Sticking to Beauty

It’s unbelievable the lengths someone will go to for the sake of vanity.  Case in point?  This lady happily taping her neck to hide her throat wrinkles and wattles.

The inventor of this medical-grade neck wrinkle tape is no stranger to the beauty scene; she gave us the lip plumper (an adult lollipop with no flavors, basically).  She is apparently a grandmother of three at the age of sixty, so there’s that.

No offense to this beautiful lady, but there is no way this tape would work for me.  I superglue my fingers together every time I try to fix a vase, so I can’t imagine trying to tape my neck wattles in the back.

First, you know as well as I do that I would end up taping my hair to my neck.  Doesn’t matter how carefully I pull it back, it will end up taped to my shirt, my face, the mirror, and my dog.  And while this tape may not work on neck skin, I guarantee it will stick to anything and everything else. That’s just a given.

Second, I am well aware of my own luck.  The tape would blow out half-way through a presentation at work, setting my epic folds free in a glorious explosion of skin and fat … I can see the slow-motion capture on YouTube now.  My peers would be utterly transfixed and fascinated by my waving wattles; they couldn’t possibly be expected to take me seriously after that. The tape, under the super pressure I’d need to rein in my wrinkles, would slingshot across the room, taking out a few coffee cups on the way and smacking the new CEO square in the forehead.

Look, I’m all about women doing whatever they need to do to feel better about themselves, but neck tape?  Please, ladies, just say no to neck tape.

I agree that our necks can make us look much older than we are, so I proudly introduce my own invention:  wattle staples.  These can be used in any common stapler, and they aren’t just for neck wrinkles!  Got sagging boobs?  Staple ‘em.  Droopy butt?  Staple it!  And those obnoxious butterfly wings under your arms?  Staple those, too.  I have a staple for everything!  Defy your age, and gravity, by Stapling It! You know, I really should be on Shark Tank with all of my fantastic ideas. I’ve got entrepreneur stapled written all over my face.

OK, so the concept of taping your neck is actually not a new one. There are lots of other brands and uses, too.  Many stars have been taping body parts for years.  I applaud them for not going under the knife, but I am disappointed that they are setting the example for us common folk that aging is unnatural and evil.  It’s not.  I’ve earned every wrinkle, crease, and droop on my gloriously imperfect body. And so have you.

Come on, I mean, we have fake nails, fake boobs, fake butts, fake eyelashes, and even fake hair; now, we have neck tape to complete the package?  Yes, feeling good about yourself is important, but why aren’t we happy with ourselves to begin with?

I blame media for setting unrealistic beauty goals for women. Aging stars are displayed in all of their perfection, looking half their age, as beautiful and timeless as money can buy.  And make no mistake, money does buy youth.  Age-defying stars and models probably spend more money on time-stopping surgeries than most of us will ever invest in mortgages. Even those stars who want to age gracefully are often victims of post-photo shoot airbrushing because the editor of so-and-so magazine decided they didn’t want a naturally aging woman on their cover. God forbid. Hell, even those stars who are already flawless are routinely airbrushed to create a next-level completely unattainable vision of youth and beauty.

For the rest of us, thank God there is medical-grade neck tape!  Ladies (and some guys, too), do what you need to do to feel beautiful, it’s none of my business.  Frankly, though, spending $16 plus shipping and handling on neck tape is a little silly when you can get duct tape at the dollar store for fifty cents.  You’re welcome.

So, What Do You Like To Do?

So, I will admit that I have been dipping my toe once again into the online dating world (don’t judge). After a dismal first attempt a while back, I thought, what the hell? I’m a glutton for punishment, might as well give it another whirl.

Well, I have learned so much about the new face of dating, and I have to say that I miss the “good old days.”  To say that things have changed just a bit is a massive understatement. However, I’m remaining hopeful that my dream guy will come along.  He’d better hurry up, though, before I join the convent and swear off guys forever. Why this harsh stance, you ask? Let me explain.

It seems that the new trend in “dating” has nothing to do with dating, exactly, and involves getting right to the point … if you get my point. Long gone are the days of sharing life stories, getting to know one another, moving slowly to the finish line.  More often than not, the first messages sent by a potential match pretty much sum up everything you need to know about them, and what you need to know, apparently, is the not-so-subtle art of “sexting.”

