Charlywalker's Blog











{November 5, 2013}   Blogger’N Hell…

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

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{July 2, 2013}   A Bunch of Blog Wash

Laundry is a lonely world in my house. It sits and compiles like a garbage dump site.   The only thing missing from this mountainous scene are the seagulls hovering about looking for a morsel.  That would explain the missing socks.  No one wants to acknowledge the hamper overflowing like a volcano looming over the Bay of Naples.  No one wants to flock to the Whirlpool that awaits its daily meal of detergent and fabric softener…………. except me.

Oh, my family members know how to run the washer and dryer, and they know how to find the necessary materials to help the machines do their dooty.  They just turn a blind eye to the domestic scene. The collegiate sector of this household have been away and forced to launder their garments.  They know.  They know how it ALL works. They know how to do laundry when their hands are TIDE(d).    To them, this agonizing chore is nothing to CHEER about. They would sooner I WISK this tedious deed out of their idle Summer Break hands and move the SUN & EARTH for the cause, but there would be nothing to GAIN with that METHOD.

My kids need  a FRESH START and BOUNCE  back from this  SNUGGLE(y)ERA of  mom will FINISH the XTRA load. If you catch my DREFT.

OK, let me clean up this  abrasive jargon and scour the real reason I’m venting through a clogged filter…..

HOW can people living in your house not SEE the assortment of attire strewn about their rooms as if it’s been washed ashore by a Designer Tsunami. How…

I own Machinery that talks to you.  My General Electric’s are equipped with bells and whistles that continually chime until someone gets off their keister to turn the dryer off.  It is an intermittent “beep” that starts out long and loud then silences itself for a few nano seconds only to take a breather to start up again with a two minute warning that the “LOAD IS NOW FINISHED, COME GET ME OUT!”.

I am thinking of contacting the Heads of General Electric and share my ingenious idea of my version of a talking washer and dryer. A new twist on Smart Appliances.

It would be programmed for different members  of my household who happen to be lurking in the hallways with headsets on listening to their Electronic du Jour.  I would ask that GE make it a wireless unit that is capable of  breaking into their leisurely head banging music.   Kind of  like an Airline Captain who interrupts your inflight movie to  describe the Colorado Mountains.   You know that inopportune time……when the twist comes into the flick or that  long awaited punch line…..the Deus ex Machina.  Or MACHINE(a) .   There you are, engulfed at the end of the Departed when Matt Damon gets shot and groceries drop to the ground while the camera pans to a bootie covered foot, and your eyes are glued to the screen, and just as you are about to see the culprit the Captain breaks in with his weather update.

THAT’S what I want my GE laundry machines to do.  I want the Washer  and Dryer to penetrate my sons Ipod in the middle of his hit Itune with sporadic statements reminding him to take the wet load out of the washer and put it in the dryer.  It would be my voice invading his wireless “hood”:

“Good afternoon son, hope you are enjoying your day, we have reached an altitude of five feet of laundry blocking the entrance to your room and it looks like there could be a delay in obtaining clean clothing for that special date tonight. So sit back, relax, and ENJOY your smelly clothes…..”.

  And if my son ignores the command he will be met with periodic follow-ups of reminders.  Every two minutes.

The Washer will start out speaking in ultra soft tones, maybe add a personal touch and call him by name, then if he is still oblivious to a directive, the Dryer will then kick in with harsher attributes:

Dryer: ” Son, I don’t think you want to ignore the washer. Remember what happened last time, you forgot about  your Ipod in your jeans pocket and left the wet laundry in there for two days to ferment….oohhh..your Mama was mad…”.

This will become cyclic and programmed into all his electronics. There will be no escaping the demands to get the laundry completed in a timely manner.  I will instruct General Electric and Whirlpool to use my voice as the prompt.

