Grandma, there's a big fat blogger in the toilet!

Hey everyone!

Since we've been having such magnificent weather here in Wisconsin the last several weeks and since, let's face it, I'm just not getting over to Gold's  (sorry KRAM...I'm still adjusting to my life.)  I've been taking walks at lunch time.  Granted, it's not a sweaty run on a treadmill, but at least I'm getting out of the building and moving my fanny.

One of the things I like doing is walking over to the Culver's, which winds up being almost a mile an a half round trip.  Now, before you get all up in arms about my destination, no, I do NOT eat at Culver's all the time.  But I have about 40 minutes for a walk, and this is a good stop and turn around point.

And, truth be told, I really like using their bathroom.

Those of you who know me know that I have issues using public restrooms.  I'm very particular about where I will and won't go.  Porta potties are right out...unless it is an absolute necessity.  I also don't do gas stations, unless they are Kwik Trip.  Highway rest stops?  Maybe, but not in Indiana (sorry, too many bad experiences there.)  And as for restaurants, I generally do use those...with the exception that I refuse to use a McDonald's restaurant if it's just off the interstate.



This sort of thing isn't
my problem at Culver's.



But the Culver's near my work has a nice enough rest room.  It's generally tidy, there isn't a ton of water on the counter  (seriously...why can people NOT wipe up after themselves?  I'm not buying for one second that bathroom counters sweat so much there are puddles.)  and there is almost always paper towel.  (I haven't quite made the jump to hand driers.  I need the confidence paper products give me.)  Also, unlike at work, I am not the only person capable of changing the toilet roll.

Anyway, so the other day I was on my walk, and I stopped at the restroom for a break.  While I was in there, a grandmother, I'm guessing since she sounded like a grandma, and her young grandson came in.  From the sound of things, they used the handicapped stall because grandson needed a bit of help and let's face it, all other bathroom stalls are far too narrow.  (This isn't my fat imagination either...bathroom stalls, like airplane seats, are getting more narrow.  I'd never stop going to an eatery that had stalls I didn't have to back into because they were too narrow for me to turn around.)



Only one of these is human sized...



The point of all this is that the conversation between these two made me laugh, and I'll share it with you because I hope it does the same:

"Oooh grandma, this is a nice bathroom."

"Yes, it is."



"But I don't have to go potty grandma."

"Well, let's just try anyway."

"Grandma, what does that sign say?"

"Please do not flush down any...paper.  Use the box instead."

(I'm guessing grandma didn't want to have to explain "feminine products" to her grandson.)

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're not supposed to flush down stuff that doesnt' belong in the toilet."

"But toilet paper is paper."

"Right, but it's toilet paper."

"So it goes in the toilet."

"Right."

"And poop.  Poop goes in the toilet."

"Right."

"So grandma...what's in the box?"

(AT this point I hear the soft squeak of a sani box lid being opened, and then a quicker squeak of it being slammed shut.)

"Oh nothing, nothing you need to see."



"But what is it?"

"Are you about done?"

"I said I don't have to go."

"But you haven't gone in a long time and you just ate.  Try to go."

(I hear the exaggerated sounds of of newly potty trained child pushing.  Then a I hear a surprised giggle.)

"Grandma...you don't know...I have a big poop coming!"



"I thought you might."

"A great big giant poop!"

"Yes, that's nice."

"I think this poop is bigger than I am!"

(What's a grandmother going to say to that?)

"So I wanna see it?"

I hear little feet hitting the floor and a flushing.  Then I hear this:

"Grandma...is that all there was?"

"Yes."

"That wasn't a very big poop.  I thought it was going to be bigger."

(Hey kid, remember this moment because someday your wife is going to put on 50 pounds in a pregnancy and push out an 8 pound baby...Yeah, I thought my kids were going to be bigger, too.)

They washed hands and left.  I waited a moment so that they wouldn't know Id been listening. 

Well, that and I had to stop laughing.

So my friends, remember this:  No matter where you are, no matter what you're doing...you're probably being observed by someone who writes a blog.  And if you're really unlucky...that someone might just be me!

Hubby makes a big verbal misstep...and learns a new word.

(In order to fully understand today's blog, you must know one thing:   Subaru spends a very large part of their advertising budget on outlets that cater to the gay and lesbian markets.  It has been my husband's experience over almost 20 years in the car service business that the majority of Subaru customers who come in for service are from the the gay and lesbian community. Also, please remember, my aim to to make you laugh at my everyday life, not to offend.  )




My poor husband.

