What's my favorite thing from 2009, you ask?

Well, without any thinking or with any hesitation I'd say this:

Hamster On A Piano

I like the music. After hearing it I can't get it out of my head.

When I'm stressed, standing in a line of pushing people, waiting for my turn
at the cheese counter, or going to sleep at night this song comes in my head
and I'm saved!

Happy New Year.

Poperade

The Pope was out and about doing papal work. Here's a video of him
coming down the street today in Rome. Not that you'll see him.
He's in the silver car. The one with the blacked-out windows.

He doesn't wave at the peasants and he doesn't travel lightly.

He went to lunch somewhere and was returning to the Vat.
Why doesn't he just put on a baseball hat and take a taxi?

Poperade

Definitely ominous.

Incidentally, in case you lost count along the way. There are
10 motorcycles, 15 vehicles...and don't forget the helicopter!

As Mel Brooks put it in History of the World Part 3:
"It's good to be da king."

Perspective

Click here and fill in the data.

What economic crisis?

Crazy Lady

Merry Christmas 2009.

Pope got bonked by crazy lady...not me.

But, how many times do crazy ladies have to do it
before they get your attention? Huh? Mr. Men of the world?

Look, I feel bad about the Pope. I mean, I don't particularly
like this one, but I still don't like to see old guys roughed up.

However, and you may not care to agree with me,
but I'm convinced that deep inside...I mean way down deep,
we all get a thrill when we see the Kings and Emperors
cut down to size...or tackled, as the case may be.

These (mostly) men walk around with
golden robes or multi-threaded hand made suits of excess,
with Mossad-trained, ear-wired henchmen
in cars with blackened, bullet-proof windows...

and they smile unctuously in the camera...

and they live in palaces of gold and marble splendor...

and they have all these yes-men, lackies, and oooo-er's and awe-er's hanging around them...

...

they're sorta like quarterbacks.

It's good to see one tackled behind the line of scrimmage once in awhile.
Makes the game more interesting.
Keeps us all watching.
Tuned in and turned on.

It's like my Dad yelling at that first base umpire at the Dodger game he took me to
a million years ago. "What are ya lookin' at me for! Keep yer eye on the ball!"

Anyway...

So, tonight here in the Eternal City they ran some old Sophia Loren movie.
I like to see her speaking her native language, being the Italian she is.

I got inspired.
I made a ragu that I think she would have liked.
It was really good.
We ate a lot and washed it down with a nice Cannonau Di Sardegna.

So...

Otherwise, here in Roma, things are nice and quiet.

The Romans split two days ago.
They went to grandma's house or to the ski chalet
or to the Caribbean
or wherever they went
and then went en masse.
They were sitting in airports and train stations
in a big clump, stumped by weather
mad as hatters.

Some friend's relatives tried to get on the Autostada.
After three hours, with the little children in the backseat
crying and complaining,
they returned home and tried again the next morning at five a.m.
They got to their destination, Napoli, two and a half hours later
without any fuss.

We walked around the silent streets of the city this morning
and logged in all the empty parking places.
Now that we have a car, we are always noticing empty spaces.
The center is full of empty parking spots this day.
Our car is nicely parked, but we thought seriously of getting the keys
and moving the thing just because we could!

This is how it is with the "little" people of the world.
Always on the look out for that little bit of advantage...
that little bit of paradise...
that little piece of the pie.

Maybe that's why we like to see the high and mighty come crashing down.
Makes us feel like, yeah, now he knows what it's like to be down looking up.
Now he knows what it feels like to be down trodden, at the mercy of unseen forces.

Maybe...
but, probably not.

A Catcher's Companion

(Something New, My First Book Review)


It was during my middle ages that
I read A Catcher In The Rye for the
first time. I remember opening the
book with great curiosity and antici-
pation and some trepidation because
the book had been banned, its author
charged with writing pornography,
followed by an obscenity trial.

About midway through the book, I was
thinking, "Gee, for a nasty book this one
sure is mild." Then, I realized my error.

I was confusing Catcher with Cancer,
Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, that is.


However, rather than throw the book down and pout disappointedly, I continued
reading Salinger's book because my life was being altered and I had sense enough
to realize it. (Credit The Man for making me a thinking being.)

I remember exactly where I was sitting when I finished it: in Rome, our apartment,
on the divano under the window, early evening. I put the book down and yelled,
"WHY DIDN'T ANYONE MAKE ME READ THIS BOOK WHEN I WAS A 16 YEAR
OLD DORK!!!"

It was like waking up with an extra arm, or something. At first you find it merely
interesting and then useful, especially when you're carrying several heavy bags of
groceries up the stairs or when you want to hail a taxi, but then you have an
epiphany one day where you make the realization that if you'd only had the arm
earlier on your life would have been so much better.

(The old adage "better late than never" does apply in this case, but only in the
puniest, most conciliatory way.)

That first paperback copy of Catcher is long gone. The Man loaned it to a Roman
friend who was trying to perfect her grasp of the English language. She put the
book in her purse which she then slung on the back of her chair at an outdoor cafe
in Campo Dei Fiori, which is tantamount to putting up a sign that says, "STEAL
THIS PURSE." Everyone knows you chain your purse to your leg with an extra heavy,
polished, chrome-plated, steel chain dog leash, preferably one with a smooth
action, swivel-bolt snap release when seated for dining. Anyway, some gypsy
came along and swiped her bag containing our copy of A Catcher In The Rye.

I now own four copies of Catcher so don't feel sorry for me...but more about that later.

Journey with me now back to the present...well, the present minus five months or so.
I'm talking to mon oncle (that's French for "my uncle," but it's also the title of a great
French film made in the 50's or 60's which you definitely should see and which makes
me think I should review some films here as well...)(oh, and mon oncle is just like the
word "monocle," but I forget how one became the other...)

Anyway, I'm talking to mon oncle and he mentions that his son, my coz, Sean, has a
book out. What?! Why didn't I know about this? Why doesn't anyone ever tell me
anything? More importantly, why don't I have a copy? I always knew Sean was a
writer, but published? Wow. I was impressed and family-member-of-the-rock-star
proud. And, AND, IT'S A BOOK ABOUT A CATCHER IN THE RYE!!!

I'm motivated.

I go to Amazon and buy the book. I keep thinking I'm going to send it to Sean and
make him inscribe it to me, but I keep not doing it. But, what I do do is keep reading
the book and enjoying it.

It is designed to be read along with Catcher, corresponding chapter by chapter,
offering definitions and explanations about the life and times of Holden Caldwell
in post WWII New York City.

A Catcher's Companion can also be read on it's own, which is what I do. It is
interesting, humorous and full of information that is slowly being lost and
forgotten, or ignored. It's a fun way to review our society's past, our foibles and
our amazing innovations, linguistically and otherwise.

It's interesting to me, that today's young folks don't know what "galoshes" are...
or who Cary Grant or Gary Cooper were...what a "Gladstone" was used for, or a
"highball"...or that for entertainment people used to go see "burlesque" shows...
they haven't read authors like Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Somerset
Maugham and Ring Gardner... and that occupations like an "elevator guy" and a
"stenographer" along with "skate keys" and (OMG!) "phone booths" don't exist
anymore!

I've never thought much about what today's young readers go through when
confronted by literature from a past era. It's no fun reading something that
causes confusion. That leads to boredom. I'm thinking Beowulf here, which
may be an absurd comparison, but a dark cloud passes over my head every
time I hear that mournful name. I'll never forget the sense of bewildered hysteria
I felt trying to read it in my college lit class and dying because I was constantly
stressing out about things like, "What the heck are 'mead benches' and what
happened to the helmeted guy who was smitten in the breast with a bitter arrow?"

A Catcher's Companion enhances Salinger's work for today's generation of readers,
young or old.

So, if you haven't read A Catcher In The Rye, you definitely owe it to yourself to do so.
And, A Catcher's Companion is the perfect accoutrement to have with you on the journey
into Holden's world.

In fact, I'm thinking Christmas here. After all, Catcher is a Christmas story...sort of.
What a perfect gift for that special someone. Two brightly wrapped books, A Catcher
In The Rye and A Catcher's Companion, tied together with one perfectly curled ribbon.

As I mentioned above I already own four copies of A Catcher In The Rye. I have this
compulsion to grab and buy whenever I see one at a second-hand booksale. My four
have different book covers. I even have the plain ox-blood cover that Mr. Salinger
preferred above all the others. How do I know his preference? I've read about it in
A Catcher's Companion, where else?

Boy, you're gonna make someone so happy.

But, whatever happens, DON'T give Beowulf to anyone...EVER!!

Addendum: Beowulf is mentioned in A Catcher In The Rye. I forgot. How odd. But all
you need to EVER know about Beowulf is illustrated in A Catcher's Companion so you
can just scratch that worry off your list.

Tantamount To A Miracle

I was driving around grocery shopping the other evening and here are
a few things I noticed:

1. My local impersonal, grocery-store/warehouse is going downhill along
with the rest of society and I'm kinda sad about it because they really
have the best produce section in the greater Lime Plant City area. What
I noticed the other night is that they are selling fewer items in larger
quantities. For example, there aren't many small jars of mayonnaise
available. You have to buy the large jar which I don't want because my
cupboards are too small. And, I only wanted ONE roll of paper towels but
I had to buy two in a package and that made me start thinking about how
little storage space I have and how if I'd married a dentist I'd have a
big, walk-in pantry full of space for hundreds of rolls of paper towels
and this train of thought really got me down.

