Too Much Pain...

In my blog I usuually try to keep things light, upbeat and generally silly.
There is a reason and a survivalist mentality to that approach.
I am easily overwhelmed and sometimes feel as if I would rather die than bear the weight of the sorrow I feel when I hear about the wickedness and meanness that other humans render on other humans such as has been in the news the last few days.
My heart breaks and my soul withers when I read tragic news snippets that appear on my phone or computer of some person deliberately causing pain to another person.
Yet it seems that pain is the balm we repeatedly use to assuage our own pain!
Has pain, misery and death ever been the best and fastest path to resolution?
If it has, I have never heard of it.
Or seen it.
I have never heard any stories passed down through the generations about the benefits of human destruction being the enlightened pathway.
Life is hard.
I get it.
I've lived it.
I know it on a cellular level.
I also know that LOVE is the ONLY thing that helps us survive.
That helps us cope.
That heals our wounds and lets us see clearly into another day.
ONLY LOVE.
But you knew that.



Thanks for being here.

You Might Actually Like Me When I'm Angry

I have not posted anything for a while.
I think it's because I stopped being angry.
Well, stopped being quite so angry.
Well, no, I tried  to stop being quite angry.
I never was the screaming, kicking, yelling, ram your ankles with a grocery cart angry,
Just the simmering, I hate almost everything so don't even look at me, angry.
When I'm angry, stuff just blurts out.
That is actually the not so secret motivation behind this blog.
But anger also contributes to high blood pressure and the need for medicine.
Which is yucky in and of itself, so I am trying to not be so angry.

For me anger is like the frothing gadget used to make cappuccinos and it makes your anger emotion as well as most of your other emotions get fluffy and bubbly and then those expanding emotions need to squeeze out of you somehow so that there is enough room for vital organs, garlic toast and blood, making you feel compelled to write a blog post and get something, anything, out of you so that there is some space left in your body and brain to remember to brush your teeth and stay alive.

I could be wrong though.

But since I stopped being quite so angry I have found that I am now apathetic.
When I'm apathetic I don't even care if you care about what is going on in my life or what I think about stuff.
And then I don't care that I don't care if you care.
Apathy though, I am learning, is a mostly stupid attitude and accomplishes nothing but NETFLIX binges and too much garlic toast, but I also think it's contagious.
So I stay to myself.
I certainly don't want you, my beloved readers, to catch Mostly Stupid or Apathy or both! (although internet news leads me to believe that there is quite an epidemic of both going around)
Maybe someday I'll build up an immunity but it seems that anger is my cure.
Anger means that I care a little bit.
Anger means that I share my feelings (hahaha...sure it does)
Anger means that I post words on my blog.....
I must be getting better!
I'm blogging!!!

So I can now assume that anger is probably not so bad if it helps me engage with life.
But people are in my life!...
Lots of them!...
Spreading anger with ease and abundance.
"Who drank all the milk?"...
Why aren't my keys where I left them?"...
"You used ALL the garlic?"...
"I just cleaned this up!"...
"You need how much money?"...
"Where is the remote?"...
Dadgummit!
Don't make me angry, you wouldn't like.........
Wait a minute...

There is no garlic so now I have to eat this?...
Some crazy person got to this before me and destroyed the bag because...??
The delicious snack food is now stale, leaking out and falling on the floor and I haven't even started to snack!
Who does this?
Seriously?
Aarrgghhh.

Family is the best medicine for when you need anger to make you care again.

Thanks for being here.

Sell me what?

While there is no way to know for sure, I am going to assume that some of my readers, like myself, think that deciding what to wear each day is tantamount to gum surgery performed by a 3 legged coyote.
It is something you try to avoid.
It is awful.
The worst part of the morning.
Or afternoon...but we are who we are.
Santa Claus and his socially acceptable closet of one outfit is a source of envy to me.
(Not to mention his diet regime that is also enviable by me and accepted by society with no shaming by anyone for fear that he does indeed have a naughty list!)
Sigh....
...One outfit...
The bliss.
The rapture.
The joy of never having to decide...

