One of my favorite authors wrote a book in the 70’s entitled; “The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank”. I was barely out of high school when I became a big fan of Erma Bombeck. I found her to be one of the most clever humorists on this globe and was particularly enchanted that she was nearing fifty when her books began to orbit the planet. Impressive. She built her career with articles which lead to best sellers based on her suburban home life, possibly some whilst in the midst of menopause. Most impressive.
I loved her her work and often wondered how she might have come up with the novel idea of the a fore mentioned title. I asked myself if maybe she was just sitting outside taking a quiet moment from the chaos of motherhood to watch the grass grow; or perhaps chasing after the crazy dog that ran out of the house with a Bra clenched between his canines and tripped over the cesspool cover causing a fall face down onto a greener pasture……….like I encountered.
However the case, I commend her creative thought. Imagine that book’s title had Erma lived on the Public sewer system.
My blog titles may not make sense to anyone but me. My format is to think of the heading first, then eventually fill in the puzzle with pieces of nonsense, quasi truths , and an added touch of experience and observation. For example: Blogger’N Hell. I think of the expression “Hotter’N Hell”, and obviously replacing a word in the phrase with the term Blog, either in past, present, or future tense. My idea for this technique is not ingenious for I was new to the blogging world and had no idea at the time ,what in the hell I was doing. The titles I came up with stem from a catch phrase, or maybe a song, or some slogan I overheard while shopping for eggs. Then I laugh to myself as I enter the letters onto my keyboard to layout the Post Heading. I am smiling because I have no inkling what the body of the blog will contain. I am a massive free-floater.
The title “Blogger’N Hell” made me think of Heat. Not Satan’s fiery Hell, but the earth’s climate in general. Summer has past and the Fall’s atmospheric conditions showed signs of sun and wind, ergo, I decided to dress warmly today. I grabbed last seasons leggings and covered them with a sweater dress , slipped on some wilted suede boots and a leather jacket to head outside and walk the dog. I barely got down to the end of the lane when I felt the sweat forming at the temples of my tinted hairline. I should have watched the morning news as the weather-person predicted temperatures in the 70’s.
Lately I have been having difficulty with the fluctuation of temperatures and I don’t mean of the external kind. Menopause and I are having a temporary battle of the bulge and sweats which do not coincide with the rest of the environment. My intrinsic Meteorologist has its own agenda. This attack of my internal global warming is causing a meltdown of decision making every time I enter my closet to dress for the day. I spin my wardrobe wheel of fortune to help with the days pick of attire as I listen to the hormones whispering their “Yays” or “Nays”. While my tempered hands glide across fabrics, I sense the Goldilocks syndrome chiming in: “This Cashmere sweater is too hot!”…..”This cotton shirt is too cold!”…..”This ugly-ass pair of sweat pants is juuussst right!”. So I put on the cotton shirt, pull the cashmere sweater over my head, and jump into the ugly -ass sweats as I give the rest of my closet the finger.
Temperatures rising and falling biologically can explain certain side effects a woman in her fifties might encounter that cause her thought process to detour or stray. For instance, someone in the drones of menopause may start the day off at her computer wanting to write about Global Warming in relation to the Earth, but end up in stead, twisting her genre to center around her hot-flashes.
When I keyed in the Title, Blogger’N Hell I was going to rant about the cause or causes of Global Warming………………..from my viewpoint.
Ok, here goes:
Personally I think the polar ice caps are melting due to the fact that has been overlooked for a long time. In 2010 the population of the States was 308.7 million and I read a stat that showed a rough estimate that 49% are male and 51% are female. Of the 51% of females around 26% are women between the ages of 45 and 64. Now ,if I may estimate or Guess-timate to divide the country in half lengthwise and roughly focus solely on the female population in the 45-64 age group that dwell below the 37th parallel, I might inject a reasonable fact that maybe…just maybe a very high percentage of these women could possibly be experiencing symptoms or are in full blown menopause. AND keep in mind the geographical area of where they live; Southern California, Arizona, Texas, and Florida to name just a few parts of the United States that harbor temperatures in triple digits that can process humidity which will frizz the near bald head of a new born.
Now here’s my theory as to why all this is melting away.
If you are experiencing menopause under normal temperatures even in the dead of a winter blizzard you will find yourself dressed in your home in nothing but your underwear. The rest of your family will be appropriately attired and dialing their cellphones to reach a psychiatric unit to commit you. So…Imagine the percentage of women aged 45-64 that reside in the unbearable heated climates below the 37th parallel going through menopause and looking for a place to cool off and fan their internal heat fueled by a hormonal imbalance. Imagine. Where to go to retreat the heat.
THEY ALL MOVE RESIDENCE TO THE POLAR REGION. All 26.4% migrate to places like; The Yukon Territory, Siberia,Antarctica, or The Icebox of the Nation; Fraser, Colorado. Imagine, all those menopausal women that have been basking in sunshine and heat for the majority of their lives taking refuge in sub zero temperatures to seek relief, soaking their over heated bodies into the cool temps offered up by Jack Frost. This could react in a massive menopausal melting pot. Why the internal heat alone from this 26.4% would radiate into the Alps causing an avalanche of epic proportion. This internal heat filters out of the menopausal body into the frozen environment as women scream out their cries of joy: “Ice Ice Baby”. This, my blogger friends, is the cause of global warming.
