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The more I read about health and wellness, it’s all about getting your head right. That’s where all the good and bad hormones start that wreck or delight your body. And as you get more Boomlennial, the work doesn’t get any easier. When you’re less mature, those feel good juices ooze out for many inane reasons. But at some point they become a slow, dripping faucet. But, I have the fix! Duck tape! Kidding. Kind of. I downloaded an App called 3GoodThings. The premise is everyday you list three things you are grateful for. Easy enough, right? And while you are doing the exercise, the feel good dopamines start flowing and the cortisols that could break you dissipate. There is some science behind it that I could share, but that would put me back in chemistry class and I’d be scraping the bottom of the barrel of hormones and ain’t nobody got time for that. I even fainted once in a lab to get out of class. Not really, but maybe really. The body works in mysterious ways and the concussion was absolutely worth it. So back to the App. It’s stressing me out!!! First few days it was too easy peasy. I have a lot to be grateful for and I know it. And never forget. Front and center. But then…..I ran out of material. Even a brilliant Boomlennial such as myself was having a hard time producing juice so to speak. Have to relax. Calm. Start out slow. What do I love? Words!!! They excite and delight me. Delight! Feeling better already. Peace ahhhhh. Wine, duh. Duh. Speaks volumes. Snow day! Even today I watch the crawl of cancelled schools and get giddy when the local school shows up. (Better not tell all my secrets….) F*ck! Sorry but it’s a great word and a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do. In the name of science mind you. Savory! Yes yes! July 4th! Spigot is turned on now. Irresistible! Think stuffed animals or ‘plushes’ as my wee dearests say. See how this is supposed to work? But now I’m over thinking it and want to conduct my own research. If I put together my yucky words will it drag me to the bottom? Ooze. Moist. Pimple. Widow. Pus. F*ck (swings both ways which makes it a really terrific word). Almost boosted my mood. Back to research. Repo man. Brain damage. The Bachlorette. Liver. Visceral fat. Yep, I’m depressed. And quite the researcher! Makes me a believer in the concept. And wine, duh. What do they call a man with a rubber toe? Roberto, silly. Feel better?

So quit the loud fricken cackling like he is!?€%#%!!! Whew. Got that out of my system. For now. Last week me and my Manfriend, no names please, went to a very nice restaurant,which we are want to do, a lot, but not with a $200 gift card which we found in the glove compartment. Who knew? So as we are sitting up at the bar high rolling expensive wines and martinis, I start checking out the lay of the land. Very attractive woman, nice looking man, etc. etc. and then I smell a hookup. Intro, friendly banter, couple drinks later LOUD CACkLING. Chick, he is not that funny!?$&!! Everything he said got funnier and funnier, and attractive woman got uglier and uglier. Did he really think he was that amusing? She was trying to ruin our dinner with her awful, incessant laugh, but we persevered through our steaks and lobster. She was still at it while we were paying the tab with that big ole gift card that only had a whopping $12.00 left on it. Who knew? Jokes on us cackle cackle. On to more pleasant things. Like going up for a long, sun filled weekend at a Lake Erie island. Stop one after a bumpity boat ride that got my gut regretting all that $$$wine the night before, the pool deck for lunch and a nice, warm nap. Very breezy and a bit chilly, but ok, island adventures await. And then it happened again. Chris Rock showed up! And the loud, guffawing began again!?$&!! Beahch! He’s not that funny and you are not that drunk. Another attractive woman, another hohum man. You don’t need to work that hard. And ruin my peace and serenity. And sun. Little did I know that was the last time I’d see sun for the weekend. But that’s a blogue for another time. And boy I got nothin but time this rain soaked weekend. Maybe I need to find the funny man and get a few thousand laughs. I heard the guffawing again at dinner last evening and now That was funny, creepy woman. My Manfriend is deep into reading Howard Sterns new book so I might just be cackling my way through dinner. I hope. Come on Manfriend….

