A trip down my memory lane

Okay, I'm feeling kind of nostalgic all of a sudden. As a result, you guys are going to be treated to a few stories from my my past. There will be plenty in these stories to offend, but, I think they are pretty hysterical. Read at your own risk.

******************************

Once upon a time, what feels like a bajillion years ago, I worked third shift at a gas station. I loved that job. It was the craziest retail job I've ever held, and I've pretty much done it all. I started out in a department store, went management, and hated it, because there were too many factors outside of my control in an operation that large. I put in my resume with a company that has a large chain of convenience stores because a friend of mine was working in one of them, and her job rocked....I wore pantyhose, heels, and had dry cleaning....she wore jeans, sneakers, and a smile. I got the job, and I rocked it.

The nightly drama was freaking awesome. The witching hour, otherwise known as after alcohol sales cease, is very entertaining. The strippers, hookers, cab drivers, and police officers comprised the majority of our clientele. I have a wicked sense of humor, but, it is dry and a tad bitchy. That shift was better than anything else I've ever seen for comedic value.

It was around three in the morning when a very drunk woman and her guy stumbled in. She was a redhead, and I had her pegged as a dancer from the moment she tripped in. I turned them down for alcohol, and they were pretty good natured about it. The woman crooked her finger at me, "I wanna show you some'in," she slurred. I figured she was trying to give me money to sell them the beer, so I stayed put.

"Oh, you want me to show you over there?" She walked over to the counter and threw her stiletto pump clad foot, up on my counter. She was wearing a short skirt without panties. "See," she carolled, fingering two tiny silver hoops, "I just got my clit pierced tonight, aren't they pretty? Do you want to touch them?"

No, no I did not. Though, I did make my district manager listen to this story. At the point where he turned scarlet and covered his ears, I threatened to show him the security tape instead.

*The guy she was with then, ending up being one of my best friends, though, the first time I heard, "I'm In Love With a Stripper," I knew it would forever be my ringtone for his number.

***********************

It was bright and early in the morning and I was working, my shift was drawing to a close. I was just waiting for enough change so I could make my deposit. A hooker walked in the door. She was wearing a black lace shirt and skirt, completely see through, with nothing underneath, and dollar store flip flops. She had a large army bag over her shoulder.

My motto was live and let live, but, her behaviour was hinky, not doped up, just shifty. I watched her walk up and down the aisles throwing items in her bag. When she finally hit the register area, she asked for an ice cup. I gave it to her and watched her fill it, when she returned to the register to pay for her $.10 cup, I asked if she was planning to pay for the rest of her stuff.

She freaked. She threw the dime at me and started to run. I jumped the counter, a feat I still can't figure out how I managed, and I took off after her. After about a block, I was close enough to grab the strap on the bag. I wasn't letting go, and neither was she. We ran a mile and a half like that, until she finally dragged me out into the middle of traffic. There must have been three cabs following us, with their blinkers on, when the police finally showed up.

The officer's first words were, "why are you ladies fucking up traffic?" Half of the stuff she had ripped off from my store (and a dozen others on the same street) she had tossed into the bushes as we ran, but the ice cup she paid for? They had to put that on the roof of the control car when they cuffed her.

**************************

Back in the day, before most gas stations were equipped with electronic gear that measures the height of gas in the holding tanks, we had a very special way of obtaining that information...we would sprinkle baby powder on a very long stick, where the powder remained, we marked the height of the gas.

I was sticking the tanks when I saw a guy running out the door with a cheeseburger in his mouth and two cases of beer under his arms. It was quite obvious he was stealing it. He looked me dead in the eye, "don't you fucking try and stop me bitch," he screamed, as he ran past my gas stick, I picked it up off the ground, and 'accidentally' crushed his balls with it. The 'get away' car dragged him for a half a block before they were able to haul him into the car. He got away with half the cheeseburger, he dropped the beer and bit off the other half of the burger when I made contact with the family jewels.

People like that don't need to reproduce anyway.

