My Favorite “Candy”

flintstonesFlintstones Children’s Multi-Vitamins.  Apparently, these were my favorite candy as a child.  Even though they aren’t candy.  What does Bayer expect when they make these delightful little character shaped guys taste like fruity goodness?  It’s like an explosion of deliciousness in your mouth.  I’m sorry.  But you cannot have just one.  Nope.  Not when you are 4.

The story goes like this:  We lived on an Army base at the time.  I somehow managed to find my way to the stash of Flintstones in our kitchen.  Because I was in the mood for sharing.  And that’s what I did.   I shared.  I sat in a circle with a few of the other Army people offspring in my neighborhood and I rationed them out right there in plain sight.  Under the swing set.  Yup, I did.  Emptied out the entire bottle.  Right into the mouths of all my little followers.

It’s really very simple.  We OD’d on Fred, Wilma and Betty.  Could you imagine the headline?  “Four year old Flintstone dealer murders her fellow tots by brainwashing them to overdose on Bam-Bam.”  Try to live THAT one down.

Needless to say, no one died.  In fact, the only mother who seemed a bit concerned was my own.  I was rushed to the hospital where they pumped my stomach.  Actually.  No.  That didn’t happen.  Sounded exciting though, didn’t it?  I was rushed to the hospital.  Where I was forced to eat bread.  To absorb the iron or something to that line.  The other mothers weren’t concerned.  They were just gonna sit back and see if anything happened.   Maybe they were waiting for rainbow colored vomit?  Who knows.  But we all survived.

Did it make me swear off the Flintstone forever?  Nope.  When The Kid was small, I would sneak them into my mouth.  But no more than 2 a day.  Sometimes 4.  If it was a particularly rough one.  Five.  Tops.

This blog post was inspired by Mama Kat’s writing prompt:  A favorite candy when you were a child

Mama’s Losin’ It

I Almost Got Killed By a Floor Polisher and Other Stories

floor polisher
Only WAY bigger

So, it’s been a week since my final shift at My Retail Job.  Yes. You heard me.  I quit.  I put in my 2 weeks’ notice and was counting down the days.  When my final hour came, I wasn’t expecting to actually be sad.  I had to choke back tears as I was walking out the door.  I wasn’t sad because I was going to miss the job necessarily.  I was sad because I loved every single one of those darn people.  Even the one(s) I butt heads with.

This decision has been in the making for the last few weeks.  It started when I asked for a little, itty, bitty raise and was turned down.  Well, that wasn’t the only reason.  That just started the ball rolling.  I realized that retail just wasn’t for me.  I was missing out on a lot of weekends with my family.  And working until almost midnight some nights.  All for minimum wage.  It wasn’t worth it.  And I’m too old for those late nights.  Unless, of course, I’m out with the girls partaking in the fountain of youth (aka margarita on the rocks with salt).  

Here are a few stories about my experience.  And perhaps what made me realize that this job had served its’ purpose and over-stayed its’ welcome.

