So 80’s Lady called me a few days ago. I didn’t answer, because that’s just my nature sometimes. And because it was 80’s Lady. I assumed it was either a weather update or home dye job gone wrong that she wanted to tell me about. Or a faked illness. The possibilities were truly endless.

(In case you are late on the 80’s Lady saga and do not feel like reading this entry about her , 80’s Lady is a crazy in-law of mine. She basically serves as the thorn in my backside with her crazy antics, and it seems as if the end is not in sight.)

Eventually, after hours of the sound of my phone ringing continuously drowns out any thought I even consider having, I answer it.

‘AMANDA’ she yells, because she always yells. Speaking at a normal volume would probably put the person on the other side of her conversation at ease, thus halting the manipulative techniques, because they would not be on edge.

‘Yes, 80’s Lady.’

‘I’ve been calling you for hours now.’

‘I know. I’ve been busy for hours now. What do you need?’

‘Well, we’re having this bridal shower at my house for my cousin Patty-Duke*. She’s getting married in Ohigh. And we’re having her a shower why she’s down here. Can you come? She doesn’t really know anyone down here.’

‘Ohigh? Where the hell is Ohigh, 80’s Lady?’

‘Ohigh…it’s north of Kentucky? Haven’t you ever seen a map, Amanda?’

‘Yes, I’ve seen a damn map, but I’ve never seen Ohigh. OH!’ A light bulb dinged. She meant Ohio. ‘You mean O-HI-O, 80’s Lady?’

‘Sure, that’s what I said, Ohigh.’

‘O-HI-O!’

‘That’s what I said, Ohigh.’

‘No, it’s O-HI-O.’

‘Well, whatever it is, are you coming?’

‘I suppose.’

And I did. Because generally when given a minor sob story, I will inevitably do whatever it is that needs to be done. Even if I have no desire. Also, because I had never been to 80’s Lady’s home. While she had barged into mine on several occasions, I had never had the pleasure or urge to barge into hers. I was sort of interested to see her habitat.

It’s like when you learn about a new breed of animal with strang,e unfamiliar characteristics and you are ever so curious about where they live, what it is like, and what they surround themselves with. And that was my curiosity with the abode of 80’s Lady.

Then yesterday rolled up, and I finally remembered that I needed to purchase a shower gift. So I picked up a microwave, and gleefully headed out to the Casa of 80’s Lady. Normally, I would have been dreading the situation. But as I mentioned in a bajillion words earlier, curiosity had gotten the best of me.

The exterior was rather normal. There wasn’t anything to get excited about except for plastic pink flamingos lining the driveway, and one of those fake wells in the front yard, that isn’t actually a well, but just the housing for one. I was really hoping it got better than that. After all, I had driven out into the boonies in order to see the villain in her own lair. I was hoping to see skulls or something creepy like that.

When I opened the door, I set my gift on the table. As I was turning around, I noticed a Christmas tree.

In. May.

Not a discreet little tree either, a giant tree covered with orange tinsel and multi-colored lights flashing in seizure inducing patterns. Okay, I thought to myself, some people like Christmas a little more than others. And if anything, 80’s lady is enthusiastic.

But then I noticed it was also covered with the white wedding bells you normally see at bridal showers. I guess she noticed me admiring them, because she piped up with, ‘You like those? I decorate my tree for every holiday."

At that moment, I wished my mother was there with me. Because my mother would’ve have known what to say, and she would have said it tactfully. She would’ve found a way to compliment the year round Christmas tree and driveway lined with pink flamingos. But the thing is, I’m not my mother. At most, I’m only tactful enough to not mention such things. Because if I did, I would snort with laughter. And word out on the street is that it’s not appropriate.

So in an effort to get out of there as soon as possible, I asked her which person was Patty-Duke. I had plans to make small talk and get the hell out of dodge. But on the way to make small talk, I noticed walls lined with 8×10 photos. I don’t mean that there were 5 or 6 hanging up, either. I mean lined with in rows. It was as if she was using 8×10’s as wallpaper. So what, you might say? Maybe she likes pictures.

