Hubby and I left for my mom's house Wednesday morning. This trip started out with a miracle: Hubby had packed his bag the night before instead of as I was sitting in the car honking.
|stripey kitten helped me pack.|
Hubby jetted across Ohio in well under the four hours it usually takes me by doing an admirable ninety miles an hour the entire way. I'm pretty sure the front tires of my poor Saturn weren't on the road most of the time. Loaded with duffel bags, dog food, people food, books, and various other random shit I feel the need to bring with me (overpacking doesn't even begin to describe it), I think there was more weight in the trunk of the car than ever before. The Saturn was like one of those poor donkeys you see in some third world country that are so loaded down, they're hanging from their carts.
Indiana and the short jag of Illinois before we got home were uneventful and we pulled into my mom's driveway to loose the puppies upon her. My mom has two dogs as well--a black German Shepherd/Lab mix and a yellow Border Collie/Lab mix whose body parts don't match each other.
|gary (named after the snail in sponge bob) and thor.|
Now, I feel as though I can safely say that every one of you readers lives with or has lived with a male at some point. Right? Whether it's a brother, father, boyfriend, or husband, there has been a male presence in your bathroom. How many of you know where this is leading?
I jumped into bed and snuggled in with my puppies as Hubby shut the door to the way-too-close bathroom. I was kind of sort of watching t.v. when I heard the most incredible noise from the bathroom. It was a like a dying trumpet. A jet engine taking off. The exhaust on a souped-up diesel truck. Perhaps a small atomic bomb had just exploded.
I don't know how security wasn't called.
I'm pretty sure this fart had made Hubby levitate off the toilet. I have never heard such a thing in my life. There was a brief pause before I tentatively called, "Are you okay?" There was an affirmative and he emerged shortly after, completely blase. I made sure to keep a pillow between us for the night. That sound was not human.
Thanksgiving morning, Hubby and I took Emily, Darcy, and Thor for a two mile loop at the Kane County Forest Preserve. (Gary is afraid of life and wasn't invited.) Thor was totally gung-ho for the first half mile, pulling my arm out to pee on every blade of prairie grass and completely ignoring my "HEEL!" command. Ninety seven pounds of fat, naughty dog is not a fun walk and we finely had to have a reminder session on why he can do as he pleases with my mom and brother, but I trained his beastly ass and he damn well better remember every single command I ever muttered to him. He was quite pleasant after that tune up.
By the first mile, he was starting to care less about peeing on things and care more about where the road back to the car was. By a mile and a half, his leash was dragging on the ground as he plodded along beside me. By the second mile, he was weaving around like a drunkard. We let him have a little break while Darcy and Emily, who weren't even panting, ran around off leash for awhile. I hate people who don't exercise their animals. Why do you have a large, active breed dog when you don't want to do anything with him? He's not a piece of furniture!
|another of my mom's obese animals: bear, a brother|
to my cat, oscar. bear weighs 22lbs. oscar weighs 10.
Friday, Hubby and I joined my mom for some shopping. Here's something you need to understand about my mother: she's an upper-middle class single mom who has an amazing job that brings home an amazing pay check and she has no one to spend it on the majority of the time but herself and my 20yo brother who still lives at home. She's also the type of person that feels important/wanted when she's able to buy people things. I've certainly "taken advantage" of this in the past as she's lent me some serious money before, but I've been living on my own since I was 18 and I try to maintain some semblance of responsible, independent adult at all times.
So when she emailed me to ask what I wanted for Christmas (I get a $200 allowance from both her and my dad every Christmas--helmet cam from my dad this year!), I told her it was a toss up between real people clothes (as opposed to holey t-shirts that double as barn clothes and mingling with civilization clothes) and Bobby's ulcer meds. I had penciled in Bobby's meds for the end of December, but that would be $175 less I would have to pay myself. And who really needs real clothes anyway? She replied that we'd do some clothes shopping anyway while I was home, and wrote out a check for the meds. Merry Christmas!
Um, no. The crazy woman is also buying me a Kindle. I have no desire for a Kindle. I love me a good old fashioned paperback that I can abuse. Where she got the idea, I have no clue. She wouldn't listen to me saying that I don't want/need/desire the thing either. "You'll love it! I love my Kindle!" Does that give you some perspective on the type of person she is?
Because most people would be blown away when Hubby jokingly picked up a long sought-after $300 chainsaw at Blaine's Farm and Fleet and thirty minutes we walked out of the store with it for Hubby's Christmas present.
|bling's favorite holiday is christmas.|
We attempted clothes shopping next. First was JCP where I frowned upon the neon colored skinny jeans and oddly shaped sweaters. I complained that I couldn't wear any of the shirts there because the straps of my sports bra would show. My mom gave a sideways look and suggested that, since I'm 25, perhaps I'd like to invest in a couple of real bras? Psh. What a silly idea. Especially when she asked me what size we were looking for and I was like, "..........." You know, sports bra size!
Perhaps I am not the hippest person on the planet.
We tried Kohl's next where I zeroed in on a replacement pair of moccasins for my "one last gasp from death" pair. See? We're clothes shopping! My mom made me pick up a bunch of shirts that I dragged into the fitting room and returned every single one.
Here's why, aside from the basic neccissites of underwear, socks, and the occasional "strap your boobs flat against your chest with an elastic band" type bra, I never buy clothes. I have a massive ass, birthing woman hips, porn star boobs, and Olympic swimmer shoulders that somehow have to work with a Victorian lady's waist. Clothes do no fit me. I sympathy cry with the women on What Not to Wear. You're damn right that shirt doesn't fit you, lady! When you're shaped like part gazelle, part hippo, nothing fits you!
I did manage to snag two new pairs of jeans that will undoubtably be washed thirty shades lighter by spring and permanately smell of horse within a month, a nondescript brown sweater, and a purple fleece. Not what I would call success and I was feeling pretty depressed about the state of clothes. And can I just say that if teenagers actually wear the shit that was on sale, they're all little whores? Whores!
Saturday, Hubby and I spent the day in the Field Museum--my favorite. I had a minor melt down when I felt as if we were lost in the Hall of Birds and I'd never see natural light again, but we miraculously segwayed into Africa and navigated out of a slave ship and back into the main hall.
|here's how i feel about getting my picture taken.|
|hee hee hee.|
Finally, on Sunday, we spent an hour in a half priced bookstore where I restocked my tape collection (Saturns don't even give a fuck about twentyth century technology) with such classics as Elvis Christmas, The Sound of Music soundtrack, and Stevie Ray Vaughn. My taste in music is about as superb as my taste in clothes.
We then attempted one last attack on "Clothe Carly" by invading Old Navy. Do you know what Old Navy has? A women's tall line! For tall, funnily-shaped people! Which means that now I have fancy clothes that people won't mind being seen with me in. Victory is mine. Take that 6'6" tall and abnormaly thin Dad and 5'11" tall and square-shaped Mom. Your genetics can be defeated by a mint green sweater.