tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41872527270990977252023-07-17T22:09:51.231-07:00aprettyfunnyblissName: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-56833408012535672422009-11-18T23:15:00.003-08:002012-10-24T13:42:53.865-07:00High FlyI sat at the kitchen table tonight, with son. We both looked at the pancake mix on the counter that should have long ago been put away - by whoever had used it, I might add. He was insightful enough to catch my vibe ~~~ and lobbed it, from a sitting position, straight into the pantry cupboard (that yes, was left unattractively open all day.)<br />
<br />
My point, you ask? In a boy home like this?<br />
<br />
<br />
Everything Must Be Thrown In Our House.<br />
<br />
It is not <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> rule -- I assure you. Still it has sunk in like a molasses I can't dissolve.<br />
Around here "please pass the---- (. . . <span style="font-style: italic;">whatever it is</span>)" <span style="font-weight: bold;">really</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">means</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">please</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">pass</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">the</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>-- whatever it is!<br />
<br />
<br />
If God had wanted me to catch, He would have sent me here as a baseball mitt. I've had a heck of a time learning how to catch keys, the salt & pepper, presents, laundry, milk jugs, remotes, and scissors successfully. And yes, I use the term 'successfully' <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> loosely.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Not many people know I was the star player of kickball in my elementary school days. Well, the star <span style="font-style: italic;">girl </span>player anyway, after all the boys were picked for sides.<br />
Still - I could kick, yell, and run like nobody's business <span style="font-style: italic;">( . . all talents that would come in handy in my future career as mother and wife</span>).<br />
But also -- back then -- I could <span style="font-weight: bold;">catch</span>!<br />
<br />
Something happened in those years of giving birth. My shoe size grew with each pregnancy (not so pleasant), and my <span style="font-style: italic;">catching</span> reflexes morphed into slow motion, before disintegrating entirely.<br />
I've got hearing like Superwoman - (should you decide to complain or moan at me from two bedrooms, one hallway, and a bathroom away - beware) ~~~ but catching? That's gone to pot.<br />
<br />
<br />
But men throw, toss, or chuck <span style="font-style: italic;">all the time</span>.<br />
<br />
I'm unable to catch <span style="font-style: italic;">any</span>thing anymore.<br />
I can't tell you how many times I've been hit in the face with pencils, a ketchup bottle, and gardening tools. I have literally become a spectacle, as my loved ones (<span style="font-style: italic;">male family, that is</span>) laugh, gawk, and guffaw til their eyes water.<br />
<br />
Great. I've got the kind of sensitive men who don't cry at movies or weddings -- but when mom tries to catch.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter to them if I have my palm open for the hand-off -- it automatically looks like an invitation to throw something at me.<br />
It's also not a blast being constantly inferior when I'm just trying to blend-in.<br />
<br />
Case in point. Sitting car to car at Sonic, I tried to toss Hubby a jalapeno-popper through the window from two feet away and beaned his car door so hard it left a dent.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I still know how to throw-up or throw a fit. But so do toddlers . . . so that doesn't exactly make me feel like a genius.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">So I can't catch?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Do I care? No!</span><br />
<br />
I'm just going to have to concentrate on what I know. I can pick things up with my feet and put mascara on while I drive.<br />
If that doesn't make you want to pick me for your team . .<br />
. . . well it's your loss.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-size: auto auto; background-attachment: scroll; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-19564828470153542742009-10-12T22:35:00.000-07:002012-10-23T21:49:46.052-07:00Every Day's Halloween<b>October</b>, and it's very <b>scary</b> around here.<br />
<br />
I got a good look at how many <b>cobwebs</b> are everywhere in the house. It's all coming back to me that I don't think I've dusted since 2004. And the 'sponged' paint job in the upstairs hall--that I thought was to <b>die </b>for seven years ago--really <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">is</span> to <b>die</b> for in 2009. I must repaint before the end of this year. Something soothing, happy, spa-like, and California cool.<br />
<br />
Yesterday on the Sabbath, I looked truly <b>ghoulish</b>. But it would have been better if I'd meant to look that way. Or if I'd discovered it before leaving the house for church.<br />
<br />
unclasped, half zippered skirt.<br />
paint in hair<br />
lipstick on teeth<br />
deodorant on blouse<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm happy nobody <b>screamed</b> when they saw me coming down the hall. --Pretty sure I should'a been given a heads-up by a loved one, on my appearance.<br />
Let the masses know, --that when a person has spinach in their teeth or toilet paper on their heel . . you <i>should tell them</i>. The same goes for dresses unlatched and zippers down, k? If I'm missing a shoe, have my shirt on inside-out, or gum on my lapel, --please, be kind enough to take me aside and enlighten. Is that too much to ask?<br />
<br />
(<span style="font-style: italic;">I hear Hubby snicker as I write these instructions, because for him corrections to my person are a no-win</span>.)<br />
(<span style="font-style: italic;">Point taken. So I suppose the men should all stay out of this. Unless there's roast beef or nooky involved, you're not really paying that much attention anyhow, right?)</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><b>Scary</b><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>that all my blogs have some sad, pathetic, or embarrassing story to tell, and every other American homemaker's blog belongs in <span style="font-style: italic;">Country Living</span> magazine for it's adorableness, or on <span style="font-style: italic;">Good Morning America</span> for it's flawless family'ness. Perfect blogs make coveting <b>shivers</b> run up and down my spine.<br />
<br />
Doggy fur is <span style="font-style: italic;">every</span>where. She is brushed and brushed and still she sheds. Part <b>Werewolf</b>, do you suppose? The air has become so thick with pet fuzz, I don't know whether to rake autumn leaves, or my family room couch.<br />
<br />
I'm old. I'm an old, old fart. And like a <b>witch</b>.<br />
Something was plucked, from some where on my body, at some length, that I can't even share with you -- or you would have <b>nightmares</b> through to <span style="font-style: italic;">next</span> <b>October</b>.<br />
<br />
I'm taking a Modern Art course. I recognize my butt looks like a Picasso.<b> Trick</b>? Or <b>Treat</b>?<br />
Neither.<br />
<br />
<b>Wicked</b>. My tub is <b>wicked</b>. If I don't clean it tomorrow - I will ship it to LAPD Forensics for lab-work studies. A gift from me to them. You know, like how people donate cadavers for greater learning? For all their skill, I will still have to attach a little note that reads, "<i>Yes, this is a tub</i>."<br />
<br />
The best I can hope for is that maybe by Christmas, at least some of the <b>scare</b> here will be covered by pine needles, candle wax, or goodwill. Because what I'll do to a kitchen at Thanksgiving, will be nothing short of <b>horrifying</b>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-19866968421727340512009-09-28T19:54:00.000-07:002010-08-30T18:40:57.025-07:00Dirty LaundryAhh, if only for the days of yesteryear . . . when it didn't matter if you were clean or not, if your clothes hadn't been washed since winter, or if the berry picking and fox hunt of spring still lingered on your pantaloons.<br /><br />Remember how Buttonman . . or <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">any</span> Buttonman, was supposed to fix my washing machine? Well it's still not fixed . . . and we've been waiting for parts for close to three weeks now. Oh how, oh, I wish they'd never invented clothes (--well, except for a good muumuu).<br /><br /><br />Something learned on this dirty adventure is that I seem to have become an Elitist, --because I'd rather wear something wrong sized, wrong seasoned, or just plain soiled, than go to use a public laundromat. I'm sorry you have to read of such snobbery, but it's true.<br /><br />Have you<span style="font-style: italic;"> seen </span>the inside of a laundromat lately ?? Well I haven't either . . but I'm sure every Tom, Dick, and Harriot hillbilly is washing tennis shoes, fishing vests, and wrestling leotards in those machines -- not to <span style="font-style: italic;">mention</span> cloth diapers! (thanks, Obama.)<br /><br />And we (I) have sunk to new depths around the homestead, just to <span style="font-style: italic;">keep </span>me from having to go to one such place.<br />Where the boys have thought me a fairly whippet clean freak . . they now hear things like '<span style="font-style: italic;">if it ain't standing on it's own --wear it again!!</span>' and '<span style="font-style: italic;">clean hands warm heart, dirty shirt looks smart</span>', and '<span style="font-style: italic;">yeah, well, no one ever said it'd be</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">easy . . --you just assumed it'd be washed</span>.'<br /><br /><br />Trying to stay above the influx of fouled apparel, I have traveled hither and yon borrowing any machine besides a public one. I'm like that annoying bachelor who rotates around his friends' apartment couches instead of getting one of his own.<br /><br />Other people's washing machines are my heroin.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Worse yet, I think I may have accidentally left my backup-granny-panties in some dear friend's machine . . but I can't remember <span style="font-style: italic;">who's</span>! So it's been like tracking down a crime (<span style="font-style: italic;">--cause those granny's really are a crime . . .</span> )<br />And if my friend's hubbytype I sit next to in Sunday School finds them first, I will never be able to live with myself, or speak of the gospel in front of him again. <span style="font-style: italic;">How can I read scripture out loud when I know my super knickers are hanging in his laundry room ??</span> Somehow I must get his wife to explain they're a fancy shower cap . . and leave it at that.<br /><br /><br /><br />Last week I had my teen bring and do two loads at his buddies house while he hung out. (Of course I asked the mom first . . )<br />Later Teen'son told me . . and get this . . .<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">' . . I don't want to do laundry <span style="font-weight: bold;">all the time</span>!</span>' (two loads)<br /><br /><br />. . . Well, I guess you won't want to grow up to become your <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">wife then</span>, --because</span> . . . <span style="font-weight: bold;">HELLO!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Today I at long last concluded being a washing machine elitist wasn't so easy on gas and friendships, --and I finally hit the public domain.<br />Once I got my clothes past the clientele's cigarette smoke it was rather smooth going. The machines were tiny and only offered twenty-eight minute cycles (<span style="font-style: italic;">is that enough to clean</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">'smells-like-teen-spirit' ?</span>) . . but in no time it was over and I was home, -having successfully made a small 3-load dent in my 50-load-mother-of-a-habit.<br /><br /><br /><br />I can feel it in my psyche --my machine's parts are going to come tomorrow.<br /><br />And yeah, so what. It's official. --I enjoy homemaking best with all the in-home modern day conveniences.<br />You can sue me.<br />Just don't make me do dishes at the dish-o-mat.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="border: 0pt none ! important; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-repeat: repeat; background-attachment: scroll; background-position: 0% 0%; -moz-background-size: auto auto; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-264876772929023582009-09-10T17:28:00.001-07:002012-10-23T22:12:21.671-07:00Button EnvyBy now you can tell Hubby's and my relationship is a little different than most. But in one aspect I suspect it is similar to most every other male-female relationship in the world. That is, --the button is his first love. I sometimes think my male even loves buttons more than he loves me.<br />
<br />
Of course I don't mean the sew-on kind, --but the round pushable things that often accompany electronics, power, or heavy equipment.<br />
. . . in fact, I've actually heard him mumble in his sleep --not "<span style="font-style: italic;">Bliss, Oh Bliss</span>" . . but "<span style="font-style: italic;">button . . button, who has my button?</span> . . ."<br />
<br />
<br />
On a recent car ride with the Hubs, I attempted to poke at the temperature controls protruding from my side of the dash--otherwise known as His territory. I was quickly chastised as Hubby decreed all knobs impeccably positioned, and our environment unalterably the "<span style="font-style: italic;">perfect temperature</span>."<br />
And then he uttered the words I will forever mock him for "<span style="font-style: italic;">you will never win an argument about temperature with <span style="font-weight: bold;">me</span>, so don't even try!</span>"<br />
<br />
<br />
First of all, that's just plain funny.<br />
You have to admit, --you can <span style="font-weight: bold;">so</span> hear random hubby's of all-walks, throwing out a sentence like that.<br />
It's like, <span style="font-style: italic;">okay dude, okay. You be in charge of '</span>temperatures<span style="font-style: italic;">'. That'll be yooouuur little baby.</span><br />
<br />
Second of all . . .<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Really?</span><br />
<br />
What about when it comes to sticking thermometers into baby's butts . . or . . say . . at what temperature the hard-ball-stage in candy making is determined? Or maybe, I dare say, at what future menopausal temperatural-state my hot flashes will deem I smack to smithereens anyone who offends me over how cold, or warm I am?<br />
Will I ever become adept at <span style="font-style: italic;">those</span> such things??<br />
<br />
<br />
And, um, kind sir, -- even now, I may just know the teensiest bit more about what air temps I like blowing on my face and legs, than someone, say . . who is <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> in my skin</span>!<br />
That's like suggesting I will never win an argument about what flavor ice cream I like best. <br />
<br />
<br />
So, buttons (and obviously, temperatures), are <span style="font-weight: bold;">big</span> in my home, let me tell you. It's like world powers go straight from heaven, to buttons -- and All Rule Who Rule The Button.<br />
<br />
(It's a little known fact, by the way, that the caveman made the wheel because it greatly resembled a large pushable button. The whole 'able to travel' or 'introduction of the cart and wagon' --- was just a lucky by-product.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I have a hard enough time just getting to <span style="font-style: italic;">touch</span> a button past all the testosterone flailing around here. ~~But <span style="font-weight: bold;">forget</span> if I even go so far as to <span style="font-style: italic;">verbalize</span> a button question out loud! I mean those controls are swiped so fast from my hands, the breeze tugs at my jowls.<br />
<br />
I need only ask for the slightest usage explanation on something like keyboards, ipods, automatic openers, media, cameras, or remotes, --and they are ripped from my grasp. How it is I am to learn anything about pushing buttons, I don't know, when every explanation involves secret codes being entered above my eyesight, and at lightening speeds the likes of which only NASA engineers can interpret.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
On the upside, our washing machine control board is broken . . and at this very moment one of the household button Masters (<span style="font-style: italic;">the cute one, that I sleep with</span>), has it taken apart and cleared for re-booting. I gotta admit, not having to call in an Outside-Button-Pusher for a thing like this is nice. --Plus it wouldn't likely go well anyways . . --like inviting a cock-fight of the button-know-it-alls right into my own laundry room.<br />
<br />
<br />
Anywhooooo.<br />
I'm a simple woman.<br />
If I can still be in charge of colors and feelings, I won't rock the button boat.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-size: auto auto; background-attachment: scroll; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-9490669701867475962009-08-22T22:17:00.000-07:002012-10-29T13:38:45.683-07:00The HelpThe Help is getting <span style="font-style: italic;">ree</span>aally weak, let me tell you.<br />
<br />
It's not the world my grandparents grew up in, that's for sure. I feel like they had nothing but Jimmy Stewarts' helping them buy suits, Donna Reeds' at the makeup counter, and Gomer Pyles' filling their cars with gas.<br />
<br />
I just came home from a trip (<span style="font-style: italic;">twenty miles,</span> that is) to Old Navy, only to find a hearty plastic security tag still screwed tightly to my son's jeans. Why it didn't beep when we left the store, I don't know. But the bigger question is why the little girl ringing us up didn't remove it! To my understanding, she has two jobs. One, 'remove security tags' and Two, 'take our money.' (Lord knows saying thank you, smiling, or being helpful --- have long since been dropped from the common employees to-do list.)<br />
