Freshly Pegged – She’s A Maineiac

Posted on March 13, 2013 by pegoleg

Have you ever sent a post out into the blogosphere, absolutely convinced it was going to be Freshly Pressed?  And then it wasn’t?

You’re not alone.

I’ve asked some fantastic bloggers to select the post that had them muttering,”THIS One Should Have Been Freshly Pressed.”  A new blogger will be featured each week. freshlypegged2

Because of intense pressure from readers (otherwise known as one random suggestion), this post series has been renamed “Freshly Pegged”.  Participants will be awarded a genuine, simulated “Freshly Pegged” JPEG badge, suitable for posting in a place of honor on their blogs.  Or not.

Be sure to read all the great Freshly Pegged offerings to date.  But before you do, let’s check out…

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Darla from She’s A Maineiac. Darla blogs about life in general and family life in Maine in particular.  Her signature tools are humor (usually), tenderness (often), and great writing (always).  Darleeta’s vlogging skills are legendary.  Hers is a WordPress Recommended Family Blog.  It should also be a Recommended For Everything Blog.

I first saw Darlinkidinkidoo when she was kicking butt and taking names at Good Greatsby’s caption contest (no link provided because he never stops by here any more.  Besides, he’s got enough traffic at his place.  Not that I’m jealous or anything.)  I didn’t really get to know Darla, however, until caption contest shenanigans morphed into the world’s best Extreme Comment Hijack.  After the dust settled, an epic, bloggy friendship had arisen from the ashes.

This week’s Freshly Pegged badge goes to “A Brief History of Sex”.  For sure, THIS one should have been Freshly Pressed.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hey, sweetie…let’s make love….Honey?
[…snoring…]

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment I started to think sex was weird.

Maybe it was when we had that first health class in fifth grade and the creepy teacher passed around a maxi pad, urging us to discuss the feelings we had about the opposite sex and our changing bodies.

Maybe it was when my best friend informed me on the playground that Brian and Heather were making out in the trees next to the jungle gym.

In either case, I was left confused and mortified–probably because I thought getting your period only meant your life was cursed for all eternity (not too far off with that guess), and unless ‘making out’ meant a secret hide-n-seek game involving deciphering codes on a pirate’s treasure map, I wasn’t interested.

I can’t remember who told me exactly what sex entailed, and I’m not clear on what my reaction was when I found out. But I have a feeling it went something like this:

Friend: Then the boy puts his–

Me: NO! Nononononono! [plugging ears] I can’t hear you! lalalalalalalalala!

Friend: …and then the girl–

Me: Ahhh! AHHH! Stop! Stop talking! Oh, god! I just want to die!!! ahhhhhhhhhh!
[running away, flailing my arms and screaming at the top of my lungs]

Once I hit middle school age, the whole concept still struck me as being generally ugh-y and super icky. Sex was this big mystery and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out its secrets. Even innocent games of Spin the Bottle gave me panic attacks. The bottle would spin in slow motion and I’d squeeze my eyes shut and silently pray, “Please don’t be me! Please don’t be me!” My greatest fear was to be banished to a dark closet with a cute boy, fumbling around in the silence. Sure, I had my crushes. I played my share of ‘kissing tag’ on the playground. I could understand the attraction part. But I always felt a few steps behind the other kids whenever it concerned actual sex. It all just seemed way too complicated and painfully embarrassing. First, why would anyone purposefully want to do that? And second, if I was ever going to do that, it could damn well wait until I at least loved the boy. Or didn’t think he had cooties.

College was filled with more confusion, bad dates, casual relationships here and there. Mostly, I spent my time in the library, holding out hope of finding my Mr. Right and not Mr. He’ll Do For Now, I Guess. Who knew libraries weren’t exactly a hotbed for singles looking for love?

Then in my 20s, I finally met the love of my life, my husband.

When you’re still in your 20s, sex is almost a constant need. You enjoy it, you look forward to it. You think it’s the greatest thing since microwave pizza. Finally you find someone that actually wants to do it with you all the time and you don’t mind! So you try to top yourselves with the sexathons:

“Hey, honey! Wanna do it again? I know! Let’s try and do it seven times in one day! We’ll break a world record!” or “Hey, honey! I just made a bologna sandwich. Wanna do it?” or “Hey, honey! It’s 2 pm. Wanna do it?” Sex is fun and giddy and full of lustful anticipation.

Then you get married, and a few years go by; you start to think, “Hey, let’s have a baby!” Suddenly sex completely transforms from this thing you once enjoyed immensely to this thing that hangs over both of you like a big black cloud sucking every ounce of pleasure out of your romantic relationship.

