INTRODUCING 2 FOR THE SHOW

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Well, it took a few more hours than expected, but the first review is complete. Thanks to my partner-in-crime, Sandy. Please take a look if you like. The blog is titled 2 for the Show and will feature movie and TV reviews. We hope.  Thanks to those creative minds out there with such great ideas for blog names! However, I DID have to go with my mother’s. She feeds me sometimes. And buys me nice stuff. There’s also that unconditional love thing, too.

We are just figuring out how to communicate back and forth to make this work.  How do people write in tandem, anyway? Please have a kind thought as we get our bearings.

Thank you!

DEATH AND THE MOVIES – A NEW ADVENTURE

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As if this one blog I am not keeping up with very well isn’t enough, I have decided it’s time to launch another. It has long been a dream of mine…  (if not a dream, then at least a crazy idea) …to write an entertainment review blog with Sandy of “We are Not Mountain Goats” fame.

My dream is about to come true. Beginning tomorrow, Sandy and I are going to meet regularly (if not every week – then every other week) to see a movie. I’m not quite sure how we’ll compose the reviews, but we WILL compose reviews. Hopefully, in a dialogue format. Perhaps like this:

Me: I could scrape the film off my teeth and make a better movie than that.

Sandy: Ew. Gross.

Or maybe better than that.
Most definitely better than that. And longer, with more detail about the actual movie.

An added bonus – we seem to have interesting experiences in the theater. One time, Sandy sent an elbow into my ribs, then turned to me wide-eyed and angling her head to the side to direct my attention down the row to her left. I leaned forward and saw Death. Yep, The Grim Reaper. ON OUR ROW. Hooded. Shrouded. No scythe. Perhaps his day off?  (Insert Death Takes a Holiday joke here.)

Another time, which I believe I mentioned in the Oscars post, Sandy accidentally got us into a girl fight with some drunken twits that were sitting in front of us. Lesson learned: Be careful how loudly you say, “Duh'” to a drunken twit.

Now, our biggest issue is what to name this new blog. We don’t want to limit it too much to movies, because we may get really crazy and review TV shows in the future.  Or who knows what. Right now, some of our faves are:

Oh The Drama
Movie Mavens
That’s What We Said

Any other ideas would be greatly appreciated, and considered. We might even give you credit.

Wish us luck! Our first movie is going to be “The Hunger Games.”

DON’T JUDGE – GRAMMAR PET PEEVES

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Today’s LetsBlogOff asks us: What is your grammar pet peeve?

My friends anxiously await this answer, I‘m sure. Hey, being the grammar and spelling police may not always be appreciated, but as far as I’m concerned, it should be counted as a super power.

I have quite a few of these pet peeves, as it turns out. In some cases, things I find unacceptable – or even contemptible, are making their way into common usage. This, in my opinion, is evidence of our society heading straight to hell in a handbasket. I know I should probably worry about bigger things, but let’s face it; Good grammar and proper etiquette are what separate us from the apes. (That 15 foot wall helps, too.)

The use of apostrophes when referring to a decade, such as the 1980’s, causes me pain. Not unbearable pain, but I am definitely uncomfortable. 1980s. There. Better.

I am also a big supporter of the word “handsful” versus handfuls, mothers-in-law versus mother-in-laws, and bucketsful versus bucketfuls.

I get pretty tired of seeing “accept” and “except” used interchangeably.

I cringe when I see professional letters that begin with Dear Sir, instead of Dear Sir:

The use of i.e. (that is) rather than e.g. (for example) drives me insane.

I have also noticed the element “lead” substituting for the verb “led.” The good news? That little error eliminates quite a few resumes in my stack for review.

Cockiness like that leads to karmic retribution like this –

The other day, I was writing and realized I had no idea if I should type the word “past” or “passed.”

Seriously. I decided to change the whole sentence to avoid hurting my brain, which was obviously on vacation.

