My Beliefs

I have no problem with teaching Creationism (Adam and Eve) or Intelligent Design (a god, devil or an alien created life on the earth) in schools, providing other historical and traditional theories are also taught.

It is absolutely necessary that we provide diversity in our quest for rational discourse on man’s beginning and bring to the table all the theories, sciences and pseudosciences presented in reference to just how in hell we got here, not just those favored by the fundamentalists, Christianists, or ET lovers.

Therefore, I present my personal favorite on humankind’s origins and demand that my views are respected also.

My belief is the very well-loved, traditional and thought provoking theory of the stork.

“In many lands the stork's presence was a sign of good luck and prosperity, and people encouraged them to build their nests on their rooftops. The belief was also common that they loved the water and visited swamps and lakes frequently. Ancient traditions held that the souls of unborn children dwelt in these watery places. So it was easy to link the beliefs and traditions of years past to the wonderful white bird with eyeglasses and a top hat and jacket as the one who lovingly delivered beautiful babies.” (http://www.storknews.com/)


“In Victorian times the details of human reproduction were a difficult subject to approach, especially in reply to a child's query of "Where did I come from?"; "The stork brought you to us" was the tactic used to avoid discussion of sex. This habit was derived from the once popular superstition that storks were the harbingers of happiness and prosperity. The image of a stork bearing an infant wrapped in a sling held in its beak is common in popular culture. The small pink or reddish patches often found on a newborn child's eyelids, between the eyes, upper lip, and the nape of the neck, which are clusters of developing veins that soon fade, are sometimes still called "stork bites".” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stork)


Just to show you I am not a Stork fundamentalist and have open opinions on matters such as these, I also am a believer in the Cabbage Patch theory of life’s beginnings.

We all know people who have had children that look nothing like their parents. Another example to ponder is heterosexual parents who end up with a child who is homosexual. How can this be – this “unnatural” selection?

Of course, the Cabbage Patch theory becomes more credible when we realize that people select their children from a huge cabbage patch and often times pick one that doesn’t appear to look like them at all or despite the parents’ heterosexual lifestyle, the parents end up rearing children that just cannot be recruited or abide by the heterosexual agenda.

The stork and the cabbage patch work in mysterious ways. Sometimes the only answers for the things we don’t understand are held in the beak of a stork or a garden of cabbages.

If we are told we must accept pseudo-science as a “theory” in one case, than we must in the other.

(Oh no, don’t shake that DNA finger at me. We either are going with DNA or dumping it all together.

O.J. Simpson had all the DNA evidence in the world to convict him of double murder, but he’s out golfing thanks to the smart people on the jury who weren’t going to believe in the science of DNA.)

In summary, the theories of Stork-creation and Cabbage Patch creation deserve attention and study and our children need to know all the theories involved with the beginnings of life.

There is solid scientific evidence that storks have been seen near the homes of women prior to the advent of a new baby and studies have proved that there are cabbage leaves large enough to shelter an infant. Believe me folks, this is not just storkma.

If we are to believe that supernatural causes are the reason for life on earth, then certainly we can believe in the stork and cabbage patch theories where hard evidence is available to this day for study and reflection.

One can observe the stork and the cabbages, but one cannot observe the god or gods, or aliens attributed to Intelligent Design, ergo I insist my religious and scientific beliefs are included in any and all Biology classes from this day forward.

“De Lime and De Coconut” and De Plain Old Nuts Drinking 'Em


Stay away from “de lime and de coconut” unless you want a massive hangover or you regularly consume pints of fresh squeezed lime juice and pints of rum with no after effects.

We had a wonderful time at an “end of summer” party Saturday night, but the effects of the party lasted into, well, this morning, to be honest.

I have always thought there are born guests and born hosts and I am the former. Yes, I do host parties but I put lots of thought and preparation into the party so that I can attend my own party just like a guest and don’t end up working all night wishing I was at a party rather than having one.

I say this because the party we went to was hosted by half a couple (the guest half of the couple). I will mention now that our friends are gay or it might sound confusing. I’ll call the guys Doc and D.J.

Doc and D.J. do parties like no one else I know. They are master hosts and do everything to make their guests have a great time, from the best music, best wine to the best food in the world: add in twinkley deck lights, a gorgeous black lab/ mutt mix that does her best to show you a good time also, and some of the most intelligent and interesting people you could meet.

