Pied Piper

I'm flabbergasted a little surprised.

Come on people. Be for real.

I have been a bitch on wheels haven't been feeling too great for the last couple of days. For the bits of time that I wasn't hiding under the covers in bed I was parked in front of the computer.
Reading blogs.
I saw that I lost a follower.
Then I read a post saying "OMG I LOST 46 FOLLOWERS"
And another "WAS IT SOMETHING I SAID"
Followed by "COME BACK, COME BACK I MISS YOU ALL"
It was the Google Flu, people. Google was "adjusting" something somewhere in their Technical Batcave. No Followers were lost, they just got shuffled into the wrong bus line for awhile.
Google should apologize for damaging the psyche of so many bloggers in so little time.
Some of the "I've Lost My Followers" posts were tongue-in-cheek.
Some were sincere.
Some promised never to say "faux" again.
Some said "faux-ity faux faux."
Just A Reminder: Blogging is NOT a popularity contest.
Blogging IS all about you.
It's whatever you want it to be.
It's in your words.
It's in your time. Don't apologize for being a "bad blogger"

Blogging is not meant for you to feel inadequate, or all-powerful, or smart or stupid.
Blogging is a release. It's a place to vent. Or share. Or make wisecracks about your sisters. because you love them.
It's a tool, people.

Love Yourself Just The Way You Are.

Embrace who you are right now, help another woman love herself too. Life is too short, time is too precious. Let's wear our hearts on our feet, put on your red shoes and walk with your head held high!

Liberty Post and the lady in Red Shoes would like you to share the RedShoe Love-a-thon. If you'd like to join in, add the photo to your sidebar.

P.S. I'm still following you.

Once Upon A Time....

.......there was a beautiful princess Crotchety Old Mom. Her daughter was 17 and no longer in need of constant supervision.

The Princess Daughter bought Mom a new book called "He's Just Not That Into You."

Crotchety Old Mom read it like an owner's manual.

Several times.

And realized she just wasn't into the frog prince she was dating, nor he her.

Mom is well aware of her misplaced grammar.

She bid him adieu.

Mom was pretty much resigned to remaining single for the rest of her days.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

She would have been perfectly content to take up bird-watching or basket-weaving or a few more stray cats.

The Internet beckoned.

GottaMatch had a special deal going on.

Her BFF had emailed many delightful "profiles" of eligible princes for the Mom's amusement.

Mom now wishes she would have saved one particularly amusing picture from StupidCupid.com. It featured a very short very plump biker dude wearing nothing but a pair of leather trousers and a large dagger.

Seriously.

Mom joined GottaMatch so she and her BFF could amuse one another by picking out potential Princes for each other.

GottaMatch would also pick out potential Princes and email their profiles. Kind of like a Royal Personal Shopper.

I was shopping. Not to buy, just s.h.o.p.p.i.n.g.

GottaMatch dropped a few "you might find this Prince tolerable amusing"in the Royal Inbox.
Meh.

One evening LuckyGuy landed in the Royal Inbox. He said he was lucky because he had broken his neck @ C1 and C2 and suffered spinal cord injuries (eerily similar to Christopher Reeves); but that after a year of rehab he was no longer wheelchair bound and was getting around pretty well on his own, thankyouverymuch.

CrotchetyOldMom is a rehab nurse. She recognized that LuckyGuy had worked his fanny off to get back on his feet.

She sent him an "atta boy" note.

He emailed back.

He was funny.

She emailed "you amuse me"

Barrage of emails.

Followed by phone calls.

And a date.

He came over and helped with dinner. We made meatloaf.

the Sisters called. "What are you DOING?," they asked.

"we are making meatloaf."

"OH! IS THAT WHAT YOU CALL IT? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

the Sisters amused themselves.

I made meatloaf last night.

Mr Sweetie will say that it's just as good as the first time he had it. When his name was LuckyGuy.

