Aging ain't for sissies. Neither is chronic pain.

Posts tagged ‘writing’

To Hell in a Hand Basket

What is a blogger to do when they don’t have anything to say?  How does one make an interesting blog when nothing interesting is happening?  Perhaps a blogger could make an entire post of nothing but questions.  Here’s one…why do they call a place where you park a driveway but a place where you drive a parkway?  And who is they?  Where do they live?  Do they make a living coming up with totally lame questions?  I’d like to meet they someday and find out what all the fuss is about.

There are other things I wonder about.  For instance how is it that a husband can come home to a perfectly clean house only to have it go to hell in a hand basket in 60 seconds flat?  And that brings me to the whole hell-in-a-hand-basket thing.  Why a hand basket?  Why not a baking pan?  Going to hell in a hand basket makes about as much sense as schlepping around in a baking pan.

How come it is so freaking hard to find a bra that fits?  I’d rather have someone tap dance on my eyelashes in stilettos than shop for a bra.  Either they are so tight you can’t take a deep breath without fearing an internal explosion or you’re spilling out, leaving rolls of boobage to bounce around wild and free.  (Funny story – the other day I was in the store walking past the intimate apparel department when I noticed a woman with a 10 – 11 year old boy in the bra section.  He stared wide-eyed at the bras and rather loudly said, “I like theeeeeeeese!”  They start so young, those boys.)

Why does the postal carrier or UPS guy always come to the door when Mother Nature calls?  There is nothing quite as awkward as trying to run to the front door while pulling up one’s pants.  (You know, sometimes life is too funny.  Just now as I was sitting here typing, I noticed the mail carrier pulling out of our driveway and up to our mailbox.  I go out to retrieve the mail and I see that she left a package by my front door.  Seems to me that if she was going to go to the trouble of coming up the driveway, getting out of her vehicle and walking to my door to leave the package, she would have the inclination to ring the freaking doorbell to let me know she left something on my doorstep.  How does she know it’s not something extremely valuable like diamonds or chocolate?) 

I guess at the end of the day these things aren’t all that important.  What really matters is what we do with our day, what we accomplish, how we feel.  As for me I’m going to have a chocolate bar, weave a hand basket and begin my hunt for the ever elusive “perfect” bra.  I wonder what they would have to say about that.


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