If You Put Your Dream on Paper

Posted by Wombat Central on May 21, 2015 in Helpful Hints, Life, Life Enrichment |

You know how your dreams are really vivid when you first wake up from them, and you say to yourself, “Oh, I’m sure I’ll remember this in the morning,” but years of saying just that to yourself has taught you quite the opposite? You also know that if you take the time to write it down, the morning light reveals nothing but a scattered bunch of doodly doos that make no sense, and the act of writing will leave you fully awake, and THEN what?

There’s always the option of reaching into your bedside table and fumbling for your handy dandy digital voice recorder, but you also know that it hasn’t actually housed batteries since Obama’s first term in office. I think it goes without saying that a full-on 4 a.m. hunt for functioning batteries would not only render your brain wide-a-freakin’-wake, but the dog would also think it was time for breakies and she would never relent until you fed her.

Then it becomes like one of those If you Give a Mouse a Cookie books, but slightly way less cute, because she would then have to got out to go potty. Where she would invariably troll for bunny turds, and you’d have to whisper scream at her to stop because the neighbors are trying to sleep, and also because it’s disgusting.

If you got her to come back inside, she would do her clumsy Marmaduke dash up the stairs and cry outside your bedroom door because, “Oh mah Gawd, mah Daddeh is in there and I lubs him so much I cannot bear to be without him for one more second.” Once you convinced her to come back downstairs, she would break out her squeaky armadillo toy and wake your children. Who, incidentally, are moderately unpleasant downright miserable when awakened before their alarm clocks summon them to start their days.

So, I don’t remember that much about my dream, but I thought I’d hand it over to you for interpretation. I arrive in some building for an interview, but I’m wearing jeans and a nice shirt. I explain to my friend who works there that I’m over the whole suit thing, because I did that for so many years. I am also missing one of my black ballet flats, which my friend is helping me attempt to locate in the building. It’s in there somewhere. Oddly, I don’t seem terribly rocked by the fact that I’m walking around with one shoe.

As I scan the building for said shoe, I pass by the door where the interviewing is taking place. (I also know the woman who is doing the interviewing, and I figure she’ll be cool with the whole jeans thing.) The question I overheard was about which female broadcasters(?) public figures(?) the applicant saw as a good role model. One of the names she listed was Diane Sawyer. “Pshh,” I thought. “She uses barbaric interviewing tactics. She doesn’t care about feelings, just ratings.”

“Oh, gosh. I better come up with some females I admire.” I thought of a few (they escape me now). Then I had the brilliant idea that I should have been writing them down, because it was highly likely that I would forget all their names under the pressure of retrieving the list mentally, then my eyes would gloss over and I would surely not get the job. I’m sure it would have nothing to do with my wardrobe selections.

I think it just sums up where I feel I am at this point in life, and it’s pretty much Frankie Heck’s life in this moment:

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I’m Your Ice Cream Man

Posted by Wombat Central on May 8, 2015 in Childhood, Friends |

We’d stop dead in our tracks when we heard him coming from the next street over. If you were racing your friend on your banana seat five-speed bike, you laid a patch of rubber so you could stop and turn your ear to be sure of the direction from which the sound was coming. You could approximate the distance, direction, and number of minutes you had to grab your money and get to the curb.

The ding ding dinging of that distinctive bell was surely ordered up straight from Pavlov, as it brought the whole street running every time it whispered its cool, sweet message in our ears:  The ice cream man is coming!

That truck was a summer evening fixture in our small town. I couldn’t tell you what any of the drivers looked like, but we were always grateful for the arrival of the big truck, whose cargo bed was fitted with a giant freezer, adorned with photos of all our favorite frozen treats. Some of my faves:

The classic Bomb Pop. Not the skinny little imitation you see today. This had substance! They also made chocolate/banana ones, but banana-flavored things are ew.

Behold the classic Bomb Pop. Not the skinny little imitation you see in stores today. They also made chocolate/banana bomb pops, but banana-flavored things are ew.


Behold the crispity crunchity Sundae Crunch Bar. Three layers of delish for you to enjoy before it ran down your arm to your elbow.

Behold the crispity crunchity Sundae Crunch Bar. Three layers of delish for you to enjoy before it melted down your arm to your elbow.


This was my absolute fave. They were called Buried Treasure, and they were black raspberry ice cream with these fun sticks inside.

This was my absolute fave. They were called Buried Treasure–black raspberry ice cream with these kewl sticks inside. Yum AND fun. Just perfect.


When my kids were younger, and I’d hear that familiar dinging in the distance, my lips tightened and my eyes closed as I tried to will it away. “Please don’t come down our street.” I know that sounds awful, but if you could see the toads driving these beat up mini pick-up trucks, you’d be helping me to barracade the door. That truck might as well be fitted with a loudspeaker that announces, “Come see the pedophile, children! I have a rocket pop for youuuuu!” *shudder*

Nowadays the kids are old enough to get that he’s just plain skeevy. I can’t figure out if today’s ice cream truck drivers are creepier or if we just never noticed they were creepy as kids.

[SIDEBAR: Of course, this is coming from a girl who happily climbed into a Jeep with a friend as a two Army men drove us around town during a recruiting event. I also seem to recall they fed us snacks. I’m certain I was not buckled in, either. There was no buckling in those days. Especially with an open side/top vehicle. Where would the adventure be in that? And with men we didn’t know at all. Dear God, I must have been absent the day they had the “stranger danger” talk.]

I wish they could have had the same experience of dashing out to meet the ice cream man that we had as kids. Things have changed so much since I was their age. I’m sure they think our childhood sounds lame, because there were no electronics or hi-tech means of communication. It was a simpler time with simpler pleasures.

One of which was running out to meet the ice cream man and handing him a sweaty, crumpled dollar bill (or change from your piggy bank) and enjoying a cold treat on a warm summer’s evening with your friends from the neighborhood. And no worries about creepy dudes.

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Maybe I Just Don’t Get Fashion

Posted by Wombat Central on May 4, 2015 in Shopping |

As a result of all the rooting around that was done in my sinus region, I not only find myself lacking energy, but I’m also less interested in cruising stores, as I’m still at risk for picking up germs that would maybe not be so bad for you, but would be pretty sucky for me at the moment.

So I’ve turned to shopping online for any clothing needs family members have had over the past few months. It’s worked out pretty well so far.

I was just thinking today how much I miss trolling the racks at TJ Maxx and Marshalls, so, just for kicks, I thought I’d see what TJ Maxx offers online. Who knew? They have a site! Their in-store merchandise is ever-changing and turns over quickly, so I never imagined they would sell their wares online.

Was I ever wrong!

And I’m more than a little concerned about the current state of the fashion world.

I have a few questions (all photo credits go to TJ Maxx online):


Does anyone else think maybe the person who invented this was just prancing around the room with a piece of fabric (or some leftover wrapping paper) and decided it might actually sell like this?

Abstract Printed Scarf Wrap


I can see having that opening above boob level for a little cleavage peepage, but this rib cage opening just makes it look like a book depository right there on her abs. Or Cookie Monster’s mouth. Or a great place to put the hangers of the other clothes you’re about to try on. Anyone get this?

Ashley cropped top



Please, PLEASE don’t bring back bibbed overalls. They’re calling this ensemble a jumper, but we all know it’s fancy farmer pants, and they need to be put out to pasture for good.

bibbed overalls jumper shorts



These are called “harem capris.” I say if you’re going to do harem, commit to the harem, like it’s flippin’ hammer time, m’kay? This just looks like there’s some extra junk up front and nobody wants to see that mess going on up in there.

harem capris



I call this look, “Larry the Cable Guy Does Drag,” because, obviously. And order soon ladies–it’s almost gone!

hillbilly flannel shirt dress



This is the Open Back Detail Dress. It conjures many questions. First and foremost, is this really not a swim suit? Swim coverup? What does one wear under this in the event of a stiff breeze or the need to bend over?

open back detail dress 1



Not much covering that caboose. I’m not a prude, just a realist. Someone is going to get to see more “details” than this dress is offering. I can’t even begin to comment on the shoe choice. Next!

open back detail dress 2



Well, isn’t this special? This Ruffle Swim Top by Jessica Simpson should have an age limit on the hanger–no one over the age of six should be allowed to enter the pool area in this little number*:

ruffle swim top by Jessica Simpson




Look at all the scarves grandma gave us, kids! Ooh, I know–let’s make pants out of them!
scarf print pant



I’m having a Carol Burnett flashback here. It looks like someone tore down the sheer curtains and bunched them up to create this one-of-a-kind look (grab ’em while they last!):

Silk Bandhini Drap Cover Up

The front of this looks like she hit the restroom and accidentally tucked the curtain into her drawers. Only thing missing is the terlit paper trailing on her sandal.




So much going on here. They’re called “Slim Fit Knit Jogger.” I don’t know who’s hitting the road running in these, but something other than sandals might be a good footwear choice. Also, is it just me, or does she appear to be pooping her knickers at the moment the camera captured this?

slim fit knit jogger



shipped my drawers




Have you ever seen Brooke Shields on The Middle? This looks like something her character would wear. Is this really daywear? I’m so confused.

slutty black housecoat



Good heavens, another version with fringe. It’s like the 40’s meets the trailer park meets Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves.

strip lace wrap with fringe


And on that note, I’m done shopping for now.



*Unless the adult wearing these has opted to pair them with some Daisy Dukes shorts, which would make total sense. To someone.


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At Least Someone Enjoyed all That Snow

Posted by Wombat Central on April 29, 2015 in Furry Friends, Rummy, Weather |

I’ve been recoving from fairly extensive sinus surgery, so I finally took the time to figure out iMovie. (I’ve also more than gotten our money’s worth out of our Netflix streaming.) I was getting frustrated with the other programs I’d been using, so I thought I’d give this a go. Much more fun, and like all things Apple, pretty intuitive. Still learning, so I’ll have to do some more videos for you. Lucky you.

