I'm in Love With You...

After 38 years of marriage I've learned
a few things, particularly ways not to make
a husband gag:

* Don't stuff yourself into a bikini meant for Twiggy.

* Don't pierce anything other than your ear lobes--
and a nice juicy steak!

* Don't wear mini-skirts if you're not a 'mini'.

* Don't wear ankle bracelets that look as though
you're under house arrest.

* Don't wear midriff shirts that float over
The Island of Flab.

* If your 'skin' doesn't 'fit' you like it did
when you were first married, ban yourself
from those drive-thrus!

* Avoid or don't over do Botox-ing and facelifting--
he didn't marry a manikin.

* Too much sun equals skin like a dromedary--
only camels belong outside that much.

* Keep a sense of humor--it can throw your
husband off-balance when he wants to start complaining...

* Don't 'show' too much--'cracks' are for sidewalks!

*Treat yourself and life like a fine wine--
let it age naturally.

To my husband, Tom: Happy Anniversary,
with many more to come.

I'll love you "'til the 12th of Never..."

Whine And Dine...

"Doctor, can you help me?"
"What seems to be the problem?"
"Writer's Block. I can't seem to get my funny on."
"Ahh, yes, that could be a problem."
"Ok...so what can I do about my writing drought?"
"I don't know--can't think of a thing."
Big help...

I need an elixir of Rodney Dangerfield, with a double
shot of Woody Allen and Carl Hiaasen--something
I can't get at Blue Martini!
Some people are dripping with humorous anecdotes
and one-liners, with little effort, it seems.

I could make fun of myself, I suppose.
Tom's been calling me peg-leg.
I've become glued to my sofa lately--not by choice.
I fractured my ankle recently.

I'd rather be outside in the pool, enjoying the
hot Florida sun, or on the Las Vegas trip we
had to cancel this week.

So, I've been following orders to stay off my feet.
I'm getting into the Cleopatra routine: Enjoying
being waited on hand and foot--pardon the pun.
More fruit, maybe a sweet tea, please.

I haven't been through a drive-thru in a long time.
Maybe I'll get Jen to take me this week--though,
with the luck that's been hitting me over the last
few months, I'd probably wind up with an 'unhappy' meal!
But I digress.

With a collective heave I hoist myself from the sofa,
clogging my way to the kitchen to grab the Dustbuster.
Cleo left her cookie crumbs between the cushions--
which has taken on the shape of her bum...

Clear The Roads...!

Capt. Tom, thinking did Nan kill the VW?

Tom, with the new car after the

VW died a stick-shift death!

Our VW rib-tickler!

If ya don't like my driving, stay off the road
could've been my slogan when I was learning to drive.
Unlike most people who were driving at 16, I was 27--
bulging with expectant parenthood.

Not only was it a tight squeeze, between me and the
steering wheel, I was cursed with learning on a
stick-shift in my husband's original VW Bug.

While my daughter was busy kicking me in the ribs,
I was ready to stick the shifter! Frustrated that I wasn't
sequencing that well with the clutch, brake, gas and stick,
I'd decided that childbirth would be a hiccup compared to
learning to drive that antique.

Tom was an airline captain and I was expecting that he
was going to call ahead for special clearance--that an
erratically driving female was loose on the road.

I'd managed to run over a row of rosebushes, cut the
turn on the corner, causing a flabbergasted pedestrian
to jump back a few feet.

Finally, after many driving lessons, I was ready to get
my license. Lucky for the man testing my driving ills--
I mean skills--he passed me, out of sheer self-preservation.
I guess hormonally-challenged females, this close to poppin',
was something he didn't want to face--again.

It's a lucky thing I never became an airline pilot...

Just Beachy...

Reptilius Wrinkilum, characterized by and resembling
shed snake skin, is an affliction shared by those
humans who don't look like pancake batter.

