Too Tired To Bid

I was going to write about the tumultuous doings here in the parental household, but I got sidetracked by an Ebay auction and then when I came back, I forgot what I was going to say, so started reading some of my past posts for inspiration. What I got was a huge shocker. I am a terrible proofreader of my own words! Okay, so I don't proof it at all ... I rely on MS Word to catch my typos before I dump it to Blogger ... but sure does suck to have to realize that my slipshod ways are showing. ;D

I am afraid to read any further or I'll spend the rest of the night editing past posts that no one but me will ever read! :)

Instead, I'm returning to Ebay and then going to bed early. I'm pooped from this busy week: I've been trying not to get fired, get my hair cut, get my dog groomed, shop for deserving people, find tires for my truck, watching good American Idols get picked for the bottom 3, trying to keep a low profile and stay out of the way (it's a good rule of thumb for just about all situations, you should try it!) and correspond with non-deserving men (see previous posts for explanation.)

I think I'm skipping the auction and going directly to bed. I just yawned so big I think you could have seen down my throat all the way to my toes. Isn't THAT a pretty picture? :D

Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah! :)

Tonight my blog lives up to its name.

Goodnight!

Sharondarella signing off...

Buried Cadbury?

I am deeply saddened to report that this is not the joyous Easter I have come to expect every year ... I think the Cadbury Bunny with the incredible chicken voice has passed on.

When celebrities die all of their ad spots are pulled and I have not seen the Cadbury Bunny this year. Can anyone confirm a sighting?

I can't help but blame myself. I never ate any of his eggs, although I have enjoyed numerous Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs.

Bunny, we will miss you!

Dating Discoveries

My last post was a real downer, so I will not comment on anything else disturbing in the news. Instead, I shall focus on the foibles of men. (Isn’t foibles a great word? Yes, I’ve used it in Scrabble games … and even worse, I got challenged on it! heh-heh-heh!) ;D

Let’s talk about the men I’ve encountered in the DC dating pool (which seems to be lacking much in the way of testosterone, so hopefully this dating pool is not going to be contributing much to the GENE pool.)

I’m noticing a distinct trend --- at first I thought it was me, but then I compared notes with several other gorgeous, intelligent, witty, sassy and charismatic women and found they had encountered the same strange pattern of behavior as evidenced here:

1. Man initiates contact with woman - either via email or through the use of a disgustingly ridiculous icon called a “wink” which is a silly little thing that allows you to show someone you are “interested” without having to say anything to them. It then puts the pressure of the first contact on the “winkie” (perhaps I should use another word, because I was not intending to use a word some would mistake for a reference to the male sex organ.) What this also does is gives men a sort of “checkmark” that allows them to glance at every woman’s picture as it's laid out on a screen like the Brady Bunch squares and any faces that catch his eye, he can check the box and send her a “wink” ... then he can sit back and wait for all of the women to respond.

2. Woman creates thoughtful response – after spending some time reading the profile of the man who was nice and sent the “wink” she writes a very nice introduction email.

3. Man writes back – But doesn't appear to have really read/absorbed details in woman's profile, so he doesn't do well with his conversational ball tossing. Also, the average man doesn't appear to excel at the correspondence thing, so the very generous woman forgives the glaring typos, the improper grammar, the painful lack of punctuation.

4. Woman writes back, another thoughtful and entertaining response, usually based on points of interest to the Man, as evidenced by his profile.

5. Man asks for phone number, face to face meeting and begins to turn the conversation towards sexual innuendos.

6. Woman says she would like to get to know Man a little more than 2 brief emails exchanged in a 2-day period.

7. Man loses interest and disappears.

8. Woman deletes man from her email records and starts all over with the next contestant.


No wonder there are so many lesbians.


I personally have found that all of the GOOD men appear to be hiding out in Pennsylvania. Check this out: a man who's tall, built like a weight lifter (yet still intelligent - no steroids for him, evidently) rides a horse like a centaur, and drives a jeep ... and best of all, he has a personality, can WRITE and sounds ... NORMAL! Wh0000-Hooo! Now, if he's got a voice like dark chocolate, I'm sold! :D Unfortunately, 150 miles is a bit far to travel for a date, especially in rush hour traffic ... but there's always the weekends, right?

