Here Kitty, Kitty

I don't know why I wonder about things like this, but driving home this morning I started wondering about how people in Mexico call their cats. You know how we say "here kitty, kitty"? What do they say there? 

"Gato" is a cat and "gatito" is a kitten but it just doesn't roll off the tongue the same. "Gato" could work because it has the same number of syllables, but "gatito" is just plain wrong sounding 

It's one of those things that would make Arsenio Hall go "hmmm"...if he still had a late night talk show. Speaking of Arsenio, how did he ever play the "Name Game"? You remember that song? Mary, Mary, bo berry, bo na na fanna Fo ferry? Multisyllabic first names like Arsenio just don't work. Parents should think of shit like this before they give their kids weird names. I thought he could have just used his first syllable, but that would be Ar & that's not a name, it's a misspelled word (are). Then I thought the first few letters, but that would be Arse, British for "ass". No good...and why do they put an "r" in ass anyway? People with British accents always sound so prim and proper, kinda like they're really smart, and then they go and pronounce "ass" wrong. 

I finally had to go to the all-knowing Google...to satisfy my cat killing curiosity. Kitty is "bote" in Spanish. Pronounced "bow-tay". It works...kinda like "kitty" does. Who'd a thunk it? 

Not quite a deep thinker, am I? It's The Stoopidist Thing...

Trying Not to Fart

So, now that I'm old I find some part of me is always gimpy. It varies...pretty much on a daily basis...depending on what I've been doing. Sometimes it's my shoulder, sometimes it's my knee, sometimes it's my back...actually, it's always my back, so that seems kinda normal. But it's all annoying.

My old friend Char, of undesirable snackage fame, kept touting the benefits of yoga to me. Specifically, a MyoFascial Release class...where, basically, you lay around on balls of various sizes and levels of firmness. I was, admittedly, skeptical of the whole shebang.

I tried yoga before and it was just okay. Nothing great, nothing horrible, just average...and everybody was so fucking serious about it. I have trouble being serious...especially when it seems required...like church, or funerals. There's just something about people being so solemn that makes me want to laugh. I'm sure it's some kind of weird personality disorder.

Imagine my surprise when I fucking loved it!!! Nobody, I mean nobody, could have been more surprised than me. Who'd a thunk that laying on top of balls strategically placed could bring so much relief to my aching body???

The rubbery instructor, Yogi Leslie, who's a little slip of a thing with nary an ounce of fat on her entire body can twist herself like a pretzel. She's very passionate about what she does and sometimes I still find myself wanting to laugh.

YL will tell us to think about the "quality of your thoughts" as we're breathing deeply, eyes closed, lying there on top of hard round rubber balls poking into the muscles of our shoulders...trying to relax. WTF does that even mean, I think to myself??? The "quality" of my thoughts??? I have to worry about whether or not my thoughts have some important quality now? At times like this, I find myself trying to breathe really deeply so I won't start laughing...or worse...snorking like a pig.

Yesterday at class we were using squishier rubber balls about the size of a  small cantaloupe. The ball was positioned between the ribcage and hip. So I'm laying there on my back, fat, dumb, and happily trying to relax...when I start to feel gas, seemingly from where the ball is pressing into my back, start winding its way to the nearest point of exit.

In a room filled to capacity with fellow ball layers seeking some small measure of muscle relief, I'm trapped like a rat, frozen motionless. Trying to prevent the escape of air the cheeks of my butt are practically welded together when a miracle occurs. The seemingly giant but probably minuscule bubble of air goes back to wherever it came from. I'm still not sure how that works because it never seems like you feel it going back up the same way you feel it coming down. But I'm not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth and I'm able to finally breathe a sigh of relief.

It's a good thing too because just after this the next thing I hear coming from YL's voice is "think about the quality of your thoughts" and I'm fortunately able to breathe really deeply so I don't laugh out loud...It's the Stoopidist Thing.

WWTC - Day 3

I said I was going to do this every day...so here goes...

We have new neighbors. When we moved here twenty years ago, the couple next door were the oldsters. Last month the oldsters moved out and youngsters moved in. With little kids and four dogs.

There's a lot of commotion that goes on with young families. My horses are spooked by the little kids running around. The dogs are constantly barking at the strangers next door. We've had vehicles coming & going down our little road more in the last few weeks that in all the time we've lived here. At least that's how it seems.

Thankfully our little neighborhood, while not perfect, is made up of pretty great people. Today I was talking to the new neighbor across the pasture fence. While he and I were talking, his two little girls ran up to the house and brought back apples for my horses. Only one of them was brave enough to hold out her hand with a piece of apple in the palm so the horse could have it. She may have just been bitten with the Horse Bug.

I'm thankful I got to know the old neighbors that moved and thankful for the new ones starting out in a new place. I'll be even more thankful if it turns out the little girl was bitten by the horse bug...there's nothing like a little girl in love with horses.

P.S. The Husband and I are now the "Oldsters"...It's the stoopidist thing...

WWTC - Day 2

Today I'm thankful for Holiday Grapes. I'm pretty sure that's not the real name, but that's what they're called in the grocery store. They're a really crisp, sweet, red seedless grape that's only around this time of the year and I'm ridiculously happy when I see them. They're the only grapes I buy all year.

I should be thankful for more important things, like clean water, a warm bed to sleep in, a refrigerator full of food, and a heating source that doesn't include burning fecal matter...and I am. They're all things I shouldn't take for granted, but I do.

Still, even knowing it's incredibly shallow...I was really thankful for those grapes...AND...they were on sale...which made me doubly thankful...It's the stoopidist thing.


