Memorable Memorial Day

Some fabric; some string.

A few wooden dowels and a clear sky.

Voila a child’s delight. And mine too.

Actually we all had a glorious kite-flying s’mores-eating afternoon at the beach yesterday.

We had children, adults, even a grandma and grandpa at our gathering.

Everyone took a turn flying the kite which won a round of applause when it was reeled in from the heavens right to the hand of the main kite-flyer (grandpa).

Most of the children wore sand goatees, where the sticky marshmallow became a semi-permanent home for beach sand.

We had a random “whiz” in the reeds by one of our littlest family members who has just learned how to pee like a big guy and loves it! One stubbed toe. One family picture (my eyes were closed – surprise surprise) but the photographer is going to try to photoshop a pair of sun glasses on my face.

Norman Rockwell himself could have set up his easel and painted our crew. Everyone was wearing either red, white or blue…everyone happy and healthy and the backdrop of a gorgeous blue sky with just the right amount of required white fluffy clouds looked fake in its perfection.

Not every one of our family gatherings is this perfect. We have our share of hurt feelings and jealousy, crabby souls who refuse to have fun no matter what you do – but for some reason, yesterday afternoon, the stars were aligned properly in the heavens to give our whole family this gift of a perfect afternoon at the beach.

And so I thank my lucky stars for all the fun we had and for the memory of such a wonderful day to tuck deep inside my soul and savor.

If a bit of fabric and string can soar to the heavens, then certainly our souls which are made of much sterner stuff can soar too. Sometimes it just takes one perfect day to spawn such good feelings in everyone-- that it reminds us that more days like this are possible.

Thank you dear family – with a special thank you to the best kite-flyer in the universe – Grandpa!

Suffer the Children


I can’t get this off my mind.

I found myself in a MacDonald’s play area in an affluent part of my county. I was there with a friend and her children. We both diligently watched out for S and J while they played happily on the climbing indoor gym, went down the slide and climbed to the top of the multi-colored plastic maze.

While we talked, we each kept one eye on the children at all times. Even though this play area is constructed to be safe, children still need to be watched.

There were lots of kids in the room, most of them toddlers…loud, happy sounds, a sniffle or two...moms sitting and chatting, moms doing homework, moms with their backs to the play area not watching their kids, moms not noticing when one little boy had a hard collision on the slide with another little boy.

No mom ever came over to see what had happened – to chastise or to console --even though one child was howling. I went over and checked him out, helped him off the slide, glancing around waiting for the mother to come over and maybe smile at me for my concern. But no.

Soon I ended up standing by the slide and giving suggestions on how it’s nice to wait for one person to get off the slide before the next person comes down. One little boy’s nose was running so badly I wanted to swipe as it with a tissue. A little girl had been pushed and was sitting on the floor crying softly.

What on earth was wrong with these mothers? I felt like I was in Twilight Zone – but then the lightbulb went off and I caught on. These women were not mothers they were nannies.

I watched as the four women chatting away without a glance to the jungle gym got up and sternly called out some names in broken English. One little arm was jerked too hard for my taste and another child was told in a gruff voice to “throw out this garbage” …even though the child could barely reach the trash receptacle.

Another blank-faced woman who’d been reading a paperback novel closed her book in a huff when her charge called out her name and said she had to go pee pee. Another woman studying away had to stop at one point and take her child to the bathroom also. She also showed her lack of happiness in having to put down her psychology book to take the child to the restroom.

I did not see smiles or words of encouragement or hugs or snuggles coming from these women. I saw boredom, disinterest, selfishness and disdain on their faces.

I watched them when they made a mass exodus to the parking lot. I watched children standing in the parking lot with no warm loving hand holding theirs…one woman held onto the strap of a child’s overalls, using this grip to toss the kid into the car seat.

Did I see child abuse? No I didn’t, if I had I’d have reported them…what I saw was worse in a way – the invisible wall between the children and their caretakers. A hostility towards the wealthy children the nannies were minding – not a love.

