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 |  Middle-Age Spread is NOT a Condiment!
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| This is my second attempt at keeping a daily blog. I'm hoping I will be able to enter something everyday, just to keep my creative juices flowing. I plan on writing about my day, and infusing it with my "quirky" way of viewing things. If you read my blog for a few days, you'll see what I'm talking about. I'm in my fifties and see things slightly different than mainstream. Hopefully you will enjoy what you read, and maybe even get a laugh or two along the way. |
| I love my crockpot. That's a weird statement to make, isn't it? I bet you don't hear too many young people making that remark. But, it's true. It makes life so convenient for me. You just throw whatever it is you're making into it, turn it on and forget about it - all day. How great is that? The only reason that I am carrying-on about it is because yesterday we messed up - dinner-wise. I took a roast out of the freezer and it never defrosted in time for dinner. I know I could have defrosted it in the microwave, but I don't like defrosting meat that way. It seems to draw the blood and other juices out of the meat. It sits there in a puddle of mixed fluids. Yuck! To be perfectly honest with you, I really didn't feel like making a roast. However, I am so regimented with my weekly menu that I had to follow it. The menu said 'roast beef', therefore, out of the freezer it came. Since we couldn't eat the roast, we had to have something else. We ended-up eating the absolutely artery-clogging McDonald's. What a disappointment that was. The McDonald's that my husband went to is not far from our house. Maybe a five minute drive. When he brought the food home the fries were cold and hard, and the burger was like shoe leather. Not that I really know what shoe leather tastes like. Then again, after that meal, I do. I haven't had fast food in a long time. It's just something we don't eat. It is very rare, and usually out of desperation. Like yesterday when the roast wasn't defrosted in time. But it re-confirms my opinion that it just isn't good food. I feel sorry for people who eat it on a regular basis and think it is. I could understand children liking it, after all, they get a prize in their Happy Meals. I think I should get some kind of prize for eating their food and living to tell about it too. Why not hand-out free movie rentals, or something like that? Believe me, you deserve a prize for eating that food. Back to my crockpot. This morning I will throw some vegetables and the roast in it, and we will have a hassle-free dinner tonight. Not only that, it will be ready when we walk in the door. Whoever invented the crockpot should have gotten the Nobel Prize, or some other prestigious award. Okay, I know I am over the top on that statement. In fact, I should just end this now before I start sounding too odd. I hope I don't write an Ode to My Oven tomorrow. Have a great day! |
| What is the deal with the young guys that stand in the middle of the mall selling hand cream? I walked past one about a month ago and he stopped me to ask if my nails were real. Not knowing where this was leading, I answered "yes". He asked to see my hand, and I mechanically held it out for him to look at. He immediately grabbed it. I kept saying, "I'm not interested", but this didn't deter him. "Dahling, what do you do for a living? Where do you work?" I stupidly answered his questions, and again told him I wasn't interested. The whole time I'm trying to walk away from him, but he holds firm to my hand. Meanwhile I'm wondering where the hell my husband is. "Dahling your hands are so rough," he said to me. I finally managed to wriggle my hand free and walk away. There at the pretzel stand stood my husband shoving his face with a mustard-laden soft pretzel. "Thanks a lot", I said. "I got one for you," he answered. When I told him what I meant, and what happened, he was unsympathetic. "Why didn't you just walk away?" he asked. "Why weren't you there to tell him to hit the road?" On subsequent visits to the mall I have seen this same guy hawking his hand cream. My daughter and I go out of our way to avoid him. If he is on the left side of the mall, we walk on the right. However, my last trip to the mall I couldn't avoid him. There he stood at the main entrance. This time, I was ready for him. As I walked past he said, "Dahling can I ask you a question?" I firmly replied "NO!" and kept walking, with my hands in my pockets. I don't like someone half my age calling me "Dahling". Is this supposed to make me feel special? Is this supposed to put me in some kind of a spell to the point where I buy his hand cream? Does he think that I am that desperate for attention that I would buy his stupid hand cream just because he called me "Dahling"? The thing is, maybe his hand cream is the best thing in town. However, I would never stop to look at it after my experience with him. No means no, buddy! |
