Tag Archives: life

That Time I Got Scammed Into Raising Sheep

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Okay, the sheep.

As I’ve said before, I grew up in the country.  I was a poor, lonely, desperate housewife child living in the middle of nothing.  At some point, I presented my father with a couple of options.  And being the great father he was, he never shot down any ideas.  Directly, that is.

Me:  Sooooooo, I was thinking.

Dad: Yes?

horsesMe: Well, since we live soooooo far away from everything, wouldn’t it make sense for me to get a horse?

Dad: Why would that make sense?

Me: So then I could go places.

Dad:  Do you have any idea what it requires to take care of a horse?

Me: Yes. And I can say that with absolute certainty, after watching the neighbors.

Dad:  But you don’t even take care of the cats – I end up doing it.

Me: I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.  Mom does it most the time.

Dad: Well, horses are rather expensive, how about we get something a little cheaper and easier to practice on first?

Me: And then I can get a horse?

Dad: Of course.

Me:  Okay. What did you have in mind?

For the next 2.5 years, I woke up at 5 am and transported 10 buckets of water and oats out to my pathetic herd of sheep that seemingly multiplied by the day.  We started with two. Again, after school I’d have to rush home to repeat the feeding ritual.  Then before bed, again.  Three meals a day?  What are these things, PEOPLE?  Actually, no, they are just fat freaking lazy animals that you can’t ride, which have no self control and eat all their food in two minutes, thus it needs constant replenishing.  Of course, in the wintertime, this ritual involved a snowsuit and a lot of tears. No one hates cold weather more than me.  Every time I went to the barn, all the water buckets were frozen.  As I sat on the dirt floor and chipped away at the ice so I could refill the buckets, I would pray for God to remove this burden from me.  As I was praying, I felt my desire for a horse evaporate into thin air.

Eventually, my dad sold the sheep to some guy who turned them into a fine dining experience.  All eleven of them.  Last week, as we were reminiscing about this experience, I made a very disturbing discovery.

Me:  Hey, remember when I wanted a horse, but you bought me SHEEP?%$#^!

Dad:  [laughs] Oh man.  That was funny. Well, you know I did the same thing with your brother.

Me: You did?

Dad:  Yea, he wanted a horse too so I made him take care of the neighbor’s one for a winter.  After that I said, “So do you want the horse or the motorcycle?”  He took the motorcycle.

Me:  Wait.  What? Motorcycle.  He got a motorcycle?!  That is total crap. I didn’t get ANYTHING.

Dad:  You never asked.

OTHER POSTS YOU’LL LURVE:

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

Where Beer Flows Like Boxed Wine

Dad, You Look Like A Pencil With A Frizzy Top

Don’t Matter If You’re Black Or White – Just Pick One

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No, this isn’t a tribute to Michael Jackson.  Hi, you must be new here.  Pleasure to meet you; although I hate the word “pleasure” and refuse to use it accept over internet introductions.

As mentioned, last Thursday was my much unanticipated and begrudged birthday.  Although I didn’t exactly get what I wanted – which was another year of my life back, to be wildly successful, and to have a never ending supply of buffalo wings and Edys peach pie ice cream [which much to my utter horror I have discovered is a limited edition] – the world did suffer a loss of tragic proportions with the passing of it’s King of Pop and Fair-Feathered Farrah.  I like to think I got even.  But don’t think I’m without compassion for the rest of you.

michael_jacksonyoung-1Dear World,

You seem to be freaking out a bit. Do you need to borrow some of my mom’s Xanacs?  Cus they’ve certainly come in handy during the past ten few years of my life.  And I could definitely hook you up with some. I know where she hoards hides them.

Just asking ‘cus I care,

Blunt.

P.S. Sorry I had a birthday. 

Speaking of Michael Jackson, my parents were at my house when “the news” surfaced.  My mom, a long time supporter of Michael, was beside herself. She didn’t quite collapse in the same fashion as Elizabeth Taylor, but nonetheless, she was stunned.

Me: I just got like 8 texts saying that Michael Jackson died.

Mom: JACKSON?  What?  That can’t be right. 

