Author: Karebare42@aol.com

Now that I’ve made it through the first requirement of the holiday season, I’m pondering how to celebrate Black Friday. I shopped, of course. And now have some very nice new duds at a very good price. I love this time of year! Yesterday, as I watched too much tv, all I kept hearing was the phrase ‘giving back’. There would be a camera crew at a shelter getting the right shot of volunteers slopping cream corn on a poor person’s plate, with a whole givingbackgivingback feel good story. It was just pissing me off. Really?? Is that all it takes? Weak effort. And it made me cranky. Which is why I shopped for no one but me. Giving back. I started thinking about the origins of Black Friday and had my suspicions. Everyone thinks it’s about businesses making so much money that they operate in the black, not red. But Google set me straight. Do tell!! In 1869 two investors drove up the price of gold which made the stock market crash. I knew it! Such a brilliant Boomlennial I am! But then some shopkeepers in Philly didn’t like that story and started calling it Big Friday. That never caught on but the more positive legend did. You’re welcome. My Manfriend has gone over the river and through the woods. I am left rehashing old trials and tribulations. Not good. The devil has been after me but I am fighting him off with cute dresses and sweaters. And burnt sourdough toast. My own version of Black Friday. #thedevilmademedoit

As one grows to understand life less and less, one learns to live it more and more. And my lucky numbers are 12, 34, and 21. Gotta love a good fortune cookie. Very profound, and I do think many Boomlennials live their life that way. (Especially the gamblers, wink). Once you realize that life is kind of a sh*t show, there’s not much you can do but punt. The month of November gets me pondering thanksgivings, and I have lots. Right now I’m just happy to be inside on a cold, snowy day without anything urgent that I have to glam up for, so I just cover up all my mirrors with newspaper. Quite scary. I’m very grateful that all my phone calls are texts. I like the monologue much better than the dialogue. My dearests are, of course, hallelujah, and know how to jello through unthinkable situations. Get it? Wobbly, yet firm. My wee dearests have one job in life, and that is to be wee dearests. And they do it amazingly well! I’m thankful that my Manfriend is ok with being called my manfriend. And ok with all (most) of the weirdness I bring into his life. My creature, hmmm. You don’t realize how many things are edible until you leave a lab alone in the house all day. I wish he would learn to eat the whole pair of shoes. One stragler never does me much good. Grandma Camp has now become legend. Somehow a name for a couple days of babysitting is a Big Thing. Will have to step up my game next time, though, because I won’t be able to just do the same arts and craps again. My football team won a game, my health and wellness has become a way, not a place, and even though I’m fat I identify as skinny. I’m trans-slender. And since my Boomlennial website is throwing me around I better end before I lose the wonderful persona I have created. I have a good heart, but this mouth….

Here comes Amazon, Here comes Amazon, Right down my drive-waaay. Pretty catchy, huh? I was tempted to start bloguing about the Dreaded Holidays, but that subject has been dissected enough over the last couple years, alas. And as much as I might wench, I join in the fun (?) and games (?) and play along. Then Poof. All gone. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I never got the shopping gene. Nor the cooking, cleaning, and loving shoes one. However, I think woman who love shoes have small feet. They are much cuter and more fun to try on I suppose. How would I know?? Fortunately (or unfortunately?) I made up for my misgivings by loving jewelry, clothes, makeup, and never having a root showing. And having a cleaning lady. Probably saved my marriage and my sanity. A dirty house is vulgar. Cleaning it yourself is more vulgarer. A very fine word despite what auto-correct thinks beahch. So back to the shopping weirdness of the Dreaded Holidays. Amazon has made me savvy. And in control. It’s smarter than I am. It directs me where to go before I even know I want to go there. Brilliant! Alexa is probably listening to me so I wander around the kitchen ‘thinking out loud’ knowing she’ll help me out. Just what would a hunky six foot man want to smell like to please his lady friend I ponder loudly? Zip zip there are some suggestions online. Artificial Intelligence is so much better than real intelligence. Fake it till you make it and all that. Which of course gives me time to bake cookies, decorate elaborately, and glam up for a night on the town. Nope, nope, and I hope!! Not going to stress about silly stuff. There’s always Big Things Looming that will need attention. Like roots. Poof! #shallowisasshallowdoes

Just as I was about to give up on the turmoil of my 2019 resolutions, I had a redo of thinking and decided to finish strong. As per usual, we all make resolutions I would guess, with varying degrees of success. The Boomlennial is not a quitter! We might have the same ones again and again, but I bet when we make them that bit of positivity makes us feel better about ourselves and life. As I was realizing that I didn’t Quite get there this year, it doesn’t mean that the changes I’ve made have been for naught. Just having a forum for using the word naught makes me happy. And one of the simplest ways of being happy is to let go of the things that make you sad. Not easy if you wear your heart outside your body. I enjoy my blogue far more than those reading it (doubtful) but it forces me to get my thoughts out instead of letting them simmer. No soup for me. My Manfrind and I have started doing homework everyday by answering one question in our couples journal. They are not hard but you have to think and you have to share and Talk. Good plan. Not going to address the weight thing, but I have to say finishing strong gives me extra incentive to not be a complete bust. I do have lofty goals. And set a low bar. Exercise is hit/miss but I know no one cares to hear about it unless I fell off the treadmill. Ok maybe that’s just how I feel when others give me their play-by-play. One of my most resolute resolutions (cute!) is to stick to a daily gameplan. Coffee tells me every morning that I can certainly do this. Wine tells me in the evening that I made a valiant effort. And of course there’s always Bombay to say you’ll get ’em next time. Finish Strong. My future self will thank me.

