A promise is a promise....(unless you have ADD)

A few days ago I made a promise to my blog readers. I take a promise quite seriously, unless of course I forget that I promised or something comes up that prevents me from following through on said promise.

Which is what happened today.

I poured myself a strong cup of coffee, got all comfy in my chair, cracked my knuckles and prepared to create another earth stopping post.

Uptown...part duex was to be the title.

Suddenly I found myself sweating bullets.

I tried this....

and this...

and I was just about to get naked when suddenly I thought about the fan in the hallway.

I set it up to blow right on me and I cranked the bugger to #3.... it whispered, when I expected a roar.

After an quick examination I see the problem.

(Just more evidence of me falling down on the job. From the song...I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan...and never never for------get bout the fan (or something like that)....

Anyway the freakin fan was clogged with dust.

Never mind it was.....

5:40 in the morning.

I went to work fixing the problem

And using some advanced and intricate tools I worked toward making things right.

The fear of an electical shock had me using a rat tail comb to dig the dust out....(I probably should have unplugged the thing before I took it apart).

It soon became obvious I needed to bring out the "big gun".

Then this little bimbo

joined the vaccum in making so much noise the whole damn family was soon going to be up...She barked till I kicked her in the jaw (just kidding, just kidding).

I was getting frustrated trying to get the fan put back together...

My fake claws made the job tougher than it should have been.

When I got the fan put back together and turned on it still was barely blowing.

I was almost ready to give up and jump my sweaty azz into the shower...suddenly...SUDDENLY, I channeled my inner Daddio and I knew what to do to help with my HOT hot flash....

Yes, I turned on the air conditioning.

And all was right again in my hot little world...except I ran out of time to follow through on my promise....

Uptown, part duex coming soon to a blog near you.

It's the 18th of June....

I remember having lots of conversations with my grandpa about the passage of time.

"It goes fast when you're old Babe" he'd say.

"So fast, that a week passing seems hardly more than a day going by."

Half of June is old news already.

Seriously, I'm tired of being a grownup.

And having weeks and months fly by.

I want to be bored.

And lazy.

I want to determine time by sleeping until the HOT sun is peeking in my bedroom window,

I want to play until the street lights come on.

And take more than a glance at some of these...

I want to take a moment to listen to this neighbor's song....

And I swear to God, come hell or high water...I'm going to get on top of this ball.

I will have Googie let you know to which hospital they take my stupid 50 year old self when I permanently injure my spinal cord or suffer a massive head injury.

So long for now... I need to start checking pockets and lifting couch cushions....I hear the ice cream man comes around about 2pm.

And the dirty rotten scoundrel has jacked the price of his Chocolate Éclairs no doubt.

June 18th....I promise to enjoy thee.

All cheesy (and not proud of it)......

Saturday evening found me belly up on the couch in the living room moaning and groaning that I couldn't bear cooking one more mundane dinner..that I was so tired of the same old crap that we eat every damn day of our freakin lives and there (seriously) was (absolutely) no food in the house to cook even if I even wanted to.

"What sounds good" Daddio asked, trying to soothe my foul mood.

"Nothing" I pouted.

"Well on second thought, maybe Taco Bell" I said.

I suited up and hit the road.

In my little town you have two options to get to Taco Bell. One is through Town, which means speed limits so low I have to keep my foot on the brake to keep my car going the legal posted speed.....which is CRAWL.

The other is the Hall to Vreeland Road route...which means pot holes, random herds of deer, big (BIG) fast traveling trucks driven by drivers who all seem to have an eerie resemblance to Large Marge.

Vreeland Road also sports a train track with the stupidest train yard workers in the free world.

No matter what time day or night you pass this set of tracks there is a train on its way to being stopped dead over the tracks, I'm talking they sometimes stop the Caboose on the tracks, the one car Caboose... a fat man in suspenders stops the one car train literally within a few feet of clearing the tracks and then leaves it there idling. Pissin people off.

Especially people like me, filled with impatience and nerves wound tighter than a spring loaded seat belt retractor.

Take Vreeland Road, and you know your gonna be playing a game of beat the train.

And when I don't (beat the train)...which is almost every time, I beep my horn and I scream crazy crap out the window at the guy in the suspenders.

Not that he understands or even hears a word I’m saying… but it makes me feel better.

I promise the kids (and I seriously mean it) that one day one day I am going to be the lunatic that crashes into the side of the train...I'll go happy, I tell them.

Tonight I choose Vreeland Road, possibly the lesser of two irritations.

I successfully maneuver around the pot holes, I out run the deer and I beat the train....

Pooo-pooo-peee-freakin do....I am the man (just ask me).

Arriving at Taco Bell I see that I am number 36 in the drive-through.

