Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Prison Love

Charles Manson, nutball and serial killing mastermind, is engaged to be married. He is serving a life sentence in prison, and is eighty years old. Count them... eighty. His lovely fiancĂ©, “Star”, is twenty six years old. She got in touch with her dreamboat when she was seventeen, and moved near his California prison in 2007. I know teenagers rebel. The eye-rolling and general bitchiness I experienced with my kids (and apparently also took part in during my own teen years) was sort of awful. This story makes me pretty grateful that nobody moved near a prison to be with their soulmate. THAT’s rebelling on a whole new level. Star resembles one of Manson’s former minions. Coincidence? She thinks her lookalike was a whack job. Seriously??? I guess it’s normal for a woman in her twenties to fall in love with an eighty year old killer serving a life sentence. Perhaps it was the swastika carved on his forehead. I suppose carvings can be a turn on, like long walks on the beach or washboard abs. There will be no conjugal visits (thank God). Star and Manson are allowed a hug before and after each visit. Ick... killer cooties. Star thinks Manson is innocent and says she is going to get him freed. Hmmm... he has been in prison for over 40 years, almost twice as long as Star has been alive. Her taste in men really sucks. I had many crushes in my youth. Some were nimrods and douchebags, and many didn’t know I was alive. My most infamous crush happened when I was three years old - pianist and all-around fabulous entertainer Liberace. He had a TV show that came on right before cartoons. I was smitten, or maybe was dazzled by the boas and bling. Liberace was over-the-top gay and probably older than my parents. But in my defense, he hadn’t murdered anyone. I hope instead of giving the newlyweds a toaster or crock pot, someone gives Star a gift card for some serious counseling. Maybe there’s hope for her.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

A New Toaster

Our toaster died on Friday, so on Saturday I went in search of a new one. I armed myself with several store coupons and headed out to the mall. I was on a serious mission. My first stop was Bed Bath & Beyond. It was hard not to be distracted by the huge amount of merchandise. I saw some “as seen on TV” stuff, which included the 3-Way Poncho with Suzanne Somers on the package. The TV commercial for the poncho almost caused my husband to get whiplash as he wandered into the kitchen one night. A sultry voice saying the words “3 Way”. Too bad for him it was just a fat-hiding hunk of material. But I digress. While perusing the aisles at BB&B, I found a 20% off coupon on the floor. I ended up buying a bath mat and using the found coupon. Score! I wonder if I will start to get coupons in the mail addressed to somebody named Omari. Hmmm. My next stop was Macy’s. As I headed to the toaster area, I was waylaid by an aggressive saleswoman. She was demonstrating Nespresso coffee machines and was insistent that I listen to her schpiel. I declined, but she did a body block and opened a little drawer in her display to show me all the colorful little coffee pods. I said no again, and had to step around her to get away. Sheesh! My final destination was JC Penney. I went downstairs to Housewares and spotted the toasters. Unfortunately, there was an old guy wearing Duck Dynasty camo pants blocking my view. He was looking very intently at each toaster... slowly, ever-so-slowly. By this time, I didn’t want to play any more. I just wanted a damn toaster. Camo Pants Guy kept looking at me, like he wanted to discuss the choices we both faced. Due to not wanting to bond, I was forced to quickly make my choice. When I left to pay, Camo Pants Guy was still looking at the toasters. Maybe he just wanted a new best friend but it wasn’t going to be me. In hind sight, I should have told CPG that Macy’s had AWESOME toasters, as well as a very eager saleswoman nearby who could answer all his questions. Tee hee...

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Sweaty Man Ghost

My house has a mischievous jewelry gremlin. Occasionally, it will steal one earring. Eventually, I will find the missing piece in a place that it couldn’t have gotten to on its own. This gremlin is very annoying, but hasn’t bothered me in a couple years. Last month, I was carrying my clothes and earrings from the hall closet (where my stuff resides) to my bedroom. This journey is mere feet, as the closet and my bedroom are across the hall from each other. When I arrived in my room to get dressed, I realized I was missing an earring. I went back and looked but couldn’t find it. I shook out shoes, moved stuff, turned back the hall rug, and searched my bedroom. The next time I vacuumed, I kept my ears peeled for the sound of a PLINK. Nothing, zip, nada. The damn gremlin had struck! During this time, I had experienced a new ghosty-ghost sensation in my bathroom. When on or near the toilet, I could smell what seemed to me was a sweaty man. It was so strange. I even checked out my own armpits, in case I was the sweaty man. My daughter was at the house and I asked her to come into the bathroom to see if she thought our toilet smelled like a sweaty man. She declined. Go figure. It was at that point I wondered if Sweaty Man Ghost was my jewelry gremlin. At last it had a name! I implored him to give back my earring and hit the road. A couple days later the smell was gone. Wow! Maybe I was onto something. Had I released a stinky spirit that had been waiting around for the big heave ho? I felt like maybe I had done the spirit world a service. This morning, I re-checked my jewelry drawer for the umpteenth time and found my missing earring. It was in a corner where I doubt I could have dropped it. Perhaps Sweaty Man Ghost had left it there, in gratitude for his release. Then again, the smell is back. Maybe SMG didn’t really want to leave. He can stay as long as he keeps his smelly mitts off my jewelry. Also, the shower is right there, so maybe he should think about a little spa time. Hygiene is good. I’m still looking for someone to sniff around to verify that my nose hasn’t lost its mind. Is that too much to ask?

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Who's Got Your Pants?

Early one morning last week, I was having a lovely drive to work. The first twenty miles were uneventful. I got off the freeway and had only two miles left until I arrived at my office. It was 5:40 and the sky in the East was beginning to lighten into a beautiful pale yellow. As I eagerly contemplated getting my before-work latte, I noticed a heavyset woman walking down the sidewalk in my direction. She was kind of waving her arms above her head. I tried to decipher her outfit as I got closer. It looked like she was wearing black underpants and some sort of long shirt. We made eye contact. It was at that point the woman turned sideways and smacked her butt with her hand. I do believe she had told me to Kiss Her Ass. WTF??? What did I do to warrant such a message? I looked in my rearview mirror after I passed her, and realized she was wearing her pants on her head. I am known for my attention to detail, but I seemed to have missed this big picture from the get go. Was it because I normally don’t expect to see someone wearing their pants on their head, so my eyes lied to my brain? I must admit that I was relieved this woman seemed to be drunk or nutsy coo-coo. When I first saw her waving her arms, I was afraid she needed emergency assistance. From me, alone in my car, at 5:40 in the morning. After she sent me her non-urgent but highly rude message, I realized that I didn’t need to help her. She was not wandering into traffic. She had pants, if she needed them. As far as I could see, she wasn’t bleeding or on fire. I was off the hook. I’m not sure, though, if she was wearing shoes. OMG... what if she stepped on a rock or stubbed her toe while smacking her butt at presumably the next car? Well, I’ve been meaning to try not to worry so much about things. This would be a good place to start. I release you, oh Pants-On-Head person. Be careful who you send your rudeness to. The next person might not be as harmless as I am. Also, get some shoes.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Back To Work

