#AtoZChallenge: ‘O’ is for “Oh, My God”

Today’s post is going to be short and sweet (and hopefully funny). This one happened a few weeks ago, so we’re not blasting too far into the past for this one.

We were at Walmart recently when Baby Girl had to use the bathroom. I love that she’s potty trained and that we don’t need pullups except for at night, but I hate public restrooms. There are exactly three restrooms in my town that don’t make me feel like I’m going to die when I go into them, and if I absolutely have to go, I’ll do whatever I can to get to one of those.

Yes, it’s possible that Little Man gets his fear of public restrooms from me (even though I totally play dumb when the doc asked). Remember this?

Unfortunately, when you have a little kid, avoiding public restrooms isn’t always possible.

After Baby Girl loudly announced her need to void her bladder, which no less than three other people heard, we headed towards the family restroom. It’s big enough to avoid touching the sides of the grimy stalls and is usually cleaner.

Usually.

You’ve probably gathered that wasn’t the case on that day, and it wasn’t, not by a long shot. Here’s what we saw:

Despite being a toddler who was known for licking poop once, Baby Girl is also squeamish when it comes to public restrooms, so when she saw the poop on the toilet, she started yelling.

Out we went. And just after we exited the family restroom, Little Man, who was waiting outside started yelling.

Good lord. One of the workers took notice of Baby Girl’s partially clothed body and cracked up. I yanked up her pants and headed to the ladies’ restroom. Thankfully we were able to find a stall that was poop free that time.

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘N’ is for Notes

I love getting notes and pictures from my kids. I have a special drawer that I save them in. Those notes and pictures are few and far between from Little Man now, but Baby Girl makes up for it with the scribbles she gives me. Little Man did recently gave me the following note, though, which made my heart melt:

That’s enough of the sappy stuff. Now I’m going to move on to some of the drawings and notes I’ve found that gave me a good chuckle.

First, here’s the family portrait that Little Man drew when he was 6 or 7.

A stick thin waist and boobs almost as big as my head? Yes, please. (Or maybe not, since that would definitely cause some back problems.) It always really cracks me up to see kids around kindergarten to first grade age draw out their families. They almost always go with huge boobs for the adult women.

And speaking of boobs, there was that time in first grade (I think) that he  took issue with my not handing over my bathing suit when he asked.

I can only imagine what his teacher thought when she saw his free write that day. I love how he also included boobs in this photo, too, even if they are rather lopsided. Some free write notes from the same time that I didn’t include were about Little Man’s dog’s privates being cut off (ouch) and being very “thrustrated” as me for not letting him sit in the floor to write.

Heads up to parents of young children — if they want to give someone literal garbage for a Christmas or birthday (or anytime) gift, let them do it, because they absolutely will call that shit out.

See what a party pooper I am? If memory serves, the “something special” was leftover McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces from the previous summer.

Little Man fully understands the power of the written word. He will often air out his grievances in writing, and started doing so when he was five. He wasn’t always as verbose as he is now, but the point was still taken:

Last but not least is this one from when LM was in kindergarten, I found this scribbled on the back of one of his worksheets:

You got told, Joe.

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘M’ is for Money

Today’s Blast to the Past post takes us back about a year.

I’m hard of hearing. Some of y’all already knew this, but now the rest of you do, too. I’ve struggled with hearing since I was a baby. While this has certainly made things difficult at times, it has also made for quite a few humorous situations.

There have been times where I thought someone was making lewd comments, but wasn’t. There was a time when I accidentally volunteered to teach a Sunday School class because I misheard something. (This probably amused my husband more than it did me, especially since it lasted about a year.) And there was the time when I looked like the biggest asshole in the world.

One day my husband and I went to Walmart with the kids. As we were parking, I noticed that a local karate studio had a table set up out front. I assumed that they were trying to get people to sign up for a free lesson, which which I planned to shut down immediately. Little Man had tried the karate thing when he was younger, and it wasn’t for him. Plus, being a person with a bit of social anxiety, it makes me really uncomfortable when people approach me like this, so I really wanted to scurry past.

As we walked up, one of the people in a karate outfit said something to me. I didn’t hear what he said, but I assumed he was trying to sign up people…

After we walked inside, my husband burst out laughing. He laughed and laughed and laughed to the point that he had tears running down his cheeks. I asked what was so funny, and he eventually sputtered out the following:

Holy crap.

