My Apologies to Lennon and McCartney

All my wrinkles seemed so far away.
Now it seems as though they’re here to stay,
Oh how I miss my yesterday.

Gray hair grows where none used to be.
Aging just seems so unfair to me,
Oh yesterday came suddenly.

My youth had to go,
Yes I know
It couldn’t stay.

I turned 58
It’s too late
For yesterday-ay-ay-ay.

Menopause was just a lark you say
These hot flashes keep me warm all day
Oh how I long for yesterday.

Note: I hope I didn’t plagiarize. The tune “Yesterday” kind of popped into my head yesterday afternoon, and the goofy lyrics followed. Surely no one else thinks up dumb things like this.

Peace, People!

So You Think You Can Sing

Singing. I sure wish I had that talent. Watching “The Voice,” I fantasize that I could do what these kids are doing. I want to move people with my voice. I mean, inspire them, not make them run for the exit.

If I had three minutes on stage what would I sing? “Without You” by Harry Nilsson? Dolly Parton’s “Jolene?” I’ve been practicing with my keyboard. Maybe I should play and sing the one song I know–“Jingle Bells.” Oh, the possibilities! Which judges would turn their chairs around? Could I allow Adam Levine to be my coach without falling in love with him? Would he be able to resist my charms? Perhaps I should play it safe and go with Gwen Stefani; although, she’s pretty hot.

I’d need a fresh outfit to cement my street cred. Something that says, “I’m happening in an ageless way.” Maybe I should start lifting weights to tone up my guns. That means ‘arms’ to all the cool cats. I’m definitely cool. As a cucumber. Iceberg lettuce cool.

And I’d need some instruction in stage presence. Should I practice holding the microphone like a diva? Do I stand still crooning into my mic or should I pace around the stage like a caged cougar?

Argh! So many things to consider. Maybe I’ll take up dancing instead. Now, if I only had the talent. Who knows how to apply to, “So You Think You Can Dance?”

Turn down for this, People!

Defrost the Kangaroo

One night last week I had a dream that I can’t quite shake. I was in the home of a friend and we were cooking dinner. It must have been for a special occasion, like Thanksgiving or Christmas because there were a dozen or more people milling around. My friend asked me to take the goose out of the freezer so it could thaw. A simple enough request except that she had at least ten freezers spaced around the kitchen, and I couldn’t find the goose in any of them.

Finally I found a butcher paper wrapped item that looked to be the right size and shape. I decided to unwrap it so it would thaw more quickly. Imagine my surprise when a quite alive and lively kangaroo emerged from the paper. She hopped around a bit before fleeing the kitchen. No one seemed even a little bit surprised.

I never did find the goose, but by then the dream moved on, as dreams often do, to a scene in which I was sleeping outside under a blanket of stars. Ok, I’d love some interpretation.

Peace, People!

Girl Gone Wild

Studly and I went to see “Gone Girl” this past weekend. I’d read the novel, and told Studly I really had no interest in seeing the film, but a couple of his golf buddies said it was really good. So, golf buddies’ opinions trumped wife’s opinion and off we went. I’ll try to avoid any spoilers here.

First off, Ben Affleck is nearly perfect in his role as the husband/suspect. In fact, the entire cast was dead on. My problem is that the movie sticks quite nicely to the novel, which is to say that once it was all done, I was left feeling really, deeply pissed off. I kept trying to gauge Studly’s reaction throughout the movie, but he was inscrutable. He laughed when appropriate and cringed when it was called for, as did I.

I kept hoping that the film would have a different ending than the book, but I guess I was one of the few who found it unsatisfying. When all was said and done, Studly turned to me and said, and I quote, “What the hell?! Yep. That’s what makes us soul mates.

Peace, People!

Vampires and Zombies and Werewolves, OH My!

A blogger whose posts I follow posed the question yesterday, “What is the difference between vampires and zombies? I jumped on the question immediately, because while I don’t know much about anything of importance I know a great deal about supernatural creatures.

My response to my friend was that zombies are dead, while vampires are undead. In my scholarly opinion, zombies, while deadly, are not inherently evil, while vampires are. They are both quite dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.

Bram Stoker’s novel, Dracula is the guidebook for all things undead. Anyone claiming to be knowledgeable about vampires who has not read Stoker’s tome is a mere pretender. While I can appreciate the sparkliness of Twilight’s Cullen clan, they are not true vampires. They are some aberration and should be treated as such. Cute and cuddly, but hardly worth guarding against with garlic and holy water.

