things i know for sure …

… today.

Under no circumstances should a man EVER wear jeans that don’t have pockets on the back. Actually, NO ONE should ever wear jeans without back pockets, but to be a man and wear jeans without back pockets is wrong and I’m talking wrong at the very highest level.

I was at the DMV once (for an hour and thirteen minutes, btw. I sat on a very uncomfortable chair, the seat of which was covered with suspicious looking stains, next to a three year old who talked incessantly for an hour and twelve minutes, absent-mindedly encouraged by her lame-brain mother who was engrossed in programming her new cellphone. It took me sixty seconds to renew my plates. Gah!) and happened to glance up and see a particularly fine looking guy standing on the other side of the counter. I perked up a bit; I like to look as much as the next person. Then he walked around to the other side of the counter and I saw that he was wearing jeans without pockets.

Holy mothers of invention.

That is seriously UN-attractive.

My first husband’s current wife has a voice that carries like the announcement of a bluelight special through a post-Apocalyptic K-Mart. I had to stop by the local grocery store this afternoon and while combing the aisles for something “different, goddammit” for supper, I half assed listened to a disembodied female voice very loudly describing what “he” said and what “she” did. All through the deli department I could hear her voice; as I dug through the day old bread on the shelves at the edge of the bakery I could hear her voice; her story went on as I stared disinterestedly at the meat shelves. Only when I turned my cart into the soup aisle did I realize who had been talking (and talking and talking ). My first husband, his brother and HIS wife, as well as two or three other people, slack-jawed and glassy eyed all, were staring at her, nodding and drooling.

Imagine Thanksgiving dinner.

If you make a habit of putting your hands on, and hurting, someone repeatedly – especially someone who is smaller and weaker than you – then you deserve whatever Karmic retribution you are dealt. This includes men who whack their women around, parents who physically and/or sexually abuse their children and grown children who abuse their elderly and infirm parents (though that particular scenario might drift over into the KR aisle, a little). This is NOT limited to male/female relationships, either. I harbor no fantasies that same sex relationships are all silkened honey. If you’re queer and whuppin’ on your SO, you deserve to have someone whack your melon out into left field with the Karmic Louisville Slugger, too. Nor do I wish their just deserts only on those who hurt other humans. I believe those who get their dubious pleasure from inflicting pain on helpless animals should also not be surprised when something abhorrently shitty happens to them.

As ye sow, so shall ye reap.

Or something to that effect.

A happy dog, his lips flopping in the breeze at 55mph is much more important and fulfilling than hairless car upholstery.

People hang on to past slights – real or imagined – for far too long. Let go, you’ll sleep a lot better and smile a lot more.

Sunday evening (late Sunday evening) one of my patrons, let’s call her Rhonda (I did, for no other reason save the fact that I’d been on my feet for fifteen hours at that point and couldn’t remember her real name), was telling one of her favorite (I could tell) “woe-is-me” stories. It seems that a previous employer of Rhonda’s had come into a sizable chunk of ching due to something my customer had done. Evidently Previous Boss had not only not THANKED Rhonda for enabling her to come into this chunk o’ change, PB had thrown a big party and not invited Rhonda.

“How long ago did this happen?” I asked, tossing her empty Bud Light Bottle and replacing it with a full one (I know, stupid. But it’s my JOB).

Rhonda focused her yes on me and thought hard. “Uh, almost a year ago.”

I fluttered my hands into the air. “Move on, Rhonda, move on.”

“But she -”

“I know. But. Let it go, baby.”

Would that I could follow my own advice, sometimes.

The world will be a little bit sadder place now that Gilligan is gone.

If your child can ask for his or her bah/nuni/your breast (bottle/pacifier/YOUR BREAST), he or she is old enough to drink from a glass or a sippy cup, especially in public.

‘Kay … I am off to do … STUFF.