Sugar Coated Moron

So I saw on the news last week that there was a farmer’s market in the parking lot of a mall here in Shreveport, and since I love fresh peaches and melons and all the crafts, I told Alex that we needed to go.  No, I didn’t ask.  I didn’t inform him that I wanted to go, I got home from work and said “Put your pants on, we’re going to the mother fucking farmers market.”

I guess I should note that Alex does not like wearing pants at home.

Anyway, so after bickering for twenty minutes about how I needed to go to the farmer’s market or I would die a horrible death, because obviously I need peaches to survive, he sighs and begrudgingly agrees to go to the farmers market.

After getting lost a few times since it was a part of Shreveport I was unfamiliar with, we finally find this farmers market, and it’s tiny.               

But they had the peaches I wanted, green beans Alex wanted, live music and some pretty awesome food.

Mother Fucking Beignets

Mother Fucking Beignets

While we were looking around, Alex saw a beignet stand.  Now, if any of you have ever been to Louisiana, you should know that a beignet is a type of biscuit that is deep fried and covered in powder sugar, often served with marmalade and honey.  When they’re hot, they’re absolutely delicious.  We got an order and began walking around, looking at the strawberry lemonade stand, when I sneak the last beignet in the paper boat.

Alex saw me grab it, and there was about an inch of powder sugar in the bottom of it.  Seeing as I was tired and not really smiling or laughing too much, he screams “YOU TOOK THE LAST ONE?! NO! GIVE ME THE BOAT! GIVE IT TO MEEE!”

To which he then proceeds to stick his entire face in the powder sugar, dumping it all over his face, neck, and shirt.

He screams “BUH BUH BUH BUH BUH,” shaking his head in the sugar.  Several bystanders just stopped and stared.  And when I say several, it was probably close to 20 people.

I usually don’t get embarrassed, but this time I was a little embarrassed. Alex then decided to tell people that he just LOVES powder sugar.  So much.

 

Also not cocaine.

Also not cocaine.

I put my face in my hands, trying not to laugh my ass off.  Several older women shook their heads, kids laughed, and a woman offered Alex a napkin to clean off his face.  He then bought me a bunch of peaches and we ran the hell out of there.

I went again today, and I brought my coworker with me who had never been to a farmer’s market.  I bought her boudin.  And she didn’t embarrass me.

It was awesome.

 

Ever go to a public event and you were totally and completely embarrassed?  Ever think that you made the best beignets ever?  I want to hear your thoughts.  And if you live in Shreveport and claim you make the best beignets, beignets in my face speak far louder than messages on here.  >:3

 

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How A Scentsy Warmer Broke My Toilet

Okay, to be fair, it was mostly my fault.

This story happened when I was living in Alaska, shortly after I got married.  Alex and I were still in the honeymoon stage, we were just getting to know each other still, and I thought that absolutely nothing could ever go wrong in my life because I’d already survived shit creek in my teen years.

This particular night, it was a little balmy at -45 degrees, and I was tidying up the house.  I had my scentsy warmer filled to the brim with cubes so my house smelled of lavender goodness.  Since I had hardly any furniture at this time, mostly I was just vacuuming.  This was actually before I had Luna or Sahara, so mostly the vacuuming was just getting the dust off of everything because we had nothing but gravel roads in rural North Pole.

I decided that the cubes had used all of their scents and instead of dumping the hot wax in the garbage like I was supposed to, I decide to be a true idiot and dump the hot wax into the toilet.  It solidified immediately, making a huge chunk of cold wax in the toilet.  Since I don’t want to stick my hands in the toilet, I decide to flush.

Now, for those of you who are not engineers, let me explain what happens next.

  1. The flush starts to act funny because the wax gets really cold in Alaskan piping.
  2. The toilet stops working
  3. The Empress Majestic Dodo (me) decides to keep flushing, which it can’t because the giant ball of wax is stuck in the piping.

So, obviously, the toilet begins to flood the bathroom.

And after a few minutes, it starts to flood the hallway.  Then the bedroom.  Then the living room.

Alex was at work until midnight and it was around 8:30 at night.  I start to full blown panic.  We didn’t have a plunger because we never thought we’d ever clog the toilet, so I just keep flushing, hoping that it will start to work again eventually.  When the water is reaching the living room, I know I have to call Alex.

Me: Hey, honey, do you have to stay at work tonight?  Can you quite possibly come home right fucking now?

