The Scari One and I had lunch today with the Cathies. Fave SIL, Kathi, and blast from the past friend, Cathy. In the interest of speeding things up, I'll call them K & C respectively. The reason for this should be self explanatory. If for some reason, you're a member of the Moronsky family, it's because SIL Kathi starts her name with a "K", and blast from the past Cathy starts her name with a "C". To all non-members of the Moronsky family, I apologize for the need to explain this in such detail.
The Cathies were at the restaurant when we got there. Both of them sitting with their backs against the far wall. Probably so we couldn't sneak up on them. Not that I had any kind of plan to sneak up on them, but it would be nice to have that option if the opportunity presented itself. 'Course at our age, it's probably not a good idea to sneak up on each other. You know, weak tickers and all? I'd feel really bad having to go home and tell The Husband that I scared his baby sister to death...literally.
So The Cathies both belong to a writing group. Both are relatively new to the group and joined to be able to network because they've both written books. The other poor schmoes in this group have no idea what they're up against now that The Cathies have united. The poor writers group should expect a take over in short order...they'll never know what hit 'em.
Here's the links to both of their books:
K's book is about a dog she & her husband, Alan, (aka Gadget Man) adopted. When they got him I actually mentioned Gadget Man telling the tale here. Weekend Dining-The Play
This is the link for K's book...
Odd Otis: An Unusual Tail (Tale)
C's book is a science fiction/young adult novel. Here's her link...
Jump
A portion of the proceeds from K's book go to some special needs animal group...I haven't verified this personally...she could be scamming the unsuspecting public and keeping all the dough for herself...just kidding...she'd be legally obligated to give half to Gadget Man. I'm sure she'll be horrified that I would say that...which is basically why I said it. Just to bug her. Truth is, she's a big animal lover and is very involved in spreading the word about needy animals.
The proceeds from C's book go to her...because she's old and needs the dough. Although I'm guessing if it became a best seller she would donate generously to some kind of charity for the less fortunate. I could be wrong...she could be a selfish bitch and keep it all for herself...but I don't think so. I would, but then I know I'm a selfish bitch...oh,wow...a glimmer of self awareness...it's The Stoopidist Thing.
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
I Guess I'm Just A Sexist...Who Knew???
The other day I was driving to a neighboring town with The Scari One, of Old Chix fame. We had major stuff to buy at Costco. I always have major stuff to buy at Costco. Usually dry roasted Macadamia nuts and apple strudel pastries. Oh, and roasted chicken. Costco really does have the best deal on roasted chicken. I'm sure there're people who would poo-poo this idea. They'd say that THEY stuff THEIR chicken cavity with citrus, onions, and herbs, then rub the outside with clarified butter infused with roasted garlic. And you MUST roast the bird upside down for 10 minutes at inferno temperatures, then, at the exact second, because timing is critical, turn the oven down to its final magical temperature and the bird over to its final position leaving it to finish cooking for the precise amount of time...or some such fucking nonsense. You can't buy a chicken, cook it yourself, and have it turn out as good as Costco does...and that's the simple truth.
But that doesn't make me a sexist...
We were driving along fat, dumb, and happy when we passed three Honda convertibles driving in a row...out for a Sunday drive. First of all, I didn't even know Honda made sporty little convertibles, did you? Secondly, they were all driven by "older" men. I don't know how "old", but they all had gray hair blowing in the breeze of their 30 mph mach-less road trip. They were cool dudes out for a drive in their "sports" cars. I'm sure they all had buttons open on their shirts revealing the mandatory gold chains adorning their old gray chest hair. It's pretty much an "old guy" stereotype...but they're usually driving a Porsche or Corvette, or some other equally expensive "trying to recapture my youth" ride.I didn't know there was a "cool car club" for Honda convertible drivers...(I don't really get the whole "car club" thing...cool or otherwise. Guess I'm just not the "club" type.)
I don't think this when I see an "older" woman driving a sporty car...convertible or otherwise. I do wonder how they keep their hair from getting all fucked up when they're driving a convertible though. Add a little wind to my hair and I instantly become "Rat Woman". It's actually pretty impressive that they get where they're going and remain unscathed by the breeze.
It never occurred to me that stereotyping only the old guys was sexist...but it is. So let's remedy that right now. Maybe old women don't try to recapture their youth by driving "cool" cars, but they, okay, we...do it in other ways...such as...