2. The cost of things is on the rise, which is understandable since we
import everything and the dollar is practically worthless. But, still,
$4.20 for two rolls of paper towels is ridiculous. In my world, paper
towels are "throw-away" items. But, now I'm going to have to wash them
out and hang them on the line to dry for reuse.

3. The music in the store was hideous. I just wanted to grocery shop,
not attend a Foo Fighters concert. The median age in the store on this
particular Wednesday evening was about 70 and all us geriatrics were
bumpin' and grindin' our way through the isles getting more and more
riled up and irritable with each passing decibel.

Note to Grocery Store Corporations: I shop less when I'm pissed off.

And, what were those parents with the obviously extremely-sick-and-
feverish-toddler-slumped-over-in-the-shopping-cart thinking?! Why would
they subject their red-faced, sniffling, hacking baby to such vile music?
However, if their goal was to infect half of northeast Ohio with the plague,
well then, they probably succeeded.

The final straw was that I noticed this store no longer stocks Lunds
Pancake Mix, which, as any serious pancake eater knows, is the best
pancake mix on the four innermost planets in this solar system! And,
they have great packaging. I guess Lunds wasn't corporate enough to
compete with, say, Bob's Mills...yuck!

I didn't actually want to buy any Lunds, but it just made me mad that it
had been removed from the shelves. So, I stomped off with what I had in
my grocery cart (which is bigger than my Geo), paid for everything, even
the over-priced paper towels, and got in my dinky car to go over to the
other major grocery store a few miles away.

Only a few miles away but in a different universe, this store was full
of young, old, happy, sad, thin, fat, smart, dumb, contemplative, head-
scratching, blabbing, silent, upright-walking, knuckle-dragging beings
that, if you could have dumped them all in a boiling hot cauldron and
cooked them, would have made up a human stew worthy of a Michelin star,
a stew that would turn the staunchest vegetarian into a cannibal eager
to lick the spoon.

And, they have a Starbucks!

It was wonderful! My journey to the center of the vortex of the human
race was complete. Satiating. Somewhat disorienting.

But, I had serious work to do. I needed to finish my shopping and get
home to The Man because I live in fear that some day he's going to come
out of his poetry-writing revelry, look up and realize that the crazy
woman who usually runs around yelling about stuff is gone and get it
into his head to go out looking for her and fall in the pond and get
eaten by Frank the bluegill.

But, then I experienced a miracle! I was driving home and it was now
just after dusk. I drove past brittle corn fields, the corn dry in the
husks. I passed a farmhouse complex with two barns and two silos, plus
other smaller outbuildings all whitewashed. Each of the tallest structures,
house, barns and silos, had small windows set right at the top near the
peak of the roof. In each of these high windows the farmer had placed a
lighted pumpkin (plastic, I assume) on the window ledge. As I gazed over,
my eyes were met with such a beautiful sight. The buildings were glowing
softly in the aftermath of the sunset and were just visible against a
darkened sky. The muted, orange balls of light from the pumpkins shown
like eerie beacons above a sea of dead corn.

It was the best autumnal effect I've seen in a long time, very subtle and
alluring and it single-handedly made me like it here in The Land of O and
think that maybe there is hope for America.

And, if you know me at all, you know that me thinking these kind of thoughts
is tantamount to a miracle.

I drove home and, happily, The Man was not yet out of his revelry and hadn't
been eaten by Frank, which, in my book, makes for a perfect day.

Barnacles

I think all young girls, say starting around 17 or 18 years old,
should be required by constitutional law to spend 20 hours a week
with an old woman at least 55 years old, not related, an anonymous
hag, someone who will tell them the truth and not sugarcoat it,
the truth about getting old.

Here's the deal. Yesterday, The Man mentioned to me that it was
the twentieth anniversary of the Loma Prieta Earthquake that shook
San Francisco and resulted in the horrendous collapse of the Bay
Bridge. We were there. We were in an Airporter Bus on The Golden
Gate Bridge, as a matter of fact, having just returned from visiting
family in The Land of O, for irony's sake!

I'll never forget, we were about two-thirds way across the Bridge
and the bus driver had just turned on the radio so that we could
all listen to Game Three of The World Series between the S.F. Giants
and the Oakland A's, a real hometown series. Suddenly, the bus
swerved sharply and we hit the curb, bouncing back into the traffic
lane. The Man looked out the window and saw a person on the Bridge
walkway thrown off balance trying to stay on his feet and not fall
over the side.

We were very lucky. We made it home safely. We lived on a boat and
so had nothing to worry about. No destruction or loss. We even had
earthquake supplies stored in a plastic tub thanks to my anal tendencies.

Well, anyway...it was a very drastic situation and we remember it well.
However, the shocking part is that it happened TWENTY YEARS AGO! I am
ten years older NOW, than The Man was THEN! Or, to put it another way,
I was one young hot chick and The Man was a galloping stud and what the
heck happened?!

I mean that earthquake feels like yesterday! Yet, here I am knitting
shawls, wondering if I have arthritic feet and thinking that Assisted
Living looks like fun.

Just last week I went to see a dermatologist. The Man has some moles and
bumps on his body that look like something the astronauts brought back
from the moon mission. Even wearing TWO pair of glasses I am unable
to determine if the entities growing on his legs and back are ornamental,
fungal or death stars. And (I shouldn't divulge this), but one of his
circular moles actually has a smiley face on it. I am not kidding!

MY obsession with HIS moles compelled ME to make appointments for US
to visit the dermatologist and to let him rake us over the dermatological
coals.

(Oh, wait, NOTE TO MYSELF: In my next life be a dermatologist...WHAT A
RACKET!!)

So, we went to the office and I went in first. The doctor was a young,
short, very clean looking guy. He had a younger resident working with
him. The nurse was there, too, which made for a happy and crowded
examination. I, naturally, was the only one wearing a paper gown. The
others were clothingly advantaged. But, we did okay. We made small
talk while the doctor started hunting for anomalies. He was very serious
and thorough. I asked him about the weird thing in my ear, the weirder
thing on my chest and the really weird thing on my backside. He glanced
at them all and proclaimed them to be age spots.

Age spots. How sad sounding. No smiley faces for me.

I asked him about the bright red dots that are spread across my torso
like constellations, a sprinkling of stars and planets floating along
in the Milky Way of my belly fat. These heavenly bodies are something
to behold. I thought the doctor might be impressed because up to this
point my examination was entirely unremarkable. (Another note to myself:
Never, NEVER try to impress a doctor! They are only impressed by things
that kill you...and half of the rest of the planet.)

He commented that, yes, I had quite a few of them. They're dead veins,
he said. Then, he added this immortal phrase: "You're covered with the
Barnacles of Age."

That's when I got to thinking. Why didn't anyone prepare me for this moment?

WHY DIDN'T ANYONE EVER TELL ME THAT ONE DAY I WOULD BE COVERED WITH
CRUSTACEANS!!!!

This is why I think every young girl should get a few lessons in what the
future holds.

Think about it, old women out there. Think about the pearls of wisdom
you could bestow on some young, naive, dumb-dumb girl who thinks she's
going to be soft and supple with silky shiny locks of grey-free hair
forever.

You're probably cackling, "The young won't listen, why bother!" Well,
I'm not so sure about that. It would depend on how you structure the
course. You can't be nice. You have to be stern and unrelenting. You
have to frequently shake your knarly, arthritic finger at them and make
them do homework and term papers on topics like The Sagging Chin and
Bladder Control. And part of the curriculum would be based on my award
winning textbook entitled: That's Not A Mole, That's a Barnacle On My Butt!



ADDENDUM: Oh, and just so you know, the dermatologist didn't say
ANYTHING to The Man about his assortment of bodily oddities which
brought us in to this den of insults in the first place! He didn't
mention the words "Age Spots" or "Barnacles," he didn't wince at
the obvious rotted bits hanging here and there, he didn't recoil
in horror when he got near The Man's toes.

Which is inspiration for my NEXT textbook: It's a Man's World,
Girlie, So Get Used To It!

The United Sachs of Goldman

I dragged The Man to the Regal Cinema for our 2009 film-viewing experience.
We went to see Michael Moore's latest documentary, "Capitalism: A Love Story,"
the inspiration for my title of this blog.

I don't do much political commentary here, but I would like to tell everyone
to see this film. Even if you're a RightWing/FundiChristian/HateRadiofreak,
go see this one. Oh, he does disparage George W. a few times, but...well...so.
Other than that, I think ALL OF THE PEOPLE should at least consider the
depressing realities that this documentary illustrates so well. I like Michael
Moore because the guy has cojones. I mean, who would stand in front of the
CitiBank building in New York City holding a large money sack demanding that
Citi give back the money it stole from the American tax payer. Or, who would
show up at A.I.G. to make a citizen's arrest on the C.E.O. Oh sure, he had a
camera crew with him and everyone knows who he is, but still. He's got guts.
He doesn't hide behind a microphone or in a sound studio. He puts himself out
there on the street, in people-who-matter's faces and I have respect for that
kind of bravery because I could NEVER do that. I much prefer weeny-bitching
in the safety and comfort of my own living room like, I suppose, most Americans
who are programmed to think things like, "Heaven forbid I should actually put
my self on the front line because, geewhiz, it might be dangerous and I might
get arrested and what would people think." Moore has none of these qualms.
I support him in his efforts and I admire his ability to put an interesting,
thought provoking, entertaining, emotional film together. He made me raise
my eyebrows with skepticism, struggle with understanding difficult concepts,
laugh out loud and seethe with rage. He made me proud of my country like I
haven't felt in a long time. And, he also made me cry for my country, which
is another thing I haven't done in a long time. As I left the theatre, I was
keenly aware of my fellow citizens. It was a strange sensation. I felt this
intense oneness with my fellow theatre-goers, like we were all comrades
fighting for the survival of our common ideals, like I wanted to shake their
hands and say hello to them, to connect somehow, to stand in the parking lot
singing "We Are The World" or something.

