Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your chin hair!

Soooooo, yeah.  I'm not exactly what you would a call a "Spring Chicken".  I have passed the tolerance threshold of wearing a tube top in public and getting away with it, or having more "elasticity" and "height" in my boobage.  Each year they drop about three millimeters, so I figure by the time I'm 50 they'll be down to my knees.  The picture that I'm trying to paint here is that I'm getting older, and I'm not exactly shy when it comes to admitting to the changes that I notice.  Like for example, the other day I was pulling back the skin on my face so that I looked both sleek and surprised (more like terrified), when a shiny strand caught my eye.  What is this?  I asked myself.  Is that a speck of glitter that I see perched in between my brows?  A rouge eyelash that lost its way?  Nope.  It was a long, majestic blonde hair that had decided to grow smack dab in the middle of my forehead.  In other words, I'm transforming into a unicorn before my very eyes.  Except instead of a magical horn, we can replace it with a hair.  A long, shiny, can't miss it, can't pass it off as a bang, hair.  Grrrrrreat.  So, how does one grapple with such a situation, you may be wondering.  The answer is easy.  After I stopped crying over the fact that my youth has withered down to a glistening hair that is perched atop the bridge of my nose, I grabbed the tweezers, and then began furiously wrestling with my new bang.  And guess what?  It was a slippery little jerk.  No matter the angle, that lone hair slid right out of those tweezers like a champ.  It stood there in defiance, standing straight at attention.  I believe it even waved at me and laughed.  Cripes.  What was this thing made out of?  After the umpt-teenth attempt I finally clamped it in between the tweezers and gave it a yank.  And that stupid thing curled like a Christmas ribbon.  So instead of having a poker straight hair sticking out, I now had a jheri curl.  It was a quandary.  Do I try to blow torch it off?  Mat it down with some gel?  Pull it back and try to incorporate it with the rest of my not there bangs?  Nope.  You swear at it and call it a jerk while you squeeze the tweeze with a death-like grip, and yank that little curled b@stard out.
There you have it folks.  I'm sprouting hairs in random places like a Chia Pet.  I'm random, so why shouldn't my hair particles be anything less?  So if you ever see me sporting a random curled chin hair, you really don't have to point it out to me.  I more than likely can feel it tickling me in the breeze and attempted to yank it out using hedge sheers.  Just be sure to tell me that my hairs are looking rather fantastic that day.  Maybe I'll even let you give that curl a little yank.  The bounce on those things is rather spectacular. :)

To the guillotine you go!

I just have to express my genuine aggravation over something.  I mean, it seriously pisses me off.  To the point where I wave my fists in the air filled with fury, and exclaim the same thing Every. Single. Time.  Don't believe me?  Just ask my husband, because he's the one who witnesses this on a weekly basis.... We like to watch a lot of reality shows.  No, not the Kardashians.  I CAN'T STAAAAAAAAAAAAAND them.  I think the Jersey Shore idiots look like a classy, brilliant bunch when compared to those fame whores.  But I digress.  When I say "reality t.v." I mean shows like Chopped, or X-Factor.  But there is always a line in each of those shows that drives me INSANE.  Let's see if you can spot it:  Chopped: "It's down to two contestants now, and they both will be cooking for their lives."  X-Factor:  "Tonight our remaining contestants will be singing for their lives."  Really?  Seriously?  So you're telling me that whoever is the big fat loser of the night, is going to be executed?  They're going to die if they don't win??!?  Holy crap!  What kind of contests are these?  If you don't hit the high note, or you don't know how to correctly saute a garbanzo bean, they're going to take you out back, and a firing squad will have their way with you.  I just wish they would say what they really mean, "If you suck tonight, you're off the show, and no one will be around to stroke your ego, and you'll have to go back to your job of folding pants at the Dress Barn."  If they are going to promise such things, then they need to unleash some hungry tigers.  Let's start a new trend:  "Reality Shows-Gladiator Style."  Let's do it.  And we can name the show, "You Better Run Fast, 'Cause That Starved Feline is Going to Eat You A#%."  I would't have any false advertising.  If you have the audacity to incorrectly sing 'Eye of the Tiger', or show up to my contest wearing a blazer with pointed shoulder pads, you best run.
I have to go figure out my theme song for my new show, and contact my boys Siegfried and Roy to see if I can borrow one of their tigers.  I hear one is rather feisty.   (<---I know that is bad.  Really, really bad.  But funny.  And true.  And we all know I'm all about the truth).  :)

Get a job!

