I needed to go to the farmers market today so I recruited my friend Tams who has a food blog and she was willing to go with me. Upon arrival, right out of the cage we saw two old people unloading their electric scooters and sporting twin “I love Jesus” baseball caps, which struck me as odd that they didn’t smile or greet us when we said hello. (Probably spent all their love on Jesus and had none left for regular people). Right away we were captivated by what looked like the biggest-ass grapefruits we had ever seen! We asked what they were and unexcitedly we were told they were Pomelos. They taste sweet and just a tad like a grapefruit, we bought two. Tams, a foodie, was there to take pics for her blog “Flip Flop Foodie” and she asked the gal, “What do you do with them?” (as in, share some creative culinary uses for this magical citrus delight!) The vendor looked at her like, “wtf do you THINK you do with it! You can cram it up your ass for all I care!” On to the booth where they sell the tiny little crinkle knit shiny tops that could fit folded into a matchbox. Down the produce aisle, a vendor quizzed Tams about where her bag was for the Pomelos (like she had stolen them), she quickly found me and bummed a bag off the sock lady booth. At the sock booth we were hacking around taking pics of the pomelos. (Tammy made a lovely set of knockers for herself and we spoofed the Twilight apple shot) The sock booth man became very interested in the Pomelos that he must see 100 times a day and asked us about them..after seeing us take boob shots with them I was afraid he was going to try to buy us a funnel cake and ask for a hummer. I do love the sock booth…you can get like 100 pair of “real” Nike socks for two bucks and this is valuable to me because my younguns go through them like Kleenex.
We stopped at the god-awful-gawdy “miracle” comb both that had the smallest mannequin head ever, made with real hair weave, when the clerk was all up in our business like we were going to steal them. I really was there to crack on them but the clerk killed my erection for making fun of them since she was almost glued to my ass. Last stop was the tweezer, dental instrument, scissor man booth where all of Polk’s dental do-it-yourselfer’s get the goods. I asked the man about uses for a 12” bent tweezer and he told me: Motor cycle part grabber, aquarium cleaner and pasta tester.. c’mon dude…we both know they are for meth cooking and for bootleg organ harvesting. The afternoon produced 2 pomellos, 2 pics, a sack of strawberries and some cherry tomatoes which I sat on in the car.
For more than a dozen years my office has been in the “Historic” (homeless) district filled with quaint shoppes, brick -paved streets and the dude on the bike with urine. The first time I met him was 10 years ago. I had just got out of the car and was burdened with a purse, briefcase and a box of files and teetering on cute but unsmart shoes in the metered parking lot downtown. Briskly and much like a ninja this grown-ass man on a kids bike scrambled up to me like a crackhead tornado and he said, “Hey ladyladylady, give me all your money or I am gonna throw all this pee on you!” In his free hand was a cup of yellow liquid with a rubberbanded tin foil for a lid. I dropped everything and gave him all my cash…and I mean every red cent..and it was all the money I had to my name for a week (and I had small children to feed…does that make it worse? Good! Because that’s how it was!) He left and I picked up all of my thrown belongings and walked to my office with my heart racing and aching that he had taken all the money I had, even though it was not a large amount.
Fast forward to April of this year after I had been called into the office to hear that our doors were closing that day. I left in the sunlight wondering what I was going to do. Up rolls this guy on the bike (probably a different guy by now but the same scam). “Hey ladyheyladyladylady!” he screamed, ushering me to attention. “Give me what you got for money right now or I am gonna throw this pee all over you!” I threw everything down except my purse and I rared my head back and just belted out, “HHHHEEEEEEEEEELLLLPPPPPP!” It was so loud that I think I burped in the process and it sounded like a lion’s roar! His face was priceless. He was afraid. I said, “Bring it, BITCH! Let’s go! What cha got!?!?” I was a crazy woman! I even think I was trying to pull off one of those Fred Sanford fancy footwork boxing deals..I dunno, I was in a zone. (Mind you, this was 100 feet from the police station). My would-be assailant scooted off faster than Moody’s goose. I gathered my things from the pavement and walked bravely to my car, feeling fearless and amused. I knew I would be okay.
P.S. The photo is not my actual would-be assailant, I think it’s of of them Walberg boys.
