Oh silly girl, did you forget to bring your man with you?

Good afternoon!

So while Hubby is on vacation hiking mountains and enjoying temperatures in the low 50's (f) in August, I decided to get a couple little projects done around the house.  Yesterday, I replaced all the burned out lightbulbs and almost all the dead batteries.  I say almost all because I need a tiny screwdriver to replace the ones in my Partylite LED color changing candles and I can't find it.

These should just come with
a tiny screwdriver.

And after reading that sentence, I realize that what happened at Home Depot today might not be QUITE as unbelieveable as I first thought.

Today's project was going to involve getting rid of a very stanky area rug in the tv space in the basement.  I bought it a number of years ago because I needed something to cover the Slimfast stains on the carpet upstairs.  (Not sure how I managed to get as many Slimfast stains on the carpet, since I tend to buy the stuff, but not actually drink it, but oh well.) Since then, it's been down in the basement where no one really sees it, which is good since no one really likes it.  It's black, which shows every speck of food or hair or whatever, and it's shag...yes, I bought a shag area rug.

Get here early on Weekends, or
abandon all hope.

So today I went to Home Depot to get a couple packs of those colorful puzzle squares you put on the floor.  We have them in another part of the basement, the spot we affectionately call the workout area. I knew I could get these squares at one of two places:  Sam's Club and Home Depot.  Since it was after noon on a Saturday, there's no way I was going to Sam's Club.  That place is a circus on Saturdays if you don't get there early enough.

Had I gone to Sam's Club...I would not be blogging.

No, I decided to go to Home Depot.  I hate Home Depot, and I never, repeat NEVER go there without my husband.  I usually only go with him if I can't figure out a good reason to NOT go with him or if we're doing a project where I really do care either how much it's going to cost or how it looks.  So no, I don't go to Home Depot that often.

But I went today because I needed one thing:  Floor squares.  I got there and saw a very good deal on some general kitchen cleanser.  We need some good general kitchen cleanser.  (I don't want to bore you with details, let's just say that putting something in the basement microwave and then forgetting about it for three weeks tends to leave behind a very interesting odor...and colorful flora and possible fauna.)

Then I remembered I needed toilet drop ins, you know the ones that turn your toilet water blue?  I love those.  And while getting the drop ins I saw they had a good deal on toilet bowl cleaner.

I was starting to like Home Depot.

Then I went to Flooring and found the squares, except the ones I found were bigger than I remember, and there were only four to a pack.  I do not remember THAT being the case the last time I saw this product at Home Depot.  I looked for someone in an orange apron to help me, but one guy was on the phone...I hope that was a personal call, because if he was talking to a customer...yikes!  And the other guy was, also on the phone, and making a very big deal about watching me and then starting up a conversation I thought might be completed.

Sort of made me wonder about the Flooring Department and their dedication to their customers.

I walked around looking for an alternate package of the squares, or, conversely, a Home Depot Employee who WASN'T trying to avoid me by being on a phone call.  (I was starting to believe the Flooring guys were talking to each other.)

I walked three aisles down, was passed by an employee who took one look at me and was suddenly wildly interested in taking up running.  Finally I found a gent not doing anything.  I said, "Excuse me?"

He looked at me.  He picked up his water bottle. He unscrewed it.  He took a long drink.  Then he said, "AHHHHHHHH."  Then he screwed the top back on. Then he set it down.  Then he looked at me again, surprised I'd stayed for all of that. "Yes?"

"Do you have any other options for these floor squares?  I was here a few weeks ago and there were packs of eight or ten, but I'm not finding those."

He looked around, and I realized he was looking for MY MAN.  Seeing no man who would claim me, He said, "No, we don't have any of those."

I was about to thank him anyway, when he added these words:  "We don't have Flooring here. This is the chain aisle.  You have to go back to Flooring."

Oh, yes, I see.  The Motto "You can do it, We can help" needs to be amended to "You're going to have to do it since we'll only help you if you're actually in our aisle."

