Michael B. Wendell, SUPERGenius, or If I Had Boobs I Could Pull This Off

Mike’s right.
I need a cocktail.

Fear not. It’ll be okay.

You can have my AA chips.
Fifteen years’ worth.
Stack ‘em.
Roll ‘em up.
Put ‘em…

Luckily AA chips don’t need sunshine.

Vacation is thirty days out.

I’m back on the treadmill, but the results are slower than I’d like.

I feel good.
But who exercises to Feel Good?
I hate that person.

One hundred fatty-two pounds.
I weigh one hundred fatty-two pounds!

I’m fifteen pounds down, but I still look a fright.
If I had boobs I could pull this off.
But, NO.

I’m on the treadmill forty minutes daily.
It’s like dog years.
I like it.
I hate it.
I like it, slash; hate it.

I’m up before the crack of dawn.
I’m feeling it.

I called my foot doc.
He says, “You’re telling me the overhauled foot is your worst problem on the treadmill?”
“Wull, no,” was my snappy reply. “Now my FEELINGS hurt too.”

Wah-ha-ha.

I may go on vacation weighing one hundred fatty-two pounds with a sore foot and hurt feelings, but booze will help.
Mike says so.
And so does Google, so it’s got to be true.

Google says “Booze helps us relax”.
It says, “Booze helps to strike up a conversation”.
“Booze helps us to loosen our uptight and inhibited selves.” As. Per. Google.

Hey Doubters; if it wasn’t factual it wouldn’t be on the internet!

On the other hand; Google says nothing about portly Prince Fielder playing baseball in pajamas.

Google is silent about Flo Rida having pectoral implants.

Google gives you accurate references to Mayella Ewell when you search “chiffarobe”, but they got nothing definitive on how much fun can occur before somebody actually puts an eye out.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?
Left to Google the world WILL never know.

How do you dress a one-hundred-fatty-two pound pear-shaped Savant this season?
Google’s got bupkiss.

But they say “Booze will help me forget,” so that’s the route I’m taking.

I Don't Belong Here

Just weeks before It happened I had an epiphany.

A moment of clarity.

A bright spot in what I’d decided was maybe a mid-life crisis and surely a dry-spell for my blog.

I thought it was the loneliest time of my life.
I thought.

I thought about how I’d share my revelation with You, Dear Reader.
Cuz it was big.
It was important.
Then.

I realized our business with the church hurt so much because I thought I’d found a family.

I miss extended family.

The church is supposed to be brothers and sisters in Christ.

We’ll have fellowship and friendship, they told us.
We’ll be in agreement on matters of faith, they said.
We’ll learn and grow together, they declared.

They lied.

They broke my heart.

I was going to share that little gem with you, Dear Reader, but The Bottom Fell Out of my World.

We were sitting in the police station.
Where is she?
I felt as though I'd been eviscerated.
Where could she be?

I looked at Mr. Savant with his broad shoulders, his thinning flattop, and his salt ‘n pepper fumanchu.
And I saw a 17-year-old boy.

I was 21 again, and we were wet behind the ears at our first ro-de-o.

We were better than invincible. We were young. We hadn’t considered vincibility.
We hadn’t considered a 100-pound girl would someday bring us to our knees.

We didn’t sign up for a Runaway Daughter, I thought.

I remembered the night Gram died. Mr. held me while I cried my tears out.
This should be part of the wedding vows, I told him.

Forget about richer and poorer. Nevermind sickness and health.
I'll hold you when your loved one is gone forever.

I never thought we’d sit up all night waiting for our daughter to come home.
Wringing hands.
Jumping at the phone.
Rubbernecking every movement on our street. And praying.

That was a month ago, and I hate our New Normal.
I’d gladly make a heavy trade to get out of The Aftermath.

Take my car, my house, my stuff.
Gimme arthritis pain.
Gimme Gram’s death, my grief and anorexia.
I'll take marriage problems. I'll take heartache.
I'll take Mom’s cancer, Mom's death, and the loss of my first family.
I’d re-do church and lose that family again too!