After almost fourteen weeks on medical leave after my knee replacement, I am finally going back work tomorrow. Yikes! I have gotten into a routine with rehab and hanging with my dogs, so I guess tomorrow is going to be an adjustment for everybody. Maybe my dogs won’t miss me, or even notice that I’m not parked on the chaise lounge or exercise bike. Anyway, here is what I’ve learned from being home for fourteen weeks:
  • Magnets don’t jump onto my new knee when I walk past the refrigerator. 
  • I apparently NEVER get tired of watching TV. I still have a whole season of “Downton Abbey” to watch. I watched ten minutes of the first episode and fell asleep. I have been watching reruns of stuff I’ve already seen and am perfectly happy about it. Weird. I guess I’ll have to catch up with the British on my next surgery (which hopefully won’t EVER happen). 
  • I would hate to be a dog. After they eat and go potty, they sleep. Cosmo moves around the living room all day, sometimes on his side and sometimes on his back. The rest of the time he is sleeping. Lucy jumps down from the couch at exactly 10:30am for a drink of water. The rest of the day she is zonked out. Stella sleeps most of the day, except when she is barking her head off at the mailman, cars, passersby, or nothing at all. If offered, my husband and daughter would definitely relinquish their human status for the life of a dog. Not me. 
  • I am apparently immune to TV commercials. I still have not ordered catheters or term life insurance, joined a weight-loss program, or become a donor for starving animals and children. It’s not that I’m healthy, skinny, or heartless. I’m just not making much money sitting home. 
I’m a little nervous getting back into the swing of things at work. I need to create an exercise regimen at my office, so I don’t lose my rehab momentum. It’s time to embrace change. We’ll see how it goes. Wonder if my dogs will even notice I’m gone.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Naked And Afraid

I saw a TV commercial for the upcoming season of “Naked and Afraid” on The Discovery Channel. What is up with these people? Shark Week isn’t enough stomach-clenching action for them? They feel the need to bump it up to the Next Level? On the commercial were scenes of sharp pointy things in the jungle, snakes, and deadly looking spiders hanging out in their webs. There was also a scene of a squishy-looking man on a stretcher, being whisked away from all the danger (still naked, only wearing the straps that were holding him on the stretcher). I think the term “naked and afraid” should apply to the poor ambulance attendants having to treat the nudie guy. That’s what rubber gloves were invented for. I believe the man and woman on each episode are strangers to each other. Hmmm... way to break the ice. Whenever I contemplate what it would actually be like to participate in this show, the bottoms of my feet hurt. No shoes... just shoot me. Forget about getting naked in front of my stranger partner, camera crew, medical crew standing by, and various dangerous insects and animals. I wouldn’t make it three yards without shoes. I have very tender feet. I won’t address the nakedness, as that is too horrific to contemplate. Buns and underarms flapping in the breeze, cellulite on view to the world. No way. The most horrific element on the new TV commercial was at the end. The two contestants jump on surf boards and paddle like crazy, supposedly in shark-infested waters. I would think a naked man wouldn’t want to have his dangly bits anywhere near rows of sharp teeth. The Discovery Channel needs counseling. On one big giant couch, to see why they keep coming up with these shows. Then again, there must be a need they are filling. Maybe the screwed up people are the viewers. Good to know I’m not one of them. I can sit in judgement, fully clothed, shoes and socks intact. Sounds like this stupid TV show fills a need I have after all. And I don’t even have to watch it.

Monday, June 2, 2014

Killer Dolls

I cleaned the bathroom this morning. I tossed the old shower curtain liner, and excitedly got out the new one. The smell of new vinyl curtains always remind me of a new doll. I am transported to Christmas 1960 when I got my favorite doll, Whimsey. That plastic smell usually permeates the house, and for a while I’m thinking of all the dolls from my childhood - Chatty Cathy (She said dumb stuff and had teeth, which I found creepy.), Poor Pitiful Pearl (seriously... a doll you had to feel sorry for.), Betsy Wetsy (OMG... a doll that peed. We never bonded.), Madame Alexander Kitten (She was a baby doll that supposedly looked real. We took her around the neighborhood to see if we could fool anyone with our “new” baby sister. Nobody bought it.), and various Trolls. I loved that smell. As I hung the new liner, I kept waiting to be transported back to my childhood. Sniff, sniff, SNIFF. Nothing. It had no smell whatsoever. Weird. I got the packaging out of the garbage, just to see which one of us was crazy. It turns out this liner is made from something called PEVA, by our crafty friends in China. I looked online to see what PEVA is. It is a non-toxic material, unlike vinyl. According to the article, vinyl shower curtains leach off a toxic smell for the first month. They also have a bunch of other chemical-related bad things in their content. Great. My whole life I’ve loved the New Doll smell. It figures. I never seem to embrace anything that is healthy (I’m talking to you, tofu and brown rice). If I love something, chances are pretty good it is fattening or deadly. So looking back on all my dolls, I probably only nuzzled a couple of them. The other ones, not so much. But hey, I guess I didn’t need to get all that close. Chatty Cathy could sit there smiling with those perfect little white teeth, all the while leeching toxins into my bedroom. I didn’t even need to get close enough to pull her string, to suffer the effects of her vinylness. When she said “I love you!” or “Let’s play!”, she really meant “I’m trying to kill you”. Oh well, healthy stuff hadn’t been invented yet when I was little. We were dumb, and we liked it that way. Sniff, sniff...

