Author: Karebare42@aol.com

WTF in 2018

Now that I’ve had a chance to tiptoe my way into the new year, I’ve garnered more clarity on the last. Had a deep, so deep discussion with one of my peeps about how as a society we are very judgy. At last someone gets me!! Which of course brings me to athleisure shoes. Why wouldn’t it? I liked the trend. Thought it was cool and relaxing to pad around in gym shoes while in a suit. And since I’ve been on a quest to find comfortable yet stylish shoes I thought this was way too easy. I embraced it. Several pair of shoes later I’ve figured out the flaw in my thinking. They are adorable on young people. They are orthopedic on more mature feet. (Notice I didn’t say OLD fellow Boomlennials). Just doesn’t work. And what is it with square drinking glasses? Had them at a few trendy spots and that is just trying too hard. Mouth placement shouldn’t become work. I was mentally reviewing a riverboat cruise I took and now that they are actively pursuing me for moremoremore I need to explain about going to Mt. Hood(ish). To them. It was an all day excursion. A few hours on a bus, visit the hood a few hours, then back on the bus. What they failed to mention until we parked is that Mt Hood was closed for the season. But no fear! We are stopping at the visitor’s center and gift shop and if you look wayyyyy out there you can pretend to see it. WTF!$#%! Oops forgot to mention that little detail. I know it was an old people cruise but even they (not including me or mine) were looking around waiting for the you’ve been punked cameras. Highlight of the trip. Speaking of funerals (I know I know not great transitions in this post), they are getting weird(er). It seems the body thing is out of style. Which is fine but I kind of don’t know what to do with myself. Stare at an urn? Wander around guessing who the family is? Enjoy the Celebration of Life with no alcohol? So I’m trying to make a personal strategy where I can pay my respect but not feel like I didn’t. When I come up with it you’ll certainly be enlightened with a weird blogue post. And it will become trendy and you can say you heard it here first. I also think we should wear shirts with no pants like Winnie the Pooh. Seems to work for him. I hate Hota Kobe. Just sayin. On to a wild and precious New Year!

That is quite a rough title for the days after Christmas but it always seems to have that feel to it. I don’t want to speak for everyone (so not true), but there really are some cominalities to a funeral. Planning planning planning. Event. Day is done and everyone leaves you to pick up the pieces. Literal pieces. My beast was living large. Chewing everything that fell to the floor. But he didn’t swallow weak sauce. All the wee dearests toys had lots-oh-wee parts that needed chewed up. And spit out. I felt hunched over all day trying to open the jaws of life to recover the sword or bow or poinsettia leaf. Should have rethought that last one. I did make a fabulous meal I must say. I did make a fabulous meal. Took awhile to figure out where the oven was and how it works but I had help. Thank you Google. But….now I’m left with half eaten casseroles that are no longer simmering but look like sticks of butter. Baked goods with bites out of. (Sorry). Half full bottles of wine that are taking up room in the fridge and forcing me to day drink. And the body is barely cold. Now to lighten the mood #daydrinking. I was trying to somewhat balance how much I gave my wee dearests so they wouldn’t feel slighted. I try to keep it simple because Santa has their number big time. But somehow I forgot size matters. Somehow. And so it wasn’t the Amount of gifts, but one dearest got Bigger gifts. I forgot to measure! Not like me. So now I sit with my box of Kleenex looking at my round tree which is what happens when you get one in the pouring rain a week before Christmas with a vast selection of three. On a good note it was only twenty bucks and I won’t feel bad when I throw that carcass out. The worst season of the year is looming and I know it will hit me hard. Diet season blows but it’s part of the recovery process. You just have to suck it up and get through it. Time to build a better boat. Shalom

