My Vagina Says NO to the Paltrow Steaming Method

I'm very sorry that I am unable to post today but I'm sure that all my female readers are too busy  trying Gwyneth Paltrow's Vaginal Mugwort Steaming Routine to stop by anyway.

I want to announce,  however, that I will not be giving my vagina a mugwort steam because my V is a very sensitive gal who has been acting up on vacations and and on a lot of other important occasions since the early '70's  and she is not impressed by the rave reviews of this new vaginal health regiment promoted by Ms. Paltrow. 

In fact, even as I was reading about this new breakthrough in vaginal silliness,  My dear Miss V let me know that if she notices even  a small amount of steam in her general area,  or even if the shower seems a bit too warm  she is going to start producing enough yeast to supply a bread factory."

Yeah. I'm totally not running this show.  She makes all the rules.

Ever Wonder What Happens in a Dull Place During a Snowstorm?

 Nothing.  That's what.

We woke to a blizzard, the blowing snow, the howling winds, the flickering lights, the sobbing coming from all the houses of all the women whose children do not have school today.  It's the kind of weather that makes you want to learn how to use the video on your cell phone, or maybe watch you tube offerings like a 1973 movie about bored suburban women who decide to become witches.

I mean, really.  Can you believe the fashions then?  Young men wearing blouses that look strangely similar to the wallpaper designs of all the rooms I've ever had, and low rise jeans and David Cassidy/Partridge Family hair styles, and middle aged woman drinking martinis in the afternoon and trying pot for the first time.  And giggling.  Lots of giggling.  That's probably the one thing missing in our current world. Yeah, drugs that prompt giggling.  Now all we have are the ones that promise to make us normal.  How much does that suck?  No wonder I look forward to nap time.  Back in the day, drugs made us more fun, and now drugs beat the last bit of life out of our fun parts so that we can all be hopelessly sane enough to pay our taxes.

Ah. the good old days. I'm so glad it was captured on film.  Blue eyeshadow though?   I can live without that.

So, some people think that Winter storms are exciting. I knew someone like that once, married him and realized that people who love Winter storms are just like him, just not right and not very good in bed.   I do not get excited by storms as I am not a redneck snowmobile riding hick find it's during these snowdays that people become overly bored, hence about an hour ago my sister sent me a photo of her sofa, with a small quilt that used to be mine draped over the back.  I'm not sure why. Maybe it was a random act of kindness or simply a cry for help.  If so, she's shit out of luck. I have my own problems, man.

One observation I made this morning happened before ten o'clock, and the observation allowed me to come to this conclusion:   Bad weather doesn't change the routines of the Very Routined.  At exactly 8:00 am, a man came out of his house and closed the door, , opened the car door and put the dog in the car, then closed the car door, a routine which, I heard from a very reliable source, he performs every day, despite rain, snow, earthquake,  apocalypse, or the near-miss-threat of an asteroid.  And this performance happens at exactly the same time every day. 

I can't really comment on that, since I too have my routines and a little wind and snow didn't keep me from them. This morning, for instance,  despite the weather,  I swore at the fire at exactly 7:32 and poured a cup of coffee at 7:45. I swore at the fire again at 8:14, and refilled my cup, keeping one eye on the fire and threatening it with extinction.  Then I made some eggs, and put 2 slices of bread in the toaster.

Anyway, It doesn't get more exciting than that my friends.  At least not in Small Town in the middle of a blizzard. So I'm sorry I have nothing more exciting to report, but I thought I'd pop in so that you didn't worry about me. Which is something someone really ought to do, afterall. 

Back soon with more excitement.

Princess S

Howdy Neighbor.

Here in small town we get very excited over change.  Now, naturally there are many opinions about change around here.  There are those who have the "YAY Change!" opinion.  There are the "  Yay a face I can't recognize!" people, the " Yay new routines we are not familiar with yet!" people, the "Oooh la la, is that a foreign ACCENT????" people. and the "NEW GOSSIP MATERIAL? YAY!" people.  These people love change. 

Now, of course there are the other people, the  "I don't like anything new or  even anything that has been here for hundreds of years for that matter" people but we don't even ask their opinions because their faces say it all, and their faces, by the way,  are the first things I'd change if I had my way.  I mean, there should be a Government program that offers free plastic surgery (or at least a tax decduction)  for those who have "Old Lady Look Of Doom Face" FULL STORY HERE. because it's a hazard to public safety.  It's deadly I tell you.

 Let's face it, Old Lady Look of Doom Face is a regional eyesore, and I'm sick of those faces looking at me, because looks can kill, after all.  Damn old people and their secret weapons.  Wait till I'm old.  I'm going to be The Terminator of Old Ladies. Or  perhaps The Mr. T of the Grannies. I'll decide which one later cuz I got plenty o' time. My face hasn't even begun to droop into a permanent scowl yet, and if  I had tatoos, they wouldn't even be the least bit wrinkled.

Anyway, back to the point of this blog entry (ha.good one.)  You see, new people around here are scarce.  Many of the people here have been here all their lives which is why our liquor establishments are quite profitable.  But as much as we love our old townies, we do like a fresh face once in a while too.  At least we like the idea of a fresh face. The truth is my friends, that we secretly HATE EVERYTHING.   and sometimes, when the booze starts shooting its mouth off, not so secretly.

You see, it may seem easy to come to places like this.  Again, television has romanticized many of these places, the places that sadly,  in reality, have sent countless people to the asylum, rehab or an early death, but that's TV for you. Bullshit.  Anyway, it seems easy to come to a place that boasts a slower pace, family values, and quaintness.  People come here for a holiday and next thing you know visions of B&B ownership are dancing in their heads.  But many of these people come from cities and have no idea how to live in places where you actually have to speak to your neighbors and eventually offer them wine.

Recently a house sold that has been for sale, off and on, the entire time I've lived here.  There are many theories about why this house is always for sale, including the usual unsellable house theories, but honestly it's just that it is a large house, more expensive than most and so attracts those who are not from places like this.  In other words, it is a city person magnet. This house, however, with it's many renovated rooms and nicely landscaped yard, does not adequately prepare one for small town living.  It basically sets you up to fail.

For instance.  A front porch suggests that all you have to do to appear to be settled into small town living, is simply sit out on the porch on a nice wicker chair or maybe a rocker, right?  Oh no.  If you sit out on the porch, staring straight ahead over to your neighbor's house across the street every morning so that your neighbor never gets to wander out in her jammies with her coffee, well, you are not going to be very popular, and may even look like a pair of iguanas   (dave's observation.)   When you don't know how to properly sit on a front porch, you know it's probably a good idea to move back to the city, where there are no porches because it's too dangerous to sit outside and you probably live across the street from a crack house, so you drink your glass of  nothing and stare at each other in your open concept kitchen instead.   Anyway.  that's what they did and the house stayed empty for a while.  Naturally.

Anyway, I enjoyed my whole summer without anyone looking at me expectantly, and now we are about to have new neighbors which we are all a bit excited about, except me, because I know that these things can "go either way" and God often punishes me for being judgmental and so I'm pretty sure I'm about to be living across the street from The Beverly Hillbillies.  Which of course would be AWESOME for blogging inspiration but probably not so awesome for real life survival.

So, just for fun, I'm going to offer some of the more frightening images I have dancing in my head in regards to this issue.