"I was in Flooring."  

"Oh, then ask someone there."

"They are both on the phone."

"Oh, well, sorry.  We don't have that in this department."

I walked away.  Good luck, buddy, getting to be employee of the month in the CHAIN aisle.

I made one more loop around Flooring.  And yes, they were still both on the phone.  And I went to check out.

I have a rule about checkouts, and it's one my hubby taught me:  Avoid the dude.  Never go to the checkout where there's a dude.  It's a good rule. At the very end of the row of checkouts,there were two women at registers.  One was very busy with a customer.  The other one was very busy NOT making eye contact with me.  Oh she saw me...and she could have waived me over, but she didn't because, see, I hadn't brought a man with me and I was pushing a cart full of colorful floor squares.  I was one sticky face short of a lost child.

I finally got to the cashier and she started scanning my stuff.  And that's when the final insult of the day was hurled at me in the form of a Bill Engvall "Here's Your Sign" moment.  The cashier looked at my cleaning items and said, "Oh, are you spending the day cleaning the kitchen?"

No, I wanted to say, I'm going to soak the floor squares in the cleaners, set them out in front of my office and light them on fire, creating the world's most beautiful, lemony smelling molotov cocktail.

Here's your sign.

FLASHBACK FIVE FOR FRIDAY! 5 reasons I won't be a TV mom.

Good afternoon everyone!  I'm running way behind in my day thanks to some self inflicted drama at work. and yes, it is not a work day for me, but hey, why wouldn't we just call Sarah at home and bring the drama to her?

Anyway, below is a five for Friday I wrote in the early days of the blog. Enjoy!




My mother often tells the story of the very first TV they ever got.  They put the the TV on the table, turned it on, and waited for it to warm up.  As the tubes warmed and began to lighten the black screen, the black, gray, and white image of a cartoon pig putting on a girdle opened up before them.  My grandmother, shocked at the image, immediately turned off the TV and said, "If that's the sort of rubbish that's going to be, we don't need a TV."

I often wonder what my grandmother would make of Cialis commercials...much less shows like Teen Mom.

The one constant, I think, over the decades since TV first entered our living rooms, is the TV mom.  Each generation of viewers had their own TV interpretation of a mom.  Some generations had several, conflicting images.  TV moms have varied wildly from each other over the decades, but even as they vary, one thing remains constant for each of them:  I will probably never measure up to TV moms.

So today I give you five reasons why I am not TV mom material.

5)  Claire Huxtable

Raising five children, spanning in age nearly 20 years, and four of them girls?  Being a lawyer is just a survival tactic, given the borderline illegal activity some of those kids dabbled in.  (Vanessa and her trip to see "The Wretched" goes down as my all time favorite TV parenting moment, bar none.)  I am not a lawyer, so I can clearly not manage a household of that many girls.  Although, being married to the Jell-o pudding pop guy would have its benefits.

4)  June Cleaver

Dresses, stockings, and pearls every day?  Not even on a Sunday when I have to stand in front of church and sing.

The only mom of two on this list, June seemed to be perfect.  Perfect house, perfect clothes, semi perfect kids...who made terrible choices when it came to friends.  Seriously, was peer pressure not a thing in the 50's?  If my kids brought home someone named Stinky...or Eddie Haskel...I would sit them down and discuss the wisdom of choosing good friends.  June, however, was a head of her time when it came to the time honored mothering tradition of taking pills to get through the day.  Don't believe me?  Okay, how do you explain the fact that she NEVER RAISED HER VOICE?  Valium is the only answer possible.  She wore stockings every day and never raised her voice.  Yep, Valium.

3)  Shirley Partridge.

As much as I would LOVE to add "Rock Star Matriarch"  to my resume, it's highly unlikely.  Rock star stuff aside, Shirley might have been the closest to REAL a TV mom was going to get in the late 60's and early 70's.  She was often frazzled, raising multiple teens on her own, so who could blame her for putting out once in a while for Reuben Kinkaid, just so they could get a better gig?  (What...she didn't?  Are you sure?)  I do have to take points off, however, for the child switching incident that she didn't seem to notice.  I mean, sure, babies get switched all the time.  But someone stole Chris, her original drummer, and replaced him with some other kid...and she never seemed to notice!