Y’all, I felt awful. What kind of monster says they tried donating to a society that helps people with Down Syndrome one time and didn’t like it and won’t do it again?!

I was too embarrassed at the moment to walk back out and explain things, but by the time we reached the checkout counter, I had worked up the nerve. I got out a few bucks and planned to tell the guy that I hadn’t heard him earlier and apologize.

Well, as luck would have it, the group had left already. So now there is someone in my town who believes that an asshole whose experience donating to a Down Syndrome society left such a bad taste in her mouth that she’ll never do it again exists.

Thanks for joining me for the April A to Z Challenge! If you’re participating, please leave a link in the comments section so I can check out your post.

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘K’ is for Katniss

This one’s coming to you a day late. The kids are out of school this week for Spring Break, so we took an overnight trip to a local indoor waterpark, so I’m running behind a little.

Here are a few things that we’ve established so far in the A to Z Challenge: I’m no Lance Armstrong, I suck at ordering food, and I can’t do seat warmers. Today I’m going to establish that I’m not Katniss Everdeen.

This Blast to the Past happened around the time that the second Hunger Games movie came out. I was pregnant with Baby Girl at the time, and I got it in my head that I should get a compound bow so I could shoot all the things.

I purchased a compound bow with a 45-pound draw weight (cough, a junior bow) since I wasn’t very confident in my muscular abilities.

From the moment I first held that bow in my hands, I knew that I was destined for great things. Maybe I wouldn’t be shooting assholes from the Capitol with it, but I would be hitting bullseye after bullseye with it. Maybe I’d even enter a competition or two with it and win something. Or maybe, just maybe, the government would get wind of how awesome I was and seek my assistance in hunting terrorists.

Unfortunately, that whole “knowing I was destined for greatness” thing was short-lived.

While testing out the bow, I tried to pull the string back and found out that it was rather difficult. My husband got a kick out of this, since I was having a hard time with a bow that was meant for kids as young as age 10. After I finally pulled the string back all the way, it slipped and scraped the side of my arm, leaving a bit of a cut (or string burn, whatever).

My husband tried to fix the bow for me and set the draw weight lower. It went down to 16 pounds, which he offered to go to.

“No, I don’t need that,” I said. “Bring it down to 35 pounds.”

I got the look. “Are you sure?”

Of course I was. He fixed it and handed it over. I again tried to pull the string back, and again, it proved rather difficult. I cursed the bow and gave it back to my husband.

“Bring it down to 25 pounds.”

“That was at 25 pounds,” he informed me. “I saw how much you struggled at 45 pounds.”

I was quite offended. “No, I didn’t,” I protested. “Fine, just bring it down to 20 pounds then. I’ll manage with that.”

He took it down all the way to 16. It still wasn’t easy to pull back, but I did it without struggling as much.

It was time.

The three of us went outside and set up a target, and Little Man brought out the bow he got for Christmas. He shot his arrows, and then it was my turn to shoot mine.

I quickly found that keeping the arrow on the bow while pulling back the string really complicated things.

The first arrow slipped and got within 5 feet of Little Man, who was standing to the side of me.

Oh my god! How was that even possible? I told LM to move behind me. My husband pulled him behind me about 10 feet.’

I shot again, getting a better grip this time, and didn’t slip. The arrow went about 10 feet over the target and bounced off the top of the storage building. Oops.

I had one more arrow. This time, I only shot slightly above the target and hit the storage building dead on, putting a hole in it.

At that point, I was rather frustrated with how things were going and said, “screw it.” I took my stuff inside, packed up everything, checked Amazon’s return policy, and print off a return mailing label to send it all back.

My stint as Katniss Everdeen was over that quickly.

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘J’ is for JTT

If you enjoyed all of the cringe in ‘H’ is for Hanson Wallpaper a couple days ago, then you’ll probably like this post, too. Pretty much any girl who grew up in the 90s had a crush on one of the following people: Devin Sawa, Rider Strong, or Jonathan Taylor Thomas (JTT). You can check out my friend Becca’s blog to, in part, verify this fact.

