I Twitter and I Don’t Know Why

Dear Readers, I have a confession.

I twitter and I don’t know why.  In fact, speaking as a baby boomer that’s not getting any younger at an alarming rate,  I predict that  “I twitter and I don’t know why!” will be the new aging-boomer catch phrase that officially replaces,  “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

I have a feeling it all boils down to Bob Hope

Do I have any idea why I twitter?  I have tweeted 696 times. But to what purpose? To what end?  Frankly,  I suspect since I have to ask, I’m too old to be twittering (or is it tweeting?).

I think understanding Twitter is one of those generational-gap phenomenons that were so popular in back the 60′s — where we baby boomers would roll our eyes when our parents laughed at Bob Hope wearing a Beatles wig while singing, “she loves you,  yeah yeah yeah”.  Only now instead of Bob Hope, hashish and shaggy hair we’ve got Louis CK, hash tags and Friday Follow.

Hey what’s everybody talking about?  I said what’s everybody talking about?  Hello?

Twitter, for me, is like being in a group of people where everyone is laughing and talking about something — but I’m late to the conversation and I can never quite get the gist of what they are discussing.

So I just try faking it by smiling and laughing along hoping I’ll figure it out in minute. During a lull, I might ask the person next to me what everyone is talking about, and just as they are about to fill me in, somebody says something funny and the person starts laughing again and never gets back to me.

Now Just Slow Down There A Minute Sonny . . . Granny don’t go that fast!

Take this morning for instance.  I went to my twitter account and I saw that a blogger who used to have a funny WordPress blog is now a comedian.  So I tweeted a reply congratulating him and went to click out of Twitter one second later  and saw that he had  already replied to my reply.   And he has thousands of followers!  How can he go so fast?  That’s what this old lady wants to know?  (Btw, you can follow Rob https://twitter.com/MyHairyLife — maybe, I don’t know.)

And so I put it to you, Dear Readers.  Why do you tweet?  What is the purpose of tweeting?  I would love to know why I tweet from those of you young enough to understand why.

I thank you in advance, and, as a lovely parting gift for reading this far, I will leave you with a few of my  favorite tweets:

Rob ‏@imaudihere 2 Nov 11

Good friends are a lot like this can of Spam in my cupboard; always there for me, and I know I can eat them in an emergency.

Will Phillips ‏@TheThryll 30 May

Giving up on your dreams can actually be very relaxing.

Samuel Palmer ‏@deptofetc 5 Oct 11

Genius is 16% ‘G’ and 84% ‘enius’

These days George Lucas’s first film is just known as “Thanks! 1138″.

I’m trouble with a capital ‘T’. But only when I’m at the start of a sentence or a proper noun.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Until next time . . . I love you

 

Things I’m Not Doing While I’m Doing Nothing

Hello Dear Readers.  I thought today might be a good day here at the blog to just kick back and do nothing. 

And so what better way to spend time doing nothing than to think about all the things you could be doing if you weren’t already committed to doing nothing:

Four Things I Could Be Doing If I Weren’t Already Committed to Doing Nothing.

1) I could be reading a book . . . here’s one:

Doesn’t it look horribly horribly boring? Don’t ask me why it’s laying on my desk.  (I couldn’t answer you even if I knew because, as I said, I’m committed to doing nothing.)  And what are those strips on the bottom suppose to represent? Bookmarks?  People?  Pasta?

Opening to a page at random (78), Dudley Shapere actually writes, and I am not making this up:

“The work that has been done, and the work currently being done so far as it is manifest, on objective-formal simplicity cannot plausibly be viewed to have brought us to a complete and adequate explication of the concept.”

Dudley Shapere or Dudley Prepositional Phrase Shapere as he is probably referred to by his tea sipping buddies, seems to have — ahem . . .  explicated one too many concepts, shall we say?

I think it would behoove Dudley to maybe try doing what I’m doing; nothing!  Think how well he could document his “doing nothing” experience!

2) I could cut something with these scissors:

These are the official Linda Vernon Humor blog scissors. They aren’t very funny in and of themselves. But they are cut ups. Ha ha! (See I told you they weren’t very funny.)

3) I could use the official Linda Vernon Humor Blog Scissors to cut something but what?  Well let’s see here . . .  Oh here’s another book laying on my desk:

It smells like mildew. I got it at a different thrift store than the one I usually go to. (The one that doesn‘t smell like mildew.) I don’t like to go to the one that smells like mildew very often because everything smells like mildew.

