I've been schooled by a very serious three year old. Her name is Libby and the topic for discussion was MONSTERS. She wanted to be certain I knew what was what. Here's what I didn't know;

There is a GOOP MONSTER!   You will know them by the “curly wiggly things going all around their heads.  If they catch you, they will GOOP you with the wiggly things.”  Lucky for us they can't see through blankets!  So it's best to keep a blanket handy.

And a WALL MONSTER!  The Wall Monster will “stick you up with tape”.  BUT, Wall Monsters CAN see through blankets.   Running as fast as you can and hiding behind the couch is the only to stay safe from them.

And finally – the FAN (ceiling fan) MONSTER! They will “catch you up and stick on the fan.  Once they do you can never come down!”  Fan Monsters are tough.  They can see through blankets and couches.  Your only hope for avoiding capture by one of them is to hide behind a PRETEND bush.  But, it has to be pretend because they can see through real bushes. 

Thanks Libby!! I will keep an eye out.

I don't know where to start.  More to the point, I don't want to do this post. You see, I am grieving.  Grieving deeply for my precious Buntah who left us on the first of January.  To open my mouth, even if it is only typing, is to open the spillway from whence my tears and whole heart may flow, and I might never get them back again.  Actually I'm not worried about tears or if I'll have anymore, because it seems, I have a never ending supply.  My heart is what I'm worried about.  Is it gone?  No. But it is shattered and no longer whole.  It continues to beat, but I can barely breathe.  If you don't know this about me so far, know it now.  When I love, I love "all in".  And I LOVED BUNTAH WITH ALL MY HEART.  And missing her hurts clear to my bones and back.  I tried so hard to save her, but in the end, I just couldn't.  Logically, my brain knows I did all I could and then some.  Logically, my brain knows there was something wrong with her that couldn't be fixed (her doctor confirms that).  But the problem for me, is that I don't live in logic.  I live in my heart, and my heart thinks that love alone should have been enough to save her.

I have this driving need to pay tribute to her, but I can't find words, or symbols or gestures enough to fully honor what she meant to me and who she was to me. She came into my life with all that she was and became more than she was to begin with.  She was my miracle.  I watched a magical process unfold with her that I was blessed to be a part of it. 

Buntah wasn't born a domesticated being, she was born and survived in the wild until the night I found her.  I'm not one that believes in plucking creatures from the wild just "cuz I wanna".  But I will, and have on more than one occasion rescued an animal in distress. Buntah was in dire circumstances the night I found her. We brought her in to save her life with the intent to release her somewhere safe.  After ten days of exploring options, and finally being told that her life would most likely end in the jaws of a snake somewhere - in a pet store or in the wild, we decided to keep her.  By then we had fallen in love with her and named her.  I made her a promise that night; I promised her I would learn all that I could about caring for her needs, and I promised her I would do my best to give her a happy home.  I was true to my word. 

But Buntah, Buntah was the miracle.  Once she realized she was being cared for and no longer had to fear for her safety or forage for her own food, she relaxed into our world and an amazing person emerged.  She was curious, had clear preferences and desires, and to our delight, she realized she liked being a "PEOPLE".  She liked snuggling, she loved being read and sung to, she loved her massages, and she loved music. Her main house (for awhile she had two) was in the dining room near the big computer.  When either Piper or I were using it, Buntah would come to the edge of her house and watch what was on the screen. She was very, very good at letting us know what was on her mind. She begged to be held and to come interact with us.  She had moods, she had attitude, she had determination and spunk.  She had an undeniable way of letting us know if and when we had displeased her, she actually pouted!! When we talked to her she actually listened - unless of course she wasn't in the mood. In those instances she would simply turn her back on you and walk away.  She even sneezed and yawned, the tiniest sneezes and yawns you can ever imagine. Who knew toads did these things? I certainly didn't until she came along. When she was being held, if we tried to put her down before she was ready, she wrapped her little arms around our hand and held on tight just like any child would do, or if she couldn't get a good grip, she'd scramble to stay.  I'm telling you, she was a pocket sized little person, except that her personality was huge.  It would take chapters of writing to try and tell all that she was. I know there is no way I can make you understand what she mean t to me, and how deeply she affected me.  There is no way I can verbalize the depths of my sorrow at losing her.  She was a remarkable little being and my world is darkened without her.

