People of Walmart: other habitats

I'm a little blue because my dream of getting a real "People of Walmart" photo failed, so I have to turn to the family library, this never disappoints. Not that the Walmart wasn't ripe with potential (among other things), just that the picture of the fat man leaving the crapper with a big wet spot on his bum was of such poor quality it was of no use. Drat, foiled again!

I know just what you're thinking: "No no no Edith, the usual non-retail habitat will generally involve a trailer, double wide, or otherwise modular domicile." Presented here to prove you wrong is my voluptuous sister-in-law, previously known to this site as "Trashie".

Today I'm here to inform you that there are situations that can draw the creatures in question out into the daylight for a refreshing walk/forced march. There could be a body to bury (you cain't jess leave those thangs in the front porch fridge forever!), or you could still be seeking the mythical Twinkie Patch of childhood lore. Today's specific example involves getting forced to dance for one's dinner by way of required time with one's family...gotta trot the babies out if you're going to be asking for a cash donation; the need for diapers in so much more compelling that the need to keep the premium channels paid up.

In case you're trying to make it out, her shirt does say "I Love My Daughter". Your guess is as good as mine why any mother would find it necessary to broadcast this affirmation, particularity by way of tee shirt, but there you have it.

BLOG NOTE: Thanks to my family member (of whom I'm quite fond, see, it happens!) for my fabulous new banner. Although she may publicly deny visiting, the whole Plain Jane blog format thing was bugging her, talented artiste that she is.

Going Green

Dragging out the malodorous trash bags containing evidence of the Thanksgiving feast is making my arm tired and I think some old coffee grounds contaminated my lovely hunter green pegleg corduroys. These exquisite trousers are just like the ones I had in the 8th grade and they do not need to be sullied by anybody's janky leftovers. The amount of garbage generated by one family for one meal is truly exhausting, so any forthcoming changes are born more of laziness than a bleating social conscience.

In my effort to reduce waste, I hereby declare paper napkins banned. And no, I'm not switching to cloth napkins because the necessary laundering and detergents offset any environmental gain. This is the plan which is to be implemented immediately: left sleeve, foodstuff and drink dribbles, right sleeve: snot and blood (nosebleeds).

Since I'd have to wash the dang clothes anyway, this is an elegant solution for an age old problem; think of the relief to overflowing landfills I'm a hero. I will now prepare myself for worldwide recognition and accolades.

Added benefit which has just occurred to me: death to the social hug! People will stay far away from one another and motivation for annoying hugs will diminish overnight. DOUBLE HERO!!

Safety Glasses

I bin BUSY!
Mostly fending off all them mens because of my super sessy new specs, all those boys be trippin' over each other to get to me. (Also reading "PUSH" as ordered by the Mighty Oprah, therefore brushing up on my ghetto verbiage).
I actually got my way hot glasses with the notion that I would use them exclusively in surgery in order to avoid wearing that dumb mask with a shield which always fogs up. I went to the eyeglass store and said that I'd like the biggest & cheapest frames that they had. The cringing proprietor in his polite gay way attempted to steer me elsewhere, but I persevered. These are perfect for surgery, and it turns out that I like being able to see things at a distance (over 6 feet away, that is). My children are horrified and have asked me to remove them when they deign to acknowledge me, but I'm pretty happy with them overall. They give me a very Lois Lane aura.

In other news, I'm slowly working my way out of the Halloween induced candy coma, and I've been recklessly squandering cash since I managed to divest myself of the nightmare suit by way of eBay for a whopping $230.00. I guess every pot has a lid. Except for Mr. Bunker, that is. In a world where every pot has a lid, he is a lonely wok. Sad. For me, that is.

The Basscrack

This unfortunate situation occurs when the ass travels on up the back, resulting in the anatomical structure known as the bass. The cleavage point is hence the basscrack.

This goes back to the First Law of Thermodynamics which deals with the conservation of energy: Energy (and therefore mater via E=mc2) may be neither created nor destroyed, no matter how much lycra is involved. You can stave off the muffin top, the biffalo (butt in front) and the FOPA (fat over pubic area) but that stuffs gunna pop out somewhere.

disclaimer: this is not patient of mine. I promise. I had complete informed consent.

