Category Archives: Random

My Writing Process: A Blog Tour 2 Months Later

I know I have undiagnosed adult ADD.  Or something close to it.  How do I know?  Because I have the attention span of a gnat, the memory of a goldfish and can be known to space out more often than Captain Kirk.

I was checking something on my momfeld Facebook page this morning and saw in the left margin a link that was shared with me from another blogger.  From May. As in March, April, May.  “Hmm,” I said to myself, “What’s this?” I saw that people left comments, so I clicked on them.  One of the people who left a comment was ME so obviously, I saw it already.  I opened the link and saw that this awesome blogger chose me to participate in a writing process blog tour.

After I read the post again, it all came flashing back.  I suddenly remembered that I was very touched and said to myself at the time, “I’ll come back to this later.”  But never did.  Because…I have adult ADD and I got distracted by something else and completely forgot about it. Out of sight, out of mind.

I REALLY need to start writing notes, reminders. Or tying a string around my finger, but I’m pretty sure that method won’t work because I will be smacking myself in the head trying to remember why the hell there is a string around my finger. And then I would have nothing but a headache and a blue phalange because of lack of circulation.

So, to Kim Ulmanis over at http://www.kimulmanis.com (she’s a really great writer and has awesome things to say, you should go check her out), thank you so much for thinking of me, but here you go. Sorry I’m 2 months late but that is the story of my life. I know you get me, girl.  No hard feelings?

blog tourWhat am I working on?  That’s a secret.  If I tell you, then I have to kill you.  And I don’t want to go to jail because jail scares me and I’ve seen far too many episodes of “Orange Is the New Black.”  Besides orange just isn’t my color.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?  I am self deprecating. Almost to a fault. I like to put it all out there, my thoughts, my behavior, my stupid craziness, the weird and the ugly. I have no problems talking about my hemorrhoids (coming soon), my bad driving abilities or what totally inappropriate thing I may have said to my kid.

Why do I write what I do?  Because all my life I thought I was funny.  Whether someone laughed at me, with me or not at all. I crack myself up. It started when I was 7 and thought my Sonny and Cher skit was dead on and would perform it in front of all my parents’ friends at every party. And because I love to make people laugh.  Or try. Also, I am just weird. And I want you all to know that. Because, why not? Why should I be the only one suffering with myself? You all should suffer me too.  You’re welcome.

What does my writing process look like?  Geez. My brain hurts. These are hard. I know what the process looks like in my head. These things just come to me. I write them down immediately.  Whether I am at the doctor’s office (I have been known to rip a page out of a magazine that I have written in the margin of), in my car, sleeping. Yes, ideas come to me in my sleep and force me to wake up which is really annoying because the older I get, the harder it is for me to fall back to sleep but I digress.  I keep a notepad on my bedside table. I have 12 million different drafts going on in my draft folder and it’s really messy and discombobulated and makes no sense. All this will sit and sulk and fester until I feel it’s the right time to make sense of it all and turn it into something that is something.  Boy, that makes me look like a nutcase, doesn’t it? And I’m still putting in 2 spaces after a sentence. Working on that. I swear.

Phew.  Now I’m supposed to choose my fave bloggers and spread the love except I don’t think I’m going to.  One reason is because I love way too many of you to chose just a few and I can’t make a decision worth balls. But mainly because I am late to the party and I am embarrassed. And I wouldn’t want people to roll their eyes at me and say, “What’s HER problem? This was so yesterday.” You know, kind of like my clothes.  But thanks Kim, this was fun!

 

 

Keep It In Your Pants, Son

This photo popped up on my Facebook newsfeed a couple of weeks ago:

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The Men’s Half Thong.  It’s so wrong, it’s just wrong.  I’m not quite sure what I thought when I first saw it.  I think I was a little shocked.  Which is weird for me because really, I am pretty open-minded.  It takes a lot to shock me.  And a lot to totally gross me out.  But this did it.  It both shocked and totally grossed me out.

Come on people, really?  Lordy, keep your junk hidden.  Give us something to leave to our imagination.  Would you like it if we walked around with our….oh, never mind.

