3...2...1...AAARRRGH!!!

DID YOU KNOW that every single time you point a finger at someone else there are three more that are pointing RIGHT BACK AT YOU??

At the risk of sounding like a female Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

By TwitterButtons.com

I don't know about you, but I'm not much into physical conflicts (like the Friday Night Fights or the WWF). No, I duke it out on a regular basis all right, but it's MEN-tally not physically. I battle a terrible MENtal affliction that is perpitrated by the Do It All Rule; or D.I.A.R. (pronounced "dire"). Perhaps you're familiar with it; I suffer from chronic WWS which was brought on by my attempted adherence to that very rule. That'd be Wonder Woman Syndrome - for the uninitiated - and it has at one time or another stricken almost every married woman on the planet. Why? I'm really not sure; I've never actually SEEN it [DIAR] in any of the rule books (you know, like Murphy's Laws, Robert's Rules of Order and the like) so where did it come from? Why does it happen?

Maybe it's because my husband (who I love dearly) is a direct descendant of a little known ancient Scottish society known as Clan McPID [Male Chauvenist Pigs in Disguise]. In fairness I am compelled to say it wasn't totally the fault of his genealogically defective family tree; it was more the way he was raised than anything. Added to this was the fact that MY mother did not work outside the home (volunteered time for charitable organizations where she worked like a Trojan notwithstanding).

Now initially, I confess, I aided and abetted this situation merely because I thought I was SUPPOSED to be able to do everything. But think about it: if the man's role is to keep with tradition and be a provider/earn the money, then the woman's role needs to ALSO keep with tradition and just handle hearth and home, doesn't it? So how DOES it work that women added "co-provider" and share in that responsibility, but we managed to retain all of the other ones? I definitely don't remember a 50/50 split on the diapers (shoot, even a 90/10 would have likely been the result of Divine Intervention). It's fairly easy to note that most men wouldn't want to touch a poopy diaper with a 50 foot pole. The irony here is that Moms don't actually WANT to either (because eeeeew); maybe we're just more able to "Git 'Er Done" (thought I'd throw in a little Southernism there :o) Of course we all know the whole "weaker sex" thing is merely to pamper those delicate male egos, right? Let's be real here; if men were the ones HAVING the babies, there would probably be about 5 people left on the planet by now...

THE TIMES? THEY ARE A'CHANGING: We may have missed the diapers, but somewhere along the line between my recent cancer and some *cough* mysterious male enlightenment on the home front, there has been a discernible shift in the division of duties. While we may not be at that perfect 50/50 I'm delighted to note that my husband DOES actually know how to operate a vacuum cleaner, CAN cook supper without a grill and miraculously DID NOT DROWN from washing his own clothes. There's even been a rumor circulating that HE was the one who has been fixing my lunches for school (work) every day; and all this time I thought it was the lunchbox fairy... who knew??? :o)

NO (no), adv. [ME.; AS, na < ne a, lit., not ever]. 1. [Scot. or Rare], not: as, whether or no. 2. not in any degree; not at all: as, I have NO money. 3. nay; not so: the opposite of yes, used to deny, refuse, or disagree. adj [ME., form of non, none (cf. an, lit., not one (cf. one)], as, We have NONE, not any; not a; not one; as, Not one dime. n. [pl. noes (noz)], 1. an utterance of NO; refusal or denial. 2. a negative vote or a person voting in the negative.

CONCLUSION: According to a statement recently made by my checkbook (and yep, I also love bad puns :o) I AM BROKE. I do not have any money for me, so logically this means I will not have any for you either. See aforementioned supporting documentation graciously provided by Mr. Webster.

NOTE: We are on the do not call list (go here: DoNotCall.gov to sign up and don't forget your cell phones - because you just KNOW they're gonna go after them next :o/

P.S. Charitable organizations are exempt from this list. Since we have a pending 501c3 (Non-Profit) ourselves*, I should like to state (for the record) that if I do happen to A) Win the lottery, or B) Run into Ed McMahon in the living room, we will actually have money (in addition to thousands of relatives I never knew existed). HOWEVER - as Junior Vice President in Charge of The Duct Tape and Bandaid Brigade, it is a pretty safe bet that I will donate said monies (that we do NOT have) to our own Non-Profit (which is not yet official) to provide programs (which we DO have but can't afford to fully implement) to our visitors (which we CAN'T have) until the procurement of liability insurance (which we can't AFFORD because we have NO money). For additional clarification, please reread "CONCLUSION" above.

P.P.S. This photo (in case you're wondering) is not me either :o)

P.P.P.S. When we ARE approved and become an official 501c3, I hereby solemnly swear NOT to call you...

* We have since been approved - HOORAY! If you would like to read about our organization please visit our lens: EpicFarms.

