#GBE2: If I had my life to live over...

This topic is supposed to be filled with the age old wisdom of one who's tasted the ups and downs of life and has now matured to a quiet understanding. Yeah, right!

If I had my life to live over, there are a few things I might do differently:

(1) I would not have cried softly in Kindergarten after not getting to pet the snake but rather stood up boldly and announced, "Hey! You missed me!"

(2) Everyday in second grade, a classmate asked me to lend her a dime. Being timid, I gave it to her while knowing she'd never give it back. I probably gave her at least $2 - $3, with the interest rate from the sixties and adjustment for inflation... Hmm. I need to send her a bill or at least link this post to her Facebook page to prove I'm no longer that wimp.

(3) In a do over, I would have pitched a fit and refused to wear that polyester, light blue gym uniform because my mom didn't want to spend $7 to buy me a new one. In my childhood, a parent's "No" meant no without an argument, but that was important enough that in hindsight, I should have fought it or paid for a red one myself. That embarrassing uniform with my sister's initials scarred me for life! This morning, I searched the internet for a uniform as ugly as that one. I couldn't find anything THAT bad.

(4) I didn't need to date him or be intimate, but I wish I would have gotten to know him as he stood in the corner with his fraternity buddies and radiated his handsomeness. It might have been enriching to have become his good friend and vicariously enjoyed his rise to fame and fortune. He missed his chance. Brad Pitt and I went our separate ways.

I should have said, "Hello" as she sunbathed in front of her sorority house across the street, but Sheryl Crow also missed the chance to know me. We were all just kids not knowing which one of us was going places. If I would have listened to my professor and majored in education like he told me to do, I probably would have known her well. Ironically, I'm a teacher and she is not.

I know Yakov Smirnoff, and he's more fun than Brad Pitt and Sheryl Crow put together.

(5) When my husband gave me a compound sentence, "Will you marry me and live in Memphis?" maybe I should have negotiated the Memphis thing. Yes, I love him, but back when, I didn't quite get the full picture of what he was asking for. This red state of Tennessee can be a bit much. At least as of last Thursday, I no longer have a uterus for them to mess with.

Oh, Beth meant big stuff like career decisions, etc? I'm sure I never interpret her challenges the way she intends us to. Honestly, I don't have a clue about that. It's far too deep for me.

Silly Sunday: It's All Relative

#BFF: Food

When I was a wee little girl, I ate two things: hot dogs and jello. The hot dogs had to be peeled of skin and cut into little round pieces while the jello was usually red.

My frantic mother rushed me to the doctor and asked, "What do I do?"

"Feed her hot dogs and jello," the doctor said.

(Reminds me of the old joke, "Doc, it hurts when I do this!"

"Don't do this.")

So Mom left me alone and with little fanfare, my food jag slipped away. Today there are very few foods I don't like. Don't get me wrong, there are many things I won't eat, but it's due to diet, health, or religious issues, not from stamping my feet like a two year old.

I still love hot dogs (even after the events from my A-Z hot dog post). Here is a picture of my lunch. Yes. That's a hot dog hiding behind asparagus, mushrooms, onions, and tomatoes. I count carbs, so you're not seeing a slice of bread, but I did eat a delicious 13 carb fiber brownie for dessert.  The vegetables are about 5 carbs per serving, and I probably have at least four servings on the plate, so I think I'm good. If not, I will instantly balloon out and have to throw out the few things that didn't shrink in my hot closet, but that's okay too because my kids have directions via Rita Rudner.

They've grown up hearing, "If I'm ever on life support, don't pull the plug until I'm a size six."

"Yes, Mother." They roll their eyes and never find me even slightly funny.

Back to the carbs. I started counting carbs in April and since then I've shed about twenty pounds. I don't eat much in the way of sugar, but that's nothing new. The thought of a glazed donut makes me want to gag, which is ironic because my WIP is a story called MRS. ZIMMERMAN'S DONUTS and involves a little boy who's deprived of these and other delectables from his over protective mother.

