March 24, 2009
Today I've stumbled across some unexpected free time in between two meetings. And really now, what's better to do with my spare minutes than make myself a peanut butter and bacon sandwich, a tall glass of chocolate milk, and write a load of flaming crapola for the world to read?
I've said it once and I'll say it again--life is good.
I really don't have much to write bout this fine Tuesday morning. My dog is having bowel trouble, my husband is in a major funk due to his brother leaving, and James? Well, James is just a big, happy boy.
I took him to the pediatrician last week who flatly informed me that James is still in the 95th percentile for height and weight. "Now what about looks," I asked casually? "Is he also in the 95th percentile for looks?"
"Well," I continued on, "with that poofy hair and his super skinny arms, I just assumed he'd be at the top of the charts for good looks, too."
"That was called a joke," I wanted to say. "We're you hatched from an egg or something?"
But I didn't, because I have social skills.
After the pediatrician, we stopped by the grocery store to pick up a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and six or seven apples. When I got to the check out, I was greeted by an overly giggly lady who was bagging the goods. She looked at James and asked, "How old are you?"
"I'm fwee," he responded.
The bagger looked at me and laughed the words, "Wow? He's only three? That's one big boy you've got there!"
And at that moment, before I really had the chance to think it through, I heard myself say, "Oh yeah--95th percentile for height, weight, and good looks." Why the hell not, right?
The bagger looked up at me with wide eyes and pursed lips in silence. Then, just as though she had packed one too many canned goods inside of a plastic bag, causing the bottom to give out and oranges to spill all over the linoleum, this woman lost her cool.
There she was, head leaned against the rack of plastic bags, left foot stomping, laughing like a hyena on ecstasy, holding up the palm of her hand as if to say, "Stop! Stop! I can't take it for another second!"
"Okay," I thought. "I'll stop! You're crazy! Every one's looking at me! I'm stopping!"
But she wasn't. This lady went on, and on, and on with the up-cracking until I finally pocketed my change, grabbed James by the hand, and broke into a light jog to escape through the automatic doors.
And it's official, that joke sucks and I vow never to tell it again.