  1. The night before I handed in my resignation, I almost got run over by a mongo floor polisher.  The guy running the thing had been a burr in my butt for the past 9 months.  Every time I heard that thing rev up, my heart rate would dramatically increase.  And I would spend the next half hour of my life dodging that man and this machine.  For the most part, I kept my mouth shut about it.  Until that last night.  All I have to say is that it’s a good thing customers weren’t in the house.  The words that were being projectile vomited out of my mouth would have made a truck driver blush.  And I’m pretty sure polisher man is afraid of me now.  Oh, yeah.  He’s not sleeping at night.
  2. Was it a coincidence that about an hour after I asked for a raise, I was reprimanded for being 5 minutes late on December 17?  I think not.  Sorry about that.  Curse that patch of ice that wouldn’t let me up the hill.  Curse it.  Or was it because I couldn’t tear myself away from that episode of “The Kardashians?”  I guess I’ll never know.  (I’m actually not bitter about this.  I just find it a bit humorous and oh so coincidental.  I just love a good coincidence.  Don’t you?)
  3. I will not miss the bodily function emittance from complete strangers.  Farts and burps alike.  Case in point:  a woman recently came into my aisle and let one rip.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  So, after I got it together, I turned and asked her if I could help her with anything.  She replied with “bathroom please?”  Just kidding she didn’t say that.  But she did says “oops” which didn’t help me.
  4. The employee bathroom in the back room was beyond disgusting.  Like, dis-gus-ting.  Not really suitable for human use.  I tried to hold my breath whenever I had to go in there.  But I am not David Blain.  So, I was always faced with the tough decision of breathing the smells into my brain or tasting them.  I’m still not sure what’s worse.  A treat for my sinuses?  Or a treat for my mouth?
  5. In addition to announcing that they are closing, the lights dim.  A tell-tale sign that it’s time to head out if you are a customer.  Unless you are a lady who absolutely needs to get the leftover Christmas wrapping paper because it’s on sale and she’s afraid it will be gone the next day. Don’t worry, we understand.  Really.  It’s not like the store has been open for the past 15 hours.  And we have only been here for 8 out of those 15 hours so please, by all means, take your time.  None of us need to go home. Really.  Actually, I was just thinking I could snuggle up on the crib mattress in the baby aisle for the night.  Who needs a real bed?
  6. Parents and their children who get confused and think this is a sports arena.  Seriously.  I cannot begin to tell you about all the Dodge Ball, Hide and Go Seek and Chase games I witnessed.  Too many to count.  And I don’t want to count them anyway.  Because YOU SHOULD NOT BE PLAYING FOOTBALL IN A STORE PEOPLE!  

All complaining aside, it was a fun job.  I enjoyed it.  It got my booty out of the house and gave me something to do.  I literally burned thousands of calories.  It kept me in shape.  I met some really great people.  But when I slept at night, I would fall into a coma.  With pig snores and all.  I had aches and pains that would rival the aches and pains that set in after an Iron Man competition. I think.  Because I’ve never actually competed in an Iron Man before.  I did do a 5k once and that hurt so I can only imagine.

Retail and I have parted ways forever, I’m afraid.  I gained some new life experiences, stories and friends.  It was short-lived but very memorable.  Thanks Retail Establishment.  It was fun.  See you on the other side.  I promise to leave before the lights do.

A Tribute to Tee Tee

to vs too
True story

A fellow blogger posted something today that made me think of someone from my past.  My English teacher from secretarial school.  Secretarial School.  Do they even have those kinds of schools any more?  I’m guessing not.  Geez.  They aren’t even called secretaries now.  If someone refers to me as a “secretary,” I immediately correct them and say “administrative assistant.”  On that note, if someone asks me what I did in my previous life and I answer “administrative assistant,” it is usually followed by, “what is that?”  Therefore, forcing me to say, “secretary.”  So, really, what’s the point?  Oh, wow.  I digress.  Big time.

Mrs. Schneider.  She spoke with one of those fake english accents and would drag out the last word.  “You sound like a cow chewing its’ cuuuuuudddddd.”  You know.  Kind of like Zsa Zsa Gabor but not.  She wore pointy bras that just begged for us to call her “torpedo tits” (Tee Tee).  And she buried 4 husbands.  After 9 months with this lady, I think I could take a gander at what the cause of death was.  Visions of cutting out their tongues because they ended a sentence with a proposition comes to mind.  Can you imagine if she were still around to read my blog?  I’d have to go around wearing a Hannibal Lecter-style mask for fear she would hunt me down and add my taste buds to her collection.

She was the Original Grammar Nazi.  If we so much as spoke with a lazy tongue, we’d get a lashing.  She abhored songs that did not use proper sentences.  Let’s take The Rolling Stones’ “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” for instance.  The use of the double negative would have sent her to the nearest loony bin.  And if we didn’t answer with a “very well, thank you” when asked how we were, we were sent directly to secretary detention.