That doesn't mean I don't like to dress up and look nice.
So occasionally I have to shop for clothes.
Yuck.
Well this week one of the places I have purchased clothing from sent out what they considered an ad that would tempt me to willingly save money
wear only one outfit open my wallet.
Instead, this ad left me baffled and bewildered, with a WHAAAAA?? expression as I perused it.
The company caters to curvy girls and I could not believe my eyes.
The 10 page ad looked like someone lost a bet during a drinking game or was making us aware that there are actually no other clothes left in America.

See what you think:


Well, this outfit is a surprise.



The fact that there was a consensus that this outfit is fabulous troubles me.

I know of zero outer space aliens that would deliberately choose to wear this stuff, yet this company is trying to tell me that these outfits are flattering on humans and worth my hard earned money?

It is hard enough to look stylish as a big girl without this company suggesting that if we dress like the latest fashion campaign is... 'Goodwill--The New Paris'... then our hard earned dollars are well spent.

It just makes no sense to me and is a bit offensive that someone, somewhere thinks this retail mess is the look I've been waiting for.

Not today.
Or tomorrow.
Or the next day.
Or the next day..
Or the next day...

One comfy, multi purpose outfit seems like a wonderful idea after all!

Thanks for being here.

Bumper Sticker Wisdom.

The other day I saw this bumper sticker :

When the Power of Love Overcomes the Love of Power the World Will Know Peace

Awesome sentiment I thought.
But Jimi Hendrix?
Well, actually, yes.
Apparently 2 other guys were quoted as saying something like this before Mr. Hendrix.
William Gladstone and Sri Chinmoy Ghose, but all 3 thoughtful men said it with their own take on it.
Like if I said, "87 years ago our male founders, some strong brave women, a few dogs and heavy use of firearms brought forth....."
We all know that I'm not teaching history, being scholarly, or making a bumpersticker, but quoting Abraham Lincoln in my own way (and trying to give a wider perspective of credit for creating America).
That's what this bumper sticker is.
The yellow smart car bumper sticker is awesome because it states trueness and because of Jimi Hendrix.
He had gifts that few before or since had, so it is logical that he would say cool stuff.
I do not have Jimi's gifts or any presidential influence.
My bumper stickers would say :
"Where's my phone?"
"If you're behind me, then I win!"
"Don't even think about passing me!"
"Sharks need love too."
"Be nice to people...and sharks."
"Dinosaurs rule ruled!"
That is my depth of thought on most days.
You would know it was me when you read it.
So I have a deep appreciation for folks that can state the obvious in a cool and succinct way.
Some of the others I have seen but didn't get a pic of are:
"Jesus is coming....Look busy"
"Squirrel. The other white meat."
"Bumpersticker"

What are some of your favorite bumper stickers?

Thanks for being here.


Bonus bumper sticker :

"Squirrels. Natures Little Speedbumps"


(It would seem that squirrels are a popular bumpersticker theme around here)

Receipts.