Lexapro

Aggression, anxiety, balance issues, blurred vision,
brain zaps, concentration impairment, constipation,
crying spells, depersonalization, diarrhea, dizziness,
electric shock sensations, fatigue, flatulence, flu-like
symptoms, hallucinations, hostility, highly emotional,
indigestion, irritability, impaired speech, insomnia,
jumpy nerves, lack of coordination, lethargy, migraine
headaches, nausea, nervousness, over-reacting to situations,
paranoia, repetitive thoughts or songs, sensory & sleep
disturbances, severe internal restlessness (akathasia),
stomach cramps, tremors, tinnitus, tingling sensations,
troubling thoughts, visual hallucinations, vivid dreams,
nightmares, speech changes, worsened depression.

So, anyway, that's what I've been up to. How about you?

You see, about a year and a half ago my doctor asked me if I were anxious
and depressed. I said, "Sorta." He said, "I can give you a happy pill
if you want." Honestly, he used the term "HAPPY PILL" which just made
it all sound like such an excellent idea, you know? How could "Happy" be
bad for you. So, I said, "You bet!"

Well, now here we are, many months later and I've decided to stop taking
Lexapro, which is the drug's trade name.

The Man encouraged me to quit, saying he wanted the "old me" back. I guess
he likes the hysterical type. But, I decided to quit because the drug is
making me fat and sleepy. Also, there is the fact that the pharmaceutical
company (Forest Laboratories) which "managed to turn this medicinal after-
thought into a bestseller" (New York Times, Sept. 2, 2009), is under Senate
investigation for paying doctors to prescribe the drug to children, etc....
but I don't really care about this because everyone knows that the
pharmaceutical companies are always screwing around.

No, what's important to me is the "fat" part. Almost everyone who takes
this drug complains about the weight gain that follows. So, I ask you,
WHAT KIND OF NINCOMPOOP PHYSICIAN WOULD PRESCRIBE A DEPRESSION
MEDICATION THAT MAKES A WOMAN FAT, HUH? I mean, 99.9% of the reason
I get depressed is because of my weight! How dumb is this guy that he doesn't
know this about me and just about every other woman on the planet Earth?

Anyway, I had no idea. I just thought I was getting fatter because I wasn't
exercising enough or because I was getting old and all my internal organs are
starting to drop to my ankles. But, then I began reading some testimonials
from people on Lexapro and it was all the same thing - they were all getting
fat and hating it.

Another common reaction is tiredness and excess sleeping. I was aware that
I was sleeping more. I'd go to bed at 9:00 and easily sleep until 8:00 the
next morning, dreaming epic dreams, some in foreign languages! It was great,
but not very normal. Also, I noticed that after a thirty-minute lap swim,
I'd come home and need a two hour nap to recover.

All this summer I've been wondering about my complacency. Dust bunnies the
size of tumble-weeds would roll across the floor and, rather than sweep them
up, I'd place mental bets on which one would reach the wall first and explode
on impact. I named the two spiders in the bathroom because, in my mind, "Gee,
everything needs a place to live."

It took me a long time to put two and two together. When I finally figured
it out I decided to taper off the drug very slowly...because this so called
"Happy Pill" will come after you with pitchforks and cauldrons of boiling
tar if you try to escape its clutches, I read.

Everything was fine until I had That Darned Wisdom Tooth (TDWT) pulled.
Well, it was sort of my fault, but anyway, what with all the pain pills
and antibiotic pills and my statin pill, I decided that I'd just quit
the Lexapro altogether because, in my post-surgical, warped mind, it
was one less pill to take.

All went well for about seven days, except for some dizziness and loud
buzzing in my head, which I assumed were affects from the antibiotics
or the Vicodin I was taking for TDWT. But, then I started getting these
brain zap things and then it occurred to me that maybe this had something
to do with the Lexapro.

Duh.

They actually have a name for what I'm going through. It's called SSRI
Withdrawal Syndrome. Yes, it's a "syndrome" and it can last from one to
SEVEN(I Want My Mama)WEEKS!

Today is Day 12 and here are my withdrawal symptoms to date:

Buzzing brain - it's like I can hear every single synapse;
Brain zaps - which are entities in and of themselves and may not be from this world;
Bouts of ferocious irritability that amaze even me;
Dizziness - but only when I'm standing up;
Sleep disturbance - which really gets me because I was so loving that cozy,
deep, gaaaaa sleep I was getting before. Now, I'm waking up at the ungodly
hour of 6:30 and 7:00 in the morning;
Speech impairment - which The Man finds amusing when I'm trying to verbally
abuse him;
Oh, CRYING! - I hadn't cried in the last 18 months, since starting the drug,
but the other day in the driveway this stray kitten shows up and it's meowing
and rubbing itself on my legs and it wants to be loved and petted and I just
looked up at The Man and said, "I can't handle this," and I stormed into the
house, stomped up the stairs, fell on my bed, and had a FANTASTIC crying fit!
It felt soooo gooood ...well, except for the fact that the cute little kitten
was going to have a terrible life and probably premature death, and because we
leave the country every winter I can't have a cat of my own like I was saying
I wanted just the day before, but oh, it felt so good to cry about it;
Hallucinations - I keep thinking this clump of wood in the backyard is a two-foot
long frog. It startles me almost daily.
Vivid dreams/Nightmares - I am seeing more snakes than usual in my dreams
but I can't say they've been really disturbing or scary...so far.

Other than the above, I feel fairly good. I am able to act normal when
around other people and while negotiating small cash transactions.

But, I want to say that this is ONE HELL OF AN EXPERIENCE I am going through.
And, I also say, that I have never experienced withdrawal LIKE THIS from any
other mind-altering drug I've EVER taken in my life, including those consumed
during the rowdy 80's in Hollywood and San Francisco!!

So, anyway, that's what I've been up to. How about you?...or did I already ask that.

Great Words NEVER Uttered By The Man

Here's a hundred dollars, Babe. Go get yourself something nice.

Oh, darn tomato sauce! I'll never get this stain out!

Gee, there's only one chocolate chip cookie left. Here, you have it.

Will you please stop washing my clothes all the time!

I don't care what it costs!

Honey, where did you put the Comet. I want to clean the toilets
before Darrel and Walter get here.

Mmmmmm. This tastes so good, it must be bad for me.

I'll drive!

I couldn't decide between the roses or the orchids, so I bought you both.

I'm sick and tired of your constant demands for sex!

Do these shoes make me look fat?

It's a good thing I remembered my hankie.

Yippee! We get to go Christmas shopping!

Tsk, tsk. Just look at all this dust!

OMG! You let me walk around all day wearing mismatched socks?!

Does our medical insurance cover liposuction?

If I were a color, what color would I be?

Hand me my rolex watch, would you? Not that one, the other one.

The point of this exercise is to illustrate the fact that what one doesn't say
is as revealing as what one does say.

I'm developing the science of anti-observation, a substratum of quantum
mechanics, I think, because I am observing the un-observable.

The Man is my test rat.

Words

(This is completely copied from www.davidpbrown.co.uk. When I read it my
morning coffee squirted out my nose.)


The Washington Post published a contest for readers in which they were
asked to supply alternate meanings for various words. The following were
some of the winning entries:

Abdicate
(v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.

Carcinoma
(n.), a valley in California, notable for its heavy smog.

Esplanade
(v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.

Willy-nilly
(adj.), impotent

Flabbergasted
(adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.

Negligent
(adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in
your nightie.

Lymph
(v.), to walk with a lisp.

Gargoyle
(n.), an olive-flavored mouthwash.

Bustard
(n.), a very rude Metrobus driver.

Coffee
(n.), a person who is coughed upon.

Flatulence
(n.), the emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run
over by a steamroller.

Balderdash
(n.), a rapidly receding hairline.

Testicle
(n.), a humorous question on an exam.

Semantics
(n.), pranks conducted by young men studying for the priesthood,
including such things as gluing the pages of the priest's prayer
book together just before vespers.

Rectitude
(n.), the formal, dignified demeanor assumed by a proctologist
immediately before he examines you.

Marionettes
(n.), residents of Washington DC who have been jerked around by
the mayor.

Oyster
(n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddish expressions.

Circumvent
(n.), the opening in the front of boxer shorts.

Frisbatarianism
(n.), The belief that, when you die, your soul goes up on the roof
and gets stuck there.




The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any
word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting or changing
one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are some recent winners:


Sarchasm
The gulf between the author of ironic wit and the reader who doesn't get it.

Reintarnation
Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

Giraffiti
Vandalism spray-painted very high.

Foreploy
Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of obtaining sex.

Inoculatte
To take coffee intravenously.

Osteopornosis
A degenerate disease.

