Training

I attended a disaster training last weekend. It was attended by several government agency personnel all role playing their action filled parts replete with blood (fake, of course) soaked actors portraying helpless victims. All the "highly charged" action sequences were filmed, over and over and over by a professional production company for posterity, or training purposes, or just for grins...or maybe they just had a few extra tax payer dollars they needed to blow. (That sounds a little bitter, doesn't' it?) It seemed like most of the time was spent having meetings.

Administrative types love meetings. This particular group of administrators was definitely a "boys club"....need I say more? The day started with meetings called "briefings", which is just another name for meetings. Briefing sounds much more official, doesn't it??? "He Man" stuff. "He Man" types love sounding "official", don't they? I think they secretly love hearing the sound of their own voice. And being "in charge". I think they like that most of all. OMG I'm starting to sound like Andy Rooney...please God, don't let my eyebrows get like his.(I have a few gray ones but I'm afraid to pluck them out...what if they don't grow back??)

At the "briefings" everyone was informed about the "scenarios". Each person (mostly wanna be "He Men")was told where to go and what to do. I'm fairly certain this will never happen during a "real" catastrophe. First of all, it's been my experience that during the initial stages of any type of significant "event", the most time is spent trying to notify (read...find) the people (usually "He Man" types)who are supposed to be "in charge". I must admit, the advent of cellular technology has improved this task immensely. Everybody and their brother now carry cell phones somewhere on their person, lest they miss an important text asking the all important question "where r u?". (This is the main reason I don't text...the grammar and spelling are soooo horrible. Kids these days think "r u" are actually words and not just letters.)

I was actually accused of being a "Luddidite" by an administrative "He Man" type. because of my refusal to join the ranks of the cellularly advanced. I pointed out that the correct term would be "Luddite" and to this day he has refused to acknowledge his error. "He Man" types are like that. Since I'm not an administrative "He Man", I have no problem pointing out my mistakes...like "cellularly"...it's probably not a word at all. Like flustrated...it's not a word...you're either flustered or frustrated.

Back to the "training".... Most of the "He Men" and "Wanna Bee's" hung out in the food center, which I totally get. I would have been there too if I could. A local cafe catered the event and there were brownies to die for. The "He Men" got to be filmed being hero's saving the day and were all brightly shining stars for a brief moment in time. Don't know if it'll do much good when the time comes though.

The older I get, the less patient I am. Sad, but true. Even though I work diligently on trying to be more patient (okay maybe not diligently, but I am trying)..I still get impatient. I have no patience for goofy rules and plans that seem to make no sense. This day was filled with both.

In my pea brain, it's all about common sense, a commodity that most administrative types seem to be severely lacking. If you have to be told to run for high ground during a flood, you have no common sense...if you have to be told to leave a building that's on fire, you have no common sense...if there's a bomb threat and you pick up a strange looking package and shake it, you have no common sense...and unless you are severely retarded you deserve to be eliminated from the gene pool...too bad, so sad, adios amigo.

I'm pretty sure that by the time a real disaster hits, no one's going to remember anything from this "training" anyway...except the brownies...it's the stoopidist thing.

Morning

I usually like getting up in the morning. The older I get, the more of a morning person I've become. Except on work days. I hate getting up on work days. I hate anything I "have" to do. Most mornings I futz around, check email, have my morning Diet Pepsi, (where I get my needed caffeine...I've never had coffee...weird, I know) and generally waste time until I have to go to work. I don't really do anything productive on work mornings. I use work as an excuse not to do anything else. Can't do laundry...don't have time. Can't vacuum...would wake sleeping husband. I have excuses for everything. I am the Queen of Procrastination.

This morning has started badly. Sitting here fat, dumb, and happy, minding my own business I hear the dreaded sound of kitty barfing...a sound anyone who has cats knows immediately. That retching sound is like no other.

The culprit this morning is Lilli, the ugliest cat in the world, who thinks she's beautiful. She rules our lives. She wants to go out...we jump up and rush to open the door for her. She wants back in...we rush to open the door for her...the same door that we opened only two minutes before. Lilli wants food...we jump up and make sure there's food in her dish...she has us perfectly trained.

Apparently last night Lilli got stuck outside so this morning she was waiting at the door to come in. Since she's been away from the food dish while outside, she's now starving. Straight to the food dish she goes and chows down voraciously on kitty kibble. Next it's time for a well deserved nap so the couch looks good to her. Of course she sits on my side of the couch where the dreaded retching first occurs producing a long snake like mass of recently ingested kitty kibble. I dutifully get mass quantities of paper towels, both wet and dry, along with pre-moistened cleaning wipes (whose inventor I owe my undying gratitude to) to clean up after our precious girl.

