Am I Motivational Or What!

 Good morning! OK, so I NEED your opinion. (Yes, AGAIN! Deal with it!) I had this totally, amazingly AWESOME idea for a new career…Life Mom! What do ya think?

 This morning I told my hubby that someone somewhere was trying to tell me something, since the last couple of days I’ve been “meeting” quite a few people on various and sundry social media thingies who are Life Coaches. “What does that even mean, honey?”

 “I don’t know.” This is where I got the standard eye-roll-sigh, because he knows something “not good” is coming. But he was cool and played along anyway. “What does a Life Coach do, exactly?”

 “Ummm…I don’t know. Follow you around with a whistle and call, “FOUL!” when you screw up?” I got the blank-stare. ”OK, I got it. They tell you how you’re screwing up and teach you crap like how not to spend all your hubby’s hard-earned money.” Yeah, this last comment was made while raiding his wallet.

 “Sure. Maybe you should look into it then. Not like they could really do much with you in THAT area though.” That may or may not have been when I returned his wallet by sort-of-accidently tossing it at his head. (He caught it though, so it was all good.)

 After he left for work, I figured I’d kill some time and look it up. I was partially right, since money management is one of the things they help with. They also seem to help with getting your shiz-nit together, learning how to have healthy relationships, and basically help you be a responsible, functioning adult member of society.

Never leave me unattended
with construction paper
and Duct tape! 

 THAT’S when it hit me! They’re like Moms, only they’re supposed to be all nicey-nice and supportive about it. Why not create a new niche for those peoples who NEED the nagging, fussing Mommy in their life to get their booties in gear? I will become a Life Mom!

 Just think about it a minute. You have problems managing money? “What? Did you think money was just going to grow on a tree for you to use to pay your bills? You wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d been saving part of your check like I TOLD you to do! That CD you bought for $11.00? You could have listened to the radio for free and then you’d be $11.00 closer to paying your bill, wouldn’t you!?!” (Can you tell this was a familiar occurrence in my younger years? Oh yeah!)

 Have problems with relationships? “You know, if you’d just listened to me when I told you that girl/guy was trouble, you wouldn’t BE in this situation! How is it I could line up 19 decent people and 1 looser in a room and you’d somehow manage to pick the looser every last time? What am I going to DO with you!?!”

 Have trouble getting motivated? (This one is said as I’m pulling the cover off “client” and/or following them around their domicile.) “OK, time to get your rear in gear, Mister/Missy. After all, there ARE no free rides! What? You think I’m going to be around to take care of you forever? I don’t THINK so! You need to get your act together, young lady/man. You need to learn to do all this stuff for yourself. Why, when I was your age I was already working full time, raising a family, keeping up with all the housework AND doing charity work on the weekends. You’re just wasting your life away…”

 OK, I’m thinking you get the idea, and I’m getting SERIOUSLY creeped out at how well I can apparently channel my Mother…*hard shiver*

 So…what do you think? After all, I think I’d personally respond faster if it would just shut…my…Mom…UP!

 I guess if the whole Life Mom thing didn’t work I could try Life Cheerleader.  I’m pretty sure the vision of me in a cheerleader’s outfit, complete with pom-poms and screaming, “Go YOU! You can DO it! Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? You! You! YOU!!!!!!” THAT? Would scare anyone in their right mind onto the “straight and narrow”!

 Oh yeah. I’m SO digging this…now, where is my sewing machine, since I don’t think they make those cute skirts in my size…

 May your day be filled with all the motivation you need, happy memories of your Moms, and a distinct LACK of me in a cheerleader uniform!

The Skeeze Ate My Post!

 HOLY CRAP-ON-WHOLE-WHEAT-TOAST!!!!!!!! I was proofing (PROOFING! As in FINISHED and checking for errors!) and the computer locked up and I lost EVERYTHING! AAAAAACCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!

 *deep deep breath* Good morning, take two! Shiz-nit…I cannot for the life of me remember half of what I wrote, so I’m gonns do this…

 …Thank all of you for the amazing words of support and encouragement yesterday! It really meant the world to me...

 …This is such a difficult part of my life to write about, but I’ve always tried to write with honesty (perhaps even too much at times *grin*)…

 …Thank you for the bravery and honesty of the beautiful people who stepped out of their “comfort zones” and left comments yesterday…

 That probably summed up in three sentences (OK, three and a half) what I spent two pages and an hour and a half to write. *sigh* *resists urge to HULK-SMASH mini netbook*

 Here’s the tragic chain of events that inevitably led to this morning's freak-out session (not that I really NEED a reason or anything)…yesterday, right after I posted the blog, my mini went insane! It would seem the little tramp has spent the last year having unprotected inter(net)course with all manner of websites!

 Imagine my surprise when a window popped up informing me she’d contracted not one, not two, but THREE WTV’s! (Web Transmitted Virus) It’s like STD’s only worse…I mean, let’s face it, Gonorrhea NEVER stole anyone’s identity or emptied their checking account! 

 I immediately went off-line and did the smart thing…began the panicked screaming for my tech-support, the Boomerang Kid! After I jumped on his bed long enough to get one of his eyes to open, he took a look and informed me the hussy had been using absolutely NO virus protection!

 How the heck does that even happen? I thought these things came with all that technical stuff already loaded. I mean, aren’t computers supposed to be basically idiot-proofed by this point? Because I…am a confirmed IDIOT in need of things being thoroughly “proofed”!

 Evidently NOT.

 No, the little skeeze had managed to become infected with things with ominous names like “Trojan Ware,” “Hack Ware,” and “Ad Ware.” (Why oh WHY wasn’t she using protection?) Was it my fault for not having the “talk” with her? Was I at fault for not violating her privacy and sifting through her files before she went out to “surf,” making sure she was properly “prepared” in case she met some nice “site” and hooked up?

 This would be the point at which my son informed me that if I didn’t SHUT UP, he wouldn’t fix it for me, because I was acting all insane again. (Ummm...it would appear I had been bemoaning all of this out loud...Oops!)