Me:  No, I just checked the computer, he’s definitely dead.

Mom:  You’ve got to be kidding me?  HOW?  When?  WHERE?!? 

Me:  MOM. 

Mom:  Mmmm… that’s sooooo sad.  So talented.  Nobody could entertain like him.  Well, Elvis.  Except him.  Michael and Elvis.  Ugh….and he died too early too. 

Dad:  But he was so weird.

Mom:  He was a tortured soul, Denny.

Dad:  He molested little boys.

Mom:  He was really messed up.  And he had an awful childhood.  Besides, you don’t know that for sure.

Dad:  Sherri, they found boys’ underware all over his house.

Mom:  Well, that’s true.  I forgot about that.

Me: So did you make me a pie or what?

P.S.  Michael,  I’d like to just say that I’m sorry for that Halloween blog I wrote last year, where I used a close up of your face and said something to the effect of “count your blessings.”  I’m not sure exactly what it said, but it was definitely out of my normal good character and sound judgement.  So just for that, I did fashion a tribute of sorts.  And this is how I shall choose to remember you, always.

michael-jackson-greatest-performances

That’s My Daughter? She Sure Is Stone Ugly

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That would be an exact quote from my loving, very proud, first-time father the moment I was born into this world.  I thought for years this was due to the fact that he had never seen a newborn in all it’s alien likeness before; however, my mom set the record straight when she told me I was indeed, super ugly.

I share this heart-warming tale about my birth with you because today would be the anniversary of that very day.  But I hate birthdays.  And they despise me.  They never call. They never write.  All they do is sneak around and steal another year of my life away, while gently whispering in my ear all that I’ve failed to accomplish.  As if I haven’t been robbed enough times in my life.

 

kids-birthday-partySpeaking of robberies, you do know that from 2006-2007 I was robbed six times, right?  Your ears did not deceive you.  Six.

I say all this, to say, that I got locked outside in the blazing sun yesterday, during a heat advisory with 100 + degree weather. Oh, and I was half nekkid. You don’t see the correlation?  I’m getting there.

So I have the kind of mother who begged me to put on a baseball cap and “look as ugly as possible” when I was driving home after dark.  I have the kind of dad who got a boy expelled after spitting in my face in the second grade. So my parents were a bit over-protective.  After I got the hole in my head, everything took a turn for the worse.   But then after the drug dealer robbery and the stalking that followed…  ENTER: all-time world record for protectiveness. Just hold your horses, cus I’m about to blow your mind as I weave all these storylines together in a way that only a masterful literary genius, such as myself, possibly could.

patio-doorSo what does this have to do with me almost dying of heat exhaustion and /or embarrassment yesterday? Well, it was sunny out. I opened my sliding door and stepped out onto my porch, where I sat for about an hour, trying to become a bronze goddess and think of excuses why I can’t go jogging with my friend.  I vowed to go with her everyday, except I didn’t go once last week, and instead ate all of the ice cream I got at the Edys 5/$10 sale.  We went a day ago, and there wasn’t ONE solitary car at the bike path.  I said, “Dana, does this tell you that maybe we shouldn’t run during a heat advisory? She said, “We’ll burn more calories this way.”

So after an hour, I suddenly realize: “Holy crapballs, I’m about to die.” The heat index was 115 + humidity yesterday. I stand up, drenched in sweat, and as I reach for the handle on my sliding door, I feel friction.  Huh.  That’s odd.  Usually it SLIDES right open.  It’s a sliding door.  I try again, and remember that it can only lock from the inside…  OH, SNAP I’m having an optical illusion… I AM dying!

No, no. One of the wooden bars that my father had installed on every door and window as “extra security” to keep potential robbers out had somehow fallen down from being propped up, landed exactly in the correct groove, and locked me out.  I know you’re thinking I have a spare key around there somewhere, ha? Oddly, after six robberies, you don’t hide spare keys under easily-accessible mats or fake rocks anymore.  I know you’re thinking I had a garage door opener in my car, right? Well, since I finally cleaned it out after 2 years, it was actually parked inside.