In fact, I have decided to install wireless Mother Voice commands throughout the house.  They will be implanted throughout. I will have the alerts activate upon entrance. They will be individually formatted for each member of the household who have been pooh-poohing the Matriarch of this family…..:

1) “Kindly remove your muddy soccer cleats at the door”

2)”Your wallet and keys are on the counter where you leave them every night”

3) ” NO, I did not take your lip gloss, it is buried under your make-up pile spilling onto your dresser”

4) “Could ONE of you please take the dog out for a walk?” ( I would program that one into the couch facing the TV).

5) ” If you are standing and staring into an open refrigerator with one arm hanging on the door looking for something to eat that isn’t there…….close the damn door!”

Yes, I think this could work.  I think I will work on General Electric to do this for me.  Then I will approach Apple next to send numerous Texts of Motherly Instructions that get overlooked.

What…..you don’t think they will take me SIRIously?

spread the humor.




“It’s raining…..It’s pouring…..my husband won’t stop snoring……He went to bed…turned his head…and I kicked him out this morning”….

I know snoring is no laughing matter, especially to the other person occupying the the right side of the bed who can’t sleep, due to the massive logs being sawed next to her…more like a buzz saw emanating from those nostrils.  How does this rhythmic rhino sleep through his own band of breaths.  How does he manage to open the floodgates of  an airway to bring in ‘da Funk, bring in ‘da Nose….relentlessly causing him to  not Breath Right.  This is nothing to sneeze at.

The only semi cure to calm his turbulent turbinates is to roll him on his side so his schnoz is facing East.  If he is resistant to that change in venue and chooses to remain on his back pausing to inhale; he will face the pillow of doom hovering over his face as he’s Waiting to Exhale.

  I tried that once. It was a mere threat…..in jesture .  My  recidivist  snore hog (snog)  awoke to the Scent of a Woman who uses too much fru-fru fabric softener in the laundry, so he hurled a ginormous sneeze onto the pillow case:

“Were you holding a pillow over my face?”…..he asks Eyes Wide Shut incrusted with sleep particles.

“No, darling,  you were dreaming.”….she coos, replacing the deformed microfoam  to the head of the bed…for Her Eyes Only.

“You were holding a pillow over my head thinking to smother me with down feathers,”…he smirks with laughing Eyes.

“Don’t be Batt(y) sweet heart,  that material contains too much airspace, if I truly wanted to off you I’d use the fiber- filled decorative  throw pillows;  everyone knows Polyester doesn’t breath”.

“So..you were trying to kill me in my sleep.” ….He spills out trying to suppress laughter.

“Not exactly honey -pie,  it was more like adding a muffler to your mouth piece.  You’re snoring”.

“I don’t snore.”..he deniably stated  looking through the eyes behind his head.

(Oh..that’s right, how could you possibly hear yourself snore over the the clamor emitting from your palate as you lie there in your sleep number coma, oblivious to the affect is has on your neighboring bed mate.  She beamed through her Betty Davis Eyes….).

That was the last time I tried the Muffle effect.

My next approach was during a visit out  west staying with relatives and  I tried the Extended- Arm -Prop- to -the -back technique. This enables your snog to remain on his side for the night, quieting the rumbling gasps;  however, it will leave you Sleepless in Seattle with an Achy Breaky Arm in the morning.  One night I chose to use the retractable-limb method: Once your snore victim (snortims) is on his side, your arm repeatedly jumps out into action with the slightest inkling of him turning onto his back.  Sometimes this method calls for two arms to be utilized as you are dealing with  unconscious weight.  Weight that has been tipping the scales of  late night snacking.  There are repercussions when using this tactic, especially if you work out at the gym three to four days a week, as my husband once fell victim to the floor:

“You pushed me out of bed?”,   he blew out after the THUD landing.

“No darling, you were dreaming”,...she winces, eyes squinting in guilt.

“You could have killed me”,   he puffs out.

“No sweetums, the chili peppers you loaded onto your late night burrito will kill you, thus the THUD when you hit the carpet, I was merely administering a minor love tap to your back helping the jalapeno’s adjust”,  she quips as her eyes search for a Eurythmic’s lyric….