Karmageddon
It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes,
right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like a serious bummer.

Glibido
All talk and no action.

Dopeler effect
The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

Intaxication
Euphoria at getting a refund from the IRS, which lasts until you realize
it was your money to start with.

Ignoranus
A person who's both stupid and an asshole.

My Final Words Of Wisdom Tooth

The right side of my face is all pooched out and there's a big red blotch that
isn't a bruise and so I don't want to think about what caused it.

Here's the funny thing, though...at least I thought it was funny when I thought
about it this afternoon...'course, I'm on opiates...

But, get this. The other day after my surgery while I'm sitting there - wondering
where exactly my brain is since I know for a fact it is NOT in my cranial cavity
anymore because I distinctly remember it waving bye-bye and flying out my ear
during the first phase of drilling leaving me high and dry and forcing me to have
to really work hard to sit upright and look normal now that the ordeal is over -
the dentist comes in and starts telling me all the things I have to do and all
the things I must NOT do cause I could die probably.

The litany went something like this:

Okay, everything looks good. You can remove the gauze when you get home, or after
an hour whichever comes first. If bleeding continues, try biting down on a wet
teabag. You'll have to go to the pharmacy and get three prescriptions filled. Two
are for pain and one is an antibiotic that you have to take three times, spaced out
evenly throughout the day for the next ten days. Make sure you take all three and
don't miss a dose. The pain medications are Vicodin and Oxycodone. These seem to
work best if you alternate them, you know, take one then take the other the next
time. You can't brush your teeth today, but you can tomorrow and you should also
rinse your mouth out with salt water, 1/2 teaspoon in a glass of warm water, but NOT
today, starting tomorrow. I don't want you to suck anything through a straw and
don't spit! Don't blow your nose for at least three weeks. If you sneeze make sure
you keep your mouth open. Don't let your ears pop. Oh, you're not planning on
flying anywhere are you? No? Good. If you get a cold you can use your regular
antihistamine and if your nose runs, just wipe it, don't blow. Keep ice on your
cheek, twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. But after two days, switch to heat,
twenty on, twenty off. For the next couple of nights sleep in a recliner if you've
got one. Keep your head elevated and this will alleviate swelling...blah, blah,
blah, blah, blah.

His lips were moving but all I could hear was: GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE,
GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE...

But, the whole time he's talking, my empty head is nodding up and down like a
bobblehead chiwawa on the dashboard of a Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme and I'm going,
"Uh huh...uh huh...uh huh," like I AM GETTING ANY OF THIS! I wanted to ask him,
"Hey Buster, where were you when by brain left? It was that big gray, ripply mass
with the cute little bat wings that popped out and flew away when you were in there
drilling for the Lost Dutchman Mine!

So, I didn't comprehend anything he said and I felt really guilty about it but I
couldn't help it. In the car on the way home I was trying to read the written
instructions and The Man asked me what I thought I was doing and I told him I have
to read this stuff and he said I was nuts and to just sit back and relax.

Then, I was there in the pharmacy still totally numb and worrying that my bloody
piece of gauze was going to pop out as I listened to some old lady who told me that
television was all sex and bad words and that Obama was all for abortion and that he
was going to close all the churches just like in Russia, and then the pharmacist
called my name and asked me if I had any questions but I couldn't think of any
because I didn't even know what the prescriptions were for because my brain was in
Madagascar hunting wild Fossa.

Today I became concerned that I had missed a dose of the antibiotic and it took me
about an hour to figure out that I could just count how many pills I had left and
that would tell me how many I'd taken so far, but then I realized that I was having
difficulty counting normally because I HAD remembered to take the Oxycodone.

And, that's when I began to wonder.

If I can't keep track of all this stuff, how do the stupid people do it without
killing themselves?!

I made the realization during the surgery that the whole procedure was from some
evil science-fiction world and I was willing to go along with it.

But this post-surgery rigamarole is just too much!

And, that's all I have to say ever again about the matter!

Except tonight I have to drive to the airport and pick up my brain which is
arriving very late and will have, I'm sure, tons of baggage.

A Wisdom Tooth Poem of Horror

Yesterday I had a scare
while seated in the dental chair.
Sit back and read, then say a prayer
thanking God that you weren't there.
It wasn't fun, it wasn't easy.
It would've made a grown man queasy.

I went in for a simple transaction,
better known as wisdom-tooth extraction.
But, as you’ll see, this simple subtraction
turned into a chain reaction
of horror and fright difficult to express,
but let me try and recount my duress.

It all started out in a manner routine
no indication from the x-ray machine
of difficulties that might arise unforeseen
that would eventually turn me a yellowish-green.
I declined the anesthetic administered by vein
and was given instead SEVEN shots of Novocaine.

That was a mistake I now know in hindsight.
Unconsciousness would have been an utter delight.
I would have avoided the trauma and fright,
the need to hold on with all of my might.
But, I decided to be brave and save $300 dollars
which is why I’m not welcome in The Community of Scholars.

Then in mask and gloves appeared my oral surgeon
ready to work on me, his wisdom-tooth virgin.
Whilst I quickly looked for something to purge in
he lifted his arms and started to surge in.
I closed my eyes and pretended to be
walking in a meadow of daffodil and sweet pea.

He had told me that this was “only a twenty minute ordeal”
so I meditated in order to avoid having to feel
the panic that started rising somewhere in my heel
and spread through my body like liquid hot steel.
I entered a state of total submission,
as he prodded with tools from the Spanish Inquisition.

Forty-five minutes later he was still at it.
By now my jaw needed wiring, my lip was split,
my hands were shaking and, I have to admit,
I was on the verge of throwing a fit.
His latex gloves were filled with sweat dripping
onto my face and down my arms slipping.

The tooth wasn’t moving, it wouldn’t come out.
At one point the tool slipped, I let out a shout!
The dentist was panting, the nurse looked with doubt.
I felt like I was going to die, just about.
The pulling, the tugging went on ad infinitum
and it got to the point where I wanted to bite ‘em.

I was no longer able to meditate clearly.
The drilling affected my concentration dearly.
The sound was so loud, my skull grated severely
It whizzed up my brain stem and shuttered me queerly.
Instead, I began earnestly beseeching my tooth
to relinquish it’s hold on my jawbone, forsooth!

But all my pleading fell flat on deaf ears.
No matter my curses, my gut wrenching tears.
My tooth wouldn’t listen, it said it adheres
because it likes where it’s been all these years.
I had to admit, it did have a point
but, please, I said, please!, I want out of this joint.

Finally, finally, finally, at last!
The tooth popped out, sick of being harassed.
It came in two pieces, the crises was past
T’was a dentalian battle unsurpassed.
We three, the doctor, the nurse and me
all cried out in VICTORY!

The stitches were sewn with jubilant elation,
some x-rays followed, then a brief consultation.
I was given prescriptions and other information
about what to expect with regained oral sensation.
The Man was admitted to find me still breathing
and happy I’d survived this horrendous de-teething.

Now I’m recuperating in a drug induced haze.
My jaw is all swollen and will be for days.
The Man he is helping me get through this phase
with icepacks, pudding and the piano he plays.
I lie on the sofa and thank my stars lucky
that the day after tomorrow I won't feel so yucky.

But, one thing I do not understand, heaven knows,
is why I can’t for three weeks blow my nose!
And, when I sneeze my mouth mustn’t close!
This, until the wall of my nasal cavity re-grows.
I must be careful and try not to go mental
'Cause the last thing I want is to go back for more dental.

Now, I am weary and must go and rest,
I've tried to describe it all to my best.
I hope you've been able to perceive and digest
how important it was to get this off my chest.
So, this is my story, I swear on my youth,
it's the tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth.

You Can't Take Me Anywhere

This evening The Man decided to go walk along the pier. "Fine," I said, since I had
no intention of joining him. I usually go along, but tonight I thought not. After all,
I'd had a massive swim at the pool and had, after all, fixed dinner, and had, after all,
fed the fish, and had, after all, watered the pots. I after-alled out of going.

But, then I waited...and waited...and waited. He didn't come home. Where was he?
Did he fall down in a ditch? Did he stumble off the pier and drown? Did he get lost?
Did he get hit by a jet ski? Did aliens abduct him?

I mean, I was at a loss. I began to panic. He was out of my sight for thirty minutes
and there I was gasping for air thinking he must be dead and that I had nothing to
wear to the funeral except for an excellent pair of black Earth shoes that are really
just to die for.

I decided to go out and rescue him. I jumped up from the computer and jumped
onto my bicycle, neglecting to put on my shoes...or anyone's shoes, for that matter,
since this was an emergency!

Yes, I left the house on two wheels and shoeless...but, I figured that this was okay
since this is Lime Plant City and I had just polished my toenails this very afternoon.

I peeled down to the breakwater, running the stop sign, looking for The Man. He wasn't
lying along the side of the road. I couldn't see him thrashing about in the lake. I didn't
see any evidence of police intervention at the local bait shop. But, then, just as I was
about to head out onto the pier, there he was, sitting on a bench along the water's edge,
talking to a friend.

And, that's kinda when all hell broke loose.

You see, this friend is a right-wing, Fox News disciple, studying up for his final exam to join
the heavenly angels of racially-bigoted-hated-filled-close-the-borders-gimme-my-social-
security brotherhood.

