Get it together!

So in case you were wondering what has been going on with new postings let me tell you what the hold up is. Recently my laptop (my favorite communication device) has been on the fritz. For reasons unknown to me the gremlins decided to make ten keys on my keyboard in active. This doesn't seem like a problem, and it probably wouldn't be, if the use of the "P", "Delete" , "Comma", "Colon", "Semicolon", and a few other keys weren't a vital part of communication. Who knew? So to fix the keyboard I sent it into the warranty company to be repaired. How wonderful! Free repairs. All I had to do was wait 3-5 business days for an empty box to arrive so that I could send it in to be repaired in 7-10 business days. No big deal and no coast to me. Yay! Not so much. It took 13 days for the box to arrive, and I had to call to see where it was before it was finally sent out to me. Strike One. So I packed up my laptop lovingly and shipped it out. It felt a little like sending a kid to summer camp... if summer camp replaced hardware and gave lobotomies for bad behavior. I didn't think that I would find myself so worried about the safety of an inanimate object. Sometimes I surprise myself. After feeling cut off from the world for what turned out to be another 8 days (a span that felt like an eternity trapped in a genie bottle) I was very excited when the United-I'm-Afraid-Of-Your-Dogs-So-I-Honk-The-Horn-And-Make-You-Walk-To-The-Truck-To-Get-Your-Own-Package (I think that is the companies official name)driver arrived with my newly repaired laptop. Well that was short-lived. I excitedly opened the box.* I'm not going to lie: there was a warm feeling in my heart when I saw my laptop laying there. My euphoria, however, was short lived when I realized that it was splayed upside-down in the packaging with the battery unhinged and the recovery disks haphazardly tossed next to it. Why Mr. Computer Technician, what great packaging skills you have. Strike Two. I carefully replaced the battery and put the recovery disks back on the shelf and started 'er** up. The next few minutes went something like this: A blue screen? How strange. Yes, I want to start my operating system normally. I guess it's okay if that extension can't be started at this time. Wow! They really wiped this thing. Why isn't the disk drive opening? SON OF A BITCH!! So I called customer service who walked me through a troubleshooting operation that I already knew how to do. I got rather familiar with the exhalation patter of the mouth-breather that had to put me on hold 4 times while she "researched my problem." I can tell her the problem-- You sent my laptop into the work room the Friday before our last recent holiday to be fixed by a technician that was probably more concerned with whether the beer was on ice and the steaks were marinating than the well being of my laptop and my sanity. If there were such a thing as a 4th strike now would be the time that it would be awarded. Just sayin'. 49 minutes later I was set up to send my baby (I mean laptop)in again. Cross your fingers, break out your voodoo dolls, cross your T's and dot your I's, stand on your head, send some good joo joo my way. Hopefully, this time my laptop will be returned repaired to the fullest extent in a timely fashion. Apparently, I can use all the help I can get. *Which looked like it had been chosen by a force of delivery company inspectors that test the validity of packages with baseball bats and steel-toed boots. ** 'er: redneck/Midwestern dialect- slang - pronoun: used to identify an object; possible bastardization of "her"; often used to give inanimate objects a persona. i.e. "Get 'er outta there!" or "Start 'er up."

Invasion of the Tiny Midnight Mammals

Beware people there is an intruder on the loose. He maybe seen in the wee hours of the morning scurrying about the empty streets of your tiny town. He has escaped his gilded cage and is on the lamb. He is between 2 and 4 inches tall, weighing approximately 4 ounces. The perpetrator is of furry and beady eyed decent. Eyes: Black. Hair: Tan. Tail: Brown. Proceed with caution.
By this point you are wondering what the hell I am talking about, and I don't blame you. Now I am going to tell you the story of the very long night that I had last night. There will be times that you will feel empathy for me, there will be times that you will snicker at my misfortune, and by the end of this you are going to think that I was so sleep deprived that I had begun to hallucinate. I assure that is nothing but true. The events that are about to unfold are as I remember them, and they are true:
I have recently been helping my cousin around the house in exchange for free internet, laundry, and laughter (not to mention that the time I spend with her kids helps my biological clock tick less loudly). Last night turned into a real doozie. After a day of chasing kids, gardening, housework, and nonsensical child talk the night went rather well. No big events. No big melt downs. I should have know. Should have seen it coming. It was like being in the eye of the storm. Then it happened....at 2:07 a.m. The baby woke up. I thought I would be helpful. I went and got the baby and tried for a good long time to help him calm down and fall back to sleep. I was not successful.
First I tried to rock him. That probably would have worked if the rocking chair, which is a glider style rocker, didn't make a very loud squeaking sound every time I rocked. Fail. Then we tried to watch a one of those Smart-Lady-Makes-A-Fortune-From-Her-Basement-By-Using-Toys-And-Sock-Puppet videos. That worked for about 7 minutes until the twirly toy that caught his attention was no longer on the screen. Let the tears roll! We tried this pacifier and that pacifier and sitting by ourselves while staring at each other and we sat together staring at each other and 2 different blankets and a pillow and no pillow and the TV on and the TV off....I was ready to lose my mind or hogtie him. But I did not I kept my cool and tried like hell to wait him out. All the while mentally changing my grocery list to include less wine and more contraceptives.