Yes - I usually recheck my purchases for mischarges or stuck tags, because this ain't my first time at the rodeo. But gimme a break.<br />
<br />
<br />
At the slight chance this may have truly only been a simple case of retail-clerk human error, please allow me to be unforgiving for at least the length of this blog. I've done my time being patient in malls and stores. <span style="font-style: italic;">Believe</span> me. And fyi -- I am under <span style="font-weight: bold;">strict</span> orders not to get sassy to deserving store employees while my children are still standing next to me. I am supposed to give them some hand-signal-of-evacuation that affords them the opportunity to run like a Marine when I feel the urge to start any necessary <span style="font-style: italic;">'talks'</span> with The Help.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
At home I fantasize how when I call Old Navy (as my teen cries '<span style="font-style: italic;">It's fine! It'</span>s <span style="font-style: italic;">fine! It doesn't matter!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Don't call!</span>' from behind me) ( . .<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>right . . I can't even look at you cross-eyed -- <span style="font-style: italic;">you're</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">going to wear a 3-inch metal dinghy stuck to your hip all school year?</span>) ---they will surely apologize, or share a way for me to remove the device by myself, or offer some sort of discount if I drive all the way back. I know Old Navy school must have taught The Help that much about customer service, during their half day of sorta-corporate training? ~~Or, maybe they really do only teach them how to hold a twenty to the light.<br />
<br />
<br />
Soooo -- yup.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'Just bring it here and we'll take it off,' </span>I hear during my phone call to them.<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">Um, I figured as much. My problem, you see, is the opportune time to have taken it off would have been when I was at your store. It's a real pain to drive all the way back now-from half an hour away.</span> '<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br />'What do you want me to say?</span>'<br />
<br />
<br />
(--I am now envisioning passionate plans to headbutt Brittany when I get there. --Straightaway look for Britt, and headbutt her--)<br />
<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">Well, for instances, I was hoping you could tell me of something I might do at home to clip it off.</span>'<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">No'</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'Is there anything</span> else<span style="font-style: italic;"> we can do about this?--'</span><br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">Uh, I'm busy with a customer right now' </span>(I guess I am a has-been customer?)<span style="font-style: italic;"> . . can you hold--</span>' (attitude, attitude)<br />
<br />
<br />
No! I don't want to hold! And so, in her monumental effort to make me either be quiet, or hang-up, Brittany succeeds---<br />
<br />
There was no '<span style="font-style: italic;">I'm sorry</span>' or '<span style="font-style: italic;">I understand</span>' or '<span style="font-style: italic;">What can we do to make this right, as your business</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">and happiness mean</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> every</span><span style="font-style: italic;">thing to us</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> here at</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">your semi-local</span> Old Navy.'<br />
<br />
<br />
Now I fully realize real Christians don't let this kind of stuff get under their skin. They're all patient, and whatnot. But there are certain things about society that are really starting to get on my religious, and non-religious nerves.<br />
Things like this . . and I would have to be like Super Dooper Born-Again to not act at least a <span style="font-style: italic;">little</span> non Born-Again about it. It's not the accidentally left on device (if indeed, it was accidental and not just lazy) that gets me most, --but the whole 'who-cares' that goes with it, and woeful work ethic.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So why is it, you ask, --did I even bother with the phone call and not just clip it off myself?<br />
<br />
First because, like I said, I fantasized that the call might have been of some help, somehow . . . but even more, --do you remember the buzz about these little babies being full of ink? Am I the only one that thinks that anymore?<br />
All I had needed was for Navy Brittany to confirm it was no biggy to clip it off -- but she wouldn't fess up.<br />
So I'm upset nuts-with-the-world, . . and meanwhile Hubby has slipped out back with son's new jeans, son's friends, and is about to go MythBusters on said-security-tag. <br />
All fine and dandy til someone loses an eye, --or worse yet is sprayed with pink-bankrobber-dye, for their first day of school.<br />
<br />
I bellow - and the mob at least consent to holding a sandwich baggy around the device before the clipping commences.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sure enough in no time all jeans are freed, the men feel like studs, --and I'm not traipsing back to Old Navy --which <span style="font-weight: bold;">was</span> of course my original goal. But now, frankly, I am feeling more than a little peeved over the spoiled Brittany-Headbutting plans.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
More Bliss complaining:<br />
<br />
At the Cloth World counter yesterday, two young adults came up to where I was making a return. I assumed they were there to get thread for the grunge holes in their shirts, or some craft tool to retrieve the rings from their noses, but no, --they were job searching.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">"Can I get an application?</span>" asks the boy to the clerk. She hands him one and then, <span style="font-style: italic;">"oh, I guess,</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">me too</span>," adds the girl who's with him . . . like it's a total afterthought. Then the boy asks the clerk, "<span style="font-style: italic;">and do you have a pen or pencil I could use?</span>"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I mean, how can I not be excited, right? The <span style="font-weight: bold;">future</span> Help right before my eyes! From what I can tell--and I don't want to judge--but I <span style="font-style: italic;">think</span> they'll do wonderfully. Really on their game. Go that extra mile for a customer. Say 'thank you' when you've spent bucks. And dig deep for hidden or not-so-hidden security devices.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
My shopping life blows.<br />
Either that, or what can I say? I'm old, and I'm cranky.<br />
You do the math.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-size: auto auto; background-attachment: scroll; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-71144693978744012602009-08-07T00:09:00.000-07:002012-10-23T22:16:52.904-07:00Quality TimeYou can learn a lot from an episode of <span style="font-style: italic;">Cops</span>. Had I only known, I wouldn't have avoided it all this time. Just yesterday the boys and I got to catch a show after crashing together in the family room.<br />
<br />
And for once, I had the remote. After finally, <span style="font-style: italic;">finally</span>, getting a healthy lesson on TV remote control usage (<span style="font-style: italic;">hey - the men were</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">leaving for Scout camp</span> . . <span style="font-style: italic;">I <span style="font-weight: bold;">had</span> to give in or it could have been a long week of something awful, like no HGTV</span><span style="font-style: italic;">!</span>) --I finally know my way a bit more around the television.<br />
<br />
Well needless to say, I am all fingers now. If I'm not mistaken, --I even recorded something using the cable dvr, while they were gone at camp.<br />
And I <span style="font-style: italic;">meant</span> to do that!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anywhooo, the poor bad guys, of Tacoma, Washington. I mean, that place is <span style="font-style: italic;">crawlin</span>' with cops . . from what I could see. And surprisingly I found it not as hard as you'd think to find comparisons in those reality scenes, to one's own life.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Example.<br />
<br />
First thing we see is four cops runnin' their you-know-what's off, to catch some Superbad. I mean there was panting, sweating, and bumbling like you wouldn't believe. I thought to myself, '<span style="font-style: italic;">Man! That bad guy must be able to <span style="font-weight: bold;">run</span>!</span>"<br />
<br />
Turns out, all of the cop'rs suddenly turn a corner and bam! There he is, the bad guy, --sleeping under a blanket, by a chainlink fence, the whole time!<br />
<br />
Uh?<br />
<br />
Yeah, --everyone's going full steam, like crazy, and all they needed is to pull this dude out of bed! Well, the cops start yelling at him, banging at him, pullin' the blanket off, threatening taser action . . their dog is yelping and barking and yelping, --pulling at the dude's ankle with his teeth . . and I turn to my 18 year old and remark, "<span style="font-style: italic;">hey, --that's just like when we're trying to get you out of bed at eleven o'clock in the morning!</span>"<br />
<br />
For some reason, he totally didn't get it, I guess, --and takes off in a huff. Why?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Next scene, some criminal is dashing from his car, and making a break for it to the nearest concrete runoff tunnel, by the freeway. Well, I can certainly see why he is in such a dang hurry . . because his pants are about to completely fall off! And then, in no time at all, he can't even move, 'cause those jeans were <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> low on his hip - his belt was screamin' for mercy. Next thing you know, bam! The pants are at his ankle, and he isn't going <span style="font-style: italic;">any</span>where. How humiliating!<br />
"<span style="font-style: italic;">Wow</span>!" I motion to another son, "<span style="font-style: italic;">that goes to show what a </span>pickle<span style="font-style: italic;"> you'd be in should your legs ever have to actually travel at any real speed, wearing what you wear</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;"> ---And there'll </span>certainly<span style="font-style: italic;"> be no escaping the police with your pants like that!"</span><br />
<br />
He leaves the room too. Another one bites the dust? What for? This show is just getting good.<br />
<br />
<br />
Next we see three cops banging and banging on someones door. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Open up . . Open up!</span>" they yell. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Is anyone there? Is anyone home?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"> Answer the door!</span>"<br />
Well of course, we, the audience, <span style="font-weight: bold;">know</span> someone has <span style="font-style: italic;">gotta</span> be in there . . but they are <span style="font-weight: bold;">not</span> responding in a timely manner, <span style="font-style: italic;">at all!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">What's their problem?</span> --you have to ask yourself. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Don't they know they are only going to get in more trouble??</span> Then, <span style="font-style: italic;">just</span> as you think one of those good officers is about to bust the door down, --some nut cracks it open and says, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Huh? What?</span> . . <span style="font-style: italic;">Um, didn't hear you officer . . . Sorry.</span>"<br />
<br />
"<span style="font-style: italic;">Would you look at that?</span>" I say to one dear son left in the room. "<span style="font-style: italic;">That reminds me of</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">when the phone is ringing, or the doorbell is going </span>- <span style="font-style: italic;">and you guys don't lift a finger because, as you say, it's</span> 'probably not even for you.' <span style="font-style: italic;">Look what could happen next time you blow off the phone or the door just because you don't feel like getting up -- You might be going down for the count, man! . . Would you look at that!</span>"<br />
<br />
For some reason my boy shoots me the stink eye, and goes to find something else to do.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Can't a girl have any fun around here??</span><br />
<br />
<br />
Now it's just Hubby and I. I pat his leg and purr, "<span style="font-style: italic;">I wonder what they're going to enlighten us with next, Hon, don't you?</span> . . <span style="font-style: italic;">This is like a </span>party <span style="font-style: italic;">game, or something!</span>" He mumbles about liking me better before I knew how to find all the channels, and leaves to find his compadres.<br />
<br />
<br />
Well then, it only took fifteen minutes of MommyTime for me to clear the room. Doesn't exactly make me feel loved, now does it!<br />
I guess next time I'll just have to keep all my helpful commentary to myself. No Big'ee. But I gotta tell you - I don't know what good <span style="font-style: italic;">that's</span> going to do anyone~~<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-size: auto auto; background-attachment: scroll; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-67884975052440737332009-07-20T22:26:00.001-07:002009-08-16T22:39:55.008-07:00WhippersnappersIt wasn't that long ago we were teens ourselves, the Hubby and I, ---and so believe me when I tell you, we know how to roll.<br /><br /><br />I know, I know . . most parents think they '<span style="font-style: italic;">still got it</span>.'<br />And parents before us, thought they '<span style="font-style: italic;">still had it</span>.'<br /><br />But believe me when I tell you, we '<span style="font-style: italic;">still got it</span>' . . even if we <span style="font-weight: bold;">are </span>the only ones who know it.<br /><br /><br /><br />Our boys didn't write the book on having lame parents (<span style="font-style: italic;">like</span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">that</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> would happen--</span>)<br />--It's been written before. Like a billion quadrillion times. And <span style="font-style: italic;">some</span>times--I might add--by kids who actually <span style="font-style: italic;">read</span>!<br /><br />I mean come on! Who do they think we are? Now that Hubby and I have lived on both sides of the fence. We're <span style="font-style: italic;">experts</span>. We can get inside a kid's head like nobody's business. In fact as the latest generation of parent-types, we should be the Darwin theory-like most adapted and functioning of our time! Double-in-fact, --so adapted are we in our position as head of the pack, we're downright . . <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">freakish</span>!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Do I remember my teen years? Like they were <span style="font-style: italic;">yesterday</span>! And don't forget, --Hubby and I <span style="font-weight: bold;">are</span> from the <span style="font-style: italic;">eighties</span>! (for heaven's sake) --and who knew cool better than the 80's (and a bit of 70's), I ask you?<br /><br /><br />We may not have stuff like <span style="font-style: italic;">Flock of Seagulls</span>, un-airconditioned cars, and Tab soda anymore, but . . .<br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">---</span><span><span style="font-style: italic;">well, maybe aged</span> </span><span>Flock</span><span> <span style="font-style: italic;">still plays at county fairs . . . and Hubby</span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> is</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">driving ala'-unairconditioned because all fix-it money went to the kid's car, and</span> Red Bull's <span style="font-style: italic;">like</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">twenty-six</span> Tabs <span style="font-style: italic;">in-one . . . so sure - s</span>ome <span style="font-style: italic;">similarities within the decades still exists</span>.</span>)<br /><br /><br />All the more to prove we totally understand this younger generation! Right? Ultimately - the Hubs and I generally know what's up, and deserve much more uber-respect.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><span style="font-style: italic;">You can't talk that way to me, child!"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">I saw </span>ELO<span style="font-style: italic;"> laserium at the LA Griffith Observatory! (and not a one of us wore seat belts all the way there!) I watched </span>Three's Company <span style="font-style: italic;">when my parents weren't looking! A girl in my high school English class </span><span>drove a</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span>Pinto</span><span style="font-style: italic;">!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I danced to </span>Jefferson Starship<span style="font-style: italic;"> and</span><span> Spandau Ballet,</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> feathered my hair, and wore the original hip-huggers! Eric Estrada filmed an episode of </span>Chips<span style="font-style: italic;"> down the street from me! We drank </span>Coke<span style="font-style: italic;"> from a </span><span style="font-style: italic;">glass bottle</span><span style="font-style: italic;">! Listened to music on a transistor! We ran out of TV shows at night</span><span style="font-style: italic;">fall, liked polyester, and rode in a station wagon with backward facing seats. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Don't mess with us</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">!</span><br /><br />Keep on Truckin'<br />Have a Nice Day<br />I'm a Pepper<br />Who ya gonna call?<br />Hang Ten<br />I'm what Willis was talkin' about!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Other Side of the Mountain</span> . . . . <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">pal</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Parents before us lived through the depression and fought in the war, yes.<br />--Apples and oranges.<br />Hubby and I experienced all the heck we needed-soup to nuts-to relate <span style="font-style: italic;">perfectly</span> to these little buggers.<br /><br /><br />So why is it then our sons' think we don't know our backside from our front??<br />I've know my backside from my front since before they were a twinkle in their father's eye! <span style="font-style: italic;">And they look nothing alike!</span><br /><br /><br /><br />We're cool. We're hip. We're wise.<br /><br />We're tired. We're poor. We're throwing darts in the dark.<br /><br /><br /><br />Either way ( . . <span style="font-style: italic;">the Manual says . . </span>) something will stick.<br /><br />( . . . that, or somebody's going to lose an eye.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-8657439489484937642009-06-27T23:06:00.001-07:002012-10-23T22:26:26.556-07:00P.S. --t.p.In Target yesterday I passed by the paper towels and tp in full panic, realizing I had left all my coupons for them at home. And they were on sale too!<br />
