Thursday, June 30, 2011


(Disclaimer: Do not read the following if you're eating a meal or, otherwise, in a good mood.)

Breaking news last weekend out of Colorado from the "Just When You Thought You'd Heard Everything" Department. Seems a lady at a yoga convention in Boulder entered a Port-a-Pot to relieve herself, opened the lid, and, Holy Shishkebab! There was a man sitting inside the dumping grounds! And, no, this wasn't "Candid Camera." This was a real, live, breathing Port-a-Pot with a real, live, breathing man inside it. Yikes! Times ten!

What in the world would possess a person to do this? Voyeurism gone amok? A Charmin fetish? Some sort of "double-dog-dare ya" stunt? Whatever. I'm not sure what city statute was violated here. I mean, who would ever think that invasion of a Port-a-Pot would ever be a problem? But the trespasser was arrested; he was apparently easy to spot since he was the only person at the yoga fest seen running around with a feces-covered tarp wrapped around him.

I don't know what's going to happen to this Porta-Peeper perv, but I suspect when he goes to court he'll be shi** out of luck and the sh** will hit the fan.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011


I don't smoke cigarettes, and I don't advocating doing so, but I still sympathize with tobacco manufacturers who are upset with the Australian plan to replace packaging logos with "grisly images of cancerous mouths..."

If the government is going to play babysitter for all its citizens, then why not play fair and extend the warnings to other products? Automobiles for sale would display pictures of accident victims; alcoholic beverages would feature a cirrhosis-eaten liver, sweet snack treats would show off fatty hearts; packaging for a pair of scissors would indicate what happens when careless dimwits like The Flaming Bore accidentally try to cut off their fingers while gardening.

We all live on the edge in one way or the other. Pick your poison and hope for the best.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011


Day one of the annual fireworks onslaught has passed. Eight more days to go. On a 0-10 scale, with 0 being "no boomers heard" and 10 being "there's a nuclear war going on outside my window," I'd say yesterday was a 3. My spazzola ear didn't snap, crackle, and pop out of control, so I'd say it was a success.

Sweet neighbor girl, whose kitty died a few weeks ago, is excited to report her daddy brought her home not one, but TWO new fur balls to play with. Puppies....soon-to-be hunting dogs for you-know-who. She's happy with anything that rolls around and has promised she will train them not to be bite me or bark at me. Can't beat that. She gave us the cat food they had left over from their kitty experience, and Big Bore gave her the Pedi-Paws that our cats refused to have used on them. Maybe dogs are dumber.

I hadn't watched "The Bachelorette" for a few weeks, so last night I plopped down in front of the TV and watched Lady Ashley wrangle with the eight fellows left in the competition. I swear to god, if I'd had a rotten tomato in my hand, I would have hurled it at the TV screen! She is that much of a pain in the butt! The Flaming Bore will not even attempt to bore her readers with the gorey details. Let's just say that she puts the drama in Drama Queen several times over.

Well, Critter Kitty is up on my lap helping me on the keyboard with her nose. Time to get on with another day.......

Monday, June 27, 2011


I've been slowly chipping away at sorting through "stuff" at Mama Bore's house, which is now officially for sale. Mom is not a hoarder, but she's what I like to call a "chronic saver." Last night I attacked three boxes of greeting cards, sorting them by the "child giver or receiver" who will each get his/her stack for posterity's sake. Birthday, Mother's Day, Christmas, Easter, Congrats on the Birth of Your Child.

These baby cards are most interesting because they are totally generic. Unless the sender has written something that specifies the gender, you'd have no idea whether the baby was a girl or boy. ALL the cards have pink AND blue on them, so color is no clue. This must have been some sort of marketing ploy in the 1940s and '50s.

There were only four cards that I was certain about the identity of the child who was being welcomed because of little clues written inside. "Congratulations on your first" is for Big Sis. "His father must be so proud of the name" is for Beans, who is a III to the ol' man's Jr. Then there's "He's half-grown already" for my younger brother, a 9-pounder; and "Number 5" for my younger sister. Me? Who knows. Who cares. Middle children are always lost in the shuffle--even with greeting cards.

