I'm at CVS today getting a bottle of water and a few other essentially unessential essentials, and I notice this guy noticing me. He's kind of a big guy, clearly heading to the gym or just coming from there. Lovely. Not to snob or anything, but this happens all the time.
I go about my business.
When I grab my essentials, I get in line to pay -- right behind him of course. He's still doing the side-look and puffing up his chest and whatever else guys do when they're trying to look tough. Fine. I smile.
He's got some energy drink, some kind of soap or something (manly brand, I'm sure) and who knows what else. Normal guy stuff.
He pays and leaves, with another glance my way, of course. (Note to guys: Just say something. Really. It's better than this awkward staring business.)
I pay and leave and see him behind his big manly truck. And I LOL. I literally LOL, and I don't LOL lightly.
He's loading three pink hula hoops into the bed of his truck, which also contains a pink girly bicycle with pink tassles on the handlebars and some other pink stuff (Roller skates maybe? A pink jump rope? Pink stuffed animals? Who knows. All I see is pink.)
He sees me notice. I imagine whatever manliness he's got going on immediately shrivels and his puffed up chest deflates.
Now I have to say something of course, because I'm not one to not say things...
"It's hard to look tough with a trunk like that." Poor guy.
Showing posts with label deerfield-beach. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deerfield-beach. Show all posts
Sep 4, 2011
Apr 4, 2010
Quarters, pit bulls and panties
A laundromat haiku:
Pit bull on the floor
Seven damn quarters a load
I see your panties
Y'all, my washing machine broke this morning. I was washing a load that was admittedly probably too big for the darn thing, but why do an extra load when you can jam a few more things in there, right?
Everything was working out fine (and I was saving time by consolidating loads!) until it started doing that bangbangcrashboombang that washing machines do when they're off balance.
No big deal.
I'll just open the lid and stop the spinning and move the clothes around.
Wait.
I forgot that this stupid washing machine doesn't stop spinning when you open the lid...
...I guess it'll just have to suffer through the off-balanceness.
OR DIE.
It chose to die. It kept spinning, but kind of stopped making the normal washing machine "is on" noise. It was just quiet spinning, and I knew this was not a good sign. But it was still spinning! So, I was hoping it was fine (even though I knew it wasn't). It's always better to delay aggravation as long as possible.
Anywhos, back to my wishy washer. It made it through the spin cycle... but didn't fill up for rinse. Hmm, I says to myself, I says: Maybe if I manually turn it to rinse.
Rinse, bitch!
Like magic, the water started to fill up. Yay, water! Yay, washer! It's going to be OK!
No, actually, it's not. Now I have a washer full of water that won't spin to drain full of towels that serve their purpose much better when dry.
[enter delayed aggravation]
Grrrrrrrr! Now I have to find a laundromat that's open on Easter. Go figure. Seeing as how it is Easter, could someone just resurrect my washing machine?!
Now, mind you, a laundromat? a) I don't do coin laundry. b) I need coins. c) That thing is full of water and full of stuff -- what the heck do I do with that? Bring it dripping wet?
I'm pretty sure Jesus would not approve of my washing machine dying today.
Long story short, I find a laundromat. Every change machine in there (there are two) are out of order. There is a pit bull in a cage just sleeping in the coin laundry like that's normal. And the other lady there is doing laundry in this ridiculous dress (shirt?) that flaunts (that can't be the right word) her panties when she loads the dryer.
And they're so big, I'm sure she could fit a whole load in them. If she hasn't already.
Happer Easter, everyone.
Pit bull on the floor
Seven damn quarters a load
I see your panties
Y'all, my washing machine broke this morning. I was washing a load that was admittedly probably too big for the darn thing, but why do an extra load when you can jam a few more things in there, right?
Everything was working out fine (and I was saving time by consolidating loads!) until it started doing that bangbangcrashboombang that washing machines do when they're off balance.
No big deal.
I'll just open the lid and stop the spinning and move the clothes around.
Wait.
I forgot that this stupid washing machine doesn't stop spinning when you open the lid...
...I guess it'll just have to suffer through the off-balanceness.
OR DIE.
It chose to die. It kept spinning, but kind of stopped making the normal washing machine "is on" noise. It was just quiet spinning, and I knew this was not a good sign. But it was still spinning! So, I was hoping it was fine (even though I knew it wasn't). It's always better to delay aggravation as long as possible.
Anywhos, back to my wishy washer. It made it through the spin cycle... but didn't fill up for rinse. Hmm, I says to myself, I says: Maybe if I manually turn it to rinse.
Rinse, bitch!
Like magic, the water started to fill up. Yay, water! Yay, washer! It's going to be OK!