“Would I Lie to you honey?…..ok..ok….you were snoring.”

“I don’t snore”,  he freely denies …again…

This lead me to my third and final modus operandi: Which is a full proof  formula so easy a dog could master it. This ritual  not only works but will provide your slumbering snog the  body of evidence that which he is being accused of: Disturbing the Peace(ful) sleeping wife:

I video taped him.

I filmed him in all his snore glory.

I showed him my presentation after I jiggled him awake.  Just try and deny the snoring now my little sweet apnea…

“You filmed me sleeping?”, he says as as his Eyes roll to the Heavens.

“Yes, pumpkin, now there is no confusion as to your snoring or not. Here you are, In Living Color, lying on your back, breathing and expiring the snuffle shuffle through your nose to the tune of She Drives Me Crazy”. 

“So what do you have to say now Mr. I Don’t Snore?”.( Her EYES have it!).

“THAT’S NOT ME”,….rolls over….fade to black..

(EYE GIVE UP!)




I have been trying  for months to sit down and tackle my keyboard to try and coerce some nonsense out of my brain. I believe my mind has been on hiatus longer than a new hit series featured on HBO. It was as if the harder I tried to think of something to write about ,the more  the thoughts escaped and tunneled out faster than Andy Dufresne through the sewers of Shawshank. It just stinks when that happens. 

It’s like I’m held prisoner in my own head and I am facing a cell block that refuses to sing a Schwann song.  In order to get the synapses in sync, I  usually will take long walks with my dog or tackle the Elliptical at the gym. I stress the word usually. 

Lately I have found it harder and harder to get out there during the winter months, which seem to drag on longer than Holiday visits from my Mother-in Law.  The motivation to dress in layers, jump into a cold car, drive in sleet , just to arrive and  get out of a now warmed car into the cold, and enter a gym that smells like…like…… a gym;  then strip off the soaked layers and step up onto a piece of equipment that was formally occupied by a wet Wookie………..has left the building.  

As far as the long walks with my dog are concerned?  He avoids nasty weather and will withhold  potty-time longer than a camel craving an oasis.

A lot of my inspiration would attack  me at random times. Times when I didn’t have anything handy to jot the idea down. This frequently  happens while driving to the store and circling the parking lot for a space, at the same time, averting run- a -way grocery carts searching for a head on.

One time was in a bank as I stood eleventh in line during rush hour.  I found myself digging through my  bottomless pit of a purse for a pen.

A PEN I always carry in the zipper portion of a pocketbook which inevitably gets devoured by the hand bag monster lying in the abyss below the hole in fabric lining.

A PEN that sits there in clutch camo teasing the grasp of my pre -arthritic fingers ,sticking it’s partially opened tip out leaving it’s mark on my manicure to let me know it’s” there “and “unattainable at the moment”.

A PEN that refuses to surrender by the time I reach the front of the line to make my deposit; In addition, the bank employee reprimands me to sign the check and offers me a pen.  There I stand with a Pen and Teller and “No Vacancy” written all over my brain…

And as fate will have it, my thought for the day had vanished ,only to possibly resurface during another inopportune moment.  Much like that PEN of inequity did  when it decided to show itself as I returned to my car outside the bank.   Never  walk and blindly fish for keys in an open receptacle whilst trying to recapture your initial brainstorm, it leads to  a dropped hand bag adjacent to the car door causing an accessories crisis spill onto the the black top and watching a PEN that is mightier than my satchel, to roll under the car.

I got down on all fours to locate its final destination.  I tried to retrieve that slippery shut in, but  it was out of my reach and I risked bumping heads with a header pipe……and that would exhaust me…….

Gathering ideas to stimulate a blog thought is not an easy task and can prove to be hazardous depending on your surroundings at the time.  I’ve had many  afflatus attack me in the middle of a shampoo while showering.  Maybe scrubbing the scalp stimulates that a fore mentioned “cell ” block and whips a body out of the bath, dripping without a towel, sliding towards a pen spotted on the countertop……only to land on the cold tile floor in the process.

