The Reeses Peace

(Pre-Script: To fully enjoy the moment you are in while reading this post, you will need to read it as the song, " Little Wonders," #55 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

In my world, going to the movies is really just an excuse to eat candy. Specifically Reeses Pieces. I don't know about you, but when the lights darken in that theater, and I am sitting in front of that huge screen watching preview after preview after preview after-hey, what movie did I come to see again? I forget, so many previews I have been watching!-Ahem, anyway, at this moment, when I place a Reeses Pieces piece in my mouth, it is like a brilliant moment in history. A historically moment of brilliantly executed perfection wherein all of my senses are in perfect alignment, together letting out a collective sigh of rest and enjoyment. Soak it in, my darlings. Soak it in. For this moment does not come very often, and is therefore all the more precious to savor.
Oh, to sit in a large cushy chair with a bag of candy for two hours in darkness and look at a large screen.

Blink.

Y'all, It's the simple things in life that get me.

-XOXO,

On second thought...

(Pre-Script: This post will make you feel alive and well when you read it as the song that makes you feel the most alive plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, pick a song to click on, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I'd like to amend myself: The part where I said "just say 'no' to drugs," what I meant was, "just say 'yes' to the right drugs!"* I am about to embark on a multi-drug venture. Relax, they are all perfectly legal in the country in which I reside. My brain is thanking me over and over again for taking them, too. This is because my brain can actually function again! Woo hoo! I like that! I am not merely living in a fog world wherein my head is detached from anything, and just floating around, looking for a pillow on which to fall, then rapidly lose consciousness. Life is not viewed as a fight seen in "The Matrix" when I adhere to my tight Dr. prescribed regime of complex prescription drug mixing. Hello world, I am back...sort of.

-XOXO,

*Only legal and prescribed by your Doctor, of course.

Blame it on the Swine

(Pre-Script: It is possible that this post will keep you from dying of the latest pandemic when read as the song, " How To Save A Life," #33 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Everyone don't gasp at once, but I have symptoms of a cold/flu. I know, I know, it's probably the Swine Flu, this being 2009 and all. But we aren't supposed to call it Swine Flu, are we? We are supposed to call it, "H1N1," so as not to offend the swine and those who love them.
At one time, Oprah said she would never eat cow meat again, and it caused an uproar. Apparently, those who love and raise cows were worried that this steak and burger loving nation would forget their hearts desire, their "Steak, it's what's for dinner," *and "2 all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun,"* and "Where's the beef"* commercials and completely abandon all cow meat because Oprah said she would, and everyone knows who Oprah is. The cow advocates forgot that public figures who are also members of this here United States of America have freedom of speech. They also have freedom of opinion. The rest of the members of the nation being run under such a Constitution also have the freedom to have their own thoughts and opinions, and are not required to live exactly how Oprah is saying that she is going to start living, even if she is encouraging her fellow everyman to "Live your best life."* The rest of the country is able to decide if living their best lives involves steak or not. If it involves swine or not.
I bet that Swine and Those Who Love Them are offended by the term, "Swine." It is negative to pigs and pork. Swine sounds dirty. Pig sounds so very Wilber. Pig is a pink word. "Swine" is the color you get when you mix all the watercolors in the Crayola Watercolor palate: Some indescribable mesh of gray brown pea green. Gross. Swine are germ and fly infested. Pigs inspire gleeful snort laughing. But let me remind the lovers of swine and pigs that these lovable creatures were discriminated against long ago, as far back as the Old Testament of the bible,WAY before the word "Swine" even existed.
These days, relax, I don't think anyone who loves bacon, "Everything's better with bacon,"* pork, "The other white meat"* and ham, "The pink Easter meat"** is going to hightail it out of there anytime soon, claiming to have "seen the light." Pigs are in business, baby. Big time.
As for my own personal case of Swinus Influenzus,***...you can just go now.

-XOXO,

*All various slogans that I gently borrowed here.

