It was a sad state of events for me yesterday. Truly sad. It's now painfully apparent that I'm officially a full fledged member of the "Old Woman" club. Until yesterday I wasn't really bothered by it. Yesterday, "old" was just another word...the opposite of "young". No big wow. Well it's a big fuckin' wow now. (That just made me think of "how now brown cow"...is that weird?)
Yesterday I woke up with my back sooooo stiff I could barely walk. I had done absolutely nothing the day before that should have hurt it. I've had a bad back for years and it's not like I don't know what's going to hurt it and what's not. So it was really annoying to find out that I can get all stove up by doing NOTHING. But that's what happened.
So I called my trusty chiropractor, Dr. Joe. Dr Joe is a swell little guy. He kinda reminds me of a real life Hobbit or gnome. Okay maybe not a gnome 'cause gnomes are kinda creepy and he's not the least bit creepy. It's really a good thing that he's not creepy because he's married to one of the Old Chix. Dr. Joe is probably one of the most interesting people I know. He knows a lot about a lot of stuff and pretty much always has useful tidbits of information to impart...and he has a great sense of humor.
It was a little disappointing when Dr. Joe answered the phone because I was expecting his receptionist, Melissa, to answer. She and I have a little deal going...whoever wins the lottery first is going to buy the other a face lift. I was hoping to hear she'd won because I know I haven't and I could use some nips & tucks. Instead, Dr. Joe answered, and being the peach that he is, said he could see me after lunch...right before the "all important hair appointment" the location of which is conveniently located directly across from his office.
I hobbled around work all morning in a semi-"L" shape until lunch and after a scrumptious buffet of Szechuan Chicken and Fried Rice, I headed out for my date with Dr. Joe. The office was empty and he was standing at the counter when I hobbled in.
Dr. Joe: "Oh, My."
Dr. Joe says "oh, my" a lot...every time I come in walking weird he says it. I wonder if he says it to everyone or if it's just me. Probably everyone.
Me: "I didn't do anything. I just woke up like this."
I'm really crabby that I can't stand up straight and walk like a normal person. I wonder if it's detectable in my voice. Do I automatically sound like a crabby old woman when something hurts? Does my voice change with the pain level? Maybe next time I should ask him...but do I really want to know? If I know it changes will I automatically try to talk like I usually do and end up sounding even weirder...all in a pathetic attempt to seem normal?
Dr. Joe ushers me back to his table. It's one of those hydraulic lift things that you step on face first and it lays down with you on top. After pushing up and down all over my back...a little press here, a little pop there, I have to turn over onto my back. This is where the trouble began.
One of the back adjustments involves me crossing my arms over my bosom while Dr. Joe grabs me in a bear hug while rolling me into a semi sitting position...then after he gets his hands on either side of my spine, he rolls me back down and voila...snap, crackle, pop. After each little, snap, crackle, pop, I get rolled back up, he re-positions his hands and rolls me back down.
It was during the last snap, crackle, pop, that the unthinkable occurred. I can't remember if it was on the roll up or roll down, it's all a horrible blur, but during either the up or down portion of the maneuver, I farted. Not loudly, but not completely silent either. A million things run through my mind. I wanted to die...I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole...I wanted to wake up in my bed and find out it was all a terrible dream...
Me: "OMG, I just farted" I yelled.
At least it seemed like I yelled. It was probably more of a quiet shout...that slightly horrified raising of the voice that comes out when you can't believe what just happened and can't stop the words from pourin' out of the ol' pie hole like a stream of projectile vomiting. Why can't I just shut the fuck up for once??? He might not have even heard it. He's kinda old, like The Husband, who can't hear much...maybe Dr. Joe has Old Man Ears too.
Dr. Joe, who can't help chuckling, says "Well, yes, you did." He also can't help going to great lengths to try to make me feel better by explaining that you just can't imagine how much pressure builds up in the abdomen and intestines...and despite his valiant attempt to spare my feelings, I'm still totally mortified.
Am I now going to start farting in grocery stores when I bend over to get something off the bottom shelf? ( 'Cause you know that's where the cheap stuff is. They put the expensive stuff...name brands right in the middle, at eye level.) Is this how things are going to go for me now? I'll be standing in a line and fart when I turn around suddenly. Oh, I know, people will try to hide their giggles with a hand over the mouth and pretend like they didn't hear. They'll avoid eye contact so they don't have to acknowledge the gas that just passed between us.
What if it happens, and I shout "OMG I farted!"...like I did in Dr. Joe's office? Will I be able to stop the stream of shit from escaping out of my mouth when I can't stop the flow of flatulence from my ass? Maybe if it's a silent but deadly one I can look around and pretend it's the person standing in front of me...and act appropriately offended.
Hopefully when it happens, if it's an audible play, I won't have just feasted on a giant bowl of kidney beans or chowed down on a bunch of hard boiled eggs...it's the Stoopidist Thing...
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Thursday, February 4, 2016
Who Started All This?????
Sometimes I take Xanax. Usually just a half. (I found out the hard way that taking a whole one makes me sleepy when I didn't have my glasses on and thought I was taking an acid reducer tablet.) Whenever I have to go to some kind of group function where there's going to be strangers..and sometimes even when it's people I know, if it's a large gathering to celebrate some real or imagined occasion I get a little twisted inside. I usually try to avoid these type of situations but sometimes they're unavoidable. The only reason I bring this up is the name...Xanax...pronounced Zan-ax.
Why did they put an "X" at the beginning of this name? Why not a "Z"? And if they had to use an "X", why not pronounce it Exa-nax? Wouldn't that have made more sense?
I read somewhere that Benjamin Franklin proposed getting rid of the letter "X" and I'm with him. Is it really necessary? The only time it's pronounced as an "X" is at the end of a word. When it's at the beginning, it's pronounced as a "Z". Who would make up a word, decide to start it with an"X", and pronounce it like a "Z"? Was it just some schmo trying to be clever? Like parents who think they have to change the spelling of their kids name to something "unique"? So something simple like Sue becomes Sou? And while I'm bitchin' about names, why is Zoe pronounced Zoey? And why isn't there a "y" at the end of Chloe? Parents just cause problems for their children growing up because for the rest of his or her life, the kid always ends up having to correct people for misspelling his or her name.
Why does the English language have to be so complicated? Who decided how things should be spelled? Or what letter should have what sound? How come some combinations of letters sound the same as a single letter? Is there really a reason for having two options when one would work fine? Other than confusing first graders in spelling class?
Why is bologna pronounced baloney? Shouldn't it be bo-log-na? You know how I know how to spell bologna? I sing the Oscar Mayer song in my head from the 60's or 70's...I can't really be decade specific here because I'm old and I don't really remember which one it was. But I know it was a long time ago..."My bologna has a first name..it's O S C A R...my bologna has a second name"...you remember? And I can still see the little boy with the curly dark brown hair singing it. I see the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile in my head too but I don't think it was from the same commercial. (I grew up watching lots of TV. Probably explains my tendency toward Couch Potato-ness...or maybe I'm just lazy.)
Do we really have to use "ck" instead of just "k"? Why isn't rock just rok? When did they decide to put an "h" after a "w" to spell "when"? Wouldn't "wen" have been easier? And if the "h" is so fucking important, how come "win" isn't "whin"?
Years ago I was in a Sunday School class and the teacher was having us all read verses from the Bible. It was a girl named Elizabeth's turn to read. She was reading about some Old Testament One Per Cent'er who had lots of livestock that were being described, oxen, goats, sheep...etc.
The exact verse escapes me but this is the gist of it...
Elizabeth: "and he had 200 she goats and 300 eee-wees"...of course, I laughed out loud immediately. Then, because she was embarrassed, I felt bad for laughing and I got nervous which made me laugh even more. But it really was funny, even if it was embarrassing for her. To this day, I still think it's funny...and I still laugh about it. But if you're a kid and you see the word "ewe" why in the world would you think it would be pronounced "you"? And I did get my comeuppance years later when having to read aloud, I pronounced stenographer...sten-oh-graffer.
It's probably not normal to get bugged by stuff as trivial as this. I can't change it so why do I let it annoy me? It's the Stoopidist Thing...
P.S. In protest from this day forward I'm going to pronounce Xanax..Exa-nax. Pretty fuckin' rebellious, don't ya think?
Why did they put an "X" at the beginning of this name? Why not a "Z"? And if they had to use an "X", why not pronounce it Exa-nax? Wouldn't that have made more sense?
I read somewhere that Benjamin Franklin proposed getting rid of the letter "X" and I'm with him. Is it really necessary? The only time it's pronounced as an "X" is at the end of a word. When it's at the beginning, it's pronounced as a "Z". Who would make up a word, decide to start it with an"X", and pronounce it like a "Z"? Was it just some schmo trying to be clever? Like parents who think they have to change the spelling of their kids name to something "unique"? So something simple like Sue becomes Sou? And while I'm bitchin' about names, why is Zoe pronounced Zoey? And why isn't there a "y" at the end of Chloe? Parents just cause problems for their children growing up because for the rest of his or her life, the kid always ends up having to correct people for misspelling his or her name.
Why does the English language have to be so complicated? Who decided how things should be spelled? Or what letter should have what sound? How come some combinations of letters sound the same as a single letter? Is there really a reason for having two options when one would work fine? Other than confusing first graders in spelling class?
Why is bologna pronounced baloney? Shouldn't it be bo-log-na? You know how I know how to spell bologna? I sing the Oscar Mayer song in my head from the 60's or 70's...I can't really be decade specific here because I'm old and I don't really remember which one it was. But I know it was a long time ago..."My bologna has a first name..it's O S C A R...my bologna has a second name"...you remember? And I can still see the little boy with the curly dark brown hair singing it. I see the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile in my head too but I don't think it was from the same commercial. (I grew up watching lots of TV. Probably explains my tendency toward Couch Potato-ness...or maybe I'm just lazy.)
Do we really have to use "ck" instead of just "k"? Why isn't rock just rok? When did they decide to put an "h" after a "w" to spell "when"? Wouldn't "wen" have been easier? And if the "h" is so fucking important, how come "win" isn't "whin"?
Years ago I was in a Sunday School class and the teacher was having us all read verses from the Bible. It was a girl named Elizabeth's turn to read. She was reading about some Old Testament One Per Cent'er who had lots of livestock that were being described, oxen, goats, sheep...etc.
The exact verse escapes me but this is the gist of it...
Elizabeth: "and he had 200 she goats and 300 eee-wees"...of course, I laughed out loud immediately. Then, because she was embarrassed, I felt bad for laughing and I got nervous which made me laugh even more. But it really was funny, even if it was embarrassing for her. To this day, I still think it's funny...and I still laugh about it. But if you're a kid and you see the word "ewe" why in the world would you think it would be pronounced "you"? And I did get my comeuppance years later when having to read aloud, I pronounced stenographer...sten-oh-graffer.
It's probably not normal to get bugged by stuff as trivial as this. I can't change it so why do I let it annoy me? It's the Stoopidist Thing...
P.S. In protest from this day forward I'm going to pronounce Xanax..Exa-nax. Pretty fuckin' rebellious, don't ya think?
Friday, January 15, 2016
You Can't Take It Back
You know when you say something and as soon as the words left your mouth, you knew instantly, it was the wrong thing to say? It's not like I've never done it before... truth be told, I do it all the time. You'd think that by now, I'd have learned...but noooooooo...I continue to open my mouth and shit falls out.
I went to an Old Chix Christmas gala at Scari's a few weeks ago. She fixed a bunch of food (which was really good) and we had adult beverages, as usual, and we all sat around eating, drinking, and generally being merry...which is what we really do best.
