Sunday, February 28, 2010


Last week at the monthly Garden Club meeting, one of the members demonstrated how to convert old bowling balls into yard art. I was soooo excited because I already had my old bowling ball in the backyard, but it didn’t look pretty and sparkly like the ones on display at the meeting. I couldn’t wait to get to the craft store, buy a bunch of blue and green glass gems, a tube of glue, and get started!!

A few days ago I got my supplies, brought my ol’ bowling ball inside, and here’s what I have done so far. It’s slow going, since the gems tend to slide around before the glue dries, and Big Bore can’t stand the glue smell--but this is going ever so much better than my stained glass lesson/fiasco of last year. I intend to have my project done in a week’s time, followed by an unveiling ceremony in the backyard. Drum roll, please! Da-dum!! Applause, applause.

I fear that I am now going to have to hit up area bowling alleys in search of old balls because I am a woman possessed. I can’t stop when I’m on a roll.

Friday, February 26, 2010


Last weekend Big Bore and I dined out with Big Sis, her husband Ken, and my 9-year-old great nephew Luke, who’d had a molar yanked out by the dentist the day before and was none too happy that he couldn’t partake in the complimentary chips and salsa laid before us on the table.

“If you get a piece of chip in that empty tooth hole, you’ll go ballistic,” we all warned him, as we chowed down in front of him.

I think we'd probably been there/done that at a younger point in our lives and truly wanted to spare him the agony. So Luke begrudgingly sat, watching the rest of us shove in the chips, until his soft food arrived.

Mid-meal, at a break in the conversation, Big Sis leaned over to him and, this time, quietly said, “Get your elbows off the table, Luke.” She is an example of all that is good and refined. I say that without sarcasm. She is a true angel. Luke obeyed, without comment, and went on eating.

Now what was slightly amusing, is that I immediately noticed where my own elbows were, and the right one was leaning right smack on the table. I quickly removed the offending arm, not saying a word, and continued shoving down my chicken fajita salad.

After we left the restaurant, in separate vehicles, Big Bore said to me, laughing, “Did you notice what happened when your sister told Luke to take his elbows off the table?”

“Yeah, I had my right elbow resting on the table and I removed it!”

“So did Ken and I,” he laughed.

Seems like the entire table, except for Sis, was in bad manners position, but poor Luke had to take the heat for all of us slovenly grown-ups. Fortunately, he didn’t take notice and protest, “Well, Aunt Nancy and Jeff and Grandpa have their elbows on the table, too!” --Which might have resulted in a food fight.

Big Sis was an elementary school teacher before retirement, and I suspect that, “Elbows off the table!” was her mantra during lunch period for so many decades that it’s just become second nature to her. It’s hard to break old habits. Even the good ones.

Thursday, February 25, 2010


Sizzling news yesterday out of Kansas City, that hotbed of litigation. The Royals baseball team and its lion mascot Sluggrrr (Yes, that’s the way it’s spelled. Get it?) are being sued by a man who attended a game last September and is claiming he was injured by an errant hotdog that Slugrrr threw behind his hairy back into the crowd between innings. The flying meat allegedly hit one of his eyes, allegedly detaching the retina, allegedly causing a cataract.

Now, I don’t know if this claim is valid or if this man is just some kook trying to pay off his eye surgeon. Not having a degree in ophthalmology, I have no clue if being hit by a flying wiener can detach a retina. However, I figure his run-in with a Ball Park Frank is nothing compared to what once happened to Dr. Maureen at an ice hockey game we attended in Kansas City many years ago. She was hit by a hockey puck--and not one that was lofted into the crowd by some goofy mascot. Oh, no. This was a slap shot that was probably traveling at supersonic speed.

There was absolutely no time to react. The puck whacked her in the upper right arm, and the large Coke she was drinking went airborne. A team attendant whisked away her wounded, wet body to some medical examining room, but, like the stud she is, she returned to her seat before the end of the game, bruised and swollen and laughing about her brush with death.

Now, did Dr. Maureen, who was at the time an impoverished non-doctor, run off whining to a lawyer and sue the team five months later? No, no no. She did not. Instead, she enrolled in medical school and became wildly rich and famous on her own merit.

I suggest this wiener plaintiff should be happy all he got hit with was a 6-ounce piece of all-beef, tender frank. When one enters Royals Stadium, he or she is always subject to an array of life-threatening dangers. This man could have gotten drunk, stumbled down the steps, and taken a dive off the top deck. He could have been impaled in the chest, vampire-style, by a broken bat. A foul ball could have beaned him on his beanie. Or, worse yet, he could have been hit by a hockey puck, for gosh sakes!! I say, “Suck it up!!!”

Wednesday, February 24, 2010


Big Bore thinks Howie Mandell should re-name his TV game show--from “Deal or No Deal” to “Greed or No Greed.” Or “How Stupid Can I Be?”

I was telling him about this contestant, a sweet gal in the swine business, who turned down over $200,000.00 to keep playing. She had two chances to win a million bucks and one chance at $400,000.00, so she apparently thought the odds were with her. So did her husband and father and best friend who kept egging her on. “No deal!!”

Of course, she also had five other amounts on the board, ranging from $10,000.00 all the way down to one cent. Well, guess what she ended up with? The penny!!! Poor swine lady. She went from her pig farmer rags, to riches, and back to pig farmer rags in less than an hour. Had I been in her pathetic shoes, I think I would have suffered a royal $hit fit right there on camera, or at least committed a serious felony against the so-called “support group” from home that I’d brought with me.

I wondered what I would have done with that 200 thou offer. I would like to think I’d taken the deal and gone home a moderately wealthy, happy person. Quit while I’m ahead, you know? But I’m not so sure I wouldn’t have been swept away by the excitement of the game and kept going for the million---almost five times the offer--exceedingly wealthy by the standards of my poor ol’ pocket book.

With Big Bore, though, there is no thinking about it. “Take the money!!!” He prides himself on being like Mr. Spock on “Star Trek”--logical. If it was enough to purchase a new pick-up truck, he’d take it in a heartbeat and be satisfied. Millionaire be damned. “Live long and prosper.”

--A penny for your thoughts, piggish lady. How stupid could you be?

Tuesday, February 23, 2010


Old Big Bore and my even older brother-in-law Ken both had their birthdays in the past week, so I baked them a cake and we lit up a few candles to celebrate the auspicious occasion. They have 127 years between them. (I think that’s about 28 in dog years and 44 in cat years.)

When BB moved to Casa de la Flaming Bore 3-½ years ago, he was an old fuddy duddy who saw no reason to observe special days. Hrrumpphh! Well, he soon learned that his poopy attitude would not sit well with me. I don’t care if it’s just a cake and a card, birthdays are going to be recognized around here, even if we would rather be age 20 again. So, live with it! And he finally has. With gusto. Those candles were blown out in record time. Bring on the cake and ice cream !!

Monday, February 22, 2010


The other night while I was on the computer, I overheard Big Bore talking back to the TV in the adjacent room. He was fed up with Aunt Bee and was chewing her out royally.

“Oh, Aunt Bee, you old bitty, make up your mind. You’re gonna make that kid (Opie) nuts!"

BB cannot stand Aunt Bee. Never has. Never will. She drives him up the wall and back. She’s always pushing her nose into other people’s business, making crass decisions, and then having nephew Andy clean up her messes.

“What’s Aunt Bee bugging you about tonight?” I asked Big Bore.

“Oh, first she doesn’t want Opie hanging around the sheriff’s office so much because she thinks it’s a bad influence, so she makes him come home and plant three rows of spinach. What kid wants to plant three rows of spinach?”

Well, he’s got a point there.

“Then,” he continued, “she decides she doesn’t want him underfoot at home after all, so she sends him back to the office. Make up your mind, you old windbag.”

So, if Big Bore has his panties in such a wad over Aunt Bee, why does he keep watching “The Andy Griffith Show” reruns from 50 years ago, you ask? I’ve posed the same question to him.

“Because it’s the way life really was back then,” he says.