I people watch, all the while Satan sits on my shoulder and urges me on, I critique the parking lot's walking dead, which seems to be every person entering and exiting.

I'm beyond evil and judgmental.

Waiting to be the next car to order, I'm able to read the entire 10x12 foot menu board in the 15 minutes I spend in front of it.

While reading I see this...

Taco Bell's new Crispy Potato Soft Taco....

A soft flour tortilla filled with crispy potato bites, Pepper Jack sauce, crisp, shredded lettuce, and real cheddar cheese.

OMG.....potatoes and cheese!!!!

I'll take ten.

Just kidding, I ordered 8 crunchy tacos and one potato taco.

The invisible person I was placing my order with asked if I wanted to donate a dollar to ckeoriendljkfneorue and for nowierh;a skjdfb;isuer;awe t.

"Yeah, sure" I answered, still riding high on my excitement about the new taco.

When I got to the window, I asked what my dollar was going for.

The kid left the window and me searching for an answer to my perplexing question.

Silly me, I'm such a pill…possibly I crossed some kind of boundary asking a question like that??

I was sitting at the front of the line holding things up… and getting a tad nervous.

I could see the guy behind me in my rearview it appeared he was getting madder by the minute.

The kid came back and explained that he was collecting dollars for moias'ro;tj werkgaw'r and kha;woeir hwejkf and to help kids graduate.

I gave him the buck; wanting to tell him that my own kid just graduated and I probably would rather give the buck to him...I just cut my losses and went forward.

When I pulled away from the pick up window the bag dangling from my free hand seemed a bit light.

I breathed a sigh of relief seeing that my new potato taco was in there.

But there were only 5 crunchy ones.

I pulled around and parked.

After a little 20 minute wait I was given my shorted tacos and out the door I ran.

Towards Vreeland Road and the flashing red lights.

I cracked open the bag, took out the potato taco, ate a bite and wrapped it back up.

Then I did it again, and again and again.

I was feeling a bit piggish downing that taco in the car.

I crumpled up the evidence wrapper and shoved it way down deep into my very dirty purse.

Cleaned off my mouth.

Dental flossed my teeth.

And wiped the huge smile off my face all before I walked in the front door with our dinner.

“It took you a long time” Daddio said when I came in. He walked toward me, squinting his eyes.

“Why do you have cheese and lettuce stuck to your chest?”

I wasn't sure what I should answer..."the counter guy and I got into a taco fight?"

"My chest is littered with shreaded chedder cheese and lettuce because the guy screwed up my order, and stole a buck from me and I was caught by another train on the way home and the tacos smelled so damn good and I was just too freakin hungry to just smell it any longer and so I tore into it and devoured it in a few piggish bites"...

"AND since you asked......"

"I'll tell you what is really going on and why I have a chest full of lettuce and cheese it's called emotional eating and buddy I am frickin starving....

I'm all stressed out, I'm working on a big party for Saturday, I love/hate parties, I'm worried worried worried and my last kid is graduating and I am scared to be the mother of completely grown children.

 I don't know if I know how to do that.

There I said it...now somebody needs to hide the peanut butter cups and the potato chips.

Good eye....

Daddio was lonely the other day and he invited me on a walk.

It was going to be a very long walk to a park about 3 miles from our home...(okay, maybe 2.5 miles, but it felt like 16.5 miles).

I made him wait while I grabbed my camera.

I was hoping my walk would provide lots of cool things for me to capture. Maybe a couple of masterpieces with my lens.

(I have no eye for photography....the above line was wishful typing).

When Daddio walks, he is a man on a mission, and because we were walking so fast I only had time to dribble in my underwear, not fiddle around pulling out a camera.

Until we got to the park, where he offered me a sit on a bench and a small rest.

Just like I thought, the park was full of wonderful things for this Steve Bloom wanna be.

I started with a beautiful serene looking duck that was floating down the lazy river.

I crept to where I thought I could get some good shots.

Shit, I missed.

Again.

My sidekick threw in his two cents "are you not seeing that there is a rythym to the duck going up and down in the water looking for food?" Daddio asked. " He comes up for breath every so many seconds. Can't you snap the picture then?"

(Uh, sure Ed McMahon, thanks)

 Ah, I'm starting to get the rythym..the rythym of the dandelions.

The sweet duck, dangerously near the sidewalk (and me).

Some kind of black bird.

And here is a cute little squirrel.

When I got home and reviewed my shots it became very apparent that I need to look to other nature subjects to showcase my "good eye."

Ahhh, finally one I can be proud of.

Takin care of bid-ness

Time sure flies when we're havin fun, or working too hard. I have health insurance through work and it's quite a good plan. So good, they mail my doctor letters about me and call me at home on a regular basis.

They also send to me pamphlets and reading materials in the mail about medical issues I don't have...(which of course scares the livin daylights outta me and has me drafting to Daddio a last Will and Testament).