In other words,

HOW GOD MAY FIX ME FOR BEING SUCH A SNOBBY BITCH

1.  There will be a table, a thrift store sofa, refrigerator, barbecue grill (restaurant size) two hammocks,  a second hand cooler, and music speakers stuffed onto the porch.  The music will be country rock.

2.  They have two small dogs who wear clothing and have names like "Mr. Pumpkinhead" and "Twitter."  They have another dog with a name like Buster who doesn't wear clothing but is a hound and bays at the moon at least 25 nights a month without fail and does his duty in my yard every morning at exactly 6:00 am, despite my threats and rock throwing.

3.  They "stop by" or "pop in." because isn't that what small town neighbors do?

4.  They purchase a hot tub and it is placed somewhere where we can see and/or hear them enjoying it.   

5.  One day they ask us to join them, and I start remembering all the innuendos and  all the stuff I should have seen coming, and all the movies about the swinging 60's I watched. (something to do with keys and whiskey) and then I take 6 or maybe 10 showers, consecutively, with a scrubrush and harsh disinfectant soap, and pop some leftover penicillin, just in case. 

6.  Both sides of their extended family come for a week-long visit every July and everyone sleeps in tents in the yard.   And they all have dogs - half of them hounds, and the rest are yippy barkers who wear pageant queen doggie outfits and poop non-stop everywhere.

7.  They turn the house into an Inn and put dozens of chairs on the wraparound porch,  Guests party all night long on hot August nights because they are on holiday and screw the rest of the world. 

8.  They move out and sell the house to OLD LADY.  

And I probably deserve all of this.  I was raised Catholic, after all.

THE END.  FOR NOW...................

Grow Your Blog!!

 My Short But Meaningful History 
of Really Bad Homemade Things Crafting

And Other Pastimes

Hello Out There!!!  Thanks so much for popping by!  Yes, I am participating in Vicki's "Grow Your  Blog Party" again this year.   I know there aren't many rules to follow, which of course I love, but I always feel just a little mismatched with the others who join this blog party, as you know, I'm  cannot make a damned thing not really that crafty and keep imagining that I am.  Somewhere in my average size brain I believe that I will, one day, find a craft that speaks to my soul, one that sings the same song as my heart (and without showing off by singing it better) a hobby that results in creations that no one suspects I made until I tell them so.

Yeah, so clearly my brain isn't quite as large as I imagined.

You crafters are usually very nice people, (well, except for that really disagreeable woman who works in the local fabric store) and so I know you will understand when I tell you that I haven't managed to find a craft I do well for lack of trying.  I have been trying for a very very very long time.  I mean, my trying goes back to the 70's.    It all started when I got this one Christmas:

 This is the "Sew Perfect" machine designed for beginners.  The name of this product raised the hopes of countless unsuspecting, ever hopeful children who longed to create something that others could identify.  Yes, I was one of those very sad, yet hopeful children.

 I had grown tired of others asking questions about my creations, questions such as "what is it?"   I mean, just once I wanted someone to exclaim "Wow, that's a beautiful scarf!!" without the addition of "That's a scarf, right?"  The Sew Perfect promised to fulfill this dream, you know, because of the word PERFECT in its name.  It was a machine, a sewing machine, and in my twelve year old brain, during a time when we were told that pretty soon, machines were going to run, and perhaps even take over the world, I believed this to mean that machines would do all the work and we'd just lay around doing nothing, or fly around like the Jetsons while a robot housekeeper cleaned our houses and made our dinners.

So, I imagined that this machine knew how to sew.  Yeah, you know, like by itself, and maybe once in a while, especially when there was an audience,  I would just in front of the machine with my hands looking like they knew what they were doing, maybe guiding the material through the machine or something, while wearing the toy eyeglasses I bought at Woolworths, because close work tires the eyes.


When I found out that this machine was not living up to the predictions of those who are supposed to know what the future will hold, I lost interest, but not until I made a apron that looked like something from the set of "Little House On The Prairie" and my father embarrassed the bejesus out of me by telling me to show it to a complete stranger and watching him struggle to find the words that would not hurt me, but not lie to me either.  He chose "That's quite good, considering the machine you are working with."  Apparently he wasn't fooled by the marketing hype. Sew Easy was anything but easy.

From then on, when it came to my wish list, it was the easy way or the highway.  One Christmas I asked for this priceless example of the latest technology.

No work involved here.  No end result to be criticized in the most polite way possible.  Just close and play.  So I slipped a record in and closed.  And waited.  And waited. And waited.  And got close to the floor and looked inside.  And waited.  It never played a note.  It went back to the store and never returned, but my mother came home with a new dress.


Next I moved onto the stuff all the other girls were doing at the time, stuff like jump rope and advanced double dutch jump roap, and then this crazy waste of time:

 Yep.  That's cat's cradle and at the time I thought this was related to knitting or crocheting. (I guess because it was done with yarn or string.)  Soon I realized that nothing was created by doing cat's cradle but it looked fun and besides, everyone was doing it.  And more importantly it looked so EASY!!! 

Yeah, how easy does THIS look?

 Yeah, okay, maybe for YOU, but for me I might as well be reading some ancient symbol language carved into a large rock on the tip of a mountain somewhere very far away, which was thought to be something that wasn't even a language, really, but some sort of symbol type communication left by aliens and likely held an ancient curse.

Yep.  it was at that point that I made the decision to stick with my footsie, otherwise known as a skip-it

Obviously not a craft at all, but while the others were sitting making things

I was jumping around burning calories, so at least I was accomplishing something.

When older, I would send a lot of balled up patterns and fabric out windows in frustration,  join craft classes in which I made mickey mouse earrings that were supposed to look like daisies,  and knit things I never finished. Lots and lots of things.

Until finally, later in life, I found that what I really loved to do more than anything was write.  So I created stories and poems and sent long story-like-funny letters to my sister in California and now I blog my  funny stories of my life right here.

 And that's why, on this fateful day we have met, and I hope that we will keep in touch.  Feel free to become a follower, and stop on by whenever you can to read new posts, and dig into the archives.


Sincerely,
Princess Stupidhead

The Winter I Almost Joined a Craft Group.

So, it's January.  I bet some of you are nodding right now, sure that you know just what I'm talking bout.  But, you don't.  Unless you happen to live in Small Town and somehow I doubt that because if you did, I wouldn't be writing this post and you wouldn't be reading it. We'd probably both be standing together in the produce department of the supermarket looking for the one US grown tomato in a bin full of Mexican produce, or something equally or even more exciting. Maybe we'd  "watch each other's carts" or something even more thrilling than that, I mean, if there is anything more thrilling, which I doubt.   Seriously doubt. No, I'm SURE.  That's as exciting as it would ever get.

You know, on television, small towns like this look like a lot of fun.  Think Northern Exposure, or Newhart, or enter the way-way- back machine and think  The Andy Griffith Show Yep. The magic of television.  All those quirky characters.  Yessireee, all fun and games till you have to live with them.

Anyway, Winter is a bitch here. It will force you to do things you never imagined doing.  It will mess with your head.  It will destroy all your values.  It will ruin your reputation.  It will take down your immune system.  It will prompt you to do what I did this morning -  go online and research what, if any,  workshops/classes the local craft shop has to offer.

Yeah, I am obviously in denial, thank you very much for pointing that out. I have not accepted the demise of my self esteem, of my quickly deteriorating mental condition, or the fact that I have been wearing the same clothes for four days.