Alex: No, it’s Red Flag right now, I’m stuck here until probably one in the morning.  Why?  What did you do?

Me: Did you know that you’re not supposed to flush hot wax down the toilet?

Alex is quiet for a few beats.  I’m pretty sure he was banging his head against the wall, considering I heard a few thumps while I was waiting for him to respond.

Me: The entire apartment is kind of flooding right now.

Alex: Did you put towels down?

Me: I honestly didn’t even think of that.  I’ll do that.

Alex: I’ll see if they’ll let me go home since you’re trying to ensure that we never get our security deposit back.

When we got married, we married our towel collection as well.  He had a bunch of pretty, white towels and all of my towels were either a light tan or a dark burgundy.  Since I’d had them for a couple of years, I figured the color wouldn’t bleed at all so I throw every towel we have on the floor to soak up the toilet water.  The toilet eventually stopped flooding, but it still wouldn’t flush.

Alex was home about twenty minutes later, to which we put the towels in a garbage bag and head to Fairbanks to get a plunger.  After the thirty minute drive to Wal Mart, we stop at the laundry room in our apartment complex to wash all of the towels.

Naturally, I am not my mom who is a wizard at laundry and do not think to separate the colors from the whites.

All of our towels turned pink.

My husband declared me the Majestic Empress Dodo.  Never again, am I allowed to fix the toilet.

 

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Anyone Craving Tacos?

So recently I’ve been on this super healthy diet which has caused me to lose 20 pounds in 7 weeks and go down a pant size, a shirt size, and my belly skin to be super elastic and cottage cheesy.  It’s kind of weird and awesome all at once.  I have the absolute sexiest muffin top around.

Add about 100 pounds and more cellulite and SEXY MAMA IS HERE TO PARTY!

Add about 100 pounds and more cellulite and SEXY MAMA IS HERE TO PARTY!

But a few weeks ago, I was just craving hard shell tacos.

I know, weird craving right?

No, I’m not pregnant.  I just wanted Tacos more than anything else in the universe.

But I had to keep it healthy.  Corn tortillas are healthier than flour tortillas, especially since I was trying to be low carb and low gluten for my diet.  So I made this slow cooker pork taco meat with lots of black beans, and I was trying to find a way to bake these corn tortillas.  Since I was struggling so horrifically, I decided to go everywhere in Shreveport to find a taco shell baker.

I thought that this would be super easy to find, considering Shreveport has just about every type of store imaginable.  I tried World Market, Target, Wal Mart, even a few local businesses, but to no avail.  I was getting frustrated.  Finally, I asked some random people where they thought I could find a magical device that could bake corn tortillas into perfect taco shells.

The guy at World Market told me there were four Mexican groceries in Shreveport.  So I went on a search for one of these magical Mexican groceries.

TWO HOURS LATER I finally found one.  Less than two miles from my house.  I was in the entirely wrong part of town.  Apparently I live right next to little Mexico.  I never even noticed.  Seriously.

I was nervous walking in there, so I stood outside and saw that it was a hole in the wall Mexican store.  The sign said “Fresh Tacos” and a bunch of stuff in Spanish that I couldn’t understand.

I walked in and everyone in the store was middle aged and Mexican.  From what I heard, they also didn’t speak English.  I heard no English spoken.  All five people in the store stared at me like I was a leprechaun or something.

What... The... Fuck...

What… The… Fuck…

So I start to peruse around the store, finding tortilla presses, tortilla salad bowl makers, tortillas, a bunch of different spicy candies… You know, lots of stuff that I would have no idea how to use.  The people in the store watched me very carefully.

Finally, after a few minutes, I walk up to the counter and the man behind the counter, who is very obviously from the homeland, says in a perfect, southern accent, “Hello Ma’am, how can I help you?”

I stared at him in total disbelief for a few seconds.  I almost got pissed from how surprised I was.  “Uh, yeah, I need a tortilla baker or warmer.”

Then he started speaking Spanish to me.  “Ah, si, ma’am we have tortilla warmer.  We have tortilla maker.  You no know how make tortilla though.  Here, this one is sombrero tortilla warmer.”  To which he handed me this weird Sombrero warmer.

I don’t remember exactly everything he said because every other word was Spanish, but I remember chasing him across the store trying to keep up with his frantic running.  I had to give him credit, he was trying to be very helpful. I ended up buying 100 corn tortillas for four dollars, because I felt bad not buying anything.  Then it wasn’t enough for my debit card so I bought a bottle of carbonated water to make it five.

