Until a customer called with a emergency request. A scrapbooking emergency. Oh Please. So I promise her it will go out that day. Now it is 3:45 and I have to get to the Post Office STAT. Quick mental checklist.
Sweats. {check}
T-Shirt - Achmed the Dead Terrorist "Silence I Keel You".{check}
Perfume - Ode du Chlorox {check}
Makeup - Nope. {check}
Bra - Yes (thank god). {check}
Hair - Well um, yes, hair but it is unruly bedhead and i have LOTS of thick curly hair. Not your beautiful "cause I'm worth it" curly tresses kind of hair. Curly - matted -OMG - "you know dreadlocks don't work on white girl" kind of hair. {check}
Toads - Argh! Holy hell what is stuck on their faces?? {check and check}
We jump into the goddess minivan and are off to the Post Office with the emergency package.
I walk in and notice there is a line (shit, shit, shit). Oh look, isn't that nice, someone is holding the door open for us.
Then.......
"Hi Tracie"...... Oh. Dear. God. Really? Now?
Some pertinent background info:
Girl dates boy (let's call him Mr.Shithead - Mr. S) a long long long time ago.
Mr. S does not tell girl he is married right up front. Bad, Bad Boy.
Girl thinks Mr.S is hot (if you like bald, cops, and motorcycles - um, yes, please).
Mr. S says he is getting divorce - still wants to date.
Keep your panties on! I did.
And SURPRISE Mr. S doesn't want to "date" anymore.
10 Months Later Mr. S is seeking the goddess again - divorce papers in hand.
Huh - Why not? girl thinks.
Dinner is um, cheap. Girl is SO not impressed.
Mr. Now Divorced Shithead takes girl back to his place.
Yeah - girl is not feeling it anymore. Mr. NDS - Surpise! - is clueless.
Mr. NDS is getting his grove on (not kidding - music - mood lighting (I think he dimmed the lights or maybe flicked his bic a few times)).
Mr. NDS is gettin' busy. All impressed with his bad self. Girl not so much.
Girl starts laughing. Full-out laughter. Tears streaming down face laughter.
Mr. NDS is amused........ at first.
Girl can't stop laughing. Ladies, did you know that ruins the mood??
Girl goes home.
Hmph - He never called for a second date! Pssssssshay!
Fast forward to today. Mr. NDS is 15 years older and is now Mr. Married Yet Again (Mr. MYA).
The goddess is still hot of course (EXCEPT for this ONE day at the Post Office) with the 2 toads. He is on wife number 13 or so. Big flippin' surprise, huh? Now I realize I need to walk past him to get to my counter. It is then that my brain starts laughing at me. Full-out snort my drink out my nose mind laughter.
My sweats say "Holy Scrap" on the ass. And NOT in little letters all cute in cursive writing right under your right butt cheek. Nope - this is kick ass thick block letters across my booty - flippin' NEON WHITE letters (so in case of a black out I can lead the way - just follow my ass) on black yoga pants. "HOLY" on my left butt and "SCRAP" on my right. Just awesome. I am the epitome of chic. Yes. Yes I am.
He may have the last laugh but I bet his little weinie forever remembers me laughing at
Hugs~
Tracie
-ps- As an FYI: "Holy Scrap" pants are also not appreciated at a catholic elementary school.
6 comments:
LOL! Maybe he was too busy staring at your arse to realize it was you.
*sits and ponders wtf a scrapbooking emergency is*
This was priceless! However, in the interest of helping us all visualize it, I vote for photos!
Yes, that's what this post is missing. Photos of the Holy Scrap pants and even the white girl dreads!
Come on...blogging is about sharing!
xoxo
~vk~
Oh he definitely knew it was me - a totally embarrassed me!
VK - Yeah, um, not gonna happen!! I don't wanna scare anyone ;)
Oh my goodness, Tracie. You are going to get me fired. I have to remember not to read your blog while I'm at work because you make me laugh out loud.
After reading your comment on Blu Eyed Bader's post, I had to come see you. Your comment, every single word was exquisite. Simply beautiful.
Serene - u should know better!!!
Middlechild - ty - that whole situation is just so sad - i can't imagine life for him everyday - not being able to let your guard down.
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