tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255434162024-03-13T17:41:41.248-05:00Magnum OpusA Literary Attempt to Regain My Sanity and Faith in HumankindMeredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.comBlogger205125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-63174307197490776312012-03-18T11:58:00.000-05:002012-03-18T11:58:14.328-05:00Wrinkly And Squinty-EyedRecently I was asked to donate a very popular drink charm set for a Facebook giveaway. Not a blog giveaway. Not an Etsy Team giveaway. A Facebook giveaway. I never heard of such a thing and I was skeptical. As well I should have been.<br />
<br />
I looked into this person's Facebook page and didn't see much. Lots of links that I didn't have time to click. Then I went to look at the person's Etsy shop. Yikes.<br />
<br />
The shop was all about crochet. Crocheted things for babies. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, except for the fact that she used those true-to-life rubber babies as models. I'm so grossed out by those things I can't even tell you. I was so distracted by these wrinkly, squinty-eyed things that I couldn't even get a good look at the product for sale. Rubber...babies. That's just wrong and bad.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. This person wants to pay tribute to the anniversary of The Wizard of Oz. She wants people to donate their beautiful work, their hard work, their work that they <em>don't model on rubber babies</em>, so she can just give it away. I don't suppose she's got any of her own things to give away either. She's just going to list this stuff as "Free Giveaway Stuff" on her Facebook page, people are going to get it for free and that will be that. She's not showcasing particular artists or crafters. I speculate that her reasoning for doing this, on Facebook, is so people follow her, look at her, give her Facebook numbers she can brag about. She's not doing a service for the particular people whose things she's giving away. She's not paying tribute to the work that goes into these special giveaway items. She's not going to encourage anyone to shop at these people's Etsy shops. She's giving away good stuff so people pay attention to her. It just all kind of made me sick. <br />
<br />
It all got me thinking about donations in general. Not just donating created items, but also donating clothes and household items to charities. Why do people donate? Why do they not?<br />
<br />
I'm not above donating something to make myself look good. If someone wanted to write a blog post about me, interview me, and request that I donate something for one of their lucky readers to win, I'd probably do it. I'd do it because it would benefit me.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, I donate a lot of things from my house that I don't use anymore. Clothes, bedding, small appliances, books...lots and lots of things. I don't donate them to make myself look good, I donate them because I want to get things that are useless to me (but still in fine condition) out of my house. OK, in that respect it benefits me - a less cluttered house is always a good thing. But I'm not looking for people to admire me because I'm donating something. In a way, when I make my donations I'm having a giveaway too. But I'm not doing it on Facebook and I'm giving away my own things. I'm not looking for the praise. I'm not even looking for a tax break.<br />
<br />
I just thought this person's methods were in bad taste and had a disrespect for my work. She didn't even give an opinion of why she thought my item would be a good giveaway item, like "what a clever idea," or "these are so cute." It's all about her. Sorry honey, but when it comes to my business it's pretty much all about <em>me</em>. Unless she can guarantee this giveaway will bring more business to me, I'm not interested. Oh, there's one exception to that rule: some craft fairs will ask you to donate something worth at least $10 for a silent auction or raffle. The proceeds for something like that goes to the organization sponsoring the craft fair. I'm all for that and will gladly donate for their cause.<br />
<br />
I sound so selfish about this, but seriously, I can't get those damn rubber babies out of my mind. Ick.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-7409905364894627632012-01-21T11:27:00.000-06:002012-01-21T11:27:50.599-06:00Not Exactly Jesus, But Just As ImpressiveI've been away for a while and it seems I've lost touch with my dark side, my angry side, my snarky side, my downright hateful side. That side is a huge part of me and frankly, I've missed it. Enough of the Suzy Creamcheese I'm forced to show on my other blog ~ I'm tired of pretending to be always cheerful, creative, upbeat and perky. I'm so much more myself when I let my mean out.<br />
<br />