And if you’re like me and can’t get pregnant to save your life, sex becomes another chore. A long, drawn-out-over-two-years chore full of charts and temps and pinpointing ovulation and the phases of the moon.

“Hey, honey. Sorry, but we have to do it tomorrow at 3:15.” [sighing heavily]

“Huh? Well, I can’t, I’m at the gym then.”

“Nope. It’s 3:15. We only have a 14 hour window for ovulation. My egg has already descended the fallopian tube and it’s waiting for your sperm. So the optimum fertilization time is tomorrow at 3:15. Oh and we have to tilt my uterus at a 45 degree angle, say a few prayers, light a sage incense, and then dance naked around a fire chanting Kumbaya under the new moon.”

“Again? Aw, man! Didn’t we just do all that last week? Great. Just great.” [heavy sigh]

I finally not only got pregnant but stayed pregnant. Nothing short of a miracle for me with my medical history. Also a testament to the hundreds of times we had stressful mechanical sex for the sole purpose of merging egg with sperm every cycle for over two years. Isn’t it romantic?

After a long labor and emergency c-section, my son arrived, healthy and perfect. It was at my first post-op appointment with my OB/GYN that taught me the next phase of sex: After kids.

Me [excitedly]: So…when can we have sex again? Once the stitches heal?

Doctor: Ha! Sex? Oh, no, no, no. You won’t be having sex again for awhile, trust me. [chuckling to himself]

Me: Because of the stitches?

Doctor: Because of your baby.

After my son turned four, I gave birth to my daughter and met with my doctor once again.

Me [excitedly]: So…when can I go on birth control again?

Doctor: Birth control? For what?

Me: For when we start to have sex again.

Doctor: [snickering] Ha! Sex? Oh, no, no, no. You won’t have to worry about that. You have two young kids under the age of five! Ask me again in about four years! [laughing so hard he starts to gasp for air]

Now my husband and I are forging ahead into new territory. We’re both in our early 40s. Our kids are much older and less reliant on us so we have more quality time alone. We could have all the sex we want.

But now we’re just too damn tired.

Me: “Hey, honey…pssst…so…you wanna…”

Him: “Huh? Wha? Oh, I guess I was sleeping just then. What did you want?”

Me: [….snoring….]

Him: “Honey, wake up, what did you want?”

Me: “Oh…sorry I just nodded off there, too. Um, yeah, did you want to do it tonight or next Tuesday night?”

Him: “Well, Conan looks good tonight, he’s got Will Ferrell on so…aw, what the hell. Let’s do it! Honey? Honey!”

Me: [….snoring…..]

Him: “Yeah. We’ll do it Tuesday for….for…..[yawn]….suuuure….[…snoring…]

Posted in Guest Post - Playing Musical Blogs | Tagged , , , , , | 149 Comments

Your Customer Advocate Will Now Give You A Blindfold And A Cigarette

Posted on March 12, 2013 by pegoleg

insuranceadvocate

Here’s a little pop quiz, kids.

If I am on the phone waiting to speak with a “customer advocate,” I am trying to reach which of the following parties:

  1. Better Business Bureau
  2. Small Claims Court
  3. Health insurance company claims adjuster
  4. China Palace carry out counter

First, we eliminate the obvious.   An “advocate” is one who pleads the cause of another.  That’s probably not going on at either #3 or 4, so cross them out.  The word “customer” indicates a business as opposed to a legal situation, so cross out #2.  That leaves #1, the Better Business Bureau, right?  Wrong.

Welcome to the wacky world of “euphemish.”

Regular readers of this blog know that I am the world’s foremost authority on the “Euphemish” language, because I told you so.  Feel free to read all about it here and here.  For those interested in the Cliffs Notes version:

Euphemish noun \’yü-fə-mish\
      a: A language, or dialect, featuring the substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant.
      Synonyms: Sugarcoat, spin, mislead, lie
      Origin: from the Greek, euphēmos auspicious, sounding good.

I had a little accident in the kitchen, so I called my health insurer’s claims department.  I wanted to know what my plan would pay before I sought medical treatment.  It was just a scratch, but I thought it best to get the question settled sooner rather than later.

I’m not going to name the insurance company; suffice it to say they’re big.  Really big.  I navigated their phone system until I finally reached the claims department.  Their on-hold message promised my call would be handled by the next available “customer advocate.”

I thought claims adjustors were employees; mere corporate tools, forced to toe whatever party line “the man” laid down on claims.  I assumed their job description would be, “Avoid paying even one, thin dime to the working stiffs who made this country great.  Maximize profits for corporate big wigs so they can fly around in the company jet, eating caviar and drinking champagne from the Jimmy Choos of high-priced floozies.”

Au contraire.

This company’s claims department is staffed with “advocates”.  They’re on my side.

As my on-hold wait extended into its 3rd hour, I thought about my “advocate” (while alternatively loosening and tightening the tourniquet.)   I picture her as an earnest young woman with long hair and Birkenstocks, who chose to work for the Indigo Plus Sign Insurance Company of Illinois as a way to give back to society after graduating from an Ivy League school.

My “advocate” would represent me in front of the fat cat, claims review board, pounding the table and shouting “Peg has been paying $1317 per month for 8 years for this policy.  Now that she needs us, we can’t turn our backs on her.  She needs proper care, she deserves proper care, and dammit, I won’t rest until she gets it.  With God as my witness, we will APPROVE that Band-Aid for her! (after the $30 Residential Dressing copay)”

Right then I knew; this time was different. It wasn’t “euphemish”.  This time, “customer advocate” meant just that.

Am I wrong to hope? Could this be nothing more than the fantasy of a starry-eyed idealist?  Maybe.  Or it could be blood loss.  We’ll find out just as soon as it’s my turn to talk to my “advocate”.  I’ve been on hold for 4 days.

Posted in Euphemish | Tagged , , , , , , | 78 Comments

A Single, Burning Question

Posted on March 7, 2013 by pegoleg

toesockspegAnother snowstorm just blanketed the Midwest.  Our souls yearn for Sprightly Spring, but Wooly Winter shows no sign of slackening her icy grip.  Punxsutawney Phil has gone back into hibernation and so have I.

That little vestige of prehistoric brain that we all have has kicked into survival mode.  It instinctively goes about the business of putting on another layer of fat; the key to surviving this long, cold winter. Cravings for rich, dense foods have intensified. Eons of evolution overrule modern standards of beauty.

As I huddle in my Snuggie, flipping through TV channels with half a pan of brownies in my lap, a single question runs in a continuous loop through my mind, burning to be answered:

Ladies, what’s your  policy on shaving your legs in the winter?  

Inquiring minds want you to take this poll.

Posted in General Ramblings | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 97 Comments

THIS One Should Have Been Freshly Pressed – FiftyFourandAHalf

Posted on March 6, 2013 by pegoleg

Have you ever sent a post out into the blogosphere, absolutely convinced it was going to be Freshly Pressed?  And then it wasn’t?

You’re not alone.

I’ve asked some fantastic bloggers to select the post that had them muttering,”THIS One Should Have Been Freshly Pressed.”  I’ll present a new one each week.

I’ve got a separate page set up so you can see all the great submissions once they’ve run, but first…

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Today’s offering is from Elyse @ FiftyFourandAHalf.  Her about Me page says “At fifty-four-and-a-half, my funny bone holds me up more completely than all the other bones in my body.  I depend on it to get through the 21st Century.”

Elyse is funny, true, but so much more.  She’s also a passionate advocate for causes in which she believes.  Be sure to check out her blog after you read:

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Corrective Packaging

Shampoo bottlesThe problem became clear to me when I was naked, wet and in someone else’s shower.  Too late, I realized that I had forgotten my shampoo and conditioner upstairs in the guest room.

As problems go, this one wasn’t huge.  There was an assortment of products right there on the back of the tub.  At least eight bottles of stuff.  But I didn’t know what was in any of them because I have presbyopia.  Because I’m old.  Ish.

Presbyopia.  Sounds like a terminal disease or a religious sect, doesn’t it?  It’s neither.  It means my eyes are aging along with the rest of my generation.  Mostly, I see fine with my glasses.  But mornings are impossible:  first, I hobble out of bed, my joints cracking like pinecones in a fire. Once I get into the shower, I can’t tell the difference between shampoo, conditioner and body wash.  I make mistakes.

And it’s not just in-shower products.  And it’s not just in the morning.

I can’t tell my day from my night creams, so presbyopia may actually endanger my life.  The day cream has SPF to keep me from contracting skin cancer, which is vital to me as an Irish-American still awaiting my first tan.  The night cream has something in it to make me look years younger.  I’ve been using it since 1987, and if it worked as advertised I should just now be developing acne.

I don’t want to get them confused.  But I do.

Women with sagging butts still want what hasn’t relocated to look nice, you know.  In fact, it becomes increasingly more important as other body parts fail.  And we want to know that we are using the right stuff in the right order.  We need the “turn-around” cream first and then the regular moisturizer.  In that order!  We can no longer afford to do it the other way around by accident.  And we tend to shampoo first and then condition.