4)  Now if I wanted to actually cut something (if I weren’t already committed to doing nothing) I would cut out this picture by Henri Rousseau:

Isn’t this just the best picture ever?  I just love everything about this picture. (Except for the fact that it smells like mildew.)

I would love to tell you all about this picture that Henri Rousseau drew or painted or colored or whatever the case maybe –  besides the fact that  it smells like you know what –but as I have already stated far too many times in the same post  — I am committed to doing nothing.  Sorry, but that’s all there is to it.

Until next time . . . I love you

Life Is Very Beautiful

Hello Dear Readers.  I am happy to announce something wonderful.  My daughter, Nikki, and her husband, Matt, welcomed their first daughter, Lily Lucille, to her new life on January 15th  in the wee hours of the morning.

Lily Lucille Kaiser

Lily Lucille and  Nikki

Life is very beautiful . . .

Until next time . . . I love you all

Recapturing the Happiness of Being Ten!

Remember being ten?  When  life was fresh and easy and filled  with simple pleasures?

We were light as a feather when we were ten!  We turned cartwheels and skipped and hopped  for no other reason than because we could.

At ten, the present moment unfolded naturally. We just were and it just was. We were a part of “all that is” and our ten-year-old hearts knew it!

It was a time when we were sure about where we belonged in the world, and what was expected of us.  We were satisfied to accept each day as it came.  Most of us had no idea of what the future held nor did we care!

Oh we had our little setbacks. We laughed and we cried, but either way, we were real and true to ourselves.  Why?  Because we didn’t know any different.

We were traveling light – in a fresh, new world.

Me at ten, peeling the world’s largest potato!

This is is me at ten.  As you can see, I’m wearing an outfit that doesn’t match.  The skirt was red plaid and the sweater was blue and white plaid.  Did I care?  Of course not.  It was my most comfortable outfit, and I remember wearing it often.

I was at my grandparent’s house when this picture was taken,  and I had just learned how to peel potatoes. I remember being happy about that.  I was capable and I was making a contribution. Grandad even got out the camera, so I must have been peeling pretty impressively.

But, alas,  like everything else, the thrill of potato peeling eventually wore off (probably later that night).   So that today, the only thrill I get around potatoes is when they happened to be mashed with lots of gravy sitting on my plate.

eeeeeYummmmm!

Still, what if we were to take that essence of being ten and incorporate  into our everyday lives.  If we could somehow conjure up that feeling of having every possibility open to us —  unjaded and shining —  and with all the time in the world to explore!

What if  we could just look at life through the uncomplicated eyes of our ten-year-old selves — maybe we’d remember how it was when we were experts at life —  before we grew up and lost our way.

I say we go peel some potatoes?   I will if you will!

 

Until next time . . . I love you

Fish it From the Archives Friday: My Teeth Are Getting More Crooked by the Hour!

Hello Dear Readers and welcome to Fish It From the Archives Friday.  Today we will be taking a little trip down memory lane through the perspective of my teeth.  (Hopefully it will be more fun that it sounds!)

My Teeth Are Getting More Crooked by the Hour

Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Braces

When I was ten, the family dentist and my parents made a secret plan to make my teeth straight. It didn’t involve braces. Instead, it involved pulling out five of my permanent teeth.

When Teeth Fly

I remember several visits to the dentist wherein he grabbed a tooth with his pliers and pulled with all his might until my tooth would finally be uprooted and go flying across the room and hit the wall.

He seemed to think this was a perfectly normal occurrence (which I’m sure in his case it was) and, since I didn’t have anything to compare it to — I thought so too.

That is until I had my wisdom teeth removed years later and guess what? Nothing went flying anywhere.

Look Ma! No Braces!

Anyway, getting five of my permanent teeth extracted did the trick. My teeth were tolerably straight for a good portion of my life.

The Minute My Mouth is Closed

Then suddenly one morning, one of my front teeth began to stick out farther than the rest. At first, it was hardly noticeable. That’s because this rebel tooth did all its traveling when I wasn’t looking.

If I were to smile into a mirror at any given moment, this tooth would freeze and stay in that exact position until I closed my mouth and then it would continue on it’s mission which, obviously, was to become a Hillbilly Tooth.

The Miraculous Transformation

Over the years, slowly but surely this hillbilly tooth wannabe has made a miraculous migration from sitting straight-in-a-row with all the other front teeth — content to be an all-around team player — to Class Clown of the Mouth.