The empty looking faces of the nannies made me think that most likely they were imported here for the purpose of watching children at the cheapest price possible.

I heard one say in reference to her employer: “She give me her old makeup and she think it a big deal.”

Another one said: "How much you get for to take MacDonalds? I only get twenty."

The saddest thing to see was the faces of these poor little rich kids.

Dressed in the finest clothing; living, I’m sure, in beautiful homes with beautiful furnishings, but spending their days with people who not only don’t love them, but most likely don’t even like children much at all.

What’s to become of these beautiful, fragile little souls?

Do you take a good picture?

I don’t mean are you good behind the camera…I mean are you what they call “photogenic?”

I do something weird with my mouth and my chin the minute I know a camera is pointed in my direction. I screw up my face, twist my neck, frown and flare my nostrils and my eyes clamp shut. At least that’s how it appears to me whenever I see a photo someone’s taken of me.

I hate having my picture taken. Either I’m much homelier than I believe or the camera and I don’t get along. I cannot duplicate in the mirror the face that I see captured in time (and for future generations) in way too many photos to count.

License photos are so bad I once had a cop tell me I looked nothing like my photo, while he was trying to keep from laughing in my face. His whole body was shaking with controlled and silent laughter. (In this particular license photo, I appeared to be projectile vomiting…) Only good thing was I did not get the speeding ticket. I think he was having so much fun with my picture he forgot why he was looking at it in the first place.

Back in the days when “bar tricks” could buy you a free beer, I always knew that this photo would cause the bartender to serve one up on the house…

“Hey Harry, gotta see this license picture (doubling over with guttural guffaws…) man you look like Rosemary’s baby or that head spinning girl in the Exorcist.”

“Thanks, give me my free drink now.”

Okay so that’s a license photo…hardly anyone likes their license photo. But these odd contortions of my countenance happen in every picture.

Am I a card carrying mouth breather or what other excuse do I have for always having my mouth open? Are my eyes (in the few photos in which they are open) really fire-engine red? Why do I tuck my chin into my chest? Why the odd lip crinkle? Where did my shoulders go?

My passport photo is bad too, but in a different way. I am wearing a black leather jacket and a black turtleneck. I have the expression of a hardened criminal or a blonde terrorist. I look like I eat babies – my smile’s really a sneer and I’m giving a whopping “stink-eye” to the world.

In my photo ID for the local golf course, I look like an offspring of Kermit the frog. My whole face is green. Sure, these are quick pictures taken by non-pros, but no other person getting a photo ID that day came out green. I checked in the mirror and honestly I was not green on that day…but you can’t prove it by the picture.

I could go on but you get my drift here.

When I see a camera I want to cry. When you see the subsequent pictures you’ll want to laugh.

And this is what I’m thinking about as Sunday’s family reunion grows closer. All those cameras pointed in my direction; the calls to me, the shouts, hey wait, don’t take the picture yet, get Mary in it…come on Mary, get in the picture...

Hellllpppppp!!!!!!

I Love Hotdogs

Have fun with this if you must, but I’d rather have a good hotdog than a stinky steak. When it’s my call on what we’re having for dinner I always choose hotdogs. I put as much effort and energy into my hotdog making as I do beef bourguignon. Only the finest quality hotdogs will do with the freshest of rolls.

I think my most favorite way to cook them is on my inside grill so every delicious aroma floats around my kitchen. I butterfly them sometimes and love crispy strips of bacon stuffed into the toasted roll. I love them with cheese or without, chopped onions are great but not necessary. Even relish is optional…but mustard is mandatory. Skinless hotdogs are my least favorite.

Plain old French’s yellow mustard is my first choice, but I’ll eat any mustard offered and have even enjoyed a hotdog at the ballpark (flabby and barely cooked with a brownish mustard that’s unlike any I’ve ever found in a jar and a relish that fluoresces in a strange Star Wars sort of way).