So I spent the next 2 hours, nearly passing out from heat [there’s no shade on my porch] and confined to a scolding hot cement slab.  Why? 1. I was wearing swimsuit bottoms and quasi see-through tank top.  2. I had no shoes on. As I stood there half dead, with my bottle of tanning oil, and empty water cup, all I could think was: “Thank God, now I have an excuse not to go jogging.”

Dad, You Look Like A Pencil With A Frizzy Top

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My father, a self-proclaimed hippie and alcoholic until the day hemet my gorgeous mother, wore a brown leisure suit and platform shoes to his wedding.  I forgive him for this offense, only because my mother wore a black, sparkly pantsuit.

I’m amazed my father had any sense at all when it came to raising a child.  When he was 7, his mother woke him up in the middle of the night and they left town to escape his alcoholic father.  His mother worked nights as a surgical nurse and they moved every two years.  He grew up without a male influence, aside from his cousin who introduced him to drugs at age 11.

my-parentsI was born in a trailer park.  Does that mean I get to cry a river and say that I’ve had it a little worse than the rest of you?  No? But do I get to blame at least a few of my issues on that fact?  When my parents were married, my dad was making $6/hr, yet they managed to save 50% of his income a month, while my mom stayed at home with the kids.  This is could be where my Suze Ormond frugalness stems from, the kind which allows me  to be perfectly satisfied driving a ’99 Saturn with a hole in the hood, that floods every time it rains. Especially last night.

Eventually, my dad started his own business and they saved enough money to purchase a charming, completely run-down and nearly un-livable home in the country. For years, my dad awoke at 5am, and after working all day would come home to do paperwork for the business and spend every spare moment learning how to remodel that house.  That’s right, learning – from actual books. Incomprehensible, I know. But as busy as he was, trying to make a life for us, he always had time for any absurd request I might have.

Dad,

Thanks for sitting in my room every single night, while I rehashed my entire school day, complete with tearful confessions of snobby girls, mean boys, and despicable rumors.  And thanks for continuing to sit in my room every night, even when those confessions turned into eye-rolling  and the words: “I’m fine. Goodnight.”   Thanks for never missing dinner and showing up to every event in my life even though I was excrutiatingly embarrassed of your presence.  Thanks for staying up til 3am to help me grasp Chemistry, which by the way, was a battle we should have surrendered long ago.  Thank you for not using your past as an excuse, but as motivation to be better. 

Thanks for teaching me that even though people may take advantage of your kindness, you should give it anyway.  Thanks for building me that sweet swing set, which was the envy of all my friends and equipped with a sandbox litterbox for the cats.  Thanks for working so hard so that I could have a mom waiting for me after school every day.  Thanks for being so awesome that my friends wanted to come over just to hang out with you.  Thanks for being an example of how a man should love his wife.  Thanks for dropping everything to come put air in my tires, or some other mundane task that I always seem to screw up no matter how many times you’ve shown me.  Thanks for helping me crawl out of every mess I’ve made.  And there have been some big ones.  I mean, big.  But most of all, thanks for making me feel like I was the most amazing thing in the world even when I was terribly awkward and unfortunate looking.   I’ve been spared from so much because of the self-esteem that came from your unconditional support and love.  I’ve never felt like I needed anyone, or anything, to fulfill me. I’ve always thought I could do anything.  But really, it would have saved us both alot of stress if I hadn’t actually tried to. 

I almost feel like it’s been an unfair advantage, having you around.  But truth be told, you do look like a pencil with a frizzy top.

fathers-day1

Problems? Why Yes, I Can Provide Those

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It’s really too bad,  you know? I had a decent shot at being normal.  My childhood had all the ingredients to cook up a perfectly functional adult woman.  I spent my days running a successful lemonade stand on our dead end street, eating Leave It To Beaver family dinners, and following my dad around in sweet overhauls.  Growing up, I never had self-confidence issues, or body-dysmorphic disorder, or the desire to be a promiscuous teen, or to cut myself,  or to run away, or to be a rebellious troublesome child.  But then, later on, I had to start interacting with things other than caterpillars and sheep [blog soon to follow]…and more unfortunately, men.