I don't eat pork as a poor attempt to follow at least one kosher law. If I were truly a good Jew, I'd give up my favorite traif, shrimp, but it ain't happening. At least not outside the home.

I like wine, but every time I drink a glass, my blood sugar spikes. I'm not a Diabetic but the disease runs heavily in my family and that's the main reason I'm carb counting. I have a pre-Diabetic diagnosis and don't want to take it any further than that, so I figure I have a choice: Eat healthy and lose weight or get the disease and lose the weight of a leg or two. I choose the former. Yay! Blood sugar was 93 this morning.

As for foods I don't like, I hate liver, olives, sweet pickles and relish. I'm not a big fan of okra, but it has more to due with the slimy texture than the taste. It looks like snot and doesn't score too well on my appetizing meter.

Now that you know my food issues, I leave you with a musical number on the topic. Signing off from the Methodist Germantown Hospital. Surgery was a success, and I'm going home today. I hope the dogs don't attack me when I head through the door.

Beware of Dogs

Enjoy one of my favorite songs about a yummy food that I won't be eating for awhile.

Wordless Wednesday Meets BFF: Silly Me

Why couldn't we have fun like this when I was a kid?

#GBE2: "High" School

You know there's trouble when a school has an open lunch policy, a park next door, and a school full of spoiled rich kids with enough money to buy whatever they want. That was my 1970s high school.

Although I never partook in the afternoon escapes of my high school, I have vivid memories of the aftermath. Each day after lunch, I'd sit in English class and stare at the boy across the room. His handsome face was marred by bloodshot eyes and a faraway expression. He never spoke nor seemed to be a part of the class. Did the teacher not notice his drugged out appearance or did she just not care? It was scary to think someone could be that high in a high school class. It was even scarier to think of a good looking kid being so screwed up.

I know this is a humor blog, and I'm sure there is plenty to make fun of when it comes to high kids. I've included funny pictures because it's better than crying, but it just isn't funny to have recently attended TWO funerals for young men who over dosed. 

I attended "high" school without even a buzz. I survived, as did my stoned classmates, without any red ribbon weeks or "Just Say No" assemblies, so why are today's kids dying? Are the drugs containing dangerous fillers that my classmates didn't encounter? Is it a social class thing? Maybe my classmates bought purer drugs with their abundance of money. 

I know today's schools have a lot more control on kids than my school did. No open lunch policies and no smoking lounge for kids nor teachers. Is that the problem? Has too much restriction caused a youth rebellion? I don't know the answer to this. 

I'd say it's all about good parenting, but the parents mourning their kids are top notch! Seriously. These are wonderful parents who were there for the kids throughout.

I know this is not the direction Beth expected when she wrote "High School," but in lieu of what's been going on in my community it's what on my mind.

I can certainly tell the kids to "Just Say No," but I already did that. They didn't listen. So what now?

Silly Sunday: Le-a

How would you pronounce this child's name?

 

She spells her name "Le-a"

 

 

So how would YOU pronounce her name?

 

 

 

Leah?  ....................NO.

Lee- A?  ................. NOPE.

Lay -a?  .............. NOT A CHANCE.

Lei?..........NICE TRY, BUT GUESS AGAIN!

 

 

This child attends a school in Livingston Parish, LA. Her mother is irate because everyone is getting her child's name wrong.

She says it's pronounced "Ledasha."

 

When the Mother was asked how in the world she figured it should be pronounced that way, she said, "cause the dash don't be silent!"

 

So, if you see a name come across your desk like this, please remember to pronounce the dash.

 

And if anyone ask you why, tell them "It's 'cause the dash don't be silent!"

 

 

Writer's Post: Ethos, Pathos, Logos

Just last week, I read about a fifth grade boy who decided to defy his teacher by calling a pen a "Frindle." This is the typical read for me, not too risky in the big picture but such a good book. This week, I read something a bit different. Oh, my. 

