Archive for August, 2008

Bees & Honey

Friday, August 22nd, 2008

We’ve all heard you get more bees with honey.  Usually I’m down with this.  You know what though?  Honey can be a sticky mess and sometimes attracting a bee just leaves you vulnerable to being stung.  I’ve decided to give up the honey strategy today and go right to the bee’s supervisor.

Don’t Blame Our Furry Friends

Friday, August 22nd, 2008

Just read a news report that kids who grow up with pets are more likely to snore. Whatever. Where some of these hair-brain studies come from, I don’t know. Is it possible to make a lot of money inventing science? If so, I think there might be a link between vacuuming and osteoporosis I’d like to tell the world about for some cash and attention. In any event, in my short scientific study on pets and snoring I took into consideration two samples, my family and my sister’s. My sister and I grew up with cats and dogs. Our husbands did not. Our husbands snore. My sister and I do not. Sure, my sampling is small, but hey, who relies on a valid sampling to report findings these days. I’m sure these ‘scientists’ didn’t.

You Know You’re Getting Old

Friday, August 22nd, 2008

You know you’re getting old when the heating pad no longer covers the entire area needing attention. I don’t suppose they make heating pad body suits?

My muscles act like children.  Quit fussing Shoulder and wait your turn.  It’s Achy Lower Back’s turn to play with Mr. Hottie.  You had your turn a short while ago.  It’s not fair to be screaming to play with it again already.  Besides, after Achy Lower Back is finished it will then be Hippy Dippy’s turn.  Why must kids always want the same toy at the exact same time?

Bleep

Tuesday, August 19th, 2008

It seems world leaders are either full of (bleep) or have (bleep) for brains. As if all of the (bleep) we are sifting through in the Middle East isn’t enough to keep us all busy, now we all have to (bleep) bricks over Russia’s turn in the “I’m big, bad and full of mad” chair. I’m not talking about the Georgia/Russia mess. The (bleep) I’m referring to at the moment is Russia’s threat to nuke Poland over their cooperation in the United State’s Nuclear Shield program. Never mind the interceptor hasn’t demonstrated the ability to hit (bleep) anyway. I would equate it to spitting on a raging fire. Doesn’t matter. It’s a convenient opportunity to get pissy. Of course, Poland need only worry about an attack if Russia finds it necessary to launch against the US. Poland will be included as a target at that point. Considering we would all be up (bleep) creek the minute one Super Power decides to nuke another I think it is fair to say “who gives a (bleep) anyway.”

Bigfoot

Tuesday, August 19th, 2008

Surprise, surprise, the Bigfoot reports were a hoax.  Yep, a frozen Halloween costume.  Why mainstream media even bothered to follow the story is beyond me.  Seems more like exploiting the mentally ill for a good laugh than reporting.  Yep, my guess is the men claiming to have found him are probably nuts, though I wouldn’t swear to it 100%.  It could be premeditated brilliance.  If they are planning a crime spree they have wisely laid the foundation for an insanity defense, our nation’s favorite hall pass for stupidity and cruelty.

Duty Calls

Sunday, August 17th, 2008

I did something today I despise. I went to the doctor. It wasn’t a planned visit either. For the past few weeks I’ve been struggling with chest, back and arm pain. Until today I was 99% sure it was all related to hauling my heavy 9 month old son around. He is a big mama’s boy and is pushing my muscles to their limits. What changed today was a sudden numbing of my entire right arm. I’m not going to lie, it concerned me a bit. You’d think I would have been concerned over a throbbing and numb left arm, but I could rationalize that away because I lug my son around on that side. Nope, this wasn’t something to ignore. My guess was a pinched nerve from altering my kid carrying technique. As a mom of two very young kids, guessing wasn’t good enough, however. I knew I had a duty to get checked out and rule out anything more serious.

After an EKG and a quick once over, I’m happy to report the doctor agreed with my guesses on what is going on with me. Though I expected that result, it was still a relief. Leaving the clinic I struggled with feeling silly over even worrying to begin with. Playing with my kids tonight I was able to set that aside. There really isn’t anything silly about doing what you can to make sure you are there for your kids for as long as possible. I may not be willing to brave the doctor for my sake, but doing it for them is pretty darn easy.

Thank You Donald

Friday, August 15th, 2008

Isn’t it nice Donald Trump is rescuing Ed McMahon from the mortgage crisis. It wasn’t long ago when Mr. Moneybags was struggling with debt himself. It’s nice to know he has a long memory and is willing to help others as others helped him.

