Weigh in scheduled for
Jenny Craig awaits.
Still in bed at 9:05 trying to
Decide if I will weigh less
By doing nothing productive
Before my appointment, or
If I should arise and run
Frantically around exercising
Enough to make up for the
Non-exercise I did all week.
Burns more calories?
Not riding a stationary bike or
Not walking for two miles?
Opting for option #2 I slip back
Beneath the covers and
Dream of key lime pound cake.
Judging from the mail we receive everything is either URGENT, IMPORTANT, or requires our IMMEDIATE ATTENTION! If it weren’t for important mail, we’d get no mail at all.
Send money now,
You need to pay.
Please respond and
Tell your friends!
Your lucky number
Past due date.
Our last notice
It’s no wonder
We’re all stressed!
I’m watching an episode of “Hoarders, Buried Alive” on TLC and thinking random thoughts:
There are some really sad people out there.
And I thought my house was messy!
If I emptied all of my stuff and Studly’s stuff into the middle of our living room would we still be able to find floor to walk on? Should I try it?
If one has tons of books is she considered a hoarder or a bibliophile?
Why is it that many hoarders’ homes appear fairly normal from the outside
I think I should become a hoarding counselor. Or a princess.
Here are some scenes from the series:
The older I get the more I realize I am averse to commitment. It’s not that I have anything against groups or clubs or associations, it’s just that I don’t want to be a part of any of them. Or maybe I subscribe to Groucho Marx’s rule of thumb concerning club membership:
Most of my adult life I wanted to be part of a book club. After three months of club membership I was ready to call it quits. The other members were lovely, the book picks intriguing, and the conversation lively, but on the downside I felt had to ATTEND. And I had to read the books someone else chose within a predetermined time frame. I did enjoy the wine, though.
One of the longest commitments I managed was to the sorority, Beta Sigma Phi. The camaraderie was great and I developed lasting friendships, but had Studly not urged me to continue my membership, I’d have opted out in the first year. I did enjoy the wine, though.
I could list a dozen groups to which I’ve belonged for less than a year. Heck, for less than a month. I’m not sure what this says about me as a person. I like the idea of belonging to a group, just not the reality. I might be open to joining a wine club, though. Anyone want to come with me? No commitment necessary.
I wrote this in response to a prompt from a Facebook friend. It occurred to me that the wildest dreams from my younger days–marrying a Beatle, performing at Carnegie Hall doing God knows what, traveling to exotic places–no longer were on my dream radar.
Sailing ‘cross oceans
Those were the norms
Dreams I once had
Far better for certain
Than some that were not.
Wildest dreams of my
Younger self somehow
With the dreams I have now
To more than survive
To thrive and discover the
Person within under the
Protective covers of those
Who love me.
Around the time I was four my family lived in Lubbock, Texas, in a two-bedroom rental house with wood floors. I remember the floors clearly because I spent a lot of time planted on my butt in front of the television set on Sunday mornings watching a) Tarzan, b) televangelists, or c) both of the above.
To say my choices in TV viewing were limited is an understatement. We only had access to three stations at the time and two of the three featured oily preachers eager to snatch pennies from a gullible preschooler’s piggy bank. I remember begging my mom to allow me to send all of my money to these showmen who seemingly worked miracles of Biblical proportions, and who would gladly work more if they just had more funding. My mom was nobody’s fool, though, and she gave me a lesson in ‘con men for Christ,’ one I’ve never forgotten: the slicker the hair, the sicker the con.
The other available station ran a Tarzan movie every Sunday morning. I loved Tarzan, Cheetah, and Jane (in that order). I could emulate the ape man’s famous yell even better than Carol Burnett in her prime. For much of my childhood my pretend play revolved around living in a treehouse high up within the canopy of the African jungle with a chimpanzee while avoiding evil hunters and rallying the wildlife to save the day, always just in the nick of time. Like Tarzan I could communicate with elephants and lions and wrestle crocodiles and snakes. I was pretty amazing for a four year old.
While Mom and Dad had the opportunity to sleep in on Sunday I rabidly flipped between Oral Roberts and Tarzan, alternately observing faked miracles and faked animal footage. Thank goodness I never got Tarzan and Oral Roberts mixed up! Of course Mom probably would have let me send money to Tarzan, and Reverend Roberts might have been quite compelling in a loincloth.