Yabba Dabba Don't

"My room is the G-Spot. Call me Mr. Flintstone, I can make your bed rock"

This line came from a song I heard the other day on the radio, while trying to turn to my favorite station, 1010 WINS. Now don't get me wrong, I have an ipod full of Fitty Cent, Jay-Z and even a little Biggie Smalls. So, I do consider myself a fan somewhat of popular music. This song, however is indicative of what is wrong with music today.

1. While I don't mind suggestive lyrics, I rocked out to "Super Freak" when I was in the 8th grade, you have to at least be clever with them. Somehow, referencing Fred Flintstone is not going to get me in the mood. Which leads me to my next problem

2. Who is the target audience for this song? If you're old enough to remember the Flintstones, chances are you're not getting hot and bothered by thinking about Fred Flintstone. You're also probably not listening to this type of music altogether although I could be wrong.

3. What about poor Barney? Did have any say in this song? Are there licensing fees that should be paid? I know that BamBam can lift heavy things and all, but will that be enough to pay for college? Let's face it, he was always better looking than Fred anyway so really they should have referenced him. But I guess, "call me Mr. Rubble" doesn't quite have the same ring to it. Then...

4. What about poor Wilma? How does she feel now that millions of pre-teen and teenage girls are listening to this song and thinking about Fred? I think she sickened, that's what I think!! If I were her, I'd find out who put out this song and sue them for libel. Finally....

5. Fred came out with his own song, "There's a town I know where the people go called Bedrock, twist, twist" Even though the song skipped in the middle of it (damn bird as record player grrrrrr) It was a pretty catchy tune and I can still sing it today. This other song, eh not so much.

So as you can see this makes this song a "Yabba, Dabba Don't" that's what I learned today.

Do they at least get a phone call?

First off, let me say that the poor woman killed in Florida by the whale is a tragedy. My heart goes out to her family and friends. Now, having said that, I do have some questions:



1. Shouldn't the phrase, "killer whale" be enough to turn people away? I guess not. It makes me wonder, do small children dream of the day they can work with something with "killer" in it's name? I mean I guess it sounds better than working with "cranky whales" but really. Which brings me to my next point.



2. What does a job application at this place look like? Is there a question, "Have you ever felt suicidal?" Or, how about "Do you believe that all whales deep down are good, some just weren't given enough love during their formative years?" Another might be "Do you consider yourself a liberal?" (I have to imagine the people that work with killer whales are liberals. Why? Well who else would believe they can be rehabilitated?)



3. How much money must these people be making? I would imagine (or at least hope) a whole lot. I mean you hear about americans going to Afghanistan to work and you know they're making serious lucre, why else would you go to a place where you might get your head blown off just for being American? Hell, if you have a death wish, there are plenty of great places here on Staten Island and you'll save the air fare.



4. Finally, I hear that the trainers will no longer be allowed to interact with the whales until an investigation is done? WTH? How does this investigation go? Do they put the whale in lock-up and tell him to get a lawyer? Do they question the other whales as to whether they might feel like killing someone? Do they get a phone call? Can you offer a whale extra fish to get him to rat out his whale buddies? What about the fish? Oh, the humanity!!!!



I wonder finally what makes a whale a killer whale? Can they be rehabilitated? Did they get enough love from their mothers? Is there a prozac large enough to cure them of their murderous tendencies?



That's what I learned today.

If it ain't one thing it's your mother.

Don't get me wrong, I love my mother dearly. It's just that she has a peculiar way of handling the simplest things, like phone conversations. Rule number one when speaking to my mother, never ask her, "what are you talking about?" You'll find life to be easier when you just pretend you know what she's talking about. Rule number two, no matter how slowly and carefully you say something, you will probably end up having to repeat it. Case in point, below is an actual conversation I had with my mother not too long ago. It's long, but you'll understand why fairly quickly:

(Phone rings 9:00 am and I pick it up out of a dead sleep)

