Do Not Give That Woman The Remote

Spontaneous human combustion
Alien abductions
Nostradamus
Poltergeists and other hauntings
Bigfoot sightings
The legend of Chupacabra
Mind-control experiments

Jot down this list. You could even add to it, if you'd like, based on whatever popped into your head when you just read it. Tack it to a bulletin board. Sticky-note it to your forehead. Whatever you do, don't lose it. And the next time I mention I'm going to surf Netflix for something to waste a few hours on, grab that list, read it to me, and remind me why I must NEVER, EVER watch any show with any of these as its subject.

I keep forgetting. I turn on the Apple TV and get sucked into a vortex of cold case hysteria, of declassified secret files, of conspiracy theories run amok.

I'm a reasonably logical, college-educated, former journalist who enjoys a well-spun tale as much as the next gal. I'm not particularly gullible. I like real facts and figures more than fuzzy math and sheer speculation.

But there's something about the sliver of truth that dances in and and out of the shadows in these questionable tales, something that makes me think: Who knows? What if? Do you think maybe?

That's when it all goes horribly, awfully wrong. The X-Files theme song plays in my head. I close my eyes and see the words form. The truth is out there. I want to believe. Trust no one.

And now I can't fall asleep.

Comments

Holy Separated-At-Birth, Batman!

Gary Oldman...meet Uncle Knit-Knots from Imagination Movers.

Ho, Ho, Ho, How Many Times Can I Use "I'm too busy" as an Excuse?

I haven't had time to write. Work, swim meet volunteering, holiday decorating and shopping. But truthfully, I've not been in much of a mood to write anything anyway. Last night we put up the tree and Santa chachkies, and I drank my first egg nog of the season, so perhaps I'll be in a cheerier mood. Also, I have spent some time writing the annual Schoon holiday newsletter. If you happen to get a copy, treat it like a drinking game. Every time I make you roll your eyes, take a drink. Nog, wassail, Everclear. Whatever gets you through. One sure way to assist with merriment motivation is listening to Christmas carols. I'm not going to get into a debate over what truly constitutes a carol. You can "Jesus is the reason for the season" yourself until you turn blue; I generally lean toward the secular end of the holiday tune spectrum. And if you just gasped at my use of holiday instead of Christmas, go suck on a candy cane. It's my blog and my opinions. Deal.

Hair

This has become the age-old question...Why do men hate short hair on women? I've been thinking about this a lot because my current style, an angled bob, requires a bunch of fussing every morning to get it to do anything. My favorite haircut of all time, as far as ease of care, was my pixie cut. I loved that I could wash it, gel it, and be done. No blow drying or flattening or curling. Just gel and go. Very sporty. I thought it looked cute. My husband has another opinion. The longer the better is his motto. Thing is, my hair becomes an unruly, tangled, nappy mop when it gets long. If I had all the time in the world and Jennifer Aniston's budget, I'd be more than happy to grow it long and have others style it every day. In real life, I guess I'd rather go for comfort and convenience. And if you ask me, I think the pixie is dang cute. I suspect heterosexual men aren't hot on short hair, in general, because it's too much like their own hair. No matter how much jewel

WanderingAmylessly 2.0

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