**************************

It was another early morning when a girl walked in, obviously rolling. "Don't judge me!" She shouted over and over as I watched her pick up her necessities. A bag of hard candy, a bottle of gatorade, and a Vick's inhaler. When she hit the counter she pulled a five dollar bill out of her purse. When I unrolled it...powder flew everywhere.

I handed her the change. "Are you just going to leave all that there," I asked, I thought sarcastically, "you must have enough for another line." She surveyed the counter, and slipped her ID out of her pocket and began scraping the dust into a neat little line...turning the key pad for debit cards over so that the powder that had settled there too, would fall on the counter. "Hey," she said, "lemme hold that bill I just gave you for a minute."

***************************

Finally, I leave you with this one. After all of the above incidents, the one that I found myself in trouble for was innocent. A police officer was in the store, as was customary on his shift, when it was quiet, he would wander in to shoot the shit.

The topic of the night was tattoos. "I have an amazing tiger tattoo," he said.

"Really? I do too!" I enthused.

"Well, where is yours?" he wanted to know. I told him it was on my chest, and he acknowledged that his was in the same place. He pulled at his vest, "can you see it?" I couldn't though.

He started to unbutton his shirt and proceeded to take off his vest so I could see his ink. I was in shock, his tat and mine were just about identical, though on different scales. I unbuttoned half of my shirt and undid the clasp on my bra so that I could, somewhat demurely, show him my tattoo.

At that point, I walked around the counter and started to stock the cooler, and he followed me, chatting more about tattoos as I got some work done. Show and tell was over.

I thought nothing of it until they gave me a written reprimand...turns out there weren't any cameras in the back of the store, and when two people walk off camera after beginning to undress, the obvious conclusion isn't a shared love of all things feline...or maybe it is.

*******************************

Thanks for putting up with my stroll down memory lane. I hope I haven't embarrassed you, and that at least a couple of you chuckled. I for one am glad that I finally wrote these things down, when I'm old(er) and gray(er) it will be nice to look back and laugh, because truth is always stranger than fiction.

Me and my temper, temper

Tonight after dinner, I took my 7 year old on a walk to the gas station up the street to buy candy. Not only is candy usually forbidden, but this stuff was the non organic variety...ooooohhh. I did decide though, that we would walk, burn off a couple of calories before we ate any.

The walk there, about 10 minutes and mostly uneventful, on the walk home however, I lost my temper. Not with my son, but, rather some daft bimbo who couldn't understand why the car in front of her wasn't making a right turn...so she jumped the curb and nearly ran us over. As she was screaming expletives at me, I lost it. I shocked my son by responding, "it's a fucking crosswalk, and you're supposed to yield." Frankly I was kinda proud I kept it to a minimum...sorta, because the blood was roaring in my ears and I was reminded of another time that I was that upset and angry.

Several years ago, I was at a bar with a few of my co-workers. I ended up sitting across the bar from a rather obviously shit faced guy and his slightly more sober buddy. He sent me a couple of drinks. I sent the bartender over with instructions to reciprocate, thank, and not allow any more to be sent. Obviously, Dude confused my polite 'buzz off' with playing hard to get. He walked around the bar and sat down next to me. I got up and moved. Twice. He followed.

Finally, he made a grab for me, and I swatted him away. Being seriously drunk, and leaning back, so that his stool was on two legs, put him at a serious disadvantage, and my little push was all he needed to go down. He smacked his face on the foot rest around the bar and broke his nose. He got up swinging. I ducked and he crashed into the bar, hard enough that it looked like his jaw was broken.

Various and sundry people responded to the call, and he was somewhat patched up. He maintained that I had hit him, which I did...sorta. Finally it came down to one question, "do you want to press charges," they asked him.

"No, what are you fucking kidding me? My wife'll fucking kill me."

I am pretty sure that was the last time I was even close to being as angry as I was with that woman tonight.

This makes me sad

An old friend of mine is going through an extremely difficult time right now. I've been following through her status updates on FaceBook. She has two daughters and while I knew that she was divorced, I didn't know that her ex husband is from India.

