Gotta Love That New Car Smell...

I once worked with a guy who was a little challenged in the area of dating.  He was a really nice, but also very shy.  His name was Tim.  Tim wasn’t what I would consider tall dark and handsome, but was a good guy. 

Tim had a major crush on a girl who worked in our office.  Her name was Rachel.  He’d swing by her desk to ask questions about work stuff even though he probably knew more than even she did.  Regardless, he liked her.  A lot. 

One afternoon, he stopped by my desk to tell me he purchased a brand new car.  Never driven, brand spanking, off the showroom floor, new.   He was really excited and couldn’t wait to share the news with everyone in the office, but especially with Rachel…the little hottie he secretly wanted to date. 

A couple of days later, I approached Tim and asked how he was loving his new ride.  He gave me a sheepish glance and asked if I had spoken to Rachel.  “Why would I speak to her?” I asked him, “We don’t even work in the same department”. “Because of what happened yesterday after work.” he replied with an embarrassed glum tone to his voice. 

He continued to tell me how at work the previous day was hectic.  Starvation and a busy meeting schedule got the best of him and he decided to opt for a quick, on the go lunch:  Chili Dogs…Lots of them.  After chowing on his power lunch, he finished his crazy workday, packed up his belongings and proceeded to walk to the parking area where he kept his shiny new car.

Just as he got himself settled into the driver’s seat, he felt his stomach feel bloated and uncomfortable from the multitude of dogs he consumed earlier that day.  He was by himself and thought he’d little out some air…You know…pass gas…fart…however you want to say it.  He said it wasn’t a huge amount of gas but was especially lethal in its strength of pungency. 

As he realized how awful his car now smelled, he proceeded to start his engine and thought he’d have time to air it out on the ride home.  Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, Rachel shows up in the garage…Apparently she had decided to leave around the same time and was headed to her car when she noticed my friend in his new wheels.  “Tim!  Tiiiimmm! WAIT!  Let me see your new car!” she was yelling, running as she waved her arms for him to slow down.

Mortified, Tim said he tried to pretend he didn’t see her, but she proceeded to run up to the side of his car.  The only way to avoid her would be to run her over, so he stopped.  He tried to mouth through the glass that he needed to get home…quickly.  But Rachel wasn’t having it…She proceeded to “TAP!TAP!TAP!” on his window, almost with a sense of urgency. 

Reluctantly, Tim said he really had no choice but to lower the window.  Just as he did so, Rachel jumped through the window, shoving her entire upper torso into his personal foulness. She took a huge breath inward and exclaimed, “OH MY GOD TIM!  DON’T YOU LOOOOOVE THAT NEW CAR SMELL?!”  Just as she finished her sentence, Tim’s fart made its way to her virginal olfactory.  Tim said he sat there, helpless, as she essentially shoved her nose into his asshole.  He said her expression went from excited to having just peeled rotten onions.  She became speechless and ubruptly exited to save herself and told him to have a good night…. 

Needless to say, those two never hooked up after that…..

Get me a Bucket....

Did you know I’m a champion bucket drag sledder?  I know you’re asking, “What exactly is a bucket drag sledder?”  I know, its exciting…Hold on and listen up now.  This story will really enrich your life…No, not really, but I’m writing it anyway…

All the snow as of late reminded me of a stormy January night when some of my fellow server friends and I got off work late.  We had a crappy night serving tables because the area had been hit with a pretty big snowstorm.  Regardless of the early storm warnings, the owner felt we were in for a windfall of diners and made everyone report for their shift. 

All of us reported to work and stood around a nearly empty restaurant for 5 hours.  By the time we were told to leave for the night, the interstate was closed to drivers.  My friends and I decided to make the best of the situation, which of course meant bellying up to a bar for drinks. 

After a couple hours of drinking, we decided to go play in the snow.  The parking lot was nearly empty…and an entire sheet of ice and snow.  One of my friends had a Jeep and we started out spinning it in the lot.  Then I noticed an empty bucket that had been placed outside the restaurant where we worked.

It was just a standard little Rubbermaid type bucket, but I saw its potential.   We scored some rope and created a towline from the Jeep’s bumper.  My idea entailed sitting with feet inside the bucket, your ass resting on its edge, holding the rope and getting pulled as fast as possible. Oh, and all this fun without wearing a helmet.

Although I thought my idea was brilliant, I didn’t want to be the crash test dummy, so I had my coworker test it out first (I’m a nice friend that way…plus, I cited I was a female. Lame, I know, but seemed logical at the time).  My friend tried it out first and immediately was yanked from the bucket and dragged on his belly until he had the wherewithal to let go of the rope.  I needed to perfect the technique.  So I had him go again, this time starting slower on the speed and leaning backward.  We revved the Jeep and voila!  Success.  We nearly died laughing as we watched him glide along and then do a rollover on the ground once my friend took a sharp turn in the lot…He looked like a careening bowling ball.

