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I will christen returning to my blog on my birthday. I am 35 (shut up, those of you who know I’m not; just go with it). I like that age. If I had to be stuck at an age, like on that TV series “Highlander” where the Immortals stayed the age at which they were killed, I’d say I’d like to be stuck at 35 (can you imagine being stuck as a teen? Almost a fate worse than death).
I am actually 54. I feel I must admit this since many of you know I have an adult son, and I don’t want anyone thinking I had him when I was like 12 or something. I’ve also considered saying that I’m 70, which would elicit comments on how amazingly good I looked. But then no one my age would want to hang out with me and I’d never get a date. So why am I such a 35-ish fan? I figure that your 20s are fun, and you’re probably as hot as you’ll ever look, but it’s still a time of figuring yourself out. Once you get into your 30s, at least for us women, you’ve gotten past all the drama of youth, you may be in a committed, mature relationship, and you likely have a real job in your career. Your 20s are for trying life on. Your 30s are for wearing it.
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Dear anesthesiologist: When I tell you that I have a high tolerance for whatever “twilight sleep” medication you are going to give me, pay freaking attention. No, I’m not a doctor or telling you how to do your job. But this is FAR from my first rodeo, and know how my body works. Instead of assuming I don’t know what I’m talking about, note my reaction to your first push. See that I’m fully awake and probably beginning to hyperventilate, having felt the medicine go in but to no effect. So keep cranking that stuff up until I get to where I’m supposed to be. If I’m able to carry on a conversation with you, particularly one involving how I’m in pain and not at all relaxed, chances are there aren’t enough meds on board, I get it; you don’t want to OD me, but if I sound like I’m about to get up from the operating table and rip your scrotum off, I’m probably not near to an overdose. Okay?
Crazy, but that's how it goes
Millions of people, living as foes Maybe it's not too late To learn how to love, and forget how to hate Mental wounds not healing Life's a bitter shame I'm goin' off the rails on a crazy train I'm goin' off the rails on a crazy train According to an article about Feng Shui, the position of my bed is screwing up my life.
Mind you, I know basically nothing about Feng Shui. I know it has to do with positioning your crap in the best possible way to bring good energy into your space. Like your potted plants have to be facing south or something (I made that up Feng Shui people, relax). I have considered looking into it, just in case it works. Thing is, I'm no Martha Stewart. My idea of decorating is making sure the couch faces the TV and that beige really does go with everything. So rearranging my house to enhance my energy is just not on the top of the old priority list. But I just happened across this article and found out that my bed could be causing me some life issues. First, it's next to the bedroom door which is letting all my energy suck out into the hall. I placed it there because the downstairs bathroom is like two feet away and thus even more convenient than the master commode. That's how I plan things. On the good side, I'm perpendicular to the door. If my feet were facing it, that's bad because in Ye Olde Days they dragged your dead body out feet first. That's just creepy, and again it sucks energy from your feet or something. |
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