Inspiration or Perspiration?

The holidays definitely bring out the enlightened and 'blessed' individuals that have been camping quietly in their private places leaving the rest of us alone. They suddenly burst out with a fervor and passion, from Christ? All the goodness in their hearts will save us from our own greed, hate and evil that is destroying this world.

This begins right after the final jack-o-lantern is picked up. Next the holiday advertisements start splashing their way into the newspapers/ commercials on the television and jingles singing on the radio.... AND THEN the Jesus freaks suddenly converge upon us (the sinners and faithless).

We, the ones that need a Savior, must have a certain glow about us that attracts them to us like moths to a flame.

Perhaps its a pheromone of sorts, or do they have a special scenting ability like the Beagle dog?

Whatever it is, these lively and well meaning individuals weave their way through crowded stores, restaurants, bumping this way and that to reach over and touch your hand or lock eyes and offer you a moment to say a prayer. Sometimes wringing their hands or fretting with beads, eyes baleful and ready to pour their hearts out to blend their own sorrows with yours. It is better to understand the pain of others by sharing your own.

Oh I do TRY to behave (and I had someone that was with me that can confirm that I DID behave the other day) and not push them away every time or perhaps give them a debate as to why it's an intrusion on my life(style) to put their beliefs upon me. If I am sitting for a cup of coffee and having a nice conversation with a friend, please do not step up and ask me if I need a blessing. Seriously, I'm sure you mean well but I have enough thank you.

Here's a thought, go have a seat over there in the corner and put your hands together and say a prayer for the whole room. Thanks for taking up nearly 20 minutes of my time looking quite neurotic and needing a hefty dose of Haldol for your Schizophrenia.
Perhaps when Jesus comes to talk to you again ( while you were sitting in the shitter at Starbucks He told you that someone just outside the door was having leg pain and another was having problems with their family) and you can ask him why you are coming to a cafe to spend $5.00 for a coffee instead of $0.50 per cup at home and you could donate the rest to a charity and REALLY make a difference!?!!

When someone sneezes, I'd prefer not to say "Bless you" instead I would offer 'Be Well".
Interesting enough the use of gesundheit is quite proper for those of us not wanting to invoke spiritual intervention. It is used as an interjection in German to wish good health to a person who has just sneezed.
A note on "Gesundheit"

Most people think "Gesundheit" is synonymous with "God Bless You". The confusion over the real meaning of the word Gesundheit, which means simply "health," probably dates back to the time of the Bubonic Plague, where sneezing was a symptom of the disease. Sneezing was supposedly the person's soul making a break for it! It was believed that sickness arose due to the lack of a soul. And so "soullessness" and ill-health became synonymous during the middle ages.

The custom of saying "God bless you" after a sneeze was begun literally as a blessing. Pope Gregory the Great (540-604 AD) ascended to the Papacy just in time for the start of the plague (his successor succumbed to it). Gregory (who also invented the ever-popular Gregorian chant) called for litanies, processions and unceasing prayer for God's help and intercession. Columns marched through the streets chanting, "Kyrie Eleison" (Greek for "Lord have mercy"). When someone sneezed, they were immediately blessed ("God bless you!") in the hope that they would not subsequently develop the plague. All that prayer apparently worked, judging by how quickly the plague of 590 AD diminished.

The connection of sneezing to the plague is not the first association of sneezing with death. According to Man, Myth, and Magic: The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Mythology, Religion and the Unknown, many cultures, even some in Europe, believe that sneezing expels the soul--the "breath of life"--from the body. That doesn't seem too far-fetched when you realize that sneezing can send tiny particles speeding out of your nose at up to 100 miles per hour!

