Lifestyles of the fat and lazy

I have had waffles two days in a row.

I know, random, right? But….is it? Of course not. Random stays in my head most of the time, and I do like to have a decent idea about where I see the direction going when I write. Mostly. Except when I have no freaking clue, and vomitus spills out all over these pages. They can be entertaining regurgitations, but the fact remains: they can be crap.

So yes, back to the waffles. I had them two days in a row, which is not something I tend to do. Blueberry, frozen, popped into the toaster; don’t judge me on the frozen, because I like them. I have never found myself desiring homemade waffles; not even when the husband announced that he wanted a waffle maker for Christmas one year and we went to Voldemort on Black Friday, which was actually Crimson Thursday because it was Thanksgiving and blood spilled in the aisles that year due to angry parents dive bombing for Monster High dolls. By the way? I think he used it exactly once, and now I haven’t a clue where it is. All that sacrifice for one, measly homemade waffle breakfast.

An unrealistic representation of my waffles.

I have two boxes of those blueberry waffles in the freezer, and I feel compelled to make them disappear. You see, this family is embarking on a high protein, veggie, low-carb diet.

Wait, I used the wrong word. “Diet” is indeed a four-letter word in both the literal sense and in my mind. When you say “diet” it conjures up sacrifice, misery; a carrot stick and a wilted celery stalk in a Tupperware dish for lunch. With no ranch dip. It says, plainly, “You are a fatass who makes poor eating choices and your arteries look more like stuffed pizza crust than veins.”

That last statement could be true. I do love my pizza and I will never say no to stuffed crust. I often ponder why it took so long for someone to figure out that you could roll mozzarella sticks into crust and make what is the perfect meal even better. I feel like my childhood and early adulthood were cheated by the lack of stuffed crust being readily available. Denied. I feel like maybe others feel the same way, and we should form a support group. We have PSCTSD. You can figure that acronym out yourself, right?

Alright, so “diet” isn’t what we’re doing. We are making a Lifestyle Change. I think it’s a smart one, although my heart of hearts is crying at the thought of cutting out bread and pastry. At least I can keep the cheese, and we will have “cheat nights” twice a week. That will alleviate the idea of giving up things we love, and it will also help to placate The Male Sibling Unit.

Let’s face it: the three of us are getting older. I will be 51 and the husband is days away from 47. We both could benefit from healthier eating and we both love carbs. Taking them entirely away seems like a fate worse than death, but giving in two days a week for the love of breads, pastas, and starchy potatoes seems fair and balanced. It makes that death sentence more like, well….a work week. We can do it. If I throw a large enough chunk of meat at the husband, he will happily dig in and clean up the smaller serving of something plant-based. Getting him to eat fruits will be trickier, because he doesn’t like many. If I throw too many bananas his way, he may start scratching himself in public and grunting at me. Wait…..

Not my husband.

I have broken the news to the Male Sibling Unit. The best description I can use about the look on his face was fear. When dealing with the Male Sibling Unit, potentially unattractive prospects and limitations need to be dressed up a bit. With cheerful, optimistic, exciting exclamations that “This will be GREAT!” and “It’s ALL to help YOU!” If you make it all about him, and direct it toward every single aspect being to make him even more fantastic than he already is, he usually buys it hook, line, and sinker. That narcissism in his personality has its place. I really hope it comes in handy at age 50, when the doctor tells him it’s time for his first colonoscopy. I imagine it going something like this:

“Guess what? It’s your lucky day! Your colon is has been chosen for an important award! We want to take some pictures of it! That’s right; you get to drink a bunch of Gatorade (yep, we’ll go with that) and then you can poop as much as you want and your sister won’t yell at you for stinking up the bathroom! Then, you get to be our personal guest at an all-inclusive nap session at the hospital! That’s right! A nap! You won’t even feel the camera going in your butt! Yes! You heard me right! Your butt is SO SPECIAL that we want to take pictures of the inside and publish them on Facebook! And then your sister will take you to McDonald’s for a Filet O’ Fish!”

The Facebook thing, yeah, I made up. The point is, he loves all eyes on him and if he thinks it will push him up the flagpole of popularity, he’ll be all for it. Therefore. I needed to make this Lifestyle Change all about him. We are so invested in his overall health and his glucose readings that we have decided to work together as a team. It’s all in the name of the Male Sibling Unit’s ultimate success and triumph over diabetes.

He almost bought it. For a moment, there was a glimmer of excitement and a flash of self-importance. And then he asked, “What about peanut butter sandwiches?” The Male Sibling Unit’s fondness for peanut butter sandwiches can be traced back to his toddler years, when he loved them so much that he refused to swallow them, tucking numerous bites up into the roof of his mouth in a gesture of sentimentality that would then force my mother to pry the gummy, sticky mess out of there. The Male Sibling Unit is not so much a picky eater as he is a picky swallower. Therein lies a little bit of difficulty in getting him to embrace a high-protein diet. There will be meat, and lots of it, and I am not a creature of habit when it comes to eating the same thing, day after day, so I will want to switch things up a lot in order to keep this Lifestyle Change interesting. To be blunt, the Male Sibling Unit is lazy as fuck, and things that require a ton of chewing don’t rank high on his list of favorites. In the last two years, the Heimlich Maneuver has had to be administered because he has tried to swallow a piece of beef whole. Now? We avoid steak for him, because he is afraid of it. Not pork, or chicken; just steak. As a matter of fact, I am convinced that if I were to tell him that the piece of beef on his plate is actually pork, he would not choke. Am I suggesting that he swallowed that beef on purpose so he would choke and passive-aggressively teach me a lesson; that the Male Sibling Unit is not a fan of steak?

Damn skippy I am.

See what I did there?