| I've been missing in action for the past two days because I haven't been feeling well. I think it is the medication my doctor gave me. That's why you haven't heard from me. Hopefully, I'm back in action. Below is my entry for today. Not one of my better ones, I admit. Still, I hope you enjoy it. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to watch our local PBS station, and, yes, they were in the midst of their quarterly 'beg-athon'. This took me back to my single days. When I was single and had nothing to do on a Saturday, I would watch our local PBS station. They would run six episodes of the original 'Star Trek' series. That means six hours of going 'where no man has gone before'. This was my company for the evening. I sat and watched them faithfully on those lonely Saturday nights. During one of their beg-athons, they weren't receiving the number of pledges they needed to keep 'Star Trek' as their Saturday evening programming. They actually threatened to cancel the series. "No other PBS station runs 'Star Trek'," they said. I panicked. What would I do if they stopped showing 'Star Trek'? How would I pass the time on my empty Saturday nights? I quickly dialed the number to make a pledge. There was no way that I could allow them to cancel my favorite show. I made my pledge and was told I would receive tickets for the upcoming 'Star Trek' Convention. I never considered myself to be that intense of a fan, but I thought it would be interesting to see what one of the conventions was like. I asked a guy that I knew to go with me. He was the type of guy who would have gone anywhere with me. Although he wasn't crazy about the idea, he accepted. Anything to spend a day with me, I guess. When we arrived, the place was crawling with people wearing Klingon costumes, Federation uniforms, and carrying phasers. I felt slightly under dressed in my jeans and sweater. We spent the day looking at 'Star Trek' memorabilia, going to an auction, and, generally people watching. It was a fun day. Soon it was time for the finale. William Shatner, Captain Kirk himself, was to be the guest speaker. Everyone filed into the auditorium hours before his actual appearance. My guy-friend and I ended-up in the nose-bleed section of the auditorium. Finally Shatner appeared on-stage. The crowd went wild. They gave him a five minute standing ovation and flashbulbs blinked constantly. We were speechless. This scene was surreal. You would have thought the Queen of England was on stage. After a brief, very brief I might add, talk, Shatner was finished. I was underwhelmed by him. The day was over and we left. I thought that would be the end of my 'Star Trek' convention experiences. I was wrong. Two years later, Leonard Nimoy was scheduled to appear at the convention. I had to see Spock. By this time I had a new boyfriend that I dragged with me. The day was the same as the previous convention. There were vendors selling memorabilia and there was an auction. But this time there was a twist in the action. There would be a costume judging contest. Klingons, Aliens, Federation wannabes all stood on stage for the judging. The winner would receive tickets to the next convention. These people were die-hard fans. They could quote episode numbers, titles and explain stuff like "The Organian Peace Treaty'. I was no where near their level of dedication. I could hold my own in a conversation with them, but I couldn't tell you 'stardates' or what Kirk's brother's name was. At the finale, Nimoy came on stage, and again, the crowd went wild. Flashbulbs flashed, the standing ovation lasted forever, and finally it was time for him to speak. He was wonderful to the fans. He stayed after his speech to sign autographs. I thought it would be cool to get one, so I bought a Spock photograph for him to sign. To my surprise, the line was practically out the door. Some people had forgone hearing him speak so they could stand in line to get his autograph. We tried to cut in line, but almost got into a fight. So, my boyfriend and I decided to sign each others photograph with, "Live Long and Prosper, Leonard Nimoy." Who would ever know that it wasn't really his autograph? We would just show family and friends anyway. What a great day. When I tell my husband and daughter about my 'Star Trek' convention experiences, they look at each other and roll their eyes. I've even caught them mouthing the word 'nerd' to each other. My local PBS station no longer runs 'Star Trek' on Saturday nights. Too bad. I miss watching them. Besides, I haven't been to a convention in over twenty years. It would be interesting to see how they've changed, if they did at all. 'Live long and prosper'. |
| The other night, sitting at a school function, I watched the other parents filing into the auditorium. I was appalled at the way they were dressed. Not that this was a 'black tie' affair and everyone was expected to wear formal attire. It wasn't that kind of an event. But sweatpants? When did sweatpants become acceptable to wear to social functions, shopping and day-to-day life? How did we get to this point. Unless you just came from the gym or a jog around the neighborhood, there is no reason to wear sweatpants in public. I don't mean to sound like a snob, but I really am tired of seeing people dressed sloppily. It doesn't stop with sweatpants. Oh no. Sneakers also have made there way into everyday society. I used to wear sneakers when I was doing some kind of physical activity: exercising, yard work, cleaning, or moving. Maybe they're acceptable now because they are called 'athletic shoes'. The 'shoes' part of it means you can wear them to everything. Even at church, the dress code has changed. I like to check-out the teenage acolyte. Flip flops in church? Chewing gum as they light the candles? What is that all