wait wait there's more

WHERE HAVE ALL THE BLOGGERS GONE?

2010-01-11T09:51:00.004-06:00

Thystle awakened me recently from my winter hibernation to ask where the heck I've been. An entirely reasonable question given that there have been times when I was posting 2-3 times a week. While I'm not saying I am entitled to Writer's Block because I don't think I qualify, I did hit a wall and have needed to take a break from posting.

Having said that, there are a few marginally interesting events that have occured over the last few months that might be worth putting pen to paper for. Please review them and let me know if you see something you would like to hear more about:

We finally sold the MONEY PIT at the end of 2009 and it is now draining someone else of their life savings. We wish the new owners well but are shocked we haven't heard from them in the form of a letter bomb.

Our crazy ex-Realtor Ben is even crazier than we thought. We filed a complaint against him with the State Board of Realtors, which has caused an even darker, eviler side of him to show its ugly face. He makes Rasputin the Mad Monk look like Mother Teresa.

I am going to Thailand at the end of February.

I see that I have lost one of my 17 Kool-Aid drinkers and fear more will depart if I don't start posting again. So as a public service, please feel free to suggest I expand on one of the subjects about or else I will keep getting furtive notes from Thystle.

CLOTHING BY GEORGE

2009-08-18T13:14:00.034-05:00

Apparently there is quite a kaffufle brewing over at a certain *"feminist" blog which has managed to spill over to another, less controversial blog written by the very sensible Lorrie Veasey. The main ingredients of this international incident center around the question of whether or not it is legal or ethical to create jewelry from U.S. currency and whether commenting on this subject can lead one to be banned from said blog. You can read the whole story over at **Lorrie's blog so I won't parse it here other than to say censorship of any kind should never be allowed to take route in this country or anywhere else for that matter. I thought this was a free country but apparently if you post from, say India, for example you are entitled to wield your censor's pen wherever you please. So much for feminism, free speech and differing opinions, but I digress.

At the risk of incurring the wrath of the Indian Feminist Princess and perhaps a visit from the Secret Service, I have decided to open my own boutique featuring clothing made entirely from the humble dollar bill. Some might argue that I, too, am defacing U.S. currency in the name of fashion but what if I am? While I am certainly using it in a manner other than what it was intended you could argue I am actually performing a public service. With the recession being what it is, if you can use virtually worthless currency to make a fashion statement, so be it.

I'm thinking of calling my new boutique either "The Original Dollar Dress Shop" or simply "George". If you have a more apt name, however, please feel free to leave it in the comments box. Unless they are profane in nature or you are an angry pseudo-feminist with a sub-continent-sized chip on your shoulder, I promise to publish your comments .

* http://feministreview.blogspot.com/2009/08/state-quarter-necklace.html

** http://ournameisblog.blogspot.com/2009/08/banned.html

TEN CLOWNS DON'T MAKE A CIRCUS

2009-07-30T13:16:00.004-05:00

The saga of Paco’s house continues. This time, however, the story isn’t about destructive, irresponsible tenants, mysterious, unreachable leaks under the foundation or tornadoes rampaging through the neighborhood (yes, that happened, too.) This time, the culprit is our soon-to-be ex-Realtor.

Ben came highly recommended to us by a co-worker and close friend of Paco’s who had hired him to sell her house. Apparently Ben did just a bang-up job and managed somehow to get not one, but three offers within 2 weeks of listing it. Considering the state of the housing market that was quite a feat. So Paco interviewed him and then introduced me to him for my unfettered opinion. I thought Ben was personable, energetic, enthusiastic and obviously a real go-getter. So we hired him, signed a contract and handed him a key to the house. Paco being the organized, efficient person that he is, also handed Ben a large envelope with every kind of document imaginable to give him a good idea of repair history, foundation and roof report and anything else that might make Ben’s job of selling the house that much easier and faster. The last thing dear Ben said to us as he bounced down the front steps was “Gee, I sure wish all of my clients were this organized. You just wouldn’t believe the information and documents I always seem to end up chasing them for.” Then he was gone in a flash, presumably to get busy selling the Money Pit, urm, Paco’s house. We felt so good about having hired Ben we decided the occasion called for a cocktail. Little did we know that that would be the last time we felt like celebrating.

Because it infuriates me to even think about the ensuing events since we hired Ben I must condense them to prevent myself from picking up the phone and hiring Guido to go break Ken’s legs. The ink wasn’t even dry on the contract before the first signs of trouble appeared. We lost count of the un-returned phone calls asking for updates from Ken, we fumed when we found out there had been a leak in the sprinkler system for 5 days and Ken didn’t tell us despite an open house being held during that time. He bailed out the day of the open house, btw, leaving his inexperienced, clueless wife to show the house. The list goes on and on and on. Then, miraculously one day Ben stopped by, apparently not thinking we were home, to leave Paco a note about the water leak, a week after it had first happened. Unfortunately for Ben, I was just pulling up in our driveway and caught him before he could drive off. I dragged him into the house and we demanded he explain his lack of communication skills, irresponsible behavior and general lack of interest in selling our property. After Paco, who is normally very laid-back and calm, tore Ben a new one, we thought things would finally get back on track and Ben would realize he had crossed a line with us and better get his act together. But that was just a clever ruse on his part. The best was yet to come.

This past Monday Paco received the following mass email from Ben:

From: Ben Smith
Sent: Friday, July 24, 2009 9:00 PM
Subject: Out of the office

Hello My Friends,
I want each of you to know that I will be out of the office beginning tomorrow morning. My family is going on a much-needed vacation to Rome. We depart Rome for a 10 day European cruise and I will return back to the office on Monday, August 10. Most of you know Michael, my wonderful assistant. Michael will be working every day to make sure that nothing falls through the cracks and Cory, a very seasoned agent in our office, will be handling any real estate activity that comes up. Trust me, you are in good hands while I am away!!! If you need either Michael or Cory their information is noted below. I am not taking my cell phone or computer with me, so I will not have any communication with my office while I am gone.
I will touch base with each of you when I return from my vacation!
Thanks,
Ben Smith

Paco forwarded me the above message and as I sat and read it, my jaw dropping to the floor, all of the anger and frustration I had been feeling already over this situation boiled to the surface. How ironic that he would “not be in touch with his office during his vacation”. What would be different from when he is actually in town? It’s a very good thing that Ben was already safely out of the country when Paco and I read his email. We would both probably be wearing orange jumpsuits at this writing, having dispatched Ben with all haste, preferably in the most heinous way we could think of.

Suffice to say, many phone calls have been made since receiving Ben’s missive and at this writing: BEN IS SO FIRED
Paco met with Cory yesterday and told him Ben is never to come near us or our house again. I repeat: BEN IS SO FIRED

To be continued... upon Ben’s return from his European Vacation…

THE MONEY PIT: PART DEUX

2009-06-08T16:30:00.011-05:00

Some of you who have bothered to check my blog over the last few weeks have no doubt noticed the lack of anything new on said site. If you have decided to withdraw from my “Kool-Aid Drinkers” list I don’t blame you one bit. I’m peeved at myself, too, but unlike the excuse notes I so successfully forged throughout my high school career, I actually have a really good excuse that also happens to be true. It’s called “The Money Pit”.

In an effort to enlighten my readers who may have missed it, about 7 months ago Paco and I had to evict Harold the renter from Paco's house in the ‘burbs due to his blatant disregard for our property and the methodical wrecking of it. Once we got him out of there and assessed the full extent of the damage, it made “Extreme Makeover” look like “Flip this House”. From the foundation to the roof, there was so much damage that we ended up completely remodeling the house, tearing out the old foundation, re-carpeting, installing new tile floors and completely replacing the landscape. In the process we experienced the uncertainty, paranoia and anxiety of a mystery leak under the slab which it turned out was caused by the damage to the foundation. If you have ever had a leak under your house that you cannot find and have had to spend weeks on end lying in a muddy ditch in the middle of February with a flashlight and a camera/roto rooter contraption, staring into a foggy TV screen without the vaguest idea what the heck you’re look at, you will know what I am talking about. Sort of like discovering a bad leak underneath the Great Wall of China after the Big Fountain next to Tibet had been leaking for the last 500 years. Smaller scale, yes, but just as unnerving, frustrating and damaging. It was a 7-month long nightmare but now, thankfully, it is behind us.

Yesterday we finally finished this monumental project, spending one final, 8 hour marathon shift putting the finishing touches on the landscaping, mopping floors and spreading ‘decorative bark’ in the flower beds. There is now a “For Sale” sign in the front yard and our work as slave laborers is done. Now we just have to pray that it sells in the worst economic environment since the Great Depression. Who knew that 2 years after first putting Paco’s house on the market it would still be out there, albeit completely renovated and, as the Realtors like to say, "Move in ready!"

This experience has taught me many lessons in patience and perseverance, as well as the reality of just how unreliable and untrustworthy some people can be. But it has also shown me, as if I didn’t know already, how unselfish, noble and truly heroic Paco is. When he found out about the leak under the slab, after all of the foundation pillars had been filled back in with cement, he did not hesitate to dig them all out again by hand and crawl through those dark, scary spaces underneath the house in the dead of winter until he found all 3 leaks. He did not hesitate from jack hammering up all 600 sq ft of ceramic tile and then relaying all of it again, by himself. Even when the foundation people took all of the rock-hard Texas clay from the holes and dumped it all into his prized flower beds, creating 3 foot high mounds and burying all the sprinkler heads, he got out there with his shovel and dug it all out, repaired the sprinklers and then carefully restored the beds to their former glory. He did not shy away from fixing things in that house that no one would ever know were even broken, because he has that kind of integrity, gritty determination and unwavering dedication to making his house whole again. If that meant pouring thousands of dollars and man hours into the effort, so be it. No one can ever truly appreciate the sweat equity that went into every evening and weekend working to repair his house. He was determined to erase every dent, crack, ruined carpet, scratch, dead plant and any other evidence of the unbelievable kind of damage one person can cause. I may have lost a measure of faith in my fellow man over the damage done to our property, but this loss has been overshadowed by my love, respect, admiration and sheer awe of my husband. Paco taught me a valuable lesson in what one human being can accomplish when they put their heart and soul into a project like this simply because they will expect nothing less from themselves. For that this nightmare was worth it, at least to me. Paco may feel differently and probably doesn’t see anything special in what he has accomplished but believe me, it was truly heroic.

Stay tuned and keep your fingers crossed for“The Money Pit: SOLD!!"

THE CURIOUS CASE OF MY EXPANDING FACE

2009-04-30T14:57:00.011-05:00

A few months ago I posted about my (supposed) brush with Bell’s Palsy and how I wasn’t too sure Dr K, my all-knowing internist, had diagnosed me correctly. Since then I have endured all manner of tests and biological invasions on a quest for the true origin of my strange symptoms. The bottom line is that I do not have, nor have I ever had Bell’s, but no one seems to know what I do have, despite the occasional recurrence of my strange symptoms.