But the sad truth is, I found one class  that looked interesting and for one tiny little moment I felt the ice of Winter begin to melt.  Then I realized that this class is the one and only one they offer that is held at night.   You know, like at six o'clock to nine o'clock and last I checked not only is that dinner time, but it is time for my glass or two of wine and I never mix wine with crafts because I suck at crafts when stone cold sober so who knows what demonic creation would be born from my brain on Merlot. So, no class after 5. but anytime before that would be fine. (as long as they don't demand a sobriety test and not if there is an all-new season of Dr. Phil on.

I don't understand why all these classes are held at night.  Yes, yes, the obvious reason is that many people are not free to take classes during the day.  That makes sense, except for the fact that after working at a job that you probably don't want to be working at all day long, the last thing you want to do is sit in another room full of people you don't want to be around attempting to make little crafty things that you don't want to make (or do want to make but are not very good at making so goodbye to what little self esteem you have left at all, which likely isn't much or you'd never be sitting in a craft store on a Friday night, or any other night, at a time when your shows are  on and when you are usually wearing your jammies.)

Right?

But the real reason that night classes do not work for me is that nighttime is the time when I  NOT BORED so why the hell would I want to take a craft class then?  Right.  I wouldn't.   It's only those afternoon hours that make me this desperate.   Desperate enough to type the words

L I S T  O F  C R A F T   C L A S S E S   IN  S M A L L T O W N

 into a search engine, and letting myself be directed to a site in which I discover that I can take a class in fabric jewelry making if I want to wear daytime clothes, stay sober and miss all my shows.

 Ok, all you cheap guys out there that just started paying attention ?  Don't get any ideas.  Giving a woman jewelry made of fabric is a good way to get a black eye and no sex for the rest of your life unless you win the lottery or receive a large inheritance like the day after you gave her that lame ass gift,  or you suddenly become a rock star, or a pro golfer.  You've been warned.  Not that anyone would ever try to sell you fabric jewelry, unless of course, you go to one of those craft fairs and if you do there is obviously no help for you.   Go back to stocking up on boxes of discounted Cherios or something.   Enjoy your lonely life.

So my friend over at  The Palace at 4 AM is keeping busy this January with her home renovations  and it makes me want to do something like that too but there's only so many times you can paint your kitchen before people start planning a intervention, so instead I've decided to regularly sabotage her efforts by inviting her to my house for some tea.  Yes, I said and I mean tea.  until after 4, when teacups magically turn to wine glasses and the fae roam the woodlands and then ride dragons in the sky.  Then we will likely plan what we would do to change everything in this town if we could and we will get very excited about this as if it is really going to happen, and then we will sober up and realize that even if we win The Big Lottery we won't do any of this because really, why bother?  With that money we can pay people to entertain us, even in the most brutal kinds of Winter.  And then we will realize that we have had this same discussion about a million times or more and have come to the same conclusion, although we may have been drinking various vintages of wine each time because we are quite classy like that.

THE END.

Nutty Nun Tells A Joke and Little Princess takes The Sacred Oath of Straight-Face

The Time I Made A Solemn Oath NEVER to Laugh at Nutty Nun's Jokes.  Ever.  Yeah. That'll Fix her.  

You know, how adorable is that really?  I mean, I was a total bad ass that day.  All the other numb-nuts were laughing their fool heads off at her lame ass jokes,  but not me, oh, and not Peter R. either. Coincidentally Peter R and I were the smartest kids in Grade 1, so yeah, draw your own conclusions.  However unlike Peter I didn't poop my pants at school, even though I was terrified of the scary bathroom in the basement of the old scary building.  I did my best to make it to the toilet.   He sure did look uncomfortable walking home from school that day with his pants full of poop.  But hey, at least his head wasn't full of shit. I actually lost a few spelling bees to that Poindexter.   (4, if you must know.)

How To Live In A Blue Zone - Lesson One

Maybe after reading my blog for a while, you begin to wonder why I seem to write about old people a lot.  Well, how lucky you are to actually have choices, such as whether to talk about old people or all the younger people that you come into contact with everyday.  You see, I don't have that much choice, because I live in what is referred to as a "blue zone."   According to Wikipedia : Blue Zones is a concept used to identify a demographic and/or geographic area of the world where people live measurably longer lives.

So in other words, where I live,  I am outnumbered by the old folks and I am unlikely to live as long or longer than they are unless I follow their RULES  based on some sort of scientific research which attempts to explain why these folks will not die.   Here are the common lifestyle characteristics that contribute to their longevity.

• Family – put ahead of other concerns. ✕ Not unless they find me and hold me hostage.
• Less smoking ✔
• Semi-vegetarianism – except for the Sardinian diet, the majority of food consumed is derived from plants.  ✔ Grapes are plants, right?
• Constant moderate physical activity – an inseparable part of life. ✕  Um.  No.
• Social engagement – people of all ages are socially active and integrated into their communities.   ✕  the thing is, I'm not a joiner.
• Legumes – commonly consumed ✕  ( kind of explains the old person farting thing. I'm gonna pass.)

 Yep,  if we stand a chance of living as long as these guys we have to do a lot of things we don't want to do, so Yeah.  Fuck it.   It looks like I'm living with the last of the Blue Zoners here, but since they are members of the undead, you could, in all scientific probability,  be reading about Old People (both real and mythical) on this blog  for quite some time, now, so bring a snack and a juice box and don't forget to pee.

Moving forward.......I have been hinting about this little known truth all along, but I think it's time to get this shit out in the open, so let's get on with Lesson One (likely the only lesson, as I am a quitter, afterall.) but hey, maybe one lesson is all you'll ever need.  Ok, here it is:

Lesson One

Despite their actions, appearances, and reputations,  Old People know exactly what they are doing every minute of everyday.

 Oh, yeah, they will walk around with questioning looks on their faces, and speak in those soft quivering voices.  They will lean on their  cane or walker, and give you that really confused look, but hey.  They are not fooling everyone.

Anytime they play stupid (slow/senile/challenged in some way) they are putting on an act/lying/fucking with us.  Now that we have established this fact, I'd also like to expose the Old Person Couple Act, the "Gang" of The Old Folks (because they don't get out enough to form a real gang. It's just Mom and Pop, guys, just Gram and Gramps.)

If you have taken notes in your spy notebooks recently , and I know that you have,  because let's face it, you've suspected something all along and you have way too much time on your hands, you know that Old People rarely travel alone, and if they do, well, then, they are the castoffs of Old People Society.  ANd if you think about what might constitute an outcast in this particular society, well, you have to know that these people are the Mother of all, the Rocks Stars of, the Charles Mansons of  Outcasts.

So let's just forget about the Lone Old Person for a moment, or for good because it's an urban myth.  It's an artist's rendition. I's a subliminal suggestion.  It's a drug induced apparition.  Ok, you get it.  There is no such thing as a Lone Old Person.  Old people never roam the streets alone.  At the very least they are connected by cellphone a Walkie Talkie or telepathy to another Old Person.  But because they are old and can't operate technology and walkie talkies don't have much range at all, and telepathy is unreliable, Old People  usually physically pair up.  We are talking about The Old Person Couple, usually a man and a woman, but hey, more and more same sex people are reaching old age every day, so fuck are we ever in trouble now, because you know, the increasing numbers of elderly are just - well, terrifying, really. Like Zombie-scary.  They will be taking over the supermarkets first, but then the banks and the post office. They will playing their I'm too old to do anything without a lot of help card and we will never ever be able to get our stuff done in time ever again.  And mostly because we are not on to their plots.  Well, I mean YOU are not.  I AM.  Have a seat. Get comfy.  I'm here to help you.

