The Black Beret Way

So, I'm taking an online writing class, and in it the teacher talks about "The Green Beret Way" -- but, I'm thinking I'd much rather do things the "Black Beret Way."

What is this? You ask. It eez, simply put, the verra French way.

Allow me to explain, I have French prints, French handbags, French stickers, even a (partly) French grandaughter...but, I've never actually been to France. It's okay, for now, it allows me the latitude to make-up things about France and being verra French. It eez, how do you say...liberating, oui! And, I like to think, a completely French way of doing things. My French way of doing things: The Black Beret Way.

Un: Laugh every day. Every sacre day, no matter what. Laugh loud and long -- head back, chin up, as if you didn't have a care in the world.

Deux: Eat something indulgent, maybe not every day, but certainement, once a month, preferably from a French bakery, and preferably involving some kind of chocolate and cream. C'est Bon!

Trois: Wear fabulous shoes (unless they kill your feet, then they are no longer le fabuleux soulier) great shoes make you feel sexy, and they don't kill your feet -- well, maybe if you have to walk in them...just kidding.

Quatre: Try something new -- go somewhere you've never been -- perhaps not France, but maybe a museum, museums are tres Francais and a perfect place to pretend you're French. Wear black with fabulous red shoes some red lipstick and smile knowingly at the security guards. This works well for la fille or le garcon. Tres chic!

The rest should be made-up as you go -- be fearless, be brave, be verra French! And remember: *Quasimodo rit, and you should too.

*Quasimodo laughed. One of the few French phrases I remember from 5 years of French...Oui!

Those Darn Kids And Their Crazy Music

I've been feeling a little...stressed (I hate writing that -- I mean, I'm not the President or anything), and I've been trying to figure out how to rid myself of said stress without starting smoking (again) or drinking (excessively) or eating (too many) Frito's.

But, today, as I was driving to work, I put in a cd that someone had made for me a while ago -- I had forgotten what songs were even on it, but I slid it into the console and as the first strums of the guitar came through the speakers, I instinctively turned up the volume and as the song reached the chorus I cranked that puppy even louder.

I should have been pulled over for some kind of noise ordinance violation.

I turned into a head-banging, scream-singing, grunge-rockin' momma. I know. Pretty scary.

But, here's what happened -- I had an epiphany. I suddenly realized why those crazy kids like to listen to ear-drum-bleeding loud music -- when the music's that loud, it squeezes everything else out, there's no room for stress, or doubt or sadness. It's just the music, and you have to surrender yourself to it, for that short amount of time -- just the sweet, sweet sound of whatever kind of head-banging, ear-bashing, mind-blowingly loud music you choose.

And you'll see, for those 4 minutes or so, you'll be in a kind of hard core bliss. I'm not saying your problems or stresses will be gone, but, maybe after that mini-vacation (like band camp)you'll be able to deal with them just a little better.

The song I listened to is: Everlong, by The Foo Fighters. What's your favorite de-stresser? I've posted a link at my facebook page for Everlong -- it's awesome, but you have to play it reallyreallyreally loud.

Working The Jelly

Honestly, sometimes I think I'm hip and cool and all that...and then I remember I'm a 50 year old with a granddaughter. D'oh!

So, I've decided to ramp-up my hip-ability and my friend Don is helping me -- or trying to help -- he's decided to add a cool-word/verbiage a week to my vernacular. Oh, so not cool.

Workin' The Jelly: to have your plans jell. To be actively working towards a goal. I like this, I like to think of my work-in-progress as workin' the jelly, or workin' my jelly.

Plus it makes me laugh. Always good. It makes me imagine my Muse dancing and shaking and really, really workin' her jelly, all for the greater good, but her workin' it, makes me work it. See?

So, now I'm trying to think of all the ways I can help my Muse work the jelly...because we all need help. Even Muses. So, I've asked some friends to help me brainstorm, we'll all be workin' the jelly. I think my Muse is happy.

Fashion Sense

So, I was gonna write a post about fashion, but it didn't translate well...I sounded mean, and judgemental, and maybe patronising. I'm not those things. Am I?

I wanted to sound helpful, and friendly, and maybe even joyful -- 'cuz, I want everyone to look good and feel good about themselves. No, really, I do.

How's this?:
Wear longer jeans! Your legs will look longer aaaand, you'll feel good.
Wear clothes that fit you! Not too little, not too big...just right. You'll feel better and look better too.
Look outside the black! Brown, red, aubergine -- they're all good colors.