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Be Nice And Bend

Yesterday marked eight weeks since my knee replacement surgery. I still haven’t returned to work. I spend my days sitting on a chair and forcing my knee to bend. When that gets too painful, I get on my little stationary bike and ride for fifteen minutes. I also take the dogs on their afternoon walk around the block, as well as a short walk to my neighborhood coffee shop. I’m on a mission, as I have to be much improved when I see my doctor in a few days. Yesterday also marked the first time in eight weeks that I was able to drive. The last time I tried to sit in my Mini Cooper, I couldn’t bend my knee enough to get in. I tried again yesterday, and... no problemo! It’s a little dicey getting out, but at this point I don’t care how contorted and weird I look. Success is success. I was still sort of jazzed this morning, and was ready to drive to my favorite coffee shop. I was in my dining room, getting my wallet and keys. I turned to head out and stepped on something squishy. Half a second into mid-goosh, I knew my foot was coming down on a major pile o’ pooh. Ick! I guess my smeller hadn’t been working, because I never saw the pooh coming. I screamed, as I was truly surprised. In my mind, that phantom marauding elephant tunneled into my house with a sharpened spoon and took a giant dump in my dining room. Ok, I know that’s not rational. I’m sure it was my thirteen year old Scottie, Lucy. Rick took the dogs for a walk this morning. Lucy peed and then made a beeline back to the house. I’m the only one mean enough to drag her when she doesn’t want to go for walkies. Basically, EVERY walk is a drag. It’s no exercise for me. It’s a few steps, then stand and wait while Lucy sniffs every blade of grass. Her eyesight isn’t good, but her nose is in excellent condition. My theory is that Lucy needs to smell every square inch of the neighborhood to compensate for her lack of sight and sound. Great for her...but annoying as hell for the walker. It could take a half hour to go around the block. Not with me in charge though, being the Mean One, even with my bum knee. Hmmm... maybe the giant pooh was payback. Perhaps I’d better work on getting nicer as well as bendier.

Thursday, May 15, 2014


I was sitting on the toilet the other day, as one does. I was watching a tiny ant wander around. What a dummy! He was a sugar ant, and should have been wandering around my kitchen. His tiny any GPS was obviously broken. He also had a bunch of friends who were also lost. Our bathroom seems to be the new haunt for these guys. As I watched the dumb ant wander, from my perch on the toilet, I stomped my foot near him. This did not deter him. He was headed straight for my foot. I now started to think he was seriously demented, or maybe suicidal. I’ve never been one to step on bugs, or squish them in a kleenex. I’m more of a scooper-into-the-toilet-with-several-kleenexes kind of killing machine. Growing up, if I found a spider, I would either put a glass over it or suck it up in the vacuum.Then, I would shove a kleenex into the end of the vacuum hose in case the spider lived through the suckage. My poor mom would usually be the one to find my spider traps. She was a trooper, and not afraid of bugs. I always thought that skill came with becoming a mother. I was wrong. Or else maybe my Motherhood membership card got lost. Anyway, back in my bathroom watching the wayward sugar ant... I got tired of trying to see where he and his friends were coming from. He was dispatched when I flushed, and I said a prayer for his teeny soul. Ok, I’m lying, but I did feel a little bit mean. I just can’t share my living space with bugs. This is one reason I never bonded with camping. Since my knee surgery, I have been sleeping on the couch. It works out much better for moaning, or getting up in the night for ice packs. Last night, I happened to notice some sort of bug directly above the couch. I didn’t have my glasses on, but it looked like a slow-moving, non-biting kind of bug. If it had been a spider, I would have had to holler to Rick to get out of bed and come get rid of it. The bug finally moved on, to parts unknown. As far as I know, it did not fall off the wall in the night and onto my sleeping self. I found no random legs or antennae this morning. A definite good start to my day!

Friday, May 9, 2014


During my last physical therapy visit, I happened to ask my PT guy what kind of grade he thought I’d get at my upcoming six week checkup with my knee surgeon. I estimated maybe a C-. He got an uncomfortable look on his face and said I wouldn’t get an F but probably a D. I was shocked. For the last five weeks, I had thought I was doing all I could at home to get my knee bending. Apparently I suck at torture, and am not hard ass enough on my unfortunate new fake knee. PT Guy said my surgeon might want to knock me out and bend my knee. WTF??? If he was trying to scare me, it was working! No way would I go through general anesthesia again. I’m done with that crap. I was also told about some sort of brace that might be put on my knee that forces it to bend, is clamped down, then bent some more. I had visions of being on the Rack during the Spanish Inquisition (not the comfy pillow one from Money Python). Or how about one of those Tarzan movies where some unfortunate native is tied to two trees bent down and torn in two? With those dramatic, yet seemingly appropriate visions in my head, I realized I need to cram like I was back in high school. I have only three days to get my knee bending up to a C or B. I’m not sure it’s possible. Back in high school, I had a book report due in two days and hadn’t cracked a book. Someone suggested I make one up. What an awesome idea! It was kind of fun. I picked my author’s name out of the phone book. For my author’s biography, I made sure to kill him off after he wrote just that one book. “DaVinci the Dreamer” garnered me an A- and I’d wished I could also hand it in for extra credit in my Creative Writing class. This was probably the only time shadiness actually worked in my favor. I seriously doubt scheming and conniving will help me out with my surgeon. “Hey...look over there! Oops, you missed seeing me bend my knee, wrap it around my neck, and tie it in a bow. Sorry, I’m a little winded by all the bending. Maybe another time.” Sigh... Gumby is my new hero.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Officially Stir Crazy

Yesterday, I decorated the dog. I think that makes it official that I have gone stir crazy. It was Cinco De Mayo, and I thought it would be fun to take a photo of one of my dogs wearing a tiny sombrero. Yup...way too much time on my hands! I printed out a drawing of a sombrero, cut it out, and pasted it onto a pointy party hat. This art project took me about an hour. Then I deputized my Scottie dog, Cosmo, to be my lovely model for the photo shoot. It was a rousing success. I was able to share Cinco De Mayo wishes with my friends and family, as well kill and hour or two. So, what to do today? I heard on the radio this morning that 77 years ago the Hindenburg blew up. Perhaps I should try to make a blimp costume for one of my dogs. Oh the humanity! The radio report also said the Lusitania oceanliner was sunk this week during World War I. I’ll bet I have enough colored paper or fabric to make a cruise ship costume, and perhaps a German sub. OK, the ideas are starting to form. Brains cells are snapping. If my dogs knew any better, they would be trying to find a place to hide. They can’t choose under the bed, as I put a body pillow there last time Lucy tried to hide. (I hated dragging her out by her leg to give her a pill.) But I digress. Only total boredom would push me to start thinking about getting out my sewing machine. It’s never been my idea of a good time to sew. Only necessity, such as Halloween, has made me decide to create with fabric. I wonder what my high school Home Ec teacher would think. I doubt it would surprise her to know I might be using my limited sewing skills to fashion dog costumes. She was never impressed with me, but then again, creativity wasn’t high on her list of admirable qualities. I’m sure she wouldn’t have thought to sew a German sub costume for a Scottie. Anybody can follow a dress pattern. Not that many people could design a fabric submarine. Hmmm... Now where did my dogs go?

