ENOUGH ALREADY

If you ever want an honest reaction from someone, you'll be certain to get it from a little kid. Yesterday 3-year-old royal bridesmaiden Lady Grace had finally had it with all the British hoopla. Having tolerated millions of people yelling and screaming at her all day along London's streets, the sound of fighter jets zooming overhead was just too much. "Give me a damn break!" If looks could kill, Lady Grace slayed 'em.

SEALED WITH A KISS

Guess who made sure I was wide awake at 4 AM for the Royal Wedding? An enthuastic Big Bore: "Let the Parade of Hats begin!" he shouted.

He actually got up and watched an hour or so, providing a running commentary, before he announced, "This royal wedding is getting to be a royal pain in the ass." It takes one to know one, I guess. Here's some of what I heard from him after he made my cup of tea:

"My god! That hat has cat whiskers growing out of it!"

"I bet those horses are so well trained that they don't mess up the streets."

"What do you suppose she (Queen Elizabeth) is hiding underneath that blue blanket?"

"Why do they keep showing Elton John and his man wife?"

"I bet he (the queen's husband, Phillip) can't wait till this is over so he can get out of that strait jacket and run around the palace naked."

"I think I'm getting all teary-eyed."

"That wasn't much of a kiss. He needs to lay one on her."

"The Internet says he (Prince William) doesn't want a ring."

"Where's Shrek?"

"I wonder what she'll (bride Catherine) look like when she's 60."

"Is there a Northminster Abbey?"

"They could just go to the courthouse and save themselves a lot of trouble."

Having my own in-house commentator is such a bloody joy.

ROYALLY READY

(The Flaming Bore's personal royal wedding invitation)

I say, old chaps. My tiara has been dragged out of the closet. A clean pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt are laid out. My tea selection for the reception has been made. The Flaming Bore is totally stoked about attending the royal wedding tomorrow morning between Prince William and Lady Catherine. Let the nuptials begin!!

In spite of rumors to the contrary, I am a hopeless romantic and have been gaga over the prince since he was a heart-throbbing 18. Now that he's losing his hair, so sad, he's not quite as GQ looking as he once was, but he still seems like a grand catch, and I totally approve of his chosen bride with her model-perfect looks and chestnut hair to die for. What a jolly great couple! I wouldn't miss out on their wedding for all the cubic zirconium in the world.

I have decided to try to do my best to rise and shine at 4 AM tomorrow so I can attend the pageantry live and in person, even though the whole shingdig will be rerun into the ground dozens of times later in the day. Big Bore is being a big bore and has no inclination to escort me to the ceremony. He, in fact, is getting bloody agitated over all the hoopla. What a party pooper. Unlike moi, some people have no refinement, whatsoever. So, until tomorrow, ta-ta, pip-pip, and a high-flying tally-ho! I'm off to the wedding!!

THIS MEANS WAR

Big Bore and I are in foul moods today over the blasted squirrels that are digging divots in our vegetable and flower gardens. Why is it that they want to bury their walnuts in the EXACT same place where we have planted our precious babies?

The past few mornings we've found these pits they've made, so we are taking action: laying rocks and chicken wire near our planting beds and spreading blood meal around. "Stay out!! Do you hear that? You are not wanted! Scram!"

If any readers have suggestions about how to deal with these varmints, please let me know. I feel like trying to put on a Porky Pig act (when he points his shotgun at the "Wascally Wabbit" that invades his garden) except I have poor aim and don't own a firearm. "Don't mess with me, squirrel. I'm warning you!"

To be continued.....

BOYS TO MEN

Wow! Tonight to fill time on "Dancing With the Stars," two of my fave groups of the 1990s showed up to sing some of their old hits. The New Kids on the Block are probably pushing 35-40 by now, and the Backstreet Boys have long since surpassed puberty, but both can still get my heart pumping.

Had I not been teaching teenagers at the time, I probably would never have given the Kids and Boys a second listen. My female students were in love with them, so I figured I needed to stay in touch with their musical choices and at least act like I could relate to their interests. And I really did end up liking them...moreso the Boys, to the point that I actually broke down and bought one of their CDs. Millennium. I will even swallow my old-age dignity and admit to memorizing the words and singing along with "I Want It That Way." Yes, it's true. I confess.

