WACKO WEDNESDAY AND THE DENOUEMENT THIEF

Before I start today's gobbledygook, if you listen very carefully, in the far distance you can hear Morticia Addams seductively whisper, "Denouement." 

Gomez Addams, her husband responds, "Oh that's French!" as he slowly slides up Morticia's arm with passionate kisses.





The dog never ate my homework, but I think the Grinch stole my denouement a time or two. You may be wondering why he stole it, when he stole it and how he stole it. Let me begin by revealing that it always seems to happen when I'm writing what I think is the perfect post. 

The action builds as the climax grows near. My anecdote reaches a fever pitch and then ZAP...nothing! My thought process goes haywire and the next thing I know I'm left without any strings to tie my story together. It's a frustrating predicament to say the least. 

What I need to do to resolve the issue is to write a post and have several denouements. Surely, The Grinch couldn't steal all of them. When my children were young they always loved choose your own adventure books, so I thought it might be fun to have a choose your own denouement post. I'll start working on it just as soon as The Grinch returns with my brain.

Until then, let me share the why, when and how. First, why? That's simple! The Grinch loves to steal things...especially meaningful things like good endings. When? He cleverly sits back waiting for me to become momentarily distracted (toothache, phone call, text message, Facebook notification, bathroom break, sleep, etc.) How? The Grinch has this amazing superpower ability of being able to cause extended brain farts. Some call it writer's block, but in reality, it's The Grinch causing raucous short circuits everywhere. 

We all know no one slams The Grinch better than good old Dr. Seuss:

You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch
You really are a heel
You're as cuddly as a cactus
You're as charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch
You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel

You're a monster, Mr. Grinch
Your heart's an empty hole
Your brain is full of spiders
You've got garlic in your soul, Mr. Grinch
I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole

You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch
You have termites in your smile
You have all the tender sweetness
Of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch
Given the choice between the two of you
I'd take the seasick crocodile

You're a rotter, Mr. Grinch
You're the king of sinful sots
Your heart's a dead tomato splotched
With moldy purple spots, Mr. Grinch
You're a three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce

You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch
With a nauseous super 'naus'
You're a crooked dirty jockey
And you drive a crooked hoss, Mr. Grinch
Your soul is an appalling dump heap
Overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of rubbish imaginable
Mangled up in tangled up knots


You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch
You're a nasty wasty skunk
Your heart is full of unwashed socks
Your soul is full of gunk, Mr. Grinch
The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote
'Stink, stank, stunk!'




Note to self: Find Grinch repellent and buy a case or two from Amazon and write Jnuts a thank you note.

A CRY FOR HELP

Each summer during my mother's vacation from work my family would go stay at my Aunt Leah's camp on Eddington Pond. My family wasn't fortunate enough to own a camp so we had to rely on her generosity. As I got older, my brothers stopped going to camp and opted to stay home so they could have legendary parties. While the cat's away the mice will play and play my brothers did!

I hadn't reached the "I don't want to go to camp" stage yet. The highlight of my days at camp as I got older were the boys who had a camp next door. As with any 13 almost 14 year old girl, I immediately developed a crush on one of the boys named Jimmy. I've always had a run of bad luck with guys with that name, but I finally learnt my lesson after marrying one.  This "ginger" Jimmy gave me my first real taste of what rejection felt like. How humiliating it is to feel like the ugly duckling and the odd man out. I hated feeling not good enough. I hated being me. Why couldn't I have been born a small, dainty beauty instead of a lanky-legged, awkward ugly duckling? 

I've always had self-destructive tendencies as far back as I can remember. Although I've only halfheartedly tried the big "S" a few times, I now wonder what was my actual goal when I downed a whole bottle of aspirin chased by a massive amount of straight whisky. Did I have any idea that it could have killed me? More importantly, was I disappointed when it didn't kill me? 

