
Well, there you have it. I'm not sure what conclusion I'm supposed to come to. I think the magazine said I was to be able to see that the pro's outweigh the con's. Personally, I'm thinking I'd totally rock a muumuu. Screw you skinny jeans.
Every now and then I put on my sneaks and hobble outside to do a few lame and labored miles. Grudgingly. In this month's edition of Runner's World it had an article to get people motivated to become morning runners. It said to list the pro's and con's of running. So I shall. Here they are:
Pro's to running:
1. Running makes me look like a goddess. (Only in my mind but that's all I need really. As long as I think I look good....)
2. When I run I get to brag about having ran. (What? Oh, that's nothing. I already ran 5 miles this morning.)
3. It minimizes the cheese on my thighs.
4. It gives me Awesome calves. When I flex them they look like chicken cutlets. This in turn minimizes the fact that I have cankles. (Thanks a BUNCH bad genetics.)
5. You can see my knee caps instead of just stretch marks and cellulite.
6. My heartbeat slows down to like, 3 beats a minute. Running makes my heart so efficient that I'm almost clinically dead. This is fun because it freaks out the people at the Red Cross when I make a blood donation.
7. I eat like walrus and look like a gazelle.
Con's to running:
1. I'm too lazy to run.
2. You have to do it consistently for it to work.
3. More specifically, you have to do it consistently for months and months.
4. I don't like running in the cold.
5. I don't like running in the heat.
6. I don't like running in the evening.
7. Mornings don't work for me either.
8. My whole day has to be planned around the run because I hate having to take more than one shower a day.
9. I sweat like a warthog. Seriously. I can soak an entire ball cap, including the bill. Ask my old running partners.
10. I sometimes have to wake up at 3:30am to be at work and then if I work 12 hour days, I don't feel like running at the end of it.
Well, there you have it. I'm not sure what conclusion I'm supposed to come to. I think the magazine said I was to be able to see that the pro's outweigh the con's. Personally, I'm thinking I'd totally rock a muumuu. Screw you skinny jeans.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Funeral Crasher
So there I sat this past Saturday morning, enjoying the epic cheesiness of "Eclipse" (thank you Netflix) when I got a phone call from Walt, my unofficial personal assistant. He was calling to let me know that my great-aunt's funeral was that day at 11 o'clock. I found out at 9:45am.
He said he had left a message on my answering machine about the viewing (the night before apparently) which my machine failed to relay to me. This made me wonder how many other important calls my machine has not given me.
"Kelly? Ed McMahon here. You won the million dollar sweepstakes..."
Walt was unsure of the exact whereabouts of the funeral but he did know it was at 11. There are only 350 small churches in our community. I felt that I should make the effort to go, and besides, where two or more of my dad's family is gathered, usually a good time follows. I was sure I could find it.
So I raced to the shower (after I finished watching the Cullens defeat the army of newborns and discuss Bella's future with the Volturi) and was on my way. The first church I stopped at had only two cars in the parking lot, neither of which was a hearse.
I tried calling my dad on my sister's old trac phone with 29 seconds left on it. Since there is barely any service in our area I had to drive further down the road just to make the call. It went to voice mail. He was apparently already at the funeral which was surprising since he is notoriously late for everything. I kept driving. I even tried calling my gram to see if she had a newspaper with the obit in it. I think I got her out of bed. 10:50am is sort of early for her.
Three churches and 35 minutes later, I was getting uncomfortable. The vintage dress I was wearing (which fit 5 years ago but not so much anymore) was giving me the vapors from having to suck in my gut. My pantyhose (how OLD FASHIONED!) made me feel like I was wearing long johns because it was a very hot day. I should point out that the purpose of the pantyhose was to cover up the fact that I was too hurried to shave my legs and to give the appearance of a fake suntan.
I had pretty much given up on finding the funeral when I fell in line with some white cars doing about 20 in a 55 speed zone. Could this be the funeral procession? I was ready to turn on my hazard lights when I realized that it was just a string of old people driving. ARRRRRR!!!!
So I pulled over in a corn field and shucked off the pantyhose and unbuttoned the middle of my dress to let my gut hang out. Oh sweet relief. The white car drivers were going so slow that I caught up to them again.
I decided to call it a day and just head home. That's when I passed a church with a full parking lot AND a hearse. So I stopped. And almost got out of the car half dressed. It's a good thing I looked down to find my purse. I put myself back together but there was no way I wrestling the hose back on in a church parking lot. Houdini I'm not. No wonder no one wears those things anymore.
Quietly I snuck in the church, and slid into the back pew, hoping this was the right funeral. I decided that no matter whose it was, I was going to stay and if anyone asked how I knew the deceased, I was just going to say they used to be my Sunday School teacher. Even if he/she was the town drunk, that was my story and I was sticking to it. Turns out I was at the right church - I could see the back of my aunt's head.
While I was sitting there I also had an epiphany. This winter, when I'm tired of the ramen noodles, I'm just going to go to random funerals and stay for the meal. I could potentially be eating ham and green beans every day for free. Eventually someone will be clever enough to write a screen play about this and when they do, I want you to remember who came up with the idea first.
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