Then of course, I inevitably had the next thought that I know everyone else in the free world is thinking:  How does it stay in place?

The only thing I could come up with is it has sticky stuff all up and around it.  So, it kinda works like a pasty, but instead of for boobs, it’s for penises (peen-eye?).  And even though I don’t have one, it kind of pained me to imagine ripping that stuff off my junk at the end of a long day at the beach after sweating and sea salt and who knows what else.

I shared the photo with my followers on my Facebook page (if you don’t follow me there yet, you can do so here: https://www.facebook.com/Momfeldcom).  I got all kinds of reactions.  Mostly everyone was disgusted.  Some had some funny things to say about it.  One follower said her friend’s mom thought it was spring loaded like ear cuffs.  Someone else said they were wondering about the amount of waxing that would be needed.  Then the conversation turned to red, white and blue.  Get it?  Red, white and BLUE?  It was all quite entertaining.  Still I needed to get to the bottom of it.  I needed to know how it stayed up.

Then a nice follower of mine shared this photo with me and shed some much needed light:

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Sorry, this pic is so small it’s hard to see. But you should be thankful.

So, it’s like a pant leg except it is missing the leg.  Well, it does have a “leg” but it’s the wrong leg.  It’s missing a lot of the material except for ahem, one little itty bitty part.  Or big part, depending on who you’re talking to.

You stick your leg through it and the string stays in place via butt crack.  Perfect.  Still not pretty.  Then random weird images ran through my mind like my dad wearing it and stuff.  Totally involuntary, by the way.  Sorry dad, I love ya, but….eww.

So, you know what guys?  Can you stick to a real bathing suit?  One that covers up a little more?  We know you have a penis.  You don’t need to prove it to us.  And I would like my lunch to stay where it was intended.  Thank you, the world at large appreciates it. 😉

 

Dropping the Funky Bomb

Jesus cursed.  Not the same kind though, huh?

I guess this isn’t exactly the same thing…

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My potty mouth has reached epic proportions. Seriously. I’m ashamed. But not.  So what that my head has turned into a toilet?  Do you know how convenient that can be?

Lately, I’ve been dropping the funky bomb as often as I drop my iPhone.  Which is all the time.  DH has told me he doesn’t like it.  So I try to keep it clean while on the home front.  I try.

But when I’m alone in the car?  Or with friends?  Or talking to myself?  Geez. It’s like I’m on a game show called “The Wheel of Funk.”  And I’m winning by a landslide.

Sure, when I stubbed my toe on the coffee table, it kinda ticked me off.  Or the old lady who thought I wasn’t stopping at the stop sign so she flipped me the bird…that was a three effer.  This past winter was particularly bad.  Every time I bounced my car off of a snow bank, the F’s were flying.  Lordy be.

I was out to lunch with a friend a few months ago.  This friend is a curser.  Like, she’s an F bomb dropper big time. But it seemed the roles were reversed that day. Because she was being so…angelic.  And me? I was letting it fly baby.  I was feeling kind of bad about it.  Kind of.

I apologized to her.  Then started wondering out loud if it was a sin.  I was raised Irish Catholic and although I don’t practice that particular religion any longer, the Catholic guilt will forever be with me.

Because I am me, I never know what my thought process will be.  But I started wondering to my friend about cursing and the really good people of the world.  Did Mother Teresa do it?  How about Gandhi?

And what about Jesus?  I mean he was a carpenter, right?  Surely, he smashed a finger or two with a hammer.  What do you think uttered from his mouth upon inflicting accidental pain upon himself?  “Oh, camel poop.”  Yeah, no.  I’m not buying it.  I’ve hit my finger with a hammer before.  Camel poop just wouldn’t cut it.  I love Jesus, and I would still love him in spite of it.  But it is possible, right?

So, I’ve decided I’m going to write to the Pope about this.  He seems liberal.  Wish me luck.  Can you imagine?  I would be able to take cursing off my sin list.  How liberating.  One down.  499 more to go.