Anyway, I laid the cards out on the table for him; I would make sure he has yummy, exciting lunches for work that do not include bread. Twice a week, he can eat sandwiches. He is free to eat peanut butter on celery or apple slices or bananas or by the spoonful if he wants. Just not slathered on 4 slices of bread, 7 days a week anymore. Yes, there will be meat, but it will be soft meat, tender meat, and we will eat loads of yummy, fresh veggies and fruits that will good for him. He will be in THE BEST SHAPE OF HIS LIFE. His glucose numbers will stabilize! He will have more energy! And the chicks dig it!

Perhaps I made that up, too, but he likes it when the chicks dig him.

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Read my old crap

Oh, people. I just don’t have it in me today.
I have spent the last week reading some of the most hateful posts, seeing so much fuckery afoot from our government, and mourning with a community in Florida. Mourning with a nation. I don’t have any creativity in me.  I don’t have the ability to survey the wasteland and say, “Well, we can clean it up and grow crops.”
Nope. Not gonna do it. When things like this happen to me, and I find that I am well and truly blocked, I dip into the bank of bullshit that I call my writing and find something I don’t mind reading again too much, and then I hope that you don’t mind reading it, too. Thank fuck for years of crap in those archives! Enjoy this light-weighted, prosaic little ditty of nonsense That I penned about 6 years ago. (Let’s also remember that now, 6 years later, I have even more reasons to not want to live in this clusterfuck of a country. My musings in this dribble seem almost carefree and logical now!)

Last night, I found myself watching two of my favorite films: Notting Hill, and Love Actually.By the end of the evening, I was wistful and blissed-out and irritated. Yes, I said irritated. Every time I watch a Hugh Grant film, I find myself filled with an irresistible longing to live in the UK.

I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. I suppose it makes me sound un-American and like I aspire to become an ex patriot, and I suppose the latter is true. The former? I’m still unabashedly an American and proud to say so, at least in circles that recognize the word as it should be – America – and not this newfangled form of redneck speak which identifies a great big growing segment of this country – ‘Murica. I’m an American. I can enunciate. This is not ‘Murica to me.

And yet…..and yet. The pull of the UK is magnetic and overwhelming whenever I view Hugh Grant movies. I’m no psychologist, but I suppose the reasons have a lot to do with my overall dissatisfaction with my own life as it is, and obviously, picking up and moving to a foreign country is not going to fix most of the problems I have. If anything, it would create new ones. The very idea of moving to a foreign land and starting over is both frightening and exciting, and I’ve daydreamed about it for many years. The daydreams had mostly faded away, except for the occasional conversation with my best friend, who shares dual citizenship with Australia and the UK. She has, numerous times, urged me to come live near her, because the money’s better and while the politics are easily infuriating to its citizens, it’s not as much of a mess as it is here. She’s contemplating a move from Australia to the UK, and I guess that’s where this little seed of a daydream began for me again. I am envious of her ability to pull up stakes and make a new life if she wants to, but I know that her circumstances are different than mine and so I can’t be cross with her. Oh, how I wish, though. I wish.

When my daughter was young, we used to daydream together. We wanted to go to Ireland and find a little cottage near the sea and live in it, away from everyone and everything. We would have a garden and flowers and a goat. We would have kitties. We’d ride bikes into the nearest village and have an old, bockety car for bigger trips. It was, of course, a sweet musing between a young girl and her mother, and a beautiful one at that. I still long for it at times, but then I will view Hugh Grant in nearly any film he has starred, with his self-effacing personality and twinkling blue eyes, and I will find myself wondering why I can’t have a life like that?

 

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This is a very close match with what I daydream our cottage would look like. Amazing that it is so similar! Haha!

Look at the elements of a successful Hugh Grant film, if you will. Listen, I don’t have a thing for Hugh Grant. I don’t necessarily find him attractive. I do find his characters attractive, but I would much rather be one of the ensemble that surrounds him. Those people lead such interesting lives and they’re all such good friends to one another! The group who supported him in Notting Hill when Julia Roberts rejected him was funny and kind and quirky and above all else, human. Who wouldn’t want a group of friends to commiserate with, to drink wine with, to just be with in both good times and in bad?  Who wouldn’t want a “Spike” to gape at when he pulled something ridiculous or wore some sort of outrageous t-shirt? Who wouldn’t want a group of friends who would do ANYTHING to help another friend be happy? The same goes for the ensemble in Love Actually. Those characters are fantastic and interesting and I always find myself wishing I could just drop right in there and find my niche.

 

Don’t get me started on the scenery, either. Notting Hill itself is absolutely stunning in its beauty and endlessly interesting, with its shops and street vendors. It looks like the sort of place where one feels included as well as having the ability to step back and be anonymous if one wants. The building facades are charming and the overall feeling is welcoming. Who wouldn’t want that?hugh2 Similarly, there’s London to consider, with it’s historical aspects intermingling with skyscrapers and the people bustling about and the charming rowhouses and the cobblestone streets. The scene in Love Actually, when the Kelly Clarkson song cues and all the Christmas lights of the London night are shown – breathtaking! Oh, I could go on forever about what I love about it. I want it all. I want to be dipped in it like a strawberry in chocolate. I want to absorb it, to be a vital element living and breathing within the throbbing beauty of it all.

Listen, I know I may sound a bit ridiculous to some. I happen to know that I don’t sound at all ridiculous to more than a few of you. I also know that it’s a dream, a silly pipedream, and that I have a perfectly good life with the ability to seek out and create beauty right here. Let me tell you though, life here ain’t so hot these days. The growing anger within this country and the fractured values, the de-sensitivity to violence and heartbreak, and the millions of faces who immerse them in little screens and big screens and who cut themselves off entirely from the whole population while “living” within their social media…..it’s becoming intolerable. I’m just as guilty as most. I pull out my phone at the drop of the hat and look up a factoid or peruse Facebook on my work break. There are usually two or three perfectly good humans for me to have conversations with seated at the table where I’m at. We could be carrying on lively conversations. Are we? For the most part, no. We are looking at our phones and shoveling in the food. It’s the same in the car. On the street. In the parks. In the checkout line at the grocery store. We are surrounded by people and yet we are completely alone. Kids are growing up not knowing how to socialize if it doesn’t include and structured sport setting or the ability to navigate through a video game of some sort. 3 year-olds are learning how to use Ipads with frightening speed.

