A Letter To An Aspiring Writer

Dear Aspiring Writer (you know who you are),

I'm here to tell you that you must write that novel of yours.  Why am I nagging at you?  Because recently I was given this for free (by a shirtless cowboy, no less):

Crime Scene At Cardwell Ranch.  It's a Harlequin Romance.  And guess what?  I read it.  *hangs head in shame*  In, like, ten minutes.  And I'm telling you right now you need to get going on that novel.  You so can do it. 

Okay, I know I'm not a big one to talk as you know I haven't written anything nearly close to a novel, or even kept up with this blog very well, but I've been writing otherwise, published or not, so shut up.

Apparently, according to Crime Scene At Cardwell Ranch, you don't even need to use big words or create complex characters to write a bona fide novel.  Just so you know.

Just sit down at that computer and write.  Please.  The world needs to read something other than a romance novel written by a person who goes by the name B. J.  That's just disgusting.

Tell you what.  I'll take you to see the cowboy and he can give you a copy of this very same book.  You can read it and see what your competition is.  You will be inspired.  You will be motivated.  You will be so moved to prove to yourself that you can do it.  And if you aren't inspired, motivated, or moved, you'll at least get to see a very young, cut cowboy who gives away smutty romance novels for a living. 

Yours in literary excellence (wishful dreaming at least),

Meredith

Can't Get It Out Of My Head

All morning I've had a song in my head.  It's a song I learned as a child, probably as early as toddler age.  I suppose it should make me feel comforted - you know, like I was a little kid again in the arms of my protective and loving family.  Except it doesn't.

I know a little pussy
Her coat is silver grey
She lives down in the meadow
Not very far away
She'll always be a pussy
She'll never be a cat
Well she's a pussywillow
So what do you think of that
Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow
SCAT!

I feel like a lesbian pervert.  Help me, please.

Girls, Take Notice

OK, this video makes me laugh because the older I get the more stupid "beauty" gets and it comforts me to know others feel the same way. 

However, there should also be a video about how stupid it is to drop the f-bomb every twenty seconds.  Not that I never do it.  OK, I do it a lot.  I just wanted to warn you all before you blast this from your speakers at work.

I Better Use Blunt Scissors For The Paper Chain Cuz I'm Feeling Pretty Stabbity

Well I'm just beside myself these days.  I have a shitload of things to do and I'm just too tired to do any of it.  I blame Boyfriend.  No, it's not about climbing to the heights of ecstasy every night.  I blame the pirouetts and jitterbugs he performs just as I'm about to fall asleep - while he's fast asleep.  Not only does he jump around and kick the mattress constantly, he's got one of the worst snores of anyone I've ever known, and then he blows his breath right on me, irritating my delicate skin while I'm trying to sleep.  It's starting to piss me off.  Oh yeah, he feels all bad when he sees me sleeping on the couch in the morning after he's had the bed to himself all night long, but his guilt just doesn't fill me with the energy I need to get through the day.  Sorry, hon.

It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to tolerate my stupid-ass job.  I'm surrounded by beige all day long.  And the air is so damn cold in the office I welcome going out into the sweltering summer heat and the end of the day and then deny Boyfriend any conditioned air in our house because damn it, I'm chilled to the bone from being at work.  Not only that, the whole principle behind my job has morphed into something so disgusting and wrong and I feel like I should quit just for the high ethics I hold.  I gave up giving money to panhandlers the day one of them didn't say "thank you," so why should I support an agency that gives money to people with pretend mental disorders who work harder to get free government money and finagle their way around the system than they would have to at a real job?  I could write a year's worth of posts on the scandal of it all, but that's not what this post is about.

This post is about the what-ifs.  What if I didn't have to go to a job every day?  My mother says when we aren't working at a job we must fill our time doing volunteer work.  She was going to rock crack babies when she retired.  Didn't ever see that come to fruition, or any other volunteer work on her part except for doing church lady stuff for free, which doesn't count because church activities are questionable regarding their productivity.  She still believes her children should be productive in the community whether or not they are getting paid for it.  Piffle. 

Now I know there are a lot of you out there who are without jobs against your choice.  Boo-hoo.  I also know there are a lot of people out there who got laid off of their jobs and it was the best thing that ever happened to them.  I secretly wish that would happen to me because I'm too chicken-shit to up and actually quit my job.  But for those of you who have the luxury of time and options, quit your complaining.  There are plenty of us who would kill to be in your position right now, except we have to work to support the unemployment benefits you're getting.

If I didn't have to go to work for someone else for forty hours a week I would...

1.  not care if Boyfriend kept me up all night long with this thrashing and snoring because I could sleep during the day (very vampiresque).

2. not have to look at morons pacing back and forth in the public building hallway with phones growing out of their ears instead of doing the job they're paid to do.

3.  win a prize for inventing a technique aimed at the permanent elimination of the dust bunny population in my house.

4.  cook dinner for my darling Boyfriend every night of the week.

5.  iron clothes at least once a week, except I guess I wouldn't have to because I wouldn't be working for the dress code nazis like I do now. 

6.  beat computer Solitaire more than 4% of the time like I do now.

7.  improve my appearance and hygiene because a) I'd have more time to pay attention to such details and b) I'd like myself much more and would consider myself worthy of luxurious baths and consistent good hair days.