Which brought my brain to a conclusion that all ideas brought on during that scenario are………….

(wait for it)……..

SLIPPERY WHEN WET.

spread the humor.




Now that my kids are soon to be vacating the house on a semi permanent basis I need to fill a void that has been lying dormant for years. Something that I have been aVOIDing to do based on my life as a wife, mother, dog walker, housekeeper, nurse, chief cook and bottle washer, chauffeur, laundress, accountant, gardener, psychiatrist, travel agent, consultant, sports authority, and sibling rivalry referee………

I am ready to Tap-out now and try my attempt at re-entering the workforce.  It has been years since I’ve held full time work and I am not afraid to go out into this world and show them exactly what I’ve got:

 

I’ve got a wardrobe from the 1990’s.

 

I’ve got the ability to apply my half -used free samples of Lancome products that I acquired over the years during  a Macy*s back to school sale.  Yes, I got a little side tracked at the Mall while hunting for back-packs and lunch boxes. 

In fact, I’ve got pulled aside by many mall make up artist’s who try to perform their magic on me.  I can’t imagine why they keep picking me out of the crowd of soccer moms.  I arrive dressed in appropriate attire when the doors open in the morning.  I see nothing wrong with waking up and sliding down my fire pole to slip into my uniform sweats that have been standing at attention all night, accompanied by dirty Vans and a Hoodie.  I carry an odiferous  aroma about my being ranging between Downey fabric softener and last night’s Pizza.

  I’ve got my hair in an erect ponytail and  I shield my puffy bags with over sized Raybans.  I can’t imagine why the make-up crews single me out……..

 

I’ve got the ability to clean up while driving and apply make-up at stop intervals. The drivers behind me hate it though, they keep honking at me just because I’m waiting for the Stop sign to turn green.  I thought it would buy me more time with the Mascara…. I find it takes two applications now.  One; to find the lashes, and two; to glue together the few that I have left…..forming a uni-lash.


The downfall about putting make-up on in a car are the bumps in the roads. They are always working on our streets and neglecting to refill the potholes, so when I finally reach my final destination ( usually the school drop off line) and park my car and get out, I notice people staring and kids pointing in my direction.

After transmitting my morning without coffee sneer to ward off evil onlookers, I take a quick pause into the ladies room to wash the morning gas of my hands from filling the empty tank left by my husband.  I looked up at the mirror as I rinsed the suds off  my paws and saw what the villagers were scoffing at:  My freshly applied make-up face resembled a combination of  Picaso’s Weeping Woman and Baby Jane Hudson’s as she delivered a Parakeet to her sister…….

 

I’ve got a pair of pumps that my feet haven’t felt in ages.  One cannot describe the agonizing pinch of  the toes that have been granted freedom in flip flops with arches that collapsed from the great depression of Ked’s insoles.  I took the time one late afternoon to strap on some heels and practice walking in them around the house  with no one around to witness the teetering and the giant fight against balance, except Charly-dog, who steered clear of my runway  in fear of a crash landing.

I spent the better half of the day shuffling about in my designer heels  that peeped out from my Yoga pants.  I practiced my walk until I felt I had it down to a science and stopped echoing a staggering drunk on some forgotten street.  I felt confident and assured that I had tackled the High Heel dilemma and ventured to take my stiletto’s to another dimension:  The Stair case.

Climbing up the steps was met with ease….. it was the descent that had me  clinging to the banister like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, avoiding a result mimicking Scarlett O’Hara’s demise  after her lunge toward a drunken Butler…….

 

I’ve got a resume.    Somewhere.   It hasn’t been updated since the Clinton administration.   Just a minor indescretion oversight.

 

I’ve got credentials.  I’m accredited with incredibility. References available upon request.  Go ahead…..request.  Request until the cows come home.  Habeas corpus; I can produce the body……..it’s just a little rusty and needs a make over….which the Lancome staff has a signed commitment to uphold……

If you don’t like my credibility try my crudites. They are incredible, and edible, but not available upon request.