Receipts.
Those little bits of paper that prove you worked up the courage to venture out into the cold cruel world and spend your cold hard cash.
They make me crazy.
You have to keep them for like a million years and they keep taking up more and more space doing their job.
This post exists because I needed some cheese.
Not some artisan, imported, fancy schmancy cheese.
Just sliced cheese.
The kind that we used to use when we would make regular old grilled cheese sandwiches to eat with our tomato soup for lunch.
Back when the earth's crust was still cooling apparently.
Now everything is a specialty item or complicated and healthy.
And I mean everything.
Receipts included.
Well, receipts aren't healthy particularly unless shredded receipt paper is a favorite salad topping, but they have become complicated.
They tell you:
-what you bought,
-how many you bought,
-how much you paid,
-how much you saved,
-total items purchased,
-what day of the week you bought it on,
-the time of day you bought it - down to minutes and seconds,
-the name of the store you bought it at,
-the store address,
-the store phone number,
-the store managers name,
-the cashiers name,
-how many children they each have to feed because that is the only reason they are even working at this store,
-the store motto,
-the complete history of retail and it's accomplishments all the way back to the industrial revolution
a n d
-how many points I have now earned on my quest to earn more of the points that I never knew I collected or have never been rewarded by anyway.
This information makes the receipt about 40 feet long.
Where am I supposed to stuff this colossal flattened forest remnant?
Arrrggghhh.
Take a deep breath and count to 10.9.8.7....
No problem really.
I have adapted...except when the receipt is given to me in the same handful as my change.
What do they think I am supposed to do?
Just drop this giant wad of money, receipt paper and coins in the Halloween pillow case I must now carry because my purse can't hold all this mess?
Heaven forbid they give me enough time to put the change into it's slotted section of my wallet THEN fold up the 40 foot snake of a receipt separately while the people behind me are shuffling their slippers and sighing loudly because they actually remembered to bring their Halloween pillow case to this event.
I would have less stuff to carry if we were back with the Barter System.
" Yes Ma'am, your change comes to a salt block and 2 goldfish that we can just drop down in your apron pockets if that's alright, and you have a nice day!"
When I pay the store, I don't hand them 35 different things and expect it to be dropped in the drawer and counted later.
I gave the store time to count and separate everything but I get handed a handful of stuff and a 'Scoot on out of here' attitude in return.
It's the cash isn't it?
Cash is so last year.
But I can't help it.
When I use plastic, I spend a lot more.
The stores know this and they hate me.
Well, I'm pretty sure they hate everyone.
They only love money.
So to show consumers their interpretation of love and their desire to see us again they give us a Christmas tree garland size, humongus receipt with all of their vital information on it, sort of like a dating profile, in the hopes that you will cherish this information in the candle light with a bottle of wine and choose to visit the store again and again as you remember your special time together.
Good times, good times...
Sniff, sniff, tissue please.
Not.
The receipt gets stuffed in a drawer and mostly forgotten.

I think I'd rather just have a goldfish.

Thanks for being here.

Hair of the Dog

During my fairly long life I am pleased to say that animals have been always been a part of it.
A wide variety of scaly, feathered, slimy, furry or hairy animals adorned my home and I over the years.
But today's post is about the hairy ones.
Currently there is nothing in this house that doesn't have at least one animal hair on it or in it.
Even after sweeping, mopping, showering, dusting and doing laundry there is no escaping it.
When headed to the Post Office or during the Christmas season there is at least one animal hair stuck to every piece of tape on every box, package, gift or envelope.
It is 'Cousin Itt' craziness.
Lets not even talk about the numbers of animal strands of fur that might be swirling around in the air and land in the skillet at dinnertime.
But to my family's credit they have gotten used to it and consider it a normal part of the daily fiber intake.
Well, all except one family member who has changed his tolerance level now that he has a job where he must interact with people of hairless influence on a daily basis.
This family member, my son, got all huffy the other morning about why he "couldn't even get dressed without dog hair every where!"
I can't imagine.
There have been pets in the house since his birth, some of them his, and now their daily offerings are a source of irritation.
The animals can't stop shedding and I can't clean hardly ever fast enough and now it's my fault that his pants, that were laying on the floor hours ago, are covered in dog hair.
A thousand pardons my liege.
But despite the hint of sarcasm he actually has a valid point.

Just to be clear, there are 200 pounds of animals (well 575 pounds total, if you count the son and the husband) in the house this very minute that leave evidence of their existence ever single hour of every single day and I am just not aware of anything that can stop the hairy carnage.
Except for super glue hair gel or a live in housekeeper, both of which would be a temporary quick fix but predictably irritating and expensive.
I can't even process a solution with a rational thought.

I looked up 'Hair of the Dog' after I wrote the title of this post because it sounded so familiar and the definition is... appropriately enough... " "Hair of the dog" is a colloquial expression in the English language predominantly used to refer to alcohol that is consumed with the aim of lessening the effects of a hangover."

Thank-you Wikipedia and British shows on Netflix.

