The Reacharound

Let me begin by saying that this post has nothing to do with prison, nor the love of two men.

I was in the grocery store today, doing my thing, on a hunt for okra because I decided to go to the closest grocery store to my place of employment that might have okra. So this was new territory for me. I wandered, shivering in the A/C, looking for my okra.


I found it in the farthest back corner of the store, and was quite pleased. I am sure my smile looked maniacal. (Trust me people, there is such little I can eat). The man beside me looked, quite frankly, a little afraid.

At first I thought it must have been my maniacal smile. Then I realized I probably looked really really strange rifling through the pre-pakaged vegetables on the highest shelf looking for the freshest ones.

Am I the only one who does this (besides my mother)?

The ole reacharound? A little rifling? A check to find the best shizz?

Those store owners and stock boys know a thing or two. They know if they put the good, fresh ___________ (fill in the blank) at the front, that the shittier stuff will never be purchased. So, in my youth, my mother taught me the invaluable reacharound, in order to get to the best shizz hidden at the back.

Not to be trusted.

I'm sure I looked like an idiot, moving things around, comparing the best 3 out of 4 packages of freakin' okra. And I studied them fiercely, make no mistake.

I've never actually seen okra fresh and/or wholly green like this.

 Then I thought - I need to make this a post and see if I am the only one who does this.

This goes for bread for BF, milk, yogurt, even sneakily stacked apples and random produce. At least being on the taller side allows me to reach places that shorter, elderly people can't.

Then I had an attack of conscience. Am I somehow jumping the line of fresh food entitled-ness? Am I altering the balance of the universe by circumventing standard purchasing procedures? Will I screw myself out of okra because the guy at Longo's will be all like "hmm... looks like this stuff isn't moving... all we have are these nasty super-moldy ones left" (as opposed to the slightly-less moldy ones I was able to secure).

It's usually somewhere between there and here (but closer to here). Did I mention I am allergic to mould?

Am I wrong? More diabolical?

Just sayin'.

___________

seriously really seriously blog

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Sequins & Malnourishment... Not so bad?

Okay, so I was at my parent's house this past Friday after taking my pup to a good vet.

My mother has a tendency to hang on to things. Not to the extend of Hoarders on A&E or anything, but I definitely learned from her.

That is why ghosts of dresses past can be found in the downstairs closet. I am quite sure I asked her to save some (many, all) of them, but just didn't bring them with me when I moved here. There are old bridesmaid dresses, evening gowns, various gorgeous dresses I had no place to wear but just had to have, athletic banquet dresses. Even a prom dress. And more!!! Yes, more!

I am certain there is also a 70s polyester jumpsuit in there I am dying to learn how to sew back together so I can blow a Halloween party's mind.

I digress.

For the hell of it, mom asked me if I wanted any of the dresses before she donated them.

So I thought I would try them on once more for old time's sake, we would laugh at the ill fit, and off they would go.

Now this is me, in one of my past stages of overly-thinness, on prom night with my date (I couldn't find the one with Steve anywhere... I lost all my photo albums but one, WTF?) dancing on stage with my friends who I shall use pseudonyms for (Cammie and Gloo):

Pretty sure you can see my skeletal legs in there. And I know, I know, my face is covered, but it IS me.

Here's one with my mug, and again, friends who shall be protected with MS Paint boxes over their faces. We will call them Cammie and Jlenn.

Look at that mother effing hair.

For shiggles sake, I tried on the prom dress again. AND.IT.FIT. Holy shit. This torturous, joyless diet does, in fact, seem to have an upside......

I realized that in order to get the true effect, I would have to simulate my prom-night hair, so I gave it my best shot:

Man, I wish I still had my sample photo of what I wanted my hair to look like, so everyone wouldn't just assume I wanted to look like the bride of Frankenstein that night. And I even went to that expensive Gallupi's! Damn it. I bet you an entire can of hairspray was used, and I depleted them of their entire supply of bobby pins.

So after this chuckle (and elation, I won't lie, the last time this dress fit me I was: underage, drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade in a downtown parking lot, in my date's Chevette at the age of 18). I couldn't believe it fit. I was mentally tallying who may or may not have a spur-of-the-moment wedding this fall that I could potentially squeeze one last dress-wearing in for.

But folks, it gets better. And by better, I mean more disturbing, more fuschia, and more sequined.

While mom was getting ready to head out, I found my old gem of a grade 8 graduation dress. That baby would sparkle on a moonless night. A big, badass fuschia bow at the back. (Ahahaha anything fuschia can't be badass, can it? I think it goes against all the laws of nature). I even went strapless for this grand 12-year-old event!

I remember trying on dresses in the only fancy dress store we knew of in the Eaton Mall at the time. I really wanted this gorgeous forest green Victorian-type dress, but it was over $300 (which was ridiculous for us at the time) and it required a crinoline. A bit much for the passage from elementary school to secondary school. I didn't even have boobs.

So instead, I sadly settled on the fuschia number. The price was right, and I knew damn well that no other girl would be wearing the same dress, either because of better common sense, the fact that most parents were absurdly prudish and wouldn't allow strapless, or because.. well, it was the only one there.

1992 Ladies & Gentlemen:

Flair for the dramatic? Whahh? You mean black gloves aren't the norm for grade 8 graduation?

Check out the quality branding:

You know, that famous designer? Alfred Sung Angelo?

And ooooh! Union made!

And the quality materials (nothing but the best)

And I thought the sweating was just nervousness... damn acetate!

Look at me in all my glory, after winning a shitload of awards (trust me though, it all went downhill from here... come to think of it, maybe the dress was the beginning of the end?)

So at mom's, I pulled that beyotch of a pink sensory overload dress on, and be damned if it didn't fit and zip up. I FIT THIS DRESS 18 years ago!!!

So while this current eating plan is depressing as all hell, I am running out of things to eat, even the safe foods are starting to upset my stomach more than ever, I have no energy, the nausea is prevailing, and I have no idea what to do next.... I think I have some type of wicked halloween dress this year.

Please anyone, everyone, costume suggestions?

Or better yet, vegan/gluten-free/soy-free/coconut-free/nut-free meal suggestions? PLEAAAAAAASE???


*stomach rumbling*

Such judgmental eyes....

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More Funny To Follow

For any new readers that stumble upon my blog, I just want to emphasize that I generally poke fun at myself and avoid seriousness as much as possible. I strive to bring funny, and let you point and laugh at me. EVERYBODY WINS! YAY!

You say: BRING THE FUNNY!

and then

I say: Okay, where, when? How much funny? Should the funny be gluten-free? Are there any people here with dog phobias? Because I can crate Schultz. Is there a risk at all of bringing too much funny? No, no I don't think I could do that anyway, either. So I bring funny soon then? *batting large, scared eyes*

I just felt the need to post that last one for some reason... guess I have a lot of my mind and was unloading. But don't write my blog off because of it!

More funny to follow, I swear!

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