My first discovery authenticated a sanity-survival technique self-taught during the early days of parenting—shut off what I don’t want to hear. That includes squawking voices. This lingering skill undermined my scientific study, however. Every time the commercial runs aired, my inside ears shut it off and I went about the business of chopping carrots, chatting with spouse, visiting the bathroom, or checking Facebook updates
I love shoes about as much as I love chocolate. Ever since ever the hunt for the darling shoe in the perfect color that coordinates with my outfit de’jour rates high in my top ten agenda. Once my peds took heel, this soleful passion kicked off when my grandmother said, “You need red tennis shoes for your new jeans and red shirt.” Red cowboy boots followed, along with black patent leather Mary Janes , white patent leather flats, orange sandals, rainbow-hued flip-flops […]
And while all these hippies were free loving each other, “they begat the Credit Card Generation.” (I’m still thinking this had to have been a parody.)
The only noise now, at 3 a.m. PST, is my stupid cell phone beeping every 15 minutes. It’s hidden deep inside my monstrous purse. I don’t wish to ruffle thru the purse to find the phone that will sing it’s Verizon lullaby and then wake up spouse. So I let it beep.
“…And then there was our former Miss California, Carrie Prejean , who during her hormonal rampant teen time, videotaped some solo sport which she “innocently” sent to her lonely boyfriend. It wasn’t sex. And one must also understand that because she’s a model, sexiness is her job…”
Poor Justin has to get something going in less than 10 minutes so, because his jerk company ignores my do not call demands, and my whining and complaining falls on deaf ears, I say screw with ’em. Guarantee they’ll remove your number from their list–voluntarily.
Gov. Mark Sanford is initiated into the Cockamamie Club–bad boys with rampant cockamamie’s.
The Muse Pallet 