Perhaps the party conversation made me curious, or maybe it's the #1 on The New York Times Best Seller list that caught my attention. Could I have been drawn to the book because it was banned in multiple book stores? The final truth: I read it. 

*blush*

This week's Writer's Post topic is Ethos, Pathos, Logos which means, I'm supposed to convince you to read this book. I'm not going to.  Half of you would call it trash and be mad at me for leading you down this dark path. If you do read it, you might not want to admit. It's downright naughty.

Ethos - You've got to wonder about the knowledge of the author. Since this is a world I will never enter, I'll just have to trust her as she takes me through my vicarious thrill. I imagine writing a story like this would be even more embarrassing than reading one.

Pathos - Appeals to the emotions? Oh yeah. Take one super hot male and combine him with a twisted mind, and you've appealed to the emotions. The book contains fear for the heroine as well as a sick curiosity for what his next "room of pain" trick will be. Oh, and did I mention: Christian Grey is extremely hot.  ; )

Logos - It was on sale for $10 at Costco when I passed the dirty little novel that has this country talking. It's summer vacation, and I have plenty of time to read, so why not?

Okay, I confess. I'm ready for the sequel.

*blush*  *blush*  *blush*

I've just got to know why Christian is so weird and what he's going to do to win Ana after he royally messed up. With my G rated life, this vicarious venture turns me fifty shades of red. What's it about you ask? Oh, no. I'm not going into detail on my innocent little blog. You'll just have to read it yourself . . . but don't say I didn't warn you.


On another note, the movie rights have been sold. The success or failure of the movie is all about picking the best man to play Christian. The women have got to be absolutely swooning over him or nothing is going to work. Who do you vote for?

Or maybe you prefer one of these choices.

Sorry, but the best looking man is not up for the part, and is a little older than 27. Plus, he's married to me, so you can't swoon over him.

#GBE2: My Turn

I hate reality TV. It's more than just the obvious fact that I'd be the first one voted off the island due to my tactless thirst for honesty. The queen bee would make a heartless remark about the fat chick, and I'd be the one to say, "You arrogant dog! You're just saying that to turn everyone against her." Then it would be over for me.

I've never been good at people games. If someone treads where they shouldn't, I don't give subtle hints. Instead I boldly yell, "Get out of there!" My son calls it a lack of filter and sites it as the main reason all of his girlfriends and sibling's boyfriends have been afraid of me. I'm not that scary, unless you're trying to hide the truth–I'll find it.

The other night, I woke to a running toilet and found my youngest daughter poised in front of the television watching brides who were competing for plastic surgery. Individuals claimed to have noses that were too big or breasts that were too small, but in my mind, the only thing they needed was a psychologist's bench. 

What sort of message do these shows teach our kids? First off, you are not okay the way you are and must have plastic surgery in order to look good for your future husband. I don't know about you, but if my fiance supported my doing this, I'd tell him to take a hike. 

As for my son, if I saw a future Mrs. Lansky embarrassing the competition with twisted remarks on national TV, I'd work hard to break the engagement. 

Of course, my kids only date drop dead beautiful people anyway, so they'd never be on this plastic surgery show. But wait a minute, these girls weren't ugly either. It's not like they were 60+ years old and wanting a little botox to remove a wrinkle. Nor, were they victims of fire or accidents that had facial deformities. Absolutely nothing was wrong with the way any of them looked, so I have to question a doctor putting them through the surgery. Perhaps it was all about making money?

A Beautiful Bride

The winners of these shows are those who outsmart the others through cold, calculated, shrewdness. I don't know about you, but these are not the way I want people to act. Nor, am I in favor of humiliating individuals on national TV. It's as if we're telling our children that it's good to be cruel to others. 

If this is any indication of the world to come, I'm glad I'll be checking out in thirty years or so.

Wordless Wednesday: Final Photo Games

Remember these? What do these pictures represent?

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Light Beer

?????????????????????

 

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Hole Milk

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Knight Mare

?????????????????????

 

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The King of Pop

Check out http://www.worth1000.com/ 

 

It's a very cool site!