Got home, used my muffin tin and made super weird shaped tortillas.

[              I then called my friend Val, who was raised by parents who were Mexican and she was raised with English as a second language.  I told her next time I’m calling her to translate for me, and she said no.

So that’s how I ended up with far too many tortillas and making tacos every night for a week.

And I’m still eating those damn tortillas.

Tacos, anyone?

 

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How a Law Student Broke My Car

WARNING!  It’s a long post.

 

So a few weeks ago, one of my best friends from High School, who is now in her final year of Law School, decided that she needed to escape snowy Minnesota for her Spring Break and visit me here in Louisiana. She, of course, asked me if she could visit and if she did visit, if she would have a couch to crash on. Naturally, since I’m ridiculously Minnesotan, I went and bought a bed for her to sleep on, cleaned my house like crazy, and made sure that our first batch of beer would be ready for her visit.

Because she’s a law student, and a Law Student without booze is no Law Student at all.

Law School Lightweight

Law School Lightweight

So I had to drive about three and a half hours to Dallas to pick her up, because flying to Dallas is less than half of flying to Shreveport, and then we went back to Shreveport to drink and do other fun and wonderful things. Like drink. She helped me with my stocking job, we discovered Chili’s had a buy one get one free for Margaritas after five, so we had a lot of Margaritas one night…

Then we went to a Winery to sample some wines and bought a bunch of wine. Which was also delicious.

And I learned how to make a Pomegranate Martini.

Even with the Flamed Orange Peel.  What now, bitches?

Even with the Flamed Orange Peel. What now, bitches?

Between the drinking, gambling, board games and watching Veronica Mars, I have to say that her visit was much needed on both ends. Alex got to get to know another one of my very close friends, we had way more fun than should be allowed two girls in their twenties, and she discovered how much of a nervous fucking wreck I am half the time.

It was awesome.

So at the end of the seven day trip, I drove her back to Dallas, she gave me a hug, and we parted ways. And it was awesome.

So as I’m driving out of Dallas, I disillusion myself into thinking that I know my way around Dallas. Keep going east and I’ll find Shreveport. Those are basically the directions.

So I call my mom and talk to her as I’m driving out of Dallas. And miss the exit I needed to take to get to Shreveport.

So when I’m about a half hour south of Dallas, I realize that I went the wrong way. Great.

I hung up with my mom and found directions. Google Maps, you seriously need to work on your shit. I understand Texas is rural, but you got me even more lost. I almost had to use Apple Maps.

As I was driving towards Shreveport, I figured that everything was going well. It was insanely hot and sunny out, my car is usually dependable so I totally and completely ignore the check engine light, as well as the temp of the engine.

When I get to the town of Canton, Texas, I pull into Taco Bell to cheat on my diet and get a couple of burritos. Because I was starving from driving for seven hours with no food.

As I grab the bag from the lady in the drive through, my hood starts to smoke. A lot.

Panicking, I pull into the parking lot and turn off my car, only looking at the engine to realize that it’s far more overheating than it should. I take a drink of my coke and step outside… Only to realize that it’s really, really hot out. And that the engine coolant in my car was almost boiling and shooting out everywhere.

And nobody stopped to help me.

Come on Texas, you all pride yourselves on southern hospitality and when you see a woman with Alaska plates looking at her engine and pacing and very obviously distressed, you don’t just eat your tacos and stare awkwardly. (Hint hint, creepy old dude in the Dodge Durango).

I look at the horizon and realize that the sun is setting alarmingly fast. I finally do what I’ve been dreading.

I call Alex.

Alex is usually ridiculously warm and loving in situations of pure horror on my end, which is why I hate calling him. He’s the perfect, idyllic husband in instances of the car breaking down, the house breaking, the toilet flooding, you name it. He always comes to my rescue, he hugs me and tells me it’s going to be okay, and he calls a mechanic because he’s even more clueless than I am when the car breaks down. And I almost hate it because one of these days, I’m positive he’s going to do what my parents do when I break something: WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO NOW?! YOU ARE GROUNDED FOREVER AND YOU ARE NEVER DRIVING AGAIN FOR AS LONG AS YOU LIVE, WHICH WON’T BE LONG BECAUSE WE’RE GOING TO GUT YOU LIKE A FISH!*

So he calls our insurance, who tell us that they’re sending a tow truck to tow the truck to a little repair shop.