Friday, May 2, 2014

Turkey Wattle And Nanny Goat Hairs

My at-home knee rehab has left me with oodles of down time. Aside from hours of vegging out in front of the TV, I’ve been able to reflect on stuff. Life stuff... as in being 60 years old. It’s been four months since the Big Giant Birthday and I’m still not used to my elderly status. Even with my new fake knee, I still feel like just a really, really rickety 46. For the first three weeks after my surgery, I didn’t sleep much. I looked a lot like the Crypt Keeper from some kid’s show. Not a pretty sight. I’ve kept checking the mirror to see if my looks are improving. I get much more sleep now, and have noticed the shadows under my eyes have mostly disappeared. However, while scrutinizing my face the other day, I noticed my neck has some serious turkey wattle. WTF? When did this new addition happen? I don’t remember my neck being kind of wrinkly. My face is not very wrinkled, so maybe everything just slid south to my neck. For years I’ve had to go on Nanny Goat Hair Patrol. Stray chin hairs are the harbingers that the aging process is in motion. My chin hairs are mostly white now. Should I be glad they aren’t black and can be seen from the Space Shuttle? Or should I be unhappy that even my chin hairs are turning white? Either way, I’m bummed. I remember my mom pulling on the back of her neck to make the front nice and smooth. She said she would love to have work done on her wrinkled neck. At the time I thought that was silly. She was old, right? That’s part of the job description. Then, in the blink of an eye, here I am in her place. Not so small a deal anymore huh? At least my boobs are still perky. I suppose if I gained weight, my neck would fill in a bit. Hmmm...I think I’ll take turkey wattle neck over being a chunky girl. Hey, I still have choices! Nice!

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Knee Rehab - Day 5,280

Today marks the 5,280th day of knee surgery rehab. OK, not really but it’s starting to feel that way. Tomorrow will mark four weeks since my knee surgery. I’m finally starting to feel like a normal human, with a fake knee that won’t bend very much. Today I got restless... Vegging out in front of the TV wasn’t cutting it. I got my cane out and took a walk up to the local coffee shop two and a half blocks away. My daughter has been afraid for me to go out alone with my bum knee. I guess she thinks I will trip and roll out into the street, or maybe fall down and roll over onto my back like a potato bug. Trust me... I couldn’t roll over if you paid me. My bod just isn’t moving all that well yet. I had a lovely walk, and only had to tell three people why I was using a cane. One elderly neighbor offered to drive to the store if I needed anything. He had at about fifteen years on me, so it was a sweet offer. The hike to the coffee shop didn’t squelch my boredom, so I ventured into our bedroom to check the status of Rick’s shirts and ties. He likes me and Molly to match ties with his shirts. He has been going out the door with some interesting choices, so it’s probably time to intervene. I spent about an hour playing the Matchy-Matchy game. I’m not sure if Rick will enjoy my endeavors, but it killed time and I had fun. I tried a couple of new, really painful exercises. I had to get on the floor, which caused my three dogs to come sniffing around. They have hung out with me, mostly sleeping, for the past month. Now I was down on the floor... WTF? Lucy rolled around next to me and farted in my face. After that it was a blur... a really smelly blur of pain. When I was done with the exercises, I got up from the floor. It’s good only the dogs were there to watch me, as it wasn’t a pretty sight. This afternoon I’m being dropped off at the grocery store while Rick walks the dogs. Never would I ever think I’d be excited to go grocery shopping. And who knows? Maybe I will get to tell my knee story to hordes of new people. So sad...

Friday, April 25, 2014

Pay Per View Naughtiness

It has been 23 days since my total knee replacement surgery. I still love watching TV, but am kind of getting desperate finding something new to watch. I haven’t yet gotten to the point where I actually turn off my TV. So, I decided to branch out from my programmed Favorite channel listings and see what’s out there. That’s when I noticed the “interesting” names of shows on Pay Per View (Apparently, PPV is the cable TV spelling for PORN). Here are some of the titles:

Great Boobs Galore 3

My Wife Wants Your Wang 3

There’s A Party In My Mouth

3-Way Teen Nymphos Unleashed

Lez Make A Sex Tape! (Arts & crafts?)

Howlin’ For Dat Butt 5 (Sounds a tad bit racist.)

Dirty Cheating Wives (Aren’t all cheaters dirty?)

She’s Got A Rockin' Rack 3 (More car chases than #2?)

Prague Orgy Party (I’ve heard the Czech Republic is lovely.)

Amateur Bus Stop Pick-Ups (So much wrong here... where to start?)

Butt Cheeks Aquiver 1 (When was the last time you saw the word "aquiver"???)

40, Hot, And Ready 2 Screw! 6 (Something tells me this isn’t about home improvement.)

Tight Licking Vivid Lesbians (Vivid? Maybe someone was trying to find another adjective and “vivid” sounded dirty.)

There were a lot more titles, but the remainder made me make a bad face and gag a bit. I’m pretty sure I want to save my money for something else. I’ll stick with re-runs and might eventually crack a book.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Happy Freaky Easter

Today is Easter Sunday. Like the Christmas story, Easter leaves me with many questions. First we have the original, religious meaning. If you are a Christian, you believe that Jesus was God but had to live as a man and then die for everyone else’s sins. This never seemed like a good plan to me. The day Jesus was crucified is called “Good Friday”. Hmmm... still not getting it. Your favorite guy gets killed and you name the day “Good...”? After three days, Jesus left his tomb (no longer dead) and went back to Heaven. This is the part that became Easter. Except, if I remember correctly, there was also Ascension Thursday. So, is Easter when Jesus left his tomb, but just roamed the neighborhood until Thursday? Maybe I was sick the day they explained the timeline. Or possibly this was when zombies were invented. So, as strange as I find the religious story of Easter, the secular story is truly whacko. A giant rabbit comes in the night and leaves baskets of candy and fake eggs with treats inside. He sometimes hides these fake eggs outside in people’s yards. I’ve been told that the whole egg/rabbit thing denotes change and rebirth. I’m still not happy with that explanation. The neighbors across the street from my childhood home were very wealthy. The parents went to great pains to make sure their kids believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny as long as possible. Easter was like a mini-Christmas at their house. When the kids asked why we only got candy on Easter, I said we’d been kind of bad. That’s all I could come up with. One Easter morning, we looked outside to see a small tank driving down the sidewalk. The Easter Bunny had bestowed military equipment on our neighbors. All we got were jelly beans. And this somehow was all in the name of peace and rebirth??? Baby animals get born in springtime, and we see chickies at Easter time. So why not have a giant chicken dispensing eggs, instead of a bunny? I still don’t get his role. This story is just too incongruous and confusing for me. Or maybe I’m just pissed we never got even so much as a grenade launcher on Easter. Is there an Easter version of Bah Humbug?

