Boundaries for the Heavy Laden
Pardon me while I vent….
What is it with men and sharing?! Not once but twice today I have encountered a man that had to stop and tell me all about his stomach issues.
My boss called in this morning and announced he has been “stopped up” for 3 days and of course I assumed he had a cold. I said, “Well, you sound like you may be feeling better.”
Big mistake!
He replied, “I am constipated. I have taken several laxatives and they are not working. Next step is an enema. That’s what happens to you when you get old.”
I just told him I hoped he felt better and “Uh, Bye!”
Not long after that a client comes in and decides to explain that he went to college with my boss and has know him since then. He then proceeded to share that “he had lost 100 pounds since college and that he had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. The reason he had to reschedule his previous appointment was because he could not go too far from the bathroom?”
Okay men, this is too much information! Women talk a lot but not about that kind of stuff. No stranger really wants to know how you are constipated, plans for an enema, have diarrhea, gas or any other sort of anything that has to do with your lower body parts. That is between you, your doctor and maybe your wife or mother but most certainly not any other female on earth!
Is this a college thing or just a man thing? If anyone knows the answer to that; please let me know!
Now don’t get me wrong, I am very aware of the passage of scripture from Matthew 11:28,30 Come unto me, all that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. ... For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
But I also know the Father said that and even though I am made in His image I am not there yet! There are boundaries for the heavy laden. Ya know what I mean?
Loving you with the Love of Christ,
Nelle
September 29, 2009
EDITOR'S NOTE: Tell your mother, guys, or the greeter at Wal-Mart; your wife doesn't want to know either. Nor will this wife administer an enema.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wish Me Luck
EC and Diva are monitoring the NYSE via some stock market guru on Twitter. They want to incorporate, and form an LLC called "Escargot.com." Did I mention that both children are still in grammar school? They are "feeling out" the market in order to formulate their IPO (initial public offering).
I'm all, Huh?
Even though we have a combined net worth of 0, the hub understands the lingo and suspects they are "day trading" from our home office, while I'm downstairs drinking my first cup of coffee.
He could be right. As I'm drifting downstairs about 6 a.m., the two velociraptors are in the computer room--each on her own laptop--Googling exchange rates, and saying things like,
"The Euro is still an unstable currency."
"Also, avoid the Yen."
"Shut up, I know."
"Jussayin. Pound Sterling, way to go."
"Agreed."
It's kinda scary. I asked Diva (third grade) last week how much she had saved up in her piggy bank, and she deadpanned, "I'm diversified."
I periodically remind them that I am more valuable to them alive, and active in the workforce. Otherwise, they'd have to liquidate their assets and purchase a mahoghany casket, funeral flowers, and nice shady plot.
L'il Viv says the topic has already come up, and the two devil children have researched on the net, and connected--via Facebook--with a discount crematorium in Texas.
I said, "Are you serious?"
She nodded. "They Yahoo-mapped it. Shortest route. No left turns to save on fuel costs. Those little vermin are smart."
Wish me luck.
I'm all, Huh?
Even though we have a combined net worth of 0, the hub understands the lingo and suspects they are "day trading" from our home office, while I'm downstairs drinking my first cup of coffee.
He could be right. As I'm drifting downstairs about 6 a.m., the two velociraptors are in the computer room--each on her own laptop--Googling exchange rates, and saying things like,
"The Euro is still an unstable currency."
"Also, avoid the Yen."
"Shut up, I know."
"Jussayin. Pound Sterling, way to go."
"Agreed."
It's kinda scary. I asked Diva (third grade) last week how much she had saved up in her piggy bank, and she deadpanned, "I'm diversified."
I periodically remind them that I am more valuable to them alive, and active in the workforce. Otherwise, they'd have to liquidate their assets and purchase a mahoghany casket, funeral flowers, and nice shady plot.
L'il Viv says the topic has already come up, and the two devil children have researched on the net, and connected--via Facebook--with a discount crematorium in Texas.
