This morning I read a Facebook post my friend had written about how her daughter was told by her teacher that she couldn’t say “Bless You” when someone in class sneezed.  Are you kidding me?  When did I blink and an age old tradition to wish someone good health has become offensive.  If someone chose to wish me “Alhamdulillah” when I sneezed I would never take offense, as long as I knew it didn’t mean that I smelled like a goat.  I am not religious but always say bless you to someone, it’s just a courteous thing to say.  It’s not like I’m throwing holy water on someone after they sneeze.  However, I do feel like throwing something at people most of the time.

Why would it offend someone if they are told good wishes by someone of another culture?  If someone wished me Happy Hanukkah I would be happy they chose to share their tradition with me, not be offended.  Now during the holiday season I feel like a deer in headlights, I never know what to say to anyone.  I stand there like the village idiot and blurt out Happy Birthday.  I feel guilty that I celebrate Christmas and want to spread my holiday cheer.  I personally enjoy Christmas lights because they are sparkly and make me smile, they in no way remind me of Jesus.  Before you know it, town squares will be dark during the holiday season because it’s too offensive.

This world or should I say country, has really gone too far.  We are at a point where if one person takes offense to something it must be banned or you are politically incorrect and going to Hell.  Oh sorry, Hell is probably offensive to someone so let’s just say a burning hot dark place.  If burning, hot, or dark places offend someone then maybe we can say something else.  Oh forget it, we really shouldn’t speak anymore because more likely than not, we are offending someone.

I know my blog offends 98% of the people that read it but my thought is, if you don’t like it, don’t read it.  Now leave me alone while I go put on my confederate flag bikini, drink out of my neutered Starbucks red cup, and wrap my house in Christmas lights.

As a woman in my forties, I am finding that my trunk now contains a lot more junk than it used to and no matter what I do that trunk doesn’t get emptied.  I mean I am exercising every day with that glass of red wine and nothing, no change.  All the ads these days talk about loving the body you’re in, which I get but it would be nice to love the body that is four layers in instead.  I dress differently now, I don’t wear form fitting shirts like I used to and think of it as a public service of sorts.  People spend good money for their lunch, they don’t need to lose it.

I also respect that everyone should be allowed to wear what they want, when they want, and not be judged.  But come on people, there are just some things that shouldn’t be worn unless you have the right body for it.  Love your body, yes, but I don’t need to see all that love.  Leave some things to the imagination will you.  I would love to strut what God gave me in a half shirt but I won’t because I know I just shouldn’t.   Then we are right back to people losing their lunch.  If the cup runneth over….

One of my new loves are yoga pants.  Sigh.  What a wonderful creation these stretchy, forgiving pants are.  They are slimming, comfortable, and mine even have a little zip pocket near the waistband which I like to think is for candy.  How thoughtful of the creators to think of us like that.  I wish we could wear these to work, dinner, black tie events, etc.  We can’t have everything in life, for those events there are always housecoats.  Yoga pants, however, should be worn properly and in my opinion should even coming with an instruction label.  Not too tight and not with a short shirt unless you are pretty sure you can pull it off.  How many times have you seen someone and thought, don’t they own a mirror?

Speaking of mirrors.  If I am ever to create a product it would be a mirror that lights up with a red “X” across it when it sees an outfit that is just, no.  If you are that entrepreneurial type, please feel free to steal my idea and run with it.  You will be doing us all a public service.

My personality is an interesting one, unique you might say.  I have a warped sense of humor and get distracted easily by shiny objects.  I laugh at everything.  I often wonder if it might be misconstrued as insanity. This morning as I was talking to the birds in my yard, my daughter mentioned that if I am ever being questioned to determine my mental state, never say yes if asked if God speaks to me.  She was told this in school so it must be true.

Of course with my personality and sense of humor, I automatically think of how fun that would be to mess with people.  I can already see the looks on people’s faces when I interrupt a conversation to answer my cell phone because it’s Jesus.  “Excuse me, I need to take this, it’s Jesus”.  Just the thought of that made me burst into laughter which may in fact solidify my insanity.  I should probably speak to someone about that but can’t forget, don’t say I hear from God.

You could even have a special phone, a Batphone of sorts to really confuse people.  It can have an angelic ringtone, maybe a white sparkly case, only the best for the big guy.  Payphones are hard to come by but if you found one you could stand by it and whenever someone went to use it you could say you are waiting for a call from Jesus.  “Sorry, it’s important and it’s long distance”.  Then follow it up with telling them to respect that or you’ll put in a bad word for them.

Life is too short not to mess with people once and awhile.  That’s what Jesus told me anyway.

Did you ever stop to notice all the taboos there are associated with drinking?  They are kind of funny when you think about them. Alcohol sales average 6.5 billion dollars every year in the United States and it’s been 84 years since Prohibition ended but these stigmas still exist.  I wonder how close my guess actually is to the correct figures.  I’m too lazy to look them up so if I sound convincing, people will believe me.  Anyway, even though it is such a large part of our society, people are not only hesitant to have a drink when they want but even to admit when they want one.  We have all either heard or said “maybe I’ll have just one”.  Does anyone that utters that line ever only have just one because it’s not fooling anyone.  I guess it sounds more socially acceptable than to come right out and admit that they are going to drink until they can’t find their way home.