People were having fun but most were wiping out after half a minute or so.  Of course I was mouthing off about how lame they were for falling so quickly.  Finally my friends turned to me and told me to go give it a try…

(Cue “Chariots of Fire” music here…)

I’m the furthest thing from an athlete, but obliged.  I took the towrope and sat in the bucket.  I got myself situated and my friends gave a signal to the driver to go full speed ahead.  I found myself gliding on the parking lot atop my flimsy bucket sleigh, frigid wind in my face, ice loudly scraping beneath me.  My jubilance was short lived as I nearly wiped out, but then recovered by grabbing the rope and kind of maneuvering by steering when the Jeep took a sharp left or right turn.  It was nothing short of a bucket sled miracle.

Surprised I was able to hold my own, my friend went faster and started to do crazy turns in the parking lot…Nope, couldn’t shake me off.  I even amazed myself at my bucket sled dexterity.  At one point my friends nearly died laughing because the Jeep did a donut and I was whipped around to the driver’s side door holding my towrope, but was still standing…rather, sitting...in the bucket.  You get the jist…I didn’t fall. 

Anyway, I was crowned the champ that night and that story is still part of that restaurant’s ‘former server who worked here’ lore.  What do I remember the most from that night?  Laughing hysterically hard with friends as I froze my ass off…an absolute best memory….

She's got L'Eggs...

I’m going to sound terrible for saying this, but my mother was a horrible dresser.  And it wasn’t that she didn’t wear designer duds….I didn’t care about that.  It was bad ‘mom’ attire.  Of all her outfits however, this particular one stands out in my mind…

When I was younger I was usually picked up from school because I had this or that rehearsal, flute lessons, on and on.  One day I was waiting at my school for pick up when this woman I can only best describe as a freak approached me…and it was my mother.  Apparently she had decided at some point during my school day, that nude hose with khaki pleated shorts and sandals made a nice substitute for time in the sun.

I was mortified as she strolled up the buildings double doors.  Even worse was I think she thought the new ‘tanned’ look actually made her hot.  Was she serious?  I detected a strut in her gait. You know, kind of ‘kicking’ her lower leg from the knee in an exaggerated way to suggest, “Hey, check these gams out!  Don’t be jealous now!”  Even flipped her hair a little as though she found herself a one-way ticket to cougar town. 

As I gave her the elevator eyes of shame, she darted me a dirty look and proceeded to sign me out with the school’s office.  I know she noticed my expression but chose to ignore it, opting instead to bask her newly found tanned glory.

I started to laugh to myself as I thought of her getting dressed that day.  Did she stroll past a mirror and think, “Hmmmm.  Legs are lookin’ a tad white today…what to do…what to do”…Did she walk up to her dresser to find an outfit that would cover her white pillars but then had an “Ah Ha!” moment as she held up a pair of crumpled L’eggs hosiery? 

I pictured the hose being held in the air, wrinkled from being balled up in the drawer, almost resembling burnt bacon as she held them up…pondering....thinking. Or was it by chance she forgot to remove the hose as she tried on outfits, slipped on the khaki shorts, initially said to herself, “Damn!”…paused, took a second look at herself and then thought “Hot DAAAAAMMN!!” as she realized her fashion discovery.

In any case, I couldn’t hold my tongue.  As I entered the car I asked if she visited Bermuda while I was at school that day.  She acted pretty coy, as though she feared her fantastically nylon induced tan cover was about to be blown.  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.  I replied, “Because if you did, you forgot a little spot with tanning lotion. See?  Right. There…” 

I was pointing to a 10 inch runner…..

Away in a Manger...

I was in a Nativity Scene once...I was eight...I thought it was a pretty big deal.  In fact, I felt special because my Sunday school teacher designated me as the 'Lead Angel'.  This role carried a lot of responsibility as I was trusted to delicately place the bad Mattel doll understudy for Jesus into the hay laden manger.  My moment to shine in front of an audience if you will.

We had to make our angel outfits and were given pretty loose guidelines...White cotton smock with a gold rope belt, and angel wings made of poster board....oh, and add gold tinsel to the outer edge of the wings for a really special, Christ-ly effect...

Well, it went without saying that I turned to my mother for help in this endeavor.  We went to a sewing store and picked up the white fabric then proceeded to shop for craft supplies to make wings.  Initially the project seemed easy enough.  Poster board, Elmer's glue, gold tinsel...all set.

