Ecstatic Elections




 

 

Like the comet Shumaker-Levy which only appears every 200 years, the Bicentennial Comedic Opportunity of our lifetime is also making its appearance this year—and it’s called The 2016 Presidential Elections. And, what makes all those months of blah, blah, blah, absolutely bearable are the comedians who poke fun at  every aspect of it. They don’t give a damn about being politically correct. They could care less about any of the candidates, because comics are trained to be equal opportunity exploiters and hypocrite busters. Their only goal is to slay them all by creating great jokes!

Let’s begin with the overload of hilarious political antics that have been televised for months on multiple networks. They started with 2,995 hours of torturous “fair and impartial” presidential candidate debates that have not only tested our stamina but our sanity, too. Waterboarding would be a more humane choice than having to watch one more of these fiascos. In the beginning, there was some ridiculous number of candidates like 226, all spouting the same droning, dopey rhetoric. However, we soon learned that the candidates were experts at skillfully bypassing all substantive political issues and getting right to the heart of their main objective—assassinating the characters of everyone else on the stage. That was juicy! But, the real entertainment was provided by the self-proclaimed “fair and unbiased” debate moderators.

The typical format was televised in a lofty venue where the seasoned politicos were informed they’d have two minutes to debate issues from global security, the national debt, and trade regulations to our Constitutional rights. Instead, this is what we got.

THE OPENING SALVO TO TRUMP: was delivered by a lithe, super-sexy moderator armed with 12 law degrees, 12 inch hair extensions, 12 inch nails, 12 inch false eyelashes, and 12 inch Christian Louboutin shoes… worth 12 hundred dollars. I’m talking shoes only. She calmly informed Trump that her first “impartial” question for him would be to explain his comprehensive plan for fixing our multi-trillion dollar debt.

THE QUESTION SHE FIRES OFF: “Is it true that your wife posed naked on a bearskin rug in 1990 for Slovakian Vogue featuring you, Mr. Trump, in the background wearing a clown suit and wielding an S&M whip?”

Not to be outdone, the Democratic debate featured a bunch of smart looking moderators dressed in expensive Hugo Boss suits and spit-shined Allan Edmonds wing tip shoes…we’re talking the women as well as the men. After promising the audience they’d be asking “hardball questions,” one of the moderators informed Mrs. Clinton she was going to ask “in-depth” questions relating to the “sensitive issues” of the alleged threat to our national security by her using an unsecured server.

THE JUGULAR RIPPING QUESTION SHE UNLEASHED: Mrs. Clinton, do you prefer the Apple I Pad or the Microsoft Surface for sending classified emails?

Stop groaning…you know it’s true. Here’s the problem. When we grew up, all our TV programs were over by 10 pm, and we became hypnotized by that stupid test pattern until the shows went back on at dawn. Now, there are 1237 channels that broadcast 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. And after all the news has been covered in the first two hours of the day, it leaves hundreds of befuddled hair sprayed anchormen and anchor women with 22 hours more to fill. Panicked, they’re forced to think up their own scintillating questions and propose their theories about critical issues like:

APPEARANCE: Donald Trumps’ elaborate multi-level hairdo was engineered by the same men who built the Eiffel Tower.

Hillary Clinton’s wardrobe of pantsuits were made from Simplicity Patterns 1307 and 1545– the most popular styles in the 1950’s. In fact, many of our mom’s still keep them filed in their sewing drawers. Also, Mrs. Clinton’s blazers were allegedly designed by the team who created the original prototype for the Century 21 real estate agents.

SLANDER: Trump’s rivals have accused him of everything from income tax evasion to bad spray tans, to philandering with many of the Miss Universe Pageant contestants. Luckily for The Donald, nobody has turned up any actual proof supporting these allegations. However, there was a close call when one of the sleazy tabloids published a photo of him leaving a hotel from a reported pageant meeting  at 4 a.m. with the tip of the Miss Universe crown sticking out through the top of his Eiffel Tower coiffure. 

Mrs. Clinton has been a lot tougher for the tabloids to catch in any potential tryst. However, her husband is apparently still fair game as they attempt to resurrect his former paramours. The problem is that the sexiest current photos of these woman show gray-haired grandmas, posing in orthopedic hose,  granny panties, and 38DD Long “Cross Your Heart” bras. The paparazzi are ready to kill themselves. At this point, Bernie Sanders life would prove a lot more titillating.