That being said, I did some cleaning today and think I’ve figured out what my problems are after analyzing a few sections of my house.  I encourage you to do the same, because you’ll never believe what your freezer could reveal about you.

A. The Freezer:

1. I’m a cheap bastard with no self control, who will throw away the last three [and only] weeks of working out at the first sight of a 5/$10 Edys ice cream sale.

2. I’m lazy. I’ve been eating Eggo waffles since 8th grade. I mean, how long does it take to pour milk onto cereal? Apparently time that I am not willing to give up.  This also further proves point #1 under section B – I don’t like change.  What if I get something different and it sucks? That is a fate I’m not ready to accept.  Also, you’ll notice that my ice has formed into an indestructible mountain because I couldn’t be bothered to use any since my Christmas party last year.

3. I’m stupid. I believe that getting the “herb roasted chicken” TV dinner will somehow balance out the fact that I just polished off 5,325 grams of sodium… and most likely that bag of buffalo fries.

4. I am “Type A.” I have a bag of industrial size pre-cooked mini Italian meatballs on the off chance I need to attend a work potluck and forgot to pick something up.  Except I haven’t had a real job since November.

B. The Closet:

v-neck-sweaters

1. I don’t like change, nor do I make any attempts to accept it. Now, please draw your attention to the circled column of sweaters in my closet for a brief illustration.  These are not only all V-neck sweaters, but they are all from Express.. and they are all the exact same style.

2.  The left column is entirely made up of turtlenecks, which tells me I’m not only constantly freezing – but come wintertime I turn into a bit of  a prude.

I’m not exactly sure where my commitment-phobia stems from or the fact that I keep my blinds permanently shut, but I have more cleaning to do so there’s still hope that I’ll discover the answers.

Happy searching.

 

 

Dear Me 10 Years Ago,

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So I cleaned out my garage. I know you’re thinking that sounds a little over ambitious, especially for me, however, I haven’t been able to park inside of it since I moved in two years ago.  This also wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the fact that when it rains, my car floods.  So as I was rummaging through countless, dusty boxes of love letters, 7 bridesmaid dresses, various throw pillows from my inability to commit to a living room color, a shot glass collection, a postcard collection, a key chain collection, and inventory from my retail store, I found my favorite discovery of all – an old hot pink Composition notebook and mystery container from Haiti.
spanish-homework

EXIBIT A

What first appeared to be a refuge for Spanish homework, turned out to have many hidden and wondrous glimpses into my life back in 2001.

I’d just like to ask if anyone has a clue why I was writing natural remedies for common hair care dilemmas in the middle of my Spanish homework?  Please see EXHIBIT A and respond to me with any suggestions you may have.

Your answers may unlock the mystery to a lifetime of complex issues.

Among the most amazing of all discoveries was: 1. a list of qualifications for my future mate, and 2. a list of  20 “Things I Will Accomplish.” Written with the same authority and determination of any 18 year old with a bad case of ADHD and no sense of the world whatsoever.  Today we will simply tackle “Things I Will Accomplish.”

Dear Me 10 Years Ago,

I understand that you’re just a kid with lofty dreams, but there are some things you need to understand. In glancing over your list, I can’t help but notice you’re a bit obsessed with the Spanish culture according to points #2, #12, and #13, which is perplexing, but I assure you this is only a phase that will last about as long as your next boyfriend.   Your desire to eat tacos for consecutive weeks on end, however, will not subside.

to-do-list

adjustments have been made in RED

#6 – In regards to Paris, please don’t go. Just trust me on this one. #13 -Stick to your guns on studying abroad in South America.  Please don’t allow a charming, dark-haired boy, who has mesmerized you with his intelligence and ability to play Radiohead songs, to talk you into going to London instead.  If, by chance, you do end up in London, please do your best to avoid allBritish-Indian men who wear Versace Couture leather jackets and get regular facials.  If ever there was a time you should accept advice, it would be now.