As was often the case in my house, six kids often took my mother in 50 directions at once and we found ourselves in the kitchen 2 hours before show time.  My costume wasn't finished...In fact, the supplies were still in the shopping bag from the day of purchase.  "This is a cinch," my mom said as she sketched out a wing on the poster board, "we'll just cut it out and staple it to your angel gown.."  I wasn't convinced, but went along anyway.  She proceeded to cut out two approximately 3 ft. angel wings from the poster board, glued on the tinsel and proceeded to assemble my outfit.

I remember thinking the wings seemed rather large, but since I was the lead angel, I should shine like Icarus before his big fall, right?  It wasn't until I arrived at Church that I realized how 'roided up my wings looked.  The other angels showed up with petite little wings that were worn with elastic around their shoulders (Elastic wing holders?...Genius!).  Compared to my classmates, I wasn't the lead angel.  I was Condor.  The bird of death.  Instead of holding Jesus, I felt as though I should be pecking at 5 day old bloated road kill...Regardless, I brushed off the size differential (a slight understatement) and walked on stage.

The moment came when I was given the cue to pick up the plastic, crayon laden faced Jesus and place him in the manger.  As I walked over, my wingspan was so large that it hit the other angels standing on stage.  As I bent to lay Jesus down, the weight of my wings caused the 4 staples my mother hurriedly attached to give way.  And there I stood, wingless...in front of 200 chuckling audience members.

I was mortified.  I remember getting mad at myself for not requesting smaller angel wings.  Isn't it funny what embarrasses you when you're little?  It must have pretty badly or I wouldn't be writing about it, right?

Santa's Cookies...

Growing up, I always looked forward to baking and decorating Christmas cookies.  My family and I would make a night of it.  Bowls of colored icing, red and green sugar, and candies were lined up at the ready. A huge pile of sugar cookies in all kinds of festive shapes was placed on the table for “Operation Decorate”…

In addition to decorating all our ‘regular’ Christmas cookies, we were always asked to make a special cookie for Santa.  You know, a real stand out…A bakery equivalent of a Michelangelo.  A cookie that we felt would really make him drop a mother load of gifts under our tree…

My brother and I got older and eventually got the joke when it came to Santa’s existence.  On cookie night, however, we were told in no uncertain terms to act like fervent Jolly Fat Guy believers for the sake of the younger kids.  In other words, “Make a goddamn Santa cookie and act like you’re having fun.”

Given his non existence, we knew our parents ate Santa’s special cookies, so my brother and I went out of our way to make ours extra special.  You know those silver dragets?  The culinary equivalent of  bb ammo?  My brother slathered a layer of icing, applied about 50 dragets, then smoothed another layer of icing atop the bullets to conceal them.  I was a little more obvious.  I placed about 20 red hot cinnamon candies on my Santa cookie.  We then would show our special cookie to my parents as they sat at the decorating table with the hardcore Santa believers. 

“Check this out Dad!  You think Santa will like it?” I asked as the weight of the red hot candies nearly pulled the icing off the cookie’s surface.  I’d sit amused as I watched him act as though I wasn’t being funny.  He’d dart me a look of complete disbelief and acted like he didn’t hear me.  I continued, “No really Dad.  I heard he loves red hots, I’m glad I made him this cookie. I’m sure he’ll eat every bite.”  My brother, on the other hand, was more covert. He didn’t say anything about the hidden dragets under his plainly iced cookie and opted to potentially hear about broken teeth on Christmas morning. 

Maybe you had to be there, but it’s this time of year that I reminisce about growing up in a large family.  I always find myself smiling and laughing at the antics we pulled as kids, especially around the holidays…I’m sure you have of a few stories of your own.

Hello, My name is.....

Have you ever been a so-called 'new member' of a church?  You show up for Sunday services and the Pastor will generally allot some time for you to stand for all the congregants to recognize.  Oh, and the obligatory 5 minute intermission in the service for turning to your neighbor on the pew, shake their hand and say, "Peace be with you!" as though you really meant it?

My church went out of its way to make new members feel welcome.  I mean, it all REALLY came down to dollars in the offering plate, but it was a good front.  We'd have 'Fellowship' socials after services where bad punch and stale cookies were served....people would meet and get to know one another.  Outings, committees, choirs...anything to help a new member to feel part of their church community.

My dad was an enthusiastic member of my church's welcome wagon.  As such, he generally wore a name tag so new members knew he was the 'go-to' guy for the 411 on church stuff.  The name tag was one of those "Hello!  My name is ....." stickers.  He'd arrive at church, fill in his name and don it on his label as a badge of christian honor.