Silly Sunday: Talking Dog

A guy is driving around the back woods of Montana, and he sees a sign in front of a broken down shanty-style house: 'Talking Dog For Sale.' He rings the bell and the owner appears and tells him the dog is in the backyard.

The guy goes into the backyard and sees a nice looking Labrador retriever sitting there.

"You talk?" he asks.

"Yep," the Lab replies.
 

    After the guy recovers from the shock of hearing a dog talk, he says "So, what's your story?"
 

    The Lab looks up and says, "Well, I discovered that I could talk when I was pretty young. I wanted to help the government, so I told the CIA. In no time at all, they had me jetting from country to country, sitting in rooms with spies and world leaders, because no one figured a dog would be eavesdropping."

"I was one of their most valuable spies for eight years running. But the jetting around really tired me out, and I knew I wasn't getting any younger so I decided to settle down. I signed up for a job at the airport to do some undercover security, wandering near suspicious characters and listening in. I uncovered some incredible dealings and was awarded a batch of medals.' 'I got married, had a mess of puppies, and now I'm just retired."
The guy is amazed. He goes back in and asks the owner what he wants for the dog.
"Ten dollars," the guy says.
 

"Ten dollars? This dog is amazing! Why on earth are you selling him so cheap?"

"Because he's a liar. He never did any of that shit." 

 

#GBE2: Hop on Pop

"Hop. Hop. We like to hop. We like to hop on top of Pop."

"Stop! You must not hop on Pop."

This week's GBE2 prompt is to pick a line from a book and write about it. Hop on Pop by Dr. Seuss is a strong story with well developed characters who like to skate on the dark side. The riveting plot places kids in extreme danger when they resort to Pop hopping.

But let's face it, one should not "Hop on Pop," and here's why. First off, if you're still calling your dad "Pop," chances are, you passed childhood a long time ago. Let's face it. How many kids do you know who call Daddy "Pop?"

So now that we've decided you're quite mature, Pop must be ancient--I mean hairs in the ears, false teeth, cane carrying old! The weak bones of senior citizens cannot handle being hopped on, especially if you're an American. Surely, you've heard the latest studies in the news. Obesity is at an epidemic in the states. With the width of average Americans, do grown fat people really need to be hopping on old men? Then again, there might be more to hop on if Pop is a butterball too. None the less, you might rupture Pop's spleen, break his bones, or God only knows what else.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named told me it is a biblical sin for an adult to make a parent bleed or to bruise one's dad. In fact, historically this was punishable by death. Many doctors will not operate on their parents for this reason. So, why in the world would you hop on Pop? Take my advice. Give it up, learn respect, and DON'T HOP ON POP!

Wordless Wednesday: Graduation

Last night we returned from my daughter's graduation from The University of Maryland. Here is a small sampling of some of the humorous photos that were taken.

The University erected a statue in Judy's Honor

A Photo Taken by "He Who Must Not Be Named."

Tassel Troubles

Judy says, "Good bye" to her good friend Testudo.

ZTA Sisters

Walking the Dog

A woman was flying from Seattle to San Francisco. Unexpectedly, the plane was diverted to Sacramento along the way. The flight attendant explained that there would be a delay, and if the passengers wanted to get off the aircraft the plane would re-board in fifty minutes.

Everybody got off the plane except one lady who was blind. The man had noticed her as he walked by and could tell the lady was blind because her seeing eye dog lay quietly underneath the seats in front of her throughout the entire flight.

He could also tell she had flown this very flight before because the pilot approached her, and calling her by name, said, "Kathy, we are in Sacramento for almost an hour. Would you like to get off and stretch your legs?" The blind lady replied, "No thanks, but maybe Buddy would like to stretch his legs."

Picture this:

All the people in the gate area came to a complete standstill when they looked up and saw the pilot walk off the plane with a seeing eye dog! The pilot was even wearing sunglasses. People scattered. They not only tried to change planes, but they were trying to change airlines!

Have a great day and remember ...