Who’s going to win? The comics don’t care. What they care about is the real possibility of going broke after the election is over. They’ve got to find new material to write jammed- packed hours of comedy skits, jokes, and spin-offs for TV… like during the 90’s when Jay Leno hit the jackpot featuring six months of the “Dancing Ito’s during the O.J. trial.

So, what’s a comedian to do? I guess there’s always the remote possibility that Bernie Sanders could win the election, giving them the gift of creating a mega-hit, four year spin-off series called “Weekend With Bernie.” 


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www.MisMatch.com

 

 

 

Online dating. As easy as shooting fish in a barrel or as hard as shooting pool with a rope? You decide. Hey, I’m not saying that a girl can’t get lucky and find a great guy. Sure it happens…about as often as Haley’s Comet comes around. So instead of basking in the glowing head of newfound love, most of us get burned in the tail.

But not to worry, girlfriends. You can put away your Colt 38’s. There is still hope! Would I leave you alone in this battlefield of loose cannons? Of course not. Read ahead and learn how to spot the red flags of online dating that will alert you to the pitfalls, the pratfalls, and the plotzes!

The Profiles: Princes or Poseurs?

                                    Red Flag #1: Photos

When you log on to a dating site, even before reading the bio, you need to look at that all-important photo. Remember a picture is worth 1,000 words. And like a hot sports car, a hot photo can get you a lot of mileage.

Categories

1. The No-Show

You’re ready for the eye-candy, but you do a double take!! The guy posted NO photo? What the hell is he thinking? Let’s get this straight. You’re on a dating site competing with thousands of other men, pulling out all the stops to attract a woman. It’s your one shot, and it’s crucial to make a good first impression. And, the best you can do is post a gray silhouette of a generic guy’s profile? Whaaaat?

Dude, you can’t be serious! Any woman with even two functioning brain cells will immediately figure out that you’re uglier than Gollum from Lord of The Rings. I mean, what other conclusion can you come to? If you won’t even post a picture, even one that you took out of a Pottery Barn frame, than you’ve gotta’ be hideous.

2. The Overexposure

Then, there’s the extreme opposite of the no-photo guy. He’s the exhibitionist with a collage of photos that make the Kim Kardashian ass-selfies look like Mother Seaton. These are the men who are posed at the beach with their bathing shorts barely clinging to the lowest extremities of their hips. You can see his belly button, cut abs, hip-groin space and just about everything in Gray’s anatomy but the twig and berries.

Hey, I’m not complaining. A lot of eye-candy is titillating after looking at all those asexual silhouettes. However, when the hot-bod hunk posts his age as 50, umm. Who’s buying that? And if this does happen to be his true picture, then the next question is will he show up partially naked for your date? Does he own a shirt? Will he take you on a gym date where he spends the whole time seated in front of a mirror flexing his pecs, abs, and those other parts that are almost visible?

3. The Peta Op

If a guy posts multiple photos of himself surrounded by his pets, be wary. There’s always the de rigueur shot of them playing ball in the backyard, the one wearing identical Christmas sweaters, the doggie birthday party, and the big red flag—the one of them spooning in bed. Sure, it can be argued that the photos show a sensitive, caring, pet lover, but you’ve got to ask yourself these questions:

Where are his people friends?

Does he and Fido spend every birthday alone celebrating each other?

Is this an indication that the guy has too much time on his hands?

What’s the story with the dog in his bed?

I’ll leave these and other questions for you to chew over.

4. The Bait and Switch

This shyster posts a photo of himself standing on a dock in front of a big, fabulous yacht. Right away you’re thinking “Oh boy, I might win the lottery here.” Take a closer look. His boat is the one next to the yacht. Yeah, the little one with the 15 h.p. outboard motor. I would advise that this photo is a pretty accurate confirmation that this guy has a little dinghy! Don’t waste your time. I can also guarantee that any date you go on will end with a “failure to launch.”

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Online Dating: Shoveling Through the B.io S.heet

 

 

 

 

Continuing on with my scholarly dissertation (aka: bitch-fest) about online dating, here’s some additional information for you to digest—and regurgitate as you need it. When reading a man’s bio, the secret is to read “between the lines,” because the clues and key phrases which reveal the truth are hidden under his carefully crafted words.

“Comfortably Retired”

Don’t believe the men who say they’re retired CEO’s and now their full time professions are “managing their finances.” Reading between the lines, this means that these guys are basically unemployed and spend an average of 12 hours a day playing Internet Poker, Fantasy Duel, and trading penny stocks. Talk about inflation. The only kind of inflation they’re experiencing nowadays is not about their assets…it’s about their asses– which now hang over the sides of their chairs while sitting in front of the computer with four giant bags of Doritos.