# 4 -Yes, please get your teeth fixed.  Who are you, Jewel? #7 – On a more serious note, Oprah is a beotch, but you’ll have to learn the hard way.  Even the future you cannot possibly convince you otherwise at this point.  #1 – When you finally go to Italy and accomplish your childhood dream, please don’t drop your camera off the edge of the Coliseum.  They make wrist straps for a reason.  And seatbelts, but that’s a dead horse.

#8 – Don’t try to learn the guitar.  Remember Spanish?  Please stop trying to learn new things, it’s getting expensive and you’re making it increasingly hard to accomplish #18. #19 – LASIC?  Is this really on your ‘Things To Accomplish’ list?  What the heal is wrong with you? Do you want to die?  Have you seen Stevie Wonder lately?!  You just sit tight, four eyes.

#10 – I’m sorry for all the incessant laughter.  But in about 10 years, you’ll see why this is hilarious. #17 – What are you, some kind of freak?  #3 – Oh, boy.  If you had any idea how much you won’t be accomplishing this.  Ever.  So, please don’t try.  Again, focus on #18.

#20 – Yea, good luck with that.

Love,

Future You.

P.S. When you do meet Enrique Iglesias, please start walking away the first time your friend mentions she wants to sneak backstage and touch his rock-hard abs.  She’s not joking.  And neither are the cops.

Dear ESSENCE Magazine,

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You’ve been appearing in my mailbox for going on 4 months now.  I called you, and like a red-headed stepchild you said you had nothing to do with it, which I think might just be a bold-faced lie from the pits of hell.  You told me to send an email to cancel the subscription I never ordered, and yet, I still find you waiting for me each month.  Now, one of us just isn’t being honest with ourselves.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy reading up on Queen Latifah’s “love your body” tips, or Jennifer Hudson’s illegitimate pregancy, or Kelly Rowland’s advice on what to wear to work.  But I already love my body, as a result of my non-daddy issues. And considering I write for reality TV, I knew about Jennifer Hudson’s pregnancy before she did.  And I wear the same thing to work as I wore to bed.  And most unfortunately, I cannot use any of the hair care products that you suggest, which is a travesty in itself, because I’m a whore for hair supplies and have it stockpiled under my vanity like I’m anticipating the Y2K of personal hygiene products.

working-out

I’m calling a truce.

I’m not sure how or why you became obsessed with me, but it has to stop.  I’m really not that cool.  Actually, I’m rather feisty.  Some might call it rude, but that is a bit preposterous.  If friendship is what you’re looking for, then I will only disappoint you.  The only thing I have to offer is painful honesty, which nobody seems to appreciate.  I never answer my phone. It takes an average of a month [possibly more depending on the weather, current levels of laziness, and if my microwave is broken or not] to listen to your voicemail.  If you mark it as urgent, there is a minimum turnaround time of two weeks.  Even if we become friends, you’ll have to live on pins and needles or I might use you for a cheap laugh on my blog.  Are you willing to become a new category?  I mean, is this what you truly want? Can you handle living in a constant state of: WTF?!

I’m quite sure that if you removed the beer goggles and weren’t so blinded by your unwarranted affection for me, you would discover that you need more.  More than I can give you.

Please stop stalking me,

Blunt.

P.S. My microwave broke again tonight… so, just something to think about.

Dear Midwest, Without You I’d Be Famous

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You know your hair is too long when you have to start using conditioner meant for a horse.  Gees, people.  I’m just saying.  But on a side note, it works rather nicely.  So I’ve heard.

horse-shampoo

People always ask me, actually they harshly criticize and often yell at me, for the fact that I’ve never moved out of this God-forsaken craphole of a town. For those of you who don’t know, I live in a suburb outside of Chicago, where nearly everyone is a loser with zero motivation or aspirations in life.  So when I put it that way, I guess I can see their point.

Friend:  But you could be a big time writer in New York and travel the world.

Me: I’ve already traveled everywhere I want to go in the world.  And New York has too many rats.  And snobs.  And pricey food that comes on a giant platter but is the size of what I can only consider, a midget snack of sorts.


Friend:  But you could move to L.A. and write for tv shows and movies.