Also, I hope you like dogs running in slo-mo:


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That Time I Googled My Face

Posted by Wombat Central on April 21, 2015 in Bloggers, Entertainment, Too Much Time on my Hands |

We’ve all typed our name into Google to see what comes up, right? Oh, you know you’ve done it. We all have. I was perusing stories online today and some Hollyweirdo was saying she Yahooed herself. I’d never heard anyone say that, so I tried it.

Yahoo was all, “Honey, I don’t know you, don’t nobody else know you, and unless you’re fixing to get famous and change your gender for all the world to witness, ain’t nobody got time for you.”

So I went slinking back, shoulders slumped, tail tucked firmly betwixt my legs, to knock upon the door of my old buddy Google to see if he remembered me. Of course he did! He flung open that door and I gazed in amazement at a room FILLED with information about little old me. Oh, Google. You shouldn’t have.

No, really. You shouldn’t have. I think he might have remembered a little more about me than I’d like. Bastard all but put a big red flashing arrow over my house on a map guiding the masses directly to my front door.

Then I thought I’d see what would happen if I selected the Images option on the page.

Well, now.

Horse of a different color.

So much to see. And, oddly, none of it me.

First of all, apparently my good friend Google thinks I have an unnatural affinity for creepy dolls, because many images like this come up when you punch in my name:

There were lots of these creepy preemies. Why does someone want to own these? Why?

There were lots of these creepy preemies. Why does someone want to own these? Why?



And is it just me or is this doll destined to grow up to be Walter?



And I’m pretty sure Walter was patterned after our VP:

Barack Obama, Joe Biden



I do own a book called Creepy-ass Dolls:

Creepy ass dolls


but I bought it because I find old dolls, well, pretty damn creepy, and stumbling upon this book at Border’s closing sale was like discovering a friend who shared my innermost thoughts but even took it a step further by adding hilarious captions. I’m mildly jealous that I didn’t think of it first, but I am grateful I didn’t have to hunt down all those frightening dolls and take their pictures.

Because that’s nightmare material right there. See for yourself.

I also found this couple on there. Do you think someone from my past is going to wonder if this is me and my camera-loving man?


Nice yearbook pose with your hand, sweet cheeks.

Her expression seems to say, “I’m confident enough in myself to wear lace & do the obligatory senior yearbook picture hand pose.”



I wonder if anyone will think this lady is me:

I am a butterfly! No, I am a kite! Wait--I'm a throw for the couch! Wheeeee!

I am a butterfly! No, I am a kite! Wait–I’m a throw for the couch! Wheeeee!


Wowzers. Somebody really liked geometry class.

Go Google your face and see what comes up. Feel free to share in the comments what you find if it isn’t you.

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A Farewell to Phone

Posted by Wombat Central on March 5, 2015 in Communicaton, Entertainment, Life Enrichment |

Dear Cos (Cosmos 2 just seems so formal),

You’ve served me well. We’ve been together now, what–two, three years?

So many calls, so many texts. Good times.

Sure, when I saw this screen:

Yay! Fun picture message!

Yay! Fun picture message!


and waited in anticipation of a fun message from a friend, I knew there was a good chance it would be followed by this message:

[insert Price is Right losing horns here]

[insert Price is Right losing horns here]

as the transmission came to a screeching halt, because you decided it was all too much for you and your basic-ness to handle. Meh. Probably wasn’t a very interesting picture anyway.

I’m also sure you tried your best to interpret what those emojis were when you drew little squares on my screen. I just used my imagination and smiled knowing you probably decided they weren’t worth my time. It’s like you were my personal screener. That was so cool.

The way you slid open to accommodate my texting needs was very modern, too. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Don’t even get me started on your resilience. I always marveled at your ability to pull yourself together and move on after I’d dropped you for the 50th time on the concrete of the sidewalk or garage floor, and you lay splayed, battery and cover each claiming their own personal space in the world. No whining about a broken screen for you. Nope. You just dusted yourself off and dialed again.

And the funny way you always thought I wanted to say a command each time I slid you into my purse. Oh, how we laughed when you demanded to know the command five or six times, as I fumbled to silence you.

I’m sure Allison appreciated your thinking of her when you would call her on your own, too. Dialing with nary a digit or derriere in sight. That takes talent. Mad dialing skillz–that’s always been your gig.

Listen. As fun as it’s been, I’ve decided it’s time to move on.

Please know it’s not you–it’s me.

I’ve been, um, kinda checking out this other phone. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t resist the sleek profile and shiny shell:

Oooh. Pretty.

Oooh. Pretty.


I just don’t think it would be fair to you for us to continue when I have these strong feelings for another phone. You deserve better than half-hearted feelings.

Well, Cos, we’ll keep you around in case the kids want to take you out for a spin at some point, but as of today, we’re splitsville. We’ll always have our contacts to look back on. Hmm. Well, I suppose I’ll probably be needing those.

Oh, for the love of the man. It looks like that transfer will be tedious:

Oops! We can’t find any supported transfer applications for this device combination. Contacts from the old device will need to be manually typed into the new device.

Shh. Don’t listen. You’re not old. You’re a classic.

Anyhoo, take care. You’re a good phone who did a respectable job. Except for the pictures and groups emails you refused to accept, but whatever. You’re good. Really. You are.


This is awkward.









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