Author: Karebare42@aol.com

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.

Something about that July 4th holiday makes me think summer is over and time to harvest the nuts. And no there’s not a joke there but I did spend some time trying to come up with one classy lady that I am. Being that one of my dearests has a birthday on the 4th it has always been a Big Day. Peeps always knew where the party was book it. Some of those early picnics were the best because that extra layer of celebration made me bring it. Rather a shame that wee wee wee dearest has no inkling of what when on and maybe that’s for the best. But I still make that day/week special. Why not? Now the group has dwindled so we usually take a week up at an island in Lake Erie over run with rattlesnakes. Yes it is very scary. Boots and jeans at all times. Don’t come. The weather is usually hot and sunny, or a brief storm to remind you that you’re still in OH and there’s always room for more humidity. But…..then something happens. My mind does a flip flop and I’m immediately ready for fall. Which is odd because I love summer and heat and bug bites and bad hair and sweat and hmmmm. Might need to rethink this. The summer sale catalogs are stacking up but I’m pretty much done with those skorts. And not many Boomlennials really want to show their upper arms. Or legs. Or fill in the blanks. Give me that big ole sweater! Not really. But really. Fall clothes are way better looking, at least on those models from the ‘Preview’ catalogs. Speaking of models, I’m going to pick my words carefully. I hope. While on vacay I was looking at the SI swimsuit edition. I always enjoy seeing beautiful women in beautiful bathing suits on beautiful beaches. A treat for the eyes. Well, somehow that magazine got ‘diverse’ and I don’t like it. I love it at work. I love it at play. Just not in my fantasy island edition!?%#!! If I want to see chubby women in bikinis I can look in the mirror. If I want to see a woman with a horrible skin condition I head back to the dermatologist office. Don’t know where I might go to see a woman in a burkini but I really don’t need to. Not the time. Not the place. One of my dearests thought I was way out of line for thinking this way, but having ‘diverse’ views should be ok. If we all thought the same who is left to fight with? Ok, maybe I shouldn’t have had those beers before writing this. Back to the end of summer. I know it’s the middle. But, I can’t stop thinking about football #heartbakermayfield. And sports this time of year blows so that could be a part of it. Sadly, I’m a pretty shallow person and the beach reads aren’t doing it anymore. My tan is amazing so I don’t really need more sun. Even though it is thoroughly good for you. (Check my archives for all the facts(ish) to support that). All my plants have died without being watered for a week. We’ve had so much rain I never even gave that a thought, even though it is certainly a July 4th tradition. I’ve eaten in parking lots at all the outdoor restaurants, and enjoyed the fumes. I guess I have a short attention span, and ready for something new. #heartbakermayfield got married last week. Better be able to knock it out. Need ya man.

Now that I have that song thumping through your head I will proceed with more serious matters. So serious. I finally did The Deed, capital T. All winter I was paranoid about falling. So many of my peeps were wiping out on the ice, of which there was a lot of for some reason. I was always hoping for a blizzard so I could at least get some traction. (Cold weather makes my brain freeze.) I never even opened a door without grabbing my phone so sure that I was going to tumble right out into a massive glacier. People were breaking things in eighty different places, and that was just on a wrist. I walked like a penguin and didn’t mind the odd stares. Much. Front foot in front of the other, waddle waddle waddle, balancing your weight. You don’t see those geniuses bumping down the street on crutches, right? But, alas, by June I thought I could let my guard down. Idiot. The other evening I was out on my sandstone deck after a huge rainstorm. Not thinking. Not on high alert. Whoa is me. (Trying to drag out the drama. Or create some). There are certain areas on the deck that are quite shaded so have a fine moss that normally goes unnoticed. Except when wet. Danger! Danger! Walk like an Egyptian! Why Do they walk that way hmmm? Google break. They don’t. In their hieroglyphs, they were very cognizant to show all their body parts, sure that some voodoo-like spell would take them away. They also liked to be barrel chested so others would think them strong. I personally think they were very poor artists, but great Pictionary players! Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet. Back to me, ugh. My unwebbed foot took a big slide on the wet moss and I went down. Hard. Nothing got broken except my spirit. The good(?) thing is I fell on my side and absorbed a lot of it with my thigh and shoulder. And head. Who knew that thing can actually bounce? Now into day three and I’m feeling pretty chipper, but that black eye has to go. Scared myself when I looked in the mirror the following morning, but fortunately it was so swollen I couldn’t see very well. Lucky, lucky me. My ex-Manfriend said it would probably look better if I didn’t put so much purple eyeshadow on. Give me strength. So now I can’t go outside except for one brief week in November. Out of strategy. I am glad it’s sunglass season and I am a movie star. #hideyourweeones#aclockworkorange#angrypanda

I was reading People magazine, which is my go to for entertainment and all things irrelevant. Heck, I don’t even know who I’m reading about half the time, but they must be important and fascinating. So important. So fascinating. Even the cover story often times goes right over my head as to who they are and why I should care? They have me by the short hairs, though, because I keep buying and I keep reading. I did find one intersting ad, however. How to have long, lithe legs in five easy steps. Now, if step number one isn’t 1. Have long legs, then I really do need better reading material. I fancy myself a pretty savvy marketer, but then again, I fancy myself a lot of things that are quite questionable. But is it really easy to produce long legs out of stubs? I think not. We’ve all fallen for those ads in the back of magazines I’m sure. What female among us hasn’t rubbed those creams on her breasts to make them grow? Don’t know if it works but the experimentation was so worth it. The food and diet industry has totally hypnotized us and we play along from trend to scam and back again. Who even knows what gluten is but they had gluten-free wafers at communion and I could just tell by the smug look on their face who was going to ask for them. And they were too f*t to have Celiac disease. (I find the word f*t mean.) Everyone is Ketoing now, and it’s working for some, but now they are making Keto cookies and baked goods etc. so it will soon fall apart. While everyone was fatfreeing (yes these are verbs), it was a great plan. Because who really wants to eat that sh*t so you lost weight. Once they started making good tasting FF products and loading them with sugar, time’s up. I, of course, am waiting for the next trend. And there will be one. I hope. Keto made my face break out. I could just see that bacon grease looking for a new home. eeewwww. And now just because it’s a beautiful summer day and I’m sitting outside and about to be prone, I will share a quote with you. Kind of how I roll. It’s from Minie Baldwin, who I never heard of and doesn’t even exist on Google, so I’d like to take it as my own. Couldn’t have said it better myself, and I always think I could have. “The moment when you first wake up in the morning is the most wonderful of the twenty-four hours. No matter how weary or dreary you may feel, you possess the certainty that, during the day that lies before you, absolutely anything may happen. And the fact that it practically always doesn’t, matters not a jot. The possibility is always there.” #shemusthavebeenonthewaltons