Alright, it looks like the end of the week — usually Friday — is becoming The Book of Questions Day here at the Cardiogirl Empire (with the exception of holidays, most recently Fourth of July.)

Last week I backed into a heavy discussion without realizing it, until the comments started coming in. Clearly I have some unresolved issues and grief milling about in the back of my head. Even though Lamictal is doing a stellar job of managing that stuff.

So today we are going with a neutral question. As usual the question comes from “The Book of Questions” by Gregory Stock, Ph.D.

And here it is, Question 49.

While parking late at night, you slightly scrape the side of a Porsche. You are certain no one else is aware of what happened. The damage is minor and would not be covered by insurance. Would you leave a note?

Alright, I’m going to assume this is not just opening the door and accidentally dinging the side of the Porsche next to you. Because I know I have done that and it never crossed my mind to leave a note. That’s just a bump in the road of life (no pun intended, really) and it does happen.

Right or wrong, it’s not noteworthy in my opinion.

For the purposes of this question, I am going to assume this is cutting the turn too tight and scraping along side of the Porsche. Something that’s going to be noticed immediately by the owner of the other car.

In this instance, I would definitely leave a note to let the other person decide what he or she would like to do. This does feed into my sense of responsibility and my desire to take ownership of my actions. More importantly, I would expect someone who scraped my car to leave a note.

I would be extremely angry if someone scraped my car and then left without a peep. I’d be really, really pissed off. Whether it was a minivan I was driving or a brand new Porsche. It’s the principle of the matter.

While I was at it, I would probably leave one of my brand new business cards on the windshield, under the wiper. Aren’t they cute? I bought them through VistaPrint and I am very pleased. Two thumbs up on that experience.

I’ve been dropping my cards around town, unobtrusively, and have sent a few to some friends to do the same. The hits haven’t really been rolling in yet, but it’s early in the game. I have high hopes. I also have a targeted area of where I am dropping them, so I can easily gauge my success rate.

But enough about me and my sassy new cards.

Tell me, would you leave a note on the car you accidentally scraped?

I have a domestic question for you today. When you mow your lawn, do you mow the strip that is right next to your driveway and technically located on the neighbor’s lawn?

I don’t.

At my house I believe the parameters are very clear. When standing in front of my house Nuthouse is to my right, Cool Neighbors are to my left. I mow what is located between the cement barrier of my driveway and Cool Neighbor’s driveway.

On our street, every drive way is located to the right of the house. So it goes: house, that house’s drive way. Next house, next house’s driveway, and so on all the way down the street. So that’s why Nuthouse’s lawn separates my drive way from her drive way.

Anyway, I have provided a doodle to better explain the situation. See below? That’s my house in the center, because this is my blog and it’s all about me. Do you see how the sun shines down on my house? That’s because this doodle is my universe and it represents how I would like things to be.

In my doodle I do not have to spray the spark plugs of the mower with Quick Start and yank the cord like a mofo three or four times while pushing it forward to start the engine. In my doodle world I am thin and my mower starts with a key. But I digress.

So I mow what’s in front of my house, up to my own drive way and then I mow that strip to the left that goes right up to Cool Neighbor’s drive way. I have circled the area in question in red.

In my opinion, that area circled in red, that borders Cool Neighbor’s drive way, belongs to me and is my responsibility to mow. However, for the last three or four years, Cool Neighbor has been mowing one strip, on that red area when he mows his lawn.

That feels to me, like he is saying, “Dude, I know you have a lot of kids and I don’t. But your lawn is getting out of control and I want people who see my house to know I keep it up. Even when you don’t mow your lawn.”

That’s what it feels like to me.

Now he doesn’t mow his lawn all that often because he does not own a mower. I swear this is absolutely true. He borrows a friend’s mower and drives it over to his house, in the trunk of his car, mows the front and back, and then returns the mower.

Even though this is the case and he mows roughly five times per summer, his lawn is not over grown. Mine isn’t either and my mower is in the shed.

The point is that both he and I mow on a regular basis and our lawns never grow more than about four inches before we mow.

So why does he feel the need to mow that one strip? The strip that is next to his driveway but is my responsibility. It’s not like there is so much grass that you can see the lone strip he mowed. But, yes, occasionally you can see that he has mowed one strip as my lawn is sometimes two inches longer than his.

I do not mow the one strip to the right, that is Nuthouse’s lawn. In fact, unfortunately I frequently make the turn into my driveway too tight (cringes) and I have created a groove of dirt at the edge of my driveway and her lawn. Our drive way should be wider. This has nothing to do with my driving skills.

The point here is that Nuthouse doesn’t complain about the deep dirt groove I have created. And she mows what’s left and I leave it alone when I am mowing. That’s the unspoken rule, isn’t it?

