Anxiety, Depression

Fashion While in Eternity

hell2I would like to say that I’m a very spiritual person, but I’m not. Neither am I someone who needs empirical proof that things exist beyond my ability to see them. I’m just of the belief that I don’t have the time or desire to wonder where my soul will go after death because my current body and mind have so their own issues to deal with.

Likewise, I don’t have the inclination to speculate whether a loaf of bread falling off the shelf means one of my dogs is trying to contact me from the rainbow bridge. Life after death was a common theme in the 1980’s on Oprah Winfrey, Phil Donahue, and Montel Williams. Stories of individuals traveling towards a bright light and then seeing themselves from above became commonplace. Those who have died often say they are free from the physical illnesses they were plagued with here on earth. However, there is one aspect of the hereafter that I do think about and not shockingly, it’s really stupid.

hell4How come no one ever mentions what age they are restored to during this excursion to the bright light? More importantly what are the deceased wearing upon their arrival? Not to look a gift- God in the mouth, but depending on how I looked at the age that I’m restored to, it might not be that much fun. Think of all the awkward stages we have in a lifetime. For me there was the flat chested, gap tooth era, and the uni-brow, mosquito bite boobs era.

These are just descriptions of what I physically looked like, but how I dressed was even more offensive. What if I’m restored to 80’s gear with neon leg warmers and lingerie worn as outerwear? What if I’m restored to the grunge period with a flannel plaid shirt tied around my waist? I could definitely get stressed with the thought that my outfit could be seasonal. In other words if I was restored to a Halloween I could be dressed as a slutty schoolgirl and have to spend eternity wearing a garter belt under a short tartan skirt. If its Christmas time I could get stuck in an ugly sweater.

We can all assume that the temperature of hell is on the hot side, but what about heaven? Whats the deal there? I get light-headed if it’s too hot and I’ve been known to shake uncontrollably if it’s too cold. Will there be stores up or down there if I need a a bathing suit or a sweater? What if people pass away while in the hospital would this mean that heaven is filled with hundreds of thousands of people wearing blue gowns with their asses hanging out? What happens if your lucky enough to find two great loves of your life? Where is ones loyalty supposed to be?

Is it wrong to want to know how to best prepare myself for after life? I will spend more time there than I will anywhere else and just maybe this time around I would like to fit in.

Depression, Nostalgia

Games People Play

PerfectionThe toys I played with as a child should have been reserved for those living in padded cells. I liken the stress of playing these games to what it might feel like if someone strapped a bomb to my head and said don’t move.

Don’t Spill the Beans was a nifty game that involved placing fake beans in a cauldron presumably filled with boiling water. The players try to avoid being the bean placer who causes the cauldron to tip over. This game could quite possibly be why I can’t be around any vessel holding any hot liquid.

At least in Don’t Spill the Beans the player can only suffer fake third-degree burns unlike the game of Don’t Break the Ice where the consequence of losing is fake involuntary manslaughter. This fun-filled game has opponents using plastic mallets to break away ice blocks where a little man just happens to be sitting. When his block breaks he’s presumed dead since he will plunge through the frigid ice. I always felt if the man were dumb enough to sit on a chair in the middle of an ice pond, maybe our gene pool would have been better off without him. Everyone knows you should always lower your center of gravity in a situation like that, not pull up a loveseat.

The only game more fun than playing with fire and ice is performing surgery. The game of Operation requires its players to perform surgery on a pasty man who is composed mostly of fat and thirteen fake body parts. Anytime a player’s scalpel hits the metal that surrounds his organs, an alarm sounds and his nose lights up. Has anyone noticed that this guy is obese? Even if a player could avoid sounding the alarm while removing his organs, he is well on his way to a coronary.

The game responsible for most of my post-traumatic stress is Perfection. This is a nasty game, likely invented by a horrid person who probably hated kids. I can’t imagine a better way to risk a child’s confidence than timing him or her on any task. Children fit plastic pieces in corresponding holes within a prescribed time and when the player fails not only will the alarm sound, it does so in concert with a physical explosion that chucks every correctly laid piece into the air.