But what I know about her, that you don’t, is that 80’s Lady loves to steal pictures. She will five finger discount a picture of someone she doesn’t even know. She just loves pictures. It is one of the strangest, yet intriguing, thieving fetishes I’ve ever seen. I always wondered what she did with them. And well, apparently she lines her walls with them all serial killer like. Question answered.

So after nearly having a mild cardiac event from the shock of at least 100 (likely stolen) photos staring right at me, I made my way to Patty-duke that hails from ‘Ohigh’. After small talk, I discovered the following facts:

1.) Patty-Duke has no idea when or if she is actually getting married.

2.) She is not even engaged.

3.) 80’s Lady apparently heard her speaking of the fact that she might marry this guy she is dating and offered to throw a Bridal Shower for her a week later.

4.) She has only been dating this boy for 3 weeks.

5.) She is still in high school.

6.) She is upset with her mother and several others because they called her a hoochie.

Yes, this is my life. That betch 80’s lady harrasses me to come to the Bridal Shower of some high school girl from ‘Ohigh’ that is romancing the idea of marrying a boy from her math class that she met three weeks ago probably after borrowing his protractor. As a result of 80’s Lady acting like this was a normal Bridal shower, I go out and get her a microwave all because curiosity got the best of me, and I wanted to see the lair of 80’s Lady.

Once again, I have been tricked.

*Patty-Duke is not her real name.

PS. Below this entry is an entry I wrote last night about my daughter’s attitude. If you made it this far, you should read this one also.

Andi wrote a post I read earlier where she mentioned the bipolar nature of three year olds. And she was dead on.

Because listen, I’m not sure what sort of creature you have living in your home. You may be the only creature there for all I know. Or you might have a dog, a cat, a hamster, a three year old, or possibly a lovely potted tree. Like I said, I don’t know.

(You might still have up your Christmas tree. If you do, please take it down.More on this tomorrow.)

But let me tell you about the creature living in mine: she is three, she is rambunctious, and she is rowdy.

There are days when all I want to do is hug this girl, and tell her how amazing she is. Tell her much I enjoy watching her grow. Tell her that I think asking people questions that make them uncomfortable all of the time is a lovely talent. (It SO is if you ask me.)

Then there are days when we are barely tolerating one another, and it’s like a game. Who will snap first?

It’s usually her, my redheaded creature.

I ask her a question and she replies in a tone that indicates that she is barely tolerating me–a tone that I did not expect to hear until she was at a minimum age of fourteen and attempting to wear a tubetop with hooker red lipstick and a fake tramp stamp etched on her back like that it was appropriate, and I was totally holding her down.

But no, she’s just three, and she is all, "ugh, mom".

And I’m all, ‘Listen spawn, you have to live with me a long time. Like it or lump it.’

Then, she does it. She pulls out the FAIL sign, and says, "I want a new family with a new mommy." Which is crazy coming from a three year old, but this girl is a spitfire.

A new mommy. PSHH! Kid, do you think your new mom will let you sneak and listen to Salt-n-Peppa in the car since your favorite song is ‘None of Your Business ‘? No? I didn’t think so.

Then, she runs to hug me and apologizes, and belts out, ‘IF I WANNA TAKE A GUY HOME WITH ME TONIGHT, IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS…"

Note to self: Stop listening to old school music that says dirty things in front of your three year old. She is a sponge. A talking sponge. What were you thinking??

I’m going to be honest, three years old is all up in my face and poking at my eyes. But most of the time, it is awesome.

(I have a serious 80’s Lady update for tomorrow. And by serious I mean, she’s gone and done it again.)

While sorting through my garage the other day, I found a penis magnet. By penis magnet, I don’t mean a picture of myself, either. (read: sarcasm) It was a genuine, bonified penis magnet. Literally, bonified. A refrigerator magnet with small plastic penis attached to it.

