Everybody has a secret. I don't care who you are or how honest you think you are with your friends and loved ones, somewhere along the line, we are all hiding something. Sometimes secrets are little, insignificant things that don't hurt anybody if you choose not to share them. Some secrets are treasures, things we keep to ourselves so that we alone can savor the glorious knowledge. Then there are those secrets that can rip lives apart, turn people to the dark side, ruin your good standing in the community, drive you to drink cheap wine in your backyard around a bonfire...That's the kind of secret that I inadvertantly revealed a couple of weeks ago. I will share it with you now.
My deep dark secret is this: I wear granny panties. The bigger the better, that's my motto. I've never particularly enjoyed buying underwear for several reasons: Victoria's Secret is that she hates anyone over a size 5; no one but my husband ever sees my underwear and he's seen me without makeup so the jig is up, so to speak; plus I don't like to buy things I can't try on and let's face it...eeewwww! So I'm a bulk briefs buyer. The bigger the package, the lower the price, the uglier they are, the better. I have experimented with cutesy underwear and it ended badly...with a really itchy rash, actually, but that's a whole other secret.
So about two weeks ago, a good month into my "lifestyle modification" which requires depriving myself of anything that tastes good and strapping myself onto machines with names that sound like they came from a Transformer's cartoon (Cybex??? ARC Trainer???? at least in medieval times they called a spade a spade) I was down 13 pounds and in a hurry to get to an appointment so I went to my old standby: a fabulous pair of black gauchos that I got for next to nothing at a second hand shop in Louisville, KY. When I bought them, they were a couple of sizes too big, but they were such a steal! I threw them on, over the first pair of granny panties that I pulled out of the dresser, threw on a white t, my favorite gray jacket and headed to Hannibal where I was fighting the evil forces of Medicare underinsurance.
Of course no trip to Hannibal is complete without a stop at Big Lots to stock up on mismatched socks and yes, bargain bin granny panties. Running behind as I usually am, I was hurrying through the aisle, not even thinking about the fact that my gauchos were mucho grande until they crumpled down in a pile around my ankles. I might have survived the debacle hand I not been wearing my pointed toe flats which promptly got tangled up in my shorts and sent me flying face-first, granny panty butt up on the floor. Of course, I was wearing Satan's granny's panties - the bright red ones. So basically the four people sharing the aisle with me knew, without a doubt these things: the fast-walking large woman dropped trou, tripped over said trou, waved her large, red bullseye of a butt up in the air for awhile before landing, face first in the potato chip and snack aisle of the Hannibal Big Lots. There was no getting out of it gracefully. Everyone was obviously so shocked by the sight of red clad buttocks that they couldn't even ask me if I was okay. They did have the grace to wait until I ever so gracefully squat-pulled myself off the floor courtesy of a Little Debbie display and got my gauchos pulled up to start laughing.
And so now I live in fear, each week ever so casually watching America's Funniest Home Videos and searching YouTube to make sure that I haven't made my debut. I'm not sure if they have surveillance cameras at Big Lots, but I don't want to be caught off guard and so I am trusting everyone that reads this to be my confidante, to call me and let me know I've made my debut. And how will they know it's me? Just look for Satan's granny's panties and a face to match.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
That's What Happens After Snakes Have Blatant Snake Sex...
For those of you who recall, and for those of you don't, last October or September or sometime when it was warm before it was cold and then warm again, we had a snake infestation... I had almost forgotten the horror of it all, but if you'd like to be reminded see the blog post about Blatant Snake Sex.
It should have occurred to me, what with the weather above freezing, that sooner or later the sex of the snakes would be visited upon me. Today was that day. It started like any other day...I had just finished weeping profusely and begging God to save me from another day in the hell known as Corporate America and was leaving the house to start the day after stopping my Satan's office to sign off on that whole soul deal and as I stepped on the bottom step what can only be described as a GALAXY of little, wiggly, slithery snakes came shooting out from under the step.
I did what any redblooded American God-fearing girl would do: screamed out a string of obscenities that would make a sailor suck his thumb and cower in the corner and then looked around to make no one I knew had heard me. Than I ran to my car and began to suck my thumb and cower.
I looked back up at the porch step and all the little ones were gone, however I noticed one really big one lying very still near the side of the porch. I did what any redblooed American God-fearing girl would do: I threw a rock at it while speed dialing 911. Two things I learned: snake infestations are only considered emergencies if said snakes are drug dealer and just because a snake doesn't move when you throw a rock at it doesn't mean it's dead.