I said, "Are you serious?"
She nodded. "They Yahoo-mapped it. Shortest route. No left turns to save on fuel costs. Those little vermin are smart."
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
My Days are Numbered
Thank you to Li'l Viv for taking over the blogging so I could go do grown-up, responsible stuff, like scrounge up a paycheck. Entrepreneurship forces a person to
educate herself on subjects such as "market inefficiences" and "weasel clauses."
Fortunately, we have mentors for that.
My children, in fact, have inherited he who must be obeyed's work ethic and logistical genius. Said children are, in fact, "in negotiations" to develop the natural area behind our home into an additional single-family housing development.
They recently brought me their surveyor's map and blueprints. Each building lot had been plotted, assessed, and categorized according to "land will or will not perk."
I warily browsed through the map and blueprints, trying to decide if I should encourage their aspirations, or let them know that particular acreage is designated as a natural gas pipeline easement. In the end he who said, "Don't crush a child's dreams. Let them carry on."
The children removed map and schematics from my hands, however, when I admitted ignorance over the whole "land perking" thing. They sighed and took the paperwork into their father's study for review and further strategizing.
This morning, on my way downstairs for coffee, I heard the two velociraptors conspiring in the bonus room. This snippet of their conversation was overheard:
"Mom doesn't understand septic vs city water."
"I know, but don't harsh on Mom. The land that doesn't perk, we can sell to her."
"I guess, but we'll still get stuck with it when she kicks."
"Only if she is predeceased by dad."
Have I mentioned that both children are under the age of 13? Moreover, I have no Balenciagas, no cable tv, and no plasma flatscreen, because I pay through the nose to give these kids a Paideia education at a devoutly Christian school. (Yes, some jokes write themselves.)
It's time for another cup of coffee. Anybody out there volunteer to taste it first?
educate herself on subjects such as "market inefficiences" and "weasel clauses."
Fortunately, we have mentors for that.
My children, in fact, have inherited he who must be obeyed's work ethic and logistical genius. Said children are, in fact, "in negotiations" to develop the natural area behind our home into an additional single-family housing development.
They recently brought me their surveyor's map and blueprints. Each building lot had been plotted, assessed, and categorized according to "land will or will not perk."
I warily browsed through the map and blueprints, trying to decide if I should encourage their aspirations, or let them know that particular acreage is designated as a natural gas pipeline easement. In the end he who said, "Don't crush a child's dreams. Let them carry on."
The children removed map and schematics from my hands, however, when I admitted ignorance over the whole "land perking" thing. They sighed and took the paperwork into their father's study for review and further strategizing.
This morning, on my way downstairs for coffee, I heard the two velociraptors conspiring in the bonus room. This snippet of their conversation was overheard:
"Mom doesn't understand septic vs city water."
"I know, but don't harsh on Mom. The land that doesn't perk, we can sell to her."
"I guess, but we'll still get stuck with it when she kicks."
"Only if she is predeceased by dad."
Have I mentioned that both children are under the age of 13? Moreover, I have no Balenciagas, no cable tv, and no plasma flatscreen, because I pay through the nose to give these kids a Paideia education at a devoutly Christian school. (Yes, some jokes write themselves.)
It's time for another cup of coffee. Anybody out there volunteer to taste it first?
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Triple Threat
The following excerpt is one of the most enjoyable reads this writer has found. And this writer is educated, ya'll.
Extracted from Forbes.com, the following few paragraphs yield the following bounty:
1. Consumer rip-off alert
2. Excellent recipe
3. Soul-satisfying snark.
All of the above from Forbes. Who knew? We heartily endorse the fine writers at The Entrepreneurs Staff. Well-done.
From "Ways You're Getting Ripped Off"
High-end Guacamole
The Rip-off: This savory starter is all the rage, and it mints money. Consider a serving size for two-to-four people, for which Rosa Mexicano, a ritzy Mexican outpost in Manhattan, charges a stiff $14. While ingredients typically gobble 30% to 40% of the menu price for food items at most restaurants, we estimate Rosa's guacamole clocks in at 19%--and probably a lot less than that.
