Lord of the Jungle

Meet my new swimming coach.

He yells and carries a big knife, but when it comes to swimming, he can really
shake 'em down.

Okay. Just kidding. Johnny Weissmuller is not really my coach.

But, if he were still alive, I'd hire him in a minute. He fulfills my requirements for the perfect coach:

1. The swimsuit. I mean, just the thought of having someone urge me on from poolside dressed in a V-shaped loincloth is enough to propel me to "v"ictory.

2. Likes to go after large alligators and wrestle with them underwater. This is a good thing. It's inspirational. When I swim, make my turn, and push off, I sometimes pretend that I am Tarzan going after that 'gator. I swim really fast and really strong. Realistically, I know I don't look like Tarzan, but I feel like him and that's what's important. I get totally carried away and it takes about five laps before it occurs to me there is no alligator in the pool...well, except for The Man.

3. Lives in a tree and travels by vine. This will save on per diem commuting costs.

4. A man of few word.

Tarzan: "UMGAWA! UMGAWA!"
Me: Look Coach, I don't understand what you're saying! You're not making any sense!"
Tarzan: "UMGAWA! It mean 'good,' 'up,' 'down,' 'stop,' 'go.' It also mean, 'you swim like fat rhino!' It all the word Tarzan need."

My Big Brother

This is my big brother, Tommy, the greatest trombone player Lomita ever produced.

I've been thinking about him almost non-stop these last few days because tomorrow's
his birthday.

It's not one of those "milestone" birthdays that people get all excited about. But,
when you think about it, EVERY birthday after fifty is pretty special.

I'm taking some time to think about my brother and honor his birth day.

First of all, selfishly speaking, I'm really happy he was born because if he hadn't been
I don't think my parents would've ever tried for that "second" boy so that they'd
have two girls and two boys, but then, of course, I popped out and...well...the rest is
fandangled history.

So, his birth was a definite benefit to my being me. However, I doubt that he feels
the same enthusiasm because I was the mother of all little sisters.

This photo was taken around the time I whacked him upside the head with the
ivory-handled end of a six-shooter cap gun. I was mad about something and bonking
him just behind the right ear made perfect sense in my four-year old brain. It was
so Wyatt Earpy.

I used to tell on him, too...a lot. I mean he couldn't take a breath without me running
off to "tell Mom!" I'm ashamed that I was ever such a stinking little obnoxious tattler,
Tommy, and I want to publicly apologize for all those years of irritation I caused you.

And, I want to thank you for never drowning me in Lance McNabb's pool. You could
have done it so easily during an intense game of "Marco Polo." No one would have
noticed. You could have committed the perfect crime, but you didn't.

And, thanks for saving my life that time we were in Arizona walking around some old
Indian ruin when a gigantic black snake went flying between the rocks and you
started to run, but Dad said, "get your sister," and you did.

And, thanks for letting me ride your "upside down" bike, the bike you welded together
all by yourself and was just about the coolest thing around.

And, I just want you to know that, in my heart, I'm celebrating your birthday
tomorrow in a huge arena in which the town of Tombstone, Arizona has been
reconstructed around gigantic buffet tables with ice sculptures representing
the Battle of The Alamo complete with a life-sized statue of John Wayne with
both guns a blazin', with thousands of brightly colored balloons falling from big
nets onto the heads of hundreds of party goers, including Sharon Stone, Al Pacino,
William Shatner and George Clooney (my personal escort for the evening), as we
listen to the New York Symphony orchestra accompany the Mormon Tabernacle
Choir, conducted by John Williams performing every song written for all the
western fifties television shows, including Have Gun Will Travel, Bronco,
Wanted: Dead or Alive, Sugar Foot, Lawman, Bat Masterson, and the show
stopper, Cheyenne.

Yee-haw!

Oh, and it's a surprise party. Don't tell anyone I told you, okay. Just show up
whenever you can. We are having a special reviewing stand built just for you,
right next to the corral where they've tied up Roy Roger's stuffed horse, Trigger.

See you there! At which time I will come running to give you the biggest birthday hug.
Don't worry, I'll come unarmed.

Happy Birthday!

I'm Mad As Hell And I'm Not Going To Eat It Anymore!

I'm on a diet.

Whilst dwelling in the land of pizza, pasta, cornetto's, vino and formaggio,
without swimming or any other kind of exercise (with the exception of running
occasionally to catch a bus), I managed to gain some weight.

Without going into specifics, I have gained the equivalent of a gallon of milk
and a two extra-large bags of Oreos and it's all sloshing around my thighs, hips and
waist and curdled in the face and chin area.

My clothes don't fit and my stomach gets in the way when I tie my shoes.