So that today, this tooth has positioned itself in such a way as to stick out way beyond all the others making it appear as if I just have the one.

Surgery for the Problem Child

A couple of years ago I decided I would do something about my problem child tooth. I looked into getting cosmetic dental surgery. The dentist made a mold of my mouth, and we went into the conference room to discuss what could be done.

The Dentist Who Cared Too Much (and had absolutely no sense of humor)

It didn’t help any that the dentist had tears in his eyes when he set the mold of my wayward teeth in front of me.

This is the consultation that followed and to quote Dave Barry, I am not making this up.

To lighten up the mood, I remarked, “Those are my teeth? Gee, they’re pretty crooked. In fact, I’ve seen straighter teeth on the 20,000-year-old skulls they’ve excavated on the Discovery Channel.”

To which the dentist replied solemnly, “I know.”

“Well is there anything you can do about it?”

“Not really . . . unless you want to get braces.”

“Braces! But I’m 55 years old!” (although I was wearing my hair in a ponytail that day so maybe he thought I was younger . . . emotionally anyway.)

“There are a lot of OLD PEOPLE LIKE YOU who get braces,” he assured me. “In fact, I had a patient in here the other day who just got his braces off and his teeth looked great!”

“How old was he?”

“85.”

Paying for Invisiline Braces with Invisible Money

So I went to an orthodontist. He informed me that I can get Invisiline braces, (the removable, see-through kind) for somewhere between $5,000 to $7000 dollars.

After Giving the Matter a Lot of Thought . . .

I’ve decided to wait because who knows? Maybe my hillbilly tooth will come into fashion one of these days. And if that doesn’t happen?

There’s always mouth modeling for the Discovery Channel.

Until next time, I love you . . .

 

Update:  I finally took the plunge and got Invisilign Braces in February of this year, and I have to say my teeth are getting straighter and straighter.  I’m really happy with them and am so glad I finally did it!

“Quick! Get Clark and Hold Him Over the Toilet!”

When I was growing up, we always had lots of kitties living with us.  There was Taffy May and Buzzel and Merv — but the kitty that stands out the most in my mind is Clark.

Clark was the kitty my mother got my brothers and I to help ease the pain of the divorce.  We moved to a new town after that and took Clark with us.

Unfortunately, the only way we could have Clark in our new place was if we agreed to have him de-clawed.

For some reason, in 1965, landlords thought that one little kitty could destroy an entire property.

Thinking back,  it was a horrible thing to do to our beloved Clark, and I hope it is a practice that has long since been  abandoned.  For you see, Clark was never quite right in the head after that.

Clark had a chip on his shoulder and he liked to take it out on  bare legs. God help you if you walked by him in shorts, he would attack by jumping on your legs and sliding slowly down them like he was a fireman.

Clark also had a weak stomach.  Every couple of days or so, he would meow in a certain way just before loosing his lunch.  When we finally caught on to this idiosyncrasy of his and when we heard “the call” my mother would always yell for one of us to get Clark and hold him over the toilet.

This became a pretty regular routine.  One day my brothers got the genius  idea to impersonate Clark’s up-chuck distress call.

This proved to be great fun especially when our friends were over.  If things started getting dull or the conversation would lull, somebody would impersonate Clark’s up-chuck distress call and without missing a beat my mother would yell from the other room,  “Quick somebody get Clark and hold him over the toilet!”

At this point in time, we also had very old furniture and our couch had holes in it.  My mother was always sewing them up to prevent someone from falling through.

One day my mother couldn’t find her reading glasses and surmised that they must have fallen off while she was sewing up the couch.

So here we all were – a room full of teenagers — watching TV.  In walks my mother with a pair of scissors and asks one of the boys to scoot over a little, he complies whereupon my mother cuts a hole in the couch, reaches in, pulls out her reading glasses, puts them on and leaves the room without saying a word.

Five minutes later someone gave the, by now, infamous up-chuck distress call to which my wonderful mother responded in true Pavlovian fashion by yelling from the other room,

“Quick, somebody get Clark and hold him over the toilet! “

Ah! Those were the days!

Until next time . . . I love you

The Taffy May Incident

Convicts I have Known

Hello Dear Readers!  Today, I thought it might be fun to talk about convicts I have known. 