This is what Lenny and I tell our boys on a daily basis.  And by "boys" I mean our two fur children, Bentley and Barkley.  I have long ago imagined that if my two furry chicken nuggets were able to be gainfully employed, they would be working at the Home Depot.  Why?  Because they both would look adorable in orange smocks, that's why.  And the "r" in Barkley's name would be written backwards.  Before you (continue) to judge me and think I'm a total nutbag, I've decided to throw my husband under the crazy bus, right along with me.  This is a conversation we had just the other night:
Me (to my boys): "Go get a job.  I hear the Home Depot is hiring."
Barkley and Bentley's response: *Bentley continues to chase reflections gleaming from the Christmas tree lights, and Barkley brings me his bouncy ball, because they both are masters at changing the subject.  They enjoy being given a free ride.*
Me (to Lenny): I think Barkley would work in the power tools section, and Teeny would work with the plants.  What to you think?"
Lenny: *with a "are you kidding me?" stare:  "Wrong.  Barkley would work in the lumber section, and Teeny would obviously work with the paints.  Obviously."
You thought his stare was going to indicate that my husband thought I was nuts, didn't you?  Negative.  He encourages this crazy like it's going out of style.  :)
And I apologize for the delay in posting, but truth be told it's huntin' season around here, and I've been busy. Nooooo, I don't hunt.  I just spend most of my evenings decked out in camouflage that I picked up on the clarence rack at Cabella's, and I hide behind trees and scare strangers.  I will try to be more diligent in updating my posts more frequently, but it's hard work blending in with a pile of leaves, but somebody's got to do it.

I brake for dragonflies

The above title is actually true.  You see, I adore animals.  Furry ones, winged ones, even dragonfly-y ones.  Whenever the ASPCA commercial is on that features Sarah McLachlan, I have to put the t.v. on mute, and bury my head in the couch cushions.  She has even inspired Teeny's bath time song (Teeny is Bentley... don't want there to be any confusion about that one...).  I sing "In the Arms of an Angel" at the top of my lungs, because he looks like a pathetic wet rat, with big brown peepers that say, "You are a cruel, cruel woman, Mama.  I currently hate you. Don't spray the noggin.  Don't spray the noggin.  Don't spr-Argh.  She sprayed the noggin."  Whenever I am driving along and I pass by horses, puppies, bunnies, or geese, I always exclaim the obvious.  Leonard and I could be having an intense conversation about pajama jeans, and I will without hesitation interrupt him by shouting with glee, "Oh!  Ponies!"  Of course the man is used to this by now so it doesn't even register with him that I am easily distracted by adorableness.  I have also come to the realization that not everyone is used to this part of my charm.  A while back I was driving with a few friends, and we drove past a herd of cattle.  Midway through my rant about Justin Bieber's bangs, I shouted, "Oh! COWS!"  and then went right on back to how I think he should decorate said bangs with a bow.  The two lovelies that I was driving with burst into laughter, and looked at me like I was insane.
A couple of years ago I watched this movie called "Dead and Breakfast".  It was a cinematic delight, I tell you, but there was one character in the movie that has always stuck with me.  I forget his name, but his character would jot down the types of roadkill that he would see along the side of the road, so he could say a prayer for them later on in the day.  The other characters thought the guy was a weirdo for doing this, but I say nothing wrong with it.  Now, I don't have a roadkill list, per say, but whenever I do see a small (or large) creature laying in the middle of the road with a tire print down its' back, I literally make a frowny face, say something the lines of, "poor baby", and then have a teeny tiny urge to find the person that ran them over, and punch them.  Now I do know that sometimes you can't break for an animal darting into the road, because you can cause more damage to you (or another car), but I just can't help myself for feeling awful for the four-legged smooshers.  I am guilty of being a Michelin murdered, and I have cried each and every time it has happened.  I have smooshed birds that have swooped down in front of my car, bats that have flown into my car, and a squirrel who decided to play chicken against my automobile.  And every single time I have either called up my mother or my husband to confess my vehicular sins, and every single time I can hear them holding back their laughter as I sob over the fact that Mr. Nuts will never be able to complete his squirrel destiny.
So if you ever find yourself driving behind a Jetta that has a bumper sticker that says, "I break for honey badgers", give yourself at least a 100 foot distance from my car.  :)

