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Gone is the summer of my discontent


I’m sure it is of no surprise to anyone that summer is not my favorite season. While others bask in the sunshine, laze by the lake, picnic on the patio, and devour s’mores around the campfire, I can be found sucking up all the ice-cold beverages and air-conditioning I can handle.

Am I the only miserable person on the planet because of summer?  .

I know I’m a terrible person.  It’s unheard of to hate summer.  How dare I? 

Summer. The season where intelligent beings are reduced to watching Wipeout while waiting on the fall TV season. Sweat. And did I say bad TV?  Really bad.

Football withdrawals.

Ill-tempered drivers. 

Hot car door handles.

Hot steering wheels.

Forget about going barefoot. 

But, whatever you do, don’t forget the sunscreen.

Ah, but all that is behind me now.  It is September and the temps in Vegas have gone from the 110s to the high 90s.  I may need to don my winter coat. Vegas locals have thin blood, which is partially from the free booze at the casinos, but mostly from the weather.

My ever-present OCD has me making a spreadsheet listing the fall TV shows and their start dates and times.  I refuse to miss a single episode of Dancing With the Stars or Scandal

Football is nigh and I am giddy. Oh Peyton, how I’ve missed you!

Soon I will be able to open a car door without using a towel to keep from getting scalded.  That, in and of itself, is epic.  You’d have to be a Vegasite to understand.

Summer! I bid you a fond farewell! I would say I’m going to miss you, but instead, I’m doing the happy dance.  You know the dance.  It’s just like the one parents do on their kids’ first day back to school.





Getting my Gordon Ramsay on

I am not the world’s greatest cook. There, I said it. Quite frankly, I don’t have the patience or inclination to put forth the effort required to produce a five-star meal.  The problem is, however, my palate yearns for a more elevated cuisine than I can muster. 

I have been a rabid fan of Gordon Ramsay and his Hell’s Kitchen television show for years. This may seem a bit odd to you, since I am not all that fond of cooking.  But you have to admit, the dude is kind of adorable and makes cooking look so easy!  Maybe it’s all the cussing and yelling he does that inspire him and his followers to create culinary masterpieces. That being said, it doesn’t really faze or motivate me.  I just like to watch. Ahem…

Recently, however, the “chef bug” bit me and I have been cooking with a new enthusiasm and exuberance. It’s kind of scary, really.  I’m measuring ingredients, chopping garlic into teensy-weensy pieces, and dirtying every pot and pan in the house. My apron has never seen such action. My frig contains fresh produce and herbs, when it’s more accustomed to soured milk and containers of moldy, long-forgotten leftovers. 

What brought on this sudden lapse in providing microwavable misery-on-a-plate, you ask?  I blame it on the Cooking Channel.  I saw a commercial for a company called Blue Apron and I was hooked.  Blue Apron mails you different meals to cook, providing all the ingredients measured out and ready to incorporate into a stunning dish that draws oohs and ahhs from all your friends. Well, at least the ones who can’t cook.  They will eat anything.



So I ordered my first box of Blue Apron which consisted of three different meals for two.  This week it was spiced meatballs, salmon, and chicken something or other. So far, I’ve made the spiced meatballs. It took me 1.5 hours, when the recipe says 20 minutes. I had to learn to cut and smash garlic.  I had to learn to pit olives.  I had to learn about whisking, sautéing, braising, boiling, and a whole bunch of other cooking terms. All of a sudden, this new adventure in which I had plunged was proving to be a pain in the ass.  I’m going back to delivery and dinners-in-a-bag.

Admittedly, it was a little fun in the beginning. The Blue Apron box comes with recipes printed on large laminated paper (so you can wipe off the spaghetti sauce stains and your tears, as they happen).  The recipe cards also tell you how to do each little thing, just in case you’ve been living with your head under a rock, and don’t know an olive pit from a mosh pit.  I was kind of disappointed to learn the difference, to tell the absolute truth.

