Shy to the Nucleus.

Being shy is one of my 'things' and has been since I was an embryo. (I was too shy to even come out on birthing day, my mother was trying to push me into this world for 2 long, laboring days before I was born)
My parents though, were both outgoing, party throwing, neighbor chatting, involved in anything kind of people.
There were many times when I got scolded for hiding behind my parents or taking off to a secluded corner when my parents were being social.
"You're acting ridiculous" or "I do apologize, I'm sure she'll outgrow this" or "Get over here now and don't make me tell you again" were all things I heard repeatedly.
Yet I have never stopped being shy all the way into adulthood...or....now.
It is not a worry or a problem that I think about because I have been shy as long as I can recall and I am comfortable by myself.
Sometimes though, I must go out....in public.....where people are........
My husband who is NOT shy, generously purchased tickets to one of our favorite comedians as an anniversary gift.
Perfect. The funny man will be 1000 feet away, on a spotlit stage and we will be comfortably and silently squished next to strangers in the dark.
Totally awesome and mostly shy-proof until.......I got entirely too close to the funny man .
The most famous person I was ever close to was Santa Claus.
Now imagine a crying child being pushed close to Santa and said child is trying to turn and run back to the safety of anywhere else.
I was that child.
"Keep the presents, I am not talking to that guy".
That was my motto.
Well the previously mentioned comedian was also doing a book signing on his stand-up tour and we arrived early enough that there was hardly anyone in line for it.
So......we were able to get up close and personal with a famous person.
My brain shut off.
Completely shut off.
Instead of crying though, I was grinning like an idiot and couldn't even remember what my daughter's name was.
He was witty, friendly, adorable, signed my book and smiled back.
I took the book and bolted out of the room.
I don't recall if I even thanked him.
I sat down trembling, terrified and still grinning.
If I am shy around regular people, what was I thinking I could do around a famous one?
Without a working brain?!
Now I've become a traumatized shy adult.
"Keep the book, I am not talking to that guy".
That is my motto for the next book signing.
Did I say 'next' book signing?
Who am I kidding.
I mean 'any' book signing.

Thanks for being here.


I could have gotten closer, but I had to leave enough space for a quick getaway.


Funny. Even autograph funny.
(Amy is my daughter)

I swear, its not what you think......

If you are easily offended or detest foul language then just skip on to the next thing on your to-do list because this post is a tribute to master cussers.
It seems that I feel the need to acknowledge these curse word artists because they fill a descriptive vacancy in my vocabulary.
Though many claim to be master cussers, the ones I commend here are experts and can turn a phrase or sentence, full of obscenities, into a thing of eloquent beauty and take my breath away with their abilities.
They are to swear words what Bob Ross is to canvas.
I can not compete.
I can not even begin.
My relationship to foul language is not unlike a person in recovery and I have
been on the swear-'wagon' for decades.
I know my limits.
I can't say the stuff.
My vocabulary would quickly become profane and offensive in the least likely of places.
"That is the cutest &*@%$#% baby I ever saw".
That kind of thing.
So I must refrain from cursing at all.
I don't worry too much about wasting my unused allotment of dirty words because I willingly give the master cussers in this world my portion.
Sort of imaginary recyclable profanity that is sustainable and ethically managed.
Shall we begin....

The F#%*ling.
One of my master cuss virtuosos is my oldest daughter.
Don't ask me how, don't ask me why.
She learned it young and she learned it fast.
She did not learn it from her parents.
But when she is wound up or excited about something she can tell the story of an experience or
describe an event so appropriately, effortlessly and hysterically uncensored that even the Pope would be wiping away his tears of appreciation.
She has tried to quit or at least cut down (sadly there are no patches to end cussing) with no success, so she has had to embrace and master her skill.
Her abilities compare to a treasure at Sotheby's.

The F#%*ess.
My second master cuss champion is a well known blogger who also has the gift of retelling conversations and describing
events with profanity placed precisely and perfectly.
She also posts many pictures with expertly inserted expletives.
If I go for a week without reading one of her posts I find that there is no point to even having a computer.
She uses the f-word like a guru.
And the awesome thing about her is that I think she would possibly enjoy being called 'The F**kess' on some days.
Her talent is a skillful, exquisite and revered by her followers.