(by the way, did you know that I can not spell refrigerator without the help of spellcheck? I always put a ‘d’ before the g.)

Anyway, you might be thinking, ’shame on you, why do you own a peen magnet?’ And that’s a fabulous question. Truthfully, it’s not mine, but my husbands.

Which might worry you, but the truth is I purchased the peen magnet for him as a practical joke years ago. Some friends and I had ventured to a dirty store (in the middle of redneck country), and while in there, I saw it and decided it would be hilarious to give to Adam as a gift. After all, he’d have to hang it up on the refrigerator in his super manly house amongst all his man gear. And if he didn’t hang it up, it would be like a snubbing a gift. And you can’t just snub a gift.

The walls of the Man House Kitchen were adorned with the most masculine of decor. There were antique boxing gloves hanging on one wall. Old framed photos of some of the first MLB teams lined a wall adjacent to the refrigerator. Antique signs stating other random manesque things (yes, I made that word up. but manesque sounds nice to me). Surely the penis magnet would fit in well on the fridge?

Adam did not see the humor in hanging the penis magnet up. He had male friends over all of the time, and neither he nor them thought it terribly hilarious that a plastic penis was hanging on the refrigerator in the middle of a man-cave. But he hung it up anyways. Mostly because when he took it down, I hung it back up. But I tell myself he did it voluntarily, because he treasured my gift so much. (Tell me no different.)

To some degree, the peen magnet did stir up some trouble. Because when the house was on the market around a year later, Adam showed it to many a person. They would all enter the kitchen and adoringly nod at the gorgeous colors, cabinetry, and tile work until their eyes got to the refrigerator. Because when they began focusing on it, they immediately noticed the plastic penis amongst the decor.

It just stood out, pun intended.

Adam caught several funny looks. And he didn’t realize why. The magnet had been up so long and had become a regular fixture in the kitchen. He had forgotten how strange it was to have a phallus covered fridge, until one of the men looking at the house approached him about it. It was a man that polite words would only allow me to describe as country, and he looked at Adam and said, " Son, I sure like your house. But you got a dick hangin’ from your fridge."

Adam turned red with embarrassment, and probably had hallucinations about strangling me. The peen magnet was long forgotten to him. After that, he hid it from me. (bastard.)

He should have thrown it away.

But don’t you worry, because I found that bad boy, and I’m hanging it back up.  I’ll teach him to hide penis magnets from me.  I hope my mother-in-law enjoys it.  *insert evil cackle*

This is probably officially the first time since I started blogging that I had true intentions of sitting down to write a post, but had absolutely nothing to write about. I have 22 draft posts for times like this. Back up posts for if I’m dead behind the eyes and can’t think one up. Like today.

But really, I don’t want to use them. Instead, I’m going to be a copycat. Recently, several blogs I read, especially this one , have pulled the ‘ask me a question, any question (within reason)’ game. And well, I’m pulling it also.

So ask me a question, any question within reason and I’ll answer it in a post.   Make them fun or inquisitive.  Actually,  I don’t care what you ask. I’m not picky.  Just ask one already!  Seriously, I did this many moons ago, and got asked one question.  just one.  So bring them on!

"You don’t really understand human nature unless you know why a child on a merry-go-round will wave at his parents every time around - and why his parents will always wave back. " ~William D. Tammeus.

I think some people dive into motherhood knowing what to expect, or at least thinking they know what to expect. And well, I’ll be the first person to admit that I had not a single clue. A lot of people leap into motherhood expectedly, and I think that probably has a lot do with it also.

It didn’t come as easily for me. My pregnancy with Allie was not planned. And to be honest, I was one of those people that claimed I was never having children. As far as I know, I had no intentions of ever doing so.

So when the various symptoms of pregnancy showed up, I didn’t even realize what they were. Which sounds stupid. But believe it or not, to a person not expecting to get pregnant and not expecting to look for the symptoms, they’re not easily recognizable. Boy, I thought to myself, when I was queasy, it sure is odd to get the flu in June. Seriously, who gets the flu in June? And why in the free world did the flu make my boobs swell and ache this time? And why was it making me puke every day?

