It’s almost Halloween and something weird is happening to me. I have a Christmas carol stuck in my head. Does this happen to you?! I want my Halloween. I love Halloween. All the spookies and creepies. You’re supposed to look at spiders and smile. Watch ‘It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!’. Lick your lips at all the candy (after having it all irradiated at the local hospital just to be on the safe side). There is a chill in the air and it’s chased away by apple cider and a ginger snap.

Then there is the Costume Ritual. Standing in the party store debating what you will be this year! Oh man do I love that. I always stare at the plastic machetes and think how cool MY costume would be with a real one. Senses return…jail would suck. Real world. Maybe I’ll be a pimp. Or a pirate (arr). Or maybe I can choose between the last 2 costumes on the shelf. A princess of the night or a game of beer pong? That is a winless-winless no matter which way I go. There is that song in my head again.

Well…there are a lot of accessories staring at me. Maybe I can take the tiara, Harry Potter wand, and the plastic ball and chain and whip up an award winning costume. Or maybe I can squeeze into that child sized scream outfit…the one with the mask that actually screams. Oh what fun it is to…

Wait…Halloween!!! I have a lot of time for mistletoe and holly. It is time to get serious. What am I going to be for Halloween?

I refuse to be Beer Pong. No one will throw their balls at me all night. Ain’t happening. I refuse to be a Princess of the Night. It will take too long to shave my legs. And armpits. And back. No. There has got to be a happy costume place for me.

I’ve gotta concentrate and hurry my thoughts past that damned Rudolph. What will I be!? One year I didn’t bother with a costume…well, I did tell everyone that I was dressed as a reality tv star. Served it’s purpose. But this year…something special. I loathe the ‘Doctor’/'Nurse’ outfits. Wow. I personally have been a ‘doctor’. It is something that requires little thought. I think it has to insult all the actual doctors and nurses out there. Another blog…let’s move along.

I have a convict outfit. Nah. Been done. I could really be a pimp in my lavendar suit. Just don’t ask. I was Ghandi one year before the expansion. I could pull out the old sheets…and all of the hair on my fat head.

This is getting ridiculous. What in the hell am I going to be for Halloween?!

That’s when it hits me. I have a costume. I get home. Look for the boxes. Yup. Right where I thought it was.

So what are you going to be for Halloween? If you see me, you’ll know me right away. I’ll be the little elf on the left of the reindeer.

Sigh.

Tomatoes are trouble. Big trouble. Especially when mailed in a box that doesn’t arrive at it’s destination.

So my mother decided at some point in her swirling process of thought, that sending my sister a big box of stuff was a good idea. I suppose that this concept is rather benign since it’s done every day by millions of Americans. When my mother is involved in the process though, be assurred that there is nothing that will remain untainted by her presense.

Case in point: The Big Box.

I can’t say exactly how many items that she had predetermined would make the trip to Maryland in said box. Never having seen the actual box, I imagine it to be a huge wooden crate, with or without holes depending on what kind of mood Mother was in that day. I imagine the crate with holes and mysterious sounds coming from the inside.

Most likely it contained some possessions of my sisters that she had forgotten about. My mother seems to like shipping things in tiny increments. She would be the one in the army who would mail a jeep home one piece at a time. This particular box was sent and it wasn’t until a few days later that Mother inquired about it’s arrival.

-Of course- this is like the plot of a bad movie and we have all guessed that it didn’t arrive after those few days. In fact, it was pushing a week and still no box. This is when our mother decided to share the information of the tomatoes being in the box and when the scenarios started to pop into the brains of my sister and I.

I was the first one to be hit by a vision. And my sister jumped in with both feet.

What if the package got shoved in a corner somewhere and the tomatoes have gone bad? Someone would observe the ‘leakage’. The box would be quarantined. Of course the FBI and Homeland Security would be called in. It would have to be investigated. _That_ would be the awesome part, yeah?

The horrifying part would come _after_ the rotten tomatoes were discovered to be exactly that. This wouldn’t lessen the blow of the seriousness of the situation. That damn box still would have created a panic. Only now it would become a wave of panic seasoned with a healthy dose of stupidity. And it would all belong to my sister and I.

And we just knew that it would unfold on MSNBC or CNN. Pretty soon the media would be shoving microphones in everyone’s faces and asking if they thought that she was capable of this? I don’t know what other people would have said. All of the people she knows from bingo are half blind and mentally fatigued from trying to keep up with all those bingo cards they buy. Probably something like, ’she wasn’t the kind of person who would do that kind of thing’.

