Author: Karebare42@aol.com

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

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.