Hello Dear Readers! I love Thanksgiving! It’s one of my favorite holidays. Every year I cook for my family and every year I look forward to it with great pleasure. Maybe a little too much pleasure. That’s why I’ve come up with this list of warning signs on how to tell if you are going to overdo Thanksgiving.
How to Tell if You’re Going to Overdo Thanksgiving
You’ve replaced the phrase “I love you” with the phrase “Olive you”.
You just got back from Potato Mashing Immersion Camp.
You’ve instructed your surgeon to break ground on that new stomach addition.
In preparation for the big feast, you’ve managed to diet down to a size bite.
Even if you were to carry out pi to a million decimals, all forms of pi will be polished off by Friday.
You’ve taken to sleeping on a pillow of mini marshmallows.
Thanks to you and your voluminous Yam Stockpile the earth will be taking 6 days longer to orbit the sun.
You made an appointment with your dentist to get your teeth sharpened.
Your new gravy boat sleeps six.
Your husband, Tom, is slightly worried about you because his name is Bill.
You’ve been preheating your oven since the 4th of July.
You refuse to read, watch or listen to anything that isn’t about Jello.
And the most obvious way to tell if you’re going to overdo Thanksgiving:
Your appendix has been officially called back into active duty for the stomach reserves.
Dear Readers Welcome! I am happy to report I actually made it home safely from my road trip on the freeways of this great state of California, the longest state in our great nation, mind you, — where I spent four wonderful days visiting my daughter Jackie, her husband, Tyler, and my new grandson, Henry.
Peanuts gets worried
Of course, driving there, Dear Readers, took a tad bit longer than it should have due to the fact that I had to go 45 minutes at 40 mph before I could get my nerve up to pass a semi that seemed to my brain, Peanuts, anyway that it was driving recklessly.
The Menace of Rest Stop Pigs
Of course, my brain, Peanuts, the crazy story maker upper, had the truck driver pegged as a legally-blind, drunken serial killer/truck driver on crack who was texting his friend waiting at the rest stop up ahead to see if there were any Little Old Lady Granny-Types, such as myself, that he could murder and chop up into a million little pieces and feed to the pigs.
I know it’s a preposterous thought, Dear Readers, I have to laugh actually, because I’ve never seen any pigs at rest stops.
Restrooms, Restrooms Everywhere and Not a One to Use
Still, I didn’t stop even though I needed to use the restroom. I decided, instead, to stop somewhere in King City which the sign said was only 27 miles away.
It was at that point I entered the Twilight zone where the forward motion of my car was just an illusion wherein an evil force was pulling the road underneath me like a treadmill and causing me to quit making any forward progress. Here’s what the road signs kept saying:
27 miles to King City
45 minutes later:
11 miles to king City
40 minutes later:
3 miles to King City
a half an hour later:
You just passed King City
Carl Jr. Saves Me From Kidnapping Gypsies
I’m happy to report, however, that I finally found an easy exit with a Carl Jr’s to stop at. I pulled in to park and just then a white van pulled up next to me, the doors flew open and lo and behold!
It was chalk-full of gypsies!
Peanuts assumed this because the women were wearing long black dresses with gold bric-a-brac sewn to them accessorized by lots of dangling gold jewelry.
And they were clearly speaking a language that sounded very much like not English!
My Last Meal Pro-active-ness
As I was walking into Carl Jr., the gypsy driving the van and his cohort got out and stood next to my car. I heard them chatting about something and even though I couldn’t understand what they were saying, Peanuts thought whatever it was had a definite “untoward” ring to it.
My brain, Peanuts, started making up a story about how they were a roving band of gypsies, tramps and thieves — as the lyrics to the Cher’s song, Gypsies, Tramps and Thievess is the only thing Peanuts knows about gypsies.
Peanuts started thinking that maybe the Gypsies were in cahoots with the crack truck driver/serial killer, and that they were out looking for Little Old Lady Granny-Types , such as myself, and well . . . . well, never mind about the “well.”
The Final Gulp
So when I got into Carl Jr.s and looked back to see them still standing by my car — even though I wasn’t the least bit hungry — I went ahead and ordered the Orange Cream Hand-Scooped Milkshake because I thought it would be a fitting last meal.
If one were forced to eat one’s last meal at Carl Jr., that is.
The One-Piece Arrival
Anyway, Dear Readers, you’ll be happy to know that in the end I made it home safely.