Please. And I’m not talking about the ethereal one, where your eyes aren’t really that blue, and your jokes aren’t really that funny. (But your writing is kind of out of this world. Ish.) I’m talking about being cast in some beautiful stone that’s going to last forever with a chiseled nameplate and bird droppings. And no the odds are not on my side. I was watching one of my favorite Sunday morning news shows where they cover very unusual topics, people, and huh I never knew that’s. The commercials also give a vast overview of every disease I’m going to get, and the drug to save me. Who knew? Kind of puts the Boomlennial in a bad, sickly light. Fortunately, the oh-so-interesting news segments are worth the angst, and I have DVR and use it prudently. Ok. Back to my Pedestal. I learned that in Central Park there are 29 statues. BUT…..only 2 are female. One is Mother Goose, and the other is Alice in Wonderland. Well that ain’t right. Right? I would also guess that the millions of people who have visited the park never made that connection. I know I didn’t, but then I was there at a time when you did not stroll about too long if you wanted to leave whole. Dramatic, but true(ish). I also rode the subway after dark and lived to tell about it. Oh to be young and not needing those commercials drugs, Anyway, that Pedestal. Or lack there of. There are many great women in history but somehow they got the shaft. Mother Goose, really?? I do think women have come a long way, baby, so don’t get too caught up in ‘women’s issues’. Anymore, ‘people’s issues’ usually cover things. The struggle is real for most everyone. No one can have it all, or at least not manage it all very well. Just one little real person statue doesn’t seem too much to ask for, however. Hopefully, one of my millions of followers will pick up the gauntlet, or hammer, or whatever weird tools you need and make things right. For myself, I’ll just settle for the virtual pedestal and hope my beauty or rust doesn’t knock me off. Consider this a Public Cervix Announcement.

to be very boring. As much as I’d like to skip this conversation all together, just not possible. It’s been bothering my a$$ off, and probably yours, too. Pull, wave, wand, over, under, push, flap about. And that’s just to dry my hands. Figuring out the inner workings of the piss-pot is a whole different set of who-done-its. Do you push a lever to flush? Do you stand up and whistle? Does it flush by himself, and sometimes while you’re still relaxing? Way too much thought. The fancier the bathroom, the more inconvenient the amenities seem to be. I was at very sheshe resort with stunning bathrooms and lovely smelling soap. Which was a good thing, because I lathered up heavily to get my money’s worth. Alas, no amount of waving up/down, backwards/forward, in/out, headstand was going to bring water out of that gorgeous sink. And of course there would never be anything so gauche as a paper towel around, not that I would have figured out how to extradite it from its holder. Yes, big word for a very frustrating process. The very prolific author Lee Childs said, “If you’re writing yourself down a blind alley, make your hero work harder to get himself out. Life is not supposed to be easy.” I disagree! Maybe it makes for good fiction writing, but life should be easy, right? Or it would always be a big pile of poop, hence more bathroom confusion. I would just like a universal bathroom. One standard for the flush, one for the blow dry or paper towel extradition. (Gosh I love that word). There must be ‘best practices’ that all bathrooms should adopt. Just sayin. I really don’t want to think that much about it. And now I have truly bored myself, which is hard to do since I am endlessly fascinating. “If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth the writing”. – Benjamin Franklin. Sadly, this post is worth the goldfish flush. Whoosh.

That’s a tough one. I bet some of you haven’t thought about it in a very long time, if at all. What to wear? Your fancy pants or your smarty pants? The Boomlennial, I fear, often gets in a rut. You have your days mapped out in an unmemorable way. But now that I’ve given you homework, step up your game. Speaking of homework (I know I know we’re not), I attended Grandparent’s Day at my wees school and it was amazing. The teaching methods were way beyond anything anybody has experienced. Yes, anybody. (I speak for the world). Gone are the big fat pencils and wide-lined paper. No rows of desks, but tables where the kids can move around and sit where they want. No chalkboards but big screens in the front of the room where the magic happens, and it does. I had a blast. The kids all have ‘tablets’ which my wee had to correct me when I went the wrong direction in my thinking. Yes, yes, I get it. Like an IPad. I know I know. (Did my wee wee roll her eyes worriedly?) They have PIN numbers and usernames and more bells and whistles then the building. It would be hard Not to learn. The ‘games’ had my mind churning and I wanted to keep playing/learning. Who knew That could be so fun? Next the big screen has you up singing and dancing and panting while you’re making a Purple stew with your virtual friends with wonderful Purple ingredients that would make Prince downright giddy, and I don’t think giddy was his forte. No wonder the wees love school! I’m sure because of the audience they were showcasing the very good stuff, but it was so natural for the kids. ‘Screen time’ gets a bad wrap, but I need to give it a rest. This is the world. And I do love it, but somehow I thought the good old days were still happening, even though I got my business degree from Google. The kids still have their ten spelling words a week, but can practice on the ‘tablet’ instead of the tablet which would have been a mess of erasure marks. Sooooo, I meandered a bit there. Have you been thinking about your perfect date?? I’d have to say April 29th. It’s not too hot and not too cold. All you need is a light jacket. #toocoolforschool

