Tag: humor

Vintage chicks lol

When It Comes to Passwords, I’ll Pass

Vintage Chicks lol

When my oldest son — who works in security in Washington, D.C.— comes to visit, he is always completely aghast at my total lack of securing anything.

He runs around the premises every night, locking doors, planning the escape route in case of a fire, terrorist attack or a locust invasion, stocking up on bottled water and 20-pound cans of beans while wearing cammo and SWAT gear to take out my garbage.

This disrupts my normal security routine of waking up in the recliner at 2 a.m. — after I fall asleep watching season 12 of “Hoarders” — and stumbling to the front and back doors to lock up for the night.

Photo by Sebastian Herrmann on Unsplash

What drives my son the craziest, though, is a document on my computer desktop appropriately titled “PASSWORDS.”

Actually, there are now two documents — one called “NEW PASSWORDS” and another called “OLD PASSWORDS.”

“Mom,” he admonished, “Tell me you do not put the passwords to every account you have out there for the whole world to see?!”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “The whole world doesn’t use my computer, just you, Stacy, Ben, Chris, the grandkids, my friend, LeeAnn — ’cause her ex took the computer when he left her for his best friend’s much younger sister, you know, the blond masseuse who worked at Tender Touches — or my neighbors when their wireless goes out or they forget to pay the bill.”

Photo by Jamie Haughton on Unsplash

I often forget my password and am forced to come up with a new password. For that reason, I prefer easy-to-remember passwords like “password123,” “vivspassword” or “mypassword.”

But because of security measures, I can spend an entire afternoon on the computer, just trying to come up with an acceptable password.

My son, on the other hand, will change his passwords every five or six days. One week he changed one from “catinhatprobe?/{678}=&!^%@$$wipeDRAG79men2Jail” to “hatincatprobe?/{678}=&!^%@$$wipeDRAG79men2Jail”.

Who’s got that kind of time? I’m not a young woman.

This is how I create a password:

WEBSITE: Please enter your new password.

ME: password

WEBSITE: Sorry, password must have more than 8 characters.

ME: passwords

WEBSITE: Sorry, the password must contain at least one numerical character.

ME: 1password

WEBSITE: Sorry, the password cannot begin with a numerical character.

ME: password1

WEBSITE: Sorry, the password must contain at least one symbol.

ME: password1!

WEBSITE: Sorry, the password must contain at least one upper case character.

Viv: password1DAMMit!

WEBSITE: Sorry, the password cannot use more than one upper case character consecutively.

VIV: WTF!DAMN password1-iH8u!

WEBSITE: Sorry, the password cannot contain blank spaces.

VIV: NOW:Driving2YourCity2leaveU4dead!

WEBSITE: Sorry, the password cannot contain punctuation or hyphens.

ME: IH8U!*&%#off-DIEsucker!!

WEBSITE: Sorry, You’ve already used that password in the past.

ME: @#$%!&1*@#$%@&&!DIE!DIE!DIE!

WEBSITE: That password is already taken. Please choose another.

***

Coming of Age, Vintage chicks lol

Resolution Execution

Vintage Chicks lol

As a lark, I wrote this silly ditty about my hideous (to my mind) body. In my younger days it was simply known as “Removing Ribs or Your Skull — Whatever it Takes to Be Slim.” Nowadays they call it Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I sent the ditty to a health magazine that was looking for New Year’s Resolution stories. My take on a lifetime of starving myself was rewarded with a prize of about $400 worth of natural health and food products. I know, I know. The irony. Anyway, if you know a young woman who obsesses about her imperfect body, pass this along. Tell her not to wait until she’s in her sixties, like me, when she’ll no longer care about having the perfect body because she’ll be too busy cramming for her “finals.” Tell her to celebrate her body, pamper it, nourish it and be brutally honest — tell her she will never be perfect because no one is perfect. Well, except Cindy Crawford. She’s perfect. She’s soooo perfect. The Bad Viv wants to force feed her buckets of fudge cheesecake and chocolate eclairs until she breaks out in pimples, cellulite and Type 2 diabetes. But I digress …

Resolution Execution

For 40-plus years on January first

I resolved to lose weight, but my body was cursed

There’s always that 20 I think I must shed

But low and behold, it’s all in my head

It started in high school, no more and no less

No shame of my body, but the mind? What a mess

A skinny teen sneered, pointed and laughed

“Piano legs” she trilled, adding “and a fat ass.”

