Pole dancers need to eat, too ... I guess.

I love that when I look out my back door, I see this:

But as beautiful and majestic as it is, it just looks plain naked when its peaks aren’t blanketed in snow, like this:

  Ahh ... that's better.

-I get that there are older (55+) women out there who still have their young-ish figures and are eager to show them off.  But please, for the love, when you're out in public -- like say, for example, at my neighborhood grocery store--leave the pole dancer outfits at home, hanging from the POLE IN YOUR CLOSET.  The fact that you can still fit into it does not mean that it still goes with your face ... if it ever did.

-I get really happy inside when I see cute little elderly couples taking walks together, arm in arm.  I can't help but think that it's a preview of what Rick and I will be doing in a few ... er ... several years.  Forget about Brangelina or Bill and Hillary -- I think we all know who the REAL power couples are.

-I’m seriously considering taking Tuesdays off so I can stay in my pajamas and watch the “Law & Order: SVU” marathon that runs on the USA network every week.   Yes, I love it that much.  And I still want to be Detective Olivia Benson when I grow up.  Major girl crush.

-The other night, as I was frantically trying to do the dishes and cook dinner, my kids came running in the house, excitedly yelling, “There’s a rainbow!  There’s a rainbow!  Come see it!”  My inclination was to give them the standard mom line:  “Just a minute.   I need to finish this first.”  But I opted to stop what I was doing and go check out the rainbow.  It was a small thing that made them happy.  I’ve decided that however urgent the task, it’s always best to drop what I’m doing to “see the rainbow.”  Dishes and laundry and messes are perpetual .  Rainbows and kids are fleeting.

-I always hear people say that they can’t function before their morning cup of coffee.  Since I don’t drink coffee, does this mean that I shouldn’t be expected to do ANYTHING?  EVER?   I’m down with that.

-I don't think I'd make a very good man.  Whenever possible, I try to put at least one stall between me and the other women in a public restroom.  I have a thing about performing bodily functions with a stranger sitting so close to me.

-Nancy Grace was in my mirror again this morning and I am NOT happy about it.

Shocking Mirror Revelations and Other Random Thoughts

• This morning, while getting ready for work, I looked in the mirror and was shocked to see Nancy Grace looking back at me.  I think I’m going to quit poofing my hair. 

• On Facebook, why do people comment on celebrities’ statuses?  Like the Pioneer Woman.  I’m a fan of her page, but when she posts something, she gets about 300,000 comments.   Do you think she’s reading them?  Do you think your comment is going to jump up and impress the daylights out of her?  Not gonna happen.  She is WAY above you.   You may as well be talking to yourself  … kind of like what I’m doing right now.

• School carnivals are a racket.  I remember when my younger siblings went to charter school and my mom would just write a check at the beginning of the year.  That was it.  No fundraisers.   Why can’t they just do that in public schools instead of mugging us a couple times a year via bounce houses, fishing ponds,  and over-priced, cold pizza?  My neighbors and I decided that we’re going to hold our own carnival right in front of our houses at the park.  When people ask what we’re raising funds for, we’ll just tell them we were long overdue for a good pedicure and wardrobe upgrade.    

• I know that drinking lots of water every day is really good for me, but I’m conflicted over the benefits vs. the pain in the butt of having to get up and go to the bathroom every 20 minutes. 

• I’m really afraid of pressure cookers.  Always have been.  I don’t trust anything that hisses at me when I touch it, especially when extreme heat and potential combustion are involved.  When my ex insisted on taking it in the divorce, I didn’t fight him on it. 

• I don’t get the popularity of most of the female singers and/or bands these days.    There seem to be two styles on the radio lately:  I’m-in-love-so-I’m-gonna-whine-and-then-kill-myself … or … talentless-oversexed-gonna-seduce-you-with-my-meat-dress.  If I had my way, Katy Perry, Pink, Lady Gag Me, Adele, the Band Perry, and that Bieber chick would all just disintegrate into a fine powder.

• Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep because I’m being haunted by some dumb and/or embarrassing thing I did 15 years ago, or in high school.  You’re probably wondering, “Like what?”  But I’m hesitant to provide examples.

• I like comments. A lot.

Happiness is ...

... being 40 years old and going on your first overnight camping trip ... ever.  Yes, I said "ever."  Rather ironic that I escaped my sheltered existence by moving to Utah, eh?

... being 40 years old and going on your first overnight camping trip with your "new" family.

... watching your boys discover the joy of covering themselves in soot and dirt from head to toe without mommy getting mad about it.

... nearly being set on fire twice by a five year old waving around a flaming, giant marshmallow on a stick.

... sitting by the campfire a few minutes later with that same five year old curled up in a ball and snoring on your lap.

 ... teaching two giggly little girls how to pee into cups so they don't pee all over themselves.

... carefully peeing into a cup and peeing all over yourself anyway.  Twice.  (Photos omitted for your eye safety. You're welcome.)

... seeing two little boys get uber excited over things like big sticks and looking at the side of the mountain through binoculars and whizzing all over trees.

Don't ask about the eyes.  It's his thing.

... having four little kids who are happy because they get to do simple things like cook hot dogs outside, roast marshmallows, drink hot chocolate, and sleep under the stars in a tent.

... having a wonderful husband who makes kids happy by cooking their hot dogs, building a fire for their marshmallows, heating up water for their hot chocolate, and setting up their tent.

...coming home to the world's softest mattress and hottest shower.

Manilow, Mayo, Mormons and the Mafia

Earlier today, I was sitting at an intersection waiting for the light to turn green.  As I waited, I felt that familiar rumbling in my chest and rattling of the rearview mirror that occur when one of those cars with the bass-thumping stereos pulls up alongside.  I was looking around me and in my mirrors trying to determine who the thoughtful fellow driver was so that I could decide which direction to point my special finger at them when the light finally changed. 

I saw the little silver Toyota with the two, white, grandma-ish women inside.  

Probably not them.

I saw the gas guzzling pickup with the big, burly, unshaven driver and the ladder and shovels in the back.  

Not so much him, either.

Then I saw the big, pimped-out, shiny SUV with the half-open sun roof.  The driver was a hispanic male with a mostly-shaved head donning some very black shades.   

Jackpot. 

As traffic started moving and said SUV drove past me, speakers a-thumpin',  I learned that my assumption was correct.  Shocker.

This got me thinking about a recent post I made on my Facebook wall where I was nervy enough to make note of the fact that our president, for the mere fact that he is a black person, would probably like stuff like watermelon, corn bread, and fried chicken.  

I know:  GASP ... EXCLAMATION POINT!  

"What do these two seemingly unrelated events have to do with one another," one might ask?  Hmm.

I looked around at a group of drivers on the road and determined--based solely on what I observed--that the Mexican-looking guy in the SUV was most likely the one with the annoyingly loud speakers. YES, I just said "Mexican-looking."  "Mexican" is not a derogatory term, regardless of what the Left would try and make you believe.   It's a nationality.  If someone called me Canadian looking because my skin is a bright white hue that could only be the result of being raised in the Great White North (sadly, it's true), I'd likely correct them, but I wouldn't be offended.  My mother, whose soul is whiter than June Cleaver and Sarah Palin combined, is regularly mistaken for a Mexican due to her dark hair and slightly olive complexion.  And it's all OK.  Promise.  


So does my correct assumption about the stereo make me a racist?  Or does this simply mean that I've not yet fallen victim to the line of thinking that has made people terrified of acknowledging that there are REAL differences in races and cultures?   The liberal Left claims to have mastered diversity and tolerance, yet it is they who create division by making the rest of us feel as though the mere mention of our differences is some kind of hate crime worthy of the death penalty.   

Oh wait.  That's not entirely true.  Non-whites have carte blanche (pun sort of intended) on poking fun at the white race and culture.  White people can't dance.  White people got no skeeeelz on the court.  White people love the light rock stations.    