                                                                                        - - - - - - - - - - - - -

How did she go?  In Piper's loving arms.  I was on the other side of the country at the time.  Why wasn't I here with her?  Because someone else I loved and cherished passed away unexpectedly just days before Christmas. The service for my friend was on Dec. 31st.  I was only going to be gone for a few days.  By mid-December, Buntah had reached a plateau, she wasn't getting worse and was still very much in there, interactive and engaging.  I had created and implemented a daily physical therapy protocol for Buntha that she'd been responding well to.  I taught Piper the protocol, and I really felt Buntah would still be alive when I returned.  Not so.  She passed away just hours before I was to board a flight for home.  Poor Piper had to take immediate care of her body.  We had Buntah cremated, a letter I wrote to her three days after her passing explains why. The letter is in my COLLECTIONS section of this site. This link, "Dearest Buntah", should take you to it if you'd like to read it.

It's nearly 2:00 a.m., I am exhausted now.  No, I haven't decided yet what to do with Buntah's blog.  It's taken all I've got just   to get to this point, making this announcement.  I have a long way to go to work through this grieving process. My energies and heart are greatly diminished.



                 How could I not miss this face?!!!

Happy times have been few and far between around here lately. Bunta has been really sick for the last couple of weeks, and doesn’t seem to be bouncing back like she has before. I swear, when that little person is sick, I’m a basket case, practically paralyzed. Her doctor says we are doing the best that can be done for her short of super expensive surgery that she may not survive anyway. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. But prayers for Bunta, and Piper and I, will be most appreciated.

The results of the election two days ago has this household in turmoil, well, at least ONE someone. No matter how it turned out, I knew one of us was going to be disappointed. I expected that disappointment to be handled with maturity and grace, but that is not the case. Also, I am STUNNED by what I’m seeing from my fellow Americans – vicious, hate-filled protests, fights and even flag burning! Seriously? Flag burning because your candidate didn’t win? I am saddened and sickened by what I’m seeing. DON’T BURN MY FLAG!!! America doesn’t need a president to destroy us, we are on the way to doing that ourselves.

And Christmas is coming, can we just slow things down a bit? I think a neutral week should be declared, a whole week of national rest and grounding, before we start sprinting toward the holidays. Anyone agree?

I finally did it and it only took me all of three hours!!! I know, three hours sounds like a lot. It FELT like a lot.  I am no good at this techy stuff. I'm sure there are those who could've done what I tried to do in about fifteen minutes. It's discouraging enough to put me off trying the other videos I have of Bunta. They take too long for me to process and I've got other things I need to do as well - like WRITE!! I have two short stories and several children's stories I'm working on and would like to COMPLETE some day and have to work around WORK and other responsibilities.  To say I'm frustrated is an understatement.

For the last 9 days, I've been dog/house sitting.  The house is great, roomy with lots of windows.  It also has a large screen TV. I don't have TV at my house, only a DVD for movies.  So having access to something as trivial as the news has been a big deal for me.  Spent the first four days getting caught up on the rest of the world, via the tube, and also realizing that beyond the news, Presidential Debates, and access to football games, there is nothing I'm missing out on.  So I should've been able to get a lot of writing down right? Wrong.  The very first night to be over here, I had to return to MY house for a few things I forgot. Then a quick trip to the grocery.  That wasn't a problem.  The problem was, that when I came out from the grocery store, my car was dead.  All lights, windows, locks etc., worked but the engine would not turn over!  Of course it was 10 pm on a Saturday and I was supposed to be at a house 12 miles across town.  AAA towed my dead car to my house and a friend gave me a ride out where I was supposed to be.  So a lot of my time of my week of rest and writing was spent trying to take care of this car.  Public transit took hours as compared to minutes, Uber was more TIME efficient, but not cost effective from this distance.  My time these last eight days has not been spent doing what I'd hoped.

