Happy 1st Birthday!!

I’ve dedicated spent one year writing my blog.  It’s a bloggy birthday!

I started this as a fun project to write about things I’ve seen, things I’ve done, and things I have opinions about.  Maybe even some private snippets of my life (that I think won’t bore people to death!).

I’m not the funniest person on the planet but I hope that I make my readers laugh occasionally often (at a blog like this about a hair weave).  I’m not the smartest person in the world but I hope that my readers may learn something new (like this blog about the evilness of celery).  I’m not the prettiest gal in the world but I hope my readers . . . wait, what does that have to do with my blog?  I just hope that if you’ve stumbled in here, you’ll stay awhile and find some enjoyment from my musings.

I don’t get many comments.  I'm OK with that but I love the ones I do get!!  I try to reply as quickly as I can.  I hope that there are more readers out there that enjoy my blog but, for some reason, don’t want to comment.  That’s OK too; but please, don’t be shy.  I take both compliments and criticism well.  I also like you hear if you’ve had similar thoughts or similar things happen to you.

I can’t say how long I’ll keep blogging.  My goal is to just keep going for as long as I can come up with something to say.  Angry would tell you that I’m never at a loss for something to say so I may be doing this forever.

Happy Birthday to my Blog.  I think I’ll have a beer (or several) to celebrate.

My love, my shadow.

Almost 15 years ago, Angry and I adopted a cat from a no-kill shelter.  I want to tell you his story.

I went to buy some kitty litter from a local store.  Some people from that shelter were there with cats and kittens in cages, looking to adopt them out.

I spotted a little grey guy who looked like a cat we already had.  He was so cute and sweet that I adopted him on the spot.

You would have taken him home too!

When I asked the people about him and they estimated that he was about 6 months old.  One of their volunteers had been driving down a very busy street and she noticed him running around.  She pulled over and called out “Come here kitty cat.”  He ran right to her and let her pick him up!   He loved everybody, even a stranger on the street.

When we got him home, we put him in one of the bedrooms to separate him from our other two cats until we could get him checked out by the vet to make sure he was healthy.  And then we’d have to introduce them slowly.

We’d go in a check up on him and give him some loving about every hour or so.  One time, Angry went in and he came right back out and said, “It smells like piss in there.”  Sure enough, he hadn’t been fixed (they told me he was and I didn’t look at that area to check) and he was spraying everywhere in the bedroom.  Everywhere.  He could smell the other two cats and wanted to make his presence known!

When we went to bed, we tried to think of a name for him.  He couldn’t go to the vet without a name.  We discussed lots of options but didn’t “love” any of them.  Finally, I said, “Wait a minute; I love Gossamer, the monster from Bugs Bunny.  He’s a monster right now.  Let’s call him Gossimer.”  We spelled it differently so he’d be unique.  I called the vet at 7 am the next morning and told them we needed a checkup and a neuter that day.

He became my baby almost immediately.  He had to share me with one of our other cats but when she died, Gossimer got full possession of my lap and my time.

Catching a few rays.

Gossimer tried to help me blog. It was obviously boring for him!

Where's my milk and ice cream?

Packer fan, through and through.

I was a naughty kitten!

In late October, as we were getting ready to go to Mexico, Gossimer started to rub his face and shake his head like he was in pain.  We knew his teeth were sort of yucky and planned to get him in for a cleaning and have any bad ones pulled when we got back from vacation.

Unfortunately, the day before we left, he stopped eating.  We called Angry’s parents and asked them to rush him to the vet on Monday.  When we called them to check up on him, it was dire.  But the vet got him “up and running” again with some fluids and some antibiotics.  The plan was to clear up the infection in his gums and then do the dental work.

The week before Thanksgiving, he stopped eating again.  We made his appointment for the Friday after Thanksgiving and he went in that day for a cleaning and any pulling that was required.

It was very unpleasant for him.  He had two teeth pulled.  One small one way in the back of his mouth and one canine (the big pointy one) on the bottom.  Canine teeth help keep the jaw bone stable and when his was pulled it did quite a bit of damage.  He was in a lot of pain and we had him on some narcotic pain meds and antibiotics.

He seems to be healing and was slowing eating small bits of food.  Then, he quit eating again.  The vet checked him out and felt that his jaw was healing well.  We couldn’t figure out what was happening to make him not want to eat.  We started giving him some more pain meds and that worked for a few days.

On Friday of last week, he quit eating again.  We visited the vet again on Monday of this week and she said she was terribly worried that something else was “really wrong” that was not related to his jaw.  She drew blood and we waited with baited breath until Tuesday for the results.