Doc was away in D.C and D.J. had to plan, host, cook, and make drinks without the help of Doc. D.J. and Doc are a well-oiled machine when it comes to party hosting. D.J. alone, needed some help, and even though we all pitched in to pick up the slack – we still needed Doc for one of his most important duties.

Keeping us from going nuts.

Doc is the one to remind us our cocktail hour needs to come to a close and dinner needs to be hurried up. Doc will remind us that a drink like “lime and de coconut” is a great one-drink treat but should not be consumed for half the night unless you want to be up the other half --feeling under the weather.

Doc will remember that there’s a couple of pounds of shrimp that haven’t been served yet or that it might be a good idea to eat before people have to leave because their babysitters have to be home by one AM.

Anyhow, Doc-free as we were, we managed to party all night and were popping open beers at 5:30 AM to toast the dawn. We listened to the crickets chirping in the woods until they turned into birds chirping at the feeder.

We ended the party with breakfast at a local diner where I could barely stand the sight or smell of food.

Yesterday most of the party goers checked in to say they were still feeling like crap.

For the first time in years, I was unable to complete the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle, and laid around watching old movies between fretful naps.

Today I woke up and almost felt normal. (Still got a case of funny tummy though…)

It was fun but I do think we need Doc at all future parties. (Missed you Doc!) He not only does all the clean up, he keeps us from overdrinking and would have insisted we went to bed rather than stay up all night listening to music on the deck.

Even the dog had enough sense to go to sleep.

Us? We needed Doc.


Bruder bought a coconut, he bought it for a dime,
His sister had anudder one she paid it for de lime.

She put de lime in de coconut, she drank 'em bot' up
She put de lime in de coconut, she drank 'em bot' up.
She put de lime in de coconut, she drank 'em bot' up

She put de lime in de coconut, she call de doctor, woke 'im up,
Said "doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?"I said "Doctor, to relieve this belly ache,
"I said "Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?"I said "Doctor, to relieve this belly ache.

"Now lemme get this straight,You put de lime in de coconut, you drank 'em bot' up,
You put de lime in de coconut, you drank 'em bot' up,
You put de lime in de coconut, you drank 'em bot'up,
You put de lime in de coconut, you call your doctor, woke 'im up,

Said " Doctor, ain't there nothing' I can take?"I said,
"Doctor, to relieve this belly ache."I said "Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?'I said,
"Doctor, to relieve this belly ache,

"You put de lime in de coconut, you drink 'em bot' togedder
Put de lime in de coconut and you'll feel better,
Put de lime in de coconut, drink 'em bot' up,
Put de lime in de coconut and call me in the morning."

And She's Out!

I bent over to pick up my newspaper, the string on my sweats untied and I ended up half-mooning my neighbors. This is not a good way to start the day.

What happened next is just a replay of a past occurrence; the cat knocked over my coffee cup dumping hot coffee on my newly retied sweats…and of course the newspaper, floor, table, my Velcro slippers etc.

The Goldens are shedding so much that in the process of cleaning up the coffee, I stepped on a wad of blond dog fur which propelled me forward and I slid into first; first being the wrought iron gate I have between my kitchen and dining room.

I’ve been up for about five minutes now and have exposed my derriere, had coffee dumped on me and acquired a pretty little bruise on my shin.

I get situated, paper dried off, shin retreating into pain rather than agony, floor et all cleaned up and I notice my answering machine is blinking.

I hate phones but I know they are necessary so I have one. I hate listening to messages because they are seldom light and breezy but usually commands and complaints. Anyhow, I take the plunge to listen to the messages I missed (I actually left the house for about six hours yesterday!) and there’s a message from a friend:

Hey, I called you twice. Where are you? Did you go away or something? Are you on vacation without telling me? Call me back as soon as you get this.

The rest of the message is more questions and orders being barked at me.

I grab my coffee (two hands) and take a few sips and realize I am going to be late for my breakfast date with friends if I do much more than brush my teeth and hair..I do this quickly and am headed out the door when I slide into second; second being the back door. No major injuries this time.

Once out of the house I put my top down (car) and get on the road. My music is playing, hair blowing in the breeze and I’m tooling down the road thinking: I made it out okay and in one piece.

