Monthly Archives: July 2013

A Movie Review by Mo

Vera Farmiga as Lorraine Warren

Vera Farmiga as Lorraine Warren

Do you like to have the crap scared right out of you?  If so, then I have a movie for you.  Just be sure to wear your Depends because you’re gonna need them.  DH and I went on a date night last weekend and saw the movie “The Conjuring.”  Two words that pretty much sum it up:  Holy Shit.  I loved every creepy moment of it.

It’s fun to watch a movie like this on the big screen with mixed company.  The girl in front of us crying while clinging to her boyfriend was really quite funny.  And men and women alike were screaming. Even DH, who is hard to frighten, got startled a couple of times.  I saw him jump more times than he would care to admit.

In case you don’t know, the story takes place in 1971 and is about a family who bought a house in Rhode Island that was possessed by demons.  I won’t tell you any more details because I don’t want to spoil it for you, but if you love a good scare, I highly recommend this one.  It had me from minute 1.

The story is true.  The “ghost hunters” portrayed in this film are real.  I have had the distinct pleasure of meeting Lorraine Warren.  She is a good friend of a good friend of mine.  Lorraine is an amazing woman and I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to meet and speak with her.  Lorraine had me pegged the second I walked in the door, but that’s a story for another time.

So, if you love to scare yourself silly, go see it.  But just be prepared to never go into your basement alone or hang your feet and arms over your bed.  Because you never know what could be lurking.  It could be this:

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Nighty-night, sleep tight.  Don’t let Annabelle bite.

Multi-Tasking Is Over-Rated

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Such bull-crap

If you’ve noticed, I haven’t been posting much.  When I started out, I was posting once a day.  Now?  Twice a month if I’m lucky.  What gives?  I’ll tell you what gives.

I got a job.  It’s a little retail job.  A little freaking retail job.  Sometimes I put in 20 hours a week sometimes I put in 39.  Still, I can’t figure it all out.  Work and exercise have been put near the top of my priority list.  My house?  Holy Crudola.  Please don’t come here unannounced.  Because if you do, I’m not responsible for what you may contract.  Like Malaria.  Or something nasty along those lines.  I have dust so thick I could probably knit a blanket.  Christmas is 5 months away.  I’m taking orders now.

But I wasn’t talking about not cleaning my house.  I was talking about not writing.  My problem is…here goes:  I Cannot Multi-Task.  There I said it.  I cannot multi-task. Is there a support group for this problem?  “Multi-taskless Women?”  I know.  I’m putting our name to shame.  I think I used to be able to do it.  Maybe not.  Maybe I’ve pretended all these years.  Yes.  I think I’ve been living a lie.

So, at this late stage in the game, I’m trying to figure it out.  Cooking, shopping, cleaning, exercising, working, running around one child, one little child, writing, returning phone calls and projects that have been waiting to get done for months.  Some of them years.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  I’ve lost touch with reality.  I’ve come so far on so many levels, but can’t seem to fit in the time to write and clean.

What do I do?  Stay up until 1am to write.  So what if I can’t stand at work?  I don’t think they’ll notice.  And my house?  I may have some time in September.  All guests welcome then.  Oh, wait.  I think you should call first.  I’ll meet you in the yard.  Just bring a chair.

Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire

Warning:  Spoiler Alert.  Send your gullible children out of the room before going any further.

We all raise our children to be truthful. To not lie. To be honest. They are learning these ideals from traitors — mommy and daddy. From the moment they are pretty much born, we start in with the lies. One right after the other.

  • A jolly, fat man enters your home through the chimney bearing gifts? Sounds great, but come on. Oh, and he flies in a sled led by 8 or 9 reindeer (is Rudolph part of the team, or what?). A sled that is chock-full of gifts for every child in the world. What’s even better is he does it all in about 8 hours, give or take. Do you know how much time I wasted looking for that damn man up in the sky when I was a kid? I should sue.
  • A life-size rabbit who hops from home to home bringing chocolates and plastic eggs. Comes from the same planet as the man in the red suit. This crap is what nightmares are made of.
  • Eyes in the back of our heads. I wish I had a dime for every time my kid asked me if she could see these eyes. We only perpetuate our lie with more lies because, of course, children don’t have “The Special Magic Power” to see them.
  • How about the chick who flies in the night collecting missing teeth and leaving money? I got caught once. The lie I told her to get out of it? “The Tooth Fairy makes herself look like mommy so you don’t get scared.” I know. Total Oscar worthy moment.
  • The word “Liar” appears across your forehead when, well, you lie.  It worked like magic. It got to the point where if she lied, she would cover her forehead and run from the room screaming. Classic bullshit with a capital “B.” I should be ashamed of myself. But I’m not.
  • I would terrorize my kid by telling her that Santa was watching through the ceiling light fixture whenever she misbehaved. Surely she didn’t want to be on his “Naughty” list. There’s no greater satisfaction than watching your 5 year old look with her little doe eyes up at the ceiling trying to catch a glimpse and then whimper because she got caught.  Kinda makes me feel like crap. Just kinda. Ok, not really.

