Can You Say “Endocolonoscopy?”

I’m having an endoscopy and colonoscopy together at the same time tomorrow and I’m a little nervous.

The colonoscopy is for that screening they say you should have when you turn fifty. Because why else would someone go and voluntarily have a hose shoved up the darkest nether regions of your person where no one in their right mind should be?

(Unless there is a real legitimate reason like you have a family history of colon cancer or concerning symptoms, then please go and have that hose shoved up there.)

Can I say I can’t believe I’m “you need to have a colonoscopy for screening purposes” years old?

Moving along.

The endoscopy is because I suffer from really bad, major ugly, reflux. Literally, if I eat pretty much anything that is edible, I end up with my esophagus feeling like it is in a fire.

So basically, in the words of The Bloggess (she’s this super weird and a little nutty but entertaining blogger), I am going to be a “human shish kabob.”

I really wish I had thought of that expression because it’s genius and that is basically what it’s going to feel like.

A stick coming out of both ends.

Just don’t put me on a spit because although my insides are on fire most of the time, fire scares me. I believe I would enjoy that about as much as having a hose shoved into both ends.

So I’m having this procedure and I wasn’t worried at all but suddenly I am.

Because I can tend to be a tad of a hypochondriac, all kinds of scenarios are running around in my head.

Esophageal cancer, stomach cancer, parasites, some weird disease that they will have to name “Mo’s Syndrome” because I will be the first ever person to have it and there will be textbooks written about me.

Maybe they’ll make a movie too. If so, I want Jennifer Aniston to play me because we are look-alikes. It’s true. See?

Told you so
Told you so

I also keep thinking about what happened to Joan Rivers. Yes, I realize she was old and maybe not in as good of health as people thought and her doctors were idiots and totally careless. But it freaks me out nonetheless.

Anyway, I started the prep almost three hours ago and it’s taking that long to get this far in my blog post here because I’m in the damn bathroom every three minutes. No lie.

I need to tell you that I just got back from vacation and was pretty sure I contracted Dengue Fever or e-coli poisoning, or a parasite invasion (blog post in progress because my favorite thing to do is talk about my bodily functions).

In other words, I already emptied an entire third world country from my bottom half. So, to go for a second round so soon is really not very much fun at all.

Here I am. In the middle of my bowel prep. Worried I would be starving to death because my last meal was at noon. But after slamming back 16-ounces of this liquid that tastes like twenty year old 7-Up but not real 7-Up, I’m everything BUT hungry.

I guess there’s one thing I don’t need to worry about now. I should feel grateful, but strangely enough, I do not.

So, wish me luck. I will be sure to post how it went because I know you need to know. Also, take care of yourself and get a hose shoved up your nether area. You may save your life.

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 (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!



Teenagers Don’t Suck Anything But The Life Out of You. Sometimes.

TeenagersWhen I was pregnant with The Kid, I absolutely dreaded the thought of having a teenager. Especially a girl teenager. Freaked me the freak out. Honestly. I was making plans for either having her enrolled in a military boarding school by the age of 13 or me running off to a hideaway for “Moms with Teens” for 5 years. One or the other. Because there was no way there was going to be room in this house for the both of us. No way in hell.

Of course, this is going purely on assuming that she was going to be just like me. And if she was going to be just like me, there was going to be a little problem. Because although my dear mother says “you weren’t that bad,” I kinda was. A little. The crap I did would be enough to send me, as mother, running to the nearest homeless shelter. Because that sounds more appealing. Homeless vs. Hormone Laden Teen. You’ll find me in the woods. By myself. No forwarding address.

We all assume teenage girls are awful. And they are. For the most part. But, there is the exception, of course. There is always an exception. The Kid isn’t horrible. I am becoming increasingly pleasantly surprised. She’s not a dang thing like me. She doesn’t cut class, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t hang out at the 7-Eleven drinking beer. I haven’t seen a hickey on her, she’s a great student and an all around happy kid. Okay, so I’m pretty sure she doesn’t do these things. My mom didn’t think I did either. Oh shit.

