Its time to go now!

The words spoken by a man that's laid a fart-bomb.

The last night’s excursion was an unexpected manic frenzy through a hillbilly shopping mall. The idea to go there stemmed from my errand running throughout the day. Yep, I had to get the dry cleaning and whose dry cleaning ....not mine that's for sure. I don't have any because I don't do anything that requires me to look refined, put together or even attractive.
I'm a frumpy ol' shaggy haired, freckled faced, dark-circle under my eyes from not nearly enough sleep married broad.
The husband however, he has to look good. He's in charge of some pretty nifty stuff in his line of work. Some days, he has to look ruff to scare the contractors but he's the go-between for those multimillion dollar choices so it's a good choice to look put together, therefore the need to have those nice button down shirts and dress pants.

That all said, I have NEVER met such a clothes-horse in my life. You would think that this guy was going to be on the cover of GQ, he has more dress shirts than there are days in the work week for an entire month.
The real issue I have though is that more than half of these are in patterns and these patterns are for someone that would be working as a lumberjack. Stripes, checks and plaids and other awful patterns that would blend in environments those lumberjacks feel most comfortable.

Just a man and his axe, his companion Big Blue and those hats with ear flaps. The colors invoke winter days and hot cocoa, evergreens, melting snow on boot tips by the fireplace.

But it’s 102 degrees here every day in the summer, not exactly the type of place to wear long sleeve broadcloth shirts in dark green checkers and plaids.

You sir, do not swing an axe.
You sir, do not have climbing spurs.
You especially do not have Big Blue to befriend and you do not look like Paul Bunyon

Rather you are just a regular guy that drives a Ford Taurus and sits at a desk and does inspections.

Since I was off doing all the errands including the dry cleaning, the banking and picking up some groceries I also had the shared car, which meant I had to go and pick up THE MAN at the end of the work day. We usually would head right back to the house, do not pass go, and do not collect $200…just get to the house and so be it. Today with the way I’m feeling and the thoughts in my brain I figure let’s have a little surprise trip and head out to shop. We might not have to spend a lot of money, but we could certainly try on a few things and see what works.

One thing in particular that I know that he needs is a new pair of pants, he has been wearing his pants out in the junk-area so much that they could pass for salt shakers. Hold ‘em up in the air and light would shine through – one could use them for a backdrop on a theatre design to be a starry sky. He has only a few pair of slacks/jeans that he wears regularly for work and for casual wear he pretty much has wanted to wear the same then!

Anyhoooooo where I’m going here is that Mr GQ is outta style and ready to get refreshed. I show up, tell him to get in and instead of going left to head home…I make a right and he puts a quizzical look on his face and I hit the gas VROOOM.

Why am I torturing myself? Who knows really, probably just because I’m a masochist but really it’s because I care, I love and I want to see him succeed. Shopping with this man though, it’s going to be a headache I just know it!

We pop into the first store and immediately I start pulling slacks off and tossing them over his shoulders, into his arms, over his head. His face is disappearing and he’s starting to slump under the weight of the yards of fabric. He’s saying, wait wait are you getting the right size, which I respond with “aren’t you blankity blank size?” and he says, “ya but sometimes I’m ….or sometimes I’m …..”
I don’t really care because I’m throwing a little of both of the sizes at him already taking this into consideration.

When he’s laden down well enough I nod and he says in a muffled voice from under the heap, “Can I go try these on now?”

“Yup..git on, I’ll look at shirts. “

Now the fun really begins; looking for anything that looks better than those lumberjack shirts. Lemme tell you that the man can pull off some really bold colors, bold as in primary as well as Miami Vice!

He’s a fair skinned fellow with sandy blonde hair, pale blue eyes, nearly colourless eyelashes and cheeks that are a bit flushed with time and exposure.

He wears a mustache and goatee, I’d say he’s a fine looking fellow and when he cleans up I have to mentally slap away the bitches (sometimes verbally and if I must I will physically beat those bitches off).

I’m really excited to have found in a rack on the far wall a whole row of beautiful Oxford shirts, and at a price that makes me tingle! I am a cheap woman, frugal and generally not eager to spend money on shit that isn’t going to better my quality of life. This shopping trip isn’t bettering my quality of life but it’s going to make the man look better for work, maybe impress the boss which (HEY!) could improve the bottom line and bring home more bacon.