I’m sure Erma would agree. Maybe she’d a had another best seller with titles that include:
” The Ice Melts Faster if You Sit On It.” or ” Menopause..Into the White, the Other Side of Fifty Shades of Grey” or ” My Hormones Caused an Avalanche Over Alaska”, or “High Anxiety”, or “Incontinence…The Eighth Continent”.
Erma would have a hay day..she’d be dancing around to Nelly Lyrics….
spread the humor
The day the Earth stood still was two weeks ago when my son’s Smart phone decided on it’s own to dummy down and quit.
I learned this had happened through his sister who Stumbled upon his Facebook message to a friend commenting that: “His Phone Died”.
I am grateful that my sons lines of communication are open to his thousands of Facebook friends and refuses to add his mother as a bosom buddy. He does not want (me) to be privy to his status while away at college. He thinks his mother will spend her days stalking, (or creeping as they say), on his infamous site, where the Full Monty of Freshman life is displayed and revered. Like I have time for that. OK, I sneak a peak every so often when Facebook isn’t looking. I have eyes in the back of my FACEbook.
It’s amazing how this generation ( xyz?) seem to run amok when an electronic is on the fritz. It’s as if one of their brain waves collide with an HD air-wave and severed the wireless connection that adheres the Smart phone to their palm, resulting in their opposable texting thumbs to short circuit. Ive seen those thumbs work that virtual keyboard like greased lightening, while sucking down Kentucky fried wings. Those thumbs slip- slidin’ on the screen not missing a beat of LOL or TTYL or POS. ( Parent Over Shoulder).
My son programmed his smartie phone messages to modulate the night- watchman in a Navy ship yard. It sounds off with two bells every time a text is received. In the olden days of sailing , watches were timed by a thirty minute hour glass and bells would be struck every time the glass was turned. My son watches the glass of his phone every second, all day and all night, no matter which way its facing.
I hear his phone clanging in a Bell pattern of pairs :
Morning Watch: ding-ding
Forenoon Watch: ding-ding-ding
Afternoon Watch: ding-ding-ding-ding
Night Watch: ding-ding-ding-ding-ding
WEE -Hours- While- Family Members- Sleep-Watch: DING – DAMNITY- DING.
I lie and wonder for whom the Bells Toll every second as my sons phone shouts out a “new message received”. What news is so urgent to be shared every minute of the day and night amongst his mates. And now, here he sits with his dead phone, and I wonder ; what could possibly be going on in his head now that his entire fleet of friends are unable to reach him and text their one syllable messages.
I have witnessed he and his crew hanging out and barely speaking in full sentences to each other. I have watched as this collegiate Armada sit around in silence dancing their opposable thumbs across their phones as a multitude of ships bells chimed in unison…sounding alarms….signaling functional and ceremonial uses of considerable significance as to whether one of them scored a date for the night.
I think about when I was his age and the readiness of communication while out and about, was finding a working payphone. In my day, there wasn’t a lot of emphasis on repetitive contact with one another. If you had something to say, or relative info to convey, you dialed a number,got to the point, and made your arrangements.
There was no need to go back and forth with responses, you knew what to do and when and where to do it. There was no need to hold twenty people on the line to confirm what dress you were wearing to the dance. There was no need to speak every minute to someone via the phone as we were all speaking in PERSON when we got together. If everyone related all their conversations ahead of time we would have nothing to talk about when we congregated. Well, well, well..maybe that explains why my son and his friends are silent when they assemble. They are TEXTED-OUT, OVER-MESSAGED, PINGED TO THEIR LAST WORD.
I will say my son’s faulty phone may have prevented future last minute changes in his life, but all in all he handled being cell-less quite well. I half expected him to come off his Buzz with certain side affects, maybe a possible cellular detox causing a network disruption and a communication breakdown of his opposable thumbs, therefore rendering him speechless.
There was a day or two of minor moping and staring at his thumbs trying to figure out their future should texting become obsolete while his phone is incommunicado. It didn’t take long for him to wander over and pick up the controls to his ill forgotten Xbox collecting dust and play a childhood game or two. I’m sure its to keep his opossable thumbs conditioned until his phones replacement battery arrives……
…….in 5 to 7 business days…..
spread the humor.
I have been nominated for The Sunshine Award.
I am honored yet embarrassed because I don’t know what that is….
LB of Woodgatesview bestowed this lovely nomination onto me and I am humbled beyond…well…as beyond humble as you can get, wherever that takes you…..to humble infinity and beyond….
Thank you LB for all the kind words you wrote regarding my blog agility and calling me clever and entertaining. * I’m blushing.*
And thank you LB for continuing your subscription with me whether you LIKE it or not…..but mostly; for getting my wayward humor.
Now to get down to brass blog tacks: I am to answer ten questions about myself, and nominate ten others who have shared their inspiration and made me Aspire Higher…
Favorite Color: Green…..the color of money that is lacking in my wallet right now…
Favorite Animal: ALL……o.k…maybe not the mosquito.
Favorite Number: My children’s Cell…….speed dial.
Favorite Drink: A very fine Chianti with a side of Fava beans….