Perhaps I should back up first to say I have been working from home this week due to a bad case of bronchitis (no, not Swine Flu even though Mr. S, my horrible, evil boss, just stuck his head in my cubette and oinked at me) so as a result I had been feeling poorly already. Who knew that Monday night, out of the clear blue, I would suddenly experience another episode of The Curiously Expanding Face? My lips suddenly blew up twice the size of Octo Mom’s, my jaws grew to Kirk Douglas-proportions and the Hives from Hell came back with a vengeance. This was truly adding insult to injury given the fact that I was already miserable from the bronchitis. Remembering what my doctor had said about documenting an episode if possible, I ran upstairs and took a load of photos of my poor, swollen face, intending to present the evidence as soon as I could get an appointment with Dr J, my neurologist.

The next morning I called Dr J to make an appointment. Since my esteemed internist Dr K handed me off to Dr J I have been seeing him every time I have another episode, so naturally I thought I should go back to him ASAP. First, however, I had to run the gauntlet and get past his nurse, Big Bertha, R.N.

8:33 am Leave long, tearful, croaky voice mail for Bertha, explaining my latest bout of facial swelling and hives has returned; beg for same-day appointment with Dr J. Hang up and stare at the phone for 2 hours and 15 minutes.

11:10 am Still no return call from Nurse Bertha. Decide to call again. Dial main number and ask for her extension.

Switch board operator: “I’m sorry; Bertha is not at her desk. Please hold while we find her.”

I am on hold for 10 minutes listening to "Best of Burl Ives" on Musak, wondering why I didn’t use the land line to call. I fret about the cell phone minutes being wasted. There are children in Africa who don’t have any cell phone minutes.

11:25 am “Hello, this is Bertha.”

RL: “Bertha, this is Racie Lover. I left you a message this morning. I need to see Dr J immediately. I am having another EPISODE!”

Bertha: “Honey, I just checked my voice mail from this morning. There was no message from you.”

RL: (on verge of psychotic episode) “I left one, I swear. Anyway, I have GOT to see Dr J today. It’s an emergency (I am barely able to whisper this admonition due to my bronchitis. I hope I sound pitiful. I am desperate).

B: “Honey, I don’t have any openings this week or next…”

RL: I interrupt her “No, no, no! I have GOT to see him TODAY…”

B: interrupts me mid-sentence “Oh, I have a cancellation today at 2:45…”

RL: I interrupt her “WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE!?”

B: “Because I just saw it on my screen. Honey, you’re over-reacting.”

RL: I am incredulous. Do they teach dismissiveness in nursing school? I am ready to reach through the phone, pull out Bertha’s false teeth and cram them up her nose “If you felt like I do you wouldn’t say I’m over-reacting. I will be there at 2:45. Thank you.” I slam down the cover of my cell phone in the absence of a receiver to slam down onto the cradle. I cry and feel sorry for myself, then go shopping online.

2:30 pm Paco takes me to my doctor’s appointment, having been summoned from work by my tearful plea of helplessness. I tell him how horrible Bertha was to me and he must punch her lights out.

We check in at reception and Paco picks up a survey form, intending to write Bertha up for making me cry.

3:25pm: Bertha emerges from the back and calls my name.

Paco: “Is that her?”

RL: “Yes, that’s Bertha. Keep me away from her. I may have to deck her.”

Paco: “Don’t worry, Sweetheart. Bertha’s going down.”

Bertha leads us to an examination room, where we sit while she plays doctor and asks me questions. I pull out my sheet with the various photos I have taken the night before showing my swollen lips, hugely expanded jaws and hives. Bertha studies it carefully, obviously impressed.

Bertha: “Oh geez, Honey, women pay good money to get those big lips you have there. Wow, those are impressive. What do they call that stuff they inject?”

RL: “Collagen”, I offer, deciding neurology nurses must not watch “Nip Tuck”. “Ha, ha, that’s pretty funny, Nurse Bertha. Just think of the money I’m saving on cosmetic surgery!” I want to take her out but am afraid I would look like Meg Ryan in my mug shot, and not in a good way.

Just then Dr J comes in and Bertha vanishes. I tell him about my latest attack and he, too, is impressed with my photo essay. Paco and I plead for answers, the whole time both of us wondering if we should bust Bertha and tell Dr J what a horrible battle ax she is. We decide he already knows that and it is the reason he hired her. She is also uglier than home-made sin, which no-doubt pleases Dr J’s wife.

All of the above ended with Dr J finally telling me my problem is not neurological but some kind of systemic reaction and to go to my allergist. Paco and I leave his office, dejected. I call Dr L, the allergist, and make an appointment to go see her the next day. During my appointment the following day she quizzes me and then tells me to stop taking ibuprofen and call her if my symptoms still return. Allergic to ibuporfen? Who knew? Naturally I Googled it when I got home and what do you know? Apparently this kind of severe allergic reaction is very common.

Perhaps my mystery illness has finally been solved. "Case closed" as Dr. Kildaire would say. I certainly hope so. Stay tuned...

YOU WERE EXPECTING A SWAN MAYBE?

2009-04-21T17:07:00.006-05:00

Lately there has been a huge kafuffle over Susan Boyle, the plucky came-from-nowhere Scots lady who wowed even Simon Cowell last week on "Britain's Got Talent". Mostly the comments and blogs have been overwhelmingly favorable, with the few dissenting voices apparently coming from embittered, failed Patty Page wannabes and competing spinsters who are worried there is about to be one less of their own amongst them. I actually read a rather scathing post yesterday penned by Nora Ephron that does not bear repeating here (mostly because I think she would not hesitate to sue the pants off of me). I put her in the category of Sour Grapes, someone who has made lots of money dissing various ex-husbands and boyfriends, so I'm not sure I value her opinion much anyway.

The point of all this is that I am in the ranks of those who think Ms Boyle really has some genuine talent and isn't just a one-hit wonder. If you Google her 1999 rendition of "Cry Me a River" I think you will agree with me. I'm no expert, mind you, but I think she can sing pretty darn well and I can't wait for her to publish her first CD.

Unfortunately, most of us tend to judge people by the way they look and not what might be in their hearts, souls or vocal chords just waiting to be freed if given a chance. Haven't we all known someone who didn't quite seem to fit in, but after we got to know them they won us over with their determination, their inner joy, their sense of humor? Years ago I was at my high school prom and found myself talking to a guy that I had known all through school but had never given the time of day to. We ended up talking for close to an hour (I have no idea where my date was) and I saw a side of him that I had no idea existed, purely because I had been so busy judging him by his looks. I ended up having a huge crush on Alan and even though we never went out on a date, we kept in touch for many years, exchanging Christmas cards and chatting at our high school reunions. Years later when he sent me a wedding announcement my first thought was "what a lucky girl".

We should all be so lucky to meet someone like Alan. Or Susan Boyle. Or at least have the privilege of talking to them or hearing them sing and not judge them by their looks. Their heart and soul has always been right in front of us, if we will only take the time to look and listen.

TIGER, PHIL AND A CAST OF THOUSANDS

2009-04-15T12:16:00.008-05:00

"Dear Diary,

I saw Tiger Woods today at The Masters! Or rather, I saw his golf cap, his shoulders and his profile, sort of. There were approx. 500 spectators who separated me from His Majesty and I don't think even yelling "Fire" or "I just saw President Obama at the concession stand" would have made any difference. But I was closer to greatness than I have ever been, unless you count the time I met Neil Diamond..."

You don’t have to be a golfer or even enjoy or understand golf to appreciate the beauty of Augusta National Golf Club. There is something almost surreal about the intense colors and environment of The Masters, the deep pink azaleas, the intoxicating fragrance of the majestic pine trees, the cloud-like Dogwoods that seem to float above the smooth, rolling greens. No calendar, website or HD TV can ever do it justice. You just have to be there….

I'VE GOT YOU UNDER MY SKIN

2009-04-03T10:55:00.007-05:00

Paco and I are off to Augusta this weekend, having (finally) won some much-coveted tickets to a practice round of the Masters. While I would surely trade my favorite rescue club for tickets to the actual tournament, going to a practice round is the next-best-thing.

I will be back next week with lots of stories and photos of the course, my bank account no-doubt depleted, however, after a shopping spree in the Pro Shop.

HEALED!

2009-04-01T12:06:00.006-05:00

In case some of you missed Sister K's follow-up comments regarding the Rice Remedy, it seems that it actually worked and her iphone is now good as new! Who knew there were so many facinating and practical uses for this versatile grain?

Here are a few other remedies that I have tried over the years, or they have been suggested to me. Some of the more ominous ones I have shyed away from however.

HICCUPS
Swallow one tablespoon of white vinegar upside down and then hold your breath for at least one minute. This one works pretty well as long as you like vinegar, which I do. Unfortunately my hiccups are usually replaced with severe indigestion and projectile vomiting. Better to keep hiccuping.

RED WINE STAINS
Drench in Club Soda immediately and then blot dry. Unfortunately, this one never, ever has worked for me, including the time my wonderful friend and wedding planner drenched the bodice of my wedding dress with soda after 'someone' spilled red wine down the front of it. I ended up with a pink wine stain plus water stains on my beautiful frock. Paco still married me, though, thank goodness. Unfortunately, I was then sent to Betty Ford for a month and I missed the honeymoon.

Another remedy that works better than club soda is covering the area in salt, which draws the stain out of the fabric. I tried this one time during a dinner party when Louise's tail knocked over a full glass of red wine all over the white linen-covered ottoman. You can hardly tell there was ever a problem now, especially given that the cat has since thrown up where the wine stain was so now the whole thing is sort of coffee-colored.

OVER EATING
When my mother was about 5 years old she decided to eat an entire bunch of bananas. Given that she was an only child, worshiped by her entire family and had just survived being biten by a rabid cat, my grandmother was taking no chances. So Mother was given most of the contents of a bottle of Ipecac, which made her violently ill and rid her system of the evil bananas almost immediately. I would have thought Ipecac would be far worse than wolfing down a few unoffensive bananas but then I don't have children so what do I know.

Please feel free to write in with your favorite home remedies and I will publish them here as a public service. Btw, if anyone knows how to get rid of the rust stains on the back of my favorite white golf cap I would be most grateful.

CELL PHONE TRAGEDY

2009-03-27T14:00:00.003-05:00

(This was recently sent to me by Sister K and is reprinted here with her permission.)

Last night as I was getting ready for bed, I placed my cell phone on top of the glass of water that I always have on my bedside table. The reason that I did such a foolish thing was that my cat always drinks the water out of my glass, and I thought it would be a good way to prevent this from happening. You guessed it....the phone fell into the glass of water.

I immediately fished the phone out of the water and dried it off, but it was too late. The damage had already occurred. The phone sounded a few half-hearted beeps and then did a flatline. It was dead as a door nail.

