Enough About Me ...

Let's postulate that you're abstaining from something, like say using emoticons during instant message conversations. Unable to control yourself, you stick a little colon parenthesis combo right at the end of a passive aggressive sentence or something that when read without the little faux smiley would be a total insult. Like, "yeah, your hair really sucks :)" At that point, what part of the wagon are you on? Does one fall off the wagon or get on the wagon. Which way does it go? Personally I'd rather be off the wagon, who wants to be cooped up on a wagon all day? I picture the people on the wagon not abstaining, carried around together in a cart of debauchery. Meanwhile, those off the wagon are getting around town, living their lives in control. What is the wagon, really. No doubt I have this the wrong way. I'll use a different phrase like whoops, I've somehow went against my original intent of abstaining from emoticon use or what ever the non desired habit might be. Maybe a simple "whoops" would suffice. Indicating your position in the way of the wagon is moot really. There is no wagon. It's all made up and truly, you've let only yourself down :(

Not fond of the words Bolster, Shit Load, Meat Market, Calling inanimate objects "fun", Tote and Sweater Set.

Now there's a group that did a great job doing exactly what they dreamed of doing. Our House, Baggy Trousers you name it they probably stuck a melody behind it. And while I'm on music, a topic I frequently avoid due to my lack of lyric knowledge (see You Ugly, Though I Love You So), I have finally come to the conclusion that the Barenaked Ladies sound like the Wiggles. Listen to Hot Potato, Hot Potato next to Be My Yoko Ono and you'll see what I mean. Barenaked ladies is a band I really don't like and don't particularly want to understand how to appreciate. I came, I listened, I kissed $13.95 good-bye. Personally, I'm a Wiggles fan. There's a mediocre band who said, "Hey, we will never make it big as an average rockish band, but there must be a market for us," and boy where they right. They sing adult music to kids and the kids simply dig it. Viva Wiggles! And just to be totally random here, I just made the personal discovery that Petit Fours (those little Alice In Wonderland Cakes) are really just a gourmet Ho-Ho. There you go. Nothing to see here, move along...

Dudes, I'm very excited to state that I'm ready to step up the plate put my wood behind the arrow and begin using pop phrases of the business male dominion. I know it'll take balls, but guys, I'm thinking outside the scrotum here. Should be a slam dunk. Who's your daddy, huh? I'm da man. It's just super to hear these power point, bi-minute mottos to get the point across. I'll slap you an ETA ASAP.

I don't do America blogging, BUTT, whew thank you America for talk shows. I'm trying this radical new diet: eat less / exercise more. Crazy, I know. It involves like ten minutes on the hamster wheel. To which, just centimeters (that was for you metric system people) away is a T.V. I monitor my heart rate, yeah one of those people. I was conducting a small test on heart rate and television while running on a treadmill. My null hypothesis: Heart rate will not change while glancing at television. I, of course, was under the belief that it would actually decrease even while running. So, I would run, look out at the beautiful canal, the flame red falling leaves and note my heart rate (136). Then I would simply glance at the T.V. and note my heart rate (129). I did it a few times to see if it went down. Each time, my heart rate would decrease when I glanced at the T.V. Of course without excel and some fancy statistics, I cannot report if my findings are indeed statistically significant with a level set at .05. Could very well be left to chance. So, this one glance, I caught the show "My Son's Dead And I Hope He's The Father." It really boiled down to a paternity test show. No dead sons seemed to be involved. Nonetheless, my ten minute treadmill flew by and my heart rate was hovering just above 120 and I was running uphill. All I'm saying is I can't believe these talk shows are still producing daily shows after all these years. Then you look at librettos from Opera or Shakespeare plots and realize people are just fascinated with adultery, misogyny, paternity, wooing and down right shagging your cousin. This show had me totally sucked in and I didn't even have sound. The body language was enough to let me know that he was a down right dirty dog and even though maybe she slept around a tad, he was a married man who cheated on his wife and was clearly Spirits father. He should just own up and be the father he neglected to be these past two years. You ain't nothin'. You ain't nothin'. Hoot. Hoot. Three snaps Z formation (has that phrase made it back from lameville to hip again?)

Yes, it's true, the fashion of the 80's is back. I lived through it once. Why, oh why must I endure it and all the crappy renditions of Walking On Sunshine and I'm Your Venus again. What I'd like to see is the fashion of 1920 take stage again. Those days when everyone said it with a hat. Hats were everywhere. I'm just trying to figure out where all the hats went and why they were there in the first place. I suppose it's all the walking up hill both ways working in the mine for a nickel a day that required the extra protection. Hats are so great. Maybe the great hat decline was some conspiracy kicked off by Pfizer to carve out the Rogaine market of today. Balding? Who cares, I've got me troosty 'at. They all had Cockney accents back then too.

I was just splendoring in the days when I lingered in the top half of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Whoa the privilege. Though I dabble a bit up there, my days are consumed with the lower needs as my husband and I raise our younglings. Laying down that solid foundation through bottom wiping, Clifford cereal and arguments about no you can't have the pink bowl today, you're going to have to enjoy your meal in a white, yet zany bowl, yes I know the pink bowl is clean, but the white bowl was on top and since you're not a spoiled brat you should welcome the environment of not getting everything you ask for.

Then I was thinking about Maslow and his needs. I suppose he never quite got past Esteem Needs. Apparently he settled right into recognition from others, prestige and status. Oh yeah, there's this other stage, Self-Actualization, but don’t bother until you've created a popular pyramid and named it after yourself.

For just one hour a month I watch a little crappy television. Often times that hour tends to line up with a spirited evening the night before. Not a huge investment and it keeps you up with the times. September has brought me up to date with the concept of "nexted." I'm not on the market or anything, but I would totally have used this for those dates where you just know it's going nowhere. Instead of sitting there exchanging drab stories on weather and what your Halloween plans might be, you simply say while he or she is biting into that baby tortellini covered in sun dried artichoke roasted red pepper pesto, "you know, you're just not working, so I'm afraid I'm going to next you." The person simply pouts, walks away and returns to their strudel of friends announcing, "Dude, I got nexted." From this I've constructed the following haiku:

Wow, hi! like, let's go
I like puppies. Tee hee hee
Dude, I got nexted

I'm not usually one for dissing the ladies, but I have to admit the whole concept of a Muffin Top is quite amusing. Apparently, for those not in the know, the Muffin Top refers to the roll of belly and side-belly the rolls over a pair of low-rise jeans. I believe it can be generalized to any low-rise fashion article. I've not quite attained full Muffin Top myself, but I do have a pair of low-rise jeans and have compensated potential muffin topage with a long shirt. What's amazing to me is not the flesh that spilleth over. It's the absolute blind faith in the seams of their jeans. It could be the simple act of dropping your keys that could take a gal from a Muffin Top to a Hot Lava Cake.