Random Things Sure to Drive Me Insane

Lately it seems I have read about, or been told about, some really horrific dates. "Maybe if I was still single, I would have more to blog about" I've been thinking to myself of late. Not that I'm willing to become single again for the sake of the blog. Sorry, there are limits. I even tried mining my memories for some stories to recap here, for the benefit of my faithful readers. But I can't really come up with anything good. Sure there was the guy that started every dance move with a clap. Or, come to think of it, just clapped a lot in general. Like "Who's ready for dinner?" clap. or "Did you see the news yesterday?" clap. But, explaining why this annoyed the ever living daylights out of me poses some literary problems. In short, it's a story better told live. Thankfully, ours was a long distance relationship, so my exposure to his clapping ways was kept to a minimum. Turns out I can stand just about anything for about 1 weekend a month. Perhaps not coincidently, the relationship fizzled when he expressed a desire to move to my city. (I feel the need to caveat that story with the detail that this person was insanely nice. I think I'm just a bad person, since certainly any sane person could deal with the clapping.) And then there was the time I was listening to a friend tell an anonymous bad date story and the punch line was "and he had forgotten his wallet" and I blurted out "was it Cheapy McCheapsalot??!!" (name changed to protect the chronically cheap.) Turns out I had been on a date with the same person, and yes. He had forgotten his wallet that time as well. But that's really it. Any other bad date stories I have would be the result of something I did, and who really wants to tell those? Its my blog after all.

Turns out, the Universe did the Halfstreet a favor and reminded me that I don't have to be dating to have amusing conversations with strangers. Say it with me: Thank you Universe.

This past week was the Avon Breast Cancer walk, an event I have been a part of in recent years. This year I decided to forgo the whole 'walking' thing and opted instead to cheer along the route. This enabled me to a. retain the use of my feet for the next week and b. assuage a teeny bit of my guilt. I figured "hey, I'm waking up before 9am on a weekend, so that's still a sacrifice." Work with me here people. I'm doing my best.

Anyway, there I was. At mile 10 in the parking lot of a CVS, wearing my participant Tshirt from last year (seeee? I did it last year!). I had taken advantage of the fact that the HSH was out of town and put Ripken in his fancy new Tshirt as well. Little did I know this would be the cause of my demise. Actually, the HSH would argue that any moron could guess that dressing your dog in clothes is a mistake, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. So there were we were, cheering, clapping, eating bacon (Ripken, not me). When, from behind me, I got a whiff of a cigar. Ha, I thought. Smoking at a cancer event. Klassy. Then the cigar smokers struck up a convo. I recreate the conversation for your benefit below (it's neither here nor there, but they were also holding beers in addition to their cigars)

Klassy guy 1: Is this your dog?
Me: (I'm holding his leash, and there is no one else around) Yup.
Klassy guy 2: What kind of dog is he?
Me: (He's wearing a Tshirt that says "Beagles for Boobies") A Beagle.
Klassy guy 1: Is he pure bred? He doesn't look like a beagle.
Me: (This always seems like a random question to me, but we get it a lot. I guess I'm not familiar with what beagles look like. Its true, he doesn't wear aviator glasses and live in Charlie Brown's backyard but good Lord) Yes.
Klassy Guy 1: What's his name?
Me: Ripken
Klassy Guy 2: Well, I hate to tell you Ripken, but you're chunky.

I stared at the guys and had a moment like in the movie High Fidelity with John Cusack. If you've seen it (all 2 of you), its the part where Cusack imagines he is beating the tar out of Tim Robbins only to blink and realize Tim Robbins is actually still standing right there in front of him. Only in my mind, Ripken was John Cusack and these two guys were Tim Robbins. After a moment I realized Ripken had not, in fact, turned around and gone straight for the jugular. And instead of sitting there bathed in their blood from his gruesome attack, he was sitting there in his stupid Tshirt looking at me thinking "Thanks a lot lady. Like its not bad enough you put me in a Tshirt, you had to put me in one that makes me look fat?"

This is what I get for waking up before 9am on a weekend. And going places by myself. And putting my dog in stupid Tshirts. clap.