No, actually, it's not. Now I have a washer full of water that won't spin to drain full of towels that serve their purpose much better when dry.
[enter delayed aggravation]
Grrrrrrrr! Now I have to find a laundromat that's open on Easter. Go figure. Seeing as how it is Easter, could someone just resurrect my washing machine?!
Now, mind you, a laundromat? a) I don't do coin laundry. b) I need coins. c) That thing is full of water and full of stuff -- what the heck do I do with that? Bring it dripping wet?
I'm pretty sure Jesus would not approve of my washing machine dying today.
Long story short, I find a laundromat. Every change machine in there (there are two) are out of order. There is a pit bull in a cage just sleeping in the coin laundry like that's normal. And the other lady there is doing laundry in this ridiculous dress (shirt?) that flaunts (that can't be the right word) her panties when she loads the dryer.
And they're so big, I'm sure she could fit a whole load in them. If she hasn't already.
Happer Easter, everyone.
Aug 26, 2009
What aisle are the cheese puffs in?
They're in aisle 4 -- but if you were shopping at Winn-Dixie, you'd already know that.
You'd also know what aisle the pork 'n beans are in or where to find the juice, apple juice, cranapple juice or mixed juice. Inexplicably, you might have trouble locating the pork rinds and orange drink.
You see, Winn-Dixie feels these fine, fine products are staple enough to actually make it on the sign above each aisle. Just to say "chips" and would certainly fall short of acceptable -- enough people are looking for cheese puffs that they need their own line up there.
All this is fine, but let's look at the big picture: There are, let's say, 15 aisles in Winn-Dixie. Each one gets 5 lines on their sign. You're telling me that the pork 'n beans actually falls in their top 60 selling items list so that it gets its own placard? Sure... right up there next to soap, milk and ground beef (they're the beef people, after all).
I demand to see this list. If all those juices ranked high enough to get their own billing, I demand a recount -- for Orange Drink's sake.
You'd also know what aisle the pork 'n beans are in or where to find the juice, apple juice, cranapple juice or mixed juice. Inexplicably, you might have trouble locating the pork rinds and orange drink.
You see, Winn-Dixie feels these fine, fine products are staple enough to actually make it on the sign above each aisle. Just to say "chips" and would certainly fall short of acceptable -- enough people are looking for cheese puffs that they need their own line up there.
All this is fine, but let's look at the big picture: There are, let's say, 15 aisles in Winn-Dixie. Each one gets 5 lines on their sign. You're telling me that the pork 'n beans actually falls in their top 60 selling items list so that it gets its own placard? Sure... right up there next to soap, milk and ground beef (they're the beef people, after all).
I demand to see this list. If all those juices ranked high enough to get their own billing, I demand a recount -- for Orange Drink's sake.
Jun 27, 2009
Today was Jesus day at the beach
The weekends are my relax time. I have three things I like to do on my days off (and when I get all three in, I call it the "perfect trifecta" -- yes, I'm a dork): go to the gym, go to the beach, go to the mall.
For the record, I'm only 2 for 3 today, but anyway.
After the gym, I change directly into my Tar-jay bikini and head over to the beach. I'm driving down Hillsboro Blvd. (major road, leads to the beach) when I'm all of the sudden assaulted by brake lights. God damnit (oops), why are we braking? I'm trying to get to the beach!
Slowly, we chug along, and eventually are herded into just one lane by Mr. Officer at the next available intersection. "What's going on here?" I wonder as I cattle my Beemer in with the rest of the brakers. "I don't see an accident..."
But then I see them.
All 200 (at least) Jesus Freaks parading down Hillsboro, spilling off the sidewalk and into the lane of street that we've just been herded away from. They are parading (boringly, I might add -- no floats, bands, Santa Claus, nothing) toward the beach, holding up traffic and whatnot.
Let me stop for one second and qualify my right to analyze this: As a member myself of an often-made-fun-of group (I'm a card-carrying Crazy Cat Lady, thank you very much), I feel that I'm allowed to have fun at the expense of other, um, special groups. Now, to continue...
They are all wearing matching white tees with iron-on Jesus transfers. It's mostly children. They don't seem to be enjoying themselves (maybe because it's approximately 147 degrees out?). The cops are escorting them. Did I mention they are holding up traffic?
Fine. I pass them, swerving defiantly back into the right lane, and proceed to the beach. I park. I grab my beach chair (after first unloading the two giant bags of cat food that are on top of it in my trunk) and start walking towards my mecca.
And then I hear it -- is that a band? Great, there's some outdoor concert, I think.
