They say 40 is the new 30.
Having never been much of a conformist, I’ve decided this doesn’t work for me. Since I have every intention of living to the ripe old age of at least 90, I’m going to live under the “45 is the new 40” banner, in which case I’ll deal with “40 being the new 30” at that time.
Confused? Here, this might help…
Anyway, until such time as I do reach 45, I will be celebrating my 39th birthday in perpetuity. Please chose all cards accordingly.
Of course, I kid. In actuality, I could care less that I’ll be 40 this year. I don’t feel 40. I’ve been told I don’t look 40, (although this is usually from younger people who have no concept of time or age, but I’ll take the compliment, and run with it all the way to the botox clinic). Nor do I act 40, much to my son’s dismay. Hey, he’s 18, he should be used to it by now! Continue reading
I remember it like it was yesterday.
Actually, I can barely remember yesterday so let me start again.
I remember it like it was 4 minutes ago. I was visiting my cousins in Tulsa, and alone in the house because they’d gone grocery shopping, when a tornado warning appeared on the television.
There was no break in regularly scheduled programming. No “This is a message from the Emergency Broadcast System”. Just a nonchalant box in the top right corner showing a little map of the where you may not want to be if the funnels of doom touch down. Where was the warning of imminent death and destruction? The sirens? The army marshaling people to the nearest underground bunker/missile silo? Wouldn’t it be more appropriate for James Earl Jones’ voice to come booming through the television telling people to flee for their lives?
Me (being chased by a rhythmic gymnastics ribbon)
One minute I’m happily surfing through the multitude of channels that are not offered north of the border, the next I’m plotting the quickest escape route and packing a survival kit. And I had no idea where they kept their flares.
While simultaneously trying to start the generator and calculating the length of time and dimensions required to dig an underground shelter that will house two adults and one neurotic teenager, my cousins came home.
We were in no danger. The little map only warns of the possibility of a tornado. There was no need to panic and could I please put the shovel down. Ungrateful bastards. Continue reading
There’s definitely something to be said for the validation of strangers. Creepy, could be one way of putting it. Perhaps a tad stalker-ish. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to find out whether a restraining order is applicable online. I have put a motion forward to have it addressed at my next town hall meeting.
Of course, I jest.
This is my plaque. There are many others like it, but this one is mine.
It’s the awesomest thing ever!
I have been presented with an award. There wasn’t really a red carpet or a ceremony or anything, which is just as well because my gown is at the cleaners). But there is a plaque! See?
The Liebster Blog Award is a completely fictitious but no less awesome award bestowed upon bloggers with less than 200 followers, (why do I feel like I’m one of the unpopular kids all over again), by their fellow bloggers. And I am one of its recipients.
In other words, “You like me. Right now, you like me!” And there is much rejoicing.
There are also rules. This goes against my anarchist upbringing, but I shall make an exception in this case so as not to appear ungrateful.
Here they are: The anticipation is killing me!
Is there anything more tragic than a singer who has passed away?
I just threw up in my mouth a little.
For years, or at least a few weeks on the Billboard Hot 100, we danced and sang along and illegally downloaded their music, and then all of a sudden, (after a 5-year-long battle with Ebola), they are taken from us. Gone to the big amphitheatre in the sky, or the mosh pit down below. Either way, they will be sorely missed.
Honestly, whenever I hear the news that a singer has had their final curtain call, I cringe. I dread the weeks, months, even years to come where every other song on the radio is sung by the dearly departed, even if they haven’t had a hit single since the Bronze Age. Continue reading
I cried my first day of school. Not because I wanted my Mommy or my blankie or my teddy. That is the stuff of pansies. No, my tears were reserved for something much more traumatizing. An event that has scarred me for life.
I was young. Naïve. Completely unprepared was I for the terrors that awaited me at this thing called school.
Now I’m not sure how much research went into potential educational institutions before my parent’s decided to ship me off to Helga’s Boarding School for Wicked Little Children, but I can assure you, it was not enough.
And so began my first day. After a detestable snack of apple slices, cheese, and a glass of milk, we children were then forced to take a nap, with only the promise of a movie to buoy our spirits. Upon waking, we were told to sit cross-legged on the carpet, thus condemning us to require lower lumbar support in our latter days. But true to their word, there was a movie. Little did we know the unimaginable horror contained therein.
To this day I couldn’t tell you the plot. Something about a mamma kangaroo and her fatherless baby, Joey. I seem to recall an abusive, alcoholic stepfather kangaroo as well, but that could just be from watching too many episodes of Dr. Phil. I can however, recall the ending in vivid detail. The horror. The horror.
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…
Ok, it was only a few years ago in an airport fairly close by, but I was on a mission. Not quite the kind that required a lightsaber, just a corporate card (which can be just as dangerous) and a passport.
Our company was converting financial systems, and ironically enough, I work in the Finance department, so I was asked to join the team of “experts” that would develop and test the new program. To this day I still haven’t quite figured out if I was chosen because they wanted to get rid of me, (not without reason), or because they couldn’t afford to lose one of their valued employees for any length of time, making me the only other choice. I didn’t care either way. I was more than willing to go. Goodbye menial number’s slave; hello CFO! (I dream big.)
Is it just me or do they look like giant glowing wishbones?
Little ol’ me would be flying back and forth to Boston for the next 6 months, to represent Canada. Yes that’s right, all of Canada. I’ve actually been on conference calls where the introductions go something like this: “Hi everyone, thanks for joining me. This is Cathy in the Boston office. Also on the line are Neil and Bob from our San Francisco office, John in the New York office, and Jenn from Canada”. Not only do I represent an entire country, I apparently don’t work out of an office. (Dammit, my igloo’s melting all over my spreadsheets again!)
So there I am, ready to do my duty for Queen and country, waiting in line to go through airport security. My pockets are empty; my feet bare. My purse and laptop bag are awaiting the Total Recall X-ray machine crammed into one of those plastic bins that are designed to fit neither purses nor laptop bags. Finally, I am called forth into the metal detector. Here’s what happened
(Formerly titled In which I am a dumbass…again)
I think age is taking it’s toll.
I experienced another of those moments where my brain ceases to function but my mouth decides it’s going to say whatever it likes.
Driving through rural Ontario yesterday, we approached what looked to me like a small bucket of flowers shrouded in plastic on the side of the road. I spied another bunch, these also in plastic though without the bucket, about 5 feet away from the first.
“Oh look. Someone must have died there.” I said.
My friend looked at me as only the sympathetic can, and said “Yeah, the garbage man.”.
Apparently Saturday is garbage day in rural Ontario.