I didn't know this when he told me to sit down and join the conversation. But, I will
say that I'd just left the house after reading all kinds of bad news on Alternet.com...which
tells you a little about where I was coming from when I sat down with this NUT CASE!

So, there we were...sitting lakeside, enjoying the late-summer tranquility and a few
mosquitoes, chit-chatting about my bare feet.

Then, somebody mentioned "healthcare."

Then, hell'th took over.

We got into it.

I don't know. Maybe it was the glasses of wine I'd had with dinner. Maybe it was the fact
that I'm doomed tomorrow because I'm going in for a much belated wisdom tooth extraction.
I don't know. But, whatever it was, something in me snapped. I got mad. Real mad.

I decided not to just smile and go "Hmmm. Uh huh..." to all the visceral garbage this guy
was spewing out. I decided to fight.

Later, The Man said I needed to work on my delivery. He's probably right. I did get a
little heated. But, I was steaming mad and let it fly. I couldn't help myself. I'm just so
sick, so sick, so sick of the racism and bigotry and fear and hatred I keep hearing from
uneducated people who can only spout out slogans and repeat sound bites they hear on Fox.

Listen, if you want to impress me, if you want me to listen, be original, okay?

Give me thoughtful countenance, not regurgitation!

Now I'm thinking I've ruined a friendship. I don't feel apologetic at all, though. I just
feel sad and miserable. I'm sad because I live here with nimrods, and I'm miserable
because I don't know where to go to escape them.

Not that I'm Dagney Taggert...but, Who is John Galt? And, more importantly, where
is Galt's Gulch. I need to go there.

I can't really remember the plot of Atlas Shrugged, but I do remember the mindless,
weakness of the people. And, that's what I feel now. And, that's why I got mad. And,
that's why I couldn't just shut up and go, "Hmmm...Uh huh..."

I'm really starting to worry. I'm really starting to think I'm living in an insane world.

And, let me tell you, if I'm starting to feel this way, it's a bad situation because I am
not an innovator, I am a reflector. I reflect what's going on. I'm representative of
the status quo. And, if the status quo is this screwed up, we're in for it.

I feel so sad.

I will continue thinking about this as I go under the knife tomorrow morning
at 9:45, at my oral surgeon's office, where they want a $300 deposit before they'll
do anything, in spite of the fact that I have dental insurance!!!

More Than You Need To Know

This morning I'm having one of
those The-Smithsonian-called-
and-they-want-to-stuff-you-
when-you're-dead moments.

You see, I'm menstruating.
Don't look away in disgust!
How do you think I feel!

Here I am, 55 and 1/2 years
old and my Aunt Flo from
Redlands is visiting...AGAIN!!

I'm on the rag. Miss Scarlett’s come home to Tara. I've gotten a dishonorable discharge
from the Uterine Navy. I'm saddling Ol' Rusty. It's game day for the Crimson Tide.
I've rebooted the Ovarian Operating System.

Under normal circumstances, I would never write about something this personal
because I am from a generation of people who never spoke out loud about anything
that, in the slightest, teeniest-tiniest, itsy-bitsiest way, referred to a bodily function.
But, I am so appalled, so amazed, so astonished by the inner workings of my body,
that I feel the need to share.

I would say I want you to "feel my pain," but there is no pain. There's nothing except
the continual need to go out and buy pads...or, no, I mean "feminine napkins." Now,
THAT'S a term from MY generation.

"Feminine Napkins" is a good one. Sort of makes you feel all warm and cozy. But,
isn't the use of the word "feminine" a redundancy in this case? I mean, they didn't
make "Masculine Napkins" did they? If they did, I really missed out on that! I shall
ask The Man whether or not he ever had need for a "Masculine Napkin" just as soon
as he wakes up this morning. I like to give him pause for thought first thing.

But, what I was going to say about buying the pads is that when I purchase them I
am aware of the furtive glance from most cashiers. Their eyes flicker up and look at
my old face, then they look back down. Then, suddenly, their thoughts begin scrolling
across their foreheads like a Jenny Holzer LED display. "She must be buying these
for her granddaughter!"

So, here I sit. Miss Eternally Fertile. Oh, I know what they say, that these aren't
real periods, that they're imitation, sort of like Imitation Ice Cream, or "I Can't Believe
It's Not Butter." But, I can tell they're real, all right. This is no imitation menstruation.
Which makes me wonder if, let's say, the Huns decided to attack Lime Plant City for
some raping and pillaging, well, could I get pregnant?

Whoa. I think my brain just did a polar shift. I have to pick myself up off the floor
and upright my chair.

I mean, OMG. Just imagine. What if?!

You'd see me on Oprah, for sure. She could do the whole show from here, filming the
results of the pillaging and at the end I'd come out and talk about my ordeal at
the hands of those disgusting Huns and I'd cry and stuff. And then, after the break,
would come the moment the world was waiting for: "Oprah, meet my son, Attila.
Say hello to the nice lady, Atti."

Future generations would pay to see me at The Smithsonian Institution, right there
in the American Anomalies and Freaks Collection, on display, eternally, forevermorally.

I'm ridin' the cotton pony right into immortality.

Wow. Giddyup there!



(Addendum: I asked The Man about whether or not he ever used a masculine napkin.
Without missing a beat he said yes, he often requested waiters to "please remove this
disgustingly inferior, offensive, dainty towelette and bring me a decent, Masculine Napkin."

Then, several moments later after having time to really think about it, he got all offended
and said he didn't want to talk about it, that it was a bit premature, that he wasn't ready
for diapers at this point. Maybe in the future. Gee. Methinks he doth protest too much.)

Speed Kills

35 MPH is for weenies and dead people.

Yeah, call me an unamerican, communist-sympathizing, draft-dodging, lesbian-
atheist-professional-sports-hating troublemaker, but I am convinced that the
35 MPH speed limit was developed to numb the brains of the American driver
and make us all pathetic, apathetic, and copasetic to the core.

35 MPH is the driving equivalent of "Don't Worry, Be Happy."

I bet you that nothing in the universe goes 35 MPH in it's natural state. I think
it's a mutant speed of movement. In fact, it could be the "anti" speed. It's like
when anti matter meets matter. Things explode. Kind of like what happens to
me when my speed runs into 35MPG.

We've got this road here in Lime Plant City. It's a main road that leads into the
down-townless area where The Man and I live. EVERY time I happen to NEED
to take this particular stretch of road I ALWAYS get behind someone driving a
Buick LeSabre who has just left the hospital having had a quadruple lobotomy
and they JUST HAVE to drive EXACTLY 35MPH!

And so we sit there, going along so slowly, NEVER WAVERING from exactly
35 MPH, our brain cells dying and falling out the window, sprinkled along the
roadway like Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs.

Three days later we're still there. I look in my rear view mirror and see, not the
reflection of my weary face, but a spider building a large web connecting the
mirror to the door. It's a nice web, actually. It doesn't even ruffle because
there's no breeze. We're going too slowly for a breeze.

A bird has build a nest between the base of the radio antenna and the passenger-side
windshield wiper, and is settling around her eggs. I must think of good names for the
brood when they hatch in about two weeks, at which time I estimate I'll only be about
another mile from home.

Now, don't for a minute think I get angry or impatient. No, no, no. I just set my seat
back a little further, turn on the classical station and think about how lucky all of us
are, all of us behind the LeSabre. We have this wonderful opportunity to pause and
recount our lives up to this point, our highs and lows, our thrills and defeats, lovers,
friends, family. Some of us have pulled scraps of paper, old receipts, used wads of
Kleenex from under the seats and are writing our autobiographies, or our last wills
and testaments, since we'll all be dead by the time we get home again.

When I went grocery shopping I was only 55 years old. Now, I'm 105 and I'm afraid
The Man will have taken up with some 63 year old spring chicken by the time I make
it back.

Still, the LeSabre creeps along.

I know that I could pass it. But, in Lime Plant City, the last time someone attempted
to pass another vehicle the lead driver had a stroke which resulted in an 80 car pile-up.
'Course, damage was minimal, what with the fact that the cars were only going 35 MPH!

About the time my head is rolling off it's hinges and my tongue is tired from trying to
touch the tip of my nose (and from playing other equally worthless tongue-stretching
games), the LeSabre suddenly leans over in the bicycle lane and dies.

It takes the rest of us drivers about ten minutes before our brains start synapsing again.
Then, we all pass, one after the other, staring wide-eyed, wondering, "What'll we do now?"

But now I'm in the lead. Ha Ha!

I pop good ol' Geoie into second gear and off we roar...

at 36 MPG!

Whipped Sour Cream

I was making a Chile Relleno
Casserole.

I'd found these absolutely beautiful
poblano chiles at a roadside market.
I brought them home. I'm not sure
why I was so thrilled. I'm not sure
why I bought them. But, at the time,
it seemed the only thing to do. Was I
possessed? Was it a haunting of some
kind? Maybe something from a past
life...which seems worrisome, in retrospect.

Did I have a fling with Montezuma?!

I even decided to make homemade ricotta cheese. It's an incredibly easy
thing to do and the results make it so worth while.

So, there I was, Miss M. Stewart. It's a wonder I didn't decide to mosaic
the fish pond with bits of tie-died eggshell.

I ended up making this casserole using the market-bought poblanos
and my home-made ricotta, plus other minor ingredients...this is not a
recipe blog, People! Go get your own.

But now, I swear, I'm typing this with fingers on fire!