“Hopeless Romantic”

This bio throws a broad net, hoping to ensnare all the women out there who are drowning in the dating pool. The man professes to his 500,000 online prospects that he is searching for his “one and only” lifetime partner AND then so cleverly adds… “it might be you!” OMG. Sounds like a pitch from the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes. Incidentally, your chances of winning the PCH sweepstakes are far better than winning this guy’s attention. He goes on to say that he “isn’t asking for much–”just a gorgeous woman who prefers cooking home meals to dining out, cleans her own house, and will give him great sex upon demand.

Okay, ladies. It’s pretty easy to figure this jerk out.

*The man can’t be left alone for 30 minutes because he can’t stand his own company.

*He can’t boil water, operate a washer /dryer or be left alone without supervision.

*Oh yeah—he can’t even have sex with himself!

“Overcommitted”

Don’t kid yourself, Tinkerbell, it happens. There’s thousands of married men trolling dating sites looking for some side-candy. Their sketchy bios always state that due to the time constraints placed on them from their executive jobs” they are unavailable on weekends and can only text you between 9am-3pm Monday through Friday. They also state that they currently don’t have a good photo of themselves to post. Also, because of “security concerns” imposed by their employers, they will be unable to take your calls, but will be happy to call you when “time permits.” They also prefer out of the way places for dates, and inform you that because of their irregular hours it’s possible they might have to cancel your date up to an hour before. Shut up! The only full time jobs these cheaters have is thinking up the thousands of lies they’ll tell their wives to cover their own asses.

  “Egotists”

With men like this, girlfriend, you won’t have to stress out about your looks, your figure, or your conversational skills—any of it. Why? Because, they’re NOT looking at you, kid. It’s all about them! This man’s bio reads like a David McCullough novel listing every imaginable aspect of himself from his Mensa I.Q. and huge earning capacity to how many women say he looks just like Joe Manganiello.

What’s interesting is that these men never mention what kind of woman they’re looking for. Why? Because, YOU’RE IRRELEVANT. You’re not ever going to share the stage with this guy, because he’s the star of his own show. So, if you’re willing to suck up, shut up, and put out, you’ll fit his bill just fine.

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Canine Codependency

 

 

 

 

When I was younger, we believed that the first sign of mental illness was when people began dressing up their pets. And if this standard still holds true today, then our entire nation is certifiably nuts! Nobody can deny that our society is obsessed with coddling, cooing, and co-depending our pets, especially our dogs. And what’s more, this behavior isn’t just limited to the empty nesters, either. That I could understand. You’re lonely, you’re bored, and the next thing you know, you’re cross-dressing your pooch—what’s the harm?

But now this doggie mania crosses the sanity spectrum to acts like creating Facebook pages for dogs, enrolling our pooches in doggie daycare, indulging in doggie grooming salons where toenail painting and elaborate coiffing happen, and regular visits to doggie spas to rest their precious paws on Serta perfect sleeper doggy beds. Good grief! A dog just isn’t allowed to be a regular dog anymore. Now, they’re all divas.

What the heck has come over dog owners these days? How many lunches or dinners can a person endure where crazed Doggie Mamas have to rush off after 15 minutes, because Fifi is home alone experiencing extreme separation anxiety? Wasn’t it just a few years ago that we would leave our kids home alone for hours with no human companionship but an X Box?

And, what about the doggie vets who are magically becoming fat cats stuffing their tills with booty from everything from doggie downers and puppy uppers to hundred dollar flea and tick collars, doggie dental cleanings, cataract surgeries, and multi-thousand dollar chemotherapies? Not to mention the organ transplants that go for $20 grand. What’s next? Black markets for poochie pancreases? It’s like the dogs are getting better healthcare (but not affordable) than any human I know of, dead or alive. Case in point: I know a woman whose husband and dog were gravely ill at the same time, and in her haste to give her beloved his medication she inadvertently stepped on the other’s oxygen hose for 5 minutes. Luckily, her beloved recovered, but her husband—that was another story.

Give me a break. For years we had to listen to women who droned on for hours about every facet of their kids’ life from their potty-training, to how perfectly they behaved in public, to how exceptionally brilliant they were, and especially how unconditionally their kids love was for them. I don’t know about you, but after ten minutes I wanted to kill myself if I wasn’t already dead from boredom. And now, I certainly don’t want to hear the same torturous stories all over again, but this time about their dogs.