Worldwide 30-day Thankfulness Challenge

WWTC

This has nothing to do with wrestling...but that's what I immediately thought of when I saw the title typed out. It's the World Wide Thankfulness Challenge. Starting today and throughout the month of November, you're supposed to write down things you're thankful for on a daily basis.

Never having been one to "journal" my innermost feelings or deeply ponder the mysteries of the universe, it's kinda surprising that I decided to do this. I signed up on the FB World Wide 30-day Thankfulness Challenge Group page to do it, but since I've never actually posted anything on FB, I figured it would be easier for me to do it here.

When I stop & think about it's a little overwhelming. With The Husband, a wonderful family, great friends, horses, dogs, and cats that I love...there's so much to be thankful for I don't even know where to begin. It's like going to the Thankfulness Grocery store and trying to pick only one thing from the shelves.

But tonight I'm thankful for a hot bath...It's the stoopidist thing...

P.S. I'm the Queen of Procrastination but I'm really going to try to stick with it...unlike every diet I've ever started.


World Wide 30-day Thankfulness Challenge

He Still Hears Just Fine....

I know I complain an awful lot about The Husband and his refusal to acknowledge his need for a hearing aid...and I'm gonna keep on doing it.

While I was watching a new TV series tonight, The Husband came in and sat down during the last ten minutes of the episode. Now, I know he can't hear any of the dialogue because the volume isn't set how he likes it...loud enough for the neighbors to hear it clearly from their house...which is half a football field away.

I'm sure it's probably frustrating trying to lip read TV shows. Maybe that's the reason he wanted a bigger TV...so the lips would be bigger and easier to read. 

Well, I'm here to tell you that doesn't work. This is our brief conversation...

"Well, that was a stupid movie." The Husband pronounced...after seeing the last ten minutes of what, to him, was a silent movie.

Clearly annoyed that he has the audacity to pronounce judgment on something he has barely seen and hasn't heard a word of, I wittily reply "It's not a movie, it's a series."

I promise I'm not making this up...this is what he said...

"Her name is Cereal?"

I'm still laughing just thinking about it...It's The Stoopidist Thing...

The Husband & Me

I went to Costco late Sunday afternoon with The Husband. I didn't think it would be as crowded as it was. Don't ask me why I thought Costco wouldn't be crowded on a weekend day. There is no logical explanation. This troubles me a little. Not the fact that it was crowded...the fact that I thought it wouldn't be.

Here's how I came to this horribly wrong conclusion. I just thought since it was after 4:00 P.M., most people would be home. The early birds, which is usually me, would be long, long, gone. The churchgoers who stop by after church would be gone, and the family packs would be home trying to get kids ready for the school week and getting their dinner ready, etc.

Sadly, I didn't account for all the other hundreds of people who don't fall into these categories. Night owls who don't even get out of bed before noon'ish, childless couples stopping by on their way to dinner or a movie, oldsters hitting the sample tables...

In fact, now that I think about it, Costco should set up a "Sample Aisle". One aisle that would be set up exclusively so the Saturday/Sunday Sample Seekers wouldn't block the aisles...thus freeing the rest of the shoppers from seething inwardly as we're forced to turn down an aisle we don't really need to be in just to avoid the crowd at the sample stop where all normal shopper traffic has come to a screeching halt. I wonder if Costco has a suggestion box somewhere?

When I'm shopping, I don't like to waste time. I go, get what I need, and get out. The quicker, the better. Scari, of Old Chix fame, complains that we're running when we shop. She should shop with The Husband, they're both amblers.

In addition to being an ambler, The Husband is also extremely hard of hearing...not stone cold deaf, but definitely headed in that direction...rapidly.
He's also a lover of gadgetry. Cell phones, GPS, tool gadgets. The only gadgetry he's not the least bit interested in is hearing aids...and it's the only one he REALLY needs.

"I hear just fine," he tells me...every time I suggest he just looks into getting hearing aids. I used to think he just had "selective" hearing. Not anymore.

As we head down the main aisle toward the checkout register, I casually turn around to make sure The Husband is following me...because I always get ahead of him.

"Huh?" he shouts...mistakenly thinking I said something to him...which causes me to start laughing...because he's so loud that people look at him. He actually shouted "Huh". He didn't know he shouted "Huh?"...but he did. The fact that he can see I'm laughing seems to make him even more certain I've said something to him...

"What?" is the next shouted response to, what I can only assume is, his guess that I've said something he missed.

I'm sure it must look like I suffer from some kind of essential tremors since I keep shaking my head in the universal "no" gesture as I pat the air with my right hand. It's my feeble attempt to get him to not say anything else...and it worked! Maybe we've reached the age where we understand some kind of non-verbal oldster sign language.

At the checkout counter, The Husband hands the non-hard of hearing, young checker his Costco card. And lest you think that I'm sharp as a fucking tack, when the checker greeted The Husband by his first name, I thought he must know him...like maybe a friend of his son's or something. It never occurred to me that he was reading it off the friggin' card. Duh...

"So Ron, can I get you anything from the food court? Stamps? Nothing?" the young non-hard of hearing checker asks The Husband...who responds with his version of the universal "no" gesture as he puts his card in the reader.

As the checker tells him his total these were the exact words that came out of The Husband's mouth..."Hey, you got any of those stamp books?"...

I immediately jerked my head around with the universal "WTF" expression on my face, looking at him like he's just grown another head and start laughing. The little gal who's boxing our stuff smiles at me. And the checker...God love him, acts like he never even asked The Husband if he wanted stamps as he recalculates our total...it's The Stoopidist Thing.

 P.S. The Husband still insists he hears "just fine".