I was a JTT girl. He was cute, funny, sarcastic — what wasn’t to love, right? When he ventured out from Home Improvement to making movies such as Tom and Huck and Man of the House, well, that was even better. (We will pretend like Lion King and Pinocchio don’t exist as far as JTT goes…those were an insult to my tween self who wanted to see him in the flesh.)

One summer when I was 11, my family and I went to the beach for vacation with some of our extended family. One of those people was my older cousin, who also had a huge crush on JTT. She claimed him as being hers since she had spotted him on TV first, and if you remember anything from that age, then you know that being the first to claim someone is everything. (Case in point: when Baby Girl and I watched a Hanson concert on TV the other day, she asked who the brothers were and announced that Zac was hers. Unfortunately for her, he was claimed by me over a decade ago, so she’ll have to move along.)

Why on earth is a child this age claiming someone, anyway?

Being the first to lay claim meant that when you inevitably cross paths with the celebrity while you’re out shopping at Walmart or getting snacks from the gas station near your house, that you got dibs. This is like calling out “shotgun” — the front seat, just like the celebrity, is yours for the taking.

For the record, my list is not laminated.

With that in mind, while we were on our vacation, we spotted a guy who looked exactly like JTT. And by “exactly like,” I mean that he could have passed for JTT’s fifth cousin. As you may (or may not) have guessed, laying claim to someone not only meant that you get dibs on that celebrity, but it also meant that you get dibs on anyone else who looks remotely like that celebrity. It doesn’t sound fair, but it’s one of those unspoken rules.

Even though I had no claim on the JTT lookalike, I still joined my cousin in the stalking. Yes, stalking. What else could you call two girls who hung back about 30 feet and followed a guy around for a few days, watching his every move?

There was even one moment mid-stalk fest where my cousin’s dad came looking for us because we had been gone for an hour past when we were due back to the hotel, and we tried to blend in with some people on the beach so we could continue watching the beta version of JTT work on his body boarding skills.

Yikes.

So, JTT sorta lookalike, I don’t know where you are now or if you ever got more decent at riding waves on your body board, but know that you had a couple of fans. And if you were aware of being followed, then I apologize, and I promise that if you ever feel like someone is watching you now, it isn’t us.

It just hit me that my son is only a year younger than I was when this happened, so I guess it won’t be long before he’s following around someone who looks like Jyn Erso from Rogue One or has someone tailing him. Yikes again.

Thanks for joining me for the April A to Z Challenge! If you’re participating, please leave a link in the comments section so I can check out your post.

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘H’ is for Hanson Wallpaper

If you’re new to this blog, then you’re probably thinking, “WTH, Hanson? Those MMMBop kids?” right now. If you’re a regular here, however, then you’re probably (and rightfully) thinking, “Them again? Crazy stalker person.”

My theme for the challenge is Blast to the Past, and considering that I’ve been a fan of those guys since I was 13, it was inevitable for them to show up here. I’m not here to convert anyone into a Fanson in this post, though. After 20 years of trying, I’ve finally realized that most people don’t have good taste respond to my Jehovah’s Witness like tactics. Instead, we’re going back to 1997-1998 at the peak of my Hanson obsession to take a look at what guaranteed that interior decorating would never be career option for me.

Back when I was an awkward teenager (which really isn’t that different from being an awkward 34-year-old), I loved getting magazines like Tiger Beat and Bop. They had all the stories and pictures of the cute musicians and actors that any tween/teen girl could stand. (Hello, JTT, Rider Strong, Will Friedle…Brad Pitt was in there, too, but I didn’t get what was so great about him until 2005.)

When Hanson blew up, they had centerfolds and pin-ups in these magazines regularly for at least a year. And my grandmother bought me pretty much every one. I’d always promise not to ask for a magazine before we went grocery shopping, but I’d still make my way to the aisle with the magazines. After I picked one out, I’d carry it around, looking longingly at it as we walked down aisle after aisle, and she’d eventually say, “Go ahead and put it in the cart.” Her enabling my addiction obsession meant dozens and dozens of pin-ups, centerfolds, and full posters of Hanson. From the title of this post, you can probably guess what I did with them — I hung up every single one.

Just to keep the doodling easier, I drew it like this. FTR, all four walls had photos that were probably not more than a millimeter apart, making legit wallpaper.