My biggest fear was misuse of the comma.  Every time we had to write an essay, my anxiety would reach epic proportions.  I inevitably would get my paper returned to me with big, fat, red marks.  My assignment would look more like a subway map than homework.  And to this day, I’m not really sure if I’m using commas correctly or not.  Do I underuse them?  Overuse them?  Without Mrs. Schneider around, I guess I’ll never know.

Good Old Mrs. Schneider.  Thanks for trying.  I did walk away with quite a bit of useful information though.  That’s for sure.  But those commas.  Damn commas (or should it be comma’s?) will forever be a burr in my butt.  Forget about semi-colons.  Oh, I gotta go lie down.  Or is it lay down?  No, no, I believe it’s lie down.  Right?  I mean, correct?

Good Bye Dr. Suess

Except this.  This was her favorite.  Or was it mine?
Except this. This was her favorite. Or was it mine?

I was one of those weird pregnant ladies who would read poetry to my womb.  Every morning.  Before work, I would toast myself 2 frozen waffles loaded with butter and syrup and sit down to read a few chapters from a book of Mother Goose collections.  Don’t judge me.  I had to eat waffles because they were the only thing that didn’t make me feel like I had to hurl.  Besides, she was getting some nursery rhymes in return.  Swapping brain food for umm, brain food?  What’s so bad about that?

Why did I do it?  Not the waffle thing, but the poetry thing.  Because I had read somewhere that if you start reading rhymes to your fetus, they will turn out brilliant.  Brains courtesy of Little Boy Blue.  Who would have thunk?  This habit of reading to her continued on from the day she was born until she just didn’t want me to read to her any more.  When was that?  I can’t pinpoint a date.  I  will wager a guess at somewhere right around tween-dom.

Needless to say, we had accumulated about a million books throughout the years.  A million.  And now here I am almost 16 years later with them all over the house.  In her room, on shelves, in closets, in the playroom that is no longer the playroom.  Everywhere.  It was time.

So, with all the energy I could muster, I got myself a couple of cardboard boxes and started neatly piling children’s books into them.  One by one.  Each one a memory.  Angelina Ballerina, Dr. Suess, Goodnight Moon, Tomie dePaola, just to name a few.  I gave them to a friend of mine who has a bunch (yes, a bunch…no lie) of young children.  I knew they were going to a good home.  Why should I be selfish and keep them to myself, allowing them to collect dust?  Not being touched by anyone?  It was time to share the love.

I was surprised by my emotions.  I know I sound sappy.  But it was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in a long time.  So many memories.  I used to love bedtime.  Not only so that I could have quality time with my glass of wine, but because The Kid and I would snuggle up in her bed and I would read to her (no, I didn’t drink wine while reading to her).  Three books.  That was the limit.  Three books of her choosing.  Every night no matter what.  Well, I would swap with DH but he read to her too.  Every single night.

Aaah, those were the days.  Now I have to worry about her driving in a couple of months and going out with boys and hoping she doesn’t try marijuana.  Oh Lord.  I’m having a panic attack.  I think I want my books back.  Or at the very least, visitation rights.  Think my friend will mind?

Finnegan, Finnegan, Wherefore Art Thou Finnegan?

When I was about 10, I had a parakeet.  He was blue.  He was pretty.  He was stupid.  I named him Finnegan.  Because that was the name of a parakeet my grandmother had once.  And because I was an unimaginative child, I couldn’t think of anything else.

I made it my life’s mission to teach that bird to talk.  I tried.  And tried.  I pushed learning my times tables aside to teach this bird how to talk.   That’s why I don’t know my “8’s” to this day.  He never learned.  He never tweeted either.  Not to be confused with Twitter.  It didn’t take long before I realized that Finnegan was depressed.  I should have figured that out when he was cowering in the corner of the bird cage at the pet store and wasn’t playing with any of the other parakeets.