Facebook or Twitter: I prefer a Face than a Twit.
Passion: yes….Yes… Ohhh ..YES!!
Giving or Receiving Gifts: Both get equal time….
Favorite Day: Everyone that I find myself awaking to….
Favorite Flower: The Rose, preferably Yellow, and given to me unexpectedly for no reason at all….
Favorite Food: Italiano, naturalmente! Ora Mangiare!!
Oh Lordy, here comes the top ten nominees for the Sunshine Award: This is always difficult, because I feel all my followers or even day trippers deserve this award for thumbing through my Blogsense….
And the Nominees are ( in no particular order…please hold your applause until the end):
1) Gaycarboys.com: Just go there and try and tell me their posts don’t put a smile on your face. My mind drives off with a new ride every time I click on their site.
2) Ronyaroshauthor.com : He’s a Poet and he knows it. He’s clever and funny. And I like funny.
3) Myzencity.com: I love how she brings NYC to my home in rural PA.
4) Ignorethebucklesonmyjacket.wordpress.com: Words can not Ignore the humor that exudes from this individual..
5) Renee Moore ( Pooter & Boogers place): Her blog is one to read before bedtime..like a great novel.
6) Offdutymom.wordpress.com: She nominated me for an award and I believe I forgot to thank her. Thank You. This woman does not sugar coat..nor is she off duty..she’s right on task.
7) Up2randomthoughts.wordpress.com: You will not get your Phil of this blog…..there is plenty to Phil your mind…
8) rtewrite.wordpress.com : Harper Faulkner’s name says it alone…
9) coffeepoweredmom.wordpress.com: Any mom who has coffee in their title is OK in my Blog….
10) Mostlybrightideas.wordpress.com: This Bronxboy55 can and will entertain you with his bright ideas. Enuf said.
11) MommyMan.wordpress.com: The bouts of rearing twins with a flavor of humor sum up this mommy man..I had to sneak him in…
Well that’s it folks, I would like to add the other 71 to the list,but I’m not allowed. Says who??
Thank you again LB for this nomination and should I get elected I promise “No New Blogs”….er..I mean..I will blog more. I promise.
Spread the Humor.
I just spent the last week out West visiting friends and combing the old neighborhood. Or should I say “Hoods”, as we owned a few places there during our eight year stint in La-La land. There is an old cliche that I have heard in my youth from one octogenarian that carries a familiar ring to it, and it goes like this:
“You can never go home again”.
Meaning, once one makes a big change in ones life, things will not be the same.
Or will they?
What if you have lived and left so many places that you have forgotten which is the one place you call home? Is home where the heart is? What if I left my heart in San Fransisco……. well, maybe I’m an organ donor……….
What if I sold a home in Los Angeles and took the cold cash and left smiling with my heart pounding with profit……only to return to witness my ex abode had nearly doubled in value since I left. Which elevated the blood pressure that could produce a heart to linger in the old hood for a permanent stay.
Maybe some claim their home to be where their families originate from. After I finish a trip out to visit my original clan, the cliche circling my head when I leave changes to :
” I don’t wanna go home again”.
When I enter my 87 year old mothers home I am blown away by the volume of her 55 inch HDTV that stands four feet away from her leather Lazy-Boy screaming re-runs of Archie Bunker into her ears that are covered with wireless headphones that she neglects to turn on.
As I repeatedly tell her to turn the volume down on the flat screen, she motions with her hands that she can’t hear me and complains ” how the new headphones my brother bought her are faulty”, while fumbling for the remote in the seat cushion, which she ultimately left on the kitchen table….
It usually takes a good 45 minutes to muddle through our initial HELLo’s as this is her morning ritual. My mother’s hearing has been checked and has been determined normal by her Doctors. Normal for who……all 87 year old ladies? I can just imagine her annual physical with the MD who just graduated cum LOUD from Medical school:
Dr: ” Well Mrs. C, we find your hearing is normal for a woman of your age, now here’s an Rx for some Q-tips and the nurse will equip you with a new volume controlled Remote at the front desk . It has three settings: LOUD…..LOUDER……and LOUDEST. We do offer our deluxe model that is assured to strike a family members nerve and chase them from your home, but I believe it has yet to be covered by Medicare..”.
Every time I leave from a visit with my mother and her turbulent TV, I am left with voices ringing in my head for days. The frequency and pitch that emanate from her GSN network combined with a decibel level that could enforce an earthquake, cause my brain to short circuit, which leads me to a frantic rage to unearth the lost remote. WHICH concluded my suspicion that it was actually Rod Roddy’s voice belting in the back round inviting me to “C’MON DOWN” to visit when I phoned her last………no wonder she was surprised to see me…..
It’s not just her blatant TV that drives me back into therapy, it’s watching her use her cell phone to lower the volume of the TV, and then complain that the remote is as faulty as the wireless head phones….
Or watching her race around to locate where the ringing is coming from. She keeps her cell and house phone nearby, but sometimes they find themselves traveling separately and end up in different locations. My brother likes to tease, and will dial her home phone and cell phone simultaneously. He says it gets her out of the recliner……..a form of exercise……..Dr.’s Orders….