But I pushed onward.  I chopped that garlic, and I rolled out those meatballs. I made the summer squash salad with lemon juice, no pith.  Yes, I learned about pith, too.  My cookery vocabulary runneth over.  I can talk risotto, scallions and couscous with the best of them.

But I digress. The Blue Apron experience was fun for about five minutes and then it just became work. So what did I take away from this fancy food fiasco?


  • You can put the bad cook in the kitchen, but you can’t make her tasty.


No wait.  Let me try that again.


  • You can give the bad cook fancy cookware, but you can’t blame her when she sells it on eBay.


Dang.  Okay, one more try.


  • If you love your bad cook, let her go.
  • If she doesn’t return, your stomach will thank you.
  • If she does return, put her in handcuffs, order take-out, and watch some “Hell’s Kitchen.”



 **Images from Google Images


Watch Me Watch Me

Last week, our downstairs neighbor called the property management office to complain that we were making too much noise.  The property management office called us and left a voicemail informing us there had been a complaint.  I listened to the voicemail twice.  The first time, I just laughed because my partner and I are pretty sedate and stick to our routine of couch-potato-ing (let’s just pretend potato is a verb for now, shall we?) and TV binge-watching most of the time. Every now and then, however, one of us might get a bit pissed off at the world over-exuberant and shout a “fuck you!” colorful phrase or two at the TV or one another, depending on the situation.

Other than that, we are good neighbors.  I wish we had neighbors like us.  We are awesome neighbors, and the ass-wipe downstairs needs to get a rope with which to hang himself a life.

The second time I listened to the voicemail, I just got mad, and I let it stew, as I tend to do when someone is unreasonable with me.  For example, back when we lived in Ohio, I had a personal vendetta against our garbage collector guy because he would never take more than two bags of trash at a time.  I tried on several occasions to test him by leaving three bags out for his collection.  He left one fucking bag on the curb every single time. Consequently, I hated this man I had never actually seen, because he was doing his job too damned well and according to our contract.  I spent way too much time thinking about the whole thing and how much I wanted to give that garbage collector guy a big one-finger salute piece of my mind. 

Thank goodness, I did refrain from going to war with my garbage collector guy.  We have to pick our battles carefully, right?  You never know who will do something next to bring out your murderous alter ego bad side.

Back to mean neighbor guy from downstairs. I did call the property management office and speak to one of the useless dingbats  office clerks regarding my neighbor’s complaints.  Turns out, he was complaining about the TV being too loud and the creaky floors. 

Okay, he had a definite point about the TV. My partner has hearing problems and turns the TV up so loud, it gives me a headache.  I have tried to persuade her to turn the volume down, but she is one stubborn bitch headstrong woman.

As for the creaky floors, there is not much we can do about that.  Walk lighter, maybe?  Buy a hover-board and surf the air-conditioner currents around the apartment?  Learn to fly?  Move?  Although I could totally get into riding a hover-board, none of those options panned out for us at this current time.  Furthermore, I figured the bad neighbor guy from downstairs must not have a fucking clue  any idea that he had pissed off a couple of vindictive bitches.  Either that, or he’s as dumb as a Republican donating to Donald Trump’s campaign.

Either way, I was letting it stew and the pot was getting thicker and stinkier with each passing moment.  I had a mental closet full of retorts, come-backs, insults, excuses, and snarky rhetoric for mean, horrible neighbor guy from downstairs.

And then I came face to face with the source of my agitation. His name was Will.

I was taking the trash out  (why does everything always lead back to the trash?) and I had four bags to carry.  I also have eighteen stairs to descend with said trash and my cane or walker, whichever I’m using.  That particular morning,  I proceeded to throw all four bags down the stairs and was ready to make my descent, when scary, mean, horrible neighbor guy from downstairs appears out of nowhere.  Actually he had come from his apartment, but I do tend to embellish now and then. 

He pointed to my trash and said, “Is that trash?”

No, moron, those are fifty dead cats. They used to be my pets, but I slaughtered every one of them so they wouldn’t make so much fucking noise! 

I actually didn’t say anything, just nodded yes.