Our formula yields the same batch for $2.65, based on retail grocery prices (wholesale distributors wouldn't talk) and, given reasonable volume purchases at the local A&P, there would be plenty of ingredients leftover to make another batch or two. The recipe:
--Three avocados, at $4.99 for a bag of eight to 10 ($1.65)
--Two tablespoons of onions, at $1.79 a pound (11.2 cents)
--Three tablespoons of cilantro, at $1.99 per bunch (24.9 cents)
--Two teaspoons of jalapeño peppers, at $3.99 per pound (8.3 cents)
--Three tablespoons of tomatoes, at $1.99 a pound (18.7 cents)
--One squeezed lime, at $3.99 for a 2-pound bag (36.3 cents)
--One teaspoon of salt (less than a penny)
Total: $2.65, or 19% of $14.
How To Avoid It: Make your own green stuff. Or have another $11 margarita to ease the pain.
Extracted from Forbes.com, the following few paragraphs yield the following bounty:
1. Consumer rip-off alert
2. Excellent recipe
3. Soul-satisfying snark.
All of the above from Forbes. Who knew? We heartily endorse the fine writers at The Entrepreneurs Staff. Well-done.
From "Ways You're Getting Ripped Off"
High-end Guacamole
The Rip-off: This savory starter is all the rage, and it mints money. Consider a serving size for two-to-four people, for which Rosa Mexicano, a ritzy Mexican outpost in Manhattan, charges a stiff $14. While ingredients typically gobble 30% to 40% of the menu price for food items at most restaurants, we estimate Rosa's guacamole clocks in at 19%--and probably a lot less than that.
Our formula yields the same batch for $2.65, based on retail grocery prices (wholesale distributors wouldn't talk) and, given reasonable volume purchases at the local A&P, there would be plenty of ingredients leftover to make another batch or two. The recipe:
--Three avocados, at $4.99 for a bag of eight to 10 ($1.65)
--Two tablespoons of onions, at $1.79 a pound (11.2 cents)
--Three tablespoons of cilantro, at $1.99 per bunch (24.9 cents)
--Two teaspoons of jalapeño peppers, at $3.99 per pound (8.3 cents)
--Three tablespoons of tomatoes, at $1.99 a pound (18.7 cents)
--One squeezed lime, at $3.99 for a 2-pound bag (36.3 cents)
--One teaspoon of salt (less than a penny)
Total: $2.65, or 19% of $14.
How To Avoid It: Make your own green stuff. Or have another $11 margarita to ease the pain.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Crying on Cue
Are any of you readers aspiring performance artists? I have news you can use.
She Who Oversees this site took my BFF Vivian Beauchamp off to a meeting about some new web venture. This leaves me with a blog post deadline to meet, on my own, with no help from you know who, and so--in lieu of something pithy and profound--I'll share some newfound wisdom with all aspiring actors out there.
Everyone around me seems to work harder at keeping me sober than I do. That's odd, isn't it? Our Creative Director (She Who Oversees) suggested I acquire a new skill set in order to focus on something other than etoh. And so, Vivi and I have embarked upon a career in theatre.
Legitimate theatre, mind you, not some creepy burlesque hidden in a concrete building.
Open auditions for legitimate and highly regarded venues were held last Saturday.
La Viv and I had prepared our two monologues, one funny and one depressing. This is to prove we have "range."
Friday morning, I began to feel a rising tide of panic. When in such dire emotional straits, I immediately turn to two sources of support:
1. The Bible
2. my sponsor Blade.
Having gotten John 3:16 out of the way, I hit speed dial, and connected with Blade. I explained about the auditions, my outfit, and the unrelenting paralysis of fright.
"What ya scared of?" Blade says.
"The dramatic recitation," I replied. "I'm going to choke."
"What do you need in this moment?" He sounded distracted. I heard beauty shop clientele yapping away in the background.