2)  Carole Brady

Often spoken of in the same breath as Shirley Partridge, Carole Brady is more original than we might think.  Sure, she's the epic picture of motherhood from the 70's.  How cool was she, mothering a blended family of six kids?  Very ahead of her time, right?  Oh sure, and she married a gay guy, VERY hip.  She ruled the roost of six kid and a dog in a house that had, for all we know, one bathroom and no working toilet.  How did she do it and still look so great?  One word:  Alice.

1)  Marie Barone

It's a nosy mother, it's an overbearing wife, it's MARIE.  Able to leap all the boundaries of etiquette in a single meal, nosier than a speeding gossip columnist, it's MARIE  Well...while I have a feeling I'd fall into Marie's pattern of smothering love all too easily, two things keep me from it:  I can't abide large amounts of opera, and I do not cook.  (Oh, and yes, she's the other mom of two on the list...but she managed 3 grandchildren...and let's be honest...Frank was a bigger child than all of them.)

So there...five reasons I'll never be a TV mom.

BIG ANNOUNCEMENT FOR NOOK USERS WHO ARE ELSIE W. FANS!

Hello all!

ALL the books in the Wicked Women
Series are on the nook!
Reach for them!

After selling my novels exclusively on Amazon the last few months, I decided to branch out.  So, NOOK users (and everyone else who doesn't have a kindle, but likes to read their books on a device) your day is TODAY!

You can catch all of my novels at the Barnes and Noble website by CLICKING HERE!

And if you want my Elsie W books, you can get them by CLICKING HERE!

Now, for those of you who like to use a device that's NOT a Nook or a Kindle...I've got excellent news for you as well!  

For everything under my Sarah J. Bradley name:  CLICK HERE!

Find out what's so funny about Elsie W!

For everything under my Sarah Jayne Brewster name: CLICK HERE!

It is my promise to Kindle users, Nook users, e-reader users (of which I am one) I-everything users that for as long as I control my books, my e-books will NEVER be more than $2.99.  That is my pledge to you!

So, by the end of the weekend everything I've ever published is going to be available to everyone who reads on a device and it's all going to be $2.99 or less.

Now, GO FORTH AND READ!

Come on Menopause!

Heads up readers, today's blog deals with menopause and general female punctuation.  You've been warned!


Good day!

Since I was 13 I've been a very regular girl with regards to punctuation.  I'm now on the cusp of 47, which means I've been a consumer of punctuation products for the better part of 34 years.

And, fun fact, I haven't really needed the punctuation function since I was 29 and had Peaches.  Soooo, that means I've been forced to participate in punctuation for no reason other than general annoyance for almost 18 years.

I shudder to think about the amount of money I've spent on feminine punctuation products.  And all because my biological clock is apparently never going to stop running.

As time goes by, I've noticed a few changes in the monthly grammar lesson:  my symptoms are getting worse, the whole thing is lasting longer, and frankly, with every passing month it's getting to be more and more annoying, painful, and expensive.

Come on menopause!

Oh this happens all the time!
Know when this doesn't happen?
After menopause!

I know, most women say the longer you have your regular grammar lesson, the better your life is.  I say balderdash!  I haven't needed a grammar lesson for it's most basic purpose in nearly two decades.  And I'm starting to think the whole purpose of hormones in our milk, which clearly makes our girls start their punctuation lessons earlier and earlier in their lives is actually a conspiracy on the part of BIG FEMININE PRODUCTS to make sure we women continue to need their wares in our underwears. (So there's another plank in the platform I'll be nailing to my presidential campaign!  Sarah in 16!)

But, Sarah, you might say, what about the downside to menopause?  What about facial hair?

Already have everything but the hot flashes...