My mother brought a whole gallon of Canadian Club whisky to camp that summer and now I wonder why she did that. My mother wasn't a drinker. Did she have plans of entertaining after the children were tucked snugly into bed in the loft overlooking the pond? If so, I never saw any evidence of it. Were my actions a cry for help or was I just looking for the attention I obviously wasn't getting? So many questions in hindsight, but never any beforehand.

After going on a very animated teenage tirade that probably resembled the Tasmanian Devil going after Bugs Bunny and ingesting the only things available to me at the time...a bottle of aspirin and whisky, I remember continually vomiting until all I could do is dry heave and heave and heave. At that point the desire to die was more than just a fleeting impulse. I felt so bad, dying would have been a welcome relief. The next morning when asked about my "illness" I passed off what was wrong with me as being some type of intestinal ailment when in reality I probably should have been in the hospital. 

It always amazed me how strong my mother's sense of denial was. She was a nurse and never "saw" all the classic signs I exhibited of a teenager in crisis. All my stunts went unnoticed until I eventually overdosed on barbiturates at school less than two years later and was rushed to the ER. Since she worked at that hospital, it was out of the question for me to try to cover up that one. Oops! I got too high and forgot how many pills I had taken! Actually, that was the truth. In those days, I ate pills like candy. If 3 were good, 6 or more were spectacular. Who knew how many drugs I had in my system at any given time? Like an alcoholic, one could never be too high unless it resulted in being unconscious or comatose. Oh, what a wonderful gene pool from which I come!

My ears rang so loudly for the better part of a week that I could hardly hear anything, but the ringing. I felt like I had a severe case of the flu. I hurt all over and I couldn't keep anything in my stomach for several days. My best friend, Margie witnessed my descent into a dark, dangerous place. She had accompanied me to camp that summer and fretted over me. When I look back, I wonder how close she came to ratting me out. It must have been difficult for her to watch me be in so much pain and to self-destruct without saying a word. How frightened must she have been for my well-being and ultimate survival. (I'm sorry for doing that to you, Margie! I'm sorry for doing that to myself.) 

Now, I look back and wonder where my mother was during all my brouhahas and why she had left Margie and I unattended that evening out in the boondocks in a place without a phone. The unattended theme carried through the next summer as well. By that time, I had a boyfriend (BTW, his name was not Jimmy) and that boyfriend was allowed to come stay at camp with me. Oh, what a summer that was! Skinny-dipping, frolicking in the summer sun and lazy nights and early mornings spent listening to the loons echo their cry across the pond while wrapped in each other's arms. For awhile, I got the attention I needed and wanted and then poof! It was gone and so was I. I stayed "gone" for quite a long time until I eventually allowed myself to start healing, but to this day, just a faint aroma of whisky still makes me nauseous.

Toothache Thursday

ON THIS DAY IN HISTORY:
The day - May 3rd
The year - 1937
Margaret Mitchell wins Pulitzer Prize for "Gone With the Wind"

ON THIS DAY IN MILDRED'S LIFE:
The day - May 3rd
The year - 2018
Mildred threatens to pull the damn demon tooth herself like she has with all the others in the past. I bet you didn't know Mildred is such a hardcore masochist and is well on her way to becoming toothless too!


Note to self: Maybe a lobotomy will work better!

CHASED LOVE

I wish this meme had been tattooed/carved/stenciled on my body somewhere I could have seen it as a constant reminder when I was young and foolish. Oh the things I did (that we all do at times) in the name of love when it's not really love at all. I've been single for 20 years now and I'm far better by myself than I ever was with all the wrong people who I allowed to trample my heart and take up space in my life. As soon as I regained my self-respect and learned to love me, I no longer felt that constant craving to be loved occupied by someone else.  In my younger years, I truly felt like a puppy in search of a yummy. 

ALIENS ABDUCTED MY MOTHER AND THEY BROUGHT HER BACK

I was just sitting here thinking (that's usually a dangerous thing for me to do) about my mother. FYI, I call my mother "Mother" and it's been a very long time since I've mentioned her in my blog. At one point in time I was obsessed with all aspects of her life and now, I live and let live most of the time.  Okay, so it isn't in my nature to live and let live regarding some things. 