I DO know what my sister and I would say. ‘She’s _exactly_ the kind of a person who would do that sort of thing and she will do it again as soon as you all go home!’ Seriously!

Our Father, who art in oblivion, of course, would answer the front door in his briefs and wife-beater under shirt and have a blank look on his face for all of the news crews and various photographers with nothing better to do that day then follow up on a housewife turned terrorist and her completely clueless husband. After the husband got dressed, he’d agree to talk to the press. He doesn’t really know any better.

Of course, my sister and I would be praying for him to have a lucid moment and at least get the facts right or – best case senario – insist that he knows nothing. Sadly, that would never happen since rarely do any rational thoughts have enough buoyancy to float to his conscious stream of thought. He would just blink at all of the questions and that blank look. ”Yeah. I told her not to put the frigging tomatoes in. But does she listen?” No. She never listens.

Next, mother will be hauled off: Destination – The Big House. Sigh. My sister and I have pangs of sorrow for her fellow inmates. She’d arrive with her orange jumpsuit, sneakers, and various State supplied articles folded neatly across her forearms, take one look around and then declare that she wasn’t staying here. And if she did, ’someone’ would have to go and get her lottery tickets.

Oh yeah. Mother would be a wondrous site for the Big House to behold. Naturally, someone would try to make her their Bitch. But, after exactly 37 minutes of trying they would walk away, go back to their cell, and spend the rest of their ‘time’ exhibiting above average good behavior just to get away from ‘Ma Bowker’. She has a way of making an impression upon people, the Darling.

The best, most amazing part comes next: The Trial!!! It would be broadcast on Court TV, CNN, MSNBC, and Fox at the same time. And it would be glorious!!! Mother would sit at the defendants table just like on all the crime shows that she watches. At first she’d be upset and crying. Quickly, though, her tears would turn into a scowl and she would start saying things under her breath. Not very nice things at that. Down right inflammatory things which would require a Judge to utilize his or her dreaded gavel. And my sister and I would know what would come next: ”Shut the hell up you damn fool. Stop banging that ‘gravel’, or I’ll shove it up your….(you get the idea, right?).”

Oh, of course the Judge would threaten contempt of court and all that. But really, after spending any time at all with my mother would cause you to either lose your mind completely or develop defense mechanisms to deal with her. Most people close to her opt for the second. Although there -have- been people who succumb to the first option.

Sad really. Such a waste.

Well, I tweet and face.

Forgive me if you visit. I am still decorating my facebook. Myspace to follow. My goodness…i am so not afraid of commitment anymore. Mwah ha ha ha ha ha haaaa

Hey…I have torn myself away from facebook. I am going to set up a twitter so you can follow along nicely if you wish too. A lot has gone on this year and I must apologize for my blatant disregard for this blog.

I hope to rectify this by making an October resolution. I shall post in October. What? It’s a goal.

Where’d I go? Well, my grandfather had all sorts of health problems. Everyone will be glad to know that he is on the road to recovery. Well, at least he’s happy sitting in his chair in front of the television, watching any kind of western that he can with the volume turned up to 80 and his hearing aids tucked away nicely in a drawer “somewhere”.

So anyways, I am back. And the first real blog is a doozy so stay tuned.

Hey! Did ya miss me!?

I already know how lucky I am. And I am incredibly thankful for everyone in my life and everything that I have. This time of year, though, makes me very sentimental for the years that have passed by and can never be retrieved.

Almost all of the players are gone, passed on to their great reward so to speak. But rest assured their memory stays firmly embedded and fresh in my mind. A bunch of crazy old coots and cusses they were, which is what made them memorable.

For instance, Uncle Charlie, who seemed about 97 years old when I was a kid, used to come to the house between Thanksgiving and Christmas. He could very well have been DB Coopers grandfather since he was always in a suit and thin little tie that was fastened to his shirt with a silvery tie clip. He would have boxes and boxes of candy…always the same kind…chocolate covered peanut chrunch. They sort of tasted like a beta test of Butterfingers. My Grandmother would buy boxes and boxes from him. I don’t think that she liked them very much but he was her uncle, so she bought them. Every year without fail he would show up. And every year, in the tradition of the year before, we would walk him outside. He’d get in his old fashioned car from the 20’s and take off. And every year, in the tradtion of the year before, our waves goodbye turned into frantic waves of terror as we all yelled ‘You’re in the wrong lane, Uncle Charlie!!!!’ Not sure how, but he got to where he was going every day and with minimal police interaction, I’m told.