Just as the wailing began to subside and I could see the blissful night's sleep at the end of the tunnel the unthinkable happened... the baby's sister woke up. She then climbed into my lap and proceeded to begin her tear-filled, totally unnecessary cry fest. Yay hurray!!! Not. All I really wanted to do was fold some laundry, watch The Crucible, and have a beer. No such luck. Or as my dad would say no rest for the wicked or the mentally insane. I don't know which one I am, but I know how many more crying children I was away from being both.
It was about this time I was beginning to wonder if my cousin had gone deaf or had died since neither had come out of their room to see why their children were screaming as though they were being butchered. But I held my ground and tried like hell not to wake them. After all they have had 3 kids in six years which means that they are probably about 8 years behind on sleep. Eventually the pleading for mommy, the crying for no reason, and the non-existent leg cramp that plagued the toddler could not be subdued. This whole bawl-fest had gone on long enough. Another 15 minutes and I would have grabbed a blanky and joined in. So I knocked on the door. I waited, and just as I was about to knock again my cousin came to the door. She looked bewildered, semi-well rested, and completely unaware that her children were falling apart at the seams. I told her what had been happening. She apologized and looked a little guilty. She couldn't hear the kids over the closed door and the air conditioner. A likely story if you ask me.
The toddler didn't take long to pass out as soon as she discovered that her mother was indeed alive and in the house. Crisis averted. And the baby just need to snuggle his mama while looking at me with blinking eyes. I am pretty sure he was laughing at me. I could see on his big brown-eyed evil face that he thought that he won. We you may have won this round, sonny. This ain't over 'till it's over. With the new found silence, the ability to hear my own thoughts, and the prospect of being able to go to sleep very near I sneaked out to get a smoke.
As I lit my cigarette and felt myself relax. I looked up and down the street to see if any other poor sleepless, silence depraved bastard were standing on their porch. There was not. There was how ever a very tiny something running down the curb under the streetlight. I immediately remember the night before my cousin's husband saying that he had seen a gerbil in the road. Of course or reaction had been to only kind-of, barely, not really believe him that he saw what he saw. As I darted across the road to see what it was, I was flabbergasted to see that indeed was a little tan colored gerbil running lose. In the immortal words of my grandmother: "You have got to be shitting me?!"I couldn't believe my eyes. I ran inside to share my news. We got a good laugh out of it, but as I lay awake I couldn't help but wonder how a gerbil would escape and become lose on the streets. Did he barely escape with his life when the cat tried to make lunch out of him? Was he left alone and unwanted by some fair-weather pet owner that decided that he could fend for himself? Perhaps he was flushed by a mom (or dad) that had cleaned out his ammonia soaked wood shavings for the last time. Or maybe, just maybe, his is a tiny crime fighter. Family pet by day Super Gerbil by night. Riding the world of molasses coated corn kernels and rogue gnawing blocks. Saving the world from the Evil Doctor Kitten and his plans to take over the planet by delivering his minions to 7-year-olds everywhere under the guise of birthday gifts.

We may never know what how the gerbil became released into the wild. We may never know his the story of his life or understand how trying it is to be a gerbil on the run, but I will always wonder. And I will know that every time a goldfish gets flushed before his time or a mouse gets cornered by an evil tabby cat he will be there. In the shadows saving lives, eating carrots, and watching out for the little guy.

