Month: March 2018

Since it is a holy week I’m of course going to write about something that is not.  The small R resurrection has to do with slutty women who have tried to revive their careers by announcing to the world that they made a living by using men in one way or another.  And sadly it kind of worked out for them. I need a role model!!!  60 Minutes, the premier of real news shows or so I thought, stooped to the level of the tabloids.  Poor Anderson Cooper had to use his best serious face while interviewing a porn star about a one night stand she had twelve years ago.  Tell me he didn’t want to laugh when his most serious question was wondering if her mark covered his ding-dong because that was very au courant in her industry at the time.  She said no and Anderson did not have an appropriate follow-up question.  ‘So Stormy?  Have you already been exposed to every disease out there?  Are you a walking/laying Petrie dish?”  He should have been ready with the hard core news questions.  No glove, no love.  He moved on with other oh-so-irrelevant facts(?).  I’m just missing my Ladies.  Enough already about the sexes using each other for their own purposes.  It’s been done and done and done behind closed doors and let’s put it back there.  We’ve all voyered enough and I’m starting to feel dirty.    As Margaret Thatcher once said, “Being powerful is like being a lady.  If you have to tell people you are, you aren’t.”  Hallelujah

I was like, I know right?  Finally someone recognizes my nobility!  He also shot me down pretty quick with details details details.  The Queen doesn’t have to mess with that stuff.   Her Majesty doesn’t even carry money in her fake little purse.  All show.  And I like it! Sign me up.  I saw a huge billboard that said  ‘Let Us Treat You Like Royalty’.   Yes Yes Yes!!!  That’s what I’m talking about.  But the small print got me a bit confused.  It was explaining waxing various parts of your body that I couldn’t quite picture the ninety-one year old Queen doing. (Thank goodness. Some things you just can’t unsee).  Is the Brazilian her thing or is she too much of a homer?  I know the English are pretty staid and can’t imagine the amount of hair one must be left with if they get the British.  But then they never take their clothes off so probably doesn’t matter.  And the country is quite chilly and damp so an extra layer of fur probably does come in handy.   That’s not the royal treatment I’m after.  America needs a queen.  And not some porn star who gets her fifteen minutes of fame from sleeping with a guy who wasn’t even President and no amount of imagination would have gotten you there.  Way out fantasy.  I’m talking just a normal Queen with crowns and carriages and triangular cucumber sandwiches and no responsibility but to get waxed in the nether regions and smile and wave.  I could do all that!  And be really good at it.  Let’s face it.  We can’t all be Queen.  Someone needs to bow as I go by……

I hate the color of March.  It is ugly and a tease and enjoys playing with you.  Sunshine(ish).  Filtered, partly to mostly to notly, and paired up with a balmy forty degrees. The B heats up your car and lures you in with warm caresses only to snap your *ss right back out into reality.  Little things start climbing out of the ground while you squeal with stupid delight knowing that they’ll be covered up with her white trash at whim. Just a bruiser.  Hard to tell where the mud and brown grass begin and end.  Somehow my dog seems to know the difference and prefers the mud.  Gotta love mud season. If you’re whacko.  The trees are still naked which the B prefers, D tease that she is.  (Hope everyone is following my alphabet soup.  B makes me vulgar haha).  Remnants of salt still cover the streets and walks just so your car isn’t tricked into looking good.  Pimp needs to hustle.  Ugly ugly wench.  One of my favorite quotes is from Winston Churchill which might be a bit melodramatic but that’s kind of how I’m rolling here. “If you’re going through hell, keep going”.   I’m sure he was talking about March and not war and peace and famine.  Just sayin.  The ugly B will blow away soon enough and let a more attractive sista turn her red light on. For now, however, I’m going to embrace my seasonal affective disorder and not feel weird for talking to a month.  Effen B.

or 3-5 business days.  Gotta love email.  It’s Quiet.   Ahhhh can you hear it.  To be continued when I want, where I want, and sadly to whom I want.  Since some of my millions of followers also email me, I’m going to call myself out.  Busted.  I might read your email, I might answer your mail, or a might save it till later.  Which we all know moves down down down the black hole and just maybe never to be seen again.   Ahhhhh.  Quiet.  While vacaying in a lovely spot with lovely sunshine and maybe(?) lovely people there was one huge problem.  THEY WERE FREAKING TOOOO LOUD!$@!?!   They SHOUTED their conversation.  And they had very BORING conversation I was forced to listen to.  One day I had to leave the beach as the boring beeahches just yelled away.  Fine.  To the pool   poor me. MARCO.  POLO.  MARCO.   AAAHHHH!&$!!  What’s a sun seeking wench to do sniff.  I can’t figure out if everyone is just hard of hearing or truly believe their knee replacement is that fascinating.  It’s not.  And embarrassing to this Boomlennial who tries not to pull the old person card too often.  Fake it till you make it.  Even if you can’t hear nod and smile.  I can’t see you anyway and we all know I’m oh-so-interesting.  Especially when I drink.  Soooo interesting.  I am enjoying the quiet right now and grateful for the low hum of peace.  Now that is quite a good line.  THE LOW HUM OF PEACE.  See.  Not so good anymore.  Advice.  Keep it down.  Don’t get on my last nerve.  Gosh I just love that line.  The low hum of peace.  Email me and let me know what you think wink wink.

