(I’ll choose for you.)

I feel like writing again, and it’s partly due to this past election. Oh, and the fact that I don’t have Lupus. Did I mention most of my hair fell out over the summer? It’s making a comeback, fortunately. Thanks to painful injections of cortisone in my scalp.

But, back to this election! In case you don’t have a pulse, Obama won — and I finally can breathe again. I’ve waited eight-long years for this. Thank you, America! I don’t think you’ll regret it. And, hey! If George Bush needs help packing, I’m available. I have my own tape gun. I don’t think he has many books. (Did that sound negative? I’ll work harder to say nice things.) I like his dog and I’ll miss his daughters sneaking booze.

And, to my two readers, I apologize for no posts since May. It’s been a trying time in our household with a graduating Eighth Grader coupled with the insanely over-planned year-end activities our school district graciously provides.

Add to that, my inability to remember my ideas for possible posts. I’ll have a wicked good thought… that lasts for about 2 minutes. “I need to write this down!”. But somewhere between letting the dog out or misplacing something that I’ll need to find in an hour or so, I completely forget my idea.

Composing my Costco list takes all my mental acuities. (Please tell me I’m not alone!) I feel like one of those contestants on ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire’ with Meredith Viera. I’ve got to get my list “right!”. I need more than toilet paper, damnit!!! But, what were those things??? Argghhhhhh. And, then I struggle with whether to ask the audience for help, or whether to hold off and save that option for later in the day. (You people need to watch more television!)

God, I love my mid 40′s. Did I mention my failing eyesight and hearing?

Oh, by the way, it’s official. Darkness has descended upon us all. (Or, for those of you without children under the age of 12, school is out for the summer.)

A time that I remember so well as a kid. Back in those medieval times, I could run out the door and spend time playing with neighborhood kids, riding bikes, playing in the creek, climbing the hills above our house. It was a magical time of freedom, callused feet and slip-and-slides.

Nowadays, for my children, it’s more like house-arrest.

Not much to do but go next door and play with a retired doctor or lawyer. We don’t have a lot of kids within striking distance. Where we live, every activity seems to take a car. So, I ask myself, “Is it worth the $5 of gas to drive them there?” “Am I going to have to turn around in one hour and spend $5 more just to pick them up?” Wait! I can do math!! That’s become a $10 activity!! How much post-whining will accompany this activity? Will they be tired enough for it to pay for itself? Did they somehow cement a friendship because of it? Did I get anything done while they were gone?

Thanks, Chevron. See what you’ve done to my summer? Apparently, I will be under house-arrest, too.

I’m also a bit preoccupied with perfectly milky complexions… the kind with no flaws thanks to hydroquinone cream? I think that’s what it’s called. Some folks look fabulous, while others have me a bit worried. I think the Crayola Company could add a few new colors to their box of whites thanks to this stuff. “Michael Jackson Stippled-Grey,” “The Da Vinci Code Albino-Dude,” and “Marcia Cross Almost-Human.” Not all beauty solutions are applied equally.

I never used to think much about aging. But, one day I noticed how the skin on my stomach resembled Shar-Pei pelts held together like a bad button upholstery job — and it got me thinking. Hmmm. Let’s take a closer look in the mirror… you know, the one with magnification because I can’t see anything up close without 1.75+ cheaters.

And, there was all this stuff! Hey!!! There’s the Crypt Keeper mouth lines… yes. Definitely reminiscent of Norman Bates’ mother — the one who lived in the root cellar. Wow. What happened? It was as if someone changed the burnt-out bulb in my brain and I realized that I WAS WEARING SOMEONE ELSE’S SKIN: sun damage, age spots, veins, satellite-dish-sized pores. Where the hell did this stuff come from?! Is this a greeting card from that Menopause Club that keeps sending me invites?

I honestly didn’t think I really cared about these things. But, apparently, that was before I NOTICED THAT I HAD THEM. Denial was mighty comfy, and believe me, I miss it dearly. I’d climb back into that cocoon if my dementia allowed.

I mean, where the heck have I been? Is this crap supposed to be “badges” of a life well-lived? I wore the stinking sunblock.

Perhaps I study the simulated perfection of others with some jealousy — or perhaps it’s just with wonder, like a child who stares at the one-eyed man with no teeth. Does it hurt? What will happen to them “in the end?”  I don’t know.  Perhaps they’ll just live happily ever after.

And, perhaps I’ll start browsing for a ‘miracle’ product at Longs — whether that miracle comes in a creme, lotion or ski mask application.

Over the years, my husband and I have introduced our kids to many distraction games. There are classics like “Hangman,” “I Spy,” “20 questions,” and my personal favorite, “If You Had To.” “If You Had To” is a game where you take any magazine, catalog or Merck medical manual and go page by page taking turns picking one thing that you would wear, eat, or endure. My daughter and I play it all the time and sometimes it tends to attract attention in the wrong settings. The great thing about the game is you can play it anywhere, as long as you use a bit of imagination.

Recently we played while waiting in line to pick up a prescription at Long’s Drugs — one of my favorite destinations as long as I don’t have to wait in line to pick up prescriptions. Fortunately for us, we were near the Digestive Care isle which provided many products from which to choose: would you rather have the Maalox Maximum Strength Multi Symptom Antacid/Antigas (Heartburn, Pressure, Bloating, Acid Indigestion) in chewable fruit-flavored tablets… OR, do you choose Carter`s Bisacodyl Delayed Release Stimulant Laxative (overnight relief!) in non-chewable tablets??? (We both chose the Maalox.) We played on like this, my daughter asking what a product did and me trying not to laugh so hard I was crying as I told her. However, by the time we finally got to the front of the line, the lady behind us was ready to give us both a Pepto Bismal block to shut us up. Apparently, SOME people don’t find evacuation a funny topic.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that games are everywhere if you know your audience. Just know which isles to avoid in ‘mixed’ company.