I wait twenty minutes and talk to my friend Marissa, who informs me that because I have a uterus, I have no rights. Because, you know, Texas.

The tow arrives, and the guy sees the plug dangling from the front of my car. It’s for an engine block heater to keep the engine block from freezing solid in ridiculously cold weather. Like in Alaska.

“Is your car a diesel?” he asks me, totally and completely confused by the plug. I explain it to him and he just looks more confused.

“So, Alaska, they must get really cold, like forty degrees.”

I give him a blank stare and agree with him, just wanting my car to get fixed.

He takes me to the mechanic and I forget that it is a Sunday and NOTHING is open on a Sunday in the south.

Naturally.

I was planning on just sitting in my car, charging my phone via my car, and he informs me that he can’t just “leave me” in my car while my husband is making the hour and a half drive to rescue me (to which Alex hadn’t even left yet).

“People get kidnapped and murdered all the time. And a woman should never be left alone in a rural area.” The man’s wife was with him and she told me that they would drop me off at a café or something nearby where Alex could pick me up.

They dropped me off at Denny’s, where I drank my weight in coffee, charging my phone with a charger the manager let me use, and called my mom to tell her that I was stranded in the middle of nowhere in Texas. By myself.

She basically called me a dodo and talked to me for a while. I called my Grandma and told her about my troubles and told me that she’s so glad she’s not me. She’s british and she can’t understand southern accents, nor can anyone ever understand her. She would have been screwed.

After about an hour in Denny’s, Alex walked in and ordered enough food to feed an army (Or air force, ba-dum-ksh). I ordered food, feeling frustrated. I decided that when I got home, I was drinking my weight in beer. After I finished my homework.

I also told my friend that it was her fault my car broke down. She felt bad, and I get to rub it in her face for the rest of her life.

I found out later that my radiator basically exploded.** And since I had a foreign car in “God’s country,” it cost me $500 to fix. Apparently it was also President Obama’s fault too, because, you know, everything bad that happens is because of Obamacare.

*So I keep misrepresenting my parents. Both my mother and my father are very high strung and nervous wrecks when it comes to random situations.  And they tend to think the worst, which I can totally understand since I do too, but it has caused me to be terrified of telling Alex anything bad that happens.  Like when I flooded our toilet in Alaska by pouring hot wax into the toilet.

**The radiator broke, causing engine coolant to go EVERYWHERE and it looked like it had exploded.  I think it just decided to say FUCK YOU.

Ever have your car break down, leaving you stranded somewhere where you’d rather never visit again for the rest of your life? Is your car an evil little bastard like mine? Tell me in the comments!

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog!

How I bought A Cookbook For A Gay Man

Back in February, I attended an absolutely beautiful gay wedding, but the day before I flew out, I had to buy a cookbook with Louisiana recipes in it for a friend of mine.

And I was looking for a wedding gift at Books-A-Million, but had no luck. Anyway, this is the story of how I totally and completely weirded out two innocent bystanders.

The day was a warm and sunny Louisiana day. Meaning it was way too hot and my hair was curly from the horrible humidity. Not going to lie, I’m pretty sure I used an entire tube of chaffing cream for my chub rub.

So I walked into the Books-A-Million and got a coffee, talked to the fabulously gay barista there then went over to the cook books in the “Local Cuisine” section looking for a Louisiana cookbook.

And there were none that I could find.

I began to panic a little, then decided that I needed to talk to the two gentlemen manning the customer service station.

I was surprised to see two huge jocks manning the counter. One of them had a soccer shirt on, and the other one was obviously in high school or fresh out of high school. They were good southern boys, smiling at me and saying, “How can I help you, ma’am?”

I walked up, and in a full Minnesota accent, began to tell them of my woes. “Hi there, I’m going to a gay wedding this weekend and I need a Louisiana cook book for the grooms.”

They both looked befuddled, so I went on to explain. “You know, a gay wedding. Not gay as in weird or happy, gay as in tips touching.” To which I proceeded to touch my two index fingers together, as if they were penises.

They both looked at me. “You know… tips touching… two guys?”

Finally one of them cleared their throat and said, “Uh, ma’am, what kind of book? We didn’t hear what you had said.”

That made a little more sense.

“A local cookbook.”

