Waiting For The Big Giant

Up Your Dolce Vita

2010-04-12T19:20:00.004+02:00

DATELINE: Rome

Two old people, husband and wife, were found beaten silly in the streets of Rome.
No foul play is suspected as the wounds appear to be self-inflicted.

Witnesses interviewed at the scene observed the foreign couple leaving the Office
of the Questura, apparently having futilely attempted to renew their Permesso Di
Soggiorno (Permission to Stay) documents. They both were redfaced, sweaty and
cursing a blue streak, walking unsteadily and carrying wads of official documents,
with four copies of each, except those that required THREE copies, and the one that
required a special little colorful stamp purchased at the tobacco shop.

They seemed to be muttering to each other furiously. The muttering escalated to
shouting and one witness said he distinctly heard several expletives bantered back
and forth before the woman finally cried out, "I know you are, but what am I!"

Moments later, sticks were produced and the whacking began.

Emergency personnel were called to the scene and were attempting to disarm the
couple and tend to their bumps and bruises. Apparently, this was hampered by the
woman screaming over and over, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!"

She finally passed out, whimpering "There's no place like home...there's no place
like home..." and repeatedly clicking together the heels of her crocs.

The Man seemed more coherent. When asked if he was suffering any pain he displayed
his ten fingers and said, "My fingerprints haven't changed in the past two years
since you digitally fingerprinted me, you mother------s!" No one could make sense
of what he was saying and it was unanimously agreed that he had a head injury.

Tonight they are recovering in the psych ward reserved for foreigners who have the
audacity to think they can just march in to the office they marched into two years
ago, and just get their supposedly digitized, computerized Permesso's renewed.
They thought they could just breeze in and out, like they were in a first world
country instead of a medieval third world insane asylum running on corruption and
nepotism. They thought that perhaps with the advent of the computer in the last
century, the bureaucrats of Italy might have deigned to put into place systems to
actually assist people instead of running them into an early grave trying to comply
with archaic and undecipherable rules and regulations.

How ridiculous these foreigners are! Where do they think they are? Somewhere
culturally sophisticated? HA! This isn't CIVILIZATION! This is ITALIA!!

These foreigners must be taught a lesson! If they want employees who care (a
concept known as "customer service," which has no equivalent in this Godforsaken
country; if they want streamlined systems to expedite bureaucracy; if they want to
save the trees, instead of making endless/needless copies of documents that serve
absolutely NO purpose and will end up in some big dark storage room somewhere in
the depths of Rome; if they want to spend their days freely doing whatever it is
they do here, instead of traipsing all over the place, shuffling from one official
office to another, traveling in crowded, airless, filthy buses and trams, given the
runaround by polyester-uniformed sadistic lackies who got their job because their
daddy's friend worked there; if they want to make something as simple as a
stinkin' telephone call to an office to CHANGE their appointment date because
they're not going to be in this country on June whatever!...

then they should go to...Switzerland!

A Two Hour Tour!

2010-04-10T23:32:00.001+02:00

This may or may not be my last post about our vacation to Sapri.

I can't decide.

The problem is threefold. One, I obviously don't get enough vacations. Two, I took
a lot (as in hundreds) of photos and I keep thinking someone might enjoy them. (Kind
of like when you'd go visit Uncle Phil and Aunt Millie and they'd insist on pulling out
the old projector and screen and insist that everyone sit and watch an unending slide
show documenting every breathing moment of their Winnebago trip to Lubbock in
ought 87, or whatever, and everyone's head would start lolling around and your Dad
would yell about it all the way home at, like, two o'clock in the morning.)

And, three, I really miss Sapri and seem unable to let it go.

So, bear with me.

On Easter Sunday we were walking along the beach sidewalk in Sapri when we ran into some
guy trying to rustle up some business for his boat tour. At first, we just walked past him,
but then we got to thinking maybe a ride in a boat on this glorious day would be a good idea.

Now, whenever The Man and I both agree that something is a good idea...well, that's when
Godzilla should show up and just step on us.

But, evidently, Godzilla was busy officiating at the annual Sapri Easter egg hunt. So,
without any supervision at all, off we went. And, the rest is history...a history of joyous
thanksgiving to be alive on terra firma.

It was all good until...well...until we seemed to just keep going and going with no clear
indication that we would EVER turn around and get back to our point of embarkation.

The passengers were all unremarkable EXCEPT for the woman who started throwing
up almost immediately. Luckily, Captain Mario had a bucket on board. This poor
woman had been, prior to boarding the boat, laying in the sun drinking herself into a
state of oblivion. I wasn't aware of the "oblivion" part until things became apparent.

Anyway, she got sick quickly. We all sort of accepted her "sea-sickness" with good
humor and sympathy. However, after many hours of endless boating and watching
her condition deteriorate, Captain Mario prudently decided to change heading to the
nearest port for a medical evacuation. At this point, I was on the floor of the boat
holding the woman, trying to keep the blue tarp wrapped around her and to give her
some of my body warmth because she was shaking so badly her teeth were chattering.
When we arrived at the port of Scario (which we have no photos of because I thought it
would look slightly callous to start filming what seemed to be an extremely serious
situation - I actually thought she might be dying!) the ambulance was waiting...along
with a major portion of the population of this small village where nothing much happens,
I guess.

There was a flurry of excitement. The seemingly comatose, once happily inebriated
land-lubber was placed on a gurney and wheeled into the waiting ambulance, official-
looking men in uniforms were waving their hands around, Mario jumped back and
forth from the boat to shore to offer explanations and, all the while, the townspeople
stared down at us like we were all guilty of something and should be punished. No one
smiled at us...even the children looked pissed off!

And then, suddenly, we were back at sea on our way (we prayed) to Sapri...to shore...
to our hotels...or homes...our loved ones...our pets...children...dinner...pizza!

So, anyway, I put THIS MOVIE together and I hope you like it.

Oh, and if you're planning a trip to this region, do take Mario's boat tour. It is definitely
worth the price of admission. I would go again even knowing that I might not see land,
a toilet, a bottle of water, or a life vest...again!

(I'm serious! I was without a bathroom for over FIVE hours! An Easter miracle!!!)

Oh, and The Man thinks my references to Gilligan's Island are stupid because he never
likes it when something is compared to something on television or in the movies. But,
I think most people still remember the premise of that show and, to me, it is applicable.
In fact, during our interminable cruise, using the passengers on our boat, I was able to
cast the entire show: The Skipper (obviously, Mario), Gilligan, (another obvious choice),
The Professor, Mr. and Mrs. Howe, Mary Ann and, even, Ginger!

And, just so you know, the sick lady (aka Mary Ann) survived and is back home counting
her lucky stars.

Re: Patient No. STU123PID

2010-04-09T16:28:00.000+02:00

Dear Doctor Slash Candy Man:

I need to double up the dosage on my cholesterol meds. Yesterday I cut myself and
I didn't bleed. Instead, pasta dough oozed out of my veins.

Also, as long as you're writing out some script, gimme a good diet pill, too, because
I've gained about 184 pounds, my thighs have grafted together and I'm starting to
walk like a penguin. My double chin has quadrupled which, I guess, is a bad thing,
but I am finding the folds of fat useful as places to stick my sunglasses, a pen, and
even lose change.

You're probably wondering how this dietary derailment could possibly have happened.

Well, it wasn't my fault, I can assure you!

The Man MADE me go with him to southern Italy and he MADE me go into these
restaurants and eat an amazing array of carbohydrate-ridden foods and milk-derived
products that were all incredibly fresh, like right out of the goat, or cow, or water
buffalo, or sheep (yes, they milk sheep here!) all washed down with jugs of local wine
from grapes kissed by the gods of various volcanoes biding their time until the next
eruption because, like me, those volcanoes are ready to blow!

He MADE me eat every bite and wipe my plate clean of
every drop of precious olive oil, suck the juice out of every
mussel shell, and lick the ice-cold limoncello liqueur from
my chubby fingers in the style of Mme Hortense in the
movie Zorba the Greek which is really sickening and unfair
because The Man got to be Marcello Mastroianni throughout.

Anyway, I'm so innocent!

To help you better understand what has occurred, I've constructed THIS VIDEO
documenting the horrors of what I had to endure during my ride on this culinary
train wreck.

Help me!

As ever, I remain, dear doctor, your humble and most obedient patient,
M

La Certosa di San Lorenzo

2010-04-03T09:35:00.013+02:00

Admittedly, I am a lousy video filmer person.

I'm video-camera challenged. For example, in the video linked below, there's a brief
segment where you have to turn your head 90 degrees to the right in order to view
it because I was filming longways and forgot that that is a no-no because there's no
way to turn things around after the fact, and you should have been there to see my
face as I made that realization whilst I was filming! D'ough!

In addition, I think my camera is a little dud.

I also don't know how to add music, which would really be nice.

So, pardon my bad filming, but enjoy the content.

I'm taking you back to the year 1306 when a guy named Tommaso di San Severino,
decided to build a Carthusian Monastery in a town called Padula. Actually, he was
the Lord around these parts, so he could build the monastery wherever he wanted,
but he chose Padula and I'm glad he did because...well...I'm here...and because it's
in a gorgeous setting in the Vallo Di Diano, a great valley surrounded with huge
mountains and gorges and rivers and sheep and cows with bells on.

They dedicated the monastery to Saint Lawrence and named it "La Certosa di
San Lorenzo." (Just so you know, Saint Lawrence was one of the first bishops of
Rome and when he was martyred by grilling over hot coals, he yelled out "I'm
done on this side, turn me over and have a bite!" Which is why Saint Lawrence
is the patron saint of comedians to this very day.)

The Carthusians are an order of hermit monks. They pretty much just meditate all
the time, not leaving their cells except for study in the library, some manual labor
and maybe taking a walk or something to get the kinks out.

Other than that, they live in silent isolation.

The history of La Certosa di San Lorenzo is one of great prosperity and inevitable
decline. The political winds blew by...so did Napoleon Bonaparte. (The winds
merely ruffled some feathers, Napoleon stole the artwork). In 1807 and then again
in 1866 the place was abandoned. It was declared a National Monument in 1882.
It was also used as a prison camp during the two world wars. Finally, after some
restoration, it was reopened to the public in 1982. It is now a World Heritage Site.

I've decided that this is the most beautiful and astonishing place I've seen in all
my years in Italy. I'm serious. As we traipsed around the grand interior of the
monastery I had to constantly grab hold of my chin and push my mouth closed,
I couldn't stop gaping and oooing and ahhhing, like the village idiot allowed inside
to observe greatness. I was properly speechless, awestruck, amazed and delighted.

But, it was so incredibly beautiful, the aesthetics of the design, the architecture, the
art work, the intricate woodwork on doors and chorus stalls, the brightly colored
marble mosaics, the frescoed ceilings and walls, the majolica and terracotta floors,
the tranquility in the courtyards and cloisters...in the gardens...and it all went on
and on, corridor after corridor, room after room.

The kitchen was astounding. The marble balustrades were extraordinary. The
one-of-a-kind spiral marble staircase (like a giant conch shell) which leads to the
library was off limits, unfortunately, but I did take a photo looking up into it and
it's all in the video.

In fact, just watch THE VIDEO. I'm all out of adjectives.

Oh, and as you'll see in the film, the day's adventure ends with a meal. Naturally!
We were famished after all that wonderment and found a local trattoria where
three local men eating there assured us that 1) the local white wine was better
than the red, 2) we should order fish (they were all eating the octopus) because
"you eat fish on Good Friday," and 3) the food is better here than in Rome.

They were right on all counts.

(Oh, and the pasta pictured is handmade fusilli, the pasta from this region, with clams.
It was better than okay.)

Enjoy the film.

Travel Log Blog

2010-04-02T21:17:00.005+02:00

We have made our way south to the Bay of Policastro, to the town of Sapri for an
Easter Getaway.

It's not our first time here. We always come here when we want some seashore
action. I think this is our fourth or fifth time. Our hotel is right on the beach, the
staff has changed, but they're always welcoming and very kind. They used to be
open before Easter and that's when we'd show up. But, now they don't open until
the Easter weekend. That means there are other guests here, but we don't mind.
We still got the best room in the house with a terrazza that overlooks the sea.

Google maps says it takes about 4 hours and 55 minutes to get here from Roma.
We took 8 hours. Well, we had to stop several times for a caffe and also to eat lunch
and also to stretch...hey, we're old people!

Anyway, I want to show you how wonderful this part of Italy is. I love it here.
This area south of Naples. Campania. Basilicata. The National Park of Cilento.

This VIDEO shows where we stopped for lunch, just off the main highway, at
what seemed to be a truck stop. Well, these truckers know how to eat, let me
tell you. As you will see from the photos, it's a far cry from the normal fare for
truckers in the U.S.

This little ristorante appeared and we both thought, hmmmm....there's cars
and trucks there...must be good...let's go there...

Well, first we ordered the vegetariano antipasto. I've never tasted such a
delectable selection of vegetables and cheeses...the mozzerella di buffala was
fabulous and the goat cheese!!! The sundried tomatoes in oil, the bit of omelette
and polenta, the peppers, the eggplant...Oh!

Then, I ordered the pappardelle with ceci (garbanzo beans). Heaven! Just look
at those little ceci beans sitting there all happy and everything!

The Man ordered a mixture of orrechiette (little ears) pasta and ravioli in an amazing
meat sauce of some kind.

We washed it down with a quarto (fourth) of vino della casa (wine of the house).

Mamma mia!

Then I walked outside and around the back and saw the source of some of our
meal. The pen of goats and chickens and ducks and turkeys and I don't know
what all. This place also had orchards for nuts and apples. Olive trees for the
best olive oil.

Then we got in the car and wound our way down into Sapri and the Med and
our hotel and our room and ... well, watch the video.

I'm going to post again tomorrow. We're going to explore the Cilento!

It's springtime and we're out of Roma!

Mortified!

2010-03-29T16:04:00.002+02:00

I've got to write this while my
mortification is still fresh.

Okay. So, this morning I screwed
the top on the moka coffee maker
and, at the same time, completely
screwed up my back. I don't know
what happened physiologically,
but I do know that I'm unable to
stand upright. Luckily, my sitting
muscles are unaffected.

Okay. So, I'm just sitting, minding
my own business waiting for the
muscle relaxant to take effect,
planning our trip south to our favorite place on the seashore when I realize that
The Man is outside our door talking to some people. Who? I don't know.
He's just out there. Little Miss Busy-Body. Chattering away.

I'm thinking, "If he brings anyone in here I'll stab him with a pencil and at the trial
when I tell the jury what happened they'll let me off because everybody knows that
you don't bring uninvited strangers into the apartment of a woman with back spasms,
hot flashes and dirty hair.

Suddenly, without any warning AT ALL, he opens the door and says cheerily to me,
"Guess who's here? It's the Proprietaria (the owner) of our building and her son!"
Then, (and, I'm not kidding here!) HE INVITES THEM INTO OUR APARTMENT
WHICH IS A COMPLETE MESS AND LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING RECENTLY
RAIDED BY A BLACK BEAR WITH A BINGE EATING DISORDER BECAUSE MY
BACK IS IN A SPASM AND I HAVEN'T CLEANED UP ANYTHING OR WASHED
THE BREAKFAST DISHES, OR PUT AWAY MY OLD RATTY SWEATER THAT
IS HANGING ON THE BACK OF THE CHAIR, OR VACUUMED THE CARPET
WHICH HAS A WEEK'S WORTH OF CRUD ON IT, OR THROWN AWAY THE
HALF-EATEN APPLE AND EMPTY WINE BOTTLE ON THE COUNTER, OR PUT
AWAY THE SUITCASE THAT'S SITTING OUT ON THE SOFA, UNZIPPED
WITH A WHITE PLASTIC BAG HANGING OUT OF IT, AND TWO ODD-SHAPED
CARTONS OF STUFF I'M SHIPPING BACK TO THE STATES AND A BIG BALL
OF BUBBLE-WRAP PACKING MATERIAL LYING ON THE FLOOR AGAINST
THE WALL, AND WHY OH WHY ARE THE MAN'S CROCS STICKING OUT OF A
CERAMIC PLANTER?...oh, I'm hyperventilating!

It was absolutely mortifying and I had no place to hide. I just sat there, frozen, my
brain screaming "THIS IS BAD! THIS IS REALLY BAD!! DO SOMETHING!!!"

But, what could I do? I couldn't get up. Otherwise I would have fled the building,
so great was my shame.

Now I know how my mother felt when she'd have her bridge ladies over and they'd
mistakenly enter my bedroom while searching for the bathroom and discover my
den of filth and chaos. My mother used to have fits about my room. I forget all the
things she threatened to do if I didn't get in there and clean it up.

Well, Mom, you'll probably be somewhat pleased to learn that I finally got my just
desserts. Call it karma, universal justice or the hand of God, but today within the
blink of an eye, I was tried, convicted and sentenced for all my past, sloppy domestic
transgressions.

But, BUT the thing is I'm NOT a total slob...under normal conditions! I'm really
pretty good at keeping things neat and mostly clean and orderly.

But, today...today! Oh, the agony! The disgrace!

Can you feel my pain?

I almost cried. That's how bad it was. I actually had to fight the formation of tears in
my eyes! And, all the while, The Man is standing there TOTALLY CLUELESS, laughing
and talking away, having a good ol' time with these people...the owner of our building!...
"The Senora!" Who I'd NEVER met before because The Man always pays the rent by
wire or goes to her house. All the tenants go to her to pay the rent. This is the first time
in ten years that she has deigned to set foot in this crumbly old building, and it had to
be today and my back had to go out and I had to be sitting there in my most ragamuffin
clothes and I wasn't even wearing a bra...another punch to my solar-humiliated-plexus.

What's really weird is that after they all left (finally, thank God!) I got up out of my sick
chair and started cleaning. I put everything away, did the dishes, ate the half apple, all
in about five minutes. It's like I thought they were coming back or something.

And, in my distress, I forgot to remember that my back hurt. I actually started feeling
physically better.

Mentally, though, I remain a basket case.

Musical Treat

2010-03-24T16:06:00.000+01:00

A phenomenal performance by Buddy Greene in Carnegie Hall.

Enjoy!

