Red Sox 1 game down behind the Yankees

It’s come down to this---The Pre-Game Show

Whether you’re talking; World Series, Super Bowl, World Cup, whatever- why can’t they just let the game play out without all the hype?

It’s analyzed and dissected for weeks on end.

Blah blah. Bladdee, dah.

Makes one long for small talk about the weather, religion even bloody politics.

Of course there is always a root cause for such things.

The Men were clever about this one really.

Sports teams and events that change with the seasons and they have an on-going, year after year big distraction from actual feelings and relationships.

Sorry love. No time to sort that one out, only 6 weeks before play-offs, wild card picks and such. Can I get back to you on that intimacy thingy in about 3 months?

So now tell me that a man didn’t dream up this whole Perimenopause business.

Perimeno what!

Perimenopause or menopause transition is the stage of a woman's reproductive life that begins several years before menopause.

As if we needed one more hormonal curse.

Maybe I am just bloody cranky.

Treatments range from low dose birth control pills to anti-depressants.

Goody.

So I’ll be blissfully unaware when they start shoving me full of hormone replacement therapies when actual menopause occurs.

How did our grandmothers survive?

The same way their grand mothers did and theirs before that.

A shot of whiskey, a little sherry…………….

And if grandpa had to take a hit to the back of the head every once in a while for the team; well, we were all the better for it.

How bout them Red Sox?

Profiling is wrong!

I don’t like to get into political discussions. It’s not that I don’t care. I care a great deal.

I just hate circle-jerk discussions. They’re pointless. As pointless as fat-free ice cream, sugar- free candy and lite chocolate bars.

If I am in need of a Milky Way bar give me every fat laden calorie that goes along with it.

DO NOT save me from myself thank you very much.

But I have to speak out against profiling. It’s gone too far. The Department of Homeland Security needs to step off and no one will get hurt.

This is an audience participation blog today.

Look over to the right there. There’s a place to click to see my complete profile.

Click on it.

For heaven’s sake! I’m not asking much. Go bloody read it.

I’ll wait.


· Age: 44
· Gender: female
· Astrological Sign: Virgo
· Zodiac Year: Ox
· Industry: Arts
· Location: New Hampshire

I am an aging, mountain dwelling, virgin-like carb embracing, ox resembling, hippy-troll woman.

Ha. Bloody. Ha.

I’m sure Angel’s would read something like this;

· Age: Perpetually 30 ish
· Gender: female
· Astrological Sign: Virgo- South Beach Rising
· Zodiac Year: Purring Kitten
· Industry: : Beautifying the Planet by my Mere Existence
· Location: Heaven sent

Donald Rumsfeld, Tom Ridge, just so you’re aware;

I am not a fan.

Thinking back to March

----- Original Message -----
From: Dawn M. Kelly
To: Brother Dearest
Sent: Thursday, March 17, 2005 7:31 PM
Subject: my new baby...........

Long story short, here she is.....

If I could have just one brief Crocodile Hunter moment;

"Crikey, she's gorgeous! I LURVVEEE her."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Brother Dearest
To: Dawn M. Kelly
Sent: Thursday, March 17, 2005 10:45 PM
Subject: Re: my new baby...........

Hey there!

When'd you get back? How was it?

That's cute, and perfect for you. Now you need a vanity plate. I saw the BEST license plate on one around here a few months ago. A white haired lady was driving, with the plate "ABUG8NANA".

PLEASE DON'T tell me that you have one/bunch of flowers in a holder on the dash.

BrotherDearest

----- Original Message -----

From: Dawn M. Kelly
To: Brother Dearest

Sent: Thursday, March 17, 2005 11:23 PM
Subject: RE:Re: my new baby...........

It was fate, pure and simple. No other explanation.

I have been stuck in the house all week due to a nasty cold given to me by the boys----------

So yesterday I get my arse in gear and showered, (v imp!), (you did read Bridget Jones diary didn't you??? Run don't walk if you haven't), and drove to P-boro to go to Job Lot.