They looked like they were going to fight over who was going to help the crazy gay lady, but finally one of the guys led the way and found me an Emeril’s cookbook. Perfect.

“Thank you for helping me!” I told him.

“No problem… Have fun at that… Wedding?”

“Yes. A gay wedding.”

The guy walked away shaking his head.

I win at the internet.

Has anyone else totally and completely misunderstood what someone meant when they said “What?”  I want to know!

 

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog!

 

Louisiana Cooking: Delicious or Deadly?

I have mentioned before several times, I am from Minnesota. Hell, it’s the entire basis for this blog. How I get really confused and end up in horribly awkward situations because I’m so horribly Minnesotan. To me, a delicious home cooked meal is lefse and potato dumplings smothered in butter and salt. Everything is pretty white in color, bland in taste, and absolutely fucking amazing.

However, Louisiana is known internationally for its flavorful cooking. And I will admit, when I can get over the horrible searing of my mouth, it’ll probably be amazing.

Of course, I have to be an idiot and try out my own Cajun cooking.

There’s this seasoning that is the base of all Louisiana cooking. It’s called Tony Chachere’s Everything Seasoning.

This shit is dangerous

This shit is dangerous

 

When you go to a restaurant in Louisiana and ask for salt, they’ll hand you a can of this. It’s an extremely spicy seasoning blend that is pretty freaking amazing. I have two separate cans of it, which goes against everything my cooking stands for. However, my first can of it has lasted me three years and I’m not even half way through it. A typical Cajun family will go through one can a week. I can use a very light sprinkle, while everyone else drowns their food in it.

My work had pot luck recently, and I was very excited for it considering everyone was making really southern food. They made greens, jambalaya, dirty rice, and the works. I also had no idea that “greens” in Louisiana is collard greens boiled in bacon fat, making it about ¾ bacon and ¼ actual greens. Naturally, drowned in creole seasoning.

The food was amazing.

And my mouth was dying.

I was chugging water and soda trying to get rid of the burning sensation in my mouth. My eyes were watering and I was trying anything to get rid of the burn. My manager then informed me that they hardly used any seasoning in their food and that it was bland.

I was so confused. My brain couldn’t comprehend this. It was so blasted with flavor I felt like my mouth was dying.

So today I decided to make Beef and Beer chili. I decided to put a Cajun spin on it and add this seasoning, but I grabbed my can of “More Spice” creole seasoning, which means it’s about half cayenne pepper.

And I pour it in. Like a Cajun would.

Probably about 4 tablespoons of this stuff.

And my house smells amazing from this. It smells spicy, but I’m thinking “It’s a big pot of chili, I’ll be fine.”

So I taste it.

And I immediately spit it out.

It’s been two hours and my mouth is still burning. It’s so spicy. I’m dying.

So I texted my manager who is really cool about me texting him my horrible culinary experiences because he usually ends up laughing at how northern I am.

He’s laughing his ass off. While I’m dying.

Thank you Tony Chachere’s, for killing my mouth. And for making Louisiana think I’m a wimp.

I Love Resembling My Mother— And Not For The Reasons You’d Think

Ever since I can remember, I have been told that I look just like my mother. She’s 29 years older than me, we both have brown hair and eyes, and we both look ridiculously Scandinavian (except the dark hair and eyes bit). We’re about the same height, but that’s where the resemblance stops. We’re both heavy, sure, but her boobs are huge, and I’m pretty flat chested. I have a butt and she has none, she has skinny legs and my legs clap and make thunder.

You’d never be able to tell we’re related. Ever.

It’s just how genetics are cruel. God gave my shy, quiet mom huge boobs when she wanted no attention, and I was given a flat chest and huge thighs when I’m social.

Thanks God. You totally destroyed my ability to date until I was 20 years old.

Moving on.

But nobody can deny that I look like my mother.

And I used to hate it.

I would always fight that we didn’t look alike because she’s way older than I am. And she’s so much quieter than I am. And any other reason I could think of that I can’t think of because they don’t exist.

But as I’ve gotten older and more brazen thanks to my many years of living among my strange Alaskans, I’ve come to embrace the fact that my mother and I look alike.

Because I can embarrass the shit out of her.

And she can’t deny that I’m related to her.

So, of course, I take full advantage of this when the opportunity presents itself.

You see, my mother is very easily embarrassed. She gets embarrassed when we talk too loudly in restaurants, or if we say a bad word. She’s not nearly as bad as she used to be, but she used to freak out if we said “damn” in public.