I frantically googled "phone water damage" and came up with quite a few interesting ways to solve the dilemma. One guy advised putting the phone into the microwave to dry out. Another said to drop it into a glass of alcohol, which would dry up the water and make the phone as good as new. Others advised putting it in a regular oven on the "low" setting or using the blow dryer on it. But the overwhelming advice was to place it in an airtight container of rice, which apparently will suck the moisture out of the phone. "Be sure to use uncooked rice as opposed to cooked rice" was one piece of advice. Duh......

Anyway, my phone is sitting in the rice as we speak and I'm waiting to see if this works. Otherwise I'll have to buy a new phone because apparently the Apple Store will not replace a phone damaged by water, even though it's still under warranty. This brings me to another interesting tidbit of information that I discovered while surfing.

The iPhone has a tiny hidden indicator that shows if it's been dropped in water. If you look into the hole where the headset can be connected, you'll see a white dot. The white dot turns red if it's been exposed to water. That way the Apple guys know if the phone really went haywire of its own accord, or if you dropped it into the Jacuzzi when you had one too many Manhattans. This brought up a whole new array of solutions (mostly unethical) for fixing the problem of the "red dot." Some said to put a drop of bleach into the hole, which will turn the dot back to white. Others advised using a toothpick with a little Liquid Paper on the end of it. According to these Youtubers, the guys at the Apple Store are so inept that they won't realize that Liquid Paper is covering the red dot, and you'll get a brand new phone out of the deal.

I'm not quite that depraved yet and so I'm waiting to see if the rice (uncooked, of course) remedy works.

I MUST INTRODUCE BRENDA TO SUNSHINE

2009-03-19T11:14:00.006-05:00

There's nothing like a little Karma on a Monday afternoon to brighten one's day. Having survived my week of Kitchen Duty last week and manage to steer clear of Brenda after our run-in, I got to witness her making a complete fool of herself, not that I would ever take pleasure in that, of course.

It seems Brenda decided to make a pot of black coffee this afternoon and then ran back to her office to make a phone call. Unfortunately, she forgot to put the coffee pot back on the burner, causing scalding coffee to spill all over the kitchen floor. I happened to be walking past the kitchen door when this was unfolding and caught sight of her, mop in hand, cursing her stupidity. I couldn't help myself and blurted out "Gosh, I'm sure glad it isn't my week for Kitchen Duty. What a mess!" at which point Brenda looked up from her mop and just glared at me.

Call it Bad Karma or whatever, but after last week's derision I couldn't help but gloat.

I DIDN"T NEED THAT HOUR ANYWAY

2009-03-09T12:29:00.007-05:00

In an effort to win Lorrie Veasey's fantastic contest: http://ournameisblog.blogspot.com/

I am adding my two cents about how the recent time change impacts my life and whether or not I like the concept in the first place. Or at least I think that was the assignment. Frankly, I'm punchy from loss-of-sleep so forgive me if I got it wrong. Wouldn't be the first time.

Mainly, this whole Spring Forward / Fall Back campaign used to be to help farmers gain time to bring in the harvest and milk sleepy cows or somesuch. Apparently, however, the farmers all know it's actually just a marketing stunt to get consumers to shop more. More recently, there was also a clever ploy by certain politicians to help in their re-election bids. Several of them got together to lobby for extending Daylight Savings hours and I'll be damned if they didn't succeed. Now it's almost perpetually light outside save for a few weeks in late Fall, early Winter. I don't think the cows much care, though.

On a personal level I actually like the concept of Springing Forward because it gives me more time for golf and sailing. I just wish they wouldn't be so fickle about the whole concept and take back the hour in the Fall. I would prefer permanently having that Spring Forward thing if it would allow me to really get my money's worth during "Twilight Golf".

Having said all that, I have the kind of job where I am (apparently) in charge of reminding our hourly paid employees that the clocks are either going forward or backward. I have to send out signage twice a year, to be posted next to the time clock, so everyone knows when to show up for work. I find this annoying, however, as no one reminds me when the clocks go forward or backward and when I'm supposed to report to my cube. I usually have to remind Paco and then we both end up forgetting about it just like this past weekend. We did not adjust clock one in our house before we turned in Saturday night. Fortunately, we had all day Sunday to change them before Monday rolled around and we risked being late for work. Oddly, his super-fantastic Ray Bradbury-inspired ATOMIC clock, the one that's supposed to automatically adjust based on the big and little hands at the U.S. Naval Observatory, stayed stuck in the past. So much for technology. I will stick with my little battery-operated model, even if it is solely up to me to remember to change it.

BACK TO REALITY

2009-03-03T15:43:00.001-06:00

I agree with Lorrie (“Our name is blog”) that one of the best things about going on vacation is the seemingly endless blog-worthy material generated on these junkets. At least I think it’s blog-worthy. I suppose someone somewhere might not agree, but they don’t have to read my blog. I bet they don’t even have their own blog so I’m not too worried about their opinion. I have a tendency to worry what others think about me but as long as they remain anonymous I will continue to write unfettered. Like Rush Limbaugh, if I worried about what other people thought about me I would never leave the house. Having said that, I really do wish he would stay home.

Now to answer a couple of questions about my last post: no BJ, the photo on my post “Shakedown on the Dinghy Dock” was not Officer Prentice. He would not allow me to snap he photo being as how he is a Super Secret Port Authority Big Shot working the vice and terrorism beat on the Dinghy Dock in Nevis. So I did what any self-respecting blogger would do in need of an illustrative photo for their post: I stole it off the internet. The fact that it happened to be a photo of that somewhat confused and slightly effeminate patrolman from Reno 911 is not my problem. Paco recognized him immediately, which I find disturbing, but the therapist says not to worry. It’s probably just some middle-aged, curious faze. At any rate, Officer Prentice did not appear to be batting for the other team and his uniform was actually white, but otherwise the similarities were incredible.

Second, Kwr221 asked if I was in St Kitt’s last week when she was there and yes, I was! I can’t believe we were both on the same tiny island at the same time and there was not some kind of feeding frenzy from the reporter's pool there. I mean, doesn’t everyone in the Eastern Caribbean know who we are? Apparently Homeland Security knows exactly who Lorrie is and are ardent followers, so why wouldn’t the folks on St Kitt’s know about Kwr and me, too? Anyway, I’m sorry we didn’t hook up but if I gave out specifics in advance of all my vacation plans Paco and I would be inundated with paparazzi and we wouldn’t have any peace. Next time I will place a classified ad in the local newspaper with some cleverly worded clues revealing my plans, like “Yes, Mrs. Barnes, look for me in the window wearing the purple hat.” The more intrepid of my followers will no doubt be able to figure out my destination. No need to broadcast it.

Meanwhile, I will continue to fill my Steno pad with clever entries about my travels and try my best not to embelish them where possible. It's only when someone I meet is not very funny or interesting and therefore not potentially entertaining blog material that I have to get creative. Fortunately, for once Officer Prentice made my job as a blogger really easy.

SHAKE DOWN ON THE DINGY DOCK

2009-02-27T15:28:00.003-06:00

Paco and I just returned from our annual sailing trip with our dear friends the Queens, visiting various exotic locales in search of the perfect wind, the perfect Pain Killer and the perfect holiday. We found something close to all three but hopefully perfection will continue to allude us, making it imperative that we continue to return year after year to resume our odyssey.

Meanwhile, we had many adventures, encounters and happy days plying the deep blue waters of the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, getting up close and personal with a whale, flying fish and sting rays, giant turtles and uber friendly dolphin. We also had a close encounter with a very distinguished-looking member of the Nevis Port Authority who reminded us that there are an infinite number of ways to shake down the tourists, even as you are professing to protect them from terrorists.

One afternoon Paco and I decided to take the little yellow dinghy that ferried us all between the boat and shore and do some sight-seeing. Because dinghys and their outboard motors are much-sought after by thieves, it has been drilled into us that you never, ever leave your dinghy unlocked and unattended lest it be made off with by the local bad guys. At around $4,ooo or so to replace, we take this business very seriously. So imagine our surprise and horror when, as we were tying up at the Dinghy Dock, we were stopped and told by none other than Officer Prentice of the Nevis Port Authority that we were not to lock our dinghy or else be subject to a stiff fine. The reasoning here, apparently, is that should Al Qaeda decide to launch an attack on the local Nevis population the Port Authority would need to immediately have the dock cleared of all water craft. No amount of reasoning, arguing, cajoling or shameless flirting would make Officer Prentice budge, so finally, reluctantly, we decided the only thing we could do was to carefully examine his laminated I.D. badge for signs of forgery, threaten to come after him if he allowed our dinghy to be stolen and then proceed with our sight-seeing. This decided, we started down the dock when Officer Prentice suddenly stopped us with one more piece of important business. It seemed that he was the founder, president and Chief Fund Raiser for a local organization that he had created to keep the teenage boys on the island from getting into mischief and presumably grow up to extort money from tourists. What a relief to know there was someone doing something about this alarming problem! Officer Prentice had taken on this personal, selfless and no-doubt onerous task in spite of the fact that it might, to some at least, appear to be a shameless effort to trade ‘favors’ like not having our dinghy stolen, for some good old fashioned cash. Of course, we were all ears hearing about his “charity” and asked him where on the island the charity’s headquarters were located so we could pop in to make a donation. It turned out that to save money on overhead Officer Prentice does all his business right there on the dinghy dock and is the only person authorized to take donations. At this point Paco and I sensed that making a donation to this worthy cause might ensure the safety of our dinghy, but there was no way to be sure and who wants to be shaken down anyway? At this juncture I decided to call his bluff but at the same time praise his efforts in the event that his authority on the dock was much more onerous than we were led to believe.

Me: “You know, Officer Prentice, that is such a wonderful thing you are doing for the boys here on the island. Obviously you devote all of your free time to helping keep them on the straight and narrow. Paco and I donate to several similar causes in the United States so we can surely relate to the importance of these kinds of programs. You are a wonderful role model and we thank you for your efforts. Have a wonderful day and thank you for looking after our dinghy. We know we are in good hands.”

Officer P: (looking extremely crestfallen and confused) “Madame, you are too kind and my efforts are but a tiny drop in the bucket of despair that threatens to deluge our tiny island here. Are you sure you won’t change your mind and make whatever contribution to my cause you feel comfortable with?”

Me: “We’re sure but thanks so much for asking. Have a wonderful day.”

Preparing ourselves for the worst yet not wanting to be shaken down by the local authorities in exchange for not having our dinghy ‘confiscated’ we reluctantly walked down the dock and headed towards town, convinced we would soon be out $4,000. As we turned the corner we spotted the Office of Tourism and decided to see if they had maps of town. On a hunch, I asked the clerk about Officer Prentice and his ‘charity’ and told him we were concerned about our dinghy. Picking up the office telephone, the clerk made a call to someone and after 5 minutes of hand waving and whispers, he announced that Officer Prentice was on the straight and narrow, at least as far as the safety of our dinghy. He could not vouch for the boy’s town aspect of the officer’s presentation but he felt sure we would not be robbed in lieu of making a donation. Somewhat pacified, we continued on our way and sure enough, several hours later when we returned to the dock there was our dinghy, safe and sound. It was by this time pouring down rain and Officer Prentice was no where to be found, no doubt looking out after his flock and doing other good deeds. As we were starting the outboard, however, he suddenly appeared, looking smart in his bright yellow rain slicker.

