THIRTY YEARS!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am I being mean?

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

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

THIRTY YEARS!!!

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

Sound like ancient history, People?

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

I'm getting hot.

I need to calm down.

Oh, the vapors, the vapors!

Help!

Dr. Phil?

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

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

Look at him there, trying to think of something.

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

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

Lulu's Day

This is my Mom, Lulu.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

and everyday.

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

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

Happy Birthday, Mom!

... from one Lulu to another!

Buzzard Tips

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

Ol' Turkey Buzzard

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

If not, why not?

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Horaltic Pose

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

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

Why the Turkey Vulture Vomits

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow. I love this bird. I want one!

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

For Neglected Petunias Everywhere

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

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

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

This job is currently unavailable

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.is job is not accepting
online applications.

View company video

View job video

View printed ad

Go Jump Off A Cliff Notes

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

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

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.