So learn this my son, just like liquor, some things in life last a very long time and can only be remedied by more of the same.

Let us drink and raise a toast to dog hair.

Thanks for being here.


Hair of the Dog.
With a hint of Persian cat.

He has a gift.

My grandson was born into a home that has 8 dogs.
My oldest daughter has 2, my middle daughter has 3 and I have 2.
Plus his other Grandmother has 5 more!
That is a total of 20 canine companions in his immediate family!
At the age of 2 he is friends with more dogs than humans. (So he's pretty much figured out how to get through life already-if you know what I mean.)
So he 'understands' dogs in more ways than most of us ever will.
The following pictures almost speak for themselves:



Alpha Jeplen and his Pack


Dozer the English Mastiff keeping close watch.


Dinner time!


Best Friends.

Aaawww.
Precious.

He can call the dogs in very mumbly but sincere toddler word names and they come to him.
He still takes naps with them.
He shares his food.
He once stopped 2 dogs that were playing way to barkingly, growlingly and roughly with each other by walking up to them with his hands out saying, "Nee No" (which is his way of forcefully using the word 'No') over and over, then put his tiny baby hands simultaneously on each of their faces and they both turned and walked away from each other.
This happened before he was 2.
Saw it with my own eyes.

The point of this post is that the boy has a gift.
He is a tiny Cesar Millan.
A sort of Mini-Millan, if you will.

So not only is he a master handler, he plays with them like a dog:



Adorable.

Then today my dogs were eating grass because the grass is finally growing enough to be eaten and we all know that every one needs a good Spring Barf...
So my grandson thought it would be wise to do the same:


Is the grass better here...


...or over here...

He's just trying to understand every aspect of a dogs life I guess.
I just hope we don't have to get him flea meds and a rabies tag!


Thanks for being here.

No animals or humans were harmed in the making this post.

Godzilla says "Happy Easter".

Some folks play with dolls.
Some play with toy soldiers.
Some build models or color to keep their mind in check.
This is what I do....



Godzilla Scares Up Some Easter Bunny Peeps.



Godzilla Chases the Easter Bunny Peeps Through the Easter Fields.



Godzilla Has Pushed the Easter Bunny Peeps Too Far and They Take Back Easter!


You're Welcome.

Happy Easter!!

Thank-you for being here.


Bonus Pics!!!!


Vintage Godzilla Eliminates the Easter Bunny.


Vintage Godzilla Stomps the Easter Bunny.


Vintage Godzilla Takes the Easter Bunny and the Easter Basket as Victory Swag.

The End.

Folk Tale Friday.

My grandfather was born in 1901.
Sorry to say that he has passed on, but he left some interesting DNA and some funny stories.
One of the stories he told was about living in Oregon with his family for a while when he was young.
(Now back in the early 1900's, all the way out in Oregon, my imagination went neanderthal thinking how primitive and rustic it must have been)
Plus the family lived a bit outside of whatever they called a town back then, so he and his 2 sisters had to walk back and forth to school a pretty good way.
Most days went smoothly, but he told a story of how, one day, he and the sisters were coming home from school and a very large bear came out of the woods.
The very large bear saw the young, tender, vulnerable children and that very large bear started to chase them.
My grandfather chuckled as he told this part of the story where the 3 of them had to run so very fast and so very far to escape that very large bear.
He explained with relief that the 3 of them eventually managed to make it home all safe and sound........phew.......only for his mother to give him a whipping for peeing in his school clothes!
He chuckled again.......
?
At the absurdity of it?
A nervous, near death memory chuckle?
I was wide eyed, dumbfounded and definitely not chuckling.
Where was the concern, the relief, the motherly affection?
Was she Team Bear?
Did they have no water for washing?
Did she hate pee?
That mother's every decision would have become suspect in my eyes...forever after that.
Sheesh.
Rough neighborhood.
Life was hard.




My grandfather (holding the baby) during less stressful times.


Thanks for being here.