A recent visit to the doctor had him flipping through my chart and mentioning that the insurance company had sent him a note asking him to remind me to get my mamogram.

And my pap smear.

And an eye exam.

And a blood test.

Geeeez!!

(Isn't that what your mother is for???)

Well, I've done most everything they've asked, and more.

But I guess most everything is not enough, because yesterday they called and left another lenghty message reminding me that I still haven't gotten the mamogram.

And I'm still getting letters and notes in the mail about the other tests.

Oooooo-kay, apparently there is a little communication problem going on here.

And a picture really can be worth a thousand words. So I will be taking this...

with me for when I'm up close and personal with the boob vice.

And I'll add it to an email with the pictures below to be sent to the insurance company.

See, new glasses (case is proof)

And proof of my visit to Jean Gray, Nurse Practitioner, extraordinaire.  

That should do it (although, I won't hold my breath).

On a side note....

(Am I the only one that has two thoughts instantly come to mind when my feet are in those stirrups???? (1). Damn, I wish I was more flexible and better able to shave the back of my thighs and (2). I hope my gold bar Dial lives up to it's hype.)

I'm having attacks.......

I have a lot of irons in the fire these days, maybe too many.

The past few days have found me in some kind of not so nice state.

I finally figured it out, I'm having apoplexy attacks.

An apoplexy attack, yes, exactly.

That phrase jumped out at me as I searched my mind for what word might accurately describe what I am feeling.

I hadn't heard it in a long, long time, and had no idea what it even meant.

Maybe I heard it when I eavesdropped on one of my mother's 1960's-70's conversations.

They talked weird back then.

I was relieved when a Google search popped up the word.

And theWikipedia definition fit.

Apoplexy is an outdated medical term, which can be used to mean 'bleeding'.

It can be used non-medically to mean a state of extreme rage or excitement.

Outdated, uh-huh.

Medical term, yep (a self proclaimed hypochondriac picks up on those kinds of words).

Bleeding??? Not recently. (In case you're new here, I'm mennnnnnnnnnnnn ah, never mind).

A state of extreme excitement and rage?

Yesterday at work I had a bit of both.

Standing around waiting for the magic moment we begin class I listened as the children (my loveable thugs) talked. The conversation centered around April 20th.

4/20

Wikipedia says this about 4/20,

4/20 is a way to identify oneself with cannabis subculture. The date 4/20 is sometimes referred to as "Weed Day" or "Pot Day.

Okay, sitting around talking about pot is not a normal in most people's lives, unless maybe you knew what 4/20 meant before I schooled you????

Then maybe you do sit around and talk pot.

Anyway, many conversations at my work center around pot.

Who dropped dirty? Who is expelled for thinking they could outsmart the staff and sneak outside and smoke a blunt?

They talk about other not so nice things too...

This is what you drink, eat, smoke, inhale, shoot up, to get high, to make your pee clean, to quench your munchies. To get higher than high.

Arrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Sometimes I wanna  hit them, honestly I do.

Instead, I just stop the talk and gather it around more appropriate things like measuring cups and funnels.

Today, before I could do just that, I had an apoplexy attack, which came about in the form of hysterical laughter.

One of my students, a blonde whose beauty may very well make up for her lack of grey matter stared wistfully skyward and whispered in her soft Marilyn Monroe like voice "I wish 4/20 was my birthday, wha'da party that would be, when I'm old enough maybe I'll change my birthday".

My mouthful of sugar coated Corn Flakes almost came out of my nose.

And that discussion turned into this discussion.....

"Did you see that? Miss Beth just choked on her Corn Flakes"

And onward our morning marched.

In class, we were short staffed.

And the strong smelled the weak.

After much coaching (begging) and encouragement (threatening) they did as they were asked.

And soon we were cleaning up the mess.

One very tall young man, who (somehow) wears the waist of his pants down around his knee caps was not in a very cooperative mood.

He'd worked, but I nearly had to do a handstand and spit nickels out my ass to get him to.

This morning's class was almost over, there was one thing left to do and that was to put the chef coats and aprons from the washer into the dryer.

I called out to him, as he was the closest to me.

"Come help me" I said

He looked at me.

"Come help me" I said again.

He looked at me.

"Come help me.. I need you" I said

He looked at me.

And then I had another apoplexy attack.

You would have thought I was home and with the children of my womb when I did what I did next.

I pulled out a pile of wet chef coats and I threw them at him.

They flew through the air, and when his hands failed to deflect them they hit him in the chest and rolled down his body till they hit the floor.

You might have heard a pin drop except the other loveable's collective sharp intake of breath made it impossible to hear anything over the sound of their shock.

They stared at both of us waiting to see what would happen next.

The big, tall, very angry loveable turned and walked out the door.