In my experiences so far with online matchmaking, I have found that “long walks on the beach and reading a book by firelight” is no longer the right answer to the question, “So, what do you like to do?”  Quite frankly, it’s hard to know what to expect; there is such a fine line between “oh, you know, normal stuff” and “well, I don’t want to get in to specifics, but it involves three live chickens, trash bags, oil, and a copy of the New York Times.”

Also, “send me a pic” means something entirely different than what I thought.  Thinking it was an innocuous request, when one guy ask me for a pic, I sent him three: one of me posing in front of Epcot Center in Disneyland, one with me hugging the mascot of my daughter’s school at a basketball game, and one of me with my cats (I figured he may as well know what he was getting into).  He replied with question marks, a confused emoji, and a picture of… things that I cannot un-see. Speaking of which, just how are you supposed to respond to these unsolicited pics? A thank you? A show of pity? A simple ewwww?

But I digress …

Now, I am not a prude by any means, but neither am I fourteen, hiding in my closet and giggling over dirty limericks.  What am I wearing?  A fuzzy bathrobe, mismatched socks, and a baseball cap; you can’t handle this much woman, dude.  Don’t tell me the things you want to do to me, tell me how you would come over to vacuum, take out the trash, and do the dishes.  And oh yeah, you’re bringing cheesecake. THAT is how to successfully sext a woman.

For myself, I can’t even think about sexting without picturing an old lady in her kitchen, sitting on a red lacquered bar stool hunkered up by the avocado green rotary wall phone, dressed in her comfy stained housecoat with her hair in curlers, fuzzy slippers and white socks against unshaven legs that would rival a bear’s upon emerging from hibernation, cigarette hanging out of her mouth, a Joe’s Diner coffee cup in one hand and the phone’s handset in the other, saying “Oh, baby, oh baby” – in that sexy, raspy 30-years-of-smoking-cigarettes-induced voice – to some paying customer on the other end of the line for just $3.99 a minute.

My version of sexting hasn’t gone over very well so far, either. “Oh, I want you like I want the new Dyson cordless vac, baby.”  “I’m wearing my favorite sweatshirt, the one without the stain on the front.” “I’m ready to spend the perfect night together, just be quiet because my shows are on.”

I haven’t entirely given up on finding “the one” via new-fangled means. I mean, who knows what might happen?  If I ever find a guy who answers, “what do you like to do?” with “binge old movies and eat cheesecake” and sends me an unsolicited dog pic, I’ll know he’s a keeper.

 

Cookbook of the Cursed

I apologize for the recent radio silence.   I thought I would make up for the unexpected peace and quiet silence on my part that you’ve been blessed forced to endure, I would regale you with a real-life incident that really happened, no really, it did, or, as they loosely say in the movies … “events portrayed are based on a true story.”

I was browsing the used book store a couple of weeks ago and stumbled across an old cookbook from the 1930’s, well-loved and dog-eared, with lots of pen scribbles in the margins of the recipes. To be honest, some of the chicken-scratch in this dusty, old tome read more like a “how to” on summoning a demon than your typical Sunday dinner recipes, but who was I to judge?  I had to have it.  It was high time to bury myself up to my elbows in flour and try something new, or old, however you want to look at it.

I flipped through the book and found a bean casserole; what could be easier or more wholesome than a bean casserole?  I decided to make it that very evening for dinner. I parked in the lot in front of the grocery store and jotted down the ingredients.  Difficult to spell spices, Devonshire cream, Hawaiian sea salt, banana flour, Lychee and sea beans?  Easy-peasy.

An hour later after a lengthy search for obscure ingredients, I came out of the store with my Devonshire cream, on sale for just $8 a quart, my $25 Hawaiian sea salt, my $18 banana flour, and a variety of top shelf – if not odd smelling – spices.  I was also given directions to a produce market about two hours away for my lychee.  I was in it to win it, though; I don’t know what a lychee is, but if it’s in this book it’s got to be good.  I plugged the directions into my navigation, and off I went.

I pulled into the dusty, broken down roadside shack and got even more excited.  What other culinary delights are hidden in there? The bells jingled behind me, and a German Shepherd barked menacingly behind the counter.  There, in the back, was a faded sign that read, “Lychee.”  The recipe called for ten bunches of Lychee …at $15 per bunch.  I was feeling a little less than thrilled, but still determined.   I forked over the $150 for my bunches and mentioned that I hadn’t seen any sea beans.  He handed me a sack and directed me to a swamp about five hours south.

