Musings of an Old Broad on her Birthday

As always, I am truly amazed and thankful to have such a blessed life.

That I’ve reached 46 (WHAT THE FUCK??? HOW AM I NOT STILL 22???) and am, for the most part, healthy, and for the full part, happy, is simply incredible and I don’t take a moment of it for granted.

When I think back on my life, where I’ve been, am, and will be, it feels like every single thing has led me to this wonderful place where I smile every day.

It hasn’t been easy over the years. It’s been pretty damn hard a lot of the time. But my 40s have taught me so much about what is truly important in life that I’m forever grateful for every wrinkle, scar and extra pound on my ass because each of them brought me to where I am.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I sound like a fuckin’ Hallmark card…but I’m allowed.  ;) It’s my birthday, dangit (well, this is getting posted a day late, so I have all the extra wisdom that one extra day has brought me).

So, in the tradition of my other birthday posts, I’m going to list things that I’ve learned this year and things for which I’m thankful.

Things I’ve Learned:

  1. Being patient, even when pushed to the brink of homicide, is a gift that should be used often.
  2. Some people just don’t listen and/or have any sense of recall. While it drives me absolutely bonkers when I’ve said something 4600 times and then hear “No, you never mentioned that before,” people are who they are and no amount of trying to make them remember shit will help. So, I’ve learned to just live with it or write stuff down for them so there can be no confusion.
  3. This is not a new piece of learning, but I was sorely tested to keep this in mind over the past year: Some people that you are forced to deal with are just total fuckheads and there’s nothing you can do about it. I got so mad the other week I threw my phone across the room and sat there fuming for 5 minutes while the conversation carried on without me. It was either be off the phone for a few or say things I wouldn’t regret, but would get me in trouble anyway. So, I guess I did learn that a good phone throw can, at least, be temporarily satisfying.
  4. Not listening to the advice of people who dislike you for their own stupid reasons is the very best thing you can do. Like my mom always said, “Consider the source.” If someone’s an asshat or a bitch and they tell you how YOU need to change so that they can be happier, tell them to go eat a bag dicks.
  5. Never, ever, ever, ever, and I do mean NEVER talk politics with anyone you aren’t willing to fight with. It’s so stupid, as everyone is welcome to their opinion, but people go bat shit crazy with politics and it just isn’t worth it (in my book at least). You go on with your bad self if you like to talk politics, but count my ass OUT.😉
  6. Swimming with otters is the best damn pastime on earth and there is no doubt that one day I need to move further north to a state with green everywhere and bunnies, squirrels and deer roaming freely in my backyard.
  7. There are few better things you can do to create a happy life than be kind to others.
  8. I love my sister more and more every year. She and I may have had a few tiffs over the last 5 decades, but I don’t know what I would do without her.

Things For Which I’m Thankful:

  1. I am so deeply thankful for the way my mom raised me. I know I’m a mouthy broad, but she raised me to be kind, and not judge people, and always think of what someone may be going through and how that might affect them and their actions before responding in any given way to their behavior. She raised me to be polite, but say what I think in a tactful way (most of the time!). She raised me to have deep faith in God, and I’m so happy for that, as it brings me peace every day of my life…every moment.
  2. I’m thankful that I’m still around to write this post. As many of you know, I’ve been dead, like actually dead dead, more than once. And to be here, happy, mostly healthy, and in such a wonderful place in my life, thrills me to my toes.
  3. I’m thankful for the family I was born into and wouldn’t trade them for the world.
  4. I’m thankful for the wonderful friends I’ve made over the years and feel truly blessed that so many of them are still in my life.
  5. I’m thankful that I have a great job where I get to use my brain (sometimes too much!) to help make little kids have a better education. That helps me sleep better at night knowing that I’m giving a little back to a world that has given me so much.
  6. I’m thankful that I have a “If they don’t like me, they can bite me” attitude.:) It took me a lot of years to get there, but there is nothing better than removing that stress from my life. Total bliss.
  7. I’m thankful I had otter paws in my mouth!!!!:)
  8. While my hubby has always been the most kind, generous, loving and thoughtful man, over the last year he’s made it even more clear that he really, truly loves me as I am and wants nothing more than for me to be happy. If that doesn’t make a girl thankful every minute of every day, I don’t know what does.
  9. And last but not least (as this list could go on for 300 items, so I’m trying to keep it short), I’m thankful for my new HEDGEHOG!!!! The hubby got this precious little guy for me for my birthday and I’M IN LOVE!!!!!!