I was glad he choose that instead of pounding me into the ground.

I followed him and apologized for my lack of judgment. I told him that I was plain wrong to throw clothes, or anything, for that matter at him.

I let him walk it off, hoping he'd take in and accept my apology.

In the mean time the others were deep in conversation when I got back into the room.

"Miss Beth is going crazy" I overheard one say "this morning, she spit her Corn Flakes right out on the table".

Part Two...

Fearing what you know.....

I obsess over growing old(er).

I hate it.

And I totally blame my mother....

Mom, this is your fault.

I've not ever blamed you (out loud anyway) for my intense fear of the IRS or of deep, dark shark infested waters (you know, any body of water, except the backyard above ground)...but I do blame you for this fear of aging.

And you know, it's not that you haven't managed to somehow become even more beautiful as you age, it's those little comments that you make.

"Lizzy, I don't wear eye shadow anymore because it draws attention to my droopy eyelids"

and

"Saggy" you say as you slap your butt cheeks, looking over your shoulder into the bathroom mirror "what has happened to my butt????"

The scary part is that you exercise like a fiend.

You call me, breathless and panting from climbing high hills while you run-walk miles at at time in strange neighborhoods.

Pretty much every day of the week I listen to you huff and puff and say things like "Lizzy, you need to get movin".

Inspirational mom, but you know how much I hate to sweat.

So things aren't looking too good over here.

Arrrrrggggghhhhhh!

I hate it.

My saggin eyelids and my saggy, sagging butt cheeks.

And the bingo flaps.

And the jowls.

I really hate the fact that I feel like I've reached the top of the hill and it's down, down, down from here.

My recent trip to the gynecologist confirmed my (current) greatest fear.

So now I do know.

Something about my blood work.

I figured there'd be some fanfare attached to this life's stepping stone.

A personal tsuami or an earthquake for one..something, anything to tell me loud and clear...you are here. you are here. you are here.

I cried to my mommy, tearfully and broken hearted.

"Mom, I walked in the door a supple grape and walked out a shriveled raisin".

"The tests said I'm mennnnnnnnnnnnn ah , I can't even say the word."

How did this happen?

I am there.

I don't want to be there.

My mom laughed and said "you need to write about that, that is funny".

You're not the only one laughing mom, seems like the universe has joined you.

This morning when I commented on another blogger's post, that little stupid squiggly hard to read word you have to type before they will publish your comment said.....

"UGHLY".

I swear to God.

Anybody know of a good all over moisturizer?

I'm feeling a bit like an old saddle.

In the know....

Listen to what you know, instead of what you fear.

What a powerful quote by author Richard Bach.

How many of us do exactly that, listen to our fears and let them guide us?

I know I do.

What about what you think you know?

Does that count?

Should it?

I think I know lots of things...and that is where the fear comes in.

Do you really know?

Or do you just think you know?

And how do you know the difference?

Trust, says Marianne Williamson, is short hand for going with the flow.

So I guess I simply have to trust what I think it is that I know I know.

And stop letting fear be my guide.

Start going with the flow.

That doesn't mean that I would ever be stupid enough to sky dive to overcome my fear of heights.

Or befriend a spider or a bee.

I know I'm too fearful for that.

Please come tomorrow back (my grandfather's silly made up sentence) for Part Two...Fearing what you know.

102 and counting....

This this is my one hundredth plus two post.

My hundred o two.

My 102nd.

I think we should have some kind of party.

A very popular blogger that I follow recently hit her 1000th post..she was smart enough to remember to note that she was getting close to that marker, she waited till the time was right and she wrote a post about it.

She made it special.

She probably doesn't have ADD.

Or a husband, or kids.

Or a job.

Maybe she just blogs all day long and forgets to even comb her hair?

When I read her post, I thought to myself...hmmm, I should write a post about my 100th post and the sense of accomplishment I feel at writing 100 times on this blog.

I'd gush on to my thousands of loyal readers just how much fun I've had and I'd tell them how much I appreciate the gift of their time and attention that they've given to this blog and to me.

And to my numerous commenters (Mom, LD and Nicola, Kelly, Lauren, Jessi, Kim :-) I would say, thanks, thanks for your comments...it helps me to feel not so nuts (as in she is talking to herself nuts).

I was so giddy with thankfulness that I wanted to rush back and write that post.

I wanted to package up some luv and boxes of really expensive virtual chocolate and mail it right off to all those who stop by regularly.

When I hurried back to my own blog home, I discovered that I missed my mark...too late to do a 100th post post.

Missed it by 2. (damnitalltohell).

 A day late Two days late and a dollar short. (Even my cliché is a day off).

The story of my life.

Thanks for reading, if you read one, or one hundred and one two of my literary masterpieces...thanks.

