Don’t Want to Know!

Noise makes me nervous. Noisy nonsense makes my hair hurt. In an effort to retain a few strands … here is a list of what I don’t want to know about:

  • Anything that has anything to do with Snooki, The Douchebag Bachelor, and The Real Bitches Housewives of Beverly Hills, Orange County, Pinot Noir, etc.
  • How much political candidates spend on their campaigns. Here’s a novel idea – what if you people led by example?  Announce your office intentions, take the grillions of dollars you use to attempt to get that office and spend it on all sorts of programs that will help your fellow citizens and make this country a better place? Swear you would get more “coverage” than you are paying for, more votes, and you’d sleep better. Just a thought.
  • “Who’s Zoomin’ Who?”- there was a time when I enjoyed hearing all the juicy details about EVERYONE. Sick, I know. Thank God, life changes can happen. If you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t sit next to me.
  • Another story about a woman/man overboard. Just this morning, a new report about a woman mysteriously disappearing while on a cruise. With her boyfriend. In a last-ditch (no pun intended, really) effort to patch up relationship. Note to people in relationships spiraling downward: NO VACATIONS. Tragic.
  • The end of the world. When it happens, it happens. Not worth a millisecond of worry. Live Big each and every day you find yourself on this side of the terra firma.

A solar flare is currently headed our way, threatening to wreak temporary havoc on all things electrical.Must shut this puppy off before it goes up in flames. And clear my head.

I wish there was a vacuum cleaner for the brain.

Later.

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I Would Marry My Dog if He Could Talk and Screw in a Light Bulb

And a few other things … but that’s the truth. And, that’s exactly what I said to the last man who asked. When I get the “I thought you’d be remarried by now!” and the “Why aren’t you remarried yet? stuff, I’m very honest. I was married for 20 years, it didn’t work out. While I’ve had relationships since, none have been worth a lifetime commitment. Doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen, just that I can’t be a nurse and won’t be purse. Kooky? Yes. Stupid? Not so much. Until then, it’s me and him …..

Get me a beer, pronto!

Onto other kooky stuff –

I was in a great shop yesterday. A cute mom and her daughter, a blonde version of Holly Golightly, came in. “Holly” wanted to try on a few things while Mom took a seat for the fashion show. Do you know what a “hanger” is? The female human version usually has broad shoulders, is thin, and can wear anything. “Holly” was a hanger, so her options were endless. While Mom told me her life story as well as those focusing on the health of her extended family, “Holly” rocked the racks.

In the middle of this personal/retail therapy situation, in blew our town’s version of Mr. Fabulous (think Martin Short as Franck inFather of the Bride and/or the enthusiastic(!) Kevin Lee on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills). But our Mr. Fab is very attractive and has better bs. Nevertheless, it was double air kisses all around and he added levity to the therapy show. Mom’s stories were getting sadder and sadder, so I was damn glad to see him. When “Holly” came out in her 47th outfit (I kid you not), Fab turned to me and said, “Your top is amazingly beautiful”. So, being the truthful sort, I announced to the whole store, “I got it at Walmart and it cost $9.” Shut it down, shut it down, SHUT IT DOWN!

At the mention of Walmart, Mr. Fab had to dash. Mom and “Holly” weren’t far behind, not because of Walmart, but because the racks were now bare and Mom was about to gnaw her left arm off as she was starving. As for me, I just chalked it up to yet another adventure, drove home and collapsed after walking and feeding Himself. He didn’t give a bone what I’d been through.

When reviewing yesterday, I’ve come to several conclusions. Mom needed to talk and I listened. Next time, I’m charging for it. Mr. Fabulous is always in a good mood. “Holly” had a big time.  I’m keeping my fashion secrets to myself. And am rethinking dog marriage; he’s like the others, just wants to be fed. Thank God, sex is not in the equation.

Some adventures aren’t all they are cracked up to be. And a lot of people are cracked.

Be happy. It’s a choice.

Later.

Nuts, We Are All Nuts

The other day my friend told me that everyone … and I mean everyone … is nuts. If that isn’t a given, I don’t know what is. The most important point here is – be very careful and picky about who you choose as your bowl mates. There are many varieties of nuts. Discernment is a very important tool. So is a garbage can. While on the topic of nuts …..