All this childhood torture was for naught since none of these games taught me a damn thing that I could take with me into adulthood. I can’t recall the last time someone asked me to place a small vegetable on an even smaller pot of scalding water. Thank God I’ve never shared a frozen lake with a person hell-bent on drowning me. Maybe games where there is no winner would have been more appropriate. I did enjoy Lite Brite, but because I was the world’s youngest masochist, I preferred the self-loathing that came with a game like Perfection.

Any games that might have contributed to post-traumatic stress for you?  Hang Man done on paper, Charades and that stupid game where you put your hands on top of someones palms and wait for them to smack you all count!


comedy, Culture, Depression

Mixed Eggs and Scrambled Feelings

EGG.Before Top Chef and Chopped there were lesser known cooking competitions that aired a jillion years ago. A short-lived program involved a European Chef and his gorgeous model wife who performed the show from their stunning home. If you were a woman watching this show it was almost impossible to maintain even a low level of self-esteem.

To qualify as a contestant on the show the host asked the cooks to prepare an egg any style. I couldn’t understand why cooking an egg would be a litmus test for chefs and I still don’t. However, what I did learn recently is that for me cooking an egg is symbolic of my life. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here; I’m not talking about renewal or hope. I suffer from depression…eggs remind me of my fucked up life.

My eggs are always free-range, scrambled with tomato and shredded cheese. I drop two small pats of butter into my heated pan and then wait one complete second for the butter to melt. I then hang a fork which I dipped into the raw eggs over the pan so I could test an egg dribble for proper heat. For thirty years the “after dribble” has played out the same and I have ignored signs that a disaster or at least a bad egg awaits.

Instead of cooking, the egg dribble spreads a little and then rests as if mocking me. I wait a full two seconds and dump eggs into pan. Shockingly, I learn that waiting only three seconds for butter to heat is illogical even with the best stove. The heavy shredded cheese stays wherever it landed in the pan while the lighter weight tomato pieces travel within the goo slightly. Thirty years of egg cooking and I have never heard the sizzle that is supposed to happen when egg meets pan. What is it about just waiting for the pan to heat the butter adequately that I can’t do?

My lack of patience and sometimes terminal uniqueness has caused many challenges in my life. I’m not letting the pan-of-life heat up enough, not letting things just happen. In the last year I have:

  • Rushed a relationship, lest the man not be interested if he got to know me better. This of course leads to said man running wildly into woods while screaming.
  • I have lost my shit repeatedly while waiting for returned texts and e-mails from…you can guess who.
  • Ignored reading “how to replace a toilet lid” directions only to buy a stumpy lid for an elongated toilet. Now every time I sit down the lid violently shifts to one side.
  • Experienced hundreds of Mac “Wheel of Deaths” from moving faster than my Mac, which in the end delays anything I’m working on.
  • Finished friends sentences because I just couldn’t stand waiting for them to say the same thing for the million time. In case you haven’t done this to friends, I can tell you first hand, THEY DON’T LIKE IT.

One of the differences between children and adults is the ability to delay gratification. I honestly feel that I delay gratification for so long that I should be considered a martyr. For instance, I wait too long to eat or drink while I’m working and then complain that I have no time for sustenance. I guess I have the least amount of patience when the most amount of feelings are invested. I’m positive if I wait I will be forgotten about. So like an annoying nat, I keep popping back up.

So there you have it…eggs on low heat don’t cook well. Life on impatience doesn’t work.

Anyone else out there rush to wait? Please tell me I’m not the only one…

Culture, Depression

If the Signs Existed, Would you Read Them?


There’s enough traffic on Oahu, that it’s become necessary to employ radar speed signs to ensure the safety of pedestrians, drivers and dogs. The combination of construction work, resident speeders, and sun worshipping tourists have made this necessary.