Products designed to be used by wet naked people who aren’t wearing their glasses in the shower should have HUGE printing.  They do not.  It is completely unfair.

No.  It’s worse; it’s discrimination.  Ageism.  Chauvinism.  Some “ism” or other.  This packaging bigotry prevents aging folks from making intelligent choices, minimizes their independence, and undermines their confidence.  Sometimes, it also makes their hair sticky.

It’s “Boomerism.”  Boomerism is “the practice of ensuring through packaging that Baby Boomers, who never were as great a generation as their parents because there were no Nazis for US to fight, will feel inept while grooming.”  Boomerism.  You heard it here first.

I blame the packaging industry for my distress.  I should sue.  Or go into assisted living.

Twenty-somethings – the folks who obviously design these labels – they don’t have presbyopia.  They can’t even spell it.  We aging boomers still have some cash to spend (at least until they take away our Social Security).  We need assistance:

LARGE FONT PRINT!!

The first company that trades on this need will reap HUGE REWARDS.

Imagine the advertising campaign, filmed in a low grade blur:  An attractive 50-something Diane Keeton-type takes off her glasses, steps into the shower, and squints at the 10 bottles on the back of the tub.  She chooses a bottle.  The camera shot changes to one of just the shower curtain.

“This doesn’t seem right,” she says, after applying something to her hair.  Her hand reaches out for her glasses and they disappear back inside.  We hear:

“Oh No!!”

She can now see that she’s just massaged Nair Hair Remover into her scalp.  The camera moves to a lineup of legibly labeled products on her sink, next to her glasses.

Now, this is my idea, my design.  So any of you advertising folks need to know that I expect a percentage of the excess profits from products that cannot be accused of Boomerism.  And I know just what I’ll do with my share of the proceeds.

I’m getting Lasik eye surgery so that I can read my stupid alarm clock.

Posted in Guest Post - Playing Musical Blogs | Tagged , , , | 85 Comments

Monkeying Around

Posted on March 4, 2013 by pegoleg

Happy Monday! A couple of things.

Loser No More

Jules over at Go Jules Go had a contest for the best drunk story a little while back, and yours-truly was the winner.  The really great thing is that I was able to win by exposing somebody ELSE’s drunken idiocy, not my own!

The prize was awesomesauce: a gift certificate for custom artwork created by Julie Maida.  I checked out her Etsy site and fell in love with a painting of sweet little lambs cavorting in the moonlight.

I also happen to have an Etsy shop, peep, where I sell accessories handmade from reclaimed wool and cashmere.  My logo is a flapper-era shepherdess.  Julie and I put our heads together to design a painting for my workroom.  We came up with a design that incorporates my shepherdess with her lambs, and here is the fabulous result.

peepsheepart

Isn’t it great?  I’m as thrilled as can be. Thank you so much, Julie.  I’ll be inspired every time I look at this painting.  Thanks again to Jules-  you’re the best blogging bud!

Late-Breaking, Additional Non-Loserness

I just found out I am the winner on Carrie Rubin’s giveaway.

I won a gift basket of movies and candy swag.  Even better, I get a signed copy of Carrie’s very own book.  Score!  Some might say I have no business being proud of winning something based on a random number generator, but I don’t care.  I’m sure it indicates some sort of superiority on my part.

I’m a recent convert to Carrie’s brand of insanity, and am thrilled to add her to my list of bloggy buddies – be sure to check out her site.

Monkey Business

Finally, some of you have remarked on my new header.   For my less observant readers, that’s it right up top there.  Right up at the top of this blog – see it there?  With the monkeys and the mannish- monkeys, and the monkey-ish men, and the man?  And me? Let’s have a little chat about it.

My header used to be a photo that I took in the Connemara Mountains in Ireland.  It represents a trip, a time and a place that is deeply meaningful to me.   I wasn’t really joking when I said that I left part of my soul there.

cropped-ireland-023.jpg

It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Serene, tranquil…and absolutely irrelevant to this blog.

The new header is supposed to be a humorous commentary on my evolution as a blogger (devolution, if you will).  Clever, I know.  I’ve had several compliments on it, but I’ve been wondering…is it too risqué?

Every time I land on this front page, my eyes are immediately drawn to the middle guy, Mr. Homo Erectus (oh no she didn’t!),   Also the guys on either side of him – there’s quite a bit of boo-tay on display there. This is a family friendly blog, so I want to know:

Do you think I should cover them up?

Help me out, you Darwinists.  At what point in the evolutionary scale do we go from “cover those dangly bits before you get arrested” to “ooh- a monkey in clothes! Add a snarky joke and it’s a Facebook post.”

I’m taking a poll.  Do you think I should amend my header or leave it “au naturale”?

Posted in General Ramblings | Tagged , , , , | 54 Comments

When Bacon Goes Horribly Wrong

Posted on February 28, 2013 by pegoleg

Who doesn’t love bacon?*

Bacon is sublime.  Bacon is magical.  Whether enrobed in chocolate, hanging from a Christmas tree or just gracing your breakfast plate, its crunchy, fatty, salty goodness can’t be beat.  There’s nothing that can’t be improved with the addition of a little bacon.  In fact, I never met a piece I didn’t like.

Until now.

Part-time blogger, full-time beloved sister Terry (aka Tar-Buns) went to Maine last year and had a wonderful time.  Although she did NOT get to see the state’s primary claim to fame (now that they kicked out Jessica Fletcher). Miss Darla of She’s A Maineiac, she and her hubby did get to sit back, relax, and consume mass quantities of lobster.  She was even thoughtful enough to bring me back a little souvenir of her trip.  These things.

What could be better?

What could be better, right?

Bacon mints!

“Uncle Oinkers” – how fun is that?  Look at that happy, piggy face.  Isn’t it cheesy?  Isn’t it fun?  I chortled with glee as I flipped open the tin.  I was still chuckling as I selected a little mint, and popped it in my mouth.  Then all chortling ceased.

This brutal assault to the taste-buds starts with a dash of fake, bacon flavoring.  Not like Bac-Os; those are too authentic.  Baconish like a generic, all-chemical, knock-off version of Bac-Os called “Bak-oos”.  You buy them from a shifty guy who says “psst, c’mere, buddy” from an alleyway, who has a trench coat lined with bootlegged “Bak-oos.”   Mix that with a stick of Double-mint Gum.  Have you ever taken milk of magnesia for an upset stomach?  Remember that vile, chalky sensation in your mouth?   Put some of that stuff in as well.  Mix it up good, and put it in a Tic-tac sized mint.bakoosguy

They packed a lot of yuck in a tiny bit of real estate.

For a fleeting moment, I wondered if Tar was trying to poison me, to improve her love/inheritance ratio with Mom & Dad.  I reacted without pausing to think, and spit the thing out.  I also must have hurled the tin across the room, but I blocked the experience from my mind.

Fast-forward 6 months.  I discovered the dusty, piggy tin the other day when moving a chair to vacuum underneath.   I debated calling the bomb squad for disposal, but figured the tin container should be enough to shield humanity from the contents.   Into the trash it went.

Why am I bringing this all up?  Why here…why now?  The thing is, I don’t think I ever sent a thank you note.  All this time, Terry probably thinks I have zero manners.  She may have even told Mom!  So Tar, if you’re reading:

ecardpig

*with apologies to my Jewish friends

Posted in General Ramblings | Tagged , , , , | 95 Comments

THIS One Should Have Been Freshly Pressed – Misty’s Laws

Posted on February 27, 2013 by pegoleg

I was rereading  some of my posts the other day (as I often do when I’m supposed to be working on a big presentation or a tax return) and I came across one of my favorites.  I remember how excited I was when I wrote it.  My finger trembled as I hit “publish” because, false modesty aside, I knew it was one of the best things I’d ever written.   I kept checking my stats page that morning, hoping…no, I’ll say it – expecting to see the sudden jump in hits that heralds a Freshly Pressed post.

But it never happened.

As I reread that post, alternately laughing out loud at my cleverness and stewing in my own bile at the no-FP injustice, it occurred to me that I’m probably not alone.  I bet most bloggers have one post that had them thinking,  “THIS One Should Have Been Freshly Pressed”

Welcome to a new feature on Peg-o-Leg’s Ramblings.

I’ve asked some of my blogging buddies to select their best, overlooked posts.    I had to twist some arms to get them to admit they thought their stuff was worthy of the coveted FP because, while most of these people are way more talented than I, they’re also a lot more modest.  I plan to run a post by a different blogger every Wednesday.

Be sure to check in each week to see some of the best material around the interwebz.  Past entries can be found on the “THIS One…” page link at the top of this blog.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Today’s offering is from Misty over at Misty’s Laws.  I didn’t really have time to do more than skim her “About Me” page, but it seems she is an attorney with the Government’s Legal Exotic Dancer Squad (GLEDS), and her parents aren’t happy about it.