Still. She’s a teenager. There are days that can suck. I could definitely do without those times where there is nothing I do or say is right. Other times I am her most treasured friend. You know. Like when we are at the mall. Hmm. 

Twitter Twatter Tweet


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.

Today Is Your Birthday…I Mean MY Birthday

Hey all!  Today is my birthday.  Yup.  April 6.  Besides me, Paul Rudd, Candace Cameron, Bill Dee Williams, Marilu Henner, John Ratzenberger and a whole bunch of people I’ve never even heard of also have a birthday today.  All my life I thought I shared a birthday with Houdini, but I just found out I don’t.  That’s embarrassing.  I also share my birthday with a couple of friends, which is totally cool but not.  Get your own birthday!  JK.

So, I’m 47.  Or as my sweet dad likes to say, “you’re in your 48th year.”  Thanks dad.  I can officially say that I am in my late 40’s.  Although I would really prefer not to say that ever.  I don’t know why.  I feel good, I’m in a good mental state (well, most of the time), I’m fairly happy with the way I look (Except my eyelids.  They droop so bad, it looks like I’m sleep walking.  When did that happen?).  I’m doing something I absolutely and completely love, love, love.  So, what’s my problem?

I’m almost 50.  Sure, you may think it’s not a big deal.  And on the large scale, it isn’t.  It’s just a number.  I need to embrace it.  Sure, okay.  I will.  But first I need to say this:  Like my eyelids, WHEN THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN?  And freak that.  It is a big deal.  Holy Hell.  I’m almost 50.

Just yesterday I was 19, when I met my husband-to-be.  DH had a grandmother (she lived to be 99 — love and miss you Mem).  She was in her seventies when I met her.  I used to say, “Oh, I’ve got plenty of time before I’m that old.”  Well, guess what?  I’m closer to there than I care to admit.  I barely remember the first half of my life it whizzed by so fast.  That is what scares me.

Why do I think about it so much?  Because.  There is stuff happening to me that makes it quite apparent that I am aging.  How is a girl supposed to NOT think about it when…

  1. I swear, I lose an inch of height a year.  At my tallest, I stood at five feet five and three quarters of an inch.  Now?  Let’s just say The Kid absolutely LOOMS over me.  I can’t even post a picture of us on Facebook without someone making that “are you kneeling?” comment.  My name is Mo and I am shrinking.  There, I said it.
  2. I think that's Broadway running along there
    I think that’s Broadway running along there

    The backs of my hands look like a road map of Manhattan.  Where did you say you wanted to go?  Madison and 37th?  Oh, here it is.  Right beneath my left ring finger.  Kind of convenient, wouldn’t you say?  No.

  3. Every morning when I get out of bed, I have more aches and pains than an athlete who just finished a marathon followed by the Iron Man.  No, actually, I think I hurt more than that.  It takes me a good 10 minutes to loosen up in the morning.  I may need a cane soon to get me to the bathroom so I can go pee.
  4. Speaking of pee…when I go, it doesn’t stop.  I think it stops.  But it doesn’t.  I have been known to leave a lovely trail to the shower (follow the yellow pee road).  I’m sorry.  I can’t help it.  All the Kegels in the world don’t help.
  5. Holding my arms out to read something no longer works.  I don’t really want to talk about it.  Let’s just say there are a pair of readers in every room of my house, in my car, pocketbook and on my head at all times.
  6. My eyelids are just about reaching my boobs.  Which is pretty bad because my boobs are now half way down my stomach.  They haven’t quite reached the belly button though.  And for this I am grateful.

    There is that damn perpetual eyeglass mark on my nose.  #11 why getting old sucks.
    There is that damn perpetual eyeglass mark on my nose. #11 why getting old sucks.
  7. I call everyone under the age of 40, a “kid.”
  8. I think my hair has more gray than blonde.  But I wouldn’t really know because I hide it with highlights.  In fact, I don’t even know what my real hair color is anymore.  And I have a feeling I should continue to stay in the dark about that for as long as I possibly can.
  9. I graduated high school 28 years ago.  When The Kid graduates, I may be going to my 30th reunion.  Oh Dear God.
  10.  When you start running at the age of 46 and need knee surgery less than 8 months later, then maybe you shouldn’t start running at the age of 46.