**I made this one up all by myself

***AKA "Swine Flu."****

****Only I made up the Latin Name for Swine Flu, too.

Easy Living

(Pre-Script: This post is likely to make everything in your life 22% better if you read it while the song,"Closer," #16 on the playlist, or "Closer," #31 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Now, some of you are thinking, "I don't need no stinkin' people. I am happy with my ice cream, treadmill, direct TV, and decent Internet access." some of you really do think this way, and by "some of you," I actually mean "me." I think this way. I am a person who can live on little; just ice cream, a treadmill, Direct TV, and decent Internet service, as previously listed. That's only 4 things.

Now, I know what you are thinking: "How can she be so completely low maintenance?"

But let me caution you: don't envy me. It does not flatter either one of us.

And there are these people who are really good with computers. There are these people who fix your cable if it has issues, or you want to upgrade or downgrade. There are even a handful of them that I might possibly allow to work on mine, should my fantastic Internet access and/or cable prove not to be enough, and I find myself asking myself, "what is wrong here?," then having no answer because if I knew the answer, I would never have had to ask the question of myself in the first place.

I mean, all I know is that I just clicked a few buttons and bam, here's a blog...but that is beside the point...

So I need the people, at least some of them.

Oh, and let's not forget the gal who works at the grocery store that sells my favorite ice cream.

Dern.

And sometimes, dag nabbit,

I even like the people. I am, after all, an extrovert. That is, if you trust every personality test I have ever taken.

Ahem.
Well, not all of the people, all of the time, and I definitely require my people to smell good. Or at least, not to smell like any smell of skin and dirt and "I just woke up this way"-ness.
and I certainly am not feeling bff closeness with the guy who just ate raw onions for lunch, and they have yet to clear completely out of his pours.

But beyond that, as long as you don't do anything to hurt or irritate me, we can be friends. And if you are naturally witty, but also capable of deep, analytical conversation, and above all, a firstborn in sibling birth order,* and if you don't have a tendency to take your own needs for superiority, validation, and a sense of self worth out on me in passive aggressive or just full frontal aggression ways, then we can definitely be friends.

blink blink

like I said, "low maintenance."

(don't envy it.)

-XOXO,

*I have a tendency to be naturally drawn to firstborns like a magnetism in the universe, which cannot be helped, and I usually don't find out they are first borns until later...then I go, "Duh, no wonder I like you!" However, I do have a small smattering of non first born friends, as well. Or at least, I put up with them. Hee hee. ( Joke, people. Please don't take offense.)

Fancy Apples

(Pre-Script: This post is fancy and crisp when read as the song, "Everybody's Changing," #56 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I tell you the truth; there is much rejoicing in this city over one Target deciding to add a full grocery department, complete with frozen and perishable items including but not limited to meat and produce, than over 10 new grocery store chains. The Target closest to my house has decided to do just that. This is great news. I have already been there and purchased perishable items which were previously unpurchasable at this store. I have brought home boxes of Honey Crisp Apples, which my family and I have devoured like ravenous lions. Honey Crisp Apples from Target! Who can imagine such a glorious thing?! They were crunchy, delicious, and the sounds of the children crying, "Mom, may I have an apple?"

"Mom, may I have an apple?"

"Mom, may I have another apple?"

could be heard throughout the house. Possibly the neighborhood. You'll have to ask my neighbors. This was usually followed by a child saying, "I am going to get all the seeds out of the middle, then plant them in the backyard, and grow my own tree."

"That's nice, dear, (I would then think to myself,) You plant your seeds, you water that soil...and in 50 years, your grandchildren will maybe be able to eat from the fruit of your labor." I don't tell them this, though. I don't mind if they keep eating apples, planting the seeds, and expecting to be harvesting apples next week. I am not one to squelch their dreams. Dream big, children. For you never know when YOUR seeds will be the magic seeds that actually produce full grown trees with fruit at Ripley's Believe It Or Not speed. Which may actually not be that improbable these days, since the apples I purchased at Target had probably been injected with hormones anyway; isn't everything injected with hormones these days? So I am just saying.