I have willfully traveled an hour and a half to go to a favorite hotdog stand called Walters. At Walters you order hotdogs this way: Seven regular dogs and two plain.

That’s it. You get the regular hotdog which has a mixture of mustard and relish on it – again, no mustard or relish you’ve ever seen before or will see again unless you eat at Walters – or you get nothing. There’s no “Hold the relish” talk at Walters. It’s simple to order.

Maybe they sprinkle cannabis on their hotdogs; maybe they marinate them in wine…I don’t know what they do to those pink tubes that turns them into such culinary delights, but they are the finest.

I have a new package of Boar’s Head hotdogs with skins in my refrigerator. Later on I’ll hit the best bakery in town for some fresh baked rolls.

So as I sip my morning coffee and write my morning blog, I already know what I’m having for dinner. Frankly, I can’t wait.

For My Northern Friends Who’ve Moved South Who are Now Visiting Me in the North

I am well aware that it’s warmer in the south. No need to tell me what temperature it was when you left your home and how cold and damp it is up north. If every time you visit you are cold, pack a damn sweater and wear some socks.

Yes, the gas is high in the north...so are intelligence quotients and number of teeth in one’s mouth.

Yes housing is astronomical! Yes small houses go for a fortune up here and you live in a mansion down there that you bought with pocket change. What that translates to is this: I will end up getting more money for my shitty little house than you will for your mansion when you go to sell.

I’m glad the weather is so fine that your husband gets to golf everyday…but the question is are you happy about that?

Glad too that in the south you have found religion and go to church again because people are so spiritual in the south…maybe your brains are frying in the sun, maybe you’ve given in to peer pressure…whatever the reason I’m happy for you but don’t try to convert me.

We know we don’t have great “barbecue” up north…in fact when we hear the word “barbecue” we actually don’t think of pulled pork…we think of the grill we’ve got hooked up to a tank – we call that our barbecue.

We don’t have flowers in the winter…we also have less bugs in the summer. Such is life. You hate the snow – we aren’t fond of lizards – so we’re equal.

Just come for your visit and restrain from comparisons okay? We lived in the south and loved it but have made our home in the north and love it also.

There’s the good, the bad, and the ugly no matter where you live.

Stop your bragging, okay? Stop pitting one region against the other. It’s quite possible to enjoy your new region, your new home, your new experiences without dissing where I live and where you used to live.

Y'all come back now, y'hear!

Chiming in on Wedding rings

I don’t like rings. My fingers swell in the night. I don’t like finding unknown crud in my facets or prongs. I am not even fond of finding known crud in those places.

So I don’t wear a wedding ring…haven’t for most of my marriage. But, husband believes in “the wedding ring”, has never taken it off his finger and is mildly dismayed – maybe more than mildly…that I don’t wear one.

The diamond in my engagement ring is so small you need a magnifying glass to locate it. It’s matching wedding ring once had “Forever Always” engraved on the inside…but apparently I wore it long enough for “Forever Always” to erode into “Forever Al”.

My husband’s name is not Al.

Even if the diamond were big I wouldn’t wear it and even if the wedding ring didn’t say “Forever Al”, I still wouldn’t wear it. I have grown accustomed to a ring-free life and I like it that way.

In theory, I do like jewelry. Husband has purchased two sets of large diamond stud earrings for me (to make up for the itsy bitsy engagement ring diamond ). I have a rather small ear lobe so when I used to wear these 4 large diamonds, it made my ear lobes look like they were sporting flood lights.

As things happen, I became allergic to earrings – developed a creeping crud cum infection in my lobes and I stopped wearing the studs.

Husband then decided that it was silly to have 4 nice diamonds sitting in my jewelry box so he had a ring made up with the four stones, thinking I could wear the ring at least once in a while and get some use of these diamonds.

I found myself full circle back again with a ring I didn’t want to wear for the reasons outlined in paragraph one.

I have completely recovered from the ear crud that plagued me when I used to wear the studs, still have the anti-ring philosophy and wonder, dare I ask him to take the ring and have it made back into the two pairs of stud earrings?