Fat

For most of us Old Chix, fat becomes an accepted part of our lives. Not that we like it or anything, we just tend to accept it more. Mostly because we're too lazy or tired to really do anything about it...except complain. Heaven forbid we should quit shoving food down the ol' pie hole.

I make decisions all the time about getting physically fit. They usually last a couple of hours. It's the follow through I have a problem with. If, God forbid, I had some serious health issue where if I didn't change my eating/exercise habits I'd die, I would probably be better on the follow through. Fortunately I haven't been, and hopefully never will be, faced with this lifestyle altering necessity.

You know how you always see ol' wimmen wearing jackets over their blouses? Even when it's hot, we wear lightweight shirts over tank tops or any kind of sleeveless shirt. It has to be pretty friggin' hot outside before I'll go sleeveless in public. Face it, nobody's really trying to make a fashion statement with a cover up from Omar the Tent Maker. We're trying to cover shit up...like...

Muffin Tops - This sounds kinda cute, doesn't it? And it is...on a two-year-old. If you're past your toddler years, it's not quite so cute. When I was a kid, fat kids had to get their clothes from the "Chubby Girls" or "Husky Boys" sections of clothing at the stores. Even those sugar coated terms are forbidden these days. So far, through sheer luck, I've managed to avoid graduating to "plus-sized" sections of stores. Slowly but surely, I see myself headed in that direction. Muffin tops on ol' wimmen aren't at all cute. Mostly they're a giant wad of flabby girthage hanging down in front that wraps clear around back...into...

Love Handles - Such a romantic sound, right? Andre the Giant fist-sized wads of fat right above the ol' hip bone. Welcome to the club if you can't locate your hipbone visually anywhere on your body. You know it's there...you just can't see it...and haven't for many, many years. Unfortunately for many of us, the love handles blend un-sveltely into the...

GynormAss - Some of us get this. I don't know why. We'll have all this normal size fat on top but from the bottom of our waist, explode into the GynormAss. Where does it come from? And, more importantly, how do we get rid of it? Sometimes it forms a ledge around the back of our butt. Maybe its there to use as a seat to pack kids around on...you know, like monkeys carry their kids around on their backs? A little ledge to them from sliding off, because unlike monkeys or apes our little cuties don't know how to hang on for dear life.

Saddlebags - Doesn't sound quite as cute as muffin top, does it? Sounds like something you'd have to lug around. A load to be carried...which they are. Some women have giant saddlebags packed chock full of fat...and you don't even have to have a GynormAss to have giant saddlebags.  You don't see too many men with saddlebags, do you? Why is that? How come men don't have saddlebags? Or Gynormasses? They don't have those either.

Back Fat - Seriously, why do I have fat on my back? Why do you even have fat cells on your back? Does every place in your body have fat cells? I don't think I have any fat cells on my wrists or ankles. Sometimes women get a camel-like hump of fat at the base of the neck. Why in the world is that a place where fat would collect? Do they make turtleneck Spanx for this? And if they do, does it just squeeze the fat up into a double or triple chin? They have special bras now that are supposed to eliminate unsightly back fat. They usually smooth the back fat out but roll up under your boobs so you have a bra roll right under the uni-boob they create.

Armhole Fat - Generally connected to back fat, armhole fat is my current pet peeve. Not that I don't have some of the others, but armhole fat is really noticeable in sleeveless shirts. The other stuff can usually be blocked from sight by loose-fitting garments. And if you have armhole fat, and over four or five decades behind you, you probably have...

Upper Arm Flabulation - The half circle of flab that hangs down from elbow to armpit. Sometimes you don't even know you have this until you see a picture of yourself and are faced with the realization that you have a curtain swag of flabulation hanging from your arm. I saw a long-sleeved Spanx like crop top on an infomercial to keep this particular arm flab from jiggling. When they show these things, they never say that if they're tight enough to halt the swaying flabulation of your upper arm, they're probably squeezing things out the bottom of your bra area...making a reverse muffin top. If you want to look on the bright side, it would be a great Tic Tac or popcorn catcher for when you drop pieces down your shirt.

FUPA - This one had to be explained to me...you can Google it if, like me, you're a cultural imbecile. Heavy duty Spanx work here. They do, however, shove fat upwards into the muffin top area. But, all you glass half fuller's, they do make high waisted Spanx that go all the way to the bottom of your bra. Voila! Problem solved. No more laying down to zip your pants up!

Cankles - I'm not sure if you're born with cankles or if you develop them as you age. You know how some men are shaped so that it looks like they don't have a neck? Their head just seems to sit on their shoulders? That's kinda how cankles are...only way lower. Your calf just goes all the way to your foot. I'm not sure this is a fat related occurrence. But it's a thing...

I know that none of this is strictly "Old Chix" stuff. There's millions of "Young Chix" that have these things too. If I'm totally honest, when I see a Young Chix wearing some fashion forward outfit that does nothing to hide her lumpiness and flabulation, I may not always find it attractive, but I really love the balls it takes to wear it. These Young Chix have a self acceptance that was a rare thing when I was growing up.

After all these years, I've reached the point where I'm happy with clean and un-stinky...it's the Stoopidist Thing.

It's The Most Wonderful Time...Of The Year

Once every few years, I manage to catch a cold that always starts out as a simple little annoying cough...which then turns into a big friggin' sinus infection. Before I know it, my nose has turned into a giant snot faucet.

Being the Google fan that I am, and because I have no energy to do anything else, a little self-diagnostic web surfing is a requirement.

I didn't get very far before reading that a person's body, mine currently, can produce up to two quarts of snot a day when you're sick. TWO FUCKING QUARTS IS A LOT OF SNOT. It's a HALF GALLON. Ewwwww....