Last night, I brought Derek into the newly remodeled Target. It was his first visit since they went full grocery on us. He made sure to tell me that he wanted to peruse the new perishable section. He wanted to actually see for himself the mind boggling reality of cantaloupes, salad kits, and whole frozen chickens (Oh MY!) being sold in Target, our Target, the Target we have, let's face it, taken for granted over the past, oh, 15 years or so. Well, no longer, I tell you. It will take us at least a month or two for the shock and wonder of this new fangled Target to wear off, then we will go back to our regularly scheduled take it for granted-ness. In the meantime, we perused. Then Derek asked me, "Did they have to join the Grocers Union?"

blink

blink

Y'all, go back and read that again, it is worth re-reading.

Ahem.

I at first said nothing, that's how offended I was by his failure to once again realize that I am not as omniscient as he likes to believe. In my mind, I answered, "Well, when I sat in on the Board meeting last month, they had decided that..."

But out loud, what I said was, "I have no idea what you are talking about."and, let's face it y'all, frankly, it did not even occur to me even care to know such facts; I already keep track of so much in this relatively small brain of mine, I mean seriously. It is a wonder some days the thing doesn't just explode on me, so full it is of mindless prattle.
As Derek made himself delirious paroozing the new produce aisle and tossing out produce questions I'm sure I'd have had to have gone to agricultural post graduate school to be able to actually form a coherent answer to, I set my eyes on the spot where I had previous purchased crisp, neat boxes of Honey Crisp Apples, only to find that the crisp, neat boxes of Honey Crisp apples had gone the way of last years purple acid washed denim from the Juniors Section of this very store.
In their place was a bag labeled "Fancy Apples."

What kind of apples are "Fancy," you wonder?
I know, I wondered the same thing. What could be more fancy than Honey Crisp, right? RIGHT? Right.

The Apples in the bag were Gala.
That's right, folks, not Fuji, not Pink Lady, heck, not even Golden Delicious. Just plain, old, mushy when you take a bite, and not even Granny Smith uses them for baking, Gala.
Sigh

So There goes my new fangled Target with newly remodeled full grocery section, already losing it's lustre.
So I guess you could say, there goes the neighborhood.

-XOXO,

Thank You, Nancy Reagan!

(Pre-Script: This post will wane nostalgic when read as the songs, "100 years," by Five For Fighting, #2 on the playlist, then "Gone," by Switchfoot, #48 on the playlist, play in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on these songs, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

When I was growing up in the '80's, and they showed us that commercial with the fried egg that went, "This is your brain, this is your brain on drugs, any questions?" I was pretty sure that I had no questions. This doesn't mean I never had one too many cookies as a form of subtle self medication, therefore becoming a momentary drug to me, or never made decisions that, in hindsight, it is clear would have been better had I remembered to "just say no."

But you see, I already lived through the '80's, and I would like to think that I am moving forward with my life, not going backwards. So when I walk into Target and the first thing I see is a flashback to that era through which I already passed and emerged only slightly scarred, I am reminded that a whole new crew of teenagers is cropping up. A whole new batch of teenagers is constantly being created, apparently in very much the same mold, and now, apparently, much of the same clothing, as the teenagers that appeared throughout my own adolescence, and now still appear in my occasional nightmares.

"...but Michelle, excuse me?"

Oh, of course, it's my Dear Imaginary Reader, interrupting my thoughts yet again...yes, what is it, Gentle Reader?

"Michelle, aren't the teenagers these days more sophisticated, technological than teenagers of the past?"

"Gentle Reader, the entire world is more sophisticated and tech savvy than it ever was before. Yet you will recall that there have always been tech savvy, sophisticated teenagers, in all eras, apropos to the time.

"Wow, Michelle, I guess you are right. I am going to have to think about that one for awhile. Please, continue. I am fascinated to hear what you have to say next."

Ahem.

Yes, well.