  • Why, in the name of God, would you write/record a breakup song about a POS who dumped you and call it, “Someone Like You“? I love Adele, I think the melody of the song is the best; what I don’t get it is … if your Significant Other treated you horribly, why would you want someone like that? Haters … don’t need an explanation, this is just an observation. Why not a song that says, “Someone Who Is Nothing Like You In Any Way At All Because You Are The Worst Person Ever“?
  • Don’t ever change!” If you went to high school and had a yearbook, I’ll bet you that’s written somewhere inside. It was just a phrase. Unfortunately, there are people who chose to believe this and haven’t. Changed. Deliver me.
  • My mother is studying the last book of the Bible, Revelations, written by the Apostle John. Last week, she told her Bible Study group that she believed John was taking LSD when he wrote it because Revelations is incomprehensible. She may be onto something but I don’t think they had LSD back then … maybe some mushrooms ….. maybe she’s on LSD.

Must go plan intervention. Or not.

Later.

I Don’t Drink Outside My Zip Code

Isn’t that the best line ever? My friend, Demona, threw that down when we were discussing where to have dinner.

Topics for today include: Books, Movies, and Finds. Off we go:

Loving the WordFoto App

Books and Movies

One of the books I recently read was The Paris Wife by Paula McLain. Historical fiction about Ernest Hemingway and his first wife, Hadley. I’ve read everything about F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald during that crazy time; it was nice to get a different perspective. And I’m damn glad I did because …. two weeks later, I saw Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris. Had I not read that book, I wouldn’t have “gotten” all the nuances in the movie.  Book – good; Movie – not so much. I’ve also read Maine by J. Courtney Sullivan; really liked it until last chapter. Next up: The Man in the Rockefeller Suit by Mark Seal, Joy for Beginners by Erica Bauermeister, and Wait for Me! Memoirs by Deborah Mitford, Duchess of Devonshire.

Finds

If you are anywhere near Oxford, Mississippi, do stop by Bottletree Bakery. Everything in that place looks delicious; everything I managed to cram in my mouth was delicious. Find yourself in Houston? Head right over to ….

Yum!

I swear, Relish has the very best Blueberry Cookie I’ve ever eaten. The hummus is amazing as well.

On the shoe front, a group of us stumbled upon the most comfortable sandals in the entire world in Charleston, S.C. The Charleston Shoe Co. and sister store, Savannah Shoe Co., sell these babies in an abundance of styles. Because they use a bunch of elastic and rubber soles, I could wear them every day. And, one of the sales women told me they can go in the washing machine. Won’t happen at my house because I am on a laundry strike, but you can do whatever you want.

Can't help myself

*It has been said you cannot stick your tongue out and look at the ceiling simultaneously (tendons say “no”).

You just tried it AND you can do it.

I know, because I did.

Idiots all.

Later.

Snarky Thursday: A Book, A List, & Questionable Songs

 

It’s a beautiful day in Snarkville. As I sit here at my desk, looking out the window, my eyes fix on two birds. One is big and fat, the other needs more meat on her bones. I know she is a she because BIG FATTY is trying to have his way with her. I must say, he is not subtle. He has repeatedly jumped on her back and bounced around. GET A ROOM NEST WHY DON’T ‘CHA!

Just finished “Bossypants” by Tina Fey. She’s funny. She thinks funny, she writes funny. I wonder if she has an extra pair of bossypants? Mine mistakenly went into last year’s Goodwill pile. Speaking of pants, I was horrified when recently wandered into the lingerie department of Nameless Store. All of the undies were psycho neon but that wasn’t the problem. Every pair were size 70XXXL granny panties. Must have wandered into alternate underwear universe; happens all the time.

Have been inventing jobs possibilities; the latest are:

  • Passive/Aggressive Mean Letter/Email Writer
  • Bird Hotelier (see above)
  • Telemarketer Whistle Sales – ok, this is GOOD. I could sell a line of whistles that attach to the phone. When telemarketers call, you answer the phone and immediately blow that sucker with gusto. Presto! Your number is off their list. I know of what I speak and this is a necessary item now that the sneaky telemarketers have started using cell numbers. Also effective for all sorts of people in your life. Think about it.