Add a little unwanted 'real estate' and behold--it's
a sight: Rippled layers of varnished, lizard-like skin
that appears to have been squashed by a Goodyear tire,
then stretched past the known capacity of nylon and spandex.
In other words, miles of beach-tanned, bikini-ed and
Speedo-ed torsos, frolicking back and forth under the
tropical Florida sun.

The men are a 'whisper' away from centerfold exposure.
The ladies prance along with dimpled, 'thonged' behinds--
looks like a Silly Putty convention...

I wore a swimsuit once, more of a flotation device--that,
when I began swimming, would billow out--much like
the inner tube I used to float on as a kid--drifting between
the pilings of the Santa Monica Pier...

Rising from the bathtub-warm waters of the Gulf, I
looked like a beached whale. Suddenly all the water
dumped out from my swimsuit--along with a slithery
Ramora I called Ramon--since it had clung to my ribcage
the entire time.

So now, bikini clad, I notice that I'm not far from being
in the select classification of Reptilius Wrinkilum--as I
enjoy the tropical outdoors. I'm also noticing that I need
to work out a little harder, too.
Gosh, that almond cookie was sooo good...
Sonia, I slipped...

Wheely Pat?

I'm waiting for my phone to ring--the call telling me
that I'm a contestant on "The Wheel".
You know the show--the show where Vanna looks
doomed to wear, at times, the most ridiculously
outlandish evening dresses. Isn't Outlandish a planet?
Nah, but it should be...

I think my luck in receiving a phone call is much
like my luck in hatching an egg!
Paul reminds me that I had a darn good contestant
chance last summer when the traveling wheel was in
Naples for a contestant search.

It was a broiling hot day.
Jen and I approached the area of the search,
Hodges University, sweeping our eyes over the
multitude of hopefuls, and decided that standing in the
hot humid sun, probably for hours, was not that enticing.

So, on most nights, I'm correctly guessing the answer,
usually with only a smattering of letters, sometimes
with only 2 or 3 letters showing.
Tom and Paul usually can't believe how quickly
I can guess. They both think my wallet would be
bulging by now, if I were on the show...

Maybe I'll try out this summer--can I wear my swimsuit?

By Hook Or By Crook...

Insert Part A to Part B, intersected at the hypotenuse
of Parts D and C, making sure the tabs are facing inward.
Insert screws X and Y--do not tighten, yet.
At this stage of art table assembly, I’m ready to leap out
the window--even if it’s only a 3 foot drop.

I went on the internet to check on the directions.
I thought, just maybe, some other fumbler is struggling--
or has struggled through the directions--no doubt written
by a crinkled, beady-eyed old goat, beard falling into
his flask of Johnny W, in his 4x4, windowless cubicle.

The comments about the table were glowing:
"Easiest table to put together. had it up in an hour."
"Couldn’t have gone smoother--great table!"

I’ve spent 2 1/2 days earlier this past week attempting
to function like a human and assemble the dang table.
I only disassembled it twice!
“My aching back” has been a royal pain. I’ve been dueling
with an annoying sacroiliac which has kept me away from
sitting in front of my desk top PC for any length of time
to write my blog.

I’ve spent considerable time dreaming of having a
completely organized workspace for my art, photography,
and beading interests. I’d been occupying space in my
walk-in closet with most of my books and art stuff.

As I spent broken hours trying to figure out the
directions of the table--which, it turns out, had an illustration
discrepancy--I was thinking of ways to track down the
“brain” behind his desk--who, I’m sure, was devising new
and more complicated directions for me.
Maybe in 3-D?

So, here I sit in my new, ergonomic desk chair for my
art table--tapping out my blog on my portable
word processor. No, I don’t have a laptop…
My slightly lowered rib-tickler level needs a Mento
thrown into the mix. I’m hoping for an eruption of humor,
even a spit wad of something funny.

The small corner of the bedroom is finally complete with
all of my supplies neatly tucked into drawers, and my table,
waiting for me to finally sit down awhile to create.

Meanwhile, a letter is waiting to be sent to the mad illustrator
and text writer of my wonderful table.
I’m almost sure he has a stack under his nose by now…











I

Invasion!