The Donald’s generosity couldn’t have come at a better time. My stomach was suffering the ills of watching Ed parade around in a neck brace while looking for someone to sue is troubles away. Such a shame. If news reports are to be believed, the 70-something entertainer’s financial woes were the result of a slip and fall injury that left him unable to work. A snotty person might mention someone of his age and with his past income should have had a financial plan that didn’t rely on him working at this point, but I’ll leave my snotty self out of this conversation and move on.

Now that Mr. McMahon’s crisis is over it is a lot less likely we will have to endure watching him as the poster boy for the mortgage crisis. I doubt he will fade from the spotlight completely. Aflac should do its level best to sign him on as their next spokesperson. Lord knows there had to of been days over the past year when ole Eddie boy wished he had listened to that damn duck.

Olympic Rings

Wednesday, August 13th, 2008

Am I the only one with an Olympic hangover? For a girl who likes to be in bed by 10:00, these late nights are killing me. My Olympic rings aren’t a cute assortment of vibrant colors, but dark blue and purple lovelies under my droopy eyeballs. Dang. I don’t look much different than the football players who smear on black goop to cut down on glare. You’d think I’d at least get that benefit, glare reduction. Not so, not so. My face greeted the sun today with its normal squints, those adorable facial contortions that leave me looking every bit my 36 years.

I did a bit of math this evening. I’m losing about 3 hours of sleep every night because of the Games. I know the Games run 16 days, but I’ll likely only be glued to about 14 of them. So, 3 times 14 equals 42. When all is said and done I’ll be just shy of 2 full days short on sleep. There was a time when my life was such I could spend a weekend on the couch. Problem solved. These days I’ll be lucky if I’ve caught up on sleep by the time the Winter Olympics roll around in 2010. Unless, of course, I’m as close to death as I feel some days. If that’s the case, I’ll catch up on the missed time without batting an eye.

Sloppy Joes

Tuesday, August 12th, 2008

There are lots of sloppy Joes, Mikes, Bills and (in my case) Steves in this world. Many women I know cite their husband’s sloppiness as their number one complaint. It seems my house isn’t the only one plagued with strewn clothing, scattered dishes, abandoned food wrappers, orphaned tools and obstacle course style shoe storage. As efficient as I try to be at righting the chaos, my beloved seems to out pace me 10 fold in the distribution of his debris.

So many women can relate to my challenge, yet there is still a fear of being judged by other women as lazy or sloppy myself should one happen to see my house in its full tornadic glory. Why is this? I know I’m not the only one whose heart sinks to the floor when a surprise visitor rings the doorbell. My husband promptly opens the door without hesitation and happily invites in the masses. Not one thought is given to what the individual may be in store for once crossing the threshold. I just want to hide in the corner and bury my cheeks, flushed with embarrassment, in my hands.

There are times when I wonder where my husband’s confidence comes from. Is he secure in the knowledge I’m more likely to be judged for the appearance of our home or does he truly see no big deal in sharing our mess with the world? I fully believe women are mostly to blame in all of this. We have allowed men to exist for ages with the impression we like picking up after them. Secondly, knowing what is likely at play in most households, we still take it upon ourselves to judge other women harshly who are in the exact same boat as us. It may not be a judgment in the form of words, but many are familiar with the looks, sighs and sounds of disapproval.

There’s A Brownie In My Frig

Sunday, August 10th, 2008

There’s a brownie in my frig. Just one. Well, not really one. It looks like one, but the truth of the matter is I like to bake my brownies in such a small dish it ends up being like 2 or 3 brownies thick. I had dinner guests last night, you see. After all the carnage this one lone mass of chocolate goodness remained. It’s wrapped in foil. That’s probably the only reason it’s still there. Had it been clearly visible in plastic wrap there is little doubt my husband would have relieved the brownie of its solitary existence.

So now what? It’s 9:30 in the morning and my husband is gone for the day. The brownie is talking to me, which means I’m either insane or bi-lingual with brownie speak on my list of languages. The brownie is cold and alone. It doesn’t want to go on this way. I hate being cold and alone too. How can I ignore its plight and not do what I can to envelop it in warmth? If I went ahead and ate it, I’m sure it would be the beginning of a long and lasting relationship. We’d be together forever. It would never be without companionship again. It’s hard to know what thigh, upper arm or buttock it will take up residence in, but it will definitely have a home with me. I imagine it would get along well with its neighbors, mashed potatoes, pasta, Oreo and pie. What’s the chance of me charging these boarders rent and retiring a young millionaire?