They shop at Forever 21...when they're a good 30-40 lbs over the largest size available thinking nobody will notice the lumps and bulges popping out of the compression undergarments they've squeezed into from top to bottom.
They wear things from their teenage daughter's closet. Just because it fits doesn't mean it looks good.
They wear low cut tops emphasizing what was once a beautiful bust line has now become a sea of crepey cleavage...complete with age related discoloration. Hint here...old wrinkled boobage is best kept under cover.
They wear too short shorts...nobody wants to look at cellulite ridden thighs and spider/varicose veins. It's why God made Capri's.
They wear sleeveless tops when their upper arms have turned to flab...there's no such thing as flabulicious. If there is, it's on some creepy pervert website catering to fat fetish folks.
They wear tight fitting exercise garb to be stylish...completely unaware that FUPA and cankles have become less stylish since the days of Michelangelo.
I feel much better now that I've relieved myself of the burden of being a sexist bitch and can now be equally insulting to both sexes. We all just need to quit tryin' to be something that we're not.
I'm off now on my way to Costco with The Scari One. Just as soon as I find a pair of fashionable yoga pants that cover my cankle length Spanx and smear some Crepe Erase all over my exposed bosom...it's The Stoopidist Thing.
P.S. In case you don't know what FUPA is, it's fat upper pussy area...I didn't know what it was either.
But that doesn't make me a sexist...
We were driving along fat, dumb, and happy when we passed three Honda convertibles driving in a row...out for a Sunday drive. First of all, I didn't even know Honda made sporty little convertibles, did you? Secondly, they were all driven by "older" men. I don't know how "old", but they all had gray hair blowing in the breeze of their 30 mph mach-less road trip. They were cool dudes out for a drive in their "sports" cars. I'm sure they all had buttons open on their shirts revealing the mandatory gold chains adorning their old gray chest hair. It's pretty much an "old guy" stereotype...but they're usually driving a Porsche or Corvette, or some other equally expensive "trying to recapture my youth" ride.I didn't know there was a "cool car club" for Honda convertible drivers...(I don't really get the whole "car club" thing...cool or otherwise. Guess I'm just not the "club" type.)
I don't think this when I see an "older" woman driving a sporty car...convertible or otherwise. I do wonder how they keep their hair from getting all fucked up when they're driving a convertible though. Add a little wind to my hair and I instantly become "Rat Woman". It's actually pretty impressive that they get where they're going and remain unscathed by the breeze.
It never occurred to me that stereotyping only the old guys was sexist...but it is. So let's remedy that right now. Maybe old women don't try to recapture their youth by driving "cool" cars, but they, okay, we...do it in other ways...such as...
They shop at Forever 21...when they're a good 30-40 lbs over the largest size available thinking nobody will notice the lumps and bulges popping out of the compression undergarments they've squeezed into from top to bottom.
They wear things from their teenage daughter's closet. Just because it fits doesn't mean it looks good.
They wear low cut tops emphasizing what was once a beautiful bust line has now become a sea of crepey cleavage...complete with age related discoloration. Hint here...old wrinkled boobage is best kept under cover.
They wear too short shorts...nobody wants to look at cellulite ridden thighs and spider/varicose veins. It's why God made Capri's.
They wear sleeveless tops when their upper arms have turned to flab...there's no such thing as flabulicious. If there is, it's on some creepy pervert website catering to fat fetish folks.
They wear tight fitting exercise garb to be stylish...completely unaware that FUPA and cankles have become less stylish since the days of Michelangelo.
I feel much better now that I've relieved myself of the burden of being a sexist bitch and can now be equally insulting to both sexes. We all just need to quit tryin' to be something that we're not.
I'm off now on my way to Costco with The Scari One. Just as soon as I find a pair of fashionable yoga pants that cover my cankle length Spanx and smear some Crepe Erase all over my exposed bosom...it's The Stoopidist Thing.
P.S. In case you don't know what FUPA is, it's fat upper pussy area...I didn't know what it was either.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Holy Shitsky!