I’m still getting sap out of my hair from the
Christmas tree. Now, if you believe that,
I can probably sell you swampland here
in Florida--might even come with a pet
alligator, or a Burmese Python.

Pythons are open to hunters now.
Thousands of these snakes are winding
through the Everglades--and even a few
have been spotted in populated Florida cities.

I’m not sure what I’d do if I ever saw a python
slithering in my wooded back yard. I might
give it the directions to a couple of homes where
yapping dogs break the peaceful hum of the outdoors.

I don’t like snakes whether harmless, or not.
One hot day a couple of summers ago, an
unidentified, dome-headed snake lay coiled in
the corner of our lanai, by the pool.

I hollered for Tom to remove it.
With a bamboo pole, he managed to drape
the snake--which was flaring out in attack mode--
and flung it out to the woods.
I was hoping for drawn and quartered myself…

I’ve been a few feet from a coral snake, which was
snaking its beautiful body along the pool pump,
just as I was coming around to feed the chlorinator
its weekly biscuits.

I ran 0-30 in a matter of seconds to the
garage for a shovel. By the time I’d made
it back to the same spot, the deadly snake
had winded its way toward the hose in the front yard.

I bashed it a few times, and it defied me,
slithering onto the damp grass. I took the
pointed head of the shovel--by that time, I was
shaking--and jabbed it hard as I could, then
shoveled the 3 foot lump and dropped it onto
a wooded, corner lot.

Passing gardeners gawked in amazement at my
catch of the day. Yes, I’m not a snake fan, nor
a fan of anything creepy that has more legs than I do.

With Spring finally here, and hot summer
days ahead, I’m also on creepy-crawler, fly-by
critter watch. I’m sure invading armies of
subterranean fire and black ants are planning
their “Nancy” invasions in my yard.

Mosquitoes are busily promoting their species
for a juicy attack, along with their co-conspirators,
no-see-ums. I’m waiting…

A Little Bit Of This And That...

My eyes are growing to the size of golf balls
as I stare at the blank computer screen...

It’s not easy dredging through the cobwebby
recesses of my brain in the early morning hours,
trying to figure out something humorous to write
about for my blog--and to think I was writing my
blog every day for a few months!

My blog friend, Colin, is prolific--his food blog at:
http://wokkingontherun.blogspot.com is colorful
and informative, filled with delicious recipes.
But then, Colin isn’t an antique like me.
His brain is still in diapers…

Speaking of which…

Cruiser, our resident duck, has been bob, bob,
bobbing along the back lanai twice a day.
She brought her white headed baby with her last week.

Cruiser was quite piggish, swiping whatever bread I
was tossing out to her baby. So piggish in fact, that
Cruiser has a case of “beano-itis’.

Yesterday, she waddled beside where I was soaking
up some sun, and emitted what I thought was a foghorn.
She looked over at me, and I thought, don’t you dare
pin that ’blurp’ on me!

Speaking of which…

I live in Naples, Fl, a beautiful, gulf coast town filled
with senior folk, a natural, tropical atmosphere,
early bird dinner and drink specials, assorted cultural
events, and cars that cost as much as pocket change
in an Arab’s wallet.

So, with all the round-the-clock, delectable varieties
of international cuisine and drink, over-indulgence
is often a big problem.

Store aisles are often filled with indescribable ‘blurps’.
“Air fresheners on aisle 6, please.”
I make a quick beeline so as not to get pinned with the
unfortunate scent du jour.

Speaking of which…

I’m thinking about my sinner menu for tonight.
I mean dinner menu! Stir-fry, I think-- right, Colin?
My eyes are now hanging on little springs, flopping
up and down as I continue staring at the blank screen
in front of me, wondering if Dave Barry ever had this problem…?

Duck...!

I’ve never been very adept at sports.
My tennis serve always looked as though
I was swatting a swarm of flies.