I’m not a fan of questionable song titles. But they do demand an answer, non? I blame this rant on Miss Britney Spears‘ cover of a Bellamy Brothers’ song. The rest of those listed are real as well. Meh!

  • “If I Said You Had A Beautiful Body, Would You Hold It Against Me? No, but I will punch you in the nose.
  • “Why Does It Hurt When I Pee?” Because you are stupid and have a urinary tract infection which is nothing to sing about.
  • “How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?” Not. My. Problem. Stop. Whining.
  • “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” Because you suck. 🙂
  • “Can You Feel The Love Tonight?” Zip up your pants and beat it, Buster!
  • “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” Nope, but I think your pants are way too tight.
  • “Where Did I Go Wrong?” You were born.
  • “Tommy, Can You Hear Me?” No. Duh. Deaf mute.
  • “How Can Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel?” They don’t. Shut up.
  • “Am I Going Insane?” Yes. Yes you are.
  • “Why Bother?” My point exactly.
  • “What If No One’s Watching?” Trust me, they aren’t.

Gotta dash – it’s time to watch paint peel. I will leave you with today’s snark; tuck it away as you might need it.

“I’m going to memorize your name and throw my head away.”

(anonymous)

Sooner or later.

 

My Hug Project & Other Madness

Ok, so I’ve been thinking (scary) and observing. As a reformed “Don’t even think about getting in my personal space” person AND the fact that Lent begins tomorrow and my “Lenten To Do” list was a bit lacking, I’m making an addition. From March 8 until April 24, I will hug someone every day. If you think this is an no-brainer, think again.

A hug can be supportive, comforting, affectionate, or welcoming. We are born with the “innate need for human touch”. Several years back, I tried to explain this basic need to a group of friends. My comments were met with, “there she goes again” looks and the subject was changed. But I press on. When I lived with a houseful of people, I never thought about it, either. In my techno world, I can communicate with tons of people on a daily basis without actually seeing live human being for days. Not. Good. Physical connection is healthy and hugs are nice so there you have it.

I’ve got two weeks covered; daughter visits and trips. But the rest of the time … well, talk about stepping out of my comfort zone. I might have to hug strangers, which could lead to my arrest and jail is not a good place to launch a “hugging project”. But I’m getting ahead of myself. At the end of the day, I think it might be good. Will keep you posted, whether you care or not. Must add a warning to “dates” during this time:  if I hug you, it is NOT an invitation to grab my ass. It means I am fulfilling my daily duty AND  I don’t like you enough to even produce an air kiss. The old “hug and SHOO!” Just sayin’.

Speaking of madness (see header), let me tell you how insane the state I live in is. I won’t address public education, which the powers that be are trying to do away with. Really. I won’t address the fact that our state has a “rainy day fund” for education emergencies and the moron Governor does not consider this tsunami a rainy day. But I will briefly address mental illness (not mine, ha!).

Drive by any bus stop in my city, and I promise, you will see someone talking to themselves. In a crazy way. Because when the mentally challenged use up their chits at state institutions, they are loaded up on a bus and dropped off – wherever. This process is tragic. As I drove  into the Target parking lot this morning, I saw a woman pulling a suitcase toward the door. She was yelling up a storm – at nobody. She obviously had some mental issues and her angry ranting was scary. I parked, went into the store, and started my bargain hunting. She was right behind me. And she was some kind of pissed off. I kept moving to different parts of the store, but I could hear her wherever I went. “I’m a 33rd level Mason! I don’t have a husband! But I’m a Mason.” Don’t know much about Masons but I’m pretty sure they are men. I was outta there. But not before she verbally assaulted two checkers and ventured back into the belly of the store. I suggested they might want to have security “assist” Ms. Mason, especially since she has her suitcase in her cart and God only knows what’s in there. They laughed. As I left, I noticed security filing her fingernails; that’s what 16-year-old security guards do, I guess. Situations such as this make me feel helpless. And I hate that.