So now that I’ve set everybody straight on this nutty dog obsession, excuse me but I’m outta’ here. I left Grumpy Cat by himself for over an hour, and I’m sure he’s having an anxiety attack.

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The Middle-Aged Body: In Harm’s Way

 

Here’s the link to my latest article in VivaTysons Magazine!
VivaTysons Magazine – November 2014

Text from the article is below:

How many times have you heard somebody comment about taking a risk using the old adage: “Well, you could get run over by a bus when crossing the street.” Oh Yeah? I’ve got one better. Let me tell you something my friend. At middle age the risks are even scarier because now we’re in danger of getting injured by doing either NOTHING or NEXT TO NOTHING.

Here’s the TOP FIVE INJURIES that happen with regularity past the ripe old age of fifty.

#1. SLEEP INJURY: You roll into bed perfectly healthy and enjoy a great night’s sleep. But when you wake up, to your shock, you’ve sustained some kind of bodily injury. God knows how this happened. You might wake up with a stiff, painful shoulder, or a massive Charlie horse which makes you limp out of bed, a pain under your ribs, an aching back, or some other kind of crippling injury. And you say to yourself, “How the hell did this happen” Am I in such a pathetic state of physical condition that I can get injured  doing NOTHING? OMG, kill me now.

Cause of Injury: Unknown

#2. SHOWER INJURY: You’re enjoying the feeling of that great warm water pulsating down and relaxing every muscle in your body when you turn just a smidge (like 4 degrees) to get the soap and BAM! Your spinal column feels like it’s a lightning rod that just got hit with 25,000 volts. Your entire back is in spasm with the kind of pain that will require a twenty year Percodan addiction. You try to climb out of the shower without screaming, fall over your cat and end up in traction.

Cause of Injury: Picking up a 2 ounce bar of soap

#3. WALKING INJURY: Normally, a younger person could get injured on a walk by circumstances like being bitten by a dog, tripping over some hidden object like a rock, or even being mowed down by a senior citizen on his way to a Denny’s Grand-Slam breakfast. But the most humiliating thing for us “more mature” people is to discover that you have sustained a stress fracture in your foot by none of the above—simply by the act of walking, itself.

Cause of injury: Your own body weight

#4. EATING INJURY: Forget the salmonella poisoning! Many older folks sit down to enjoy a delicious meal and suddenly hear “CRUNCH” followed by either half a tooth falling out or the dislocation of their TMJ joint. Your jaw is frozen open to the point where you’re unable to close your mouth without the aid of a hammer. Then there’s always the possibility of the food going down the “wrong pipe” and  narrowly escaping death unless your St Bernard is on hand to perform the Heimlich. The possibilities, like Master Card, are endless.

Cause of Injury: Lack of targeting your TMJ muscles in the gym

#5. FOREPLAY INJURIES: OMG, these are the MOST depressing of all injuries. After menopause, foreplay can get mighty risky if performed any place other than on a top-of-the-line Serta Perfect Sleeper mattress covered with a 12 inch goose down mattress pad. Having foreplay in the locales when you were younger like the beach, on the floor in front of the fireplace, in the hot tub, or on the butcher block in the kitchen can cause any of the following injuries:

  • Abrasions
  • Contusions
  • Rug burns
  • Drowning
  • Fractured pelvis
  • Sprained Kegel

Cause of injury: Obamacare not paying for Vagifem

What’s the solution to all of the above–other than mass euthanasia for Baby Boomers or keeping a physician on call 24/7? Hey, don’t ask me…I’m only the reporter.


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#Wake Me When It’s Over

 

After you turn 50, every birthday is traumatic…but the ones with a zero in them are especially brutal. And I mean brutal. Like Game of Thrones brutal. And, next week I’m going to have one of those birthdays. How do I feel about it? Okay, since you didn’t ask me, I’m going to unload and tell you exactly what this one feels like. Have you seen those abused animal ads with the pathetic, orphaned, beat up cats and dogs in their cages being serenaded by Sarah McLachlin yodeling In the Arms of the Angels in the background? Okay, you got the picture that describes me…mangy, unloved, old, and abandoned. Thanks for asking. However, on second thought, no wonder those poor creatures are depressed and suicidal looking. If I had to sit there all day listening to Sarah wailing that Godawful song, I’d hang myself from my leash in the cage.

