Gay Boyfriend, by Garfunkel and Oates

This makes me laugh out loud, and giggle like a girl.

There’s one in every crowd, or not.

DON’T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU!

“The Journal of Sexual Medicine reported a 38 year old woman arrived at a local hospital after suffering from weight loss, shaking, lethargy and incontinence. Doctors discovered a foreign mass protruding from her bladder into her vagina, it turned out to be a sex toy that she lost ten years ago.”

I’m not even sure what to say after this.

Reality check. Damn.

http://www.ehow.com/how_5116134_physically-prepare-hiking-appalachian-trail.html

Okay, so after much deliberation, maybe I shouldn’t try to hike across America.  But I still want to hike the Appalachian Trail; that’s almost 2,200 miles from Maine to Georgia.  But according to this guide, you know a publication that most sane people would use and commit to memory, I need to be able to carry at least 22 to 25 pounds on my back for 8 hours a day or something like that, blah blah blah.  I got tired of carrying my water bottle with me in the woods, and have taken to leaving it at home.  *sigh*  This does not bode well.  Why did I learn to read?  Shoot, ignorance was bliss.

Couldn’t I just stuff my socks and bra with beef jerky and peanuts?  I do have a water tote that’s like a back pack.  I can’t remember the name of it right now but I think it holds two liters, which is what they say I’ll need each day.  And carrying my own bed, well, I was just planning on flirting and sharing somebody else’s bed.  What?  Is that wrong?  I mean, I don’t want to carry one.  That seems hard.  This was supposed to be a fun trip, not manual labor.  😛  I can’t even tell if I’m being facetious or for real.  I’m starting to sweat typing this.

Damn.  The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, isn’t it?  Stupid hard work.  Now I need a gym membership.  Thank goodness they’re building one right across the street from where I live.  Training, carrying stuff…hmmm, maybe I should get a mule instead of an alligator.  The mule could carry stuff, and potentially me.  Oh snap!  Wait, am I allowed to have a mule or is that cheating?  How about a Red Ryder wagon, with a long handle?  That seems fair.  If I were in Switzerland, I’d get a St. Bernard with a keg, right? 

I’ve got to stop reading stuff. 

I’m still here.

I’m still here, but it hasn’t been easy.  I’m sure that you had your reasons.  I’m scared of all this emotion; for years, I’ve been holding it down.

Emma Watson

No dying on the side of the road – check.

Advice asked for – check.

Advice given – check.

I appreciate all kind words, and all advice given.  I do not want to die on the side of the road.  I’d like to think that I have enough sense to stop should I feel that I am literally dying on the side of the road.  😛  I mean, I’d like to think that. 

What people really want when they ask for advice, well, looking back, I think I really wanted someone to agree with me.  “Why yes, G, you CAN do this!  By golly, you go, girl!”  That may or may not be realistic.  But you guys are not Yes people and I am thankful for that.  And I do appreciate your concerns, and your awesome advice. 

Creating a different scenario to raise awareness, great idea.  Reading about others’ experiences and reaching out to them for advice, fabulous idea!  Staying local to do these things, good advice probably, for safety reasons.  Putting myself in harm’s way, okay, probably NOT the safest journey to make, I will agree. 

And maybe, just maybe I do think I’m invincible.  I mean, I have almost died at least a half dozen times and look at me!  Ta-daaa!  Alive!  Go G, go G!  I mean, I’ve drowned, fallen two stories, been shot at more than once, flipped over in a car, choked geez dozen of times (I don’t even eat steak anymore because of this), survived running through downed electrical wires in the rain, driven home a hundred times too drunk to remember (I quit drinking, I promise!), smoked enough dope to buy Peru,  and probably a few more things that I can’t recall off the top of my head.  So yeah, I’m thinking, God isn’t going to kill me – I’m probably a lesson for someone else.  😛 

Okay, so you’re thinking – Big deal, lots of people undergo things.  True.  I have been incredibly lucky.  I’ve never been set on fire.  I mean, score, right?!  I’ve never been attacked by a wolf, bear, or shark.  I have survived hurricanes but venturing further west will leave me potentially susceptible to Tornado Alley and the fury unleashed in that part of the country.  No serious flood or locusts.  Whew!  Can’t say enough how glad I am about that. 

I mean, I am talking America.  We still have ice cream trucks, and little league games.  There are fences that keep most stuff off of the roadways, and I was planning on traveling by road.  And hell, after the first month, won’t I be in better shape?  I mean, that’s part of the goal.  Eating lighter (read starving 😛 ), not being sedentary within my days (Thank God!), and finally some peace of mind, ALONE TIME (a valuable, albeit not resellable, commodity).