He tries so very, very hard NOT to be mentioned in this blog.  He really does.  But every once in a while, he says something, or, in this case nearly says something, that gets him into the blog and he knows it before the words ever completely come out of his mouth.

Today hubby Peaches and I were going do a tour of second hand stores.  half Price books, Goodwill, and Salvation Army, all of which were having a Labor Day sale.  This was NOT a dressing up trip.  Repeat, this was NOT a dressing up trip.

I donned the following:  Baggy cargo pants, a white t shirt, pink clogs and a chunky purple man's watch.  Since it was chilly, I also tossed on a baggy denim shirt.  Not fashion forward, but I was going to do a tour of second hand stores.  I was clean, and I had eyeliner on.  My hair, since it's so freakin' short, is really easy to keep.  Sort of wash and wear on most days. 

So, got the mental picture? 

We're driving along chatting about this an that when I realize that we are behind a dark green Subaru Forester.  I love that car. It's sort of my dream car. I love the color, I love the fact that it's a wagon, but not a wagon because it's cool, and I love...again, I love the color.  I've wanted one for many years.  So I make comment:

"Hey, look, we're driving behind my dream car. "

Hubby says, "yes, yes we are.  And you're looking pretty su...oh crud."

I look at him and say, "I'm looking what...like a Subarau customer?  Go ahead...say it!  Say it!  I look like a lesbian today."

"This is going in your blog, isn't it?"

"Oh this is SOOOOOOOOO going in my blog!"

"What did you just call Mom?"

We both turn...we'd forgotten Peaches was in the back seat.  "Your father just called me a lesbian."

"I did not!  I was saying you looked like a subaru customer because you looked so...outdoorsy.  You got the cargo pants on...the dednim shirt, like you're going to go for a hike...outdoorsy."

"You called mom a lesbian?  dad!"  Peaches is not horrified so much as she laughing herself silly in thge back seat.  "Does that make you a beard?"

"A what?"  hubby has no idea what this term means.

"A beard.  Like a woman who dates a gay guy."

"Where did you learn that word?"

It's now my time to laugh myself stupid.  "Hubby, i've known that words for years."

"Yeah dad, everyone knows that word."

"Well, I don't know it.  Did you get that from a TV show?"

"well, I got it from Glee, dad."

Hubby makes a face. 

"I got it from a book."  I say.  "How did you not know that term?"

"Well, I don't read those kinds of books."

"I think I got it from....who was the guy that wrote 'Sons and Lovers?'"

"DH  Lawrence?"

"Yeah.  I think I got it from DH Lawrence."

"You did not get the term BEARD from DH Lawrence!"

"Maybe, maybe not...but we are getting off topic.  You said I looked like a lesbian!"

"I did not.  I was going to say you looked like a Subaru driver.  Which is what you want to be because your favorite car is that Subaru Forester!"

I set my gaze out the front of the car.  "Just keep digging."

Which he did.  For the rest of the day, I kid you not, the man was super affectionate.  It was like we were in college again.  He was all hugging at Goodwill, was very supportive of all my movie choices at half Price Books and didn't say one word negatively about the clothes I was trying on a Kohl's.  (Oh come on...I looked in a mirror...) 

Unfortunately for Hubby, he's also given himself another one of those dreaded questions.  You know the ones..."Does this make me look fat/old/slutty?  Well, I now get to add  "LESBIAN?"  to that list!

So it turned out to be a win for me!

Laundry List Friday: Let the voting begin!

Good afternoon all!

I know, I know...it's Saturday.  And I also realize that my poll includes 10, not 5, titles to vote on.  Well, I got some late arriving suggestions that were just too good to pass up.

The titles are in NO particular order, but I will give a little bit of a shout out to the originators (and therefore those in the running for the grand prize of all my published books....or possibly an Amazon gift card if you already have the books) for each title.

I should explain that the book, while initially set to cover the humor from many of my jobs, will now be of a single purpose:  To Chronicle the humor of just one woman:  LCW, or Elsie W, as I am calling her.  Even with that minor change, I believe I have a great group of readers and followers, and we've come up with a solid list of 10 titles to choose from.

And the Oompa Loompas Thought They had it Bad.  This from my good friend "Marie" who has been following my work woes for a good long time.  Willy Wonka saved the Oompa Loompahs from terrible work conditions...but none of them had to sit next to Elsie W.

Horror Stories from the Front Lines in a Small Office
This is from reader Markdotnet who I suspect is also a fan of Bob and Brian's horror stories.

So get Your Own Brain...Mine's Being Used.

College Friend "Lisle" sent in this gem after reading my almost daily LCW updates on Face book.

