Today I forced J to accompany me to the brassiere store.  Really it was just a department store for old ladies trying desperately to be a hip store full of skanky junior-sized outfits that, for reasons unknown to mankind, are sized in odd numbers.  There’s something very wrong about a mannequin wearing a mesh tube top-turned-dress standing defiantly near a mannequin adorned in sensible elastic-waisted slacks, embroidered American flag t-shirt, and complete with a pair of orthopedic shoes.

I rounded up the necessary boulder holders very quickly.  It was about 1200 degrees outside and 1097 degrees inside.  Trying on bras was not an option.

I walked up to the cashier, a tiny white haired woman of a certain age, and handed her the chosen ones.  She looked up and said in a very loud voice, “YOU LOOK LIKE THAT WOMAN ON TV!”

I resisted the urge to lunge for the doors.  People were staring.  If I ran with the bras I’d look really stupid when my feet got caught up in the bra straps and I fell down and busted my lip.  Then I’d get arrested and my mugshot would look like a case of police brutality.  It would just be ugly.

So I said, “Eh, I do?  What woman?  Thank you?  Wait, is she an ugly woman?  I bet you’re talking about some ugly ass woman.  Ugly Betty?  For the LOVE OF GOD WOMAN WHO ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!!!”

She didn’t know.  All she knew is that she saw her on TV this morning.  Then she said she was as ugly as a fence post, laughed devilishly, and began gushing about how I’m beautiful.  Then she suddenly switched gears, held up one of the bras, and asked if I’ve worn one of this type before.  I said no.  She said they were wonderful.  I said Oh?  Do you like it?  She said (loudly again) I HAVE ONE ON RIGHT NOW!

And God help me, I couldn’t stop myself.  I undressed her with my eyeballs.  I saw that woman in her skivvies.  Damn my imagination!  Damn it I say!

It was a strange way to spend fifteen minutes.

I can’t stop wondering what celebrity she was talking about.  I’m paranoid.  I hope she wasn’t mistaking Michael Jackson for a woman.

I’m still thinking about her wearing the bra I just bought.  Not THE same bra, but one just like it.  I wonder if an old lady tried MY bra on?  That’s a very strange thought.  And now I’ve just realized that you probably think I’ve bought one of those enormous Cross Your Heart numbers that comes in a box and covers from belly button to collarbone.  No, this is a cute bra.  A cute bra that is worn by women of all ages.  Apparently.

I am simultaneously loving and fearing this woman.  J has taken a turn for the worse.  He’s gone insane from knowing about a senior citizen’s undergarments.

This entire discussion reminds me of a documentary movie I once rented from Blockbuster online wherein a large group of senior citizens met in a big house and proceeded to engage in a swingers’ party.  It involved sex swings, hot tubs, food, talking, and orgies.  I watched it with my parents.  It was mildly interesting, but mostly creepy.  My parents think I have strange taste in movies.

Can you believe you just spent three minutes of your life reading about bras and old women and senior citizen orgies?  No?  Well you should.  This is my blog after all.

Y’all, this humidity is killing me.  My hair exists in its own plane of reality.  Yesterday a lady asked me where I get my hair done.  I had to work my way through the mass of hair in front of my eyes and the buckets of sweat dripping down my face to make eye contact.  I was like, “Why?  So you don’t go there accidentally?”

Then I made some lame comment about not getting it done anywhere, which confused her into thinking I’m a hairstylist and could I please do her hair too?  Eh, what the hell, I can do hair.

I know I’ve been a blogging asshole and it’s pretty much becoming the sad sad note of my blog’s existence.  That’s because a) my laptop HATES my guts and wants me to suffer needlessly, b) I get annoyed by readers with questionable reading skills who choose to make lame comments that have absolutely nothing to do with my post, c) there’s so much change in my life right now and I’m dealing with it the best I can and d) things suck out there and I’m so mad for everyone affected that I’m just not sure I can trust myself to not be a vitriolic nightmarish bitch.  Should I add right wing extremist to that list?  By the way, I’m a Libertarian for you numbskulls who think I dislike Obama because I’m hot and bothered by the Republican party.

I’ve been so moved by those of you who’ve commented that you or someone you know is in the same position as us, and yet there’s something so solitary about the situation that I’ve all but moved into a nunnery.  Truth is, the nuns wouldn’t go for all my mindless drivel about oral sex and my hatred of panties and my dropping of f-bombs to keep everyone on their toes.  I tend to speak about inappropriate things when I’m uncomfortable.  Which is pretty much all of the time.  I actually know some nuns very personally (not that personally–I think they’re pretty married to Da Lord and don’t partake in girl crushes) and I’m trying to stay very far away from them because I’m pretty sure I’ll stub my toe and blurt out “Jesus fucking Christ” in front of one of them and then there’ll be an exorcism and I just don’t have time for that shit.

Anyway.  We’re so lucky to have somewhere to go and to be in one of the most thriving states of the country.  I ache for those who’ve nowhere to go, whose lives are suspended upside down in midair.  I hope y’all have a soft place to fall.

It’s beyond infuriating to watch all of our politicians, who are so out of touch with OUR reality, turn this country into a welfare state with government’s nose in everyone’s business.  It’s simply unAmerican.  You know those GITMO detainees who have nowhere to go?  I’m voting that they be let loose in Washington.   (Note:  If you characterize this as partisan political whining you need to take courses in both reading comprehension and politics and after you do that shove it up your ass.)

Now if you’ll excuse me, the late night “wild single girls are waiting for your call” commercials are on and I need to get the number so I can find gainful employment.

We successfully moved. I managed to listen to three horrible books on tape that made me want to chop off my ears with a hacksaw, I ran the truck out of gas twice, and I drove a one-wheeled tow dolly around when the entire wheel popped off and careened across a field in Ft. Hood, Texas. 

It’s different here and our situation only makes the differences more pronounced.  J, who has never been without a job for longer than 48 hours since I’ve known him, still can’t find work.  Thankfully, I suspect that our stimulus check from Obama is well on its way. 

We went to the tea party in San Antonio.  It was an amazing experience.  Every possible type of person was there.  All political parties, people of every race, all ages, all peacefully joined together to be heard.  The emotion, the strength, and the spirit were palpable.  It was truly the first time in my life where I felt like I was part of a community, of a group of people who can actually make a difference in this country.  I’m sad for you if you weren’t able to or chose not to be a part of your local tea party. 

The San Antonio police are giving a headcount of approximately 20,000 people.  The mainstream media is giving a number of 4,000.  Biased much? 

Being back has it’s share of good and bad.  I’ve almost caused several wrecks by forgetting the general stoplight rules (there isn’t a single stoplight in our county in Wyoming), I’ve eaten so much fast food that the floorboards in my car are starting to look like a Whataburger paper products factory, but we’re alive and we’re a hell of a lot luckier than some of the people we left behind in Wyoming.  For the first time in my life I’m disappointed in this country.  I’m joining the Texas Secede movement.