What I’m not ready to find out; they don’t suit his Highness due to a design flaw which is tantamount! BUTTON DOWN COLLAR. Good grief Charlie Brown. How this is important in the grand scheme of life, I do not know as I am not a button down shirt wearing card member but neither is he a tie-sporting individual on any regular basis. In my estimation, this would be the main rule of thumb for the necessary needs and means for having those 2 itty-bitty buttons (which my none-too-lissome fingers can fidget with).

The packaging of these shirts do not have any documentation on them depicting what they are, not to the casual eye so we are getting a bit pissy by now and I’m starting to throw a fit because I wanted him to settle on 3 shirts then and there. This is how I shop, bam bam bam! He wants what he wants..bam bam bam. Neither of us are satisfied and then voices are slightly raised and its getting down to both of us having grumbling tummies and the stress of being in an enclosed building with recirculated air infected with hillbilly breath and dirty diaper residue. The possible use of asbestos in the tile flooring and acoustic tile reverberating old gossip of high school girls chattering is ringing in our ears slowly driving us mad subconsciously and we are surely going to eat each other’s faces off before this trip is completed.

Nothing is found and I’m stomping in the direction of the checkout station where I spot one of those women that still believe they are 25, dressing for 25 however are closer to 45 and you cringe for them and desperately want to help tuck their clothes farther down to cover this or that lump and bump.
Her nametag in plain sight I speak to her by name, which has her staring me deep into my eyes and asking me, “Do I know you?”
of course not, but I know you …by your name tag.

I ask for this specific style of shirt and she promises to show us where we might find them right after she checks the next customer and proceeds to lead us the way. I’m pleased, hurray, customer service isn’t dead (I have a blog in me that says it is) but I’m a bit sick for having to watch her sashay in front of us leading the way.

Sadly, despite finding the correct model of shirts none will fit Mr. Bunyon because not only does he dress like him he is nearly as much of a bear. (Okay all of my gay followers sigh with desire)So we head back to the counter, but not before I spot a circular on an empty check out station that has a coupon on it for that weekend’s big sale for $15.00 of any single purchase of $75.00 or more! HOT DIGGITY DOG. You know damn well I’m swiping it, my eyes jog side to side and up and down for the eye in the sky and like a teenager in a 5 and dime – the coupon is torn and jammed into my pocket faster than a Milky Way.

This story does not end here …but instead we chase the dream of those buttons. Walking about, eyeballing the freaks, the stroller pushers, the posers, the exercising grandma’s, the hawkers and gawkers and finally land into the high-end department store where a very pretty Latina girl comes up a bit shy and asks quietly…can I help you? I bark out, “Size, Color, Button Down, oxford…NOW”
She scurries off and returns with 4…we shove the man into the dressing room and start talking about him and his high maintenance ways…he’s in LOVE with what she’s found so far so I ask of her to please find a few more in various colors because she’s hit the jackpot! She again runs off, her petite feet making little taps on the linoleum floor and returns with hangers in her hands and the shirts swinging in her arms.
Hubby is smiling.
I am smiling.

We celebrate with a stop at the Pretzel stand.

Sit to nibble ….and just as we are about to depart he clutches his tummy, rolls one hip just slightly and lifts his hip and butt cheek and releases a fart.

This is a fart which you would save for the privacy of your home; the type that sounds like a whoopy cushion, wet and like it’s flapping, squishy and popping. The type where he jokingly refers to with..”I think I might have to wipe”

….he then says – ”I think it’s time to go now”

felch ubu - felch

first thought - I hate you blog spot. you lost my entire blog as I was closing up what was indeed my finest written product ever.

now onto the Big Show!
I dedicate the title to Preston in his moments of being forever shocked, intimidated and fearful of what he will learn next ...in his pursuit of yet another filthy word he's not aware of. Preston I'm positive you will have to look up in the Urban Dictionary what "felching" is.

Imagine if you will a rustic Italian kitchen.
Satillo tile floor and the walls a mud-trowel knockdown finished. There are hand-painted dishes hung on the walls along with black/white prints of Spanish/Italian scenes scattered here and there about the room. The kitchen is a-flurry with sound, the clangs of pots & pans as well as the sizzling of food cooking a medley to my ears as well as a song to my palate. I begin to salivate the minute the aromas of parmesan, oregano and garlic waft into my big schnoz.