This Isn’t Sedona But I’ll Take It

sedona

I woke up this morning at 6:30.  My mind screamed, “NO NO NO NO NO, you will NOT wake up at 6:30 on vacation.  You just drove without any help pretty much non-stop for 12 hours in a car yesterday and you deserve to sleep a little more.”  So, that’s what I did.  Somehow I eased my brain into another slumber and slept blissfully until 10am.

Ahhhh.  Much better.  So, now I lie here in my little retreat deciding what I should do next.  “Your little retreat,” you ask?  Let me tell you a bit about my little retreat.  It’s funny, but it’s been here all along.

Every summer since The Kid was a baby, my parents, The Kid and I would drive down south to visit my brothers.  Then a few years ago, the parents retired down here.  So, now just The Kid and I come down.  We leave DH at home because we typically like to stay longer than a week.  Besides, he’d be bored.

Usually we fly.  This time we drove.  Don’t ask because I’m not really sure.  Just so you know, that may be the last time I drive down.  Although The Kid will have her license by next summer so I may have a helper.  But with the way that’s going, I think I’d rather swim down the Atlantic with the sharks than let her take my life in her hands.  But that’s a story for later so stay tuned.

When we got here last night, I extracted myself from the vehicle.  It took me a while to loosen up.  My knee was throbbing.  My head was spinning.  And I was one stiff wind short of falling over.  Then my dear mother said to me, “how would you like to sleep in the RV for the week?  You know, have your own little space to escape to to write, do whatever you want?”

The RV is pretty cool.  The parents use it to travel around the country.  It has slide-outs to make it larger, a full bathroom, a kitchen, 2 flat screen televisions, a bedroom, a dining room, a couch, running water, air conditioning and heat if needed.  When not in use, they keep it in the yard all hooked up.  They have been doing this for years.

retreat

My retreat in the driveway.

Mom and dad live in an adorable 2 bedroom Cape style house when they aren’t road tripping it.  When we are visiting, they give up their master for me, The Kid gets the spare room and THEY go out to the RV.  That’s the way it has always been.  Always.

I was hesitant at first.  I don’t know why.  And then I remembered my good friend Rachel and her recent visit to a retreat.  Her retreat was in Sedona and she went there to write her book.  I was crazy mad with envy.  I wanted a retreat too.  And now, I have it.  It’s been here under my nose all this time.  This may not be Sedona but with a printout of some mountains, a little scotch tape and a fan to blow “mountain” air through my hair, I can change all that in a flash.

I woke up this morning to peace and quiet.  No one was around to bother me.  I love my family.  I love DH and The Kid, my parents and my niece and nephew.  But let’s face it, we all could use a break from time to time.  You know, from the hubbub of everyday life.  From working, cooking, grocery shopping, laundry, the taxi service, cleaning.

So here I am, writing my blog.  Enjoying the mountain view (mostly in my head because I decided printing out some mountains was just not on my weekly bucket list).  I’m taking an online writer’s course.  I am also writing a book, for those of you who are unaware.  A lot of it is in my brain, some is on paper.  But by the end of my stay here, I’m hoping to have a little more on paper and less in my brain.

Now that I’m up and have showered in my own private bath on my retreat, I have to go.  I have lots to do here.  Sedona….err, the RV is calling.

Look At Me When You Text

text and walkThere is this chick in my neighborhood who walks every single day.  Up this humongous hill that I have walked up (even run up in the day I was able to…sniff, sniff), but not without losing a lung.  She goes up and down over and over again.  This chick is in pretty good shape.  Walking up the hill of death would do that to you, I guess.

Anyway, we all know exercise can be rough.  It kinda sucks.  I do it because I really need my ass to stay as close to its original birthplace for as long as I can possibly keep it there and I also really hate the sound of my thighs rubbing together.  It’s a necessity at my age.

I carry one thing with me on my walk: my iPhone.  This is for a couple of reasons:

1) In the event I need to dial “911” in case some kook tries to steal me (because who wouldn’t want this, right?) or in case a coyote finds me delicious.  Yes, I actually imagine myself in an emergency situation and wonder how I would dial my phone while being eaten alive by wildlife.  In my brain, it doesn’t seem easy.  I also wonder if I would be able to climb a tree to get away.  This thought is followed up by another thought:  would this animal be able to also climb said tree?  Such a problem.  Wait…why do I exercise again?  Oh right, ass.