Neither group came close to becoming another Beatles or Rolling Stones, or any other great band of my own teen years, but I'll give the guys credit for exciting a new generation of girls who, if they were tuned in to the "DWTS" show, probably felt a little skippy about seeing their Kids and Boys performing back on stage. "I used to be CRAZY about them!!!" I can hear them say. Sweet musical memories for sure.

EXPLORING MY INNER DORA

We've been in Pittsburg the past two days visiting family, and we woke up this morning to find great niece Maddie and great neph Boomer at Big Sis's house watching "Dora the Explorer" on TV since they didn't have to go to school. "Aunt Nancy, come watch!"

Well, of course, I'm not going to put the snub on them and Dora, so I plopped down on the sofa and proceded to watch Dora and her sidekick monkey Boots save some princess from tower imprisonment, which was arranged by a mean ol' witch who looked somewhat like a younger me flying around on a broom.

Maddie and Boomer made sure I didn't miss a single second of this high drama. "Watch the Snow Fairy! Watch what Benny the Bull does! Watch the Pig Pirates!" It was obvious to me that they'd seen this episode more than once and had instant total recall.

"How many times have you seen this?" I asked.

Ten times," Maddie answered matter-of-factly. "This is my 11th time. Watch the penguins!"

I kept waiting for a commercial since I have a short attention span, and I wanted to grab a cup of tea, but this show went on and on.

"Watch the snowmen, Aunt Nancy!" Boomer boomed.

Well, eventually Dora and Boots saved the day. "Hooray!" But here's what I have to say about this morning's experience: You young parents out in blogland have my utmost respect for enduring day after day after day after day after day after day of Dora and Boots and Benny and the rest of the gang bombarding your living room. How do you handle the sensory overload? Don't you ever miss waking up to peace and quiet? When the show finally ended, I was exhausted and ready to go back to bed.

Next time I travel to Pittsburg and have breakfast with the wee ones, I'm getting even with them. We're tuning in to the Weather Channel and The Today Show, my usual routine. "Watch the barometric pressure rise!" I'll order them. "Watch Matt Lauer adjust his microphone!" I think Maddie and Boomer will think this is such a peachy keen idea that they'll imprison me in a tower and hand down a sentence of watching Dora Marathons on Nickelodeon for the rest of my natural life. Paybacks are always a bitch. Where is Boots when I need him?

BOWLING ME OVER

In bowling terminology, a turkey is when one makes three strikes in a row in a single game. In gardening terminology, a turkey is when one makes three decorative bowling balls for a single yard. Welcome to Casa de la Flaming Bore's yard of bowling balls!

I'm not sure if I'll be making any more of them. The old balls aren't that easy to find, and inhaling the Amazing Gunk super glue gets a bit too much at times. Plus, a small yard like ours can only hold so many. But I like having something cheap and different to look at since they kind of match my personality. (And, no, my mind isn't ALWAYS in the gutter.)

FLOWER CHILDREN

Yesterday we played in the front and side yards. Big Bore served double duty as the Official Hole Digger-Upper Dude and Water Boy, while I was The Amazing Planting Person. Since I found the camera battery charger in the backseat of the car last night, pictures of our efforts were taken this morning.

We mainly planted impatiens, marigolds, and petunias, and transplanted some Mexican feather grass "volunteers" from one side of the driveway to the other. The five porch planters that Big Bore made me over the winter look fab and should fill in nicely.

We have caladium bulbs to plant in the backyard when warmer weather arrives, and I'm still in search of hot pink angelonia and pink trailing vinca for the Pink Garden that already has lilies and dianthus coming up. Also want to get a special type of trailing coleus that I like but haven't found yet. Picky, picky. Definitely a work in progress.

Today we mulch and and tell all our new flower babies, "You look mah-velous!"

TULIP TIME TO TEAR APART THE HOUSE

The one and only picture I took of the tulips at Botanica Monday before my camera battery died was not even a good shot, so here's a pic from a previous year. I have since been ripping apart the joint trying to find the battery re-charger, as it wasn't in my camera bag--what a bum deal. I will no doubt find it when I am looking for something else--like a pair of dirty socks under the bed. That's my usual modus operandi, anyway.