Have you heard of these “Missed Connections” ads? They remind me of the segments on “Unsolved Mysteries” called Lost Loves. The person recounts the story, while a re-enactment plays with the voice over. The person explains why he or she wants to reconnect and roughly 60% of the time the connection is made.

Upon meeting they cry, they reminisce, they laugh and each one tells his or her version of the original story. Then all is right with the world.

Of course technology seems to invade everything, and now there are “Missed Connections” ads littering the internet. I was surfing the net to find a good one, before I share my own with you and this is a Craig’s List ad from November 2007 that I found on membracid.wordpress.com. Thanks for rooting this out Membracid — you’re a peach!

I had bedbugs, you had herpes

We both had a little too much to drink, and began discussing “deal breakers”. It just so happened that this was a day or so after I awoke with what felt like mosquito bites on my arms and shoulders, and I told you that I thought those might be bedbug bites.

You told me that you would never sleep in a bed that had bedbugs or with a man who slept with bedbugs and I, offended, told you that I would never sleep with a woman who ever had an outbreak of herpes. So then you stalked off, leaving me with my PBR to wonder how an evening that began with such promise could go so badly.

… It’s been six days since I last got bit, and if there were bedbugs there, I’d have been bitten every night since. Didn’t happen, so maybe it was a spider or a mosquito. No matter, the place has been cleaned and sprayed, so there is less chance of bedbugs here than wherever else you might choose to end up.

As far as the herpes crack goes, I don’t know if you have it or not, but I use condoms, and you could use Valtrex, so why should this stop us? I felt a connection with you, a real one, a surprising one.

I really cannot add any more to that Lothario’s plea. Except to say he seems like a problem solver who thinks outside the box.

Now if I were to write an ad, or appear on “Unsolved Mysteries,” I would want to find a red-headed woman who appeared, back in 1984, to be in her early 40s. It was the Summer of 1984 and I had just gotten my driver’s license about a week earlier. My father sent me up to the store to get some bread and milk.

I was driving his car.

As I waited at the traffic light to turn left I don’t know where my mind was. I don’t remember if the light turned yellow and I was attempting to complete the turn. I don’t think that was the case. I think the light was green and I misjudged the distance.

Thereby causing an accident from lack of experience. I think I turned left in front of on-coming traffic because I was inexperienced. But it was clearly my fault. And I readily admitted that to anyone who would listen to me — the other driver, the police, a wayward face who looked at me. It was my fault. Mea culpa.

Okay, so the other person in the accident was really nice. She bought me a pop and reassured me through my tears that it was okay and accidents happen. That’s why they call it an accident and we were both lucky that no one was hurt. I think she was in her late 20s or early 30s.

Thank you Unknown Car Accident Participant. You really made me feel better and I appreciate your generosity.

But you are not the person I would be looking for. You did not have red hair and you were very, very kind.

I am looking for the Red-Headed Bitch who had to come up, into the circle of activity between me, the Unknown Car Accident Participant and the police officer. She repeatedly interrupted the police officer to say that she had seen the entire accident. She was a witness! And it. Was. All. Her. Fault! She said that as she pointed an accusatory finger at me.

She repeated herself wildly and punctuated my guilt with her probing index finger, stabbing at air in my direction. I know she told the officer that she was more than willing to be a witness and to have her statement taken.

Prior to the Red-Headed Bitch’s appearance I had told the officer it was all my fault. The scene of the accident made it clear that it was my fault. This was an open and shut case. I wasn’t trying to shirk my responsibility. I was crying and saying how sorry I was. I had mentally prepared myself to be handcuffed and carted off to jail.

So it was while the officer was taking my information and the Unknown Car Accident Participant’s information that the Red-Headed Bitch appeared out of nowhere spewing her self-righteousness.

So this is the letter I would write to her.

To the Red-Headed Bitch hailing from Southeastern Michigan, circa June 1984:

I was the teenager who got into that car accident on West Road. I was inexperienced and I turned directly in front of the other driver, who clearly had the right of way.

I imagine now, knowing how naive and innocent I was then, that the blood drained from my face as I hopped out of the car on shaky legs, in the middle of the intersection, and frantically asked the other driver, “Are you okay? Are you okay?”

I was crying. And I was saying, “I’m sorry; it was all my fault.” My hands were shaking as I talked to the police officer.

And then you walked up, Red-Headed Bitch.

You firmly placed your nose where it did not belong. I imagine your life was uneventful and you were simply a nosy neighbor who had nothing better to do that day.

Do you remember how the officer tried to placate you and explained repeatedly that he had it under control and he did not need your name or phone number for a statement.

Do you remember the shock and anxiety I was experiencing?

Your insincerity has stuck with me for almost 25 years, Red-Headed Bitch. I never gawk at an accident because of you.

I do not slow down to look. If the cars in front of me have slowed down to a crawl, I keep my eyes on the road in front of me. Because of you.

