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I hate the color of March.  It is ugly and a tease and enjoys playing with you.  Sunshine(ish).  Filtered, partly to mostly to notly, and paired up with a balmy forty degrees. The B heats up your car and lures you in with warm caresses only to snap your *ss right back out into reality.  Little things start climbing out of the ground while you squeal with stupid delight knowing that they’ll be covered up with her white trash at whim. Just a bruiser.  Hard to tell where the mud and brown grass begin and end.  Somehow my dog seems to know the difference and prefers the mud.  Gotta love mud season. If you’re whacko.  The trees are still naked which the B prefers, D tease that she is.  (Hope everyone is following my alphabet soup.  B makes me vulgar haha).  Remnants of salt still cover the streets and walks just so your car isn’t tricked into looking good.  Pimp needs to hustle.  Ugly ugly wench.  One of my favorite quotes is from Winston Churchill which might be a bit melodramatic but that’s kind of how I’m rolling here. “If you’re going through hell, keep going”.   I’m sure he was talking about March and not war and peace and famine.  Just sayin.  The ugly B will blow away soon enough and let a more attractive sista turn her red light on. For now, however, I’m going to embrace my seasonal affective disorder and not feel weird for talking to a month.  Effen B.

or 3-5 business days.  Gotta love email.  It’s Quiet.   Ahhhh can you hear it.  To be continued when I want, where I want, and sadly to whom I want.  Since some of my millions of followers also email me, I’m going to call myself out.  Busted.  I might read your email, I might answer your mail, or a might save it till later.  Which we all know moves down down down the black hole and just maybe never to be seen again.   Ahhhhh.  Quiet.  While vacaying in a lovely spot with lovely sunshine and maybe(?) lovely people there was one huge problem.  THEY WERE FREAKING TOOOO LOUD!$@!?!   They SHOUTED their conversation.  And they had very BORING conversation I was forced to listen to.  One day I had to leave the beach as the boring beeahches just yelled away.  Fine.  To the pool   poor me. MARCO.  POLO.  MARCO.   AAAHHHH!&$!!  What’s a sun seeking wench to do sniff.  I can’t figure out if everyone is just hard of hearing or truly believe their knee replacement is that fascinating.  It’s not.  And embarrassing to this Boomlennial who tries not to pull the old person card too often.  Fake it till you make it.  Even if you can’t hear nod and smile.  I can’t see you anyway and we all know I’m oh-so-interesting.  Especially when I drink.  Soooo interesting.  I am enjoying the quiet right now and grateful for the low hum of peace.  Now that is quite a good line.  THE LOW HUM OF PEACE.  See.  Not so good anymore.  Advice.  Keep it down.  Don’t get on my last nerve.  Gosh I just love that line.  The low hum of peace.  Email me and let me know what you think wink wink.

Or not.  It just goes.  As I was vacaying (try not to get that autocorrected) in a spot I visited a year ago, I was amazed that a year vanished right before my eyes.  And was it fun??  Yes it was!  Since time flies anyway, this Boomlennial has made a not so well thought out decision to just have fun.  Good choice!  The Universe has a way of stepping in sometimes and thwarting my best attempts, so I have to take advantage of the good days and have ALOT of fun.  My partner in crime is great at this.  Not the crime, although he did want to steal a really cool looking martini shaker at dinner one evening.  We didn’t but it’s not totally off the table yet.  Fun.  ALOT of fun. Everyday.  Not just the days that begin with S.  The Boomlennial watches too much TV.  Whether its Netflixs or streaming or other jargon to make it sound like ALOT of fun, it’s not.  It can be enjoyable entertainment, but it is not ALOT of fun.  I want fun everyday, and a plan to make it happen.  My special sidekick is good at this.  He sees the world through rose colored glasses.  No really.  They have this weird tint that actually makes things look brighter and clearer and sharper and better.  That’s a good thing.  While having linner (yes autocorrect that is a word) during vacay at one of those trendy restaurants that tout fresh farm to table food, we got called out for having ALOT of fun.  Toasting with our gluten free martinis, sending pictures to our peeps back home to show how healthy we were eating the grass fed burgers and organic salad.  And of course more gluten free martinis because it’s outside and you are wearing only one layer of clothing.  Dilly dilly!  Anyway, as another couple was leaving, the man came over to tell us what a great couple we were and how nice to see us having ALOT of fun.  Easy peasy.  Shouldn’t have looked so out of the ordinary.  Time flies.  Make it first class.  Cheers.