I’ve been visiting her blog for a while and I’ve got to say, I’m a bit disappointed.  Oh, don’t get me wrong; the writing is great, the Weekly Whacked “gotcha” pictures of people letting it all hang out are hysterical and the bloggy camaraderie can’t be beat.   It’s just that her avatar is “Mistyslaws” with no apostrophe.    I originally went over to her place looking for a good recipe for cole slaw, and I have yet to see a single one.  Kind of a bait and switch, if you ask me.

Me running Misty’s post today is just random chance and has absolutely nothing to to with the fact that it is her BIRTHDAY!  You can wander over to her blog for cake and ice cream after you read:

**************************************************************************

The Last Straw . . . to My Heart!

I have an admirer.  I am being wooed on a daily basis.  I see him almost every day and he gives me what I so desperately need.  He satisfies my cravings and soothes the beast within.  He gives me the ability to face the day.  He provides me with the fix that I need before I can function every morning.  He is . . . the drive-thru guy at my Dunkin Donuts.

Not only does he provide me with my much needed caffeine fix every morning on my way to work, but I think he may be a bit sweet on me.  It started a few weeks ago.  I always order the same thing.  Since I go there every day, the woman who takes my order through the speaker tends to stop me before I even finish, saying “yeah, I got it,” because she knows what I am going say.  It is the same thing I say each and every day.  I am a regular.  I am Norm.

In addition to getting the same thing every day, I also always ask for a big straw at the drive thru window.  Since I usually order a small latte, if I don’t ask for a big straw, I will get a puny little straw.  It is their policy to give out little straws with small drink purchases, apparently.  So, if I want a large straw, I will have to ask.  And so began our love affair . . . .

After a few days of me asking this particular drive-thru guy for a big straw for my drink, and him sheepishly saying, “oh, yeah, I forgot,” he apparently decided he would remedy this situation by giving me multiple big straws.  He started giving me 2 at a time.  Ok, I thought, it’s always good to have an extra 1 or 2 in the car I guess.  That’s cool.

Then came the day when I knew he was truly smitten.  He gave me my drink with a big straw.  Then, as he returned my credit card to me, he handed me another straw.  I told him that he had already given me a straw, and to this he replied:  “this one’s for tomorrow.”  Ok, I said, smiling.  Then he grabbed another straw and handed it to me, saying:  “this one’s for yesterday.”  Laughing, I said thanks and then drove away, knowing that I had just experienced a moment.  Possibly the one we would tell our grandkids about.

In the next few days of our encounters, he was sure to hand me multiple straws, sometimes 3, as many as even 4 at a time.  Each straw a profession of his love to me.  I mean, anyone can buy flowers for somebody they are sweet on, but multiple straws is a true sign of affection.

I don’t know his name.  But what do names matter when it comes to true love?  I am married.  Who cares when the heart wants what it wants?  I have children.  I’m sure our strong bond over straws and coffee can weather any baggage we might bring to this new relationship.

I mean, after all, who can resist the beauty of this:

A beautiful bouquet of Love

I will keep everyone informed of our future wedding plans. Although, I’m sure the one thing we won’t have to discuss is the bouquets.  As you can tell, they are going to be spectacular.

Posted in Guest Post - Playing Musical Blogs | Tagged , , , , | 68 Comments

Oh, Yeah? So’s Your Old Man!

Posted on February 25, 2013 by pegoleg

guestcheckpeg

I like to think of myself as a sparkling conversationalist.  In fact, I get more brilliant the farther away I get from the actual conversation.

When out to dinner with friends one evening, I noticed I was charged for a drink that was never delivered.  “I believe this total is wrong.” I said to the cashier when I went to pay.

“Were you overcharged?” She asked.  Before I could answer, another waitress, who had come up to the register to get change, chimed in with a snort, “Of course!  You don’t think she’d mention it if the bill was LESS than it was supposed to be, do you?”

As a matter of fact, I’ve done that many times. I try to be scrupulously honest about such things.  Thinking quickly, I fired off a scathing reply designed to put the impertinent waitress in her place.

“Well, well” I sputtered  “yes!  Yes I would…I mean, I do that all the time…it’s just that THIS time…it just so happens I WAS overcharged…but that doesn’t mean I WOULDN’T say something if, you know, it was the other way around, instead.  Cuz I SO totally would.”

I had been caught with my mental pants down.  Afterwards, I rehashed the conversation out loud in the car and did a slow burn.

“The NERVE of that waitress!” I said indignantly to the car radio, “Implying that I wasn’t honest. What I SHOULD HAVE said was…”

I tried out alternative SHOULD HAVES all the way home.