8.  laugh in the faces of those who pity me for being unemployed and say to them "you wish you could sit around eating bon-bons and watching I Dream Of Jeannie reruns while simultaneously knowing there are no dust bunnies within a city block's radius of you."

9.  become the next hottest thing in social media

10. write a blog post more than once a month, which would in turn make me an awesome writer and I'd be sought after for ad space on my blog and hunted down by publishers everywhere begging me to write a book.

I could go on and on.  My house would be exquisitely decorated, or at least be freshly painted.  My car would be washed and waxed all the time.  I would be friggin' June Cleaver and love every minute of it.  I'd even master the art of frosting a cupcake.

Until then I can only count the days to retirement and hope to God I don't die before then.  I have a plan to create a paper chain made of very colorful construction paper marking the weeks remaining (well over 200) until my official retirement.  I think I'll hang it on the bullet-proof glass protecting my work space, just to cheer things up a little.

Despair

Life just stinks too much since that one good weekend.

It makes me want to never have good times again for fear of realizing

how utterly senseless my regular times are.

You can't be yourself when you're officious...

That's the curse of a government job.

Maude said that.

I wish I could sleep for a week.

Then clean the house for a week.

Then cook all of my favorite food for a week.

Then watch movies for a week.

Then read an entire book in a matter of days rather than months.

I wish I could sit and do nothing

without thinking I should be doing something

because I have no time to do everything

I need to do

And plus, why can't everyone just be normal?

My standards of normal aren't that stringent.

Beam me up Scotty

There's no sign of intelligent life here.

Mixing The Literal With The Figurative

Has anyone ever told you you have dancing eyes?  This is going just a little bit too far.

A Touching Moment

OK, I don't know why I'm posting this. It makes me uncomfortable on so many levels. I guess I won't be happy until others are as uncomfortable as I am.

What Next? (Or...Can't I Just Ride Out The Wave In Peace?)

Well, if I'm not mistaken these flippin' Nazis have placed even more restrictions on my computer at work.  I can't upload photos to my blog.  I can't upload photos for my Etsy site (to remain nameless).  I can't do anything having to do with photos.  Is it just a glitch today?  Or is this some cruel joke played on a person who devoted threw away thirty years of her life in service to the people of America?  Isn't it bad enough I haven't had a raise in, geez, I don't know how many years?  Isn't it bad enough I have to now fret over the security of my pension?  But now the big shots have to take away my lunch hour free time computer use too?  You can all just go to hell, and take your suck-ass computer-head toadies with you.

(Pardon the lack of pictures in this post.  It totally isn't my fault.)

OK, Ick

I've been rather repulsed by society lately.  I'm sick of over population and even sicker of the fact that the country is being overpopulated by and with dolts and psychos.  I know I sound like some old, right-wing, intolerante crabby-ass hag when I talk like this, but seriously, do we want people like this becoming the majority?  There's lots of crap in the gene pool if you ask me.

For more pictures of the shining (and currently breeding) members of society, check out this site.  And God help us all.

New TV Show

Boyfriend is just so clever.  I think he should move out to Hollywood and become the next TV show creator genius.  I love the way his mind works.  He proposes a new show with hosts Tom Bergeron

and Mike Rowe

The show?  America's Dirtiest Home Videos.

Huh?!  I told you it was genius.

You Can't Impress Me

What you want me to see...

What I actually see...

Gadgets You Can't Live Without

Hi kids. It's been a while since I've posted anything here. My excuse? I've been busy getting into the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and sucking my thumb as a result of the stupidity of the world today. I know a guy who smokes dope to deal with that same stupidity, but I decided thumb sucking is better. While it is funny looking, it doesn't make me act like a complete moron.

And speaking of morons, who the hell doesn't know how to crack an egg? I learned how to crack an egg in 2nd grade. That would be seven years old. I never did get the hang of cracking an egg with one hand, but cracking an egg effectively I have indeed mastered.

However, this post isn't about how brilliant I am. It's about how much space I have in my kitchen, which is none. It's also about the ineptitude encouraged in our society. Gadgets are for suckers. And gadgets that crack an egg for you are for moronic suckers. Check this out...



OK, first of all, EZ Cracker.  While it is an appropriate name for a gadget like this, makes me think of a white southern girl who puts out. Second of all, what kind of spaz cracks an egg like that, or cleans up the mess of spilled egg with a Kleenex?  I'll admit separating an egg can be a little more challenging, but the poor boob separating the egg in the commerical is just too stupid to live.  But wait! That's not all. While I couldn't find the official commercial for it, there is also a gadget that actually scrambles an egg before it's out of the shell! Who doesn't need that?



Call me Amish, but I believe in cracking an egg with your own two hands (or one if your not a chimp like me) and scrambling it with a utencil found in every kitchen. It's called a fork.

Now if you'll excuse me I have a thumb to suck. Or perhaps instead of focusing on what society is coming to I should go forth and multiply, populating the earth with the genius that allows me such amazing coordination skills to crack and scramble an egg.

It's Eastertime!

Photo and creative artwork compliments of Terry, the genius behind Bent Objects (some work available here)

Sunday's Fun Day

Did your dad ever announce "Sunday's Fun Day?" Every dang Sunday? And Sunday meant we played games as a family.  My parents had this thing for games. All right, who am I to say it's a bad thing for parents to play games with their kids? It's a wonderful thing. We (my sibs and I) didn't sit around on our bony little butts watching TV or playing video games. And on Sundays we weren't left to our own devices either. Our parents stepped in and spent quality time with us. I admire them for it. Except for they had no idea what the good games were.

We had dopey games like Sorry and Skunk circa 1947. I coveted games with moving parts, unlike the old-fashioned ones we had which consisted of nothing more than dice or cards and a colored peg you would claim as "my guy." Why couldn't we have games with a Pop-O-Matic? And you know what game I wanted most of all? That's right, Mystery Date.



Of course as a kid I didn't know my parents were dirt poor and couldn't afford to buy new games. Besides, I'm sure Dad wouldn't be too interested to see if his mystery boy would be a dream or a dud.

But Saturday morning cartoon commercials would mock my poor family's games most of all with none other than Mouse Trap. How cool was that? Fortunately we had a cousin who's parents were really rich frivolous and he actually had the Mouse Trap game.  Whenever we visited we would forego the actual game part of Mouse Trap and just put together the whole trap thing with the kicking boot, the guy in the bathtub, and the marble going down the rickety steps.  What fun! 



One year for Christmas my dream came true. No, it wasn't a game with a moving part. It was even better. It was a doll that walked! Baby First Step. I remember that Christmas like it was yesterday. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.



It didn't matter that she walked around like a little crippled child in leg braces and had no sense of direction. It required batteries and had moving parts!

Mechanical games and toys were the ultimate when I was growing up. I'm really glad Boyfriend and I never had kids though. I wouldn't have any idea how to even approach the mechanical toys of today. Technology is where it's at, and I'm so not on board with all that. If I had kids I'd totally make Sunday Fun Day, but my kids would run and hide the minute I pulled out the old-fashioned deck of cards for a game of Go Fish.

Two Neils And A Skip

I'm just sitting around this Saturday night, Boyfriend asleep in the chair next to me.  There's nothing good on TV and I just can't bring myself to do anything productive.  I guess that means it's a good time to donk around on the computer.

I helped Neil Diamond out with some lyrics this evening, via Twitter.  Well, he asked.  We'll see if he takes my suggestions or not.

And speaking of musical stars, what's with Neil Young?  Ugh.  It's a guy thing, I think.  I've got him on IFC right now and not only am I ready to stick hot pokers in my ears, it doesn't even look like he's enjoying his supposed passion for music.  Looks like a crabby old man.  I don't know, maybe I'm just too stupid to get it.

And speaking of old crabby people I found out I'm being followed on Twitter by HeadGeezer - Helping Seniors Make, Save, and Invest Money.  That's one thing I hate about social media - the "outreach" programs.  It's like financial evangelicals.  They're out to save me from my sinful monitary ways.  Instead of knocking on my door with their white shirts and black ties they're following me on Twitter with their colorful, goofy cartoon guy.  And who the hell are they calling a senior?!

 

          

I just realized the guys I mentioned tonight were named Neil, except for the HeadGeezer guy, whose name is Skip.  I'm totally not kidding.  Skip the HeadGeezer. 

OK, Neil Young was supposed to be off the TV ten minutes ago and his whiney ass singing is still burning a hole through my brain.  Perhaps it's a sign from God that it's time for bed.

What's The Phenomenon Where You Can't Get A Song Out Of Your Head? - I Don't Care, Just Make It Stop!

I've been reminiscing lately - reminiscing about things from my childhood.  What got me to reminiscing is this stupid, stupid song that has been running through my head for three days now. 

Green green it's green they say
On the far side of the hill
Green green I'm goin' away
To where the grass is greener still

I can't give credit to the lyricist because I have no idea who wrote those words.  I do know that song, along with other like Kisses Sweeter Than Wine, Blowin' In The Wind, and If I Had A Hammer were sung by The Johnny Mann Singers.  My parents had more than one of these folksy records and as kids we couldn't get enough of them.  Trouble is, it's all come back to haunt me.  If you have no idea what I'm talking about, rent the movie A Mighty Wind.  The most accurate portrayal of the folk singers and their reunion is pretty funny, and also sad at the same time.  Sad as in I can't believe people seriously listened to this stuff. 

So get your peppy on and clap along to the old folk tunes.  I'm serious.  If I can't get this ridiculous song out of my head I can at least put another one into yours.  Here's a clip from A Mighty Wind:



More nostalgia to come.  What were your favorite board games as a kid?

A Sincere Apology, Sort of

All right, we've already established I'm going to hell for all the naughty things I said during The Passion of Faux Ma.  Isn't that enough?  No.  Penelope went and made me feel bad for talking about a dead lady's  cooter.  So now I must apologize.

I couldn't help it.  I was overcome with emotions I never though existed and this is my blog - my place to express - my outlet.  For all of you who were offended, I'm here to officially say I'm sorry.

The grossest part of that whole post was the icky cooter brooch at the end.  I can't believe I did that.  I also can't believe people spend their time constructing things like that.  Unlike some hairy beast lumberjack nuns I know (yes, I really know some) I really don't think I'm all that special because I have a vagina.  Every woman since the beginning of time has had one.  I don't even care that it's the gateway to life, it's an ugly piece of anatomy and we should keep it covered at all costs.

Oh, don't be all up in arms about my not worshipping my body and praising the fact that I'm a woman.  I have a perfectly fine body image.  I just don't get why we as woman are supposed to be all excited over our girly bits.  I mean, if men went around making jewelry that looked like their weenskies we'd think they were insane.  There are some things on the human body that are just icky-looking.  Cooters and weenskies are at the top of the list.

So okay, I'll apologize for speaking so glibly during the passing of a human life.  I should have left more time between the death and my post just out of respect.  But I will not apologize getting shivers when being forced to see not just any cooter, but Faux Ma's cooter.  It was just wrong and bad.  I will also not apologize for worshipping a higher power, God if you will, instead of some stupid part of my body. 

I will not embrace the cooter.

Irreverence

All right kids, I now know what it feels like to lose a Faux Ma.  I have to admit I feel bad for Boyfriend.  After all, no one likes to have a dead mom. 

I really, morbidly so, wanted to be in the room when Faux Ma passed to the other side.  I've never seen a person die before.  Unfortunately I was in the kitchen when it happens.  Figures.  No, I wasn't stuffing my face.  In fact it was even kind of hard to sip on my Diet Dr. Pepper while in the sick house.  I was with Boyfriend and the nurse ladies talking about how soon it would be before she dies.  Five minutes into the conversation Faux Pa came running toddling out of the bedroom and uttered his usual words, "you better come."  That's when one of the nurse ladies said, "she's gone." 

Yeah, I was a little disappointed to miss the moment of truth.  I hoped to see a glimmer of "the light" in her face.  That's assuming she was going toward "the light" and not the firey pits of hell.  One never knows for sure, except in my case where I just assume I'll visit the firey pits of hell for all the nasties I pull on this blog.

I guess someone up there figured it was enough for me to see all I did while Faux Ma was dying.  The caregivers did a hell of a job keeping her nice and dignified while cancer ate away her body.  It bothered me when she wanted her feet "untied."  That meant she wanted her feet outside the blanket and sheet.  Faux Ma had the biggest feet I've ever seen on a woman, really long and narrow.  And her big toes curled up, like cartoon hillbilly toes. 

It was disgusting.  And there they were, hanging out for all of us to see.  Of course it didn't bother anyone as much as it did me, hater of all things feet. 

Little did I know cartoon hillbilly feet would be preferable to what came one day when Faux Ma was just a tad agitated.  The caregiver was straightening out the sheets and taking the pillow out from between her thin little legs.  And then I saw it.  The cooter.  AAAGGGHHH!  Yep, I got a free shot of Faux Pa's wife's cooter.  And he saw me see it.  He was all embarrassed and hated that I saw the precious jewel of his pleasure.  So I was torn between feeling utter horror for seeing Faux Ma's naughty bits and gut-busting hysterics over Faux Pa's fidgeting over my glimpse.

It's ironic how life bites you in the ass.  This was just one more point in favor of my theory that everything that brings you shame in life will reveal itself fully in your death and dying.  Faux Ma was reserved and would never even think of telling a sex joke.  She was all about appearances.  She cared way too much what people thought of her and her family.  If she realized her little veejayjay was out for all to see her mortification would have taken her life well before the cancer did.

It will be a long time before the mental image of that from which Boyfriend passed at birth leaves me.  And longer still the annoyed look Faux Pa shot me, as if I had violated his wife's modesty on purpose.  Perhaps on Mother's Day I'll get a little remembrance for Faux Pa...

Au Naturale Lips by artbywinona

Death Watch, 2010

Boyfriend and I have been sitting close to Faux Ma during her final days. It’s actually been a fascinating journey except for one thing…Faux Pa.

OK, I know people deal with death differently. Everyone grieves uniquely. And the grieving process can begin before a death, as in this case with Faux Ma. She was diagnosed with cancer in 2006. She was in remission after a big series of chemotherapy. Then right before Thanksgiving of 2009 it was discovered the cancer had returned.

Faux Ma has been taking care of doing everything for Faux Pa for at least the last decade. He has been showing definite signs of dementia for quite a while. Nothing has ever been done about this dementia; in fact, Faux Ma did her darnedest for years to cover up his mental decline. By the time she had reached the point where she couldn’t take care of do everything for Faux Pa and Boyfriend and I were spending more time around him during the Death Watch, we discovered things were much worse than we suspected.

But life is full of surprises and Faux Pa’s mental incapacity is just one of those surprises. We’re rolling with it, fully aware that the minute Faux Ma floats into the great beyond Faux Pa will be coerced into the car and taken to the nearest neurologist so we can work with an actual diagnosis.

Until that time he’s dealing with the death of his wife. I have to keep reminding myself he is incapacitated. He is impaired. He is totally, completely, utterly getting on my last nerve.

I am fully aware that I’m going straight to hell because of all the thoughts I’ve been having, picking on an 85-year-old man with the mental capacity of a 7-year-old. Don’t lecture me about having compassion or getting bad karma. I can’t help it. And I’m pretty sure the reason he bugs me so much is because I’m deathly afraid he is what Boyfriend will someday become. ARGH!