I don’t think that it’s better in the UK. I know that these kinds of sub-human activities are going on there, too. I also know that I have good friends who would have my back if needed, even though we are scattered all over the country and in other lands as well. Maybe that’s a key thing for me. I need friends to go to coffee with right here and to drink a bottle of wine with right here and to hang out with, moaning about the mundane trivialities of everyday life. I work too much, make too little, and find the life sapped right out of me at the end of every day. I have neither the energy nor the time to cultivate such relationships, and yet, I feel that maybe I ought to, if I want to get to the place where I think I need to be in order to survive the joy and pain that is life. I have cocooned myself away, and the price I’ve paid for that is to watch Hugh Grant movies and to envy people who don’t exist and a life that doesn’t exist. The possibility of having a life like that is ridiculous; I’m too old to start over and to have to navigate my way through the uncertain waters of employment and housing and the seeking out of an ensemble of friends like in one of those movies. I don’t truly want to do the work it would entail. But I can wish, right?

.

hugh
Oh, Hugh.

But gosh, to have a friend like Hugh Grant, with that hair and those eyes!

At this point, it’s actually comical.

I was not prepared for today.

I was not prepared for a whole day off after 7 days of work, and the fact that I might, just possibly, have some energy after the harrowing Plague infestation my body encountered. It has been nearly three weeks since I uttered a Stormy Daniels-type reply to a slightly sore throat:

“Uh-oh. Here we go.”

I want to insert my firm insistence that I would much rather get the Plague than do what she found herself reacting to when she saw the Orange Load sitting on the hotel room bed. And get the Plague, I did. But I feel a lot better now and this burst of energy was a huge bonus. With only 24 hours with which to do things and to sleep before the next block of work begins, I made a list, with the reward for my successful ticks off the list being a few episodes of the 4th season of Grace and Frankie. I’m a binger in that, once I begin a series, I feel the need to see it to the end, even at the surrender of all other shows I enjoy. I don’t know if I am alone in this particular tendency, but I also don’t care. You do Netflix and chill your way, I’ll do it mine.

Grace And Frankie Season 3
Look at those kitchen mixers…..yeah, that’s it. Hand blenders!

My one big road block today was this blog. I simply had no ideas. I could discuss silly things, or serious things. I could rant about Tide Pods and kids eating them. You don’t want that, though, do you? You can get that from so many other places! (Like, literally, everywhere. Here’s a really good, non-fake news story if you have been living underneath a rock and have NO clue about what I am talking about. ) With that in mind, I searched my brain for something, anything, relevant. New, interesting, funny.

Bueller?

Then, I saw it. There it was: a new story about how the End of the World is once again happening! Yes, folks, it’s on! The whackadoody Evangelicals or whatever you want to call them have decided, since the last, what? Three dates, was it? I dunno….but anyway, the last few dates where The End IS Here came, and went, and all we got was a dunce President. Ready for it? Okay. The new End Times will commence on June 24th of this very year. That’s right, folks, it’s on! I do want to throw out a sincere apology to my middle daughter, because she’s getting Armageddon for her birthday two days early this year. Sorry, Honey, but Mama is always really invested in getting you something unique, right?

I said all that I needed to say about this momentous event about 7 years ago, when the first End of Days was nigh. Never mind that it didn’t come to pass; I have full confidence that, if we keep skipping merrily down the current path this country is on, we will get there. No worries. So, without further ado, here is a blog originally published then, and still so relevant today that I just don’t have anything else to add. Enjoy. And start getting your bunkers ready! (Again.)

aem
Oh, Jesus!

The Final Countdown to May 21, 2011, or “Why I think I will be left behind.”

I have been following, with some irritation and more than a little amusement, the latest doomsday predictions put out there by the religious zealots who truly believe in them. In the past, we’ve been led to believe that the End will occur in 2012. Before that, most of the religious crackheads advised basically what was written in the Bible – specifically, Revelations. They watched for the signs of the Apocalypse and excitedly shouted whenever something that even vaguely resembled one of those signs happened in some Third Word country where of course, plague and starvation and insect infestation and dead animals weren’t, you know, the norm. I don’t know about you, but had I believed them every time they advised that The End Was Near, I’d be, well….dead. Right?

This latest prediction claims to be rooted in science. Specifically, some religious fruitbat has come up with a Formula that actually predicts the End of Days according to some mathematical equations that, when put to work with the things said in the Bible, comes up with what he is positive is an accurate date. I’m not making this up….and if you’ve been watching the news since the beginning of the year, you’ve probably read some interviews with his followers. They’re everywhere, you know, and they want to get the word out so we can all prepare.

The lowdown is that, on May 21 of this very year, Judgement will occur. Those found worthy of Heaven will leave then, be magically carried away on a magic carpet ride to God’s House such as they could have never imagined possible. Those left behind (and we know who we are) will remain on Earth, enduring suffering beyond anything ever dreamed in our worst nightmares, before being sent to the bowels of Hell 6 months later, on October 21st.

This sucks. I was really looking forward to Halloween this year. Can this be like taxes, where I file an extension? All I want is 10 more days. Halloween’s my favorite holiday! Who do I get in touch with? FEMA, right? Are they handling the End of Days? They’re the most natural choice, I’d think. Gaddafi’s got too much on his plate to be able to coordinate the End of Days effort, after all, and the United States always likes to be in charge of any cataclysmic event occurring anywhere in the world. We excel at disaster. Look at Katrina.

