I felt the winds of change blowing in my face a few weeks ago. I had been breathing in the stagnant air of death, depression and a dozen extra pounds for many months. I had been praying the winds of change would rescue me. It was a cold, quiet Thursday morning when they arrived and I finally heard their great wisdom. The winds of change enveloped me, pulled me in tight and whispered in my ear, “Get a haircut, would ya?”
It was so simple and so wise. I knew it was the answer. The last time I had my hair cut was 3 ½ months ago, the day after my mother’s funeral. And since then, as each week passed and my hair grew longer, it became easier and easier to hide behind the symbolic shapeless mess that hid my telling eyes. But now, it seemed so obvious that the winds of change were on to something. A haircut would change everything. A haircut was just what I needed.
As I pondered the direction my hair should take next, I knew I wasn’t simply contemplating the length or style of my hair. It was a much bigger decision than that. Each possibility for my hair somehow represented a new kind of possibility for my life that was much more expansive and significant than the hair alone. I was ready to move on and I had high expectations that this haircut was just the vehicle to jumpstart the process. After days of deliberation, I finally narrowed it down to three possible life scenarios…I mean, haircuts.
Haircut #1-My hair would be somewhat glamorous and so would my life. I would leave my hair long. I would clean up the ends and add a few long layers to show off my natural flowing waves. Perhaps I would even add a little reddish blond color to enhance my glowing tan. With this kind of haircut I would easily lose 20 pounds. I would wear a lot of sophisticated black and dig my spiky, pointy toed boots out of my closet. My blog would be purchased as a book by a big New York publisher and I would start my publicity tour on Good Morning America.
Haircut #2-My hair would be somewhat edgy and so would my life. I would chop much of my hair off. I would get rid of the bulk, and put in a bunch of random, spiky layers. Perhaps I would even add a highlight or two to enhance my glowing tan. With this kind of haircut I would easily lose 20 pounds. I would wear a lot of trendy black and dig my chunky anti-establishment boots out of my closet. My blog would be purchased as a column by a local counter-culture newspaper and I would start my publicity tour at the local “Free Tibet” rally at the inner city community college.
Haircut #3-My hair would be somewhat sensible and so would my life. I would cut a few inches off and shape it into a nice, easily maintained bob. Perhaps I would even cover the grey hairs with shade similar to my own to enhance my pasty white, SPF 30 covered skin. With this kind of haircut I would struggle to lose 5 or 10 pounds and eventually start labeling myself “big boned”. I would wear a lot of slimming, black and comfy mom jeans and dig my worn out tennis shoes out from under the coffee table where I left them last night. My blog would continue to be well received but not very profitable and I would always mean to start marketing it—tomorrow.
This isn’t the first time I’ve expected my life to change for unusual reasons. Every time I organize a drawer or clean out a closet, I fully expect to wake up the next morning supremely effective and super efficient in everything I do. One time I decided that white pasta was keeping me from becoming a more successful writer, not to mention a bit thinner. Last year I bought new bathroom towels and was sure that, because of the towels, the boy would suddenly start picking his clothes up off the floor. I even convinced myself once that a particular kind of bedroom curtain would help the teenager completely change her personality and become a much happier morning person. So it should come as no surprise that I had very high expectations for my new haircut.
And now I sit here today, the day after receiving the haircut that was to be a catalyst for change. I sit here today, as very much the same person I was yesterday. I do sit here today, however, with a newfound spark that wasn’t there yesterday. I do feel a bit edgier. I even dug my chunky boots out of my closet and paired them with my comfy mom jeans. I still have a few grey hairs but they blend in a bit better with my new random, super cute layers. I am wearing SPF 30 lotion but it also has a bit of self tanner mixed in. I did watch Good Morning America this morning, albeit from the comfort of my own couch, but I did it weighing one pound less than I did a few days ago. And perhaps most important, you can now see my telling eyes peeking out from behind my trendy, spiky bangs. My fabulous new haircut did change things. I do feel different.
Now I’ll admit that my new haircut may not have changed my life in a grand, shocking way, but it did jumpstart the process of change for me. I am newly invigorated and inspired. In fact, I am ready to now take on even bigger changes. And, I know exactly how I’m going to start. You see, I have felt the winds of change blowing again. They have enveloped me, pulled me in tight and whispered in my ear, “Get a Fanny Lifter, would ya?”
And I have listened. I have just ordered a new FIRM workout DVD complete with the amazing Fanny Lifter Box! How could that NOT change my life? It is so simple and so wise. I just know it is the answer. It seems so obvious now that the winds of change are on to something. A Fanny Lifter will change everything. A Fanny Lifter is just what I need.
Check This Out!
This week the fine folks at Slightly Exaggerated have watched the 1999 Jodie Foster movie, Anna and the King while eating a toasted turkey and havarti on sourdough sandwich. We highly recommend both.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Happy Holidays in Aisle 4
“What do you mean they don’t want baked potatoes? If I’m getting out of bed when it’s still “frickin’” dark outside to bake both the pecan and the pumpkin pies, because they can never agree on just one, and then spend all day making them a 5 1/2 lb salted prime rib and a spiraled honey ham that I paid fifty three “frickin” dollars for, then I can “darn” well have “frickin” baked potatoes if I so “darn” well please. You tell them to bring their own “frickin” sweet potatoes. “
It was Christmas Eve morning and the woman in the produce section of the grocery store was obviously upset. Those of us shopping near her could hear every word of her side of the cell phone conversation. No one wanted to make eye contact with her. No one dared to confront her and ask her to tone down either the volume of her voice or her choice of language. We were much too afraid of her.
On aisle 4, as I paused to check the fiber content of a new cereal, a 4 year old boy near me grabbed a box of Lucky Charms and ran up to his mother. “Oh no, honey,” she said, “We can’t buy that cereal. Here, I've already got you a box of Cheerios.”
“But mommy, “the boy questioned with a whine, “We always get Lucky Charms!! Why can’t I get Lucky Charms?”
“Because, I said so. Now put those back and be a good little boy and be quiet so mommy can finish her shopping.” the mother pleaded.
“But mommy that’s not fair!” The boy yelled. “We always get Lucky Charms. I don’t like Cheerios. I want Lucky Charms! Why can’t we get Lucky Charms?”
The mother grabbed the Lucky Charms out of the boy’s hands and stuffed them firmly back on the shelf. She grabbed the boy by the shoulders and pulled him close. In a firm, controlled voice she instructed the boy in his ear, “You may not get Lucky Charms because Grandma and Grandpa are coming to visit in 3 hours, 33 minutes and…um… 47 seconds! I want them to think that I’m a good mother. I don’t want them to know that I allow you to eat Lucky Charms. I don’t want them to know that you eat ravioli, cold, straight out of the can, in front of the TV. I don’t want them to know that the only “fruit” you eat are Curious George fruit snacks. And I don’t want them to know that you eat chicken nuggets 5 nights a week for dinner! “ And with a dripping sarcasm she added, “So be a good boy and help mommy finish her shopping so we can go home and greet those fine people who raised me and we can all be one big happy family.”
As I turned my cart, a few corners down, in search of some frozen blueberries, I overheard the woman’s heavy accent. She grabbed the woman next to her and pleaded. “You must tell her not to bring him! Father will be so dishonored. Why does she always have to do this? She’s going to ruin everything…again.”
“But she LOVES this one! I don’t see why she can’t bring him.” the pulled woman replied. “Besides, it’s not like he’s a criminal or anything. Who cares if they want to sleep in the same room?”
“It will kill mama. Papa will never allow it. Christmas will be an argument. There will be no true happiness.”