but not your own facts.  Seems reasonable enough to me, duh.  Somewhere along the way, however, all the Who, What, Where and When’s have washed into tabloid journalism.  Opinions.  Sensationalisms.  And yes that is a word because it will be Published and that makes it true.  Sunday my manfriend and I were watching the morning news shows I’m embarrassed to say.  We started having very grownup discussions about the House and the Senate and serious serious stuff.  But, what we discovered is we need to start back to fifth grade.  And pay attention.  Absorb the material.  Hope that the teacher really is smarter than a fifth grader or at least have better tools at her disposable then a worn out book and chalk board.  Which is really fun to clean unless you have to stay after school to do it.  Great memories sigh.  (And yes she probably would be a female. Just sayin.)  Anyway, manfriend and I were complete duds.  Not quite sure of anything.  Education is wasted on the young.  But…..we were being enlightened by a media that has turned opinion into fact.  Which is why people forgot how to think for themselves.  We have the Hollywood elite rolling down their limo windows and shouting out causes we must care about, and movements we must follow, and pins we must wear.  At least they do it in really beautiful clothes so that the ten year old in me rah rah’s with them.  Glitter gets me every time.  Opinions.  Heresay.  Not allowed in court,  but allowed in the media and everywhere else in the Wild Wild West of the Internet.  No rules, no fact check, no editor questioning the five W’s.   I keep expecting some backlash, but the dumb fifth grader in us is still quite gullible.  After President Trump was elected, there was a collective  ‘Whoa where did that come from?’  Briefly.  Until the media twisted the narrative to their ‘opinion’ and we were left to flounder.  Maybe I just need to get off the grid for awhile. Go back to the land.  Raise some pigs.  Put Elmers glue on the back of my hand and sprinkle it with glitter.  And no I never did that.  Much.

 

between eating tacos everyday or being skinny, would you choose hard tacos or soft tacos?  *crickets*.  More *crickets*.  Get it???  I kept seeing the word crickets used in tweets and online time wasters and I didn’t know what it meant.   Finally did some research and know way too much about the small to medium sized insect with a mostly cylindrical, vertically flattened body and slender antennae.  Which of course is not the cool, slang use of the word.  This Boomlennial ventured on and now I get it and want to use it.  So back to my one liner at the top of this blogue.  Someone tells a joke.  Not funny.  No one laughs.  Awkward silence.  CRICKETS!  Or, you’ve been emailing back and forth and then no communication. They’ve gone CRICKETS!  Who comes up with this sh*t?  And how do you go from an insect related to the grasshopper where the male produces a characteristic  rhythmical chirping sound and has a  smooth, robust pronotum behind the head to silence which is pretty much the anti-crickets?   This is the question Googs isn’t answering for me.  Much like when you were young and looked up bad words in the dictionary and couldn’t figure out why they were bad.  Why are they calling that girl a hoar when she looks nothing like white ice crystals?   Just confusing.  But I do know there are 900 species of crickets with about 100 being found in the US.  Now I am boring myself which is hard to do since I am oh-so-fascinating.  Ok I’ll tell a joke.    Broccoli- “I look like a tree.”   Walnut- “I look like a brain.”    Mushroom- “I look like an umbrella.”        Banana-  “Dude!  Change the topic.”   CHIRP!  CHIRP!