I plan to give you regular updates on the evil plots of these gangs, the ways they are slowly and carefully taking over the world, knowing , as they do, that as Blue Zoners they will outlive us all.

Today's Truth:  THEY WILL MONOPOLIZE YOUR TIME and MESS WITH YOUR SCHEDULE EVERY CHANCE THEY GET.

Yesterday I was in a small store in town, barely bigger than a quicky mart because I had but a few things to get and I wanted to make it fast.  There were very few shoppers inside and so my plan had a good chance of working, but when reaching the checkout, I saw that a Gang of old people, Gram and Gramps, were in front of me.  I quickly scratched off any remaining items on my to do list and moved them to the next day because obviously my day was now about to be fucked.   I watched as their very few purchases moved ever so slowly towards the cashier, not daring to hope as I watched them scanned.  When the cashier reached for the very last item, Gram said to Gramps,

"Oh, Frank, did we get the juice?"

my shoulders dropped and I muffled a groan.

Gramps : "No. Want me to get it?"

Gram:  (to cashier) "Oh, is it still on sale?"

Cashier: "Let me check." (pulls out a flyer and my life ticks slowly away.)  "Yep, still on sale!!"

Gram: "Oh, good."

Me:  "Super."

Cashier: "Want me to get it for you?"

Gramps: "No, I'll get it."

Gramps and his cane and his moans and groans forces me to move the cart out of his way and lose the will to live and well, basically, that was the end of my day. Luckily the end of my day includes a glass of wine, so I was pretty happy about that, and I'm here to tell the tale.

Point is.  They seem sweet but they are devilishly sadistic and agonizingly slow - all ON PURPOSE. And after, at about 2:00 pm, they all meet in the mall, have a coffee and a donut and compare notes.

And then....They laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and then pee themselves.

END OF LESSON ONE AND MAYBE THE END OF THE WHOLE COURSE,  WHO KNOWS? I COULD BE DEAD TOMORROW.  BUT THESE PEOPLE WON'T BE.  WHY DON'T YOU ASK ONE OF THEM TO CONTINUE THE COURSE?  THEY"VE GOT NUTHIN BUT TIME.

One Time Mommy Went to a Dance and Came Home Wearing a Crown

Mom won the "Mrs. Small Town" Pageant and Wore the Crown Everywhere for Two Weeks.

THe Five Stages of My Cold

 I have a cold. 

So I would like to take advantage of this moment  to offer,  for your reading pleasure, an account of my experiences otherwise known as  

THE FIVE STAGES OF MY COLD.

 1. Denial.  This stage includes blaming symptoms on things like allergies, stress, imagination, PMS  or a need for attention.

2.  Melt down.  I cry when I'm sick and not just because I'm sick but because elephants are endangered, my Grandmother died (in 2004,) we are out of orange juice,  someone killed John Lennon ,  and my kid won't answer my texts.

3.  Drug Dependency - Cold and Sinus Pills, Flu Formula,, Devil-Be-Gone, Ebola Relief - you name it, I'll take it, while sobbing and blowing my nose repeatedly.

4. The Bitch Stage.  Ok, this is a sure sign that I am on the mend.  The sadness turns to rage, impatience or downright  Life Intolerance.   Yesterday I moved from stage 3 to stage 4 while on the way to the Supermarket, about the worst place one can be when experiencing Stage 4 Cold related Life Intolerance. 

At one point  I heard myself say "Dave, pass me one of those plastic bags because I'm not putting my uncovered lettuce on the seat of the cart where some kid's ass has been."  I know that doesn't sound very shocking to most people, but around here, saying something that foreign can stop time, trigger human extinction, or at the very least cause people to scream and flee the building or  freeze on the spot and watch as you are removed  by security.  But that didn't happen probably because of the way I looked - sick and very angry. Not even Security would want to get close to that.

You see, I had been in the store exactly 2.3 minutes and already I was pissed off because

1.  a woman came too near me and completely blocked me with her nearly empty cart.
2. I noticed that there were no plastic bags for the produce and
3. all the tags on the produce that tell you where it comes from were removed.
4. Conveniently the usually most expensive juice did not have a price on it requiring a "price check" otherwise known as you-are-never-going-to-get-out-of -this-place.....never! .....ever!

 Regarding incident number 3   -   The other day, while shopping at this same store,  there were tags  on all the tomatoes and all of them said "Country of Origin - Mexico.  I also noticed that no one was touching them and they were looking a little soft.  So why not just replace the Mexican tomatoes with newer, firmer Mexican tomatoes, but remove the tags, and put one lonely tag on one tomato that claims it came from the United States.  Yeah. I was sick, I'm a bitch and was not in my right mind, but  I recognize a mexican influence when I seen it, even it it's influencing a vegetable.  (The bright colors are a dead giveaway.)

To be honest, I had transitioned into the Bitch Stage of my cold before the supermarket incident.  It was in the health food store that I began to freak out just a little bit  because the salt lamp I was trying to buy was losing all it's stones and they were landing on the floor and likely losing all their magic and the woman there obviously didn't need to be sick to be a bitch. She was one of those quiet bitches.  She was completely neutral in the I don't give a shit way.  But I bought the lamp anyway because obviously this cold was making me desperate.

5.  The Hallucination Stage- This stage is Far out, Man, (unless it's a bad trip.)

Back at the supermarket, I transitioned (seamlessly) into the hallucination stage, a 60's favorite.  In the checkout line, the woman behind me forgot to get something and asked me to watch her cart. I gave her the shifty eye thing, where your head stays still but your eyes move slowly towards her.  Then I looked down at her cart, expecting to see maybe her purse or a kid, or some Oak Island treasure or something, but no.  Nothing in there but food.   Now I knew for SURE that none of this was real  (because, really who asks someone to watch food that isn't paid for, isn't in short supply or on sale this week?) and so I giggled a little and then I said, rather slowly

"Um.....yeah, cool.    No problem." and watched as she floated away.

"If the doors of perception were cleansed things wouldn't be so germy"

Ok, remember when I told you that I am a bit uncomfortable when men hold doors open for me?  Yeah, well, just because I admitted to that, doesn't mean in any way, shape or form that I want to be the one holding the doors.  Because I don't. 

And, you know, if men are no longer interested in holding doors for women, I am perfected ok with that.  Big deal.  So you go ahead and have a nice life knowing that mine will not be any less wonderful just because I have to open and close my own doors, ok? Ok. Get out of here.

But, seriously,  I draw the line at holding doors for men.  I am not THAT KIND of feminist.  I'm the kind who wants all the good parts of it but non of the bad.  And by bad, I mean, anything that forces me to do any more shit than I already do.  And besides,  doors are germy and probably why I am a little sick today.  During the Winter when we all have perfectly good excuses to wear gloves, there is no need for anyone to touch germy things with their bare hands.  Especially doors.  They are super DIR TEE. 

But you can't get away from doors because doors are everywhere,  so today I pulled open the door to the post office, unaware that people who are very old and are the size of hobbits might be behind the door, so low to the ground that I wouldn't be able to see them, even though the door has a window.