Color and consistency are also important snot watching factors to consider when self-diagnosing. In fact, there was a handy snot color chart on a UK website that I visited...sort of a snot color wheel...

Clear...         
 You're normal.
White...
  You're congested.
Yellow...           
 Your cold or infection is progressing.
Green...             
 Your immune system is really fighting back.
Pink or Red...   
 This is blood.
Brown...           
 Could be blood. More likely something inhaled, like dirt, snuff, or paprika.
Black...             
 If you're not a smoker or user of illegal drugs, may indicate a serious fungal infection.

I'm not making this up, it really said all these things. I actually had to look up snuff because I thought it was something from bygone days but apparently, it's quite the thing to sniff up your nose. Who knew? I thought all smokeless tobacco went into your mouth. I also thought the paprika thing was kinda random too. We have red dirt where I live so my brown snot would be much more likely resulting from me inhaling red dirt than paprika.

Here's another little handy insight. The little drip at the end of your nose on a really cold day? The one that just hangs there and that you know the person you're talking to is staring at, wishing you'd have the decency to wipe your nose, but you can't because you're the one old lady in the whole world who doesn't have a Kleenex handy. It's water condensed out of the cold air passing over warm nasal tissues. It's not snot...or not much...

And here's another little appetizing factoid that I truly wish with all my heart I could un-know. The average non-sick person swallows 1.5 quarts of snot a day. Every day of my life I've been swallowing between one and two quarts of snot.

And you have too!

It's the Stoopidist Thing...

P.S. You're welcome for that last little tidbit of info.

I Can't Believe I'm Watching The Weather Channel

The Husband can watch The Weather Channel on TV 24 hours a day. It's his "go to" station. Never mind that it's a loop that plays over for hours, AND they get the weather forecasts wrong all the time. It's like watching reruns of wrong weather forecasting. (Okay, in the interest of fairness, they do occasionally get it right...sometimes.)


Until this weekend, I never thought I would welcome seeing The Weather Channel with its horrible music and mostly wrong predictions....but I've snapped...


In the immortal words of Popeye, "That's all I can stands, I can't stands no more!".


This whole fucking football thing is making me crazy. Is there nothing going on in the world that's maybe just a little more important than "who's kneeling or not kneeling" during the national anthem? Seems to me there were just some hurricanes that caused a whole bunch of problems for a lot of people. But, that's probably not as important as who's kneeling or not kneeling. I mean, poor little Puerto Rico loses power on the whole fucking island...but it's more important to talk about who's kneeling or not kneeling at a football game.


Crazy dude in North Korea wants to nuke us, and the big guy on Pennsylvania Ave. tells him "You'll be sorrrrrry" in between early morning tweets about the ever so important topic of who's fucking kneeling or not kneeling!!!


People on the left hate the Prez. The guy could shit gold bricks, miraculously bring about world peace, cure all diseases, and they'd still manage to find something to bitch about. People on the right who love him act like he's so fucking wonderful, that he may in fact shit gold bricks, and make excuses for every little thing he does that causes outrage among the masses.


But the majority of us are "Middle of the Road Joes". We go to work, go home, have families...just the normal shit that makes up our lives. None of us MRJ's really wants to be constantly bombarded by outrage from the left or right. So why not just shut the fuck up for a little bit?


I'm soooo sick and tired of every fucking thing being politicized. I mean, have you even tried to watch a TV awards show? Such moral outrage, and courageous words of wisdom. Am I wrong, or do they seem like the most ungrateful group of One Per Cent'ers on the planet? Fucking ingrates. Although, I admit, if Ricky Gervais is hosting I may have to suffer through, 'cause he's really funny.


The other side is no better. We MRJ's have these two obnoxiously loud voices yelling at us from both sides...and you ALL sound like assholes!


Please, just think about us oldsters. We can't take the stress, you know? Maybe you could just tone down the outrage a teensy weensy bit. We're too old to learn new things like "peoples proper pronouns". What does that even mean? When would it even be a problem? And, more importantly, do we need another fucking law about it?


For the most part, we MRJ's just wanna be left alone to live our lives. You know, come home, eat a little dinner, watch a little TV, maybe see a football game, without members of the various Assholian Tribes insisting on endlessly inflicting their point of view...


Kinda like what I just did...It's The Stoopidist Thing.

It Happened Again...

No, I didn't accidentally fart in public. At least not that I'm aware of. Although, I suppose the older I get, the more I can expect those little bodily outbursts. I mean, is anyone exempt? If they are, I'd like to know how I can get in on that particular exemption.

Sadly, this was worse...at least for me.

A couple of weeks ago, there was a surprise gala for Terri, the oldest of the Old Chix. She didn't want any kind of party so of course, her daughter in law, Steph, threw her a SURPRISE PARTY!

And guess what old people like more than anything else??? Taking pictures of other old people! And grandkids, they like taking pictures of grandkids too. But since this was a party sans children, all that was left to take pictures of were other old people.

Let me tell you, this place was filled to the brim with oldsters. Everyone there was a blue head. It was a whole crowd of Far Side folk.

Happily, for me, The Scari One rocked the Far Sidian face better than all the rest of us. Usually, I take top Far Sidian honors.

Unhappily for me, the entire debacle was captured digitally by none other than sweet little Laura S... who, bless her heart, then made DVD copies and mailed them to people. She's just so fucking thoughtful, our little Laura.

Cindy S., no relation to Laura S., though you wouldn't know it, given their mutual membership in the Suzy Snapshot club, took pics and plastered them all over FB. Thankfully I escaped her lens.