After I roasted the peppers, I had to clean them. So, I put a rubber glove
on my left hand. But, BUT I left my right hand exposed! Why? What was
I thinking? Or, what was I NOT thinking? I DON'T KNOW, BUT I NEVER
WANT TO FORGET THE GLOVES AGAIN AND NEITHER DO YOU IF
YOU'RE READING THIS!!!

So, we just ate the concoction, the Chile Relleno Casserole. It was good, but
OMG! My fingers wouldn't stop burning! When we first sat down I mentioned
to The Man that I thought I had a problem. By the time we'd served ourselves
I had my thumb and forefinger stuck in a dollop of sour cream that sat atop
my casserole. I don't know what possessed me. But, I suddenly couldn't
resist the allure of the white blob of cool cream. My fingers just dove in.
I'm so glad The Queen wasn't there.

My eyes flashed up to The Man. Was he watching? Did he notice? I mean,
how could he not? I'm carrying on normal conversation but my fingers are
twiddling in the sour cream. Even HE must notice the strangeness. But, oh,
awwww...it felt sooooo good.

"So, dear, how was your day?"...squish...squish.

Then, The Man says, "This is hot!"

I say, "Do you mean spicy-hot or temperature-hot?"

He says, "Spicy!"

I look at my soothed fingers in the white goo. "Oh really," I say, "You're the one
who likes spicy food."

He says, "Yeah, but, this is really hot!"

I look up at him and the whites of his eyes are purple.

Now, I'm online looking for remedies for burning fingers, wondering how I'm
supposed to sleep tonight.

One site said use rubbing alcohol, another said milk, another said bleach.

For me, it's Herb Albert or die.

Dear Blog,

If we survive the night, I'll let you know.
Something tells me, the worst is yet to come.

Love,
Fire Fingers

Finishing School

I am sick of my own voice.

I can't stand the sound of
it anymore.

I forget exactly what The Man
did to get me so riled up. But,
whatever it was, I've had it.

I heard myself, is what happened.
Heard myself blabbing in tongues,
crabbing about something, going
on and on and then, all of a sudden,
I had an out of body experience
and I was talking AND listening
at the same time.

It was awful. It was so awful.

It's pretty bad when you're having a conniption fit about something and, suddenly,
you actually hear your own voice! Think about it. Usually, you just talk and talk,
but you NEVER hear yourself. Others hear you, but you don't. That's why some
people talk REALLY LOUD, or they speak really quietly because they can't hear how
loud or quiet they are because...well... they're talking! It's like walking and chewing
gum at the same time. You have to concentrate and be hyper aware to talk and hear
yourself at the same time, which is what I accomplished the other day and now I'm
so appalled by the whole experience I just want to lay under the covers and suffocate.

I've decided to go to finishing school. Remember those? Neither do I, but I've heard
about them in movies. Anyway, in these schools they teach girls how to be gentile
young ladies, how to speak clearly and calmly without sounding like Ethel Merman
during a panty raid, how to be pleasantly amused without cackling like a wicked witch
on speed, how to maneuver conversation like Jackie O, instead of Jackie Mason.

I think these places also teach you to sew and ride a horse side saddle, which I guess
would also be a good thing. Oh, and how to pour tea. Yes, I really want to know that!
I also plan on taking the course entitled, "How to Faint-101."

I'm going.

I don't care how much the tuition costs. I'm on my way.

I've had it with being a crude, vulgar, pirate wench. I want to be dressed in white
linen with a lacy parasol, like Audrey Hephurn attending 'The Ascot Op'ning Day'
in "My Fair Lady."

"The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain, Baby!"

'Course, she had Henry Higgins to put her through her paces. I've got Bilbo Baggins.
Audrey got a guy in a top hat and tails. I got a furry creature with bare feet and six
toes shoved into a pair of Crocs.

However, using some hitherto unknown methodology, he did work me into such a
lather that I heard my hideous voice, which is what started this tirade to begin with.

In his own perverse way, he has helped me.

Which brings us full circle.

Which is a good thing because now I know where I am.

One Million Dollars and Seventy-Five Cents

That's how much it's going to cost to have the Cuckoo Clock fixed.

They called and gave the estimate to The Man.

Afterward, he gave me a squinty-eyed look, like Clint Eastwood in "Hang 'Em High,"
a look that said, "If that cuckoo clock were a dog, I'd have Ol' Bingo put down and
save myself a bundle."

I finally understood his sentiment yesterday at the dentist's office where we learned
that The Man has a bad tooth and the dentist wanted to know: Do you wanna pay for
a root canal AND crown, or shall I just yank it out?

Now, I was the one with the squinty eyes.

"How much is the root canal AND crown going to cost?" I asked.

"One million dollars and seventy-five cents," the dentist replied.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather! What a coincidence! Two
unexpected expenditures in two days and they both cost exactly the same!

It's a good thing money is no object. It's a good thing we keep winning power ball
lotteries. It's a good thing we never threw away those old $20 engraved metal
plates and printing press we found in the attic. It's a good thing we found that buried
Pirate's treasure chest in the backyard when we dug the grave for Ol' Bingo.

I'm starting a new National Committee called, "Save A Clock And Save His Tooth."
SACASHT, for short. Just send in $100 and you can be a member. We'll even send
you a tote bag with the SACASHT logo embroidered on it.

I tell you. You have to have a keen and stalwart mind to keep ahead of the game.

You also have to have a good sense of what your necessities are. What do you
REALLY need and what can you do without.

Which reminds me of the time The Man and I went out shopping for a new refrigerator.
Our old one was dripping water and making ice where it shouldn't. So, out we went to
the shopping center, fists full of dollars.

Two hours later we came home and lugged in our newest acquisition: a $350.00 set
of wind chimes. Not some silly, baby wind chimes, but big, heavy, long, high-tech,
deafening wind chimes which were, we found out, too loud to hang outside in our yard
because the reverberating clanging kept half the neighborhood awake and deafened
the rodent population. So, we had to hang them inside and the only time they rang
was when one of us slipped in the water that continued to drip out of the old refrigerator,
stumbled and fell into them, at which time we'd scare the beegeebees out of ourselves
and our old cat Whitey.

And, so the moral of the story is: It's a crazy world out there and there's no sense in
worrying about cents, so don't let some jangly thing like a clock or a tooth or a wind
chime trip you up. But, refrigerators are another story and it's okay to just shoot 'em
and and bury 'em in the back yard...right over there...next to Ol' Bingo.

The Cuckoo Clock Tragedy

Clock-Boy (aka The Man) has always
had an uncanny awareness of time.
Once, in a sound studio I watched
while he recorded a commercial.
He read the copy and the sound
engineer recorded it. The director
paused, looked over his notes and
then said that it was great but,
"you read it in 11.8 seconds and we
need 11.5." The Man said okay, then
read it again in exactly 11.5 seconds.
The director and sound engineer were
both astonished. He had shaved a mere
.3 seconds off a line of copy.

Clock-Boy used to do that kind of stuff
all the time. I never needed a kitchen
timer, I'd just yell out, "Tell me when two minutes is up!" He has the ability to accurately
estimate the time when no clocks are available. And, he is always on time, rushing
me along by quoting Sherlock Holmes, "Being early is the prerequisite to being on time!"
which is so annoying I want to gag.

In spite of his interconnectedness with time, Clock-Boy has never worn a watch.
Instead, he has acquired an assortment of clocks. Not electric or digital clocks,
although he has those, too. I mean he has several real clocks, the ticking and
chiming sort. He keeps them all running. He winds them and sets them and
tinkers with them until, at the top of the hour, his efforts are rewarded. They
all chime in unison. It is very pretty sounding.

I enabled his clock obsession to a degree by providing one clock into the mix.
Part of my marriage dowry (ha!) was the family cuckoo clock (by the way it's
"cuckoo," not "coo coo"). My mother bought it in Germany in about 1965 and,
years later, she gave The Kincannon Kuckoo Klock to us when we got married
and lived in a cabin in the woods without electricity. The practicality with which
we regarded the clock has, over the past thirty years, evolved into a sense of
camaraderie and love. That clock has ticked away the minutes of our life together.

That is...until a week ago.

Last Thursday, Clock-Boy came home with not one, but TWO old clocks. A mantle
clock and a long case Grandmother's clock (defined as like a Grandfather's clock,
but slimmer and usually under 6'3" tall and I'm sure only Sherlock Holmes knows
how they arrived at that figure).

We decided to put the Grandmother's clock on the wall where the cuckoo clock has
hung for many years. It just looked like the perfect spot. So, I hurridly grabbed the
Cuckoo clock and, against The Man's wishes, took it off to the kitchen saying, "I know
the perfect place for this!" And, I did. There was a picture hanging there, but it was
easily moved. All the while The Man is saying, "Don't do that now!...Wait a minute!"
But he was very involved with setting up the Grandmother clock and couldn't run
after me. I was too excited to listen, which I should know by now is a bad thing.

The curved (yes, "curved!") bolt in the wall was very durable. Everything seemed
simple. I hung the clock up and I heard it clunk down on the bolt. It was very level
and stable. I grabbed the two heavy, pine cone-shaped weights and hung them upon
the chains. Then, I took about five steps, turned around and announced, "Oh, it's looks
so perfect th...!"

KA-BLAM!

Before I could finish my sentence, the clock crashed down, pulled heavily by the weights.
It was a resounding crash. Like a giant redwood in a muted forest, and yes, if no one had
been there to hear it, it would have made a sound!