The F#%*er.
My third and final master cuss boss is known for and only needs one swear word in various forms to get his point across.
He uses the f-bomb with the skill and accuracy of a competitive marksman.
He can expertly use it like a Jedi when discussing snakes on aircraft or reading books about compelling children to go to sleep.
Since I don't know him personally I can only assume he uses his f-word to pay his utility bills or persuade politicians to get stuff done.
He is that capable.
His mastery is legendary.

Their artistry is profound.
Their gifts seem inspired.
They are clever, gifted, accomplished and more than occasionally, offensive.
But I will still adore them.
I will still keep my expletives quiet.
I swear.

Thanks for &x%$#@! being here.
Sorry---couldn't resist.

Thanks for being here.


P.S. You didn't hear it from me......

Also thanks to April, Jenny and Samuel.

Throwback Thursday

Hello,
I have a chicken on my head.
My mother gave these pictures to me recently and printed on the backs of each was "young Sherry and chicken".
Nothing unusual.
Except that it's on my head and chickens poop a lot!
I had raised this one from a tiny yellow chick (pic below) and have no idea what happened to it.
I would like to think that it won prizes and awards when it grew up (my sister was in FFA) but it probably was consumed by a neighbor.
A neighbor family ate our rabbits when my family went on a camping trip.
We know this because one neighbor told on the other neighbor.
My family had fish, cats, iguanas, rabbits, chickens and hungry neighbors.
I guess my mom took the picture while the chicken was still alive, or while I was still alive
(you never know what's on the neighbors menu).
Anyway, I don't remember poop or death or even the picture, but I do remember loving animals (more than my neighbors) and I'm glad someone captured the moment
(before they captured the chicken).
Maybe other folks began to miss pets too because after 'Bunnygate' the thieving neighbors moved out.
I hope they got pooped on.

Thanks for going back in time with me.

Pick a Peck of Perks

There do not seem to be a lot of perks for people my age.
At least they are not very obvious to me.
In my experience it seems like most businesses tuck perks away so you only get them by word of mouth or through lots of research.
But my husband and I got a great one this weekend at the county fair.
We got in for free!
We didn't even have to ask.
We just had to look the part.
You are probably thinking "Seriously? She's excited about that???? A discount to look at llamas, giant stuffed prize bananas, heart stopping carnival rides and kids covered in face paint?"
Well yes I'm excited, but as I shared earlier, it's because there are not a lot of other senior perks out there.

As soon as my husband and I came of age we joined a certain group that has a following with the older generation.
It costs precious money to belong but we thought of it as an investment with the hopes of finding out about all the endless and fabulous senior discounts.
When we got our first magazine, it seemed to us like a picture book....... compiled by Stephen King!
We saw terrifying items that would lead you to believe that lots of funky contraptions and doodads will help you age gracefully, all while you ponder yourself into an early grave worrying about how to afford these accessories of your future!
We had no idea that in our sunset years we would, basically, need a torture chamber to make the transition.
Special showers, freaky food supplements, folding beds, wrinkle-less clothes, peculiar shoes, odd lighting, insurance, hair treatments, gumball machines to dispense your meds (I made that one up) and countless other crapomatics,  all of them calling our name.
Not to mention the printed articles pointing out all the rip-offs and scams that we needed to avoid and be scared of.
We wanted perks, coupons and discounts so we could live life like we did when we were young, only living it just a smidge slower and a bit cheaper.
The sought after perks we had hoped for were very few and very far between.
We ended our membership after house of horrors magazine #3 showed up.
We can already frighten and unnerve ourselves by checking our retirement account balance or by being full monty naked in front of a mirror.
We wanted perks!!