Lois, Chris, & Terri, fared the best on this photographic go 'round. But honestly, I've never seen a bad picture of Lois. She's one of those women who always looks good. Sometimes we hate her. Okay, not really. At least the rest of the Old Chix don't. But, I think I might. She sees a camera and automatically smiles. I see a camera and automatically put on my Far Side face. I don't even have to try...it's just natural. I'm blessed that way.

You'd think after all these years I'd be a little more gracious about the whole picture taking gig, wouldn't you? But the older I get, the more I look like an old, wrinkled, weasel faced Asian woman whose eyes disappear when she smiles. Just for the record, I have no Asian ancestry...that I know of, but my eyes turn into slits in my face when  I smile.

Maybe it's happened all my life and I just never knew it. Or now that I'm old & wrinkled I notice it more...either way, it's The Stoopidist Thing.

Why Didn't She Tell Me????

You know how you walk down an aisle in a store and you see a woman who has a button popped open? Do you tell her? I do...always. Why? Because I would want someone to tell me.

So imagine my surprise when my little co-worker, The Princess, who I thought was my friend, didn't tell me!!!

Oh, it wasn't a button that popped. It was worse....

I'm a confirmed cosmetic junkie. There's probably some deep, dark, dastardly reason why I feel compelled to buy all kinds of makeup. I don't have any idea what it is and to be truthful, don't really care. Home shopping TV channels make it easy to indulge my habit.

One of my latest purchases was a trio of clear lipsticks. They're like a solid gel stick, that leaves just a hint of color on your lips...supposedly adjusting to your...or, in this case, my, skin tone.

I showed one to The Princess this morning and told her if she wasn't afraid of cooties, she should try it...mistakenly thinking her hesitancy was somehow related to a fear of germs.

She tried it and got the "hint of color"...the one I thought I had. That was, until the end of the day when I went to the bathroom and saw my face in the mirror when I went to wash my hands.

It looked like I had hot pink clown lips. No shit...the brightest fucking pink you could imagine was plastered on the ol' pie hole. I was horrified... I tried to wipe it off with the paper towel after I dried my hands and it wouldn't wipe off. It felt like a nice lip balm going on so I just kept slathering it on all day, completely unaware that my lips were getting pinker and pinker with each slather.

When the wet paper towel failed me, I left the bathroom and headed back to my office...with my hand covering up the fuschia lips. I was laughing by this time...because, really, what else could I do.

I stopped by to give The Princess a piece of my mind on my way back...

"Why didn't you tell me my lips were bright pink?" "How could you let me walk around like that?"

She laughed sheepishly...obviously because I looked like an ol' pink lipped clown screeching at her.

You know how you see an old lady in a store, all pale wrinkled skin, no color on her face at all...except for bright red lips? And you think to yourself, holy fuck, doesn't she have a mirror in her house? What's with the lips grandma? Why didn't someone tell her???

I have no idea how this happened...she is me...or, I am her...or somehow I got her fucking lips...it's The Stoopidist Thing.

Political Correctnesss

I was walking down the hallway at work one day recently and I came upon this picture/mural/poster on the wall...

You're probably thinking WTF??? Well, welcome to my world...because that's what I was thinking too. I had to go back to my office and get my phone just so I could take a picture. Nobody would've believed it if I'd tried to explain there was a giant poster of Sasquatch waving from behind a tree with a spaceship hovering overhead.

You might be under the impression that kindergarteners made this poster...and you'd be sadly mistaken. The less than talented artists who proudly displayed this masterpiece are none other than employees of the building where I work.

I'm sure this is some kind of "team building" exercise meant to bring co-workers together and establish a sense of camaraderie. Maybe everyone spent their lunch hour huddled together with crayons and construction paper laughing & having a great time. If that was the case I'm sure it was fun and a good time was probably had by all...until they got to Big Foot Boobage...

 ...which looks like two empty circles on his chest...or her chest. Kind of hard to tell. Shouldn't there be some little dot of a nipple somewhere in those circles? I mean, male or female, there should be nipples, right?

If you look closely, Big Foot has fingernails & toenails. He/She even has green eyes, defined lips, teeth and lots of hair...so detail was important to the artist...and yet no nips.

I can totally imagine how this happened. In this uptight, politically correct world we're living in, everyone is soooo afraid of "offending" anyone about anything.
You can imagine them huddled around the table, wondering how to draw boobage on an imaginary ape like creature, can't you?

"What should we do?"
"Nipples?"
"No! What if someone complained?"
"It's not like a porn picture, it's nature."
"Should we just cover it up completely with hair?"
"Apes don't really have hair there, do they?"
"But it's a Bigfoot, they're not real anyway."
"Let's just not put anything there, then nobody can complain."

EXCEPT ME!!!!

I don't know about you, but I'm kinda sick of all the political correctness every-fucking-where I go. I can get that they wouldn't want to display any lower genitalia on the mythical creature. Then they'd have another quandary...is it a boy or girl Bigfoot? How do we draw a dick on a Bigfoot? But, male or female, all mammals have nipples, don't they?

So, unknown artists, next time the creative juices start to flow, don't hold back. If you're going to take the time to attempt to draw a chest area complete with nipple-less boobage, add a little dark dot of a nipple. Doesn't have to be a rosy pink or anything like that...just a little dot to show you know where it goes.

It's the Stoopidist Thing....

P.S.
It would have been funny if they'd drawn nipples and then stuck pasties to cover them up. I wanted to draw them on myself but I was too slow. I also wanted to stand in the women's restroom wearing a Scream mask and long black cape at Halloween just to see the reaction of women coming in. Maybe this Halloween...