When I was 19, I was a waitress in the coffee shop of the Marcus Whitman Hotel in Walla Walla Washington.  For those of you unfamiliar with Walla Walla — besides hearing it referred to as the town they liked so well they named it twice, Walla Walla is also home to the Washington State Penitentiary.

The Walla Walla State Pen
(P.S. I got such a kick out of stealing this picture!)

In the early seventies, somebody (probably one of the “Screws”) said, “I know! Let’s take hardened criminals who have made a few tiny mistakes in their lives like perhaps pillaging, raping and murdering and let them out everyday to go to work as cooks at the Marcus Whitman Hotel!”

The Marcus Whitman Hotel — it’s not really this tall, the photographer must have been lying flat on his back when he took this picture.

And so that’s what they did and that’s how I got to know a few of our nations finest criminals.

George

George was a sweet little man, polite, personable and quiet. All the waitresses really liked George.  One day somebody got up the nerve to ask George why he was in prison.  Turns out retiring, polite, little George had murdered his wife with a butcher knife.  But not to worry there were extenuating circumstances.

It seems George had been a cook in the army for 20 years where he had developed a horrendous drinking problem.  One morning after a night of heavy drinking, he woke up to find he had stabbed his wife to death and he didn’t remember a thing.  He said he had no idea why he did it — because he didn’t remember having any problem with his wife.

Nine out of ten Washington State Convicts prefer butcher knives for all their murdering needs!”

Unfortunately, George eventually discovered that the Marcus Whitman Hotel Bar was 20o feet away from the kitchen.  One day George went into the bar and squirted the nozzle of whiskey directly into his mouth for a really, really long time.  We didn’t see George anymore after that. On a bright side, he didn’t use any of the kitchen knives to stab anybody.

Pineapple

Pineapple was a big tall guy with a crazy look in his eye who could barely string  two words together.  I don’t know why they called him Pineapple.  Maybe he was from Hawaii, or maybe it was because he had the IQ of a pineapple either way, one day he got a toothache while he was working in the kitchen, and so he decided the best course of action would be to extract his own tooth with a butcher knife.  We never saw Pineapple again after that.

Nine out of ten Washington State Convicts prefer butcher knives for all their tooth extraction needs!

Billy

Billy was a smooth talker who got “sent up” for possession of pot or so he liked to tell everyone.  And the pot wasn’t even his, he was just holding it for a friend.  Billy was like the smart prison guy in movies who was the mastermind behind the scenes and who got the likes of Pineapple to implement his schemes.

One day Billy talked one of the waitresses, Robin, into driving him to the airport after his shift.  The authorities were waiting for him when he got off the plane in the next town, and we never saw Billy again.

“No of course the prison won’t mind if you take me to the airport! Trust me Robin!”

Robin said the authorities came to talk to her but she didn’t get in any trouble for helping Billy escape.  Probably because they could see that in a game of Jeopardy between Pineapple and  Robin, Pineapple’s IQ would have won hands down.

Then there was the guy who got drunk, put on a Cher wig and wandered around the coffee shop incoherently until the police finally came and took him away.  Oh, but that wasn’t a convict, that was the hotel manager.  (But that’s another story for another day.)

The Manager of the Marcus Whitman Hotel

Until next time . . . I love you

My Butler’s Toupee or Living in Hotsy Totsy Land

Welcome!  Isn’t this a fine June morning Dear Readers?  I’m leaving for the mall in just a few minutes to meet a very good friend where we will shop for items that we will eventually donate to the thrift store and later inadvertently buy back again.  I’m sorry to have to say I didn’t have time to cook up a new, fresh essay for you, but I have taken a leftover essay and stuck it in the oven at 350 degrees. 

This, Dear Reader, is the view from my Morning Room.

Ok, I don’t really have a Morning Room, as such, it’s actually just a fancy way of saying a chair by the window in the bedroom.

But I like to refer to it as my Morning Room whenever I am giving instructions to my Butler.

Ok, I don’t really have a Butler, as such, it’s just a fancy way of referring to my little dog who looks like a really bad toupee that a Butler might wear.

My Butler’s Toupee

So this morning, Dear Reader, whist sitting in my Morning Room admiring the view, I soon found myself ringing for the Butler with the Butler Bell.  Which is to say,  I called at the very tip-top of my very best lung,

“Here Chancey!  Here Chancy!”

. . . because what I refer to as my Butler’s Bell isn’t really a Butler’s Bell, as such, but just a fancy way of saying ‘calling the dog’.

To which my Butler responded by running over and jumping onto my lap –  or at least his toupee did.

Twas shortly after that,  I instructed my Lady-in-Waiting to bring my breakfast to the Morning Room for my Butler and I — that we might dine whilst partaking of the View of the Estate from the Window of the Morning Room,

Ok, it isn’t really an Estate, as such, it’s just a fancy way of saying ‘tree’.  But a pretty one it is.  I would even go so far as to say that my Butler’s Toupee and I think it very grand indeed!

But alas, all good things must come to an end.

It seems my Lady-in-Waiting refused to serve us our breakfast due to the fact that she isn’t really a Lady-in-Waiting, as such, but just a fancy way in which I sometimes refer to myself.

And I never make breakfast.

Until next time . . . I love you

I Got Tagged and You Might Be Next So Lookout!

Apparently there’s a little thing going around called tag.  And I just got tagged by Zendictive!   And when you get tagged you have to:

Describe yourself in seven words:

Quiet

(People often describe me as quiet which is weird because I feel so noisy in my head!)

Brave

(Except when it comes to snakes and changing lanes on a busy freeway or the scariest scenario of all:   snakes on a freeway.)

Honest

(Ok, I have been known to withhold the truth when it comes to certain things like maybe how much I didn’t need or want the Christmas presents that 37 gives me sometimes — or maybe I’ll fib to my kids that getting your wisdom teeth pulled is fun! But other than that I would describe myself as honest.  Honest!

Good Listener

(Well, sometimes I must admit I will check out temporarily when 37 is explaining something. But I’m always sure to check back in before he finishes so I can get the gist and comment appropriately. (Note to self:  Make sure 37 does not read this post!)

Clean,  Considerate and Clairvoyant

(I take two showers a day (not in succession though).  I also try to be pleasant and polite.  And I have had several dreams predicting the future.  Unfortunately the things I predict are of very little importance like I’m going to get a new doorknob or I’m going to rearrange my spices.)

The other thing you have to do when you get tagged is answer these questions: 

What keeps you up at night?

Currently practically nothing.  Now that the kids are grown and living far enough away so I have no idea what they are up to; I pretty much sleep like a baby!

Who would you like to be?

Lois Lane

What are you wearing right now?

Jeans, long-sleeved t-shirt, no shoes and a hat with an arrow through it. (ok, the hat part is just wishful thinking.)

What scares you?

Hands down it’s snakes.  I could scream bloody murder right now just thinking about them!

The best and worst of blogging.

The best thing about blogging is getting to do what I love (write) and hang out with  bloggers who are wise, witty and fun as all get out! The worst is falling behind in my reading thus missing something wonderful that everybody is talking about and I’m like, huh?

The last website I visited.

Running Naked with Scissors

What is the one thing you would change about yourself? 

I’d like to remove all limited thinking.

Slankets yes or no?

No slankets, sounds like a type of snake!

Tell us something about the person who tagged you.

What do I know about the man behind the Zendictive blog?  His name is Art, and he’s a martial artist who is also a correctional officer.  He is a tireless warrior when it comes to lighting up his corner of the world with inspiring stories that not only make you think, but that you find yourself telling your family and friends about.  Art is the pebble in the pond that spreads beautiful ripples far and wide!  He is a treasure!

HA!  While you guys were busy reading above guess what?  I TAGGED YOU!

YOU’RE IT! Nanny Nanny Nanny!

Running Naked with Scissors

The Mainland

Tricia Linden

Teal and Tulle

The Poet’s Crafts/The Olding Poet

Have Fun!

Until next time . . . I love you

My Internally Grateful Organs

I haven’t got anything against my brain (who insists on calling itself, Peanuts, btw).  It’s just that when Peanuts tries to take over for me, it sometimes gets ahead of itself and does the dumbest things.

Yesterday, I attempted to write an essay about how comical it was that my crooked tooth is now the new beauty trend in Japan.  Japanese women are paying for crooked teeth to make themselves appear more approachable.

I know it’s funny, right?  And since I have a this humorous crooked tooth that sticks out in front, I thought it would make a hilarious essay!

Little did I know that my brain, Peanuts, unbeknownst to me, didn’t think it was funny at all because when I went to edit the crooked-tooth essay  this morning, Peanuts hit the “trash” button instead of the “edit” button before I even realized what was going on!

Oh I get it!  Obviously, Peanuts feels a little self-conscious about the whole subject of “our” crooked tooth  Well, who knew?

So then I thought, well if my brain, Peanuts, feels that way about “our” crooked tooth, how do my other organs feel about it?  So I decided to survey my organs.

My Heart

As for my heart liking my crooked-t00th essay, well it feels like my heart didn’t like the fact that I was pointing out “our” flaws to the world. But it tends to be a softy so I can’t really take its opinion all that seriously.

My Spleen

Frankly, I have no idea what my spleen’s opinion is about the crooked tooth essay, but does it really matter what a spleen thinks?  I mean, sure, the spleen is in there chuggin’ away day after day, but don’t you get the feeling it’s just performing busy work?  If my spleen went away tomorrow, I doubt I’d even notice. No offense to my spleen, of course.

My Stomach

Oddly – even though my stomach is the most demanding organ in my body – it could care less about my crooked tooth. But it’s a self-centered little thing that just sits there waiting for the world to come to it.  In fact, sometimes my stomach makes me sick.

My Liver

My liver doesn’t have time to even have an opinion about anything as it’s been backed up with work since the 70′s and I hate to bother it with trivial matters.

My Kidneys

Well, they’re just a couple of snooty twins who think they’re god’s gift just because they are always in such high demand transplant-wise.  I’m sure they disapprove of my poking fun at any parts of the body that they are affiliated with. I have a good mind to tell them they’re just a couple of glorified garbage sifters, and knock them off their high horses!

My Appendix

My poor pathetic appendix.  How can you have any respect for the opinion of an organ whose sole purpose is to sit there and be quiet in case anybody wants to remove it.    I assure you,  if I could think of some way to boost the self-esteem of my appendix, I would.  But until people start needing appendix transplants, my lowly appendix’s opinion about anything is totally inconsequential – sorry to say.

In Conclusion

I’d have to say that perhaps my brain, Peanuts, isn’t so dumb.  After taking the above survey, it seems Peanuts threw itself over a grenade in the form of a crooked-tooth essay that would have done serious damage to the self-esteem of most of my internal organs had it been published.

It’s funny the way life turns out sometimes.  Isn’t it?

Until next time . . . I love you

Things I Learned as a Waitress

Things I Learned as a Waitress

I learned that when you carry drinks on a tray, you won’t spill them if you don’t look at the liquid.

I learned that it is possible to poke your head in the refrigerator under the pretense of looking for a bottle of ketchup and eat a big piece of cheesecake without anyone being the wiser.

I learned that it is possible to make enough money in tips to pay your light bill in quarters.

I learned that you should be a little suspicious when the temporary waitress who was hired to help out on Christmas day rushes to clear off all your tables and is as surprised as you are that not one single person left a tip.

I learned that if a customer gets so frustrated with you that he gets up out of his chair and shakes you, you can be pretty sure he won’t be leaving a tips. 

I learned that when you spill an entire plate of food on the birthday girl’s dress, you should offer to pay to have it dry-cleaned or shoot yourself in the head — whichever they would prefer. 

And finally, I learned that some restaurant managers will sneak into the lounge at 8:00 in the morning and go behind the bar and take the liquor nozzle and spray it directly into their mouths and then wander around muttering incoherently while wearing a brown curly wig until the police come and take them away.

Until next time . .  I love you

Me, My Higher Self, and I

I used to Cry at the Drop of a Hat . . . now I cry at the drop of a hat providing I know which hat and who dropped it.

I realized recently, that I hardly ever cry anymore. When I was younger, I was a big crybaby.  I’d cry if I got my feelings hurt, and I’d cry when I was mad.   I’d cry when I didn’t get my way, and I’d cry when things didn’t turn out like I expected.

I cried so much I could have gotten part-time employment as a water fountain.  I wasn’t depressed, as such.  I was simply someone who believed that every single thought I had was the God’s Honest Truth.  Now, however, I’m much more selective about crying because I’m much more selective about the thoughts I believe.

My Ego on Autopilot

Look Ma! No Hands!

Now that I’m older and more mature, I’ve noticed the only time I really feel like crying is when I’m thinking of some unpleasant thing from the past, or I’m imagining some story that makes me worried about the future.

My ego is a master at churning out stories that have no existence in reality.  My Ego loves to sneak in this kind of activity when my Higher Self isn’t observing what I’m thinking about. HA! But now I’m on to my rascally ego! My ego is a typical ego that can be pretty tricky when it comes to thinking up worst-case and sad stories. Sometimes even tricking me into crying about them before being detected by my higher self.

