Author: Karebare42@aol.com

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

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….

A few blogues ago you got to share in my plight of rolling around on my wet deck and bouncing my head on the ground. Very fun and cool stuff. Weeks went by and things were generally healing, except for that shiner. It was still holding court. I endured the sideways glances and double takes, feeling like it was a new pet I was stuck with. Now it just looks like I slept with one eye open and am left with a dark bag. Covered in makeup. Nice. But the shoulder was a different story. I do not like doctors. Nothing personal, but maybe personal. When I’m sick, I go. When I’m well, why ruin a good day? So after three weeks I thought an X-ray might be a goodish idea just to reassure myself that nothing is amiss and get some go forward advice. But….the pregame put me over the edge. Ten (really!) forms to fill out on both sides. I felt that the same questions were asked over and over, but with a check the first time, and rate from 1-5 the second time, etc. Then forty-five minutes later the nurse sits down at her computer and starts asking again!?!$! Just X-ray my shoulder dammit! That does not require a life history. Two hours later I walk out with a cortisone shot and a good chunk of my privacy left on a clipboard. You should have at least bought me dinner. Lobster. With Camus. Most of that information was just none of your business. And not the least bit relevant to the joint at hand. I feel like your family doc keeps the keys to the fortress, but after going for a physical I realized that system is flawed, too. She had nothing. All those electronic records were left on the stereo and never quite got back in their jackets. She was referencing tests I had ten years ago and the updates somehow vanished. Rather spooky to know that your medical life is floating around somewhere, or not. I had no confidence in the system to start with, so shouldn’t have been surprised. We all like to think that industry has it together, but I’m not feelin it. Cranky doctor pants. Don’t want to go back. Never ever whaaaa. No wonder there were so many questions about my mental state. Shaky at best.

eat drunk. #tacobell. There. Now that I’ve totally wooed the crowd I bought a little space before the daggers come out. I know I’m probably brewing hate speak but I ain’t shy. The Myth of the Rescue Dog. Much like paper straws, the masses have latched on to this idea without really thinking it through properly. So while you’re enjoying a cold beverage and wiping the soppy goo from your mouth, hear me out. There is a reason that dog is a rescue. And generally (see I said Generally), it’s not a good one. Those are Bad Dogs. You might hear the owner had to move to a place that wouldn’t allow dogs. Maybe, maybe not. Most dog lovers would search until they found a place that Did allow dogs. Generally. (Relax). My child is allergic. Of course he is teehee. I walk my wellish-behaved breedish dog in the park and I can pick a ‘rescue’ out of the crowd. The owner is feeling self-satisfied and smug until she encounters another person and/or dog. Then she is hanging onto the leash as if her life depended on it, and it just might. The dog is lunging and growling and is in attack mode. The dogs Generally look the same. Pit bull mix. Terrior mix. Steven King mix. They are NOT good pets. They were dumped by someone who understood they were NOT good pets. And could make your life more trying than it needs to be. I know I know there are a lot of wonderful rescues. But my brilliant theory (fact) is if you have a great dog that you love you will find a way to make it work. People don’t get rid of family members. Generally. So before you run to the pound convinced I’m just a heartless Boomlennial, at least do some research. Take a walk in the park and observe the people enjoying their walk and the ones running off the path so that their dog doesn’t come near you. If you’re ok with that, have at it. Those dogs need homes. Or head to an Amish puppy mill. At least they know how to work the system. Maybe I am heartless. (I’m not). Or maybe at some point I just want my life to be easier. Not politically correct, not looking out for the world, just making my speck in it nice. A nice speck. I like how that sounds.