We know today, of course, that when you sneeze, your heart doesn't stop, nor will your eyes pop out if you can keep them open (www.straightdope.com/classics/a2_30 4.html), nor does your soul get expelled. What does get expelled are hundreds upon thousands of microscopic germs. (thanks thestraightdope.com for the above blurb)

Does the Satanist say instead: "Satan curses you"? Do Buddhists retort, "Buddha bless you"? Allah for Muslims? Darwin for evolutionists?
What about meeting in between and just saying "Einstein" when any anyone sneezes. It works well. It's quick, easy and encapsulates the essence of religion vs. science in one fell swoop.
(thanks to The-Brights.Net for the above blurb)

The whole year can practically go by without a single sign of human compassion and sharing. People run and bustle daily with their own lives, often forgetting those around them until they are reminded by Thanksgiving Day circulars, diddey's on the radio and the bell ringers outside of Wal-Mart.
Your $0.77 might really help someone, well after they peel off the first $0.43 to pay overhead and THEN maybe someone will get a crust of bread.

I do not have children, I don't want children and I'm not particularly interested in taking care of yours therefore I do not share our gains to welfare of any such.

crazy cat lady I am, or so I'm told. Therefore I donate my efforts to needy animals. However, I do not give the shelters money either because quite frankly the same situation happens there as it does anywhere else. Money has a trickle down effect, but supplies are always on demand.
A bag of food WILL feed hungry mouths. A helping hand will clean faster than a promise will get something done.

Since I have all of my issues people always want to say a prayer for me, ya know what - DON"T.

It's not working. You've been doing it for a really long time and nothing has changed. Pray for someone else or just wish really hard for me to win the lottery, wouldn't that better improve anyone's life? I think so. Money will buy better medical coverage than any health insurance will cover.

Wanna do something good for me, want to just give me something that makes me smile.

I like expensive chocolates.

Boogie Nights

I don't go out dancing anymore, it makes me sad.

Perhaps it's because of my age? I'm over 30. Actually I'm over 35 now. Do you remember when you could NEVER imagine being THAT old? Remember when you were a kid and you thought, "Wow my parents are so damn old!" when in fact they were probably only 35-40 at tops. (well with the exception of my own mother and father that had me so late in their life that my father could have passed for my grandfather when I was just entering junior high school.

My own parents never danced, they never went anywhere together in a romantic fashion. The only thing they did together was on Saturday nights was head to the Moose Lodge or the Elks to play bingo. Now and then there would be a function there for the families and we would get gussied up, (that meant no T-shirts) combed hair and headed there to Polka and eat a lot of Kluski noodles, sauerkraut and Polish sausages.

Back then I would be so excited to dance. The floor was a shiny parquet and there was a stage with a heavy brocade maroon curtain and there were silver microphones on stands waiting for future acts. Further back on the stage stood a bingo ball cage and a podium. Up above, spinning and sending beams of reflective colorful light was a disco ball. To a little girl like myself this was truly quite the experience, it was a grand party every time we came to the club.

My parents would sit at their table, plates heaped high and glasses half full with who knows what. Now in my adult years I really don't remember if they drank cocktails because they never did at home even though there were a few bottles in the house they never drank in front of the kids. I always saw them drinking coffee, awful instant coffee that left them with stale breath while they smoked cigarette after cigarette.

Mom would nod with encouragement, tell me to have fun and I would traipse off winding my way through the cramped rows of tables until my dress shoes finally clicked onto that floor. The sound excited me and the rhythm of the music flowed in me. It didn't matter what kind of music was playing because I was ready to show off no matter what. I loved the attention given to me.

Toes touching the floor and my arms raising up I swirled and twirled, weaving my way around the dancing couples. There would be a Polka and suddenly I found my tiny hands grasped by a kind pair of weathered hands, so large they engulfed mine. I'd look up to see a wide toothy smile, all dentures and dimples. In these days, the older gentlemen wore their hair a little bit long on top and it would flop over their foreheads, very rakish.
A Polka could be immediately followed by a tender Country two-step, I was ready to learn these also but I couldn't ever quite get it down because the sound of it sorta hurt my ears. Makes me giggle these days, I still can't stand the shit. Not a good situation now 20 plus years later and I'm smack dab in the center of Texas.