Halloween season has left me terrified this year, mainly because I didn’t know there was such a thing. Spooky it is brrrr. I understand the seasons by what candy assaults me when I walk into the grocery store. If it’s red and green, Christmas. Day after, only red hearts for Valentines Day. February fifteenth, pastel eggs. Summer does get confusing with all those horrible colorful fruits vying for attention. Help help! I don’t know if it’s July 4th or berry season. What to do? What to do? But now, October has become a mess of people and happenings and I don’t like it. No more driving to the country on a crisp, fall day to get a pumpkin and apples. There’s cars! And people! And festivals. Even the Amish have a huge event where they pretend they are just going about their business of living a simple life. Except that they are selling pies and ice cream and exhibiting exotic animals with broken feet and too many horns. Cluster f*ck. You can pay twenty bucks to ride on a wagon into the pristine woods. After you stand in line for two hours. Just like a normal day. And these ‘festivals’ are everywhere. You get sucked in and then it’s a thing. A Must Do to celebrate the season. Halloween is no longer one evening where kids dress up in costumes and winter coats to slog through the rain getting candy their parents won’t let them eat. Now the locusts are eating. Which is a reference to a Bible story I don’t remember but has to do with making up for unprofitable years. Or something maybe totally unrelated but I thought of it as I enjoyed my homemade Amish pie and ice cream looking at the clothes hanging out on the line to dry. I would think the dust kicked up by hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of cars might get them a bit dirty but that’s just me. I need more elbow room. Too many people bastardizing my autumn. Can’t wait to see what November brings. Thanksgiving was always one day. No presents to buy, stretch pants to wear, family to endure. And then poof. Done and done. Thankful that nothing more was expected of me. I will not venture to the candy aisle. Yet.

I know I shouldn’t be weighing in on a media and political hotbed since I have no understanding of the situation, but I’m having at it anyway. Free speech and all that. One of my ex-loves felt it necessary to publicly give his opinion to the press. No names, of course, but he might or might not go by the initials LBJ. Last year, he also spoke up about a controversial subject and an ignoramus news person told him to shut up and dribble. I don’t look to my ex-love for guidance in navigating the world, but now I think he’s calling someone else out for “not being educated on the situation.” Since I watch way too much news, the story goes a Houston Rockets GM was supporting rioting people in Hong Kong against the Chinese government. He tweeted his support. Now I have no clue what any of that is about and only vaguely care because of my ex’s involvement, who supports the Chinese government. Of course he has business ties to the country or whatever. Don’t care. Here’s where I’m going with this dribble. In the age of fake news, who are we supposed to learn anything from? A simple # starts everyone up. Vroom vroom. The man, whatever his name is #dontcare, took the tweet immediately down, but now it has me following a story (ies) I know nothing about and don’t care. Damn Ex #whydidyouleaveme#again. I’m like this magnet just waiting to be connected to a thought-oh-the-day. BTW watched ten minutes of the Democratic debate last night. Idiots all. Can’t believe that is the best they have to offer up. This election season is going to be an embarrassment of riches from both parties. Guess I better shut up and scribble. And watch sitcoms. At least they’re supposed to be dumb. Maybe my current loves will go to the Super Bowl and I can finally focus on something truly meaningful. And newsworthy. For now, however, the crowd is going mild. And I need crayons. How many times can you say you don’t care until you care? I need crayons. #bigsixtyfourbox#withasharpener#lovemagenta

Yes, someone stole my material. And I can’t help but smile. I know most of my postings are deep and insightful. So insightful. And just like Kleenex, part of the everyday vernacular. I mean when a blogue title is ‘Got Nipples?’ who could pass that up? #january11,2019. It was pretty funny. I just went back and read it again and it made me laugh. No one enjoys my writing as much as I do. Except my millions of followers. Anyway, I’m watching this Sunday morning news show which is really the best thing going on TV these days. I know I will probably get some backlash from that statement, but I don’t really like to binge, stream, Huluhoop, or get into all the different ways to get entertainment . I used air quotes on that last word so join in if you’d like. I guess because I am so insightful and deep, so deep, that my attention span atrophies. My Sunday morning show does have a huge flaw that makes me sad. The commercials are for old people. Not us happening Boomlennials, of course. I can’t relate, yet, to every disease and the drugs that will make them tolerable. Does putting a flower on a disposable, adult diaper really make them sexy? I hate to think that someday I’ll be saying yes yes I must get those oh-so-fashionable, hot undergarments. Ugh. Anyway, back to nipples. And milk. The show snatched my material. And jokes. And made them sound boring and predictable. The dairy business is having a hard time surviving because all the fake ‘milks’ are taking over the market. And of course these drinks have no similarities to real milk, from animals, with nipples, but the public doesn’t really care. My doctor told me a couple years ago that people should not drink cow’s milk because the only purpose is to make calves fat. He neglected to also say strong and healthy. Two years later the doctor told me the same thing again and I informed him that martinis make people fat. He said one martini is fine. Amateur. Man needs new material if that’s all he’s got. Bottom line, my show stole my material. My brilliant material. And made it boring. Impossible.