 After the Boomerang Kid had gotten up and showered…FOUR HOURS LATER…he tucked my precious under his arm and disappeared into the world of McDonald’s Free High Speed Hot Spot with her. (Yeah, we live in the boonies and our so-called service runs at the speed of dial-up and includes down-load limits.) (The stupid butt-nuggets!)

 He eventually returned, having found the proper files and fixes, or penicillin or whatever in the world it is you use to cure computer viruses…Then the three hour (THREE HOUR) system scan began. I was computer-less ALL FLIPPIN’ DAY! Oh yeah, withdrawals were happening all over the place!

 So this morning, I’ve got her back, but she’s obviously experiencing a few side-effects from the cure, because the bee-yatch just ate my entire post! (Where the heck-y was auto-save, I ask you?) That, and she’s running as slow as I do after a couple (prescription) Vicodin!

 All I know is this, she had better get her shiz-nit together and fly right or there really will be a HULK SMASH! moment in her future. Anger management? Nope…I think I will do just fine managing my anger with a hammer…all over her keyboard…(It may be time to go jump on tech-boy’s bed again until he’s awake enough to fix THIS!) (Besides…jumping on beds if majorly awesome fun!)

 May your day be filled with computers that know their place and ALWAYS use protection, no stupid viruses, and friends that are just as amazing as you are! (Thank you all again with much love!)

Night People

 Good morning! OK guys, today is gonna be a little “different.” Today I’m going all raw and no-holds-barred about something that makes a LOT of folks uncomfortable…mental illness. (Umm…for the more sensitive readers, I left the language in today…)

 I know I’ve got quite a few friends out there who suffer from various forms of Anxiety, Bipolar, and Depressive Disorders. I know this because they private message me on Facebook, Twitter, or e-mail, opting to remain silent about their battles instead of using public-access comments. And I completely understand and respect their discomfort…because I’m one of them.

 You know, I really should have seen this coming. I’ve kinda noticed a pattern here…every last damn time they mess with my pain meds, I end up doing battle with my brain. As Doc A+ pointed out, these drugs work by altering your brain chemistry, so it makes perfect sense that it would fuck up my delicate balancing act.

 I share my over-crowded head space with rapid cycling Bipolar Disorder. I have also made what many would argue is the wrong choice to decline medication.  (This is actually only PARTIALLY true, since the reason my former Doc and I opted to try Gabapentin for pain in the first place was based on studies in Europe where is’s being used to treat my special brand of Bipolar with some success.)

 The last few days I’ve been doing my slow spiral into the down-side of up. The chaos in my head has reached epic proportions, leaving me living with my earbuds in, having discovered years ago that focusing on music (my biggest addiction) helps drown "me" out.  

 This morning, as I was singing (or maybe screaming) along with some AWESOME 80’s music, I realized there was a theme to the music I’d been using to drown out my own thoughts…it all seemed to center around the night.  (This morning's selection being "Don’t You Know What the Night Can Do.” Thank you Mr. Winwood!) And in my circular thought process, I was reminded of a conversation my college roommate and I once had…

 Shanny was my best friend, but we were exact polar opposites. She once told me that people could be divided into two types, Day people and Night people. She explained the Day people were steady, dependable and more focused while the Night people were more chaotic, moody, and unrestrained…kinda the whole free-spirit shit.

 Needless to say, we both classified her as a Day person and me as a Night person. (I hadn’t been diagnosed at that point in my life as Bipolar, although Borderline Personality Disorder had been mentioned…)

 Right this minute, I am immersed in the midnight part of my personality. Actually, it’d be closer to truth to say I’m treading water in it, doing my damnedest not to fucking drown. As long as I can keep my nose up and remember THIS IS NOT ME, I’ll be ok. I know I just have to stay afloat long enough for this to pass…ride the tide until I can get my ass back to shore.

 But how do you explain this to someone who’s never floated in that midnight sea? You can’t, really. To someone who has never fought for their life…with themselves…there can be love, acceptance, and support, but never true "knowing."

 For years my family just thought I was a little “odd” for my occasional outbursts of “SHUT UP!” until recently when they realized I was talking to my head. They’re not afraid of me, but they do sometimes worry about me. Because, sadly, this bullshit makes them feel just as powerless as it does most of us. (Yet another reason I fight so fucking hard!)

 I want to be a Day person. I want to be steady and dependable. I was to smile and truly be at peace with all that I am. The physical illness I can stare dead in its shit, understand it, and accept it. I can even embrace it as a part of my life and hold its hand as we walk along a metaphorical beach. It’s part of me…and I’m OK with that.

 But this? This darkness that hides at the edges of my vision, threatening to overtake me if I let my guard down…I will NOT make peace with this bastard! I will never again embrace it or offer it a hand. I’ve learned the hard way that yes, it is a part of who I am, but not a part I can easily accept or ever really make peace with. We cohabitate…but we dance around each other in a dark tango, me doing my best never to let it take the lead.

 “Don’t you know what the night can do…” Yes. Too many of us do. And we know how far too many others view the night. (Ever seen a horror movie where the monster only comes out in the daylight? Yeah, me neither. People fear the fucking night for a more than one reason.)

 So we keep silent. We hide in the darkness and pray for dawn. We hope we hide the shadows we carry with us well enough that no one ever notices. We find ways to fight and use smiles to camouflage the battle scars. And all too often, we believe we’re alone in the fray.

 That right fucking there is why I stopped swallowing the urge to write about it this morning…because the one thing all of us Night people should remember…the thing that might help give us the strength not to give in…is the fact that none of us are alone.

 We may be partially hidden from each other in between the black waves that crash and roll around us, but we’re there. And sometimes? That knowledge can be the one tiny difference between continuing to stay afloat until morning comes,  bringing with it a calm, beautiful blue sea…

 So...this is me, switching on a water-proof flashlight and screaming across the dark waters, "YOU'RE NOT ALONE!!!"

The Chris-Zone

 Good morning! You’re about to enter a world where up is down and down is up. Where the absurd is the norm and nothing average makes sense. Where everything occurs in Technicolor pictures and people carrying on heated discussions with themselves is accepted behavior. You’re about to enter…the Chris-Zone.