One day, I decided to clean out his cage in the garage.  I don’t know why.  Maybe I figured if I got bird poop and chewed up seed shells on the floor I wouldn’t have to clean it up?  I asked my brothers ever so nicely to not open the garage door while I was in there.  Boys being boys, they did what they wanted to do.  And opened it anyway.

Finnegan took this opportunity to run for dear life.  So off into the wild he went.  Free as a bird.  Literally.  Out into the big open sky only to be breakfast for some eagle or raccoon.  I threw myself on the ground and started screaming.  I screamed and cried as if someone had forced their way into our home and was killing all the members of my family with a butter knife.  I was absolutely, completely and entirely devastated.  My first heartbreak.  The day my dear pet parakeet left me.

Every day for a week, I went outside and called out his name.  “Finnegan, oh Finnegan, come back home.”  I was pathetic with a capital “P.”  It didn’t work.  He never came back.  It took me a good 2 years to get over that one.  Seriously.  I probably should have had some therapy.

After I was done being sad, I got angry.  Angry that he didn’t appreciate all that he had.  A warm house, food, water, a mirror, a loving and caring “mother.”  I kept saying to myself, “yeah, well I wonder what Finnegan is saying to himself now?  Huh?  ‘oh what have I done? why did I leave?  I’m cold.’  Too late now, isn’t it, Finnegan.  You damn ingrate.”

Umm, yeah.  Therapy may have done me good.  Think it’s too late?

Mama’s Losin’ It

 This writing prompt was brought to you by Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop

The Superstar Blogger Award Goes to…Me!

Image from Alphabet Soup
Image from Alphabet Salad

I am so honored and thrilled to accept the Superstar Blogger Award from Life, Breath, Present.  She really enjoys my posts and is always there with a great comment.  She’s definitely a loyal reader and her support is very much appreciated!

Life, Breath, Present writes with such honestly and faith.  She is someone who appreciates all that life has to offer and what has been given to her.  She is a faithful wife and mother above all else.  Thank you for this nomination!

The rules are you have to answer the questions below.  So here goes…

  1. What is the funniest thing about you?  Hmm.  I guess I would say that I have the gift of being able to make fun of myself without crying.  And that I am clueless about most everything and like it that way.
  2. Who is your favorite personality?  I see two answers to this question. 1) Kristen Wiig.  She is my idol and I aspire to be her when I grow up.  2)  I love a good sense of humor.  Gotta have the sense of humor going.
  3. What is your lucky thing?  I don’t have a particular lucky “thing,” per se.  But I will say that I am very superstitious and happen to knock on a lot of wood.  So, wood.  Can wood be lucky?
  4. What is your favorite weather?  My favorite weather is Fall.  Definitely Fall.  Because you can exercise outside without sweating to death.  I also love the smell, feel, colors, the crispness of the air.  I like to see the leaves falling.  I do not like to clean them up.  That’s why I have DH.  And his leaf blower.
  5. A name that you want to give me.  A name that I would like to give Life, Breath, Present is “Devoted.”  Because she is devoted to her life and family.  That is apparent from the get-go.

There are so many blogs out there that I truly love and enjoy.  But one in particular stands out for me.  I was immediately drawn in by her stories, her humor, her honesty and darn it, she’s an incredible writer!  So, I would like to award the Superstar Blogger Award to (drum roll please)…MJ over at 154 Hidden Court.  She’s a true gem.  Thanks for sharing your gift.

 

 

Why I Hate Grocery Shopping More Than umm…Anything

grocery shopping
Trying to keep it clean people. No matter how hard that is for me.

I went to the grocery store today.  The Kid opened the refrigerator this morning and proclaimed that there wasn’t a thing in it.  So, I guess I needed to.  Even though it seems I just went.  I don’t know why, but grocery shopping day comes real quick-like.  Don’t you think?

Anyway, it was 17 degrees outside according to the temperature gauge in my car.  Tried as I may, I could not find a blessed spot closer than a football field away from the front door of the store.  So I parked.  And sat there.  And sat there.  I heard car doors slamming shut all around me.  Other people were not just sitting there.  They were getting that crap done.  Because they are smart and did not want to prolong the inevitable.

