Hey Everybody! The story of my journey to learning about hypothyroidism is finally online. If your curious, you can read it here.
Ok, so I do not care if you like Trump, or don’t like Trump…this is MY RANT. For the love of GOD, what the hell is wrong with this guy? Sometimes I think that maybe it’s just my imagination that he’s such a waste of human skin; an embarrassment to our great country, and everything we were built on and what we stand for. Surely, if others saw him and his actions as I do, they would see that he is mentally unstable and something would be done. Right? I keep waking up, each and every day from this nightmare thinking this. Growing up, I was taught and reminded on a regular basis that you must respect the President, respect the office it stands for. Well, no more. I respect what the Office COULD stand for. I respect my fine country. Do not ask me to respect a man that thinks he is above absolutely every other breathing being on this planet. He is a pig, a cretin, and I wouldn’t offer the man a drink of water if he was dying of thirst in front of me. Yes, I know what that makes me sound like. I am fully aware of what I am saying. I have no want, concern, or any compassion for anyone who treats people they way he does. Women, Minorities, Foreigners, Dreamers, the Poor, the Sick. So, here we are in the wake of a handful of disasters that have ripped through our majestic planet, and this MF is tweeting about people on their knees at a sporting event. Maybe, Mr. President, you should get down on your knees and apologize to the fine people of this country and the rest of the world that you have insulted, ignored, abused, and beg for their forgiveness. People in Texas are still suffering. The people of Florida are still suffering. The people of Puerto Rico (yes, Cheeto, they are Americans!) are going to be suffering for a very long time. People are starving. People are dying. What are you doing? Tweeting about football! Somebody needs to do to you what needs to be done to every bratty 4 year old. You need someone to tan your ass. You want something to whine about? Whine about disasters. Whine about death. Whine about injustice. No, your too busy trying to entice that other N. Korean nut-job into a pissing contest. So easy for you to be able to send our young people to fight over who’s dick is bigger. Here’s an idea…fuel up your plane, put your family on it and fly your asses over to N. Korea, and sit down with Kim and his clan, and go at it to the death for all we care. Leave us the hell out of your pissing wars. Since he took office early this year, this country has regressed about 50 years. Maybe more. We are a laughing stock of the world. I don’t care whether you liked Obama or not. He wasn’t crazy and unstable, and he tried to do what was right. He didn’t purposely try to screw everybody just because he could. Just for the spite of it. I sometimes wonder what Obama thinks when he gets up everyday. Probably the same thing a lot of us are wondering….WHY the fuck doesn’t someone take his internet connection away and send him to his room!
For those of ye who have never experienced the excitement of a Medeival Faire, I beg of ye to attend such an gala event. Sure, to the reserved lady and lord, it may appear a bit trite or trivial, but I assure ye, many pleasures await.
It was a more than a handful of years ago that I drug my mom and my son to our first Renaissance Faire at the Great Lakes Medeival Faire in Rock Creek, Ohio. We just showed up in our best casual clothes of the day, shorts, tank tops and sandals. We realized the error of our clothing choices as we pulled into the Faire’s parking lot. As we followed the line of cars to out parking area, we saw glittering fairies with wings driving pickup trucks, and Knights piloting sedans. We saw a long haired Barbarian, complete with bulging muscles and very little leather clothing covering his manly bits, on a motorcycle. His passenger, a Princess, of course. Her beautiful light blue silk and taffeta gown rolled up around her and held between his back and her bosom, so as not to interfere with the mechanical workings of his Iron Horse. She was quite the sight, sitting atop that bike, trying to tame her wind-blown hair before placing her tiara atop her head. That’s all it took. I was hooked!
A few minutes later after finding a parking spot, we were still in awe of all the sights around us. Gathering our belongings before leaving the car, I noticed that we had parked next to a girl with a pair of cute fluffy ears. I told my mother and Koty that I wanted to see what she transforming into. The three of us sat there, in our car, taking turns peeking over at this girl. Yeah, kinda creepy, but I justified this with…If you don’t want people staring at you, don’t put ears on…It’s obvious this is for people to SEE, right?