What's so very puzzling to me is that the Left has deemed themselves judge and jury in terms of what's funny and what's not.  If it's funny to them, you're allowed to laugh.  If it's unfunny to them and they deem it offensive, you are a racist and a homophobe for even daring to say it or think it.   Oh, and you have no sense of humor. What are the rules for what's offensive and what's funny?  Don't ask me.  I'm a conservative.  I have no say in these matters. Furthermore, it seems I have no sense of humor, either.   So to all my friends who think I'm funny:  Quit that.  You're wrong.  

Now, please brace yourself (especially if you are a liberal), because I am about to type something that is going to turn your world upside down and get your panties in a painfully twisted bunch.   

There is nothing in the world wrong with stereotypes.

Go ahead:  GASP ... EXCLAMATION POINT!

Stereotypes exist because groups--races, cultures, individuals--live up to them.  The notion that white people love light rock stations does not exist because someone made it up out of their hatred for white folk.  It exists because it is often, though not always, THE TRUTH.  Can all of you clearly-thinking people wrap your minds around this concept?   More panty-twisting shockers for you:

Gays like Barry Manilow.  (I learned that by watching Will and Grace, the foremost authority on what gays like)

Mexicans like to put mayonnaise on everything.  (Ask anyone who's spent any time there)

Chinese people mix up their R's and their L's.  (Dear liberal friends:  In one of my favorite movies of all time, A Christmas Story, this fact is hilariously portrayed by the Chinese waiters whose version of "Deck the Halls" comes out as "fa-ra-ra-ra-ra----ra-ra-ra-raaa."   Am I allowed to think that's funny or is that on the offensive list now?  I really can't keep up with the hourly changes to the rules).

Mormons love green Jell-o salad and parties with free food.  (I AM a Mormon.  Don't even try to argue this one with me)


Italians kill people. (Have you NEVER seen The Godfather?  Good Fellas?)

While these statements aren't necessarily true of every member of these groups, they certainly hold true for a major portion, with the exception of the Italians stereotype.  I'm pretty sure it's only the New York and Chicago Italians who go around killing people.  

To point out cultural differences is not racist.  To acknowledge stereotypes is not racist.   For one to believe that he is far superior to another simply because of his race is absolutely and without question racist.  There IS a difference.  

So please, people, get a grip on your politically correct, superduperhyper-sensitivities run amok.    Just crank some Barry Manilow on the Hi-Fi and relax with a bowl of green Jell-o salad.   I myself will be tuned in to the local light rock station and working on my moon walk.  

Sorry I'm not sorry.

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The Naked Truth About Doggy Fashions

Dear Otherwise Sane and Savvy People,

Why do you put clothes on your dogs?  It's not cute.  It's creepy.  

Dogs do not care about clothes.  They have practically no fashion sense.  What they DO have, however, is a head-to-toe fur coat that is NOT meant to be covered up by a Schnauzer-sized, beaded, ripped up, off-the-shoulder Flashdance t-shirt with four matching ballet slippers.

This is wrong.   Very wrong.   It's the equivalent of us humans wearing fur coats as underwear.

Dogs are not naked.  Not ever.  They do not need clothing.  They have no awareness of their "nudity," nor do they care.  

Ever seen a dog lift his leg to pee on...well...just about any stationary object, with his goods hanging out for everyone within eye-shot to see?   Of COURSE you have!  Did he seem embarrassed that you saw him that way?  Of COURSE he didn't!  Any creature who will get his jollies on your leg, poop in your front yard, then come inside and lick himself clean at your feet while you try to eat your dinner is not the least bit concerned with modesty or societal expectations.  Promise.

So, to you wonderful and perhaps slightly off balance ladies (or homosexual men) who love your pets:  If you REALLY love them,  please stop embarrassing them--and your poor husbands (or life partners) who are forced to parade them around the neighborhood on a diamond studded leash--by making them wear tutus and tiaras.  

Sincerely,

Proud owner of a perfectly well-adjusted, naked hamster

p.s. Sorry I'm not sorry

The Bread of Life

I've been on a weight loss journey for a while now.