I know what it feels like to have gawking, curious eyes trained upon me during a moment of crisis. And it felt horrible.

So to this day, when I see some kind of unfortunate accident on the road, I acknowledge and move on. Because you had to force your way into a situation that did not concern you.

I suppose I should thank you for teaching me how to be compassionate to others.

But just between my Cardio peeps and me, I would much rather close my eyes, think of the Red-Headed Bitch’s blurry image, and quietly say, “Goodbye, goodbye.”

First I must thank Solomon profusely for helping me figure out how to banish “General” from my categories/tags here in WordPress. Les, you also had the keys to the kingdom, but Solomon got here first.

Solomon, my sweet persimmon, you are like the proverbial mouse who has removed the thorn from my lion’s paw.

This is not to imply you are a mere mouse. Just that you have helped me remove something that has caused me much annoyance and irritation. Thank you for that!

Oh how happy it makes me to look at the bottom of this post and see my catch all phrase taken from SpongeBob SquarePants. In one episode Patrick and SpongeBob are having a snow ball fight. They invite Squidward to join in the fun and he yells out his window: “Thanks, but no thanks, Major Stupidity! You and General Nonsense over there will have to fight without me!”

Love that line!

So now I feel I can jump all around today, because this is all just General Nonsense.

Have you noticed that when John McCain speaks in public he never lifts his upper lip. All you see are the bottom row of his pearly whites. Does he have upper teeth? I don’t recall ever seeing him smile, but I would imagine it is a close lipped smile. What is he hiding behind that upper lip?

I am not a political chick. Let me say that from the start. But I have to say based on sheer appearance, I like the looks of Barack Obama better than John McCain. Obama is well dressed in tailored suits, I like how he and his wife do the fist bump instead of the slobbery, awkward Al Gore/Tipper Gore lip lock.

All around, Obama seems more tailored, more knowledgeable and more diplomatic than John McCain. Okay this is where my opinion ends. I told you I am not a political chick, don’t send me a bunch of comments saying my head is up my ass regarding policy.

It is. Firmly placed, checking out the inside of my colon.

Moving on, I have two words for you, people: Stability. Ball.

I just bought one a week ago. And I. Love. It! It’s a helluva workout on your abs/core section.

It takes sit ups to an entirely different level because you have to balance your body on the ball, using your core muscles, and then actually do the sit up. Yes, the YMCA has these balls all over the place. I usually see totally ripped guys holding 10 lb. weights (4.5 kg for those Brits out there — Guilty Secret I’m looking at you) as they do the sit ups on the stability ball.

So I’d never used one of those things at the Y, or ever, and of course I’m insecure as it is. I didn’t want to look like a complete dork rolling off the ball around all these people who know what they’re doing. Therefore, I had never used that particular apparatus.

Then we visited my in-laws and one of them had a stability ball. And I learned how to do push ups and sit ups on it. So I just had to have one and they’re reasonably priced — $19.99. The best feature about the one I got is that it is green (Go State — the color of my alma mater) and it sports the phrase “anti-burst” on the outside of the box.

I’m telling
you
right now,
if that ball
bursts while
I am on
it, it will damage
my psyche for a good long while.I’m telling you right now, if that ball bursts while I am on it, it will damage my psyche for a good long while.

Yesterday I did push ups, sit ups and squats (using the ball behind my back rolling against the wall) before I went to the Y to do my cardio workout. When I got home that night I told Mr. C, I don’t know what’s going on. I did cardio today and the backs of my upper arms are sore.

Then it all clicked. I did pushups on the stability ball. Try doing ten pushups with your shins resting on the ball. Not only do you have to balance your legs on the ball, but you have to push at least 75% of your body weight up and down with your arms.

I told you, it’s a helluva workout. Now I must go to get some Motrin. Talk amongst yourselves.

For some reason, music has always had a profound effect on me. It really evokes a strong mood and there are certain lyrics that have always stayed with me. I thought today it would be fun to list the lyrics I love and to hear if you have a certain phrase from a song that you enjoy and listen for every time you hear that particular song.

Lengthy side note that I initially called a “quick” side note: do all of you like assigning a category for your posts? I feel so much pressure every time I write something. And now that I have rejected HaloScan like a snotty girl being asked out to the prom, I have a new format for my comments. Along with the new format, it shows what category I have chosen for a particular post. I do like that on other people’s blogs.

But I am anal retentive. I know, say it all together now — not you Cardiogirl! You’re like a new-age, go-with-the-flow, mellow hipster.

It’s true people. I obsess over some of the smallest things. I’ve been obsessing over this category thing since I moved to WordPress last September.

I like to be efficient. And I don’t want to have 863 categories. But then I’ll see at someone else’s blog a category like “things that bug the shit out of me” and I think, ‘Ooh, I like that!’ Yet that exact phrase is kind of long and wordy.

