This really happened and I’ll never be the same. 

I don’t really consider myself to be much of a “Southerner.” I certainly wasn’t born here, I refuse to use the typical Southern terms like ain’t or y’all (and I put the apostrophe in the right place, instead of writing ya’ll), and I think sweet tea is directly related to the diabetes epidemic. 

It’s a wonder they even let me stay. 

And I used to think that after more than twenty years, nothing could surprise me. I can see things like THIS…

  

…with nothing more than a fleeting feeling of amusement. But then some so offensive to the universe had to happen that it shook my very definitions of all things holy:

  

Yes, escargots in a can. From Walmart. It’s okay, go throw up. I’ll wait. 

Better now? No? Me neither. Yes, this is a can of packaged snails. The thinking is you get home, put away the toilet paper and fabric softener, then sit down to a yummy $9 dinner of canned snails. After shoving the little fuckers back in their shells. 

The really weird thing is…no, there are lots of really weird things about this. 

First, those same shells are available in the arts and crafts department of that same store for that same price. It’s like they should be giving you a discount for taking the snails off their hands. Also, I’m Southern enough to know what a shell-less snail is. It’s a slug. They just sold you a can of slugs, and no, you weren’t over in the sporting goods department buying bait. 

People, for the hundredth time, this is why the rest of the country laughs at you. 

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I Have Somehow Failed In My Quest To Purchase Sweatpants In A Timely Fashion

I had it all planned out, and it was an awesome plan. I was going to spend the entire winter break off from school doing absolutely jack shit. And I was going to wear nothing but over-sized T-shirts and sweatpants for the entire nine days. Here’s where my plan fell apart: first, all of my T-shirts are from marathons I ran several years ago, so when you go from being a bad-ass marathon runner to a writer who literally sits on her ass for as many as eleven hours a day, those oversized T-shirts start to resemble the tank top that Hooters waitresses wear. Second, I forgot to buy sweatpants.

I know, you would think that someone like me would already own a full wardrobe of sweat-clothes in various coordinating colors, but alas, there’s a reason that I have none. Because my husband is a jerk.

He strictly forbids anything even resembling sweatpants to cross the threshold of our house, and I mean even jersey-weight fabrics are not allowed. Even on the kids. Even when the school requires them to wear this sweatsuit thing with the school logo on the chest for PE class. No. No sweatpants. Their little stick legs can turn blue in the cold of the winter gym classes, or as he so sagely instructed, they would keep warm if they exercised harder.

I haven’t completely figured out his aversion to sweatpants, except that even I’m willing to admit they are the romance equivalent of the chastity belt. Once you throw on sweatpants, it’s a slippery slope to the day you’re no longer dying your roots or bathing. But that is what makes them awesome. You get the feeling of wearing your pajamas all day, with the smug satisfaction of knowing a) you did actually get dressed and b) you are still classy-looking enough to go to Walmart if you run out of milk.

But sexy faux pas be darned, I was going to enjoy my vacation swaddled in fleecy goodness, by golly! Except I didn’t remember my plan until day six, at which time I looked around and realized that I don’t own any. I raced to Walmart (we were also out of milk) and grabbed a pair, mildly surprised to see that they now sell them in the automotive section, and got home with them, ready to put them on before my husband knew what hit him.

And they sucked. Besides leaving lint all over the eyelet edging around my underwear, someone apparently thought there was an elastic shortage because these resemble very chunky yoga pants with flowy bellbottom ankles, letting cold air ride up my calves. When I sat down, they rode up slightly like a normal pair of pants would, exposing my legs to the elements and exposing the world to the fact that I also didn’t plan to shave during this vacation, all due to the lack of circulation-cutting ankle elastics.

Sadly, my husband saw me in the pants and nearly choked on the mouthful of food he had just bitten. He leaned in, peered at the fabric, and rubbed it between two fingers as though appraising the quality of fine silk. He looked back at me and narrowed his eyes.

“So. That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he demanded. I nodded defiantly, prepared to defend my choice of lounge wear to the death.

He put down the plate of food he was holding, glared at me for only a moment, then proceeded to remove his jeans, reveling in walking around the house in just his nasty-looking underwear in the most unhygienic rendition of “two can play that game” ever. So we basically both looked like trailer trash, but I was warm. Win.

The Lazy Post

It’s been a heck of a week already, and it’s only Tuesday. And Tuesday is gonna act like a complete and total Monday. The 8:00am kind. So here is something funny to ponder while I get my ducks back in their damn line.

I bet if I had one of those bad boys, I’d be comfy all the time. And nobody would bother me. Do you seriously see yourself walking up to a woman wearing a sleeping bag in Walmart and telling her that she has too many items for the express checkout lane? I don’t think so. And nobody would jump in front of me and get in my face to ask me who I was voting for if I was wearing a sleeping bag with pants, because he would be kind of afraid that I would answer with his candidate’s name.

