The Fat Guy at the Dollar Store

I am one of those women who never has fantasies about other men - not in my entire life. I don't see a hot-looking guy and start imaging how he'd feel or what he'd look like with a few less clothes on. Just doesn't happen.

So I found myself more than a little shocked this evening when I had an immediate knee jerk reaction to the overweight cashier at my local dollar store. As soon as I looked in his kind, but tired and overwhelmed, eyes I had this flash of cuddling up with him in bed. Nothing dirty. Just a comfy bed and us wrapped in each others arms.

I was so aghast that I stopped the thought there. Not only do I not fantasize about men, but this is the last man in the world I would be attracted to. He was older than I am, a good 100 pounds overweight, and way to nice for me. (Sorry, but it's true.)

As I visited with my friend over coffee later, I continued to be puzzled by my attraction to the chubby checker. And that is when I realized I wasn't...attracted that is.

When I went back over the moment before the vision of us in bed, I realize that he looked very nice. Worn out. Needy. He had very sad eyes. The poor guy looked like he needed to go to bed and/or get a hug.

As my BFF likes to say, I have a very visual thought process. Everything I think, or others say, colors pictures in my head. It just so happened that it painted me hugging the sad teddy-bear looking man while he was in bed.

This I can deal with.

Postal Poo

I could not find a photo that would do this post justice, so I just found one that would serve fair warning to all that the following is literally about poo, shit, feces matter.

Last week, while at work, I was shocked, alarmed, and amused by a customer complaint my boss received. As we all work very close together, we can overhear everything said on the phone . . . and it doesn't take much effort to decipher what the other party is saying in return.

We had a customer call us absolutely furious with the state her package was received in. Apparently, the envelope had been ripped during transit and then shit on. Well, sort of "on" and "in", as the fecal material was runny and had managed to get inside as well. Then the nasty mess was placed inside a clear bag and delivered to her.

It took ten to fifteen minutes for our boss to get the customer to calm down enough that she could even reassure her the package had not left our shipping department in that condition. No postal service in the US would accept such a package. Once we got her to admit that was most likely true, my boss promised to pursue the issue and find out what had happened, as well as offer the customer a 25% discount for the trauma of dealing with the shit.

The customer sent photos of the package. My boss tracked down the postal station that would have delivered the package and nearly lost her temper trying to get them to acknowledge they delivered it. They would NEVER deliver a package in that shape. Since we had a tracking number and their department scanned it prior to delivery, they agreed to contact the carrier who entered the bar code.

When they called us back, it was to state that the package had already been damaged and contained when the carrier received it. She just delivered.

My boss was aghast, as was the Post Master. This is a bio-hazard. It should have never been delivered.

At the end of the day we were all left stunned. The package left our postal station in perfect order, but arrived at the destination postal station torn, covered in poo, and in a clear envelope.

Begs the question; Who pooed on the package?

You just can't make shit like this up.

Online Dating: Take Two

You may remember that a few months ago I set out to find new female friends I could do things with. As I haven't been in the work force for almost six years (and do not belong to any political, religious, or parenting groups) I found myself extremely lonely and in need of a larger social structure.

Coming from a large family that lived in a small town most of my life, I've never had to deliberate set out to make friends - mine grew up with me. So as time went by and I moved from place to place the only friendships I maintained were those I made at my current place of work - which majorly sucked when I no longer had a place of employment.

I utilized craigslist personal listing to make new connections. There is actually a platonic section; though all the posts are not necessarily platonic.

The problem is that the majority of women looking for girl friends (in a non-sexual way) are in their twenties. And I don't want to hang out with someone who feels like one of my kids. The first two 40-something women I tried to hook up with ended up more talk than action and we never even met face-to-face.

My third attempt was Leticia. We've been meeting every Tuesday night for months. She's a stay-at-home mom that would rather be working, an engineer by trade. She writes short stories and has two children. We've graduated to having coffee in her house and I've met her family. I even get little girl hugs when they head to bed. We're both sort of cautious; but I see our relationship slowly evolving.

However, I still find myself without that one "social" friend. Someone that I can go play pool with, watch a movie, grab dinner out.