Well, then there was Aunt Lucy and Uncle Pete. Of course they were out of their minds…I realized _that_ early on. The first thing that I observed about them is that they liked to drink. The second thing that I became aware of was that they had very strong opinions about every subject that ever came up in conversation. Usually those opinions were negative, but at least they had opinions. They used to show up every Thanksgiving night for dessert and Turkey sandwiches. That was a tradition that I both loved and hated. I think at first I felt it was an intrusion. They were coming to eat ‘my’ turkey sandwiches. But as I got older, I really began to appeciate the dimension that they brought to tradition. Aunt Lucy made the word ‘fierce’ worth its weight in gold. Whew.

My Aunt Audrey was always around for holidays. Not necessarily on the holiday, but certainly filling up enough of it to make them memorable. She was a strong woman. Wow. Loved to iron. Taught me the proper way to iron a collared shirt as she called them. Good thing I listened but it takes me infinitely longer to iron a shirt. She would have her spray bottle and be done in a red hot second. Anyway, she would always come over and sit and talk to my Grandmother and eat cookies at the kitchen table for hours. I used to love watching the two sisters sit there. I could tell how much they loved each other when they weren’t being radically stubborn and hating each other Sigh. Memories.

And every New Years Day…without fail…Uncle Bob and Aunt Betsy would come and visit. Uncle Bob is a throw back to a time when every man wore a suit. He is always wearing a shirt and tie regardless of the casualness of the occasion. And he has no idea. And if he does, he couldn’t care less. He’s starting to show his age a bit but that’s ok.

Oh, I would be seriously remiss if I did not mention my Uncle Horace. This man was a devoted husband for 176 years…seemed like it anyway. He and Aunt Beattie never had kids of their own for what ever reason. They did have a beloved three legged Pug whose name escapes me at the moment. Now Uncle Horace was a unique an individual as you could possibly find. He had no problem cursing someone up one side and down the other if it was well deserved. And in ‘mixed’ company as well. As it turns out his sisters had the same personality streak in them. Anyway, Uncle Horace and I were at our family picnic when he asked to see my ‘new fangled’ cell phone 10 years ago (it was new fangled and about 15 cell phone ago). He was interested in all of the features and how to make a call and was very gentlemanly when he asked if he could make a call. When I asked who he was calling just as the call was being connected his response was…I’m calling the Bensels because they all went to the fire house for some stupid shit that could have waited. I’m gonna tell them that I put a bomb in there and good luck finding it!!! oh yeah. I loved Uncle Horace.

So, as sad as it makes me that so many of the people who influenced my life are gone, I always remember how lucky I am that they were here for me for as long as I had them. And I am thankful for all the people that I still have.

I just tried to open up a package which contained a brand new, chrome plated razor. Nice to have sometimes since the razors get all gunked up with the soapy residue and stubble. A fresh one is a wonderful experience first thing in the morning.

Wonderful if you get it out of the package without injuring yourself and the neighbors, or even get it out of the package at all. I understand the whole concept of theft prevention, but this packaging would have survived a direct hit from napalm.

Of course this brings the holidays right into the front of my consciousness. I shiver to think about helping my nieces and nephews with opening their Christmas presents. Every year it kind of sneaks up. The the packaging mocks me when I try to open it. Doesn’t really make a difference what you go at it with. Something is getting busted. Like your fingers.

One time I put the item between my legs and maneuvered a sharp knife into the package. Yeah… ummm…. don’t do that, ok? I still have the scar from where I almost gave myself an appendectomy. Significant scar too. About 9 inches long, but wasn’t too deep. It stopped bleeding after a day. Just don’t do it.

My sister takes pity on me now. She bought the most sturdy pair of kitchen scissors that I have ever used. Like a freaking tank with all kinds of black ridged plastic all over it and rubberized handles, too. A fine instrument for slicing through a bone, or opening a package which are probably equally as difficult.

Aside from actually getting into the package, the thing I despise the most is those huge twist tie things that are impossible to decipher. Just when you think it twists one way, you have to twist it the other way. And then after you get 2 twists untangled, you have to go back in the original direction. I really hate that it makes adults look like court jesters to kids….’do you want me to open that?’ Ummm, no. No thank you. I’m the adult here. I shall open the package that a bunch of sadistic ‘elves’ have made impenetrable, thank you very much.

I am thinking that there are far better ways to make people look stupid. Plus, all that plastic has to be bad for the environment. I try to recycle as much as possible but screw the packaging. I recycle the paper parts of that stuff, but really. With all the hacking and picking apart it would take you forever to gather up all the slivers of plastic blinking a reflection of Christmas lights perfectly.