Yeah...that's already a battle I'm losing, and have been since I was 14.  What else ya got?

But Sarah, you might ask, what about hot flashes and sweats and mood swings?

First of all, mood swings isn't an argument because mood swings are the biggest symptom of punctuations ever.  So who would notice a menopausal mood swing?  What, it's MORE crabbiness?  Please.

As for flashes and sweats, well, isn't breaking into a sweat the goal for all exercise programs?  My doctors keep telling me any exercise counts as long as I break into a sweat.  So score one for menopause, sweating and sitting!  And hot flashes?  Hey, if we could time those for winter, that would be a bonus.  I pretty much ALWAYS cold in the winter up here so if I could suddenly develop some sort of internal oven, that would be great, especially if it's in the winter.  And if it hits in the summer, hey, it's just Fluffy Girl sweating slightly more than she already does.

But Sarah, you are probably asking, much to my annoyance, what about bone density?

What about reader density?  (Okay, see, mood swings...and theoretically I'm done with my punctuation lesson for the month...so yeah, not worried about mood swings, already got 'em.)  

Actually, yes, bone density...that's an issue.  But I live in Wisconsin, a state that not only worships dairy and all calcium bearing foods, we produce it, lots of it.  And frankly, I doubt I'm going to have a bone density problem any time soon.  If you knew the amount of cheese and ice cream I've eaten since birth...

Now let's talk about the upside of menopause!

Let's talk about the laundry.  With menopause and the subsequent cessation of your punctuation lessons, your laundry woes are pretty much over.  WHAT?  The men in the audience ask.  Yeah, all those little "SURPRISE" moments and those time when you stand up and your body becomes some sort of Mount Vesuvius. Ladies, you know what I mean...that horrified race to the bathroom when you get up in the morning and you realized your super absorbent whatever shifted while you were sleeping and you're now in danger of destroying several layers of sheets, mattress pads, mattresses, pajamas, box springs, carpet...I could go on.

So hey, less laundry means less housework (win) less water usage (win) less detergent usage (WIN!).


Okay, and obviously, there's a HUGE cost savings when it comes to the super absorbent whatevers.  No wings, no quiet wrappers, no cottony lining, no taped strings, NOTHING!  Think of it...no monthly trip to the aisle of shame where  you do the back and forth dance trying to find the punctuation product that will serve you best.  Forget the money you're going to save, let's talk about the TIME!  (WINNER!)

And if that's not enough, how about those random, horrible punctuation stories we all have...like mine. (Click here to read.)

There won't be anymore of THAT!  

Not convinced...why do you think people wear their shirts/jackets tied around their waists?  It's not because it's a handy way to keep an extra layer around, in case it gets chilly.  That's why we have men.  So we can wear their jackets.  

And the look is NOT flattering.  I mean, what woman says, "Okay, I have a super cute outfit picked out.  Pants, top, shoes.  Now, what would pull this all together is if I tied my bulky sweater around my waist, making me look like a square."

Not cooling off after workout.
Covering because her super absorbent
doesn't ALWAYS work.

NO!  The reason women began wearing shirts tied around their waists, and I know this from experience of course, is because our super absorbent whatevers fail ALL THE TIME and then our punctuation fluids leak all over our clothes and who wants to look at THAT? 

So, less water and detergent usage.  Less
housework.  Less money spent on 
products that are touted as making 
punctuation lessons FUN.  And, less reasons to make terrible style choices and have embarrassing moments in our lives.

Yeah, oh yeah, you all miss that, don't you?

Oh, and one other thing, for all of you who went through it and are now telling me I really shouldn't wish this on myself.

You know what none of you ladies ever say?  EVER?


YOU NEVER SAY, "OH I REALLY MISS HAVING MY MONTHLY PUNCTUATION!"

COME ON MENOPAUSE!  I AM READY!

When Chinese food attacks! (This counts as a Pilate's workout.)

This blog contains graphic depictions of bodily functions as they can only happen to me.  

You've been warned.


Good afternoon!