Officer P: “See, I told you your boat would be safe here.”

Paco: “Well, frankly I’m completely surprised that it is still here. I have to admit I was afraid it would be stolen.”

Officer P: “Sir, Nevis is the Island of Love. Have a nice day and we will see you next time.”

"How odd", Paco said as I turned the dinghy back out into the harbor, “The Island of Love? Officer P went from ominous and threatening to all warm and fuzzy in the space of a few hours. What happened? I was sure we would never see the dinghy again."

Perhaps, I mused, the fact that we treated him with respect even in the face of being shaken down struck a chord in him and he decided to leave our boat alone. He may not be the most trustworthy person on Nevis and Lord only knows if his charity really exists or not but in a strange way he renewed my faith in the basic goodness of people. Or maybe we did that in him because we gave him the benefit of the doubt. No need to tell him we still checked out his story at the Office of Tourism.

DELIVERANCE

2009-02-16T15:58:00.003-06:00

I was just reading Lorrie's blog ("Our Name is Mud") and saw she had posted an "On Vacation" note there so her loyal readers will not think she is merely being lazy or had run off with her brother-in-law or something. Since Paco and I are also leaving this week on vacation I thought I would do some shameless plagurizing and let everyone know that I will be away from my post until the middle of next week (cat burglars take note).

Btw, thanks goes out to Lorrie for mentioning my blog as one to read in her absence. I am humbled and flattered. And thanks also to everyone who has hung in there with me over the last few weeks while I have not been posting as much as usual. I promise to return to my previous 2 - 3 posts a week upon my return. Paco and I are heading down to the islands to recharge our batteries and sample the local rum. Bon voyage for now!

THINGS ARE (still) TOUGH ALL OVER

2009-02-16T15:25:00.002-06:00

Yesterday I squeezed in a quick pedi since my boss keeps me chained to my desk during the week. As some of you know, I have the Boss from Hell. But at least I have a job and as bad as it is much of the time I am not about to walk out. Not in this economy.

While sitting there minding my own business a group of early-30-something girls arrived, there to celebrate someone’s birthday. As hard as I tried not to eavesdrop on their conversation I was, after all, a captive audience, my toes being man-handled by Dan, so I ended up being privy to some interesting, if somewhat bizarre snippets of conversation...

Sissy: “My husband Jeff quit his job last Friday. He just did not get along with his boss. I don’t blame him for not wanting to continue to work in such a toxic environment. He gave them a month’s notice, though, which I thought was more than generous.”

Tiffany: “Oh Sissy, he was so right to do that. No one wants to have to go to work every day and be miserable.”

At this point my jaw had dropped, hearing that ANYONE in this economy would knowingly walk away from a job. Any job. I don’t care if you follow the elephants around with a big shovel at the circus, if you have a job these days how on earth could you voluntarily quit? I was flabbergasted, but there was more to come.

Sissy: “I told Jeff that maybe I should get a part-time job just until he decides what he wants to do next (obviously it’s not going to be as a brain surgeon). He doesn’t want me to work but agreed maybe it would be a good idea.”

Tiffany: “Oh Sissy, are you sure? I mean, like, that is so brave of you. Have you worked before, I mean, like, in an office or something?”

Sissy: “Well, I did some filing in my uncle’s office one summer. I was thinking I could do data entry one day a week. You know, for like, um, maybe 8 hours on Fridays. I actually have called some doctor’s offices and said I want to work part-time, but I haven’t had any takers. No one wants to hire me just for one day a week. I’m getting frustrated. Jeff said I should take a break from it so I don’t get upset or break a nail or something.”

At this point I decided to switch my water order with Dan to a glass of Chard. Maybe it would make me feel as carefree as Sissy and Tiffany. Not to mention Jeff.

4 BDRM / 3.5 BTH SUBURBAN DREAM

2009-02-02T14:28:00.007-06:00

Paco’s house, which he owned and was (mostly) living in when we got married in June of 2007, is still on the market. Well, actually, it isn’t currently for sale because the renter who was supposed to be taking care of it and “staging” it for potential buyers pretty much wrecked it, so it is now being “remodeled”. I use the term loosely because what we are really doing at the moment is trying to find a mystery leak that exists somewhere between the slab and the Arctic permafrost. As soon as said leak is located and repaired we can finish the new floors, have the new carpet installed, pull out all the dead plants, re-landscape and then put it back on the market. Just in time for the next wave of bad Housing Market news. You know, the stories that don’t want to go away about how no one has seen this much real estate carnage since the Tower of Babel collapsed due to poor communication amongst the residents? Yes, that one.

So here’s is the story so far:

1) Harold, the house sitter, moved in last spring and promptly drove his car through the back wall of the garage because apparently he does not know how to operate the foot brake.

2) Harold did not water the back yard, causing the ground to shrivel up like the Mojave Desert in August. This, in turn, made the back of the house drop below street level, creating huge cracks in the interior walls that you could drive a semi- through. The foundation was destroyed and had to be completely re-done with new piers, necessitating jack hammering all of the floor tile and leaving a 3-inch layer of fine dust on every surface in the house, including the inside of every cupboard, drawer and closet in the house. The house sinking like the Titantic was also the cause of the illusive leak since it apparently tore lose a few pesky pipes as it settled to the bottom of the ocean.

3) Harold did not own decent furniture, or much furniture at all for that matter, even though he was supposed to be “staging” the house (see (1) above). Potential buyers were greeted at the front door by a basketball hoop in the living room, a mattress and box springs in the master bedroom and Hello Kitty slippers in the bathroom. This was not the kind of “staging” we had in mind.

4) We finally kicked Harold out last November. I wanted to go over there and literally KICK him out but Paco forbade me. So I wrote him a nasty note and told him if I ever see him again I will shoot him with the World War II bazooka I recently purchased at our local Army Navy store for that sole purpose. Then I will drag what is left of him behind my Sherman tank until his head falls off and then ship his remains to Somalia. I know this may sound harsh but you might not think so if you saw Paco's house.

So now we are in Plumbing Hell, having decided to find the leak ourselves after getting Billy Ray the Millionaire Plumber’s quote to find and repair the leak. I told Paco I could quit my job if he would only change careers and go to plumber’s school. They obviously earn in the high six-figures and all drive solid gold Cadillacs and I added that I would be happy with just a newish Buick wagon. He said no, it isn’t worth it. I said it is. We tabled the discussion until he comes to his senses.

Next week, or whenever I can stand the thought of writing about this nightmare again, I will discuss all of the brand-new plumbing equipment (that keeps breaking) Paco has recently purchased via mail order to fix the leak. Also the equipment we have rented, which has also systematically broken because the equipment rental people are obviously IN CAHOOTS with Billy Ray the Millionaire Plumber. I will also discuss all the money we are spending in order not to have to pay Billy Ray, who we understand is just back from his vacation house in the Bahamas.

HAPPY GROUND HOG'S DAY!

2009-02-02T12:42:00.003-06:00

Punxsutawney Phil sees shadow, winter to continue...

WAKING UP WITH SOMEONE ELSE’S FACE

2009-01-19T14:33:00.008-06:00

Last Wednesday morning I woke up early as usual, wondering what time it was, if Paco had left for work yet and what the heck was wrong with the left side of my face. I felt like I had a bee sting, someone had maybe injected my lower lip with Botox and someone else had socked me in the jaw, all at the same time. How odd, I thought, I don’t remember being in a barroom brawl at my cosmetic surgeon’s office yesterday.

By the time I dragged myself out of bed Paco had left for the office so I had no one to give me a second opinion on whether or not I was imagining this or did, in fact, have some strange malady. I decided that whatever it was probably wasn’t fatal but not getting to the office on time could prove to be, given how unpredictable my deeply flawed and bi-polar boss Mr. S can be. I put on my game face (and some clothes) and went to work.

Once there I emailed Paco:
Me: “I woke up with a swollen jaw this morning. I look like a chipmunk. Do you think I should call Dr K? The left side of my face is flushed and swollen, too. It doesn’t really hurt, just achy. Or should I call my dentist? My teeth don’t hurt but there’s definitely something causing this.”

Paco: “Well, I don't know. You might have just slept funny... too much on one side. If you're not in pain, it might go down during the morning on its own. I've sometimes slept on my face and feel a little beat-up the next morning. Maybe you took too many sleeping pills last night. You're not mixing them with Brandy again, I hope?”

Me: “No, no. This is more than that. I think if I had slept on it funny it would be going down by now. I’ll give it awhile longer before I call Dr K. Maybe it will go away on its own.”

My sypmtoms grew worse, however, so I went to see Dr. K, our wonderful internist who is brilliant, funny, energetic, inquisitive and YOUNG. He is younger than me by at least 20 years and always looks like he just got home from school and is in search of his afternoon snack. He swung open the examining room door and started talking, as usual, before the door was completely open.

Dr. K: (all toothy smile holding his lunch box) “Well, tell me what’s wrong with you today…oh my, I see it already!? (walking over to my hunched frame sitting dejectedly on the examining table). “Okay, now smile, do your lips like this, frown, smile again, wiggle your eyebrows. Hmmm. OH, I KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE! (Oh, oh, I know the answer! Choose me, choose me! Dr. K, there in the back. Please tell us your answer!) and Dr K said “YOU HAVE BELL’S PALSY!!!” Somehow I knew he was going to tell me this. Sister K had had it a few years back and my symptoms were similar to hers. So I said “I thought you would say that. So how did I get this? Where did it come from? I can’t move the left side of my face, my lip is swollen and my left eye is drooping. And I haven't been anywhere near Dr H's office in months" (my aforementioned cosmetic surgeon). After Dr K explained that no one really knows what causes it he nevertheless wrote out several prescriptions for mega doses of steroids and an anti-viral drug and I was soon on my way, after being cautioned to call him immediately if my symptoms grew worse, blah blah. I also had to cancel my upcoming visit with Dr H, which was far worse than waking up with Bell's Palsy. But certainly cheaper.