And for that, I feel ashamed. Kryptonite, indeed.

But I’ll get past it.

Ah ha!

Ah ha?

Damn it.

To read other pet peeves about grammar, click the logo below, and enjoy!

HERE KITTY KITTY

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A cat has appeared at our house. We first noticed it, or I should say Daisy, the princess in a basset hound suit, first noticed it on our back patio one evening. Her first enthusiastic Wooooooooof scared the poor thing off. It was back the next evening, and continues to make appearances.

I always had cats until I married. At least one cat. As a child, we had two most of the time. One was our family cat, appropriately named, Puff. Puff was a long-haired, beautiful mult-colored cat. Very ladylike, she would cross her front paws when lounging. Though Puff was with us for 23 years, her companions came and went. They were typically gray and black tabbies who would wander into our sphere and stay – some for prolonged periods of time, some for shorter stints. From their examples I learned that you don’t adopt a cat. A cat adopts you.

Therefore, after my last cat, Kahlua, passed away about two years into my marriage, I decided to wait and see what would happen next. My husband is almost violently anti-cat. He put up with Kahlua for my sake, but never could get past the litter box issue. Meanwhile, over the next six years, Austin, Derek and I would occasionally loft the “Wouldn’t it be great if we had a cat” balloon into our family atmosphere, only to watch as it was shot down vehemently by Robert.

But our time may be at hand. The universe has delivered a cat into our backyard, and I’m trying to figure out how to make certain it remains. I considered putting food out on the back patio every evening, but alas, we also appear to have a possum who shows signs of wanting to belong to us as well, and I feel putting food out would only create a potentially dangerous situation for our feline acquaintance. Desperate to provide some sort of comfort on a recent cold evening, I put a box outside, lined with newspaper and some old bedding. The kitty hotel remained unoccupied, much to my annoyance.

Really, considering the noisy dog, stray possum, and lack of nourishment, I have no idea what it sees in us – unless it has a death wish. I just FEEL it wants to belong to us. So what do I do now? I’m not sure how this worked as a kid. I just know we’d end up with a stray cat, take it to the vet, get it fixed and “voila!” it slept nights in my bed.

Yesterday morning I looked out the kitchen window and was greeted with this:

Now, that is a cute cat. Plus, his or her coloring goes really well with Daisy’s. Pet color coordination is underrated.

I’m getting desperate. I wake up in the middle of the night when I hear it growling a warning at the invading possum. I tear through the house, flash the back porch light on and race outside to scare the combatants apart.  Two nights ago we awoke to the metal clanking of our skewers and various barbecue paraphernalia as they hit the ground. Apparently something had tried to get under the grill covering, or been disturbed during the night.

I don’t recall Fluffy, or Midas, or Hobie-cat ever being this much trouble to “rescue.”

Maybe I should plant some catnip, get the little guy or gal stoned and snag it. Of course, I have visions of a wild, feral cat racing in circles through the house with Daisy hot on its trail. And I’ve had the misfortune of seeing a cat circle the walls before. Literally, ON THE WALLS. Someone once brought a feral cat into the vet’s office where I worked.  I can still see it swooping around the room, half way up the wall, using centrifugal force like those rides at the amusement park, screeching, spraying urine and hissing like a demented dervish. At the time you wouldn’t have had to convince me that had it a mind to, it could have taken all of us out.

Maybe I’ll try putting some food out. Or some milk. Milk is calming, right?

Milk for the cat. Scotch for Robert. It’s a plan.

AND THE OSCAR GOES TO?

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It’s Oscar time!

Long ago, when Sandy (of the Wales trip) and I were younger and had more energy, we made a pact. Each year we would get together and see each movie nominated for “Best Picture.” We made a sport out of watching the Oscars and felt we could be indignant, but not RIGHTEOUSLY indignant about the results unless we had ACTUALLY SEEN the movies. (We’re sticklers that way.) We prefer righteous indignation any day. So, THE PLAN was born.