(I stole this link from janebretl.com)

For Italian Wannabees

2010-03-21T20:05:00.000+01:00

We aren't particular enough in the United States.

If, say, you're sitting in an eatery enjoying your deep fried peeps and you see some
green-skinned, antenna-headed martian walk in and ask for deep fried peeps with
ketchup, you just shrug and think, "must be from California....hmmm...ketchup...
I think I'll try me someadat!"

Americans are open to new ideas and willing to try new things...I'm thinking jello
shots and bungee jumping here.

But, in ITville, IT's an entirely different story.

Italians like things just the way they are, the way things have been for the last
seven hundred generations (with the exception of the automobile and the cell-
phone...oh, and naked dancing girls on television), so don't even think about
offering suggestions on improving trash collection or describing the beauty of
the catalytic converter unless you have an insane desire for ridicule. This is
NOT the land of entrepreneurial thinking.

Italians are often snooty and sometimes kind of sneaky. They like to know exactly
who (or what!) they're sitting next to. So, they have devised subtle booby-traps over
the centuries, specific social mores, cultural codes that are designed to expose any
impersonators, any charlatans, any ketchup-loving Californians among them.

Obviously, purple Crocs with the little trendy charms attached are a dead giveaway.

No, I'm talking about much more insidious methods to find you out, you faker!

The following list represents a decade's worth of research. Try not to get confused. I do.

How to infiltrate a group of Italians and not look like a complete dolt.

1. Wear black. Italians always dress like extras in a funeral commercial. If you
show up in the piazza wearing white polyester pants and a pink qiana shirt expect
to be surrounded. They'll think you're a circus acrobat and they'll demand you
perform tricks. Do your best and don't fret. (To their credit, Italians will tolerate
the absolute worst and most meaningless street entertainment, like this and this
and this.

2. Don't order a cappuccino after 11:00 a.m. If you do, they'll regard you with
quizzical disdain, like you just ran outside and rolled in a pile of fresh cow manure.
It's considered udderly (sic!) disgusting to consume a milk product after a meal.
Just order an espresso and suffer. (For those of you who have been here and
enjoyed cappuccinos after a meal...well...you may as well know now...they were
watching and they were laughing at you behind your back.)

3. Remember that the salad comes at the END of the meal, not at the beginning
or during. Don't look for some big plastic bottle of Kraft's Creamy Poppyseed
Salad Dressing, either. Use the olive oil and maybe a bit of salt and pepper.

4. NEVER request parmigiano (that's parmesan's REAL name) or any other
cheese to sprinkle on any pasta dish that contains seafood. If you do, your
waiter will develop an uncontrollable eye twitch and fellow diners will snort
their mineral water. Cretin!

5. Avoid attempting to form a line. Line forming indicates that you are an anal
retentive Anglo Saxon. Just stand in that tangled mass of human chaos and
whimper, then charge the turnstile...or ticket window...or bus door when it
opens. This rule applies to driving, too. Those white lines on the road are merely
suggestions. No one takes them seriously, nor should you.

6. Never ever be intimidated by anyone, especially those in exalted positions of
power, like a policeman, a doctor or a lawyer or the Prime Minister...ESPECIALLY
the Prime Minister! And, never, EVER say you're sorry! Instead, say, "It wasn't
my fault!"

7. When you meet up with a friend you must shake hands and do the double kiss.
Woman, man, it doesn't matter. Everybody does the kiss - kiss on the cheeks. But,
make sure you go left, right; that is, you lean in with your left cheek first, then you
offer your right cheek. Practice this until you get it right because if you offer your
right cheek first all hell will break loose! (I know this from personal experience,
but "It wasn't my fault!")

8. Don't say "Buon Giorno" (good day) after 2:00 p.m., say "Buona Sera" (good
evening) and keep saying "Buona Sera" until just before you go to bed, at which
time you finally say "Buona Notte" (good night). This means that after an evening
out with friends, you depart by saying "Buona Sera." But, if those same friends
are sitting in your living room unwilling to leave your house, then you can walk in
wearing your pajamas and tell them, "Don't let the door hit you on your way out.
BUONA NOTTE!"

9. On pain of death, never, EVER smugly suggest that "calcio" (soccer) is a game
for wimps and whiners. They will eat you alive...literally, but in a wonderful
tomato sauce infused with olive oil, garlic and peperoncino. (What do you think
tripe is?) In fact, if there's one thing that has lowered the Italian opinion of America,
it's American football. A bunch of enormous, strangely dressed (think about it),
mono-syllabic troglodytes crushing each others' guts out is the essence of crude
and unrefined behavior. Unless, of course, you're an enormous, strangely dressed,
mono-syllabic troglodyte who happens to be dating an Italian model or showgirl.
Then, you're okay, paesano.

10. Hold the mayo! Try to keep in check your insatiable desire for mayonnaise.
If you like it so much, go to France. Just today I mentioned to a Roman friend that
we were having panini with prosciutto for lunch. She was curious about how we
made our sandwiches. I replied that we ate them simply, with just a little mayonnaise.
You'd have thought I'd suggested we all jump naked into the nearby fountain. She
stopped in her tracks, put her hand on her heart and sputtered, "Mah, no!" I looked
warily about me thinking she must have misunderstood me. "It's a panino," I assured
her. But, she just stood there staring at me like maybe I was a New England Patriot or
something. She kept repeating, "No, no, no. You NEVER put mayonnaise on prosciutto.
Never!!!

Which illustrates exactly what I was trying to explain at the beginning of this post.

We just aren't particular enough. We're too easy. And, it's hard being easy.

So, pass the ketchup.

Number Two

2010-03-19T06:46:00.010+01:00

I haven't posted any blogs for awhile. I've written several, but they were so full
of venomous angst I decided not to put them out there. The world has enough
bad stuff in it, why add more. Plus, I was depressed.

I get that way. I just slide down into a dark hole where everything looks bleak
and useless and sad. While in this place I try to talk myself out of it. I get mad at
it. I make myself go out and try to "walk it off." But, it doesn't go away. It sticks
like bubblegum to shoebottom*.

I've read a lot about what supposedly causes chronic depression, things like
genetics, not enough serotonin, not enough exercise, too much stress, too
much alcohol, coffee, and chocolate.

But, the other day The Man
(who is annoyingly happy and
content, like Steamboat Willy
driving his little boat down the
river, whistling a happy tune)
turned on a radio program and
they were talking about Numerology.

Oh boy! I'm saved! Like astrology,
Numerology describes various
characteristics that a person is born
with, depending on the birth date
and name given. It's "fate-based." You get your number the minute you come out of the chute
and that's it. You can't change it. You're stuck. Doomed forever. Ad infinitum.

Anyway, I started figuring out my numbers and reading up on my characteristics.
The findings were startling.

I'm a Number Two. Well, actually, I'm an Eleven, which is a master number, which
means that I'm really a Two, but in a heightened sense. I'm full of Number Two.

Now, Number Two's have good traits like: kind, humble, sensitive, helpful, etc. All
pretty mundane qualities. But, my bad traits are the real winners: timidity, fear, low
self esteem, lack of self confidence, and DEPRESSION.

So, at last, I know why I suffer from this debilitating syndrome. It's because I'm
nothing but a little piece of Number Two!

Whew! What a relief! Pass the chocolate!

Now, The Man is a Three.

In fact, three of his core numbers are three's: his "life path," his "soul urge," and his
"personality." He is 3 to the third power. A threefer.

The characteristics of a three are: creative, socially active, artistic, very positive
and optimistic, playful, happy and fun-loving, inspirational, imaginative, motivating,
enthusiastic and uplifting, great verbal skills, a talent for self expression, a great
communicator, you enjoy life and you don't take things too seriously.

Career choices include: Entertainer, writer, actor, musician, poet.

In short, he's an adorable angel with little wings and a halo making the world smile,
content with life having achieved his heart's desire.

I mean, gag me.

I, on the other hand, am like
a doomed salmon swimming
upstream, struggling every
inch of the way en route to
the promised land, only to
end up flying smack dab into
the mouth of a stinky grizzly
bear filmed live for some
National Geographic
documentary.

I mean, bite me.

It's like the fortune cookies. The Man opens a cookie and it invariably says something
like, "You are so awesome!" and "The God of Fortune is smiling down down upon your
head" and "If you were the weather, every day would be 72 degrees and sunny."

I open my cookie to find "Cheer up, you grouch!" and "You eat too much and your
nose is too big!" "Be nice to your husband for a change."

I'm not kidding. He always gets the good fortune. I get insults. Every time.

The world is made up of a myriad of elements, but FAIRNESS is certainly not
one of them.

Therefore, this old salmon is doomed to eternally swim up Number Two creek
without a paddle.

*Another good cat name to add to my list: "Shoebottom"
It's got a Shakespearean ring to it. Someday, when they find me dead in my
trailer with 65 cats, they're gonna say, "Wow! She sure could name a cat!"

Montecalvello Day Trip

2010-03-11T10:14:00.000+01:00

After two months of bliss we decided to give up the absolute best parking space
in the center of Rome.

This was a big deal. To have a parking place that is positioned in such a way as
to preclude sideswiping, mirror breaking, scratching, denting,graffiti spraying
and outright stealing is something to regard with awe and reverence, especially
because it's highly unlikely we'll EVER get that parking space AGAIN! So, as we
drove away from this hallowed piece of ground The Man turned around in his
seat and waved goodbye saying, "Farewell good little parking spot. We'll
remember you well."

It was kind of a weepy moment.

Then, off we bumbled in our little car, into the northern countryside of the
Umbrian hills where we ended up in this small village called Montecalvello,
which boasts a population of 84 citizens. But, what they lack in citizenry, they
make up for in Castlery.

The Castello di Montecalvello dates
from 774-776, a time when guys like
Charlemagne were running around
conquering the known world and
women stayed inside near the fire
because everything was freezing,
not to mention filthy...oh, and for a
good time they all went to church to
gaze at the psychedelic stained glass
windows, the equivalent of today's 3D,
unless, of course, you were a peasant
which is an entirely different depressing
story.

The Castello was enhanced over the
following centuries, and changed hands
frequently, depending on which way the political winds blew.

Balthasar Klossowski (aka Balthus), an artist of some renown, bought the place
in the 1970's and restored much of the castle. Today it is owned by his son who
graciously allows visitors to roam about the grounds. (Actually, I'm only assuming
he's gracious about it. I mean, I really don't know. Maybe he hates people walking
around on his property and stands inside, under the ancient, frescoed ceilings
screaming epithets at the bumpkins below. However, I can say that on the day we
were there, I heard no screaming.)

In this photo of the entrance
you'll notice the circular red
sign with the white horizontal
slash. This sign totally spoils
the view, and is, unfortunately,
typical Italian signage. In this
case, the sign is posted to keep
people from driving their cars
onto the castle grounds.I mean,
you'd have to be a complete
nullard to think that driving your
car through that ancient gateway
would be an okay thing to do. But, evidently, there is a nullard surplus in the area (Oh, I'm
so shocked!) that the castle owner had to put up a sign. Too bad.

In the middle ages when this castle was in the hands of the Monaldeschi clan (who
were NOT known for their diplomatic skills) they would have captured the errant
driver, impaled him on a spike and stuck him on the ramparts, leaving him there
to rot in the breeze as a warning to all future dumbbells.

Impaling. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.

I guess it's where the expression "I get your point!" came from.

Anyway, here's a short slide show of Il Castello Di Montecalvello

Bambi Bytes

2010-03-04T20:00:00.000+01:00

I've been thinking lately about when Bambi's mother died.

I don't think I'm over it.

I mean, I remember where I was when I read about it and everything. I was
in the library of Harbor City Junior College with my older sister and some of
her friends. I was nine years old and sitting there at a wide, wooden desk
doing really well, quietly reading, acting like a big person instead of a dorky kid.

But, then it happened. They were out there in the meadow eating the new spring
grass when suddenly Bambi's mother says, "Run!" Bambi runs like mad and then
starts looking everywhere for his mother but can't find her. That's when The Old
Prince of The Forest shows up and says "Your Mother can't be with you anymore."

"Come...my son." said the stag.

WAAAH!

I let out a wail. My inner dam burst and everything within a three mile radius was
destroyed. Water was going everywhere. My sister and her friends were all washed
away down the hallway out the door, grappling with bobbing books, pencils and erasers.
The head librarian was shouting "Silence!" as she careened by, engulfed in the raging
torrent of my tears.

It was emotion at its most unstoppable.

Then, my sister was back, kicking me under the table, telling me to knock it off! She
and her friends were staring at me like I was some kind of fungus or something.

I buried my puffy, slobbery face in the book and continued sobbing. They may have
gotten their driver's licenses but they had obviously never read BAMBI!!

Okay. Fast forward 44 years and here I am still upset about Bambi's mother.

Her death was so sudden and unfair and rotten and sad.

Bambi stands alone at the top of the pinnacle of writing that affected me most
emotionally. And, I'm thinking it really screwed me up as a person because it
made me an anthropomorphic nutcase, the kind of weirdo who looks at
icanhascheezburger.com and thinks it's high humor.

I think Bambi should come with a warning message to all parents that their
children could potentially become mentally warped for life, and even in late
adulthood will still cry hysterically every time they see a dead squirrel on the
road, they will hate hunters and zoos, and in extreme cases they might even
join Greenpeace and start ramming Japanese whaling boats.

So, that's my tirade for today. Now I'm going to go contemplate the great
Thumperian philosophy of "If you can't say nothin' nice, don't say nothin' at all."

Dueling Parking

2010-03-03T21:30:00.008+01:00

So the other day I'm loitering on some street of Rome. The Man is inside a
pizza-by-the-slice joint and it's packed with locals grabbing a bite for lunch.

I'm outside because I'm just getting over the worst flu on the planet and I've
decided that I will never eat another bite of food as long as I live.

So, I'm just standin' out there drinking a bottle of water trying not to smell
the pizza when I see this taxi pull up and start to do a "double parking-parallel
park" which is a common phenomenon that occurs because the regular parking
spaces were filled with cars...oh, in like the Pleistocene era, or something, so new
arrivals have to double park alongside the existing cars. It's sorta like layering.

Anyway, this taxi pulls up and starts to parallel park his car because he's hungry
and wants some pizza. This is important...and will probably be introduced as
evidence at the trial...but, I'm getting ahead of myself.

A Fact You Can Take To Your Grave: Romans CANNOT parallel park and that's
probably why they lost the empire!

I've stood and watched in amazement as Romans attempted to accomplish the
act of parallel parking many times. It is so embarrassing. It's like when you
happen to see your cat fall off the sofa and the cat looks at you with that hey-
I-meant-to-do-that look on it's face. Well, that's the way Romans are about
parallel parking. Only better.

For example, I recently watched this Roman woman pull up to a large, vacant
parking space. She pulled alongside it, pulled a bit forward and started to back in.
Everything looked so normal and was going so well. Her angle of approach was
actually pretty good, but then, I guess, she lost interest or fell into a coma or
something because she forgot to turn the wheel and ease into the spot. Instead,
she just plowed into the curb at a diagonal angle. Then, she pulled forward.
Then, she backed up and hit the curb. Then, she pulled forward. Then, she backed
up and hit the curb. Then, she pulled forward. Then, she backed up and hit the curb.
You get the picture? It just kept going on and on and on till you wanted to slap her.

I happen to be an award winning parallel parker. I can park a 6 foot car in a 5 foot
11 inch parking space IN ONE TRY! Not that I'm bragging or anything, but I'm
really good at it. It's an idiot savant thing.

Anyway, I'm watching this parking atrocity and I'm absolutely disgusted with this
woman. She seemed to think that if she just went back and forth enough times, the
Earth would go into some kind of a reverse continental shift and, like South America
settling back into the embrace of the western coast of Africa, her car would somehow
find it's way to the curb!

The Man heard me mutter, "My God Woman! Just park the damn thing!" He
restrained me from going over there, grabbing her by the throat, yanking her
out of the car and doing it myself!

Anyway, they can't park. Now, back to the present in front of the pizza joint:

I'm watching this guy and he's backing up. He's doing well, but then I observe
the other double-parallel parked car behind him. Then, I'm standing there...
on the sidewalk...alone...saying out loud...in English..."He's going to hit him! He's going
to hit him! He's going to hit him! He's going to..." BLAM!

He hit him, all right. You could hear the "crack" of the plastic front bumper on the
big, black BMW.

Now what's really odd, is that nothing happened immediately. It was very quiet
and no one moved. Time stood still.

Then, I saw that inside the black BMW, sitting right there behind the wheel, was
the BMW owner. He was just sitting there. He had his head back against the head
rest and he was just waiting...calmly.

The taxi driver finished his semblance of parking and exited his car. He walked back
to the BMW driver, who still hadn't moved, and started talking to him. The taxi driver
was lighthearted and seemed to be joking around and ended by saying "sta bene...spero."
It's fine...I hope. I liked that "I hope" part.

All the while, and I'm not kidding, the BMW driver does not say a word and does not
lift his head from the headrest. He's so cool. He just looks at the guy with a dead pan
face and makes a gesture that I cannot describe but which was so completely Italian
and which was like saying, "wha'." I mean, Robert Di Niro had nothing on this guy!

The end of the story is that the taxi driver goes into the pizza joint and gets his lunch,
but the guy in the BMW just sits there. HE NEVER GOT OUT OF HIS CAR TO LOOK
FOR THE MIGHTY CRACK THAT I'M SURE WAS THERE BECAUSE I HEARD IT
AND SO DID EVERYBODY ELSE WITHIN A THREE MILE RADIUS!

It was great. That guy in the BMW just sat there like he was the King of the Planet,
like he had a fleet of BMW's back at the castle, like he didn't have the time or energy
to deal with a taxi driving piece of riff raff who had just cracked his bumper.

I tried to imagine what would've happened if this had occurred in the U.S. There would
have been people and identification flying in every direction, driver's licenses, proofs of
insurance, police reports, birth certificates of the first born, whatever, threats, curses, etc.

It's a different world here, though.

But, here's a tip. If some Roman ever walks up to you, slaps you in the face with a
glove and challenges you to a duel, when he asks you your choice of weapon, just say,
"Parallel parking, my good Sir, parallel parking." Then watch his eyes go dead and the
beads of sweat start to form on his brow.

