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It’s so hot.  Sooooo hot. It’s the kind of hot where you sweat when you step out of the shower, which makes me believe that showering may be a waste of time.  And, it’s only June.  It’ so hot that I considered joining a pool, something I didn’t think I would need to do until our kids become walking age.  But it’s so damn hot.  So, I searched online. 

I’m not a water person.  I’m not an outdoor person.  Have you seen my picture?  This ginger isn’t so attractive after a day at the pool or at the beach or a few minutes in a Walmart parking lot.  I’m convinced that every Walmart is a gateway to Hell.  I burn faster within a five-mile radius.  Give me ten minutes outside with out sunscreen and prepare to nurse my blisters the rest of the day.  Of course, if I’m going to be out – let’s say at the Farmer’s Market (because that makes me sound trendy when I really should be saying “the line for giant corn dogs at the state fair”) – I will slather on sunscreen.  And I don’t care what people say about the number on the bottle.  If one reads “80” and the other “25”, I’m buying the “80”.  I’ll give it a chance.  I wear hats, sunglasses and make sure to reapply sunscreen if I’m out for the long-haul.  I do this so that I don’t end up in an oatmeal bath or need to wear The Hubbs’ baggy clothes for a week or need to change my personal theme song to “Rock Lobster.” Imagine my glee when I found an indoor public pool. The heavens are listening! I’ll admit that “public” can sometimes mean “Hey, come swim with that homeless guy who hangs out under the 540 bridge while he takes his monthly bath.”  But this place is pretty swanky.  Well, it looks swanky from the pictures online.  I haven’t actually been to the facilities to check them out.  However, from the online info, it seems that I can take water aerobics in the mornings.  Hello!  I can swim with a bunch of grandmas and be the best looking one there.  Take that, golden girls.

Finding a pool meant I had to find a bathing suit.  Can I point out that just because I would rather have a suit with a skirt because of some “issue areas” doesn’t mean that I want to look like a two-year old with a frilly bottom.  And nevermind trying to find a maternity suit (yes, maternity – there’s a baby in there, so they tell me) that provides my lower half with some decent coverage.  Oh, and one that provides ample support up top?  I don’t want to accidentally practice nursing on the guy that isn’t looking where he’s swimming.

I just want to get some exercise.  And get out of this heat.  And do it some what fashionably.  And beat those grandmas at their own game.

How long until fall?

My house was filled with estrogen this weekend as I hosted a girls’ weekend get-away for my closest friends.  As promised there was a lot of laughter, some booze and a stirrup pants sighting at the mall.  Bonus activities included an impromptu fashion show in my living room and laughing at old pictures that I didn’t realize were on my friend’s facebook account (thanks, Erin.).  God, it’s good to be a girl.

Once the party was over and everyone had packed up and started on their treks back home, I hunkered down with my laptop and told myself I was going to figure out this coupon clipping craze.  This can’t be hard.  I’ve never won at Monopoly, but I have kicked ass in Candy Land.  So, I’m golden, right?

I was in Walmart last week stocking up on essentials for the coming girls’ weekend frivolity when I passed this woman who was thumbing through a large zippered binder full of coupons.  They were organized in these plastic pockets, just like the ones my brother used to stash his basketball cards in, which, by the way, he would not let me touch.  This may have something to do with some G I Joes I buried in the front yard.  I stopped beside her and said, “I think you might be my hero.”  We talked for about 15 minutes.  She explained her strategies to me, most of which I have already forgotten probably due to some episodes of Housewives of NY.  Those women are killing my brain cells. 

I watched my hero flip through her binder showing me how to organize by store (she goes to at least two different grocery stores depending on the deals) and then by item.  She looked at my cart (Embarrassing!  I didn’t have a chance to explain to her that I don’t usually by four different kinds of bread or two tubs of sour cream at a time or drink that much beer by myself) and she noticed my two boxes of Suddenly Salad (Oh my gosh!  This salad is so sudden.) and instantly knew that she had a coupon for fifty cents off two boxes of Suddenly Salad and gave it to me.  Did I mention that she had a small child with her?  How did she remember that coupon existed?  Then, she wrote down two sites (here and here) for me to visit for more info on clipping coupons.  I think that if I had invited her to come to my house and show me how to put a coupon binder together, she would have come and brought snacks – free snacks that she bought by combining coupons and sales deals. 