Out of boredom I checked craigslist again and was shocked to see a woman near my age (cause, is anyone really THAT old?) looking for someone to hang with. She works part-time and has a seventeen year old daughter. SCORE!

We're meeting for dinner tomorrow night. I'll let you know how it goes.

Oktoberbreast

Some of you may be aware that I've been working for an online costume shop the last few months. I find the job diverse in responsibilities and highly entertaining . . . . never more so, than today.

I was unpacking a new shipment of costumes when I stumbled across Mr. Oktoberbreast shown above. After verifying what we received, we go ahead and package each costume in a shipping bag with a custom label at the top telling what it is. If a costume has something that can be damaged easily during shipment, then we have to measure it for a box.

So I pull out the first Mr. Oktoberbreast - I can't stop saying that, and start laughing. The dress and wig are folded neatly in a bag like most of the costumes I've unpacked. The shocker is the 'breast' part of the costume. Maybe you'll understand better if I show you a different photo.



Right on top of my package are these huge, very hard, fake breasts that are a pretty realistic color. They also have huge nipple-colored nozzles from which beer flows. After I get over the shock, and amusement - wondering what kind of man would wear a costume like this, I realize the package might need to ship in a box.

I push down on the breasts and they are very hard. Worried about the spigots, I try to turn them. I bend them. I pull on them. This is about where my sick sense of humor strikes and I just break out in belly laughs.

My boss, who is a woman about four years younger than I am, asks what's up. So I wipe my eyes and hold up a costume so she can see the issue. I ask if she thinks I'll need a box.

"Are the breasts hard?"

When I catch my breath, I answer in the positive. Then lay the costume, boobs facing up, on a box so she can reach it. She walks over and grabs both boobs at the same time and squeezes them. Then she tries to turn the spigots. Bends them. Pulls on them. By this time, I'm laughing so hard the other workers are gathering around to see what is going on. Oddly, they found it pretty hilarious too.

"I don't know," my boss finally replied.
"You'll have to ask Ed."

Ed is her husband and the shipping guru. So I trek out of the building and into the warehouse carrying Mr. Oktoberbreast - but not touching him inappropriately. I ask Ed about the need for a box. He takes the costume and lays it on the table. Then he squeezes the boobs - both at the same time, and boy he has big hands. Then he tries to turn the spigots. Bends them. Pulls on them.

The outcome? I had to tape two layers of bubble wrap over each nipple of every Mr. Oktoberbreast costume. What can I say, at some point, every girl needs a little extra support.

Issues of Weight

Weight has been on my mind lately, in many aspects.

First, I am constantly impressed and motivated by my best friend and her weight loss efforts. In the years I've known, and cared, for Charlene, she has lost over 100 pounds. Fifteen of that in the last three weeks. She recently converted to a near vegetarian diet and is looking and feeling better every single time I see her. She has more energy, a glowing complexion, and the most positive attitude imaginable.

I met Charlene for a late breakfast today and we ended up discussing our clothing issues. The issue is they're all to big. They've been to big for months. I can't get clothes to fit me fast enough before they hang on me like sacks. The funny thing was that during our conversations we both kept stumbling over the phrase "growing out of". All our lives we've been "growing out of clothes". Now we're . . . what? I can think of several different words or phrases for getting to large for your clothing, but I can't think of one for getting to small for your clothing. Weird, hu?

And last, but not least, is that fact that my 'life changing' eating trends are now habits. I haven't had to count calories, research a restaurants menu's nutritional value on line, or fight huge cravings for a hamburger in months. I pay less attention to what I'm eating - because I just automatically make better choices, I work out less due to an increasingly busy schedule, and I am still loosing weight.

I was pretty excited to step on my scales this morning and see I had dropped another 20 pounds. Since May of this year, I've lost a total of 40 pounds. Oh, I'm still about fifteen pounds from my goal and the weight is slower to come off the closer you get to your target. Overall, I'm pretty happy with my issue of weight. (But let's not discuss baggy skin.)

Light at the End of the Tunnel

I sit at my computer with the week behind me and experience the greatest sense of accomplishment. I didn't do anything extraordinary, nothing most women don't do on any given week. However, I had lost all belief that I would ever be able to function at full capacity again. And I'm doing it.