Queen Tenacious

When I get determined and really dig my feet into something, no power on Earth is a match for me. Just ask anyone who knows me! I was raised on the mean streets of Mule City (next to East Podunk and BFE) reigned by HRH Queen Tenacious (my mother). The following is an updated excerpt from a previous post:

About 12 years ago (2006) my mother had some sort of break with reality.  It was as if aliens had swooped down and abducted the woman I had always known to be my mother and replaced her with a body double void of a mind.  She was merely an empty pod for the better part of several years. Naturally, the specialist she had been sent to see quickly diagnosed her with Alzheimer’s and put her on the usual course of meds to stabilize her condition and to slow down what the neurologist claimed would be a steady downward spiral.  I never agreed with that diagnosis for many reasons. The primary reason was that I had first hand experience with Alzheimer’s and knew how it manifested itself in a person. I knew what to look for and what to expect. I had previously been the caretaker of an Alzheimer’s patient until that person's death. Slowly, I weaned her off the meds she had been prescribed for Alzheimer’s knowing full well that she'd decline rapidly without the meds IF indeed, her diagnosis was correct. No such decline ever took place! There was just the constant hum of nothingness with no improvement or decline.

[Flash forward to 2018] My mother was talking to my SIL [sister in law] and rattling off about being in her art studio and all the "masterpieces" she has in various art shows and galleries. After my mother got done talking to my SIL, she handed me the phone. We exchanged the usual initial Blah! Blah! Blah! and then my SIL hesitated before asking me, "Am I missing something?" To that, I responded by telling her my mother had not only come back from whatever planet the aliens had been holding her hostage, but she now has her nose stuck in a book whenever she isn't out in her studio...just like before.

It was like the last 12 years hadn't happened except for all of us who had watched her trapped in some unresponsive void. I explained that the process had been very gradual, but in the past year or so she has made a full recovery from whatever it was that had her in lala land since 2006. One day the lights came back on and my mother returned home after her extended vacation. The various times I've asked my mother about that period of time, she has no clear recollection of anything. At best, the things she does remember is in bits and pieces and even those memories are very sketchy at best. To her, that void I speak of didn't really exist.

The real Queen Tenacious

Not long ago my mother was sent back to the same doctor who had diagnosed her with Alzheimer’s for some entirely unrelated reason and that same doctor admitted that he had been wrong and was amazed by her miraculous "recovery." I could tell by the expression on his face he truly was dumbfounded. With a lot of hard work and persistence, I pulled my mother back from wherever abyss she had fallen into during her breakdown. I have to admit there were many times I thought I was ready for a rubber room, but I hung in there and did what I thought was right regardless of what the doctors told me.  Today, I'm glad to say my mother is thriving at the young age of 90. The moral to this story is that sometimes you have to follow what your heart and instincts and cast aside what science and logic dictates. Welcome home, Mother!

ABSURD CONFESSION DAY

Did you know April 5th is Absurd Confession Day? If not, now you do and I expect people to amuse me participating or else I'll make you wear a shock collar the next time you come for a visit!

My confession is that I'm a font junkie. My obsession started around 1996 when I bought my first computer. I really can't explain what it is about the world of fonts that caught my eye other than there's just something about being able to use fonts as a form of expression with any typed expression. Please don't ask me what my favorite font is because it varies from day to day from mood to mood from project to project. I can't emphasis enough the disappointment I have with the skimpy choice of fonts offered on blogs.  I suffer such immense mental anguish each time I compose a post.

