Just Kidding, But Seriously…

The other night I wore the wrong shoes to “the restaurant.”

To avoid punishment I tried to make light of the situation with the manager.

 

“Do you notice anything different about me?” I curtsied.

 

“Hmmm… Are you pregnant??”

 

“WHAT?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??! I’m wearing the wrong shoes… You think I look pregnant?!?!”

 

“Well I just meant you have a glow about you…”

 

Just kidding, but seriously…

 

 

I was working at the restaurant a few days a go and a gentleman looks at me and says,

 

“You look like that girl Whitney—from that show…Whitney…she swears a lot and talks dirty. That’s what I like in a woman.”

 

Just kidding, but seriously…

 

Keep it coming, Whitney Cummings…

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Below are some stills from the video!! 

 

It’s New Years Eve and off to the liquor store I go. Goodbye 2011. Hello partay peoplllllllle.

I’m bartending for a fancy, schmancy party tonight.

 

Dressed to the nines I throw on my pea coat and head out the door.

 

As soon as I walk into the store I’m immediately confronted with stares, filled with confusion. No matter.

 

Surrounded by my fellow Iowans, jean clad and all, it’s almost as though I can read their minds. “Is she wearing anything under that jacket?”

 

Oh wait… No, someone said that aloud.

 

I just giggle, geisha style, behind a small handkerchief conveniently stashed in my breast pocket. I show a little leg and wink as I breeze by to the check-out counter.

 

When I reach the check-out counter I offer polite salutations to the check-out man.

 

“Hello, how are you.”

“As good as I can be working on New Years.”

“I hear ya, I’m off to work too.”

 

A chuckle bursts from his lips, as he looks me up and down. “Uh huh,” he says.

 

I take off my coat, throw it over my shoulder, and parade out the door LIKE A BOSS!

 

It looked a little something like this.

Just kidding, but seriously…

 

Happy 2012

Chuck’s eyes narrow as he scans the store.

“Look at them. They’re everywhere…” he declares filled with suspicion.

 

After living in Boulder for almost five years there isn’t much crazy I haven’t seen. Someone could run down the street naked with their hair on fire and I’d likely shrug thinking… “He must be having some work-related stress.  Aaaaandd, it looks like it’s a little cold outside. Don’t worry big guy, it’s not how big the bait–it’s how you wiggle the worm.”  

Now, back in the heart of the midwest I’ve been trying to channel a more conservative thought process similar to my fellow persons. All trends and new fashion take at least 3 years to reach my town. A few years ago, something as small as a waist belt, would be cause for concern. “Well gosh, would you look at that poor girl, she doesn’t know that a belt is worn to hold up the pants.”

Chuck stands alone in his unique ability to be incredibly ignorant.

 

“Who is everywhere?”

 

“The towel heads”

 

“The who??”

 

“Them girls with the sheets on their head. Over there.”

 

“Those women over there are wearing hijabs. They are head wraps worn for religious reasons, not sheets.”

 

“A he-what?? Girl, get your linens straight. That’s a grade A sheet on her head! I always see them in Walmart in the bed aisle. I get my sheets there too, but I ain’t stupid. A sheet goes on the bed.”

 

 

Ok Chuck…you little sheethead.

 

Just kidding, but seriously…

 

 

Today Chuck came to work dressed as a cowboy. Hat, boots, the whole works.

I was in a good mood and decided to pull some laughs from the “depths” of Chuck. That statement in itself is laughable. This is a game I play on good days. The “How Long Can I Mess With Chuck Without Laughing” game.

 

“You look like you’re about to ride a horse, Chuck.”

 

“I rode one this morning, if you know what I mean,” he winks.

 

Disgusting.

And furthermore, he has just insulted himself

I just stand there nodding and looking concerned, while actually bewildered.

 

“These are what’s called ‘nice clothes’”

 

There’s a hole in the back of his shirt.

 

“Uh huh… so if you took your girlfriend on a date this is what you would wear?”

 

“Yup, and she’d dress like this too. Cept she just got done having that kid ya know. So… she’d probably wear a bigger shirt to hide that big ole baby-butt-gut.”

 

“Baby-butt gut???”

