Wednesday, December 19, 2007


Holidays are large and expansive and tend to be all inclusive. They involve intense amounts of running around finding the perfect presents.
Actually, who am I kidding, at this point the perfect presents only apply to the critical people in my life.
(I'm not seriously stupid, I'm not going to admit who they are on my blog.)
Birthday..huge. I have time to shop for the "perfect" present. Christmas, not so much.
My boys will be happy even though they've figured out what they're getting.
Gillian, aka (according to those boys "the strange lady in Australia" seems happy with her fake 16thc bowl.
When I know I have to score I score.
But I have 16 nieces and nephews most over the age of 11 and they want cash and I'm not handing it out, why -- because parents ultimately complain that you haven't given their child enough whereas with a get my meaning.
This is why I'm quite starting to loathe the holidays.
Favorites (so you don't think I'm a total Scrooge): My boys, overseas packages are turning into one of the highlights of my season and along the way I do manage to hit some killer, spot on gifts, that manage the Oooos and Ahhhs.
I just wish I could capture "some" (those quote are for my friend Nanci) of the joys of less hectic holidays.
I realize this isn't going to happen.
I realize the wishing doesn't come true. I am a cynic.
I wish that someone (in my family) would just take the time to go to a bookstore (since I get so few gifts these days, though they've tended to be major this year so I'm not truly complaining) and take a bloody chance and buy me books by the half dozen. Lots of them!
This would make me happy.
I seriously don't need the big stuff...I like it, but I think it would be fun if someone just browsed (beyond the bestsellers) and picked up random things they thought I might killer!
And there is nothing I would like better than to do the same for everyone in my life...Like that would work.
I told you I'm a cynic.

Seriously, do you come here for joy.


Sunday, December 16, 2007


Friends are an essential ingredient when living life. They hold your memories, remind you of who you are and occasionally, why you matter.
The last part is especially important if you happen to be a parent and you spend many of your waking hour with a CLOSED FOR REPAIRS sign on your brain.
My closest friend left me a voicemail recently: "I'm sitting here drinking wine, wrapping presents and listening to Journey and I'm thinking of you."
I keep recycling this.
It means the world to mean.
My husband would NEVER do this.
My mom is fabulous for long conversations and advice.
But my friends, especially this friend, they get me.
They understand the joy of a foolish voicemail, the silliness of toy chickens that squawk, really great books that arrive in the mail...(maybe they're not sure if you've read them but they take the chance) and why is it my friends Christmas cards are always the first to arrive?
Family, can't live with them, certainly can't live without them.
Friends, without a doubt can't live without them.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Bats and the likes

I've had bats in the belfry! Though I suppose I've always had them except this summer they came to life and we named them Boris, Owen and Steve. (There of course were more, their exact number is unknown and will remain so since what little sanity I do have I would like to retain.)
Never did have the honor of seeing the lovely creatures of the night only their excrement, which I can now readily identfy which I suppose is not a talent I'll be sharing on a regular basis if any. The oddest thing, not that any of this should be considered normal even for me, is that I never once flipped out. (No exclamation point needed.) Quite thought the entire thing was funny.

"I have bats."

"Oh, in the basement, have you seen them?"

"No, not rats, (seems everyone would think I was saying rats with a huge grin on my face...rats are not fun to have scampering about, you don't name your rats for heaven's sake!)...bats, Boris, Owen, and Steve."

My Mother refused (for some reason???) to visit me while 'the boys' were in resident. How very insulting. It's not as if they were flying about the house. And they really weren't. I could tell you some fascinating things about bats now.

They're all over New England and likely if you live there you'd be surprised at how many of you have a colony living up 'there' and you don't even know it.

They love hot, warm places, the warmer the better. (So much for my cool, cave theory.)

And they move from house to my saving grace is they'll move on to my 'lovely' neighbor's, that as my son would say, would be, 'sweet'.

BatGuy (yes, that is what they call him) arrives, encloses every convievable opening to the attic...and there are more than I care to know and leaves little one way trap doors for Boris, Owen and Steve so they can get out but not back in. But I'm not concerned since I believe they've already flown the coop so to speak.

BatGuy: If there is any chance of them actually getting into your house it will be tonight.

Me: Excuse me?

BatGuy: They get confused because they can't find their way out and will attempt to actually get into the house and I can't figure out how they do it.

So, I'm told to find something to hit them with and make sure I'm wearing leather gloves which of course is no problem cos I always wear f.....g leather gloves to bed!
Naturally, the attic door (the full walk-in attic door) is in my bedroom. So, I duct tape that sucker and one other possible but unlikely entry. (But, Hell, that means I won't have to do laundry for a few days either so I can live with that excuse.) I find the leather gloves and a good old-fashioned rake, yah, that'll get em. And I'm all set should Boris, Owen or Steve want to come out and play, which of course they don't....not tonight.
Boris, deceides to visit on the second night.
I'm in the garage...smoking....cos that's where people who quit smoking and have bats and husbands and start smoking and live in the U.S., smoke....and hear this banging and wonder what the Hell (Where the Hell is my chiffon!) Christofer is doing up! I'm annoyed. (I've been caught. No one at that point knew I'd started up again but that's another blog.) Put the darn thing out and bang my way upstairs only to realize the noise is coming from the living room....


Say What.


Leather gloves and rake are upstairs and how the Hell did Boris get down here? (And how am I going to get upstairs?)

Mother's are only allowed a small 'Yike' moment. So, scamper upstairs, grab bat gear whilst wondering why there is no flying bat in my bedroom.

Batwoman heads for the living room fully armed only to find....nothing.

But damn it what is making that noise, cos there is something banging around in that room and's, Boris is in the m.....f.....wall! So, I start banging on the wall and sure enough he moves and moves till I have him cornered in the bathroom. (Like) what am I going to do with him, but hey, it's 1:00am and this is starting to be I have him back in the living room, now the front closet, back to the bathroom.

I'm bored. Boris can find his way out. I'm going to bed with my rake.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Little Miss Sunshine

I love this movie.
Alan Arkin is a God.
VW Buses rock.
Super Freak is actually worse the second time around.
I possessed the same stomach as Olive until I was thirteen, and I was fat until the day I wasn't!


Friday, February 09, 2007

So What

I haven't posted but that doesn't mean I don't have anything to say. Problem is I usually have too much to say.
So it's catch up time:
Recently attended my annual dental conference which was great fun.
Will be having shoulder surgery soon which shouldn't be fun.
Men are basically useless creatures.
Exception to the above: Bono
Second exception to the above: Tom Brady (He's younger than Mel and has a better ass!)
Son's are God's gifts for having survived your teen-age years with you mother.
Mothers are truly your best friend.
Exception to above: I've had a best friend for almost 30 years and not like those fly by nights they have in Hollywood, someone who sticks and is willing to love me enough to take my kids!
Second exception to the above: Some of my best friends are people I've 'known' for many years now, some I haven't even met, yet they are 'seriously' great friends and great friendships. (Some of them even read this...God help them)

O, check this out

Wednesday, October 18, 2006


Someone sent this to me and I was rather thrilled to discover I do have a brain and at times it stills functions even if my spell check is rather useless on this entry. least I'm not ranting at the moment.

Test Your Brain


Count every " F " in the following text:




WRONG, THERE ARE 6, no joke.

Really, go Back and Try to find the 6 F's

before you scroll down.

The reasoning behind is further down.

The brain cannot process "OF".

Incredible or what? Go back and look again!!

Anyone who counts all 6 "F's" on the first go

is a genius.

Three is normal, four is quite rare.

Send this to your friends.
It will drive them crazy.
And keep them occupied
For several minutes..!

More Brain Stuff . . >From Cambridge University.

Olny srmat poelpe can raed this.

Cdnuolt blveiee that I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd what I was rdanieg. The Phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy,

It deosn't mttaer in what oredr the ltteers in a word are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is that the first and last ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can still raed it wouthit a porbelm.

This I s bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the word as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? Yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!

Thursday, September 21, 2006


I've recently decided I'm a curmudgeon and I've also decided to become comfortable and proud of this condition. I'm almost 46 do I really still have to be a 'team player' when I've been on the team so long I could either be the bloody head coach or own the team? Do I 'have' to defer to 'youngsters' just out of college who think their degree beats out 26 years of experience? Do they really think they're my equal just because we're in the same profession? Don't 'I' deserve at least some respect for street cred, office cred, patient cred? Hell, yes!
Do I strut around like a diva, damn no. Have I ever...nay. Can I learn something from the youngster in question....yes. But shift the attitude, age does not equal a slow decaying of the brain cells (even if everything else seems to be drooping, wobbling and blurring at an unheard of speed.)
Yes, I've reached that age where I now utter those pathetic words, "I didn't do that when I was that age!" and "Kids, Teen-agers, Young-adults (insert appropriate term) are not like they used to be." Of course this is meant to mean they're disrespectful, lazy and arrogant and they are. Of course this also does not apply to ones own children who are gems, brilliant, creative, sparkling and different than the rest of the population...this should go without saying as it applies to anyone reading this.
Still, it seems unless I'm dealing with my patients one on one, my boss, one on one or my colleagues one on one, I'm ready to tear the roof off. Meaning...please don't make me sit through anything that remotely appears like an office meeting or a parent/teacher(s) conference. This will only inflame me for at least a week. I do not want to listen to some more BS (actually isn't it the same BS I heard at the last office meeting, the last conference, and the one before that?) that attempts to make 'you' sound intelligent and profound, which ultimately just turns into a bitch session it did the last time and the time before, like it does every single time. I don't want to listen to you....because you don't want to listen to me...and I'm the only one there who knows what they're talking about! Why, or what has happened in my life where I feel like I'm always ranting?
What ever it is, let this be known, you don't have to be a young adult to be arrogant and flip. You can be 46 and a curmudgeon!