Not the Chris-Zone!?!

 (Oh yeah, I crack myself the heck up!) A few days ago I was sitting on the couch next to the hubby, playing on-line with the laptop. I guess he was watching over my shoulder, because out of nowhere he asked, “Why 13?”

 “Umm…that’s random enough. Because 12 and 14 don’t like each other and needed a mediator?” was my STELLAR answer.

 That was when he gave me “The Look” and pointed to my Twitter page (@pixiecd13). So I explained to him why the 13. For my honesty I was rewarded with the blank-stare-head-shake-and–added-sigh. “Honey, I didn’t think it was possible, but you just get weirder and weirder. Sometimes, you even scare me. Just a little bit.”

What the heck!?!

 The next day I tried the explanation out on my daughter, whose eyes grew to the size of salad plates. “Uh, Mom? You know you’re seriously crazy, right?” she said as she was backing slowly away, I assume so as not to startle the nut-job standing expectantly before her.

 So I’m going for public opinion on this one. I’ll explain why 13 to you, and you can either support or refute my family’s opinion about how freakin’ crazy it is. 

 Do NOT ask why, because I’m not sure how or it started…but from about the age of 10 I had a near pathological fear of odd numbers. (I am SO blaming this for my suck-i-tude at math!) I was never 11, instead I was 10 and two halves. (Stop laughing a minute. I’m being serious!)

 I was totally connvinced even numbers were lucky and odd numbers were the worst kind of bad luck. I did everything in evens, including walking. At the height of my “glitch,” I would count the steps I took from place to place, adjusting my stride or adding a tiny “hop” at my destination to insure I had taken an even number of steps. Yeah, for a chick that HATED math, I spent an inordinate amount of time counting.

My Nemesis? My friend?

 On those dark, scary days of uber-bad luck, Friday the 13^th, I’d wear bells on my shoes or in my hair to scare away the “evil.” (I knew it worked ‘cause  I heard it on a record about superstitions and folk lore, which was narrated by the AWESOME Vincent Price, so it HAD to be true!) Can we just say, my teachers HATED me? The one poor soul who tried to force me to remove the annoying bells was met with near panic…

 This “odd” behavior continued throughout my teen years…and beyond. I never even had a 21^st birthday. (Yep, 20 and two halves.) It wasn’t until I was in my early 20s that I started reading a lot of mythology. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that to most cultures, odd numbers weren’t unlucky!

 It seemed the whole “3” is special was somewhat a world-wide thing, at least in ancient cultures. (And don’t think I didn’t briefly consider the fact that these cultures were kinda “vanished” and possibly so because of their extensive use of odd numbers…)

 But something had to give. I mean, I had reached the point where I’d close a door twice every time I used it (or just leave it open). People in public were starting to stare…

 So I took a deep breath…and started “using” odd numbers. I even made a concerted effort to STOP counting everything!

 I eventually got the point where I could use my actual age, like 25, without having to fight down the feeling of sheer panic. (Yeah me!) After a while, I got so good at odd numbers, I decided to face down the Great-Grand-Daddy of them all, 13! You know what happened? NOTHING! The next Friday the 13^th I didn’t even wear bells. And you know what happened? NOTHING! I had freakin’ WON! I beat my fear of the “oddies.”

 So, occasionally if I’m required to add a number after my name because somewhere in the Universe lives another nut-job who calls themselves “pixiecd” I’ll just toss on 13. (After all, most people think it’s unlucky, so it’s ALWAYS available.) To me it represents my triumph over my own stupidity.

 Oh, just for the record I firmly deny any connection between three 3's being considered the luckiest number to many ancient cultures and the fact that I might wear 9 bracelets, have 9 ear piercings, 9 toenails (just...don't even ask), and things inside my home end up accidentally arranged in groups of 9 here and there. (That? Would just be silly!) It's all pure coincidence!

 Thank you for joining us on this weird trip through a psychosis in a place where sane men fear to tread. Where strange women count and 13 is lucky. Where every day is a trip through…the Chris-Zone!

Dear Underwear Industry Guys...

 Good morning! Today I’m taking a stand! I’ve reached the point where I can no longer maintain my silence on a VERY important issue…namely, underwear! (Hey, it’s important to me, so its GOTTA be important to everyone, since I know I’m the voice of the masses and all…)

 I could assume it’s just me that gets all worked up about these implements of torture, but I prefer to believe the problem does NOT lie with me but instead is the result of the Industry being run by guys who have never had to wear this crap! So, for this week’s Top Ten list, I’m gonna send a message to the Manufacturers of these evil pieces of supposed required-wear.

 Dear Sirs and Madams, before you lay a list of all the problems with your products. PLEASE! For the love of all that is good and right in the world, hear my cries and help us to create a world where no woman ever has to opt for “freedom” in the name of comfort!

       Top Ten Reasons Underwear SUCKS

The lovely Sclero-Bob
demonstrates the "Party in
the Valley of Darkness."

1)       It would seem that manufacturers are incapable of making panties that don’t ride up like they’re spelunking in my nether regions.

 Seriously, isn’t the elastic in back supposed to keep that stuff in place!?! I have tried every style in existence and let me tell ya, outside of bike shorts they ALL end up holding a social gathering in the my “Valley of Darkness!”

2)       IF (and I REALLY mean IF) you can find a pair that doesn’t work their way to the Valley, they cut in so tightly that they create a panty line to rival the landscape of the Blue Ridge Mountains!

 (OK, dirty little secret time…) Panty lines, on me or others, is one of my BIGGEST pet-peeves! Maybe I’m odd, but I just can’t trust someone who is so unaware of their “surroundings” that they go through life with a rear view that looks like a Ruffles potato chip. (I figure they’re just not that detail oriented…)

3)       Guys, those sexy little lacey numbers with the satin outter shell may look cute and all, but the problem is they just don’t make them to BREATHE!

 Do you know how hard it is to look and feel sexy when you’re attempting to do the quick-twitch, hoping to move the sandpaper lining enough to get a little scratching action because certain body parts have been denied air circulation? Guys, think minor jock-itch with your hands tied behind your back. (The hands have to be tied because we all know men have absolutely NO PROBLEM scratching in public, no matter WHERE it itches!) (And just for the record, I am TOTALLY jealous of this!)