Now, I’ve mentioned how odd my husband is before considering he’s a dungeon master, he’s very loud and goofy, and he seeks to make people laugh at every turn. He was also raised by East Coast parents, and I don’t care if it’s stereotyping, they’re very noisy. But in a good way.

And my husband loves to point out random discrepancies in public. Because he’s an asshole like that.

So the first time Alex came with me to Minnesota, my mom ditched us in Target. Not as in drove off, mind you, as in she did what she always does. She tells us to find something in the aisle she just passed and then learns how to magically fucking teleport to the other side of the store and makes it impossible to fucking find her until a half hour later.

She does this every fucking time. (I know you’re reading this mom, don’t even try to deny it. You have teleportation powers)

However, last time she tried to do this to Alex and I, we decided to have fun with it. She did her usual “Oh, can you go back one aisle and get something I have in my cart already but it’s the name brand and I need the off brand because I’m a thrifty saver/wizard?” And we agree because we’re good kids.

And she ditched us.

And she was our ride.

So, being the oddballs that we are, we did the most obvious thing we could think of.

We ran up and down every aisle in the store and started screaming “MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

Now, when a 22 and a 27 year old are doing this when looking for a woman in her early 50s, I’m told that it’s horribly embarrassing. I thought it was hilarious.

After going down about six aisles, my mother magically teleported behind us and hissed, “What? What do you want?!”

To which we rejoiced because we finally found her. And nobody could deny I was related to her because we look alike.

Authors note: This story is slightly hyperbolic. My mom can’t actually teleport (I think) and we weren’t “screaming” per se, we were just talking ridiculously loudly so everyone was looking at us funny. But she did hiss at us. And she does ditch us in the store all the time. And this story is not to show that my mom is easily embarrassed, she’s pretty awesome and she’ll probably tease me for writing something so ridiculously stupid.  YAY MOMS!

That Time I Peed On Alex: A True Story

Now, I know you’re probably thinking I’m crazy.  And I’m not crazy, at least I think I’m not.  And I know I have posted a blog once about wetting the bed, but that time was an accident.

This particular time, it was on purpose.

Okay, to be fair, I didn’t think he’d notice.

You know what?  I’m just going to tell the story in its entirety and you can laugh all you want later.

It was my very first big military function.  The AMXS/MXS Christmas party.  A lot of different shops were there, there were tons of people, and we had been voluntold to go by several different people.  Luckily, we didn’t have to pay for our tickets.  Alex’s shop chief at that time got the tickets for us and we decided to go.

Earlier that evening, Alex and I were having a few friends over for a session of Dungeons and Dragons.  Well, actually, they were playing Pathfinder, which is basically Dungeons and Dragons.  Only a nerd will know the difference.

After his friends had left, we had two people who also had to go to this god forsaken military function.  I went and hopped in the shower, and Alex followed me in right after I hopped in, stating that it would be faster and save water if she showered together.

Since we usually shower together to save on water, I had no objections.

Except I really, really had to pee.

Seriously, I was about to piss myself.

And he wouldn’t hurry up and I still had to wash and condition my hair, so me getting out was out of the question.  I didn’t want to get water all over the floor to just get back in the shower, and I figured I would just pee in the shower once he got out.

But he was taking forever.

So I decided that it was either let my bladder explode or pee in the shower.

With Alex standing in front of the drain.

I had no choice, at least, I thought I had no choice.

So I peed.

And about ten seconds after I peed a tiny bit so my bladder wouldn’t explode, Alex decides to suddenly become a drama queen.

“DID YOU JUST PEE?!”

He screamed this so loudly, that everyone in our apartment complex could hear him.

I know that the two friends of ours in the living room heard his scream of terror.                                      

“I really had to go,” I said, feeling pretty embarrassed.  He shook his head and got out of the shower, to which I felt much more relief.

We went to the function which ended up being absolutely awful.  I learned that you never go to a function in jeans and you always wear make up, otherwise you are ignored.  I didn’t even have the luxury of alcohol because I was the designated driver.

After we get home, our two friends who rode with us are getting ready to leave and my good friend, who is actually at this new base with us, decides to speak up.

“Uh, I have a confession…”

My other friend who is no longer in the military steps forward too, and he begins laughing.  “We heard your conversation earlier.  The one in the shower.”