Having tossed my blueberries into the cart, as well as a few other treats not on my list, I found myself in the bakery. I grabbed my bread and then passed through the wine department on my way to the checkout stands. And that is where I saw the “frickin” baked potato woman from the produce department. She had 3 bottles of wine in her cart. She paused under the large sign advertising a 10% discount if you buy 6 bottles of wine. And then her cell phone rang. She answered it. She listened. She became enraged. “What the “heck” do you mean they can’t come until 7? Tell me again, Bob, why it is we decided to have these ungrateful children? Tell me…. WHY!?!?” And with that she grabbed the convenient 6 pack carrier for wine bottles and filled it up.
In the checkout lane I perused Britney’s latest shenanigans and Christina’s pregnancy shopping trips and Mathew McConaughey’s amazing abdominal photos. And then the checker shook me back to suburbia by asking, “Paper or plastic?” We spoke of how busy the store was. We spoke of the weather. And then, we spoke of the holiday season. Neither of us was brave enough to mutter the word “Christmas” for fear of offending the potentially non believing person across from us. But we did speak of the holiday season in general as she rang up my $201.43 holiday purchase. As I was leaving she said to me, “Enjoy the holiday season, won’t you? It’s such a happy time of year!”
I loaded my groceries into my car, returned my cart to the cart return cage and drove away. I was thinking of what I needed to make for the in-laws’ visit. I was thinking of what I needed to do before Santa came that evening. I was thinking that I was glad I wasn’t as stressed as that swearing baked potato lady or the cereal mom or the sister in the frozen foods. I was thinking that the husband just might have stolen my new Eagles CD for his car. I was thinking about what I needed for Christmas breakfast the next morning.
I rapidly looked left and then right as I pulled out to cross the road. There was no cross traffic. I pressed the gas and abruptly slammed on my brakes as soon as I saw him in the crosswalk. I’ve seen him a million times before. He’s the ancient old man that walks. He walks everywhere. In my neighborhood, through my neighborhood and apparently, to the grocery store as well. When he saw me coming, he jumped. Just a little bit. I let him cross, leaving the back end of my car vulnerable in the usually busy intersection. He looked a bit concerned for his safety and sped up his cane assisted crossing, as much as he could. I had scared him. I was mortified. I didn’t see him when I started to cross the busy road. It didn’t dawn on me to look for him. I almost hit him.
I slowly edged forward and rolled down the window. I turned down the Christmas feel good music on the radio and yelled toward him. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wasn’t looking. I was distracted.”
He looked at me with kind eyes and a look of innate understanding. He looked at me in such a shockingly gentle way. He made me feel so young and naive and vulnerable. He looked at me, cocked his wrinkled head, and then gestured with his cane, toward my vulnerable, newly washed trunk and shiny rear tires that were now sticking out in traffic. It was the cane I had seen so many times as I had sped through my neighborhood. It was the cane I had taken to indicate his weakness. It was the cane I thought held his 87 year old body up. And at that moment, he stood up straight, picked his cane up off the ground and pointed it at me.
“I will be fine. I will walk on. But, you must slow down. You must remember to look at what you have this very moment, today, right in front of you. You should not always look left or right to see what might be coming, but try and see what is right in front of you”
I had to get my car out of the intersection. Another car was coming. I nodded and rolled up the window and sneaked past the rear edge of his wisdom. I trolled home and pulled into the driveway. I grabbed some of my groceries from my shiny trunk and headed into the house. As I opened the door, I yelled, “Hey, come help me unload these groceries. There’s so much we have to do. Has anyone seen the Yahtzee game?”
Check This Out!
My latest book, recommended by my sister in law, a teacher, is "not much just chillin'" by Linda Perlstein. The sub title is " The Hidden Lives of Middle Schoolers." Oh dear. Very educational. If you are there now or will be some day then it's well worth your time.
It was Christmas Eve morning and the woman in the produce section of the grocery store was obviously upset. Those of us shopping near her could hear every word of her side of the cell phone conversation. No one wanted to make eye contact with her. No one dared to confront her and ask her to tone down either the volume of her voice or her choice of language. We were much too afraid of her.
On aisle 4, as I paused to check the fiber content of a new cereal, a 4 year old boy near me grabbed a box of Lucky Charms and ran up to his mother. “Oh no, honey,” she said, “We can’t buy that cereal. Here, I've already got you a box of Cheerios.”
“But mommy, “the boy questioned with a whine, “We always get Lucky Charms!! Why can’t I get Lucky Charms?”
“Because, I said so. Now put those back and be a good little boy and be quiet so mommy can finish her shopping.” the mother pleaded.
“But mommy that’s not fair!” The boy yelled. “We always get Lucky Charms. I don’t like Cheerios. I want Lucky Charms! Why can’t we get Lucky Charms?”
The mother grabbed the Lucky Charms out of the boy’s hands and stuffed them firmly back on the shelf. She grabbed the boy by the shoulders and pulled him close. In a firm, controlled voice she instructed the boy in his ear, “You may not get Lucky Charms because Grandma and Grandpa are coming to visit in 3 hours, 33 minutes and…um… 47 seconds! I want them to think that I’m a good mother. I don’t want them to know that I allow you to eat Lucky Charms. I don’t want them to know that you eat ravioli, cold, straight out of the can, in front of the TV. I don’t want them to know that the only “fruit” you eat are Curious George fruit snacks. And I don’t want them to know that you eat chicken nuggets 5 nights a week for dinner! “ And with a dripping sarcasm she added, “So be a good boy and help mommy finish her shopping so we can go home and greet those fine people who raised me and we can all be one big happy family.”
As I turned my cart, a few corners down, in search of some frozen blueberries, I overheard the woman’s heavy accent. She grabbed the woman next to her and pleaded. “You must tell her not to bring him! Father will be so dishonored. Why does she always have to do this? She’s going to ruin everything…again.”
“But she LOVES this one! I don’t see why she can’t bring him.” the pulled woman replied. “Besides, it’s not like he’s a criminal or anything. Who cares if they want to sleep in the same room?”
“It will kill mama. Papa will never allow it. Christmas will be an argument. There will be no true happiness.”
Having tossed my blueberries into the cart, as well as a few other treats not on my list, I found myself in the bakery. I grabbed my bread and then passed through the wine department on my way to the checkout stands. And that is where I saw the “frickin” baked potato woman from the produce department. She had 3 bottles of wine in her cart. She paused under the large sign advertising a 10% discount if you buy 6 bottles of wine. And then her cell phone rang. She answered it. She listened. She became enraged. “What the “heck” do you mean they can’t come until 7? Tell me again, Bob, why it is we decided to have these ungrateful children? Tell me…. WHY!?!?” And with that she grabbed the convenient 6 pack carrier for wine bottles and filled it up.
In the checkout lane I perused Britney’s latest shenanigans and Christina’s pregnancy shopping trips and Mathew McConaughey’s amazing abdominal photos. And then the checker shook me back to suburbia by asking, “Paper or plastic?” We spoke of how busy the store was. We spoke of the weather. And then, we spoke of the holiday season. Neither of us was brave enough to mutter the word “Christmas” for fear of offending the potentially non believing person across from us. But we did speak of the holiday season in general as she rang up my $201.43 holiday purchase. As I was leaving she said to me, “Enjoy the holiday season, won’t you? It’s such a happy time of year!”
I loaded my groceries into my car, returned my cart to the cart return cage and drove away. I was thinking of what I needed to make for the in-laws’ visit. I was thinking of what I needed to do before Santa came that evening. I was thinking that I was glad I wasn’t as stressed as that swearing baked potato lady or the cereal mom or the sister in the frozen foods. I was thinking that the husband just might have stolen my new Eagles CD for his car. I was thinking about what I needed for Christmas breakfast the next morning.