One week we were running a little late arriving at church.  He needed to help our Pastor prep for services and asked me to make his name tag.  I walked over to the sheet of stickers.  Initially I went to write his name, but instead opted for "Jesus"...as in "Hello!  My name is 'Jesus'".  I walked over to him and slapped it on his lapel.  He was in a flurry of activity and didn't notice....

He wore it the entire morning as he smiled and shook hands.  He handed out service bulletins as I'm sure the real Jesus would have.  He even helped serve communion...Well, it goes without saying Jesus would have helped with that too, right?

Anyway, the entire morning passed before he realized what his name tag said.  He discovered it after removing his jacket when he got home.  Needless to say, I got an earful...It was worth it.  Am I going to hell for that?  (Making devil horns with index fingers...)

Oh Tannenbaum...

What is Christmas without the family tree, right?  Everyone gathers around..."Ooooo's and Ahhh's" as last year's crappy ornaments are unfurled from tissue paper, one by one, as though they are priceless rare artifacts.  Smiling, heads thrown back in laughter, tossing tinsel, loving glances as the children clumsily hang the heaviest ornament on the tree's weakest branch...You get it...All that Norman Rockwell-y stuff.  One thing that did become an annual 'tradition' at my house, so to speak, was watching my parents have their annual Christmas blow out over the tree.  We could pretty much mark it on the calendar..My brother and I stopped making bets on it because it became a sure deal.  

It began with what I'll call my dad's "Tree Lighting Prep".  I'd take in my mother's look of annoyance as she watched my dad meticulously check all the giant blazing hot colored bulbs to ensure all were working.  No trip to the hardware store.... Never mind the light strands were 10 years old and could spark hell's inferno at any moment.  Miniature colored lights that stayed cool?  "Those are crappy.  They aren't even bright!  Just a fad, Trina.  People don't appreciate the traditional stuff..." he'd grumble as he sat hunched over the third of 300 sockets to test.  I'm convinced my dad saw Christmas lights as his electrical engineer "call to duty".  He even had a little leather bound 'meter' with two little prongs you'd place into the socket to test whether it was 'live'.  The little needle on the meter would nervously register as though it feared for its mechanical life as well. If the needle moved to the center of the register?..."Bingo! We've got a live one!"  No movement of the needle meant an afternoon of troubleshooting, rewiring and retesting.  If you were lucky and brave enough to forgo rubber underpants,  he'd even let you test the sockets yourself. "Ensures one bad apple won't blow the whole strand!" he would say proudly.   I always wanted to point out Christmas lights now came in cooler, safer strands (UL tested anyone?) but instead allowed him to bask in his electrical glory.

Quarreling was amplified with the actual purchase of the tree..My dad liked larger, fuller trees...My mother always seemed to be taken with the lot's "runt" tree.  The tiniest, weakest, baldest tree of the bunch.  Almost as though she thought it had feelings, had been neglected and needed a loving home.  Most years, however, Dad won by fiat because none of us kids were in a sympathetic mood towards sapling Christmas trees...Determined to keep mood festive, my parents usually agreed to disagree and would purchase Dad's pick... After a long silent ride home, my brothers, sisters and I knew the fun was just getting started.

Arguing started getting ginned up upon the task of placement in the stand and straightening of the tree.  My dad would lift the tree and ask my mother to slide the tree stand directly below the trunk.  One issue we had with our tree stand was the bolts designed to hold the tree in place always seemed to be too short to reach the center where they could secure the trunk.  Most people would say, "No big deal, go to the hardware store, purchase longer ones."  My dad's solution was, "What do we have here at the house that will suffice"...And this year it was my baby brother's blue wooden building blocks.  He'd place the block in the path of the screw and twist with all his might until the blocks held the trunk.  "See?  Easy!" he'd say standing back reviewing his handiwork.  "It's not going to hold" my mother would quip, tension now beginning to show itself in her tone.  Dad was undeterred, "Don't be ridiculous, it will be fine."  She continued, "But we have antique ornaments.  I don't want to come home to glass all over my carpet.  Get a different tree stand.  We'll decorate the GODDAMN thing tomorrow." "We're finishing this tonight," he said calmly, but the increased redness in his face announced the arrival of his lost patience.  After finagling with the blue blocks and some convincing to my mother the tree wouldn't crash into the center of our house, he moved onto adding lights.

Dad had all the tested, retested, rewired contraband bulbs at the ready.  Though he tested all the lights, he always seemed to forget about the lit angel.  And every year the angel was a burr in his ass.  He'd place the angel at the top of the tree, plug in the first strand of lights and "Voila!" no lit angel.  He'd then have to spend a good hour or so futzing with the angel until he could jerry-rig the thing to hold a light for 2 weeks or so. Then he'd forget about it until the following year when the entire process would repeat itself.  After getting the angel lit, he moved on to placement of the lights...