4)       For years I was so desperate to end the move, pick-n-pull, adjust with the round-house hip-twitch cycle that I resorted to thongs. (Are you done laughing yet? Go right ahead. I’ll wait...) My working hypothesis was that they wouldn’t create panty-lines and at least this way there was less material to do the spelunking thing. Right? WRONG!

 They do NOT make thongs designed to fit anything about a Size Toothpick. Plus? They use elastic that actually melds with belly fat, removing the possibility of any adjusting-movement when you sit, stand, or twist. What this usually ends up causing is something terribly similar to rope-burn…in your crack…

 I’m fairly certain that this has removed at least a full ½ inch of skin over the years, causing crack-erosion. (That’s right; my cheeks have NOT gotten bigger! My crack has just gotten deeper.)

5)       Bras are evil implements of torture! These prisons of polyester and flame retardant padding are obviously designed by adolescent males who are all about the hooters!

 Lifting and separating sounds simple enough in theory, but it boils down to underwires that poke through after one wash, padding that bunches up and squashes from the under-side up, and straps that wear permanent grooves in muscle and flesh. (How fun is THAT?)

 I swear, if guys had to wear bras (and sadly, I’ve seen a few who should) I can guarantee they would be a million times more comfortable!

Sclero-Bob again helps out
by demonstrating the devastating
effects of "Una-Boob."

6)       In an attempt to avoid the pokes, squishing, and grooving caused by the sexy hooter-holders, I have taken to wearing sports bras. They are much more comfortable…but my one complaint is…Una-Boob!

 Yep, it seems no matter the style, brand or size, I end up a knocker-cyclops. I have resorted to wearing 2XL T-shirts of late, due to the terrifying effect of una-boob in a tank top…it just seems to “stare” at people inciting fear and unease in the young and old alike. (The middle age group? Openly stare back…inciting fear and unease in ME!)

7)       Strapless bras are the Devil’s playground. Yeah, you heard me! They are the evilest of the evil! If you find one that’ll actually stay up, it cuts in so badly that your ribcage loses circulation! (I have seriously experienced blue breastacles from this. Smurf cleavage is completely NOT cool!)

 And I double-dog dare you to try bending over in one! Whatever you’ve got that’s sitting so adorably on top of its foam shelf? Falls right out the top! (My wedding with my awesome strapless gown involved more than one nip-slip!)

8)       Pantyhose are from my worst nightmare! These bits of leg-camouflage make me feel like a sausage stuffed in its sheer, nude colored case. And I figure when the zombie apocalypse hits, they’re gonna go after the women in pantyhose first, because they’ll think we’ll taste good on a bun with mustard and maybe a bit of sour kraut!

9)       OK, if you wish to avoid pantyhose, there’s always the garter belt and stockings option. And yes, in my youth I believed they were a classy, sexy alternative to leg wear, so I wore them often. (I was a waitress and had to cover my naked legs per the Board of Health. Pfft!)

 Can I just say, there are few things more distracting than trying to walk, talk, or think when your garter belt has somehow managed to work itself sideways, causing a top-down twisting effect that turns you into a human curly-Q. Or, better yet, one of the straps SNAPS!

10)    Girdles! Enough said.

 So Sirs and Madams, now you see why your products are in dire need of an overhaul. Yes, I want to feel “girly” and “sexy” BUT can’t you find a way for me to do it without bra-burn, crack-erosion, or looking like I’d be yummy with onions and relish?

 Thanks for your time and hopefully, you’ll get this shit corrected before my current collection disintegrates and I’m forced to purchase new.

 Sincerely,

 Me

    (Advocate of baggy shirts and long skirts that allow for stocking-free commando activity.)

Wings And The Birth Of The SAG!

 Good morning! OK, I am WELL aware of the fact that I have chronologically hit “middle age.” Fine, I can handle that because, after all people, age ain’t nothin’ but a number and you’re only as old as you feel. (Or in my case, act...which might mean I should still be in diapers.) BUT…on this dark, dark day I realized a basic truth. My body has decided that, with or without me, it’s gonna go right on ahead and go with the number option. Yes, I have developed wings!

 For all the guys who read this thing, wings are another of the many signs to a woman that gravity has caught up with her age. It’s that AWESOME state when your upper arms, much like your “girls,” begin to sag, bag, and just generally turn to warm jelly-sacks.

 You’ll recognize the arrival of the dreaded wings the day you raise your arm to apply the requisite deodorant…and find the underside of your arm has remained in place alongside your rib cage. (WTH!?!) I’m sorry, but the elder women in my family NEVER warned me the day would come when I’d need two hands to put on my pit-stick, one to apply and the other to hold the flesh-drape out of the way.

 When did this happen anyway? The last time I checked I had arms that moved as one appendage. Now? I have appendages that move in stages…arm moves *lengthy pause* under-side flesh moves. Oh and the heat? Adds a whole new dimension to the process! Arm moves *lengthy pause followed by the peeling of the humidity-velcroed flesh off of rib cage* under-side flesh moves. *hangs head in sorrow*

 Y’all remember those toys from when you were a kid…the ones with the colorful critter hanging from a forked piece of plastic and when you squeezed it, the critter would swing back-and-forth? Yep, when I’m totally bored, I can simply raise my arm and revisit that game. I’ve discovered that if I lift said arm and then repeatedly flex my bicep, I can create a very similar swinging action with my flesh-drape. (It helps to get the swing going if you give it a preemptive “push” with the other hand. This way? You can get it going fast enough it almost does a full loop!) (OK, maybe I'm easily amused, but that is so NOT the point of today's post!)

 Please understand that I am not a vain woman. Really! But, there are some things that are hard for me to accept…usually because they cause me some level of discomfort or inconvenience. (OK, not vain, but definitely all about my personal comfort!) And these damned wings? Are vying with the lady-lumps for pit-space when I lay on my side. No flippin’ joke!

 It was bad enough last night that, after reaching down and removing both Lefty and flesh-drape from the stupid armpit, I fell asleep fantasizing about designing a harness I could wear to bed that would keep shiz-nit where Mother Nature intended it to be. I mean, sure. I could wear a boulder-holder (or in my case a pebble-pouch) to bed, but that would only take care of Lefty. What about my wing?

 I guess for the time being, I’m stuck sleeping on my back. *sigh and extensive use of four-letter words* At least until the saggage reaches the point where even then I’m lying on the flesh-drape. Or the flesh becomes drape-y enough that I can no longer place my arms snuggly at my sides, since I NEED that in order to keep the girls from snuggling down-under for a long winter’s nap in the pit-zone.

 I need to know if the day is coming where I’m going to have to fold it up like an accordion? Am I soon to be relegated to long sleeves at all times as a defense mechanism? (Will gravity ever stop sucking?)

 On the up-side, I have discovered that when hubby steals the blankets, I can actually wrap my upper body in the warm folds of…”me.”  Hmmmm…maybe there are some advantages to this thing. Just think, with a little ingenuity and a tube of super glue, I could attach them permanently to my sides and become a human flying squirrel!

This totally IS a disguise!
I'm wearing a BLACK skully do-rag
instead of my normal HOT PINK
skully do-rag. Also? I'm not wearing
my glasses, and that ALWAYS
worked  for Clark Kent!

 Oh ladies…think about it. I could be the next Super Hero! I could call myself “The SAG!” (I’m SO sorry about that visual folks! *takes a moment to attempt to lasso in the uncontrollable giggle-fit*That one may have gone a little far for even me. But you know what? I’m keeping it in here; cause it freakin’ ROCKS in its terrible awesomeness!)

 With that, I’ll wish you a day filled with nothin’ sticking to anything it’s only supposed to be neighbors with and a good belly-laugh at my expense!

WANTED: Motivational Nanny

 Good morning! OK, so I’m placing an ad in the local paper…just as soon as I get the wording right. This is what I gots so far, “WANTED: Nanny. Think Mary Poppins with SERIOUS attitude and foul mouth (it will be needed for motivational purposes). Job requirements include, but not limited to; is not afraid to clean (because your charge is), must cook (because your charge won’t), and should possess a Master’s Degree in Laundry.” What do ya think?

 “I thought your youngest was almost 18. Why the heck do you need a Nanny?” you ask?

 Well…because it’s not for the kids. It’s for me.

 Here’s where the idea started…Yesterday, my daughter’s half-feral cat (which I hadn’t seen in WEEKS) showed up...just in time to give birth in the middle of the living room! Oh yeah, this one? Requires an audience to her mad baby-popping skills. (Better than prime-time viewing? Ummm…not so much.)

 So this morning, hubby and I were gazing lovingly (and by “lovingly” I really mean “with extreme exasperation”) at the four balls of “feed me, clean-up after me, and drop a butt-load of money on me” in mommy-cat’s nest. That’s when hubby looked at me and said, “I thought you were gonna get her fixed after the last batch?”

Me: “She disappeared! I forgot! I spent the money on iTunes…” And that was when the idea hit me. “I need a Nanny!”

 Hubby: “Honey, they don’t have Nannies for 42 year olds.”

 Me: ”I’m only 41, for now…and they should! She could motivate me and remind to do stuff.” (Oh, and by “remind me to do stuff”? I REALLY meant “do stuff for me.”)

 I got the blank-stare-head-shake reaction on this one. Then he attempted to change the subject with, “So…do you have any plans for today?”

 Me: “LAUNDRY!”

 This time I got an openly mocking belly-laugh. Seriously!?!? I AM capable of doing laundry, I simply choose not too…or I forget until I’ve worn the same outfit (and by “outfit” I really mean “jammies”) for three days in a row.

I'm only including this picture to
shame myself into actually DOING
the laundry today.
(It really isn't THAT bad, is it?)

 SIDEBAR- Laundry and Oprah are my arch Nemesis-es-es. Oprah because she’s beating me in my quest for World Media Domination and makes it all look so darned EASY! Laundry, because the washer and broken dryer are down a steep flight of stairs and across a stream/river created daily by our funked-up A/C. Then, after the stuff is washed, I get to cart it BACK across the river, up the steep steps, outside to the clothes-line, hang it all up, wait for it to dry, take it down, fold it, and put it away. Do you see the problem with this scenario? WAY TOO MUCH WORK FOR CLEAN UNDERWARES! (So much easier to just go all commando!) -END SIDEBAR

 So, you see, THIS is why I desperately need a Nanny, even though hubby said a “handler” would be a much more appropriate description…whatever THAT’S supposed to mean.

 I almost forgot to include the best part…wages! “Will be paid in kittens.” Now, if that doesn’t bring the applications rolling in, I don’t know what will!

 May your day be filled with ONLY the kittens you PLANNED, someone else to lovingly do your laundry without a massive guilt-trip, and loads of clean underwares!

Super Model Day!

My "Super Model" face.
WARNING: Umm...if you're gonna
give yourself a mascara goatee,
make sure it's NOT water-proof.
Also? Hair gel and cotton-balls
do not come off your eyebrows
easily. Just sayin'...

 Good morning! I’ve decided I don’t want to be me today, so I’m gonna spend the next 24 hours (or until my self-diagnosed, adult-onset ADD sets in and I get bored) playing make-believe. I think today I’m going to be a Super Model on sabbatical! (Whoever just laughed, I WILL find you, Mr. or Ms. Smarty-Pants!)

 Rule #1 of Super Model on sabbatical, no plucking! My eyebrows are gonna end up looking like Brooke Shields and the late-great Ernest Borgnine had a love child, and I am TOTALLY cool with that! When the weight of the darned things causes then to droop down over my eyes, I’ll use bobby-pins to hold them back. (Actually, they’ll come in handy as a sun block/self-contained shade “tree.” Bonus!)

 Rule #2, no waxing! That’s right, I’m gonna end up with a mustache and goatee to rival Burl Ives! (OK, for all of you who have no clue who that last guy is? Think the Snowman narrator from “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.” Younglings!) I will be forced to invest in a mustache comb to keep it laying straight and crumb free. (Honestly? I’m just glad my facial hair is as blonde as my Sasquatch arm-hair!)

 Rule #3, I will not lift a finger to wait on myself! (Like I do that now anyway? Pfft! I’ll just have a better excuse today.) I shall lounge upon my couch-throne and summon offspring to run-and-fetch me sodas, chips, and chocolate. (Hey! I’m on sabbatical! I don’t have to watch my weight.)

 Rule #4, today I am She-Who-OWNS-The-Remote. Yes, being a Super Model and all, I get to call the shots on what horrible programming is ingested. And trust me, it WILL be horrible, since I’m thinking an “Evil Dead” marathon is in order…*insert evil Snidely Whiplash type laughter here complete with the whole hand-wringing thing*

 Last, but oh, so NOT least, Rule #5…Everyone WILL treat me like the Super Model Goddess I am. Oh yeah, that’s right baby! There will be feet rubed, pillows fluffed, and floors strewn with rose petals for my delicate feet to tread upon on my way to the potty, since that’s the ONLY thing I intend to do for myself today. (And trust me on this, if I could appoint a proxy for this one, I SO would!)

 And before anyone else makes a smarty-pants comment, yes! Super Models on sabbatical do too wear pink, floral-print Tinkerbell jammies! (If you have any proof what-so-ever to the contrary, feel free to present it. Until then? I’m right and you’re wrong. Hah!)

 This, my friends…is my dream for the day. Because, ya know…it’s about the bestest vacation I’m going to get for a while, so I might as well immerse myself in it and enjoy the be-jeepers out of it!

 Oh, and just in case anyone is thinking doubtful thoughts on this, today’s make-believe is totally NOT because I looked in the mirror while brushing my teeth and happened to notice I was in dire need of a bit of personal grooming attention. Nope! You’re SO far off-base with that…

 May your day be filled with proper Super Model  appreciation, people tripping over themselves to adore you, and absolutely NO unwanted facial hair!

I'm Back...(I Think)

 Good morning! We apologize for the technical difficulties of the last 48 hours. The Management of this blog hopes it has caused no lasting trauma and will now return you to your regularly scheduled post. Thank you for your patience and have a wonderful day!

 “Holy crap-on-toast Batman! Is this why they say drugs are bad?”

 “Why yes, Robin. It is. Just look at the chaos it’s caused in the last week, and those drugs were legal!”

 You guys should have seen it around here yesterday. Because then, ya know…then you could tell me what the heck exactly happened! When my feet hit the floor this morning, it looked like a paper-sock-cat hair bomb went off in my living room, not to mention the obvious home invasion we suffered. (Someone seems to have broken-in and dirtied EVERY drinking vessel and plate in the joint!)

 Where was I when all this was occurring? OUT like my last hard drive! Drugs…are VERY BAD for Chris.

 Due to a wonderful “glitch” with the almighty Insurance guys, I was unable to refill my blessed, holy, beloved migraine rescue meds. (Ya think I like them much?) So, in all his infinite Med School wisdom, my Doc gave me a script for a different “preventative” bit of darkness-from-the-nether-world. And yesterday I had cause to ingest it for the first time! Oh my…That’s all I can say because I remember NOTHING else!

 Actually, I vaguely recall waking up to “eat” lunch. (And by “eat” I mean do my bestest impression of a Dyson Wind-tunnel thing…not even sure I actually chewed.) I sort of remember hubby getting home from work. I’m fairly certain I went to bed, since that’s where I woke up this morning…two hours late!

This is the visual representation
of a head that feels like GLORY!
AHHHHHH.......

 Oh yeah, them’s some REALLY good meds! You may have a migraine approaching at the speed of suck, but you’ll never know because you’ll have chemically lost a full 24 hours. (Why couldn’t I have had these things when the offspring were toddlers? There are plenty of 24 hour periods from those “good ole days” I wouldn’t have minded missing.)

 Fortunately, the only “after-effects” I seem to be experiencing is the feeling of being beaten with a lead-filled bat for 24 hours straight. But that’s cool…because my head feels like Glory! (Yes, a thing CAN feel like “glory” because I just said it could! Use your imagination, for cryin’ out loud!)

 So, this morning it’s off to an early Physical Therapy appointment (9-friggin’-30!) then running about 50 errands. After THAT, I’m free to come home, grab a snow shovel, and begin excavating my living room. *deep sigh*

 All I really want to know? Why did they have to wait until Mom was unconscious to have a rockin’ party? (Since, ya know…that’s the only explanation for the devastation I’m sitting here looking at.) I’m a fun gal…I like to celebrate. Or, do you think they were maybe celebrating my unconscious state? I foresee intense interrogations in their collective futures…

 May your day be filled with parties you’re totally involved in, friends and family that pick up after themselves *falls over laughing at the possibility of this one actually occurring*, and more happily conscious hours than those spent in med-induced dream-land!

Over The Hills...And Far Away

 Maybe it’s a song. Maybe it’s a smell. Maybe, it’s the way the light filters through the trees at just the right angle while the breeze is blowing a certain way at just the right time of year. Something triggers the gears, and suddenly the clouds part and you see it…the road laid out before you, beckoning you to wander down its forgotten paths.

 Memory Lane.

 Sometimes I think I spend most of my life retracing my steps, feeling the worn grooves beneath the calloused souls of my feet, in a vain attempt to find that magic point where the way forked. What If…it’s an ugly game to play with yourself.

 I accepted long ago that life isn’t like a movie. There’s no magic fairy dust, North Star, or wishing well that will take you back and grant you a “do over.” No, our lives are the result of every decision, good or otherwise, that we have ever made. Every wrong turn, pothole, and speed bump have come together to land us exactly where we are at this very moment.

 Yet, this is still where you find me today…standing at the intersection of What Was and What Is, looking over my shoulder at yesterday and wondering if I would even choose to go back if I could. Would I take the “do over” or face straight ahead and keep on walking…would I wander aimlessly over the hills and far away?

Sitting on the roof with my
walkman...one of my favorite
places that year...



