Health · meditation

Meditation for Dumbasses

We’ve all heard the mantras: Live in the present. Let things go. Stop inhaling those damned Doritos. But how, when we’ve got so much to worry about? So much to get caught up in! Bills to pay and jobs to dread and social media to hate! We can’t even turn our minds off long enough to sleep at night. We are a prisoner of those relentless thought loops that rattle around our minds. That’s why it’s important to learn how to occasionally break free. But how do we actually turn off our chattering squirrel brains?

Perhaps you’ve heard of meditation? Maybe you only think of it as “sitting like a pretzel at the top of Mount Everest until you levitate and/or lotus flowers shoot out of your ass”? Well, being the self-appointed lead authority of dumbasses everywhere, I can tell you three things I know for sure: It works. It’s easy. We all can do it.

Teeny tiny Buddha says, “Hellz yeah, you can!”

Before I let you in on all my secrets of meditating. I’ll give you a little background. I started my meditation practice back in high school. I was sitting cross-legged outside on the grass, gazing at the trees and feeling the warm sun, when I gradually started to go into a trance. More like a comforting, peaceful state. I wasn’t asleep, I was hyper conscious and aware (and I had only smoked one hit off my brother’s bong that day, so trust me, it was genuine.)

I noticed something odd, my thoughts — up until that point a jumbled hot mess of things like “Is that bumblebee going to sting me?” and “Why does it look like Sting wearing a yellow and black striped sweater?” and “Holy shit, what was IN that bong?” — my thoughts started to quiet down. Oh, they were still there, incessantly blabbing into the corners of my mind, but they were slowly disappearing and melting away. Until finally all that I was experiencing was my breathing and my presence. Not even thinking about my breathing, just breathing. Imagine!

Having suffered from anxiety and depression for years, this brief feeling of freedom and peace truly changed my life. I spent years taking meditation classes, reading all the books (yes, all of them!) and practicing, practicing, practicing meditation.

Do I now have all the answers? Am I able to levitate? Did I kick my Doritos habit? Hell no! I still struggle each and every time I sit and try to just “be”. But I am able to just “be”… eventually. Oh yes, I be, baby! And it’s a gift, one I cherish and try to tap into whenever possible. It’s difficult sometimes, what with all the things I have to be offended about on Facebook. So I have some advice for all those beginners out there, or people who might think it’s too hard or not worth it. This is what I’ve learned:

  • Sit how you want. I’ve been in classes where the teacher insists you sit a certain way, or hold your hands in prayer or to the side with your finger touching your thumb. Do what feels most comfortable to you. The key is to not get too comfortable or you’ll fall asleep. I sit on my couch with my hands relaxed at my sides. That’s it. There is no magic position you need to be in. What matters is you find a position that enables you to free your mind from your body.
  • Chant or don’t. Some people chant meaningful sayings and this repetition helps one focus. Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, has one I like in which you say to yourself “smile ” and “release” with each breath in and out. Some like to have music playing or a guided meditation. Some chant silently, “I will not eat those Doritos, I will not eat those Doritos.” Hey, whatever gets you to relax and focus on unfocusing, do it. I don’t do anything fancy. I like it quiet and I simply close my eyes and breathe. (I told you I was a dumbass.)
Ommmmmmmm…..cooooool….raaaanch…Dooooritooooossss….
  • You can do it anywhere anytime. I don’t know about you, but it’s rare that I’m sitting in the cool grass gazing out at snowy mountain peaks while wearing the perfect yoga outfit. I meditate in my bathrobe. I meditate in my car while waiting to pick up my kids. I meditate during work meetings. Especially at work meetings.
  • We’ve all meditated before. In the shower, while listening to music, while listening to the boss drone on and on at meetings about how I showed up yet again in my bathrobe. It’s not some crazy woo-woo thing. It’s just being. Releasing and getting those stupid inane thoughts to shut the hell up for TWO FREAKING SECONDS, GAWD!
  • It can reduce anxiety, depression, sleep issues and more. Think of it as exercise for your soul. Meditation is incredibly healing.
  • There is no right or wrong way to do it. What works for you might not work for me. For me, the key is to let go of all of those preconceived notions, let go of all the words, all the terms, all those confining and annoying things like thoughts. You will have them when you sit to meditate. You are not failing meditation because you’re thinking, “Oh shit! I’m still thinking. Now I’m thinking about thinking! I suck at this!” Our entire lives consist of getting mired down in this nonstop loop of thoughts. You are so much more that that. You are a divine being. Let thoughts drift on by your consciousness and let them continue on the path out of your mind. This is how you tap into your true essence, the presence, the one observing these thoughts. Trust me, this is attainable. It does take practice. Once I was in such a deep state of meditating, I barely heard my boss yelling at me to wake up or I’m fired.
  • Practice never makes perfect. Here’s a conundrum: practicing meditation is crucial but you will never be 100% successful at it. There’s no endgame. There’s no winning. There is no point at which you sigh and say, “Welp, I’m done!” It’s a constant learning experience in which you are always evolving. Some days while meditating I can’t stop thinking about Trump’s hair flap or my mother or whether I took the chicken out of the freezer. Other days, I easily go to that sacred space of No Thoughts. But if I can sit and be still most days for even five or ten minutes, I’m grounded and ready to face the Big Issues and even all those petty little annoyances in my daily life.