But what I hate the most is the “General” category. That mofo hounds me like toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. It mocks me.

That’s the category that comes up as a catch all when I have not selected a category. So when I save a draft without selecting a category first — because I do re-read and edit crazily in an attempt to find and eradicate mistakes — it automatically selects “General” for me. Grrr. It feels like WordPress is saying, “Gah, come on and pick one. No? Well here. You get “General” then. That will teach you to click without choosing first.”

I’ve tried to get rid of that category but I think it’s a default that cannot be removed. I might go with Mixed Bag as my “General” soon. I hate seeing “General.” Oh, maybe “Funkalicious” but that might set up an expectation for a wild, chewy center. Hmm. I’ll have to ponder further.

And just
in
case you’re
wondering, yes, it
is hard
to be Cardiogirl.
There are so many
inane, trivial things to obsess over and only so much time in one day.And just in case you’re wondering, yes, it is hard to be Cardiogirl. There are so many inane, trivial things to obsess over and only so much time in one day.

So I didn’t know how to label today’s post and I know you all are going to see that I picked “Stream of Consciousness” when “Funkalicious” might have worked well today. It truly is like having one of those teeny tiny cocktail forks in the silverware drawer. It’s only used once a year. Whereas the teaspoons and knives are used daily. I’m not sure I have room in my comments for a cocktail fork. Whatever.

Now, let’s get the thick of it.

Here are some of the songs that have a line or two that I always listen for and enjoy.

The first one is “Unloveable” from The Smiths. Believe it or not, it’s kind of upbeat and bouncy even though the lyrics are depressing.

My college roommate, Tonya, introduced me to this particular song and The Smiths in general. She is the one who pointed out the phrase that we used through most of our college years:

“I wear Black on the outside
‘Cause Black is how I feel on the inside.”

In college I was all stormy and moody and I did have a black turtleneck that I wore occasionally. That is when I would casually utter to Tonya, “I wear black on the outside. Because black is how I feel. On the inside.”

Yeah, I made it mine. I inserted pauses. For effect. But that’s not really the way Morissey sings it. You can listen to the song and hear that lyric for yourself at the 1 minute 49 second mark in this You Tube link.

Next up is Sir Elton John. My brother introduced me to “Funeral for a Friend (Love Lies Bleeding).” That was on the “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” album and my brother was a DJ at college for a little bit. That song is really long 11 minutes and 8 seconds. So Jack told me when he had to use the bathroom, he would put that song on and he knew he could take his time.

As you might imagine, the start of the song is instrumental with wind and lots o’ heavy pipe organ, simulating music one might hear at, well, a funeral. Then Elton gets into the piano side of things and it’s still instrumental. Finally we change gears around 3 minutes and 20 seconds and the drums are added. He’s pounding the piano keys. You could probably dance to this part.

Eventually at around the 5 minute and 37 second mark, after the guitars are going full steam, we get to the lyrics.

The lyrics I always listen for (at 6 minutes and 57 seconds) and that actually jump out at me if I am not paying attention are:

“You’re a bluebird on a telegraph line
I hope you’re happy now.”

Again this is a depressing song with a really rock ‘n roll upbeat sound. Hmm, I’m detecting a theme here.

The last song (since I am getting a tad long-winded here) is “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)” by Bruce Springsteen. Again this song is long. It’s 7 minutes and 11 minutes. I guess I like to really hear my music, for a while.

Anyway, the lyrics go thusly:

“But now you’re sad, your mama’s mad
And your papa says he knows that I don’t have any money

Your papa says he knows that I don’t have any money
Oh, your daddy says he knows that I don’t have any money

Well, tell him this is his last chance
to get his daughter in a fine romance
‘Cause a record company, Rosie,
just gave me a big advance”

Yup, this one gets a block quote. That is how much I love this part. Bruce is a struggling singer/songwriter in this tale. Oh how he loves Rosalita. Wants to be with her and only her.

But Rosalita’s dad is a bit of a dick and won’t let Rosalita see Bruce. So Bruce appeals to Rosie’s father’s concern — the fact that Bruce is just a guitar slingin’ loser. With no money. But, wait for it! Surprise! Bruce just earned a big record deal. He’s rich, baby!

And my favorite, favorite part is when he tells Rosalita to give her dad a message:

“Well, tell him this is his last chance, to get his daughter in a fine romance.”

It’s going to be awesome, Rosalita. Bruce loves you with undying passion. Now you two can be together. He will give to you a fine romance. And isn’t that what every father of a daughter wants? A man who will love his daughter and treat her like a queen, thus providing a fine romance? And as an added bonus, he has a big advance from the record company. So he’s financially set. Yes!

I love that song.

If you want to hear it yourself, look for the 4 minute 26 second mark. You won’t be sorry.

Now tell me, what’s your favorite song?