Ah Ha! You'll have won the duel before you started.

Birthday Boy

2010-02-27T16:13:00.011+01:00

All you need is trust and a little bit of pixie dust!

Peter Pan (aka The Man) is celebrating his
65th birthday today.

Accordingly, after interminable weeks of rain
and gray skies, we in Never Never Land have
been blessed with the stunning arrival of spring
in all its glory, with brilliant blue warm skies,
singing birds and blooming flowers.

Turning 65 caused some slight discomfort for the
Boy in Green, but he shook it off in his inimitable style. After all, there are still more
dragons to slay, more pirates to capture, more poems to write, pictures to paint,
music to create. He's too busy to be mopey.

Plus, he gets Happy Birthday discounts from the government from now on every
time he enters a State museum because now he enters for FREE, which he did just
this morning right after breakfast when we went to test the system. He also purchased
a shiny new monthly bus pass for half price!

Peter Pan is flying high!

I'll teach you to ride on the wind's back, and away we go!

But, this is a meaningful birthday. It's like 18 or 21, but then they make you wait a
really long time for the next one, 65. And, it's difficult to experience one of the big
birthdays after having had so little practice after so many years.

But, he did fine. There was just a flutter of discomfort.

The Man has aced the aging process the way I slay pattern recognition skills on an
I.Q. test. He's really good at it. He has a way of growing along in years gracefully.
He is forever gentle and kind with everyone he meets. He spreads cheer whenever
he can. He remains inquisitive and interested. And, no physical ailment impairs his
willingness to experience another adventure.

It has been my life-altering, good fortune to have been along for the last thirty
years of the ride.

He is an example to follow. Too bad we can't dissect him and figure out exactly
how he ticks, because he's not like anyone else I've ever met.

Happy Birthday, Peter.
From the dumb-dumb Wendy-type girl you taught to fly.

So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned.
Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever,
in Never Never Land!

The Patroness of Impossible Cases and Lost Causes

2010-02-13T23:20:00.003+01:00

I come from a strictly Protestant upbringing. I have been baptized with a
sprinkling of water by the Presbyterians and fully immersed in a big tub
wearing a white flowing robe (yikes!) by the Baptists. I guess you could say
I been baptized up one side and down the other.

But, the Catholic influence has always lingered on the fringes of my life,
as in the following examples:

Oddly, we always ate fish on Fridays and no one knew why. My mother
would just go in there and prepare either oven baked fish sticks or tuna
casserole or clam chowder on those nights and we'd dig in all happy and
excited (especially on fish stick night!) not concerned at all about why we
were honoring a Catholic tradition.

I used to envy the Catholic girls who got to wear a blue plaid jumper, white
short-sleeved shirt and blue knee socks and loafers to school.

My brother got in trouble once for being caught wearing a St. Christopher
medal. All the surfers were wearing them at the time, but my mother said
he couldn't because "You're not a Catholic" and it got yanked.

I tried going to catechism. I was in the 5th grade and Mrs. Schuler made the
announcement that if anyone wanted to, they could get on a bus an hour before
school got out on Wednesdays and go over to St. Margaret Mary's Church to
take catechism classes.

This was in the olden days when schools had the money to hire a bus to take a
bunch of kids exactly THREE blocks down the street to some Catholic church but,
strangely as I think about it now, they didn't have the money to actually pick us
up near our homes in the morning and take us to school, which meant that we had
to walk about a hundred miles EACH WAY, EVERY DAY, which was one of the
reasons I decided to go to this Cata-clism thing. I wanted to ride in a school bus!
I was some kind of desperate kid, I guess.

Anyway, I started going and we all just sat on these wooden benches in a darkened
chapel listening to these nuns dressed in long black robes with starched white veils
covering their heads, telling us that if we learned our verses we'd get a multicolored
beanie, which I really wanted! It was a hat just like the one Beany wore in the Beany
and Cecil cartoon show only without the propeller on top.

It's amazing to me now that I was doing this without any
kind of parental permission slip. I finally got around to
telling my mom about it one day and her eyes got all buggy
and everything and she told me I couldn't go because "You're
not a Catholic!" So, I never got my beanie, which bothers me
to this very day.

Then, ultimately, I married a Catholic...well, a lapsed Catholic...as in not-since-
the-8th-grade Catholic. In fact, the only way you can tell that The Man was
once an altar boy and went to Catholic school is that he can diagram a sentence,
which fills me with awe.

Now, here I am living in the mecca of Catholicism, a city with over 900 Catholic
churches and seventy zillion nuns and priests running around.

Coincidence? I don't think so.

Somewhere there's a little Catholic child in me, and she wants her beanie.

And, in my wanderings through various churches, I've found just the Saint to help me.
Saint Rita. The Patroness of Impossible Cases and Lost Causes.

Saint Rita was pretty special. She grew up wanting to be a nun but her parents
said no you have to marry this disgusting guy we have all picked out for you.
Being an obedient daughter, she went through with the marriage and even had
two children with her abusive and all around rotten husband. She spent her
days praying for her man, but it didn't do any good and finally somebody just
stabbed him to death.

But, then she had to worry about her two sons who were into the "vendetta"
thing which is so totally Italian. She didn't want them to go and murder their
father's murderer and thereby relinquish eternal life in the good heaven. So,
Rita prayed that God would take her sons (as in to heaven, as in dying), thus
nipping their vendetta plans in the bud. Evidently, God heard her prayers and
both sons died within a year. Supposedly, they died of natural causes...yeah, right.
I think it was more like, "here you go, eat your mushrooms, boys!," but it was all
okay because they repented their sins before they departed.

Okay, now Rita is totally free as a bird. So, she goes and joins up with the nuns
like she wanted to do all along. The nuns take her in and you'd think she would
be happy with that and just settle down and learn to knit or something. But, no.
She wants to suffer more. So, she prays real hard and tells Jesus that she wants
to suffer like He did. Well, Jesus goes, "okay." And, the next thing you know, Rita
has a thorn stuck in her forehead. And, it's not just any thorn, it's a thorn from
the Crown of Thorns Jesus had to wear when he was crucified, and what was it
doing there sticking Saint Rita in the head I don't know!

So now Rita has this wound right in the middle of her forehead like a bad zit THAT
WON'T HEAL, no matter how much goop they put on it, AND it smells real bad.
But, Rita is in a state of bliss about it. She's just tickled pink and couldn't be happier.

Years later, after her death, they put her body in a glass coffin on display in a basilica
conveniently named after her. Her body has remained uncorrupted AND it changes
position every now and then, levitating on her feast day. Also, her eyes and mouth
seem to have a life of their own, opening and closing unaided.

And, that's not all. She's the patron saint of baseball.

Is this a far out world we live in, or what?

It Never Snows In Rome

2010-02-12T20:49:00.003+01:00

Ants!

2010-02-08T19:49:00.001+01:00

(WARNING: If you're a Myrmecophobiac, you don't want to
read this post or view the video link...especially the video link!)

Has everyone but me seen this film?

If so, WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME ABOUT IT!

The Man and I got rid of our television in 2001.
Ten years off the tube. We're like total mutants by now.

But, this Ants! movie makes me think that perhaps not all t.v.
is mindless, trance inducing, stupidhead-making horse manure.
I'm thinking maybe we should consider re-subscribing to the
national brain drain...or at least The Science Channel because
they did such a great job documenting the awesomeness of ants.

The music is creepy, the narration hypnotic, the cinematography
suspenseful, but in a nice way.

It makes both the scientists and the natural world seem bizarre
and scary and totally groovy...which, they actually are, I guess.

I especially like the little typed notations letting you know that the
ants are really okay and the crazy scientists didn't massacre a gazillion
of them to complete their experiment. Boy, I was relieved by that...
'Course I generally trust film makers, which is probably stupid.

This is only a segment of a multi-part series entitled: "Ants! Nature's
Secret Power," which you can access on YouTube and elsewhere online.

I'll tell you one thing, though. I'm gonna think twice the next time
I flick some pesky ant off my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Haiti

2010-01-19T15:50:00.000+01:00

The destructive earthquake and resulting devastation in Haiti has left me feeling
such a heaviness of heart. To continue writing my frivolous blog without mentioning
it is wrong. Such a catastrophe deserves our attention, a pause, a deviation from the
normal preoccupation with trivial concerns. I want to take a moment to honor those
who have died and also the survivors who are enduring extreme hardship and sorrow.

Since the day Christopher Columbus landed, the people of Haiti have suffered. To read
the subsequent history is to read of mankind's greatest atrocities. The Haitians' despair
has continued almost unabated.

And, now this.

I really don't know if such conditions as "unfairness" and "undeserved" exist on a
cosmic level. But, this event exceeds both epithets.

With tears I watched the first video footage of the destruction, and with tears I
watched the world respond. Americans donating millions of dollars in cell phone
donations, concerned individuals struck by the need to do something to help...one
of the greatest things about Americans is their selfless and immediate willingness
to help those in need. I was appalled by those (thankfully few) particularly evil,
heartless pundits who advised Americans to do nothing, that somehow Haiti deserved
being obliterated. But, the people ignored the ravings of these dead-eyed haters,
effectively making them invisible and exposing their impotence.

Here, the Italians are also donating by cell phone, the British, too. Good for them.

My thoughts and prayers are with the people of Haiti and all the rescuers that have
arrived on the scene. They have a grim and seemingly insurmountable task ahead.
It must be impossible for them to feel optimism at this point.

I hope that the strong Haitian spirit will sustain the survivors through this disaster
and that their labors will result in a renaissance, a rebuilding not just of their cities
and towns, but of their rich and complex culture.

The Valkyries

2010-01-18T16:40:00.000+01:00

I am writing to dispel the rumor that I live an idyllic life.

The fact is I don't know what I'm doing here in Rome.

However, I am absolutely certain that whatever it is I am doing, I am
missing the point of it all completely, and that on some future day I'm
going to be walking around Punkinville, Ohio and the reason for my
being in Rome is going to suddenly hit me, which will cause my head to wobble and tilt
and then fall off my body and roll down the street, and a giant red flag with "D'oh!"
written on it is going to then slowly rise up out of my neck and blow softly in the breeze.

But by then it will be too late. It will all be over. Finished. Finito!

This, THIS! is what's bothering me.

And, more importantly, I am making The Man's life a living hell with all my crabbing
and complaining about the cramped dark hovel we live in and the cold weather and
the stinky buses and the dog poop all over the cobblestones. And, no matter how true
all of the above may be, he is a nice person (part angel actually), and shouldn't have to
listen to the wailings and lamentations of a Nordic Valkyrie first thing in the morning.

Poor guy. Really. I mean it. Sometimes when I'm in the throes of complaining I just
have to stop because he looks so pitiful and I feel sorry for him that he has such a
witch for a wife and that someday he's going to realize that the pasta I make doesn't
make up for the fact that I am quite frequently Brunhilde on speed.

But, before you all go, "Oh, big waaah! She's in Rome and doesn't wike it! Oh, WAAAH!"
let me tell you that Rome is just another city on the planet. It's not that special, no
matter what all the past and present Emperors around here tell you!

The Eternal City consists of 6 million people, all of whom are pushing and shoving and
trying to parallel park their little cars into non-existent parking spaces, and all being
subjected to hideous economic pressures by their hideous-er government officials. It's
not paradise here...well...unless you're on a three day excursion in early spring or late fall,
at which time it is fairly paradisaical, I concede.

But, the point I'm trying to make is that I have a problem with Rome. It's like I was
killed by a Roman soldier in a previous life or something. Maybe I was crucified on
the Appian Way, or torn to shreds by wild beasts in the Colosseum while the crowd
roared and the Emperor gave me a big giant thumbs down! (Is that the Big Giant
I am waiting for? A thumb?!)

What else could possibly be the cause of all my discomfort and unrest?

Maybe this Sigmund Freud finger puppet can help.

Me: "Hi Doctor. Umm...well...last night I dreamed I gave birth to
myself and then at the end I said, 'Well, I guess I'd better name
me now.' So, do you think I have a problem?"

Freud: "Very interestink. You haven't been drinkink cheap
foreign wine have you?"

Me: "Red or white?"

Freud: "Eider one."

Me: "Not since last Thursday when I could've sworn
I saw Cerberus, the mythical three-headed dog who
guards the gates of hell outside our apartment window."

Freud: "Very goot! Stay off zee zauce."

Me: "Okay. Anything else? I mean it, Doc. I'm really
having a bad time! I'm not a happy camper!"

Freud: "Campink? Campink?! You tink dat life is ein
holiday?! You tink dat livink is ein vacation for kinder?
Ein PIK-NIK?!! You dummkopf! You make me zick!
You need to vork harder! You need to keep marchink!
Eins, zwei, drei! Eins, zwei, drei! Achtung! Guide right!"

That's when I ripped Sigmund Freud off my finger and threw him in the washing machine.

Then I put on my jacket and went to the nearest coffee bar for an espresso "doppio."
A double. I deserved it. I sat outside and listened to the happy Romans laughing with
their amici, gesturing wildly, embracing life and each other, taking the good and the bad,
rolling it all into a big ball of dough, flattening it out, sprinkling it with tomato sauce and
mozzerella and baking it for one minute in a wood oven, taking it out and eating it in
giant globbity gulps.

Now that's my kinda therapy!

Higher Ground

2010-01-07T21:52:00.013+01:00

Living is so depressing.

I don't care what you say.
It is constantly, endlessly depressing.

You can try and fake it and even start thinking that you just need some medication
to make you feel better because YOU'RE the one with "this problem."

And so you get some drug or other from your local candyman-slash-doctor who is
in with big Pharma and after awhile you begin to think, "hey, the world isn't so bad,"
and then immediately the walls start to vibrate, gasses escape through the cracks,
and all animals with a lick of sense (like those blackbuck antelopes in India during
the 2004 Tsunami) head up to higher ground and you just
watch them galloping away, scratching your head, going wtf!,
and then, WHAM!, something hits you upside the head and
a whipped cream pie flies in your face and then there you
are lying on the pavement
alone...
except for the flies buzzing around the whipped cream
and the stampeding others who have made the realization
that "oh, hey, maybe the blackbucks had the right idea!"

But you just lay there going, "blink, blink" with your eyeballs,
knowing that no matter how innocent and nice you are and no matter how many times you say,
"I'm sorry," to people in the grocery store every time you push your cart between them and the
never-ending cans of Campbells Soup they're reading on the wall...

You are totally screwed!

It's like that Timothy Geiger-Counter guy. I mean who made him King of the World?
Here he is illustrating how he grabbed the financial balls of our
nation and squeezed them dry of every penny he and his pals
at Goldman's could get and, I don't care what you say, this guy
is up to no good. Now, I am only basing this opinion on photos
I've seen since I have NEVER seen this man on television or
heard him speak. But, like those antelopes in India, if it smells
like a duck...run!

If I were Obama I'd fire that sucker.

Which is exactly how I felt yesterday as I was rushing to hear the marching band playing
the Mickey Mouse song out in front of St. Peter's Basilica. I was with The Man and we
were on our way to get some reservations to take the underground Vatican tour, not
realizing that it was a holiday, The Feast of the Epiphany, so that St. Peter's was jammed
with people there to see the Pope and the parade.

Now, we've been living here during the winter for...oh...only five million years, and did we
know anything about this annual parade?

NO!

Which is so mysterious I'm sure Jacques Cousteau is going to rise from the dead just to
try and solve it.

Anyway, there we are stumbling head-on into this big-deal Catholic parade with medieval
peasants and Roman centurions on horseback (MIU's - Men In Uniforms! I mean we're
talking scarlet-plumed helmets and gold breast plates and everything!) and I start
videoing the worst parade video EVER made, all the while going "oh, oh, oh," and thinking
that The Man is right there behind me keeping up, because it's so obvious that I am in my
little-girl-going-to-the-Pasadena-Rose-Parade mode, all excited and giddy, overdosed on
hot chocolate with marshmallows in it.

But then I stop and look around and The Man is no where to be seen. He is not behind
me. He has disappeared. I want to keep filming the action, but I'm worried that he has
fallen into a manhole or been arrested for having criminally wild and unkempt hair (a sure
sign if there ever was one of a troublemaker).

But, then I see him. He's over there on the sidewalk, hunched over.

Is is sick?
Is he injured?
Is he having some kind of a fit?

No! He has stopped to TAKE OUT HIS PEN AND SCRAP OF PAPER TO WRITE
DOWN SOME COMMENTS FOR SOME POEM HE'S GOING TO WRITE!!!

This I found totally unacceptable and, had I been Obama, I would have fired him on the spot!

In conclusion, if you don't believe they played the Mickey Mouse song in front
of St. Peter's Basilica, then watch this!

The irony of this choice of song...
to a certain someone...
up there in his ivory tower...
in his ermine-collared robe...
with his Gucci red slippers...
must have been, on the biblical scale,...
totally depressing!

La Befana

2010-01-06T16:09:00.003+01:00

Today is the Feast of the Epiphany,
otherwise known as La Befana.

Befana is a witch who brings toys
and candy to the good children
and a lump of coal to the bad children.

The Italians have finally brought to
a close their holiday season which all
began almost a month ago with the
Immaculate Conception, which occured
on the 8th of December.

Ever since, it's been holidays and "bridges" (those days between the holidays
that aren't worth going to work over because, "hey, tomorrow's another holiday!")

But, now, sadly, it's all over. Time to go back to work and school. Time for Italians
to grit their teeth and suffer until the next series of holidays begin.

Carnevale starts on February 6th! Good ol' Lent.

Anyway, we were out there today and here's a video clip of The Man to prove it.

2009-12-31T18:21:00.003+01:00

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

2009-12-27T19:21:00.005+01:00

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

2009-12-26T23:16:00.005+01:00

Click here and fill in the data.

What economic crisis?

