Again.
Only me.
Went to my Mom's to help her figure out the remote control for her new TV set, her first new set in like a hunnert years or something, but if your mother is like my mother, then you know that it's never just one thing. There's always another task just quietly lurking around the corner. It's never just a simple task. Oh, it SEEMS like a simple thing when they ask, but in the end, it takes an hour instead of five minutes and in my case, usually involves the risk of bodily injury.
So as I sat there fiddling with the remote control, I told myself "wait for it" and eventually it came.
"Could you change a lightbulb for me in my bedroom closet and you might want to take that stool with you and let me get the flashlight cause it's dark in there."
***sigh****
Snagged the stool and trotted up the stairs with a fresh light bulb in my paw. Felt my way into the depths of her walk-in closet, let my eyes adjust to the gloom and climbed up the stool. Reached up and after a couple of rounds of "righty tighty, lefty loosey", loosened those aggravating little screws that hold the globey thing over the light bulb and gently pulled down the globe . . . and heard an ominous rattling sound inside Mr. Globe.
Peeked inside, squinted and said "shit."
Looked up. Squinted at the now lightbulbless fixture. Peeked inside globe again. Said that word again. Looked at my mother and said, "The light bulb fell out of the socket." She said "Well, that's handy here's the new one." I said "No, you don't understand. The screwey part that you put into the actual socket in the ceiling, you know, the metal thingy (sorry to get so technical) is still IN the socket thing and the light bulb fell OUT all by itself and I can't get the screwey metal thing out of the socket thing."
My mom said the same thing I'd said.
Down to the basement we went, flashlight in hand.
Next thing you know, there I am, standing in front of the fuse box. Me. With the electrical knowledge of a two year old, standing there in the webby darkness with my spider phobia firmly in command of my brain, getting ready to start flipping switches to turn off the correct breakers so I can go mess around with a piece of metal stuck in an electrical socket.
Eff me runnin.
Handed Mom the flashlight, reached in and flipped switches until the light in the basement went out, at which point Mom said "let me check upstairs" and went trotting out, leaving me standing in a pitch black room with questionable webby things all around my head . I quite calmly screamed at her to kindly get the hell back here.
Eventually, we got the right lights turned off (i.e., every stinkin' light in the house) and I grabbed a potato because I'd heard you could use a potato to address situations such as this, but, sadly, learned that there must be broken glass for the potato to get a grip and of all times for me to have the rotten luck of not having broken glass.
Clambered back up on the stool and peered at the problem. There was absolutely no way that thing was coming out of there short of utilizing drastic measures. Asked my mother for some tweezers. She inquired, "WHAT?!" I said, "tweezers, I need some tweezers." You have thought I asked her to go stick a fork in the toaster. I told her to just get 'em and I closed my eyes, held my breath, and braced myself as I gripped the edge of the metal part that used to be part of the light bulb with the tweezers and started twisting it out.
I'll have you know, there is a fresh light bulb in that socket, I don't have flash burns anywhere, I did most assuredly NOT give myself a bad home perm, and I didn't even fall off the stool.
Yes, I turned the breakers back on but I shoulda made HER go back into that spider warren and do it herself, but I wuv my mummy no matter what messed up project she ropes me into.
Next time, I'm taking my husband with me.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Anti-Camel Humps a/k/a The Gap Loves Me Now
Let me preface this by directing you to another story (if you haven't already read it) and letting you in on a little age old lie of mine.
First, if you haven't read "camel humps" you can't appreciate the glory of this experience (yes, I'm exaggerating) and as for the lie, let's just say that I haven't shopped at the Gap in, oh, I guess it's been about 4 years - ever since I started dumping the massive quantities of fat that had found its way to my ass and everywhere else. Why? Because (here it comes) "their clothes run too small to fit adult women." Get up. It's not that funny you hookers. Actually, it's more pathetic than it is funny.
On this particular day, the Hubby wanted some of those "destroyed" jeans (and trust me, he looked beyond good in those things cuz they wuz snug in all the right places and they wuz ripped up and . . . OK. Stopping now.) So I thought why let him have all the fun but then remembered where we were.
The Gap. ((insert overly dramatic B rated movie music here and throw in a few good **gasps!** for good measure while yer at it.)
First thought in my head - "Well SHIT, I can't shop HERE! **sniff sniff**" And then the demon in me decided to live a little dangerously, told myself I was at the lowest weight of my adult life, grabbed the youngin' and headed for the "girl" section.
Doodle: What size do you need Mom?
Me: Screw it . . . um . . . whoops . . . . um Mommy wants a 10 (figuring I'd need at least either a 14 or a two man tent in that place).
Doodle: OK. Here.
Me: What does the tag say? (cause you gotta be careful that she ain't lookin' at the price instead of the size but of course nothing costs $10 in the jeans section at the Gap so I suppose I was relatively safe but it seemed like a reasonably good stalling tactic at the time.)
Doodle: (Squinting) Um . . Size 10, Long and Lean, Low Rise. Here. Go put 'em on.
Me: Oh fuckfuckfuck. They were fulla holes n junk and they had a zipper like mebbe 2 inches long if that and all I could think was "camel humps".