I want my confidence back. I want to feel capable.
I want to feel lovable, and loved.
I want to stop second-guessing, wondering, and worrying.

Some days I just want to put the hurt on someone else.

I want to forget that I’m completely undone by this.

I want to exhale.

I'm Still Not Dead Yet, Hardly

"Looking on the Bright Side with Kel" was going to be a Savant original.
I thought it’d be a great themed post. My goal was to tell you what things suck the least, despite the stack of odds against me.

I planned to use my stellar powers of observation and share pearls of wisdom in that ever-cheerful way of mine.
Remember my ever-cheerful way?
Well you can forget about it.

Turns out; the glass is not only half-empty, it’s fly-specked and chipped.

I got a Kindle for my bday. I’m also the proud owner of a new iPod touch.
How do you spell sedentary?

Since we last talked I’ve had several life-changing revelations, none of ‘em worth sharing.
There’s been upheaval in the Savant household, but I won’t bore you.
You want more about the kitties, but even they fail to inspire posts.
Vlad. Schmad.
(Darling HATES Vlad’s posts. Imagine.)

So I've got nothing.

Still; I sat down at the computer and in no time I was writing.

It was a “To Do” list.

For Mr.

If he doesn’t get busy I’m going to have to Do stuff.

I hate doing stuff.

“Get on with it,” I told myself gruffly.
And as quick as a wink I realized; I need a snack.

Before you can say “carbotose” I was sorting laundry in my mind while reclining on the patio.

After a short break for some TiVo 'n Me time, I knew I was ready.
For a shower.
And coffee.

All of a sudden it came to me; I should paint the blah-blah for the yadayadaya.
I remembered why I hate spray paint.

But I digress.

It's how I roll.

I really ought to be more organized when it comes to time management and project completion.

I figured my best bet would be ooo, shiny…

You Prob'ly Think This Post is About You

Boogers are gross when the Daycare Kid wipes them on the sofa, possible funniness in post form.

Spit grosses me out. Can you make funny from spit?
Be my guest and fear not; I won’t quit reading your blog over spit.

Pee? Sometimes. When I laugh or cough real hard.
For the Over 40 pee is funny.
Golden gaming? I’ll drop you like a toilet paper breakthrough.

You can post about body hair, ear wax, and nasty diaper episodes.

I don’t fear illness, infection, incisions or injection.

I won’t balk at vivid descriptions of medical procedures. I’m fascinated actually.
I’ll look at pictures. Of. Your. Fissure.
Wanna see my surgery foot?

I think vomit is funny.
Tosh.0 is king.
As one reader said; I have a high threshold for yuk, and Tosh’s early episodes were frakken hil-ar-i-ty for the barf.

Sex? I’ve had it.
In the shower even.
That’s SO 1990’s. Like when I was in my 30’s. And Not Interesting to me. Not at my age.
Statistics say most accidents in the home occur in the bathroom, and I’m nothing if not cautious.

You mention shower sex and I think, “Cleanliness is next to godliness, but for heaven’s sake be careful!”

Bless you dear child. Your friends/readers think you're my Gross Out Girl.

Here it is. You asked for it.
Bloggers I Quit Reading and Why:

I left Carma Sez because of the reference to Eastern practices.

I quit Black Holes & Macrame cuz I didn’t even like astrology in college and I suck at crafts.

Rock ‘n roll is the devil’s music, so I’m through with Blog Rock and Rant Rave Roll. Keep in Touch With Mommakin has numerous references to hell’s harmonies. Fini.

elohssanatahw has a swear right in the title. Hiding it backwards is TOTALLY the devil’s work. Totally.

I dropped Family Trees May Contain Nuts because I fear it’s about men’s private parts, and Shaking the Tree sounds suspiciously naughty, as does Please Try Again. Buh-bye dirty girls.

feedingfamilyoffiveforfifty encourages my gluttony, causing me to sin.