This post isn't exactly about mean, but is pretty disgusting and the subject matter made me think of <a href="http://whodoithinkiam.blogspot.com/2010/03/irreverence.html">another post I wrote</a>, which made me think of Faux Ma, which in turn poked at that part of me which has been repressed for the sake of tolerant harmony and support.<br />
<br />
The other day Boyfriend and I were having our little dinner together. It had been a busy day for Boyfriend so instead of either of us cooking he brought home some Bruegger's bagle sandwiches. To go along with them we had some potato chips.<br />
<br />
I'm not one to get all hyped up over seeing the face of Jesus in an overdone tortilla or the image of the Virgin Mary peering through the crust of a freshly baked loaf of bread. But people travel from far and wide to get a glimpse of these occurrences, claiming they're divine, a message from God. Nor do I get too excited over vegetables that grow to look the face of Richard Nixon or Abraham Lincoln. Like the holy images, these vegetables become famous enough to make the local news.<br />
<br />
As Boyfriend and I were munching away on our sandwiches and chatting away about our day I picked up a potato chip. My eyes widened a snicker came out of my nose as it would a nasty-minded 4th grader. I showed the chip to Boyfriend and all he could say was, "Good God." Neither of us could eat the potato chip and still, to this day, sits in a pretty green bowl on our kitchen countertop. It seems wrong to throw away such a freakish creation, and yet neither of us could bring ourselves to eat it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7006/6722921243_1c1fb4e040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" nfa="true" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7006/6722921243_1c1fb4e040.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I'm not kidding you. It's a cooter chip. Feast your eyes on this crispy vision of loveliness. I ask you, could you eat it? Do you think I should contact the local news team to cover this story? Would people come from other lands to get a glimpse of, or even worship, the cooter chip? Could I make millions off of this? Have I completely lost my mind in spending time photographing and writing about the cooter chip? Am I a lesbian? The questions just keep coming and I can't decide what to make of it all.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7007/6722922597_02f004b68f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nfa="true" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7007/6722922597_02f004b68f.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><br />
What would you do if you came across a cooter chip on your plate? Would you blush? Would you gobble it up before anyone could identify the fact that you were eating a cooter in plain view? Would you pass it around to show all of your friends? <br />
<br />
Such is the life of someone who doesn't get out much, looking for fame and fortune in the discovery of a cooter chip. I doubt anything will become of my find, but here it will stay for all of eternity, on Meredith's blog filled with all things childish and disgusting.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-1410329445908718902012-01-11T20:00:00.001-06:002012-01-11T20:31:51.273-06:00Fie FoDear Charlotte,<br />
Thank you.<br />
Love,<br />
Blackie<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ckRX0k9owAY?rel=0" width="480"></iframe><br />
<br />
Do you mean it ?<br />
Do you mean it ?<br />
Do you mean it ?<br />
Why don't you mean it ?<br />
Why do I follow you and where do you go<br />
Aah aah aah aah aah aah<br />
<br />
You've never seen nothing like it no never in your life<br />
Like going up to heaven and then coming back alive<br />
Let me tell you all about it<br />
And the world will so allow it<br />
Ooh give me a little time to choose<br />
Water babies singing in a lily-pool delight<br />
Blue powder monkeys praying in the dead of night<br />
Here comes the Black Queen, poking in the pile<br />
Fie-fo the black Queen, marching single file<br />
Take this, take that, bring them down to size<br />
March to the Black Queen<br />
Put them in the cellar with the naughty boys<br />
A little nigger sugar then a rub-a-dub-a baby oil<br />
(aah aah) black on (aah aah), black on every finger nail and toe<br />
We've only begun - begun<br />
Make this, make that, keep making all that noise<br />
March to the Black Queen<br />
Now I've got a belly-full<br />
You can be my sugar-baby, you can be my honey-chile, yes<br />
La laa la laa la laa la laa la la la la la laa<br />
La laa la laa la laa la laa la laa la laa la laa la laa<br />
A voice from behind me reminds me<br />
(tra la laa tra la laa aaah)<br />
Spread out your wings you are an angel<br />
Remember to deliver with the speed of light<br />
A little bit of love and joy<br />
Everything you do (will bear a will) bears a will and a why and a wherefore<br />
A little bit of love and joy<br />
In each and every soul lies a man, very soon he'll deceive and discover<br />