Get to the restaurant, park the care, get out and slip on a candy bar wrapper and slide into third; third being the stone trash receptacle in front of the restaurant.

Again no injuries but I feel like all of the flat surfaces on the earth have turned into Slip ‘N’ Slides.

I got back a few minutes ago. Feeling perky and happy. Open my back door and step inside to take another ride on dog hair into home; home being just that, home.

Sometimes life is a hell of a game!

Sticky slippers, Scummy pickles and a Cock a doodle do/don't


Last night I dreamed about the Blogger nav bar.

My dream was very real, I was plodding upstairs to the office in my rug-gripping slippers, which one day will cause me to pitch forward or backwards and fall down the stairs due to the fact the soles of my slippers have a pattern that matches my rug nap and forms a Velcro like effect.

This would not be bad if Velcro hadn’t already been invented because I would have invented it myself due to said slippers and rug. Anyhoo…

So I’m on the stairs, coffee in hand (remember this is a dream) go into my office and plop down in my chair, light a cigarette to go with my coffee, cough, coffee cup in hand, log on to Blogger and this is when I see it.

A new Blogger nav bar.

Up on the top where the flag once tainted my lovely blog, is a penis. It is flaccid but if you roll your cursor over the penis a small window opens that says: Click if you like this blog.

Since I am on my own blog and like my own blog, I click the penis and lo and behold, it becomes erect! I click many times to watch it go from flaccid to erect, flaccid to erect, thus giving myself numerous positive votes for my blog.

I play with my nav bar penis until I hear the birds chirping and I roll over and realize I was dreaming.

I’m not sure how to categorize this dream. Is it an erotic dream? A techno dream? A penis envy dream? A pen is mightier than the sword dream? A Blogger is a dick dream? A dream caused by the age old question: What exactly is objectionable content? Who gets to pick what’s objectionable?

Everyone finds something objectionable, even wild crazy ladies with sticky slippers, scummy pickles and a penis icon on their blog.

Flog the Flag

My heart now sings
Cuz Mindful Things
Took flag away
So I can play.

Hip Hip Hooray!

Saluting the Flag

I don't see me having a long future here at Blogger since they've started with the thought police policies. I don't like that stinking flag (up at the top) one iota. I don't like the idea that we now have to look over our shoulders and be afraid to say what we want, because "someone" might be offended.

I am just letting people know that it was fun while it lasted, but if I'm going to be edited, than I'm going to get paid too.

What's your opinion?

Nasty Husband Hobbies

I think I’ve already mentioned here that I dislike the idea that I have to participate in the nastier side of husband’s hobbies.

For example, I dislike harvesting vegetables or fruits because unfortunately they are grown in dirt. Dirt also is filled with bugs and this coupling of food/bugs is bothersome to me.

Besides the fact that yard edibles have their roots in the same place I’ve found my cats creating sweet little holes for their own self-dug loos, these home grown edibles also have bugs crawling upon them.

I picked a tomato this morning and as I pulled it off the bush, a medium-sized, purple-winged insect also came along for the ride. Frightened, I dropped the tomato which splatted when it hit the ground, but the purple bug clung tenaciously to my sundress, unhurt in any way: One of the many reasons why I dislike harvest time.

If growing fruits and vegetables were not enough aggravation, husband has now created a science experiment, or so it seems, which has taken up residency in my dining room.

There’s a five gallon antique crock filled to the top with cucumbers that are in the process of decomposing or fermenting – however you feel about the idea of pickling.

A new daily chore is removing the scum and molds that collect on the top of the brine. Doesn’t that make you salivate for a delicious garlic dill pickle?

I will not skim scum; I will not mess with mold. I’m saving this chore for him.

Yet, I do love garlic dill pickles, though I would prefer to be less aware of exactly how they are made.

I wish my husband would find different hobbies; ones that would be totally bug-free, mold-free and scum-free.

Otherwise his hobbies will have to remain me-free.

Bad Adages

Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.

Why not? It’s called estimating and is a recognized mathematical principal. If you didn’t count your guests before they showed up at your party you’d run out of booze and food. If you didn’t count your money before you spent it then you’d be er..um..an American!