I spent this past weekend hyper-focusing on my Jumbo Weekly Pill Holder, you know the one you see next to your grandmother’s bed that contains approximately 37 different pills per day so she doesn’t get mixed up on which ones to take when? That was me. I was by turns jumpy, irritable and bone-tired from all the meds but gradually I started to feel better and am now down to the last 20 or so pills. I went back to Dr K this morning and he was even more excited to see me this time since my symptoms are so much improved. He was all smiles, having just discovered the fudge brownie left over in his lunch box. He is so cute and cheerful, so cuddly and smart, it made me happy that he was happy. I hated to burst his bubble but I had to ask him something. “Are you sure I have Bell’s? I mean, I feel so much better and I can move my face again. I thought this was supposed to last for months and months,” I said. Was I cured this fast? A dark cloud fell across his face, his science project in ruins, the judges pinning the Blue Ribbon on the moldy bread experiment display instead of his homemade Neutron Bomb formula. “Yes, you did and do have Bell’s. But you got here in time and we started treating you early enough to alleviate your symptoms quickly.” I felt terrible that I had questioned his diagnosis. I had to make this right before he called his mom to come pick him up early. “I’m sorry, Dr K, I don’t mean to second-guess your diagnosis. What do I know? I’m sure I have it and you got me on the right meds quickly and I will no doubt recover much faster now. Thank you so much. You are a wonderful doctor.” His mood brightened and he perked right up. The judges had reconsidered and the Blue Ribbon was his after all! “No, no, second opinions are often vital, don’t worry about it. But your symptoms are classic and I am sure you have Bell’s. You’ll be fine. I’ll see you in 6 months.”

In the meantime, the steroids are making my face slightly puffy and causing my wrinkles to be somewhat less noticable, thus saving me the cost of the Juvederm. Maybe Bell's Palsy isn't so bad after all.

MY FAVORITE ‘U’ WORDS, UNABRIDGED AND UNADULTERATED

2009-01-13T17:22:00.009-06:00

Lorrie assigned me the letter “U” after I cavalierly suggested that I wanted a forlorn, cast off and oft-over-looked letter on which to heap praise. This turned out to be harder than I thought...

1) Ultracrepidarians What the heck is that, you say? Well, I’m here to tell you this is a prime example of the power of the letter U and it is a dandy word. According to my dog-eared copy of Webster’s, an Ultracrepidarian is someone who gives opinions on matters beyond his or her knowledge. Sort of like my Crazy Boss, Dubya or Madge the Manicurist. Or bloggers. Not that I could ever be accused of being an Ultracrepidarian, of course. Ahem.

2) Ubiquitous The other day there was one of those annoying people in the car ahead of me who was busy talking on her cell phone when she surely should have been driving. I don’t think talking on your phone while poking along at 32 MPH on the interstate shows much concentration. I am tired of the ubiquitous cell phone, texting and internet surfing that seems to have stolen the soul of two-thirds of the population. Whatever happened to the art of conversation as practiced at the dinner table rather than alone in your car?

3) Umbrage I take umbrage to the ubiquitous cell phone. See#2.

4) Umpires I love umpires because for one thing they wear a nice dark suit to work and look like businessmen. I hardly ever see men wearing suits anymore and if I do I automatically assume they are undertakers. It's nice to know that not all men show up for work these days wearing jeans and Deaf Leopard (sic) tee shirts.

5) Über The new 'designer word" which popped up after people got tired of using boring, if perfectly serviceable words like “super” or “extreme”. And BTW, the two little dots are called Umlauts, which is another U word but did not make my list because, well, they're just little dots.

6) Umbrella I love umbrellas because so many nice people seem to carry them: Gene Kelly in “Singing in the Rain”, Julie Andrews in “Mary Poppins” and all those English people that just use them as walking sticks. James Smith and Sons in London sells some of the finest umbrellas in the world and you can pay over $300 for one of their top-of-the-line brollies. There is something comforting about a really good umbrella. Not the cheap, pop-up ones that always seem to turn inside-out at that first puff of wind. I mean the sturdy wooden ones with ivory handles like Sebastian Cabot carried in "Family Affair".

7) Ukulele These little guitar things are cute and endearing and I tend to think that laid-back people are the ones who take the time to learn to play the ukulele. Unfortunately, Don Ho is no longer with us so the ukulele's days may be numbered. Maybe someone should compile an "All-Time Greatest Ukulele Hits" to ensure its popularity is passed down to the younger generation. Or instead of "Guitar Hero" how about "Ukulele Hero"?

8) Underachievers These folks have tons of potential and the very word says so. If they weren’t capable of achieving something at some point they would be called “neverachievers” or “don’t hold your breathers”. Underachievers are simply achievers who have not gotten with the program yet. Perhaps they are too busy learning how to play the Ukulele (see #7).

9) Unbridled People who are unbridled are happy, carefree, devil-may-care and capable of experiencing pure joy. People who carry umbrellas can be unbridled, like Gene Kelly and Mary Poppings (see #6).

10) Unicorn Anyone who has ever read Tennessee Williams’ “The Glass Menagerie” will understand what is so captivating about these mythical creatures. Personally, I don’t collect them because I already have enough stuff in my house collecting dust but I loved it when Laura Wingfield lost herself in her unicorn collection to escape the drudgeries of the apartment she shared with her mother and brother. Maybe if she had owned a ubiquitous cell phone back then, however, she wouldn’t have had time for her herd of Unicorns and would have spent her days texting and surfing the internet (see #3).

BLOGGERS BLOCK

2009-01-12T17:20:00.003-06:00

I think I can understand why Ernest Hemingway spent so much time down at his favorite watering hole in Key West. As I understand it, he wrote from 8am until around 2 pm each day and then put the cover on his Smith Corona and headed to Sloppy Joe's for a few cocktails. Maybe that was to avoid the inevitable Writer's Block that seems to afflict most Serious Writers.

I keep a list of potential blog titles for those rare times when I can't think of anything to post about and am tired of Music Monday (like today). So here they are:

1) "Spinach is a Verb"The uncertain consequences of eating healthy

2) "The Price of a Penny For Your Thoughts Has Gone Up" Racie’s household money-saving tips

3)"My Next-Door Neighbor is Crazy and Unstable" Self-explanatory

4) "Mercenaries Are People, Too" Unlikely job alternatives for these uncertain times

5)"Why Didn’t Any of the Cartwright Boys Have Girlfriends?" Didn’t they all get tired of Chinese food?

6)"I Am Tired of Calling India For A Repair Man" Am I being charged for this long-distance call?

7) "Gratuitous Vacuuming" The Dyson siren song

8) "Does This Diet Make Me Look Fat?" Why do I gain weight when I diet?

Obviously I haven't used any of the above titles yet in a post. If any of them seem of even vague interest, please leave me your comments and I will expand on one of them. Right after I get back from Sloppy Joe's.

THE GREAT BOXING DAY FIRE

2009-01-09T10:50:00.003-06:00

I used to have an annual Boxing Day party at my house, mostly back when I had someone from Across the Pond living under my roof. Being as he was of Foreign Persuasion and in his country it was an actual recognized National Holiday it only made sense that we should recognize it in this country, too. Or at least in our own household. Although not a religious or nationally-recognized holiday in this country, I nonetheless felt justified in recognizing it and throwing a party in honor of the Day After Christmas.

Time passed and the Foreign Person no longer used my address to receive his mail and I found myself without a good excuse to throw a Boxing Day party except for the fact that the ones in years past had been very popular with our British and Anglophile friends. So I just kept having the party, albeit not every year. This year Paco and I decided to stay in town for the holidays and thus the idea of having a Boxing Day party seemed like a sound move. I designed and sent out a clever invitation addressed to our nearest and dearest and then began a three-week massive overhaul of our house: carpets professionally cleaned, furniture cleaned and spruced up by Paco and me (don’t try cleaning linen furniture yourself, BTW), heavy silver polished and food and wine bought in liberal amounts. I also borrowed some additional serving items from Sister K, chief among them two very nice silver chafing dishes in which to serve the (homemade) Vegetarian Curry and Basmati Rice.

Boxing Day dawned bright, if unseasonably warm, and slightly after the appointed start time our guests began to arrive. We had lots of folks show up, many of whom eventually migrated to our deck to escape the growing line crowded around the dining table. Luckily, Paco and I happened to both be standing next to the said table at the same time, along with a few other guests not already outside eating and drinking. Suddenly, and totally without warning, the Denatured Alcohol warming one of the chafing dishes decided at that moment to boil over, engulfing the dish in flames and spreading to the linen table cloth underneath. Just like one of those movies where everyone is watching something horrific happen as if in slow motion, we all stood there, frozen in our spots as the flames shot upwards and the entire contents of the chafing dish started to burn. Since I had not bothered to replace the kitchen fire extinguisher since the last time it was needed (I will save that for another posting) we had nothing to douse the flames until Paco finally yelled for a wet cloth. I ran into the kitchen, flames starting to spread to the table itself, grabbed a tea towel, ran it under the faucet and threw it to him in time for the flames to be extinguished. The flames were so intense, however, that they actually melted the soldering on one of the legs of the chafing dish frame and the entire thing collapsed into a heap, spilling curry everywhere and necessitating Paco bravely picking the entire mess up and throwing it from the deck, much to our horror. At that point everyone stood there in complete shock, me wondering what damage had been done to the dining table and starting the “well, it could have been worse” self-talk. It surely could have been worse, as in the entire dining room, if not the rest of the house, ending up on the 10 o-clock news that evening: “House burns to ground in Vegetarian Curry Drama”.

The damage proved to be less than at first thought, albeit Sister K’s chafing dish is in the shop, her linen tablecloth ruined. Fortunately, she had the forethought to place a table pad underneath the table cloth so even though both burned completely through, the table only bares the scars of a slight singe and will probably provide countless hours of retelling the great Boxing Day Fire. Ironically, the person in who’s honor the party was so many years ago thrown was not present to witness the drama. Good thing, as I would never have heard the end of it. Of the many possession over which we argued when we parted ways, the dining table was chief among them. The house could have burned to the ground but I would have been expected to somehow save the table.

On second thought, maybe I should have let that frappin'table burn to a crisp out of pure spite.

MY YOGA PROBLEMS SOLVED!

2009-01-05T14:06:00.002-06:00

Monday is usually reserved for my weekly music selection but I am making an exception today because of what arrived in my mail over this past weekend. It was a white envelope with something lumpy inside and I started shaking it to try and figure out what was in it (because tearing open the envelope would have been too easy and spoiled the suspense).

Paco: “I don’t think you should shake it, whatever it is. It’s making those ‘crushed’ noises. For pity’s sake, please just open the frappin’ envelope. You’re driving me crazy.”

Finally I decided I had to find out so I opened it and out popped a large packet of wheatgrass seeds as pictured here. There was a note in with it that read “Grow Your Own Yoga Instructor!” and was signed Sheila and Sweet Hubby. I completely cracked up and, laughing hysterically, showed it to Paco. For those of you who follow “The Continuing Adventures of Sunshine Wheatgrass” you will recognize the reference to my yoga instructor, who I often do battle with over issues of personal space, yoga blanket protocol and wardrobe choices.

Paco examined the packet and the note and then said:
“I don’t get it. Why did they send you a packet of Wheatgrass seeds and can you eat them?”