We are seated along the backside of the half-wall that connects to the bar, this wall is maybe 48" tall therefore you get the opportunity view all of the goings on of the party on the other side. We usually opt to be on that side because less little humans are seated there.

Anyone that knows me knows of my loathing of children, they not only are not to be heard at dinner but not seen. Do NOT take your child to an adult restaurant and do not sit them in the bar section because I am going to go out of my way to offend you even further. I will find in my arsenal the most disgusting jokes and dirty words to say aloud. I might even expose myself!

The booth is quiet enough, I can see the bartender concocting his drinks and the flashing of the games on the 2 screens hung up above the mirrored beverage area. Light reflecting and creating prisms of color, quite pretty really and I'm momentarily distracted from the conversation until our waitress arrives with the menus.

Now the choice to come have dinner was simply because I am in no position or desire to cook. Today I've gone to my milk-toast excuse of a doctor to find out what is wrong with this throat of mine which has been scratchy for days.
When I awoke this morning it was miserably scratchy and when I tried to swallow or talk it felt like a rusty awl was ripped across my larynx. When I went ahead to take a peep inside I saw a cottage cheese factory and that's when I figured I'd give up the ghost and go in to see him (doctor). I knew it was strep-throat but would have to degrade myself just to get confirmation and a big shot in the ass.

We've decided to order a bottle of wine which I've no real intention of drinking because my head is pounding like 12 drummers drumming, but the man will imbibe for sure. He certainly deserves a drink since he puts up with psycho girl.
The wine arrives as well as a pair of mini-appetizers that we dive into with relish, neither of us have had much to eat that day. I'm not sure if I can even swallow anything but have decided to take a swallow of water with each bite and turn it into a gooey mess, masticate it like a mother bird would do and then finally let it slide down my raw miserable throat.
The salads arrive, which is ridiculous...miss waitress is doing a piss-poor job so far. I think she went to the Sear's waitress school in addition to being extremely annoying. She has been fantastic about coming back to ask us how everything tastes but each time when we let her know we'd like to have our salads she's gone off and returned with..Oh gosh I'm sorry let me go get those for you.
Regardless of all of this, the food is going in and there's no real injury yet ....until...
4 lovelies walk in and head directly for the bar. Now let me tell you, these are a pretty decent looking group except for Trucker-Bob (wearing one of those flipping Trucker hats and Wrangler jeans).
The bar is empty..completely but they head right for the high top 4 right next to, on the opposite side of our booth. Of ALL of the damn seats in the house why is it that we are the candle for the moths?
We're here now, our table cleared and sipping our chardonnay waiting patiently for the entree to arrive and we notice...we notice...
What the fuck..
What the fuck...
holy shit! someone smells like shit. not just shit but maybe cat shit? manure? B.O? no, its even worse! its like an over ripe colostomy bag. it's like rotting potatoes, its like...well as if someone's gone to town and got their salad tossed.
There's been some felching going on and I think Trucker Bob is still wearing it on his face.

Now I'm really sickened and it takes a LOT to gross ME out. I'm rapidly losing any desire to have my dinner and here comes the server. He's brought his delivery table, dropped it down and put the serving tray on it and started to place the food on the table when he wrinkles his nose
...I look to him and say conspiratorially, "Dude! do you smell that cat shit icky smell?"

He's like..OMG yes!

"Thank God, we can't believe it but that guy" where I then shrug over at the 4-somesome, "came in and ever since he's been here yapping his mouth has been making us nauseous since"

I seriously don't think I'll be able to eat at this point and that's when this very nice young man, who I think is just as shocked as we are, offers to move us to another table!

Hubby and I got up so fast I was almost certain we'd knock over our bottle of wine, overturn the whole table in our urgency to get away from the reprehensible smell.

Several minutes into a few bites of our pasta I really can't tolerate another bite, my olfactory senses are just so severely damaged I must push away my plate and request a To-Go box. This is bad because I love my food, and going out is quite honestly a treat. I'm the cook, I have been given compliments far and wide for my culinary talents but right now I'd rather stuff a pair of olives into my nostrils just to get any smell in there that's better than the putrid stench that's still wafting about the room.

Now I have one more reason to just get carry-out. Please people. Take a bath and brush your teeth there's nothing worse than having to smell what you had for your last snack.

Plum-Titties, there is a booger in your pool

These thoughts are rambling through my brain right now. What in the world is she prattling
on about now? Let’s start with those titties!