But even till the end of his life, he'll bring a little love<br />
Aah ah aah<br />
La la la la laa<br />
Ah ah ah ah aah<br />
Ah la la la laa<br />
I reign with my left hand, I rule with my right<br />
I'm lord of all darkness, I'm Queen of the night<br />
I've got the power - now do the march of the Black Queen<br />
My life is in your hands, I'll fo and I'll fie<br />
I'll be what you make me, I'll do what you like<br />
I'll be a bad boy - I'll be your bad boy - I'll do the march of the Black Queen<br />
Ah aah ah aah<br />
Ah aah ah aah<br />
Walking true to style<br />
She's vulgar 'buse and vile<br />
Fie-fo the Black Queen, tattoos all her pies<br />
She boils and she bakes, and she never dots her "I's"<br />
She's our leader<br />
La la la la laa la la laa<br />
La la la la la laa<br />
Forget your singalongs and your lullabies<br />
Surrender to the city of the fireflies<br />
Dance with the devil in beat with the band<br />
To hell with all of you hand-in-hand<br />
But now it's time to be gone - (la la la laaa) forever - forever<br />
La la la laaa aaah aah aah aaah<br />
Written by Freddie Mercury.<br />
Sung by Freddie Mercury.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-42490581495185260502011-04-28T10:16:00.000-05:002011-04-28T10:16:45.929-05:00Pinky! Get Off The Rail!OK, well, I keep bugging a blogger friend of mine (who shall remain nameless for fear she will get defensive and lash out in a most unbecoming way) to get busy and write on her blog for crying out loud. What in the hell do you create a blog for if you aren't going to write on it? Well, I realized it's been a while since I've written on my own blog so I guess I can't cast stones. <br />
<br />
But because I love to cast stones and need to feel superior to most people in general I decided to dash off a little post here. I have no idea what it's going to say, which means it will be completely worthless, but at least I'll have a new post up, which is more than I can say for some people who haven't written anything in over a year. <br />
<br />
<strong>Psychology Lesson</strong>: The defense mechanism labeled Projection in the immature stage (as opposed to the neurotic stage or the pathological stage) is defined as a reducing anxiety by attributing one's own unacknowledged unacceptable/unwanted thoughts and emotions <em>[or blog-writing practices]</em> to another. <br />
<br />
Long and short, I'm the mental one because not only am I not writing blog posts I also have an immature need to blame other people for not writing blog posts while ignoring the fact that I don't write blog posts.<br />
<br />
See? I told you this would amount to nothing. Except dig this...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jj6gexIZObU/TbmBNB7B42I/AAAAAAAAAf0/yD-gx7Pqf24/s1600/pink-freud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400px" j8="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jj6gexIZObU/TbmBNB7B42I/AAAAAAAAAf0/yD-gx7Pqf24/s400/pink-freud.jpg" width="337px" /></a></div><br />
Get it? Pink Freud. Good thing I take my psychology degree so seriously. On the other hand, Dr. Freud would probably applaud my healthy superego, which is nice enough to let my ego make jokes in order to soothe my otherwise troubled emotional state. Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-30500529832339010342011-03-17T06:01:00.002-05:002011-03-17T06:01:00.132-05:00Begosh And BegorrahToday I *ahem* "celebrate" thirty-one years of service with the public sector. I know, I've been with this job longer than a lot of you have been alive, but I assure you it was very unintentional. Thirty-one years of beige walls. Thirty-one years of customers who suck the life right out of you, some with really sad stories and others who manipulate the system to avoid being productive members of society. Thirty-one years of seeing different administrations come and go. I especially loved the last six years of no raise, which will probably remain the trend until I retire. At this point of my working life I can say it will all be worth it only when I'm loafing around in a hammock collecting my pension.<br />
<br />
Today is also St. Patrick's Day. Happy that, to whomever welcomes the greeting. I don't normally go to my day job on St. Patrick's Day, my work anniversary, because St. Patrick's Day in St. Paul, MN can be a little rambunctious. I recall many years ago having to take the bus to and from work, and the ride home on St. Patrick's Day usually consisted of much raucous talk and even a bit of puking. Lovely. And no, the raucous talk and puking didn't come from me. Eventually I just stopped going to work on that day all together to avoid the sour smell of barf. The tradition stuck even after I started driving a car to work.<br />
<br />