2) I cannot do an ounce of exercise without my beloved playlist playing through my earbuds. It just makes it that much less painful.  But I do not text and walk.  Okay, so that’s a lie.  I did last week.  Once.  Because once was enough after I realized that I cannot walk, look down and text at the same time without veering off into the middle of the street.  My walk quickly turned into a good game of “Chicken.”

So, anyway, my point was that this humongous-hill-exercising chick texts.  She does.  No, I do not stalk her.  I know this because every time I go out in my car and see her walking, she is looking down and texting on her phone.  EVERY FREAKING TIME, I KID YOU NOT.  Now, this woman is not real young.  She looks to be at least in her fifties.  Not that that makes much of a difference, but she should know better.  Don’t text and drive should also be a motto for walkers.  I don’t mean to judge her.  Maybe I’m just jealous because it’s quite obvious that I cannot do the two at once.  Maybe, also, I would like to know who she’s texting and what they are talking about.  It’s got to be intriguing, right?

Yesterday, The Kid and I ran into DSW and we noticed a young girl texting and walking through the parking lot.  I see this all the time.  The Kid actually pointed it out.  “Look mom, look at that girl texting while she is walking through the parking lot.”  “Pfffssh, can you imagine?”  I said to myself.  “Kid, who are you kidding?  Sometimes I feel like I need a chisel to get that little device out of your hands.”  Right.  Whatever.

I am in my late forties, okay?  I was brought up in an era where if we needed to get a message to someone, we had to use smoke signals.  No, no, just kidding.  But we did have two options:  a pay phone, or a phone that was attached to the wall in the kitchen with a 30 foot long curly cord that would reach down the hall and into the bathroom so that you could have privacy.  That’s it.

So, what happened to me?  Today, I find myself behaving like some of these kids.  The family could be sitting around watching HGTV and there I am.  Texting someone, checking Facebook or my junk email (because I only get junk email, can someone send me something legit?  Please?).  DH often asks me what I’m doing and if I can put my phone down please?  I sometimes even get a headache from it.  It’s so stupid.

This post has gone a bit off kilter here (what else is new?).  I’m trying to say that we are missing so much around us.  I know this isn’t new.  I’ve seen the Facebook status’ and memes and videos about it.  Everything that is going on around us is being missed because we can’t get our heads out of our phones.  It’s a problem.  For some, it’s worse than others.  I know the friends who don’t do it. Those are the ones who you text and it takes them 13 days to get back to you.  (Gawd, don’t they just annoy you???  I mean, who do they think they?  Having a life?)

So, I stand (or sit) here and declare that I am going to put my phone away.  I don’t want to miss anything else.  Especially what house they picked on House Hunters.  If you text me and I don’t get back to you right away, that’s why.  But if I do get back to you right away?  Well, it’s because I  just happened to have my phone on the table next to me by accident.

 

Breaking Up With Writer’s Block

For the next 2 weeks, I will be straying from my typical form of writing by participating in a 16 day writing prompt assignment.  This is day 1 of 16.  I welcome your comments and critiques. Thank you and enjoy!

It’s time for you and Writer’s Block to part ways.  Write a letter breaking up with Writer’s Block, starting out with, “Dear Writer’s Block, it’s not you, it’s me…”

Dear Writer’s Block,

It’s not you, it’s me.  I let you into my life, albeit unwillingly, but I let you in just the same.  And you take advantage.  I’m not really one for advantage taking, so I believe it is time we part ways.

I know we have been together for quite some time now and have begun to build a history.  Unfortunately, we are less like Brad and Angie and more like JFK and Marilyn.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but that didn’t end so well, did it?

This is not easy for me (yes it is).  But the sleepless nights, the blank paper, the smell of burnt toast escaping from my earholes — it’s all just too much.  My sanity eludes me.  And I miss the writer’s cramp in my left forefinger.  Basically, I am choosing cramps over you.  That should say it all.  Not to be crass, but do you get my point?