So, we watch her get out of her car. She is sporting fur cuffs on her ankles and wrists. The fur is multi shades of brown with bits of black thrown in. She straps oblong pelts on her calves and forearms, tying them with stings of suede. Our car is all abuzz with what type of animal she is. Koty says fox. I say goat. Mom just stares, and makes mention that it’s supposed to be 90 degrees today. Won’t she be hot? Uh, hell yeah, but even better, she’ll be SEEN, and isn’t this what it’s all about? The girl finishes tying her arm furs and reaches back into her Honda, pulling out her tail, which was long and very big and bushy. She steps through it like a thong. It has a very small attached miniskirt of fur which covered her boy-type shorts she wears underneath. Leaning back against her fender, she pulls covers over her shoes. Her feet are instantly transformed into hooves. She has hooves. Ha, I win. She’s a goat! She stands, grabs her belongings, and turns to smile at us, before slamming her car door and walking away. Busted!
When we finally made our way to the front gate entrance, I was totally alive with excitement. I hated to admit it at the time because to be honest, I kind of expected to laugh at these people the way I laugh at The Big Bang Theory. It seemed nerdy to me that people would need to do this for fun. Leonard, Sheldon, and the gang at Star Trek conventions, dressed as their favorite characters. It was ok for kids, but adults? Come on, peeps, grow up! Well, I changed my mind before the Faire Opening ceremony even started.
As we stood there in our regular world shorts and tank tops, surrounded by Princesses, Princes, Pirates, both scary and sexy, Barbarians, Vikings, Scottsmen in kilts, and assorted farm animals, my body rang with anticipation. A row of trumpets and horns blared loudly. A gentleman appeared on the terrace of the castle built at the entrance of the Faire. The horns grew silent and he announced the arrival of the King and Queen. The huge wooden doors opened inward and there between them stood the King and Queen. Him in his black tights, royal red robes and bejeweled crown sparkling atop his head. In his left hand he held a septre crowned with a very large ruby. On his right hand was the Queen. Her ground length purple dress was trimmed in fine gold laces and sparkled with a thousand points of light in the form of crystals bestooned across the bodice. On her hands were rings of gold, her wrists held ribbons intertwined with jewels, which matched the beautiful jeweled necklace that lay across her mountainous bosom. Her hair was the color of the sunset, ranging from the lightest blondes to the darkest reds, and was pulled back and onto the top of her head, with ringlets falling softly around her face. Her choice of hair do was the perfect bed for her crown, which sparkled and dazzled the masses with every movement of her royal head.
As the horns struck up again, the King & Queen walked through the door. They strolled along the path towards the center of the court yard to engage with their subjects. As they past the rows and rows of adoring fans, Lords took to bow, as the ladies curtsied. They didn’t stand erect again until the King & Queen had passed. As the pair neared to us, I debated on what to do. Should I curtsy? I had never curtsied in my life. Deciding that I would only look like a complete idiot trying to curtsy, I chose instead to stand there, un-moving, as they slowly passed by. The King made eye contact with me, and for a split second, guilt overtook me. I should curtsy. No, you fool. It’s 2012, and we don’t have Kings and Queens to bow to. Although, I did think that maybe I would bow to that Barbarian I saw on the motorcycle on the way in…
Flash forward to 2015, I am happily married to a Barbarian of my own, and I talk him into going to the Faire. This time, we attended the Ohio Renaissance Faire in Harveysburg, Ohio, which is down Cincinnati way. I had somehow mistakenly purchased tickets for the wrong venue, so we made the best of an impromptu get-a-way. I never pictured John ever wanting to dress up for ANY event, but I found an outfit in the thrift store that begged me to re-fashion it and give it life again. I set to work. Every once in a while, I would show John the progress. His face said all I needed to hear. But, by the time I had the outfit completed, he put it on with such gusto that I thought maybe he had become possessed. He was like a kid in a candy shop with a $100 bill. He was going to be the hottest looking, not to mention the most sparkly and colorful, jester that ANY Faire had ever seen! My costume consisted of flashy jewelry, flowing skirts, scarves, and mini bottles of potions tethered around my Fortune Teller neck.
When we arrived at the Faire that day, I was flabbergasted by the sheer amount of people who either stopped to compliment his costume. He was so proud when he told them, “My wife made this for me.” People even asked to take pictures with him. He was on Cloud 9. My man sized little Jester boy.