So, upon pulling the door open, I noticed nothing strange at first but them I looked down, you know, way down to Middle Earth, and saw a Santa Clause hobbit. I knew it was a Santa Clause hobbit because of the white beard and the big feet.  Santa Claus Hobbit looked pretty mad because I guess I opened the door and he almost fell or maybe because he's just got one of those faces, you know, like Old Lady's face, SEE FULL STORY HERE  so I apologized and then slipped him Old Lady's phone number cuz maybe all she needs is a little Santa Hobbit and she won't be so grumpy anymore. I mean I've heard that once you go hobbit you never go back.  And there's a chance that they might make a cute couple and get starring roles in those movies that are way too long and too make believe for me, Or maybe their own reality show called "The Little Old Grouchy Hobbits With Mean Faces Couple." or something... I mean, people will watch anything these days. Anyway,  something would surely HAVE to happen because Hobbits are from the land of really long books and Magical Things, so yeah, something would happen for sure.  I just don't want to be around to see it.


PS:  If you look on the sidebar you will see a Twitter follow me button, where you can enjoy #mystupidlife tweets and add your own.  I know it's going to be hard to beat a Santa Hobbit sighting, but I have faith in you people.

Ok, that's it.  Go wash your hands.

A Mind Is A Terrible Thing.

My mom, co-star of "Bad Mommy"comics, is 90 and a half, yeah 90 going on 91.  I'm pretty sure there's no rule prohibiting one from using the "half year method" after a certain age.  You can pretty much use it until you die.  If you believe in the afterlife, however, you might have to figure out what you're going to do after  "dead-and-a-half."  Dead +1 is one option I suppose.  

Anyway, she's old and she is in a home because when asked, she will tell you that it's 1861.  (hey, whatever.  Some days I would love it to be 1861 instead of 2003.)  Now while she regularly asks people to "pick her up at the station," her seasoned skill of manipulation is still working like a hot damn.  She informed my sister a few days ago that the nurses said that she is doing so well with the walker, that she is now ready to go back home with her.  She neglected to mention the other reasons she may not be ready, the wandering the house in the middle of the night without her walker, stealing random things from my sister, hoarding chocolate and snacks in her room so she can eat them at midnight, attempting to steal a woman's purse at a second hand store, falling repeatedly, letting her home be overrun with mice, getting into way too many car accidents resulting in revocation of her license,  searching constantly for her purse at all hours of the day and night,  and wondering why her husband who has been dead for 17 years, isn't home from work yet.  And get this - she remembers that he's due home at 6:00 pm, but she forgot that he's dead.  Sometimes, I think that dementia is super awesome.

I mean, really.   Wouldn't it be great to forget a whole lifetime of unfortunate, embarrassing, tragic, messy, traumatizing, insane situations, but never forget where the candy bars are?  Seriously.  There is a God.  There has to be.

I haven't been in contact with my mom for a while, and I could say its because she doesn't really know who I am understand what's going on anyway.  But that's not the only reason. For most of my life with my mom, I did all the calling and the visiting.  Now I am ok with this because I understand.  Look, I had kids ok?   And I know now that my mother was a "Hamster Mommy"  FULL STORY HERE.  and I'm sure that there is some reason(s) why a person becomes a hamster mommy, but I was determined  to be a better mommy, a better daughter, hell, a BETTER PERSON!  and so, I would call her regularly and have the mandatory one sided conversation.  (I'm sorry, but "hmmmm" isn't a word.)  and I'd take her shopping with me - ok, ok, with the Three Crazy Kids and me, but you know, sometimes I'm evil.  And sometimes, when I was driving by, I'd swing in unexpectedly, and we'd have a nice visit in front of the never-turned-off-television, in which I would talk over the never-ending-television-dialog and wait for her response which was usually something like this:

"Mmmm."

Since Dementia, however, she's been talking a lot and what a storyteller she is!!  You never know what time period you will find yourself in,   (Just remember to say yes and nod affirmatively if she says "remember?") You may even find yourself with a new name!  I mean, for years my cousin called me the wrong name but I never said anything about it because, even then I knew she was not really that smart.  She called me Juleen, if you must know.  Yeah it's kind of a white trash name but if you met my cousin or even saw a photo, you'd understand.  I mean, it is rather unfortunate actually, nothing within her control.  But really, I wish she could have at least worked at getting my name straight. I mean, we are first cousins.  And why didn't anyone correct her?  Oh, yeah, a lot of gene pools are pretty polluted. Nothing you can do about that. Not a dang thing.

I found a letter the other day, one my mom wrote a while back while in the early stages of her "condition", and at the top she wrote "Hi to Dave!!!"  Ok.  first of all, I'm not convinced my mother wrote this, although the scratchy, once beautiful Catholic School penmanship was still slightly evident, but the !!!!!!! ??  My mother was never once !!!!!  No, not a !!!!!!!! day in her life.  And it was strange that she would remember to ask about someone else, but then  - it is Dave and he's a guy and my mom always made sure to cozy up to the men because she knew someday she might need them, you know, when her own slave husband wasn't around anymore. I mean, she was cozying up to my ex before we were even divorced. (she lives by the "you snooze-you lose" motto - obviously.) Unfortunately for her, his own mother had put dibs on him first.  (seriously, though, the thought of two women, no matter how old and how many secret motives were involved, wanting to spend even one moment with this guy just blows my mind, I say after 20 years of marriage to him, so who am I kidding here?  )  Anyway, I'm going to give his mother a pass, though, as he is her offspring and she isn't a Hamster Mom.  But after writing that I can't help but think that this is all starting to sound just a little bit creepy and maybe just a bit insane.  Let's move on.

So, IN CONCLUSION, and as it turns out, my mother, who was never very entertaining, has now become quite the cut-up, sort of like the way she'd be, long ago in the 60's when  she would hostess this thing called a "cocktail party," and she would have one glass of wine or one whiskey sour, something she didn't do very much at all, which is why I used to try to figure out how I might spike something of hers on a regular basis, something that she liked and  that tasted strong on it's own and she wouldn't notice, like coffee or chewing gum.   And I think that, for my mom, Dementia is like a never ending Whiskey Sour  slow IV drip, or the pills the doctor would have ordered if she had ever realized that some of the things she did (all illustrated in the Bad Mommy comic) were not particularly normal, and actually sought some medical attention. But that was the past.  Let's move forward - Let's party like it's 1861.

And holy shit!!  No telling what she'll give out at Halloween now!! *see author's note.



*author's note:  She once gave out potatoes. Raw potatoes.  They made a big thud in the halloween bag so you had to place them in gently and then close the door fast  - before the halloweeners  looked in and saw what we gave them.  When all the kids figured out what happened and came back carrying torches, you'd just close and lock the door and shut off the light.

Good times, man.  Good times.

Bad Mommy Monday - The Invisible Bathing Suit

One time my mom bought me a bathing suit that said "Future Miss Universe"on it and it when it was wet it was see-through.

Remember, You Didn't See Me.

Now, I know that I have may have presented myself on this blog as a completely normal, rather timid, awfully polite person who rarely says a naughty word, but there is something I have to let you in on, simply because apparently one doesn't grow out of Catholic guilt.

I avoid people.  I suspect I avoid more people than most ordinary people tend to avoid.  I've actually reached the point where I no longer consciously know I'm doing it.  It's like my body is on autopilot and suddenly I am helplessly controlled by an invisible force.