I just ended up putting all the remaining birth congrats cards in the "other" stack, which is huge. Next time I visit Mama Bore, I'm going to take her the stack from me and the stack of "others," which were sent by her friends, and start reading them to her since she can no longer see well enough to do so. I don't care what my siblings do with their stacks I give them. At least there are three fewer boxes in the house. Now, I'm psyching myself up for her box of cancelled checks from the past 40 years.

Saturday, June 25, 2011


When I was out biking last night, I pedaled by the former home of a former student and started laughing to myself. After my divorce 10+ years ago, her father showed up at my front door one morning. It was 7:15 AM on a school day, and I was rushing around fixing my hair, half-dressed, trying to get to work on time--and here's this stranger, a cup of coffee in hand, SHIRTLESS, saying his daughter had suggested he introduce himself to me since he was new in town. At 7:15 in the morning? Without a shirt? Did he really expect me to welcome him inside? "Sure, come on in, sit down and drink your coffee, and tell me all about yourself."

I blurted out something about needing to get off to school and that I had a policy that I didn't socialize with students' parents or anyone in the county, for that matter. Goodbye. It was the truth and better than screaming: "What in the world are you thinking???" He never showed up again, shirtless or pantless. Thank god for large favors.

On the heels of that recollection, another post-divorce headshaker came to mind. I once received a written request for a date from a bachelor rancher who had heard about me from someone...maybe his minister? I can't remember. Anyway, he'd crafted a really awful two-page letter about who he was and how lonely he was. Yikes! I was too afraid to respond, so I just pitched the masterpiece, hoping he'd take the hint. Which he did. Another bullet dodged.

My next bike ride better not jolt back any more memories of my years as the eligible divorcee about town. I might fall onto the street laughing.

Friday, June 24, 2011


I watched the NBA draft drama last night with considerable interest since KU had three possible draftees, one of whom I won't bother mentioning....but the other two were twins Marcus and Markieff Morris, and they were #13 and #14 among the talented few chosen.

When the two started for the Jayhawks back in 2008, I never would have given them a chance to even become an NBA waterboy. That's how raw they were. I can clearly recall listening to a KU game on my car radio during some outing and just shaking my head at all their freshman mistakes and misses. Agony.

Fast forward three years, countless hours of practice, and spectacular they are: ready to sign multi-million dollar contracts. Hooray for their Rock Chalk perserverance x 2!

Thursday, June 23, 2011


As soon as we entered the big city yesterday, Big Bore shifted the car and his attitude into bitch mode. The drivers there drive him crazy and, I'm sorry to say, he's not totally to blame. Cell phone talkers are the number one offenders on his list, but close behind, sometimes too close, are those drivers who fail to use signal lights and just assume others have psychic abilities to know where in the world the dumb @$$ is headed. Then, there are the speeders and the cutter-offers, and the clueless who don't know they can move forward when the light turns green. They ALL turn Big Bore into one ball of nerves and when he gets that way, I get that way.

At noon we stopped for a leisurely lunch and walk around a lake, which calmed us down, but then it was right back to the insanity---this time trying to find our way around the new exits off a "fly-by." We knew where we wanted to go, we could see where we wanted to go, but actually getting there was like maneuvering a rat's maze.

We're going back to the city a week from tomorrow. Valium may be in order.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011


Summer has officially arrived and so has chigger season. How do I know? Because when I woke up this morning, my right hand was automatically and strategically placed inside my pajama bottoms scratching away at the two new chigger bites irritating my secret parts. Don't you just hate that? Those darned little varmints never seem to make welts on public parts--it's always where your mom chastises you with, "Quit your scratching."

It's my own fault. I spent a good part of yesterday morning weeding at the library, and did I spray on Deet before I took off on the mission? Of course I didn't. I never seem to remember to put on the insect repellent until it's too late. By the time it's crossed my mind, the damage is done. Chiggers are so sneaky laying in wait in the grass for their insidious attack. At least mosquitoes play fair and give their victims warning. You can see and hear them as they prepare to bomb-dive in for their blood fest. Chiggers, on the other hand, always seem to silently worm their way inside your underclothes. How in the heck they manage to get in there is beyond my comprehension, but they never fail to find all the wrong spots.

