February 25, 2012 · 0:00

The Slow Kid Gets It AGAIN

Everybody always tags the slow kid.  So I’m not sure if this is an honor or if everybody is picking on me.  These folks are either really good friends or should be banned from Word Press.  I can’t quite decide.

But I’m IT, I was TAGGED.  So here goes nothin.’  Here’s how you play.

  • You must post the rules. (Check)
  • You must thank the folks who put you up to this:

Here are the culprits; they made me do this.  Trust me, it wasn’t my idea.  In fact, I thought I had already done this when I wrote What’s In A Meme.

Janice at  Aurora Morealist (2/21)

Janice at Cafe23 (2/22)

TwinDaddy at Stuphblog (2/24)

  • Answer the questions the taggers set for you in their post.

I’m cheating here.  I was tagged 3 times, I figure nobody wants to spend the next month reading about me.  So I chose some questions from each of the bloggin’ buddies who picked on me.  You can thank me later.

  • Tag eleven people and link to them on your post.  (I’m cheating again)
  • Let them know you’ve tagged them! (Cheating is the theme here)

Janice at Aurora Morealis’ questions:

If you were given another chance at life, to come back as anything or anyone you want, who or what would you choose and why?

I want to come back as an American Coot, my favorite bird.

Me in my next life. OR maybe in my previous one. Before being eaten by an eagle.

They are silly, duck-like birds (they don’t even get a category of their own – they are merely duck-like).

They must have a great sense of humor, because they are awful at everything else.  In fact, they have trouble swimming (no webs on their feet)– they thrust their heads forward with each stroke, in the same way a race horse does, but without the grace.  They also forget that they are birds and can fly.  I’d be like that.  You see, coots can’t take off easily from the water (where they spend 99.9 percent of their time); they always look like Keystone Cops trying to get away.  They get eaten by eagles and hawks because they are slow and awkward.  And stupid.  The term “old coot” comes from these guys.  But I love them anyway.  They crack me up.

I always picture them with a speech bubble over their head that says “SHOOT” – a particularly dumb thing for a bird to be saying, if you ask me.  But they can’t help it; they were taught not to swear when they were “Cooties.”  (Yes, I had to say it.)

Cooties

Apparently I must be pretty content in this lifetime to come back as prey, but still.  They are great fun to watch.

What one thing do you wish you did when you had the chance?

See Door Number Two! Where my dreams of fame and fortune ended.  I wonder what would have happened if I had chosen Door Number One.  Or what was behind the curtain.  Or, perhaps, what would have happened if I had never come out of the closet.  [Thousands of people will now think I am gay.  Perhaps I will attract new readers!]

 If a stranger knocked on your door and asked for food or shelter, what would you do?

Open the door and let them in.  They would be pleasant and grateful, and nice and fun.  We would have a party.  Then my husband would kill me for having let potential murderers in.

Are you glad or ticked off that I tagged you?

Both!

 TwinDaddy’s Questions:

 What is the most traumatic experience you’ve ever had?

Saturday, January 15, 2000 and Tuesday, August 11, 2009, the dates my sisters died.  Judy at 47 went first, and then Beth at 61.  Sucked.  Still sucks.  We were going to race our wheelchairs in the nursing home.

If you could choose one moment in your life that defined who you are today, what was that moment?

Many years ago, I had horrible secretarial job at an Ivy League university.  I felt stupid every day –not because people made me feel that way (everyone was really very nice).  Nope.  I MADE MYSELF FEEL THAT WAY.  Everyone I saw intimidated me.

One day, a brilliant professor needed help changing a light bulb.  In a table lamp.  It made me realize that in at least one way, I was smarter than this brilliant man.  And I stopped feeling stupid.  More importantly, I stopped doubting that I was smart enough to do whatever I chose to do.  After all, I could change a light bulb.

Why, OH WHY, do you blog?

I started blogging after taking a humor writing class where I found I enjoyed writing short snarky pieces.  What else do you do with short and snarky?