I enjoy radar speed signs for a bizarre reason. There’s something profoundly satisfying to me about getting a request correct regardless of how easy it is to comply. My town wants me to drive at 35 mph, and look I can do it, I’m a genius. Someone roll-out the red carpet.

I began to fantasize about how awesome it would be if a flashing sign would  present itself for every stupid decision I was about to make. When my eyes would rest on specific subject matter, a hologram would appear to show me what’s a good decision. For the sake of ease let’s assume a speed limit of 20 mph is optimal.


1) I’m at the supermarket, hungry and in need of a snack. I look at a Baby Ruth, and my hologram begins flashing the number two. I view the peanut M & M’s and the number rises to a flashing six. I half heartedly glance at the apples, and the number hits a steady 20 mph.

2) I pass my reflection in a store window and instinctively suck in my stomach until it hurts to inhale, my hologram flashes an eight. I exhale to let my gut out to it’s natural resting place and pretend to like who I see in the reflection, my hologram reads a steady twenty mph.

3) I’m wasting time on and view a profile of a guy who lives with his mom, and enjoys LARP ( Live Action Role Playing) my hologram hits a flashing four. I then look at a guy whose profile name is “LARGEGIRTHFORU” and the hologram breaks into pieces.

4) I’m watching the movie Sixteen Candles and realize at one point I was Samantha’s age, but now I’m her moms age and tears start to roll down my face. My hologram flashes a 1. I inhale and make believe my best years are yet to come and my hologram reads a steady 20 mph.

Some women like myself, just need to see the big, red flashing numbers to know what to do.



Culture, Depression

Deja Poo

pugHad a terrifying thought the other day while performing my duties as a dog walker. With the exception of the times when I’ve saved my clients pets or home from danger, the majority of my time is spent with one or two dogs in tow.

I LOVE these dogs otherwise they wouldn’t be clients. Of course they all crap on our walks, some even do it more than once. There are even those who have 24-hour access to outside, but prefer to crap in my presence.

My realization was that my job has become symbolic of my life. Considering I live on a rock surrounded by water, my walks are basically in a circle. My life has also become a never-ending treasure trove of shit. Crap I  have to deal with alone, crap I don’t know how to deal with and don’t have anyone to ask, crap I have no control of and then the daily crap, which consists of money problems, cash flow issues and being broke.

So basically, my job and my life is about walking around in circles picking up crap. Yes, everyone has crap to deal with, but it seems slightly overwhelming to be both dealing with it figuratively and literally. Below are some of the epiphanies I’ve had recently when comparing my job to my life: molly

  • I’ll never get to a destination that’s a surprise while on one of my walks.
  • Every route will lead me back to where I began.
  • While on walks I will only see individuals I’ve seen hundreds of times before.
  • Despite the slight temperature change in Hawaii between Winter and Summer, I’m always hot. So basically my walks are likely always going to be done while boiling to death. If it’s voggy (volcanic fog) then I have the pleasure of being cooked while sniffing toxic rain.
  • Until these dogs start speaking aloud, I will spend most of the day in silence. Actually, let me rephrase that, I spend most days without the dogs responding to me aloud. To that end, they never complain or tell me that I’m having a bad hair day.
  • I’m almost guaranteed to have to pick up a co-walkers turds while on our circular journey.
  • By nature of being a turd, it will:
    •  Stink
    • Contain mucous if the dog is stressed
    • Contain blood if the dog is sick
    • Contain shoelaces if he is a “foreign object” eater.
    • At one point or another I will plunge my thumb directly into the poop. PROFESSIONAL WARNING: the poo bags with handles aren’t good if you own a large dog with a large butt-hole. The handles take away from the surface area, which should be dedicated to the poop itself.

I do for a living what many pet lovers would love to do. I try my best to be gracious that I’m afforded the opportunity that allows me to care for these great creatures. I’ve been doing it for so long that I’m often too tired to do anything else and I’m beyond experiencing caretaker fatigue.