This was back when they allowed only five nominees, so it really shouldn’t have been that challenging. Confession: We usually only made it to four. Sometimes only three. 1995 was a pretty good year in which we saw everything except The Postman. (Apollo 13, Braveheart, Babe, and Sense and Sensibility.) Yes. Babe was nominated for Best Picture. Braveheart won. Remember, this was before Mel went publicly nutso. Damn him.

In 1996, The Plan totally fell apart with this line up:

Jerry Maguire, The English Patient, Shine, Fargo, Secrets and Lies.

I believe I saw Jerry Maguire in the theater. That’s it. Sandy saw The English Patient and described it thusly: “Long. Boring. English. Girlfriend. Death.”

I have tried to watch it three times myself, and agree wholeheartedly with Sandy. In fact, The English Patient makes me almost hostile. My husband cannot comprehend my reaction. I actually wish death upon them throughout much of the picture. Sometimes screaming “DIE! DIE! DIE already!!” at the screen.

1997 was the year that will live forever in our hearts as the year WE DID IT!! We actually managed to see all five nominees; Titanic, As Good As it Gets, Good Will Hunting, The Full Monty, and L.A. Confidential. (I believe that was also the year of THE INCIDENT. Sandy became audibly snarky in the theater when they lost power during The Full Monty, accidentally starting a fight with the girls sitting in front of us – which nearly ended in a girl-brawl in the parking lot.)

Funny now. Then, not so much. It was more like, “THEY ARE GOING TO CUT US.”

That year, Titanic won Best Picture. Another confession. I saw that movie not once, but twice in the theater. I LOVED it. I BOUGHT it. This was in spite of the fact I couldn’t be “on board,” so to speak, with Rose, who was annoyed at having to marry a rich dude. At one point my eyes rolled so far back in my head I saw stars. It’s when Rose said, “I saw my whole life as if I’d already lived it. An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches. Always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter.”

Talk about mindless chatter. “Really?” I thought, “Parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches? Sign me up!” Big whiner. A girl can’t lounge around forever being sketched in the buff by penniless artists. I know. I’VE TRIED.

At brunch today, I was asked the nominees for this year and could name only a handful. Keeping to my old standard, I’ve seen four: The Help, The Artist, Midnight in Paris, and Moneyball.

Other nominees this year include:

War Horse – Cannot possibly see it because the horse is no doubt unhappy and mistreated, otherwise, it wouldn’t be a riveting story.)

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close – Best described by a radio personality: “Sounds like an encounter with a drunk.”

Hugo – I would probably see it if I could borrow someone’s kid.

The Descendants – Not sure why this doesn’t appeal to me, if only for the Hawaiian ambiance, but it doesn’t.

The Tree of Life – Frankly, never heard of it until the nomination. And I cannot support Sean Penn emotionally or financially, so that’s out.

We watched Moneyball Friday night. It’s a good movie, but why it’s up for Best Picture is beyond me. Unless it’s for Brad Pitt’s work out sessions. But there weren’t enough to warrant an Academy Award for that.

(This is NOT a scene from Moneyball, but who cares?)

So, which piece of cinematic glory is going to win?

The Los Angeles Times reported that nearly 94 percent of Academy Award voters are white, 77 percent are male and the median age is 62.

That said, I predict the Best Picture award will go to…(Drum roll, please.)

“The Best Years of Our Lives,” starring Myrna Loy and Frederic March. (Somehow, the doddering, yet spunky Academy Award voters thought they were watching their DVDs, but were actually on TCM, thus the confusion.)

Hey, with a median age of 62? It could happen.

SPA-PALOOZA

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I don’t get the chance to have Spa Day very often, but thanks to the recent Christmas and birthday gifts from my in-laws, I was able to go today for the works – a 50 minute massage and 50 minute facial. Heaven.

