I Shoplifted Onions.

I suppose today started as a normal day. I got up. I let the dogs out. I wasted a ridiculous amount of time on the Internet and then I went to the grocery store, loving called "He-y-b Buddy" by my husband and his friend. It is actually called H-E-B. Three letters all pronounced seperately. Not to be confused with Heb. or Heybuddy. Ironically, the town I grew up in had a grocery store called VGs. Also letters only, not to be pronounced... however you would pronounce a V and a G as a word.

Anyway. I hate Heybuddy. It is THEE place to be for the hip and happening of Georgetown. You pick a time of day, any day, its packed. We're talking World War III food rationing in the middle of a Category 5 hurricane prediction packed. I hate it. I try to get the produce out of the way first because that is where everyone likes to cluster. One of the nice things about heybuddy is that it provides a little UPC machine, so if you have a bag of onions, you can set them on the scale, type in the provided code and get a label for your crap so that you can self-checkout: my favorite.

So anyway. I had a hand basket full of mostly produce and I head to the check-outs, where the lines are naturally that of an immigration office or the DMV. I am behind this woman and her son at the self-checkout and she is, of course, having massive problems, which in hindsight, would be the reason why that line was by far the shortest. In her defense, her main "problem" was her retarded son who kept pushing buttons and playing on the bag spinner which is programmed to detect the slightest change in weight to catch you from stealing packs of gum. Every two seconds the machine would sing out: "PLEASE HOLD FOR CASHIER" because this kid was screwing around. The mom would swat at him and giggle at how "funny" he was. After about the 6th time this happened she laughed and swung her head over her shoulder giving me a "isn't he SO cute and funny!" smile. I gave her my "eat shit and die" face and she went back to trying to ring up a zucchini.

Minutes later, when she and her future glue sniffer left the store, I was ready to check out. For those of you who don't believe in Karma, it may be time to start. All those terrible thoughts about what an idiot the lady in front of me was and whether or not I planned to run her over with my car immediately came back and smacked me repeatedly in the face.

The self-checkouts are for 20 items or less.

I assumed that I had 20 items or less, but didn't count. BIG MISTAKE.
I was mostly done with my items when my transaction came to a screeching halt. I was trying to ring up some mushrooms but the computer wanted to know if I was paying with a check and if I had any coupons.

I'm sorry, but if you can pay with a check at the damn thing, having 21 items shouldn't send all computing functions to a grinding halt. It ends at 20. so now, with a line gathering behind me and my brain fumbling to catch up to what has just happened, I felt and looked like a neon colored ass. I hurried to pay for my 20 items and tried to quickly start another transaction for my leftover onions and cilantro. Yes, two items over. Two. Well, in my haste to hurry and swipe my next item and jam it into a bag, I upset the bag spinner which made me then remove all my bags, dig out the rogue cilantro, and place it in a new and uninhibited bag. That's probably when I started to notice the annoyed whispering behind me. I think I was sweating even...
So, I am trying to reconfigure the bag situation when one of the friendly neighborhood heybuddy cashiers comes over to see if I need assistance... or a helmet. I assure him I'm fine and he goes back to his little watch post.
Naturally, at this point, I'm not all right. The label has gotten wet on my onions, no doubt from the constant cold shower that the celery is subjected to in the produce aisle. I can't scan the effing onions. So I hit the button that says; "no barcode" hoping that it will give you a list to choose from or something, but instead it alerts the cashier boy who tells me that "all [I] have to do is lift the onions off the scale."
Really? That's what I have to do? That's going to ring up the onions?
I no longer cared. I paid for my stuff, grabbed my bags, grabbed the onions, and grabbed the handbasket... I never put the onions in my bag... I don't know that I consciously planned to 5 finger discount two onions... but I did.
I am an onion thief. It didn't even completely hit me until writing this that I feel really, really bad about this! But at least I'll have something for confession if I ever go to church again...
Wow, I'm really going to hell. And I'll probably be an onion farmer. This sucks.

