My first videoblog

This is a test. This is only a test, and really – honestly? It truly is just a test. 

Even though this is my first venture into the video blogging world, I would like to welcome you to my first video blog and ask that you not expect much. This is, after all, my first (and possibly my last) attempt. I learned it today and I taught it to myself. Have I prepared you enough for its infantile look?

Because I am not a public speaker, the video program would not allow me to fill dead space (nobody knows when my mind goes off on tangents when I type), and also would not let me disguise it, at least not in anyway I could figure out in one day, so I experimented by filling in the gaps of my speech and brain loss with other things, as you will see.

In any event, I can't wait to download it to see how it works (or doesn't) – don't expect a lot of flash and creativity – as I said, this is my first. 

By the way, that handsome young man to the right is my grandson, Travis, who learned this a long time ago, but never told me how he did it.

 Here goes: 

I could have used this when I was going through my divorce

When I was going through my divorce, this song was still popular. I cried every time I heard it, wallowing in self-pity as I dragged myself to my job, wiping my eyes and reapplying my makeup before I arrived – every single day for months.

Today, however, as a result of the following video, I will be laughing uproariously every time I watch this version of the song that used to bring me to my knees.

I would like to thank Persephone Maewyn for creating this warped second version of Bonnie Tyler’s song.

And for those of you with warped minds as well, I invite you to watch the actual video first and THEN the – ahem! – I hesitate calling it a remake, so I will call it the total collapse of an art (drum roll please):

Bonnie Tyler - Total Eclipse of the Heart

ACTUAL VIDEO

OTHER VIDEO

 

Weekend of Fashion

I ... um... 

Oh, just spit it out – OK, FINE! I HAVE NO FASHION SENSE! OK?

Satisfied? 

My children, however (well, three of them anyway), make up for my loss. When my daughter, Lindsey, FINALLY decided to follow her true calling (fashion merchandising) and asked me to accompany her to the Open House held at The Illinois Institute of Art in Chicago this past weekend, I gladly went, because even though I know nothing of fashion, I wanted to support her and encourage her to follow her dream. 

One of the instructors focused her attention on me, probably because she noticed the glazed-over effect in my eyes – how could any woman NOT be interested in fashion? I pretended I understood what they were discussing when, in fact, I felt as if I were at some kind of museum where all the artifacts came from some abstract continent located in a different world.

Lindsey saw somebody's handbag and whispered, "Do you know how much that bag cost?" I looked over at the purse and sighed, "I don't know, a hundred dollars?" Uh – that's a Bottega Veneta! If she had said it was a broccoli carrot, I would have known as much.

And then one of the instructors mentioned how Betsy Ross – was that her name? – was going to be in town and "Wow! Can you imagine being in the same room as Betsy Ross?"

And I'm thinking, didn't she design the flag? Is she still alive? I wouldn't know the woman if she fell on me.

Of course she was talking about Betsey Johnson – I think – that was the name that came up when I googled "fashion and Betsy" (maybe she's Betsy Ross reincarnated). But I knew Lindsey would be happy to meet her.

The directors and instructors went on to discuss the benefits of the school, how it was in such close proximity to the Merchandise Mart – right next door with a walkway connecting the two buildings. Housing was available and close by. Actually, everything they discussed sounded perfect for Lindsey. 

And so, for my Lindsey, I am very happy! Three years from now, she will be where she was always destined to be – in the fashion world – a world as foreign to me as Mars, but close enough for us to still get together often.

The Difference Between My Sisters and Why One of Them Should Start a Blog

I recently posted a blog at my Writer of Blogs site about a wasp infestation in my car. I sent the story to a bunch of people and got the following responses from my sisters.

I have often thought Cindy should start her own blog for reasons which will soon become apparent. Kathy, on the other hand, not so much. You'll see why. If you agree with me, that my sister Cindy should start a blog, please let me know by commenting if you can (for some reason, even though I have set up my blogs to accept comments, people tell me they can't, but please try anyway – I changed the settings so maybe now they'll work).

Brief background: If you were to ask my sisters and me what we thought about a movie we had just seen, I would give you not only the synopsis, but character composites, information on the backdrop, the setting, vital conversations, and more. In other words, you could have seen the movie in its entirety in the time it took me to describe it to you. Cindy would point out the highlights and leave you begging for more. Kathy would try to describe the entire movie in one word.

To get a sense of what the following emails concern, read THIS FIRST.

By the way, XXX = swear words deleted (they weren't that bad, but I deleted them anyway).

Here is Cindy's response to my spine chilling wasp story:

Ter, your story sent chills down my spine.   Talk about coincidence.   I too had my share of hornet horror recently.  

 

Throughout the past week, Craig had been getting rid of 3-4 hornets in our porch every day.   It reached the point where I wouldn't go out on the porch until Craig had done his "bee due diligence."  This past Tuesday, however, was the worst.   The porch was secure because Craig had drenched it in wasp spray, but evidently the garage was not secure.   Immediately upon opening the door to the garage, I heard a thunderous buzz by my ear.  I quickly closed the door, but it was too late.   An enormous hornet had flown in.   I stood in our back hallway and, honest to God, saw a black missile coming towards me.  At eye level, both of us could see the whites of our eyes.  