So we're all sitting around the table pokin' each other...verbally, not physically...that would be really creepy having a bunch of old people literally poking each other like a bunch of Pillsbury Doughboys...which we all are...except Dr. Norman...he's kind of a thin mint in his old age. But there we were and the conversation turned to the cruise that Scari, Lois, and I went on in October.
Scari was telling a story about a little tiff that she & Lois had with me putting in my two cents by casually mentioning that "this one never shuts up...she talks all the time" pointing at Scari.
I obviously have super human powers because the Killer Glare I got from Scari would have vaporized a mere mortal. To her credit, Lois laughingly nodded her head in agreement even as she cringed and became suddenly intent on some real or imagined crumb on the table so she wouldn't have to make eye contact with either of us. I'm surprised she didn't start clucking, the big chicken liver.
Maybe I would have been wiser to keep this bit of info to myself. But it was totally true. I just never noticed it before. Probably because when I'm with Scari, we're both yakking when we're driving somewhere or hangin' with the Old Chix. Or maybe because she's pretty snarky and makes me laugh. For whatever reason I never had a clue that she was a chronic gabber.
The next glare becomes less lethal, a simple Wounding Glare, when Scari says "Well, this is the first I've heard about this". Probably because by this time we were all laughing and she would have looked like a giant asshole if she got all pissy and defensive about it. But there it was...the cat was out of the bag and I was just gonna have to deal with the aftermath. (For a while I was getting single word text responses from the Scari One. I don't know why, it's not like I ever said anything about her text messages being too wordy...or that the day wasn't long enough for me to read one, or anything like that.)
Scari sometimes hangs out with a bunch of "kids" that she used to work with, I'll call them the "Young Chix"...and of course she had to ask them if, in fact, she did talk all the time. This is how she relayed their response.
Scari: So, I had lunch with Jen and Emily and I told them what you said about me, and I asked them if I talked a lot. And they said "errrr well we all talk a lot when we're together".
Me: So basically they agreed but just didn't want to say it.
Scari: Well....not really...well maybe sort of.
Me: I didn't say it was a bad thing, just that I'd never noticed it before.
Me In My Head: OMG I've created a fucking monster that I'm going to have to live with the rest of my fucking life. From now until the end of time, I'm going to hear things like "I'm sorry, am I talking too much?" "Oh I would have said something but I didn't want to be accused of talking too much." or "The Young Chix like me...they don't think I talk too much". I just know it...
Buncha chicken liver Young Chix. Although I can't in all good conscience say I blame them, after having experienced first hand, the Killer Glare. Maybe they'd already experienced the lesser, Wounding Glare, for some real or imagined slight and were afraid to tell the truth because then they'd get the Killer Glare and be instantly vaporized. Obviously they don't possess my super human powers rendering them immune from the Killer Glare.
Maybe when the Young Chix get old like me they, too, will magically be blessed with super human powers making them impervious to Killer Glares instantly vaporizing them...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
P.S. Now that I'm aware I have super human powers immunizing me from Killer Glares maybe there's other super human powers I have that I just haven't discovered. I wonder if I really can breathe under water and fly like I do in my dreams? Wouldn't that be too fucking cool for school???
I went to an Old Chix Christmas gala at Scari's a few weeks ago. She fixed a bunch of food (which was really good) and we had adult beverages, as usual, and we all sat around eating, drinking, and generally being merry...which is what we really do best.
So we're all sitting around the table pokin' each other...verbally, not physically...that would be really creepy having a bunch of old people literally poking each other like a bunch of Pillsbury Doughboys...which we all are...except Dr. Norman...he's kind of a thin mint in his old age. But there we were and the conversation turned to the cruise that Scari, Lois, and I went on in October.
Scari was telling a story about a little tiff that she & Lois had with me putting in my two cents by casually mentioning that "this one never shuts up...she talks all the time" pointing at Scari.
I obviously have super human powers because the Killer Glare I got from Scari would have vaporized a mere mortal. To her credit, Lois laughingly nodded her head in agreement even as she cringed and became suddenly intent on some real or imagined crumb on the table so she wouldn't have to make eye contact with either of us. I'm surprised she didn't start clucking, the big chicken liver.
Maybe I would have been wiser to keep this bit of info to myself. But it was totally true. I just never noticed it before. Probably because when I'm with Scari, we're both yakking when we're driving somewhere or hangin' with the Old Chix. Or maybe because she's pretty snarky and makes me laugh. For whatever reason I never had a clue that she was a chronic gabber.
The next glare becomes less lethal, a simple Wounding Glare, when Scari says "Well, this is the first I've heard about this". Probably because by this time we were all laughing and she would have looked like a giant asshole if she got all pissy and defensive about it. But there it was...the cat was out of the bag and I was just gonna have to deal with the aftermath. (For a while I was getting single word text responses from the Scari One. I don't know why, it's not like I ever said anything about her text messages being too wordy...or that the day wasn't long enough for me to read one, or anything like that.)
Scari sometimes hangs out with a bunch of "kids" that she used to work with, I'll call them the "Young Chix"...and of course she had to ask them if, in fact, she did talk all the time. This is how she relayed their response.
Scari: So, I had lunch with Jen and Emily and I told them what you said about me, and I asked them if I talked a lot. And they said "errrr well we all talk a lot when we're together".
Me: So basically they agreed but just didn't want to say it.
Scari: Well....not really...well maybe sort of.
Me: I didn't say it was a bad thing, just that I'd never noticed it before.
Me In My Head: OMG I've created a fucking monster that I'm going to have to live with the rest of my fucking life. From now until the end of time, I'm going to hear things like "I'm sorry, am I talking too much?" "Oh I would have said something but I didn't want to be accused of talking too much." or "The Young Chix like me...they don't think I talk too much". I just know it...