My worst case of chigger bites was when I was around 10 years old and had picked strawberries at my great aunt and uncle's farm where I was visiting for a week. A convention of chiggers bit into my belly and had a feast that they're still talking about. Aunt Ethel reacted in horror by pouring a bottle of Caladryl on the welts; there had to have been a hundred or more. I had post-traumatic chigger disorder for years after that. (That's the uncontrollable desire to take over the cat's scratching post.)

We're headed off to the big city pretty soon to get some much-needed shopping done, and I hope I can control the urge to scratch at my crotch or rub against display shelves so Big Bore won't have to yell at me like my mother always did. But things could be worse. At least the chiggers didn't find my boob crevices--this time around. But summer is just getting started.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011


Hallelujah! Just ten more days until I get to break the "No Diet." Pizza, here I come!

Yesterday the neighborhood pre-schooler was at Casa de la Flaming Bore showing off some hand-held computer game gizmo he'd pilfered from his sister when his eyes spotted my recumbent bike in the living room. "Why do you have an excercise bike? You're not fat. You're skinny."

Well, that was music to my flabby ears.

"Oh, I like to exercise on it when the weather is bad. And, I'm not skinny."

"Yes, you are. You're skinny."

"No, I'm just in the middle. But thanks, anyway."

Later, a Facebook friend announced that it was National Milkshake Day and suggested everyone go out for his or her favorite flavor, in my case....BUTTERSCOTCH!!!! Hell, I'm certified skinny by a 4-year-old. Surely I can hop in the car, drive 30 miles to Toot's Dairy Bar, and indulge. But, if I've gone this long on the "No Diet," I can last 1o more days and then treat myself to that Applebee's Blondie I've been dreaming about since the end of December.

Here's to having a skinny Tuesday. And a fast 10 days ahead.

Monday, June 20, 2011


The fall of 2009 my bro-in-law Ken divided some of the coneflowers (echinacea, for you smartie gardeners who insist on being botanically correct) in his yard and gave me four starters. Last summer they barely had a bloom, but this year they have buds galore and here are the first three blossoms. Hooray for coneheads!!!

Sunday, June 19, 2011


7 AM. Sunday mornings are almost always the same around Casa de la Flaming Bore. Rise and shine with a bowl of cereal and the newspaper. Cut to the chase and get to the games....two giant-sized crossword puzzles, cryptogram, jumble, and hidato, which is a viscious litle numbers game that I always do first, just to get my brain working. It's a warm-up for the rest of the day.

8 AM. Time to watch "CBS Sunday Morning." Ninety minutes of feature stories...not hard news. Today it's interviews with Tom Hanks and Dick Van Dyke and a blip on men dying their hair. Nothing mind bending---until the report on two fellows who go around correcting misspelled words and grammar errors on signs. I thought that was pretty cool, mainly because I'd emailed a grammar correction to my state representative the day before. (It was about his misusage of "me." I'll spare you the lesson on subjective pronouns.)

9:30 AM. Start the New York Times crossword and water some flowers till 11 when I call Mama Bore. I wish her a Happy Father's Day, talk weather, flowers, cats, and TV.

11:30 AM. One more cup of coffee and the Battle of the Letters resumes. Back to the puzzles for a third time. I will likely stay with them until mid-afternoon. No more fluttering around. No more computer breaks. I'm fully awake now and I mean business! Charge!!!!!!!!

Saturday, June 18, 2011


I'm not proud to admit it, but I've been watching some of the gavel-to-gavel coverage of the murder trial of Casey Anthony, the young Florida woman accused of killing her two-year-old daughter Caylee in 2008. Most of the expert testimony is beyond my realm of technical understanding, and the questioning of so-called witnesses is interrupted so often with objections that even the interrogating lawyers lose their train of thought and can't remember what they just asked.

So, why am I watching the trial AND the daily summaries on news shows each night? I guess I'm waiting for some answers. How did this cute little girl die? Why? Who is going to be held accountable, if anyone? Why does Casey keep changing her story? Will she take the stand in her defense? There are so many unknowns, and I keep wanting Perry Mason or Ben Matlock to save the day and tidily wrap up this case with an "Ah-hah! Gotcha!" moment like they always do on TV.

But this is real life...or death, to put it in more appropo terms. If Casey Anthony is found guilty of killing her child, accident or not, this trial will drag on forever with appeals. If she's found not guilty, then I sure hope she can explain why she didn't contact the police the very first second her daughter went missing. What kind of parent doesn't go totally ballistic when he or she discovers a child is gone? Heck, when I once had a wayward cat I was out on the same day canvassing the neighborhood, putting up photo flyers, and calling the animal shelter. Wait 30 days, and then only when pressured? That's what totally blows my mind.

An innocent person just doesn't behave like Casey Anthony. I hope she has a good explanation because, otherwise, she's going to have a lot of time on her hands to think about what she did.

Friday, June 17, 2011


I posted the above picture on Facebook a few weeks ago, but I'd rather have it on my web log for posterity's sake, since I print out blog entries and keep them in a yearly notebook. This friendly butterfly stopped by the downtown garden to play among the coreopsis, which were in full bloom at the time (see below). I'm headed to the garden right now so I can take some more pictures for our club meeting later today. The hollyhocks look great, and the impatiens are quickly growing among the hostas. More pictures to come...

Thursday, June 16, 2011


A few months ago I bought a small Knockout Rose Bush with a few buds on it, no blooms yet, Big Bore dug me a hole, prepped it with root stimulator, and away we went. The poor thing had transplant shock for a week or so, but we babied it along, fed it banana peels, and it soon snapped out of its funk. I dead-headed the first round of blooms; the second round has been more prolific, so I hope we are on our way to a happy life at Casa de la Flaming Bore. The marigolds have enjoyed making a new friend and are protecting it from any bad-ass enemy bugs. Knockout Rose, you are a knockout!

Wednesday, June 15, 2011


The Flaming Bore is sorry to hear that eternal playboy Hugh Hefner has been dumped a few days before his next scheduled trip to the altar. Seems that his sweetie Crystal, 60 years younger, has decided she'd rather have a possible singing career than be married to a mega-millionaire geezer. Who can blame a girl for wanting to make her own way in the world?

There's been a vicious rumor, however, that she's been slinking around with the son of Dr. Phil McGraw, TV King of Psycho Babble. Geesh. Talk about going from bad to worse. The thought of having Dr. Phil for a possible father-in-law is just downright scary. That windbag would be butting in with every judgmental moment. At least if Crystal went ahead and married HH, she wouldn't have to contend with any pious in-laws!

I consider myself somewhat experienced on the subject because I once had a mother-in-law, rest her soul, with whom I didn't always see eye-to-eye. Mainly, it grinded my gizzard when she came to our house while we were at work and rearranged the spices in alphabetical order or perfectly lined up all the papers I'd haphazardly pinned to the dinette bulletin board. Okay, so I'm an unorganized slob. I get the picture.

I think Hugh Hefner should be glad that the wedding got cancelled BEFORE it took place rather than AFTER. At least he's spared dealing with in-laws, a messy divorce, and the partial loss of his bulging bank account. Kudos to Crystal for coming to her senses and deciding to quit stringing him along just because he has fame and money. Let's just hope that when her aspiring singing career tanks and she's back on skid row, she doesn't come hopping back to the Bunny mansion asking for a handout. And I mean carats, not carrots.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011


There's a job in New York City I'd never heard of until watching ABC's "Nightline" last night. Proposal Planner. Lovers who have more money than they know what to do with pay anywhere from $2,000-$10,000 to have this planner gal arrange the perfect location, music, food, etc. for the big question-popping event that will certainly garner a positive response. She even scripts what the proposer will say.

Call me unromantic, but I think this is a total waste of dollars and makes no sense, other than to keep one less person out of the unemployment line. Also, I'm jealous because I didn't think of it first. I'd be more than happy to set up a shindig for a fraction of what Proposal Planner charges. --And here are a few of my sure-fire proposal line suggestions that I am happy to share with you:

"Whatdya say we set up a a pre-nup agreement?"

"You wanna pool our resources to we can start sharing bills?"

"Why don't we stop shacking up and make this legal."

"Got any plans for next Saturday?"

"Care for a ball and chain?"

"My mother says if she doesn't have any grandchildren soon, I'll be cut from the inheritance."

"Would you like to wash my dirty underwear for the rest of your life?"

"What would think about keeping me from being deported?"

"Oh, to hell with it. Let's just do it and get it over with."

"I'm pregnant."

Any one of these super romantic sentences is sure to create a life sentence of marital bliss. And I, The Flaming Bore, give them to you for free!! Don't you just love them? (Okay, just suck it up and say, "I do.")

Monday, June 13, 2011


The other evening a mama was strolling around the neighborhood with her brood while I was outside working in the yard, and I heard one of the little girls say, "Oh, what a beautiful house!"

I figured she was gazing at the lavish remodel on the corner across the street. A ton of money has recently been pumped into this old Victorian that is now a wonderful showplace fixed up by a wonderful couple of retirees.

But as I got within eyeshot of the walkers, I saw the girl standing in front of Casa de la Flaming Bore, admiring some flowers.

"Come on," her mother coaxed the straggler.

"But this house is beautiful," she said again before joining the others.

Now, I'm not so naive as to think our one-bedroom bungalow is "beautiful," but we try to maintain a bit of curb appeal, and I'm glad a toddler can appreciate what our little yard has to offer. Such "stop and smell the flowers" moments are not easy to come by, so my aching back and I thank that wee one for the compliment.

Sunday, June 12, 2011


Yesterday afternoon I dozed off while resting in the recliner, as old folks often do, only to be rudely awakened by a gawd-awful calamity of yelling, screaming, and swearing---coming from the television. Big Bore was watching Casino, a 1995 movie starring Robert DeNiro and Joe Pesci as Las Vegas mobsters who know how to toss around the f-word more than any two human beings on earth. Supporting their dirty mouths was Sharon Stone, DeNiro's drug-addicted, cheating boozer of a wife. A real doll.

Now, I must say that these three icons of the acting world were quite adept with their f-bomb usage. Noun, verb, adverb, adjective, gerund. They had it all in their repertoire. After a while, I began to wonder just how many times the naughty word was said, in one form or another, during the almost three hours of the movie. So, I got on the Internet. Surely there were plenty of oddballs out there who had tallied the total so inquiring minds like mine would have an answer to such a thought-provoking question of world importance.

I awakened over two hours into the movie; I'd missed out on a lot of dialogue, but based on what I heard, I guessed there would be 14,590 f-words in Casino. According to the websites I found, however, I was WAY off by over 14,000. It seems the movie ONLY has 422. Well f-it! What a f-ing disappointment that was! My guess-timator is really f-ed up! Next time I wake up to a f-ingly stinky movie like Casino, I will just throw a bar of soap at the television and try to go back to sleep.

Saturday, June 11, 2011


Sweet Neighbor Girl showed up at my front door yesterday in a bundle of tears. She had found her new kitty lying dead in her family driveway, and it wasn't long before I shed my own tears for her. She'd only had the cat for three weeks, but it just as well have been a lifetime. Attachments form quickly when you have a soft heart for blue-eyed fur balls. "I loved Leo like he was my own baby," she said. Oh, do I know that feeling. I have a cat on my lap right now.

There was nothing I could say to ease her sorrow, so when she told me her pet would be buried with the get-well card I'd made after its trip to the vet clinic last week, I suggested we also include the picture I'd taken of her and her kitty so they'd always be together. I got on the computer and printed it up, then went over to pay my respects. More tears.

Last night when I was out for a walk, I remembered that I have an angel kitty pin like the one above that I'd set aside to give to a friend if the time ever came. It comes with a little poem:

"Wear this special angel pin as a symbol of your love
for your precious little pet protected from above."

I will take it over to Sweet Neighbor Girl today and we'll get teary-eyed all over again.

Friday, June 10, 2011



I'm subbing at the downtown garden today and tomorrow, but God has made it easy on me because we received a lovely thunder-boomy last night--almost an inch of rain. All I had to do this morning was sweep aside some mulch that washed onto the sidewalk and then weed and deadhead. Then I weeded at the library. Then I came home and looked at my yard. Not much to do there. I'll go back to the downtown garden tonight and piddle around some more. There's ALWAYS something to do there. Someone recently asked me, "How come I can never get my garden to look this good?" and I answered it's because the downtown garden has about 20 women who take care of it. Odds are, there are a few green thumbs in the group.

Thursday, June 9, 2011


Do you ever have one of those dreams that is loosely based on something or someone crossing your path on television right before you go to bed? It sort of sticks with your subconscious, I guess, but then it gets all convoluted into total choas. Well, I had one of those dreams last night and the name I heard on TV before hitting the hay was (GULP) O. J. Simpson!!!!! Talk about a girl's worst nightmare!

This dream started way back in time when I was in my sweet and innocent 20s, and O.J. was a football star--not with the Buffalo Bills, but with the Denver Broncos for some reason. And I think that reason is because of his Ford BRONCO escapade after he (allegedly) murdered his wife and her friend back in 1994. (I don't think we have to re-hash that one, do we?)

I am the dutiful wife in this dream, who follows her man to all the football games, and I'm flying to one with other football families, including O. J.'s little son and daughter, who are wearing black masks, Lone Ranger-style. We are to meet the players at an airport cafeteria for brunch once we land. O. J.'s kids have done this all before, so they lead me to the cafeteria and I can't find anything that suits my picky taste buds. But I don't want O.J. to get mad at me, so I go back through the line a second time and pick out an over-sized frosted cinnamon roll---but the cafeteria worker gives me two of them, and I keep trying to give the extra one back. O. J. shows up to see what's keeping me so long and RED ALERT! RED ALERT!....thank god, I wake up!!! No nasty encounter involving sharp silverware. Conflict resolved!

The mind works in mysterious ways at night. And I am pleased to say that even when I'm asleep I'm always on the guard to protect myself from harm's way. O. J. may be able to enter my subconscious, but he's not going to get away with anymore crimes. I am the director of my dreams, and when O. J. Simpson enters one, it's time to yell, "CUT!!!!!"

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


Anyone who has a beating heart has likely heard about Rep. Anthony Weiner's ridiculous escapade into "sexting" ridiculous hornball comments and ridiculous hornball pictures of himself to women half his age that he's "met" over the worldwide web. For a week he claimed someone must have hacked into his account and pulled a mean prank on him, but now he's finally 'fessing up to the fact that he sent pictures of his bulging pants for all to see and made suggestive comments to go along with them. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

What's with this guy? He's college educated, has a prestigious job, is married to a successful woman, and he's STILL acting like he's in junior high?

Of course, he's trying to brush it all away, saying he's done nothing illegal. That may be true, but it seems like Weiner is more concerned with representing his weiner than he is in representing the people of New York who elected him to Congress. If his judgment is that poor, then who would want him making critical decisions about legislation in Washington? (Okay, other than Bill Clinton.) What a joke. When his time for re-election rolls around, I hope voters will take matters into their OWN hands and toss Weiner out of office. The Flaming Bore has spoken!

Tuesday, June 7, 2011


Last night on that critically acclaimed ABC documentary "The Bachelorette," Lady Ashley took her man-harem to The Comedy Store in Los Angeles for a laugh fest. The "challenge" was for the men to roast Ashley. "Make me laugh," she told them. The best funny guy would receive the coveted red rose, assuring he'd still be in the running for her affections for one more week.

Now, most of the guys played it safe and roasted each other, rather than Dame Ashley. They laughed. She laughed. It was just one big ball of laughter---until she finally became on the receiving end of some of the jokes. There were a few remarks about her 6th grade-sized chest (my words; I can't exactly recall theirs), and one guy was so bold as to state how disappointed he was that Princess Ashley was The Bachelorette instead of some of the other rejects from the last season of the show.

That did it. Queen Ashley dashed off in tears and rolled up into a weeping blob of ridiculousness. Once semi-composed, she returned to the group and told the guys how their jokes hurt her fragile feelings. Big Bore and I were not moved.

"It's a roast, for gosh sakes. What did she expect? They were just doing what they were told to do," Big Bore said.

I agreed. "Hey, baby girl! You thought it was hilarious when the guys were dissed. Not so funny when you're made fun of, huh?"

We both got so irritated with her little pity party that we took a break and went bicycling for 45 minutes. Back with the show, however, Czarina Ashley was STILL whining and whimpering---this time on a single date with cutesy J.P. Now, all the other solo dates have been in exciting, gorgeous locales. Where are we on this one? In her gloomy living room. And she looks like she's been on a crying jag for about a week. Poor J.P. gamely tolerates her hysteria and gets a rose for his efforts. He actually deserves the Medal of Honor for suffering through the drama.

Why don't I feel sorry for The Bachelorette? Good grief! She's young, beautiful, college-educated, and doesn't have an inch of fat on her body. She doesn't have a single liver spot or wrinkle on her face, and nothing sags. If she's insecure now, wait till she's my age. Aaaaaggghhhhhh!!! It'll be a crisis every minute. So, if those remaining Bachelors know what is good for them, when they are offered a rose to accept they will ALL say, "No way!!" and hightail it out of there.

Good luck, guys. May the best man lose.

Monday, June 6, 2011


Hey, baby! It's turned hot, hot, hot in Kansas! Time to strip off the clothes, tug on a swimsuit, and hope for the best. Yeah, right. My best days of swimwear ended about 45 years ago, when I had a cutesey two-piece red and white checked number that showed off my flat tummy and perky breasticles. Where's a picture of that when I need a boost to my sagging ego and skin?

My current swimsuit, the one I've had for maybe 10 years, is a black and gold one-piece with a skirt that's supposed to conceal the fact that my gut protrudes more than I'd like. It's made of this really tight-stretch material and has a built-in bra, so I can stuff away some of the lumps. It's too bad that the suit doesn't go all the way down to my knees, so I could spare the public from being subjected to my terminal thigh jiggle. Shake, rattle, and roll with every step.

My worst-ever swimsuit was a brown and white dotted swiss number that I had in college. The two-piece top was like an apron that covered my belly, and I looked like I was pregnant. A few years ago, a so-called friend sent me a picture from out of the past--there I was sunbathing in that god-awful swimsuit, wearing oversized sunglasses and clunky leather sandals and a mouthful of braces. I look like a creature right out of the Black Lagoon. Absolutely dreadful. I tried to find the picture so I could add it to this blog and give my readers a laugh (or scare), but it has apparently self-imploded.

The fashion editor of the big city paper gave some advice today about buying summer wear that everyone should heed, so I shall end with paraphrasing her pearl of wisdom about swimsuits: "Just because a garment is made in your size doesn't mean you should wear it." Amen to that, sister.

Sunday, June 5, 2011


I don't know what's going on around here, but suddenly Big Bore has started to like yogurt--the low fat kind that is 70 or 80 calories a cup. Little Bit and I have been fans for years--the cat preferring to lick it off a spoon rather than slurp it off a plate or eat it directly out of the cup, but BB has always turned up his nose. Lately, he's been sneaking into my stash, however. He started with blueberry, and today he tried peach. Yummy. That's my favorite flavor, as well as Little Bit's, so we may have a problem brewing here at Casa de la Flaming Bore. We'll have to hit up the grocery store tomorrow and stash up on more yogurt while it's still on sale.

BB has switched from the Atkins Diet to my No Diet. Atkins got too boring and costly. He's actually had some success and is now able to snap on his jeans shorts that were impossible to wear last summer. I'm not sure how much weight he's lost...maybe 20 pounds, and he has plenty still to go, but I'll give him credit for staying off crap for the most part. When it comes to our diets, our new motto is: "Just Say Yo."

Saturday, June 4, 2011


There's an article in today's city paper about the Kansas Humane Society offering a "Painting With Puppies" program this summer. Apparently kids and canines will "work together to create unique works of art using paint, paws, and their inspiration."

