I’m Kind of Back

So it finally happened. Nebulous Mooch has become yet another abandoned blog on the internet that you stumble upon one day, read a few posts, laugh, cry, and then wonder what happened. Why did she stop writing? Did she ever realize her dreams of climbing mount Everest or learning to speak Greek? I know the suspense is killing you.

Since the last post that was written on this blog some time last month, I’ve become fluent in Greek and Mongolian, earned a third degree black belt in Karate, started free diving and free running, won the world record for eating the most Twinkies in a single sitting, climbed Mount Everest, and learned to play the guitar … again. As you can see it’s been a busy few weeks.

If you want to be able to do all of that in a few weeks too, boy do I have some tips for you. First make a list of the goals you wish to accomplish. Nothing is too big. The world is your oyster. Let the sky be your limit. Now that you have your list, look at it everyday, and imagine yourself accomplishing each task. Act as if you’ve accomplished your goals already. Your mind is an amazing thing. Before you know it you’ll believe you’ve already done everything you’ve set out to do. The best part is that you won’t really have to do anything, but sit around thinking.

The only thing I really did on my list was learn to play the guitar and learn to speak Mongolian. The other stuff all happened in my head which is almost like the real world except it’s mushier and a bit more cluttered.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to make this sorry excuse for a blog useful. So far I haven’t had much luck, so it’s back to the drawing board.

I’m Difficult to Talk to at Parties Because …

I watch about two hours of television every week. I’m not telling you this to brag. Face it, nobody likes a bragger and I like to be liked. Nobody likes someone who says, “I don’t watch TV,” either, so normally I just keep my mouth shut. I’ve never seen Breaking Bad or Mad Men or The Walking Dead or Survivor or Big Brother or Orange is the New Black. I know that’s not technically a TV show, but it’s the same concept. I don’t care about the antics of the Real Housewives of New Jersey or Atlanta or Beverly Hills or Kalamazoo.

My viewing entertainment is mostly spent on You Tube. A four minute video is about all I can handle. I have the attention span of a gnat. That’s probably sizeist of me because I’m assuming that because a gnat is small it cannot pay attention. I’ve never tried to hold a gnat’s attention so I really don’t know.

My attention span disappeared sometime between June 22 and June 24 2007. I’m pretty sure it was stolen by leprechaun while I slept. Prior to that date I could watch a ten hour conspiracy movie like Zeitgiest without skipping ahead once. After June 24 of that year I seemed to only be able to watch 30 second videos featuring kittens.

Now committing to a television show that will keep happening week after week for hours and hours is way too much to ask of me. You might as well ask me to carve an image in the Virgin Mary into a grain of rice. I’ve tried to do that before and it’s just way too difficult. Rice is too powdery. As soon as you start trying to refine the facial features a bit everything begins to crumble. Carvingg the baby Jesus in a flaxseed is a different story though. No problem really. Give it a go and you’ll see what I mean.

Anyway, that’s why I’m so hard to hold a conversation with at parties. I don’t watch television and my crowded little brain is too busy planning my next flaxseed carving to pay attention to what you have to say.

Blackeyes, Turkeys, and Amazing Savings

So it’s Monday and you still haven’t bought your Thanksgiving turkey. That could mean only one of three things:

  1. you’re a vegetarian
  2. you’re not an American
  3. you just don’t like turkey

I guess it wouldn’t have to be one of those three things. I’m sure you could have any combination of them going on. You could be a Cambodian who tried turkey once when you were a foreign exchange student in Michigan and thought that it was so awful that you became a vegetarian right there on the spot.

I just thought of a fourth thing to add to that list. You could be me. I’ve chosen to ignore all holidays because they only mark the cruel passage of time. Instead of gorging myself on holiday delights until I can no longer button my trousers, I’ll be training for the professional shopping that is the other holiday tradition. I’ll knock your turkey-and-pie-eating behinds over to get to that ridiculously low priced HD television. Forgoing the traditional holiday turkey will leave me just hungry enough to be extra ruthless.

