This is the story of a tall glass that didn't quite make it out of the dishwasher yesterday afternoon. When you break a glass, at least in my case, I get a little upset. It jolts me to an awareness that borders on skittish and irrational. Don't know why, something must have happened in my childhood. I'm not going to delve into anything about my childhood because, well, how do you know I'm telling the truth. So back to this 12 oz. glass. I purchased 24 glasses from Macy's several years ago. I liked the simplicity of the style. Simplicity is my style. I have no style and I don't know why I would put the word "simplicity" in the equation. I felt sorry for this particular glass because of where I found said glass. In a teenager's room, hidden under papers on a desk. It wasn't easy to spot at first but when I looked past the papers and the cockeyed angle they were resting I knew something was holding them up. And it was this glass. This glass had remnants of a particular sugary beverage. It was Swiss Farms Iced Tea, sweetened with sugar (NO, THE HORROR). I can't quite call it a liquid as it had turned to an amberish sticky mess in the bottom and about a fifth of the way up. How do you not take the last sip? This particular child craves iced tea and if I let him, would chug it by the gallon. In fact, I would never have to worry about glasses being dirty because he would just keep the gallon up in his room.

But this glass, was so close to going back up in the cabinet after a wonderful hot, steamy, sudsy bath. Already to perform its duty yet again. Alas, as I ws pulling it out of the dishwasher, I cracked it on the side and it broke into four pieces with smaller ones tumbling into the dishwasher. Oh, one sliver made it onto the floor and into my foot. I'm okay, no E.R. for me. I performed surgery on myself and cleaned it up and went on my way. But I gingerly placed the broken pieces of the glass into the trashcan. I felt bad it could not be recycled, but I will move on and question myself as to whether I should purchase plastic glasses for the future.

When I Read Cosmo for Tips?

I will make it publicly known that during my dating years, I was more intune with Sports Illustrated than Cosmopolitan and any other magazine of that genre. I still prefer the writing in Sports Illustrated to that of Cosmo. So imagine my surprise when sitting at my local CVS one day waiting for a prescription that I notice the cover of said magazine in bold letters on the cover that there were no less than 77 things men like in bed. I immediately opened to find what page this irrefutable information began. I love my husband very much, I mean, he still gives me butterflies when I start thinking about him. Can you imagine what he did for me when we were younger and dating? I probably would have hidden Cosmo from him. But back to the magic number of '77'. Here is where I get confused. To find out 77 things men like you would have to ask 1,000,000 I would think. Aren't all men stuck on blowjobs? I'm sure a guy wants his girlfriend/wife/one-night-stand to give him a blowjob while he's standing in the glow of the refrigerator shoving a donut or a piece of cake or drinking a beer for that matter. Or having a blowjob while he's laying flat on his back and not having to do anything on his end or, oh wait, maybe he wants you to strip for you and then you go over and give him a blowjob. I see so many magazine covers with numbers and the word "ways", like 25 ways to organize your kitchen cabinets. 44 ways to make extra money legally. But 77 ways to make your man happy? If I were a slave to what Cosmo says and I needed to do 77 things to make him sexually happy, I'd end up dead. Well then I would be just laying there then and.....

I know the first rule of writing is write what you know. I agree totally. Having the "know-it-all" gene gives me super human ability to squalk about every topic under the sun. But sometimes you just want to puff and pontificate because you can. You know, blow off steam. Usually around an election year I try to read as much as possible on the candidates that will affect my life for the next couple of years and beyond. I tried this year to wrap my brain around the new crop who are looking to be my governor, congressman and senator. I am a cynic. This is a terrible curse that seems to grow especially this time of year. I hear the candidates talk about how they aren't politicians. They say "I'm one of you." I say, I'll give it to you that your human but beyond that your stepping on rough, unstable ground. The candidates are not the ones who truly frighten me. Its their handlers. The people that surround the candidate. They've got polls, the issues that are bothering "Mom and Pop America". I don't believe they truly care. You can say whatever you want. You can blow smoke out of your ass and mouth and nose and eyes and ears (that's every oriface correct?)and you are still giving me what you think I need to hear.

Slowly but surely the wrangling in of banks, oil companies, health care organization, professional sports organizations is happening. Do they all need to be policed? Yes to a certain extent they do. Can our government truly do service to do this? I don't know because they are also part of the problem still. I'm still confused and I know it will only grow. Where will this lead me? I'm sure the only answer to this is to read all that I can and make sure that the facts are correct and then get a big board with all the concerned candidates and buy all the Post-It notes in the tri-state area and begin the process so I can make an educated guess come November. I'm sure a psychic will be involved somehow as well.

Comprehending and Embracing List Making

Today, boys and girls, I will be discussing list making. Lists are important to people because sometimes you just can't rely on the old memory to store and release all that good stuff when needed. My parents were fervent believers in sitting down and going over what needed to be done for the week or weekend.

How about that grocery list. I make the mistake of letting everyone in the family know that I'm heading off to the feed store. Thus begins the shouting in both of my ears and staring in front of me as if my eyes will absorb the acute movement of their lips as if its a backup system for my ears. Yeah, let em yell. I put everything down that I think is needed and then, wait for it..... leave the list on the kitchen table. Its dangerous to go grocery shopping when you don't have a list. I find it exhilarating actually. Kind of being naughty almost on purpose.

You know, there are people who have a tablet or paper pad on their bedside table. I'm not sure how to embrace list making while love making. "Honey, hold that a second, I have to write something very important on my list." I don't think I would impress my husband with my ability to say on top of things. Haha

Along with dieting the only other thing I implore internally to do is keep lists. Write more stuff down, no matter how pertinent. I can always cross it off the list later. I suspect the pay-off is crossing everything off the list and then throwing it away. I'll have to try it some time.

There are many handicaps in life. I am handicapped in several ways, none of which are life threatening or impair me physically. My handicap is not going to be any good when I swing a golf club. My handicap deals with decorating my home. I can go to the paint department and feel my blood pressure and pulse rise. Not from excitement but from shear terror. I am the poster woman for those who are afflicted with this disturbing non-disease. I am unable to make a decision and this affliction makes it that much more difficult to decide on drapes, wait no drapes, just shears, or blinds. What style rug? Should I get rid of my antiques and go for a new look. What styles define me and my family? Hell if I know. I am in awe of women who have the sixth sense of design and can put it in their home and make it inviting to the point you can't get your guests to leave. I'm not going for that look. Maybe subliminally my look is screaming to my sons "don't come back after college." Hmm... I might be on to something then.

The Closet

I'm sitting on my bed and I keep turning to look and see my closet door open part way. I can see the shoe bag that hangs on the inside of the door and scarves are hanging from it and there is one black loafer sticking its tip out. As I look down at the floor portion there is nothing hanging out. There is no reason for my closet door to not be shut. So I got off the bed and opened the door all the way and there it was my Nightmare on Providence Road staring back at me. Freddy Krueger would come in handy right now with his claws. Yeah, he could scoop everything up and just help me clean up in one fell swoop. Where is Freddy when you need him. Oh yeah, in a bad remake. So back to my closet. There are many memories in every corner of this small closet. You see, my house is over 105 years old and we know what the clothes horse was back in 1905, one dress for church, dress for cleaning and a dress for parties. That's it folks! So the 2010 version of my closet is in fact a horror movie that never ends. The memories I mentioned earlier and on the top shelf, mostly baby memories there and photographs of hairdos best left in the dark. The floor has shoe boxes but not with shoes in them, that would make sense. The pile of stuff I keep redirecting from one corner to the other is me being unable to let go of those jeans that fit me in 1988. These jeans were it! The bomb as they say now. The greatest pair of jeans I ever purchased, a pair of Levi Strauss 501's. I could wear those jeans, my love affair with my husband can only be interrupted with those jeans. I seriously doubt I'll ever be that size again, only if I offer myself up to the new doctors in the plastic surgery department at Penn or Temple as a guinea pig for liposuction and breast and butt augmentation. There are a couple of sweaters with shoulder pads and dresses from weddings years ago that will never be worn again. And my wedding dress. I hated the dress the day I wore and yet here still almost 19 years later the damn thing is still hanging in my closet. I purchased another wedding dress off of Ebay several years back because mine was too hideous to be the Bride of Frankenstein for Halloween. Gotta make Frankie look good doncha know. Itgs nice to know I can open the door and look in and see what's in there. But its even better to close the door and leave the mess for another day and maybe a case of Yuengling.

I have cleaned out the closet on several occasions but I think an intervention must be set up to truly get rid of what's hanging around in there. Memories yes are there but they are just that, memories and probably a couple of therapy sessions with my psychologist.

The Martyred Mother Complex

St. Stephen was the first christian martyr. He was stoned to death because he would not renounce his love and devotion for Jesus Christ. That is as intense as it can possibly be. Not many people would sacrifice themselves the way St. Stephen did. But some mothers put themselves on the martyr block on a daily basis. Oh, they don't have to say things out loud for their children/spouse/friends to hear, no, theirs is the silent suffering.

Martyred mothers should be an international group with millions of members. I personally have been martyred on several occasions just this week. I put aside what I am doing and run to the grocery store to pick up no less than four items because my sons "are dying" to have them. So I go, no questions asked. When I come back from the store 25 minutes later because there was traffic getting to and from, all I hear is "what took you so long, we're STARVING." I just go about my duties as a mother and wait until I will be yet again martyred for the cause. Even my husband has put me up there on many an occasion. You know the response, "Mom will take care of it, Mom's great." With not so much as a lost step or bat of an eye, I'm there to do what is needed. We mothers do get a chance to sit down and debrief each other on our exploits in the martyr world. Whether its driving each of your children to their particular sporting event, fixing the computer so you can type up an assignment, forgo personal hygiene as long as everyone is taken care of and happy we will, ourselves, will be satisfied with the results. We do this out of love and my personal favorite, because we don't feel like listening to them anymore.

Don't let your children know your a martyr, they will figure this out later, when they are driving to the third or fourth assisted living facility with you. Helping you pick out your nursing home could quite possibly still be an opportunity to bond with your child(ren). So suffer you may, suffer you must, and then sit back and feel the wards of your martyring.

Fist Blog

Greetings all.... this is my first blog and I'm totally excited. The best thing to do is to sit and watch the Phillies game and mindlessly type my thoughts down. Bizarre thoughts are nothing new to me, it is unfortunately normal for me to write about shaving my legs, what I do around the house whether for fun or pleasure (think folding laundry in the nude). To comment on the high-end, in-the-news sort of stuff takes a little more to compose. I prefer to just let it fly.

I made some comments on Facebook and my favorite one so far is "Basking in your wife's beauty should be one of the more important aspects of being the ultimate husband." This is an important statement. I don't think many husbands are aware of the basking clause. I'm not even sure if my own husband is aware of this, heavens I haven't told him to stop what he's doing (he builds helicopters) and to just stare off into space and think about me. Of course, there will be the all important glow as his thoughts move along to the dreaminess mode. This could get him in trouble with the boss so hopefully he'll know not to think too long. I personally stop what I'm doing and think of him for a good 30 seconds before the dog starts licking my leg and I end of thinking of something else entirely.