Sometimes when I have been out running errands for her I return to the Loud TV sitting alone. My mother is nowhere in sight. My heart started an anxious pounding of what I might find around the corner, but it was subdued by my slipping on a trail of green olives I found leading to the front door. She had stepped out to the porch to enjoy a mid afternoon cocktail. A dry martini with green olives. NOT Doctor’s orders.
I went outside and sat out front with her as she stared out into the yard. I watched as she sipped her forbidden drink and was thoroughly amazed at how she could manage to locate and mix a perfect martini for herself yet unable to turn off the TV or lower the volume. I watched as she calmly enjoyed her surroundings even with the boisterous back round of Desi Arnaz babaloooing through the halls…
I went in the kitchen and helped my self to one of her Martini’s and found the remote to turn down the TV to a level below “Batty” and joined her out side. As we sat and studied the gardens she turned to me and noticed I was lacking olives in my martini. I told her she was out of olives. As I lifted my foot to cross my legs she saw my shoes coated with olive and pimento residue smashed on the sole and stated:
“Most people use them IN the drink”.
That made made us laugh……and my heart flutter as the Home Shopping Network bartered in the back round noise……
When I returned home I sat in front of my TV watching a travel show and contemplated all the areas of this great planet that I have had the privilege to call home. The places I have lived and left, as far as I can see, actually remained the same, maybe over the years some have sprouted some urban growth, but the changes I witnessed came from the heart. I sat on the couch sleepily captivated by my thoughts only to be awakened by my daughter telling me to:
“Turn the volume down on the TV”……..
spread the humor.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,300 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.
Click here to see the complete report.
Well…I’m heading out West soon for a family wedding. This could either be a great time or a prelude to a Muppet’s reality show..
The trip started with my two kids , Sweetums and Scooter being yanked outta the airport security line and experiencing their first Pat Down. I ventured through the X-ray machine first followed by my son Scooter wearing his hipster cargo shorts that carry more compartments than a B757-200 freighter on it’s way back from China. Lagging behind donning her jewels of the Nile draped like Christmas lights, was my daughter Sweetums. I gave a pre- flight demonstration the night before we were to depart to the West explaining the list of; What Not To Wear when flying. My Coed daughter assumed this pertained to Mr. Blackwell’s list.
The first shiny badge to grab me was Fozzie Bear asking if I was the mother of young Scooter behind me. Three seconds of thought had my mind grabbing my items and race down the corridor to see if there was a solo seat left on any flight to Italy and enjoy the Tuscan sun, instead of joining the cast of characters that awaited our landing out West……
I conceded that he was my son and Fozzie said I needed to watch as they Pat Down my teen….with emphasis on his Cargo room. My son glared at me when I tried to suppress my grin as his six foot frame was experiencing the blue hand grope assisted by Grover. My son is a character all his own. He doesn’t need any help from anyone to produce a stand-up routine and gain attention from a crowd. It comes naturally to him. When Assistant Grover started the Pat Down procedure on Scooter with Fozzie Bear supervising, Scooter decided to give a low groan of “ohhh yeah….” just as Grover’s Blue paw passed the no FLY zone on his Cargo pants.
I shot my son a lightening stare of a cross between; “Just wait til I get my hands on you, and ,my God I’m going to burst out laughing“.
My daughter, Sweetum’s was snatched by Rizzo the Rat and thrown into a glass maze. I was made aware of this by the noise her colossal earrings made when they hit the side of her jaw as her head turned to find me. This sound proof booth was a check point for explosive residue. I watched as Rizzo nabbed an instrument and slowly swept Sweetum’s body with a Geiger counter spewing gusto as if it witnessed the aftermath of a day at Chernobyl.
I saw Sweetum’s leer at me with worried wonderment and I returned her gaze with a reassuring Cheshire grin through the looking glass. A smile that carried a bulletin of: Now do you get that mommie doesn’t just blow hot air through your auricles to land on deaf ear-lobes that dangle designer plastic hoops…..
We made it to the plane and my two darling puppets started to argue as to who will get the window seat. (As if it really mattered and they really wanted to view the geographic’s of our lovely globe.) They both spent the entire flight electronically connected to some type of computer generated apparatus. Scooter won the window seat lottery and viewed the whole flight via Ipad Navigator. Sweetum’s clung to a stuffed bear given to her by her absent boyfriend and plugged herself into her Ipod and lost herself in mood music.
I tried to flag down a frazzled flight attendant to order a bloody Mary and I was met with Miss Piggy pushing a beverage cart down the aisle and yelling at Steward Beaker to get more cups. Every time Miss Piggy turned to face a passenger someone sitting in the the aisle seat got a shot from the hip. At least it was a padded blow to the head. I jokingly asked her if she could remain standing there for the complete flight so I could have a head rest and grab some shut eye. My son laughed at that one.
We landed on the West and were being picked up by my older sister who I haven’t seen in years. She text me to describe her gold luxury 300G and said she would be getting us outside the baggage claim. My children and I grabbed our bags and rolled on out to the crowded arrival deck. We located a Gold Sporty SUV idling with a woman in the drivers seat staring straight ahead who resembled my sister. We all waived in unison to flag her down and approached her car smiling with glee and started to load our luggage into the back of her car. As I lifted the first suitcase we heard a honk from the car behind us and it was my sister; Foo-Foo.
Foo-Foo drove us to her lovely home on the water where we were to stay for a few days before we headed north to attend a family wedding of my brothers son. Foo-Foo, Sweetum’s, Scooter, and I enjoyed our time together until Foo-Foo’s husband, Oscar-the Grouch, came down with walking pneumonia and made our stay short lived. Foo-Foo ferried us to my mother’s (Camilla) place packed in her Luxury Gold SUV for a two hour ride to a charted island. There we would be met by the Skipper and Gilligan; a millionaire and his wife, the Professor AND Maryanne……….
We stayed between Camilla’s house and my Brother Elmo’s place at the beach house which harbored the likes of: The Swedish Chef concocting the most delectable treats roasted on Elmo’s Fire, Pops in his walker which was stolen and used as a wheelie- toy by great grandson Kermit. The cast of relatives included: Rowlf the Dog, Hogthrob, Dr. Teeth, gaffer, Various, Waldorf, Uncle deadly, Julius Strangepork, Floyd, Robin, Thog, Lew Zealan, Gonzo, Dr Bunsen Honeydew, Zoot, Muppy, Beauregard, Janice, Wanda, Hilda, Sam the Eagle, Statler, Wayne, Crazy Harry,Sue, Lips, Nigel, and, last but not least, Animal on drums. Most of whom began their day with beer and dough nuts and ended the night with fantastic stories which made you laugh until your stomach hurt. Each of whom could capture and carry the most renown version of Marty Robbin’s song of El Paso in the key of F (flat) to be sung all through the night in various locations in a sleepy town 78 miles north of the Emerald City.
The wedding was a smash hit especially with the Muppet clan singing El Paso as the Bride and Groom took their fateful walk down the aisle of Marriage into the reception hall. I loved this group of Muppet misfits and I am proud to have been a part of them during this glorious time. I didn’t know what to expect given the horror stories of family gatherings, but this by far was an unexpected pleasure and sheer Puppet mastery with no strings attached. Well, maybe with the exception of Crabby Patty resurfacing on shore trying to keep his claws out of the drink.
This was your Muppet News woman reporting……..spread the humor.
I am not a big planner in life. I admire those people that carry their life in the palm of their pocket. I tried to get inspired by those folks whose lives run on a PDA, but the best I can do is scribble notes on a giant desk calender and forget to look at it again. Or the important data I just documented has a mishap with my cappuccino and is now rendered illegible.
Oh, I have planned vacations and booked flights, but it’s really not me doing the arrangements, it’s the booking agent that gets all the credit. I know everything is handled through the information highway with precise technocality, but I am the person who downloads the material online while talking to the agent. I need the comfort of a human voice that responds back with semi-logic and a peppy emotion who entraps me to commit to a date and hand over my American Express card.
It seems that some of my best laid plans go awry no matter how methodically I manage to orchestrate them in my mind. For example: Last night I planned a great nights sleep with Charly dog nesting at my ankles and wake up refreshed and ready to prance off to the gym to endure a grueling workout sporting my matching Nike attire.
Instead….I woke up to a puddle of pee at the base of the bed.
My first inclination after I yanked the covers off was to replicate that memorable scene from the Godfather where the studio head discovers the horses noggin beneath the bedding.
But…. it was early and I didn’t want to wake the sleeping teens down the corridor for fear of being doused with attitude and rolling eyes; or..worse yet… I believe my quasi adult children may have listed a retirement community on their cell phones……s(pee)d dial…….
It did cross (what’s left of) my mind, that…well….er……did I have and accidental accident???
I know I’m in the drones of menopause and plumbing issues are near the top of the list of things that go bump in the night. I did under go a surgical procedure a few years ago that was performed by a robot harboring arms like a giant spider which has the same name of the artist who painted The Last Supper, and looked as though it was assembled at NASA. This was a procedure that was less invasive and could be executed in under two hours. That is, if there are no complications. Mine lasted five hours because the commander at the controls ripped a hole in my bladder which resulted in a 911 call to an in-House specialist. So, needless to say, that morning I thought I had sprung a leak.
As I toppled out of bed and began to figure out a way to wake my husband and break the news to him that I just might be a victim of the Depends generation I realized:
Maybe it’s time to wake up and smell the urine. No more sailing that sea of denial that age and women don’t mix well in certain genres. Might as well face the future and take it with a grain of cotton and imported materials with a flexible waistline……………
……..and that an over-sized puffy pant, while moderately absorbent and locks in odors, may be replacing my Pink Victoria Secret Lacy Wonder Scanty Panty.
As I climbed off the California King (mattress) my foot touched a breathing furry object semi cowered under the bed. There lie Charly-dog staring at me with guilty big round eyes and shaking as if he were stuck in a winter storm without his coat. He glared with the kind of eyes you see in a Keane painting that boarder on cuteness and crazy. I noticed a dotted trail of pee that flowed in his direction and it didn’t take the Dream Team to figure who the culprit was in this voiding crime. I’m surprised my pup didn’t grab my husbands Bruno Magli’s and leave and imprint in the carpet…..