Office Survival Manual, Part One: The Caring and Feeding of Your Coworkers


This from High School friend "Andi."  (She's clearly my smartest friend!)  I also like the Part One aspect...meaning I have permission to write more!  LOL!


I can't fix STUPID, but I sure would like to poke at it with a stick

I realize this is actually a title of one my recent posts, but my oldest friend "Roxanne" pointed out that it really fits as a good title for this project, and therefore she gets the entry credit.

How Does She NOT Fall Down More?


This one sent in via my website.  What...I have a website?  Yes, I do. Click here!  It was anonymous, so I'll have to check my web records.  Of course, I like it because I say this a lot about good old LCW.

Elsie W.: She never ceases to amaze

This was actually a team effort between two people I do not believe have every met.  Hubby...who suggested I simply name the book after the woman who is the source of the stories, and Face Book friend SPS  (Her real initials of course)


If Men are From Mars, Women from Venus, What Planet is My Coworker From?
 
This is from Face Book friend ABB  (Again, real initials.)  Dangling preposition aside, I think it's hilarious...and it might get confused with another very popular book, which means people might buy it by accident!  (I'll take all the sales I can get!)
 
Where Competence Goes to Die:  The Elsie W Story
 
I love this one from fellow Bob and Brian/You Still Can't Win player, "MTBS." (He knows who he is.)  Sure, I added the last bit, but that front part is all genius.
 
The Daily Drain:  Working with Elsie W.
 
College mate "Rhonda" gave me this idea, tying in the type of work we do to the book.  Again, I added that last bit, but playing with the double meaning of the word "drain" was all "Rhonda's"  idea.
 
So there are my favorite ten titles.  Voting is open until October 31, (Something about Halloween seemed fitting.)   at which time I will close the voting and we will have a winner.

BTW, you vote by clicking on your favorite title in the list there on the right hand column of this blog.  Yes, you can vote more than once.  Why not?  I'm not better than "American Idol."  Wait, maybe I am...I don't charge texting fees!
 
Thank you to all my readers, friends, and contributors.  And remember, if you made a suggestion and you don't see it here, it's not that it was bad...it's just that it wasn't, as they say in the publishing industry, "what we are looking for at this time." 

Couldn't I just get the flu and be normal for once?

Hello all!

So here we are..the first day of school, at least for some of the bigger districts in Wisconsin.  Peaches is starting high school, Skippy is starting his last semester of high school.

But I'm not here to drip sentimentality all over you.

No I'm here today to talk about another of my growing list of odd ailments.

Apparently...I have prickly heat.

I know...what person over the age of 3 gets prickly heat?

Well, I guess I do.  At least I'm hoping that's what it is as opposed to what I've been calling it which is "A rash fat women get in various crevices of their lumpy fat rolls."

Yes, Prickly Heat sounds better.  Cool, in sort of an old Western movie sort of way.  Like John Wayne would walk in a say, "Ma'am, that's a mighty fine batch of biscuits you're cookin' there, but why don't you set a spell and take some easy from that Prickly Heat that's tormenting you?"

See, if you say it that way, it sounds almost romantic.

Reality, for me, is of course far more hilarious. 

Parting the Red Sea was just a cover for
a raging case of prickly heat.

I've been suffering from this rash in odd places for about a week.  No amount of Benadryl, calamine lotion, or scratching seems to help.  The worst of it is in my elbow and knee pits.  You know where those are, stop laughing and pay attention!  Standing at my desk with my arms open wide isn't allowed at my place of work  (What...no Christ complexes allowed at Dunder Mifflin?  How about a really convincing Moses?).   

 I have to suffer as my acidic sweat  (Those of you paying attention remember that I cannot wear Sterling Silver because of my acidic sweat.  I really should be analyzed.  My sweat might be worth money, like Panda Bear pooh is right now because they THINK Panda pooh they can make into grain alcohol and burn it as a fuel.  I'm not making this up.  Brian from the The Bob and Brian show said it this morning, and that makes it so.  Brian does not lie.  And if we can use the pooh of Pandas for good, how much longer before we realize that sweat that can eat through sterling silver is worth something?)  collects in the various pits of my lumpy form.

But none of that is the funny part.

No, the funny part came, as it usually does, while Hubby was trying to help.  Baby powder, says he, will cure your sweaty suffering.

So off he goes to procure me baby powder.  He returns with something better!  GOLD BOND EXTRA STRENGTH...in a GREEN BOTTLE.  (Anyone care to guess what the green means?)