Me: I’m brunette, no one would take me seriously in L.A.  Besides, I can’t deal with the fakeness.  I would call everyone out and then they would hate me.  And then I’d run home to my lonely, roach-infested apartment, where I’d cry big, fat elephant tears and eat myself ugly. 

Friend: But you could move to the downtown and work for the Tribune.

Me:  I hate the news.  It’s depressing.  Plus, I probably wouldn’t get by with throwing in sarcastic comments when I was writing about the Korean missile crisis.  That job would blow chunks.  Give me a break, I’d never move to any of those places.  Seattle.  Now there’s a place I wouldn’t mind moving.

Friend:  You know that Grey’s Anatomy isn’t actually filmed in Seattle right?  So you wouldn’t be meeting McDreamy, or McSteamy, or any of the Mc’s?

So could all these people be partially right? Perhaps.  Is it true I want to continue my writing career on a larger scale? Mmm hmm.  Is it possible for me to accomplish all my dreams living here?  Heal no.  So what on earth could possibly keep me sandwiched here in the middle of the country, suffocating for air, slowly dying from lack of culture and white-trashy influences, you ask? 

Is it the ice-cold winters, which seem to get longer with every passing year, that make me contemplate roasting my own dog [or I guess my neighbor’s cus I don’t have one] over a rotisserie just so that I won’t have to leave my house for food?  Not exactly.  It’s much more complex than that.  But when isn’t it?

The other day, I was bronzing myself on the back porch, as the landscapers were mowing my yard.  I arose from my position to make sure I was decent as they were mowing right in front of me.  The last thing I need is a sweaty, landscaper-stalker.  But on a serious note, could they possibly point that grass blower thingy in another direction?   Then as I was gazing at all my patches of dead grass, a thunderbolt of realization occurred to me.  Um, why can I see those?  Where is the tangled pile of hose that has been laying in my backyard and covering the dead grass since I moved in?  Wait a minute. THESE PERVERTS STOLE MY HOSE! @#$!  And now they’re blowing grass at me.  What the?

As it turns out, my father had slithered outside at some point and drilled a bracket into the side of my house and wrapped the hose nicely around it.  BONUS: he was smart enough not to install one of those plastic roller pieces of crap that break after two seconds, which would result in a lifetime of frustration and ultimately, the death of more grass.  EXTRA BONUS:  He planted grass seed.

Folks, I’m sorry, but with quality service like this, the Midwest has a hold on me. 


Dear Universe,

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Why dost thou continue to sabotage me? Here I always thought you were on my side.  For the first time in my miserable, out-of-shape existence, I’m trying to do something about it.  This week, I turned a new leaf. Whitestrips, here I come.  Jogging, here I come.  Well… I’m not really sure what whitestrips had to do with the whole being-out-of-shape thing, but they certainly have a way of making me feel more fit.

Come Monday, I wanted to jog, but SOMEONE decided to make Monday a holiday full of tasty treats, lounging in the sun, and irresistible bbq delights didn’t they?!  Oh please, don’t even think about looking over your shoulder.  What did you expect me to do, dishonor the veterans?

Come Tuesday, it was my mother’s birthday and even though she hates birthdays, I was forced by guilt, only child syndrome, and the powers that be to make her pies and other delectible things.  And who’s fault is that? I’ll tell you one thing – not mine.

Come Wednesday, I wanted to go jogging, but you rained, which forced me to stay inside and do nothing but lay in bed and watch Tyra Show reruns all day. Since I couldn’t jog, I decided to make it vegetable night so I could at least save on a few calories.  Again, the amount of effort that I’m exuding here is incredible.  But then you ever so gently whispered sweet nothings in my ear regarding the delectible things that were inhabiting my fridge from the day before. All I can say is that I was brought up to believe that you don’t waste food, okay?  So I had a giant bowl of ice cream.  No biggie.  An hour later, I decided that if I just ate the rest of the box then I wouldn’t be tempted for the remainder of the week.  Again, brilliant.

…Then about ten o’clock, I decided that I could really go for a bacon-grilled cheese sandwich with a side of pasta.

Look what you freakin did!?