Bathroom Etiquette for Strangers

There are days when the strangest things happen and you can't help but think that there is no way that anyone is going to believe this. Well today was one of those days. After a long and trying day helping my cousin with her daycare and making a princess costume that I was convinced for the better part of the afternoon that was going to drive me over the edge, resulting in my admission into the nearest psych ward, there was an unexpected knock at the front door.
Now this happens on occasion. There are some days that a missionary or the postal carrier or a stray cat decide to knock on your door for one reason or another. Now, I don't need another pamphlet to tell me that Jesus saves, but I do accept gifts all year around so you just never know what might be waiting behind door number one. Today, however, I don't think that I could have anticipated what was knocking on the door.
Standing on the doorstep with a friendly but anxious smile was a woman that I (or anyone else in the house) had never seen a day in my life. She had a kind of desperation in her eyes that suggested that there was something emergent on her mind and a wiggle in her hips that suggested she didn't have the kind of bladder needed to win a Big Gulp drinking contest. Now for reasons unknown to me this this unfortunate soul (who was only unfortunate because of present circumstance not because she was "down and out") was clutching her debit card in her hand. I asked if I could help her, and in a strained uncomfortable voice she flapped her hands and said: "I don't ususally do this. I swear I never do...but I need to use your bathroom I am not going to make it to the corner." Now the corner is a local drugstore. I can't say that I find myself at a loss for words often, and though my brain was screaming "this woman has lost her mind," I looked at my cousin for support and the ability to say no.
I say that my emmediate response was to wonder about the woman's sanity, but the truth is a few things went through my mind as I stared into her uncomfortable face.
            1. This is why I live in the country.
            2. Where are the hidden cameras?
            3. Is she serious?
            4. What is it going do to my Karma if I say no?
            And lastly:
            5. Why did she pick this house? What is it about the house that
             says "come on in and use our crapper"?
I am still not really sure if either of us agreed to let her use the bathroom, she may have just taken our dumbfounded faces to mean that she was welcome, or she may have just been so overcome by the need to empty her bladder that she rushed through the door and stopped. Her eyes darted from side to side assessing the house in hopes of quickly discovering the porcelain god that would be her salvation. "Its in there," my cousin said with a furrowed brow and an uncertain voice. "Oh great!" the woman said, "I swear I'm not looking at your house." Really? The part of me that is my mother and takes pride in house keeping even though it is not my number one priority, thought: "What the hell is that supposed to mean? You take care of 5 kids all day while making a rather complicated costume that requires the sewing machine, re-purposed fabric, a paper mache' unicorn horn, and a few discarded ideas and see how your house looks."
Of course while she took her record speed my cousin and I exchanged the is-this-really-happening-look and counted her children to make sure that they were all accounted for. She emerged from the bathroom relieved and happy. I think there was a brief moment in her euphoria that she had forgotten her imposition. When her wits came back to her she rushed for the door thanking us profusely and declaring how uncommon it was for her to do this but that her desperation had simply overwhelmed her.
There was a moment after she left that we said nothing to one and other. Perhaps we were too taken aback by what had occurred or maybe we weren't really sure what had happened. Was this all some crazy dream that subconsciously makes you aware of the type of person you are? Whatever the case, upon the woman leaving and our having a rather lengthy conversation about how strange it was to be asked to use the bathroom by a stranger in the middle of the afternoon, we promptly checked the medicine cabinet and accounted for the bath salts before proceeding to clean all of the areas she may have come in contact with. This unexpected "visitor" was nothing but polite and gracious. She did nothing obscene or uncalled for, and there was no real mess to clean (it was simply our germ-a-phobic patriotic nature that convinced us to clean everything in hopes of diverting her terrorist scheme to release germ warfare). We are not worse for wear and we didn't go out of our way to do a good deed, but I think that we will be talking about this one and rehashing the events of our mistery bathroom user for years to come. Kind of like me still telling the opossum in the outhouse story every chance I get for the last 4 years.*

                                        
                                         Prairie Doggin' - Rat Race


*Don't worry someday I will tell you the opossum in the outhouse story.

Dear New Sock

Dear New Sock,

I am sorry that you were only worn once before losing your mate somewhere. I am sorry that you are now paired with a sock that, at best, has seen its better days. But keep in mind that its mate was too hole-y to keep on keeping on, and has been drowned in furniture polish. It is now a lemon scented dust rag of its former self. Your new partner understands loss, Lefty will help you through.

But think of it this way, you are a younger and shapelier version of your new found friend. While Lefty is a little wiser and better traveled than you are, you can still hold your elastic no matter what. You will not be found cowering in the toes of my kicks. For this, I thank you.