My tulips at home are on their last legs. Time to make way for the iris. Big Bore and I bought three flats of annuals yesterday, so we have our work cut out for us today. I'd go search for my gardening gloves, but I think I'd rather have dirt under my nails than waste any more valuable minutes on a lost cause.

BAG LADIES

I haven't bought any type of handbag since 1998, when I plunked down $10.00 for a denim "feed bag" at Truman Presidential Library at Independence, Missouri. It features a large, embossed American Flag, the letters USA, and it's large enough for me to live inside on weekends.

So, I was in for a big surprise when I accompanied Library Lady on her search to find a medium-sized, basic black shoulder bag when we were in the city on Monday. You'd think such a simple accessory would be easy enough to locate on the shelves, but nooooooooo. This experience was like trying to track down Osama bin Laden--only much more difficult.

I couldn't believe all the crap bags on display. Alarmingly ugly. Lots of shiny, fake alligator in bright colors and gaudy bows. Most everything we found in black was loaded down in heavy metal. Or the zippers were stubborn, or there were no zippers at all, or they were too small, too large, didn't have a shoulder strap. Geeesh! What's a girl gotta do?

And just when I thought I had spotted perfection at Dillard's, I looked at the price tag and gagged. $498.00!!! Did I read that right? Yes, I did. Gag again. Even the chic Library Lady will not spring for that much--unless she's buying a car.

When suppertime approached and we'd struck out at every store we'd hit up, LL finally settled for something at Target, even though it still needed some Velcro added in order to keep it closed. She said she'd keep the receipt and return the bag if she finds a better selection during her next shopping extravaganza. You can bet the bottom dollar in your own handbag that The Flaming Bore will not be along on the next search party.

GOOFY AND GOOFIER

Well, the long-awaited trip to the big city yesterday would have been better:

....if Library Lady and I had both remembered to bring our $2.oo admission discount coupons. Right as we drove into the parking lot we were both wailing, "I left it at home!" Thank God in less than three months I will be eligible for the senior citizen discount and remembering will no longer be necessary.

....if we hadn't arrived at the same time as The Adorable, Precious Tiny Tots Day Care Center of Terrorist Commandoes. "Which direction would you like to go?" I asked LL as we entered the gardens. "Anywhere there isn't screaming kids," she responded. "That direction doesn't exist."

....if I had re-charged the battery on my digital camera the night before. After taking one picture, it went dead.

....if a tornado practice warning siren hadn't blasted for five minutes as soon as the Commandoes left. Since I have hyperaccusis and can't filter out sound, I had to run for cover. Even with an earplug in use.

....if it hadn't been almost as noisy inside the Botanica building because every Rotarian in the city entered before I did. I found out today they were there to listen to our __(fill in your own adjective)__ Kansas governor speak about World War II values.

....if I hadn't suggested we take the short-cut from Botanica to the Art Museum and I got mixed up on the directions and we ended up on the backside of a golf course.

....if the Art Museum had been opened. Guess what we discovered as we entered an empty parking lot? It's CLOSED ON MONDAYS.

....if I hadn't suggested we eat at Riverside Cafe, even though I only knew where it "sort of" was located and we went about 10 miles out of our way and back around to the Art Museum before we found it.

....if LL had remembered to bring her other coupons and a certain credit card she'd plan to use while shopping.

....if LL hadn't been on a mission to find a new black purse to buy. This marathon escapade, which I shall blog about tomorrow, lasted longer than the amount of time it would take both of us to RUN a marathon.

....if we hadn't used the self-check-out registers at Dillon's and both of us needed, "Help!"

I think that pretty much covers it. The good news is, we didn't get mugged, have a flat tire, or get into an accident in the heavy traffic. When we finally limped back to our little burg last night, home never looked so good.

MONDAY MORNING QUICKIE

Just a quick post today, as Library Lady and I are taking off on a Cultural Adventure in the big city this morning. She's never been to the art museum there, so I'm going to be her tour guide and show her the sights since I can proudly proclaim that I know the difference between water colors and oil paints...most of the time. Then we're going to Botanica and hope that last week's freeze didn't eat up all the tulips. Of course, there will be a bit of side-shopping to do since she needs a new purse and I need one more bag of purple glass pieces to stick on to my latest bowling ball creation. Gee, I wonder why there are no glass-encrusted bowling balls at the art museum?

Today's picture is one Big Sis emailed me yesterday. My youngest two great nephs Boomer and William and my one and only great niece Maddie had a recent encounter with the Mad Easter Bunny in P-burg. William looked rather freaked out last year when he met the giant rabbit, but now that he's an old-timer of 20 months, he's looking a bit more relaxed. And it doesn't hurt to have one hand on his own Big Sis just in case. That's what big sisters are for.

Hope this week is a HOPPY one for you.

FACING THE FACTS

Hey, all you skin-challenged folks out in cyberland! Are you ready for some helpful tips from the Woman's Favorite Cook Book chapter called "Toilet Suggestions and Recipes"? Well, according to the book, "Blessed is the woman who has a clear complexion," so here goes:

Apparently the main source of bad skin is "comedos, commonly called flesh worms," which I think must be zits. They should be "extracted by the aid of a watch key or a comedo extractor, which can be bought for the purpose. Once the purulent contents are expressed, one must shampoo the face with either alkaline spirit of soap of hebra...or saigo fluid soap." Be sure the face shampoo is thorough. "One should spend ten minutes over a basin of water as hot as can be borne over every particle of skin." Oh, and "....pay attention to the bowels."

There are several cold cream "recipes" in the book, and every one of them requires sperm as the key ingredient--anywhere from 1/2 to 3/4 of an ounce. I'm not sure if this is bottled sperm from a drugstore or fresh sperm from your favorite sperm donor, but melt that sperm with some white wax, oil of almonds, borax, glycerine, then "whip thoroughly in a Keystone egg-beater until it begins to cream, then add oil of rose." Voila! How stimulating!

Wrinkles, I'm afraid, are another matter; however, do not despair because the book says "....you should not have wrinkles before age sixty." Damn. I must have gotten a head start on that one. "If you have lost any teeth, that will account for the lines" prior to reaching 60. The best way to "obliterate wrinkles" is from facial massages, although it won't hurt to slather on some of that good ol' spermatazoa cream when the occasion rises, if you know what I mean.

Other ways to look "charming of countenance" are to have a "cheerful disposition, exercise moderately, rest a good deal, and read helpful books. I would suggest Ralph Waldo Trine's works." Gee. Is he any relation to Ralph Waldo Emerson? Who would have guessed that there would ever be two different writers named Ralph Waldo? Amazing. "Sleep always in a well-ventilated room and one-half hour before breakfast have a dessert-spoonful of pure olive oil in a little lemon juice....to stimulate the bowels." Can't forget those bowels.

There you have it. Simple ways to look better and feel better, too. If you're like me, you can't wait to go whip up some sperm and get started on your new path to beauty. And if all else fails, do as the book says and "Breathe deeply, bathe daily, and think joy!" Have a great weekend!

BUTTS OUT

My ancient family cookbook (see yesterday's blog) has some great (?) medical advice, and one gem on page 532 comes from a Dr. Murphy, who I suspect must be a long lost relative of Dr. Maureen. Dr Murphy has this to say about tobacco smoking (with my comments in parentheses):

"I consider tobacco smoking one of the most injurious and deadly habits a boy or young man can indulge in. (Does this mean that girls and young women are safe?) It contracts the chest and weakens the lungs, thus predispoing to consumption (tuberculosis). It impairs the stomach, producing indigestion. It debilitates the brain and nervous system, inducing epileptic fits (really, Dr. Murphy?) and nervous depression. It stunts the growth and is one cause of the present race of pigmies. (Okay, just where did you get your medical degree?) It makes the young lazy and disinclined to work. (And what about us older folks? Oh, I forgot. I'm just automatically lazy.) It is one of the greatest curses of the present day." (Amen to that, Dr. M., even a century later.)

Tomorrow: skin care. Wait till you hear what the Woman's Favorite Cook Book has to say about pimples and wrinkles!!

A WOMAN'S FAVORITE ADVICE

Long ago a family cookbook, now over 100 years old, came into my possession even though I don't cook. I've never bothered looking at any of the recipes, but there are other bizarre sections of the book that make for fun reading, mainly because they are filled with all sorts of medical advice and personal grooming tips. For the next few days, I shall be discussing Woman's Favorite Cook Book, circa 1900, and enlighten all you modern-days guys and gals.

First off, many of the diseases and other health issues are maladies I've never heard of: scrofula (swollen lymph nodes), quinsy (an abscessed tonsil), dropsy (swelling from edema), proud flesh (excessive tissue growth), felon (a fingertip abscess), catarrh (inflammation of mucus membrane), and gumboil being a few. Gumboil is described as "decayed fangs of teeth" that cause "broken abscesses." My general conclusion is that people in 1900 were quite concerned with all types of pus and how to set it free.

Next, all the "cures" are home remedies that typically involve making poultices, inhaling camphor, and gargling with sulphur. One of my favorites is "How to Cure Dry Piles" (hemorrhoids). Just roast some bruised onions on ashes and apply to the affected area. Yikes! Those who "suffer from chafing of the armpits" (and don't we ALL have that problem now and then?) can "dust the irritated parts with sub-nitrate of bismuth," while walnut leaves boiled in sugar and water are sure to help ones' leprosy.

For some reason, jammed into all these pages of medical cures is a blurb called "To Clear a Waste Pipe." I thought this was going to be a cure for constipation, but it was actually instructions on clearing clogged plumbing with liquid soda-lye. Go figure.

More helpful hints tomorrow. I've got to dash off to the kitchen to see if we have any bruised onions.

LITTLE BOY PINK

Every television news program I've turned to this morning is gaggling about this new JCrew ad that features a mom painting her little boy's toenails pink. "I'm so glad I have a boy who loves pink!" the ad says.

Well, you'd think she just stuck a live grenade in his hand, the way some people are reacting. He's going to be gender confused or he'll grow up to be gay or the world will make fun of him for the rest of his natural life. Lock that mother up and throw away the key. Talk about much ado about nothing. It must be a slow news day.

One of my old high school students, a boy, delighted in caring for his fingernails. He'd paint them in the school colors, red and blue, and he didn't care a flying flip if anyone made fun of him...which I doubt they did since he was the school's best athlete of the decade. When I drew his name for the yearbook staff Christmas gift exchange, it was easy to buy for him. Nail polish and an emery board. He was thrilled. He's now married, with two daughters, and I suspect he's a gem of a dad.

I don't think polishing a little boy's toenails pink, blue, green or any other color of the rainbow is going to ruin his life. And if the little boy in this JCrew ad does end up being gay, so what? There are a lot worse ways he could turn out...like being a narrow-minded busy-body know-it-all who who should find more important issues to be concerned about.

DREAM HOME 2011

Every year the Home and Garden TV network sponsors a Dream Home contest...a chance for poor folks like me, who live in an ancient 1-bedroom bungalow, to win something they can't even remotely pay the taxes on. Years ago when HGTV started this contest, the homes were modestly middle income, but now they are super residences that are more like hotels. This year's dream is a chalet in Vermont that sleeps around 18. Of course, I went ahead and entered the contest a bazillion times, but, alas, no win.

But, do not feel sorry for The Flaming Bore because last Sunday during an afternoon drive in the country, I found my dream home (above). Big Bore and I honed in on it at the same time. A cute little "fixer-upper" that looked just our speed.

"There it is! The country home I've always wanted!"

This gem isn't for sale but, if it was, I'd be dropping the ten bucks to make it all mine. There's nothing wrong with it that a few rolls of duck tape won't fix. Maybe HGTV would be willing to come to Kansas to feature this home on its "Curb Appeal" show, or use it for the "If Walls Could Talk" show. If it has any walls.

On up the road is the little country school that serves this rural neighborhood. Big Bore and I were impressed that it has not one, but TWO outdoor toilets (drop boxes) for our convenience. No more arguing about hogging the facilities. This has it all!

Perhaps HGTV would consider some new programming: "Nightmare Home 2011." If so, here are two fine selections ready and waiting on the prairie.

MAKING AMENDS

Since my previous two blogs have featured frightening creatures with saggy-baggy skin and bulging eyes, I'm kissing up to my traumatized readers today and posting my latest picture of great neph Sweet William. He may have just a hint of yummy Cheetos on his smooth cheeks, but his 20-month-old shirtless look definitely puts Iggy Pop to shame. From now on, I promise the only topless postings in this blog will be of babies. That's my pledge and I'm sticking to it. The wrinkled faces, however, especially mine, are probably here to stay.

A DEAD RINGER

Since I have received several requests to remove the gawd-awful picture of Iggy Pop from my April 8th blog, I'm doing the next best thing and printing up a picture of his better-looking twin, which I snapped last June during a sojourn to Arkansas with great neph Luke.

"Take that ugly thing off your blob! He scares me every time I bring it up," emailed Oklahoma Barb about Iggy.

"OMG! He really made my stomach turn!" wrote Niner from Missouri. She, too, had watched "American Idiot" and kept hoping she could find a hook to jerk Iggy P. from the stage.

Others, even older timers than I, said they couldn't stand to watch the skin-sagging, shirtless rocker.

We all need to take a hint from Niner, cover ourselves from head to toe, and keep America beautiful. Happy Sunday to everyone. I promise to post a kinder and gentler picture tomorrow.

ICKY POP

Yikes! Rock icon Iggy Pop performed on "American Idol" last night, and he was downright frightening. Now, I don't want to sound like an ageist, but he's 63 years old and looks like 163. At some point a rocker needs to realize he should at least put on a shirt and not gross out the audience with his saggy skin. (The picture with this blog has obviously been re-touched a thousand times over. Iggy's face makes Keith Richards look like a teenager.)

Iggy stills screams ands jumps around, although last night he had to make several rest stops to sit down on the stage to catch his breath in between his hyper-manic episodes. His creepy grand finale was to gyrate his tight pants in front of judge Jennifer Lopez, which prompted her to hide her face in her hands. I thought she was rather gracious. I think I would have fled the building.

I'm sure you readers are thinking to yourself, "Come on, Flaming Bore. Lighten up. You are only a few years younger than Iggy Pop and your own skin is tumbling faster than Niagara Falls." True. But I'm not exposing my bare, gravity-challenged chest to a national audience or thrusting it onto J-Lo. I know my limitations. Iggy needs to take some loving advice from this old rocker and put on a shirt the next time he takes the stage. And a mask wouldn't hurt, either.

NOTES FROM SCHOOL

Several days ago I engaged in a goofy Facebook conversation with an old high school friend, Myra, that began with a picture of her playing the organ 30+ years ago or so and soon degenerated into laughing about our girls chorus dresses from the mid 1960s. They were a regular piece of something that no girl today would ever step foot in....and no modern mother would agree to make them like our good ol' moms sure did so we wouldn't flunk the class.

Dress description as demanded by Mrs. Walton, our music teacher: light blue and white gingham checked shirt-waist with full skirt, front buttons, short sleeves, belted with the same material. Ten cross-stitch embroidered half notes, about 9 inches high, spread all around the bottom of skirt and two joined half notes at top left shoulder, about 4" by 4." Add short white gloves and painful high heels. What a vision.

My mother, who, at the time, was trying to work full-time, get two kids through college, and cope with three brats still at home, had no choice. Make the damned dress. And why, you ask, couldn't I make the dress myself and spare her all the pain and suffering? Because if I had been left with the task, I would STILL be working on it to this day. And it wouldn't even look like a dress. It would look like a wad of material with embroidery thread stuck to it.

So Mama Bore, with much complaining, made the stupid dress, which to Myra's amazement, I still have. I dragged it out of the closet so I could take a picture for Myra since she'd sort of forgotten what the dress looked like. Big Bore instantly got excited and wanted me to try it on since he never sees me in anything but sweatpants, but I told him that getting it buttoned over my not-so-high schoolish chest would be an impossibility. And if, for some strange reason, I could force the buttons closed then breathing would be out of the question.

"Why do you still have that dress?" Myra asked, wondering if my sanity was a bit shakey.

"I guess because Mom worked so hard on it." It's not like I was ever going to wear it again, that's for sure.

We tried to think of how to put the dress to better use, rather than just gathering dust and wrinkles in my closet. She thought maybe I could cut out the notes and frame them. Or make a tablecloth. Or incorporate the notes into a quilted wall hanging. I'm going to check the Internet to see if there is a high school music museum somewhere that could take it off my hands. Maybe the cast of "Glee" could use it for a retro production.

If you have any suggestions, short of cutting the dress into cleaning rags or burning it at the stake, let me know and I'll make note of them.

SOME MEDICAL ADVICE

The other night while I was watching "Dancing With The Stars" in between judge Bruno practically having a verbal orgasm describing Kendra's cha-cha and actress Kirstie Alley and her partner Macks tumbling onto the dance floor, a commercial came on to treat fibromyalgia. I can't recall the name of the drug, and I'm still not sure I know exactly what fibromyalgia is---because most of the commercial air time was taken up with warnings of side effects---no, not of having fibromyalgia but of taking the drug.

"Using ___ ?___ could cause stomach ulcers, internal bleeding, heart attack, brain aneurysm...." the list went on and on. It causes death ten times over. Who in the world would want to take this drug if all these terrible problems could develop? "Don't take this drug if you are pregnant or have had stomach ulcers" or are breathing with or without your mouth open. It was downright scary. I know all drugs have their potential side effects, but these just seemed more numerous and more lethal than ones I've previously read about. Taking this drug, whatever it was, made taking cyanide seem harmless by comparison.

If I ever develop fibromyalgia, god forbid, I hope my doctor will just tell me to suck it up and deal with it. ---Now, back to our regular programming.

CONTROLLING THE PURSE STRINGS

I, The Flaming Bore, am pleased to announce that I have figured out why so many people are in heavy debt. It's all about purses. Not what's inside the purse but how much the blasted fashion accessories cost and how many women are willing to pay ridiculous prices for them.

Yesterday's big city newspaper featured an article about a new purse design group in the REALLY big city, New York, where puny pieces of leather are selling for $296.00-$435.00. And some of them aren't even big enough to put pocket change inside. What's the deal with that?

The clutch purse pictured with this blog looks eerily like the same one I carried to the Fredonia High School Valentine Party in 1965 (and again in 1967 with the same dress in this next pic, minus the purse), if you remove the "S" logo. In fact, I think this IS my purse, except maybe mine was a tad larger. And do you think Mama Bore choked up 3 or 4 hundred dollars for it? No, she did not. My guess is more like 3 or 4 dollars and, knowing Mama Bore, it is still somewhere in the hidden recesses of her house, ready to be used again.

I think anyone who pays $296.00-$435.00 for a purse is a absolutely crazy and a total fool, but these are selling like hotcakes all across the nation, of course. It's no wonder so many people are going into debt and bankruptcy these days. Anyone who is willing to spend that much money for a stupid purse has lost any degree of common sense. And we all know that "no sense" is equal to "no cents," which explains, in a nutshell, my theory about the problem with our economy. Blame it on the purse.

NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH

"You're going down now!" threatened the voices approaching our backyard yesterday.

Big Bore and I had just finished re-seeding the lawn and he was arranging the hose--the kind with the fountain attachment that has lots of little holes in it. Around the spruce tree, I spotted the bodies that went with the voices: the two little neighborhood boys. Run for your life!!

The two are probably 4 and 3 years old and just as cute and ornery as can be. Earlier in the day they had a blast assaulting me with their water pistols while I was digging up weeds in the side yard. I played along with their silliness, and then they ran off in search of another "victim." But now they were back--this time with MORE water pistols and giggling that they were REALLY going to get me now. As if I hadn't "suffered" enough the first time around.

Except they didn't know I had my sidekick ready to defend me. I greeted them at the backyard gate to welcome them inside, ready to take their best shots, when SPLASH!!! Big Bore turned the hose spray onto them. Scream, scream, run, run, but, of course, being little boys they just HAD to come back for more and more and more.