All in all, if you have to clean up after animals, which everyone who owns animals does, snake like ropes of kitty barf are actually one of the easiest clean ups...way easier than say a puddle of diarrhea (way less stinky too). So it's a quick clean. As I'm dumping the wad of paper towels in the garbage can I hear the dreaded sound again...fuck me runnin' (I think to myself). Heavy sigh, which does absolutely no good, but makes me feel a little better (sort of an inner pity party) and I arm myself yet again with more paper products. This time the little sweetie has barfed on the husband's side of the couch (I know it's wrong, but I'm secretly glad it's on his side...good choice Lilli). Another kibble snake makes its way to the garbage...where I'm graced with the sound of yet a third round of retching. This time it's on top of the back of the couch. I'm going to have to restock my supply of paper products soon. This time it was just a few little pieces of kibble. No snakes. The worst thing about this process is the temperature of the kitty kibble barf snakes. They're warm. It somehow makes it worse.

I have, on occasion, been able to shove something under the cat's head while the retching was in progress to catch the offending mass before it hits the ground. Sometimes it's a magazine, or a paper plate. I have no doubt that I look incredibly stoopid when I try to do this. The cat always has the audacity to look at me like I'VE just done something offending, like I've interrupted an artwork in progress. Cats are such ingrates.

This is my morning. I hope it's not indicative of how my day's going to go.

The good news is that I didn't get behind any booberdoobers on my way to work. I'm taking that as a omen that my day is going to get better. I know it's grasping at straws but I can't help it...it's the stoopidist thing.

The Psychic

One of my Old Chix friends and I went to a psychic/medium/healer yesterday. This is a woman we have both known for years who now has (in addition to her regular job) an office where she does her psychic gig. She actually has a sign she hangs on the door that says "The Witch Is In" which I totally loved. The girl has always had a great sense of humor.

Our newly practicing Psychic Friend (this is how I'm now going to think of her...conveniently abbreviated to "PF") told us all her life she'd had "feelings" and premonitions that would come true and after thinking she was crazy for a good portion of her life, started taking classes on alternative belief's (she was formerly Catholic) and even went to some Harry Potterish school in England to study. I wanted to interject that I, too, had "feelings", but it somehow seemed inappropriate to point this out seeing as how mine are usually satisfied by some type of food product...usually ice cream.

PF does her thing sort of like John Edwards, she throws out dates, initials of names, etc. and hopefully you'll relate to something or someone. OC (Old Chix) went first.

Say your name three times. That's how it begins. So OC said her name and I had a tablet where I was supposed to write things down that didn't make sense or that OC couldn't relate to. Maybe later they would make sense. I pretty much failed as a scribe from the beginning. I wrote down a couple of initials, then my mind started to wander...as usual.

What if I said the wrong name three times??? Now this wouldn't work in this situation, because PF knows us. But what if we'd gone to a complete stranger? Who didn't know us? If I gave a fake name three times would PF get a bunch of strangers unrelated to me in her head all clamoring to have their voices heard? Or would my peeps still pop up? Would the PF see big STOP signs in her head telling her I was a BFL (Big Fat Liar)??? I really want to try this...just to see.

I did find out a couple of interesting things. Not everybody dreams like I do. OC doesn't. I have really vivid colorful dreams. Very realistic but odd. I'm turn into super woman in my dreams, I can fly if I need to, I can breathe under water. The only real downside to the realism is that sometimes they're really scary...and I can't hit or scream. Every time I scream, no sound comes out...I try, and try, and still I have no voice. My husband shook me awake one time when I was trying to scream (in my dream) but in reality, I was doing a deep monotone "ahhhhhhh". Sort of like a mentally handicapped person who can't talk. When I try to hit someone, usually my hitting arm moves in slow motion so the blow carries no wallop...this is soooo frustrating. I really want to smack someone...bad...and I can't.

I digress...again...it's "all about me"

So the PF got some things right and some things wrong but the one thing I'm grateful for is she told OC that she needs to go to the doctor and have a checkup, (which OC has consistently said she will never do). No mammograms or colonoscopy's for her, no effing way. Will this change her mind? I hope so. If it does, the trip was totally worth it.

PF also said she thought I was doing something "online". She thought it might be some type of business. Since she went on to use the word "business", I said no, but was that the right thing to say? The reason I said no was because I hadn't told anyone I was doing this blog. Now I feel guilty. Should I have fessed up? Should I tell her? I'm in a quandary. Should I do the right thing...call her and tell her she was kinda right??? But if she's really psychic, shouldn't she have known???