Simpler times. Opie didn’t have to worry about any war in the Middle East. There was no economic depression and concern about health care. His dad had job security. His teacher Miss Crump wasn’t shoving No Child Left Behind or some similar nonsense down his throat. Ahhh. All he had to contend with was goofy Aunt Bee and her endless number of ridiculous decisions and awful recipes. We should all be so lucky.

Sunday, February 21, 2010


Yesterday Big Bore and I ventured into southeast Kansas, and I insisted we make a quick, windy stop to see Big Brutus, a huge coal shovel that has been retired and turned into a tourist trap. I had not seen Brutus since my college days when “he” was hard at work in a large pit. One of my many diversions to avoid studying was to gather a bunch of friends and a picnic lunch and drive out to wherever Brutus happened to be digging away. We’d pass the time eating and watching Brutus do his thing. No one seemed to care. At least no one ever ran us off. It was a cheap thrill. And I was about as cheap as they came.

Recently some dimwit decided to base jump off the top of Big Brutus. Now, Brutus is tall, 160 feet, but he’s not exactly the Empire State Building. I’m no base jumping expert (surprise, surprise) but I suspect this man’s parachute scarcely had time to open before he smashed into the ground. He probably would have had a better chance of survival using an umbrella. But, alas, we’ll never know.

Still, the accident couldn’t keep me away since Big Bore and I were in the general vicinity of Mr. Brutus. I wanted to pay homage to his industrious past and my lazy past and get my picture taken with him. He’s not as much fun to watch as he was 40 years ago when he was belching steam and kicking up dust, but then I don’t suppose I’m quite the looker that I once was, either, --although my own belching has gotten much louder over the years. Great seeing you again, old friend.

Friday, February 19, 2010


Ten Reasons Why NBC Will Never Hire Me as an Ice Skating Commentator (overheard in my living room last night during the men’s long program at the Winter Olympics.)

1. (Loud gasp) Oh, shit!!! He fell!

2. Well, he kind of ran of gas. But he’s cute.

3. (Another loud gasp) Damn! He fell again! That one had to hurt!

4. I don’t like his music choice. Ice skating and heavy metal guitar don’t mix.

5. Bless his heart. He tried.

6. What movie are those songs from? They're so familiar. Gershwin. Damn, I can’t think of it! There’s the name of a city in it. New York? No, that’s not it.

7. (More loud gasping) Oh, nooooo! He fell! Doggone it. And he was doing so good.

8. Wow! Look at the nose on this guy!

9. His skate shoe has come untied! Well, that’s a pisser!

10. An American in Paris!! That’s it!! (see #6)

Scott Hamilton, your job is not in any danger.

Thursday, February 18, 2010


An epiphany came to Big Bore and me yesterday when we were taking an afternoon stroll about the neighborhood--being harassed by a couple of yappy mutts violating the town leash law, which happens ALL the time around here. When it comes to dogs, I seem to attract trouble. I think they must smell the cat fuzz on me.

“I wish you had your camera with you so you could take a picture and report this problem to the police,” BB said.

“Ooooh! I like that idea. I can keep a notebook and pen in my camera bag and write down the time and location of the picture. I’ll become an official Wayward Dog Patrol Person.”

As the barkers got closer to us, he picked up a rock. “They’ll usually back off if you bend down and pick up something and pretend that you’re going to toss it at them.”

The dogs kept coming. So much for scientific theories. We weren’t attacked by them, but it still ticks me off that owners are so irresponsible. I’ve lost track of the times I’ve been bitten and chased by dogs in this town--sometimes with the owners standing right in their yards yelling at me, “He won’t bite!” Yeah, right. Maybe he won’t bite you, but I look like lunch!

So, I’m going to follow up with BB’s stellar idea and start walking with my camera patrol bag. I might even get a special shirt made up that says, “Beware of Mad Woman.” I can’t wait to get started. In fact, I’m foaming at the mouth.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010


The men’s figure skating short program was on the Winter Olympics TV menu last night, so I had to be there to judge and cheer them along. I’ve tried ice skating before, and it’s not that easy just to stand up and lollygag around the rink, let alone do leaps and spins, so I admire their grace and athleticism. I consider myself somewhat of an armchair expert. After all, I know the difference between a flying camel and a triple lutz.