Facebook

Let me begin by saying I have never posted anything on Facebook. I started a page to use for work only. Cleverly, I used my cat's name instead of my real name. Not so cleverly, I let it slip to a couple of friends who then became my "Facebook Friends" which ended any chance of using it for work. So now, technically, I suppose I do have a "Facebook" page...that has FB friends and everything...all under my cat's name.

Even though I've never posted or "shared", or "liked" anything, I get feeds from FB friends so I can see what they post. I also get a lot of weird shit from weird places...for example...

This was on my page today from a someplace called "Get It Free".

If You Find A Pimple At The Top Of Your Butt Crack, It May Actually Be A Pilonidal Cyst

WTF??? Why would they send me this? I haven't done any Google searches about Pilonidal Cysts. I haven't joined any FB Groups for "Sufferers of Pilonidal Cysts". So why does this stuff appear on my page? 

Just for the record, there was a cute little cartoon picture of a butt crack with a red pimple looking thing at the top but I was afraid I'd be infringing on someone's precious butt picture copyright if I posted it here. Which doesn't seem right, does it? I mean, if it pops up on my page shouldn't I be able to put it where ever I want?

Since I didn't know about this malady, of course, I had to find out. So then I actually had to do a Google search on Pilonidal Cysts...complete with photos.

I am now very thankful that I don't suffer from occasional or, even worse, Chronic Pilonidal Cysts. 

Seems these little jewels are caused by an abrasion or sore that collects skin "debris" and hair. I found the following little tidbit of info especially disgusting for some reason...the term "Pilonidal" literally means "hair nest". How fucking gross is that??? You end up with a hair nest zit on top of your butt crack.

And, as with all advice about popping pimples...you're not supposed to pop the Pilonidal Cyst either. You're supposed to use warm compresses until it drains "naturally". How could you not pop it? And what's the difference if it pops naturally or with a little help from a friend...thereby speeding up the process?

Admittedly, the physical mechanics would be a little more difficult than popping a pimple on your forehead, but I've always found that where there's a will, there's a way...it's The Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. I really am glad I don't have one of these things or I'd be forced to join some hobo's ass group of sufferers...all using fake pet names in order to avoid the stigma of being a hair nest butt crack pimple sufferer...or maybe it would be a butt crack hair nest pimple sufferer...either way it would be hobo's ass, literally.

Ewwwww

I read an article last week about the benefits of eating boogers. No kidding. The article said that scientists from Harvard and MIT, among other universities, claim that you shouldn't discourage booger eating in children...GROSS. Seems they think boogers contain a bunch of  "good bacteria" that can benefit your health...or, more specifically, your child's health...because if it benefited your health, that would mean you were eating your kid's boogers...which is doubly gross. Never in my life have I heard of anyone eating someone else's boogers.

I have questions...

Just how many boogers do you have to eat before noticing any health benefits? And for how long? Is there a maximum efficacy level? How are they measured?Size? Weight? Bacterial ingredient quantity? Do you need three heaping teaspoons a day? If that's the case you're probably gonna have to go to the local mucous market and grab a freeze dried "Bag O' Boogies". I would imagine they'd have to be dried, don't you think? Undried would be just too up-chuckable.

I'd like to know who thinks up this kind of thing? Who thinks this is the sort of habit that needs to be studied? And where do they get the people to participate in this kind of "study"? Would you? How much would it take in cold hard cash to let people watch you eat boogers? And record it...because you know they probably did.

I have dogs that like to eat horse poop and cat turds. I'm assuming they must get some nutritional value from them or they wouldn't be snarfing them down. Is something like that going to be next?

Maybe they didn't use "real" boogers, maybe they used "synthetic" boogers. Which, really wouldn't be eating boogers at all now would it? Like eating fake cheese.

Somehow, this seems like one of those stories that just can't be true. Everything about it seems like it would be too difficult. Finding participants...with sufficient quantity and quality boogerage to participate. Because I'm guessing hobo boogers have a different quality of bacteria than someone trying to live in a germ-free environment, wouldn't you?

The more I think about it, it probably wasn't any study about booger benefits at all. It was probably some college kids trying to see just what it would take to get people to eat their own boogers.

Just for the record...I'd eat a booger for a million bucks...and let someone record it...obviously, I have no shame...it's The Stoopidist Thing.

The Husband...An Ongoing Saga

Tonight The Husband had his first experience with Press N Seal...

If you haven't experienced Press N Seal, it's basically a souped-up version of old fashioned plastic wrap. You know, the kind your mom used to think was the greatest invention since waxed paper and tin foil? The stuff that would only stick to stuff you didn't want it to and was nearly impossible to straighten out when it got into a wad straight off the roll.

Well, imagine that stuff magnified tenfold...or a hundredfold (must pause here to Google what a "fold" actually is...).

Don't get me wrong, the new stuff is fab. It just takes a little getting used to. A little patience. Once it sticks to itself, you might just as well throw it away and start over. It takes way longer to unstick it from itself than to throw the wad away and start afresh.

Tonight after dinner, I'm sitting in the chair fat, dumb, and happy after feeding my face when I notice The Husband trying to tear a sheet off the Press N Seal roll. He has his back to me and the noise is what snagged my attention. I never really knew how noisy the sound of plastic wrap not tearing could be...and you can't rip it unless you use the handy little serrated edge...which he hadn't noticed.

After a few seconds of muffled hysteria, I started accidentally snorting. Watching his arms flailing up and down with each unsuccessful attempt to rip off even a snippet of wrap, I expected to soon witness The Husband throw the box in the trash...after throwing it on the floor in disgust. You could hear the wads of Press N Seal making that sucking noise when he tried to unstick it from itself, and straighten it out into some kind of single semi-usable layer.