In case anyone still had any reason to believe that it was safe for me to be in a store, let me go on:
Last weekendish Mike and I were at Sam's Club and they had this sliced pineapple there. We decided that it would be great for juicing and I reached over to get a package and that's when it happened.
My motor skills failed me.
The lid, which was not securely fastened, shifted ever so slightly, to which I overcompensated and somehow, beyond any reasonable comprehension of mine, the pineapple launched out of my hands and took flight, resulting the only way it possibly could: crash landing.

What would a situation like this be if it didn't have an audience. Shocked old people looked at me incredulously as the temperature in my face and ears shot up 80 degrees. Mike, who would later tell me that he saw the whole experience in slow motion, was doing a hearty pirate laugh and thankfully helping me pick up the naked, shivering pineapple chunks who found themselves so unexpectedly on the filthy floor at Sam's Club. I barked at Mike, Mr. Funny, to guard the spill while I found a government funded disaster relief organization.
I sought out the very first employee that I could and confessed my crime. I had catapulted a pineapple through their produce section and it was now in need of a mop. I was really sorry. And really stupid. And really sorry.
The employee, who was obviously going for some sort of employee of the month award, told me to tell "that guy" and pointed to a man working over in the butcher's hut. He was wearing a bloody white lab coat. This didn't seem to me like the man for the job, but who was I to be making these sort of assumptions, I can't even hold a container of pineapple.
So I told him.
He told me to tell "her" and pointed to someone handing out samples.
This little game went on and on and on until I finally ended back up at the sample lady who had been replaced by TWO sample ladies doling out shellfish in dixie cups. Mmmm. I once again recanted my tale... which is fun because I come out looking so good in it. The first girl informed me in a serious of "noises" that she didn't speak or understand English and if I would just take her little cup o' shrimp, her day would be much brighter.

SUPER.

The second girl told me to tell the butcher man.

I realize that this whole situation is my fault and mine alone, however, in cartoons, this is the point where steam comes out of your ears or you develop a comical tick.
I took a deep breath and without pausing for any sort of response yelled: "I have already told NINE different people and not ONE of you can be bothered to a.) clean it up, b.) find someone whom YOU KNOW can clean it up, or c.) hand me a mop. It is my opinion that I have officially gone above and beyond the call of duty for a consumer and I don't care what happens, have fun with your shellfish and avoid breaking a hip in the fruit aisle!"

After all that, we still haven't made any juice with the pineapple and now I am an onion thief.

Death Proof Saturday and Sherbet.

Tonight we made the trek out to downtown Austin for dinner at the ever popular Guerros from the movie Death Proof.



Yep, that would have been us standing there by that "No Parking" sign. Only instead of finding Stuntman Mike and his death proof car, there were space heaters and Mexicans selling girl scout cookies.



It was kind of exciting to be there as we recognized things from the movie and it was completely packed. We didn't have to wait too long before getting a table and the world's worst waiter.
Actually, let me back up for a second to make sure you can soak in every last detail of this excursion.
First off, we were told that the wait for a table would be a minimum of 45 minutes, which I am thinking may have been a scare tactic because we only waited twenty minutes at the most. At the time I was glad that we didn't decide to throw in the towel and go across the street to "Home Slice" pizza. Since we thought we would be waiting, Julie asked if I wanted to get a drink. So we tried to make our way over to the bar, but we had only gotten a few steps inside when I told her that it was NOT worth the trouble to get through the crowd. As I said this, some red headed psycho girl spun around like she was ready to throw her drink in my face and tells her friend: "Did you hear what she said?!" To which I responded to Julie that I would be fine without a drink and went back to wait outside as I apparently offended this drunk girl by not wanting to shove people to get to the bar where I would order a Dr. Pepper.
Outside was just as jammed as inside... but mainly because a group of 30 middle aged idiots wanted to stand around on the street infront of the restuarant with their doggy bags and see how much of a fire hazard they could cause.
We were then seated by a man, who as far as I can tell, had no penis. I say this because the guy was wearing the TIGHTEST jeans I have ever seen and there was NOTHING getting in his way. They weren't even a flattering tight kind of jeans, they were making it look like his legs couldn't possibly support the weight of his torso and head. And don't even get me started on this new trend where some men think its cool to dress like girls (tight pants, mascara, girly haircuts...) Its really very... gross.
Our waiter on the other hand, was all man and all ours. He was a little dirty. Tattoo ridden. He dropped the glasses of water on our table as if we offended him, right away sending Julie into a consumer rage. He finally showed up to take our actual drink orders and all we got for the whole table was a mixed drink for Pedro, and a Dr. Pepper for me.

