Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Hey Oprah, can you send me one of those miracle angels? Today I feel like that preverbal bear is going to eat me. I have tried to shut the curtains and hide my eyes; I’ve even blared loud music in an attempt to scare away the beast but I sense he is still hiding in the shadows of today's events. Why should I be granted a miracle angel?
Well, let me say this, I do not want one because I recently received medical treatments that now make me look like a new bobble head on an old bobble body. My skin is how it should be and not tighten to the point I look like the little girl with her pig tails caught in the bus door. Sorry I understand the workings of my insides and do not require charts, graphs and exhibits to entertain your audience. The fact is I actually passed biology class.
My clothing, hair and the lack of makeup do need help, however, it does not require a full-blown angel. My wardrobe is designed for nothing less than comfort and wearing shoes that require a concealed weapons permit are just out of question. My hair is short, gray and does not require a daily two-hour power struggle. Standing in a small bathroom with a blow drier just encourages hot flashes; we will not go there. As to make up, I have this major fear of the eyelash curler. My heart tells me it does not hurt but my mind says “no way.”
I do not have a substance abuse problem, unless you consider Activia a substance that requires intervention. I do not have a cheating spouse and if I did I would just buy a bigger skillet, I’ll solve that one myself thank you. Though I have had adventurous journeys none of them would be in a record book, unless you consider going to the grocery store during the male time slot. They are aisle position challenged, not to mention that without a list in hand the grocery store turns them into zombies.
I do not text and drive but don’t get excited; I merely do not see the point. I bought a cell phone not a typewriter. I am not rich, nor famous, in fact the only people that request my autograph with any regularity work at the bank. I’m not seeking my fifteen minutes of fame because apparently the timer resets after fourteen minutes and thirty seconds. This creates a loop where the paparazzi consider you fair game, no thank you. Here in Kentucky we can shot trespassers and I cannot afford that many shotgun shells, there is a shortage you know.
So why then do I need a miracle angel? Because that darn bear is out there I told you. I cannot shot it, bear season has yet to open; the skillet is not an option and he does not give a hoot about my person, place or things. He is just lurking there waiting to attack my karma. Oh, never mind, this is too much explaining, I’ll try Ellen.