Ms. Fixit

Big Sis K and Little Sis Stew left me here in the snow belt.
Alone.
With BSK's crap-mobile uh van parked in my driveway.
While they go to the tropics to snorkel and play footsie in the sand and visit my brother.
Where they will talk trash about me.
Because when you are laying about in the sand complaining about the heat and the humidity and how the sun's a little too bright for your liking and your beloved family member is unable to eavesdrop you just naturally think of that particular family member.
right?
K. asked me to move the van around the driveway every day so the brakes wouldn't seize up or freeze or whatever the heck malingering tempramental brakes do when they aren't being coddled and loved.
Well I really MEANT to go out and move it. But I'm easily distracted.
I didn't bother to move the van for a several many couple of days.
The brakes froze.
Solid.
I emailed the knowlegable folks at CarTalk's Chat Forum.
"Take the wheels off and bleed the brake lines"
huh ?
"get under the car and....." Didn't even finish reading that one. I don't do "get under the car."
"take your torque wrench and..." Yeah, let me just root around under the kitchen sink for that torque wrench. It's around here somewhere...
"Spray the brakes with Brakleen."
"Whatever you do, don't spray the brakes with Brakleen."
I went to the Highest Authority of Brakedom. The owner of the crapmobile van.

"Uh, hi, K., your brakes suck."
"Oh, yeah, I know. Just gun the gas and they'll break loose. You'll hear a big old CLUNK but that's OK. Go ahead, gun it."
I gunned it. Clunk. The van goes back and forth. Problem solved.
Mr Sweetie: "Uh, honey? The back wheels aren't moving. You're sliding on that big patch of ice."
Problem not solved. Big patches of rubber on the driveway.
shit crap.
My BIL calls. He is crying laughing.
"Hey, Stew called and asked me to come over and move the van because she didn't think you knew how to drive an automatic."

It's almost true. I drive standard shift. Put me in an automatic and I will always hit the brake and the gas simultaneously thinking that the brake is the clutch because that's how ya shift gears, ya know. but not in an automatic.
Long discussion about the nerve of those two leaving us behind to do the dirty work while they're frolicking in the sand.
Stew owes Tim big favors for coming down here , getting under the van in three feet of snow and fixing the brakes while I singlehandedly hold the van up with my girly biceps.
Hah.
not really. But that's his story.
The van decided to get over its temper fit and moved. All four wheels this time. With me driving.
Problem solved.
I better get a big big souvenier out of this.

Bunny Tales

My BFF was married to Mr. D., a complex and interesting character with a complex and interesting job.

One of the less complex aspects of his job was wading through sewers. The massive ones. The reason for doing such a ewww gross thing is lost in the mists of time and my foggy memory. Mr. D. would hold forth dissertations on what was found in the depths of underground plumbing......"those big lady things women wear? Ya know? Those whaddacallums."

"Pads, Mr.D. Kotex.", his wife would sweetly intone.

"Yeah, them. Ya know what they look like in the dark? In a sewer? When you come up on them all of a sudden?" (wife is smirking. She's heard this story.)

"Bunnies. They look like bunnies in the sewer." (holding arms wide wide apart to demonstrate that they look like monster bunnies.) what a comforting thought.

May the Monster Bunnies be kind to you this month.

There is no possible way to segue to the point of this post ...drumroll please...... Patrick of Cre8tor's Touch is celebrating his 100th post with a Primitive Angel Bunny Giveaway. I really really want it.

I once fancied myself a dollmaker. I'm still a doll maker, dang it, they're just on the back burner right now. See those clowns and angels up on my header? I made them. (takes modest bow) I will love them to my dying day, even if I sold them.....

Many thanks to the clowns and angels that visit here. You all make my day ( my family's heard all the stories before. They don't even listen politely when I try to form a sentence....they wait for me to blog about it...)