I fear that even if he went along with that plan I’d end up with a new ear problem and perhaps those 4 diamonds would have to morph from earrings back into a ring again. Did I mention I’m not big on any necklace that has a fine chain? That let’s out the idea of taking said diamonds and putting them into some form of a necklace.

What the hell am I going to do with these diamonds?

Who says diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

I Hate Myself

Last night I felt like committing murder. Every few minutes, just when I was dozing off for a good night’s sleep, it started and jolted me from sleepiness right into hyper-awakeness.

Snoring…I hate it.

I know, people who snore aren’t doing it on purpose; snoring isn’t a choice but a manifestation of a physiological state. Still, it can taunt me into homicidal thoughts, severe and long-lasting anger and worst of all, keeps me awake all night which causes me to be a bitch on wheels all day long – a bitch with swollen eyes and a haggard look that is unbecoming to say the least.

I carry a grudge when I’ve been wakened numerous times by those awful snore roars that could wake the dead and do shake the bed. I scream at my husband “GET ON YOUR SIDE!” and give him a little push (the pushes get stronger and stronger as the number of wake-ups increase). I even take myself to the couch and sleep there – a punishment for my husband who detests it when I sleep anywhere other than next to him in the connubial bed.

Last night was one of the worst. The snoring was persistent and repulsive. The anger grew to new and frightening heights. In my sleep-deprived state I thought of emptying the medicine cabinet into my throat with the hope that I could reach a state of numbness where I would no longer hear the horrendous, snoring noises and get some well-needed sleep.

And, the very worst part of this whole scenario is: my husband is on a business trip and I was sleeping alone.

It was I who was making these sounds. It was I who intensely hated myself for waking me up. This has never happened before to me – apparently the ongoing sinus troubles I’ve been having are causing my sweet little sleep breaths to change into loud, bellowing animal-like sounds. I have become my own worst enemy.

I GOT ON MY SIDE! I jiggled the bed. I even took myself to the couch and tried to sleep there. I did everything I could think of to stop myself but nothing worked. At the precise and delicious moment when sleep was gently descending upon me, one of those snorts would rattle my head and bring me back to being fully awake when all sane people are snuggled in their beds and dead asleep.

I wanted to punch myself in my mouth; tear my hair out, beat the living snot out of me (pun intended) Never in my life have I hated myself with such intensity and fervor. I experienced the ultimate in self-revulsion at about 3AM this morning.

Now, swollen-eyed and cranky, I share my sad story. And my biggest fear is that after years of abusing my husband in his sleep (his own snoring doesn’t wake him up) I will have to suffer the same fate when he returns tonight and hears the cacophony of sounds coming from my mouth and or nasal passages.

Will he seek revenge upon me and push, shove, jiggle and holler at me to stop? Or, will he sleep through my snoring as he does his own?

I wonder.

The One Word Meme (sent from an email friend)


Okay how this goes is you choose one word and one word only to describe different aspects of yourself and/or your feelings. It’s hard to do actually but here goes:

What is the one word you would use to describe your appearance?
Fetching

Favorite body part?
All

Least favorite body part?
None

Most often complimented on?
Wit

Most often criticized for?
Ruminating

Your romantic relationship?
Monogamous

Your relationship to your parents?
Memories

Your feelings about parenting?
Rewarding

Your hobbies?
Multiple

Your favorite personality type for a friend?
Non-clingy

Favorite personality type for a spouse or lover?
Joyful

Favorite type of movie?
Psychological

Favorite cuisine?
Italian

Favorite treat?
Champagne

Favorite gift?
schmaltzy

Most sensitive “unusual” erogenous zone?
Clavicle

Favorite pet?
Furry

Subject of blogging post that got the most hits?
Shit

Feelings about memes?
Dichotomous

I tag everyone who comes to this blog!

Actually this takes longer than one would think to come up with the best answer.