I find myself seamlessly transitioning from happily walking into a store to fast-walking back to my car again, or from heading towards a checkout, to faux-forgetting something in aisle two, simply because of something as simple as a familiar voice, or a ridiculous outfit which is obviously way too young for the person wearing it, like 52 years too young, or it may even look like it came from another time period. Or a certain sickening smell. Anyway.  I'm sure you have the visual and even the sensual now.  Let's move on.

Unfortunately, in a small town it's really really really nearly impossibly hard to avoid running into people you'd rather not run into.  It's like a high school reunion every single day.  And every day, I find myself spoting  someone that I must avoid. I've begun to call these "sightings." I text Dave when I have one, just so we can keep a record of it, like Those People do, the ones that  believe they've seen an alien space ship because, this isn't that different, really.

 Yeah, it' s all fun and games until you find yourself forced by manners and that damned human decency to stand around for at least seven minutes having a conversation with someone you really never even want to wave to unless it's from far far far away, someplace where they can't easily wave back and then walk over to talk to you, like you know, from a train, or an airplane just about to take off, or from an elevator as the doors are closing and you've got your finger on the "close door" button just in case.

I've found myself involved in long-ish conversations with these people in public places where you can't say the things you really WANT to say to them,  and I'm going to tell you right now, I'm surprised I lived through it. I mean, I lived, yeah, but I'm not right.  Come to think of it, I've never been the same, really.

So, can you blame me for my tendency to avoid?  No, neither can I.  I am completely off the hook, and I might be even normal-ish.

THE END. So far........

 __________________________________

Two Old Ladies Texting.

Yesterday my sister and I tried very hard to text and phone each other even though we are old and in denial.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  The term old lady here should not be confused with "OLD LADY" the mythical and yet very real creature that roams the streets and aisles of supermarkets sporting her Old Lady Face of Doom, and associated odor.  These two have no connection whatsoever.

I Chased Dave Around With A Plunger and Then I Went On A Pretend Diet.

I may seem like a perfectly rational, completely well-adjusted adult, but the truth is, I'm just playing one on the internet.   I'm really not very mature.

Yesterday, for instance, I chased Dave around the hardware store with a toilet plunger.  Why?  Because it was hysterical, that's why.  I even said things like "Dave, I found what you were looking for!"  It's fun to play these games with him, though, because he takes my prompt and runs with it.  Yeah, he has no shame whatsoever.  That's what first attracted me to him.  He'll say things like "Oh, thank you honey!"  or "Awesome! "  or "That's a beauty!"  or "Bye-bye Poop!"  And he's never run away once or pretended he didn't know me.  Even when I played this game using hemorrhoid creme or laxatives or the other  kinds of really much worse stuff that you can only find in the larger chain pharmacy stores he'd just ride the wave.  This is why I always say, "Don't mature past 12 years old, cuz then you have to do too much stuff you don't want to do and you'll never be funny again or even sober."

Look.  It's cold here.  And when I say cold, I mean it's  currently minus fifteen degrees (celcius) which is roughly -10 F.  And there's snow on the ground.  And when I woke up I could still see the moon and could not see the sun and I was very confused and immediately decided the zombies or the aliens were coming.  You, know people can go and have gone crazy in this weather.  Or people who are not crazy can act crazy and no one will think twice about it. Which is awesome for people like me, you know, not crazy, but just really bored.

 So, we are on a diet.  Ok, Dave is the one that is REALLY on the diet.  I'm just going along for the ride.  You see, if I said I was on the diet too, I would have to quit it soon after.   It's how I roll.  So I am not - I repeat: I am NOT on a diet.  I'm just pretending to diet, so that Dave has some company, or at least thinks he does.  He's on Weight-Watchers, and I have to admit it's a pretty awesome diet.  I mean, you don't have to give up whole food groups.  You don't have to stop eating lovely leafy greens but you can eat a whole cow or all the bacon and sausage and Spam you want.  Or no toast but up to 32 eggs for breakfast.  No, there's real food here. The kind that won't kill you all of a sudden.

Like pasta. Last night when I ate my dinner based on this diet, I felt like I had actually been on the diet, then promptly quit, and, believe me,  this was a very familiar and comfortable scenario for me. It was like  I actually joined  WW and then I quit.  So last night's dinner, which was the first one I have had while pretending to be on a diet, was more like the the dinner I usually have after being on a diet for like, one day before saying " fuck this shit."and quit. - oh,  minus the pie and ice cream binge followed by  a bag of chips. (unfortunately.)

 The other wonderful thing about this diet is that you really have to own a food scale.  I know Dave had some high tech thing in mind, but since I agreed to be his diet-buddy, I felt that if at that moment I suggested a lovely retro looking food scale I found online that would look so awesome in the kitchen , he would probably be on board.  And so, in a few more days, a package will come in the mail and I will  have a new awesome decoration in my kitchen thanks to Weight Watchers and my Pretend Diet.  Thanks WW!

Ok, so far,  2015 has been the year that:

• I lived through a musical
• I watched Dave draw a snowman on a tablecloth
• I took a picture of the snowman pic to text to people
• I broke my resolutions before I made them
• I had a snow day because God said.
• I heard a rumor about someone not drinking anymore and then passed it on because if you don't you will suffer from an evil curse.
• I justified my discomfort with polite men
• I quit a diet before starting one
• I pretended to be on a diet because I wanted a vintage food scale

Yeah.  Top that.

Do I Look LIke I Need Help ?

Well, apparently the zombie-apocalypse-inspired famine is over here in Smalltown.  For days I joined the ranks of the underfed, searching the picked over shelves for something to eat.  Meat was scarce, so scarce that  I think I heard a human growl as I got dangerously close to her prey, some rather grey looking chicken breasts.  No thank you.  I will wait for the organic, no antibiotics or hormones brand to reappear, as the last thing I need is another hormone. God only knows what hormones chickens have and why.  Best not to risk finding out.

The produce department in the Winter is like a trip around the world, except for the body cavity search, flight cancellations, and Ebola.   There wasn't a local thing to be found, but that's what you get for craving fruit in the Winter.  I bought some lovely pears, likely covered in DDT, but I'll just have remember to spit on them before I take a bite.  Life is risky.  Deal with it.

However, there was no bread.  Now, for those who just joined us, let me explain. You see, at the store here in SmallTown, there's a regular bread aisle and then there's the bakery.  I could understand why the regular bread aisle would be picked over, as normal deliveries hadn't started again after the "HolidaysThat Satan Created As part of his His Glorious Revenge. "( Yeah, this is one of the more wilder conspiracy theories out there,  but it's one of my favorites.  I'll tell you over a campfire someday.)  Anyway, all you need to know right now is that Beelzebub is surely the cause of a lack of bread on the supermarket shelves, but why, I ask, is there no bakery bread?  Did they run out of flour? Yeast? (don't look at me, I don't have any of that to spare anymore and for that  I say "Thanks Menopause, you rock.")

In other news, lately, people are holding doors for me all over the place.

This is something you are supposed to be happy about as a woman, and don't get me wrong, I am thankful and I say thank you and all that but nowadays, men, both younger and older do not hold doors for women except if they are OLD WOMEN or someone with a handicap.  I mean, I'm not old so it can't be that, but ........oh, yeah, I had a hurty leg for a few days and I must have been limping slightly.

PHEW!!!  close one.

I have to admit something about door holding, though.  I kind of don't like it.  It's not because I've gone all Gloria Steinem or anything.  Hell, I usually take anything anyone will give me, especially stuff like help, or wine.  But there's always this awkward moment, you know, when you see someone is coming out of the door and you're going in and you reach for it  the door and then he grabs the handle and holds it and looks at you, waiting for you to go in, and then you have to smile and say thank you as if you really like it but you don't because it's just weird.