When watching the guys last night, I joined commentator and former Olympic gold medalist Scott Hamilton in jumping for joy for the elements that were “nailed,” as Scott would say, or groaning in sadness when there was a miss.

There was one skater, I think he was Swiss, who wasn’t so hot at jumping but he could spin faster than a top on speed. He was crazy. At one point I thought flames were going to shoot out of his skates and he’d blast right out of the arena. How he could come out of those spins and continue skating was beyond me. I would have been in another time dimension flat on my dizzy, whiplashed face. “Wow! Oh, my god! This guy can move!”

Big Bore, who was in the adjoining room piddling on the computer, heard the commotion.

“Are you having an orgasm in there?” he asked, knowing full well I was watching the Olympics.

“This guy is the best sit spinner I’ve ever seen!”

“Well, calm down. You sound like you’re watching a Kansas-Missouri basketball game.”

True. But I get so excited when they do well. This is the Olympics, after all, and I want everyone to do his best. They’ve all been training for four long years to reach this point, so I don’t want to see some poor schmuck pop out of a triple axle and have his dream go kaput in a split second. I suppose that’s why it’s called, “The Agony of Defeat,” though.

The men’s long program finals will be televised on Thursday night. Look for that spinning whiz--his name is Stephane something--but keep a few tabs of meclizine nearby.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010


Yesterday Big Bore and I were discussing what event we would enter if we were physically fit and bold enough to be a Winter Olympian. He said he’d always wanted to be on the luge or the bobsled--low to the ground and faster than a speeding bullet. I wouldn’t mind trying the bobsled provided I was seated in the middle of my teammates so I could hunker down low, close my eyes, scream, say my prayers, and throw up all at the same time.

Ski jumping won’t work, either. Propelling into orbit without a parachute doesn’t appeal to my better senses. And speed skating won’t crack it because I’d get dizzy going in all those circles. Same with figure skating. One spin and I’d be a goner. The mere idea of BB and I being partners in ice dancing is hilarious. We can’t even stay in sync with each other shuffling on the living room floor in our stocking feet.

I think I would be better suited for the women’s ice hockey team. Not the goalie but maybe a forward. The uniforms are heavily padded and hide all the flabby body parts, and there’s a stick to lean on when I’d get tired. There’s lots of other players on the ice at one time, so no one in the crowd would be focused just on me. I could muck up and maybe no one would notice.

Big Bore thinks ice hockey would be right for him, too. When I asked him what position he’d want to play, he said he’d like to be the hockey puck.

“That’s not a position, goofus!” I said.

“I know, but I think it’d be fun to just skate real fast and then hurl my body into the net. A human hockey puck.”

"But the players would be whacking you with their sticks!"

"Oh, there wouldn't be any sticks."

I don’t imagine the International Olympic Committee is ready to sanction this idea, but if overweight middle-aged men replace pucks in the 2014 winter games stick-less ice hockey competition, remember where you heard about it first.

Monday, February 15, 2010


As much as I hate this blasted cold weather we’ve been having the past two months, I have to admit I’ve been stuck to the boob tube watching the Winter Olympics since it started over the weekend. Once upon a time, I used to head out to Colorado and ski, ski, ski. I reached intermediate status, but I never caught the hang of moguls, those egg carton-like bumps that accomplished skiers quickly maneuver around--knees together, upper body straight--bam, bam, bam! Awesome, dude!

The men’s mogul run last night took the contestants between 23-25 seconds to complete. At my prime, I figure the same run would have taken me between 23-25 minutes. I was the worst mogul-er on the mountain. I’d ski around a few, lose control, rest. Ski around a few, lose control, rest.

Deep powder was another challenge I failed to conquer on the slopes. I would usually end up knee-deep in snow, unable to move. Like being stuck in quicksand. Once, at Loveland Basin, two snowboarders came to my rescue and helped me up, but as soon as they zipped on out of sight, I sunk again. Finally, I just removed the damned skis and stomped on down the run in my boots until I got back to the packed stuff. What a bitch.

But don’t get me wrong. Most of the time I loved skiing--especially narrow trails with few people around to get in my way. I can still feel the exhilaration of going on my favorite rambling runs at Steamboat Springs--Why Not, which leads into Right-O-Way--on the northern edge of the mountain. On a clear day, the sun cutting through the surrounding trees, this was two miles of total bliss. I’d just ski these two runs over and over and wish time would stand still.

I don’t think I’ll ever go downhill skiing again, but I’m glad I did when I was younger, had a strong back, and didn’t detest cold weather. Cross country skiing might not be so bad to try now, but I think I’ll just stick to cheering on the experts at the Olympics. Lounging on the sofa watching TV is more appealing--much warmer and safer. No losing control and rolling onto the floor (“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!“) or getting stuck between the cushions. Ahhh-the thrill of victory!!

Sunday, February 14, 2010


The Flaming Bore has never had big expectations on Valentine's Day. I've never received or really wanted a box of chocolates. Cut flowers never seem to last very long. The jewelry I would like to have is never within the budgets of the men who've been my significant others over the years. Just give me a sweet card with a message from the heart and I'm happy. So, with that in mind, last night as we were settling down to watch TV, Big Bore had an "Oh, My Gosh" moment that sounded like this:

"Oh, my gosh! Did you buy me a Valentine card for tomorrow?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I'll be back!"

He rushed out the door and returned about 15 minutes later, relieved that he'd found something appropriate to keep himself out of the doghouse for today. His endearing sentimentality is linked to self preservation.

When the late author Erich Segal wrote the words, "Love is never having to say you're sorry," he should have added, "because you remembered to get your sweetheart a card for Valentine's Day."

Here's to love and lots of it.

Saturday, February 13, 2010


Niner out of St. Joe, Mo. says she’s jumping on the bandwagon for the Adults-Only Park that I advocated a few days ago. In fact, she wants to expand it to a camp-size facility catering to all us old farts who want to relive our misspent childhoods without the fear of being laughed at or harassed by little whippersnappers. Here are some of her great ideas:

Roller skates and a padded rink, bikes, outdoor bowling, paddle boats, and the greatest sidewalk sport ever invented--jacks!! Like moi, Niner is a nut for those little metal spikes and the rubber ball used to gather them up. I’ll bet you she knows all about onesies, twosies, Eggs in a Basket, and Around the World.

She also wants to have piped-in music (oldies rock, I hope) and a health food bar with veggies, salads, and juices. Nothing junky. I can live with that. She didn’t say anything about having a doctor on duty, but we might want to seriously think about it. The only area of disagreement we have is on pets. She wants them left at home, but I think cats should be allowed in case I get lonely.

Now, she has some concern about how we’re going to get local governments to provide the funds for our pipe dream. I haven’t got that all worked out yet. Perhaps we can just pool our Social Security and other retirement benefits and at least have enough money to put on a jacks tournament or something. Start small, you know, and work up to the big stuff. Hopefully Niner and I won’t end up in the Adults-Only Loony Bin before our plans our realized.

Friday, February 12, 2010


When poring over the big city newspaper every morning, Big Bore and I often make comments about what we’re reading, and here’s a conversation from yesterday:

“Listen to this,” I started. “There was a man in Georgia who busted up 29 flat screen TVs at a Wal-Mart with a baseball bat he grabbed from the sporting goods department. I wonder what set him off?”

“Maybe he was pissed at being overcharged at the check-out stand,” BB said. “Or maybe he was just trying to get the attention of a sales associate.”

“Or maybe he’d been working for Wal-Mart and had just gotten fired for having anger management issues,” I chimed in. “Or maybe all those TVs were set on the same station and he couldn’t stand seeing 29 Sarah Palins all at once. Or maybe he just doesn’t like flat screens. Or maybe he was shopping with his wife and he couldn’t get a word in edgewise because she was a nagging shrew who wouldn’t shut up. Rather than take a bat to her mouth, he just whacked away at the TVs instead, which was actually wise on his part.”

