Tag Archives: logic

The Peach-Bean Strategem

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I know, I know. It’s been like 80 years. My bad yall.

 

In my defense, I’ve spent the last year in a whirlwind: engagement, wedding, now we are expecting!! Holy smokes right?

 

The Bean (yes, we call our son-to-be The Bean) is due in about 3 weeks, and I am so ready. As excited as we are about having our Bean here with us, this has been one long, long long pregnancy. I’ve gone through night sweats, day sweats, crazy dreams, swollen ankles, gigantic growing boobs, a waistline that refuses to give up the ghost resulting in a “B” belly silhouette that just makes me look fatter, broken underwire (while I was wearing it), waistbands of underwear just popping at work, swollen fingers that can’t wear my wedding rings, senseless crying, and many other ailments. I can no longer feel the urge to pee (thanks to my shifted bladder), so I just wear panty liners and do a lot of precautionary bathroom visits. I toddle about like a penguin from place to place bringing humor to whoever sees me, and get stuck in chairs in an endearing habit that the hubs calls “turtling”. My boss and GM have offered to buy Segway for me to get around the hotel. I’ve considered taking them up on it.

 

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What you can’t see here is that the elastic in my underwear’s waistband is busted, as is myunderwire… and my dignity.

 

All of this will be worth it once The Bean is here! Right?!?

 

So… anyway… that’s my excuse for being such a horrible slacker on my blog. I have missed this. So many stories and hot messes that I haven’t shared, hilarities that I didn’t document in their full glory. I hope I can make up for that.

 

For example, I’ve had one client recently tell me that she didn’t realize that I was pregnant, but just thought I was getting fatter (!) while another was trying to add up on her fingers the months between my wedding and due date to make sure “it added up right”. I swear on my life this stuff is really true. And I missed blogging about it.

 

Then there’s the creepy lady in the Honeybaked Hams that as snifing me and talking about how we have the same credit cards in a nutty, “Single White/ Black Female” kinda scenario… and the lady in the Asian restaurant we go to that gave the Hubs a high-five for… and I swear on y life this happened… for KNOCKING ME UP! Yes. YES. Her words, not mine. Hubs was grinning from ear to ear. I turned red, a pretty amazing feat for a brown girl.

 

So much I’ve missed in my blogging hiatus.

 

Right now I’m just focused on one goal: Evicting the Bean. I love him so, but that will not stop me from serving him with a notice to vacate. The doctor keeps saying “big people have big babies” and seems to be on this mission to convince me that my baby will be born as the Son of Hulk, but so far nothing. The back and forth game of will he/ won’t he is pushing me to the edge, and I’m ready to take this into my own hands.

 

I call it the Peach-Bean Strategem, after one of my favorite episodes of Doctor Who, the Sontaran Strategem.

There are several steps to this process, and we will carefully follow each one to ensure a swift victory:

  1. Start eating spicy food more often.
  2. Enjoy more bouncy time on my yoga ball.
  3. Um… physical congress (yall get my drift)
  4. More walks (or penguin toddles) around the lake by our house.
  5. The tried and true method: the Eggplant Parmesan from Scalini’s.

 

# 5 is really the piece de resistance… the no-holds barred, guaranteed final step in the Bean Eviction Notice… women in Atlanta have been standing by this recipe for years. Messy Jessy the BFF added this one to my Strategem. As a Peach myself I feel I stand a good chance of this working for me too.

 

Bee (yall know him as the BBE, BFE, now the BHE   – Best Husband Ever) seems willing to go along with the plan. I can’t tell if he’s truly on board, or just afraid of his pregnant wife who seems to be endowed with superhuman strength, yet still seems to todle like a penguin, and get stuck in chairs like an upside down turtle.

 

Granted, the Peach-Bean Strategem may be as doomed as the Sontaran Strategem ( read the synopsis of the episode), but I’m sure it will make for some good stories. In the interim I plan to spend some quality time with the Bee, go do adult stuff that I probably won’t be able to d much of for a few years(any suggestions welcome), and take lots of naps in between my plotting, spicy food and yoga ball humping.

Yall pray for us…

 

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Apparently One Size DOES NOT Fit Most

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onesize

 

So… I was telling the BFE about my visit to the Farmer’s Market with Messy Jessy last week, and he stopped me and told me that I should blogging about what happened. So here I am.

