Welcome to my world!

My life's been crazy since my Daddy moved in with me immediately after my mother's death in October 2010. My one and only kiddo headed to college at Carolina at the end of August. So...I lived on my own, for the first time in my life, for a total of a blissful six weeks. Then, I started the parenting gig with my dad. He's a combination of a grouchy old man, a surly teenager and a temperamental toddler. Needless to say, I get very close to the brink of insanity sometimes. I get through life by finding the humor in difficult circumstances. And for some reason, I wind up in the weirdest situations. I couldn't make this stuff up. So I wind up having lots and lots crazy adventures which make great stories to share with my friends. Writing about my life is so therapeutic. My ramblings range from funny to sad to angry (full of cuss words) to sweet. While my focus is dealing with the trials and tribulations of being a parent to my Daddy, I have lots of random, totally unrelated posts. Whatever's on my mind. I love to make people laugh, and I'm happy to think my readers will get my strange sense of humor. And maybe, people who are in my situation will be encouraged. That's all I can hope for...

Saturday, September 29, 2012

One Word

One of my favorite questions, when I'm getting to know a new friend, is, "If you had to choose one word to describe yourself, what would it be?"  I've thought about it lots, and "mercurial" is usually how I describe myself.  But that can change, depending on my mood.

I've chosen a new one.  For now.  "Picaresque."  Dontcha just love to add "esque" to the end of words?  It makes anything sound smart.  For example, instead of saying, "He's a big old redneck,"if you say, "Oh, my.  He's quite Hillbillyesque." you sound like a scientist observing a lab rat instead of like a snobbish person whose mantra starts with "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

The best one, though, is "Kafkaesque."  I think that describes me perfectly.  Actually, combine "Picaresque" and "Kafkaesque," and you have me. 

Don't you just love words?

Ok.  If you notice a change in my writing style, I must find it incumbent to tell you about the catalyst.  Ignatius J. Reilley.  Here's one of my favorite quotes:

“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

I decided to read this book again, after a long, fallow period, during which the extent of my literary pursuits was limited to Cosmopolitan and Better Homes & Gardens magazines.  With the occasional Oprah thrown in for good measure. 

I was pleased to remember how hilarious it was.  Laugh-out-loud-esque, in fact!

I so identified with Ignatius.  There are a myriad of ways, but I'll describe only one, for now.

I started a silly, little, quasi-job today.  After five grueling hours, I was hobbling on my swollen feet.  I was too exhausted to assume a Samuel-Gompers-esque role among my fellow, down-trodden, indentured servants.  The inferior lunch I inhaled during my nine and one half minutes (I had to allow thirty seconds to walk to the break room and back) cost me precisely 45 minutes of hard labor, after taxes.  If I had deigned to purchase any of the products I was hawking, I would have been better off staying home, playing Words with Friends, and watching Toddlers-and-Tiaras-marathons.  I have GOT to catch that Honey-Boo-Boo sensation.  I feel like a pariah, pretending to appreciate the latest rage.

Speaking of pretending...  After three hours and twenty-three minutes at my daring new endeavor, I decided to employ some mercenary-esque techniques.  In an attempt to extol the virtues of my most exhorbitantly expensive elixer, I devised a dishonest deception regarding said potion.  In a trembling attempt at tempting potential patrons to partake of my products, I proudly proclaimed that I was 77 years old.  And that I'd discovered the fountain of youth in the form of a 0.025 ounce jar of serum (that sounds more valuable than "cream.")  And that since I'd started this beauty regimen, I'd been told by my numerous new admirers that I didn't look a day over 67.  I said this with a straight face.

Since I'm only 51, I hoped this yarn would provide enough margin of error to prevent any embarrassing intercourse.  Fortunately, none of my potential patrons believed me.  Unfortunately, I struggled with assessing the ages of the lovely ladies I so assiduously assaulted with my apologue.

Well, like IJR, I'm exhausted after an extremely stressful spell of struggling in a sweatshop, selling scents.  And like him, I adore alliteration.

Wow.  I'm worn out.  Wiped out.  Worthless.

Exhaustedly yours,

Elizabeth (my new nom de plume)

Thursday, September 27, 2012


After a train wreck of a day yesterday, I've decided to look for relief in the form of humor.  Joe Biden immediately came to mind.  If you need a laugh, do this Google search:  Biden+buffoon+gaffes.  What I didn't realize before my in-depth research, though, was that he's from Scranton.  Think Michael Scott.  The Office.  'Nuf said.  Which made me think of HBO's hilarious series.  Veep.  Watch it.  It's worth whatever the hell Comcast charges.  Especially since you can get Newsroom, too.

If you're in desperate need of a laugh, and you can handle a little good-natured ribbing from a member of the IDGAF party, take a look at the following link.  I have to issue a disclaimer, though.  I cannot attest to the veracity of any of this.  Still, SNL couldn't make it any funnier.


So, if you play Dan Quayle and Sarah Palin, I'll ante up with  Bumblin' Biden and raise you Aaron Burr...

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

One more thing...

I hate the electoral college.  The stupid commercials.  Halloween. 

I know, this is nonsense, but lately, that's my life.  I tried to care, to make a difference.  But I've lost my ability to adapt.  Beat of a different drummer. 

Here's the philosopy I'll cling to... for now:

In a cruel and evil world, being cynical can allow you to get some entertainment out of it.
After all, you have to laugh to keep from crying.

Exercise in Futility...

I try to make a difference.  I give up.

There's nothing more to say.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Taking a Break

I'm overdue.  This weekend, I haven't left the house.  Beyond the yard.  I've gone to bed before 9:00.  The bad thing about that is waking up at 11:53 and being very confused.  That's p.m.  I've had a few complicating factors, including night sweats and bad dreams.  I can't remember the one that woke me last night, but it seems like it involved a villian tackling and clawing me, and wielding some sort of lethal weapon.  I think I've watched too much Damages on my Kindle.  I've switched to Parks and Recreation and Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.  Neither is violent, but both are inane.  They're wearing thin.  Especially since Newsroom is exactly the same as S60SS.  West Wing, too.  The common denominator is Aaron Sorkin.  Aaron, I'm all about recycling, but seriously...  And then there's his subversive agenda.  Since I love Newsroom (I'm developing a major crush on Jeff Daniels, in spite of his being an asshole in my favorite movie of all time, Terms of Endearment), the other two can't compare.

And I just can't suspend my disbelief when it comes to Bradley Whitford and Matthew Perry hooking up with all those hot, smart women.  Seriously, why would Monica fall for Chandler?  When she could've had Magnum P.I.?  Don't even get me started on Monica and Ross.  Give me George Costanza any day.  Or Kramer.  No, that's just crazy talk.

In case I come across as an idiot, I should mention that I'm caught up on Downton Abbey.  I'd feel cultured if it weren't so formulaic.  (Spoiler alert...)  How convenient that Matthew's fiancee (think Melanie in Gone With the Wind) died right before their wedding, when he really wanted Lady Mary.  Because she dumped Sir Richard.  Then there's the Romeo and Juliet story line.  Well, maybe more Love Story.  Lady Sybil runs off with the chauffer.  Much to her parents' chagrin. 

Then there's the Desperate Housewives story line.  Cora Crawley, the Countess of Grantham, with a change of life pregnancy.  Think Lynette.

I could go on and on.  But I won't.  Reality calls.  Laundry.  Dirty dishes.  Tax returns.  Trying to eradicate dog pee stains on this horrid carpet.  I'm on the verge of ripping it out and walking around on plywood.  I could pour that self-leveling concrete on it.  Wonder it that would look like industrial chic?  Which could be convenient.  I could take a sledge hammer to those awful popcorn ceilings.  Wonder if there's asbestos?  My house was built in 1971.  I think it's suspect.  But Mesothelioma might be the lesser evil.  Especially since, according to the million commercials I hear when I hang with The Daddler, I might get a windfall.  I could also do a reverse mortgage.  While I'm at it, I might as well get a Cash-for-Title loan.  And have my tax return prepared by Mo Money Taxes.

I should stop.  This is  crazy.  I'm just keepin' it real, though.  And reality bites...

Monday, September 17, 2012

When it rains...

...it leaks.  The ceiling fan in my kitchen starts dripping.  I've tried before to find the source in the attic, to no avail.  After a little detective work this morning, I finally figured it out.  I found a very small wet spot on the attic floor.  Nothing dripping from the ceiling, though.  I put a plastic bin over the wet spot and waited.  A drip appeared.  Right under the exhaust pipe for the water heater.  I felt around the pipe, but it wasn't wet.  So I got very ingenious and stood my flashlight on end over the drip so it was pointing directly up, and I saw that the flashing was wet around the pipe was wet.

I've already had the slipshod roofer come once.  It was like pulling teeth to get him to show.  He kept saying he'd be here, but didn't show up and wouldn't return some of my calls.  The last time I called, I was very irate and threating.  He finally arrived.  Climbed up on the roof, reported that it was the flashing, which he didn't have anything to do with.  How the hell did he replace the roof but not the flashing around the exhaust pipe?  He said he'd fix it anyway, just to be nice.  Obviously, he didn't fix it. 

So I called the company which replaced my HVAC system this summer.  I'm waiting for them to call me back.  I know they'll be able to repair it, once and for all.

When my week starts out like this, I'm reminded of the song by The Carpenters: Rainy days and Mondays (always get me down.)

More unpleasantness awaits me.  Tax returns.  The extended deadline is less than a month away.  Ugh.  Better get busy.

Over and out...

Monday, September 10, 2012

Olive Loaf

The Daddler is eating it at this very moment.  I just got back from the grocery store.  He likes variety in his meals (refuses to eat leftovers), so when I spotted the OL, I decided to chance it.  I should've gotten some potted meat and Vienna sausages while I was at it.  This is a reflection of my humble upbringing, but I used to take all of the above in a brown paper sack for my school lunch.  My favorite, though, was tuna salad.  I actually liked it better at locker temperature.  With soggy white bread (whole wheat hadn't been invented back then.)  And Charles Chips, which were delivered weekly in garbage-can sized tins. 

In the good ole days, we hadn't even heard of Salmonella or E Coli.  Our biggest health risks were pinworms and catching our toes (we went barefoot) in the bicycle spokes.  Never mind about bicycle helmets or hand sanitizer or full-contact football in the front yard, sans helmets or pads (I held my own against my beloved brother - I think I might've been a tomboy).  Or seat belts, for that matter.  Our mom's arm shot out quicker than any airbag to keep us from flying through the windshield.  We were on our own in the back seat, though.  I wound up on the floor more than once.  I remember landing on a loaf of bread one time. 

Speaking of sliding off the back seat, that happened to me once in a NYC cab.  The lack of seatbelts in The City in 1990 was reminiscent of the mid-sixties.  So nostalgic.

Those were the days...

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Non-Stop Weekend

In addition to my newly burgeoning social life, I made the mistake of offering to help a friend (gratis) with her silver jewelry booth at the Germantown Festival.  That resulted in my spending Friday morning moving bunches of big, very heavy boxes in sweltering heat.  Around the time we finished, one of the festival officials announced the dire weather forecast.  Big storm coming.  60 mph winds.  Wow.  Not a great thing for a pop-up canopy made of aluminum and canvas.  Then there was the fact that we were in a suburb of Memphis, which unfortunately is crime-ridden.  Even with a police patrol, I convinced my proprietor friend (who's from a small town in Kentucky) not to leave valuable, portable (therefore theft-prone) jewelry out for the taking.  We're not in Kansas any more.

Sooo, we loaded the heavy boxes back into her extended length cargo van.  Needless to say, I was dripping sweat and verged on pulling the muscles in my lower back.  We considered spending the night (a la the Memphis in May Barbeque Festival) to guard the inventory, but thought better of it.  Instead, we decided to get there at 5:00 A.M. the next day.  Believe it or not, we scurried to finish setting up for the opening at 9:30.  The plus is that it was much cooler.  The down side, though, was the rain (albeit light) and wind gusts.

Once more, unloading heavy boxes.  Rolling up the sides of the canopy.  For the life of me, I couldn't manage the stretchy cords to secure them.  I gave up after getting popped in the forehead with the big plastic bead on the end of the loop.  It left a mark.  I bled, even.  My friend was a maniac.

Now, take into account the fact that I didn't go to bed until 12:30 that morning, so I only got four hours' sleep. I was on my feet until 2:00 when my buddy Rich showed up to rescue me.  We walked over to the arena to watch the Running of the Weenies.  A Dachshund race.  So cute.  I tried to get Rich to make a wager to make it more interesting, but we pretty much agreed on which dogs would win, so we didn't bet.  I swear, I think some of those masters/mistresses were guilty of blood-doping and/or administering steriods to their pooches.

Then I decided that I was done for the day (see comment re my lack of compensation above).  By then it was 4:00.  And I had to get home and get ready by 6:00 for my next outing.  It took me at least 30 minutes to wind my way out of the extremely congested traffic.  Including my near accident involving a close call involving a too-wide left turn on a narrow road with no shoulder and an adjacent deep ditch (next to the railroad tracks, no less.)  It scared the crap out of me, which wasn't a bad thing.  If not for the surge of adrenalin, I'm not sure I would've made it home in my extremely sleep-deprived, physically exhausted state.

When I finally got home, I decided that I need to stay vertical so I wouldn't fall asleep and stand up my suitor.  Especially since I'd already slept through (and stood up) my first planned get-together with this guy.  I have no idea why he persisted.

We went to a concert at the Levitt Shell.  It was really great.  The weather was so nice and cool We took a picnic blanket and lawn chairs.  My girl JoJo was there with her main squeeze.  I set off to find her and the bathroom.  I wound up rescuing not one, but two lost little girls (what is up with these parents?).  I found Jo and her man and his sweet little four-year old daugher.  He had the most incredible hair.  I couldn't help myself from running my fingers through said hair and inquired about his use of "products."  He was sweet and indulgent.  After my visit, I made a pre-emptive visit to the loo.  On my way back to home-base, Bella (the four-year old) saw me and almost tackled me.  She reminded me of Gabby's and Carlos' chunky little girl.

I have no sense of time, and it turned out that I was AWOL from the forebearing guy for 45 minutes or so.  But hey, at least I didn't stand him up.  And I stayed awake.  For most of the night.  I think I dozed off on the picnic blanket for a few minutes.

Ok, this is enough about that.  I need to figure out how to handle the festival gig today.  I've decide that I'm going to beg off for the set-up and sales duty.  I'll offer, however to get there toward the end and help pack up the freight.  What's she gonna do?  But I did make a commitment.

Fortunately, I slept like the dead last night.  Which is great, because I have lots of catching up to do around my house.  I'm gonna go make The D a good lunch.  Take Lucy out.  Play Words With Friends and read emails.

Over and out...

Friday, September 7, 2012


I'm conflicted about how much to reveal here.  But for some reason, I feel the need to come clean.  I don't want this to turn into a dating blog (that's been done, ad nauseum), but the truth is, I'm "out there."  After a year and a half of pining away for FF (he is 550 miles away), I decided it was time to move on.  Actually, he decided to move on.  Which is cool.  He's the lawyer (I should've known better), but I had to give him the third degree about his sudden indifference.  Sure 'nuf, it was a local hussy (out of sight, out of mind).  Which was good.  I didn't feel rejected.  Love the one you're with, and all that crap.

He's smart and funny, talented and extremely witty.  He challenges me.  Plus, his parents like me - major plus.  I guess.  I think he worries about that.  He told me once that he's an open person.  I laughed.  A belly laugh.  I might've even pooted.  That's the true test.

