Things to do before I
die, checkout, expire, cease to exist, bite the dust, pass away...
1. Decorate my bedroom like a Southern Living magazine
spread... never mind what husband says.
2.
See the Grand Canyon
up close and personal (well, not THAT up close..)
3. Watch all the
Twilight
Zone episodes in order in which they aired... (The Burgess Meredith episode "Time Enough at Last" is CLASSIC bibliophile stuff!).
4. Write a fan letter to Stephen King then burn it because
we all know he doesn’t read those things..
5. Rewrite
Cinderella
from the P.O.V of the Fairy Godmother... Bless her non-unioned heart- only one
week vacation a year, two days sick leave per month, an ever increasing co-pay
on her health insurance policy, and having to deal with dress demanding
divas...
6.
For once, paint my
toenails and not get nail polish all over the freaking place... Just once,
dammit.
7.
Bake cookies while
wearing a frilly apron. You know, a la June Cleaver?
8. Load up several paintbrushes, paints, markers, etc and set out on a
cross country trek whereon I correct all grammatically incorrect signs from
East to West coast...
9.
Test my strength
of character by visiting a Barnes & Noble and exiting without buying a
book.. not even one.
10.
Try to, for once,
care (or pretend to care) that girly shoes matter to me..
I Might Have to go
Into Therapy Over This...
And did I tell you about the guy I saw in Scott’s BBQ last night?
Young guy with his wife and kid. He had this Frankenstein looking arm cast that
extended almost from his wrist to his shoulder. The cast had a twist kind of turn
screw thingie by his elbow and a metal rod running, what looked like to me,
into the flesh of his arm. I just sat and watched him for a minute while he paid
for his meal at the register, and the more I studied him the curiouser I got. And
I started wondering, “How in the hell did he do that? I HAVE to know so I don’t
do the same thing some day.”
I thought he must have injured himself in some really cool
way like parachuting out of a plane, pulling an old woman out of the twisted wreckage
of a fiery crash, or trying to jump rope double-dutch old school style. right? And
the longer I sat there the more I had to know..
So I walked up to him and asked, ever so politely, “Excuse
me, but how in the hell did you hurt your arm because I want to make sure I
never do whatever it was you did.” He glanced at his arm, stuck a toothpick in
his mouth and do you know what he said? Of course you don’t, but I am getting
ready to tell you.
He said he slipped on a concrete floor at work and fell
down. He fell down? What the hell? I said, “Are you sure you didn’t have an
accident that involved a really kick ass Corvette?” He said, “No, I fell down.”
I didn’t even want my Scott’s cheeseburger after that, and I
really do love Scott’s cheeseburgers. They’re dripping juicy-homemade and make me want
to slap YOUR mama..
But I ate my cheeseburger, and pondered about a world in which all it takes is one slight misstep, one action that counters the laws of gravity
for some diabolical, surely sadistic doctor to drill holes in your arm and encase
said arm in a device that has actual turn screws attached to it.
I’m still traumatized...
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