A woman named Jeffrey

  I kind of love talking to crazy people. Well, more specifically, I love listening to crazy people talk. Those people with a couple screws loose who are able to catch your eyes, and just start talking and don’t stop. If I’m lucky, I only need to respond briefly 2 or 3 times to acknowledge I’m listening and also egg them on a little so they keep talking.

I found one of these people in a dental office this week. Andy had to get something weird and scary done to his gums, so I thought I would be a supportive wife and go with him. Luckily, there was a cray older lady there just waiting to talk my ear off.

She talked at me non-stop for probably 15 minutes while she waited to be called for her appointment. I was entertained, but she wasn’t really the best crazy I ever talked to. She yammered on and on about the cost of college and how her lawyer has spent $600,000 to put his kids through college and he wears tattered loafers. Also, she lives in Portsmouth and has never heard of Tiverton (for my non-Rhode Island readers, Tiverton is literally NEXT TO Portsmouth.) — she attributes this to the fact that she does not have a car and basically only leaves her house to walk down the street to the dentist.

I asked her, “Oh, are you not from here?”

“I’m a military brat. I’ve lived everywhere.”

Okay, you’re at least 75, which means there’s a chance you haven’t lived with your military parents for almost 60 years. Where have you been for 60 years? YOU ARE NOT BEING CLEAR.

Please keep in mind that the whole time this woman was talking to me, my husband was sitting with his head down, pretending to be engrossed in a Good Housekeeping magazine. Also, my stepson had conveniently put his headphones in.

Finally, the dental assistant came out to the waiting room and said: Jeffrey?

The crazy lady stood up.

My mind started going a mile a minute trying to understand what I had just heard. Andy and I said nothing about this until his appointment was over and we were getting in the car.

“Did that lady have a man’s name?” Andy asked as he was putting on his seatbelt.

“JEFFREY?!” I exclaimed.


“WHY IS HER NAME JEFFREY? Do you think it could have been her last name? Maybe her first name is so weird that the dental assistant didn’t know how to pronounce it and called her last name instead?”

“No, she’s definitely named Jeffrey,” Andy assured me.

I actually Googled “A woman named Jeffrey” because I needed to know if this was a legit thing. None of the baby name websites were helpful, but I did come across a random financial blog from 2007 that addressed the issue.

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This blog post has single-handedly given me hope that that woman’s name is actually Jeffrey. I have high hopes that I will run into her again. You better believe that if that happens, will be the one talking her ear off.


Trollie Tuesday

Remember “Trollie Tuesday”? If you don’t, here’s a recap that details what it’s all about: WTF is Trollie Tuesday?

Trollie Tuesday died a pretty quick, sudden death last August. One day it was there, one day it was gone. I was annoyed that Buzzfeed sort of stole my idea and I was also starting a new job and didn’t feel like dealing with the trollies. Basically, I decided to be a big butthole. (WordPress just tried to autocorrect “butthole” to “buttonhole”—I kinda like calling a butthole a buttonhole. So cute.)

However, I woke up this morning to a text from my friend Mellissa that may have changed everything (at least for now). She had taken a hideous trollie and wrote “hahahaha here’s your Trollie Tuesday! hahahaha.” I was really impressed with her skills and frankly, it felt good to get a good old fashioned trollie texted to me.

Who wouldn’t want to wake up to this?

Mellissa Trollie Tuesday

If anyone sees Mellissa, you can thank her for single-handedly bringing back Trollie Tuesday. Are you ready to be part of the rebirth of Trollie Tuesday? Get your ugly face on, remember to use your flash in the dark, and then send that beautiful trollie to me at marymack98@gmail.com 

Note: I saw someone recently who told me they miss “Trolley” Tuesday. I would like to clarify that it is not pronounced “trolley”—it is “TROLL-E.” Like, “troll” (a thing that lives under a bridge and stalks billy goats), plus “E” (the letter). This public service announcement has been brought to you by a girl with too much time on her hands.