Later, after contemplating this phantom flu, I realized that my always by the clock period was late. And then it dawned on me.

I was pregnant.

PREGNANT? I thought. Surely not. Not me.

To ease my fears and convince myself that I was not in what my grandma had called ‘the family way’, I ventured to the local K-mart to procure a pregnancy test. I scanned the aisle for what seemed like hours, hoping to find the one that would be negative. At the time, I needed that negative. I couldn’t have a baby, I thought. I had never even held a newborn baby. I had never wanted to hold a baby. They pooped on themselves and expected you to clean it up? How rude is that? A tiny creature that pooped on itself? No thanks.

What was I going to do with a baby? I didn’t even know any lullaby’s. I mean, sure I remembered some, but I didn’t know all of the words. And I am by far the worst singer on the planet. Would I sing it Red Hot Chili Pepper songs? Would the child appreciate Under the Bridge or Scar Tissue? Would he or she cry when they heard my voice attempting a melody? Because It makes me want to cry sometimes.

After perusing pregnancy tests until my eyes were nearly crossed from reading the details of the pink lines with the altering directions, I finally just picked one. A pee stick was a pee stick, I figured. I paid for it, and I took it home.

My friend A. came over and stayed while I took the test. And believe me, it took a while to convince myself to go take it. Because before I even did the pee-stick maneuver, I just knew. I just had that feeling. Still, I went into the bathroom and began. (Unbeknownst to me, that was the first of many times I would spend in a bathroom peeing on or in some apparatus for a test.)

I remember thinking the whole time, ‘Please just say no. I know I’m probably pregnant, but you could just say no? I like to plan things. I like to make lists and organize my life. This isn’t planned? Please, please, just let me be in charge of this.”

But when I saw the result, positive as indicated by the lines, my stomach dropped to floor. At first I thought that the test might be wrong, though it was telling me what my body already knew, I hoped it was wrong. But the box had said light pink lines would appear, and mine were the brightest pink I had ever seen. Fluorescent, almost. But I was still shocked. Even when you expect a certain outcome, it’s sometimes still a surprise.

Soon, my surprise turned into a tornado of nausea. Do you know that feeling you get when you’re really nervous? Maybe your hands shake, or maybe your eyes tear up, or maybe you really have to poop, or maybe you feel like you are going to burst out of your skin and run to the nearest looney bin. It w as all of those things in one. It was as if a cyclone of nerves, a combination of those feelings, was whirling around in my body and beckoning my sanity.

I let the news sit for a while. I took a long bath. A looooooong bath. The longest.bath.ever.

I cried for a while. I laughed for a while. I wondered how the Birth Control, which I thought was similar to Alcatraz in security, had failed me, or how I had failed it. I wondered a lot of things. I wondered for so long that I probably contemplated who killed JFK? And how many licks did it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop? And who actually liked the color orange? And why? It doesn’t even rhyme with anything. And why me? There were people all over the world hoping and praying for babies. There were women in desperate need of my outrageously flagrant fertility, and why did it have to show off? Did my reproductive system think it was in a talent show? And why was it trying to win? Freaking overachiever.

Then, after loads of contemplation, I was calm.

Somehow, someway, I was calm. And everything became okay. Now, I realize that a sudden state of calm ensuing sounds sort of crazy, but calm always rescues me that way. It just creeps up and crawls over me like a fog. A thick, but well received fog.

You see, maybe I hadn’t been planning on having a baby anytime soon or even ever, but I knew that this was my baby. It was our baby. I knew there was a reason for her being. She was given to me for a reason. It wasn’t just my reproductive system trying to impress the free world.

And after that, my whole view and world changed.

Truthfully, I have been and will always be ever-so grateful to have her in my life. There are nights when I tiptoe into her room to peak in on her sleeping, and she’s so sound and peaceful. So honest. I crawl into her twin bed and lay next to her tiny body, rest my head near her shoulder, run my hands through her curly red hair, and I thank the powers above that she is mine. Ours.