<br />
I was just sick at passing up a golden paper products purchase opportunity. (<span style="font-style: italic;">'Must-buy-toilet-paper</span> . . . <span style="font-style: italic;">Always!!</span>') ---But just <span style="font-style: italic;">couldn't</span> bring myself to buy, without my dang coupons.<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A friend of mine likes to blog about her family's emergency Preparedness-Palooza activities, wherein they spend quality family time preparing for an emergency.<br />
I know, that sounds like a downer, planning for natural disasters -- but it's not.<br />
<br />
Anywhoooo . . in all her wise talk and pics, I dare say --- I have not noted a rousing supply of toilet paper, in order. Maybe she just hasn't mentioned it, --but still, --it concerns me.<br />
<br />
Believe you me -- one emergency-full of no toilet paper -- and they'd be singing the Preparedness-Palooza blues!<br />
<br />
Imagine, if you will, a citywide disaster . . and you and yours are out of soup.<br />
Fine.<br />
No harm done.<br />
<br />
Now imagine you and yours are out of <span style="font-style: italic;">toilet paper?? </span> Get my drift?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I don't know. That scenario always gets to me. Hence, if there is toilet paper to be bought -- I'm there buying.<br />
(And yes batteries too . . and water jugs, and first aid paraphernalia, and dry milk, and beef jerky. <span style="font-style: italic;">But, please. Let's keep it real, shall we?</span>)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I suppose my mother and I both spell disaster 'w-e A-R-E o-u-t O-F t-0-i-l-e-t P-A-P-E-R', because once when I was growing up, my brother made a tower of toilet paper in our living room out of her supply, that was ceiling high and eight feet in diameter. Yes, he was making fun -- but what does he <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> know, about bathroom <span style="font-style: italic;">pinches</span>, right??!! The imperative word being 'he'.<br />
<br />
For at least 80% of his bathroom sojourns . . he could just as easily use a bush as a toilet. And there isn't a single bush in time of emergency <i>or</i> peace, that wouldn't do the job just fine for him.<br />
<br />
We ladies, on the other hand, <span style="font-style: italic;">like </span>our paper. <span style="font-style: italic;">Need</span> our paper. <span style="font-style: italic;">Want</span> our paper.<br />
And that's all there is to it.<br />
<br />
<br />
A girlfriend ( <span style="font-style: italic;">. . don't worry - you're name shall go unmentioned here</span>) once used her kid's diaper at midnight, while in a tent, on a family campout. (<span style="font-style: italic;">I've got a memory like an elephant.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Don't tell me anything you don't want me to remember . . .</span> ) ~~ And frankly I don't blame her! And who are we to pass judgment??<br />
<br />
<br />
At our house we don't have diapers around anymore, --but it's got me to thinking, emergency preparedness-wise. You know?<br />
I'm just sayin'.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I guess everyone prepares for the future differently. Did you hear recently about the granny in Italy (<span style="font-style: italic;">or</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">France?</span>) who kept like, a million dollars, in her mattress . . . and her daughter took the mattress to the dump?<br />
Tell me my kid would be able to mistakenly toss a mega load of toilet paper. Never! I don't stuff my mattress with it, and it's perfectly labeled. So obviously what I am saying here, is I'm not as dumb as a look.<br />
<br />
Yes, we <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> all know how to climb out our windows, and run to a neighbors during a fire drill. <span style="font-weight: bold;">But</span> - if there isn't any toilet paper waiting for us when we get there - what's it all for???<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Fine then. I'll play the roll (<span style="font-style: italic;">ha-ha. i said 'roll'</span>) of Preparedness Police. I don't care. Heck, consider it a friendly reminder.<br />
And one handy decorator's tip for you? Throw a table cloth over two packages of Giant 24's --- and you have a sweet side table.<br />
(<span style="font-style: italic;">--word to the wise though, --doesn't hold wine glasses and cups of juice reliably . . .</span> )<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-size: auto auto; background-attachment: scroll; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-61743391304928616642009-06-19T00:07:00.001-07:002012-10-23T22:36:53.946-07:00Pride FullYou may or may not know, --but my surgery 'hole' kept leaking for quite awhile. And probably because it remained so moist - it was also having a hard time closing up.<br />
<br />
Kinda gross. Yeah.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, next thing I knew this like, protrusion-type thing, fleshy, nickle-sized, comes poking out, and sits right along my surgical slice line.<br />
Things are getting weirder . . . and there was no way any healing and closing up was going to happen with that baby there.<br />
I go to see Doc.<br />
<br />
<br />
In two seconds he says, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Oh! Yeah, --you have a Proud Flesh. No biggy.</span>" A Proud Flesh?<br />
<br />
And he sets about to slicing it off and digging it out (<span style="font-style: italic;">and no - that did not feel good</span>) (<span style="font-style: italic;">and thank goodness I could not see, because it did not feel pretty either</span>) (<span style="font-style: italic;">and I hate it when someone keeps asking you</span> "are you alright?" <span style="font-style: italic;">when you are not alright) (What? I should say -</span> "Oh yes, fine. I've seen more slicing at a deli-convention" ???) ~~Finished, he tells me the draining will stop soon . . and the site will finally start sealing-up as well. (Yippee!)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
First thing I do when I get home is Google 'proud flesh' -- and guess what?? Every veterinary medicine site in the World Wide Web comes up! I kid you not -- there is not a human in the whole of cyberspace--I guess--that has ever developed a 'proud flesh'. Yup. It's just me and the animals. Me and the swine. Me and the cattle. Me and the stallions.<br />
<br />
How's <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> supposed to make a girl feel, <span style="font-style: italic;">huh</span>???!!!<br />
<br />
Google examples. From <i>Horse Rider</i>, and <i>Amp</i> magazines:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">"Your horse has a wound that just won't heal. What </span><i style="font-style: italic;">proud flesh</i><span style="font-style: italic;"> is and how to prevent it." </span><br />
<br />
"<span style="font-style: italic;">This proud flesh is a disfiguring protrusion from the limb of the horse and is accompanied by inflammation and can significantly lower the abilities and aesthetics, as well as the value of the horse.</span>"<br />
<i></i><br />
" . . 'Proud Flesh<span style="font-style: italic;">' is a German rock band from the early Krautrock era</span>."<br />
<br />
"<span style="font-style: italic;">. . .</span> 'proud flesh'<span style="font-style: italic;"> is a </span><span style="font-style: italic;">disfiguring protrusion from the limb of the horse and </span><b style="font-style: italic;">... </b><span style="font-style: italic;">an unsightly accumulation of granulation tissue resulting from poor wound healing, is commonly removed surgically (which produces additional scarring) or through various caustic solution treatments (which can eat into the skin and surrounding area, also leaving scarring). Typically, the hair that re-grows over the wound looses its pigment and the hair that grows back is white in color.</span>"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Great -- <span style="font-weight: bold;">And now I gotta have a hairy back too?! </span> (ya, alright - <i>ha</i><span style="font-style: italic;">irier than already???</span>)<br />
<b><br /></b><i></i>And of course I don't even get my proud flesh on a limb, like a normal horse would. No. Mine has to grow out of my back. Like a mutant.<br />
<br />
(<span style="font-style: italic;">PS - I threw in the rock band definition just to make me feel better. It was the only one that didn't make me feel like a cow</span>.)<br />
<br />
<br />
Ah geez.<br />
Anyhow. Now this last week, proud flesh free and proud of it, I've got this lump under my skin that won't go away. I saw it before - but I was still swollen. Now I'm way less swollen - but it's still there.<br />
<br />
I ask Hubby after I come out of the shower, "<span style="font-style: italic;">see this lump here?</span>" (What lump? Where? Which one? The poor man is looking at my hiny and just above it . . and let me tell you - that's a lumpy area altogether. What the heck is he going to say that doesn't get him in trouble? I can't see his face, --but I imagine little beads of sweat are breaking out on his forehead.) So I point it out impatiently, "<span style="font-style: italic;">right here! --at the scar</span> . . ."<br />
<br />
And sure enough - I have this crazy like, folded over muscle, or tissue, or who knows what - sitting just under the skin. It's like a two inch area, and I don't like it! It's not right! And clearly not as proud, or brave, or whatever the heck you want to call it as my other thingy was, that came right out and showed itself.<br />
<br />
Now I don't know what Doc is going to do about this new, less-prideful, but still like, in-your-face thingy. But I'm praying he won't just tell me it's fine, or it's nothing because it feels way weird, <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> 'cause it's going to totally blow my bikini line if it stays through the summer.<br />
<br />
Like they always say, --if you have your health (and your bikini line) --you have everything.<br />
<br />
<br />
One thing for sure I can tell you, this new thingy -- I <span style="font-style: italic;">refuse</span> to Google it.<br />
And if muscle lumps under the flesh, by scar tissue, only happen to monkeys and giant moths? ---so be it.<br />
<br />
I will just have to chalk it up to experience.<br />
Well -<br />
Experience,<br />
. . . and nuclear spills.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-50351682321034714152009-06-15T20:57:00.001-07:002012-10-23T22:40:59.503-07:00The SecretOh good.<br />
Oh thank goodness.<br />
Oh there is a heaven-on-earth.<br />
<br />
<br />
My catalog (<span style="font-style: italic;">including a coupon for free undies</span>)--finally<br />
came in the mail<br />
. . . from Victoria's Secret.<br />
<br />
I nearly choked on my Twinkie!<br />
When I say I have nooo idea how I got on their mailing list . .<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">I mean to tell you</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">I have no idea!</span><br />
<br />
<br />
They could not have gotten their demographics more wrong including me in their follies, than if I'd gotten a surprise mag subscription from <span style="font-style: italic;">Hairless Cat</span> monthly.<br />
<br />
That's not to say I don't <span style="font-style: italic;">wish</span> Victoria and I were a perfect fit. Believe me, I do! ( . . and possibly Hubby too?) ---- but what can I say? Victoria and I go together like pickles and chocolate bars. Like Michael Jackson and grown men. Like mirrors and New Year's morning.<br />
<br />
Someone in their office heard I was ready for my close-up (I guess), but they couldn't be further from the truth. This morning I exercised for the first time since my surgeries . . and all I did was stretch my back over a rolled-up towel while I took deep breathes. Not exactly <span style="font-style: italic;">Buns-of-Steel </span>level.<br />
<br />
I did order something from Victoria once, years ago.<br />
It was an over-sized <span style="font-style: italic;">FlashDance</span> style, sweatshirt. Super mod, yes, --but also super roomy.<br />
(It was immediately discontinued.)<br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe,<span style="font-style: italic;"> maybe</span>, I've lost 10 pounds since my notorious diet-start date (<span style="font-style: italic;">see blog 1/6/09</span>) ---but that ain't saying much. And don't forget that gruesome cellulite tattoo so recently spoken of? How would<span style="font-style: italic;"> that</span> look poking out under a puny Victoria Secret strip of fabric?<br />
----Wait,<br />
--I take that question back (--<span style="font-style: italic;">because I don't need anybody trying to conjure up a mental picture of me</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">in said strip</span> . . . )<br />
<br />
<br />
Let's just say . . . when the models in Victoria's catalog turn sideways, they disappear (<span style="font-style: italic;">well, all except for their yoo-hoos</span>) . . . and there is no way I can compete.<br />
When I turn sideways, I resemble a tank ---with yoo-hoos, woo-hoos, and boo-hoos galore.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Years ago, I used to get JC Penny's catalog regularly.<br />
Once, I threw the mail in the car with my kids, and we hit the road on errands. My oldest son, maybe 4 or 5 at the time, picked up the catalog and started flipping through it--<span style="font-style: italic;">I'm sure looking</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">for Power Ranger undaroos or Matchbox cars</span>--<br />
---Instead, through the rear view mirror, I noticed him silently thumbing through the pages of woman's undergarments. I wondered when to step-in, or what to say --- But he said it all when he finished, passed the catalog onto the younger bro sitting next to him, and informed him this page-turner, "<span style="font-style: italic;">wasn't that bad, --once you got used to it.</span>"<br />
<br />
<br />
What the heck could a mother add to that??<br />
Ah. My little men.<br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe I'd do good to take the same advice when unsolicited top-heavy anorexic undie reading comes my way -- and tell myself it's not that bad, once used to it.<br />
<br />
<br />
Nah. It's bad.<br />
At least for anyone with eternally developing self-esteem, like me.<br />
<br />
And if Hubby can wear "comfortable" high school era t-shirts every date night for the rest of our existence (which seems to be his plan) . . . I don't have to feel self-pressure to squeeze into Victoria Secret's demanding sizes. How the heck <span style="font-weight: bold;">do</span> you squeeze a normal number into a <span style="font-style: italic;">zero</span> anyway??<br />
<br />
<br />
From now on I'll just go eco on Victoria's butt immediately, and recycle her.<br />
If our friendship ever changes - you'll be the first to know.<br />
---Right after I've shouted it off of rooftops.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-68576487658005227302009-06-08T19:49:00.000-07:002012-10-24T19:03:15.361-07:00The Flip SideSo, a little second surgery story for you.<br />
<br />
I ended up running in kind of hurriedly for it, to fix a spinal fluid leak. I couldn't do much to prepare my sorry body for the procedure (<span style="font-style: italic;">--not that anyone can likely tell a</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">difference when I do</span> 'prepare' <span style="font-style: italic;">my body for naked procedures . . but I try</span><span style="font-style: italic;">)</span>.<br />
<br />
Normally I like to pluck, perfume, shave, pray, bathe, dye, exfoliate, massage, and pedi for surgeries ( . .<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>and formal readings and baby showers<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span>) -- but all I could do this time, was slap some tanning lotion on my legs and call it a day. --and Thank <span style="font-style: italic;">Goodness</span> I did because when I lifted up my leg, I found a clear circle '<span style="font-weight: bold;">x-lrg</span>' stickertag stuck to the bottom of my foot!<br />
I don't know <span style="font-style: italic;">whose</span> shirt purchase it was from, or what it fell off of -- but Lord knows I didn't need an informational toe-tag of the Extra Large kind, hanging off my foot when I was being moved, flipped, and pushed into an unconscious-rump-high-surgery position!<br />
<br />
<br />
And once in surgery, finally, and laying in the cold metal surgical room, on my wee, pre-flip-me-over gurney, waiting patiently for my nighty-night medicine, --I got to thinking.<br />
<br />
There was turning out to be an <span style="font-style: italic;">awful</span> lot of people in the surgery room.<br />