You know what I've figured out? The amount of stuff I just HAVE to have in my purse is directly proportionate to the size of my pocketbook. What do I mean? Simply that I finally figured out (after a couple of trips to the Chiropractor) that the larger my purse is, the more junk I find I am morally obligated to stuff in there and if I am not careful I will end up toting one of those high dollar designer bags...by Samsonite :oP

A COMPLETELY CONFOUNDING CONUNDRUM: (I just can't help it; I love Alliterations :o) Does anybody besides me ever wonder how it is possible that every single thing you need can be on the very bottom of your purse AT THE SAME TIME??? Doesn't that violate SOME kind of physical law? Inquiring minds want to know...

I can trace this topic all the way back to its initial seed; planted by a woman in front of me in line at a grocery store when my child was but a babe...

After a long hard day at the office, I dashed by the daycare to pick up my daughter and began the trek home. One of the reasons this particular day stands out so well is because we had just started teething. I say "we", because this process involved both sets of teeth; hers AND mine. Her teeth were hurting and the resulting shrieks and wails over the next 25 miles had me alternately clenching mine in empathy and grinding them over the cacophony.

Remembering we were out of milk, and let's get some more Orajel (NOW), had me pulling into the parking lot of the grocery store close to home. Wouldn't you know today would be the day I forget to throw my flats in the car, too (figures). Exhausted, I scooped a now whimpering baby out of her car seat and trudged across the parking lot into the store.

This is, of course, where Murphy's Laws always come into play; the milk was aaaaaaaallll the way in the back of the store on the right, and the Orajel was in the opposite corner at the front. Juggling gel, baby, and milk, I made my way carefully to a nice LONG line at the front of the store. Shifting from foot to foot in an attempt to ease the aches, I hoped to get to the register before I developed a Hernia. As the line moved slowly forward, I mentally added a rather desperate plea that if I had to drop something it would be the milk (but please not on the feet - UGH!) When I finally got close enough, I gratefully thudded the milk on the conveyor belt and blew my bangs out of my crossed eyes in relief. Turning with a smile, the woman ahead of me Tsk-tsk'd and shaking her head in bafflement she chirped, "Goodness me, I just don't KNOW how you young girls can DO all of these things; I certainly never could have handled everything you do! My daughter has a full-time career, home, and family too. Where DO you girls get all this energy??" By this time, of course, I am sagged against said conveyor belt and staring rather incredulously at her thinking she couldn't possibly be SERIOUS. Floundering to find the funny in her ridiculous observation (and way too tired to come up with anything more than a slighty sarcastic bit of humor), I raised a brow and said, "Haven't you heard? I'm Wonder Woman...."

NEWSFLASH/FILM AT 11 (for which I am never awake): Women do not HAVE to do it all and have it all; this concept is a trick. Logically, if you actually do manage to do it all and have it all you will not have enough time OR energy OR brain cells left to actually ENJOY it all (so what on earth would be the point? :o)

There are things that happen underground (besides gophers, groundhogs and earthworms, that is). I don't mean the nature stuff, I'm talking about things that fall on the darker side of life. Scary things, hidden things, and I have a sneaking suspicion that there is something insidious happening inside the DMV. Something so diabolical, underhanded and devious that Allen Funt is probably still applauding it from the grave.

Now that I have your attention, I'll tell you what it is. It's a photography contest [yep, really]. I am absolutely convinced that there is a national competition perpetrated by DMV employees to see who can take the most mortifying photo for a driver's license. It's simple enough to substantiate; how do you feel about YOUR license photo? Your spouses? Friends? Is there anyone on this planet that has a good one? If there is, I've yet to see it.

I have only a few weeks left before my license expires, and I'm watching the calendar with increasing trepidation. While I'll be the first to admit there's definitely room for improvement, what am I going to do if it's worse??? I already cringe in horror whenever I hear the dreaded statement, "May I see your license please?" every time I write a check...

My last visit to the DMV was on a perfectly beautiful fall day. I left work, making sure to stop by the ladies room to check the hair (yep, still pinned up all nice and neat) and makeup (just a little lipstick and I'm good to go :o) before heading off to the DMV. Upon my arrival, I stepped from the car and paused for a moment to appreciate the weather before going inside - it was sunny, gorgeous and breezy - 70 marvelous degrees. When it was my turn, I stepped up to the mark looking down. I didn't even get a chance to turn and face the camera before, "YA READY?!?" was bellowed at me by the bleached blond - with some mighty scary roots - from her position behind the camera. As I jumped and looked up, startled, she snapped. In addition to wearing an expression that I can only describe as "Deer in Headlights", my bangs - which HAD been nicely styled - were now standing virtually straight up in the front (remember that fabulous breeze? *sigh* :o|

THERE IS ONE SMALL CONSOLATION: My husband (who has a CDL) rated a photo that looks almost exactly like something you might see on the six o'clock news - right next to the word W-A-N-T-E-D. (Wow, great mugshot honey :o)

I'll just bet you had no idea that chocolate was a vegetable, did you? Well it is. It has taken me a long time and burned up considerable brain cells (which I likely could NOT afford but my cause was supremely worthy) and I have finally figured it out. Consider the following question:

Where does chocolate come from?

