Are You a Middle Man?

I drive a stretch of city street on my way to work every morning.  This street is at least 3 lanes wide and one could probably squeeze 4 out of it if needed.  However, the powers that be, have not yet seen fit to put lines down the middle of the road – so it is basically just wide open spaces.

It amazes me how many people drive this vast area smack dab in the middle.  Seriously people, do we really need those yellow dotted lines to show us where it is appropriate to drive?

I’ve come to realize that some people just freaking like the middle of everything.  You can have a nice straight edge on your baked goods which leaves one edge to dry out and some schmuck will come along and notch out into the middle area.  Now you have 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 edges to suffer from the ravages of air.  Big time pet peeve of mine – I do not like people to ravage my cake or corn bread.

As weird, off the wall and non – conforming as I am I still like to follow the rules to a large degree.  I drive on my side usually pretty close to the boundary on the passenger side.  And those people driving in the middle scare the helicopter out of me.  You cannot predict what they are going to do, or where they are going to go.

So…..while sleeping in the middle on a cold night can be cozy…the middle is not necessarily the best place to be or piece to have.  Just ask any middle child and they will give you all the reasons why the middle sucks.

I Wonder.... Woman!

Having achieved that stage of life when I am no longer considered a “hottie” by anyone still possessing their eyesight, I try to at least not scare small children.  I am usually pretty mindful of my appearance when I have to appear in public, and I usually feel like I’ve achieved a certain amount of discretion and decorum.  Granted, there have been times when I’ve had to run to the store for a quick item and just haven’t felt the need to get all gussied up.  Those times used to bother me.  NOT ANY MORE.

The reason I’m not going to concern myself is that obviously some people make a conscience decision to appear as bizarre as possible.  I recently encountered one at the grocery store.  This was an attractive gal – tall, legs that went on for days, cute pixie-ish face – all the necessary components to be a stunner.  And she was.

Sashaying through Harps in her teeny tiny white booty biter shorts, her red bustier top with the heart shaped neckline enhancing her probably not so natural attributes she was a vision.  She had completed her attire with 4 inch red and white stilettos.  Her platinum hair had some fetching hot pink highlights and the parts of her body that were exposed (and there were lots of parts exposed) were a veritable canvas of creativity.

The most eye popping tattoo was a large one of Wonder Woman on one side of her chest….would that be right?…..chest – yes, I’m sticking with chest for my final answer, Bob.

I truly felt inclined to flip her up on the produce rack and read her like a newspaper.  I tried not to stare, I swear I did.  Part of the reason I didn’t want to really get into it was that she was obviously enjoying the stir she was causing in the canned vegetable aisle.  One poor gentleman totally lost his ability to focus on the charms of creamed corn versus whole kernel.

It is none of my business how people  present themselves when in public, but I’m telling you I’m not going to be so concerned myself anymore either.  I could have been wearing a fruit bowl on my head with Big Smith overalls and no one would have known I was alive.

And This Is Progress?

Today’s challenge and needless run around town.  I needed to take my notary commission to be sworn in and filed.  Carefully, I read the letter which came to me from the Secretary of State (Arkansas).  It clearly says “Take all three copies to the circuit clerk in your county of residence.”  Simple enough.  I passed by the house, collected hubs and dogs because I certainly didn’t want to run out of gas all alone & drove down town to the courthouse.  I even dashed up the perilous steps into our center of law and order (the same steps that not so long ago – I plummeted down, leaving myself a virtual cripple in an ugly boot for quite some time.)  As I entered the hallowed halls I spy with my little ole’ eye a sign telling me the circuit clerks office has been moved – and bless their bones – there are ample directions. 

I navigate scary stairs again, jump into my waiting chariot and speed off to the circuit clerk’s office.  I enter this building where there are armed guards with X-Ray machines.  Guards instruct me to put my packet of papers in their little plastic tub and proceed through the magic booth.  **BEEEEEEP**

How embarrassing – obviously I have an iron kidney.  No, it is my ID badge from work that Mr. X-Ray takes offense to.  No problem – they pass me on through after instructing me that I must leave their little plastic tub behind.  I merrily proceed up 2 flights of stairs, enter the office, state my purpose only to hear “we don’t do that – you have to go to the county clerk’s office in the COURTHOUSE!!  Ummm, ‘scuse me but that is NOT what my letter from my honorable Secretary of State says……RIGHT HERE!  “Oh, we know, but our county is one of 2 counties in Arkansas that has to have this done by the county clerk.”