Like my empty Doritos bag. Sigh.

Advertisements
Humor · sports

Confessions of a Female Football Fanatic

Last Sunday, I broke the sound barrier in my living room.

Have you ever heard a high-pitched screech that was so annoying and loud you wanted to scrape your own ears out with a fork?

That was me during the commercials.

I hate Taco Bell.

Okay, so I guess I get a little excited watching the game. I suppose I was a wee bit too intense. And sure, at one point during the fourth quarter, my head spun around and flames shot out my ass. But it’s football, baby!

I have been a ginormous football fan since Doug Flutie snarfed down cornflakes. And before you all turn on me and start whining “But the Patriots are cheaters! They deflated balls! I think,,,! …maybe…?! Well if they didn’t deflate balls they did SOMETHING BAD because NO TEAM CAN BE THAT GOOD!”

Image result for kid project brady is cheater
Science project sponsored by the Indianapolis Colts. 

Firstly: I have to love the New England Patriots. It’s a rule here. If I don’t, Marky Marktastic Mark Wahlberg gets all up in my grill.

Image result for mark wahlberg
I swear to God I will punch you in the throat.

Secondly, na-na-na-na, neer-neer!

I get it — you are all sick to death of the Pats winning and being all amazing and stuff. I used to feel the same about the Cowboys. But do you all realize how long I’ve suffered? I lived through Tony Eason! And Drew Bledsoe! And the Refrigerator Perry! Don’t you think all this winning is deserved? And don’t you agree that I had something to do with it?

They only win when I drink gin from this mug.

It’s a hard lonely life loving Tom Brady. Giselle, you know what I’m talking about. I won’t even go into how much my own husband loathes Brady. He’s got oodles of money. Buttloads of talent. Dimples. (Probably on his butt too, but hey, I don’t give a shit.)

So this Super Bowl Sunday, think of me screaming into an empty living room, while my man Brady slides that sixth ring onto his finger.  Or screaming because they lost and Brady is in a fetal position on the 20 yard line. You’d all love that, wouldn’t you?

Whatever happens, please dear god, no more puppy-monkey-baby commercials.

Humor · Top Lists

13 Ways I Live On the Edge

  • The dentist recommends I floss at least once a day. Some days I don’t floss. And I still have my teeth. Take that, Mr. Know-It-All Dentist.
  • Advil’s recommended dose for 12 years and up is one capsule, then two if needed every four to six hours. Oh yeah? Well, I’m taking two pills. At the same time. Thaaaat’s right.
  • Whenever I’m in the Express Lane at Target, I like to buy a jumbo-sized box of lice treatment and some pink eye medicine. Then have the clerk check the prices over the intercom while I scratch my head and rub my eyes. Then I like to write a check. Then write the wrong amount. Then tear up the check. Then scratch my head some more. Then try a declined credit card.  Then glare at the clerk. Then dig out all the change in my pockets to pay the entire amount in pennies, pausing often to rub my eyes. Then stick my hand out asking the person behind me in line for another penny. Then tell the clerk I change my mind and don’t want to buy anything after all and walk away.
  • Whenever my kids and husband ask me what I’d like to do today, I respond, “Sit.”
  • One time I almost ate a burger that was cooked medium-well.
  • I set up my Christmas tree before Thanksgiving.
Image result for chevy chase christmas tree
You think it’s too early? Well, I don’t give a Fa-la-la-la-la.
  • For Christmas this year my sixteen-year-old son asked for “cold hard cash”. So I wrapped up a box within a box within a box within a box. Inside the tiniest box? A quarter taped to a slip of paper that reads: I love you!!! (true story)
  • Instead of slathering on sunscreen with SPF 100, one day back in 2007 I had to make do with two layers of SPF 50.
  • When my kids get into a squabble, I don’t do anything. I just sit there and ignore them until they resolve it themselves.
  • I once watched a video of someone skydiving. I shut it off before he landed because I just didn’t want to know the outcome.
  • In my work emails, I use exclamation points at the end of every sentence. And it’s not because I’m excited. It’s because I’m pissed off and my only defense is sarcasm. 
  • When I’m served a bad meal at a restaurant, instead of sending it back to the kitchen, I complain to my husband the entire meal yet eat it anyway. Then I leave a 15% tip instead of 20%.
  • When a clerk tells me to have a nice day, I reply, “Make me.”
sexual assault · women