Or not.  It just goes.  As I was vacaying (try not to get that autocorrected) in a spot I visited a year ago, I was amazed that a year vanished right before my eyes.  And was it fun??  Yes it was!  Since time flies anyway, this Boomlennial has made a not so well thought out decision to just have fun.  Good choice!  The Universe has a way of stepping in sometimes and thwarting my best attempts, so I have to take advantage of the good days and have ALOT of fun.  My partner in crime is great at this.  Not the crime, although he did want to steal a really cool looking martini shaker at dinner one evening.  We didn’t but it’s not totally off the table yet.  Fun.  ALOT of fun. Everyday.  Not just the days that begin with S.  The Boomlennial watches too much TV.  Whether its Netflixs or streaming or other jargon to make it sound like ALOT of fun, it’s not.  It can be enjoyable entertainment, but it is not ALOT of fun.  I want fun everyday, and a plan to make it happen.  My special sidekick is good at this.  He sees the world through rose colored glasses.  No really.  They have this weird tint that actually makes things look brighter and clearer and sharper and better.  That’s a good thing.  While having linner (yes autocorrect that is a word) during vacay at one of those trendy restaurants that tout fresh farm to table food, we got called out for having ALOT of fun.  Toasting with our gluten free martinis, sending pictures to our peeps back home to show how healthy we were eating the grass fed burgers and organic salad.  And of course more gluten free martinis because it’s outside and you are wearing only one layer of clothing.  Dilly dilly!  Anyway, as another couple was leaving, the man came over to tell us what a great couple we were and how nice to see us having ALOT of fun.  Easy peasy.  Shouldn’t have looked so out of the ordinary.  Time flies.  Make it first class.  Cheers.

but not your own facts.  Seems reasonable enough to me, duh.  Somewhere along the way, however, all the Who, What, Where and When’s have washed into tabloid journalism.  Opinions.  Sensationalisms.  And yes that is a word because it will be Published and that makes it true.  Sunday my manfriend and I were watching the morning news shows I’m embarrassed to say.  We started having very grownup discussions about the House and the Senate and serious serious stuff.  But, what we discovered is we need to start back to fifth grade.  And pay attention.  Absorb the material.  Hope that the teacher really is smarter than a fifth grader or at least have better tools at her disposable then a worn out book and chalk board.  Which is really fun to clean unless you have to stay after school to do it.  Great memories sigh.  (And yes she probably would be a female. Just sayin.)  Anyway, manfriend and I were complete duds.  Not quite sure of anything.  Education is wasted on the young.  But…..we were being enlightened by a media that has turned opinion into fact.  Which is why people forgot how to think for themselves.  We have the Hollywood elite rolling down their limo windows and shouting out causes we must care about, and movements we must follow, and pins we must wear.  At least they do it in really beautiful clothes so that the ten year old in me rah rah’s with them.  Glitter gets me every time.  Opinions.  Heresay.  Not allowed in court,  but allowed in the media and everywhere else in the Wild Wild West of the Internet.  No rules, no fact check, no editor questioning the five W’s.   I keep expecting some backlash, but the dumb fifth grader in us is still quite gullible.  After President Trump was elected, there was a collective  ‘Whoa where did that come from?’  Briefly.  Until the media twisted the narrative to their ‘opinion’ and we were left to flounder.  Maybe I just need to get off the grid for awhile. Go back to the land.  Raise some pigs.  Put Elmers glue on the back of my hand and sprinkle it with glitter.  And no I never did that.  Much.

 

between eating tacos everyday or being skinny, would you choose hard tacos or soft tacos?  *crickets*.  More *crickets*.  Get it???  I kept seeing the word crickets used in tweets and online time wasters and I didn’t know what it meant.   Finally did some research and know way too much about the small to medium sized insect with a mostly cylindrical, vertically flattened body and slender antennae.  Which of course is not the cool, slang use of the word.  This Boomlennial ventured on and now I get it and want to use it.  So back to my one liner at the top of this blogue.  Someone tells a joke.  Not funny.  No one laughs.  Awkward silence.  CRICKETS!  Or, you’ve been emailing back and forth and then no communication. They’ve gone CRICKETS!  Who comes up with this sh*t?  And how do you go from an insect related to the grasshopper where the male produces a characteristic  rhythmical chirping sound and has a  smooth, robust pronotum behind the head to silence which is pretty much the anti-crickets?   This is the question Googs isn’t answering for me.  Much like when you were young and looked up bad words in the dictionary and couldn’t figure out why they were bad.  Why are they calling that girl a hoar when she looks nothing like white ice crystals?   Just confusing.  But I do know there are 900 species of crickets with about 100 being found in the US.  Now I am boring myself which is hard to do since I am oh-so-fascinating.  Ok I’ll tell a joke.    Broccoli- “I look like a tree.”   Walnut- “I look like a brain.”    Mushroom- “I look like an umbrella.”        Banana-  “Dude!  Change the topic.”   CHIRP!  CHIRP!