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Knee Rehab Is Getting Dangerous

My knee rehab is getting dangerous. I was just dozing off on my chaise lounge and woke up as I was falling over onto a little side table. Kersplat! That would NOT have been good. I’m not sure if I needed to wake up with my heart pounding, but that’s what happened. It’s been two weeks since my total knee replacement. According to all the medical professionals involved, I have had a tougher time than the average person. I have never striven to be “normal”. However, this time I’d kill for a little normalcy. I enjoy vegging out in front of the TV, and can almost always find something to watch. This morning was a bit of a challenge, though. Here are a few of my viewing choices:

Bra Infomercial: I only briefly landed on this show, just to see if I was reading the name correctly. Seriously? Can you fill a half hour chatting about brassieres? Apparently so. I heard a British woman say “If your boobs aren’t in the right place, it’s just not going to work”. I decided to move on down the guide (I must be confident that my boobs are where they should be).

19 Kids And Counting: The Duggars - just shoot me. 

Total Gym For $14.95: I didn’t even check this one out. Sounded like a rip off.

Keeping Up With The Kardashians: I’d rather watch the Duggars with a fork in my eye.

I ended up watching a crime show I’d already seen. I’d rather watch a rerun than even one Kardashian. Murder mysteries keep my attention like nothing else. I wonder what that says about me. I haven’t gone “stir crazy” yet, which is a good thing. I wonder where that term came from? Sounds like something that would happen to a demented baker or chef. I got lots of time to figure it out...

Friday, April 11, 2014

Plaid Pants - Day 6

When I got home from my knee surgery, I went hunting for my lounge pants. I had purchased these pants two years ago after having colon surgery. I have lost weight since then, so these pants were pretty big. However, my leg is swollen so I need to be wearing giant pants. I looked for my Snoopy lounge pants, but couldn’t find them. I told my daughter that I must have given them to Good Will since they looked too much like pajama pants. Molly looked at the Madras plaid pants I was wearing and said “Ummm... so do those”. Seriously? I thought I looked kind of preppy, or like I had just stepped off the golf course. Add some penny loafers and a sweater draped over my shoulders and the outfit would be complete. Oh well, I was housebound and mostly hanging out on the couch. My fashion sense would just have to take a little vacation. I went on the Old Navy site and ordered three more pair of lounge pants. (Why are pants called “pair”? It’s really one article of clothing, not two. Shouldn’t it be called “a pant”? Just wondering...) The delivery estimate was five days, meaning I would be wearing the Big Giant Plaid Pants for six days straight. Gross. Today is the delivery date, and I am so excited. I feel like one of my dogs, excitedly waiting to bark at the mailman. Only, I won’t try to bite the front door or yell my head off when the delivery arrives. I will rip open the package, take off all the labels, and then figure out how to get my new lounge pants washed. My laundry room is in the basement, down a long flight of stairs. I know I’m banned from doing stairs at this point in my recovery. Damn. I will have to wait until Rick gets home and ask him to be my lovely laundress. I am soooo ready to be out of the Big Giant Plaid Pants. At this point, I could fit three people in them. I don’t currently have three other people with me to test out this theory. I do have my three dogs, though. Hmmm...

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Knee Rehab - Day 4

Now that I’m home from the hospital after having knee replacement surgery, I am in the throes of rehab. I have heard of this rehab thing. I keep seeing commercials for a facility called Passages Malibu. Hmmm... My treatment seems somewhat different. When I look out my living room window, I do not see the Pacific Ocean. I see my neighbor’s cars parked in front of their houses. I got all excited when told I would need to do rehab. Could I be rubbing elbows with the rich and famous? Earlier, I thought I heard something in the kitchen. I got my walker out and hurriedly cruised to the kitchen to investigate. Damn! No Lindsay Lohan... just a bunch of dirty dishes. I thought I saw the back of someone leaving the other side of my kitchen. Could Lindsay have brought her dad? Perhaps Robert Downey Jr. had a relapse and got lost in my kitchen. I picked up speed on my walker. Sparks were flying from the plastic wheels, which was probably not a good thing. Regardless, I pursued my fleeing celebrity. I rounded the corner by the bathroom... nothing. Down the hall and I just saw the usual stuff. Back in the living room where I started, I only encountered my three dogs snoring away on the couch. I don’t understand. My rehab has none of the perks of the Malibu place. I have yet to swim in a pool overlooking the ocean. There are no Roman columns or fountains in front of my house. Nobody has stopped by to give me acupuncture (a good thing - I’m so done with needles). I have yet to discover the fabulous gym seen in the TV commercial. Perhaps, this is a different kind of rehab. Well, duh. Looks like my rehab involves just a lot of exercises, pain, and one visiting physical therapist. Bummer. Malibu looks lovely.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Surviving Surgery

I had my knee replacement surgery, and as with all my other surgeries, it was traumatic. In addition to stressing about the IV, I also had to contend with having spinal anesthesia. I went over the procedure with the anesthesiologist, and was still terrified. He must have slipped me a mickie, though, as I kissed my husband good-bye one minute and the next minute I was being wheeled back up to my room by a nice man named Sam. There are so many un-fun things about a hospital stay - the 4 am blood draw, constantly being asked to swallow a thousand pills, and the neverending noises, beeps, bells and whistles. And then there’s the constant estimation of my pain level (1 to 10). The nurses ask, and I give my very best guess, and they write it down like it’s a real set-in-stone number. I’ve never given them a number that I felt good about, and always suspect that a wrong number would cosmically be entered on my Permanent Record (thank you, Catholic school). Pain can really mess you up. The first night, my pain wasn’t well under control. It was decided that I needed a nerve block... in my groin. OMG! And here I thought I had experienced all the heinous needle things under the sun. The doctor who performed the procedure was a friend of my husband’s. He was very nice and gentle, and tried his best to put me at ease. After the procedure, Rick asked how his doctor friend had done. “He saw my cooter” was probably not the expected response. Then, for more up-close-and-personal, I got to have a catheter... twice. The first time it took two nurses to manhandle my lady bits, and the second time it only took one. By the time I got to go home, I had been poked, prodded, sliced and diced, and sawed and drilled, while spending the much of the time in a narcotic fog. Not fun, but I hope the outcome is good. I deserve an awesome knee, one that possibly shoots fireworks or laser beams. Or, doesn’t keep me up at night. That’s really all I ask.