I spun around and shrieked in horrified disbelief, "OH NO!!!" My eyes found the bolt in
the wall, still there, as strong as ever. But my clock! My clock was shattered, splattered,
scattered on the floor in what seemed to me a million pieces, indecipherable, unrecognizable,
unputtogetherable.

Everyone ran into the room. Jon, my stepson, who happened to be here with his family
for a visit, was the only one coherent or brave enough to walk up to the pile of clock
splinters and attempt to assess it's condition. He picked up the pieces and put them on
the table kindly saying, "Well, it doesn't look too bad...I'm sure it can be fixed," but I
caught the look he gave his dad. The look that said, "This is one dead bird clock."

The pile of clock sat there in front of me as I began my journey through the five stages
of grief. Denial lasted about a minute and a half, until The Man said, "I told you not to
hang the clock on that bolt. It's curved. It was meant to hold a picture, but you wouldn't
listen to me!" His words inspired me to enter the Anger stage, shouting out, "Who in
their right mind would put a curved bolt in the wall?!" "How was I to know?!" "It seemed
strong to me!"

My impotence was pathetic. This was a tragedy of Oedipean magnitude and I could
only raise my head and rail against the folly of the Gods. It really was my fault, my
fatal flaw, my tragic error, my catastrophe.

I decided to skip the Bargaining stage of my grief since there really was no point and,
instead, headed right into Depression. Good ol' depression. Works every time! Except,
I had house guests, including my two granddaughters. Several minutes after slumping
to the floor, rolling back and forth, moaning and crying and slobbering, and clutching
pieces of the cuckoo bird in my flailing arms, it occurred to me it probably wasn't a
good thing for innocent children to witness, so I stopped whimpering and just sat
there staring at the space on the wall where the clock had "looked so perfect th...!"

I allowed myself to wallow in depression for about an hour before moving on and
begrudgingly Accepting the reality of the situation, which was devastation of the
"utter" kind.

I'll always remember where I was
when the cuckoo attempted flight...
and fell...like Prometheus...unbound...
unwound...downed...on the ground...

I'll always remember the crash
of sound that took my heart down
with it to it's splintery end...on the floor
near the cellar door...to tick
nevermore...nevermore...



ADDENDUM: We took the Cuckoo Clock to the repairman. We entered his shop like
two hooded penitents with a lot of sinning to confess, carrying the dead clock before
us in a shoebox. The repairman didn't even flinch when he looked inside. He told his
assistant, "It needs new bellows." He said he'd seen worse. I said I couldn't imagine
worse. The assistant patted me on the back and said, "Don't you worry. He's gonna
fix this thing up just like new, you'll see." I hope so. I miss that ol' bird.

Sand Painting

I haven't written for several days.

We've had house guests for a week.

I've been cooking, cooking, and, oh yeah, cooking.

Today we dropped them off at the airport.

Then I came home and saw this.

I wanted to share it.

Don't Try This At Home

This is my new jar!
Say hello to "Jar-Boy."
Jar-Boy is very big
and he only cost me
75 cents!

That right, 75 cents!

Got him at a garage sale.

4 pounds of thick glass,
shiny with good lines.

He was all dirty and
had a bunch of duct
tape strung all over
his top rim and lid.

But, I could see right off that he was special.

I took him home, cleaned him up, and lookie! He's so fine. Not a scratch or a ding.

So, then I started telling The Man my plans for Jar-Boy's future.

"I'm going to fill him with giant dill pickles, like that man used to sell for 13 cents at the
Narbonne Market in Lomita," I said

"I could let Jar-Boy hold all our spare change!"

"We could light up the whole house if we filled Jar-Boy with fireflies."

"Or, cookies! Yes! Let's make Jar-Boy the Official Cookie Jar of Lime Plant City!"

"And, then if he works hard and gets good grades in school he might one day be President.
President Jar-Boy!"

Finally, The Man grunted and looked up from his computer. He said he knew one
thing Jar-Boy couldn't hold.





Hah! I sure showed him!

God, Aunt Betty and Me

This morning I woke up feeling grateful to God. This is weird because God and I
aren't exactly close friends. He makes me mad sometimes so, as a result, we don't talk.

Then I was thinking that if before you're born, while you're standing there at the
turnstile and God is handing you your ticket, He says "You're going to be born now
and this is a gift I'm giving you." How come no one remembers this afterward.
The "gift" part, I mean. How come there's no memory, no instinct that life is a gift
from God, and that we're supposed to enjoy the beauty of the world, this so called
"Gift of Life."

Say my Aunt Betty gives me a all-expenses-paid, European vacation. She loves me
more than anything. She saves her money and makes great sacrifices to make this
dream a reality. Well, while I'm on this trip of a lifetime, you can be darn sure I'd
remember to send ol' Aunt Betty a postcard now and then and feel a sense of gratitude.
In fact, I'd think of her every day. If I got my passport stolen in Brussels I'd probably
think, "Aunt Betty this is all your fault!...If you hadn't sent me here I never would be
in this mess." But, then when I'm noshing on a big plate of spaghetti Amatriciana, the
sauce smeared all over my face, and sipping a glass of vino while watching the sun set
over the red-roofs of Roma on a summer's eve - well, then I'd think, "Good ol' Aunt
Betty. Here's to you! Thank you, thank you, thank you."

My point is, how come I can remember that Aunt Betty sent me on this great trip and
can remember to mentally thank her, but I can't remember God sending me on this trip?

Why didn't God, before clicking me through that turnstile, rubber stamp my forehead
with the words, "Enjoy Your Trip. Remember Me."

The fact is I'm not even sure there was a turnstile. It could've been an elevator. Or,
maybe it was just a doggie door, a swinging flap. I'm not sure there was a God there,
either. I just don't remember. I wouldn't recognize God if I bumped into him a
thousand times. The fact is, I don't know God from Adam.

I'm not sure why I'm thinking so hard about this. It just gets me, though, this life
thing. I mean, exactly what is the point? Here we all are, running around doing
whatever it is we all do that's so darned important, but I just don't get it at all.
I guess I feel like there should be a reason for things.

The other day I was contemplating this and other worthless things when I thought,
"What if everyone on the planet stopped everything and walked outside and just
stood there looking up at the sky, all at the same time!" I know that this would
take a lot of planning and organization, but let's just say we managed to do it. Every
person outside, buses and cars on freeways stopped, airplanes grounded, office
buildings emptied, phones off, no eating or drinking, everybody just stop, look up
and wait.

What do you think would happen?

Maybe we'd hear God laugh.

Enough Already

You know what I think
when I look at this photo?

"My hair looks great!"

The second thing I think
is, "How old am I? Ten?!"

The other second thing I
think is, "Exactly what is
that expression on my face
supposed to be?"

I mean, what the hail is that?
Somebody gimme a magnifying
glass! I needs to make me a
zammination.

Lemme see. The eyes kinda scrunch up and look real sincere, like there isn't anybody else
on the planet Earth. The mouth goes like this in a trusting smile that says, "I'll follow
you to the end of the moon AND always be on your side because you are always right
no matter what! The chin is doin' somma dat, "I love Youyouyou, You Are The King
Of The World! kinda stuff.

Yeow! That expression kinda hurts.

I must have drunk me a bottle of Love Potion No. 9 that morning.

Now, when-oh-when did I last gaze at The Man like that?....

..."I'm thinking!," as Jack Benny said after the hold-up man stuck a gun in his ribs
and said for the SECOND time, "your money or your life."

Oh, well, as another favorite of mine, Scarlett O'Hara would say, "I can't think about
that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So, in case anyone was wondering about whether or not The Man got me a present
or not, well, no, he didn't. He wouldn't bow to the pressure. However, he did give
me permission to go back to the Hahn Farm and buy more beets. So, I did!

I didn't get any diamonds, but I got beets! And when you think about it, what's
the big difference? They both come outta the ground, don't they?!

Now, don't I sound jes like that little dummy girl in the picture? The Man told me
I deserved beets and, by Job, I got me some.

The refrigerator was chock full of beets and the beet greens. I had so many beets
that I finally decided I'd better can some, so I now have about seven pints of pickled
beets on the counter, and those pints are gonna last until my next anniversary, at
which time I will officially announce that I'm changing my birthstone from diamond
to...BEET!

AND, in case anyone is wondering what I got The Man for his 30th Anniversary, he
got a special Spode dinner plate with an engraving of a Rome scene printed on it.

So, now when he eats my beets he jabs his fork in the heart of St. Michael, standing
atop Castello St. Angelo, along the Tiber in Rome...which gives me an odd sense of
satisfaction.

I don't know why.

And The Beet Goes On

Oh, oh, oh. This morning after
swimming we stopped over at
the Hahn Farm to get some
sweet corn. Farmer Hahn grows
THE BEST sweet corn anybody's
ever tasted. Every July the word
spreads like wildfire through Lime
Plant City that "Hahns's got sweet
corn!" and everybody drives over
there to get some. They just drive
in and out of the Hahn Farm all
day every day until every last ear
is picked and eaten...sometime in
September.

Hahn's Farm is one of the few
excellent reasons for living here.
They really know how to do it.

We couldn't decide if we should
get half a dozen ears, or if we
should just have the farm boys
unloading the days haul dump
as much as they could into the
back of our Geo.