And then there is the "Dog" himself.  HIGH maintenance little Shitzu.  Yeeaaahh.  He has a knack for knowing when I'm actually getting into MY writing groove and he does not like NOT being the center of attention.  He barks and he whines and he growls whenever I sit down at my laptop to write.  And then there is his hair, it's a problem.  His people parents like him having really long - ponytail long - hair on top of his head.  He also has long hair all around his face.  So when he eats or drinks, the soggy food and water gets all over in his facial hair. You have to chase him down to clean him up because he doesn't like the cleaning process.  Then he shakes his head ferociously which dislodges the ponytail!! And of course that has to be redone or hair hangs in his eyes and he can't see a thing.  So, no long chunks of free time to write.  I have to work on the other side of town tomorrow, fortunately my car is working and I've got it back, but it's and hour commute each way. Tomorrow will be a long day. 

So I’ve been considering the shape – and location - of my breasts at the age of 53. Why am I considering this? Well, darn, because every time I lay down on my back, my breasts disappear into my armpits.  The nipples are confused too. Used to be they looked heavenward, now they’re just hangdog eyeballing the ground. It’s a problem.  I don’t want implants, but it would be nice to reign these puppies in and have them re-centered and their gaze redirected to appreciate the sun.

Tonight was the first time I’ve done any research on the possibilities and procedures.  This kills me; do you know what they use as a test to determine if a lift is needed?  They call it the “pencil test”. Basically, while standing, if you place a pencil under your breast, and it stays in place, you have the droops.  Well chit, my boobies could hold my friggin wallet under there no problem!!! Guess I have the droops - or the dropsies, or flopsies, whatever term you like.  But now the problem is, I saw what they do to your girls during surgery, I nearly fainted, and my tongue is dry from my mouth not being able to close for a full thirty minutes!!  Um, OOOOOOOUCH!!!!!!!  And this is done as an outpatient surgery??  They cut, they sew, they hack away and re-form with a possible surgical staple finish.  Staples?? To snag and grab – OH I DON’T THINK SO!! Of course they warn of possible ‘mild discomfort for next few days and suggest pain medication may be prescribed.  Ya think?? Oh yes, I think so.  And not for just a week. And then there’s the scarring.  Yeah, it’s not pretty. Nice half circle smile under each breast with a straight line up to the areola.  After a year the scarring should fade some. But in the meantime, how would I feel about these scars being visible to others at times when I may want to roam around the natural world in nothing but my birthday suit?  Hmmmmmmm, something else to consider.

So what do I think now??  Well, I think I’d have to want this re-construction to my tender parts p.r.e.t.t.y. d.a.r.n. b.a.d.!!  Or, come to terms with having a new place to carry my wallet and nipple dragging. No matter what, aging and what gravity does to my body SUCKS!!!

My two oldest daughters each have a five year old daughter of her own. They are also both single parents, and both working in the lower wage earning echelons of the medical field. Means they have important jobs, work hospital hours, but don’t get the doctor’s bucks. Since they work hospital hours, day-care for their daughters on weekends, after school and in the middle of the night, is basically not available for them. They have combined their formidable, creative forces and arranged schedules so that one sister has the girls while the other sister works and vice versa. From the little girl’s perspectives, the Adult On Board for the day will either be her own Mother, or her Auntie. Thus the term “Mom-tie”. It is appropriate and works no matter which child is using it.

So far, this sounds more glorious and glamorous than it really is. Motherhood at its very best, even with a great co-partner on board, can never be called glorious OR glamorous. The pace and responsibility of Single-Motherhood is exhausting, mind-boggling, overwhelming, and can get downright ugly. There is no harder job on this planet. Having been a single mother myself, I know what these two women are up against. Having raised these two women, and now see their daughters, I know what these two are really up against.