“I’ll take them for you,” he offered, in a friendly, good-neighborly tone.  What had he done with my mean neighbor guy?

I finally found some words. “Thank you very much!  My name is Terri.”  He did not look amused or mad. He just started picking up the trash bags.  I couldn’t help but wish he would have been my garbage collector guy back in Ohio

Upon collecting all four bags of trash, he said, “Not a problem. My name is Will.  Have a good day.”  Then he was gone.

There I stood, at the top of my stairs, mentally erasing each one of the nasty names I had made up for my neighbor guy.  Now he was just “neighbor guy, Will”. 

Before you ask, no I did not completely change my mind about my neighbor.  He still called and complained about two older women making too much noise.

My message to my neighbor, as I let the whole noise/trash/stairs thing go:  Mr. Will, neighbor guy, I’m thinking about taking up a new dance.  You might want to put the property management phone number on your speed dial. Muahhhh!






So, I was feeling guilty for not signing up for this year’s NaNoWriMo writing competition. I got over it pretty quickly, however, when I remembered I have all but neglected my blog. 

Then, I got past the guilt feelings for not writing by remembering I haven’t been doing much exercising, reading, cleaning house, or anything requiring much movement or planning.

And I got past those feelings by - you guessed it - taking a nice, long nap in my easy-chair after eating my way through the leftover Halloween candy, today’s Sunday dinner, and the traditional Broncos game-day nachos.

Do you see a pattern here?  A very ugly pattern.

It would appear I have a rare disease known as NaNoWhyMe.  There’s no cure, but there is a mandatory two day quarantine, wherein the afflicted is locked in a small room with only a bed, toilet, wine-box, crackers and Nutella. No writing is allowed, but there is a fully-unabridged dictionary to stave off loneliness.  We writers really only need our words to keep us company, right? I just wish I knew what the hell ‘unabridged’ means in regards to a dictionary. And why haven’t I ever wondered about that before?

So many puzzles.  So little brain activity left with which to solve said puzzles.

And to add insult to injury, the Broncos just had their asses handed to them on a silver platter by the New England Patriots. 

I’m having a bad day. I’m having a NaNoWhyMe kind of day.

The only light that could possibly remain in this day is tonight’s episode of The Walking Dead.

Yes, folks, it takes a bunch of zombies to save me from the Wahhhmbulance.  They call them walkers on the show, in case you weren’t up-to-speed on your TWD protocol.

Those crazy, flesh-eating walkers can make my frown turn upside-down.  It might be the only cure for my NaNoWhyMe curse.

I’ll let you know how it all pans out.  If you don’t hear from me, it just means the disease has progressed past the point of no return, or the walkers have eaten my brains and I can no longer string two sentences together.

NaNoWhyMe.  It’s a thing. Don’t let it infect you. You might want to stock up on antibiotics to keep the wretchedness at bay, but I think binge-watching all seasons of The Walking Dead might be the best way to build up immunity to the dreaded NaNoWhyMe’s.

Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.  Because they sure aren’t working for me.

***By the way, I looked up unabridged and it just means not shortened. Boring definition. But the million dollar question is, does it renew my interest in dictionaries?



Image from Google Images


So they are calling it a rematch

So they are calling it a rematch.

Remember the last Super Bowl?  It was not pretty. Broncos’ fans all over the nation have simply been trying to forget it and move on to this new season.

Ah, but the NFL gods and all those pesky Seahawk fans will not stop talking about that bloody massacre.  It was one of the Broncos’ darkest days.

So shut the fuck up, already, and let’s play some football! 

No more talking about a rematch.  Today’s game is not a rematch. Players have been traded and the teams are not last year’s teams, for crying out loud. Some of those reporters sitting up in that observation booth, wherever it is, take every opportunity to dish doubt and ugliness about my precious Broncos. I think they hide their location to keep rabid Broncos’ fans from going all The Walking Dead on their asses.

Ah, if only I had a cross bow and their GPS.  Just sayin..

Anyhow, I’m over it.