Apparently, he sought passports for their daughters, for which they have 50/50 custody. He was granted the right to obtain the passports from a judge in their county. She is panicked that her husband will take the children and never come back. Rightly so it seems, her latest posts are about Indian law in regard to international parental child abduction...as in it isn't a crime there. Can you imagine?

Maybe this hits home for me more deeply than some, as my husband is from Iran, and we have all seen the Sally Field movie. While, I know now that my husband would *never* do this...I'm not sure I would have been able to say this with as much confidence when I was younger, dumber, and blinded by love.

As it were, several years ago we hit a rough patch, and separated for a time. I recall someone asking me if I was afraid he would run away with our children. I remember laughing, pretty hysterically at the time and saying, "the only way I think he would go back to Iran is if the judge granted him anything more than supervised visitation...and then he would run to get away from the children." Which really isn't a dig at my husband, he would tell you the same thing if you asked him. My husband is a very loving father, but our children scare the hell out of him, and exhaust him, the latter probably influencing the former.

Anyway, the moral of the story is this? How can you protect the rights of both parents where conflicting interests is a problem?

Three reasons why I shouldn't be allowed to think

Those of you who play FarmVille, on FaceBook, did you notice the big BBQ grill you can now buy in honor of the culmination of the football season? Does it not feel strange to put that grill next to your dairy farm? I did it anyway.

Last night, I broke down and asked my kids if they had any candy stashed away. My son said that he had just eaten the last forbidden Milky Way, but, he asked if I wanted him to go to the store before heading to the bus stop today to get me one. I said no, and that he was absolutely not allowed to cross our street. He claimed our street isn't very busy. I reminded him the high school kids around here, drive like bats out of hell. "There aren't any high school kids on our street," he said, "you're the only one who looks like they could be a high school kid around here." Send me some positive vibes people, because now that I have a child that realizes careful flattery of the people who matter, makes all the difference...I'm in trouble.* what movie am I referencing here ???

I have corrupted my sister. She sent me an email today asking me to feed her fish in FishVille on FB this afternoon, because she would be at work. It was just what I needed this morning, to start my day with a smile. Those games are like crack people...LIKE CRACK!

9-5 material I am not...updated

Lately my husband's job situation has become quite tenuous again. I've decided that I don't care, which of course isn't true. I care a lot, being uninsured again scares the hell out of me. Ditto to starving to death. However, if he lost his job, he would most likely have to come home. Then, I further fantasized, to keep my panic attacks at bay, that if he came home, he could collect unemployment, and I could go back to work, thereby giving myself the vacation I so richly deserve.

There are only a few flaws with this plan. After thinking about it pretty seriously, I have no desire to return to a professional job. I am a classic overachiever in my work life, I've never put in a 40 hour week unless I was seriously ill. 80-90 hours a week is about the average of where that bar was set. I don't miss my job. I miss interacting with people, I miss the way it challenged me. The job itself sucked. No, if it came right down to it, I might be willing to look for a bartending gig, two or three days a week...but, not a real job...unless it were an absolute last resort.

Even if I take my feelings for the workforce out of the equation, there is the fact that my husband is not homemaker material. He doesn't do laundry, only does dishes under duress and badly at that, he has a tendency to forget about our children, and has never...in the 15 years we've been together...used a mop or a vacuum cleaner. Leaving him in charge would be an invitation for disaster, perhaps death by salmonella poisoning, or even suffocation via dust. Not a good idea at all.

I had someone approach me, that I used to work for, testing my waters about going back to work. After some soul searching, the answer is unequivocally, emphatically...NO!

***********************

And, after even further thought, the greatest part of my job right now (apart from my kids, of course) is being able to waste valuable time deciding which actor should play which character in a movie from a book that isn't even being made, and being accountable only to myself for taking time out for frivolous fun.

What is observational humor anyway?

Observational humor? Crikey, that sounds like I want to duck out of my unofficial commitment to unofficially play along with Homemaker Man in Knucklehead's Bloggy Idol. I won't duck out though, because I can't fall any flatter than I did with my parody, that apparently nobody could come up with something nice to say about. So...here goes.