So, once again, when I suggested another trip this year, it was met with excitement. This time, I would not only drag my mother and son again, but would also include Koty’s girlfriend, Emily, and my nephew, who I call Red Bull. We had 3 months to come up with costumes. Thank heavens, mom and I just went ahead and took care of it because if not, her and I would have been the only ones dressed on the big day.
Since we planned to go on Pirates & Mermaids weekend, it was decided that John, Koty and Red Bull and I would all be Pirates. Emily was going to be a mermaid, and mom was going to be a Gypsy/Fortune Teller. Due to unfortunate circumstances, we ended up going on Barbarian & Viking weekend instead, but it made no difference. We all had a wonderful time. I especially enjoyed the comedy shows and the dirty Pirate talk, John enjoyed the bands and the music. Red Bull enjoyed the old fashioned kiddie rides that are human-powered. Koty & Emily, well, their teenagers, so I’m sure they enjoyed whatever young people enjoy these days. I’m sure moms favorite part was that she got to spend such quality time with her family, but I could be wrong about that…lol
I don’t know what the rest of them were thinking about that ride home, but I know what I decided. Next year I’m going as a Fairy….Yep, I’m getting my wings! Stay Tuned!
Well, howdy ya’ll. I wanted to share with you about my first foray into sharing my script in a public setting. It was quite a few years ago when I first heard about The Dark Room at the Cleveland Public Theater on Detroit & W. 65th. I was attending Tri-C at the time, and I was devouring all the classes they had to offer in the Film making Department. I had a wonderful teacher named Ms. Simone Barros who taught the Screenwriting class. She was very encouraging and her words gave me a sense of confidence that I had never felt before. She had an eye and an ear for what was good and what was crap. She was honest and very patient. I revelled in the realization that she didn’t have to do what she did. She was very successful in her own right. She had written her own plays and saw them come to life on stage, she had written for major television shows, and here she was, in Cleveland, teaching us closeted script writers…Ok, maybe I was the only one who was closeted. I had for so long, poured myself into my writings that it was too personal for me to share. I had heard that I was good, and had a natural comedic way. That was when I got scared. Yeah, hard to believe, right? People that know me have no idea that under this crass, bitchy, and crusty outer shell, that I am a sack of over-emotional puss and guts just waiting to explode at any time. I also have a very bad reaction to public speaking, almost to the point of crippling anxiety. Sure, I’ve been known for my impromptu stand up routines in general, but when it comes to my writing, I am a totally different person. Ok, so I’m babbling here….let me get to the point already…
The Dark Room is held in the old church next to the Cleveland Public Theater every 2nd Tuesday of each month at 7 pm. If your a writer of any kind, you can bring up to 10 pages of your work to be read, publicly, and on stage. Both writers and actors show up about 30 minutes earlier. After handing in your piece, actors are chosen on the spot to act out each of your characters after a short read thru. Then at 7pm, it’s show time. The best thing is that you never know what’s going to happen. Sometimes you’ll find yourself laughing so hard you fall from your chair, others you may find a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. Either way, it’s a roller coaster that I’m sure everyone would enjoy!
I had planned to submit a script of mine for some time, but it wasn’t until my friend, Valerie really coaxed me into it. It was a full month before the next meeting, so of course I was full of confidence. As the days flew by, I became more and more agitated. So bad were the last few days that I contemplated backing out. I wanted to call her and make an excuse, any excuse not to have to go. Even as I tried to choose between “my car breaking down” or “my cat died”, I went through the routine of making copies of the script. Eight of them. One for each character. Still trying to decide how to break the news to Valerie; by email or by phone, or maybe even text, I went through each copy highlighting each characters dialogue. I tried to remind myself that I was not made of money and that the ink cost me $65. I felt guilty because Valerie lived in Canton, and she probably wouldn’t be too keen on me ditching her after such a long ride. OMG! It became very clear to me, that I had to freaking GO! I didn’t sleep the whole night before. I tossed, I turned, I almost threw up. It was decided that since I will not drink and drive, that I would buy us some non-alcoholic beers, and try to “trick” my body into relaxing before the reading. So, the “Old John” would have been proud that his 46 yr. old wife was in a parking lot on the corner of W.65th and Detroit where we used to buy dope when we were younger, pounding near-beers in her car. I must confess that I did have 1 real beer that night when we got seated in the Church. It was an Edmund Fitzgerald from Great Lakes Brewery. Whew, for a non drinker, that was strong, and very satisfying. I can’t stress the “stong” taste enough.