It’s less than an hour before the game.  I just need to don my Broncos jersey, orange comfy socks, dangly earrings, and hat. Then I need to hang my Broncos flag and dust off my John Elway bobble-head doll and rub his tummy for luck.

For luck, I swear! Minds out of the gutter please. I’m not that kind of kinky.

After morphing my home into a Broncos’ shrine, I will order up some food. Not cooking today. It could be a real screamer of a game, and I need to preserve my energy. I’m thinking Sweet and Sour Chicken, some fried rice and egg roll.  Okay, it may not be your normal football cuisine, but I haven’t been normal for decades, so deal with it.  A true fan understands these things.

However.  I feel like I am forgetting something.

Oh wait, the cheerleaders! We cannot forget the Broncos’ Cheerleaders!  Here’s a photo, lest you’ve forgotten about how vital they are to the whole Broncos’ experience. 

You’re welcome.

Three thoughts to leave you with:

  • The Broncos will show up. Unlike last year’s Super Bowl.
  • The Broncos will not be intimidated by the noise of thousands of Seattle Seahawks screaming, “Go Hawks!”  Real original, Seattle. How much are you paying your marketing team to come up with that one?
  • The Broncos will win or lose.   I will have a more definitive answer after the game.  And if I happen to doze off during the game and miss the final score, I am quite sure my dear friend and Hawks fan, Tracy, will be more than happy to enlighten me.

Okay three more things:

In the words of the lovely April, a new Broncos’ fan, “Let’s do the damn thang!”

My cute little sister would say, “Let’s get ‘er done!”

My partner would probably say, as she awakens from her nap during the first quarter of the game, “Is it over yet? Can we rent a movie now?”

I concur on all of the above.  I might add, “I only got 2.5 glasses of wine from that bottle?  WTF?”

Okay enough of this silliness.  Peyton Manning, would just hunker down and shout, “Omaha!”


Game On!!!


**Images from Google Images



Stuff I should probably keep to myself


Here’s the thing.

I haven’t blogged in months, so I’m not sure how this will go.  Oh, I have thought about blogging, even fretted over it, but nary a word have I typed.   


This is September, my favorite month.  I come out of my summer-funk in September. I am like a bear leaving his cave after a long winter’s hibernation. Grumpy. Hungry. And generally not feeling sociable.  So you might want to stay low and out of range, as throwing glass and sharp objects is not out of the question.  Fair warning, people.

I should not look at Face Book first thing in the morning. I really should wait until after breakfast. That way I have my wits about me and am not as tempted to post snarky retorts to all those Republican Obama haters, Bible-thumpers, and nay-sayers.  And while I’m on a rant, Kale sucks, too.  I’m not a fan.  I’ll take a big old helping of collard greens instead, thank you very much.

Oh yea, and what is up with all the selfies.  Seriously?  Is it totally necessary to post a selfie for every freaking minute of your life?  No one is that attractive…well, except for Jennifer Lopez, who doesn’t need to take selfies.  She has people for that. In my next life, I want to come back as JLo’s smart phone.  I might have a short life, but it would so be worth the ride.

At this point, if you have not already abandoned this post, you might be asking yourself, “Is there anything this crazy bitch likes at all on Face Book?” 

I’m thinking. 

Stand by…


I like the kitten, puppy, and baby posts and videos. They take me to my happy place.  Just viewing all that cuteness is almost as effective as medicinal pot, but much less expensive.  Not that I have had any experience with the magic weed, you understand.  Ahem. Let’s move on, shall we?

Going forward, we have a presidential election coming up in 2016, with all that implies.  Face Book will be a-buzz many months before the election, with news, opinions, and factoids.  And, by factoids, I really mean hatred-spewing from people who have no idea about government and how it actually works.  They just want to hop on the bandwagon and post their ignorance.  When it all begins, I will be unfriending and unfollowing the multitudes. I wish to convey my apologies ahead of time.  You all know where I stand with politics.  I don’t have to preach.  Consequently, I don’t want to be the recipient of said preaching. 

