A terminal case of khaki ass

A full-time job opportunity cropped up recently at one of my part-time jobs. It involves a healthy pay increase, paid holidays and vacation and full health benefits. Woot! Just what I was looking for! But there is one definite drawback. I have to wear khaki pants. Full-time khaki ass. I have yet to find a pair that don't start bagging and sagging after a few hours and make me look like I'm carrying a lumpy sack of potatoes around behind me.  No matter how long the shirt I wear to cover the spuds, it finds a way to ride up in back and let it all hang out. The inventor of khaki pants is a certified sadist.

Working retail and wearing ugly pants when I'm 50 years old was never a dream of mine. But sometimes life takes unexpected twists and turns for the better. I'm going to make sure this is one of them.

This could be a sign of addiction...

There's something about playing those stupid Facebook games that numbs the senses. The click of the mouse becomes soothing as you mindlessly complete game after game. Your brain doesn't have to think about the smelly mess in the kitchen that just keeps getting bigger; the laundry escaping from my daughter's doorway and spilling into the hallway; the bills that I don't know how I'm going to pay; the funny noise the car started making; all that stuff that makes me crazy. Just click, click, click it all into white noise in the background of my brain. Almost as good as booze.

But when I started using my dog's Facebook page (don't mock me, he's adorable and has friends that I don't even have) to feed my hunger for more games, it became a problem. I could waste even more time! Today I considered making a profile for my other dog. I think I just might be an addict. Maybe.

Serious or satire?

I've been trying to write a serious post about guilt, mothers and Mother's Day but it turned into an incoherent rant about shitty mothers and crappy holidays so I gave up. I went for satire and got another guest post on White and Delightsome. Remember Molly? Well, she's driving Bishop Thurmond to...eat. Heh. I'm not eating doughnuts and other carbs so I might as well write about them.

This kid knows me so well...

My eldest son texted me the other day.

Him: Would you like some GinFlowers for Mother's Day?

Me: Can you drink them?

Him: Yes! I've been told the Rangpur Roses are especially lovely this time of year.

So I know I'll be getting one damn good gift for Mother's Day. Too bad I'll be working and won't be able to imbibe. I'm thinking the most epic way to spend that horrid day would be to stay drunk and stoned the entire time, thus ensuring I would have no memory of it the next day. Maybe next year. A mom can dream...

The utter joy of daughters

I'm so grateful to have my older daughter home from college for the summer. Without her here I wouldn't know:

That my arm hairs are getting freakishly long.

The calorie content of whatever I'm eating.

That my sweater is ugly.

That we have nothing good to eat in the house.

That I tell "everyone" "everything".

And last but not least, I wouldn't know how incredibly unhappy she is to be back home and how much she hates it. Hmmm. Being someplace you don't want to be and doing things you'd rather not be doing.  Welcome to my life.

I'm breaking out the gin and funny dog pictures. It's gonna be a looooong summer.

It sounds better with animal pictures

So I've been uncharacteristically bitchy the past few weeks. Life has seemed way too hard and everything gets on my nerves. It hasn't been a pretty sight.

But suddenly, from out of the blue, comes a compliment and a wonderful possibility... It's nice to know when you're noticed and appreciated. Being called a fine-ass tree princess doesn't hurt either.

So maybe soon I'll be able to shake off the reins and that damn, itchy saddle and run wild and free, my hair blowing in the wind and laughing at the world again. (But maybe with smaller teeth and less facial hair.)

Guilt and cookies

I got a call on my cell yesterday while I was at work. A perky, unfamiliar voice piped into my ear.

"Hi, this is Sis. Whatserbutt...from the ward? We're visiting people tomorrow night as a Relief Society presidency and we'd like to come visit you."

First of all, if her name starts with "sister", I figure she's from the ward. I'm not stupid. And I was supposed to be touched that they thought of poor little ol' apostate me. But when I replied that I was working that night and wouldn't be available, all I got was:

"Oh, okay! Bye!"

She sure didn't try very hard but she tried hard enough to count me as contacted! Her job was done.

But the Saturday of general conference, I had a very different sort of visit from my long-time visiting teacher. I don't see her often and that's been fine with me because any contact with the church tends to make me break out in hives and boils. But she showed up this day with a plate of cookies and a smile and asked if she could please still come and visit me and she was sorry she hadn't been better at coming regularly. I told her, of course she could! I'd always welcomed her when she came. I've known her for years and had been her visiting teacher years before when her husband died of cancer. We'd never been extremely close but we'd been casual friends. Then she blurted out something I never expected to hear.

"My son is gay!"

Shock and worry showed on her face and she started wringing her hands. "I shouldn't have said that! I don't know why I did!"

A very small part of me wasn't surprised at the idea of her son being gay. I'd watched him grow up and I'd wondered at times. But hearing the words actually come out of her mouth shocked the snot out of me. I could see how difficult those words were for her to say. I had an inkling of the path she'd traveled to even be able to utter those words. I knew she'd been inactive for a few years but I'd been going through my own faith crisis and hadn't given much thought about the reasons. I remembered her son had gone to the MTC and returned after a few weeks, not once, but twice. It doesn't take a genius to guess some of the reasons behind it. We will do lunch and share our pain and our paths to peace and acceptance, whatever they may be. She is reaching out to me, not because I'm an assignment, but because she wants a listening ear, understanding and acceptance. And I will gladly give it.