 If I close my eyes for just a moment, I can smell the air…the way the murky water and moss mixed together to perfume the breeze coming off the river and separate “this” place where I am from “that” place where I came from.

 Right here and now? I’m sitting in the front room of a turn of the Century house in a tiny little town on the far outskirts of Indiana, listening to two friends strum on acoustic guitars. The air of the room is thick with the smoke of our multiple cigarettes, adding a blue tint to the mid-March light fighting its way through the never-ever-cleaned windows.

 Led Zeppelin. Oh, but this is different than all the other Stairway To Heaven’s you hear in dorm rooms over on the campus, being played by angst ridden, “guy with a prop trying to get laid” boys. This is Over the Hills and Far Away. (Still my favorite to this day.) And it’s so very slow and sweet…

 The two of them are working their way through the opening notes by ear, their fingers delicately caressing each string with the expertise of serious, anti-social musicians who are completely unaware that there is a female anywhere near the vicinity. I feel…I feel like I’ve been handed a gift few would see for what it is, just to be allowed to sit here on the edge of a thrift-store coffee table, chain smoke, and listen with my eyes closed.

 I really have to close my eyes. Watching the two of them is truly distracting me from fully taking in the complexity of the music. The way their hands hold the necks of their instruments like they were first time lovers in the beginning stages of fore-play. Their long fingers, tips stained with the after-effects of too much nicotine, nails slightly too long so as to be used as picks, deftly slide across the strings bringing to life the siren’s call of the song. It makes my heart ache and sing at the same time.

 The two of them sit so close the tops of their heads are almost touching as they parry back and forth, treating that first 50 seconds of the song almost as a round. One still wears his black leather, Misfits jacket, the other a faded green, wool p-coat, though I doubt either one has really noticed the early spring chill in the air. It’s more the fact that they are too immersed in the sounds to be bothered to remove them.

 Over and over they strum, picking up tempo and adding pieces of their souls into the music until it is almost perfect, quietly smiling and laughing to each other as the tune becomes more organic. Over the hills…and far away.

St. Patric's Day coatume party,
maybe later that night...

 One rest stop on my trip through life. One bittersweet moment captured in my mind, not remembering how long we sat like that, the two men in their early 20’s with their lives a yet-to-be determined mystery on permanent hold as they simply played. Me…an unnoticed observer to their moment of musical escape. What came before or after on that exact day, I can’t say. It’s been lost along the way in the fog of youth.

 As I sit here, 23 year later (Gawd! Has it really been that long?) still chain smoking the same cigarettes, the sweet strains of Led Zeppelin playing in my ears via technology we didn’t have then, I smile at the memory.

 Yes, Jimmy Page is one of the Gods in the Pantheon of Guitar Deities. Yes, in the recording his fingers move without the least bit of hesitation as he flawlessly executes what few realize to be an excruciatingly intricate collection of seemingly simple notes, putting them in an order that creates true, musical magic. But still…

 No matter how many times I listen to this particular song, the feelings of pleasure and happiness it evokes in me will always pale in comparison to what it felt like to sit on a thrift-store coffee table, my short legs swinging in time to the rhythm, my throat burning from one too many Marlboros as my entire, momentary existence was intertwined and immersed in the pure innocents and passion of those two amature musicians. Not playing for money or even to catch the amorous attentions of the chick-of-the-day, but simply for the love and joy of it.

 I think I'll sit here a bit longer and just enjoy the music...

I Just Got Weirder

 Good morning! Oh my…where the shiz-nit is Dr. Ruth when you need her? I am so confused right now and I need answers! This? Is just WAY weird, even for me. (Oh! Ummm…if any of you play the snare drums, please, STOP reading now…)

 OK *deep, calming breath* I have mentioned a “few” times that I am a world-class music junkie. No new news there. But what I discovered this morning is just plain STRANGE with a capital WTH? 

 There I was, doing the morning bird work, listening to my beloved mp3 player (the greatest invention in the history of the whole, wide universe!) and I stopped dead in my muddy tracks. I stood up as straight as it gets this early in the day, leaned my head back with my eyes closed and a tiny, wistful smile on my lips as I lost myself in a particularly powerful strain of a current pop song. (Hey, embarrassment at admitting I listen to this is preventing me from naming names here…) (OK, FINE! It’s “Some Nights” by fun. Go ahead and laugh…see if I care!)

Oh my!



 As the primal part of my brain was busy grooving, the more discerning part was trying to figure out why I dig this song so much, when the answer smacked me upside the head like my kids trying to casually toss a TV remote at my hands…SNARE DRUMS! I have a “thing” for snare drums! What the living heck!?!

 I quickly finished what I was doing so I could get in the house and scroll through my current playlists. Yep, there it was, all laid out for me in black and white pixels. Most of the songs I listen to for hours at a time (repeat is my favorite setting…) involve heavy snare drums.

 Then I saw the “others”…the songs that make Chris such a “happy” and “groovy” chick, that they almost require a call to hubby at work demanding he come home for lunch…These? Not just snares, but heavy bass or kettle drums as well. (This just keeps getting freakier!)

Upright bass?
Oh la la!



 I am not a woman who’s ever been the biggest fan of marching bands. (No offense to any current or former “bandies,” just sayin’.) Nor have I ever been a drummer-groupie. Actually? The drum part of most music annoys the be-jeepers outta me. (Now give me a good bass line, and I’ll swoon every time!) So you can see why this is such a bizarre revelation. 

 Where am I going with this? I have no flippin’ idea! Why am I sharing this oddity? Who knows! It was so…STRANGE! I just had to tell someone, and how do you initiate a conversation with a person who’s looking you in the eyes about the fact that freakin’ snare drums are an aphrodisiac? Seriously, this has got to be one of the most out-there things I’ve discovered about myself in a LONG while. And that my friends? Is a huge statement, since I am the Queen of weird-o behavior!

 So you see why I need Dr. Ruth. I simply must know the underlying cause of this aberrant behavior. (Is it some childhood trauma or repressed desire to march in a band? The need to beat the heck outta something with a stick?) Because really? I’m suddenly finding it necessary to ban myself from parades out of fear of losing control and rushing the drum section of some poor marching band who unwittingly decided to play something heavy on the rum-tum-tum…*hangs head in embarrassed shame and fear*

 Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just remembered I have Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk” on a playlist somewhere…(I REALLY need a new set of earbuds with a heavier bass setting.)