Well, I tried. “A” for effort. “”D+” for execution.

I don’t care what Yoda says. (And, for all you people who have a life and don’t quote movie lines spoken by muppets: “Do or do not. There is no try.”) Hey, we’ve got to try. It’s all we’ve got sometimes. If we lived by Yoda’s hairy-green attitude, we’d all still live with our parents.

So, I couldn’t help but feel my emotions volcano when dinner decided to take me down on the mat for a final humbling. You’ve got to understand that cooking dinner in our home is a bit like Dancing with the Stars… minus the dancing… and minus the stars. Just lots of judgment and body odor. I thought I had enough courage (that’s right, courage… or maybe it’s patience or apathy) to try to make something “different” for our meal — a surprise crowd pleaser!

Big. Mistake.

Pathetic as it is, we eat the same thing on specific nights of the week. It helps me shop more efficiently, answers to crabby house-inhabitants’ expectations, and generally forces people to JUST EAT IT if they are hungry. (Otherwise they can go to their room and lose some weight.)

But wait! I tried! I tried to make something special, or at least swallow-able. Unfortunately, my (ta-da!) total disgusting meal created a “going to haunt you and your good intentions” mess. And, the kids HA-TE-D it. (“Gee, Mom, thanks for trying — to ruin our lives with your cooking!!!”) I spent the rest of the evening cleaning “it” up. I needed a prophylactic dose of HGTV while I scrubbed. Ugh, the fat. Ugh, the smell. I tried. And, I tried some more. But, it still smelled, a lot.

I still smell it when the wind shifts.

That’s right. Reaching Friday afternoon is like reaching the pool wall at the end of a race. I made it and I’m exhausted and all out of breath, but I earned the right to pull my tired carcass out of the water and towel off. Thank you! No autographs. Just don’t ask me to cook anything. I’ll be curling up with the dog if you need me.

Amazingly, I seem to have risen from the grave today, thanks to a shower and more “curative” concoctions my kids brought to my bedside this morning. I’m also thinking that yesterday’s lethal amounts of HGTV coupled with reruns of Law and Order need a nod of thanks–sort of my own version of TV chemotherapy. And, people, it worked: if I see one more apartment room completely transformed for under $1,000, I’m going to run out of here screaming.

I now have that delightful cough that has everyone around me searching for a Hazmat suit. And, I can’t blame them. It’s alarming. And painful. Tough way to get those abs of steel, or in my case, pulled groin muscle. I did a fairly good job of masking it for most of the day, thanks to the makers of cough drops. But, I was cold-busted by my Mom just a moment ago when I went into a coughing fit during a phone call. Dang! I hate that. Now she’ll ride me until I go the doctor, which, like, it’s Friday evening so that won’t happen anytime soon. Sorry, Mom. You’ll just have to try prayer for me over the weekend.

The kids have friends sleeping over tonight and I plan to administer Benedryl to anyone who seems too lively. Pizza. The latest episode of The Office. My pug. My guy. That’s what tonight is all about because I made it to the wall, thank you very much.

I want to apologize in advance for assuming that I have anything relevant or humorous to contribute to the Holy Blog-o-sphere. However, I’m not dead yet and I guess that is justification for doing some things in life. And–looking on the bright side–perhaps this will help cut down on my cellular bill with all the brain dribbles and rantings I regularly unleash on my family and friends. And, maybe not.

I’m happy to announce that I am emerging from the flu. Pretty in pink? Not me! My nose and eyes look like crap. I’ve never come so close to resembling Karl Malden with my latest health challenge. Also, with all this mucus (cough) I’m breathing through a snorkel–which loses it’s appeal rather quickly if you aren’t in Hawaii.

Of course, I’m always behind the times in every respect, and that holds true to summer camp applications, fashion trends, as well as major illnesses. It only makes sense that I would be THE LAST PERSON ON EARTH to get the flu this season. In fact, I’m doing someone a great service by being last. Or, at least my mother thinks so. My childhood was filled with her stories of how she always came in last in races or was chosen last for teams. She somehow felt good about herself because she was saving some other poor soul from having to suffer the humiliation. Those stories used to drive me up the wall, but now I see that the genetic baton has been passed to me in my declining years. Hurray for me. I’m last. You don’t need to thank me. I sense everyone’s gratitude.

Yet, one of the nicest things about being THE LAST PERSON ON EARTH to get the flu this season is the attention my kids have been giving me. Usually, we are in an emotional arm wrestle enjoying Parenting’s Greatest Hits like “We’re having WHAT for dinner?!”, “Why are you so mean?”, “I like my hair this way”, and “I didn’t do anything to the dog”. No. Instead, my kids brought me special “curative” drinks they concocted using ‘found’ beverages (don’t ask) and my husband’s bar utensils. I also got special meals (all identifiable foods–thank gawd), lots of hugs and genuine concern. And, I was incredibly grateful to receive it all, even with a raging fever and aches. When the chips are down, I’ve got the best crew in town looking out for me. And, that includes my old man and the dog. It’s a package deal.