It's horrible.

So, anyway, I'm on day three and I haven't had ANY carbohydrates because
for some reason they're the devil and you can't eat them AT ALL for two weeks
because if you do you'll die and burn in hell. After two weeks you can have a little
oatmeal and maybe a cracker, but that's it for the rest of your life on this planet, stupid!

Have I ever mentioned how much I LOVE bread.

Bread is the rock in my roll,
the twinkle in my eye,
the fire in my down below,
the "have a nice" in my day.

If bread were illuminated it would be the moon I would howl to.
If bread grew ripe on a vine it would be the vintage I would hoard.
If bread were a religion, I'd make graven images onto it.

If The Big Giant came to my door, right this minute, selling bread, I'd buy it....
then slam the door in his face and run like hell.

But, the diet calleth me out of the wilderness.
I must follow, or wallow rather, whence it leads me.

This is really pathetic.

Oh, but the really irritating thing is that I will go on this diet and endure
unimaginable pain and suffering and I won't lose a pound, but The Man,
for whom I've gone shopping and bought all kinds of tasty snack foods and
nuts and chips and beef jerky and whatever he could possibly want during
this time of deprivation, will lose ten pounds!

In fact, I don't know why I say that "I'm" on a diet. It's The Man who will
lose the weight and look good in all his clothes WITH the shirt tucked in. It's
The Man to whom people will say, "Hey, you're looking good. Have you lost weight?"

To which he will reply while chomping on a slice of pizza, "Yes, thank you.
My wife went on a diet. Ha Ha Ha."


The first thing you lose on a diet is your sense of humor - author unknown

Chicken Legs

This morning I was thinking about the time we were checking in at the Fiumicino Airport in Rome for a return flight to O.

The Italian security checker went through the usual questions asking whether we had packed our own luggage, were we carrying any electronic devices, etc. Then he asked me in perfect English, "How many chicken legs do you have?"

Now I'm pretty quick, but it took me about 15 seconds to consider his question. I thought he must be making a joke about the ongoing spate of bird flu epidemic resulting in Roman supermarkets clearing their shelves of all poultry.

I replied to the security guy, "Chicken Legs?"

He rolled his eyes and said, "No. How many CHECK IN BAGS do you have?"

At least he laughed, which is a rarity with security people.

Marmota Monax

We have a Marmota Monax in our backyard.

It sounds like an exotic new car but, sadly, it's not.

Marmota is latin for "I'll Eat Everything In Your Garden"
Monax is latin for "And Destroy The Foundation Of Your House, As Well"

Together they spell GROUNDHOG, otherwise known as WOODCHUCK, also called WHISTLE PIG, which is a wonderfully peculiar name.

I think these rodents are cute little cuddly things; that is, when they're in some farmer's field, seen from the safety of our car speeding along at 80 mph.

But, I don't think they're cute when they are eating the forget-me-nots in my garden.

This one actually arrived last fall. We thought we'd dealt with him, but we were wrong, as proven yesterday. He came out of his den built just under our corner fence which separates us from three of our neighbors.

Two of these neighbors have large dogs, which completely excludes them from this problem altogether...well, mostly.

But, the third neighbor, who is dogless like us, has a huge pile of yard waste (branches, weeds, vines, grass clippings) piled high in the corner of his yard. And, this is the problem. He's created an ideal suburban environment for burrowing animals. Therefore, I have deemed him responsible and have decided that I will (figuratively) stick the marmot monax up his kazoo.

So, using my wits and local resources, I'm stealing dog poop from the neighbors with dogs and dumping it around the groundhog's exit hole (otherwise known as the "plunge hole" - that's really what they call it, I didn't make that up) hoping that this will send the animal to the only logical place - to the neighbor with the hill of yard waste.

That should show him!

But, I've been wondering. Is stealing dog turds a felony?

Ode to Geoie

Now we realize that buying this car was one of the smartest things we ever did.
13 years old and she still averages 45 miles to the gallon. That's no lie.

She's crossed the country three times,
always a smooth, low ride,
never a whimper,
taking on truckers 15 times her size.

She doesn't have a CD player or air conditioning.
Her silver hubcap paint wore off long ago.
Her hatchback's just a tiny bit stiff.
And she leaks a little...only when it rains, though.

Still, with a slightly weary smile, she takes us where we want to go.

They don't make cars like this anymore.
I really mean that.
They discontinued the Geo back in 2000.

She's our little buddy.
We won't trade her or send her away.

And, when she dies
we'll bury her in the back yard
'cause she's too big to flush down the toilet.

Head To Wall

This morning I spent some quality time banging my head against a wall.

