What Causes Me Angst

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There’s one day each year that causes me immense angst, almost as much as having to endure those singing Jardiance diabetes commercials. Consequently, I’m inclined to make myself a lemon drop to dull the pain. Or better yet, a martini, sans the olives. I don’t want anything in my glass taking up valuable vodka space when it’s really needed. And I really need it every April 15th.

If you live in America, you know exactly what I’m talking about: TAX DAY. Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining about paying my taxes. I’m perfectly happy to pay what I owe. Well, maybe that’s going a bit too far. Let’s just say I pay what I owe. It’s figuring out what I owe that’s the issue.

For this I blame my CPA, or should I say the woman who WAS my CPA. Each year, well before April 15th, she sent me a folder with a list of questions about that year’s finances. I sent it back, she did her magic, I subsequently paid her then said, “See ya next year!” But there was no next year because she actually had the audacity to retire a couple years ago.

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Get Smart

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This post originally appeared in 2015 yet I’m still working on getting smart

Wrong Get Smart...
Not exactly what I meant

Did you know there are 7 hobbies that will make you smarter? Neither did I. Guess I’m not that smart. Therefore it might behoove me to bone up on these particular hobbies because, let’s face it, at some point our brain cells start diminishing about as rapidly as Matt Lauer’s hairline. Anytime we learn a new skill or have new experiences, scientists say we create more neuron pathways in our brain, making our grey matter work better and faster. And who doesn’t like being better and faster? No one, that’s who.

Matt Lauer

Since we aren’t born with a given level of intelligence, we can always improve in the cranial region. My feeling is, the more neurons I have, the longer it takes before Alzheimer’s strangles my memories, devouring precious neurons like I devour chocolate. Not a pretty sight…

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Where Are We Again?

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don't foget A couple weeks ago I divulged my innate ability to get lost (even with GPS). This week, why not tackle my skill at losing things? Things like my keys, my mind and my glasses. I thought I’d slip in the losing my mind reference without much notice, but seems you were paying attention.

My nickname in high school was Skippy because I was, well, a bit scattered and yes, forgetful. Still am. Friends even went so far as to choose that name as my personalized license plate. Motorists thought I loved peanut butter or had a passion for skipping. Little did they know. I’ve been know to forget having met someone. Unbelievable, huh? Sometimes I don’t recall places I’ve supposedly visited. I’ve even watched an entire movie then realized, as the credits rolled, that I’d seen it before. I’ve always been this way, which in a sense gives me comfort. Continue reading →

Getting Healthy – Not Me, My Pets

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I’ve been making meals for myself for 15 years now. No more planning dinners for my significant other since I no longer have one. My ex was a meat eater and I’m not, so I cooked him a typical Midwest meal of meat and potatoes with a side of vegetables thrown in for good measure. I, on the other hand, enjoy anything without a face, like my roasted tomato-vegetable casserole, salad on the side.

Oh, how times have changed. Once I’d acclimated to cooking dinner only when I felt like it (even though my ex never expected me to cook for him), I’d just wing it. For instance, I’d simply enjoy cheese and crackers followed by fruit with yogurt. Or maybe I’d have breakfast for dinner, something my dad always enjoyed.

Dad at Sand Harbor in Lake Tahoe
Dear old Dad

So now I’m back to cooking for those in my home who depend on me for their daily sustenance — my 10 pets. They’re the opposite of my ex in that they expect and actually insist I make their meals. It better be ready at 9 a.m. and 6 p.m., respectively, or I’m gonna hear about it. Most of my pets aren’t much larger than a bread box (am I dating myself?) and since I definitely am larger, one would imagine they’d think twice before being so demanding.

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I’m a Badass

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Originally posted in 2018

I can be a badass.

You don’t believe me, do you? You think because I’m a diminutive 63-year-old that I sit at home and knit every night, a cup of tea and a cookie on a table next to my easy chair. Oh how wrong you are, my friends.

team and cookie

First of all, I don’t particularly like tea. In fact, if I didn’t think it was healthy for me, I’d never drink it again. Secondly, I don’t knit. It’s not my cup-o-tea. (Wink, wink.) Thirdly, I’d never have just one cookie. Who can have just one? Seriously, I wouldn’t care to know that person.

Now don’t get me wrong. By “badass” I’m not saying Marin County police have memorized my name. In fact, my criminal life consists of two traffic violations. (Yawn.) One I blame on my friend Sharon when, at her urging, I drove straight in a right-turn-only lane. What can I say…we were running late. My other crime was speeding. Yes, I admit I have a lead foot.

Speed demon

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