"I need to be able to cry on demand," I explained, in a very bleating sheep kind of tone. "Blade, I can't do it. I've got the comedic routine down pat [he grunted], but I cannot seem to summon up a tear for the heart-rending dramatic piece."
There was a pause. One could visualize Blade putting down his shears, giving his client the just one tiny second hand signal, and stepping to the shampoo room to focus.
"Let me see if I understand," he said. "You are saying that you cannot produce tears."
"That's right," I said.
"You need to be able to channel some kind of traumatic memory that will make you cry? On Saturday?" Then he went quiet, and this means he is busy assessing.
Wanting to be helpful, I threw in, "I even took a class, Blade. A crying on cue workshop and it didn't work. I must be dead inside."
"Just think about your childhood," he offered. "That certainly makes me cry."
"You know I've suppressed all that. I need a fresh memory, but nothing truly horrifying has happened lately. Thank God."
Just then Blade snapped his fingers. "Come to the salon right this very minute," he commanded. "If you can be here by 3:15, Sonia can fit you in!"
"For what?"
I could literally feel his eyes roll through the phone. In his most imperious voice, Blade intoned, "Baby Child, you don't need no acting class to cry on cue. You need a Brazilian Bikini Wax. Sonia is doing them half-price this week, and I'll knock off another 30 percent for your angst alone."
Long, long, pause. I had heard of this thing before, and did not feel good about it.
Blade snapped, "Well, come on."
"Uh, Blade, will it be terribly painful?"
"Of course," he hissed. "Isn't that what you want? To cry? And have a fresh bad memory?"
"Cry, yes," I said, "but not shriek like vermin caught in a bear trap."
"We'll stuff a rag in your mouth and you'll be fine." Then he hung up.
I received a most respectable callback the day after Open Auditions. Any future success in the performance media I owe to Blade, one of the great loves of my life, and 12 Step sponsor extraordinaire. (Oh, and Sonia.)
Respectfully submitted,
L'il Viv
She Who Oversees this site took my BFF Vivian Beauchamp off to a meeting about some new web venture. This leaves me with a blog post deadline to meet, on my own, with no help from you know who, and so--in lieu of something pithy and profound--I'll share some newfound wisdom with all aspiring actors out there.
Everyone around me seems to work harder at keeping me sober than I do. That's odd, isn't it? Our Creative Director (She Who Oversees) suggested I acquire a new skill set in order to focus on something other than etoh. And so, Vivi and I have embarked upon a career in theatre.
Legitimate theatre, mind you, not some creepy burlesque hidden in a concrete building.
Open auditions for legitimate and highly regarded venues were held last Saturday.
La Viv and I had prepared our two monologues, one funny and one depressing. This is to prove we have "range."
Friday morning, I began to feel a rising tide of panic. When in such dire emotional straits, I immediately turn to two sources of support:
1. The Bible
2. my sponsor Blade.
Having gotten John 3:16 out of the way, I hit speed dial, and connected with Blade. I explained about the auditions, my outfit, and the unrelenting paralysis of fright.
"What ya scared of?" Blade says.
"The dramatic recitation," I replied. "I'm going to choke."
"What do you need in this moment?" He sounded distracted. I heard beauty shop clientele yapping away in the background.
"I need to be able to cry on demand," I explained, in a very bleating sheep kind of tone. "Blade, I can't do it. I've got the comedic routine down pat [he grunted], but I cannot seem to summon up a tear for the heart-rending dramatic piece."
There was a pause. One could visualize Blade putting down his shears, giving his client the just one tiny second hand signal, and stepping to the shampoo room to focus.
"Let me see if I understand," he said. "You are saying that you cannot produce tears."
"That's right," I said.
"You need to be able to channel some kind of traumatic memory that will make you cry? On Saturday?" Then he went quiet, and this means he is busy assessing.
Wanting to be helpful, I threw in, "I even took a class, Blade. A crying on cue workshop and it didn't work. I must be dead inside."