Today’s special event was at the Crescent Hotel Spa, which is terribly hoity-toity, and therefore intimidating to me to some degree. Lots of society-types with a gaggle of girlfriends in tow lazing about the ladies “lounge” in terrycloth bathrobes and rubber slippers, sipping lemon infused water or hot chamomile tea. I felt a little more comfortable and somewhat ironic when I sat down on the couch and saw that Paula Deen was on the television, cooking extraordinarily fatty desserts and saying “y’all” a lot. Even better, my favorite thing in the world was added to this display. The closed captioning was on! I simply ADORE closed captioning. And whoever or whatever was doing it was having a field day trying to make heads or tails of Paula’s accent. Half the words typed were so wrong I felt I might have to apologize to closed captioning on behalf of all Southerners. I can’t imagine that Siri can understand a word out of that woman’s mouth. But, back to “Spa-palooza.”

My masseuse was a lovely woman who did an amazing job of finding every little (a.k.a. huge) knot in my neck and right shoulder. Notorious troubled spots. She practically “squeed” with excitement at having a real challenge before her. (I am notorious for my neck knots. Believe me, no socialite has the boulders in her shoulders that I do.)

When I was on my stomach, she worked her way straight down either side of my spine – from the neck to the waist – and I jumped out of my skin. Apparently, when muscles are tight, and you apply just the right amount of pressure, it can create seriously ticklish spots. When I jumped, the masseuse jumped, and I could tell she was wondering if she should try it again or just skip it. I wasn’t going to give her any clues. Hey, she’s a professional, I can’t be the first person to respond like “Surprised Kitten” to her ministrations.

Yes. Surprised Kitten. I assume you’ve seen the cute little ticklish kitten video. If not, please refer to this link and witness what was taking place on the massage table.

Surprised Kitten.

I swear, in my head, that’s totally how I responded every time she touched my back.

Eventually, we got past this awkward little dance and on to actual relaxation, during which I started thinking about my very first massage experience. I was probably 23 or so and went to South Padre Island with a friend. My mother recommended a masseuse and offered to pay, so I, of course, accepted and scheduled an appointment.

Having no previous experience with massages – except from boyfriends who were really just trying to pass off a bad massage as acceptable foreplay, (which, by the way, it’s not), I had no idea what to expect. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a clue something was wrong with the whole scenario when she started talking…and talking… and not just “Gee, the weather’s really warm.” This conversation went something like, “I had a dream last night and realize now that it was actually a flashback of some kind.”

“Oh?” I responded, trying to feign interest.

To my horror, the woman continued to describe to me her dream and the resultant conclusion – she had been sexually abused by her father. Yep. Nothing more relaxing than a massage with someone describing child abuse to you. Stranger yet, as she rambled on and I lay there with a sheet covering me, feeling terribly vulnerable in my first massage session and wondering if I had wandered into a Candid Camera episode, the nimble little minx climbed atop the table I was lying on and began WALKING ON MY BACK, without ever breaking the conversational flow. (Or saying, “Hey, I’m gonna’ shimmy up onto the table and walk on your back while talking about this very personal and horrifying topic, so don’t freak out or anything, okay?)

I cannot believe I ever tried massage again. The human spirit is indeed resilient.

Meanwhile, back to the actual GOOD massage. After the ticklishness/jumpiness passed, all went well. In my semi-comatose state, I was directed back to the lounge to await the facial person. Facialista? Facial therapist? Aesthetician?

I have to say that she was as nice as could be when she told me my face needed a little extra exfoliation – for a little extra money. It’s always amusing to me when they ask how long ago your last facial was. I told her probably some time in the past year. “Oh, why? You don’t think about it? You forget?” Yes. I tend to forget about my face as often as I can.

Regular facials are just not in my typical monthly budget. Are regular facials in anyone’s budget – other than those who are featured on “The Real Housewives of…?”