 

Let me first start by saying that this is NOT a rant about being a big girl in a size 2 world… I am more happier with myself and my life than I hae ever been. I know I have to lose weight, and it’s a process. This is about other people, and their awkward WTF statements.

 

So here’s what happened:

Messy Jessy came down to visit this past weekend, and found ourselves wandering around the Farmer’s Market in Winter Garden. I was excited, since I’d been wanting to go to this Farmer’s Market for a while, but always missed it! I was starting to think it was the Shangri-la of Winter Garden… or perhaps a desert oasis for the farmer’s market challenged. I swear, EVERY TIME I tried to go, the fricking thing wasn’t there.

 

So we’re wandering around, amused at all the different vendors and their wares, and, thanks to the mobile credit card apps that all vendors have these days, unfettered by the “oh, sorry I don’t have any cash” excuse. We were literally sitting ducks for every adorable hat-making, custom jewelry-selling, home-made pickling, hippie-smelling soap-making tent in that place.

 

But I digress.

 

We walked into the coolest tent in the place – this lady made the coolest aprons evarrrr!!! Jessy and I ooh-ed and aah-ed so much that the proprietess comes over and enthusiastic shows us her different styles and patterns. Just as I’m flicking through the racks and debating which card I can charge my new apron to that will least upset Mr. Scrooge – I mean, BFE – the  proprietess comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder. Her first mistake.

 

First of all… don’t touch me. I don’t know you. We are not cool. She clearly did not realize that my personal space is protected by a social contract I maintain with everyone around me, an invisible bubble that only those of my choosing are allowed to enter.

 

So I was already unsettled by the touching with Apron Woman upped the ante and added the piece de resistance: “I just want to let you know, I have PLENTY of clients that are YOUR SIZE so I’d be happy to make to take your measurements, and in a couple of weeks you can come back and pick up your own apron!”

 

WHAAAT?!!?! It’s an apron!! I thought aprons were like umbrellas, ponchos and socks” one size fits most!

 

Seriously – should I be getting measured for aprons now? Shopping in the husky section for my kitchen attire? I am so confused. I have aprons at home, aprons that I share with my skinnier BFE, and I feel like they still do a pretty good job of covering the necessary areas.

 

After getting schooled on proper apron attire, I thanked said proprietess, removed my personal space out of her reach, and headed to a tent that is DEFINITELY “one size fits most”: the headbands and hair clips tent.  Or should I get measured for one of those too?

 

Well I do have a big head. 🙂 Bigger than most?

 

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Say NO to Sag… and YES to tricorn hats!!

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Ok, I guess I should start by apologizing profusely for yet again letting an absurd amount of time pass between posts. What stinks is I’ve had so many things ruminating about in my brain, and just no time to share them!

 

This gem I’ve held on to since Saturday, just dying for a few minutes to tick-tack-type it onto my blog. But let me go back a few months, to Thanksgiving. The BFE and I did something that I do my best to NEVER do, unless it is an absolute emergency.

 

We went to Wal-Mart. On Thanksgiving Day, no less.

 

We were taking a dish to a friend’s potluck Thanksgiving Day dinner, and needed a couple of missing ingredients to put it all together. As we are walking in, a young man in front of us stops and bends over to pick up one of the turkey fryers that was on sale, exposing approximately 8-10 inches of red plaid underpants in the process. I couldn’t help myself: “Hey, I can see your underwear!!”

so no to sag

Not ok.

Plaid Guy, pauses, gives me a look that clearly says WTH: “Um… thanks?” Walks away.

BFE tugs my sleeve. “What’s wrong with you??”

Me: “Well it was obviously NOT a secret, I mean, he must have wanted us to know. He even had on decorative undies for the occasion! Christmas is coming!!”

BFE shook his head. I had to hear a lecture throughout our tour of Wal-Mart on how if the guy had bene rude to me then B would have had to deck him, and how he didn’t want to hit people, etc. etc.

pants on the ground

Honestly, I hadn’t seen the “sagging” pants trend in quite a while before this happened, and had forgotten that it was a “thing”.

 

Fast forward a few months, I come across another dude; this guy had clearly put some effort into his outfit, had everything coordinated and tidy, and he was, dare I say it, DAPPER… except for the 8-10 inches of undergarments staring (because “peeking” doesn’t even cover it), staring out at everyone from the back of his ensemble.