Last weekend I partook in a very nice ‘do’ that involved touring beautiful homes that were over-the-top decorated for The Holidays. We all know what that is.    n- 1.  a three month suspension of work, study, or other activity,   2.  a time to get fat(ter).  3.   an event that many participate in, generally under duress  4.  something to do with camels and mangers and a swaddling babe.   I digress.  And am going to get struck by lightening.  The home tour was really a feast for the senses.  And since someone I may or may not be related to showcased her abode, I got to participate on a different level.  Emotionally and financially.  Good plan.  That’s what she said.  I’ve always enjoyed peeking behind the scenes into people’s lives.  And  closets.  Figuratively speaking of course.  Of course.  But my main take away from the weekend was just sensory overload.  It wiped me out a bit.  Besides the visual stimulation, I met up with many people I  haven’t seen in awhile, and did some hey what’s happening and why did you let your hair get gray?  I didn’t really say that because my hair has rusted and is now a ferric shade of well water sucks. Many of my million followers were there (it was quite a big ta do) who were just Begging me for more.  Yes Beeeeegging.  No names please.  You know who you are.  Just beeeeegging.  (I am a sad person.)  Ok back on topic.  I am just not used to socializing that much.  And it kind of  wiped me out a bit.  Bet the homeowners are still on the couch staring up at all that limp tinsel.  I did come home that evening and looked around at my decorless house and found it quite fetching.  My mind couldn’t process anymore.  Sensory overload.  Not sure if or when I’ll want to decorate my home, but will continue on with definition #2.  (# is also known as the number sign kids).    #ineedmorespikedeggnog

Say it isn’t so.  After a rather lengthy run of blogishness where I may or may not have talked about other people, I’m thinking it might be time to talk about myself.  Maybe. Possibly.  I do have a not so secret secret that needs sharing, although until I actually saw a news segment about it, I really didn’t understand how twisted it is.  I have a waterbed. The 70’s kind of waterbed that sloshes around, occasionally leaks, and takes a bit of athleticism to get in and out of.  I’ve had it for forty years, which now does sound terribly creepy,  even to me.  The dirty, dark secret, however, is that I still love it.  It cradles me, rocks me, warms me, conforms to my perfect body, and never needs a sleep number.  There are lots-oh-fancy mattresses out there now that promise a good nights sleep and no achy bits.  Which for the price should throw in a hot rock massage and a stud to deliver it.  Nightly.  Hmmmm. Ok.  Back on track. Since I know you all had one at some point, or frolicked on a ‘friends’ (air quotes and an ahem) why did you give up the good life?  I can’t be the only one that still indulges.  And no back pain.  So on this news segment they were actually interviewing a Boomlennial woman and her dearests and wee dearests like it was some weird, novelty item.  I would have felt ok about the feature if the owner had more teeth and didn’t also have my exact frame and dresser.  In my defense, I did change the hardware on the dresser a few years ago,  and got the black burn marks fixed.  When they said ‘fire sale’ it was no joke. There you have it.  I’m sure it will make a comeback, especially once my millions of followers see that not only is it ok,  it’s amazing!  Just needs a lava lamp, some black light posters, and that stud with the hot rocks….

So the Cleveland Browns have an awesome new quarterback (no names please #heartbakermayfield) who had an amazing, almost perfect game this week.  As much as I’m really trying not to get hooked, he’s taking me to task.  He woke up on Sunday ‘feeling dangerous’ sigh melt.  What’s not to love #heartbakermayfield?  When I first heard it, I grimaced a bit because it was so weird, but that was misguided thinking.  Now I want it to make the Urban Dictionary, and be in our marriage vows.  And of course it got me thinking of me, my favorite thing to do, and did I ever have that emotion?  Many of my Boomlennial brethren are entering an odd phase of their lives that I don’t understand.  They are doing this crazy thing they call ‘retirement’ which is just a creepy word anyway.  Lacks joy and doesn’t sound like you’re going to wake up feeling dangerous.  More like you want to go back to bed.  I’ve blogued about this before (check the archives if you want to refresh yourself #brilliantboomlennial), so won’t go there. Much. Maybe because I just got off the old people cruise and their endless, boring stories are still exhausting me, I want to repent. And promise not to become those people.  The new retirees (sounds like a disease) all want to travel.  On a ‘fixed’ income of course which just sounds dumb.  For many reasons, mainly because most people live on a ‘fixed income’ anyway #paycheck.  Now, however, you have more time and less $$$ to do things.  Well thought out plan I’d say.  Back to me/you.  When did I/you wake up feeling dangerous?  Nothing’s coming to mind but I’m not giving up!  Sure not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing but now it is A thing and I won’t let it rest.  If my man #heartbakermayfield is feeling it, I’m a team player.  My dog is looking worried, sure this won’t end well, and he will be the beneficiary of my craziness. Coyote coat??