I was angry at the dog and wanted to reprimand him for the dirty deed that happened during my REM slumber, but I didn’t get mad at Charly for his incidental accident on my dry clean only comforter. I turned my anger into elation because it wasn’t me that suffered the indiscriminate incontinence…… it was my pup.
Oh Halleluja and pass the menopausal plate! I have branded another age defying dilemma and will Prevail with Dignity-plus a Nu-Fit on age that Depends on the Tranquility that life can Pull-Up.
I picked up my shivering puppy and held him tight and whispered in his bobble head that “everything will be O.K”.
Tonight my Plan is to take a Brief interlude and turn a Puppy-Pad into a Huggies Overnite…oh..and..delete the retirement center’s number on my kids cell phones…
spread the humor.
Oh boy. Here I go again. Hold onto your brains, I’m approaching a bumpy gyrus………..so don’t just sit and sulcus; fasten your frontal lobes and grin and blog it…..
It appears on this hemisphere we are having a problem with security Pat Downs. I tried to research Pat Downs using the Google search and I was unable to locate Ms. or Mr. Downs in the Transportation Security Administration. Pat is a neutral name, it stands on either side of the gender bureau. Maybe I need a user friendly mode that has more badda-BING in it’s engine……(maybe I might have better luck if I check Megan’s Law website…. ouch..)
Apparently Pat Downs has been seen wearing blue surgical gloves and groping youngsters who are traveling with mommy and daddy concealing Pampers in their carry-on. It looks as though these little darlings are harboring explosive diapers as they waddle across the airport security sections. Transit authorities are trying to Change the diaper dilemma and have the toddler’s check their Huggies into baggage claim in order to lessen the work load of Pat Downs.
Oh I beg your pardon…….I misinterpreted the Ted Turner stations again…..they were discussing pat downs in the physical sense…..ohh do let me blog over….
Let’s talk pat downs. I have never experienced a pat down since the new law took over our terminals. I have had the luxury of the Wand tracing the outline of my stature spitting out “blips” as it lingered around my under-wire……..(maybe we need to call in the Victoria Secret Service…..). I don’t know how I would feel if I were pulled aside by a young, tall ,dark, and handsome TSA who wants to put his hands on me and gently pat down areas on my body with a slow blue glove…….
Oh…sorry….lost my focus for a moment….
I saw on the news how some of these transit employees were performing their job. They seem to be enjoying their work now that pat downs have been approved. The security employees are a lot more “hands-on” now then they were in the old days, when you would just stroll through a scanner and witness an occasional rifling of your neatly packed tote; hoping they breeze past an unknowingly canister of contraband left in the zipper pocket of a Samsonite that you borrowed from your sister’s hippie boyfriend….
As a former Airline Employee I never came across a pat down, or even a scanner. We merely flagged our ID’s and were given an accepted wave to pass Go. I did run across an incident with a security agent once who may have been riddled with the pat down syndrome when I was on a 24hr layover in The Emerald City. I spent the night at my sisters house and upon packing my things I managed to slip one of her expensive make-up products into my color coded airline bag and neglected to tell her. My sister and her hippie boyfriend took me to the airport and walked me to the gate, but her hippie boyfriend stopped short of the security table. ( He must have felt guilty about something…or maybe he was just somewhere over a rainbow looking for his pot of Acapulco gold..).
I flipped my badge at the agent and slid on through as usual, but this time they decided to pull me and my bag aside for a check. As he was emptying the contents onto the table he fished out the bottle of make-up and lined it up in plain view of my sister’s eyes. My sister commented on my pilfering her cosmetics and asked: “What else did you confiscate from my house?”.
(I may inject now, that this was during a time before CD’s were on the menu of music distribution and Records were the means of composition and not just for scratching, followed by eight track tapes. For history sake, Vinyl records came in variations of 78, LP, and 45’s and this all had to do with RPM’s.)
I replaced my articles that were displayed on the security table into my suitcase and I added a little joke as I answered my sisters query. I retracted with: “Oh yeah, I also packed one of your 45’s in my back pocket”.
I said this as I was reaching behind my back and before I could relinquish my smirk, a six foot 200 pound Agent came out of nowhere and snapped my arm behind my back and slammed me up against a wall and screamed at the back of my impeccably coiffed airline doo:
” You think joking about guns is funny at an airport?”………
Mind you, I was in full dress uniform with my company wings flapping an attentive salute. He turned me around slowly and I could see he was a product of the 8-Track heaven generation so I methodically explained the history of the modes and methods of music transportation and the means of listening to it being played. He released his grip and let me go and decided not to RECORD it in his evening report..
At least in the pat downs today the agents offer you a quiet explanation as they explore the regions that seem to be out-of-the-boundaries – before the process was approved. I don’t know if I’m comfortable with a low breathy stranger crooning his moves in my ear as I’m being gently stroked by a blue-hand- group inspecting my expanding waistline…….
Well….maybe if it’s carried out in Italian, with candle light, dinner, and soft music Recording in the back round …….. I might look the other way………
spread the humor.
Let’s talk friendship(s). My father use to say to me that in your life time you can count on one hand the people that are truly your friends……Excluding family of course,……. Oh phew….there were probably a lot of fingers flying about within the Von Trapp household….
