Awkward toy moments

The title says it all.

These are just some of the ways my kids have left their toys lying around our house.  And yard.

Some of these situations I couldn’t believe and some were just plain funny.

There is some plastic, Made in China kind of slightly risque humor here.  If you are easily offended and rush to label everything inappropriate or haram, then please proceed no further.

If you can see humor in simple, everyday situations, then please have a look.

Ready?  On we go.

What used to be some poor stuffed animal’s tail apparently turned into this guy’s….

I believe the picture is self explanatory.

That poor Elsa doll.  Someone is obviously out to get her.

And she has armpit hair.

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These two just happened to be…

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right across from each other.

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Never pick on someone that’s twice your width and can easily beat you up in the toy box.

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I believe he’s stuck.

These guys were my patients over the weekend.

A nearly decapitated Bowser and a penguin in desperate need of a nose job.

Apparently Mario and Luigi have turned homicidal since my Nintendo days.

Bowser and Penguin paid a visit to the stuffed animal hospital and I took them into the operating room,

where my pathetic patching skills met my even more pathetic sewing skills.

But they aren’t complaining.

I’m the only doctor covered by their insurance plan.

And they told their friends about me, too.  My fame has spread amongst injured toys and their owners.

I now have a waiting room.

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the moment, now, isn’t for me 

To live on in time.

In the wind, amongst the trees.

The moment, now, isn’t for me.

To live on, whether broken.

In a half, or a token.

In words held, unspoken.

The moment, now, isn’t meant to be.

Life in motion

is of rare devotion.

Too quickly the days will melt.

And the memory past

will seldom last 

beyond words, unfelt.

There is a place,

beyond all trace

of repetitive motion, activity.

Where lingers the grace

of love, enlaced 

with the perfume of fidelity.  

Traffic 

Traffic and construction on the first warm weekend of the year.

My husband wonders if the city of Chicago is really just a massive experiment on how much misery the average human being can handle.

If the winter doesn’t kill you, the taxes will.

Hope everyone is enjoying the wonderful weather!

When the darkness stands, moves to take

When left without sense.

When despair flows intense.

When love leads to ache.

To bend and break.

When the darkness stands, moves to take.

Take it all, in one sweep.

When duplicity lies deep.

Behind the shadows it sneaks.

Then there must be something of divinity.

When we can’t claim for infinity.

Glass of the most fragile, humanity.

To breathe, to live, to risk calamity.

Mind or matter, how easily it goes.

At the turn of the wind, at the intensity of the blow.

Perhaps we’re able to still.

The going of the body, the dying of the will.

To stitch the cut,

to replenish the spill.

But to heal the spirit, to undo the kill.

To fix the soul.

Tis the godliest of skills.

How is it done

They don’t fade easily.

Those worn memories.

Silent daggers,

piercing reverie.

Drops in the ocean 

of never meant to be. 

How is it done, by the world, the rest?

To treat them as strangers. 

They, that were once guests. 

In the most tempestuous of courts. 

The longing of mind,

the desire of hearts.

Ronald McDonald is my best friend

I am a die hard foodie.  I get excited just hearing about what was served at parties.  I like to cook and I like to eat.  

I swear, when I die, it’ll be probably be with a french fry in my mouth. 

And of course it just happens that when a foodie goes on a diet, she gets invited to a beautiful wedding that is hosted by other foodies. 

And the dessert table makes you think you died and went to pastry heaven. 

   

         

My sister and I snuck some of these goodies out with us. 😁

I only had one piece of baklava because I believe in eating in moderation when there are 600 people eating with you.

Then you take the rest home and stuff your face.  

Before I die

So my sisters had this idea.

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Because sharing the same gene pool just isn’t enough.  You need a tattoo to solidify the bonds of sisterhood.

My sisters are the more adventurous of the bunch and I’m slightly more cautious.

Okay, so I’m a worry wart.

They do stuff with abandon and I crawl after them, metaphorically of course, worrying about any and every repercussion.

I also was not very excited about the idea of any of my limbs being the canvas for permanent art work.

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But I must admit, my interest was piqued.  We started to discuss what kind of inking we would get.  It had to be something all three of us would like, so we thought why not just get the word ‘sister’ tattooed in some fancy looking arabesque calligraphy?

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Kuthi means bitch in Urdu and Hindi.  We passed on that one.

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Meaning there is no way in hell you are getting that on me.

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By this time, we had shot down quite a few ideas and Sister 2 was getting frustrated.

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To which Sister 1 was not very sympathetic.

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We managed to get past that little snafu and decided on some sort of sisterly symbol instead of the word itself.

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That made me sound like someone’s deranged stalker.

Then we hit another road block.

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That idea was then also scrapped.

I’ve decided that if I am to get a tattoo, it will be for and around my next birthday.  I’ve narrowed my choices down to two that I like.

Now to get my sisters to agree.  You’ve already seen how easy that is.

I’m not crazy about permanent inkage and I absolutely hate needles.  As a child, I once ran out of the room during a doctor appointment during which I was to get vaccinated.  I would’ve made it out of the building, too, if the nurse hadn’t dragged me back.

But the idea of just one, really cool looking, bad ass tattoo is tantalizing.  I’ve never been bad ass before.

According to my younger brother, with whom I have regular back and forth sessions of what I like to call insultathons, I have been a fat ass, a lazy ass, and a dumb ass at various points in my life.

It’s like a mini Comedy Central roast every time we meet up.

But I have never been bad ass.  And who doesn’t want to be bad ass?

I do.  I really do.  Especially since I have always been told I have a sweet little baby face and I remind them of Winnie the Pooh. 😐

I’d love to whip out my tattoo, and with a crazy look in my eyes, ask the commenter Would Winnie the Pooh DO THIS?  Would he?! 😈

I’m just kidding.  I’m not that nuts and I really don’t mind the comparison.

But I would like to cross get a tattoo off my things I want to do before I die list.

Smoke a cigar and try hookah were taken off said list last year, on my last birthday, which was an important, milestone birthday.  I wanted to try something crazy, something I had never done before.  I figured Why the hell not?  Everyone does it.  

Bad idea, boys and girls.  To all you impressionable young people out there, don’t even.   

Both the cigar and the hookah tasted like shit.  Like dirty ass crack shit.  I couldn’t even stop coughing long enough to inhale or enjoy the stuff.  The smell of tobacco smoke clung to my hair and my clothes, mingling with my perfume.

The end result of it all was that I got home at 3 AM, looking like a zombie and smelling like a cheap hooker.