Me: hello
mom: hello dear it's your mother
me: hi mom, how are you?
mom: well you'd know the answer to that if you called more often
me: I called you yesterday and left a message
mom: yeah, well what about today?
me: it's nine in the morning
mom: yeah, and?
me: sorry mom
mom: never mind, I need your address to send to your aunt Sarah
me: my house address?
mom: of course not, why the hell would I need that? no the one for the computer
me: why does aunt Sarah need it?
mom: (exasperated sigh like I'm the biggest moron in the world) so she can send you her flight details
me: (now at this point I have no idea why she wants to send me her flight details, and I'm debating on whether to ask, knowing what my mother will say back. I figure what the hell) Why do I need her flight details?
mom: do you ever pay attention? She has to send them to you so you know when to pick her up?
me: (My aunt lives in England and I had no idea she was coming but I figured it was better to just agree) Ok, what time does her flight get in?
mom: 10 am
me: but I'm at work till 2:30 shouldn't she just take a cab? I wouldn't be there until 3:30 at the earliest
mom: You want your aunt to have to pay for a cab? after all she's spent coming out to visit?
me: (I'm thinking that maybe my mother would offer to pay for a cab, but I know that won't happen, so I say) wouldn't she be waiting for like 5 hours?
mom: she doesn't mind, now will you give me that address? I have to get your father up and I don't have all day
me: sure it's kbulfin@aol.com
mom: what?
me: you know like our names? (my mother and I have the same first and last name, not as much fun as you'd think)
mom: You're going to need to spell that for me, hold on while I get a pen
me: (now at this point, I really have to go to the bathroom, I'm debating whether I can do this and still talk to her at the same time, but I know I'm better off waiting)
mom: ok go ahead
me: K
mom: J?
me: no, K like Kathleen
mom: why didn't you say so ok K
me: B like boy
mom: b
me: u like umbrella
mom: u
me: l like Larry
mom: l
me: f like Frank
mom: f
me: i like ice cream
mom: i
me: n like Nancy
mom: N
me: the at sign you know the a with the circle?
mom: no, what are you talking about?
me: just tell aunt sarah it's Kbulfin then say at
mom: why
me: trust me mom, just do it
mom: you know if you're going to get nasty with me, I'll call your sister
me: (my sister lives in Conneticut and wouldn't get there by 10 pm I'm dying to point this out, but then I'll never get off the phone) sorry mom it's part of the address you have to say it
mom: why the hell didn't you just say so? you're making this very confusing
me: sorry, now after the at comes the letters a
mom: a
me: o
mom: o
me: l
mom: l
Me: then put a period
mom: a period? for what, it's not a sentence?
me: (trying not to grit my teeth) it's just part of the address
mom: ok, but she's never going to understand
me: why dont' you just have aunt Sarah call me?
mom: do you have any idea how much it costs to call america? why on earth would she want to talk to you?
me: I have no idea, sorry
mom: now is that it?
me: no the last part is com
mom: spell that one more time
me: C O M
mom: you don't have to shout, I can hear you so, C O M is that right?
me: yes (the time now is 9:27)
mom: you know, the first part of that address looks like our name
me: (inwardly sighing) I had no idea
mom: how could you not know that? there's something wrong with you. Are you coming to pick me up so we can go to Woodbridge?
me: Well, I just got up and I haven't eaten or gone to the bathroom
mom: listen dear we all have problems, you want to hear mine?
me: I'll be over in 15 minutes
mom: can you make it ten? your father is dying to get out.
me: sure see you then.

So, like I said, "If it ain't one thing, it's your mother" that's what I learned today.

Vacation all I never wanted

My sister once went on vacation. I asked her why she didn't ask me if I wanted to go. I'll never forget her telling me, "but you don't like vacations" I was offended at the time, but as usual it got me thinking, "maybe I don't like vacations?"

I know, who doesn't like vacations? But, here's the thing. Vacations make me anxious. When I am at work, I know that for the most part, I have to go to work the next day. I'm not happy about it but at least I know what I have to do. When I'm on vacation however, that's where the dread sets in. The Friday vacation starts is wonderful, so full of promise of all the exciting things I'll get to do during my time off. Then the weekend, but that doesn't really count, since I'm always off the weekend. Sunday night is my absolute favorite and the high point of the week. I can say to myself, "YES, sleep in tomorrow. Sweet." Ah, but then Monday comes....

Yes, I'm still on vacation but a little voice in the back of my head is saying "only 6 more days till you have to go back to work." I try to quiet it by doing other things, but it keeps coming back. As you can imagine, by the end of the week I'm a basket case. Hmmm, maybe I should just look for a new job, but that takes too much effort and I'm lazy.

You may think that if I went somewhere on vacation it would take my mind off it, but that only makes it worse. Why? Because not only do I have to stress about going back to work, now I have the added stress of going back home.