The most expensive crackers in the world

My in-laws had a nice little BBQ last night. Good, basic food, small group, nothing major, but still fun. When it was over, they were nice enough to send home some leftovers with us. The leftovers included a few spreadable cheeses and crackers that Andy’s dad had gone a little crazy buying (he was set free in the supermarket by himself and came home with $75 worth of cheese and crackers. He’s a dude after my own heart.).

When I got home, I pulled out the container of crackers and was amazed when I saw the price tag on them:

Seriously! $8.99 for a box of crackers. Like not a big sandwich or ground coffee or something I’ve spent $8.99 on before…crackers. The word crackers just implies $3.99 or less. Well, for me, at least.

These are what $8.99 crackers look like, in case you were wondering. Yes, they were quite delicious. Definitely above average in the cracker department. However, there are so many other things I would spend $8.99 on. For example, 3 half gallons of ice cream (on sale, of course). Or an entire month of Netflix, with $1.00 left over to buy a candy bar. Or, approximately 3 1/2 gallons of gas. Basically anything except crackers.

That being said, I’m definitely going to eat the crackers. All of them. I will imagine that I am a rich housewife breaking her personal “no carb rule” and I will say “mmmmm” after bite. And when my husband gets home from work I will put them in my secret snack hiding place and smile just thinking about the carb-filled contraband that brought me so much happiness for a mere $8.99.

In the dark and can’t flush 

You know what’s good for making you blog? A power outage.

Some stupid storm decided to rumble through my town at 6:45 this morning. As I listened to the thunder and pouring rain, I heard the air conditioning make a sad “shitting the bed” sound and I knew it was all over. We’ve been doing good power-wise for a while (we didn’t lose it once during the snowiest winter to ever exist this year) but apparently one pathetic rain storm was enough to do it. 

Strangely enough, part of my kitchen still has power. That means I can plug my phone in (PRAISE JESUS) and my fridge filled with food is safe and sound (I ALREADY SAID PRAISE JESUS, BUT FOR REAL, PRAISE JESUS).

My biggest emotional roller coaster this morning went a little something like this:

Me, while laying in bed: OH NO, THIS MEANS NO COFFEE!

Me, upon entering the kitchen and seeing the coffee pot clock on: YES! POWER! I CAN MAKE COFFEE!

Me, upon realizing we have well water and when the power goes out, the water is gone too: I HATE MY NON-CAFFEINATED LIFE. I THINK MY WITHDRAWL HEADACHE IS ALREADY SETTING IN. I WONDER IF I CAN EAT WHOLE COFFEE BEANS FOR BREAKFAST. 

My smart, handsome husband: Mary, there’s an entire pitcher of iced coffee in the fridge…

Me, drinking my iced coffee: I CAN CONQUER THE WORLD.

Speaking of coffee, I have also already broken the cardinal rule of our household during power outages: poop in the upstairs bathroom, pee in the downstairs bathroom. Because, ya know, we aren’t able to flush the toilets. Mehhh, when you gotta go, you gotta go. Coffee poops don’t do stairs.

I have some actual grown up work to do today, so right now I’m weighing my options. What’s my cut off point for waiting for the power to come on? When do I leave the house? And when I leave, where will I go? Shall I set up shop with the sex offenders at the public library? Or maybe go to Panera where I can enjoy the company of a Fuji Apple Chicken Salad with no pecans or tomatoes? The world is my oyster of wireless Internet. Getting dressed and leaving the house is the hardest part.

I’m just really happy I’m not working at Ben & Jerry’s anymore. I hated working when the power went out because some douche lord would inevitably come inside and say “So, are you going to start giving free ice cream away if the power doesn’t come back on?” 

No, no free ice cream. At least not for you. If anyone is going to get free ice cream it’s ME, so go away and leave my Phish Food alone. 

By the way, I just typed and posted this entire blog post from my phone. I’ve got one word for you: SKILLZ. 

UPDATE: Officially lost ALL power, including in the kitchen. Only had 1 coffee at home and needed to find more before my brain shut down. I’ve set up shop at the Barnes and Noble Starbucks and all is right with the world again. This giant coffee is my new best friend:  

 I kind of love that feeling where you’ve had so much coffee and you’re not sure if you’ll ever blink again.