So Hubby headed out to see his folks this weekend.  Skippy had to work pretty much all weekend, and Peaches is having one last fun weekend with her friends before most of them go back to school out of town.

In short, I pretty much have a three day weekend with no one around.

Ahhhhhhh.

I should be writing.  I should be stringing words together like a mad woman.  But, of course, I'm not.  Instead, last night, I thought it would be a great idea to top off a day of basically crappy food with some take out Chinese food.  Peaches and I love Chinese food, so we order it whenever we can.  Last night I go sesame chicken. Not a dish I order often, because it's sort of pricey, but hey, I knew I would have leftovers, so really I was ordering enough food for a couple meals.

Anyway, after eating dinner, I was feeling a little...bloated.  Fluffy girls know this feeling.  It's that feeling you

get when you've been even more bad on your body than normal and you just really need to do something healthy.  So between binge watching episodes of "Parks and Recreation" I told Peaches to fold a load of laundry and I was going to walk around the block.

We don't live on a perfectly square block, so going around the block is actually a pretty decent walk, especially if you go right out of our driveway instead of left, because then everything is slightly uphill.  Feeling really like I needed to sweat out some of the fatty food I'd eaten, I went right.

I got to the end of the block and felt worse.  (Mostly because I was sweating and breathing heavy...I'm that fluffy.)  But something stirred in my gut.

I ignored the feeling because I was determined to do this walk and turning around was NOT an option.  But by the time I reached the end of the next block I realized the stirring in my gut was the first rumblings of an intestinal attack, the kind of complete clearance attack that is on a very short timer and will not be denied. 

At this point, I was pretty much halfway around the block, except I wasn't.  Turning around would be the shorter, and smarter walk, because continuing around the block meant at least double the distance.  But standing on the corner, trying to measure the amount of time I had before complete internal combustion, I just knew, I KNEW I had enough time.  Besides, I reasoned, if things really got bad, I could always cut through our backyard neighbor's yard, and get to our house.

So I turned the corner and started walking.  Another hundred feet and I realized that I'd sorely misjudged the amount of time I had before detonation.  But by this time I was at a point at the walk where that back yard short cut was closer than turning around and going back the other way.

The thing about battling a time release explosion like this is that you can't move quickly.  Running is RIGHT OUT....why?  Because so many of the lower body muscles are busy contracting to hold back the floodgates.  Short steps is about all anyone in this state can manage, short slow steps because anything as jarring as a quick pace will jolt loose the iron grip the rump muscles have on the internal muscles.  Those of you who have been in this position know exactly that I mean. 

So I traversed the next five hundred feet with slow, careful steps.  At this point I was sweating, but not from movement so much as from the tension I had to keep on every muscle in my body between my armpits and my knees.    I counted every step out loud.  (Counting steps tends to calm me and take my mind off the ache in my feet or knees.)  

There I am, walking stiffly, counting out loud, sweating.  Thank goodness I live in the suburbs where everyone is inside playing video games or binge watching Netflix.  There was not one single person outside.  I finally reached my back yard neighbor's driveway.  I was sixty feet from my own private bathroom.  (I should remind readers at this point that, yes, I probably could have knocked on some one's door...but as you all know I have issues about using other people's bathrooms.  Admitting to a complete stranger that I was in dire need of their bathroom...and also knowing they'd be unable to ignore the kind of Armageddon I knew I would produce once near a toilet, well, that was right out.)

I took a step onto the driveway and stopped.  That's when I remembered that these are the people who struck a deal with Hubby to grind out some stumps on the lot line and then split the cost, our portion being $200.  The day the stumps were ground out, neighbor dude handed Hubby a bill for $1000.  Hubby asked for a receipt.  We haven't spoken since.  In fact, this past spring, they put up a lovely privacy fence between our yards.  Not AROUND their yard...just between our yards.

Yeah, I didn't feel right about cutting through their yard, around their fence, no matter how urgent things were getting in my gut, which had moved into some sort of red zone churning furnace about to blow.