As the festivities began, it was announced that I would be #4 on the list. I felt the nerves start anew. I almost had a compete panic attack. Not good. I don’t know how the hell I did it, but I was able to head it off. I think it was the belly full of Labatt Blue NA beers…When my opportunity came to stand up and say a few words to describe my work, I let the moment pass. I knew at that moment that I didn’t really have any concrete control over my bladder, so I sat there, motionless but quaking internally. The actors took off like a rocket. My butt cheeks were so clenched up and tight that I don’t think they were even touching my chair. My thighs were on fire and aching. My head was swimming, I was sweating. Oh shit, for a split second, I thought I was peeing my pants. My armpits were leaking and I felt the beers coming up into my throat, hot and foamy. It was swallowing the regurgitated beer that had 100% of my attention until I heard that first laugh from the audience. When that sound reached my ears, I was sure it was my imagination. Were they laughing at me? With me? Then it came again. Valerie turned to me and offered me a big smile. Holy Crap! They were laughing at my writing. She gave me a nod. I still didn’t have the confidence to turn around and watch the audience’s reaction, as Valerie picked us a nice spot right in the FRONT ROW! I didn’t need to see the faces. I heard what I needed to hear. I felt what I needed to feel.
I hear my husband tell me all the time that he thinks I’m good at what I do. Sure, my mother, my son, and my family support me, but I don’t think they’d tell me HONESTLY if they thought I sucked, or heaven forbid, if I really did suck! But, if you can find an audience that is blind to your work and to you, that’s a true reaction, a true gauge of their feelings. They have no commitment to me, no emotional attachments, no strings. It’s just raw instinct on their part.
Oh, in case your wondering, the Dark Room offers Free Beer, yes, you heard that right, it is Free, but donations are accepted. Don’t hog the brews. Man!
For more info on CPT & The Dark Room, check out their website here. CPT Dark Room
So, Today I sit here with a new determination to get my ass back on the road I need to be on. The past 2 weeks have been an overwhelming struggle for me, and I have yet again, allowed myself to succumb to my less than stellar eating habits. For the better portion of the last 14 months, I have been able to walk the straight and narrow on my WW journey…(for those of you who don’t know, WW is Weight Watchers.) It’s the AA of fatness, which I guess in all rights, is actually OA (Overeaters Annonymous). Hu! I needed to toss in a reference to AA to tie in to the latter part of this gripe, so bear with me. Anywho, yada yada, where was I? Oh yeah, the past 14 months…I’ve been able to lose a significant amount of weight, and I must admit, it was fairly easy. Once your in the deepest part of your misery hole, there is only one way out, and that’s up. Between my health problems and my mental state, it was either eat myself into having to purchase a Jazzy or try to get my life and head into some kind of control. Seeing since I don’t have the money for a personal mobility device, I thought I’d start with the other option. You are what you eat. I was a big sloppy mess of sugary goo, and that’s exactly what I felt like. Coupled with my ever undulating Thyroid issues, I was a fucking light bulb ready to blow out.
This brings me to my loving husband, and the above AA reference. Let me preface this to say that my dear hubby, John, IS one of the greatest men in the world. He is kind, loving to a fault, generous, and very attentive…well, as attentive as a guy can be. I mean come on, sometimes they can really kinda fuck that up, eh? But for the sake of this writing, he is a wonderful man…98% of the time. (LOL. Love you my baby.)
It is no secret, far and wide, from anyone who knows us, that he is an alcoholic, and has been since the ripe old age of about 15. He actually started drinking much younger than that, but I have given him the benefit of the doubt for those first 2 years, sort of like a trial, but after that, all bets are off. I have known him since I was 9 years old, which puts him right in that first 2 years of practicing his blight. By that time, I was also very well immersed in my lifelong addiction with food, which was obvious from looking at me. Fast forward a few years, and here we sit. Him the alcoholic and me the foodaholic. We both recently celebrated some milestones in our respected programs. He celebrated his 2nd full year in AA, and I celebrated an 80 lb. loss on the scale.