The results showed that he had cancer.  By Tuesday he had really wasted away to nothing.  He had, in these months, gone from about 7.5 pounds to 5.6 pounds.  He was so weak that he could barely stand up.  He was basically just staring straight ahead with no “life” in his eyes.  The decision was easy for us.  He could not suffer any longer and keep starving himself to death.

Tuesday night we took him to the vet, wrapped in his favorite blanket, and let him go to heaven.  He was finally peaceful.  He had been so hurt and sad since October.

I miss his face.  I miss his purr.  I miss his big eyes looking up at me waiting for me to scoop him up into my arms.  I miss his long claws that I never trimmed enough, that would scratch my legs when he jumped on me.  I miss his prancing around the kitchen because I could never get his breakfast or dinner ready fast enough for him.  I miss him playing with his favorite plastic ball with a bell in it (carrying it in his mouth like a goof).  I miss his “yowling” when he was hunting his toys.  I miss his scratching on my bedroom door if I didn’t get up early enough for him (and while I was getting ready for work in the morning because he missed me for those few minutes).  I miss his body sitting on my lap all the time.  I miss him trying to get onto the TV tray when I was eating cereal or ice cream to get some goodies.  I miss him reaching into the potato chip bags to help himself to salty treats.  I miss him digging in the carpet.  I miss him running to the door to greet me every time I was out of the house (or even if I was in the basement!).  I miss him sitting on the toilet lid clawing at my legs, trying to get me to hurry up when I was brushing my teeth (so I’d pick him up).  I miss him waiting for me to put on my jewelry in the morning so we could get some petting time in before I left for work.  I miss him turning over onto his back to get his “armpits” scratched (he loved that!).  I miss holding him in my arms, listening to him purr every time I picked him up (which was all the time).  I miss his “head bumps” when we sat on the couch.

I know that he’s in heaven playing with his buddies that preceded him in death.  I know he’d not in any pain.  I know that he’s back to being a healthy kitty.  I know that he’s at peace.  My tears will eventually dry and my heart won’t ache constantly.

Goodbye to my handsome buddy who was my shadow for almost 15 years.  You’ll be missed Gossimer.  You’ll be remembered with much love and happiness.

How much for the hooker? For a week?

I want to share a story from our vacation in Mexico.

To set the scene:  The resort we stay in has a bar on the beach.  It’s actually a large round bar sitting on a huge slab of decorated concrete with tables circling the outside of the bar.

We were sitting at a table one evening, enjoying some beer, tequila, and the sunset.

I looked over to the bar and noticed two women girls, in their early 20s at the very oldest, who were not dressed appropriately for the beach/resort/bar.

Everyone else was wearing and assortment of shorts, t-shirts, tank tops, and swim suits.  These gals were wearing skirts so short that I could see butt cheeks; tops so small that I could see nipples popping out; and shoes that were true “fuck me” heels.  They were so high that I suffered vertigo just looking at them.

These girls were not alone.  They were accompanied by two men who appeared to be in their late 50s or early 60s.  These men were not “ugly” but they were not enjoyable to look at (not like Mike Rowe!).

The couples moved to a table and I noticed that one of the men’s hands was “roaming” over his partner’s butt and boobs.  Roaming and grabbing, grabbing and roaming.  That hand had a wedding ring on it.

“Hmmmm. . .  I don’t think that’s his wife.” I said to Angry.  Someone tried to take a picture of the two couples and he shouted, in a panic, “No pictures!  No pictures!”  My thought had been validated.

They spent the evening at the table feeling each other up until they left.  We assumed they went to their rooms for more than roaming and grabbing.

The next evening, they were at one of the tables at the bar again.  One of the young women lit a cigarette; her partner (he was without a wedding ring) pushed the ashtray across the table, gave her a very nasty look, and turned his face away from her and the smoke.  She quickly put out the cigarette and popped a piece of gum into her mouth.  Next thing I know they are facing each other sticking their tongues straight out and touching the tips together while “wagging” them.  GROSS!  GROSS!!  This is NOT what I wanted to see while trying to enjoy a beautiful sunset.

During the rest of our trip, every time we saw them at the outdoor restaurant the men had their hands all over these girls.  All. Over.  They were constantly french kissing.  It was worse than two teenagers in a mall parking lot.

In the swimming pool?  God only knows what was going on under the water (they stayed in one corner the entire day).  Angry commented that he would stay far away from that section of the pool.  He assumed it might be “gross" over there.  Needless to say, the bikinis that the girls wore were non-existent.  A strip of Christmas ribbon would have covered more real estate.