Ever heard of The Mother’s Curse? You know, those words that may have escaped your clenched teeth in moments of your own parenting despair; “someday, I hope you get a child who acts just like you!” Believe in the curse, it works. In this case, that’s the bad news AND the good news. Spirited, sneaky, brains under single management – their own, and FIRE, FIRE, FIRE, are words I would have used to describe these sisters. As well as, fun, energetic, curious, loyal, creative, imaginative, delightful, hearts as big as their spirits and better than gold. The spirit of each girl filled whatever room she entered and made it sparkle with magic. I have also just described their daughters. In truth, my daughters are both raising a miniature version of herself – and her sister. Wait, does that constitute a double curse? Uh-oh, not sure, but maybe. Karma, it can really be a bitch.

Technically the five year olds are cousin’s, but they are all but joined physically at the hip. Same age, same school, same CLASSROOM in school, same family and same care-givers. The mother’s at least have breaks from each other while at work. The girls do not. They are being raised as sisters. Means they are BF’s, thick as thieves - and just as sneaky one minute, and at each other’s throats the next. It’s a love hate relationship which just amps up the good times and moments of exasperation for their Mom’s.  (As well as their school teacher, but that’s for another time, God bless her.)

When my girls were younger, would I have wished this life for them? Did I wish tears, struggles and exhaustion on them? No. I did hope my children would always be close. I wanted for them to have a life of joy. I had hoped their lives would fall nicely and quietly into place for them. I wished for them picture perfect. I hoped for them the greatest of blessings from Heaven.  

Picture perfect is a fantasy. Blessings are real. And these two grown women are blessed and bless each other – and their daughters and nieces. I am not physically within distance to help them and enjoy them and their daughters like I always hoped I would be (one of the greatest sorrows of my life). But these two each have their sister. And that’s solid. How to love each other was never a problem. How to make life beautiful was never a problem. How to fight and disagree without killing each other, now that, has been a problem. For two plus decades. To see these amazing women grow and mature and weather their storms as individuals and as a team is better than perfect. To watch them carve out their lives with their bare hands, to see their strength leaves me in awe. To watch them ride the tides of their own humanity and their own womanhood is thrilling to me as their mother. To know the beauty of each of them through and through, to be deemed Mother and Friend to them, is one of my greatest joys. Their amazing daughters, who are so much like their mothers, are another. These two have shown me The Mother’s Curse can be a blessing. All Hail The Momtie!!!
 
 

Mostly what you hear about peri-menopause is ‘hot flashes, hot flashes’. No one tells you your Hormones will go Freaky Deaky Rambo Balistic on you, and take over Command Central terrorist style. They forget to mention the hormonal changes during pregnancy, as compared to the hormonal disruptions of peri-menopause, are like the difference between an assault rifle and a nuclear bomb. Especially when it comes to cravings. There IS no pretty picture here. There is no middle ground. When Hormones are in charge of cravings, there are no peace-talks. And you are the prisoner.

First thing this morning, before I even opened my eyes, I received the following URGENT memo from my taste buds; “We require a Maple Bar. Mission rating – Top Priority.”

Trying to maintain a semblance of reason and better health, I got up and toasted half a double fiber English muffin. When it popped, I buttered it, chewed it and sent it down the gullet. Within seconds, there was trouble. The following is the resulting conversation between my Taste Buds and the Reasonable Me.

TASTE BUDS: “What the hell was that?”

ME: “THAT, was a healthier choice.  It was a double fiber English muffin. With butter.”

TASTE BUDS: “Seriously? You think we can’t tell the difference between a maple bar and a stupid fiber English muffin? Refer to this morning’s memo.”

So, I toasted the other half of the English muffin, but this time smeared it with tasty apricot jam.  Chew, chew, swallow, swallow, down the shoot it goes. Two seconds later,

TASTE BUDS: “Really? Did you seriously just try to pass off apricot jam as maple bar frosting? Pathetic. We REQUIRE A MAPLE BAR – M.A.P.L.E.  B.A.R. Savvy? Kapeesh? Comprende? It’s a simple request, can you handle that?”

