What The Hell Is Wrong With People?

I don't feel like working so I'm playing on Google.  We all do it, don't act like it's just me.  I Googled "cats on a leash", yep, nothing funnier and boy did I find a good one.  Laughed so hard I emailed it to all my family and friends (we'll get back to that one).

While scrolling through some of the photos, I came across the turtle.  Seriously? How slow are you that you need to leash your turtle?!?

"We're going to check the mail, be back in six hours!"

You could open the door, take a nap, and beat him outside!  You could eat lunch and then take a nap, and still beat him out the door!!  What if he got scared?  Are you going to wait until his legs and head reappear or just drag him?

People carry their dogs in their purse, but you're going to put a leash on a turtle?  IT'S A TURTLE!

Then there's this:

Aquarium Magazine has an ad that sells these.  I didn't think I needed to comment, but I can't help myself!

That fish doesn't care to go for a walk, he doesn't have legs! In the natural order and setting of things, they avoid the sun!  What if you hit a bump?!?  Sidewalks have cracks you know!  And where's your pooper-scooper?

Then let's look at the owner.  He's wearing calf socks with sandals!  What sort of demographic are we selling to??  If this is what retirement communities in Florida are like, I'm moving to Canada!  It wouldn't look as insane to leash a moose!

Next we have:

It's a goose.  On a leash.  Wearing shoes.  What the Hell?  Are those actually Birkenstocks??  

Moving on.

REALLY??  ARE YOU KIDDING ME??

The "Snake Walker"? They sell these and people buy them?  Idiot.  I hope that guy gets bit on the butt.

Moving on!

Yeah, all right:

You certainly can't outrun that rabbit, so I'll let that one go, but it's still weird.

Finally:

Ok, so I've done some pretty weird things in my life, but I have NEVER tried to put a leash on my cat.  It's a cat.  Know why a cat won't walk on a leash?  Because he's a cat.  They don't do leashes, they don't listen to you, and you can't discipline them.  Ever try to tell a cat "No"?  They pee on your stuff.  Why?  Because they're a cat.  A cat knows what you're saying.  They're smarter than you, they openly choose to use their selective hearing.  

Notice how fast they come when you say "dinner", "nap", or "treat"?  Yeah, try telling them to stop eating the plant.  Ever get that "Go To Hell" look?  That's IF they bother to give it at all, usually they just continue to eat your plant.  Shoo them away and they'll go pee on something.  You can't shoo a cat.  You can't shush one either!  They get louder.

Because they're a cat!!

But by ALL means, please keep posting these pictures on the internet because I can't get enough of the idiots that try:

This article should have been titled Stupid People Doing Dumb things.  I think it qualifies, but I was too stunned at the ridiculous leashed pets posted on the internet.

The Demon Within

Cute isn't he?  That's Brady and that's his favorite thing to destroy.  We refer to him as The Demon, let me tell you why...

First you should know we lost my beloved cat last May.  I was devastated, I'd had him for almost sixteen years and he started with a toothache that the vet screwed up removing and he hemorrhaged nearly to death before we had to put him down.  Several trips to the emergency room, surgeries, medications, and then funeral costs drained us of all our savings.

Sidebar:  Pet insurance is worth the cost.

After crying for months, being sedated most of the time and put on antidepressants, I wasn't doing well.  One Saturday we went to buy dog bones and they had adoptions going on at the local Petsmart.  

There he was.  Looking directly at me.  I was instantly smitten.

We spent the week as a family discussing whether adopting would be a good idea because I still cried daily.  I was the only one for it. We talked for a couple of hours every day weighing pros and cons and everyone participated.  I was still the only one for it.  I told them, "If he is still there next Saturday, as cute as he is, it's meant to be and I'm adopting him."  I'd put my foot down.

He was still there, but little did we know what we would go through by taking him into our lives.

He started by attacking anything that moved with his laser sharp claws.  My thumb required stitches.  He dug the dirt out of every plant in the house, then frolicked in it to spread it around into the rugs really good.  That occurred three days in a row before I had to put plastic wrap around the pots.  He knocked everything off the tables, counters, and desks.  He terrorized my other pets (a cat and dog) until they were afraid of him.  He destroyed the bedspread with claw pulls. Ingested things that couldn't possibly be good for him and all of which I've never scooped out of the litter box.  He flung my wedding ring when I took it off to lotion my hands (it took two days to find it). He nearly destroyed our brand new leather living room set, not by scratching, but just from launching himself off of it and puncturing it with his claws. When he started ambushing people on the stairs we decided he needed to be de-clawed before someone really got hurt.