Ok, since I'm out there, I have plans tonight.  Saturday, too.  I'm looking forward to tonight, but I have mixed feelings about tomorrow.  Tonight is 1st date, tomorrow is 2nd with a different guy.  I thought I'd ditched him, but he was persistent, and I believe in second chances, so I acquiesced.  After I demanded an apology for his poor manners.  He seems penitant.  He complied.  And agreed to my conditions.

Well, I just looked at the time.  I have a little more than an hour before I need to vamoose.  And lots to do in the meantime.  The Daddler's been fed, thank heavens.  I've already figured out my outfit (no small feat.)  So really, I should be fine.

Hopefully, tonight will be fun.  I hope I can remember his name, refrain from interrogating him and yawning (sleepless night).  I'll do my best not to poot or snort my drink if he makes me laugh.  Again, no small feat.

Better run.  Lots to do.

Over and out....

Thursday, September 6, 2012


...all's well that ends well.  The problem is that we never know the end.  That reminds me of the time, in college, when I went to a university theater production.  A former, esteemed professor had written the play.  I suffered through the first act.  Resisted leaving during intermission.  And breathed a sigh of relief when the second act ended.  Headed back to my lowly slum/dorm.

The next day, in the Helmsman (campus newspaper), I read the review.  Turns out, there were THREE acts.  Wow.  Was I the only one who hightailed it out of there after way too long?  Apparently, the playwright had delusions of Wagner.  Or Chekhov.

That reminds me of another university play.  Clockwork Orange.  Weird, violent story.  The strange thing is that I don't think I received extra credit for either of these excuses for a play.  I should've, though, particularly after I saw the giant/rapist from CO walking down Patteson on my way to Econ 102.  I ducked into the Catholic Student Center to avoid him.  Talk about a fish out of water.

Dadgumit.  I was so naive.  Innocent, even.  I could write a thousand blog posts about that.  But it's totally irrelevant now.

Gotta run.  It's almost time for The D's din-din.  Duty calls...

Wednesday, September 5, 2012


I love it.  A couple hours or so ago, I decided to rearrange the furniture in my den.  For the second time in a week.  I also had the brilliant idea of moving the TV from an awkward spot in the corner on a TV stand I've had 25 years, to the built-in bookshelves.  The shelves are adjustable, and I spent considerable time with the yardstick and the brackets to the shelves and dusting said shelves.  Unplugging so many cords from TV and cable box, and power strip.  No small feat.  Moved 2 shelves multiple times and lifted big-ass TV to upper shelf.  Cable box to bottom shelf.  It took me a good 55 minutes to figure out the bazillion cords and cables and menus and settings and sources and reboots...

I was about to give up, but miraculously, I prevailed.  Damn, I'm good.  I have to admit, though, that I needed a friend with a Y chromosome to help me find the filters in my new HVAC systems. 

It's been a crazy few weeks (which is why I haven't been blogging lately), but things are looking up.  I've been in great demand, on several levels.  A part-time gig.  A weekend project.  A couple social outings this weekend.  Wow. 

I don't want to elaborate, but FF has transitioned from Future Fiancee to Former Fiancee.  I'm cool with that.  And I'm happy to report that after a few ugly, painful communiques, we reached a detente.  Agreed to be friends.  But Words With Friends Foes.  He seems to think that my victories in that arena are flukes.  A result of luck.  Not related at all to skill.  Which makes me want to master chess.  No luck involved there.  I have a feeling I could whoop his ass after a few games.  But I have to give him credit, competing with him makes me better.  Because, if nothing else, I'm competitive.  That's the only reason I passed the CPA exam the first time.  But that's another post.  Not to boast, but back in the day, I was in the elite 6%.  My employer rewarded me with a lovely gold Cross pen and pencil set.  With their logo emblazoned on it.  Needless to say, that made it all worthwhile.

On that note, I'm heading to the pool with my girl JoJo.  My BFF's pool - five doors down.  It's been a day.  It'll be nice to let my hair down and float on a blow up raft.  Especially since it's 105 degrees, with the heat index.

Gotta love Mempho.  Global warming.  And friends with benefits.  Such as pools, hot tubs, a fully stocked fridge.  All within a tenth of a mile.  Life is good...