Don’t be sad.  I have this deep-seated feeling that we will meet again.  Just do me a favor?  Can you wait a bit before you come knocking on my door?  Allow me to recoup some of my treasured brain cells?  In other words, if the smoke detector isn’t going off, the coast may be clear.  But be gentle and don’t linger.  I wish you peace.  Sort of.  Actually, no I don’t.  You suck.

Most Sincerely Not Yours,

The Chick Who Wants Her Brain Back

Twitter Twatter Tweet

Twitter

A few months ago I opened a Twitter account. I only did it because of my blog. I’ve read that it’s one of a bazillion on-line social media outlets that you need to help you to be successful, blah blah. I don’t have many followers. Barely 90. I would think that would be a lot if it were my own personal Twitter account. But it’s not. I am painfully aware that 90 is nothing for the purpose of its creation.

Here’s my problem: I don’t know how to use it. My daughter tries to show me. I just don’t get the hashtag, the retweet, the favorite. And reply? It scares the crap out of me. Recently, I thought this chick was talking to me personally so I replied to her. The daughter berated me and basically said I was embarrassing. Whatever.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I really don’t understand that whole Twitter party thing. I like parties. No, let me rephrase that. I LOVE parties. I am The Party Girl. This party? Umm, no. Not for me. I can’t seem to find my way to the front door. Which is okay, because I don’t think they serve wine anyway.

Can I confess something without being stoned to death? I hate Twitter. I am a Twitter degenerate. Every single time I go in there, I am bombarded with tweets from the 104 people I am following. It could quite possibly take me a full day to catch up on my tweets. And what if I like something? What do I do? I’m afraid of doing something I can’t take back.

And what the hell would anybody who is following me find so interesting in what I have to say? “Oh, I just lost 5 pounds cuz I pooped for the first time in three days?” Oh, yeah. Compelling. Some people are so damn creative and funny. When I read some tweets, I laugh and then think, “gee, why didn’t I think of that?”

Also, if I do want to say something, it’s usually a lot. I like Facebook because I can chat to my heart’s content. Twitter? I think I get like 20 characters or something. Okay, so I’m exaggerating. Still. Not enough. Hello? Have you met me?

So, here I am. Letting days or even weeks go by before I look at my Twitter because I am afraid of it. Every time I look at my iPhone and I see that little birdie sitting there, mocking me, I break out in a sweat. In the last three minutes, I have gotten like 23 notifications. Oh sorry, I believe I’m using the incorrect terminology. “Tweets.” Good Lord. What do I do with them all?

This thought process brings me to other thought processes like whatever happened to the good old days where everything was so easy? I miss rotary phones, beepers and Kodak film.

What was the hottest thing in technology when I was 15? A Walkman. I would walk around with my Walkman and listen to music and not share it with a bazillion (90) other people. And that’s a good thing, right? Back in the day when the tweet came from Polly the Parakeet. I think I like that better.

The Bookless Book

My mom texted me the other day.  Here is how it went:

Mom: I have a book question.  Is “We Are Water” better than other Wally Lamb books or on par?

Me: Geez, I don’t remember.  I know it was really really good probably one of the best books I ever read.

Mom:  We Are Water is his newest book.  U finished it?  I was asking cuz I was looking for a recommendation as to which of his older books I should read next.

Now, you wouldn’t think there was anything wrong with that text exchange, right?  Except I am currently reading “We Are Water” by Wally Lamb and I am about an eighth of the way into it.  And it is new.  My memory is bad, but come on.

Why didn’t I know she was talking about a book I am currently reading?  Because I own a Kindle.  And I don’t know any freaking book that is on that thing because it doesn’t have a cover.  If it doesn’t have a cover, then I can’t be reminded every ever-loving day and night when I pass by my nightstand.  It’s a problem.

That looks like a cover but it's an ad for another book.  See what I mean?

That looks like a cover but it’s an ad for another book. See what I mean?