I have been to quite a few of his meetings, but he never to mine. He said that attending with him would maybe give me some tips that I could use that would help me in my own personal situation. I must agree that good advice is good advice, and can be turned around to be of use in many addictive situations. He loves the program. It works for him, which means it works for us, and we have a happy marriage. Yay, us….
The problem is that for some reason, he doesn’t get it when it comes to my predicament. HE DOESN’T GET IT! He sees the struggles I go through on a daily basis. He knows that I’m trying to learn new habits, and get a handle on making better choices. He knows I have a set amount of points in a day, and for the week, and I have to stay on point. I cannot let my guard down. I have to be just as vigil as he does when he passes a grocery store or a corner bar, or a beer cooler. I have told him repeatedly, YOU as an alcoholic CANNOT drink PERIOD to stay sober, but me as a foodaholic? I can’t STOP EATING! My only option is to learn to control my addiction. Most of the time, I am able to do this, but he doesn’t make it easy. I know he doesn’t do it on purpose, or to sabotage me. He says it’s because he’s trying to be nice. Loving. Caring. I don’t see it that way. I need him to be mean. I need him to sit there and eat that fucking pizza like he’s surrounded by a table full of convicts, all the while encircling the pie with his head bowed and arm protectively around it. Instead, I get comments like,
“Is that all your going to eat?”,
“Wanna go out to eat? I’m thinking Buffet tonight.”, or
“Do you want some of my pizza?”, or
“I can’t eat anymore, here eat the rest of this.”
OMG! It is these times that I want to stab that guy I love so dearly in the fucking neck with a mammoth tusk! I want to scream at the top of my lungs,
“Do you want a beer?”, or
“Let’s go out and get shit faced and have a good time.”, or
“Hey, let’s do some shots?”
But, I don’t shout. I have, though, taken to asking him these exact questions. Mostly he peers at me as if I’m kidding. I am not. I try to explain to him that he is not helping me by being kind and loving. He is teasing me, and he needs to stop. I have always been a drinker. More so in my younger years, but when he decided to go back to AA, I quit, too. His drink of choice was always beer, so I no longer drink any beer for fear that I would feel guilty for teasing him. If I do partake, it is a glass of wine, which doesn’t even rate on his radar as a suitable adult beverage. Usually, if I do have a glass, I am either out in public or he is at work. This is my choice, and it works for me. I don’t ask him to not eat around me, that would be a ridiculous expectation. He can eat whatever he wants, just please don’t put it in my face. Don’t try to be nice to me. Just eat your food.
Now, if you know John, then you know that the ONLY thing that he likes to eat is pizza! THAT’S it! It’s a joyous occasion when I can get him to stick anything else in that pie-hole of his, and an even better day when it’s a vegetable! He thinks nothing of asking me to pick him up a pizza “on my way home”, never thinking of the agony I must endure on the ride, smelling the melted cheese and garlic butter, both drenching the thick crust with perfectly cooked pepperoni’s with their middles hot and oily, and their edges slightly curled up and crispy just the way I….OMG! Just STOP!
Somebody know where I can find a fucking mammoth tusk?
With all of the crazy weather lately, the flooding of Parma yet again, and the fact that for the past few weekends I have been subbing some Plain Dealer routes, it has reminded me of some of the letters that I used to write to my customers. For those of you who don’t know, I started delivering newspapers back when my son was 3 months old, and I continued with it until April of 2016. In those 18+ years, I have seen it all. I’ve seen swimming pools fly, police chases, been almost impaled by surprised bucks, been chased and threatened by drunks, harassed by teenagers with nothing to do, and I was once even chased by a naked man in North Ridgeville, who was either mentally unstable or on some serious shit! I remember I had a hard time getting my car in gear because even though I was scared at the time, it was also quite humorous. Anywho, I have saved some of my favorites, and will post them here for you to enjoy from time to time. (With that said, I was more than accommodating to the disabled and the elderly at all times, and did my best to make it as easy as possible for them to get to their papers, BUT, I do not take well to threats, or entitlements, or down-right liars.) The following is a letter I received in February of 2016, followed by my reply.