While The Husband and I were driving home tonight after a feast of Chicken Fried Steak (The Husband) and Liver & Onions (Me) I thought of something while I was daydreaming. Daydreaming is usually what I do when I'm driving and there's no conversation to keep my mind from wandering. I have no idea why I thought of this...maybe because we just ate and my mind was still thinking of food, but I started thinking about eating meat. I love meat. I'd give up almost any other food for meat... except ice cream. I'd have a really hard time never having ice cream again, but then again, I'd have a really hard time never having a Ribeye. Hopefully I'll never have to choose because the stress of that decision might kill me...okay, it probably wouldn't kill me but it would break my heart.
Then I started thinking about Kosher meat, Halal meat, and just good ol' meat in general. Now I'm not a discriminator between "clean & unclean" meats. I pretty much eat them all if I like the taste. But tonight for some reason I started thinking about what makes a meat "clean". You know, the whole "chewing of the cud and split hoof" thing? There's way more stuff involved, but since I'm neither Jewish or Muslim, I don't eat according to their dietary guidelines.
But...I got all hung up on the whole "cud chewing" thing and for the first time in my life it occurred to me that that means barfing up stuff and re-chewing it. All my life I've been eating animals who eat their own barf...whose physiology demands they eat their own barf...it's how they survive.
Barf is really disgusting. I think it's totally gross when one of the dogs eats cat barf...you know the semi chewed and not even entirely digested little snake of dry cat food barf? That same little snake of barf that my precious Lilli Mowbeane is famous for leaving in the most unexpected places to be discovered by a bare foot. I think she secretly does it on purpose so she an sit back and laugh at the expression on my face and the horrible words coming out of my mouth when this happens. Anyone who has had cats for any length of time knows whereof I speak. It's an extremely unpleasant thing to encounter on a quick trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Have you ever heard anyone say, when they think about or do something really gross "it makes me wanna throw up a little bit in my mouth"? If you stop and think about it, can anyone really throw up "only a little bit"? I know I can't. Once that upchuck starts, there's nothing stopping it. I'm usually just grateful if it doesn't come out my nose too. (Sorry, I know that's probably something most people could live without knowing...but it's totally true.)
Really the only time you can even really swallow barf is if it's like burp juice. I guess that would be kinda the same thing...only not intentional and not in mass quantities. And you always make a really sour face...the bile smile. I think I just coined a new phrase.
Here's something I never in a million years thought I would ever say...although I'll probably only say it in my head. People would think I'm even weirder than they already do if I said it out loud.
"I love eating animals who eat their own barf."
Pretty unappetizing when you think about isn't it? But WTF am I supposed to do about it now? Once you think something like that, you can't just un-think it. Unless you're Scarlett Fucking O'Hara and "think about it tomorrow." I mean, when you're on the downhill side of life are you really going to change? What am I going to do, become a vegan?
Now, I don't mean to question the Almighty here, but maybe something got lost in the translation from Supreme Being to Lowly Human..like it does when you're a kid playing "Telephone". 'Cause it kinda seems wrong that the critters who eat their own barf are considered "clean" and the ones who aren't barf eaters are the "unclean" ones...It's the Stoopidist Thing.
Then I started thinking about Kosher meat, Halal meat, and just good ol' meat in general. Now I'm not a discriminator between "clean & unclean" meats. I pretty much eat them all if I like the taste. But tonight for some reason I started thinking about what makes a meat "clean". You know, the whole "chewing of the cud and split hoof" thing? There's way more stuff involved, but since I'm neither Jewish or Muslim, I don't eat according to their dietary guidelines.
But...I got all hung up on the whole "cud chewing" thing and for the first time in my life it occurred to me that that means barfing up stuff and re-chewing it. All my life I've been eating animals who eat their own barf...whose physiology demands they eat their own barf...it's how they survive.
Barf is really disgusting. I think it's totally gross when one of the dogs eats cat barf...you know the semi chewed and not even entirely digested little snake of dry cat food barf? That same little snake of barf that my precious Lilli Mowbeane is famous for leaving in the most unexpected places to be discovered by a bare foot. I think she secretly does it on purpose so she an sit back and laugh at the expression on my face and the horrible words coming out of my mouth when this happens. Anyone who has had cats for any length of time knows whereof I speak. It's an extremely unpleasant thing to encounter on a quick trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Have you ever heard anyone say, when they think about or do something really gross "it makes me wanna throw up a little bit in my mouth"? If you stop and think about it, can anyone really throw up "only a little bit"? I know I can't. Once that upchuck starts, there's nothing stopping it. I'm usually just grateful if it doesn't come out my nose too. (Sorry, I know that's probably something most people could live without knowing...but it's totally true.)