ME: “Yeah, but maple bars aren’t healthy.”

TASTE BUDS: “So.”

ME: “So, I’d have to get dressed and drive up to Safeway.”

TASTE BUDS: “And the problem, with that, is what?”

ME: “Yeah, but, I am the boss.”

TASTE BUDS: “No, you’re not. Lily (grand-daughter) is the boss of all the people. She even said so. Not you.”

ME: “Yeah, but, you ANSWER to me!”


TASTE BUDS: “WRONG Kemosabe!!! We have sworn our allegiance to the ULTIMATE POWER.”

ME: “WHO has more power than ME??!!”

TASTE BUDS: “Your Hormones. And they serve The Dark Side. They have cookies over there.”
 
Ten minutes later, I was pulling into a parking spot at Safeway. As I was turning off the car, I received another memo from The Dark Side;
 
TASTE BUDS: “Uh-oh.”

ME: “Uh-oh, what?”

TASTE BUDS: “Girl Scouts at two o’clock.”

ME: “How the heck do you know?”

TASTE BUDS: “Radar.”

ME: “Of course.”

   (brief pause)

TASTE BUDS: “Well?”

ME: “Well what?”

TASTE BUDS: “Can we get some?”

ME: “You dragged me up here for a maple bar!”

TASTE BUDS: “Yaaaa . . . . . So?”

ME: “SooOOoo?!”

TASTE BUDS: “Soooo, you REALLY love Thin Mints too.”

ME: “Geeesh, #!@!%&* FINE ALREADY!! But I’m NOT spending five bucks on a single box of cookies, I don’t care how cute those Girl Scouts are. I’ll get Safeway Fudge Mints!

     (brief pause)

TASTE BUDS: “You’ll have to hide them from Piper.”

ME: “Your point?”

TASTE BUDS: “You hate that.”

ME – through clenched teeth: ”I’ll DEAL.”

Twenty minutes later, after eating the whole maple bar and half a bag of cookies, I got another memo from The Dark Side;

TASTE BUDS: “Uumm . . . . . . hello? . . . . . . . . . . Heeeelllllo?”

ME: “NOW WHAT? You got your maple bar AND fudge mints! Which, by the way, weren’t even part of the deal. What could you possibly want NOW?”

TASTE BUDS: “Well . . . . yes we did, and Thank you. They were lovely, but . . . . . . . “

ME: “But, WHAT?”

TASTE BUDS:  “They weren’t salty.”

ME: “Of course they weren’t salty! You wanted SUGAR!”

TASTE BUDS: “Aaannnd there wasn’t any bacon.”

ME: “Bacon? Now you want salt AND bacon??”

TASTE BUDS: “Not for us. For the Hormones.”

ME: “I’ll go suck the salt off a saltine.”

TASTE BUDS: “Wow, that’s big of you.  But what about the bacon?”

ME: “I don’t have any bacon!”

TASTE BUDS:  “Yeah, but McDonalds does, and they’re right next to Safeway.”

(Forgive me followers, I have sinned. It' been five months since my last contribution. And God knows how long before that. Here is my penitent Hail Mary.)

Walmart is always a good time, right? At best I can say there's never a lack of opportunity for testing patience. Which is why I avoid going there like I would the plague. Last night’s plunge into the perils of Walmart, may have shed new light on the secret life of Pallet Pushers. Or the measure used to calculate their pay. It’s not how you’d think.

Another thing you have to take into consideration if you're going into Walmart is the flow of traffic. It's best to know the layout of the store and organize your list according to location of desired products. That way, you can slip into the main stream and make your exits and re-emergences accordingly and without causing pile-ups. If you've planned your trip carefully you can make it out without back tracking.   

