Funny

Happy Half-Birthday To Me

Do you celebrate your half-birthday? I’m pretty sure lots of kids do, but how many of us adults celebrate?

I do. And I have for my entire life.

Today I am 69 and a half years old. Pretty cool, huh?

To celebrate, I’m making lasagna for dinner. No cake.

But if anyone has an extra “gummy bear,” I could celebrate in grand style. Just sayin..

What else should I do today?

Practice my French lessons. Yep.

Take the trash out. Nope

Do a little homework. Yep, but very little. I’m celebrating, not synthesizing. Other doctoral students will totally get this one.

Wait patiently for all my birthday presents to arrive. You did remember to send me a birthday present, right?

Fun Facts from Wikipedia:

The IRS stuck their noses right smack in the middle of Half Birthdays! Check this out:

“In the U.S., some tax-related penalties are related to half-years, such as a 10% penalty for making an early withdrawal from an IRA before age 59½. The federal government defines the half-year as being “six calendar months” after the anniversary of birth, regardless of what day of the month this produces.” **

Turns out, IDAHO is pretty cool after all. They let kids behind the wheel on their 14 and a Half Birthday! What??

“In many states in the U.S., the minimum age to obtain a learner permit occurs on a half-birthday, such as 14½ in Idaho, 14 years and eight months in Michigan, 15½ in California, and 15 years and nine months in Maryland. The same is true for receiving a restricted license when a minor in many states.” **

Well, that’s my blog for today. Compelling? Riveting? Maybe not, but I bet I made you smile. After all, the vast majority of my readers are younger than me. I’m okay with that because I love you all. Come back soon, and we will discuss something profound that requires critical thinking skills and a bottle of red wine. Beaucoup de vin s’il vous plait.

** Information in quotes found on the Wikipedia.com website.

Is There an Upside to Being Broke?

Why, yes! Yes, there is. You cannot shop until you drop!

You’re welcome for that little Black Friday Pick-Me-Up.

I’m nothing if not emphatically empathetic. It’s a gift…

Okay, I’m not exactly broke; just nurturing my frugal sensibilities ever since COVID sucked the social aspects of life right out of me. I am pricing things now instead of “shopping my feelings.” Heck, I even compared the prices of broccoli and asparagus before buying tofu instead. Don’t judge. I’m craving my ex-husband’s pork tofu.

No, that is not a sexual innuendo. Although I can see how your mind might go there.

The dude makes some stellar pork tofu! I had my son call him for the recipe. I don’t want to call him and upset his wife. I know she is jealous of me. Okay, maybe she is not jealous but rather annoyed with me for calling him on his birthday, Christmas, Easter, the 4th of July, and National Margarita Day. I’m friendly, and he is the father of my 40-year-old baby boy. Just sayin..

Now, where was I?

I am actually writing this on Thanksgiving at almost midnight. The Baileys and Coffee finally wore off, but I am wide awake, people. Let’s party! So, who is shopping on Black Friday? I will be kind not to berate you for spending your kids’ college money on those Jimmy Choo’s you must have for New Year’s Eve. After all, you probably saved a whole $100, and they only set you back $2000. NICE!

No, I won’t tease. Instead, I will revel in the little chuckle I will get when you tell me about that new 55-inch TV you fought over at Walmart. Seriously, how many 55-inch TVs does one household need? I ask you. I have one in my living room, and I have a giant monitor on my desk next to a giant screen on my laptop. But how do I watch a favorite TV show?

I take my phone to bed and stare at the itty bitty screen.

Now my eyes are worse from my bad habits, and I may need to sell my 55-inch TV to afford the eye doctor. Thank you, “Grey’s Anatomy.” I cannot believe I am still hooked on that show anymore since McDreamy was killed off!

Life. Is. A. Party. Am I right? This is what I shopped for online today! Check it out. It is an ORB FLYING BALL. It hovers. You can play catch with it, all by yourself or with a two-year-old. I must have this.

Thank you for actually reading this post. When my silliness is on overload, I shamelessly overshare. I love my readers, and my readership count is growing. I may actually hit double-digits within the next…couple of years. I’m psyched.

Be kind to yourself.

Help someone in need.

Dance like Jennifer Lopez. I dare ya.

You cannot possibly be broke with all your blessings. Count them.

Find your joy.

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They Say the Third Time is the Charm

And we all need a little Charm in our lives, am I right? Happy Monday!

Me, reflecting on my activities for the past week:

  • Finished a writing assignment on giving presentations.

Check.

  • Started the Podcast, “Terri goes to Doctoral School”.

Riveting, I promise.