For one thing, Faux Pa thinks it must be completely silent in the death house. Silent and dark with no moving air. He believes we are to sit around Faux Ma and simply watch silently as she dies. So when Boyfriend or I try to encourage Faux Ma to express herself, what she’s feeling and seeing (and she’s seeing a lot more around the house than any of us, let me tell you), or if we give words of encouragement that it’s okay for her to let go Faux Pa gets all agitated and annoyed. The poor woman is trying to articulate something, and instead of having the patience to let her just get it out, Faux Pa interrupts and says over and over and over again, just relax and rest. Not only does he not want any of us to make noise, he doesn’t want to hear his wife’s last words. Know why? Because they will be her last words. I’m pretty sure he thinks if she isn’t talking or being talked to she will live forever.

So he just sits there at her side, devoted as he is. Faux Ma must have been awfully devoted too because Faux Pa doesn’t cease to reward her loyalty with the ultimate gesture of validation…petting. Yes, he pets his wife. With his fingertips. Constantly. It’s like he wants to comfort her but is afraid to touch her. It’s like he’s been married to her for over fifty years but has never been intimate with her. (Never mind Boyfriend’s existence.)

There is no way I can convey within the confines of a blog post the bizarreness of this couple’s history. Bizarre to me, at least. The lack of communication. The power struggles. The resentment. The dependency. What do I expect? Do I think Faux Pa should pull a Ryan O’Neal in Love Story and just hop into bed with the dying Faux Ma?  That would most likely drive me to poke forks in my eyes.

I can’t articulate my frustration with this man. I guess that makes me just as incapacitated as he is.

Stirring Memories Through Facebook, Part III

Dear Football Head,

You didn't know we called you that, did you?  Yep, that and a lot of other names.  We called you Football Head because your head was, well, shaped like a football.  Your hair was so thin the shape of your head was way too obvious. 

But I'm not here to tell you about the names we called you.  I'm here to tell you...I know. 

Cruising through Facebook the other day shed light on a very real possibility - a possibility that burned me up today as much as it would have had I figured it out twenty-five years ago.

I'm not saying my suspicions are true, but you've got a history. 

I was looking through your list of friends on Facebook and saw all the boinks you had throughout our friendship.  Why they decided to befriend you now is beyond me, unless you're still boinking them, which totally wouldn't shock me.  When I knew you you lived to boink, because for you boinking is validation.  You boinked your friends' boyfriends, you boinked your own boyfriends, you boinked your boyfriends' friends when your boyfriend wasn't looking.  For God's sake, the day your dad killed himself you didn't want the consolation of your best friend (me), you chose instead to hunt down the first guy who would boink you. 

So I was scrolling through your list of friends which consists of your boinks, your boinks' wives, your boinks' kids.  Suddenly I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.  There, included in the list was Al.

You boinked him too, didn't you?

Oh, I know I shouldn't care.  Except the only thing you two had in common was me.  And plus I think you should know he thought you were dumb as a post and quite hideous.  He never liked you, which is why we ditched you in San Francisco that one time.  If I remember correctly you didn't like him much either.  And yet now you are Facebook Friends.  WTF?  What happened?  Has Facebook become your proverbial belt and those friends your notches?

You'd think after two husbands you could have figured out where you went wrong.  Horribly, horribly wrong.  But no.  As long as their faces are on your friend list, you still believe it's you they love and desire.  Sadly, you never latched onto the concept that men will stick their weenies into anything that won't clamp it off.  That would be you.  Not a clamping kind of gal.  In fact, the Grand Canyon is probably second to you. 

Old Spice? Really?

You all have probably seen this already, but I must say it was a breath of fresh air for me.  Not only do I get to look at some luscious eye candy, my faith is restored in the magic of marketing.  I mean, what is more likely to sell you on something, a dirty mop singing a has-been song from the '80s or a beefy mancake giving you everything you want?  This commercial is funny and creative, even if it is Old Spice.



Part III of the Facebook saga will be arriving shortly. I can't put into words my utter disgust and horror associated with my third Facebook find. Stay tuned.

Stirring Memories Through Facebook, Part II

Dear Al,

All right, so I wrote a letter to your long-time friend Winkie, don't be jealous.  It's your turn to get a little attention.  And who better to get attention from than your long lost, the one who got away? 

I saw you on Facebook and I must admit I was pleased to see your avatar doesn't make you look like some old paunchy thing like your friend Winkie.  You still look active and virile.  That's considering the massive ski gear you had on.  Goggles and everything.  So I couldn't really see you.  I could tell it was you through your stance, though.  You've still got it, that stance.  Way to go.

Except then there was this little photo album you included on your page.  And there you were.  Oh Al, why'd ya do it?  Get old, I mean.  I still don't think you look as weird as Winkie, but well, yikes.  Put your dang shirt on. 

Penelope is getting her laughs.  I think she was secretly angry for me comparing her old friend to Louie Anderson, so she came back and told me who she thinks you look like.

That's right, Henry VIII.  Well I certainly don't think you're looking that doughy, but I have to say there is a resemblance. 

Seeing you and Winkie brought back lots of memories for Penelope and me.  Stonehenge, St. Cloud, chewing live goldfish, the patio at Sweeney's.  Those were fun times for sure.  But what happened since then?

You turned into sort of a stepchild.  Maybe it was the pot, maybe the older you got the less you could get away with.  You tried to crash one of your ex girlfriend's wedding "for the sake of [your] friendship."  You tried to seduce me while I was in a relationship.  It doesn't matter that my relationship was extremely toxic and dangerous and I was horribly unhappy in it.  It was mean of you to flaunt yourself and try to tempt me into your lair.  After all, you only had the best damn legs of anyone I ever dated.  But still, it was stepchildish of you to keep coming back.  Don't you think? 

