I think I’ll just call this post “Pulled Pork.” Why the hell not.

We went to the flea market this past weekend. When we arrived, I saw this food truck and thought, “Ha ha ha! You have to be really confidant that you’ll never be involved in a sexual harassment lawsuit to name your company Captain Paw Paw’s.”

Then, as we worked our way through the booths, I saw this and thought, “touché, flea market, touché.”

A Trip to the Zoo

A couple of weeks ago, on Tom’s birthday, we thought we’d go to The North Carolina Zoo. We love this zoo. You have to do a lot of walking because the animals have such large areas to live. That’s a good reason to have to walk a lot. While you may not see every animal, there’s always something fun to see, depending on who’s out and about. If I lived in a zoo I would be a very boring exhibit. I would wander out for orange slices and frozen fruit treats and then go back to my far corner. I base this on my behavior in office environments and at parties.

When we woke up that day, it was pouring rain. We took a risk and decided to go anyway because the zoo is an hour and a half away and we hoped maybe the weather would be a little different by the time we got there. Also, we don’t really like other people and thought perhaps there would be less of them there on a rainy day.

It turned out to be a very nice visit. There weren’t many people and the rain was manageable. Here’s what we saw:

I do not believe that the alligators in zoos are the same alligators in the wild. This is all I’ve ever seen an alligator do in real life. I know I’m lucky that I haven’t seen one do anything else outside of a zoo, I do understand that. I think I saw one move a leg once and it was a big event for me.

I’m surprised at how dominant turtle DNA is.

I love silverback gorillas. They are just the best. The thing I particularly love about them is that they love to do this – sit in plain view with their back to everyone. There’s just something about that particular approach to being stared at all day I truly respect.

This sign says “BB&T Chimpanzee Reserve.” We couldn’t help but come up with related slogans – “Just as the majestic and mighty chimpanzee flings it’s poo, we fling the best rates around at you.”

YES. Someday, if I ever get to be the eccentric billionaire that I hope to be, I’m totally getting a dung beetle statue.

Our last stop for the day was the otters. Otters are wonderful. At first, when we walked up, we didn’t see them and figured they were snuggled up napping under some rock or something. But then they saw us and hopped right into the water and started swimming around as if it was their job to entertain us. Oh, it was adorable. And then they started doing it. And then things got kind of awkward. So, we bid the fornicating otters adieu and went on our way.

It was a great day. Then, we got home and I gave Tom a book he already had for his birthday because I’m awesome.

The end.

If at first you don’t succeed, try it on, try it on again. Unless you’re me.

I hate shopping for clothes. Even more specifically, I hate trying on clothes. I hate every moment of the experience.

First of all, I’ve seen too many “very special episodes” of TV shows about shoplifting to not know that there’s some person sitting at some control booth watching me change. We all know you’re out there, you mouth breathers with your bar-b-cue potato chip fingers, just waiting to catch me shoving tank tops and bras into my purse. When I arrive at the changing room and I do a weird dance in front of the mirror with both my middle fingers in the air – that is directed at you, sir or madam.

I also hate the number cards they pass out when you go and try clothes on. Never are my insecurities over my ability to count so tested as when I have to come up with the correct number of garments I want to wriggle in and out of as quickly as I can in that florescent nightmare of a room. What if I give the wrong number? Will I waste away in prison, cursing myself for my inability to correctly  tally up pants? Will those miscounted pants – the two I never had in the first place, become an enduring mystery, like D.B. Cooper’s money? “Nobody knows where C.E. Williford may have hidden those two pairs of khakis. We may never know,” Dateline will tell it’s viewers. “But I didn’t! I didn’t hide two pairs of khakis, I just count worse than a toddler,” I will yell, but it will fall on deaf ears.

I like to have pictures with my blog posts. This is a drawing of a pair of pants, just in case you’re not sure what I’m talking about.

Last week I had to face the harsh reality that I have grown too fat for all but two pairs of pants – one pair of capris, and one pair of black jeans. I live in the South, which means in the summer it feels like a sadistic grandma is smothering you with a soaking wet hot quilt. If my black jeans had them, they would have rolled their eyes hearing me explain that although it’s 102 degrees outside, I’m sure if I stay in the shade it’ll be fine. But, even I am not that delusional. I only had one pair of useable pants. This was a sad realization, and doubly so because it meant having to buy new pants.