Nope, I was going to risk going the long way.  That involved basically going around another complete city block.  (I was really at the halfway point, and would have kicked myself for not turning back sooner except that particular motion would have released the floodgates.)

At the far end of the block I ran into people, adults, children, all who stared at me.  Oh yeah, I was some kind of sexy beast, sweaty, baby stepping, counting out loud, gritting my teeth, doing everything in my power to NOT create any motion near the middle part of my anatomy.  Finally I turned the last corner.  Six houses to my front door.  Head down, I moved as quickly as I dared, doing some horrible countdown at the edge of every yard.  (Six houses!  Five houses!  Four houses!)

The good news was that the front door was unlocked. Peaches finished her task and was patiently waiting for me to start up another episode of "Parks and Rec."  I said nothing to her, I couldn't.  Everything inside me was quickly turning to a hot semi liquid and I wasn't going to risk even a quick greeting because I simply did not have the muscle control to say, "Hello" and hold the hot lava brewing inside.

You'll be relieved, (I sure was) to know I made it.  Barely, but I made it and was able to expel the toxic Chinese food in an appropriate receptacle.  Better yet, I get to count this as a solid Pilate's workout.

Still, this experience simply reinforces my thought that going outside does no one any good.

Wait, what?  Give up Chinese food?  That's the lesson I'm supposed to learn?

Please. No. The lesson we learn here is that nothing good comes from going outside.

Victoria may have a secret...but I don't!

Good morning!

WARNING!  Today's blog deals with women's underwear...more specifically...mine.  This blog is not suitable for any of my Sunday School students!  


You've been warned.  

Since the dawn of forever, I've been wearing one basic style of underwear.  I think it's called "High cut briefs" but honestly, I think that's just a marketing ploy for those of us not willing to admit that we wear the dreaded "Granny panties."

I know, I know, underwear is supposed to be sexy.  It's also supposed to match.  My mother trained me to wear bras and panties that matched in color.  (True, we wore pretty much only black or white, but still, they matched.)  

I don't know when it happened, but I'm going to guess right about the time the kids started picking out their own underwear  (and if you haven't watched your teens pick out underwear, I suggest you go on that outing this weekend.  It will horrify and amuse you...sort of like watching Captain Nubbin try to do anything work related on the computer.)  but at some point I sort of gave up.  I started buying these high cut briefs because they didn't ride up and they were comfortable.  I've never been a thong person.  I've got relatives and friends who tell me thongs are so comfortable no matter what size you are, but, come on.  I do all the household laundry.  If I wear thongs, I'll know where they've been and really I don't want to be handling THAT!

The pic on the right...that's not me, but those could be my panties!

A few weeks ago I decided I was going to try something new.  At 46 I'm in a weird place.  I'm really not too old to be trying new stuff, but then again, I'm not young enough to say, "Hey, let's do something crazy!" I decided to try a totally different style of underwear.

But which style to choose?  I mean, in the world of women's underwear there are half dozen completely different styles...at least half dozen.  That's what I was able to find at my local department store.  I know the thong is right out, but I could go back to the bikini I used to wear in college.  Or maybe 

Just to name a few...

a string bikini, you know, not quite thong, not quite covering anything?  I could go the other direction completely and go full on granny pantie.  

I settled on a style I'd never ever worn before:  The boy short.  I had a friend once who liked the boy short because even though she was fluffy, and the boy shorts were basically wider than they were long, they were still comfortable.

Also,the men in my house wear those boxer briefs all the time and they like them.  (I'm more apt to take underwear advice from Skippy and Hubby because, let's face it, they're closer to m y size than Peaches, who is tiny enough to be able to enjoy any style of underwear she chooses.  

I ordered the boy shorts from Amazon, mostly because I hate going underwear shopping so online is just faster and simpler.  I ordered the size that I've been wearing for a couple years, the size that matched what I thought my hips were.

I got them, and tried them on...and I don't know if you've ever just tried on underwear, but it's sort of like trying on swimsuits.  I always think it's going to look like it does on the model or the mannequin, but then I remember it's on my lumpy body...

