Thanks For the Memories, Shoobies! (Not Really)

Finally!! They're gone!!! Most of them, anyway. The majority of the summer tourists have left the building. Praise whoever you usually praise when something good happens to you! I love September.

I realize the tourist trade is what keeps this tiny barrier island afloat but since I don't profit a penny from their infiltration I have no tolerance for their overpopulation of my town.

I will never understand the appeal of riding a bicycle down a heavily trafficked main street during summer vacation.Who thinks its fun to take a chance with one's physical well being? Not to mention the emotional toll being called "blood sucking Shoobies" (or worse) can take on one's psyche?  I can see the allure of riding a bike along the edge of the ocean on the boardwalk in the early hours of the morning. But not EN MASSE, which is the way it's apparently done if you're from Pennsylvania and your window of opportunity for bike riding is going to close on you by the end of the week. Or the end of your vacation. But how, in the name of all that is hokey, can you call riding on the boardwalk in the middle of a crowd of cyclists, drunk surrey cart peddlers, skateboarders, scooterers (a word I just coined) and a handful of the physically fit trying to run in and out of all the above FUN?

You know what's fun? YOU doing all that in your own town!

So, thanks, Shoobies. I went shopping today and it was pure bliss. No fighting with shopping carts randomly left in the middle of the aisle with the cart driver nowhere to be seen. No cacophony of screaming children, no prolonged wait at the cashier. Just a handful of  locals humming and grinning in a store that allows room to breathe.  Everyone is happy that you're gone. I'm not alone in my  wicked glee!!

I'm not sorry you're gone, Shoobs, but I will be very sorry to see you return next summer. So, for now, I'm going to fully utilize my town while you're still out of it! And just a little suggestion for next year: leave the friggin bikes HOME!

Til then.

A Rant Not About YOU WHO ARE HIDDEN FROM MY WRATH

I'm ranting here because, god dammit, everybody gets on my nerves.
Oh, no no no no no!! Not you. Come back here.
I'm talking about these people I can see and hear and god help them if I ever decide to touch them. Some days a healthy dose of Grey Goose is the only thing that keeps me out of jail.
There is a driver at my job who is on "light duty", (which is a euphemism for "I am a pussy") and is doing some kind of a first grade project for the DDS manager that involves the intellectually tiring job of putting a piece of paper into the automatic reversing document feeder (copy machine) and setting it to make 1000 copies. This guy is getting paid $13 an hour for this. Ok, not my busines, is it? That money is NOT coming out of my pocket, is it? No. So I need to mind my own business, don't I?
So, minding my business, I happen to walk past the copy machine where this guy is sitting on his ass waiting for paper to come out of the document processor. He looks up as I pass and says to my back: "Hey, Dory. Bring me two more packs of paper, ok?"
My ego has an ugly mood swing. I turn. I walk back to where he sits. I ask "Is your secretary off today?"
He gives me a throughly confused look and answers "you know I ain't got no secretary".
I say "exactly" and continue the march back to my office.
Ten minutes later, my intercom beeps.
"Yes?" I say in my busier than thou tone of voice.
"Where my paper at?"

Kristen Cheated!! What a Shocker!!!

Written for Group Blogging  Experience

What's so Unexpected?


So  Kristen Stewart cheated on her ugly ass boyfriend. And this is a shocking bit of news why? Was it really unexpected? From the moment TMZ or Perez or even the AOL news page announces a new celebrity coupling, isn't it just a countdown to who is gonna cheat on who? Seriously, there hasn't been an actual shocking "somebody did somebody wrong" story since Liz stole Eddie from Debbie. (and that was so long ago, most people have no clue what I'm talking about)

People who can easily afford to indulge their every fantasy, indulge them. Who wouldn't? Hasn't every little girl wanted to get married in a castle in merry old England? Especially the first marriage. That life long fantasy has got to materialize at the earliest opportunity. Who knows? There may only be a couple more chances to get the wedding right.

Even after the dream wedding and the fantasy honeymoon and the"baby bump" celebration, the Hollywood love birds manage to find other nests to roost in. No matter that the bird in their own nest is uncommonly beautiful, sublimely intelligent and impossibly talented, the DoDo in the nest across the canyon is looking pretty alluring. In Hollywood, the philosophy is: "if I see it and I want it, I must have it".  And so it goes.