I rapidly looked left and then right as I pulled out to cross the road. There was no cross traffic. I pressed the gas and abruptly slammed on my brakes as soon as I saw him in the crosswalk. I’ve seen him a million times before. He’s the ancient old man that walks. He walks everywhere. In my neighborhood, through my neighborhood and apparently, to the grocery store as well. When he saw me coming, he jumped. Just a little bit. I let him cross, leaving the back end of my car vulnerable in the usually busy intersection. He looked a bit concerned for his safety and sped up his cane assisted crossing, as much as he could. I had scared him. I was mortified. I didn’t see him when I started to cross the busy road. It didn’t dawn on me to look for him. I almost hit him.
I slowly edged forward and rolled down the window. I turned down the Christmas feel good music on the radio and yelled toward him. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wasn’t looking. I was distracted.”
He looked at me with kind eyes and a look of innate understanding. He looked at me in such a shockingly gentle way. He made me feel so young and naive and vulnerable. He looked at me, cocked his wrinkled head, and then gestured with his cane, toward my vulnerable, newly washed trunk and shiny rear tires that were now sticking out in traffic. It was the cane I had seen so many times as I had sped through my neighborhood. It was the cane I had taken to indicate his weakness. It was the cane I thought held his 87 year old body up. And at that moment, he stood up straight, picked his cane up off the ground and pointed it at me.
“I will be fine. I will walk on. But, you must slow down. You must remember to look at what you have this very moment, today, right in front of you. You should not always look left or right to see what might be coming, but try and see what is right in front of you”
I had to get my car out of the intersection. Another car was coming. I nodded and rolled up the window and sneaked past the rear edge of his wisdom. I trolled home and pulled into the driveway. I grabbed some of my groceries from my shiny trunk and headed into the house. As I opened the door, I yelled, “Hey, come help me unload these groceries. There’s so much we have to do. Has anyone seen the Yahtzee game?”
Check This Out!
My latest book, recommended by my sister in law, a teacher, is "not much just chillin'" by Linda Perlstein. The sub title is " The Hidden Lives of Middle Schoolers." Oh dear. Very educational. If you are there now or will be some day then it's well worth your time.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Happily Ever After?
The husband and I have been married for 19 years. We paused briefly to acknowledge our anniversary last month, and then jumped right back into the craziness of the holidays. Fortunately, knock on wood, the husband and I have never considered divorce. It has been widely advertised, however, that somewhere around 50% of all marriages will end in divorce. According to divorcemag.com the percentage of married people who will reach their 15th anniversary is 52%. Only 33% of married people will make their 25th anniversary. Extrapolating out the numbers, it’s entirely possible that the husband and I have somehow managed to position ourselves in the above average category. I feel I must explain, at least on my part, how we have achieved this apparently extraordinary and somewhat surprising feat. I must explain why, after 19 years, I am still married to the husband.
1. He has a job. He’s always had a job. There’s never been any doubt about him having a job. He goes to work. He makes money. He then gives me the money to spend. It’s one of his best qualities.
2. He comes home. Mostly happy. Everyday. After work he picks up the teenager from jazz band practice or stops by to visit his “engine man” or picks up the books on hold from the library or waits somewhat impatiently in a traffic jam. But after that, he always comes home.
3. He’s a present father. 90% of runaways, 63% of youth suicides, 71% of high school dropouts and 85% of youths in prison come from fatherless homes. His value to the teenager and the boy cannot be overstated. (divorcemag.com)
4. He’s an involved father. He will ride his bike to the lake. He knows how to throw a football. He will play PIG with the new basketball that he inflated to the exact specified pressure. He is willing to have a burping contest. Or worse. He’ll happily chaperone a field trip with 8 gangly and giggly 13 year old girls or a bunch of “naughty boy” 2nd graders. He will race RC cars until the batteries are dead. He will play Christmas trumpet music duets until his lips look like they’ve had a double collagen injection. He will build a model airplane and allow the boy to “customize” it, even if it’s not entirely accurate and goes against all his sensibilities of proper model building.
5. He’s passionate. When the husband is interested in something, he is passionately interested in something. No stone is left unturned. No detail is left unresearched. No website is undiscovered. No book is left unread. This passion can be exciting, infectious, and often keeps him conveniently out of my hair.
6. He’s never met Jerry Springer nor does he own a wife beater tank top. He hasn’t cheated on me with my sister. He hasn’t solicited police officers in public bathrooms. He’s never even been in a casino. And he’s never asked to have a meth lab in the kitchen.
7. He’s flexible. He doesn’t care if we have Hamburger Helper or prime rib for dinner. He’ll listen to Les Mis or Linkin Park. He’ll watch American Gladiator or Househunters. And he’s fine with painting the bedroom blue or green, just as long as he doesn’t have to do it.
8. He crosses things off the Honey Do List. The bathroom towel bar was fixed the same hour it broke. The refrigerator received a new water filter on time. He independently ordered the new lawnmower part. He put in the external hard drive. As long as I don’t expect him to paint anything, he’s a pretty reliable handy man. And I’d say that almost half the time he doesn’t even complain about it.
9. He’s smart. He can rattle off any trigonometry formula in an instant. He can discuss World War II for hours on end. He can debate presidential politics and actually know what he’s talking about. He’s more than book smart, though. He’s also husband smart. He laughs at my jokes even when they’re not funny. He always “enjoys” my cooking. According to him, I have yet to own a pair of pants that make me look fat. He manages to be patient with the kids when I’m not. And he even manages, somehow, to restrain himself from yelling out in fear when I am driving and he is the passenger.
10. He still floats my boat. I started dating the husband in the summer of 1985. I am shocked that 22 ½ years later I am still able to tolerate him. I’m surprised that I’m still attracted to him. I had no idea that, after all these years, I’d still find him interesting. I’m amazed that I still look at him with respect. Oh, don’t get me wrong. We’ve had our ups and downs just like everyone does. Sometimes he drives me crazy with certain quirks. Sometimes he talks way too much about engine displacement. Sometimes he fails to treat me like the queen of his life should be treated. Sometimes he’s just plain annoying. But, not most of the time. Most of the time, he’s the guy who already knows all of my “stuff”. He’s the guy who’s been there for every day of the teenager’s and boy’s life. He’s the guy who knows when to leave me alone and knows when to let me babble and cry for an hour. He’s the guy who will turn down the heat when I'm too hot instead of making me take off my sweatshirt. He's the guy who knows that I'm wearing the sweatshirt to cover up my fat that day. It’s quite comforting to have 22 years of history with someone, knock on wood. That’s worth everything. It certainly, for me, makes up for the fact that he refuses to paint.
Check This Out!
Speaking of American Gladiator...you might want to check it out, Monday nights, on NBC, at 8pm. Mindless fun that just might make you want to work out a little more than you do.
1. He has a job. He’s always had a job. There’s never been any doubt about him having a job. He goes to work. He makes money. He then gives me the money to spend. It’s one of his best qualities.
2. He comes home. Mostly happy. Everyday. After work he picks up the teenager from jazz band practice or stops by to visit his “engine man” or picks up the books on hold from the library or waits somewhat impatiently in a traffic jam. But after that, he always comes home.
3. He’s a present father. 90% of runaways, 63% of youth suicides, 71% of high school dropouts and 85% of youths in prison come from fatherless homes. His value to the teenager and the boy cannot be overstated. (divorcemag.com)
4. He’s an involved father. He will ride his bike to the lake. He knows how to throw a football. He will play PIG with the new basketball that he inflated to the exact specified pressure. He is willing to have a burping contest. Or worse. He’ll happily chaperone a field trip with 8 gangly and giggly 13 year old girls or a bunch of “naughty boy” 2nd graders. He will race RC cars until the batteries are dead. He will play Christmas trumpet music duets until his lips look like they’ve had a double collagen injection. He will build a model airplane and allow the boy to “customize” it, even if it’s not entirely accurate and goes against all his sensibilities of proper model building.