Come Thursday, I rounded up my support system, actually drank some water, and went to the bike path.  But after I reached half way around the track, I got a stabbing pain in my stomach.  The pain was followed by dizziness, which led to nausea, which led to me collapsing in the middle of the path.  An old man came by and said, “Are you okay DOLL?”  When my support system, who had long since jogged away without me, realized I was lying in the grass, I discovered I had a migraine.

Oh, well isn’t that just cute. What’s it gonna be tomorrow, ha?  A bio-nuclear attack?  My liver suddenly explodes and I become a horrific, but interesting scientific rarity?  My car gets hijacked and I’m left for dead in a nearby ditch?  What?

Breast Pumping Your Way To A Free Mocha

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There’s something magical that happens the very instant you become a mom.  I’m not sure of the details because I have not yet crossed that shaky domestic bridge, but from what I can gather: you become the cheapest person alive. 

My very best friend is a new mom.  I get in her car and immediately she throws the largest coupon organizer of ALL TIME onto my lap.  The coupons were alphabetically organized. “This is going to get us through the day,” she said with a grin.  First, we roll up to McDonald’s because she has a buy one extra value meal, get one free sandwich coupon.   I thought, “ok, thats fine, free sandwich.”  For the next 10 (and I am NOT exaggerating) mins, I was but an innocent bystander to the following drive thru conversation:

friend:  Yes, can I get the grilled chicken value meal? 

lady:   Sure.   Drink?

friend: I’d just like water and actually I don’t want any fries with that cus I’m trying to lose weight.  And then I’d like another grilled chicken sandwich, lettuce only. 

lady: Okaaaaay.  $9.42. 

friend:  And no mayonnaise on both.  (we pull ahead to the window and she hands over the coupon)  Okay, I have a coupon, so I should get the second sandwich free.

lady:  OKAY. SO  your new total is $6.12

friend: UM.  Hmm.. Now, shouldn’t the total be less than that?  Because the sandwich is free and I only ordered an extra value meal -but I didn’t even get fries and I only got water.

lady:  Well, why don’t you just order two sandwiches then? 

friend: Because the coupon says I have to order an extra value meal in order to get the other sandwich free.

lady: OKAY. SO you want the extra value meal, with just the sandwich and the water?

friend: Yes.

lady: Well, the bottled water is actually more expensive than the other drinks, so it’s still going to be that amount.

friend: Ok, then no water.

lady: OKAY. SO you just want  the extra value meal – with no fries and no drink?

friend: Yes, that is correct.

(at this point, the lady is rendered speechless and has to get the manager)

(this is also the point when I call my dad and have a five minute conversation, while trying not to leap out the car window and thrust myself into moving traffic.)

drive-thruFinally, they tell her just to pay three dollars and they hand over the sandwiches.  As we’re leaving, she tells me that later we’ll have to go back cus the Mochas are buy one get one free from 2:00-5.   Then we go to Baby’s R Us.  She rolls up to the checkout with a cart full of stuff and hands the elderly cashier AN ENTIRE STACK  of coupons.  Then, she says:

friend: But here’s the thing, they are all expired.

cashier: Um, so you want to use a stack of expired coupons for your purchases?

friend:  Yes.  George said it was okay because I live out of town and only come around once a week.

cashier:  George doesn’t work here anymore.  Let me get the manager.  (at this point, I start to get uncomfortable)

friend:  Oh, and I’m supposed to get a free box of diapers because I bought three Pamper products.

(Knowing what is about to come, I just walk away.  I stand by the door for a good 15 mins before going to the car, where I waited for another 10 minutes.)

As soon as she gets in the car, I tell her that she took so long that we might miss the 2-5 time frame in which to get the free mocha at McDonald’s.   I start driving, when I notice some rustling in the passenger seat.  Before I know it, she has plugged in her breast pump and was holding two empty bottles.  I just looked over  and she says, “Don’t you worry, I got this under control.”   We ended the day by going to JCPenney, where the clearance items were also buy one get one free.  Then there was yet another confrontation with an elderly cashier when my friend asked if she could do two separate purchases in order to get more things free.  The lady said that wasn’t really fair to JCPenney, to which my friend replied that she has to do what’s fair for her wallet.