 

I’ve got the corporate beige panty hose that are tied up in knots from the last load in the wash cycle.

 

I’ve got a brief case from 1987 that needs airing.

I’ve got a boat load of humor stuck in me that is trying to float to the surface………………..

spread the humor.




I received something the other day in the (e)mail. It is entitled:

The Kreativ Blogger Award

No, I did not misspell the word…I’m not that Kreative…

I would like to extend a modicum of appreciation to all the Blogheads out there that actually take the time out of their hectic days to unravel my sardonic pen and ink……..er…contents of my motherboard……

This is my second honor bestowed upon my Blog and has been brought to you by:

thewritersescapewithwords.wordpress.com

I would like to send a simple and humble Thank You to this inspirational artist that awarded me this honor and it couldn’t happen at a better time…..just after the Oscars….

Unfortunately CW was unavailable to be here to accept this gracious award so she sent her Charly -Dog on her behalf:

Now let us commence with the program:

Here’s the rules of engagement:

1) Thank the person that Nominated you:       THANK YOU! & See above in RED…

2) List 7 interesting things about myself:       1 through 7, please refer back to my Versatile Blogger      Award…nothing has changed except I am aging…

3) Nominate 7 more Blogheads: My choices are based on the humor these Blogger’s Kreativly Inject and don’t realize how Kreativly funny they are:

woodgatesview.wordpress.com    Ignorethebucklesonmyjacket.wordpress.com  up2randomthoughts.wordpress.com

pooterandboogersplace.wordpress.com   passionateaboutpets.wordpress.com    souldipper.wordpress.com

gaycarboys.wordpress.com     mostlybrightideas.wordpress.com  myzencity.wordpress.com  sandysays1.wordpress.com

bridgesburning.wordpress.com  leftwingnutjob.wordpress.com  newsanvil.wordpress.com digitalbungalow.wordpress.com

misswhiplash.wordpress.com  thegreatgoodsby.wordpress.com

and any food, travel, picturesque, blog I may have missed but always enjoy : I tip my Blog off to you.

As you can see I added more than the allotted 7,  I believe rules are made to be broken……

Thank you to all my faithful followers and I tip my funny bone off to you all!

Spread the Humor: CW





I like the sound of my house in the morning. It begins with a serene calmness surrounded by an abundance of quiet, and ends with a clamor of energies erupting from a mixture of tyrannical teens, a traveling husband, and a wayward dog.

I fancy the stillness to inspire me to write…or…er..scribble down thoughts, however, the only thing materializing in my brain is “still” trying to transpire.  I need a muse.  Maybe the sound of music  might amuse me and become museful to help with motivation which could  ignite and spark a plethora of  musettes to clear the cobwebs visiting my minds museum.

Too much quiet seems to have a Sesame Street affect on me and it’s forcing me to spew an assortment of M’s & more M’s.  Might as well face it I’m addicted to love  of alliteration. It’s a nasty habit, but it’s really just for the pun of it.

For the new year I was trying to get a blog in edgewise at least once a week, but I would find myself sitting and staring at the computer hoping that the keyboard would miraculously take it’s alphabet and form an idea or two….

Sometimes I rest my hands on the keys in the typewriter formation that I learned in eighth grade from a teacher who was missing three fingers, and I would sit in a trance awaiting  an idea to hit that compels  my fingers to vibrate across the raised letters like a divining tool over a Ouija Board.

Sometimes I find myself sitting at the desk with my head in my hands closing my eyes with all my might in hopes that an anecdote will squeeze out from the darkness.  The only things that appear to pop through from that ritual are new wrinkles in the corners of my eyes from clamping my lids shut.

Sometimes I walk around the house looking for anything to stimulate a brainstorm , but, usually I end up facing a  few messy rooms that look as though they weathered a storm and curse at the dirty laundry that  is multiplying faster than bunnies.