A quick stop by a Wal-Mart outfitted me with my rubber boots and pants, on sale for $169!  I couldn’t believe my luck.  Five hours later, I arrived at the swamp.   I wandered through the murk until I found them; sea beans!  I would have shouted for joy, but I didn’t want to wake the napping alligators on the banks. There was already a water moccasin watching my every move.

Around midnight, I got back home and took my finds into the kitchen, eager to get started.  First, it seems, I needed to “bruise” the lychee.  I hesitated to do this, I was rather fond of the fruit by this point.  I took the bunches and began bashing them with a hammer.   Although it was a great stress reliever (you don’t even know!), this just didn’t seem right, so I looked up the term only to find it means “gently” crushing the fruit.  I slopped the remains into a pot; it couldn’t matter that much, really.   I peeled the sea beans, only to read a pen scribbled note in the margin of the recipe that the beans shouldn’t be peeled. That can’t be too important, right? At any rate, I dumped them into the bowl with the remains of my Lychee. Looking good so far, folks!

Now, on to the fun!  I grabbed a measuring cup and my imported Devonshire cream.  I checked the cup several times but found no measurement for a “jigger.”  Undaunted, and remembering back to the days of my youth when my own mother cited this oft-used but heretofore forgotten in my mind measuring increment, I poured the entire quart into the soggy mess of lychee and sea beans.  Ok, next I needed a saucer of flour.  I still am not entirely clear what measurement a saucer is, but I gamely dumped several cups into the mixture figuring a saucer is pretty big … you know, to catch all of that spilled coffee.  Next, I included a stick of butter in response to “butter the size of a walnut” (because …butter), a quarter cup of garlic powder (one saltspoon? What the heck is a saltspoon?) and, of course, a pinch of Hawaiian salt.  I have small fingers, so I added a few more pinches to make sure.  I mean, who knows who wrote these recipes?  It could’ve been Paul Bunyan for all I know, and you know what size fingers he must’ve had.

Next, I needed to cook my delicious dish in a “slow oven” for 30 “scruples.”  Not sure what a “slow oven” is, since mine has never shown any inclination to run a marathon, I heated it to 425, poured my mixture into a casserole dish, set the timer for an hour and a half, and sat at the table waiting with excitement.  This was going to be awesome; I could see myself serving this dish to my neighbors, bringing it to office picnics, offering it for holiday feasts.

The smell hit me first; somewhere between skunk and sulfur, the smoke was billowing out of the oven and the casserole was on fire.  I took it out to let it cool “for a few moments” before having to admit, I was defeated.  $370, including my fishing outfit, and hours later, I had a congealed scorched mass of I don’t even know what.   I put it outside for the crows and raccoons, but so far, they’ve only been sitting around it, in a circle, mumbling to themselves and periodically looking up at my window as though they’re plotting my demise for having insulted their taste buds in such a manner.

Come to think of it, summoning a demon might’ve been easier, and certainly a lot more interesting. Smell probably would’ve been the same. Still, there are 153 other recipes in the book, and I can’t wait to try them all …once I pay off the credit card debt from this one.

I’m Not Lazy, I’m Allergic

This has been a hell of a past few months for me.  Thus far, science has vindicated me in that my slovenly lifestyle means I’m a genius, my wine consumption will let me live forever, and now my favorite so far:  I am allergic to exercise.

click to read the Popular Science article (which has way more actual facts than mine)

I always suspected it, to be honest.  Once I rise from the couch, my heart rate soars, I feel the blood rushing to my head, and I crave a chocolate bar.  Classic signs of exercise allergies (it’s true, I swear).  Apparently, exercise-related allergies are worsened when combined with some foods.  For me, eating a Kit Kat on the treadmill has tragic consequences. And not in the way you’d suspect. So of course, to protect myself, I gave up the treadmill.

I can just see my next doctor’s appointment.  I imagine it will go something like this:

Doctor:  So, you’ve gained 55 pounds in the last two months since you’ve been here.

Me:  I’ve had to abstain from all exercise.  I’m allergic.

Doctor:  I’m sorry, what?

Me:  I read it on the internet, so it must be true.  Just to be safe, I’ve installed lift chairs on my stairs.

Doctor:  Well, I think that you…

Me:  And I call a taxi to drive me to the mailbox daily.

Doctor:  Let me guess; you call a taxi to take the trash out?

Me:  Don’t be ridiculous.

Doctor:  Well, that’s good because I…

Me:  I use Lyft for that.

Doctor:  I see you are wearing a Medic Alert necklace.

Me:  Sometimes I need to get off the couch suddenly.  I like to be prepared.

Doctor:  What are you eating?

Me:  Oh, I eat a variety of foods.

Doctor:  Well, that’s good.

Me:  Pizza on Mondays, lo mein and fried rice on Tuesdays, eggplant parm on Wednesdays, pasta Alfredo on Thursdays…

Doctor (interrupting):  That sounds like it’s all delivery food…

Me:  Hey, Doc, I’m not taking any chances.

Ok, so this sounds like a real cop out, I admit, but now that people are coming forward with their exercise allergies, I am ready to come forward with some of my own personal allergies. (Yes, I know being allergic to exercise is a real thing, and my heart goes out to anyone who suffers from such a condition, but that’s not going to stop me from using this scientific finding to my advantage. I mean, come on.)

  1. Laundry: I am filled with an intense feeling of dread whenever I see a pile of laundry.  I have trouble catching my breath, and my eyes water.  This could be because of my kid’s gym socks, but I’m playing it safe.
  2. Dishes: I cringe when I see a sink full of dirty dishes. I find that after doing dishes for an extended period of time, my hands develop a strange, prune-y type skin reaction.  To avoid this, I choose to use paper plates (biodegradable!).  It is a sacrifice I must make for my own good.
  3. Driving: Strange feelings of rage envelop me when I am driving around idiots.  I feel almost blinded by anger, and my mouth makes very odd noises that my friends call “cursing.”  It is very stressful and frightening.
  4. Mirrors and Scales: This is a strange allergy where I cannot recognize the old lady in the mirror and I don’t trust scales.  I live with the mirror allergy, but I avoid the scale allergy at all costs.
  5. Healthy Eating: Tofu makes my stomach heave oddly, as does soy milk.  I find the only cure for this allergy is an immediate stop at a Dairy Queen for a chocolate-dipped ice-cream cone.
  6. Wearing a Bra: Somehow, I get through this one daily with no lasting ill effects.  I have mastered the art of removing the offending garment without taking off my shirt as soon as I walk in the door, just before any lasting harm can be done.
  7. Newscasts: I get sick to my stomach whenever I see any newscasts any more.  I’m afraid this is one allergy that will only get worse, and one that I share with a lot of people. For at least the foreseeable future, there is no known cure.

Vindication is a sweet, sweet word.  I have been proven correct on so many of my theories that I feel unstoppable. What’s next?  Proof that lettuce and rice cakes cause weight gain?  Just wait for it, loyal friends, I haven’t been wrong yet.

Truth in Advertising

Somewhere in my internet excursions, I came across this little gem as a profile for an internet dating site:

The first thing I had to do was to check and see if I’ve been sleep-posting to dating sites again.  The second thing I needed to do was to install security cameras to catch whoever is spying on me, because really, this is just plain creepy.  The third thing I did was to ponder this poignant missive, and wonder why there is rarely any truth to online dating profiles.  As a service to you, my loyal readers and followers, I have decided to create a list of common dating profile phrases and define them for you.  You’re welcome in advance.

  • Average Body Type: This is a phrase that needs further clarification in so many ways
  • Must love pets: Crazy cat lady
  • Currently caring for parents: Lives at home
  • Friendly, outgoing personality: Starts bar room brawls at noon at the local saloon
  • People person: See above
  • Loves video games: Basement dweller
  • Occasional smoker: Closet chain-smoker
  • Investor: Buys scratch-off tickets at the local gas station
  • Loves working out: Loves working out what’s for dinner and whether to watch Maury or Dr. Phil
  • Loves hiking: Parks the car at the far end of Wal-Mart once weekly
  • Enjoys quiet afternoons antiquing: Hoarder
  • I enjoy fine wine by candlelight: Lush and possible arsonist
  • I’m laid back and easygoing: Neurosis still to be diagnosed
  • My friends say I’m fun: They have to, it’s what I’m paying them for
  • Seeking a partner in crime:   My last one is doing ten years because s/he didn’t run fast enough
  • Seeking a causal relationship: Married
  • Looking for friendship: See above
  • Love romantic dinners by candlelight: Will stick a candle in the napkin holder at McDonald’s
  • Very open minded: To my own ideas

Ok, I may seem a little harsh, but if you must know, my own online dating stories have been pretty much epic fails.  From the guy in the questionable hairpiece (I swear it was moving) to the one who claimed he was 6’4” and was actually a circus midget in real life (no really, he was in the circus, born and raised), I have been stalked, the recipient of highly inappropriate pictures (which I didn’t ask for, I’ll have you know), and otherwise disappointed to the point that I hardly even change out of sweatpants for dates anymore.  I have the escape text pre-programmed into my phone, and I carry mace in my purse.  Not the spray; an actual mace.

What if online profiles just said what they mean?  Read this one I recently posted on a dating site:

I’m just putting this profile up to get likes on the cute picture of me and my dog.  I hate to go anywhere, and doing things is usually too much of a bother.  My main profile picture is from eighty years ago when I was a cheerleader in high school.  I may have gained five, ten, a hundred and ninety pounds since then.  I hate people.  I especially hate people anywhere near me.  Ever.  I enjoy the quiet comfort of my couch and a healthy dinner of chocolate cake and Captain Crunch.  I snort when I laugh and have been known to belch at a funeral.  I think I look sexy in my fuzzy sweatshirt with the coffee stain on the sleeve.  Ok, on the sleeves.  Ok, on the sleeves and collar. I think I look sexy in my fuzzy sweatshirt covered in coffee stains and chocolate sauce. I really want to find someone who loves me unconditionally and gives me the attention I need while leaving me alone 99% of the time.  If you want to get back to me, that’s fine.  I don’t really care either way.  If we end up going on a date I’ll have to get dressed and leave the house, so it’s okay if you don’t contact me.  In fact, don’t bother. I’m kind of a bitch anyway. 

Still waiting on the right swipes to start rolling in. They’re coming though, any day now.

What if there was a dating site that matched you with pet profiles?  What do you think? Wow, I wasn’t even thinking THAT, you guys are sick.  Seriously. Ewww.

What I meant was, you could look at their profile and see their pets and connect through your love of animals.  They could call it Puppy Love, and the motto would be:

“Who cares about the owner, check out this adorable kitten.”

It’s impossible to be disappointed with the outcome of any date that included a fantastic pet encounter as well. Heck, I’d suffer through a bad date just to hang out with a kitten or pupper. You just can’t go wrong meeting a cute bundle of fluff. The guy (or gal) might be an asshole, but hey, at least you met a new doggo! Can you imagine the break-up? Yeah, so, I don’t think this is going to work. You’re an asshole. But I can still visit Caden the Corgi, right?  Right!?

The Original Cat Burglars Unveiled

Tucked in between “news articles” about alien abductions and man-eating butterflies on the World News Daily Report, I found this gem hidden away.   Long story short, it claims that an elderly lady trained her cats to steal jewelry from her neighbors; the epitome of “cat burglars.”

click photo for story

I admit, there is a part of me that wishes this was a true story.  I could absolutely get on board with training my cats to do cool things other than bringing me dead bugs. Let’s face it, though; cats only do what they want to do, and it always involves a smug, self-serving attitude and a “what’s in it for me” end goal.

I can see me, 20 years from now, in full Crazy Cat Lady mode.  I’d train my cats to do things like weed my garden, mow my lawn, put away the dishes, and fold the laundry.  In my fantasy, I am the ruler of the roost, the commander of the cats, the kitty whisperer.  The truth is, I live to serve my cats.  They have me so well trained that I respond to the smallest puking noises they make, even from a dead sleep.  I have given all of my furniture to them to use as thrones, perches, or beds.  I believe all of the cat food commercials I see, and my cats eat better than I do.  I clean litter boxes religiously and keep lint rollers to clean off the clothing that my cats allow me to wear when they aren’t using it as a bed.

On that note, the article makes me laugh when it references that these cats were voluntarily malnourished; apparently, according to the report, they deliberately made themselves seem skinny and underfed so that people would take them in to their homes to feed them.  After the neighbors opened their hearts and homes to the skeletal felines, the cats would abscond with anything of value.  Only then would the elderly cat-keeper reward them with food.

Really?  If I tried to train my cats this way, they would laugh at me.  “What’s in it for me? Better make it worth my while. And don’t even think about not feeding us, we know where the treats are. More important, we know where you sleep.”