A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

If the bird in your hand is a dead pigeon slaughtered by your neighbor’s cat, and the birds in the bush are two exquisitely beautiful goldfinches…then I’d say no, I’ll take the two in the bush.

A stitch in time saves nine.

Not necessarily.

Ever think why you have to repair the damn thing in the first place? Shouldn’t they make things better so they don’t fall apart in the first place? So you sew nine stitches, nineteen stitches or ninety-nine stitches, the fact is the fabric is fraying and you could spend your life repairing it. Throw it out…just throw it out.

Don’t keep all your eggs in one basket.

Who says? So you want me to have six containers in the fridge filled with eggs or what do you want me to do?

So the freak what, I have only one basket filled with eggs? Is a suicide bomber going to sneak into my kitchen and plant a bomb in my egg basket? If that ever happened I’d be missing more than eggs I bet.

Be careful what you wish for, it might come true.

Now this one slays me. I know what I’m wishing for and believe me if a new Jag, an in-the-ground pool and a million bucks showed up at my house, I’d be rather happy. Call me crazy but I don’t tend to wish for sinus infections, stubbed toes or huge domestic fights, so I don’t think there’s a problem if my wishes come true.

You reap what you sow.

No n’ n’ no no no. Not true. I have never sowed crabgrass or poison ivy and I’m loaded with it. I never willingly planted a Sunflower but the birds have. If you are talking to birds, then don’t bother they can’t read or understand English. If you’re talking to me then you are so wrong. I’ve got a lot of things growing in my yard that I didn’t have a damn thing to do about. I spend a lot of time reaping what I didn’t sow, only I call it weeding.

What you don't know can't hurt you.

Oh it can’t? How about the fact you’re standing in the middle of the street and don’t realize a car is barreling down upon you and in seconds is going to wipe the pavement with you. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 – you my friend are toast, so to speak, and what you didn’t know not only hurt you, it killed you.

He who hesitates is lost.

Strike while the iron is hot, you say too.

Well how about “look before you leap”? Make up your mind; you can’t have it both ways. But you want it that way, don’t you?

You tell us: A rolling stone gathers no moss but then tell us to stop and smell the roses.

You say many hands make light work, and two heads are better than one. And, as soon as we believe you, we’re admonished that too many cooks spoil the broth.

I’m just not going to listen to you anymore, that’s all I have to say. And just who the heck are you anyhow?

Orange You Glad You Don’t Use Fake Tanning Creams?

Orange spotty legs, I’ve got ‘em.

Don’t try Neutrogena gradual no-sun, tanning cream…it isn’t gradual and it isn’t exactly tan--more like pumpkin-orange.

The cream is clear, so you have no idea that this stuff is going to work, nor do you know what part of your body has been covered with cream and what parts have been missed.

A few hours later, (for me it was later in the evening at a restaurant when I crossed my legs and noticed my legs looked like a mildewed oranges) you find out what spots you missed and where you overdid it…like my Day-Glo orange ankles…only the fronts by the way.

We were having dinner with my high school friends, who I hadn’t seen in years, so I was doubly nonplussed to see orange ankles which clashed with my maroon skirt. I developed (right before their eyes) a very orange arm and one peachier, salmon colored arm.

I also have a perfect orange hand on my butt, but they didn’t see that, at least.

I am still sporting numerous shades of orange…even scrubbing with a brush doesn’t get rid of this fake tan.

I am funny looking.

In the nude, I look like I could blend into a construction site. Orange everywhere…

Hand me a flag and I’m all set to direct traffic.


I wanted to be bronze like a door hinge.
But I came out looking like an overripe orange.

(Who says you can’t rhyme the word orange?)

Babbling, Blogging, Blabbing and Dabbling


It’s all Laurenbove’s fault

She wrote a post about her new obsession called Babble and published a link. I should know better than to click on a link that someone says will become addictive.

So, instead of accomplishing anything at all during the day, I Babble and I blog. If not Babbling or blogging then I’m blabbing on the phone. If not Babbling, blogging, or blabbing then I’m dabbling (art, piano, writing.)

I must have the best husband in the world because he doesn’t complain about my lack of self-control. I cannot make myself do something that I don’t want to do unless there’s a harsh punishment associated with not doing it.