I'm so excited about this find, because I know, I KNOW that it will be the cure to my itchy ailment.  So I shower, and I dry off.  Then I open the green bottle of the powder and apply...liberally.

Beautiful form, long legged
extensions...All covers
for a raging case of prickly heat.

I apply it to the affected areas and to my other sweaty spots.  Ladies...you know where I'm going with this.  Bette Midler style, I hoist up the gals and dust with the soothing white powder.  And then I return them to their customary droop.  The powder, that isn't stuck to the prickly pits blows off me like new snow in a Budweiser commercial.  But what sticks covers my rash and the itch seems to dissipate.

As I emerge from the bathroom, (And I should mention I look like a Soviet Olympic weight lifter at this point and the bathroom looks like Nadia Comenici's parallel bars)  I  and filled with a tingle of optimism.

No...that's not optimism.

THAT'S MENTHOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Green...green means mint.  Green means menthol.  Green means a minty, mentholly fresh tingle that eases into a chilly cold burn when moisture is added.  AND I HAVE PUT THIS ON MY SWEATY SPOTS.  ALL  OF MY SWEATY SPOTS!

Do you know what sort of calms the effect menthol has on sweaty skin?  Because I do.  It's a sort of weird little dance that keeps your droopy bits from sticking to any other skin, thereby trapping the menthol in a moist 98 degree cooker ready to explode with an icy menthol burn. 

After a few moments, it passed.  And there I stood, in the middle of the kitchen, a little circle of excess powder around me, my husband trying very hard not to laugh.

BUT you know what?  My elbow pits aren't driving me crazy.  Bonus...I'll bet that dancing counts as a workout.  Which means I don't feel guilty about not going to Gold's today!

WHOO HOO!  BRING ON MORE MENTHOL!

Quick reminder! (And a bit of a tease)

Good morning!

Just a quick reminder to my friends and readers:  This FRIDAY I will be putting up my favorite title suggestions for a vote.  I have several great suggestions, but I want to get as many as I can! 

Remember:  The winner of the best title gets a complete set of my published books!  (And if you already have those...then I'll send you some McDonald's coupons or something!  LOL)

Once again, a fluffy girl is CRUSHED by the metric system!

Good evening!

Before I get started, the contest for the best title for my new book about my work life has been extended one week.  THIS FRIDAY I will post the five titles I like best.  Author of the winning title will receive free copies of all my published writing  (having a computer or an e-reading device is sort of a must.)

Now then, as you all know I wear a step counter on my shoe.  I've been measuring the number of steps I walk each day for probably the last 7 or 8 years.  Not that it's done me a lot of good in the weight loss department, but I am able to tell you how many steps I take on an average day at Great America  (22477)  how many I take in the office on any given day when I take a walk at lunch time  (6482)  and how many I take on a normal day at church when I'm teaching Sunday School  (3644.  I pace a lot when I teach.)

The other thing I thought I had down to a science is how many of my steps equals a mile.  (between 2300 and 2400, depends on the counter.)  This I have been as certain of as my own name for a long time.

Which is why, for the last several weeks, I've been really excited to see that while my actual steps seem to have slacked a bit, my actual distance has increased, almost doubled!  Sure, I was only taking about 5000 steps at work...but I was covering nearly 4 miles, when up until recently, I'd have to do close to 10000 steps, (My daily goal) to reach a distance of 5 miles.

I attributed this to different things:  I had a longer stride, (due to the massive muscles I was now suddenly forming in my legs)  I had finally, FINALLY found the $5 step counter that ACTUALLY WAS CORRECT, and I'd been walking all these miles all along.   I was just that awesome and the step counter gods had decided to finally reward my loyalty by giving me a bigger distance number.

So imagine my complete sense of defeat when I took a closer look at that distance on Friday and saw the letters KM behind my distance number.

It's not that I wouldn't...but since I live in the US
I don't think I could...just finding a pole that
length would be impossible!

My step counter was, and is, stuck in the kilometer setting.

I'm not well versed in metrics, but I know that KM is a smaller unit of measure than MILE.  (I grew up in a decade when Americans didn't think metrics or computers would really last...so I was only exposed to metrics a few times in my formal schooling...and I think I was sick both those days.)

This of course means only one thing:  I did not deserve the ice cream bars I ate each night, as I cheered myself by saying  "I may not have hit 10000 steps today, but I walked 7 miles, and that has to count for something!"

I guess the moral of this story is, as many of mine tend to be:  Don't get fat.  It just makes more work for you later on.  Like then you will have to know the metric system!