They were having the best time, although by the end of their water battle I wasn't so sure how their moms were going to feel about it--especially if the boys didn't ask for towels upon entering their homes when they went to re-fill their water guns. Something tells me they probably didn't.

DOGGED COMPETITION

The men's NCAA basketball championship game is scheduled for tomorrow night, and even though the Jayhawks won't be playing, I am still planning to watch it--which Big Bore isn't too keen about, but he knows better than to hide the remote from me. I have chosen the Butler Bulldogs to win, mainly because their mascot Butler Blue II is ever so much superior to the UConn Huskies' human in a dog outfit mascot. How lame. No contest. Hands down.

When I spoke with Mama Bore this morning, she told me she had mistakenly thought UConn was some school in Alaska until Big Sis cleared up the matter. "I didn't know it was a school in Connecticut. I thought it was Yukon," she said. "And the mascot is a husky, so how was I to know the difference?" You tell 'em, Mom.

Now everyone knows I'm not much of a dog fan since I've been lunch for too many of them, but I do think Butler Blue II has an element of cuteness about him. I'm hoping he will be turned loose on the basketball court tomorrow night and steal the show. Maybe he can lift a leg on the Huskies mascot or do something else of equal good taste. I want some action, doggone it!!! Something exciting to make up for the fact that KU is not there. ---May the best mutt win.

YOU GET WHAT YOU DON'T PAY FOR

I got up early this morning to drive to the neighboring county's community college, where I'd enrolled in two free one-hour classes in my lifelong, semi-hopeless quest for self-improvement. What a disappointment.

Fifteen minutes into the first class, which had to do with sustaining weight loss, a monitor came to tell the 20 or so in attendance that she'd called the MISSING instructor and got no answer; she'd keep trying to reach him.  Most of us decided to ditch the class, but before we left the building she said she'd reached him.  Ooops! He'd forgotten about the classes he was going to be teaching today.  He'd be out to the college ASAP and would definitely be there in time for the 10:15 class. 

I passed the time by going to the wonderful nursery/garden shop in town, purchasing a knock-out rose bush, then returned to the second class, called "Stressology."  Before getting started, the teacher briefly gave us info about the weight sustenance session he missed.  It was basically some sort of body de-tox program he conducts at his chiropractor's office.  Twelve dollars a day for the liquid drink, plus supplements. So much for the free idea  On to de-stressing.

The good doctor had a power point program he read from.  When asked for examples of some of the "points," he often couldn't think of any.  But the worse thing of all was his one and only hand-out.  It was a big circle representing a sad face, with the directions to tape it to the wall and bang your head in the circle 10 times or so.  That was it.  Oh, and he could give us a spinal adjustment at his office, not for free of course, to release tension.

So much for my free education of the day.  Class dismissed.  I took my own sad face out of the room and left the hand-out.  I don't need instructions to be a head-banger.

MARCH FOOTNOTES

A new month is here, but I have to tack on some addendums to March.  On March 4th, I blogged about ugly-ass shoes and mentioned I couldn't find an old picture of me in my platform beauties.  Well, yesterday I stumbled upon the pic, and here it is! Perhaps it was better left unfound.

On March 19 I blogged about the "American Idol" judges seeming to give preferential treatment to the guys, praising them for the same things that draw criticism for the girls.  Well, the next week the judges "saved" a contestant who would have been sent home, Casey and his Nirvana disaster.  So far, four singers have been given the boot---all women.  How many men have gotten eliminated?  None.  Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case.

My college hoops fever has cooled down, but I still just HAD to catch the 3-point shoot-out and slam dunk competition on ESPN2 last night.  The top dunkster was this undersized nobody from a small college in Illinois who made all the 6'8" types look like wimps.  This kid dunked while leaping over people and turning cartwheels.  Crazy stuff.  And his competition stood by amazed.  What a wild end to the Madness that is March. 

P.S.  I'm STILL trying to come up with a good April Fool's Day prank to pull on Big Bore.  Everything I'm coming up with is either too devious or too distasteful.  Only a half day left.  I'd better get with the program.