(These pics are screenshots from a video, so they are for shit quality-wise, but he’s too cute not to share!)

Hedgehog and Jodi June 5

Hedgehog and Jodi June 5

Hedgehog and Jodi June 5

Isn’t he precious??!!! I’m in love!!

Well, in closing, thanks for putting up with me for another year. You guys rule and I hope that each of you has a life and a birthday that brings you nothing but joy.

Much love!

May My Glorious Agony Be Your Joyful Entertainment! ;)

Alrighty, then.

Here is a tale for those of you who enjoy laughing at my outrageously awkward and/or painful adventures.

Whether it’s me unknowingly showering in and drinking from my mom’s douche bag as a child, or being tortured by sadistic massage therapists or having the buzz muff, Lord knows I’ve given you all much reason to laugh at me. But I’m good with that.😉

Here’s the latest saga. May you revel in my misery…

rainbowsmiley

 

 

I flew to Boston a couple of weeks ago. Got there just fine. All was good.

Then, I flew home on Monday. Ummmm…let’s just say that the travel home was not quite as enjoyable.

So, I get to the airport and get in line to check in. I go up to the counter and start the process of getting my boarding pass. While the chick is typing away, I get a call on my phone that my flight has been delayed. You’d think the chick at the counter who was checking me in would have mentioned that because the delay was so long that it was going to make me miss my connection in Charlotte.

Since she didn’t think it was important, I brought it up. She said, “Oh, yeah, I didn’t even notice that.” Great. Just great. I asked if she could get me on another flight and she said she could get me on an American flight into Chicago (I was originally booked on American–shittiest airline on Planet Earth), and then from Chicago to Phoenix would be on United.

Works for me, as long as I can get home at some point in the next 12 hours.

Then, she tells me that the flight to Chicago is also delayed but only by 30 minutes, so I should still have about an hour between flights…no big deal. I’m good.

I head off to security, and though I’m wearing scrub pants like nurses wear with no zippers, buttons, or anything other than cotton, I set off some kind of terrorist alert in security. Apparently, whatever I’m smuggling into the Boston Airport is in my girlie parts and needs to be investigated thoroughly.

The TSA chick tells me what she’s going to have to do to me and I was like, “That’s fine. Do what you need to do.” I’m not one to begrudge TSA for keeping us safe.

Alas, I had NO idea that I was about to get a near-gynecological exam in front of EVERY DAMN PERSON IN THE FRIGGIN’ AIRPORT. People literally stood there, dumbfounded, as she pretty much checked me so intimately that she knows how close a shave I have in my nether regions.

'Doctor Smith - At your cervix.'

The other TSA agents, and every person within 50 feet, stood there staring, mouths agape, while she felt me up like a randy teenager in the backseat of my 1973 Buick LeSabre.

When she finally finished getting to 3rd base, and everyone else finished plowing through every item in my suitcase (panties included!), and after I was tested for bomb residue, I walked over to collect my things and look up the number for the Rape Crisis line. Of course, one of the TSA guys (not a bad looking fellow to make matters worse!) was standing there looking at me with a shit-eating grin. I laughed and said that normally I get paid for things like that…especially if there’s an audience.

Gotta keep a good sense of humor, right?? Good grief…

Next time, I’m going through security like Vince:

Tired of being slowed down at airport security, Vince began to travel in only a pair of Speedos.