Today was my 1 week weigh-in day at Weight Watchers. I joined last week with a friend (her idea). I showed up for weigh in (she did not). In my planning of how to make the most of this day I wore the lightest clothes I could find. For good measure I put on a brand new pair of compression (torture drawers) panties that go clear up to my bra. I used the word compression lightly. What I really meant to say is that they were so hard to get on that I felt the fat surge up to my eyelids. I was so mad because those people (Walmart) must have mis-sized those jokers and put a small pair onto that hanger and sold them to me! Over them I wore some light weighed goucho-sorta-deal that forgot to land at my waist and spent the whole day north at the bra-line too. I prayed that I would make it through the day without dying because I know the paramedics would have a big time taking pictures of me for their Facebook pages with all of my clothes resting at my bra and them not being able to get it off of me without cutting them and having to do rock, paper, scissors to see would have the duty of cutting them and run the risk of a slingshot effect of my flubber.
Those panties are mean. Sinister. The whole reason why I bought them was to use as bathing suit bottoms under my new bathing suit top (tent). I decided that I would rather wear cowboy chaps to the beach (and nothing else) than to have to spend a day in the hot sun and sand with those unrelenting scratchy-ass britches! I did “save” them however, for when I am lighter. (That’s unless they get outlawed or the rapture comes before my “lighter” days happen)
You must be wondering about my weigh-in? I stepped right up there, took off my sweater, earrings, shoes, necklace, and rings. The weigh in lady looked at me like she didn’t trust that I wasn’t gonna get buck-ass-nekked. They didn’t kick me out. I get to come back next week and give them $13.
Our dog, who loves to chase lizards has run one of those damned things into my bedroom. I considered moving or setting the house on fire but I decided to take an antihistamine and go dead to bed instead hoping that the meds would put me into an anti-reptile sensory coma. No such luck. I inspected every corner of my bed an pillows, no sign of that green bastard. I looked around the room for any sign of that Geico-looking-son-of-a-gun. Nothing. I sealed my ass up in that bed and was so tucked in that I was collecting condensation under the sheets. Sleep came.
2:00 a.m.. I bolted up with the strangest tickle on my décolletage. I started flappin’ and slappin’ my chest and undercarriage so hard that I literally snatched a knot on myself. I flung every stitch of clothes off and sprinted through the house screaming “Oh GOD! It’s Got Me!” The dog, awoken at his post in the family room, thought I was a chubby naked intruder in the dark and bit me right on the ass. The bite broke my run and I remembered that the wall made a “splat” as my first round of titty-slaps sent Mr. Lizard into space.
Beat up, bitten and unclothed I went back to my room to see if I could find him. He was gone. I decided I’d spend the next few nights on the couch and wait for him to be eaten by the dog. They deserve each other.
One of the biggest treats I allow myself is a day trip to the beach. I get up early and start the road trip at 7:00 a.m. which puts me at my favorite beach spot at 8:30. I take the back roads, through the phosphate mines and small farming towns of central Florida. I can drive 20 miles at a clip and never see another car. The roads are two-laned and are insulated by tall pine trees. Deer and wild hogs are rumored to be abundant in this desolate alleyway to my nirvana, but I choose to travel this path in order to eliminate the interstates with their texters and screamers and Hummer-limosines full of people getting-it-on all the way to a BUCS game. (One Sunday I carried an SUV full of teenaged boys to the beach who had the delight of watching 4 40-year-old couples having a massive BANG in the back of a Hummer limo with poor tinting.)
At any rate, I often go alone to the beach, to think, to float, to enjoy the solace of silence. But fear creeps in on my trip and I envision a wild hog skipping accross the two lanes while I hum along in my tiny car at 80 MPH, clip him (or see him and swerve) and flip my car and die because of a pig. I would be mortified of my OBIT:
“Dana Mercaldi of Lakeland passed away yesterday during a selfish ride to the beach …alone…with a car packed full of sweet tea and cheese popcorn. Mrs. Mercaldi unskillfully flipped her VW on SR 674 as a pig crossed the road. The deceased will be laid to rest in her “Miraclesuit” bathing suit since it was so tight the mortician couldn’t even get it off of her.”
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