The next thing you know the scandal rags in the grocery stores are shouting out  CELEBRITY X CHEATING ON CELEBRITY Y. And its supposed to be a be surprise?

What is really unexpected are the untold stories of longevity and fidelity in Hollywood marriages/relationships.

One of the most surprising of the long lasting show biz marriages is Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne. Seriously, who else could put up with these two? And for almost 30 years!!  Sharon actually STOLE the Prince of Dementia from his first wife. I'm sure whoever SHE was is thanking her lucky stars today!

The recently departed Andy Griffith and his wife Cindi were married for 28 years. They made the very smart decision to live in North Carolina instead of  Hollywood, CA so maybe that was a boon to this union. She was 30 years younger than Andy and that can't hurt, either.

Sheriff Andy has be bested by little Opie in the long lasting marriage arena. Ron Howard has been married for 36 years to his wife Cheryl. They married when Opie, I mean RON, was 21 years old and still bopping his way through "Happy Days". Happy Days indeed.

And People...are you all shocked that Bret Michaels and his girlfriend of 18 years have split? I guess if your mate were out looking for another mate on national television you'd finally get a clue, too.   The Rock Of  Love has crumbled. And the unexpected aspect of the situation is that she put up with him for 18 years.

Just a bit of memory

Life has been coming at me at warp speed for so long, I don't even have time to commit deliberate breathing. I keep walking into rooms only to leave again with no clue why I went there in the first place. But my memory comes in fits and starts and while I was pondering some car "troubles" I was having this week I recalled the first accident I ever had. I was 19, overconfident, and reckless. A really bad combination. Still, I don't think the mishap was my fault. 

My boyfriend at the time owned a diner and sent me to one or the other circles of hell to get him 50 pounds of snapper turtles. In his car. Which, by some unfortunate oversight, didn't seem to have a valid registration or insurance. Snapper turtles are a priority in the food world, but registration and insurance, not so much. 

So 50 miles away from home, on a semi-deserted back road that I cannot figure out how I got on, some guy decided to swing his car around and drive on the wrong side. My side. Head on!! 

I wasn't so reckless that I didn't attempt to get out of his way but as I headed to the side of the road, so did the guy.  So we sideswiped each other.


The moron who caused the accident, and admitted it, was ticketed and allowed to drive away. Because I was driving a car with no registration and no insurance, I had to leave the car and go with the nice officer who said he would find me a ride home.

"But officer! I have 50 pounds of snapper turtles in the trunk. I can't just leave them!!"

 Officer was a little skeptical as he ordered me to slowly move to the rear of the vehicle and open the trunk. There they were. Snapper turtles. Snapping. Officer tried to convince me I had to leave them but I had the best melt down in the history of melt downs. Even the police can't stand female tears. So, fifty pounds of living snapper turtles went into the nice officer's trunk and off we went.


 When we hit end of the line, another nice officer was waiting to receive me for another ride to the next stop. Officer # 1 forgot to mention to Officer #2 that there would be extra passengers to pick up. A very animated discussion ensued but in the end, the nice officers transferred my turtles to the trunk.

In all, there were three police cruisers that carried us from county line to county line and called themselves the "snapper patrol". Unfortunately, the snappers didn't survive the trip. I couldn't tell if they were shaken up by the crash, but I think the lack of air in the various trunks they rode in is what ultimately did them in. Poor things. (you can't see me, but I am observing a moment of silence for the creatures I inadvertently murdered. well, actually, they were going to be the soup of the day if they had made it back to the diner, but...oh, the humanity!)

The worst part of this whole ordeal was having to tell my boyfriend there would be no snapper turtles for snapper soup night.  He immediately broke up with me, fired me and banished me from his sight.  

I was 19. I was devastated. I walked home in tears wondering how I could have screwed up so badly. In an extreme pout I took to my bed and cried at the injustice of it all. But wait...my brain was starting to engage. How could this have been my fault when I was driving on my own side of the road minding my own business? It wasn't my fault. Damn Right. So why was I blaming myself?

As for the flipping turtles, if boyfriend had bothered to renew his registration and insurance, the snapper soup would be boiling in the stock pot and all would have been right in the world.  Also, not my fault!! 

At that point my blood was boiling. A temper my parents had tried to discipline out of me for so many years broke through and pulled me off my bed and right to the phone.  I dialed boyfriend's work number and when he got on the line I let him have everything my wounded inner child had been harboring for 19 years.
 

 When I was finished, I had a promotion, a raise, a new car, a paid 10 day vacation and a plane ticket to Florida!! Jackpot!!


And the best perk of all was that the gosh darn turtles were delivered to the back door of the kitchen from that day forward.

52 Weeks of Happiness - Week 2

 

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My morning coffee(s) - The first thing each day that causes me to be wildly happy!!!

 

Click on  http://leighvslaundry.blogspot.com/ to see what makes our fellow (wo)man happy. And if you would like to share a picture of your happiness, leave your comment and your link in her blog so we all can see. 

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Hot Dog In The Morning

Breakfast food is just so mundane. Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. Porkroll.  I like that stuff only when served in a restaurant. With a Mimosa. By somebody who is not me. I am not standing in front of the stove and cooking those items for myself. Cooking always leads to cleaning up and cleaning up leads to washing dishes and washing dishes leads to drying dishes and...you know the drill.

My favorite breakfast food is one that can be purchased, fully prepared, over the counter at the WaWa or Subway or some other very convenient convenience store. But my very favorite "on the go" breakfast is a hot dog. With onions and mustard and relish. At 8 o'clock in the morning!! From my local WaWa.

What the heck is WaWa, you say?? 

Click here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wawa_Food_Markets

Two things keep me from enjoying a frequent hot dog breakfast: 1) Not all WaWa's have their hot dogs grilling that early in the morning and 2) the little "situation" I have with high cholesterol.

So...the eggs and bacon and pancakes, etc. are pretty much off limits for me these days. And who cares? I have had a lifetime of those things. But, can one ever get enough of hot dogs in the morning? I feel so bereft in the absence of my beloved doggies and their accompanying condiments.

In fact, all of my fav breakfast foods are off limits. No Tuna Subs. No pizza. No Chocolate ice cream with chocolate sprinkles. No Philly Cheesesteaks. Add to that the no smoking rule my lungs have imposed upon me and the result is pretty bleak. I am forced to believe the old adage that everything I love is either illegal, immoral or fattening. 

(Sometimes all three at once) 

 

But that was not my predominant thought at the beginning of this tirade. I was focusing on breakfast hot dogs. Hot and juicy and riotously tasty. And just bad on every level of the food pyramid.  In fact, so bad that I should be embarrassed to admit that I am so enamored of them. Not. I sing their praises! I worship the ground they sizzle on. I drool at the thought of them. I fantasize taking a slow, savoring bite and swallowing with relish. Or just mustard. Whatever.

Give me hot dogs or give me death. Um, wait. Death is the reason I am avoiding my beloved hot dogs to begin with so...I guess this is goodbye, my sweet. Parting is not a "sweet" sorrow. It's just a sorrow. 

Mundane Monday

This is one little corner of my office building. Quite mundane, not very pretty, but if I need to sweep something or pick up a pile of dirt, or toss out an empty milk carton or put out a fire everything necessary is right there!!

 I will be looking for evidence of the mundane in other people's lives so if you wish to share: do it here!!

It's My Life of Mediocrity- Its now or never. I mean it's probably never.

I'm in over my head. It's my life. It's too deep for me. And the really sucky part? There's no shallow end. And the even suckier part? I can't swim.  Another tricky day for me.

I'm thrashing around looking for a floating piece of rubbish to hold on to. If I could just sit up above the whirlpool and look around I might could see some higher ground to shoot for.

Nevertheless, I'm treading the storm. What else is there? The sun will come out tomorrow, won't it? I'll wait for the sun. The light in here is awful right now but I'm sure when the rays of sunshine hit me, I'll bask in the warm glow of hope.

How I got here is just the normal progression that started way back when. WAAAAAAAY back when. I was able to float around then. Put my feet on the bottom a time or two. Decide which way to go, which way not to go. Apparently, my sense of direction was just as crappy then as it is now. But at least I got to chose. Right now, I see no choices. Just what is.

Ok, I'll go with what is and hope what ain't comes around soon. Because I will hop right on the good ship "What Ain't" so fast my head will be spinning...and spinning...and...

Srsly? When I have a bad day I REALLY dramatize.

52 Weeks of Happiness - Week 1

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GREETINGS FROM OCEAN CITY, NEW JERSEY!!!

I wanted to live in this town since I was old enough to know the difference between towns.

Every time I crossed this bridge, my heart would beat faster and I felt like I was entering a magical place. Like fairyland. Without the fairies.

I could not wait to arrive at the ocean. The beach and boardwalk were like mecca to me.
And the water!! Oh, the water. Warm like bath water. Gentle waves. Seaweed wrapped around my feet. It was paradise. Until the jelly fish moved in.

Even the smells of the town were intoxicating. On the North side the nose took in the scent of coconut oil. On the South side, it was primarily peanuts. And my favorite character roamed the boardwalk on hot, sweltering summer days in his very uncomfortable looking suit. He was probably in constant distress but his presence on the boards made many a child giddy.

Mr. Peanut

(Pretend you don't notice the building says "Atlantic City Convention Hall". It's only a few minutes away and Mr. Peanut roams their boards as well)

When arriving in the evening, this view never fails to excite me. At any age. Even at this age!

There is no loss of magic when the summer season ends. The fall and the winter steal my heart as well. The romance carries over to the icier months.

The boardwalk is even more exciting when its deserted.

For the last twelve years Ocean City, NJ has been my home and I've never been happier!

Life is Like A Bottle Of Chocolate Vodka-You never know what you're gonna do

Seriously, I am so tired of food.  Especially of the type that I'm supposed to prepare. There is no satisfaction in boiling chicken or steaming broccoli.

There is no joy in a seafood product shaped like a stick or a square tile. It's like only using a brown crayon. Unfortunately, because of the medical condition of the people in my home (including myself) this is what I'm reduced to putting out on a regular basis.One of these days, cholesterol be damned, I'm going to completely lose all control and throw a steak on the grill! (my apologies if I've insulted any vegans-don't hate). But until that day arrives,   Food is boooorrrriiiinnnngggg.

So, why do I look this way? What way? Like an entry into the Macy's Thanksgiving parade!!!

 INFLATED!!

Must be the air in this town. Or maybe its the water. Or maybe its the thirty or so snacks a day that I have to gorge on  in an attempt to satisfy my soul, which is starving for depth and substance.

If I didn't begin and end every day with Vodka, it wouldn't even be worth the effort to get up in the morning. Unless you count having to go out and earn a paycheck.  Luckily, Vodka is very exciting these days. It comes in so many fun flavors, a person could sail right through a life of alcoholism without the threat of boredom. Unlike the chicken and broccoli diet, Vodka is diverse and tasty.

The day begins so smoothly with a strawberry smoothie perked up with a shot or two of Whipped Cream Vodka.

The evening comes to a floating fade with a banana smoothie embellished with a portion each of Chocolate Devil's Food Vodka and Banana Vodka.


And in between? Whipped Cream Vodka in your Chai Latte. Raspberry Vodka on your sugar free vanilla ice cream. Espresso Vodka with your biscotti.  Don't be greedy here, chose one or the other for each sitting. (one from column A, one from column B)

It would seem that Vodka is a totally healthy food product. It contains, no sugar, carbs, cholesterol, trans fats or red dye # 2. So I won't cry over the forbidden milk. I'll just vodka my beverages and enjoy lowering my cholesterol.

Hubby is enjoying our new guilty pleasure as well. Except  he pretends he doesn't know  I have spiked his smoothie with a few good shots of Stoli Strasberi. He only knows that its the best strawberry smoothie he's ever had and can't wait until the  smoothie ritual each evening. He enjoys his secret little buzz, so I don't burst his bubble by pushing the truth. Truth is so over-rated anyway. Isn't it?

So the other day, I discover a way to make a nice aperitif out of my dinner salad.

Life is full of pleasant surprises!

Independence from Independence

Happy Independence Day!! This is the day we celebrate our independence from the mother country. Really, don't we all want our independence from the mother country (usually referred to as mother and father)? Some of us wanted it much earlier than others. Children are so much more sophisticated today because they have access to adult information that we may not have figured out until much later. They can find out everything they need to know up to a college graduate level on the internet,on cable television and from ten year olds who have porn web sites.

By the age of 14, kids know how to balance a checkbook, use a debit card, change the oil in a car, buy and sell drugs, and how to entice a girl/boy (or both) into engaging in sexual behavior; either in person or on line.  They can Facebook, Face Time, Skype, web cam and video conference.

Since they have iphones at the age of 5, can play all sorts of violent video games, can buy a pee-on pregnancy test, go to the clinic to dispose of the pregnancy if need be, they have no need of adult instruction and, from the looks of things, adult supervision either.

So when does a personal Independence Day actually happen? I'm thinking it starts on the day the child picks up the remote control and picks a non-mom sanctioned program. Viola! Step one. Step two is the day he/she turns on the computer without POS (that's parent over shoulder, just FYI) and contact the outside world. Step Three, the final step, happens when the first cell phone is received.

After these rites of passage are implemented, there's no going back.

The situation is exacerbated by the fact that most parents are too busy to spend much quality time with the growing child. Therefore, the child is left with more time to explore and expand his independence.

Although this transformation begins as early as 3 or 4 years old, the deal is sealed with the key to the family car. Or even the child's own car.

After that time, total independence is attained.

Why, then, I'd like to know, are there so many independent adult children living with their parents?
Shouldn't independence include living in your OWN space?

Children who have spent so much time breaking away from their parent seem to regress when it comes time to take their crap and get out of the parent's house!

Who even wants to be a thirty year old living in the same bedroom he/she couldn't wait to get out of all during adolescence? The economy has robbed our children of their ability to own their own space and their courage to leap into the world untethered from the people they always dreamed of getting away from.

Thanks, George. This is why I am not a republican.

A Little Ice, Please.

This summer has probably affected me more than any other summer since I've been an adult. Heat is a new experience for me. Before the dreaded men-o-pause I was always cold. Like maybe my core temp hovered around 32 degrees. I have been know to sleep in leather outwear in July (not in a kinky way). But now...I am damn HOT!!! So uncomfortably hot I don't know how I'll make it through another equatorial (I don't even know if this is a word, let alone a pretentious one) day.

My body temperature has now increased, I'm sure, to jungle fever (not in a kinky way) level  before the sun even touches me. I sit in my air conditioned office each day hoping my deodorant doesn't give out before 5 o'clock. I remember the days when my assistant would sit in our air conditioned office and complain about who put the goddamn heat on while I would sit shivering in an alpaca sweater. I thought menopause must be the worst experience of a woman's life. I was right.

I have no time to fight this summer time misery. I have a job to go to, a very demanding 92 year mother to tend to and a husband who is just living on the border between NOT NORMAL and full blown OCD. So. No time to mess with you, summer.

In order to simplify my life during this surface of the sun season, I have decided on two uniforms. One for sleeping and one for living in the rest of the time. Of course, work attire has to be a bit more formal but at all other times I will be chilling out in my uniforms.

I purchased 12 Big and Tall men's V neck undershirts, long enough to be worn as a mini dress, to serve as the top of my uniform.

For the jammies, I bought 5 pairs of light cotton baggy capris in various colors.

Bam!! Of course this classy little number gets tossed on the floor at night (not for a kinky reason).I only wear it  for the sake of propriety until it gets too hot to wear anything all night.

During the day, the same men's over sized tee shirts are the top half of my attire and one of 5 pairs of stretch capris for the bottom half. Easy and comfy. Thanks to my arrival into that "certain age", I am no longer worried about what the Shoobies will think of me as I fight my way through the grocery store to the strawberry aisle.

I have my uniforms, I have my menopausal don't give a shit attitude and in the evening I have my strawberry daiquiri. Bring it on, summer, you bitch!!!

What Happened To Lazy Saturday?

Saturday. What a joyous day. It used to be. Back in the days when I wasn't overloaded with responsibilities. But I remember those days...staying in bed way past the usual wake up call...a leisurely block of quality time with coffee and a bagel...a good (real) book to spend the morning with...plans with friends...shopping, lunching, yakking, wool gathering, dressing for the evening's festivities...So nostalgic.