I know, still kind of patronising. I thought the exclamation points would help. I just don't want to sound mean girl-ish, or, rather, woman-ish. And everyone should feel comfortable in their clothes, but I'm not talking sweat pants comfortable -- okay, maybe, if you're at home and there's no chance someone will see you, no chance, got that?

I know we all want to be loved for who we are and not how we look...but, it kinda feels good to look good.

Middle-ing Something

So, I had commented on facebook how it felt good to finish something, and then I went on to say, we never middle something - we start something, we finish something, but we never middle something.

My nephew, Andrew, showed me the error of my thoughts. He says he middles everything, or sure he blames it on adult ADD, as if that...what, oh - hey - look at that, I never...huh? Right. So Andy says he might have a slight chance of finishing something if, IF he takes his ADD medication that lasts about 6 hours and the project only takes 4 hours. Slight chance. Might finish it. You get the idea.

So, I was wrong, middleing happens. We just don't talk about it, unless we don't want to help you move...hey, look at the time, I gotta go, I'm - uhm - right in the middle of something.

What are you middle-ing?

Ooooh...That's Right, I have a Blog

D'oh.

This is me two weeks ago...oh blahblah blibbidy blah, I have a blog for a reason and I should post more often...blibbidy blah...what a load. I mean, I'm sorry I was busy.

I. Was. Busy. I forgot. Okaaaaay, sheesh, I didn't forget. I thought about it, and then I winced, and then I went on with my day. Just like people do with all kinds of stuff they know they should do but don't.

So today I did the other things I'd been wincing about. Doctor appointments - the usual girly ones (you know the ones I mean - yes you do) and the brand new shiny one that I've never made before...drumroll please...the colonoscopy! Thunderous auplause, etc. etc. etc. blahblahblah. Here's the thing with a test like this - or any test: mammogram, pap smear, colonoscopy - people luuuurve to tell you their horror stories.

And then she tightened that machine down on my breast so hard...I thought I'd explode - I had bruises for a month. I pooped for two days...I couldn't leave the house.

You get my TMI idea, right? My friend from work, Laurie, says she'll send me something after I've had my colonoscopy - she says I wouldn't want to read it before. I think that's a good thing.

All of this reminds me of when I was pregnant close to my due date. I was in labor for forty days with no doctor, only a team of dentists...same sort of thing, don't ya think?

Why do we love to tell medical horror stories?

Indubit (bsphlll) ly--hahahahahahahahaha

I was lucky enough to become a 10 year old boy tonight. Not just any 10 year old boy, but the friend of my 10 year old boy.

We were watching Monday night RAW--wrestling, duh-uh. And we started announcing the matches in fake British accents and using as many farting noises as we could fit in when appropriate.

Hilarity.

The British stuff all started a few days ago when we went to the park--there were a few people playing basketball--parents and kids--Nathan wanted to play, so I said, "Ask them."

He said, "Couldn't you?"

I said, "What would I say?"

He said, (with feeling and a fake British accent) "This young lad would like to play some b-ball with you, would that be alright?"

So I almost cry, because I'm laughing. So. Hard. And I say, "Borgy, my step mom would have said 'young lad' but not with a British accent--and she would probably do something like that for you...but I'm not gonna--you have to ask."

So this goes on--we finally find a random basketball and start playing at the other end and then attract numerous other players--because everyone wants to play.

But my point is the fake accents started earlier in the week. Tonight we perfected them.

RAW had a "Many Men In The Ring Match To See Who Would Face (the scum that is) Randy Orton in the WWE blahdeblahblah match (I can't know everything) so my ADD (don't we all have that?) was kicking in and I said, "There's way too many guys in the ring--I can't concentrate."

Until Nathan started using his fake accent again and then I helped him:
Young lad, could you throw the Miz out--oh thank you.
I say, John Cena, get up off your arse and whoop some other arse.
Young lad, unhand him.
Oh my look at John Cena's jiggly arse.

Then we progressed to: Indubit(bsphllllph)ly --farting sounds became derigueur in addition to our accents--we added them to everything. Until only Triple H (whom we called the lad with three H's) and John Cena were left in the ring.

We did this until it was bedtime and we had completely irritated Dad. And I realised as I was laughing--snorting--with my 10 year old that it's fun to be 10. More people should try it. He said goodnight to Dad and I went to tuck him in--maybe read a little (it's late after RAW) but we kept on with the accents and farting noises--seriously you had to be there--here--it was hilarious--well, maybe you had to be here.

What are you surprised at liking? Have you ever acted like a 10 year old, when, in fact, you weren't a 10 year old?