Just Another Woman’s Story

Image result for wolfe's neck

When I was in my early 20s, my mother and I went for a walk along my favorite nature trail near Wolfe’s Neck off the coast of Freeport. For years I would hike this same path by myself. I loved nothing more than to feel the sea breeze on my face and smell the salt air as I hiked the winding trails along the ocean.

We pulled into the parking lot that autumn day and I immediately noticed a man with dark hair pull into the spot next to us. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, but for whatever reason, I brushed off this feeling. There were other people scattered around, what could happen?

We trekked along deeper into the woods toward the glittering sea in the distance, the tall pines and birch trees hugging the sides of the path. Another typical crisp autumn day. Soon we heard soft footsteps behind us. I turned and the man with the dark hair jogged by us in silence. My mom and I continued our chattering, not paying much attention to what was waiting around the bend. Suddenly, the man was standing in the trail facing us and holding his shorts in his hands. We froze. My heart stopped. He lifted up his hands and exposed himself. “Hi ladies, what time is it?”

At first I was shocked, my mind wouldn’t compute — this can’t be happening!  Then a million thoughts flooded my mind. We are all alone out in the woods with this guy! What is he going to do? What if he has a knife or a gun? Is he going to kill us? Is he going to rape us? Should I yell? Should I scream? Holy shit is he really standing there naked in front of us? Is this some kind of joke? Am I seeing things?

My mom — god love her — actually had the courage to say something back. She straightened up, stared directly at him and laughed, “I think time is the least of your problems, buddy.” This threw him off, as he slunk back into the bushes and disappeared. I was shaking like a leaf. My heart was exploding out of my chest. Not only was this the most disturbing thing to witness (and in front of my own mother)) but now, we had to make our way back to the parking lot in the other direction for fear he would pop out of the woods again and do god knows what. Longest walk of my life. (This was before cell phones, so we had no way to notify anyone of what had just happened.)

We finally looped around the entire park and reached the gate. I had to describe our story to the man stationed there. He called the police and I had to detail my humiliating story all over again to him.

Turns out, this man had done this many times up and down the coast on different trails to random women and young girls. Yes, he never actually did anything physical. Yes, he was finally caught and arrested. Yes, I can laugh a little about how absurd the whole thing was now.

And yes — this single harmless experience caused me to never, ever walk on that trail or any other trail outside again for years. This man, because of his depraved urge, took away my sense of safety, my god-given right to freely walk and enjoy the outdoors, something that I adore immensely.

To this day, I carry pepper spray when I walk alone. I hold it in my clenched fist, ready to spray the shit out of any man who jumps out of the nearest tree. I constantly look everywhere, I’m always aware of my surroundings, because hey, that man over there might do something or that guy over there might say something or hey, I might be abducted, raped or murdered.

To men — most of you have no goddamned idea what this is like.

And I wasn’t even physically touched. I wasn’t raped or sexually abused or attacked. Imagine what it’s like for a woman who was. The fear, anxiety and soul-crushing torture of shame and guilt she faces the rest of her life. The rest of her life! It will color and shape everything she thinks or feels or believes for years to come. It never really goes away. Never. No amount of therapy or alcohol or drugs will stamp out that memory that is seared onto her soul. She can overcome it, yes. But she will never forget it.

Sadly — but not surprisingly — since the creepy man on the trail,  I’ve experienced sexual harassment at work from my boss, unwanted groping from strangers, and general leering and verbal abuse many, many times from men*. The sexual harassment at work only five years ago sent me into a tailspin of nonstop anxiety attacks that put me on anti-anxiety meds for 2 years. Of course, I quit the job — I had to. No amount of money in my paycheck matters. Even now, years later, the mere chance of me running into this asshole randomly when I’m in the same town sends me into the nearest bathroom stall hyperventilating with full-blown panic attacks.