Look, I may be weird, but I'm not crazy I still go on vacations and I'm usually sucessful at drowning out the voice (usually with the help of alcohol) but it's always there.

On a related note, you know those lotto fantasies that people have? Yeah I have those too, but my fantasy starts with me winning lotto then goes on to me worrying about how much the IRS will take and if my husband decides to leave me, how much will he get? See, it's my damn brain messing things up for me again.

Have fun on your next vacation and spare a thought for me. I'll be the one huddled over a piece of paper counting how many hours I have left. That's what I learned today.

Why can't we be friends?

You hear a lot of talk now a days about how people shouldn't be judgemental or as I like to say, "Judgmental Judies". But, let's face it, we all are, some are just better at hiding it than others. Having said that, I am here to tell you we probably won't be friends if...

1. You come to work on Fridays saying "TGIF". What the hell is that anyway? Unless you plan on taking me out there for some nacho's I don't want to hear it.

2. You refer to Wednesdays as "hump days". Unless that's the one day of the week you're getting some, I don't want to hear it. If it is, then I"ll probably want details.

3. You get relationship advice from the comic strip "Cathy". Nuff said on that one.

4. If you're not my mother and you still say "don't go there". I can't seem to break her of the habit, what can I say, we're related.

5. You watch re-runs of "Mad about You" because you think that's how real married people live. Ugh, can't stand smug married people.

6. You send out those emails to me of angels telling people that they need to forward it on to 10 people. What is up with that anyway? At least back in the day people took the time to actually mail you a chain letter with a stamp and everything. I think I'd rather give my money to a Nigerian prince than send on one of these emails. Look, I don't like you for sending it to me in the first place, what the hell makes you think I want to piss off the few people that like me by sending it to them?

7. You still send out those "girl empowerment" emails. If I need to get my self-esteem from an email, I'm hoping I can do better than that. Maybe I'll go log on to "self-esteem.com" or I can always stick my head in the oven.

8. You send out these emails telling people how sorry you are that you don't write, but what do you send? Another chain letter. What is more offensive than that? Whatever happened to just saying, hey how are you? Now how long does that take?

9. You listen to lite fm (and again you're not my mother) because they play a great variety of music. I don't even know where to begin on that.

10. You think "holiday sweaters" shouldn't just be for holidays. Draw your own conclusions here on those people.

The list goes on people, but I have to go to bed now. Does this make me an awful person? Probably, but then I'm not known and loved for my people skills.

That's what I learned today.

My dog vs. Your kid....I win

You're probably thinking to yourself, what the hell is wrong with her? Her dog is better than my kid puhleeze...Well, yes there is something wrong with me, (one day I'll figure out what that is). But, i am here to tell you just why my dog is better than your kid.
1. No college tuition to save for
2. I save tons of money at Christmas and birthdays
3. They have no problem eating the same thing every day
4. they are never not happy to see me.
5. They will never develop and eating disorder, drug habit or become an alcoholic
6. If I need money, I can make videos of them, post them to you-tube and no one will say I am exploiting them
7. Save money on back to school clothes
8. I don't have to worry about their self-esteem
9. Being Irish, I'm used to children disappointing their parents and now I dont' have to worry

AND

10. If my dog goes missing, the neighbors will come help me look and put up flyers around the neighborhood. If your child goes missing, the police come and question you and you end up on a "Very Special Episode" of 20/20.

That's what I learned today.

It ain't easy being 'leen.

I work with a couple of girls at Sweet Valley Middle School. Great girls the both of them. But I was in a meeting with them one day and they started talking about how having dishes in the sink would drive them nuts. I couldn't comprehend how something as small as dishes in the sink would drive them to distraction, I think I know now.

I'm not talking about dishes in the sink. I've walked over a piece of paper on my floor for a week without picking it up. I mean I thought about picking it up, but for some reason never got around to it. I'm talking about how something could drive you to distraction, no matter how small. For me, I guess it's conversation.

Those of you who know me may think that in saying funny things (or at least trying to) is fun for me and I must have a great time going around the building coming up with funny things to say. Actually, it drives me insane a lot of the time. Either my brain never shuts off trying to come up with something new to say or it just happens without me realizing it. You should know I don't consider 90% of what I say to be that funny at all. I'm glad if you enjoy it, but I don't feel I'm working at it so it doesn't feel that it's worthy of being funny.

