Because it’s rough and it’s tough…

Incessant colds and runny noses over the past week have caused an unforeseen depletion of our household toilet paper supply. This, unfortunately, required a premature dip into the emergency “back-up reserves,” which I affectionately refer to as “The John Wayne Collection.”  Every Southern family has a “John Wayne Collection”…a stashed trove of off-brand dollar store TP that remains squirreled away for camping trips, tailgating, paint stripping, in-laws, or dire(reaha) emergencies.

As I ordered our daughter to the bowels (see what I did there) of our bathroom closet for a roll of the rarely-utilized “John Wayne 1-ply,” my lovely wife glanced over with that look normally reserved for accidentally swallowing a yellow jacket on a bicycle ride…

“The whaaaa?”

Much to my astonishment, Elizabeth informed me that she had never, in her 29(ish) years, heard the term “John Wayne Toilet Paper.”  (My turn for the swallowed-a-yellow-jacket face)

I was as aghast as you. Appalled, if we’re being perfectly honest.  I knew this woman I have loved and adored for over 20 years had been sheltered as a child…but I had no idea she had been raised by the Vanderbilts.

After lifting my jaw from the proverbial bathroom floor, I calmly  explained that it was so aptly named because “it’s rough, it’s tough, and it don’t take no $#!+ off nobody.”  While this epiphany was not outlandish enough to warrant any sort of marital regret, two important questions continued to swirl-the-porcelain of my head:

First and foremost, how is it possible that something as egregious as this managed to slip through my rigorous vetting process over 20 years ago? I mean, I know it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure the three primary questions I asked every girl on a first date were: A) ‘Have you watched Smokey & the Bandit?’ B) ‘Do you like chicken wings?’ and C) “Are you intimately familiar with the primordial necessity of every Southern upper-lower-middle class family that is commonly referred to as “John Wayne toilet paper?'” (I found this helped to weed out the spoiled lasses who were only looking for a life of leisure and soliloquy at my expense….thus saving them years of disappointment down the road.)

Apparently, so smitten was I with Elizabeth’s beauty and charm, I inadvertently skipped question “C” and went straight to question D) ‘Do you currently have any warrants, arrests or restraining orders pending in a court of law?’ (Long story, but necessary question. Perhaps another day.)

But secondly, how in the wide-world of runny snouts did I luck up and marry such a woman of obvious privilege and prestige without plunking down a dowry equal to a used 1987 Ford Taurus? One who has never been subjected to the shear cleaning power afforded by a 120-grit sheet of John Wayne industrial grade single-ply balled up like a Danny Duzit scouring pad? Hey, I know I out-kicked my coverage, but I had no idea I married into some sort of toilet paper royalty who reigned from the golden thrones (get it?) of Biltmore Estate.  I can only assume that she married me out of pity.  It happens.  Women love a project…especially one that that never gets finished (and I’m forever in the bathroom). Today’s revelation only confirms what I’ve long suspected: She has an ill-conceived notion that one day, this poor, overweight, balding, noxious frog will become a prince. Obviously, I haven’t…and likely never will. So, ribbit.

Bless the poor girl’s heart…it’s a hard reality to come to grips with after 18 years of marriage, but here’s hoping she can somehow hold back those tears of disgust, despair and disappointment…

…at least until we’ve restocked with her beloved Charmin Ultra Soft.

~dso

You May Say I’m a Dreamer…

phot cred: Art of Dreaming

I had the most incredible dream last night. In full disclosure, I’m not a ‘dreamer’… at least not while I’m sleeping.  When I lay down at night, I’m out within 15 seconds and there’s nothing firing till the sun rises. No thoughts, no ideas, no  synapses.  Nothing.  Except snoring. Whole lot of snoring.  But no dreams. Weird, huh?

It’s weird enough that I met with a doctor about it when I was a teenager.  Came to find out that it’s not so unusual among highly gifted intellectuals who exert copious amounts of brain power during their waking hours.  You know who I’m talking about…people who are solving complex theorems, discovering planetary masses, curing deadly infectious diseases, and folks like me who market waterskis on the interwebs in February.

