Not By the Hair of My Chinny Chin Chin. Please.

So, let's play a game. 


Let's say that I am lost. Or you are lost. Or your Dear Husband slash Significant Other slash Grandmother is lost. 


Note: Okay, let's eliminate the possibility of losing Grandma. Not cool. 
Let's just say that I am lost.

The other day I am walking The Dog and she is stopping to pee at a telephone poll, because every other dog in the neighborhood has done so, apparently. She's sniffing and peeing and I see that someone has posted a Lost Pet sign. On the telephone pole, yes.


Oh dear! A lost pet! 


The sign has a big photo of a missing cat with a short description of the animal. 

A Big, Swinging Belly? Really?

Note: Do her boobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro? 


A Big, Swinging Belly? Really? This creature's defining characteristic is her Big, Swinging Belly? 


So, it got me to thinking, which is always a little dangerous. Hence, the game. 


Let's say that you are out walking your dog and on the telephone pole is a picture of me. Because I am lost, apparently. How does the sign describe me? What is my defining trait to the eye of a Local Search and Rescue Team. 


Lost! The sign may read, Friendly, with Slightly Saggy Jowls. 


Or Lost! The sign may read, Pleasant, with Unfortunate Chin Hair.


Or Lost! The sign may read, Outgoing, but Needs a Boob Job. 


Sweet Holy Moses. 


This is a dumb game.

I Am Not in My Right Mind. Or My Left, Sadly.

I am tooling around Target with The Hub and The (Big) GrandBoy. Big Grand is sitting in the cart, sort of, because he's going through this  difficult endearing phase where sitting in the appointed seat is so last month. It takes a great deal of energy/bribery to keep Big Grand safely seated and appropriately entertained.

So, The Hub is driving the cart like a Drunk Race Car Driver and he is saying, vroom vroom and Big Grand is sipping a red icee through a straw and is dribbling red stuff on his shirt in vroom vroom delight while eating multi-colored goldfish crackers because these grandparents do not care about food colorings and additives in the diets of the Grands as long as the child is happy and thinks we are freaking awesome.

We are on an aisle with lots of balls because GrandPop and Big Grand are now playing catch, except not really, because BG is sipping a red icee and munching on multi-colored goldfish. So, GrandPop is playing catch, yes.

A Fellow Shopper, late twenties maybe, says May I ask you a personal question?

Note: The question itself makes me giddy. I love personal questions.

He picks up a stability exercise ball, one of the giant ones. I see his receding hairline over the ball. He is squeezing the ball a little because he seems a little nervous and says Did you use a birthing ball when you had your baby? and he is gesturing over the ball with his head toward Big Grand.

I feel a little smug smile creeping across my lips, like the Grinch. First of all, The Hub and I cannot possibly be this child's parents. Aside from the obvious age issues, we are cruising around Target like crazy fools with a shopping cart while feeding the child red icees and multi-colored goldfish! No parent in his right mind would behave so recklessly.

Note: Clearly we are Grandparents. We have no right mind.

For some reason, I am frozen, in my amusement.

The Hub rescues me in my unusual silence and pipes up to Fellow Shopper, Actually, he is our Grandson.

I am thinking, Does this mean he doesn't want to hear my birthing experiences? but I find myself saying unnecessary things like, People make that mistake all then time, which is not true, and things like, I hear that lots of women like a birthing ball, which may be true but I do not know this for a fact and even things like, If I were having a baby today, I might try one, which is definitely not true because if I were having a baby today I would be too drugged up to even know my own name.

Note: I may be exaggerating, slightly.

Fellow Shopper slinks away. Without the ball, sadly.

The Hub is grinning and eating multi-colored Goldfish crackers.

Big Grand offers me a sip of his red icee. I oblige, dribbling red stuff down my shirt.

Heck, yes!

Beware. Granny on a Broom.

You have been warned!

The witching hour is approaching quickly, yes.