I do this occasionally.

But, I seem to be doing it more here in Lime Plant City than I ever did in Rome.

Here's what's bothering me. Music. Everywhere you go you are inundated with some nameless entity's catalog of songs not necessarily to your liking and it's very frustrating because you don't know this person, so you can't tell them to their face, "Hey, turn down the music because it's too loud and if I wanted to listen to Hall and Oates singing 'Your Kiss Is On My Lips' I'd buy the CD, assuming of course that it's still available because that song must be about 89 years old, by now!"

No, you just have to stand or sit there and take it! And, this makes me really angry. And, then I get mad because The Man and I are the only people upset about it. All the other people just sit there like zombies, completely oblivious to the insipid, stupid songs oozing into their brains. They just sit there like dead people.

This is going on EVERYWHERE. ALL THE TIME. Think about it. Stores, restaurants, gas stations, for crying out loud, doctor's offices, airports, elevators, restrooms, everywhere you go, they've got you. It's like someone decided, gee let's make sure these people don't get too out of hand, they might start complaining and, heaven forbid, protesting so we'd better sedate them with endless love songs.

I mean, okay, I like "You're So Vain" as much as the next guy, BUT NOT AT 8:20 IN THE MORNING OVER MY BOWL OF OATMEAL AT BOB EVANS! And when you ask the server to please turn the music down because you are attempting to converse with your husband sitting across the table and he can't hear you because Carly is really into the final chorus and his mind is starting to ponder the age-old question, "who was Carly Simon really singing about in this song?" - the waitress looks at you like you must be a real trouble-maker.

Walmart is the worst offender and I vow that getting me inside one of those stores again will require unplugging my life support because I will NEVER go back after today. There were about 15 video monitors dispersed throughout the store spewing out commercials and "info"mercials and I don't know what because I didn't stop to listen. In addition, each department of the store has it's own music playing, so as you walk the music blends into other music in one giant cacophony of rap, country western and 70's disco. I was lucky to get out of there alive!

And, why do they play music from the 70's and 80's. Aren't the performers writing anything new? Do they think that listening to the Beach Boys is going to make me feel happy enough to order another root canal while waiting at the dentist's office. I mean, just what is the psychology here? I don't get it. I just get irritated.

All I want to say is, "Be aware, people!" Be conscious of what they're feeding you. As for me, I don't like being programmed and I never will.

I keep seeing in my mind those people at Bob Evan's this morning. They were just sitting there, mindless. I don't think they even heard the music. They tuned it out. But, it still goes in.

Hmph!

Chinese Trip

So, we decide to get Chinese food for dinner.

There happens to be a great little place right here in Lime Plant City AND I just happen to have a copy of their take-away menu neatly folded in the cupboard because I'm just so organized.

So, I make some choices after consultation with The Man. He can't read menus, not unless there are a lot of pictures involved, in which case he just points and indicates his desire. I tell him he really liked the Moo Goo Gai Pan the last time. He trusts my memory and says, "okay." Then I add a couple of other dishes to the list and phone in the order. They tell me, "Ten minutes."

We get in the car and go there, all happy because we're gettin' Chinese food. Oh, boy!

We walk in the door and there are pictures all over the wall, pictures of food, food that they serve, food they have listed in the take-out menu. In a blinding flash of insight lasting about a millionth of a second, before even saying hello to the girl behind the counter, my bionic vision computes that it wasn't Moo Goo Gai Pan that The Man really loved the last time. IT WAS THE MOO SHU PORK!

My brain starts firing ballistic missiles with the words "SOLVE THIS PROBLEM" stenciled on the sides and they're ricocheting and exploding all over inside my head. It suddenly becomes extremely important that The Man should not be disappointed. Why? I don't know. (Note to myself: when I get an analyst discuss why The Man should not be disappointed.)

Our order was in the works, so I couldn't cancel the Moo Goo. Instead I say, "I would like to add a small container of Moo Shu Pork to our order." The girl says that it only comes in the large size. I say okay, give us the large. Boom, a direct hit - problem solved, Sir.

All the while The Man is staring at all the food photos on the wall, completely disengaged.

I pay the bill and The Man carries the heavy bag of food containers to the car. Now, we have his attention.

"What is all this stuff?" he asks. "What did you order?" "Why is this so heavy?"
"Because I couldn't cancel the moo goo and now we have moo goo and moo shu in the bag." I explain.
"How much did all this cost?" he demands to know.

That's the final blow because he doesn't really care how much it costs, he just wants me to feel like I've done something bad and wants me to feel guilty, and he knows that if he mentions the cost of the thing I will feel very guilty because I always have guilt about spending anything especially in this case because I messed up the original order and now I've over-ordered and have two things that start with "moo" and it's all too heavy and we practically need a dolly to carry it to the car.

That's what I was thinking.

The Man was thinking something along the lines of: bag heavy, how much.

Anyway, all communication systems shut down and we drive home in silence. Interestingly, the weight of our silence equaled that of our bag of food.

We get home and start taking out the various cartons, plastic-lidded plates and cute little containers of sauces, plus fortune cookies. And what's really weird is that I notice our moods are lightening in ratio to the items removed from the bag. Somehow we are manifesting everything that is happening to this bag of Chinese Take Out!

So, late that night we both get really cold in bed and I start thinking it's because I've put the left over food in the refrigerator and that I should go downstairs and get it out and put it on the counter so it won't be cold anymore. But, then I think some bugs will get in it and that means they'll get in us, and well, I think at that point I fell back asleep.

But, that was some great Chinese food, let me tell you.

My Mom

I am my mother.

I keep thinking, "No, I'm not!"

But when I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflection
I see her.
There she is looking back at me.
I have to do a double take.
How did you get in there, Mom?

She was there when I was a child.
Holding my head when I was sick.
Brushing out my tangly hair.
Making sure I was dressed and ready for school.

She gave me her imagination.
Taught me how to have fun with the simplest of materials.
Showed me how to sew.
Made me pink milk and cookies.
Told me to be patient and follow the instructions.

I went off and lived my life.
I neglected her.
I thought I was somehow independent.
I stopped seeing the similarities.
I denied the part of me that was her.

Now I see her in me every day.
I hear her voice in my own.
I feel her mannerisms.
I clear my throat like her.
I tap my chin like her.
I never wear white shoes after labor day.
I make my bed each morning.
I worry about dust.

My Mom is lucky.
She had four children.
I have none.
I can't pass her on to my own.

My Mom makes me wish I were a mother.
I wish I could see myself in another being.
Knowing that my child could never abandon me.
Only grow out and come back.
Back to me.
Back to my Mom.

Happy To See Me?

The Man has returned to the Land of O.

Now all that was wrong will be less wrong.

Justice and order shall be restored.

Laughter will ring throughout the Land.

We're saved.


The Man has left his suitcase contents scattered all over the bedroom.

The Man has just tracked mud and leaves on the recently cleaned floor.

The Man has left the toilet seat up.

When What'a Woman sees that, she'll be so pissed.

My Hose Is Dead

If there's any truth to those "past life" theories, than I must have once been killed by a garden hose.

I can't stand hoses and they can't stand me. We always fight.

Just yesterday I decided to take the backyard hose out of its winter storage area. All was going well until the hose woke up and realized I was up to something. I tried to be patient, speaking gently as I hooked it up to the faucet. Then, I began to wind it onto its post. That's when the trouble started and it started squirming and bending in opposition to what I wanted. Initially there were only small kinks to contend with, so I turned on the faucet thinking that a little force in the hose would help it straighten out. Instead, the battle crescendoed and the hose was flailing around my head, my arms were tangled in its coils, water was spraying me in the face. This went on for minutes! It was this unbelievable scene of my garden hose beating me up. I finally broke free, threw it down on the ground and stomped off into the house.

It's still out there. Just laying there, looking all wide-eyed and innocent.

"Look out Hose. It's not over. My name is 'Destiny' and we have a date!"

Foodformation

If you were to look in my refrigerator right now, this is what you'd see.

Sad, isn't it.

I don't even have any beer in there.

And, I've been to the grocery store two times.

I have no idea what all that stuff is on the top shelf. I mean, I know it contains grains and dried berries and stuff, but those items are so old. We're talking years. It's a waste dump of forgotten ethnic food ingredients. They just sit there day in and day out, all the time I'm in Rome, in the darkness. But, they seem happy so I leave them alone.

The middle shelf contains recent purchases, hummus, and fat-free cottage cheese (my friend gave me the soy creamer), but I wonder what I was thinking when I put the cottage cheese and hummus in my cart. I don't like cottage cheese.

Now we come to the bottom shelf. The pasture where the lone cauliflower roams. It's actually kinda cute down there. When I bought it I remember thinking, cauliflower good, me want, me take, ugh ugh. I was indulging my inner neanderthal.

There is a certain "whiteness" about my food choices and I guess it's good to have a theme. The color symbolizes light; signifies purity; joy and glory. It's also the color of the truce flag.

I give up.

I need my inspiration, my cooking muse. I need The Man.

Which leads me to think that without The Man I wouldn't need a kitchen. I could store my cauliflower in the cellar, then turn the kitchen into a large shoe closet or something.