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Sporting plaid for the holiday season – festive sagging!

Ok, first of all, how do they stay up? Normally your rear end acts as a natural “shelf” for pants. Do you walk about holding them constantly with one hand? What if you have a two-handed project, like carrying your fast food to the car, or walking the dog and picking up his poo with a bag? Is it a conscious effort to color coordinate the draws with everything else? Do they really think girls find them sexy? Like a girl’s gonna go “oooh, he’s displaying his clean and coordinated panties as a part of a normal highly stylized contemporary mating ritual, I must get with him and make him mine”? Finally, what purpose does showing everyone your unmentionables serve? Now we’re mentioning them, so are they technically still “unmentionables”? I have so many questions.

no ok

What’s funny is I’d forgotten about color coordinated guy until I saw something that sparked even more questions. Driving home from work the other day I saw I young man, probably 13, 14, 15. He was shirtless and showing off his bird chest, kinda in that defiant way, like he’s trying to own it, even though clearly puberty hasn’t come for a visit yet? Anyway, he’s walking down the street, bird-chested and shirtless, with sagging pants. Le Sigh.

 

But that’s not the best part! He was sporting a – wait for it – tricorn hat.

 

Yeah, like Yankee Doodle Dandy, Bee-yotch!

Yeah, like Yankee Doodle Dandy, Bee-yotch!

A TRICORN HAT! Like Captain Jack Sparrow was back, ready to take over the central Florida area!!!

 

Outside of tacky Disney tourists and bad Jack Sparrow Halloween costumes, I thought tricorn hats had disappeared from regular circulation, but here’s bird chest guy, strutting down the street a-la John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever, pimping a dingy, dusty tricorn hat. It was so effing weird.

Not as weird as these guys, but close.

Not as weird as these guys, but close.

I’ve had a few days to think on this, and I’ve come to the conclusion, what if guys stopped with the sagging pants as a “thing” and made tricorn hats the new “thing”??

 

Even women could get in on the new style, and totally rock them. I mean, I would look sooo bad-a$$ in a tricorn hat. You could wear big ones, small ones.

so rock this

I would SO rock this hat.

They could become the statement pieces at fashion runways and you could rummage at Marshall’s and TJ Maxx to find discount designer tricorns. You would know that the trend has reached its peak when you see Ryan Seacrest sporting on E!.

Glamourshots ain't got nothin' on my Olan Mills pics with my new tricorn hat!!

Glamourshots ain’t got nothin’ on my Olan Mills pics with my new tricorn hat!!

I’m serious!!! Say NO to sag, and YES to tricorn hats!!!! Who’s with me??!!!!

Well played, Martha Stewart, Well Played.

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PINTEREST, I’M LOOKING AT YOU!

**Shakes fist angrily at the sky.**

I am convinced that pinterest was invented by conservative men that are determined to get the liberal, bra-burning, birth control taking wild women back into the kitchen and back to making things “homemade” and thusly created a website to draw them in and incite a crafting wave that has even resulted in television shows about crafting. Why buy chicken at Boston Market when you can raise and create the entire meal by raising the chickens, growing the vegetable garden, and harvesting the tea leaves (for sweet tea of course) yourself, all in the apron you made yourself from a pattern you found on Pinterest? I believe that we’re all born with talents, and it’s ok to rely on the talents of others – say, a person that knows how to cook versus my pathetic efforts – instead of trying to excel in every “pinned” idea on fricking pinterest, as we are determined to swap recipes, share wedding ideas, and showcase our personal clothing style. There is NOTHING wrong with utilizing the Boston Market drive through to pick up dinner for you and your boo while showcasing your style in betty boop pajama pants, sequined yellow box flip flops and a beanie.

 

Yes pinterest, thanks to the “anyone can craft like this, it’s easy!!!” attitude, and the wild, waving-your-carefree-hot-glue-gun-in-the-air website of yours I just dropped $62 at Michael’s tonight.

 

At the cash register I hung my head in shame, and texted the BFE as I walked out the door.

Me to the BFE: “Don’t me mad”

My next test to the BFE: “I just left Michael’s about $62 poorer.”