Road trip, anyone? ;D

Some men deserve castration

Sex offender allegedly admits killing Florida girl. Suspect John Couey lived near Jessica Lunsford

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/7190457/

This is SICK. Men who commit unnatural acts with children, even when they claim it is out of "love" (Michael Jackson, you know what you are) need to be castrated AND lobotomized, like Jack Nicholson's character in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." These men admit that they will do this again, there is no redeeming them. It is a sickness, an abnormality. These are predators who are no better than animals, and yet, society protects these deviants. Puts them away for a few years and then when the prisons get too crowded because they haven't cleaned house on death row, they let these walking nightmares go, justifying this action by saying they've "served their time" they've been "rehabilitated."

Oh, like this guy? They turned him loose so he could quietly ooze his way into a neighborhood filled with bright-eyed, inquisitive children, children with their whole lives ahead of them ... as long as they stay far from this monster, that is.

We have no qualms about killing an alligator or tiger that is reputed to be a man-eater, destroying a mountain lion because it ate someone's dog ... however, none of these is a heinous act, these are called SURVIVAL. The same can not be said for these sick bastards who prey on children. Had this been my child who was killed you would have seen an example of vigilantism that you would not soon forget. This man needs to be punished and then his breathing needs to be stopped.

My heart goes out to the family of this poor little girl; God alone only knows what she went through before she died.

Rest in Peace, sweetheart.

It must be SPRINGTIME!

Spring is in the air!

How do I know? Because Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs have arrived!

There is something mesmerizing, intoxicating even about Reeses peanut butter eggs, an Easter, springtime specialty. I think it’s the fact that you don’t have to unwrap them is what draws me in, and the fact that you get almost 2 cups worth in one egg is what keeps me coming back! YUMMY!
I’ve lost a few .lbs lately, thanks to the water and cough drop diet, but adding a few packages of Reese’s Peanut Butter eggs to the shopping cart may very well have taken my diet edge to extinction. ;D

Prophet or Singer?

Is it possible to know how your life is going to turn out, based on songs you hear repeatedly?

Green Day has a song out called “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” and I’m beginning to think it’s some sort of prophetic omen for me. Every time I get into a car, this song is playing. Whenever I walk into a store, it’s on. When I turn on streaming audio, guess what? Yup, again.

Considering the words are somewhat dismal, I’m thinking it’s a bad omen, especially given the fact that I’ve begun dating again.

Some random lyrics:
“I walk these empty streets on the boulevard of broken dreams …”
“My shadow’s the only one who walks beside me”
“I walk alone, I walk alone.”

And, to make matters worse, the song that I always identified with my ex-boyfriend is the OTHER song I hear playing if the Green Day song isn’t on:

“It’s hard to say what it is I see in you,
Wonder if I’ll always be with you,
Words can’t say, all I do, just to prove, it’s all for you”

“Rain comes pouring down, falling from the sky
Words without a sound, coming from your eyes.”

I can't remember who sings this song ... I think I blocked it from my memory while attempting to follow the very good advice I was once given "Remember the best, forget the rest."

P.O.P.

Ever since the day that Peekay told me about the phenomenon I now call P.O.P. or “particles of poop” I’ve been completely traumatized whenever I have to use a toilet without a seat lid. In case you are not familiar with this golden gem of knowledge, please, let me share:

Peekay learned from her brother, who is a professional plumber, that every time you flush a toilet tiny particles of poop become airborne and could attach themselves to the unwary person standing unknowingly next to the violently flushing toilet. That is why you should always put the seat lid down before you flush. However, if you are in a public restroom where seat covers are not an option, you’d better be fast on your feet.