It was so interesting throwing out a question a week or so ago from “The Book of Questions” by Gregory Stock, Ph.D. that I have another one for you.

This is Question 11 and has some follow-up questions that I will also provide.

You are given the power to kill people simply by thinking of their deaths and twice repeating the word “good-bye.” People would die a natural death and no one would suspect you. Are there any situations in which you would use this power?* If you can imagine yourself killing someone indirectly, could you still see doing so if you had to look into the person’s eyes and stab the person to death? Have you ever genuinely wanted to kill someone, or wished someone dead?

Granted this is an extremely dicey subject and it hits close to home for me. For those who do not know, my mother is in Stage Six of Alzheimer’s. At Stage Seven a person becomes fetal and dies. So she’s very close to the end and she does not know me or my children anymore. Back in December I saw her at my brother’s house. In the past she would say to me, “I know I’m supposed to know you, but who are you?”

That was hard enough, but at least she had some recognition of me.

It was in December, in the driveway of Jack’s house, that she absolutely looked through me, with not one flicker of recognition. It’s so difficult to explain this to someone who has not experienced it. I knew it was coming and I was not prepared.

I just thought it would never happen. To me.

Then she turned and introduced herself to my children, by saying, “I’m Aunt Wanda.” That completely unnerved me. Again, I knew a time would come, if she lived long enough with this disease, that she would not know her family, much less me.

But it still seems impossible.

You may also know that my brother, Jack, has been bedridden for a good four or five years now. He has a particularly aggressive form of Multiple Sclerosis and now has a feeding tube and a permanent catheter. He’s 48. Back in November of 2007 the doctor sent him home from the hospital, after the tubes were put in place, and started sending hospice workers to his home. Traditionally hospice lasts six month or when the chances of long-term survival are very, very slim.

Both my mother and my brother have almost no quality of life — as stated explicitly by my brother. Frequently he tells me that he is praying to die and just wishes this would end. My mother has stated the same exact thing to me.

Every day that passes, I wonder if this will be the day I receive a call saying one or the other has finally died. It’s very depressing.

So now that you know my particular story, I have to answer honestly and say, in the case of my mother and my brother I would choose to use that power to say “Good-bye” twice and provide for them a natural death.

I would do it in a heart beat.

Certainly this falls into the category of Mercy Killing. It turns out death, in my opinion, is not so black and white after all. In my own experience there seems to be many shades of gray.

I just ran across a post at A Widow For One year called The Bucket List. She had read at another blog “where the blogger discovered her housekeeper had terminal cancer. She went on to discuss all the things she would do if she found out she had a terminal illness. I’ve heard people discuss this before, well before John was sick.”

She further stated that movies never show the real, raw experience of living with someone who has a terminal illness. She said it’s been her personal experience that everyone needs to go through the five stages of grief, with acceptance being the last one.

“See, acceptance is last. It takes a while to get there. While getting there, you are not planning trips to Europe or writing the great American novel.”

Amen to that.

It’s this romantic notion that once diagnosed with a terminal illness a person will change the world, turn it upside down and accomplish all of the things they never got around to.

It’s hard to do that kind of thing, when paralyzed and stuck in a hospital bed inside your home. It’s doubly hard to do that when every where you look nothing is familiar, not your surroundings, not your bedroom, not your husband and not your children.

So my answer is yes. I would perform this indirect method of a natural death for my mother and brother, specifically.

To further answer the question, I could never look in a person’s eyes and stab him or her. I am sure I have wished someone dead. Not proud to admit that, and I cannot give you a specific person or experience. But I’m sure I’ve had the thought. Good thing I’m not capable of going through with it, face-to-face.

Now tell me your answers.

I just want to quietly bask in the glow of taking The Man’s beverage cart and slamming it against the wall, cans of Diet Coke and Pepsi exploding as they make contact with the ground. It’s true, HaloScan no longer rules my blog world.

And for that I am grateful.

Okay, back to regular programming.

While we were up north on vacation (no not in Canada, Canucklehead) we had a chance to hang out at a beach that also had a play ground. And I’m not talking the new-fangled just swings and slides type of park. This park was my dream park. The park of my youth.

I have been in search of a merry-go-round for a couple of years now. They don’t exist in my neck of the woods anymore. I imagine that must mean they are dangerous. Why must the world be so politically correct?

So imagine my sheer joy when I found a bona fide merry-go-round (from my youth) at the park next to the beach. It looked similar to the one in the following photo, however the base was painted chocolate brown and the posts were the color of dark metal.

I spent many hours on the merry-go-round as a child. The merry-go-round I remember was painted primary colors and the base had raised metal textured Xs, I suppose for traction. The merry-go-round at the park we visited was smooth metal and I found I had to hold on with my arms and brace my legs against the posts. So I didn’t slide right off.

I guess those textured metal Xs did serve a purpose some 30 years ago.