As I'm pulling out of the garage I think;

"Derek has my mobile--- Marty's in NY, anything happens with the car, I am up the frozen creek without a sled & dogs. "

Mind you, I have not had a lick of trouble with it since buying it last summer.

Find bargains on a slipcover for the loveseat, saving $80 from the one I was going to buy direct from Sure-fit on sale. Find 2 baskets for the new pantry @ $6 each saving on the two I was going to buy at JC P's for $15 each.

All happy I take my prizes out to the car, deposit them all cozy in the hatch and plop my JLo, (which by the way, looks so much better attached to me and without the scary M Anthony attachment), behind in the driver's seat patting myself on the back and praising my v. g. efforts at saving money, planning my woman of year speech- wondering if maybe they have a Pulitzer category for thriftiness while retaining high-style????, (read B J's D!!), and turn the key;;;;;;;;

{{{{{{insert the sound of deafening silence here}}}}}}}}}

Dash lights, heat, radio all work-----no engine engagement what so EVER!!!!!!

Tragedy turns my Pulitzer/woman of year award into tragic melodrama which now will surely include a book deal and a MOW, (movie of the week), can't you see me on Oprah as she fights back the tears, (pan the audience openly weeping at the sheer horror of it all), as I bravely tell the tale of my being stranded in the parking lot, (looking so like Mother Theresa/Princess Diana--comparisons are sure to be made), with no cell phone, no coffee shop in site and def no TRENDY BOUTIQUE to drown my sorrows, as well.

end of act 1.......................

So Marty drives back from NY Fri and we all pile into the truck to go rescue the Saab in the snow storm with a push start.

I am blonde and I am a girl, but I had pretty much eliminated things down to a blown starter motor.

Success and I drive back to Keene in the snow w/ Marty and DK following in the truck.

We had decided to build Marty's credit further by taking a car loan for a reliable used auto for me.

Saturday morn I hit the local paper's site and check out the classifieds. Nothing, BUT, there is a banner/link to, AutoTrader.com.

I click it and start searching in my price range for my fantasy vehicle since their reintroduction.

A search for VW's with-in a 50 mile radius brings up 32 pages of listings of all VW's.

On page 27, there she is. After seeing New Beetles in my price range a couple years old with over 100K on them---------- a miracle;

1998, Red, 2.0, 5 Speed, $7,495 with ONLY 18K!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I now go and wake Marty and start babbling about it.

At an appropriate hour of the morning I call the Dealer over in Merrimack.

I wait not so patiently for the call back which I am convinced will come and I'll be told;

"You actually believed that ad?"

or

"OOOPPPs, forgot to pull that ad. Sold it yesterday."

or

"We did a background check and you're not worthy of such a car."

etcccccccccccc

Vic finally calls me after he finishes plowing the lot and clearing off vehicles.

Big storm.

The car is still there. No misprints in the ad.

I tell him we will see him tomorrow.

Of course I never verified the price over the phone.

I spend the day being snowed in, dreaming of me in that car.

ME in THAT car!!!!

We drive to Merrimack, find the place and there she is.

I dive from the still moving truck to go see her.

She is as shiny and in as good condition as she appeared in the ad.

Marty has caught up as I am hugging the car and says;

"Have you seen the sticker?"

I freeze and nearly throw-up.

I walk over and squint at it with one eye.

$6,995.

I nearly puke again.

Vic has joined us he walks me through the car. He is very easy going and low key. Like a nice uncle showing me my crazy aunty's car. Not a used car salesman at all.

We go and sign papers and fill out loan apps.

He says I'll love my new car.

I say, but first the bank has to approve the loan on Monday.

He says, it's my car. Due diligence and it will be sorted.

I love my new uncle Vic.

8:30AM, next day, Uncle Vic calls and says my car is waiting for me to come and get her.