I feel all this guilt and I'm not even Jewish...it's the Stoopidist Thing.

P.S.  Guilt won out...I called & told her.

Washing the Weenie Part Deux

After managing to avoid this disgusting detail (which would make a wonderful episode of "Dirty Jobs" if it hasn't already been done) as long as I could, I finally put on my big girl pants (which are three sizes bigger thanks to Old Chix brunches) and started the task at hand...literally at hand.

It wasn't so much the weenie that needed cleaning as it was the sheath housing said weenie.

After donning pretty pink non latex gloves, Excalibur (gunk in the junk cleaning goo) was liberally placed in the palm of my hand (I had to warm it up because it was willy,willy code outside...and willies don't wike code...sounds like I'm speaking Fudian, doesn't it??). It's a green gooey gel that has an antiseptic smell to it. Don't think it would be something I'd want to rub all over myself, but then I'm not really into eucalyptus type smells. I'm more of a vanilla lover.

Or Amazing Grace...love Amazing Grace.

So, here goes. Horse is tied at the post. Now this probably wasn't the best horse for my first time trying this. He's flighty, and spooks pretty easily, (Probably why he was free...that and the fact that they couldn't catch him) but he stands tied calmly looking at me (he really is a cute little thing) as I approach with palms filled with gobs of goo.

I reach down and touch the outside of the sheath and he doesn't move, so I work my way up inside. As soon as my hand is inside, I can feel the gunk lining the sides. GROSS, GROSS, GROSS. I actually didn't think it would be like this because his penis was really clean. Now I'm actually peeling this stuff of the inside of his sheath and when it comes out, it looks like pieces of beef jerky (which I will never eat again as long as I live). There's so much of this gunk in there that I wonder if it will ever all get out. No wonder his penis was clean, every time it dropped out it was scraping along all this gunk on the inside. Amazingly, the boy stands there for all this and even seems to be enjoying himself (this creeps me out a little...actually, more than a little).

After peeling a bunch of the stuff off, it seems like what's left is getting harder and harder to remove. At this point, I decide to smear a bunch of the goo up inside the sheath and leave it overnight to (hopefully) soften up what's left. Since you don't have to rinse this stuff off I figure it's safe.

Now I get to go back tonight and see if I can finish the job. Not only is it disgustingly gross, it hurts my old gimpy back to stand hunched over. I'm old and stiff and sore and crabby.

We're probably going to find out years from now that this is a totally unnecessary process and that gunk in the junk is actually beneficial for the horse. I mean, what do wild horses do? Who cleans their gunk..or junk? Maybe someone could 'splain eet tew mee. Por favor?? (Yes, I'm bilingual...well not really, I can only say por favor..and I don't know how to make the little accent mark.) One day we will probably find that smegma (gunk) is probably a necessary product the horse's body manufactures in order to keep bugs out of his sheath or something like that (really, I can't even believe a maggot would want to live in that stuff). But I'm quite sure that nobody will discover this until I've been sufficiently humiliated by this whole process and someone actually takes a picture of me with my hands wrapped around a horses' dick smiling for all the world to see.

I know it will happen. It's just a matter of time...it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S. I think he smiled and winked at me when I left last night.

Old Chix

Sunday was Old Chix get together...which means eating and drinking and eating, and eating..

The crowd was the usuals, C, M, P, me, and...drum roll...favorite Old Chix alumni, L, who has no secrets and has never met a stranger.

We talked about the usual stuff old wimmen talk about. Hairy chins, fat stomachs, shrinking lips, hot flashes, the fact that wimmen worldwide think there is only one place to poop and that is in the privacy of their own home, spouses and/or significant others.

L is in BIG LOVE after having finally dumped a husband of decades who treated her like the proverbial fecal matter. We now know more about this man than any person who has never been intimate with him should know. We know too much...way too much. We also know too much about the new love...again, way too much. It was hilarious.

And the best part...I avoided washing the weenie (we're talking horse weenies here). Yes, after having over imbibed (at least food wise) I didn't make it to the barn to complete the dreaded task. Darn. I was so looking forward to it too (NOT).

This is why I didn't make it.

What I ate...Round 1
(and drank)

Champagne

Cheesy eggs
Bacon
Home Fries (I keep hoping they'll be good...they weren't)
Tri Tip
Ham
Fried Chicken
Mashed Potatoes and Gravy

and.....Diet Pepsi

2nd Round

Bacon
Cheesy Eggs
Mashed Potatoes and Gravy

Apple Pie
and finally

Rocky Road Pie

The deserts are never as good as they look at those buffets, are they? Or is it just me?