 

“Yea you know, the skins all loose and kinda sags into a floppy butt shape.”

 

And we’re done.

 

“But she’s got big tits so it’s all good.”

 

I spoke too soon.

 

Just kidding, but seriously…

 

 

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. With my curls springing out in every possible direction, my desire to look presentable is subdued. I am exhausted. I look like I’ve been hit in the eyes with a frying pan. At least the redness will make them appear greener. In that case, I probably look like I’ve been smokin’ the kron. I make faces at myself in the mirror for about 5 minutes and head out the door.

 

Another day in the kitchen with Chuck is about to begin. I sigh deeply and walk in the door.  It is a madhouse. The floor is covered in grease and fried chicken is flying everywhere. I walk by the fryers and cluck morosely at the chickens who gave their lives to end up on the floor of the kitchen.  Standing in the kitchen’s entrance I adjust my hairnet and wait for instructions. Hardly a moment passes and Chuck approaches.

 

“J, can you make 25 turkey sandwiches?”

 

“Sure Chuck.”

 

I gather the supplies and begin to make the sandwiches. Chuck walks away chuckling. Already he has something cooking.

 

I finish the sandwiches and begin the mundane task of depositing biscuits and butter into ziplock bags. The clicking of cowboy boots makes Chuck’s presence known. He glances my way with a wry smile stretched across his face.

 

“What do you want, Chuck?”

 

“How about when you’re done with those you butter my biscuits?”

 

“Butter your what?”

 

“Girl, butter my biscuits! And don’t forget that gravy.”

 

I just about swallow my tongue from the colossal gasp of air I draw in horror.

 

 

“Excuse me! Can I get some help over here??” A customer sternly insists

 

“I’m sorry sir, I was buttering his biscuits—I mean my biscuits—I mean… how can I help you?”

 

I relinquish any attempt to recover.

 

As I ring up the customer’s meal he leans in and says, “You forgot to butter my biscuit.” He takes the check, winks and walks away with the best swagger a 70 year old man could produce.

 

Just kidding, but seriously…

“I’m not racist, I’m just right.”-Chuck

 

Good ole’ Chuck. Freshly 18, a self-proclaimed Redneck and PROUD! I met this fine fellow, once upon a time, in a catering kitchen (one of the many jobs I have taken as of late). Standing at about 6 ft tall Chuck sports a stylish buzz cut. He has aspirations of one day joining the army (an honorable venture I will say) and is taking the necessary precautions–a few years in advance. The two-inch heels on his cowboy boots make an amusing click as he walks across the kitchen commenting on the possible homosexuality of other males around him. Well, Chuck, you’re the one in heels.

In the case that he should forget his last name, he has conveniently had it tattooed across his shoulders. To show his “true patriotism” the letters are colored with an image of the confederate flag. He proudly states that he doesn’t like anyone that isn’t Christian and any race that isn’t Redneck.

 

 

“We’re the real Americans, us Rednecks,” Chuck says looking very satisfied with himself.

 

“What do you mean real Americans?”

 

“You know… ReeeaAAAllllLL.”

 

“Saying it slowly doesn’t change the fact that you still haven’t given me an explanation.”

 

Out of all the ethnicities, races, and cultures Chuck has a particular distaste for African-Americans.

 

“I don’t have to like them because the first two people, EVER, were white.”

 

I tried to explain to him how debatable that was. His rebuttal:

 

“Nope, they weren’t black because it wasn’t sunny where they were.”

 

“So then how do you explain black people, Chuck? What, they just stayed out in the sun too long?”

 

“Yup.”

 

There really is no use arguing with Chuck. No matter what is said or how neutral the statement Chuck will have an argumentative response.

 

For instance, a beautiful man with perfect skin walked up to the counter to order some chicken a few days ago.

 

“Wow, that guy has amazing skin,” I mentioned to a fellow coworker as the man left.

 

Chuck, of course, inserted himself into the conversation.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Ok Chuck, what’s wrong with it?”

 

“He looks gay and he’s probably Mexican,” he spits with disdain.

 

His second least favorite group is the Latinos.