Somethings may have been meant to stay back in the old days, when women were all grateful for anything someone did for them, and men held doors for women because if they didn't  do this as a child, their fathers would bash them over the head.   It's not like that now.  Kids don't have fathers. They have donors and Mommy impregnated  herself because no one ever held the door for her or even asked her to send a nude picture of herself in text.

But door-holding its kind of small-townsy, and in that way I'm ok with it. My leg was hurty, after all.

The Adventures of Nutty Nun

A VERY FEW MINUTES LATER..................

God Called a Snow Day

 Yesterday, God called a snow day.

No, really.  I'm not kidding.  Sometimes around here churches close because of the weather.

That would never have happened back in my day.  In my day no excuse was good enough.  I mean, they had mass on television, so even if you were sick in bed, even if you were in the hospital you could "be there."  It was like old school virtual reality only not nearly as fun because there was no remote and everything was real life,  except maybe the "body" and "blood" part of communion..  Catholics weren't  allowed to have the "blood."  Just the "body" which was a wafer, and it was like chewing air, tasted like a no-name "saltine" cracker.  A stale one.  I figured the "blood" wasn't all that good either, probably some cheap stuff, like maybe "Boone's Farm Apple flavor" or something, so I didn't care, knowing I could score better than this.

When I first discovered that a catholic mass was on TV I was pretty excited because back then I would watch anything.  I once watched the test pattern (the thing that was left on the screen when television signed off for the night) for 2 hours until the parents I was babysitting for came home.   What? NO? You don't know what a test pattern is?  Oh you young little whippersnappers you.  Well, things were different back when television was new.  Television wasn't "on" 24-7.  It shut off at about 2:00am, because there was no internet then and we couldn't easily justify living in someone else's time zone.

But that  was a long time ago.  Yes, before DVD. Yes, before Donkey Kong. Yes, before Space Race. Listen,  It was The Way Back, Ok?  when kids had babysitters who were barely a couple of years older than they were, and who had no idea how to do the Heimlich maneuver or even change a diaper because we didn't  have to have a degree in advanced babysitting, show proof of personal liability insurance, and get a criminal check in order to watch the neighbor's kids on a Saturday night.  Yeah,  The Way Way Back. It was The Wild West of Childhood.

And yet, even though it was the Wild West and filled with kid outlaws, I wasn't one of them. In fact,  the  one and only time I lied during confession had something to do with television. You see,  I pretended to be sick on a Sunday so I didn't have to go to mass, which believe it or not is one of the BIG sins (referred to as "mortal.")   I felt so guilty about not going to mass that I stayed in bed and watched church on TV and even then I copped to this sin in confession the very next week, cuz back then things on a screen were not considered real like they are today.  Not even church. Watching it was not good enough, certainly not good enough for the Catholic God, anyway. He's like the bad-ass  God of the modern conventional religions.  I mean, he probably couldn't take down Thor, but you know - he was pretty damned scary to little kids in uniforms.

 It was the only time I varied from my small list of sins that I reported, sort of like a mantra (but without the Indian accent, ) to the priest every Wednesday when we would go to confession as a class.  As a result of my honesty, I was told that I must say a lot of prayers as my "penance" which was pretty embarrassing because while I was up kneeling at the altar all that time, saying one Hail Mary after the other,  my classmates were placing bets on what I might have done to deserve this punishment.  Shortly after that, a couple of the cuter boys began smiling at me on the bus, boys much cuter than the Evil Twins with their identical over-sized teeth and booger noses. Yes, the boogers were identical too, I'm sad to report after watching them drip down dangerously close to their mouths way too many times.

So, anyway.  God called a snow day and, due to my brainwashing upbringing  I'm pretty sure, if memory serves me, that this one of the signs of the Apocalypse (according to something I read in in those Hippy bibles that came out in the early 70s,) so go buy a bunch of  batteries. count your cans of spam in the basement, say your penance, and if you don't, then  don't come crying to me.

Nutty Nun - First Communion

The Time I had to sit through a horror story before I could make my first communion.

Mawwrrrried. Geesh!!! Calm Down People. It's a RUMOR.

AUTHOR'S NOTE TO THE PERSON WHO HAD A GLASS OF  WINE WITH ME YESTERDAY AT A TOTALLY LEGITIMATE TIME OF THE DAY/EARLY EVENING WHEN WE DIDN'T OPERATE A VEHICLE OR FARM EQUIPMENT:  I know this post is going to mimic real life but here's the odd part - I wrote this post the day before yesterday intending to post it today *cue twilight zone music or maybe american horror story cuz it's creepier and cooler.*  I mean, weird, right??? Anyway, just making sure you know that I'm not using you for blog post inspiration.  Well, at least not this time.

AND NOW, ONTO THE POST!!

 Ok.  My phone has been ringing off the hook and my in-box is full after that post in which I mentioned that someone in town had been rumored to have given up drinking.

Look, people who called me.  The rumor is not about  you.  It's not you.  It's NONE of you guys.  You guys don't even KNOW this person because um well I might be the one who made it up but it doesn't matter because   It's A RUMOR!! They are hardly ever true. And besides, some of you were drunk when you called me, so like duh, if the rumor was about you,  it's obviously not true.  .  So relax. It's all good.  I just make things up when I'm bored and last time I checked that is called BEING CREATIVE, bitches.  I mean that's what Van Gogh did (besides mutilating himself) So calm down and get one with your day or whatever that t-shirt says.

I mean, seriously.  Like " Mawrried.  Geesh.  !"

What?  Recognize that movie quote?  Well,  feel free to guess which movie it came from in the comment box.  I love quoting movies, which is why I have so few friends.  The only problem with being a movie quoter is that you have to assume that the person you are using this quote on has seen the same movie and is going to know why the hell you are talking like that, and if you do assume that they have watched all the same movies as you have, you must be ready, at some point to find out that some of them have not seen the movie and do not know what the fuck you're talking about,  but didn't question you because they were afraid that you might be psychotic and they were too busy looking for the closest exit  or they were too polite to say anything .

For about two years I quoted stuff from "A Christmas Story" (especially around the holidays, but anytime really) before I realized that Dave had no idea what the hell I was talking about. Finally, when I realized this,  I said "What?  Well, what did you think when I was telling you that something breakable was Frageeelee????  And didn't you wonder why I kept reminding you that "I like the Wizard of Oz?"

He just shrugged and smiled because he's just terminally nice that way and there's fuck-all I can do about it. Seriously, I've tried.  He just doesn't go changin'.

So, ok.  Look.  No, better yet, LISTEN.  It's all just a rumor.  Trust me,  no  one is going to stop being drunk. I promise you.  No one will even cut down a bit, or switch to another beer. I simply won't allow it.  No one will make it past day one of their New Year's Resolution. You have my word on that, and if they do, don't worry.  I'm on it.  If anyone can push someone off the ledge wagon, it's me.

Cheers.

Bad Mommy - Wearing Blue Eye Shadow In a Public Place

First Time I Wore Makeup In Public

I decided to quit my diet before I start it.

There is a large container filled with hot chocolate mix in the cabinet,  some Cool Whip in the refrigerator, half an apple pie somewhere and a small amount of ice cream in the refrigerator.

In another part of the house, a new diet plan is tacked up on the bulletin board.