Pedro got his mixed drink pretty quick but my Dr. Pepper was MIA for quite awhile.
Whenever the guy asked if we needed anything he would actually walk away before we could answer!!!! I'm not even exaggerating.
But the best, BEST part of this dinner was the food itself. Tastewise, it didn't suck. But that's the best I'm giving it.
We ordered nachos for an appetizer to split among the four of us. I want you to take this moment and ask you to conjure up in your brain an image of what nachos look like. Now let me tell you what we got.
We got three... count 'em, THREE, round chips with refried beans and cheese on them. I will point out, in fairness, that we didn't read the description of the nachos, we just assumed we knew what we were getting. Ooops.
I guess everything else was all right. The only other complaint I have is centered around my meal, I think everyone elses' went okay. I like to consider myself to be someone who isn't picky. I don't special order things. I don't ask for extra this or none of that, so when I ordered their famous tacos (burritos) and the waiter asked me if I wanted lettuce, tomatoes, cheese and sour cream, I said: "sure, that's fine."
To which he replied: "Sour cream?" and I said; "Um... yeah. That'll be good."
To my utter delight, I was greeted with a sour cream burrito. There was a teaspoon of meat and two ice cream scoop fulls of sour cream and that's it. It was pretty much the most disgusting thing I have experienced in my 27 years of being able to chew solid food. I wiped ALL the sour cream off and picked at the burrito thing a little but ultimately didn't eat it and still didn't complain. Not even when he asked to take our plates for us and then left empty handed before we could answer.

Despite dinner's obvious downside, we actually had a really good time and went back to the Pedro's to watch Fight Club. The Mikes had wanted to make some drinks so we had planned to stop at a liquor store, but to our surprise, every liquor store in the tri-county area was closed and it wasn't even 9:30. Again, not a drinker, but doesn't that seem like you're alienating some of your best clientele as a liquor purveyor? Do the drunks really come rolling in at 3:30pm or something? I swear to God, Texas is worth than Florida in some respects. It has all the quirks of living in death's waiting room, minus the Jeopardy marathons.

Just when I thought the night was over and nothing else could go wrong, I discovered two things.
1.) Strawberry Sherbert is nearly impossible to find. They have orange, lime, and rainbow. Hell, they even have pineapple and lifesave flavor, but strawberry? Nooooo.
2.) Did you know its called SHERBET? I have been calling it SHER-BERT! As in SHER-BERT and SHER-ERNIE. The entire fabric of my existence has unravelled. Its very sad. And yes, I do feel that picture of the Dr. Pepper can deserves that much space.

200 Foot Pole.

Yesterday Mike and I were driving behind one of those REEEALLLY annoying trucks that make a 1/3assed attempt (you know, less than a half-assed attempt) to cover the top of their rolling death machines. The fun thing about these portable crap haulers, is that whatever comes rolling out of it is always a surprise. It could just be sticks and branches, papers, coffee cups or trash, or it could be giant rocks. Either way, its a roll of the dice as to whether your windsheild will be smashed or you'll die. I must not be the only person who feels this way, as the truck, rather than fixing the Saran wrap loosely wrapped around the top to keep its contents from causing a 79 car pile up behind it, had a warning on the back which read:

WARNING:
STAY AT LEAST 200 FEET BACK. NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR WINDSHIELD DAMAGE

I'm sorry, but yes, you are responsible for windshield damage, you ass knob! Can you imagine what would happen on I-35 if when reading that sign we had slammed on our breaks waited four minutes for the thing to get 200 feet in front of us and then continued on at 15 miles an hour to match its pace and thus not exceed the 200 foot rule of responsibility?
Well, I will tell you what would happen. Traffic would back up from Georgetown, Texas to EGYPT. Yes, cars would literally stretch across oceans, that is how insane the traffic would get.

