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I Feel Old

26 Aug

I just read today that Macaulay Culkin is 30. Ugh. I feel old.

It’s not the fact that sometimes I wake up sore and achy…because I slept. Okay, who gets muscle aches and pains just from sleeping!?

It’s not the fact that whenever I have a little too much wine it takes me an entire month to recuperate from the hang over…when it used to only take a glass of water and Advil.

It’s not the fact that I can’t last five minutes after 10:00 pm without passing out because I’m exhausted…when I used to be able to work on only 3 hours of sleep.

It’s not the fact that touching my toes requires at least a 15-minute warm-up…when I used to be able to do the splits at the snap of the fingers.

It’s not the fact that all the songs I love are now known as “old school” or “oldies”…when the chick from Missing Persons was doing shock fashion before Lady Gaga could even say “ga ga, goo goo.”

No, it’s none of that stuff that makes me feel old. It’s hearing that the little kid from Home Alone is now 30. He’s frickin’ THIRTY YEARS-OLD!

I’m just going to put on my leg warmers and listen to the Flashdance soundtrak.


Ahhh, Hormones

17 Aug

Those lovely little chemicals that send out messages to our bodies on how to metabolize food, fight disease, when to procreate, and of course, our mood.

It’s that last one that seems to wreak havoc on our lives.

Hormones are responsible for sending tweens and teens into a frenzy whenever a hottie enters the room. Girls squeal and start talking rapidly and in high-pitched tones, while boys are hell bent on destroying things in their paths.

Hormones are responsible for hair in places you want it, but mostly where you don’t want it. They cause breakouts and drama. They cause a woman’s body, and her mind, to suddenly become possessed by another entity when she is pregnant. They cause a man’s body to bulk up and buff out.

Hormones cause women to go into rages where they cannot control themselves (ala Colleen Walsh). They cause men to become violent, almost primeval like a Cro-Magnon (ala Mike Tyson).

When you think about it hormones really are, the most powerful chemical in the world.

I can tell you that I sometimes get possessed by these little chemicals. I could be doing something in the kitchen and The Hubby enters asking a seemingly innocent question like, “Where is the laundry detergent?” And I will explode like a once-dormant volcano. I see myself reacting in this way as if watching a movie. I’m yelling at myself from behind a thick glass wall to calm down, but the “me” in the movie cannot hear it, and cannot stop. Or I’ll be talking with a friend about something emotional and I will begin crying, sobbing, heaving as if I just lost a family member. Once again, the movie starts and I am outside of myself watching this emotional, moody, and incoherent woman completely lose it.

In my view, hormones–not religion or politics–are the main cause of humanity’s problems. Yet, without them, we probably wouldn’t be here. Keeping these menaces to society in balance should be our number one goal. Just think what a better place this world would be without PMS!

Hello, My Name is Random Chick and I’m Forty Something

15 Jun

“Hello Random Chick.”

Well, I was born on this day back when people used to have to dial rotary phones that were wired into the wall. Water was free and you drank it from a faucet, not a plastic bottle. The Cold War was still raging on and the word “gay” meant happy, not homosexual or lame. The Summer of Love began with the Beatles release of “Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band” when hippies in San Francisco rebelled against the culture norms of Ozzie and Harriet. Gas was a mere 33 cents a gallon and a movie ticket would cost you only $1.25, but the average income of Americans was only $7,300.00 a year.

I survived Dolphin shorts, silk Disco jackets, Dittos, leg warmers, pedal pushers, shoulder pads, and orange neon pants with my sanity still in tact. My hair has been big, permed, bleached blonde, and almost shaved…and there’s still some left on my head but now I have hair where I don’t want it. My laugh lines now laugh at me for attempting to smooth them with $300 creams from France. I can no longer tell the difference between thongs and flip flops although I know one of them goes up the a#$.

They say that 40 is the new 30. I say unless you hook your face up to a Botox IV, suck all the cellulite out of your thighs and inject it into your lips, eat a bowl of Wheaties with Red Bull every morning then pound three espressos every afternoon at 3pm, hoist up your boobs with duct tape, laser fry the hair off your chin…then 40 might be the new 30. Or you could have someone paint a picture of you that slowly grows old over the years while you stay as young as the morning dew on the grass, like Demi Moore.

I’ll be here next year, if I can remember.

Role Survivor

3 Jun

Have you ever noticed that the person you see in the mirror is not the same person you think you should be? The one in the mirror looks tired, stressed, and well, old. When did this happen? After your first date? While you were at work? During that long weekend with your in-laws?

You may think the person you should be is a wonder human-being who can do fifty things at one time, perfectly. If you don’t do those things perfectly then you suck. And you suck really bad. In fact, you probably suck more than any other person on this planet. You are also ugly, stupid, and have cellulite.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we think we have to be awesome, gorgeous, perfect, and wealthy…and if we’re not any of those things, if we are say AVERAGE, then we’re total losers? Why can’t being just average be okay?