Maruchan Ramen, those cheap thirty cent packets of dried noodles and flavored sodium, are revered by college students and single moms alike for helping stretch their food dollar. My daughter still likes them so they were on my list. Ramen is in the soup aisle, about a third of the way down my list.

Everything went according to plan until I arrived to gather Ramen. Only a couple of empty scattered boxes with powder and crumbs marked the location. Oh well, SOL, I cut my losses and carried on. After all, Walmart isn’t the only place to get Ramen. I navigated around the end cap, turned into the next aisle over and came face to face with two of Walmarts finest in blue. Two twenty something boys, one pushing and the other pulling a fully loaded, shrink wrapped pallet of Ramen! Yes – mental fist pump!! Now all I had to do was stall for a little time. Easy peeesy right? Just go get some of the other things I needed and return in fifteen minutes. After all, the pallet pushers were only one aisle away from their destination and how long could it take to unload? They whip out the box cutters, zip, zip, zip, shrink wrap falls to the floor and boxes fly onto the shelves practically by themselves, right? 

I merged back into traffic and continued on down my list. Rice, Tortilla Chips, tomato sauce, 5 boxes of cereal and 18 minutes later I returned to get my Ramen. Uuuuuuuhhhhhh . .. . .. . . . . no Ramen. Just the still empty shelves. Even more strange, there were no pallet pushers and no pallet. They hadn’t even left the load for someone else to take care of.  I knew I’d seen them, they were fifteen feet away, what the hell happened? Baffling. Oh well, there’s always FoodMaxx.  So, I moved on. Down to the end, around the corner and then across traffic to pick up where I’d left off.

No sooner had I made it across traffic, when here they came again, those same pallet pushers with the same pallet of Ramen. And they were headed in the direction of the soup aisle! Yeess!! Ok, now they’re really going to do it. I gathered what I needed from the pharmacy area, loaded up the fresh produce, navigated back around into traffic and came out above soup aisle. Turned at the soup and WTF??? No pallet! No pushers, and no freakin Ramen! What is this? What is this crap??

I looked this way, I looked that way, and when no answers came to me I headed toward the end of the aisle again. Freezer foods were all that was left on my list. I didn’t want to load up with cold stuff just to have it thaw while I waited for these guys to do their job. I decided I’d give them fifteen more minutes, and spent that time stalling in the NFL jersey section.

Twenty minutes later, turned to the soup aisle. SAY WHUT?!! Noooo Ramen, no pushers, and still no pallet!! I stood there shaking my head. When I had started moving slowly (it’s hard for my feet to move fast when my brain is directing energy to being perplexed) toward the end of the aisle for the THIRD time, I saw them again! They pushed that pallet right on past the aisle where it was supposed to be unloaded!! Those Boys, weren’t looking to unload, they were clocking time!! Then it hit me, they’d been going in circles, these guys must be getting paid BY THE LAP, not by the job!!! Freakin Walmart! I left them to it. Got my ice cream and went home.  Without Ramen.

If you read yesterday’s post, then you know I have aging on the brain. In dedication to the theme, I offer today's rant.

It drives me absolutely, positively NUTS every time I hear, or read, someone say, “I’m proud of my gray hair. It’s a Badge of Honor.”  That comment is usually followed by, “And I’ve earned every one of them,” with a chuckle and or a smile. I say, “Badge of Honor – MY ASS!” I call Buuuull-shit on that. Gray hair is a freakin BANNER exclaiming to the world that your body is starting to check-out on you. And really, no one EARNS gray hair anyway. Gray hair HAPPENS. Like shit.  Saying you EARNED it insinuates that was your goal in the first place.

Olympians EARN medals. Doctors EARN a degree. I can earn certificates, awards, recognition, and even a paycheck. The military gives out medals for deeds of greatness, not for your hair turning gray and falling out.