I do.

And for the first time, I start her up.

Yes. First time. I never test drove her.

I can't wait to start modifying her.

I am waiting till my next registration renewal to pick the vanity plate. It happened so fast I couldn't pick properly.

We take our first road trip today to NY for the weekend.

Oh and her name is, Princess Poppy, she told me right away!

Okay, I won't mention anything about the flowers or lack thereof.

The attached photo will speak for itself.

Love from,

The girl in the Red Beetle!

I'm in!!!

Okay…………so curves have been declared far and wide to be, in, so I am fashionably on target for once.

Mind you, it’s not something I planned.

I’d like to tell you that I had a late hour vision that I should gain 25 extra pounds so as to be on the cutting edge of beauty.

No. Not so much.

Granted I did decide at the 15 extra pound mark that I liked the curves and what separated me from the planky-bodied pre-teens and rail thin runway models. And all that food I was eating. Pass the smashed potatos!

Finally, at the age of 41, I was giving myself permission to accept my womanly body with open arms.

What took so long?

Downside; while I was reveling I gained 10 more curvaceous pounds.

SIGH.

Curves are one thing; endless hills and valleys, are a whole other matter. Back to this little matter of what’s in.

When are we going to stop this insanity?

Why isn’t it in, to be comfortable in your own skin no matter what shape or size that happens to be?

When will we accept being happy and healthy of body and mind with all that is less than Angel perfect?

Who gets to decide what is in? Is this some little known committee at the UN, the Supreme Court, maybe Mr. Blackwell is also head of this department?

Even if you have the in body type of the moment it doesn’t stop there. You had better make sure that you have in hair, in clothing, in jewelry, not forgetting in make-up.

When you have that under control move on to making sure that you are eating only in foods, you live in an in house type filled with very in furnishings in all the rights colors and flavors.

Now let’s talk about the kids; they had better be going to the right school and involved in just the right activities, (no, it doesn’t matter if they enjoy it or not silly), so when you are being seen at the in restaurants you have the things to talk about to all the other in people.

I guess that’s cool if you enjoy scooting along on the surface of life.

I’m still holding on to the hope that someday, in my lifetime even, that it will be in to be marching to the beat of your own heart and soul.

I have always been drawn to the differences in life and people. It’s enlightening, interesting and gives me perspective.

OOOOooo, gotta run, I'm late for the gym!

Buy stock in Kleenex, the weather's changed.....

Just when I think I’m better than Angel, I get a head cold.

Sore throat followed by an obnoxious cough and a never-ending runny nose.

For two days I don’t care what I look like, I just want to live to taste food again.

There is no satisfaction in putting food in your mouth when you can’t taste anything. It’s like sex without the orgasm.

Why. Bloody. Bother.

Don’t even start in with the psychobabble about the shared intimacy and there’s more to sex than the orgasm------

Bloody. Shut. Up.

It’s. Not. True.

Okay look. It’s like running. Ever listen to people who do it? You would think it was a religious experience with harps, flowers and fluffy clouds.

You’re sold. You want you some of that. You go out buy a pair of running shoes that cost as much as a good used car, but it’s worth it, we’re talking change your life here and you look so damn cute in them. You then buy up every pink and purple bit of spandex running apparel there is and you’re off and running!

And sweating. And wheezing and it’s not invigorating, exhilarating or any of that line of crap they sold you.

They Lied.

Still, you’re confused and convinced that there’s something wrong with you. Maybe you’re not doing it right.

Come on. It’s running. We’ve been doing it since we were two.

Maybe we didn’t do it long enough. Two excruciating weeks later, it still sucks.

So you go out to see how other people do it. They’re not hard to find.

You study their form. Technique. Start noting what brand shoes they are wearing, their gear. Camel pack or water bottle? With a partner or without?

What am I missing?!?

Then it hits you. Square in the face. Not yours, THEIRS!

Look at their faces.