Happiness Is.....

going to Tiffy's blog and giving her *birthday hugs* on Thursday..... she L.O.V.E.S. hugs! A Bloggy Birthday Blowout Hug-a-thon don't kill me Tiffany.....please be sure to stop by and wish her a Happy Birthday! you don't really have to hug her, she might blow from the pressure.....


....reading Kori's post today...and the ability to spare ten bucks for a good cause. Please go to her blog, find that little "donate" button, and work your magic. A six-month old little girl will thank you. So will her parents. So will Kori. .thank you.

....knowing that I will live for another week before both of my sisters come home to kill me....Stew is gonna kill me for letting the Entire World know that beneath that lady-like exterior she's a tootin' fool....and Big Sis K will kill me twice because the van that she parked in my driveway is s.t.u.c.k. in Park.....she oh-so-innocently asked me to move the van a few feet every day so that the brakes wouldn't get stuck. I went out to move it. The brakes are stuck. hmmmmm....I smell a rat. Or burning brakes.

.....an AWARD!!! In the midst of thinking up happy things, an email from Snooty Primadona popped up with a fantabulous award!!!

Blog Darts Thinker

“This award acknowledges the values that every Blogger displays in their effort to transmit cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values with each message they write. Awards like this have been created with the intention of promoting community among Bloggers. It’s a great way to show appreciation and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web.”
..... how freaking cool is that???

I get to nominate another 15 bloggers to pass this shiny new award on to. Or more than 15. Rules, schmules.

my work adds value to the Web? huh?

....my daughter. She is AWESOME. Having survived years of d.r.am.a., driving lessons, prom nightmares ( "we" have a small fortune in prom dresses and dried-up corsages in the closet...) frightening potential boyfriends with my PsychoMom glare and being a mom/dad to her ~ she still likes me. wow. We survived!

...all of the wonderful, funny, cussing, letting-it-all-out bloggers. (let's all link arms and sing It's A Small World After All).....you know who you are. Yes, you. thank you.

What I Didn't Blog About....

There are a bajillion drafts in my blog.

But.

I didn't blog about my sister with asthma.
Asthma makes her cough.
Coughing makes her toot.
Tooting makes her sisters laugh like 12 year olds.

"yeah, sit next to me on the plane for three days and laugh" she snarled. I didn't think she'd think it was funny if I exposed her un-ladylike behavior.
it's still funny.
she'll kill me when the Sisters get back from vacation.

I didn't blog about the sisters on vacation. On an island. Far away. Without me. boo hoo. Green with envy, I tell ya.

I didn't blog about the first nursing home I worked at. That's where I met my very first cross-dressing transvestite nursing assistant. Sydney was a little exotic looking. I thought she had really big hands. One of Sydney's old high school classmates was hired shortly after I started working there. Classmate commented,"It's a little weird seeing Sydney in a dress." I said, "Why's that?"
Classmate said, "We were in the same graduating class. She was a boy then."

Oh.

Classmate said "Adam's Apple." (apparently I wasn't the brightest crayon in the box since it had to be pointed out to me that there are some obvious discrepencies between girlstuff and boystuff. Not that anything was ever actually taken out and pointed at me. Except for that Adam's Apple.)

I didn't blog about the mashed potatoes I made on Sunday. Because they are addictive. Tater Crack. (I will not blog about the Tater Crack disappearing overnight and finding a new home on my butt.)

Go here for the recipe. Don't say I didn't warn you. Thank You Snooty Primadona. Just say no if you're on KFMBA.

I didn't blog about my fabulous new job because I'm still waiting for the winning lottery ticket to waft down from the heavens I don't HAVE one yet. You'll be the first to know.

I didn't blog about Mr. Sweetie looking at more freaking surgery. Soon. He's had a hip replacement and a shoulder replacement in the past year. Shoulder Number Two is giving him fits acting up. He's not that old.

Hospitals suck. Arthritis sucks.

Mr. Sweetie promised that I'd get a remote control with the next replacement part heh heh.

What haven't you blogged about this week?