Since we had been sleeping in different beds and going to sleep later and later each night, I was not well rested when I set foot on this new merry-go-round. That actually created an interesting, psychedelic effect for me.

All I had to do was close my eyes and slowly tilt my head up and down which created a strange head rush. Like moving bed spins; it was crazy. All I needed to complete my acid trip was some music from The Doors or Pink Floyd. Alas, all I had was the squeals of joy from the other children on the merry-go-round.

Side note: what’s wrong with parents today? It’s a park, man. Hop on the rides.

Needless to say, I was the only adult riding the merry-go-round. But there were a few parents pushing the merry-go-round, Mr. C included, so we hit maximum velocity. I really did expect Mr. C to hop on and enjoy the ride.

But, it was just me and a bunch of 8-year-olds.

After I spent some significant time on the merry-go-round, I spied the golden scepter of my youth. My absolute favorite item on the play ground has always been the swing set. But these days the swings are pliable pieces of rubber (probably recycled from tires) that form a U shape.

When an adult woman, who has carried and delivered three babies which indicates slightly wider-than-usual hips, hops on the swing she can only swing for so long before her hips bother her. You know, hypothetically speaking.

Again, back in the day (the mid to late 70s) the swings were made with foresight. The swings of my youth had a sturdy, flat seat. It was probably made of wood and was wrapped in black rubber with embossed parallel lines. I imagine the lines created the texture that prevented a child from sliding off the swing. It also had metal chains which suspended the swing from the top of the swing set.

When we were at the dream park next to the beach, and I was trippin’ on the merry-go-round, I discovered the swingset. And to my extreme joy, I saw that the swings themselves were flat red rectangles made of hard plastic. The swings of my youth — right there in front of me!

Oh joy!

So I stumbled over to the swings, since I had just stepped off the merry-go-round and my head was spinning. Emily was on the swing next to me, and I have to say she really harshed my mellow, daddio. I pushed her until she got going for a while, but she’s only three and does not understand how to pump her legs to keep her going.

So I got Emily going and then went nuts on my own swing. I was flying — my ponytail was swinging behind me and the sun was shining on my face and legs. I was in a groove leaning back to gain momentum and on the upswing kicking back. I considered jumping off in mid-flight like I did as a kid, but decided against it.

Just as I was feeling the endorphins bounce around like a mosh pit in my brain, Emily announced she was at a stand still — she needed a push. So I had to stop, get her going and then start my ascent again.

As I went through this routine there were two teenage girls on the swings to my right. One chick had it down and she and I were talking about what great swings these were. The other teenage chick couldn’t get going. She told her friend, “You need muscles to swing on these swings.”

The other girl said, “No you don’t, you just need momentum.”

And I silently agreed with her, it is all about the momentum, baby. Of course a good kick back with your legs is necessary as well. So maybe muscles are a part of the equation.

All I know is that I was transported back in time reliving the hours I spent swinging, higher and higher, wondering if I would ever be able to eclipse the top of the swing set and come back down again creating a full circle. That never did happen, but I always tried.

And in my efforts to swing as high as I could, something magical happened every time. I was living in the moment, enjoying the feel of my legs pumping and leaning back to create more momentum.

I was one with the universe and I thought of nothing but the joy I felt in my heart and my soul. My head was cleared of all my worries and anxiety.

Maybe that’s the answer to all of this.

If only my therapist had a swing set in her office — with the correct type of flat swing that doesn’t crush a woman’s hips. Then I could create that Zen-like experience every three weeks.

The other night I was watching the end of a movie called “Malice” on Bravo. I did remember a little bit when I saw Nicole Kidman in the hospital bed after Alec Baldwin, as a doctor with a God Complex, removed both of her ovaries.

She sued him and won $20 million. She left her husband. Then her husband learned it was all a set up. Okay, in between the movie, of course, there were commercials. And two of them made me sit up in bed and say, “What the F?”

The first was for Duracell batteries. Mom is at the park with little Joey. She turns away for just a minute, to look in her purse, and Joey is gone. No where to be seen. Remember this is a commercial for batteries.

So Mom stands up and starts screaming, “Joey! Joey!” as she is frantically looking left and right. And I’m thinking, ‘Oh poor Joey. You’re a goner.’

Which is right when Mom pulled out something that looked like a remote control from her purse and pressed the button. And it said something like, “Child Located” and there was Joey. Happy to see Mom.

I thought this was a spoof. Like a Saturday Night Live episode. You’re using a remote control to find your lost kid? Seriously?

And when the commercial ended it gave this web address: duracell.com/childsafety. So I jotted that down on the pad of paper I keep nearby and investigated later.

What I discovered was the BrickHouse Child Safety site. The site says “The BrickHouse Child Locator with Distance Alert, powered by Duracell. Lets you keep a constant eye on your child — even when you’re not looking.”