Children have been falling for these lies for decades. Can they really be that dumb? Okay, dumb may be a strong word here. I’ll be kind and use the word “Naive.” We grown, mature adults, prey on our naive children for our benefit. It’s not a surprise that so many kids grow up and need therapy.

Well, the Santa and Easter Bunny lie is not completely for our benefit. Actually, it kind of pisses me off that those SOB’s get the credit for all the crazy-ass work we did prepping for those holidays. The shopping, the crowds, the money, the pushing, the shoving. I gotta go. I think I need to call my shrink.

My Happy Place

It’s been a few months.  Five and half to be exact.  If you can remember that far back, my journey started in February (I Think It’s Time).  This is what I looked like:

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When I look at these photos, I am amazed at how out of shape I allowed myself to get.  At the time, I was both mentally and physically, for lack of a better word, off.  For example, almost every day after The Kid left for school, I would go back to bed and sleep half my day away, when I did finally get up, I didn’t care.  I was sad, I felt lethargic, useless, bored.  I ate 6-8 Tums a day because my meals basically consisted of a bagel and coffee for breakfast, a box of macaroni and cheese for lunch and for dinner I could eat Adam Richman from “Man vs. Food” under the table.  I didn’t exercise and my body would think I was nuts if I so much as looked at a blueberry.

But all that has changed.  This is me after 22 weeks and 4 days:

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When I started I was 154.6.  I am now 136.4.  It wasn’t easy.  I struggled.  I love to eat, so that was the biggest and most difficult challenge for me.  I exercise almost every day.  There are mornings when I am tired and would rather stay in bed because I closed at My Retail Job the night before and didn’t get home until midnight.  On those days, I force myself to get up and go exercise because I know how good I will feel after.  I sweat hard.  I drink water.  I feed my body 6-8 times a day with healthy and good foods.  I feel like I could conquer the world.  That I can achieve anything because my life change has given me my confidence back.  DH said I turned the clock back 20 years.  Awesome.  I love what I see in the mirror.  I haven’t had a Tums since February.  Because I don’t eat until I am busting at the seams.  You may think this is TMI, but I am also the best pooper ever.  The benefits are endless and bountiful.  I am in an incredible place.  I am happier than I’ve been in a long time.

I’d like to make a shout out to someone who I have not met personally yet but who has helped me to find my inner strength.  Her name is Susie.  She is mom blogger of www.not-your-average-mom.com.  When I was about 15 weeks into my “life change” (I don’t use the word “diet” because this is how I plan to live the rest of my life), she started a challenge called “Fit, Fierce and Fabulous” and I joined in (new session starts Monday, click on the link).  She pushed me to get my ass out of bed every day.  To fight for who I deserved to be.  I know I did the hard work, but I couldn’t have done it alone.  I am now officially addicted to exercise.  New European studies show that it takes 66 days to form a new habit.  I am living proof that this is a fact.

I have inspired many people.  I know this because these people have told me so.  I would have been happy to inspire just one.  Major bonus.  So, for those of you who say you can’t do it?  You are wrong.  You can do it.  Because I did it.  Make the decision now.  Not tomorrow, not Monday.  Now.  Get up.  Go for a walk.  Take small steps if you must, but take steps.  You will be happy you did.  Oh, and to answer the question I know you are all asking…the answer is yes.  I still drink my wine and eat potato chips.  But in moderation.  All in moderation.

The Great Swamp Calamity

The Big Rubber Boat

The Little Rubber Boat.  I believe The Titanic was safer.

Life is a comedy.  I say so all the time.  What would I have to write about if Life didn’t occur?  That’s why sometimes you shouldn’t fight the opportunity to go on an adventure.  Even if all the signs are pointing in the opposite direction.

The sign-up sheet said that space was limited.  So, when I called last minute to get my family and me on the list to go on a guided 3-hour kayak paddle in the biggest swamp in New York, I was a bit worried.  But the nice woman who answered the phone said that as long as we had our own kayaks and $56, it wouldn’t be a problem.  56 dollars?  Man, this is going to be good.

Or so I thought.