Cafe23’s questions:

Do you have any tattoos? If yes, of what and where? If not, what tattoo would you get if you had to get one?

When I read “In Cold Blood” in high school, my very favorite teacher ever said “Never trust anyone with a tattoo.”  At that time, it was only cold blooded killers and sailors who had them.  Things have changed in 40 years.

Still I don’t get why anyone would want one.  Times and styles change – just look at shirt collars, ties and hairstyles.  What happens when tattoos go out of fashion?

I was in a store in Maine last summer when a young girl was proudly displaying the tattoo she’d gotten of a hummingbird for her 20th birthday.  It was quite pretty, and it was right there at the top of her substantial left breast.  By the time she is my age and her boobs sag, it will look like a turkey vulture.

Who wouldn't want this on their breast?

*   *   *

Do you believe in God?

I don’t think it matters, really.  I think how people act is what is important.  I believe in the Golden Rule.  I also believe in what I’ve gotten from the New Testament:  Love.  That’s what it’s all about.  The Old Testament didn’t teach love.  And for some reason that – the hate is what resonates with all too many folks these days.

What will get you angry?

Republican politicians get me angry whenever I think of them.  Cause I just don’t feel the love.  See my response to the question above.

Why did you name your blog the name you named it?

Two reasons.  One: I was angry about being 6 months shy of qualifying for Medicare under the Republican plan.  I wrote about in People My Age and in my first post Fifty Four And A Half.

But the real reason is that I felt reaching the age of 54-1/2 was a personal victory.  That was the average age of my two sisters when they died.  I reached it with a combination of sadness and triumph.  And that’s partly why I will always, at heart, be 54-1/2.

*     *     *

Now My Questions:

  1. What color best describes you?
  2. Dogs or cats?
  3. Favorite Broadway Show
  4. First TV crush — and does he/she resemble your significant other?
  5. M*A*S*H or Mary Tyler Moore Show?
  6. Favorite romantic dinner
  7. First childhood memory
  8. Plot summary of your first novel
  9. Are you punny?
  10. What will you do when you win the lottery?
  11. Tell me about a brush with fame

I’m not going to tag anyone; I’m way too slow.  But feel free to answer if you’d like.  Or not if you’d rather not (you’re welcome, Lorre).  If you do answer, please post a link to your post in the comments.

49 Comments

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February 23, 2012 · 0:00

A Slippery Slope

When I was a kid, I was just like the Coppertone Girl.

 

Only red.  Very red.  My Irish heritage produced day-glow skin that never  tans.  As a kid, it turned fire-engine red in record time.  Regardless, I stayed out all day at the beach, in my bathing suit.  Burning.

Like the Coppertone girl, there was one part of my body that did not burn, and I’ve always been glad.  Well, until I read this article:

Heated seats burn bums of 2 women

I am sad to say, that I, too, suffer from Butt Burn.

I came about it innocently enough.  When we returned from living in Switzerland, we bought a car that had heated seats.  I was delighted, since I am always cold.  I pushed the button, and happiness reigned.  For ten years, I’ve had a toasty tush.  I would never think of buying a car without this luxury feature.  A seat warmer and satellite radio is all I really require in a car.  An engine is helpful, but not essential.

My path to Butt Burn, though, was down a slippery slope.

Two years ago, I started having a sore butt, so I applied Vaseline.  Often out of those tiny tubes of Vaseline Lip Therapy that led me towards the pathway to lip balm addiction.  I prefer the cherry flavored, although it hardly mattered down there.

When Vaseline fell short of my needs, I tried lidocaine ointment to soothe.  Lastly, I tried what every mother knows works to soothe sore bums – Butt Paste.

With Only Natural Ingredients

These products have not helped.  In fact, they made it worse.  Now, I’m not a chemist, but I think I need to Google the temperature at which Butt Paste burns.  Because I’m pretty sure I got very close over the weekend.  My seat was smokin’.

I shudder to think:  what if I had spontaneously combusted?