Buncha chicken liver Young Chix. Although I can't in all good conscience say I blame them, after having experienced first hand, the Killer Glare. Maybe they'd already experienced the lesser, Wounding Glare, for some real or imagined slight and were afraid to tell the truth because then they'd get the Killer Glare and be instantly vaporized. Obviously they don't possess my super human powers rendering them immune from the Killer Glare.
Maybe when the Young Chix get old like me they, too, will magically be blessed with super human powers making them impervious to Killer Glares instantly vaporizing them...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
P.S. Now that I'm aware I have super human powers immunizing me from Killer Glares maybe there's other super human powers I have that I just haven't discovered. I wonder if I really can breathe under water and fly like I do in my dreams? Wouldn't that be too fucking cool for school???
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Call The Doctor
The "Official Old Chix" are Scari, Lois, Patty, Chris, Terri, and me. We worked together for years and have managed to get together pretty regularly to eat, drink, and laugh...a lot. The laughing, not the drinking, okay well maybe the drinking too. What we really excel at is eating...which ends up being the cause for much hilarity about our ever expanding waistlines. We always blame the blubber on getting old but probably if we didn't eat quite so much...we might be a tiny bit tinier. But then what would we have to laugh about, except wrinkles, saggy boobage, gray hair, and husbands...better to eat.
We have two "Unofficial Old Chix" who are men...to be fair, they're kinda girly men, but appendagely speaking, they're men. Or so I've been told. Although now that I think of it, none of us "Officials" has personal knowledge of said appendages actually being present...at least not that anybody has confessed to.
Dr. Norman and Randy, who, in true Fuddian Fashion I always call "Wandy", are the "Unofficials".
Dr. Norman, was the first to come work with us. He had a wife and a son and in his former life was a bus driver. His wife was a little on the weird side. Somehow I got involved in trading books with her because we both liked to read. What I didn't know was that I was going to have to "discuss" said books. Weird Wife (hereafter referred to as WW) came to bring me a book or bring one back, I don't really remember, but she asked me about the book she had given me. I don't even remember what she asked, all I remember is her comment.
WW: "It made me feel all dark inside."
Me: Crickets...I have no response...I think I may have come up with "Oh".
I didn't know I was going to have to give a fucking book report when I agreed to this whole book exchange deal. I'm not looking for some hidden meaning in anything I read. I read purely for entertainment. Well sometimes I read if I want to learn about something, but that's kinda for entertainment too, since I'm doing it by choice, not because I have to. Anyway, the whole book exchange didn't really pan out.
Fortunately for us Old Chix, Dr. Norman wasn't nearly as weird as WW. He's still weird, but in a good way, not Twilight Zone weird.
Back in the day, we worked in the basement of an old government building. At one time it was an evacuation shelter and it had dorm rooms, showers, etc. Our little area had its own "break" room off to the side complete with a toilet in a closet. When you turned on the light, in the toilet closet,there was a huge exhaust fan that automatically started.
You could hear the exhaust fan back at our desks it was so loud, so imagine our surprise, mine and Scari's, when Dr. Norman went into the bathroom and we could hear him farting over the sound of the fan clear out in our office!!! Never in my life have I heard such a sound. And it lasted for-evvv-er...I'm pretty sure it was the longest fart in the history of mankind.
Scari & I looked at each other in bug eyed shock...
Me: "Do you think he knows we can hear him?"
Scari: "I don't think so."
Me: "You should tell him."
Scari: "I'm not gonna tell him, you tell him."
Me: "I can't tell him, you tell him." And so on, and so on...
Neither one of us had the guts to tell him that night. I don't know how we found out later that he just didn't care if we heard him or not. No big deal. And it wasn't, except to us.
Unlike men, who feel free to let loose whenever the urge hits them, most of us "women" have been trained from toddler age that it's not polite to fart in front of people. So instead of expelling a wee bit of methane infused rectal breath, we endure excruciating stomach cramps until we can finally get somewhere where nobody can hear or, God forbid, smell us farting.
But the incident did manage to confirm, without first hand knowledge of any appendage, that the good Dr. is a real man after all. No one but a man would be able to fart like that so unconcerned about anyone hearing him...I wish I could be more like that...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. I wonder if Caitlyn Jenner farts like a man now or a woman???
We have two "Unofficial Old Chix" who are men...to be fair, they're kinda girly men, but appendagely speaking, they're men. Or so I've been told. Although now that I think of it, none of us "Officials" has personal knowledge of said appendages actually being present...at least not that anybody has confessed to.
Dr. Norman and Randy, who, in true Fuddian Fashion I always call "Wandy", are the "Unofficials".
Dr. Norman, was the first to come work with us. He had a wife and a son and in his former life was a bus driver. His wife was a little on the weird side. Somehow I got involved in trading books with her because we both liked to read. What I didn't know was that I was going to have to "discuss" said books. Weird Wife (hereafter referred to as WW) came to bring me a book or bring one back, I don't really remember, but she asked me about the book she had given me. I don't even remember what she asked, all I remember is her comment.
WW: "It made me feel all dark inside."
Me: Crickets...I have no response...I think I may have come up with "Oh".
I didn't know I was going to have to give a fucking book report when I agreed to this whole book exchange deal. I'm not looking for some hidden meaning in anything I read. I read purely for entertainment. Well sometimes I read if I want to learn about something, but that's kinda for entertainment too, since I'm doing it by choice, not because I have to. Anyway, the whole book exchange didn't really pan out.
Fortunately for us Old Chix, Dr. Norman wasn't nearly as weird as WW. He's still weird, but in a good way, not Twilight Zone weird.
Back in the day, we worked in the basement of an old government building. At one time it was an evacuation shelter and it had dorm rooms, showers, etc. Our little area had its own "break" room off to the side complete with a toilet in a closet. When you turned on the light, in the toilet closet,there was a huge exhaust fan that automatically started.
You could hear the exhaust fan back at our desks it was so loud, so imagine our surprise, mine and Scari's, when Dr. Norman went into the bathroom and we could hear him farting over the sound of the fan clear out in our office!!! Never in my life have I heard such a sound. And it lasted for-evvv-er...I'm pretty sure it was the longest fart in the history of mankind.
Scari & I looked at each other in bug eyed shock...
Me: "Do you think he knows we can hear him?"
Scari: "I don't think so."
Me: "You should tell him."
Scari: "I'm not gonna tell him, you tell him."
Me: "I can't tell him, you tell him." And so on, and so on...
Neither one of us had the guts to tell him that night. I don't know how we found out later that he just didn't care if we heard him or not. No big deal. And it wasn't, except to us.
Unlike men, who feel free to let loose whenever the urge hits them, most of us "women" have been trained from toddler age that it's not polite to fart in front of people. So instead of expelling a wee bit of methane infused rectal breath, we endure excruciating stomach cramps until we can finally get somewhere where nobody can hear or, God forbid, smell us farting.
But the incident did manage to confirm, without first hand knowledge of any appendage, that the good Dr. is a real man after all. No one but a man would be able to fart like that so unconcerned about anyone hearing him...I wish I could be more like that...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. I wonder if Caitlyn Jenner farts like a man now or a woman???
Saturday, December 5, 2015
The Cucumber Test
Someone sent me a cat video that showed cats being scared by cucumbers. When the cats were eating, they'd turn around and find a cucumber or two laying on the floor behind them. When they saw them, the cats would go straight up in the air...apparently scared out of their wits by a motionless cucumber. It was really funny and there were several different cats in the montage so it's not like it was just one cat who had a phobia about cucumbers being scared over and over. That would be kinda cruel to scare your cat over and over just for you own personal amusement...like putting tape on their feet to watch them walk around shaking each leg individually trying to get the tape off. Not that I've ever done anything like that...
So I was wondering if I could scare my cats, Wilson the Wonderful, Hudson the Horrible, and Lilli Mowbean just by putting a cucumber on the floor.
I set the stage...the kitchen floor...freshly swept of excess cat hair. The bait...stinky wet cat food...the kind they can't resist...all is ready.
Everybody has their back to me and each is intent on his/her plate of stinky fish parts. I surreptitiously walk past and place two cucumbers on the floor...and I wait...and I watch...and think "crap I should have had a camera ready"...too late.
As it turns out, I had plenty of time to get a camera because it took them fucking forever to eat the piddly little spoon of food I gave each of them. But who knew??
Finally after hours of waiting they turn around...one by one...Lilli was first...she didn't even look at the cucumber. Wilson was second...nada. I hope against hope that Horrible Hudson will reward my efforts as I wait an eternity for the little pig to finish his food...and Lilli's...and Wilson's. Finally he's done.
And it was all for naught. None of my cats even noticed the cucumbers laying on the floor. WTF???
How come my cats didn't get scared? They acted like it was a normal everyday occurrence to see cucumbers laying on the floor. I'm no Susie Homemaker but I really don't store cucumbers on the floor of the kitchen. I put them in the food rotting section of the refrigerator where they belong. You know that special little drawer where fresh fruits and vegetables turn liquid? Except for oranges and lemons. They turn into little orange and yellow rocks.
So my little experiment in cat frightening was a total failure. Maybe God was punishing me for intentionally trying to scare my cats. Maybe one of them has a weak heart or would have been severely injured trying to escape dangerous cucumber territory. Apparently I'll never know because MY cats don't seem to get scared like everybody else's stoopid cats.
So much for cat scaring experiments...guess I'll just have to see how long it takes the cucumbers to turn liquid...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. The Cool Cucumber Cats
Wilson the Wonderful
Lilli Mowbean
So I was wondering if I could scare my cats, Wilson the Wonderful, Hudson the Horrible, and Lilli Mowbean just by putting a cucumber on the floor.
I set the stage...the kitchen floor...freshly swept of excess cat hair. The bait...stinky wet cat food...the kind they can't resist...all is ready.
Everybody has their back to me and each is intent on his/her plate of stinky fish parts. I surreptitiously walk past and place two cucumbers on the floor...and I wait...and I watch...and think "crap I should have had a camera ready"...too late.
As it turns out, I had plenty of time to get a camera because it took them fucking forever to eat the piddly little spoon of food I gave each of them. But who knew??
Finally after hours of waiting they turn around...one by one...Lilli was first...she didn't even look at the cucumber. Wilson was second...nada. I hope against hope that Horrible Hudson will reward my efforts as I wait an eternity for the little pig to finish his food...and Lilli's...and Wilson's. Finally he's done.
And it was all for naught. None of my cats even noticed the cucumbers laying on the floor. WTF???
How come my cats didn't get scared? They acted like it was a normal everyday occurrence to see cucumbers laying on the floor. I'm no Susie Homemaker but I really don't store cucumbers on the floor of the kitchen. I put them in the food rotting section of the refrigerator where they belong. You know that special little drawer where fresh fruits and vegetables turn liquid? Except for oranges and lemons. They turn into little orange and yellow rocks.
So my little experiment in cat frightening was a total failure. Maybe God was punishing me for intentionally trying to scare my cats. Maybe one of them has a weak heart or would have been severely injured trying to escape dangerous cucumber territory. Apparently I'll never know because MY cats don't seem to get scared like everybody else's stoopid cats.
So much for cat scaring experiments...guess I'll just have to see how long it takes the cucumbers to turn liquid...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. The Cool Cucumber Cats
Wilson the Wonderful
Hudson the Horrible
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Simplify Whenever Possible
I've come to a point in my life where I want to simplify things...all things. I don't want to make ten trips to town when one will do, but I don't want to spend a lot of time planning. Therein lies the rub, or is it lays the rub? I can't remember and in an effort to simplify, I'm just going to go with whatever sounds right to me at the moment so I don't waste time looking shit up. Undoubtedly this will cause horrendous moans and groans from the Scari One, but so fucking what???
