tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53564585476548250082024-02-19T22:28:22.625-08:00lima bean helllima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.comBlogger241125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-20143050722357641522021-01-01T15:37:00.005-08:002021-02-19T09:21:23.210-08:00Apparently Paris Is Better Than Seattle<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On New Year’s Eve 2020, I went to the local credit union to deposit my paycheck. Upon arrival in the ATM vestibule, I was met by a credit union employee. He informed me that both ATMs were not working for deposits. Of course they weren’t… 2020. I headed back to my car, through the building. There was a lady looking down at her phone while standing in the middle of the hallway leading to the parking lot door. I walked around her, and headed briskly through the doorway. Halfway to my car I heard a voice say “In Paris they hold the door for you (laughs) but not in Seattle”. It was the hallway lady. I said “Are you talking to me? I didn’t know you were behind me”. She said “I was five feet behind you”. As I got in my car I said loudly “This isn’t Paris”. Not much of a comeback, but I was stunned. In fact, I almost cried. Then it occurred to me that due to COVID, we are all trying to keep socially distanced from each other. It would not have been possible for me to hold the door for Paris Lady and also be six feet away from her. In fact, I should have chastised her for following me at less than six feet. By the time this occurred to me, she was across the street and heading through another parking lot. I would have to stalk her just to yell my “Oh yah? Well…” comment at her. Seriously, this has been a dumpster fire of a year. I know with any little thing that goes wrong I say “Of course… 2020”. That could be true but now that it’s 2021, I need to change my outlook. On to better things, right? Maybe I should take up French… </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Au revoir. </span></p>lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-28596500090446024012020-09-07T12:04:00.003-07:002021-01-01T15:41:02.230-08:00Skippy Guy<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span>I was driving the other day and noticed a really scruffy man in a baseball hat coming towards me on the sidewalk up ahead. As I got closer, I realized he was skipping. He seemed so blissful that it made me smile. You don’t see a grown adult skipping often, maybe never. This could be due to stupid norms, or the fact that older people could have a bad skipping outcome. Personally, I am sure I would trip and fall, or maybe put out my eye with a rouge hand. I have enough trouble navigating over cracks and bumps in the sidewalk as it is. I think my skipping days are behind me, as well as ballet class and getting off the couch without my eyes popping out of my head. When my daughter was about 9 years old, jumping rope was a big deal. I bought us each a jumprope and we would go on walks together. Molly would skip along with her jumprope, never getting tripped up as we chatted. I on the other hand only knew how to jump rope while hopping in one spot. “How hard could skipping rope as we walk be?” I asked myself. The answer was “Very hard”. As it turns out the jumpy/skippy thing was beyond my skill set. I was forced to just carry my jumprope with me, to be included somehow in the process. I could have used it to tie up a bad guy should one have fallen on the sidewalk in front of us. Otherwise, it was just a reminder of how adulthood is not all it’s cracked up to be. Sure I can drive a car, and stay up past dark. It would be nice, though, not to get a cramp while tying my shoe. When my kids were in elementary school, they got to try riding a unicycle as part of PE. I thought that was so cool that I bought myself one, and named her Eunice. Again, I asked myself “How hard could it be?”. I never learn. Riding a unicycle is SO hard. It took me an entire summer to master a two-wheeler when I was 7. One less wheel was not going to be a quick study. I got two mop handles to use like ski poles or training wheels, but that didn’t really help. I would mostly put on my crash helmet, pump up the tire, adjust the seat and try a couple rotations. After falling off the unicycle a couple times (getting hit in the calf with the pedal doesn’t feel good) I would put Eunice away. I tried this many times, going as far as piling up patio furniture to hold onto. Nothing worked, but riding a unicycle is still on my bucket list. At least I made my son happy by not crashing and killing myself (he was concerned). That may be as good as it gets.</span></span></div>lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-46164689692975424352020-08-09T15:14:00.000-07:002020-08-09T15:20:13.576-07:00The RunsMy dog got the runs the other night. Surprise… and not a good one. He got me up in the middle of the night, twice. Nothing is more fun than trying to scoop a giant wet pile o’ pooh in your jammies, with a flashlight to light the way. The second time it was raining. In the morning, Boley seemed fine. Nothing amiss. I assumed he wasn’t sick, but had probably eaten something weird that wasn’t actually food. When he was about a year old, the people at the vet were chatting about how Boley was a good candidate for future surgeries. Great. Over his lifetime with us (4 years), we have pulled the following out of his big, slobbery mouth:<br />