Anyway, back to my original train of thought, which is why I’m pretty positive that I will be left behind on the 21st of May. I’ve spent many hours of reflection on this, wondering if there could be some way I could make a last-ditch effort to redeem myself in the eyes of God and win a ticket on that Magic Carpet Ride to Heaven.

Okay….not really, but you just never know who might be tallying up things. Vocalizing regret about my past transgressions could help, right?

Something tells me I should be preparing for the last 6 months on this planet. I wonder if there’ll be a run on the grocery stores and hardware stores just before the 21st of May? How does one prepare for 6 months of “Judgement”? I have to assume that all the power will go out, because obviously only the good people have been running our world’s energy sources. I’m thinking I ought to quietly begin to stockpile gasoline in jugs underneath my house, so that I can fill the generator I’m going to have to buy. Gas will be hard to come by once the power goes out, and there won’t be a single Oil Company Executive left on the planet after May 21st. No one will be left to make those important decisions for those of us left behind. All the righteous will be having a barbecue in God’s back yard on the 22nd, looking down on us and shaking their heads sadly while we run around, pulling our hair out, screaming, “Why? In the name of God, WHY???” as we shake our fists angrily at the sky. Dick Cheney will probably shed more than a few tears as he gazes down at Earth and realizes that there’s no one left to make the right decisions for us.

Maybe I ought to re-convert myself back into Catholicism and go to confession before all of this goes down. Obviously, there won’t be a Catholic priest left to tend the leftover flock of sinners after May 21, right?

Before you ask if this is a blog or a nightmare, let me explain to you why I am sure I will be left behind to face Hell on October 21st.

According to Christian belief and wisdom, I am a sinner. I have broken a few of the Ten Commandments on more than one occasion. It’s not important that I list each and every single one here, but it is important that I acknowledge that I have committed them. I continue to break some of them on a daily basis, too. I swear. Daily. Like a sailor. I covet things. All the time. Not my neighbor’s wife, but then again, I don’t swing that way. Unless the neighbor’s wife was Shakira. Then I’d covet. Oh yes….I would covet a lot.

I’m divorced. There’s a strike against me. Being remarried doesn’t take it back. It’s not a do-over, or so I have been told.

I had a child out-of-wedlock. Even though his father and I married as soon as we were legally able to, there’s another strike.

I’ve never killed anyone, but I have wanted to. In some religious circles, this is just as bad. So there’s strike three.

A dozen or more little offenses come to mind, like the fact that I’m not afraid to have an opinion or two or three thousand, and I’m not afraid to voice them. Some people don’t like that, don’t like that I have ones different from theirs, and for whatever reasons, it upsets them. It upsets them even more when I explain that I’m allowed to have dissenting opinions from theirs, and that it doesn’t make me a bad person, or them a bad person, or either one of us wrong….just different. It upsets them when I advise them to work on their own lack of self-confidence and to leave mine alone.

I don’t like the color pink. I think it’s disgusting. This puts me at odds with a great many females on this planet. I happen to think that a black dress can be just as, if not more, feminine than some frothy pink concoction.

I’m comfortable with the fact that, while I’m not a genius, I’m pretty damned intelligent. I like to read. I like to pursue knowledge. I’m always on a quest for a new experience as long as it makes me feel comfortable doing so. I don’t always have to follow. I don’t have to lead, either. I prefer to go my own way. I prefer the quiet of my home to bars and parties and social events. Give me a choice between a rowdy evening with friends or a good book and the book is always going to win. This makes me a selfish, conceited asshole in some circles. This puts me on the short list for Those Who Are Condemned To Hell, because in order to be a good Christian, one must always think of others and see to their comfort and eschew their own.

I say Fuck that. See? I swear like a sailor.

I’ve been the dutiful wife, caring, dutiful mom-sister-daughter-friend. I still am, as a matter of fact. I just happen to care about myself, too. I am, therefore, a shoo-in for that long-boat ride with Charon down the River Styx.

That pretty much sums it up.

I hope that Hell has good pizza.

pizza
Pretty, petty, pretty good.

Laughter IS the best medicine.

There are so many things that I could take to this blog and bitch about. I mean, ever since the events of the Presidential election last year, there are new offenses every single day. Sometimes there are multiple ones in an hour. It has become crazy, and I find myself being pulled down by it with every, single blasphemous incident. There are millions who feel the same way, and I think our biggest outrage is reserved for the fact that there are millions who don’t feel the same way, and still others who are able to shrug it all off because they imagine that it doesn’t affect them and nothing’s going to get in the way of them living their lives. Well, nothing, that is, until something does. I am not a pessimist, nor am I an optimist – I like to characterize myself as a pessi-optimist – but I have a feeling, in my gut, that shit’s about to get real. I mean, millions woke up yesterday in Hawaii thinking they only had 10 minutes to live, due to a glitch and a false report of North Korea firing its missiles at the islands. It took a full 40 minutes of golf time (I’m not going to say exactly who was playing golf for 40 minutes while a state was under the assumption that it was about to be obliterated off the planet, but it was not Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton.) before the problem was assessed and an announcement was made about the error. Oops, stuck in a sand trap, so sorry about that. Mahalo!