They look as miserable as you felt. All of them. Not a one has a smile, a look of inner peace or joy. They all look like someone just stole their cookies and punched them in the gut.

They lied.

Sex without an orgasm is no more fun than running. Food without the ability to taste it is a waste of calories.

And what does this have to do with me being better than Angel??!!?

Well. You know how after a couple days of non-stop wiping and blowing, your nose turns a lovely shade of red and gets all dry and crusty?

Where is someone like Angel when you need them?

I have yet to figure out a way to cover that up and/or tone it down so as not to scare old people and small children.

Make-up only seems to make it worse and as soon as you blow your nose again- can you say- Michael Jackson?

OY! Pass the bloody tissues.

Hurricain a comin!

Unlike my alter, Angel, who really is more intelligent then she lets on, but still...

I, myself, am cursed with intelligence. I am lousy with the stuff.

How in the universe's great infinitesimal wisdom did it come to the very skewed conclusion that the un-Barbie like women of this world would be best compensated by uber intelligence is beyond even me.

And yes. I know that is a very long sentence. Needs must on occasion.

That all being said take a breath, I do have a bit of a glitch in the firing of the old synapses. Insert gasp of shock horror here.

I can’t spell. There I’ve said it.

I can’t spell I can’t spell I can’t spell I can’t spell I can’t spell I can’t spell!!!!!

“Hello. My name is Dawn and I am spelling impaired.”

If one of the 12 steps in the recovery process is atonement for past miss-spellings I will have to live approximately 347 years.

I know. You’re sitting there thinking; “And this all has WHAT to do with hurricanes?”

Look at that title up there again.

Hurricain.

Should be hurricane.

This I now know because I opened up a Word doc in order to write the rest of this blog.

Spell-check is my friend.

I want to be at the top of the list for spell-check-chip studies that can be implanted in the brain.

Oh yeah. I’m there.

The Angels’ of the world may be all comfy with their flaws that are hidden behind hair spray mist and mirrors, but not me.

If I can’t posses cleavage at least give me spelling powers!!!

Okay. So yeah, what was the universe thinking?

Enters room slowly....hugging the wall.

Nervously clears her throat and begins;

"My name is Angel and I am hopelessly addicted to myself."

Well, of course I am. You would be too. IF you were as fabulishous as I am.

Anyway, enough about you, let's talk about me.

These blog thingys are grand. Imagine a place here on this world wide all about me web where you can always connect to you know, me!

Although if it were up to me, and it should be, I would change their name.

Blog.

Look at how it just sits there all icky and such.

It should be called something yummier. Like............Divine Angelic Driplets.

Oh wait. That wouldn't work for everyone. Mostly me. Hmmmm.

So where were we?

Oh yes. Me!

Okay, so I can explain.....

That rather self-centered being above is really my alter ego. Angel.

She helps me write what I love best--- ChickLit.

Now before you go and poopoo the Genre based on how it doesn't impart any new epiphanies, change your life or even the babies diapers, they are great fun to read and for me; a joy to write.

Now back to Angel. She's the place that I go to write the main characters in these books.

She and they, are the girls who say and do things that we, as self respecting women, wish we were unconcious enough once in a while to be.

Oh please.

We sit back all self righteous, ripping the ditzy blonde with the barbie doll figure to shreads, (you do too---don't you?) when we would give anything to be her for just one night, week or summer holiday. Her with all her incomplete sentences, lack of world news knowlege and surrounded by men who couldn't care less if she can find the square root of pi while they---------------

-----------picture her pole dancing naked.

Men.

So you and I are somewhere in between the Angels and the women who have it all figured out. With their 2.5 kids, husband who works 80 hours a week and volunteer on no less than 5 not for profit boards.

We're still looking for our happy ending.

Isn't it nice that you don't have to be alone in that quest?

Welcome to ChickLit.

Sit down, buckle up and enjoy the ride.

;)