I got no return text, this warranted a phone call that was basically heavy breathing and one long sigh.

I sighed too.  A $62, pinterest-induced sigh.

 

I also blame Martha Stewart for part of this. Her corporate plot to corner the women’s market in adorable, crafting supplies and organizational tools while charging exorbitant prices is working, and I’m ashamed to admit I have fallen prey to her ploys. It pisses me off that Stewart knows ever shade of blue or blush that I would peronally enjoy, and uses this information to her advantage, forcing me to hand over my Disney Debit Visa (ha!) time and time again at my local Staples. Seriously, she’s making a killing off of the Pinterest crowd.

 

Which brings us back… and PINTEREST I’M STILL LOOKING AT YOU!

First, let’s talk about how you sucked me into your ways by making all of the crafts seem easy and fun. I started looking at ideas in August for holiday stuff, thinking, “ooh, this looks easy!” “oh, I can do that!” “Man, doing that myself is gonna save me soooo much moneeeyyyyy…” Huh.

 

One key thing that most pinterest crafts need: a hot glue gun. Another thing they all need: fricking patience. I did not have either of these things as I ambled into the Michael’s, starry-eyed and excited to produce handmade ornaments for B and I’s first Christmas in our own place.

 

 

Craft #1: Cute, painted glass ornaments

All I thought I’d need: glass ornaments, simple acrylic paint and a small amount of competence.

What I actually needed: glass ornaments, a large amount of skill, and Martha Stewart paint (or so she would have me believe)

 

This is where I say “well played” to our favorite former felon, Martha Stewart. I’m standing in the glass ornament aisle, and guess what brand of acrylic paint is located there? Martha’s! I grab it immediately, ignoring the $3.49 a bottle price tag, as I was so excited to work on my project. As I wonder around the store some more, I start thinking about the acrylic paint I normally buy for projects (yes I’ve crafted before) and how it’s significantly cheaper and also significantly missing from the acrylic paint display next to the holiday ornaments.

I find the rest of the acrylic paint selection on the OTHER END OF THE STORE, no where near the holiday mania and impulse holiday craft shopping on the other side of the store. And guess what? It’s priced at 99 cents. NINETY-NICE CENTS, as in TWO DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS cheaper than Martha’s paint. Determined not to let the felon win, I swap out my “glittery gold” Martha branded paint for the “Venetian gold” color that’s the less than a dollar. I did keep the “pond” color, because, well let’s face it – Martha’s color palette really is dead on. So again to Martha, I say, well played, madame. Well played.

But don’t think the foolishness ends there.

 

Craft Project #2: Sassy and super cool beaded ornament

All I thought I’d need: Some pretty beads and clear glass ornaments, some level or finger dexterity

What I actually needed: A LOT of fricking beads, clear glass ornaments, A LOT of free time,  A LOT of manual dexterity and… a glue gun!!

 

I got halfway through my trip to the Michael’s before I realized I did not have a glue gun to hold this project together – literally. I finally found a glue gun and glue sticks and then I had to pick a “cute” glue gun (really Peach??) in a cool design. I’m not proud of the 5 minutes I spent in the glue gun aisle, comparing patterns, but it really happened.

 

On my way home, I kept thinking how it would have been cool too add in some blue beads on the ornaments and how I should have gotten some. “No worries”, I thought. “I’ll get them on my next trip”.

 

MY NEXT TRIP – are you kidding me. I’m already planning a future visit.

 

Well played Martha and Pinterest. Well played. I shake my fist at you while simultaneously burning all the fingers on my other hand, and thinking about what color ribbon I need to use for hanging my ornaments on the tree.

See you both again real soon!

The Rules

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This evening while I was doing my part to get us packed for our big move in 2 weeks I came across a cache of dusty self-help books on one of my bookshelves.

 

One book was “Sexy at Any Size” (a really good book actually), another was the Bridget-Jones inspired “Becoming a Goddess of Inner Poise“…still yet was the snarky “He’s Just Not That Into You“. DID NOT LIKE. THAT BOOK.

 

Then I stumbled across self-help GOLD.

 

My copy of “The Rules: Time-tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right“.

 

Yeah, that’s right. Like many single women, I was handed this book by a well-meaning friend, and actually tried to live by some of the bat-shit crazy rules in this book until I realized trying to live my life by rules set forth on a paperback book was insane and made me look like a controlling social engineer from the depths of crazy-land.