I have freaked out here before about that orange catastrophe in the White House. No, Sarah Huckabee Sanders did not spill her Fanta. All that would have done is improve her wardrobe. Today, I want to laugh. I have had the Plague for what feels like a million days and I am, at last, beginning to to feel better, and I want to laugh. Plus, it’s Dave Grohl’s birthday and celebrations must be held and fervent worship should be lavished upon such a God. He is the only God I want to be screaming “Oh Jesus!” to. Ummmm, yeah, I went there. And it’s okay. He’s on the laminated list.

dave grohl
Today’s your birthday, Mr. Grohl. I have a present for you. *wink wink*

Okay, here are a few things that make me laugh. Let’s begin, shall we, with the sort of ads that Facebook thinks I want to see in my feed. We all have a vague sort of understanding about the algorithms Facebook and other websites use that seem to reach into our brains and pick them. Search online for a bra? Facebook will suddenly inundate your feed with great deals on bras. Even if you didn’t originally click on a bra ad on Facebook, that’s okay; Facebook still knows. Actually, I’m lying. It isn’t okay. You search on Google for a bra and Facebook somehow knows? It’s like there’s a sort of peeping Tom, underground KGB shit going on in the interwebs that knows your every click. And well, I guess that’s the thing; they do. They know what you do. They can trace it. They watch. And they can come after you if you do some shady shit, so don’t do shady shit. I’m just saying; if you do a search for “Clowns in ladies’ negligees”, someone’s gonna see that shit and the jig will be up. Not only are you a sick fuck because clowns are evil and no one in their right mind wants to see a clown in a negligee, but you are banned from ever using any of my devices because I will cut you if I ever see a clown in a negligee.

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This has nothing to do with anything, but after my mind conjured up a clown in a negligee, I needed a diversion. I googled “Happy shit” and this is what I found.

 

Anyway, let’s get back to me and my innocent web search for a dress for my daughter’s wedding last year. I wanted something beautiful, and I found a gorgeous, vintage dress, which I purchased.20180114_144654-1319804699.png It was absolutely smashing but then when the day dawned, it was unseasonably cold and I had to wear something else. I was disappointed and am waiting for an occasion to wear a vintage-style flapper dress someday. I don’t know when that will be, since I am a hermit crab/hobbit and never go anywhere. The ideal scenario would be for me to discover a time machine, put the dress on, and be transported back to do the Charleston with George Bailey at Harry’s high school dance instead of Mary doing it and then George and I could fall in the pool after Alfalfa opened the floor and then make passionate love in the locker room afterward instead of how it ended up going down with Donna Reed. I mean, damn, she was a really nice girl but the sexual tension was ridiculous and if it had been me, I would have let him do me up against a locker and fuck the wrestler robe and the Buffalo Gals. Youth is wasted on the wrong people.

Back to the dress and the algorithms and Facebook’s assumptions about what I want to wear. You thought I had forgotten, didn’t you? Between Dave Grohl and a dashing, young Jimmy Stewart, I confess I almost did. So I bought that gorgeous dress, and never bought another dress online after that. I did look at a maxi dress here and there, but apparently Facebook thinks that what I really want is not a maxi dress. Facebook thinks I want these:

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Very dramatic. Lucille Ball would have looked good in this. In 1950.
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Now, just what the fuck is this? I know I’m a witch, but this looks like some Bewitched poo-poo goody-two-shoes stuff.
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Polka dots? I don’t even have anything to say about this.

Oh, and not to be too predictable, this gem:

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Even if I had the body, I wouldn’t wear this. Not enough boob exposure. Oh and yes, I would have to change careers. I always wanted to work a pole.

Not a single maxi dress in my feed. Just vintage-inspired June Cleaver nightmares and porn star bodycon. Someone mixed up my algorithms with Betty Boop.

Facebook also thinks I need this ring, because I see it every day. Not gonna lie. I love it. Someone should tell the husband, because if I do, it’ll just be obvious and I ought to just buy it myself and save him the trouble of figuring out what would be The Perfect Valentine’s Day Gift.

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It’s 75% off!

Another thing that I find absolutely hilarious? Google “Donald Trump and his imaginary accordion” and watch the video. You will die. I cannot say anything positive about that f’n guy except that he makes this stuff sooooo easy.

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You gotta google it and listen. Chuckles for days. Guffaws, even.

I also find these things hilarious. Except when they refer to my vagene as a kipper. Why would anyone want to name their vagina after a fish? I’ve known women who smelled as if they stored them in there, but really? A kipper?

I do want to assert that if this chart was the ass-backward way that one could pick out one’s name, I would want to be Fiona Kline.

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Have at it. All you “B” surname people? I feel your pain and outrage. But “S” and “E” are pretty bad, too.

 

Let’s go back to algorithms for a moment. This is what Facebook thinks I need. I feel that I should point out that I do not go out in nature and traipse about in the snow, and neither do my cats. They are hobbits, just like me.

 

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That cat looks super-pissed.

I don’t know about you, but I’m laughing. Laugh with me, okay? Not at me. I know, it’s hard to not conjure up the kind of person I seem to be based upon my Facebook algorithms and assume that I am a woman who wears Donna Reed’s wardrobe, takes nature walks during snowstorms with her cat, and names her vagina. I would laugh at that woman, and probably offer to call her a cab back to Pleasantville. I am the sort of woman who finds Sir Ian McKellan and Patrick Stewart cuddling on a ferris wheel  in matching derby hats adorable, though, and I much prefer that woman. Suck it, Facebook!

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If this does not make you laugh, I don’t want to know you.

A Public service announcement because we no longer get them under this regime, or: You make me sick.

I have a cold, or a sinus infection, or influenza, or the Bubonic Plague, or some sort of nasty germ facilitated by the North Koreans to fell Trump haters. Okay, just listen to my reasoning before you protest that Dear Leader hates ALL Americans and wants to get rid of ol’ Orangutan Buttface. I actually think that Kim-Un Bowl Cut likes the fact that the US has a demented old fuckface running the show over here because it makes him seem less crazy. He therefore wants to see Trump Resisters burn, like so much kindling at a campfire. The antics of 45 are a shit show that the rest of the world watches with grim fascination. It’s like the show “My 600-Lb Life”. (Or The Teletubbies.) You want to look away. You just can’t.

Anyway, I am sick.