Of course we all know that chocolate is made from cocoa beans, right? Having said that, we can then form our official hypothesis (based totally on the facts of course):

IF chocolate comes from cocoa beans, which are legumes, and legumes are vegetables...THEN we can conclude that chocolate is indeed a vegetable.

Tah-Dah!
:o)

I was in a beauty supply store one afternoon looking for some conditioner; a quick and simple errand, right? You'd think, anyway. Also in the store at the time were two women (they were friends) and their two heathens; excuse me, I meant to say children. At the time I was in treatment for cancer (chemo) and also still working, so I can readily admit to being pretty pitiful to start with, and I had definitely had better days.

What started out as a simple shopping trip, however, rapidly became Mission Impossible - compliments of OPKs (Other People's Kids). Without warning, these mini miscreants were suddenly running amok yelling at the top of their lungs as they tried to one up each other all over the store, bumping into displays and shelves as they went. While I felt a momentary pang of nostalgia, (because goodness knows my brother and I hit M&M mode - Murder and Mayhem - on a regular basis), this quickly fizzled as they crashed into me simultaneously before shooting off again. I don't know what happened to the rules of engagement (as in DO NOT yell in public, hit anything except each other, or involve grownups, you will get in TROUBLE) but obviously they had changed.

With their mother sitting RIGHT THERE on the floor reading shampoo bottles, these two little terrors came shrieking back down the aisle and made two laps around me, almost knocking me down in their zeal to kill each other (which squelched my attempt to get the conditioner I'd finally found from the shelf as I was too busy trying to regain my balance). When the sudden happy thought occurred that if they DID kill each other A) the horrendous noise would stop; and B) I could actually get what I came for, I felt immediately ashamed of myself for having had it.

I looked over at the mother waiting for her to say SOMETHING. She never even looked up, she was still completely engrossed in her reading. Having said that, I don't really know why I was so surprised by what happened next. Opting to use me as a protective barrier, the children were now on either side of me swinging away and mom was STILL not paying attention (are you KIDDING??) Were I not afraid of getting sued for assault - and don't even get me started there - I would have snatched up both kids and plunked them down in opposite corners of the store for a time out session. As it was, I said, "EXCUSE ME!" very loudly (I had to outshout the heathens, you see) and hoped for the best. What did mom do? Barely glancing up, she said, "kids, quit" and went right back to reading the bottle. On the off chance there might be more to follow the kids DID quit for about 10 seconds; long enough for me to make a desperate grab for the conditioner and beat a hasty retreat. I don't think I made it more than a few feet before the violence erupted again, thankfully in the opposite direction; whereupon I quickly made my purchase and escaped.

THE MORAL OF THE STORY: Parents, if you are not willing to discipline your children, that's your choice, but PLEASE do not inflict them on the rest of us.

I have too many thoughts; I just can't seem to HELP it. In addition to having too many thoughts, I wonder about too many things...including the ever popular "Mid-Life Crisis". I'm pretty sure it's a hoax, although I couldn't say precisely who perpetrated it initially (well, outside of the obvious - it has "Guy Thing" written all over it :o)

Personally, I think it's all about Denial (and I don't mean that river in Egypt). How else could people justify completely ridiculous and often irresponsible behavior when they are supposed to be old enough to know better? My husband always used to tease me that when I hit 40 he was going to trade me in on a newer model. Living in the south, these [highly delusional] plans morphed into thoughts and comments about doing a "twofer" (that's Southernese for a two-for-one deal, by the way). He thought it would be a grand plan to cash in his "old" 40 for two "new" 20's. Of course I felt obligated to point out that his pacemaker probably couldn't handle it (he doesn't actually have one but he IS, after all, several years older than I...)

Anyway, somewhere along the line it occurred to me that this thing known as the "Mid-Life Crisis" is an absolute mathematical impossibility. Think about it: in order to have a crisis in the MIDDLE of something, don't you have to know when the END is?? How can you possibly figure out where the middle is without prior knowledge of the end? I'll admit that the left side of my brain IS sadly lacking, but even I know there is something not quite right with this equation.

Maybe it was the cancer diagnosis at age 40 that prompted this line of thinking. The thought that if I didn't make it the full 5 years out (to the ripe old age of 45) it would mean I should have already HAD my midlife crisis at the age of 21. So did I miss it? Can I reschedule?

I think I'm going to have a mid-life crisis; they sound like fun. Maybe I'll just declare myself a late bloomer, go Nike, and "Just Do It". Yep, that's what I'm going to do, so I suppose I'd best get to it. I wonder how my husband would feel about a Harley Hog this Christmas. You know, come to think of it, he hasn't had HIS crisis either. Guess we might just end up with that twofer after all...