The good thing about this shopping tradition is that it requires no cooking and there’s no mess to clean up in the kitchen afterwards. You may get pushed, punched, trampled, tasered, or maybe even stabbed, but isn’t it all worth it for the terrific savings?

Last year, I lost my left eye in a scuffle at Best Buy, but I did get an iPhone for a hundred bucks. That’s a steal. I hardly ever used my left eye anyway.

That story isn’t completely true. I don’t have an iPhone and though I do like to wear an eye patch to formal events I still have both of my eyes. While I’m confessing, I guess I should also admit that I’ve never been shopping on Black Friday in my whole entire life. We don’t have a turkey though. That much is true. I don’t plan on getting one. I might make taco salad on Thanksgiving.



Dog Yoga

I’ve been doing yoga every morning for a few years now. I’ve only been to a yoga class once in my entire life and instead depend on You Tube videos for my yoga instruction, which probably means I’m doing it all wrong. I’m not very good at following instructions and when I can get things wrong I usually do.

Since we’ve gotten Chompyface, he’s made yoga a bit of a challenge. I get up in the morning and let him out. He usually only wants to be out for a few minutes in the morning. Any longer than that and he starts scratching the door.

After I let him back in, I start doing my yoga in the living room because everyone else in the house is still asleep. I tried doing yoga out in the yard once and the mosquitoes acted like they were at Golden Corral. They just kept coming back for more. Convinced I would be all shriveled and bloodless before finishing my practice, I retreated indoors.

I go into downward facing dog and my dog is sniffing my head and trying to bite my hair. I transition into upward facing down and am greeted with a wet nose in my face. I sit down and prepare for table top pose and he sits down on the mat directly behind me making it difficult to get into any pose.

What is it about a yoga mat that makes Chompyface want to lay down on it? Maybe he has a future as a yoga teacher. He already has down dog and up dog down. He does them every time he gets up from a nap. I don’t know what the posture he gets into to lick his butt hole is called, but it looks pretty advanced.

I think I’ll get him some yoga pants and a mat of his own and send him off to a yoga teacher training class. Since he likes to get up early anyway, I figure he can start teaching a sunrise yoga class. He needs to earn his keep, so it’s about time he get a job. Dog food is expensive.


Gauge Free November

While we were living in England, I didn’t drive mostly because I enjoyed being chauffeured around by my husband so much. Also I just couldn’t get used to driving on the other side of the road. I tried a few times, and it was frightening.

Now that we’re back in the US, I’m driving again. I’m a constant gauge checker when I drive. I don’t just check to make sure I’m going exactly five miles over the speed limit. I’ve always treated the speed limit as a loose suggestion give or take five. I also check the temperature gauge constantly. I have a fear of the car overheating. It’s probably because our car in England used to overheat in traffic all the time.

Last week, I was driving home from my parents house, and I was so wrapped up in gauge checking that I drove up onto the median. Luckily, it was late and there were no other cars around to witness my insanity. I didn’t cause any accidents or anything. It would’ve been funny if a cop saw me because he probably would’ve assumed I was drunk. While I was drunk on the joy of life, no alcohol had passed these lips … unless my mother shot the pomegranate she gave me up with vodka.

I wasn’t drunk. I was just trying to be a conscientious driver. Try explaining that to someone when you just rear-ended them because you were checking your temperature gauge more than looking at the road. That hasn’t happened yet, but if I don’t get my act together it could. That’s why I’m quitting cold turkey. I will not look at another gauge again for the whole month of November, not a temperature gauge or a pressure gauge or a man named Gauge. They’re all off limits. Let’s make this a safe, happy, gauge free November.


Twenty Years

I remember when I turned 20. It was way back in 19??. I’ll let that date remain a secret because I don’t want to ruin the mystery. Anyway, recently I’ve been thinking I should start lying about my age. If I up it by 10 years I’ll probably get a lot of compliments. “Oh, you look so good for your age.” But, what if I don’t? Then I’ll just feel bad, so maybe lying about my age isn’t such a good idea.