This isn’t a big shock to me or to anyone who knows me. I have a bad spleen and infections and viruses gravitate toward me like a screw to a magnet. Working out in the public has always been perilous for me because I can’t fight off the plague like others. Working in a refrigerated environment was actually a plus because no one wanted to come back and see me until the summer time, when cold and flu season was over. Now, I work from home, cutting out my interactions with humans to only those I choose to expose myself to. When others are ill, I avoid them. (Like the plague, har-har-har!) Nevertheless, sometimes, I am exposed to germs when I go to the store or spend time out of my hobbit hole. This was the case over the holidays, when it was easier to go to the kids than to make the kids come to me. Unfortunately, kids are around lots of other kids and no one can vouch for good hygiene of kids that aren’t their own. Lots of parents send their kids to school sick. We all know what a seething petri dish of disease schools are, and no matter how hard we try, invariably a germ or two will make its way home on a kid. I could have caught an errant germ from a grandchild, or one of my children, or from the cashier at Aldi. One could have jumped on board The Male Sibling Unit at work and he may have shaken it loose onto me when he got home. The point is, when I get sick, I fucking do it right. I don’t just get one symptom, or two; I get all the symptoms. Sore throat, coughing, nasal congestion, sneezing 6-fucking-thousand-times-in-a-row, body aches, fever, headache. When one symptom appears, I grab the cold meds stat and walk around in a medicated haze, hoping to head the rest off at the pass. Vitamins, holistic medicines…none of these will fix my spleen, which has been enlarged and inflamed not once, but 3 times due to mononucleosis. You’re only supposed to get that once, but I guess once was not enough for me, greedy Taurus bitch that I am.

This time, I was trying to recover from an awful menopausal migraine, so the Plague snuck in before I could throw a Nyquil bomb at it. Now, I am not only taking Nyquil, but Dayquil, and aspirin, and using my little inhaler, and drinking tea, and trying to stay warm during a polar bombogenesis. Hahaha! I used that word in a sentence! I am actually happy to be running a fever, because at least I am sweating in -25° wind chills. Through the haze of medicinal fog, I am attempting to blog because I have important shit to say. This will either be the greatest writing I have ever accomplished or it will be a complete fuck-off.

This is what I need to tell you:

Seriously. It’s as simple as that. Look, I am not whining about being sick. It’s inconvenient and unpleasant as hell and I would rather not be sick at all, but I understand that it happens. I am more susceptible and I have to proceed through this life with that caution in my head. I am not, however, a compromised individual, like an elderly person, an infant, or someone with an autoimmune disease that leaves them more vulnerable to disease because their condition has worn them down. I am not a cancer patient fighting for her life, undergoing chemo or radiation, leaving my system completely open to even the mildest cold germ out there. How do you know? It’s simple: You don’t. And if you’re like me, and you dread getting sick (and if you don’t dread getting sick, then I think you already are) then why wouldn’t you want to prevent germs from spreading?

There you go. The Chain of Infection. If you’ve ever worked in healthcare, this gets drummed into your head on the first day of infectious diseases class. The CDC explains it like this:

More specifically, transmission occurs when the agent leaves its reservoir or host through a portal of exit, is conveyed by some mode of transmission, and enters through an appropriate portal of entry to infect a susceptible host. This sequence is sometimes called the chain of infection.

We could get all scientific in explaining this but fuck that, I have a fever and I’m starting to get sleepy. The bottom line is that you need to BREAK the chain of infection. There are lots of ways; if you’re sick, don’t go to work or be around others. If your kid gets sick, don’t send them to school. Some of you will scoff and say, “A little sniffles never hurt anyone!” I don’t like you people; let’s just get that straight. You are not only the problem, but you’re probably germy and diseased as fuck and stay the hell away from me.

A great many more of you, however, will say, “I don’t get sick days” or “I will get in trouble with my boss” or “I can’t afford to lose even a day’s pay”. You people? I like you. I feel you. And I don’t have any answers that will fix these problems because they are a nationwide problem and one that seems to be unique to this country. Kind of like the bloviating Tang-hued baby-man who inhabits the Oval Office. It’s a problem we need to fix, but no one has quite figure out how yet.

Again, that’s why I say this:

If you break one of the links in the chain of infection, you neutralize the infection. You isolate it to the source. The simple way to break the chain is not to throw a gauzy, crocheted shawl around your shoulders and twirl like Stevie Nicks, but to wash your hands. The former sounds more theatrical, but the latter is more realistic.

I know, you’re gonna say, “I always wash my hands!” Well, good for you. Send me your address and I’ll mail you a gold star on a little bottle of hand sanitizer. Because that stuff also works well, especially if there’s no water readily available. But guess what? Not everyone does. In the last two weeks alone, I have been in two public restrooms, with a single other occupant, and again, guess what? I have heard the toilet flush, the stall door fly open, and on both occasions, some dirty, germy bitch walked right out of the restroom without washing her hands. On both occasions, I wanted to just gtfo without shopping because who knows where she went or what she touched? Sure, maybe both times, this hands non-washer had a little bottle of hand sanitizer in her purse, which she then used. But I don’t think so. Dirty, germy bitch.

So, please, take this advice. Be a part of the solution. Look, we can’t stop the Large, Orange Turd from germinating all over the Presidency, but we can stop each other from germinating all over each other. Being sick is not like Coco Chanel, looking all Scarlett O’Hara in her boudoir:

It’s more like this;

I’m going to go to sleep now. I have nothing more to say. Auf Wiedersehen, and geshundheit.

Planes and trains and automobiles

Right now, everywhere, writers like me are gearing up to publish their “Auld Lang Syne” chapters in their blogs, their columns, their social media. I have been caught up in reminiscence, contemplating the events that shaped 2017 and culminated in loud pronouncements of “2017 can suckit” and “Goodbye, 2017….don’t let the door hit you in the ass”. There have also been quiet, weary statements like “I am so glad this year is over.”