I made my way to the local Super Target, grabbed 3 different pairs of pants of varying sizes (I did count correctly – things were looking up), and headed to the dressing room. Even if there’s a lock on the door, I have a constant fear of being walked-in on, like someone will pick the lock because they’re certain nobody’s in there. This has never actually happened to me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t worry about it; it’s is a free country.

I quickly tried on all three pairs of pants. I bet I looked like a contestant on Double Dare trying to get through the obstacle course in time. One after the other – none of them fit. They were too small. After removing and individually cursing each pair, I gathered my things and left the dressing room. As instructed by the attendant (is that the right word for that job?), I left the unwanted and now cursed pants on a giant pile for someone else to put back (that always bothers me, I feel like I’m shirking my responsibility to put things back where they belong).

This is when a rational person would then get some larger sizes to go back and try on. No. I don’t go back in to dressing rooms after I’ve gone once. I take the information I gathered from the first trip – “those pants were too small for me” – and jump to conclusions – “the next size up is obviously the correct choice.” I went to the pants what were the least tightest and bought the next size up, being so thankful that I’m smart enough to outwit a second trip to try pants on.

The next morning I woke up and grabbed my new pair of pants and I swear I heard my formerly sole pair of pants, a crumpled, broken heap in the corner of the room, crying tears of joy.

The new pants are too big. Did I return them and resign myself to another voyage to the fitting room? I think we all know the answer to that. No, they’re not so big that I can’t wear them. I just need a belt. If the belt were a tied rope, yes, I would look like a hobo. But, I would rather look like an overweight hobo who still somehow manages to have pants that are too big than take my clothes off at a place other than my own home for the second time in a week.

Life is about growing, learning lessons that help you improve yourself. With age comes wisdom and all that jazz. What lesson did I learn from The Ballad of Buying a Second Pair of Pants? Fuck lessons.

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This post was in response to Studio30 Plus‘ writing prompts this week.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Pictures from the beach, which means no shots of the ocean or sand, obviously.

We had a great week at the beach last week. Here’s just a few pictures from the trip, which really don’t have anything to do with the actual beach, of course.

But I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t.
Calm down proud mama, the girl’s wearing swimmies, not accepting a PhD.
Who names a dog grooming business this? You do understand the kind of services I think you’ll provide to my dog, don’t you?
There was what I can only assume is a ‘Funny Farm’ fan at the putt putt place.

There’s a lot going on here. First, I didn’t know Stevie Nicks is a mermaid. Second, I hope her spine wasn’t too injured from what seems to be a terrible body-twisting accident and that the fluid build-up in her too-long left arm goes down. Third, someone please paint a more supportive shell bikini top on her. I’ve read most women don’t know their own correct bra size, obviously it’s not much different in the mermaid community.

Don’t Tell the Beach What it Can’t Make out of Seashells

We’re at the beach this week with my family and today I went to some of the local gift shops.

At the beach, they can make anything they want out of shells and don’t you tell them otherwise.

Then, I saw this:

It’s some kind of shell creatures (frogs?) playing poker on a shell table, sitting in shell seats, wagering shell chips. Only the cans, cards, and googly eyes are not shell, and I think we all can agree they were necessary to set the scene.

I almost bought this to give away as a “prize” on this blog. But, it wouldn’t really be a prize. What’s the opposite of prize? I almost bought this to give away as a punishment on this blog. Maybe whoever didn’t comment would randomly be chosen to have to own this? That’s a pretty big pool, though. And what if Dame Judi Dench won? I wouldn’t know how to get this masterpiece to her.

Then I wondered, is that the best the beach could do? I’m not so sure. Maybe there’s, like, a shell dentist giving a root canal to a shell patient or a shell shell bird taking a shell crap on the head of a shell mime. I’m just brainstorming here, I’m not a shell art expert.

So, I shall keep an eye out for something to top this shell poker game. Is there anything made of shells you would actually want to win? I can ask around.