Needy

I always like to think that I was independent. "No thank you", I'd say in reply to passersby inquiring if I needed a hand picking up and moving a Volkswagen Beetle. (it was in my parking spot.)

I'd climb the shelves to reach the Cheerios in the grocery aisle.

I'm needier than I thought.

I have succumbed to that little ditty that's been circulating the Blogosphere ~ "Linda Needs"

Go to Google and put in your name and "needs" in the search button.

Linda needs to be a part of a loving, committed marriage.

I'll stick with a loving commited partnership TYVM.

Linda Needs Mental Help.

The one who denies it the most strongly is always the one in the most need of help. I'm fine. I'm fine, dammit. Fine fine fine.

Linda needs a new best friend.

Do not either. My BFF will do just fine. Even if she's a foot taller, blond, gorgeous and we're polar opposites. It doesn't matter to me that salesladies waiters and men swarm her when she walks through the door trampling me in their eagerness to get there first.

Linda needs help (more than usual).

don't we all.

Linda needs to be bright

stick a light bulb in my mouth and plug me in. Bright enough for you?

Linda you need a shrink

opinions expressed in this post are not neccesarily those of the author.

"I would give anything for $40,000 a month,and Linda needs more."

I'm willing to take less.

Linda needs to flatten her chest

Gravity is taking care of that.

Linda needs to think real hard and pray.

Did that. Thinking gave me a headache.

Thinking is Giving Me a Headache

Pass the Tylenol. Pass the Xanax if you have one to spare. I'll pay you back. Promise.

Once again I'm on the merry-go-round. Should I go back to work? Should I not?

I used to once upon a time work at a nursing home. I loved it there. Loved my co-workers or at least some of them loved most of the residents.

The problem is with loving who you work with or work for is that they do eventually go away. To Heaven. I really got a little tired of losing friends that way.

After one of my best 104-year-old nursing home friends decided that it was high time to clock out and go on a permanent vacation I thought maybe I should get a job elsewhere. Like in a hospital where the patients don't call their room "home." Where they would get better and walk out the door. The hospital was a good place to work, if only because patients DID get better and left the hospital in a more or less vertical position. Hospital politics? Meh. Let's just say five hospital presidents in the five years I worked there.

We started a business while I was working at the hospital. Initially the business was meant to be a little project but it kind of took off and turned into a real live j.o.b.

I was working two full-time jobs. Work/home became work/work at home/work/work/work.

The best thing about working at home? You don't have to get up and get dressed and get in the car.

The worst thing about working at home? You don't get to get dressed and get in the car and go to work and come home. Work is there right outside the bedroom door.

Then Hospital Politics reared its ugly head and all of the LPNs were let go.

"Fine" I said. "Business is good" I said. "I'll just work one freakin job and sit in my jammies all day not worry about juggling work/home/work/home/workhome.

fast forward a year....

Can you say r-e-c-e-s-s-i-o-n? Business is OK. Kinda. But I'm anal about the bills. Kinda.

The nursing home I worked at just opened up two new buildings.

I loved it there.

I should go and apply for a j.o.b.

What if they say NO?

What if they say yes?

Please come kick me off this fence I'm riding. My butt is getting sore.

Life On An Island/AKA Man In the Bathtub

And you all thought I was a good procrastinator ~ I asked my brother ohhhhh maybe about 10 weeks ago (he says three weeks but who's counting) to give me 10 good reasons to live on an island. Al lives on a little teeny tiny island. With approximately 141 other science geeks fascinating people. He lives on Roi-Namur in the Marshall Islands, playing with satellites and fishies. That's him in the picture trying to get away to a bigger island with g.i.rl.s. on it playing in what he likes to call his bathtub.

Al's Top 10 Reasons to Live On An Island

Linda - Well, it's been 3 weeks; about time to stop procrastinating. I know this Top 10 doesn't apply to just any island; only the one I'm calling home right now.