I’ve got to admit, though, I have been practicing and am getting better at making the present moment my primary focus.  And when I can successfully focus on the present moment even for a little bit, my life becomes smooth and seamless and moments unfold naturally into the future, with no muss, no fuss and very little crying!

Living in a 24/7/365 World of Now 

No-thing exists except for the “Now” thing. So resistance is futile. Oh sure, I can try to resist living in the present moment all I want; but no matter what I do, it’s still going to be Now. So I might as well give up and start paying attention to it.

Let’s face it, my life is going to go by no matter what I’m paying attention to. But why should I allow a Run Amok Ego throwing out false scenarios divert me from the only thing that truly exists.  That which is occurring RIGHT NOW?

The Present Moment is the Pot of Gold at the End of the Rainbow of Time. 

Oh, sure, sometimes what’s going on right Now can be little boring, and sometimes I might even have to cry about it.  But mostly, I find that it’s 85 percent satisfaction with a 15 percent chance of joy. Provided, of course, that I remember to pay attention.

Until next time . . . I love you

Clip Clopping Down Memory Lane

In Third Grade, Nothing Worth Mentioning Had Been Invented Yet

Today I had to google how to get the number “6″ from appearing when pushing the letter ”o” key on my Zagg/mate keypad for my Ipad.

Now this got me to thinking.  If my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Buoy, would have read the above sentence to us back in 1962, I would have thought she was speaking to us in another language. (If I would have been listening, that is.)

Turns Out Mrs. Buoy Was Not Full of Hooey

I guess I thought of Mrs. Buoy (whom I loved like a grandmother) because she was definitely a person ahead of her time. I’ll never forget her saying that most of us would  be working in careers some day that hadn’t even been invented yet.  And she was right!  Unfortunately, that’s about the only thing I can remember about third grade. Aside from the fact that I loved Mrs. Buoy.

That’s because third-grade was the year I became a Horseback Riding Junky.

My Spiral into Addiction

It all began innocently enough with an overnight stay at Ann Payne’s house where I experienced my first ride on a horse named Sweetie.  One time around the pasture and I was hooked. From that moment forward, I HAD to have a horse of my own, even if I had to beg borrow or steal. (In the end I chose the latter, but more on that in a minute.)

Anyway, after that my life was reduced to a series of horse-related activities including drawing horses, dreaming of horses, staring at horses and being jealous of kids who had horses.

This is a perfect example of the horses I drew in third grade. I say perfect example because, as you can see,  I don’t draw any better now than I did in third grade.

Festering Pestering

I began my quest to get a horse by suggesting to my parents that perhaps they should buy me one.  When that fell on deaf ears, I stepped it up to logical reasoning, followed by persistent pleading; until finally I was reduced to relentless begging.

Then, a Possible Breakthrough!

One evening, I thought I had my mother convinced.  I was begging for a horse, as usual, when she finally said, “Why don’t you go to bed, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow!

TALK ABOUT IT TOMORROW!! I couldn’t believe my ears!   Suddenly, I had gone from no chance at all to a legitimate snowball’s chance in hell. I was elated, and I went to bed that night dreaming of a 35-year-old nag named, Prince, who was for sale for fifty bucks.

A Bitter Setback

Sadly, the next day, when I found out that I merely was “over hoping,”  I packed my yellow shortie pajamas into a 45-record record case and threw it out the window in a short-lived plan to runaway from home. (I forgot about it until the following summer when my Dad found it in the bushes beneath my window while he was mowing the lawn.)

A Happy – Even Though It Took Long Enough! – Ending

Nevertheless, I am happy to report that my dream of horse ownership finally did come true! I finally got my horse!  Oh sure, it took from third grade until I was 50. But better late than never I always say.

Joey a.k.a. Sedintariat

And a beautiful treasure he is too!

Until next time . . . I love you

Rewriting the Story of My Life

Hello my fine feathered whippersnappers!  Lately I’ve been bingeing on pre-20^th century English movies and have decided that the story of my life just won’t do.  And so I have decided to change it thusly:

Linda Vernon was born Linda Cathleen Carlotta Loretta Pansy Rose Petunia Hollandaise Sauce sometime in March or April around or near the Year of Our Lord 1536(ish).  Linda (who went by the nickname of Linda) suffered early psychological trauma  due to the fact that she was told by her parents that she was the youngest of 14 children, but later found out that she was instead  the oldest of 14 children (quite by accident). Plus the fact that her mother died in childbirth from consumption vexed her greatly.