"Just think about your childhood," he offered. "That certainly makes me cry."
"You know I've suppressed all that. I need a fresh memory, but nothing truly horrifying has happened lately. Thank God."
Just then Blade snapped his fingers. "Come to the salon right this very minute," he commanded. "If you can be here by 3:15, Sonia can fit you in!"
"For what?"
I could literally feel his eyes roll through the phone. In his most imperious voice, Blade intoned, "Baby Child, you don't need no acting class to cry on cue. You need a Brazilian Bikini Wax. Sonia is doing them half-price this week, and I'll knock off another 30 percent for your angst alone."
Long, long, pause. I had heard of this thing before, and did not feel good about it.
Blade snapped, "Well, come on."
"Uh, Blade, will it be terribly painful?"
"Of course," he hissed. "Isn't that what you want? To cry? And have a fresh bad memory?"
"Cry, yes," I said, "but not shriek like vermin caught in a bear trap."
"We'll stuff a rag in your mouth and you'll be fine." Then he hung up.
I received a most respectable callback the day after Open Auditions. Any future success in the performance media I owe to Blade, one of the great loves of my life, and 12 Step sponsor extraordinaire. (Oh, and Sonia.)
Respectfully submitted,
L'il Viv
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Get Over Your Gosselin Hair
There was an incident this morning which reminded me that I am not the only one feeling undone by life and other people's reactions to it.
For example, the other Vivian had just posted a note to her Facebook condemning posers with Gosselin hair who have no real credentials to back up their snobbishness. Or snobbery, whatever. She and I have embarked upon a "fitness program" involving break-of-dawn cardio walks around her semi-upscale development.
Having harshly criticized "posers" on her Facebook page, we left the house this morning for our cardio walk. Whereupon we discovered that, in anticipation of an overnight rainstorm, he who must be obeyed had covered his convertible with the tarp from their Seadoo. And he had fastened this tarp to the car in a very redneck way, with some sort of bungee cords, which greatly embarrassed La Vivian. (I am the humble one. Jussayin.)
It looked odd, but was no skin off my nose, so we stretched and I told her to get over it. Vivi said, "I cannot simply get over it. It looks janky." She was grouchy at me all two miles of speed walking, due to my failure to empathize with he who's jankiness.
My point was that she had condemned--in a very public way--superficial people who do not, in actual fact, belong to the Junior League, nor are they actual card-carrying members of DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution). And yet she felt the right to be all lofty about a car wrapped securely in a boat tarp. What's the big deal?
We cardio-trudged for four blocks in silence, hostility radiating from her body, until at last she said, "The tarp says Seadoo on it."
I gave her a shrug and palms up. (Words were not an option at that point; this was serious exercise.)
Vivian's eyes filled with tears as she reminded me, and the solitary neighbor woman pruning some butterfly bushes, that her family's Seadoo is an actual "multi-passenger-bearing watercraft, and not a motorcycle thing on floats."
Bottom line: we each have showdog hair, in some area of our lives. Either own it and represent in a genuine way, or shave your head. (Your own personal Yoda.)
Respectfully submitted,
Vivian Carter
For example, the other Vivian had just posted a note to her Facebook condemning posers with Gosselin hair who have no real credentials to back up their snobbishness. Or snobbery, whatever. She and I have embarked upon a "fitness program" involving break-of-dawn cardio walks around her semi-upscale development.
Having harshly criticized "posers" on her Facebook page, we left the house this morning for our cardio walk. Whereupon we discovered that, in anticipation of an overnight rainstorm, he who must be obeyed had covered his convertible with the tarp from their Seadoo. And he had fastened this tarp to the car in a very redneck way, with some sort of bungee cords, which greatly embarrassed La Vivian. (I am the humble one. Jussayin.)
It looked odd, but was no skin off my nose, so we stretched and I told her to get over it. Vivi said, "I cannot simply get over it. It looks janky." She was grouchy at me all two miles of speed walking, due to my failure to empathize with he who's jankiness.