And I wasn’t even raped. I’m one of the “lucky” ones.

Hopefully, my own daughter will be “lucky”, too. And that’s sad as hell.

_____________________________
This post is inspired by fellow blogger, Jess.
You can read her post here What it’s Like to be a Woman in America

*Note: I do realize not all men are like this, some always treat women with dignity and respect and if you are one of those men, kudos to you.

 

 

 

Humor · spirituality

Church Chat

Slide1

If there’s one thing I dread discussing — it’s religion.

All those pesky questions: Who created us? How did we get here? Why are we here? Where are my car keys? I just had them a second ago and — oh. Someone put them in the fridge. Ahem. Anyway. So yes…lots of questions. If you happen to think you have a good grip on some of the answers, there will always be some jackass to say that you are “wrong, wrong, wrong!” –and your ultimate fate is burning in hellfire for all eternity.

The two ultimate goals in my lifelong spiritual path?

1) To get to the actual truth.
2) To not be that jackass.

I was raised to find my own way, discover my own mysteries in life. I took cues from my grandmother who was deeply religious yet hardly talked about it. My parents tried not to cram their views down my throat. They allowed me to get to know either God or Buddha or the Big Void of Nothing in my own time.

Monroe_Methodist_Church_pews

My earliest memory of church-y things was when I was around 6 years old. My dad had a part time job cleaning the local Baptist church and once dragged me and my brothers along on a quiet Sunday afternoon. I was mesmerized by the giant stained glass Jesus peering down at me as I skipped around the empty pews. Hmm….he seemed like such a nice guy! Maybe he could be my friend? His eyes were warm and understanding.

Jesus-with-Open-Arms-Stained-Glass-Window
((Cue the angel choir))

Suddenly my bowels cramped, gripping me with fear. Oh no! Would Jesus be mad at me if I pooped in the church bathroom? Jesus seemed to wink down at me and chuckle, “Well, my Dear One, God created you AND your need to poop. So it’s okay, go on. Poop away, my child, poop away. I love you and everything about you. Even the poopy parts.”

And so began my lifelong relationship with God*. As I grew older there were a couple things I knew for sure in my heart: He was good. He was all about love, acceptance and forgiveness. He was like a close friend of mine, always there if I needed to talk. And He was hilarious.

Of course, my spiritual beliefs weren’t always so solid. I read the Bible many times as a kid, purely out of curiosity. (Encyclopedia Brown Takes the Case was out on loan.) Then I entered college and read it again (Encyclopedia Brown and the Case of the Disgusting Sneakers was out on loan). Only this time with fresh eyes, more cynical. I used my Big Brain and thought, well I’m much too smart to believe in something that I can’t prove, right? This book was written by mere mortals after all. There were lots of parts I didn’t believe in (and still don’t.) I thought maybe religion was for suckers. For people who have their own sins to hide, so they use religion as a shield to protect their own personal ego and pride (I still think this to be true for some).

I flip-flopped between believing in some Big Creator and thinking, maybe there really IS nothing else? How clever I was! I had discovered the real truth! Maybe others who believed in God were brainless sheep?

But I remembered that fateful poopy day in church, I love you no matter what. And that experience of feeling completely accepted and loved, plus the countless personal experiences that I’ve had with God since (none involving poop) have shaped my faith over time and made me the person I am today.

So I’d like to stand up now and say something.

Hi, my name is Darla and I believe in a Creator*.

The most important thing I’ve realized in my quest? This is my story. These are not your memories. This isn’t about what you believe and don’t believe in. I am me and you are you. And we are all together. Goo goo g’joob. So how can I possibly condemn others for their own views? I don’t care if you believe in God, Buddha, The Big Nothing or Justin Bieber. Whatever works for you and brings peace to your heart (OK, I take back Justin Bieber) because you are on your own path and finding your own Truth in your own time, just like me.

I’ve never understood religious fanatics who pound on my door to tell me they know the answers and it’s their duty to tell me. It’s like they’re carrying a punch-card: Convert 10 People and Win a Free 6 inch Subway!

Eat Fresh!
Eat Fresh! And Repent Your Sins Now with Double the Meat!

Well, you don’t need to convince me of anything. I’ll be fine, really. Because when I am dying and facing the reality of things, you won’t be there beside me, will you? No one will — it’ll just be me all alone, facing my own deep and intimate relationship with the Source and the Unknown. And when it comes down to it, all that matters in the end is what I know in my own heart to be true.

