A Celebration

I’m writing this on Thanksgiving day (yippee, I’m not cooking!) so I’m contemplating all that I’m thankful for — naturally, family and friends. But one person in particular comes to mind today: Marty (Mr. G), my friend Sharon’s dad.


Mr. G (left) and his twin brother Marsh

Recently I was invited to Mr. G’s 85th birthday celebration held at Spinnaker restaurant in Sausalito. The party took place in a room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the bay where boats sail toward the Golden Gate and kayakers paddle under the row of restaurants lining the waterfront. A perfect day for a celebration.


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Only in Texas

I’ve visited 20 states so far in my 61 years. Eventually, I hope to see most of them. Well, all except for Michigan and Wisconsin. I’ve crossed them off my list for certain recent events. But never mind that now. Let bygones be bygones, right? Besides, moving to Canada is out of the question; I’m not fond of cold weather and I don’t understand ice hockey. But let’s continue, shall we?


No thank you

My point is, little did I know I’d visit a particular state WAY more than I ever imagined. That would be Texas, y’all. Now don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against the place, exactly. It’s actually an interesting, often beautiful and entertaining state. But there’s only one reason I’ve gone there so often — one of my besties, Sharon, lives there.


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Oh So Weary

I’ve been weary. Oh so weary. Isn’t that a song? I can’t be sure because of my weariness. Brush my hair? Do I have to? Feed the animals? Can’t they miss a meal? Plain and simple, I’m about at my limit rustling up spare energy. In other words, I’m dog tired.


Right about now you might be thinking, quit feeling sorry for yourself, Janet. I’m busy also but you don’t see ME whining. Okay, so maybe you’re a whirlwind like my friend Sharon who never tires. Well good for you. And her. But not everything is about you and Sharon. So get over yourself already. This is MY blog and I’m trying to tell you how tired I am. Jeeeeez

I’m so sorry. I have to apologize for being rude back there. I’m not myself when I’m weary. Now don’t get me wrong; it’s not like my crankiness means I’d have you killed just for a differing opinion. Not that I couldn’t. Have you killed, that is. After all, this is America and we have the First Amendment. We also have folks willing to bump you off for putting it into action.


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Now Don’t Get Me Wrong

Those of you who returned to read why I’m so exhausted will have to wait another week because I had the bright idea to get some rest by going on vacation with some besties. This may, however, have been poorly thought out because I’m writing this at 2:30 in the morning and need to be up by 7:00. Best laid plans and all that…so until next week, enjoy this encore post.

Now Don't Get Me Wrong

I realize today’s post will probably offend those of the male persuasion, but on behalf of women everywhere (or at least those who read this column and happen to agree with me), I feel it’s time to break the silence.

My intent today is not to insult men, but rather to enlighten them to Proper Behavioral Manners, henceforth known as PBMs. The perplexing male behavior I’m referring to is, specifically: (a) nose picking, (b) spitting, and (c) the ever popular crotch grabbing.

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You Can’t Trust Anyone

I’m sitting on my sofa writing this, fighting off something intangible, unlike the pesky fly that buzzed around my face earlier today. (Which reminds me, what’s a fly doing still hanging around in October? Didn’t he get the memo it’s time to move on?) Anyway, what I’m fighting off today is exhaustion and I’m afraid it’s gaining the upper hand.


Normally I write in my office where I usually house a feral foster kitten. When I’m too busy to hold the little munchkin, I sometimes socialize it with a wand toy in one hand while typing with the other. So finishing a blog post when I’m fostering can be long and tiresome, not unlike this election season.


George, my latest foster

Anyway, I’d be in my office right about now but I don’t have the stamina to walk the 28 paces to get there. Yes, I actually counted. So I confess I wasn’t being honest just now because I actually walked the distance then came back to my cushy sofa to continue writing. Which brings me to the point of this week’s post; you can’t trust anyone. Continue reading