Pendulous, delectable, juicy and straight from the National Geographic these breasts are
entrancing as they sway under the cotton t-shirt. Your eyes are automatically pulled from
anything else you are doing, like a lightening rod attracts a bolt…a flash…ZOOM SNAP FLASH
WHAMMO you are staring and you can’t peel your eyes away from that chest.

It’s unheard of and you know it’s not socially acceptable to stare but holy crap, how often do you see man-tits like these?

MOOBs Gynecomastia Jigglepuffs Swingers Jubblies …this poor old guy really had some peepers but wait, is he really a poor old guy or does he have a sweetie at home to suck on those juicy fruits?
Maybe they taste as nummy as they looked.
I just wanted to squeeze them, pinch them, slap them…motorboat them..but alas I was sitting in the middle of a the room with 2 other people and quite simply it would be socially unacceptable to manhandle an octogenarian.

Right after Boo(b)Boo(b) left a funny little (blonde)college (farmer looking) boy replaced his seat along with 2 friends and proceeded to make their orders. The waitress came and went, leaving a basket of rolls & butter to nibble on while they waited for their meals.

Let me tell you that these rolls are super fantastic and anyone that’s in this neck of the
woods should stop in just for these culinary gifts. Nothing like a mouthful of bread and butter to put a smile on your face.this will also put a pound of fat on your ass and ruin the rest of your meal because your stomach is bloating while it fills up with yeast as it ferments with the beers you've been swilling.

College Boy (CB) is sittin' pretty with a shit eating grin on and fingernails clipped practically to the quick. He grabs up a roll (I'm watching him out of the corner of my eye, simply because I'm a nosy bitch) and digs out the guts of the roll and then scoops out a glob of butter and sticks in smack dab into the middle of the de-gutted roll, slaps it shut and swallows it in 2 bites. Then proceeds to chomp on the glob of bun-guts that he'd removed prior to this act.

I keep catching "CBs" eye and he's on to me and getting a little self conscious but I appeal to him simply by saying out to him..(giggle) you're CUTE! which makes him blush and he doesn't know quite how to respond to the fat sweaty old lady eyeballing him.
this has the rest of us at the table in a fit of laughter because now we are secretly trying to capture him on video with the cell phones. I explained to him to keep doing what he's doing ...that he's going to be my next installment...of the RANTS! but in his infinite CB shyness he stopped. so, we stopped. paid our bill ...and left.

there's always got to be a party pooper or a poop in the playland or a booger in the pool

Ouch he bit my ...

While visiting late this evening, my friend's cat (Baron) came over and took a chomp out of
my crotch directly through my denim jeans. OUCH. isn't it enough that bugs have to bite me;
but now domesticated animals want a nibble too?

This just isn't right, I guess I could just offer an arm or leg to friends and ask them to take a bite... oh wait! Most everyone who knows me or has met me will at least once hear "Bite me, Suck it" ...or the like escape these pouty lips.
Come, come have a taste.

Sincerely speaking I'd love to know what my flavor is, I'd expect it's quite spicy but the way so many come back for seconds perhaps I'm sweet with a little hint of spice too. Sort of like eating cinnamon red hot candies, they burn but you can't stop eating them because they are addictingly delicious.

at least, I dont have rabies.

Say it isn't so

This just can't be true; I can't possibly tell you another story of arachnids and oogiedieboogidie's ...yet I am!

1st let me give you a little reference from the Wikihow.com on CHIGGERS!
""Chiggers are tiny mites which are members of the arachnid family, a cousin of spiders and ticks. The larval stage of chigger can attach itself to your skin and feed, but they do not burrow under the skin as it is sometimes assumed.""

There are a few things in my life I've really wanted to avoid experiencing and chiggers are one of them. Leaches are another and believe me when I say this, I WILL avoid this at any and all costs because you are not going to catch me in ANY body of water that has these festering creatures ready to attach themselves to my succulent flesh. So don't expect to come back and read a blog later on about leaches.
This is it!

Now about a week ago I decided to take an excursion to the arboretum, it was a lovely late afternoon and the temperature had just dropped to a cool 99 degrees Fahrenheit. My plans of late has been to pick one day a week to traipse about town and take photographs as well as write down my experiences into the blog. These are the days to find moments of beauty (or oddity) and live it fully.