Thank you, Peekay, for adding to my growing list of phobias! ;p

man trolling

I, the highly prized and very desirable, Sharondarella, have decided that my current dating pool is way too shallow (some of the more uncharitable types might even call it “dry”), so I’ve gone trolling in the online seas. Dear readers, stick with me because this is going to be a bumpy ride! ;D

If you missed my last foray into the online dating world, and weren’t privy to the stories about the guy who personally supervised the painting of his poodles' toenails, the sexual deviant, the closet stalker, the manly looking wussy boy, and of course, the terrorist, then you have no comparison and no expectations. However, if you have heard those stories, here we go again!

I’ve got several fish swimming around, eyeing the attractive bait on my hook. I’ll let you know if I catch anything worth keeping (or anything that requires a visit to the doctors office … EEEK! ;D Heh-heh-heh! NOT A CHANCE OF THAT!

Updates as they happen ...

Sunday is the day of the first date. I'll check in and let you know how it goes.

I'm not really being very optimistic about this first date because he seems to have entirely too many pictures of himself posted online ... all of them self-portraits. It comes across as very "(Kiss-kiss) I am beautiful, I love me!" and that's not my type at all. :)

However, if this doesn't work out, I could always select from the many gentleman of the decidedly elder persuasion, who appear to think I would make the ideal trophy wife. What is it about men that think putting a picture of their car, (usually a BMW, Mercedes or something sporty) their inordinately large house, and pictures of the last exotic vacation they went on will cause a woman's heart to go pitter-pat? It will make her calculator eyes go cha-CHING if she's that type, which many women are. Guess I used my circular logic to explain this to myself.

Okay, bedtime. The first victim ... oops, I mean date ... is meeting me in a few short hours.

Adventures in Shopping

Today was exciting, but then again, shopping is always an adventure for me because I am a calamity magnet. :)

I went shopping to "Ross – Dress for Less" because I needed to look for a dog bed and bowls for the dog my sister just acquired. They have had a decent selection of both on times I've been there previously, so I thought this a great place to start. Unfortunately for my sister (or more truthfully, her dog) I got sidetracked and ended up shopping for me instead. As I arrived they had just finished adding new items to the ‘new arrivals’ rack of designer label clothing. I got sucked into the Tommy/Ralph/Liz Claiborne vortex and didn’t get out for a good two hours. I found and bought some great clothes, as well as some stinkers, which are going back tomorrow. I hate fitting rooms without the rear-view mirrors. That’s great if it looks good from the front, but it needs to have a good view from the rear too, or else, why buy it?

While I was shopping, I had the usual bizarre encounter. I was standing at a 4 sided rack looking at a sweater. This woman walked over and began looking at the sweaters directly across from me. I put a sweater back on the rack just as the woman held up a sweater and said “isn’t this the one you were just looking at?”

I glanced up as she said again “isn’t this the one you were looking at?”
It wasn’t, but I just said “that’s really cute.”
“This one, right?”
I said again “that’s really cute” at the same time as her friend behind me said “Yes, I think that’s it.” I casually moved away, snickering to myself.

Classic Sharondarella encounter, as is this next one, which occurred in the next store: Target.

I recently acquired a few pieces from Rachel Ashwell's Simply Shabby Chic line carried at Target. (The stuff is adorable, in case you haven’t seen it.) But I was missing a few items and I thought I’d see if this particular Target had them in stock, so in I went. However, a pit stop was needed, so I headed that way before beginning the shopping experience.

I went in and saw there were three stalls: two normal sized ones and one oversized, handicapped one. I peeked underneath and could see feet in the first two stalls so I went over to the handicapped one and tried the door. It was unlocked so I pushed the door in and recoiled in horror at the sight of a woman who was obviously occupying the stall, and was at that very moment in the process of bending herself into a pretzel in the attempt to reach the toilet paper. “OH! I’M SORRY!” I backed out and pulled the door, simply mortified. The woman in there said “that’s okay.” as if it was no big deal, which really, it wasn’t, I was just relieved she also thought it to be not a big deal. My nightmare would be opening the door and have someone scream; it’s happened to me before, but that’s another story. Heee-heeee!

