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humor

HELP! I’m drowning in attention deficit!

July 9, 2020 By Barbara 2 Comments

Image by Ri Butov from Pixabay

Ever since this whole virus scare began with minute-by-minute updates and charts and graphs of what-ifs, my attention span has gone from an average of about 58% down to 24ish%. For those without awesome math skills like myself, that is BAD. That is probably worse than trying to home-school a six-your-old after he’s eaten a healthy breakfast of Captain Crunch with a side of gummy bears.

When we had young kids, the experts used to say you shouldn’t let your children watch more than four hours of television a week. It didn’t engage their minds like a good book. It would turn them into little zombie couch potatoes. Now, adults are binge watching entire series in one sitting. We’ve all become giant zombie couch potatoes. Thank goodness for the pause button, right? Snacks. Bathroom breaks. Change into stretchy pants after that last bowl of ice cream.

I’ve watched so much British and Aussie television in the past few months that I sound like a Cockney orphan shipped to Australia for stealing bread. While this viewing may be educational in a broad since of the term, it is mostly a diversion from all the terrible news lately. And who doesn’t feel better when they realize there is nothing new under the sun? According to some historically based shows that haven’t been deleted from available programming yet, rioting, pillaging, slavery, plagues, murder and mayhem started across the ocean long before America was even a country.

Wait. What was I talking about?

Oh yeah. It’s not just the hours of television that is destroying my attention span. It’s those short little online video clips. Everyone and their three-legged dog have a Facebook live or YouTube following now. Since all celebrities, news reporters, and political pundits are so very important to America’s continued health and happiness, they have to report and entertain from the safety of their homes. Or does that just mean they aren’t important enough to be classified as necessary? Hmm.

Anyway, we are bombarded with sometimes humorous, but often just I’m right and you are wrong rants on politics, race, global warming, masks, party hats, or what type of fake meat goes best with kale. It’s easy to get sucked in. You start to watch and an hour later you’ve seen so many clips of crazy nonsense you can’t remember what day it is or why you’re here. It’s almost as though you’ve been body snatched by one of those alien spacecrafts, probed, and then put back on the couch with no memory of the time elapsed.

Why am I here? Oh yeah!

During my lucid moments, I have been working on the next Double Barrel Mystery. I think it will be worth the wait. Although, it is taking a bit longer than I anticipated. I haven’t finished the last season of… just kidding. I am diligently writing Blake and Shelby’s next case right this minute. Well, maybe not right this minute, because I’m writing this blog post first. But as soon as I’m done here, I will be off to write the next chapter in my upcoming novel.

I hope to have it available late summer or early fall. Stay tuned, fellow couch potatoes!

Thanks for stopping. Leave a comment and let me know how you’ve been managing during this strange time. Any good shows or books to suggest? 🙂

Barbara

Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, the Double Barrel Mysteries, the Second Chances series, and more. She lives in Minnesota because she can’t afford Hawaii.
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Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: attentiondeficit, COVID, humor, newbookcoming

Joyless Junk

January 22, 2019 By Barbara 6 Comments

Apparently, “decluttering” is a big thing now. There’s even a show on Netflix called, Tidying Up, for people looking for expert advice on the topic. Marie Kondo, a giggly, sweet young woman hosts the program, and seems to charm pack-rats like a dog whisperer for humans. She promotes clearing out the clutter and choosing joy.

I may not be an expert on much, but even I could host this show. Although, I’d probably be a bit too abrasive for the easily offended bunch of pansies we’ve raised in the last couple decades. Telling them to quit buying stuff or clean their house would definitely strike them the wrong way. There would be tears and hurt feelings and I’d have to send them to the quiet room to gather themselves and calm their little beating hearts.

Sadly, this soft-spoken woman who appears to go door-to-door in an endeavor to spread the new religion of minimalism is speaking mostly to millennial Westerners, where credit cards are used like a video game controller and stuff is collected faster than self-important coffee connoisseurs collect Starbucks cups on the floors of their cars.