Beware of Chase Mastercards

I love my AMEX card but there are still a few places that only accept Visa or Mastercard – this is where my problem lies. I have a Chase Mastercard and these people have taken security issues a step too far.

A customer representative for Chase told me yesterday, that if I or my husband should want to go out of state and use our Mastercard, we must first contact them to let them know or they “might” freeze the card when they see charges from another state showing up.

The customer reps are hard-working people whose job is to keep customers from ever speaking to anyone who either has email, can make a decision or has any smidgeon or power or knowledge on the item or service being used by the customer.

After much ado, I finally got to speak to a supervisor who told me that the rep was incorrect. I needed to tell them if I were going out of the country. Okay..sounded somewhat reasonable to me. So I repeated myself and said to the supervisor: so I don’t need to worry about cards being frozen if I go to another state?

He started to backpeddle, hemmed and hawed, told me how all these security measures were for MY own good, and then said: If you haven’t traveled to this state in the last 3 billing cycles, then the card might get frozen…no guarantees.

I now have the choice of notifying nameless, faceless people that my house will be vulnerable for break-ins…(that is if I can remember to call…) or have that threat of maybe your card will work but maybe it won’t.

The best part about it all is both the customer rep and the supervisor had “tudes” right from the beginning. How dare I want to know if I can use my charge card and why it was frozen…what a beeyotch I am for checking!

All credit card companies are the same, I was told – but that’s not the case. The AMEX Blue Cash card is a winner…you get points which you can use for other items or cash back at the end of the year; they always WORK, even if they see you went to Disneyworld and are charging from a new place, and their customer reps seem to enjoy having you as a customer rather than the Chase folks who seem to find the fact that they have customers at all irritating and annoying.

So I’m shopping for a new Mastercard or Visa – one which will allow me to charge on the internet without challenging a $6.17 purchase from Half.com and will allow me to go out of state and charge without needing me to call in advance and beg to keep my card-with-no-balance-ever from being frozen.

Thumbs up to AMEX and thumbs down to Chase among other digital dexterities!

Google Hates Me


The latest and greatest Google search which brings you to my blog is: husband turd mouth. Try it!

Tchotchkes came up number 2 and number 3*. I know by writing about this I am in for more blog referrals from such lovely words, but it’s almost as if Google has it in for me. Every shit-related search term known to mankind seems to point to my blog!

Why someone is searching for: husband turd mouth --raises innumerable questions – but why direct people to my blog, Google?

Speaking of turds which seems to be my logo, mantra, and claim to fame, the new neighbor down the street walked her big, big dog down to my front lawn and allowed him to take a dump on our lawn which my husband had worked on for 8 hours spreading seed, grub killer, weed killer and had lovingly manicured, edged, combed and watered.

We have a big tree that partially blocks the view of the front yard but I spied her standing on the road..leash projecting into our yard and she stayed there for quite a while. Husband, after I alerted him to my guess, went outside and there on his expensive “in sweat, tears and money” lawn was the evidence.

We waited to see if she’d come back to pick it up but she had no such intention.

What would you have done?

(I have to say that my 230 pounds of dogs provide plenty of doo-doo for me to pick up. I think that is why I became so incensed at this woman’s lack of concern for what her animal had deposited on my front lawn.)

* Warning all other Google hits on the first screen appear to be disgusting turd-eating fiction…don’t make the mistake I made by opening one up. YUCK!

I’m a confessed Luddite.

I just can’t keep up with the changes in technology. I am overwhelmed by my new coffee maker that has so many options, buttons, buzzers and levers, I have trouble making a simple unprogrammed pot of coffee.

The single disk CD player I once owned and could operate was upgraded to the 6 CD player that I could mostly work, to the 400 CD player that I can’t get to play what I want when I want it. Is this progress?

I’m into on and off buttons and that’s about it.

I gave up on photography when the world went digital and I actually got to see what photos I was taking (so very, very bad) rather than back in the film days when with great hope in my heart, I’d send off my film, imagining gorgeous photos returning to me suitable for framing.