That took about two days to come to that decision and another eight to find a new veterinarian.  We are all very happy now, but that was the bad side of his personality.

What we discovered along the way was that what we thought was a mole (he wouldn't let us get a good look) on his side turned out to be a bullet.  Well buckshot.  When he was de-clawed, we also scheduled additional surgery to remove the pellets.  I called the adoption agency to ask questions about Brady's past and was told he was dumped off at the animal shelter, the adoption agency took him into foster care, and then he went to us.  He's only eight months old.

He was obviously beaten because if I have anything stick-like in my hand he gets wild eyed and runs away.  Once I tried to toe a ball in his direction and he panicked so bad, believing I was going to kick him, that he wouldn't come out from under the bed the rest of the day no matter how hard I coaxed.  Loud noises sent him scurrying for cover.  My heart broke.  

What kind of indecent human being would do such a thing?  When he wasn't terrorizing, he was an angel, he has this adorable little snore, he bites, but never hard and always licks the spot right afterward.  He tilts his head nearly sideways when he is curious about anything which always gets someone to say, "Awww."  When he sits up, he holds his right paw off the ground like those lucky cat statues in Japan.  

We joke calling him half Maine Coon, half Poltergeist.  In actuality, he is the epitome of pure love.  He snuggles, purrs, and always wants to be near someone whether it's to play or rest.  This morning I woke up with him in my arms, purring.

How can something that was abused so badly still have such a capacity to love people?  I'm not smitten any more, I'm in love, wholeheartedly.  Even if he is a bit of a demon, I always giggle at his antics and have never been angry at the things he's done.  He's healed my lonely heart and I know he is truly happy because he is finally safe and loved.  Recently we started referring to him more as The Baby rather than The Demon.

If you look closely, you can see how he's destroyed the decorative table box I just bought, chewed up the pumpkins & sticks and ripped off the berries.  Isn't he cute?

The Coffee Crazies, When Too Much Is Not Enough

National Geographic's 2005 article titled, "Caffeine Addiction Is a Mental Disorder, Doctors Say" begins with:
Question: What do heroin addicts who receive a daily dose of methadone have in common with people who feel they cannot function without that morning cup of caffeine? 

Answer: They are tending to their addiction—keeping the physical devils of drug withdrawal at bay.

Boy, do I know that feeling!

I wasn't a big coffee person, but occasionally I brewed a pot.  I'm the only one in my house that drinks coffee.  I usually only have it when we have company that drinks it or it's a really cold day and I need a boost of warmth and caffeine to head out into it.

When Starbucks came out with their bottled cold Mocha Frappuccino, I gave it a try.  Wow!  It was like happiness in a bottle.  I often compare it to a Yoo-Hoo with a kick.  I can slam these 13.7 ounce bottles and within thirty minutes, LOOK OUT!  I've cleaned the house from crown moldings to baseboards in two hours flat.

First I get giggly over the dumbest things, sometimes laughing until tears are rolling down my face, then a gleam comes to my eye and I get moving!  After the first few weekends of starting the mornings with my coffee, my husband or son would bring me one in bed, drop the vacuum in the doorway and run for cover.  Literally.

This feeling of euphoria would last for a good five hours and then I would crash and nap.  I usually nap on the weekends anyway so it wasn't out of the norm, but I slept better having re-tiled the bathroom or adding flower beds to the yard (from plain lawn to lavish gardens in a few hours).

It started with needing two coffees a day on the weekends to keep up that pace.  After a while I was needing one every day to get out of bed.  I consciously realized I was addicted when the weight gain began and I found myself seeking out places to shop with a Starbucks nearby.

So I went off the coffee cold turkey.

I didn't have the usual symptoms you would associate with withdrawals.  I wasn't shaking or crying, I wasn't taking up smoking or living in my pajamas.  What happened was my brain stopped fully functioning. 