Note: The witching hour is the time of night when witches and demons appear. It is usually associated with the darkest hours past midnight, or when a Cub Scout Planning Meeting has gone longer than 2-1/2 hours.

Sadly, I am discussing the latter scenario. And if my current state of mind is any indication, a witch of some sort may appear quite shortly indeed.

Note: I warned you ...

I am getting the jitters.

I am sitting at a kitchen table. My eyes are blurring and I am stifling a yawn. Hoping for distraction, I reach for a drink of water and whack the cup, spilling it on the milk chocolate bar with whole hazelnuts  that has been provided for the enjoyment of the cub scout leaders.

I am sorry, I am saying, dabbing with napkins and kleenex from my purse and I really am sorry because now I'll have to eat the wet, gross chocolate because I'm responsible for the carnage.

I am so tired. Why are the other leaders not sleepy? I am wondering. Are they buzzed on caffeine? Are they on a sugar-high from the wet chocolate bar with whole hazelnuts? Are they decades younger than me?

Note: Oh, that.

We are discussing scout activities and swim teams and mascara. We are discussing Wolf achievements and Wolf electives and wet chocolate.

Note: My bad.

One of the other leaders who is pushing thirty, probably, is discussing the other women in her church congregation. The other women are very young. Newly married, blushing brides, she is saying and adds, it makes me feel like a freaking granny!

Excuse me, Pal I am saying. I am the freaking granny.

Note: Okay, fine. I did not say that. Not exactly. I stuffed a piece of wet chocolate in my mouth. To gain a little time.

But I definitely feel that witch wriggling just a little bit inside of my head, yearning to be free!

Ah, yes. The Witching Hour Indeed.

Heck, yes!

And You Think YOUR Holiday Dinner is Rough.

And you think YOU have a crummy shower ...

Okay, so I am watching a well-known Home & Garden Television Network, which I shall not name.

Note: Okay, fine. So I am watching HGTV.

And because I am in the midst of renovating my Ramshackle House on the Hill, I am particularly interested in whole-house renovations.

Note: Okay, so actually I am in the midst of planning the renovations to my Ramshackle House on the Hill. Donations are accepted. Gifts cards. Firstborn. Whatever.

So I am watching HGTV and some Gentleman is talking about how he spent 140 grand renovating his condo and how his new master bath is totally totally fab and and lavish and an exquisite use of materials.

Um, okay.

The Gentleman is showing off the exquisite use of materials and the plushness and the decadence. Of it all, including the bidet.

Um, okay.

Now The Gentleman is referring to THE SHOWER. He is referring to the exquisite use of materials and the spray heads and the waterfalls that grace THE SHOWER.

It is a SHOWER FOR FOUR, he is saying and smiling and gushing. About the exquisite use of materials, I hope.

Oh dear. My heart is happy that The Gentleman loves his renovations. And his materials. And the decadence.

But really? A shower for four? On national television when dear Grandma Ethel, with her pacemaker and all, is watching?

Now, there's a holiday dinner I wouldn't want to miss ...

Heck, yes!

Pick a Peck. Go Ahead. I Dare You.

It's killing me.

Literally, and I am not exaggerating.

Note: Yes, I am.

It's killing me because there is a woodpecker outside my bedroom window. That stupid beast is outside my bedroom window every morning at 6:45 a.m.

Pecking away, yes.

It's not killing me because that danged creature is damaging the house, no. I don't really care. And it's not really killing me that every morning I am awakened, not by a tap-tap-tap but a tap-tap-rat-a-tat-tappity-Mc-Tap-Tap tap-tap-rat-a-tat-tappity-Mc-Tap-Tap.

Note: How does that bird not have a headache?

No, it's killing me because I am sitting on a plethora of Pecker jokes, which, due to my genteel manner and strict upbringing I feel may be inappropriate to share with my readers.

Blast!

I want to say Death to the Pecker or That Pecker is Going Down or That Pecker Has Pecked His Last Wood, but alas, I cannot.

And I cannot observe how Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peckers. Oh, wait. That's not right.