This so upset young Linda that she became a recluse.  She took all her meals in her room and refused to come out even on Reformation Day.  Many people thought this is where she honed her writing, but once, when she left her room momentarily, her family rushed in to read what she had written but found only the largest collection of sharpened pencils in the Moors.

It wasn’t until her pet leopard died of consumption that she roused herself out of her pencil sharpening stupor and made her debut in the village of which the family estate was located next to.  Unfortunately all the villagers had just that morning died of consumption.

Linda was briefly engaged in the position of Chief Wig Powderer at Drowning Downs Hall until Lord Drowning drowned down the hall when a careless servant left the window open during an unseasonable monsoon season. Lord Drowning’s wife (or mistress–they were never sure which) died later that afternoon of consumption.

"Love your wig! Who powdered it?"

This left Linda quite shilling less.  She packed her pencil collection in her trunk and summoned a chaise and four to take her to London where she planned to obtain a position as a governess.  She waved goodbye to her family from the Barouche Box in which she rode, but they didn’t wave back having all succumbed to consumption moments earlier.

Soon after she arrived in London her destiny took a little turn when she was hobbling over the cobblestones and  got the toe of her foot stuck betwixt a cobble and a stone which caused her to fall down in front of polite society.  Indeed, her reputation was completely ruined to the extent that no one would have anything to do with her except for people who pronounced governor “overnor”.

Undaunted because she was a feisty, independent woman who didn’t care what polite society or even rude society thought of her, she managed to obtain a position as a seamstress for the Duchess of Pid.

The Duchess of Pid with Her Kid

She saved up her money and later bought Drowning Downs Hall. She was also able to revive Lord Drowning somehow by drawing on her feisty independence.  When someone asked her how she managed to revive a man who drowned none too recently, she scribbled down the instructions which were later published by Snussington, Hughhee and Flebberhower-hower, Inc. and the book enjoyed worldwide success until she keeled over into her porridge from consumption.

Her last words were believed to be:  “If I’m not famous after I die, shoot me.”  Which was weird because she is still alive to this day.

Until next time, I love you . . . .

Turning 59 . . .

First, thank you for taking the time to come here.  My goal is to make it worth your while.   So without further adieu . . .

Today is my 59th Birthday, and I ran across this apropos quote by Dr. Suess which really says it all about turning any age:

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”

So with those words to lean on, and it being my birthday and all, I guess it’s as good a time as any (or maybe even a better time than any) to launch this new blog, lindavernon.wordpress.com — where I’m going to be honest and true to myself.  This is the blog to find my voice and to voice what I’m thinking.  Perhaps it will be little more than a recepticle for “Brain Slosh” but at least it will be my very own, honest brain slosh.  Right now, I feel a little like a public speaker with an audience of none.

That’s ok.  I’ll build my courage as I build momentum.  Before you know it I’ll be blabbing about all kinds of things and there’ll be no shutting me up.  When my kids were little, they had a little friend over who talked my ear off.  Even at the tender age of 3, she was apparently aware of her propensity to chatter.  After talking for about an hour straight she finally said, “Why don’t you give me a cookie, that’ll shut me up.”  So just for future reference. . . my favorite cookie is chocolate chip.

These are the things I have come to terms with concerning turning 59:

Turning 59 is alittle worse than turning 58 and a little better than turning 60.

You’re only as old as you look and you probably look 59.

You’re only hope now is that you’re a late bloomer.

You might be getting more wrinkles, but at least  . . . uh . . . well I’ll get back to you on this one.

If you say you’re 59 years young, you’re only drawing attention to the fact that you’re 59 years OLD – because nobody is buying that. “years young”  hooey.

If you live to be a hundred you still have more years ahead of you than behind you . . . no wait a minute . . . nevermind.

At least by the time you’re 59, you know how to adjust your head for photos to minimize your double chin – unless you don’t have a double-chin in which case oh shut up.

Once you’ve reached 59, everyday is a new beginning (of the end).

And so it goes for my very first post into this new realm of reality in the form of virtual-ness.  Stay tuned tomorrow where I will be thinking up a nickname for my brain.

Until then . . . I love you.