  • Began to write my third novel (for the third time).

WTF?  No really.

Yes, it has been a busy week for most people, but just another dizzy day in paradise for me.

Better in Time (the working title) is in progress. I am a firm believer in outlines, for books, articles, letters, email, text messages, and Tik Tok. Type-A personality meets excessive compulsive disorder meets senior citizen angst. That’s some scary shit when you think about it. I thought about writing about cats, as I love them so much, but I get so attached to my characters.

Don’t judge. And stay clear of my yard. I throw things at people…cantaloupes and such. My therapist is in hiding. I wonder if I finally broke her.

So, you are asking (if you’re still awake), what is this new novel about? I’m so glad you asked! Better in Time is of the Historical Fiction genre, and is set in the province of Quebec, Canada at the turn of the century. Most of Canada’s French-speaking citizens live in Quebec, and studying its history and culture has been a hobby of mine for some time.

In case you are unfamiliar with the historical fiction genre, writing such a novel can be quite challenging. I became obsessed with historical fiction after becoming obsessed with a modern American author named Kristin Hannah, and her amazing ability to transform the reader to war-torn Europe during World War II. If you have not experienced one of Kristin Hannah’s novels, please give her a read. You will not regret it. I recommend beginning with The Nightingale. After that, please try my favorite of all her novels, The Four Winds. I have read it three times. Make sure you have a box of tissues for each book, however. You are going to need them.

Well, what do you know? I went off-topic yet again!

I’m nothing if not unapologetically chaotic.

Thank you for visiting my bloggy space/dining room/office/writer’s retreat and confessional. Sorry for the mess. It was such a monumental step moving from the outline to the first chapter of my new novel, I’m going to need a moment to collect my thoughts and find my joy. Peace. Love. Joy to you all!

Home -> https://whatsinterrishead.com/

Mature Women and Hot Weather

Upon further reflection of this post’s title, I fear readership may decline for lack of interest. Maybe I should have titled it, “Hot, Mature Women,” or “Mature Women get Hot.” One wonders how far one might go for readership. All that being said, the title remains as is, and this hot, mature woman shall press on. And what the hell, you have gotten this far; you may as well accompany me.

Pretty please.

Hell is alive and well in Georgia. Temps are in the high 90s and humidity is hovering around two or three hundred percent, give or take.

It sure as hell feels like hell.

We women of a certain age are not only mature, but we are also wise. We will not be doing any porch sitting in this heat unless, of course, the power bill was not paid. I certainly hope we are way too wise for that, ladies! Of course, if you still have a husband, he obviously forgot to pay the bill. He owes you! May I offer you some advice? Make his cheap ass take you to a hotel during this Georgia Hell and turn the air-conditioning to the ‘polar bear’ setting. He does not have to stay if he misses that porch…make sure he knows that. When he leaves, rejoice and order room service.

You are welcome.

I think it is highly unfair that men can go shirtless, but women must cover-up. It really should be the other way around. After all, we women have a lot more to show off. Just imagine going out to mow the lawn, wearing a t-shirt and a freaking bra (because god-forbid your boobs might jiggle), instantly dripping in sweat, and cursing at global warming. Taking one’s shirt off would not only cool one down but would beautify the neighborhood. Remember, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Fuck your neighbors if they don’t see the beauty. Their boobs probably sag, too, and I’m not just talking about the female neighbors. Have you seen saggy men-boobs? On the upside, the entertainment value of your property would probably rise exponentially. But may I offer you some advice? Maybe just chuck the whole lawn-mowing plan and have ice cream instead. If that drips on your boobs, instant coolness!  Win-win situation.

Once again, you are welcome. I am nothing if not a woman with a plethora of unsolicited ideas.

In my never-ending quest to find the good in growing older, it only occurred to me the other day that we mature women have the ability to turn uncomfortable situations in our favor. Next time you are sitting on that porch (and this only works when you are not alone), start fanning yourself, up and down, all over. Complain in no uncertain terms that, “It is hotter than deep-fried hell.” Repeat as necessary, until you have gained sympathy from anyone within earshot. Then, revel in your success as someone offers you a cold beverage. Ladies, we no longer have to be the ones who serve. Make sure to order exactly what pleases you. You want to make good on this getting older crap.

After all, Matriarchs Matter. Am I right??

Thank you for visiting my special bloggy place. I may get a little cranky when those damned kids are on my lawn, but I am delighted to see you here! Please comment below if you are so inclined. Have a fabulous day, be kind, and find your joy. And kiss your favorite matriarch. I heard that doing so brings good luck.