1) Rarely warmer than 88 degrees. (note to self: MOVE IN WITH AL)


2) Rarely colder than 76 degrees. (bring a sweater for those chilly 76 degree nights)


3) No personal vehicles = no traffic, no car maintenance, payments, or insurance. (packin'my flip flops)


4) No ^&*!#$%* kids. (he really does love his neices and nephews. As long as they don't spit sneeze drool or poop on him.)


5) Less than 100 people on the island = get along or else. (I wanna see a little "or else.")


6) No Federal income tax, state tax, electric bills, water bills, or grocery bills. (I'm packing right now. NO BILLS. NO TAXES.*sigh*)


7) Intermittent dial-up Internet service - requires one to develop and exercise eternal patience. (HUH? that might be a little problem.....)

8) No UPS, FedEX, etc. - US Postal Service is only shipping option. "Instant gratification is only 3 - 4 weeks away." (that is not instant. Instant is rightnowrightnowrightnow.)


8) Lots of fun toys to play with at work (satellite & space debris tracking radars). (obviously Al's definition of "toys" is abnormal not the same as mine. My toys would be a catalog, a beach umbrella and some 3-D glasses. And maybe a pool boy.


9) Every day is casual day - shorts, tee-shirts and sneakers for work. (I could deal with that. Fer sure.)


10) WWII artifacts and history everywhere. (Meh. More boy toys.)





Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of minuses associated with this kind of living and some people here make a career out of finding/vocalizing all the negatives. I try to take the good with the bad. I'll send some photos soon, like maybe next week, or the next week, or.........whenever. Procrastionation is an art form I've perfected into a science. Love,Al

Big Sis K & little sis Stew will be travelling to Roi in a week. One of them may have an exceptionally heavy carry on bag. If you don't hear from me for awhile it's because I'm stuffed in a tote bag with my flip flops. I don't think I can blog from inside a tote bag stuffed under an airplane seat but we'll see....

Was Gonna

Nothing nothing nothing could get my mom's head to spinning accompanied by the required flames-shooting-from-the-eyeballs-hair-on-fire spazz attack hissy fit she'd throw when one of her angels childrens would utter those Words of Doom....

"I was gonna........."( take out the trash/feed the dog/)you get the picture.....

Well. I was gonna had planned to get a whole buncha bloggy things written so I could just be a lazy well-organized blogger and just hit "Publish" when it was time to post something new...

Uh-huh. I was gonna get the living room painted. Right after the family room got finished (it's been 5-6-12 years since THAT project was started...) I did get a couple of things done on my long list of Things to Do Immediately ~ like add 28 1/2 sticky buns in equal proportions to my um er buns. My butt is so big and squishy all I need is some raisins and cinnamon to decorate it.

Yummy.

Thanks to all my bloggy friends that checked in periodically, it was nice to know that I have checker-inners friends out there!

January. A good month to hibernate eat cookies start over. Or at the very least get offa my butt and finish a project..this month's project was to make real food for dinner.

I strenuously object to schlepping to the grocery store, stuffing the cart full of the cheapest food possible (I always feel like the cavewoman hunting down and killing a week's worth of dinner) taking it home stuffing it in the fridge, taking something out of the fridge and cooking it. Blargh.

"Chicken? Again?"

Yep. I know, you're gonna sprout feathers. Anybody know how to make chicken taste like um well anything NOT chicken? Mr Sweetie (and millions of men everywhere) will thank you.

BTW the last time Mr. Sweetie was in the kitchen as an active participant was our first date....except for the one time that he made tuna casserole all by himself. For some reason the recipe called for flour. He grabbed the first plastic container with a white powdery substance in it and added it to the tuna glop.

no I wasn't home

no the white powdery stuff wasn't coke illegal.

It was confectioner's sugar.

I'm sure you'd rather hear what we cooked on our first date. Or how we met. you'd rather hear anything but what that tuna casserole tasted like. choke choke "it's not THAT bad honey" (gulp)