At lunch with my husband, I wanted to contribute to the conversation.  I opened my mouth and out came, "Uh, well, uh.  (pause)  OH!  Oh wait, I forgot.  (pause)  Give me a second.  Yeeeoohhhhwwaa.  (pause)  What was I saying?"

To which my husband actually shouted, "For the love of God, go back on the juice!"

I tried brewing my own and that wasn't cutting it.  Tried adding flavored creamers.  I even brewed some at night, chilled it with the creamers and tried it over ice in the morning.  Then I tried refilling an old bottle trying to fool my brain.  Nothing worked.  Then I did start shaking.  I just had to have that bottled drink from the refrigerated shelf at the grocery. Or the convenience store.  Or the chain store.  Didn't really matter, just give it to me!

I needed that liquid crack.  That happiness in a bottle.  Chocolate cocaine.  Caffeinated crazy.  That bring-on-the-happy-dance nectar.  My Mocha Frappu-cuckoo.

That was a year ago. 

So where do I stand now?  Well, let me finish this bottle, give me about thirty minutes, and I'll let you know...

There's a Reason Why They Call It "The Waiting Room"

Although I hate to be there so early, I try to get an appointment first thing in the morning whenever we need to see a doctor.  Because if you have an afternoon appointment, you'll be waiting much longer than you want.

Of course if you showed up at the time you would actually be seen, they wouldn't see you, but they'd still charge you for a missed appointment!

Once we waited to see the neurologist for four hours in that tiny little room.  The only thing he had for reading material was a few books on Poland.  In POLISH, very few pictures, too.  I had to be restrained by the time he came in to see us.  At $787.00 a visit, I would think he can do a little better than that.

A couple of weeks ago, it took an hour and forty minutes to be seen for a check-up.  And not even a thorough one, a-"how are you feeling, are the meds helping, ok see you in a few months..."-appointment. 

I've learned to pack a large drink, snacks, and a book whenever I have to see someone because I'm going to be there a while.  Don't make any other plans that day either.

It never used to be like this, I honestly don't know if it's Obamacare as people keep telling me, but whatever the reason:  STOP IT!

Today was a prime example.  I had to drop off papers for the doctor to fill out.  That's it.  Drop off papers.  Leave.  He knew they would be coming, no surprise, leave them with the nurse, and go on about my day.

I arrived at 12:05pm, and was told by a receptionist everyone goes to lunch from noon to three.  

I was floored, "Come again?"  

"Twelve until three, " she calmly said again.

In my head a barrage of profanity over how absurd a three hour lunch was wanted to spew forth, but  I tried to get a grip on my verbal filter, it was pretty slick.  So my first thought was I would have to come back tomorrow, then the lobby full of people registered in my brain.

"I just need to see one of the doc's nurses, just to pass along paperwork."

"You can leave it here," she cheerily informed me.  Not a chance would I risk losing this with incompetent hand-offs & inboxes then having to start over.  So I looked at her and said very succinctly, "I'll wait".

Well that completely threw her and she said she'd go see if anyone was still around and hadn't left yet.  I waited twenty minutes standing there at her desk. I think she hoped I'd give up.  When she eventually came back (by the way the nurse's desk is fifteen feet away through a door) she told me the one I was really looking for was on the phone and it would be a long while because blah blah blah..."  

Yeah, I stopped listening. I started to leave, but dug my heels in and I said it again, "I'll wait".

And I did.  

My back began to ache from the hard seats, one foot went numb, I developed a headache from the ridiculous lobby toy (the ones where kids release a ball and it rolls through a series of loops, ringing bells and carrying through twirling things until it starts all over again, on it's own), I went through my emails on my phone, played four games, texted a few people, menu planned for the rest of the week, made out a grocery list, organized my wallet, cleaned out my purse, picked a thousand pet hairs off my black pants one at a time, wondered how many grey hairs formed while I sat, watched a caterpillar go through it's life cycle into a butterfly, listened to my body start eating it's own fat cells, counted the dots in the vast ceiling, learned to meditate, wrote my will, learned another language, all before I put on my sunglasses to doze off, two feet numb now.

If they thought they could wait me out on this one they had another thing coming!

