The Blog Doctor

"Hurry Doc! I need something strong for blog withdrawal. Quick!" I implore.

Dr. Golb shakes his head in a haven't-we-been-through-this-already? manner and exhales flatly "Now, you know perfectly well that there is no cure for Blog withdrawal..."

"But I need..."

Golb interupts and holds up both hands in defiance and starts to explain "You'll just have to try.."

Shut up man!

Time is running out!

"You don't understand..." I plead in my best desperate give-me-a-hit blog junkie voice "I'm starting this new job and I don't have any time to blog. Give me something!" I screeched the last part grabbing his collar.

Ah, so this is what blog fear looks like.

Interesting.

I immediately give the illusion of coming to my senses and patted down the wrinkles I'd caused. Giving him the flirty eye and using my best Dynasty voice I say "Now come on Doc, I just need a little something. You know, just to, um...just hold me over."

He ignores me.

Screw Dynasty.

"My blog people are addictive!" I scream

Still nothing.

I see the get-off-the-blog-pipe-already-won't ya look down the nose of his bi-focals.

"Have you been taking your regular medication?" He asks.

"Oh, the one for in-law circus drama? Yeah, nothing helps. Can I have something stronger for that too?"

The doctor frowned at me.

I don't like frowns.

This doctor is an asscake.

"Why don't you just try blogging in small intervals, you know in moderation. You do remember what moderation is don't you?"

What did I tell you?

ASSCAKE.

The fact that this conversation is happening all in my head is no excuse.

I know, you'd think I could come up with a better doctor in my head right?

Maybe my imagination needs something stronger also.

Oh well, because there is no blog doctor (that I know of) to help me through this transition, I must rely strictly on vodka....and blog moderation.

Dammit.

Unless there is a blog doctor in the house.

Are you guys holding out on me with those drugs?

Come on! I'll even take generic!

Big Schmuck Island

Call the Howell’s!

I am finally being rescued.

Yes, I’ve built an escape raft and stuffed it solid with job classified newspaper.

Now my bra is a little bit emptier but who cares…

I’m quitting my job!

And I have this dream of giving my notice by way of a big fat grenade up my boss’s ass but…

Dammit all to hell…

I will take the high road and just sabotage the company’s website from an anonymous computer…

…located on a high road of course…

Sheesh, have a little faith people.

I am not one for change.

AT ALL.

Give me my same routine every day of the week, don’t rock the boat and I’ll live happy.

In fact, it’s been years since me and my old buddy Spontaneity have hung out.

I hate her and she hates me.

It’s no secret.

And hate is ok as long as it is mutual btw.

But, that old definition of insanity has really been haunting me lately.

You know…

Doing the same thing day in and day out and expecting different results…

I can only ignore common sense but for so long…usually.

But it was like a constant ringing in my ears competing with all of the other mental traffic.

It was getting pretty confusing up in there yo.

So I sucked it up and called old Sponti. And surprisingly, after all these years, she took my call right away.

She, of course, encouraged me to just go for it.

She dangled the higher potential salary but greater risk right in front of me and just like old times, I grabbed it.

She always knew I was a sucker.

So tune in for the Celebrity Death Match of Me vs. Change.

I’m sure there will be plenty of blood, sweat and tears which should all make for great entertainment… or a room in the Looney Bin, whichever comes first.

Now, if you all will excuse me, I have to go clean out the crap in my pants.

So how do you guys feel about change?

Odds and Evens

I can see the school bus approaching the tip of our driveway as I hold my hand up over my eyes to help block out the sun.

In a minute, there's the distinctive braking screech of it coming to a halt. The loud, air-compressed doors open wide and my son is quickly exhaled out.

His eyes dart back and forth to do a quick search for me.

He knows I’m there even if he doesn’t see me right away.

Ah, there I am and he breaks out into a wide smile.

He runs.

I catch him in a gigantic mama bear hug and notice that he clings a little bit harder than usual.

“So how was your day sweet boy?” I ask savoring the extra squeeze.

“Mathew just told everyone on the bus that his mommy and daddy won’t be husband and wife anymore.”

Oh.

“You mean they are getting a divorce?”