Crazy Lady

2009-12-25T21:06:00.000+01:00

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

2009-11-12T00:02:00.009+01:00

(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

2009-11-09T21:30:00.002+01:00

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

2009-10-19T18:00:00.000+02:00

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

2009-10-16T15:57:00.007+02:00

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

2009-09-27T15:32:00.015+02:00

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

2009-09-21T16:39:00.000+02:00

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

2009-09-20T14:57:00.003+02:00

(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

2009-09-18T04:12:00.012+02:00

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

2009-09-16T16:22:00.004+02:00

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

2009-09-15T03:28:00.005+02:00

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

2009-09-09T13:32:00.008+02:00

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

2009-09-01T11:13:00.005+02:00

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

2009-08-29T21:03:00.002+02:00

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

2009-08-28T01:11:00.012+02:00

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

2009-08-27T13:00:00.001+02:00

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

2009-08-23T13:30:00.003+02:00

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

2009-08-14T03:20:00.003+02:00

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

2009-08-06T15:30:00.006+02:00

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

2009-08-06T08:55:00.005+02:00

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

2009-07-28T18:51:00.005+02:00

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

2009-07-28T03:11:00.007+02:00

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!!

2009-07-22T01:07:00.006+02:00

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

2009-07-20T18:08:00.006+02:00

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

2009-07-18T14:16:00.012+02:00

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.

For Neglected Petunias Everywhere

2009-07-17T22:06:00.000+02:00

This is proof that Blogging is not like riding a bicycle. I'm positive that if I didn't write
anything for another week, I actually would forget how.

It has been a while, I know, but I've been experiencing difficulty remaining inside the
house, tied to the computer for any length of time. The compulsion to get outside is too
strong to resist.

But, it's like I was trying to explain to The Man the other day. I'm NOT a domestic goddess.
I'm a dirt-lovin', bug-ridden, sweat-drippin', whis'lin-while-I-grunt, outdoorsy kind of a gal.
I do NOT want to dust and vacuum and clean the toilets. I want to be outside where all the
action is, among the twisting worms, the begging squirrels and the fightin' robins.

I always say "the fightin' robins" with a Scottish accent, with a heavy trill on the "R."
I forget why I do this, probably something The Man came up with. But, it suits them.

Anyway, I announced the other day (to The Man, mainly) that the inside of our house is
"going to go to hell" and I will apologize to no one! I have surrendered to the fact that
flittering around with a feather duster is not my cup of tea. Oh, sure, I'll still see that the
dishes are done...eventually...that the laundry is done, and that the meals are prepared,
but, BUT my daily labour shall be the perfection of my garden.

I'm not sure what drives me, but I am as a woman possessed. I go out first thing in the
morning and start puttering around, digging this, moving that, weeding, mulching, watering,
and before you know it, it's getting dark and The Man is starting to look peaked. I walk up
to him all filthy and sweaty, picture Ma Kettle after a tough day of butchering hogs, and I
holler "What's the matter with you, Pa? You look a little parched!

Poor guy. He's like one of the shrubs in the backyard. They just kinda sit there day after
day, and I pretty much ignore them until I realize they need to be pruned, fed and mulched.
I perform the task in a perfunctory manner and march on.

My little honeysuckle, my sweet elderberry, my eternal smoke bush, my darling dogwood
is attention deprived!

I'd better change my attitude, if I know what's good for me. Either that or my wild mountain
rose is going to sprout legs and skedaddle on outta here looking for more fertile ground.

"There he goes," I'll say, waving farewell with my sweaty bandana, watching him trudge off
into the sunset. "Au revoir, mon petit petunia!"

I wonder if I have heatstroke.

No Smoting

2009-05-11T18:15:00.008+02:00

AND ALIVE!

I love my oral surgeon!

When I write my great opus, I'm going to dedicate it to him.

When I climb Mt. Everest, I'm going to plant a flag with his picture on it.

When I am Queen, I'm going to have the Royal Horticulture Society name a rose after him.

When I'm President I'm going to make him my Oral Surgeon General.

This man, this wonderful man, took a scared, whimpering (emphasis on the "whimp"),
shaking, sad sack of a woman and in three seconds took away her headache and upset
stomach and turned her back into her happy, vivacious, glittery self.

It was like a biblical miracle in one of those Cecil B. DeMille movies, except Moses was
played by The Man and God was played by my oral surgeon. I played the part of a
quivering mass of raspberry jello.

I was doing an academy award winning job of quivering while Moses and God were
discussing whether or not to smote me. Whenever they uttered the word "smote,"
I moaned convincingly.

Anyway, Moses was saying that he thought the tooth was bothering me and that I
should be smoted real good. But, I meekly uttered, "No, the tooth doesn't really
bother me at all. I just thought I should come here and get smoted because my
regular dentist said I should."

Then God said, "Statistically speaking, you are a group that doesn't need smoting.
If you were under 40 I'd smote you right now, no question. But, once you're over
40 you don't need to be smoted unless there's a reason like pain or filthy, stinking decay.

My quivering began to cease.

Moses said, "But wait a minute, God. I mean, come on, she's here and the bib is
clipped on her and everything is in readiness. Why not just smote her and get it
over with. How long would it take?"

God said, "It'd take about twenty minutes. In fact, if we weren't having this discussion
she'd be good and smoted by now."

"But," he continued, "I don't see any reason to smote her right now. If it were Me,
I'd wait until it were necessary. Why get smoted if you don't have to?"

Moses said, "I vote for smoting."

I asked if it was going to make any difference if I got smoted when I'm really old, like
say 56. God said it wasn't going to make any difference at all because "a smote is a
smote is a smote, and in your case nothing is going to change. The tooth is just going
to sit there just like it is right now."

I smiled.

Just then the angel music started, a heavenly choir sang forth as the credits started
to roll.

I walked out unsmoted and free, free, free. For six months I've been anxiously
anticipating this day's smoting, but now...I suddenly felt giddy and the world
before me shimmered in a golden glow.

Moses trudged out behind me a little disappointed, but cheered up when I
suggested we go over to Bob Evan's to celebrate my ability to eat smote-free
food, which is where I ate a breakfast burrito that I wouldn't have been able
to eat had I been smoted as planned.

Sharing My Pain

2009-05-11T14:26:00.005+02:00

I'm having my wisdom tooth removed today.

At least I think I'm having it removed.

My dentist attempted it in 2007. He failed.

Now, I'm going back for more. This time
to an oral surgeon who is supposed to be
someone who does this kinda thing for a
living and who should be able to get the
job done without having a conniption fit
because he sees some bright orange thing
that he says he doesn't think is a tumor, which is what happened
with my regular dentist two years ago and which doesn't probably make any sense
to anyone reading this, but it does to me and that's why I'm so nervous.

I have diarrhea and a headache. I was moaning and standing motionless in the middle
of the room then I sat down with my head in my hands.

The Man told me to relax, to read something, so I just finished reading all the horror
cases of wisdom tooth extractions on the internet.

That's probably not what he had in mind.

In exactly one hour I'll be in the chair having some overly cheerful girl clipping a bib on me.

I'll post again...as soon as I'm able...if I'm able...to let you know how it all went.

I wonder. Will they let me take my tooth home to put under my pillow?

I'm so scared.

Director of First and Last Impressions

2009-04-27T14:51:00.009+02:00

I took a look at the want ads in the
Lime Plant City Register a few days ago.

I was not looking for employment. Rather, I
was curious to see how the current economic
crisis was affecting the job market in the area.
I figured that the crisis would be reflected in
the number and type of jobs available.

Then, I saw this:

Company Location: The Land of O
Less... Job Description: Director Of First And Last Impressions

Office/Clerical, Bustling companion and agricultural animal medical establishment is seeking director of first and last impressions. Fast paced, dynamic and vibrant atmosphere requires person with enthusiasm, motivation and professionalism. Multi-task, manage heavy phone call volume and command of computer, organizational and people skills.Training provided. Forward letter of introduction and resume to info@animalhosp.com by April 30th

I have no idea what they're talking about. I mean, just exactly what is a "bustling
companion?" And when I read "agricultural animal medical establishment," I picture
Mr. Ed wearing a nurses cap with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. I'm stumped.
But, that's nothing compared to the job title itself: Director of First and Last Impressions.

Uh, I don't care what anyone says, THAT is a groovy job title. I would be honored to
shake the hand of the person who came up with that one! I mean, imagine the look on
the face of the person you're standing next to at some cocktail party after they ask you,
"And what do you do for a living?" to which you reply, "Oh, I'm the Director of First and Last
Impressions. Here's my card."

I WANT THIS JOB!!!

I am so utterly qualified and experienced. In fact, if they hire me, I'm certain that within
two weeks they'll have to promote me. Soon they'll be painting on my door:
Director of First and Last Impressions In Five Words Or Less!

Great tie, Bill!
You stink!
Best coffee I've ever had!
Stupidest report ever submitted!
Here comes trouble!
There goes our last hope!
Looking good, Phil!
He's on his last legs.
You're a whiz kid!
That guy's nuts!
What a beaut!
What a wreck!
You're fat, Dave!
Donuts are good!

I could go on and on. I'm a natural at this.

In fact, the next time The Man tells me "You are so opinionated!" I'm gonna say,
"No, I am simply innately accurate at issuing forth first and last impressions,
you sniveling, shortsighted, simpleton!"

Well...maybe I'll leave that last part out.

Too bad, though.

Go Jump Off A Cliff Notes

2009-04-25T10:25:00.006+02:00

Where was I...

Oh yeah. Coming to conclusions.

And here are the results:

I have come to the conclusion that learning another language is more difficult than becoming
a doctor or passing the bar exam. It's even more difficult than graduating with a degree in
Theatre Arts.

The process involves intense concentration, endless frustration and frequent kicks in the
cojones, which I don't think exist in the feminine tense but, since there is no feminine tense
in the English language, cojones it is!

And, it is for these reasons that I think EVERYONE should study a foreign language.

I read that people are now working on Sudoku puzzles to exercise their brains. They
think that by working on some little baby puzzle they'll avoid Alzheimer's, or something.

Well, I'm here to tell you that Sudoku puzzles are the ultimate time wasting activity; and
that if you're inclined to getting Alzheimer's, you're going to get it no matter what, so
instead of spending whatever time you have left sitting around staring at a puzzle book,
get out there and look around you, look up at the sky in wonder, crab about the traffic
and, for Godsakes, talk to other people and, especially, talk to people who speak English
as a second language. Help them out, help yourself out.

I think everyone in the southern United States should speak English AND Spanish. It
should be required. And, everyone in the north should have to speak French.

And, I think that if you can't pass your driver's test in your newly learned second language,
then YOU DON'T GET TO DRIVE! Boy, would that ever eliminate the traffic congestion
problem.

Anyway, alls I'm sayin' is, it's really hard, language learning is. And, I'm here in the thick
of it, too, immersed in this can of chunky beef Italian stew, trying to keep my head up,
living, breathing, eating, drinking, sleeping and bumping into Italian everywhere I go,
thinking that one day it's all just going to come together and that on that special day,
the clouds will part, the angels will sing, a single ray of light will shine down on my little
punkin head, and I'll miraculously start rapping away, not just in Italian, but in the
Romano dialect, which is so insane it makes me laugh.

I think it makes me ornery, too.

Birthday Girl

2009-04-15T08:11:00.004+02:00

the man met me
in the hall and led
me into the room
filled floor to ceiling
with brightly wrapped
packages, telling me to
watch out for all the
burning candles.

we trod on mounds
of tissue paper, curly
ribbons caught in our hair.

finally we sat down to
admire the glittering
when suddenly the gifts
tumbled down around me
and i was buried in laughter
and dreams and sighs of love.

Image by Maggie Taylor, 2000, http://www.johnclearygallery.com/artists/taylor/taylor.html

Train of thoughts

2009-04-07T08:18:00.005+02:00

My sister came here for a week's neurosis...I mean visit...I mean MY neurosis...I mean,
I don't know what I mean, so I haven't written for awhile.

Two nights before she left, Italy had an earthquake in L'Aguila. We've been there several
times. Beautiful part of Italy, Abruzzo. It's all very sad, very tragic. I'm familiar with
earthquakes. They hit you hard, with no warning, sometimes catastrophically as in L'Aguila,
then they're gone and you're left with the shock and grief and disbelief.

The quake woke us up here in Rome, fifty miles away from the epicenter. We were lucky
our 500 year old apartment held up. The petrified wood in the ceiling and walls was really
creaking, though. It went on for about 40 seconds...that's about nine years in earthquake time.

In case you're wondering if we had any premonitions that this quake was coming...well, I did
have a strange headache that morning, and I usually never get headaches. Also, I think I may
have had a lascivious thought or two about The Man that afternoon. Other than that, I don't
think we experienced any other paranormal activity.

A friend of ours sent this video to us and I wanted to pass it along. Maybe everyone has
already seen it. But, I happen to be an old Sound of Music fan and if there's one thing I know,
it's EVERY song in that musical. I also ALWAYS wanted to be Julie Andrews, especially when
she was Mary Poppins, but that was before she was a nun and cut her hair.

I like this because it makes me happy feeling inside. It makes me glad that my species can
do something like this just for the fun of it. It's like sometimes if you watch a big bird flying,
a seagull or whatever, you can sometimes see that bird fly some loop-de-loop just for the fun
of it. I swear.

Anyway, I guess what this blog is about is that there's tragedy and joy, and it's all intertwined.

It's all part of the big package and there's nothing you can do about it.

How Much Is A Billion

2009-03-30T18:15:00.006+02:00

I read something really good today.

It was an article about the government
bailouts of companies like AIG, GM,
CitiGroup, etc. etc. ad naseum.

Over 100 billion dollars to AIG alone.

100 billion.

I mean, if I have a hundred dollars in my pocket I'm a nervous wreck because I'm worrying
constantly that somebody might steal it, or it might fall out of my pocket, or I might forget
it's there and throw it in the wash and never be able to prove that it was once U.S. currency,
or that the guy at the register won't be able to make change for it? Ahhhhhh!

But, a billion?! The thought gives me the vapors.

I can't wrap my brain around "billion."

What does a billion look like? Is there a One Billion Dollar bill? Has anyone out there
ever seen one? Better yet, has anyone ever USED one? I mean was it all wrinkled and
dirty when it got handed over? And what was it used to buy? A thousand pairs of one
million dollar shoes?

Okay, wait a minute. Let's start with something simple, like a measly Million dollars.

If somebody gave you a ONE DOLLAR bill every second how long would it take before
you had One Million Dollars?
12 days.

How long would it take before you had One BILLION Dollars?
32 years!

That's one dollar every second...for the next 32 years!!!

That's how incredibly much a billion is.

I'm so humbled.

Somehow, I feel so insignificant and tiny and small and little and wee-wee.

I hate those guys at AIG for bringing the fact that I'm a wee-wee to my attention.

Scrambled Eggs

2009-03-25T16:21:00.004+01:00

Today we saw the King and Queen.

It all started when we woke up and, without showering, dressed in our raggedy clothes
and went up to the train station to a place that makes an "american" style
breakfast. The Man often wakes up with a hankering for bacon, eggs and conversation
with Rocco, the owner of the cafe. This morning, the first words out of his mouth
were, "Do you want to go with me to Rocco's for breakfast?" To which I replied, "NO!"

Fifteen minutes later we were on our way.

The ladies in the back were very happy to see their favorite customer. They made
him a special plate this morning. The scrambled eggs were especially yellow, and
the bacon was especially plentiful. I only had coffee. But, I had two of them.

Afterward, we walked over to the Esquilino market for produce, pistachios and, across
the street, at the Chinese market, I bought five bags of edemame beans. We stuffed
all our purchases into my shopping bag and we caught the bus for home.

Midway on our ride I noticed a big commotion at the Quirinale Hotel. There were
cars with blue lights on top and special looking black shiny motorcycles, complete
with beautifully uniformed police riders. Then I noticed that there were a lot of
police in dress uniforms directing traffic. As we made one turn in the road I caught
a glimpse of the monument at Piazza Venezia, The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
It was full of soldiers.

When we got closer, some plainclothes officer told our bus driver to "move, move!"
He was getting all the traffic out of the way, getting ready for something.

Our bus went across an empty intersection and made an unscheduled stop. I told
The Man to "move, move!" I wanted to get out and see what was going on.

That's how it is around here. Things just happen and you have to watch the spectacles
unfold.

We walked up near the monument and joined about fifty others standing on a little hill
waiting. All traffic had stopped, which was really something because Piazza Venezia
is the center of the center of Rome and is an extremely busy intersection.

There were hundreds of brightly dressed soldiers in formation, standing at attention
wearing various, colorful, shiny, be-feathered, be-metaled costumes. The military band
was there, too, instruments gleaming in the sun.

A motorcade arrived and a black limousine pulled up. A woman security officer ran
alongside and was there to open the door when the car came to a complete stop, just
ahead of the motorcycle police escort.

First, a woman got out of the car wearing the biggest black hat I've ever seen. It was
divine! It was a dream hat, dignified, grand, imposing. And, this lady stepped out of
that car and didn't even bang her hat on the way out. It was smooth, let me tell you.
She'd obviously had some practice. A grey-headed man got out of the other side, but
he was boringly hatless. The woman was escorted to the steps leading up to the Tomb
of the Unknown Soldier. She turned and faced the soldiers below. The band played an
anthem I didn't recognize. Afterward, the woman bowed her beautifully hatted head in
acknowledgment. The band played the Italian national anthem and the grey-headed
man and an Italian minister walked along the line, inspecting the troops.

After the inspection, the grey-headed man and The Woman of The Hat followed two
incredibly tall soldiers, impeccably dressed in beautiful red and blue jackets, white
stretch pants tucked into shiny, knee high, black boots, silver breast plates and
matching silver helmets with huge black feathers. These honor soldiers carried a
large wreath up the marble steps to the lay at the foot of the Tomb.

Afterward we asked some others who these people were. They were the King and
Queen of Sweden, King Carl XVI Gustaff and Queen Silvia.

When I was in the fifth grade I had to write a report on Sweden. I also had a best
friend at that same time who was Swedish and who taught me how to sing "Baa Baa
Black Sheep" in Swedish. I can still sing it and will at any time upon request.

So, I was feeling my Swedish roots as I stood there watching the King and Queen
of the Hat.

Wow. What a life. The whole thing spent traveling around with uniformed soldiers,
security people who run alongside ready to open the doors, bands playing, people
waving, free lunches with foreign dignitaries, and, best of all, a different hat for every
occasion.

"The Queen of Sweden NEVER has to carry a shopping bag full of frozen edemane
beans," I thought. "She NEVER has to stand around on the street waiting for a
stinking bus. She NEVER has to go out with dirty hair in an old brown jacket."

