Yesterday I had a follow-up appointment to measure and check Matilda. Matilda is my benign tumor on the back of my head. Because I’m bat shit crazy, I decided to name her. Here’s the post about when I discovered I had a buddy: I Ate My Twin In The Womb
Before going to the doctor’s, I debated on asking my co-worker S, who is crazier than me, to draw a face on the lump like I had my son do a few weeks ago.
“It would be hilarious!” I said. “He would spread my hair and see this face looking up at him. Maybe it could have a little bubble from its mouth saying Hi,” I joked with S.
“Does your doctor have a sense of humor?” S asked.
“My real doctor yes. This guy has the personality of a wet poodle.”
“Ok, maybe it’s not a good idea then.”
I agreed this would not be a good idea because I’m guessing that in lieu of a little happy face, I would receive a gigantic penis on the lump…with a face…..saying “hi”. I would then be escorted out of the medical facility.
Target Vs. Wal-Mart
Since December, I’ve had a game in my car I’ve been meaning to return. By now the plastic was all scratched but I would just lie and say it was given to me like this. I walked up to the return desk of Target. I explained I didn’t have a receipt but my mother-in-law said she bought it at Target. I handed her my licenses and she scanned it.
“Oh I’m sorry,” the young girl said. “you’ve maxed out your return without receipt limit.”
“Oh really? I’ve barely returned anything,” I said. “Surely there is something you can do.”
She sighed. “Well you can pick out another game that is the exact same price.” She responded.
“Well, what if I bought the wine we normally drink,” I said conspiratorially, “while we are playing games like this as the exchange?” I was referring to this upcoming weekend and how we play games and drink all night at the hotel.
She smiled and declined. I walked out of Target, ranting like a grumpy old lady.
“Fuckin’ Target. So much better than Wal-mart and you can’t let me return a stupid $20 game. Great, now I have to go to fucking Wal-mart.”
And so I made the .3 mile trek across the street to Wal-mart. I am convinced that if I go to Hell, the only place to shop will be Wal-mart. Every basket in Hell Wal-mart will contain a screaming toddler wearing a bright red kool-aid mustache.
As I walked down the aisle to the snack area, I came upon a 400 pound woman who was staring at 20 boxes of cookies she had just knocked over onto the floor. She stood stark still.
‘You gonna pick those up?’ I thought.
She looked at me, looked at the cookies then back to me again. It was as if she was debating: cookies or human flesh. I quickly adverted my eyes and kept walking; accepting this was one of the many freak shows of Wal-mart.
I grabbed snacks and wine and hauled ass to check out. I found a self-checkout and scanned the wine first. No one checks my I.D. anymore. I almost want a pity check. You know, the ones twenty-somethings guys do to little old grandmas to give them a sense they are still spry and active.
A young, beautiful Indian girl came over when she was notified that someone was attempting to buy an 8-gallon-drum of Cabernet. I had my I.D. ready in my hand but still in my clutch in case she felt like she had seen me on campus last week and wanted to be sure I was of drinking age. She obviously crushed this dream of youth when she punched a few things into the keypad, turned around and asked:
I dropped my I.D. back into the pocket of my clutch, sighed and responded, “12,28,76”.
‘Whatever ass hole. Welcome to my world in 20 years.’ I thought.
So that was my Wednesday. I am leaving tomorrow for an overnight soccer tournament. Rest assured, there will be many stories come out of this (there always is). I’m thinking about recording then posting us playing my new game Telestrations After Dark. I might even do a Facebook Live Event on my Hot Mess Memoir Page. It would be around 9 P.M. Eastern Time tomorrow and/or Saturday, same time. Thank you to Actual Conversations With My Husband for the suggestion! Go check her out sometime! Pretty damn funny!