So, if it’s possible to be embarrassed by something you said to your own mother, the answer is “yes.”  I felt like an ass and had to explain myself.  Also, because she is a book worm and can read 2-3 books at one time.  Me on the other hand cannot do that.  Because I have ADD/Squirrel Brain.  Not possible.  No way, sista.

Anyway, she recommended I read this Wally Lamb book.  I didn’t realize he wrote another book and he is one of my favorite authors ever so I was glad to hear this.  But my mom has a habit of asking me how I like books she recommended.  Like from the moment she recommends them.  Okay, so I may be exaggerating a little.  But just a little.  (It’s okay mom, I don’t mind really.  Kind of.)

Here’s my other problem:  Lately it takes me weeks, sometimes months, to finish a book.  Mainly because I am absolutely obsessed with this blogging gig I started for myself and also because I can no longer read a book for more than a page or three without my eyeballs doing the back-of-the-head roll thing.  But I digress.

The Kindle.  I’ve owned it for a year or two.  Maybe longer.  I don’t know because time marches as if it’s being chased by a one-eyed monster on methamphetamines.  Two years is really ten.  Get what I’m saying?

I was looking through photos the other day and I swore a vacation we took to Boston was only about 4 years ago, but it was more like 8.  How can that possibly be?  But I digress.  Again.  I am the Queen of Digression.  Called me Queen D.

Do I like my Kindle?  I’m not sure.  The jury is still out on that one.  I’ll write a pro/con list like I did in high school when I wanted to break up with a boyfriend.  Okay, I actually didn’t do that because that would have required too much work.  But I had friends who did.  I think.  Whatever…

Pros:  1) I can download a sample. So I can check it out later.  This way I can’t forget.  Which is a problem for me.  Well, the forgetting part isn’t the problem.  It’s the remembering part that gets me every time.  2) I have a bookstore at my fingertips.  3) It fits in my pocketbook real easy-like.

Cons:  1) No cover.  But I already said that.  2) It’s a pain in the ass to charge the darn thing.  3) I can’t get used to that little percentage number in the bottom right hand corner that tells how much of the book is left.  4) Sometimes I think I’m just scrolling back a page but then realize that I scrolled back, like 10 pages.  What???  5) I miss holding a real book.  And smelling a real book.  And seeing a real book.

So, I guess the answer is “No.”  No, I don’t like my Kindle.  But I think I do.  Did I ever tell you I also have a problem with making decisions?

Love,

Queen D

 

My Favorite Things

PJs

PJs

Don’t you just love that song “My Favorite Things?”  I do.  If I even say the word “favorite” it pops up in my brain.  You know how easily songs just pop up in there.  Anyway, I thought, hmm, I bet all my readers would just LOVE to hear about some of my favorite things.  And that’s what I’m going to do.  Tell you.

  1. My bed.  Oh Lord in Heaven.  Seriously.  Climbing into my bed at the end of a crazy day — freak it, it doesn’t even have to be crazy — and stretching out all of my limbs has got to be, by far, the most favorite part of my day.  Like seriously.  I’d rather do that than, well, never mind.  It’s like Disney World for my soul.  Or at the very least, Busch Gardens.
  2. My new Garlic Peeler and Slicer from Pampered Chef that prevents me from ever touching a garlic bulb ever again ever.  There is nothing worse than having the smell of garlic on my fingers for a week.  Well, having it seep out of my pores for 2 days kind of sucks too.  But that’s the price I’m willing to pay for the pungent, irresistible flavor of this herb (vegetable?) closely related to the onion.
  3. The heated seats in my car.  Love, love, love my heated seats, aka Sheats.  There is nothing like having my buns warmed by electrical currents.  Genius I tell you.  Pure genius.
  4. My red plaid PJ pants that I got in the clearance bin at some outlet store somewhere about a million years ago.  They are tattered and torn and will fall apart any minute.  Chances are, if you’ve been to my house — hell, if you’ve been to Shop Rite — you’ve had the pleasure of meeting them.
  5. My Rabbit.  No.  Not the furry kind.  The “easily open a bottle of wine in a jiffy” kind.  This hardly needs an explanation.  Therefore, I will not give you one.