For me, this unexpected gift was the best I’ve ever received. And in the three years, two months, and four days since I pushed Allie into this world, she has been my saving grace, the light at the end of the tunnel.

When she laughs, the world is peaceful, calm, and true. Everything just makes sense.

I have learned more from this tiny soul than I ever have from any other source. I learned how to change diapers, kiss boo-boos, potty train, play in the rain, and hold a baby. I’ve learned to tolerate children’s songs, laugh freely and loudly, and how to deal with a little shadow, a minor mimic of major proportions.

Each stage of her life thus far has been a blessing. Though the latest is my favorite. I’m convinced that if I ever became a hoarder, instead of being a crazy old cat lady, I would just hoard potty-trained three year olds and talk to them all day. Listen to the things they came up with and laugh loudly and joyously with them.

Maybe I didn’t plan to be a mother, but I am. I love it. And I’m damn good at it.

Since I began blogging many of my posts have contained stories or jokes which my husband was the butt of. (Like this one ,this one , this one , and this one ) Some of you have jokingly expressed concern for him. And let me assure you that this is not a one sided joke fest. Our heckling is equally reciprocated.

In fact, it’s safe to say that he relates stories and makes an ass out of me as frequently and as much. I’ll provide a fabulous example for those of you worrying about him.

I’m not sure if you’re familiar with Cracker Barrell or not. However, it’s a restaurant that specializes in impersonating down home type foods. Outside of the restaurant area of some Cracker Barrels there is a small general store of sorts that sells a variety of items that vary from candles to toys. Generally, after eating, I peak around in there for quite a while. After a few minutes of me sniffing every Yankee Candle within reach, Adam became quite impatient.

Come on, he said.

I’m not ready yet, I replied.

How many more of those Candles are you going to sniff? he asked.

All of them, if you don’t leave me alone, I shot back.

Then, because he knows me so well, he had to scheme up a true plan to get me out of there before I was ready to leave.

So he begins announcing, to anyone that would listen, that his privates were itching.

“MY PRIVATES ARE ITCHING!” he shouted in the direction an older woman hobbling by with a cane and a chartreuse cardigan.

I stopped sniffing whatever candle I had my nose buried. And looked up and gave him the stink eye, hoping that it would either stop him in his tracks or induce third degree burns.

Apparently, it had neither of those effects. Because soon he began shouting even more loudly, “BUT MY NUTS, MY NUTS ARE ITCHING!”

Then, my face turned a shade of red that upstaged any stop sign in a fifty mile radius. But I still held my ground. I wasn’t letting his imaginary crotch itch stop me from sniffing candles. Because I LOVE me some candle sniffing.

But no. He wasn’t finished.

“I’M HAVING A HERPES FLARE UP! A REALLY BAD HERPES FLARE UP! MY NUTS ARE ITCHING!!”

I lost my breath and nearly passed out. Was he faking an STD just to get out of Cracker Barrel? SERIOUSLY? Was that last sniff of Clean Cotton worth it? Who knows.

After that, I left. If the man had gone and faked an STD, he must really want to go. Besides, if you’ll act like you have herpes just to get out of the Cracker Barrell. Well, you probably need to leave.

Because I love him, I let him ride in the car with me. Which was very generous, if you ask me.

Allie loves being outdoors. However, she was blessed with parents who are not outdoorsy. Whatsoever. No doubt about it. We are not one with nature. But we try. We really try for her sake.

In order to make up for our shortcomings, we decided to take her fishing today at a local lake. We didn’t really plan to catch fish, as much as we just planned to go soak up the atmosphere and go through the notions of fishing. So we purchased a cute little Dora fishing pole and other goods and headed on down.

Allie was game for this trip before it even began. After all, she had already told many an imaginary story about all of the loot she racked up from past imaginary fishing trips.