 

It’s funny, it specifically talks in the book about how if you break the rules in this book, you will not find a successful relationship. I personally believe that if you don’t break a few rules in this book, you’ll walk around like you’ve got a stick up your ass. Following this list of arbitrary rules didn’t really work for me. It wasn’t until I broke a few of The Rules that my dating life actually got interesting, and went from the “wishing and reading the Rules” stage to the “living and laughing and leaving the Rules behind” stage.

 

Some rules I effed up on:

 

Broken Rule #1 – Be a “Creature Unlike Any Other”

Hmph. This rule was mostly about keeping a certain amount of mystery in your relationship. I guess I broke that one the first time I peed with the door open. He literally screamed. Now he tries to hand me bank slips to look at while I’m in there with my underpants around my ankles, having personal time and reading Adele’s article in an old Rolling Stone. I’m all like,”What is this?! What do I do with this?!” and He’s all like “I dunno.” Neither of us finds it strange that the interaction is happening while one of us is pantsless.

On 4th of July I pulled  a prank that involved telling him to lift my leg (pantsless of course) and then farting directly into his face. Again, he screamed. And gagged. And laughed.  Almost a week ago and I still cry with laughter about that, and so does he.

Speaking of pantsless… I guess introducing him to my “Pants Off Friday” celebrations probably blew up Rule #1… unless it actually supports #1. I’m pretty sure dancing around without my pants on Fridays makes me a “Creature Unlike Any Other”

 

 

Broken Rule #5 – Don’t Call Him and Rarely Return His Calls

I always returned his calls. I was always so excited to hear from him that I didn’t have the self-control to be coy and all not-calling-back right away.

 

 

Rule #6 – Always End Phone Calls First

Um… yeah, like the first 2 months he was ALWAYS the one that hung up first, usually because he fell asleep while I was talking excessively. See Broken Rule #5

 

 

Broken Rule #14 – No More Than Casual Kissing on the First Date

I guess now’s the time to tell the Story of the Cold.

The BFE and I met through online dating. When I finally bullied him into asking me out, we jokingly came up with a code: if he tried to kiss me, and I wasn’t feeling it, I would just say “I have a cold”.

Our first date was a movie… while we’re sitting there, he leans over and is all like “Hey, I don’t have a cold”… I laughed and kissed him. I haven’t stopped kissing him yet. 🙂

Our good-bye kiss after he walked me to my car lasted about 25 minutes. I don’t think I ever left so happy. I guess technically it wasn’t “casual kissing”. 🙂

 

 

Broken Rule #17 – Let Him Take the Lead

Are you kidding me? What is this, 1925? See Broken Rule #14… he kept beating around the bush so I finally got him to ask me out. I kinda let him believe it was his idea. So in theory he took the lead… right?

 

 

Broken Rule #22 – Don’t Live with a Man (or Leave Your Things in His Apartment)

Whatever. He moved in with me, so I didn’t actually move in with him. It was the best thing we ever did.

 

 

Broken Rule #31 – Don’t Discuss the Rules with Your Therapist

That smacks of someone desperate to hide their crazy. I’ve said it before, and I’ll said it again: “In the South we don’t hide our crazy. We sit it on the front porch and give it a cocktail”. My friends are my therapists, and the idea of having to hide some element of my nutjob personality from my friends is exhausting. I once tried to explain the rules to my friend Kev, and I could visually SEE part of his life force draining away due to the sheer tedium of all the rules.

 

 

I guess each person has to decide for themselves if The Rules is something they want to do. I just felt it was a bit antiquated for me and my lifestyle, along with somewhat crazy and most importantly, a set of rules specifically designed to hide the best parts of yourself from your partner.

I mean, yes, some of that stuff is common sense, and is designed for those girls that get so excited with each new prospect that they shoot straight for Stage 5 Clinger. I agree – you probably shouldn’t go all stalker-y on potential new date guy, but seriously? Why should I hide who I am? How could I NOT share Pants Off Friday with the dude that might end of being my Baby Daddy? If you can’t take me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best. And that means no Pants Off Friday for you!

Bonnie and Clyde say Northerners are LOUD!

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and sometimes, I think my BFE is one of them. Yeah, he has loud moments.