The only other perk I ever got was at a grocery store when I bought  3 items and they said that I got a senior discount because it was Tuesday!
Yay ?!
I have been shopping at that store on a variety of days for years and was never told about this or ever saw a sign.
They most likely keep it on the down-low because they don't want a store full of seniors clogging up the aisles and asking for prunes.
I am guessing I got the perk this time because I dropped 1 of my 3 items as soon as I got to the register, my clothes were soaked from the rain outside, I just got off work, complete with name tag still on, looked exhausted, my wallet had been left in the car, I was starting to tear up, the cashier was patiently smiling at me and I was buying oatmeal, coffee and prunes. 
Just kidding....... I dropped 2 of my 3 items and the coffee can rolled right up to the cashiers foot.
Your guess is as good as mine why I got the discount that day.

Even online the pickings are slim.
And every perk that you do find qualifies at a different age minimum or lasts for a month, a week, a minute or already expired.
50, 55, 60, 62, 65, 70.... How old is a 'qualified' senior anymore?
Nobody seems to know.
I sure don't.

But the folks at the county fair do.
If you look old, then, "Come on in!"
That's their motto.
They know we still eat cotton candy and try to win goldfish.
They know we will come and bring our families and spend our money and tell everyone about getting in free.
They know that seniors will be amazed by the fun rides and wonder how in the world those people don't get nauseous or pee a little bit.
They get it.
I am grateful.

I'll be back next year too!




Jeplen's first county fair!
(the one in the middle)



Psycho ride my kids went on.
Yes, it swung back and forth and spun. Blarg. 
I had to sit down.


Thanks for being here.

Oh... BTW... My daughter won a goldfish!
Good times. 
Good times.

Did you see that ?

Growing older is so bizarre.
I can't begin to understand what my body is thinking or trying to tell me.
There is no way to anticipate its changes and I can't keep up with them either.
Trapped in it, there is no escape.
So I'll blog about it....

Once I got past my child bearing years, plucking my moustache hairs became a weekly necessity.
I know moustaches are the cute 'in' thing right now with jewelry and accessories, but trust me when I say that only the young people are buying that mess.
Once a woman begins to 'groom' her own mustache, any reminder of added facial hair will stay a million miles away.
It starts out....just being there.
Those very fine dark hairs on your upper lip that you get bleached, waxed or plucked with the hope that no one notices all the stragglers or the dadgum new ones that appear in between treatments!
But as you get older, some of those fine hairs turn into barbed wire and appear over night.
Criminitly.
No weekly treatments anymore, you have to study yourself daily, with tweezers, in the mirror, before going out in public.
Remember the scene in 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding" where the women are getting ready for the wedding and the little sister-in-law (who wants to feed lamb to a vegetarian) tweezes hair off the face of the mother of the bride, while they talk?
I need her in my life!
Now maybe it's only me, but when I am waxed, plucked, shaved, trimmed and showered, I feel like a Diva.
Beautiful, Healthy, Invincible and Fabulous.
So why isn't laser hair removal covered by insurance?
Why can't insurance companies actually ask women what kind of policy they need to live long and happy lives?
Instead, we get our mammary glands squeezed, smooshed and x-rayed with giant plastic machines.
We get our 'hoochies' exposed, poked and proded with cold metal instruments and giant q-tips.
I can tell you that when those insurance covered procedures are finished, I do not, in any any, feel like going out on the town so you can see me be beautiful, healthy, invincible and fabulous.
I'm just saying that if our frame of mind were "I'm hairless and spectacular", then maybe we wouldn't need the doctor so often.
Sort of like the 'apple a day' theory.

My body refuses to be my own, it is morphing-- willy nilly--- every day---- without my permission.
It has a mind of it's own and it thinks weird hairs sprouting up repeatedly in random places is the go to 'systems default' of its function.
A lot of times I don't even find these stupid hairs until they're 2 inches long and trying to form braids with each other.
Then I am left weeping and hoping that the people I have met recently have eyesight as bad as mine!
A little warning might be nice... O Brain of Mine.
I'm sure that one day there will be a Sasquatch sighting in the southern woods and you can be pretty confident that it was me.
Blame it on the insurance companies.
I'm just sayin'.

Thanks for being here.




Did you see that?