Sometimes I jump into my mom uniform and take the crazy dog out for a walk in the “hood” hoping to grab some outdoor information that could trigger some hyperboles of life.  My dog was my original muse when I started this blog adventure, but now we both just walk amongst ourselves  in silence soaking in scenery and leftover urine floating atop the grass. Even my dog carries the “No Vacancy” aura atop is pea brain.  Lately it feels like I’m taking Eeyore for an apathetic walk…

Sometimes I check my email and witness an assortment of blogger’s have been busy at blogging.  I admire the folks that are able to write once a day and even sometimes twice a day.  Sometimes I find my Inbox is inundated weekly with subscriptions that I am too caught up in reading and I find I have left no time to formulate my own  mental material. I wish I had the time to blog every day or even every week.  I tried once, on January 1st of each year since the onset of this blog, I tried with all my mighty imagination to transcribe daily.  A day turned into two days….then three days….then a week….then a month….then I found myself caught up in living life instead of attempting to write about it.

Sometimes I load my brain cells with caffeine to try and jump start a synapse.  I step and fetch myself a warm cappuccino thinking the lovely aroma of my Italian espresso blend will activate an afflatus.  All it seems to produce is a  mild movement towards a quiet ladies room.  I never afflatus in public.

Sometimes I just want to stop all this blogsense and quit.  Maybe free up my stagnant legs that  hide under the desk while the varicosities await their first thrombosis.  Maybe give the chair cushion a break and let the micro-foam have a breather and work the dent out.  Maybe give my eyes a break from the vibrant glare on my screen….oh…wait…I have transition lenses.  I utilize the Hunter  S. Thompson technique….minus the cigarette.

Yes, I like the sound of my house in the morning that harbors a unique calmness before it’s inundated with the walking dead teens and  a tumbling dog chasing a husband who checks in and out and leaves his keys at the front desk.

My Desk.

The desk that shelters the immobile legs and supports the bent elbows that hold the hands that clasp the head which contains the brain that is trying to channel amusements blogged by a jack of all trades…….

spread the humor.




I have been doing time as a quasi- stay- at -home parent for..let’s say…..22.5 years.   I believe I  have met the necessary requirements and demands  that became the imprisoned criteria throughout those years in order to  obtain freedom from:  boring PTA meetings,  exhaustible Fund Raisers, Mad Max Sports Chauffeur,  24 hour on call chef , Personal Shopper, Emotional Referee, and in-house psychiatrist…..All this parental jurisprudence  under one leaky roof to allow freedom while enforcing order among family chaos….

I have enjoyed my time in this institution of parenting through each and every stage of child development.   All the way from directing developing girls into their  first wonder bra, to underdeveloped boys figuring out how to un-hook them.

It seems like only yesterday that my daughter was putting her toddler feet into my size 8 Charles Jourdan’s teetering and shuffling through the house while leaving a trail of scratch marks on the hardwoods.  Now she is grown and shuffles her  Knock-off collection between college and home via the trunk of a car, and still teeters and stumbles  in her stiletto’s on the hardwoods.

And my son, soon to  approach high school graduation and walk towards that collegiate path where he will pick up the fork in the road  and use it as a reminder of all the lovely over cooked meals mom made for him.  I think he will enjoy his “leaving the nest” gift I constructed out of the  equipment and attire that lays suffocating inside his sports bag gasping for a breath of fresh Febreze huddled in the garage for months on end….…..oh it just brings tears to my eyes……..

 Yes, time flies when you’re raising kids. Sometimes too fast and in certain predicaments, sometimes not fast enough. Looking back for example: Potty training.  My children had stubborn bottoms. There was no way in Hell that they were going to plant their tuschies on a porcelain stool containing water with a hole in it and “let loose”.  They might fall in and who knows where that  would lead to.

I invested in a lot of time and energy and “potty” reading material in order to get my kids trained in toiletry. I researched all the child experts and read  their advice on bathroom training and the commode controversy. All that information just filtered an assortment of crap that drained me and I was left pooped for the day. Who has that kind of time to sit and read  lengthy descriptive potty books to toddlers in hopes to encourage a movement.