Me: "Yes, you can eat them after you grow the grass, but that isn’t the point of the joke. They sent them to me because of my posts about my yoga instructor, Sunshine Wheatgrass. Oh, never mind. I forgot, you have never visited my blog so you wouldn’t know about Sunshine except what I mention to you after class. And please remind me again why you won't visit my blog."

Paco: “I don’t visit your blog because I am living it everyday and get to experience the real thing first hand. I couldn't deal with also having to read about it. That would be too much, even for me."

Thank you Sheila and Sweet Hubby. I will plant the wheatgrass seeds just as soon as the ground thaws out and also thank you both for being Kool-Aid Drinkers. Maybe one of these days we can get Paco to take a small sip.

I'M SO GLAD I DIDN'T REALLY SAY THAT

2009-01-02T09:10:00.007-06:00

I had one of those bad dreams the other night that woke me up from a sound sleep, made me sit up in bed and fill me with dread. You know the ones, where you aren't sure if it was real or a dream?

I have to preface this by mentioning we have some really annoying neighbors. The kind that will never, ever move and make me want to put a skunk in their basement.

Back to the dream. I shook Paco awake, in utter fear that I had just done something awful and not sure at all if I had or it was just a bad dream.

Me: "Please tell me I didn't just open our bedroom window and scream at Larry 'For God's sake, Larry, it's 7:15 Sunday morning. Stop throwing your empty beer bottles in your recycling bin. It's right underneath our window in case you hadn't noticed' and then slam the window down."

Paco: "No, I don't think you did. I think you dreamed that."

Me: "Are you sure? How can you be sure? Oh geez, I am so embarrassed."

Paco: "No, I was right here. You didn't scream at him."

Me: "Are you sure? You were asleep, too. How can you be sure?" (I am frantic).

Paco: "I'm sure you didn't say anything to him."

Me: "How do you know?"

Paco: "Well, for one thing, today is Friday."

I fell back onto my pillow, feeling foolish yet totally relieved. I probably need to explore why it is so important to me not to offend my neighbor while at the same time fighting the urge to put a skunk in his basement.

ISN'T "RESTORATIVE YOGA" OVERKILL?

2008-12-31T08:36:00.003-06:00

Last night at yoga the lovely Marigold Lamb substitute taught the class in place of my nemesis, Sunshine Wheatgrass. I got there way early, as usual, and sat in the very back in anticipation of more yoga blanket folding angst, comments about my baggy yoga pants and gym sock debacles. When Marigold walked into class (late- ahem) I breathed a sigh of relief.

Having already been to the gym yesterday morning for my regular workout I was feeling all proud and sanctimonious that I was back there again on the same day for more punishment. After all, it is the holidays and I have over-indulged just like everyone else these past few weeks. So imagine my surprise and somewhat disappointment when Marigold announced we were going to do something called "restorative yoga". What on earth is that? Isn't all yoga restorative or is the regular kind actually designed to beat you to a pulp and leave you a quadriplegic? I was drawn, yet repelled by this new concept.

At any rate, and not to belabor the point, the class was fine and very relaxing in a stretchy sort of way. I will say that I have noticed no one in yoga class except for me seems to have a sense of humor, though. After class I told Marigold that I very much enjoyed her class but we should all really be taking this "restorative" class Thursday morning ha ha. She gave me an odd look and said "well, we will be closed for the holiday but I'm sure you can do this on your own at home." So of course I felt the need to explain my joke to her by saying "No, I mean because tomorrow is New Year's Eve and we will all need some restoration the next morning ha ha." Nothing, no response, blank look. Oh well.

Just then who should walk in but Sunshine Wheatgrass, up selling, of all things! She had a handful of fliers and was talking about all of us showing up at her yoga studio Thursday morning at 10 am to participate in something called "108 Sun Supplications" or something. She handed me a flyer, calling me by name and telling me she expected to see me there Thursday morning. Never mind that it cost $20 for the privilege of getting out of bed the morning after New Year's Eve and then enduring whatever odd rituals, supplemented by heated crystals, Sunshine had cooked up for us. I said thanks and would think about it, handed the flyer to another unsuspecting soul and beat it out of there. They can have my share of supplications and hot crystals on New Year's Day. I will be at home with Paco, eating black-eyed peas and watching the Rose Bowl. On my yoga mat.

MONDAY MUSIC (one day late)

2008-12-30T09:48:00.005-06:00

I hope everyone had a lovely, safe and blessed holiday, whatever your religious persuasion. This week's musical selection has nothing to do with Christmas, Hannukah, New Year's or Ramadan. I just happen to love this song and it reminds me everyday how lucky I am to have Paco in my life.

http://users.megapathdsl.net/~nightshade/SomeoneLikeYou.mp3

Happy New Year and everyone be safe.

XMAS SURVEY ANSWERS REVEALED!

2008-12-23T12:36:00.004-06:00

WRAPPING PAPER OR GIFT BAGS?
This crucial decision tells alot about how much I care or don't care about the recipient. If I am re-gifting I tend towards gift bags, usually re-gifted gift bags (it's tough to re-gift using used wrapping paper, despite all the paper my late mother made us save by carefully unwrapping our gifts). If it's a family member I would probably go the paper route but there are so many variables I could be here all day splitting hairs. I think the recipient should just be darn glad I got 'em a frappin' gift in the first place, don't you?

REAL TREE OR ARTIFICIAL?
After Paco and I got together I had to switch from my 'tree-in-a-box" to the real thing, albeit a tiny one. I have two huge, as in taller than my two-story house, pine trees in my front yard that started out as living Christmas trees from Home Depot. They are now blocking out the sun, threatening to displace the driveway with their wicked root system and the sap has killed the once verdant and thriving Bermuda grass that lies beneath their majestic branches. I can't wait to cut them down some day soon. Preferably right before Christmas, just to teach them who is in charge.

ANGEL OR STAR ON TOP?
Yes, as of last year when one of my closest and bestest friends gifted me with one. I think she maybe thought I couldn't afford one since we had been using one made from pipe cleaners and Popsicle sticks I made in 4th grade. Bless her.

EGGNOG-YES OR NO?
Absolutely. I have to stop here and say several things about Egg Nog. First, the low-fat version should never be sold anywhere except maybe at the little dairy stand right outside the fat farm where those folks from The Biggest Loser go to work out and try and win $100,000. Low-fat egg nog is horrid, awful and not found in nature. Second, for the best dang egg nog I have ever had, I made it from the Joy of Cooking recipe back when I was living in the U.K. and they had never heard of it over there. It had several cases of different liquors in it and put all of my British family members into a self-induced coma until Easter. Yes, it was that good. I feel sorry for people who don't know about this recipe.

HARDEST PERSON TO BUY FOR?
Probably someone like Donald Trump but I don't know him personally and he isn't on my list so I don't care about him anyway. He has such odd hair. Maybe if he was on my list I would buy him a mirror so he could see how stupid his comb over looks, especially standing next to his latest cradle-snatched wife.

DO YOU HAVE A NATIVITY SCENE?
Yes, sort of. It's actually a tree ornament and is very small. Since it hangs from the tree all of the occupants are in various states of dishevelment, having to hang on for dear life to keep from falling into the tree stand water, which would not be good. I may have to strap Baby Jesus into a tiny car seat just to be on the safe side.

FAVORITE CHRISTMAS MOVIE?
Despite what I know Lorrie will say if she reads this, I still love "It's a Wonderful Life". I just wish maybe "This Old House" or "Extreme Makeover" had been around back then to help spruce up George's house.

WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR CHRISTMAS?
More people visiting my blog, blog ads that make lots of money and two tickets to His Majesty's inauguration.

MONDAY HOLIDAY MUSIC

2008-12-22T16:09:00.007-06:00

There is a newer version of this one which was recorded by Willie Nelson, but I prefer Roy's version for this week's pick. http://www.box.net/shared/static/v34x1nj8xq.mp3

PLUS, the results of my HOPE HOPE HOPE contest! The winner is...Something Happened Somewhere Turning.

Congrats and please email me at gracegd@earthlink.net and I will get your glass to you.

Happy Holidays everyone, and be safe!

HOPE HOPE HOPE

2008-12-16T10:58:00.005-06:00

During the holidays it’s nice to think this is the Season of Hope, albeit that’s a bit of a stretch given what a mess things are out there at the moment. Still and all, there is reason for a glimmer of hope even if you have to look pretty hard for it.

My Fantastic and Amazing Holiday Giveaway is all about hope and the Grand Prize is this fabulous 2008 Christmas Glass starring none other than His Majesty, our future president, offering us HOpe HOpe HOpe!

In Comments please tell me where you find hope these days and where it may be hiding. This might help some of us out there who are a bit thin on it lately. If you put a link on your blog to my little contest and you win, I will award you an additional glass of your choosing (assuming it is in stock). Glasses can be found at this link: http://www.beerknurd.com/glasstrader

Contest winner will be announced next Monday, Dec. 22. Thanks everyone and good luck!

MONDAY HOLIDAY MUSIC

2008-12-16T10:16:00.004-06:00

I changed the title of my Monday Music post because 'Holiday Monday Music' didn't quite make sense. Once in a while my dyslexia rears its head ugly...urm, whatever.

I hope you enjoy this week's selection and Happy Holidays.

http://www.rjevka.com/ftp/music/cristmass/13_-_Andy_Williams_-_The_Most_Wonderful_Time_Of_The_Year.mp3

THINGS ARE TOUGH ALL OVER

2008-12-10T09:08:00.002-06:00

This whole market crash thing has, so far, not affected us too badly since we live in a so-called "growth state". But that doesn't mean we haven't had to tighten our belts a little bit just like everybody else. Yesterday, Paco went to look at new cars since his is way over ten years old and is on its last legs. With his trade-in and some savy wheeling and dealing, he actually managed to up-grade to a much roomier, nicer ride. Plus, everytime he drives it, Oscar Meyer pays us 10 bucks plus gas. Sweet!

HOLIDAY MUSIC MONDAY

2008-12-07T14:07:00.006-06:00

Holiday Greetings to everyone. I have two selections today, one is that perenenial holiday classic, "Santa Baby" as sung by Miss Eartha Kitt. This was a request from Thystle.
www.ctrlaltdel-usa.net/media/xmas_songs/10_Santa%20Baby_Eartha%20Kitt%20-%20Henri%20Rene%20Orchestra.mp3

The second is actually a video that I couldn't figure out how to embedd here, so when your finished listening to Eartha, please change the channel and have a look and listen. This will make your day if Eartha doesn't. Happy Holidays!
http://www.maniacworld.com/dog-having-a-blast-in-the-snow.html

WE GO TO THE MATTRESSES

2008-12-03T16:22:00.004-06:00

Anyone who watches Andrew Zimmern on the Travel Network knows that no matter how wretched, unappealing or sinister that plate of, say ludifisk, might be he always takes two bites. If that first bite is bad you should still force down a second bite just to be sure. Sometimes first impressions can be deceiving. So it was that I have continued going to yoga class at the Y to see if my first experience with Sunshine Wheatgrass was just a one-off. Maybe she, or I, was having a bad night, Mercury was in retrograde or there was a little too much carbon monoxide in the a/c system . Come what may, I was going to give it another chance and then report my findings here...

