Have you tried it?

 

I did.

And yes, I know.. I know… the Russians own my pictures now. But Mark Zuckerberg’s had them for years, and Google and Amazon probably know my bra size. It’s the world we live in.

FaceApp.

It came out back in 2017, but just recently went viral.

Before everyone realized it was owned by a Russian company, we all  flipped the f*ck out had fun watching ourselves age.

 

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Example:

The normal photo of me.

 

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The FaceApp aging photo of me.

 

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I mean, HOLY HELL!

If that doesn’t make you run for the retinol cream, nothing will.

 

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Personally, I prefer the anti aging, younger version.

 

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Oh, to be that young and sweet again.

(Okay, I was never really sweet per se… but I could do without the bunions.)

 

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Said no man, ever.

But you can see how addicting this app can be…. and why it’s so popular.

Normal me?

 

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Old me.

 

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Ack!!

Young me…

 

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Ha!

Not even old enough to drink.

 

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Christ on a cracker… I’m a crone!

With the big hair and eye liner?  I look like an aging hooker.

 

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There, that’s better.

Quick, get me a Tardis…

I wanna go back!

 

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Why yes.

Yes, it was…

 

For Kathy, a picture of my mom for comparison.

Oh, Oprah.

 

Last week I was doing what I love most in the world,  kicking back with an ice cold margarita while being hand fed tasty morsels by Bradley Cooper,  waiting in an urgent care clinic for my SIL who I agreed to drive there.

** Warning for male readers – this post is going to go south about halfway through. Literally and figuratively. **

Medical facility waiting rooms are my least favorite place in the world. Crowded, obnoxiously loud, human petri dishes. Breeding grounds for the passage of whatever plague is currently circulating. Worried about mad cow disease or the bird flu? Forget the barnyard…. you’ll catch it here. Had I owned a bio hazard suit, I would have worn it proudly. With triple duct tape at the joints.

 

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As I was sitting in an unobtrusive corner trying not to breath, I realized my phone had died and I was at the mercy of the magazine rack. (Not reading is out of the question. Someone might want to start up a conversation and that’s entirely too much close contact when you’re trapped in a disease ridden incubator from Hell.)

As you know, medical waiting room magazine racks are filled with riveting copies of  Breast Feeding Monthly, How to Avoid Herpes newsletters and Let’s Identify that Secretion Digest.

I figured Oprah’s magazine would be the least revolting choice and grabbed her new issue.

 

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Oh, Oprah…

( Now would be a good time to point out that I detest women’s magazines in general. I have never needed to know how to bake a better bundt, why the soles of my feet are making me unhappy or what to do if my husband is cheating on me with my mother. )

And Hell, I didn’t even get past Oprah’s cover before I was rolling my eyes.

 

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While I have a girlfriend whose husband thinks hers has been on vacation since 2006…

I was guessing this article wasn’t about sex and shuddered to think about the tips hidden inside.

 

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I’d rather you didn’t, but thanks all the same.

The teaser didn’t bode well.

 

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And it made me wonder how mine has survived all these summers without the benefit of expert advice.

 

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There…

Now that’s advice you can use.

I refuse to go into detail about the article, but will post a picture of it for anyone who’s interested.

 

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In a nutshell? Treat Her Right.

Remember..

You heard it here first.

 

 

 

 

Let’s Talk Chicken … Chapter 3.

 

If you missed the first two chapters of this riveting chicken series, catch up here:

Let’s talk chicken…

Let’s Talk Chicken… chapter 2.

Onward.

 

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This could be a trick question as chickens often eat ticks, but we’ll proceed anyway.

 

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Let’s start with some interesting chicken facts.

 

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Quick recap – You can’t beat a chicken off the line unless it’s at night… and if it catches you? It will unleash it’s inner T Rex.

My advice?

Don’t race a chicken.

 

 

 

More facts:

 

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Quick recap – There’s no need to buy your chickens deodorant or a birthday cake.

Though wearing the hat can be quite stylish.

 

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A 3 eyed chicken?

 

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I’ve often thought having a third eye on the top of my head would be helpful, though it would be hard to find the right pair of sunglasses…

 

 

Next up –

 

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Okay, whether you’re a chicken fan or not this is fascinating stuff.

They can literally be asleep and awake at the same time. How frickin’ cool is that?

Heck, I could snooze and finish off that 12 part documentary series about Heinrich Schliemann at the same time!  (1)

 

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So there you have it.