I do so appreciate you.

xoxo

My Great Depression.....

It's no secret times are tough all over. The entire nation is suffering through the worst economic crisis since the mid 1920's and frankly I am about over it.

Since Daddio's layoff from his job six days before this past Christmas I've come to the realization that I have been a bit spoiled. And that I sometimes waste money on trivial things. The definition of trivial is going to be different from person to person. Another man's can't live without could be a total frivolity to the next guy.

A very personal interpretation, a need certainly is.

Due to a few bucks we saved from Daddio's previously good paying job, his unemployment and my job we are doing well enough and I have no true worries that we will be out on the street or that we'll have to survive on crusts of bread and pork & beans....still though things have been a bit different around here.

In the beginning it was a bit humbling to have to start watching my pennies again...not to say that I was a spend thrift before, cause I certainly wasn't.

I did often splurge on things that made my heart sing, things like lipstick and nice hair spray.

And perfume. Lots of perfume.

They know me in Macy's at the perfume counter. They know that every few months I'm in there slipping them big bucks for the good stuff.

I try to treat myself on certain occasions like my birthday and Mother's Day (and maybe some of the other big holidays, like the First Day of Spring or the First Big Snowfall of the Year).

And when I'm not buying, I'm begging for samples. I know which saleswomen will set me up. And I stop in when I know they're working. They always slip, real slick like, a few samples of the new stuff into my bag.

They know one sniff, I'll be hooked and then back for more.

Like a drug deal on 8th street.

I can't ever seem to get enough.

Forever searching for my scent.

And so far I'm not having much success in finding that perfect signature fragrance.

It's important to me to smell like something other than just me and being the fickle, all over the place, thing that I am I continue to try new things and chase ladies down street asking them what it is that they are wearing.

In the meantime I have a few bottles of foo-foo that suit me as okay (for the moment anyway).

But I'm getting low on those.

So low that some days it feels like a true emergency.

An empty Ed Hardy.

 Only a few drops left of Paris.

Recently I've started to panic...The First Day of Spring has already gone by and I see no extra flow to feed my addiction  make a frivolous purchase.

I pride myself on being resourceful and I've devised a plan.

I'll let you know how it pans out.

A mighty sweet gesture....adds to my beautiful garden.

~ We're never so vulnerable than when we trust someone - but paradoxically, if we cannot trust, neither can we find love or joy. ~ Walter Anderson

I received a package in the mail Tuesday.  It was sent by a new friend who happens to live halfway around the world from me in England.

(I still can't believe that I may have found a real live pen pal.... pooo-pooo-p-doo :-)

There were special instructions hand printed on the front.

I could hardly wait to open the package and dump its contents out onto a table. It was filled with candy...chocolate candy.

Like a kid at Holloween, I closely examined my mysterious loot.

Since I can't make a decision to save my soul, it was tough deciding which to sample first. But once I got started it was hard to stop.

Included in the package with my treats was a card with a warm note.

One day I plan to have a room where my computer and I shall sit surrounded by lots of my favorite things. Quotes, pictures, signs, notes, and even calendar pages that have inspired me for one reason or another.

(Googie,the sentence above the above sentence is in no way meant to hurry you out the door...honest ;-)

Anyway, I call my sentimental goodies my heart flowers.

Being a hoarding fool...my garden is absolutely packed.

When Daddio and I were in our tweens (I was 12 or so, and he was 13) he gave me a bouquet of weeds. The kind of weeds that pretend to be flowers. I pressed them between two pages of a diary that I kept at the time. I wrote in there that he'd come to visit and had plucked the flowers from my grass. It was such a sweet thing to do. It touched my heart and still does when every once in a while I pull out the old book.

In my little room I will display my weeds.

And the card that kept my chocolate company on its trip across the North Atlantic Ocean.

As much as I wish I could... I can't save everything, so many of my heart flowers linger only as memories.

For my big 4-0 birthday I was gifted a plate full of beautiful cookies. I ate only one and tried to think of a way to preserve the others. I decided to shellac them. They turned out better than I'd imagined they would. I placed them on a fancy cake dish and they hung out in my kitchen for years.

Every little kid that came over asked me if they could eat one...and they were heartbroken when I lifted the lid and let them smell the poisonous frosting.

I question (even to this day) my choice to keep the cookies...looking at them gave me pleasure for years, but they tasted soooo good, so good that more than 10 years later I can still remember exactly how good the one I ate tasted.

I learned my lesson with the cookies, I have no plans to shellac any of the candy. I plan instead to eat it all...every last bite and not share one sliver of the Maya Gold bar.

Of all the candy in the package my favorite is this organic dark chocolate bar. The kind sender included a sticky note inside the package that said " An acquired taste, but my favorite" ...sadly, the note wasn't attached to any one thing (that sticky wasn't so sticky).