The doctor went on to explain that for whatever reason (because ‘highly gifted intellectual‘ didn’t appear on my chart) MY brain delves into some sort of ‘safe-mode hibernation’ each night. He could only deduct that it was a self-preservation tactic employed by my body to vigorously protect the 11 remaining brain cells that miraculously survived the ‘Great Purge’ of the early to mid 90’s (ie: my East Carolina years).  No need to leave a Ferrari running if nobody’s driving it, I suppose.

So suffice it to say, when I DO have a dream, it’s a pretty big deal and it’s usually a really, really good dream. Obviously we’re not talking ‘water-balloon-fights-with-Buffy-the-Vampire-Slayer-in-a-white-t-shirt’ good, but they ain’t bad. Take last night’s gem, my first in several months….

I’m sitting in my truck, parked on the beach, eating a pimento cheese and pork-belly sammich slathered in bbq sauce (which I’ve never actually had but I’m darn sure gonna try now). Picture me gazing over glistening blue water as a pod of dolphins swim by.  A warm breeze is softly blowing across the sand and waves crash upon the shore as the fiddler crabs play hide and seek with the sandpipers.  To my left, miles of unspoiled pristine beach in it’s natural habitat. To my right, a massive family of pasty-white Yankees feeding a 5 pound bag of Cheetos to an ever-growing flock of seagulls from beneath an EZ-Up tent whilst they poop upon the hood of my truck (the seagulls, not the Yankees).  Just a typical day on the North Carolina coast.  Then it happened…

Kaboom… A quiet, soft rumble that would have been hardly noticeable had it not been for the otherwise serene surroundings.  So soft that it barely drew my attention from the delicious creation I had already dubbed “Big Dan’s Swine-and-Cheese Sammich” (before you ask, I’ve already trademarked it, so back off).

Those scattered about the sand around me barely noticed…perhaps it was the distant rumble of a re-enactment cannon from Fort Macon or passing flatulence from one of the over-weight preteens competing with seagulls for wayward Cheetos beside me.  As I raised an eyebrow and begin to inhale another mouthwatering bite of my sammich (man, this thing is good), a second rumble strikes…kabooooom. This one was a tad more noticeable, and tad bit stronger. The sandpipers scurried away…the dolphins disappeared.  And I spilled a piece of pork belly and some pimento cheese in my lap. Crap.

Just as I wiped a small vestige of bbq sauce from my chin, a third unmistakable reverberation struck the crystal coast with a thunder-like fury… KABOOOooooom.   Dozens of Cheetos fell helplessly into the sand as the seagulls abandoned the beach in search of more secure sanctuary. The puzzled looks of the hairy-backed, orange-fingered visitors from the great white north told me that this was certainly not in my head.  This was really happening.  Something bad.  The wind had all but stopped and the sun was beginning to glow a deep reddish orange…pimento cheese orange. And then, once again… KABOOOOOOOOM.

My truck rattled violently as the rumbles turned into what can only be described as explosions, almost atomic in force with each jarring occurrence.  My dashboard hula girl was doing the whip, nae-nae, and wobble all at once. The onslaught has begun…

KABOOOOOOOM…

KABOOOOOOOOOOM…

KABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…

The dizzying explosions had now become rapid-fire in succession, with no discernible explanation for their existence. The Yankees had long ditched the safety of their EZ-Up fortress and were sprinting to their Vanabego as quickly as their Crocs and knee-high black socks would take them.  My truck was literally bouncing in the sand. Pimento cheese was everywhere.  The dulcet tones of Steve Winwood crooned through the speakers…

Hang on and just roll with it, baby…” (this dream is turning into a nightmare)

KABOOOOOOOM…

KABOOOOOOOOOOM…

KABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…

Still unable to determine the cause of this intrepid phenomenon, I looked around only to see buildings crashing to the ground, sand dunes shifting to flat plains, and boats saying their final goodbyes as they succumbed to the the 50 foot swells enveloping the beach with each passing concussion.  Prudence demanded that I dig around the floorboard in search of that final piece of pork belly, as assuredly, this would be my last meal…