Although now that I think about it, it may be simpler to look shit up than spend hours of my life listening to the self appointed Grammar Queen lecture me on the proper usage of lay and lie. I may have to adjust my levels of simplifying...
When I started writing this blog, I was all paranoid about using my "regular" Yahoo email account...because what if I said something that hurt somebody's feelings? I don't intentionally try to hurt feelings but sometimes the way I see things isn't the way other people see things...and lots of stuff I think is funny doesn't seem funny to the one it's happened to. (It really is funny though.)
The whole "secrecy" thing started with a fake Facebook page I started to use for work. So, I had to create an email account for that...on Gmail...I didn't have to use Gmail, but I figured it would be more "secret" than Yahoo. But then I told someone about it and ended up with Facebook "friends" who now knew that it was my account so I couldn't use it for work anymore. BUT, I still had the Gmail account.
So originally I used the Gmail account when I started the blog. At some point, and I don't remember when, it got switched to another "new" Yahoo email account. Then I had two Yahoo accounts and one Gmail account.
It wasn't really a problem at first because if I used Google Chrome, the blogger dashboard would pop up and I could just click on and start writing. But alas, Google wanted to "simplify" things for me. I had to create a "profile". Somehow, through operator error no doubt, I used the "secret" Yahoo email address instead of the original Gmail one. The level of confusion deepens with each email address used because I have to have "passwords" for each one...which means I have to "remember" said passwords.
Somehow I ended up with a second "Gmail" address linked to this blog. Maybe I thought it would be simpler to have and address with the title in the address, i.e, thestoopidist@gmail.com. Who knows???? I can't remember.
So now I have two Yahoo addresses and two Gmail addresses...and only one logs into this site...and this morning I couldn't remember which was which so I ended up wasting time resetting passwords.
Now when you reset passwords on Google and Apple, they won't let you use a password that you've used "recently". So I can't use old standby's that I've used in the past...ones that I can remember. Nooooo, now I have to make up new ones...ones that I know I'm never going to remember. I'm sure they're trying to keep everything "secure" and all that, but why can't I use whatever password that I want to use? And now they make you use at least one capital letter and one number or "character". I would call Google and Apple "Password Nazis" but then, someone would get all inflamed about me comparing them to Nazis...because now everybody is supposed to be so fucking politically correct.
Computers were supposed to make everything "simpler". When they first came out everything was going to be more efficient. And don't get me wrong, the Internet is a great thing if you need information on something. I mean, you can find out anything on the Internet. But except for a word processing program or spreadsheet, I don't really think they're that much more efficient.
Every program at work has to have its own "password"...which has to be reset every so often for "security" reasons. And you're told NEVER to write down your password in case someone sees it and uses it for nefarious purposes. Hell, you're not even supposed to trust the people you work with. They even make you sign a "Computer Policy"...acknowledging that you "know the rules".
But if every program has its own password and you're never supposed to write anything down, how do you ever remember ALL THE DIFFERENT FUCKING PASSWORDS?
Answer: YOU DON'T!
You know what you do? You simplify...you go back to the old pre-computer standby that we all know and love...which is why I now have Post It notes with all my email addresses and passwords taped all over where they're in plain view so I never have this problem again...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. I violate the computer policy at work regularly...and so do my co-workers.
Although now that I think about it, it may be simpler to look shit up than spend hours of my life listening to the self appointed Grammar Queen lecture me on the proper usage of lay and lie. I may have to adjust my levels of simplifying...
When I started writing this blog, I was all paranoid about using my "regular" Yahoo email account...because what if I said something that hurt somebody's feelings? I don't intentionally try to hurt feelings but sometimes the way I see things isn't the way other people see things...and lots of stuff I think is funny doesn't seem funny to the one it's happened to. (It really is funny though.)
The whole "secrecy" thing started with a fake Facebook page I started to use for work. So, I had to create an email account for that...on Gmail...I didn't have to use Gmail, but I figured it would be more "secret" than Yahoo. But then I told someone about it and ended up with Facebook "friends" who now knew that it was my account so I couldn't use it for work anymore. BUT, I still had the Gmail account.
So originally I used the Gmail account when I started the blog. At some point, and I don't remember when, it got switched to another "new" Yahoo email account. Then I had two Yahoo accounts and one Gmail account.
It wasn't really a problem at first because if I used Google Chrome, the blogger dashboard would pop up and I could just click on and start writing. But alas, Google wanted to "simplify" things for me. I had to create a "profile". Somehow, through operator error no doubt, I used the "secret" Yahoo email address instead of the original Gmail one. The level of confusion deepens with each email address used because I have to have "passwords" for each one...which means I have to "remember" said passwords.
Somehow I ended up with a second "Gmail" address linked to this blog. Maybe I thought it would be simpler to have and address with the title in the address, i.e, thestoopidist@gmail.com. Who knows???? I can't remember.
So now I have two Yahoo addresses and two Gmail addresses...and only one logs into this site...and this morning I couldn't remember which was which so I ended up wasting time resetting passwords.
Now when you reset passwords on Google and Apple, they won't let you use a password that you've used "recently". So I can't use old standby's that I've used in the past...ones that I can remember. Nooooo, now I have to make up new ones...ones that I know I'm never going to remember. I'm sure they're trying to keep everything "secure" and all that, but why can't I use whatever password that I want to use? And now they make you use at least one capital letter and one number or "character". I would call Google and Apple "Password Nazis" but then, someone would get all inflamed about me comparing them to Nazis...because now everybody is supposed to be so fucking politically correct.