5. He’s passionate. When the husband is interested in something, he is passionately interested in something. No stone is left unturned. No detail is left unresearched. No website is undiscovered. No book is left unread. This passion can be exciting, infectious, and often keeps him conveniently out of my hair.
6. He’s never met Jerry Springer nor does he own a wife beater tank top. He hasn’t cheated on me with my sister. He hasn’t solicited police officers in public bathrooms. He’s never even been in a casino. And he’s never asked to have a meth lab in the kitchen.
7. He’s flexible. He doesn’t care if we have Hamburger Helper or prime rib for dinner. He’ll listen to Les Mis or Linkin Park. He’ll watch American Gladiator or Househunters. And he’s fine with painting the bedroom blue or green, just as long as he doesn’t have to do it.
8. He crosses things off the Honey Do List. The bathroom towel bar was fixed the same hour it broke. The refrigerator received a new water filter on time. He independently ordered the new lawnmower part. He put in the external hard drive. As long as I don’t expect him to paint anything, he’s a pretty reliable handy man. And I’d say that almost half the time he doesn’t even complain about it.
9. He’s smart. He can rattle off any trigonometry formula in an instant. He can discuss World War II for hours on end. He can debate presidential politics and actually know what he’s talking about. He’s more than book smart, though. He’s also husband smart. He laughs at my jokes even when they’re not funny. He always “enjoys” my cooking. According to him, I have yet to own a pair of pants that make me look fat. He manages to be patient with the kids when I’m not. And he even manages, somehow, to restrain himself from yelling out in fear when I am driving and he is the passenger.
10. He still floats my boat. I started dating the husband in the summer of 1985. I am shocked that 22 ½ years later I am still able to tolerate him. I’m surprised that I’m still attracted to him. I had no idea that, after all these years, I’d still find him interesting. I’m amazed that I still look at him with respect. Oh, don’t get me wrong. We’ve had our ups and downs just like everyone does. Sometimes he drives me crazy with certain quirks. Sometimes he talks way too much about engine displacement. Sometimes he fails to treat me like the queen of his life should be treated. Sometimes he’s just plain annoying. But, not most of the time. Most of the time, he’s the guy who already knows all of my “stuff”. He’s the guy who’s been there for every day of the teenager’s and boy’s life. He’s the guy who knows when to leave me alone and knows when to let me babble and cry for an hour. He’s the guy who will turn down the heat when I'm too hot instead of making me take off my sweatshirt. He's the guy who knows that I'm wearing the sweatshirt to cover up my fat that day. It’s quite comforting to have 22 years of history with someone, knock on wood. That’s worth everything. It certainly, for me, makes up for the fact that he refuses to paint.
Check This Out!
Speaking of American Gladiator...you might want to check it out, Monday nights, on NBC, at 8pm. Mindless fun that just might make you want to work out a little more than you do.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Gearhead Christmas
'Twas a few weeks before Christmas,
And all through my house,
Not one gift was purchased,
Not even for the spouse.
The stockings were still
In a box in the attic,
In hopes that we might
Soon get ecstatic.
The children saw bright lights
That danced in their heads.
They hoped for a tree
But sadly, instead,
Mama in her bleached sweats
Was flat on the couch.
She had just settled down
And was a bit of a grouch.
And out on the lawn
It was lonely and bare.
No lights and no blowups
Were seen out there.
The moon in the sky
Lit up the whole street.
You could see all the neighbors,
Their decorations complete.
When what to my wondering
Eyes should appear.
But a little white car
With four tires to steer.
With a most handsome driver,
So smart and so slick.
I knew at that moment
I was his special chick.
More rapid than usual
He got out of the car.
He whistled and shouted;
He called from afar.
“Hey, teenager! Hey, boy!
Hey, hot mama spouse!
Hey, troublesome kitties!
Come out of that house!
Look on the porch,
Up against the wall!
There’s a package for me!
Come quick now, y’all.”
As we’ve seen in the past
When one knows a car guy,
When they meet with an obstacle,
They search and then buy.
He bought stuff online,
A lot more than I knew:
A box full of car toys
And a tool or two, too.
And then, in a twinkling,
I heard by the door,
Him grabbing the box.
He couldn’t wait anymore.
In the house burst the husband,
A huge grin on his face.
He gave me the quickest
Spousal embrace.
He was dressed all in black
In denim and fleece.
His clothes were all tarnished
With ketchup and grease.
The box of car toys
He had flung open wide.
When he pulled out the metal
His heart filled with pride.
His eyes how they twinkled!
His dimples how merry!
He held out the car part
With arms that were hairy.
His mouth was now speaking
And moving so fast.
He mumbled “THE GARAGE!”
And then he ran past.
With a thump of the door
He went to the Camaro.
He laid under that car
In a spot that was narrow.
He had a red face
As he lay on his belly.
He soon got all sweaty
And became very smelly.
Then the hubby jumped up
and went to the garage shelf.
And I laughed when I saw him,
In spite of myself.
Some dirt in his eye
And some grease on his head,
Soon gave me to know
I’d have laundry ahead.
He spoke many words
And continued to work.
He filled all the fluids
And turned bolts with a jerk.
I could see he was happy
With what he had done.
He was already having
His Christmas fun.
He didn’t need lights
Or blow up reindeer.
Car parts gave him
Much holiday cheer.
And I heard him exclaim
As he washed up his hands
“I’m going online!
I’ve got so many plans!”
Check This Out!
We here at Slightly Exaggerated have been obsessed with the Filipino band, The Zoo Band. In particular, we have been drooling over the lead singer Arnel Pineda and his unparalled talent. Pineda is so talented that Neil Schon of Journey fame has picked Pineda to be the new lead singer of Journey. Check out The Zoo Band and Pineda on You Tube. Type in “The Zoo Journey” to get your viewing started. Don’t forget to also check out Pineda’s version of the Heart song, Alone.
And all through my house,
Not one gift was purchased,
Not even for the spouse.
The stockings were still
In a box in the attic,
In hopes that we might
Soon get ecstatic.
The children saw bright lights
That danced in their heads.
They hoped for a tree
But sadly, instead,
Mama in her bleached sweats
Was flat on the couch.
She had just settled down
And was a bit of a grouch.
And out on the lawn
It was lonely and bare.
No lights and no blowups
Were seen out there.
The moon in the sky
Lit up the whole street.
You could see all the neighbors,
Their decorations complete.
When what to my wondering
Eyes should appear.
But a little white car
With four tires to steer.
With a most handsome driver,
So smart and so slick.
I knew at that moment
I was his special chick.
More rapid than usual
He got out of the car.
He whistled and shouted;
He called from afar.
“Hey, teenager! Hey, boy!
Hey, hot mama spouse!
Hey, troublesome kitties!
Come out of that house!
Look on the porch,
Up against the wall!
There’s a package for me!
Come quick now, y’all.”
As we’ve seen in the past
When one knows a car guy,
When they meet with an obstacle,
They search and then buy.
He bought stuff online,
A lot more than I knew:
A box full of car toys
And a tool or two, too.
And then, in a twinkling,
I heard by the door,
Him grabbing the box.
He couldn’t wait anymore.
In the house burst the husband,
A huge grin on his face.
He gave me the quickest
Spousal embrace.
He was dressed all in black
In denim and fleece.
His clothes were all tarnished
With ketchup and grease.
The box of car toys
He had flung open wide.
When he pulled out the metal
His heart filled with pride.
His eyes how they twinkled!
His dimples how merry!
He held out the car part
With arms that were hairy.
His mouth was now speaking
And moving so fast.
He mumbled “THE GARAGE!”
And then he ran past.
With a thump of the door
He went to the Camaro.
He laid under that car
In a spot that was narrow.
He had a red face
As he lay on his belly.
He soon got all sweaty
And became very smelly.