“Yeah and Mathew is really sad. Where is he going to go?”

Oh my.

“I’d imagine that he’d go with either his mommy or his daddy. That will be up to them to decide.”

“You mean like rock, paper, scissors?”

“Yeah, kinda like that”

“Why can’t they be husband and wife anymore?”

eeesshhh.

“I don’t know honey.... Blah Blah Blah...comforting-things-you-say-to-make-kids-feel-better-about-stuff-you-can't-explain...blah blah.”

“I don’t want you and daddy to ever do rock, paper, scissors o.k.?”

“O.K.”

I know.

OMG. Right?

Now while I do my best to not ever have to play Rock, Paper, Scissors with my husband, I can easily relate to both sides of this coin.

Growing up, the only time I saw a mother and father in the same room together was when Carol and Mike Brady were on TV.

I personally had a much stronger tie to Shirley Partridge as she was more like my own single mother....without the singing band, blond hair, cool bus and stuff.

Plus I had a mad crush on Keith Partridge.

But even if I'd grown up and married Keith, Greg or George Glass, there still would have been no guarantees right?

Hey, what ever happened to that bus?

Green Jello

I went to the movies.

And now I'm mad.

I cut my hair a few months ago thinking that it would be the more “age appropriate” thing to do and then WTF happens?......

I’ll tell you what happened….

Oh, I’ll tell you alright…

F*^ken Brooke Shields has to go and make me look like an old-aged-appropriate-shoulder length piece of dung that’s what!

Her and that still long hair of hers.

I mean, could she look any more gorgeous?

Now???

At this age…our age???

Do me a favor Lagoon girl; stop shoving how well you are aging up my nostrils. The jealousy is eating straight through the nose hairs right up to my brain.

And my brain can’t take much more. Trust me.

…I’m watching the movie….looking…squinting even for any imperfection.

ANY imperfection AT ALL.

Surely the big screen can be unkind to you at some brightly lit angle?

Awww common man!

Give me a break!

Didn’t you put us through enough in the 80’s?

Didn’t I even do the big eyebrows thing in a supreme gesture of flattering imitation way back when?

Must you make my midlife miserable too?

And why can you still pull off those eyebrows post 1982 while I, on the other hand, must fight daily with a tweezers?

Jeeeez! Go put on some Calvins that don’t fit you anymore...break a nail...something.

Something!

Dammit.

Oh well….

If I overdose on Miracle Grow, somebody call 911 k?

Hand Jive

So I’m driving to work the other day and some yokel on a motorcycle in front of me lifts up his left arm, bends it and just holds it in place…

Power to the People?

Heil Hitler??

What the fu…I’ll run you right off the road you asshead mother fu…

Oh…. it’s a hand signal.

My rage is somewhat dissipated and lost in the wonderment that anyone still uses hand signals these days as I continue to watch the arm show.

A little down the road, he sticks his left arm straight out….and just keeps it there.

Okay, either start the Fosse routine pal or shut the hell up.

Finally the turn is made.

Sheesh….all this anticipation for a measly left turn.

Imagine if he had to scratch his ass too?

Then comes the red light….

Waiting...waiting...

Nothing.

WTF?

Now I’m all disappointed that he’s not giving me full on jazz hands while waiting for the light to turn green.

Oh wait….here’s something….

His left hand is waving erratically…

Is he having a seizer or something? It’s been a while since I spoke this language.

I’m a little rusty.

Wow, look at that left hand go.

This guy’s a real hand talker.

Oh…wait...I get it now; he’s waving me to go ahead of him.

I might get to work on time yet.

So I roll up slowly ahead because I always have to see the person who causes me aggravation…It’s not enough that I get to pass him; I have to give them the evil eye first.

It’s in the Road-Rage hand book in case you didn’t know.

So I look over and what do I see?

The cutest little grandma wearing a Harley helmet!

Awwwww how cute, she’s driving motorcycle!!

The guy behind me beeps and screams for me to hurry the hell up.

I turn and give him the finger.

Take that Mr.Turd Signal!

Hey, this hand stuff really works!

I wonder why did we ever stopped?

(-: