Last night the Social Media Marketing conference partied on the USS Midway. I didn’t know at first if I would go but decided to get out of my comfort zone and attend. When I saw all the steps we had to climb to get onto the ship I almost turned around and went back to the hotel but I said “I can do this” and I did it. Of course at the top some nice guy took my arm to help me — I must have looked or sounded pretty bad (at least it wasn’t a Boy Scout; when the Boy Scout helps me cross the street I’ll know I am over the hill). Of course I discovered later there was an elevator.
I am now in San Diego for the Social Media Marketing World conference. Over 3,000 people will be attending. After the wonderful time at the Erma Bombeck conference I am afraid it may not be as warm and welcoming a group — but you never know. I am adorable and cuddly.
I have been lucky to be able to do some traveling in the past few years on my employer’s dime — San Diego, Las Vegas, San Jose, Chicago — but I just want to go back home.
Not sure why I don’t get into it like other people do. Of course I am at these places on my own and I think that makes a difference. I’m pretty sure if I have a travel companion (are you paying attention Keifer Sutherland) I’d be more excited and adventurous. I did find a number of web sites about the single traveler but the people in the picture looked much more together than I am. I’m thinking after I retire I would like to get in the car with Daisy and drive around the country visiting friends — I already know where you live so don’t try moving now.
Of course leaving Daisy behind does not make it any easier. Today I watched as the nicest person at Now Boarding was dragging her off — should would not walk. He finally picked her up. I felt like I was sending her off to the Bataan death march. Perhaps if I could travel with her I would have more fun — or at least feel better.
Okay I’m rambling a bit — sorry. Had to get up early (for me) to get to the airport. Of course now that I’m in San Diego I am 2 hours younger — I can see it in my face.
I’ll keep you posted on Social Media Palooza (as I call it).
Today I went to pick up some prescriptions … yes I have multiple prescriptions to make somethings higher, somethings lower, and somethings not want to go screaming naked into the night with a baseball bat. The pharmacist started scanning them in and said “There’s no cost. You get free drugs.”
Yes, free drugs that cost me $3,500 in medical bills between January 1st and today. Now it is a treat to know that for the rest of the year my drugs will be “free” and so will most of any medical visits.
While I was contemplating my “free” drugs it took me back to 1978 — in a place far far away called Sandstone Federal prison. My then boyfriend was getting out after serving a few years for things I’m better off not talking about. I had driven up to the prison to pick him and bring him back to the cities where he would be spending a month or two in a halfway house.
The Huffington Post has an article on 13 Reasons Why Women Should Masturbate Regularly. I haven’t read it because I’m thinking one is enough. I’m actually sad that someone would have to be talked into it. It seems so obvious — who would need more than one reason. I’m sensing a series of articles:
- 13 Reasons Why Women Should Brush Their Teeth
- 13 Reasons Why Women Should Not Date Serial Killers
- 13 Reasons Why Women Should Not Jump Into Hot Tar Pits
So these are my guesses at the 13 reasons:
- Anything to postpone cleaning the closets
- Nothing good on television
- Already on Santa’s naughty list so go for it
- Because Ted Cruz would disapprove
- You’ve gotta fever and no cow bell
- Keifer Sutherland (need I explain?)
- You’ve run out of chocolate
- The internet is down
- You’re on hold for customer service with Comcast
- All your eHarmony matches could be guest stars on Criminal Minds
- It’s the first day of the rest of your life so start it out with a bang (or sorts)
- The Huffington Post said you should
Of course there are some people busy somewhere (Fox News) preparing a new list — 13 Reasons Why Women Shouldn’t Masturbate Regularly:
- Puts pressure on men to do something other than the clapper (roll on/roll off/the clapper)
- Less time to do their housekeeping
- If God had wanted you to have orgasms you would be men
- Who is going to drive the car pool if women are all home getting jiggy with themselves
- Ted Cruz would disapprove
- There is laundry piling up
- We’re sure there’s something in the bible forbidding it
- You would muss up your housedress
- Because if you do, the terrorists win
- These floors aren’t going to mop themselves
- The Elf on the Shelf will report it to Santa
- That’s a man’s job (insert your own “job” joke here)
- That’s how communism gets a hold of you
Either way it’s obvious that Santa and Ted Cruz are involved in this discussion, and isn’t that sad.
Sometimes you think you have nothing to write about and then Tennessee legislators come along and save the day. They have voted to designate the bible as the state book. Apparently there is no poverty, illiteracy, homelessness, or other problems in Tennessee for them to work with so they are forced to spend their time trying to figure out what should be the state book.
I’m from Minnesota and I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t believe we have a state book. We have more lakes than anyone else but we have no state book. I think this must change soon. Since the bible is already taken — and I don’t want us to be accused of being copycats — I have some suggestions:
While they were all contenders, and worthy of a good Minnesotan’s bookshelf, there is only one book that deserves to be called Minnesota’s state book:
All I did was say “Good Morning.” I don’t want your first born (or any born) child. I don’t care if you know Jesus. I am not a zombie who wants to eat your brains. I’m not a vampire who wants to suck your blood. I’m not even that creepy person from English Lit who you think wanted to ask you to the prom but you’d rather dance naked in the street with your weird cousin from New Ulm than go to the prom with them.