Today, I'm lucky to get a cup of coffee and some computer time before everyone who depends on me (2 humans and a poodle) start stirring or whining or demanding my time. I long for the day that Saturday comes and I can't find a thing to do. That day will come when I pack my toothbrush and my favorite bra and sneak away in the wee hours of the morning. Where will I go? Nowhere. What will I do? Nothing. With whom will I do it? NO ONE!!!

Oh, how Divine does that sound? Very.

Alas, this fantasy remains a fantasy. But one that keeps me going.

I worked for a V.P. once who had a panoramic view of a Hawaiian island hanging on the wall behind his desk. It kept him working towards the day he would retire there.

I have no visual aid for my fantasy day. Really, what would represent divine nothingness? It's too zen a concept to capture with a physical image. So...when I have time to take a breather I close my eyes and envision...nothing. nowhere. no one.

Ommmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Here is my visual aid for nothingness. I shall hang it on the wall in my office and dream about it and the day I achieve it.

Getting Up?

No one in the family who raised me ever excelled at anything. It wasn't expected. It wasn't necessary. As long as everyone hung their coats in the closet, took their dirty cups and plates out of the livingroom and didn't hide fudgesicles in their dirty clothes hamper (which I only did ONCE, for pete's sake) all was well.

"Excelled" in the real world probably meant that higher standards were met - standards higher than my dad conversing in Italian with Sally Starr at the station where he pumped gas. Standards that surpassed Aunt Annie's macaroni salad or Aunt Venzi's whipped butter on toast (although, at the time, NOTHING surpassed what the Italian Aunties put on their tables).

As long as there was love, and there was lots of love (it was called FOOD), I was a happy kid. So who needed to excel?

Since the days of youth and bliss (as in ignorance is) I have had many chances to get up off my ass and excel. But why? and how? Like many other Americans, I have found that nice comfy dent my butt has made on the couch so welcoming, so hypnotic and has that aura of "where I belong" that I feel strange not easing down into it and basking in the glow of vegging out for the evening. Every evening.

So if ever I am to excel it will have to be sometime between leaving for work in the morning and arriving to the total lack of enthusiasm from my coworkers at my arrival. Or it will have to happen during the 9 mile, 20 minute drive back to my home.

Unless...
I could manage to keep my butt off of the business end of the couch for a few minute longer each night.

In the spirit of true mediocrity, this will be my goal:

I will keep all of my body parts upright 10 minutes longer each night.

And perhaps my next goal will be to actually DO something while I'm in the position.

Baby steps DO eventually get the baby all the way across the room!

If my husband watches Kill Bill (either volume) one more time, I'm switching all the tv's in this house back to rear projection, concave screen, non HD televisions.

We have become way too fond of lying around watching television. We could be honing our skills. Or determining whether or not we have any skills that may need honing. We could be learning another language, taking Zumba lessons, volunteering at the local Senior Living Center. But we aren't. We are draped over our furniture and watching the same movies and shows over and over. Not even a new season series. Not a newly released movie. Not in this house.

In this house, the torture is sports or the same movies. The same tv shows. Different night. And for god's sake, the same oldies radio station that plays "Crazy Train" at 8 on the dot every morning. Couch potato? Our asses have become one with the fabric of the sofa.

Wow! Talk about mediocrity! My life has apparently been so mediocre I haven't had a thing to say in eons. Well, I still don't have anything to say except that these years of living a life of desperate mediocrity is starting to get old and annoying. Like musty old underwear.

Somebody remind me to seek a higher level of mediocre in the near future. Like today. Like now. But I gotta have a cool drink and and a little nappie-poo first. Procrastination is the creed of my life. And I do it so well. I have crafted it into a art form. If it could be framed, my particular style of procrastinating would be hanging in a museum next to (Henri Marie Raymond de)Toulouse-Lautrec (that naughty little dwarf).

Off to think about leaving the comfort of my luxurious buttocks and possibly doing something constructive. I don't want to put too much pressure on myself all at once so baby steps will be the 'script for the foreseeable future.