I mean, I had stuff to do while sitting in my car.  Like text a friend.  Check Facebook.  Update my status.  And when I was done with that, I googled “will pigs ever fly and if so, when?”  When I finally got the courage — yes, you need courage to drag your ass out of a warm car with butt warmers into freezing cold temperatures — to start my excursion, I noticed there were several empty spots.  Even one that was right next to the handicapped spot.  Figures.

I realized pretty quickly that I should have tried to convince myself to stay in my car a little longer.  Or at least until Spring.

  1. “Don’t look.  Don’t look.  Don’t look.”  That’s what I said to myself as the nice cart attendant was gracious enough to grab me a cart.   Out of the corner of my eye, I saw hanging from his nose, one of those mucusy, thick snot strings.  You know the kind that are so thick, they don’t even move with all the head shaking in the world?  That kind.  But I looked.  It’s kinda like a bad car wreck.  You really don’t want to look but you are compelled.  All I can say is, I’m surprised I purchased as many groceries as I did.
  2. One of the things that irks me the most is when people find it necessary to have a reunion smack in the middle of the cereal aisle.  Standing 6 people deep, carts included, makes it kinda hard to pass, in case you were wondering.  My dad used to say, “you make a better door than window” whenever we would stand in front of him while he was watching television.  Well, what I wanted to say was, “you make a better door, vault and Fort Knox than a nice, CLEAR OPENING IN THE CEREAL AISLE SO MOVE!!!”  But I didn’t.  I stood there.  Huffing and puffing.  Because I’m passive-aggressive like that.
  3. I just wish people wouldn’t walk backwards in the grocery store.  Because if they do, they stand the chance of getting run over by my cart.  Well lady, you shoulda used your rearview mirror. Or better yet, you should not walk backwards in the grocery store.  She seemed a little miffed.  I don’t know why.
  4. I find it funny that you suddenly feel really bad about some of the choices you made while you are putting the items on the conveyor belt and someone is standing behind you in line  watching your every move.  Even with the mucus snot image branded into my brain, I got a few extra fun snacks.  To help pass the time while we are all home staying warm.  Thank God I grabbed some broccoli.  You know.  To dip into the Ranch dressing.
  5. “Don’t look.  Don’t look.  Don’t look.”  This time it was the man in line behind me who only had 4 items (I have good peripheral vision).  “Oh God.  I should probably offer to let this guy go in front of me.  That would be the nice thing to do.  Oh screw that.  I want to get home just as much as he does.  Why is MY time any less important.  If I pretend I don’t see him, then he won’t think I’m selfish.  Because if I didn’t see him, then how can I have the opportunity to ask if he wants to cut me?  Besides there are like 3 Express lines here.  That’s his problem if he doesn’t want to use them.”  “Excuse me, sir.  Would you like to get in front of me?”  Yeah, I looked.
  6. They really outta invent brakes for shopping carts.  Either that or stop building grocery stores with sloping parking lots.  I’m tired of running after my cart.  Well, that actually didn’t happen today.  But it could have.  If it did happen, I most likely would have let it go.  Because I seriously haven’t the energy.  This season should not be called Winter.  It should be called the “I can’t get out of bed because I’m tired all of the time energy sucking” season.  Don’t you think?  Anyway, what I am tired of is thinking of ways to get my cart from running backwards down the hill.  Do you know how hard it is to keep your foot behind the wheel while unloading that thing?  I can barely chew gum and walk at the same time.  It’s a damn circus act.

Ok, so this was going to be a quick post.  Because I have a ton of laundry to do and I haven’t even finished putting away those darn groceries.  But it wasn’t so quick.  Sorry about that.  Anyway, this is a great excuse to not do those things, right?  For both you AND me.  You’re welcome.  Stay tuned for “Why I Hate Laundry and Putting Away Groceries.”

Quick Call the Doctor. I Think I Have Cabin Fever.

Just kidding.
Just kidding.

