Month: August 2019

Please don’t agree with me. How rude! This summer my legs and skin have taken major hits and I blamed it on a lot of things. I’m clumsy. (I’m not). The sky-diving. I used to bruise a lot. Summer was especially rough since I’d be out and about doing outdoor types of things that were way less physical then my body showed. One of my dearest dearests once said matter-of-factly that fat people bruise more easily. I couldn’t even get mad because the shocked look on his face that such a phrase was actually said out loud made me laugh. And the back peddling wasn’t really necessary cuz maybe he had something there. (Of course he could have said healthily robust.) Anyway, I just realized that where I used to have just a bruise, it is now accompanied by a bleeding scratch, or a hole, or a patch of skin just gone. Sad state of affairs here. And this is why I blogue. And drink. Decomposing. I’ve always looked forward to black tight season. Not the camel-toe ones that women wear now as pants, not as undergarments, and show every bit of stuff that really should be kept under wraps. Or a skirt. Or at least a long top, with many apologies as to why you had no time to continue dressing. However, I’m heading down a path where I wish nurses still wore those thick, white tights. And everyone would catch the trend again. (I knew that would be short- lived because they really did make your legs look enormous.) Decomposing. A very ugly word. I had other examples but now it’s just depressing me. And making me thirsty. And worried about this huge splinter (so huge) that is in my foot and half-way up my leg. At least. My Manfriend tried to get it out with a huge butcher knife (yes I said HUGE again), and it’s not happening. Think I need to soak it or me in whiskey for the next go round. How long does it take wood to decompose? Enough about my weeny, whiny problems. Just keep walking like an Egyptian. (BTW….Did anyone reeeeeally think I went sky-diving????)

Oh no, not the type that involves powdered eggs and dirt cravings. I mean mossy. Yes, that’s it. I feel mossy. The summer is winding down and I have spent a lot of time soaking up the dampness. And will continue to do so. Three-quarters of the year I am frigid. (Do I have to explain that, too?) Winter. Surely you must understand that. Somehow my work environment is always a balmy 58 degrees year round. Which makes it fairly easy to dress since you only need one wardrobe. Actually I wear more pants in the summer because those black tights and boots just don’t cut it in July with a white blazer. So when I’m a free bird my devices and reading material head outside to soak it all in. And I do. Half of my hair sweats and is stringy, while the other half curls. None of it in a good way. Won’t even explain what happens when I go topless. (Convertible, silly). It’s the price I pay to be an orchid. I do have a plan for the last few weeks of this lush season. Nothing. That’s the plan. I want to look at the clouds. Do you think they stare at us and comment on our shape? (I am a deep thinker). I want to study spiders. They are quite amazing and can spin seven different kinds of silk and have a nozzle and spigot. (Didn’t say I was going to quit reading.) Some silk is sticky to catch lazy bugs. Some tough and flexible to catch flying bugs. And sometimes they just want to dangle. I want to end the summer on a dangling thread. Ain’t no laws when you’re drinking Claws. Just want to sit and grow moss. Don’t have to bother watering flowers anymore since they are getting leggy and boring me. My beefsteak tomatoes look like cranberries so will leave my eating to the professionals. My dog has also grown moss or maybe just swam too much in the green pool. Over it. Please cancel my subscription to your issues. I am dangling.