Back to the car, the hubs, the dogs AND the courthouse.  Back up wicked bad scary stairs to county clerks office.  Explaining my plight, they all have a good chuckle and proceed to take care of business.  “That will be a $20.00 filing fee.”  No problem as I whip out the trusty debit card.  Faces fall, “we don’t take debit cards….we’ll take a check.”  Hello….I kind of thought that was what a debit card was….a plastic check.  Back down stairs that are growing teeth and are starting to remember the fun of watching my round little self plunge to the bottom not so long ago.  Luckily I had a check book in my purse.

The trip up the treacherous stairs is slower this time as I could swear they are starting to teeter and tilt like those found in the carnival fun house.  I pays my money, I swears my little oath (and then some), I sign my little name and flee.  My last trip down was accomplished by clinging to the handrail like my life depended on it.  I’m pretty sure it did. 

P.S.  Dear Secretary of the State of Arkansas – if I ever meet you in public, I’m probably going to leave an imprint of my newly made notary seal on your honorable butt.

But I’m now official……..can I notarize that for you?

………….and how was YOUR danged day?  I would really like to know.

Hello Sweet Face!

Recently, I learned something about myself and where I am from. And I have to admit that what I learned actually pleased me.

My new job as a receptionist for an Arkansas company has actually put me in pretty close touch with my roots. A couple of remote locations in THE GREAT STATE OF TEXAS have provided me opportunities to talk with more than a few Texans.

A co-worker asked me "has so and so in Texas called you Sweetheart yet?" Sadly, I realized that no, he had not - but I'm pretty sure I've called him that. I told her I guess it is just sort of a Texas "thang" -because I do it too.

It dawned on me that those little "tender" names are as ingrained in my being as my DNA. I started to notice how often I refer to people as "honey", "sweetie", "sweet face", or "sugar." Oddly enough, no one seems to mind.

It also occurs to me how much I enjoy those little terms of endearment (rare though they may be these days.) Honestly, I have never been offended by some big strapping Texan (or Kansan, or Oklahoman or even Arkansan) calling me ma'am or sweetheart.

Maybe I am just too simple minded to be offended or think that I am being talked down to or harassed in some inappropriate manner. To me, it is the epitome of courtesy, respect and gentlemanly behavior. Especially when you KNOW that is the intention behind the sentiment.

Now....on the other hand....let me get some little twit of a customer service rep on the phone who decides to say something like "now, sweetie....you don't understand.........." and that's an egg of a different chicken. Nothing will send my blood pressure sky rocketing as fast as someone treating me as if I must obviously be stupid because I don't understand the load of bull they are trying to push in my wagon.

So....if you are not one of those people who enjoy being called "sweetie" you might want to let me know, but be prepared to wear a nametag. Sometimes, I have to call you "honey" or "darlin'" or "sweetface" because I simply CANNOT remember your name.

Now…..about that Sweet Face in the picture.  That is my oldest granddaughter, Kaitlyn who will be a junior in high school this year.  She still has one of the sweetest faces on the planet.

Shaving Her Legs For Jesus

So….it is not going to come as any great shock to most of you that I have a bizarre and twisted sense of humor.  Sometimes things are said or done that just tickle my funny bone and I can’t help it.

Maybe being overly tired contributes to it….perhaps I am just “tetched” in the head as my granny used to say.

Random conversations take interesting trips along my imagination highway and this week provided a particularly “ticklish” comment.

I won’t mention names……….you know who you are.  And, you shouldn’t be surprised because I warned you in advance that you would show up here eventually.  **This should serve as my disclaimer**

This week the whole conversation came up about shaving one’s legs.  Strangely enough there were more than females contributing to this conversation.  I will say that most of the testosterone set were vehemently advocating the necessity of doing said act frequently.

Into the thread came a sweet little person I have come to really really like making the statement that she used to always shave her legs on Sunday.

Well, that was all it took.  Ms. Ain’t I Quick As a Bunny With My Wit (namely me) remarked…….”Awww, you shave your legs for Jesus.”

It really isn’t that funny, but it still makes me laugh.  And personally, I think Jesus would be pleased to know that his child wanted to give him the best she had when she entered into his presence.