I'm a bit upset that cats have been excluded from this prestigious art show, based on personal experience. I once returned home from Kansas City only to find my then-husband asleep, a full paint tray left unattended in the bathroom, and blue paw prints EVERYWHERE! No, not just the floor. I'm talking kitchen counter top, sofa, coffee table, you name it. You'd be surprised how many little steps two cats make in an afternoon until they are all marked in blue.

Needless to say, I rudely awakened the human painter and told him to start cleaning. Fast. Was I fuming? You bet. "Next time you let the cats paint, at least give them a damned easel and canvas!!"

Friday, June 3, 2011


Between 3:30-4:30 AM, my spazzy ear usually gives me a wake-up call that it's time to take a pill. This is also some sort of odd reminder to Little Bit that it's time for him to do everything within his power to keep me from falling back to sleep.

Now, I don't mind sharing mattress space with cats BUT I do mind Bitsy's crazy habit of breathing deeply onto my face, then licking me. I sure must taste swell because he licks my mouth, my nose, my hair, my armpits, whatever is within licking range. "Don't Bitsy," I say over and over again, nudging his head away from me. I usually end up putting the covers over my head to get him to stop. At which time, he starts slowly walking all over me, trying to find the most comfortable spot to deposit himself for the rest of the night. Ker-plunk.

Big Bore says I should just push Bits off the bed, but the poor cat is getting old--16, and he's somewhat fragile, and I'll get to thinking that it won't be too long before he's not around to bug me anymore, which makes me feel sad and guilty.

So, I'll just keep putting up with his nocturnal routine. It could be worse, I tell Big Bore. He could be at the foot of the bed barking all night long.

Thursday, June 2, 2011


I've been nursing a sick cat the past week. Critter has a urinary tract infection. This means three trips to the vet clinic, x-ray, hydration therapy, giving her Cefa drops for 21 days, and monitoring the litter boxes. Since the Cefa drops supposedly taste nasty (I'll take the vet's word on that and not taste-test myself), I've been rewarding her after each dose with tuna water/tuna. She no longer spits and slobbers out most of the liquid med, or claws me or jumps on my shoulders, so we're making headway. Plus, she's finally able to pee without sitting in the litter box for five minutes. There for awhile, I thought I was going to have to give her a magazine to read while she waited for inspiration to hit. Poor kid.

Sweet Neighbor Girl's new kitty is also sick. Blue-eyed Leo has some sort of inner ear infection, and it's apparently not mites, so he's back at the vet clinic today. She came over at 7:30 this morning to give me the latest medical report. I was only half awake and went to the door wearing my leopard pajama bottoms, inside-out, apologizing for my morning breath. I think I was dizzier than Leo, and I know my appearance startled the poor child. Later in the day, when I was dressed decently, had my teeth and hair brushed and deodorant on, I saw Sweet Neighbor outside so I asked for a Leo update. He's still at the clinic, so she's anxiously awaiting the call to come get her baby.

Taking on a pet (or two or three) is a big responsibility and financial investment, if it's done right. Of course, Critter sort of landed in our laps by her own stroke of luck, but she is a fun housemate and we're glad she's feeling better. And we hope Leo Kitty gets back to top form, too. We cat people have to stick together--even if it's a morning wake-up call when I'm looking like something the cat dragged out of the bag.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011


People in the big metropolis to the west, Wichita, are up in arms over the recent city commission decision to use $350,000 in tax funds to purchase a sculpture for the downtown Water Walk area--and I don't blame them. The proposed ball of steel looks like the Walking Magnet Monster or maybe a creature from War of the Worlds. Take your pick. According to the creator of this dastardly design, it's supposed to represent the natural beauty of Wichita. If that's the case, then instead of being dubbed the Air Capitol of the Kansas it needs to be re-named the Junkyard of the Galaxy.

I have a proposal. Give me $350,000 and I, The Flaming Bore, who has absolutely no formal training in art, will gladly create a sculpture for the City of Wichita that looks better than this one. All I'd have to do is pick up a bunch of crap around the house, basement, and garage, attach it together with a rope, and voila!! Instant representation of natural beauty. Actually, I would probably charge less than $350,000. Maybe $250,000. I come cheap.