My mother felt very strongly that she was the expert on where the lights should be hung.  She'd sit on the sofa, wait until my dad covered his hand in sap to clip a bulb to a random branch and would begin her critique.  "I don't like the way that bulb is shining", "That bulb is too close to that branch, you know, the dry one.  Those bulbs are so dangerously hot.  Why are we still using those old things?  The house could burn you know.  Dad would adjust and readjust for a little bit until he'd finally turn to her and say, "You know, you seem to be the expert.  How about you give it a whirl?"  And although this scene replayed itself year after year after year, my mother always seemed surprised when he offered her the lighting reigns.  She'd reply, "I can't do it!  It's too high!  I can't reach up there goddammit!!"  Dad would then respond by throwing down the lights and stomping out of the room.  Like clockwork, Mom would then rise from the sofa, and follow him into the next room where an argument ensued.  They'd get into a shouting match about anything and everything.  My dad's job, why we were STILL living in Colorado (family was in Ohio at the time), why he knowingly wore a dirty shirt to church, dirty dishes left in the sink, he spent too much time in the garage tinkering with cars...you name it, they argued over the subject.  My siblings and I would just sit and laugh to ourselves in the family room.  We expected the entire scenario.  In fact, it became a running joke....

After the big blow out, they'd return to the family room and finally allow the kids to partake in the fun.  Hanging ornaments...I think everyone was just happy the lights were tested, the tree was held straight and the annual argument was over.  Aside from worrying about the occasional antique ornament, this part was cake...Well, throwing tinsel was fun too...Merry Christmas friends...

I was a bridesmaid...once...

Yes, I was....Complete with turquoise satin dress with a bow and dyed to match satin pumps (insert audience gasp here..).  It would be an understatement to describe myself as appalled but it was my sister, so I had to do it.  Because this wedding was so ridiculous in its theme, decor, not to mention 'Bridal Party' fashion, I constantly found myself laughing at the entire ordeal.  We had the bridal shower where my sister, who never cooked in her life scored a $300 gravy boat.  The cheesy wedding collage frames, crap stamped with their names and the wedding date. I mean...really?  A vase where you can insert your wedding picture?Maybe I'm just too surly...

Anyway, the day of the wedding finally arrives.  My sister requested all bridesmaids (my 2 other sisters and myself...) get their hair 'done' at one of those awful department store salons.  You know, one of those joints where all the old ladies come out coiffed with blue hair?  Guess what...I refused to go.  I had short hair at the time and all I could think was coming out looking like Doris Day and having to pose for pictures with god awful hair.  I rebelled and didn't show up for my designed time and styled my own hair... My other sisters, who were afraid of my sister's wrath went... They both showed up at the church with corkscrew curls dangling from their "Gone with the Wind" updos.  We looked at each other and nearly died laughing, but had to keep our composure for the "Walk down the aisle".

We kept it together and stood at the front of the church as my sister made her grand entrance.  She made her way to the front of the church and we proceeded to sing some hymns...you know, the churchy stuff.  So my sisters are on either side of me and it suddenly occurs to me to replace the word, "God" with "Dog" in all hymns and prayers.  I sang it loudly, chanted it proudly as though nothing was out of the ordinary.  My sisters started to laugh, but I kept my composure.  Soon, there was a break in a song and my sister let out this huge gasp of laughter that resonated through the entire church...I mean, the Pastor even gave us an evil eye... I could also feel the warmth of my mother's laser eyes in my back as she knew I was up to some kind of antics to make my sisters laugh.  The more hymns we sang, the louder I sang, "Dog"..."In Dog's name we pray"  "Praise be to Dog"...I don't know. Maybe I think people take weddings too seriously sometimes...Needless to say, as much as my sisters laughed at my antics at that wedding, I wasn't asked to be a bridesmaid ever again...Thank god!!!

So this is blogging huh?

Hi friends,

I'm Trina...Many of you probably know me from Twitter...You know, the chick who likes to drink and write snarky remarks?  DrZibbs is a good friend of mine who told me long while back I should start a blog.  I just didn't get off my rear until now.  So "Ta Da!"  Here it is...Warts and all.  I know the design isn't all 'there' yet...but bear with me!  At least it has soft colors, right?  Anyway, I'm looking forward to writing and hopefully entertain you in the process.  Catch you soon!  Oh, and Thank you DrZibbs for your patience and persistence....This is going to be fun!