Unfortunately, since my last run-in with Sunshine, the Yoga teacher with bad Karma, I have not had the pleasure of taking her class again. The other teacher at the Y, Marigold Lamb, had been teaching the Tuesday night class and she was just lovely. Patient, happy in her own skin and thankfully lacking any serious OCD symptoms or psychotic behaviors . So imagine my surprise last night when I walked into class to discover Sunshine, Marigold's evil twin, was there to teach the class instead. Daunted but unyielding this time, I took a deep breath and found a place to unroll my mat. I knew after my first run-in with Sunshine not to wear gym socks or baggy pants to class and that yoga blankets had to be folded in a certain way, seams forward and fringe to the back. Last night I was not wearing socks but was sporting baggy yoga pants. And I had already decided no one was telling me how to fold my damn yoga blanket. I knew all about Sunshine's near-pathological focus on blanket folding and the sin of baggy pants and I was determined to stand my ground on both points. Someone had to draw a line in the sand.

Minding my own business and trying very hard not to make eye contact with Sunshine, I picked up two blankets from the cart, sat down on my mat and started stretching out until class began. At this point someone else in the class apparently started folding their blankets incorrectly, setting off a small tidal wave of dismay with Sunshine. I thought this was my opportunity to quietly fold my blankets while she was distracted with the other student, but I was sorely mistaken. Instead of focusing on my classmate, Sunshine zeroed in on my efforts, this time coming over to sit next to me on my mat and show me the correct Sunshine Wheatgrass-approved method of blanket folding. I was having none of it, however:

SW: Here, let me show you how to fold your blankets (reaching over to grab them from me)

RL: No, I like them just as they are, thanks.

SW: But that isn’t the correct way to fold them.

RL: I don’t care. They’re the way I want to fold them.

SW: (looking aggitated and suddenly in need of medication) Well, can you at least please smooth them out neatly?

RL: No. I like them wrinkled.

Sunshine genuinely looked ill and panicky as soon as I said I was leaving the blanket in its current unkempt state. She jumped up off my mat, hitting me in the face with her long, braided salt and pepper pony tail. The sound of her jingly anklet bells followed her back to her own mat at the front of the class. She was not happy with me and I could see a determined look on her face. If she could not force me to comply with the order of her own Bizarre Universe, she would bully me into it. Sunshine fixed her gaze upon me...

SW: So, I don't believe I know your name.

RL: My name is Racie.

SW: Oh, is that a family name?

RL: Yes, I am named after my paternal grandmother. She was a famous exotic dancer.

SW: Oh, I see. Well, how long have you been studying yoga, Racie?

RL: A few years, off and on. And I wouldn't say I study it exactly. More like I just audit it now and then.

SW: And is there a particular school of yoga you follow?

RL: No, not really. I think they all have their own attributes. I couldn't even name them for you. It's sort of like art. I don't know the artist's names or style, but I know what I like.

Frustrated because she could not draw me into a conversation about specifics and thereby embarrass me by my lack of knowledge, Sunshine turned her attention back to the class and we got started. We began in the seated lotus position and after clasping our hands in prayer and doing three OLMS in rapid succession, Sunshine greeted everyone with the following question:

SW: Hello, everyone and welcome to Tuesday evening yoga class. My name is Sunshine and I am substituting for Marigold tonight. I would like to begin by first asking if there is anyone in the class who is having their menstrual cycle (there were no takers and I did not return her glare).

We began our routine with the Downward Dog, a position I felt fairly comfortable with. As I dutifully stretched my legs as far back as I could get them and bowed my head, Sunshine came up to my left side and grabbed my waist with both hands. Yanking me violently upwards, she said "Racie, you are way too low. You must be much higher (yank). There, that's better." I said nothing, mostly because I was struggling to breath and thought she might have punctured a lung.

Recovering somewhat from her first assault, I was making sure my legs were as straight as I could get them while still attempting to touch the floor with my folded elbows. Once again, Sunshine walked over to my mat. "All of you who continue to show up in class wearing baggy yoga pants, I can still tell if you have your knees together or not."

I knew I was getting to her.

About half through class the door suddenly opened and Marigold, the kind and gentle other yoga teacher, walked in. How odd, I thought, as she dropped her mat and started to squinch in between me and the person behind me. Was I being double-teamed? Did Sunshine have a secret floor buzzer under her mat and had called for back up after my early passive-agressive behavior? Hard to say.

The rest of the class proceeded more or less without incident, other than when I turned around to get my blankets for the last sequence of moves and they were- missing! Someone had moved them across to the opposite side of the room. I could only think it was Marigold, doing Sunshine's dirty work for her. Maybe she wasn't as innocent as I first thought. I made a mental note to keep my eye on her from now on as I went to retrieve my (now) neatly folded blankets.

Class ended and I actually thanked Sunshine for the class and said I enjoyed it and would be back. I have decided that having stood my ground she will back off next time and leave me in karmic peace. That doesn't mean, however, that I might not still find a dead fish wrapped in newspaper on my front porch some day soon. Written in Sanskrit, of course.

MONDAY MUSIC

2008-11-30T12:46:00.009-06:00

True to my word, I waited until AFTER Thanksgiving to post a Christmas song on Monday Music as I believe no holiday should ever get short shrift. Now that we have concluded Thanksgiving, however, I can, in good conscience, start posting some of my All Time Christmas Favs.

This is a busy time for us all and with so much to do to get ready for the Yuletide, I hope you will take time to thank your Higher Power for all that has been bestowed upon you and yours this past year and to say a prayer for Peace on Earth.

http://www.fitnessfuzion.biz/muziq/xmas/Nat%20King%20Cole%20-%20The%20Christmas%20Song.mp3

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

2008-11-26T11:21:00.009-06:00

I have had a few 'requests' to change the frappin' music on my blog since it is now Wednesday and I sort of missed this week's MUSIC MONDAY. Please accept my humble apology.

I did look in vain for some rousing THANKSGIVNG music but gee, it's tough to find. Other than 'Turkey in the Straw' and 'The Most Fattening Time of the Year' (?!) I didn't have much luck. Despite everyone already having their Christmas decorations up and cheerful Xmas music looping throughout Macy's I refuse to take the easy way out and put Nat King Cole on here before next week. SO, I decided to just post a song that has nothing to do with any holiday but is one I just happen to love and if I were visiting my blog would make me happy to listen to. I hope you enjoy it, too, and meanwhile, HAPPY THANKSGIVING everyone. Be safe.

http://reinedesorages.blogs.psychologies.com/atlas/files/seal_cd1_08_loves_divine.mp3

P.S. The first person to correctly guess why I used this photo to illustrate today's blog wins a special prize.

MUSIC MONDAY

2008-11-17T11:04:00.004-06:00

Sooner or later I will run out of Monday-themed music to post but until then, Happy Monday Monday. http://reuterenterprises.com/Music/Mamas%20and%20The%20Papas-%20Monday,%20Monday.mp3

MEET THE PARENTS

2008-11-12T16:14:00.009-06:00

Paco has yet to read my blog, but no matter. He thinks it’s great that I have one and maybe because he doesn’t read it that's why he is always ready to suggest new topics, however controversial. I could say “you won’t believe what Mr. S did today at work” and he would say “Why don’t you blog about it?” Never mind that it might involve the IRS, illegal immigration or the TABC and we could all go to Sing Sing for 20,000 years if the Feds decided to peak at my blog that day. In other words, I think Paco is very sweet for making these story suggestions but he may not appreciate that once it gets out there in the blogosphere anyone with a computer and at least one functioning finger can read my deepest secrets.

With that introduction, I will now tell you a story, at Paco’s suggestion, of my first meeting with his folks...

After we had been dating a few months, Paco told me he wanted me to meet his folks. This was a big honor and I immediately accepted, but with one caveat. Since his folks live out of town a ways, we would be spending the entire weekend with them. That meant sleeping in their house, under their roof, if you know what I mean. Did they have a guest room, I asked? Yes, Paco assured me they did. Where would I sleep? In the guest room. Where will you sleep? On the hide-a-way in the den. Okay, good. There is no way I am sharing a room with you at your parent’s house. My mother (may she rest in peace) would be appalled and if the shoe was on the other foot not only would Paco be sleeping in a separate room from me, but it would also be at a hotel on the other side of town. And my father would have the key to his hotel room locked in his safe. Paco agreed and seemed relieved, too. We felt it was more respectful to sleep in separate rooms, surely that first weekend at least.

So off we went for the weekend to meet the parents and all went swimmingly. Until bedtime. Paco and I were in the den, making up his bed when his mother walked into the room. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Making up Paco’s bed” we said in unison (we had rehearsed this part during the three hour drive up that morning). “You don’t have to sleep in here, for Pete’s sake. That’s silly. You are both sharing the guest room.” “No, thank you but we like this arrangement just fine. Really. We are more comfortable this way” Paco pleaded. Finally relenting, his mother shook her head in amazement and wandered off to bed and we did the same. To our separate rooms. It was awkward but neither one us was ready to share sleeping quarters at his parent's house. After all, I had only just met them and I did not want them thinking their son was dating a wanton hussy. That could come later.

After making up his bed Paco and I chastely said good night and I wandered off to the guest room and shut the door. I found out later that at that point Paco’s father came into the den and said to him “Say, don’t you two sleep together?” (secret meaning: you don't expect us to believe you're not, do you?) To which Paco replied “Yes, Dad, we do, but not here.” His father apparently was incredulous that we were making such a show of our innocence but no amount of chiding could get Paco to join me in the guest room. Lights went out and we hoped that was the end of it.

After dinner the next evening Paco and I dutifully went to the den to again make up his bed. Once again his father walked into the room, this time apparently on a mission. “You two don’t have to do this, you know. This is just silly. Just go in there and stay in the guest room. You will be a lot more comfortable.” At this point the cringe factor was off the chart and I fled to the security of the guest room and shut the door. How is it that Paco’s parents were forcing us to share a room under their roof? Neither of us was ready to go public with the full extent of our relationship and would have preferred to ease into that aspect a bit further down the road.

I sat on the edge of the bed assessing the situation, determined to hold onto the illusion of our chastity. No one could make me sleep with my boyfriend, not even his own parents! Suddenly from the other end of the hallway came this from his mother “Get in there and sleep with her for heaven’s sake. This is ridiculous. Your father and I don’t care if you two are sleeping together. We are fine with it so just get yourself in there and sleep with her!” I was beyond embarrassed. My face turned a deep crimson and I buried my face in the pillow. It was as if there was something unnatural about our not wanting to share a room. It was the ultimate role reversal. Parents shaming their children into “having relations without benefit of clergy”. It was just too much.