So, while the hubby was otherwise occupied with his own jeans issues, I hustled into the dressing room, stood there a second, crossed myself as only an ignorant non-Catholic can, and hauled them up and stopped. Twisted around and looked. Nope. Nothing camel back there. Buttoned 'em. !!!!! Zipped 'em. !!!!!!!! Stood there and puzzled it out a bit. Strolled out to a husband who's eyes went the size of fifty cent pieces. Frowned cause I was confused at his reaction thinking "Oh there is no WAY I missed the camel humps, oh shit where are the camel humps, and spun around a few time like a dog chasing it's own tail. Walked over to the dreaded 3 way mirror and paused again. Took a deeeeep breath and turned. Turned so you could see your backside full on and I shit you not I squealed.
Dear Man who Might Be Reading this: OK. I know you don't get it cause y'all suck in yer gut and turn sideways to see what you look like in the mirror but for your information, we women have yet to figure out how to suck in our ass and most us avoid a clear and unobstructed view of our ass like the rest of you avoid lunch with Paris Hilton or a dentist who's novocaine supplier just cut him off.
Continuing . . . .
Cause my big, honking, 45 year old butt was flat out gone. Oh trust me, there was a butt there, but just a butt. Not a BUTT.
I danced.
I jigged.
I did that little run in place with yer arms pumping while you giggle thing.
I jumped up and down and I slipped in my socky feet and decided I'd pushed the celebration quite far enough thank you.
AND I BOUGHT TWO, COUNT 'EM, TWO DAMNED PAIRS - one ripped up and ankle length and another dark blue, long to wear with boots pair and I did NOT fucking care WHAT they cost cause I repeat: I DID NOT HAVE CAMEL HUMPS AND THEY FIT AND THEY WUZ SIZE 10 AND I WAS IN THE GOD DAMNED GAP!!!!! ((breathe)) I'm a very very happy person this morning so you'll have to excuse me.
First, if you haven't read "camel humps" you can't appreciate the glory of this experience (yes, I'm exaggerating) and as for the lie, let's just say that I haven't shopped at the Gap in, oh, I guess it's been about 4 years - ever since I started dumping the massive quantities of fat that had found its way to my ass and everywhere else. Why? Because (here it comes) "their clothes run too small to fit adult women." Get up. It's not that funny you hookers. Actually, it's more pathetic than it is funny.
On this particular day, the Hubby wanted some of those "destroyed" jeans (and trust me, he looked beyond good in those things cuz they wuz snug in all the right places and they wuz ripped up and . . . OK. Stopping now.) So I thought why let him have all the fun but then remembered where we were.
The Gap. ((insert overly dramatic B rated movie music here and throw in a few good **gasps!** for good measure while yer at it.)
First thought in my head - "Well SHIT, I can't shop HERE! **sniff sniff**" And then the demon in me decided to live a little dangerously, told myself I was at the lowest weight of my adult life, grabbed the youngin' and headed for the "girl" section.
Doodle: What size do you need Mom?
Me: Screw it . . . um . . . whoops . . . . um Mommy wants a 10 (figuring I'd need at least either a 14 or a two man tent in that place).
Doodle: OK. Here.
Me: What does the tag say? (cause you gotta be careful that she ain't lookin' at the price instead of the size but of course nothing costs $10 in the jeans section at the Gap so I suppose I was relatively safe but it seemed like a reasonably good stalling tactic at the time.)
Doodle: (Squinting) Um . . Size 10, Long and Lean, Low Rise. Here. Go put 'em on.
Me: Oh fuckfuckfuck. They were fulla holes n junk and they had a zipper like mebbe 2 inches long if that and all I could think was "camel humps".
So, while the hubby was otherwise occupied with his own jeans issues, I hustled into the dressing room, stood there a second, crossed myself as only an ignorant non-Catholic can, and hauled them up and stopped. Twisted around and looked. Nope. Nothing camel back there. Buttoned 'em. !!!!! Zipped 'em. !!!!!!!! Stood there and puzzled it out a bit. Strolled out to a husband who's eyes went the size of fifty cent pieces. Frowned cause I was confused at his reaction thinking "Oh there is no WAY I missed the camel humps, oh shit where are the camel humps, and spun around a few time like a dog chasing it's own tail. Walked over to the dreaded 3 way mirror and paused again. Took a deeeeep breath and turned. Turned so you could see your backside full on and I shit you not I squealed.
Dear Man who Might Be Reading this: OK. I know you don't get it cause y'all suck in yer gut and turn sideways to see what you look like in the mirror but for your information, we women have yet to figure out how to suck in our ass and most us avoid a clear and unobstructed view of our ass like the rest of you avoid lunch with Paris Hilton or a dentist who's novocaine supplier just cut him off.
Continuing . . . .
Cause my big, honking, 45 year old butt was flat out gone. Oh trust me, there was a butt there, but just a butt. Not a BUTT.
I danced.
I jigged.
I did that little run in place with yer arms pumping while you giggle thing.
I jumped up and down and I slipped in my socky feet and decided I'd pushed the celebration quite far enough thank you.
AND I BOUGHT TWO, COUNT 'EM, TWO DAMNED PAIRS - one ripped up and ankle length and another dark blue, long to wear with boots pair and I did NOT fucking care WHAT they cost cause I repeat: I DID NOT HAVE CAMEL HUMPS AND THEY FIT AND THEY WUZ SIZE 10 AND I WAS IN THE GOD DAMNED GAP!!!!! ((breathe)) I'm a very very happy person this morning so you'll have to excuse me.
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