Throwback Thursday

In my family's many photo albums there are not many pictures of me.
That doesn't bother me a bit.
Usually I am the one taking the skillions of family photos because I just do not photograph well.
At all.
Even when I try to look un-psychotic or partially human like, good photos just don't happen with me.
Well one kinda did.
I liked the photo of when I broke my wrist.
It made me grin.


My best worst picture.

(I allowed the picture to be taken when my son and I had been in the 2nd emergency room of the day for like 6 very long hours and my son got totally bored and wanted all his friends to know that his mother was the reason for his absence and his lack of food stuffs since 12 hours ago and we both were so completely over the medical field due to it's non-use of time telling devices, but there was nowhere I could hide from the camera because the rooms are tiny and full of equipment and hiding in the room next to mine wasn't an option because it had an occupant that was guarded by the police so my son and I immediately assumed that there might be a shootout at any moment because the wounded criminal probably got tired of being in pain and was over the oppressive waiting while the law watched every move all three of us emergency room captives made so I couldn't go there, making my only tolerable option...to be in the photo.)

One actual point of this post is that if I see someone taking pictures of anything, anything at all, I skeedaddle away.

But point 2 of this post is that I came across a photo of my daughters and myself dated 6 years ago, that I have no idea what reasons had been given that I accepted as good reasons to pose for this photograph without doing any skeedaddling:


My worst worst picture.

So there it is.
Unphotogenicness laid out for the world to see.
My Throwback Thursday post.
Maybe it should be Throwout Thursday.

Thanks for being here.

A Few Comments About Comments.

I love to read blogs.
Mostly I choose funny or creative ones.
Reading another persons blog is like being part of their life for a minute and getting to amuse yourself by going through their stuff.
Mentally, at least.
Kinda like taking a tour of homes, you didn't ask to eyeball their stuff...you were invited to be there.
Gratefully though a blog post is unlike a tour of homes in that you don't have to get dressed in actual clothes, move from your comfy chair or meet actual humans in real 'what are you looking at' judgey life.
I can oooo and aahhh, laugh and relate or sigh and contemplate the blogged about post all while wearing my nightgown, drinking coffee and jotting down items on my grocery list.
Reading other blogs gives me insights into the outside world without any risk.
Until....the blog is over and the comment section is in my face.
I break out in a panic.
I panic because I seriously consider writing a comment every dadgum time, but the only things that come floating through my little gray cells are ultimately moronic and vapid.
After reading a few of the 908 other posted comments to find out if I actually got the gist of the post, as it was intended, I find that most of the comments are incredibly witty, funny, privy to some inside joke, caring and creative.
Sometimes there are no comments yet and the blogger might never again type a post if someone doesn't say something, anything.
Either way, I am totally intimidated.
Why would I want to leave a comment?
What in all of the universe makes me want to do that?
Does the whole interweb need to know I totally missed the point?
If I leave a comment, have I created a blog traffic jam and a disservice to mankind because now the creative blogger who is momentarily reading my demented comment has less time to work on their next inspired post?
Do I think that by leaving a comment, it will make me a part of a group, an inner circle or a secret society?
Perhaps after reading my comment the blogger and I will become besties?
Am I thinking that my 2 sentences are so profound that lives will be changed?
Can't I just be entertained and move on?
Why would I think that everyone needs to know what I think about the situation?
What is wrong with me?
But...isn't leaving a comment a form of affirmation and validation?
A way to encourage the blogger to keep writing?
A brief, positive assurance that the blogger should keep blogging?
So it would seem.
Sounds easy but the stress of possibly leaving a worthy comment makes me crazy.
Leaving a comment on a blog post is necessary, in a small way, but only for the brave, the young and the fearless.
I rarely leave a comment.
Very, very rarely.
Even if I love the post.
Which means that when I sometimes DO post  a comment, you can correctly assume that there was excessive sugar, exhaustion or wine involved.
When my actual comment has been posted I spend the next hour wishing I had said something else or changed out a word plus another hour kicking myself for putting my quirky thoughts out for the world to see anyway and the next hour swearing that I will never leave another comment again...ever.
Like Mark Twain once or twice said, "Better to Remain Silent and Be Thought a Fool than to Speak and Remove All Doubt."
I never leave any doubt.
I love and admire the comments on other blog posts and even on my own blog...when I get them...(hint, hint)
But those comments are there because it seems that other people don't have to deal with the same comment phobia that I go through.
Maybe.
Maybe some do.
But I'm pretty sure they aren't going to comment on it.
Life is hard.
So are comments.
I need a nap.