I think it has to do with how many lives you have touched along the way, I mean touched in a way that has left an indelible mark of remembrance. My dad also mentioned that you can spark a good presence by the number of attendees at your funeral. I don’t know how that got calculated being that one is not Soul(y) present to witness the guest book signatures, and I don’t know if that really holds true if it is based on the total sum of the crowd. If a high profile figure is laid to rest in a Hollywood cemetery and draws thousands of onlookers, is that anymore redeeming than an unknown soldier. Does that signify that the “star” of the show touched more viewers through their celluloid hands than one figure who stood alone and gave a life for freedom?
I dunno….let me think……. did a major pop icon who allegedly overdosed on a controlled substance injected by a member of the AMA……….touch my life in a way that I should consider him one of my candidates for my Friendship hand? Nope.
Did some brave unknown soul who fought for our country and died while doing so to protect our country,…. did they touch my life and are they a candidate for my friendship hand? Possibly.
The “Star” provided entertainment which we pay for whether we like the entertainment or not. The venue of this art was provided for our listening and viewing pleasure. There were a lot of passer-bys at this funeral who stood crying how much their life had been touched by this person.
I’m sorry, but that Peter Pan was so out of reach he barricaded himself behind a gate in order to never land too close to the public. The only time he reached out his white glove was Pay-day after the concert. Don’t get me wrong, I like music, artists, and entertainment, my position lays resting on the point my father made regarding “touching lives” and “true friends” in ones’ life.
I mean think about it….All the folks that visited the final resting place of an Iconic Hollywood star may have felt an intense affinity to this person, but in all honesty…would this person reciprocate even if they could? I hardly doubt that the King of Pop would phone me up to come over for a Bar-B-Q at his ranch, or call one night to chat about recipes……. I can’t imagine The Gloved One would throw down his gauntlet and post bail for an unknown or possibly donate what is left of his liver……Oh, but I digress………….
My father also said to keep your enemies close and family is your true friend. That is true to a point. I have a sister who once stole my boyfriend away from me behind my back. It was hurtful and I lost my trust in her, yet to this day we still talk. Do I trust her? ..Nope. Do I keep her close?…um..Yep.
I have had hundreds of friends and acquaintances throughout my life and as I slowly ( and I do mean slowly) fight,…er..I mean..face my golden years, I now find my friendship ring diminishing down to two hands and one foot. (I think my father never took the other appendages into account). I find myself becoming highly selective on who I want around me with whatever time is left on this planet. I do not have an opening for people that are not relative to my standards of what I consider a friendship to be.
I have a few incredible friends that I could call in the middle of the night and rant about the perils of parenting without repercussion and judgement. These are folks that would bail me out of any situation with no questions asked and ask nothing in return for their favors. These are people that would never leave you stranded and stand by me through outlandish circumstances….no holds barred. These are friends that ask for nothing yet I give them everything, just because they are friends. These are friends that have engaged in minor battles and yet we manage to come out without a scrape and find ourselves laughing at the tomfoolery over a Tom Collins. These are people I tattoo on my friendship hand.
I guess standards of friendship vary amongst people, and maybe mine are highly idealistic, but I find when I don’t keep to my “code” some people just take advantage of you. Do I like that?…Nope. Do I change that?…Yep.
That’s the beauty of aging and harbor hormones that get in the way….I don’t have time for people in wolf’s clothing. (Well maybe I’d take some time to speak with a Blitzer in a Navy wool Blazer about a situation). I will not have a friend just for friends sake, I like a valued individual with some depth and character and not centered on themselves for entertainment.
The group of faces on my fingertips are imbedded indelibly on my friendship hand and I am honored to be able to reach out and touch their lives as much as they have stroked mine. Do I like that? Yep. Do I want to change that? Nope.
I have now passed on to my children the Handy words of wisdom from my father regarding friends and they reacted as I did when I thought I was immortal, only they think of friends in terms of acronym’s like; BFF and BFLS and TTYL….etc.
I guess their access of ridding unwanted friendships is at the touch of the hand and reaching for the DELETE button……..
well that was easy……..
spread the humor.
My daughter will be off to her “sleep-a-way” college very soon and I am having a real push-me-pull-you sensation circling my being with regards to her being an absentee family member at the dinner table.
It’s amazing how fast time flies when you’re raising children.
Running a close second is my son who will be gone in another year, which leaves just me, a husband, and a crazy dog. Coming in third is my traveling husband who checks into this House Hotel periodically and has check-out by 11. So, inevitably I am left with just me dining with Charly-dog sharing our kibble-n-bits and picking on a bone or two….
I suppose confronting an empty nest syndrome could cause one to feel slightly deserted and leaving one to feel alone to combat that empty feeling rising in your stomach, but actually, it’s last nights dessert followed by a gastric flare-up that’s creating the fuss. And you thought I was going to wallow in lonely abandonment and cry over Spilt Vintage Port…….
Having the place all to myself??? I say…Halleluja and pass the Pinot Grigio……Sweet freedom…..I can’t think of what I want to do first: Sleep til noon or Kennel the canine and shop-drop-and -roll into a SPA…….without family interruptus.
Just think of the exhilarating feeling of not getting that emergency call of: “I forgot my English paper that I left curled up at the bottom of my bed that’s due today,” while you’re in the middle of a shower that was already scheduled for an earlier time…..