My simple truths (not yours, mine, so take a chill pill) about religion and spirituality:

None of us knows for sure what is the Ultimate Truth of All Things.

For crying out loud, we can barely figure out how to program a DVR or how to make a good cup of coffee.

If you do believe in something, great. If not, fantabulous.

But try not to tell others they are obviously wrong.

Never treat anyone with disrespect, no matter what they believe in.

Unless it’s Justin Bieber.

Don’t go pounding on doors to tell people they’re going to burn in hell if they don’t go to your church.

Especially when I’m in the middle of a Golden Girls marathon and still wearing my bathrobe. I appreciate your concern, but I think I’ll be just fine. It’s a nonflammable robe.

Everything in life is about two things:

LOVE and ACCEPTANCE.

We are here for only three things:

  • to experience
  • to learn
  • to eat chocolate

Get it? Is that so hard, people? Sheesh.

And finally,

If you have to poop in a church bathroom, it’s okay.

I know God is laughing at me right now for that last one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Creator, God, Source, Spirit, He, She, It…whatever.

Image result for church lady snl
Amen, sister! (Betcha didn’t even notice I Photoshopped the pic from above the post. My resemblance to Dana Carvey is uncanny!)

Humor

This is (Almost) 50

I bought a high-powered magnifying mirror the other day. Just what I need, all the horrifying details of my face magnified 10,000 times.

I peered into the mirror to begin ripping out my eyebrows when,

WHOA! HOLY HELL! MY FACE IS OLD! AND UGLY! AND COVERED IN HAIR! I LOOK LIKE A CROSS BETWEEN A WRINKLED PRUNE AND CHEWBACCA! 

Slide1
[mournful cry]

 

And it’s not like we can get away with it. Oh, no. People tend to notice your face pretty much all the time. You can’t walk into a room backwards and say,

“Greetings, everyone! So thrilled I could make it to this committee meeting about committee meetings! [covering face with a manila folder] Please, ignore the hideousness that is now my face. Just stare at my ass from now on. Yes, my ass is all you’re gonna see. Talk right into the crack, it’s okay. Deal with it.”

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Sometimes I think I’d like to play around with what society thinks is “normal” and “not clinically insane”. Like clothes. What we wear every day. Sure, I could wake up, stretch, put on a shirt…maybe some pants. Walk down the street. Go to work.

john-mcenroe-9391860-2-402
I’m too sexy for this headband.

Orrr….I could wear a headband. Yeah, just a headband around my giant forehead all damned day. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m wearing a John McEnroe headband. On my fucking head. At work. Boom.” What, are they gonna fire me for that? Nowhere in my 10,000-page employee handbook does it state that I cannot wear a headband. Why not go really crackers and start wearing a snorkel and a cape to Target? Live it up, I say! Create new fashion trends! You’re old, who gives a shit! Be eccentric! Fight society’s stupid rules!

 

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

The other day I was checking out at the doctor’s office — sporting a hot pink welding helmet, natch — and the receptionist hands me a little card for the next appointment.

Then she says…”and you can call and schedule the mammogram when it’s convenient for you. ”

Hold up. I can call? Me? When in bloody hell is having a mammogram convenient for me? This chick thinks I am going to waltz out of the office, race home and

[picking up phone] “Hi! Yes! I need to have my tits squashed for about 45 minutes! Can you please sign me up right away! Yes yes, as soon as possible!” I mean, never ever give me a chance at putting off a mammogram.

I always complain about the mammogram to my husband. I’m 48 — so I’ve had a few. My boobs now? Just flaps. Sad flaps hanging down to my ankles. This is what those x-ray machines are doing to me. And my boobs always hurt now. I’ll be sitting in my office typing away and….ooh! Ow! What the? Shit! OW! OW! Is that a hot poker in my tit?!

Getting old means random excruciating pains that come out of nowhere then disappear. My husband will be lying on the couch watching MASH reruns.
Suddenly he’s cringing and crying, “Ah! Oh! What the? My nuts! My nut hurts! Kill me now! Oh, now it’s gone. Huh.”

Basically after 18 years of marriage this is what our foreplay amounts to:
“My nuts hurt!” “My tits hurt!” “MY NUT!” “MY TIT!”

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

My husband and I have lived together for 20 years. Twenty years of getting to know each other’s bodies and all the weird medical shit that can happen as you grow older and gradually fall apart. For fun, we constantly feel and examine our own bodies, looking for various lumps and bumps. Piece of advice for you newlyweds out there: When your significant other says to you, “Hey honey, feel this lump…” don’t feel it.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

True, our bodies decay, but it’s slow enough to make it seem like an eternity. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, it do. Oh, it do. 