In my early 20s I used to hit a club in town, it was new and the hot place to go. Well, it was actually the only place to go. 3 nights a week it was country music and 2 nights it was rock and top 40 dance. Those nights it was rock, I went alone I let all my inhibitions go, it was so freeing it took me back to my days as a child even though I didn't really have all of the eyes on me I wanted; I did have plenty.

Now I dance alone in my living room, no one sees me except the cats and dogs. If anyone is looking over the security fence its a pervert Peeping Tom.

He will experience nothing but true expression. I won't pull up a chair and yank a line to have water splash upon me like the scene in Flashdance...and I'm not going to do a glissade through the room like a ballerina but I WILL drop it like it's hot...

'cuz baby got back!

To Pee or Not to Pee

That is the Question:

Oh so many years ago I was working as a part time waitress and part time bartendress at a bowling alley, yes I say, a bowling alley. The scent of bowling alley wax an underlying and mysterious scent one doesn't really identify unless you've been there for extended periods of time. Generally you just muster enough sniff of stale socks, beer soaked polyester carpets, cigarette stained concrete walls and dashed hopes of washed up high school jocks that didn't decide on a career and kept the same dead-end summer job their uncle Dave hooked them up with.

I really enjoyed working there myself because I liked the fast pace and the smiling faces plus when people drink and league bowlers drink heavily they tip heavily. These were the days when I was still cute, had a great figure and could talk anyone out of their last dollar for the evening.

One particular night however, I'd gotten up and pretty much felt like this was a day I should just stay home. Yes the job needed me but I needed me too. For some strange reason my back hurt more than usual but it was a strange hurt, not the FMS ache but this was a sharp nasty pain and it was in my lower back like someone had done some World Wrestling Federation Hulkamaniac kicks to my kidneys. Added to that, there was a twisting in my lower tummy, wringing me out like a wet dishrag - cramping and I wasn't due to have Aunt Flo come to visit any time soon let alone be pregnant since I practiced the safest of sex (wasn't getting any in part due to my ex husband being a cheating bastard).

The day progressed and I kept thinking to myself that something wasn't right, maybe I might be getting a little bit of a bladder infection so I'd stop at the market for a bottle of cranberry juice that should help out some. Oceanspray to the rescue! 16 ounces of the tart treat with a Dasani chaser, that should do it - flush the stuff out and I'll be right as rain.

Getting ready I put on my finest, consisting of the standard uniform of black slacks and bowling alley provided logo shirt (which I kept unbuttoned rather low to expose Every Ting ), washed and styled my hair and did up my eyes to bring out the green trying to detract from the freckles on the bridge of my nose which I detest.
It was a chilly night, late October - really not far from this time of the year so the memories are really so very similar to now. Cold enough that when I'd return home close to midnight that I'd need to wear a medium weight coat.

When I usually clocked out, I would go running out to the car (ohh how I loved this car a 1972 Ford Maverick), praying for the heater to kick up, start to hum and sputter. The initial breeze blowing its chill air and rattling the vents and whispering in the dark.

My butt would go numb on the icy black leather seats, and I would listen to all of the sounds of the night waiting for my Mav ready herself for the drive home. Creaks and groans, duct tape crackling as I would lean forward a bit to fiddle with the knobs on the Am/Fm catching the local radio station. Crunching of hoar frost that's starting to collect on the ground, proof that an early snow will be here any moment (aaahh life in the Midwest!)