Ping pong was no better.
The last time I played a couple of years ago,
the ball pinged more than it ponged.
The ceiling tiles were hit more often than the paddle.
I nearly lopped the ear off my partner.

Field hockey in high school?
Let’s just say my teammates were lucky that
their heads were still upright…

Basketball?
If it was game legal to shoot into both baskets,
I would have been stellar.
However, I reigned supreme at volleyball.
Being tall helped as I could spike the ball
just over the net.

One recent sport I’ve taken up is billiards.
I still can’t break worth weasel spit, but I’ve
learned enough from pool technique books
to plan a shot--often surprising, Physics defying,
two-pocket shots, jaw-dropping my opponent.

“That shot defied the law of Physics, Minnesota Skinny,”
he’d say. I always felt highly complemented since my
doctorate friend geometrically planned most of his shots.

I think I finally found my niche…
Now if I’d only keep some of the balls from jumping the table…

It's A Purple Bellied Snork...

Zap that bird!
My left eyeball hasn’t met up with the right
one this morning. I’m droopy-tired, along
with Tom--we were both awakened at the crack
of dawn by a highly energized dove. Even earplugs
barely drowned out the incessant cooing.

I got up, and in my brain-haze, made a strong
carafe of coffee, poured it and quickly knocked
the full thermos over onto the counter.
I swear I heard that dove mocking me…

A couple of years ago, we were plagued by a
highly vocalized bird in the woods that sounded
like an escapee from the Amazon rain forest.

Its repetitious melody echoed throughout the woods
at a ghastly hour for several nights. I never caught
sight of the feathered creature--lucky for it, since I was
envisioning the bird’s spiraling descent from its lofty perch.

Our lovebird, Daisy, has acquired some new screeches
into her repertoire of bird noises. Since her recent surgery.
she’s aggravated by the meds she’s forced to ingest every day.

Daisy’s lucky that we’re so patient with her,
with the woods only yards away…

A Nice Sunday Outing...

Everything slows down with age, as the saying goes.
Heading out to the Coconut Grove Art Festival Sunday
with Jen drove that saying right into the ground.

Older drivers, many of whom need a booster seat
while driving, were defying the laws of motion,
squeezing themselves tightly between cars. I spent
most of the drive gasping and inventing new cuss words…

Nothing phases Jen at all, driving the Capsule
[what she calls her Tribute] with expert reflexes,
though I was white-knuckled most of the trip, commenting
how glad I was to live on the quieter side
of Florida. If I’d had dentures, they would have flown
out or been swallowed.
I know my eyes socket-popped a few times…

When we finally made the last left turn to the festival,
we picked out Pay and Go parking, only a few blocks away.
Should have been called Pay and Go Broke Parking.
After inserting a credit card, and selecting the time
amount, we waited for the transaction to complete and
print out a parking voucher.

Ha! I think the transaction was routed through Siberia.
Nothing happened.I thought of inserting cash, but couldn’t
find the money slot. Coins Only, Jen told me.
Like people are carrying a wad of quarters…
After trying another parking kiosk across the street,
we finally had our ticket.

The festival was packed.
We walked a few inches at a time along the tented streets,
downwind of Cuban cigar smoke and expensive perfumes.
Craning our necks to see some of the exhibited artists, we
wobbled around leashed gorilla-sized and dust mop-sized
dogs to view the artist displays.

After 4 hours and probably as many walking miles, we
found the car and hopped in and drove off with visions
of Bimini Bread at the Islamorada Fish Company occupying
our hungry thoughts…the streets were light and we made
all the green lights. I supposed drivers had made it to
the Early Bird and Happy Hour specials by then.

Miami is a real experience if one has steel nerves.
I mellowed out, enjoying the beautiful sunset as we
drove from Miami to Bass Pro Shops in Dania, near
Ft. Lauderdale. High rises shimmered pink and gold.

Yes, everything is supposed to slow down with age,
except the time it took for Bimini Bread to reach my hips…
Mmm, good!