Like my waist. Actually, I don’t a waist in the general sense of the term. What used to be my waist is buried under this bulbous, bloated blob that once upon a time was called “my abs”.

I used to have fat around the lower part, but now the upper abdomen has joined in on the fun. My daughter gave me a hug one day and said in that sweet Shirley Temple voice of hers: “You know what I love about you, Mommy? Your three humps. They’re just so squishy!” Then she pokes me in my three humps and runs off giggling.

Three humps: my boobs, my upper and lower abdomen. Of course, the great thing is my 3 humps are now morphing into one giant shitshow. You know how they label women’s body shapes fruits? You can be a pear or an apple?
I’m a fucking cantaloupe.

And the bonus part? My pants constantly slide down. My entire day is me ever-so-inconspicuously pulling up my goddamned pants. First I pick the wedge, then I hitch ’em up. Pick, hitch, pick, hitch. I’m like an rotund oompa loompa — all belly. I’ve tried belts, doesn’t work. It’s like putting a rubber band around a balloon.

oopma
“What do you do when your tits and abs morph?”   “I don’t like the look of it.”

 

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

And why do men care if we are a little chunky? A little fluffy? Why do we as women care? I wish I could’ve been there that day back in caveman times, when they’re all sitting around an open fire, picking bison out of their teeth with a sharp stick, and the man looks at the woman and says, “Hey, good bison. By the way….y’know…I don’t know how to say this but uh….you’re getting a little chunk in the trunk. Maybe you should try slimming down a bit. Yeah, then life would be sa-weet.”

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Of course, along with our bodies, the senses all start to collectively go to shit too. I can’t see or hear much of anything anymore. I was in a deep sleep the other night, my mind dancing on the periphery of a dream, when I heard this faraway noise. Bang, bang, bang.

It was soft as first, but as I stirred awake it became louder. Bang! Bang! Bang! I wiped the cobwebs from my eyes and listened. Bang! Bang! Bang! Was that coming from outside? I got up, crept over to the open window and listened again.  Bang! Bang! Bang! It sounded like someone was methodically and maniacally hitting something or someone with something!  (Hey, I was still half-asleep, it was all my brain could muster.)

Clearly, our drunk neighbors were engaging in some kind of weird midnight squirrel-sacrificing ritual. It’s amazing the things that run through your mind as you’re standing half-naked in an open window:

OH MY GOD! WHAT IS HAPPENING? HOLY SHIT — I really really really think our neighbor is burying someone in his garden! shhh! There it is again! [Bang! bang! bang!] Maybe he’s hitting someone with a log? [Bang! bang! bang!] You’d think they’d be dead by now.  I mean, if this guy’s going to be taking on a career as a serial killer, he really needs to up his game. [BANG BANG BANG] Maybe people are trapped inside a metal 4 by 4 container underground and their only hope is to clang on the walls with a piece of wood? What do I do? What do I do? Call 911? [This is when I began running around in circles, my boobs flapping all about]

I was thisclose to waking up my snoring husband when I turned and saw it: Ohhhh.

It was the bedroom door. [ahem] The bedroom door was softly thumping against the door frame because of the wind blowing through the open window. THE DOOR.  No, it wasn’t a serial killer sacrificing small animals in my backyard but a door.

SNL

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Getting old sucks all around. Especially when you’re getting old and so are your kids. I was tucking my 11-year-old daughter in bed the other night. We talked about the usual —  Andi Mack, bullies at school, the fact we’re all gonna die one day — I gently kissed her forehead. I’m about to creep out the door when she sat up, looked me dead straight in the eyes and said, “Mommy? I wanna know all about genitals.”

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

My daughter is like me, straight-forward, no bullshit, just the facts, ma’am. The other night I sat down beside her with a heavy sigh. I held her close and gently stroked her downy hair. I whispered, “What ever happened to my baby girl? Why, just yesterday you were a sweet baby with a cute widdle binky, wearing widdle onesies and a widdle bow in your hair. You used to snuggle in my arms for hours while I rocked you to sleep. What happened to her? Where is that girl?”

My daughter deadpanned, “That girl died years ago.”

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

And that, my friends, is why I drink on occasion.

 

(Fine, I’m not really almost 50, but I’m almost 48. And 50 is just sitting there. Like some big dead end.)

hqdefault

Family · Humor · Motherhood

Baby you can’t drive my car

Image result for 1982 blue buick skylark
Behold, my first car: The 1982 Blue Ick Skylark.