This night however would be so different, I came in to the alley and was hit with the usual sounds of glee. Laughing and shouts along with the tumble of urethane balls slamming down the lanes and crashing into pins. A wave and greeting from the pair manning the front desk, each with a can of disinfectant and spraying out the dozens of shoes as they ready for the groups of league bowlers that evening. Each bi-color shoe always reminding me of Bozo the Clown

I wander past, head to the bar to find out which section of the lanes I would be assigned and get my apron plus I ask for a glass of cranberry juice because I'm really feeling this cramping hard core now. But wait, I haven't gone to the bathroom all day - now mind you, this hasn't crossed my mind yet but it will before too long. This is odd simply because I have always been a frequenter of the toilet. I like going in there, a nice little break, sit down and take a moment to think...relax...let it all flow so to speak. I indulge with a few drinks now and then and the boys on the lanes are wont to buy an extra shot or two for their waitress. No one is any smarter if she leans back and tips one down, she's a jolly sort and if she giggles louder or tells a dirtier joke so what. Happy customers spend more money.

Up and down I'm marching the lanes, bobbing here and there taking orders for burgers and fries, Budweisers and Boilermakers all the while taking dollar bills and making change. However, some of my regulars are noticing that I'm not my cheery self and I'm spending less and less time on the floor and going into the bar for extended periods of time before coming back out to deliver their orders.

What am I doing in the dark room, where the big screen tvs are blaring football games to empty tables and a few lone drinkers at the bar? I am standing, nay, I am being held up barely with a hand gripping the rail and gasping with sweat beading on my brow as I pray for the pain tearing through my lower body to just go away.

I have the desire to bear down and wet myself, but I've made a half dozen unsuccessful trips so far. Now its gone too far, some of my food orders have been sitting and the other wait staff have had to pick them up for me and I've lost tips and starting to raise concern plus quite frankly beginning to scare myself. Not sure what I need to do really, I decide that the best bet is to just go home and try to rest. Maybe this is a bug and despite how bad of a position this puts the other 2 women for the night I know they can manage and they'll love the extra money for the night even though they are lazy cows.

Passing the information on to the boss, I scramble out to the car. Well when I say scramble what I really mean is that I crab walk out, clutching my stomach while bending my knees slightly in a hobble all the while still certain I need to whiz and as I sit on the cold seats I feel a moment of instant pain and gratification. The sensation of fullness in my pelvis is overwhelming and it fills me straight up through my spine yet the ice cold also numbs it immediately afterward and gives me enough comfort to begin the drive home which is only 7 or 8 miles away.

Those miles disappear in a blur and I do the crab walk again into the house where I collapse immediately onto the sofa, not even making it into bed. I'm shivering, quaking with pain and fear and misery. Pulling the throw from the rear of the sofa over my shoulders and trying to roll into the fetal position to possibly get all 5'8" into the 50"x70" of woven fabric covered and warmed while my teeth chatter and I pray for death as well as whine pitifully for my then bastard husband to 'help'.

He pulled himself away from God only knows what, at this point I don't even give a rats ass simply because my story is far too terrific and all about ME (oh yes my narcissism consumes) and asked if I needed a doctor. It took me a while to commit to the idea because I really detest going. Sometimes I ask myself to classify my reasoning for hating going, its not as if I'm afraid of them, actually I'm fascinated by doctors but what it boils down to is that I hate to pay or have the obligation of paying when medical care should be free for all.

After a little bit of crying and coming to terms with my indecisiveness including his commentary about my stupid reasoning I caved because the pain was consuming me. I'd also determined at one of the lavatory visits at the alley that a little thing called hematuria had happened (for the medical terminology challenged, simple translation = blood in urine) when I did manage a trickle.
There's nothing scarier than seeing that when you know you are not on your period!

We drove in to the newest hospital in town, I'm definitely not a fan of these damn hospitals going up all over that are influenced by the Churches - first thing they want to know is your faith. Shut UP, I am not going to die because I can't PISS! I am agnostic ( THE HORROR) and I am about to get medieval on your ass.

The put me behind a curtain,"please remove your clothes" ...I am ready lickity split; the sooner the better though I don't think the top needs to come off because my tits don't pee and it's colder than necessary on an already freezing night somewhere near Lake Michigan.