 

“And what’s their problem anyway?? Are they stupid? Why don’t they just speak fuckin’ English?? We’re in Ameeeeericuhhhh… You’re one of them and you speak English pretty good…”

 

“First of all, Chuck, he JUST spoke to you in English. Secondly, I’m Jewish… not Latina.”

 

“It’s all the same.”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

“Nope.”

 

There really is no response to this kind of ignorance.

 

“Ok… Anyway… So you’re saying if you go to France you will just automatically speak French?”

 

“Nope. Americans are better so those French idiots should speak English too.”

 

Just kidding, but seriously…

 

Tune in next time for Chuck on The People Who Frequent The Bedding Aisle At Walmart.

 

Disclaimer: In no way is this post meant to be derogatory against Rednecks, countryfolk, or the aforementioned Chuck. This is solely for entertainment purposes.

 

Fiddler On The Roof  was performed at my high school with not one Jewish cast member.  A friend of mine was commenting on the irony of this situation and added:

 

“…and what’s worse is they totally ripped off the If I Were A Rich Man song from Gwen Stefani’s If I Were A Rich Girl.” 

Just kidding, but seriously…

Tall, dark, and delicious. Warm, wet, and sweet; all over my body. My heart races–it consumes me.

 

My story with chocolate begins many, many moons ago. I have never been one to indulge in sweets. My sweet tooth is small though my chocolate tooths ring free!

Mr. Chocolate. My parents say we met on my second birthday. He was a cake; I was an overindulgent, child.

I proceeded to smear the cake all over my face and throw the rest over my shoulder.

My violence didn’t scare him away. He took my hand, Mr. Chocolate. I would never be the same.

 

We didn’t see each other much at first. But the time we spent together was no less than wonderful.

 

Throughout the years I grew and changed considerably. As I grew, so too grew my love for Mr. Chocolate. I began to experience emotions I never knew; I was blinded by passion.

 

They say your first love is an infatuation–an obsession. This, for me, was an understatement.

Like Romeo and Juliet, we were two star-crossed lovers. My parents forbade me from seeing him. But eventually, they couldn’t keep up apart. We spent every day together, and if my parents didn’t catch us—every night.

 

For a long time we had a relationship filled with passion; Mr. Chocolate gave me all of his love and support.

 

“Do I look fat?”  I would ask.

“No my love, it only looks like you have loved me,” he would respond.

 

However, all throes of passion eventually become filled with drama. I believed we were different, but I was mistaken.

 

When I started college I developed horrible acne. I was horrified.

 

Mr. Chocolate, once again, supported me with all that he could, but I started to fight with him.

 

I knew in the bottom of my heart that Mr. Chocolate was the cause of my acne.

 

We spent two years fighting and finally we separated.  The acne disappeared, but my broken heart did not repair.

Everywhere I went I was reminded of him. The longing to be reunited was ever present.

 

Some time later I began to see another man named Charles. He learned of my dramatic past with Mr. Chocolate, but he said that it wasn’t important to him.

 

He also had a dramatic past with a Miss Coffee and her dairy friends.

 

However, he had discovered a digestive supplement the allowed him to reconcile with Miss Coffee’s dairy friends; unfortunately he could not reconnect with Miss Coffee.

 

Even though I really liked Charles, he knew that I was still brokenhearted by Mr. Chocolate. With a gesture of pure altruism, he suggested that I try the supplement he was using. Perhaps I could start a new friendship with my old chocolate lover.

 

I had my doubts, but decided to give it a try.

 

I intended to maintain a casual relationship with Señor Chocolate, but as the saying goes,  “He who plays with fire will burn.”

 

I burned horribly.

 

Initially, our encounters were relaxed. But the old flame that had long been extinguished was soon reignited. We began to spend a lot of time together.

 

I tried to hide my lover but the acne began to reappear. It became difficult to hide my affair.

 

One day, when I though Charles was at work, I gave in to a whim and had my way with Mr. Chocolate.

 

At that moment I heard someone at the door.

 

Charles was home early!

 

It was too late.

 

There was no time to hide Mr. Chocolate as Charles walked into the room.

 

With my face covered in chocolate I tried to apologize and explain.

 

Charles simply winked at me and sat down at the table, with Miss Coffee!!!!

 

Just kidding, but seriously…