As I sit here with my top button undone to avoid cutting off the circulation in my lower extremities, I no longer wonder why I'm fat. Apparently washing everything down with Diet Pepsi fails to negate previous calories consumed in mass quantities.

Who knew?

Probably everyone but me...it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S.
In the Disney world where I want to live, the process would be completely different. Mass quantities of calories could be consumed as much as your little heart desired with no ill effect or added girth. Chocolate milkshakes would be the beverage of choice with every meal. And old wimmen would never have gray hair, wrinkles, and pimples at the same time. (I have some serious complaining to do about this when I get to Heaven)

The Husband

My husband, bless his heart, (I was told you can say pretty much anything about someone as long as you say "bless his/her heart"...kind of negates anything bad you say about a person) doesn't really pay attention to what I say. He hears what he wants to hear, not what I'm actually saying.

I have a coat rack hanging on the wall. It's one of the few things my mother gave me that's actually useful. Not the most attractive, but useful...it's made from half a wagon wheel with half a dozen hooks hanging along the bottom...she loved that "shabby chic" stuff.

Within the last week or so, two of the hooks broke. Apparently they weren't designed to hold five or six jackets each...they just don't make stuff like they used to. Truth be told, I had the jackets piled so high you could barely fit through the hallway without knocking one or two off every time you walked by.

So I'm standing in front of the bedroom door, folding clothes, and I ask my husband to get some hooks next time he goes to Home Depot.

My husband loves Home Depot..

And Lowes...

Our conversation goes like this...

Me: "Hey, next time you go to Home Depot, can you get some hooks for the coat rack?"

Husband: "Hooks?"

Me: "Yeah, hooks."

Husband: "Hooks?" (Accompanied by a stoopid look)

Me: "Yes...hooks"

Husband: "Hooks?" (Accompanied by an even stoopider look)

Me: (Now mildly annoyed) "Hooks for the coat rack."

Husband: "Hooks?" (Completely befuddled but catching on that he's annoying me)

Me: (Now more than mildly annoyed) "The hooks on the coat rack broke..we need some new ones."

Husband: (Who has finally realized he doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about and doesn't want to say "hooks" again, starts laughing when I stomp over and lift the remaining coats off one of the broken hooks so he can have a visual aid to relate to the word "hook") "Well if you didn't hang twenty coats on one hook, they probably wouldn't break."

By this time we're both laughing...

Sometimes The Husband is the stoopidst thing...bless his heart.

Washing the Weenie

Sounds fun, right??? Wrong. We're talking equine peni here (I've decided to make that the plural for penis...it's probably wrong, but I like it). Male horses get a nasty build up of a substance referred to by professional sorts as "smegma". Being a non professional, I like to refer to it as the boy's "gunk in his junk". A little crass, I know, but the description...fits.

Before starting, make sure there's no one with a camera withing 50 feet of your location. You want no photographic evidence of this event to haunt you in the days to come. And it will. (or the Scottish version...it wull...think Braveheart) It'll be like those pseudo Visa emails with the poor girl all dressed up at a party...

Designer Dress...$1000
Jimmy Choo Heels....$500
Duct tape holding your boobs...priceless

Your version will be...

Fancy Barn and Wash Rack $30,000
Fancy "Registered" Gelding $5,000
Photo of "Fancy Registered Gelding's Owner" holding said geldings dick in her hands looking like she's jacking him off...priceless. Your face will be out in Internet land...eternally.

Trust me...it will happen.

When I was a kid, nobody ever told me you were supposed to do this. I had horses and never once did anyone say...make sure you wash your horse's wiener...or pee pee...it never would have been...penis...

not in those days...

those were the days when your mom had "the talk" with you about being a woman...

which my mom didn't...

which is probably why I ended up pregnant when I was sixteen...

I digress..

Had anyone told me about this delightful chore, I probably never in my life would have owned a gelding. Now, as an adult, I've been given a gelding who needs to have the gunk in his junk removed. Regularly.

Today's the day...I'm armed with Excalibur (a horse sheath cleaning product that's probably just KY jelley with a fancy name and the price jacked up...poor choice of words considering the task at hand) and a hose with hot & cold running water.

But first...this morning is champagne brunch with the Old Chix!!!

Then sheath cleaning.

This is what I have to look forward to today...it's the stoopidist thing.