Whatever.

But I have to tackle the Pecker problem. I've got a bone to peck with that bird. Pick, I mean.

Sweet Holy Smokes.

Whoopi Calls It African-American Friday, Yes!

I am doing it. I am finally doing it! I am Black Friday-ing!

Note: Cross that puppy off the bucket list, yes!

I am standing in a line. A very, very long line. I am pushing large boxes of items on the floor because there are no carts available. Precariously stacked in a Grinch-like manner on top of the large boxes are smaller boxes and trinkets and stuff. There are no carts available anywhere in Contra Costa County, probably.

It is hot in here. It is hot in here because there are a thousand other shoppers, pressing their bodies this close to mine. I am sweating, but I can not take off my sweatshirt to reveal my turtleneck underneath. I am not wearing a bra, you see.

Note: Wearing a bra while shopping in the middle of the night seemed optional, at the time.

A vendor comes through the line with 5-Hour energy shots. For free. No thank you, I say. The ladies in front of me gulp theirs down. They ask for more.

The guy behind me actually has a cart. He keeps ramming it into my ample bum, accidentally, I think. He is staying this close just in case some unruly shopper tries to cut into our line, I suppose.

The ladies in front of me getting boisterous. I think the Energy Shots are kicking in, yes.

I pass the time by fluffing up the artificial Christmas trees dotting the store. My pet peeve is unfluffed artificial trees. The trees look so much better now, the other shoppers agree. Thank you, I am saying.

Why isn't the line moving? I am so hot. The Hub goes to get another Diet Coke to add to our growing pile of empties, which lies on top of the boxes we are pushing, for which we will pay when we get to the checkout. If we ever get to the checkout.

Our line has not moved for thirty minutes. Shoppers are getting restless. I am selected to investigate. Because of my calm, collected manner and excellent negotiation skills, I suppose.

Note: I am chosen because I am the only shopper with the grim determination to take on the Line Manager.

Additional Note: The Line Manager is a roundish control-freak who is a loud talker who employs a series of walkie-talkies and clipboards and bathroom passes to leave the line for necessary breaks, at her whim. She doesn't scare me, oh no she doesn't.

Additional Additional Note: She might scare me a little.

Quick Observation: My cause would be greatly aided if the Line Manager were a balding fellow in his fifties with a belly hanging over his belt. Just saying.

The Line Manager is explaining to me that the Laptop people got to cut in front of the rest of us regular shoppers.

What! Cutter Cutter, Peanut Butter I am saying and then I am offering to buy a laptop so I can cut in line too. She sends me back to the crowd to deliver the news to my fellow shoppers.

No one is happy about the news. There is rumbling. There is pacing. There is a quiet threat of rebellion.

It's so hot in here. I lift up my sweatshirt and fan myself with it. I am careful to not flash the boobies. But if the Line Manager were a balding fellow in his fifties with a belly hanging over his belt ...

After two and a half hours in line, I am done! I am out! I am free!

I need a cart!

I skim the parking lot with my eagle-like vision. I see one, oh yes! The Lady next to me sees it, too. The Lady sees it after I see it, because I am already jogging to the cart, inhaling the cool air. My boobies are bouncing, but it is refreshing, yes.

The Lady next to me bolts for the cart. Seriously? I can take her. I speed up. My long legs are gliding like a gazelle.

She speeds up.

What am I doing? I hand her the cart. Merry Christmas, I say. After all, there must be one more cart somewhere in Contra Costa County.

Merry Christmas!

Heck, yes!

Power. To the People!

Oh Yah!

The hospitality of my new friends in the Northern Plains is refreshing, dear readers.

I am refreshed, not because it's 21 degrees in Fargo today but because it is so darned refreshing to see that Customer Service is alive and well at the Home Depot, oh yes it is.

I do not know what this sign means, exactly, but odds are high that I am quite pleased about the prospect. Of the Employee. Powering up.

Gives a whole new meaning to power tools, you betcha.

Heck, yes!