Then I grab some grub, call my sissy and have a fun chat about my molestation, and then check to see how long of a delay this flight to Chicago really has. Well, what was a 30-minute delay is now closer to 45, which only leaves me, according to the chick who checked me in, about 45 minutes to deplane, find my new gate at Chicago O’Hare (the biggest friggin’ airport in the world), and board. Time’s a ticking…

Finally, I get my ass on the plane, plop down in one square foot of space and then sit. And sit. And sit some more as the plane goes nowhere.  The tarmac becomes our home for another 15 minutes. Now my “making my connection” time is down to 30 minutes and I’m starting to panic a bit. But eh, fuck it. It is what it is and worrying about it isn’t going to make the plane take off any faster.

At last, we are vertical and hit crazy turbulence. So the pilot is going up and down, up and down, trying to find us a pocket of air that wasn’t so rough. But what does that do? Keeps us in the air longer. The clock is now down to 20 minutes between flights, less so unless I’m the very first person off the plane (not gonna happen), and I realize there is no way in Hell I’m going to make my connection. Ugh.

When we finally start our descent the guy I’d been chatting with says that he thinks I actually have a little over an hour. Turns out the chick who checked me in didn’t account for the time zones. Well thank God and pass the gravy! I’m getting home tonight! Woo hoo!

By the time we land and my ass gets off the plane, I have 15 minutes until my connecting flight starts boarding, so I know I’m gonna have to run. Now, I don’t really consider myself a “runner” in real life. Only when a herd of dog-sized spiders are chasing me or they are giving away samples of Ben & Jerry’s. But that night? I was gonna be flying through the terminal, heart attack be damned!

As I get off the plane I ask the flight attendant if she can direct me to the United terminal. She says, “Sure thing! Walk WAAAAAAY down that direction and when you get to the Chili’s, turn right and walk about 4 blocks.” Holy moly! How in the hell am I going to make it? But I was a determined lass and I broke into a dauntless run.

I get all the way there (by now I’m on the edge of death) and see my flight number at the gate, but… it says the plane is going to Vegas, not Phoenix. WTF? So, I go ask the attendant and she looks at me and says, “Oh honey, you’re screwed. Your plane arrived at a gate at one end of terminal 3. Now you’re at the exact opposite and far end of terminal 3 and you need to be at the very opposite and far end of terminal 1. And your plane takes off in 30 minutes, but they close the doors in 20. You are never going to make it.”

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

Crazy Sign

Below is a map of Chicago O’hare, in case you’ve not been there. If you need some way to gauge how far of a walk it is from where I was HORRIBLY AND INCORRECTLY directed to and where I actually needed to be, just note that there is an entire hotel and 4 parking lots in the middle of the airport and that’s not even 1/2 of the distance I need to go.

Black dashed lines indicate the WRONG trek that horrible women sent me on.

Red dashed lines indicate the correct location I needed to get to in Superman-turning-the-clock-back-flying speed.

Can we all say it together? Fuckadoodledoo!

But I’m one determined broad. I like my hubby and miss him and WANT TO GET THE HELL HOME!

So, I break into a run. And I mean a run like Satan is chasing me with the TSA lady from earlier and a fiery speculum with my name on it.

I’m sure after about 100 yards that I’m going into cardiac arrest. Then I figure a stroke isn’t far behind.

Please kill me

I look furiously for one of those “beep beep beep” carts that lug people around. I’m willing to give the driver all the cash I have (and possibly some seriously deviant nookie) for a ride to the farthest ends of the earth. Nope. Not a one to be seen because it’s about 10:10pm at this point and they are all happily at home.

I keep running and running and running, then I finally see one. Hallelujah! When I’m about 15 feet from it, and elderly couple get onto it HEADING THE OTHER DIRECTION, of course.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

I keep running. Sweat is pouring off me. I’m beet red in the face, I’m sure. My heart rate is an easy 200 beats per minute and I’m sure that death and a missed flight is my destiny in the next 5 minutes.

I finally get to terminal 1, having no idea that the C gates are at the FAAAAAAR end of terminal 1 after an escalator down, 2 moving walkways (one of which was not working–big shock there), then an escalator up, and then my flight is at almost the very last gate. Of course. So I keep running.

I make it to the gate as they are about to close the door, but I MADE IT YOU FUCKERS!😉

I get on the plane, now with a splitting headache, heart palpitations and soaking wet. But I’m on a plane and if I stink it up, so be it!