<br />
And while I'm no professor, I could easily do the math.<br />
--I bet flippin' a body (<span style="font-style: italic;">dead weight, especially</span>) ain't like flippin' an egg-whites omelet, you know? And I bet these people were being called in (from every nook and cranny of the hospital) . . . to flip ME!<br />
<br />
And those two guys over there? The ones that look like janitors or Wrestling Federation members? --They've got those big belts on, -- you know -- the kind of flat, wide, back-support thingys dudes wear at Costco for lifting pallets of televisions or stacks of tires. <span style="font-style: italic;">hummmm</span>. And still, more and more hospital workers streaming in. What the? --finally, the ugly truth sinks in. <br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">I hate my life.</span><br />
Someone quit picking up the emergency batphone and calling more heavy-lifters in here! Enough is enough!!<br />
(<span style="font-style: italic;">Man, I've got issues.</span>)<br />
<br />
The anesthesiologist says he is about to give me some medicine, that might make me see double - but not to let it bother me.<br />
I tell the Russian-Olympic-gymnast-looking woman next to me doing her pre-lifting squats, "<span style="font-style: italic;">great . . so now I'll think there's </span>twenty<span style="font-style: italic;"> of you in here instead of ten, waiting to give me the heave-ho.</span>" She smiles, and I nod off. <span style="font-style: italic;">Or was she laughing at me?</span><br />
<br />
<br />
Well, the last laugh will have been on them, my blog friends, when those Heave'rs will have gotten a good long look at my flip side. I have some very tricky to deceiver artwork there.<br />
<br />
At my last MRI - to find the spinal fluid leak - I took some Valium in an effort to ease the claustrophobia.<br />
My girlfriend drove me there, and helped me fill out the paperwork. She asked the questions, -- and I drugged, as it were, through the answers. Turns out that Valium is like truth serum! -- and everything just came spilling out.<br />
<br />
No doubt it would have shocked my friend when she asked if I had a tattoo, to hear that in fact I did. Yup, I went ahead and spilled the beans to her tender little ears.<br />
<br />
"I<span style="font-style: italic;"> was young . . . I was stupid . . . I don't know what I was thinking ----<br />--- years ago I got a big tattoo of cellulite plastered across my whole bum. It's true.</span><br />
. . <span style="font-style: italic;">I know, I know -- it was a crazy thing to do. It was immature. I was a kid, you know?<br />Do I regret it now? Of<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">course</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> I do. But what's done is done . . .--and, now, well . . that's what's doin' back there, --should you ever get an eyeful. Frankly? -- I'm glad to finally have it off my chest."</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>
And so to all those Hospital Heave-Ho'ers -- Hope you got the memo! <br />
<br />
<i>It's aaaalll a tattoo, bru'ther'</i> ---<br />
Pretty crazy, eh? Looked real, right?? One day I may have stretchmarks tattoo'd onto my belly, too! Just to be silly!! Ha, ha. But ya, who knows. <br />
<br />
<br />
Good news is ultimately, the day all worked out. I was flipped, sewn, scarred, re-flipped, and no doubt --- entertained the hospital peeps with my intricate tat'art in the process. But I'm nothing, you should know, . . if not a crowd pleaser.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-size: auto auto; background-attachment: scroll; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-88069198729307735862009-05-26T21:46:00.000-07:002012-10-29T13:39:09.352-07:00Star SpottingI'm so sorry ~~ I just <span style="font-style: italic;">haven't</span> been able to sit and write a piece. Even though the stories are racing through my head, --my temporary surgery woes have mounted to the point of <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> keeping me in bed, pained and whiny.<br />
<br />
One day soon ~~ I promise ~~ I will be back, and with a vengeance!<br />
<br />
'Til then, I do have this one little tidbit for you:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
As a big favor to Hubby--who has taken wonderful care of me--I told him, '<span style="font-style: italic;">yes, we could</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">go to see Star Trek</span>.' I didn't know what would hurt more . . 1) watching the movie, or 2) sitting in the seat for two hours, ----But it was my best day in quite awhile . . and I was all hopped up on my pain killers, --so we went for it. For some of the movie, I did indeed end up having to stand in the hall 'cause it was too painful to sit . . . but ultimately pulled it off, and we had a good time.<br />
<br />
Anyhoooo --<br />
Here is the tidbit . . (and it's <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> awful) (are you ready??) (ah! I can't say it. I can't say it . . here goes--)<br />
<br />
<br />
On they way out of the theater, a lady came running breathlessly up, followed us close behind, and asked, ~~<br />
<br />
"<span style="font-style: italic;">Are you guys Trekkies</span>?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!</span><br />
Please!! <span style="font-style: italic;">Please!!</span> What <span style="font-style: italic;">part</span> of me or Hubby <span style="font-style: italic;">mistake</span>s us for a Trekkie?? ~~~ And <span style="font-style: italic;">when</span> did this happen? And how can we <span style="font-style: italic;">reverse</span> it immediately??!!<br />
<br />
<br />
I guess the lady had huge movie plot conflicts and Star Trek history questions ~ and it was <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">us</span> she had scoped out for her Star Trek conferencing. <span style="font-style: italic;">Blaaaaaaaaaaa!!! Auuggggggghhhhh!</span><br />
<br />
<br />
How's that for my first day back in society!<br />
I've been home again ever since, shaking it off, and crying it out.<br />
Next I'll be mistaken for an Obama <span style="font-style: italic;">Mama</span>!<br />
<br />
<br />
Indoors I'll stay, for more slow healing.<br />
You'll be the first to know when I'm semi-recovered ~~<br />
<br />
And yes, that'be both physically . . . <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">emotionally</span>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-71775293723558197742009-04-21T12:36:00.000-07:002012-10-29T14:02:16.353-07:00Table in the waaaay back for Two<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Last weekend Hubby and I enjoyed our annual anniversary getaway to Santa Barbara . . and which goes without saying, has left me with gobs and gobs of foolishness to write about. It could be a ten part'er, but we'll start slow.<br /><br />Hubby does <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> like to go to his restaurants uninformed. Any beach juvie or upper-crust wine aficionado</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> host is not going to push Hubby around to take a seat, place his order, or pay the bill, --until he's good and ready. This leaves in its wake many a humiliating scenario through the years - some of which have even sent Bliss to tears - but let's go over the lighthearted parts instead.<br /><br /><br />We eat at a lot of the same restaurants each year, but also enjoy trying a new one. This time we looked into a place called Lucky's.<br /><br />Oprah has a house in Montecito (next to Santa Barbara), and Lucky's is a steakhouse there (just to give you an idea of the neighborhood).<br />'Steakhouses' in Montecito don't charge the same, or act the same as, say, Burger Kings in North Hollywood.<br /><br />It was clear to Hubby he would have to place a phone call ahead of time, and even before the usual hour spent circling the joint repeatedly to avoid valet parking, or picking apart a menu at the entrance until I want to scream.<br /><br />When I think about it, I guess I do prefer his harassment be performed over the phone than in person, --but at the same time, the phone calls usually leave us starving before any real headway is even made . . and still a half hour away from the place.<br /><br />This interrogation, I tried to disappear into the hotel bed sheets, while the echos of Hubby's tenth-degree, micro-restaurant-managing, bounced around the room like on megaphone, and shamed me into even further isolation. (Well, not <span style="font-style: italic;">complete</span> isolation. I was crowded in bed with the four crescents and six jelly packets Hubby contraband'd from the hotel's continental breakfast bar.)<br /><br />I can only hear his side of the conversation, - but it can't be good what's being said on the other half of the line -<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Hi - What time is your Early Bird Special?"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Oh. Then what about a</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Senior Citizens discount - if we aren't quite seniors yet? </span><span style="font-style: italic;">I do look very old for my age---"<br />"But we're just visiting for the weekend, --so it shouldn't be that big of a deal--"</span><span style="font-style: italic;">"I see -"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Any coupons then?"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I don't know why - the Montecito </span><span style="font-style: italic;">household income per-capita may be in the seven figures, but I'm sure they still like a good bargain . ."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><span style="font-style: italic;">Alright, tell me this . . --About your children's menu--?"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Yes, --just the two of us."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No. Of course my wife's not sixteen years old---"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"But what if we cut it into baby pieces---"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"No?"</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Hubby mumbles under his breath and rolls his eyes at me ~~~<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Okay. But if we '</span>decide<span style="font-style: italic;">' to eat at your restaurant - I can tell you this about my wife . . she eats like a <span style="font-weight: bold;">bird</span>. ---You do offer those cracker packets at the buffet salad bar?"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"No buffet?--"<br />"I'll be darned. . . . I guess once we enjoy a couple of your complimentary bread baskets---"<br />". . . . What? You don't have bread baskets??---"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Fine. --Then, if we could just bring in our own little bag of tortilla chips to snack on, --and use one of your bowls---"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh. Well, it's not like we wouldn't order dinner . ."</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Alright."<br />"Nope."<br />"Okay."<br />"Now, --the steak salad. If she orders that, with extra steak on the side, --how much would, say, your baked potato be, a la carte, for me?"<br />"Uh? --"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />" . . At your prices? Two dinners??"</span><span style="font-style: italic;">"Yes, I understand. Okay. You gotta make a living too . . . "<br />"And so we're clear, while I hoof it in from the free parking at Shop'n'Go, --can my wife enjoy one dinner (since she will--theoretically--be dining alone until I get there) . . --and I'll just request a second plate for---"</span><span style="font-style: italic;">"Hello? --<span style="font-weight: bold;">Hello?</span>"</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><br />"Can you believe that? --They hung up," Hubby calls out. He hasn't even broken a sweat.<br />" --You got any other picks, Hon?" He dares to ask . . while now I wouldn't want to touch a restaurant he's called with a ten-foot-pole----<br /><br /><br />Once, we studied a menu in front of a maitre'd' so long - the guy ripped it from Hubby's hands, and whacked him over the head with it. He told Hubby he'd had a fly on his head, but the maitre'd' and I exchanged a knowing look -- so I knew better.<br /><br /><br /><br />Listen, loves a funny thing.<br />If this is only one of the thirty-two annoying bits<br />about my husband, that I have to put up with, -- I can<br />try and be a good sport. Call me the the patron-saint-of-unromantic-dinners.<br /><br />As long as I get my veggies steamed, and a chocolate<br />after dinner mint - I will try and be happy.</span></span><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-size: auto auto; background-attachment: scroll; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-60474511510273152262009-04-14T16:26:00.000-07:002012-10-29T14:16:35.143-07:00Disc Go<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />It's been over a week and a half since my emergency, emergency-room trip. (Which of <span style="font-style: italic;">course</span> alerted my primary care provider to the immediate and direct putting of me</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">, straight away, first on the list </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">of people who need prompt attention.) (Yeah, right.)<br />(Hence the recent obligatory days and days and days of referral system and appointment making negotiations.)<br /><br /><br />Yesterday I finally saw my spinal pain management doctor (a week after the MRI, in turn about four days after the notorious brush-in with Wretched Room Clearer-Outer at my emergency room dismissal).<br /><br /><br />First, --regarding the MRI, I <span style="font-style: italic;">absolutely</span> have not perfected the art of Valium taking.<br /><br />The last two times I've gone for a MRI with Valium pills a go-go, but I can't seem to time the taking of them correctly -- somehow only getting loopy, high, and sleepy when trying to eat in public, post-procedure, during what I like to call my 'Whoopee-My-MRI-Is-Done' celebration.<br />I try shoving restaurant burgers through the pores on my chin, sit next to strange men instead of Hubby, and pour salad dressing in my purse. Being high is not all it's cracked up to be if you can't even time the mental escape of one, thirty minute "slip-into-this-metal-sock-coffin" nightmare.<br /><br />And you know, maybe I <span style="font-style: italic;">would </span>give up dieting - if by some heavenly blessing it would mean being informed, '<span style="font-style: italic;">I'm sorry, fatso . . </span>I mean Ma'am!<span style="font-style: italic;"> --we can't possibly stuff you into our MRI contraption without the snug fit of the machine ripping the skin from your body, like the scaling of a fish. We'll have to artist sketch what w</span><span style="font-style: italic;">e <span style="font-weight: bold;">think</span> your discs are doing instead, by your imaginative description</span>.'<br /><br />As it is now, I have, oh, I'd say, --an entire 1/8 of an inch full-breathing room space around me during imaging. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Um yes, Ma'am?</span> --<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Please</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> try to hold still!</span>"<br /><br />'<i>Oh, ya</i>-<span style="font-style: italic;">think</span>, Einstein?? Are the microscopic hair follicles on my forehead banging too heavily against the metal-hell surrounding me? <br /><br /><br />~~~~~~<br />Anyhoooo. Forget that horror.<br /><br />Spinal pain management Dr. V., I like alright. He's never been able to help me too much, but seems to want to try.<br /><br />He changed offices since last I saw him, and while I lingered in the waiting room yesterday, I searched for a magazine to keep my mind off the pain.<br />Apparently spinal injury at the new office is very manly business, because there was not a single sheet of fem-verse'd magazines to be found! Examples forthcoming:<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Men and Beer<br />Men and Caves<br />Men and Couches<br />All Men, All the Time<br />Remote Control Weekly<br />Spine Pain Is For Wusses<br />Shopping is For Wusses<br />Everything But What Men Like is For Wusses<br />Tools, Machines, and Lakes<br />Ice Cream for Big Boys<br />What Happens in Best Buy, Stays in Best Buy<br />All Pictures, No Words<br />Rockets, Trucks, Boats, Cars, Lawn Mowers, Doorbells, and Can Openers<br /><br /><br />I don't know if Dr. V. just went through a bad divorce, --or if the guy's got mommie-issues picking up speed . . but I was called back to his office just<span style="font-style: italic;"></span> in the nick-of-time, before my brain started spilling out of my body faster than my discs were.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /><br />Since all x-ray and MRI film looks the same to me--like I'm about to have another baby, or am the proud owner of super big cavities--it was good to have Doc point out the details on the film to me.<br /><br />The first thing I learned--that I never knew before--was that I have small pedicles.<br /><br />Those, you may be interested to learn, are a little part of the vertebra. Bone that extends from the vertebral body.<br />It'd be <span style="font-style: italic;">bette</span>r if mine weren't so small, because they'd help to keep all that tender disc-mush from wanting to pop out of place so ~~ but there's nothing I can do about that. It's genetic.<br />(Yeah, thanks<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Mom and Dad. First hairy knuckles and saddlebags, --and now<span style="font-style: italic;"></span> this?!)<br /><br /><br />"Small, huh?" I asked.<br /><br />"Yes," answered Dr. V.<br /><br />"Would you mind then, if we called them 'petite'? <span style="font-style: italic;">Petite</span> pedicles?" I petitioned. "I've . . it's just. . . . There's never, really, <span style="font-style: italic;">been</span> anything 'petite,' on my body before. So I'm just kind of pleased about that."<br /><br />"Uh, okay," he agreed. "Petite, then." Which of course made me blush. (<span style="font-style: italic;">No ones ever said that to me before</span>.)<br /><br /><br />The second thing I learned, is it looks like surgery for me.