about? Didn't somebody mention that this is church and not a day at the beach? I want to scream, "Spit out that gum!" Is this a symptom of what our society has become? Wear whatever you want - it's a free country. Well, excuse me, but Nascar hats don't belong at social functions, restaurants or church. Most of the time these hats look like they've been soaking in a bucket of grease. And t-shirts aren't acceptable either. Especially ones that look like you ate something that dripped grease down the front of it. And how about a comb? They still sell them in stores. I've seen them. But still people walk around with their hair sticking-up, looking knotty and ratty. Is this considered a 'style'? Who started this trend? Are you that lazy that you can't run a comb through your hair? Do you realize how disturbing you look? And while I'm ranting and raving - doesn't anyone own an iron? Why do I see young girls wearing shirts that look like they were crumpled up into a ball? I know I'm going to sound 'old', but in my day, you dressed neatly when you went out in public. There was a sense of pride in your appearance. I don't see that anymore. We dress like we just don't care. I swear some people look like they roll out of bed and leave their homes with their pajamas on. I miss the days when men dressed-up, and women wore nice, coordinated outfits with a nice pair of shoes. There are still a few of us around, but we are a small majority who has learned to keep our mouths shut since we now live in a "do whatever you want" society. I think it's time we speak-up. I'm tired of my eyes being assaulted with the sense of style, or lack thereof, of those around me. Wake-up - and get dressed neatly. |
| I'm having an anti-social day. The kind of day where I don't want to go anywhere, talk to anyone, or deal with any of the day-to-day mundane routine of life. Today I just want to be left alone - all day. In that vein, the weird workings of my mind came up with the realization that I could definitely see myself living as a hermit. Don't get me wrong, I don't think I could be the cave-dwelling garden variety hermit. Afterall, where would I plug in my hairdryer? How would I recharge my cellphone? How would I nuke my Lean Cuisine? Besides, hermits are never depicted as women. But I could see myself living in the middle of nowhere, with no contact from the outside world - unless I wanted it - and no daily hassles of making a living. My groceries would be delivered to me, and I would buy everything I wanted online, or from QVC. I would develop a taste for such shows as soap operas and 'The Jerry Springer Show'. I could be an oddball, a 'character', a person that people would be afraid to approach. You know, the house that no one goes to on Halloween because of the weird old lady who lives in it. That could be me. I want to apply for that job. This is a running joke in my family - that I will be a 'Crazy Cat Lady' when I am old. The other day I complained about my weight and my husband said, "You're going to be a skinny little old lady with five cats." Five cats? I was thinking more like fifteen. My daughter complains that I "took over" her cat. I can't help it. Every cat that comes within 20 yards of me falls into some kind of spell and is drawn to me. I have some kind of magical cat voodoo they can't resist. For example, whenever we look at kittens in a pet shop, they all walk over to where I am, no matter how many people are looking at them. They meow for my attention, ignoring everyone else. It's as if I am their leader. So you see, collecting cats would not be a problem for me either. All I have to do is stand on my back porch and every stray cat within a 50 mile radius is drawn to me. Currently, I have one cat for the collection - the one I 'took over' from my daughter. I found her hiding under our shed in the backyard. Since then, we've seen other stray cats in our backyard, driveway and hedges. It's that cat voodoo of mine they can't resist. How come I never had this problem when I was single and looking for a mate? Why doesn't this magnetism translate over to people? Why just cats? It's easy for me to imagine a life with a houseful of cats, each with a crazy name like Mrs. Beasley, or Miss Marple. Cat fur would constantly float through the air, and everything that I cooked would accidently have a nice dose of cat fur in it. To save money, I would probably eat catfood too. Even now, whenever I open a can of catfood I look at it to see if it is something I could eat - for future reference. (Fancy Feast looks like it would be good on a cracker.) I would have conversations with my cats and be convinced they are talking back to me. If I can't be a hermit, then I could be the "Crazy Cat Lady" who lives down the road. |
| As I sit at my computer, typing away, the wind is howling outside. Today there is an extreme wind advisory for our area. Yesterday wasn't much better. Two seconds in the wind, and my hair looked like squirrels ran through it. I hate, I mean HATE, the wind. What it does to what I call 'my hairstyle' is nothing less than a crime. I spend a decent amount of time every morning trying to get my hair into some semblance of a 'style'. I make sure nothing is sticking up, or out, and that it is brushed into order. It takes me longer to do my hair than anything else. Hell, I've cooked a turkey dinner in less time than it takes to fix my hair. Two seconds in the wind and I can kiss all that work, and my hairstyle, goodbye. I try to combat the hairstyle ruining effects of the wind by using extra hairspray - like half a can. (Don't tell anyone, but I'm pretty sure that hole in the ozone layer was caused by me and my hairspray consumption.) I buy the industrial strength hairspray. You know, the 'hair freeze', or the 'extreme hold' varieties. This usually works for those quick gusts of wind that come up out of no where. My hairspray holds firm. However, if the wind is a never-ending gust, even my hairspray can't help me. My husband tells me to buy a hat. Yeah right. A hat would work - sure it would. First of all, a hat would do just as much damage to my hairsyle as the wind, so what would be the point of that? Secondly, they don't even make a hat that is 'hairstyle friendly'. Have you seen some of the winter hats that they sell nowadays? They are all skull-grabbing, hairstyle wasting, knit things. And finally, I don't have a 'hat head'. Some people can really wear a hat and it looks good on them. I admire people like that because I am not one of them. Sure I've passed those cute looking summer hats at my local department store. I've even stopped and tried a few on. The results are less than attractive. I have the type of head that hats just sit there looking goofy. Besides, I don't feel comfortable wearing a hat. I feel as though people are looking at me thinking, "She looks really stupid with that hat on her head." Or, "Who told her she looked good wearing a hat?" In case you were wondering, yes, I am vain. The wind is still howling and gusting. I have two full cans of hairspray ready and waiting for me this morning and I'm prepared to use them. Both cans if necessary. Why do I have the nagging feeling that Al Gore will be knocking on my door with a camera crew in tow? |
| This past week I was informed that I needed to attend a meeting in a nearby county. I'll be the only one from my office attending the meeting, so carpooling is out of the question. The drive will be over an hour long and I have no idea where I am going, or how to get there. Chances are good that I will get lost. This got me to thinking of how I refuse to stop and ask for directions. This is very 'man-like' I know, but it is one thing that men do that I fully understand. To me, and I'm guessing men too, stopping to ask for directions is like sending up a red flag telling the world "Duh! I don't know where I am. I'm stupid." My reason for not asking for directions is I know I will eventually find my way if I just keep driving. Of course this line of reasoning has its drawbacks. I always find my way, but sometimes it takes me a little while. Like two or three hours. For example, the last time I had to attend a meeting in the same county I got there without any problems. It was the drive back to the office that threw me for a loop. How is it I can find my way there, but end up getting lost on the return trip? All I had to do was follow the reverse directions that I printed from the internet. Somehow, this didn't work for me. I drove around the county looking for a familiar sign that would definitively show me the correct way. Road numbers and East and West were all I could see. These meant nothing to me. I had no idea which way to take, so I did the old standby - eenie, meenie, mynie, moe. Off I went in, what proved to be, the wrong direction. I passed acres of farmland with cows lazily grazing in fields. This would have been a relaxing ride had I not been expected back at the office. Eventually I came to a wildlife preserve. I have no idea how I ended-up there and wouldn't be able to find my way there again if I tried. I had to slam the brakes to avoid hitting two deer that decided to cross in front of me. I was the only car on this road, couldn't they wait until I passed? At this point I had a meltdown. Afterall, I was driving around lost for over an hour. If I wanted to ask someone for directions now, I couldn't. There was no one around, and I hadn't seen another vehicle on the road for the past half hour. Road signs were non-existant too, as I hadn't seen one of them for quite awhile either. I pulled myself together, turned my car around, and drove off into the unknown. Finally, I saw a sign. I pulled up to read it, and my mouth dropped open; my chin almost hitting my lap. The sign read "Maryland 11 miles". Now I knew I was in big trouble. I had been driving south the whole time, when I should have been driving north. I thought to myself, "On the bright side you now know to go left instead of right." Unfortunately, it was already past two o'clock and I knew that I wouldn't make it back to the office until five, which is closing time. I quickly whipped-up a lie and called the office to tell them I was stuck in a long line of traffic and "from the looks of it, I'm going to be here awhile." It worked. Now I concentrated on how to get home. Three quarters of a tank of gas later, I pulled into my driveway. What a ride. After all of that you would think that I overcame my reluctance to stop and ask for directions, but I know I haven't. All I can say is, I hope the deer that I saw my last trip to this county learned how to cross the road since our last encounter. |