Computers were supposed to make everything "simpler". When they first came out everything was going to be more efficient. And don't get me wrong, the Internet is a great thing if you need information on something. I mean, you can find out anything on the Internet. But except for a word processing program or spreadsheet, I don't really think they're that much more efficient.
Every program at work has to have its own "password"...which has to be reset every so often for "security" reasons. And you're told NEVER to write down your password in case someone sees it and uses it for nefarious purposes. Hell, you're not even supposed to trust the people you work with. They even make you sign a "Computer Policy"...acknowledging that you "know the rules".
But if every program has its own password and you're never supposed to write anything down, how do you ever remember ALL THE DIFFERENT FUCKING PASSWORDS?
Answer: YOU DON'T!
You know what you do? You simplify...you go back to the old pre-computer standby that we all know and love...which is why I now have Post It notes with all my email addresses and passwords taped all over where they're in plain view so I never have this problem again...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. I violate the computer policy at work regularly...and so do my co-workers.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Caspers Hot Dogs...With The Bird
I went to my brother's house for dinner a week ago. The Brother, nicknamed "The Bird" when he was a wee little scamp, is now a gray haired middle aged old guy. I still call him "The Bird" sometimes. Mainly because he still calls me "The Toad" or "Toadly", a name lovingly graced upon me by my late father. Apparently I was pouting about something at one time and my dad said I was puffed up like a toad...and it stuck...even though I'm sure I don't puff up and pout anymore...or do I?
When my favorite SIL (Sister In Law), Michelle, called I figured it was a good day to go visit. They live about an hour to an hour and a half away, depending on traffic, and since the next day was a holiday I didn't have to get up early & go to work. Side note: In an effort to be truthful, whatever SIL I happen to be talking to at the moment is the "favorite" SIL...because I really love 'em all...equally... I mean it would be really shitty to have a real "favorite" wouldn't it? It would be kinda like having a "favorite" child...and everybody knows how strictly forbidden THAT is, don't we? Just thought I should be totally clear on this because heaven forbid...I certainly wouldn't want to ever be accused of FAVORITISM.
SIL 'Chelle: "Hey, haven't seen you for awhile and wanted to see if you want to come down for dinner"
Me: "Okay".
SIL'Chelle: "We're just having hot dogs". "Casper's hot dogs. Bird says they were your dad's favorite." "It's just going to be us & Gabriel (The Grandson of The Brother)." She said some other stuff too, fave SIL 'Chelle is a little chatty, but I don't really remember what it was. I don't remember Casper's being my dad's favorite either but apparently The Brother does. Funny how everybody remembers things differently.
Me: "Okay". I'm not quite as chatty as Fave SIL "Chelle.
I futz around until it's almost time to leave, jump in the shower, and hit the road.
I actually didn't hit any traffic and made it in record time.
Fave SIL 'Chelle was in the house when I got there along with a new black Chihuahua...and an old Chihuahua, Pigitha. They're actually not bad for Chihuahua's...they don't do that shaky thing that most of them do. I don't really know what that shaky thing is but bigger dogs and even small dogs that aren't Chihuahuas don't do it.
The Brother is in the backyard with The Grandson. He's younger than me and, me, he has grandchildren. The Husband and I have kids who've failed to reproduce. Sad but true...but we have cats instead!! We have to feed 'em & clean up their poop so it's kinda the same thing...on the plus side, we can leave them alone overnight. I really want grand kids...but back to The Brother.
After a hug The Brother starts giving me three flavors of shit about the town I live in. Seems there's some list of the most redneck towns and mine is high up on the list. This is also the town where The Brother grew up...just sayin'.
The whole time he's making fun of where I live I look around and notice he's standing between his doughboy pool with a torn liner and an old hot tub that he's converted to a planter box that's filled with dying tomato plants...then he points out the latest acquisition...a plastic toadstool table and chair set. As Arsenio would say..."it's one of those things that make you go hmmmm?". Since it was really hot outside we went inside, where he'd rigged up a fifty pound block of ice in a metal washtub sitting in front of a fan to cool the place off. Hmmmm...
(Okay, I just made that part up...the doughboy doesn't have a torn liner...and he has A/C...everything else it totally true.)
Time for dinner...
So in my pea brain, I just assumed we were going to BBQ hot dogs...which is how I like 'em. It's pretty much the only way I eat them anymore. Looking back, I don't know where I got that idea. But imagine my surprise when Fave SIL 'Chelle put a big ol' pot of water on the stove...to boil some dogs.
I know a lot of people are hot dog purists...steamed old fashioned dogs in a bun loaded with sauerkraut, relish, mustard and all the other stuff. I just don't happen to be one of them. My current favorite is Costco Beef Dinner Franks. I used to be a Hebrew National fan and I still like 'em but I like the Costco ones better. I like 'em grilled but not charred...and I like the bun a little toasted. A little mayo and a little thin line of mustard all along the dog...that's all.
I want mayo but if I don't have it I won't die but NO MIRACLE WHIP!!! Under no circumstance is Miracle Whip a substitute for mayonnaise. The Bird remembers Dad loving Casper's but I remember him loving Miracle Whip. Yuck...which just so happens to rhyme with...???...you know...the big "F" word...and, please note, I haven't felt the need to drop a single "F" bomb yet. Maybe I'm getting more mature after all.
Fortunately Fave SIL 'Chelle made some chili so I was able to put a spoonful of that on my dog. When I took the first bite I felt a slight crunch...kind of a pop. I don't know if Casper's uses some kind of sausage casing or if the skin is just different. It bothers me because I don't really know what that lining is made from. My dad used to say cat gut but I don't really think it's made from cats. I think it's some kind of other animal intestine which totally grosses me out.
I was hungry so I ate the whole thing. I'm not sure if it was because I was really, really hungry or because I didn't want to hurt Fave SIL 'Chelle's feelings. I mean, she's sooooo nice, it would be like kicking a puppy to hurt her feelings. Whatever the reason...I did it. Then I went into the bathroom and barfed it all up.