<br />
Paper towels (his favorite food group)<br />
Kitchen sponge<br />
Dead rat (GAK!)<br />
Pens & markers (Permanent means permanent - ie my bedspread)<br />
Various shoes<br />
Jeans & hoodie<br />
Boxcutter<br />
Empty blueberry carton<br />
Checkbook<br />
Primary ballot<br />
Rubber gloves<br />
Eye glasses<br />
Fluff from the couch cushion (he unzipped the cushion cover first - talented!)<br />
<br />
We have tried to baby-proof the house to keep Boley (and our stuff) safe. It’s hard to know what to keep out of his reach when EVERYTHING looks like food. I hope the vet folks are wrong. In the meantime, I may cover the entire contents my house in bubble wrap. Hmmm… I wonder if THAT is delicious. lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-59920991310837133962020-06-15T20:36:00.001-07:002020-06-15T20:36:59.741-07:00Gravity SucksI talk to myself, a lot. Sometimes I direct my conversations to my dogs, but I’m really just trying not to look crazy if any other human is listening. Lately I have uttered “Gravity sucks!” when I drop stuff. I think I am mad at Isaac Newton. He didn’t invent gravity, but was the one who identified it. If he hadn’t been a lazy butt and fallen asleep under an apple tree, I wouldn’t be having a gravity problem. Maybe I should be mad at the apple that beaned him on the noggin. So I was looking in the mirror the other day, focusing on my neck. My skin was all wrinkly and crepey. The term “turkey wattle” popped into my head. Ugh. I pulled on the back of my neck and the wattle disappeared like magic. It was then that I remembered watching my mother doing the same thing. At the time, she had been a lifelong smoker. I just assumed that was what created all the wrinkles. Plus, she was OLD. I figured wrinkles came with the territory. I would like to smack the young me on the back of the head (like Isaac Newton’s rogue apple) for being stupid and insensitive. What a jerk. The older me now realizes that my mom’s wrinkles weren’t due to smoking. It was GRAVITY’s fault. I am not upset enough with the aging process to try a surgical fix. I have seen enough actors on TV with weird plastic, immovable faces to keep my wrinkles firmly in place. Still, I am starting to understand the motivation. Butts sag, boobs sag (mine are still perky), bags appear under eyes. Gravity, gravity, gravity. I know we need to be anchored to the ground, but less might be more fun. I would enjoy leaping high like the astronauts did on the Moon. If a person could actually live on the Moon, would they have no wrinkles? Maybe just tiny laugh lines, and no saggy body parts. Hmmm. Where do I sign up for Space Force? Can I go NOW? And just how big will my butt look in the silly uniform? So much to ponder. Maybe I should just stay put, embrace my neck, and stay mad at Isaac Newton’s apple. Sigh.lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-30552036387751380442020-06-07T13:36:00.001-07:002020-06-07T13:36:58.902-07:00Bombs AwaySo what’s the deal with Mother Nature? She seems to be extremely ticked off. We’ve had epic hurricanes and large earthquakes. Then the worldwide Pandemic struck. Now the animals are acting hinky. The other day Boley and I headed out on our early morning walk. We weren’t even to the sidewalk when we got dive-bombed by a crow. It came just above Boley and I could feel and hear a WHOOSH as it flew by. As we continued, we got swooped on seven times. On the last pass, the crow actually touched Boley’s head. I stopped and checked to make sure no blood had been drawn but found that Boley was okay. More and more crows landed on trees around us, cawing loudly. The whole thing reminded me of the movie “The Birds”. It was terrifying. I expected to see Alfred Hitchcock walking across the sidewalk off in the distance. We continued around the block and cut back to the house through the alley. I didn’t want to have another bird encounter. Shortly after, on my drive back from the neighborhood bakery, I spied a lady walking towards my street. I thought about rolling down my window and warning her about the crows. Then, I selfishly reconsidered. If the crows were busy attacking her, I would be safe getting out of my car with my lattes and pastries. Yes, I was a jerk, but in thought only. The lady ended up walking in a different direction. People tell me that crows are awesome and mate for life. Whatever. I find them creepy, menacing, and for sure are smarter than I am. I resent that. Years ago when we would walk our two Scotties, crow scouts would yell to their buddies to tell them we were on our way home. Then they would be waiting in the backyard when we arrived to throw peanuts out for the squirrels. They knew our routine and were way ahead of us. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them impatiently tapping their claws and checking little crow watches. No more attacks have happened. I hold my head high as we walk, daring the crows to mess with me again. It’s an act though. Is there such a thing as Crow PTSD? If there is, I’ve got it.<div>