How about the ever popular and my personal favorite, “it’s 5:00 o’clock somewhere”.  Where did that time come from?  The end of the work day? When was it decided that after 5:00 o’clock it was socially acceptable to start drinking but before that magic hour you were a lush.  Who, other than myself, wants to admit that you have used a different time zone at some point in your life to justify the early start of drinking?  Well, it’s 5:00 o’clock in Russia so it must be alright for me.

Everyone wants a drink but no one wants to admit they want a drink.  When “I’ll have a drink if you are” is uttered it’s pretty obvious that you want a drink but are too afraid to come right out and say it.  When the person you’re with decides on iced tea you all of sudden pretend you never really wanted one, you just didn’t want them to have to drink alone. Come on, if George Thorogood can drink alone without being criticized then why can’t we.

These “rules” obviously exist in our society for a reason but our brain finds whatever loopholes it can to get around them. It probably is best that they exist, I mean can you imagine if they didn’t.  Moms would be pushing their children at the playground with one hand and a brown paper bag containing a 40 oz. in their other hand.  Employee manuals would have a section discussing the protocol of holding your co-worker’s hair while they vomit.  Teachers would be teaching cursive writing when they were really trying to teach printing.  Science classes would be making moonshine.  All Hell would break loose.  Let’s just keep up our waiting until 5:00 o’clock and only have just one.

I admit, I can be materialistic at times.  Ok, a lot of the time.  This is something I am not proud of but I like nice things and have always been that way.  I did not grow up in an affluent family but was taught at an early age to appreciate the finer things and bargain shop to get them.  I have such fond memories of going into Filene’s Basement in Boston on the train with my mother and learning that Italians make the best shoes.  If you remember that store you will also remember searching the tags to see which item had the biggest discount.  I may not have always paid attention in school but I always paid attention to her shopping advice.  I now proudly hand that knowledge down to my daughter.

Nothing was ever handed to me, I worked for it, and I worked hard.  I missed out on a lot when I was young because I had to work but I think it made me a better person, it made me realize the value of a dollar.  I bought my own cars, which were always new ( I love that new car smell), put myself through college and saved enough for a down payment of a house.  Now I don’t really work that hard but I scored a husband that does, which I like to think took hard work.  It is not easy being a trophy wife.

Despite the Kate Spade bags and endless supply of J. Crew socks, which are always purchased on sale, there is one thing that I enjoy more than anything else and won’t bargain shop for.  One truly materialistic thing that I wonder if I should be ashamed of enjoying so much.  It’s my landscapers.  There, I said it, judge me as you will, but it brings a tear to my eye and makes me proud to be an American that I have this privilege to hire them.  Our yard is the size of a postage stamp but it looks so good.  They are the only people that can charge me whatever they want for services that I did not request and I will willingly pay it.  Does that make me a bad person that I enjoy this so much?  That in ten minutes they can accomplish what would take my husband two hours and broken weed wacker string.  Isn’t it better to have that quality family time while supporting the economy?  The grass truly is always greener….

Remember when we were young and our school desks were in rows?  This was the norm for hundreds of years I would imagine. When did this concept become a bad idea? Who was the genius that decided they couldn’t leave well enough alone. How much money did our school systems spend on studies to be told that the desks should face and touch each other in a cluster. You know what word automatically follows cluster? Yeah, that’s what’s going on in schools today.

I was a talker, I admit. I was the girl that was always turned around in her seat and asked if I would like to share with the class. Of course I was very polite and would say no thank you, I do not wish to share. I was raised with manners you know. Having our desks in rows did deter me somewhat and kept the chatting and distraction to a minimum and I did actually manage to somewhat succeed in life. Today, I probably wouldn’t make it past the fourth grade.

So what rocket scientist decided our children’s desks should be clumped into groups of five touching and facing each other? Did no one stop and think this might be a bad idea?  Now as a mother, I am being told my child is distracted in class and having difficulty focusing. Really? That’s a shock! How can that be? His desk is touching other children’s desks and he is not focusing? I can’t think of any way to cut down on the distraction. How about put the desks in rows? Imagine all the money that would have been saved if someone had just asked me or left well enough alone.  Sometimes if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

This morning as I was getting ready I noticed my wrinkles.  I pay pretty good money for an eye cream that promises to eliminate my laugh lines.  I strive to smooth them so that I might have younger looking skin.  It doesn’t work but kudos to them for tricking me into buying it.  Then I thought, should I really be working so hard to try to hide these laugh lines?  They mean I smile a lot, isn’t that a good thing?

Maybe instead of being embarrassed of them I should be proud.  Proud that I laugh and smile a lot.  Proud that I can find the humor in most situations.  Proud that I can make people smile with my nonsensical style of speaking.  This society teaches us that it is bad to have flaws and we need to strive for perfection.   I don’t want to be perfect, I want to be me.