“Or maybe the guy was homeless and jobless,” said BB, “and at least now in jail he’ll have a warm roof over his head, three meals a day, and free medical treatment.”

Hmmmm. Actually that’s not such a bad idea. But sad.

Thursday, February 11, 2010


The merry folks in London have come up with a stellar idea. It’s a “playground for old folks.” Hey, count me in! Every town has a playground for little kids, but who wants to compete with them for the swings and get sand kicked in their aging faces? Not I. I want my very own place to frolic. Here is what my adult playground will need:

I want one of those rock climber deals. You know what I mean? It’s a fake cliff with fake rocks that stick out for hand grabbing and foot landing. Those look so much fun, --and let’s throw in some elaborate monkey bars for good measure. Next, I want a low-grade trampoline and some swings and teeter totters. And a go-cart track for those of us who’ve grown tired of teenagers zipping by and making faces at us for driving so slowly at the current public theme parks.

Oh, and I want a big cork crew slide. I love the one at the park in Independence, but let’s go for something even higher. I will be sooooooo glad that I no longer have to be stared at by little kids wondering what in the hell I’m doing on their slide. I also want some tree houses that are linked with rope ladders and Tarzan swings. I’ll be Queen of the Jungle.

My old folks park also needs a mini-golf course, with 18 holes, and a couple of horseshoe pits. I love to toss those horseshoes. And to top it off, at the end of the day, we swinging seniors can head off to the park’s heated pool, spa, and bar for an hour-long hot stone massage and cool refreshments. All that action is gonna make my body ready for some serious rest and relaxation! No kids allowed!!!

Now, if we can just just get this idea Medicare-approved, our Golden Years are set!

Tuesday, February 9, 2010


Today I wish to make it official and declare the opossum as the ugliest animal on the planet. I absolutely hate opossums. Their black beady eyes are too close to their long piggy snouts. They have greasy looking coats and they waddle around cluelessly most of the time. I once took out an entire opossum family of five on Highway 54 late one night returning home from the big city with the Library Lady. As my Honda approached them, instead of scampering on across the road, they just froze and “thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.” Geesh. What’s wrong with them? They don’t have the sense to get outta my way? Do they think playing ‘possum in the middle of a highway is going to save them from harm? Library Lady was mortified, as was I, --at how stupid they were for thinking I was going to swerve off into the Flint Hills at 60 mph just to avoid them.

A few years ago I received a lovely lime green “Possum Queen Contest” T-shirt from Dr. Maureen and her husband Scott. Apparently the strange people of North Carolina have put the varmints on a pedestal and celebrate them. I actually do wear the shirt from time to time, and it always provokes questions like, “Were you really in the ‘Possum Queen Contest?” and “Where in the hell did you get that ugly shirt?” and “Is that a ‘possum or an alien on your shirt?” Hell--opossums ARE aliens!!

Well, as that great southern philosopher Forrest Gump would say, I guess that’s about all I have to say about opossums. Ugly is as ugly does.

Monday, February 8, 2010


Big Bore and I went to the city yesterday to see Crazy Heart. We rarely go to the movies, but he agrees with me that Jeff Bridges is a-okay, so off we went. I really liked the flick, giving it an 8+, but my critical companion only rated it a “5 or 6.” He liked the acting and the music, but he thought it was too much of a chick flick. Plus, he also said, “He (the Bridges character) reminded me too much of myself,” in a previous life. Get drunk. Get sick. Smoke endless packs of cigarettes and cough up a lung. Been there. Done that. Don’t want to go there again. Amen, brother. But--Jeff Bridges truly is great in this movie, so check it out anyway. We'll soon see his crazy heart clutching an Academy Award. Thumbs up.