Anyway, 20 is a funny age. You’ve finally passed through the fire of adolescence only to find that you still feel exactly the same as you did yesterday. Isn’t every birthday like that though?

My stepson turned 20 yesterday. That’s right. He’s all grown up now. When I first met him he looked like this …


Those where the good old days of grasshoppers and tarantulas. Okay, they weren’t really so good. I’ve never liked tarantulas.

Gone are the tarantulas, thank goodness. Now he wants an outfit like the one Gaddafi used to wear and looks like this …


We haven’t gotten him the outfit yet, but I’m sure Gaddafi wore jeans and a t-shirt sometimes too. Only one of the individuals in this picture was in big trouble for digging a giant whole in the backyard. I’m sure you an guess which one it was, but I getting off topic.

Time flies, as they say. I hope he had a good 20th birthday and has many more to come. Maybe not. Turning 20 every year forever would probably get a bit boring, like Groundhog Day without Bill Murray. I hope he has many more birthdays to come of various numbers in whatever order he wants … 35, 22, 54. It’s good to mix things up a bit sometimes.

Five Tips to Help You Through the Social Nightmare That is the Food Coop

Today is Monday which means that it’s the day to pick up food from the co-op we’ve joined. The thing about the coop is that you see the same people every week. It’s like everyone knows each other. They joke around, and chat, and when they ask how you’re doing they seem to really want an honest answer. What’s up with that?

If I want to buy cheese, I have to ask someone to weigh it out for me. That means I have to know how much I want. Who knows something like that? I’m not sure what a pound of cheese looks like. I never paid attention when buying cheese before. Can you see how stressful this is? As a result I never buy cheese.

Sometimes I want the anonymous shopping experience of Publix where I can buy cheese without having to talk to anyone, avoid making eye contact with other human beings, and only have to give one word answers to any questions the cashier might ask me.

I’ve been going to the same food coop for a number of years now. Even though it still stresses me out, I’ve learned how to get through the experience. Here are some tips to help you deal with your own coop social nightmare.


1. Bring your own bags for produce. Everyone will like you more if you have your own bags. They should be reusable and preferably not plastic. If they’re not plastic everyone will love you. We all want to be loved.

2. When someone sidles up to you while you’re picking out cucumbers to tell you about how changing their diet to paleo or raw vegan or whatever the heck they’re doing completely cured them of psoriasis or chronic fatigue syndrome, or Hashimoto’s disease, or depression, or constipation, or shyness, simply nod, smile, and pretend to listen.

3. When you accidentally spill red lentils all over the floor, laugh it off, and help clean it up. Fight the urge to run from the building sobbing. No one likes a running sobber.

4. When someone starts telling you about her amazing home birth experience as you get a container of Amish butter from the fridge pretend to listen. When she’s through detailing how she froze and ate the placenta, smile and say, “That’s interesting. I’ve always wondered about that.” If you are brave you may ask her what it tasted like. Avoid gagging or passing out. Don’t tell her that you are barren. That only leads to pity and pity sucks.

5. When you check out help bag, but don’t help too much. They have a system and your clumsy hands are probably messing it up. It’s important to look helpful while not interfering. This is accomplished by talking about bagging rather than actually doing anything.

6. Say goodbye when you leave. Not everyone understands the need to disappear unnoticed through the door. If you don’t want to get kicked out of the coop for good always say goodbye. It doesn’t matter if everyone in the place ignores you. Just say goodbye and leave as quickly as possible. Wait until you get home to have your nervous breakdown in the car.

Relaxing is so Difficult


Sometimes you just need to sit back and relax. I hear that having a relaxing hobby is good to help relieve stress. Doing something like crocheting, playing the piano, or painting watercolors puts your mind as ease. I don’t know why, but when I think of relaxation and paint, watercolors always come to mind. Latex paint definitely isn’t relaxing.

Now that I see the list of relaxing hobbies I just made I realize that in reality none of them are particularly relaxing. I tried painting with watercolors once–not relaxing. All the colors just run together in the most infuriating manner. It’s like trying to wrestle with a tiger–a really wet sloppy tiger.

