Upcoming Nuptials


This morning, with Queen Katie by his side, King Henry announced the engagement of his daughter, Princess Eloise, to Bulivour Shagnastic, Crowned Prince of Upper Doowahdiddy. This event is sure to be the social event of the century. The King has hinted that the wedding could take place as early as Halloween. Insiders report that the entire palace is  in a frenzy. Prince Shagnastic is a relative unknown; probably because the country he represents has a total population of 71. Not only is he the leader, but also the barber, postmaster and he owns the only gas station. The engaged couple met in a park and is was reportedly love at first glance. The secret service contingent who is assigned to shadow Princess Eloise’s every move, is said to have been shocked by the embrace the pair shared upon parting. This sort of public display is frowned upon by the royals. The press has been referring to the beautiful Eloise as “Easy Weezy.”

Is it true? Does she really have a monkey on her back?

Princess Olish is said to be thrilled with her sister’s news.

 Royal Cousin Shep is woebegone that he won’t be best man.

 Royal Cousin Roscoe has been asked to design Lego centerpieces.

   This just in !!! Princess Olish has been selected to provide vocal interludes during the wedding.

Well folks. Thanks for tuning in. It will certainly be interesting to see the details of this royal wedding unfold. Remember – the Amazing Zippered Woman is always  first on the scene. You can count on me for the latest and the greatest. 



Life’s A Bitch, (Oops!) I Mean Beach


What a week! About 3 hours and 26 minutes ago, I awakened on my front porch, stuffed in a black trash bag;  with only my head exposed and duct tape placed over my mouth. The last thing I remember is standing on the House floor, dressed from head to toe in dollar bills. According to an article in the Huffington Post, I apparently pointed a squirt gun at Boner’s head and saturated him with buffalo semen. (I can only guess where I acquired buffalo semen.) I have a vague recollection of signing up for a bus trip to Washington at a recent L.L.L.L. meeting – Lifelong Luscious Lady Liberals. The Big Irishman dropped me off at the bus station and the rest they say is mystery. Or is it, “The rest they say is history?” Doesn’t really matter. The fact of the matter is that as a result of my horrid transgressions, I was forced to serve 2 weeks as an aide to John McCain. Alcatraz would have been less heinous. I also suspect that I was given mind-altering drugs like Forgetfulness Juice. This is the thanks I get for doing my part to move the debt ceiling crisis toward a reasonable resolution. Boner, next time I’ll fill my weapon with donkey piss. Oh yes, never fear, the Amazing Zippered Woman will yet again walk the halls of Congress. I WILL NOT BE SILENCED !!!

Did I mention that before my sojourn in Washington, Tom and I spent an amazing week at the beach with all our kids and grandkids. We are even more convinced that our three kids and their amazing spousi (plural of spouse) are among the most wonderful, amazing human beings to have ever walked the earth ….. and they make adorable, brilliant babies.

  Yoga on the beach. Or was it cocktails on the beach? Who’s the old broad with the great legs?

 Wow, am I a lucky woman? He named his wetsuit SPANX.


Odds and Ends


The Brennan Clan is leaving tomorrow morning for a week at the beach. I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited about a vacation. Having all my Grandbabies and all that sand and sea for a whole week is as close to paradise as I’ll ever get. I’m not sure what my blogging situation will be while we’re gone, but I have taken steps to maintain communication. I downloaded an app. on my iPhone from WordPress, but it remains to be seen if I can figure it out. Keep checking – maybe I’ll be able to post at least some beach pictures. However, a picture of me in my bathers may bring the whole site down.

Now, I want to give you the latest news on Baby Stella. She is still critical, but holding her own. Her kidneys are beginning to wake up and she is still on the ventilator. Her chest remains open because of swelling and fluid. She is so strong and continues to valiantly fight against incredibly long odds. Mama and Daddy and all the Grandparents are hanging in there, but no one is able yet to breathe a sigh of relief.

I want to wish all my Dear Readers a happy and safe Independence Day. This picture says it all.

Miss Olive salutes America.

And Jessica Makes Six

I had a very unusual experience yesterday. I’m still having difficulty believing what happened. I was just walking down the street, minding my own business, when a very handsome older gentleman tapped me on my shoulder. Now I will tell you – I was lookin’ DY*NO*MITE. I had on a cute little miniskirt and five-inch stiletto heels.  A jeweled halter top completed my ensemble. After the shoulder tap, he casually asked if I would like to have a coffee at a nearby Bistro. I politely declined and explained that I was a happily married woman with six children. “Six children!” he exclaimed.  “But that’s impossible. You look so incredibly young and amazingly thin and toned.”

Some of you, Dear Readers, are saying to yourselves, “What is she talking about? She doesn’t have six children.” Perhaps you should help me count.

I have Katie and her husband Henry. That’s two. I have Meghann and her spouse, Scott. That’s two more for a total of four. I have Patrick for a count of five. And now ….. DRUM ROLL ….. I have Patrick’s wife Jessica. We welcomed Jessica into our family on April 2nd, 2011.  Now wouldn’t you agree that I have six children?

