Category: Uncategorized

Now that I have the attention of my millions of followers you know that isn’t really what I’m going to talk about.  I hope.  Much like Seinfeld this blogue is about absolutely nothing.  Or everything.  You pick.  Often I’m having a brilliant thought but get sidetracked by other brilliant thoughts and the path goes haywire.  Just a Boomlennial trying to stay relevant in a millenial world that doesn’t use a top sheet.  They like big heavy duvets.  Which I do too but only in a hotel where I know they are absolutely sparkling clean.   They are they are they are.  And now I’m haywire.  Size matters.  In dogs.  I have/had a huge, mangy, dirty dog that was always on my last nerve.  He smelled, was always salty, muddy, or rolled in something(s)  that even I don’t want to talk about.  He ate the crotch out of my underwear and swallowed.  Just disgusting.  In a last ditch effort to let him live indoors I got him completely shaved #royalty.   And he’s a beauty!  All of the sudden he’s small.  And sweet smelling.  And looks like the young puppy he is and not some big hullabaloo.  Yes that is a word because autocorrect helped me out.  I don’t know what it means but that was the old version of my pup.  J’aime mon chien!  And when you speak French everything just sounds classier.  I am not a Chien person.  There are those that give their beasts just too much space in their lives and that is not me.  Small c.  I’ve always had les chien but they were part of the mix of a family and didn’t get much play.  Last in line. Even though I am now a family of one I still can’t seem to move him beyond (c)hien status.  Which is probably good in the overall picture of not being a crazy Boomlennial.  Le chat would be a whole different level of crazy but I have too much respect for leather furniture to do that again.  Whew.  Mon chien can remain indoors as long as he stays in the back row and doesn’t take too much energy from me.  Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.  La Fin

Since it is a holy week I’m of course going to write about something that is not.  The small R resurrection has to do with slutty women who have tried to revive their careers by announcing to the world that they made a living by using men in one way or another.  And sadly it kind of worked out for them. I need a role model!!!  60 Minutes, the premier of real news shows or so I thought, stooped to the level of the tabloids.  Poor Anderson Cooper had to use his best serious face while interviewing a porn star about a one night stand she had twelve years ago.  Tell me he didn’t want to laugh when his most serious question was wondering if her mark covered his ding-dong because that was very au courant in her industry at the time.  She said no and Anderson did not have an appropriate follow-up question.  ‘So Stormy?  Have you already been exposed to every disease out there?  Are you a walking/laying Petrie dish?”  He should have been ready with the hard core news questions.  No glove, no love.  He moved on with other oh-so-irrelevant facts(?).  I’m just missing my Ladies.  Enough already about the sexes using each other for their own purposes.  It’s been done and done and done behind closed doors and let’s put it back there.  We’ve all voyered enough and I’m starting to feel dirty.    As Margaret Thatcher once said, “Being powerful is like being a lady.  If you have to tell people you are, you aren’t.”  Hallelujah

I was like, I know right?  Finally someone recognizes my nobility!  He also shot me down pretty quick with details details details.  The Queen doesn’t have to mess with that stuff.   Her Majesty doesn’t even carry money in her fake little purse.  All show.  And I like it! Sign me up.  I saw a huge billboard that said  ‘Let Us Treat You Like Royalty’.   Yes Yes Yes!!!  That’s what I’m talking about.  But the small print got me a bit confused.  It was explaining waxing various parts of your body that I couldn’t quite picture the ninety-one year old Queen doing. (Thank goodness. Some things you just can’t unsee).  Is the Brazilian her thing or is she too much of a homer?  I know the English are pretty staid and can’t imagine the amount of hair one must be left with if they get the British.  But then they never take their clothes off so probably doesn’t matter.  And the country is quite chilly and damp so an extra layer of fur probably does come in handy.   That’s not the royal treatment I’m after.  America needs a queen.  And not some porn star who gets her fifteen minutes of fame from sleeping with a guy who wasn’t even President and no amount of imagination would have gotten you there.  Way out fantasy.  I’m talking just a normal Queen with crowns and carriages and triangular cucumber sandwiches and no responsibility but to get waxed in the nether regions and smile and wave.  I could do all that!  And be really good at it.  Let’s face it.  We can’t all be Queen.  Someone needs to bow as I go by……

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….