Is that really all it takes, some stupid sign? Well, if that's the case, I'm running out tomorrow and getting a sign for my back windsheild that says:

WARNING:
STAY AT LEAST 200 FEET BACK. NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR COLLISIONS.

I figure if I have a nice 200 foot buffer on all sides of me, I won't have to concern myself with any sort of traffic laws. And should some turkey think that its okay to drive any closer to me, any sort of infraction would be rendered his fault as I am clearly not responsible.

I think this is a great idea, this 200 foot warning buffer. I recommend you all do the same.

WARNING:
I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR OFFENDING ANYONE WHO READS THIS BLOG. PLEASE STAY AT LEAST 200 FEET AWAY FROM YOUR COMPUTER.

Up All Night

Its been almost a month and I think I am mostly better. One lingering problem is my inability to sleep at night. I have never in my life had insomnia, but lately, I just can't fall alseep until its time to get up. Its driving me insane.

Tonight, I thought I may have had the problem licked-- I was asleep by 11:30pm, however, awake again at 12:57. I tried to fight it, but by 1:36am, I was wide awake as Midas began a set of marathon sneezing. That's it. I'm awake. I laid there and thought about how hungry I was since the whole house seems to be infused with a chili smell from dinner. I tried turning on my side and Maya viewed this as an invitation to come take over my pillow. When I tried to turn back, she was already in the lock and load mindset where she had to lick and wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. I spent the next several minutes sheilding my face, pushing her away, trying to hide under the covers, but pugs are relentless lickers. Finally I managed to twist myself into a position where my hand was over my face and she was able to just lick my hand until there was no skin left-- a pleasant alternative to her jamming her tongue into a nostril.

Once the 20 minute lick fest had ended, I suddenly found myself obsessing over some dry skin on my leg. Then biting at my fingernails. Then I was thirsty.

A shameful amount of potato sticks and 7-up later, here I am on the internet at 2:15 in the morning. I'm actually looking forward to this three-day weekend, despite the fact that we have nothing planned because I'll have someone to force me out of bed early and hopefully get over this weird sleeping thing. I miss sleep. I miss dreams about Marge Simpson and Real Estate Carnies. I miss daylight. How did this happen anyway?

Ohhh yeah... a month of not being able to breathe. Hooray sick.

In other, better, news: Maya had her pre-screening today to become a Therapy Dog. Her first class will be February 20th in Houston. I think Maya will be an amazing therapy dog. Everyone who meets her falls in love with her. People have very strong reactions to how little and cute and sweet she is. I really think she would brighten people's days-- especially when there is very little to look forward to in their lives. Despite the manic licking, she definately has a calming effect!



My only reservation is that I will have to take her out to hospitals and nursing homes without Midas and he's going to go crazy. I feel really bad about the fact that he's going to feel neglected, knowing that he lives for "rides in the car" but he could never be a therapy dog. He doesn't love to be cuddled by all people. He barks incessantly at certain people (only certain people) and while I love him like crazy-- he's not everyone's cup of tea.

Maya on the hand is perfect. She loves everyone. She loves to be pet and squeezed and she's more than at home in a lap. Hopefully she'll do some good for someone. Who knows.

Here is a link to Therapy Pet Pals of Austin. I don't know if it will show up as a hyperlink, though, as Blogger has a love-hate relationship with HTML code.... meaning that it hates it. Conventional computer coding means nothing to this website.

http://www.therapypetpals.org/photos.htm