Or the incredible lightness of being inside your purse that no longer carries the contents of a beloved family members lost possessions…..
Imagine not having to try to cook for four, in addition to their last minute friends that may bombard your kitchen promptly at 6pm. Which leads you to hop in the car and rush to the grocery to buy more food, but as you start the car it’s low on gas because the other family drivers never load the tank, so now there is an unscheduled stop to fill up. Which, when you are grabbing the car that your daughter inhabits, you nearly have a head-on because you are fighting off a pile of college clothes in the passenger seat causing an avalanche of underwear to flow onto your lap.
Imagine not having to engage in banter about: “How come I can’t go the Marilyn Manson concert by myself, I’m 15 you know……:.” . (yeah I know…, I was there when you were born…remember?).
Ohhh..I dunno….something about that guys(?) LAST name that bothers me, being that I was around during the Helter Skelter years….
Lately, my son and I have been having a communication breakdown. I think it has to do with an increase in his hormones and a withering away of mine. We are currently amidst a clash of the mighty testosterone-Titans. He wants his Friday night lights to be continually burning while my dimming levels are suffering a low AC/DC output leaving me longing to lounge into Sunday morning.
My son accused me of not being “cool” and never having any” fun” and that irritated me because FUN use to be my middle name. Fun is part of FUNny, which I use to be before my children were born and Worry seem to take funny’s place.
This poor teenage lad thinks his mother was Born This Way. He thinks when I plopped out of the womb I immediately set up shop in a household full of responsibility waving a Clorox wipe to rid all the dust that has been collecting in the ancient corners of my life.
Sometimes you have to drop that parental facade of setting a good example and let that little offspring have a piece of your life as you knew it…..or remember it……
My son exclaimed that I don’t let him have any fun. This statement is based solely on the premise that I won’t let him go to a RAVE party that mixes thousands of unknowns from around a tri-state area and continues on into the night lasting an eternity…..
He mumbled to me that Everyone is going.
I asked him to give me the names of Everyone; I’d like to check with Everyone’s parents. I don’t recall ever meeting the Everyone Family, and maybe I need to check the school Roster for Everyone’s address and phone number. Maybe Everyone’s Parents are available for dinner sometime…..(I’ll make sure Everyone is there).
This is where we both reach Moot hormone point…….
Then he hammered in a closing statement: “I could lie about it and say I’m going somewhere else and spend the night with a friend, instead….”.( 23K spent on tuition and he ends his clause with an adverb…..).
“Well”..(you smarty teen who thinks he just closed the justice doors on me…) “I guess I would know your lying to me”.
“How?” He smirks, as if he holds the secret to life. ( Which I gave to him, by the way...).
“Well”……..(you know it all teen who couldn’t see a Mac truck breezing in front of your Ipod clad ears):
“You just TOLD me….sooooo…….go on………ask me now if you can spend the night at a friends house…..”.
I sat my son down and explained to him about the repercussions of a lie. No, I didn’t go into a fancy parable like my parents use to do and infer references that included Pincochio, Instead , I decided to take another twist and give my son a little Flava-Flav of my own accolade of life with my parents. I told him I too told my folks I was Spending the night at a friends house when I was his age because my parents wouldn’t let me attend a concert:
“But son”, I said with great urgency and glowing remembrance; “this was no ordinary concert, this was a Rock Festival in the late sixties that resembled a mini Woodstock which you are now studying in your History book along with Vietnam, LSD, and Sqeaky Fromme’s red sweat shirt”.
“Son”, I continued, (as if I were there now, three feet away from Jim Morrison crooning “Light My Fire” through his three weeks growth of beard):
“This was a Pop Festival in the summer of ’69 when tickets were $6 and the featured headliners were the legends of: The Doors, Ike and Tina Turner, Country Joe and the Fish, Joe Cocker, Bo Didly, Led Zepplin, Alice Cooper, Santana…and Chicago…..”.
(These bands were escaping my palate with all the excitability a fifty-something mother stuck in a time warp could muster….yet trying to keep her parental controls in check….)
“Son, this was two days of reckless existence and FUN nights rolled into a day of recovery………which, when I got caught in my lie , nearly cost me a one way ticket to an all girls Catholic school in Canada, thousands of miles away from my friends, where I would be forced to wear Maroon Knee-highs for Identification purposes only….”.
“Son, if you want to LIE to me and then get caught, (and you will get caught) ….(we live in a small rural town), please make sure that whatever story you concoct in that under developed teen brain of yours, is for a worthy cause…….like something that has gone down in History………..”.
“Attending an over sized party of punks that is hosting a Dee-Jay who scratches vinyl records for a living is nothing to RAVE about to your children…”.
(It was soon after my total recall rant that my Coed daughter decided to chime in and eradicate her life of missing concerts, which started the dog barking and dinner was burning…).
Maybe I won’t miss the tete-a-tete’s that bring my blood sugar to a boiling point, but I do know I’ll miss the presence of my children at my dinner table. Sometimes letting a little of your past leak out can mark your place on the “teenage map” of life and put you on the “cool Mom’s” continent.
And, Sometimes, you just have to concede and curl up with the dog and wait until they come back home for well missed dinner……..