Home -> https://whatsinterrishead.com/

TIK TOK. There is no stop.

I have a new addiction. Sans the intellect and any delicate sensibilities I may have nurtured over the years, I managed to have fallen under the spell of tiny fast-talking dogs, fluffy felines with attitude, teaching teachers, dancing dancers, singing singers, ranting republicans, and a partridge in a pear tree.

TIC TOK. For crying out loud, I have landed right smack in the middle of Crazytown. Stop the train, I want off!

If only.

If you have not heretofore, experienced the magical ridiculousness of the Tik Tok, you need to run the other way, fast as you can. However, if you choose to continue toward the light, be afraid. Be very afraid. There are sights you have never witnessed. Sights you never wanted to witness. Sights that make you wish you didn’t have sight.

But you can’t stop watching, can you?

Let’s assume you completely disregarded the above advice, and ventured into the TIK TOK app, promising yourself you would just take a little peek. The first thing you see is a grown man in a tutu, wielding a wand (which you assume is for granting wishes?). You feel somewhat excited and are quite convinced that there are good people floating around somewhere in the universe. TIK TOK must be a good thing! A place you want to be…

UmmmHmmm…

Let’s talk about earworms. The next TIK TOK pops up, and a little chihuahua is trying to convince his human that they must go to MacDonald’s. He is successful in his quest and off they go. Suddenly “Macarena” is blasting on their car radio and the tiny dog is bobbing his head to the music. It’s riveting, I tell you. This is good stuff.

Except that it will be days before that song leaves your brain.

Next appears a lovely lesbian couple getting married. Ah, so beautiful! At this point, you are convinced that you are in the right place and TIK TOK was meant just for you.

Ummm…not exactly. I hate to burst your “love is love” bubble, but the TIK TOK app works like the others. By using algorithms, rendering words into figures, exploiting mathematical similarities, using meditation and reflection, waving the talking stick, ignoring all reasoning, chanting and performing tribal dances, and the regular infusion of medicinal gummi bears, TIK TOK is able to entertain everyone from toddlers to the most highly educated and enlightened without hesitation or remorse. It’s really quite fascinating. I am hopelessly hooked.

Once you have been using TIK TOK for a certain length of time, you are put into a category, whether you like it or not. This is not specified, so you will not realize it right away, but for example, at least every other TIK TOK I watch has something to do with lesbians. I am not complaining, mind you. That’s totally my jam. That being said, they took away some of my little talking dogs and cute kitty cats. I miss them. They are my emotional-support animals, and now I am at risk of a nervous breakdown. I am also missing the TIK TOKs of all the different groups dancing to the exact same tune. If you don’t understand from whence I speak, think back to the old days and those Halloween dances, and everyone getting out on the floor to offer their own renditions of the “Thriller” dance. Remember that? Do you also remember that not everyone had mastered the dance? Some were not, shall we say, dancing machines, but rather just drunk. Well, TIK TOK has lots of dancing videos, and some are quite addictive. Some, however, awaken your scrolling finger, as you try to find something better with which to waste your time.

Ah, but it is entirely too late for you. Just scroll on to the next TIK TOK. Lean into your obsessions. Feed your hunger for third-grade humor, giggling babies, and that dude who twirls a towel while dancing with a line of other men to “Here Comes the Hotstepper.”

You cannot move mountains. TIK TOK will now be part of your daily existence. For how long, you ask? Well, my guess is until someone comes up with a 12-step program. ‘Accept the things you cannot change’ and all that sort of thing. Good luck. You might need to rearrange your schedule and maybe even delete some activities to make room for your TIK TOK time.

I may have to drop out of Doctoral School…

Thank you for visiting my little bloggy universe. So happy to see you all. I think my membership may have grown to five by now. Progress! Please Comment below if you are so inclined. And check out the rest of my blog, where you will witness my mission to change the world, one mind-numbing post at a time. Have a beautiful day, people, be kind, and find your joy.

Home -> https://whatsinterrishead.com/

I Lied to the Preacher

Reverend Mike came to my door today. I do not remember Mike’s last name; in fact, Mike may not even be his first name, but for purposes of my confession, we will go with Mike. Also, for purposes of my confession, here is a little back-story on Mike. I was engulfed in my school work, minding my own damned business, writing one of my endless doctoral masterpieces, when a knock at the door brought me back to reality. I was mildly annoyed at this intrusion of my time, but being the kind and patient person I am, I meandered to the door and swung it open. Before me stood a big dude, and he looked a bit like a cop, but not a sexy cop. An overweight, balding, sweating, impatient cop. I did not recognize the uniform, but to be perfectly honest, I am new here. My idea of a Georgia police officer is pretty much the image I witnessed on my porch, so I assumed he was a cop. Immediate thoughts ran through my head:

What did I do? Who is dead? Do I have any illegal substances in my house? If I slam the door in his face, will he go away? Should I call 9-1-1 because the dude is really sweating? And, will I get one phone call if he takes me to jail, because I really need two phone calls, one to call my sister who lives nearby, and the other to call her daughter because my sister won’t answer her phone during nap time.

He stood there staring at me while I was doing all that thinking, which made me wonder if I had been saying all my thoughts out loud.

So I smiled until I was done thinking. Mike waited patiently, but he was still sweating.

Turns out, Mike was not a cop, and was indeed, a preacher. After further reflection for an awkward length of time, I found my voice, and said, “Hello, may I help you?”

Reverend Mike was here to invite me to the yearly Memorial Day Weekend Tent Revival at the local baptist church. It is happening tonight through Thursday, June 2nd. For those of you who have been shopping for a tent revival, now is your chance to get on over there and get your share of salvation. It is free, but they pass the plate, so don’t even think about showing up without money.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the good Reverend…

After extending said invitation, Reverend Mike offered a big smile, and handed me a brochure and a flyer, complete with schedule, driving directions, phone numbers, and a popup “A” to pin to my chest while attending the revival. Okay, that last item was made up, but my imagination was going wild, thinking what the crowd would do if they knew I was a bonified, card-carrying lesbian…..not a concealed weapon carrier like they were used to.

Spine shuddering stuff to ponder, indeed.

So, I smiled back to Reverend Mike, accepted the brochure and flyer, and said, “That sounds lovely. I will try to make it if I can find the time”.

I LIED TO A PREACHER!!!

I haven’t a clue as to why I would lie, because I have no intention of attending such a gathering of which I have no business, interest, or inclination.

But he was smiling. And sweating.

My apologies, Reverend Mike. I confessed to my readers, all two of them. Sometimes I only open my mouth long enough to change feet.

It’s a struggle, people. Try to stay true to yourself, be kind, find your joy.

And confess when you lie to a preacher. That’s just wrong…

Thank you for visiting my blog. I love it when you stop by! If you see Reverend Mike, please don’t tell him you know me. He might not be happy with your being associated with a liar. (Sorry Reverend Mike).

Write Like a Scholar? What?

My recent nose-dive into the depths of scholarly learning has given me anxiety. Turns out, the doctoral journey begins with learning how to write. What? One would think one would have learned to write in first grade, and sure enough, some of us did! Heck, I even have a couple of books out there in the Amazon universe.

Ah, but that’s not writing. That’s “creative writing.” To write like a scholar, one has to first enter the gates of hell. In this scholarly “hell” one also has to read countless articles in which one has to look up every other word. After reading each article several times, then a few more times, one then has to compare and contrast said articles with one another. It is called synthesis. And yes, I also had to look that up.

And, as if the devil himself was looking over one’s shoulder and just waiting to pass judgment, one has to accept critical feedback without crying, begging, bribing, or eating one’s feelings. One must take it like a woman. One must persevere. One must never let them see one flipping the finger. One must overcome, smile, and write the whole damned thing over. Again. And again.

One is sure you are out there in the bloggy universe, laughing while holding back the urge to remind one that one signed up for this. One remembers. One is not quite sure, however, whether that makes one a sadist or a masochist?

Oh crap. One needs to look that up, too. One will get back to you on that.

One needs more coffee now.

Thanks for visiting my bloggy place. I hope to see you often as I attempt to navigate my life choices and manage my insecurities and unruly hair days. And I’m not sure what’s going on with all the “one’s.”

Please feel free to leave a comment and peruse the rest of whatsinterrishead.com.

Halloween – Humpf!

Composer1 *

Happy Halloween Eve!  The magical night of frightful fun and frolicking is nearly upon us and I must confess to being underwhelmed. I’m not even dressing up this year. I’m not EVEN turning my porch light on to summon trick-or-treaters. I’m such an old biddy just not that into it.

Get off my lawn, you little fairy princesses and shrimp-sized super heroes with your cutesy faces and your little plastic pumpkins! I swear I’ll turn the sprinklers on ya!

Where was I?  Oh yes, I suppose you are asking whatever could be my reason for excusing myself from these nationally accepted and revered holiday traditions?  Not in the mood. Hey, a girl can’t always be in the mood for sex, so why can’t that same disinterest work for Halloween?  

I have gathered a list of my top ten excuses for skipping Halloween and provided them below, for your reading enjoyment.