I stopped reading the following blogs because of their references to demon alcohol: Happy Hour...Somewhere, my half-glassed life, Vodka Logic, and Vodkamom . Booze. Right in the monikers. Shame.

In My Mind It's Always Funny? In my mind she’s trouble.

Living In France is a lie! This blogger lives in the States. [gasp]

Read With Girlfriends sounds like a lesbian thing, as does The Daily Pie.

I’ve discovered the following bloggers use varying degrees of Christians swearing: FranticMommy, It's a July Thing, Bliss, and It's a Jungle Out There.
Even Thia Karen and Grandma Nina are guilty of using UNedifying words like "stupid" and "dumb". So I’m gone.

Mrs. Jelly Belly ought to be ashamed for the bacon bra. Sacrilege.

My Rambling Thoughts? Idle minds and all that. I'm gone. For shame. Sayonara.

I can’t encourage Nothing To Worry About when all my religious programming said God was angry. There’s worry aplenty.

positively neurotic me has obvious flaws in her moral character. Obviously.

Sara Spelled Without an H is simply unbiblical. Abraham’s wife boldly kept her H.

Sullivan & Murphy comes from Irish stock. You know what I say about the Irish.

Tampons & Chocolate? Immodesty. Right. There. In. The. Title.

The Domestication of the (Once) Single Girl is living in sin and she may or may not want to kill her future inlaws.

The V Spot? They’re Californians!

Wrestling With Retirement said "whore bath". OMG she said "whore bath"! WHORE BATH!

Wait a sec... Cleanliness IS next to godliness….

I Judge, Therefore I Condemn

I don’t know if you’ve figured it out, but I’M your Minus One as of Wednesday.
I don’t want to slink away. I don’t want to expose you either.
You’ve exposed enough thankyouverymuch.

Between you and me - it’s Over the Top. And not in a Good Way. And it’s NOT been between you and me, like pals over coffee, or on a road trip, or falling-down, pre-crying-jag “I love you so-ho-ho much” drunk, which is when Normal People let that caliber of private sh*t fall from their mouths.
You BLOG about it, in excruciating detail.

If I was your mama, your sister, your BFF, or I randomly bumped into you on the street I would say “Jeez girl, that is gross, and waHAY too much information!”
But that’s just me. So instead I stop.
Commenting.
Reading.
Following.
Which is a shame because my comments were nonexistent my absence will go unnoticed when you’re not making readers uncomfortable you’re sharing some dang fun stuff.

Blog on. Say what you want.
Don’t go changing to try ‘n please me.

But understand that I can’t play along when the TMI you’re offering is in all actuality T(6) x M(3) x I(gag).
Reading the deets on your latest endeavor is Simply. Too. Much.

It’s not you; it’s me.

I’m not judging except to say you’re wrong, it’s bad, and I’m a better person.
Oh, that sounds like judging.

They've Got Balls

The winner of Mom's Birthday GiveAway is "McVal" from Sew Not My Day.

But nobody puts Macey in a corner. "Mimi" of Living in France was #2.

Congrats ladies. Thanks for playing along.

Savantus Interruptus

I had so much. To share. With you Dear Reader.
[insert sad face]

I had heartfelt stories of my tender youth.

There was poetry. And edelweiss.
The sound of harp music was everywhere and the whole of HS smelt like sugar cookies and sunny days.

I had anecdotes from my childhood without mention of secondhand smoke or tax evasion. (I didn’t say “stab”, “stabbed”, or “stabbing”, not once.)

I had recipes and homemaking pointers.

There were Ancient Chinese Secrets.

I had DIY brilliance and design tips better than HGTV’s finest hour (or half-hour) without the gay-on-gay cattiness. And without the crying.

I had stories to warm your heart and sharpen your mind.

I had tales of awe and wonder.

There was no swearing. And I only alluded to the V-word. I never actually said it.
You can’t do a post titled “M*rtha takes on David Bromstad” without referencing the V.

