Bartender, I'll Have a Prilosec OTC Chaser

You know you're old when ...

You liken the experience of having whiskey on the rocks for the first time to a bout of acid reflux.

Just waiting for the AARP application to arrive in the mail.

I'm Doomed AND Lactose Intolerant

While in the midst of a dream this morning, everyone in said dream started chanting, "You're doomed. You're doomed. You're doomed ... " Well, if that doesn't make someone who already suffers self-esteem issues bolt awake, I don't know what will. These chanters were actually my friends, adding insult to injury.

Except it was my electronic alarm clock. The tone, "Beeeep beep Beeeep beep," has the same cadence as "you're doomed."

Great. Couple that with a bird who starts taunting me promptly at 6:45 am every morning by sing-songing "CHHHEEESSSEE burger CHHHEEESSSEE burger." (As B.O.B. as my witness, that is exactly what the bird's tweet sounds like!) So I'm reminded every morning upon waking that I'm lactose intolerant. Where, oh where, is a little feathered friend who can tweet, "VEGGIE cheese burger!"?

Electronics are sending me subliminal messages. The avian world is bullying me for being unable to digest diary products. Ha. I can strike back! I can change the alarm tone. And the bird? "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, I have a job for you, my little furry assassin."

Ordering Hooked on Phonics, Adult Version

I sprained my back. That means a few weeks of recovery for me and a few weeks of catering to the family's basic needs for B.O.B. and led, in part, to the following exchange at Chez Funk this evening.

Me: Where did you get this toilet paper?
B.O.B.: I thought it was a nice gesture on my part to get it.
Me: My question was 'where did you get it?' (Having a sprained back has made me bit more short-tempered than usual).
B.O.B: It's Cottonelle, a name you can trust.
Me: It's not Cottonelle, it's Softielle.
B.O.B.: Oh.
Me: Do you know what Softielle means in French? SANDPAPER!

On the bright side, I won't need to schedule a Brazilian wax thanks to Softielle.

Betty Ford Clinic or Move to Ireland?

Actual conversation with B.O.B. recently. He's either thinking I am sleep deprived or need to check in at the Betty Ford Clinic A.S.A.P.

B.O.B.: Where are you?
Me: Fenton.
B.O.B.: How did you end up in Fenton? I thought you were going to Grand Blanc.
Me: I don't know. I just ended up here.
B.O.B.: What are you doing there?
Me: Thinking about getting a sandwich from Locke's.
B.O.B.: That sounds good but you are going to your parents for dinner. Are you just going to say you're not hungry when you get to your parents?
Me: No, because I can't get a sandwich from Locke's.
B.O.B.: But you're there and obviously you drove to Fenton to go to Locke's.
Me: I said I can't go to Locke's.
B.O.B.: Why?
Me: Because I'll buy liquor if I go to Locke's.
B.O.B.: You can buy liquor if you want. Better yet, pick me up a cigar while you're there.
Me: I can't go there.
B.O.B.: WHY??????
Me: Because I will just end up in the Irish cream aisle and it won't be pretty.
B.O.B.: Why won't it be pretty?
Me: I'll end up opening bottles to taste the different varieties. Then I'll drink them all. And end up face down, passed out in the aisle surrounded by empty bottles. You'll have to come and get me and that will be ever so embarrassing, especially for you, since I'll be passed out and won't care.
B.O.B.: Are you out of Irish cream?
Me: I have learned one can never have too much Irish cream. But to save the family from shame, I won't go to Locke's.
B.O.B.: OK.
Me: Can we get a cow?
B.O.B.: A cow? Why?
Me: So I can have fresh Irish cream every day.
B.O.B.: I don't think that's the way it works.
Me: I'll feed my cow whiskey and then I'll have Irish cream all the time. I'll never run out.
B.O.B. (the voice of reason or wet blanket, you make the call): I don't think we can have a cow in the city.
Me: We'll just disguise it as the Great Dane. No one will notice. Besides, that commercial about all the happy cows living in California? It's a lie! Truly happy cows live in Ireland because they are the source of Irish cream. So, can we get a cow? Or better yet, can we just move to Ireland?

Do they still publish Tiger Beat magazine?

My darling husband decided to treat me for all the long hours I've been putting in at work. He purchased a lovely set of flannel sheets on which to rest my restless head (I'm going through a very bad spell of not sleeping and weird dreams; was chalking it up to stress but after consulting with the doc who keeps me somewhat hormonally balanced, it's a change in, of all things, my thyroid meds).

B.O.B. thought I would be especially thrilled since the sheets were in the most luscious shade of pink. The sheets seemed to gently call out, "come and rest your soul on our soft flannel warmth and envelope yourself in a cotton candy dreamland."

The sheets were nice and cozy. Until I walked back into the bedroom the next morning - with sunlight streaming in -- and noticed just how PINK the sheets actually are.

I'm thinking the only thing missing is a poster of Justin Bieber hanging over my bed and a stack of Tiger Beat magazines on my nightstand.

The Art of Being Certain

In life, I've come to rely on "certainties" that keep me grounded and I know I'm still alive and kicking. Things like the toilet paper can only be changed by me for some reason even though there are two others occupying this dwelling who have opposable thumbs making them completely capable of undertaking the task. I've even had TP roll changing demonstrations. Didn't work.

I'm also the only one who knows the tube of toothpaste belongs in the drawer, not on the counter next to the toilet paper.

And I'm the only one capable of dialing the phone and making necessary dental and doctor appointments.

Another certainty that I've come to rely on is when I come home from work and say to my husband that I'm tired. His response is ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS "I'm more tired." Never fails.

So, today I came home from work on the first day of our busy season. Plus, it's the first day back after a very long four-day weekend. I stated the obvious, "I'm tired."

I waited to hear "I'm more tired." Nothing. Not even a cricket chirping. I even stopped dead in my tracks. I said again, "I'm tired." Nothing. Just a puzzled look on B.O.B.'s face. So this time I said it verrrrryyyyy sllooowwwwwlllly ... "IIIIIIII'mmmmmmmmmm ttttttttttiiiiirrrrrreeeeddddddddd." The puzzled look yet again and a "Well, go take a nap."

Go take a nap? Where was my familiar "I'm more tired." Suddenly I felt as if the earth had stopped rotating. I needed to hear "I'm more tired." I didn't want to hear "go take a nap." If I wanted to take a nap I would have ended up face down on my electric blanket and not said a word to anyone. No, I wanted to share my pain with others. I wanted to hear something as familiar as the TP dispenser clicking into place. "Go take a nap" wasn't it.

So, I responded with: "What?"
B.O.B.: "If you're tired, go take a nap."
Me: "That's not what you're supposed to say."
B.O.B.: "I'm not? What am I supposed to say?"
Me: "I'm more tired."
B.O.B.: "Why would I say that? You're the one that's tired."
Me: "Because for the past 16 years, whenever I have said I'm tired, you have ALWAYS SAID 'I'm more tired.' So say it. Say, 'I'm more tired.'"
B.O.B.: "But I'm not tired."
Me: "Yes, you are. Now say it."
B.O.B.: "I don't want to."
Me: "You may not want to, but you have to."
B.O.B.: "Are you taking your hormones?"

He didn't understand that I couldn't continue to function as a human being without the certainty of knowing that he was more tired. Finally, after he realized that I couldn't take my coat and mittens off without him stating he was more tired, he finally said, "Uhhmmmm ... I'm more tired?" It was more a question than a statement of fact but I really wasn't going to split hairs over it.

Whew. I could go on with my night. It was more comforting than donning my Hello, Kitty pajama pants. He was more tired than me. And I knew when I walked into the bathroom, the toilet paper would still be on the counter next to the toothpaste.

Now that I'm certain life is still on track, I might just go and take that nap after all ...

Oh, so pretty!

One of my New Year's Resolutions is to be a regular blogger person. I not only treated my blog like Cinderella left to scrub the floors (you missed a spot by the Christmas tree, dear), I actually thought my blog was ... ugly! I pondered renaming it Frankensteinarella's Fodder but that didn't fit in the header as well. So, I ignored my poor ugly creation until I finally decided that today would be the day for Fodder to go in for a makeover. It took all of five minutes to make "her" pretty! Now I will lovingly post all my fodderings and meanderings for the world to see. It's much less scarier than peering into my underwear drawer, trust me.

My family has laid down some ground rules in the meantime that I must abide by or I might have to scrub the floors (on my hands and knees, no less; no Swiffer for me):
1. My child (his name has been deleted per his request) insists that his identity be known as Leo. Please note that in the blog when I refer to Leo, I am actually referring to my one and only son, (name deleted). I could refer to him as "Leo" but it's not as much fun if you can't make the air quotes with your fingers.
2. The husband will remain B.O.B., the butt of Bloginess. His call, not mine. Whatever.

Now that their names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent, I feel that gives me unprecedented blogging rights to tell any stories I want because I won't be using their "real" names.

The animals - 3 dogs, 3 cats and 1 iguana - haven't voiced any opinions on the name issue so their identities will not be changed. And since today marks the 9th anniversary of our cat, Two-Seven, breaking and entering into our hearts and home (he actually pulled the door knob down and would have opened the French door had it not been locked), I would like to wish him a Happy Cat-iversary! B.O.B. named him Two-Seven since December 27 was the date the cat burglar tried to pull off a B&E. B.O.B. said Twenty-Seven would "just sound silly." Now you know why B.O.B. wants his identity concealed.

The blog is pretty. The names are concealed. I'm ahead on my resolutions and it's not even 2011 yet.
Until next time,
Kathy