I’ve tried crocheting too and using a hook to make a series of organized knots with yarn is just too hard for my brain to comprehend. I am, however, quite good at making one giant, frustrating knot in a length of yarn. I don’t even need a hook to pull that off.

Then there is playing the piano. When I was a little girl I took piano lessons and let’s just say that didn’t work out, unless you call drinking a bottle of perfume so you won’t have to go to your piano lesson a success. I think I was afraid of the piano teacher who was kind and gave me cinnamon toast but had a frighteningly large nose with an unsightly mole on it that made her seem like a witch to me. The black dresses she always wore didn’t help the situation. Ever since then I’ve associated piano lessons with the possibility of being shoved into an oven and eaten.

What do you do to relax? I don’t bother with the whole relaxation thing. It’s just too stressful.

New Sandals and Nail Polish

Everyone knows that the most important thing is what you put in your head. Your brain is who you are, and you should make sure you fill it with good stuff. Did you know that what you put on your feet is almost equally as important? You didn’t? That’s probably because I made that up about two seconds ago.

I believe in wearing top quality shoes. That’s why I was so excited when I won the Funny Not Slutty Essay Contest a few weeks ago. As a prize I got a pair of Orthaheel sandals from Sole Provisions. My sandals arrived today and I was so happy that I put them on immediately and sat around looking at them. These shoes really compliment my Fred Flintstone feet.

I decided to paint my toenails to pretty up the situation a bit more. I headed to the drugstore to buy polish because I never paint my nails and don’t own any nail polish. There I met a very enthusiastic saleswoman who helped me pick out the best cheap nail polish for me. Pink sparkly nails go perfectly with orthopedic shoes, don’t you think?

I never realized how difficult it is to paint your nails. I’ve tried to do this three times now and it still looks like I was attacked by a group of nail-polish-wielding cats. I’ve always been bad at coloring in the lines, but there are no lines on my toes so I thought this would be a breeze. I was so wrong. No wonder people go to school to learn how to do this.

I’m keeping the badly painted nails for now, but it is a good thing I only paid $1.99 for the polish.


A Funny Thing Happened …


I tend to have a problem with getting things in my sandals. Whilst walking along, I have to stop a million times to dump a rock or twig from my shoe. I’m sure it drives my husband nuts.

The other day I was walking the dog with my husband, when I felt something sticky in my shoe. I didn’t think anything of it because there were a lot of berries from a nearby bush scattered on the sidewalk around us. “I have something in my shoe,” I said as I stopped to kick off my sandal.

Much to my horror, I discovered that what was in my sandal was no berry … no berry indeed. It was a piece of poop. I have no idea where it came from, but it looked like poop and upon closer inspection it smelled like poop too. How could this have happened? I didn’t see any poop anywhere else. I always watch where I’m going. It was as if a little turd gremlin was walking behind me slinging poop at my feet.

We were halfway through the walk at this point. That means continuing the walk or turning back would take the same amount of time. As my husband cleaned out the inside of my sandal with leaves while I tried to wipe my foot on some grass at the road side.

“I wish I had some Cottonelle wipes and hand sanitizer in my bag,” I said. Unfortunately, I had neither. All of the hand sanitizer and wipes in the world probably wouldn’t have helped. What I needed was a blowtorch so I could purify my foot and shoe with fire. What I needed was a unicorn to gallop up to me and lick my foot and shoe clean with it’s cleansing saliva. What I needed was a time machine so I could go back in time and somehow prevent this from ever happening in the first place. There is just something about touching poop that makes you feel like you’ll never be clean again.

We walked a block over to Central Avenue to look for a place where I could rinse my shoe. I ended up rinsing it at a tap on the side of a title company building and using a piece of trash to wipe my shoe out. I continued the walk with a poopy sandal, a poopy foot, and as result of my poor rinsing skills, a poopy hand. Next time I’ll have some Cottonelle Wet Wipes in my bag just in case. They’ll have to hold me over until I’m finished building the time machine I plan to drag behind my in a wagon everywhere I go.