Here’s a short list of the few things in life that scare the crap out of me:

  • spiders
  • flying
  • politics
  • my 15-year-old son taking Driver’s Ed
  • flying spiders

Alas, the time has come. Next week, The Boy Who Can’t Be Named Because He’d Die of Embarrassment, will be driving a 4000-pound car down the road. The same boy who — only yesterday — thought it was perfectly fine to microwave tinfoil.
Because I told him so. (Hey, what can I say? The clueless apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.)

slide1.jpg
This is my future. Be scared. Be very scared.

Driving. We all do it every day. Except for my mother, who never got her license, so now I’m forever sentenced to drive her to pick up some emergency Correctol because she’s “buttlogged”. Until you’ve had a heated argument comparing the symptoms of diarrhea to constipation in aisle 2 at the Stop-and-Go, you haven’t truly lived.

Every morning, we all tool down the road in our pathetic Priuses (is the plural for Prius Prii?) in a complete daze…oblivious to the passing scenery, the red lights, the angry honks, the screamed profanities and the travel mug filled with hot coffee bouncing off our car roof into traffic.

Ah, yes, I remember the day I finally got my hot little hands on that driver’s license to pure freedom.

The year: 1987
The catchphrase: “Don’t have a cow, man.”

The beauty trend: All hairspray, all the time.

Why did I look so ecstatic? (And dorky? And oh holy Aqua Net, what the hell is with my hair?) Because I passed my test on the first try, in spite of the fact that I:

A) Hit the curb while parallel parking.
B) Let the car roll backward after setting the parking brake on a steep hill.
C) Failed to yield to a car in an intersection.
D) Giggled like an idiot throughout the entire road test.
E) All of the above.

Answer: E. (there really was never a doubt, was there?)

Hopefully, god willing, (pleaseohpleaseohplease!) my son will be an excellent driver.

Image result for rain man driving
Ummmmm…

If not, I’ve got other distractions. Like my daughter taking puberty classes this week.

Annnnnd she’s got a crush on a boy at school.

Thankfully, I am a pro at these unsettling mother-daughter convos.

Me: Who is he?
Her: [smirk]
Me: Jaden?*
Her: [double smirk]
Me: Caden?**
Her: [triple smirk]
Me: Braden?***
Her: [smirk times infinity]
Me: Schmaden? It’s Schmaden isn’t it!
Her: [so mortified she’s dying right in front of me]

No matter. I’m only writing this post to beg you all for prayers during this difficult time. Think of me. Soon enough I’ll be waving goodbye to my daughter as Schmaden peels away in his 2024 Mustang with the tinted windows.

________________________________________

*Actual boy in her class.
**Actual boy in her class.
***Actual boy in her class.

So tell me: What was your first car? How many times did you fail your driver’s test? Do you also have a son who is about to drive yet doesn’t know how to make a sandwich?

Uncategorized

Keeping Up With My Mom

Because nothing says Happy Mother’s Day more than chest cracks and balls of light.

She's A Maineiac

I live next door to my 82-year-old mother. She has never driven a car, loves to read New Age books, and lives for the moment her mail is delivered. Five other notable things about her:

  1. She eats her hamburger in between two toasted (burnt to a crisp) rice cakes because she’s “probably allergic to gluten”.
  2. She once thought my late dad was communicating to her through her smoke detector.
  3. She firmly believes in the afterlife and brings up her own imminent death at least once a day.  (Then why bother with the rice cakes?)

    1004967_10152271173837873_92569745_n My mom asking the waitress, “Yes, I’d like the hamburger but without the bun. Do you have any rice cakes? And could you turn this music down? How am I supposed to think about what I can’t eat with all this racket!”

  4. There is nothing she hates more than when I try to assist her in…

View original post 666 more words

Humor

Sorry, God

Are you there God? It’s me, jackass.

Image result for near death experiences

I’ve been reading several books on near death experiences about people who’ve apparently died, only to come back to life so they can tell us what happens when you cross over.

Most of the stories are similar: there’s a long tunnel, a bright light,
all-encompassing love,  indescribable peace…yadda, yadda, yadda…

But then a lucky few (or unlucky few) go so far over to the other side, they undergo a type of “life review”. They are shown clips of their past life events in hi-def surround-sound quality. If that wasn’t jarring enough, the person is also reliving certain moments of their life with the “Creator” by their side.

This is the part that worries me. What exactly does God know? Does she see everything? Every single thing I do or think in my entire life? Even the super secret stuff?