I used to be one such person, uttering either the former or the latter. I have had some pretty awful years in the 50 I have inhabited this planet. There were the years of struggle and years of poverty. There were years of drama and chaos. There were years of physical exhaustion and mental anguish. “Freight trains”, I called the constant upheavals that barreled through and obliviated anything that seemed normal. My life; indeed, my family’s and quite a few of my friends’, seemed to resemble more of a train depot, where the trains would roar through, dropping bombs that detonated, charged with misfortune and the bad choices that resulted, leaving behind casualties of pain and sorrow. Sometimes, the trains would briefly stop and leave parcels of discontenting scenarios and bad options, and we had no choice but to make the best of what we were left with. There are no returns in this life. You get what you get and you either deal with it or you step onto the tracks as the next train sounds its warning whistle. There were times when it seemed like we had just recovered from a freight train when the ground would begin to shake and the windows would vibrate and you could hear the rumble that signaled that the next one was nearly upon us.

In the past couple of years, I have noticed that the trains have been diverted from this stop. They don’t pass through nearly as much as they used to, and while I am grateful to no longer be “on the line” I also know that the Big Railroad called Life could add a stop at any time. There could be a runaway train. I would love to shut down the depot but I can’t seem to board it up. I keep listening for the whistle and putting my ear to the ground. I stop, frequently, to feel the tracks for that vibrating hum that signifies an arrival coming soon. I have never liked surprises, even happy ones, and freight trains that cause upheaval are never bringers of happiness.

This diversion, while most likely temporary, has given me time to think about things. When I did my “review of 2017” it dawned on me that 2017 was really a continuation of 2016, when the big trains stopped coming. Oh, we had a few smaller ones, but nothing that decimated anything. The thing that I noticed was that these trains, while unexpected, had come through before, dropping off parcels filled with warning signs and preludes to unfortunate events. None of the bad stuff was happenstance; the writing had been on the wall. It seemed that, because I had been armed with the ability to sort of forecast the next arrival of a train, it was no longer as soul-crushing or decimating as it might have been, had I not been paying attention.

That, there, is my philosophical way of saying that bad shit just happens and what you do with the bad shit influences your ability to either deal with more bad shit or to shut the door and say, “None shall pass.” I could have just said that, but I liked weaving the whole “freight train” analogy. It’s more creative and wordy, and I am a goddamned writer, for fuck’s sake.

2017 wasn’t bad. Many wonderful things happened. I left a job I hated so much, walking through a pit of snakes barefoot would have been a preferable option to taking the shit I took daily. Some people can navigate the world of retail and be successful at it. Some people are impermeable to the optimism-crushing business practices of a big box conglomeration of corporate ineptitude and utter bullshit. None of those people work at Wal….errrrrr, Voldemort. Look at their faces. Talk to them a bit. There is blackness, weariness, and utter contempt brewing just underneath the surface of their “Happy to Help” smiles and false brightness in their voices. The job beats you down, and if the job doesn’t beat you down, the corporate selfishness and inexplicable cruelty to its employees will in short order.

I thought I was entering the field I wanted to be in when I took off the blue vest horror and burned it and shot holes in the happy face swag, but my health had other ideas. Instead, I found a job that was made for me, utilizing the skills I possess and combining them with the added bonus of not having to leave my house to do it. For an anxiety-ridden, OCD-laden, depressive disorder-maligned train wreck (*wink*) such as me, this was a Godsend.

Oh yeah, that. 2017 was the year I threw off the cloak of invisibility that allowed me to walk amongst the religious without drawing attention to the fact that I was not one of them. And had never been. Lying to the world I knew had become so normal that it suddenly was abnormal. I couldn’t do it anymore. So I. Just. Stopped.

Okay, let’s call 2017 The Year I Dumped the Koolaid. So much bad koolaid. Grape. I hate grape.

I mean it.

In 2017, I found my happy place, by the ocean. I went to concerts. I also successfully spoke to (and hugged! SQUEEEE!) celebrities I admired. This here was a BIG deal, because the possibility that I would have taken one look at any one of them, made an awkward face, yelped something like “Ghouuuulerrrrpemeritus!” and then run to hide behind the husband was actually a pretty good bet.

I got more tattoos. I shaved the side of my head. I put in all my piercings. I wore what the hell I wanted and made my face up in garish fashion when it suited me. I presented myself to the public as utterly WHO I AM. I refused to capitulate to the idea that 50 is old and it’s time to embrace the old lady hair and start knitting socks. I like socks, but I can’t knit, only crochet. I have little patience for it, and socks are easier to buy. Plus, you can get so many different varieties on Amazon!

Most of that was just embracing my inner and outer self and allowing myself to be unapologetically whatever-the-fuck I feel like being every day. If it needs to be said, I say it. If the day can best be attacked from the comfort of the couch, I allow it. I listen to my body and don’t push it beyond the warnings it gives me. Most of the time. I accept that I am a massively flawed human being and that means that when I am not fun to be around, I should just retreat until I can be. I don’t love that. In fact, I hate it. But I have made an uneasy pact with who I am and my limitations and if it keeps the trains away, then it’s all good.

Bad things happened. This was a very tough year for a lot of people I love and if I could have diverted the trains out of their way, I would have. Those things did not happen to me, but the feelings of helplessness and the frustration of not being able to “fix” things were the emotional burdens I chose to carry. Some days, it was a lot and I had to wonder if this life was just some sort of big “Pnk’d” episode.

I know it’s expected, but I won’t do it. I won’t GO OFF about the shit show that is playing itself out in this country. I will not rant about the DUMPSTER FIRE that is the White House. I will not LOSE MY SHIT over the complete and utter idiot who has taken a MASSIVE CRAP on the Office he holds. Nope. Won’t even say the name. I am not known for my restraint, but this time, I will abstain.

It rhymes with “Dump”, though.