  1. The day started with only one alarm going off…the one in my head.  10 minutes before we had to leave.  We had 3 clocks set.  Somehow they all malfunctioned.  The ultimate “stay in bed” sign from above.
  2. When our tour guide showed up late and exited her vehicle, I swore I heard banjo’s dueling in the forest.  Could it have been the men’s bathing suit trunks she was sporting or the missing teeth?  Her Nina Blackwood voice or the Cigarette Eau de toilette that fragranced her?  I’m worried The Kid may have permanent damage from second hand smoke based on just the stench permeating from this woman’s skin.
  3. Her side-kick, who wasn’t going on the paddle with us because she was about 6 foot 7 in flats and “couldn’t fit” into a kayak on a good day, pulled up in a mini-van packed solid with them.  One sticking out of every orifice.  I was reminded of an overstuffed cigar box on wheels.
  4. The minute I realized that we may have just misspent nearly 60 bucks is when our Official Tour Guide (OTG) started blowing up her kayak with a bicycle pump.  That realization was confirmed when she entered the water with half a paddle.  Her side-kick referred to it as a “Q-tip.”  I was not amused.
  5. When asked of our OTG where the swamp led to, the answer was — in her scratchy, smokey man-voice — “I don’t know.”  You don’t know?  This swamp runs 60 miles and has about a billion fingers to explore.  Kayakers have been known to get lost here.  Again, a scene from “Deliverance.”  I was expecting a mountain man to jump out at any moment.
  6. Our 3-hour tour lasted an hour and a half.  Why cut short?  OTG’s rubber dingy got caught up on a beaver’s dam forcing us all to turn around.  I should feel blessed.  At least at that point, we had the possibility of getting out of there without being the breaking story on the evening news.

A good friend of mine who has an inspirational Facebook page (Soul~Full at https://www.facebook.com/pages/SoulFull/189755914434112?hc_location=stream) — posted the following this morning.  And I couldn’t sum it up better myself.

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Regrets?  Absolutely not.  That memory will stay with us forever.  We got a lot of laughter mileage out of it.  What could be better than that?  Well, perhaps a refund.  I really could use a new pair of jeans.

Up In Smoke

I couldn't quite pull this off.  As much as I tried.

I couldn’t quite pull this off. As much as I tried.  And I tried.  Believe me.

I smoked.  Okay, I tried to smoke.  I tried to smoke so much that I actually bought a whole pack of cigarettes with my allowance once.  I was 14.  All my friends were doing it so why not?  I wasn’t one to pass on a good peer pressure moment.  I walked all the way (a mile) to the neighborhood deli to purchase this pack of cigarettes.  In the day before I.D. was required.  I was the shit.

My brothers made this really crappy fort in the back yard.  It was made of wood scraps found in our basement and was about the size of a latrine except not as nice.  The parents thought their offspring were being creative and imaginative.  In actuality, this was the place to go to release our “cool.”  Our little fort of crap made from scraps where I would start to “smoke” my first and last pack of Marlboros.

At first, I didn’t inhale.  I know it conjures up images of our 42nd president (don’t be impressed, I had to look that up).  But I am not lying.  This went on for a good week.  Until I inhaled.  What came next was one 70 pound teenage girl bent over a curb outside of the Easy Glider Roller Rink.  As green in the face as what was coming out of her mouth.  With the spins to match.  Yes, that girl was Yours Truly.  That was the end of my love affair with cigarettes.  My parents found out about my little stint with the smoking stick.  A neighbor ratted me out.  But I got the last laugh because I quit anyway.

Since my experience, I have always wondered why people bother smoking.  Surely, I’m not the only one who reacted so negatively.  I’ve asked and the answer is always “you get used to it.”  Yes, and I suppose you could get used to having someone hit you in the stomach repeatedly with a club, but why do it?  I have to say I am incredibly grateful for that night at the curb, Mr. Vomit.  My lungs thank you too.  And my face.  My heart.  My teeth.  Get the picture?  Just Say No.  I didn’t.

Don’t Blame the Dog

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Broke wind.  Cut the cheese. Tooted.  Fluffed.  Anyway you say it, it’s funny.  I am a middle-aged woman and I literally Laugh Out Loud whenever I hear someone tell a fart joke or even fart themselves.  Hell, I laugh when I fa…umm, pass gas.

But come on.  It’s freaking hilarious.  That crap (pun?) is funny.  In the late 70’s, Gilda Radner’s character from SNL — Roseanna Roseannadanna — did a commencement skit.  Love that woman.  We were truly blessed with her talent.  I miss her.  But I digress.  Here’s a clip in case you had the misfortune of missing it.  Her fart joke is around minute 4.  So fast forward to it if you must.  You will not be disappointed.

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I have many fart stories.  From my teenage dad farting into a bottle and creating a fire-show to being the victim of a Dutch Oven (look it up).  How about “window shopping?”  You know.  When you have to pass a bit of gas and you stop to look at a window display.  Squeezing your cheeks.  Making it as silent and less-deadly as possible.  Of course, it only works if there is a window nearby.  Otherwise, I say just let ‘er rip and bomb the people behind you.  Who’s going to know where it came from anyway?  Remember the old adage — the one who smelt it dealt it.  If you keep your mouth shut, you’ll never get blamed.

So people, cutting the cheese is a natural part of life.  The Queen of England does it (although hers may smell like crumpets).  Angelina Jolie does it.  Even…yes ladies…Channing Tatum.  Just don’t do it front of me.  Because I have a bladder problem.  And THAT’S not funny.  Ok, maybe it is.  Butt just a little.