So you got married somewhere along the line, and then divorced.  You've probably made a big pile of money and spent it all on toys and trips (read that any way you'd like.)  You got a little pudgy around the middle and you're probably kind of full of yourself as always. 

But I'll tell you this.  It doesn't really matter what you've become because I know I'll never get with you again.  Whew.  But I did have a taste in the past and baby I got you right in your prime.  And there's one moment of our fling I'll never forget.  We were riding your motorcycle in downtown Minneapolis on a dark summer night.  We were at a stoplight.  As we waited for the light to turn, you reached back and rested your hand on my leg, then gave it a little rub right before the green light led us onto Hennepin Avenue.  It wasn't about love or commitment or a lasting relationship.  It was about you making me feel like a hot little thing on the back of your motorcycle.  I thought I was in heaven.  And as we rode into the hot city night the speakers of the wind jammer sang to us:

That was thirty years ago.  Now go put your shirt on and act your age!

Stirring Memories Through Facebook, Part I

Dear Winkie,

First of all you're welcome that I didn't use your real name.  Despite the fact that most people don't know that Winkies are the guards of the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz, I named you that for reasons you should remember. 

{Just for the record, Winkie doesn't actually look like a Winkie.  In fact no one in the world could look less like a Winkie than Winkie does.  This picture is posted here merely for the purposes of putting a picture in the post and letting you know (if you didn't already) what a Winkie is.  Unfortunately this picture isn't even of a real Winkie, but that of a doll.  Doll Winkies are the subject of a whole 'nother blog post, but don't hold your breath as doll making of characters like Winkies for doll collectors is just wrong.  Doll collectors are just wrong.  Neither deserve a blog post of their own.  But I digress...}

Come to think of it, I shouldn't expect that you would remember the circumstances that brought me to naming you Winkie because most of the time in those days you were pretty much stoned or drunk or both.  Be that as it may, I'm keeping you anonymous because frankly you don't really want people from your past discovering who I'm talking to.

I experienced the misfortune of seeing your Facebook page at the direction of Penelope, your long time "friend."  Neither of us would dream of friending you for obvious reasons, but we're not above checking out your page and gasping at what you've become. 

Everyone knows our appearance changes the older we get.  But seriously, as someone who hasn't laid eyes on you in over twenty-five years I must say I would never have recognized you, but may have mistaken you for Louie Anderson.

{This is a picture of Louie Anderson.  It is not Winkie.  But it really looks like Winkie.  I know, this is getting confusing because Louie Anderson doesn't look at all like an actual Winkie, but if you've done your homework you'd know that actual Winkies from The Wizard of Oz don't even closely resemble those described in the book, The Wizard of Oz. So maybe Louie Anderson (and Winkie) really do look the the original Winkies.   Whoever thought of posting pictures in blog posts?  The captions they require are confounding.}

Penelope disagrees, but she's just a little biased.  And suffering from complete denial.  That's not to say she isn't aghast at your picture, she just doesn't think Louie Anderson is a good comparison.

Anyway, the point is, what the hell happened in the past thirty years?  Oh, I know you had a brillant career in the military, got married, had kids and other assorted fun facts.  But seriously, what the hell happened?  In your Facebook picture - what is that hangy thing under your ear?  Oh my God, it's your neck!  And what's with the gut?  The whole tiny hair thing?  It's got to stop.  You were wearing that do when you were a ROTC in college.  It's the one thing you should have changed and didn't.

What am I trying to say to you here?  Have a Facebook page all you want, but keep the pictures to yourself.  You caused quite a shocking surprise to your old friends in that you're looking nothing like you used to.  It doesn't matter that the rest of us have gray hair and crow's feet; we're smart enough to keep those embarrassments to ourselves and off the internets.

So now I'm seeming all superficial and beauty-oriented.  I'm really not.  I just want to remember people the way they were.  Winkie, seeing you on Facebook today can be compared to going to a funeral.  You know how when you walk up to a casket and expect to see the person you've known but instead there lies a completely different person with a bad make-up job?  When I saw you on Facebook it was like I was looking in a casket.

On the other hand, maybe you didn't think that the likes of me and Penelope would ever be looking you up in Facebook.  Didn't it occur to you that you might be Googled by people from your past?  Obviously your Facebook friends didn't know you way back when, or else have grown old with you and probably haven't noticed the semi-grotesque aging process you've undergone.  I'm here to tell you, we're watching and looking and the romantic memories of our youth are shattered by the realities that are Facebook pictures.

So please, either take the picture down from your page or put up a different one from thirty years ago.  You're disturbing those of us invisibly snooping around in your life.

Who Are You And What Do You Want?

Dear Internets,

Let me get this straight.  I can come visit you and be anything I want?  Like, I can be a goat, or a princess, or a bitch?  I can retain my anonymity and write anything I want in your presence and the only judgment I'll get is from complete strangers about whom I care nothing?  Sweet!

I had a conversation the other day with a friend who is learning the blogging ropes.  She started out with a shot and then kind of petered out.  (I've always hated that term, "petered out."  I have a cousin named Peter, who's really weird and it kind of reminds me of him, but mostly it just makes me think of dinks, shriveled, droopy ones, which is just plain gross.)  Anyway, one of the perks of  writing a blog is the fact that you can be anyone you want.  In fact, I have more than one blog so I can maintain my integrity no matter what.  See, like here, I can be a regular snark face, where on my other blog I'm more, well, reserved. 