She can just sit around all day listening to ABBA records and watching Ingmar Bergman
films, whilst her maids polish her hats.

I wanna be the Queen of Sweden. "Ja, ja. Take a chance on me".

something else

2009-03-19T22:35:00.002+01:00

here is something that i think is excellent.

i'm glad this guy is out there.

Bagni di Lucca

2009-03-17T21:57:00.001+01:00

We took a short
trip to the village
of Bagni di Lucca
in Toscana, in the
Apuane Alps.

The mountains were
full of spring run-off,
woodland flowers were
blooming, birds singing,
it was warm and sunny.
It was really nice.

We stayed in this albergo
in a wonderful, old room
with a terrace overlooking
the river.

There are thermal baths
here as well, which is why
in the past, Bagni di Lucca
attracted the likes of Shelley,
Byron, the Brownings,
Paganini, Liszt and Puccini.

One day we drove around the mountains and came to the village of Fabbrica di Vallico, hidden high on a narrow mountain road. It was so pretty up there. The air was fresh and clean and the people were so friendly. Here's a movie of what we saw.

To The Men Of The World

2009-03-17T15:33:00.007+01:00

I'm writing this entry for
all the men of the world.

Listen and listen good.

When you go up to your
woman and try to hug her
and she pushes you away
and says "don't touch me"
don't be offended, don't
look at her all hurt with
your big puppy dog eyes
looking all confused.

Cause let me tell you,
she feels bad enough
already. Looking at her
with your hurt feelings
is only adding to the
torture she's enduring.

Your being hurt is the frosting on the warped cake of her mind.

Instead, stop and think about what she's been doing.
Has she gone shopping, for example? And, I don't mean
shoe or purse or jewelry shopping because that's always
a lot of fun and makes all women very happy.

No, think harder, men. Really make your brain grunt.

If she seems a tad high strung, if when she opens her mouth
balls of fire shoot out, if she has sprung a tail and is whipping
it around the room breaking the furniture, if her eyeballs glow
a lizardly yellow, if her voice has deepened and sounds like
someone threw a chop stick in the garbage disposal, then you
might silently wonder, "she didn't go clothes shopping did she?"

Check her index finger for the telltale, black, coat hanger dirt
smudge. If it's there, and if you have any intellect at all, you'll
be wise to go easy, Buster.

If she's got that smudge, then that means she has spent hours
standing inside filthy, airless, cubicles staring at the contours of
her pathetic body which doesn't look at all like Angelina Jolie's
or Gweneth Paltrow's or even (and, especially!) ol' Madonna's.

No, what she's staring at is something only her sick mind can comprehend...
and it's ALL disgustingly bad.

And, THAT'S why she doesn't want to be touched!

Okay?

It's got nothing to do with YOU! I know this is hard for you, Men Of The World, to
understand, but IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU!

So, lay off. Don't make things worse.

Just give her a day to recuperate.

And, the next time you tell her you're taking her to some fancy exhibition of some guy's
collection of Picasso's, think again.

For your information, she doesn't even like Picasso...
well, his blue period was okay, I guess.

Heavy Thoughts

2009-03-16T12:45:00.005+01:00

I was sitting around
thinking the other day

that my "Lentil"
is a grand failure

and that if The Man
weren't such a quick eater
he'd be much thinner
by now

because when I finish
eating what's on my
plate
i start coveting
what's on his.

He took me to a place in Tuscany called Bagni Di Lucca in the Alpuan Alps. It's a quaint,
old village built on a roaring river. The weather was warm, the mountains were flowing
with spring run-off, birds sang and woodland wildflowers bloomed purple and yellow.
Byron, Shelley, the Brownings, Puccini, Liszt, Strauss and Paganini spent summer
months in Bagni Di Lucca at various times. One reason for its popularity were the thermal
baths, still in use today. I think we'll go back there again and test the healing properties
of the baths ourselves.

Back here in chaotic Rome, we ran into our friend Bill, the chef. Several days ago we joined
him at an evening lecture at the prestigious American Academy in Rome. I'd never been
there before, in the beautiful Villa Aurelia up on the Gianicolo Hill overlooking the city. Bill
used to be the chef for the Academy, a position now held by his friend, Mona, who, in turn,
used to work for Alice Waters. I know, I am totally name dropping here. But, Bill is an
independent chef and very well connected with the filthy rich of Rome. He cooks frequently
for various embassies as well as private parties for diplomats and celebrities. And, AND the
big news is that tomorrow Bill is taking the founder of Cook's Illustrated magazine, his wife
and children on a tour of the Esquilino market here in Rome and then to lunch. I thought
this was very exciting because I love Cook's Illustrated! And, now my friend Bill is taking
the Kimball family on a tour! Wow!

I will never get to see the insides of the beautiful apartments where Bill works, but I love
to hear about them. You know what I mean?

Calling Dr. Segal

2009-03-05T22:05:00.010+01:00

So, when I get back to the Land of O, one of the first things
I have to do is have my stupid wisdom tooth pulled...
this time for real!

But, I'm not too worried about it anymore because I've had
an epiphany.

Tonight we are watching a Steven Segal movie called
"Out Of Reach." It's in Italian, of course, but when you're
watching Steven Segal, who cares.

In this one scene a police woman he's working with gets shot by some really bad guys.
After whupping the really bad guys really bad,
he hoists the woman onto the kitchen table,
wrestles in the cupboards for some stuff,
gives her a large swig of whiskey,
sterilizes a knife and a pair of scissors on the stove,
tells her to relax,
digs out the bullet
then cauterizes the wound with a burning hot...well, it looked like a frosting spreader.

Anyway...I watched the scene and I suddenly realized

"I WANT STEVEN SEGAL TO PULL MY WISDOM TOOTH!"

He did it just the way I want it done. Badaboom! Badabang! Then rub my head and tell
me not to move.

Note to myself: Call Steven's agent. Find out how much he wants for a small side job.

Problem solved.

I'm so happy.

A New Me...me

2009-03-05T11:49:00.011+01:00

My name is Mimi,
with zee accent on
zee second "mi.'
Ooh, la la!

I am a pert, French
coquette living in Rome.
Zis place eez zo gauche.

I meece my Tour Eiffel.
I need my fromage du brie.
I could keel for un bit of baguette.

Zee boyz won't leef me alone.
I am zer femme fatale.
I am zo bored wiz dem.
I vant to be alone.
I vant to only be viz me
because I am zo speziale,
so beeutiful,
so....

What's happened you ask?
Why has my named changed?
Why am I suddenly French?
Why am I speaking with a French accent when
I'm supposed to be studying my Italian?

I got a haircut.
What else?

Yesterday I cut my hair.
Then The Man cut my hair.
Then I cut my hair some more.

Now, instead of looking like an old, beat up Thunderbird,
I look like a 1964 Renault Caravelle.
"Tres chic."

And, I can prove it. Today hurrying on my way to school
in the rain a taxi actually stopped for me and allowed me
to cross the busy street RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM.
"Merci, mon ami!"

Another man held a door open for me as I trudged up
the stairs to my classroom.
"Quelle surprise!"

No one pinched my derriere as I walked home.
But, alas, only my hair cut is new,
it's not like I got a complete body lift or anything.
Still...the little Mimi in me was disappointed.
"Ca ne fait rien."

Now I'm home after my excellent Italian lesson.
I've changed classes. Instead of going on Monday
and Wednesday, I'm going on Tuesday and Thursday.
My first teacher had the maddening, typically Italian
habit of showing up for class 20 minutes late and ending
the class ten minutes early. She was out sick again yesterday,
her fourth sick day. I am not sympathetic, compassionate
or patient when I'm paying for something. "Zut alors!"

So, I complained on Monday and was told I could
start going to the Tuesday class with Senora Caravelle.
Well, let me tell you, she is fantastico! I am zo happee!

I have a new, better Italian class and a new, better hairstyle.
"Vive la difference!"

The Man has a randy look in his eye, a certain je ne sais quoi. Hmmmm.
It's probably his cataract acting up...however, he has mentioned that he likes
my new look, my new do, my "coiffeur..."

"C'est magnifique, mon conquette, mon croissant, mon crepe, mon leetle creme brulee."

He must be really hungry.

Walkin' the Walk and Talkin' the Talk

2009-02-28T08:41:00.002+01:00

Last Saturday our friends, Mirella and Roberto, took us to a nearby restaurant run by a
bunch of nuns.

Too bad I forgot to take photos inside. But, afterward as we strolled home, The Man took
several short videos of our walk. I pieced them together into one movie and you can watch
it HERE.

The sun was shining, so ALL the Romans were outside. It's also the end of Carnival, another
reason to be out and about and why you'll notice a few people dressed in costumes.

The walk takes us through Piazza Navona, to Angelo's old coffee bar, Campo Dei Fiori, and
finally to a demonstration that occurred in Piazza Farnese, one of my favorite piazzas in Rome.
Oh, and the demonstration was for the Right To Die issue that's being fought here against the
Pope. Another reason why it was so crowded that day.

This video captures pretty much what we do here a lot; that is, meander around talking, trying
to understand exactly what is going on amid all the chaos (me), and enjoying it all (The Man).

Ciao.

The Official Commemorative 64th Birthday Video

2009-02-27T15:28:00.000+01:00

Here are a few WORDS from The Birthday Man.

The Boy

2009-02-27T13:58:00.000+01:00

This is the boy that
lives inside The Man,

the budding poet,
actor, musician and
artist emerging,

a traveler, like the
immigrants he came
from, with dreams
of a cabin in the woods
and a boat on the sea,

standing on legs growing
strong that will carry him
through what life holds in store,

He looks pretty good
for a boy of 64.

Happy Birthday.

Fat Tuesday, Still Fat On Wednesday

2009-02-25T14:38:00.000+01:00

Every day is Fat Tuesday for me.
That's why yesterday was no big deal.

But, today is Lent and that's another story.

I was born and raised Lent-less. We generally tended to avoid
participating in holidays that required things like abstinence, penance,
prayer, fasting or almsgiving. We weren't into discomfort. No one
self-flagellated...not that I know of, anyway.

In fact, the only suffering I can remember at any religious holiday is
of the gluttonous kind, where I'd end up half unconscious on the couch,
attempting to unbutton my pants in order to save them from being
destroyed by the imminent explosion of my stomach which amazingly
seemed to contain an 'Alien'-esque creature composed of half-digested
turkey legs, mashed potatoes, stuffing and waldorf salad which was going
to burst forth and wreak havoc on my loving family, not to mention my
mother's mauve, satin-brocade sofa.

I like the idea of Lent. It's a time of reflection, a time to step out of your
comfort zone.

This year I've decided to celebrate a little Lent or, as I call it, a "Lentil."

I am going to observe forty days of self denial.

Last night before I went to sleep I spent some time contemplating what I should
sacrifice for my Lentil. I thought of the usual things; chocolate, alcohol, cursing.
However, I decided I wanted to succeed.

Then, in a moment of probably divine inspiration, it hit me. For my Lentil I
will give up ONE HALF of everything I eat. For example, this morning I poured
my usual bowl of breakfast cereal, BUT I poured one half of it back in the box.
For lunch I only had one bowl of soup, not two. For a snack I ate half an apple
and gave the other half to my other half. Speaking of whom, this afternoon
The Man brought me a piece of pizza and I only ate half of it. With gritted teeth
I gave the rest back to him.

That was hard, but watching his eyes pop and his jaw drop made it all worthwhile.

I will only eat half of everything. Oh, and to make it fun I'm going to eat with
my left hand, too.

As I write this I've been at it for eleven hours.

I feel weak.

But, with my last effort, I hereby give notice to the Fat Tuesday Committee:
Get a new mascot.

Puppy Brains

2009-02-22T10:41:00.000+01:00

This is why
we like it here

You see things
you'd never see
in a sane world.

This woman thought it was
perfectly normal to shop in
the china and glass wear
department with a 250 lb.
puppy.

Someone should'a told
her to hitch up her
pony outside.

Whoop-ee-ti-yi-o!
Get along little doggies.

WomanAmok

2009-02-17T09:15:00.000+01:00

There is "out of control" and then there is this woman.

I want to be her.

Just once
I want to flip out
I want to bang my fist
and yell
and scream
and pant
and moan
in public
for all the world to see.

I love this woman.
I don't want to know her.
God forbid she should ever be on my flight.
But, I just love her.

She obviously has no higher brain activity.
She is completely ruled by lower brain impulses.
She's an emotional trainwreck.

Her behaviour is why the slap was invented.

You may laugh when you watch this.
You may stare in disbelief.
But you have to admit
we've all been there, haven't we?

Have a nice day.

Getting Technical

2009-02-13T21:35:00.000+01:00

Here is a video of a walk we took the other day across the Ponte Sisto.

I'm trying something new here.

Trying to be more technical.

Ha.

If I get good at this, I'll post frequent videos.

Meanwhile, all is fine here.

I have nothing to rant about.

Hello Kimitty

2009-02-05T22:00:00.000+01:00

This blog is for Ms. K.,
my neighbor back in
Lime Plant City.

She likes all things
Hello Kitty.

Evidently, so do these
Italiani!

Every time this tram
passes by, I think of
my friend.

This photo would be so much better if she were standing there ready to board.

Scuola Giorni

2009-02-04T18:22:00.000+01:00

This morning I reluctantly returned to school. I'm not sure why I was reluctant.
Maybe I'm just mad because I still can't speak this darn language. Well, I speak it,
but I don't speak well. Luckily, our friends are patient people and are always kind
to the verbally-challenged, bumbling sidekick The Man takes with him everywhere.
These people reacted enthusiastically when I said I was going to go to school.

It's for them that I go.

I had to take an entrance exam when I signed up to take classes. It was a one-page
test with some pronoun, singular to plural, and verb conjugation exercises. I flunked.
They assigned me to the "elementario" class.

I don't think there's any reason to translate.

I polished my shoes, I wore my best-pants-that-still-fit and a clean sweater. I put
pens and paper in my Hello Kitty backpack and off I trudged...in the rain...to school.

I guess I walked kind of fast because I got there about twenty minutes early and had
all this empty time to think about what I had gotten myself into.

Ugh. School. Two hours a day, twice a week, for two months.

At least it's not every day.

Inca Kola

2009-01-26T17:34:00.000+01:00

To: Tanya,
Publisher: My Wealth Log

Dear Tanya,

This morning I was trying to type the word "Eweuu...Eyuu...Eeeuuu."

You know, when you're walking along and you step in something yucky,
you go "eeeyuu." But, as you can see, I can't spell it AT ALL. Then I
remembered that you, Tanya, had spelled the word perfectly in one of
your blog posts, so I started cursoring through looking for the word Eyeu.
(Boy! Can I ever NOT spell that word!)

While looking, I came across a post of yours that I'd somehow missed
entitled "Peruvian Gastronomy." I stopped to read it and found it all
interesting and informative and I wanted to be there, etc., etc. AND,
I read the part about INCA KOLA. First time I'd ever heard of the stuff.

Fast forward about four hours. The Man and I joined a friend who
caters dinner parties for the American Embassy and other lucky
executive types here in Rome. Since today is the Chinese New Year
(Year of the Ox, in case you were wondering) he took us on a tour
of the ethnic food markets in the Chinese district of Rome near Piazza
Vittorio. We were in Chinese, Korean, Bangladeshi, Indian - southern
and northern, Thai and finally Peruvian markets.

It was great. Now I know where to get frozen duck feet the next time
I have a hankerin' for a plateful. What a relief!

During the gastronomic tour, I watched The Man slowly vaporize into a
big, hollow blob of nothingness with the conversational input of asphalt.
A shopper he is NOT. But, he perked up at the Peruvian market stand
because they had pistachio nuts for sale (from Iran, actually, not Peru
but...whatever...) and while The Man was making his purchase and our
friend/guide was buying something else, I looked up on the counter and
saw a huge bottle of INCA KOLA!!!

It was so strange. I'd never heard of it until this morning...and there it was!

Then, I started thinking how maybe I've slipped into some 15th dimensional
vortex and everything YOU write about I'M going to experience! And, this
made me twitch with excitement because I really want to be on that beach
in Baja, in that beautiful house overlooking the ocean, where you stayed with
your brother and his dogs. I'm hoping that I get to go there next and NOT to
a plate of cooked guinea pig...Ewyeuu!

Ciao,
Meridith

P.S. I was also thinking that everyone in the world who comes across
INCA KOLA should publish the photo on the web...sort of like those
traveling gnome pictures in the film "Amelie."

So, here's mine:

Our New Car, Part II

2009-01-24T18:49:00.001+01:00

If you can survive the process of buying a car in Italy, you can do anything.

We bought the car last Thursday. We took possession last Wednesday. Seven days of finagling and rigamarole unparalleled.

Day One: Finding the Car and agreeing to buy.
Relatively simple. Oh, lookie! Cute. Let's buy it. How much? Okay!

Day Two: Transferring Ownership
Follow the sad owner to the office where they transfer the ownership of the vehicle. He's sad because he is at the end of an era, he can't drive anymore. He's dealing with an age issue that awaits us all. Also, he's had this car for nine years and he's attached to it. We know how he feels.

But, we get to this office and are told we have to pay the equivalent of $500 to make the transfer. $500!! How's that for a sneaky taxation deal! The Man already knew about this. I didn't. So, I was the only one who had to sit down and put her head between her legs to keep from gagging.

Day Three: Saturday, Day of Rest, Day of remorseful thoughts.
Day Four: Sunday, Day of Rest, Day of impatience to get the car!

Day Five: Go with the sad owner to the insurance company because we'd been told by the ownership-transfer people that we can simply transfer the owner's insurance policy into our names - meaning a savings of many euros. Good deal. However, we get there and are told that, no, insurance coverage cannot be transferred.

I squint my eyes and look peeved, but The Man says, "let's get an estimate from this place." First they quote him a yearly sum of 1,200 Euros. The Man says, "No." Then the girl says, "I'll figure it again." She types more stuff into the computer and comes up with a quote of 800 Euros for a year's insurance. The Man says, "Okay!"

As we leave I'm wondering, "What's our comprehensive? How much liability coverage do we have? What's the deductible?" The Man says, "Don't worry about it. We have a sticker to put on our windshield proving we have insurance, that's all that matters."

