The Life and Times of Poopwa Foley

Archive for the ‘funny stories’ Category

For a while, I wasn’t sleeping at all at night.  Total insomnia.  To the point that I started worrying a little bit after oh, say 9:00 p.m.  I built it up in my head.  I know I won’t be able to sleep.  I know it.  I’ll get into bed and lay there for hours.  I was tired, exhausted even; but the minute my head hit the pillow I laid there, wide awake. 

here’s me.  not sleeping.

Things got better for a while, thanks to my good friend Southern Comfort.  I was able to break through whatever it was keeping me awake and actually get some real rest at night.  Whatever cycle I had been experiencing was over, apparently.  
 
At least, that’s what I thought. 
 
It was a Sunday like many other Sundays.  The cars started. It rained but we didn’t get water in our basement.  The dog didn’t run away.  Dinner was good.  Nothing earth shattering.   
 
However, Sunday night around 10:30 p.m., my husband and I kissed each other good night, as we always do, cuddled for approximately 10.7 seconds until it got wayyyy too hot, and then turned over to our respective spots.  I hadn’t even given my sleeplessness a thought.  I burrowed further into the covers.   

And laid there.  A half hour went by.  I knew my husband was awake.  He knew I was awake too because he says my eyes make a sound when I blink.   

We laid there some more.  And laid there.  Another half hour went by and…  

…we’re still awake.  And I’m thinking, what the hell?  

I get up and pee to break the monotony.  I am quiet and careful, reluctant to jostle my husband or bounce the bed.  I know where the squeaky floorboards are and avoid them, drawing on years of experience with fretful babies and a father who worked midnights.  I don’t use any lights, even in the bathroom.  I climb back into bed with the stealth of a ninja. 

Having taken care of that, I snuggle back down.  I think, any time now I’ll fall fast asleep.  I close my eyes and try to count sheep but end up mentally composing a story about them instead. 

I hear my son come in at midnight.  He doesn’t wake me up because I’m not asleep.  He knows after years of sneaking in how to hold the bells on the door so they don’t make a noise when he opens it.  He too is familiar with the floorboards and is able to avoid the squeaky ones.  He pees and goes to bed.   

Now my husbandgets up to pee.  He is not silent and careful like I am.  He was a bachelor for 45 years and never had to be quiet for a sleeping wife or child.  Everyone knows he’s up because he uses every light he can on the endless ten foot trip to the bathroom.  He has owned the home longer than my children have drawn breath and yet doesn’t know the path to take on the wooden boards to avoid making excess noise. 

He stomps back to our room and swings himself back into bed like an orangutan, then proceeds to thrash around on the bed trying to get comfortable.  Good God, I think.  He moves more than a kid in a bouncy house. 

Unbelievable.  I wait until he is settled and I blink several times in a row, loudly, in retaliation. 

Shortly after he gets back to bed, my daughter is up.  She has inherited her mother’s ability to walk catlike in a sleeping household.  She also has inherited her mother’s sneakiness and I know she’s going outside to have a cigarette.  She is fooling no one.    She too knows to hold the bells on the door as she comes back in and creeps back to her room, stopping in the bathroom, also to pee. 

Ok, I think.  Now that we’ve all ensured there would be no bedwetting, we’ll all get to sleep. 

Husband whispers to me.  “Are you awake?”
 
I whisper back. “Yes, what’s the deal with this?  I’m so tired and I just can’t fall asleep!  Is there some giant geometry test I didn’t study for?  A project I didn’t turn in?  Because the only time I can’t sleep is when I’m fretting.  And for the life of me, I don’t have anything to really fret about.”
Husband whispers again. “I can’t sleep either!  And I think Annie is smoking!”
No shit, Sherlock, I think.  Only for like six months now.  Out loud, I say, “Gosh, I hope not.”  And then I think, why are we whispering, anyway?  We’re all awake.
During the course of the sleepless night from hell, husband ends up sleeping in the living room on his chair.  I must be experiencing some sort of menopausal symptoms, as I am either freezing or too hot, and eventually make my own way out to the living room as well where I lay wide eyed on the couch for two hours, with a floor fan three inches from my face.
4:41 a.m.  I haven’t slept at all.  I briefly drift off and dream I’m in a wind tunnel.
4:42 a.m.  Husband turns on a new age music channel on cable.  It reminds me of the nightmare that was his deviated septum surgical recovery and I fight the urge to throw up.
5:00 a.m.  We should probably just stay up.  However, I don’t come from a family of quitters.  I get up and stumble down the hallway to the much more comfortable bed and that’s all I remember, because I sink into the most blissful sleep anyone has ever experienced. 
For about one hour.  It’s not enough.  I’m so tired and frustrated I want to punch someone.  However, it is at this time I smell fresh coffee. 
One thing my husband manages to do quite well is the coffee.  And I firmly believe that today, it’s probably saving his life.

