The Art of Cursing

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Originally posted in 2021

I never swore until I was out of my teens. Pretty shocking, huh? Let’s just say I was a good girl with my verbiage for most of my early years. As a kid, I never had to suck on a bar of soap like my sister did after being busted for swearing. I did, however, thoroughly enjoy watching her do so. Actually, I shocked myself the first time the word shit slipped from my lips. It felt wrong while at the same time strangely satisfying.

Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not some potty-mouthed person who is addicted to swearing. Please! I’m a nice Catholic girl who attended Church twice a year (Christmas and Easter) and now only for weddings and funerals. Hey, I never said I was perfect.

Having said that, there’s something satisfying about cursing. When someone cuts me off on the freeway, darn it! just doesn’t cut it, you know? In the privacy of my vehicle, where nobody can hear me, I say what I imagine a truck driver might exclaim under similar circumstances. I’m guessing it’s pretty much a regular occurrence in that occupation.

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What To Do, What To Do

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Just got back from Lake Tahoe four hours ago, so here’s a posting from 2014…

Sometimes it’s Saturday afternoon and I’m not sure what I’ll write for my Sunday blog. It posts at 6:00 a.m. Sunday morning and time’s a-wastin’. That’s when panic covers me like a bad rash. I have no words (I know, rare huh?), no photos to contribute, no ideas to share. Zilch.

i got nothin

I’ve been writing this blog for nearly two years. That means I’ve written close to 100 of them. That may not seem like many to you. But let me tell ya, when one has been running around all week chasing tennis balls and feral cats, having to post a 600 word essay on Saturday night is, I admit, one of those rude awakening moments.

holy crap
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Deja Vu All Over Again

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Here’s a posting I wrote way back in 2016.

I hate to beat a dead horse. In fact I hate to beat anything, let alone a dead horse. What kind of a saying is that anyway? Now don’t get me wrong; today I’m not writing about beating horses so you can forget the opinion you’ve just formed that I’m a dead-animal-beater. I mean really, what’s wrong with you?

No, today’s blog is about how apropos my last blog was. You see, as I write this, I’m on a plane to Texas to meet my friend Sharon and help her unpack hundreds of boxes shipped from her and Jim’s previous home in Perth, Australia, to her current home outside of Houston. Being the kind, considerate, thoughtful and giving person I am, I offered to help her unpack.

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The Fly Swatter

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I recently discovered an area where I believe I’m proficient, not that it’s anything to brag about, but here goes anyway…I’m an expert fly swatter (aka, killer). But seriously, no need to flatter me unless you want to.

Now don’t get me wrong; a fly swatter wasn’t something I aspired to be; believe me, I’ve had loftier goals. But this issue has been ongoing for months – annoying little fruit flies and regular annoying flies buzzing around my kitchen like World War II dive bombers heading toward anything that resembles food, even my fake pears. I’ve since learned that fruit flies aren’t particularly discerning insects.

Fooled ya, flies!
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Night Owl or Morning Lark?

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Originally posted in 2015

hands up

I don’t know about you but for me, one of the least desirable aspects of getting longer in the tooth is lack of sleep. Gone are the nights of 10-hour slumbers like in my teens. In my 20s-30s I often achieved a steady nine hours. In my 40s-50s, eight hours hit the spot. Ah, those were the days.

Now that I’m in my 60s, my snoozing time lasts about as long as an Oliver Stone movie, generally just over three hours. I’m then awake for two, followed by another hour or two of semi-consciousness. I tell ya, if I keep going like this, when I hit 70, the act of a prolonged blink will constitute a nice little nap.

dear 3 a.m

I suppose it doesn’t help that I’m a night owl. Now don’t get me wrong; it’s not my fault. I blame my mom. Like my sister and me, she stayed up well past midnight, needing to force herself to sleep around 2:00 a.m. That doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for a visit from the Sandman, does it?

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