Then the hubby jumped up
and went to the garage shelf.
And I laughed when I saw him,
In spite of myself.
Some dirt in his eye
And some grease on his head,
Soon gave me to know
I’d have laundry ahead.
He spoke many words
And continued to work.
He filled all the fluids
And turned bolts with a jerk.
I could see he was happy
With what he had done.
He was already having
His Christmas fun.
He didn’t need lights
Or blow up reindeer.
Car parts gave him
Much holiday cheer.
And I heard him exclaim
As he washed up his hands
“I’m going online!
I’ve got so many plans!”
Check This Out!
We here at Slightly Exaggerated have been obsessed with the Filipino band, The Zoo Band. In particular, we have been drooling over the lead singer Arnel Pineda and his unparalled talent. Pineda is so talented that Neil Schon of Journey fame has picked Pineda to be the new lead singer of Journey. Check out The Zoo Band and Pineda on You Tube. Type in “The Zoo Journey” to get your viewing started. Don’t forget to also check out Pineda’s version of the Heart song, Alone.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Journey to the Dark Side
Her tan, even, smooth skin begged to be touched. Her deep, dark soulful eyes drew you in to their very depths. Her pouty lips were tinted in just the right shade of pink: dark enough to make a statement yet light enough to lend an air of innocence to her. Her silky, shiny dark hair cascaded in a seductive spray over her toned, golden shoulders. It was her breasts, however, that were most the impressive. As she leaned out the window, they attempted to spill out of her black strapless dress. I was mesmerized by her. She was stunning.
I was jolted back to my chubby, sagging, freckled reality by the sound of her seductive and beckoning voice. “What can I get for you today?”
With much shame and embarrassment, I expertly said to the woman, “Um….I’d like a grande mocha, sugar free syrup, non fat, no whip, please. Oh, and I’d like one of those sleeve thingies”
From the back seat of the car, I heard the teenager mutter with disgust. “Look where this coffee thing has taken you Mom! You’ve just driven your children to the wrong side of town where you and a bunch of dirty old men are staring at a practically naked woman…. all because of coffee!”
My downward spiral to the dark side began after my mother died, as do most downward journeys. I wasn’t sleeping well. I was planning my own mother’s funeral. I was driving very long distances on the crowded freeway. I was stressed, stuck in rush hour traffic and falling asleep at the wheel. It was then that peer pressure and advertising and desperation forced me to do the unthinkable. As I pulled off the freeway it took me about 3.2 seconds to find a supplier. I walked into the coffee shop intending to order a medium coffee. MY FIRST ONE EVER. I became a bit confused when nowhere on the menu did I see the word “medium”. For that matter, nowhere on the menu did I see the word, “coffee”. My fumbling, erroneous, question filled order caused much amusement among the baristas. They too, however, had many confusing questions of their own concerning things that were new to me like foam and whip and non versus 2%. I just wanted a cup of coffee to keep me awake. I had no idea I needed to bring a resume and instruction manual and an Italian translator.
Back in the car, I held the hot cup in my hand thinking that somebody should really make something to fit around the cup so it isn’t so hot in my hand. I tried to decipher the hieroglyphics written in Sharpie on the side of my cup as I approached the onramp to the freeway. It only took me about ½ a mile to come to the conclusion that it is really quite dangerous to attempt to drink and drive at the same time. After about 15 miles I came to realize that it is really quite dangerous to attempt to drink and drive when your hands and brain and eyeballs are so jittery you can barely control the steering wheel and the stereo and the almost empty coffee cup in your hand. It was then that I vowed, at that very moment, that this coffee thing must stop.
The very next morning I felt an overpowering urge to order my second cup of coffee, ever. This time I was a bit more confident placing my order and no one laughed at me. I even announced to the cute girl taking my order that “this was only my second cup!”
“Today?” she inattentively mumbled.
“No,” I replied. “EVER!!”
She dropped the cup in her hand to the floor. She gripped the counter top with both hands, took a deep breath and whispered quietly to herself, “The last coffee virgin on earth……and she’s mine!”
She then turned to face me with a huge, orgasmic grin on her face and a slightly evil look in her eye and said forcefully, “I HAVE SO MUCH TO TEACH YOU!!”
I told her about getting the jitters the day before. She recommended that a coffee virgin, like me, might want to ease into the exhilarating caffeine experience. She offered to customize my drink with fewer “pumps” and “shots”.
I was shocked when I unexpectedly shouted out a little too loudly, with much extreme feeling, “No! Don’t take away my pumps or my shots…..I…I…I kind of liked the jitters.” I suddenly knew that I might have a problem.
It was then that I vowed, at that very moment, that this coffee thing must stop. Well…..as soon as I finished that amazing mocha that the excited, cute girl made, the best I’d ever had actually, then, it would stop. I swear.
I snuck a third mocha 3 days later. The husband never knew. I felt weak. I was embarrassed. It was then that I vowed, at that very moment, that this coffee thing must stop.
2 weeks after that I ventured into new territory and ordered a gingerbread latte. I drank it in secret. No one knew but me. I was too ashamed. I didn’t like the fact that I was well on my way to becoming one of those inveterate mommies, waiting in the Starbucks line, after dropping their kids off at school. I was unhappy that I had given in to the societal caffeine driven peer pressure. It was then that I vowed, at that very moment, that this coffee thing must stop. And it did.
Until that foggy and chilly Saturday morning, a few weeks later, when I found myself on the wrong side of the valley with half an hour to spare. The teenager couldn’t believe I was considering getting some coffee. She saw it as a sign of weakness, as an addiction and representative of all that I had taught her to “JUST SAY NO” to. She had already convinced me not to get a coffee outside of the Home Depot. She helped me say “NO” to the espresso stand inside of the grocery store. She convinced me that, “it wasn’t worth it” at that stand beside that taco place we had lunch at. But driving to the soccer field, with plenty of extra time, I saw the espresso stand on the side of the road, calling out to me, and I just had to pull in. I had no idea, though, that I’d be getting so much more than just a cup of coffee.
As we left the provocative and very busy espresso stand that day and said goodbye to the beautiful, half naked woman who made me my mocha, the teenager in the back seat was seen huddled, pretending to be asleep and rolling her eyeballs in complete disgust. The impressionable, young boy, also in the back seat of the car, had an awkward smile plastered on his face and was, apparently, intrigued by the whole experience. He piped up, “Hey, can we come back on Thursday, Mom? It’s Naughty Schoolgirl Day! Or how about Wednesday? It’s Military Appreciation Bikini Day! I bet Dad would really like that!”
And after I finished that fabulous mocha, I vowed, at that very moment, that this coffee thing must stop. This coffee thing had produced nothing but jitters, extra weight and the exposure of my children to some darn near pornographic moments.
And it has stopped...I swear.
Check This Out!
If you have half a brain and your last book wasn’t a supermarket paperback romance, then this next book is for you. A Sense of the World: How a Blind Man Became the History's Greatest Traveler by Jason Roberts. Fascinating, full of lots of history and politics and interesting social observations all intertwined in this amazing man's life story. Buy it if you have to. It's in paperback and worth the price.
I was jolted back to my chubby, sagging, freckled reality by the sound of her seductive and beckoning voice. “What can I get for you today?”
With much shame and embarrassment, I expertly said to the woman, “Um….I’d like a grande mocha, sugar free syrup, non fat, no whip, please. Oh, and I’d like one of those sleeve thingies”
From the back seat of the car, I heard the teenager mutter with disgust. “Look where this coffee thing has taken you Mom! You’ve just driven your children to the wrong side of town where you and a bunch of dirty old men are staring at a practically naked woman…. all because of coffee!”