For example: I have to pick up the dog poop or the lawn man will not mow the lawn. I have to cook sometimes because even I get hungry. I have to do laundry because I like to go out clothed.

So I hurry up and do the bare necessities early in the morning to free up the whole day for play.

I do not need another computer game to steal my heart. I don’t need another hobby or phone pal. I don’t need anything other than self-control in which I’m very lacking.

So I don’t recommend using the link I posted to anyone. But if you do happen to go there, and happen to like it, I’m missing about 20 words…if you know the missing words –then just blog, blab or babble me the answers! TGIF!

Psycho!


I guess I’m a psycho because Psycho’s shower scene is still the scariest thing I ever saw. No other movie has taken up residence in my spine, soul, brain and stomach like this movie has.

Even though it’s been quite a few years since I’ve seen it and even though it was in black and white-- and I knew she was going to get murdered in the shower -- it still creeped me out to the point that I have trouble taking showers to this day.

I don’t trust life behind the shower curtain. It’s a contained space that gives me claustrophobia, the steam rises up slowly until you can’t see where to put the soap and then poof a gentle movement of that shower curtain and my heart starts to pump wildly and I want to scream for help.

For a while we had a glass shower enclosure. I wanted it all clear glass so I could see Norman Bates when he entered our bathroom.

The shower enclosure started to leak and we’ve since removed it, repaired the booboo and now have a somewhat permanent temporary shower rod with a shower curtain (very pretty one I might add) but I’m right back to my paralyzing fear of showers yet again.

I keep most of the shower curtain scrunched back and only pull out enough curtain to keep from flooding the floor, but still, it is so creepy to be behind that thing and know that Norman Bates can and will get into my house and kill me at any moment.

Thanks for Stopping by and I Hope I Can Help


It’s time to share those burning questions that pop up in the minds of Google searchers, often in the wee hours of the morning.

At midnight yesterday, someone came to my blog for the answer to this question:

“How can you unflush a condom?”

Answer:

Unflushing is very difficult to do my friend. It’s right up there with unringing a bell or unpooping.

I wish I had an answer for you but my only advice is this: don’t flush condoms down a toilet. Instead, find an empty Altoids tin and place said condom in the tin. Click the tin closed and hide the forensic evidence of the event, in plain sight.

If you’re a collector of condoms, try a Pringles can. The average Pringles can will hold 128.5 condoms and can be left on your dresser or rolled under the bed. Most people don’t eat Pringles so chances are no one will open the top.

(Similar to why the Altoids tin also works. No one wants their mouth to foam up into blood blisters anymore, so most Altoids tins remain unopened also.)

+++++

Another search where I came up number one was:

Why crystallized bugs covered in turds?

Answer:

First, let me commend you on using the words crystallized and turds in the same sentence! Good job!

I have thought long and hard about your question, blog visitor. I do know quite a bit about turds covered in crystallized bugs, actually wrote an entomological thesis on this subject…but the reverse is indeed odd.

Forensics tells me you have come across crystallized bugs, and somehow turds have either been sinisterly placed over such bugs or someone or something has accidently pooped upon these crystallized bugs.

Either way it’s a crap shoot as to how that happened.

++++++

How to find homely housewives for Jeff?

Now this one angers me. Our Jeff who visits here has no interest in homely housewives. He is happily married to a beautiful woman and his preference tends towards attractive housewives. So there.

Answer:


If you are talking about another Jeff, then I would need to know more information.

Do you have a friend named Jeff who is looking for a housewife who must also be homely? If so, why would you help him in this search?

Was there a misspelling in your question? Did you place an “L” in the word homey by mistake? Were you really looking for a peep from the hood who likes to cook?

Well, that would elicit very different answers.

+++++

And the favorite question now for months – asked last night at 2 AM in the morning:

Where to find wax testicles?


The easiest question to answer by far!

Answer:

Madame Trousseaus

Keep those questions coming! Love it when I can really help my fellow man.

Hint for Google Searchers: use quotations marks!

Dear Reflectopornographers,

Very cute idea to display your family jewels on window, mirror, TV and even teapot reflections. I wonder how many reflectoporn pictures you slipped by in online auctions and other public, not pubic, areas of the internet where one can publish photos.