Apparently these two were at the verge of tears from how funny it was that I peed on Alex’s foot.

So I did what any adult would do.

I went into my room and cried into the pillow, swearing to never leave the house again.

Now whenever I drink with friends, I tell people this story because it’s ungodly hilarious.

 

Question time!  Have you ever peed on your spouse on purpose?  Ever done anything horribly embarrassing that seemed like a decent idea at the time? 

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Don’t Wear Sweatpants on Sundays

So this last Sunday, in preparation for the Super Bowl Commercials, Alex realized we were out of beer.  Football commercials just aren’t the same without beer, so I volunteered to go to the store.

Since I never leave my house, I have a very comfy pair of sweat pants that are light gray, bleach stained, and show any type of wetness on them.  Strike one.

I also hadn’t showered yet this day because if I was going to be eating queso dip and drinking beer all night, I figured I didn’t need to shower quite yet.  Strike two.

And I get into my car, where I had left the windows open and it rained, so I sat down on a very, VERY wet seat.  Strike three.

I get to the gas station and everyone is actively avoiding me.  I know I probably don’t smell that pretty, I’m wearing sweatpants where the rear end was wet, and I looked like total crap because I hadn’t brushed my crazy hair yet and I was dressed like a hobo.

Seriously I had no idea what was going on.  Everyone in the store was actively avoiding me.  I get to the counter and the guy there, who is usually really friendly, couldn’t ring me up fast enough, then basically shoved me out the door.

I understand that it’s a bad idea to leave your house wearing anything but your Sunday’s best on a Sunday, but I didn’t think I’d be totally shunned.

So when I get home, I tell the story to Alex.  He hugs me, then pushes me away. 

“Are you wearing deodorant?”

I shake my head.  “No, I forgot to put some on this morning.”

“I hate to tell you love, but you smell awful.”

My eyes widen.  “Wait a minute… does my butt look wet to you?”

I turn around, and he starts laughing.  “Did you sit down in a puddle of water?”

I start laughing too, of course.

I’m pretty sure that everyone at the gas station thought I had wet my pants and was buying beer. 

This is why I don’t leave my house.

The truth reigns supreme!

These are the trues and lies revealed from this blog post.  I suggest reading that so you’re not totally and completely confused.

So, which one was not true?

1.   When I was Ten years old, I puked on a real piece of the Titanic.

TRUE!

There was a titanic exhibit at the St Paul museum (at least I think it was there) and my dad knew the guy who was in charge of it and got us all tickets to go.  Since I was obsessed with the movie Titanic and had a bunch of different books about it, he decided it would be fun for us to go.

Of course, he picked the one time a year that I had the flu.  I told him that morning I probably shouldn’t go because my stomach was hurting.  He said walking would help it.  We get to the exhibit, and while I was having a blast, my stomach just hurt more and more.  And I told him I thought I was going to throw up.  Like a true parent, he ignored me.

When we got to see the real piece of the Titanic, they had to keep it in sea water so the rust wouldn’t get so bad that it would fall apart.  The second the smell of salt water came to my nose, the first time I had ever smelled salt water, I felt myself begin to salivate very heavily.  I tugged on my dad’s sleeve, who was explaining something to my brother, and I said “Dad, I’m going to puke.”  He shrugged me off and told me to tell him what exciting news I had later.

Three… Two… One… I threw up.  All over the floor.  And some got onto the real piece of the Titanic.  My father, who is the king of subtlety, yells at me, “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU WERE GOING TO PUKE?!”

And thus began the tale of how my father said that I got sea sick without ever having gone to an ocean.

2. I once met Willie Nelson at a charity concert and didn’t know it was him until a month later.

TRUE!

When I was either 13 or 14, I was in Sioux Falls for a mission trip with my church.  We were at the children’s hospital and they told us a very special guest was there to sing for the families, and we went.  And it was none other than Willie Nelson.  He looked familiar, he sounded familiar.  And even his name was nagging me.

A month after the fact, I heard one of the songs he sang at the children’s hospital on the radio to which I exclaimed, “Who is this guy?  I saw him live when I was in Sioux Falls.”

To which my father slammed the breaks (gravel back road in Minnesota, nobody was around to worry about slamming on breaks) and he yells “YOU MET WILLIE NELSON AND DIDN’T KNOW WHO IT WAS?!”

Apparently.