(Okay I made that up...I didn't go to the bathroom and barf...but I wanted to...I kept thinking I just ate intestines...like one of those Walking Dead zombies.)
After a feast of intestinal stuffed meat remnants and the new knowledge that I'm a redneck I headed for home...
When I finally got back and turned onto the main street in town I suddenly got a hankerin' to pull into 7-11 to get a Big Gulp and a giant bag of pork rinds...
I don't ever remember wanting pork rinds or a Big Gulp in my life, and I don't think I've ever used the word hankerin' either...I guess now that I've been informed I'm a redneck my life's gonna change...it's the stoopidist thing
When my favorite SIL (Sister In Law), Michelle, called I figured it was a good day to go visit. They live about an hour to an hour and a half away, depending on traffic, and since the next day was a holiday I didn't have to get up early & go to work. Side note: In an effort to be truthful, whatever SIL I happen to be talking to at the moment is the "favorite" SIL...because I really love 'em all...equally... I mean it would be really shitty to have a real "favorite" wouldn't it? It would be kinda like having a "favorite" child...and everybody knows how strictly forbidden THAT is, don't we? Just thought I should be totally clear on this because heaven forbid...I certainly wouldn't want to ever be accused of FAVORITISM.
SIL 'Chelle: "Hey, haven't seen you for awhile and wanted to see if you want to come down for dinner"
Me: "Okay".
SIL'Chelle: "We're just having hot dogs". "Casper's hot dogs. Bird says they were your dad's favorite." "It's just going to be us & Gabriel (The Grandson of The Brother)." She said some other stuff too, fave SIL 'Chelle is a little chatty, but I don't really remember what it was. I don't remember Casper's being my dad's favorite either but apparently The Brother does. Funny how everybody remembers things differently.
Me: "Okay". I'm not quite as chatty as Fave SIL "Chelle.
I futz around until it's almost time to leave, jump in the shower, and hit the road.
I actually didn't hit any traffic and made it in record time.
Fave SIL 'Chelle was in the house when I got there along with a new black Chihuahua...and an old Chihuahua, Pigitha. They're actually not bad for Chihuahua's...they don't do that shaky thing that most of them do. I don't really know what that shaky thing is but bigger dogs and even small dogs that aren't Chihuahuas don't do it.
The Brother is in the backyard with The Grandson. He's younger than me and, me, he has grandchildren. The Husband and I have kids who've failed to reproduce. Sad but true...but we have cats instead!! We have to feed 'em & clean up their poop so it's kinda the same thing...on the plus side, we can leave them alone overnight. I really want grand kids...but back to The Brother.
After a hug The Brother starts giving me three flavors of shit about the town I live in. Seems there's some list of the most redneck towns and mine is high up on the list. This is also the town where The Brother grew up...just sayin'.
The whole time he's making fun of where I live I look around and notice he's standing between his doughboy pool with a torn liner and an old hot tub that he's converted to a planter box that's filled with dying tomato plants...then he points out the latest acquisition...a plastic toadstool table and chair set. As Arsenio would say..."it's one of those things that make you go hmmmm?". Since it was really hot outside we went inside, where he'd rigged up a fifty pound block of ice in a metal washtub sitting in front of a fan to cool the place off. Hmmmm...
(Okay, I just made that part up...the doughboy doesn't have a torn liner...and he has A/C...everything else it totally true.)
Time for dinner...
So in my pea brain, I just assumed we were going to BBQ hot dogs...which is how I like 'em. It's pretty much the only way I eat them anymore. Looking back, I don't know where I got that idea. But imagine my surprise when Fave SIL 'Chelle put a big ol' pot of water on the stove...to boil some dogs.
I know a lot of people are hot dog purists...steamed old fashioned dogs in a bun loaded with sauerkraut, relish, mustard and all the other stuff. I just don't happen to be one of them. My current favorite is Costco Beef Dinner Franks. I used to be a Hebrew National fan and I still like 'em but I like the Costco ones better. I like 'em grilled but not charred...and I like the bun a little toasted. A little mayo and a little thin line of mustard all along the dog...that's all.
I want mayo but if I don't have it I won't die but NO MIRACLE WHIP!!! Under no circumstance is Miracle Whip a substitute for mayonnaise. The Bird remembers Dad loving Casper's but I remember him loving Miracle Whip. Yuck...which just so happens to rhyme with...???...you know...the big "F" word...and, please note, I haven't felt the need to drop a single "F" bomb yet. Maybe I'm getting more mature after all.
Fortunately Fave SIL 'Chelle made some chili so I was able to put a spoonful of that on my dog. When I took the first bite I felt a slight crunch...kind of a pop. I don't know if Casper's uses some kind of sausage casing or if the skin is just different. It bothers me because I don't really know what that lining is made from. My dad used to say cat gut but I don't really think it's made from cats. I think it's some kind of other animal intestine which totally grosses me out.
I was hungry so I ate the whole thing. I'm not sure if it was because I was really, really hungry or because I didn't want to hurt Fave SIL 'Chelle's feelings. I mean, she's sooooo nice, it would be like kicking a puppy to hurt her feelings. Whatever the reason...I did it. Then I went into the bathroom and barfed it all up.
(Okay I made that up...I didn't go to the bathroom and barf...but I wanted to...I kept thinking I just ate intestines...like one of those Walking Dead zombies.)
After a feast of intestinal stuffed meat remnants and the new knowledge that I'm a redneck I headed for home...
When I finally got back and turned onto the main street in town I suddenly got a hankerin' to pull into 7-11 to get a Big Gulp and a giant bag of pork rinds...
I don't ever remember wanting pork rinds or a Big Gulp in my life, and I don't think I've ever used the word hankerin' either...I guess now that I've been informed I'm a redneck my life's gonna change...it's the stoopidist thing
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