When my kids did finally concede to try the pot located in a chamber adjacent to their rooms, they found themselves  actually liking it and would sit for what seemed like hours.  Once my son  hopped off the pot to go grab a toy and return to the bathroom theater to reenact the “mummy” with Elmo wrapped in Ultra Soft.

My daughter took a more regal approach and dragged her Crayola markers  to the throne as she mastered an  imitation of a Calder painting onto the toilet tank.

Yes, those were the days that I didn’t mind if the hours raced on ahead…

 Lately,I find myself caught in a web that spins in only two directions as my parenting comes down a home stretch creating a possibility for early parole….if you’ll Pardon the expression. There is a minor offensive feeling of freedom when you are about to face an empty nest. It’s sort of an unleashed guilty pleasure of retreating back to what was once designated  as ” Me Time”;  yet, at the same time, harboring a push-me-pull-you defense against “letting Go”.

Just as I came to grips with the realization that my household was soon to be down to basically Charly-dog and me, and I started to feel the content and joy of releasing  most of the everyday tedium  involved with indwelling kids.  Just as my heart  started to jump for joy as I unfastened the shackles of daily duties revolving around kid schedules and looking forward to…oh….I dunno………. perennial Spa time?……..

I received a phone call.

My son’s school called to ask if we could be an “emergency host family for a foreign exchange student from Holland who needed a place until graduation in June”.

This all came about before the holidays. I could not  lie and tell my sons school that there was “no room at the inn”, so I took the little Dutch boy in.

Apparently Amsterdam Boy and my son are two tulips in a vase. They became best friends at the beginning of the  school year.  When Holland boy’s window of opportunity landed  from Netherland into our home, I swear I had met my sons Doppleganger.  They are the same size and shape. They laugh alike, they walk alike, and  times they even talk alike.……….in different languages.

They are both carved out of the same Dutch Elm. Both their bedrooms  resemble an aftermath of the Fourth Anglo-Dutch war.  The shrapnel of clothing splinter out from the opened dresser drawers and wounded trousers lay lifeless on the floor from their nights frivolity.  I gather up dirty laundry from two countries  now.  I find myself lost in the glory of scooping up the minor coins that strategically drop from  loosened pockets throughout the house.  I’ll hang onto the Euro’s from Dutch boy until the exchange rate drops to our level, then give him a buy back option…

I will conclude that hosting a foreign exchange student has actually turned out to be a pleasure.  There are no major complications and the language barrier is minimal.  He respects my professionalism I’ve acquired in the experience of teen behavior:  Eye Rolling is International.

Yes, confronting the empty nest syndrome has had some effect on me. It caused me to confront the hollow spaces left behind where dirty laundry and missing History assignments use to congregate.  I always thought when this time came,  I would succumb to the sadness of a half empty house  and wallow and wine as I second guess my parenting skills. Skills that did not include instructions from the onset.  Skills that you obtained through trial and error and all the Dr. Spock books in the world could not prepare you for. Skills that have been handed down from generations  nursing  verbal acuity with four simple words:

“Because I said so….”

Yes, the bars will be lifted soon and I will be set free to roam about the cabin without tripping over size 13 shoes left in the middle of the kitchen floor; accompanied now  with size 12 Faux Wooden clog slippers.  Something tells me my nest won’t be empty for long and my parental ship will not be sailing into the sunset where freedom rings and Chianti flows rampant, and responsibility can take a back seat. Something  out there is still lurking around and sniffing about my feet to fill the void that is soon to come…..

Oh..yea… I forgot………Charly-dog.

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{October 25, 2011}   Put on The Blog

I think I may try to post something once a day to drive the readers crazy or to possibly have them ask for more……

Last night I had a dream about Bill Gates. I have had dreams of famous people before but never one of this caliber or fortuitous in nature. I don’t know why Mr. Gates decided to pop into my castle in the air, maybe it’s the menopause gods messing with my brain; but he landed there anyway and the dream took place in an automobile.  He was driving of course, and I was in the passenger seat.