I reeled, embarrassed and to my dismay 

I saw my reflection — no longer okay 

Lettuce, boiled eggs begat famished, demented

Yet,

I was skinny! 

A lifelong obsession cemented

But no matter how slim, it just didn’t matter

I saw only my belly as my ankles grew fatter

Diet-fatigued, several decades later  

I fired myself as my own body-hater

I resolved to eat whatever I liked

Good fats, avocados, peanut butter delights

Don’t forget the red wine, it’s good for the heart

Dark chocolate, fresh peaches, shrimp cocktail to start

Oh, I lamented, all the years that I squandered

My body was normal

I blinked, quite bewondered

And now, on my walks, I may glimpse the reflection

Of that healthy, old woman who won my affection.

Photo by Ashley Piszek on Unsplash

Cover photo by Isi Parente on Unsplash “Girl in white holding plate”

Vintage chicks lol

Making Memories I Can’t Remember

Vintage Chicks lol

Last week, I was enjoying a takeout meal and a glass of wine with my friend, Marcia, at our monthly StayIn Wine & Dine when she suddenly asked how long I’d been married. (She didn’t add “this time” which is why she is my friend.)

I paused for a silent brain debate — was it 13 years? 14? 15?

Gently coaxing, she asked, “OK then, when is your anniversary?”

“Uh, the 30th? 28th? No, wait, I remember — the 29th!”

She glanced at her phone and then at me, “Today is the 29th.”

“What?! Oh, my gosh! I’ve got to go buy a card and some kind of gift!” I jumped up, gulped down my wine, grabbed my things and sprinted out the door.

In a small town at 8 p.m. shopping options are always slim — a grocery store, dollar store, drug store or liquor store. The only other option was a 30-minute drive to the nearest city to find a department store. We hadn’t been married long enough for me to make that kind of sacrifice, especially on a weeknight when I’m normally in my pajamas and wrapped in a furry blanket by 9 p.m.

I masked up, chose the more-expensive dollar store (nothing but the best), grabbed a gift sack, tissue, a package of briefs, some outdoor solar lights, a few energy drinks and a large bag of peanut M & Ms that said, “I’m Not Sick of You Yet.” The rack labeled Anniverary Cards was completely bare, so I made do with a Thinking of You card that said “Let’s Keep in Touch.”

It would have to do. The important thing was that after 15 — no, wait, 13 years — I had finally remembered.

It’s really not my fault. We flew to Vegas to get married, our plane was late on arrival and there was a three hour time difference, so by the time we actually made it to the chapel and got married, it was nearly midnight on our Indiana watches. The entire wedding event transpired over 72 hours at the end of the month, so the exact day was somewhere between the 28th and the 1st.

I walked in the front door, plopped the beautifully bagged underwear and M&Ms on my husband’s lap as he was sitting in the recliner and said, “Happy Anniversary!”

“What?” he frowned quizzically.

“You thought I’d forget, didn’t you? Well, I didn’t,” I said smugly.

He looked at me for several long seconds and said, “Our anniversary is May 29th.”

“I know,” I said, beaming.

“Today is April 29th.”

Damn it.

Marriage has no guarantees. If that’s what you’re looking for, go live with a car battery.

—Erma Bombeck
Vintage chicks lol

Getting Down and Dirty

Vintage Chicks lol

I love the spring. Life anew.

My yard is the size of a postage stamp, but it keeps me busy. My husband and I live in the house my Mom and Dad lived in for more than 40 years. Mom was a nurse and a Master Gardener. I am neither. While I don’t intend to hook up a catheter or assist in a triple cardiac bypass, I do love to putter around in the yard.

Unstoring and cleaning summer furniture and yard equipment; filling pots with composted soil; raking leaves and uncovering the newborn buds and sprouts beneath; pruning overgrowth — nothing relaxes me more. Except maybe the glass of wine I have after working in the yard all day.

By June, the posts will be filled with flowers, the trees will be lush (and me too, if I keep up the gardening/wine combo), baby birds will join their parents at the birdfeeders, along with the neighbor’s quite audacious squirrel and Mamma Rabbit and her babies who live under the bushes in the front of the house and oh yes, the hawk that waits patiently at the top of the tulip tree to dive into a feast of his own making.