Next, we go across the city to the main offices of ATAC (perfect acronym!), Rome's agency of All Things Transportation. It's here that we must apply to get a permit to park in the the historical center of Rome, where we happen to live and where traffic flow is restricted.

It's a very busy, crowded place where everyone stands around holding a measly, sweaty, scrunched up piece of paper with a big number on it, waiting and watching a digital board that details who is up and which cubicle to report to for assistance.

We brought along all kinds of paperwork, our proof of residency, a copy of our apartment contract, a copy of our electric bill, phone bill, bank statement, international driver's licenses, credit cards, ATM cards, photos of our children and promises to give up our next born, anything to please the Gods of Bureaucracy, anything to prove that we live in the center, and that we're not just worthless, filthy bums without a hope or a prayer, which is exactly what we were, of course.

After a while we got our chance with Marco, a nice guy who seemed pleased with all our papers. But, then he left his desk with our apartment contract to confer with his boss and came back asking for "proof of legality of our contract," proof that the owner of our building paid the tax for our apartment indicating that the apartment is legally rented, as opposed to illegal rentals that are not reported and, most importantly, TAXED, which happens to be a VERY common practice.

Marco looked really sorry, but he said he couldn't give us the permit until we provided proof that the taxes had been paid. We tried reasoning. We played Good Cop, Bad Cop, with me whiny and pleading and The Man angry and demanding to see the boss.

Marco said he was sorry, but this happened all the time. People came there thinking they were legal, but they weren't, just like us.

I asked what we were supposed to do with the car and he mentioned that not only were we prohibited from parking anywhere in Rome, but we were not allowed TO DRIVE the car anywhere in Rome either! I said, "So what you're saying is, we have a car, we have insurance, but we have to park it somewhere outside the city and maybe take a train to visit it once in a while?"

He said, "Yes, I'm sorry."

You couldn't have knocked us flatter with a steam roller.

During the long bus ride home we were fine, but very quiet, stunned. Everything had been going so well. What happened?

I knew for a fact that we didn't have any piece of paper saying our crazy landlady who I'VE NEVER EVEN SEEN had paid some tax or other. Why would she? She's never done anything, especially if it involves money. Our building was built in 1502 and, aside from basic plumbing, nothing has been done here since. I don't even run our washing machine anymore because I'm convinced the floor is going to cave in!

We got home, glugged down most of a bottle of wine, curled up and slept for hours. After waking, the depression hit me. What the heck were we supposed to do now? The Man came in while I was just sitting on the bed staring into the black hole we'd dug for ourselves. He said, "Come back. Come back. Don't go there. I need you here." I said, "I'll go wherever I want and right now I'm at 30,000 feet returning to The Land of O where people can just drive their cars and park anywhere they want without going insane and jumping out the window!"

But, with my last, bleak will of effort, I pulled down our box of files and started going through EVERY statement, receipt and notice EVER received to look for something to prove our legality.

Out of nowhere, filed incorrectly, it was there, amongst the bank statements, a one page notarized form stating that the taxes on our apartment had been paid last April.

The black clouds of utter despair parted, rays of sunlight flooded the room and a chorus of angels started singing.

HALLELUJAH!!! WE WERE SAVED!!!!!

Day Six: We go back to the big office with a spring in our step, take a number, wait a little while, get Marco again, he's happy for us because the paper work is all in order, and we get our permit.

We exit the gladiatorial arena victorious!

Day Seven: Today we finally took possession of OUR NEW, OLD CAR! We took her out and drove up north into the Sabine Hills. She did well. The brakes only squeaked a little at first, the gas gauge didn't seem to work when we filled the tank, but then about twenty minutes later it was working just fine, and we stopped once to buy new windshield wipers because the old ones were really noisy. But, other than that, no problems...well, except for when we took some tiny, cobbled street to see some church ruin and I got us lodged in an ancient, ridiculously narrow, stone archway in a tiny hill town called Rocca Sinabalda. It was obviously constructed during the time when the biggest vehicle imaginable was a large mule fully loaded.

I was a millimeter from scraping off the entire passenger side of the car... positioned at an odd angle, on a steep decline, with the man sitting there going, "go, go, you've made it!" Fortunately, I didn't listen to him. I stopped, pulled on the brake, backed up, and made it on the second try. In truth, the jutting stones from that wall were so close, I am convinced that only something miraculous or otherworldly can explain how we popped out of there without hearing the sound of the rear bumper being wrenched off and banging on the ground.

We are a walking ABC Sports Show. We're constantly experiencing the "thrill of victory" or the "agony of defeat!"

That's how it is here. Never easy. Always intense.

Our New Car

2009-01-16T13:11:00.000+01:00

We got a car.

An old man, unable to drive anymore
sold it to us for a good price.

It's a 2000 Ford Fiesta and it only
has 43,000 km on it...that's only
26,700 miles. Mr. d'Agostini,
the owner, kept saying, "it's new,
it's new." Well, it is like a new car.
It even smells new. He told me no
one has ever ridden in the back seat,
only he and his wife in the front.

We spotted the car yesterday while walking by a small courtyard in Trastevere. I saw
the "Vendesi" sign in the car's rear window. I told The Man, "I think that's our new car!"
Well, it turned out my feeling was correct.

This morning we paid the owner and went with him to transfer ownership. We have
entered an entirely new world of bureaucracy, one hitherto unknown to us. We have
to get licenses, official stamps and stickers and permits, pay taxes and fees. Oh boy.
We're in the thick of it now. Then we have to figure out where we're going to park
the thing. If parking spaces were lifeboats, then Rome is the Titanic.

All that aside though, we're really excited.

We'll finalize the paperwork on Monday. Then we'll be off.

Oh, and we don't know what color it is. The Man says it's blue. I say it's green.
But, it actually looks sort of greenish/bluish/silverish. It's not a color that stands
out in a crowd, it blends in...which means that it's a great super-spy car!

‘Twas The Parrot Done Her In

2009-01-15T12:22:00.000+01:00

That’s what I want put on my tombstone.
Or, assuming I don’t warrant a tombstone,
assuming I’ll be thrown into the lime pit
at the pauper’s graveyard like Mozart,
then write it in my obituary.
Come on, humor me.

Anyway, it almost happened.

I had walked my walk in Villa Borghese.
Seven laps.
Just me, a jogger and a dog walker.
I was done, leaving the track,
when the bird struck.

He flew into a tall cypress tree.
He screeched something.
I imitated the sound back to him.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
Then I twisted my ankle and went down.

It wasn’t just a fall.
It was a collision of human and earth,
the plummeting of a giant oak,
a mother lode of plunging mass,
a galumphing of gigantic proportions.

It was a fall seemingly without end.
The earth had slipped into a timeless warp
and the falling went on and on and on.
It was a slow motion descent involving
all parts of my body, toes to head.
Galumph!

To those who witnessed the event
it must have been shocking to see
me rise immediately after.
For it must have appeared as if
I’d been shot and must surely be dead.

But, up I sprang, aware of scraped palms
stinging knee, and sprained ankle.
I looked around to see who was watching
and furiously began dusting off the grit
covering my pant legs and jacket.
I shook gravel out of my hair.
While so occupied I assessed my condition.
It seemed I could walk.

A man on a bicycle rode up to where I stood.
He eyed me seriously and inquired as to my well being.
I assured him I was fine but in my shock and hysteria
my voice sounded falsely exuberant, as if I fell down
everyday just for the fun of it.

I limped to the nearby bus stop and entertained
thoughts about washing off my bleeding palms
in the fountain pool across the way. But, the thought
of some mutant parasite lurking in the brackish water
deterred me.

Soon the little bus arrived to take me safely home.
Just as I hobbled aboard,
before the doors swished closed,
I heard the distant laugh
of the parrot in the cypress tree.

My Own Two Feet

2009-01-12T14:48:00.000+01:00

Yesterday morning I got up and accidentally put my slippers on the wrong feet.
Well, not exactly the wrong feet. I mean I didn't put them on someone else's feet.
I put them on mine, but contrary-wise to the manufacturer's recommendations.

I realized my error immediately. Who wouldn't?
But, just before automatically making the switch, I decided not to.
I left my left on my right and my right on my left and went in to make coffee.
It felt funny and made me want to giggle, but I didn't mention it to The Man.

This was just something between me and my own two feet.
They've been good to me and I felt like giving them some attention and appreciation.
I wanted us to spend some quality time together.
I wanted to be aware of them for a while instead of taking them for granted.
We had a good time.

Later I dressed them in Fluffy and Muffy and took them for a walk. First, we
rode the 116 Electric bus up to the Villa Borghese Park to the Piazza di Sienna,
a small track near the Galleria Borghese, one of my favorite places in Rome. This
huge park is so beautiful, a tranquil oasis in an otherwise congested, chaotic city,
full of wide, shady walkways, ancient statuary, mossy fountains and large monuments.

It was chilly at first, but the sun shone brightly and we soon warmed up. I was
working up to a good pace when I became aware of the screeching of birds. A flock
of parrots, descendants of domestic birds who escaped their cages or were released,
flourish in this section of the park. There were about fifteen perched in trees above
my head, easy to spot with their long green tails and bright orange beaks. I broke
my stride to stop and watch. They were lucky birds.

Each lap took 4-1/2 minutes, so after seven laps I left the track and made my way
out of the park and down onto the Via Veneto, which is an avenue I love not because of
it's elegant hotels, upscale shops and cafes, but simply because it has the widest sidewalks
in Rome, an extravagance to someone used to the medieval center.

Rome's sidewalks are often nonexistent or, if they do exist, are miserable afterthoughts
usually blocked by illegally parked vehicles or people too intent on their conversation to
step out of your way. It's normal to walk in the street with cars speeding all around you
simply because there's no where else to walk. But, on the Via Veneto it's completely
different. Built recently, in the late 1800's, it is a street much more like Paris, a more
modern city who's architects and builders had the good sense and vision to include nice,
wide sidewalks in their designs.

After winding down the Veneto my feet indicated to me that they were tired. So, we
caught another 116 for home. Remember the taxi driver in the film "Scrooged," the one
that takes Bill Murray to meet the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future? Well,
that guy is alive and well, terrorizing unsuspecting commuters in Rome.

I got on the bus at the "capolinea," which is the last stop and a rest point for the driver.
I was the sole passenger aboard and after waiting for about eight minutes we took off.
I swear we popped a wheelie. A lot of Rome's bus drivers are insensitive maniacs, but
this guy was special. He was an entity in and of himself, taking sharp corners at 35 km.
It's lucky I was the only passenger because that way I could avail myself of all the
handholds and poles to keep myself upright and I was sitting down! However, I found
that if I kept both feet firmly planted and spaced about two feet apart, and if I clung
to the bright yellow ticket stamping machine, I was fairly secure.

As we whisked past a bus stop without bothering to stop, I noticed the astonished faces
of people who may have wanted a ride. It was amusing because, even though death appeared
imminent, the careening bus I was on must have made quite a spectacle. A mad driver
at the wheel, the bus turning on two wheels and a lone woman flailing around in the back.

Then, near the Spanish Steps, we suddenly swooped up onto the left curb and came to
an abrupt stop. The driver opened his window, reached out and grabbed the hand of
a man standing there. They shook hands, kissed cheeks, shouted greetings and started
a conversation. This break gave me a chance to unclench my hold on the ticket machine
and rub some circulation into my fingers.

After five minutes of listening to these two paisans chit chat, I thought of interrupting
to inquire as to whether or not we might reach my destination by nightfall, but I nixed
the idea because, seriously, I didn't want to make the guy mad at me.

In all my experience in this city, I've never had a bus driver stop and talk in the middle
of a run. I've seen them talk to friends IN the bus riding, I've had them honk and wave to
acquaintances on the street, I've watched them drive with one hand on the wheel and
the other holding their cell phone to their ear. But stopping and parking the bus to talk,
never! Another "first" for me. Which is really what Rome is all about, surprises.

We finally made it to my stop in Campo Dei Fiori, the "field of flowers," and they were
there, bright and colorful along with the vegetable market in full swing. I bid the driver
a good day, and stepped off, fell to my knees and kissed the ground...not really. But, I
was really happy. Happy to have survived Mr. Toad's Wild Ride; happy to have had the
adventure; happy to be here, on the planet Earth, in Italy, in Roma, walking along
on my own two feet.

Response to Perry Barber

2009-01-07T12:27:00.000+01:00

Thank you for taking the time to write. Your comments are perceptive and, for the most part, accurate.
I did romanticize the story, stretching it into something to illustrate (albeit badly) a point I was making
about manners. I don’t know why that particular story came to mind. It wasn’t a very good example
and you’re right to point that out. My father’s behavior was appalling that day and, yes, his actions
speak volumes about the kind of person he was. Yet, I hardly think he was the first or last person to
sit in the stands with the attitude that it was his right to berate an umpire. I’m sure such behavior is
the topic of many psychological tomes on irrational acts committed by sports fans.

My father was an angry man, his actions were frequently indefensible, and I had a difficult relationship
with him. But, he was in his youth one heck of a great ball player. Perhaps one of the reasons he was bitter
was that due to bad timing, poor decision making, and just plain bad luck, he never realized his dream of
making the pros. There was that night in the early 1940’s playing in the minors when he was told to play center
field, although he was always a catcher. But he did the job, hitting four for four and making a miracle,
lost-in-the-lights, fly-ball catch. After the game two scouts from the New York Yankees came to his coach and
said they wanted him to come to New York to try out for the center field position recently vacated by
Joe DiMaggio who had left to fight the war. The coach explained that my Dad had told him just that evening
that he would be leaving the team as he had enlisted in the Navy and would soon be shipping out.

He was sent to Hawaii where he played on a Navy team. Fellow teammates were Pee Wee Reese, Dominic DiMaggio
and Yogi Berra. My Dad was first string catcher, Yogi was second string. There were a lot of well known or soon
to be well-known players on that team. Dad played with them for about six months before leaving to fly
search and rescue in the South Pacific.

After the war he returned home to resume his baseball career and was immediately signed by the Brooklyn Dodgers,
but he injured his arm, couldn’t throw and was released. By then he had a family to support and so let go of his dream.
He remained devoted to the game, though, and watched as his old teammates continued on their paths of glory.
He, poignantly, praised their accomplishments and was so proud to have known them.

He officiated hundreds of little league games and, just so you know, he was heckled. He said one time there was
this woman who kept yelling at him, “Hey, Mr. Umpire! Hey, Ump!” He said she just kept it up, but he wouldn’t
give her the satisfaction of looking at her. Finally, in exasperation, the woman yelled, “Hey, Ump! Your fly’s open!”
Sure enough, my Dad looked and his zipper was down. I remember asking what he did then. He said he turned
around, zipped up, thanked the woman and called the next play.

My father is now 87 years old and suffers from dementia. He doesn’t remember current events but can still
reminisce about the distant past. I’m going to call him this evening and tell him that a professional
umpire, a woman in the Baseball Hall of Fame, has written me to say that his behavior was intolerable on
that day at Dodger stadium. Your credentials will carry some weight and he’ll certainly pay attention. He
may even agree that you are right. For certain, he’ll get a kick out of it. Then he’ll probably say something like,
“if you can’t take the heat, keep outta the fire,” remaining incorrigible as ever.

Congratulations on your extraordinary career success and, again, thank you for writing

Nasty Words

2009-01-05T10:19:00.000+01:00

Pardon me for being vulgar in my previous blog.

"You used nasty words and it was not a good thing to do," said The Man.
He told me that I should think of my mother and my grandmothers.
What would they say about my use of crude language? (Mom, you don't
have to respond. I already know the answer.)

So, I've had a re-think and now I'm ashamed of myself for giving into the
sloppiness and baseness that has become de rigeur in our society.

Think about it, old people out there. Remember when we had manners?
Remember when men and women dressed as best as they could when they
went to the store or even to sporting events? You've seen the old film footage of
people in the stands at some baseball game and everybody's dressed in their
Sunday best, women in dresses with hats and gloves, men in suits and hats.
They look so refined.

It's hard to believe isn't it? But, I remember it well. I remember my Dad
taking me to Dodger stadium for an afternoon game, just the two of us. We
got seats about ten rows above first base. I wore my best pink dress and polished
white saddle shoes. We sat in the sun and watched Sandy Koufax throw zingers.

My Dad, an ex-Triple A player and current little league umpire, was there to have
a good time and I soon learned that for him the fun involved yelling at the first
base umpire, telling him he was blind, that he'd sure blown that call, and making
inquiries as to where in the world he'd learned to call a game.

I sat there carefully eating my frozen, chocolate malt, a delicacy, making sure
nothing dripped off the flat, wooden spoon. As my Dad yelled, my attention
was drawn from my malt to the people who were turning around looking to
see who was making such a racket. They'd smile and shake their heads. I slid
down in my seat. I was mortified. My Dad was yelling and people were looking.
We were becoming a spectacle! Horror of horrors!

By the third inning the umpire started getting annoyed. He looked up a few
times to see who the heck was giving him such a hard time, much to my father's
sheer delight. He was gleefully berating this guy, releasing his life's frustrations.

Finally, after a close and "lousy call," my Dad really let loose. He called the guy
an idiot and said he shouldn't be allowed to officiate a game. That's when the
umpire had had enough. He turned around, put his hands on his hips and glared
up, right at my Dad. He was about to say something when my Dad yelled out:
"What are you lookin' at me for? You keep your eye on the ball!"

I'll never forget those words. They're embedded in the innermost fabric of my brain.

People laughed. I was embarrassed to the point of inability to swallow my malt and
started choking.

But the point I wanted to make is that through the whole thing no one ever yelled
an obscenity. The language wasn't vulgar. It was descriptive and innovative.

Anyway, that's what I am going to strive for now as I return to Rome where I am
and where I should be writing about but amn't because I got distracted and nasty.

So, sorry. Ciao.

The Two Seven Dwarfs

2009-01-03T10:19:00.000+01:00

The Man called me an
asshole this morning.

Okay, so I kinda deserved
it, but still.

We were sitting at the
table, illuminated by the
glow of laptop, engrossed
in our morning reading of
online news.

He was slurping his coffee and then he grabbed a handful of pistachios
and started cracking them open, then chomping on them.