An hour and fifty-two minutes after I arrived, ten pounds lighter and a little dizzy from dehydration and malnutrition, the nurse came out, I handed her the envelope, told her what it was and we parted ways.

Heaven only knows how long I would have waited if I had an actual appointment!

Evolution Vs. Revolution Plus The God Gene

My husband is devout Catholic.  My son is Atheist.  I am Agnostic.  My only answer is, "When the burning bush comes and rings my doorbell, I'll get off the fence.  Until then..."

I was baptized.  I went to church every week.  Wednesday night, Sunday morning, Sunday night, and went to Vacation Bible School every year well into high school.  I was lucky to have a pastor that was always answering my endless barrage of questions with patience.

And did I question things!

After watching my grandmother die a slow and painful death from cancer, I started questioning more.  This was a lady that didn't have a spiteful, hateful bone in her body.  She was innocent in an uneducated way and didn't deserve that.  When she passed, I turned my back on God.  Then I read the Bible all the way through, followed by the Koran, the Book of Mormon, Native American spirituality, audited religious classes at local colleges, and sought the answers I needed.

I didn't find them.  So, thus my waiting for the burning bush miracle. My son is scientific.  He's been to church, I taught him stories from the Bible, gave him both sides to every story, never offered my own opinion; he made his own choice.  My husband has faith.  Especially the faith we'll come around.

Now science has discovered the God gene.  A mutation in some people's DNA that makes them more susceptible to religion, faith, and the belief in a higher power.  My son says, well, that's science and his answer.  My husband says it's hogwash, that God probably gave us this gene and the Devil took it away in some.  I am still sitting on the fence.

I wonder, if I had that faith gene and believed so strongly and now don't.  What does that mean?  Did my genes mutate?  Did I never have it and was brainwashed as a child?  These questions keep me on that fence, but I'm not jumping off to the other side, just in case.

You can't believe in the Devil unless you believe in God.  But many people aren't faithful to the Lord and yet buy into demonic possessions.  This I don't get.

There is no Yin without Yang.  No Good without Evil.  No Black without White.  No Night without Day.  No Life without Death.

It's a balance.  That's my religion.

Karma.  The Ripple Effect.  Harmony.

I still pray and say Grace with my husband because it keeps the harmony in balance in my house.  I remind my son to stop telling everyone he is Atheist (we are in the Bible Belt and I don't want my house burned down).  I still read religious doctrines of every faith and newly discovered texts in the world. But my favorite is that I still ask my husband questions.  They always start like this, "Let me ask you a question..."  To which he always replies with a moan.

An example of what frustrates him, "If Jesus was the son of God and we're all God's children, how come I can't turn water into wine?  How come I'm not the messiah?"

His reply every time, (sigh) "I DON'T KNOOOOW!"

What Makes "Scary" Movies, Well, Scary?

Mondays are my days off.  Kids are in school, husband is at work, and it's just me and the classic movie channel...

Old movies are the best.  Men were real men, their pants weren't hanging off of them, they treated women like they deserved the world, which they do, and romance was real without having to get naked on screen.

Today however, I watched 1956's The Beast of Hollow Mountain.  I think it was supposed to be a horror, but I couldn't stop laughing long enough to be sure.

I don't get scared with movies.  I can appreciate the scare aspect, like Paranormal Activity (not the second one), but I just don't get scared.  My husband hides, jumps, and even screamed in a theater once (The Grudge), then tried to blame it on me.  My son refuses to watch any horrors after seeing Paranormal Activity.

I find scary movies entertaining and my husband hates it as I watch scream flicks late at night while he tries to sleep.  I think I like them more because I don't find them scary.  I can focus on costumes and backdrops and the plot, if there is one.

So what makes a scary movie, scary?

For most people it's anything about the unknown - demons, aliens, ghosts, asteroids...

For me: make a movie about teen pregnancy, the discontinuation of microwave popcorn, government cameras in your house, or anything they discuss on daytime television.  How about what the FDA allows as "acceptable" in your food products (that's an interesting read that will make you grow your own)?

LIFE is scarier than anything they can dream up in Hollywood!