Here’s the rest of the bad news about decade birthdays. I fully expect to be barraged with all those lame-ass birthday cards making fun of the fact that I can now be officially classified as an old fart. These dopey cards feature the same old tired gag lines like:

**You’ll be putting out the birthday candles on your cake with a fire hose

**Your bra size is 36 Long

**You’re now be able to multi-task: laugh and pee at the same time

Yeah, I know Karma’s a bitch. I’ve sent hundreds of these stupid cards to my friends, myself. But the hilarity doesn’t stop at the cards, my friends. Oh no. There’s also the added torture of having to hear your friends spouting inane platitudes like:

**Getting old is a bitch but it beats the alternative

**Age? It’s only a number. You’re only as old as you think you are!

** Congratulations! You’ve earned every one of those lines and wrinkles in your face

OMG! If this isn’t enough, I’ll have to brace myself for all the gag gifts given by my jokester friends. And, every one of them will be products designed to help my deteriorating body functions…specifically colon issues like flatulence, constipation or diarrhea:

**Giant-size jar of Beano

**Gift box of Fleet enemas

** Gift certificate for a colonoscopy

**Box of Preparation H

**The Squatty Potty

So this is the rollicking fun and hilarity I have to look forward to. Well, I’ve got news for you. This year, I’m going to deprive myself and my friends by opting out of this “celebration” for the chronologically challenged. Instead, my plan is to stick a catheter into my vein and run a continuous stream of Propofol through my body for 24 hours. Then it’ll all be over when or if I wake up. And from where I stand now, either alternative sounds pretty good to me.


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New York Cabs: WTF?

 

So, I was in The Big Apple over the weekend for the annual Book Expo, and I made the lethal mistake of trying to get a cab in front of the Javits Convention Center on a Friday at 4:30 in the afternoon.

My feet were killing me from walking 3,000 miles up and down the aisles making sure I saw every exhibitor and scoffing up every freebie giveaway book and book bag in the joint. So it was with a sinking heart as I watched the first of 2,000 cabs fly by me at 60m.p.h…without so much as a glance my way. I tried waving with one hand, then flapping both hands, then changing corners, then risking my life by stepping off the curb dangerously close to oncoming traffic—all for naught. I briefly entertained the idea of stripping down to nothing but my thong and high heels but then quickly realized that at my age, I’d have to wait at least a month…maybe forever.

After 40 minutes, success! A cab crossed four lanes narrowly missing two bikers on city rentals, a pedi-cycle, a sanitation truck, and four other cabs all jockeying for a head start at the stoplight. I skipped happily over to the cabbie’s open window, but my elation was quickly dashed when I saw the look on his face—he had the look of a man who had been sitting on severe hemorrhoids all day on a 112 degree  pleather seat. When I inquired if he could take me to 58th and 1st, his pained expression got much worse–like his hemorrhoids had spontaneously expanded 4 inches in diameter. Also, little did I realize that I had to be pre-qualified before he accepted me as a fare. Here’s the deal:

#1. You must have cash. Credit cards are about as welcome in this city as bedbugs.

#2. Your destination must not be too close or too far away and positively not in streets where there’s major construction going on. Fugghedaboudit—that means no place.

I might just as well of said I needed to be driven to Whitefish, Montana, because he refused to take me citing various issues like traffic implosion, hazardous construction, ethnic street parades, pot-holes, heartburn, and one way streets. My first reaction was to say “Excuuuse me, but isn’t your job driving fares to where they want to go?” But judging from the look on his face, I chose a more dignified way of dealing with the situation… begging. “Puleeze, my feet are on fire and I can’t carry these bags of  book booty one step more before I collapse.”

But that didn’t work so I tried plea bargaining. “Okay, how about if you let me off on 3rd and 56th to avoid the U-turn and the bridge construction?” He thought for a minute, then said, “Okay, get in.”

We sped across town, me holding on to the strap by the window for dear life, as we lurched and careened like a bucking bronco for the next 30 blocks. I closed my eyes down to slits as I tried not to watch the impending massacre of any one of a dozen guys on bicycles and skateboards darting around us navigating through traffic. My knuckles were whiter than they’d get on a cross country flight where I’m forced to sit next to a guy with a suspicious looking briefcase on his lap the whole way. But in spite of it all, I was very grateful to be off my feet. In fact, I was so beholden to the cabbie that at the end of the ride as I forked over the $25 highway robbery fare, I considered throwing in my IRA as the tip.


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Introduction to Happy Hour With My Dad

 

This is the introduction to Happy Hour that gives the background for the setting of the story. I will periodically post excerpts from Happy Hour for you to enjoy.