Yeah, how much chance of success do you think I have? 

I wouldn't even have most of this shit in my house if not for the holidays and with it, the possibility or the absolute-plans-made certainty of holiday guests, the guests for whom you stock your pantry with all the tempting foods of Satan. Did you not know this is how he battles Christmas? No?  Of course you didn't. That guy's a sly one, I tell you. 

Once upon a time, you wouldn't have to worry that most of this stuff would hang around long because kids would eat and drink anything you had to offer (unless it was peas or meatloaf or milk) and then they would run around all jacked up on the sugar and lose any weight they could possibly gain, so after you made sure they brushed their teeth, there was nothing to worry about.  No leftovers, no obesity, and no cavities.  Life was so good then I think I'm gonna cry.

Now they are raised to make healthy food choices, and so you get stuck with all the crap you ran out at the last minute in your curlers and slippers to get for them.  And while it's true that you might have chosen some of your own favorite goodies, you were doing this with the little darlings in mind.  Too bad you forgot they were gluten intolerant, allergic to sugar, afraid of anything brown, and ice cream might prompt some past life post traumatic memory and resulting psychotic episodes.

So now I have a bunch of stuff made in a peanut and nut free facility just waiting to mess with my diet plan.

And I am so looking forward to pretending to resist and then caving with great passion and abandon.  In all honesty, it is why I start a diet in the first place.  When one is a lifetime professional Quitter  (SEE FULL STORY HERE) setting yourself up to fail is the most exciting part of the game.  No, really.  I live for this shit.  Oh, I can already see myself, teasingly slicing tiny slivers of pie as if that is all I am going to allow myself, putting a small dollop of ice cream on top and smiling devilishly, before going back at least 34 more times to do the exact same thing.  There is nothing like a craving I cannot satisfy.

Yes, this is the slow seduction that causes the very naughty girl to cheat on her diet.   Mmmmmmmmm. Who could resist?   It's all so gloriously tempting.

Thank god  the little darlings are gluten intolerant allergic anorexics. All the more forbidden fruit for me.

Bad Mommy - The Too-Big Jumper

The time I wore the same jumper to school every day for two years.

If People Change, Will I Have to Like It?

 This is the time of year when people actually realize that a whole year has past, that they are another year older and another year closer to the end, and then they get frightened and decide to stop doing all the stuff that they believe will be the thing that will definitely kill them someday.  Oh, not people around here of course! I mean, OTHER PEOPLE, the ones I read about on the interwebs.

So, naturally, when  I heard that someone in town had given up drinking, I  knew without question, that it was a rumor, a VERY RIDICULOUS and OBVIOUSLY NOT LIKELY TRUE rumor and so  I seriously questioned the validity of this information until I heard it from a reliable source that I ran into in the drug store,  and then, still not believing it, I heard it from three more random people at the bank and at the library, not to mention the UPS delivery man, and Buddy who works at the quickie mart.  So, it might be true.  I mean Buddy usually isn't wrong.
 
You know,  I've had a lot of drunk people in my life.

This is simply a statement of fact.  I'm not passing judgment.  It just is.  I have to admit, most of the memories of the time spent with these people are good ones, because, well, drinking was involved, and people who drink are sometimes pretty damned funny, while the ones who smoke pot usually just sit in a stupor or fall asleep or talk about a bunch of stuff you don't care about, mostly Lord of the Rings type shit.  Of course there are the bad drunks.  I know that. I've had way too many holiday dinners with them.   But I like to remember the good ones, because they are way funnier, ones like Drunk Debbie.

 Drunk Debbie was one of my favorite drunk people.  She never apologized for her drinking - no really, to the point where you felt it was like completely normal and you suspected that if you ever saw her sober you probably wouldn't like her or even recognize her if you ran into her in a public place.  Drunk Debbie had a beer permanently installed in her hand.  Our families would go camping together,  and in the morning she'd greet me as I came out of my tent, looking for coffee. There  she'd be, already up and around, breakfast beer in her hand, ready to face the day.

Debbie was very accident prone.  (unsure if this was or was not alcohol related.)  While waiting for Debbie and her family to meet us at a camp site, we would place bets as to how she was going to be damaged or contagious. Would it be her arm? leg? Sinus infection? Rabies? We wouldn't even try to guess, not even when they were really really  late and we almost had to set up the tents by ourselves and call it a night.  We'd just wait to find out what the trouble was, but we would KNOW it would be something and in the end she'd  end up surprising us, you know, like the time she showed up sporting an eye patch.

Drunk Debbie was a  happy drunk, always very self depreciating.  She told us all kinds of stories, which eventually were legends like The Time She Was Walking Down The Street and a Bird Flew Into Her Face, and The Time She Walked Right Through The Glass Storefront of a Large  Retail Establishment. 

Debbie had wardrobe malfunctions on a regular basis (which may have been the reason we were friends.)  She had high-top sneakers (it was the 80's don't worry) and the laces would never ever stay tied.  As she reached down to tie them for the 86th time that day she'd say "This is the stuff that will send you right over the edge one day. No, not the big things but this."

She also had the longest feet I've ever seen.  She was a tiny woman with gigantically long feet, and since  skinny jeans were in style then, she couldn't fit into them because  size 5 jeans are not made for a person with  size 9 feet. She simply could not get her foot into the skinniest part of the jean (the ankle part.) These, and many other things, are the things you discover when you have a friend like Drunk Debbie. So, I mean, if you don't want to discover these kinds of things, then you've been warned, and if you do, go find yourself a nice fun drunk friend of your own.

I think I would have liked Drunk Debbie even if she wasn't drunk,  but that never seemed to happen because beers were not just for breakfast back then, they could be an all day thing for some people, and so you just had to like her the way she was - drunk and clumsy and gloriously non- apologetic.

Nowadays you are not really allowed to condone or even tolerate this kind of chemically induced behavior, which probably means there are a lot of lonely drunks out there.  Oh, not around here....no. I mean SOMEWHERE.  Trust me, in this part of the world no drunk is lonely.    But even here, sometimes someone pushes the limit and becomes notorious.  And if you become notorious here, well, let's just say there is some stiff competition, so most people probably haven't got a chance of winning. In other words,  if you become notorious by drinking too much here, well, you are probably in a bit of trouble.

Of course, sometimes you hear of someone who decides to jump on board The Wagon, and it kind of makes you wonder, you know, if you will begin to like them more or like them less without their poison.  Is the person you liked going to stop being funny, start wearing a cross and take line dancing classws?   Is the person you hated going to suddenly turn into one you don't mind once in a great great great great great while and may you'd even consider it was because he/she was drunk that she/he was once so obnoxious?

And maybe most importantly, if I decide to see what the people I like and don't like when drunk are like when sober, will I have to hear the whole story of their journey more times than I'd be able to live through without  permanent scarring and probably a very itchy rash?

Obviously a lot more pondering is needed.  Probably over wine.



Author's Note:  Since I have relocated (a few times)  from the place where I once lived near Debbie, I have not had contact with her in years .  Recently I googled her and found out that she had passed away.  She had a debilitating medical condition and she knew that she didn't have a long life to look forward to.  I think this why she decided to "live it up."  To this day, this is my motto.   Unfortunaely I was not informed of her passing and so I wasn't able to say my last goodbyes.  I hope that she had as much fun in her life as she prompted in other's lives.

I'll see you next time Debbie.  Cheers!    xxooxxo