"Sheesh, my blog comment was absurd. I'm gonna to nap immediately and try to forget."

Thanks for being here.

My Dog is Possibly Cooler Than Your Dog.

It would seem that this blog is called Graceful Grandma for a reason and that I most likely should, would, could blog about grandmotherly things.
But my grandson is fabulous most all of the time and it has been a good day when I can send him home happy and alive regardless of the laws of nature we shunned, the dangerous places on earth we naively explored and the junk food we consumed.
So what I'm saying is that while my grandmotherly escapades are delightful, they aren't always exciting enough to be shared with other humans or written about in a blog post.
Well, my life in general should rarely be shared with other humans or written about in a blog post, but here we are.
We don't always get what we want, but sometimes we get more than we figured on.
This post is about Baxter, my rescued Boxer dog.
Sweetest most loyal dog ever to be loved but dumb as a rock, any rock.
He is a dog that is fluent in excitement which translates into: fast running, full body snuggling, complete suction sniffing, jumping randomly like a gazelle, vigorous bum wiggling and especially....consuming mass quantities of food.
Wherever and whenever he can find it.
Take 2 days ago for example.
On the daily walk that I take with my dogs we found a ham bone.
Well, there was no 'we'.
It was all Baxter.
In the woods.
No where near a home... or garbage can.
I am pretty sure it was a store bought hambone and not remnants of a roadkill cause it appeared to have the blade marks from where it was spirally sliced and unless I'm completely out of the wilderness loop, coyotes have not yet learned to hold a knife let alone slice pork.
But you be the judge.


Mystical Hambone of the Forest.

Baxter would not let loose of the bone.
He carried it for the entire walk.
Taunted the other dog Eva with it, but would not let it go.
...Until it was time to go home...
He dropped the coveted bone only because I 'ewwwwwwed' loudly, said "No Baxter" and told him 'he could not take it home where it would get ham grease all over the rug'.
Well, that was what I told him, but what he understood was, and this is a rough translation " My mama hates this bone right now so I will leave it here in the woods till later so she will snuggle with me and feed me mass quantities of food"
Thinking that the bone would disappear overnight in the mouth of some other carnivore, we came home.
...And the next day...
We go walking again.
Dadgummit.
The bone is still here!
I then pick up the icky bone and throw it in the creek so the smell will go down stream and the crawdads can nibble it.
It is now down under moving water about 16-18 inches.
Perfect.
Baxter will never find it or be able to get it.
The walk begins.
Barely 1/10th of a mile into the walk here comes wet Baxter, ham bone in his mouth, running, jumping, laughing and singing in dog language because he rescued his beloved bone and can now add 'mer-dog' to his list of accomplishments.
He apparently sniffed out the location of the bone, held his dog breath and submerged his dog head completely to get that dadgum bone which is no less remarkable than if he had put on a doggy scuba suit and retrieved his treasure all Jacque Cousteau style.
That is totally amazing, awesome and weird to me.
The awful yet tantalizing bone was happily carried once more through out the entire walk.
I did not mind a bit.
I was actually kind of proud.
I let him keep the nasty thing, since it had been 'washed' and all and even let him bring it home where he chewed on it till it broke and splintered and I threw it away...into double bags and then put the bags in the BIG trashcan out in the garage.
The bone is now out of Baxters reach......Maybe....I have underestimated him before....
He was still noticeably pleased with himself and his day.
I was still proud.
Thats my fish dog.


Happy Baxter with his Hambone.



Thanks for being here.