And I must say! I’ve got a new lease on life! After all, it’s not everyday, one is spared from death by not being kidnapped by Gypsies and cut up into a million little pieces by a legally-blind, drunken serial killer/truck driver on crack and fed to rest stop pigs!
Proving once again, Dear Readers, that it truly is the little things that make life worth living.
If you are traveling in state of California on freeway 101 today, anywhere between San Francisco and Los Angeles going north or south, east or west BEWARE!
Traffic may be unusually slow, possibly backed up for hours due to a Little Old Lady Granny Driver operating under the often misguided direction of her brain, Peanuts, who is going on a road trip to visit her daughter, Jackie’s family and her new grandson, Henry!
Be on the look out for and steer clear of the following:
Any woman who looks old enough to receive AARP and pre-paid cremation opportunities in her junk mail — and who is traveling south (God willing, but possibly north if her brain, Peanuts, freaks and takes the wrong exit) in a little blue car with a bumper sticker that says: What Happens at Grandmas, Stays at Grandmas.
Should you be unlucky enough to come up behind Granny, tailgate at your own risk — as she will turn on her windshield cleaner spray (she’s not as nice as she looks) and pretend for all the world like she is simply getting the bugs off her windshield, but in reality is passively aggressively getting your windshield wet on purpose in an attempt to punish you for not driving as safely as she thinks you should.
Should she suddenly slam on her brakes in the middle of the freeway, do not be alarmed, there is nothing wrong with granny’s car, it will simply mean she was listening to a CD of Herb Albert and the Tijuana brass and her brain, Peanuts, mistook one of trumpet solos for the horn of an alarmed motorist.
Granny will no doubt be traveling in the slow lane, wedged between two trucks — either because she is too afraid to change lanes or because she is pretending she is in a convoy again. Probably both.
If you should see this woman driving around the mean streets of some drug n’ thug neighborhood in any town between San Francisco and Los Angeles, it will not mean that Granny is trying to “score” some illegal substances. It will simply mean that, once again, her brain, Peanuts, picked the worst possible exit to try to find a restroom.
Four or five hours into the trip you may see granny pulled over to the side of the road being issued a speeding ticket. This will mean her brain, Peanuts, finally became so desensitized and bored with driving on the freeway that her brain, Peanuts, only noticed the number 88 on her speedometer when she saw the flashing red light tailgating her.
Let’s just hope and pray her brain, Peanuts, had enough sense not to turn on the windshield cleaner spray!
Welcome Dear Readers! This weekend’s 33-word Trifecta Writing Challenge is as follows: Give us a thirty-three word piece that has a color in it. Use the color to describe anything you like, or use anything you like to describe your color, but keep it creative and keep it short.
I chose this colorful picture of my grandson, Clayton, to write about today.
Hello Dear Readers! Well as you can see there’s been some excitement around here. My new little grandson Henry William began his new life out in the real world on Saturday night after a long, leisurely road trip through BC (Birth Canal).
Henry Took the Scenic Route
On his way through BC, Henry chose to dilly dally, making frequent stops along the way for snacks and pictures, then taking a nap or two — completely oblivious to the fact that there was a room of people anxiously awaiting his arrival. Finally at long last, somebody just went and got the scissors and showed Henry the ol’ Cesarean Shortcut.
And, frankly, I was a little surprised when Henry wasn’t born with a miniature camera around his neck, clutching a tiny road map in his fingers and wearing a teeny tourist t-shirt that said something like “I just came through the birth canal and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”
Having a Baby Can Take a Lot Out of You
My daughter, Jackie, was a trooper through the entire 23 hours of back labor, front labor and sideways labor. But not to worry. She had a mid-wife who was there to help her!
The mid-wife, whose name was . . . well, let’s just call her . . . oh I don’t know . . . I’m just picking a name at random here — let’s just call her Salisbury Steak.
Salisbury Steak,just for the record, Dear Readers, was about 40 years old and in those 40 years, had somehow managed to learn every bit of information a person could possibly learn with the possible exception of Albert Einstein and even he didn’t know as much about birthin’ babies as Salisbury Steak!
Add to that the fact thatSalisbury Steak has managed to develop an esteem for herself that is unrivaled, and you’ve got yourself one heck of a midwife! (And don’t just go by me, I’m sure Salisbury Steak will back me up on that.)