Texting with the Enemy: New Orleans Saints vs. Atlanta Falcons

Originally posted October 9th, 2010:

I have kicked people out of my house for rooting against the Saints.  No qualms. Get. out.  You want to watch the game on my big screen TV and eat the buffet I serve every Sunday? You had better be here cheering for my team and if you dare wear an opponent's jersey or colors, you won't get through the door.

The only exception I make is to that New England Patriots fan I'm legally bound to by marriage.

I have recently been called "passionate, bordering fanatical."  Yes, that's a quote.

During last year's Super Bowl, I had people throw blue and white cookies on my lawn because I wouldn't let them enter my house to enjoy the Cajun spread I had prepared, including multiple pitchers of Hurricanes.  

I'm sorry, but you cannot enter my domain unless you are a Saint.  I even had the balloons I ordered sent back because they dared to put Indianapolis Colts blue ribbons on them.

My husband is from Massachusetts.  He is a sports nut, but even he has told me repeatedly that I am insane.

That's why it's so funny that for the past 12 years, my best friend is an Atlanta Falcons fan, as everyone knows I hate the Dirty Birds.  Maybe it's because she is my best friend or maybe because she has enough dirt on me to ruin my life, but either way that's the way it is.

During one heated battle, we stayed on the phone for the entire game screaming at each other over plays.  My son had to keep coming in shushing me because he couldn't hear his own TV, in his room, on a different floor of the house.

I had to leave the bed late one night because of the texting battle we were engaged in.  Apparently, my husband actually thought he could sleep through Monday Night Football, New Orleans vs. Atlanta.  I put the phone on vibrate; I don't see what the problem was.

The part that amazes even me is that we can calmly discuss the game afterward.  Win or lose, we congratulate each other on a game well-played, discuss high and low points for each team, and talk about it like neither of us were fans.

We've attended games together wearing our respective colors.  What is it about true friendship that can override the desire to punch the enemy in the face?

Now don't get me wrong, for the six days leading up to the game, it's all smack-talk, during the game it's a scream-fest, but when the final clock ticks down to zero, she is the only person in the world I could shake hands with if we lost and not rub it in if we win.

For the guy on the other side of her during the game:  I'm not sorry I "accidentally" spilled my beer on you and for the one who dared to address me on the way out of the Dome:  I hope that shirt was ruined.

To my neighbor, the Minnesota Vikings fan:  Dude, I don't know what happened to your lawn.

There's a Tiger in The Smoky Mountains

(Originally posted on Bleacher Report October 8th, 2010):

I moved to Asheville, North Carolina, following my husband and his current job.  From Monday through Friday I am a soccer mom.  Saturday morning, around 8 o'clock, I transform into a Tiger.

I wake up and begin my morning by planning a menu for a day filled with college football and then I get dressed so I can head to the store, fulfilling the needs of that menu.

Most of the women I know diet for the holiday season, but not me.  I prepare for football season, by working out and half-starving myself all spring and summer.

I look to my closet for Purple & Gold.  T-shirts, shorts, or sweatshirts, right down to my shoes, I am covered in LSU gear.  It's always a different combination, but what never wavers are the plush tiger ears headband that I don before heading out.

The first few trips out of the house the only people who really noticed were about three feet tall.  Now, I can't go anywhere without heated discussions about LSU.  The first week of this season we played against North Carolina, and I thought for sure there would be a fight in the checkout lane.

I am proud to be a Tiger fan and will not waver, no matter how embarrassing to my spouse or son, from wearing my ears.  Just last weekend, while my husband parked the car, I spent the extra time arguing with a Tennessee Volunteer in the vegetable section.

Jordan Jefferson is young and lightly seasoned, but I argue heatedly about our defense and the ability to hold our opponents.  I have fought with people from the drive-thru to emails from Afghanistan and so far have been left with my head held high.

There will only be one Mike the Tiger, so my stuffed tiger I insist on seating in front of the big screen, Mickey T, is always present.  I have vehemently fought friends from thinking they may have this coveted seat right up front in the living room.  He is a member of the family in my eyes and will keep his place.

I have volunteered on a committee with the head of the Florida Gators local fan club chapter, but little did they know at the time, I was sizing up the competition.  How dedicated a fan was I looking at?

