Mamacita says:  This is a caffeine molecule. We hang out far too much.  I had thought about writing a humorous essay about how I’ve been known to drive to WalMart at 3 a.m. for Diet Coke because we were out and I couldn’t wait for morning to go get some.

But that isn’t really funny – it’s just sad. Besides, ever since I discovered the “People of WalMart” website, I’ve been afraid I’d end up on there with keywords like “dowdy” and “hoarder” under my not-even-lucky-enough-to-be-blurry picture.

So I thought I’d talk about how even my students know I’m happier when there’s a Diet Coke on my desk, and when the professor is happy, everybody in the room is happy. And how sometimes, a student will even bring me a Diet Coke.

Diet Coke is the new apple for the teacher.

But that’s not really humorous, either.

Then I thought about mentioning how people who know me make a point of having Diet Coke in their refrigerators when they invite me over or know I’ll be there.  People who wouldn’t touch a Diet Coke with a ten foot pole will make sure they’re a few for me, even in, among, and around their own wholesome, nutritious spring waters and fruit juices.

Again, not funny.

Well, how about a piece about how flavored colas are Satan Juice, especially the lime ones?

Naw.  Silly isn’t humorous; it’s just silly.

Finally, I thought about turning my original idea from humor to a serious talk about health and well-being, figuring that it might help a few people battle their own obsessions.

“My poor personal example might inspire someone to take charge of his/her own nutritional requirements and make wiser choices, ” thought I.

Like that’s going to happen.

So I’m showing you all what a caffeine molecule looks like because I think it’s all cute and stuff, and it makes me snicker to imagine an ice-cold bottle full of these little wiggly jobbers being sucked down someone’s throat on a hot day science is important.

In fact, science is one of my favorite things.  That’s because science is ALL things, a wonder at a time.

Oh, and the melted Mentos and Diet Coke dregs left in the bottle after the Geyser goes off are delicious.

And, I’m sure, quite good for us.  No, I’m not sharing.  Back off.

The action or linking part of that sentence is the verb.

But just how important can a verb be? I mean, if it were so important to choose verbs carefully, why do most of them have a million synonyms, thank you very much Mr. Roget. Just find a verb that describes the action you need to describe and that’s it, right? One’s as good as another. They’re only verbs, after all. How could it be any kind of big deal which one you pick?

Well, kids, I’ll tell ya. And please remember that all words have a denotative meaning (dictionary definition) and a connotative meaning (what your mind does with the denotation, ie “fat” is somehow fatter than “plump,” etc.)

Let’s use a couple of common verbs for examples: STOP and BLOCK.

Denotatively speaking (see above) these two words are almost identical. In a thesaurus, their synonyms overlap.

Thesaurus entry for “stop” and for “block:”

Main Entry: stop

Part of Speech: verb

Synonyms: arrest, avoid, bar, block, bottle up, break, can, check, choke, choke off, clog, close, congest, cut off, disrupt, fill, fix, forestall, frustrate, gag, hinder, hold back, hush hush, ice, impede, intercept, interrupt, muzzle, obstruct, occlude, plug, rein in, repress, restrain, seal, shut down, shut off, shut out, silence, stall, staunch, stay, stem, still, stopper, suspend, throw over, turn off, ward off

Main Entry: block

Part of Speech: verb

Synonyms: arrest, bar, barricade, block out, blockade, brake, bung up, catch, charge, check, choke, clog, close, close off, close out, congest, cut off, dam, deter, fill, halt, hang up*, hinder, hold up, impede, intercept, interfere, occlude, plug, prevent, shut off*, shut out, stall, stonewall, stop, stop up*, stopper, stymie, tackle, thwart

And these two fraternal twins differ. . . . how?

Like this:

Back in the day, when I wore shorts and began my descent from the car in a public place, I could stop traffic.

Now, that same action would block traffic.

Any questions?

