Thursday, July 30, 2009

Before I Forget

I had a day yesterday; maybe I should say day because it was... something. Before it all gets lost on my slippery memory, I have to share it. No need to thank me, even though I'm sure that was the first thing you wanted to do.

As I was getting ready to head to the shower, my ex called me to see if I wanted to switch cars. I wanted the truck because we needed to haul some stuff that just won't fit in a car, that and I was sooooo ready to have my truck back after driving his old road car with almost 350,000 miles and hardly a scrap of paint left on it. Plus, it is impossible to be sylin' and profilin' -- whatever that means -- in such an un-stylin' and profilin' car. So I skipped my shower, which I rarely do, tossed on some grubby clothes that I reserve for cleaning days, and headed out to meet him halfway, about an hour's drive for each of us. Princess went with me because she wanted to see that ghost town that I had taken pictures of and it is over that way. We switch cars, and I head back for my hour's drive home, taking a detour to the ghost town, and dreaming of the shower I am going to take as soon as I get home. But the gods of boob sweat had other plans for me.

When I get home, Sugarbowl wants to go pick up Princess' new bed. (Sugarbowl's ex took back his bed, the one Princess was using.) I decided that since we have to go that far down, might as well go even further and pick up the scripts for meds at my shrink's office. To say my shrink's office is in the ghetto is an understatement that defies an adequate comparison. I pick up my scripts, and at a stop light a homeless man comes up to my open window and asks for 30 cents. I give him 35 because I couldn't find a nickel and what is 5 cents between friends -- I would be homeless if my family didn't take care of me. (What the heck is 35 cents going to get him?! I would have given him more, over Sugarbowl's protests, but I only had change handy. And he told me he was homeless, I'm not just making assumptions.) So we leave that part of town without having any caps popped in our wigs or having our shizzles nizzled, again, whatever that means, and go to pick up Princess' new bed.

On the way back up, my bff from elementary/high school called to cement our plans to get together this weekend (she's moving and I am going to be the cheerleader to their huffing and puffing -- move it out! Shove it out! Allllll out! -- as I did for our recent moving adventure). While yukking it up with her, Sugarbowl says I took a motorcycle path in my truck at 80 mph, running so many people down I had to use my windshield wipers to get them off my windshield. I most certainly did not (I'm sure I never went over 65)! I found this very hypocritical from the woman who drives like she has a spiked ball up her anus that she cannot remove until she reaches her destination.

We get Princess' bed and head to Wal Mart to get my prescriptions filled and some flea and tick shampoo to add to our arsenal of weapons against the raging flea war we are in. At this point I feel so greasy, grubby, sweaty, dirty and every other -y that denotes that horrible feeling of I-shouldn't-have-skipped-my-shower-this-morning, that I am ready to give myself a flea and tick bath.

We finally get home and have to huff and puff and sweat even more to get Princess' bed up the stairs to her room. Then Sugarbowl and Princess gave all the animals -- no small task for our petting zoo -- a flea and tick bath. I really did not want to hop into the shower after all that crap was scattered all over the tub, so I feel ever grosser today. By the end of the day only the pets were fresh and the rest of us were left feeling dirtier and smelly-er than ever.

Today I only have my exercise class on my agenda. I am going to see what I feel like doing, if anything, after that. Yesterday was such a fun fest, I'm feeling all funned out. And like I may never be fresh again.


LA Nickers said...

As long as you can keep your wits and humor about you . . . then you are less likely to stress into a relapse.

Our basement flooded in a recent storm, and I hauled boxes, books, furniture and more up the stairs to the garage (in the dark - with a power outage).

God only knows why I didn't have a full-fledged exacerbation after that.

Humor works even better than the shots. ;-)

Bubbie said...

You paint a hysterical picture with words. Crack me up....made me spit my coffee on the puter screen, thru my NOSE! who needs neti pots?

Jen said...

The boob sweat continues.....

Unknown said...

I once read that mammaries are really specialized sweat glands....explains the boob sweat, eh?

Lisa Emrich said...

boob sweat, huh?

Now I'll have to confess to having lifted up a boob or two in an attempt to allow the space below to evaporate, dry off, or simply get some air. It can be just about as clammy as armpits under there, but much heavier. And warnings, don't bother sniffing the damp, underwire bra - if it's wet, it probably stinks too.