I was just going to say that I recently heard a famous designer say that if you were here to wear the styles the first time they came around, don't wear them the second time around.

I am not one to live my life by the sayings of clothing designers, but to this comment, I say, "Thank you, famous designer who I am choosing to keep nameless!"

Although, if you happen to see a resurgence of pegged legged jeans wearing 30 something's around town, just know that I may or may not have been one of the spear headers of this campaign. So I am just saying, don't be surprised if you see it.

blink

blink
although between the period of time that I walk around as the solo peg legged woman in, oh, Safeway, for example, or the local park, or whatever, and the time period when the trend actually catches on, I'm going to have to get used to getting a lot of funny looks and snickers.

*sigh*

-Someone wants to stop me here and say that I am trying to recreate my youth. That's not it, though. It's more about separating the wheat from the chaff, now that I am older and wiser. And, um, I'll decide later which was which.

Happy Pegging.

And remember,

"Just say no."

-it still applies, you PYT's*.

-XOXO,

*Pretty Young Thing's, which is a nod to MJ**

**Michael Jackson

Kangaroo Train

(Pre-Script: To catch a whiff of where this post may be taking you, read is as the song, "Going the Distance," #53 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

If you don't do a thing, it doesn't get done.

The sock on the floor that annoys me every time I walk by it does not magically put itself away in the middle of the night as I sleep, yet somehow I never give up hope (hope hope!) that it will be gone the next morning by the time I walk back down the hallway. Yet the next morning, when I see the sock still lying there in a foreign place where it does not belong, (unless it is still on a foot that is standing on that exact spot) I am abruptly awakened by a sense that I have been deliberately defied. I am shocked as if I have been slapped in the face.

Curses, foiled again!

...by a sock.

My 5 year old son Ethan gets undressed like some sort of creature shedding it's skin, leaving pieces of itself all over. I would have said "like a snake," but snakes are much neater about the shedding process. They at least leave their entire skin in one spot, for some happy go lucky young child, such as my Ethan, to find and carry home as a treasure, and quite possibly *dazzle* his mother with in the process.

But I digress.
Nothing about Ethan has ever been very snake like. He is much more likely the distant descendant of a kangaroo. This is why he can never leave just one neat little pile. This is why the offending sock is in a random spot where socks currently not on anyone's foot do not belong. Meanwhile, Ethan has happily bounced along to the next thing, and he is not at all bothered by any wayward socks, as the moment it left his body, it was completely erased from his consciousness. Do you hear what I am telling you, people? My own offspring, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone, is definitely not mind of my mind, completely NOT bothered by that which bothers me to the point of near itchiness.

Ahem.

So I can either remove the offending sock myself, or, more annoyingly but ultimately more important, (at least this is what I, and every parenting magazine I read, [which is none, but I catch a whiff of here and there] have been telling myself) I must remind him.

Blink

Blink
This is not easy to do, since his entire focus has been recaptured, and whatever now has his attention has completely swallowed it, and is not going to willingly give it up to anything resembling his adorable mother, especially if she is the same one who tends to tell him to do adorable things, like pick up his socks.

"Socks? What socks? I don't know of any socks."-so says Ethan's unconsciousness to his consciousness; for his unconsciousness DOES remember the sock, it does, it DOES!! But it does not WANT to remember, does not WANT to have to concentrate on anything beyond that with which it is currently consumed!

Yes, BUT!
After all, I am his adorable mother, and I understand this train of thought!! For I am 33, and it has taken me, yes, 33 years to derail my own train that I used to ride gleefully down that same track, back and forth, happily WOOT WOOTing along, (Okay, so I still ride the train from time to time, let's not kid ourselves.) and as such, I know that if I don't call his attention to his piles and piles of "stuff," and require him to pick it up himself...well, just imagine a fast moving freight train picking up momentum and speed as it leaves piles of junk in it's wake of dust, with a bouncing kangaroo conducting at the wheel. Woot woot indeed.
Go pick up your sock, kid.

-XOXO,