Throughout my life I've wanted to be, I wouldn't use the word "normal", but just like most people. These are people who can have normal conversations, sometimes they're funny but for the most part just have interesting conversations with people and then walk away having enjoyed the conversation.

The other part of the conversation thing about me that really bugs me is that I seem to come up with either ideas that no one has thought of or explain an idea in a way that no one else has thought of. I hate it, I wish I could turn my brain off and just go along and not consider other things like most people do, I sometimes wonder if I'm brilliant, or just really annoying. As you can see it ain't easy being 'leen. (Kathleen, get it, see there I go again. Do you have any idea how many ideas I got rid of before coming up with this one. GRRRRRRR)

So, my dish worrying friends, I'll teach you to ignore the dishes in the sink and you show me how to converse like a regular person. That's what I learned today.

Enjoy the ride

I used to work with this guy, I'll call him "Joe". Now, Joe was a nice guy, for the most part, he only became a problem when what you were talking about wasn't a. about him or b. interesting to him. When this would happen, instead of just walking away or tuning out, he would wait for someone to take a breath and would immediately jump in with something about himself. I think, he felt that whatever it was he had to share was so important, profound, or just plain funny that it couldn't wait.

Well, there's the problem. When he did tell us something, it was neither important, profound or funny at all. You could almost hear the crickets in the background when he finished. One really didn't know where to look. As my father used to say, his comments went over "like a fart at high mass".

Which brings me to my point, if you are going to position yourself as the center of attention, then you better have a good reason for being there or at least interest the people who are listening to you. I know, I know I'm guilty of this myself, but at least I try to be interesting (I hope). Being the center of attention is not an easy feat, people want it but they have no idea what it takes to stay there. I think they think if they say something loud enough or do something crazy like mention their ass, then people will automatically be fascinated by what they say. I've seen it happen and it's not pretty. Hell, it's even happened to me, but the difference is at least I know when I've bombed and have the good grace to walk away.

Bottom line, if you're going to hijack a conversation, at least let the victims enjoy the ride. That's what I learned today.

Size Queen or Queen Size?

One of my favorite places to go by in the Staten Island mall is a store called "Bebe". I don't actually go in there, but I like to look in the window and play a game with myself called, "Where the F would I wear that?" Maybe it's just jealousy but I don't think I'll ever have the figure to wear those clothes, even if they do come in sizes they jokingly refer to as large or extra large.

I was recently in a store on Forest ave. looking for a wire hanger (locked keys in car). This particular clothing store was what might be considered the opposite of bebe but similar in many ways. In this store, a rather large woman (I'd say around size 18 or 20) picked up a pair of those jeans they have now with the rips down the front and asked the clerk in the store if he sold them in size 18.

I happened to be in Old Navy the other day and I noticed they had swim wear on sale already. I picked up a very skimpy two piece and noticed the size was XXL.

What do these three stories have in common? Well, in all three we learn, my learn today, "just because they make it in your size, doesn't mean you can or should wear it." Think about it, with the economy the way it is today, we don't have money to throw around so when choosing to buy something, shouldn't one go with what is flattering?

Bebe might have had something in my size, but I can guarantee I wasn't getting a leg or arm into it. If the store did sell those jeans, (I should have stayed to find out, but was more concerned with getting my car door open) wouldn't it stand to reason that at that size you could probably rip the jeans yourself? I should know, I've done it often enough. Even if you couldn't wouldn't the fat be coming out of the rips in the pants making you look like a sausage that's bursting out of it's casing? I know I sound harsh, but that was (and probably still is) me not too long ago. The Old Navy bikini? Well, you can imagine what that must be like.

Yes, that makes me a queen size size queen and I'm proud of it and that's what I learned today.

To speak or not to speak

Several years ago, I was out with a friend of mine, I'll call her "Matty" and her husband. I'd been friends with Matty and her husband for a while. We had gone out for drinks and at some point in the evening, her husband grabbed my butt. Now, normally I'm the type of person to laugh this off, but I was upset about this, given that she was nearby and it was in full view of other people. I was wondering whether or not to tell her when I thought to myself, "there's no way this is going to end well. If I tell her and she gets upset and starts screaming at her husband, it's going to make for an awkward rest of the evening. If I tell her and she doesn't get upset, then I'm going to feel disrespected."

As I may have mentioned earlier, I recently went to the dermatologist where I was treated to some free cosmetic procedures. (don't worry, I'm getting to the point) The dermatologist and the rep from the cosmetic company were examining myskin in much the same way one might examine a cut of meat at the butchers. They went on in great detail about the jowls I will probably develop, the wrinkles I had and the overall sorry state of my face.

A couple of days after that, I had gone to the hairdressers. Now don't get me wrong, I love my hairdresser and I am faithful to her, but the owner of the salon she works for needs to work on her people skills. When I go there, she usually charges me a lot less than regular customers, but this is because she is working towards her license. I'm ok with that, but what bothers me is that she is often called away to wash someone else's hair while in the middle of working with me, adding sometimes hours to my time in the chair. If that's not bad enough, the last time I was there, before I left, the owner examined my hair, called the hairdresser over and began to show her in minute detail all the spots she missed, without bothering to offer to correct them and after spending almost 6 hours in the chair.

What do these three stories have in common? If you haven't figured it out by now, in all three I was tempted to say something. My mother wasn't really the type to tell me to fight for your rights but my dad was a big union man (must've gotten it from his side of the family.) In all three cases, however, I said nothing. Does that make me a coward? Maybe but I'm a coward with a new face, a drinking buddy and decent hair. That's what I learned today.

The Husband discount

I love my husband. I also love to shop for lots of things. It used to be shoes, I had about 75 at the height of my madness but I've managed to stop buying shoes for the time being anyway. Which brings me to my point, you can love lots of things, but loving them at the same time.? Eh, not so much. Which brings me to the point of the "Husband discount".

When my husband and I first moved in together 10 years ago, there wasn't much to my closet. Shoes were not a consideration, I bought them at pay-less and used them until they fell apart. Till one day, I discovered the delight of coach shoes. I felt I had found my soul mate when I saw these shoes. They were pretty, fit me and did I mention they were pretty?

Now, the problem became in trying to get them past my husband. You should know that my husband owns three pairs of footwear. Notice I didn't say shoes, footwear. Which means he owns two pairs of sneakers and one pair of shoes. Trying to explain to a man like this why someone, namely me, needs purple shoes with flowers on them was next to impossible. So, I had to get a little creative.

The first thing I did was to tell him that a friend of mine let me borrow or gave them to me. This worked for a while until said friend (we're no longer friends now) came over and remarked to my husband, "why does she spend so much money on such ugly shoes?" My ex-friend being a fan of sensible 2 1/2 inch pumps and white reeboks. Yes, I probably should have told her what I was doing, but I thought she followed the girl code. You know "Never make comments about what someone is spending in the presence of husband." That code.

Since no one else I knew had my fashion sense or large feet, I knew I had to come up with a new plan. That's when I decided on the "husband discount".

The "husband discount" works like this. Say, you decided to buy those cute shoes and bring them home. If you have to tell your husband you bought them you figure out how much the price of the shoes were and when he asks you take anywhere from 10-90 percent off the price. He thinks you're being thrifty, you have nice shoes and everyone's happy.

For example, I once paid 340 dollars for a pair of boots. When my husband asked me how much they cost I immediately went into "husband discount" mode and told him they were 80 dollars. An 80% discount. He was still stunned that anyone would pay that much for a pair of boots so I knew that next time I'll have to raise the discount.

I know that there are some of you out there who say that you shouldn't keep secrets from your spouse and some of you whose husbands help you choose your shoes. To you, I say, hat's off and stop judging the rest of us. Sometimes a girl needs her secrets.

Last Girl Standing (part 2)

So, you realize that maybe "Bistro" is not the place for you. You still want to go out and have a good time and maybe meet that someone special. So, what do you do? Where do you go? Well, if you're over a certain age, you might consider going to "the Hilton". If you do, here are some rules you should abide by.

One, it doesn't matter how thin, blonde and tanned you are, nothing gets a guy over to talk to you faster than you having a full drink in front of you (preferably one you bought yourself). That's right, a woman standing near a bar with nothing or worse, an empty glass in your hand is like kryptonite to most men. "Oh, oh" they think, "She doesn't have a drink, better stay away from her or she might expect me to buy one for her."