 

Craig was at work, so what was I to do?  I panicked.   I literally "hopped" around the house, gasping for breath, yelling "Oh XXX, oh XXX, oh XXX, oh XXX."    I eventually hopped out to the garage, still "oh XXXing," and returned with a can of wasp killer but, of course, the wasp was no longer in sight.  So, I grabbed one of my cats and screamed "FIND IT OR YOU DIE!!!"   Luckily, Patches knew I meant business.  She spotted it on the window in the foyer, but it was too high for me to reach with the wasp killer.   And, Patches is too fat for me to throw at the window.  So, for the next hour, I sat perfectly still on a stair, killer can in hand, and stared at its every move.  Then I saw it go behind the shade.  The shade is transparent so I could still monitor its actions.   I had such a grip on the wasp killer can that I developed a blister on my finger.   For another 45 minutes, the wasp remained behind the shade and I actually thought maybe it didn't know how to get out and maybe, if there is a God, it will simply die of frustration.   But, no, it found it's way out and I again went into hopping and oh XXXing mode. 

 

Since I saw it fly away from the window, I began the search again, but, glancing back at the window, I see a wasp again behind the shade.   At this point, I'm not sure if it's the same wasp, or God forbid, another one, or even if I'm hallucinating, but I have no choice other than to take the spray and just aim and pray.   The spray hits the lower half of the shade, but is obviously less effective because it's not a direct hit on the wasp.   So I spray and spray and spray.   By this time, I am covered in wasp spray.   The shade is sopping wet.   The walls are dripping in spray.   The pictures on the walls, the books on the book shelf and the carpet are drenched.   The wasp is getting weaker.   I spray some more.   My finger with the blister is bleeding, but I don't even notice.   I continue spraying until the can is empty.    The smell is overwhelming, and I'm nearly choking from the fumes.   And, if that wasp hadn't died at that exact moment, I would have thrown the empty can at it.  

 

I'm still not sure there isn't another one lurking around somewhere, but if there is, we can put both your car and my house up for sale.

And now for my sister Kathy's response: I had a wasp in my house last summer.  I vacummed it, trapped it, put it in the closet.  Case closed.

(photo of Cindy, Kathy, and me is VERY OLD as are we) 

This happened to somebody I don't know

I have been banned from blogging by people I love: 

"DON'T blog about that!"

"DO NOT put that in your blog."

"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't write about that." 

So the following is a true event using a fictional character that nobody will recognize:

Guzaza (not her real name – I'm not allowed to use her real name for reasons that will soon become apparent) hadn't eaten all day, so I fed her some hot wings and bade her farewell into the night. 

As I stood in my doorway with my back door still open, Guzaza stood on the steps and, from the depths of her stomach, let out a belch that could have come from a 600 pound man who had just consumed an entire pot of chili. I had never, in my life, heard one that was so loud and took so long to come out of a little 110 pound body.

Apparently neither had the porch full of neighbors across the street who were now all completely focused on her, their mouths stuck in the open and awed position.

Unfortunately I had already shut and locked my door when she noticed them staring at her. So she pulled and tugged at my door and begged me to let her back in.

"Not until I can blog about this," I yelled through the door.

I'm kidding (about what I said, not about what happened). That's all. You will never guess who she is, because I have completely disguised her by calling her Guzaza.

Naming Bubby – I Mean Baby

My daughter and son-in-law read through hundreds of names before they both decided they loved the name they chose for their son. They had gone through the same process with their daughter.

I could have saved them hours and hours of painstaking labor had I known that all of it was for naught (I was hoping I would some day be able to use that term).

You see, despite the fact that they argued about the perfect name for their son, despite the fact that they chose what they believed to be the perfect name for their son, they call him – are you ready for this – Bubby. Yes, they call my grandson Bubby.

But wait! It gets better – because not only do they call him Bubby, they also call him Bub and Bubs. 

Now let's go back two years and imagine this scenario: There they are, the two of them, my daughter and my son-in-law, laboriously going through name after name after name after name. And I come along and say, "Put the book away. I have the PERFECT name for your son – call him Bubby!"

Do you know how they would have responded? Oh, NOOOOO. Never. No way! I'm not naming my kid "Bubby!"

Well, here he is, my little "Nolan" (it's a beautiful name, isn't it), who will be two years old this June. Some day he will look his parents in they eyes and say, in a Dr. Phil kind of way (if they're still calling him Bubby), "What were you thinking?"  

Cold Sensation in Elbow Might NOT Be Cause For Alarm

Every time some new physical problem afflicts me, I immediately say, oh yeah, well, you're going to have to share this body with COPD, asthma, hemangiomas, carpal tunnel syndrome, blah blah blah. 

So I really don't give it too much thought. I can't afford to see a doctor anyway, so I usually run online to find my own remedies or search through my herbal books for answers.

Today – a new one – a cold sensation in my elbow. Maybe my arthritis was flaring up in a new way. Maybe I was having a stroke. But I didn't feel any more lightheaded than usual, and my mental capacities were pretty much within normal range (for me), so I let it go.

But it continued to bother me. Earlier, because my house was cold, I had put on a brand new sweatshirt (purchased at Midway Airport when I discovered I had left my leather jacket in the closet of my son's home in Oceanside, California – I wore it only that one day) to ward off the chill.

Still, Cold Elbow Syndrome, my new name for my new affliction, wouldn't go away. And so I reached inside my sweatshirt sleeve to see if maybe an ice cube had found its way in there, and that's when I noticed that my BRAND NEW SWEATSHIRT had a hole in the sleeve.

I HATE sewing. But I'm also not driving 100 miles to return it. I think I'll use my dad's remedy for fixing things – duct tape.