Yes, I said it! After years of keeping this to myself, I am finally saying it. Northerners are effing LOUD. And I think all the years in the Northeast have affected the brains of my deep South honey.

What’s making me speak the truth on Northerners now? Because loud Northern tourists interrupted the ending of the movie that the BFE and I snuck into yesterday afternoon. They actually completely RUINED the shawarma joke from the end of the Avengers movie, and I’m pissed. I worked hard to sneak into that movie, dammit.

Oh, did I not mention that the BFE and I went all Bonnie & Clyde yesterday?? Ok, what had happened was…

Bee and I (I call the BFE that a lot) were planning to go play a round of golf in the morning, but unfortunately Hurricane Beryl had different plans for us… so we came up with a Plan B, which was to go see Men in Black in the morning instead. Since Nature has a sick sense of humor, it turned out to be a beautiful day, but since we didn’t wake up in time for an 8 am tee off, it didn’t matter. Plan B was in effect. Thanks Beryl!! Heffer.

Um, has anyone BEEN to the movies recently? And paid FULL PRICE and had to empty their child’s college fund to do it? Good grief. I remember early in our courtship Bee and I went to the movies and dinner. By then, I should have known for sure that he really liked me, because a 3-D movie for 2 adults in the dining theater (“fork & screen”) on a Friday evening was $38, and that’s before dinner. Now that he’s “put a ring on it” and we’re saving for a new place of our own and a wedding, going to a matinee movie is actually a fricking LUXURY.

Matinee for 2 people should have been $12 total – 6 bucks for each person, but because the ONLY options at all to see Men in Black were either 3-D or 3-D fork & screen, our cheapest option was the 3-D, at $11 a person. So we were already determined to get our money’s worth. Even before we swiped our card at the ticket kiosk I’d already decided that we would keep our 3-D glasses instead of “recycling” them after the movie. We paid for those, dammit!

I’m the kinda girl that has no shame hitting up the Wal-green’s before a movie and getting boxes of Swedish Fish and Mike and Ikes for $1 apiece and sticking them in my bag. I will also grab a Dasani and stick it in there too. Once in high school I brought a Wendy’s combo in my satchel, drink included, and when I waited in line to see the Harry Potter movies at midnight I popped microwave popcorn at home for all my friends and brought it to the line in baggies. Times are tough, you know??? Now that I’m out of college with a fully time job, I had started to think that I didn’t have to resort to those tactics anymore, but with skyrocketing ticket prices and fruit cups that cost 4 DAMN DOLLARS (more on that later) a girl and her Bee gotta do what they’ve gotta do.

So, fast forward to the end of the MIB movie. I’m feeling all heartstrings-tuggy because the end is a little touching. Bee leans over, flips up his bug-eyed 3-D glasses that we’re totally NOT recycling after the movie, and says “Wanna go sneak into another movie??”

I snapped out of my mushiness immediately, look down at the $11 3-D glasses in my hand and decide that perhaps the best way to get my money’s worth is to not only take them home, but to take them into another movie theater first. So I giggle and agree to play “Bonnie” to Bee’s “Clyde”. After a quick pee break, we grab a meal from the concession stand and head into the 3-D theater for the Avengers.

In all fairness, buying 2 hot dogs (plain), 1 medium cherry coke and 1 small popcorn cost us about the price of two tickets. By the way, did I mention that I originally reached for a fruit cup in lieu of the popcorn, only to find that the fruit cup that the Target deli sells for 79 cents was $4.50 at the movies??? I actually asked the cashier, are yall HIGH??? He admitted that in the entire time he’s worked there, he’s never seen anyone actually BUY a fruit cup, which both grossed me out and intrigued me. Hmmmph. Well now I know why. So at this point I’m thinking that bringing our own 3-D glasses plus buying the overpriced food was a fair trade for a movie, right?? Right?

We nonchalantly sidle into the theater and settle in for an AWESOME movie, the whole time Bee’s giggling because I’m muttering the lyrics “breakin’ the law, breakin’ the lawwww” under my breath. It was all worth it though!!! Avengers was AWWWWWWWEEEESOMMMMMEEE!!! If you haven’t seen it, GO!! One of my favorite funny parts of the movie was Tony Stark talking about shawarma… which later relates to a bonus scene after the credits.