My friend has yet to grasp this.  She doesn't realize she can be whomever she wants in her little corner of the universe.  Hell, she can have two or more corners of the universe like I do!  It's all a matter of what you have to say and how you want to say it.  I can't help but wonder if some of those famous bloggers out there are also some not-so-famous bloggers under some name that isn't familiar to the universe.

Another thing I wonder is how closely blog depictions of the authors' lives reflects their actual lives.  I mean, I find it hard to believe one woman can cook, craft, homeschool, housekeep, blog/maintain a website, sew, plumb, garden, perform home renovations, and at the end of the day keep her man uber satisfied by performing acrobatic acts in the bedroom.  Really?  Can one woman do all of that?  Believe me, there are blogs out there that will have you believe it, and make you feel like a shitty slug because you can't.  Oh, you'll feel inspired for a minute or two, but reality will kick in and you'll discover you're only good for spotty blogging, take-out food, public school conferences, and a kiss goodnight at best.

As I blather on and on I realize I'm not really saying much of anything in this post.  It's terribly boring.  But you know what?  I don't really care.  Because unlike the blogger who gives the impression she can do it all, I'm the blogger who writes a crappy blog and actually does it all.  That's right.  I'm out skydiving, showing my artwork in galleries, and feeding the poor.  I'm just too humble to brag about it in a silly little blog.

Excuse me now, I must go rock Boyfriend's world.  Oh yeah, that's another thing I do and totally do not blog about.  Except for just now.  Oops, secret's out.

I Have A Little Spit-Up In My Mouth Now

Come on. This is just way...too...disturbing.

Talk about your pots de creme.

The Movie Of Faux Ma's Demise

Being the uncompassionate person I am I was complaining about how Faux Ma is handling her dire health situation.  While I am definitely not directly involved with the situation due to the fact that having a disease like cancer is a private family matter not to include the likes of me, a mere fixture in her son's life for fourteen years, it drives me nuts how she is living the last months of her life.  I know, just because someone isn't doing it the way I see fit doesn't mean they're doing it wrong.  Except she is.  Way wrong.  More wrong than wrong.  So wrong that she will be questioned at the Pearly Gates by St. Peter.  "So, Faux Ma, how did you make a difference to the world in your last days?"  Her only response will be "I drove Faux DIL nuts."  Not only is it a stupid legacy, being able to drive me nuts isn't really that big of an accomplishment.  It's pretty easy to do.

So as I'm ranting to Penelope about how mental I am over Faux Ma's wasted days she gave me a good piece of advice.  "Sit back and watch the movie."  I've gotten that advice before, from a mental health professional at that, and seriously, it works.  One can be engrossed in a movie without becoming emotionally involved.  Great advice. 

As so often happens when Penelope and I speak we go off on tangents to entertain ourselves.  In this case I asked her, "so, who would you cast in The Movie Of Faux Ma's Demise?"  I must say, Penelope missed her calling as a Hollywood casting director.  She was spot on.  So from now on when I refer to people in my blog, you can picture them like this:

Faux Ma, the life-long passive-aggressive, long-suffering, anal-retentive star of The Movie Of Faux Ma's Demise:

Faux Pa, husband of Faux Ma, possessing a fear of too many buttons on electronics, incapable of operating a microwave, and all around useless housemate:

Boyfriend, son of Faux Ma and Faux Pa, and all around good egg:

Meredith, love of Boyfriend's life, bane of Faux Ma's:

Meredith's Parents, also known as "Mom" and "Dad," trying to make Meredith act toward her Fauxs as lovingly as they act toward the entire universe:

Penelope, her husband, and their children, the family Faux Ma would like at her deathbed instead of her own:

Diggy, Meredith's dead brother and reality-check card played when Faux Ma asks, "why me?"

So there you have it.  If ever I rant about how weird or uncomfortable or stupid things are in the way of a poor dying woman, you'll know the cast members involved and I'll try remember to step back and simply watch the movie.  (Most of us are quite attractive, don't you think?)

Addendum: About thirty minutes after I finished writing this post Boyfriend called the Fauxs and found out Faux Ma's cancer is growing by leaps and bounds.  She'll discontinue chemo and commence hospice.  Boy do I feel dumb now.

Stupid

"Stupid" has been a favorite word of mine for decades.  For lack of a better word, I've described  many things as "stupid."  I lived a day today that was completely stupid.  Here are the stupid things I have to deal with:

1.  My boss.  She's so stupid it makes me want to spit up.  Well, maybe I better cut her some slack.  She's not so stupid as much as uninformed.  Actually it's her boss who is stupid, for putting her in the position to be my boss in the first place.  She's got no business.  Her boss has got his head so far up his boss's ass it's just pathetic.

2.  My place of business.  I'm sick and tired of watching a government agency try with all its might to run things as a corporation would.  The director of this agency is stupid, and looks just like Rosanne Barr's character in that movie She-Devil.  Really, I'm not kidding.  She even has those stupid moley things on her face.  And her ass is huge.  And she looks like a guy.  The thing I can't figure out is since she's worked in the agency she's been married, like, three times.  I can see why the guys would dump her, what, finding a wiener and all, but why would they want to marry her in the first place?  She's ugly, she's a blank, and well, she's stupid.