Upon arrival, there were two trails you could take at the spot we went picked that led to the lake. So we chose a path and started walking down.

(THIS is where I interject to tell you how terrified I am of the possibility of even seeing a snake. So as soon as I enter any sort of ground area that is not concrete, asphalt, etc. I immediately begin to scan for the slithery little creatures. IMMEDIATELY.)

Adam led the way while I followed behind holding Allie’s hand. When we were fully immersed in the woods Allie was fascinated and I was somewhat terrified. Not long after our entrance, Adam stops and pauses. He had heard what he thought was a snake.

Then, about a foot in front of him, a snake, peppered with black and yellow, sprang up from it’s hiding place.

I grabbed Allie, slung her over my shoulder, and ran like hell.

Fast and like hell.

I never truly understood what it meant to run like hell until I undertook such a task today. But if you’ve ever ran in such a manner, you know what I mean.

After safely returning to the non-snake infested pavement, I set Allie down. I looked at her, expecting her to be slightly terrified and prepared to explained what had just happened. Instead she cocked her eyebrow and said, “did you see dad? he ran like a girl when he saw that snake? just like a girl.” And then she giggled for hours. (We ended up taking the other trail to the lake.)

I can’t imagine what the people who saw us running out of the woods were thinking. All they saw was a lady high-tailing it with a redheaded toddler slung over her shoulder potato sack style, and a dark-headed man running like he’d seen the devil.

Unfortunately, the hard times for Adam didn’t end with the snake incident. Upon returning home from the mini-fishing adventure, we agreed that it was a perfect day to grill our dinner. Grilling out, of course requires starting the grill. So I stayed inside with Allie and prepared to chop up vegetables while he ignited it.

I heard him reasoning with himself about how he was going to start it. The igniter was messed up. Then, after a few minutes, I heard a very loud POOF.

Slightly terrified, I ran outside to make sure Adam was okay.

And he was, except for that his eyebrows and most of his the hair on his arms was all singed off.

I love this man, and I was so grateful he wasn’t injured. but it was really hard to not to laugh. really, really hard. So finally, I did. There’s just something about a person getting their eyebrows partially singed off that is comic gold.

As a teenager, most of my Summer jobs involved working at one of my parent’s businesses. Some of you that have not ever been employed by your own parents might be under the impression that this job was quite cushy. And well, no. That isn’t how it worked out. Your parents know when you can and can’t work. Knowing they relied on you meant no sick day.

One Summer, my mother decided that it would be best if I helped run one of her small restaurants. I was sort of disappointed, because I loved sitting on my ass watching tv and gossiping on the phone or going swimming at one of my friend’s pools. Who wanted a job?

It was an optional job. But I knew she needed me to help her, because the restaurant was a side venture of sorts. So she couldn’t be there due to her actual job, and needed someone there to ensure that things were running correctly.

Mostly, it was a tin can of a place close to a local racing track, a drive-in restaurant or sorts. Think Sonic, except without the speakers and roller skates. But we had pretty much the same menu: ice cream cones, milk shakes, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, etc. From here on out, I think I’ll just refer to the place as ‘The Tin Can’, because it has different owners now and they might not appreciate me dishing out what goes on there for the world wide web.

Anyway:

Every morning, I got up at the crack of dawn and headed over to the Tin Can. I would head home later that evening reeking of french fries, because that’s what being holed up in a small building with two giant deep fryers will do to you. The small building served as a kitchen since the cars either drove up to eat or parked and ate at a picnic table outdoors.

It went like this: A car would pull up, I would go out get the order, and then, I would return back inside to fix the order. I had to cook the orders, because our cooks were generally too lazy. Why not fire them, you ask?

And well, they were usually people who rented houses from us and wouldn’t pay their rent. So they worked in return. By work, I mean they sat on the phone all day (long distance) with their boyfriends that were recently released from incarceration three states away and talk about getting a new perm or how enthralling the latest Harlequin Romance they were attempting was, or maybe they talked about how they spent their evenings watching stolen cable. Who knows?