Right outside the arboretum's gates is a very lovely bush that is currently blooming with golden flowers that really grabs my eye each time I drive by. Every time I say to myself, this is the day I'll go in and each time I end up passing by and go home or go to the store or go to the Dr. or go...you get the idea.

Not this time though, I told the husband "Let's GO! and off we went. I grabbed an extra set of AA batteries for my crappy little Kodak EasyShare and hopped into the Ford to go. Not dressed for any excursion, (I never am) we went.
I am wearing track pants, open toed rubber sandals and a t-shirt which is just begging for trouble but c'mon it can't be that bad walking along paved trails! Besides, you're supposed to wear long pants whenever walking nearby plants or in the woods.

This is where I get stupid (applying properly dopey face) and invite my tick-like friends. I cannot resist certain photographic scenarios and aspects. My 'eye' for certain shots requires that I climb on top of, beneath, along side..even LAY down besides something to get just the right perspective.

well LOW AND BEHOLD, I clumber my hulk down ...first kneeling down and leaning in to get a snap at a beautiful strawberry-cactus but then I can't stand it and have to get a panoramic snapshot and therefore here I go (kneeling becomes laying)!

I've chosen to forgo the kneel and move down onto my belly, you know this is really quite crazy because I can't stand to even lay on my own living room floor (EWWW) yet I had not a single qualm laying in the dirt, pebbles, dust and scrabble just to get this snapshot.

There are other people wandering around including a statuesque woman with an outstanding telephoto lens Nikon (which was making me jizz my silks). I could care less about any of them because I'm entranced with the 'light' and wanting to get just the right shot.
When I get up, I brush against a rather sharp bunch of cacti (YEOWCH) and exclaim, "I shoulda worn jeans!"

The arboretum was beautiful and I spent nearly and hour outdoors which is a very long trip for me in the great outdoors. Fresh 'air' and nature really don't agree with me too much, I was reaching for H20 and my fast acting inhaler frequently. Worth it 150% though, there's no complaining going on here. My own yard would never even look 10% as nice as this parcel of land. We're lucky to get the grass mowed once a month, its usually ankle high before someone gets outside to cut it.

The day after the trip, my pictures uploaded onto Facebook and I'm glowing from my sun exposure and rave reviews from friends I find myself not so gently scratching..scratching. Nothing new here, but I don't bother to look because quite frankly the less I look at myself naked the less likely I will want to eat massive quantities of pills or my .22.

Alas, the itching won't go away and after a lengthy nap from the Benedryl I apprehensively approach the looking glass, stripping away my clothing and exposing my chunky belly, thighs and can.

HOLY JESUS MOTHER OF CHRIST - NOT AGAIN

I have blisters, papules and bruising like star-bursts as big as a quarter scattered here and there on my thighs.

Why'Oh'Why must I taste as wonderful as orange sorbet? Why must my skin be so tender that the tiniest of creatures can cause so much damage that I am screaming now inside of my head and now petrified to step foot into a lawn ever again?

Alas I am left to find out how to deal with these buggers since this has never happened to me before. The city girl.
We've heard it all before, the alternative ways to deal with this or that malady.
Funny thing, Googling chiggers and most do come up with nail polish and Vaseline. Sounds kinky but I'll give it a try, if anything else I'll get high on the fumes and then be lubed and ready to be taken advantage of.

Seriously though (laughing at the idea from above) the best defense against this (since the damage is now done) is to just take a hot soapy bath and then chase it with hydrocortisone for the itching .

Don't scratch, for certain your going to aggravate it and possibly cause an infection (you know damn well I'm going to screw this up and be sick) and just cope.
Tonight I yanked the sheets off the bed, have considered burning them in the yard but I'm frugal (i.e. cheap) and will just launder them again.

Then I gave myself a rather nifty barbering while in the bathroom, there's no fancy landing strip ...just a well shorn putting green (PUKE glad it's not actually green) and went to work in the shower. I had the opposite of a horny teenagers wet dream cool off.

Started the water off with a simmering heat, if I were green beans I'd have been finished in 7 minutes but instead I kept cranking the knobs until I was at a full rolling boil and my skin was lobster red all the while lathering a'la Dove.

Making sure I only hand lathered without using nails or washcloth that could aggravate the situation and any leftover minuscule monsters could have dug in for more leverage!

I'm clean again.
The bugs are gone I pray.
in a few days my skin should peel off and regenerate again - maybe I will look 10 years younger!

Someone remind me not to play in the flowers and trees again.