Somehow in my world I’ve become the Matriarch of Everyone, relatables and nonrelatables alike. It is a job I’m not very fond of, and not very good at, but the competition isn’t all that stiff.  Some of it I understand.  If you are the ticket owner, inviting guests to join you makes sense even to me.  But….that should be the end of my goodwill.  And patience.  On your own buddy.  Nope.  Now I have to start herding cats.  Which is why I’m a dog person.  I suppose I’ve brought it on myself, but Matriarchology (yep it’s a word if I say it’s a word) needs some tweaking.  Recently I went on a riverboat cruise which was very lovely and very scripted.  Lots of specific mealtimes, off boat excursions, and bingo.  Fortunately I was too afraid to play games with the old people so dropped that from my daily to do list.  My traveling companion (no names please) was up for anything and everything, except looking at the itinerary.  He would ask (yes calling you out sorry) manymanymany times whowhatwhenandwhere, but then not quite listen to the answer.  Or look at the paper we were given everyday with the complete schedule.  Herding cats.  I am a back row person.  Haven’t wanted to be the line leader since second grade.  (Ok sixth).  It’s very frustrating to try to keep the cats orderly when they seem to be wandering aimlessly.  I guess in the big scope of Boomlennial life this isn’t a huge problem, but then again those creatures are sneaky, and just when you are feeling oppressively in charge they might just scratch you in the back.  Especially when you’re writing smack about them.  #youareallgettinganelectricshockcollar #femaledog

She SHOUTED.  After spending a week on a boat with the Silent Generation (they aren’t), I was ready for some mental regrouping.  Normally a five hour wait in an airport would have me rubbing my a$$ before I even sat down, but I was ok with it.  I had a good book, one last People magazine where I could read about strangers I never even heard of, and QUIET TIME. But…..why is everyone SHOUTING ON THEIR PHONES?!$&?!!!???   Just because you have cute little earbuds doesn’t mean I give a sh*t about your conversation.  I can’t even think grrrr.  Fortunately, this blogue doesn’t require that so it’s all I’ve got about now.  The only perk left in traveling are these nice little ‘clubs’ where they have a mimosa or two(ish) and let you relax away from the chaos of the masses.  But EVERYONE IS SHOUTING ON THEIR PHONES and I can’t even read let alone catch up in my head. When did it become socially acceptable to annoy me??  My traveling companion and I did start talking REALLY LOUD to each other and got one man to move.  Sorry to disturb you. Right.  Just not cool.  And yes they are all men.  Just sayin.  At least the turnover in an airport is pretty quick so hopefully a new, more polite group will move in.  And I can read the Wall Street Journal (hahahahahaha).  And wish that I had spent more time in the weed stores and less time with a boat load of old people who bored me senseless.  Maybe I saw myself hitting that road sooner then I want.  Although I can’t imagine this #brilliantboomlennial ever being that dull and living so far in the past that you’re believing history as your reality.  You did not travel with Lewis and Clark.  I guess I need to study up on that People magazine and learn who all these women are with really swollen lips, and why they are important.  (They aren’t).  I mean they are!  So important!!  Stay relevant!  SHOUT on your phone!  Don’t get cranky.  #majorfail

is going to burn in Hello.  I love the feature, actually, but it is having a very negative effect on my writing.  (Or is it affect?  Where’s that help when I need it?).  When you write a blogue, the real fun is grammar and spelling be damned.  No red pen is coming after you.  But that darn AC (not to be confused with the freezing summmer air which makes said wardrobe obsolete)  just thwarts my creativity.  And probably annoys them no end.  Even AC doesn’t know what I’m trying to say half the time but keeps trying.  Which basically makes me lazy as if I need help.  Put in a couple letters and AC takes it from there.  I just get tired of fighting with them.  Have it your way, whatever.  I know if you can’t keep up with the world, it’s not the world’s job to slow down.  But just give me some pregame options.  You can pick your own font and letter size (wish you could see how jumbo it is on my end.  I’m on page three already) so let me decide to be an idiot, aka brilliant.  Options, options.  Only correct words with less than three letters.  Let cuss words slide.  If you write something in one giant paragraph it speaks for itself.  I recently spent a week with my wee dearests and was just amazed by the scope of their language and understanding.  And it was a bit disconcerting that they were trying to parent me and succeeding.  I kept asking advice and they kept delivering.  Freaky.  I couldn’t even let the water out of their bathtub without help.  Maybe that should have been our little secret shhh.  Anyway, my weeest (damn AC) saw some flowers petals all spread out on the floor in a public restroom and asked why.  I explained that someone’s flower must have fallen apart.  She let out the best daaaamit I ever heard.  Totally modular and heartfelt.  What else was appropriate to say at that time?  I couldn’t correct her (or laugh daaaamit) but sometimes there is only one word or phrase to make a point.  Which leads me to zero-0-Oh-O-o.  Time to go.  I’ve spent way too much energy wondering if something’s an O or an 0?  I can’t be the only one.  (Can I?  Oh dear).  AC should figure it out but let me be my own critiquer. Hah!