The only problem I have with this outfit is the lack of arms. If someone went to the trouble to put legs in it so you wouldn’t look like a douche HOPPING in a sleeping bag, why didn’t he also put arms in it? How am I going to lift a wine glass? More importantly, how am I going to defend myself from the hordes of people who realize I’m now defenseless because my arms are pinned inside the sleeping bag I’m wearing in the mall food court? Because you are kind of asking for a beat down just for wearing a sleeping bag, but then the inventor had to go and put a “I can’t hit you back” sign right in the middle of the whole thing. Way to think it through, asswipe.

I Don’t Have to Be Good EVER Again

That’s it. That’s all they took on day two. My bone marrow is so awesome that they don’t need more than that to save a guy. I should get a cookie-shaped medal. Made out of cookie.

Okay, so all of my greatness from the past week is over and I’m home recovering from my superiority over the rest of the human race. I’m bruised and cranky but I’m STILL basking in the feeling of smuggery over literally everyone else.

For those of you just stopping by, I donated bone marrow to a total stranger and let me tell you, it was not quite the picnic it sounds like. You might be misled into thinking it’s all free T-shirts and being fed cookies by the staff while you slowly drip into a tiny ziploc baggie, but it’s actually full of Viking-sized needles that look a lot like screwdrivers. There was a ton of pain, but I do have to admit that none of it was just because the nurses thought it would be funny to wiggle the needles around while fishing for a different vein.

I’m pretty sure I did more than my fair share of whining during the entire process, but it was mostly because it was day seven of No-Wine-Gate and we had already gone to DefCon Get-Me-A-Fucking-Drink. You can’t take away my merlot AND poke me. It’s just not right.

Now that it’s over and my super venom is at this very moment being injected into someone else, I am taking all kinds of liberties with the rest of society. I got to get on the airplane first, just because I limped up to the flight attendant and told her, “I’m really sore from donating bone marrow. Is there any way I can go ahead and get in my seat so that no one bumps my limbs?” The off-property parking people brought my car to the door of the shuttle bus because I told them, “I just donated bone marrow, and I mean, like, a lot of it, and probably more than the legal amount they were allowed to take because my guy was REALLY sick, and my legs hurt.”

I was planning to use this bone marrow excuse with the cashier at Walmart today, but I’m afraid I’d have to explain what bone marrow is and why you need it, so I’m just going to tell her that I’m a recovering heroin addict and I might go nuts if I have to stand there too long. She would probably be more familiar with that scenario.

Basically, I’m giving myself a time limit on how long I get to milk this, but since I got home last night and my husband decided to go watch high school football with his brother instead of coming to see his wife who’s been gone for three days DONATING BONE MARROW (and because he doesn’t read this blog…I’ve warned him that he really should start checking it out), I’m going to tell him it takes three more days to regain full use of my limbs and another six weeks to recover from the weakness from having my bone marrow sucked out. I don’t plan on cooking, wiping, or mopping anything for the foreseeable future.

In all total seriousness, donating bone marrow is awesome. Of course it hurts, but so does cancer. It was an incredible inconvenience that cost me a lot of time and some sick leave, but so is cancer. It did crazy things to my body, but so does cancer. Go get registered to donate by checking out NMDP.org and you’ll have your own excuse to jump in line at Starbucks.

New Year’s Revolutions

That on a triple word score still won't buy you a cup of coffee.

You know, creating a whole list of stuff you’re going to change about yourself in the coming year is kind of pointless. You’re what, middle aged? And you’re still needing to improve yourself? Why are you still even trying?

Instead of making the typical resolutions that don’t last long enough for the ink to dry on the back of the Arby’s receipt I wrote them on, I’ve decided that for 2012 I’m going to make the rest of the world bend to my will. I’m just fine the way I am and in any areas of my life that could actually use a major overhaul, I’m too drunk or lazy to fix it. So it’s far easier to have the rest of you just change around my every whim.

Revolution One: we don’t eat enough fast food. I don’t need to lose weight if the rest of you just get really, really, supremely fat. I plan to look good by comparison. This one is actually my gift to you since you are now expected to eat French fries and drink 600-calorie cups of coffee all day long. You’re welcome.

Revolution Two: I’m gonna park wherever the hell I want to. Handicapped-shmandicapped. I realize they will tow my car for not having a proper tag, but I’m pretty sure my car is untowable. That’s what the guy with the tow truck said when I wanted him to come take it to the shop, and I can totally believe him. Besides, I have documented neck arthritis and it’s hard to turn my head. I haven’t tried to get a legitimate handicapped tag because I’m afraid they’ll realize that I probably shouldn’t be driving. Let’s just call it even.

Revolution Three: I am done with shopping in major retail stores. If they don’t sell it in the gas station near my house, I don’t need it. That little gas station sells eggs, milk, bread, and wine, along with a full complement of lunch meats and M&Ms in every flavor. I can buy cleaning supplies and sweatshirts there. What else is there?

Revolution Four: I really should write more, but you people have suffered enough. I’m going to switch to writing those instruction manuals that come with major appliances and do-it-yourself furniture. I can’t suck worse than the people who already write those things. Since no one is actually going to pay me to do this, it’s more of a calling. I’m just going to start taking things apart at random and then writing a manual about how I put it back together.

That’s really the only things that occur to me at the moment, but I’m sure major changes will be in store down the road. For you, obviously. Because as I said, it’s just too late for me. Save yourselves.