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lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-74372352368840571192020-06-02T16:06:00.001-07:002020-06-02T16:06:19.232-07:00Pandemic HairI snagged the last available appointment the day my barbershop closed its doors. Little did I know it would be a very long while before my next haircut. As I write this, we are more than two months out. I have (er… had) very short hair, fashionably sticky-up on top. Currently my hairdo is careening from Kramer (“Seinfeld”) into Marge Simpson territory. I have kept my sideburns trimmed using little nail scissors. I can do that much without doing too much harm. I had my husband shave my neck with our electric clippers. He did a mostly efficient job, except for being a bit too vigorous. But hey, the red marks on my neck have finally healed! I clipped his hair, and did an adequate job. I’m not sure if he isn’t that picky or if I just had beginner’s luck. Needless to say, I’m not going to get cocky and think I know what I’m doing the next time. Bad things can happen that way. Case in point - Stella, my little Yorkie. She was in serious need of grooming. I knew the clippers would terrify her, so I trimmed her with some small scissors. I tried to emulate how my stylist cuts my hair. After a while, I got tired and figured I might be trying too hard. She was just a dog, right? Wrong. The best I can say is that I didn’t stab her or draw blood. Her overall haircut looks very choppy. I have no idea when the groomer will be open for business. Hopefully, there’s a little more time for my handiwork to fill in a bit. During this time, I’ve noticed something weird about the men on TV (reporters, commentators & government officials). Their hair is longer than usual, but they have also grown beards. Why can’t they shave their own faces? Is shaving such a pain that they are enjoying the freedom to be scruffy? I haven’t had eyebrow/lip service in a couple months. Unlike men with beards, if I appear with a mustache, it won’t be on purpose. Times are tough for EVERYBODY right now. Hairstyling is not a big deal. Still, I would totally stalk my hairdresser if I knew where she lived. Umm… is stalking still a crime???lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-28554375199454565552020-05-28T15:55:00.001-07:002020-05-28T15:55:13.440-07:00Spare Time ChallengeI miss shopping at the mall. There, I said it. I admit it. I also miss shopping at little boutiques. Maybe it’s the thrill of the hunt. More likely is that I shop out of boredom. Whatever. I enjoy it. Shopping at the grocery store really doesn’t fulfill that yearning. I don’t get excited finding vanilla yogurt, or a can of Rotelle like I do when I encounter a cute top or an amazing pair of earrings. I could do yard work, I suppose, but it’s mainly housework conducted outside. I can only pull weeds and wild grass for so long before the old bod seizes up on me. I used to get sore the second day after yard work. Now the pain is instantaneous, and just gets worse for two days. That leaves indoor activities to occupy my spare time. I know I watch far too much TV. OK, who am I kidding? There IS no such thing as too much TV, but I do have to give my butt a break once in a while. The last time I went to heat up the oven, smoke pored out through the top. This told me I might want to acquaint myself with the self-cleaning function ASAP (or perhaps never cook again). I placed a giant fan pointing at the oven, and closed the hall door behind which lives a smoke-detector. I opened a window as well as the back door so smoke could go out through the screen. I was all set to clean Old Smokey. I pushed Clean, and turned on the giant fan. To my wonderment, blobs of dog hair went shooting across the floor and pirouetted through the air. It was a fun little game to try to catch the hairy blobs as they came floating by. I also felt a little ashamed that my kitchen was obviously so dirty. My dogs weren’t interested in what I was doing, once they figured out I was Not in the kitchen to get them a treat. I was left to race around my tiny kitchen, pretending the hair blobs were $50 bills like in some dream gameshow. My next project will probably be to Clorox the grout around my kitchen tile. I doubt I will find much interesting in the process. I will have to try really hard to come up with a different way to see the task. It definitely won’t be Hair Blob Toss, or shopping at the mall. I miss the mall. Did I tell you I miss shopping at the mall??? Yup, I miss the mall. Sigh…lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-20373417573920292912020-05-22T09:29:00.001-07:002020-05-22T09:29:47.630-07:00Some Things Never ChangeI was walking Boley, our 4 year-old Labradoodle, the other day. I was noticing how many people now wear masks when they are outside during the day. I saw people mowing lawns, sitting on front porches, and washing cars while wearing masks. It is amazing to me how quickly we have (begrudgingly) embraced these new life-during-a-pandemic protocols. As I contemplated this, I was startled by a small dog’s bark inches away from us on the other side of a wire fence. A French Bulldog had waited until we were that close, as yappy little dogs tend to do, before scaring the ever-living crap out of me. I screamed and grabbed my chest (because I’d left my pearls that I usually clutch at home). The little dog was still barking and snorting up a storm as we walked away. Boley was un-phased by the little dog. He is normally startled easily by the wind, or a leaf blowing by. He is used to being verbally abused by little dogs because he lives with one - Stella, our 6 lb. Yorkie. As I was trying to swallow my heart and continue our walk, it occurred to me that this