I soooo wanted to grab my phone and hit the "video" button...and almost did. But then I felt guilty because there he was standing in boxer shorts and a baggy tee shirt...not exactly his "best look"...plus he heard me snorting hysterically so the element of surprise was kinda lost. Uncontrollable snorts of laughter sort of eliminate the possibility of surreptitious actions. Just a little friendly advice...in case you feel the need to act surreptitiously. I know I often do.

Imagine my surprise when, after several loud, thrashing, seconds, The Husband actually stopped and looked at the box.  And Halle-fucking-lujah, he found the serrated edge.

He never ceases to amaze me, that man of mine...triumphing in the face of adversity, and forcefully mastering that little bitty cardboard box of plastic wrap...it's The Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. I actually did Google the "fold" thing. Remember, in the "olden days" when we had to actually look up that kind of shit in a book???

Misophonia...WTF???

So, I got a text from Old Chix, Scari, a while back. She thinks I might suffer from Misophonia. I had no idea what this was...as usual...so I had to turn to Google for help...again, as usual. I really don't know what I did before Google. You can find out pretty much anything. It's pretty amazing when you stop and think about it.

Misophonia, it turns out, means hating sound. But if you suffer from this syndrome, you're basically annoyed by certain sounds. Which, I'm guessing, applies to every single adult on the planet. I could be wrong, but I'm obviously not the only one who suffers from this "disorder" since there are several websites dedicated to helping sufferers such as myself...and the rest of the human race. I'm thinking pretty much everyone on the planet has some kind of sound or noise that they hate. Don't they?

Why does there have to be some "diagnosis" for every little quirk people have? Can't we just allow people to be quirky? Why do we have to make them feel like they're crazy just because they have a little quirk? We all have 'em...I mean, some quirks may be worse than others, you know, like way, way worse. For those with extreme quirks, maybe a little dose of psychotropic medication is in order. But for most of us, our quirkiness is what makes us, us...

There was one link to a website that offered a "self-test"...along with a disclaimer at the top of the page that there was no current diagnostic test for Misophonia. That's one of those things that makes you go...hmmmm? They've invented a test for the untestable syndrome. The website also suggested you should make use of the information and tools available to see if you do, in fact, suffer from this malady. You know, Google, Facebook, forums, etc. All the usual self-diagnostic tools...

You might wonder why The Scari One would say such a thing...you know, basically saying I'm nuts. Well, one night on an Old Chix adventure I had to share a hotel room with her. The next day I merely mentioned that her breathing was annoying and asked if she could please try not to breathe next time we have to share a room. Some people just have no sense of humor.

The Scari One thinks she's a silent sleeper. Why? Because her dearly departed husband, Richard, told her she was. I could see why she might believe that, were it not for the fact that Richard was deaf as a door knob. Jeeeeez, the guy had to have closed captioning on the television because he couldn't hear it...so it stands to reason he wouldn't hear any annoying, squeaky, high-pitched nose-air noises in the middle of the night. But believe me...they're there...in all their annoying glory.

Once you hear those sounds, those rhythmic little nose-air noises, you focus on them...and you can't un-hear them. And when you try to synchronize your breathing to the same rhythm, the person making the fucking noises all of a sudden changes rhythm...All you want to do is sleep but the fucking noises won't stop. You don't even remember picking up the pillow and walking over to the sleeping offender, gently placing it over her face. All you're thinking about is making the noises stop...

Okay, obviously I didn't actually do this...but I kinda wanted to...it's the Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. Guess who else suffers from Misophonia?  Whoopi Fucking Goldberg, that's who. Yes, the Dreadlocked Goddess from The View is a fellow Misophonia sufferer. So at least I'm in good company...

P.P.S. Note to self...must make sure to take psychotropic meds next time I'm forced to share a room with anyone who makes annoying nose-air noises while they sleep.

Turning The Table

I never know if it should be turning the tables or turning the table. Since I didn't know which was correct, I flipped a coin (in my head) and guessed. The singular won the toss. We oldsters are easily distracted by shit like this. And now that I look at it, doesn't it seem like "table" should be spelled t-a-b-e-l? It rhymes with "label", so you'd think it'd be spelled the same wouldn't you? Odd that I only just noticed this after decades of reading and writing it. This happens to me more than I care to admit.

 

Usually, when I go somewhere with Scari, of Old Chix fame, she's the one who publicly embarrasses me...by something she says or does. If not about me, then directed toward me. For example...

One time a couple of decades ago, we were in a fairly nice department store, in the fragrance section. You know how they have testers sitting on the counter? Well, next to them were the "real" products, one of them being a scented stick of deodorant. Scari picked up the deodorant, popped off the lid, hiked up her shirt and started to stick it under her arm...like she was gonna use it right there in the fancy perfume section. 

Once she got the desired response...which was my horrified gasp, she cackled like an old chicken and put it back. She does this kind of shit all the time...loudly...and in front of people.

Today when we were at Costco, it was really crowded. Maybe because it's getting close to Christmas, or because it was the first of the month. In all honesty, if I'd remembered it was the first of the month, I never would've gone shopping. Crowds annoy me. Mostly because they cause lines...long, slow, checkout lines. Truth be told, I never really shop...I buy. I go into a store usually knowing what I'm there for, I get it, and I leave.  Easy peasy.

When we were headed to the checkout area, winding our way through the masses, I noticed a display at the end of an aisle. 

"Do you need another box of Preparation H?" I asked Scari...loudly, and in front of people.