Read it and deal with it. Bah freakin humbug.

  1. I have a headache.
  2. I need to wash my hair.
  3. I got my period. (and after 5 years without one, it is blowing my mind)
  4. My treat will be wine. My trick will be doorbell avoidance.
  5. Chocolate doesn’t last ten minutes in my house, so there’s nothing left for the snot-nosed little goblins.
  6. I couldn’t afford candy. But if you ghosts and goblins, Wonder Women and Scooby Doos would like to leave some cash in the can near my front door, I can save up for next year. I promise.
  7. I’m thawing out the turkey for Thanksgiving.
  8. I’m entertaining a gentleman caller. Shhhh, Joan doesn’t know.
  9. I need to dance like no one’s watching. I mean No One! Not even a pint-size version of Khaleesi or John Snow.
  10. I have Kampanaphobia. Fear of Bells. Doorbells, in this case. It’s a thing. Ask not for whom the doorbell tolls, because I’m not going to answer it.

Skull_divider_2

Seriously, wishing everyone a very Happy and Safe Halloween!  

 

 

Embrace your Lazy

lazysmart

Do you ever wake up and not want to make your bed? Or brush your teeth?

Or remain upright? Yea, me too.

I am lazy.

There are different types of laziness. Some people are just lazy in their dreams, meaning they think about not doing stuff, but they eventually muster up enough chutzpah to get stuff done anyway. Those people are Lazy Wannabees. They work hard for an hour or two all their lives while dreaming of retirement, a beach chair, a good book, and a pina colada containing lots of rum and one of those tiny umbrellas. Whatever gets you through the day, I suppose. My dream would include a mug of hot Bailey’s and Coffee, hold the umbrella, and park my ass in a rocking chair on the porch of a cabin in the mountains.

However, I’m probably lazier than that, so let’s press on.

Other folks might be Selectively Lazy. This type of person has no problem leaving her bed unmade, but will painstakingly brew the perfect cup of coffee, if it takes her all morning. She might leave a sink full of dirty dishes, but vacuum twice a day because it feels good to have control over a naughty, ferocious, roaring beast loud piece of heavy equipment. Actually, she might have some other issues, but we won’t go there in this post. A selectively lazy person might sit in an easy chair for hours, and not get up for food, beverage, or to use the facilities. She has either found the perfect book, is binging the latest Netflix original, or lost in thought, contemplating world domination peace. Selective laziness. It’s a thing.

I’m pretty close to being that lazy.

The next level of laziness moves beyond selective and lands right smack in the “you should be ashamed of yourself” category. This person is lazy beyond reasonable comprehension, yet still manages to somewhat contribute to society. I call this type of lazy Downhill Slide Lazy. If you fall in this category, you never make your bed. Hell, sometimes, you can’t even find your bed for all the clothes, beer bottles and pizza boxes lying around. You manage to show up for work, but you don’t smell very fresh. You wonder about that look everyone is giving you, but soon your thoughts move on to a lunch menu and how many bath room breaks you can get away with before being fired. Your love life is lacking, as well, unless you are so attractive your partner(s) can forgive the smell or your inability to provide them any stimulation other than an occasional grunt of approval.

I’m pretty sure I’m not that lazy. I have a sensitive nose. I think I’d know.

My kind of lazy can’t really be pigeonholed. Some days, I don’t make the bed. Some days, I don’t do dishes or vacuum. That vacuum cleaner holds no power over me or my dominatrix tendencies.

What?

Most of the time, I use the fact that I am retired to excuse my lack of productivity, whether it be housework or reaching my projected writing word-count goal for the day. Also, my mind wanders. I don’t like multitasking, but my brain is still recovering from a life-time of meetings, deadlines, annoying coworkers, and office potlucks. Anyone who has not yet retired will find out about this soon enough. It’s like a train going full-speed for forty years and then trying to come to a complete stop immediately. Your scrambled brain spawns laziness at this point to protect you from possible impact resulting in internal combustion and/or the zombie apocalypse, whichever concept appeals to you. This might be Preventive Laziness. No judgement. No apologies. No regrets. It’s okay.

You do you. I’ll do me.

**DISCLOSURE:  The above is only conjecture. My personal coping mechanism, if you will. Kind of like a child sucking her thumb or grasping her blankie. I need to rationalize my behavior, and then soothe my tendency to over-compensate by eating my feelings. It’s not my fault if I don’t possess the rational facts to back it all up. Not to worry, though. No animals, doctors, or therapists were harmed by this post.

But, let me make one thing perfectly clear. I am still not making my bed today.

messybed