Inky-Dinky Do Or Don't....

I’ve been noticing a lot of “ink” lately.
Colin, dear reader and prolific food
blogger, you didn’t think I’d blog about tats?
Ha!
Everything and everyone is possible
food for my blog--so belly up!

What makes someone entrust their
tender, unmarked skin to a virtual stranger?
The tattooer looks at the tattooee
and sees a desert of unclaimed skin--
soon to be a work of art.

With my luck, the needle would clog
and spit out a series of connect-the-dots.
Anyway, if I saw a needle pointed at me,
I’d scream and run the other way.
Besides, a person needs a good, firm
stretch of skin for the artist’s jabbing.

I’m more like lemon meringue, kind
of soft and fluffy, but I’m working on
it. I hope to be firm as a scone soon…
Colin, see what your food blogs do to me?

Getting back to inking up…
I couldn’t and wouldn’t think of letting
Drago, Bronk, or Helga poke me with a needle.
No way.
I’d have to be wrapped in mummy cloth first…

I just knew something was up when
Jen thought she did a good job of
hiding her impulsive piece of fish art
from me a few years ago--but not for long.
I have the special gift of Knowing...

As time progresses, I hope those tigers,
dragons, fairies and fish won’t mutiny--
collapsing into a valley of sagging, wrinkled
skin--along with fallen arches…
Heh-heh…

Deep Fried

The humor quadrant of my brain is slightly
exhausted from my last blog:
http://gulfgal-nancysworld.blogspot.com/2010/02/hey-mister-your.html
My brother Michael thought my friend’s wake up
remedy was ‘out in left field’--[something’ sure was]!
Mike feels someone should have jostled the man awake.

Jostle? Wiggle? Hmmm..no way, given the bulk,
height and grumpy ratio of the man.
He ought to be glad I didn’t alert Eye-Witness News…

Speaking of things that sort of pop into one’s
line of sight, I have to say I haven’t received
any error messages, exceptions, or HD failures
for at least a year. I’m talking pc problems here…
What a segue…

Don’t you love getting strange, cryptic messages
across a black or blue screen? An exception at
Oe71312 in doppelgangerWz67x.3oe62has occurred.
No kidding? Is there a fast-ball remedy for it?
[you have to have read the previous blog to get my drift].

Like I know what the heck that message refers to,
or what to do with it. I bet a caveman would
know its meaning…
The origin is not of this planet--I think space aliens
in human form are working in the pc labs…

Too bad there isn’t some device that can warn
you of the kind of day one is going to have:
Cryptic, in-your-face, whatever.
I can always count on one thing, at least: Cruiser,
our stomach-with-a-neck resident duck…

Pardon me, Sir, But Your....

Excuse me, but your 'apostrophe' is showing.
Oops! How do you confront someone who glaringly, has
something undone--like a crucial button or zipper--
or has a pair of windows-to-the-world shorts on?

Recently I was walking into my favorite bookstore
café in Naples and was suddenly confronted by an
unfortunate display of manly 'goods'…who doesn’t like
hanging out in a cozy café…?

Now, I have nothing against the 'boys' and their
sidekick. They’re perfectly fine if they’re well
behaved--but they have their place--and should
stay there, not wandering around for some fresh air…

If Chief Spread-Eagle had been Fabio or Denzel
I wouldn’t have minded too much--for a little while.
Anyway, the café was beginning to buzz a bit as a couple
more people walked in and took notice of the 'sideshow'.

I suggested to my two bookstore friends, that one of
them should nudge the hulking man awake, and tell
him to close his gap.
Nothing doing. Big chickens..

By now, the female employees were very aware
of the predicament, but were hesitant to approach,
the man, hoping that he might wake up soon.

The sleeping exhibitionist finally was aroused from
his nap, after one of my friends tossed a napkin ball
at the man’s chest, hoping to wake him.

He looked over at my friends, and my friend
pointed down past the man's equator…
After a few adjustments, the spectacle was over.
He hasn’t been seen since…

Don't Box Me In...!