<br />Which, surprisingly, wasn't such a bad thing to hear, --the way Doc put it. I mean, I know surgery isn't <span style="font-style: italic;">great</span> . . plus it means of course, I've got that whole upside-down, while unconscious, buck-naked, spread-eagle, and people looking and poking at me kind of thing to not look forward to . . . but <span style="font-style: italic;">what</span>ever. He does think I will be relieved of my pain.<br /><br /><br /><br />Heck.<br />Let's talk about something more pleasant.<br />One good thing I suppose, about this whole hoopla, is that I have for once and for all,<br />finally learned how to spell 'vertebra' correctly. I've always wanted<i> </i>to spell it v-e-r-t-e-b-r-a, but second guess myself because of the whole 'bra' bit.<br />Why bra?<br />And why is it pronounced 'bray' in <span style="font-style: italic;">verte</span>-'bra' - when it clearly spells 'b<span style="font-style: italic;">ra</span>'? And than, why not verte<span style="font-style: italic;">brassiere</span>, if it's no matter, you know?</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">I tell you, those </span></span>ancient Indo-European family languages, crack me up.<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> Pr</span>obably, that's why priests during Mass don't like to read out loud the Latin stuff as much as they used to. It's hard for them to keep from giggling at the silly words.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span></span>Ah, forget it.<br />Forget I brought the priests into this.<br /><br />Let's just stick with the part that ~~'I have Petite Pedicles,' okay?</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br />Man how I wish they made jeans for pedicles.<br /></span><br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-27575759010061334672009-04-06T23:10:00.001-07:002012-10-29T14:28:11.833-07:00Back Words<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">Good things come to those that wait.<br />Sorry about the long pause between blogs. It would appear that when unable to talk about f**d -- I am at a total loss for words. Not true!<br />I am here. I am back.<br /><br /><br />. . . And speaking of backs ~~ mine is killing me. I'd rather be in a good old fashioned fetal position, right now, than at the computer. <span style="font-style: italic;">But</span> it's no use because even the ever trusty fetal position has failed my aches and pains. About the only position I've found some relieve in, is standing, butt against the wall, and one foot off the ground. Don't ask me how that helps - but it somehow does, just a little. Could it be, being off-balance keeps me in-balance?<br /><br />(um. yeah. that sounds about right.)<br /><br /><br /><br />Anyhoows . . . about a week or so ago I woke in so much pain, I mimed <span style="font-style: italic;">"emergency room - please</span>" to nobody, rolled over to the speaker phone, and called Hubby who was already gone to work. (Well first, I accidentally pressed my speed-dialed QVC, (who by the way are <span style="font-style: italic;">not </span>open 24 hours, like they sooo brag about - or maybe it's just the Suzanne Summers items that are closed certain hours ~ 'cause it crossed my mind, otherwise, I could have ordered a Suzanne Summers Kegel Exerciser while I had them on the line. Then, to go with my dieting, I'd be able to claim workout time, while still in bed recovering from my back pain?) (How many calories burned per Kegel, is it? Anybody know?) . . . ~~Anyways, I got Hubby on my second try.)<br /><br />Apparently meetings at Anheuser-Busch, trump wife-in-pain emergency-room calls. Who knew? He assured me however, though, that had I had a baby in my canal - it would have been a different story, and he'd'a totally come home. (~and I guess I will choose to believe that. Because the alternative would have to mean he enjoys talking to men about beer, and what temperature makes a beermaking room perfect-o, --more than he does running home to lift me into a car because of a sore back, and pay co-pays at the hospital<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span>)<br /><br /><br />Thankfully one son was still home. He was sick, and I had planned on bringing him to the doctors later in the morning. Instead I decided we'd do the early morning emergency room buddy-system route. They could call me<span style="font-style: italic;"> Hop-a-lon</span>g, and him <span style="font-style: italic;">Phlegm</span>.<br /><br />Yup. We know how to have a good time.<br /><br /><br />I happen to have a girlfriend that is a nurse in the emergency room, and it was nice to see her there. She hustled us through triage, and a different lady brought us back to our separate rooms.</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;"><br />Though my emergency room doctor's accent was so thick you could spread it on a bagel - I was <span style="font-style: italic;">pretty</span> sure he told me</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;"> there was nothing they could do for me - basically because I could still lift my toes. (note to self - <span style="font-style: italic;">next time in an emergency room for any reason, do not lift</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">toes.</span>) Had I carried my spine in on a clothes hanger, or pulled it in a wagon<span style="font-style: italic;">, </span>or been chewing my dislodged disc like a stick of bubble gum, it would not have mattered to anybody there, -as my toes could still move.<br />I couldn't feel my calf, my thigh was in a permanent charlie-horse, toes and foot were numb, couldn't stand up straight, yodel, or get mascara on, ~~but none of that slowed anyone down one wit. Or in the international language of 'emergency-room- talk' ~~ '<span style="font-style: italic;">next, please</span>'.<br /><br />At least my nurse felt sorry for me. Already hopped-up on other pills from home, she went to find me an Advil. I was waiting for something from the Doc, and also paperwork and my debit card from another worker. So I practiced my least painful contortionist twist, and waited for further directions. (Probably something like, '<span style="font-style: italic;">Before you go miss, would you like to sign this card? It's for the poor lass down the hall. She can't lift her toes</span>.')</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;"><br />As I lay writhing in pain - an obvious Nurse Nightingale popped her head in (<span style="font-style: italic;">I couldn't see the</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">rest of her body, but she likely had a tail, warts, and a horn</span>) and (<span style="font-style: italic;">honest truth</span>), --barked, "leave, I need this room."<br />I'm not sure if she learned that at compassion school, or bible study, --but it was pretty lacking. I would have given her a piece of my mind - if I wasn't <span style="font-style: italic;">out of my mind</span> in pain - and she hadn't taken off so fast. <span style="font-style: italic;">Of course</span> I hadn't planned 'lounging' (if that's what you want to call it) there all day. And I <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">going</span> to go join my son (who could move<span style="font-style: italic;"> his </span>toes <span style="font-style: italic;">too</span>, but apparently was still going to get more attention than I did--), as soon as I was officially cleared. Nurse BarksALot made me so upset! Like I was in trouble, -or a bother, or something. Maybe I'll never get my fifteen minutes of fame, but at <span style="font-weight: bold;">least</span> give me my fifteen minutes of emergency room gurney!!<br /><br />While I am<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>so going to tattle on the wretched room clearer-outer, as soon as I find the energy, </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">the moral of this story, or rather, what I'm really trying to say is, that for all that, basically, what did I get? . . . . <span style="font-weight: bold;">the gift of paying 50 bucks to tell my girlfriend how much I weigh</span>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">Good times.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br /><br />I'll tell you about my MRI in the next blog. But you better hold on to your seats, --it's going to be a bumpy claustrophobic ride.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-39202401275729030352009-03-12T21:13:00.000-07:002012-10-29T14:51:23.954-07:00Ms. Karma<span style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><span style="font-size: 130%;">Me thinks I am obsessed? </span></span> <span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Or what the heck is it? Everywhere I turn, ---forces greater than I - have me thinking, touching, asking, or playing with <span style="font-weight: bold;">food</span>. Is it bad Karma, that constantly has me placed with <span style="font-weight: bold;">food</span>?<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Really? </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;"> --That's <span style="font-style: italic;">all </span>karma can come up with? </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">--</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">All</span> I've earned is <span style="font-weight: bold;">food</span> purgatory?<br /><br />Mzss. Karma -- if you're out there -- I want you to know I scrubbed <span style="font-style: italic;">all the toilets </span>in our house today. And to a spit shine, at that. ( . . And did I mention, Karma, --that I live in a house of <span style="font-style: italic;">all boys</span> ~ using those toilets<span style="font-style: italic;">?!</span>) If that can't buy me a little karma-relieve, I don't know what can.<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;"><br />Last night at a <span style="font-weight: bold;">dinner</span> party we played a game where the prize was <span style="font-weight: bold;">candy</span>. <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: courier new; font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">First thing to do when I got up this morning? <span style="font-weight: bold;">Eat</span>. A few hours after that? A belated birthday present . . of <span style="font-weight: bold;">lunch</span>.</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: courier new; font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">Read about an author today, who's new book sounds good. I check out her blogsite . . . and the blogsite name? <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Orange</span>tte! Blog's topic? <span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Recipes.</span></span><br /><br />Bags of fermenting future <span style="font-weight: bold;">loaves</span> of Friendship <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bread</span> piling up on my kitchen counter? Four. I don't even like Friendship <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bread</span> (but Hubby does) . . . . And I don't like pushing fermenting bags of <span style="font-weight: bold;">cake batter</span> on my friends (but Hubby does).<br /><br />Tonight for date night, we are off to the high school <span style="font-weight: bold;">snack</span> bar . . <span style="font-style: italic;"> I mean</span> volleyball game.<br /><br />I have the sniffles . . so I'm checking calorie content in a pouch of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Emergen-C</span> and tablet of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Airborne</span>.<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: courier new; font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Someone's <span style="font-weight: bold;">dinner</span> plate from last night sits in front of me, waiting for dishes to be done. I go outside and our <span style="font-weight: bold;">fruit</span> trees are dripping, heavy with <span style="font-weight: bold;">calories</span>.</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br /><br />Remember now, -all I have to do is quit thinking about food.<br /></span><span style="font-family: courier new; font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />As room mom, when youngens' were still in elementary school, --a teacher informed me there'd be no more <span style="font-weight: bold;">cupcakes</span> and <span style="font-weight: bold;">food</span> treats for birthdays or class parties. My first impulse was to pull her hair, put tacks on her chair, and call her UnAmerican. But wisdom prevailed, and I lasted a whole year planning celebrations and holiday activities without introducing hoards of edible treats.<br />I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> I can accomplish the same now if I really put my heart into it.<br /><br />So, ~~in honor of my attempt at tricking Karma into liking me, I hereby vow the next two blogs will have nothing to do with food. Count'em . . . next <span style="font-style: italic;">two </span>whole<span style="font-style: italic;"> blogs! (</span>Be patient with me if all I can come up with for topics is, like, cuticles or putty-colored shades.)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>So -<br />Take that Karma-Warma! . . .<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"And look! Karma! What's there behind you??</span>!!!"<br />(Ha! <span style="font-weight: bold;">Food</span>,<span style="font-weight: bold;"> food</span>,<span style="font-weight: bold;"> food</span>, <span style="font-weight: bold;">food</span>, <span style="font-weight: bold;">food</span>.)<br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">Okay . . .</span> needed that one last release. Now I'm ready.)<br /><br /><br />Here's to other interests :)<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-64949293822072599332009-03-09T21:59:00.000-07:002012-10-30T01:02:09.705-07:00If You're Thinking What I'm Thinking . . .<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />I'm not so sure my new book <span style="font-style: italic;">The Complete Beck Diet for Life</span> is going to work out. Even without finishing it, I've decided it sounds like a bunch of poppycock - best I can tell.<br /><br />Basically the premise is that I need to get better at telling the voice in my head how to behave, and then practice listening to it, --the voice in my head. Fancy pants Dr. Beck call this Diet Cognitive Therapy.<br /><br />Now the voices ~~<br />(yeah, 'voices.' --figures my voice would have to be a schizo')~<br />are not that easy to control, first let me just say. I mean they've had the run of things for a <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> long time and I doubt they are going to want to give that up now --even if I do try talking nice to them.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'Please, please little voices in my head. Can't we stop all this talk of food, and eating too much. Can't we all just get along? Me, you, and Dr. Beck?'<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">No. And if you keep talking to us like we're a little baby, we're leavin</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">g</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">.<br /></span>'You can't leave.' <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oh yeah? - Watch us.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">'Okay, okay. --I'm sorry. Please don't go. I need you in my head. If you leave the only voices left will be Oprah's, Hubby's, Dr. Laura's, and Obama's. --Please, I'm sorry, don't leave.'<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Okay than. But don't try anything fancy . . .</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">and we were wondering, -are we going to visit our new friends soon?<br /></span><br />Oh, I should know better than to talk to myself - I'm not reasonable.<br /><br />And b'sides, --I have bigger problems. The Wednesday morning servers at McDonalds have started thinking that they are my buddies. I don't <span style="font-style: italic;">want </span>to be friends with the employees at McDonalds. I don't want them to recognize me, I don't want to hangout with them, and I don't want to share stories. I just want my hotcakes and diet coke!<br /><br />Basically, those friends are like my pusher and I'm the junkie! There's no reason to be 'friendly' about it. If the drive-through girl really was a 'friend' - she would slap my hand when I reach out for cholesterol and carbs, --and tell me to go away.<br /><br />But no. She's a total enabler - and with friends like that . . . well, you know . . .<br /><br />My 'diet' book promises:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"If you've struggled with dieting in the past, it's only because you never acquired these </span> <span style="font-style: italic;"> essential cognitive skills . . . and learned to think differently."<br /></span>I might as well just cut me off-at-the-pass (<span style="font-style: italic;">cognitively speaking</span>) and tell my brain, "<span style="font-style: italic;">don't</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">start with me!</span>" --Because now I'm noticing Dr. Beck's suggestion would never work anyhow. ---'Cause I'm not someone who's '<span style="font-style: italic;">struggled</span>' with dieting, '<span style="font-style: italic;">in the past</span>'; there's nothing 'past' about my struggle at all. My struggle is on a continuous loop . . . like a laughtrack that never ends. The voices in my head have no intention of telling the voices in my head to stop acting like they want to eat.<br /><br />If reincarnation does exist --in my previous life I was a cow ('<span style="font-style: italic;">cause do they look like they</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">give a heck that all they do is eat and sometimes make milk?</span>) ~~and in the life after this one, I bet I'll be a HomeTown Buffet. It's just my luck. I know it. (And then some bratty girls from my old high school will come in, and one of them will say to me "<span style="font-style: italic;">OmG!! Didn't you use to be Bliss, from our high school?!!</span>)<br /><br />Ick!!<br /><br />Okay, okay. I'm not saying I've given up already. I can't. I smell summer, --and some dang pool party hostess is going to demand I get in a bathing suit. (My friend at McDonalds would never demand I do such a thing. She'd just, "<span style="font-style: italic;">There, there now,</span>" to me. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Have another quarter-pounder, and don't worry that other people can't look away when they see you in a bathing</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">suit. It's all the more to love, you know? Who wouldn't love you? Huh?? Look at</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">those cheeks!</span>" --Yes. She means those cheeks.<br /><br /><br />Oh, it's all a mess, I tell you.<br />My life as a dieter.<br />I need a good dose of Dieter's Zen.<br />You know - my happy meal . . . <span style="font-style: italic;">I mean <span style="font-weight: bold;">Happy Place</span>!!</span><br />Happy place. Happy place. Happy place.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-size: auto auto; background-attachment: scroll; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-4823535755354077162009-03-02T16:55:00.000-08:002012-10-30T01:05:52.671-07:00Le Langue De Amour<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">Compared to my husband I feel like a potty'ing machine. I'm always goin' - and he's<br />always waitin'.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;"><br />Last weekend during date night at the movies, I learned a new word. While using the potty at the theater, a gaggle of girls came in. One went into a stall and I heard her shout to her friend, "Don't you want to go pepe' too? Before the movie starts?"</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;"><br />Well, imagine my delight, first, -at hearing a word come out of a random teen's mouth that I didn't have to cover my ears for, and second, that was spoken instead of text'ed, and third, that was as fantastic a word as <span style="font-weight: bold;">pepe'</span> is!<br />How cute is <span style="font-style: italic;">pepe'</span> ?<br />Say it after me, "pep-e' " ~ Rhymes with <span style="font-style: italic;">kep</span> - a ~~</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;"><br /><br /><br />I raced back to share with Hubby the happy news -- my New Word. (Granted while it might not have been as exciting to him as me - I still felt sure pepe' was going to make me sound <span style="font-style: italic;">way</span> darlin'er and less bladder-worn than the usual <span style="font-style: italic;">I have to go to the bathroom again, wait here.</span>)</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;"><br /><br />"Guess what word I just learned?" She asks.<br /><br />"What?" He answers.<br /><br />"Pepe'." She says-<br />"</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Pepe'</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">?" He asks -<br />"Yup. In the bathroom, a bunch of girls came in, and<br />they used the word</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"> pepe' </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">for going potty." She answers.<br />"Umm," He grunts.<br />"What was the name of that french-lover-skunk guy in the old cartoons? --The one that was always trying to get the girl cat to love him?" She asks.<br />"Pepe' Le Pew," He answers.<br />"Yes, that's it!" She exclaims.<br />"Oh yeah," He -<br />"Pepe' is my new word," She -<br />"Okay," He -<br /><br /><br />How </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">does </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">one partake in a conversation about "pepe' " - and not hear it?<br /><br /><br />I would </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">so</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;"> remember a conversation with someone that included the word <span style="font-style: italic;">pepe'</span> in the place of going to the bathroom.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">I would so remember a conversation </span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">with someone about the word <span style="font-style: italic;">pepe'</span>.<br />I would so remember a conversation with someone.<br />I would so remember conversation.<br />I would so.<br />I would.<br />I.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Pepe'</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">.<br /><br /><br /><br />After the movie I see the group of girls, my new compatres, leaving the theater.<br /><br />"There they go," she says.<br />"Who?" he asks.<br />"That group of kids from the bathroom," she answers.<br />"What group of kids?" he asks.<br />"The ones we talked about," She -<br />"</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Who?</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">" He -<br />"The '</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Pep</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">-A' girls," She -<br />"Wh<span style="font-style: italic;">at</span>??" He -</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I don't want you to think I'm a total potty mouth, so here's another example:</span><br /><br /><br />"I have got some mammoth splinters in my hand from that plywood!" He -<br /><br />"Geez, wow . . yeah," She -<br /><br />"There's no way around it, --I'm going to have to dig them out," He -<br /><br />"Ouch. Okay. Say, - we have a billion tweezers around here . . . there's one in the kitchen, boy's bath, and our drawer. Just don't use the metal ones in the medicine cabinet, k?" She -<br /><br />"Mm." He -<br /><br />(</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">The medicine cabinet ones being the 'special' ones she uses to pull and pluck things</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">from her body. And by 'special' - she means expensive. And by 'things from her body,' she</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">means tiny unladylike hairy grotesque imperfections</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">.)<br /><br /><br />One hour later she stumbles upon the surgery counter - and the 'special' metal tweezers with zero fine tip left. He must have scraped roof tar with them after splinter-to-the-bone digging.<br /><br /><br />She - "Hey - remember when I said any tweezers but these?" (Holding up the 'these.')<br />He - "No?"<br /><br /><br />~~~~<br /><br />One time out of the clear blue we got a coupon-flier in the mail, good for One Free Hearing Test.<br />("</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Hot dog!</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">" She says. "</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">What</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">ever</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">," He says.)<br />She makes him go.<br />He would fake offense, --except that it </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">was free.<br />He'd go to a leg-breaking, if it was free.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">True Story:</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">"</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Hello sir,</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">" woman at hearing test office says.<br />"</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">I'm here for my free hearing test,</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">" He informs.<br />"</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Have you been having problems?</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">"<br />"</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">No.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">"<br />"</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Did your doctor send you?</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">"<br />"</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">No."<br />"Why are you here?"<br />" --My wife made me come.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">"<br />bored pause - "</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">We get that a lot. --line forms to the left.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">"<br /><br />and his test results? ~~ " . . . </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">with flying colors!</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">"<br /><br /><br /><br />I've decided free hearing tests are bogus.<br />Like swampland in Arizona.<br /><br />And that there is a conspiracy I will never get to the bottom of.<br />And even if I <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> get to the bottom of it, --only girls would listen to me.<br /><br />So okay fellas, here it is,<br />--<span style="font-style: italic;">I give up</span>.<br /><br /> <br />(Ah, and if only you had heard me . . .victory would have been sweet . . . )<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></span></span><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-size: auto auto; background-attachment: scroll; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-55240232403318157162009-02-26T16:28:00.000-08:002010-09-18T23:04:04.249-07:00You're Reading Too Much Into This<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I am a lesson in complexities. Or contradictions.<br />Pick your diagnosis.<br /><br />Surprised? Don't be. Do the math.<br /><br />I went in a bookstore today to look for a specific book. I left with two.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >The Complete Beck Diet For Life</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />and<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >I Was Told There'd Be Cake</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br />I avoid bookstores, actually. I don't feel well-read enough on what my top dozen scholarly reads should be - and therefore ill-equipped to choose. At the same time, there is always something I'd </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >like</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> to read, -- but it shouldn't be higher on my to-do list than what's already waiting for me to do at home.<br />So, my solution is to limit my bookstore visits or book borrows.<br /><br />Hubby is not a reader, and in life, circles me constantly at a breakneck pace of 'doing.' I (self-inflict) the motto that if I am going to be sitting around - I shan't be just reading - but best be hand-tailoring suits, spinning yarn, or re-soling worn clogs. But who's the wiser? The tortoise or the hare?<br /><br /><br />After long hours of school work yesterday, I felt free today to get some ordinary this & that done at my desk and around the house. The exact reasoning, in fact, that made me want to go outside.<br /><br />I don't do staying in, very well. Well at least not for hours on end, and when it is beautiful outdoors. </span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">One reason I went out today was to get some of that sunshine. But than, the only reason I needed sunshine, was because I had decided I wanted to stay indoors.<br />Did you get that?</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />It used to drive Hubby crazy when I would look out the window and exclaim, "Oh what a be-yooo-tiful day! Let's go to the mall!"<br />At least I've improved on those particular neurotransmitters . . . so that a beautiful day outside, does not necessarily an indoor mall trip, make.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Now if Shakespeare, Pluto, or Hemingway had written something, say, like, <span style="font-style: italic;">He's Not'th That Into'th You'th </span>it would be a good balance for me, --attractive to the both sides of my brain.<br />Yes I realize Pluto is just a planet and Disney pup . . and if I <span style="font-style: italic;">were</span> better-read I never would have used 'Pluto' as an example in my previous sentence. But like I said - I'm complex.<br /><br />Books I'd read:<br />Pluto <span style="font-style: italic;">Six Degrees of Separation</span> (<span style="font-style: italic;">from Mickey</span>)<br />Plato <span style="font-style: italic;">Chicken Soup for the Western Philosopher</span><br />Aristotle <span style="font-style: italic;">Math for Dummies</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Hemingway <span style="font-style: italic;">For Whom the Bell, Toll-house Chocolate Chip Cookies<br /></span></span><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />Yeah.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />If I sound like a reading snob, -I'm not. I'm practical.<br />I rarely clean my house as well as I should, finish on time - projects I should start, make dinners anymore from utter scratch, or stay ahead of instead of behind-on my studies.<br />Somehow I feel less self-imposed guilt doing nothing - than I do reading a book. Which I can see, --now that I've written it--doesn't make sense. Well if it's a school book, -I don't feel guilty . . . but I do feel sleepy. If it's a pop-book, I do feel guilty, but I don't feel sleepy. If it's an intellects' book, I feel low-IQ'y . . . <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> sleepy.<br /><br /><br />So I don't necessarily 'free-choice' read during the day. It seems unproductive to me. I read at night though, right before I go to bed. And at this rate I can usually finish maybe, two books a year?<br />I'm not good book club material.<br /><br />I will buy a book before a vacation - and when the fantasy is that I will actually <span style="font-style: italic;">be</span> on vacation, while on vacation. Sometimes the vacation part of a vacation gets a little mucky with all the action, cleaning up, or cooking. I've never vacationed in the lap-of-luxury, as it were.<br />I bring magazines on vacation - without fail. I <span style="font-style: italic;">pour</span> over <span style="font-style: italic;">every</span>thing in a magazine. There are too many pictures and too many words to just skip through it. My camping buddy thinks it's very Dustin Hoffman/Rainman of me, because of my then ability to store and recall much ado (in magazines) about nothing.<br /><br />I will give you an example.<br />Do you know what Lee's Art Shop is?<br /><br />Because of my one day, today, of Rainman'ing -- I came across Lee's several times. I can now tell you in regular conversation (where it would so likely not come up), Lee's Art Shop is located in New York City, actually it's on 57th Street. Angelina Jolie was there recently with two of her litter. They left with white empty Easter baskets. (I bet the clerk just gave them to the girls.) I also know through my random-trivia-cataloging of the day, that the author of <span style="font-style: italic;">I Was Told There'd Be Cake</span> (the book by the way, I ultimately decided not to get, and left behind), went there for stuff to use in her plexiglas dioramas. A diorama (in case you don't remember) (I got to see a picture, so that refreshed my memory) is a three-dimensional model, like what you might see a grade-school'er do for a science project.</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />Now look at all that I've learned -just by being aware of my environment and sticking my nose into bits and pieces of reading material, here and there. What is the likelihood I would have learned so much about Lee's, if I had been off reading some self-important book somewhere?<br />Is it all that more valuable than what Shakespeare would have me know? Or my Psych Professor? Maybe - maybe not</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">. Wouldn't I be better off just sucking it up and reading a classic, - so <span style="font-style: italic;">that'</span>s what's stuck in my head?<br />Well than I wouldn't be me. </span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />And we wouldn't want that, now would we.<br /></span><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />Besides, there have been some little jewels of books I've read - that I never would have even known about had I not peeked in newspapers or magazines. It's like I'm on a treasure hunt all day, but only strike gold occasionally. So what I'm really doing, is totally living life on the edge (--in case you hadn't given me credit for that).<br />And I take it back - I am a reading snob. I'm very selective, and I don't need to read a book just for the sake of reading. At the same time, if I learn one more tidbit in news or magazine passing, about the Acai berry, Dr. Phil, <span style="font-style: italic;">Big Love</span>, or U2, I may slit my wrists.<br /><br />My intellect marches to the beat of its own drum. What can I say. I have been known to yell out '<span style="font-style: italic;">No Soup For You!</span>' without provocation or even feeling an explanation of context, necessary. </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />How do you reason with a person like me?</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br />Who knows. But I can tell you this -<br />Why don't you read up on it -<br />And get back to me</span>.<br /><br /><br /></span></span><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="border: 0pt none ! important; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-repeat: repeat; background-attachment: scroll; background-position: 0% 0%; -moz-background-size: auto auto; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-24438657924814610802009-02-20T10:22:00.000-08:002009-02-22T19:56:32.945-08:00There's Only One Teeny Little Problem<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:130%;" >Imagine in your worst dream your man wears a babyGap beanie while on snow trips with the family. Even with a head chuck-full of brains, it's a tiny babyGap beanie he puts on it. Now imagine from the large piles of ever present laundry in your home, you pull from the dryer his tiny cotton beanie that should never have even </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >gone</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > in the dryer - but been cold-washed and stretched over a tire rim to dry . . . all to prevent even a </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >quarter</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > inch of shrinkage from attacking it . . . as you knew no matter how shrunken the beanie got, your man would still be wearing it . . . and in fact demanding it's whereabouts . . . every snow or ski trip for the rest of his (and your) life. (</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >That there being the run-on sentence of all sentences, but then again, being the subject matter of all subject matters</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >.)