Concert Review: A Fine Frenzy

OK, so let's just start with the fact that I am not a harsh critic; if there's not a purple dinosaur singing and some sticky runt's not shoving an empty juice box into my hand, then you can pretty much color me happy. So in my humble opinion, the show was masterful. Almost.

"A Fine Frenzy" (Alison Sudol) was first spotted by my musically sophisticated (aka snobbish) friend when opening for Rufus "I'm wearing Lederhosen" Wainwright. At that time she was sort of an angsty little pinhead, and I loved her immediately. Someone must have really whacked her dosing, because last night she was all happy & bouncy, more consistent with someone who dots her letter i with a heart than a crabby poet. Instead of wailing along with her piano, she was skipping around to a Blondie song. She almost fell down, and believe what you will, but I KNOW that the near-fall was because the stank stare administered by my disappointed girlfriend; a stare like that can actually singe your hair or turn you into a pillar of salt, trust this!
The real musicians in my group looked as offended as a bunch of Southern Baptist ladies getting a lap dance; however, I would go again tonight if she was playing.

Halloween Recap

Above is a small sampling of the impressive Halloween haul. Note the "fun size" Milky Way at the bottom which was included for the purpose of scale. What the big fat hell is going on here? Where the hell is the recession? I thought this would be a scaled back "one little Tootsie Roll per person" type Halloween, but I guess not based upon the portions dispensed; who knew there was such a thing as a KING sized Reese's bar?
I felt pretty chintzy passing out the regular trick-or-treat size candy. Possibly I resembled the old lady who passed out pennies to everyone when we were kids; pretty smart really because everyone just threw them right back into her pumpkin which somehow always seemed to be kicked in.

Also, why are all the moms dressed up like prostitutes? How's a real working girl supposed to get her game on with all the bustier-clad house fraus doing the ho stroll?


The kids are old enough now that they inventory and trade their goodies, which means I can't indiscriminately ravage the haul as usual. I surreptitiously pinched a medium sized Snickers out of The Boy's bag, and damned if he didn't figure it out in short order. Good thing it was just a trial run, as he's had expert tutelage in the apoplectic fit; this was skillfully averted.

This process has caused a minor speed bump in my usual post-Halloween candy hork; don't you worry though, just a few more Reese's cups (the tiny ones are actually better, chocolate:peanut butter ratio is higher) and I'll be throwing on my bunny ears to pose with my BBW posse!

Blog note: The Suit has been listed on eBay (starting price $0.99) and has already been bid up to an amazing $17.00!! Maybe I can start a retirement fund by selling off Archie's junk; heck, no overhead and vast amounts of rare treasure. Sorta like a winning lotto ticket! well...not really, it's just the eternal optimist in me coming out.

That Time of the Month

Rent time, that is.

Rent for the garage spot that I require because I am a spoiled princess who thinks that she shouldn't have to schlep the kids and groceries a half mile which is where I could possibly find a street spot. Our one remaining spot is reserved for Mr. Bunker, lest he has to WALK anywhere, possibly squandering some of that hard-won adipose tissue.

We basically have a ritual now, occurring on the last day of the month. It starts out with him telling me that today is the day! he's going to get it all cleaned out today,followed by harsh admonitions not to write the check for my rented garage spot, because we're broke. BROKE! Sometimes I remind him that we should really be extra super rich because of all the money that he saves buying clearance items. "Those are necessities!" he shouts (really? like those 12 packs of nail polish and the 3 bottles of Stetson cologne?? the 50 boxes of bandaids? the basketball hoop?).

Next, he gets his army of Mexican laborers who stand around and smoke, getting paid while Archie organizes a bucket of drywall nails that are probably valued at about $2.00 for the lot of them. Nobody's allowed to touch anything without prior inspection, which won't happen, because that crazy asshole is too busy sorting through penny drywall nails.

Usually by the third of the month I write the check to the garage, at which point Mr. Bunker becomes unhinged, bellows about how he's really close to having it cleaned out and that WHAT DO I THINK WE'RE RICH??? Then he completely abandons the project until next the very last day of the next month.

There was a temporary void where the frog lamp once lived, and I'm going to start leaving the garage door open in hopes that some of the shopping cart people that walk through the ally will lighten the load. That is, after I search through that mess, because after my office manager saw the pic of the frog lamp, she said that she would sure like a soup tureen, and odds are that there is one in there somewhere. Anything for you, Phoebe.