No-one, EVER, starts out mindfully looking forward to their body shutting down, and falling apart. I’ve NEVER heard anyone say, “Oh I can’t wait to have a turkey wattle!” Or “OMG, OMG there’s my first gray hair! Let’s celebrate!” No young woman has EVER looked at her naked body in a mirror and thought to herself, “Oh God, I can’t wait for my boobs go flat and hang to my knees, oh that will be a glorious day,” or “Gees, when is my hair going to fall out already?” or “Won’t it be great when my metabolism shuts down and belly goes plump and cushy even when I exercise my ass off!” I’ve never heard any young man say, “God I can’t wait for my hair to fall out.” Or, “It’ll be so awesome to have love handles, wow, the chicks will dig me then.” Or, “I can’t wait until I can’t get it up anymore, won’t that be neat? I'll be a real stud then.” Seriously, NO-ONE is happy or proud that their aging shows.

And then there’s, “Aging with Grace”. What the hell does that mean anyway? I suppose there are people, who when they were children, went to bed serenely when told. Or sat quietly and still when a doctor or dentist inflicted pain. But I’m not one of them. By my very nature I’ve always been resister of sinister plots and unpleasant outcomes. And so far, I’ve seen nothing beneficial about this getting older and body shutting-down process. “Well you won’t have periods anymore,” my doctor said to me. And even as she said it, you can see she knows it’s a bogus bullshit trade. I guess aging with grace just isn’t within my realm of understanding.

First thing this morning (while still in bed), I received the following URGENT memo from my taste buds; “We require a Maple Bar. Mission rating – Top Priority.”

In groggy resistance, I got up and toasted half a double fiber English muffin, buttered it and sent it down. This is the dialog that followed.

TASTE BUDS: “What the hell was that?”

ME: “THAT, was a healthier choice.  It was a double fiber English muffin. With butter.”

TASTE BUDS: “Seriously? You think we can’t tell the difference between a maple bar and a stupid double fiber English muffin? Please refer to this morning’s memo.”

So I toasted the other half of the English muffin, but this time smothered it in tasty apricot jam.  Chew, chew, swallow, swallow, down the shoot it goes. Two seconds later,

TASTE BUDS: “Really? Did you seriously just try to pass off apricot jam as maple bar frosting? F*ing pathetic. We REQUIRE A MAPLE BAR – M.A.P.L.E.  B.A.R. Savvy? Kapeesh? Comprende? It’s a simple request, can you handle that?”

ME: “Yeah, but maple bars aren’t healthy.”

TASTE BUDS: “So.”

ME: “I’d have to get dressed and drive to Safeway.”

TASTE BUDS: “And the problem, with that, is what?”

ME: “Yeah, but, I am the boss.”

TASTE BUDS: “No, you’re not. Lily (grand-daughter) is the boss of all the people. She even said so. Not you.”

ME: “Ya, but, you ANSWER to me!”


TASTE BUDS: “No we don’t. We have sworn our allegiance to the ULTIMATE POWER.”

ME: “WHO has more power than ME??!!”

TASTE BUDS: “Your Hormones. They serve The Dark Side. They have cookies over there.”
 
All you ever hear about menopause is ‘hot flashes, hot flashes’. No one ever tells you your hormones go all Rambo, freaky deaky terrorist on you and take over Command Central rewriting every physical script you’ve spent a lifetime fine-tuning and mastering. No one tells you the hormonal disruptions and resulting symptoms of pregnancy (only ONE of which is cravings) compared to the hormonal disruptions and results of menopause, would be like comparing the efficiency of a child’s pop-gun to the results of Hiroshima. Especially when it comes to cravings. There IS no pretty picture here.

So what was I doing about the maple bar? Looking for a parking spot at Safeway. As I was turning off the car, I received another memo from The Dark Side;
 
TASTE BUDS: “Uh-oh.”

ME: “Uh-oh what?”

TASTE BUDS: “Girl Scouts at two o’clock.”

ME: “How the heck do you know?”

TASTE BUDS: “Radar.”

ME: “Of course.”

   (brief pause)

TASTE BUDS: “Well?”

ME: “Well what?”