How do I know it wasn't dead? Well after I was brutally rebuffed by 911 and as I stood dialing the animal control number a REALLY BIG SNAKE followed by several little ones crawled up to the snake. The RBS (really big snake, for the remainder of this post) wrapped itself about the seemingly dead snake and started...well...started...saying hello to his little friend.
Two things I learned: the expression of love between two creatures is NOT always a beautiful thing and it's just as pervy to watch snakes have sex as it is to watch humans...not that I have ever done that but sometimes you go to a movie on a first date and it just happens...ON THE SCREEN, PEOPLE, ON THE SCREEN!!!!!
So Animal Control is on the way, RBS is lighting up a cigarette and the little snakes come crawling out from under the two big ones...which if you ask me is just really bad parenting. Upon arrival they are unable to grab the snakes, but they do leave me with some words of wisdom: get a cat, an outdoor cat.
It is at this point that I weigh my options...I could continue to live in the same house with Dirk Wiggler, herptological porn star, or I could find a cat that I could keep on a leash in the front yard of my house. Go on, pick the lesser of two evils with that one...It's either continue as the neighborhood Snake Pimp or become the neighborhood crazy lady who keeps an attack cat leashed to her front porch.
I did what any redblooded American God-fearing girl would do...I called the exterminator who promptly told me I had to call a different exterminator because "they don't do snakes." It took every ounce of strength I had not to make a VERY inappropriate joke. Come to find out, getting rid of snakes is an expensive thing. Over $200 and that's without a guarantee they'll come back.
I called my personal experts who had all sorts of advice, most of which involved fire arms, garden tools and one guy who said to lay rope down around the entire yard.
I did what any redblooded American God-fearing girl would do...I put it on my husband's to-do list for tomorrow!
It should have occurred to me, what with the weather above freezing, that sooner or later the sex of the snakes would be visited upon me. Today was that day. It started like any other day...I had just finished weeping profusely and begging God to save me from another day in the hell known as Corporate America and was leaving the house to start the day after stopping my Satan's office to sign off on that whole soul deal and as I stepped on the bottom step what can only be described as a GALAXY of little, wiggly, slithery snakes came shooting out from under the step.
I did what any redblooded American God-fearing girl would do: screamed out a string of obscenities that would make a sailor suck his thumb and cower in the corner and then looked around to make no one I knew had heard me. Than I ran to my car and began to suck my thumb and cower.
I looked back up at the porch step and all the little ones were gone, however I noticed one really big one lying very still near the side of the porch. I did what any redblooed American God-fearing girl would do: I threw a rock at it while speed dialing 911. Two things I learned: snake infestations are only considered emergencies if said snakes are drug dealer and just because a snake doesn't move when you throw a rock at it doesn't mean it's dead.
How do I know it wasn't dead? Well after I was brutally rebuffed by 911 and as I stood dialing the animal control number a REALLY BIG SNAKE followed by several little ones crawled up to the snake. The RBS (really big snake, for the remainder of this post) wrapped itself about the seemingly dead snake and started...well...started...saying hello to his little friend.
Two things I learned: the expression of love between two creatures is NOT always a beautiful thing and it's just as pervy to watch snakes have sex as it is to watch humans...not that I have ever done that but sometimes you go to a movie on a first date and it just happens...ON THE SCREEN, PEOPLE, ON THE SCREEN!!!!!
So Animal Control is on the way, RBS is lighting up a cigarette and the little snakes come crawling out from under the two big ones...which if you ask me is just really bad parenting. Upon arrival they are unable to grab the snakes, but they do leave me with some words of wisdom: get a cat, an outdoor cat.
It is at this point that I weigh my options...I could continue to live in the same house with Dirk Wiggler, herptological porn star, or I could find a cat that I could keep on a leash in the front yard of my house. Go on, pick the lesser of two evils with that one...It's either continue as the neighborhood Snake Pimp or become the neighborhood crazy lady who keeps an attack cat leashed to her front porch.
I did what any redblooded American God-fearing girl would do...I called the exterminator who promptly told me I had to call a different exterminator because "they don't do snakes." It took every ounce of strength I had not to make a VERY inappropriate joke. Come to find out, getting rid of snakes is an expensive thing. Over $200 and that's without a guarantee they'll come back.
I called my personal experts who had all sorts of advice, most of which involved fire arms, garden tools and one guy who said to lay rope down around the entire yard.
I did what any redblooded American God-fearing girl would do...I put it on my husband's to-do list for tomorrow!
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