Saturday, March 29, 2014


In preparation for my upcoming knee replacement surgery, my doctor encouraged me to school myself in the procedure. This was not a good idea. I Googled “knee replacement” and came face to face with a photo of a knee with a large, nasty-looking scar running right down the middle. OMG! I wish I could scrub that image from my brain. This is when a DELETE button would come in handy. My sister told me I should baby my knee, honor it, and give it some TLC before the big event. So, where do I start? I had thought about giving my knee a name... “Clarice” popped into my head. Then I wondered if my other knee would feel slighted. I might be forced to give names to all my major body parts, just so nobody feels bad. I’m not sure I could come up with that many names. Some body parts are easier to work with than others. Elbows are great. Ears are also easy to work with. Then there are the toes, which are notoriously picky and tend to be jealous. I could totally see them revolting if not pleased with the names I pick out. Personally, I have always thought toes were revolting. So, the night before my surgery, I will let Clarice wear my birthday tiara. Maybe I’ll take her for a latte. Ok, I always take her with me but this time I will concentrate on making it special for her. It’s hard to look at my knee and know that in a few days it will be cut open and then stapled back together, with a bunch of other unpleasantness in between. My knee has a few battle scars from my childhood, plus a couple from previous arthroscopic surgeries. Compared to what’s in store for it, though, it’s a pretty pristine landscape. After surgery, it will look something like the Frankenstein monster, minus bolts in its neck. I wonder if I’ll wake up in the recovery room to the sound of tiny peasants with pitchforks and torches surrounding my hideous knee. I think I best be taking Clarice out for more than a latte. She might need a nice piece of coffee cake. It’s for her, not me... I’m just along for the ride.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Under The Knife... Again

I found out last week that I need to have a complete knee replacement. I have no cartilage left in my right knee, so my bones are rubbing together. Ick! I’m pretty bummed, as I had decided two years ago that my colon surgery would be my last. I’m not a fan of medical procedures or hospitals, but I guess nobody is. I have no idea where my cartilage went. Did it evaporate? Migrate south for the winter? It’s not like I’ve been extremely active and wore my knees out. Lately, I’ve only been in danger of my eyes bugging out as I try to get off the couch. Since my Big Giant Birthday two months ago, I’ve been pretty sensitive to the anything connected to old age. When I was consulting with the surgeon, he said “You are young and in relatively good health”. I looked around, trying to see who he was talking to. I assume this doctor sees elderly people all day long, so maybe I looked pretty damn good. It now seems that everybody I talk to about my upcoming surgery has either had a knee replacement, or knows someone who has had one. If “60 is the new 40”, then maybe knee replacements are the new tonsillectomies. Let me explain... When I was eight, it seemed that all my friends were getting their tonsils out. It was all the rage. Kids were promised ice cream after the procedure. This added to the allure, even though my family always had at least two different flavors of ice cream in our fridge. I asked my mom if I could get my tonsils out, because two of my friends were. She said “No”. Thinking back on it, I’m amazed I wasn’t the first one on the tonsillectomy train. I was ALWAYS getting sick and constantly had a sore throat. Somehow, though, I was the only one in the family to make it to adulthood with my tonsils intact. Talking to my friends after their procedure, it turned out to be painful and not-so-fun. When I was about ten, my younger sister had to get her tonsils removed. We always had to do stuff together, so my sense of self-preservation kicked in. I abandoned Mickey, and hid behind the couch until she was carted off to the hospital. Whew... that was a close call! I think I might call Mick as I head to the hospital for my knee replacement, so she can hide behind her couch. It might even things out.

Sunday, March 2, 2014


I was getting a latte at my neighborhood coffee shop, and noticed a man playing chess with his daughter. She looked like she was maybe four years old... playing chess. OMG! I watched to make sure she wasn’t just messing with the horsey, or whatever it is you call that chess piece. She was actually making moves and listening to her dad. I’ve been told that chess is a game of military strategy, which would explain why I have never had the least bit of interest in playing. If I were in a military strategy meeting, I’m sure I would be more concerned about what everybody was going to wear than where to place men and bombs. Colors and fabric can be so important in life! Plus, they don’t explode. I suspect military strategy lives in the same area of the brain as math. That part of my brain is like pudding. Or maybe custard, which is the food equivalent of a thought problem (I dislike them both). Trust me. When I was four, I was not playing chess. Checkers were probably too advanced for me at that age. I think my focus back then was learning to stand on my head. I was skinny, so it was probably easy. I also enjoyed hanging by my knees from the top bar of our swing set. Maybe being upside down did something to my brain. I wish I would have thought of that during my battles in any math class I struggled with. It would have helped me to feel I was overcoming a handicap, instead of thinking I was just a numbskull. My kids attended chess club in elementary school. I’m not sure my daughter embraced the game, but I think my son went more than once. It made me feel dumb just to walk into the cafeteria after chess club. All those kids were learning such a mysterious game. I would have felt the same had they been assembling a nuclear bomb. So, to that little girl at the coffee shop... You go girl! Do battle with the boys but don’t forget about your fabulous wardrobe. You can do both. Checkmate!