I'm not really sure why I'm at the day job today, after many many years of skipping it. Perhaps the job zombies ate my brain while I wasn't looking. Whatever the reason I want you to pity me, and also admire my persistence and dedication. I need this from you, because frankly, thirty-one years doesn't much matter to those whom I serve.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-14874723953375584692011-03-01T22:23:00.000-06:002011-03-01T22:23:28.438-06:00Turn AroundIt was a small house on the side of a mountain, and the middle of the night. I was watching this video when I realized we wouldn't be together forever; in fact, it was the end that night. You woke up and came to sit with me as I watched. You had no idea...<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="510" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/AhbE8MzNH04" title="YouTube video player" width="640"></iframe>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-60115024043074416782011-01-31T06:57:00.001-06:002011-01-31T06:57:00.399-06:00Oh My God (Say That In Your Best Valley Girl Voice)OK, what could be better for my 200th post than a movie review? Only one of the best movies ever!<br />
<br />
Boyfriend and I were sitting around on Saturday night with our 735 channels of cable TV and chose to watch the SyFy original movie <em>Mega Python vs. Gatoroid.</em> I am not even shitting you. And don't judge us. I know you have your stupid guilty pleasure TV shows so you are in no position to throw your self-righteous stones.<br />
<br />
First of all there is not much "versus" going on as mostly the giant alligators and pythons are pretty much eating people more than they are each other. Which definitely makes a better movie, but I'm just saying the title should be <em>Mega Pythons And Gatoroids vs. Small And Wimpy People.</em><br />
<br />
Of course the cast is phenomenal. Remember Tiffany? Remember Debbie Gibson?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5013/5399603217_9f70f7d65b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" s5="true" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5013/5399603217_9f70f7d65b.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Oh yeah, they were hot in the '80s, or so I've heard. I wasn't into the little girl music, but that's another story. These young ladies aren't young anymore. And before you get all over me for trashing women who age I just want to say they're they're old has-beens doing a B movie. The formula for success is adding up nicely for <em>Mega Python vs. Gatoroid. </em><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5138/5399603225_dd74b02917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" s5="true" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5138/5399603225_dd74b02917.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
The girls were wearing these exact outfits in the movie throughout all of their struggles with the mutant amphibians. Boyfriend was just waiting for a costume malfunction but not once did Debbie's dress slip off nor did Tiff's boobs fall out. However, he was blessed with a cat fight between the two.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="youtube-player" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/jg6x_C7Ii_U" title="YouTube video player" type="text/html" width="640"></iframe><br />
<br />
There was also a special guest cameo by Mickey Dolenz of The Monkees. He was hired to play at the soiree at which the girls had their cat fight, but the second before he was going to sing he was swallowed up by a giant snake.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5171/5400205122_884b90cdb6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" s5="true" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5171/5400205122_884b90cdb6.jpg" width="328" /></a></div><br />
I highly recommend seeing this movie if you'd like to see the oldsters fighting off big scaly things with stuff like sticks and floating rifles. I'd also go out on a limb and say the special effects of this movie are about the worst I've ever seen. Best part about it? The heroines can't survive with their skinny legs and undulating boobs. Yep, they too become vittles for the snakes and gators. <br />
<br />
Now that I've totally spoiled the movie for you, go watch it. Because seriously? You totally need to laugh this hard. Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-17384219150614201232010-08-29T22:40:00.001-05:002010-08-30T06:56:26.873-05:00A Letter To An Aspiring WriterDear Aspiring Writer (you know who you are),<br />
<br />
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):<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4073/4936640966_f32d2b06b6_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" ox="true" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4073/4936640966_f32d2b06b6_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Crime Scene At Cardwell Ranch. It's a Harlequin Romance. And guess what? I read it. <em>*hangs head in shame* </em> In, like, ten minutes. And I'm telling you right now you need to get going on that novel. You so can do it. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Yours in literary excellence (wishful dreaming at least),<br />