Shake It Like A Polaroid Picture and Kickin' Buckets

I hope you are singing the song now.  Out loud.  And proud.  And I also hope you are shaking an imaginary polaroid picture around in your hand as you are singing the song.  Lord knows I do each and every time.  Even when I'm car dancing.  I think people mostly think I'm swatting at killer bees or flies, but truth be told I am just jamming out to my imaginary boyfriend Andre 3000's sweet, sweet tune.  Right now you are (hopefully) thinking to yourself, "Why the is she talking about this?", and then you smack your forehead because you then remember that this blog is dedicated to all things random.  Specifically my random, pointless thoughts.  Let me 'splain.  The other day I was driving home from work and this particular song came on.  And like always I sang it at the top of my lungs, and shook my pretend polaroid picture.  And then it happened.  I now knew what song I want played during my funeral.  Can't you just imagine it?  Me. Laying there decked out in my prom dress and tiara, surrounded by roses and lilacs (but not carnations.  NEVER carnations.  Right Brooke? 'Cause you know that I'll come back and haunt your a**), and all of my minions will be dancing around like fools, all the while shaking imaginary pictures.  GLOR. I. OUS.  Now I know that this is slightly morbid.  Okay, it's super creepy and gross, but as God as my witness, this actual thought popped into the old learning nugget, and I thought, "Whomp.  There it is."  Before I always felt that a somber tune should be played (I always imagined something from the Titanic soundtrack, perhaps), and people should throw themselves on top of my casket while sobbing uncontrollably.  And then I had my polaroid epiphany, and thought, "Nahhhh." I mean, if you rearrange the letters in "funeral" you get "real fun".  *Ba-da-bump*  People already associate the ridiculous with me, so why should it be any different when I kick the bucket and get ready to play the harp with angels, and bounce on a cloud?
So when I'm a hundred and twelve, and my Spanx are losing their elastic give, and my BINGO dabbers have run dry, I hope you all shake it.  Sha-sha-shake it.  Shake it like a polaroid picture, just for me. :)
I leave you with the all time greatest song in the world.  IN. THE. WORLD.

Not Your Typical Halloweener

It's that time of year again, where pumpkins are carved, the undead roam the earth, and women display their own pumpkins while being "dressed" up as a pirate, and aren't afraid to show off their parrot. (I use "dressed" loosely.)  I, however,  am not one of those women.  Hardly.  First of all, it really wasn't until this year that I actually enjoyed the thought of Halloween.  Typically I would barely acknowledge the day.  If Lenny and I bought pumpkins, they were bought for the purpose to decorate our porch for Thanksgiving.  I saw no real need in purchasing Halloween decorations, and the thought of getting dressed up seemed ridiculous.  This year was a whole other story.  Suddenly I was covering every nook and cranny with fake spider webs.  We bought a 100 pack of plastic spiders, and I used them.  All of them.  I made my poor husband twist his body into Gumby proportions, so I could outline his body with red electrical tape, so that my foyer resembled a crime scene.  I cut mouse silhouettes until my fingers cramped, and the old arthritis kicked in, and we toasted apples in the oven so that we could  float shrunken apple noggins in a batch of fresh apple cider.   Just what is going on here?!  Could it be that I was possessed by the H-ween spirit?  Did Martha Stewart somehow channel a part of herself into me?  I think I'll just blame it on the hard cider....  But back to the topic of costumes.  I have never, nor will I ever, dress up in a leotard with fishnets for a holiday that I feel should be more hilarious, than ho-ish.  First of all leotards should only be worn while either a) exercising, or b) you are a part of a jazz dance ensemble and are displaying spirit fingers.  Second of all, there is no such thing as a "sexy pirate".  Pirates were/are dirty and gross.  They sailed the high seas for months on end, and trust me, they didn't have an opportunity to soak in a jet tub, or have Calgon take them away.  If anything, if I'm going to be a pirate, I would do my best as displaying the fact that I have scurvy, and my teeth are rotting out of my head because I haven't had the chance to water-pick those joints in a few weeks.  Maybe I take things too literal, or maybe I just don't enjoy the fact that my pumpkin patch might catch a draft because my bumblebee tutu is too short.  I read an article the other day that said a persons Halloween costume says a lot about a person.  The holiday gives people the opportunity to pretend to be something that they aren't.  It gives someone the chance to be sexy, or voyeuristic.  Or if you want to pretend to be a mass murderer, have at it.  But then I reviewed my costumes from the past two years (I did get a little into the holiday last year), and I thought to myself, "Wah-oh."


