I’ve often wondered what men think about during sex or do they even think at all? Somehow I think the latter is probably closer to the truth or at least it is for my husband. That man could be dying and still want to get a little while absolutely nothing flows through his brain. Don’t get me wrong though, I have no problem with his lack of thought during sex. As long as he does his part, I’m happy.
Now, me…I am a woman and I can guarantee you that there are a million different things going through my mind even during a little lovemaking. In fact, sex is a great time for me to think about home improvements. No, really. Many decorating changes to our house have come about because of good sex. What am I supposed to be thinking? Ooh…aah…ooh?
What about you?
Gut-wrenching fear struck me as I looked at the name that popped up on my phone, Deanna Deanna. The name was supposed to only say Deanna, but apparently I had a brain fart the day I entered my Aunt Deanna’s name into my contact list. Just seeing her name once was a enough to make me nauseous, but twice put me over the edge. Deanna never calls me unless there is a problem, specifically with my Mother. As I live 90 miles away, my Mother’s sister is her first line of defense is something were to happen. Considering the fact that Mom is 80 years-old things are bound to happen that are out of our control.
For years my Mom and her younger sister have been daily lunch partners with the latter picking her up. They hit almost every restaurant in town during the week and when they are done with that they go to the surrounding cities for lunch. On this particular day they were sitting at the local bowling alley getting ready to order lunch. Before they even picked up the menu Mom turned a pasty white, started sweating bullets, and had difficulty moving her left arm without extreme pain. Aunt Deanna rushed her to the emergency room then gave me the call that made me start sweating bullets.
Everything turned out OK with Mom for now, but it still frightened me to the core. I stayed with Mom for a few days, then did something that put me in the doghouse. Before leaving for home I drove her to the Home Health division of the hospital and told her this was it, she’s getting a Life Line. Yes, Life Line. You know those annoying commercials “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”? Talk about an unhappy camper. Mom was not pleased at all with the fact I was forcing her to do something against her will. She is very independent and stubborn but she wasn’t getting her way this time. She informed me that she wasn’t one of those old ladies and she always has her cell phone with her (no, she doesn’t).
I didn’t back down and got my way this time but it made me feel awful. My mom is my closest friend in the world and felt as if I had betrayed her confidence. That feeling didn’t last too long though. By the time I drove home I felt so much more secure knowing Mom would be safer in her home now. In fact, it’s been several weeks now and she no longer even mentions the help button that hangs around her neck. Maybe that’s because she is now upset with me for mentioning the dreaded word “walker” or the fact I said no more driving her car. I guess we just have to take baby steps. Momma raised me which couldn’t have been easy. Now the tides have turned and I am taking care of her (when she lets me).
Promises, promises, promises…..I make them to myself frequently and then fail to follow them. One of those promises has been to keep up on my blogs. Yeah, I haven’t been very good at that one, have I? It’s not that I have giving up writing; I do that every day while working on my first book. I am also big on posting my strangely perverted, happy thoughts on Facebook, so if you are “friends” with me you aren’t missing out on much. If you want to be my little friend, you can find me at my Happy Blonde Facebook page.
Life in Happy Blonde land has included a lot of snow lately; in fact we received about 13 inches with the last storm. That equals about 1.6 inches of rainfall according to the Snowfall to Rainfall Calculator or basically not crap considering the drought we’ve been going through. See this picture? This is our neighbor’s pond last spring. It is now completely empty. Who knows, maybe with 13 inches of snow it might pass as a cup of fish soup now.
Anyhow, I am going to try and keep up my goal to blog more instead of just writing. It’s good outlet that I should utilize more, maybe I’ll be less crazy.
A change in lifestyle often happens not because of a want or a need, but because of an unforeseen condition. Such is the case with me. My life has changed dramatically because of my diagnosis with Fibromyalgia and the beginning signs of Rheumatoid arthritis. I have good days and bad days because of the pain and this has certainly taken a toll on me. On the good days I work hard to get everything done I can and on the bad days I basically just suffer. Most of my symptoms began when I was in my late teens and early twenties getting worse with age.
Sometimes a change of lifestyle is not always because of a health condition but because of a need or desire to change. Such was the case with my son Ryan. Ryan was born on a chilly October 21st, 1991, healthy and screaming out loud. It wasn’t long before that would change though. For the next few years Ryan spent most of the time fighting constant ear infections, bronchitis, and several cases of walking pneumonia. He even had five sets of tubes placed in his ears. By the time he was six, he just seemed to magically get better. He spent his time running and playing just like every other kid.
Ryan, 5th grade
Then came middle school and so did the pounds. Ryan became more interested in video games and food than running and playing. He did play football in the 7th grade, but wasn’t able to join the team when 8th grade came around because he had just had surgery for a benign tumor in his nose. It seemed by the 9th grade that Ryan was doomed. This time he had surgery for a large cyst in his groin just before the football season started. He did join marching band, but it just didn’t give him the exercise he needed.
By the time Ryan was a senior in high school, he weighed well over 300 pounds. While he did have friends, he was having trouble with depression and was also starting to feel the symptoms of the syndrome that I suffer from, Fibromyalgia. His job at a fast food restaurant was also obviously contributing to his weight. He said recently that he was at the point where he figured his depression didn’t matter anyhow because he was going to die from being fat. All the encouragement in the world from his Dad and me didn’t seem to make a difference.
Ryan, Senior in High School
Finally, about a year and half ago, he decided he had to do something. It was basically live or die for him. He stopped drinking pop and eating fast food at work along with beginning to exercise just a little bit at a time. It was hard for him, but he kept at it. Not only did he give up fast food, but he did a lot of experimenting with his diet, even becoming a complete vegan at one point. Recently he incorporated meat back into his diet, but everything that he eats is either organic or healthy. He even uses only organic products for cleaning, showering, and laundry.
Over the last year and a half Ryan has gone from a couch potato to a healthy eating person that exercises regularly including cardio, weight lifting, and jogging. He has currently lost over 130 pounds. A couple of weeks ago he even ran in the Warrior Dash in Kansas City, MO with his sister. Sometimes when I look at my son now, I don’t even recognize him. Change in lifestyle or not, Ryan would always be much loved by us, but I can honestly say that I am very proud of him. Change isn’t easy, but with a little willpower, it can be done.
Ryan Today After Running the Warrior Dash
For the longest time I had an antique rug in front of the fireplace. It was from circa 1920 and I loved that rug, yet was starting to fray a bit and didn’t deserve to be stomped on by four dogs and three cats, so I sold it. I didn’t want to spend $200 or more on a new rug, so some hunting and scavenging was in store for me.
A while back a new Habitat for Humanity ReStore opened in town. Restores sell used building materials in good condition and at great prices. I love thrift shops, garage sales, and craigslist.org, so it didn’t take long for me to check it out. I was able to find a large piece of Berber carpet that had obviously been removed from a room. The color was a light cream but not the color I was looking for. It also had a dark stain in one corner. However, priced at a whopping $9, it wasn’t something that I could pass up either.
The stain was covered easily by furniture and I cut the carpet to fit. The cutting left the edges looking frayed so ribbon (bought on clearance after Christmas) was glued on. Although this made the carpet look decent enough, the color just didn’t go with the rest of the house. While surfing the net for options I came across a site about painting carpet. It seems that Berber is the perfect carpet to paint.
So with a can of left-over maroon paint and a brush, I went to work. It only took about 45 minutes to paint and then over night to dry. I figured at the time it would need several coats, but have decided that I like the brush-stroke look. Besides, if I get tired of it I can always add that second coat.
Using a public restroom can be a frightening experience because you never know what you will find. Pestilence, bubonic plague, hemorrhagic fever; who knows what horrible disease is waiting for you courtesy of a public toilet. No matter how gruesome these maladies may seem, nothing is as awful as having some idiot sit in the stall next to you when there is no one else in the restroom. That’s why the importance of bathroom etiquette is something that everyone should learn.
- Don’t sit next to anyone if you can help it. Take for example a large department store restroom with numerous stalls. When entering the restroom, look to see which stalls are unoccupied. If all are empty, use the farthest stall from the door. If someone is in that stall, use the one that is farthest away from them. At best, try to keep at least one empty spot between you and the other customer. Do you really want to listen to someone’s bodily functions?
- Control your children. I once was in a restroom when a three year old crawled under the stall wall into my area. Talk about a surprise.
- If you must sit next to someone, refrain from talking to them. No one wants to have a conversation with you right then.
- If the person next to you asks for toilet paper, politely hand it to them.
- Finally, if you pee on the seat, wipe it off.
Now, these rules are for the women’s public restroom. While I have walked into the men’s restroom on accident a time or two, I try not to frequent them. Even though I did try to pee standing up once in a frat house in a drunken haze, I’m still not really sure what happens in the men’s zone, but I imagine that some of these rules still apply. Let’s hope it’s not like the movies when one guy turns to talk to the dude next to him and pees all over his pants. Not cool.
Home bathrooms require etiquette as well, just on a smaller scale.
- If you put the seat up, put it down. Also put the lid down as well, because it’s about as sanitary as washing your toothbrush in a petri dish every time you flush.
- Warn someone if you did something stinky. Don’t let them walk into toxic fumes and take the risk of being blown up if a match is lit.
- Finally, if you use the last piece of toilet paper, replace it. It doesn’t matter if it goes under or over, that is for strung out A-type personalities anyway,
I hope you will find this information usual and never sit next to me in a stall. Trust me, I’ll know it’s you and you will suffer the revenge of the toilets.
Growing up in a small town has its ups and downs, that’s for sure. While part of me misses small-town living, I couldn’t imagine living there ever again. It’s hard to live somewhere where everyone knows your business. But then again, there is no such thing as a small town any longer with the invention of Facebook and other social media sites. Everybody knows everybody’s business anyhow. However, the point of this blog is to do some reminiscing about a particular man who I saw everyday on my way to work in that small town when I was younger.
There weren’t many choices to grab a cup of coffee or get a pop other than the local gas station. Which was OK, coffee wasn’t exactly fancy back in the 80s, so the gas station would do. In fact, when I am back in town I still get coffee there. Anyhow, back to the Man. He was tall and muscular in his early thirties with long, flowing, dirty blonde hair that never seemed out-of-place. Her wore some kind of construction outfit always wearing plaid shirts, jeans, and work boots. Not the kind of man I am normally interested in, but that didn’t matter, he was just nice to look at. Kind of like looking at the diamond necklace in the jewelry store window, you know you aren’t going to get it, but it’s fun to wish.
He was always quiet, never saying a word, at least not audible enough for me to hear. It went this way for six months before he spoke to me. We standing next to the coffee machine and Fabio Jr. offered to pour me a cup.
“Here, let me get that for you” he said in the squeakiest Mickey Mouse voice you could ever imagine.
I kept my composure and thanked him for the coffee, ran to the counter to pay for it, and then out the door I went to my car. It didn’t take long for the tears of laughter to start rolling down my face. Talking about destroying a wet dream. I never went back to that gas station for many years after that. While I know he couldn’t help sounding like Mickey Mouse, it was than I could bear.
I have never been fond of going to the doctor or the emergency room when something happens to myself. This is not because I am afraid of the doctor, but because I am frugal. Take for example my last little trip to the ER. The entire thing plus hospital stay ended up costing over $20,000. Fortunately we have health insurance, but we still have to pay our portion. It seems like one doctor bill gets paid and a new one shows up on your doorstep. It’s a never ending battle.
Sometimes I refuse to go to the ER because of time constraints or when the kids were little because no one was able to watch them for me. The latter was the case when I broke my finger and possibly fractured my wrist years ago. My husband worked night shift and wasn’t home when I slipped off the back porch putting the dogs out in the middle of the night. It was icy and I should have been more careful, but that doesn’t always matter when it comes to ice. I flew off the steps and landed on my right hand, hearing more than one crack. By the time I made it into the house my wrist was throbbing and I didn’t even want to look at my hand, but I had too. My middle finger was not only obviously broken but standing straight up! Talk about some serious pain.
We lived in a small town at the time that didn’t have a doctor in the emergency room over night, just one on call. I knew that I would have to wait quite awhile for the doctor to come in to fix my wrist and finger. That wasn’t going to work since both kids were under three at the time and my husband wasn’t home to watch them. Both my parents and in-laws were out of town as well. There was no WAY I was going to drag two screaming children to the emergency room unless I was on the verge of death. So, I iced my finger and wrist for awhile, had a few shots of vodka, then did the unthinkable. I grabbed my finger with my left hand, pulled up and then out, straightening it. It’s remarkable that the kids didn’t wake up or the police didn’t come to my door, because I did my fair share of screaming. Once the pain settled down, I splinted my finger and wrapped both it and my wrist. I never did go to the doctor, but probably should have.
So, while it is possible to fix your own broken finger, it isn’t something that I would ever suggest. Pain pills or a shot sure would have helped. At least my finger isn’t crooked, so I guess it could have been worse.
There is a shirt that I absolutely love. It fits great, shows off my cleavage without making me look like an over-aged tramp, and hides the bulges well. I wish that every shirt that I own fit me so smoothly. It is one of kind and I have never found one that I love as much and doubtfully never will. However, there is a problem with this shirt, it is doomed to always have some sort malodorous issue. Basically, there is something that always happens to it to make it smelly.
The first time I had a problem with the shirt I kept walking around work and couldn’t figure out where the terrible smell was coming from. It was hideous! It smelled as if a cat had peed in my work area and there was no way that cat was in the building. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that it was me. We had a young male cat at the time that hadn’t been spayed yet. Apparently he sprayed my shirt to mark his territory while it was sitting on my chair in the bedroom. Thank God one of my friends had an extra shirt at work that I wore the rest of the day. The cat no longer lives with us.
I didn’t wear the shirt for quite some time after that because I was paranoid of being “smelly”. It’s one thing to be a little sweaty after a long day, but to smell like cat pee? I don’t think so. A few months went by and I was brave enough to wear my favorite shirt. As the morning went by at work: I realized then that my shirt was cursed. It smelled like mildew. Apparently the shirt was not completely dry when I hung it in my closet, giving that lovely damp odor. I couldn’t wait to go home at lunch and change.
Why this shirt? Does someone have it out for me, not want me to look semi-attractive in a flowing, feminine blouse? For a long time now the shirt has sat in my laundry room, freshly washed, but never worn. For the record, I use Tide and Bounce for my laundry and natural detergent for my husbands. So everything always smells good. Well, this morning I thought “What the heck”. I had to run to Amber’s and decided to wear it with my sweats. Yep, you guessed it right. By the time I got to Amber’s I realized that something had once again got on the shirt giving it some weird smell. Guess it’s time to finally just put it in the trash where it should of went the first time.