Add to this the guilt that I feel because I’m working with animals that might sense my exhaustion. Additionally, I’m too old to be doing this job. Everyday I get another pain that reminds me I was supposed to marry wealthy to avoid work.

Complaining is encouraged on this site, so feel free to join me and dig in. While you may complain about your crap, just don’t make me pick it up. : )


Culture, Depression

Gracias Mr. Trump – I’m Going to Run for President

trumpI’m smart enough to know that I’m not smart. My IQ is likely exceptionally low. When I was younger, I lived in fear that my intelligence could be informally tested at any moment. Maybe I would be at a candy store when a stranger would start asking me which candies would be next in a series.

Get it…Swedish Chef?

What I do know is that my Emotional Quotient (EQ) is quite high. I’ve been thinking about IQ vs EQ a lot in the last six weeks, because our president seems to have a high disdain for them both. I’m not sure which quotient should reign supreme while running the free world.

However, I’ve learned that I might be a better president than I had thought as a result recent faux-pas aka MONUMENTAL FUCK-UPS that our president has committed. I can bet my low IQ’d ass that I would have handled the below situations better than our president:

  • While I’m not good with numbers, if I was shown a photo of two crowds at the same location, I’m certain I could choose the photo which has the largest number of individuals being shown.
  • I would know that if I tell my fans that “big business” is making their lives miserable, I wouldn’t choose my big business friends as cabinet choices.
  • I might stop campaigning if I already had the job.
  • If I was the kind of individual who never treated my spouse well, I might decide I should at least treat him well while in public.
  • If I was afraid that the commercials which would air during the Superbowl would depict me in a bad light, I wouldn’t Tweet that I’m not watching the game because it’s dumb, erase that Tweet and then Retweet that it’s really an action packed thriller of a game.
  • If technology makes me look like an asshole, I wouldn’t employ it.
  • I would recognize that if I’m not a comedienne I should refrain from joke telling or I would tell jokes in front of only those who are paid to laugh at them.
  • When I make a mistake I would cop to it and possibly stop passing the buck.
  • If I’m at a golf course that I run asking patrons if they would like to join me while I interview possible cabinet picks, I might be more embarrassed of that fact then how that fact got out there.
  • I might recognize the simple theory of relativity. Not all people are all one thing. Some reporters are bad and some are good. I might be concerned if I said things like “fake news” that the public might believe I viewed other situations as all good or all bad such as the integrity of Mexicans, Jews, Blacks, etc.
  • I would stop making faces, because I’m being filmed.
  • If I didn’t want it to look like I had my priorities wrong I might refrain from Tweeting at 10:20 am if my daily briefing was at 10:00 am.

To allay any fears out there, I’m not running. : )







Is Ignorance Bliss and Beauty?

Shar-pei puppy, Beanie, looking over his shoulder

While having an inane conversation with a friend about our dogs anal glands, one of us started discussing our wrinkly faces. Like morons, we each tried to out-wrinkle each other. She made a face while raising her eyebrows to the sky, pointed to her forehead and said, “look at these babies, you could sink a ship in there.” I followed while pointing at the bridge of my nose, “check out that sucker, you would need a map and a compass to get out of there.”


Then it struck me. If ignorance is bliss does this mean that people who stress out will not only live a shorter life than those who don’t, but will they also be uglier?  While I know it’s physically bad that I eat crap food, don’t exercise as much as I should, and can’t sleep through the evening, these activities don’t necessarily lead to looking like a Shar-pei.

Not to be overly dramatic, because I would never do that….but basically is my face being punished because I’m concerned over my bank account, my idiot friends, and my exhausting job? Can’t the powers that be leave just leave my face out of it?

In addition to the life saving work that Mother Theresa did, one can’t help but notice she had some serious wrinklage going on there. Yes, I know she was 200 years old, but isn’t it a cruel, cruel world when someone is basically a saint and isn’t given a pass when it comes down to aging?

Good thing I don’t do anything for anyone. : )