Steve was out of town Tuesday, Wednesday, and most of Thursday. He came home around 6 PM and was out of town again this morning. He will not be back until Sunday evening. And his absence is one of the main contributors to my feeling of euphoria, because, I never would have realized what I could accomplish on my own if he'd been around.

I worked four days this week. Each of those days I had to get up at 5:45 to get Will out to the bus, fix breakfast, pack lunches, and leave the house by 7:00 to drive into work. When I returned home, I had less than an hour before Will's bus showed up. In the evening, Will and I would go out to the park or go shopping. We'd eat out. Come home just in time to get him bathed and in bed. Then I'd spend 3-4 hours on the computer finishing up my online class.

Big deal, right? I worked part time, took care of my kid, and did an online class. The amazing part is that I did it without loosing my cool, getting the shakes, or sinking into depression. I felt great all week.

Now, I did stumble across at least one major issue. I can not deal with the entire 'fix a meal' thing in the evenings when it is just Will and I. He requires too much attention after a day at school and my nerves can't handle the constant interruptions while trying to work on something. But as long as I put us in a situation where I can give him the attention he needs, we do fine.

I even watched the neighbors boys a few minutes today. I took them all riding in the trailer on the lawn mower as I mowed the grass in the front yard and then out to Sonic for ice cream.

Tonight, I clearly see the light at the end of the tunnel, and for the first time in years, I don't think it's a train.

Walmart Wine

I've had several occurrences in the last week that have really taken me back - back to what I'm not sure.

First, there was my attendance at the World Championship Goat Cook off this last weekend. And while the word "world" in the title may make it seem more important, it was really just a little hick festival held in my home town. It's huge to those that live in the area. The rest of the world? Not so much.

It's three days of heavy beer drinking, gorging on food cooked on a bbq pit, loud (and opposing) music played in every tent, and oppresive heat. So basically, you have a bunch of old red neck boys in stained t-shirts that haven't taken a bath in days. Everyone is covered in sweat, dust, and smells like bbq smoke.

I'm not going to lie to you, it's fun. But it's a shock to my system after living in Austin all year. But as my Aunt Cindy says, you get enough alcohol in me and the hillbilly comes out. And I'm always shocked when it does. Buried deep in side (or maybe not so deep) is still the small town girl with the hick accent.

Besides the cookoff, other things have come up this week to remind me of my roots.

I was having coffee with my friend, Leticia, on Tuesday night and she told me a story that made me laugh so hard I almost fell off my chair. Her husband was born and raised in New York city. The closest he's ever lived to 'country' is the subdivision where they reside in Buda. When she took him to meet her family in Del Rio he was ASTOUNDED when the first thing he saw at her folks place was a bunch of men pulling a live (and kicking) goat out of the trunk of a car. Apparently the family had a huge old car, no truck, and a farm. That part of the story didn't seem off to me at all. I grew up like that. It was his reaction that killed me.

"But, but, they have a goat..."
"In the car! A live goat."
"It could get hurt!"
"What are they doing with a goat in the car?"
Did I forget to mention he's a vegetarian.

Then tonight, I finished off a nice bottle of sweet red wine and Steve poured me a glass from some wine I have sitting on the counter. I take a drink and shudder. I've been trying out different reds the last few months and not all of them are worth drinking; which I shared with Steve.

"You know, I think I'm going to have to stop buying wine at Walmart . . ."

That was as far as I got. Steve started laughing so hard I was afraid he was going to choke on his beer. I guess my raising was shining through again, 'cause I don't see anything wrong with buying wine at Walmart . . . if you can find one that tastes decent.

Apparently, others agree with Steve though. Here is a list David Letterman put up regarding Walmart wines:

10. “When Kmart Wine Just Won’t Do”
9. “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Wine”
8. “Show Your Friends How Little You Care”
7. “Kills Germs on Contact”
6. “Recommended by 4 Out of 5 Drifters!”
5. “Crack Open a Can Today!”
4. “Fresh From the Vineyards of Aisle 6″
3. “Here’s to Making Bail!”
2. “Feeling Down After Being Thrown Out by Britney?”
1. “Goes Great With a 20-Dollar Hooker”