I know it was really immature of me to  do this, but I have to admit, it was really satisfying...it's The Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. She tried to hit back with the "do you need Depends"? But it was weak and too slow...she might as well have said, "oh yeah, well so?"

Budding Picaso's? Mmmm Not So Much

Everybody seems to be an artist these days...or at least they try to be. I'm no exception. Even knowing full well, and completely accepting the fact, that I have absolutely no artistic ability whatsoever, I got sucked into going to a painting class for adults...one that included free wine. Have you been to one of those classes? They're usually held at a bar or restaurant, where they can serve adult beverages. It's a great way to cater to the wannabe artist in all of us. Especially those of us who can't even draw a decent stick figure...that would be me.

I have family members, who shall remain nameless lest they be forever humiliated by having their names associated with yours truly. They decided to take a road trip vacation, driving from Georgia (the state) to Dallas (the city...in a far away state). They're posting their comings and goings on FB and it's fun to see what they're doing on the way. I'll call them R&D, even though they have nothing to do with research and development, which, when I say the letters is the first thing that comes to mind. R is the husband and D's the wife...just in case it needs clarification at some point.

R has been a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan...since the Staubach days...and that's a long time ago. D, his wife, is a Cowboys fan too. I'm not sure if she's really a true fan, or if it's just her way of surviving life with a Cowboys fan. In any case, she's nothing, if not a good sport...and quite possibly the nicest human being on the planet. No joke... she is the definition of "nice". Always. She's never an asshole.

Sometimes I wonder what that's like? Never being an asshole. Sadly, I'll never know. In an effort to be truthful, I'm really not that sad about it.

Being a really thoughtful husband, R booked a class for he & D at a local paint & sip place in Dallas. It was D's birthday and the class looked to be geared toward couples. I'm just guessin' at this because each of their "paintings" was half of a "Fall In Love" theme...with a fall colored maple leaf on a wood background.

These gigs always have a "theme" picture that everyone paints. Usually, in the area where I live, the class is sponsored by local vineyards and/or restaurants, or a combination of the two. It's good for both businesses, and everybody really does have a good time.

When you sign up, it's billed as a sip & paint complete with wine and snackage. The one I went to provided a tiny plastic cup of wine and dubious snackage...nothing that I would consider proper snackage. You know, like Triscuits or Wheat Thins alongside a cheese and salami tray? Or a big bowl of chips & salsa. No, this one had cheese, but it was weird cheese...the oddly flavored cheese favored by the granola eating crowd...cheese with pieces of "stuff" in it.

When the class starts, the instructor guides you through the creation of your masterpiece. If you finish the thimble sized glass of wine you can buy more, which almost everyone does. What amazed me was how serious everyone was about the painting. I was in the minority thinking that the whole painting thing was just an excuse to eat and drink...kind of like a Bunco game.

People were painstakingly trying to copy the instructors' exact brush strokes. I had to quit looking at my neighboring artist's paintings because they were obviously offended when I laughed. But it was funny...and really hard not to laugh. Here's a bunch of grown assed people thinking that what they were doing was so fabulous that hysterical laughter was verboten! There must be no mirth allowed during masterpiece creation!

When everyone was finished they were all so proud, showing off their paintings. Everyone was complimenting each other on how fabulous their pictures were. Honestly, I'd say 99.9% of the finished masterpieces looked like a kindergartner painted them. No shit.

Everybody thinks as they get older, they get smarter. Nobody gets smarter, they just learn more stuff. You're born smart or you're not. Some people are really, really smart, some people are moderately smart, and some people...are just the low watt bulbs.

There were a lot of pretty smart people in my painting class. All oohing and awwing over their paintings...smart people who should've been able to see with their own fucking eye holes that their painting abilities haven't improved since they were five years old...it's the Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. The class was fun and if you get the chance you should go. Just be sympathetic to oddballs, like me, who find it physically and emotionally impossible to contain their laughter at your toddler-like painting attempts.

Some Things Just Make Me Laugh

Even when I'm sitting alone in the living room, sometimes I laugh out loud. Tonight, for example, I was watching a comedy show on TV. There were a bunch of different stand-up comics and one guy, Tony Roberts, made me laugh out loud.

Please forgive my eternal immaturity...it was about farting. He was talking about farting while you're sitting and having it come out like a bubble in your jeans. And I've had that happen!!! I started laughing out loud.

But I'm actually kinda curious about where it goes. I mean you can feel the bubble and it goes up or down the ol' butt crack. Does it pop? I've never heard the pop, and now that I think about it, I'm not really sure I've ever felt the pop either.  When I accidentally blow spit bubbles, there's a definite pop...which usually results in little spitlette droplettes going unplanned places. This is always embarrassing.

Fortunately, I've never had anyone around when this sort of fart bubble thing happened...and until I heard this guy joking about it, never really gave it much thought. Now that I know it's happening to other people, though, I'm gonna have to start asking some questions. Old Chix beware...

Like, for instance, if the bubble never popped, would there be no fart stink? Or, is the entire bubble composed of fart stink? If it's the latter, would that make it spread eau de flatulence all along its path? Would it be better to move a little in an effort to try to pop it and let things air out more quickly?

What if your jeans are too tight? Would that make an eterna-bubble that would never pop until you took your pants off? I mean, it would be okay if there was no stinkum until poppage had occurred. Of course, then you'd probably walk funny, like a penguin, trying to prevent poppage. Other bubble farters would probably recognize this poppage preventing gait and laugh, secretly, behind your back...or butt...thankful it wasn't them doing the penguin walk.

Do you think this is how the term "bubble butt" got started?

Obviously,I have way too much time on my hands...it's the Stoopidist Thing.