I’m your neighbor — I live in the same building you do — and I just said “Good morning.” The proper response is “Good Morning,” or “Hi,” or “‘Sup.” The proper response is not to just keep walking and ignore me.
This happens all the time in my building with some of my younger neighbors. I’ll say “Good Morning” or “Hello” or something as threatening as “Hi,” and they look past me with this kind of fear on their face — it could be disdain — so with fear and/or disdain on their face. They look at me with disfainear. I like making up my own words.
Sometimes I have come back into the building after taking Miss Daisy out for her morning toilette and will see one of my neighbors leaving as I’m coming in. “Good morning” I’ll say and, of course there is no response. So, since they don’t talk I figure I have to pick up the conversation and I’ll just continue “Well good morning Mary how are you? Well I’m fine, thank you for asking; how are you? Just fine, have a nice day Mary. Thanks you too.”
I’m amused but the mute person in the lobby is just confused. Perhaps if I texted them “Good morning” I would get a response. Now I’m sounding like the old guy who yells “Get off my lawn you dang kids.” But I just want to let you know that if someone gives you a greeting it is nice to acknowledge it — unless it is a man in a station wagon offering your candy.
If you’re not sure how that is done here is a little video to help you:
- A book won’t get you pregnant.
- You don’t have to tell a book that yes it’s the best book you’ve ever read and the earth moved and you’ll never find a book as good as … well you get the idea.
- You don’t have to shave your legs for a book.
- You can go to sleep when you want.
- A book will be there in the morning.
- If you don’t like it there are always new books waiting for you.
- A book won’t leave you for a younger reader.
- A small book is as good (sometimes better) than a big book.
- Your best friend will let you borrow her book.
- No wet spots.
I’m from the boomer generation. If our clothes got torn they were patched up (because you never threw ANYTHING away) and put into the “play clothes” pile. The play clothes were those things that were downgraded from good clothes to everyday clothes to play clothes. The next step was the rag basket. Don’t throw it away — use it up. This may explain my relationships with men but I digress.
In 1968 8th grade girls were taught how to darn a sock. REALLY we were. It was 1968 everywhere but in the Home Economics class at Southwest High School. It was 1930 there. We were given a darning egg — I hoped based on the name it would hatch and inside there would be a new pair of socks but that wasn’t the case. It was a wooden tool that resembled a maraca but with all the joy and fun of a maraca drained out of it. The only thing that could turn a darning egg into a maraca was a great imagination fueled by a pitcher or two of margaritas. I wonder if the boys in the woodworking class down the hall were being forced to make darning eggs but I doubted it. We were then suppose to insert the maraca into a sock with a hole in it and “darn” the sock with darning thread that probably cost as much as a new sock. I am happy to say that was the last time I ever darned a sock but I have shook many a margarita inspired maraca.
Believe me no one was more excited to find out torn was cool because torn and ripped is my “milieu” when it comes to fashion. [Yes, I had to look up the spelling of “milieu” and to see that it was actually a word and not something I thought was a word only to find out the real word is something else.]
Even though my mom was one of those moms who actually told you never to leave the house without clean underwear because you might get in an accident — her words are still with me but they just don’t ring as true to a 60+ year old as they did to a 10 year old. I have a hard time imagining that if I was in a car accident or fell into one of the potholes on the road or was trampled by a herd of crazed wild turkeys that I see in my neighborhood that when the EMTs arrive the first thing they would check for was not my pulse or vital signs but for clean underwear. And what if my underwear did not fit their standards — would I be left at the side of the road and, under cause of death, my death certificate would read “Unclean Underwear”?
Yes, torn is in but perhaps I have let it go a little too far? This is my current pair of torn jeans. (Give me points for not blurring my thigh ripples to make them disappear.) They have moved from good jeans, to okay jeans, to stay at home jeans. The next move will be landfill jeans because there is no rag basket in my home — that could only lead to cleaning.
I’ve spent the last three days wearing a name tag around my neck. It didn’t just say my name; it said I was part of this wonderful group of people. Mostly women of all ages from all parts of the country and some from other countries. It also said “I don’t have to remember your name because I can just look at your name tag.”
I know there was a Seinfeld episode where one of them suggested that everyone in New York wear a name tag but there is something nice about being in a place where you don’t have to have that awkward moment of not knowing someone’s name but that someone knows your name.
The Dayton Marriot gave me a gigantic king sized bed but it doesn’t matter — I’m still sleeping on the edge holding on for dear life. Why? Because Daisy has trained me well. No matter how big the bed I only get 10% of the space. Sure, she’s in her Junior Suite at Now Boarding in Minneapolis and I’m in Dayton, Ohio but she still owns the bed. In fact, I took one of the pillows — the big fluffy pillows — and put it behind me. It’s the only way to sleep. (And speaking of pillows (yes I was about two sentences ago), I am amazed at how pillows can be big and fluffy. I’m use to pillows that look like they have been run over by a UPS truck. I wonder if they would notice one is missing — of course I’d have to leave my clothes here in order to pack it into my suitcase but that would be no great loss.)
Of course the pillow doesn’t get up in the middle of the night and start walking around trying to find a new position only to lay right back down where it started — all snuggly next to me; making sure I don’t use anymore than my allotted 10% of mattress space.
Boy do I miss that girl.