Zombies, by all accounts, are simply reanimated dead people driven by a desire to eat human flesh, preferably brains. Some accounts attribute the zombie condition to an infected brain stem which remains functional despite the death and decay of its host body. The virus is the only living thing inside of said zombie. And they do decay, unlike vampires.

Werewolves are an entirely different matter. They are very much alive, perhaps too much so. One must survive a werewolf bite or flesh rending attack in order to become a werewolf. Perhaps that explains why they are so few in number. For the better part of each month werewolves live quite normal lives, attending PTA meetings and congressional hearings; however, during the full moon they transform fully into bloodthirsty beasts and terrorize all within their hunting range.

I hope this small treatise clears up any confusion about the nature of these denizens of the dark. If you have any questions of a scholarly nature I’ll be glad to entertain them at 1-888-Vampire. (Not really. I made that part up.)

The Walking Dead

series starts tonight if you’d like more zombie input.

Peace, People!

Check out:


Whack A Mole

Several weeks back I spotted a suspicious mole on my left forearm. It came to my attention as Studly and I were out rowing in our kayak. Of course I freaked a little and called the doctor the next day. I really expected him to chuckle, pat me on the head and send me away, but to my chagrin he wanted a dermatologist to look at it.

His office referred me to a reputable clinic, and as I write this I’m sitting on the exam table awaiting the arrival of the doctor. Of course the spot has now faded to a mere freckle, so I feel like a complete imposter, but since I’m here I thought he could do a complete body check. Heaven knows I’ve got plenty of body to check. We could be here awhile.

(Pause for exam)

Okay, the doctor has come and done his thorough exam. He’s concerned about the freckle spot and wants to do a biopsy. There’s another spot on my shin he wants biopsied as well. This is getting to be quite an ordeal. Right now, his nurse is preparing to numb my two troublesome areas with a rather long syringe.

(Pause for gasps of pain)

Damn, the one on my shin hurt like a sonofabitch. Remind me to forgo any offers to tattoo that particular area of my body. Now, I just have to wait until someone comes to perform the actual biopsy.

(Pause to hum the Jeopardy theme song)

The biopsyists (?) just entered, a young man and young woman (they both look 12) wielding sharp objects. I wonder why they’ve sent in two people, then, I realize they’re tag teaming me. He goes for my shin.

(Pause for sharply indrawn breath–totally unnecessary given the aforementioned numbing)

She goes for my forearm. He bandages my shin. She bandages my forearm. Simultaneously they pat my hands and rush out the door as quickly as they blew in, telling me I can get dressed. I feel like the Doublemint twins have left the room.

(Pause to get dressed)

(Pause to wait)

Waiting sucks. Please send good vibes my way if you’re so inclined.

Peace, People.

Road Kill

North Florida: Road Kill capital of the world. Just this week I encountered :


When I ride my motorcycle I obsess over animals. My main fear is that one will dart into my path and that one, or both of us, will sustain mortal injuries.

Riding through Custer State Park in South Dakota I developed a mantra:

I hope I don’t hit a squirrel.
Better a squirrel than a fox.
Better a fox than a hog.
Better a hog than a large dog.
Better a large dog than a deer.
Better a deer than a buffalo.
Better a buffalo than an elephant.
Better an elephant than a blue whale.
Glug. Glug. Glug.

Now, this is true. These are the things that trip through my mind when I ride. I also sing Dixie Chicks and Elvis Presley songs at the top of my lungs in the hope that my voice will deter animals from crossing my path. So far, so good.

Peace, People!

Walking Farts

Please excuse the title, but I’m all about truth in advertising. Most of the time, anyway.

About 15 years ago Studly and I took a big motorcycle trip with our good friends Guy and Janice. When I say big, I mean we rode from Great Bend, Kansas, to points in South Dakota and Wyoming including Sturgis, Mt. Rushmore, and Devils Tower of “Close Encounters” fame. it was my first major ride on my own bike, a 650 Yamaha V-Star. The V-Star was an absolutely beautiful cruiser with next to no horsepower. Keeping it at 65 mph took constant effort. I was fairly miserable for much of the trip–a combination of first ride nerves and no oomph.