Now I have no doubt that a cat COULD think of this clever scheme.  The only thing that keeps cats from taking over the world is the lack of opposable thumbs.  But would they really want to?  And perhaps therein lies the real reason cats don’t rule world…they simply can’t be bothered.

Let’s review the cons against this whole organized feline crime spree:

  • The scheme cuts into the most important time of the day: Nap time.  That rare 20 out of 24 hours they spend napping would suffer if they were involved in such a time-consuming racket.
  • Ignoring humans: The burglary idea would definitely require freely interacting with humans for something other than dinner, and seriously, what cat wants that?
  • Movement: To fully realize the potential of this scheme, cats would have to move.  More than from one end of the bed to the other.  This is an instant disqualifier.
  • Potentially uncovering plans to rule the world: Cats cannot have their plot revealed.  While it is no secret that cats plan to take over the world, the exact plans cannot be revealed until the perfect time.
  • A drop in Facebook and You Tube ratings: The cat community doesn’t like to talk about it, but it thrives on internet ratings.  If cats are implicated in robberies, it’s very possible that cute kitten video viewings will drop to dangerously low levels, resulting in a complete breakdown of the internet as we know it today.

Now, let’s review the reasons cats would voluntarily choose to do something, heck anything, at all:

None

Lastly, let’s consider the odds of a cat being trained by a human to do something that he does not already want to do:

 None

As much as I wish this story could be true, I think this will forever be relegated to the land of satire.

And that’s probably a good thing.

Memory Lapses

I am creative.  I am powerful.  I am woman, hear me roar.  I am also just a tad forgetful.  Like “forget what I had for breakfast while the fork is still in my hand” forgetful.  I need to document my thoughts while I am out and about or they will be forever forgotten in the vast jungle of my mind.

What do you do if your mind is a sieve?  If you’re anything like me, you send notes via text to yourself to remember ideas, appointments, and events.  If it’s not written down, I can forget a thought quicker than anyone else I know.  I was going to suggest an Olympic Sport called Speed Forgetting, but I forgot to mail the letter.

Yesterday evening, I was looking through my text messages for something and came across this message I sent myself over a week ago.  Check this out:

“The eyes are the windows to the soul. Sometimes they reflect a vision of hell.”

Wow.  What a deep thought.  What a great lead in to an unforgettable blog post.

Too bad I cannot recall for the life of me what I was thinking when I wrote it.  Or where I was, or what I was doing.

This cryptic line seems to be the beginning of a wonderful biopic journal of my life’s journey.  It is a cool line for the first sentence of a horror story.  It could have been what I thought when I woke up one morning and saw bags and dark circles under my eyes after spending a sleepless night trying to remember my Great-Grandmother’s middle name.

I have absolutely no idea why I sent that to myself. At all. Was it because of an instance of animal cruelty that I’ve seen? People suck, I’ve said that often…because they do, and it’s very possible that an incident of animal cruelty prompted that comment to myself. It’s equally possible that the stories about school shootings or perhaps a news story of a child abuse victim or domestic abuse victim set me off.  Or, the amazing line could have come to me as I was watching a poor retailer slog through a transaction with a customer who was acting like a complete asshole, or a woman who realized she was wearing white after Labor Day.

The world may never know.

The way my swiss cheese brain works is a mystery, even to myself.  There are just so many versions of hell, and everyone you meet everywhere has their own personal hell.  For some, hell might be driving to work.  Someone else’s hell may be dealing with their cable company (and I suspect the cable guy has a few versions of hell as well).  The upper class may think it is hell dealing with the butler, and the butler sure as heck knows it’s hell dealing with his snobby boss.  The lower class sees the hell of poverty and sadness every day, and the middle class thinks it is hell to have to pay taxes to help the poor through that particular hell. A child thinks hell is when school is not cancelled for a snow day; the teachers probably agree with that version of hell and the parents may, too. Hell is not being able to use that amazing word in Words with Friends that you really want to use, or my personal favorite, forgetting why I walked into a room.

So many meanings of hell.  So many possible reasons for my amazingly creative phrase.  Such a shame to have such severe short term…and long term, apparently…memory loss that I cannot recall the moment this profound statement was imagined.

Think about it.  “The eyes are the windows to the soul. Sometimes they reflect a vision of hell.”  I want you to consider this phrase carefully.  I want you to ponder it deeply.  Repeat it over and over.

And then, can you please tell me what the hell I was thinking!?