I’m not sure how much these gals cost for the week.  But from what I witnessed in public areas of the resort (I do not want to think about what happened in private), the men got their money’s worth!

What's a Wazoo?

As I’ve told you before, I had the pleasure of living with my Grandma while I was growing up (here’s how she saved my life, sort of).

She was a Polish woman who cooked like magic and could tell stories that made you laugh so hard you would pee your pants.  She also had some interesting “sayings” and used some different unusual words.

Here are some of the things she’d say:

“That drives me up the wazoo.” – I’m not really sure what the hell a wazoo is but there are a lot of things that drive ME up the wazoo now a days.

“We’re off, like a herd of turtles.” – She always said this when we were getting ready to head to a store or a mall.  It was usually me, my Mom, and her going but sometimes we’d have an Aunt or two tag along for the ride.  I assume she meant that we were a pack of slow moving shoppers.  These are the kind of people that I hate to get stuck behind in the aisles.  We must have been annoying!

“You know what burns my ass?  A fire about this high.” – She’d hold her hand right next to her butt to show where that fire would burn.  I use this all the time.  I guess a lot of things burn my ass.

“Yell-o.” – That was how she answered the telephone.  It sounded like the color but with a hard accent on the “yell” part and a soft “o” sound.  I do not answer my phone that way as I think I’d confuse someone.  Of course, I text way more than I talk on the phone.  Maybe I should try it and see how it goes?

“Whatchamacallit” – This was a much-used word in her vocabulary.  Often several times in one sentence!  She used it for anything she couldn’t remember the name of.  Such as, “You know that whatchamacallit we saw in the store today?  I think it was on sale.”  Or, “I need one of those whatchamacallits that you use to fix glasses.”  This is used by enough other people that Microsoft’s spell check recognizes it.  I don’t tend you use this.  I’d rather say the “real” word which probably has less syllables.

“Dupa” – The Polish word for ass.  If she didn’t like you, she told you that you were a dupa.  In no uncertain terms.  I know a lot of dupas.  I like to call them that (sometimes to their face).  That way, I can say I speak Polish.

I'm reminded of her when I use these words and phrases.  She was a unique woman.  I wonder if she ever though those things would be sort of like a legacy?  Probably not, she was just speaking her mind.

A rose by any other name.

The name that is on my birth certificate is Elizabeth Margaret.  I was named after my Grandmothers.

If you look up Elizabeth in a baby name book, you will see that there are quite a few nicknames associated with it.  Go ahead and do it, I'll wait. . .  I find some strange.  Tibby?  Babette?  What does either of those have to do with Elizabeth?

Most people call me Liz.  Most.

I have a few other nicknames.  Let’s discuss. . .

Sassy – Angry started calling me this soon after we started dating (and still does).  Hmmm. .  . I wonder why?

Dolly – The story goes that Elizabeth was too formal a name for a baby.  Someone said to my Mom or Dad, “She looks like a little doll.” and the name Dolly stuck.  When my Mom was mad at me she never, ever called me Elizabeth.  She’d say “Dolly LastName, just what do you think you are doing?”  Or some such reprimand.  My family still calls me this and I’ve always been introduced to other people by them as Dolly.  Many of my Dad’s friends don’t know that that isn’t my real legal name.

Lizard – Who hasn’t called someone named Elizabeth by Lizard?  One friend calls me that regularly and believe it or not, I like it!  Not everyone can be a Lizard.

Lizilla – Just like Godzilla.  I was given this nickname when I worked with a group of stock traders.  I needed to be a tough bitch to talk to brokers on the stock exchanges.  I’ll be the first to admit that this fits me to a tee (look up tough bitch in the dictionary and you’ll see my picture).  Angry will use this when I'm in a menopausal rage.  It fits.  I’m thinking of getting this on a personalized license plate. 

Lizzie – This handle was also given to me while I was sitting on that trading desk (see Lizilla).  Everyone on the desk got a “y” sound at the end of their name.  Bobby, Stevie, Markey etc.  I don’t like to spell it with a Y so I spell it Lizzie.  The "big boss" at my company still calls me this.

Lizzie Lou – Not related to plain old Lizzie.  Long after our trading desk was removed from the firm, a coworker said she thought I looked like a Lizzie Lou.  Many years later and I’m still not sure what a Lizzie Lou looks like but that’s what she always called me.  Since it’s different and cute, I still use that for some of my screen names on the interwebs.  So, I guess it's only a nickname that I call myself.  Does that count?

No, I don’t get confused by having so many names.  I’ll answer to pretty much anything!

I wanna bitch about something.

As I say in the "About Me" section, I love some good beer or tequila (and wine too).

I don't have a drink every day but when I feel like it, I pop open a beer, pour a glass of wine, or have Angry make me a margarita (he makes a great one!).

Or, we visit our favorite local restaurant’s bar (and all our Facebook Friend bartenders) for Happy Hour.

I'm currently taking an antibiotic.  This antibiotic has a "severe" reaction to alcohol.  It is so severe that I can't even use mouthwash, cough syrup, or perfume.

Read that again. . . I can't put alcohol on. my. skin.

Needless to say, these 7 days that I’m on this medicine (and at least a couple of days after to let it work its way out of my system) suck.  Big time.

Like I said, I don't have a drink every day.  But since I know I can't, I've never wanted needed a beer so badly in my life.

Every time I go into the fridge those beer bottles are staring back at me as if they are daring me to open them.  I swear I heard “triple dog dare” last night as I was shutting the door.  I hate them right now.

Thanks for letting me bitch.  I hope I can survive until next Wednesday.  Wish me luck; I'm going to need it.

Thanks very much.

Thanksgiving is upon us once again.
 

I’m not sure if anyone cares but I'd like to tell you what I’m thankful for.

1.     I’m glad that my parents taught me:  right from wrong, to respect my elders, how to behave in public, how to treat others with respect, how not to judge a book by its cover, how to be honest, and many other things that make me a better person.

2.     I’m thankful that even though my Mom passed away in 1995, I feel like she’s with me every day.  That makes me stick to all the great things she taught me (see #1).

3.     I’m glad that my Dad is still around.  We drive each other insane constantly but I’ve sort of become his guardian since my Step-Mom passed away.  I’m glad for the opportunity to protect him when he needs it (she left him in quite a financial mess so he’s really needed it).

4.     I’m thankful to have great In-laws.  My Mother and Father-in-law treat me like their own daughter.  My Sister and Brother-in-laws are no different than if they’d been born in my family or me in theirs.  It’s nice to have another family to share good and bad times with.

5.     I’m glad that I have a great Step-Brother and a soon to be Step-Sister-in-law.  They are awesome people and so much fun to be with.  I only wish they didn’t live so far away.  I can’t wait to see them get married next year!

6.     I’m thankful that I have pets.  It’s great to be greeted at the door every night by my two goofball cats.  They want to be picked up and held and they want to sit on our laps.  They love us no matter what we look like or how silly we are.

7.     I’m glad that while I’ve been diabetic for 37 years, I’m in good health.  I’ve got healthy kidneys, healthy eyes, and am in great control even though I’m overweight and am not a perfect eater or blood tester.

8.    I’m thankful that I got to go to college for a good education and that I have a job.  That lets me own a car and a house.  I may have too much credit card debt but I can pay my bills and am working to lower that debt.

9.   I’m glad for the friends I have.  They are a joy to talk to, to shop with, to eat out with, to laugh and cry with, and to share old memories with.

10. I’m most thankful for Angry.  As I’ve said before (here and here), I can’t imagine my life without that man.  He’s my rock, my best friend, my life.  While neither of us is perfect, we are perfect for each other.  I’m glad to have had him in my life for 22 years and that we’ve had a very happy and fun filled marriage for 20 of those years.  I love him more than words can say and I look forward to many more years together.

There are many more things that I am thankful for.  I’m just too lazy to spend the day typing them all.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone.  Don’t forget to think about what you are thankful for.

I'm going to be RICH!

Or so my fortunes told me.

I love fortune cookies (I've mentioned this before) and had some for a treat at lunch today.

First I read, "New financial resources will soon become available to you." 

I thought, "Yeah, right."

Then I opened the second one and read, "You will inherit a large sum of money."

Whoopee!

I guess I better get busy responding to those e-mail from some foreign country telling me that someone needs to get large sums of money to the US and I'm the only one that can help.  I will get paid handsomely.

They promised!

A major vacation crisis!

Also known as “get the hell over it.”

We were just in Mexico for a week at our favorite resort in Puerto Vallarta.

As our usual routine demanded required worked out, we had breakfast one morning and headed to the pool to relax and enjoy the day.  We got to the pool around 9 am.  Unfortunately, the Pool Bar doesn’t open until 11 am.  Why yes, I was ready for a drink at 9 am.  Don't judge.  Thank God Luckily, they have another bar a few hundred feet away (called the Pub Bar).  We like to start our days with a drink called Dirty Monkey.  It’s basically a shake made with brandy, Kahlua, cream, and bananas.  Quite a lovely way to work up to tequila.