Thankfully I was there for only a short time before a kind doctor came in and asked me what was wrong, to which she was concerned and understanding and explained exactly what was going to happen..and then the word CATHETER and Foley and URETHRA...and and and..well I said, WOW okay well if that's all gonna happen I wanna watch. She and her assisting nurse just stared at me with wide open eyes and said, "Really?" and I said, "really, so bring a mirror"

To which they did and I was fascinated . I mean come on, if someone's gonna be all up in your junk, and your miserable and its already a horror why not at least watch the story unfold so to speak?

Last night I went through the same feelings of misery all over again however I refused to go to the ER again, well not really refused. I went through almost all of the motions. I went a few extra steps but never walked into the building...I took a shower so I was fresh and smelling pretty, did my hair and didn't smell like bowling alley (wait, I didn't go bowling yesterday), dressed in comfortable loose fitting clothes that would slip right off, packed my bag with fully charged phone and my netbook so I could surf the net and/or blog the fun, put in a couple of bottled waters and lastly packed a power bar for a munchie.

Right before I left though I remembered the last 3 times I got one of these damn infections the type of prescription it was (the name) and it clicked that not so long ago I'd purchased a HUGE bottled of that very type of medicine for my cats to keep on hand in case of who knows what.

Cats and people oftentimes can share the same types of prescription medications and even diseases - Wow, who knew pussies had so much in common?

MMmmMMM

Rules disturb me, frighten me, anger me and make me dash my head against the wall however recently I've tried to conform. Oh shit you say, Rebekah - conform!?! What is this little line of bullshit she's shoveling and why must I swallow it?

Open wide and swallow because it's going to taste of the sweetness of sugar and spice and everything nice. My recent switch to rules would be the rules of measurements and recipes. Since my introduction into the world of domesticity I've always just 'winged it' and with that I've managed to amaze and wonder. (heaping it on even thicker now)

--- seriously I don't have a huge ego, I'm not that great of a cook but lately I've had such a low self esteem I need to buoy myself up on something ---

Once a month in my attempt to assist the husband in "his impress the big-wigs" at the job-site, I've been sending him in with and/or catering lunches. This is quite an effort at times, these can be for as few as 7 and as many as 15-20.
Sans assistant, I get to work providing box lunches along with scratch made soups/chowders/stews/chili and all of the fixin's that go alongside. Additionally I also set out place settings, have beverages...you get the gist AND stay out of sight an sound, then do the clean up and go home to wash up the dirty plates too.

Right now there's an important close-out on some of the portions of the job and a new situation is arising where it would be nice to thank the customer, and I mentioned perhaps a gift from the heart would be nice...ahhhh shit, here goes. I said maybe a cake or some cookies.

Now we damn well know that hubby already puts in almost 60 hours weekly he's not about to come home and bake up a storm and make pretty little packages to boot. This is where I get to step in, and for right now I'm in the trial and error stage. If it sucks the 'boys' on the job-site (that would be the grunts in hardhats) get to eat the mistakes until I finesse the recipes.
Baking is an art-form in my eyes, it just doesn't come naturally to a cook and cooking doesn't come naturally to a baker.

What makes this all the more interesting is that I am a disaster in the kitchen. Husband just stands out of the way because I'm a whirling dervish, many are reminded of Animal from the Muppet Show. Arms flying, knives chopping, bits of vegetables rolling here and there and now I'm going into the world of baking lord help my kitchen FLOUR EVERYWHERE.

Eggs cracked, ooze dribbled on the counter. Granules of sugar glistening as the light from my overhead fluorescent fixture bounce off them.
My face reminiscent of a circus clown, either just starting to put on their make up or starting to remove it - smears of white down my face and my cheeks red, flushed from the heat off of the oven preheating for the cakes.
The smell of each thing cooking drives me a little bit insane. I have such a sweet tooth, but my eyes and nose are always bigger than my stomach despite how chubby I am. My real love is salty but when I smell sweet all I want is sweet. There's no way to want salty because you can't smell salty cooking!