My downward spiral to the dark side began after my mother died, as do most downward journeys. I wasn’t sleeping well. I was planning my own mother’s funeral. I was driving very long distances on the crowded freeway. I was stressed, stuck in rush hour traffic and falling asleep at the wheel. It was then that peer pressure and advertising and desperation forced me to do the unthinkable. As I pulled off the freeway it took me about 3.2 seconds to find a supplier. I walked into the coffee shop intending to order a medium coffee. MY FIRST ONE EVER. I became a bit confused when nowhere on the menu did I see the word “medium”. For that matter, nowhere on the menu did I see the word, “coffee”. My fumbling, erroneous, question filled order caused much amusement among the baristas. They too, however, had many confusing questions of their own concerning things that were new to me like foam and whip and non versus 2%. I just wanted a cup of coffee to keep me awake. I had no idea I needed to bring a resume and instruction manual and an Italian translator.
Back in the car, I held the hot cup in my hand thinking that somebody should really make something to fit around the cup so it isn’t so hot in my hand. I tried to decipher the hieroglyphics written in Sharpie on the side of my cup as I approached the onramp to the freeway. It only took me about ½ a mile to come to the conclusion that it is really quite dangerous to attempt to drink and drive at the same time. After about 15 miles I came to realize that it is really quite dangerous to attempt to drink and drive when your hands and brain and eyeballs are so jittery you can barely control the steering wheel and the stereo and the almost empty coffee cup in your hand. It was then that I vowed, at that very moment, that this coffee thing must stop.
The very next morning I felt an overpowering urge to order my second cup of coffee, ever. This time I was a bit more confident placing my order and no one laughed at me. I even announced to the cute girl taking my order that “this was only my second cup!”
“Today?” she inattentively mumbled.
“No,” I replied. “EVER!!”
She dropped the cup in her hand to the floor. She gripped the counter top with both hands, took a deep breath and whispered quietly to herself, “The last coffee virgin on earth……and she’s mine!”
She then turned to face me with a huge, orgasmic grin on her face and a slightly evil look in her eye and said forcefully, “I HAVE SO MUCH TO TEACH YOU!!”
I told her about getting the jitters the day before. She recommended that a coffee virgin, like me, might want to ease into the exhilarating caffeine experience. She offered to customize my drink with fewer “pumps” and “shots”.
I was shocked when I unexpectedly shouted out a little too loudly, with much extreme feeling, “No! Don’t take away my pumps or my shots…..I…I…I kind of liked the jitters.” I suddenly knew that I might have a problem.
It was then that I vowed, at that very moment, that this coffee thing must stop. Well…..as soon as I finished that amazing mocha that the excited, cute girl made, the best I’d ever had actually, then, it would stop. I swear.
I snuck a third mocha 3 days later. The husband never knew. I felt weak. I was embarrassed. It was then that I vowed, at that very moment, that this coffee thing must stop.
2 weeks after that I ventured into new territory and ordered a gingerbread latte. I drank it in secret. No one knew but me. I was too ashamed. I didn’t like the fact that I was well on my way to becoming one of those inveterate mommies, waiting in the Starbucks line, after dropping their kids off at school. I was unhappy that I had given in to the societal caffeine driven peer pressure. It was then that I vowed, at that very moment, that this coffee thing must stop. And it did.
Until that foggy and chilly Saturday morning, a few weeks later, when I found myself on the wrong side of the valley with half an hour to spare. The teenager couldn’t believe I was considering getting some coffee. She saw it as a sign of weakness, as an addiction and representative of all that I had taught her to “JUST SAY NO” to. She had already convinced me not to get a coffee outside of the Home Depot. She helped me say “NO” to the espresso stand inside of the grocery store. She convinced me that, “it wasn’t worth it” at that stand beside that taco place we had lunch at. But driving to the soccer field, with plenty of extra time, I saw the espresso stand on the side of the road, calling out to me, and I just had to pull in. I had no idea, though, that I’d be getting so much more than just a cup of coffee.
As we left the provocative and very busy espresso stand that day and said goodbye to the beautiful, half naked woman who made me my mocha, the teenager in the back seat was seen huddled, pretending to be asleep and rolling her eyeballs in complete disgust. The impressionable, young boy, also in the back seat of the car, had an awkward smile plastered on his face and was, apparently, intrigued by the whole experience. He piped up, “Hey, can we come back on Thursday, Mom? It’s Naughty Schoolgirl Day! Or how about Wednesday? It’s Military Appreciation Bikini Day! I bet Dad would really like that!”
And after I finished that fabulous mocha, I vowed, at that very moment, that this coffee thing must stop. This coffee thing had produced nothing but jitters, extra weight and the exposure of my children to some darn near pornographic moments.
And it has stopped...I swear.
Check This Out!
If you have half a brain and your last book wasn’t a supermarket paperback romance, then this next book is for you. A Sense of the World: How a Blind Man Became the History's Greatest Traveler by Jason Roberts. Fascinating, full of lots of history and politics and interesting social observations all intertwined in this amazing man's life story. Buy it if you have to. It's in paperback and worth the price.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
They Might Be Different Than Me
They’re talking about letting people different than me move to my suburb.
Apparently, it’s not going to turn out well.
They’re talking about letting poor people move to my suburb and they might be different than me. Apparently, not all of them will be white. They will live in cramped apartments. Near my neighborhood. Their children will hang out in the apartment parking lot playing loud music and will be up to no good. They will be criminals who will steal my television set or my car. They will have tattoos and guns and get high on drugs. They will be on welfare and be supported by my tax dollars. They have nothing to offer the suburbs. The people are not happy about this.
They’re talking about letting rich people move to my suburb and they might be different than me. Apparently, most of them will be white. They will live in huge, wasteful houses. Near my neighborhood. Their children will hang out unsupervised at home playing Xbox and will be up to no good. They will be criminals who lie on their expense report and pay the housekeeper under the table. They will hide their tattoos and guns and get drunk on rum and Coke. They will be too busy to be on the school board and will complain about paying their tax dollars. They have so much to offer the suburbs. The people are so happy about this.
They’re talking about letting conservative people move to my suburb and they might be different than me. Apparently, most of them will have “Bush ’04” bumper stickers on the back of their Ford pickup trucks. They will accept the federal deficit, will protest abortion on the weekends and will vehemently support the NRA.
They’re talking about letting liberal people move to my suburb and they might be different than me. Apparently, most of them will have “Obama ’08” bumper stickers on the back of their Subarus. They will accept homosexuality, will protest the war on weekends and will vehemently support organic, sustainable agriculture.
“Green” people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will make the rest of us feel inferior as they smugly drive their hybrids, ride their bicycles or take the bus to work every day.
Skeptical people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them still think Al Gore is an idiot, still have incandescent light bulbs in their home, and still own 2 stroke gas powered lawn equipment.
Vegetarians might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will offend the rest of us as they rudely refuse to eat the standard ribs or hamburgers at the neighborhood barbeque parties.
Christians might move to my suburb. Apparently most of them will be unavailable for Sunday morning yard work before the football game and will also cause horrible traffic congestion as their cars will suddenly be unmanned when the rapture comes.
Lazy people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will cause my property value to go down when they don’t mow their lawn or paint their trim or clean their garage.
Type A people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will cause my house and yard to look unkempt as they will spend every weekend making their own look spectacular.
Aging hippies might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will spend their time depleting the worldwide supply of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream while they smoke the pot they grew under the grow lights kept in the spare bedroom.
Children might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will be loud and unruly and will let their soccer balls and their feet and their bikes trample what little grass I have managed to grow.
Dogs might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will wake me up with their morning barking, stink up my shoes with their daily deposit on my lawn and torture my petunias when they attempt to dig them up.
Self absorbed people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will never be seen or heard from because they have better things to do than make friends.
Kind and giving people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will drive me crazy trying to get me to volunteer with them to clean the neighborhood park or collect food for the food bank or make a casserole for the lady who was in the car accident.
