Birthday Randomness

I’ve given up ever being able to work cellophane.  It’s just a mess every time.

I’m 40  41 years old. Shouldn’t I have more money?

I really can’t wrap my brain around the band Daughtry.  How many times can you take the same song and release it with a different title before the radio stations catch on?

I’m sorry, but I think it’s weird when married couples share email accounts.   Almost as weird as when they wear matching outfits.

At what point did I stop caring about my own birthdays?  I suspect, like everything else, it’s something I can blame on having children.

Why do pumpkin shirts at Halloween only look good on skinny people?  That makes no sense to me.

You know how people sometimes have weird, irrational fears?  Meet one of mine.  These local chicks just creep me out.  Zumba-teaching twins with corn rows.  Once, they did a promo where they stood on horse’s backs and did Zumba moves.  Zumba-teaching, horse-mounting twins with corn rows.  But why?   I couldn’t even stand to watch the video.  It scared me.

                

 

I really want to stop doing everything I do for like three whole days and see what happens.  No dishes, no laundry, no helping with homework.  Just sitting on the couch and watching things fall apart before my eyes.  Is it wrong that I'd be disappointed if the world didn't come to a screeching halt?

I hate it when I walk in the bathroom in my bare feet and step in something wet.

Way grateful for gal pals.  Mine are particularly amazing and awesome.

More random thoughts: toes, the Ingalls family, and narcissism

If I were a well-known public speaker, I would probably succumb to the temptation to quote myself on a regular basis.

I get a really big kick out of toes.  They’re funny.  Some people just have really funky looking feet.  Growing up, my parents always teased me by calling me "monkey toes."  I'll let you be the judge:  Were my parents mean ... or just honest?

When I see people roll through stop signs at intersections where school kids are running around on all sides of them, I want to ram them with my car.  Yes, bluish-green-minivan mom, I’m talking to YOU.

Earlier today I told a student at work that I rarely have an opinion about anything.  I could barely keep a straight face, but I think he bought it.

I don’t know if there’s anything more strikingly beautiful than snow on the mountains in autumn.  All of the colors come together like buttah.  The combination of greens, golds, reds, and the white of the snow against the backdrop of a crisp, blue sky and puffy white clouds is just candy for the eyes.   I will NEVER complain about fall snow. 

Doesn't it seem logical that eating foods with tons of preservatives would keep us young?

Once, JUST ONCE, why can’t Charles and Caroline Ingalls catch a break?  If I had a nickel for every time they ALMOST cashed in a big crop or ALMOST made a fortune off of a business venture, I’d have … well … WAY more nickels than the Ingalls family.

It really bugs me when people say that some relatively minor inconvenience in their lives is “the worst thing EVER.”  Really, locking your keys in your car or getting a bad haircut is the worst thing ever?  I hope nothing TRULY terrible ever happens to you.

Short but Sweet Randomness

I have a calendar, an alarm, and a notepad on my smart phone, but I still prefer to write my reminder lists on my hand.

With all of the water and soap, how is it that my shower is the most disgustingly dirty place in my house?

Cancer scares the crap out of me.  I’ve known a few people who have fought it and won, and a few who have lost their battle.  All are amazingly courageous to me. 

I love The Biggest Loser.  I hate The Biggest Loser.  How can something be so wonderfully inspiring and so downright discouraging all at once?

I really love co-op stuff like carpooling, babysitting, and Bunco … except when it’s my turn.

I’m all for helping my children discover their talents, but if my daughter plucks out “Jingle Bells” on her viola one more time, I’m going to pluck my EYES out.

I'm a big fan of shopping the generics, but there are certain things you just don't skimp on, like toilet paper.  And cheese.  And hair products.

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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