KABOOOOOOOM…

KABOOOOOOOOOOM…

KABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…

As I gazed over the horizon with tears (and bbq sauce) in my eyes, the sky became black with smoke and the sun glowed an ominous beet red. The water appeared to be burning as the magnitude of these earthquake-like jolts exacted a measure of revenge that could have only been foretold in the book of Revelations.  Without warning, the clouds began to part, the heavens opened and a bright light shined down upon my chubby little pimento cheese-covered face…

Yes, just as the world and all of it’s glory were ending, the cause and force behind this epic disaster were about to be revealed…

Aaaaaand then I woke up.  All of the bedroom lights were on.  I was sore. I was confused. I was dazed. And I was craving a pimento cheese and pork-belly sammich like YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE.

I looked to my left and saw my beautiful wife sitting up on the side of the bed, fully awake, drinking a glass of water. Still fuzzy on the whole dream vs reality thing, I instinctively asked, “Oh my God, are you OK!?!?”

She stares at me like I’m a delusional psychopath (and while not that unusual, she still didn’t answer the question)…could it have all been real?!

“DIDN’T YOU FEEL THOSE EARTHQUAKES AND EXPLOSIONS, WOMAN?!?!?!”

“Huh?” she replied. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I had the hiccups.”

Maybe it’s time for one of those Tempurpedic mattresses, after all.

~ dso

Ms. Thang & My Nobel Prize

And the Nobel Prize goes to...

Thanks to my daughter’s fascination with all things shiny, we found ourselves completely out of aluminum foil. Rather than run the gamut of our local grocery, I elected to grab a roll from one of the umpteen “dollar so-in-so” stores on my way home.photo cred: Golden State of Mind

As I’m patiently waiting to pay for my one item, I couldn’t help but notice the striking mountain of a woman in front of me who was plopping down a variety of fascinating accoutrements. In addition to the 4 bags of cheese puffs, 2 rolls of pink duct tape, 1 package of female undergarments, and 3 Monster energy drinks…there was a request, nay DEMAND, for a pack of menthol smokes…and “not the soft pack like yo’ a$$ gave me yesterday!” she yelled.

It was love at first sight.

As a voracious student of people and their behavior, I was immediately transfixed. This was my white whale (no pun intended…ok, maybe a little).  No, seriously. This lady was the real deal. A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. A turducken of both class and sophistication, if you will.

Little did I know the subject of my pending thesis on evolution (we’ll call her ‘Ms. Thang‘) was just beginning her ascent on my list of  “Interesting People I’ve Met At Dollar General.”

photo cred: Getty Images/Dollar General

Then that mouth opened…and she immediately claimed the top rung.

Cashier: “That’ll be $26.76, ma’am.”

Ms. Thang: “Hold up. Y’all sent me a coupon in the mail yesterday for $5.”

Cashier: “Okaaaaaaay…..”

Ms. Thang: “You gone take that off?”

Cashier: “Um…do you have the coupon?”

Ms. Thang: “Huh? You mean, like with me?”

Cashier: “Yes ma’am. You have to have the coupon.”

Ms. Thang: “It’s at the house. You know. You sent it.”

Cashier: “Um, I didn’t actually send it, but, uh, I’ve got to have it…like…the actual coupon. Like here…in the store, you know?”photo cred: Dollar General

At this point, Ms. Thang looks toward me…I assume for guidance. Clearly, since I’m obviously out of place and sporting a dress shirt, slacks, and tasselled loafers, she feels that I’m the only person presently qualified to readily explain this conundrum to her in a calm and tactful manner. After many years in retail, I’m always willing to help explain the intricacies of high-level P&L statements and industry jargon to the common lay-folk.

Of course, I assumed completely wrong.

“Now ain’t that some s*!#” she says in my general direction before I could offer my assistance. “This girl here sends me a f#&@!%g coupon and don’t even want to take it.” (Turning back to the cashier) “You the Dollar General, ain’t you? You sent it, you have to take it. You the Dollar General! You the Dollar General, ain’t you? Tell me you ain’t the Dollar General!”