I don’t mean to be rude, and I’m no prude, but really, you just have to buff up before you show it all. The belly hang visible on the famous “kettle” photo is unappealing. The “man in the mirror” looks prepubescent and virtually hairless, except for the rest of his aging body. Not that I have anything against aging bodies, but you really should reflect on your reflection before you capture it on a shiny surface.

I am not criticizing your abilities as a photographer or pornographer, but I think, for the shape you’re in, you are totally over-exposed.

If you think you are turning women on…please reconsider. Women think most of these photos are an F stop and shutter when they see them.

Let me be candid, cameras weren’t meant to be pointed at your apertures. You flash --then wait to see what develops.

Frankly, from what I’ve seen, you need an enlarger. I was not impressed with either your focal point or focal length.

I’ve found the experience of coming across reflectopornography as negative. With time, exposure to these photos will lose their punch. But remember, we’d prefer if you kept your tripod to yourself.

How transparent can you be? We all know these photos are a precursor to the digital manipulation you have planned to coincide with the publishing of your raw photos.

You need time out in a dark room, because the lens of my eye says these photos belong in a scrap heap not a scrapbook.

And to the extremely hirsute man who looked more bear than bare, your Kodiac moment did not make me tear up although I did cry:

EWWWWWWWWW.

Bad Fences Make Bad Neighbors



“Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies above
Don't fence me in
Let me ride through the wide open country that I love
Don't fence me in
Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze
And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees
Send me off forever but I ask you please
Don't fence me in.”

This is a sequel to The Ruination of my Temple, my Mosque, my Cathedral post I did on Tuesday.

It’s obvious now why the border patrol has spent all week futzing about my rear property line – a fence with be erected soon, maybe today, certainly done by next week.

And it will be a stockade fence – sturdy enough to fend off the Indians, if they should try to attack, and ugly enough to boil my blood – geesh wouldn’t you think they’d mention their plans before they went ahead and tore down bushes, shrubs, vines and trees with the specific purpose of replacing this greenery with a fence that looks like it should be surrounding Fort Henry?

Border fences are tricky things. I’m not going to hire a lawyer or surveyor so I have to acquiesce to the property line my neighbor has established. (I think the fence is on MY property.)

I’m sure I’ll get used to the new fence and will do my best to grow some greenery on my side of the barrier to keep the back yard from looking like a place where a shout of: “Who goes there?” would be expected.

Right now, I think I’ll have to find a musket and a saloon to get through this transition.

The Blogistics of Blogarithms


Certainly yesterday’s topic was not so scintillating that I should receive 123 visitors to my blog – but I did according to my stat meter. (95 unique visitors who’ve never come my way before.) Twenty new visitors in 4 minutes!

Tchotchkes, Tchotchkes, get your red hot tchotchkes!

I found this amazing and tried to figure out why.

It was as if someone had placed a funnel over my blog and above the funnel was a vortex that snatched up wandering bloggers and threw them into the swirling eddy, down through the funnel and right into Tchotchkes.

Bizarre.

Does anyone know why this would happen? Has it ever happened to you? If you happen to be one of the people who were dumped into my blog against your will yesterday, will you please tell me how you got here?

Since I wasn’t giving anything away, I can’t find a single reason why there’d be such a rush to my blog.

Also, my stats tell me that “turd eating,” “self amputation” and “testicle waxing” are the three main reasons that google searchers come to visit.

What can I say but I’m honored.

My Hair Don’t

A few months ago I made the decision to stop spending money at salons to get my hair cut and just let it grow. I never really liked any of the hair cuts – so why bother?

I didn’t like the layered ones and I didn’t like the straight edged bobs. I didn’t like fake curls or high-maintenance dos that take time, mouse, gel and a blow dryer. I hate bangs and worse, I hate hair falling into my face and sticking to my lips.

I’m a no-nonsense woman who must be able to be clean and coiffed and out the door in about 10 minutes. If it takes longer than that for me to be “beautiful” than the hell with beauty.

Husband came from a home where his mother spent three hours every night making dime-sized pin-curls in her hair. That’s how her mother fixed her hair into 1940 curls and that’s how she does it – without even a nod to modern day hair styles or the obvious discomfort it must cause her to keep her arms over her head for three hours.

May I add that the end result is nothing to wish for either.