Isn’t she a beauty? He ain’t too shabby either.


So happy.

Beautiful inside and out.

 The portion of this post that explained why I say I have six children – totally true. The part about the mini and heels – not so much.


A Very Personal Plea


The FDA has announced a new campaign to discourage smoking. Their game plan is to totally scare, disgust and sicken smokers with a series of images that will be placed on cigarette packages. For years the country’s smoking rate has been dropping – until last year when the rate remained about the same. Did you know that smoking is directly responsible for almost 500,000 deaths each year in just our country alone? Experts are hoping the new labels will cut the number of smokers by at least 213,000 by 2013, with smaller reductions until 2031. These graphic depictions of smoking related health risks have already been used in other countries with good success. The images will cover the whole top half, front and back, of each package.   

Here is an example of the new label.

Really graphic.

 The legality of the new label campagne is already being challenged in federal lawsuits brought by all the major tobacco companies. Just in case Big Tobacco is successful and the labels are pulled, I thought I would share some of the souvenirs I picked up on my smoking journey.

This is my arm scar. It looks great with jeweled bracelets.

This is my chest scar. It's where they took my old heart out and put Perpetua in. A tan makes it look even prettier.

This is my leg scar. It makes my leg ache and my toes numb.

 This is my Ad Campaign. I hope it makes a difference.

Make Socks Not War


If you are taking the trash out some night and you hear a strange noise or sense that you’re not alone, don’t panic and call the police. At least don’t call the police until you determine whether or not you’re simply the victim of a YARN BOMBER. Knitting and its sister process, crocheting, have hit the streets. In the beginning of this new cultural phenomenon, Yarn Bombers executed their shenanigans under the cloak of darkness. They did their yagging (tagging with yarn) and then photographed their unsuspecting prey. These pics eventually made their way onto the internet. This became a way to brag anonymously, like graffiti artists who post pictures of their paint creations.

Nothing is safe.

Yarn bombers strike again. As the bomber's confidence grows, the size of the their targets also become bigger..

 Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could supply our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan with yarn instead of bombs and guns?

Tanks could be all decked out in a pink blanket rather than shooting live rounds.

And soldiers guns and swords could wear brightly colored mittens instead of shooting cold steel bullets.

Make Socks Not War. 


Pawn Shop Preview


My kids tease me constantly about living in a pawn shop. I will admit that I love tchotchkes. It’s  true that I tremble and become nauseous at the thought of a bare shelf or an unadorned tabletop. I am the KNICK KNACK QUEEN and proud of the title. On occasion I’ve heard the term “junk” used when referring to my treasures. I prefer to think of my various display items and collections as “P.P.P.’s – Pure, Perfect Pretties”.

I thought it might be kinda fun for my Dear Readers to help designate my belongings. Are they “junk” as my children contend? Or are they indeed “P.P.P.’s?” To help you decide I have photographed a few particularly spectacular examples. Please read the descriptions carefully

 On the southern-most tip of the Pouka Pouka Peninsula in Bora Bora, lives a tiny little tribe. Their average adult height is 3/4 inch. This tribe has been studied for centuries by  anthropologists from around the world. They live in tiny houses and wear tiny clothes. A single green pea is a big meal for them. I was fortunate enough to spend six weeks with this tribe in the late 1960’s. They allowed me to bring back examples of their decor. Since I’m one of the few people on the planet to have seen these guys, these are priceless artifacts.  Remember it was the 60’s.

This is an authentic Ming Dynasty stoppered vase. (Stoppered as opposed to goered. Ha – just a little levity.) It was made in 300 A.D. Michael Ming purportedly kept it in his den. This is also a priceless object that has been in my family for centuries. One of my forefathers bought it at a garage sale the night before he sailed with Chris Columbus.

This is a true MOON ROCK. Scientists have never been able to explain the strange symbol on its surface. When Alan Shepherd stuffed it into his pocket during a Moonwalk, he never dreamed that it would wind up in my livingroom. I can’t divulge the methodology of its journey. If I shared  this family secret, I would be required to silence you. Suffice it to say, I have a blastocyst named Shepherd.  Need I say more?

 I bought this (both of them) at Victoria Beckham’s garage sale. When one of the jewels became loose, I took it to a shoe/jewelry repair shop. When I picked it up several hours later the store was surrounded by uniformed security guards. Upon entering, I was whisked into the back room and informed that the jewels were real diamonds – 7,820 carats of real diamonds. Ms. Beckham had been contacted and said she was aware of the authenticity of the stones. But she was “just over them.” So they are mine.

There you have it – just a small sampling. Are my kids right and I’m nothing more than a junk collector? Or am I actually the guardian of rare antiquities? How do you vote?

See you Monday. I’m gonna spend the weekend collecting new material.

Our Blastocysts


Given that this title is straight out of a biology text, I’m sure you’re all expecting yet another post about our aches and pains. WRONG. Allow me to explain. My doctor sons-in-law sometimes have, shall we say, an unusual way of describing day-to-day life experiences. They’re both just a bit nerdy and so smart that the rest of the family spends a lot of our time together in open-mouthed amazement. Oh my. The things that they say. Let me give you an example.