Cashier: “Uh, no.  I’m Amanda.”

(Editor’s Notephoto cred Bloguez (Rita Radner): I completely lost all composure at this point and inadvertently uttered a pitifully disguised laugh that resembled a loud obnoxious ‘verp.’ Credit to ‘Amanda’ … not her real name … she deadpanned like Rita Rudner reincarnated.)

The poorly disguised chortles from the line behind me undoubtedly put Ms. Thang over the edge. She was boiling. Her eyes bulged like Al Green as she cracked her neck side to side. With a loud grunt began the arduous task of hiking up her jorts with both hands (and any true Southerner knows it’s about to be ‘on’ when the jorts get hiked up).

Being a fond proponent of self-preservation, and frankly just wanting to get the hell out of there with enough foil to encase a couple of turkey roll-ups in the morning, I felt the sudden urge to quell what was quickly escalating into a “415” photo cred: Lexington Herald Ledger(that’s police radio code for “public disturbance.” Don’t ask me how I know this. It’s not relevant to the situation at hand).

So against my better judgement, I meekly interjected:

“Excuse me ma’am, but, um perhaps, POSSIBLY, she needs to SCAN the coupon…you know…to prove to her boss that you had one? Or maybe they need it to get credit from a vendor or something? I’m SURE this young lady is only doing her job, and will be more than happy to hold your items here until you come back with the coupon…”

(Humble readers, at this juncture of the interaction, the entire store delved into a long, albeit uncomfortable, silence of nearly 20 seconds)

Hearkening upon all those ‘Power of Positivity’ videos I was force-fed in Comm 101 during my third junior year of college, I slowly began to nod myphoto cred: Ocean of Possibilites head…calmly, quietly, invitingly. Soon the cashier began nodding…then the others in line softly muttered and began to nod, smiling in agreement. It was a beautiful thing. People coming together for the common good.

I can’t lie…I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself. Building bridges. Moving mountains (again, no pun intended… ok again, maybe a little). As I’m piecing together the Nobel Prize speech in my head, Ms. Thang cocks hers to the side and feigns a slight grin. Her muscles relax and I can sense the hamsters are starting to gain speed. By golly, I think she gets it…finally. Gonna get my ‘luminum foil.photo cred: Crappy Photoshop

“What the f&#% are you talking about?? That’s about the dumbest $&*# I ever heard. All y’all mofo’s full of $*#&. Y’all just dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”  She throws the bags on the floor, flips me the bird, mutters something about somebody’s mama, and pushes through the doors like a feverish polar bear into a Baskin Robbins.

Regardless, a crisis was averted.

I’m chalking this up as a win.  #NobelPrize #Merica

~ dso

You Look Familiar…

photo cred: Pinterest.com

I went to Subway for lunch last week.  Not a huge Subway fan, but when you’re on a carb-free diet, their bread-less sammich bowl becomes a pretty good option for a fast food meal. Though the prospect of catching a food-borne illness thanks to their 86 sanitation grade was mildly concerning, I hear Salmonella is an excellent way to drop 15 pounds in less than a week.  Not sure if a couple of days locked in a bathroom will take the place of the ‘Abs of Steel’ Workout Video I’ve been avoiding since December, but it’s worth a shot.photo cred: Walmart.com

I’m very cognizant that restaurant workers wholly detest people on diets…particularly those who need things “specialized.”  I understand it, and I never thought I would become one of “those” people. Never thought I’d get fat, either. Shows what I know.  Requesting a sandwich “without bread” in Subway is akin to asking for unsweetened tea at Bojangles. They’ve got it, they just don’t “get it.” You’re immediately branded as some sort of weirdo deviant sent by a gluten-free rights group seeking to abolish life, liberty, and the pursuit of 9-grain whole wheat. After a couple of minutes of cajoling and self-deprecation, I was finally ready to dive into my spicy buffalo chicken, spinach, black olive and banana pepper “salad.”  I can hear the drool dripping off your lips. The things we’ll do to wear a speedo again.