So there we are, all delinquent and Bonnie & Clyde-espue watching this silent but funny final scene, and these LOUD ASS NORTHERNERS spoil the final scene by preemptively yelling out “hahahahahaha! Shawarma!!!  Hahahaha!! They walk out, loudly guffawing and yelling about effing shawarma. In that LOUD obnoxious voice that only comes from north of the Mason-Dixon line. The Boston Baked Beans sound that makes you want to stab your eyeballs out.

As we walk out, I whisper to Bee, “Northerners are so LOUD”. He looks at me like I just told him that puppies make great grilling steaks, and then shot his dog. I’d forgotten that he spent quite a few years in the Northern part of these United States and that he too is occasionally prone to the Loudness Syndrome. Regardless of his crazy stink eye, I stood by my statement. People always make it sound like Southern folks are always the rowdy obnoxious cousins that you never want to bring to a tea party, but I swear that Northerners are the loudest. The LOUDEST.

If that makes me prejudiced, shoot me. I don’t think it does, though, since I’m not singling out any particular race, just everyone on the eastern seabord of the United States that regularly sees snow every year. Perhaps as much as I crack on my friend Ojeda about his random statements that I’m convinced will make him the crankiest old Cuban man in the old folks home, the truth is that I’ll be right along side him, wearing my 3-D glasses that I stole from the AMC, poking my retirement home roommate from Rochester, NY with my pokin’ stick, telling her that she “breathes too loudly, just like all them Northerners”.

So… back to our Bonnie & Clyde scenario. Bee and I finish watching our movie and happily toddle on home hand in hand, fueled by our delinquent acts. It was totally fun to be so bad, and completely clandestine (well, it was until I blogged about it). I pulled my 3-D glasses off my head and slipped them into my bag.

Yes, I KNOW it was wrong to sneak into another movie for free, and it’s terrible to say that EVERY Northerner without fail is a loud pain in the butt. I definitely would not encourage the movie sneaking habit in any kids I will eventually have, and I would certainly encourage my children to never stereotype people, because that’s wrong. But this isn’t the “goody-goody, how many nice things has the Peach done today” blog! Thank goodness for that. I’d be effed.

My only regrets? That we didn’t buy the larger sized drink when we were at the concession stand haggling about the $5 fruit cup and that I wasn’t prepared with an appropriate “Bonnie” outfit. That chick wore some seriously cute outfits. And that cherry coke was DAMN good. Slurp.

“Expecting to Have a Good Time, Of Course!”

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Before you ask , NO I AM NOT PREGNANT!

When I was a young un’ working at a major theme park in Georgia, I learned one VERY important rule: NEVER ASK A WOMAN IF SHE IS PREGNANT. NEVER. EVER. Ever, ever, ever. The fallout if you are wrong could be nuclear.

Back at the theme park I worked in the entertainment and events areas, but I remember one year where the park was open on what was traditionally a school day and since the majority of its workforce was in high school, they drafted the rest of us (the college students and full-timers) to work in the rides department to keep the park functional. I was sent through a day long rides class and taught operational safety, how to handle guest situations, etc.  It was entertaining and educational and very very hilarious.

The funny thing is, after all that training, I only worked one ride, and that was all it took to make a complete fool of myself. In a 6 hour shift I managed to get gum on my pants and then rip those same pants, from the front to the back, right up the middle. Being an “indoors girl”, the sweat and heat had made me quickly droopy and limp like a banana peel. My pants stuck to me like an old snake-skin that I couldn’t shed, and when I lifted my leg to cross over a gate, I heard a RIIIIIIP! The horror and embarrassment of that incident is still with me to this day, and that was just one day over 9 years ago.

The key thing I learned from my GRAT class (General Ride Attendant Training) was that there were quite a few rides that pregnant women could not ride. If you spotted a guest whom you thought was pregnant you were obligated to walk over and quietly ask:

“Are you expecting??”

Then there were basically three outcomes you could expect from this question.

1 – The woman, being pregnant, know what the word “expecting” means, and says yes. (You REALLY hope for this answer)

2 – The woman, being pregnant, does NOT know what the word “expecting means, and is confused. (You really hope NOT to get this answer if she is in fact pregnant, because this means that her state’s education system probably failed her somewhere along the line)

3 – The woman, NOT being pregnant, does NOT know what the word “expecting” means and looks confused (again, another response you HOPE to get)

(I should note here that the BFE, after proofreading my blog, offers up option #4: that the woman, NOT being pregnant, DOES still know what the word “expecting” means, and what he refers to as “a major nuclear holocaust” erupts, and the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse appear out of nowhere, and while ululating “lilililili” like Xena the Warrior Princess, and similar to the “Avengers Assemble” battle cry, take your dumb theme park trained ass out, leaving nothing but a smudge of grease on the ground and the light smell of sulfur in the air. But I digress.)

 

If you get the first response, you move forward with explaining that the ride she’s in line for may not be appropriate for her safety and enjoyment. Typically New Mama understands and leaves the line and waits for her party at the exit line.

If you get the second or third response – and honestly, this is always a bit risky – when they quizzically ask “Expecting what?” You say “Expecting to have a great time, of course!” and get the eff out of there.

 

If  you get the 4th response well… I really don’t know. Pray for rain?

 

To date, I have never had to use this second response. I cannot imagine how you would even begin to try to jokingly say that to a woman without feeling super stupid. All you can do is smile that crazily psychotic and phony smile that all theme park employees master within three months of employment, and just try to make it into a “aren’t you excited to be here??!?!?!?!” kinda moment. I can just visualize trying to do this:

Dorky College Peach, in a nervous voice: “Excuse me ma’am (lowers voice) …are you expecting?”

Eight Months Pregnant Park Guest from Alabama, wearing a shirt in Bama colors that says “It’s A Girl!” with an arrow pointing  down to her ginormous pokey-outey belly, stares down Dorky College Peach, sizing her up: “What do you mean??? What are you trying to say??? Expecting what?”

Dorky College Peach, suddenly realizing that her $8 an hour job would not pay for the medical bills she’s about incur after getting her ass kicked by pregnant woman: “Um… nothing. Just… expect to have a great time on this ride.” (scampers towards break room to recover her dignity and rock quietly in corner in the fetal position.)

To this day, I REFUSE to ask anyone, friend co-worker, stranger, relative… I refuse to ask them if they are pregnant unless they tell me specifically. I will not congratulate them on their baby unless I or someone I know has received a baby shower invite.  I don’t care if you are wearing maternity clothes with thoughtful mom-to-be prints on them, with scampering bunnies and birds all about the hem, and rubbing their bellies while talking about painting the spare bedroom for their “newest addition”. I don’t care if you walk past me, heavily pregnant and carrying a floral arrangement and Mother’s Day balloon to their desk, until you are LITERALLY GIVING BIRTH ON THE FLOOR IN FRONT OF ME I WILL NEVER ASK. Not unless you tell me first.

Two examples why:

1 – I was working as a veterinary assistant (I know, it was completely random) and one of the other assistants was pregnant. A new vet started with the clinic who confused me and pregnant girl, and asked me if I was expecting. The look of horror and upset on my face pretty much said it all. Granted, pregnant girl was only 4 months along, but I was horrified that someone would ask me that! I wasn’t even really a big girl at the time. I went to the back and cried. Then headed home and ate like, 4 donuts. The rest is history.

2 – My friends Case and JT told me this story: while meeting with a clearly pregnant client over lunch, no one would say anything. She dropped hints, made random statements, and still no one said congratulations or asked any questions. Until she said that her baby was due the following week. Meaning this chick must have been like, over 8 and a half months pregnant and had been desperately tugging at her jacket to try to pull it shut over her huge pregnancy belly. As soon as she said the baby was due, everyone at the table was like “ohhhh! Ok, we were wondering!” No one had the balls to say anything. LOL

I’ve known people who are kinda chunky, and just hold all their weight in their midsection. Still I never ask. One girl I knew would always rub her belly, and would lean back in the seat with her hands on her belly akin to your typical pregnant woman. I was scared to death to ask her, and to this day I’m glad I never did.

So the moral of the story is this: Unless you have nerves of steel or work in a theme park backed by bunnies and mice, NEVER EVER, ever ask a pregnant woman if she’s expecting, at least not until her water breaks. If you ever do decide to be brave and ask, take my advice: ask the “Are you expecting?” question, and always, always be prepared to run away.