Maybe they are, but I prefer to go in offering people a real challenge. It takes a lot of time and work to get these knots in my shoulders and dry, non-exfoliated skin on my face and neck. These spa days cost a lot of money, and I see no reason to make it easy for them.

They DID remind me that Mother’s Day is coming up – so maybe they’ll get another shot at me before too long. In the meantime, I’m going to go enjoy my jello-like state. And maybe make some biscuits and gravy with a stick of fried butter on the side.

Damn you, Paula Deen. You and Surprised Kitten have annihilated my hoity-toity day.

DRIVER ON BOARD

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Well, it’s happened.

My last little chick has sprouted wings (to match his cute little horns) and passed his driver’s license test. Don’t ask me why it took 2 years past the expected date to accomplish the task, but it did. I am not complaining about that at all, by the way. Frankly, (and you people better not tell him I am saying this), I would not have wanted him driving at 16. At 16, Austin was still accusing inanimate objects of bad behavior and was incapable of closing a cabinet door.

Now that he’s 18, he closes cabinet doors, but is incapable of locking the door to the house. You know, the door that, when unlocked, allows bad people to come in and either kill you or take all your stuff.

Hopefully he will be better about locking the car. As for me, I once had a cute little Mitsubishi convertible that was broken into 3 times as it sat parked behind my condo. The fourth time, it was in the parking lot at the office. I got so tired of replacing windows and/or slashed convertible tops that I seriously considered just leaving the car unlocked from that point on.

(Not actual car. Well, it is an actual car, but not MY actual car.)

Jerks. Took all the fun out of owning that.

Anyway, Austin succeeded in getting his license on something like his 5th trip to the DMV. The DMV is apparently a lot like Home Depot, in that one trip is never enough. You always forget something. I have never known a single person who can visit Home Depot just once in a weekend. If you go once, believe me, you’re going 2-3 more times.

The first trip to the friendly and helpful DMV, (snicker), the vehicle’s inspection sticker was out of date. The second trip turned out to be a national holiday, so they sat staring angrily at a locked door. The third time, Austin actually made it into the vehicle to begin the test, which unfortunately involved parallel parking as the first step – a strict Pass or Fail element. Austin had NEVER parallel parked before. You can imagine how well that went.

(Okay, this didn’t happen.)

The fourth visit to the DMV took place on Tuesday of this week, with a scheduled appointment. Only, the appointment was actually scheduled for Thursday, so Robert’s head exploded. In public. Is anyone else beginning to picture this whole mission as doomed?

Well, not so fast. Dearest mother-in-law, Didi, stepped into the yawning breach of Austin’s driver’s license pursuit on Thursday and I was very pleased to get a message in the afternoon from the 6,100 texts a month texter: I PASSED THE DRIVER’S TEST!!!!!

That’s the first good news I’ve had all week. I treasure the thought of his independence – and the thought that neither his father nor I have to get up early on weekends to drive him to work anymore.

At least, I will treasure his independence until the first accident, at which time, my head will explode.

May it be a long time coming.

For now, “DRIVE, Austin, DRIVE!!”

And keep your eyes on the road.

And both hands on the wheel.

And for God’s sake, DON’T TEXT WHILE YOU DRIVE OR I WILL BREAK YOUR NIMBLE LITTLE FINGERS.

SIRI-OUSLY

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I am having a love / hate relationship with Siri (the IPhone 4S built-in personal assistant), who genuinely TRIES to help me, but we seem to be having communication problems. Like I need someone else in my life with whom I can’t seem to make myself understood.

Siri  delighted me with her attempts, at first. I made a calendar entry for an upcoming wedding, although I couldn’t figure out how to title the entry, so at this point I just have a full day booked and in a few weeks will have no idea why the 16th of June is marked, “Note.”

I was feeling a little snoozy later on and asked her to tell me a story – and she became delightfully coy.

When I began defining my relationships for her, she just started ticking me off. I was able to convince her that Robert was my husband, so I could say something like, “Text my husband…” Then, I tried to tell her who my mother was, and she showed her true colors. “Annette is my mother,” I calmly explained. Siri repeated the relationship perfectly, but then went on to show the entry in my contact category as “Annette: Manager.” 

Humph. I tried again.  “Annette is my MOTHER.” Siri repeated the identification, but then showed me her note. “Annette: Assistant.”

While Manager and Assistant are perhaps accurate descriptions of roles my mother (or any mother for that matter) takes on, I didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. I decided to discontinue my little organizational spree, afraid of what title she might assign my friends or family. What if I designated a relationship and the little witch assigned the title, “Arch Enemy?”

Determined to sort out the misunderstanding, I pressed the button to call Siri again and informed her that “Annette is NOT my Manager.” She had the nerve to tell me she cannot delete relationships for me.

“Well, then, don’t mislabel them,” I snapped. At my phone. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Siri responded demurely.

So then I felt guilty and gave up creating relationships. (Wow, that sentence is so Freudian, I’m not even going to correct it.) 

Siri was able to tell me how many calories dinner was last night, but shied away from telling me where I could hide a dead body. (I was feeling inquisitive.) She DID graciously show me several businesses in my area that have the word “Hide” in them. Asking where to “dump” a dead body resulted in no nearby dumps.

Oh, well. At least I know if I am ever in need of such a location, (which I have no immediate plans to require), I am on my own. Or maybe my Manager/Assistant will help me out. After all, what are mother’s for?

Moving on to cheerier topics with Siri I asked, “Who will win the Super Bowl?” Instead of showing me betting odds or predictions, she asked if I wanted her to Google, “Who will win the suit?”

“What suit?” I asked, perplexed.

“I don’t know what you mean by “What seat?” the minx responded.

“Are you kidding me?”

“I kid you not.” (Snap-ish.)

So I have no idea who is going to win the Super Bowl, the suit, or the seat. But I think I know who my arch enemy is.

Yes, Siri. Be my guest.

THE DIET DIARY (OR – EVERY CALORIE COUNTS)

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I haven’t posted recently because I’ve been totally focused on my new rules.

Hubby announced the other day that we would be dieting. Said diet consists of alarming restrictions about food and beverages. “No drinking on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Two drink Wednesdays and Fridays.” I think I blacked out about then because I have no idea what Saturday and Sunday are supposed to be. I’m thinking “Make up for lost time” weekends.

In his usual organized way of pursuing a goal, he made out menus that involved cereal and lots of chicken. And veggies.

It’s a nightmare.

On Monday he sent me to work with a grocery bag full of snack items that would answer  the “Eat five times a day” requirement. Lots of granola bars, cereal bars, peanut butter crackers and flavored cardboard. I mean rice cakes.

 

Life is no longer worth living.

By Friday I was starting to fantasize about pizza. I saw someone walk into the kitchen at the office with a bag from Whataburger. I almost tackled him. The rest of the afternoon I could swear I smelled cheeseburger.

Say hello to 620 calories. And that’s just the burger.

In an unsually cooperative mood, I incorporated working out into this little farce. I mean healthy new routine. I have always hated going to the gym, and my first visit back in years was exactly what I expected. Annoying and pointless. I am mechanically challenged when it comes to gym equipment. I found myself atop a treadmill thinking, “How hard can this be?” Well, either the gym is rigged for people over 90, or I am even worse at this stuff than I thought. Even the pre-set cardio routine challenge was no challenge. At the low end, it had me walking  at 2.0 miles per hour. When it ramped up to the highest rate, it was 2.8 miles per hour. I thought maybe I had to crank the speed up myself to set a baseline, but after going through each cycle, it dropped back down to 2 again. Even I can walk at 2 mph without effort – other than maintaining my balance.