So much cringe happening there with the Hanson wallpaper. I would often remove all of the pictures and reorganize them by size or guy or whatever. And this is where a slight problem came in. Want to guess how I hung all of those pictures? With thumbtacks. Tape would be too damaging to those valuable pictures and wouldn’t hold up well when I rearranged everything, so I used 2-4 thumbtacks to hang each picture.

Let’s just say that the walls didn’t look so great after I took down the photos…

My dad discovered that his drywall had been screwed up one day when he came in and saw me redecorating and saw that hundreds upon hundreds of tiny holes had been poked in his walls.

He was not impressed with my cleverness at preserving the integrity of my posters.

This was one of those situations where what I did was so bad that my dad was so mad that he didn’t even flip out. He told me that he had the right mind to make me spackle every single hole and left, muttering under his breath. When he put the house up for rent a couple years ago, I half expected for him to tell me to get my butt over there and spackle the walls, but he didn’t. (And to my brother — if you read this and do buy the house, I’m not spackling those walls for you.)

For the record, I presently have no pictures of Hanson hanging on my walls — just a few autographed guitar picks in a frame. (I do have a Lord of the Rings poster and a Wonder Woman poster, though, because clearly I have no intentions of being an adult anytime soon.) After a year or two of being obsessed, I threw out all of the Hanson pictures. Some years later I tossed the Hanson scrapbook. And a couple years after that, I stuck my Hanson t-shirts in a storage bin. (No, I wasn’t one of the cool kids in high school, in case you’re wondering.) Now I’m just obsessed without a bunch of embarrassing pictures.

So, which famous person/people were you totally crushing on in middle or high school?

Thanks for joining me for the April A to Z Challenge! If you’re participating, please leave a link in the comments section so I can check out your post. If you’ve got a cringier story than my Hanson wallpaper, by all means, share it below.

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘F’ is for Frankenstein

This content of this post was originally going to saved for “‘Z’ is for Zombie,” but my husband pointed out that I had gotten my horror monsters mixed up, so “‘F’ for Frankenstein,” it is.

My husband and I got married in 2006. Three weeks after graduating college, in the words of my husband, I was officially someone’s old lady. (Yes, he gets threats of being murdered for referring to me that way.) For our honeymoon, we went to an all-inclusive resort in Akumal, Mexico.

Wanna know the best thing about all-inclusive resorts? At least in the mind of a 22-year-old? All the drinks you can handle. Who needs to create memories of the romantic moments you spent together celebrating your marriage when you have fruity rum concoctions? (This is one of the many reasons why a 22-year-old probably shouldn’t get married.)

The only problem with the resort was that they gave you your drinks in what must have been a four-ounce cup. All of those back and forth trips to the bar can take a lot out of a person, so we ventured out one day and I bought a thermos so I could order multiple drinks at a time and be set for a while.

On one of the last nights at the resort, I had a bit too much to drink. Not too much as in, “she’s sick everywhere,” but too much as in, “she’s being goofier than normal.” If you knew me in real life, you’d probably be feeling pretty sorry for my husband right about now.

There was dancing, which I watched from the sidelines because I’m not a good dancer. There was an older woman hitting on my brand-new husband and roping him into dancing with her, much to my amusement. (I’ve since watched a doctor hit on him while removing part of an ingrown toenail, so that was nothing.) And there was my imitating a monster.

No, the Frankenstein bit didn’t come up when the lady dragged my husband onto the dance floor. It came up on the way back to our room. I was feeling pretty good and started walking around like I was Frankenstein. It got some looks, as you can imagine.

My husband got a picture of the monster imitation. You get the doodled version:

Whenever our wedding/honeymoon comes up, that is one of the main stories my husband likes to tell. Other people tell stories about swimming with the dolphins in a pool of their romantic love, and we’ve got Frankenstein.

Happy Friday, y’all.

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‘E’ Is For Eating

I’m a very picky eater. I have a lot of hangups about foods that have a certain texture, odor, or look. There are a lot of things I won’t eat. More things that I won’t eat than I will eat, really.

My husband has threatened to take away my Southern Girl card because I don’t typically eat many Southern staples. Grits, macaroni and cheese, any fried vegetable–no. Biscuits and gravy, eggs of any type, mashed potatoes–no. Lunch meat that isn’t shaved deli turkey, most veggies, cream of wheat–no. I won’t eat American cheese at all, or any kind of cheese on a sandwich or hamburger. My husband is always amazed when we go get subs and all I get is turkey and mustard on mine. Get where I’m going here?