| Lately, I've become aware of, what seems like, a multitude of places that I no longer belong. Places that I used to frequent, when I was younger, but now feel like a 'fish out of water'. For example, my daughter, who is eleven, asked me to take her to the music store. She wanted to buy a CD of her favorite group. I happily, or should I say 'sappily', walked into the store only to have my ears assaulted with the wailing sounds of the latest number one singer. While my daughter looked for the CD, I decided to look for one of my favorites from the 80's. As I flipped through the CD's a rough-looking teenager, with numerous piercings and tattooes, walked over to where I stood. He had a t-shirt that said "You're Ugly". Nice. Since I couldn't find my group in the current selections, I decided to look in the "Classic Rock" offerings, which were near the "Oldies". I couldn't find what I was looking for, so I decided to ask the Sales Associate (they used to be called 'sales clerks' in my day) for help. He, too, had numerous piercings and tattoes. He smirked and said, "All we have are collections of 80's music over by the Oldies." I walked over to where my daughter was and passed three teenage girls with their stomachs bare and their butts sticking out of their jeans. They, too, had piercings and tattooes. I looked around the store and realized that my daughter and I were the only ones that didn't have piercings all over our faces or tattooes adorning various parts of our bodies. The arcade is another place that I no longer feel comfortable. When I was a young adult, I could spend quite a few quarters on Centipede or Ms. Pacman. If they have these games at all, they are stationed at the very back of the acrcade. There's no line waiting to play them. Nowadays, the lines form for DDR MAX, the dancing game, which is at the very front of the arcade. Have you seen this game? Loud music eminates from it, and kids stand on a platform and watch arrors float on the screen. The idea is to move your feet in the direction of the arrows. You need a lot of energy to play this game. I break-out in a sweat just watching my daughter. My sister, who is ten years younger than me, asked me to have a drink with her at a club I used to frequent years ago. Excited to see the place after so many years, I agreed. As soon as I walked in the door, I realized that I am too old to be hanging out in a bar. The place was swarming with young people who, you guessed it, had tattooes and piercings. They looked at me like I'm someone's mother, which I am. The music was too loud and not very good, in my opinion. I asked the bartender for a White Russian and he told me they didn't have any milk. My sister suggested we have a shot called "A Slippery Nipple". I felt stupid asking for it, but the bartender didn't bat an eye. Apparently this is a popular drink. They cost $16 which blew me away. I remember spending five dollars on two shots. I overheard some of the conversations going on around me and longed for the days when I too, had the freedom, the money, and the stamina, to spend all night at a club. I could go on and on about other instances of feeling like a fish out of water, but won't. It's way too depressing. I guess Thomas Wolfe was right when he said "you can't go home again". But, maybe if I get some tattooes and piercings, let my belly and butt hang out of my jeans, and learn the words to today's incoherent music, I would fit in. What do you think? Should I call my local tattoo/piercing parlor? Have a great day! |
| Tomorrow I'm heading to the mall to catch some of the 'end of season' sales that all of the stores are having. I'm looking forward to it, but then again I'm not. I say that because there is so much involved with going to the mall. You can't just go to the mall and shop. My typical shopping trip goes something like this: First I have to find a parking space, and no matter how early I get there, I always seem to end up at the very end of the parking lot. After hiking a mile to the mall doors, I walk inside and the place is crawling with people. Everyone else wants to catch the end of season sales too. Great. Zig-zagging my way through the crowd, I finally make it to the store where I wanted to shop. I walk inside and the music is blaring. I can't hear myself think, or talk to the person who is with me. "What did you say? I can't hear you." Why is the music so loud in some stores? It's never music that I listen to, so, I start to think that maybe I'm in a store that is for younger people. Once I look at the clothing I realize I'm right. All of the clothes are for women with flat stomachs and who wear a size zero. Apparently these women also like to wear clothes that look like they were found in the dumpster behind the store. The jeans have rips, tears, and other signs of wear and the tops are faded and sheer. Discouraged, and wanting to save what hearing I have left, I leave the store. I walk to the other end ot the mall to see what my favorite department store has. As luck would have it, there's a shoe sale going on. I walk over to the rack that has my size, drooling at the prices that I pass; 50% off, 75% off. I can't wait to see what they have in my size. Rounding the end of the rack, poof!, the aisle is swarming with women. At first I wait patiently, but patience is something that I've always wanted to work on, but never had the patience to. Besides, some of these women are just 'mooning' over the shoes. They aren't seriously going to buy them. So, I push my way through and find a spot where I can stand and see what is left. The selection is