3 and a half hours later, I arrive happily in Phoenix.

But no, this saga is no where near done yet.

The chick next to me in the plane is a very kind and funny flight attendant, lucky for me. So I ask her what terminal we’re landing at. Terminal 2. I’m parked at terminal 4. Of course. So I ask her if she knows how to get to the Sky Train. She groans and says that the Sky Train doesn’t go to terminal 2. I’ll have to hoof it to terminal 3 to catch it. Normally they have little carts that’ll take you there, but since it’s 12:30 at night, there are no carts. Shocking.😉

So, I go down, get my luggage, dig out my keys and put them in the outer pocket of my travel backpack, snap the pocket shut and start trudging to terminal 3. Oh, and I failed to mention that I was breaking in a new pair of shoes that have a sole so thick and yummy that it’s like walking in soft sand. My calves and thighs were burning so badly that I thought they might spontaneously combust.

I finally get to terminal 3 after a ridiculous amount of cursing and sweating, get on the Sky Train, arrive at terminal 4, walk to the parking garage elevators, go to grab my keys, and the pocket where I put them is unsnapped and the keys are nowhere to be found.

At this point it’s 1:00am. I’ve been up for 21 straight hours, run a marathon, bathed in vat of sweat, died twice and come back to life. And now my keys are missing.

What did I do? Well, I can tell you that I’d lost my sense of humor at this point, so I sat in the floor and cried for 10 minutes. I, and I’m not kidding, can’t recall the last time I cried. It’s got to have been at least a few years. But I just sat there and wept the tears of a child who lost their teddy bear out the car window on a deserted freeway at night. Oh, and I cussed a lot. A LOT.

Finally, I realized that my only options were to retrace my steps or throw myself down a flight of stairs.

So I got up and got moving.

Back through terminal 4.

Back onto the Sky Train, looking in every cabin.

Back through terminal 3.

Back to the hike from terminal 3 to terminal 2 (dragging 40 pounds of suitcase the whole time too!).

Back to baggage claim.

And there my keys were. I must have somehow snagged my backpack’s pocket when I was getting my luggage and they fell out. Thank God they were there.

So then I headed back on the seemingly never-ending trek from terminal 2 to terminal 3.

Got back on the Sky Train to terminal 4.

Got off at terminal 4 and slogged through my puddle of tears on the floor.

Found my car.

Drove my exhausted ass HOME SWEET HOME!

And took out a hit on everyone who’d messed with me that day.

KIDDING! Please don’t send the FBI to my house. It’s kinda messy and I’d be embarrassed. Plus, me no likey prison.

catprison

By the time I got home I was so tired and so strung out that I couldn’t fall asleep and was up ’til 5am, so I had to call in sick to work. So, I guess there was one silver lining! Sometimes a girl needs a day off to get some well-earned sleep!

Lord have mercy…what an adventure!

Good news is, I made it home in one piece. Oh, and I got a 90-minute massage the next day to make my poor aching muscles feel better.

Squirrel massage

BendOver

Airport

May all of YOUR travels be molestation- and stroke-free!😉

Unless you like being molested.

Then I hope for you lots of grabby-ass hands all over your fine self!

On Eulogies and What Really Matters

Setting the Scene: A beautiful Spring day. 72 degrees with white puffy clouds in a crisp blue sky. 100 people standing together, sharing their love for their beloved friend or dearest family. Up to the casket steps the widower. Grief written in his eyes and a hushed tone in his voice, he begins to talk about the love of his life and what he’ll miss most.

The Eulogy: My beautiful wife… I will miss you more than you could ever know.

All of those many, many hours you spent in the gym every week to make sure that I could worship at your 6-pack abs are hours I’m glad you spent away from me and our family because look at the amazing results. Wow. The ripped muscles I could see pressing up against those tight dresses were so worth all the missed dinners and little league games you didn’t attend.

Every time you ate salad with no dressing, it proved to me how much you loved me. Each time you refused to eat birthday cake or passed up even a bite of french fries deepened my adoration of you.

Of course, I can’t forget those slim hips and delightfully petite tush that reminded me so much of how you looked when I first met you in Elementary school. I know that staying the same size you were when you were but a budding adolescent was challenging to say the least, but you did it so well and it made the world such a better place. You brought joy to everyone when they looked at you. They didn’t even have to know you or your mind to be thankful you were in the world.

What I’ll miss most is knowing that you loved me enough to spare yourself every bit of joy that good food, good drink and a lazy Saturday in bed could give us because you knew I needed you to be model-perfect everyday in order to keep our marriage strong and filled with passion.

In Heaven, may you find the gym of your dreams and may God give you a cup of 5 raw eggs every morning because I know how much you loved to start your day with protein. I’ll miss you, my love.

My thoughts: Of course that is an insane pile of shit! Hopefully, no one would really give a eulogy like that because when it all comes down in the end, what truly matters is what shines through. But I wanted to put it out there because I got stuck watching some commercials this week against my will and so many of them focused on: Being thin. Being built from the waist down like a 10-year-old boy. Having giant tits. A tiny waist. Bigger lips. Smaller hips. Being hairless from the neck down, but we have some great hair extensions to sell you to make the hair on your head twice as thick–all other hair is unacceptable. It was just ridiculous!

I’m soooooo sick of the pressure put on women to be “perfect.” First off, we all have a different idea of what perfect is, so let’s say bye bye to that word altogether. Secondly, who ever said that being a Victoria’s Secret model made anyone happy or secure? Men cheat on their model-hot girlfriends all the time. An expression I hate more than just about anything on earth is: “See that beautiful woman over there? Some guy is tired of fucking her.” I can’t tell you how many people I’ve heard use that expression and it makes me wanna punch something. Being beautiful is not the key to happiness, love, security or anything else. It might get you your Starbucks faster, but in the scheme of things…

The truth of it is, most of the beautiful women I’ve known in my life are also the most insecure. When everyone tells you how pretty you are, then it’s easy for your self-worth to tie only to your external beauty. Since we all grow old, how well can someone like that fare as they begin to age? If one’s only perceived value is what they see in the mirror, what happens when what they see is 50 or 60 or 70 years old? Our value should come from everything beneath the façade.

So what if you are 40 pounds or 90 pounds overweight? Who cares if you are 20 pounds underweight? The only reason I’d give a rat’s ass is that I’d be worried about your health. What matters to me is WHO you are, not what you look like. What a shallow bunch of shit. Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind a peek at a nice photo of Chris Hemsworth every now and again. I’m not blind. But if I met him and he was a dick? Then I’d never want to meet or see him again. It’s all about the love and joy and fun and support and strength that someone brings to others’ lives. Fuck how pretty their hair is or how nice of an ass they have. When life gets hard and you need someone to help carry you through those dark hours, do you really care if they have a 24 inch waist? Or do you care that they love you enough to endure any hardship that comes your way?

Here is an excerpt from a real eulogy a man spoke for his wife. This is the kind of  love I’d hope to hear at my own funeral. Note he never once talks about missing her 6-pack abs.

I don’t know about anyone of you, but as for me, getting married to my wife was the best thing that every happened to me. She was my best friend, my lover, and my wife. She was the source of all the happiness and all the fun I had in my lifetime.

The best part of each day was waking up to find her by my side and the best part of each night was going to sleep knowing she was laying next to me and the best thing about life was knowing no matter how hard it got, how scary it was, or how poor we were, all I had to do was go home, close the door behind me, and see my wife and the sun would shine and nothing else would seem that important any longer.

I guess what they say about your home being your castle is really true because whenever I got home everything outside my door was no longer of any concern. 

I will miss her terribly, but then I will see her in my mother-in-law and sister-in-laws and children and even grandchildren and I will smile knowing that a part of her is still with us.

I am saddened by my loss. She died too soon. “Why did god take her from me?” That is what I asked myself when Kathy passed last Sunday. It took this entire week before I realized that I was looking at it all backwards. That I had taken the wrong perspective to examine what had just occurred.

Try to imagine with me, if you will, that first day when the spark and fire of love was first felt by me. I went home and thanked the Lord for sending Kathy to me.

Did I ask him to give me 43 years of bliss and happiness? Would I have been so bold and brazen to have said, “Lord I demand 43 years of having a companion to share life with?”

Of course not. I was and always am timid and shy when speaking to our Lord. Do Your will, not mine. Who knew how great His love for me would have been. Who could have expected God to be so caring as to have granted to me such a wonderful life.

I would like to end this now with a simple prayer. If you would all bow your heads.

Heavenly Father, Your servant Kathy has returned to Your side in Heaven. We give You thanks for allowing her to stay with us as long as she did and we know it was time for her to leave us. Please Lord, let her know of our love for her and keep her in eternal peace. Amen

When did SEX lose the SEXY?

Okay, so I like to skip through 95% of the MTV Video Music Awards cause most of it sucks and makes my brain hurt. It makes me long for the days of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Alice in Chains. Shit, it makes me long for Lionel Richie!

But every once in a rare while something good will pop up on-screen, so while I keep my finger on the Fast Forward button most of the time, I’m occasionally entertained.

In watching a seemingly 29-hour-long show in about 15 minutes, one thing became perfectly clear to me: Sex has lost the Sexy.

For example, Nicki Minaj and Miley Cyrus spent more time simulating sex and fondling their own muffs than most people have done in the preceding 6 months.

Don’t get me wrong. I love me a sexy girl doing a sexy little dance. Who doesn’t? But “sexy” is the operative word. Not a whorin’-down-by-the-docks-for-crack-money type of dancing. Unless of course it’s actual porn you’re after, then you go on with your bad self.

What I’m talking about is the lead-up…the seduction…what lures you in…

You guys know that I’m all about sexual freedom. I don’t care if you screw a turnip as long as you are enjoying yourself and hurting no one (assuming, of course, that turnips can’t feel your perverted body parts all over them!).😉

I think part of what makes society all fucked up over sexual things is the inherent vibe that sexual stuff is naughty, and provocative behavior is slutty (especially if you are a chick). I’m all about embracing sexiness in any which way you please.

So, I’m not complaining about the sexuality of it all. I’m complaining because the tease is such a big part of sexy yum yumminess and it seems that the tease has gone the way of the Dodo bird.

I remember when I was in my early 20s watching this video and thinking these girls were the sexiest things on 2 legs.

 

And this song? Yeah, this song is delicious. Click on the chick to listen to it.

 

 

And this one? Yep. I’m in. Even though the lyrics aren’t sex-pot-filled… that slow, dripping beat… good God…  I can totally picture Liv Tyler doing her sexy little stage dance to this song.

 

Now, I’m not saying there isn’t a time and place for raunchiness. I’m no saint!😉 But I think there is something to be said for the burlesque in the seduction. Does it always have to go straight to gynecology?

Advertising your sex isn’t innovative or cutting edge or scandalous. People have been doing it since literally the very first people walked the earth.

I guess I just find clever sexuality to be sexier. Give my mind time to wander around in lust and mystery, envisioning the next thing to come, rather than shoving it in my face and leaving nothing to my imagination.

Okay, I’m done with my rant. I just want the world to do what JT used to sing about: Bring Sexy Back.😉

I’m trying something new…NO! Not bestiality! Ya bunch of perverts! ;)

Over the last few years I’ve had some requests to turn my blog into a podcast of sorts.

As I’m lazy as fuck (in reality I just work too damn hard during the day!), I’ve been putting it off. But with my last post I got a few emails telling me they want to hear it instead of read it. So, I’m giving in.

But I must warn you…I’m doing it in one take. So if I fuck up horribly, sneeze or decide to eat dinner while recording…well, you are just going to have to hear it all.😉

Here’s my first try. It’s a recording of my last post, “I’ve HAD it,” which is a rant about dumbfuckery.

It’s not word-for-word, but it’s close.

Don’t be too hard on me and all my mess-ups.

:)

 

Here’s the link if ya wanna see the last pic in the post.:)