I did this all of that particular Summer. And the air conditioning in the Tin Can was not very sufficient. Summer in southeastern Kentucky is beyond humid. I can not even being to explain how the air just swallows you when it’s hot outside. It’s thick, unbearable, and sticky. And miserable, to say the least.

As you can imagine, in an establishment of the Tin Can’s caliber there was some sort of adventure almost daily. So I think for the Summer, which has started for me today..even if it doesn’t officially begin until late June, I will post a series of things that occurred at the Tin Can.

Today, I’m going to tell you about the time some asshole kind soul launched his trash at me in the parking lot. Because one day, I was slaving away. Meanwhile, the cook was on the phone with her ex-con. Let’s call the cook Bessie. Anyway, Bessie was on the phone talking about dry humping and Jerry Springer, and I was making a grill full of burgers, when a van pulls up. The van was plastered with a company logo, and the driver was a smiling man that appeared seem rather clean cut and friendly.

(Clean cut and friendly was a very odd combination to receive at the Tin Can.)

I went out to take his order while Bessie segued into her portion of a debate that seemed to be centered around G-Strings vs. Cotton Thongs. Oh, how she educated me.

When I got to the van, the man barked his order at me and informed me he wanted no tomatoes on his hamburger. No tomatoes, check. I headed back inside, and on my way , he stopped me by yelling, " HEY TOOTS!". I walked back toward the van with a look that should have undoubtedly killed, but somehow didn’t and asked him what he wanted.

He just wanted to make sure that I (TOOTS) got the "no tomatoes" part.

So I ran back inside, catching the tail end of the Thong-G String debate, and cooked the order. (G Strings were Bessies choice, if you’re curious. And she was a large woman. A really, really large woman. Like, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape’s mother, Bonnie, large.)

When I brought the food to the man, he asked me to wait a moment before returning to the building. And since I had to wait for him to pay for the order anyway, I gladly obliged. So I stood there for a moment rolling my eyes while he fiddled with something in the back of his van. When he leans back toward me he paid me, but he had this huge bag of trash and an assemblage of discarded fastfood bags in the other.

"Toots," he said again, because one death wish wasn’t enough, "could you throw this away for me."

"No, " I replied, "it isn’t my job to discard your trash. It’s your job."

"You work here don’t you?" he snipped.

And well, de had a point. I did work there. But truly, discarding trash wasn’t my job. I had enough to do already. And at that point, pre-child, I threw no ones trash away but my own, unless it involved picking up litter. Also, my mother understood that handling the Tim Can by myself was tough. She had given me strict instructions to not let anyone walk on me. We had enough customers, and we didn’t need rude ones.

So I replied:

"Yes, I work here. But I’m waitress and a cook. Not a trash girl. Besides, you’re a big boy, you can throw it away. The trash can is only five feet away."

He grimaced at me. Because his mother had failed to teach him manners and probably hadn’t potty trained him either.

I turned around to walk back into the building.

As I was trotting back, proud of myself for standing up to him, I heard a strange sound and felt something slimy hit my back.

I turned around and looked down. The bastard had launched the trash at me. As I looked up to give him a third evil glare and possibly spit fire in his direction, he was pulling out at full speed and driving off.

Even covered in trash juice, as a somewhat believer in karma, I knew it would come back to haunt him one day. Which is why when he came into my husband’s office one day to do business several years later, I smiled at him.

He looked at me like I was someone he once knew.

"You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked.

"Sort of," I replied, "You launched your trash at me at the Tin Can about 8 years ago. Thanks, by the way."

He turned red, and turned around to leave. He still does business with us, and I get a special pleasure out of how stupid he feels every time I see him.

What a piece of work.

Lindsay at Suburban Turmoil graced me with this beauty of an award.  I am the proud recipient of a Perfect Post Award for April 2008. This is the post. Check it out if you haven’t already.  It’s a guaranteed laugh.  You should also head over and check out the rest of the recipients!