Heaven forbid our kitchen cupboards contain an outdated color of Tupperware that just doesn’t give off the JOY vibe anymore. Or maybe the thirty-something youngster still living in your basement has stock-piled too many t-shirts depicting his favorite super hero and the drawers of his dressers no longer close properly, so the floor is covered in a rainbow of crumpled cotton.

I know there is a need for simple-simon instructions for the modern American. The dumbing down of America we’ve feared for so long is at an all-time high. Young people get out of college and have no idea how to thread a needle to sew on a button without viewing a ten-minute YouTube video. And who has time for that? Consequently, there are lots of joyless shirts in basement closets, missing buttons.

I’ve heard Ms. Kondo also has some kind of silly limit on book ownership. As though you can only find joy in the books you’re currently reading. That is just blatant ignorance. I don’t have to hug each book or meditate over them to know they are worthy of continued space in my home. But that shouldn’t be a problem for most people, since very few seem to read books anymore.

If I hosted the show, it would be more like a combination of Scared Straight and Judge Judy. Instead of soft words and smiling suggestions, I’d yell, “Pull on your big girl pants and stop sniveling! We’ve got work to do! Give your old clothes to Salvation Army, donate those vinyl records you no longer have a player for, toss those plastic containers stained with tomato sauce, and for heaven’s sake scrub your bathroom!”

You don’t need a reality show host looking through all your cabinets to know that.

But in a world of angry twitter comments and shouting news commentary, a tiny woman with a sweet smile and soft voice, suggesting you pick up the mess is probably much more attractive.

I used to think my mom yelling at me to clean my room or pick up my toys or take out the garbage was unnecessary. But truthfully, most kids don’t react to soft spoken requests. They ignore you. I know. I’ve lived both sides of it. I was a kid once and I raised kids. When mom raises her voice, you know you better get up and do it or else.

The people on this Tidying Up show might hug Marie and tell her thank you for helping me throw away my collection of old pantyhose I haven’t worn for two decades, but I guarantee as soon as she’s out the door they are out back of the house pulling stockings out of the dumpster. Their bank account is overdrawn, their credit cards are maxed out and it’s time for dinner. Their only option… to pull a stocking over their face and rob McDonalds.

Thanks for stopping. Leave a comment and say hello or tell us about your hoarding weakness. Mine is NOT books. (clarification: Books cannot be hoarded. They are collected.)

Barbara

Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Series, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, Second Chances series, and The Double Barrel Mysteries series. She lives in Minnesota and yearns for Hawaii.
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Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Barbara Ellen Brink, decluttering, hoarding, humor, tidying up

Bumper Sticker Wisdom

September 19, 2017 By Barbara Leave a Comment

So, you know those cute little sayings some people have for every situation?

If you’ve ever been to college and lived in a dorm room, you probably had one roommate who collected posters with sunny quotes and positive slogans that made you want to rip them off the walls and paper their larynx with them. Of course you would never have done that because a moment of patience in a moment of anger saves you a hundred moments of regret.

When you complain that your kid threw up in the car, your washing machine is broke, and your carpet cleaner is out of soap, they say count your blessings, name them one by one and you count to ten, hoping they’ll disappear before you open your eyes again.

When you’re blue they say turn that frown upside down and then you turn on some jazz and tune them out.

When you’re lifting that bench press and ready to cave they say it’s not over till the fat lady sings and you drop it on their foot and they scream bloody soprano.

Another one I read today was, We can’t direct the wind but we can adjust the sails. Where do people come up with these things? You just want to turn on the blow dryer to hurricane level and blow their boat right out of the bathtub.

But my least favorite… is when I’m forced by passing time to celebrate another birthday and they say you are only as old as you feel. Well, I feel stinking old! Especially after going to Perkins with my husband and mother-in-law the other day and realizing that we can all eat off the senior menu now. That’s just wrong.

