Some days not even a tranquil mountain can fix my stupidity.

Son-of-a-whoha!  That makes the fifth time today I said that. I can’t explain my day except to blame it on sunspots. It all started when I turned the corner going down the stairs and banged my thigh into the bannister.

Next, I managed to run into a misplaced crate at a store and cut the shit out of my leg, which proceeded to bleed like a severe head wound. Did I wise up and go home? Hell no, I went to the post office where going in the door I caught my shirt sleeve on a metal piece that stopped me in my tracks, spinning me around till I was now headed out instead of in.  I can think of no other reason the Post Office installed this stupid-designed door with a protruding metal piece (albeit rounded off for my safety), than to screw with me.

I decided it was time for lunch and walking into the restaurant proceeded to whack the front of my hand really, really, really, REALLY hard on a chair (two hours later the stinger still hurt and my hand was numb).

You’re thinking surely she was smart enough to call it a day and go home…nope; I went to the bookstore where I tripped on a rug and stumbled into a bookcase hitting my head. I guess for me either fifth time’s a charm or the whack on the head knocked some sense into me.

At least I finally wised-up; unless you count that once home I stepped on the cat and fell head first onto the couch.

GPS is for entertainment purposes only!

“I think the GPS is pissappointed with us.” George said.

“What the heck is that?”

“She’s both pissed and disappointed we aren’t following her directions.”

“Maybe we’d listen to her if she wasn’t such a G.P.S.” I said.

“Giant Piece of Shit?” 

“Obviously.”

“I even updated her before we left, and she still can’t find her way out of a toilet roll.”

“Glad we’re not rolling with her directions.”

George rolled his eyes. “Maybe your sarcasm has pissed her off.”

“I have a right to be sarcastic. She’s tried to route us into a car wash twice.”

“The car does look like it’s been in a mud wrestling tournament.”

“I like my car that way.” I said. “It lets everyone know we are adventurers not mall rats. Besides, what’s your excuse for her trying to send us off the highway miles from any exit?”

“Maybe she needed to pee.”

“That’s all you got?”

“It’s usually your excuse.”

“I also use a map, which obviously she doesn’t.” I looked at the map at the same time Princess Pissapointment told us to exit in one mile. “We’re going to Denver, and she just told us to turn south toward Santa Fe.”

“I like the detour.” George said.

“Except she’s assuming we’re in some kind of boat-car since the road dead-ends in a lake.” I reached up and turned her off.

“Hey, why’d you do that?”

“Because, I’m not going to end up on the news like the lady who followed her GPS directions right into a bay.”

“You’re always worried about being in the news,” George said. “I’m beginning to suspect you’re in the Witness Protection Program.”

We drove in silence for an hour.

I couldn’t take the boredom any longer and turned the GPS back on.

George smiled. “Why’d you turn her back on?”

“I’m pissappointed that I actually miss her.”

Dorothy, we're not in Kansas anymore!

I'd just entered that deep sleep, where if disturbed you awake with the mentality of a gnat high on cocaine, when my phone woke me with a weeooh, weeooh, weeooh alert.

I shot out of bed like I’d been fired from a cannon, grabbed the cat, my phone, my purse, and ran down the stairs to the basement.

I guess you can take the girl out of tornado alley, but you can’t take tornado alley reflexes out of the girl. By now I was awake enough to realize I was nekked. Closest apparel was my snow camouflage winter coat and Sorrell boots. At least with my butt cheeks hanging out I wouldn’t end up on the front page of the paper or be interviewed on the local news. (Yes, these are things I worry about, and yes these are the kind of solutions I come up with.)  Next, I checked my phone and discovered I’d been launched from peaceful slumber for a Flash Flood Warning. What the hell!!!!

I didn’t sign up for any flood alerts, so why is my sleep being disturbed? Evidently a lot of other people were not happy about the heart-stopping alert, since our local paper reported the next morning that the alert was part of the Federal Early Warning System and basically we didn’t get a choice.

Okay Feds, let me give you a warning…give me another heart attack and I’ll shove my phone up your ass where it can join your head.

 Listen up Big Brother, you can weeooh, weeooh, weeooh, my ass out of bed for a tornado, earthquake, volcanic eruption or nuclear explosion…otherwise leave my sleep undisturbed. In case you can’t tell, it pisses me off when someone else makes decisions for me. Especially, when it’s a universal, unilateral, unifucking, decision that doesn’t apply to me! If North Korea decides to EMP us, I give my permission to alert me. (Oh wait, if they fire off an EMP our phones won’t work, so Feds you can feel free to send a rep to my house with a six-pack and a bag of M&Ms to alert me.)

Otherwise take note: Big Brother and your Auntie Em, get out of my sleep cycle!

I passed the hall mirror on my way back to bed and this coat and boot outfit isn’t half bad, all it needs is the matching Elmer Fudd, mad bomber hat, which I took off the hook on my way by just in case there was an earthquake later and I needed to get out quickly.  Hey…it could happen!

Another note: In case you’re wondering where George was in all this…he was asleep.  Life-goes-on-Corky-unaffected. Sleeping with a smile on his face unaffected. It’s enough to make me wish he wakes to a day of snotty-barf-farts.

Settling for the best on Mother's Day

My Mother's Day card from George read:

Happy Mother's Day from Your Husband
Honey You're the Greatest!

(Inside card sentiment) I mean would I settle for anyone but the BEST?

Conversation that ensued after opening card:

Me: “So you settled on me?”

George: “What?”

Me: “The card said you settled on me. Was I like your final chance at the wife game?”

George: “You’re kidding?”

Me: “Why are we talking in questions?”

George: “Don’t know. Do you?”

Me: “I think you’re trying to distract me from the fact you had to settle on me.”

George: “It said you were the BEST.”

Me: “The best what?”

George: “Are we still talking in questions?”

Me: “Stop trying to change the subject. What kind of best am I? The best of the ugly women you dated. The best of the bad cooks. Best of the whiners.”

George: “You're the best of everything to me. Are you happy now?”

Me: “Stop talking in questions!”

George walked out of the room mumbling. “Next year I’m settling on being out of town on business for Mother’s Day.”

Me: “I heard that.”

George: “Love you.”

Me: “Was that a question?”