I’m not really lazy. It’s just that my energy comes out at night. It’s not my fault. I should not be penalized for something I can’t help. I have Night Owl Syndrome (NOS) sometimes referred to as Vampiric Life Style (VLS) and I should have been receiving special treatment from my school and workplace all my life. Those schools and workplaces are set up for people who are lively in the daytime; I needed ACCOMMODATIONS for my specialness and I never got them. I should sue.

The sad thing is, I could possibly win.

Um, I also function best with a diet coke in my possession at all times. Those same schools and most of the workplaces did not allow that, and thus both my attitude and my quality of work suffered. It wasn’t my fault. I had no accommodations. I should have sued.

Exceptions should have been made just for me and my preferences. It’s fine with me if none of the others are allowed to do what I do; just so I get to do it. It’s all about me.

Oh, I adapted. It meant that I had to try a little harder but I did it. Kind of like math; it never came easily to me so I had to work harder than some of the others to get the same results. How unfair. I should have had accommodations so I could pass without all that extra effort. Tommy in the next seat over got his math done in fifteen minutes, whereas it took me a few hours to do the exact same thing, and with fewer right answers. It just wasn’t fair. The teacher made me do the assignments anyway. I should sue.

When my dad told me that since it didn’t come easily, I would just have to work harder, I thought it was good advice so I did it. My math grades weren’t all that good but I passed, and I passed on my own hard work and merit. It was only years later that I realized how UNFAIR he was to me. He KNEW I had numerical dyslexia and he should have demanded that I have a tutor and a reduced workload and an automatic C on my report card for sheer effort. But noooo, he made me do it all myself even though he KNEW how hard it was for me. Okay, so I eventually learned how, but still. He always stayed in the room with me, reading, and I could tell he really wanted to help me, but though he would answer a few questions, he wouldn’t do it for me. The meanie. He should have accommodated me so I could go outside and play before it got dark EVERY night.

And in fourth grade when I had that awful Mrs. Webster, and I just couldn’t ‘get’ long division, Mom taught it to me herself rather than march to school and insist that the teacher go the extra mile just for me. I’m telling you, my parents were MEAN.

I also had Locker Combination Anxiety (LCA) to such a degree that even now I still dream about standing in the hallway trying frantically to open my locker. . . . I should sue for that, too.

And my weight? That is SOOO not my fault either. I was really thin until we moved out into the country. Is it my fault that there are no amusement parks or shopping malls or friends within walking distance? No indeed, my obesity is due entirely to poor rural planning on the part of. . . . well, somebody else. Not me. With nothing but cornfields and woods surrounding me, what else could I do but take up a lifestyle of sitting in front of a computer, eating Hostess cupcakes, and riding around the lawn on a John Deere? I should sue. It’s not my fault.

Sometimes my teachers gave me assignments that conflicted with Youth Group at church. I wasn’t allowed to go till my homework was finished. Sometimes, I was LATE. This was so unfair. The Youth Group director tried to set up a room where we could bring our homework and do it right there before the meetings started, but a parent objected because it wasn’t fair to make kids do schoolwork in a church. Thank goodness for that, because if the teachers started getting completed schoolwork on Thursday mornings, they’d expect it all the time. I mean, SHEESH. Way to go, Mrs. Thorne. Thanks for getting us off the hook with the homework room thing. In America, ONE SINGLE PERSON’s objection can really make a difference. I should still sue that director for trying to make us work inside the church. I had serious running around to do in the church basement; I didn’t have time for no stinkin’ HOMEWORK!!! I should definitely sue.

And teachers should be ashamed of themselves when they assign homework on Varsity Ball Game nights. Who has time to do it on those nights? I mean, the games start at six and you don’t get home till ten or so. And between four and five-thirty, Jerry Springer’s on tv!!! Woot woot woot! And you gotta eat. As for the team, why should they do homework at all? Aren’t they representing the school? Isn’t that enough? Get real.

Item: If you are offended, get a life. I am NOT making fun of people with legitimate needs. But I AM poking fun at. . . .well, most of you can figure it out easily enough.

Fair warning: I have no sense of taste when it comes to clothing. My daughter and my sisters and even my son can attest to that. I have a horror of going out in public wearing old-lady clothing, but I don’t always know when I do it. My tastes somehow never graduated from Spencer Gifts and little boutiques and shops that carry only sizes so small they really should be selling Pampers alongside the hemp; you remember – well, some of you remember – those shops that sold the kind of dresses we could wad up in one hand and still have room for a cheeseburger. I can’t wear the clothes I still gravitate towards: for one thing, it would be ridiculous, and for another thing, they only come in size negative-ten. They’re still the clothes my mind likes best, though. In my day, we couldn’t wait to grow out of the “girls” sizes and into the junior sizes. Girls today brag that they “have” to shop at Baby Gap. Size zero, with Victoria’s Secret underneath.   A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair, indeed.

Me, I love hippie clothing; broomstick skirts and long low-necked tops, but fat women don’t look good in broomstick skirts; I think you have to be shaped like a broomstick to look good in a broomstick.

Hush now; I like broomstick skirts.

I am happiest in jeans and old t-shirts, but the t-shirts I like best – my Broadway shirts and a few select sarcastic comments about other people’s mentality – I can’t wear out in public. Why can’t I? Because I think people over a certain age really can’t wear “See me, feel me, touch me, heal me” Tommy shirts without people wondering who would want to do that in the first place. If you’re 80 years old * and wearing a “Truckers do it in the road” shirt ** at Marsh, people will laugh. Well, I do. I have a drawer full of favorite t-shirts that I can only wear around the house for fear of my own critique. Fortunately for my fashion sense, and for the feng shui of the universe, I spend a lot of time around the house.

* Note:  I am not 80 years old.  But some day, I hope to be.

** Neither would I EVER own or wear a “Truckers do it in the road” shirt.  But I’ve seen my share of grandmotherly types wearing it. Out in public.  Without shame.  This scares me.

My children have promised to kill me and bury me in the back yard if I EVER become one of THOSE women.

I’m also way too large to wear what I like best in “dressy” mode. I used to wear dresses and skirts almost daily when I taught; now, I usually wear black slacks and, I dunno, some kind of top that looks teacherish.

That’s why I let Kohls guide my fashion sense much of the time. Heaven knows I need a guide.

I had a favorite dress once. It was green, pale-ish green, and was made of some soft fabric that was, at the time, quite unique. It might possibly have been a forerunner of those microfibers, but a little more silky and less like a blanket. It had three-quarter sleeves – still my sleeve of choice – and a rather low, narrow v-neck with those massive curvy 70′s “woman” lapels. I recognized the lapels as monstrosities even at the time, but as they were a part of this dress I embraced them, too.

The dress hit me between knee and ankle, and had a wide sash that tied in the back. I felt so good in this dress. That dress emphasized my small waist and hid my skinny chicken legs. It showed just enough cleavage that I could wear it to school and still feel sexy. I bought it with my first teacher paycheck and I wore it at least once a week.

I have no pictures of me in this dress, and I’m actually glad, because that frees me to picture myself looking so fine, feeling the dress swish around my legs as I walked around the shared teachers’ office space, knowing everybody else in there was well over forty while I was 23, and I am not even embarrassed to tell you all that when I wore this dress, I would occasionally spin around so I could feel the skirt breathe with me. . . . yes, my dress and I liked to twirl.

When I remember this dress, I can’t really picture the entire thing. I remember parts of it, but not the parts fitting together in any logical way. Possibly that’s because my brain is protecting me from seeing the dress as it really was: a 70′s horror, complete with extra-long attached sash and lapels that would make me gasp and back away if I saw them today, made of slightly ribbed light-weight blanket fabric and the color of green goth Big Lots nail polish.

That dress and I were both a size 5. I bought it at the Diana Shoppe, which burned down shortly thereafter, possibly sparing the world from similar dresses which I probably would have bought and worn and twirled in as well.

Perhaps some disasters were meant to save us from other disasters.

I do own a dress now but I can’t for the life of me remember what color it is.

Maybe I need to start getting out more.

The title? Gilda said it.

No picture of the dress, but I found a picture of 70′s lapels.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid.  The hip-hugging bell-bottoms came back; it’s only a matter of time before you’ll be wearing big rounded lapels, too.

Most of you are watching the Oscars as I type.  Keep your eyes open for lapels, if you can take your eyes off the rear cleavage that, this year, is rivaling the front cleavage.

My home ec teacher would have given most of these high-priced designer-name monstrosities a D+ at best.  Some of them look like the rec room busy-work from down at the nursing home.

Then again, what do I know?  I used to twirl, at work, in a green dress that was probably made by the Keebler elves out of leftover tablecloth fabric.

It looks like you.

And why should you be interested?

Because it could have been you. Maybe it was you.

Women remove their bras for many reasons. You know them, so I won’t list them. But I will add this one: so we can check for lumps.

I would, of course, be participating in the Army of Women’s “Blog For Your Breasts” project in any case, since I am a human being, a woman, and an owner of breasts, but I have a particular interest in this project because I love my sister and I loved my mother-in-law.

Several years ago, my sister discovered a lump. She immediately contacted her doctor, who saw her right away, but even so, by the time her doctor saw the lump, it had grown bigger. He put her in the hospital, and the lump, along with pretty much everything touching or near the lump, was removed.

My sister underwent chemo. Our mother drove a hundred miles every few days to take her. My sister has very few memories of those trips; chemo takes it out of you in more ways than one. Her hair fell out, and even though she works for a big insurance company, that company refused to pay for a wig so she could continue to work. She finally did get one, however, and knowing my sister, I’m betting the company finally agreed to foot the bill. Harsh as the chemo was, it did the trick, and my sister has been cancer-free for several years now. She makes jokes about being lop-sided, but with the exception of her chest, everything about her, physically and mentally, including her hair, which grew back super-curly, is intact, for which all who love her, and that definitely includes me, are grateful. Every time I see her, I think about that time, those weeks in which we weren’t sure we were going to be allowed to keep her around, and I am so grateful she beat the odds that tried so hard to beat her down.

To be truthful, when it comes to this sister and any kind of odds, I’d bet on my sister every time. She’s tough and she’s good and she’s ALIVE. Love you, Teresa. Always have; always will.

My mother-in-law discovered her lump many years ago, but she didn’t tell anybody. By the time she showed it to her sister, it was huge. By the time she showed it to me, it was even huge-er – and black.

We had to bully her into going to the doctor; she was convinced that if she continue to ignore it and pray, it would go away without any effort on her part. I guess she forgot that God helps those who help themselves, because she put all the onus on God and flatly refused to do any of the work herself for years. Meanwhile, the lump put out roots and waxed strong.

Finally, she let us take her to the doctor, who, naturally, was horrified, both at the state of the lump AND at the state of her stubbornness. She underwent surgery; the lump was removed, as were as many of its clinging roots as possible. However, those of us who garden know what roots can do; they can live for a long time when the bulk of the growth is long gone; those roots can fester, evolve, and grow. Those roots can put out rootlets far from the original root. Think “strawberries.”

It was only when someone at work knocked her down and broke her hip that we discovered the extent of the malignant spread. The growth had grown, and poured itself forth throughout her entire body. Still, she upheld her claim that she would be healed without any help from humanity. I admired her faith, but I can’t admire her refusal to work along with her faith. (I believe that attitudes like this often dissuade others from “believing,” in fact. Sigh.)

Again, we bullied her into undergoing radiation treatments. From the very start, she was convinced that these treatments would not help her; I wonder still if that attitude was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

In the fall of 2008, she was still getting around, driving, eating, and working three days a week as a newspaper reporter. She retired in December of 2008. In February of 2009, she was gone.

Many people, including me, firmly believe that if she’d had that lump taken care of back in the mid-nineties when she first found it, she’d still be alive today. I suppose part of it was a generational and upbringing thing; she didn’t want to expose her breasts to a male doctor, and breasts are a private part that aren’t supposed to be exposed at all. She was brought up VERY strictly, with many rules and regulations that were ridiculous. It’s a bloody wonder she was able to rise above many of them at all. Sigh. She was much loved, and will always be missed. She was a wonderful mother-in-law, and was always very good to me.

Both of these women were brave, courageous, and bold, just like Hugh O’Brien’s Wyatt Earp: “Long live (their) fame, and long live (their) glory, and long may (their) story be told.”

However, if “it” should happen to you, please follow my sister’s example, not my mother-in-law’s.

Want to know more about the Army of Women? Click here.

Want to get involved? Click here.

I love airports, and I love riding on airplanes.  Or, would that be riding IN airplanes?  See, students, prepositions are quite important.  If I were to ride on an airplane, I’d be in all the papers under the headline “Nutter Straddles Boeing 747″ or some such.  Or, would that be, I’d be WITH the headline, or ACCOMPANIED BY the headline. . . .   PREPOSITIONS, people!

I love meeting people.  I’ve met the nicest people on planes, in fact.  I love it when they turn to me and strike up a conversation, or just smile and mind their own business.  I firmly believe that most people are good people: kind, fair, considerate, and eager to help others.  I also firmly believe that all people have a right to what they pay for, and NO right to what someone else has paid for, without prior permission from the person who paid.

The thing is, when I saw this woman shuffling down the aisle – or perhaps UP the aisle, or through the aisle (take your pick) I knew exactly where she was going to sit.  Right.  By.  Me.

Beside me. Near me.  Attached to me.  Glued to me.  Pressed against me.  Melting against me like a caramel in the sun.  A really, really big, sweaty caramel.

I have never cared for political correctness.  I think it cheapens and weakens the language, and turns situations that fully earn the attention deserved by idiocy and selfishness  into something that believes it merits sympathy, and catering to, rather than derision, or possibly (shudder, and what were you THINKING!) common sense.

So here it is, and bring it on.  This is not a new issue; people have been debating it for a long time.  Where do I stand?  Right here.

Perhaps it is time for airlines to sell their space according to the amount of space each passenger will need.  Not weight, although I know they used to in the beginning, and maybe it was wiser than the “equality” of now, with all seats the same size and price; I think airlines should sell the space by measurement.

Perhaps there should be a row of different-sized seats at the ticket booth, and a description of such including measurements, on the internet, and people could “try on” the seats, and the passenger will pay for whichever size suits his/her, well, ass.  Or needs.  Small ass, small price.  Huge ass, huge price.

Parents with small children could purchase an extra-large space to accommodate their children and “things.”  People who want to work while flying could purchase an extra- large space.  People who just plain don’t want other people’s elbows touching theirs could purchase a large space.  And – here it is – large people could purchase an extra-large space so they don’t trespass on someone else’s paid-for space.

Small people with no accouterments could purchase a small space.

Average people could purchase an average-sized space.

All passengers would be required to stow only ONE piece of whatever above his/her own rented space.  In other words, the space over one’s seat belongs only to the person in that seat. Nobody has a right to space above anybody else’s seat. (I hate it when I try to stow my one bag above my seat and discover that someone from the back of the plane took my space.  USE YOUR OWN SPACE. )

And if you weigh 395 pounds and your right buttock and side-boob cover more than half of the body next to you, you should be required to pay for the space you are covering, and the crushed person should get a discount.  So much money per square inch of ass, for example.   If you are over or under-sized, why can’t you inform the airline of this fact BEFORE entering a plane that’s at capacity?  And why should anybody have to share paid-for space with someone else who didn’t pay for that space?  Kevin Smith, indeed.  And he wasn’t as large as my seatmate’s right arm alone.

This woman, today, reached over and pushed up the armrests, and somehow sidled herself into the middle seat.  When she sat, only her buttcrack well, what else could one call it? was in her own paid-for space; one buttock was in my lap and the other was in the lap of the man on her left.  Her body pushed me against the wall and window so hard, my cheek was smashed against the glass.  Her side-boob and upper arm covered over half my body, and on her other side, the body of the man by the aisle.  The two of us were unrecognizable; I was mashed against the wall and window, and the man was mashed and pushed almost into the aisle.  My left arm was underneath her and I had to leave it there because the only other place for it was on top of her boobs.

Milk of human kindness, etc. etc. blah blah blah.  She was trespassing into spaces that weren’t hers.  She should have been required to buy three tickets.

Am I being unreasonable?  I don’t think I am.  However, I think she was.

Please don’t beseige me with “wah wah wah” because I don’t care to hear it unless you’ve got a better argument than “self esteem. “  People should be required to pay for the space they take over, on an airplane.  Period.  Whether the passenger requires more space for children, workspace, breathing room, or ass – those people should be required to pay for that space.  If it turns out that the flight has space to spare,  these people could be given a refund for all but one purchased seat.  Otherwise, in a packed plane, let people pay for whatever space they cover, and people who cover less space should pay less than people who cover two or even three spaces.

“I have a right to fly, boo hoo, just like everyone else, wah wah.”  Sure you do.  But if you take up more than one seat, you should have to buy more than one seat.

Honest to boo; I didn’t even have a place for my feet.  I rode the entire way with one foot resting on top of the other.

And now, let it begin.  More people will side with this woman than with her victims.  Why is that?  I’ve been wondering that for a long time now.

I’m not a mean person; really, I’m not.  Well, not usually.  But I do believe, and quite firmly, that on a plane, nobody has a right to an inch that someone else paid for.  You want it, or need it?  Buy it.

The action or linking part of that sentence is the verb.

But just how important can a verb be? I mean, if it were so important to choose verbs carefully, why do most of them have a million synonyms, thank you very much Mr. Roget.  Just find a verb that describes the action you need to describe and that’s it, right? One’s as good as another. They’re only verbs, after all. How could it be any kind of big deal which one you pick?

Well, kids, I’ll tell ya.  And please remember that all words have a denotative meaning (dictionary definition) and a connotative meaning (what your mind does with the denotation, ie “fat” is somehow fatter than “plump,” etc.)

Let’s use a couple of common verbs for examples:  STOP and BLOCK.

Denotatively speaking (see above) these two words are almost identical. In a thesaurus, their synonyms overlap.

Thesaurus entry for “stop” and for “block:”

Main Entry: stop

Part of Speech: verb

Synonyms: arrest, avoid, bar, block, bottle up, break, can, check, choke, choke off, clog, close, congest, cut off, disrupt, fill, fix, forestall, frustrate, gag, hinder, hold back, hush hush, ice, impede, intercept, interrupt, muzzle, obstruct, occlude, plug, rein in, repress, restrain, seal, shut down, shut off, shut out, silence, stall, staunch, stay, stem, still, stopper, suspend, throw over, turn off, ward off

Main Entry: block

Part of Speech: verb

Synonyms: arrest, bar, barricade, block out, blockade, brake, bung up, catch, charge, check, choke, clog, close, close off, close out, congest, cut off, dam, deter, fill, halt, hang up*, hinder, hold up, impede, intercept, interfere, occlude, plug, prevent, shut off*, shut out, stall, stonewall, stop, stop up*, stopper, stymie, tackle, thwart

And these two fraternal twins differ. . . . how?

Like this:

Back in the day, when I wore shorts and began my descent from the car in a public place, I could stop traffic.

Now, that same action would block traffic.

Any questions?

Mamacita says:  Women who had difficult labors probably hate me already right now, but I’ll go ahead and make it worse: I loved being pregnant. I felt GREAT.

Even when I was sitting still, doing nothing, I was still doing something wonderfully productive.  I was euphoric.  I felt very off-balance, but I’m so inclined that way anyway it wasn’t too bad.  But mostly, I just felt good.  The concept that after I had the baby, I would actually HAVE the baby, hadn’t sunken in yet.