Anyway, on to the crisis.

That particular morning I told Angry that I’d go to the bar to get our drinks when we overheard a couple discussing what they were going to get from the bar.  The woman wanted a Bloody Mary and the guy asked her to get him a mimosa.

She walked to the bar just in front of me.  I arrived and heard this conversation:

Bloody Mary Drinking Woman:  I need a Bloody Mary and a mimosa with lots of champagne and very little orange juice.

Sad Looking Bartender:  I’m sorry, we ran out of champagne and the next shipment should arrive in two or three hours.  I’m so sorry.

BMDW (in a flabbergasted voice):  Well, he certainly won’t drink a Bloody Mary.  What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

SLB:  Looked at her with questioning eyes.  Probably thinking, “Does she want me to answer that?”

BMDW:  Oh boy, I don’t know what he’ll want to drink now.  He wanted a mimosa (her voice steadily increasing to a high pitched whine).  If there’s no champagne, I don’t know what do to.

I wanted to say, “Hey lady, the bar is FILLED will different types of booze.  Brandy, rum, tequila, Kahlua, flavored schnapps, vodka, Galliano, gin, scotch, wine, and beer.  That’s a lot to choose from.  If there’s no champagne, why can’t you find one other thing he’d drink?  Plus, there is a huge list of frou-frou drinks you can order.”  However, I kept my trap shut.

She was so upset that she didn’t know what to say or do.  She stood there looking around in a panic as I ordered my drinks.  Her husband eventually made it to the bar and ordered something as I left.  I didn’t hear what it was though and now I’m curious.

I must say that if Angry asked me for a drink and they didn’t have what he wanted, I know him well enough to pick something else that he’d enjoy.  Obviously this was beyond her grasp.

I went back for another Dirty Money a short while later.  A different woman was at the bar asking for mimosas.

The conversation went like this:

Lady In Need Of Mimosas:  I need three mimosas. - NOTE: I'm not sure why she needed three as she was there alone.  I won't judge.

Hard Working Bartender:  We are out of champagne but should get some in about two hours.

LINOM:  Oh OK, I’ll come back in a couple of minutes then.

HWB:  No, I’ll have some in a couple of hours.  Two hours.

LINOM (quite loudly):  TWO HOURS!!??

HWB:  Si, two hours.  I’m sorry but we ran out and the truck won’t deliver until later.

LINOM:  Oh my GOD, what am I going to drink?

The bartender had the same look as before as if he was thinking, “Do you really want me to answer that?”

As she stood there looking panicked, I ordered my drinks, watched them being made, thanked the bartender, and began walking back to our pool chairs.  Meanwhile, she was still mumbling and grumbling about not knowing what to order.

Gosh, a major champagne crisis!  How terribly awful. 

Get the hell over it people and drink something else.

Must this really be a crisis?

Here's a story. . .

Of a lovely lady, who was bringing up three very lovey girls.

Whoops!  That’s not my story.  Sorry!


Let me tell you about something special in my life.

Twenty-two years ago, in August of 1989, I met a cute guy when I took a part time job at a grocery store.  I was finishing my last semester at college before I was to start student teaching.

I was a cashier and office “gal” and he did everything including bagging, cleaning, stocking, and other grocery store stuff.

This young man and I became friends while chatting on breaks or while he’d bag at my checkout lane.  We'd talk for a long time when he'd walk me to my car after our shifts to make sure I was safe.  We discussed music, movies, cars, our families, and our lives in general.

I started to think that maybe he “liked” me.  You know, boys in school pulling your ponytail “like.”  I decided that I’d ask him if he wanted to see the latest “Nightmare on Elm Street” movie (my treat) and he said yes.  The next day, he offered to buy dinner before the movie.

And true love was born.

We dated for about a year and then discussed marriage.  We shopped and bought an engagement ring.  He worked second shift in those days so I went and picked up my own engagement ring at the jewelry store when it was finished being sized.  He came to my parent’s house that night after work and proposed.  Well, sort of.  .  . I handed him the ring box and he handed it right back to me and said, “Here ya go.”  Why yes, he’s certainly a romantic!!

We wanted to pay for our own wedding so we decided to get married about a year later.  My Mom and I did all the planning since he wasn’t available in the evenings.  He trusted me to get it done in style.

November 2, 1991 arrived and we sealed the deal.


