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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

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.