Really the only time you can even really swallow barf is if it's like burp juice. I guess that would be kinda the same thing...only not intentional and not in mass quantities. And you always make a really sour face...the bile smile. I think I just coined a new phrase.
Here's something I never in a million years thought I would ever say...although I'll probably only say it in my head. People would think I'm even weirder than they already do if I said it out loud.
"I love eating animals who eat their own barf."
Pretty unappetizing when you think about isn't it? But WTF am I supposed to do about it now? Once you think something like that, you can't just un-think it. Unless you're Scarlett Fucking O'Hara and "think about it tomorrow." I mean, when you're on the downhill side of life are you really going to change? What am I going to do, become a vegan?
Now, I don't mean to question the Almighty here, but maybe something got lost in the translation from Supreme Being to Lowly Human..like it does when you're a kid playing "Telephone". 'Cause it kinda seems wrong that the critters who eat their own barf are considered "clean" and the ones who aren't barf eaters are the "unclean" ones...It's the Stoopidist Thing.
Monday, February 29, 2016
I've Done It Again
A few months ago I got fake nails so my hands wouldn't look quite so horrible when I went on a cruise in Europe. They were made of some kind of gel goop, not too long, and not too short...they were just right...kinda like Goldilocks nails.
I liked them so much that I kept them all this time. Every three weeks I visit, Angie, the Goddess of Fake Nails. She spends an hour sanding, filing, and re-gooping my mini talons. My hands still look like an old woman's hands, but my nails look fab.
The only problem with them is it's kinda hard to pick stuff up, like coins from a counter or the film covering two sided tape so I can put it on things to keep the cats from scratching.( A tip I was given by the resident Old Chix Crazy Cat Lady, Scari...and it actually works!)
Having fake nails also prevents me from "picking". All my life I've been a picker. I pick at my face, my feet, my hands. I pick at my cuticles, fingernails, toenails, shoulders peeling from sunburn...you name it, I pick at it. I don't know why I do it and I never much cared unless I created a giant sore on my face from squeezing a tiny little clogged pore smaller than a pin head. I'd go into the bathroom seemingly blemish free and accidentally get a glimpse of something in the mirror...which forced me to go to the magnifying mirror...which was a HUGE mistake...and I'd exit the bathroom with giant red lumps all over my face.
I have to admit it's frustrating not to be able to pick when I see something that needs pickin'. It bothers me...but I didn't realize how much until I felt a teenie weensie bit of a hangnail on my left thumb. I don't even think it was a hangnail, I think it was just a little bit of skin. But I couldn't pick it with my too thick talons.
Next thing I know, I'm gnawing at my thumb. Literally...I'm taking my teeth and raking them on the inside of my thumb next to the nail trying to get the minuscule piece of skin in my teeth to pull it off. I had to try for a really, really long time to trap the tiny piece of offending skin between my front teeth, but my efforts finally paid off. Elation! I snapped my head around with the little piece between my teeth and ripped it off my thumb...along with a HUGE chunk of skin that it was attached to.
Blood seeped into the grove alongside the nail bed of my thumb. Holy fuck me runnin'...it hurt!!! What the fuck's wrong with me??? Is this some kind of weird psychological disorder? Like cutting? Only using my teeth and nails to wound myself?
So, after a couple of days, what did I do? I did what everybody else does when they want to find out something. I Googled it. And guess what??? I have a fucking disorder AND it has a name...Dermatillomania. WTF???? It's some kind of an OCD thing.
Fortunately, I was relieved to find that I don't exhibit ALL the symptoms...yet. And, through Google, I was able to find an informative sheet of facts through the helpful OCD Foundation entitled "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet". No shit, totally true. The fact sheet gave a helpful definition of what "Skin Picking Disorder" is and it requires all three of the components. Thank God I only have one...maybe one and a half. It might have been two if the compulsion had caused social damage to other parts of my life, but thanks to modern makeup, specifically concealer, I narrowly avoided being a two.