No, it was not a bad year. It was a continuation of this thing called Life. If you’re just humming along, one can bleed into the next. If you aren’t paying attention, or only listening for the freight trains, you might not see the little deliveries of bliss, contentment, and just plain ol’ happiness that make their way to you by truck, by car, by plane, or on foot. What I mean to say is that there aren’t train tracks everywhere. Certainly, you need to look both ways before crossing them. Just don’t be so preoccupied by the possibility that you miss the other deliveries. Those are the stuff.

On to 2018!

Christmas bells are ringing. Can you hear them?

We are entering those last couple of chaotic, frenzied days before Christmas dawns and a new kind of frenzy begins: the tearing of gift wrap. People are racing around, some shopping for the first time, some finishing up, and others just putting finishing touches on their purchases. Meals have been planned, ingredients purchased, people making their lists and checking them twice. Some got started months ago and are looking on smugly at the ones who are still racing about, trying to get everything done. Let me be clear: I am not one of those smuggy McSmuggersons.

It has become exhausting, the whole thing, hasn’t it? The stress of simply making ends meet is hard enough the other 10 or 11 months out of the year, but the pressure that is exerted upon people to outperform, to exceed expectations, to go above and beyond to make it “an unforgettable holiday” is just staggering. Gone are the days when the toys Santa left underneath the tree had manageable price tags. Maybe it was hard, even then, to afford everything, but it certainly wasn’t as overblown and inflated as these days of Ipads, $800 cell phones, and $100 hoodies. Even the “lower end” items aren’t affordable; a parent has to basically pray to the Santa God to be able to find that hot item in the store because if it can’t be found, then it’s off to EBay to bid on one and pay twice or more than the original price because God forbid Junior might be disappointed.

When I was a kid, I was seldom disappointed at Christmas. My wish lists were never grandiose but we were very poor, and I know that it was hard for my mother and grandmother to afford things. I remember festive holidays, although I do not remember what it was like for them underneath the tree. I recall my homemade gifts and gifts crafted at school (every parent in the 70s remembers at least one gift from their child made of oak tag and macaroni, painted and glittered) and maybe a gift for each, store-bought with allowance money or babysitting money. I don’t know who filled their stockings when I was too young to do it. I imagine they went without.

Parents are going without again. Maybe in most cases, they always have. When I was raising my kids, their father and I always made sure there were gifts for each other. Christmas was the one time of year, aside from birthdays, when we went all-out. We spent the rest of the year focusing on the kids. If I wanted new shoes, I knew that Christmas was the time to ask. Or a coat, or a bottle of perfume. There simply wasn’t money for stuff for ourselves at any other time of year.

Nowadays, we are such an instant-gratification society that we fill the needs and wants year-round. We’ve conditioned our kids to expect it, too. Your 14 year-old broke his cell phone? You go get him a new one. Even if you go into debt, you just…..you do it. The alternative is to listen to him bitch. Or for him to be maligned in school. Things are different now; society is technologically driven. If you buy your 4 year-old a stuffed animal, it comes with a specially-coded tag that you can scan with your cell phone and input on a website, and then your 4 year-old can play wonderously adventurous games online, using an accurate representation of her new stuffed animal. And yes, by age 4, of course your 4 year-old can navigate her way around a website. When I was 4, I could read and write, but “computer” wasn’t even a word to me. I could make a mean mudpie, though, filled with sweet pea pods and milkweed, and cajole a 3 year-old into eating it. Those were the sum total of my advanced skills.

Those simpler times are gone. All the yuletide joy found at Christmas seems to be gone, too. My daughter-in-law and I were recently talking about how fun it used to be to go caroling. People used to do that, walking along the sidewalks of their neighborhoods, singing carols and occasionally being invited in for cocoa. Neighbors would bring out cookies. It was beautiful, especially when it snowed and the whole world was a bluish-white and the snowflakes glittered and the Christmas lights twinkled and when you finished a song, the silence in the air was the most perfect “sound” you had ever heard. On perfect, Christmas nights like that, one could be lulled into believing in the story of a child laid in a manger by young, exhausted parents and a star lighting the way. One also believed in the magic of Santa Claus and his reindeer and nothing was more exciting than climbing into bed on Christmas Eve and wondering where the jolly fat man was at that very moment.

Are those days gone, blown aside by technology and innovation; cast off as old-fashioned traditions; or even worse, deigned politically incorrect and out of time with the way things are today? When was the last time you sat, by the light of a Christmas tree, sipping something hot, and listened to some beautiful music? When was the last time you stood outside in the bracing cold and opened your mouth to catch a snowflake on your tongue?

Do you want to build a snowman? Yes, I know I just cursed you by putting that song into your head, but is that such a bad thing, really? How about going out after a new snowfall and making a snow angel, or having a good, old-fashioned snowball fight, followed by hot chocolate while your winter clothes lay in a cold, wet, heap by the door? Can you use your imagination and recall the way wet mittens smell? Do you remember what it was like to step in a wet puddle made my your boots as they dried by the door?

You can, if you try. The magic of Christmas is not found in the latest gadget, or must-have item. It isn’t found by going into debt for months to afford one day. It was never meant to be the retail-driven behemoth it has become. And it makes me very sad to know that plenty of people have never known those simple joys of Christmas. Lots of people dislike A Christmas Story because it has become a sort of tradition, watching it at least once (or in bits and pieces throughout Christmas day) and laughing about the funny parts. The thing about that movie, though, is its simplicity. It manages to convey everything I remember loving about Christmas, even though it took place a good 35 years before I was born. It harkens back to simpler times, when there was wonder on a child’s face at Christmas. Now, we are all, every one of us, jaded.

My wish for you all this Christmas is to find that wonder, reacquainting yourselves with the joy. Hold it within you, if only for a moment. As Tom Hanks’s Santa said, in the wonderful film, The Polar Express, the magic of Christmas lies within your heart.

Merry Christmas, my friends.