 

+  Talk about walking miles to school in three feet of snow.  Barefoot.  Uphill.  Both ways.  #evenifitistrue

+  Order a drink at Starbucks using small, medium, or large.  #grandeismedium  #thatswhatshesaid

+  Save the little piece of soap at the end of the bar and spend a week trying to get it to stick to the new bar.   #babysteps

+  Wear a bra at home.  #nonamespleasemypersonalsuri

+  Get rid of your waterbed.  #amazonstillhassheets

+  Call someone on a phone just to talk.  #exceptyourmother

+  Buy things in a store with a check.  #istillloveyou

+  Watch old movies again and again.  #unlessitstheperfectstorm #georgeclooney #markwahlberg  #awesomestorm  #honeyholefishing

+  Take your own bags to the grocery store.  #buymorefood  #nocatfood

+  Read in the dark.  #hahahahahahaha

+  Wear a two piece bathing suit.  #youthinkyoulookgoodyoudont

+  Go gray.  #onlyyourhairdressershouldknowforsure

+  Tell a lie.  #cantrememberalie  #cantrememberthetruth

+  Post pictures of your dog on Facebook.  #nobodycares  # getalife

+Reheat coffee from breakfast all day.  #butitsstilldelicious

+  Watch the Bachelor or Bachelorette.  #worstshowsever  #needashower

+  Talk about the good old days.  #theywerent

+  Talk about the 60’s being the best decade for great music  #itwas

+  Advise anyone to go through natural childbirth.  #therearedrugsforthat  #worstadviceever

+  Eat tootsie rolls.  #implantsarentthefunkind

+  Keep writing long after anyone is still reading.  #butimbrilliant

+  Give your children advice.   #seehashtagabove

+  Never call # the number sign.  #knowwhentostop  #leavethemwantingmore  #didisayimbrilliant

 

 

 

Now that the Oympics are winding down I realize it’s evolved into the Hunger Games with better clothes.  These are supposedly the finest athletes our countries can muster, but they spend more time flopping around on the ground then being fancy.  Ice skating used to be a beautiful sport with those flowing gossamer dresses and little tutus I would lust after knowing only my Barbie doll would ever be able to wear.  Now I watch them bumping around on the ice while wanting to rub my rear thinking how much that must hurt.  It’s great you can land a triple or fourple jump five percent of the time but the odds really aren’t in your favor.  You look like an amateur with your fingers crossed.  Just not entertaining.  Give me better odds or a heads up so I can shut my eyes and not just cringe.  I bruise easily.  As one of my dearests once said  “fat people bruise more easily”.  And he knew immediately that was probably not a good choice of words, but probably pretty accurate.  The back peddling and trying to explain that one away was actually quite funny because there is no pink diamond big enough for redemption #KobeBryant.  Which would also explain why those tiny ladies skating aren’t covered.  Just not enough adipose tissue to use all those glorious box of 64 colors.  Magenta!  Midnight blue!  Salamander!  Of course their flesh colored tights probably hide a lot of secrets.  Other sports suffer, too.  Great ski jumping!  Until they miss. Then the commentators expound about how tough they are because they’ve had dozens of surgeries and broken bones but still want to compete.  Helmet not doing its job.  The doping.  In Curling.  Really??   How weak must you be to need That enhancement.  Swish that broom!  Harder!!  Faster!!  And now I need a cigarette….

…..or half full, clearly there is room for more wine.  Some people always have a PMA.  Which has nothing to do with women being rightfully cranky once a month for way too many years.  I still see the PMA poster hanging in my college dorm room when the world was still my oyster.  Then I actually ate an oyster and realized it is a disgusting  creature that people who can afford it should never eat, but cultivate a lustrous pearl.  I probably have the science all wrong on this and was about to google it but realized I somehow got off track here.  PMA.  Or lack there of.   Most Boomlennials have been in that roundabout long enough to know its not always easy to maneuver through.  I’m not talking about that odd configuration that is supposed to be safer then stop signs but PSA- never pull out in front of an incoming pickup truck.  Sh*t for brains.  Anyyyyyyway.  PMA.  Once you hit that ‘senior ugh’ status it’s more important then ever.  Nothing gets better with age.  Wisdom, shmisdom.  Sixty is not the new fifty blah blah.  Totally fake news.  I had decided that I never wanted the ‘senior ugh’ discount.  Just wasn’t worth it to me to say that word to save a buck.  Then an even worse thing transpires.  They GIVE it to you without you asking.  The first time this happened to me was at the Cleveland Clinic when I was buying a parking pass.  Suffice it to say if you are buying a parking pass at a hospital it might not be your best glam moment.  And I should have been grateful because it is not cheap to park there and you really don’t have a choice because that place is like the Vatican but in a less cool way.   But that ‘senior ugh’ pass is still front and center in my ARE YOU FRICKEN KIDDING ME memory bank.  Even those speeding ticket(s) I got barreling out of that empire didn’t make me as mad.  I mean who can even see a camera high up on a pole?  Obviously not ‘senior ugh’ me.  So I tried again at the movie theater to just get an ‘adult smiley face’  ticket while in full makeup and they still gave me the ‘senior ugh’ discount.  I concede.  Will still whisper it but might as well embrace this creepy phenomenon.  Everybody has to believe in something.  I believe I’ll open a bottle of wine.