Please know that better days are ahead. I am sure that Lefty will not be around forever looking like the non-bleached sock in one of those commercials. It is only a matter of time before he is lost under the bed or turned into a polishing rag himself. At which time, you will either be reunited with your first mate (a happy reunion) or mated with a newer version of yourself. At which time, you will be all of the things that you didn’t care for about Lefty.

You will be the older, better traveled, slightly thread bear partner of this new duo. You will long for the days that the giant talking fruit sung your praises. You will tell stories of your days as the newer sock. You will reminisce about the days when you held up your cuff better than anyone you were paired with. And the new newer sock will roll his cuff at you in the same way you do to Lefty now.

So keep this in mind New Sock, you will be in Lefty’s shoes one day. Though you are newer and wiser than an old sock now, you will one day be the one on the other foot. And when that happens, you will know that you did your best to stay warm and dry, and you will have the good scents to know that Lefty may have known something after all.

Good luck on your journeys New Sock, take the road less traveled, always wear good shoes, and stay off the coffee table.

Sincerely,

Me

Who Are You?

We all know that kid who comes to a party or gathering or just wanders into a conversation and has absolutely nothing to offer in the way of valuable input. This is also, generally, the same person that has an outlandish story that needs characters you have never met in order to make the story work. These characters are generally introduced as “my buddy” or “You know Cory’s uncle?* Oh. Well it is his second cousin.” Likewise, this is someone that you are never going to meet and they certainly are not going to be available for clarification at the time of the story’s telling. Meanwhile, the story teller goes on telling their tall-tale as though the connection that they attempted to make has been made and you are on board with everything that they are saying.

Somewhere, between “It was so cool” and “Then he was like *insert ridiculous sound effect*” you begin to scan the crowd to figure out who this guy is with and why he is now bothering you to no end. Who are you? Also, what the hell does his mud-bogging story have to do with my conversation about car insurance premiums? Yes, my conversations are usually more interesting than car insurance, but you know as well as I do that when you are with your close friends a good conversation can be about extremely mundane things. No matter how you try to deter the story teller there is no use. Onward he will yammer about everything and nothing. Then it happens. You realize that the group that you were talking with begins to dwindle. They make their strategic steps backward or they get invisible, inaudible notices from no one that they are needed and all of the hold-on-a-minutes you can muster leave you standing alone with the talker. After a deep breath and a more steadied stance you settle into the story hoping that soon it will be over. Who are you? However, the talker trudges on now with hand movements and more sound effects never noticing the dead look in your eyes and complete lack of interest. Shit.

All you really want is a way out as one story fades into another. You are beginning to feel like a bobble head because you have been lackadaisically nodding your head for so long. Who are you? You can see your friends outside this personal hell laughing and smiling. They are drinking and enjoying the conversations that they are in. What is that like? It has been so long since you enjoyed a conversation you can’t even remember it, but you are sure that it had nothing to do with Marlin fishing on the Great Lakes. Especially since there IS NOT Marlin fishing on the Great Lakes.  All the while you are ready to go on a killing rampage. You begin to wonder how you could stop the bullshit from spewing so haphazardly from the story teller’s mouth. Would it be wrong to punch him square in the mouth and then walk away as though you never noticed? There must be something, anything, that will remove you from this guy’s line of fire. Then it happens. Your beer is empty. You can excuse yourself to the cooler.

“Hey I’m going to go grab a beer. Can you just stay here a minute?” And without missing a beat or even taking a breath, “Me too. I’ll go with you. So anyway then we were…” SON OF A BITCH!! Who is this guy?! Of course he is going to go with you. He has ran his mouth for forty-five minutes he is probably more parched than the Sahara.

So that is what he does. Fortunately, he can talk and walk at the same time because you just wouldn’t be able to handle a moments silence as you slink in and out of other groupings of people. You notice the look of pity on your friends’ faces, and you swear that one of them mouthed “hang in there.” Why will the chatter never end? And then it happens, just as his buddy begins to ride a horse down main street, your friend (a real person, possibly the only person that you invited that truly loves you) says, “I have been looking for you all over. I need you in the kitchen. Can you come take a look?” You scamper up the stairs and onto the deck leaving whats-his-face in your dust. You are so overjoyed that you have found the escape hatch that when the door slams behind you, you have to take a few deep breaths to make sure that it is all real. You have escaped. I bet that is how inmates feel after 20 years in prison digging out with a  tooth pick and a spoon. Free.