After wrestling through the routine and upping the speed each time, I managed to burn all of 54 calories in 20 minutes. A huge disappointment for a girl who measures her calorie loss in terms of Chardonnay (1 glass = 120 calories).

The treadmill is definitely NOT going to do the trick. Unless I plan to spend 24 hours a day on it. In desperation, I looked around the gym and spotted the rowing machine. Rowing. Potentially interesting. Not a bike. Not a treadmill.

I tried it. Mostly because at this point the gym was completely empty. No witnesses if I had an experience reminiscent of my first time on an elliptical machine. (I now refer to it as an epileptic machine because while on it I look like I’m having a seizure.)  I am not at the gym to amuse others. I am at the gym to punish myself for liking butter and bread and wine.

I tried a couple of different settings on the rower and imagined I wasn’t embarrassing myself too badly. I would be proved wrong later when I got home and pulled up some rowing videos on YouTube. Apparently, the normal level of resistance for rowing on water is a setting between 3 and 5. (I was rowing at the resistance of 10.)  So, basically rowing through mud.

I studied the videos, then went back the next day. Warily, I eyed the rowing machine, determined to psych it out. 30 minutes later I had burned 220 calories. That’s almost two glasses of wine! Apparently, going full tilt, you can burn 800 calories an hour. (Of course, that’s if you’re an Olympic rower.) I am not an Olympic rower, nor will I ever be. But how great would it be to be able to burn off 6 glasses of wine in an hour? 

I can dream, can’t I?

REGRETS, REINCARNATION AND REALITY

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Today’s LetsBlogOff topic is: “If I could turn back time.”

I tend to get maudlin when I start thinking along these lines. I start wondering, “What if?”

What if…I had continued working on the ranch in Mt. Pleasant training quarter horses?

What if…I had taken a chance and moved to L.A. or New York?

What if…I had made a million other decisions differently? Are there parallel universes out there in which I am living those other lives? Wouldn’t it be fantastic if after each decision you make, a game show host – let’s say, Monty Hall, pops up and shows you what’s behind Curtain #2 so you could see what WOULD have been? Then you could have instant regret, instead of getting 5 or 10 years down the line before realizing you blew it.

We don’t get to the afterlife and have someone tell us, “Well, you kinda’ wasted that XX years, didn’t you? Why don’t we try again? This time, don’t be such a wuss.” At least, I don’t THINK that’s how it goes. None of my sources say so. Best case scenario is that you come back – but as something else. (Too bad I can’t come back as my own dog, because she lives the life of Riley.)

Tip: If you get there before I do and you’re given the option, ask to be my dog. Two meals a day, any and every cushion in the house at your disposal, and constant scratches. Second best gig? Come back as my friend Max’s dog. Her feet almost never touch the ground and she is allowed to drink from his glass. Including small sips of booze. Actually, coming back as Max’s dog may be better.

Plus, as an added bonus – if you’re a dog – your biggest decision is which spot of grass to pee on, or should you lick… nevermind. I have gotten WAY off track. This is supposed to be about turning back time.

So, if I could turn back time, I would…

…put down that slice of pizza and NEVER, EVER try it. Then I wouldn’t know what I’m missing when I’m NOT eating pizza – which is way more of the time than I would like. Same goes for queso.

…rethink that whole Flashdance wardrobe I had in the early 80s.

…not punch my friend for biting my brother in the back. (She really did jump on his back and bite him when we were about 6 years old.)

No, wait. I think that was a good decision. I’ll keep that one.

I would…

…lift my shirt and show my you-know-whats when I was on stage at the Chili Cook Off in Terlingua (assisting with beer bong duties) and the whole side of the hill was chanting my name. College. What a waste of perfectly good brain cells.

Lastly, I would…

…demand better gifts for Christmas than what I received as a child. (At least the year this photo was taken.) Look at this expression. Then read the top of the box.

Potty People? Really?

Please check out what others would do if they could turn back time by clicking on the LetsBlogOff logo.