And back again. Since my ‘conscience uncoupling’ didn’t really fly, I have bigger questions to ask myself. How many cookies does it take to be happy? So far it’s not 27. Adulting is hard. Coffee and wine solve most of the problems of the day, but there’s always those odd afternoon hours that I don’t know what to drink. Water blows. But I know I should and I mostly do but it makes me crabby and ain’t nobody got time for that. I creep in some diet Pepsi every now and then hoping that little bit of caffeine will spur me on to the finish line, but it’s a stretch #wine. I’m trying to get enthused about all things fall, minus pumpkin anything, but it’s still hot and nothing’s falling yet except sweat in my eyes. My spirit animal must have rabies because I’m just not getting that hippy dippy vibe. One of my wee dearest asked me what hippy dippy meant. I was referring to a babysitter so was trying to pick my words carefully. Couldn’t come up with a thing to say. Kind of like porn/not porn. Hard to explain but you know it when you see it. And no I did not go there with my wee one. Which makes me think of Breve. Not a clue why. It’s just something I had new at Starbucks that they charge 75 cents for. And just realized my iPad doesn’t have a cents sign. Guess if you’re writing about cents, the blogue is pretty worthless. So not true! It’s a total learning experience. Breve is steamed half and half. I think. But if you don’t get it steamed then it’s just half and half and not worth that extra $$$. Or something profound like that. Don’t quite understand but it’s a new word and I like it. So back to the cookie dilemma. How many boxes of these Thin Mints do I have to eat before I start seeing results??

It’s going to be a long month. Since I’ve become quite the Swiftie lately, Taylor’s been playing with my emotions. I don’t know what you call new music that comes out anymore. It’s not an album. Nor a CD. I just keep asking Alexa to play it and one day I figure she’ll talk back. “No. Enough. Get a life”. Ms. Swift is a brilliant writer. As am I. She lays it all out there in such a compelling way. Can’t make that sh*t up. Since her and I have bonded like this (I know I know I sound like I’m twelve), I want to be more thoughtful in my writing. I do not have ducks. Or a row. I have geese, and they’re pooping all over the driveway. No no that’s not the thoughtful part. Just like our dear Gwenyth, I’m trying to do some ‘conscious uncoupling’. For no good reason, which is a reason in itself I guess. In theory, I want to live my life like someone took off my electric collar and left the gate open. On to the next family that will treat me better. Even though I know that’s dumb and no one ‘accidentally’ drops that much steak on the floor. The Universe just likes to make me uncomfortable enough every now and then that I have to move. And drink my way through it. And know when I just need to get out of this page. And listen to my girl. ‘My hearts been borrowed and yours has been blue’.

I got up early! Who could sleep? I texted everyone I knew who I thought might be up. They were. I put deodorant on at least three times because I couldn’t concentrate on mundane things like dressing myself. Fortunately, I had picked out my outfit a week earlier. I paced. I listened to the sports shows trying to calm down but they only got me more jazzed. Had to get to the stadium! My peeps were right there with me so we headed up an hour early just to soak in the atmosphere and share share share with our fellow nutballs. Finally it’s time! The roar of the crowd. The adulation! My Men ran down the field and scored! The thunderous applause! The shaking of the floor! And then the Factory of Sadness reopened. My Man (no names please) missed the PAT and the exhale of seventy-thousand lovers collectively rose into the universe. Whoosh. Still surprised gravity held us down. My six hours of giddy madness were over. But what a ride it was! I tried all off-season not to be that long suffering fan who never has anything good to say. Kept my skepticism to myself (sort of, baby steps), and even wore a rubber band on my wrist to the game so my peeps could negatively reinforce me with a wicked snap when I got out of line. Soon I was doing it to myself as my thoughts were cascading in my head just needing an outlet. My wrist was getting puffier and puffier (darn Bloody) and before I completely cut off my circulation my dearest pulled it off and shot it into the crowd. Hope someone else put it on and carried on the storied tradition. I tried. We tried. I’ll just entertain myself by watching my Men on the cover of ESPN, or naked inside, and move on to Cincinnati. Anybody who understands that reference has my same problem and I feel for you #BillBelichick. I don’t roll a joint often, but when I do, it’s usually an ankle. Alas, still have my sense of humor. Kind of. I just keep telling myself it doesn’t matter if you win or lose, it’s whether you beat the spread. God, I love football. As for me and my house, we will serve wine. SIP 24:7