I'm so thrilled to be participating in Sue's blog carnival (even though Sue completely ignores me and my love for her)!
I thought Sue's stringent rules for the carnival would preclude my participation because Sue required that the post be about something that amuses me, and that the post be "clean."
And that combination was my problem.
A post about something that amuses me? No problem.
A clean post? I can do that too!
But I can't do them together. Nothing that amuses me is clean! Seriously! I even asked my friends and family if they could think of anything clean that amuses me, and no one could come up with anything.
Not a single thing!
(This is where I want to start telling you about all the unclean things they came up with that amuse me on a regular basis--and there are many--but I need to show respect for Sue. Dang that Sue! Look, I even said "Dang" for the first time since I was five.)
I had resigned myself to being a mere spectator at Sue's carnival, but then I went to the grocery store and cast my eyes upon the most wonderfully amusing thing I had ever seen! And it's clean!
But my amusing story does not begin at the grocery store. It begins in my seventh grade world geography class twenty-eight years ago.
I was twelve years old, and I was going through what other people like to call "that awkward stage." I, however, knew it was much more than awkward. And if you don't believe me, here's proof in the form of my seventh grade school picture that my family members (who mistakenly believe that they are really funny) have displayed at every important event of my life for nearly three decades:
But it was much worse than the picture actually shows. On that particular day I was wearing Collection Brand stretch blue jeans purchased at Montgomery Ward (keep in mind that this was the era of the skin-tight Jordache), and brown earth shoes.
I know that I was wearing those jeans and those shoes because I wore them EVERY SINGLE DAY of my seventh grade existence. (Just for clarification, I had several pairs of identical jeans--I wasn't that gross!)
Okay, so maybe I wasn't that girl we all remember that smelled like urine, but I was totally uncool, to say the least.
Anyway, Satan's spawn, a.k.a. Shelley sat right behind me in world geography, and believe me when I tell you that she was the original Mean Girl. She constantly made fun of my hair and my weight and my brown earth shoes (like her blue duck shoes were any better). I hated her and I hated world geography because of her.(Incidentally,I have no idea what countries correspond with the red dots on the Feedjit map on my sidebar. I'm pretty sure about the United States, but the rest are shrouded in mystery. And it's all because of HER!)
So imagine my surprise one day when I walked into geography class and saw that she had put a note on my desk that said, "You're a saint!"
How nice! "Maybe Shelley actually likes me!" I thought hopefully (and pathetically).
Then I noticed the little, tiny arrow at the bottom of the page indicating that I should turn over the paper.
I did as instructed, and saw a single word: Bernard!
"You're a Saint Bernard!"
(Just so you know, that is not the amusing part of this post.)
In retrospect, I can't really argue with Shelley's assessment of me, but, still, is that not the cruelest thing you ever heard in your life? I was crushed. (However, I did feel a little better when my mother responded to my recitation of that day's events by saying, "Shelley said that to you? But Shelley has a pig nose!")
So fast forward to January 21, 2009. I can't say that I've gone 28 years without thinking about Shelley and her Mean Girl note (how could I, with my family telling the story in fits of hysterical laughter every chance they got), but I really thought that my adult super coolness had made Shelley an emotional non-issue in my life.
I discovered just how wrong I was this week when I came face-to-face with Shelley in the grocery store in the--wait for it--dog food aisle! I am not even kidding you, she was standing there looking at dog food!
Oh my, how times have changed! In case you've ever wondered about this, I'll just let you know that 28 years, many, many pounds, overprocessed hair, and sun damaged skin do nothing to change a pig nose.
I could get really nasty right now and say that I'm not sure if the dog food was for her pet or for her, but that would be too seventh grade-ish.
Let's just say that I'm fairly confident churches named "Saint Shelley's" will be dotting the globe in the not-so-distant future.
And that amuses me more than you will ever know!