 I have no idea which one she likes best.   :-(

I'm betting it's this one....

I do have some candy left..but I'm not sharing,

So don't anyone even ask.

(Many thanks to you dear pen pal for the sweets. I wanted to let you know that some flowers were planted today, in your honor. xoxo)

A whole lotta nuttin......

I totally (truly) am having the time of my life with this blog. If you like to write (or even talk really) a blog is a wonderful outlet. It is a tad self indulgent to think that people will want to read the crap that you have to say. And it's a bit of a dreamy fantasy to think that they will love reading your blog so much that they will place you on their favorite list and click on it from time to time to see if you've written anything new.  

And it could be an outright sign of some type of mental illness to imagine that they may look forward to reading you so much that you become a part of their day, like brushing their teeth.

Of course not all blogs are just a person's thoughts. Many help guide a person's interest. Maybe you always wanted to learn to shear a sheep, process the wool and knit a scarf?

Or learn taxidermy. This could come in handy if you happen to happen upon a wee squirrel that misjudged its leap from one branch to another and met with a premature demise. You might look at the little corpse and think the tiny fawn colored body would look great sitting lifelike above your fireplace?

Maybe you want to learn to cook with tofu. I mean, who doesn't love tofu? (puke) But what exactly do you do with it? I'm sure there are blogs to help you learn.

There are some blogs that are so cleaver and funny that they become famous. Take the one about the crazy, witty old dad. "Shit My Dad Says" it's a hilarious bit of reading and has a ton of followers. All the entries are something off the wall the author's dad says. The old man talks like a foul mouthed foul mouthed sailor. I blush sometimes when I read a snippet. 

For what it's worth, I honestly (seriously) could start a blog called "Crazy Azz Crap That Daddio says". I promise it would be equally hilarious. He doesn't swear much, but a lot of the stuff he says is equally unbalanced and totally "huh, WHAT...WOW" (how exactly does that man's mind work?)

Interesting stuff....

There are lots of mommy blogs out there too....quite a lot of poop talk. And always interesting and informative subject matter like how to get junior to take a nap.

My philosophy of using some Chloroform and a roll of duct tape would hardly garner me a ton of readers, I don't think. Who knows though, we are talkin the internet here.

There are blogs about blogging. And since I'm a "wet behind the ears" newborn in the blogging world I often turn to them for advice. They write about twittering (tweeting)? The say things about feeds (feeding?), it's mostly way too over my head to follow.

I fantasize though about doing all that stuff and maybe someday, someday I could appear on Oprah (like Dooce or Nienie) and talk about my blog.

I file that daydream next to the one where I'm a size two natural blonde supermodel who answers to the name Mrs. Elvis Aaron Presley. (Okay, there are still sightings and even though he would be well into his 80's by now...he is freakin Elvis!!!).

I don't have the balls to put my blog "out there" like many of the sites tell you to do. If you want your readership to grow you need to network...use social sites and advertise.

I have a Facebook thingy..but I don't have any pictures or much else on there. I started it mostly to spy on the kids. Then I couldn't quite figure out how it worked and so it just sits there and takes up space in cyber land.

So after thinking and thinking of ways to increase my readership...(if I do, in fact, really want to increase my readership) I decided to order some cards that advertise my blog.

Cute little business cards that I could hand out to people I want to invite to read my blog...but wait, I thought to myself.....if you ask a lot of people you know to visit your blog then you are going to have to be careful what you write. Careful that you don't spill too many beans or step on any toes.

I would hate to have my Dad read something I wrote about penises or have my Uncle John discover the horrible and very embarrassing truth about my cursing habit.

So cross out inviting people I know.

That leaves strangers....

 I'm sure I wouldn't feel comfortable stopping strangers and handing them a card...weird, even by my standards.

So I decided to drop my cards off where ever...places like stuffed in the middle of a library book (thanks work friends for that suggestion) or a magazine at the gyno's office, or on a seat at the airport. Or a table at Panera...everywhere and anywhere.

Not all who wander are lost and I can't wait to see who happens upon this blog.

Would you care to help? Send me an email at kobyismyname at aol dot com and I will send you a couple to scatter about.

Merci.... xoxoxox

Only when I have to......

The scowling, tattooed man beckons “Come, come, come, come, come on….” his hand frantically motions me toward him.

When I hesitate, his gestures become more wild. “This way, this way” he yells pointing.

I timidly inch my way toward his pointing. I’m so scared of falling off the edge, I creep along.

When I finally reach the place he wants me to be he stops yelling.

He frowns, then shakes his head.

His bony, dirty finger points again, this time to a sign.

I read, then obey.

I feel a small jolt and begin to move forward.

The place I move into is dark and noisy.

And it smells bad.

I get the feeling I’m going to get hit from behind. I cringe and brace myself.