The whole issue gives new meaning to some of my favorite phrases:

“Liar, liar, pants on fire”

“Hot Pants”

“Cool Your Jets”

*****

No butts were actually burned in the creation of this post.  So butt-burn sympathy is not necessary.  Flowers are always welcome, however.

73 Comments

Filed under Childhood Traumas, Climate Change, Global Warming, Humor, Stupidity

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February 21, 2012 · 0:00

My biggest fear

It’s happened in the wake of the tragic death of singer Whitney Houston.  Or maybe it happened in the wake of CNN’s 4-day, 24-hour per day marathon coverage of her funeral which included an estimated 5,392,911 renditions of Whitney singing “I Will Always Love You.”  Whichever it was, I was delighted to see that our society has truly stepped up to the plate.  We are, thanks to Whitney, tackling the demons in our midst.

Starting with the one that has been keeping me up nights for years:

Can you really be addicted to lip balm?

Lip balm, no matter what they say about you, I will always love you.

58 Comments

Filed under Family, Humor, Hypocrisy, Music, Science, Stupidity

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February 17, 2012 · 0:00

Desperado

My husband doesn’t know it yet, but by the end of this three-day weekend, he will divorce me.  We’ve been married 25-1/2 years.  But they will be down the tubes in just a few days.

It’s sad.  And it all came about perfectly innocently.  Really.

It was a lovely morning, and today as I drove in to work, I was singing along with the radio when the song came on.  Desperado, as sung by Linda Ronstadt (not the lesser version done by the Eagles).

It just happened; I couldn’t control myself.  It tried, but really, I couldn’t help myself.  I sang with abandon.  With joy.  With knowledge aforethought.

Now, I need to tell you that my soon to be ex-husband is handicapped.  We have managed to make a good life together despite this, umm, problem.  But it can’t continue.

You see, my husband hears everything.  He cannot tune anything out.  Not music, not voices, not machinery.  I’ve never known anyone else with this particular disability.  Whenever a neighbor starts a leaf or snow blower, a power tool, anything, he hears it and is frustrated.  When a song he dislikes comes on the radio, when a commercial jingle plays, he hits the mute button faster than a Jeopardy contestant gets the buzzer.  John will scream and dive across the room to turn that damn thing off.

Poor John.  He’s never found my mute button.

And that, of course is the problem.

You see, I sing.  Now, and for the last 25-1/2 years, I have looked over my shoulder before belting out a tune.  I try to be considerate.  And usually that works out OK for both of us.

Now, you should know that I can sing.  Really!  Years of chorus and choir, voice lessons, starring roles in musical comedies written by unknowns who, tragically, went on to other careers.  I am even a critically acclaimed singer, with the reviews to prove it.  Bronzed.  One reviewer went so far as to say that I was stylish, although I am pretty sure that he was trying to get into my pants when he wrote the review.  Of course, the evidence is circumstantial, based only on the reviewer’s verbal comments to me.  Still, I’m sure his judgment wasn’t impaired.  Extra blood is known to increase musical appreciation in men.  Do I need to produce the medical studies?

Now I have a handicap, too.  Unlike my husband, I can tune out anything.  Including my own singing.  While I’m doing it.  I often just don’t notice I’m doing it.

John can deal with my singing sometimes; sometimes I just keep quiet.  It’s worked.

Except for one song.  Desperado, as sung by Linda Ronstadt (not the lesser version done by the Eagles).  You see, it gets stuck in my head.  And not even the whole song.  Just one verse:

Desperado

Why don’t you come to your senses,

you been out ridin’ fences for so long, now.

Oh, you’re a hard one

But I know that you’ve got your reasons

These things that are pleasing you

Will hurt you some how

 That’s all I can ever remember.  And that, of course, is the problem.

“Lease, you’re doing it again. Those same lines — from the middle of the song.”