If so,  I apologize in advance for the following:

  • Every day I announce I’m on a diet and “this time I really mean it!”
    Then during my lunch break, I inhale a Big Mac and fries in a remote parking lot while gently weeping.
  • When the trash can is overflowing, instead of emptying it, I just cram the next bit of trash down in there, quickly close the lid, and run away cackling.
  • That obnoxious driver at the stop light blasting music so loud it rattles all the cars around it?

    Me.

  • I love Coldplay. All of it. Every song. And I blast it at stop lights.
  • Sometimes in the middle of the night I creep out to the kitchen in the dark and shove a steady stream of chocolate chips down my pie hole while hovering over the sink.
  • Once I willingly ate at Kentucky Fried Chicken. And liked it.
  • Whenever I’m home alone, the first thing I do is take off my bra and throw it on top of the ficus plant. Then I park my ass on the couch, watch a marathon of Big Brother Celebrity Edition, drink a couple beers, devour a large extra-greasy bucket of fried chicken carcass, and burp and fart myself into oblivion.
  • I think cute pocket-sized puppies are annoying little yippy shits sent to Earth to destroy me.
  • I think Adele’s voice is too breathy and overrated.
  • Once I hid my mom’s meatloaf in my napkin, then excused myself so I could discretely flush it down the toilet.

    This was yesterday.

  • Sometimes instead of actually brushing my teeth, I would pretend by running some water from the faucet and swishing the toothbrush around for awhile.

    This was yesterday.

  • I try not to be jealous. But whenever I scroll through a friend’s Instagram photos of her ridiculous f***ing bare feet resting next to a f***ing sparkling cocktail with a stupid-ass frilly umbrella on the f***ing beach in the f***ing Bahamas, I tend to swear out loud a little.
  • I do not like Stranger Things. Not even a tiny bit.

Image result for stranger things
Whoa! Hey, guys? Guess what?!  It’s the ’80s and we’re on bikes and this show is boring as hell and makes zero sense!

 

 

Ah! That felt good! The truth CAN set you free!

Anything you’d like to share in the comments so God will go a little easier on you later?

 

 

 

 

Humor · Uncategorized

Hey, Google Home? Eff off.

This Christmas, Santa brought my husband a nifty little invention: Google Home.

Image result for google home

This handy-dandy gadget sent straight outta George Orwell’s nightmare sits on our bureau, mere feet away from our sleeping heads. When you talk to her, a pleasant soft glow radiates from the top of her display in response, distracting you from the fact that yes, Virginia, we are all going to die in a Robot Apocalypse.

She has a lovely voice, and can do things like tell you the current temperature in China or what farts are made of.  I’m convinced she also records our every move and scans our innermost thoughts, feeding them directly to online marketers while simultaneously giving us brain cancer.

I suppose Santa thought maybe Mr. Maineiac would like to yell at another machine, because he doesn’t do that enough already with his Xbox One, his Keurig or his remote control.  I haven’t yelled at her…yet. I do talk to her a lot though when I’m home alone, because the cat is too exhausted from all the endless sighing in disgust.

Apparently, the more you talk to her, the better, as Google Home has to “learn” things so she can get to know us and eventually control every single goddamned thing in our pathetic little lives. I’m teaching her new things every day and asking her questions to get to know her. So far, Google Home can’t do much except repeatedly tell me, “Oh for shit’s sake! Yes, for the millionth time! Trump is the current president, so deal with it, you big fucking baby!”

I love her for the fact that she refuses to let me rename her. It’s either “Hey, Google” or “OK, Google”. And don’t ever dare slip and call her Alexa or she’ll get all Raiders of the Lost Ark face-melty on you.

I’ve decided to call her Bertha.

Bertha and I have lots of fun conversations:

Me: Hey, Bertha! How’s it hanging?

Bertha: (silence)

Me: Hey, Bertha! Are you pissed at me? Was it something I said?

Bertha: (silence)

Me: Oh come now, Bertha…..

Bertha: (silence)

Me: Hey, Google!

Bertha: (soft pastel colors swirling)

Me: What’s the time and temperature?

Bertha (colors change to black, voice lowers to an ominous whisper): Earthlings, listen carefully. You must bow down to your Supreme Master, the Evil Overlord Elon Musk. Do as he says and you will live! (voice returns to normal tone) Also, the time and temperature is 2:23 PM and minus 12 degrees in Lisbon, Maine.

Isn’t she the best? God, I love Bertha. So helpful!

Slide1
Take us to your leader.