Born on a Mission

I had another aha! moment as Oprah would say (though I doubt she was thinking in these terms).

I was visiting my grandma at my dad’s bar where she bartends one day a week when she, I, and the previously mentioned old grampa man had a discussion. She brought up how she never could have the heart to steal something. But, of course, every little kid has there first and only (?) stealing moment.

My grandma first told her story of being a little girl and stealing a penny from my great-grandma’s purse and buying penny candy (this probably dates her) with it. She distributed to her friends in the front yard and her mother caught her. She then had to sit in front of the mirror looking at her guilty little six-year-old face with a bar of soap on her tongue.

Yes, my grandma was friends with Laura Ingalls.

Then the old man (who’s name is Don btw) told his story:

He was at the store with his mother when he stole a red delicious apple. He brought the apple home in his pocket and ran to his basement to eat his prize. His grandmother (who was probably born in the 1600’s) caught him and made him bring it back to the store AND pay for it.

Aren’t these stories precious?

Well, that got me thinking… what was my story? I had to be just this cute and learn a life lesson from my experience…

I did…sort of.

I was about six as well and shopping with my grandma at the local mall. We were leaving one of the stores when my grandma grabbed me and said “What is under your shirt!?” I knew I was caught.

So did the saleswoman.

She had watched me as a little blonde-haired blue-eyed girl grab a fire-engine-red, lace thong and stuff it under my shirt.

Needless to say this wasn’t included in the family Christmas letter.

My Dad The Serial Killer

After a long night of heavy drinking a friend and I went to the restaurant my dad owns (but leases out) for some hangover-curing grease. I also live right above this restaurant so we didn’t even have to brush our hair before rolling out of bed and traipsing down.

Well, upon arrival we are given one menu. This is what I call foreshadowing. I order a soda and she gets some water (yes, she’s a supermodel). Our dear of a waitress comes back to take our order:

Waitress: What can I get for you? (directed towards me)
Me: I’ll have the veggie skillet, but instead of tomatoes can I get bacon. (I asked for the veggie instead of the meat skillet because it was more simpler to say that and I don’t want five pounds of animal flesh in the morning.)
Waitress (whips her head up like I asked for the Taz Mahal): You do realize I’m going to have to charge you for the entire order of bacon, right?
Me (terrified): Oh, ok.
Waitress: You want white or wheat?
Me: White
Me (more terrified): Ummm… white, please.

The same antics of occur when Lucifer takes my friend’s order. After she can see that we are near tears she comes back with.

“I am just SO burned out! I open; I close; I open; I close! I can’t take this!”

Friend: Yeah, um…I’ll have two eggs please (again, supermodel).

The fun didn’t end there. After we waited for our first gray hairs to sprout and our first borns to graduate college we finally got our food. Mind you, this was a delicious meal. But with the plates we got our checks — and wow, did we feel welcome.

My check:
Veggie Skillet: $7
Bacon: $3
Can of Pepsi: $1.50
Can of Pepsi #2: $1.50

After I pick my jaw up off the floor realizing I’m spending $14 including tax on breakfast I pay the bill. I mean, seriously, I don’t want to get shanked.

Well, after breakfast we leave her $3 which is more than generous for the amount of mental abuse we suffered. So, we go next door to the bar and talk with my dad’s girlfriend about The Infamous Breakfast. She can’t believe it.

So, in walks my father (think a more tattooed mean-faced Red Foreman).

My dad’s girlfriend says “Oh, T listen to this breakfast story!”

So, I rant and rave in a melodramatic way (I know, I couldn’t believe it myself) about our adventure. I tell him verbatim what occurred in the restaurant but in a laughing I-can’t-believe-how-mentally-disturbed-people-in-the-food-industry-are kind of way.

Cue the waitress walking in across the bar to right prices on the special sign.

I immediately stop talking and hide myself around the corner of a wall like I’m A Child Called It.

Dad: “You charged her 14 FUCKING dollars for breakfast!?”
Me: “Dad…stop…stop!” (This was very quiet. I’m actually not sure even he even heard me or not but I did it for effect…I’m also smiling like a stupid idiot at this point because I had to peek around from my hiding spot)
Waitress: “What?! I just charged her what I’m supposed to be charging her!”
Daddy: “$14 fucking dollars?! I couldn’t have got a steak dinner for that price!?”

At this point, the waitress is staring me down with homicide written across her face.

Me: “Really, no big deal. I actually like paying a lot of money for breakfast. It makes me feel famous.” (Ok, in retrospect I didn’t ACTUALLY say this but I definitely should have instead of blithering like I just volunteered for a lobotomy.)

And then there was dead silence…it was over.

So…needless to say I high-tailed her out the back door with my friend in tow because the waitress was near the front door and I didn’t want her to turn me into a veggie skillet.

Then, I immediately ran upstairs to tell the world that I’m quite sure someone on death row was killed the day my dad was born and his soul found comfort in my grandmother’s womb.

Oh My Sick Lord

I consider myself an intelligent person. I read books; I went to college; I have a full-time job; I StumbleUpon on an obsessive basis (hey, you learn some great things that way).

Well, one I apparently StumbledUpon a little self-discovery. There’s this website that has quizzes like How Many X’s Can You Name In Y Minutes? Well, I was browsing the options…I can you name the 10 body parts that are commonly named with three letters (arm, leg, lip, jaw etc.) in two minutes? Well…needless to say a first grader could pass that quiz and I missed four of them.

So, my ego was already quite bruised at this point (who can’t think of rib!?) and I scanned the other quizzes for my redemption. Well, I passed right by Poets, Authors (even Stephen King) and settled on something I KNEW I would own…

The ingredients of a Big Mac.

I don’t mean to brag…but I got them all with over a minute left.

I need medication.