 May your day be full of beautiful music that inspires you to sing as if no one were listening, dance as if no one were watching, and smile until your face hurts!

No! Not THAT!

 Good morning! First off, thank you so much for all the love and support yesterday. You guys are amazingly AWESOME! Thanks to your kind words (and a switch-up in the pain meds by the Doc) I'm feeling WAY better today. *deep happy sigh*

 So...a few days ago while I was at the mall with my daughter, I realized a little girl who probably two or three, was staring at me. What the fudge-monkeys? Then it hit me like a bag of wet corn flakes…we were wearing the same outfit, complete with matching piggy-tails. WOW!

Hey...my mis-matched nails and
pixie-tails ROCK!
(In a slightly toddler-like way...)

 It was an eye-opener for me. In that instant, I understood just how much of a big kid I really am! Then, the thoughts about why I hadn’t become a real, true grown-up began taking a leisurely stroll through my brain. Should I grow up? Should I make more of an effort to become a mature, responsible adult-type person?

 I shivered like a bald-butted penguin sitting on an iceberg at the thought! I shuddered as violently as I did the time my fuzzy-bottomed youngest accidentally mooned me! (Please, don’t ask. I’m STILL traumatized!)

 So today, the Friday Top Ten is just a few of the MANY reasons I came up with why I refuse to grow up! (I'm sorry, but the whole concept scare the Batman-style explicatives right outta me!)

 Top Ten Reasons I Won’t Ever Grow Up! (OR, Stuff Grown-Ups Don’t Do, So They Become WAY Too Boring!)

1)        If I grew up, I would have to paint my nails all one color. I mean, when was the last time you saw Barbara Walters with mis-matched nail polish, let alone nails covered in fairy sparkles?

 I plan on being 80 and still rockin’ the funky, sparkly nails! Not only is it FUN, but then I don’t have to decide on just one awesome color! (You know us Libras, we can never make up our minds.)

2)       If I grew up, I’d probably have to get a conservative hair-cut. And really? WHY would I EVER want to give up my anime piggy-tails? (You guessed it! The hairs have grown-out enough that the pixie-tails have returned! Woo Hoo!) Think about it, they’re cute, they’re whimsical, and when we go to the mall I’m the envy of every two and three year old in the place!

3)       If I grew up, I’d have to get an entire new wardrobe! (See? Growing up would be WAY too expensive!) I’m fairly certain real grown-ups don’t have a closet full of Tinkerbell clothing. (I am NOT obsessed! Most of them were gifts…)

 The Family Guy, The Simpson’s, and my wide selection of Super Hero shirts would probably need to disappear as well. *sigh* I just don’t think I could live that way…My soul? Would simply die. (No, I am not being a Drama Queen!)

4)       If I grew up, I’d have to start speaking (and probably writing) like an adult. All of my “colorful” language and inventive, made-up words would have to be eliminated. And I don't think adults insert “awesome” and “totally” into every friggin’ sentence either! (Oh yeah, “friggin,” “flippin’,” and “freakin;” would no longer get to be included either. How boring is THAT!?!)

 I would also be required to speak in complete sentences and encouraged to avoid the use of my hands for emphasis. In other words? I’m end up completely SILENT!

How could I trade this bit of
awesomeness for sensible flats?

5)       If I grew up, there would be no more tantrums, foot stomps, or squealing when I didn’t get my way. And I ask you this, people? If I gave up the tantrums, how would anyone ever know when they did something to displease me? Because you know, being the Queen of the House and all, MY pleasure is of the upmost importance! (Remember, if Momma ain’t happy, ain’t NOBODY happy!)

6)       If I grew up, I’d have to eat real breakfast food for breakfast. You know, the stuff with all the fiber and no colorful sugar coating? No fun shapes? No prize in the box! No more Extreme Dill Pringles or Hersey’s Chocolate for breakfast…Who would want to live like that? *deeply troubled sigh*

7)       If I grew up, I would have to learn to act like a “Lady.” No more big, belly laughs so loud that the entire room turns to look at me. No more kicking my shoes off at restaurants and sitting cross-legged at the table. No more belching contests…(I have to stop now, I’m scaring the crap outta myself!)

8)       If I grew up, I would never again be allowed to skip or bunny hop at the store when I‘m bored. (OK, I can’t really skip anymore, but I can still bunny hop like a freakin’ CHAMP!) Also? No more wandering the toy aisles when hubby isn’t looking. (Since, ya know…the toys I’m playing with are for me…I cannot wait for Grand kids so I’ll once again have a legitimate excuse to play in the toys!)

9)       If I grew up, I’d be forced to give up my dream of running away with the Gypsies. Also, my dreams of being a ballerina would probably be laid to rest. (Hey, it could happen! You just never know…)

 Adults dream of things like a new car with low interest, NOT of brightly painted wagons pulled by pretty horses. They dream of fixed-rate mortgages, not pink lace tutu’s and satin slippers…(BORE-ING!)

And last, but oh so not least…

10)    I don’t wanna grow up, ‘cause if I did, I wouldn’t be a Toys R Us kid! *falls over on table in a fit of uncontrollable giggles*



No more fairies with rainbow tutus?
I just couldn't live that way!



 I could probably come up with at least ten more, but I'm pretty sure you've already gotten WAY too much of an idea of what I’d be like to live with. *embarrassed grin*

 And as for all of the actual grown-ups in the crowd? I love you and don’t EVER change! Because us immature, over-grown kids? We NEED you to keep things running smoothly and make sure we don’t do serious damage to ourselves or others with our lack-of-forethought  and goofy hijinks!

 Just remember guys, you need us too, to make you look all responsible and stuff and to keep your lives interesting and (hopefully) make you laugh!

 May your day be filled with enough immaturity to remember to skip or bunny hop, a thought or two about pixie dust, and (as always) lots of big, LOUD belly-laughs!