The boy shorts fit okay, sort of drooped a bit in the back where my booty is about five sizes too big to be "bootylicious."  Then I put pants on.

I sort of expected pantie lines because the legs aren't elastic, but I didn't get pantie lines at all. It felt like I was way more covered than normal, like I had shorts on under my shorts.

What I like to think I
look like.

And let me tell you, every time I used the loo, I felt a little naughty, especially at work, because wearing those shorts feels like I'm actually wearing jammies under my clothes.  Since I don't often feel all that naughty, this is sort of a thrill for me.

How sad is my life?

I will say this:  Either I've lost some weight I'm not aware of, or my hips aren't quite as large as I thought because these shorts are really loose and when I buy them again I'll have to get a size smaller.  Another win!

Bigger fun, I put on the black ones and managed one day to coordinate them with a black bra.  Hubby was impressed, although not exactly the way I thought he'd be.  His comment:  "Are you trying out for the part of the first dead body in a horror movie?"

"I'm sorry?"  says I.

"It's always the hot chick in matching underwear that gets killed first," says he.

Good save. That's why we've stayed together almost 28 years.

All in all, this time out, change is good.  Good, comfortable, and a tiny bit naughty!

I'm not that fat...you're that stupid.

Good morning!

Due to road construction our work mailbox was moved from the front of our building to a safer location 753 steps away from the office.  Not that I've counted...well, not every day.

I have enjoyed the ten minute walk twice a day because it's a reason to get out of the office for a bit and the weather up here in Wisconsin has been WINNER all summer.  (Sorry, for those of you who love the heat and humidity, this fluffy girl likes her weather like she likes her men:  Bright and cool.)

Because we can't walk on the street, again, due to the construction that will never, ever end, I have to walk through the neighboring parking lot and then up their drive to another parking lot.  The drive is somewhat narrow, bordered by the building and a row of shrubs.  Not really wide enough for two cars, but way wider than one car.

So yesterday I was on my way to the mailbox.  It was a beautiful morning, bright and shiny and lovely. I crossed the parking lot and took a step into the drive when I saw a car also approaching the drive from the opposite end.  I slid over a step closer to the shrubs so that the driver would have enough room to pass.


He didn't pass.

No, instead, he waited at the end of the drive.  Waiting, waiting, waiting as I walked the twenty feet.  As soon as I passed his car, he peeled away like some kind of suburban Dukes of Hazzard.

OK...unnecessary.
Whatever Racer X wanted at the building must not have taken very long because on my return trip we again hit a stand off at either end of the drive.  

Seriously?  

Maybe I should have given him a signal.

This time I slid closer to the building.  I was, in fact, inside the line of downspouts in a spot of the drive Racer X would NEVER have driven on no matter how narrow the drive.  And still, he waited.  He hovered at the end of the drive, like a...well, like a race car waiting for the green flag.

The minute I passed his car, he again roared through the twenty foot drive like he was escaping something.

I walked back to the office pondering the odd exchange.  I mean, if you could really call it an exchange.  What was the deal with this guy?  Why didn't he just drive past me?  Why did he have to be so dramatic once I was out of the drive?

And then it hit me.

Dude in the fancy car didn't think there was enough room in the drive for both him and...ME!

OH COME ON!

She's NOT THAT FAT!
AAAAH!

I'm fluffy, but seriously?  He could EASILY have driven past me at a normal rate of speed without encroaching in my space or damaging his Racer X mobile.  But no, dude had to sit there and stare at me as I walked toward him and then scream out of the drive like I'd made him late for something really important.  I realized Racer X had just informed me, with his noisy departure both times, that my fluffiness was a MAJOR inconvenience for him.

Yeah, okay.  

The world is made up of many people, most of them, I'm starting to realize, are horrible and mean and rude. My promise to you, readers, is that I will find these people and I will report on them for your amusement.

I can't help it...they just seem to find me.