disappointing. Most of these shoes look like they've been around quite a few seasons. However, there is one pair left that looks like my style. I can't reach them because there is a little old lady, around 90, who is looking at them. There is no way in hell that she is going to buy these shoes, but she tries them on, walks over to the mirror to look at her feet, looks at the price again, then back to the mirror. This goes on for what seems like forever, which, in reality is probably only five minutes. As soon as she takes them off and returns them to the shelf, I grab them and three other pair that are perfect for me. Upon closer inspection, they aren't my size. Someone had put them on the wrong rack. It turns out there aren't any shoes that I like. As soon as I return them to the correct rack, the little old lady snatches them and shoots me a dirty look. I walk over to the clothing department trying to regain some of my momentum. The clothes are all half on, half off the hangers. Everything looks sloppy and previously worn. Again, I start to lose my patience as I look at one top, then another and another. Dissatisfied, I walk over to the handbag department. The handbag department is having a big sale too. However, as I glance at the choices, again I am disappointed. What kind of woman uses those little handbags that are no bigger than a pack of tissues and the straps are so short the purse sits at your armpit? Where do you put your medium-sized cosmetic bag, eyeglasses, wallet-combination checkbook, coupon caddy, pill case for your daily medication, and pocket calendar? Where are 'the suitcases' (as my husband calls them) that I like to carry. You know the ones I mean. They are the huge bags that have room for everything but the kitchen sink. I don't see any of those, just bags that look like something you would carry to the beach. I decide to check out the jewelry department. Again I see sales prices that are too good to be true. Once I look at what is on sale, I can understand why. Everything is picked-over. Necklaces are tangled together and earrings are missing their partners. I can't find anything. As I walk past the men's department I remember that my husband requested socks and underwear. I dive between the sportcoats and make my way to that section. No one is shopping in the men's department so I can look at whatever I want without waiting or fighting my way to it. I grab a pack of underwear and some socks and I'm on my way in no time. I next head to the housewares department. I figure if I can't find something to wear, maybe I can find something to make my kitchen duties easier. Of course, I don't see any sales tags on the items that I want. The crockpots, toaster ovens and waffle irons are priced way too much. Or at prices that I don't want to pay is closer to the truth. I leave the housewares department empty handed too. As I make my way out of the department store, I pass the lingerie. What the heck. I stop and look at the offerings there. This only discourages me more, but on a different level. Here I am reminded of things I used to be able to wear. The sexy teddies, skimpy-little babydoll sets, and sheer bras and panties all mock me as I stand there looking at them. As I walk away, empty-handed yet again, I console myself with the thought "When would I wear it?" I leave the mall and make my way to the parking lot. I try to remember where I parked, but can't. I walk around aimlessly pushing the 'unlock' button on my little remote hoping to see the familiar flicker of headlights. People pass me with smirks on their faces knowing that I am stupid enough to forget where I parked. Finally I find my car and I'm on my way. I sit in the line of traffic with only the small bag of socks and underwear for my husband. The trip was a flop. Hope you all have a great day! |
| I'm kind of stuck on what to write, and whenever that happens, I end-up making a list. This morning this came to mind. Maybe you'll find a thing or two on the list that you hate too. 1. I hate when I think I washed all of the dishes, turn my back to clean a counter, then find more dishes in the sink - where did they come from? 2. Clowns - I just dislike them, and avoid them whenever I find myself in close proximity to them. To me, these entities always appear evil. 3. When I'm the only driver on a stretch of highway and all of a sudden another driver cuts me off, then turns off the road 4. When I'm sitting at a red light and look in my rearview mirror only to find the driver behind me picking his nose. 5. Lima Beans - I can't even look at them in the store without saying "YUCK" outloud. 6. When I go to the mall to buy something for myself, but can't find anything I like. I have the money, want to spend it, but can't. 7. Cleaning the house - I have to mentally prepare myself for this, every weekend. 8. Getting a run in a new pair of pantyhose, while putting them on - I hate pantyhose in general - who invented these things anyway? 9. Math - since sixth grade I hated math. If it requires more thought than adding, subtracting, multiplying and dividing - I'm sunk. 10. Driving somewhere that requires me to look at a map. I put map-reading in the same category as math. No matter how good the directions are, I always get lost. There it is. Not much of an entry, but the best I can do with my current state of mind. Have a great day! |
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