Now, you might be thinking, "Hey, I spent all this time and money getting myself ready to go here, someone should at least show their appreciation by buying me a drink." You may be correct, but you will also be thirsty if you continue along with that thought in your head. If you plan on going to a place like this, make sure you have plenty of money with you, or make sure you really, really, really like classic disco, cause that's it. You can drink you can dance to classic disco or you can stand in the corner wondering how long you have to stay there till you can go home and wash the make-up off and take off those boots that are killing your feet.

Let's assume you decide to stay and buy yourself that drink. Now, all bets are off someone will come and talk to you. It won't be anyone you might have chosen for yourself. (No, those men are there with their wives who are already giving you dirty looks for showing up in the first place.) He will probably, again, be much older than you and will never hear what you are trying to say back to him if he does engage you in conversation. Your best bet is to smile, laugh every 30 seconds or so and keep your eye out for the next one. Yes, keep your eye out, cause you know he's doing the same, which brings me to my next point.

You've decided that maybe he's harmless and instead of standing there while he nervously glances at the amount of drink left in your glass, that you will go dance with him instead. You assume his dance moves haven't been updated since Reagan was in office and you are correct. So you paste a smile on your face and dance with him since you feel a little bad for him. You think, "wow with moves like that and as cheap as he is, who's going to dance with him?" Well, there you are wrong, because, what do you know? he's now dancing with someone else and you are left standing there thinking "what the hell just happened?" You leave the dance floor feeling confused and slightly insulted and just when you think, "now I can call it a night" he comes back over to you as if nothing has happened.

He sees you still have some of your drink left so he decides to engage you in more conversation. You then notice he spits when he talks and has bad breath. So, you do the only thing you can do in this situation. You finish your drink in one glup and smile at him expectantly while jiggling the ice in your glass. He takes the hint and suddenly sees someone he must talk to on the other side of the room. You decide to go find your friend, you know the one friend who managed to find the only guy in the place willing to buy her (not you let's not get crazy) a drink. You tell her you're going home, since you got stuck driving (when is her car getting out of the shop again). She tells you she plans on staying and will get a ride home with grandpa, I mean the friend she's talking to. You figure he looks harmless enough and head home for the night.

While washing your face and pulling off those boots, you think to yourself, "ah, try again next week." You are, if nothing else, optimistic and will be the Last Girl Standing.

Last Girl Standing (Part 1)

When I was younger, there was a club we all used to go to called "Hedges". Maybe you've heard of it, now it's called Bistro, but I'll get to that later. This was the place for all us south shore residents to see and be seen. We knew it wasn't the greatest club around, those were in "the city" but who had money for those? No, "Hedges" suited us just fine.



That was then. In the past couple of years, Hedges became Bistro and that's where all the problems started. I had gone to Bistro (for ladies night of course, still couldn't afford those drinks) and was left wondering, "How hard do you have to try to meet someone?" No one tried harder than the ladies of Bistro. They were out to meet a man even if it meant applying every ounce of makeup and piece of jewelry they owned. The dresses were short, the skin was tanned, the hair blonde and if you were missing one of these elements, you were sorely out of luck. It was as if you went on a job interview with a Fortune 500 company and submitted your resume in crayon. There was just no hope the only thing you had to comfort you was the thought that at least the drinks were cheap and in the back, you could put your bag on the floor and dance.



Why you may ask, did women go to all this trouble? Well for the most part, the men were fairly good-looking and fairly young. Ah, but that was then............



A couple of months back, I asked my sister if she wanted to go to Bistro. She turned up her nose and said, "What and get hit on by 50 year old men?" (She likes them young my sister). To which, I responded "Yeah, if you're lucky you will." See that's what happened. The women stayed the same and the men just got older, creepier and a whole lot choosier.



So, as you can imagine, the competition has gotten even more fierce. The same, made-up tanned, blonde and short dress wearing women are now competing for the attention of men who are definately out past their bedtime. These men, some of them into their 70's (!) now won't even give you a second glance unless your under the age of 25. You may think to yourself, "but I don't want a 70 year old man" that's not the point, it's now a matter of pride. How can you go on, you think, if someone your grampa's age doesn't find you attractive? So, on these women go, fighting the good fight, hoping they'll be the ones asked to sit on grampa's lap. (It's a lot grosser than it sounds)



So, if you see me at the Bistro and you are under the age of 50, have a job and most of your hair or teeth, please don't stop by. I don't think I could stand the dirty looks, my skin doesn't tan well.