 

My husband is one of the most wonderful people you’ll ever meet, truly.  Everyone loves him.  He’s friendly.  He’s handsome.  He’s loyal.  He’s thoughtful.  He’s a great husband, a great son, a great (read:  patient) father and now, a grandfather.  

He also is a name-maker-upper for us at home.  For instance, if I’m ironing a shirt, he’ll find me down in the basement.  “Hi, Iron-y!”  If I’m cleaning the bathroom, he stands behind me, “Hi, cleany!”  (All the time.  He does this all the time.)  If I get home from shopping, “Hey, shoppy!”  Cooking:  “Hey, cooky!”  I think you see the pattern. 

While silly and goofy, those names aren’t harmful in any way.  They don’t hurt my feelings.  Silly and goofy were two of my “husband” requirements, as a matter of fact.  He has those two qualities in spades, people.  In spades.    He just comes up with something on the fly.   

He’s really creative like that. 

The birth of “the list” list was created several years ago out of necessity.  We were newlyweds, and ever mindful of developing FWS (fat wife syndrome) I was standing in the kitchen having a low carb snack after work while I waited for the coffee to get done.  He came in the door from work, big, happy smile on his face, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Hi, porky!”  

No.  I am not kidding.

credit:  akarakingdoms
This isn’t me but it sure is cute.
I was eating low carbpork rinds, not twinkies.  And he saw me eating pork rinds, and in typical creative fashion, said that unfortunate word.  In quiet protest, I did not make dinner that night, and in addition (just in case he didn’t get the hint) maintained a stone cold, icy silence for the rest of the evening, which is my preferred method of communication when I am upset.  (Who’s with me?)   

The list” was born.  There have been remarkably few additions here and there, because ol’ what’s his name has learned his lesson.
 

Or has he? 

This morning I was getting ready for work, hurrying as usual, running around our bedroom slapping on deodorant and finding my shoes.  I grabbed my body spray (what I call smellgood) from Victoria’s Secret and was spritzing it on.  I always try to arch my back and shake my hair as I do this, like the VS models do, but even the dog doesn’t take me seriously.  My husband wandered in the bedroom to grab his gym bag, saw me spraying, and says cheerfully, “Hi, smelly!”   

He realized right away what he had said and looked like a rabbit with his back foot caught in a trap, trying to get away.  Fortunately, my steely gaze pinned him to the spot. 

LIST.” 

It must be time for a refresher course.

 

 

 

 

When I got home from work last night, I made some coffee.  My darling husband came home about the same time.  The following is a true and accurate representation of the conversation we had while I made coffee and talked to him.

Me:  How was your day?

Joe:  It was good, how about yours?

Me:  Busy.

(Small break here for a welcome-home kiss.)

Joe:  I had an interesting start to the morning, though.

Me:  Why?

Joe:  Well, I went downstairs to go to the bathroom but someone forgot to flush the toilet.

(I’m safe, I think to myself.  It wasn’t me.  I’m not naming names but I have a pretty good idea who it was.)



Could we clear the room?  Not you, Frau.  Not you, Scott.  Not you, henchman arbitrarily turning knobs. 

 Me:  That’s just gross.  Was it Number One or Number Two?

Joe:  Whichever one poop is.

He wasn’t even trying to make me laugh, but somehow watching the absolute outrage on his face was enough to make me laugh pretty much all night long.