Having just weekended through Easter, I can’t help but recall the Boomlennial experience of when I was a wee one. Yes it will always be the joy of the season. You know, eating chocolate without getting yelled at, nor dealing with a week of massive zits. But I also miss freezing through the day in a very chic new dress with an itchy nylon slip that made it poof out just so. Terrible to sit in, but when you looked that good who would want to! Getting the Easter bonnet (who even uses that word?), white gloves and oooo-lala those shiny patent leather shoes was just what it was about. I’m not sure if I truly do remember all that, or because it was one of the three days a year that was always memorialized with a picture. Maybe even a few. And all day it was. This family, that family. Church. To the park where a giant basket still stands, which is quite amazing considering the rest of the city is one big crime scene. Very festive yellow tape, however. Guess even criminals love candy. Now, however, I think the holiday has gotten B status. Even Halloween has been upgraded and costumes gets more of a consideration than the Easter outfit. The singing has changed considerably, too. The modern churches now spout weird songs about the blood of lambs in three lines that they repeat twenty times until I’m hypnotized. Too cool (or lacking real musicality) to sing the traditional He is Risen songs that I still have nightmares about. The ham foodfest is still a keeper, but then you end up with a lot of the day with no presents to open or football to watch. Some families enjoy(?) throwing in some Llama Llama Holiday Drama (great book BTW) so at least you’ll have something to rehash the next year. Always fun. I did attend an egg hunt with my two wee ones and it was a classic. They were positioned behind the rope ready to make a dash for the eggs as soon as it was dropped. Whoosh! And two steps in one of my wees saw a big worm on the ground and bent down to study it. Yep that’s my boy. Gosh I love Easter.

I am tired of adulting. I didn’t mind it for awhile. Kind of got into it when I could make the rules and people actually followed them. But now I’m over it and can’t seem to resign. Much like the auto reply message, yeah don’t. It was quite convenient a few years back when you could be off the grid a bit, but alas, just doesn’t work anymore. You are always on call whether you want to be or not. Have you ever texted someone and imagine them reading it but not replying? Even if they’re not, you know they are so what’s the point of the exercise? (Yes that made total sense.) Adulting is like that. You do know best. Even if you don’t. You are in charge. Even if you’re not. See what I’m saying here? Me either. (I do). Which brings me to the Grande Dame of churches and her horrific fire. Our Lady was the grandest and kept her beauty by constant maintenance. She survived wars and bombings and the elements for over eight hundred years, but it didn’t come easy. She was constantly surrounded by scaffolding which marred her luster. Similar to driving in a construction zone on the highway, I feel like I’d rather just enjoy the bumpity old girl because I’ll never see the shiny new wrinkleless one. Guess that is what adulting is all about. Acceptance of things. Or not.

is hard to do. I am now coming to the end of my second longest relationship. And it’s been one of my best. I don’t like to name names but since probably no one even knows who my girl crush is, I guess it will be ok. I hope she’s not reading. But I would be thrilled if she was. Kathie Lee Gifford is finally calling it quits on TV sigh. I should be sad but we had a long run and she is finally getting on my last nerve as long pairings tend to do. I first fell for her when I was a young bride and she was living the life I lusted after. She was dating Frank Gifford who was an NFL hall of famer and hosting Monday Night Football. KLG was living large. MNF (don’t get confused here) was in its infancy and the place to be for everyone at the time. There weren’t many channels out there and having another football game on a Monday was about as exciting as most of us could handle. KLG was traveling with Frank to all the games and occationally would sit in the booth with him swoon. She was my age but with better clothes, makeup, and plane tickets. THEN (cigarette break), she would be on Regis and Kathie Lee Tuesday morning to talk all about it. Love. I couldn’t wait. Planned my whole day around that show to relive the evening with my best girlfriend. She was that person. My girl crush continued over the years as we both procreated and she shared her experiences. I couldn’t get enough. If she was on a late night talk show, I was up(ish) and waiting. This from someone who works to make it to sunset. I lost track of her for awhile, but would still see a magazine with her mug on it and race to catch up with her. By this time she was on the third hour of the Today show, which is really bad BTW, but daytime TV sets such a low bar it kind of fit in. I don’t watch daytime TV a lot but it scares me to think my female sistas are being marketed to this way. Dribble dribble. Anyyyyway, then her husband Frank died, and I had to be there for her. I watched and cried with her and felt the pain behind her laughter. She performed and I became glued again. Old crushes are hard to get over. Now she is moving on with her life and I like what I see. She got her sea legs back, and is getting involved in new beginnings. I will miss her, but she possesses (yes I looked up the spelling) that Boomlennial spirit that I wish for all of us. Girlfriend, you were the best.