I have finally caught up on my sleep so will try not to offend anyone. Boy, Shark Week just does me in. But to be fair, I only like pasta and maybe three other people, so kind of limits where I go with this. To the Impossible burger of course! Why wouldn’t it? I thought I had come across an eating Yahtzee a few months ago. If you haven’t heard about them, you must have a life and not dwell on dumb sh*t like I do. They are plant-based patties that look and taste like a real beef burger. They ooze bloodish and once you throw on some mustard and onions are quite tasty. I had been getting them regularly at a certain restaurant that I would gladly name for my millions of followers, but pay up first, baby. But then things began to unravel. First, BK got wind of them and gobbled them all up. (Humph. Don’t think I’ll be seeing their advertising dollars.) Fast food vege-burger, interesting concept. Somehow I don’t see them reaching their target audience. My restaurant got screwed and can no longer get them. Now, however, they’ve become newsworthy and I’m doubly sad. When I eat a plant burger, I sit up very straight to keep the halo intact. I am saving my health and the planet, while continuing to enjoy my plastic straw. Which is the only way to drink a martini. But as my news show started discussing the nutritional value, I ended up in a puddle on the floor. For starters, they take the root of a certain plant (think soy), and suck the juice out. This magic sauce looks and tastes like blood, hence the moisure ugh. Next (stay with me here) they ADD fat!! Yep, doesn’t it make you just want to weep? Coconut, sunflower and motor oil all infused. (Don’t quote me on that.) Of course sodium by the truck load. I told you it was good, didn’t I? Calories are about the same as a beef burger, as is the fat content. Nothing healthy about any of that. I was impossibly duped, and my halo is tarnished. Beef burgers are back on the menu. Last time I went camping I brought both and it was intense. Get it? In….tents? Oh now that’s funny. And not a single feeling was hurt. Except mine. Jilted by an impossible dream.

Please don’t. Broadway doesn’t care. It was a song written in 1904, a very long time ago. Which somehow compels me to wench about the word ‘regards’. Who even says that? Unfortunately, one of my many many Manfriends (so many) feels the need to keep sending mine around. And I don’t like it. First off, the word is archaic, and I am nothing short of hip, groovy, and cool. Secondly, I have words enough of my own and am most willing to obnoxiously send them out when appropriate. I might or might not want to let someone know I’m thinking about them. I might be thinking they get on my last nerve and probably not a good thing to share. Sometimes people in a relationship presume to think alike. I had an acquaintance (notice I said ‘had’ and didn’t say friend Beahch that I am), who wasn’t capable of having a solo thought. A group of ladies were discussing peas since we were all very deep thinkers and tackled the tough subjects. I hate them. Easy, declarative sentence. Acquaintance said ‘Bob doesn’t like peas’. Who the h*ll cares what Bob likes?? He wasn’t there and not a part of the conversation, ahole. Get your own voice already. I was a nicer person back then so just told her she was a moron and changed the subject to brussel sprouts. Also gross. The group text is in that same category as leave me out of it. Although sometimes necessary, it usually isn’t. The originator gets lost in the shuffle, and soon no one even knows who they are really talking to. Just don’t send anything out on my behalf. I’ll jump in when it’s time, like never. Plus there’s always that lingering fear later when you want to text one person but accidentally include the group ugh. You know how it goes. Group party invite. Snarky email after the party talking about the party and it goes to all. Yea group texts are not my forte. I know this is all picayune stuff but I’m waiting for someone to come pump out my septic tanks and that’s enough deep sh*t for one day.

I’m not. That is one horrific word to use for a benign subject. As is horrific. Get my drift? An x-friend of mine (x being what happens when he reads my blogue), had one of those not so monumental birthdays. I was not allowed to mention it hush hush but it comes between sixty and seventy. See, I can keep a secret. For some reason that magic number was ‘appalling’ to him. Don’t know why. The whole Medicare issue is just creepy, at least to me. I always thought it was for old, poor people who had no other options. Actually, it’s for old people who still have to pay for it, plus a whole lot of other ABC’s to get through the whole body. Obviously my research is weak, but I’m not quite to that ‘appalling’ age yet. Turning sixty was a pretty whoa whoa whoa age for me, but then I was having a hard time finding things to celebrate. My x-friend has a lot of good things going on, at least from the outside looking in. A long time ago I saw this quote in People magazine, which is my go-to for all things literary. “From the outside looking in, you cannot understand it. From the inside looking out, you cannot explain it”. I don’t remember who said it, but probably someone brilliant like Jennifer Aniston. So maybe when someone’s birthday number (shhhhh) is appalling to them, I should just mind my own beeswax. Not roll my eyes out loud. Getting older does suck. We are not getting better. Sixty is not the new forty or whatever dumb sh*t people say. But don’t be ‘appalled’ by a new day. Especially if you’re healthy and don’t need to dig into that Medicare hole. Yes, I am not minding my own business. (Did you really think I would?) So what came first, the chicken or the egg? I ordered both from Amazon and will let you know. Gosh I crack myself up….