I think that’s enough.  Today is a happy day.  Today is my birthday.  So what that I may have to start adding Metamucil to my wine.  Mentally, I feel like I’m 15.  A 15 year old with a short term memory problem.  Whatever.  It could be worse.  My boobs could be hanging down to my belly button.

Worst Job In the World

He did a gorgeous job in our kitchen but he just the worst boss ever. And I suck at photography.
He did a gorgeous job in our kitchen but he’s just the worst boss ever. And I suck at photography.

This week’s writing prompt from Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop is to tell you about the worst job I ever had.  I did not have to think long or hard about this one.  I know exactly, hands down, what was the absolute worst job I have worked at in my entire 46 years of being on this planet.

It was about 2 years ago.  It was a job that I landed by chance.  I was looking for a little something part-time that was local but which also allowed me to use my administrative skills.  You know, skills that were rustier than a bike left out during every hurricane of 2005 (13 — I looked it up).  It was the perfect opportunity to brush up on those skills and stay in the game.

I was going to be working for a small, local granite business.  The owner was adorable.  A little firecracker of a guy from Brazil.  When I say little, I mean it.  I’ll give him a couple of inches and be nice by saying he was 5’4″.  He talked quickly, walked even quicker and had an accent that made him sound like the sweetest man in the world. (Never judge a person by their voice.  Take my word on this.)

I am a true believer in signs.  I ask God for them all the time.  Well, God threw about a million signs at me.  To which I ignored every single one.  Let’s just say, I learned my lesson.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I made a huge mistake.  I have so much to say about my little experience, but for now I will have to give you the Reader’s Digest version in 10 bullet points or less.

  1. According to him, it doesn’t matter if it was roadkill, it still makes for a good meal.  Just picture pheasant blood dripping through the showroom to the back where they were (yes, plural) feathered and boiled on site.  He asked me if I wanted to join his family for dinner that evening.  As tempting as it was, I just had to decline.  I think I was going home to wash my hair or something to those lines.
  2. His mattress in the attic and his many complaints of how his wife kicked him out of the house, yet again, was really quite disconcerting.
  3. Mid-afternoon was the perfect time of day to get preached to.  Bible and all.  Hey, at least I was paid for my Bible lesson.  I know because I asked.
  4. He was good about making sure he only came to work with a hangover twice a week.
  5. The toilet was filled with sludge half the time.  He felt it was quite necessary that I should be the one to clean it.  I was pretty sure I was hired to be the admin, not the cleaning service.  Actually, I’m pretty positive.
  6. His usage of the “f” word was about every 14 seconds.  Oh wait, I think every 12 seconds is probably more accurate.
  7. The guy begged me to take a part-time job at a rival company down the street so that I could be his spy.  Seriously.  Does this even happen?
  8. His temper rivaled that of Ivan The Terrible.  Anything from a dirty toilet to me not closing a deal after working there for a week would set him off.
  9. The Pièce de résistance:  “You american women are such prudes.   My wife gives me sex daily.  How many times do you have sex with your husband?”
  10. He mentioned something about hookers.  But I covered my ears.  I think it was during the Pièce de résistance conversation he thought he was having with me.

NOTE:  I’m not the type of person to walk out on a job.  I never have in my life.  I guess there is a first time for everything, right?

When I went in to pick up my last check, his wife was there.  She was very unhappy with how unprofessional I was.  Because I often try to take the high road, I kept my mouth from spewing out all the reasons why I walked out.  I did make a comment to the effect of “your husband is unprofessional and I felt very uncomfortable working here.  You can ask him why I left.”  I know, I know.  I could have totally thrown him under the bus.  Maybe I earned my wings?  Nah, probably not.

Mama’s Losin’ It

Spoiled Rotten

A few weeks ago the top news story in the Northeast was about a teenage girl who was suing her parents for money.  From all accounts, it looks like she is just a spoiled little brat who was devising a plan to get all that she wanted (including keeping a degenerate boyfriend and staying out as late as 3am if she so chose to) while her parents pay for her education.