My second confession (an added bonus) is most people would be surprised to find out that I have a collection of shoes many women would sell their first born to own. I even have shoes I've never worn...BUT they're sitting in my closet all bright and happy just waiting to be worn someday (or to be "transplanted" to my daughter's closet.) Recently I spent $200 for a pair that have never been on my feet since I bought them.  I guess I'm saving them for a rainy day (or to be "transplanted" to my daughter's closet.) For me, there's nothing like being asked where I bought the shoes I'm wearing. I have a doctor who upon entering the exam room I'm in never looks at me first. She checks out what shoes I'm wearing and then we go from there into my medical issues. I certainly admire a person who is so easily distracted and not afraid to show where their true priorities lie.

Okay, now it's your turn to expose those hidden things about yourself that few people know and I'll sit here waiting in breathless anticipation to read all your absurd confessions. Remember honesty is the best policy and certainly makes for a much better read than having smoke blown up my ass buns of steel.

OH MOMMY! MAY I PLEASE HAVE A GIRAFFE HEAD FOR CHRISTMAS?

It's hard to believe that this magnificent creature may very well be the next species to be added to the Endangered Species List. According to recent reports that's exactly what's going to happen in the near future. What's wrong with mankind? Why do we feel the need to hunt any living creature into extinction? I know many people are into hunting, but killing an animal just for the thrill of it is not only cruel, but just plain ignorant in my book. Can I get an "Amen" up in here or is someone out there going to school me on the merits of trophy hunting? I gaze upon these creatures and see absolutely no valid reason why anyone should want to slaughter them, but that's just me and opinions vary, don't they?

GANGSTA BEES AND BEDSORES

Gangsta Bee

I was going to write an intro for this post, but I think this post speaks for itself and needs no preface. Those people who have read my blog in the past will know to wade through the initial bullshit to come to an understanding regarding the purpose of my post. When two old friends chat online (this friendship I refer to goes back 50+ years), they don't need to make any sense. In fact, they rarely make any sense and that's the beauty of their *symbiotic relationship*.  And because I'm such a sweetheart, I'll even post the definition of a symbiotic relationship for those who don't know what it is right off the top of their head. Feel honored that I share with you the beast that tickles my fancy. It's called chain yanking and witty banter! It doesn't get any better than that in my book!

Symbiotic relationships are a special type of interaction between species. Sometimes beneficial, sometimes harmful, these relationships are essential to many organisms and ecosystems, and they provide a balance that can only be achieved by working together.

The cast of characters:
J - a close female friend and partner in crime since my unruly days of yesteryear
M - my BFF and a person who is all the things I'm not and that's why we gel
E - some random dude that's a friend of J
K - yours truly

"J", started my engine by posting the following video on her Facebook page with her sincere commentary stating that WE ARE THE WORST SPECIES ON THE PLANET!!!! (yes, it was in caps so it jumped out and screamed at me to yank her chain a little.) "E" who enters into the mix towards the end of the chat is "J's" Facebook sparring partner. Since they became Facebook friends, I don't think they've ever agreed on anything. Another symbiotic relationship in the making, but not nearly as deeply rooted as mine is with "J."

K: Worse than cockroaches or bed bugs?

J:  much worse, look at that disgusting

K: Hey, I'm a gangsta bee so my species is okay 🐝🐝 Look, there you are with me. We're just buzzing around and doing gangsta bee stuff.

J: K,  you're nuts! lol

K: J, Did you leave off "piece of shit" from your previous statement?

J: ya, I guess I did. You want me to add it now?

K:  Some things never change. Crazy as a loon and I don't care what anyone thinks of me. Hey, if M, drops by here tell her you haven't seen me but you heard me buzzing.

K: J, please leave it as is

J: K, yes ma’am...I can do that buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

K: Hey, is it okay if I tell people you said I'm worse than a cockroach or a bedbug?

J: I’d be honored...

K: I'm a free to be me GANGSTA BEE 🐝

J:  whatever floats your boat. lol

K: J, bees don't have boats, they have hives

J:  well, then whatever floats your hive

K: I got honey in my hive

J: no comment

K: I got honey in my hive and it's good to be alive

K: Gangsta bees rhyme like a dime in a crime

K: And what is the crime?