When a young couple is expecting their first child, they often invent a pet name for the fetus. The Big Irishman always referred to our unborn children as Waldo. I can remember him patting my tummy and saying, “How’s Waldo today?” Very cute, huh? You can imagine my amazement when Scott arrived home for lunch one day when I was visiting, patted Meghann on her newly pregnant belly and sweetly asked, “Is our little Blastocyst having a good day.” I nearly fell over. Now, I really enjoy referring to our grandchildren as “Our blastocysts.” Using this term makes me feel exceptionally smart and also attributes an additional specialness to four children who the whole world knows are truly phenomenal and also exceptional.

For my new readers – a quick re-introduction to our older Blastocysts. Roscoe was three in November and continues to amaze us on a daily basis. He is extremely bright and very strong-willed. His imagination is legendary. He is able to contribute to conversations about a variety of topics. He speaks often and fluently about a secret house in the woods and an imaginary sister who lives there.

Little Dude and his Princess.

 And Miss Eloise. She’s our party girl. Any thing is an excuse for a party. She wakes up every morning and promptly announces which of her dolls is having a birthday that particular day. Then she sings “Happy Birthday” and practices blowing out candles. Her mama calls her “Buddy.”

What a gorgeous bed head.

Now allow me to introduce our new little Blastos. 

Shepherd was born in September. He is the happiest baby in all of Babydom. In fact, the whole family calls him “Mr. Giggles.” He’s more than willing to play with anyone – as long as he can see his mama.

What a great smile.

And last, but certainly not least, is Miss Olive. She will be two months old on the June 26th. She is delightful – another super happy babe. Olive is a great sleeper, a great eater and SHE DOESN’T SPIT UP. She spends most of her waking hours concentrating on her primary goal in life: to set the “World Cheeks Record.”

Movy's sweet baby girl.

  As you can see, I’m a lucky woman. Thank you Perpetua for sharing your heart with me.



Ain’t No Exits On The Road To Old


First, I must give credit where credit is due. The catchy title of this post was stolen from a message from my good friend Bev. Thanks Bev. When I’m famous I’ll dedicate a book to you.

The Big Irishman is ailing. Sunday morning he casually mentioned that he thought his left foot might just be broken in 18 or 19 places. I began quizzing him about possible causes. Did he bump it? Had he fallen? Was tequilla involved? In answer to my last question, he hobbled upstairs, put on the sick shirt his mother had given him in Junior High, demanded chicken noodle soup and adamantly refused to answer any more questions. (He’s such a baby.) From this point on, the situation steadily deteriorated.

Last night was a real challenge. The BI spent many hours tossing, turning and moaning. I, on the other hand, spent hours picturing myself helping a one-legged man  in and out of the car. I also manufactured many perfectly reasonable diagnoses: ankle cancer, blood clots, parasites, and withering disease. This morning it was decided that his going into the office was simply out of the question. So he headed to URGENT CARE – totally convinced that Wall Street would self-destruct if he wasn’t sitting in his torn leather office chair.

One consultation, a series of x-rays, and another consultation later he was diagnosed with an OVER USE INJURY. Can you imagine, the dreaded OUI. Perish the thought. This afternoon we settled in for a little snooze. Total exhaustion had set in. He proceeded to snuggle up next to me and offered to take his sick shirt off. I reminded him that we needed to make some lifestyle changes. We certainly didn’t want to ever deal with another OVER USE INJURY.

Poor Baby.

Gun Thumb


For the last several weeks, I’ve been experiencing a very unusual phenomenon. My right thumb makes clicking noises when I wiggle it. Although this provides hours of giggle fun for the grandchildren, it also HURTS. In my search for a new Primary Care Physician (PCP), I was forced to make over 50,000 exploratory phone calls. Many candidates wouldn’t take my insurance. Others simply weren’t taking new patients. And then there was a huge contingent who panicked when they heard the “T” word (transplant) and actually hung up on me. I  finally hit the jackpot and found a young lady doctor who is just establishing her practice and  needs bodies to experiment on.  Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers.

I met with the doctor on Friday and we established a good rapport. When I showed her my newest affliction, she immediately diagnosed it as “Trigger Finger.” I quickly informed her that I’m opposed to hunting, and guns scare the hell out of me. Soooo, I couldn’t possibly have Trigger Finger. She quickly assured me that T. F. has nothing to do with guns, but instead is caused by situations like Diabetes, Rheumatoid Arthritis, or something that sounds like Crappy Tunnel Syndrome. (I personally feel that all tunnels are crappy. They make me claustrophobic.) Now her job is to find out which of these horrendous, mortifying calamities has brought me to my knees. The Big Irishman feels strongly that this whole thing is related to meanness. I wonder if he would get mean if his thumb started making noises that could wake the dead.

Did I mention that a gigantic, hard lump has formed at the base of my thumb? I think it might be a bullet for my gun thumb. Since Friday two more fingers and my other thumb have started clicky-clacking. I don’t have trigger finger. I have a whole damn arsenal.

      I’ll keep you posted.