As I’m enjoying the ugly color of March in the #330 with its full bloom of brown and fake sunshine #thankyouTrump, I have been rehashing my vacay. After staying at a hotel that lived up to its one star rating, my thoughts go to the good/bad stuff. Good…..roses that don’t die. It must be the water or the salt soaked air. Someone said the water has a lot of chlorine in it and roses like that. So brilliant doctor that I am I added Clorox to my OH flowers to see the magic. They became petrified which wasn’t quite the look I was after. Will mist the next bouquet with salt. Or not. Which leads me to cartoon bulls, somehow, someway, with steam always coming out of their noses. Please have a cigarette already. And be done. Six minutes. Over. Vaping is the thing now. And it’s annoying. I hung with a group who clutched their odd pacifiers all the time. And just when I’d least expect it they’d take a big drag of some kind of sweet smelling concoction and shoot it out their nose. Gross. Maybe it doesn’t stink like tobacco but I don’t really want to be accosted with cucumbermintstrawberrylavenderdeerpiss. It still stinks and it’s still vulgar and take it outside. Go have a real smoke and be done with it. Six minutes. Over. We are hoping that being a human vaporizer is healthier, but Guinea pigs all. However, it’s still not polite to be blowing that nose mist at me. And former smokers noisily drag hoping at some point they’ll get a little buzz. Good luck with that wheeze. Maybe I need some edibles to mellow myself out hmmmm. I did learn it’s not that difficult to tell alligators and crocodiles apart. One will see you later, the other will see you in awhile. Oh that’s funny teehee. No matter where you’re at it is important to drink lots of water and get some sun. We’re basically a houseplant with complicated emotions. Edibles you say??

but you can never leave. Welcome to the Hotel California. Such a lovely place, such a lovely place. Except that it’s not, and it’s in Florida, and it’s weird as hell. Somehow in the land of high rises, this place missed the wrecking ball. It’s right out of the 50’s and I keep expecting Annette Funicello to start twisting on the beach in her modest two piece. As one Boomlennial who has been coming here since she was a child said “it’s one step above camp”. And it is. Outdated, little efficiency apartments, no restaurants or swim up bar (aghast!), but on the ocean and nice pool. Clean. You would think that after fifty plus years those tubs would have been Ajaxed raw, and they are. The managers that check you in are Yvonne, or Kathy, or Kvon as I say because they look alike and I’m sure there’s only one of them but they start messing with you from the beginning. ‘This could be heaven or this could be hell’. Then there’s The Mayor and Mrs. Mayor who stay much of the winter and have their routine. Most of which consists of sitting on their little patio and talking to anyone and everyone. All day. Everyday. There’s the man who looks like the bartender at the Diamond Grille in Akron and just makes me thirsty, and the creepy couple with an old old woman and younger man who walks bent over like he’s charging into war. ‘There were voices down the corridor……’ The sad thing about this sad place is I love it. And fit right in. ‘Some dance to remember, some dance to forget’. This is my third vacay here and I bet the regulars are telling weird stories about me, ‘We are all just prisoners here, of our own device’. It is just easy. Think sweat pants and faded bathing suits. Writing a blogue on your patio after laying at the beach all day and watching the palm trees sway. Open doors and free coffee and water. Who needs alcohol? (Me). ‘They livin it up at the Hotel California. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave’.