Meanwhile, I stood there, praying that one of the people in the other stalls would finish before the woman in the handicapped stall, because I didn’t want to have to apologize again. Luckily for me, one of the other stalls freed up and I scurried inside as soon as the other occupant vacated. In case I haven’t mentioned this in previous posts, it’s a given that “I’m sorry” will be carved on my tombstone because I’ve been brought up to apologize for everything! Luckily I didn’t have to more than once this time. ;D

Destined for Sainthood ... NOT! ;D

Someone asked me recently about my non-church going status, and I gave one of my usual flip answers, but then it dawned on me, that this is a great blog story!

I know that you, dear reader, are as irreverant as I myself am, otherwise I'd have lost you quite awhile ago, so I'm going to share with you a story that happened to someone I know and love, a very traumatic and faith-altering story ... for those of you needing a happy ending, stop here. There is blood, there is a body, there is name-calling and there is a resolution. But a happy ending, well, I don't think so, at least, not in the traditional sense. :)

Our story begins a long time ago, in a land far, far away (we shall call this land "Falls Church") there was this young girl who would go to church every Sunday. She loved church, she read the bible for fun, excelled in CCD (don't ask her what that means, she doesn't remember anymore ... basically, it was bible studies) and was pretty adamant that one day she was going to be a saint. (That was before she realized that the requirements were so stringent.)

One beautiful Sunday, she went to church with her family as always. Oh, one important thing I left out about this youngster ... she had a very sensitive stomach that required breakfast in the morning, a meal she frequently skipped, as happened on this particular day. Unfortunately, when she skipped this important meal, she would sometimes get kind of sick. (I know, why didn't she just eat something then? Kids. Can't tell them anything. ;)

It was a beautiful day, but rather warm. It was not yet far enough into the season for the church to turn on the air conditioning, so they propped the doors open to let the slight breeze blow in. But it wasn't enough for our girl. She began to feel queasy and soon felt a cold sweat break out on her brow. She leaned over to tell her mother, but her mother hushed her and continued to listen to the priest giving the blessing ..

And then it was upon her ... the thing she had been dreading ... Communion. Her stomach was doing flip-flops and she knew it would not be a good omen for her to take Communion on that day. When she tried to stay behind, her brother poked her and her mother frowned, so up to the front she went to receive the Sacrament.

As soon as it hit her mouth it was very evident that it wasn't going to stay there for long. She tried to swallow with a mouth gone bone dry. Someone offered her wine and that was her undoing. She bolted down the aisle and just made it outside in time deposit the body and blood of Jesus Christ on the ground. Now, she was just horrified ... what do you do about something like this? This was never discussed in church, or CCD, or in any of the books she'd read. After a bit of thought and some agonizing, she decided to bury it in a nice little hole she dug with a stick. Feeling that she had done the right thing, she was able to leave church with a light heart.

A few days later and it came time to go to confession.

The Catholic church had just decided that face-to-face confessions were the best thing for the youth of today to get accustomed to, rather than the dark box the previous generations used. So, she waits her turn to go in to confession, with Monseigneur H. (we shall protect his name, even though he was not innocent), a notoriously bad-tempered priest on the best of days. Her turn comes all too soon. Gazing longingly at the dark box, she bravely turns the door knob that exposes her to the face-to-face confessional and the dreaded Father H. She gingerly sits down and he asks her what her sins are.

"I said a few bad words... and umm, I wished the other softball team would lose so we could go to the finals."
"Nothing else?"
"Oh, well there was this one thing ... well, I don't think it's so bad, but it's embarassing, and I don't really want to say."
"You may tell me anything. I am a priest. I will forgive you for your sins. There is nothing you can tell me that I haven't heard before."
"Well ... this one day at church ... I got sick and I threw up the host. But I buried it. In the church yard."

His rage made him incoherent, but it didn't stop his eyes from bugging out of their sockets, his face from turning beet red, his arms from reaching towards her neck. She stumbled up and out of her chair, backing towards the door as he advanced towards her, spitting and frothing and shaking. She managed to get the door open, just as he regained his voice.

"BLASPHEMY! YOU ARE GOING TO HELL! YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD SOMEONE SO IT COULD BEEN BLESSED! THIS IS A SIN THAT WILL BRING YOU ETERNAL DAMNATION WITH NO HOPE OF REDEMPTION!" His words followed her as she ran out of the church, white-faced and shaking, while trying not to cry.