But I still love you all.  Just wake me when it’s over.  I promise if the other side wins, I will not be unhappy. I will not bash our new president.  I will, instead, seek counseling.

At the local bar. 

Margarita on the rocks, please, bartender!

Thank god for football. 

Go Broncos!




Don't wake me until September

Yes folks, summer is upon us.  And I’m living the nightmare dream.

Bikinis, cool drinks, BBQ’s, outdoor concerts, swimming pools, the ice cream truck, no school, and the yearly vacation in the trusty family truckster.  Wally World here we come!

That’s what summer means to a lot of people.

But for me?  Not so much.

Summer is to me like winter is to someone living in Minnesota.  I dread it every year, and I swear that it seems longer Every. Single. Year.  Maybe that is because of global warming.  Thanks a lot, all you hairspray abusers from the 80s out there. I’m melting and it’s because of you and your need for big hair.

Having lived in Las Vegas for almost nine years, one would think I would hate summer because of the 110+ temperatures from late May until early September.  Oh wait, that is why I hate summer!  However, I was never very fond of summer, even long before I moved to the desert.  I lived in Ohio before Vegas, and although the summer was not as long, it still kicked my ass with the heat and humidity. It really brought out the worst side of me. I was a grumpy bitch. I fretted and I mumbled. I was dripping sweat all the time. I even perspired while getting out of the shower.  It was not pretty, people. My apologies for any visuals you may have conjured up that you will never be able to un-see.  Consider it a gift.

Second only to the heat, mosquitos and creepy-crawly critters make me want to wrap myself up in a box and mail it to Alaska.  I’m not proud to be a squeamish fraidy-cat. However, “Damn the conservationists!  The world would do just fine with a lot less spiders and snakes.”  They are all just sneaky little spawn of Satan! 

My third reason for hating summer would be my poor hands.  All summer long, I get burned touching the car door handle. You’d think I would just stop that behavior, but it’s not easy.  I never seem to remember to bring along anything to put between my hands and that gaud-awful freakishly hot vehicle.  It’s just not right. The car industry needs to invent a cooling mechanism for said handles that can be remotely controlled or even triggered to immediately cool down after reaching a certain temperature.  I wonder if anyone has thought of that. I could invent it and go on Shark Tank and be mocked, humiliated and insulted by a panel of rich assholes.  What an adventure that would be!

But I digress, as I’ve been guilty of so many times in the past. Forgive me. I didn’t have my oatmeal this morning. You might want to keep your distance today.  I could blow any minute.

My fourth and final reason for hating summer is the dance I call The Thermostat Shuffle.  You may not be familiar with the name, but I’ll bet you’ve experienced the dance.  It requires two participants with opposing preferences for room temperature. The way it works is Dancer #1 does the sneaky slide over to the thermostat, hoping not to be noticed by Dancer #2. It is just too freaking cold in the room, and she has to make her move before morphing into a human Popsicle. She changes the thermostat setting with one smooth flick of the wrist, and then glides away, ever so graceful and pleased with herself.

Shortly thereafter, Dancer #2 begins fanning her face because of the sudden lack of coolness in the room. With stealth-like precision, she leaps from the couch, does a double-looped turn, and sashays on over to the thermostat like a sexy jewel-thief about to lift the Hope Diamond.  Yes, folks, she’s done this dance before.  She’s got skills.  She slides the thermostat needle silently upwards with a perfectly manicured fingernail. (Wouldn’t want to leave any fingerprints)  She is, after all, a professional.

As the room continues to cool, Dancer #1 takes notice and is mildly amused, knowing Dancer #2 is only flirting with her. It’s all about the dance, of course.  Dancer #1 decides a few more forceful moves might be in order.  So she boogies on over to Dancer #2, who is obviously enjoying her nice cool air, and shake–shake-shakes a finger in her partner’s face.

“It’s too Cold in here, honey”  says Dancer #1, with a sweet but determined tone.

“No No, it’s too Hot in here, honey” says her partner, turned adversary, turned pissed-off, turned determined to win, whatever she has to do.

“We’ll just see about that, HONEY” says Dancer #1, face getting red, pulse racing.

“Okay, bring it on, HONEY” retorts her beloved Dancer #2, matching her volume, neighbors-be-damned.

Dancer #2 rises from the couch to meet her partner, toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye, stubborn streak to stubborn streak.

Then, as if a gun had gone off to signify the start of a horse race, both dancers jumped the couch and sprinted to the thermostat. 

I get there first. Ha!

Oh wait, I forgot to tell you…I’m Dancer #2. 

I protect the thermostat setting with my life. I even gloat a little by dancing a little jig and humming a little tune.

My partner, Dancer #1, love of my life, just smiles.

I hate it when she does that.

She walks away, knowing full well what we both know.

She’ll be back when I’m not looking, damn it all.

And the dance will begin all over again.


So you’re probably wondering if there is anything at all I like about summer.  I sat down and gave it some thought.  I think better sitting down.  Especially with a glass of wine in my hand.  So I sat down and had a glass of wine while I searched my brain for something I might like about summer.  And then it hit me like a gallon jug of Boone’s Farm Tickled Pink!

In fact, I came up with two things!

Wine coolers. And watermelon. Watermelon Wine Coolers! 

Bring it, Summer!  I got this.






 *Images from Google Images


Mother's Day Rerun Post: Oh Momma!

Reposting a silly Mother's Day tribute from last year.  You're welcome...

Another Mothers’ Day is upon us. Some of us are scrambling to find that perfect gift that will surprise and delight Mom. Others are just hoping to select something for Mom that doesn’t trigger her sarcastic/sadistic/soooo-crazy side.  Good luck with those gift selections, people.   My advice?  Don’t waste too much time fretting over your selection.  You will not get it right.  Just face it and prepare for the impending storm.  Your time would be better spent stocking up on sandbags (to fill and block all entrances to your house. This works until Mom realizes she can drive a bulldozer, and she can rent one for cheap) and garlic (to ward off evil mommy-is-possessed spirits and counteract any spells she may have cast).

You can’t win, so retreat.  Don’t worry about waving the white flag, because Mom has built-in radar and will find you. You can run but you can’t hide. Mom is coming after her Mothers’ Day gift and you’d better be ready.  Hide your wife/husband/partner because Mom will blame everything on them, and you want to avoid a family violence 9-1-1 call on Mothers’ Day, if at all possible. Put all the kids on the front lines front porch to hopefully avert Mom’s attention while you make your escape.  Mom’s a sucker for her grandkids. They are like kryptonite. She has no defense.  She will turn into a mushy, gushy Nana right before your eyes. 

Sometimes resorting to such low-class measures is the only thing that will save you. Just do it. And don’t’ look back.

And just when you think you’ve experienced enough maternal madness for one year, you remember you have a Mother-in-Law.   MIL for short, and code for Monster If Loaded…whatever you do, don’t buy her any alcohol.  She has had plans to get rid of you for years now and selecting the wrong gift could be just the catalyst she needs to execute. 

You don’t want to piss MIL off.  MIL has skills. MIL has secrets of which you are not privy. MIL has given birth to your husband/wife/partner and there’s not a damned thing you can do about that. 

MIL will feign acceptance, warmth, and wisdom when you first meet her, but don’t let her cute-little-oldladyness fool you.  You took her baby away from her.  She may forgive but she will never forget.  When selecting a gift for this kind of MIL, walk softly and carry a credit card with a huge limit.

MIL can be bought.  What?  You think you’re the only one who can’t leave Kohl’s without buying another handbag? 


MIL will leap several aisles in a single bound in order to pry a coveted handbag from another woman’s bleeding hands.  She can be brutal.  How did you think your husband/wife/partner got their stubborn streak?

You have no idea what you’re dealing with.  Sleeping with one eye open wouldn’t be a bad idea around this time of year.

Just sayin…   Forewarned is forearmed.

Happy Mother’s Day! If you need me, I’ll be in my bunker bedroom with my blankie. Just slide my Mother’s Day gift under the door and go away.






**Images from Google Images