Don't think of it as hair product. Think of it as spackle.

Good evening all!

So I was going to get a head start on my Laundry List for tomorrow, but that is going to have to wait.  (Oh, a late Laundry List?  You don't say!)  I've just come from doing something that I've decided is more awful, more tedious, and more ridiculously stupid than getting a mammogram.

I got my hair cut and my eyebrows waxed.

It was time.  I haven't had my hair cut in probably 8 months...and I'm betting it's been that long for the eyebrows.  (I pretty much just get the waxing done when I can no longer see THROUGH the eyebrows...and yes, I said eyebrows.  You heard me.)

So, since going to see Skippy's friend Mystique at her hair academy wasn't in the cards  (because I had to do this after work)  I went to my local don't make an appointment hair place.

I never get the same person twice.  In fact, I never get to ask for the same person twice because every time I work up a good relationship with the cutter  (last time, if you recall, it was Roberta)  they leave.

This time I got Karen.  That's her real name...according to the waxy crayon on the mirror...and I'm using it to warn those of you who may want to use her.

Let's start with the wax.  A typical eyebrow wax takes four minutes.  Not for Karen.  No, the Right eyebrow took four minutes...

The Left took 9.

She did so much work on the left, I'm afraid to look.  And they always hold up the mirror and say, "How does that look?"  When you DON'T have your glasses on.  9 minutes.  I could have plucked every strand of hair from the eyebrow at that time.  WHAT WAS SHE DOING UP THERE?

No matter.  After the longest wax in history I was ready for a cut.  I showed her the two pictures I always have to show every cutter when I go in there.  I should just tear out the pages.

"Wait a minute," she says to me, "Let me put on my glasses."

Wait....you just applied hot wax and tweezers to my FACE and you need glasses....and you weren't wearing them?

I show her the pictures, I explain in great detail what I want.  "SHORT" says I.  "SHORT AND LAYERED."

Every ten minutes, after removing a minuscule amount of hair, she says, "Is it short enough?"

"NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Meanwhile, she's grousing to the girl next to her  (the one who has completely cut four heads in the time I've been sitting there) about how BOOKED she is.  It's not that she's booked.  SHE'S SO DARN SLOW.

I guess cutting by Braille takes a little longer.

So, after telling her for a third time that it is not what I wanted, she puts her glasses back ON, looks at the pictures again, and says, "Oh, right...you want it short."

More razoring, more cutting.  She holds up a mirror.  "What do you think?"

We both squint at the mirror because neither one of us can seen without our glasses.

"NO... I DON'T WANT SIDEBURNS..."  I say.  "CUT THEM OFF."

Yes, right here...women should not wear side
burns as lush as mine.

"Cur them off?"  She is truly stunned that I don't love the weed whack job she's done because the sideburns...if I were a man and lived in the 70's, are impressive.  (As a fan of Emergency...I loved Dr Brackett...I just don't want to look like him.) 


SO the sideburns were gone.   And still she kept cutting and razoring...but only on one side.  Oddly enough....on the LEFT, you know, the eyebrow that held all her focus...now that side of my head was sooooooo time consuming!

The upside was that I got to listen to her complain about a customer who just booked an appointment with her...

"I hate doing flat top hair cuts,"  says she.  "I usually tell him I'm booked so I don't have to take him.  I hate doing flat tops...they take so long."

(I've never had a flat top...but I also haven't had a haircut take longer than 12 minutes in the past ten years.  I just don't have a lot of demands and I don't have a lot of hair.)

After being in her chair for 30 minutes...just for the cut...She was done.  Sort of.  She held up the mirror and again we both squinted. 

"I really don't like the left side,"  Says I.  But at this point, even without our glasses, it was clear that there wasn't enough hair to do anything about it.

"I'll put some hair putty on it."

I let her work in some sort of sticky substance, which I think she believed would make the hair on that side of my head longer.  (Of course, she could have just taken some hair from the back...a place that saw little of her scissors in spite of my directions...and the pictures I showed her.)  It wasn't so much hair product to enhance the hair...it was Spackle to fill in the gaps and holes.

As I left, Peaches, who was with me, said, "Cute hair, mom."  (She always means well.)

I haven't really looked at it yet.  But I know, I'll wash the putty out, blow dry it, and possibly trim the bangs which, for reasons I have yet to understand, she cut in a V shape with the longest part of the bang right in front of my eyes.  Very Sci Fi channel.

The good news is that haircuts for me, much like mammograms, are few and far between.  By the time I go back, she won't be there anymore.

Or she'll still be doing that one guy's flat top.