THINGS AREN'T ALWAYS AS THEY APPEAR. 

 A DAY WITHOUT LAUGHTER IS A DAY WASTED!!!

#GBE2: Guilty Pleasures

It wasn't my birthday, Christmas, or any other reason to get a present; however, my dad took me to the store and told me to pick out a game. Dad paid four dollars for The Game of Life and helped me make a permanent memory of the joy of getting a present for no reason at all. 

We weren't poor. In fact, we were quite well off. I had everything I needed; I just didn't have everything I wanted. Is that so bad?

Most of today's kids don't understand the true thrill of getting a gift since they are constantly bombarded with the spoils of childhood. My parents never bought me a new bike yet ocassionally bought me new toys. Add that to the hand-me-downs from older siblings, and I had a terrific stash! 

My kids went to camp with a bunch of spoiled Dallas kids. Forgive me Texans, but these brats were ridiculous. They received care packages every single day of a month long session. One mother mailed her daughter bottled water because that from the tap was not good enough for her darling. Can you imagine how expensive it would be to mail water? Postage would probably cost more than the water itself. As the kids got these packages, they'd carelessly roll their eyes and poo poo the contents. 

"I have enough beach towels. Anyone want this one?"

No joke. My daughter would come home with all sorts of care package goodies, so why spend the money to send her one? Don't get me wrong. She'd get a care package or two over the course of a month. When they arrived, they were appreciated too.

My daughter's best friend in the cabin also received as many care packages as my kid. One night the counselors confessed, "You two are our favorite campers!" Gee, I wonder why?

So, when the group asks, "What's your guilty pleasure?" I'm not thinking of something fattening or expensive. My mind goes for something I don't need--such as candy. It has no nutritional value nor does candy fix hunger or thirst. I don't need it, and there is no point in spending even a measly two dollars on something like this. Therefore, here is my sugar free, low calorie, cheap, guilty pleasure. You're probably thinking, Is that all?

Yes. That's all. I've learned to be content with my lot, and furthermore, I don't buy things that truly make me feel guilty. It's not worth it. Ironically, candy was the 10¢ item my mother would often break down and buy me as we went through the grocery store check out. So, I guess in that way, I got what I wanted.

Wordless Wednesday: Time to Take the Keys

Last Friday, I took my daughter to the econo hour theater. Get this: a first run movie for $4.00 plus popcorn and soft drink for $1.00! On the way to the movie, we stopped by my husbands office. Suddenly, a deafening pop riddled the air and two frantic females ran circles while screaming, "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

I thought for sure someone had been shot from the sound, yelping, and white smoke rising in the air. But no. An old man backed up.

Apparently, the two women pulled into a parking lot to switch cars. They got out and watched this man crash into their cars and one other. Time to take away the keys, before a person rather than just a car gets injured.

P.S. We loved The Lucky One starring Zach Effron.

Writer's Post: Stirring The Pot

This weeks Writer's Post topic is "Stirring the Pot." Here is my take on the matter.

Have you ever been cooking when suddenly you have to run to the bathroom? You tell your husband or kids to stir the pot, but do they? Noooo. By the time you're no longer indisposed, the soup has either boiled onto the stove or is crusted on the bottom. When this happens the results are two fold. If you're lucky, you're eating burnt food and scraping the bottom of the pan for an hour or so. But if you're unlucky, three firetrucks come tearing down the street with their sirens screaming and the neighbors peeking out their windows. 

So why is it people never listen to Mom and stir the pot? It's a national tragedy! In fact, I'll bet if you counted the number of times firetrucks–What? What's that you say? Figurative meaning, not literal meaning? 

B*tch!

Uncontainable Love - My Dog's Escapades

Swizzle Inn / Swazzle Out - Bermuda Fun

Twenty-six years ago this month, my husband and I honeymooned in Bermuda, where we ordered drinks and dinner at The Swizzle Inn. With the typical sunny skies, a fabulous island breeze, and mild temperatures, we sat outside under that green awning in the picture above. The 'Swizzle Inn' sign dangled from a chain straight ahead of me while I sipped a tasty golden-colored Bermuda rum swizzle.

