Random Comments

These are random comments I left in response to a post on a blog I found yesterday:

K – So I have a tribute to Randy “Macho Man” Savage on my blog. I like professional wrestling. Lots of people do.

I – I liked your comment “So just love what you wear, and own it.”

B – I wasn’t necessarily “chewing out” nor was I trying to be sarcastic. It saddens me when younger women poke fun at “old ladies.” One of those “old ladies” could be your mother or grandmother. Most older, mature women dress for comfort.

M – No, I am not an idiot. Why would you say that?

A – Thank you for checking my blog. Exactly what “kind of person” am I?

And to M – Next time you see an “old lady” wearing polyester pants and a t-shirt with embroidery, be thankful she is not wearing a pair of jeggings and a short top. Yikes!

I do tend to get myself in trouble, don't I?

RIP Randy "Macho Man" Savage

You were one of the best of the best. "Ohhhh yeah!!!!"

The Misunderstood Child

I found this poem and dedicate it to my son.

The Misunderstood Child
[A poem about children with hidden disabilities]
by Kathy Winters

I am the child that looks healthy and fine.
I was born with ten fingers and toes.
But something is different, somewhere in my mind,
And what it is, nobody knows.

I am the child that struggles in school,
Though they say that I'm perfectly smart.
They tell me I'm lazy --can learn if I try –
But I don't seem to know where to start.

I am the child that won't wear the clothes
Which hurt me or bother my feet.
I dread sudden noises, can't handle most smells,
And tastes --there are few foods I'll eat.

I am the child that can't catch the ball
And runs with an awkward gait.
I am the one chosen last on the team
And I cringe as I stand there and wait.

I am the child with whom no one will play –
The one that gets bullied and teased.
I try to fit in and I want to be liked,
But nothing I do seems to please.

I am the child that tantrums and freaks
Over things that seem petty and trite.
You'll never know how I panic inside,
When I'm lost in my anger and fright.

I am the child that fidgets and squirms
Though I'm told to sit still and be good.
Do you think that I choose to be out of control?
Don't you know that I would if I could?

I am the child with the broken heart
Though I act like I don't really care.
Perhaps there's a reason God made me this way –
Some message he sent me to share.

For I am the child that needs to be loved
And accepted and valued too.
I am the child that is misunderstood.
I am different -but look just like you.