Stay tuned for part 2 of last girl standing........

I'm not homeless, I'm coming from THE GYM

There are many great things about losing weight. Clothes fitting better, looking better and just generally feeling good about yourself. There's one other benefit, however that no one talks about, the benefit of going around like a stinky homeless person.

Yes, you read that right. When you go to the gym, most of us are not too concerned with what we are wearing, we just need something we can move in. Right now, I'm wearing a pair of sweats that are at least three sizes too big and a "Happy 4th of July" shirt from Old Navy circa 2005. You know what else? I look great. I walk around after the gym, I go to the mall, I go food shopping or get my nails done in my sweats and old t-shirt and I feel great.

Why, you may ask? I feel great because I'm doing something that not only allows me to wear these clothes, it encourages it. When I notice other people wearing similar get-ups, we share a secret smile, yeah we look like hell, the looks says, but we're coming from/going to THE GYM. There are, unfortunately, other people who dress like this and are neither going to the gym nor homeless. These people we just give a shake of our heads and a sad smile, when will they get it? You can only wear this stuff (if you're not homeless) when you're going to THE GYM.

So, when you see me on the street or in the mall with sweaty hair and an outfit that looks like something you may have thrown out years ago, feel free to be jealous. That's what I learned today.

My cousin's boyfriends birthday is.....

My birthday is November 14. The year doesn't really matter. I'm not telling you this to mark on your calendar or plan your shopping lists (although if you did, I wouldn't turn it down). I'm telling you this to make a point. There are 365 days in a year which means, on average 1/365 of the world's population is born on your birthday. Which leads me to my dilemma.

When people ask me when my birthday is and I tell them, I then get one of three responses. One, "Wow, your birthday is November 14, mine's the____ (pick any day from October 14 to December 14.) Now what am I supposed to say when someone tells me that their birthday is two weeks after mine? That's great? I say that and smile but sometimes I wonder what else we might even be close to having in common.

The second is even more problematic. "Wow, your birthday is November 14? My cousin's boyfriends is the same day!!!" Now come on people, what on earth am I supposed to say to that seeing as how I've never met the cousin, let alone the boyfriend. Do they think that myself and the cousin's boyfriend are soul mates? Wouldn't that make for awkward family dinners?

The last scenario is probably the easiest. This is when you tell them your birthday and they say, "Wow, mine's the 14 too!!" Hopefully, in this scenario the month is right too. When this happens, you can smile and say, "Good, now we can take each other out for a drink." It hasn't happened yet, but I figure I haven't met the rest of the 1/365 of the world's population. Someone out there owes me a drink.

So, tell your cousin's boyfriend to give me a call. I've got no plans.

New face, same old me.

Friday, I went into the city to the dermatologists office. I was offered something called Radiesse, it's a filler similar to Juvederm to fill out the wonky parts of your face. I got there and when I was finally called to start (two hours later, but since I wasn't paying for it, I could hardly complain) The representative from the company and the doctor examined my face and discussed me like I was an insect under a microscope. They decided I needed a lot more than originally thought. I thought about being offended by this, but since they mostly ignored me, I decided to stay quiet. The whole procedure took about half an hour and there were many sore and or numb parts of my face. I lost count with how many needles were inserted. They offered to show me the needles going in, but I declined, figuring I'd lose my nerve.

When they were finished with one side of my face they showed it to me. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't disfigured or anything, it just wasn't as drastic as I had hoped. I kept looking at myself hoping it was all going to come together at once. So, I figured I'd wait till they did the other side. They did and it was as much the same as the first side which, I guess is a good thing seeing as how I didn't want to end up looking like "false face" from Batman. I spent a lot of time after that staring at myself wondering when my new life was going to start. I left and decided to go shopping, I was feeling good!! I was determined to make the best of this. You figure they pump almost 5 grand worth of product into your face, there'd better be a big pay off.

So, on to Century 21 where I decided to buy new jeans. They didn't have anything I really liked but I kept waiting for someone to be taken aback by my new-found lovliness, it didn't happen.

So, I came home figuring at least my husband would notice. No such luck although he did take me out for dinner so I guess I can't really complain.

So, I realized that your face, like everything else in life is what you make of it. Now all I have to do is get the rest of me to match my face. Then lipo, here I come!!!!

