Blogiversary

Jan 032013
 

I never thought that I’d see this day.  Actually, I’m quite surprised.  Many times I’ve thought “Why the hell am I doing this?  Nobody wants to read about the crap that goes on in my life.”

But surprisingly (and perhaps rather frighteningly), people do.

Dang, you guys are weird.

I didn’t know how to create a blog and I certainly was no writer (as evidenced by the badly phrased sentence), but I thought that I’d throw some stuff out there that was clogging up my brain so I could make room for more useless drivel to swirl around.

What started out as a need to chase away Winter boredom and utilize the domain that Rick had acquired for me many years earlier has turned into a play-by-play reality-thon of my life.

For the last 2 years I’ve shared with you my love/hate relationship with the squirrels, shown the many antics of Thor and observed how close we really are to the local bear population.

You’ve had front row seats to my Daughter’s wedding and also provided your support when I was dealing with a negative reaction to one of my posts.

I’ve brought you into my garden and cried on your shoulder when I lost some of my crops to the critters that live in the area.

As of today, I have shared 476 stories of my life on this blog.  When I saw that number I almost fainted.  Did I really have that much to write about that people would want to read?

Maybe it’s not the “content” of the blog but perhaps the comment section that you find so entertaining.  It’s like a virtual community get-together.  And when my family chimes in with their own 2 cents it’s an all out party!

I love audience participation.

And I love each and every one of you for sticking with me all this time.  Your comments and emails put a smile on my face and happiness in my heart.

A special shout-out to my tech support and web-hoster Rick.  Without you, none of this would have been possible.

 

Karma: It’s What Comes Around

Jan 022013
 

It is days like today that it is totally obvious that we live in a male dominated society.  Because it is clear on so many levels that a man does not have to go through the level of pain that a woman does to look good.  (Or presentable enough as to not have the people she comes into contact with running and screaming in terror.)

Today was the day that I had to do something that I hate.  Loathe, even.

I had to pluck my eyebrows.  Every woman who just read that is shaking their head in agreement.

Now you would think that after all these years my skin would toughen up enough that when I pull those miniscule hairs that it wouldn’t be such a painful experience.  Riigghhhhttttttt.  That would be like saying to someone who has just delivered her fifth child “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? ”

I supposed I could take the easy route and just have some gal in a beauty salon wax my eyebrows, and in fact I have done that exactly once in my life.  Here again, there is still that level of pain that must be endured.

Once more, must have been thought up by a man.  I can just picture a couple of guys throwing back some beers and to liven up the conversation one pipes up “What if we put some boiling hot wax on the eyelid, put a piece of paper over it and ripped the hair out!  That would certainly quicken the process and then my wife can have more time to cook me dinner/wash my clothes/rotate the tires on the car.”

The man probably won a Pulitzer Prize.

One day a few years ago I was in the bathroom doing this dastardly deed and my husband walked into the room.  He stood there for a couple of minutes and watched me.  I turned to look at him and he had this strange look of pain on his face.  I thought he was going to be sick.

I think of that moment every time he has to tackle his nose hairs.

I just love Karma.

 

Just Call Me Grace

Dec 212012
 

I had a dream.  Actually, it was more of a goal, and a lofty goal at that.

It was a goal to do a marathon cleaning session before the kids & grandkids showed up to celebrate the Christmas holiday with us.  And I was a third of the way there with the bathroom completely succumbed to my supreme cleaning abilities.

And then Thursday happened.

I was at work, minding my own business, heading up to the front of the college to deliver some paperwork and I noticed a familiar face enter the building.  Being the ever-so-kind person that I am, I hollered “Hello Bill ” as he made his way through the doors,   And as I rounded a corner I was immediately attacked.

The villain was no more than 12 inches tall, but its intent was deadly as it reached an arm out into my path.  Unaware of the vicious plans of this unknown enemy, I was quickly taken down.

In one split second I went tumbling* over my enemy and with outstretched hands prepared to meet the hard tile floor that awaited me.

Thwump !

For a moment I layed motionless as I tried to determine if I had come through the attack unscathed.  As voices spoke to me and strong arms reached down to me offering assistance, I realized that I was in fact, not OK.  There was a terrible pain in my left knee and my right hand had the searing sensation of a 100 fires in it.

Trying to bring my brain to a complete halt after the free-fall my attacker had launched me on, I allowed myself to be seated into a chair as a crowd of colleagues gathered around me.

…..

…..

OK, let’s just cut to the chase here:  I tripped over a box that someone had left outside their door and took a digger.  (The prologue is completely true albeit slightly glamorous for effect.)

Needless to say I endured 3 hours in the emergency room and came away with the diagnosis that I f’d up my knee pretty good and sprained a ligament in my hand.

As of the time of this post I feel like I have been hit by a Mack Truck.  OK, maybe not a Mack Truck, possibly a Pinto Wagon.  The bruises are starting to form and every muscle in my upper body feels like they have been used as a punching bag.

Outline

This is how my co-workers let me know that they care about me and hope I get better soon.

I wouldn’t expect anything different.

 

*Actually, I was told later that it was probably the most graceful fall that anyone had ever seen.  I’m surprised it hasn’t been posted on YouTube yet.

 

Much Better Than The Elf

Dec 132012
 

I’ve been hearing a lot about this Elf on the Shelf thing.

Now you have to remember that my daughters are grown, and I’m thinking that the grandkids might just be too old for something like this, but since I like to be “in the know” on crap stuff like this, I thought I’d do a little investigating.

So let me get this straight:  it’s a little creepy doll that is used by parents at Christmas time to put the fear of god in them to be good or else Santa won’t bring them anything?

Seriously?!?  Parents have resorted to using dolls to do that sort of thing now?

Wow, I guess I must be out of touch.  Back in the day, all it took was a good threat.  And boy, did it work!  And. It. Didn’t. Cost. A Dime.

Here’s my suggestion to all those parent’s that choose to resort to this sort of blackmail:  If you’re gonna shell out your hard earned dough on a doll to instill fear in your kid to be good, spend your money wisely and have something that will work all year long.

Furbie

Furbie is all you need.  Sure, it costs $50, but that’s only a few more dollars than you shelled out for fairyboy on the shelf.  AND, this thing can terrorize be used all year long!

The best part is you really don’t have to do any training to get it to spontaneously “wake up” in the middle of the night and scare the crap out of your kid*.  You can tell them that they must have been bad and if they’re good, it won’t happen again.  Hey, it’s no bigger lie than what’s happening with that little doll.

And if you feel that you still have to move him around or hide him like the elf, go ahead and knock yourself out.  Just make sure you check your trash often, because you just might discover it “hiding” there often.

 

*I had one of these things 15 years ago and it did wake my daughter up in the middle of the night.  Scared the crap out of her (and it still gives her the heebie jeebies to this day).  Suffice it to say, she won’t let me get one for the grandkids.  Bummer.

 

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