A love that's divine....

Today is my wedding anniversary, Daddio and I have been officially official for 28 years.

Even though we were a true official couple for eight years before we tied the knot October 29, 1982.

He fills my heart with laughter...

He asked me the other day to buy him a new shirt.

Any color was fine, as long as it was black.

Like usual he tells me he doesn't want it too big or too small, as usual he wants me to find the perfect black shirt.

"What size would you like" I ask.

"A smedium, I'd like the shirt in smedium" he answers.

(Seriously...he wants me to find him a smedium shirt.)

He's unbelievably supportive...

When I ask him if I'm certifiably crazy...

or a rip roarin bitch,

he answers "you have a lot of stress in your life".

There have been times when I've gained all kinds of poundage and my pants were being held together with a large rubber band under a long shirt and I'd inquire "do I look chubby..?"

"Nah" he says "you look healthy."

He's protective too...

When it's brought to his attention that kid A or B or C has been disrespectful, hurtful,  or a general pain in the ass....

he's been known to respond..

"You want me to rip their face off?

I've been wanting to take that kid out for years".

Ease my troubles, that's what he does.

There's a love that’s divine
And its his and its mine,
Like the sun.
And at the end of the day,
We give thanks and pray,
To The One, to The One.

Have I told you there's no one else above him?

He fills my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness,

Ease my troubles, that's what he does.

Have I told you lately that I love him?

Cause I really, really do...

"Not too high" I tell him as he tries to get to my garter...

I almost (but not quite)...

broke my ankle last night.

For two nights in a row in the middle of a deep hazy dream filled sleep I am summoned, ordered really, by my Drill Sargent caper sized bladder to get my...

 assouttabedquicklikebeforeIpeeallovertheplace

 in your face, " uh-oh" gotta go gotta go gotta go right now...

ohhh shit..I really (seriously!!) gotta pee feeling.

I'm always surprised by the urgency, even though I seem to have a vague memory of bickering with that ol bladder of mine for the past hour or two...

"psst...I gotta go" it says politely.

"In a sec" I reply and go back to conversing with my lunch dates.

We are dining ocean side.

The water, blue and inviting.

"Ummm...I really need to go now" my bladder calls to me again.

It figures that just as Liam Neeson is passing me a caramel macchiato it interrupts, again.

"Wait" I hiss "just a few more minutes.

Please, let me enjoy this moment just a bit longer"

Steadman chuckles as Oprah leaned forward to allow me a quick sniff of her neck.

She's just about to disclose the name of the heavenly scent she's wearing...

the perfume, a gift from Donna Karan who blushes a bit when Oprah and I start babbling about her other delicious fragrances.

I want to hear all about the two of them dating, Liam and Donna...an unlikely pair in my celebrity watching eyes.

"I can't (and won't) wait any longer" my rude bladder informs.

Finally, the nagging is too much and I know I have to comply.

I fight to get out from under my pile of blankets.

I karate chop style beat Daddio's leg off me.

All the while trying to pamper my stiff back which is threatening to seize up, rendering me temporarily paralyzed.

That would be awful because I'm positive I'm near wetting the bed.

And if the soaked sheets didn't wake up poor Daddio, my howls of pain surely would.

Daddio has no sympathy gene, this is especially apparent in the middle of the night.

I was trying so hard to be careful, yet hurry at the same time.

Finally the shackles of my bed release me and I am free to dash to the pot.

Except...

my blanket has one last bit of fight left in it

and it has a hold of my foot,

and I nearly fall head first out of bed,

but my twisted ankle saves me.

I heard it crack, but it was still functioning when I finally righted myself and headed in the direction of the bathroom.

On my feet now, my eyes refused to open.

I forced one open with my fingers and it was blurry and not focusing.

This, of course, triggered my inner hypochondriac, causing me to quickly surf my mind files for possible causes.

None of which were my new old lady eye cream.

I curse my old age and the fact that I can't ever go back to sleep or rejoin a neat dream in progress...damn it all to hell anyway.

Bird song...

I've always had a love/hate relationship with birds. Stay in the air and let me look at you we're good. Land on something in my sight, but not too near we're good. Soar above my head and let me envision riding on your wing...we're good. As much as I like birds, it is totally on my terms. As in I wouldn't consider (ever) having a bird share my indoor living space. (Ever see Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds?) I like to call myself a bird watcher, though I'm not the kind of birdwatcher my sister Susan is...I don't have a book and I can't distingusih sounds...but I delight in watching birds. And I especially like to watch birds on wires.. Here in Michigan I get lots of bird on a wire entertainment. So while I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one spending countless minutes trying to figure out how it is that the birds usually line up on the wire with even spaces between them, or how it is decided who exactly sits solo on the top wire, the guard bird??? Hmmm, and I wonder too, are there "mean birds"? Uppity birds that don't socialize with their neighbors? Ohh, the many mysteries of our universe for those who take the time to see and to listen. I wanted to put some neat bird on a wire pictures on this blog today so I Googled "Birds on a wire"... A confirmation that there are many, many bird on a wire fans out there. One guy looked deeper...and below is what he saw, or rather heard. (Turn up your sound... :-) Jarbas Agnelli viewed a picture of birds on a wire, he noted their positions and put them to music. Tell me...will birds on a wire ever look the same to you again...???

Bloody details...

This post is a themed writing project challenge taken from Jenny Matlock over at off on my tangent.

Jenny says we can use UP to 100 words to tell our story. It can be fact or fiction. Jenny posts a few words, a prompt that we work from. This weeks prompt is in bold itallics.