Oh the excitement of getting that thick envelope in the mail, my fingers trembling with anticipation as I sifted through the glossy images of ceilings, headless relatives and red-eyed toddlers missing body parts.

I’ve even had some problems with dimmer switches, insisting to husband that the dining room light had blown when it was actually the dimmer dial had been moved to off – leaving darkness as the only option for either push on or push off.

My computer is so sophisticated at this point, the only thing I can do to dumb it down is continue with my dial-up service. I have no wires from my mouse or keyboard to the computer which upsets me on a daily basis. I like wires. They confirm that said mouse and keyboard have a chance of working – after all they’re plugged in.

Now I wonder how the mysteries of the universe have decided that both mouse and keyboard can work without wires and I am absolutely obsessed with the status of batteries I have available to me – currently I have about 6 packs of AA batteries waiting for the moment when both mouse and keyboard crap out for the fun of it.

The remote control situation in my house is absurd. Just by picking one up I hit a button that affects all the other remotes and I usually end up with no way to remotely do a damn thing. (I have learned there’s a mysterious “aux” button that is situated on the main remote exactly where my thumb goes when I pick the damn thing up causing the remote to shut down in disgust and refuse to work no matter what other buttons I push.)

And don’t get me started on picture within a picture – an asinine feature because no one can watch two TV screens at one time unless they have four eyes. Yet this button is located right next to Alternate Channel and I end up with a little mini TV blocking the main screen and again, I just keep pushing buttons hoping against hope it will go away, and all it does is jump from one corner to the other…sneering at me.

So many buttons, beeps, buzzers, manuals, instructions and warnings, I am emotionally drained from dealing with modern technology. I know my car can do lots of interesting things, but I have never read the 10 pound tome that came with it, so my digital clock is the wrong time, the balance is off on my speakers and only I control cruising, not the button that boasts how it can do that for me. I’m lucky I figured out how to put on the heat. (I remember the car salesman was non-plussed when I chose the manual top for my convertible rather than the automatic – he thought I was nuts.)

Nope I’m not nuts, just a lazy Luddite, wanting to keep some of my brain cells and energy for things other than technology.

(Speaking of technology, I do have a BlogPatrol counter that I actually installed on my blog template (took a day) that told me I had 67 visitors yesterday to my blog. This is an amazing amount of people and my usual count is about 15-25 visitors. Please don’t tell me that "crap eating" is that interesting to readers. Anyone have any idea why I was such hot stuff yesterday?)

Meme Chose

This came to me via Laurenbove.

Thanks LB!

The rules are simple when you're tagged. Choose 5 items from the list to write about. Tag 3 other people when you're done.

The theme is, as you can see, "If I could be..."

If I could be a scientist

If I could be a farmer I’d grow huge watermelons and ride them like they were broncos.

If I could be a musician

If I could be a doctor I would pull out my RX pad and write myself all the prescriptions I might need to take excellent care of myself and also have a few really nice highs, now and then. (Sorry Doc Nos, but it’s true)

If I could be a painter
If I could be a gardener
If I could be a missionaryIf I could be a chef
If I could be an architect
If I could be a linguist
If I could be a psychologist
If I could be a librarian
If I could be an athlete
If I could be a lawyer

If I could be an inn-keeper I’d insist that my guests called me “Serving Wench” and slap my behind.

If I could be a professor
If I could be a writer

If I could be a llama-rider, I would give up my watermelon riding and be happy with being a llovely, llady-llike llama mounter.

If I could be a bonnie pirate
If I could be an astronaut


If I could be a justice on any one court in the world, I’d pick the United States Supreme Court and I’d be a true thorn in the side of the right-wing uber conservative justices.

If I could be married to any current famous political figure
If I could be a world famous blogger
-------

I tag hmmmmm who can I tag who hasn’t been tagged…hmmmmm I tag….okay I made up my mind.
I tag Doc Nos, Andrea and Paintergirl.