I was scared of my babies. I knew I was too ignorant to deserve them, and I felt it was just a matter of time until my supreme ignorance caused me to do something with or to a baby that would toss me in the state pen for life, and deservedly so.  I could hear the sentence in my head:  YOU ARE FAR TOO STUPID TO GET TO HAVE BABIES!”

Somehow, I managed.  WE managed.  My kids are fantastic today, so maybe they didn’t suffer TOO much.  Sigh.

But, between panic attacks, I had fun with my babies, too. I made zillions of mistakes and did tons of stupid things, but I had fun. I hope they did, too.

I know I was half-asleep through a lot of it, esp. anything that happened in the early morning hours, and I know I was an odd mommy, and I hated having to leave them and go to work but I had no choice, and I know I packed some really bizarre lunches for them to take to school, and I know it’s probably my fault that both of them are night owls like me, and I know I embarrassed them a lot (that was my job, after all) but I also know that the good things far outweighed the bad, even if I could remember all the bad, which I don’t, which is probably best for the perpetuation of mankind.

After all, they’re alive, and they’re still speaking to me. I call that a good sign. And, they’re curious about everything and they love to go to see live shows.  They also both love music and enjoy living outside of the box.    They’re both sensitive and tenderhearted and like to help people, and they enjoy being odd on purpose to make other people mad.  I’m sure I have no idea where they learned THAT.

This ramble probably makes no sense, but I’m sitting here with a soul-splitting migraine, wishing I were tired enough to just get up and go to bed, and knowing that if I did I’d just lie there for hours and hours, feeling guilty because lately I’ve been wishing for my children’s childhoods back so I could do a better job this time, and knowing that with some things, well, even the gods can’t unscramble eggs. . . .

I also wish I could solve all the problems of the world with a wave of my hand, and knowing I can’t, and wishing I could, anyway, and wondering why some people have to be so cruel, and wondering how some people can be so upbeat in the face of unspeakable horror, and wishing I were thinner, and nicer, and more fun, and knowing I probably could be if only I weren’t also so lazy, well, I’ve got a massive migraine and these thoughts aren’t my fault.  They’re not, they’re not, they’re not!

Maybe I should go to bed and get up early.  I almost wish I had a pile of quizzes to grade.  Life has all kinds of quizzes, doesn’t it.  The quizzes in my briefcase usually have  easy answers.

P.S. It would be lovely if there were a prize for the person who counts all the run-on sentences and comments with the number, but there isn’t one.  Do it anyway if you’re the O/C type, and I’ll thank you, but that’s all you get.

1. I do not like this holiday overlap so prevalent today, yet my tree is up and ready. Inconsistency, thy name is Jane.

2. I host Thanksgiving for my family, and I look forward to it with an avidity that is actually frightening, and would probably scare ‘em all off if they knew how much I love having them here in my house.

3. When I do not feel useful, I do not feel as if I existed.

4. I carry grudges against people who have hurt someone I love for a long time.

5. I used to be our local school system’s Number One Advocate and Fan, but now that I know a little more about their priorities and methods, I genuinely believe they are Satan’s minions. No exaggeration.

6. I have been listening to Christmas music since Halloween.

7. If I never hear another modernized, rap-style version of “Santa Baby” again, it will be too soon.

8. Sometimes, someone’s rendition of “We Three Kings” will make me cry. The good kind.

9. I hope no ladybug beetles fall onto someone’s plate during dinner on Thursday.

10. My nephew loves to mow, so I’m kind of hoping he’ll bring his mower and let her rip on my grass when he comes. The weather has been so warm, the grass keeps growing.

11. I’ve gone down eight sizes since this time last year.

I was never good at math; it’s the only thing Barbie and I have in common.

Mamacita says:  Why yes, actually, I AM having a rather bad evening.  Thank you so much for asking.

What tipped you off?

I blame it on the fact that I hate Gatorade.

Hey, you wouldn’t look so hot in my shoes, either.

Thank goodness for laptops.

Be right back.