I said, "Geez! It's like sitting at a table with a bunch of barnyard animals!"

He said, "So what! You eat soup like a gulag prisoner, banging your spoon
in the bowl digging for the last piece of carrot!

I said, "Yeah, well at least I don't gurgle."

Then he called me an asshole and walked out of the room.

That's when I remembered that today I was going to start meditation exercises.
As I told The Man, I'm convinced that he is causing inflammation in my arteries.
And, we all know how bad that is. But, now I couldn't go do my life-saving,
stress-reducing meditation because The Man was in the "other" room, the room
where I planned on sitting quietly and following my breath.

This year marks our thirtieth year of (mostly) wedded bliss. I say "mostly" because
there was that divorce and re-marriage about ten years ago but, other than that, we
have been fairly blissful. We (mostly except for times like this morning) have a lot of
fun together.

I think we're just going through a stage. It's the name calling stage. So far, it's been
workable. He calls me an asshole, I call him a dickhead. There. We're even. Where
you wanna go for lunch? It's over.

I clip his suspenders on in the back for him. He holds my head and tells me to relax
when I think I'm having a brain aneurysm in the middle of the street. We are good
to each other when it matters most.

We could be the poster children for happy, but grumpy couples everywhere.
Make that Happy, Grumpy, Sneezy, Dopey and Sleepy...definitely Sleepy couples
everywhere.

Heigh Ho!

Metro Drones

2008-12-30T19:14:00.000+01:00

Look at this sorry lot.

Really look at them.

Look at them standing there
enduring each other, trying
to maintain some semblance
of life space.

This is progress? This is the
best we can do?

Let me introduce you to the brave workers of the planet. This is what they have to do
every day as part of the terms of their survival. Some people dig through garbage mounds,
these people ride the Metro.

They're gripping the rails and hanging on to their sanity with the help of ipods. How sad.

And, they pay for this convenience! They pay, while their elected officials speed around in
chauffeur driven cars with blue flashing lights on top! When's the last time any senator of
Rome rode the metro or a bus?

These people avoid looking in each others eyes in order to suspend their disbelief that they
are indeed packed in a sardine can speeding down the track to nowhere. However, if you
happen to catch someone's glance for a fleeting moment, all you'll get in return is an expression
of despair to match your own.

You know one thing you WON'T see in this crowd? Madonna, that's what! Or, Angelina Jolie!
Or George Clooney! Or Bono...especially Bono! Or any of those other celebrities who moan
and cry about the sad, poor, rejected people of the world. And, you know why you won't see
them in this crowded metro, or any other similar place? Because they travel by private jet
and limo and blackened-windowed SUV with body guards completely isolated from the
people they claim to care so much about. Do you think Madonna has to listen to noisy
neighbors in the upstairs apartment at 2:00 a.m.?! Do you think Angelina stands in line
with a hundred other pushy people to buy her daily bread? No way! These delicate flowers
wouldn't stand a chance in the real world! Without a red carpet on which to tread, they'd get
trampled to dust.

I was thinking about these outrageous hypocrisies while we made our way to outer Rome
the other day. The trip involved bus and metro rides - all crowded. The infrastructure
can't support the growing population anymore.

Whenever I'm in situations involving a crowd of humans unknown to me - humans that
could potentially be carrying the latest nanovirus or some resistant strain of T.B.; humans
that might not have bathed in recent memory, who scratch invisible itch-causing stimuli;
humans that should be under constant observation and prohibited from handling kitchen
appliances unattended - these people en masse cause me stress. I clench up. I shrink away
from them. Heaven forbid any one of them should touch me...How disgusting that would
be...I shouldn't have to put up with this!...I'm too good for this!!... a patrician in a world of
hideous plebs!!!...Get Me Out Of Here!!!!...Mamaaaaaa!

I was thinking along those lines while seated next to eighteen year old scruffy boy on
the Metro, a boy who sat there continuously gnawing on his fingers. I mean he was just
chewing and biting his nails! Was he hungry or what?! I don't know, but it was so gross
and I just sat there thinking, "oh my God, he's going to spit finger nail on my jacket any
minute!" but I still just sat there because I had a seat on this Godforsaken trolley car
and if you've got a seat and have lived in this town long enough you learn that you NEVER,
EVER give up your seat no matter how many pregnant women, old crippled people, the
blind or crying lost kids come by looking pleadingly at you...YOU NEVER GIVE UP A
SEAT!, so that's the only reason I kept sitting there while this kid ate himself up.

What have all the wise sages said throughout time? Love Your Fellow Man. Have
endless compassion. All You Need Is Love. Jesus, Buddha, The Dalai Lama, John Lennon...

But I doubt any of them ever rode the Metro!

'Course, knowing them, they would probably have a great time and get a big kick out of it.

Okay, so next time I'm going to pretend like all the smelly, crazy, nail-biting people are
really the above named prophets. They're all horsing around trying to see how far they
have to go to really freak 'ol Meri out!

2008-12-24T19:41:00.000+01:00

Auguri!

Merry Christmas!

We're leaving in a few minutes to
attend a Christmas Eve Vigil at
our friends Paula and Sandro's
house. It'll be an all Italian night,
meaning I'm going to have to walk
the walk and (most incredibly) TALK
the talk.

(The Man is giving me a month's
worth of intensive Italian language
classes for Christmas. He's getting
a new digital keyboard with
computer interface. While I struggle
over my daily homework, he'll play
Jingle Bells.)

Anyway, this evening is an all-fish night. We'll be eating the traditional Christmas Eve dinner consisting
of really good, but mostly unidentifiable sea creatures. Then, we have to stay there until midnight when
they'll break out the Prosecco and toast the birth of Christ. It always feels a bit like New Year's to me,
but I go with the flow.

At the same moment, over at the Vatican, the Pope and all the midnight mass people
will walk outside to the bigger than life-sized creche scene out front in St. Peter's Square
and place the baby Jesus in his manger crib. Here you don't see baby Jesus' in the
mangers until after midnight on Christmas Eve. Makes sense when you think about it.

Now I have to go put my Christmas makeup on my face so that I look all sparkly
for the people!

Merry, Merry Christmas to you all!
Tante Auguri!!

Nero and Me

2008-12-15T12:20:00.000+01:00

Yeah, yeah, it's raining here,
the Tevere is flooding and
here in the Center the bridges
are at flood stages.

But, look, LOOK at my hat!
Isn't it cute!

I feel a bit like Nero. Whilst Rome burns - or in this case drowns - I'm fiddling...
with my hat. I'm sure also that when Vesuvius erupted there was at least one
Pompeian running around moaning, "I'll never get the ash out of this toga!"
Speaking of which, I was at Pompeii once and it was very depressing.

But, getting back to my cute hat, I bought it in the Land of O and brought it here
or, rather, returned it here to Italy where it was made, coincidentally! It's so perfect
for the winter and all the walking around outside that I have to do. You can tell
that The Man really likes it, too. You can see the envy on his face. I think that's envy.
I always get envy and irritation mixed up.

Now to the rain...the rain. The Tevere is a swollen torrent, the likes of which no one
has seen in a hundred years or something like that. Rome is once again under siege!
We've been to the riverside several times and watched as a houseboat, broken loose
from its moorings, rammed into the pillars of the Ponte Sisto. And, there are several
boats piled up and jammed against the arches of the Ponte Sant'Angelo, seen in this
link in better days.

Small islands of detritus floated by, containing trees, refrigerators, wooden pallets,
tires, children's balls and even a naked baby doll which gave me a start when I first
saw it, and an upholstered, upright recliner that needed a passenger, I thought.

Yesterday morning it was sunny and bright and the waters had receded a bit, but
last night it started misting again and today it's very dark and stormy. The rain is
expected to continue for several more days. We'll see what happens.

For me, the worst part of all this is I refuse to go outside when it rains anymore.
The Man says I have a weird fear of umbrellas and I guess it's true because I've
said it before and I'll say it again: The Romans are DEADLY when armed with
an umbrella. I don't know how many times I've nearly had an eye skewered or
a shoulder pierced by the exposed tip of some nimrod's broken umbrella. I've seen
entire lines of people at a tram stop bopped in the head one after the other by an single,
passing, inconsiderate, oblivious numskull. I am absolutely convinced that one brigade
of umbrella-wielding Roman nitwits could end the war on terror. Send them all to
Afghanistan or Pakistan or wherever trouble brews, let them work their magic on
some other enemy, real or imagined, just get them out of here so I can carry on with
my life on rainy days.

I'm not allowed to use the word "hate." Therefore, I hayt dealing with this and I just
wish the rain would stop so I could go to the store and get things done outside all the
while wearing, what many believe to be, the cutest hat in Italy!

Ponte Sisto

2008-12-11T16:25:00.000+01:00

Bridge: crosses the Tevere (Tiber) River.

Old: dates from 4th or 5th century, but was partially destroyed in 770.
You remember 770 don't you? Anyway, Pope Sixtus IV had it re-built in 1473
and everyone was so happy they named it after him, Sisto, which is the
Italian equivalent of the latin Sixtus, both meaning Sixth! Which means
that Pope Sixtus IV, technically, was Pope 6th the 4th. Which makes me think
of that bank in Ohio called First Third Bank, the name of which always gives
me a splitting headache.

Significance: takes us to visit Giacomo in Trastevere and to Isa's bar for
coffee. Maria also lives over there, as well as James and Alex and, well, we
use this bridge a lot and can never cross it without stopping midway to
admire the view.

Status: It's a footbridge, no cars or motorinos allowed anymore.
Heroin addicts and their wild dogs, street musicians and their instruments,
Africans selling black market designer handbags, okay.

Warning: You don't want to fall off this bridge. The waters are pushed along
on their way to the Mediterranean Sea by a heavy current. Also, the Tevere is
polluted. However, if you choose to fall in and are an eternal optimist, remember
that the river is full of eels, a delicacy enjoyed in ancient Roman times as well as
today. In fact, eel is a traditional item on the menu for Christmas Eve dinner.
So, pick up a few on your way out. You'll be the envy of all your friends this holiday!

Magical Places in Roma Score: 9.5

Private Dancer

2008-12-11T14:24:00.000+01:00

This is what grasshoppers
do in the face of disaster.
They dance.

We ants watch and worry.
No disaster required.

The Better Bacon

2008-12-10T11:52:00.000+01:00

Guanciale (gwon-cha-leh), the cheek of a pig, the pig's jowl - is not to be confused with pancetta or speck or any other bacon-like meat in Italy. This is distinctly Roman, a regional delicacy normally only available in Lazio (aka Latium) and boy am I lucky to be here because these people really know something about the nuturing and harvesting of bacon trees, let me tell you! (I hold fast to the belief that bacon is a fruit, not a meat, thereby eliminating any conflict with my vegetarian ideals.)

Last Sunday The Man and I went to get a coffee at our friend Isa's bar over in Trastevere. Then, our dearest friend Giacomo came in. The next thing I know, we were over at Giacomo's house having lunch with he and his wife, Virginia.

Giacomo had made the MOST INCREDIBLE pasta all'amatriciana that I'd ever tasted - and I've been to Amatrice twice and eaten that town's signature dish. But, this was better! I asked what gave the dish such distinctive flavor. Both Giacomo and Virginia answered in unison: "Guanciale." I've seen the name in butcher shops, but I never knew what it was used for. It's one of those defining foods that culturally identifies one Italian from another. These people are very serious and proud of their regional foods.

And, if that wasn't exciting enough, toward the end of the meal Virginia turned on the television to watch, I assumed, the 2:00 news report. But, then, there was her brother, Marco, right there on tv. He was at some big gala dinner wearing a tuxedo, standing up smiling. Then I saw Donatella, his wife, sitting beside him. And, there in the audience I recognized the actress Judy Dench. Virginia explained that it was footage from the European Film Awards, the equivalent of the Academy Awards held the night before in Copenhagen, and that Marco had won the Best Cinematographer Award. Not only that, but his son, Matteo Garrone, won Best Director for his film "Gomorrah." In all, the film swept the awards winning Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Actor and Best Cinematography.

It was a big night for Italian cinema and Virginia's film-making family. Virginia herself is a director of documentaries for RAI, the state-owned television company. The Man knows the family well and I've met Marco several times at his wife's restaurant. Donatella has run the restaurant for many years and serves some of the best food in Rome. It's a private dining club, you pay a yearly membership and then can eat there, lunch or dinner, whenever you like. I don't think we've ever paid the membership, but we've eaten there a lot. Donatella's place is often full of film people and film wanna-be people. She also runs a casting agency from this location. It's a place that attracts a mix of talent, casual but chic in its exclusivity. I don't care about any of that, though. All I know is when we go there I'm going to stuff MY guanciale!

Anyway, I was so excited to see Donatella and Marco on television. I've never known anyone who had received such a prestigious award. "Gomorrah" is a potential nominee for Best Foreign Film at next year's Academy Awards and I sure hope they get the nomination.

Sizing Things Up

2008-12-04T16:52:00.000+01:00

Our apartment appears to have shrunk. I can't believe it was always this small.
This morning in the bathroom, while drying off after a shower, I made the mistake
of bending over and got wedged between the sink and two walls.

While there, I started thinking about that LeBron James guy who's so famous.
Well, he might be something but if they had a shower-taking contest in our bathroom,
I'd whup him so bad!

So our apartment is small. Stefano the builder showed up today and he's going to
build us some shelves. Then we'll have more room to store our stuff. The shelves
will enable us to eliminate a cabinet and a small bookcase; hence, more floor space.

Our apartment was built in the 1500's for little Italian people. Nobody figured that
someday big giant white people from the extremely-new world were going to invade
the joint. This should be a lesson to us all. When you build, always figure guys bigger
than you are eventually going to show up!

This sheds a whole new light on the philosophy of "waiting for the big giant," I think.

Other than that, Rome still stands. Everything appears to be moving along in its
normal chaotic way. I am readjusting to the hazardous lifestyle of the big city
pedestrian, striving to avoid altercations with motorinos, cars, buses, trams, potholes,
other pedestrians - particularly those with open umbrellas.

My survival instincts are clicking back into gear...making that popping sound your knees
make when you stand up sometimes. I figure that by tomorrow morning I should be
back in the game. I'll put on my shoulder pads and snap on my helmet and trot out onto
the "field of flowers" (Campo Dei Fiori) to start play in this year's Rome Bowl.

Unless, of course, it's raining...in which case I may wait another day. I'm not kidding about
those umbrella-wielding Romans.

Time Travel

2008-12-04T12:08:00.000+01:00

This was there, now it's here
and where I sat was here
but now it's there
all rolled together in a red balloon
of dispassionate duality

As for me, or me for as
I'm neither here nor there
but somewhere in between
waking in a warm tub of altered state
challenging reality

This in-between place
is fuzzy at best
taxing my mind's sensitivity
running time off it's back
with duck-like propensity

The Man is my guide
his hand keeps me steady
his eyes watch for cracks
with keenness, ability and
The Cat In The Hat's agility

"Rock and Refrigerolla"

2008-11-29T01:21:00.001+01:00

I'm saved!

Within the dark recesses of a forgotten cupboard
I found three boxes of Annie Chun's instant soup!
Wow! Three mealtime conundrums resolved.

You see, to make my solitary existence interesting
and in an attempt to begin living a more sustainable
lifestyle, I've created what I call the "Rock and Refrigerolla"
Challenge.

Here's how it all started. You know how you go up to the refrigerator, open the door and look
in there, and there's all this stuff jammed inside, jars of mustard and mayonnaise and peanut
butter and nuts and raisins and celery and carrots and moldy cheese and you start wondering
if maybe some sneaky squirrel hasn't been secretly hoarding its winter food supply in there,
and finally with a sigh of resignation you close the door and say, "Geez! There's nothin' to eat!"

Well, that's what I was doing soon after The Man departed. I was too lazy to take those
random ingredients and prepare something... and this made me feel guilty. I mean, how
can I stare at my stocked refrigerator and say I have nothing to eat. Others should be
so lucky. I read a recent statistic indicating that about one half of the people on this planet
live on less than $2 a day. Then I got to thinking about sustainability and I made up my
Challenge.

I decided that I would not do any grocery shopping before leaving to rejoin The Man.
I will eat up what I have in the house. There are plenty of canned goods, the freezer is
full of unknown mysteries (including a lot of nuts, oddly - I'm thinking squirrel again),
and there's certainly no shortages in the refrigerator, so I should be able to creatively
prepare meals using existing ingredients.

I have purchased fat free milk and a jug of apple cider, but other than those two perishable
items and ordering Chinese take out one night that lasted for three meals, I've stuck to the
rules of The Challenge.

It was necessary to make some adjustments. For example, I ran out of olive oil about two
weeks ago. So, I'm using some fake spray butter I found in with the squirrel food. I'm also
out of fresh greens, like salad. But, I don't mind. I found a frozen bag of edamame beans
and got a big vitamin B and protein rush. Whoa!

Oh, and that jar of applesauce I discovered the other night was a godsend. I hadn't had
any fresh fruit for days and was afraid I was going to develop scurvy or something.
Although, now that I think about it, maybe I need citrus to avoid scurvy...or breadfruit,
whatever it was Captain Bligh and those mutineers aboard the Bounty were after initially.

My Thanksgiving feast consisted of stuffing with celery and carrots, onion and old
mushrooms made using an old bag of bread cubes I had in the cupboard; whole berry
cranberry sauce right out of the can; some potatoes; and some more of those edamame
beans. I enjoyed it immensely and it was all so simple with hardly any clean up.

I'm happy as a clam, full as a tick and emptying my cupboards all at the same time.
Who would've thought doing without could be so much fun. That less truly is more.
I guess it all depends on how you look at something.

2008-11-26T22:48:00.000+01:00

The Man and I celebrated Thanksgiving
early this year. Several weeks ago, we
were driving out in the country through
the small farming town of Florence and
saw a sign that read “Turkey Supper –
4:30 to 7:00.” We made a note of it and
actually remembered to go on the
correct day, November 8^th.

We left home about 4:00. I was
yammering about how early it was
and nobody eats this early and why
do we always have to be the first
ones there, etc. But, The Man said
farming people eat early, so we
better get there. We only got slightly
lost on the way, and we pulled into the church parking lot at 4:40.