Our 20^th anniversary was spent in Mexico last Wednesday so I didn’t get to blog about my wonderful husband.

He’s not perfect but he’s perfect for me.  We fit together like two peas in a pod.

He is the person I want to be with for a million more years.  He’s the person that takes care of me.  He is my drinking buddy.  He’s the one that always shares with me even if it is the last candy bar in the house.  He is the one that lets me cry about stupid stuff.  He’s the one that holds my hand when we are at the shopping mall.  He is the one that lets me carry on about ANYTHING when I’m happy, or sad, or mad about something.  He’s the one that makes sure I have what I need when I’m sitting on the couch and say something like, “Damn, I’m thirsty.”  He's the one that makes me a kick ass margarita when I say I need one.  He is the one that makes me giggle (and then tells me how he loves to hear me laugh).  He’s the one that comforts me when I have a terrifying nightmare at 2 am due to low blood sugar.

He is the one that I can’t imagine being without.

My life is better because of him.  My life is happier because of him.  My life is funnier because of him.  My life is more complete because of him.

Here's my Angry (in Mexico last week).  My love.  My best friend. 

I love this guy!

Honey, I love you with all my life.  I hope you remember that every time you think of me.  Happy Anniversary!

Did ya miss me?

I was on vacation in Mexico.  Hope someone actually missed me!!

I've got some blogs "in the works" so I'll be getting them posted as soon as I can.

Ouch! That hurt.

When my Mom and Dad rented the lower portion of a duplex from my Grandma, she became my day care (they moved in right after I was born).  It was a great arrangement and I loved spending that time with her as I was growing up.

My Grandma was a gardener extraordinaire. Our yard was filled with beautiful flowers and plants.  Her specialty was roses.  She loved them and spent many, many hours tending to her rose bushes.  They were incredible to see.  Even as a small child, I understood how special and beautiful they were.

I, as most young kids, had a swing set when I was about 4 or 5 years old.  I loved that thing and spent a lot of time on it.

The scene of the crime.

Something interesting happened one day.  I can remember it like it took place yesterday.

I was goofing around on one of the swings and I fell off backwards.  Into. A. Giant. Rose. Bush.

Ouch!  I tried to get out but every move I made hurt worse and worse as I got scratched and stabbed by thorns!  I was like a turtle that was upside down on its shell.  Picture my arms and legs flailing around with no way to get upright.

I started shouting, “Grandma!”  “Grandma!”  Over and over but she didn’t come for what seemed like forever.  In reality, it was probably more like a couple of minutes.

She finally came out the door and said “What’s up Honey?  I was on the phone with your Aunt.”  Suddenly, her eyes opened wide as she realized I was trapped in the rose bush.

I got yanked out and she spent the next few minutes plucking thorns from the back of my arms and legs.

Another non-deadly childhood mishap.  While it didn’t kill me, I did have a bunch of tiny scabs on my arms and legs for a while!

More ranting. Can't anyone behave?

Angry and I go to a tanning salon.   We use it year round because it helps the psoriasis on my hands and arms.  We use it more often when we are getting ready for vacation (which we are doing right now).

Our salon is currently doing construction to enlarge.  Thus, you have to wait for a booth to open just about every time you go.  We use the vertical (stand up) booths which are located in rooms right next to the lobby.  You can tell when the booths turn on and off and can hear the radios that are attached to those booths.

When we went last night, we requested the stand ups and sat down to wait.  Meanwhile, there was a woman waiting to use one of the booths we wanted.  It emptied, was cleaned, and she was told she could go ahead and use it.

She heads into the room and takes a phone call.  We can hear her talking (with the other caller on speaker!).  She kept talking, and talking, and talking.  Gee, how about you get your ass into the tanning booth so those of us that are waiting can take our turns?  She would have heard us ask for the stand up booths so she was well aware that people were waiting.  She finally hangs up the phone but spends several minutes tuning the radio to several different stations.  Hey lady, you are going to be in there for 10 lousy minutes; pick a station and get in there!

When the booth turned off, she spent extra time tuning the radio some more while she got dressed.  GET OUT!  People are waiting their turn!

I think I may be turning into that angry old person who tells the kids to “get off my lawn.”  Maybe I wouldn’t be so pissed off if people actually behaved themselves!

Why did they bother?

Angry and I went to see Bryan Adams on Friday for his Bare Bones tour.  He does his set with his guitar and harmonica.  He also has a piano player with him.  We both love his songwriting and his music.  His voice is awesome and his attitude with the fans is great!!  He is very talkative and tells some great stories during the show.

This, however, is not a review of his show.