When she told her parents they were outraged and discussed it with one of the priests (NOT Monseigneur H.) who indicated that Monseigneur H. had gone slightly loopy, around the bend, and not to take it to heart. However, this youngster was bruised from this encounter, her faith in the church severely shaken. She took away with her that Confession was not a place to tell those things that are better left unconfessed, because priests don't really want to hear them, they just want to tell you to deposit money and say 500 Hail Mary's.

--- Fast forward a few years ---

This same youngster, now a fiery college student and sometimes debater, went to Mass on another beautiful Sunday. Same church, different priest holding down the pulpit. It was packed with a standing room only crowd. The collection plate had already been passed twice and a third time was pending. Communion was over, hymns had been sung. It was almost over, except for the final blessing.

Several people slipped out the door and made their way to their cars, emptying the doorway where our youngster was standing. The priest watched this, glaring and shaking his head, until finally he seemed to snap. He stomped up to the microphone and proceeded to lecture the entire remaining congregation about leaving before the final blessing, indicating that if anyone leaves before the final benediction, then it was as if they had not attended church at all and that they would be going to hell.

Total silence from the congregation, except rustlings as the guilty shifted in their seats when his belligerant eye passed over them. He kept everyone in their seats for an extra 10 minutes just to prove his point; it was like an immediate return to grade school mentality: the bell had rung, but since the class was being punished, no one could leave until the teacher said it was okay. He kept everyone there until the collection plates were passed again, then he finally gave the all clear and people began the controlled exodus.

Our youngster joined the shuffling crowd as they headed out the door at the officially sanctioned end of mass, but she moved to the side, lingering by the door outside, so she could speak to the priest as he came out the door, shaking hands with fawning parishioners. She politely waited for him to acknowledge her.

"Excuse me, Father, but may I ask you a question?"
"Certainly, certainly." He was now very jovial ... the last collection must have been plentiful, the catholic guilt causing the parishioners to reach deep.
"I'm wondering why you are angry at the people who left, instead of being happy that they came to mass at all?"
"EXCUSE me?"
"Well, you don't really know the circumstances ... maybe they had someone watching their children and had to hurry home so another family member could attend mass. Who knows? Not I, because I'm not omnipotent. The point is, it seems to me that you should be glad they came at all, instead of just skipping mass entirely, and I don't think it was right of you to lecture everyone on it, because now you've made everyone think that if they can't attend for an hour, then they might as well not come at all. And it I remember correctly, the other speech you made was that the expected funds from parishoners are not as generous as in years past ... perhaps this speech about 45 minutes vs. 1 hour of mass time could explain why it's going to continue to drop?"

She suddenly flashed back to the confessional experience with the Monseigneur, because this priest grew alarmingly red, sputtering and spitting.

"I don't think you know what you are talking about."
"Well, I know that if I could only attend church for 45 minutes instead of an hour, the God that I believe in would understand and appreciate the effort."

The rest of this conversation is not worth repeating. Suffice it to say that our youngster has now grown up ... she has her beliefs, she has a strong foundation of values, but she does not have church, priests or conformity.

The end. :)

Bloggin' Blues

Peekay was just asking me why I have such gaps in my blogging lately.

It's true ... not a clue, but I do. Pee-yooo!
I can't seem to stop rhyming (maybe it's my timing?)
Regardless, this needs to stop! (Somebody better call a cop!)

Okay, maybe you can see,
why you should be glad you haven't heard from me.
I've had lots of blog thoughts,
and now I've been caught
guilty of ignoring & leaving readers snoring
while I've been in a slump
but now I've got to bust my hump
Because Peekay's been bloggin'
and all the bandwith she's been hoggin'
even during her bout with sickness
she still managed to kick it
while I've sat and stewed
grumpy, grouch with a 'tude
is not a happy blogger, Dude!

But now I'm back and raring
(check me out to see how I'm faring!)

Hee-hee-HEE!
Sharondarella