Friday, January 2, 2015

Plug This

I have too many cords. There's the cord to charge my personal laptop and the cord to charge my work laptop. There's a cord for my iPhone and one for my iPad. There's a cord for the keyboard that works with the iPad. There's a cord for the e-reader. There's a cord to charge the phone in the car. The cord for my new iPhone does not match the cord for my old iPhone. Same for the iPad. Add two more. You're getting my drift. And right about now you are wishing you could unplug me.

Below is the new and more descriptive definition of "cord":




1. A string like object encased in a plastic that houses electrical wires used for charging all your must have devices. Cords are many times unique to the object for which they were designed. Therefore, your typical household will accumulate 7000 to 10,000 cords over the span of five years. Cords have the ability to form complicated twists, turns, and knots with themselves and other cords if placed in a drawer overnight. Cords also have exceptional timing and will hide themselves right before you need them, especially if you are running late to work or an appointment. Cords mock you when you are not looking. They know that without them, you cannot power your FaceBook, Twitter, and Pintrest addictions. They are also aware that you will never dispose of them. Because at some point after they have outlived their usefulness, you will move them to a plastic storage bin where they will live in your attic or cellar for the duration of time. 

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Yes, But Emotionally I'm Only Twelve

Don’t you hate when someone asks you to guess how old she is? In my head I’m thinking “I don’t know. Eighty, eighty-five? You had 7 kids. And it shows.” My filter then engages and I give my best lowball guess.

When someone asks me how old I am and I tell them that I turned fifty a few months back, I usually get a “No way! I would have said you are _____!”. That makes me happy. Except when they fill in the blank with a stupid number like 45. Because if you are going to tell me that I don’t look my age, don’t tell me I look my age minus five years. That’s a back-handed compliment. It’s similar to when you say you like my haircut and then tell me you had the same style - in 1987. Nice, real nice. And stop staring at my argyle sweater.

Please remember that fifty is the new forty, forty is the new thirty, thirty is the new twenty. And if you are ten, you have not actually been born yet so stop whining about everything. You’ll get your chance soon enough. 

Sunday, November 23, 2014

I Will Break The Seal

Sealed for my protection? That's great. Thank you for doing that. I'll just peel the paper right off and pop a couple of these fish oil pills. After all, have to keep that good cholesterol level going strong.

Oops. Looks like that didn't work. Gosh darn it all. I'm tired, had a few beers, and all I really want to do is take these pills and hit the rack. What to do, what to do? Tweezers! Tweezers will work.  I'll just make a nice little hole in the middle and pull from there.

Or maybe I'll just rip the shit out of this seal for giving me such a freaking hassle at bed time.  A sealed lid, under which the pills hid, should not mess with this tired kid. Sleep tight!

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Your GPS Hates Boston

Driving around the suburbs of Boston last night, I remembered why I wanted to move to western Massachusetts and get the heck out of the city.  Please see above picture. That is what your GPS route will look like if you try to navigate from Waltham to Newton and then to the Mass Pike.

And this is how your GPS will sound:

  • In 500 feet, prepare to keep right.
  • Change of plans, prepare to keep left.
  • Shit. Left lane has suddenly disappeared off the satellite. Just keep going straight.
  • In 2 miles, prepare to exit the highway at Exit 22, 23, 24 to Route 90 Mass Pike westbound.
  • Did I mention it is a left lane exit and you are in a right turn only lane?
  • Where the fuck did the exit go? Route re-calculation.
  • Accident reported ahead. Estimated delay of 4 hours.
  • You look like you have to pee. Shall I find a rest stop?
  • Why are you crying?
  • I told you not to drive home at night in the rain from Boston.
  • What did you call me?

Monday, November 17, 2014

Bathroom Art

And the winner for best sanitary product dispenser decoupage is:

Hmmm. Do I want a napkin, a tampon, or a garden?  I'm wondering what's on the condom dispenser in the men's room. Bags of fertilizer?

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Stiffy vs The Shredder

My pal Stiffy is a take charge kind of gal. She doesn't let anything impede her forward progress, including office equipment malfunctions. When this pesky paper shredder jammed up the other day, Stiffy took action to show it who's boss.

First, she skipped the #1 universal law of unplugging something that uses moving razor sharp blades as part of its core functionality. To save time she also skipped the #2 universal law of do not stick metal objects (in this case scissors) into anything that is still plugged in.

The shredder was apparently agitated with this action as it quickly grabbed the scissors in retaliation. The scissors put up a valiant fight, pushing the stuck paper out of harms way, even as the blades kept whirling. When all was said and done, the jam was cleared, the shredder did not break, and Stiffy did not get electrocuted. The scissors however, did not fare as well.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Mass Interstate Toilet Etiquette. It's The Law!

Wow. This really put a damper on my bathroom stall plans. After cleaning up with some wipes, I had hoped to wash my hair, get rid of some expired aspirin, dispose of that bacon grease I had been carrying around in my jacket pocket for weeks, and finally say goodbye to the boxes of books I had in my trunk.

But seriously, I don't think this bathroom edict goes far enough. I would add other items one may have in the car and want to toss at the interstate rest stop toilet area.  These items include cigarette  butts, vodka bottles, chatty passengers, pizza boxes, old lottery tickets, and ex-husbands (I threw that one if for my pal Stiffy).

So remember, when you stop to relieve yourself in Massachusetts, you can park your ass but don't flush your trash.