It was a Christmas present, my new Nook.  I found out later that the very child I had made fun of for going out shopping on Black Friday had, in fact, waited in line for a very long, long time at a local store to buy a Nook for her mommy, at a very, very good price. 
by adam r
not exactly a Nook, but you get the idea.
All that and a gift card to fill it!  And didn’t I feel like a horse’s ass for teasing?
I immediately mess it up play with it, in the process downloading what I found out later was a very norty book veiled as a romance novel.  It amounted to poorly written erotica.  I read skimmed it and wished for a red pen the entire time.  Don’t these people even edit?  Or attend church?
I figured out how to find the good books, the really good books, and managed to blow through my gift card in under seven minutes.  I also had several books pop up in my library that I didn’t order.  In chatting with a friend later, I discovered that she too had a couple show up in her Nook, uninvited, right around the time she had gone into (rhymes with Smarms & Coble) where there is wifi, as opposed to her home, which is wifi-lacking.
She went back in to Smarms & Coble to find out why these books were downloaded into her library and wouldn’t you know it, those books were gone.  Missing.  She was unable to find them anywhere in her Nook and hadn’t pushed any buttons to remove them.  Now, my friend is not a stupid person and has not begun seeing things that aren’t there.  Yet.
However, the skeevy bookstore employee obviously decided to have a little fun with her.
  