J: littering

K: swarming, swarming, global warming

J:  that too. lol

K: Litter is for quitters

K: And to think I'm like this naturally. That’s scary!

J: K, that's right, spread the word as you buzz along

K: Now, buzz off, right?

J: K, I know, but if anyone can spread the word, it's you

J:  But please spread it in a nice way

K: I'll spread my honey on my buns because honeybuns are fun, fun, fun…

J:  that explains it.

K: I think I'll copy and paste this masterpiece to my blog

J:  I think you should and give me ample prompts

K: This lovely chat we've had and a picture of the decubitus on my ass should keep everyone happy for a while. And of course, I’ll give credit where credit is due.

J:  The what on your ass!!??

K: Since it's glaringly apparent that you don't know how to use Google...a bed sore, an open ulcer on my arse... want to see?

J: naw, I’ll pass. Hope it's better soon

K: and I'm losing my hair, but it's all good because gangsta bees don't need no hair.

K: Losing the hair on my head...not on my ass

J:  I can relate to that one. Nope, gangsta bees don't need no stinking hair

K: I had debated posting the pic for my profile pic on Facebook, but the verdict is still out on that one

K: What's next? Shall we talk about our bowel movements or the virtues of menopause?

J:  Do what makes you happy!

J: Only if you make me talk about that crap (pun intended)

K: Did you know years ago I posted my colonoscopy pictures on Facebook?

J:  cool...bet you got a lot of comments

K: I sure did...it would have freaked people out if I posted my prostate pics

J:  ah, I didn't think women have a prostate

K: Prostate? Fooled you! Gangsta bees come well equipped, so when people tell me to go fuck myself, I can do exactly that. No problemo!

J:  wow, glad I’m not a gangsta bee

K: That's what BOB is for? Who's BOB, right?

K: BOB is not a bee, but BOB buzzes like a bashful bee. BOB is a battery-operated buddy BTW

J:  The honey's gone to your head

K: Uh oh! We have company! I had better behave myself (you know how well that usually works out)

E: Yea, it was all good until we discovered words like: disposable, no deposit/no return, plastic, Styrofoam, bic lighters, disposable bags, razors, diapers, throw it away not caring where it goes...

K: What about words like GANGSTA BEES?

K: Hi Ed!

K: Hey Ed, J said I'm worse than a cockroach or a bedbug. I don't think she loves me anymore.

J: K, you tell him! lol

K: What am I gonna do? I guess I'll retreat to my hive and lick my wounds.

J: K, good luck with that. I can't stretch my neck far enough to do that

K:  I don't think Ed needs to be told anything by me...you seem to have that nicely covered.

K:  I said lick my wounds, not lick my ass!

J: isn't that where your wound is?

K: They say a picture a picture is worth a thousand words. Okay, I'm off to the next hive now. You two play nicely or else, I'll be back, and you know what that means! Shock collars for everyone!

J:  [sigh]...have fun

K: Oh J, you weren't supposed to tell him where my wound is. Now, I'm embarrassed. Instead of being yellow and black like a good gangsta bee, I'm red and black. I’m a mess!

K: Good night  ❤️

J: K, red and black looks good on ya 😈

K: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝

I bet you thought you were viewing the
surface of the moon. Well folks,
this is my "moon" and  it has Hairy Ass Rot!

My Gangsta Bees look like fucking termites. Oh well! It's the thought that counts and on that note as promised threatened, here's a picture of my lovely ass rot! 

Wow! I have hair on my ass! Where the hell did that come from? I guess that's what old women are suppossed to do. [They don't hand out booklets about the finer points of growing old, so I'm pretty clueless as what to expect] As our locks grow thin, hair starts to sprout everywhere it shouldn't...faces and asses are a favorite spot. How charming is that picture? 

Tell me, how is one supposed to age gracefully when you have hairy ass rot going on? I can hardly wait for the next thing to short circuit or fall apart. Perhaps my mind will go next and then I simply wont care what I look like or how I feel.