The car in the dream was not the one I actually found myself leaning on one cold afternoon outside the Westin Hotel while waiting for the airport Taxi to arrive. In the dream, this auto was a very sleek Cadillac Escolade with tinted windows…

  I have never had the pleasure to meet Mr. gates. I have only seen pictures of him on integral publications. I knew his dad was a lawyer in Seattle like mine was, and maybe, just maybe, they crossed paths a few times in the court house elevator to exchange briefs…….

Anyway….. as I was heading back to Los Angeles and awaiting a transport vehicle to pick me up along with the other less fortunate’s who couldn’t afford a cab, the “Sit-n-Wait” bench was occupied and I was left with standing room only. Nestled under the car port in the semi circular drive to the entrance of the Hotel I noticed a Mercedes abandoned sitting close to the pick up area.  I mozied on over and leaned my too- tired-to-stand-anymore- rump against the rear fender with one leg  propped atop my Hartman carry- on, balancing  the Times on my knee working on a  puzzle I started three days earlier. Just when I finished filling in an 11  letter word for Mega rich person who monopolizes the computer industry……….

I heard an attendant scatter about rustling a set of keys and running after a man walking towards the Teal car where I was resting my laurels and he tossed out a quiet yell:

“Here’s your keys Mr. Gates”.

My tuschie came off the back end of that car as if it had just sat down on  a wet seat on the Subway  headed to Coney Island. I slowly looked to my right to catch a glimpse of what I presumed might be the Billionaire,  (it could also have been my eighth  grade science teacher. Same name different incomes outcomes).  It turned out to be the Microsoft Mogul and I was hoping  he wasn’t going to instruct the attendant to have me removed and get his car dusted for commoner butt prints….

What I actually witnessed was Bill giving me a double take. He looked at me twice before he opened his car door to get in and didn’t utter a sound.

There are only a few reasons I can think of when someone looks at you twice:

one: you think you recognize that person,

two: you like what you see and you have to have seconds.

three: “what was this girl thinking resting on his specially made Teal Sadies as if it were a hitching post equipped with a watering hole. Why the nerve of that girl placing her back pocket of her designer jeans against my hand crafted rear panel indulging in the New York Times Puzzle. What,…..  she’s too good for the Seattle Times Sudoku??”.

O.k…That actually happened…..with the exception of the NY Times…..I  was reading the Horoscope section holding a pen………

My dream  last night about Mr. Gates opened with the two of us riding about in a giant SUV and he was yakking about how we were going  to go swimming at a club that my family belongs to.

He was very concerned about my “knowing how to swim”, and “do I like swimming”.( I didn’t know how to respond because it was 30 degrees out and snow was still on the ground and swimming was the last thing on my mind.)  As I sat there in the passenger seat groping for an answer that would honor the Mega- Trazillionaire, my puppy , Charly-dog, popped onto the dashboard and rummaged through the front seat of Gates car as if he owned it.

Mr. Gates started quizzing me about Charly-dog and asked: “what kind of food he eats” and “if the food was expensive” and “was it tasty“.

I informed him of the brand and mumbled that I had not yet sampled it.

Then I woke up. I woke up with a feeling that I had just held a private meeting with one of the top richest men in the country and our conversations centered around swimming and dog chow, instead of  great stock tips or insight to a new pc product.  I was left drowning in a  Pool of Purina……..

I don’t know about anyone else, but conquering menopause without medication is starting to have it’s effect on me.  The estrogen has now hit the subconscious below sea level. My anterior pituitary has reached its last droplets of hormonal secretions and is casting its FSH out to the sea of dreams. Flooding the GATES of  REM.  I use to have dreams that had me floating atop the clouds care-free……with no Dog interruptus……….

Thank God my puppy was there to witness the whole thing, he smiled at me in the morning as if everything went swimmingly well…..

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