  • Withering sarcasm
  • An explanation of my policy of scrupulous honesty
  • A lecture on the right way to treat customers if you want them to come back

Although I was eloquently brilliant in each scenario, withering sarcasm was the clear winner.  By the time I got home, it was the snarky waitress who had been reduced to a blithering, stuttering idiot, not me.  My rapier-like wit had torn her to shreds.  Chances are good that, after another week or so, the new version will be the only one I remember.

DID morphed into SHOULD HAVE and back into a whole new version of DID.

It’s not that I’m deliberately lying –  my fickle brain, assisted by my fragile ego, tends to remember only those versions of reality that are flattering.

I’m going to have to be more careful in the future, and guard against a tendency to “gild the lily” to make myself look good. At least, that’s what Oprah advised when we were talking about this the other day.

(Commander McBragg)

Posted in General Ramblings | Tagged , , , , , | 70 Comments

THIS One Should Have Been Freshly Pressed – Life In The Boomer Lane

Posted on February 20, 2013 by pegoleg

I was rereading  some of my posts the other day (as I often do when I’m supposed to be working on a big presentation or a tax return) and I came across one of my favorites.  I remember how excited I was when I wrote it.  My finger trembled as I hit “publish” because, false modesty aside, I knew it was one of the best things I’d ever written.   I kept checking my stats page that morning, hoping…no, I’ll say it – expecting to see the sudden jump in hits that heralds a Freshly Pressed post.

But it never happened.

As I reread that post, alternately laughing out loud at my cleverness and stewing in my own bile at the no-FP injustice, it occurred to me that I’m probably not alone.  I bet most bloggers have one post that had them thinking,  “THIS One Should Have Been Freshly Pressed”

Welcome to a new feature on Peg-o-Leg’s Ramblings.

I’ve asked some of my blogging buddies to select their best, overlooked posts.    I had to twist some arms to get them to admit they thought their stuff was worthy of the coveted FP because, while most of these people are way more talented than I, they’re also a lot more modest.  I plan to run a post by a different blogger every Wednesday.  Be sure to check in to see some of the best material around the interwebz.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

We’re starting things off with a bang with Renee at Life In The Boomer Lane.  Renee uses warmth and humor to talk about life in general, and life over 50 (55? 60? 65?) in particular.  She is the co-author of two books.  Her blog’s subtitle is “Musings of a former hula hoop champion.”  While I’ve never seen any actual hula-hoopla over at her place, what I have seen is good writing.  Lots of good writing.

THIS one should have been Freshly Pressed, for sure.

Why I’d Rather Be 65 Than 5, 15, 25, 35, 45, or 55reneepost

Age 5: I was Raggedy Ann to Neil Fishbein’s Raggedy Andy in the end-of-year school show. I loved Neil and he loved me. This would seem to set me up for a lifetime of bliss (talk about “getting old together”) but, the day ended tragically. My fake braids smeared my heavy white theatrical face paint into a pretty close approximation of the Dawn of the Dead. Neil’s family moved to another neighborhood. Tragically, because he was five years old, he was forced to go with them. It would be eight years before I would see him again. By then, we would have each gone our separate ways.

Age 15: This was a year of anguish, followed by terror. Anguish that no boy would ever ask me to go steady, terror that one actually did. I agitated all night, called him in the morning, told him I couldn’t go steady with him. He said “Oh, OK.” Like it didn’t matter anyway.

Age 25: Married, just out of grad school, one year into my first special ed teaching job. Life was great, if you consider having a classroom of potential Jeffrey Dahmers great. I spent a lot of time crying in the bathroom and reassessing my career choice.

Age 35: A two-year-old, a six-year-old, a seven-year-old, a job as a realtor. I spent a lot of time screaming at my kids, “Hey! If people had personal computers and someone invented blogs and then invented mommy blogs, I would have an outlet for all this! I could write about you kids all day long and people would laugh their guts out and subscribe and comment and I could watch my stats all day and dream about being Freshly Pressed! ” And the kids yelled back “If there were computers, you’d be running to us all day to answer your questions and fix your problems. And if you had a blog you wouldn’t know how to do anything but put a stupid old timey photo at the top.”

Age 45: Then Husband and I separated. I bought a house. The real estate market went into the crapper, and with it, my income. I used heat sparingly (the plants flourished), didn’t eat out, served the kids Hot Pockets for dinner, and never went on vacation. I spent some time crying in the bathroom, reassessing my life choices.

Age 55: I was selling a lot of real estate, running a speed dating company, and being too busy to notice that I was divorced and living alone with a cat. When Now Husband came along, he was attracted to my being far too busy to want a permanent relationship. In retaliation, I sold the speed dating company the following year.