This is a rant.  Ready?  Go!!

There were four young ladies in front of us at the show.  I’d say they were in their late 20s or very early 30s.  They talked, and talked, and talked all through the entire show.  Not whispering, talking.  Talking during the music, talking during Bryan Adams’ storytelling, talking during times of quiet guitar playing, talking during piano solos.  Yap yap yappity yap.  They even talked after I whispered “Shut the fuck up.”

We were in the 5^th row.  That means they were in the 4^th row.  That means that Bryan Adams had to have heard them during quiet moments of the show.  I would think this had to have been distracting for him.  It was for me.

Why would they bother to pay good money to see a show and talk through the entire thing?  If they wanted to listen to music and gab, they should have stayed home and turned on the radio.

I paid to hear one of my favorite singers and songwriters.

I didn’t pay to hear them talk!

A very strong memory!

Just now, I was sitting in my office at work singing along to the radio.

The song was Billy Joel's "It's Still Rock And Roll To Me."  One of my favorite songs (and popular when I was a teenager).

Singing along to this song brought back a strong memory of using a cassette recorder to TAPE this song from the radio.  My BFF at the time and I would listen, and listen, and listen some more to try to figure out all the lyrics.  We'd scribble them down in a notebook and correct them until we were satisfied that we had them right.  Then, we'd play the tape over and over and sing along like we were rock stars.  I'm sure we were annoying as hell.

Let's see. . .

·       No CDs - You had to buy a cassette tape (or an album). If you were broke like we were, you taped most of your music off the radio. You’d spend a lot of time trying to do it without the DJ talking at the beginning or end of a song. 

·       No Walkman - Those things did come out right about that time but they were expensive. We did take the tape recorder outside to listen if we were in the back yard. That was our version of “music on the go.” 

·       No MP3 players - YIKES! That technology probably wasn’t even in anyone’s brain at that point. The Walkman was innovative for cripes sake. 

·       No Internet to download songs - You wanted music? You bought a cassette (or an album) if you had the money. Taping music from the radio was our version of Itunes or Napster. 

·       No Internet to look up lyrics - You got your lyrics from an album, cassette, or using the method I described above. That's where all the websites that show "mistaken" lyrics come from. We were guessing while listening to the radio all those years.

I just wrote about things that make me feel old.

This may just top that list!

Things that make me feel old.

I’m in my mid-40s.  I’m proud that I made it this far.  Since I’m in a happy place with my life, I’d like to make it at least as many more years.  I don’t consider myself old.  Old to me is when you are in your 90s.  When I hit that time in my life, I’ll think old is when you are 150.

Notwithstanding, there are things that make me FEEL old:

• Seeing the “you must be born on this date in 1990” calendars in bars.  Yikes!  You have to be born in 1990 to buy booze?  I had graduated college by then (and was already old enough to drink).  Damn.

• My calling CDs “albums.”  I always say, out of habit, “I love that new album by Bryan Adams.”  While vinyl albums are still produced, it seems that only collectors buy them.  I guess those fancy CDs are the new-fangled thing out today.

• Hearing songs that were popular when I was in high school on the Classic Rock station.  Classic Rock?  Isn’t that stuff like The Beatles, The Who, or The Rolling Stones?  You know, stuff that was made before I was born by artists that are older than dirt now.

• Seeing my oldest nieces become “adults.”  They turned 22, 19, and 17 this year.  How the hell did this happen?  The 22 year old was 2 when I got married.  The 19 year old was still in mommy’s tummy.  Slow the hell down you guys!

• Saying “those darn kids” about those darn kids who are hanging out in malls, in my neighborhood, etc.  We were at a local mall a while ago and some kids were shouting and pushing and shoving each other.  I said to Angry, “Those darn kids don’t know how to behave in public these days.”  Whoops, maybe I AM old?

• Having hot flashes.  They suck.  That’s all I need to say about that.

• Having to go to bed early.  I can remember staying up past 2 am several nights a week (if not every night).  I’d be able to get up and go to work the next day and feel just fine.  Now, I’m lucky if I can stay up past 9 pm and not feel like crap at work.  Hope I’m not missing too much!

I just threw this list together. I’m sure I could come up with a lot more stuff if I really thought about it. Maybe my mind isn’t working too well today. Isn’t that what “they” say? Something to the effect of, the mind is the first thing to go when you get old.  Hmmm. . .

Really? You had to do that?

Do NOT cross the street if you have a don't walk sign (that's the big orange hand in case you were wondering!).  Especially in a busy Downtown intersection with traffic coming at you (and me waiting to make a right turn).