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Mammoth Tusk

Last week, a mammoth tusk was discovered by a construction crew in Seattle. They were digging 30 feet below street level when they encountered the tusk. The tusk was recovered, and sent to the Burke Museum to be restored and placed on display. It seems to me that nobody was sufficiently curious about where the rest of this mammoth is. They just dug it out, looked around a bit, and were done. You don’t just lose a giant tooth, and then walk away (or lumber away, as the case may be). Maybe this is where some sort of Prehistoric Tooth Fairy stored her booty. I’m thinking a Pterodactyl would probably have fit the bill nicely. I wonder what she would have left the little kid dinosaurs under their pillows? Maybe a nice root or leaf for the herbivores and something dead and disgusting for the carnivores? The estimated age of this giant tooth is between 22,000 and 60,000 years old. Hmmm... 22,000? Seems like a random number. Why not a nice round 20,000? I guess that extra 2,000 years must be important. They probably had to factor in Leap Year, the curvature of the Earth, and whether or not this happened on a Tuesday. According to the news story, this tusk was from a Columbian Mammoth. There have been so many of these mammoths found that they have been officially named as the State Fossil. Who knew states had official fossils? What happens if your state has no fossils? Wouldn’t you feel slighted, and want to get your shovel and toothbrush and go find one? I tried to find a dinosaur skeleton in my backyard when I was little. Utah has many, many dinosaur fossils and is home to Dinosaur National Monument (hello... “PeeWee’s Big Adventure”!). I was sure all I had to do was start digging and I’d hit a fossil or twelve. I did find some rocks with weird raised junk on them, and took them to school to show all the kids. Nobody was impressed, or thought my rocks were an important scientific find. I saw a story once about a town in England where some ancient Roman ruins were discovered. They gave the townspeople tools and instructions and let them go dig. No degrees, no experience, just a shovel and a handout. I could totally dig that (hee hee).

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Insurance Bastards

In this last year leading up to my Big Giant Birthday, I’ve been inundated with solicitations from life insurance companies. All this insurance junk mail was annoying, and I really resented the fact that total strangers knew how old I was. Then, a coworker’s husband died suddenly, and I panicked a bit. I decided that maybe I should check into getting additional life insurance after all. We had open enrollment at work. I filled out my forms and the insurance company commenced taking money out of my paycheck. Then they requested additional health information. Eventually they sent me a rejection letter (all the while still taking my money). I was given one chance to respond with letters from two of my doctors. The letters were awesome, testifying that I was in good health. Then the Insurance Bastards rejected my application for the final time. Apparently they knew better than my excellent doctors. In spite of what my docs said, I guess I had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. I was incensed, pissed off, and more than livid. I watch a lot of murder shows on TV. A recurring motive among murderers is offing someone for their life insurance. Now when I watch these shows, I talk back to the TV. “Oh sure, THAT guy can get a million dollars’ worth of life insurance. No problem... and he’s a frickin’ murderer! But when I ask? Oh noooooo, I can’t have life insurance. I might die at any minute.” Yup I’m ticked, and now these insurance dweebs have also ruined perfectly good murder shows for me. I guess if nothing else, I’m safe from being killed for my life insurance. Still bitter though...

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Bad Ballet Etiquette

My daughter and I went to the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s production of “The Sleeping Beauty”. I hadn’t seen a ballet in years, so was very excited for the event. Molly was looking forward to being my date, as the Disney version of “Sleeping Beauty” was one of her favorites. I remember Molly sitting in her high chair at age two, singing “Once Upon A Dream”. She sang it with such feeling. That memory always makes me smile. Molly and I had a high-priced snack before the ballet, adding to the feeling that we were attending something pretty upscale and high brow. We found our seats, and perused our programs until the lights went down. And that’s when we discovered we were seated in front of a serious nimrod of a woman. Maybe she thought she was attending a basketball game or a concert. Whatever the reason, she wouldn’t shut up. Loud Talker Lady was seated with a girl, and apparently needed to share her every thought. The first time this woman was delighted by the dancing, she laughed really loudly. Laughed... at the ballet. OK, there is no crying in baseball and no laughing in ballet. They tell the story through dance, for crying out loud! Some little kids came on stage and LT Lady said “Ooohhh, they’re soooo cute!”. A couple of times, she told her young companion “Wow, that’s really hard”. Seems to me ALL the dancing is hard. No need to mention it... over and over. When the bad fairy ran around the stage with (fake) snakes, this woman said “Well, it doesn’t get more evil than that”. I almost knocked myself out rolling my eyes and biting my tongue. In my head, though, I turned around, jumped on my seat, grabbed her by the ears, and screamed “SHUT THE F&*K UP!!!”. The final straw was at the end of Act III. The prince stabbed the bad fairy with his sword. Loud Talker Lady said “Whoa... I didn’t see THAT coming!”. Seriously? She was stupid as well as annoying. At that point we were saved by an intermission, and decided to leave without viewing Act IV. I couldn’t take any more play-by-play commentary. I guess I’ll have to take out a loan and get box seats next time.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Smooshing The Girls

As part of my benefits at work, I get a paid day off every year to have a physical exam. Friday was that day. I always get the first appointment, since I have to have a fasting blood test. Visions of a reward after my appointment - a vanilla latte and piece of cinnamon swirl coffee cake at Starbuck’s - kept me focused. There was a new nurse, which thrilled me. The previous nurse was nice, but hey, she was cute, blonde and skinny. The last thing I need when I’m starving is to be put on a scale by an adorable little 110-pound cutie. I made it through the blood draw, with a minimum of face scrunching (I really, really hate needles). Then came the Hurry Up and Wait part. I always race to get undressed, and then end up waiting for about 15 minutes for the doctor’s arrival. Even though I have given birth twice, and feel like I have had hordes of doctors see my lady bits, the annual physical always makes me blush. Try as I might, I can’t stop picturing the view from my doctor’s end of the check-up. It makes me grateful I never had a yearning for a job in the medical field. After the physical, I moved on to the second un-fun procedure - the Mammogram. Every year I hope technology has moved beyond smashing my boobs between two pieces of plastic. And every year I’m disappointed... and embarrassed due to being topless and felt up by a total stranger. Sometimes after snagging your boob and squashing it flat, the tech will say “Don’t move”. Umm, hello... boob’s in a vise! I’m not going anywhere! I have never been able to look down at the Girls when they are flattened. It’s just too disturbing... poor little things. At least technology has progressed enough lately for the tech to know immediately if the image is a good one. A few years ago, you had to wait a while for the film to develop and possibly go through the squishing process again. In the end, it wasn’t that bad. I was done until next year. I tucked my boobs into my socks and went merrily on my way.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Romper Room