One corner of the computer room
is boxed in--with a slowly dwindling stack of
cardboard boxes and tubes of different lengths.

The smell of fresh cardboard still lingers
a bit in the room--I prefer the smell of
freshly baked walnut brownies…

Ebay has hooked Jen and Paul--sort of
a seasonal virus that hits when the new
master fishing catalogs begin stuffing the mailbox.

Questions start spinning my way: ‘“Would you
have a box to fit the fly reel?” ‘
Or, ’ “would you have a PVC tube that
would be long enough for a 6.5’ rod? “ ’
My print tubes are only 2 feet long…

How about selling a book, or a pair of earrings?
With two fishing nuts, tackle gets bought,
used a couple of years, then sold to make
room for the newer, flashier and more technical
equipment. Paul now has Abel reels with fish
scale motifs painted on them…

Wouldn’t it be easier to get a pet hamster or
some mice? No hassles, they take up little room,
don’t have to be hosed off, and they’re pretty crafty--
when they want to run off, they don’t require postage--
they can just pop the cage door open…

Whatever Happened To...?

Calling all geeks, braniacs, hulks, and
ex-cheerleaders! Canoga Park High School’s
class of ‘65 is kicking the 45th reunion
into high gear this year.

I won’t be there.
My geeky senior picture won’t surface into
the ‘ha-ha, you looked funny’ zone.
It was taken early in my junior year, unfortunately.
I was totally different by the time I graduated.
Unfair!

Reunions are no doubt a blast from the past.
I wouldn’t know--I’ve never crossed into the
Time Machine and gone to even one of them.

I imagine the event will be filled with sideline
glances, assessments and offside remarks:
‘Good grief, what happened to her'?
'Bill was such a hunk…’

Amid memories of starched, skyscraper hairdos,
ex-tarts fired up with post-hickey-Monday-
morning locker room stories, who ran off
with whose wife or husband, and who made it
to the silver screen: Mike Larrain [Rosemary’s Baby]
and Barry Cutler [Dynasty], conversations will be
peppered with fond memories.

I have fond, coming-into-my-own memories of my
senior year: Columnist on The Hunter’s Call, Steering
Committee member, editor of Horizons, our literary
chapbook, Writer’s Club president, co-coordinator of
Journalism Day, and off-key member of the Folk Singing Club.
Those were the days…

Fitness Flapper

I threw out the last of the holiday eggnog.
Sad. I really enjoy the few weeks from
Thanksgiving to New Year's when eggnog
is almost flying off the shelves--luckily,
a few flew to my house.

Now, I have to admit, I can see a little
bit of “eggnog” thighs…
I wasn’t able to exercise to the extent
I’ve wanted to--one excuse being, my eye
surgeon wanted me to take it easy for awhile.

Well, the ‘awhile’ has passed, and I’m
forcing myself to our clubhouse fitness room.
I can't stick my head in the sand any longer...

It’s tough to get rolling--it’s easier to stay
home and roll out pie dough!
But, after assessing the slight under arm
droop too, I’m hauling butt over to the
fitness room, despite the frigid cold walk.

The machines I like to use are open, waiting
for me to decide which weight level to choose.
Let’s see…how about a 20# ? Naw...
I slide the selector into the 40# slot to start.
But wait--I have to warm up!

So, I’m rotating my arms like airplane props,
just as a hulking Hulk walks in--and just
about gets popped by my twirling arms.
It’s him or me, so I eyeball him, slowly
blocking his way, moving backward, then
do a quick launch to my favorite machine.

After a few minutes of several reps, I leave
it to go use the butterfly machine, which
he has set to almost 200#’s. Good grief!
And I had the nerve, the sheer audacity, to
look into his steel gray eyes, short of intimidation?

I adjust the weight level to 40#’s, and finish
after 5 sets . My arms are burning.
I figure in a couple of weeks, I’ll have my
arms and legs back in shape.