RabbitWineOpenerF9

Nice, right?  I know.  Don’t be jealous.  Now go get your own things.

This blog topic has been inspired by the one and only “Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop”

Mama’s Losin’ It
 

What’s In My Name and Other Stuff

My name is Maureen Catherine.  My close friends call me “Mo.”  My mother wanted my middle name to be spelled “Kathryn.”  But that’s not how Catholics spelled it in those days.  The woman at Town Hall told her so.  Bully.  My father wanted me to be “Dawn Marie.”  I’m glad he didn’t get what he wanted.  I do not look like a Dawn.  And with the way I am with songs, every time someone said my name, Tanya Tucker would be popping up in there.  Every time.  I just know it.  The other day at work someone yelled, “COME ON EILEEN!”  Not good.  Especially since that is probably one of my least favorite songs ever.  Just so you know, it’s still rattling around in my brain.  But I digress.

When I was a kid, I must have asked my mother what my name meant.  Which is really weird for me.  Because I was a simple child.  I didn’t think much.  Seriously.  I’m not hating on myself.  I just was not known for my thinking skills.  I’ll give you an example:  When asked on a test if I was Male or Female, I didn’t know the answer.  I figured I had a 50/50 shot at getting it right so I guessed.  Of course, I guessed incorrectly.  Which happens to be the story of my life (you know, guess the wrong answer, get in the wrong line at the grocery store…).  Unless I had grown a penis overnight, I was female (and still am, I swear).  I was about 7 when I took that test.  And that statement about me figuring I had a 50/50 shot?  That’s not true.  I just took a stab at it and failed.  Accompanied by a mini anxiety attack.  I can still see my 7-year-old self totally freaking out because I hadn’t the foggiest idea what the hell that meant.

Another time, while standing in line at the school cafeteria, a girl asked me what my nationality was.  I looked oddly at her for a second and then I just turned around and completely ignored her.  Yes.  I ignored her.  Just like that.  Turned my back in the hopes that she would go away.  It worked.  I couldn’t even remember the word to ask my mom when I got home.  But when it came up later in life, I had one of those “aha” moments Oprah is always talking about.  Sorry to the girl who was probably trying to be my friend.  I’m Irish.  And for the record, you are a show-off.

little house on the prairie dress

I loved “Little House” so much that I asked for a prairie dress for my birthday. This beauty touched my toes.  I’m sorry you can’t get the whole effect.  You’re missing out.

Anyway, my mother, or someone,  said my name meant “Mary.”  I was thrilled at this news.  I knew that Mary was Jesus’ mother.  I also knew that Mary was my favorite character (other than Charles for reasons I do not need to explain) on Little House on the Prairie.  When I went to school the next day, I wrote my new name on every single assignment.  Because I figured if that’s what it meant, then I had a right.  Besides it took less time and energy to write it out.  My teacher was not empathetic.  And gave me an “F” on all my assignments that day.  That was the beginning and end of Mary.  It turns out my name doesn’t mean Mary at all.  It means “bitter.”  Hmm.

I was born in New Jersey to an Army father and housewife mother.  We moved all over the country and even lived in Germany for a few years.  I never went to college, but attended a trade school where I honed my typing and shorthand skills.  Skills that are falling by the wayside because I can’t find a damn job but that is a story for another time (or did I already write about that once or twice?  Yes, I am Bitter.  I’m allowed.  That’s my name after all).  I met DH when I was 19.  We married when I was 25 and we settled in Connecticut.  We have one child.  My life is full of excitement and adventure.  Have you seen that new show “Naked and Alone?”  Yeah, well, I did something like that once.  Except I was wearing clothes and I was in my backyard.

So, that’s it.  Are you amazed?  I know.  Try to contain yourself.  I’ve been trying to get TLC to do a reality TV show on me, but they refuse.  I don’t understand.  I could be a big money maker for them.  Big.  Their loss.  They’ll be sorry when NBC comes knocking on my door.  Until then, you can find me hiking Mt. Kilimanjaro.  Just kidding.  I’ll be on my couch. watching reruns of Friends.  I’m so glad Ross and Rachel ended up together.  Aren’t you?