Every Day I’m Shuffling


In keeping with the “music” theme, I want to discuss iPods, MP3 players and smart phones. Specifically the shuffle feature.  As you all know (because I’ve made it perfectly clear) I love music.  Not only do I like to sing to it, but I like to listen to it.  While exercising, cleaning the house, driving the car, shopping.  (Shop Rite has some great music.  It does make the act of grocery shopping a bit less painful.  But just a bit.)

I would love to love the shuffle option but I don’t.  The concept is awesome on paper.  I have about 450 songs on my iPhone.  Yet somehow the device plays the same 50 or so.  Actually, I think it’s less than that.  With a random one thrown in there to keep me from bitching.  But mostly the same songs over and over and over again.  I often have to resort to hitting the “next” button a million times before I land on one I haven’t heard in a while.  And when I say “a while” I mean in the last 2 weeks.  When I peruse my playlist there are some great songs that I haven’t heard in ages.  But who wants to sit there and handpick every song?  Ain’t nobody got time for that.

So anyway, I thought it was my phone.  But then the same thing happens on my iPod and MP3 players.  Sometimes I even hear the same song two or three times in one listening session.  So my nice relaxing walk turns into a walk of frustration.  I may love it, but I don’t need to hear “These Boots Are Made for Walking” every 10 minutes.  What it should be is “these boots are made for smashing you to smithereens if you don’t play a damn different song.”  And one I haven’t heard within the last 14 days would be simply divine.  Thank you very much.

So, hear this all you digital music gadgets — you better shape up.  Please don’t make me resort to pulling out my Walkman.  Because I will dig up my old cassette tapes.  And it won’t be pretty. Unless you like Purple Rain.  Damn, Prince sure could rock those heels!

Call Me….Maybe?


My mom went to a Catholic school as a chid (even though she wasn’t Catholic at the time but that’s a story for another day).  Their priest, Old Monsignor Pierce said that Elvis Presley was evil and ordered the children to go home and smash all of their Elvis records.  I can only pray that some old priest will demand the same for Justin Bieber, Carly Rae Jepsen and Nicki Minaj.  Where’s Monsignor Pierce when you need him?

I know I’m being a little over-dramatic, but every single time I have to listen to this shit when the kid gets in the car with her girlfriends I want to throw myself out of the vehicle — while it’s moving.  I swear the radio plays the same 12 songs.

It’s my opinion that most of the music of today has no substance.  In 20, 30 or even 40 years from now I can guarantee that you won’t hear much of it anywhere.  I can’t see how it will have staying power.  Not like the great music of the past.  (Although I have to admit I have a bit of a crush on Justin Timberlake and Usher but there is an exception to every rule.)

While I’m at it, I have to make a comment about Nicki Manaj.  I cannot understand how someone whose speaking voice sounds like 2 tons of cotton swabs were shoved up her nose can have a good singing voice.  I’m not really an “American Idol” groupie anymore, but if it’s the only thing on, I may watch it for a few minutes.  All I want to do is jump through the TV screen with a box of tissues.  Surely she’s got snot up there from 1994.

And the names?  Chiddy Bang.  I wonder what his favorite movie is.  Flo-Rida.  Let me guess.  He’s from Miami.  LMFOA.  I guess when people stop using text speak, this band will become obsolete as well?

I remember when the kid was into The Jonas Brothers a few years ago.  DH and I set up 3 computers so we could get her concert tickets for her birthday.  We were one of the lucky ones.  6 months later, if you so much as mentioned the name Jonas, she would gag.  And I never hear them on the radio.  Ever.  Where’d they go?  Into the graveyard of has-beens.  Pretty soon we’ll see them appear on a cheesy reality TV show with Cindy from The Brady Bunch.

I’ll tell you what is good music.  Anything by Simon & Garfunkel, The Beatles and Joe Cocker.  And that’s just to name a few.  I could be here all night naming them all.  It’s a tough choice…Led Zeppelin or Miley Cyrus?  Miley!  Yeah right, when the Levee Breaks.

MoMo and the PaPa’s


I love to sing.  I will sing to my heart’s content.  In the car, in the shower, at the store.  Out loud and proud.  All the time.  The older I get, the worse it is.  I just seem to sing more and more.  As if it were my last chance to do so.  My family hates it.  They claim that my voice “hurts their ears.”  Oh, such silliness.  I’m afraid they are just jealous because they don’t have the same God given talent.

I would really like to share my God given talent with you.  So, here’s a little treat.  A video of one of my favorite songs.  And aren’t we all doing a little California Dreamin’ by now anyway?

When I first saw the Screaming Goat, I was reminded of myself a bit.  So, I could not leave him out.  He’s my main back-up man (goat video courtesy of SickesTVids).  Besides, everyone else is doing it.  Why can’t I?

Now I’d like to talk about singing the lyrics incorrectly.  I know I’m not alone.  It makes the kid crazy when I do this.  And I do this often.  I’ll give you some examples.  See if you can guess the songs these lyrics are from:

  • I love that girlie water, oh Boston you’re my home
  • Take a load off granny, take a load for free, take a load off granny and put the load right on me
  • I belong with you, you belong with me, in my happy home (Happy Home.  You’re my Sweetheart.  Totally sounds the same, right?)
  • Wake up like a douche another runner in the night (how does a douche wake up exactly?)
  • I wish that we could get together and start a family (a cute little ditty by Melanie about a missing key and roller skates)

Here is one I mess up bad.  The following are the lines to another one of my favorite songs — “The Boxer.”  I have been inaccurately singing this song all my life.  And even though I now know the correct lyrics, I still sing them like this because it’s ingrained in my brain at this point.

  • In the quiet railway station where I’m running scared
  • Laying low, Seeking out the court reporters where the ragged people go
  • Just come on down from the war on 7th avenue
  • Where the New York City winters are a greeting me
  • Greeting me, going home

I know Paul would be proud of how peaceful this song makes me feel, but not so proud of how I slaughter the hell out of it.

Ok, so now I would love to hear what songs you murder?  I know you do it.  Everyone does.  Come on, share.  It’s fun.

This Little Piggy Went to the Dentist

Photo on 3-22-13 at 11.03 PM #3

Anyone who knows me, knows that I put a lot of effort into my smile.  I spent 6.5 years in braces.  Switching orthodontists on the way.  There was a crap load of frustration, disappointment and money involved.  And I am so incredibly happy it’s over.

Finally.  I’m at a good place orally.  Or so I thought.  I found out that I have severely receding gums.  Part of it is due to the fact that my teeth were in prison for so long.  It also doesn’t help that I brush my teeth like a four year old high on Sugar Daddy’s who has gotten her hands on a fine tooth comb and Barbie.

About 2 weeks ago I visited with a periodontal specialist to address this issue that I’ve been putting off for some time.  Basically my gums have receded so badly that I will most likely have to have grafting done.  If not, I am at risk of losing my six million dollar teeth.  They are not bionic, but they sure the hell should be.

I looked at him and asked what he meant.  If my gums don’t come down or up or rebuild or whatever it is that these people want my gums to do, I will have to either a) use my own gums from the back of my mouth or b) use donor gums.

Ok, say what?  Can you repeat that?  The thought of some dead person sharing their mouth with me turns my stomach.  I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate, but really?  Ewww.  When I expressed how I felt about this — and believe me I did — he informed me that it’s not any different than if I received a donor heart or kidney or liver.  Ok, but I NEED those things to survive.  And I won’t see them every time I open my mouth.  And I’ll be grateful to them because I am alive.

But a cadaver’s mouth in my mouth???  Then he said there is another option.  They can take it from a pig.  Ok, well, just call me “Wilbur” then.  Next time you see me, I may have a snout.  Oink. Oink.



There is a house around the corner from us.  It’s a really cute one level ranch.  I’ve always liked it.  The problem is, it goes on the market every year or two.  In the 11 years we’ve lived here, it’s changed hands half a dozen times.  Rumor has it that it’s haunted.  And I believe it.

I love haunted houses.  I think that they are totally cool.  Not in the Amityville kind of way.  That’s disturbing.  But if Casper haunted my house, I’d totally be down with it.  Which leads me to my story.

I have an aunt who passed away a few years ago.  The kid and I drove up for her funeral.  It was in upstate New York.  In Osh-kosh-b’gosh land.  There was this really cute old village in the middle of town where I booked a hotel.  I believe it was the only hotel around.  It was so old, you literally used a real key to open the door to your room.  If you lost that key, you were pretty much screwed.  There was no swiping of a card and getting a new one.

We checked in at around 3:00 in the afternoon, then went to the funeral home for the wake.  We had dinner with some family then had to get back to the hotel by 10pm before the lobby closed.

It was about 9:45 when we pulled into a spot directly in front of the hotel.  I pulled out the key and the kid asked if she could hold it.  I said, “sure, but please be careful and don’t lose it.”  She was a very responsible child.  And anyway, what could happen?

She lost it.  Literally 20 seconds after I handed it to her, it was gone.  I completely freaked out on her.  It was late, I was tired, it was an emotional day.  So, I lost my patience.  She started crying.  And I was pissed.

Even though it was dark and late, I ripped everything that wasn’t bolted down out of the car.  I looked between the seats, under the seats, behind the seats.  I got out the flashlight from the glove compartment and got on my hands and knees.  I literally crawled under and around the car looking for that ever-loving key.

At this point it’s just about 10 o’clock.   We called it quits and went inside in hopes there was another key available.  We would continue our search in the morning, in the daylight.  After apologizing profusely, the clerk handed me another one.  He had a sly look on his face. I thought it was weird because he didn’t even comment, he just looked at me strangely.  The guy kind of creeped me out.

The next morning, we went out to start our search again.  We even got some family members who were staying there in on the act.  Again, we ripped everything out, searched high and low, in and out.  We couldn’t find it.  I was completely perplexed.  That damn key was no where.

When I went to check out, I told the clerk (who is a woman this time) how sorry I was that we lost the key and that I would pay to have a new one made.  She just looked at me and laughed.  She said not to worry because “they” like to play games with the patrons who stay there.  Specifically with the keys.

This is the actual haunted hotel
This is the actual haunted hotel

Legend has it that a woman jumped to her death from a top floor balcony in the 1800’s and her spirit haunts the hotel.  Along with some others.  There is also a little boy.  And he likes to mess with the guests.  My aunt, who was staying in the room next door, said she had an encounter as well.  Apparently they also like to play with people’s showers.

We had that car for a couple more years after that incident.  Before we sold it, we had it detailed.  Thoroughly detailed.  The key never showed up.  Ever.

Look you nay-sayers, I can see you rolling your eyes.  But how is it possible that a key get that lost in a matter of seconds?  And stay lost.  Forever.  It’s just too weird.  And I like my little ghost story.  It’s the only one I have.  So I’m keeping it.

Frugal and Proud

Yes, I do this too.
Yes, I do this too.

I am frugal.  No, let me rephrase.  I am cheap.  I am the type of person who cringes when DH takes more than 1 paper towel to dry his hands.  I sit there and watch him while he grabs at the roll and just keeps pulling on it while 3, 4 and 5 sheets go by.  He could be talking to me, but I don’t hear him because I am dying inside.  Staring at the diminishing roll.  Biting my nails.  Wondering when he’s going to stop.  I could say it’s because I’m worried about the environment.  But that would be a lie.  It’s because with every sheet, I see money being thrown out the window.

When I reach the end of a shampoo or lotion bottle, I will set it upside down and use every loving drop of it. I will stick my finger in there and swipe at whatever is left.  Bang the bottle on the countertop to get every last drip to come out.  And I mean EVERY.LAST.DRIP.  My favorite game is to guess how many more uses I can get out of a container before I have to open a new one.

We know a woman who has been a friend of the family for forever.  She is an older version of me in more ways than one.  She cuts her shampoo bottles in half so that she can use every bit.  Everyone thinks it’s funny.  Me?  I think it’s the best idea since, like…ever.  I got four more shampoos out of my last bottle because of her.  I’ll have to thank her next time I see her.

I refuse to buy anything that isn’t on sale.  Even though the sign says “4 for a dollar”, I will buy one because that’s all I need at the moment.  I would prefer to buy store brand, but DH seems to know the difference so I can’t.  It kills me.

Yet, somehow I manage to spend every penny I have in my wallet.  I could start the week with $100 and in two days, it’s gone.  Don’t ask me.  I guess I am what you would call an oxymoron.  Oh well.  So, who wants to go out for lunch?  You buying?

Old Man Winter Must Die

That dark blue crap right there means “Heavy.” Awesome.

I live in the NorthEast.  Last week we had 50 degree weather.  It was awesome.  I took my walks with no coat, ate lunch on the sidewalk of New York City and drove with my windows open.

I am currently looking out my window.  They said there would be snow.  Mixed with ice.  And sleet.  And I’m thinking this is all a cruel joke.  It’s as if winter is mocking us.

I know I’m being a total ingrate.  Last winter it barely snowed at all.  Well, if you don’t count October.  But technically that isn’t winter.  If we didn’t have October, the kids would have gotten out of school on the original last-day-of-school date.  Or pretty damn close to it.  Stupid October.

If I sound bitter, that’s because I am.  I’m tired of the teases.  It’s worse than the proverbial dangling carrot.  I’m on a diet.  So I will compare it to someone putting a plate full of nachos with oozy cheese and greasy beef piled high with sour cream and a pitcher of margaritas with a salt shaker in front of me knowing I can’t touch it (ok, shouldn’t touch it — we all know I probably would).  It’s cruel and unusual.

Didn’t the groundhog say spring was coming early?  I think Phil needs to die with Old Man Winter.  Sorry animal lovers.  I do mean it in a joking way.  So don’t get all PETA on me. Thanks and don’t remove your snow tires yet.  You’ll be needing them.

I Love You, I Love You Not.


Remember when we were kids and we had to do a “research” paper on George Washington?  You ran to the living room shelf in hopes that your mom bought enough groceries that week to score the W-Z of the Funk & Wagnall Encyclopedia set so you could read up on the old goat.  It took her a year to acquire the entire set.  Only for it to be obsolete by the end of 7th grade.  We had to eat a lot of spaghetti and sloppy joe’s to stay updated.

Basically everyone in your class turned in the same paper.  Plagiarism wasn’t allowed back then either, so we took the most important facts from the 5 paragraphs we had available to us, flipped the words around and wrote something down.  If we were lucky, either mom drove us or we rode our bikes over to the library for a little more in-depth research.  Those lucky kids received an automatic “A.”

Technology today definitely has its pros and cons.  One pro is that our kids have the world at their fingertips when it comes to research.  We get to save on gas by not having to drive them across town to the library.  If I didn’t have our weekly jaunt to the library when the kid was little, I’m not sure she would even know how the place works.  Remember the Dewey Decimal System?  I believe that is as defunct as the free grocery store encyclopedia.

Unknown-3Another pro about technology is when we are able to settle a bet.   I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a disagreement with DH about who that special guest star is on a rerun of “Charlie’s Angels.”  And putting an end to the argument in a matter of seconds with the flick of some fingers.  It’s awesome.

What I absolutely do not like about today’s technology is our lack of privacy.  News about one person can travel faster than Road Runner on speed.  It’s also not so good if you are trying to self-diagnose yourself.  Once I was sure I had Barrett’s Esophagus when really I just had too many jalapenos in my tacos.  Just stick to a real doctor.  Chances are you are going to live.

That’s basically how I feel about it all in a nutshell.  Okay, I gotta go.  I have to go Tweet about what I’m doing right now.  Oh, and Facebook some photos of myself.

Droopy Drawers (not to be confused with Droopy the Dog)

I have been wanting to vent about this subject for a while now, waiting for the opportunity to present itself.  Well, the opportunity has come in the form of one Justin Bieber and his skivvies.  He honored us with the presence of his Fruit Of The Loom in this week’s “People” magazine:

Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Exhibit B

If you look at “Exhibit A” you will notice he is practically naked.  I can’t comprehend why he even bothered.  In “Exhibit B” it just looks like his pants are loaded up.  Although I’m sure his mother will say he has been potty trained for at least 16 years.

You cannot possibly tell me that this doesn’t annoy him just a tad.  I’ll tell you when I wear my low-rise jeans (I know, low-rise+muffin top+middle age=NO — I’m sorry, I have no excuse), I am driven to drink because I am continuously yanking those dang things up.  Almost to the point where my fingers bleed.

And it’s just not celebrities.  I see it all the time, everywhere.  Please do us all a favor.  Keep your ass inside your pants or inside the privacy of your own home.  I really don’t need to look at it.  Once I saw a boy whose pants were so low, it was indecent.  I almost called the police.  Seriously.

Now, all you young girls out there, you cannot possibly tell me that this look is hot.  I know I’m mid-fortysomething and you probably could really care less about my opinion but I was a teenage girl once.  And I can promise you that look would have completely sent me running to the nearest convent if that was my only choice.

The first time I saw it, I was stunned.  I sat staring trying to figure it out.  It’s as if they are defying gravity or something.  But then I see that they tighten their belt right below their boot-ay.  Ouch.  Aren’t there other unmentionables right around that frontal area?  Geez, I sure hope they don’t want any babies one day because they’ll probably kill all their swimmers by means of strangulation or asphyxiation.

I can see the future headline now:  “The human race is in danger of becoming extinct because of over zealous boys and their belts.”  Joy.

Holy Heel

In my previous life, I was a heel wearer.  A pretty high high-heel wearer.  I could wear those suckers all day at work.  I could run down the hall to the copy machine or to catch a train.  I probably could have even worked out in them.  With no problems.  These days, my footwear of choice are either something resembling that of a senior citizen’s orthopedic or hush puppies.

Last year, DH and I went into NYC with friends of ours.  You cannot go into NYC looking like a shlump.  So, I went to TJ Maxx and bought myself the cutest high heels that I could find in my size.  And that I thought I could manage.


My gorgeous niece, who happens to be an amazing and talented hair dresser wears shoes that are about 3 inches taller than this all day at work.  So I know she would just roll her eyes at me and say that these are nothing.  To her and many other 20-somethings they ARE nothing. To me, it’s like wearing a torture device that resembles that of a nail bed sticking into the balls of my feet.

We drove into the city.  I wore them starting from home and all through dinner.  At this point, I want to cry.  I am already a wobbling, limping idiot.  But I didn’t want to take them off for fear of not being able to get them on again.  When we were at dinner, I sat there with my legs crossed tightly because I was afraid to walk to the bathroom which happened to be upstairs.  When I finally realized I had to give in or REALLY embarrass myself, I stared at that staircase in fear.  As if I were going to be walking to my execution.  And when I just could not possibly hold it any longer, I looked like a drunk three-toed sloth.  Might I add, we were in a really trendy, pishy-poshy eating establishment whose clientele was young enough to be my children.  And I looked like a complete ass.

After we finished dinner, we decided to walk to the comedy club.  Why I agreed is beyond me.  I should have hailed a cab.  I was so desperate to NOT walk, that I would have thrown myself in front of one just to stop the pain.

Since then, I have tried to wear them on a night out again.  But the thought creates such anxiety I need a Xanax.  So I settle on my orthopedics.  What can I say?  I rock those orthos.  And my feet have thanked me time and time again.