<br />
MeredithMeredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-15470410562374699102010-07-23T12:29:00.000-05:002010-07-23T12:29:51.243-05:00Can't Get It Out Of My HeadAll 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.<br />
<br />
<em>I know a little pussy</em><br />
<em>Her coat is silver grey</em><br />
<em>She lives down in the meadow</em><br />
<em>Not very far away</em><br />
<em>She'll always be a pussy</em><br />
<em>She'll never be a cat</em><br />
<em>Well she's a pussywillow</em><br />
<em>So what do you think of that</em><br />
<em>Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow</em><br />
<em>SCAT!</em><br />
<br />
I feel like a lesbian pervert. Help me, please.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-17997268256267708212010-07-09T10:12:00.000-05:002010-07-09T10:12:49.496-05:00Girls, Take NoticeOK, 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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/q0ohT89flgc&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/q0ohT89flgc&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-26020859460115308832010-07-01T15:26:00.000-05:002010-07-01T15:26:03.492-05:00I Better Use Blunt Scissors For The Paper Chain Cuz I'm Feeling Pretty StabbityWell 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 <em>fast</em> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
If I didn't have to go to work for someone else for forty hours a week I would...<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
3. win a prize for inventing a technique aimed at the permanent elimination of the dust bunny population in my house.<br />
<br />
4. cook dinner for my darling Boyfriend every night of the week.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
6. beat computer Solitaire more than 4% of the time like I do now.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
8. laugh in the faces of those who pity me for being unemployed and say to them "you <em>wish</em> you could sit around eating bon-bons and watching I Dream Of Jeannie reruns while simultaneously knowing there are <em>no</em> dust bunnies within a city block's radius of you."<br />
<br />
9. become the next hottest thing in social media<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-23742602685499210042010-06-28T14:31:00.000-05:002010-06-28T14:31:28.292-05:00Despair<div align="center">Life just stinks too much since that one good weekend.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">It makes me want to never have good times again for fear of realizing </div><div align="center">how utterly senseless my regular times are.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">You can't be yourself when you're officious...</div><div align="center">That's the curse of a government job.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Maude said that.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I wish I could sleep for a week.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Then clean the house for a week.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Then cook all of my favorite food for a week.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Then watch movies for a week.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Then read an entire book in a matter of days rather than months.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I wish I could sit and do nothing</div><div align="center">without thinking I should be doing something</div><div align="center">because I have no time to do everything </div><div align="center">I need to do</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">And plus, why can't everyone just be normal?</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">My standards of normal aren't that stringent.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Beam me up Scotty</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">There's no sign of intelligent life here.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-83192890959621618442010-05-28T11:57:00.001-05:002010-05-28T11:57:00.272-05:00Mixing The Literal With The Figurative<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Has anyone ever told you you have <em>dancing eyes?</em> This is going just a little bit too far.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l2pujaL4mb1qzhn4uo1_r1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="400" src="http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l2pujaL4mb1qzhn4uo1_r1_500.jpg" width="317" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-53871274739838540262010-05-27T11:42:00.005-05:002010-05-27T11:54:59.369-05:00A Touching MomentOK, 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.<br />
<br />