On a different note, I’ve got my F-It Bucket all ready to go. For those of you who are unaware of what a FIB is, you will have to read my previous post. Or not. Your choice. Nevertheless, … ta -da ……..

All credit goes to Amy Sedaris for idea

This may only be big enough for a couple of days. But it is the official F-Bomb depository. Feel free to add yours – all I need is the name of offender/offensive situation that makes you want to say “F-You”; I’ll write it out and make a deposit. Sharing. Hugs. Madness.

Happy F-ing Tuesday!

Later.

House of Horrors: Home Improvement Hell

There are two words – just two – that can put fear in the heart of men and women:  home improvement. The worst situations we bring upon ourselves always sound so innocent. You have been warned.

 Today, home improvement means cleaning up the house. But it was not always so. About 10-12 moons ago,  a fragrant combo of potato peelings, coffee grounds, chopped onion and a massive amount of water erupted from my washing machine, via the garbage disposal. Don’t ask. The “flood” did a bit of damage. After a flurry of Rhodes Scholars, insurance adjusters, brain surgeons,  leak detectives, structural engineers, and plumbers tramped through our territory, it was determined that a broken pipe under the kitchen would require some repair and redo. Duh.

Thus began the hostage situation starring my family. At the time, I had a husband and two young children – but they went to work and school – leaving me to deal with the service gods. There are two words to keep in mind when waiting on the fixers: chain reaction.

A couldn’t do his job until B arrived, but he was having lunch with C, who was real mad at D. Now D was the plumber appointed by the insurance company to start this hair ball rolling. He had a little home-based business (out of a city two hours away) and his Mama did all his phone answerin’ and fetchin’. please turn up Deliverance banjo tune as loud as possible>.

D wreaked havoc all over our property, digging sink holes, disappearing into them, and fist-fighting with his team of stooges plumberettes over missing tools. But he did accidentally fix the leak. Leaving the house torn to shreds with debris everywhere.

The parade of magicians thus began their march. The “professionals”, the fixer-uppers who swore they’d make the house “real purty”. I looked into the dazed and confused eyes of every repairman who entered my house and asked the question, “How long will this project take?”. The answer was always the same, “A year or so”. Kill me first.

Our house had always had a mind of its own, deciding when and how hard to hit our bank account. In order to collect the insurance money to fix the house, we had to lower the backyard four inches. Grass begone. Giant mud pie. Don’t ask. There was a pot of gold at the end of that rainbow so we did it. I said, “Don’t ask”. Emergency phone call for unlimited amounts of anti-anxiety meds.

When remodeling, the journeyman working on the house know more about you than your gynecologist, parents, and the government combined. Because they live with you. The husband, kids, and I were relegated to one king sized bed(temporary living room) and one bathroom (the pee-and-tea which doubled as kitchen). Call me a curmudgeon, but the warm, fuzzy experience of enjoying that first cup of coffee in the morning is considerably diminished when surrounded by cold tile and a toilet. Am obviously not cut out for a real prison stint.

When the kids would ask if friends could come over, I had a cheery reply. “Sure, if you all want to sit in the middle of my bed and stare at each other.” Nipped in bud.

When you redo the homestead – paint, floors, lighting – your old furniture no longer works with the new and improved interior. My then-husband only uttered one phrase during the entire debacle … “How much is all this going to cost?”. He lost all battles and the war, leaving him a shell of a man. Made of sterner stuff, I pressed on.

I did try to cut a few corners. Wrong move. I hired my own upholsterer to recover the sofa. When it was returned three months later, I sat on it and closed my eyes. It felt like I was sitting in an airport lobby. The cushions were as soft as a basket of stale sandwiches. <very sad face>

After a year of this nonsense, “the perfect thing” kept cropping up, extending our deadline. I’d thrown in the towel by this time, directing all questions to A, B, C, D, or his Momma. Would have lived under a bridge during this nightmare, but all bridge property was already occupied by home improvement hostages.

Believe it or not, I’ve made this long story short. If you want a divorce, no privacy whatsoever for eternity, and like to be heavily medicated, then by all means, consider home improvement. For the rest of you considering a “redo”, DON’T GO THERE. Really. You’re welcome.

 

Later.