Dirty shirt, dirty jeans, dirty nails — these are the dirty things that give me pleasure.

In March, I start getting in shape for my summer gardening hobby by 1.) forgetting I’m not 35; 2.) falling over while putting my pants on and balancing on one foot, and; 3.) throwing my back out after bending over to retrieve my pants.

At left, my Mom’s prized tulip tree; at right, the weeping cherry tree my family gave me on Mothers Day, 2013, just a week after I had The Brain Tumor removed. I give thanks every spring that the Brain Tumor Tree and Me blossomed yet another year.

Vintage chicks lol

Parenting Ability Test For Non-Parents

Vintage Chicks lol

Shouldn’t there be some kind of licensing system for those who wish to become parents? A license is required to fish, style hair or stuff dead animals, for crying out loud.

This from a woman who probably could not have passed a test to have any of the four children she gave birth to.

In the early 1970s I had my first child in southern California while married to her Marine Corps dad, who was stationed at Camp Pendleton. An officer’s wife, who ran a women’s group for the Marine infantry wives, told me the average age of the female spouses in the group was 15. I was 19, old and wise and almost AARP material in their eyes.

I got my first glimpse into the world of Lil’ Miss Moms when one cute, but ditsy, young newlywed and mother (the two were sometimes synonymous) showed me a large knife placed under her baby’s crib. She said her infant son had an earache and the knife would “cut his pain.”

Honest. To. God.

Raising children, especially teenagers, may cause sudden bursts of craziness.

Anyway, here’s an easy Parental Ability Test. Be honest. And, if you have more than four affirmative answers … well, can you spell c-o-n-d-o-m?

You should rethink having a child if:

• You think the birth canal is in South America.

• You have ever uttered the phrase: “My kid will never do that.”

• You would put a knife under your baby’s crib to cut the pain.

• You get gaggy at the sight of vomit, phlegm, blood, boogers or runny, greenish-yellow poo.

• You were never a teenager.

• You were a teenager, but can’t remember it because you were stoned out of your mind.

• You are now an adult and still stoned out of your mind.

• You think you will look like Pregnant Barbie and have your child effortlessly by pulling it from a plastic flap in your belly.

• You think that children will bring you and your mate “closer together.”

Babies are ferocious little beasts and will devour anything and anybody who gets in their way, especially their parents.

• You think children, adolescents and teenagers have a natural, instinctive ability to apply reason and common sense. (or you think you can “train” them to do so.)

• You currently reside in a dumpster by night and a public library by day.

• You know that if you were in charge of your friends’ children, you could straighten those brats out.

• You want to wait to bring any children into the world until: 1.) You and your partner are financial stable; 2.) Congress actually works together for the good of the people, or; 3.) There is peace on Earth. 

• You have ever thought about naming a child after the sponsor of your favorite NASCAR driver — including Prilosec, Viagra, Dasani, Dupont Tyvek, Sprint Nextel, Wishbone, Bud Lite, Bud Weiser, Ann Heuser, Pabst (do not even think about Smirr for a middle name!), Corona, Heine Ken or Red Bull (exceptions on Red Bull: a Sioux Indian or Spanish matador).

• You ever again expect to go to the bathroom by yourself or sleep eight consecutive hours.

• You occasionally smoke crack to “energize.”

• You have ever said “Bubbah and I are going to a Proud Boys kegger after we bet on the cock fights over at Thugger Joe’s.”

• You plan to train your child to perform on stage, dance provocatively, apply garish makeup and win the USA Jr. Miss Potty-Trained Tiara Toddler crown by the time she’s 12 months old.

• You want to have a litter of kids so you can make lots of money with your own reality show.

Do not make your children wear matching outfits that make them look like yodeling goat herders in the Swiss Alps. This adorable little girl never again wore a neck bow and became a surgical nurse who prefers anesthetized patients. Her sweet, little brother grew up to be a Marine Corps Scout sniper.
Coronavirus, Vintage chicks lol

Pandemic Incognito Brings Out Superpowers

Vintage Chicks lol
The Cher-Wanna-Be

I procrastinate. The day my hairdresser, Miriam, left for a 2-week vacation in Utah is the day I noticed I had rapidly gone from Honey Blond to Gluttonous Gray.

The Activist

I could not afford to fly to Salt Lake City for a root job and I could not go to another hairdresser because Miriam is also a longtime, close friend and it would have been like committing adultery. As it says in the Bible, getting it on with another beautician is a grievous sin.

So, I dug through the back of my closet and found the wigs that I bought long ago and have never worn because, well, because I’m paranoid that everyone is staring at me because they know I’m wearing a wig.

The Aunt Myrtle

Wearing a wig, face mask and sunglasses comes in handy when running errands in flannel pajama bottoms and an old, paint-stained T-shirt. That’s when I always run into the immaculately-dressed and exquisitely made-up former co-worker who wants to stop and chat about her very accomplished children and her very accomplished life. As. Opposed. To. My. Very. Unaccomplished. And. Dreary. Life.

The Badass

But, she passed by the wiggy-me without a hint of recognition. Hallelujah! Why have I been wasting my life wearing my own hair and exposing my lips and eyes?

When I donned the auburn, long-haired wig and ventured into the city to shop, I was Venturous Viv and a completely different person from Virtuous Viv, the highlighted brunette who browsed the non-fiction section in my small town library.

I discovered I was more suited to work in a soup kitchen as a brunette, but as a curly-headed blond, I was more likely to lead a protest against the state legislators’ attempt to eliminate Indiana’s wetlands.

The
Sleeps-in-Coffin-By-Day

The inky, black bob with fringed bangs gave me absolute super powers. I became Vamp Viv. My husband ran into my bad self in the frozen food section of a local supermarket and was especially attentive before I hit him over the head with a 10-pound bag of rock-solid chicken legs.

The Marie Antoinette

Wearing that same wig, I was able to morph into Vindictive Viv and deal with a jerk behind me at the stoplight who always hauls a gigantic confederate flag in the bed of his truck. You know the type — the guy who starts yelling obscenities at the car in front of him because that driver doesn’t rev the engine and take off the second the light turns green. So, with a flip of my dark locks and fringed bangs — and my middle finger — I exerted my extraordinary powers, locked the doors, turned up the radio and calmly sat through the light one more time. I peeled out just as he was preparing to stab me with the Rebel flagpole.

Maybe you’re thinking “mental illness,” but except for the Yankee-Wanna-Be-Confederate guy, I’ve had nothing but good experiences. And — bonus!— these six new, enthusiastic women in my life have expressed an interest in joining my Prosaic Procrastinators writer’s group.

Scribbles by Viv, Vintage chicks lol

Tumorous Humorous: Goes Well With Pita Chips

Vintage Chicks lol

I used to hate the way my face was falling to the earth, outpaced only by my thighs.

Once a lady asked the name of the chubby dog that was wrapped around my feet. I had to tell her it was my ankles.

The problem with growing old is that even though you still feel young in your mind, your body begins to crack and disintegrate like a human pork rind.

A few years ago, when I was 60, doctors discovered a tumor the size of Rhode Island growing between my brain and my ear canal.

“It’s an Acoustic Neuroma,” the doctor said.

I was pretty sure I bought that album in 1979.

Anyway, after a 13- or 14-hour brain surgery, I was as good as new.

That’s a lie.

I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t drink. I couldn’t sit. Heck, I couldn’t even roll over.  Half of my face was frozen and numb because the tumor had wrapped around my right facial nerve. Someone had fashioned a turban out of barbed wire and attached it to my head with steel beams and iron spikes which were driven into my skull and all tangled in my bloody hair. Wires and tubes were attached to my arms and other body parts. Had I been crucified?

On the upside, I was on some pretty mind-blowing narcotics so I was waaaay down the rabbit hole having tea and crumpets with Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Mother Teresa.

One thing I could do was laugh — albeit out of the side of my mouth with a gurgling sound and one wide-open, freaky eye that refused to close. I didn’t care. Did I mention the drugs?

Every few minutes a staff member would come to my bedside, ask me to squeeze her fingers and ask the same questions: “What’s your name?” “What day is it?” “Who is president?”

I had married twice, taken both husbands’ names, then reverted to my maiden name, then married again and did not take his name.

My mom had to down several 5-Hour Energy drinks just to write my names in the family Bible.

The first time the nurse asked me if I knew my name, my youngest brother quipped, “Oh sure, start with the hard questions.”

I liked to mess with them when asked the president question: “Taft?” “Weird Al Yankovic?” “Grant? Did the North win?”

Accomplishing one goal at a time — walking up and down stairs, gardening, driving, hiking up a Virginia mountain, making Fruit Loops for dinner — I recovered.

5 weeks post-op with my crooked face and my beautiful niece, Chandler.

For the most part, my face came back, my wrinkles returned, and I no longer looked like I got Botox injections from a one-eyed physician.

I was so happy to see the deep lines return to my face that I made them a welcome home casserole with extra Oil of Olay.

Growing old never had looked more appealing.

Vintage chicks lol

Never Mind, Pass the Pie

Vintage Chicks lol

My mom, a genteel Southern lady — who never uttered a single curse word (that I ever heard) until I  was well into my 30s, and even then, it was a pretty weak profanity — had an annoying habit of dropping family secret bombshells in the midst of a casual family dinner and then walking away while my brothers and sisters and I sat open-mouthed in stunned silence.

Our family dinners are not small, intimate events. This is People Room #1 of 4.

Mom: “Would anyone like more scalloped potatoes or ham?”

Bob: “Are those the potatoes from my garden?”

Margaret: “Did I give everyone copies of the kids’ school pictures?”

Janet: “Is that my kid eating the mashed potatoes out of the pan with a spatula?”

Darrell: “No, pretty sure it’s mine. Jesse! Leave some for the rest of us!”

Paul: “Why don’t you have cable TV, mom? You need cable. You get four channels, Mom. Four.”

Me: “What’s that smell? Smells kinda like dirty feet.”

John: “I think that’s your organic, gluten-free, vegan casserole, Viv.”

Mom: “You know (we certainly did not), your grandfather ordered a mail-order bride after your grandma died in 1946 when I was 14. She was from St. Louis (implying city whore), wore seamed stockings (definitely a city whore) and we (she and her four siblings) sent her packing.”

Us, in unison: “What?! Grandpa ordered a bride?! What did she look like? Did Grandpa just bring her home or did she show up on the doorstep?! What the …?! How come you never … Mom! What was her name? Did you ever see her again? What did you do to send her packing? Light her on fire? Was she an evil stepmother? Do any cousins know? Tell us more!”

Every time she did this — yes, she did it more than once and more frequently as she grew older — she would then wave her hand dismissively, change the subject and say, “Never mind, it’s not important, pass the pie. Yes Bob, those potatoes are from your garden.”

To this day, we all continue to use this phrase as a mantra for ignoring important news that we’d rather avoid altogether.

“I know I’m 40, but I’m pregnant, again. Pass the pie.”

“It was only two nights in jail and a $1,200 bond. Could you pass the pie?”

“By the way, I filed for divorce yesterday. Is that pumpkin pie? Pass it, please.”

“OK, I’m not exactly sure how old I’ll be when I finish paying off the $189,000 in student loans. Look, just pass the pie, OK?”

Cooking, Coronavirus, Vintage chicks lol

ButterNutting My Way to Pandemic Cuisine

Vintage Chicks lol

How bored and anxiety-ridden am I? Enough to turn French.

 le freak; le maniaque; le sot.

My attempt at growing butternut squash is shown in the middle. My baby is flanked by the giant, mutant GMO squash on either side.

My son gave me the last of his fall harvest — two mutantly large (oh yes, those GMOs) butternut squash — and I decided to make butternut squash soup, for the first time in my looooong life (aged 20 years in 2020 alone).

It was simple, I guess, but peeling two butternut squash the size of Volkswagens is akin to finding head lice on Rapunzel.

However, once I had that out of the way, I was full throttle to the Ultimate French Cuisine Snobby Pandemic Chef From Hell.

I decided to make crème fraîche (pronounced kram fresh-ha) and toasted pepitas as a decadent topping for the decadent full-fat creamy butternut soup. That extra COVID+19 around my waistline was not attained by munching celery and sipping lemon water.

Those two mutant squashes yielded SIX(!) freezer bags of future French cuisine — or freezer frost, depending on my mood.