A Shitty Situation


Would someone please tell me why my two Golden Retrievers consider the cats’ litter pan a dog version of a box of Whitman’s Sampler? It’s an ongoing battle in my house. The turd makers versus the turd eaters.

Sometimes I think all I have to do is feed the cats and the dogs would live happily ever after—munching away on their daily litter snacks and eliminating any need for me to either scoop out clumps from the cats’ box, or spend another cent on Purina Dog Chow.

Husband once commented that between the toilet bowl and the litter box, our dogs could be quite self-sufficient and live for weeks without being fed or given water. I believe it.

I read that dogs’ noses don’t function like ours do; dog noses can isolate different odors from a single source. So to them, cat turds don‘t smell like poop, they smell like fish and eggs and chicken and turkey. Yummy!

I’m not sure the ability to isolate odors is a blessing or a curse, but I do know that guarding the litter box is not a profession I care to pursue and I’ll be damned – but I have no idea how to stop the excessive coprophagia.

(I think I could have dropped the word excessive in the previous sentence as eating one single turd is repulsive enough.)

I have had numerous talks with these two massive-headed morons with their liquid brown eyes and floppy yellow ears. I’ve hollered and done the PU sign of pinching my nose. I’ve flapped a rolled newspaper against the wall and did the crazy mommy’s mad dance. But, nothing works.

Just as a freshly baked apple pie cooling on a countertop will call the Bishop troops into the kitchen, so does the whiff of cat turd call to the dogs.

An online veterinarian suggests: "Booby trapping" a sample of stool by cutting it in half lengthwise, and putting some Tabasco type sauce on the inside of the stool, then putting it back together so that the dog is not aware of the hot sauce until it eats the stool.”

Um Doc I don’t think so. I would say you should go back to the drawing board and come up with another plan. I don’t think there’s a soul in the universe that’s willing to carve up a turd, season it and then put it back together. And you graduated from what Veterinary school?

So the cat box problem exists and I see no resolution in sight. I guess I will have to live with my big boy Goldens and their shaggy, waggy tails and their “I-don’t-get-it” head cocks and their perennial shit eating grins.

A New Keyword Search Term to my Blog
(Breaking news....)

Waxed testicles!

Help!!!!

Things are going from bad to worse for me. I must be known as internet slut of the year or genitalia genius or professor of potty mouth.

These searchers have to start using quotation marks in their searches. If they had done that my poor blog's reputation wouldn't be so sullied. I did use the word waxed and I did use the word testicles in a blog entry but never together!!!

The Year I stopped Cooking

I’m not even sure now what caused me to cease cooking for a year. I think it was an overdone roast beef, but I’m not positive. Whatever it was, it was the last straw for me. Yes, I signed on to marriage, but I never pretended to be a gourmet chef, nor was that ever a career goal for me. Frankly, it isn’t even one of my hobbies. It was just a necessary part of life, eating that is…so someone had to be the cook.

I cooked because it was a chore I took on being the person who was home for the greater part of the day. I cooked some things better than others – but never enjoyed cooking like some of my friends did.

If the truth be known, dear husband enjoys cooking. He researches recipes and seeks out unusual ingredients. He’s the one that insists on Panko crumbs rather than simple 4-C bread crumbs. He’s the one that orders from the Bakers Catalog or the Spice House. Not me. He’s the one that gets chef equipment for his birthday or Christmas. He’s the one that wanted the Wusthoff knife set which set me back $600.00 – but I bought them anyhow as a gift for him...not me.

Anyway, I cooked something that did not come out good. I listened to husband’s complaints and I announced that I was sorry he didn’t like dinner but I had a way to fix this problem. I was not going to cook again. We had a microwave and plenty of selections in the frozen food section of the grocery store and he could choose what it was he wanted to eat and pop it in the microwave. Perfection every time.

