Sunday, December 5, 2010
Would someone please help me open my mouth?
For those of you who don't really know me, that's a real joke.
I have no problems opening my face, but sometimes zipping it.
I am outspoken AND opinionated ( I call it nothing more than PLD syndrome: personally loose and dangerous) as it ran along my Irish Mothers family's bloodlines until it took hold of all of us, by running us down, freight train style.
The result was that all the descendent's since have been affected, whether they realize it or not, for it travels silently within the bloodstream, undetected by any of the latest nuclear medical scans until such time that you open it, and it stays open (there is no cure for this affliction aside from taking yoga, or moving close to the beach where one can simply be at peace with the world, and find yourself reduced to saying nothing but "hello" to those who pass by).
Our son whose background includes bar-tendering has often tried to put a cork in it, without success, and our daughter whose background now includes a four legged, will no doubt tolerate her Mother's mental mouthy madness for as long as I say I will babysit the beautiful already spoiled critter.
She often claims to have a picture of yours truly at the reception desk at her office with instructions to dial 911 immediately, should I dare show up uninvited. So I don't( only because I hate driving in Atlanta traffic)
But I do often include them both in my writings.
I often wonder which would be more embarrassing: me at the office, or knowing that people in all 50 states read this blog and know about some of your childhood dirty laundry, as do those from Poland Latvia, Russia, and the Netherlands?
Apparently I haven't cracked the Brits humor yet, probably because I've blogged about the Royal Facebookers, meeting up with them long before Face Book was even conceived.
I wasn't knighted by Her Majesty the day we met and spoke, up in Oh! Canada! but I did for many years later mimic her pocketbook stance, and her loverly accent.
Just today as a matter of fact, I ran a proper English accent when a woman was walking her Corgi at the park. It's all in good fun, for the most part, the exception being if you don't fancy being flushed down the loo, or you prefer staying brassed off when you should be showing off your roof tiles.
So my precious Rug Rats, beware for Mummy is at the keyboard again, and know that pound for Euro, she's always going to be this way, whatever she weighs in as...