And then I really hear it -- it's friggin' gospel music! The Jesus Freaks are coming, and they're going to be RIGHT HERE singing and praising while I'm trying to relax. Oh, iPod, where for art thou?
Anywhos, I suffer through. It could be worse -- it's in Portugeuse so I can't understand it, so that's at least a little better. I go about my beaching, relatively unbothered (they are congregated in the parking lot, not right there on the sand with me) until the heavens open up and it starts raining.
For the record, I'm only 2 for 3 today, but anyway.
After the gym, I change directly into my Tar-jay bikini and head over to the beach. I'm driving down Hillsboro Blvd. (major road, leads to the beach) when I'm all of the sudden assaulted by brake lights. God damnit (oops), why are we braking? I'm trying to get to the beach!
Slowly, we chug along, and eventually are herded into just one lane by Mr. Officer at the next available intersection. "What's going on here?" I wonder as I cattle my Beemer in with the rest of the brakers. "I don't see an accident..."
But then I see them.
All 200 (at least) Jesus Freaks parading down Hillsboro, spilling off the sidewalk and into the lane of street that we've just been herded away from. They are parading (boringly, I might add -- no floats, bands, Santa Claus, nothing) toward the beach, holding up traffic and whatnot.
Let me stop for one second and qualify my right to analyze this: As a member myself of an often-made-fun-of group (I'm a card-carrying Crazy Cat Lady, thank you very much), I feel that I'm allowed to have fun at the expense of other, um, special groups. Now, to continue...
They are all wearing matching white tees with iron-on Jesus transfers. It's mostly children. They don't seem to be enjoying themselves (maybe because it's approximately 147 degrees out?). The cops are escorting them. Did I mention they are holding up traffic?
Fine. I pass them, swerving defiantly back into the right lane, and proceed to the beach. I park. I grab my beach chair (after first unloading the two giant bags of cat food that are on top of it in my trunk) and start walking towards my mecca.
And then I hear it -- is that a band? Great, there's some outdoor concert, I think.
And then I really hear it -- it's friggin' gospel music! The Jesus Freaks are coming, and they're going to be RIGHT HERE singing and praising while I'm trying to relax. Oh, iPod, where for art thou?
Anywhos, I suffer through. It could be worse -- it's in Portugeuse so I can't understand it, so that's at least a little better. I go about my beaching, relatively unbothered (they are congregated in the parking lot, not right there on the sand with me) until the heavens open up and it starts raining.
Nov 3, 2008
The hoodlums in my hood
At least twice a month, I would say, the hoodlums flock to my neighborhood.
I say this because at least twice a month (at least), I am assaulted by helicopters circling and circling with their high beams on, pointed near or directly at my little slice of heaven. Today they came armed with backups -- more than a few cop cars illuminating my dimly lit streets with their vibrant red and blue swirly lights. How thoughtful of them.
I'm driving home from the gym (like a good little marathon-trainer), when I see the first cop car at the entrance, parked by the security guard (Yes, we have one. No, I'm not sure what he does... except shoot the shit with his budding and simply wave people in.). I assumed he had pulled someone over. I didn't yet know he'd unleashed no less that four of his good bad-guy hunting buddies into the "luxury" apartments at Tivoli Park.
Luxury my ass. Unless you like fake rims and 13-inch Wal-mart spinners.
Anywhos, this show happens probably twice a month. I hide out in my apartment because I just don't know who their searching for. Surely it's just some guy who drove through Popeye's and kept it moving instead of paying, but you just never know.
Countdown till my lease ends and I move to within WALKING DISTANCE TO THE BEACH: 59 days. :)
I say this because at least twice a month (at least), I am assaulted by helicopters circling and circling with their high beams on, pointed near or directly at my little slice of heaven. Today they came armed with backups -- more than a few cop cars illuminating my dimly lit streets with their vibrant red and blue swirly lights. How thoughtful of them.
I'm driving home from the gym (like a good little marathon-trainer), when I see the first cop car at the entrance, parked by the security guard (Yes, we have one. No, I'm not sure what he does... except shoot the shit with his budding and simply wave people in.). I assumed he had pulled someone over. I didn't yet know he'd unleashed no less that four of his good bad-guy hunting buddies into the "luxury" apartments at Tivoli Park.
Luxury my ass. Unless you like fake rims and 13-inch Wal-mart spinners.
Anywhos, this show happens probably twice a month. I hide out in my apartment because I just don't know who their searching for. Surely it's just some guy who drove through Popeye's and kept it moving instead of paying, but you just never know.
Countdown till my lease ends and I move to within WALKING DISTANCE TO THE BEACH: 59 days. :)
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