Computer geeks might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will frustrate me as they download super large files and steal my bandwidth from the cable internet connection.
Cell phone owners might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them won’t look as they back out of their driveway while dialing, will ignore their children when they take them to the park and talk on their phone, and will interrupt our neighborly conversation to answer the Celine Dion ringtone.
Teenagers might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will waste away entire days viewing their My Space account, texting until their thumbs go numb and pulling their pants up to cover up their muffin top.
Ethnic people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will look different than me, wear their hair different than me and have different kinds of smells coming from their kitchen.
Illegal aliens might move to my suburb. Apparently, none of them speak English. Well, that's just plain wrong. This is America!
They’re talking about letting people different than me move to my suburb.
The people are unsure about this.
They think they know.
They’re talking about letting short, married women with children move to my suburb and they might be just like me. Apparently, one of them will be a blogger who, if given enough time, just might find a way to offend every single person she knows.
Check This Out!
If you haven’t seen the Discovery channel’s series, Planet Earth, you are truly missing out. As one of the children said, “I like this WAY more than I than I thought I would mom. It’s pretty cool.” For a preview, go to dsc.discovery.com. Type in Planet Earth in the site search. Click on videos to get an amazing preview. I know that will convince you watch on TV or buy the DVD.
Apparently, it’s not going to turn out well.
They’re talking about letting poor people move to my suburb and they might be different than me. Apparently, not all of them will be white. They will live in cramped apartments. Near my neighborhood. Their children will hang out in the apartment parking lot playing loud music and will be up to no good. They will be criminals who will steal my television set or my car. They will have tattoos and guns and get high on drugs. They will be on welfare and be supported by my tax dollars. They have nothing to offer the suburbs. The people are not happy about this.
They’re talking about letting rich people move to my suburb and they might be different than me. Apparently, most of them will be white. They will live in huge, wasteful houses. Near my neighborhood. Their children will hang out unsupervised at home playing Xbox and will be up to no good. They will be criminals who lie on their expense report and pay the housekeeper under the table. They will hide their tattoos and guns and get drunk on rum and Coke. They will be too busy to be on the school board and will complain about paying their tax dollars. They have so much to offer the suburbs. The people are so happy about this.
They’re talking about letting conservative people move to my suburb and they might be different than me. Apparently, most of them will have “Bush ’04” bumper stickers on the back of their Ford pickup trucks. They will accept the federal deficit, will protest abortion on the weekends and will vehemently support the NRA.
They’re talking about letting liberal people move to my suburb and they might be different than me. Apparently, most of them will have “Obama ’08” bumper stickers on the back of their Subarus. They will accept homosexuality, will protest the war on weekends and will vehemently support organic, sustainable agriculture.
“Green” people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will make the rest of us feel inferior as they smugly drive their hybrids, ride their bicycles or take the bus to work every day.
Skeptical people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them still think Al Gore is an idiot, still have incandescent light bulbs in their home, and still own 2 stroke gas powered lawn equipment.
Vegetarians might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will offend the rest of us as they rudely refuse to eat the standard ribs or hamburgers at the neighborhood barbeque parties.
Christians might move to my suburb. Apparently most of them will be unavailable for Sunday morning yard work before the football game and will also cause horrible traffic congestion as their cars will suddenly be unmanned when the rapture comes.
Lazy people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will cause my property value to go down when they don’t mow their lawn or paint their trim or clean their garage.
Type A people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will cause my house and yard to look unkempt as they will spend every weekend making their own look spectacular.
Aging hippies might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will spend their time depleting the worldwide supply of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream while they smoke the pot they grew under the grow lights kept in the spare bedroom.
Children might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will be loud and unruly and will let their soccer balls and their feet and their bikes trample what little grass I have managed to grow.
Dogs might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will wake me up with their morning barking, stink up my shoes with their daily deposit on my lawn and torture my petunias when they attempt to dig them up.
Self absorbed people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will never be seen or heard from because they have better things to do than make friends.
Kind and giving people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will drive me crazy trying to get me to volunteer with them to clean the neighborhood park or collect food for the food bank or make a casserole for the lady who was in the car accident.
Computer geeks might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will frustrate me as they download super large files and steal my bandwidth from the cable internet connection.
Cell phone owners might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them won’t look as they back out of their driveway while dialing, will ignore their children when they take them to the park and talk on their phone, and will interrupt our neighborly conversation to answer the Celine Dion ringtone.
Teenagers might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will waste away entire days viewing their My Space account, texting until their thumbs go numb and pulling their pants up to cover up their muffin top.
Ethnic people might move to my suburb. Apparently, most of them will look different than me, wear their hair different than me and have different kinds of smells coming from their kitchen.
Illegal aliens might move to my suburb. Apparently, none of them speak English. Well, that's just plain wrong. This is America!
They’re talking about letting people different than me move to my suburb.
The people are unsure about this.
They think they know.
They’re talking about letting short, married women with children move to my suburb and they might be just like me. Apparently, one of them will be a blogger who, if given enough time, just might find a way to offend every single person she knows.
Check This Out!
If you haven’t seen the Discovery channel’s series, Planet Earth, you are truly missing out. As one of the children said, “I like this WAY more than I than I thought I would mom. It’s pretty cool.” For a preview, go to dsc.discovery.com. Type in Planet Earth in the site search. Click on videos to get an amazing preview. I know that will convince you watch on TV or buy the DVD.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
The Kitty Contract, Part 2--The Counter Offer
Note: The kitties have responded directly to a previous blog, The Kitty Contract, from Thursday, October 4, 2007. It might prove beneficial to reread that one before reading this current one.--M
Dear Owner:
We saw the blog you wrote
And we really don’t agree.
In fact we’re quite offended
At your errant public decree.
We’re the laughing stock of the kitty world
And it hasn’t been any fun.
Our friends all think that we are guilty
Of things you said we’ve done.
Let us say, right from the start
That you’re getting on our nerves.
The squirt bottle you use is more abuse
Than any cat deserves.
We’ve been loyal, cuddly, cute and good
And we have things to say!
Locking us up, like you do,
Is definitely not the right way.
You mentioned you thought that maybe you hadn’t
Explained the rules to us.
We are here to tell you that you sure are making
Much too big a fuss.
Why can’t we all just get along
And be friends and sleep in peace?
We think you should chill and all this tension
Should just completely cease.
You are mistaken about our motives
And the things you say we do wrong.
For all we want is for you to love us
And to feel like we belong.
We wake you up in the middle of the night
Because we miss you so.
We’re lonely without you and sometimes we run fast
When we really mean to go slow.
We crawl under the covers because we are scared
Of the dark and creaky house.
We are very sorry if we have caused problems
Between you and your hunky spouse.
As far as your concern for our kitty squabbles
That keep you up in the night,
We will try to keep quiet as we attempt
To set our kitty disputes to the right.
You should know that a cat is meant to be fat
And we would like a bit more food.
That is why we gulp and steal from each other
Even though we know it’s rude.
And if you would give us the food that we like
To make us good and happy and fat
Then we wouldn’t steal the food from your plate
And endure the insult, “BAD CAT!”
And as for the salmon and chicken you eat
That is just not playing fair.
If you eat those things we will come after you
And take them from you, WE SWEAR.
Just for the record, we are not dumb dogs;
And we are not your maid.
If you’d like us to clean, then leave some fish “crumbs”
For that we might give some aid.
Though, only a dog would lick the floor clean
And waste good slumber time.
In fact, most dogs are so very stupid
It really must be a crime.
We enjoy your appliances, for they are cozy
And curious and different and nice.
We shamelessly must admit however,
For the hot stove we have paid a high price.
Likewise, the blender, the toaster, the crock pot
Are mostly very scary.
We can assure you that in the very near future
We will, of course, be wary.
