Saturday, September 19, 2015
We’re having a garden installed in our backyard next month. In order to save some money, I’ve spent every weekend the last couple of months pruning and and digging up weedy plants. Two weeks ago, I got stung on my neck by a wasp. It totally freaked me out, and the bites (a nice grouping) still hurt and itch. I found out that wasps don’t lose their stinger, and unfortunately don’t die after they sting someone. They can sting as many times as they want. Now, two weeks later, I got stung again. This time, though, the bastard got me in the butt. It sounds funny, but it hurt like hell. I decided to keep working, and for a couple of hours I pruned a huge pile of tree branches. I cut them up, and filled a big bin and two paper bags. I was ready to call it a day, but thought I’d trim a couple more unsightly branches. I was sawing a branch, and heard the now familiar, terrifying buzzing. I looked down to see a swarm of wasps around the side of the tree I was trimming. I took off across the lawn, yelling and waving my hat. One wasp was dive bombing me, so I dropped my saw and ran to the house. I got inside and slammed the screen door a second before the bastard got there. He actually hit the window a few times. Back on the lawn was all my yard stuff - bin, bags, and tools. I knew I had to get it all put away before quitting, but there was the swarm waiting to take me out. I walked back toward my things, humming that little song you do when you want to look casual... Do do do. I didn’t look in the direction of the swarm, and just kept focused on my task so I could get back to safety. As I put my tools back in the garage, I heard a woman in the yard next door, talking on the phone. Something about the tone of her voice mimicked the buzzing of the wasps. She’d start talking, and I’d scream. I had totally lost it. I survived my bug bite, but now my left butt cheek is angry, red and sore. It looks like the dark side of the moon with a big red mountain in the middle. I am done with the pre-garden gruntwork. The landscaper can take her chances with the Evil Ones. Do do do...
Friday, May 29, 2015
I’ve said many times that the aging process isn’t for sissies. I think at some point, I thought it would get easier. I was wrong. The other night I was on Unsightly Hair Patrol, on the lookout for rogue mustache, eyebrow, and nanny goat chin hairs. With my face magnified a billion times, I was taking care of business. My tweezers were in overdrive. It was then that I noticed my face was pretty much covered with fuzz. OMG... My grandmother was looking back at me. Over the last few years, I have been developing age spots. My dermatologist calls them “maturity spots”, but that’s just another way to spell AGE. I have them on my hands now. There is a quite prominent brown spot on my right cheek bone. Go north from there, and there is a newer spot right above my eyebrow. Recently, I stopped my husband in midair after he licked his thumb and was poised to rub the smudge off. I had to tell him that the spot was there to stay, and to put away his spitty finger. I suppose if I live long enough, all my brown spots will meld together and I will finally have a nice tan. Earlier this week, I had to visit my doctor for a UTI pee test. As we were discussing my bladder, as you do, she pointed out a new indignity related to getting older. Did you know that as you age, your bladder kind of sags? To make sure your bladder is really empty, you need to move around to outsmart the sagginess. Seriously, I now have to be concerned that my bladder is sagging just like the rest of me? Apparently, my insides are becoming unattractive and worn out-looking. I’m not sure what a good-looking, taut bladder looks like, but I’m willing to bet mine needs a few sit-ups and a spin on my exercise bike. It probably also has “maturity spots”. Welcome to my world, my saggy baggy friend...