Still, I thought, maybe I do need help to keep my little problem from becoming a "full blown" disorder. Again, the OCD foundation came through because down at the bottom of the "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet" was a link to a website. No joke, this is totally true...
www.stoppicking.com
Of course I had to visit the website to see if there were any useful tips they could offer, and guess what? They want a dollar a day to enroll in their "program". But, in as little as ten minutes a day, I can expect results. They listed the names of three "experts" to help with their program. Two of them specialize in Trichotillomania, a hair pulling disorder,the other is a dermatologist but it doesn't say that one specializes in Dermatillomania. Shouldn't a website that is supposed to help you stop picking at your skin have at least one "expert" in that field? So I boycotted their site. They're not gonna get my dollar a day, no sir...
Besides, think of all the concealer I could buy for a dollar a day...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
I liked them so much that I kept them all this time. Every three weeks I visit, Angie, the Goddess of Fake Nails. She spends an hour sanding, filing, and re-gooping my mini talons. My hands still look like an old woman's hands, but my nails look fab.
The only problem with them is it's kinda hard to pick stuff up, like coins from a counter or the film covering two sided tape so I can put it on things to keep the cats from scratching.( A tip I was given by the resident Old Chix Crazy Cat Lady, Scari...and it actually works!)
Having fake nails also prevents me from "picking". All my life I've been a picker. I pick at my face, my feet, my hands. I pick at my cuticles, fingernails, toenails, shoulders peeling from sunburn...you name it, I pick at it. I don't know why I do it and I never much cared unless I created a giant sore on my face from squeezing a tiny little clogged pore smaller than a pin head. I'd go into the bathroom seemingly blemish free and accidentally get a glimpse of something in the mirror...which forced me to go to the magnifying mirror...which was a HUGE mistake...and I'd exit the bathroom with giant red lumps all over my face.
I have to admit it's frustrating not to be able to pick when I see something that needs pickin'. It bothers me...but I didn't realize how much until I felt a teenie weensie bit of a hangnail on my left thumb. I don't even think it was a hangnail, I think it was just a little bit of skin. But I couldn't pick it with my too thick talons.
Next thing I know, I'm gnawing at my thumb. Literally...I'm taking my teeth and raking them on the inside of my thumb next to the nail trying to get the minuscule piece of skin in my teeth to pull it off. I had to try for a really, really long time to trap the tiny piece of offending skin between my front teeth, but my efforts finally paid off. Elation! I snapped my head around with the little piece between my teeth and ripped it off my thumb...along with a HUGE chunk of skin that it was attached to.
Blood seeped into the grove alongside the nail bed of my thumb. Holy fuck me runnin'...it hurt!!! What the fuck's wrong with me??? Is this some kind of weird psychological disorder? Like cutting? Only using my teeth and nails to wound myself?
So, after a couple of days, what did I do? I did what everybody else does when they want to find out something. I Googled it. And guess what??? I have a fucking disorder AND it has a name...Dermatillomania. WTF???? It's some kind of an OCD thing.
Fortunately, I was relieved to find that I don't exhibit ALL the symptoms...yet. And, through Google, I was able to find an informative sheet of facts through the helpful OCD Foundation entitled "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet". No shit, totally true. The fact sheet gave a helpful definition of what "Skin Picking Disorder" is and it requires all three of the components. Thank God I only have one...maybe one and a half. It might have been two if the compulsion had caused social damage to other parts of my life, but thanks to modern makeup, specifically concealer, I narrowly avoided being a two.
Still, I thought, maybe I do need help to keep my little problem from becoming a "full blown" disorder. Again, the OCD foundation came through because down at the bottom of the "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet" was a link to a website. No joke, this is totally true...
www.stoppicking.com
Of course I had to visit the website to see if there were any useful tips they could offer, and guess what? They want a dollar a day to enroll in their "program". But, in as little as ten minutes a day, I can expect results. They listed the names of three "experts" to help with their program. Two of them specialize in Trichotillomania, a hair pulling disorder,the other is a dermatologist but it doesn't say that one specializes in Dermatillomania. Shouldn't a website that is supposed to help you stop picking at your skin have at least one "expert" in that field? So I boycotted their site. They're not gonna get my dollar a day, no sir...
Besides, think of all the concealer I could buy for a dollar a day...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Dr. Joe and the Horrible "I Can't Believe I Did That" Moment...
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...
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...
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???
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