WAIT.  Do you think I can pull a Port-a-Potty on a wagon?  Are those things heavy?  Ah, damn.  I suppose they aren’t along the roadside in say, Arizona, are they? 

Okay.  Well.  Hmmm.  If you see a woman squatting behind the tumbleweeds while you’re driving in the mid-west, at least wave.  I’ll have one hand free.

First of May…:P

Advice time, please.

Okay, friendly friends of mine, I need your help and/or advice.  I ask because I don’t always have the best judgment; I mean really, who does?  So at times I need a good sounding board.  Enter YOU.

I am currently feeling a huge urge to walk.  I don’t want to walk around the block or through the woods on a trail.  I’m thinking from Chapel Hill, North Carolina to say Aberdeen, Washington – 3030 miles as the crow flies, or as the lesbian walks.

And I’m thinking of doing it for Cystic Fibrosis, to raise awareness of this little known disease.  Do you guys know what it is exactly?  Well, my little 6-year old grandson has it and before that, I could spell it but really didn’t know what it was or what it did to your body.  If he doesn’t exercise and remain active, it solidifies his lungs, like cement would basically.  So he takes a breathing treatment every night, where he has to blow hard enough to make his chest rattle.  And he has to swallow two huge pills before anything he eats and even if he just ate an hour ago, he has to take two more pills.  He also takes about 5 or 6 pills every morning, plus a measured amount of a powder in a PediaSure drink.  And for whatever reason, he also must eat at least 3,000 calories a day, just to maintain his super skinny figure.  That is what I know, what I lived through with him for those two weeks – what he lives with every day of his life.

So what do you guys think?  I need feedback, ideas, concerns.  Of course my girlfriend thinks I’m crazy and refuses to come with me.  Doesn’t want to contemplate where her next meal might come from or if we might have to sleep on the ground.  I am taking no money with me, just a tent, a change of clothing and shoes.  I am going to depend on the kindness of strangers and/or the validity of the barter system.  Hey, if I did some kind of chore for you, you’d feed me dinner, wouldn’t you?

Of course I called the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation yesterday and they’re excited with me, and a nice lady is going to meet with me the first week in August to brainstorm ideas on how to keep me safe during my trip, etc. 

Does anybody out there know how I might get sponsors, how to go about such things, etc.?  I’m not a limelight kind of gal so this will be a challenge for me.  Also I’m not exactly in great health.  Diabetes is a constant thing, as is my blood pressure, although I feel I have both adequately controlled at the moment. 

My daughter thinks I’ll get killed by bears.  My girlfriend thinks I’ll die of a heart attack on the side of the road.  I think I’ll just cry myself to sleep each night with blisters and/or sunburn, but I do think I’ll make it, probably take me a year and a half, maybe longer, but I think I’ll make it.

Suggestions?  Ideas?  Concerns?  Thoughts?  Don’t leave me hanging here, I need you guys.

Word Crimes….

Grandsons.

So two weeks has come and gone.  I survived.  Not sure if my wallet survived just yet or not; still performing CPR on it.  It’s touch and go on that scene.

The grandsons were an absolute joy and wonder and a definite pain in the butt but I wouldn’t have missed this experience for the world.  Still catching up on my sleep, though, and on coffee – never did have more than a half a cup while they were here.

And my girlfriend’s hormones decided to put her life in jeopardy during their stay.  I thought about strangling her more than once.  No, I’m lying; let me be completely honest – I thought about beating her to death with a cast iron frying pan more than once.  But we survived.  My good sense prevailed.  Thankfully.  She seems better now.  I just think it’s been a very long since she has been sleep deprived, and in demand with little kids.  It was for me, that’s for sure, but I have the added benefit of being completely in love with them.  Not in that creepy Law & Order SVU kind of way but in “My grandsons are the best ever” kind of way.  God, I’m glad they went home.

We fed turtles every day at the pond and swam in the pool.  We went to the natural history museum and made our own Camp Grandma G tee shirts.  We drew on the sidewalk in chalk and then passed out chalk to little girls at the park.  Geez, I do sound like a creeper.  UGH.  We played more Mario Kart than anyone should have to play, ever.  We went to the planetarium and my 6-year old grandson sat with his arm around me, in a roomful of other kids.  He made me feel like a million bucks.

And now I’m crying, again.  Stupid hormones.  Better go hide the frying pan from myself.  UGH.

Things are almost back to normal.  The living room furniture has been rearranged again.  The rubber ducks are back under the sink, in hiding.  The cabinets have been purged of paper chips and later today I’ll give away the rest of the red-white-and-blue popsicles.  Stupid hormones.