Your Thanksgiving plate.
My Thanksgiving plate.

So, one time my husband and I went out with our two best friends to eat at a local Mexican restaurant. At that point in time, every time I had gone into that particular restaurant, I had gotten treated like I was crazy by the staff. Word to the wise — you will be (rightfully) shamed if you ask for fries and ketchup there.

That particular time, I searched the menu looking for something that I would eat. I decided to change things up from ordering chicken nuggets off the kids menu, so when I found “Rotisserie chicken” listed, I decided to go with that.

When the server asked what I wanted, I told him, “I’ll have the rotisserie chicken, please,” in a very dignified manner, since I wasn’t ordering off the kid menu or making a hundred changes to a dish, and started to hand him my menu.

“You want what?”

“The rotisserie chicken. It’s on the menu.”

Everyone started snickering, like I was making a joke, but I wasn’t, of course.

“It’s on the menu,” I said sharply. I opened up the menu and pointed to the “Rotisserie Chicken” option. “This is what I want, but I don’t want any rice or beans.” I eat neither (unless the rice happens to be covered in stew beef) and planned to eat chips and salsa with the chicken.

“You want a whole chicken?” the server asked, giving me a look.

WTF? It’s a rotisserie chicken. I had them before at the dinner and a show things we had gone to at the beach — they weren’t that big. Was I catching some grief for being overweight?

“Yes,” I said, and I’m sure that I looked kinda pissed at that point. He wrote it down.

A few minutes later, the manager came over.

The manager said “okay” and left.

We all caught up with each other a bit, and at one point, my friend noticed one of the guys that worked at the restaurant leave and come back a short time later with a Food Lion bag. She said that they probably went to buy one of those ready-made chickens for me, which I thought was joke.

And then the server brought out the food. My plate was filled with what appeared to be a whole chicken cut up.

I looked at my husband. “The one I had at the Dixie Stampede was not this big.” This made my husband and friends laugh even harder.

Finally, after wiping away the tears from her eyes, my friend cleared things up. “That was a rotisserie Cornish hen you had at the Dixie Stampede. This is a whole rotisserie chicken! They probably put it on the menu as an option for a family!”

We all laughed so hard over that chicken. I ate a single breast from it and had plenty of leftovers to take home.

It has been three years since that happened, and I still get crap over that chicken.

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘C’ is for Cold

My husband appointed himself the Snot Czar of our household many years ago. This means that he takes it upon himself to handle the snot issues of Baby Girl, Little Man, and myself.

Yes, even mine. I’m a 34-year-old sort of adult, and my husband thinks it’s his job to clear my nasal passages.

You’re probably thinking, “Ew” and maybe even, “Well, at least he cares,” but here’s how he used to deal with that. Instead of running the dehumidifier or cool mist sprayer, whichever of those is meant for helping with congestion, and instead of giving me Mucinex or nasal spray, he would break out the bulb-style nasal aspirator.

The first time he offered, I thought, “Why not?” He used it on Little Man (a baby at the time) and it worked. How nice that he’d go that far to help me feel better, right? I wouldn’t do it for him. (They say that in a relationship there’s always one person who loves harder than the other person, and if the whole mucus/bulb thing is any indication, clearly he’s the one who is more smitten.)

Here’s why not: it’s what I imagine it would feel like if the zombies tried to suck out my brain through my nose during the apocalypse. Instead of just sticking the tip in and suctioning a bit out, he rammed the thing up there as far as he could and I’m pretty sure he came within a millimeter or two of puncturing my brain.

It didn’t help. He insisted that I just needed to be still, stop acting like a child and squirming around, and let him do his thing.

“No, I’ll just wait and let things clear up on their own.”

It’s all fun and games until your husband chases you throughout the house, determined to use this godawful suction thing on you in an attempt to help clear up some of the crud from the monthly sinus infection.