Thursday, March 12, 2015
I have barely dipped my toe into my 60th decade, yet I keep getting junk mail from the Hey-Old-Person-You-Are-Probably-Going-To-Drop-Dead-Soon crowd. I am constantly receiving life insurance forms, which is really annoying. Is the entire cosmos in the loop on my impending doom? Seriously, let me in on the secret. Some of these life insurance solicitations come dressed up with “Urgent!” or “Open Immediately”. I haven’t noticed a hooded guy with a big scythe hanging out by my front door, but still... Kind of makes we wonder. Yesterday, I found that my junk mail has been bumped up to the next level. I received something from a company called Smart Cremation. The outside of the envelope had my name, address and return address printed in a font that looked like someone’s handwriting. I wasn’t fooled (I still got it, baby!). Inside was a one-page flyer. There was a flow chart showing that cremation costs $1,898 as opposed to the average funeral cost of $7,075. It listed five reasons for choosing cremation - It’s significantly cheaper, simpler, time is flexible, it puts me in control (huh?), and is “enviro-friendly”. That last point is interesting. What makes ashes green? Seems to me it’s just more soot in the air, especially if I want to be scattered in the wind (the jury is still out on that one). The flyer provided a toll free phone number where I could order a book entitled “All You Need To Know About Cremation Today”. On the cover is a photo of a man and woman walking into a forest. Is it a scary forest? Are there wolves or roving bands of demented squirrels in this forest? Is this the before picture of them, before they needed Smart Cremation’s services? The description of this book says “I want more information regarding my veterans benefits”. So, here again, I’m in the dark. In addition to possibly being on my deathbed, I seem to have forgotten my military service. Did I forget I used to fly the Stealth Bomber? I don’t have a uniform laying around, but perhaps it’s at the dry cleaner. Maybe the dude with the scythe knows...
Sunday, February 15, 2015
I have spent the last ten days down with some kind of respiratory virus. I missed six days of work, and haven’t been able to do much more than sit on my couch and not speak. It’s a good thing I love watching TV, because that’s basically what I’ve been doing 24/7. Today, it finally got to me. I didn’t feel like having noise in my head. I sat on my couch and read a book (OK, still sitting but at least my brain was firing). It was a lovely day outside, cold but clear skies. I’m not sure where all the people were, but my street was very quiet. I totally enjoyed the serenity. Go figure. About an hour into my solitude, my house phone rang. I checked the Caller ID, and lo and behold, Jesus Christ was calling. No kidding... that’s what it said. I didn’t answer, maybe wanting to tempt fate and see if I’d get smote (Or is it smoted? Smited? Smitten?). I ran with the phone to where I had paper and pen and copied the phone number down before the ringing stopped. Wow, I had the cell number to the Son of God. How cool was that? I got on my laptop and Googled the phone number. It came back as coming from Van Nuys, CA. Jesus was calling from southern California. Was he a surfer, or perhaps a movie executive? Maybe he’s that guy in lederhosen running the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland. Hmmm. Comments online said these calls were a scam. Some had received a voicemail that said for only $250 you could hear the truth about Jesus. Is nothing free anymore??? I began to ponder whether I had received a scammy call or a divine one. Perhaps JC was disturbed that my TV was off and was just calling to check on my wellbeing. I suppose he could have been wondering why he hasn’t seen me around a church in oh, let me see, what day is this...40 years? Being a supreme being and all, I think he’s probably figured that one out. Perhaps he was calling for my husband, and not me after all. That makes more sense. I went back to my murder mystery and decided to let the other mystery slide.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
It’s three days before Valentine’s Day and there has, unfortunately, been a sad love-related announcement. Charles Manson, infamous serial killer and all-around nutball and his fiancé, Star, will not be marrying. What went wrong? They had so much in common. OK, there was a 54 year age difference. Also, Charles would NEVER be let out of prison and wouldn’t be allowed conjugal visits. But hey, they were both technically human beings. Technically. Star had been hanging out around the prison and nurturing her relationship with Charles since she was seventeen. Now it turns out her “love” was merely a long range money-making scheme. Star wanted to marry Charles Manson so she could take possession of his body when he dies. Then she and her friends were going to place the body on display in a glass coffin and charge admission. BINGO... instant fortune! This girl is seriously twisted, and therefore, a perfect match for Charlie. Perfect. I’ve always admired people with long range goals. It takes such determination and self control to stick with a plan. In the case of Star, though, my admiration just isn’t there. She is one scary biatch. Imagine being her parents. I wonder which thing makes them shudder more - the fact that their daughter wanted to marry a serial killer, or the crazy reason for her engagement. Did she have a lemonade stand as a child? Sell Girl Scout cookies? Maybe she is just acting out because she wasn’t encouraged as a child to earn money. Then again, I didn’t EVER sell stuff as a child, nor did I earn an allowance. I can’t remember the last serial killer I was engaged to. So much for that theory. Maybe bad, twisted people just come out that way. I think Cupid is off the hook for this one.