This Saturday's game will be another great one.  Although we will not be playing in Death Valley, Florida is coming off of a loss with Alabama and we are coming from a near loss against Tennessee.  Both teams are closely ranked, but I believe a tiger can take down a gator any day!

Win or lose, if you look around hard enough, you can spot a Tiger in the foothills of the Smokies every Saturday morning during college football.  Come Sunday, I turn into a Saint and Monday I'll be just plain old Mom again.

25 People I'd Like to Stab In The Eye With Fork

This is in no particular order, but the little things that bother me today to the point of wanting to hide in the closet with a pound cake, a box of Whitman's, and a fifth of Tequila...


1. Lindsay Lohan, girl, just stop it!
2. The person who thought toys with SOUND was a good idea.
3. Ben
4. Jerry (stop it with the enticing flavors already!)
5. Anyone who wears some or all of their pajamas to Walmart.
6. Whoever suggested to my husband to buy me a gym membership. (which leads to)
7. My husband
8. The Real Housewives of Anywhere
9. Kim Kardashian (no particular reason)
10. Solicitors who ignore the sign.  If I didn't call you, GO AWAY!
11. The inventor of Smart Cars.  I thought it was a joke.
12. Morning people
13. Optimistic people
14. Everyone running for President
15. Paris Hilton
16. Whoever packs take-out so you get home and all the cartons opened and spilled.
17. People who ask your opinion and do the opposite (Guess what?  I lied.)
18. Kanye West
19. Everyone that leaves the house on Black Friday
20. People that don't acknowledge when you let them go ahead of you
21. Snooki
22. Snooki (she warrants two listings)
23. Have I mentioned my husband?
24. People that have to one-up everything you say
25. Everyone previously listed, one more time, just for good measure.

Nobody ever stops you at the door for carrying a fork...

Just Give Me The Pill and Nobody Gets Hurt

I hate to diet and exercise.  Hate, hate, HATE it.  Every time I go see my doctor I start in with, "Come on, Doc!  I know there's a pill to help me lose weight.  GIVE IT TO ME!!"

He still denies it.  "You're just going to have to keep exercising and eating right."

Ugh.

Yep, tried the shakes, the points, the books, hypnotherapy, acupuncture, and even those over the counter pills.  Well, I refused to try the ones that promised weight loss along with "oily flatulence".  Eww, pass.  The over the counter, non phen-phen pills bruised my heart and gave me some nice problems for the rest of my life.  Too include an over-sized heart and blood cells that are too few and too large.  Big mistake.

I've skipped sodas and stuck to water, tried the all protein, the 4-1 protein to carb, the gym, the all soup, ever popular the starvation, skipped the anorexia, and nothing helps.

Ok, so I have a thing for sweets, is that my fault?  I mean I work off the calories I take in, but still I gain weight.  Now my thyroid stopped and I'm in early menopause?  I try, I really do, but I've had near collisions swerving into Dunkin Donuts and I swear Ben & Jerry puts crack in those little tubs.  And don't think it's better because it's in a tiny tub either!  They manage to take out half the ice cream and double the caloric intake while adding that addictive agent that would make tobacco companies proud...

So COME ON, and give me that magic pill that will make the weight fall off.  I'll still diet and exercise, just not as vigilantly.  Otherwise someone might get hurt the next time I'm forced to wait in line for a sugary snack and having flashbacks of the scale's readout.

This morning it registered, "GET OFF!  You're hurting me."

Southern Girls and Football

I love football.  I adore football.  Most people have a sport they enjoy, but when football season rolls around, it's like a whole different world to me.  College colors on Saturday, NFL colors on Sunday.

I spend most of the week menu planning.  Will it me a tough game?  No spicy foods because that equals heartburn.  Will it be a blowout?  Gorge on whatever I want.  And never any seafood because a cat in the lap will mean a trip to the vet if I jump up out of my seat too fast.

All of my girlfriends love football, too.  We can be overheard discussing player merits or important plays with strangers in the grocery.  And if you are a fan of a rival team, that discussion will get heated.

I'm a perfectly respectable lady five days a week, but Saturday morning as I rifle through my gear choosing what to wear while donning my tiger ears headband...  I become a fanatic.

Even my son will turn around quickly when he sees me in colors hoping I won't engage him in conversation.  I've been teaching my dog to chant LSU, but so far all I've gotten is Woof Woof Bark.

