Life is always teaching

Tall, dark and handsome approaches me after lunch. Chocolate skin, pretty smile. Well over 6 feet tall. I like!

He's wearing hospital scrubs. I like that even more.

I'm having an exceptionally good look day. Cute, wispy hair; fuschia pink blouse showcasing my waist and my own dark skin. Feeling good. Looking good. 

We flirt.

He jokes.

I laugh.

He asks, "Would you like some dental floss?"

Without blinking, I say, "Yes, thank you."

He does a teeth check for me after I floss and asks for my number anyway.

In life, sometimes you need a little spinach tooth.

Talkin' Trash

Ever since I bought my little green house on the hill, I have had a problem with trashcans. Nobody ever told choosing the right trashcan is serious business. And over the course of almost three years, I have paid and paid and paid for not making the right choice.

Trashcan after trashcan has come into my life. Lightweight ones, rolling ones, plastic ones, Rubbermaid ones, eco-friendly ones… And just like trash collection on Monday and Thursday, they just come and go.

The Family Dollar trashcan melted in the Georgia heat.

The WalMart trashcan lid blew into the Nature Preserve across the street from me, and since my neighbor swears she saw a red fox riding a 10-foot owl over there, I certainly wasn’t going in after it. (Yes, you read that right.)

A hand-me-down from Daddy JB rolled into the street and got killed by my neighbor’s Suburban. It was all just too much.

After a little research and a BIG gift card from J-Beezy, I found the perfect trashcan! It was, like, the Rolls Royce of trashcans. Big, extra heavy duty, with a lid that was attached by metal hinges AND wheels… I double-dog-dare this trashcan to get away from me.  It weighed 95 pounds and was really supposed to be used for medical waste disposal, but whatever…

So, I got it on the weekend. It took three grown men to load it in my truck. Then, me and JB spent 40 days and 40 nights getting the wheels and the security lock on. But finally it was ready to go.

Monday, I rolled it out to the curb and broke a sweat. Monday night, I came home and my trash was still there. I figured I must have set my trash out too late. I almost got a hernia pulling it back up to the house, but that’s the price you pay for Rolls Royce.

Thursday, I rolled the even heavier can back out to the curb. Thursday night, the trash was STILL there.  I missed trash pickup again? I seriously thought about hiring immigrant labor to pull it back up to the house, but I made it.

The following Sunday night, I set the can out again. A day early, just in case.

Monday night, I come home to a week’s worth of trash still in the can and a big fat, hot electric fluorescent pink tag tied to my Rolls Royce ‘s handle.

The tag said, “Hello from Dekalb County Sanitation. There is no way in sam hell that we will ever pick up this effing trashcan. Not even if God told us to do it. So you and your trashcan can both go sit down somewhere. And, if you don’t take this thing off the curb, we’re going to fine you for being stupid. The end. Have a nice day.”

Okay, the tag probably didn’t say that. But that’s what they meant….

We won’t even get into what I had to do with the nasty, spoiled, liquefied trash that had been laying around for a week, but please believe I cleaned that trashcan up real good and took it back for a full refund. I got enough money back to keep me in groceries for six months. That’s all we’re gonna say about that. 

These images don't really do it justice, but here’s pics of the 95-lb. Rolls Royce and the 14-lb. Corolla that replaced it. Pray for me.

Happy Birthday!

Every little girl should be so lucky as me to have her own personal giant. A protector, a teacher, a best friend, a confidant, a father.... 

Happy Birthday to my American Idol! 

The Yellow Jacket Boyz Take Over

My front yard is being run by the mafia right now. More specifically, a gang of Yellow Jackets moved into the plant bed under my mailbox, without asking my permission or even telling me they were there!

Thursday night after the rain, I was out doing some light gardening. My tiger lilies died inexplicably (and by that I mean I accidentally sprayed them with weed killer), so I was out pulling them up in prep for planting new ones. I figured…the ground is wet, they’ll come out pretty easy and I’ll be back in the house in no time.

Everything was going good until about halfway through the uprooting. That’s when the middle toe on my right foot started to sizzle. I looked down and saw 2 or 3 of the Yellow Jacket Boyz dive-bombing my foot! 