There is sloshing.

And whipping.

And finally a swooshing sound.

My eyebrows begin to lift toward the roof.

So do my windshield wipers. Up, up, up they go, vibrating and hitting the glass.

The roof above my head threatens to be torn off.

When a second tattooed angry looking man bangs hard on my trunk I slam the gear shift to D, punch the gas, squeal the tires, and get the holy hell outta there.


Car washes scare the shit out of me.

Pining for Kanas....

Daddio and I were invited to a friend’s 40th birthday party, which took place last night. He had a gig and wasn’t able to make it (not that he'd have gone if he had absolutely nothing else in this world to do but trim his toenails, but this way he did have a credible out).

Mere seconds into my arrival to the party site I had a strong yearning to pull out a pen and a notebook, Harriet the Spy style.

Everywhere I looked, notebook worthy characters held up walls and leaned against bar stools holding pool cues or half empty beer bottles.

Too many notes and not enough napkins. So I took off my Harriet cap and slipped into David Letterman mode.

My Top Ten ...Reasons Why  You/Your Look Inspires spontaneous hysterical snickering List didn’t get off the ground (I was scared my pointing and laughing was gonna earn me an ass kickin)

 So I moved on...

To a Glamour’s Don’t and Don‘t Ever list.


1. Waist length silver hair. (This Don’t counts as two if you’re a man)

2. Basketball shorts and dress shirts. (buddy, where is your tie? Duh)

3. Sunglasses after dark. (Hard to read your poker hand in a dark bar)

4. In your face cleavage. (Holy crap... is that cleavage or is she nursing bald twins?)

5. Age spotted, wrinkled décolletés decorated with ornate rhinestone crosses. (Just plain ewwww)

6. Harold hitting on Maude. ( “huh?” click here)


And a Do……

1. It is perfectly acceptable to pretend you’re a lesbian in order to avoid  and ward off “The Pickup Artist”.

The whole evening was like an episode of The Twilight Zone.

Strange and a bit scary.

When my overactive imagination took me to a place where I felt like a working extra on That 70’s Show or Pulp Fiction….I made like Dorothy Gale and clicked my ruby red heels three times…

“There’s no place like home” I later told Daddio.

Sleep my child and peace attend thee.....

I used to consider myself a good sleeper. I worked hard all day and fell into bed exhausted at the end of a busy day. I'd get up to pee sometime in the middle of the night, do my business and then go right back to dreamland.

I considered my blissful slumber proof of a healthy mind and body.

And I totally took it for granted.

I don't sleep so well anymore. When I do, I have nightmares (so wild and crazy that recounting them to the blogosphere would probably have any readers deeming me a whack job).

I also have middle of the night anxiety.

That script, described, would also bring into question my sanity, or lack of.

"Is American Idol on for one hour or two tonight? Is that a bug on the rug? My God this blanket is hot. I hope Bear ate dinner tonight. Did I just hear the doorbell? What effect, if any, will global warming have on fish flies? Did Daddio just skip a breath?

Last night I had none of those thoughts. I remember staggering to the bathroom, and not looking at the clock.

And before that I remember talking to Daddio. I was laying, mummified and speaking like a drunk in a stupor. "Bear is depressed" I remember saying "he hates his life."

Daddio sprung from our bed and into his son's room to inquire about his mental health.

He told me this morning his son calmed his fears when he answered "Huh? Mom is nuts, I'm not depressed!"

Daddio also told me that as I slept I looked just like one of the Ninja Turtles (as in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles...not a nice image, I might add)...mouth wide open, buck teeth over exposed.

I can handle that...a small price to pay for that kind of sleep.

I woke up this morning refreshed.

And horrified....I'd slept in my clothes.

For the record...pajamas may be overrated.

Painful childhood memory(s)explain current behavior.....

This morning I had one of Oprah's "light bulb" moments. I was nursing a cup of coffee and reading the Parade insert from last Sunday's paper.

Conquer Old Fitness Hang-Ups the article title read.

Do you cringe at memories of being the last kid picked for a team in gym class or being teased for having two left feet? The first line asked.

That really grabbed my attention....

Oh yes, I cringed and I still cringe.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Tales of a fifth grade girly girl.

We were in gym class and were being taught a new game. The game involved a small group running up and down the length of the gym, while bouncing a ball and trying to get it into a basket high off the ground. One team would try to score and the other would try to prevent them from doing so.

My first introduction to basketball. A team sport.

I liked the look of this game. It was better than baseball or kickball where the focus was on one kid.

A big time microscopic (feeling) focus on a "You can't really do much of anything athletic can you?" kid like me.

The teacher asked us to get into groups of five. Everyone looked around and picked a couple of friends.

I had lots of friends and figured it would be easy to gather a group.

