My nomimation for Worst Person in the World: #1

Good morning!

I'm not a person who likes to judge people, as most of you know.  I'd rather live and let live.  But in recent weeks I've come across a couple "humans" that I think need to be nominated for the worst person in the world.  Now these aren't mass murderers, these aren't people who have done, as far as I know, any real crime.  These are ordinary people who have proven, in the very short amount of time I've observed them, they don't have the skills and manners other normal humans have.

My first nominee is a woman. 

This the woman who sat one seat behind and one seat to my left at the Rick Springfield concert last month.  Now, how could a fellow Rick Chick make my list of nominees for worst person in the world?

Read on:

At the concert hubby and I sat next to two women.  In front of us was a vastly tall man, and the one woman, I'll call her Friend, was shocked and disappointment at having to sit/stand behind a mountain of a man. Hubby offered to swap our seats, thereby putting the women more toward the middle of the row, but away from the tall guy.

Friend and a lovely lady I'll call Tina refused.  See, Tina had had a knee replacement a couple years early, and it hadn't gone well.  The result was that the poor woman had to walk with a cane and sit on the end of the row because she needed to stretch out her leg.  However, she'd bought the tickets for Friend because Friend was one of those girls who, in the 80's, had a Rick poster in her bedroom and she kissed it every night.  She'd never been to a concert, and this was Tina's gift. 

Tina, however, was not at all able to stand during the concert, which sort of sucked for her because once Rick hit the stage, everyone got up.  Even the guy next to hubby, who informed hubby he'd been "dragged" to the concert, but, once halfway through his bucket of Bud Light, starting yelling, "THIS GUY IS F***ING AWESOME!"

(I know that, and I don't have to drink multiple beers to admit it.)

Anyway, Friend  (who missed making this post only because the woman behind us was so horrible) sat on the end instead of Tina.  (Tina sacrificed her seat and comfort so Friend could dance in the aisle.)  Tina, meanwhile, listened to the concert while watching the tall guy's butt.

Because the horrible woman at the concert
drank it all.

The horrible woman behind us, a leathery, smokey girl in the plus 50 years age department, was, preconcert and pretty much through out, slamming rum and cokes like she was on a mission to finish all the rum in the Wisconsin Dells.

While sucking down plastic cup after plastic cup of the brown elixir, horrible woman would also run up to the front, accompanied by an equally horrible male friend of hers, to dance in the front.  (We'd been told at the start of the concert to stay in our rows because those who were in the front had paid for front row tickets and we, in row Z, had not.)

That did not deter Horrible and her male companion who would, at random times run into her row (row AA) take her by the hand, and run her up the aisle.  Much of the concert she'd run of there with her drink in hand.  (Hey, priorities.  If they're going to kick her out of the concert for running to the front, then she wasn't going to lose her drink.)

At some point in the concert, I took off my shoes.  I like to be barefoot.  I liked the feel of the cold concrete floor on my feet and I really like dancing barefoot.  I was careful not to dance to wildly because, you know, Tina was sitting next to me, her head about level with my hips.  That would be an unpleasant post, having to admit I hipped a girl to death.

Anyway, one of these times when Horrible and her male companion made a mad dash to the front, she lost hold of her rum and coke and it flew forward...all 24 ounces of it...right into the back of Tina's head.

I knew something was up because I got the residual dribble as rum and coke flowed from her row to mine.  My feet got very sticky.  But not as sticky as Tina's head and shoulders.  Went and messy, she had to hobble out of her seat, past Friend, and out to get herself cleaned up.  She did not return until after the encore.

Meanwhile, Horrible returned to her seat and while we were all waiting for the encore to happen she said to me, "Was that girl with you?"

"No,"  I said, "but we'd been talking, so I sort of know her."

"Did my drink get on you?"

"Just my feet.  But she's sort of a mess.  She had to leave to get herself cleaned up."

And ladies and gents, this is the point of the story.  This is why this woman is nominated for Worst Person in the World.  She shrugged and said:

"Well, it's a concert. What do you expect?"

And there it is, friends...my first nomination for Worst Person in the World.

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!