It's a process.

My girls and I are on Facebook, texting, and calling throughout the games.  I just love that.

Silly boys, football is for girls!

Shoe Fetish or Problem?

I'm always wanting a new pair of shoes.  Drives my husband nuts because he says I already have 300+ pairs.  If I show him a pair of shoes I'm dying to have, he always says, "Don't you own a pair just like that?"

Uh, no. 

Besides, no matter how much we weigh, shoes always fit.  I believe that women love shoes because we can go up and down and as long as the shoe fits, we're doing just fine!

But I did discover recently that perhaps, just maybe, I might own too many shoes.  Is that even possible?  I'm wanting a pair of leopard pumps.  Something tasteful, not platform, muted tones, suede maybe, high heeled...

I spent weeks scouring the internet comparing different styles and brands. I almost pulled the trigger and bought a pair online, several times actually. Then one evening a picture comes to mind of the perfect pair.  I know exactly what I want, but where to begin?  As the days stretch on and the picture becomes more clear, a little tingle begins in the back of my brain. 

Do I already own these shoes?

I went through the closet, the garage, the drawers in the bed, but can't find the shoes I'm thinking of anywhere.  But the more time that passes, the more I know the exact pair of shoes I've been thinking of.  I have a perfect image and can even see them on my feet, but they aren't here.  Surely I wouldn't have gotten rid of the perfect pair of leopard pumps?

About three weeks pass and I have to take the cat to the vet.  He knows and is running and hiding and I'm moving furniture to try and catch him.  Under my bed, where I store empty shoe boxes, he darts.  I start pulling out boxes until I can't reach any more, he continues to the middle.  I get the broom and pull more out boxes when lo and behold, there are the leopard shoes. 

Still in the box.  Never worn.

I'll never admit to my husband I own so many shoes I don't even know where they all are!   I'd rather die.  But this presents the newest problem:  To find the perfect dress to go with the perfect shoes.....

Headlights on a Vacuum Cleaner

I've always been fascinated with the need for a headlight on a vacuum cleaner. What thought process led manufacturers to add this feature? If the lights go out, wouldn't the power to utilize this tool be obsolete?

This morning I made a point of doing my vacuuming before the sun came up, with all of the lights off, to see how necessary this addition was...

Apparently it's set on a permanent "bright" setting which points up and out as opposed to downward in the direction the user is trying to pick up dirt. Despite all of my efforts to not look at the light itself, it's so bright I am still seeing spots as if I've been staring at the sun itself and I finished an hour ago. I couldn't actually see if I was getting all the dirt and pet hair up and if I actually looked in the path I was pointing the machine, I was completely blinded and have now understood the concept of why "a deer in headlights" stands immobile. They can't see to get out of the way. I nicked the furniture, ran over my foot multiple times, and sucked up the corner of the rug until I had to power down and get the needle-nosed pliers to unwind the rotating brush, all while trying to see around the glaringly bright white spots in my corneas.

Conclusion: The purpose of this light is to tell you the vacuum cleaner is actually powered on, just in case you happen to be deaf and can't hear the motor running. The light is so bright a blind person could also tell it was on and the company needs to sell the colored attachment that was not in the package to cover this light for the average consumer that would like to retain sight in the future....

Dear Abby on Steroids

That's what my husband called me at lunch the other day.

Besides being slightly insane and my thought process takes me on more tangents than Google Maps, he calls me interesting.  I think that's his nice way of calling me crazy without sounding mean.  The topic of the day was his constant use of the phrase "I have no idea what he just said" in a whisper to me.

Every time we go somewhere, if they don't speak in a Boston accent or use the word "wicked" as their only adjective, he is clueless.  We've traveled around the world and when I go places, in my head I often speak with that country's accent (mostly in my head), but it helps me to better understand what they are trying to say in broken English.

Therefore, while we were at lunch, having Mexican food, I was talking to the waiter and every time he left my husband's obligatory, "I have no idea what he just said" came out of his mouth.  So I calmly explained that he asked if I wanted another Coke. Then I turned my head and rolled my eyes.

What does that have to do with Dear Abby?  How should I know, I'm supposedly the crazy one!