Part 2 of My Reader’s Suggestions.  This one is about Cabin Fever.  Because when we can’t get out, that’s what it feels like.  A damn fever.  A fever that will not go away.  No amount of Motrin can help either.  Believe me.  I tried.

If you live in the Northeast like I do, hell, if you live anywhere besides Hawaii, you have suffered the effects of this crazy winter.  I will almost bet there is an epidemic of Cabin Fever going on all over the country.  As for me?  I’m just about at my wit’s end.  I can tell you that.

I’m not a skier.  I’m not a sledder.  I’m not an outside in the cold kind of person in any way.  I secretly feel blessed when I ask the kid if she wants to go outside and build a snowman or make snow angels and her answer is, “heck no.”  Thank the Lord.  Following in her mom’s footsteps.  That’s good, right?

So, now if it isn’t bad enough, I have a disgusting head cold.  Disgusting.  With snot, phlegm, the works.  I feel like crap.  Which translates to not wanting to leave the house because I don’t have the energy.  But at the same time, I am beyond bored out of my gourd.  The Kid wanted a drive over to a friend’s house last night.  Even in my fog, I jumped at the chance to actually breathe a little fresh air.  Even if I was just going from the garage back to the, umm, garage.  Hmmm.  I feel duped.  How did that happen?

Anyway, how do we cure the dreaded Cabin Fever?  You know, if you don’t ski, sled, ice fish or partake in any of the fun outside snow activities you can do?  Damn.  Even if you do do those things, it’s just too damn cold out.  Unless you like frostbite.  But I’m guessing you don’t.

I’ll tell you what I have been doing:

There are 10 billion channels on cable.  Yet there is nothing on.  I have become a Facebook stalker to the creepy extent.  My brain is so fuzzed up from mucus plugs and television radioactive waves, that it can’t think.  So, in my attempt to write, I sound like Justin Beiber on pot, tequila and prescription meds.  You know…stupid.  (Yeah, yeah.  You’re all sick of hearing jabs about JB.  But I haven’t said a thing about him yet, so I’m allowed.)

I could play a game with The Kid, but I haven’t.  And don’t really want to.  I mean, I will if she asks.  But I’m hoping she doesn’t.  I could get up and go on the elliptical.  But that would mean I would have to remove myself from the position in which I have been for the last 3 days on this couch.  And the indentation from my butt in the leather is at such a comfort level that if I move, I fear losing that.  Besides I don’t feel good.  But I mentioned that.

I could walk to a neighbor’s house.  But I’m afraid of the cold freezing my nose hair to the point where they break off.  And we need our nose hair.  Don’t we?  But I could go there with my hairless nostrils and drink wine and sit by her fire and bitch about stuff only we girls can bitch about.  But I don’t feel good.  But I already mentioned that.  Three times.

So, this reader of mine with the suggestion to write about Cabin Fever?  Sorry.  I think I just completely disappointed you.  I cannot help in any way.  Well, I did attempt to clean out the toilets before I got sick.  I even stared at my closet to organize it.  But I just stared.  That, by the way, was my second attempt.  Three time’s a charm?

It seems I’m not the best person to ask about Cabin Fever.  Probably because I’ve got it so bad, I’m delirious.  But it was fun talking about it.  And getting it off my chest.

So, stay warm everyone.  Only 146 more days till summer.  I think.  I may have forgotten how to count.  Actually, I just cheated and looked on-line at one of those countdown sites.  Because I believe I have forgotten how to count.  That’s what happens to frozen mucus brain.

Peri-Menopause: Nature’s Gift to Global Warming

peri-menopause

On my Facebook page last week, I mentioned that I wear baby doll pajamas to bed.  Even in the dead of winter.  That’s because if I don’t, I run the risk of death by drowning.

When I got my first night sweat, I wasn’t sure what was happening to me.  I thought maybe I had a bad nightmare.  I was drenched.  Like someone doused me with salt water.  I actually had a puddle right where my boobs meet.  My head was as wet as if I just came out of the shower.  And the sheet under me?  It was more like a Slip ‘N Slide.