TASTE BUDS: “Can we get some?”

ME: “You dragged me up here for a maple bar!”

TASTE BUDS: “Yaaaa . . . . . so?”

ME: “Sooo?!”

TASTE BUDS: “Soooo, you REALLY love Thin Mints too.”

ME: “Geeesh, FINE ALREADY!! But I’m NOT spending five bucks on a single box of cookies. I’ll grab a bag of Safeway fudge mints!.

     (brief pause)

TASTE BUDS: “You’ll have to hide them from Piper.”

ME: “Your point?”

TASTE BUDS: “You hate that.”

ME – through clenched teeth: ”I’ll DEAL.”

Twenty minutes later, after eating the whole maple bar and half a bag of cookies, I got another memo from The Dark Side;

TASTE BUDS: “Uumm . . . . . . .  Hello?”

ME: “NOW WHAT? You got your maple bar AND fudge mints, which, by the way, weren’t even part of the initial request. What could you possibly want NOW?”

TASTE BUDS: “Well, yes we did, and they were lovely. Thank you. But . . . . . . . “

ME: “But, WHAT?”

TASTE BUDS:  “They weren’t salty.”

ME: “Of course they weren’t salty! You wanted SUGAR!”

TASTE BUDS: “Aaannnd there wasn’t any bacon.”

ME: “Bacon. Now you want salt AND bacon??”

TASTE BUDS: “Not for us. It’s for the Hormones.”

ME: “I’ll go suck the salt off a saltine.”

TASTE BUDS: “Wow, that’s big of you.  But what about the bacon?”

ME: “I don’t have any bacon!”

TASTE BUDS:  “Yeah, but McDonalds does, and they’re right next to Safeway.”
 

I hope you saw the episode because now,

THE BELL TOLLS FOR YOU JED YORK!!!!

Shame . . . . . . (clang) . . . . . . Shame . . . . . . (clang) . . . . . . Shame . . . . . . (clang) . .

Can you hear it?? The 49er Faithful, are anxious to line the streets from San Francisco to Levi’s Stadium to witness YOUR Walk of Shame. Oh wait, The Walk of Shame is based on ACCOUNTABILITY.  Something you only want to think you know about.  

I am not alone in feeling you are responsible for the decimation of our team. You childishly and maliciously drove the coach (an effective, record WINNING coach), the teams cornerstone away. Why?  Because YOU had a personal issue with him. Do you know what happens to a building if you dig out the cornerstone? The building crumbles down around you Jaggass! Did you seriously think anyone cared if you were having a personal clash with Jim Harbaugh?

In the REAL world – not the entitled, prissy, pampered world YOU live in – grown, men and women consistently set their own PERSONAL issues with other team members aside so the team can grow and become successful.  It’s called TEAM MENTALITY and it’s obviously something you lack. I was appalled after last years’ Thanksgiving game, when, with our boys not even showered and out of pads yet, you were Tweeting to the world how disappointed you were in YOUR OWN TEAM!  You undermining, whiny, back-stabbing little worm!

I’m not embarrassed by my 49ers team, I’m EMBARRASSED BY YOU!

Here’s a Newsflash Mr. York; nobody cares about YOUR personal feelings.  AND WE NEVER HAVE! Our boys in pads deserved far better than what you’ve done to them.  For your own self-comfort you sold them out!  They deserved Jim Harbaugh.

In case you haven’t heard, all the airwaves are a-buzz with wondering what needs to be done to fix the 49ers.  Everyone is analyzing who is responsible for their decline? Guess what Jed, it all comes BACK TO YOU and your lack of integrity and leadership! YOU are the foul air that blows through the 49ers franchise like expelled intestinal gases, eroding the spirit and high functioning of a once great TEAM.
 
So, what do you say, has it been worth it? Are you satisfied NOW? Have you found your personal redemption in Harbaughs absence?

The only thing that would please me more than your resignation from a post you DON’T DESERVE, would be Jim Harbaughs return as the 49ers Head Coach.