Friend:  Hi, I was just wondering why books I didn’t buy are being downloaded to my Nook? (Hands over Nook)
Bookstore:  (scrolls through her Nook library.)  You must have downloaded them.  Or someone lent them to you.  But they’re not in here anymore.
Friend:  (grabs Nook back, pages through) What the…They were just there!!! 
Bookstore:  (shrugs) Well, they’re not there now.  Next customer in line?
Friend:  Now, wait just a damn minute.  I can barely download books I want, much less lend stuff I didn’t buy!
Bookstore:  If they were ever even there (smirking) I’m thinking maybe that’s exactly what you did; you lent them to someone.  You can do that, you know, lend your Nook library to someone.  It’s in the directions.  That’s probably what you did.
Friend:  (voice is rising a little bit) I didn’t lend them to anyone!  I just got this thing, and I can’t work it; what makes you think that I am so technologically gifted that suddenly I learned how to share my library with someone?
Bookstore:  I’m just saying you probably touched your Nook to someone else’s.  Did you touch Nooks?  
Friend:  (gasps) I’ve never, even seen another person’s Nook, much less touch them together or let someone touch mine!  I’m not that kind of person!
Bookstore:  You had to have touched Nooks with someone.  It’s ok; we all want to see what other people’s Nooks look like.  It’s human nature.  Some people cover their Nooks with special decorations and some people just let them be au natural.  (Giggles) 
Friend:  (quietly, defeated) Mine has a light on it so I can use it in bed.
Bookstore:  Oh, a party girl, huh? 
Because I was laughing so hard as she related that story to me, I hardly heard anything past “touching Nooks together.”
Wait…I think I already downloaded that book.
So, I’m telling Joe how the conversation went between me and the (rhymes with Bohl’s) customer service guy.  We had paid his bill one day late.  We never pay anything late so I told Joe I was going to call Bohl’s and get it waived.  Seeing as how the late fee was more than the actual purchase. 
You know the part where they say on the recording “calls may be recorded for customer service training?”  I must have missed the part where they say very quietly, “we’re going to connect you to a real asshat who has been trained well on how to dick you around.”
Conversation:
Me:  Hi, my husband paid his charge card one day late.  I was wondering if you could waive that for me.  He hardly ever charges anything on it so we forgot to make the little $20 payment. 
Tool:  Let me take a look at his credit history while I pretend I’m in the United States.  Yep, it’s good and due to your excellent credit history, yep we’ll waive the late fee.  But you still owe the minimum payment.
Me:  But we don’t have to pay anything this month, right?  Because the only charge on the bill is that silly ol’ late fee.  You know, the one you so kindly just waived. 
Tool:  You still have to make the minimum payment.
Me:  There is no minimum payment listed.  There’s only the late fee for $15. 
Tool:  (trying to find this on the customer service script) That is the minimum payment and if you don’t pay it, you’ll get another late fee.
Me:  YOU JUST WAIVED THE LATE FEE.  Technically, there’s no balance.  How could I incur a late fee on a zero balance?
(He pauses for a moment.  I’ve thrown him, I know.  I savor the superior feeling.  But what’s that?  He finds his place in the book.)
Tool:  (he triumphantly sings this next part.)  Ma’am, there is a balance of $21.64, for a purchase made after the statement date.  You have to pay the minimum payment of $15 to avoid incurring another late fee, Mrs. Cackyeetoe.
Me:  Nice try on the last name. 
Tool:  We can take your payment over the phone.
Me:  (under breath) you are a total dick.
***
I finally have to give in and pay the $15 nonexistent balance.  Mostly because the vein in my temple was threatening to explode, but also because I didn’t want to incur a late fee on a late fee I didn’t owe.
You can keep your stupid 30% coupon, by the way. 
Who says gynecologists aren’t fun?  Me.
If you haven’t read about my recent invasive trans-vaginal ultrasound or even more invasive, painful biopsy, please do so now.  It will prepare you for the next chapter in the hopefully closed book of my female health.  I’ll just wait here.  I have some wine, anyway. 
Oh, are you back already?  Ok.
At the end of Fun Female Field Trip Part 2, I discussed the next step my doctor thoughtfully laid out for me in my pursuit of gynecological wellness, also known as “being able to get some sleep at night and quit worrying” syndrome.
I was assured, repeatedly, by two nurses and the doctor, that the test I needed to have to determine why I was surfing a never-ending crimson tide was quick and most importantly, painless.  This test would be done with water and ANOTHER trans-vaginal ultrasound.  I learned a long time ago not to Google things of a medical nature but I would have Googled the shit out of it if I could have remembered the name of it.  I didn’t remember the name of it because my mind had blocked it out.  It tends to do with traumatic experiences. 
For those of you who skipped ahead and didn’t read the other posts, obviously you failed in “listening and following directions” in grade school.  A trans-vaginal ultrasound is just fancy talk for an ultrasound wherein you can’t pee for approximately a week in preparation, and then a gigantic “wand” is used to view what’s going on from the inside.
Ladies, beware and trust me on this.  If you enter an ultrasound room and there’s both gel and a “wand” covered with a fresh condom, you can bet money that wand is taking a trip to hoo-hah land.  It’s messy.  It’s uncomfortable.  It’s embarrassing.  And in my case, it was inevitable.
The day of my test, I was sick with anticipation but just wanted to get it over with.  Surely anything I was imagining was far worse than what actually would happen.  What’s a little water, after all?  I like swimming and baths.  I got to the doctor’s office at 12:45 p.m. for a 1:00 p.m. appointment, and was immediately weighed (a story for another day) and unceremoniously tossed into a back room.  I was handed a sheet and given a look that clearly said you know what to do.
There I sat, getting more and more nervous, for 45 minutes.  45 minutes is not a very long time if you’re going out for ice cream, seeing a movie, or getting a massage.  However, if you’re naked from the waist down under a tiny sheet, and more importantly if you’re me, it’s a very long time.
The nurse finally came in and explained that Doctor (they always do that, too, don’t they?  Call them Doctor like you or I would say “Tom” or “Ray”) was delayed at the hospital but would be in shortly and sure enough, within a few minutes, she was there.  Let the festivities begin.
I knew I was in for an hour of fun when I heard the word catheter and uterus used in the same breath.  Oh, joy.  I was subsequently speculumed and although they tried strenuously to put the catheter where it belonged, it wouldn’t go.  I have to give them snaps for effort, however.  Those ladies were determined.  I have the scars to prove it. 
However, their amusement was bought to a halt when water ran everywhere except into my uterus.
They figured out pretty quickly what was wrong, adjusted things slightly and YEP, YEP, OH YEAH, THERE’S THE WAND.



Silhouette Sorceress by Sattva/freedigitalphotos.net
um, not that kind.
She meandered around down there for a few seconds, but couldn’t visualize whatever it was she was supposed to see.  Because I had been put in this room and abandoned for a very long time, my bladder was too full.  Oh, sorry, totally my fault.    
Great.  Tools that recently were inserted were now un-inserted and I was told that the hallway was “pretty deserted” which was a good thing, considering the sheet I had to hold around me was the size of a tissue.
I took care of business, hopped back up onto the table, and the speculum process began all over again.  Once she was able to visualize the actual area she wanted to see, Doctor was very complimentary about my bladder emptying.  (I have been waiting for years for someone to compliment me about that very thing.  Good things come to those who wait, people.  Good things come to those who wait.)
Doctor fusses.  She harrumphs.  She seems very annoyed and finally says to her cohort in torture, “Go get (name withheld).  She can work the wand while I push the water.  I need to be able to visualize the complete uterus and blahbitty blah, blah, blah blah” which I didn’t hear because my brain was stuck on work the wand.
I have nothing against Germans.  I myself am part German.  However, the woman (and I use the term loosely) they pulled in to assist with my procedure was half German and half agony aficionado.  She took “work the wand” to new levels. 
I exhausted all my deep breathing techniques and Zen thinking and concentrated only on crab climbing backward up the table to get away from my persecutors.   At this point, I’m not sure what was so attractive about having this done in the doctor’s office as opposed to in the hospital under my good friend anesthesia.
I hear the German say, “I see zee problem, Doctair.  She haz zee floppy oss.”
I finally find my voice.  “Hey, that’s a little personal, lady!  I’m right here!  It’s only floppy because I just haven’t been able to work out much lately!!”
I’m ignored.  No surprise there, because apparently (TMI, turn away now if you haven’t already) she was saying “floppy os” which is Latin for “mother of three.”
Finally, FINALLY, they see what they need to see.  And then some.  And it’s all normal.  Which is great news but I still have three women all standing between my legs, while more sensitive regions are covered by this tissue sized sheet.  Oh, wait, no, they’re not covered because the sheet has been pushed up for maximum humiliation and embarrassment.  (Or for them to be able to see, but I’m totally going with the humiliation thing.  I’m still bitter.)  Um, we’re done here.  You can go now.
The two nurses finally, finally leave the room.  Doctor pats my leg comfortingly (she thinks) and says, a glint in her eye, that I’m probably just going through early menopause.  “Don’t worry.  You won’t ever have to see me again.” (#youbetyourfloppyosIwon’t) A chirpy laugh burbles out of her and I think, of all the people on my shit list, you’re at the very tippy top right now.  I will do everything in my power to stay away from this office.
I am holding back tears, mostly angry tears because I’m pissed that my roundhouse kick to the German’s butt missed. 
I settle for letting the air out of her tires on my way to get ice cream and a 45 minute massage, floppy os be damned.
For those of you who are squeamish, please, for the love of God, look away now.  Don’t read any more.
For those of you who yearn to live vicariously through me…please, pull up a chair.  Let me tell you about my day.
At 45-almost-46, my baby factory has been shut down for quite some time, due to the fact that I had my tubes tied after I had my youngest daughter almost 20 years ago. 
I am now 240 months postpartum; I guess I should work on getting the baby weight off.  (#tryharder)
About 2 months ago, despite having my tubes tied, I exhibited every single symptom of pregnancy.  Sore boobs, lack of period, bloating, mood swings, nausea.  In short, I was really, really fun to be around.   When I say really, really fun to be around, I am lying through my teeth.
Just when the symptoms made me think I should go buy a pregnancy test, (despite the slim odds) or a priest for my exorcism, what should happen? 
Aunt Flo came to town.
And the flipping bitch didn’t want to leave.
I asked her nicely to leave.  When that didn’t work, I pouted.  I threw fits.  I threatened.  I drank.  I bribed. 
My family wisely hid the knives behind the furniture. 
I finally said Uncle.  I went to the doctor, explained everything, was examined, had blood drawn, levels tested, and a negative pregnancy test.  All tests normal.  (Praise God.)  So far, so good.  She then started me on something to help staunch the…well…you know.  Besides the referral to an actual gynecologist, I thought that was the end of that.
Except that I had to get an ultrasound today.  And not just any ultrasound, mind you. 
(*here’s where I would normally insert a picture.  However, I don’t have any pictures from the events of today that would be appropriate here.  After all, I don’t know you that well.)
The medical test from hell started when I had to drink 48 oz of water from 12:30 until 1:00 pm.  I’m quite the water drinker.  I drink water all day long.  However, drinking this much water in ½ hour was enough to make even me gag.
I parked the car at the hospital and despite having my legs crossed tightly the entire time was able to get to the ultrasound department.  It was approximately 7.5 miles from where I parked.  I was afraid I was going to be late.  The panicked staccato taps of my high heels on the tile floor took my mind off how badly I had to go to the bathroom.

Chris has a bad day

The first part of the test was uneventful.  I greatly enjoyed the warmth of the ultrasound gel on my lower belly.  It was very soothing.  The room was quiet and the light was dim and I would have fallen asleep except for the excruciating pressure on my straining bladder.
When the test was over, I was led to the bathroom and told to take my time.  I peed as if I hadn’t seen a toilet in a month.  The relief was immediate and immense.
The ultrasound tech was hiding in the hallway and sprang out at me when I exited in the bathroom. 
Her:  “Are you ready for the second part of your test?”
Me:  “Do you mean the part where I walk down the hall and find the exit?”
Her:  (chuckling expansively) “Silly you.  The second part, the internal exam.”
Me:  (smile fades, face pales.)  “No.  No, I’m not ready for that.”
Despite the elfin size, her iron grip lead me directly back into the room, where I am forced to “take off everything below the waist, but if you want to leave your shoes on you can.”
Leave my shoes on?  Really?  And take everything else off?  I have on black high heels, no pantyhose.  The thought of being nekked below the waist except for black high heels was a bit…pornographic to me.  The shoes came off with all the other below the waist things, and I was grateful that I had a cute pedicure.
Funny what you think of, grooming wise, when you’re having an internal ultrasound.  My feet were not the only thing I had groomed, and I was glad.
“You’ll feel a slight pressure.”  It was the only warning I got before the “wand” was “inserted” by Vlad the Impaler.
She apologized for the “pressure” over and over while applying said pressure and also for the fact that a couple of times I choked on it as it was coming up my throat.   
Finally she finished up and withdrew the entire 3 feet of wand.  I am thrown several dry washcloths to absorb all of the gel.  I feel like the guy in the shower in “The Crying Game.”
She escorted me down the hall.  I noticed that she kept looking to the right and left.  
Me:   “Did you lose something?”
Her:  “No.  I’m just looking for the right sized broomstick.  You’re not my only ultrasound today.”
***
Stay tuned.
*I went home and told my friend Lambrusco all about it. 


spoiler alert…(don’t read if you don’t want to know who was voted off.)

Joe and I have been looking forward to this day for quite some time.

It’s the day the 25th season of Survivor starts!!!

We look forward to a lot of other shows, but those are a post for another day, because tonight was all about one show.  Survivor.

We had beer–Michelob Ultra, 95 calories, 2.6 carbs.  We got two pizzas from Papa Murphy’s–cowboy pizza, it was delicious, so don’t ask about the calories or carbs.  It’s the night Survivor starts, dammit.   We did skip the cookies, however.  Only because there aren’t any.  We’re not saints.

We selected the exact place on the couch we should park ourselves for maximum viewing pleasure…and then of course the dog had to go out, three times.  The pizza was delicious, the beer refreshing, the dog aggravating, the show interesting.

We marveled over how well you get to know the players now as opposed to other seasons, where the players were all nameless rabble until the final 10 or so.  Then you got to know them really well.

Not this season.  We got to see the good, the bad, and the ugly tonight, right off the bat.  I discovered that Jonathan, one of the medical evacuees who was allowed to return, sounds exactly like Alan Alda.  We like the petite brunette with the short hair who is a sex therapist.  We did not like the blond in the yellow bikini (a student, who ran track, and was miss former teen whatsit) or the brunette in the yellow bikini (a know-it-all investment banker, lying that she’s an executive assistant.)   They’re too giggly and have no idea what this show Survivor is all about…and didn’t even recognize Lisa Welchel, who played Blair on Facts of Life. 

They probably weren’t even born when that show was on.

Russell, another evacuee bought back, said he refused to take the leadership role, all the while forcing himself down the throat of his fellow campmates as…their leader.

No one else really stuck out, except for Zane, whom I we pretty much hated on sight. 



Jeff, welcome back to our humble living room.  Where you belong.

He was an idiot from the beginning, making alliances within the first 40 seconds with every single girl on the island.  Then making other alliances with other people.  And telling everyone everything.  Every time he got a shot at being on camera alone, he crowed about how he owned the game.  Apparently he’s never seen Survivor, because everyone who’s ever said he “owned the game” in fact did NOT own the game and were quickly sent home.

Zane was no different.  Bye Bye, Zane! 

Stay tuned for next week, when there will be a different delicious dinner, a new episode of Survivor, perhaps a new and unique place to sit on the couch but most importantly, we’ll be one week closer to Halloween! 

And I’ll be waiting.  AAAaarrrgghh, Maytee!



Soooooo ready for Halloween.  11 more days til D-Day…Decoration Day.



Sometimes, I hear conversations and/or phrasing that make me laugh, or things I think are interesting, or far fetched, or ghastly, and I write them down immediately, because I’m always thinking of YOU, dear reader, and how to entertain YOU. 

I just reread this and realize I should be honest.  I’m not writing things down for you.  No, I write them down because I’m on the downside of 45 and forget EVERYTHING.

Case in point.  Last night, my daughter told me that she was going to be working 12-6 today, Friday.  Around 5:00 pm, I begin to freak out because I have called her twice with no answer, and there is no response to my texts.  I have completely forgotten that she is working until I get her text which says, and I quote, “I’m working LOL.”  I quickly called off the search parties.  In less than 24 hours, I managed to not only have a conversation with her about her hours for today, but turn around and panic when I don’t hear back from her, because I didn’t remember she was safely at work, ignoring her phone, because she’s working.  At her job.

Yes, I’m getting old.

However, here are some of the things that have happened lately that I have managed to write down and remember for yens:



so. beautiful.  so. hard. to. take. a. good. picture.

 1)  The moon last Friday night.  It was awesome.  This was taken right after we got home from seeing the Bodeans at the “On the Waterfront”, around midnight. 

**

2)  An argument between my two oldest children.  Those arguments used to be over toys, or tattling, or the TV station they were watching. 

Argument 12 years ago:

    “Mom, he took my Barbie.” 
    “Mom, she’s watched this already, can’t I watch my channel?”

Argument now:

Oldest child (son, 23) tiredly makes his way up the basement stairs.  My husband and I and my daughter (21), are sitting on the couch.

    Boy:  My knees are so sore.

    Girl:  Maybe if you weren’t on them so much they wouldn’t hurt.

    Boy:  (long pause) I can’t think of a comeback right now, but when I do, it’s going to be f*****g epic. (bedroom door slams)



Still trying to think of something f*****g epic.  It’s going to take a while.

**

3)  This unbelievably thoughtful gift my husband got me.  He recently discovered ‘the Ebay’.  We set him up a Paypal account and I slid a pamphlet on computer addictions under his pillow. 

But look!  Look!  A poster of one of my most favorite movies about witches!  In a beautiful frame we bought on a shopping trip together!



“Fall in love whenever you can.” – Sally Owens
Oh, I will, Sally.  I will.

 To go along with that, I also have a shrine area where I have that paperback and also an adorable beanie baby, a black cat, wearing a witch hat. 

I know!


Possibly the finest literature ever.  And a cat.  On my nightstand.  Before I took this picture, I removed all of the used Kleenexes, cough drop wrappers, and dog hair-y earplugs.  You’re welcome.

 **

4) Sunday I made a lovely bean and pasta soup, recipe courtesy of my sister.  I took a picture of the soup but it looked too much like barf so I left that off.  Better luck next time.

** 

5)  I am pretty sure I have a story that’s going to be in a book coming out the end of next month.  Stay tuned for more details, like when I actually know for SURE.  However, I made it through the first round and now they’re going to send it to me for editing, so…keep your fingers crossed for me.  I’ll know more in a few weeks.

**

I think there were a few more things that I wrote down so I would remember. 

However, I forgot my notebook out in the car and the garage door is already shut, so that’s that.

I’ll have to start a new list of things to remember.  Number One will be to get my notebook out of the car.



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  • Mary Fran Says: Thank you for contributing to Sweeps Week! We make a great team. Maybe we'll collaborate in our next lives? SISTERS! lol :)
  • Mary Fran Says: What's better than a Baby Shower aka Early Baby Birthday Party? Baby's FIRST Birthday Party! (Although it's hard to call them "baby" by one! They grow
  • Ann Jones: I'll have to check it out, thanks for the heads up!

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