No such luck, you see..... I had a reputation.

The girl most likely to.... fall, trip, choke, lose..... fail at any and all athletic endeavors.

It wasn't so much that I was the last kid picked that hurt...it was that the kid picked right before me had a broken leg.

How do you play basketball with a broken leg?

Better than me....that's how.

Then there was the memory of the time I decided to become a Black Belt (never mind that there were 500 levels before becoming a Black Belt).

There was a dojo (school) in our neighborhood that taught a style of judo.

With a hope of conquering something, anything resembling a smidgen of athleticism I signed up.

I had no idea what to expect when I went for my first lesson.

After struggling through the first five minutes of warm up I knew I was totally outta place.

Tales of a teenage girly girl.

The dojo was filled with girls (I'm pretty sure they were girls) wondering (aloud) why anyone would come to learn martial arts with a face full of makeup and curled hair.

After ten minutes of that brutal first lesson a strange fluid began to leak from my forehead and trickle down my face. On its way it gathered some mascara which dripped into my eyes and caused me to do that goofy opened mouth one eyed look...resulting in what could best be described as a wink.

The bull -dykes thought that was hilarious.

And maybe even a come-on.

I didn't go back to find out.

(Disclaimer.....Just so you know....I don't think that all girls that do karate or martial arts are bull-dykes or butch...I'm just sayin. And in case anyone reading this may have been in that class or remembers this event, my number is unlisted and I've changed my appearance so don't even bother trying to find me.)

Being pathetically un-athletic and The Person Most Likely Not To Ever Break A Sweat is a hang up I still carry to this very day....a few of my closest friends are gifted athletes and I've just recently learned that even my sister, who runs like a bow-legged penguin (it's a family thing) is a natural at throwing a little ball.

I'm told she's showing some promise as a decent Beer Pong player.

I do sometimes feel less than….

The author goes on to explain that because of these tramatic childhood events we don't want a repeat and tend to shy away from these kinds of things.

Reading that article helped me to realize that painful memories from my youth most certainly formed the person I am today.

One who shuns exercise and refuses to ever compete physically.

And God forbid, I ever do anything that makes me sweat....

The memory of that freakin burning mascara in my eye is still wayyyyy too fresh.

Oh the places I sooooooo want to gooooo.....

When I was about 10 I had a “when I grow up list”.

I wanted to be an accomplished actress/singer. I wanted to write books. I planned to visit Egypt (with my Archeology club). Meet Elvis Presley and grow prize winning roses.

I also wanted to be a “C” cup.

Reach for the stars, I always say.

One out of five six ain’t too bad.

I now have what can be called a “Bucket List” of things that I want to do before I kick the bucket…not that I’m planning on doing that anytime soon and since 50 is the new 30 I'm figuring I do have lots of time yet to reach my goals.

I’ve always felt there was a Photographer inside me. He lives next door to the Painter.

A blogger that I frequently read suggests that if you want to be a good photographer you need to take pictures…lots of pictures. She suggests taking a picture a day and saving them. Soon, she says you will see progress and you should develop an “eye”.

Okay…so I started a new blog.

It’s called A Picture a Day....(please stop by)

I’m also working on a similar goal of a painting (or drawing) a day.

Day one

Could it be...

…… Satan?????

There are things in our world and even more specifically our lives that reek of pure evil. We don’t have to ask could it be Satan. We already know.

Webster’s Dictionary explains to us that in Christianity, the devil (Satan) is of course the enemy of God, the lord of evil, and the tempter of human beings.

I am certain Satan has wormed his way into my house.

As Christians we’re taught Satan’s a crafty fellow who if allowed, will infiltrate (and possibly take over) your life.

So aside from having moments of acting “Satan like” (while suffering spells of perimenopausal irritation)…I’ve also looked Beelzebub right in the ugly mug.

And this is the vessel ....this right here is Satan

This little devil magnifies your imperfections 10 times.

TEN TIMES!!!!!

Satan whispers into your ear..."Look at that hair on your chin, it has to be a foot long. And that 2x2 crater holding that black crap on the side of your nose...ewwwww"

"Pluck it"

"Pick it"

"Pick it"

"PICK ITTTTTTTTTTTTTTT"

Weak obedience.

The mischief maker's work is done here.

Where else will he turn up?

In a pretty dish in my fridge.

This sin goes by the name of Cinabon

One bite I tell myself, just one little bite.

Okay, half, just eat half.

Well, if you stop before you lick the plate......

All the while Beelze cheers me on.....

"10,000 calories, 549 grams of fat, (its gotta be a typo....)"

"Its so gooey and delicious, eat girl, eat".

Once again, the weak obeys.

I suffer a stomach ache. And a headache. And a general feeling of all over shit. Cinnamon is poison for my colitis.

Anybody know a good exorcist?