Age 65: The kids are grown and have survived sibling mayhem, parental divorce, and too many dinners of Hot Pockets. They are, remarkably, pretty remarkable adults. They chose significant others who are also their best friends. They love their jobs, their friends, and the cities they live in. My daughter has two children and she emulates only the best of my parenting, while leaving out the stuff we won’t talk about.

Now Husband jokingly tells people that his main activity in life is to make me happy. Except he isn’t joking. And he assumes all men must be hot for me. I laugh when he says that, although the real truth is that I can still turn heads.

I hate that my body moves more slowly than it used to, that when I roll over in bed, my back hurts, that sex is accomplished in mostly one position, that photos of myself scare me, that I can no longer run up and down the stairs or sit in a pretzel position on the floor or reach way under the bed to grab something. I hate that reaching way down into the crib to pick up my grandson must be planned like a military operation . I hate that my memory fails at the oddest times, that I am beginning to lose a grip on pop culture, that I think a lot about being home in bed with a book when I am out in the evening. I hate that people in charge can look younger than my children.

I love that I own my age. I love that I embrace the years, each and every one. I love that two friends and I decided to write a book and we did. And then we wrote another. I love that we have been so fortunate to have spoken to countless people and that they have shared their dreams with us and inspired us and made us grateful every day for the community of women.

I love that I am funny and that I can see the absurdities of life. I love that I can laugh so hard in public that I pee in my pants, preparing me for the time when I will pee in my pants without the aid of humor. I love that I am silly and irreverent and can still embarrass the hell out of my children. I love that my kid’s friends seem to actually enjoy my company. I love that I am still fifteen inside, but without the fear of boys.

I love that life is finite but vision is infinite. I love that I have been thinking about making a 20 year plan and I have declared that the next twenty years will be the most powerful period of my life. I love that my plan scares me. In a good way.

Saturday, May 5, is the day. Happy 65th Birthday to me. Go celebrate amongst yourselves.

Posted in General Ramblings, Guest Post - Playing Musical Blogs | Tagged , , , , | 67 Comments

People Who, When They Show Up, You Know It’s Not Going To Be Good

Posted on February 19, 2013 by pegoleg
Smash new Bravo hit: Real Zombies of L.A. Buy Insurance!

Real Zombies of L.A. Buy Car Insurance

I’m a people person.  I like people.   I NEED people.  According to Babs, that makes me one of the luckiest people in the world.  But there are some people who, when you see them coming, you just know that things are not going to turn out well.

Here are a few:mrwhipple

  • Mr. Whipple: you’ll feel dirty watching him accost the pervert in the paper goods aisle who is inappropriately fondling toilet tissue.
  • Zombies: Even though you’re a healthy, 18-year-old track star and the undead move at the pace of the glaciers that carved out the Great Lakes, you’re going to trip and lie immobile in the street like an old lady stretched out on her bathroom floor in a Life Alert commercial.  The zombies will eat your brains.  Unless you’re the hero and his/her main squeeze, in which case you’ll be OK.Jessica Fletcher
  • Jessica Fletcher: somebody’s going to wind up dead.  The citizens of Cabot Cove finally figured out that it wasn’t normal for a town of 300 to have 52 murders per year, and residents signed a petition asking Mrs. Fletcher to leave.
  • Flo: her voice, her headband, her red lipstick – the very air she breathes is hateful to me. Each time those Progressive ads come on the telly, I hit the remote. *Interesting side statistic: The chance of such channel-changing landing on a commercial for some other car insurance company like Geico, eSurance, All State, State Farm or Farmers, or even another Progressive ad, is approximately 97%.*
  • That lady in the Phillips colon health t-shirt: she knows all the dirty secrets of phillipsladyyour digestive system and she’s not shy about announcing them to the world.  At the drugstore, on a plane, or at a PTA meeting… you’ll never be safe from her chipper, booming inquiry, “DO YOU HAVE GAS AND BLOATING?”
  • One of those plastic, reality-show bimbos: bad language, fights, lewdness and shallow stupidity are sure to follow.  These people are desperate to extend their 15 minutes of fame and, since they must accomplish this without benefit of talent, they do so by appealing to America’s seemingly endless appetite for film footage of artificially enhanced people behaving badly in a variety of settings.
  • A man & woman reclining in bathtubs on a beach: bathtubsonbeachsomebody is about to subject you to an extremely personal, uncomfortable discussion of their, er, sexual performance issues. TMI and then some.

Who makes you want to run for the hills?

Posted in General Ramblings | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 91 Comments