Category Archives: Friends

Any questions?

There is one word that immediately invokes my ire. Makes me see red.  And I admit my response is a bit unreasonable.

“Thoughts?”

I don’t know why I have such a negative knee-jerk reaction to the phrase.

Maybe because it’s not a phrase at all. 

You’re asking me a question — you want my input, my point of view, my expertise — but the very question is so non-committal, so throw-away.

Like you can’t be bothered to ask me a question with any nuance or…

WORDS.

Or maybe you don’t want to reveal your hand before I lay my cards on the table.  Well, it didn’t work this time, did it??

You see, I can read a lot into one word of conversation.

I’m a girl.

A cool grand

This is my 1,000th post on The Sticky Egg.

That’s 1,000 blog entries in 1,000 consecutive days.  No sick days.  No holidays.   No weekends.

As the Dowager Countess would say, “What is a weekend?”

I started the blog 1,000 days ago to give myself the opportunity to write for fun.  I added the daily deadline to make sure I actually did it…and that was very motivating.

At first.

Now it’s the folks who share their comments — and the readers brave enough to actually subscribe — who inspire me to come up with my brand of foolishness every day.

So, thanks for sticking with The Egg.  Hope to see you here for at least a thousand more!

Famous last words

In my college journalism class, our first assignment was to write our own obituary.

Most students in the class played it safe and wrote rather mundane re-tellings of their life accomplishments. When the instructor gave them back, he chastised us for our lack of imagination.  In our defense, it was the first assignment.

Who knew the guy had a sense of humor?

Well, he would have loved Michael “Flathead” Blanchard. His recent paid obit in the Denver Post was written with extreme entertainment value.  It includes lines like…

Mike wanted it known that he died as a result of being stubborn, refusing to follow doctors’ orders and raising hell for more than six decades. He enjoyed booze, guns, cars and younger women until the day he died.

It makes me sad that I didn’t meet Mike before he died.  The wake sounds like it will be fun, too:

He asks that you stop by and re-tell the stories he can no longer tell. As the celebration will contain adult material, we respectfully ask that no children under 18 attend.

Atta boy, Mike.

Malted dream balls?

I had a dream last night, and it was a real Whoppler.

Wait for it.

In the dream, I was talking with friends I worked with back in the day in Lexington, Kentucky.

We’re talking over 20 years ago.

I can only assume that the NCAA tourney earlier this week has brought that time in my life to the forefront of my brain.  But we weren’t talking about the Wildcats. No, we were all upset that we couldn’t find Whooplers in the local stores.

Not Whoopers, which is what I think we meant. Whooplers.

Even while the dream was taking place, I was thinking in the back of my mind…

Don’t we really mean Whoopers?

But I couldn’t seem to express it.

So I woke up this morning with Whoppers on the brain.  I hope I can find them in the local theatre.  (That’s the only place I ever eat them.)

And I hope my Lexington friend Paul Fast is doing well.  Because I dreamed about him last night.

Puppy power

HAPPY NATIONAL PUPPY DAY!

It may be an unofficial holiday — Colleen Paige, the editor-in-chief of “Pet Home” Magazine dreamed it up — but her intentions are good. She trying to promote animal adoption.

It was the best thing I ever did.

Smelly cab

Remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine gets in the cab that reeks of killer B.O.?

The smell stuck to her clothes — was even in her mouth — long after she got out of the taxi.

I can do her one better.

After being out of town all week — four cities in four days, two missed flights, and more airplane boxed meals than I care to remember — I excitedly jumped in the cab to get home to my dog.  And what was there to greet me?

KILLER FARTS

I say farts (plural) because it wasn’t just one that faded away as I sat there.  No, the odor was constant and cloying and seemed to invade every pore of my skin.

Elaine, if you’re out there in your imaginary world, I’m pretty sure farts trump B.O. — I win!

Which means I lose.  Oh yes, I lose BIG TIME.

Smelly cat

As society and technologies advance, some practices become archaic.

So why are people still bathing in cologne and perfume?

Most people in the United States — emphasis on most — bathe on a regular basis.  Lots of folks I know shower twice a day due to workouts and runs, god love ‘em.

So as a rule — and again, I’m generalizing here — men and women in the US are pretty darn clean.

So why the need to surround yourself in a cloud of cloying cologne?  When you walk down the sidewalk, it’s practically visible.  Passersby choke on it.  Folks who hug you are left unwilling wearers of it.

And let’s not even discuss your elevator assassinations.

Perfumes were initially reserved for burial rituals, then became popular as a way to cover the stench of the great unwashed.  We are no longer — as a rule — the great unwashed.  A little goes a really long way.

Think before you spray.

Funny, isn’t it?

Can any good come out of a dare?

Only friendships that last a lifetime.

A couple of decades ago (when I couldn’t have been more than five), a good friend and colleague at Hallmark Cards dared me to audition for an improv troupe in Kansas City called Lighten Up.

I accepted the challenge, was shocked to be chosen for their workshops, and soon found myself performing on the Lighten Up stage.

The next five years of my life were cast.  Every Friday and Saturday night I was on that stage.  And the players who I performed with soon became some of the best friends of my life.

They still are to this day.

That’s why I’m thrilled to rejoin the original members of the Lighten Up Improv Company tonight in a reunion performance.  Many of us haven’t done improv in years, so the show should be funny on many levels.

But hanging out with my best friends?

In the words of Trish Berrong, ‘that’s just stupid fun.’

In like a wildcat

It’s here. My favorite time of the year.

I love everything about the month of March.

My birthday is in March.  My sister, dad, brother-in-law, cousins, and a few friends also celebrate their birthdays in March.

So there’s lots of cake.

There’s also March Madness, the most wonderful time of the year (especially when your alma mater is currently ranked #1, and two other state schools are in the Top 25).

GO BIG BLUE!

There’s St. Patrick’s Day, the Ides of March, the arrival of spring, Women’s History Month — hey, I am a girl — and bizarre celebrations like Save A Spider Day.

Let’s face it — March rocks!

The only thing about March that I’m not totally in love with is the birthstone.  I have always found the aquamarine a bit washed out and unremarkable.

But I recently learned that the bloodstone is a March birthstone alternative — stunning!

That seals the deal — March is the best month of the year.

Open arms

What can help you both build up your immune system and decrease your risk of heart disease and stress?

Hint: it’s not a pill, an exercise routine or the now ubiquitous green smoothie.

It’s the hug — that simple (and simply wonderful) one-on-one human contact between friends and loved ones.

Fantastic, huh?

Lucky for all of us, today is National Hug Day!  The holiday was established in 1986 to encourage PDA-phobic Americans to ‘reach out, reach out and touch someone.’ So now’s your chance to get out there and improve your health, your happiness and your overall state of being.

You’ll probably freak out a few people along the way, but hey — that’s just a bonus for feeling so gosh darn happy!

(See you out there.)