<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Now</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > imagine it wasn't a dream - but reality!<br /><br />I so bawled when I pulled that petite thing out of the dryer. The beanie--now smaller than ever--begged to be tossed. Yet I knew at that same moment ~ in a small work office over 20 miles away, Hubby's SpideyHubby senses were tingling at the inkling of my hurling it - or giving it to poor babies in Gap-poor third world countries.<br /><br />And alright, maybe it is actually a Gap<span style="font-style: italic;">Kids</span> beanie --instead of a babies beanie - but then let me inform you it also has bouncy bubbly little pom-poms on top as well. I'm just sayin'.<br /><br /><br />And as I am a positive kind of person, --I'm always going to look for the positive.<br />So, --while on our same recent snow/ski weekend, --it was discovered that Hubby's stuffed-animal-reindeer-head, groin-attachment-thingy's, elastic, was all stretched out --and thereby rendered unusable.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Uh?</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br />Oh no, yeah, --you heard me right.<br />Stuffed animal-type, bouncy-reindeer-head, thingy.<br />It's about the size of a smallish pillow, goes on similar to a low slung belt, and is presented for All on the slopes to enjoy. Hubby first used it when he was a single, strapping young skier, and usually around the holidays. It always got a flirty giggle from the snow bunnies.<br />But need we remind him - those days are long over - and though his sons' thought it would be awesome for him to wear (</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >why?</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >) -- Hubby was unable to accommodate. (Oh thank goodness nobody mentioned duct tape.)<br /><br />Yes, it's true a grown man should not need answer to anyone about his clothing choices, reindeer packages, or pom-pom beanies. Sure. However, in extreme cases --that's a bunch of who-eee. And this is one of those cases.<br /><br />Yes, some outfits you might look at in a picture-and realize, '</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >well, that was just a sign of the times. Everyone was</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >wearing dolphin shorts in the seventies</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >.' But the problem for us is we don't have any old pictures like that. All are crisply current. I don't know what for sure Hubby </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >was</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > wearing in the seventies (since he saved his short-shorts for now) --but it was probably something akin to knickers or English royalty wigs. You know - just to keep it fresh, --show he was certainly no slave to fashion, no sirree, Bob.<br /><br /><br />Yeah, yeah. I'm being a little rough. We all have our warts . . . and it </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >was</span><span style=";font-family:webdings;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;"> just Valentines Day.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Tell you what - let's you and I make believe Hubby looks like a total hunk in his beanie, and this whole story is super sweet. . . . Oh - and that everyone loves a good reindeer-gag.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Hug-hug, Kiss-kiss, Hubby.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">You're the man!</span><br /></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-21447740098440012842009-02-18T22:00:00.001-08:002010-10-03T23:04:23.094-07:00You're One Sick Puppy<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >. . . I don't </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >like</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > to say that to myself. But sometimes I have to. Like today.<br /><br /><br />Today was my birthday. Fun, right? One of the first things I like to Not do on my birthday, is weigh-in at Weight Watchers.<br />It just feels like such a bummer. Such an injustice from the Birthday Gods.<br /><br />But I psyched myself up for it anyway, --and was even driving there in my slip and stockings (remember, I can't wear much), when I decided ~ </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Forget it!</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >It's my Birthday and I'm taking the day off!</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />My decision came, coincidentally, right about the time I was in front of McDonalds. (</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >And herein</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >comes the sick puppy part--</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >)<br /><br /><br />Well first let me tell you (actually they would call this 'confession' in some religions) --<br />--I've been a very bad girl.<br /><br /><br />So the deal is, in my weigh-in for the last few months, I don't have breakfast before I go. I'm just too distraught to put </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >any</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > ounces in--</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >before they have the chance to get back out</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >--ahead of my weigh-ins.<br />What that has done, is make me </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >soo</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > starving by the time I get weighed. And since everyone knows the hour after a weigh-in is like, total party time - and since there is a McDonalds on the way home from my weigh-ins - I have taken to stopping there for a large diet coke and cinnamelts.<br /><br />I</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" > know!!</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />It's awful, isn't it?!<br />It's like, something I never in my life would do. You know, get a coke first thing in the morning, or have cinnamelts instead of six Kashi almonds and a slice of cheese (or something).<br />It's insane! It's madness! It's craziness!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >It's Heaven.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />And then, one morning in drive-through-- . . . ('cause I </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >never</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > go inside) (I have like, nothing on, --</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >remem</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >ber?) (and heaven help me if I ever get in an accident in front of the Mcdonalds. They are </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Not</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > getting me out of that car. I don't care if they use the jaws of life on me) . . . --they accidentally gave me hot cakes as well!<br />Oh my heck! Oh my gosh!<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Yum</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >mo times four!<br />It's a breakfast Carb'avors like me can only</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >dream</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > of! And is it such a sin now, really, to order diet coke, cinnamelts, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >and</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > hot cakes . . . and just like, white flour and refined sugar PigOut? They're not, super sized or anything.<br /><br /><br />Oh yeah. It's unhealthy.<br /><br /><br />And anyways you're not the Boss of me.<br />Heck, at home I even cut my </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >fat-free</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> milk with water! Blaaaa! I deserve a cinnamelt a week.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Besides, I'm not a machine, --I'm a real person, --with real feelings . . . and it's my birthday. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Leave me alone.</span><br /><br /></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="border: 0pt none ! important; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-repeat: repeat; background-attachment: scroll; background-position: 0% 0%; -moz-background-size: auto auto; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-57658264948393985182009-02-13T15:41:00.000-08:002009-03-02T21:42:18.312-08:00Shopping Frenzy<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Well that was fun.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I ran to Costco (where I rarely go) to use up a gift card (I have had for far too long) on milk and such (massage tables, plasma tv, Jack LaLanne juicer . . .). Come to find out I did not have the card with me as I had supposed, and could not bring myself to shop without it. By the time I had turned around, grabbed coupons at home, and headed over to Vons - the clock was seriously ticking. There is nothing like picking up deliciously unspoiled (yeah, right) teenagers fifteen minutes later than when they </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >wanted</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> to be picked up. (Sometimes I truly cannot remember who has who jumping through hoops.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Occasionally I like to leave my purse in the car when I go grocery shopping, stick my debit card in my jeans, and just hold my coupons. I did that this time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Now I should have you know here, the Coupon Ladies of yesteryear have evolved. We are not nearly as insane and homeless looking as we used to be. (For example, now I methodically run a comb through my hair and chew mint gum, every time I'm about to go in a grocery store.) And because the stores have taken all the fun out of coupon shopping (i.e., limiting use, not taking other store's coupons, etc.), we hardly even argue anymore with the cashiers.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Today I had a long line of rained on soaking wet carts to choose from, --and I hate that. (</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Yes, that's right. I</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >would not have made a good pioneer</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">.) I pick one only to see it doesn't have the undercarriage part - which I way use - so I try another, and it will hardly budge. My third choice is so wet it has puddles in it. (By now there is a small crew of shopping peers stranded between my cart carnage and the other grocery carts.) I pick again, and this cart is absolutely </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >repul</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">sive! '<span style="font-style: italic;">There should be a law against doing what I believe somebody did in</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">here,</span>' I think to myself (-</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >or did I say it out loud?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">). Finally I find one I can stand (</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >I believe I heard applause</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">), and mosey on inside.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">My OCD doesn't stop at the carts alone. How I wish I could just give up on coupons! Their very nature breeds OCD. But in my head every 50 cents I save -is another 50 cents toward something special like Easter bonnets, or sculptures. I keep my grocery list in one pocket, coupons I won't be using this time (I only coupon if the product is on sale) in another pocket, coupons I decide to save for Target in a third, and the coupons I <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> be using this trip in any remaining available orifice. (And see? Why burden myself with a purse?)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I worked at a grocery store a hundred years ago (that's right, --one hundred years ago. And we didn't call them grocery stores then either, --we called them village vendors) --and I was taught by my superiors to never take the first thing on the shelf. Always go back several items and you will find the fresher dated milks, breads, whatever. That was fine then, but now I am a freakish circus act as I stretch, dig, and mutilate to get to the furthest-away product. The little ones enjoy watching me - but the adults mostly look away in disgust.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Lastly, the guy who checked me out (kinda like the sound of that--), kept asking questions but couldn't seem to look me in the eyes. Therefore, </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Did you find everything you need?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> sounded like </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Coffee, tea, or me? </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">and </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Would you like help out?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> sounded like </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Do you really need to pout? --</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Both</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> of which made just as much sense to me as what he was really trying to saying. I stopped short (thankfully) of answering '</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Sorry pal, I'm married . . . plus what can I say? -I'm a pouter</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">.'<br /><br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">(It's done. There is a long line of nutty bars - and I'm </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >right</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> in the middle with the best of them.)<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Physician heal thyself, comes to mind.</span></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-64122801242346276622009-02-09T13:49:00.000-08:002014-10-26T23:42:32.953-07:00The Anti-Polka Dot Her<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Well--</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">--obviously a work in progress . . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">~~The site, I mean - </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%;">Not</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> me.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">(Heck, me? - I am </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">this</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> close to being done!)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Anyhow, I have fantastic ideas in my head for my blog decor, --but somehow I am not able to have them manifested.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The first problem --</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Wouldn't you think it'd be easy to pick a background for the site, out of, like, over 400 choices?</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I mean, is it me?</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">(</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">rhetorical question!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And it's no help that I got sucked into a sparkling Webfetti download that left me with gadget choices such as these, to add to my page:</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Bagel in Love</span> <span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"><br />Zombie Head Bounce</span> <span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"><br />Chopsticks Chasing a Fly</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Toilet Drinking Dog </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%;">~and~</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Old Woman Stuck Under a Shoe</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">While that last one did remind me a </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">little</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> of myself . . . the rest, --no way!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">My second problem arose right after I downloaded </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Webfetti</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">, --because it was then that I remembered Bliss isn't allowed to download anything.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Um, yea. 'Allowed' seems like a pretty severe word to use in a marriage of equal partnership and intelligence, such as Hubby's and mine is -- nevertheless. Even a monkey is allowed to download more stuff than I am. ~~But I'm wa</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">aay</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> better at letting go of treats when my closed fist is stuck in a jar, -than monkeys are.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Anyhow, all this means is that soon Hubby was thickly involved with my site styling, as I didn't know how the heck to get rid of the cheesy download that was now sticking to everything on my screen like cheap polyester.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then, the next thing I knew, each time I turned around he had another wilderness shot as my header or mountain'scape all up in my widgets. And if I needed a wilderness in my widgets, don't you think I'd tell him?!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">It's just that I'm </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">parti</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">cular about this sort of stuff - And I can't just have </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">any</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> old' design representin'.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">For instance, I don't need bows, yellow smiley faces, and talk of 'Love is like Flannel Jammies in Winter' or 'Family Makes Me Giddy,' or 'Happiness is <span style="font-style: italic;">Twilight</span> and Grandchildren'. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Even my temporary '</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">W</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">elcome </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">F</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">riends' is giving me the willies. It smacks of sugar on top of syrup.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I don't know.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Obviously I'm just a fussy, cold-hearted blogger, with no soul.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And I don't </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">mind</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> being a cold-hearted unfeeling blogger, with no soul -- as </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%;">long</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> as my </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">site</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> looks pretty in the meanwhile.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And the Bliss in red you see below? --It's all wrong.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'm just saying -- what the heck kind of color is that? And why all the curlies in my 'B' ?</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And, am I mistaken, or does that 'B' make me look fat?</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Aauuugggh!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'm just going to give it a rest.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'll find something I like tomorrow.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">'Tomorrow's a new day' --</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">. . . and all that other hogwash.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Or to put it another way --<br />too much '<span style="font-style: italic;">cute</span>' thinkin -<br />makes me feel like punkin'.<br /><br />: ) (Smiley Face)<br /></span></span><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/64/753F89DC075AA2C0778C80D18B926D33.png" style="-moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-size: auto auto; background-attachment: scroll; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-26487976340679413072009-02-06T13:35:00.001-08:002014-10-26T23:42:14.312-07:00Hot Off The Press<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Alright. I haven't got a lot of time, --so I'm going to have to make this fast . . . </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">But</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">, I read a headline today that made me crazy! Why crazy? Well, --first, --the headline . . and see for yourself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">'</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Women step up their walking when it's warm outside</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">' ~~Oops, wait. That's not quite right . . . it's~~</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">'</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Study</span>-Women step up their walking when it's warm outside</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">'</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Oh my gosh. </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Study?</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> ~~</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">What is going on America??</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> I mean if the newsworld is so dang interested in the mysteries that make us (</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">women, in this case</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">) tick - here's some more for ya ~~ 'Studies' show most women get haircuts several times a year, enjoy breakfast in bed, and have been known to make phone calls.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I mean, that is literally how lame this sounds to me.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The only thing worse than </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">read</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">ing a news quote that lame, --is knowing that someone was using time to sit around and </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">think</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> about something that lame before they wrote it. Let alone '</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Head</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">line' it!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And I'll go one further (or two or three--) ~ Since this was a 'study,' someone else, or ones'else, had to have drafted the study</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"> and</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> then used </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%;">money</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> on it! <span style="font-style: italic;">Huh?!</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Marbles are literally falling out of peoples heads.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Oh man oh man, if only I were in charge.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Listen, I could save these groups, or research teams, a </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">ton</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> of money, if they'd just come to me, ~and </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">ask</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">! I could tell them anything they wanted to know . . . and in fact, I </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">want </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">to tell somebody everything they need to know!</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And heck, I took statistics. When it's all said and done, anything I say has got at least a 50% chance of being accurate. And they can do better? I doubt it.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Believe me, if this is the kind of stuff The Man is wondering about? --I could be of some definite help. ---</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">And</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> I take grants, checks, gift cards, nickles, and stamps.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">How much easier could it be??</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Okay. So I did go a little nuts over this. </span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And maybe what they </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">really</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> were researching was a cure for cancer - and they just stumbled across this '</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">walking outside is nicer when the weather isn't 10 below</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">,' break-through stuff.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">~~~</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Scientist: </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">"Hey Betty - It's not as cold outside as it was yesterday. You wanna walk over to Subway for lunch?</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Betty: </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">"Um . . . I don't know . . . Do you think I'll need a sweater?"</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">(<span style="font-style: italic;">Scientist busily scribbles away insights into his notebook . . .</span>)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">~~~</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Well I jest. But do we need a news headline to speak to us like we're bored dimwits? I for one say, </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">no!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">It's like the news plug that comes on during a sitcom . . . the one they save for those emergency days where there really </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">isn't</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> anything else news worthy to drum up ---</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">'</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Obama - Boxers or Briefs? News at Eleven'</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I gotta run . . . or I'd rant some more.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sorry!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">But - I will part with this final brainchild, --that was at the end of the article (</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">And yes, yes. I did go ahead</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">and read the whole article. But I only did it for you! My audience of seven!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">)</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> '</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">In his research, Church has found that men are also more active in the summer than winter</span>.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">'</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Oh thank goodness. Research complete. Need I say more?</span><br /><br /></span><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><br /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4187252727099097725.post-24719812131642852832009-02-04T00:16:00.000-08:002009-02-16T00:01:09.447-08:00Super Chaos Saturday<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />Well certainly there is nothing like getting new carpet one day before a SuperBowl party, to test a New Sheriff's heart! --But you know what? Sheriff Hubby did good! He did real good. The guests behaved, the game was played, and the Sheriff enjoyed himself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">(</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >I, on the other hand, did, --almost wet my pants when, while sneaking a bite of cupcake (</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">yes</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >, </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">the 'none-diet' kind of cupcake</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >) --over a dozen people screamed "</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >No -- </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >!!" ) (~~How relieved was I, right? --to see they were only barking at a Steeler, and not the poor-wretched-starving, hostess</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">.)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Pre-Superbowl, on Saturday, --I came home from a lovely afternoon. I'd gone to a fantastic church meeting with the ladies, followed by dinner and lots of bonding. So inspiring!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >flip</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> side of me being gone the entire Saturday afternoon, was that that put the men in charge of house organizing. (</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >Remember now, we'd just</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >gotten carpet, --so <span style="font-weight: bold;">everything</span> we owned had been pulled out of rooms, spaces, and closets</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">.) (--</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >And for future reference, --in such a case? --I would not recommend leaving the guys solely in charge of the pre-party housework.) </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">You see when men (</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >well, at least my men</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">) have mounds of stuff in front them, and are under directions to clean, some part of their brain has them extend their arms, and in wide swooshing movements, push and pile until there appears a space, and everything thing else has landed to one side or the other. The actual putting </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >away</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> of something -- doesn't seem to quite compute. This technique is what I like to call, -- The Perimeter Push.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Say you have a kitchen table full of things that belong somewhere else - like, a school book, bbgun, ketchup, welders mask, and flip-flops . . . What would you do? Would you ---</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">a) - For pete's sake, don't touch </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >any</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">thing! (the 'put-it-away fairy' is sure to come soon . . and besides, you wouldn't want to unintentionally throw her off her game.) </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">b) - Work around it! --It ain't so bad. In fact, --it's rather handy should you find yourself in need of studying for a test, hunting, eatin'tots, welding, and ready'ing for the beach, --all at the same time.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">c) - Pretend you don't see it. (This can get tricky for periods longer than two months, but the more you practice, the easier it will become.)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">d) - In one fell swoop, push everything you see to the edge of the table. This way you have cleaned up </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >and</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> still kept everything handy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">If you guessed any of the above -- you have both failed miserably </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >and</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> ~~if you are a man~~ should feel ashamed of yourself for believing in fairies.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Well. You can imagine what the Perimeter Push done to our mess of a just carpeted house looked like. I gasped a little, coming through the front door. Yet Hubby was feeling so proud. Every speck of furniture in the living room--and more found throughout the house--had been plastered side by side against all the walls, in one large continuous square. In fact, to even get to a chair you would have to be hurled into the empty center, and then scramble to the perimeter seating. All seats faced a tightly wedged in mammoth television that had been hauled in from the garage. Otherwise, the room was barren. The space looked cold, heartless . . . the opposite of all my years of hard work toward a homey feeling, --a woman's touch. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It kind of looked like, well . . I couldn't really put my finger on it until Hubby told me. The living room had been decorated in "</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >arena style,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">" he happily explained.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Well of course! That was it! Apparently, I don't recognize a football or Twisted Sister venue, even when it's staring me in the face! I supposed if we wanted to, we could hold up lighters or cell phones in unison, and wave them back and forth during the game, --groupie'esc like.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">As I continued through the house, it was easy to see very little had actually been put in it's proper place. Even on the back patio, --food storage, clothes, Christmas wrapping, shoe racks, toys, --had all been pushed up against one long wall. And oh how fooled I was! I could hardly spot it!</span><br /><br />~~</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >Well my goodness boys, if you hadn't shown me there was a 12 feet high</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >precariously balanced tower of food storage potatoes, bedroom night stand, Sponge-Bob Christmas wrapping paper, Great Grandmother's china, Tiffany lamp, and three bags of Legos, I never would have noticed!</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >Gee, how hard you have worked!~~</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Certainly having nothing in it's place, didn't faze these guys a single bit. Me? A fantastic shrill was developing from deep within --</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">After passing the family room couches--still in the hall--with sons hanging from them seeing who could last the longest with blood racing to his face ---</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I went upstairs to the </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >second</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> floor Perimeter Push. It was worse than the downstairs, --and since even a healthy pushing couldn't clear a path, it appeared they had given up altogether. (</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >Maybe in hopes that the 'put-it-away fairy' would again materialize and save them the trouble?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Well no fairies showed up, --but a Drill Sargent did (-- And they are </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >much</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> moodier than fairies. Plus they've been know to stare you down, blow whistles, and smack heads).</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Listen -</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I learned a great lesson Saturday, and for that I am grateful. --It is that there are no happy endings, --</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >just</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> because you get new carpet.<br />Life still throws you curve balls (--and then for no reason, leaves them in a pile on your bedroom floor . . . next to a spaghetti pot and bicycle shorts.)<br /><br />Check.<br />Lesson Learned.<br /></span><br /></span><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><br /></a>Name: Blisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196991084086637372noreply@blogger.com2