Do you remember when you were a kid? It seems to me that the worst thing that I ever had to contend with was that packaging tape with the strings of groaning pain woven into it. I’d always think that I was a bad ass and always tried to rip it open with one of my mighty Hercules fingers. I usually needed some rolled gauze to bandage up my finger and some pain reliever for the throbbing. But back then you could (if you were anyone less then a demigod)just grab a butter knife and zip through it like nothing. Now you have to use a small warhead or some kind of freakishly strong plastic eating acid.

Ahhhhh. Why bother stressing over it. The sadistic elves won’t change the packaging. Kids already think that adults are half superhuman, half decade old computer which is pretty much useless to them, plus it has insufficient memory.

I don’t know about you, but that pretty much sums me up…I say with a smile.

Well, I don’t think it’s getting into the package that counts. I think it’s what we get out of it: A conquest. An achievement. A wonderful sense of having a small bit of control over the world we live in.

Either way, I’m so damned tired after busting into the package that I need a nap as soon as I free the contents. Well, guess I’ll go lay down.

This question strikes terror into the hearts of men across the world.

But….I was recently outside smoking with a group of women and somehow we all got into quite a revealing conversation about boxers or briefs.

They looked at me and asked. I retorted with ‘why in the hell is that important?’.

‘Just answer the question’ is why it’s important by the way. This is also one incentive, in a growing list, to give up smoking.

I answered (wouldn’t you like to know? ok, probably not…).

So why is it important to know? I personally believe that there is an inherent need in some women to know exactly what goes on around them at all times. That’s not a bad thing, per say. It’s just a thing.

I find that the question makes me think too much. I already think about my crotch way too much. Now I have to think about how to dress it up too? As long as ‘little’ red bows aren’t one of the options, I’ll be fine. That’s too much work and if I tell you why it would be too much information.

I don’t know why there are only 2 options presented in this question. There are many possibilities. For instance, the ‘neither’ option exists. Although there are a couple of different options for this too; sub-options as it were. The occasionally tempting ‘Commando’, which means wearing no underwear at all. I will admit right this very moment that this is only a last resort for me. Seams kill my sensitive skin. This may be appealing for some, jiggling around all day free to roam about the fabric, but for me it just sucks.

Another option would delve into a wide range of possibilities. You know, boxer briefs are nice. But let’s not be narrow minded and eliminate wearing the Speedo like underwear…man thongs, as it were. Of course I don’t understand thongs in the first place, but that’s another blog. Some wear lacy underwear. Hey, I say don’t throw stones, right? Others need to wear those pull up things for incontinence or anal leakage or whatever. That must be mortifying to be asked boxers or briefs. Here’s the answer: ”I feel as though that question objectifies me in every way and doesn’t take into consideration or appreciation the person that I am. But if you must know, I wear briefs.” So there.

Yes, I often wonder why it’s important to know. There’s that whole fertility thing where, if a guy is wearing boxers, it’s supposed to help increase the sperm count. I don’t know about that. I don’t analyze sperm. So wearing the boxers has an advantage with women who are looking for not only a husband, but also a family.

Briefs are nice and tidy. Well, usually briefs are nice and tidy. I have been know to wear underwear that’s stretched out with holes and stains which were able to be identified in the year 1987. I have been getting better at keeping my underwear more modern. I even have a new pack that are still brand new and unopened.

Still, a nice pair of tidy whities is very visually appealing and also comforting to wear. At the very least you feel comfortable knowing that if you do get into that accident you will make your mother very proud. I am of the personal opinion that the Commando method would be the best option in an accident, though. It eliminates at least one step in the caring.

Well, I am no closer to understanding why the question is important. I’d never ask, strapless or sports bra? And not because it’s inappropriate of would be the catalyst for many slaps across my face. Nope. The real reason is that I don’t care. And I never think about it. I see no reason to. I have way too much clutter in my head as it is. The knowledge does not identify one marker that would be even remotely important to me.

The only thing that I can even think of as to why it would be important is that people are attracted to different things. THAT I understand. I love seeing a woman fresh out of the shower with her hair wet and in a white button down shirt. So maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s just an image of a face that they like attached at the bottom to whatever they find attractive. Hmm. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I sort of like the idea of being objectified.

Now that I think about it, it has been a while since I’ve been to the gym but I’d be willing to guess that my trainer is wearing the sports bra.

Do you like talking to humans?

Do you hate navigating the computer controlled phone mess that you usually get whenever you try to call some customer service line to ask the simplest question?

Well…try Bringo.

I just stumbled on to this parody of porn sites.

It is pretty funny, I’ll tell you….right down to the ads which scream at you to satisfy your furniture fetish.