29 AprTurtle Shoulders



If someone or something is constantly taking things from you, do you hunt them down and shoot them, or just let them do whatever they want? Yeah, me too.

But to be honest, I more than tired of this night time thief. Burglar

I have been unable to tell if the thief is a creature of the night or someone playing bad tricks on me. Doesn’t matter. Hate works for both.

I’ve considered setting a trap but I’m sure I would be the one caught in it. I’ve lived with me long enough to know that traps work well when you don’t know where they are and since I forget everything I’m sure I would open a door, spring the trap and be caught and there would be no one around to free me.

You would think that my fancy smancy alarm would let me know about the intruder. Okay. I get it. You have to turn the alarm on if you want it to warn you, but hey, I forget. And besides I keep a high caliber loaded gun beside the bed. I should be able to shoot the thief. Well I would if I woke up during the theft.

The problem is the theft occurred sometime between 1993 and the present. I think.

All I know is that one day I had shoulders capable of holding up my purse, and now I don’t.

I’ve always used shoulder bags and was once proud to say I could put a purse on my shoulder in the morning and it would still be there when I went home at night. It didn’t matter if I was chasing children, wiping grimy faces, running to catch a plane, driving an 18 wheeler, or sleeping – all at the same time. If I didn’t take the bag off my shoulder it was staying put.

Today I couldn’t get it to stay on my shoulder for more than 10 seconds even if I used epoxy and Gorilla Glue. At the same time.

I’ve tried thousands of dollars worth of purses and so many different straps the local dominatrix is jealous of me.

If I try to hold my shoulders up instead of letting them slope I look like a confused turtle. Head in, shoulders up. Head out, shoulders down. It’s a battle that can’t be won.

I just want to know that with all the losses that come over the years, how and when did shoulders get added to the equation.

I understand that without intervention and tons of money, boobs, butts, and brains will eventually sag. But I’ve thrown enough money at the shoulder problem mine should be stiffer that the boobs on a topless dancer.

I’ve looked in the mirror and honestly, I don’t think my shoulders sag. I’m not hunched over. My posture is pretty good most days, which can only lead me to believe there is a thief among us.

Be warned thief.

I have money.

I have a loaded weapon.

I have a new purse.

I am armed.


From the life and mind of Wanda M. Argersinger

©2014 All Rights Reserved




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01 AprThere’s More Than Me In My Bra

If you have an issue with your bra, and know that there is a possibility there is something in there that doesn’t belong, would you go about your day as normal? Yeah, me too.

I tend to have a problem with bras. And cleavage. And shirts. And food. And the combination of all these things together.

Yesterday, while eating a simple lunch of a ¼ muffaletta sandwich left over from the previous day’s lunch, I unknowingly saved bits of the sandwich for later. I’m not sure what I was supposed to do with it later, not did I know I was saving it. But I did. muffaletta

For those of you unfamiliar with the muffaletta sandwich, it originated at Central Grocery in New Orleans. It has huge amounts of meat and cheese on it topped with olive salad, all piled on some huge roll baked only in New Orleans. Muffalettas tend to be so thick that biting one takes practice. After many years of eating this orgasmic sandwich, I have not managed to obtain practice.

So innocently enough, I ate this sandwich for lunch yesterday and then returned to work. I was scheduled for physical therapy in the afternoon, but still had at least three hours of desk work to do before leaving. I managed to accomplish that, even after eating ¼ of a muffaletta, which by the way is equal to about 3 pounds, give or take a couple of ounces – the whole muffaletta, not ¼.

When it was time to leave, I grabbed my bag containing the clothes for PT. Let me correct that by saying I grabbed my bag with my swim attire in it. I was schedule for therapy in the heated pool.

When I arrived I was directed to the changing area and left to my own devices. Don’t get me wrong. They offered to help. I declined. Good thing too.

As I was removing my bra the saved pieces of my lunch, i.e. the olive salad, fell from the bra to the floor. By the time I was in my swim suit and ready to exit the dressing area there was a nice little pile of olives where I had been standing.

I looked around for something to clean the mess with, but options were limited. I stood there wondering how on earth I would explain to the staff why there are olives on the floor of the changing area. I did get it cleaned up before I left for the pool. Evidence in the trash.

The therapy went fine until I was telling the therapist all about my foot. That led into the information about school, and writing books, and the short version of each book, my website, my blog, and before you know it, the olive salad. Everyone there laughed, and not just once. Mary, the woman in the pool with me asked Amanda the therapist to schedule her appointments the same time as mine. When she left, Carline, Amanda and I swapped stories and other hilarious information. I apologized for being the life of the party and told them it tends to happen to me a lot. Actually it was one of the most fun therapy sessions I ever had – thanks to olive salad, Mary, Carline, and Amanda.

From the life and mind of Wanda M. Argersinger

© 2014, All Rights Reserved


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25 MarAliens in My Leg

Today I am 4 weeks post op from my back surgery. I haven’t a clue what they did in the surgery but I’ve been told I may be missing my L5 vertebrae. I don’t care. All it ever did for me was break and cause excruciating pain. And it still is.

The back is better, but the left foot has become inhabited by aliens from the planet of “we hate our host and will make her life miserable.” And they are.

The nerves of the left foot make the foot feel like it is blue and is succumbing to frost bit, and I have a sock on it, in Florida, in March.

If you touch the foot, even with a shoe, the nerves feel like the foot is on fire. Oh what joy.

I didn’t sign on for this.

I signed on the line so the pain would go away.

I don’t wear socks. I wear 3” heels.

I don’t get cold, ever. Well ever until the aliens landed.

I’m wearing the worst shoes ever to try to keep the pressure off the foot – clogs. Ok, they are the second worst shoes ever. Number 2 right behind Uggs. I didn’t sign on for wearing hippie reject shoes from the 60’s. Clogs, people. Do you hear me? Wanda is wearing clogs – and socks. White, ugly, man type socks.foot with sock

The world may well be coming to an end here.

Worse yet, last week the foot began to swell. I ran to the Dr. or an alienectomy which she did not perform. Instead I got a nice dose of diuretics that keep me busy every morning, and the absolute delight of wearing a thigh high compression stocking on that leg. Spanx may be the hot thing for holding you together. Compression stockings are not the leg version of Spanx.

All I do now is sit in pain, run to pee, and continually pull at the compression stocking to keep it from rolling down the leg and launching itself at some unsuspecting person. Though it would make a great launch vessel for the aliens.

I did go to physical therapy yesterday. The therapist gave me 3 simple exercises to do, then told me the pain would get worse before it got better. I have sent an encoded message to the aliens that they should inhabit the therapist’s body instead of mine. He’s younger, has longer to live, and apparently knows the proper care and feeding of aliens.

From the life and mind of Wanda M. Argersinger

©2014 All Rights Reserved



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