My point was that she had condemned--in a very public way--superficial people who do not, in actual fact, belong to the Junior League, nor are they actual card-carrying members of DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution). And yet she felt the right to be all lofty about a car wrapped securely in a boat tarp. What's the big deal?
We cardio-trudged for four blocks in silence, hostility radiating from her body, until at last she said, "The tarp says Seadoo on it."
I gave her a shrug and palms up. (Words were not an option at that point; this was serious exercise.)
Vivian's eyes filled with tears as she reminded me, and the solitary neighbor woman pruning some butterfly bushes, that her family's Seadoo is an actual "multi-passenger-bearing watercraft, and not a motorcycle thing on floats."
Bottom line: we each have showdog hair, in some area of our lives. Either own it and represent in a genuine way, or shave your head. (Your own personal Yoda.)
Respectfully submitted,
Vivian Carter
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Vivian Carter's Blog
My fingers hurt.
This is Aaron the Sadistic (yet highly motivational) Trainer's fault. Well, fault carries a negative connotation. Let's say that my aches and pains are his "doing."
Vivian Beauchamp and I have a very important function to attend in the near future, and we told Aaron tonight that we must be hotties by September 9. Aaron Who Does Not Smile said, "Ladies, you are halfway there."
This pleased us. I asked, "So we're warmies now?"
Aaron skipped a beat and quipped, "Maybe room temp."
You know what, I'll take it. Progress has already been made. I am currently shopping in the Juniors Department at Macy's. Jussayin.
So due to Aaron's schedule, and our own commitment to fitness, we walked from Big Vivi's home up to the gym, and thus had to walk back to her home in the dark.
Limping along, we passed under a streetlamp, and as we passed by a FROG jumped out at Big Vivi, causing her to levitate in shock and horror. (Give us spiders and snakes any day, we're cool. But frogs frighten us. Badly.)
So the frog launched itself in her direction, BV was startled into the air, whereupon she unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse upon the thing.
As Aaron had complimented my form in the weight room, this room temperature cougariffic soul was moved with compassion for the frog. Feeling it did not deserve to be called out hatefully by BV, I rebuked her.
I said, "Poor little toad. He ain't never done you no wrong. Why you gotta throw him shade like that?"
BV for some reason experienced this as unbearably hilarious, and so what happened next is "in the vault."
The point is, frog or no frog, we are on our way. In the vernacular: we is fixing to be HOT. Look out world.
This is Aaron the Sadistic (yet highly motivational) Trainer's fault. Well, fault carries a negative connotation. Let's say that my aches and pains are his "doing."
Vivian Beauchamp and I have a very important function to attend in the near future, and we told Aaron tonight that we must be hotties by September 9. Aaron Who Does Not Smile said, "Ladies, you are halfway there."
This pleased us. I asked, "So we're warmies now?"
Aaron skipped a beat and quipped, "Maybe room temp."
You know what, I'll take it. Progress has already been made. I am currently shopping in the Juniors Department at Macy's. Jussayin.
So due to Aaron's schedule, and our own commitment to fitness, we walked from Big Vivi's home up to the gym, and thus had to walk back to her home in the dark.
Limping along, we passed under a streetlamp, and as we passed by a FROG jumped out at Big Vivi, causing her to levitate in shock and horror. (Give us spiders and snakes any day, we're cool. But frogs frighten us. Badly.)
So the frog launched itself in her direction, BV was startled into the air, whereupon she unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse upon the thing.
As Aaron had complimented my form in the weight room, this room temperature cougariffic soul was moved with compassion for the frog. Feeling it did not deserve to be called out hatefully by BV, I rebuked her.
I said, "Poor little toad. He ain't never done you no wrong. Why you gotta throw him shade like that?"
BV for some reason experienced this as unbearably hilarious, and so what happened next is "in the vault."
The point is, frog or no frog, we are on our way. In the vernacular: we is fixing to be HOT. Look out world.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)