Since I couldn’t find crème fraîche in the store (“Cream, right? Dairy aisle. Fresh ah, veggies? Produce aisle.”) , I decided to make it. Turns out adding 2 tablespoons of buttermilk to 2 cups of heavy whipping cream and letting it set for 8-24 hours renders a delightfully thick luscious type of French cream. Je suis très impressionné!

I cooked the cubed squash with chopped onion, apple, celery, carrots, garlic, veggie broth and salt and pepper until soft, blended it all in the blender (one small batch at a time) and poured it into bowls. Topped with a dollop of salted, roasted pepitas (come on — regular ole’ pumpkin seeds! Aldis —under $2 a bag!), fresh, chopped parsley and crème fraîche — and voila! A masterpiece!

For no one.

Bon appétit!

Just me. Always me. I have NEVER been so sick of me.

Well. there’s also my husband, who is also sick of me and whom I run into once in a while in the hallway on weekends. Alas, he could not see the splendor of a perfectly blended and exquistitely-plated butternut bisque and magnificently executed crème fraîche when all he really wanted was a dozen smoky BBQ wings with steak fries.

I ate it all. Thus, I upgraded the COVID+19 to COVID+24.

Would I do it again? Geesh, it was a lot of work. But, during the pandemic when there’s a lot of me, me, me time, I might foray into that French cooking arena once again.

When this is all over, though? Pretty sure I’ll forget the soup and enjoy a mixing bowl of the crème fraîche and toasted pepitas for breakfast, lunch and dinner. grossir pendant la quarantaine.

Coronavirus, Vintage chicks lol

Lofty Goals Crumble on the Sofa

Vintage Chicks lol

What is it with old people these days? And by old people, I mean me.

Pappy, 87-years-young

An 87-year-old named Pappy climbed Mount Katahdin and has already logged in over 1,000 miles on the Appalachian Trail; 74-year-old Rosie Swale-Pope successfully completed a five-year around-the-world run, and; 103.4-year-old Al Blaschke qualified for the Guinness Book of World Records after taking a tandem skydive at 14,000 feet.

Good grief.

I consider it a major accomplishment if I can fasten my own bra in the morning.

However, after reading about these incredible seniors, I was motivated. I carefully inked my plan: Start with the 8.2 mile trail in a local state park five days a week, followed by the Springfield Sputter, Mutter & Putter Marathon in April and culminate in the Old Geezers Gasp n’ Collapse Triathalon in June.

I’m pretty good at writing action plans while sitting at my desk. Writing is not a problem. Action is the problem.

Viv’s Do It Or Die Journal

Caffeine in the only motivating factor in the author’s life and even that is short-lived.

Day 1: Walked out front door and down the five porch steps. Very cold out. Walked back up the steps, retrieved a warmer jacket and some gloves. Walked back outside and down the steps. Still cold. Walked up the steps and back inside to retrieve a hat. Both cats ambushed me, cursing “Raaoh!— Raaoh!” Quickly dumped some cat food into their dishes and walked back outside. Just as I got to the car, it started to rain. Went back into the house, put my pajamas back on and curled up in a defeated ball of lost ambition. I’m exhausted.

Day 2: Was almost to the park, all set to hike, when I found a coupon in the van console for a free latte at my favorite coffee shop that was only a few miles away. Made a quick U-turn and headed toward Jumping’ Jack Java. Had no choice. The coupon expires today.

photo by Mehdi Thomas Boutdarine

Day 3: Didn’t make it out the door. My son needed me to babysit while he ran some errands. The grandkids and I made cookies, which is akin to powerwashing the kitchen with a 10-pound bag of flour and swabbing the deck with frosting. Really did plan to go on my hike after they left, but it was impossible. I have a triple case of Distended Cookie Belly, Preschooler Sitter Fatigue and COVID Burnout. Took a nap, instead. I’m exhausted.

Day 2: Looked out the front window and thought for quite a while about hiking. While thinking, I climbed in the recliner under my blankie and read the paper front to back. Also did the crossword and sudoku puzzles. Got up and looked out the window again. Screw it. It’s cold out and it took me all morning to get my bra fastened. I’m exhausted.

Besides, I’m right in the middle of season 4 of Schitt’s Creek.