I had a frakken Don’t Stop Believin’ for Housewives. On. Deck.

When Daycare Mama came to get the kids she was "feeling puny", as they say.
I commiserated with her as we loaded kids into her car.

The fam and I went to dinner in a neighboring town.
Veni. Vidi. Vici.
I specifically vicied in that I consumed my goal weight in meat and veggies.
When I’m at the buffet I’m peacocking really. For the guy in the hairnet. (You know it’s you; Raul, or Rawl. I can’t read the neck tat. Is that infected?)

Anyway, I’m at the altar, loading my plate, wearing my wrist brace and loving the mounds of meat and bountiful broccoli... I'm wearing superfat pants and the harness that keeps me from hyper extending my lumbar region...
Eh...fast forward to the vomiting.

Cuz we love the Unholy Urlich. It’s nature’s way of snaking the drain.

And I post about it because sharing is solace, I tell myself.

This was the grippe, not Meniere's.

This wasn’t worth a meme, a ballad or sonnet.
It wasn’t worth a post, not this post, or several posts.
(PostS, as in plural? Who-the-hell does that? PostS about puke? EgadS.)

This was vomi typique.
Barfe ordinaire.

Move along people. There’s nothing to see here…
Or IS there?

What transformed this run-o-the-mill ralph into spew spectaculaire is not that my Mr undressed me with his eyes whilst I made suffering cries that are disturbingly like pleasure noises.
This wasn’t Meniere’s.
This Reverse Atkins was significant because it interrupted posting and left me with nothing.
That’s what this post is about; nothing.

I can’t tickle you with tales of my technicolor yawn.
This emesisal episode wasn’t merely as underwhelming as kissing your sister. This was like dry humping the ayatollah. Who hasn’t?

BOR-ing.
But being sick ran interference on my posts.

I can’t talk about the time I got drunk in math when there’s emesis. And a raging headache.
It’d be inappropriate to share Kel’s Amazing Penne after telling you I yakked. And layed on the sofa all day with a raging headache.
You don’t wanna know how the 206-pound cheer captain made me feel like a failure. Cuz she was simply an unhappy b*tch.

So I share the puking. Cuz it’s relevant.
It’s relevant to my “To Do” list.
It’s relevant to weight loss and the following Bucket List (updated and revised during a four-hour stint with my head in a bucket. Cuz it’s relevant, and I’m cerebral, classy, and totally appropriate like that.)

BL549 Item 1 - I want to faint before I die. Not right before, as in Unconscious Before Death, cuz that’s a gyp.
I’d like to faint with the back of my hand to my forehead, gracefully falling onto [someone else’s] anomalous piece of furniture. A chaise or a settee will do.
I want to live to talk about it. Or blog about it. I’d like pictures ["Somebody grab Mom's camera!"], but only if I don’t pee myself. Do you pee when you faint? See? I need the experience, so I can teach you.

BL549 Item 2 - I’d like to learn to read British.

BL549 Item 3 - Like my mother (and her mother before her); I’d like to lead an uprising. It’s in our blood to cause a revolt. We’re natural revolters and I’d like to claim my rightful title as revolting.

BL549 Item 4 - I’d like to talk in hushed tones with my arch nemesis using veiled threats while pretending to look at art.

BL549 Item 5 - I’d like to perfect a recipe for soup using household cleaning products. I’ve made several batches but I’ve got no takers. I’m not even a good cook with real food so there’s that.

BL549 Item 6 - I’d like to write a serious piece.
Several of my blogger friends write fiction (aside from their blogs, which are totally fabricated tales of their fabulous lives). I have a piece of autobiographical work on deck but I’m having difficulty gelling my intro as man-nip with meeting and having to reproof a certain American Idol judge. “My eyes’re up here, Ellen.”
I can’t write about the semester I used chemical courage to get through Comm101. I’ve been giving rainbow speeches all night.

Remember to enter Mom's Bday GiveAway. Winners will be picked on Monday!