Final outcome: Dick is still a customer, and lucky for him, I’m subbing that route NEXT>>>>LOL
Dick’s Letter page 2
Before I delve any further into this blog enterprise of mine, I feel that I must put out a public warning of what you may find here upon your visit to this site. I started this blog so that I would have a safe place to vent and to organize my thoughts, writings, and ideas. I never meant it to be a parking place for my polished Essays, movie scripts, or anything “serious” that I have written or am currently working on. This was meant to be a space where I could rant right off the top of my head and onto the page…raw as it can be, with no further edits or revisions. The thoughts that lead to these writings aren’t intended to be offensive, although some may take them that way. This is my blog, and my safe space, and I intend to write what’s on my mind. With that said, any continued interaction you have with this site is purely at your own risk. You may read things you find humorous, or you may read something that pisses you off to no end… Either way, I welcome any and all comments, but I ask that you be reasonably respectful. If you don’t agree with me, then by all means, get you a blog going and write about that. I can be your first story! I’m doing this for me. Because it makes ME happy.
Also, If your offended by smart-assed comments, crude and dirty language, X-rated/Sexual & Adult themed situations, then may I suggest leaving now.
So, without further ado…
I just wanted to take a quick moment to send you a letter and let you know of the turmoil that your restaurants have caused in my marriage. My husband John is a wonderful man and a good provider for his family. He is a very hard worker, and a very simple man. He doesn’t ask for much, but deserves immeasurably. John has simple tastes. In clothes, in hobbies, in food. For instance, he loves McDonald’s Big Mac’s. Always has. So, imagine his excitement when he saw that you were offering the new Mac line. The Mac, Jr., the original Big Mac, and the Grand Mac. He decided on the Grand Mac at once. I found out how many Grand Mac’s he was enjoying on a weekly basis when he came to me for more gas money after using his allotment for the week.
“What do you mean your out of gas? What did you do with your money?” I asked.
“Well, I did go to McDonald’s a few times.” he said.
“Oh, I see…Grand Mac’s, hu?”
When I asked how many times a week, he said an average of 3 trips, or so…Ok, so I don’t have an issue with him eating something that he enjoys, so I just gave him more gas money.
John has always been a very impatient and emotional person. He is also very stubborn, too. A few years back when he was living in Indiana, he was asked repeatedly to “pull forward to wait for your fresh fries” at the Hartford City location. Now, Sure, we all know that this is just a small inconvenience to most of us, but to him “Fast food” means FAST FOOD NOW. The last time this happened, he waited over 5 minutes, and when he got them, they were not fresh. They were double-dipped. Old and dried up, but freshly SOGGY. That was it! He made a decision right there and then to not return to ANY McDonald’s for a year!
When he finally did go back, he would no longer pull forward. If the employee asked him to pull forward, he would politely tell them that he “was fine right here”. He would wait right there at the window until he was served. When they told him, “Sir, we have other customers whose order is ready”, he would ask how that was possible when he was before them. Now, I have told him repeatedly not to piss off people BEFORE you get your food for spiteful reasons. I’m sure if none of the people working there at these times didn’t spit in his food, I’m 100% sure they THOUGHT about it! (I would have!)
I have spent the better half of our whole adult relationship hearing and reliving all of the bad experiences he has had with your company as well as a host of others. When some of your restaurants changed their fry supplier a few years back, you would have thought the conspiracy was directed at him personally. “The fries aren’t as long as they used to be! They are small and short.”
Then there was the fiasco taking away the two cheeseburger meal. The list goes on and on.
Now, I am in the midst of the Disaster of 2017, which is really straining an already strained relationship.
Last Saturday, April 22, 2017, we stopped at the restaurant in Berea on our way fishing. He wanted a Grand Mac. I wanted an iced tea. We waited our turn at the counter and he started to place our order. The girl behind the counter spoke up when he mentioned the Grand Mac.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have the Grand Mac anymore.”
“What?” John said. “No Grand Mac? Well, why the hell not?”
The girl said, “It was only for a limited time.”