But I did not invite her, so here I sit on my own visiting these sites she wrote down for me and trying not to get distracted by Bejeweled Blitz or online Scrabble.  It’s just that I was never good at math and I loathed word problems.  And these sites, while they do offer a great deal of information, do not offer step-by-step, outlined, color-coded instructions on how to get the most out of clipping.  I would even settle for old school clip-art hieroglyphics because let’s face it.  I’m a visual learner.  All these words.  Blah blah blah coupons blah blah manufacturer blah blah double blah blah stock piling (should I be worried?) blah blah it’s so simple.  Kiss my fanny.  It’s not simple.  It’s panic-inducing.  Do they make coupons for Zoloft?

The thing is, I’m sure there is a justifiable savings for all this work.  I just wish I could download a manual directly to my brain or hire someone to shop with me and show me the ropes. OOh, or hire a personal shopper AND a personal coupon clipper.  If I won the lottery, I wouldn’t have to use the coupons at all. 

I wonder if we have any booze left…

 

not as bad as it looks.  forgot a pan handle was hot- 450 degree hot – right out of the oven. awesome.  another reason not to talk to me while i’m wielding kitchen utensils or dangerous objects like cucumbers.  i can’t discuss paint colors and remove a pan off a hot burner and remember it just came out of the oven.  gray-blue, not blue-gray! aaaahhhhh – that’s hot!!!! the hubbs made me hold a bag of ice. if burned, do not hold a bag of ice. i should probably call my mother before she sees this post. please excuse the hair. it’s hard to manage at the moment.  i’m thinking some pretty fabulous shadow-puppeteering will ensue shortly.  i have already mastered “the fish.”

Trying to buy a house listed as a “short sale” is equivalent to accidentally shooting yourself in the face.  You survive, don’t worry.  You’re rushed to the hospital where the medical team miraculously saves your life, but in order to do so they have to remove both of your arms and you lay in your hospital bed in your private hospital room that is too bright because the last nurse forgot to turn off the overhead beam because she was crying too hard over her husband’s latest decision to quit his job to sell whey protein shakes with his cousin and you can’t turn it off because you have no arms and then the phone starts ringing and the nurse comes in to answer it and she starts squealing and holding her free hand in the air, shaking it back and forth while hopping up and down and she yells at you that it’s Harpo, that it’s Oprah’s people and she asks you “Aren’t you excited? Don’t you want to talk to them?  They want to interview you about your face and your arms!” And you lay there because it’s hard to answer questions when you’ve been shot in the face, but the nurse takes your silence as a “yes, I would like Oprah’s producers to interview me” because who wouldn’t want to be on Oprah? She could be a huge stepping-stone to book deals or a mini-series or an action-figure and you bet she smells nice, too.  So, the nurse tells them “yes, yes, yes!” and you wait and wait and wait and Oprah’s people never come because they decide to go with the lady who got cut in half in a string of unfortunate events that culminated in her legs getting caught between a China Lodge IV building and a fallen sign that said, “Go bless Awerica Fried rice 2min.”  Fortunately, the local news does a spot on you and the owner of a boutique sends over a package containing a mannequin’s arm and leg along with a note that says “Sorry we didn’t send two arms. Neil isn’t back from break yet.” So, you look them over with your good eye and decide that maybe these will fit and you admire the shapeliness of your new arm-leg and you feel good.  You feel good because now you have an arm and an arm-leg and that means things must be looking up…

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© Alissa C. Miles and "And So They Did...", 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material including pictures from posts and/or other pages without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alissa C. Miles and "And So They Did..." with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Basically, don't steal my stuff. Thanks. -A.

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