We’ve learned that we can have anything we want, all at once. We’ve learned that in order to be happy, we have to be like Suzie Q. Celebrity or Johnny Doe Athelete and all we need to do is follow a simple five-step formula, then whalla, all our wishes come true. Or we just need to buy a new, clinically-proven, not-yet-available-in-stores, cream that makes all of our problems, like cellulite, vanish. If that doesn’t work, we can hire a motivational, life coach who will tell us we are good enough if we buy her eight-CD volume gift set on ways to create a positive outlook that will attract everything from money to cheese cake. As a last ditch effort, we can always refer to Oprah’s guru network. There is a guru who can offer us help when we’re purchasing an airplane ticket on how to get the safest seat, when we’re buying jeans on how to make our butts look slimmer, or when we’re having a mid-life crisis on how to achieve a meditative state of bliss.

I say, NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!

We are not meant to fit into nice neat little roles and stereo-types of whatever society thinks is beautiful, perfect, intelligence, wealthy, etc.. We are not meant to be consumers of crap that will give us buns of steel, more hair where we want and less where we don’t want, super white teeth that are really sensitive to cold, or the ability to speak 10,000 languages in three days. We are not meant to be so damn stressed out trying to achieve these unreal ideals that we are killing ourselves or turning ourselves into plastic blow up dolls (case in point below):

Do you want to become a role survivor? Do you want to just be the average person you were meant to be and be PROUD of it? Do you want to throw away your 1,001 self-help books and DVD pilates work-out collections so you have room on your shelves for interesting books and DVDs? Then let me hear you say, “YEA!”

C’mon everybody…YEA!!! Power to the average people who are holding up this country, and for that matter, the world!!!


19 Jan

There is no pre-planning, inspiration, or idea behind this post. It just is what it is: random writing. I tried to come up with something by searching around blogs, news, and other bits of information floating out there on the Internet but nothing came to me. So I named this post crap–because it is, and I love that word.

I’m sure this has happened to you once or twice. Perhaps? You really want to tell the world something that will strike a chord, but no matter how much coffee you drink you come up with nada, zip, zero. Yup, that’s where I am right now.

I have been thinking way too much about aging lately. Why? Well, because when I look in the mirror my reflection doesn’t match how I feel anymore. I still feel pretty immature and basically clueless on how to best live my life. I thought by the time I reached 42, I’d have a better grasp on things. Like how to deal with dimwits, or mustering patience when my children drive me mad, or even keeping my mouth shut when the Hubby goes off on a tangent. Nope. I’m still doing much of the same dumb stuff I did when I was in my 20s. I let the dimwits get to me, I lose my temper in front of the children, I HAVE to get the last word in arguments with the Hubby. And the WORST offense…I still think I can do EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE! Why can’t I just say, “NOOOO! Let me finish this first then I’ll get to that!” When will I ever learn?

I have to tell you, if you came here wanting something so funny that you’ll pee your pants…I think you are probably sorely disappointed. Unless, you think a forty-something woman complaining about her faults is funny. Oh yea, I forgot about Ellen.

Energy Crisis

23 Oct

Why do children have so much energy, and I do not? There should be some kind of natural energy hormone that kicks in when you have kids that will last until they’ve gotten a job and are out of the house. I just survived an afternoon of four kids–6 years-old and younger–screaming, running, skipping, yelling, eating, running some more, yet more screaming and then whining when it was over. I feel like my head has been in a vice and someone kick-boxed the hell out of my body.

I get exhausted just watching them, but of course that’s not all I do when the kids get together with their little playmates. I wish. I’m the arbitrator when possession-envy kicks in, or when someone thinks it’s funny to put bugs in someone else’s hair. I’m also the servant, unwillingly mind you. But, I don’t want little fingers in everything so I do the work of getting snacks, opening packages, reaching toys in high places, or whatever. I’m also the safety monitor. I make sure that there is a clear path from bedrooms to the bathroom because things get strewn everywhere and I don’t want any potty accidents in the house because there was a transformer in the way. I tie shoe laces that come undone so no one will trip while they are running. I shout, “Be careful!” because that is the magic phrase that will prevent any harm from befalling on the kids…yeah, right.

I’m out of energy, and there are still four hours left until bedtime.

Out of My Mind

22 Sep

I hate to break this to you…but, I will be out of my mind for a while. As much as I love blogging, my life has gotten a little unmanageable once again. It’s not entirely my fault. There’s work, the children, house cleaning, paperwork, weeds, toe nails, Facebook, Twitter, doctor appointments, America’s Next Top Model, hair coloring, eating, sleeping, going to the bathroom, taking a shower…stuff like that to be attended to you know.

If I had a personal assistant who looked like this, maybe I’d be able to blog more. Maybe I wouldn’t look like I’m constantly in a daze and like I just woke up, threw on sweats and a Tshirt that says, “Help me, I haven’t worn clean underwear in two weeks.”

But you know me, I always say I’m going away and I come right back the next day with something riveting. You never know what you’re gonna get from a Random Chick.

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