I believe the judge denied the teenager’s request and the girl went back home.  It ended well for all of us parents.  Could you imagine if she had won?  I shudder at the thought.  I was going to write this big post about how I felt about the situation.  And then this morning I had a conversation with a friend about kids today and how spoiled they are and how badly we hover.  Which could possibly be partly what happened to this child.

We live in the age of The Helicopter Parent.  We all do it.  Ok, excuse me.  Most of us do it.  There is the exception.  I have a friend who is the parent of 4 kids and she’s got these kids doing what they need to do, when they need to do it without a complaint from them.  I am in awe of her.  Still, at the end of the day, there is some overprotecting going on.  What, with all the crap we hear in the media about kids going missing, etc. how can you blame us?

But there is a price to be paid.  My generation figured it out.  My parents didn’t do it for me.  We had street smarts.  Hell, when I was 11 years old I had to walk to and from school where we lived in Yonkers.  Alone.  I lived in 7 different places in 12 years.  I had to suck it up.  I would become close with other kids, then BOOM.  The Army moved us again.  Too bad.  I had to pick myself up, brush it off and move along.  There was no time to mope and cry.  Besides I wasn’t allowed to.  Seems rough, right?  No.  It’s called life.  And quite honestly, I’m grateful to my parents for the way I was raised.

So if I was raised that way, as I’m sure most of us were, why is there so much coddling?  “Oh, let me clean your room because you have too much homework.  Oh, why don’t you take the day off of school, you need a breather.  Oh, no, you can’t walk down the street to Diane’s house, you might get stolen.”  Everything from doing their homework to calling Abercrombie to see if there is a size 1 in the faded skinny jean they just “have to have.”

I do it all the time.  Actually, I don’t do the homework.  I don’t believe in that.  Besides, my kid would fail.  Anyway, guess what?  We aren’t helping our children.  Not at all.  We make it too easy for them.

The Kid and I toured a college last week.  A college that is at the top of her list.  When we got there, I was expecting a show of extreme excitement from her.  Because she is, by nature, an easily excitable person.  She will deny this for the rest of her life, but I could tell by the look on her face that she was completely freaked out.

I’m hearing a lot of stories of kids dropping out of college lately.  Kids just not able to take the pressure.  They don’t know how to take care of themselves.  They can’t keep up with the work.  They miss mommy.  It’s scary.  What do I do to prevent this from happening to my kid?

Suddenly, we are on the final stretch of our parenting journey.  And it dawned on me that we have about 2 years to get her ready.  Because as much as I will miss her and will probably cry my eyes out for a good week after she leaves, I do not want her coming back home.  Not under those circumstances.

Oh God, I have to go.  This helicopter just ran out of gas and is plummeting to the earth.  Which is good, but I have some repairing to do.  It’s going to be a long 2 years.  Wish me luck.

Linking up with Shell

And the Nominee Is….Mo!


I was nominated for the Liebster Award!  What is the Liebster Award, you ask?   It’s an award that is given to up-and-coming bloggers to motivate them to continue their work.  It’s such an honor to receive this award.  Thank you, Sarah Day of Parent Your Business.  You are awesome!

There are some requirements that I must complete if I would like to accept this award.  One of them is to share 11 random facts about myself.  So, here you go:

  1. My head over-produces wax.  If you just met me, you would think that I was going deaf.  This drives my family crazy and sometimes I will go months without going for a proper cleaning just to make them even crazier.  I’m sorry.  Did you say something?
  2. I jumped Rob Lowe once.  No, seriously.  I literally jumped him.  He was kinda drugged up though so I’m pretty sure he doesn’t remember.  (When I say “jump”, I mean fully clothed, crazy, lunatic fan kind of jump.  There were no bodily fluids exchanged.  Eww.)
  3. I lived in 5 states and Germany by the time I was 12.  Because I come from a very rich family and we were total jet-setters.  Just kidding.  I was an Army brat.
  4. I was so debilitatingly shy when I was a child that I would pee my pants instead of ask my teacher if I could go to the bathroom.
  5. I hated the final book of the 50 Shades of Gray trilogy so much that I never finished it.  This just means that I have to go see the movie because I never found out how it ended.  Oh shucks.
  6. I also abhor pedicures.  Yuck.  So, I guess I am a hater of 50 Shades of Gray Toenails 3.  Ok, that was stupid.  Sorry.
  7. I worked as a dental assistant for 5 days when I was 19 because I was asked to fill in while my dentist’s assistant was on vacation.  I had no idea what I was doing and had diarrhea for a week.
  8. I love the smell of gasoline, mothballs and rubber cement.  No, I don’t go around sniffing all that stuff.  Does anyone have any Elmer’s?  You know, for my friend.
  9. My guilty pleasure is The Real Housewives of NYC.  No one bother me while the bitches are on or someone will get hurt.
  10. My first concert ever was Ann Murray.  My second was Menudo.  It’s a long story.
  11. My great-grandfather invented Fiberglass and the backing for mirrors.  Most interesting fact here and it isn’t even mine.

Another requirement is to answer 11 questions posed by Sarah:

  1. If you could be any celebrity, who would you be?  Hello???  Umm, Kristen Wiig, of course.  That is one funny chick.  She has funny down to a science.
  2. If you could be any profession, what would you be?  Archeologist.  Because I love to dig in the dirt in the hopes of finding dinosaur bones.  Or money.
  3. What’s the most exotic place you’ve traveled?  Does Myrtle Beach count?  Oh wait.  I went to Tortola once.
  4. Do you come from a big family, or a small one?  I’m Irish Catholic.  That pretty much sums it up.
  5. How long have you been blogging?  I started blogging in January 2013 and loving every minute of it (even though Sarah didn’t ask me if I love it or not, I’m telling you anyway.)
  6. Do you still blog the same sort of content that you did when you started out?  Yes.  I have always blogged humor from the get go.  Once in a while, you will find something serious.  But that’s usually when I’m ovulating (yes, I still ovulate…sometimes).
  7. Do you write anything else besides your blog?  I kinda sorta started a book.  Actually, 2 books.  After almost 47 years, I suddenly have stuff in my head.  I don’t know where it came from.
  8. Where did you last vacation?  The un-exotic Myrtle Beach, SC.  Oh wait.  Last summer we had a stay-cation and I tanned on the back deck.  I had a margarita, too.
  9. Do you have pets? What kind?  No.  The Kid had one of those crazy fighting fish for about a minute.  RIP James Pond.
  10. What’s your favorite ethnic food?  Is sushi ethnic?  If not, mexican.
  11. If you had a free afternoon, would you prefer to go to a museum or a movie?  Museum.  I love history so much it’s crazy.  It’s kinda weird considering where it’s coming from (if you know me, you get it).

Now I have to pass this honor on to some very deserving bloggers.  I nominate, in no particular order, the following:

Miriam at Miriam Gomberg.  Miriam is crazy awesome.  I feel strangely connected to her.  Could it be because she’s a mermaid?  Perhaps.

Lara at Just Lara.  Lara is frikin’ amazing.  She is real and has a genuine talent for writing.  She’s totally cool.

Rhonda at Bitch and Whine.  Hello?  How can you resist someone who has a “Douchebag of the Week” post?  Seriously.  I don’t know why I didn’t think of this myself.

Jenn at I Make Myself the Queen.  Jenn is funny, quirky and funny.  She’s a chick after my own heart.  I think she is my sista’ from anotha’ motha’, I swear it must be true.  I totally get her.

Kim at Kim Ulmanis.  I literally just met her and I am in love.  ‘Nuf said.

If you accept, please complete the following.  It could take some time but it’s a great way to connect with other bloggers (and don’t forget more fans…where would we be without our fans?)!  I was nominated at the beginning of the month…well, I am a bit of a procrastinator so,  you know…anyway, here are the questions I came up with for you to answer:

  1. What genre book do you prefer (thriller, horror, romance, etc)?
  2. What is your favorite smell/scent?
  3. Do you have a nickname?  If so, what is it?
  4. What is your favorite all time movie?
  5. If you could pick one place to go in the entire world, where would it be?
  6. Why did you start blogging?
  7. What is your biggest pet peeve?
  8. If you could choose anyone, dead or alive, to have dinner with, who would it be?
  9. What is your absolute dream job in the whole entire world?
  10. If there was a movie about your life, who would play you?
  11. What kind of music will I find on your playlist?

Nominees who accept are to write a blog post that includes the following:

  • Thank the person who has nominated you and link back to their blog (by posting a link on yours).
  • Copy and display the award in your blogpost (save the pink image above and upload it to your own post).
  • Answer the 11 questions about yourself, which are given to you by the person who nominated you.
  • Write 11 random facts about yourself.
  • Nominate 5 – 11 blogs/bloggers that you feel deserve the award. They need to have less than 1000 followers.
  • Think of 11 new questions for the bloggers you have nominated and write them in your post.
  • Inform the selected bloggers that they have been nominated for the Liebster award and link back to your own post so that they can learn about it (if they don’t already know about it) and so that they know what questions to answer.

Grammar Nazi Part III’ish


There are some out there who think it’s crazy to get crazy over grammar.  There are some pretty great writers and bloggers who I follow who think Grammar Nazis shouldn’t get their panties in a bundle.  They even hate the term “Grammar Nazi.”  That’s fine.  It’s their opinion.  It’s cool.  I respect that.

I’ve tried to take their words to heart.  I’ve mulled it over.  Tried to climb on board with their thinking.  I’ve tried to not be so uptight about it.  But I can’t help it.  No, I’m sorry.  Every time I see or hear someone misuse this part of the English language, my thoughts take me back to 1986 and dear Mrs. Schneider.  Even worse, I hear the proverbial nails on a chalkboard in the recesses of my brain.  My fingers itching on my keyboard to correct these grammar deviants.  But I don’t.  I suffer in my own private grammar hell.  And let them go about their lives in their cute little oblivious way.

Every gosh darn day I go onto my Facebook feed, I see the incorrect use of these pronouns, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions and nouns (yes, nouns).  These are great words.  We need them.  But I’m sorry.  Unless you have been living in a cave, raised by wolves or quit school at the age of 10 to work the fields because Pa got The Plague, therefore leaving you to care for your 7 brothers and sisters, there is no reason why you should be using these guys in an incorrect form.

Hey, I didn’t have the best education.  Okay, let me rephrase that before my parents get angry with me and start in with the “your education was fine, it was you who made the conscious choice to not care much about it.”  They would be correct anyway.  I didn’t go to college.  But somehow I know that you cannot, absolutely CANNOT go to funny.  Unless, funny is a town.  In which case, it would be a proper noun and spelled with a capital “F.”  So, you would be wrong either way.

I’m sorry if I am offending you.  You are people I know and love.  Some of you are acquaintances.  Some are total and complete strangers.  I apologize ahead of time for any hurt I may be bestowing upon you.  But I have to get this off my chest yet again (third time’s a charm, no?).  If I help even one lost grammar soul, then my job is done.

Here’s my short little lesson on what bugs me most.  It will take less than 5 minutes.

Your – Possessive.  “Is that your ball I saw at the baseball field?”  You wouldn’t say, “is that you are ball I saw at the baseball field,” would you?  No.  Because that doesn’t make sense.

You’re – Here are two words slammed together into one. YOU and ARE.  Making a contraction.  “You’re awesome.”  You are awesome.  If you said “your awesome” that wouldn’t make sense because you don’t own awesome, do you?  You can be awesome and “own” it in slang terms, but you can’t have awesome.  Understand?

Too –  As in also.  “She came to the movies with us too.”  If you said, “she came to the movies with us to” it leaves the sentence unfinished.  To what?  To buy popcorn?  Did your friend go to the movies with you to buy popcorn?  No, she didn’t.  How do I know?  Because you didn’t say so.  Unless you got interrupted by something like a flash flood.  Then I forgive you.