My favorite holiday has come and gone and no longer will I allow myself to use the F word.  I reveled.  I ate the chicken étouffée and drank the Hurricane(s).  And I said F-a-t all day long in a celebratory voice while lusting after the King cake.  But now I will use my Lenten voice for the next year until it’s appropriate to say f-a-t again in a good way.  The Boomlennial (and all the other faceless generations I might add), have taken that word to replace every other derogatory thing we no longer say.  The alphabet soup is getting quite thick, and I’m still trying to decipher some of the initials.  I know the N word is awful, and the R word, and all the nationalities that have moved to be defined by their region instead of some creepy slang.  I don’t care about people’s sex lives (ok that’s a lie I do), but not in a way to define them.   Just when I figured out LGBT a Q emerged on the end and that one threw me off but my Questioning spirit got it right.  So the only thing people rely on now to be mean to someone is to call them f-a-t in a mean or bullying or I’m not a nice person voice.  Last weekend I was watching the Cavs with one of my dearests and there was a female announcer who was gratingly annoying.  She would interview in a break but kept asking stupid questions long after the game resumed.  And did it multiple times.  Just rude and really bad sportmanship when the Cavs were kicking a$$.  Finally one of my dearests said  “get that fat woman to shut up already”.  I agreed with the shut up part.  BUT.   She’s not even f-a-t.  Rather petite actually.  I realized that’s the last word that it’s still socially acceptable to say when you want to be critical for whatever reason.  My dearest knew enough not to call her a dumb blonde because them are fightin words.  Just kidding.  Kind of.  Maybe.  Possibly.  Why test the waters?   So the venom shot out and I pounced.  Fortunately the *ss whoopin was more fun so I moved on.  Maybe.  Possibly.  Laissez les bons temps rouler!

1.  Have a body.
2.  Go the beach.
3.  Bikinis?  Oh hell no.  I thought you said martinis.  Having a beach vacation is much easier than it used to be.  The Boomlennial is much more comfortable  being with a group of pasty white strangers and relaxing.  No more worrying about a ripple or a wrinkle or a stretch mark that isn’t going to unstretch no matter what gooey concoction you apply to it. Probably not going to get toned or ripped or elongated at this point.  We’ve thrown in the beach towel and are just grateful for sunshine on our scraggly face.  Of course I’m the last person who still believes the sun is good for you.  Love me some vitamin D.  Love me some rosy cheeks and bronzed skin.  Love me the mental health benefits that only that blazing ball gives me.  My dermatologist may not agree with me so he is not invited along.  I will deal with the consequences of my good/bad decisions if necessary and just soak up the glorious rays.  I take really good care of my pancreas whatever that means so it better not be touched by that no names please disease.  Planning for that beach getaway gets you through the dregs of winter.  As opposed to a ski trip, beach clothes are light and small(ish) and you can bring so much more that you’re not going to wear.  How fun is that!  Toes get brighter, hair gets lighter.  The serious books of dark days are replaced by trashy novels that you can proudly refer to as beach reads.  The celebrities become my friends as I catch up on the rag magazines (sorry People), and Oprah will enlighten me with her wisdom.  What’s not to love?  I think salt water is good for what ails you and the straw on my head might disagree but poof!  Mermaid hair, don’t care.