Baby Girl was prone to having colds pretty often when she was a baby, so we constantly looked for ways to make things easier on her. We made sure she was elevated when sleeping, used a VapoRub machine, and used a bulb to get the snot out. Those didn’t help a lot, but one day we found something that did wonders for Baby Girl’s snot:

That, my friends, is the NoseFrida Snotsucker. (You can see the real deal here, and this is not an affiliate link.) It works by placing one end into the baby’s nostril and sucking the other end. Thanks to a tube and filter deal in the middle, you don’t get boogers into your mouth. It works wonders. Baby Girl hated it as much as she hated the crappy bulb, because she hates all the things, but it worked incredibly well.

I sucked snot once and passed on doing it again, because I was concerned about breathing booger air, so my husband took over responsibilities. (For the record, I would have risked booger air had my husband not been around.)

True to form, not only did my husband use the Snotsucker on BG, he also tried to use it on Little Man and me. Little Man cried as much as BG when my husband tried to use it on him, and I threatened to strangle him with it if he went near me. It would have been a shame to become a headline over something like that.

You probably weren’t expecting a kinda gross story about mucus when you saw that I was doing a Blast to the Past theme, but trust me, this is far less gross and embarrassing than the other ‘C’ post I thought of.

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘A’ is for Apartment

Just a reminder — for the April A to Z Challenge, my theme is “Blast to the Past.” I’ll be writing about things that have happened either with myself or someone in my family. Hopefully most of them will be at least somewhat amusing. For these posts, the past could go back as far as a week or 20 years. You’ll have to check in each day to find out.

For my first post, I’m going to go back about 13 years…

When I was 21, my then fiance and I got an apartment together. It was my senior year of college, and we planned to get married the following May because who doesn’t love the stress of a teaching internship, college classes, and planning a wedding, amirite?

That apartment complex was…not ideal. The apartment itself, which we viewed during the daytime (never, ever do this…always come back in the evening or on the weekend, if the office is open), seemed fine, plus it was very close to my school. It was pretty basic, but appeared clean and was pretty cheap. Some of the residents of the apartment complex, however, were not fine, as we quickly found out. I never really feared for my safety — and that may be because I totally lack awareness in that area — but some shady shit happened.

The Motorcycle

It can be fun to have a fire going in the fire pit, right? If the weather is nice and cool, then it is relaxing to hang out around a fire with your friends. (As long you don’t have bad asthma and allergies, anyway, sigh.)

One evening we came home after dinner to see some people gathered around a fire, but it wasn’t the kind we were used to:

Yep, that is a motorcycle. These guys were hanging around watching it burn. I don’t know how it caught on fire or if someone set it on fire intentionally, but it was burning nonetheless. The guys nodded at us as we passed by, like it was a completely normal thing to be happening.

The Car

The burning of the motorcycle wasn’t the only time we saw some people gathered around a burning vehicle. On a different evening, we came home to see this:

See? Burning vehicles really weren’t out of the ordinary there. In the past 12 years since we moved, we haven’t seen anyone gathered around a burning vehicle again.

The Broomsticks

The common area, which was a cement pad in the middle of the complex, was a place for people to gather if they wanted to, I guess. There weren’t any picnic tables, basketball goals, or anything else one might expect to find in a common area, but it was there all the same. We saw people standing around on the pad quite often, but never hung out there ourselves.

One evening, I heard some noise outside and looked out to see the common area being used. Someone had a radio blasting and several young teens were practicing their dancing skills with broomsticks.

There were more than this, but three is what you’re getting.

Just…why? Were the broomsticks substitutes for males? Were they supposed to be stripper poles? I had no idea, but quickly shut my door on that.

The Treadmill

Shortly after moving into the apartment, we had a visit from angry neighbor. Apparently someone had thrown a treadmill over their balcony and it landed in their bit of backyard. We thought he was full of crap until we checked our balcony and saw that someone had indeed thrown out a treadmill.

(Drawing a treadmill is beyond what someone with my limited abilities can do, so use your imagination on this one.)

It wasn’t us (we were on the third and top floor), so it had to be the people on the second floor. Can you imagine that…hearing a crash in your backyard to see that someone had thrown a freaking piece of exercise equipment over? I couldn’t even then, and I can’t even now.

We laugh about these things now, but some of them were pretty off-putting at the time. At any rate, we learned a thing or two about apartment hunting for future reference. Also, we didn’t finish out our lease there and bought a house very soon after I graduated college.

Thanks for joining me on the first day of the April A to Z Challenge! If you’re participating, please leave a link in the comments section so I can check out your post.

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