“So, I told my friends you bought me cinnamon squares. And they literally thought you bought me squares of cinnamon. Duh.”
Yesterday was one of THOSE days. You know the kind. The one where nothing is quite going right.
I woke up with a headache, my sciatica was killing me – literally, the man friend was unable to come by, one of my football teams lost, AND the new (used) dryer I bought worked all for…30 seconds. Yes. 30 FLIPPIN’ SECONDS and then it just died. No power. Kaput! Zilch! Nada! So I did what any non-repair person would do. Called Lowe’s, told them the issue – and they directed me to their Customer Care 1-888 # crap. Seriously?! I haven’t had the dryer for 2 hours and it worked for 30 SECONDS! Are you kidding me?! And to top that off, Customer Care is only open M-F. Of course they are! So, I ended my Sunday on a very sour note. Screamed at the TV, took some sinus medication, talked to the man friend (which was the best part of the day), and crawled into bed.
Today is a Holiday. So, right off – it’s already a better day than yesterday. But…
First thing, I called that Lowe’s 1-888 # only to be told that the dryer was purchased “as is”. Ummm – pretty sure that’s a load of horse shit. The kind woman tried to tell me that there was a 30 day return policy but that the manufacturer warranty would only be good from the original purchase date. The funny thing was that she never asked for the Model or Serial #s. So how would she know if it was still under warranty or not? Additionally, the dryer had an electrical repair that would also be under warranty. Electrical repair + dryer not getting any power = coincidence? I don’t think so. Anyway, after several minutes of going back and forth and her collecting my information, she tells me she’ll contact the store. The store? You mean the SAME store I called YESTERDAY who gave me the 1-888 #?! And sure enough, less than 20 minutes pass and who calls? The Lowe’s where I purchased the dryer! This gentleman asks me if it’s ok to send out his delivery guys again “just to check to make sure they didn’t install it incorrectly”? Sure. Knock your socks off. I mean, seriously even I know how to check the breaker box, make sure it’s plugged in, check to see if the door is latched shut, and even check the plug its self. But hey! Go for it! A couple hours later, two delivery men arrive. “Hello. Lowe’s sent me to look at your dryer. I’m not really a “repairman” but I’ll take a look and see what I can find.” Listen here, Mister. I didn’t ask for them to send you back to look at the damn thing. After the run around, I actually told the guy at the store to just come get the POS because clearly no one wants to fix the issue – I didn’t say this but it was right there, hanging on my tongue ready to be viperously spit out if this knuckle head said anything deserving of my wrath. Thankfully he didn’t and was actually quite helpful. I still have the dryer and they are going to repair it. Yay!
So, the main point of this post was “awkward compliments”. How can it be awkward compliments when it’s related to a lemon dryer? Well, today’s delivery guy asked to look at the breaker box. Now mind you, you have to walk through my entire apartment to get to the laundry area. Pass through the living and dining areas, past the girl’s room, down the hall, into the girl’s vanity and to the laundry closet. There’s an adjoining bathroom between the girl’s vanity and mine and you can see my vanity and my bedroom because all the doors were open.
Back to the breaker box. It’s in my bedroom. So I walked him to the corner of the room and as I was turning, he complimented my bed! “Oh, I REALLY like that bed.” I politely thanked him and quickly backed towards the door. Sorry dude but if you’re going to compliment the bed you need to build up to that. You know. Compliment the living room, the pictures on the wall, how clean my home is and then maybe – just maybe, it would be reasonably ok to compliment my bedroom set. But you just don’t go straight for the bed plunge!
Good grief! I mean seriously, AWKWARD moment!!
Today’s message: Take time to laugh … at yourself.
Laughing is good. No. It’s GREAT! Laughter heals. Laughter builds relationships. Laughter tears down walls. Laughter unites. And often, it’s so easy to laugh at or with other people but yet so difficult to laugh at ourselves. Why is that? Does it make us appear weak? Are we that insecure that we can’t laugh at our own foibles? Does it makes us vulnerable? I never quite understood that. Laugh at your best bud crashing into the wall or face planting the floor but get fire breathing pissed off if it were to happen to you. Just doesn’t make sense to me and honestly, I get a real kick out of my own ridiculousness. Therefore, laughing at myself is a daily must.
Here’s a special treat for you. I actually sent this via text to Chick #1 because I felt compelled to share my hilarious misfortune with her so that she might also partake in the laughter.
Sometime in November 2013, I was digging around in the itty bitty, slam packed with boxes attic space for the Autumn decorations. Of course, nothing was within reach. So that meant I had to cautiously navigate through the clutter, broken floor planks, and comb through the stock piled boxes for the few I actually needed. The attic isn’t a full sized walking attic, either. It’s basically a crawl space. I mean, you can hump over like a hunchback and walk down the center line but anything off to the sides, and you really should be on your knees so that you don’t cause some blunt force trauma to the ol’ noggin’ by bashing it up against a pretty stout cross beam. No, I didn’t knock myself silly. I did something even funnier. You see, hanging from a beam was some type of dangling cord that kept brushing on my neck….and….
And there you have it. It takes a secure women to admit that she had the pee scared right out of her. It takes an even more secure woman to laugh at her own absurdity… and now you can laugh, too!
Thought for the day –
Mama Hen says, “He who rides behind chicken truck with window down – smells Foul!!”
Oh the joys of living in the country!
Reposted from The W(H)INE Monologue
Palm Bay, Fl
A lesson learned the hard way – Don’t drink and dive. And if you do, get close enough to the pool so you clear the edge.