The struggles of my beloved football team have been well rehashed by every snarky bleacher report and sports genius.  Which every male thinks he is and some females #metoo.  So now that they have actually won a game or two (who can remember?) it doesn’t mask the fact that they are still keepin it Brownsy.  Nothing comes easy in the Hardland.  Including that terrible tag line which would make a great name for a gentleman’s club. Before I digress, I’m going to digress.  Keeping it Brownsy should be in the Urban Dictionary.  V.-when you can’t move past your reputation;  N.-you are what your record says you are.  (Don’t overthink those V’s and N’s.  It’s a blogue remember.).   Many Boomlennials approach life that way.  This is who I am.  This is what I do.  And they get stuck.  I don’t have to worry about winning.  My game is my game.  Which is great unless you’re Brownsy and then you need to step it up or end up in the dregs of mediocrity and boringnesdom. (Gosh I love a blogue.).   Which brings me to the Suannee River.  Which I bet you thought was spelled Swanee River like the Al Jolson song.  Which has nothing to do with keepin it Brownsy but I heard on GMA that a hurricane might be headed that way and I had to do some reconnaissance to see where it was.  And I’m not telling.  Do your own research Beahch.  Anyway, if I ever get another dog Swannee is his name.  I have lofty goals.  Which brings me to fruity essence.  Which has nothing to do with rivers but I liked how it sounded and don’t really think that cute little phrase could be poisoning sparkling water media be damned. Which makes me think that perhaps I have had too much coffee this morning and am basking in the glow of a Brown’s victory and beautiful fall weather. Which is ok but I was just going to start counting all the times I used the word which, which is way too Brownsy for a #brilliantBoomlennial #Brownsyisacutedognametoo

Got nothin. Nada. One of them.  As much as I like to be the spokesperson for a whole generation of amazing people, I realize I’ve succumbed to the blah.  Have already bitched about everything.  Sometimes twice.  Is it really possible that the Boomlennial experience is passé?  Not a chance!  Now I’m fired up!  This week my Manfriend and I had a midweek play date.  It felt like being on vacay.  Wander weekly, right?  Historically, I’ve mastered the bus tour.  (Grabbed you yet?). Whenever I’ve visited a new city, my first stop is Greyhound or Lolly the Trolley, or whatever catchy name they come up with.  You see the sights, get the history, and learn what you want to revisit during your stay.  But I realized I’m probably missing a lot locally because I just don’t have that background.  And since Manfriend is also a trier off we went to Cleveland.  First stop, West Side Market for grungy brunch and to decide if triers eat pig feet.  They don’t. Yet.  Then hoppin on the bus for an afternoon of sightseeing and mind expansion.  And a$$ expansion. Those Lolly seats are really hard.  And tight.  And you can’t cross your legs or move them.  That’s alright!  Part of the flavor!  Boomlennials don’t care (yes they do shhhh).  Final leg, through rush hour which should have been no biggy in a bus, but it was a bit harrowing. And the bus driver took a turn for the worse and had more conversation with the other drivers while still wearing a microphone ouch.  Flavor remember, flavor.  And need for a drink #strong#martini.  Then up to the 32nd floor of the Hilton to enjoy a beautiful view of the city and Lake Erie.  If I wasn’t immediately nauseous and vertigoish.  Damn getting old sucks.  However, who knew that the cure was alcohol.  My doc and I need to have a talk.  Think she’s steering me wrong with way less fun drugs.  Brief viewing opportunity but off again!  We were on a mission. Great dinner at an old ethnic restarant that has withstood the test of time with great food, Boomlennial waiters who might still actually like their job, and medicinal wine.  What a day!  Did the Boomlennial proud. #Tappedintoanunforgettableexperience #canIgetanamen