“Yeah, but they’re the best lines,” I respond.  (John is never amused by that line, no matter how many times I’ve used it.  Or how cute I look while saying it.  Silence and pursed lips follow. )

This morning, when the song came on the radio, I forgot.  I forgot that I cannot ever listen to that song again.  I forgot that hearing it, even once, will result in divorce.  I forgot that it might lead to a serious change in my life.

I didn’t change the channel.  I didn’t turn off the radio.  I did not drive into a tree or a ditch or another car simply to keep myself from hearing my beloved song – the one that my husband hates above all others.

Nope, I belted it out with abandon.

And it’s still there in my head.  It wants to come out.  In fact, it will come out.  Sigh.  And I know that my marriage simply cannot stand even one rendition.  Sigh. Oh well.  What’s 25-1/2 years anyway.

Mrs. Sparkly. Or should it be Ms.?

So it is a damn good thing that Janice at AuroraMorealist gave me the Mrs. Sparkly Award.  Because I’m going to need to supplement my income with some singing.

Thanks Janice!  For anyone who is unfamiliar with Janice’s blog, check it out.  She has heart and talent and gives love with every post.

72 Comments

Filed under Awards, Driving, Family, Humor, Music

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February 15, 2012 · 0:00

Because Mine Don’t

Tomorrow at my office, I and other members of the “Senior Staff” must present some cost cutting measures for consideration by the President and CEO.  I’ve been worrying about this for more than a month.  Me, I’m more into spending than cost cutting, and I just didn’t have any really good ideas for how a small business like ours could, well, save money.

But then, to quote John Lennon, “I read the news today, oh boy.”  And I know just exactly how we will be saving loads of money.  Can you guess how?

We can save sh*tloads of cash on health insurance in the not too distant future.  How?

Yup, you guessed it!  I’m counting on the Republicans in Congress continuing to be so completely, bafflingly, inexplicably bizarre.   I’m betting that the Amendment proposed by Senator Roy Blunt (R-MO) to the Affordable Healthcare Act will become law.  You read about it, didn’t you?  It would allow any employer to “opt out” of offering insurance coverage to their employees if they object to coverage for religious or moral grounds.

When it becomes law, PRESTO!  My company will save a fortune.  I am a magician!  I will save the company.  I will be promoted!  I will make big buckaroooooooooooossssss!  I will be rewarded!  At least I’ll keep my job.

Cue the evil laugh.  Mooaahhhhhhhaaaahaaaaaaa.

Now there aren’t many of us at my little company.  In fact I think we may all actually be “Senior Staff,” so I will need to present this carefully.  Or mumble.

And, well, there aren’t too many health issues to speak of among our 22 employees.  The usual flu, cold, allergies.  Nothing particularly juicy.  Nothing even remotely immoral.  Nothing even borderline.  Besides, what could we possibly object to on both moral and religious grounds that hasn’t already been taken care of by those busy beavers at the Virginia State Legislature?

Clearly, I had to dig deeper.  I had to look to find what everyone has in common.  And I figured it out!

We will deny health insurance coverage to anyone who poops.

We will do it on moral AND religious grounds. 

Yup, poop.  Nobody likes poop – that’s why we flush it away, why we bury it, why we hide behind doors to do it.  I’ll save us a fortune in premiums.

As the self-proclaimed new insurance representative of my company, I hereby proclaim:

We oppose poop on moral grounds.

We oppose poop on religious grounds.

(Opposing poop on religious grounds would be easier if only I could remember which religion has the caste system – you know, where only the lowest caste deals with poop.  Whatever religion that may be.  I’m sure it’s mentioned in the Constitution.  (It’s probably somewhere in the 2nd Amendment.)

Soon, my company won’t have to cover anybody; we’ll save a bloomin’ fortune.

But somehow, I will have to figure out how I can get insurance that covers me, because, you see, I have some healthcare issues, and I want to keep MY coverage.

I know!!  My coverage can be special; because my poop don’t stink.  Just like that of the folks proposing this Amendment.  Right?

65 Comments

Filed under Elections, Family, Humor, Hypocrisy, Stupidity, Susan G. Komen, Technology, Uncategorized

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