When husband and I were dating, I received numerous compliments from him about being able to get ready lickety-split, jump in a convertible without pleading to have the windows rolled up and the AC on and just generally not letting make-up or hair-dos ever keep him waiting for a date.

Even though I don't have a specific hair-do, he likes the way my hair looks.

The more artificial I look the more artificial I feel which isn’t good. (One exception, red toenails and red fingernails..gotta have ‘em.)

So this new hair do doesn’t take any time at all. Wash, comb, let air dry and then pull it back into a ponytail which is now heading down my back. (If I don’t have time to air dry my hair, then it goes back wet…still okay because eventually it dries.)

I once had a buzz cut just because I could. But spare hair isn’t any more attractive on me than poufed and crimped and twisted and textured hair that costs a fortune to acquire and makes me make a sad face into my rearview mirror as I drive home with this new costly concoction.

I’m just reporting in that I’ve received more compliments on the simplicity of my hair which has been allowed to grow --and is swept back into a ponytail so that it never interferes with my daily life, than with the hair-dos that emptied my wallet and fought with the natural flow of hair gravity, cowlicks and the general distaste hair has for being forced into something other than just hanging out and off one’s head.

Just being able to go from jammie-clad, unshowered --to clean and sparkley in ten minutes is worth it. Add in some compliments and I gotta believe I’m on to something here…

The Ruination of my Temple, my Mosque, my Cathedral


Did you ever feel a tad depressed and for no good reason?

I hate it when this happens.

I am mostly the eternal optimist; Little Mary Sunshine. I can see the good in a bad situation. I don’t ruminate over the negative but look for ways to make things positive. I see the glass half full. I roll up my sleeves and attack the bad or sad and fill the void with all the beauty and wonderfulness that life can offer.

Sure. Sounds good – but sometimes it just doesn’t work and I feel this thing in my stomach that resembles a wad of bread dough, heavy and protean; a weight that brings the corners of my mouth southward and takes along my eyebrows for good measure.

It started Sunday and I’m just pulling myself out of it. There is no specific event or disappointment that I can point to as the cause. It just enveloped me and licked the flap closed.

None of my usual tricks, platitudes or inspirational phrases slit the envelope open. I tried: Things could be worse; For every low there’s a high coming around the bend; Let me count my blessings; What do I have to complain about; It takes rain and sun to make a rainbow.

Nothing helped.

But I did make it worse. I watched a movie called 21 Grams which if you are even slightly depressed will take that emotion and run with it until you are ready to do yourself in on the spot if the movie won’t end.

I would recommend this movie to people who are so damned happy it is ruining their lives and they need to tamp down their level of euphoria for health reasons, but to no one else.

Note to myself: Never watch a movie where a child or an animal is abused, hurt, or killed.

Funny, now that I'm writing about this I have figured out what the probable reason is that I felt/feel this low-level despair. Figuring out what is wrong is probably the best thing you can do when suffering from a case of the non-specific blues.

Yup - this is it.

The neighbors in the back are tearing down all the vines, greenery, dead tree limbs and brush from our connecting border, leaving it all neat and clean and wide open between the two yards.

Normally this would be an opportunity to rejoice in the new neighbors’ desire to manicure that yard which has been less than orderly since I moved here. But for me it’s a loss of privacy and I worry about my birds' habitat and how this clean-up will effect their lives.

We have a very shallow back yard with a deep front yard. This was never a problem when we had that maze of vegetation that acted as both a visual and audio barrier. When I looked out my back windows I could feel as if I lived in uncharted territory…you could barely see a light shine through the green growth in the summer and I could imagine my property went on for miles.

Now I’m drinking my coffee and looking at my bird feeder and a man is standing in my view so close I can see he nicked himself shaving. Instead of the ptwooey ptwooey of my male cardinal, I hear the neighbor's wife: Who’s going to pick up this brush? You missed some of the vines. How many trees are we chopping down?

I also hear the droning buzz of Mr. New Neighbor’s brand-new chain saw. (I can tell it’s brand new because I can see the price sticker on it!)

My green cathedral is being chopped down and now, along with my birds, I can study the habits and lives of my new neighbors.

On the positive side though, I do know what's bothering me.

Little Mary Sunshine to the rescue once again.