Not wanting to leave you in a downer mood, here is a quote to brighten your world:

You can’t buy happiness, but you can buy coffee! Have a happy caffeinated day!

Is there a slogan you love, or love to hate? Share it in the comments!

Thanks for stopping!

Barbara

Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Series, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, Second Chances series, and The Double Barrel Mysteries series. She lives in Minnesota and yearns for Hawaii.
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Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: bumper sticker wisdom, humor, positivity quotes

They put a camera up… where?!

July 19, 2017 By Barbara Leave a Comment

They put a camera up… WHERE??

What happens in an exam room usually stays in said exam room, but I’m over fifty now and apparently I’ve lost most of my inhibitions. So, I’m going to share my colonoscopy adventure with you today. No, I don’t have the video, but I can give you the gist of it.

Being of a certain age, I was finally cajoled, pushed, pressured, and reminded enough that I set up an appointment for a Colonoscopy. Hearing vaguely unhappy reports from others who had gone through this procedure, I put it off like a five-year-old on a playground digging her heels in the sand when her mother takes her hand and says it’s time to go home. There was no actual kicking and screaming, but inside my head there was definitely an argument going on between Me, Myself, and I about whether I’d keep the appointment.

The day before the procedure I was required to be on a clear liquid fast. That means no colorful, caffeinated, or alcoholic drinks may pass your lips. So not only was I in starvation mode, but I wasn’t even allowed the Nector Of The Sane… coffee. A headache set up residence behind my eyes in a vain attempt to prove to me how very bad caffeine was for me and what a pitiful addict I had become. It didn’t work. It just made me want it all the more.

In the afternoon, I began drinking 64 ounces of Gatorade laced with a bottle of laxative powder that looked a whole lot like Sweet’n Low. Well, it did make things move very low.

Can I just say that when your bowels are clean as a whistle (whatever that means) – but they are still on high alert because of all the various laxatives you’ve consumed – the slow release of gases through the intestines make an eerie high-pitched sound like an all string band called Whippoorwill. I can only imagine that this very sound is where the country of Wales got its name.

The whole process brought to mind an old 1980’s movie starring Dennis Quad. A drunken and disgraced astronaut volunteers to have himself miniaturized and injected into the bloodstream of a caged rabbit but ends up in the body of jerky, manic, nervous Martin Short. It would’ve been a whole different scenario if he were put into my colon after drinking that awful stuff. Instead of calling the movie, InnerSpace, they would’ve called it S**t Storm of Massive Proportions. A combination between The Perfect Storm but with a Dante’s Peak ending.

You might think I’m telling you that having a colonoscopy is the worst experience ever. But you’d be wrong. The worst experience ever would be to find out you had colon cancer because you were never checked in time.

The nurse in charge of me said she’d had three colonoscopies in the past fifteen years. Most people don’t need that many, but she was extra vigilant after the doctor found polyps each time and got rid of them before they could become a problem. Her brother wasn’t so lucky. He refused to be checked and died last fall from colon cancer.

I can’t say it was a pleasant experience, but after the fact I will say that I feel very relieved I don’t have to worry about it again for ten more years.

As I sit here drinking a mug of lovely dark coffee and nibbling on a Dove’s chocolate, I am thankful for life, health, and caffeine.

Thanks for stopping! Leave a comment or just say hi!

Barbara

Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Series, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, Second Chances series, and The Double Barrel Mysteries series. She lives in Minnesota and yearns for Hawaii.
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Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: colonoscopy, humor, InnerSpace

Give’em the boot!

April 26, 2017 By Barbara 4 Comments

Mid-life is so much more than adult acne, sagging skin, and wily chin hairs. It can also come with a rotating set of aches and pains. Now to be truthful, I’ve led a very healthy life so far and don’t have much to complain about. But being human and somewhat of a pessimist…

I recently decided to have foot surgery. Not just because I wanted something to complain about, mind you. I’ve been putting it off for a few years but the pain was accelerating. The doctor informed me that I had a hammer toe. Which brings a very odd image to mind. Thankfully, my toe did not actually look like a hammer, but at times it did feel like it was being hit with a hammer. A sledgehammer.

Wearing a protective boot for six weeks post surgery is probably the worst thing you can do for your body. Sure it keeps your foot from getting bumped or injured while it heals but it also causes all of the muscle in your leg to become one with gravity. Not only do I have to wear a push up bra, but now I need compression jeans to keep my calf off the ground.

For the first two weeks I wasn’t supposed to put any weight on my foot at all. I was given the boot to wear 24/7 and a pair of crutches. So as you can imagine, doing normal, routine things easily became complicated tasks.

Showering, for example, without touching one foot to the ground, is not only dangerously slippery, aggravating, and tiring, but entirely unsatisfying. I couldn’t stand with my eyes closed under the relaxing spray of hot water for ten minutes, as I normally would, because I would fall over in ten seconds. I definitely needed help.

When my husband offered his services, my imagination immediately flashed to those sexy, steamy, shower scenes in the movies when a handsome man (possibly with a voice like Chris Hemsworth’s Thor) asks the girl in the shower, “need any help in there?” Sadly, my husband’s offer of help was to tape a bag over my foot, prop me up on a metal stool and hand me my crutches and a towel when I was done. So… not the same.

 

Life is full of experiences and writers need to experience all sorts of things to glean fodder for their stories. Suffice it to say, this experience was not one I recommend. As a writer, all of this sitting around should have been a boon, right? Wrong. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t sit at my desk for ten minutes. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t do anything but prop my foot up on an icepack in front of the television and catch up on every episode of my top 20 favorite Netflix shows while eating ice cream and popping bon bons. Don’t even get me started on weight gain. How a surgical procedure on one small toe can turn into an entire body fail is beyond me!

Some boots are made for walking. This boot was not. Unless you are looking for a boot that insures you walk as gracefully as Frankenstein’s monster, with a temperament to match.

Boot Wearing Blues

Pick up your calf                    

It’s lying on the floor

You can’t walk around here

No more

 

The muscle is gone

Your energy’s sapped

You might as well lay down

And take a nap

 

My toe is swollen

My will is broken

My writing’s on hold

And this icepack is cold

 

A boot made for pain

Is fashionably lame

Doubles as a fanny pack

holds your cellphone and a snack

 

As far as comfort goes

5 stars for open toes

plastic shin guards, velcro straps

 