In the late 1950’s, TV choices for preschoolers were very limited. Sesame Street hadn’t been born. Cartoons were only shown after school and on Saturday mornings. Captain Kangaroo wasn’t much of an option for me, as I didn’t like his weird girly hairdo. That left a local kid’s show called Romper Room, hosted by Miss Barbara (and later Miss Julie). I watched it every day. It was chock full of meaningful lessons told with bees. The good bees, who did what they were told, were the Do Bees. The bad, misbehaving bees who broke the rules were the Don’t Bees. I gotta say, I was drawn to the Don’t Bees. The Do Bees were pretty dorky and boring. Miss Barbara had a see-through hand mirror that she would hold in front of her face at the end of the show. She’d say “Romper bomper stomper boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me do. Magic mirror please tell me today. Did all my friends have fun at play?”. One day she said “And I see Kim, who is sick today. We hope you feel better soon!”. I just knew she was looking at me through that magic mirror (and of course I was the only Kim in the entire world). I got my face an inch from the TV and yelled “I’m not sick! See? I’m just fine!!!”. For my fifth birthday, my mom took me to be on Romper Room. Apparently you had to have a reservation to be on the show. You couldn’t just waltz right in (even if it was your fifth birthday). There were kids who had been on the show all week. I was allowed to pick a toy off the set to play with out in the audience. I think they were trying to appease me, since they were breaking my heart on my big day. A kid who had been on the show all week looked for his favorite toy, which I had in my ticked-off little hands. Tee hee. He was really mad, and I didn’t care. This was my first brush with Schadenfreude (pleasure derived from the misfortune of others). Hey, don’t mess with the Birthday Princess. Ask any Do Bee... it’s bad form.

Friday, January 17, 2014

My Big Old Birthday

Back in 1975, the mandatory retirement age for airline pilots was 60. The day before my dad’s 60th birthday, he piloted his last flight. We all flew with him from Salt Lake City to Jackson Hole and back. As he landed and brought the plane to a stop, he said “Sayonara” softly over the microphone. It was very touching. As he deplaned, he was met by a row of pilots on either side of the stairs. There wasn’t a dry eye on the tarmac. At the time, I was 21. I thought Dad was an amazingly young 60, but still... 60 was kind of old. Fast forward 39 years, and guess who’s turning 60 on Sunday? Me that’s who. I can’t believe it... I just feel like a really, really rickety 38. Today was my last work day as a 59 year-old spring chicken. There were no lines of coworkers to usher me to my car. No family to hang out on my last day, so proud to see me walk to the copier, or use my calculator. No touching last words. I guess most of that would be because I will be back at work on Monday. I also don’t have a really important job where I hold the lives of hundreds of people in my care thousands of feet in the air. I can’t imagine being told that as of tomorrow I will be too old to do my job. I know Dad didn’t want to stop flying. He was in good health, sharp as a tack, and definitely not ready to retire from something he loved doing. Unfortunately, he had no choice. Somehow, seeing myself the same age as my dad hasn’t helped me be OK with this milestone. A friend told me “You’re upright, and can still talk in complete sentences. It’s all good”. That’s a much better mantra than the one currently running in my head “WTF??? How the f*&k did THIS happen???”. Being a glass-half-empty kind of girl, this birthday is a challenge. I know, it’s only a number, yada yada yada (still doesn’t thrill me). I might get more awesome than usual presents (I’m warming up to the idea). 60 is better than 70 (things are looking up). Hey, I’m not dead! Ha...at last a simple way to put a positive spin on my 60th birthday! Short and to the point. Not as classy as “Sayonara”, but I’m working on it.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

The Pooper Vortex

One of my resolutions for 2014 was to step in less dog poop, specifically in my living room. So far, it’s not going so well. One day last week, I got home from work and greeted my three dogs. I gazed into the living room, and noticed a huge mountain of pooh. It was way too big for the usual culprit - Stella. It was also too big to have come from Lucy. It might have been deposited by Cosmo, but I doubted it. A theory evolved that a small but wily elephant had tunneled into my house using a sharpened spoon clutched in its trunk. Only that could explain the size of the pile on my living room carpet. I got some paper towels, a wash rag, and the big bottle of Pee Whiz (used to clean all types of disgusting bodily substances). After the cleanup, I went back to the living room only to find more turds strewn about the carpet. How had I missed them? I cleaned them up, and corralled the dogs for our afternoon walk. It was then that I noticed some poopy shoe prints on the hardwood floor under the living room window. I checked my shoes, but the bottoms were clean. I texted my husband and told him to check his shoes, then went for the Pee Whiz. As I walked back from cleaning the shoe prints by the window, I found more poopy prints by the front door. Now it was getting weird. I had come in through that door, but hadn’t noticed anything. Just what was going on??? I checked my shoes again, just in case I had missed a giant cow patty embedded in the soles. Still clean. Could it be time to call a priest for a pooh exorcism? I know poltergeists are playful spirits. Perhaps I had a Poopergeist. Then there’s the weather... Some places have just experienced cold temperatures due to the Polar Vortex. Maybe a distant cousin, the Pooper Vortex, took a giant dump on my carpet. My money is still on the tunneling, marauding elephant with the sharpened spoon, though. So many theories, so little time. As long as I don’t run out of Pee Whiz, I’ll be fine.

Friday, January 3, 2014

Hackers Should Rot

This morning I got to work sort of jazzed, due to the fact that it was Friday (as jazzed as one can be at 6am). As I was sipping my beloved vanilla latte, I perused my email. Lo and behold, there was an email from myself. It was sent at 3:33am, which, to my knowledge was when I was still asleep. Wow! I must be some kind of freaking computer genius to be able to telepathically email during REM sleep. Plus, I apparently thought it was Talk Like Sylvester Stallone Day, since my subject line started with “Yo, Kim...”. I do believe my home email got hacked, for the second time in six months. Bastards! Seriously douche-baggery was afoot. Why do people hack? Is someone so unhappy they have to try to outsmart total strangers and mess with their privacy? At the bottom of the bad emails that were sent in my name, were quotes from movies. These were various versions of “neener, neener, neener”. The one I received was a quote by Obi Wan Kenobi which referenced being fooled. What did I do to warrant this, and how is someone getting my passwords? I would suspect an inside job, but am pretty sure my dogs can’t type. Stella is too busy pooping in the living room to mess with my laptop. Cosmo cares more about eating and sniffing butts. And Lucy just wants to be left alone. My husband is not a suspect either. So, the culprit must be a total stranger - one who needs to be rousted from where he is living, possibly in his parent’s basement, and forced to pay for his dirty tricks. I suppose jail time is a little over the top, but I would like the Hacker to spend the day with me. First off - Living room poop patrol (no bags, just fingers). Then, I’d send him two doors down to the Psycho Neighbor’s house with a plate of cookies. That would keep her chatting with him for a good couple of hours about spaceships, gang violence, and why nobody should park in front of her house. Tee hee. After that, I would march the Hacker around the nearest mall wearing a sign saying “Will twerk for food”. Endless possibilities. I am smarter and more clever than the Hacker, at least in my brain. He can’t touch that.