We ended up opting for the half
dozen. The boys told us we could
always come back tomorrow and
get fresh ears. (They talked like, "why would anyone eat day old sweet corn when they could get fresh?"
...so fresh it smells like a hundred years of good soil and light rains...so fresh the sunshine falls out when
you tear off the husks...)

While there I noticed a sign they had posted indicating they also had beets for sale. 4 for $1.
I asked for some, although I couldn't see any over the mountain of corn. One young boy yelled
out, "Mr. Hahn, are you getting any beets?" Mr. Hahn came around the corner and asked
"How many do you want?" I thought fast and said, "Eight!" Then, Farmer Hahn walked away
down the field to the beet rows and started pulling out my beets. I mean, I just stood there
thinking, "Wow! Beets! Fresh!" He came back and presented me with a beautiful bouquet
of beets with all the greens attached. I smiled from here to the moon.

Tonight we had sweet corn, roasted beets and cooked beet greens for dinner. The Man put
his fork down at one point and said, "I've never heard anyone enjoy their food like you are
doing tonight." I think he was slightly annoyed because I was moaning after every bite.

I told him, "Beet it, Pal. Lemme alone. I'm in beet heaven. " I stifled my moans, though,
and got it down to an involuntarily squeek.

The Man asked me which of my ancestors was a beet eater. I told him I'm descended from
an ancient tribe of Irish beetniks.

If you can't beet 'em, join 'em, that's what I always say.

Hamlet asked, "To beet, or not to beet?"

In the words of Michael Jackson, "Beet It! Just beet it!"

Cops walk their beets, but I prefer mine roasted with a touch of olive oil.

I really should stop beeting myself up.

I think I should beet a hasty retreat.

Perhaps beet around the bush.

I could always try beeting the clock.

But, why beet a dead horse, that's what I want to know!

THIRTY YEARS!!

THIRTY YEARS! PEOPLE, T-H-I-R-T-Y Y-E-A-R-S!!

That's how long I've been waiting for an anniversary present!

I just finished announcing to The Man (I think he's starting to like announcements)
that "THIS IS IT!" I either get a present this time or "I'M OUTTA HERE!!"

The date in question is...well, actually, there are two anniversary dates due to a bit
of drama ten years ago...but okay, so whatever... Now, the "dates" in question are
July 28th AND the 29th. The Man planned it so that our wedding dates make for
a two-day celebration.

Not that we EVER do anything...like going out for some fancy schmancy dinner
where, after which, I would have to witness the embarrassing fiasco of The Man
attempting to leave a tip! (I won't go there, except to say he thinks a dollar is a
king's ransom - which is the result of him never having had a corporate job...or,
more importantly, a waitressing job!)

ANYWAY, I just walked in from the kitchen, followed by a trail of steam and acrid
smoke, like Bealzabub accending from the depths of hell, and disrupted The Man's
pitifully, innocent "waiting for dinner to appear on the table revelry" to let him know
I'm waiting and he better get his you-know-what in gear.

Am I being mean?

THIRTY YEARS, PEOPLE!!! I'm still waiting for a little wrapped present with a prize
in it. I'm not asking for diamonds and furs...although, diamond happens to be my
birthstone, I'm just wanting something, anything wrapped with a ribbon!

Jacob, (I'm talking biblical here - Genesis to be exact) HE only had to work 14 years to get
Rachel after the Leah debacle. So, what am I, chopped liver?

THIRTY YEARS!!!

I mean thirty years ago the Shah of Iran was deposed and the Ayatollah took over.
Thirty years ago, Sony introduced the Walkman! (Oh my God, the Walkman...that's
so pathetic!) Thirty years ago, The Deer Hunter won best picture, "Saturday Night
Fever" won Best Album Of The Year and Pittsburgh beat Dallas in the Super Bowl.

Sound like ancient history, People?

Well, just imagine! In all the years that have passed since Christopher Walken put
that gun to his head and spun the chamber, I HAVEN'T RECEIVED AN
ANNIVERSARY PRESENT!!

I'm getting hot.

I need to calm down.

Oh, the vapors, the vapors!

Help!

Dr. Phil?

The Man said he's going to try and come up with something to prove it hasn't really
been a THIRTY YEAR drought of Saharan desert wasteland proportions...a grey,
vacuumous, cratered moonscape of gift-giving deprivation.

Ha! That's what I say...HA!

Look at him there, trying to think of something.

I need to go lay down with a cold washrag on my face.

That's what I get for making multi-decade realizations.

Lulu's Day

This is my Mom, Lulu.

Today she is celebrating the 69th
anniversary of her 18th birthday,
which is how old she was when this
photo was taken in 1940.

I love this picture. She looks so
pretty and young and sweet,
and she was! She looks shiny,
like a new copper penny.

I never knew this young girl.
By the time we met she was
32 years old, and had a husband
and three other kids to take
care of. I didn't realize that my
mother was an individual until
she was about 40. And, sadly,
sometimes I still forget.


But, I love to look at this photo because I'm looking at the woman who's going to
be my mother. You know what I mean? I just love her. It makes me happy having
been born to her.

I see the person she was and still is and I see my Mom and feel so proud.

Today my brother is taking her to Disneyland. She said the last time she was
there it was to see Count Basie. Wow. That must have been fun.

She grew up in a great era. California's population in 1940 was about 7 million.
Can you imagine that? No traffic, no lines, everybody knew everybody in town.

Anyway, I hope she has a great time today...

and everyday.

Oh, and Mom, I want to confess that when I was in Junior High School I was
ashamed that your name was Lulu. I was afraid that my friends would make
fun of me because of the "Little Lulu" cartoons, so when they asked me, "what's
your Mom's name?" I told them "Marguerite," which is your middle name.
I feel so yucky about this, now. I mean, what a spineless piece of milk toast
I was. It's one of those hideous memories from my youth that makes me want
to "rid my crop!" (See previous blog entry about vomiting buzzards.)

Anyway, I want you to know that now my secret desire is to change my name
to...you guessed it...Lulu! Only I'm going to put an accent on the second "u"
to give it a Frenchy sound, which is appropriate given your French heritage.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

... from one Lulu to another!

Buzzard Tips

My new, old favorite song on the planet Earth, theme for the movie "Mackenna's Gold."
I remember loving it when I first heard it in 1969....which sort of tells you where my head
was when the rest of my generation was out smoking pot and protesting the Vietnam War.

Ol' Turkey Buzzard

Tell me. Do they even make movies like this anymore?

If not, why not?

And Jose Feliciano? Where is he? I need more of him.

We have 'em here, you know. Turkey buzzards, that is. They come in the summer months
and spend vast amounts of time here in Lime Plant City circling over my sweaty head. I
think they're waiting for me to keel over.

Remember that movie where the kid creepily says, "I see dead people." Well, I see birds
that are looking for dead people. I think about that whenever their wings' shadows pass
over me. They're looking for dead stuff. Brain dead or really dead dead, they don't care,
just bring on the dead. They want it and they want it bad and they won't stop circling until
they get it.

I don't think I've ever lived anywhere where there were creatures waiting to feed on you
if you suddenly...you know...croaked.

I understand the usefulness of carrion birds, I really do. When that squirrel gets run over,
boy when is the buzzard clean up crew going to arrive?! And, that old possum's getting
mighty ripe out there on the double yellow, don'tja think? Oh, and didja hear 'bout Ol'
Miss Crabapple's little yapping chi-wawa? Yeah, well, little Snookems got mistaken for a
rabid barn rat and the buzzard's got 'um.

Seriously, they are wonderful birds and we can learn a lot from them, as illustrated by
the following:

The Horaltic Pose

Turkey Vultures are often seen standing in a spread-winged stance. This is called the "horaltic pose."
The stance is believed to serve multiple functions: Drying the wings, warming the body, and baking
off bacteria.

(BAKING OFF BACTERIA! EUREKA! WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT!)

Why the Turkey Vulture Vomits

The turkey vulture has few natural predators. Its primary form of defense is vomiting. The birds do
not "projectile vomit," (THANK GOD!) as many would claim. They simply cough up a lump of
semi-digested meat. This foul smelling substance deters most creatures intent on raiding a vulture
nest. It will also sting if the offending animal is close enough to get the vomit in its face or eyes.

(THIS WOULD INDICATE THAT IF YOU CHOSE TO BE A VEGETARIAN BUZZARD YOU WOULD BE
DISADVANTAGED IN THE CASE OF A HOME BURGLARY.)

In some cases, the vulture must rid its crop of a heavy, undigested meal in order to lift off and
flee from a potential predator. In this case, the regurgitated material has not yet been digested.
Most predators will give up pursuit of the vulture in favor of this free edible offering.

(REMEMBER TO TRY THIS THE NEXT TIME YOU GET MUGGED.)

Why the Turkey Vulture Urinates on its Legs
(I'VE SPENT SLEEPLESS NIGHTS WONDERING ABOUT THIS.)

The turkey vulture often directs its urine right onto its legs. This serves two very important
purposes. In the summertime, wetting the legs cools the vulture, as the urine evaporates.
The vulture cannot sweat like us. In addition, this urine contains strong acids from the
vulture's digestive system, which kill any bacteria that may remain on the bird's legs from
stepping in its meal.

Wow. I love this bird. I want one!

Oh yeah, that's right, I've got several...right there...over my head...posing, baking,
vomiting, urinating and searching for the recent dead...in Lime Plant City.