To – Aah, here we go. “She came to the movies with us to buy popcorn.”  I know, it seems silly that she would just go to the movies to buy popcorn.  But damn, where else can you get movie theater popcorn?  All that artery clogging, delicious, buttery goodness.  Yum.  The above sentence would be correctly stated.

Their – Possessive.  “It is their television set.”  I understand that their, there and they’re can be confusing.  You can’t use they’re because this is a contraction.  THEY and ARE are mashed together.  You wouldn’t say “it is they are television set” because that’s silly.  You also wouldn’t say, “it is there television set” because it would sound like you are trying to say something like “That there television set.  You know, over there. Over yonder.”  No.  Just don’t.

They’re – Contraction.  THEY ARE.  “They’re going to see a play today.”  The theme seems to be entertainment, doesn’t it?  Yup.  This is quite entertaining, that’s for sure.

Look, I’m not perfect and I never said I was.  I use run-on sentences (on purpose because I love them), I will start a sentence with but & and.  That’s my style and it may not be correct for the purpose of proper form, but it’s not altogether wrong either.  I’ve made the occasional typo (insert cringe here).  I am kind of bad with commas.  Yes, I understand this may be a problem I have.  I’m working on it.

You can unfriend me if you want.  Just when you do, remember to use your grammar properly.  Because I’ll be watching.  Somewhere.  Somehow.  You’re awesome (See that?  You are.  Got it?  Good).

Linking up with Shell

Procrastination Is Making Me Late

I was born of a mother who has a Type A personality.  I would even venture to say she is Type A+.  Even though it probably doesn’t exist.  But it has to exist because she is one.  I swear it.  Me on the other hand?  Type B—.  Triple negative.  My Type B is so Type B I’m almost dead.  Well, not really.   Because that’s a little morbid.  But you get my point.

After I quit My Retail Job, I thought it was a great time to catch up on all that I let slide because I just didn’t have the time.  I started by making a list.  These lists have lists.  Then I took a calendar, a beautiful calendar that a good friend made, and wrote what I will do every single day.  Good start, right?

Two words:  Major Fail.  Why is this happening to me?  Then I remembered what my good friend who made the calendar said to me once.  “You are not a list type of person.”  And she’s right.  I hate structure.  I hate organization.  I like to fly by the seat of my pants.  I could have a full day of cleaning and organizing planned out and if a friend calls to meet for lunch?  I’m out the door before she can even finish her sentence.

This is my list of things-to-do. I got 2 things kinda done.  As you can see.  Oh, wait.  Maybe 3.

Does this just flat out mean I’m a procrastinator?  Because I will put off and put off and put off until the cows come home.  Even longer than that because the cows come home eventually.  I have procrastinated so long that my projects have projects.

Now I am in a place where my brain is so over-whelmed that I think it has shut down to save itself from being fried.  You know, short circuiting.

I don’t know where to start.  I want to start.  I do.  So I can finish.  And so I can turn my brain back on because I kind of need it.  But I’m not a list person and I don’t know how to do it without one.  See my problem?

I seriously feel like a dog chasing its tail.  Call me Spot.  “See Spot Run.  Oh wait, what is Spot doing?  He is chasing his tail.  But, that is not how the story goes.  Spot is ruining this story.  We need a new Spot.”  See?  I told you my brain has shut off.  I don’t make sense.  How did Spot even get in my story?

revelI know.  Like the Nike commercial says:  “Just Do It.”  Okay.  Here I go.  Oh heck.  I’ll start next Monday.  I’m just going to do what the calendar says to do.  “Revel in my messiness.”  I didn’t even notice that until yesterday.  Looks like I wasted my time and ruined a perfectly good February.

All this procrastinating is making me sleepy.  I’m going to take a nap.  If you need me, flip the ON switch.  It’s to the right of my … oh damn, where did I put that thing?  Wait.  This was supposed to be about procrastination.  Not short term memory problems.  I’m going back to bed.  See you Monday.