The site does give this disclaimer in red: We apologize, but due to the extraordinarily high demand for The BrickHouse Locator, this item is temporarily out of stock. We are now taking pre-orders that will be shipped as soon as this product becomes available.

Are we giving up on watching our kids now? As long as I have this handy-dandy remote I can just click a button when my kid strays. WTF?

The site did say that particular item was also available for Alzheimer’s patients, which I think is a very good idea.

The second commercial, which was for DiGiorno Ultimate Focaccia Pizza, actually aired twice in about ten minutes, which allowed me to listen for the line I was sure I misheard.

I found their site here, and was able to click on the gold Isle of Ultimate button to watch the commercial and verify what I heard. I had to wait for some slides to go through until I saw the following screen.

It’s that green bar that says “Visit the Isle of Ultimate (Click here for the video).” Yeah, you do that and then listen really closely. Turn up the volume on the speakers.

There’s an Italian baker working the pizza dough, apparently the focaccia bread, into a standard circle. He pours what appears to be some olive oil on the dough and then tosses some shredded cheese and spices on the doughy disc.

It was at that time, while the baker was tossing shredded cheese on the dough, that I heard the voice over. “Focaccia made love to by fine herbs and cheese.”

Um, excuse me?

I thought. For. Sure. I misheard that. There’s no way the announcer just said the cheese and spices knocked boots with the dough.

Then in the next five minutes or so the same commercial aired. And this time I sat up in bed and turned up the volume. I knew to watch for the dude working the dough into a circle, I saw him pour the oil on the dough, saw the cheese float down and listened closely.

And again I heard, “Focaccia made love to by fine herbs and cheese.”

Has anyone else seen this commercial? Remember, you can see it yourself by clicking on the link above. Please view it and tell me what you heard.

This is crazy. Is it because it was airing on Bravo?

I really have no more words on this topic. I think it speaks for itself (whispers over shoulder, “It *is* crazy and we both know it.”)

Addendum: With the fair Rebecca holding my hand, I have taken down the evil empire that is HaloScan. I am now using comments through WordPress. You will note the comment tag at the bottom of each post.

I can now answer comments, within the commments, and life on this blog is as it should be. Thank you for your patience and continued support.

As an added bonus, you also get to see what categories I chose for the day’s post. That’s sort of fun.

What’s going on with HaloScan? I cannot edit my comments anymore. That’s not right.

That was the main reason I signed up for HaloScan. That and the fact that it was free.

I can’t find anything on their site explaining why they removed that feature. Unless they are pimping the Basic Account users. I bet that’s what’s going on. I’ll bet if you upgrade to a paid account — and who wants to do that — you get your editing back. Grrrr.

So now I appear to be over a barrel.

I don’t like having to add my own comment which ups the total number of comments received. It was nice to look at the post and see 10 comments (or 78 comments, which has never happened but would be nice nonetheless) and know ten other people, besides myself, had left a comment.

Now, if I bow down to the evil empire that HaloScan has become, I am contributing to my own comments and I will have at least 25-50% more comments because I have to leave a new comment to answer your comments.

I mean, really, what’s the point now to go to HaloScan’s dashboard to check comments? I can’t do anything to them except delete or ban them.

So I need to go to my own site now to check comments and then leave either a new comment for each person or answer four or five comments within one HaloScan comment to the people above me.

This sucks.

And I am not happy.

It is an option to use the comment section that comes with this WordPress account. But I think I deleted the coding, because I didn’t need it, because I had HaloScan. I believe the WordPress coding allows for editing within the comment.

Does anyone out there use WordPress and if so, do you use the coding for WordPress comments? If you’ve answered yes to both questions, can you please help me out with the coding? My email is cliverules AT comcast DOT net.

While that seems to be my only viable option, I am still being pimped by HaloScan because all of my prior HaloScan comments will be gone once I remove the coding.

And I find it confusing to have two options to leave comments — one from WordPress and one from HaloScan. And I do not want to support HaloScan anymore, so I am back at square one, which is deleting the HaloScan coding and starting all over. GRRRRR!!

While I’m bitching, I might as well throw one more thing out there.

I’m also getting really pissed off at BuzzFuse. The deal is that once you are a premium member you are paid for your highest rated posts. There’s some sort of algorithm that contributes to choosing the highest rated posts — in addition to the ratings you receive from other readers. If yours is in the top 100 that month you are paid the month after through your PayPal account.

February and March went well for me. I even posted about it explaining that I earned $536 for the month of February and I actually received the money in my PayPal account. In the month of March I earned roughly $110 and I actually received that money as well in my PayPal account.

Thank you BuzzFuse.

Since that time they have been lamenting the fact that people are “gaming” the system and having their friends give their posts the highest rating possible — a ten. Suddenly certain contributors have really high ratings and BuzzFuse is concerned about that.

That’s all understandable.

What is not understandable is the lack of response from the many emails I have sent asking for some kind of update on where BuzzFuse is. There’s no response. I sent an email giving suggestions on how to weed out the gamers — via a computer program so some of it is automated — and have received no response.

So the last time I was paid was at the end of April for the month of March. Again, I appreciate at that. But today is July 8. There has been no information regarding the months of April, May or June.

Have the payouts stopped? Is the company going under? Has any progress been made in tweaking the algorithm to stop the gaming? If I am to go by the response to my emails, the answer is no. Nothing has been done and yes, the payouts have stopped.

I’m not sure I can support BuzzFuse anymore, either. And that’s disappointing as it seemed to be an original idea with a lot of promise.

A note from Cardiogirl: I’m not at home right now. I’m up north so I have pre-posted. I should be back home and blogging live on Tuesday July 8, but I couldn’t stand the thought of going that long without posting. So read, enjoy. But I can’t hang in the VIP Lounge. That sucks. So no return comments until July 8. Please leave comments anyway. (Are my insecurities showing?)

Do you like your own handwriting? I’ve never had a problem with mine and as time has gone on it’s evolved into something between half cursive and half printing. It did mess my oldest kid up when she was in first grade.

Back then she knew printed letters, but not cursive. So she found it frustrating trying to read my handwriting. Now she’s heading into third grade and they’ve been over cursive so she understands most of what I write. However, once in a while she plays Handwriting Police and gets on my case about choosing one style or another.

I always tell her, “When you graduate from high school you can write any way you want. The professors in college won’t care as long as it’s legible.”

That was true for me. All through high school I wrote in cursive. But in my freshman year of college I started alternating each day between printing and cursive. And since I took reams of notes in college that is when my love of a good pen blossomed.

Throughout most of my college years I used different kinds of pens with different colored ink. I once had a pen that wrote in hot pink ink and a pen that had purple ink. For a good long while I vascillated between those two colors. Green made a guest appearance once in a while, but I had no room in my life back then for black or blue ink — too pedestrian.

And for a short time I had a fling with the mechanical pencil. It was on the side and I needed some strange. My true love has always been the ball point pen with its varied colors and smooth flow, but one day that mechanical pencil caught my eye.

Its lead never got dull. If I was bored in class I could quietly click, click, click the top of the pencil to watch the lead grow. Then, with one last click and hold, I could push the lead back in.

I spent some serious time in my first Journalism lecture class playing a game with the pencil. I would see how long I could click the lead before it clicked out of the barrel and fell on my notebook. I did break more than a few sticks of lead that way.

So I adjusted the game.

I clicked far enough so I knew the lead would not fall out and then I practiced gently pushing the lead back in by placing it against the armrest of my chair. The breakage rate on that game was much lower and thus became the distraction of choice during that particular Journalism class.

It should be fairly obvious that I made it out of that class by the skin of my teeth. It was the first and only 1.5 (out of a possible four points) that I received.

Time for a side note: And that little toerage of a grade hounded me all of my college days. Because of that grade I graduated with a cumulative grade point average of a 2.999 out of a possible 4.0. Fecker.

All I wanted was a respectable 3.0. It’s as if that evil 1.5 gained power as the years went on. At the beginning of every term I would spend hours figuring out my new GPA based on what I thought I would get in each class. Usually I needed to get three 4.0s and one 3.5 to neutralize the 1.5. But that never happened. (I guess I was obsessive back in college, too.)

The moral of this side note is — as with anything in life, it’s much easier to maintain something than it is to fight an uphill battle.

If I had paid a bit more attention in that insanely boring lecture hall, it’s possible I could have earned a 2.0 which would have had a domino effect on my overall GPA. Then I could stand here before you with an overall GPA of at least a 3.0.

Which further means I could have been one-one thousandth of a percent wittier here on this blog if I hadn’t been so fascinated with my mechanical pencil 22 years ago.

But I digress. Back to the handwriting.

I lived and worked on the campus of Michigan State University the summer between my freshman and sophomore year. It was that summer that I rented an apartment with three other girls and one chick was named Amy.

She told me one day after a psychology class that your handwriting style reveals something about your personality. What Amy recalled was that people who are confident write their letters straight up and down with no slant and they mix printed letters with cursive.

Amy further explained that once she learned that tidbit, she adjusted her own handwriting so she would appear more confident to any psychological profilers out there examining her handwriting. Even though she considered herself a very insecure person.

Being just as insecure as Amy, I followed suit back then and adjusted my handwriting as well — mixing cursive with printing. And making sure to write my letters straight up and down without a slant. Who doesn’t want to be seen as confident?

Once in a while I wonder what my handwriting would have evolved into on its own. If I had never met Amy. But I don’t obsess on it.

Because Lord knows I have to channel my obsessing on the really important issues or I wouldn’t be able to leave the house.