3.  When I was really mad at one of my old bosses, I purposely screwed up the inventory so my manager was required to take a two day class on how to properly do inventory.  She wasn’t allowed to turn me in because I wasn’t supposed to be doing it in the first place.

TRUE!

Let me defend myself, I was 19 years old and I was very spiteful.  This was a deli clerk job at Safeway, I had recently dropped out of college because my boss at Safeway told me that “35 hours a week is part time, and I was able to work full time and take 18 credits, so you can do the same.”

And I have a mild learning disability so no, I can’t do that.  She would also set me up for failure all the time.  One time, she bought me starbucks then turned me in to the manager for having a beverage in the deli.  Then she would lie to me, telling me that customers didn’t like me because I was heavy.  One time, she even bought me weight loss pills and encouraged me to take them so that customers and coworkers would like me more.  And she once tried to write me up for not wearing make up.  And I don’t wear make up because I’m highly allergic to most of it.  The stuff I’m not allergic to costs an arm and a leg to wear, so I wear make up only a few select times of the year.

She decided that I needed to start doing the inventory.  Safeway states that only a manager or assistant manager can do inventory, but since I’m a smart cookie, she decided to have me start doing it.  I didn’t mind, it looked great on a resume, but I got a second job at the local Air Force Base, so I was working two full time jobs and my availability changed.  So this particular Sunday, when I had come in at 4 AM, and closed at my other job at midnight the night before, she approached me and told me that I had to quit because I wasn’t dependable after getting that job.

I smiled and said that was fine and she stormed off, not expecting that reaction.  I wasn’t going to quit, she couldn’t even write me up for anything, but I decided to exact a little revenge.

So after I had counted all of the inventory, which was around 20 sheets of counting, I left one page in the printer.  You have to have all of it in order to properly file the inventory.  Safeway policy states that if the inventory is done incorrectly, you get a write up as well as a two day class on how to properly do inventory.  Since she had been making my life a living hell for several months, I figured I’d give it right back to her.

She had to take the class and got her ass chewed by several higher ups.  And she couldn’t turn me in because I technically wasn’t allowed to do inventory.  When she tried, they said, “Why would you have a deli clerk do inventory?  That’s against store policy!” and she was in even more trouble for letting the big stupid girl do inventory.

A month later, when I gave my coworker a ride home, she said “I can’t believe she yelled at you for that.”

I responded, “I know, right?  She was yelling at me as if I didn’t know.”

4.  I lost my first kiss when I was nearly 19 years old,

True!

I had only been on one date when I lived in Minnesota, and he was really, really awkward.  I shall put that on here someday.  Anyway, my best friend during my first year in Alaska was a guy who was from a rural village and was more awkward than me, and I had a huge crush on him.  After hanging out with him in his dorm, I confessed I had never been kissed so he kissed me.  And then later told me that we were just friends and we couldn’t do that anymore and he cared about me too much to risk losing me as a friend.  Which sucked at the time, because I was in love with him.

Worked out for the best though.  He’s in jail now for vehicular theft.  Because he was trying to impress a hot girl.

5.  I moved to Alaska when I was 18 and my mom told me I should go

False!

My mother fought me every step of the way for moving to Alaska.  She was convinced I was going to be eaten by a polar bear.  I have no common sense, I’m awkward, I’m very trusting, and I make stupid decisions all the time.  Nothing has changed either.

So when I told her I was going to Alaska, she fought me every step of the way.  Then took me to Alaska to look at the college to discourage me from moving to Alaska.  We even went in the dead of winter so I could see how horrible it was.

I loved it.

And I moved there.  And she told me I’d be back within six months because there was no way I could cut it.

Five years later I left Alaska against my will to move to Louisiana.  Alex told me if I got offered a job there making over 100k a year, he would move back to Alaska with me.  So when he’s out of the military, I might do that.  Because I love Alaska.  Everything about it.

6.  I’m related to my husband in at least two different ways

I know, gross, but true.

In my defense though, it’s very distant and we didn’t know until a few months after we were married.  I was talking to his grandma and I found out that her cousin married my Grandpa’s cousin.  And we have a couple common ancestors (notably from the Mayflower).  But most of my ancestors are from Germany and Norway and my family (except my Grandpa’s family) has been here only three generations.  Which works out.  Kind of.

So, any weird facts that you guys have to tell?  Do anything incredibly stupid that you look back at now and go UGH!?  I want to know!

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