It was packed. Luckily, we’d driven the Geo and easily maneuvered into a tight parking place.

Inside we were immediately met by an elderly man and woman selling the tickets.
They told us they’d been partnered, selling the tickets for this dinner, for the past
40 years! Can you imagine that?! 40 years! Every year since 1968 they’ve been
selling these tickets.

Then, we had to put our names on a clipboard held by another man who was doing
something, but I didn’t know what. I noticed all these people sitting inside the
sanctuary and assumed they must be attending a Thanksgiving service or something.
We went on into another room asking directions to the dining room. We were told
we’d be called when there was a place available and that ALL those other people in
the sanctuary were ahead of us!

So, we settled in for the wait. Neither of us had the slightest inclination to go.
We figured if all these people were here it must be for a darn good reason and
we wanted to know what it was.

We sat and talked to some other people. Everyone was very, very friendly. We were
like guests at an amusement park where everyone is happy to be there because they
know they’re going to have a good time and they won’t have to do any clean up or
wash the dishes.

It was an older crowd, the average age being around 65, I’d say. There were a lot
of permed heads and polyester knit pants suits walking around, escorted by large,
experienced bellies. A lot of these folks knew each other and were there in groups
of eight and more. One old guy walked over to talk to the ticket-seller couple and
he pulled a piece of string out of his pocket and did the most fantastic magic trick
with it. He had to do the trick about three more times to other people sitting around
because everyone was so amazed by the trick. We all sat there mesmerized, trying
to figure out how he could knot the string around someone’s finger then place his
own finger tip against that person’s finger tip and then, miraculously pull the
string free. We were all dumbfounded because it appeared impossible to do without
breaking the connection between the joined fingers. It’s hard to explain. You had to
be there. But, it was great! As the old guy walked away The Man called out, “hey
how’d you do that?” but the old man was hard of hearing and simply disappeared
in the crowd. We all just sat there shaking our heads in unison knowing we'd
shared something unique .

Anyway, after about 40 minutes of waiting our name was called.

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. We’d been sitting there smelling the food for a long time
and we were ready!

We walked into this room full of people, smells, plates heaped with food being carried
from the kitchen to the tables, everyone laughing and talking and making merry.
We were directed first to the dessert table to make our choice. The table was laden
with big slices of about thirty different types of homemade pies and cakes to choose
from. As I started to walk away with my apple pie the woman there said, “you
want some whipping cream on that?” I looked at the huge bowl of homemade whipped
cream she was holding and I said “Absolutely!”

Then someone directed us to our seats, the last two at one of the tables set for twelve.
So, we said hello to our tablemates and they in turn started passing us plates of turkey,
stuffing, mashed potatoes with homemade gravy, a delicious cranberry sauce, rolls
and squash. Everything was served family-style and the plates were replenished as
necessary by the serving staff. It was really fun.

Everyone was eating away. I looked over at the man between bites and saw him
accepting more dressing and another roll and more turkey and I felt a little guilty
because I never prepare food like this anymore. He’s been so deprived!

Just the day before this event I had been reading my Dr. Dean Ornish heart book.
I like to refresh my memory every once in awhile and I’d read the chapter on
“Holiday Dining.” He gave tips like, “Only eat one or two small bites of your
dessert.” “Spend time talking to your fellow diners, make conversation between
bites.” “Fill up on vegetables.” “Eat slowly.” Well, those things actually occurred
to me as I sat there, but it was impossible! It was as if I were the victim in one of
those comedy routines where my arms are clasped behind my back and someone
else sticks their arms through mine and starts gesturing and moving the arms
like they’re mine. It was like that! My right arm was completely detached from
any signals coming from my brain. I’m a vegetarian, but this alien arm was
shoveling in huge forkfuls of turkey and gravy and pie and I sat there struggling
to consume it all. I think I actually started sweating I was eating so hard.

But, it was good. I mean, good. The Man's pecan pie was the best pecan pie I'd
ever, EVER tasted. Seriously, I wanted to put it on the floor and roll in it.

We did a head count at one point. There were approximately 170 total, diners
and servers. Every seat was filled and when a seat opened up, it was immediately
filled by more waiting customers. It was a steady stream that continued all the
time we were there. We weren’t rushed at all and spent a little while enjoying
our coffee and talking to some interesting people at our table. They were from
nearby Oberlin and, like us, had happened by days earlier and had seen the sign
out front. They were surprised too by the number of people and the excellence
of the fare. We'll probably see them there next year.

We were all so happy. It was a most enjoyable dinner. It was like having Thanksgiving
with family, except no one got drunk and there were no fights.

Thanksgiving is The Man’s favorite holiday. He said his dad, Chet, used to always
bring some homeless or family-less person home from the tavern he owned to
enjoy the family’s feast. This guest was always a last minute surprise for The Man’s
mother, but he said it always worked out okay.

In memory of Chet’s thankful spirit of sharing and giving,
I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving.

If The Hat Fits...

2008-11-22T00:04:00.001+01:00

You're not going to believe it,
but I did something stupid.
I know that this is a shocking
revelation and that many of you
will have a conniption fit,
fall out of your chairs and
bump your heads.
But it's true.
I did something stupid.

It is truly amazing since I'm
known for my brilliance.
It's an innate quality, I humbly admit.
It requires no effort on my part.
It's just like being right all the time,
I don't have to work at it.
I'm some kind of mental freak, if you will.
That's why it's just incredible that
I did something so stupid.

In fact, it's so out of character that I'm convinced
there's something terribly wrong with me.
And, this is the scary part.
You see, I've been to Mexico and I've eaten pork tacos.

I know I don't have to explain what I'm talking about here.
I'm sure you've read the horrifying account in the newspapers.
I don't have television but I'm sure this must be a top story on
all the networks and that Katie Couric is doing a special on it.

Well, anyway, I'm sure the worm in my brain is the reason I dyed my hair!
(Oh, note to The Man: You don't want to read this. It'll only upset you.)

As I mentioned, I don't watch television. However, I'm still (apparently)
affected by societal pressures to fight the natural progression of age by
buying up worthless, over-priced, snake oil elixers and concoctions that
countless men and women AND even intellectual giants such as myself
across this great nation are purchasing with their last dollars in a futile
attempt to remain youthful and attractive forever!

Okay. So, now I've got the worm and society working against me.

Anyway, I happened to catch a glimpse of myself recently and noticed
how grey my hair is and how old and decrepit and fat and...did I mention "old?"
I made this observation a number of times in the past week.
It turned into a minor obsession, one which if The Man had been here,
would've been thumped on the head and sent to bed without it's supper.

So, now I've got the worm, society and the absence of The Man.
A deadly combination of Grecian mythological proportions.

The next thing I know I'm possessed (the worm!) by this obsession (society!)
and I find my lonely self killing time at Walmart of all places (The Man!)
I'm standing there in the hair dye aisle and I select a color..."Hazelnut."
How perky sounding!

I'm not sure who gave it that name.
A color-blind, nincompoop would be my guess.
Or a demented, lying-dog, trained squirrel maybe.

A more appropriate name would have been:
Vampira, Mistress of the Blacker-Than-The-Hole-of-Calcutta Night,
because that's who I look like, only chubbier with dark circles
under my eyes because I don't use concealer. A goth horror.
All I need now is some black fingernail polish and I'm on my way to
see Release The Bats perform at the next Drop Dead Festival!

However, there is a slight silver lining around my cloud of humiliation.
1. It's winter and hats are necessary.
2. They'll have to shave my head when I have the worm removed.
3. The dye I used is semi-permanent. It'll fade in time.

Time, of course, is a relative thing. Waiting for Christmas morning
or that wisdom tooth extraction scheduled for next May - those are
things that time will bring and I can patiently await.

But, hair that makes me look like Severus Snape is beyond the pale!

Oh well, I suppose there are more important things to worry about.

I can't think of anything right now, but I'm sure there's something.

2008-11-16T23:25:00.000+01:00

I've been having strange dreams.

This morning I was awakened at 6:40 a.m.
by what seemed to be the beam of a
flashlight scanning the room and the
sound of a raven's wings fluttering rapidly
just above my head on the bedstead.

Why can't I just wake up all dreamy
and snuggly like normal people?

I opened my eyes but the light and
bird were gone, thank goodness.

I thought perhaps someone was in
the house so I laid there and just
listened for awhile but I only heard
the heater.

Then I decided to get up and see
who had died because that’s what I
figured the raven's flapping sound meant.
Death.

Geesh! This solitary existence is
making me morbid!

Not that I'm known for my optimism
even in the best of times, but still!

Other people get away from their
spouses for a few weeks and have a
good time. Party on, Dude! Whoo-hoo!
Dancing with lampshades on their heads,
and all that.

But, Me? Oh, I'm having nightmares
and being visited by Edgar Allan Poe
symbols of death!

'Course on the other hand, maybe
it wasn't a raven. It was probably
a big, fat DO-DO BIRD!

Because I can tell you for sure that
The Man isn't having bad dreams.
He's just snoring away in dreamland,
happily skipping down the yellow brick
road with the Georgini twins, I betcha!

The Coo-Coo Clock Companion

2008-11-13T22:14:00.000+01:00

Today I sat in the house and listened.

Silence has a sound and it's louder than
the train whistle
and the barking dog
and the buzzing in my head.

I took some time and gave it my attention.
There's some thing in silence.
A thing of power and depth.
A thing inside me and out.

I want more of it.

Listen to it. It's a big sound. You can't miss it.

I wonder what it would sound like if for one minute
all sound on the planet was ceased. If everyone could
just stop what they're doing and stand still and be quiet.
All cars, all machines, all telephones and televisions and radios,
everything.

It'd probably kill us.

___________________________________________________

The Man returned to the place where all roads lead.

The day before he left I made him stop talking and listen to the quiet.
I told him that that was what I had to look forward to in the weeks ahead.

He heard it, too.

Now the coo-coo clock is my companion.
It ticks away the seconds
and pops out to say hello
on the hour
and the half hour...
actually it says "coo-coo,"
but I pretend it is saying hello.

Other than that I'm raking the leaves,
the mountains of leaves,
the endless prairie of leaves,
the oceans of leaves,
all consuming,
never ending,
eternal,
leaves.

If we used leaves instead of dollars for currency
I could personally bail us out of the national financial crisis
and, in addition, give every citizen a five thousand leaf
tax incentive stimulus check to be used however they want.

I have helpers.
Henry VIII. He's a squirrel and likes peanuts.
Jester The Bluejay likes to come in and snatch away the peanuts
which really gets H the 8th's goat.

If they could talk I'd bring them in the house.
The four of us could just sit there and have a cup of tea
or maybe play cards.
Me and Henry VIII and Jester and Coo-Coo.

Major Mall Man

2008-11-09T20:16:00.000+01:00

There's this weird guy out at the local shopping mall. I call him Major Mall Man. He's at least 65 years old, fat, with thick spectacles, and is at the mall every single day dressed in some type of military combat uniform, of which he has several. He's got an Army Desert Camouflage uniform complete with beige Army boots, some kind of loden green outfit that he wears with a beret, and there's a dress uniform with little medals on it. I'm never sure which military force he's representing because I don't know my uniforms, but he's ALWAYS in complete, crisp uniform...everything but the guns.

He patrols the mall, in and out of the shops. It's obvious that he's on duty, you can see it in his face that he's keeping the mall safe from...whatever, probably terrorists or maybe Imperial Storm Troopers. Who knows. Sometimes he stops and talks to some of the shop workers, but usually he just walks the store perimeter with his hands clasped behind his back, like he's reviewing his troops. I've often seen him nod and utter a perfunctory "hello" to shoppers.

I hate it when he talks to me. First of all, the guy is NUTS and I'm not a trained psychiatrist. Secondly, I don't know him, I don't want to know him, and I don't want him to be aware that I even exist. Thirdly, he speaks condescendingly, like you're some peon, enlisted man, like he expects you to salute him. It's creepy.

Call me paranoid, but I am convinced that one day he's gonna show up with an AK-47 and blow us all away. Perhaps I've read too many mall horror stories, but this guy is odd and his oddity is neon pink with blinking lights all over it. He scares me.

So, here's the deal. I'm leaving the mall the other day and decide to stop in at the security office. I'm going to ask them about the faux military man and see what they can tell me about him. I want to tell them my concerns about some guy pretending to be a combat soldier. Just as I'm about to go in the office, a security man comes out. He's tall and thin with a neatly clipped mustache and he's wearing a blue, polyester, forest ranger-type uniform with a big, shiny gold badge on it, topped off with a stiff "Campaign Hat," just like Smokey The Bear! I'm not kidding!

I just stood there and gaped at him, my mind racing. Then, I mumbled "oh, hi" and walked away. I mean what was I going to say, "Hey, there's some weird guy dressed up in a funny uniform out there?" To which he would have replied, "Yeah, so?" I mean, they're probably brothers, or something!

I drove home picturing the two of them after hours, playing war games in Victoria's Secret.

The Debatable Humor of Vegetables

2008-11-07T20:22:00.000+01:00

Will Rogers said, “An onion can make people cry but there’s never been a vegetable
that can make people laugh.”

Sorry, Will. I beg to differ.

I want to pass on something I learned the hard way. It’s a little gross so if you’re
easily disgusted don’t read the following small print. But, I think this is important.
I’m in the mood to share with you.

Eating beets makes your poop turn red and it looks like blood.

That’s it. Except for the fact that I love beets and have never had this problem before,
but last Saturday I bought two bunches of them at a local farmer’s market, brought
them home and served them for dinner. They were goooood and I ate a lot of them.

24 hours later I noticed a strange phenomenon and I don’t think it’s necessary to
elaborate. Let’s just say, “I saw red.”

The eating of the beets occurred to me and I assured myself all would be well.
However, the next morning things were actually worse...looking, if you know what
I mean, so I got panicky, my heart was racing, and my stomach was jittery. I went
out to bid farewell to The Man and to begin selling my organs on Ebay because I
was, by the evidence I’d seen, A GONER!

The Man, engrossed in his work, looked up at me with that “Who is this woman and
why is she in my house” look that he seems to be doing a lot of lately. But, I waited
until his eyes focused and I could tell he was back on the planet Earth with me. Then
I told him about my pending death. He looked at me quizzically then said, “Google it.”

Now, this is the good part of the story. I typed in beets poop red and got all this information
from people who knew all about this phenomenon and thought it was har har amusing.
Well, it’s only amusing if you know about it.

And, while on this subject I might as well mention asparagus – another “joker” on
the dinner table. For years I thought I had some recurring disease. I kept waiting
for the axe to fall, but then put two and two together and googled the asparagus-fume
phenomenon.

Luckily, my absolute favorite food is joke-free, so far anyway.

Rapini, also called broccoletti, broccoli di rape, broccoli raab, plus various other things.
I don’t know why it has so many names, but I love it. It’s the only food I can think
of that actually makes me moan when I eat it. It’s like that “I’ll have what she’s having”
scene from When Harry Met Sally. I told The Man that when I eat rapini it’s as if some
latent, neanderthalic gene is awakened, something from my ancient ancestors comes
alive and makes me want to pound a drum and dance naked around a bonfire in ecstasy.
I would rather have a plate full of rapini than anything else in the world. More than
chocolate cake, even. If I were a cat, rapini would be my ‘nip. I want to roll in it.

I am a woman of simple pleasures.

My GOBAMA is Gone

2008-11-07T15:44:00.000+01:00

I'm really miffed this morning because some loser (and I mean loser!) stole the
Obama sign that I had in the front yard. I'm not sure when it was stolen, sometime
within the last two days because it was definitely there on election day. I can't
remember seeing it yesterday, but I remember thinking about how I'd better
take the sign down now that everything is over, etc. except now IT'S TOO LATE
BECAUSE SOME STINKING THIEF STOLE IT AND I'M REALLY MAD!"

It was an original sign, too, in that I'd taken some white paint and added a "G"
before the "OBAMA," underlined the "GO" and put an explanation point at the
end so that it read "GOBAMA!" I had done such a nice job on the lettering. It
looked professional, I mean it.

I was proud of that sign. Proud to have the opportunity FOR THE FIRST TIME
IN MY LIFE to put up a sign in support of hopes and dreams and intelligence and
fortitude and calm assurance and love and family and dignity and pride and promise
for the future and all that other things that the man Obama exemplifies for me.

What's weird is that the stinking thief also stole the other sign I'd placed out there
for a local politician named Murray. I'd seen him speak at a "candidates night" at
the library and in spite of the fact that he's an attorney (aren't they all?), a profession
for which I don't have much liking, he was so amazingly brilliant, articulate and
focused I wanted to show my support for him as well; hence, the sign.

So, that was it: two signs. Two signs that represented my enthusiasm and desire
for smart people to be elected, which they were, thank goodness.

But, now I want my signs. I want to stick them in the closet and find them in about
twenty years and look at them and think, "Well, lookie here. I remember putting
these up in the yard back there in ol' Lime Plant City. Those were some bad times
we went through. But, thanks to these here smart guys and many others like 'em,
we were all saved and now the world is a better place for everyone. We're all safe
and live in peace. We all have food to eat and clean water to drink. We're tolerant
instead of extremist. We're compassionate instead of hate filled. We're calm instead
of anxiety ridden. We are proud of our largesse rather than the size of our military.
We are ever growing, ever changing, adaptable to changes that create greater
sustainability for all people, and petty isolationist views have been replaced with a
sense of the wholeness of the earth and its inhabitants.

That's what I want to think when I see those signs in my closet in twenty years...but,
of course, I won't see those signs because some stinking thief stole them.

HAPPY FEAT!!

2008-11-05T14:57:00.000+01:00

YES, WE CAN!!

YES, WE DID!!

Beside, B-side

2008-11-03T14:21:00.000+01:00

I'm beside myself
I keep bumping into me.

It's so annoying.
But that's beside the point.

The problem is that I've already voted
so I'm totally bored with that subject.

It's like listening to the B-side of
Elvis' hit 45 record "Return to Sender"
which was "Where Do You Come From," in case you didn't know.
A pretty song but not the "hit," if you know what I mean.

So, this is why I'm beside myself
and keep bumping into me.

I need to set a new course,
move in a new direction
in a straight line
no bumping.

Besides that -
I have leaves to rake.