The thing about yellow jackets is they plan well-coordinated attacks. They are smart and fast. So, I quick-switched into ninja mode, hopping, stomping, screaming and flopping around. I kicked my foot straight out with so much force that my flip flop flew off and landed on the other side of the neighborhood.

[Flip Flops + Gardening = Not Smart!]

My ninja moves scared them away – sort of – and I took that as a sign to get inside ASAP.  I looked back and saw they had called in about 20 or 30 of the other YJ Boyz, so I put some extra pep in my step, but then I slipped on the wet grass.

There was no time to think so I just frog hopped/waddled/scrambled on all fours up the hill until I got to the driveway. I ran into the garage, closed it and dove into the house. I made it to the kitchen window and just stood there huffing and sweating, watching the YJ Boyz just flying and diving. Like they were congratulating each other on running me up out of my OWN yard.

They got me. My middle toe looks like a fat Vienna sausage, and it took two benadryl and some aloe vera to make it feel better.

But this ain’t over. They might have their little attack plans and stingers, but I have a secret weapon: Daddy JB! And, when J-Beezy gets on the case, they’re gonna wish they never even flew past my mailbox.

Two words: Gasoline and matches.

Two more words: Stay tuned.

 

When bad cruises happen to best friends

My best friend, T, won a cruise a while back and we’re all set to take to the high seas in just a few days. I’m all packed – but I’m not ready.

There’s a tiny problem. See, me and T have been friends – sisters, in fact – for damn near 30 years, and in that time we’ve learned something very crucial about ourselves:

We can only stand to be together for about 2 days at a time.

After that, we need a break – like, weeks. We can talk, but we don’t need see each other.

The last time we tried long-term togetherness was the summer of ’91. We spent a painful week at my aunt’s house sharing a bedroom and a bathroom, and we both were on the same moon cycle. All I’ll say is, “Things got ugly. “

It probably took us about 3 months to get over that vacation, and once we did, we agreed that weekends were the most we should ever try to do – and even then, one of us takes the couch.

We are night and day.

It takes T a week to choose between a v-neck white tee or scoop neck white tee – and even then, she needs a committee of 10 to help her decide. I can get completely dressed in the dark in 10 minutes.

T does not like to do things on her own. And, in fact, will sit and do nothing if she has to do it alone. I like space and cherish independence. Even on vacation. If I want to read a book and she wants to learn salsa, she is subject to not dance if I don't take the class with her. And, folks, let me say this now: she just won’t dance.

Last night, she asked me to text to her a list of toiletries that she’ll need on the trip. I assumed she was asking me to suggest a motion sickness pill or something. No, she actually meant a LIST OF TOILETRIES. My response was, “So YOU want ME to make a list of what YOU need to clean YOUR @ZZ?! Does that sound…right...to you?”

Her classic response, “Well….so, will you do it?”

No. I won’t. In fact, if she forgets toothpaste, then she deserves to have stink fish breath. We’ll just tell everybody it’s the sea air.

Don’t get me wrong. This is my sister, and I will fight you to the death if you talk about her.

I’m just worried that I will fight her to the death after so much time together. I’m praying that the presence of a third friend will be enough distraction to keep us from turning the ship into this:

If you don't hear back from me in a few days....please send the bail money in small bills and and cashiers checks to the nearest cruise ship police department.

Ships -- and best friends -- ahoy!

Crank Calls

I have been getting lots of crank calls lately. They started slowly a few weeks back, but have fast become a near-daily occurrence. I'd call the the CSI Crank Caller Special Investigation Unit, but I don't know if even they can handle the sort of tomfoolery caused by such a sophisticated prankster. 

I did manage to find the perpetrator's picture, as well as a call transcript....

Transcript:

Caller: Hey, Mimi!
Me: Hey.
Caller: Bye, Mimi!

Click.

One down....

I was supposed to meet Pretty Ricky for drinks and playoff games on the big screen last Friday night. We talked about it Wednesday, we talked about it Thursday, we even talked about it Friday morning. The time was set for 8 p.m., but he was to call me back with a location that was central to both of us. Sounded good to me.

Imagine my confusion and utter pisstivity when I found myself at home. At 8, then 8:15, then 8:41...on my couch...drinking sangria.... and watching the game on my 27" box TV. What tha fuh?

He called and texted me before 9, but I didn't pick up. We never spoke. And we never will.