Happiness is for Suckers Like Me

Philosophers, pundits, preachers -- all of them have tried to tell us how to be happy in our mortal coils. While I greatly appreciate their thoughts on the matter, I have come to my own conclusions about the big H, and today I am going to share it with you, even though you didn't ask me to:  Happiness can be bought for five bucks at 7-Eleven.  I was truly, deeply happy for a few moments the other day when I had in my possession a fresh pack of Marlboro Lights and a cup of hot coffee that i had just acquired at said 7-Eleven store. With these items in my hands, I knew that the next few minutes of my life would be filled with pure sensory pleasure. I would get to feel cigarette smoke slide silkily into my lungs, and then chase that great feeling with another one, a sip of hot lightly creamed coffee slipping over my tongue and down my throat. Bliss! But, wouldn't you know it, right after this happy thought entered my brain and released a mega-dose of endorphins into my bloodstream, I was faced with the maddening reality of a match that wouldn't light after repeated strikes and a broken cigarette lighter. Shit! I wasn't going get to ingest that winning combination of smoke and coffee after all. Happiness, that fleeting moment of everything being just the way it should be, was jerked away from me, leaving me alone with an opened pack of cancer sticks and a rapidly cooling cup of weak, convenience store java. 
But have no fear and only limited pity for me, reader. Being the pleasure-seeker that I am and always have been, my search for happiness continues, and while I'm not sure where I'll find it, I'm gonna start patronizing convenience stores more often. Because, as it turns out, money can buy happiness, especially at 7-Eleven.

Earthquake Shake

Earthquake you are
Not my friend
I don't like you
I won't pretend
Your destructive nature
Is beyond my ken

Earthquake you really
Dealt me a blow
Shook my foundation
Then you had to go
You didn't even give me
A chance to say no

Earthquake you shook me
To the core
Rattled my windows and
Shook my floor
Don't come back here
Any more

How Do You Know You're Middle-Aged?

Let me count the ways...

1. You have stopped telling the cashier at Kohl's the elastic-waist pants you're buying are for your mother.

2. Your most exciting decision of the day is whether to eat Rocky Road or Cherry Vanilla ice cream.

3. You get pissed off when kids DON'T call you ma'am.

4. Your pets won't outlive you, but they can easily outrun you.

5. You listen intently to the ads for cholesterol and arthritis medications that run during the evening network newscasts.

6. You visit your old elementary school, only to find out that the teachers that taught you are either retired or dead.

7. Your favorite radio station uses the word "oldies" in its ads.

8. You go to a rock concert and someone asks you if one of your kids is in the band. (This one really happened to me!)

Happy Birthday, Mr. President

He was honored with a Nobel Prize. He oversaw the killing of Osama bin Laden. And he was the first African American to be elected President of the United States of America. But these accomplishments pale in comparison to President Obama's latest achievement -- turning 50. As of yesterday, Obama's youth, like Elvis, officially left the building. Huh???? Celebrities aren't supposed to age, at least not quite as publicly as our President does. Not that he has any choice about the world knowing his age; when you're the leader of the free world, you don't get to keep many secrets. And his hair has gotten significantly more gray since he took office, so his aging has not been a clandestine process. But I did hear that he's going to Camp David to "celebrate" his fiftieth birthday  this weekend. I'm thinking he's going there to have some privacy so he can shed a few tears over the fading away of his much-touted youthfulness.
And who could blame him? When I turn 50 on an undisclosed day next month, I think I'm gonna be a bit sad myself. I've spent a lifetime trying to stay youthful and cute, as if my stubborn refusal to mature and age gracefully would make me immune to the aging process.  But when I look in the mirror now and see wrinkles and fat where there used to be neither, I have to admit I'm getting older. Besides, I really wasn't that cute in the first place, so losing my looks shouldn't be as big a deal for me as it might be for someone REALLY cute, like, say,  Goldie Hawn or Demi Moore. When I turn 50, my family and a few close friends will be on hand to gleefully remind me that I am eligible for AARP membership, and I will obligingly groan about how I suddenly feel old. But, if I put on enough make-up and color my hair blonde enough that day, hopefully the rest of the world will be fooled into thinking I'm still a forty-something. As long as they don't call me "ma'am", it's all good.