They’d waited weeks to hear the story of a survivor, first hand.

They listened, huddled at the lunch table, so close their heads almost touching as Barbara Osborn shared details of her accident.

“Blood EVERYWHERE” Barbara whispered, looking from girl to girl.

“More blood than anyone should ever have to see”

At seventeen, they knew better than to follow Barbara’s example.

She’d been warned too, but liked to do things her own way.

They all knew the accident was bound to happen sooner or later.

"This is the scariest story I've ever heard..."  

Dee Dee Flynn responded to Barbara’s finishing detail...

“Giving birth was like shitting a watermelon”.

Service with a smile....

Today my baby boy begins his official first job...or his first official job.

Hey...don't judge, the kid has an entrepreneurial spirit and has made lots and lots of money in unconventional ways (all of which are legal).

He had a paper route (and sure, Goog and I did most of the work, but hey...what are the girls in your life for anyway? right??)

He's made lucrative deals on Ebay and Craig's List.

He worked with a man building porches and another cleaning out repossessed homes.

He sells wise buys at the Gibraltar Trade Center.

And he also has a winning way with conning his mother out of a few bucks here and there.

So the kid has managed to make ends meet for a while and now he (and dad have) decided its time for a real job.

He's been looking for a long time, applying everywhere.

He's gone on an interview or two.

Initially he had no interest in working "fast food".

Everyone who works there has too many pimples, he explains.

They are in the midst of the grease all day long and look what happens, he says.

I have to work hard at keeping this gorgeous mug looking good, pimple free...don't want to back slide, he teases.

So he finally concedes and takes the fast food job.

He's happy to report that the training consists of playing a video game.

A video game that teaches one how to properly build a burger (oooohhhh holy brother, how this world has changed).

He had to drop I had to drop nearly 40 smackaroos on some ugly black non-slip dressy work shoes.

My suggestion of painting his old gym shoes black and slappin a bit of duct tape on the souls fell on deaf ears.

So since yesterday I'm feeling a bit sniff-ley at the thought of him beginning to make his way in the world by becoming a bona fide working member of society.

And I'm hoping that the public treats him with kindness.

And this morning I feel the need to offer him some last minute words of advice....

1. Don't give your friends free food
and
2. So help me God, if you should decide that the pimple factory isn't for you and those damn freakin ass non-slip black work shoes have been bought for naught and are not returnable and you haven't yet made enough flow to pay me back for them...

I SWEAR TO YOU.... I'll have dad sit on your chest and I solemnly promise that I will pull each and every one of your nose hairs out... one by one with my sharp tweezers...we straight??

Go conquer the world sweet Bear, one burger at a time.

Faith for dummies....

Hating to be labeled procrastinator I've decided to get a head start on my winter blues.

Careening toward what I'm sure to be a long dark winter has me feeling mighty blah.

And since I have an intense desire (and horribly irritating habit) of dissecting every good, bad, indifferent feeling I have into "what the holy hell does it all mean?" I'm driving myself mad.

Control what you can...hmmm, that would be, not much.

Yesterday I needed to get to church.

In a perfect world I'd make it every week. I'd sing at the top of my lungs and know every word to every song by heart.

I'd exit the church doors with a cloak of faith draped around my (skeptical, stooped) shoulders.

A force field of Godly goodness to protect me from the cold, cold cruel world.

Instead, in my imperfect world I tend to get irritated the second I walk in the door and am forced to shake hands with a greeter who should be passing out hand sanitizer and tranquilizers.

Tranquilizers that could possibly help when in my imperfect world I am irritated in church by crying children and their waxy eared parents...

"Buy some freakin Q-tips.

And a muzzle (or two)....."

I want to shout from my seat in the back.

In a perfect world I'd take every word of Pastor's sermon and make it fit my life.

Instead of daydreaming statistics about male pattern baldness.

And messy uncombed bed heads.

I'd not pick lint, nor stray hairs using only my eyes.

I'd avoid getting sidetracked by a nice knee lenght coat, a pretty dress or a sparkly bangle bracelet.

I'd stay focused on the sun beaming through the beautiful stained glass windows.

And the strong voices reciting the Lord's Prayer.

Yesterday at church God knew what I needed (and when doesn't He, really?)

I didn't notice any pint sized expressions of dire unhappiness (woo-hoo)

I kept my mind focused.

AND... I sang for all I was worth (but not out loud ;-)

I walked out the doors feeling refreshed and content.

Some days I have TOTAL faith I'll make it through the dark cold winters of my life.

A couple of my favorite quotes....

Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you.  ~Maori Proverb

Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.  ~Chinese Proverb

It's "Moan"day...enjoy the sunshine (in whatever form it may appear).

Some like it hot....

This post is a themed writing project challenge taken from Jenny Matlock over at off on my tangent.

Jenny says we can use UP to 100 words to tell our story. It can be fact or fiction. Jenny posts a few words, a prompt that we work from. This weeks prompt is in bold itallics.

The gigantic fake breasts made it up the porch steps before the chest they sat on did.

A crimson painted rosebud shaped mouth didn’t do more than pout as its owner’s hand held out a pillow case balanced on huge, made by mother, cleavage.

The blonde wig hugged the head it was placed on like it was God issued, and thick liner developed, and defined, doe like eyes.

The black mole made it O-fficial.

"Trick or treat!" they shouted as the door opened..."

"Hey...it's Marilyn Monroe!!!" chuckled the man giving the candy.

8 year old Ronald Richard J wasn’t the least bit impressed he’d been recognized.