This morning at 4 a.m. I approached the kitchen with trepidation, a recipe I've been wanting to tackle has been sitting before me for 3 weeks and today I decided was THE DAY. Yesterday I was in bed most of the day feeling like crap so I didn't sleep last night so what better thing can I do than something quiet. Certainly can't run the sweeper and I can't turn up the tunes and dance (not that I can because my back hurts like Hell still) but I can go and whip some simple ingredients into a treat that feels like sin.

Wish me luck .. I hope it tastes like cake and not charcoal!

Dry as Dust

A few weeks ago a discussion about BMs reminded me about my experience with a particular surgery I had about 6 years ago and the resulting lack of poo.

Now one of the reasons people have issues with poo is that prior you're told not to eat or drink a few hours before going in, then you are not eating a few hours after going in. Your desire to eat is lessened even further for days, you are pumped full of pain medications (pain Rx cause constipation) and all of this results into the fact that the moisture content of your intestines is being absorbed back into your bloodstream rather helping to flush out the poo and that leaves each of these into crusty ol' hunks.

Add all of this to the fact that the anesthesia is a paralytic which causes your intestines to stop the contractions that push food through your intestinal tract down to your pooper shooter.
I found that no amount of using the salad shooter would help my pooper shooter.

The doctors and nurses on staff were quite insistent to find out if my frequent trips to the minuscule restroom in my shared room (another story since I had to share it with a dead woman) resulted in a floater, they were also concerned because I insisted on getting to my feet quickly walking the halls and showing that I was ready to return home as quickly as possible.

here's the beef -

show energy and ability
drop a log
equals = GO HOME

stay lackadaisical and depressed -
retain your feces
equals = STAY LONGER

My kitty's and husband wanted and needed me, my Temperpedic bed was a lot more comfortable and the privacy of my own bathroom sounded like a dream to me. I was pretty well tired of having my rest disturbed every hour to have someone check my blood pressure and temperature in the middle of the night, adjust the compression cuffs they put on your feet which I've now since forgotten the name for and annoyed the living Hell out of me.

I was positive they'd hired Nurse Ratchet to do my IVs because it was forever inserted at an awkward angle and causing me severe discomfort, mind you that I am one tough cookie when it comes to pain tolerance since I've suffered from FMS for most of my life.

Needless to say, I was ready to return home even if it meant telling a lil' white lie about a lil brown pile. What could it hurt, I poop pretty steady actually and have some issues using too much tissue. Everything should be regular the minute I have a great big glass of milk or a cup of corn.

The good patient was released, my lilly white ass to be seen no more trouncing through the hallways in my house-slippers and hospital gown. I returned home on the liquid diet they recommended to ease into my normal habits of ribeye steaks swimming in garlic butter and mashed potatoes with gravy. My culinary grace in full swing, I did not really take notice that everything was entering my pie hole but never exiting my bunghole until a week...two weeks..and finally clutching my stomach in agony the 3rd week was upon me.

Now I really was in so much discomfort, the 2nd week I felt when I sat down I was squatting on top of a bowling ball as well as having one lodged within my stomach, plus I was plummeting down in one of those Midway rides that you go up a hundred feet to be dropped down suddenly (Disney had one called Demon Drop). The intense pressure and G-forces would make your stomach feel like it was coming up and out of your throat, the feeling I had was reversed as if my stomach was being jammed down my shitter but nothing was going to come out except farts.

During this time of healing my 'help' in the house, a young lady we'll call Libby, was coming over with frequency because I should not be lifting. She'd gone from working 6 hours weekly to 10-12. Whenever she could pop over between work and school, she'd drop by and scoop litter boxes and wash some of my cats an get the garbage out. If she wanted to she could do anything else she wanted to but was never obligated to - I just got lucky and found myself a nice housekeeper in the mix. She would run the sweeper and even wash the dishes that might sit in the sink.