Cruiser, our resident duck, has been getting
more exercise than me, doing her laps around
the house, hoping that someone will take notice,
grab the bread, and toss her a few crumpled pieces.

The other day Cruiser flew up to the computer
room window, flapping for Paul’s attention.
I wonder if flapping my arms will work,
and someone will toss me a powdered donut…

Snort, Snort--Guess Who?!

New Years Eve brought us a wonderful,
butt-wagging, foot-flapping surprise:
Cruiser, our resident duck, came waddling
back to our yard. Surprise of surprises!

With Paul running to the kitchen to grab
some multi grain bread, Mama Cruiser, who
is leaner, began snorting, wiggling her way
past the screen door.

She was as excited to see us as we were
to see her-- at least 3 months have passed
since her last visit. What better New Year’s
than to have Ol’ Snorty back in our lives.

Funny how much we missed feather-butt
and her almost daily visits.
I was sure that my scolding had sent her
off into a huff when she had voraciously
grabbed the bread from my hand, as well
as my finger.

My New Year’s resolution--at least one?
Cruiser, I promise not to quack at you!

Pleeze Come Into My La-bor-a-tory...

I’m going under the microscope today.
I feel like a bug in a Far Side cartoon.
I warned my eye surgeon I’d better not
see antennae sprouting from his head, or
see that he’s suddenly transformed into
a drooling mad doctor with a penchant
for experimentation. I’m going into the
O.R. with two eyes, doc--not three.

I’m not supposed to eat or drink before
surgery. Right now, I’m smelling scrambled
eggs and turkey bacon, and Tom just asked
if I could make him some coffee.
Cruel…

Another thing on the list is No Makeup.
God help me…Halloween is over, isn't it?
No lotions or perfumes--I’ll come out of
surgery smelling like a rubber tire.
Tommy Bahama…I need my Tommy!

I guess the hospital is afraid the patient
might light up--literally. It’s happened:
Combustible patients are really on the rise…
Check the sprinkler system--quick!

I’ll be glad when the Trilogy of The Eye is done.
Doctor Corrent said a few extra stitches
should fix the leak. Thanks, doc…
Winterize me while you’re at it!
B-rrrr...

"Muteny"

Looking for some greasy fries and McNuggets!
[Paul's pic}




Commercials--you either hate them or
love them. I’ve yet to see mama bear
and her cubs in the woods with a roll of
toilet paper. We’ve had a bear, but he
was after our bird feeder. Personally, I’m
a fan of White Cloud 3-Ply Ultra.

When it comes to geckos, the only ones
I’ve seen are sunbathing on the lanai,
pumping their tiny muscles:
Up, down, up, down…


Car commercials really drive me nuts, with
their high-octane spokespersons stoked on
too many Red Bulls or Starbucks, screaming
the month end sales pitches.
I’ve never used the Mute button so much…

When it comes to nutrition bars, I’ve never
been transported to or even thought of a
mountain vista while eating one.
If you look closely, most of the nutrition
bars are loaded with too much sugar and carbs.
I’d probably bike right off the mountain after eating one!
I still grab carrot sticks for a snack.

I remember the shampoo ad with a
gorgeous gal with lustrous locks who said,
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”
Don’t worry…never did, never will.
I didn't like the shampoo which seemed
to make my hair oily after a few days.

Beauty ads with young women are another
gripe of mine. I’ve yet to see anyone past
40 in the skin firming ads.
If you notice the before and after pictures,
the lighting is always different, too.

The befores use a lighting position which
accentuates the wrinkles and shadows.
The after shots are always lighter because
of fill lighting eliminating the before look.

I get a big kick from the automatic ab device ad.
Apparently you don't have to exert needlessly
to achieve a 6-pack.
The guys and gals are always young in those ads,
and it did take months of working out to look
that way. If the ab device can do housework too,
I'll order one!


Someday, maybe I’ll see an ad for a TV which
automatically eliminates commercials.
Until then…mute, mute, mute!