I heart inappropriate men

I blame my i-pod and, if I'm honest, I blame the gym too. The thing is, when you get older, tradition dictates that you look for a suitable mate. What was fine in your teens and early twenties, guys with hot bodies or nice cars, is no longer fine now. I spent much of my 30's either married or too fat to even make eye contact.

Now, things are changing. I've lost some weight with the help of my trusty i-pod and gym membership and I can't help but notice the delightful albeit very young members of the gym. When I'm listening to my ipod on the treadmill I can imagine myself dancing wearing some awful tacky getup that will undoubtedly showcase my rock hard abs. Of course, I'm not dancing by myself, I'm dancing with all of these good looking guys I see at the gym.

Now, what you might ask, makes them inappropriate and why do I love them? For starters, they are way too young for me. I don't mean in a creepy, high school way. I mean almost 20 years younger than I am. Now I know Demi Moore can do it and do it well, but have you seen her lately? Wow. Not me, not yet anyway. Secondly, we have almost nothing in common. I don't even get most of the music out today, my nephew programs my ipod and texting takes me longer than a phone call would.

Why do I love them? Well for starters they're nice to look at. I get a lot of inspiration just from watching them. Who knows? Someday they may offer to spot me while I'm lifting my 10 pound dumbells, I of course will graciously accept and offer them a sip from my water bottle (I know I don't have cooties). Then and maybe most importantly they are uncomplicated all they need is a good gym and some really nice sweatpants and they're good to go. They haven't been beaten down by life yet with kids, mortgages and full time jobs.

So here's to you inappropriate men. Long may you pump iron. I'll be watching.

Happiness is a choice you make

For those of you who don't know, I work in a middle school. The middle school I will call "Sweet Valley Middle School". In this school, we have our share of problems. We had a meeting the other day and people, myself included, were angry. We felt, maybe rightfully so, that the principal of the school was being unfair with us. This then got me thinking, maybe the principal is not doing their job, but when did it become her responsibility to make sure we were happy? What ever happened to the days when we liked each other? Remeber those days when people met other people and went out for a drink? Now instead of that, we have whispered conversations in classrooms and we look over our shoulder to make sure no one is around when we open our mouths.

I of all people have had it, if not the roughest, then still pretty rough. I believe in the school and I still like most of the people I work with. Now it's time for the rest of you. Instead of saying that the place is going downhill, why not ask the person or people to get together and go out and have a few laughs? What does it cost you?

Now I know what you might be thinking, what about you Bulfin? Well, I've tried. I planned a party last year that most people didn't want to go to. I had parties in my house that people came to but, most never reciprocated with an invitation back. You know what though? I'm still going to keep doing it because as Ghandi said, "Be the change you want to see in the world."

You also might be thinking why should I care about Sweet Valley Middle School? Well, I'm sure wherever you are, your job is experiencing the same issues.

So, to sum up, while it might be easy to blame the boss for the problems a job faces, that answer becomes too easy. Do we choose to be happy or do we choose what is easiest? That's what I learned today.

The hardest person to love is yourself.

I was at the gym today and had to weigh myself. You should know I am about 7 pounds away from my goal. Or, the goal my first trainer set for me. I have no problem with this goal other than the fact that I can't sem to reach it. I've lost about 49 pounds since September, those of you that know me already know this. However, I've been thinking recently "why am I doing this?" Now, I know what you're going to say, "don't give up." It's not like I'm planning on giving up, it's more like why am I still doing this? I then got to thinking about the reasons most people lose weight. One, they want to feel better about themselves. I feel pretty good about myself, don't get me wrong, I'm glad I lost weight, but I always did feel pretty good about myself, so it can't be that. Two, to attract a person of the opposite sex. Well, one I'm married and my husband doesn't care how big or small I am. If I were looking to find a man on the side, well that's another problem. Women of a certain age (mine) find it difficult in the best of times to find a man and that's when we look great, not when we're a work in progress. So, who's to say if I did lose the rest of the weight some handsome younger man would fall head over heels in lust with me? Did you ever notice, women, that it's always another woman who'll boost you up? Not that I'm downing it, Girl power and all that, I'm just saying it would be nice for once to have someone you were interested in say that to you.

Which brings me back to reality. When my new trainer asked me what my fitness goals were today, I didn't know what to say. So, when I say the hardest person to love is yourself, is it self-love or self-loathing saying it?