The lunch crowd on this day was particularly strong, so I was relegated to one of the mini-tables near the back. Within minutes, a crotchety old lady with blue hair and a surly attitude began stammeriphoto cred: Subway.comng her way toward me. I had noticed her in line earlier, complaining loudly about the lack of meatballs on her 12 inch sub. The only thing restaurant employees hate more than people on diets are people that SHOULD be on diets, especially those complaining about the dearth of food on their plate.  Seems she had only received 8 measly meatballs…in her mind a pauper’s portion, given the size of the bun. And had she sweetly requested another meatball to offset that vacant bun space, I’m sure they would have happily obliged.

However, when you yell “why do you people keep gypping me on the meatballs!” to the young lady behind the counter, you’re going to get a lesson on Subway “corporate policy,” which, by the way, is 8 meatballs per 12-inch sub. In fairness, you’d be hard pressed to find any hourly employee in any profession who gives a flying frisbee about “corporate policies” until a customer starts getting all high-and-mighty.  It’s like an ace in pocket.  You wanna talk to the 18 year old manager who’s out back catching a smoke or do you want to eat a meatball sub while it’s still relatively bacteria free? That’s what I thought. Screw you and your 8 meatballs.

Apparently there is no such corporate policy on mayo, because when her sub made it to condiments the old lady started yelling “hit it again” as if she was predestined for a 5-card photo cred: Amazon.comCharlie. The young woman behind the counter squirted that Miracle Whip like she was wringing someone’s neck and staring the old lady down with every creamy line. “Hit it again!” she bellowed.  Must have been half a bottle of mayo on that sammich.  What the old lady lost in extra meatballs, she made up for in mayo. Ha. That’ll teach’em.

As you follow this blog, you’ll find that I seem to attract these people…I’m not sure why.  Perhaps they have an app that shows my location and get points by flocking to me and checking in. It was absolutely no surprise when she plopped down at the table beside me with such force that a picture on the adjoining wall went askew. She emitted a protracted and nasally “sigh” reminiscent of an asthmatic hippopotamus.  In a moment of weakness, I glanced over. You have to glance over.  FYI – you never glance over.  Never, ever, ever. Ever.  It’s in the manual. Huge mistake on my part. A rookie mistake. I’m 44. Thought I was past this.

“Ron?” she barked at me.

I looked to my left, I looked to my right…no one else was looking at her (they’ve obviously read the manual).

“Who, me?” Gulp.

“Yeah, you’re Ronnie ain’t you?”

“No m’am,” I said graciously, quickly looking away and back down.  You see, I have this thing about talking to strange people in random places while I’m thoroughly sober.

“You sure your name ain’t Ronnie Temple?”

“Uh, yes m’am…I’m pretty sure. My name is Dan.”

Now I don’t like to give my name to strangers but since this lady questioned whether I knew who I was in the first place, I thought it best to come clean and avoid any semblance of impropriety or complicate the situation even further.

“Well damn,” she said.  “You look just like my granddaughters ex-husband, Ronnie Temple. I mean you’re the spitting image.  I swear, same hair, same eyes…”

Believe it or not, I get this a lot.  Especially with the thinning hair and the extra weight I’ve been putting on.  I guess I’m getting that “every-man” look.  I figure I’ve got at least 10 doppelgangers running amuck in Greenville.

Anywho, I learned at an early age that the best coping mechanism for uncomfortable situations was a sense of humor. I dropped the following one-liner on the old girl in a not-so-subtle attempt to add a smile to her otherwise unpleasant-seeming day…

“Really?” I asked. “This Ronnie must be one handsome looking fella, huh?”

(Ha…you see what I did there, right?  Subliminal Positive Reinforcement. Because obviously if he LOOKS like me, then he MUST be a pretty handsome fella, right? Man, I crack myself up sometimes.  I mean really, who wouldn’t get a little chuckle out of that? You guys are a smart crowd…I’m sure ya’ll get it.  )

Well, she didn’t.

“Nope,” she said.

“More like the ass-end of a mule.  But damn if you don’t look just like him.”

photo cred: Pinterest.com

~dso