It’s been a hoot

But I’m givin’ back the boot

~~~~

Thanks for stopping! Please leave a comment and share ! Happy Spring!

Barbara

Barbara is the author of the Fredrickson Winery Novels, the award winning thriller, Split Sense, The Second Chances series, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, and The Double Barrel Mysteries, Roadkill and Much Ado About Murder. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and pup.

 

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Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: boot, humor, midlife, surgery

Queen For A Day

November 16, 2016 By Barbara 1 Comment

With all the depressing, angry news lately, I thought I’d share a little light-hearted story for your enjoyment. Happy Wednesday! Hope you all enjoy!

Cute funny fashionable glamour pink small princess piglet in queen crown standing indoor in studio on wooden background, horizontal picture
Photo from Fotolia

Queen for a Day

She was Miss South Dakota twenty years ago. The life-sized portrait in the sitting room was proof of that. In her silver and white gown and jeweled tiara she reigned over the small farmhouse with a $3000.00 orthodontic smile that put Marie Osmond to shame.

When she cruised down Main Street people still stared as she drove by in the red, Pontiac Firebird given to her when she won the state pageant. It was a little rusty around the doors now, but she had touched up the writing on the side so everyone could see it was Miss South Dakota’s car. She knew it excited them when she raised her hand and gave them her special wave. She enjoyed pleasing the little folks.

She said the two things she wanted most in life were world peace and to marry a pig farmer. Her love of pork had secured her the title of Mrs. Daryl B. Cimpl. She still needed to work on that peace thing, but she felt sure in time even that would be fulfilled. Besides, it was hard to believe that on their quiet little farm the world was not at peace.

She and Daryl had two wonderful twin boys, named after their father. She made sure they were educated in all the right areas. She taught them to tap dance by the time they were four. They would tap around the new pine floor of the barn while Daryl gave the baby piglets their shots and snipped off their tails, distracting the mother sows long enough for him to get out of the pen without a chunk missing from his rear-end.

When they were six she started them in organ lessons. They would never be in the marching band, but they would definitely be asked to play at all the weddings and funerals for miles around. That’s where the fame was. In South Dakota, folks congregated at family gatherings.

Daryl gave her everything he had promised, a home, kids, and all the pork she could freeze in a 24 Cubic foot freezer. He wasn’t much to look at, but she loved the man inside the thin, stooped, shell. His blonde hair was still boyish when he combed the long pieces across the top of his shiny pate, and the way he looked at her when she wore her tiara to bed could send her pulse racing. She had everything she ever wanted.

One day while dusting the frame of her portrait and watching General Hospital, she realized something was missing in her life. Somewhere along the way, she had lost her purpose.

She tried to pinpoint what it was she wanted. She loved her husband and sons, and taking care of their every little need. She loved helping out part-time at Black’s Funeral Home, where she applied makeup to the sunken eyes and withered cheeks of the deceased, making them appear 10 years younger or almost alive again. But these things weren’t a challenge to her talents, and that’s what she needed.

The new batch of baby pigs was born, shots were administered, tails were snipped, and Miss South Dakota had an idea. She picked the cutest, most perfect piglet of the litter and made it her protégé. She named her, Ambrosia.

Ambrosia was hand-fed with a bottle, while listening to classical music played on the organ by a Daryl Jr. Every evening she was bathed in ham-scented water and patted dry with a white terry-cloth towel. She was given a bed of pillows on the back porch where she lay with her hoofs pointed to the ceiling and her little snout wiggling as she dreamed piglet dreams. She was fed only the best corn, which she learned to eat from a silver doggy bowl. She was walked each day down the gravel road to the end of the section and back, eagerly pulling against the diamond-studded leash in anticipation of the meal that awaited her on their return.

Finally the day came for the family to pack up the truck with 400 lb Ambrosia in the back and head for the South Dakota State Fair. This was what being Miss South Dakota was all about, using the talents she had learned along the way by giving someone else a leg up; or a cloven hoof in this case.

The judges looked the pigs over, checking for flaws inside and out. Ambrosia stood docilely as they pulled on her ears and stuck their fingers in her mouth. She held her head high as she had been taught and kept that happy gleam in her eye. The judges were amazed by her posture, nodding to one another as they checked off their lists.

At one o’clock the ribbons were to be awarded. There was even a sign on the pig barn announcing that she, Miss South Dakota, would be attending the pig judging. It surprised her that they knew. She had only informed a couple dozen people that she would be there. When the judge slipped a blue ribbon over Ambrosia’s head and she gave an excited squeal of victory, Mrs. Daryl B. Simpl, Miss South Dakota 1985, cried tears of pure joy, even though it made the mascara run down her cheeks in rivulets.

As she led Ambrosia from the judging ring, she saw a crowd of people standing around a red car outside. On the door in large scrolled letters it said, Miss South Dakota 2006. She stopped and stared as a young, blonde woman stepped from the vehicle and turned to wave at her adoring fans. The blonde turned toward the barn and their eyes met, then her gaze dropped to Ambrosia.   Her smile froze in place and her eyes widened in shock. Ambrosia oinked a greeting as she took a pose, her jeweled tiara tilting crazily over her snout.

~~~

Thanks for stopping! Feel free to leave a comment below.

Barbara

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Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Barbara Ellen Brink, fiction, humor, short story, south dakota, state fair

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