Picture a more manly (without the mascara and the effeminate affectation) Captain Jack Sparrow drawing up passing plays on the deck of the Good Ship Coug It.
Scurvy Husky Dogs! Air Raid Offense indeed. Stretch the field, sideline to sidelineâŠis that Black Beard or Henry Morgan?
âThere are no men around here.â
That is a complaint I hear from rural single ladies quite often. Itâs not that there has been a mass disappearance of men-folk via space aliens or something akin to a gender selective Roanoke Colony. Allow me to translate: If they are not already married, or barricaded in the closet, there are no single, desirable, disease free men to date in this area.â
I know that is what that statement means because I used to be of the same mindset. Ah, me of narrow vision.
Imagine, if when you signed on as an employee, you had a negotiation with your employer about wages. Not just incremental adjustments to what the employee is offering, but a blank slate, square-one discussion.
Not to sound like the philosophically waxing Grand High Poobah of 20/20 hindsight that I am, but the phrase, âpick your battlesâ is more applicable on a day-to-day basis than I like to acknowledge. I was forced to embrace this bit of counsel last week. Well, admittedly I didnât so much embrace it. More like it clamped me in a bear hug and held on until I stopped struggling and screaming like a toddler pitching a fit in a toy store.
âI think the newspaper should do an investigative report on the vague so-and-so, because they vaguely did such-and-such and itâs ruined my life. Iâm not signing this letter, as I am well known in this area and the so-and-so is out to get me for such-and-such and it itâs just, like, mean. Did I mention they ruined my life? Go get emâ!â
Talk about government intelligence. Yes, I am aware that is an oxymoron.
The U.S. government, with a serious shortage of cash, but no lack of chutzpah and the ability to make incredibly shortÂŹsighted, stupid decisions totally bereft of even an iota of percepÂŹtible common sense infused into the equation, is apparently thinking about building a northern border fence with Canada to go with the one on the southern border with No, I Wonât Go To Mexico.
What the Peso? They donât even play hockey in Mexico!
Facebook has totally turned me into a stalker. No, not a stalker like Cristin KeleherI (I know where to find the frozen pizza without breaking and entering), but one of those people who really needs to cut back on the cyber connections and brush up on her human connections (that does sound a wee bit murkily unwholesome, but you get what I mean).
If I could entertain your attention for a bit, I have a story to tell.
Once upon a time there was a nurse called out for a check-up on a home health patient to see if the woman should go to the hospital. Yes, the nurse was getting paid, as this was her job, but I know very few people who would sign up to serve in the medical field for free (and I have yet to meet a rich LPN or RN, for that matter).
I may risk the wrath of Baby Boomers and elitist hipster wannabe songwriters everywhere, but I have to say it, I donât dig James Taylorâs music. Yes, I know he didnât win five Grammyâs for nothing and his lyricism is pretty splendiferous, but how a guy manages to span a career of 40 years with songs that sound exactly the same makes me think that some lambs were sacrificed to the Dark Gods of Tuneage in order to hit the Billboard 100.
Hello, my name is Sophia and I am a slob.