Around 28 years or so.

So I'm an expert.

When it comes to dropping pounds, the concept is pretty basic:  Calories in-calories out.  Expend more than you consume.   How you eat those calories doesn't really matter so much, at least as it relates to weight loss.  Of course, eating 1,500 calories per day in orange cocaine (aka Cheetos) is not going to provide you with much in the way of nutrients, but a person CAN lose weight eating like that.

Armed with that solid bit of knowledge, I've decided that my newest fat busting endeavor is going to involve toast.  Lots of toast.  Maybe nothing BUT toast.

This guy speaks to me:



My comfort food bestie isn't ice cream or warm chocolate cake or pizza or Twinkies, though I fully admit that I like those things.  When the kids are all tucked in and it's time to self-medicate, I'm all about the bread, baby.

Yeah, toast!

Whole grain goodness, warmed to perfection and topped with melting butter.  Does it get any better?

I realize the OTHER health "experts" out there may take issue with my approach, but really, what do THEY know?  How can they even call themselves experts?  Have THEY been trying and failing at weight loss for 28 years?  I, on the other hand, have tons of experience in this area.

Literally. Tons.

This business of trying to eat a well-balanced diet hasn't worked out so well for me to this point.  If people--and I use that term loosely here--like Lindsey Lohan can survive on nothing but booze and...well...MORE booze, I'm wondering if all that junk about fruits and vegetables and protein isn't just a bunch of media hype.

Perhaps, like Miss Lohan,  I'll just pick one thing that I really, really like and stick with that.

Yeah, toast!

...and chocolate milk.  Oh all right, TWO things.

Sorry I'm not sorry.

And the eyes have it

Day seven:  The lost boy

Day seven's post is essentially a continuation of day six.

My youngest son and I had an incident today while shopping which very nicely illustrates the point I was trying to make in my last post.

Parenting is painful.

Today's hurt brought to you by:  irresponsible mothering and a very naughty four year old who, by the way, is incredibly handsome with big blue eyes and even bigger eyelashes and is my baby and therefore can do just about anything he wants.

I may have sort of accidentally misplaced him at the store today.  But it was only for like 8 minutes. 

Like YOU have never done that.

When I realized he had disappeared, I sent his three older, more obedient siblings out on search party duty.  It quickly became apparent that it was time for mommy to panic.   And panic she did.  

Of course, it wasn't until I had combed every last inch of the store for several terrifying, stroke-inducing minutes that I found him, with one of the store clerks, near the front entrance.  Isn't that always the way it goes?  The lost kid is always in the last place you look.  The woman was obviously interrogating him, but for once he was minding his mother and refusing to talk to any stranger who endeavored to try and help him.  

Upon further investigation, I found out that he had first been spotted in the electronics section, crying and looking lost.  Keep in mind, this was the opposite end of the store from where the rest of his family was shopping.  The next sighting was...

...wait for it...

...wait for it...

...wait for it...

In. The. PARKING LOT!  A nice man (thank you, Lord, for letting that man NOT be a homicidal pedophile), had found him wandering around outside--on a SATURDAY--busiest day of the week--looking for his mommy.  He was kind enough to bring him inside and alert the store employees.  

This kid is like a foot tall, for crying out loud!  And weaving in and out of weekend shopper traffic like a midget with a death wish!  

Guardian angels saved him in the parking lot.  But once he got inside and his mommy got a hold of him, it was those big, blue eyes that saved him from a good neck wringing.  Mommy was more interested in hugging his neck at that point.  Score another one for the peepers.

Rest assured, the boy got a good talking-to about all of this when he got home.  When I finished my rant and ended it with the million dollar question, "GOT IT?" he promptly looked up at me with his baby blues and responded with a very timid, "got it."   

He's now sitting at the counter blissfully enjoying a bowl of homemade ice cream.  He deserves a treat.  He had a hard day after all.

Sorry I'm not sorry.  Scratch that.  For this one, I AM sorry.  I hope the little man won't need TOO much more therapy after the events of today.  Maybe we'll get the group rate.