The ride, though, was incredible after we escaped from the wind tunnels commonly known as Kansas and Nebraska. Once in South Dakota we rode through a cluster of wild burros in Custer State Park. Had I the inclination and temerity I might have reached out a tentative toe and nudged a buffalo in the park, as well. I was that close. It was that scary. We came within five feet of the Bighorn Sheep that were clinging tenaciously to the mountainside. This indoor girl experienced wildlife overload. Perhaps that accounts for the buildup of abdominal gas I experienced, as well.

We didn’t have reservations at the lodge in the state park, but we decided to stop by and see if there were any vacancies. The setting was breathtaking, and I kept my throttle fingers crossed as we pulled into the parking area. Sure enough, they had a suite available consisting of two bedrooms with a shared, “Jack and Jill” style bathroom. It wasn’t ideal, but we were all saddle sore from the day’s ride and decided we could share the facilities for one night.

We dined on steaks and baked potatoes that evening in the massive common room featuring a soaring ceiling and chandeliers fashioned from antlers. Then we took a walk outside to take in the wonder of the park. That’s when an embarrassing case of the walking farts set in. Every step I took resulted in a “pfffft,” a “thhhhhht,” or a “vvvvvv!” at full volume. At first we all tried ignoring the sounds emanating from my behind, then someone snorted a laugh and all bets were off.

I tried to rein in my flatulence, but the harder I tried the worse it got. Finally we decided to return to our rooms. My walk back to the inn sounded like, “step, pffft, step, pffft, step, pffft!” I could have generated power for a small city.

In the middle of that night I felt like I could dispense with some of that pent up gas, but we had a shared bathroom and I didn’t want to impose the sounds and potential smells of my relief on anyone else, so I dressed and went to the lobby bathroom. Ahhhh. Redemption.

The next morning as we gathered for breakfast I related the tale of my midnight expedition to Studly and our friends, only to learn that each member of our group had done the same thing. Apparently, friends don’t subject friends to smelly bathrooms.

Peace, People!

Have a Very Hairy Winter

Last week I saw a Facebook meme that essentially said that since autumn has arrived I don’t have to shave my legs until next spring. That made me wonder what else I could dispense with at this time of year. Underwear? Eyeglasses? Makeup? None of the aforementioned? I couldn’t think of a single thing. And I’ll continue shaving my legs all year long.

Yes, I’m an overachiever. I have shaved my legs every single day of the year regardless of season from the time I was 11 years old. I shaved them on the days I gave birth. I shaved them after my lumpectomy. I shaved them after my hysterectomy. TMI? Too bad. If I were running for public office this would be my slogan:


I don’t care if other women choose to let their hair grow all winter long. That’s a personal choice. I don’t shave for Studly’s benefit; quite honestly he probably wouldn’t notice if I grew a cashmere sweater on my thighs. I just can’t stand to sleep with myself if there’s any stubble at all on my legs.

When I become old and feeble I hope I have the money to hire a person to shave my legs on a daily basis. While they’re at it, they should also make sure my mustache is under control. And when I die, before I’m cremated, I want someone to take on these critical tasks. I can’t meet St. Peter with hairy legs. Is anyone writing this down? It’s important.

Peace, People!

Let it Go?

Why is it easy to let some small annoyances go and impossible to let others slide by?

I have raged for years about 32″ inseams on my 33.5″ legs. That danged inch and a half is a thorn in my side. On average aren’t people growing taller? Then why on earth haven’t inseams gotten longer? Let it go!

Political ads. The misdirection, happy family photos, staged walks on the beach, outright lies–they all make me cringe. I think every politician should be allotted ten 30 second television advertisements. They may not mention their opponent in any way during those 30 seconds. Only verifiable facts and statistics may be used. Don’t let it go!

The term “supermodel” bugs me. Anything with the word “super” imposed on it should at least be able to fly or bend steel rods. Let it go!

What’s up with beets? They always look like they should taste pleasant, and yet they don’t. It’s that bright red coloring that is the problem. I see festive red and I think, “mmm, sweet,” not “ugh, weird tasting vegetable.” Let it go!

Incorrect use of an apostrophe. Don’t let it go! People, an apostrophe shows ownership:

Paula’s plants. Not Paula’s plant’s.
Plant’s leaves. Not plant’s leave’s

Bathroom seats that are left in the upright position. It’s icky. It’s yucky! But I can live with it. Let it go!

Burps and belches that aren’t followed by the phrase, “Excuse me!” Common courtesy. Don’t let it go!

Blog posts with no apparent point. I hope you can let it go!

Peace, People!