Meme Tagging. The cure for insomnia.
So this is PUMA HELL weekend leading up to crackhead coronation Tuesday. Why play board games to pass the time when you can play shrink and patient, sans couch. I have been tagged ( I should be so lucky) by le bloggeur who most inspires me, Shtuey. It's a good thing the rules are relaxed because Petunia doesn't take too kindly to towing the line. Seems the tagees have to reveal six things about themselves, and ordinarily, I love to spew, but when it's about me, well, I wonder how much I want to send into cyberspace since my damned computer has been hacked for my PUMAtizing antics back when we began. Without further ado, here's much ADO about nothing.
- I'm technically a baby boomer but someone forgot to tell me. Then again, maybe I'm normal and the ladies who lunch sold out. I've been a single, divorced mom for fifteen years, much of it quite entertaining. I've been growing up alongside my son, so having the so called "cool mom" can be somewhat embarrassing to a young man. Then again, I've dated some who were only fifteen years older than him (give or take), so it took me longer to grow up than the way too smart kid that I was blessed with. He is my life, my world, my reason for setting the alarm for the next day, the reason I remain on the east coast, the progeny of my womb who is destined to be Bob Costas Part Deux. As a PUMA since the beginning, I've subjected him to a raving lunatic for a mother, but thankfully, he goes to school and lives in a dorm so he was able to make a prison break during some pivotal times. For all my attempts to wake him from the trance that liberal academia put him in, he voted for O'no!, and he is the only bot I have been able to forgive. To his credit, he has been heard to say that he doesn't worship him at all. I can live with that.
- I'm a native New Yorker with all the pluses and minuses that come with that dubious location, but there is nowhere on the planet where I would have preferred to be raised, other than the French Riviera, Buckingham Palace, Martha's Vineyard (sans Teddy), La Jolla, Maui, or Tuscany. I'm easy to please. I luv NY a lot, and anyone who alludes to the supposed lack of graciousness attributed to New Yorkers has to answer to me. 9/11 was personal for me, and yes it affected everyone, but someone I won't define was trapped in his office and had just a minute to call his mom to say goodbye. He was that kinda guy. Big Jets fan, lover of life, tons of friends, golfer, young and successful, good natured, and had recently lost his dad due a sudden death prompting him to give up his single life freedom to move back to his family home and help his mom. A rare one, taken too early, as were many. Every year on the day that we memorialize the fallen, I send flowers to his family. I missed one year, or maybe two, but maybe not. I watch local tv which broadcasts a ceremony with all of the politicians, families, and friends of the victims, reading the names of the deceased, and ringing a huge bell at the exact times that the towers were hit, then subsequently fell. Pictures are shown for the viewers. It takes hours, but I won't miss it. I need to see and dwell and cry and remember that the small things really are insignificant. Being neurotic, after a day, I return to making the small things huge. His funeral had a turnout rivaling that of a celebrity, and all that was left was put into a small gilded box, for the remains of the over six foot man were gone. F*ck you terrorists, would-be jihadists and all those who keep forgetting how every day we intercept chatter. This event jaded me forever and changed my insides.
- I used to have a thing for sports players. A big thing. I was vacationing in Monte Carlo ( the lush life I haven't had in years and won't again) when Jim Bouton appeared in the lobby of the Loews. I pretended he was a passerby, but I had read "Ball Four", and had a huge crush on the still youngish ex-Yankee. Well, I was sitting in the lobby one evening and he approached me ( he must have been desperate) and proceeded to dangle his room key after a brief conversation about the Boston Celtics. ( was trained to write non-fiction so I can't make this up.) I sat there like a lummox. He walked down the lobby corridor, turned around once to see if I was following, and I still sat there. I remember the number of the room, this was in the 80's. My sense of morality kept me from having a brief interlude and I've regretted it ever since. In years to come, I told my sense of morality to go to hell, and it did. Then Tino Martinez came
along, my favorite first baseman Yankee, and that was also a close call. For some reason, I had no problem with my conscience when it came to non-famous people, but with those I dreamed of, I felt I wasn't worthy. Again, regrets. Lesson to those that read this, assuming anyone does, morality impedes joy, so as long as you're not hurting anyone else, go for it.
- I cannot live without tuna fish sandwiches and diet dr. brown's cream soda. There are no french fries that are comparable to Nathan's...the original one. Food soothes me, and that's not good, but I could be drinking Kamikazes and driving, so what the hell.
- Black. I love black. Black carpet, black clothing, black toenail polish. My mother who was supremely stunning and the belle of everyone's ball, trained me early that a classy woman always wears black with a string of pearls. I never wore the pearls, and I dress like a funky mama, so my mom never approved. She passed away knowing that somewhere along the line, I lost my way, and that made her deeply sad. I will always live with the regret that I didn't make mommy happy for the most part, but she was proud of her incredible grandson, so at least I did something right.
- If I live to see it happen, this is the year that I am going to screw my head on when it comes to forging a healthy adult relationship with a human being of the opposite sex. Here's the juicy part. I was dating and engaged to a very intelligent, Scott Peterson-like charmer. I had finally found the one I was willing to give up my divorcee status for. He was a part of my family, we vacationed, we vowed to be loyal and remain together. Since I always put my mothering first, I didn't always have time for him, but he knew I was devoted. Well, little did I know that I was planning a life with the "tri-state male trollop." I'm pretty sure he hit more zip codes than Roger Maris hit home runs. There were signs, he denied them. His friends tried to tell me in coy ways, his hvac guy slipped up and asked me on the phone if I was the one from NY or NJ, all denied. At some point, things got crazy and mom was misdiagnosed. A two year long saga of pain ensued, during which time he hired some uneducated, unwed mother chiquita who knew he and I were engaged ( I told her when she answered the phone) but decided to sleep with the boss. Talk about a B movie. The details of this sordid saga are book worthy, so I'll save the rest. Suffice it to say, he and I still carried on our relationship without me knowing a thing, for a long time. That's what happens when you're preoccupied and the man in your life is a sociopath. I was Laci Peterson without the murder. I only found out about them when she emailed me two weeks after mom passed away, and decided to send me a picture of the two of them, and an admonition to stay away from "her man." Now mom and dad raised me well so I wasn't accustomed to trailer trash. It's only in recent months that we've stopped all communication, though if given the chance, he would still insist he was leaving her, they were not sleeping together, it's a matter of convenience, and he doesn't love her. His mother is a psychiatrist and that's telling in itself. So, 2009, I'm ready. It's time to forge on, for I no longer give a damn about Alex and Rae, the two losers of Flushing, New York. G-d, that felt good. She has read this blog, and if she gets upset, I might just link her blog here to show the world that she blogs about RUBBER STAMPS AND INK.
I could go on, but I'd have the need to pay someone for reading this, and with the economic instability we're all experiencing...I can't trust "that one" to fund my catharsis.
Ok, now here's the tough part. My PUMA people are mostly on FaceBook, for that is where I created the first PUMA group and forged relationships. We've all been together there for a long time, but most of them are not PUMA bloggers. I've become friendly with some conservative bloggers and they're actually very clever and fun, but this meme is for our family of fierce cats. So, I'm tagging five cats plus one COOL cat who just happens to get it.
sky dancing in a man's world
truth is gold
the black sphere
heidi li's potpourri
ms placed democrat
I passed go. Do I collect?