<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zyPfjEyPxOs&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zyPfjEyPxOs&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-18598755369052109252010-05-04T14:24:00.000-05:002010-05-04T14:24:26.888-05:00What 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 <strike>devoted</strike> 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 <em><strong>years</strong></em>? 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.<br />
<br />
(Pardon the lack of pictures in this post. It totally isn't my fault.)Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-11987064621676000662010-05-03T11:52:00.000-05:002010-05-03T11:52:18.912-05:00OK, IckI'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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mmBw3uzPnJI/S9rSf6hO6JI/AAAAAAABNso/KmKrrkNZIOU/s1600/mugshot_tattoo_fails_32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mmBw3uzPnJI/S9rSf6hO6JI/AAAAAAABNso/KmKrrkNZIOU/s400/mugshot_tattoo_fails_32.jpg" tt="true" width="313" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mmBw3uzPnJI/S9rTHAJo-aI/AAAAAAABNvY/FnA-FUSjVEc/s1600/mugshot_tattoo_fails_10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mmBw3uzPnJI/S9rTHAJo-aI/AAAAAAABNvY/FnA-FUSjVEc/s400/mugshot_tattoo_fails_10.jpg" tt="true" width="300" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mmBw3uzPnJI/S9rSn8s7_ZI/AAAAAAABNtQ/u7GjExOIB0Q/s1600/mugshot_tattoo_fails_27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mmBw3uzPnJI/S9rSn8s7_ZI/AAAAAAABNtQ/u7GjExOIB0Q/s320/mugshot_tattoo_fails_27.jpg" tt="true" width="298" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mmBw3uzPnJI/S9rSoenU-iI/AAAAAAABNtg/Yy6QgXYCP4I/s1600/mugshot_tattoo_fails_25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mmBw3uzPnJI/S9rSoenU-iI/AAAAAAABNtg/Yy6QgXYCP4I/s400/mugshot_tattoo_fails_25.jpg" tt="true" width="302" /></a></div><br />
For more pictures of the shining (and currently breeding) members of society, check out <a href="http://damncoolpics.blogspot.com/2010/04/60-best-mugshot-tattoo-fails.html">this site</a>. And God help us all.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-56479182626008127712010-04-28T15:02:00.001-05:002010-04-28T16:30:05.336-05:00New TV ShowBoyfriend 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<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S9iTXmV3f9I/AAAAAAAAAfU/DnncRkAR9G8/s1600/bergeron.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S9iTXmV3f9I/AAAAAAAAAfU/DnncRkAR9G8/s400/bergeron.jpg" tt="true" width="280" /></a></div><br />
and Mike Rowe<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S9iTgYGE4VI/AAAAAAAAAfc/4KqaddFIBE0/s1600/mike-rowe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S9iTgYGE4VI/AAAAAAAAAfc/4KqaddFIBE0/s640/mike-rowe.jpg" tt="true" width="403" /></a></div><br />
The show? America's Dirtiest Home Videos.<br />
<br />
Huh?! I told you it was genius.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-80270491064194849162010-04-16T17:36:00.001-05:002010-04-16T17:37:25.116-05:00You Can't Impress Me<span style="font-size: large;">What you want me to see...</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S8jl4lfEwuI/AAAAAAAAAfE/gNLuGa0_e0w/s1600/Bicycle+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S8jl4lfEwuI/AAAAAAAAAfE/gNLuGa0_e0w/s400/Bicycle+1.jpg" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">What I actually see...</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S8jmGLzErrI/AAAAAAAAAfM/6Q9XBLUT81A/s1600/Bicycle+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S8jmGLzErrI/AAAAAAAAAfM/6Q9XBLUT81A/s400/Bicycle+2.jpg" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-64691926418138363402010-04-11T20:01:00.000-05:002010-04-11T20:01:44.459-05:00Gadgets You Can't Live WithoutHi 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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
<object height="505" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/IjTQ4NiuFA0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/IjTQ4NiuFA0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object><br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
<object height="505" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/chEPougF_nQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/chEPougF_nQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-36049861526424919022010-04-01T12:22:00.000-05:002010-04-01T12:22:58.822-05:00It's Eastertime!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S7TU9Q5B1dI/AAAAAAAAAe8/UfF3b6duk6o/s1600/colored-only.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" nt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S7TU9Q5B1dI/AAAAAAAAAe8/UfF3b6duk6o/s400/colored-only.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Photo and creative artwork compliments of Terry, the genius behind <a href="http://bentobjects.blogspot.com/">Bent Objects</a> (some work available <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/bentobjects">here</a>)</div>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-64365606392044808592010-03-21T17:23:00.000-05:002010-03-21T17:23:56.075-05:00Sunday's Fun DayDid 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/XHsQpTbQ9Uo&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/XHsQpTbQ9Uo&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <strike>really rich</strike> 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! <br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/aMzbRkWGLv0&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/aMzbRkWGLv0&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2lAbklplIeg&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2lAbklplIeg&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