Well society, too bad, I have laugh lines and I consider them a badge of honor.  I’m proud of my battle scars because a smile is a gift.  If I will be physically “scarred” by giving everyone I see a smile, then so be it.  Life is too short and I’m just going to keep on smiling.

This weekend solidified my theory that the entire state of Maine seems to be under some sort of trance when it comes to making coffee.  I’m not sure if it is a demonic trance that warrants the need of a blanket exorcism over the entire state, a form of cult brainwashing, The Dome that Stephen King is referring to, or maybe a really odd coincidence that Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me is always playing at the very moment I order.  Whatever the reason may be, apparently it is impossible for a person to make a coffee without adding sugar.  No matter how many times I have ordered coffee without sugar while in Maine, it contains sugar.

I am truly baffled as to why this happens.  They know there isn’t supposed to be sugar in the coffee but something unseen is forcing them to add sugar.  It’s as if when they look over at the sugar container the counter starts to shake, they try to fight it but they can’t.  Their arm seems to have a mind of its own that they can’t control.  They.  Must.  Add.  Sugar.

What makes it so much worse than the money wasted, is that I really look forward to that cup of coffee.  I love coffee, I have killed for less than a good cup of coffee.  It’s like a little special treat that adds some sunshine to your day.  A small promise of an extra boast of energy.  As you pull away from the drive through window all seems right in the world until you take a sip and want to throw the coffee back at the person that handed it to you.  Don’t worry, I would never do that, I can’t handle another stint in prison.  Of course you don’t notice that the coffee contains sugar until it is too late, especially at Dunkin Donuts because the coffee will burn all of the skin out of your mouth if you don’t wait 45 minutes before your first sip.

I think the next time I order coffee while in Maine I will have to do something drastic.  I may actually get out of my car and go inside to order so that I can watch them make it.  I know, it sounds horrible but it’s a sacrifice I am willing to take to get the coffee I deserve.

Remember when pulling an all-nighter was fun? Well it definitely isn’t at my age, especially when you have children and when it is only because you couldn’t sleep. I know where I was last night and my clothes aren’t on backwards so that’s a good thing, but I’m just too old for this.  My clothes always stayed in the correct place, but I did have a neighbor who found her underwear on her front walkway one morning. I prefer to keep mine on at all times while I’m out but to each his own, who am I to judge? Who am I kidding, I judge all the time, the little tramp.

So this morning I keep finding myself with my head on the kitchen table laying in a pool of my own drool. Don’t you hate when you get to that point where coffee no longer has any effect? You’re shaking like crazy and look like you have been doing heroin, but you keep falling asleep standing up. Today I’m trying a caffeine IV which is going to make it difficult to get my Fitbit steps up today. Good thing I have dogs.

Of course the school keeps telling my children that breakfast is the most important meal of the day so there was no way I was getting out of that today. I tried telling them today was our fasting day for our religion, Mommyisfreakingtiredism, but they didn’t buy it. I’m not really sure what I packed them for lunch. I vaguely remember a bag of Oreos and a tube of toothpaste. This is a great time to reinforce that they need to be thankful for whatever they have.

Tonight while visions of sugarplums danced in people’s heads, the sound of a freight train lay next to me in bed. There was no hope of sleep with my husband’s snoring and for some strange reason I started thinking about my Boston accent. Maybe the voices in my head weren’t pronouncing their r’s. What better way to cure insomnia than to get up and write a blog. At least I know it will help cure someone else’s insomnia by reading it.

I am a proud Bostonian, through and through and I have been known to slap people for something as simple as referring to jimmies as chocolate sprinkles. There are so many Boston specific oddities but I think the most popular is how Boston seems to be the place where the letter “r” goes to die. It’s a strange thing actually, it’s almost as if our genetic makeup doesn’t allow for the correct pronunciation of the letter within a word. It’s not as if we can’t pronounce the letter “r”, it’s just that when it comes to putting it into a word, we can’t see it, it disappears. Where’d it go, I don’t know, but it’s gone!

I grew up in the town of Arlington which is about seven miles North of Boston, I believe. The sign on the town limits was actually printed as Welcome to Ahlington, even the sign itself couldn’t pronounce the “r”. My accent used to be quite strong as were those around me. Then my husband and I decided to see the world and explore new things. So we moved to the next town over.   Once you crossed the border, sounds more exotic to say it that way, it was almost as if the accent had disappeared. All of a sudden I became very aware of my accent and started to force myself to pronounce the letter “r” inside a word and not just add it to the end of words where it doesn’t belong.

This might sound like an easy task but it really isn’t. They should offer a speech therapy class for those of us struggling to add r’s to words. That would be quite funny actually, it would be a room filled with sounds similar to that of a gender confused tiger’s mating call. Roahrrrrr. My husband’s new accent for some strange reason sounds like a Mid Westerner with a speech impediment. Believe me, our children get hours of enjoyment laughing when we speak. I may not sound as Boston as I used to but I will forever be a proud Bostonian. Boston, you’re my home.