Nice visual, right? Let me tell ya about it.
I, by no means have ever claimed to walk with grace, fall with grace, or simply drink with grace. To clarify – I do drink with Grace but not gracefully. Basically, I’m a disaster waiting to happen and when you add a little liquor to that, it’s only a matter of time before the inevitable occurs and I make a total ass out of myself.
Hence – don’t drink and dive.
You see, a bunch of us were hanging out by the pool, hot tub, garage game room and just having a grand old time. I figured I’d stay put in one place so as not to make a spectacle of myself. So for the longest time, I stayed in the garage shooting pool – where it was safe and DRY. No way was I about to eat tile and play slip and slide through the house. Nope. Not me. You see, I accept my limits and walking while drinking is definitely very limited.
As the night went on, the crowd routinely migrated from here to there an back again but not me. I was blissfully content to sit atop a bar stool next to the pool table, bottle in hand. Then it happened. The cooler went dry and pretty much everyone had wandered back to the pool. Damn. That meant I had to forego my skid proof flooring and gingerly make my way through the deathtrap wet, tiled house to the overly crowded pool deck where there were beverages aplenty. I didn’t really like the idea of pulling a Risky Business through the house and I hated the idea of me being a human pinball even more but when the cooler runs dry, you go where there are refreshments. I’m not sure how long it actually took me to traverse through the house and onto the back patio but somehow I made it and without any damage. Whew. Feeling relieved, I grabbed another drink, found a spot to once again perch, and hoped I wouldn’t need to move again any time soon. That was not to be the case; however, because the already rawdy group was being egged on by my house party hostess in the hopes of instigating a game of pool volley ball. Next thing I know, there’s two highly inebriated teams floundering about, looking like breaching whales as they attempt to make contact with the ball. This one does a belly flop. That one gets hit in the face. Another one sucks in a mouthful of water. Oh, now he’s hanging over the side of the pool gagging. That’s just great! I hear our hostess yell, “Don’t you effing puke in the POOL, dumb ass!” I’m about to wet my pants from laughing when she asks me to get an overthrown ball. Still laughing, I manage to get the slippery devil and chuck it back in the pool. “Hey! Come join us. This loser’s about to hurl” she calls to me as she instructs the water sucking guy to get out of the pool. My belly is about to bust from laughing at the scene before me and I know I shouldn’t, but I stagger over to the pool anyway. Big mistake. You see, alcohol plays tricks…evil tricks…on your depth perception. You guessed it. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear and when you’re drinking, they are farther way than they appear. In my mind, I was on the edge. In reality, I was 1 foot back from where I should have been. Know what happens when you’re too far back for a dive? You have no dive curve and hit the bottom… face first.
What did I tell you about grace? I didn’t play tile slip and slide but I did end up with a pretty gnarly pool smashed mug and I’m happy the entire incident wasn’t any worse.
Moral of the Story: Don’t Drink and Dive
I walked into the kitchen and found this and by the time she was done pounding on Alex’s door, I was in tears from laughing so hard! You ask yourself “why”? Simple. Because she can.
This picture always reminds me of just how goofy we are when we’re all together. We each bring our own kind of humor to the table and yet we all share the same goofy gene. You know the one. The one that says you don’t care what other people think when you wear that neon pink squid hat. The same gene that also lets you break out in your own busta rhyme dance beat in the middle of the grocery aisle. Our moves might be different but we still get the laughs and nothing says family more than laughter and good times.
Reposted from The W(H)INE Monologue
Let’s face it. The conversations in my house are anything but normal. When one of your children has been Blessed by both parents’ smart ass and witty nature, it is a true recipe for trouble against the younger siblings who aren’t nearly as quick witted or as linguistically clever as she. Normally, she and I are on the same team; but on occasion, she actually thinks she can out best me.
It was early spring and we had just moved from a crappy little apartment into a spacious house. Being that it was cool outside, the windows were open, along with the back sliding door and we were all piled into the kitchen, talking and laughing, while preparing dinner. Nothing unusual, right?
Next thing I remember is Liv pressed up against the screen door, yelling, “LOOK! LOOK! It’s one of those poisonous SKANKS!” While everyone roars with laughter and the girls rib shank each other for a better view of the slinking purple-y, black and blue ground dweller sunning on the back patio, I nonchalantly utter , “Liv, that’s a SKINK, not a skank” (pause – and under my breath) “Although I suppose it could be a skanky skink”. It’s at this point I realize the laughing has subsided into snickering and the culprits, Allie and Kass, are doing their own retile-y version of the skink, as they slowly back away from the question asker. I look up and shake my head at them because I know the inevitable is about to occur… and sure enough, as the child stands staring at the creature through the web messed screen, “Mom, what does skank mean?” Kass falls to the floor, doubled over and convulsing from a fit of laughter taking over her body. Allie, smart ass that she is, raises an eyebrow and smirkingly asks, “Yes, mom. What IS a skank?” As she seeks safety on the other side of the kitchen, I glare at her. Not missing a beat and certainly not wanting to ensure in a skanky skink conversation with the 10 year old, I provide a seemingly innocent textbook definition answer to the inquisitive child, “A skank is an unclean girl.” Whew! I signal my short lived triumph as I righteously stick my tongue out at my mini-me instigator. She’s still snickering. Kass is still rolling and Liv? Well, Liv turns to me, holding out her filthy clothing, and questions, “You mean like me?”
Moral: Never confuse a skink for a skank.
The random things this child does! I have no words. LOL!