Our dinner conversation bubbled with the excitement of the golden retriever puppy we'd be meeting as soon as we returned home to Memphis. But most of all, we puzzled over what to name him. It took a flash of inspiration to glance at the sign and know that Swizzle would soon become our first born son.

Puppy Love

We first met Swizzle at our mayor's son's home after answering an ad in the newspaper. We hopped into the red Jeep and drove the short distance to have the ultimate dog picking experience. Experienced dog owners know to choose the precious fur ball who's asleep in the corner. However, while in our young twenties, we never got that memo. The dog owners led us outside to where the litter had been kept. In fact, they stayed outside so much, that going to the bathroom in the grass was all they knew. Instantly house broken! Of course with smart dogs like golden retrievers, the house breaking routine is never too difficult.


As the litter of golden delights romped through the yard with enough energy to power a house if we could only learn to harness it, we checked them out.

Swizzle & Me - 1986

Each fluffy baby radiated with young life and breathed tuna fish scented breath as they darted by. With so much cuteness in one yard, it was tough knowing which puppy to choose. As a result, I did what any young crazy person would do. I plopped onto the ground and waited a nano second to see who'd stop by to meet me. Big mistake! Within moments, I was covered in wet kisses and muddy paw prints all down my red-collared shirt. Never had I felt so loved as I did sitting Indian style on the patio of the dog owners back yard.

Swizzle & Erica

Although all the babies were cute–what golden pup isn't?–Swizzle was the energetic little guy who consistently made it to the center of my lap and close to my heart. He'd hop over all his brothers and sisters to make sure I noticed his presence and make him our very own.

We took the pup home, nurtured him with plenty of love, and watched him grow into a handsome stud dog.

Memories of Swizzle

After twelve years of joy, we lost our beloved Swizzle, but his memory lives on forever. We've even nailed his dog charm to his favorite spot by the stairwell.

Swizzle's photograph was hung in The Swizzle Inn in Bermuda along with many other photographs from fans of the restaurant. Hopefully, it's still there.

This post written in partnership with Dog Fence DIY and their team of dog containment system specialists. The DIY team seeks to engage dog owners and promote positive and safe dog safety practices. Please visit our sponsor at http://www.dogfencediy.com

Wordless Wednesday: Blink

Ruby

Only my dog has constant issues with blinking while pictures are being taken. ~Daniel 

#GBE2 : Parody

This week's GBE2 topic is "Parody," which is hard since my favorite movies are those that make fun of serious ones. So I figure I'll have to take a serious topic in my life and get a laugh out of it. Why should this post be different than any others?

My gynecologist and I are working to make fun summer plans. See I've got this growth in my uh-hm that's the size of a red, ripe, juicy strawberry--although it's shaped more like Charlie Brown's head than Stewie Griffin's.

Charlie Brown

Stewie Griffin

This little bugger bear not only makes my stomach protrude like a pregnant woman's, but it has also caused a bloody bad time along with tummy aches. However, my hormones indicate I'm still well within my baby making years.

"NOOOO!" I don't wanna go birthin' no babies. So, I've decided to kiss my female parts goodbye and undergo a hysterectomy.

Now if they take away my female parts, am I still a female? I don't anticipate growing chest hair and swinging on vines, since the male parts won't be there either. Maybe I should change my name to Pat. 

As an adrogynous person, I wouldn't have to wear dresses or paint my toe nails--not that I do anyway. I wouldn't have to style my hair nor wear make up. But most importantly, I'll surely lose ten pounds when they take this organ out? See I carried three babies in it, with the heaviest kid being over eight pounds, plus the placenta. A flimsy little organ could never carry that much baby weight, could it? Maybe getting rid of these used auto parts isn't such a bad idea after all. However, why is it called a HYSterectomy? Shouldn't it be a HERsterectomy?

Until next time,

Pat