To prove my point, here’s a conversation Salisbury Steak and I had after Jackie had been in labor for 22 hours and her blood pressure had dropped to 60 over 30.
Me: This isn’t going well, I’m concerned.
Salisbury Steak: Oh, is that your medical opinion?
Me: She’s dizzy and her blood pressure is extremely low, and she’s been in labor for 22 hours she’s been pushing for almost 3 hours and the baby isn’t any farther down than he was three hours ago!
Salisbury Steak: First of all, 60 over 30 is not low! She just needs to drink some apple juice, besides the baby is moving down now.
Me: But isn’t this his foot way up here?
Salisbury Steak: What? No. Let me feel it. No, that’s just a fibroid tumor!
Me: But she shouldn’t be drinking apple juice! At this point, she shouldn’t be drinking anything!
Salisbury steak: Oh really is that your medical opinion? (Salisbury Steak didn’t add, “What do you know about it old lady, you probably don’t even know how to work your smart phone like it do!” — but I could tell she wanted to.)
Me: I’m concerned, we need to do something!
Salisbury Steak: Oh really? Is that you’re medical opinion?
Do you see how well Salisbury Steak handled the situation? Her assessment that Jackie’s blood pressure of 60/30 was simply a result of Jackie’s mother being overly concerned and micro-managing Salisbury Steak’s sweet mid-wifing skills — was nothing short of brilliance.
And furthermore, it was becoming quite obvious that I was making Salisbury Steak’s mid-wifing experience a bummer and that I needed to please shut up!
Well in the end, Dear Reader, I am extremely relieved to report that Salisbury Steak finally decided that in Salisbury Steak’smedical opinion, Jackie did, indeed, require a C-section a decision that could have been made hours earlier, but that would have required Salisbury Steak to hang up from chatting on the phone. (She’s quite a popular one, that Salisbury Steak! But, then, who doesn’t like Salisbury Steak?)
Anyway, by the grace of God, our sweet little Henry finally made his debut into this world thanks to the doctor who performed the cesarean section –and both mother and baby are safe and sound!
Before Salisbury Steak left she gave me a great big hug and said good-bye.
And I, too,bid farewell to Salisbury Steak.
“Good bye Salisbury Steak!” I said. “You big effing idiot!”
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.
Well, I’m happy to report, Dear Reader, that I have just received an important dispatch from my friends (practically my blood brothers, really) at AARP! Guess what? AARP thinks I’m “fully eligible” for their membership.
Which, of course, is their thinly veiled way of saying I’m old,– very, very old . . . and now it’s official!
And on top of that, if I give $16 to AARP, they will give me these benefits that aren’t available anywhere else:
Gee, I’m so overcome with emotion, I’m getting tear stains all over my Hoveround . . .
Because for 16 dollars AARP is giving me:
AARP, The Magazine! Which is great and all –but if they aren’t including the loaded gun which would have to be held to my head in order to get me to read it — AARP, The Magazine!isn’t much good to me now, is it?
Discounts that save me money! Uh, I’m sorry AARP, but I kind of prefer discounts that DON’T save me money. Call it crazy. Call it wacky. Call it maybe my Depends are too tight. I don’t know. I guess I just feel like being cantankerous because I’m so very, very old . . . oops . . . I mean so I’m so very, very “fully eligible”.
Strengthening Social Security, protecting Medicare . . . including fighting age discrimination for all! Hey listen, AARP, you’re the one calling old people names like “fully eligible.” So here’s a little suggestion. Why don’t you start fighting age discrimination by socking yourself in the eye!
Access to health insurance . . . access huh? What kind of access? Handicap access? Hoverround access? Oh maybe AARP means they’re going to give me the idea (for $16) to access the internet so I can find myself some health insurance.
And just in case all these AARP Benefits don’t make me want to reach my arthritic hand into my sock and pull out $16, they are throwing in this FREE GIFT (that only costs $16.)!
An AARP TRUNK ORGANIZER! YOWZA!
As you can see, AARP knows us geezer people don’t like to stumble out to our cars and head down the wrong side of the road without plenty of liquids because us “fully eligible-sters” often get dehydrated causing us to do senile things like drive through plate-glass windows and buying $16 worth of NOTHING from AARP.
All I can say is Aaarrrrppppp! Has anybody seen the Pepto Bismal?