John looked at her in wild bewilderment. He asked her if it was a good seller? She assured him that it was a very popular menu item. He then asked her if it was such a popular item, would they NOT continue to offer it. She was dumbfounded. Afterall, she was just some 16 year old kid trying to make a paycheck to pay for her fake nails or her car insurance. She wasn’t in any position to make corporate decisions on what to sell or not to sell. She was speechless. She just kept repeating how sorry she was. “Could I get you something else? We still have our Big Mac?”
John, hands thrown in the air, said, “I don’t want a Big Mac! This is bullshit! I want a Grand Mac!”
John looked at me, and that’s all it took. I could see not only the frustration in his eyes, but the anger that was boiling up from underneath. At this point in our relationship, I didn’t have to be psychic to know what was coming next. I went ahead and ordered him a Double Quarter Pounder, fully aware that it was not going to satisfy him in any way. Not his hunger, his emotional state, or anything else for that matter. I felt beaten. I had looked forward to a good day out fishing, but I knew that my whole weekend just imploded all to hell by the little girl behind the counter, withholding that sweet, juicy, fat-laden , 2,000 calorie heart-attack on three buns from my darling husband. I finished ordering and filled our drinks at the pop fountain. I walked off to find a table, while John carried his tray in stunned silence. I could see the light on, but nobody was home. I sat down and opened my salad. By the time I tore open the dressing, he was home again…I sat there, crunching and listening to him groan and grumble. He told everybody that would listen. He kept repeating. “Ok, That’s it, I’m not coming back again! I can’t believe it. Why would they get rid of such a popular item? What are they thinking?”
Then he said it! He said, “I’m gonna write a letter!”
Oh Lord, help me!
Now, you’ll have to excuse me as I am giving you the G Rated version of what actually happened.
I think that of all the companies that have upset him and purposely done him wrong, that your company takes the cake!
If your company is going to introduce a new item, and the people like it and it’s a good seller, why would you just stop making it? Isn’t the idea to give people what THEY want and then you get the money YOU want? Do you have any idea how your irresponsible business decisions affect marriages? If you personally went home and told your spouse that you had a surprise for them and let them get excited about it before telling them you had nothing….What do you think would happen? CHAOS! That’s what!
A simple menu change has caused undue amounts of stress in my life. Sometimes, I seriously cannot stop the shaking. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. The dreams are the worst. When the nightmares come, nobody in the house sleeps. I am so emotionally drained that there are days that I cannot fight myself to get out of bed.
If there’s one thing that could go a long way into making my summer, my life and my marriage whole again, would be for McDonald’s to bring back, permanently, the Grand Mac.
It’s such a small favor that I asked of you, but would be a huge deal to me and my family.
Please, please, please, bring back the Grand Mac!!!
Friday, March 31, 2017 was, and is, a day that I will never forget. Ever since I was a little girl I wanted to be a reader, a story-teller, a writer. I have written many, many things since the days of that little girl. Some that I am very proud of, and have wanted to stand on rooftops and have the whole world hear, and some that I felt were so bad that it would do the universe a favor if I just took match to paper. No matter the feelings my writings dealt me, I never gave up. If all I could ever write was crap, then I would just be a crappy writer. There was never a choice for me, because no matter how bad something was, I felt wonderful inside. I reveled in my crappiness. I laughed at it. I cried at it, but in the end, my heart swelled. Now that I re-read that last sentence, I do believe that may be a broader way of defining the word “insanity”. Whatever the case, and no matter how I felt, Darlene saw something in me. After taking one of her Legacy classes, I felt re-newed. It was yet another one of those 2nd winds, maybe a 3rd. Maybe a 46th, who knows. Either way, it didn’t matter. What mattered was someone other than close family and friends saw something in me. Months later, she contacted me and asked if I would be interested in allowing her to publish one of my Essays. At first, I didn’t know how to feel. I was a ball of turmoil. Scared, uneasy…it was completely horrible. But, it was something that I had always wanted! A Chance. Just a Chance. Darlene gave me that, and I will forever be grateful to her. She may never know exactly what she has done for me. But, I do, and my heart swells! I feel like that little girl again. My little girls dream, MY dream.
Darlene Montonaro’s website can be found here.