Never let it be said my blogs are not educational…

 

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(1)   A few years ago I started watching a PBS documentary series on the search for ancient Troy.

Was it dry? Perhaps a wee bit…

Was it boring? Not to a history buff like me… but the husband fell asleep approximately 7 minutes into each and every episode.

If he was a chicken we could have discussed it later.

Alvin’s evil twin.

 

Chipmunks….

Everyone thinks they’re cute.

Me?

 

 

Not so much.

If you think they’re cute, you haven’t met Ervin.

Alvin’s evil twin.

 

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He taunts me daily.

Digging into my mulch and planting stolen sunflower seeds in every available garden bed.

 

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He sleeps on the deck furniture..

 

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And is positively psychotic… staring in at me from the deck.

 

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And then launching himself in mid air to slam into the window.

Repeatedly.

 

 

He’s even made it into the house on occasion.

 

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But now…

 

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He’s discovered the plant pots.

 

 

How do I know?

 

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Aside from the scattered dirt on the table?

 

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Busted!

The little bastard is now digging and planting seeds in all my potted geraniums, begonias and petunias.

How do I know?

 

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The large sprouting sunflower leaves are a dead giveaway.

Cute? My ass.

 

 

Look at those teeth!

He’s probably plotting to chew off my toe in my sleep if he ever gets back in the house.

 

 

Woodchuck aerobics.

 

I think the last time I did aerobics was 1988.

If I tried it today?

 

 

So imagine my surprise when one of the young woodchucks who’s taken up residence started working out on our back deck.

 

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Granted the work out started slowly….

 

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And didn’t seem to be too high impact.

But who am I to judge?

My regular workout routine goes like this:

 

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Woodchuck aerobics are a little different.

 

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There was a warm up stretch…

 

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A few hip twists…

 

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Some leg lifts….

 

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And a bit of planking.

 

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Then the pole work started.

 

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It was a little clumsy at first.

 

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But he got the hang of it pretty quickly.

 

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Heck, a little music and he could have been my girl friend on the parking meter a while back.

 

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Oh, alright.

The woodchuck wasn’t really doing aerobics…

I just wanted to share more cute photos.

But then again, I’m not really the world’s best cheerleader when it comes to exercise either.

 

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Do you like lobster?

 

 

I love it.

(But I live in Maine… I think it’s mandatory for citizenship.)

When we lived down south I missed lobster. So when we came home on vacation? I had lobster omelettes for breakfast, lobster rolls for lunch, lobster quesadillas for bar appetizers and lobster chowders with baked stuffed lobster for dinner.

 

 

Picnic? Lobster salad.

Day at the beach? Lobster bake.

We’re pretty lobster-centric in these parts.

 

 

Which made it hard for me when I came up allergic to the glorious crustacean about 7 years ago and could no longer eat it without becoming violently ill.

Yeah.

No more of this –

 

 

Or this –

 

 

Which makes me want to do this –

 

 

I’m teased by lobster at every turn living here.

There are festivals devoted to lobster.

 

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Lobster parades.

 

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And lobster boat races.

 

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My husband orders lobster for dinner and eats it in front of me.

 

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We go to  motorcycle rallies where they serve endless streams of lobster.

 

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Every friend who visits from out of state wants to don silly bibs and eat lobster.

 

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It kills me. Each and every time….

But now?

There’s a restaurant we pass on our way up the coast that’s really rubbing my nose in it.

 

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And that’s just….

 

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Wrong.

 

 

One of these things is not like the others….

 

I wish someone had told me kissing was a full contact sport.

I would have worn appropriate protection.

 

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You’d think after many happy years of marriage the husband and I would have perfected the technique, but alas…. accidents happen.

 

 

And this kiss was rather like a train wreck.

Yesterday when the other half came home from work, I went into the kitchen to give him a smooch.

I moved in, he moved in… and bam!

 

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He broke my toe.

 

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Talk about seeing stars.

And not in a good way…

 

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Sadly, my feet are my worst feature and I have troubles. The troubles of a woman 30 years older than she actually is.

Bunions? Check.

The beginning of hammer toes? Check.  (Thanks mom, it’s hereditary)

And I’m always barefoot in the summer so this isn’t my first rodeo with broken toes.

It is however, my first broken toe due to kissing.

Which makes me wonder if I need to wear this next time we get frisky in the bedroom…

 

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(Minus the cigar of course.)

Either that…

Or I need to learn  Taekwon-toe.

 

 

I know…

But I couldn’t resist!