3.  The Department of Revenue, doesn't matter which state.  WTF anyway?  Can't there be some sort of continuity when it comes to paying taxes? 

4.  People afforded drivers' licenses.  I guess I already covered that here.

5.  Cancer.  Not only is it a stupid disease, it makes the people who have it stupid.  OK, only some people.  Well, just one that I know of.  But she's really stupid and it pisses me off how she plays the cancer card to manipulate people and induge excessively in the passive-aggressive behavior she's harbored her entire life.

All right, that's it for now.  I don't feel any better, but now you know just how stupid I can be.

Mama Mia

Thirty years ago (?!) I saw Queen in concert for the last time. It was a date with a guy I had been dating for quite a while, but with whom I was becoming a bit disenchanted. We were on the outs. He was ready to get married, but alas, I was ready to fly. I didn't want to lead him on, but when he asked me to go to the Queen concert with him I couldn't refuse.

I had been a huge fan of Queen since 1976 when they were introduced to me by my friend Penelope. Nothing matches the guitar of Brian May or the voice of Freddie Mercury. I especially liked their earlier works. To this day Queen remains one of my top five favorite bands.

Freddie Mercury in 1980

The other day Penelope got in touch with me and shared something she'd found on her internet wanderings. It's nothing like the real thing, but then what remake is? 

i > u On The Road

I keep hearing how it's enough to know in your heart that you're better than someone else than to try to prove it to the idiot you're better than.  (There's a sentence with very poor grammar.  u r > me when it comes to writing, no doubt.)  Years ago I vowed to give up proving my point to idiots.  However, I've found you can stifle your natural urges only so long before you need to satiate the urge or else spontaneously combust.  As I'm not really in the mood to burst into flames at this point in my life I give you...my point. 

I'm a better driver than you are and these are the reasons.

1. I know what "yield" means.  You obviously don't.  It means "you have to wait until everyone else has passed, even if it means coming to a complete stop."  This holds true especially if you are at a red light and want to turn right and the oncoming traffic (me) has a green arrow to turn left.  I encounter this every day on my way to work.   You have a red light, dork, I have the right-of-way, so quit trying to beat me to the on ramp. 

2.  I know what "merge" means.  It's kind of the complete opposite of yield in that you do not stop and wait for the oncoming traffic (which could very well be going 50-70 miles per hour) to stop and let you in.  You speed up and merge in.  If you are afraid to do this, you should never, ever try to drive on a freeway.

3.  There is a misconception that in order to make signal lights work you need some special fluid or something.  Or could it be you are just too flippin' lazy to push that little lever on the left of your steering wheel with your finger?  I know, and you should know, the appropriate signal light should be turned on when you turn into another lane, when you turn the corner, when you turn into a parking spot, etc.  Interestingly enough, the signal lights are also called turn signals.  Use them, asshole.

4.  I know mirrors are for driving purposes, not for putting on make-up.  OK, I'll cut you a break.  You can use your rearview mirror to put on your make-up as long as you are not driving.  Parked.  Oh, and P.S., a make-up job applied while you are driving makes you look like a clown.  A scary one.

5.  I know the speed limits of all the roads upon which I drive.  (Huh?  Good grammar that time.)  These limits vary, depending on if you are driving on a freeway, a residential street, or a country highway.  That does not mean your driving speed should vary while on any of those roads.  When driving on the freeway to my job, for example, I drive 60 mph, the speed limit.  I don't drive 60 mph for thirty seconds, then drop my speed down to 50 mph for thirty seconds, then speed up to 70 mph for thirty seconds, and so on. 

6.  I know the left lane is for passing, or driving really fast.  If you're in the left lane and the people to your right are passing you up, you should have your license revoked immediately.  Get out of my way, and I mean it.

7.  I know those lines painted on the roads are wide enough apart to accommodate the width of my vehicle and I drive between them.  Even on a curve!  Were you also this bad with coloring books?  And while we're on the subject of lines, it is especially important to keep your big-ass truck between the lines of the little-ass parking spots in a parking ramp.  The rest of us who aren't suffering from Tiny Wiener Syndrome can't get in and out of our normal, self-assured-sized cars.  I guess this applies to any vehicle, not just big-ass trucks.  I just wanted to say "big-ass" to make a point.  Because after all the point of this post is to make a point.  Big-ass.

8.  I don't need bells and whistles (i.e. cell phone, blackberry, TV, video, GPS, etc) to "engage" me while driving.  Driving is engaging enough.  If you aren't engaged by the scores of idiots and maniacs sharing the road with you, you just aren't paying attention, which you wouldn't be anyway if you were watching TV or texting your internet soul mate.

I'm getting road rage just by writing this, so I guess that's my cue to stop.  Seriously, you should look to me as an example and in fact worship my excellent driving ability.  You want to be as good as me because honestly, I'm quite awesome. 

Unedited Journalism?

This has got to be the best headline yet: Naked Man's Suspicious Package Causes Scene

I'm not even kidding about this.  I would love to know what makes a naked man's package suspicious.  So I read...

http://www.nbcwashington.com/news/local-beat/Naked-Mans-Suspicious-Package-Causes-Scene-80891977.html

Oh Those Kids And Their Music

How's this for creative? Tres Cool!