Thankfully, there is really nothing to see in the house, but this does give you the opportunity to ask who it was that you were talking to. So a group of you will eventually gather around the window where you can see him but can’t be seen and speculate about who this guy is, where he came from, and most importantly when he is leaving. It is about this time that you notice that he is moving toward the house. Why? Why would he do that? Where are you going to go? The bathroom? No,  
too many people lined up. The bedroom? Yeah, the bedroom. You could play sick for a minute. And then as you are about to make another grand escape there he is standing directly in front of you with outstretched arms. You return an awkward side hug and fake some nicety and a “we’ll see you next time” to appease him. Even though inside you are doing the Snoopy dance because you no longer have to dodge him. Once he is out the door. You ask one more time, “Who is that guy?” This time you are in the proximity of someone that has an answer (not a good one, but an answer none the less), “That is Cory’s uncle’s friend.” Of course it is. Why didn’t I think of that?

* What I should have said: “No, I don’t know Cory’s uncle. Who the fuck is Cory, and how would I know his uncle?”

Why it is Not Quite Swimming Weather in Michigan

I am one of those people who have a tendency to say yes to someone asking for my help before I actually take into consideration what it is I am agreeing to. This is especially true when one such person who is part of the select few that I consider valuable human beings* asks me to help out. I found myself in such a situation today. A friend of mine, let’s call him Rennis, had asked a while ago if I would help him put in a dock for the summer. Well of course I said yes (it was in February, it seemed like such a long way away). What else would I say? I mean a free chance to go swimming, a day spent with friends, and a slim chance that I may get to steal a few minutes on high speed Internet was enough for me (See “Let’s Talk About Dial-up). What I had not taken into consideration was that in order for the dock to be useful for the season it needed to be in when it was still what we Michiganders would call “chilly.” For those of you that don’t speak Michiganian, “chilly” is somewhere around 62 to 70 degrees. Well, that doesn’t seem so bad does it? Drop it by 5 to 7 degrees (because you are near the water and it is always colder near the water) and then add in about 15 mile an hour winds; this would be windy enough to make you hold tightly to you kite string and tuck a scarf around your ears, but not so blustery as to have to call for your Aunty Em. So you can see that “chilly” in Michigan is “let’s trim the Christmas tree” in California. Today was certainly a chilly day.

We should have been clued in when we looked out the window this morning and decided to wait for the clouds to “burn off” (this is Michiganian for “wait for the clouds to dissipate on their own”**). If it is overcast to begin with, that means that the water has missed a good portion of the morning sun and will be even colder than it could have been. We did not heed Mother Nature’s warning. Have I mentioned that there is no one in Michigan in the month of May that you would like to see in a bathing suit? I will mention it right now: There is no one in Michigan in the month of May that you would want to see in a bathing suit. I know that you are thinking, “I would like to see whats-her (or his)-face in a bathing suit at any time of year.” Not true. Let me illuminate this for you. When it is cold women and men alike hid indoors. There is very little sunlight indoors, and anyone that has spent any amount of time in a cast can tell you that there is a certain sickly paleness that occurs after prolonged lack of sunlight. Add to that the fact that cold people like to be privy to as much warmth as possible so long clothing is worn, and when no one is going to see a woman’s legs what does she do (more often than not)? She will have a tendency to stop shaving them. Likewise, cold people like to go into the same type of hibernation mode that a bear would. We sleep more, we eat more. We appear from our dens after a long winter a less muscly, more lethargic, uncomfortably pale, and the women are generally a little nicked and band-aided (primarily from the waist down) than when the winter months had arrived.

I was one such person. I wedged my added winter poundage into last year’s bathing suit and proceeded to the water. Upon seeing the all too blue yes-it-is-fucking-cold water come upon the horizon I began all too quickly to regret my eagerness to help in the dock putting in endeavor. But I am a person of my word so onward I trucked tugging on my swim trunks for added coverage with a racing stripe of missed hair down the back of my leg. Like every wimp you have ever seen in cold water I tip-toed and squeaked my way into the water. Only unlike most I finally decided to bite the bullet and plunge into the water.  The initial shock of cold nearly sent my lungs out my ass, but I swam on until I hit bottom and collected myself a nice bra full of sand. I realized momentarily that my days of toughing it out polar-bearing*** is probably long since gone. Up I popped from the water only to be greeted by my friends’ looks of awe and one of them screaming “What are you fucking nuts?”