Introduction

I’m a humor writer; in fact you might have heard of me. Among the books of great social significance I’ve penned are Hormones from Hell, It’s A Girl Thing, and When You’re Hot, You’re Hot: How I Laughed My Way Through Menopause. Okay, so they’re not exactly candidates for Oprah’s Book Club, but they’ll make you laugh a lot more than hers. Besides being an author, I’m also the mother of two sons, the sister of two siblings, a grandmother of four grandchildren, and the daughter of a 95-year-old dad. For the past few years, I’ve been on a journey with Dad as he has transitioned from living alone in his own condo (he’s a widower) to an assisted-living facility. And, at some point, I expect he’ll probably progress to full-time nursing care.

This journey can be a difficult one to witnesses, especially because we Baby Boomers are occupying front row seats, watching a drama where our parents are gradually slipping away mentally, physically, or both. Yet, it’s an inevitable journey that we ourselves will be embarking on in the not too distant future. Therefore, during this “dress rehearsal,” we can learn a lot from traveling right along beside our folks. There are many lessons we’ll be learning —lessons in patience, compassion, and the profound importance of validation and dignity at the end of our roads.

One of the valuable lessons is in learning that humor can be a most useful tool in coping with these difficult times. The old adage, “You’d better laugh or else you’re going to cry” has never held so much meaning as when you’re dealing with the challenges and heartaches of the last chapters of life.

That being said, my story is a tribute to our aging parents and to all of us grown children and grandchildren who have the good fortune of helping write our loved one’s life script right through to the final chapters.

 

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Happy Hour With My Dad

 

This is my newest book which just came out on Amazon. I am going to reprint a chapter from it on my blog, so you can get an inside look at what it’s all about.

Happy Hour with My Dad: A Journey into the Cocktail Hour of Life
Jan King (Author), Heather Forsgren Weaver (Editor)

Kindle Price:
$4.99

Book Description

Publication Date: March 1, 2014

Happy Hour with My Dad, written by bestselling humor author Jan King, is the poignant memoir of her 94-year-old Dad’s transition from living independently in Florida to an assisted living facility in Virginia. The story is full of Jan’s signature humor as she tells you that as a Baby Boomer with a front row seat, she has observed that the final drama of life isn’t necessarily The Rocky Horror Picture Show but it isn’t On Golden Pond, either. We can either laugh or cry at many of the heart wrenching moments we’ll watch our parents going through, and often times we do both simultaneously. Jan guides you through the inevitable journey we’ll all be embarking on with a good dose of wit and wisdom. This is an extremely honest but uplifting story that’s a must read for not only those of us experiencing this situation in our lives, but our children as well.

 

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Tysons Is Not for Chickens!

 

Every time I drive down Route 123 or Route 7, I feel like I’m in the movie, Escape from New York. I expect to see Kurt Russell perched up on a metro trestle, wielding an assault weapon. The view from where I sit is all steel girder and cement pillar erected amongst a plethora of detours, newly created exits and entrances, one-way streets, and divided highways. OMG–total chaos! By the looks of things, I can’t imagine any of this being completed until Kurt bites the dust. However, the planners say that in ten years we’ll be living in a metro-intensive, low car density, pedestrian friendly, urban neighborhood where we’ll live happily ever after. Who knows? But one thing’s for sure–there will be no free parking for the rest of our natural lives.

I’m really freaked out though because the metro is like a confusing jig-saw puzzle to me. I don’t know about you, but after six years of living here, I still haven’t figured out how to successfully add money to my fare card without asking for help—make that begging–even from a tech-savvy six-year-old zipping by on his razor scooter. I can just see myself frantically trying to figure out how to get to a final destination by having to transfer between the red, orange, blue and silver lines. Help! I could be wandering around for days, deep in the bowels of the metro system, aimlessly transferring between lines from 8am ‘til 4 pm.

The other big issue that keeps me awake at night is how can I possibly go shopping without my car? If I stock up at Wal-Mart, how on earth can I carry a 52” Vizio TV home on the metro? Not to mention the bean bag chair and coffee table I just couldn’t pass up.

I also understand that free parking will be as obsolete as Julio Iglesias. I guess my window shopping marathons at the Galleria where I have a helluva’ entertaining day buying absolutely nothing are over.

But, as they say, you can’t stop progress. So, a word to the wise. Before those shiny new metro cars start sailing all around town, we’ll all need to put in some serious gym time. We’re going to need biceps like Kurt Russell’s just to go shopping.

 

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