Friday, February 5, 2010


Every time I back my car out of the garage, I am reminded that a relic from my college years needs to tossed away--but I just can’t get my sentimental heart to do so. A Do Not Enter sign, autographed by numerous old friends, rests along the east wall, gathering dirt, rust, and cobwebs. I’ve had it since 1970. It was given to me by Baseball Ray, who took it from one of the strip pits west of our college town. He wrote, “Virgin Territory” underneath the formal lettering. It was the only “gift” I ever received from him during our dating days. What a guy!

I, along with a few miscreant pals, was a procurer of signs forty years ago. My prize was a Highway 69 sign I found, abandoned, in my neighbor’s garage. An old stop sign was found in much the same way. The only one that was ever taken under highly suspicious circumstances was when my friend Kathy Mac took a Men Working sign in front of the Pizza Palace late one night when we were dragging Broadway in my VW Beetle. I was stopped at a traffic light, she exited the car and then returned, much to my surprise, with this big, swinging yellow sign. She was a Townie who still lived with her parents, so I became Keeper of the Goods. Included in the stash was also No Parking, 12-Minute Parking, No Dumping, and Government Property No Trespassing.

When I finally graduated and moved away, all the signs but one were left in the custody of those who remained behind. I kept the Do Not Enter sign and it has moved with me into other states and burgs over the years. I just can’t seem to part with it. I don’t know why. It just sits in the garage getting grungier looking with each passing year. I guess it makes me feel young and silly again--if only for a fleeting moment in time.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010


(Three blog starters that never got finished.)

Yesterday Big Bore and I had a conversation about breasts. The topic arose when we were watching a woman on TV who was hauling around some heavy duty boobies that were propped up to her chin with an even heavier duty bra. “Breasts aren’t supposed to be up that high,” BB observed. “I hate it when these women get surgery to lift them up so they pop straight out. It’s not natural. Breasts are supposed to hang a little bit.” Well, ain’t that music to my ears.

What the heck is going on down in Mexico? Practically every day I pick up the newspaper and there’s some gruesome blurb about another hideous murder that is drug-related or tourist-related. One article described a victim’s face being skinned and stitched onto a soccer ball. What’s with that? How can anyone be so vicious? I get the willies just from drowning fleas I comb off the cats. Plus I don’t sew very well, either.

Well, it’s taken me several days to recover from last Saturday night’s KU-K-State basketball game, but I’m finally ready to watch KU get back on the court tonight. Thank god I have a bottle of Xanax warming the bench just in case reinforcements are needed.

Happy Hump Day to all!

Monday, February 1, 2010


Fifty-three winters ago the mini Flaming Bore was an accomplice in creating the above voluptuous snow woman, which was mostly the work of the males in the family, of course. I suspect I was the mastermind for her somber face, since most of my people drawings at the time gave emphasis to nostrils. “The better to breathe with, my dear!”

It is not the snow woman that I care to write about today, however. Instead, I want to focus on the pathetic looking child in this picture. Step into the Twilight Zone. Is she a refugee from a third-world nation? An orphan from the cast of “Annie”? A “Project Runway” reject? What is going on with that outfit? From top to bottom, it’s a total disaster! Does anyone wear headscarves these days? Are they even still made? Why am I wearing a dress over pants in subfreezing temperatures? Was I having some sort of gender identity crisis that day?

Next, there’s the overcoat, which looks like it’s been worn a few seasons too many, since I’m busting out of the buttons. And then there’s the footwear. Now, I’ve blogged before about this particular pair of hand-me-down rubber boots from hell; however, I’m sure no one believed that they existed and that I was only just imagining that I wore the ugliest rain/snow boots of any child at Mound School. While other little girls had their cutesy yellow, pink, and white slickers, I had these clunky two-tone brown cowboy-style boots with the classic “pull 'em on and yank 'em off” fit. Thank god by 6th grade my feet finally outgrew them. It’s a wonder I wasn’t in therapy for years. Maybe low self-esteem hadn’t been “invented” yet.

I challenge the entire Blogging Network to come up with a personal picture that is a bigger fashion mess than this one. Dig into your archives and see if you can come close. My guess is that you’ll find it impossible to top The Flaming Bore’s stunning winter ensemble. Snow doubt about it.