This means you stay on your side of the street!

And, if you decide to be the dumbass who does that; don't walk so slowly that everyone has to wait forever to get through the intersection.

That is all.

How did I NOT get killed (or at least sustain an injury)?

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time with my cousins (remember, I was an only child).  We don’t speak anymore (maybe I’ll blog about that sometime) but back then, we were best friends.  We were together constantly.  All but one was older than me but we all considered ourselves pretty equal.  We played hard.  We probably almost killed ourselves many times and should have been, at the very least, maimed.

One of our favorite games to play was Kill The Guy Football.  We used a sidewalk as one end zone and a tree as the other.  If you somehow got possession of the football, heaven help you.  You ran as fast as you could and hoped to hell no one caught you.  If you were caught, you were subject to whatever they could come up with to remove that football from your hands.  That could include punching, kicking, hair pulling, tripping, elbowing the head or ribs, or knocking the person head over heels.  Often, we used several of those moves at the same time to get the ball.  If you were “lucky” and made it to an end zone that was just as painful.  Try diving face first onto a sidewalk and let me know how that works out for you!

Another favorite was Violence Basketball.  That game was basically the same as Kill The Guy except using a different ball.  This was often an indoor game (in the basement) so you had obstacles to navigate.  It was always a thrill to slam full speed into a washing machine or dryer.  Baskets of laundry were fun though because the clothes would fly all over and confuse your opponents.  You’d run for your life and hope that the “violence” wasn't going to be too painful.  You got caught hurt more often in this game because you had to were supposed to dribble the ball.

We also played Detective.  We’d be Starsky & Hutch, Baretta, Kojak, and occasionally the girls would be Charlie’s Angels (without a Charlie to boss us around).  Now, we were all “good guys” but we’d beat the hell out of each other to solve crimes.  Don’t ask me how that worked.  An arrest consisted of getting knocked to the ground and having someone sit on your back and pretend to put handcuffs on (while wrenching your arms backwards).  You’d hope to get caught on the grass and not on the sidewalk or in the alley.  Then, you were interrogated.  None of that bright light in your face from the detective shows, no way.  You'd get sprayed in the face with the hose or you were subjected to some sort of physical punishment until you confessed (to something).  Often, you’d get the nerve between your shoulder and your neck pinched.  Pinched real hard.

I’m not sure, as I look back now, how we survived.  Without broken bones.  Without concussions.  Without ever having to go to the ER.

We did survive.  And we had a blast doing it!

Toilet Etiquette Number 2

Get it?  Number 2?  I crack myself up.

Anyway. . .  Yesterday I gave you some rules for the bathroom.  I spoke to Angry last night and asked him if men behaved any better.  He thinks they are probably worse.  He’s obviously not been in some of the ladies rooms I’ve been in.

According to Angry, here are rules for you men to follow:

ü  When at the urinal, keep your eyes straight ahead.  Don’t sneak a peek at anyone else’s “nasty bits.”  You may not actually be doing this but it looks like you are.

ü  The urinal is not the place for a conversation.  Shut up and pee already.

ü  Do NOT throw garbage into the urinal.  Where do you think it’s going?  The small drainage holes do not allow your trash to get flushed.  Garbage cans are there for a reason.

ü  If you pee in the stall, lift up the damn toilet seat.  Don’t leave yellow droplets all over it.  Someone may actually have to sit down on that thing.

ü  Don’t paint poop graffiti in the stalls.  Who does this?  What the hell is the matter with them?  That’s rude nasty sickening.  Um, I changed my mind.  Men behave way worse than women!

Obviously, men need to follow some of the rules I listed yesterday.  Here they are in case you are too lazy to go back and read that post:

ü  Don’t talk on you cell phone in the stall.  Potty time is personal.  Keep the phone in your pocket.  What about the germs?  What do you think’s on your phone now that you used it in a public restroom stall?  Not a pleasant thought.

ü  Don’t try to hide out and smoke in a stall.  Wisconsin has a smoking ban in all public buildings.  It’s the law.  No one wants to smell like your ashtray.

ü  Flush the toilet.  Every time.  Why is there yellow or, heaven forbid, brown stuff in the bowl?  The handle is right there so use it!  This goes for the urinal as well.  No one wants to see your "debris."

ü  Wash your hands!  Every time.  Why would anyone use the bathroom and leave without using soap?  Someone is going to have to use that handle that your pee (or poop) hands just touched.  That’s uncivilized.

Men, memorize these and we’ll all be much happier!