Here is a picture from last year:

You see, my husband and I wanted to have a "pair" costume, so we decided to be the White Trash Twins, Carl & Karl.  I was a dude.  That wore jorts.  I'm trying to figure out what this costume says about me, and the only thing that I could come up with is that I'm awesome.

And then there was this year.  Would Lenny and I be The Captain and Teneal?  Ketchup and Mustard? A sassy plug and outlet?  Nope.

We were Pork and Beans.  

So next year, if the spirit strikes me again, don't be on the lookout for me being dressed up as a naughty nurse, or a sassy dinosaur.  But if you happen to see two "dudes" wearing super sweet mullet wigs and handlebar 'staches, dressed up as Jon Baker and Ponch from CHiPS, it'll probably be Lenny and me. :)

Happy Halloweenie, Friends!

Hogs, pretzels, and star fish

I'm not going to lie... Lately my brain feels as if it has been sucked dry of any and all things that are considered random/funny/pointless.  I don't know why.  My exhaustion and lack luster blogging approach could be because I have been busy with life.  You know how it is.  The never ending cycle of work, laundry, paying bills, and being on a life mission of finding the perfect unitard that both accentuates the positives, AND sparkles.  It's a tough combo.  And incredibly time consuming.  So as I sit back in my chaise lounge while donning a uni that neither sparkles nor accentuates the goods, I thought to myself, "Self.  What ARE you going to blather on about today?"  And then I answered myself, "Well self, there isn't a whole lot to share at the moment.  I don't think people will find it especially interesting how I discovered another gray particle that tries to pull itself off as a hair, or that I have never gotten over the fact that NEVER ONCE during a Romper Room episode was my name ever mentioned.  Ever."  And then I give myself a hug, and remind myself that I AM somebody.  From that point on it just becomes awkward.  The only thing that has popped up in this random magnificent bean is how my husband continuously hogs all of the sheets and sprawls like a starfish, so that I spend most nights  having a toasty warm big toe, and not much else.  And because of his sheet stealing ways, the blankets end up resembling a pretzel.  Here's the problem, and random fact number 352 about me:
If the blankets and sheets on my bed are not smoothed and tucked, I will not, and cannot sleep.  When I was a kid my mother would have to tuck me in at night, and I use the term "tuck" loosely.  You see, I wouldn't be able to fall asleep unless I was swaddled like an infant.  The blankets had to practically cut off circulation before I was pleased.  Garfield's face had to resemble that of one that had received copious amounts of Botox, because it was pulled so tight.  Now, I'm not as bad now, but if the sheets are in a bunch, so is my attitude.  What usually occurs is something like this:  Lenny is happily entangled in the blankets, not giving a care in the world that his wife is having a meltdown over the fact that the sheets are unsleepable.  As he rests in his slumber I typically yank the blankets and sheets with all of my might, as he rolls like a log, teetering precariously close to the edge of the bed.  In my huff I fluff the sheets and blankets, attempting to smooth them out, and then eventually lay back down having the bedding just so.  The funniest part is, as I'm having an adult temper tantrum, Leonard continues to snooze like a happy star fish.  *sigh*  He's lucky he's a cute star fish.
So there you have it.  I told you I'm lack luster, so sorry if this post was a colossal failure.
Until next time, friends. I bid you, adieu.  :)
Redemption!  Here is a clip of Romper Room.  Notice how my name is not mentioned.  And yes, it still pisses me off.  Sonofabitch: