REVOLUTION!

Because, obviously, we have a strict do-not-feed policy around here.

Words with Friends?

I have a (rather long) list of words that I actively dislike. The most hated word in the English dictionary--MOIST, like I even need to write it down for you--is of course prime among them. There are a few others that are maybe not so predictable:

• pouch
• trousers
• shrimp (try saying it aloud without sounding like someone you don't want to be)
• gusset
• morsel
• parsnip (obviously)
• Guglielmo (who the hell knows how to pronounce that??)

Today, however, my least favorite word in the whole freakin' universe (after "moist") is "actually," as in "Actually, mom, you only asked me to put on my coat four times, not five." "Actually, mom, Jerry Potts had tuberculosis." "Actually, mom, Pluto is not a planet." "Actually, mom, there isn't a pokemon called U-Green-Poo." I WAS BEING FUNNY. 

It happened so quickly. One day, and I swear it was yesterday, Kid believed in me and my Very Great Brain. Today? I am one of the stupider forms of oatmeal. If Mark Twain is right, I have to wait until my son is 21 before I'm going to get any respect--at which point I will have been at Shady Acres for probably a decade already. 

"Actually, mom," I can hear him saying, "they don't take people at Shady Acres until they're 60, so you'll only have been there for two years." 

I may be the only middle-aged woman on my block to start adding ten years to her age. Much more of the lippy kid shenanigans, and I won't have any trouble passing for 60.

Bloggerfodder

Life has been so boring. I haven't been able to come up with anything to write about here for what seems like 10 months. The dog . . . barked, howled, got dirty. The Kid said . . . you know, what kids say. DH . . . is beyond all reproach and consequently not fodder for a blogger.

So anyhow, you might be asking, Lorraine, what has driven you to sit down today to Worn Ragged?

Here's why, and you're welcome.

Wednesday. The door shuts on the last of the men of this household as he bobbles down the sidewalk to where his ride to school is waiting. The dog goes back to bed. It is Wednesday. Wednesday is the Day of Reckoning around here. Things are tidied, cleaned, put in unusual places in order to surprise and delight me later when in a panicked search. "Oh, aren't I hilarious," I am wont to say upon discovering a can of chickpeas in the dishwasher detergent tub under the sink. "How I do amuse myself and make my own life diverting. I love me."

Multi-tasking is the key to getting done all of the things that I contract with myself to do on Wednesday mornings. Put the brown rice to soak WHILE the handtowels are being washed. Disinfect bathroom sinks WHILE books are being reshelved.

Remove unsightly facial hair WHILE tidying the front hall.

Forget all about the Olay Smooth Finish Creme smeared liberally on my upper lip (and maybe a little on "that chin" as Queenie the neighborhood manicurist likes to call it) WHEN the Canada Post man rings the doorbell.

"What an odd man" I thought, recalling his buggy eyes and smirking twitchy mouth, as I brought the Amazon box into the foyer and placed it on the table under the mirror.

"Bloggerfodder," I whispered as I caught my pseudo-Santa reflection.

BLOGGERFODDER!