That final week where I was practically on deaths door from pain, I felt as if I did not crap someone would just have to shoot me and put me out of my misery, I finally decided that I would have to accept I needed to just ask someone what I could do. Already I'd gone the way of Fleet, Metamucil, Milk of Magnesia and drinking gallons of water in desperation of trying to flush out my demons but again I was dry as dust.
Sitting on the throne, my brow furrowed in consternation, sweat beading on my forehead, elbows digging into my thighs as I leaned in and grunted with effort nearly blowing an O-ring I was in tears from the lack of production... I finally would just fall to the floor, laying on the shagged rug listening to the exhaust fan and the reverberation of my sobs on the shower tiles.

I crawled back into bed, reached for my telephone and dialed the ER and with a pitiful voice I explained my situation. "Hello, yes I was there a few weeks ago for such an such surgery (ladies lower abdominal) and well, I haven't made a poo in over 2 weeks going on 3. I'm in a lot of discomfort (that's being nice - since I'm gasping for air after the sobs have subsided) and just don't know what else to do."

"Well you would have to come in and we would do digital dis-impaction (where the doctor or nurse use their fingers to help dislodge the hardened stool) or (in advanced cases) surgery."

"could you please tell me, when you say digital...your telling me someone's going to put their fingers in my ass?"

To which there was a little bit of an intake of breath, a giggle and then, "Yes ma'am that's about it. Basically someone is going to have to pluck it out for you. They will help flush it and dig it out."

"Well ummm thank you for letting me know, I think that I am going to give this a try with someone that already knows the ins and outs of my asshole and if it doesn't work then I'll go ahead and let someone else have a whack"

To which I hung up and cried a little more for the stupidity of letting this go for so long, then telephoned the husband and in a voice that lacked my vitality and verve I asked him to stop at the pharmacy for a box of rubber gloves, some Vaseline, another box of enemas and some Motrin.

This was going to be my own little surgery.

Dejected I hung up, laid my head down on the pillow and wept myself to sleep, curled into a fetal position as it was the only way I could find some comfort because of the heavy pain in my stomach and back. Oh I feel for you ladies that are pregnant and I am so grateful for the very reason I had that surgery, I will never get pregnant and have that great big fat miserable feeling!

Half way between sleep and wakefulness, I whine and moan to myself when I hear my front door open and thinking it's the husband I start to make little sounds from the bedroom which is down a long hallway from the door (which is slightly ajar and right next to the restroom which stands open and awaiting my dark delivery).

It's not my husband, it's Libby and she is not aware that I am home in bed, she says aloud, "OMG it stinks to high Heaven in here like some old person SHIT themselves and then DIED!"

She wandered first around the living room, picked up a few papers and tidied up all the while I could hear her..."Them cats couldn't make that smell, I wonder what happened in here? Someone musta ate something bad last night"

The farts escaping me were like deaths butterfly kisses, squeezing past my poo and blowing through the air to soak my home in the smell that permeates nursing homes.

Make sure you shit it's an important function in life.

Woe is me.

Thoughts about All Hallows Eve

It's been years since I've had the 'treat' of going out for tricks, and this year was such a pleasure for me. This year I talked the husband into doing something which I find a great deal of fun - dressing up in disguise and joining the rest of the silly adults for laughter and drinks.

Halloween to me is a non-holiday, it's the opportunity to shed our daily mask and don one of the many persona's that hide within us. Whether you might be a clown, silly and wishing to turn a frown upside down or perhaps you always wanted to be a police officer ready to arrest someone for their wrong doings (or just be naught and slap the cuffs on and have that power over them!).

Seriously if you ask me, Halloween is the day we release ourselves from the daily grind and cut loose. Behind the make-up or the rubber mask we are free at last to express ourselves in the freest fashion possible.