was a good thing. As much as our world has changed - wearing masks, keeping our distance, working from home - other things have not changed. Yappy little dogs are still annoying as hell. It felt good that I wanted to bop it on the nose, but wouldn’t, just like always. When we got home, Stella barked her head off from the comfort of her lair under the dining room table, as usual. The mailman came and both dogs lost their minds, as it is still the highlight of their day. Boley jumped around and barked, while Stella barked and tried to bite the bottom of the front door. All as usual. This was an epiphany! Some things never change! Hooray? I am going to try to embrace this new outlook whenever my dogs go ballistic at hearing the doorbell or the slamming of the mail slot. Sure, it hurts my ears, but I can live with that, right? It’s a good thing, right? Right???lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-5457592439935668522020-05-17T14:13:00.001-07:002020-05-17T14:13:47.349-07:00Rush Hour, Pandemic-styleSince shelter-in-place was mandated, rush hour on the highways has pretty much disappeared. Now, however, we have rush hour on the neighborhood streets and sidewalks. When I walk Boley in the afternoon, it has become a challenge to avoid people on foot or on bicycles. I constantly look up ahead to see if someone is heading our way. If so, we cross to the other side of the street, providing that sidewalk is free and clear of humans. People have taken to walking in the street. So we have 3 options - this sidewalk, that sidewalk, middle of the street. All the zigzagging kind of makes me carsick, without a car. It does give my mind something to do though. Maybe it’s a live-action brain teaser. Boley doesn’t care about the route we take. He’s game for any action, and now sees way more people and dogs than he ever has. I’m not sure what he thinks about my bank-robber bandana. He kind of gives me the Once Over, then looks away. I’ll take that as his approval. Sometimes people gum up the process. There are those who stop to take pics of cherry blossoms, which ceases all action. Then there are people in their front yards talking to people in the street. You can’t very well head on down the sidewalk in between them. You could be getting blasted with germs from two sides. No thank you. The park we walk to (to deposit our poop bags) is still a popular place. The city had to post signs reminding people not to gather in groups and to keep 6 feet apart, or the park will be closed. Some people take in the scenic view by sitting in chairs atop their vans. Now THAT is social distancing with a flair! Personally, I would like to get in a giant hamster ball. That would be amazing, plus I wouldn’t be the one to zag to someone else’s zig. It would be all about getting out of My way, as it should be. Until I get that dream hamster ball though, I guess I will continue this way, no wait that way, not wait right down the middle…lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-72694818476883518652020-05-13T14:53:00.002-07:002020-05-13T14:53:57.488-07:00Pandemic Buzz WordsWhen the Pandemic hit, we were immediately inundated with new terms - “sheltering in place”, “social distancing”, “flattening the curve”, and PPE. Who is in charge of the creation of these words, and where do I apply for the job?<br /><br />Sheltering In Place - This term reminds me of a kid’s game. The first time I heard “sheltering in place” I had the urge to squat down with my fingertips on the ground. Ha… like THAT would ever happen. I couldn’t squat if someone held a gun to my head. I have one fake knee and one not-very-bendy and moderately unhappy knee. Squatting is not going to happen.<br /><br />Social Distancing - Was this term invented by actress Gwyneth Paltrow? When she got divorced, she announced she was “Consciously Uncoupling”. Seriously, that’s just dumb. Keeping 6 feet apart from each other is the point. For me, the social distancing term conjures up visions of square dancers, doe-see-doe-ing around the room. Maybe it’s the word “social”, or the giant skirts ladies wear. For sure you could keep 6 feet between people if everyone wore a square dance skirt. I think I’ve hit on something! We should all start sewing skirts instead of masks.<br /><br />Flattening The Curve - This pertains to graphs, statistics and lots of colorful lines going up, across, and down the page. I’m no math whiz, but I believe flattening the curve means when the lines stop going up, make a right turn, go for a flew blocks past the 7-11, and then head south. <br /><br />PPE - This is shorthand for Personal Protective Equipment (masks, hospital gowns and gloves). It’s basically all the first responders have to keep themselves safe from catching the Covid19 Virus. It’s like taking tweezers to a gun fight, but it’s all we have. I made some masks out of bandanas and sections cut from nylon knee highs (for the ear straps). They work fine, unless you wear glasses. I have yet to figure out how to wear a protective mask without my glasses fogging up. l left my glasses in the car but wore my mask the last time I grocery shopped. I swear my eyeballs got fogged up. My solution to this problem is to wear a plain old bandana, bank-robber-style. My glasses don’t fog up, and the extra space below my nose allows for air flow. Plus, best of all, I look like a total badass. Or the Unabomber. <br /><br />I’m sure new terms will keep coming, and we will adapt. Waiting for “Bye Bye Pandemic”.lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-36790892627601880842020-05-10T15:17:00.003-07:002020-05-10T15:17:56.514-07:00Pandemic... What Took You So Long?When I was a young kid in the early 1960s, I remember hearing a lot about Russia, the Bay of Pigs, and Nikita Khrushchev. I didn’t know what any of it meant. Grownups back then didn’t talk to kids. We were on our own to interpret what we were overhearing on the nightly news. It all sounded boring, yet scary, except maybe the Bay of Pigs. Porkers floating on their backs in a lake seemed kind of interesting. Definitely not scary. I grew up assuming that Russia would do something sinister to blow up the world. Why else would we be taught in our classrooms to “duck and cover”? The nuns in school told me my bad acts would go on my Permanent Record. If such a thing existed, then why shouldn’t I also be ready to hide under my desk for The Rest Of My Life? Over the years I felt a little less anxious about the Russians, but still sensed that something Big and Bad would happen during my lifetime. And here it is… Worldwide Pandemic. Yikes! I do like that the Coronavirus attacks all people, no matter who or what they are. That seems kind of fair, in a really crappy way. So now what? This is all new to everyone, except maybe a handful of people who were alive over 100 years ago during the Spanish Flu Pandemic. They would have been babies, so I doubt their memories can help us forge on through today. Some phrases have come floating through my brain as I ponder the Pandemic. “Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night” (Bette Davis), “Keep your arms and legs inside, and have fun” (every amusement park ride), and “Oh God!” (Veronica Cartwright in “Alien”). I think I’ll buckle myself in…lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-25812337911938491202015-09-19T22:40:00.004-07:002016-05-14T21:20:06.661-07:00Wasps Are Evil MFersWe’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...lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-43214586667984940142015-05-29T17:46:00.003-07:002015-05-29T17:46:27.475-07:00Spots, Fuzz, And A Saggy BladderI’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...lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-54846084931272074582015-03-12T17:11:00.002-07:002015-03-12T17:11:39.772-07:00Green Soot<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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...</span></span>lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-56348043054281592822015-02-15T17:32:00.001-08:002015-02-15T17:32:06.051-08:00Jesus Is CallingI 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.lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-40473976831141112932015-02-11T12:17:00.002-08:002015-02-11T12:17:37.879-08:00Cupid Is SadIt’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. lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-42399789320534209732014-11-18T10:14:00.003-08:002014-11-18T10:19:57.191-08:00Prison LoveCharles 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 fiancé, “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.lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-52684501744801500832014-11-09T15:35:00.004-08:002014-11-09T15:35:41.944-08:00A New ToasterOur 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...lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-80883825569602696382014-08-30T12:59:00.004-07:002015-02-11T10:41:16.027-08:00Sweaty Man GhostMy 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?lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-63842770422890854802014-08-03T11:24:00.003-07:002014-08-03T11:27:59.158-07:00Who'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.lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-32773956169504381692014-07-06T14:25:00.000-07:002014-07-06T14:42:28.706-07:00Back To WorkAfter 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:<br /><ul>
<li>Magnets don’t jump onto my new knee when I walk past the refrigerator. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>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). </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>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. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>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. </li>
</ul>
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.lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-43724197797510580142014-06-11T21:13:00.002-07:002014-07-06T14:26:24.242-07:00Naked And AfraidI 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.lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-82232161124171002942014-06-02T11:17:00.003-07:002014-06-02T11:20:52.540-07:00Killer DollsI 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...lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-30834060315402360072014-05-29T17:40:00.002-07:002014-05-29T17:40:27.929-07:00Be Nice And BendYesterday 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.lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5356458547654825008.post-2240069141437120842014-05-15T11:35:00.003-07:002014-05-15T11:35:55.752-07:00CrittersI 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!lima bean hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03387051866570632887noreply@blogger.com0