Is it just me, or does it always happen that when you venture out in public when you're slumming, you are bound to run into people that you haven't seen in years? If I leave the house in my 'cleaning clothes' I can almost guarantee that I will run into the guy I dated in high school, the one that has heard that I have six kids, but, is now sure of it...because damn don't I look like it right about now?

Just yesterday, I ran to the grocery in my toilet cleaning garb. I stood in line thinking, "that sure looks like my best friend's little sister," in front of me in line. *My bonus blast photo, the one of me in the red dress and, yes WME, choker was the last time I remember seeing her* So, I wondered if I should ask. Then I remembered that not only could my hairspray not be located that morning, but, I was wearing a ratty, holey tee shirt. So, I convinced myself that couldn't have been her. Last night, I was on FaceBook, and she posted to my wall, asking if I had been at Whole Foods. Yes, I admitted that I had been there, but, hadn't been sure if it was her, so I didn't say anything. When I asked her why she didn't give me a shout out, her reply was, "I wasn't really looking my best, so I thought it would be cool if you didn't recognize me." Heh. My kinda girl, huh?

When I do take my time, apply make up, and wear something that could be construed as mildly attractive...who do I ever run into that knows me? Worse than nobody, I'll run into my grandmother or another member of the family wondering why in the hell my old ass, with six kids, needs to be parading around the drug store like a hooker.

So, why do I pull clothes out of my 'bar tending' collection? Because, the last damn time I was there, I saw HIM, or HER (my high school arch rival) and I would like to show off the good things I got out of gaining 40 pounds and having six kids...my tits. I would like them to take back the pity f#*k comment, or the palpable relief that they don't have kids, and never will...now. But, the next time I see them? I'll be wearing sweat pants and a Disney tee shirt...so they won't have to. Curse all the bad luck. What the hell is up with this, you all know what I'm talking about, right? Please tell me that you have been there too.

The Disillusionment Post

I'm bummed, blue, down in the dumps, sad, out of sorts...whatever you want to call it. I have spent the last couple of days trying to get back on the horse, so to speak. I've tried reading my Janet Evanovich books, the one where Stephanie sleeps with Ranger, twice. I've watched 8 Mile and ogled Art Alexakis courtesy of YouTube. I stayed in my PJs, drinking Mountain Dew (so forbidden here at my house) while watching The Nanny all day. Nothing. Nothing has helped.

Then, in a conversation, it came up that Robert DeNiro is short. WTF? No!!! I couldn't accept that, I mean, in my fantasies, I can wear heels when I'm with him. It was so unfair. I wanted to cry.

Then I got to thinking. How many other objects of my lustful affection aren't as tall in life as they are in my mind? Well, I'll tell you, because if I'm going to be disillusioned, so the hell will all of you. Eminem? He is 5'8" so is it any wonder that 8 Mile sucked at making me happy? Art Alexakis is 5'10" which is better. Robert DeNiro is five feet, nine and a half inches...I guess I could wear low heels, but, not being able to bring out the FMPs will be a serious downer in my dreams. Finally though, I came across Charles Shaugnessy...who is just a half inch shy of that six foot marker. Guess who just replaced Robert DeNiro as my number one?

So, why am I tripping over the fact that these famous men that I'll never meet aren't tall? Surely it must be because I hear all the time how much I look like Mariah...NOT. I guess the reason is, because I'm not dead...yet. I may still be the first person to die from sleep deprivation though, the night is still young, and so are my children.

I leave you now to succumb to the lilting sound of the Brit's voice calling from the television upstairs.

*****************************

Updated:

If you are wondering what is up (no pun intended) with my height issues...it is pretty simple. Just about everyone I'm related to is short. This is in and of itself not much of a big deal. Unless you spend years as the headless Amazon in photos. After a few decades of being surrounded by people that make you feel like Hagrid amongst the students of Hogwarts, you start to really appreciate being around taller people, because they make you feel little and dainty...and that is a welcome change indeed.

I love short people, don't get me wrong...but, in my fantasies, I am *not* headless.