I was relieved to discover that this didn’t happen very often.  Just once in a while.  I could totally handle it.  That was about 3 years ago.  Recently, it has decided to kick itself up a notch.  Including the hot flashes.  You know the ones.  Where you swear someone lit a match to your insides and started a bon fire?  Yeah.  Those.  And in the last 3 weeks my night sweats have produced enough water to create a small sea.

I was told that I was in peri-menopause.  Peri-menopause?  What the hell?  I can’t be going through that already.  I’m only thirt — oh — 46.  And I’m not sure who told me.  Was it my doctor?  A friend?  My mother?  I don’t know.  Because one of the other symptoms of peri-menopause is…ummm.  Hmm.  That’s funny, I don’t remember.

Even if you just started hanging around me, you quickly get the idea that I’m freaked out by the whole aging process.  The changes to my body is completely throwing me for a loop.  I mean, I don’t mind being in my forties.  I feel like I’m all mature and stuff.  Mature.  Something I’ve been trying to achieve since 1987.  But really.  Can’t the Age Fairy just leave my body alone?  What did I ever do to her?

So, Age Fairy.  You are a meany.  Here’s what I say to you:  this old age may cause me rage but sweat and mood swings will never hurt me.  Nanny-nanny boo-boo.

 

So Much To Be Thankful For. Let Me Count the Ways.

thanksgivingOn this cold and windy Thanksgiving Day, I sit and I wonder at all that I am thankful for.  I am thankful for my family, good health, a warm house, my friends, both old and new.  I am most definitely thankful for all that I should be thankful for.  For all those things that we take for granted.  But I’m also thankful for other things.

  1. I am thankful for you, DVR and On Demand.  Without you, how would I get my weekly fix of Dr. McDreamy.  Even though McDreamy was a second to McSteamy.  I am NOT thankful that they killed him off.  Why did they do that?  I still mourn.
  2. I am thankful for washing machines.  As much as I bitch my life away while throwing in a load, I think I would just die if I had to squat down next to a river and bang rocks on my undergarments.
  3. I am also thankful for dishwashers.  And I am thankful that I can ram that little machine to the hilt and still get my dishes clean.  (DH begs to differ on the ramming it to the hilt thing, but do I care what he thinks?  No.  Because then I would have dishes in my sink waiting for the next load.  I have a “dishes sitting in my sink for any length of time” fear.  It’s a real phobia.  Look it up.)
  4. I am thankful for down comforters.  I am especially thankful for the down comforter when it finds its way downstairs on the couch (thanks, Kid).  The only problem is I cannot get off the couch once I’ve sat my ass down with that comforter pulled over me.  It’s a real problem.  Thank God for dishwashers and washing machines.  That shit gets my shit done.  Fast.
  5. I am thankful for those little tin foil pans.  See #3.
  6. I am thankful for indoor plumbing.  I’ve been camping.  Getting up in the middle of the night, getting dressed and going outside in the cold to relieve myself is not my idea of a good time.  Especially when there is a skunk giving you the hairy eyeball as you make your way to the latrine.  So, thank you toilet.  Even though I do have to clean you once in a while.
  7. I am thankful for tweezers.  Thank you for keeping my face from looking like that of Sasquatch.  You are the gift that keeps on giving.
  8. I am thankful for elastic waistbands.  Without you, I would run the risk of losing my pants when I have to unzip them to let out the turkey belly.  Or as The Kid says, “my food baby.”

I could go on, but I have to go and prep some stuff for my Thanksgiving Day.  Which brings me to being thankful for maids, cooks and butlers.  Even though I have none of them.  But I promise I will be thankful if I ever acquire any or all.  In the meantime, I will be thankful for my toilet brush, oven and furniture polish.  Those are the next best thing, right?  Yes.  That’s what I will continue to tell myself.  Happy Thanksgiving to all!  Go and eat too much!