Category: situational humor

I Believe………

I’ve been avoiding this post for a long time, because it’s not really “fun”, and for those of you that have been “following me”, and those of you that actually “know me”, you know that I prefer having fun, as often as I can – both in “written word” and “in life”.

So, let me honor your heartfelt inquisitiveness about the “real me” and respond to some of your “inquiries”, both written and imagined.

Despite my silly “demeanor” on my blog, I, like most people, experience “life challenges” on a daily, regular basis.

I choose to write about them in a humorous, silly way because it’s easier for me to “handle them” that way.

I am not in denial.

I am not “avoiding issues”.

And I assure you, I “feel deeply” about issues; both current and past – personal and worldly.

That being said, let me state clearly some of the “issues” that I have a strong opinion on and firmly believe in:

I believe that “ALL lives matter” – human, animal, gay, black, white, purple, whatever.

So, I am presently very disheartened with the current state of affairs with how SOME police officers are mistreating SOME black people, how SOME blacks are mistreating SOME police officers; how SOME people are mistreating SOME gay individuals and how SOME humans are mistreating SOME animals.

I believe in marriage for any couple that is dedicated to each other, loves each other, and freely (and responsibly) wants to enter into it. And believe that if your religion does not afford you the “right” to enforce that “privilege/law”, then I believe that you need to be in a profession that does not require you to legally implement something that’s against your beliefs.

I believe that laws don’t truly change what people firmly believe in, but, at times, help level the playing field.

I believe that every competent, responsible person has the right to own a gun – a gun. Translation: a pistol, a rifle, not an AK-47 or a weapon of mass destruction.

I believe we need to arm our service people (whether military personnel or police officers) with “weapons for war”, but I don’t personally believe I need to have the right to own a bazooka.

Call me silly, but I just don’t see the need for it in my day to day life, and can’t really see it “fitting into” my purse!

I believe that it is mentally incompetent PEOPLE who kill PEOPLE, and that our current lack of mental health services in this area is abominable.

I believe that we each owe each other a sense of “community” and that we’re each responsible for “cleaning up after ourselves” – whether that’s appropriately disposing of our cigarette butts, or cleaning up the “air, water or land pollution” we’ve individually created in our environment.

I believe in the right to die in a dignified, pain-free manner, surrounded by people who love us when our body can no longer sustain us in a dignified, pain-free manner.

I believe in the right to religious freedom and the right for you to practice that religion in your day to day life, as long as it’s practiced with a respect and honor for all religions and does not promote a “religion of superiority”.

And lastly, and most importantly, I believe that EVERYONE has a right to his or her own personal, subjective opinion, as long as you express it in a respectful, intelligent manner without trying to impose that opinion on me or someone else.

With that being said, I sincerely hope that I’ve answered MOST of your questions about me and that we can go on with the job of being silly each week, because I don’t know about YOU, but I certainly have enough crap in my day to day life to be anxious about, and really PREFER being silly.

Go out and have a grand day today, People, and if you happen to be one of those cigarette smokin’, bazooka toting individuals that I wrote about, please be responsible and don’t be throwing your butts anywhere near your bazookas!

Hopefully, I’ll catch y’all next time, for another adventure looking at life from my shoes!

 

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Lucie Breaks her Crayola’s!

My friend, Rozzie Roo, came over to the house a few weeks ago with her art folder from her teaching days of years ago, and gave me my first art lesson, using crayon pastels.

I had so much fun with her, that I decided to purchase my own pastels, and then, with childlike exuberance, asked if she’d be interested in meeting with me on a monthly basis to do some art projects.

Being the loving, agreeable person that she is, Rozzie enthusiastically accepted, and we set up another date to do just that, last week.

So, she comes over on Thursday, and we’re quietly sitting at my kitchen table.

We’re intently focused on doing our individual “art-projects”, with my nifty, brand new, 50-count, extra fine quality oil pastels neatly laid out on said table; and her broken, chewed-up, miniscule pastels strewn on her side of the table, when Rozzie, suddenly looks over at my art work, and nonchalantly says to me,

“Ya know, Hun, if you break your pastels and peel off their wrappings, you’ll be able to work with them better to get the effect you’re looking for with the waves in your picture.”

Uh-Hun.

At this point, I’m skeptically staring at her, with an expression of total disbelief, when she encouragingly continues,

“Lucie, why don’t you just put on your big girl pants, take the plunge, and snap ALL of them in half?”

“You’ll feel great after you’ve broken the first one, and you’ll NEVER look back!”

“Come on, try one – just one. Snap it for Rozzie-Roo.”

“You’ll feel much better.”

“I promise,” she sincerely continues.

I anxiously look up and see Rozzie smilin’ at me with that kind, nurturing look that is so typical of Roz.

“What?” I incredulously ask her, while breaking out in a cold, nervous sweat.

“Are you nuts? These are brand, spanking new. I just bought them.”

“Cazzo!”

“Why would I want to break them, for Pete’s Sake?” I continue, while eyeballing her ancient, broken (well-used) “micro-pastels”, which she used for years teaching local youngsters.

“And besides that, Rozzie, I really don’t like to get my fingers “yucky” when I’m working. I don’t like stuff caked under my nails,” I adamantly explain, raising my left eye brow, while scrutinizing her crayon-caked finger nails on her right hand.

“Yuck! It makes my skin crawl, just thinking about it,” I emphatically continue, as Rozzie correctly interprets the judgmental affect of my raised left eye brow, and sheepishly starts to wipe-off her hands with one of our cleaning towels.

“Ok, Lucie,” she patiently says to me. “You color the way you wanna color.”

“I think you’d get the look you want on your picture, if you’d break them,” she encouragingly continues.

“But do it your way, Honey. I’ll leave you be.”

Uh-Hun.

So, for the next fifteen or so minutes, the great Georgia O’Keeffe and I, quietly continue working on our individual art pieces.

I then suddenly stop working; impulsively grab ahold of one of my crayons, and snap the crayon in half.

“There,” I impishly say to her.

“Ya happy? I broke my first pastel,” I smugly inform her, as I promptly start breaking the next one.

“I hope you’re pleased that my nifty new crayons are soon to be lookin’ like yours,” I curtly continue, while decisively snapping another one.

She slowly and lovingly shakes her head back and forth and says, “Lucie, now use the crayon like I taught you to and see if you like the results.”

“Go on.”

“Do it, Honey. Try to do what I showed you, ok?”

Hm….

I could be wrong, Miss O’Keeffe, but I think there’s a method to your madness!

I’ll never be the next Grandma Moses, People, but I’m sure having fun with this new “hobby” of mine.

I still have a few “unbroken crayons” and that’s ok.

I did a fairly decent job breaking the first few and got my fingers pretty grimy, smudging some of the pastels on my piece to get that “artistic effect,” to please Ms. O’Keeffe, herself.

Maybe next time, I’ll break a few more, and maybe even get my finger nails really yucky.

Who knows?

I just know that the kid in me that preserved my precious, set of 64-Binney and Smith, Crayola Christmas Crayons every year, felt a whopping sense of abandonment and childlike innocence with every snap, and highly recommend the “breaking of one’s Crayola’s” to everyone out there old enough to know better .

Have a grand week, People!

Dance in the street.

Throw your bra in the air.

And by all means, “snap a few crayons”.

I’ll catch up with you next time, living life from my shoes!

 

Lucie's first masterpiece!
Lucie’s first masterpiece!

Lucie’s Buddha Belly is Outta Control!

 

All righty!

I just finished scarfing down a grilled, medium rare, quarter pound, grass-fed, angus ground beef (no hormones or antibiotics added!), cheese burger; loaded with sweet onions, home-grown tomatoes and lettuce, mustard, ketchup and mayo on a (Northern Ca.) Dutch Crunch roll with a freshly picked ear of white corn smothered in butter!

And I’m thinking that I sure as hell hope my doctor doesn’t read this week’s posting on my blog.

Cazzo!

My Buddha belly has gone berserk and is totally outta control.

I happened to be listening to Dr. Oz’s T.V. show today, while I was doing my daily wifely chores, and heard him mention something about asparagus being a really good food to eat to maintain weight (or some such health nonsense).

For some reason, though, my Buddha belly and I couldn’t get our head around grazing on a grilled asparagus sandwich, minus the Dutch Crunch roll and cheese, when we were already salivating on the strong possibilities of devouring a grilled, quarter-pounder, encapsulated in Havarti cheese, bedded-down on a Dutch Crutch roll.

No siree, Bob!

I may be from health-conscious California, but don’t be messing with my angus fed, cheese burgers.

I don’t care what people claim – a vegetarian/soy burger is not the same as a grass-fed, angus cheese burger!

And besides, People, if you really think about it, isn’t the grass (as in grass-fed angus beef) considered a type of vegetable?

MY logic certainly says it is.

It’s green.

It grows from the ground.

And individuals, on occasion, have been known to fertilize it.

Sounds like a vegetable to moi!

Now understand, People, I have no problem eating asparagus.

I just don’t personally view it as a suitable substitute for a grilled cheese burger.

Once I figured out, years ago, that the odiferous after effects of eating said vegetable weren’t indications of some God-forsaken  weird disease, especially concocted for curing closeted homosexuals teaching special needs children in Northern Ca, I actually started to enjoy the veggie – as long as it had a titch of mayo on it.

It wasn’t until years after I left upstate New York, and had one of my first teaching jobs in inner-city Oakland, that I naively discovered the lovely attributes of said vegetable.

As I was apprehensively walking out of our classroom bathroom, one day, after lunch, my loyal, and highly astute instructional assistant, says, “Girlfriend, you look like you’ve been rode hard and hung up to dry! Wuz up?”

“Well,” I reluctantly and ever-so-anxiously start, “I don’t know how to delicately say this, but my urine has the most peculiar smell to it, and I’m not too sure what to make of it.”

“I think something is wrong – something is SERIOUSLY WRONG with me,” I emphatically continue.

Uh-Hun.

At this point, Lea Joy is doubled-over, coughing with laughter, while I’m skeptically staring at her with a raised left eye-brow that says, “Woman! Have you lost your mind, today?!”

Still laughing, but aware of the fact that I’m earnestly concerned with the situation, she slowly and thoughtfully composes herself, and says to me, “Girrrllll! This one of those peculiarities that’s special to YOU, or are all white people from upstate New York one tit short of an utter?!

Did I tell you that Lea Joy was a transplant from the South and had an uncanny ability, at times, to make an otherwise intelligent woman look (and feel!) quite stupid?

Yes-siree, Bob!

“Din’t you just eat some spare-gus with your lunch today?” she continues between fits of laughter.

Un-Hun!

I learned a lot, that first year, working with Lea Joy in inner-city Oakland.

And I’ll always…..always be grateful and indebted to this dear, dear woman for taking on one, very naïve, dumb, (highly educated!) white woman from Upstate New York.

Have a great week, People, and may your day be filled with the joy and laughter that comes from knowing you may be one tit short of an utter, but thank goodness you’re not ME!

Catch ya next adventure, looking at life from my shoes!