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June 5, 2012 / hippiechickamblings

The Wart List: Ten Reasons to Support the Theory that I was Switched at Birth

  1. I don’t do fashion.  At all.  Okay, so I hate clothes, but I’m not saying I go naked. Naked is not a good look for me, and taking it public would probably attract possums. Possums totally freak me out, and since no amount of time spent in my happy place would make me okay with possums, going naked would finally result in my taking massive doses of tranquilizing drugs. Not good. It’s just that I don’t know what to do WITH clothes… the whole mixing and matching thing and brand names, and what goes together and what doesn’t…and why can’t you wear white jeans with black shoes, anyway…and what’s wrong with white socks and black lace up granny shoes…and why not a brown loafer with a black pump, which I accidentally wore to the grocery store with my daughter and her friend, who pretended they didn’t know me. Muumuus would be easier. Or Hefty bags. I’d rather wear a purple muumuu with white socks and granny shoes. Or flip-flops.  And read a book.
  2. I hate shopping. Especially for clothes. Book shopping, I can dig, but only if I can wear a muumuu. And drink coffee. While I read. In my muumuu. Shopping always makes me want to poop, and there’s never anywhere to poop when you’re shopping that doesn’t require a three mile hike and shopping carts to dodge. I suck at dodging.
  3. I once baby sat for a kid and gave him chocolate right before his mom got home. Okay, it was really Ex-lax, but just enough for him to do a lot of business for her to clean up. She had too many cats. And nasty carpet fleas. Not cool. Also, the kid was a brat and a spawn of Satan who threw stuff at me, plus, she allowed him to run amok, and I am totally not down with kids who run amok. When my daughter runs amok I make her clean it up. And sit in time-out.
  4. I basically believe most people are good. Except for men with long eyelashes…them, I don’t trust. Or preachers who only wear suits, even to Wal-Mart. Or little old men who flip you the bird when you’re stopped at an intersection and decide, out of the kindness of your heart,to let them go first, but they peel rubber and almost sideswipe you. Them, I don’t trust. And overly perky people. Friendly is fine, but aggressive perkiness and too many hand gestures during a motor mouth-mono-chat make me nervous. Like Rachel Ray used to do during her show about cooking dinner for six in the time it takes to have a pee break. And Joel Osteen. He’s perky. And Smiley. I never trust anyone who wears a perma-grin while talking about stuff that can keep me out of hell.
  5. I didn’t get a gene for physical coordination, and I don’t mean the one that gives you grace for gymnastics or skiing or ballroom dancing. I’m talking about the walking around gene that gets you from the back steps to the car without breaking a bone you might need later. When I was a kid, my grandmother said to my parents, “That child ain’t right. I think she’s got bad laigs.”  It’s not a good idea to ask me to carry things, especially things on trays, unless you don’t mind wearing them, like when I was waitressing in Pizza Hut and that guy ran screaming from the table, holding his crotch. And he didn’t even leave me a tip, either. What a weenie.  One time, when I had to wear an ace bandage on my wrist for a week, I told everybody it was because of all the typing I did at work. I lied. It was from when I started to sit down on the commode and missed the hole. Luckily, the cat broke my fall. I’m thinking of building an outhouse.
  6. I forget things. Car keys, bills, toilet paper, doctor’s appointments. The car, particularly in large parking lots. I think the forgetting started when my daughter was born and couldn’t figure out how to fall asleep those first two years, which meant I was the walking dead for approximately 730 days. That HAS to mess with a couple billion brain cells. Once, I forgot to feed her, and she just kept crying. I thought she was being a jerk. I forget people too, but not their faces. The names, I lose. If names were based on logical stuff like in that Kevin Costner movie with the wolf dancing guy, no problem. I’d be like, “Yeah, nice day, Gum Chewing Cash Register Chick with Fake Boobs”, or “Hi, how are you, today, Nose-Picking Red Sports Car Dude?” But Tom, Dick, and Mary, I can’t handle. I also forget where I put my glasses. And my daughter. I tried using a leash, but people seem to frown on kids wearing leashes. Plus, she barked too much. True Story. You don’t know her.
  7. Not many things scare me, but I get creeped out big-time by clowns. And domestic fowl, which has nothing to do with that Birds movie. And guys with comb-overs creep me out AND give me the irresistible urge to tackle them with a razor. Dude, it’s just hair…shave it off, for crying out loud! Bald is better. And fifty-year-old women in halter tops creep me out in a load-me-up-with-Prozac kind of way. And, of course, possums creep me out more than anything. Except Mormons who come to your door at 7am on Saturday morning wearing black suits. With perma-grin. Being perky.
  8. I’m a lousy housekeeper.  Mostly, because, like I said, I forget things. Like windows. My house could totally be used as a secret hideout, because no way could a foreign spy see through my windows. It could also win an Emmy for a Hoarders episode. Especially, my daughter’s room. She definitely qualifies as a hoarder. She must have issues, but I forgot what they are. But I’m a great cook.
  9. Drag queens fascinate me for some reason. I would so like to hang out with one, but since they are more feminine than me, it would just mess with my self-esteem, and Lord knows I don’t need that. One of the best times I ever had was when I saw a drag queen contest. My ex was a contestant, but that’s a whole different story. He didn’t win. Thank God.

    VIII Gay Pride in São Paulo, Brazil

    VIII Gay Pride in São Paulo, Brazil (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

  10. I’m not good with social gatherings. I forget names, and that’s not cool if it’s a family reunion. I’m too likely to trip over somebody’s feet or their dog, and drop a bowl of chicken and dumplings on somebody’s head.  Or slip their bratty kid some Ex-lax. Or wear my purple muumuu with granny shoes and white socks, thus scandalizing my mother and making it impossible for her to hold her head up. I’d rather read a book. And drink coffee.


Leave a Comment
  1. Wonnie / Jun 8 2012 6:02 am

    Just when you think you know someone (especially some one who is like a sister to you) you find out things you’re not sure you want to know. Drag queens, really now! I think your Granny may have been on to something girl, because it is possible that you just ain’t right (but we love you anyway)!

    • hippiechickamblings / Jun 8 2012 7:46 am

      Yes, shocking, isn’t it? I can only hope these revelations will not get me disinherited from getting all the family dishtowels. Even with my warts and all, my family is awesome, and they must wonder even more than I do, how I could possibly be one of them. I truly must have been switched at birth.

  2. Salahma Gabbahooha Lama Ling Long / Jul 1 2012 3:30 pm

    Mmmm That there shore is a perty possum y’all got! Would ya be intrested in tradin on that critter? I have 3 goats and a ginny pig with 6 toes and also some baney chickens I’d shore like to get rid of. Contack me at BR549.. That is all

    • hippiechickamblings / Jul 1 2012 6:25 pm

      Sounds good, Salahma, since I hate possums almost as much as snakes. Make shore the goats is billies ‘stead of nannies, and throw in one o’ them thar two-toed sloths, and ya’ll got a deal.

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