I have made other announcements like the above, but that year I was working outside of the home too and we also were doing a kitchen renovation ourselves. There were too many strikes against me and not enough appreciation for my attempts to feed the mouths that assembled nightly at the dinner table. I stuck with my statement and for one full year – almost to the day – we ate microwave dinners or takeout.

Husband must have known that the best way to deal with me was to go along with my frozen microwave meal edict. Our grocery cart was hilarious as I think back – boxes piled to the top with everything from pancakes and bacon to shrimp scampi. Dinner after dinner frozen solid and neatly packed into microwavable trays.

Then it happened….I think I was eating a Marie Calendar chicken pot pie. My fork was approaching my mouth when I looked down and said, “I can’t eat this food anymore.”

It was over.

I went back to cooking only now I had a new desire to eat fresh food and since then we’ve had few if any microwave meals purchased for our consumption.

The year sabbatical from cooking taught me the following:

A home cooked meal is a gift you give your family.
Frozen meals have portions suitable for very, very tiny people.
When people laugh at what’s in your shopping cart you might want to reconsider what you’re buying and why.
No one can survive on microwave meals for longer than a year.
After a year of eating plastic-tasting food served on plastic trays, no spouse will ever complain about your cooking again.

The Top 8 Keywords that led readers to my blog:


tchotchkes definition (Google)

"Judge Judy" lips cosmetic surgery (Google)

Answer please; Does the CHURCH approve of husbands wearing chastity belts (Google)

ant farts (Google)

cappie pondexter lesbian (AOL)

dominionists (Google)

george bush says "it's just plain hard work" (Google)

phlegm + queasy stomach (Google)

Once I had 6 people look up "white anuses" and come to my blog...obviously I've upgraded my surfers and now have one person just looking for a definition of the word tchotchkes, another surfer very interested in Judge Judy's lips (I've never ever written a word about Judge Judy, did I???)

Chastity belts I did mention, but never for husbands! Okay I'll admit to some ant fart talk a while ago. I did write about Pondexter but never her sexual orientation. Dominionists, yes, petrified of these psychos. Bush and his refrain of "hard work" I wrote about...phlegm and queasy stomach...yup - but that was back in February.

Okay I showed you mine now it's your turn to show me yours! Come on spill -- what keywords have brought readers to your blog?

I'm baaaccccckkkkkkkk!

Thanks for missing me if you did and I dreamed of blogland while I was away. I really did dream of specific bloggers and the dream was hilarious. What does that say about my twisted mind?

My extremely unPC but (for me) rather succinct take on Disneyworld is --it is filled with women with extremely large asses, too many old people on scooters, and too many severely retarded, agitated adults who are allowed to terrorize small children.

Then there is the fake wheelchair brigade -- they get wheeled up front to any event because of their wheels but they are using the chair because they don't care to walk, not because they can't walk. Mostly all of these people also have extremely large asses also.

Also do not go there unless you are filthy rich.

You can become Disneyized -- something in the water maybe? Subliminal messages perhaps? I don't know, but I swore I'd eschew any mouse-like items but wore home a Mickey Mouse t-shirt.

I gained about 7 pounds I think - I don't own a scale -- have maintained my weight without trying since I was 18 - but that place makes you want to eat non-stop - it encourages super large asses. Disney has a stake in them...I had ice cream every day and I don't know why - here in CT I could go months without it.

If you want to lose weight, eat at the Rainforest Cafe - for about a hundred dollars you can get a lot of really bad food.

Watch your toes! Mine were rolled over by one scooter, four strollers and a near miss with an electric wheelchair. They were stepped on another 5 or 6 times - lots of toe damage so wear you steel-tipped workboots.

I did get one great landscaping tip - if you want your yard to look magical - put colored filters on your flood lights. Green floods on your green trees, yellow on yellow bushes, red on red etc. - it does make a magical difference!

And, Happy Mother's Day to all...without fathers and children there would be no mothers. Everyone's been a child so it's a day for everyone.

My next vacation is Provincetown in September - eclectic, eh?