On a good day, yes I am, but I can honestly say that I am one of the first people of the season to leave winter behind me in a sad display of leg kicking and arm flailing. After what felt like 9 months of winter it was good to feel like summer is on its way… even if it meant freezing my ass off to do it.

 

*Don’t panic this is not a diminish-ment of the human race and all of the people that are in it. I know that all life is valuable, everyone has a calling or reason, blah, blah blah. But seriously think about it. You aren’t the fan of everyone either. Also, if you are offended by my offhanded comment and lack of tolerance for a large portion of the population this may not be the blog that you want to read.

**This is also a widely accepted political policy for dealing with global warming.   

***Polar bearing is a strange Michigan custom that consists of cutting a hole in the ice and quickly plunging into and back out of it. Yes, this is a real thing. No we are not wrapped tight up here it is cold for too many months in a row. I am pretty sure that if this were an Olympic even it would be dominated by Michigan polar bears because no one else would be dumb enough to try it.

Nearly 28 going on 82

I am not really sure when it happened, but I am turning into an old lady. I am pretty sure that it began when I got not only one but two cats, and I started treating them more like people than like animals. I actively tried for a long time not to be one of those people that talked about their cats as though they were children. But lets face it, call a spade a spade, and identify them as the super smart mind fucking Jedis that they are that eventually wear you down until you are speaking in ridiculous baby talk to, and about,  your precious poopsies. I am sure that they only make this happen for their own amusement. It must be hilarious to watch a grown human make kissy faces and speak in a language that no one can really understand.

However,  I have to admit that being a crazy cat lady is not the only thing that makes me realize that I may be old beyond my years. I have also began to realize that my body is slowly giving out on me. There was a time when I could do whatever I wanted without consequence, and now if I sleep incorrectly (like with one leg hanging off the lounger while I am face down in the pillow and both hands strait out over my head while trying to get a tan in the yard) my bones creak and crack, and I feel as though I have been hit by a bus*. I never really understood why people complained that their knees hurt or they had a kink in their neck when they had done nothing more then eat Cheetos and watch TV for an entire day, but now if I look to the left too quickly while trying to stand up while working in my flowerbeds it is likely that I will suffer severe whiplash and chronic awfulness disease as a result. Which is accompanied by multiple days of comparing my new owie with anyone how mentions one of their own, and then reliving the event in detail to prove to them that my trauma was way worse and debilitating than theirs.

See my pretty tulips!***

By the way...when the fuck did I get so interested in gardening? Not vegetable gardening, we have done that my whole life that isn't something that I consider a hobby that is survival and hard work, and I am way too cheap to pay those high fluting store prices for salsa in the dead of winter. I am talking about flower gardening. I always find myself thinking of Papa Jimmy (a gruff and surly man with a heart of gold that was a surrogate grandfather for the first part of my life) as I happily watch my colorful whatevers bloom with bated breath: "You can't eat those Goddamn flowers." There is some strange part of me that can spend hours in the dirt cultivating flowers for no other reason than to flaunt it in the face of my flowerless friends. I do this by inviting them over and nonchalantly walking about my yard while things are in bloom waiting for someone to comment on the stunning tulips or lilies or flocks. And if I get none of this I then bait my unsuspecting victim by saying something like, "I can't believe these Peonies made it. It took them 3 years, but they have finally done it." Now that it has been brought the their attention they are forced to comment in an awed and thoughtful manner....or else!
So here I am 28 years old going on 82. I find myself surveying bumps and moles** and talking openly about my creaking bones and forgetfulness (we will talk about that phenomenon in a future post). I can't help but wonder if this is the age that my parents and grandparents started to find these traits in themselves. And if it is, please, please who ever you are that is in charge of this science experiment and sitcom that is life do not let me begin to call things whats-its and whos-its and what-cha-ma-things. I certainly must be too young to be a what-cha-ma-call-it with the thing-a-ma-bob that drives me crazy when Snicklefritz does it.

* Plus the old person skin on my legs never really tans anymore. I can literally lay in the sun for hours and never get the least bit tan. I burn turn red like a lobster in a pot, and then I promptly return to my unhealthy ghostlike state.
** I wonder if I should start a mole journal...note to self.
***Yes, this really is a picture that I took from my garden a couple of days ago. Not only do I grow flowers, talk about growing flowers, and try to get others to enjoy growing flowers as much as I do, I also shamelessly document in photos my beautiful yield because I am one of those weirdos. Besides these pictures make an excellent addition to my photo albums full of pictures of my cats wearing ridiculous head gear and looking less than enthused.