And just so you know and understand,
The mixing bowls are comfy and nice.
They hug our curves and surround our fur,
They are cozy and definitely suffice.
We admit we have gotten into the drawers
And have slept with a very sharp knife.
But we also must say it has been such a thrill
And has not caused any strife.
Now onto that awful thing you keep on calling
A kitty “scratching post”.
We have seen better and think you should spend more
For a tower, which is what we want most.
The stick you have covered in cheap beige rug
Should be outlawed and thrown away.
We’re three cats with claws with one useless post
Much to our shocked dismay.
And until the awful post is replaced,
We hope that you already know
That the couch and the screen door and maybe the curtains
Are where our claws will likely go.
You seem to have many, many complaints
About the things that we find fun.
You seem to imply that we often stop you
From quickly getting things done.
We impatiently implore you to look and see it
From our feline point of view.
When we play with all of your really cool things
It gives us something constructive to do.
And most of the time when we play with your things
You’re sitting right there with us.
"It’s quality time!" That’s what we say.
So stop making a ridiculous fuss.
The next time we chew on the computer antenna
Or chase the laces on your dirty old shoes.
Be grateful that we aren’t clawing the couch
Because in that game you will certainly lose.
Now we come to the toilet part of this contract
And your request most certainly stinks.
With no pun intended we really must say
It is the toilet that has the best drinks.
And when you flush it and it swirls around
Well, we think it’s the best thing ever.
So we will continue our toilet obsession
Abandon it? We will never!
We also are considering a kitty lawsuit
About the paint that did cover our feet.
We licked the paint and it did not taste good
It was not fitting for kitties to eat.
So in short, we don’t care if your dresser got dirty
Or if the nightstand was covered in paint.
We feel lucky to be here alive today
And make known our paint complaint.
We also have another big problem
With the litter boxes we use.
You are pathetically slow at cleaning them
No matter which one we choose.
They both are quite nasty and full of our pee
And with what you would call “number 2”.
Until they are clean then we will go where we like
And we hope you soon catch a clue.
We want you to know that we really do think
That someday you’ll learn what we need.
With a little training from us and a little more time
We are confident that you will succeed.
In fact, you already do a few things
That we really like quite a lot.
We really like watching the birds in the trees
And we like the fireplace when it gets hot.
We love all of your blankets and pillows and towels
And we love sleeping on them all day.
When the kids aren’t too careful and don’t shut the door
We love sneaking outside to play.
So we hope you have learned some things from reading
The demands we have written to you.
And we sure hope you fix them all right away.
Cuz you never know what we might do……
Much furry love, The Kitties
Check This Out!
In an effort to stick with our manipulative kitty theme today, go to You Tube and type in “Kitty Wake Up Call”. Click on the second or third one down—it’s the one that looks like a drawn cartoon.
Or, copy and paste this link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhoN6vJNsek
Dear Owner:
We saw the blog you wrote
And we really don’t agree.
In fact we’re quite offended
At your errant public decree.
We’re the laughing stock of the kitty world
And it hasn’t been any fun.
Our friends all think that we are guilty
Of things you said we’ve done.
Let us say, right from the start
That you’re getting on our nerves.
The squirt bottle you use is more abuse
Than any cat deserves.
We’ve been loyal, cuddly, cute and good
And we have things to say!
Locking us up, like you do,
Is definitely not the right way.
You mentioned you thought that maybe you hadn’t
Explained the rules to us.
We are here to tell you that you sure are making
Much too big a fuss.
Why can’t we all just get along
And be friends and sleep in peace?
We think you should chill and all this tension
Should just completely cease.
You are mistaken about our motives
And the things you say we do wrong.
For all we want is for you to love us
And to feel like we belong.
We wake you up in the middle of the night
Because we miss you so.
We’re lonely without you and sometimes we run fast
When we really mean to go slow.
We crawl under the covers because we are scared
Of the dark and creaky house.
We are very sorry if we have caused problems
Between you and your hunky spouse.
As far as your concern for our kitty squabbles
That keep you up in the night,
We will try to keep quiet as we attempt
To set our kitty disputes to the right.
You should know that a cat is meant to be fat
And we would like a bit more food.
That is why we gulp and steal from each other
Even though we know it’s rude.
And if you would give us the food that we like
To make us good and happy and fat
Then we wouldn’t steal the food from your plate
And endure the insult, “BAD CAT!”
And as for the salmon and chicken you eat
That is just not playing fair.
If you eat those things we will come after you
And take them from you, WE SWEAR.
Just for the record, we are not dumb dogs;
And we are not your maid.
If you’d like us to clean, then leave some fish “crumbs”
For that we might give some aid.
Though, only a dog would lick the floor clean
And waste good slumber time.
In fact, most dogs are so very stupid
It really must be a crime.
We enjoy your appliances, for they are cozy
And curious and different and nice.
We shamelessly must admit however,
For the hot stove we have paid a high price.
Likewise, the blender, the toaster, the crock pot
Are mostly very scary.
We can assure you that in the very near future
We will, of course, be wary.
And just so you know and understand,
The mixing bowls are comfy and nice.
They hug our curves and surround our fur,
They are cozy and definitely suffice.
We admit we have gotten into the drawers
And have slept with a very sharp knife.
But we also must say it has been such a thrill
And has not caused any strife.
Now onto that awful thing you keep on calling
A kitty “scratching post”.
We have seen better and think you should spend more
For a tower, which is what we want most.
The stick you have covered in cheap beige rug
Should be outlawed and thrown away.
We’re three cats with claws with one useless post
Much to our shocked dismay.
And until the awful post is replaced,
We hope that you already know
That the couch and the screen door and maybe the curtains
Are where our claws will likely go.
You seem to have many, many complaints
About the things that we find fun.
You seem to imply that we often stop you
From quickly getting things done.
We impatiently implore you to look and see it
From our feline point of view.
When we play with all of your really cool things
It gives us something constructive to do.
And most of the time when we play with your things
You’re sitting right there with us.
"It’s quality time!" That’s what we say.
So stop making a ridiculous fuss.
The next time we chew on the computer antenna
Or chase the laces on your dirty old shoes.
Be grateful that we aren’t clawing the couch
Because in that game you will certainly lose.
Now we come to the toilet part of this contract
And your request most certainly stinks.
With no pun intended we really must say
It is the toilet that has the best drinks.
And when you flush it and it swirls around
Well, we think it’s the best thing ever.
So we will continue our toilet obsession
Abandon it? We will never!
We also are considering a kitty lawsuit
About the paint that did cover our feet.
We licked the paint and it did not taste good
It was not fitting for kitties to eat.
So in short, we don’t care if your dresser got dirty
Or if the nightstand was covered in paint.
We feel lucky to be here alive today
And make known our paint complaint.
We also have another big problem
With the litter boxes we use.
You are pathetically slow at cleaning them
No matter which one we choose.
They both are quite nasty and full of our pee
And with what you would call “number 2”.
Until they are clean then we will go where we like
And we hope you soon catch a clue.
We want you to know that we really do think
That someday you’ll learn what we need.
With a little training from us and a little more time
We are confident that you will succeed.
In fact, you already do a few things
That we really like quite a lot.
We really like watching the birds in the trees
And we like the fireplace when it gets hot.
We love all of your blankets and pillows and towels
And we love sleeping on them all day.
When the kids aren’t too careful and don’t shut the door
We love sneaking outside to play.
So we hope you have learned some things from reading
The demands we have written to you.
And we sure hope you fix them all right away.
Cuz you never know what we might do……
Much furry love, The Kitties
Check This Out!
In an effort to stick with our manipulative kitty theme today, go to You Tube and type in “Kitty Wake Up Call”. Click on the second or third one down—it’s the one that looks like a drawn cartoon.
Or, copy and paste this link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhoN6vJNsek
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