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! <br />
<br />
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.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-37363509425134530702010-03-20T22:21:00.000-05:002010-03-20T22:21:28.980-05:00Two Neils And A SkipI'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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">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.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S6WKLkyhfYI/AAAAAAAAAes/GP3PFp9g5Ko/s1600-h/NEIL_YOUNG_wideweb__470x3312.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S6WKLkyhfYI/AAAAAAAAAes/GP3PFp9g5Ko/s320/NEIL_YOUNG_wideweb__470x3312.jpg" vt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">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?!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S6WMyyo8j9I/AAAAAAAAAe0/Xz6Pkz4tT8Q/s1600-h/Geezer_snap_bigger.png" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: left; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S6WMyyo8j9I/AAAAAAAAAe0/Xz6Pkz4tT8Q/s320/Geezer_snap_bigger.png" vt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">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. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">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.</div>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-38423858041531244382010-03-19T09:52:00.000-05:002010-03-19T09:52:07.453-05:00What'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. <br />
<br />
<em>Green green it's green they say </em><br />
<em>On the far side of the hill</em><br />
<em>Green green I'm goin' away </em><br />
<em>To where the grass is greener still</em><br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johnny_Mann">The Johnny Mann Singers.</a> 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 href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0310281/">A Mighty Wind.</a> 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. <br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/W0hyExZ9Dfo&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/W0hyExZ9Dfo&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
More nostalgia to come. What were your favorite board games as a kid?Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-63080665597698452432010-03-17T19:59:00.001-05:002010-03-18T06:39:20.483-05:00A Sincere Apology, Sort ofAll 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 <a href="http://whodoithinkiam.blogspot.com/2010/03/irreverence.html">talking about a dead lady's cooter.</a> So now I must apologize.<br />
<br />
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 <em>I'm sorry.</em><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <em>Faux Ma's cooter</em>. 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. <br />
<br />
I will not embrace the cooter.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25543416.post-64922536451775219392010-03-15T21:33:00.001-05:002010-03-15T21:35:52.652-05:00IrreverenceAll 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. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S57npUtk2-I/AAAAAAAAAek/ZxHWjuNbono/s1600-h/artscene05c_396.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S57npUtk2-I/AAAAAAAAAek/ZxHWjuNbono/s400/artscene05c_396.jpg" vt="true" width="277" /></a></div><br />
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 <strike>running</strike> 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." <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S57naM1sM8I/AAAAAAAAAec/A-PvNep7Xa0/s1600-h/hillbilly3-g-color.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S57naM1sM8I/AAAAAAAAAec/A-PvNep7Xa0/s320/hillbilly3-g-color.png" vt="true" /></a></div><br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S57nHHiS9tI/AAAAAAAAAeU/WMEI_3OmcLA/s1600-h/il_430xN_124040833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_megPJjU5vWw/S57nHHiS9tI/AAAAAAAAAeU/WMEI_3OmcLA/s200/il_430xN_124040833.jpg" vt="true" width="148" /></a></div><div align="center"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=37067473">Au Naturale Lips by artbywinona</a></div>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117990220689248664noreply@blogger.com1