Suddenly the bedroom door opened a crack and Paco stuck his head in the room. “I guess I might as well sleep in here with you. I think it’s the only way we will get any peace around here. Do you mind?" he asked. “I guess you're right, " I said, "we might as well bite the bullet and relent. I’m afraid your parents are going to think ill of me if I don’t sleep with you.” Then I added “Just to appease your folks I will let you sleep in here with me. But we are NOT having sex and they can’t make us!”

MUSIC MONDAY

2008-11-11T14:48:00.007-06:00

I know, I'm a day late. I was home yesterday with a bad cold. Still, I hope you enjoy Music Monday a day late... http://www.stevejean.com/media/JIMMY BUFFETT - Come Monday - Ballads.mp3

2008-11-05T09:52:00.001-06:00

http://www.chicksrockchicksrule.com/audio/bobharris_landslide.mp3

WE HAVE A WINNER!

2008-11-04T10:20:00.005-06:00

Thanks to all of you who entered my First Ever Fantastic and Amazing Giveaway. Our Official Winner is: TJames!

Ms. James, please leave your comment here by this Thursday, Nov. 6 @ 2pm to claim your fabulous prize. Otherwise I will draw another name out of the hat.

Please watch this space for my next Fantastic and Amazing Giveaway!

MONDAY MUSIC

2008-11-03T10:42:00.003-06:00

There is much I could say about getting out tomorrow and voting (if you haven’t already) but I think I will let this video of Old Glory and Celine Dion say it for me (yes, I know Ms Dion is Canadian, but Kate Smith’s version just didn’t do it for me).

No matter who you support, please say a prayer today for the safety of our leaders and for our country. And thank your Higher Power for the freedom to vote and worship as you please.

God Bless America.

http://www.ra2.biz/yellowribbon/American_Sounds/God_Bless_America.mp3

GUEST BLOG

2008-10-31T12:29:00.006-05:00

(From Sister K this morning)
Last night Big B and I were watching tv on our brand-new plasma flat screen. It's the one in the bedroom, having been transfered there after Big B decided it wasn't big enough for the den, where he likes to watch the Rangers lose yet another baseball game. Mind you that we still have harvest gold shag carpet in the house from the 1970s, but when it comes to the latest electronics or getting the driveway re-paved, the sky's the limit with Big B. But that's another blog...

Anyway, Big B had just left the room to make his nightly Pimm's cup (thanks, Racie and Paco) when suddenly the flat screen in the bedroom fell partly off its mounting on the wall. I ran over to it and valiantly tried to save it from crashing to the floor while frantically screaming for Big B to come help me. When he realized that his 42" flat screen (it completely overshadows anything else in the room) was about to become a pile of broken glass and computer chips, he raced back into the room and saved it.

As we were standing there looking at the tv turned sideways on the wall, we were scratching our heads and wondering how this could have happened. Big B had used industrial-strength bolts engineered to the exact specifications for supporting the tv until the pyramids crumble. He turned to me and said, "What could have caused this? Maybe there was an earthquake." I looked pityingly at him and said, "Sure. We had an earthquake in Dallas, Texas. And pigs were flying as it was happening."

Flash forward to this morning as I was drinking my morning coffee while perusing the newspaper. I had the tv on as background noise when I suddenly heard the word "earthquake" uttered by the news anchor. Seems there was a very rare and unexpected earthquake that had occurred in Dallas the night before. I ran to my computer and went to the television station's website. Under news stories was the caption "Earthquakes Jolt North Texas." Who knew?

I had to make an apologetic and sheepish phone call to Big B at the office this morning, begging his forgiveness for being such a naysayer. After listening to me grovel for a few minutes, he accepted my apology and said, "At least the driveway didn't crack and the new pool filtration system seems to be working okay." I hung up the phone and went back to vacuuming the shag carpet.

MY KARMA RAN OVER YOUR DOGMA

2008-10-29T13:44:00.008-05:00

Last Saturday I went to a Pilates class at my gym, having reached my threshold of weigh-lifting and cardio exercise and looking for a change of pace. I was greeted at the door by Linda, the friendly instructor, and a warm and unthreatening room full of like-minded individuals. The hour that ensued was tough and my abs were screaming by the end of class but I felt renewed in body and spirit. You have to love the Y. It’s so democratic and down-to-earth in a touchy-feely sort of way. I was ready for more of the same.

Last night I decided to try the yoga class, as I was starting to crave more endorphins and had missed my 5:30 am work out yesterday morning. So off I went to the 6:30 pm yoga class, my matt stuffed into my gym bag, looking all hip and earthy in my yoga pants and spandex top.

I like to be early to any exercise class, believing it is rude to show up late when the class has already started. It’s disruptive and can throw off the pace of the class. So ten minutes early, I turned the door knob and walked in all smiley-faced, ready to befriend everyone in the room.

Suspicion and mistrust met me at the door and stopped me in my tracks. Conversation ceased mid-sentence. The fox had just wandered into the hen house. Sarah Palin had just burst into an anti-NRA meeting. I was the OUTSIDER obviously there to disrupt the natural flow of karma and happiness so carefully fashioned by Sunshine Wheatgrass, the yoga instructor. I headed for the furthest corner of the room and tried to make myself invisible.

Not satisfied with my anonymity, Sunshine began by telling me to remove my socks. Then to sit up straight and that I did not have my yoga blanket folded correctly. The whole blanket-folding issue became a centerpiece of her class. Her premise was that a neatly folded blanket, smooth seam to the front and fringe seam to the back, represents order, neatness and purity of mind and body. Fine, except she went on and on about it for the entire class. I’m all for neatness and purity of mind and body but this went far beyond that mantra. I secretly decided that Sunshine was OCD and this was all about control and no wire hangers and Lord knows what else. Was she locked in a closet as a child? Forced to eat creamed spinach on toast? Switched at birth? My mind began to wander. I understood now why the room went silent when I walked in earlier. Newbies endangered the order of Sunshine's tiny universe and had the potential for introducing unacceptable thoughts and behaviors. And badly folded yoga blankets. I made a mental note to blog about this the next day.

Suddenly I was forced back to reality by Sunshine’s unrelenting focus on me. In front of the entire class I was asked to run down my medical history, starting with any surgeries I might have had that would impact my performance. I told her about my back surgery and she asked “What age were you when you had your surgery?” When I answered I was in my early forties at the time, she said “Oh, okay. So not recently. You’ll be fine.” I was crushed. I could no longer pass for early 40-something. I was an aging hippy, bent over and arthritic. Someone who wears gym socks to yoga class, does not know how to fold her yoga blanket and prefers Frito pies to musli. No wonder I was Sarah Palin in yoga pants. Clearly I had not washed away my sins and did not possess a pure mind and body. Pure minds and bodies do not eat Frito pie washed down with frozen margaritas. I was a dismal failure.

Class finally began with Sunshine singing a delightful, if somewhat off-key, yoga warm-up song in Sanskrit. Her voice was a cross between Yoko Ono and Dolly Parton, and not in a good way. It was high and shrill and I had no idea what she was saying but it sounded official and very exotic. Once the sing song was dispensed with, Sunshine began pacing the room, speaking in tongues while checking everyone’s form, pushing and pulling rogue arms and legs that were not positioned to her strict standards. I dutifully performed the Downward Dog, Lotus and Half Moon poses, all the time looking at my watch and wishing I was at home with Paco.

At one point Sunshine told all of us to straighten our legs, knees and arms and reach over as far as possible. She said “And for all of you cheaters who are wearing baggy yoga pants, I can tell whether or not you’re performing the pose correctly or not.” I looked around and realized I was the only one wearing baggy yoga pants. Oh dear. Shamed and humiliated in yoga class by Sunshine Wheatgrass. What could be worse, except maybe showing up for Jack LaLane’s exercise class smoking a Camel and hung over. No, this was worse.

Class finally ended and suddenly Sunshine was happy and all smiles, thanking everyone for attending and inviting us all back next time for more fun and torture. I fled to my car and drove home, vowing to stick to weights and Pilates. When I got home Paco was cooking dinner and asked about my class and did I want a glass of wine? “Yes, please” I said. “That was not exactly what I was expecting. I think I prefer Pilates over yoga. Sunshine was so mean.” Paco laughed and gave me a kiss. “Sweetheart, I’m just glad you take such good care of yourself” he said. “Go relax and drink you wine and I will call you when dinner’s ready.”

I will take Paco’s good karma over Sunshine’s bad dogma any day.

MUSIC MONDAY

2008-10-27T14:04:00.008-05:00

In the absence of anything truly earth-shaking to impart to my Kool-Aid Drinkers, I decided instead to start out the week with a lovely song and a photo Paco took when we were on a trip to Sea Island, Georgia a few years ago. I hope you enjoy it, and Happy Monday.
http://www.oti.ripside.com/music/05-Home.mp3

CALLING ALL FOLLOWERS

2008-10-24T15:27:00.011-05:00

Miss Thystle asked me today about adding one of those fancy gadgets to my blog so folks can follow the fun and not miss a single earth-shattering thing I have to say. According to the instuctions on Dashboard: you should put your followers widget at the top of your sidebar so more readers will notice it. Many readers ignore sidebar items so by writing a post about your followers widget and moving the widget to the top of your sidebar, you will inevitably grow your audience. " Since I certainly want to grow my audience not to mention appear to be a technical genius, I decided to follow those instructions to the letter and write a post about becoming one of my Followers.

So now any of you who want to hang on my every word can do so easily just by becoming a Kool-Aid Drinker. Despite the ominous tone and potential for lasting psychological damage the moniker suggests, I encourage you to take the plunge. I promise to do my part and bring you nothing but the very finest journalism has offer (in my limited sphere).

MY FIRST-EVER CONTEST GIVEAWAY

2008-10-24T10:25:00.006-05:00

If anyone happened to be watching CNN this morning (the part that was NOT about the stock market debacle) maybe you saw a blurb about the Vote glass program being hosted by a certain beer emporium chain. Every time you buy either an Obama or McCain glass you cast a vote for that candidate, and here's the best part: you can vote as many times as you like!

I happen to have connections with this establishment and personally know the designer of the glasses, so I decided to hold my very first contest giveaway and whoever wins gets to pick which glass they would like to have and I will mail it out first thing. Now here's the best part: if you put my link on your blog I will send you both glasses, or two of the same one.

Just complete the following sentence for your chance to win:

If I could change my name I would change it to__________________
because______________.

The winner will be on Election Day. Good luck everybody!

THE LITTLE BLUE PILL

2008-10-14T12:55:00.011-05:00

FTC BUSTS 'WORLD'S LARGEST SPAM OPERATION'

Group e-mailed promotions for prescription drugs, 'male enhancement' pills

CHICAGO - Federal authorities in Chicago say they've shut down one of the largest spam e-mail operations in the world. The Federal Trade Commission says the group generated e-mails promoting sales of prescription drugs and "male enhancement" pills.

Now that the SPAM folks are supposedly out of business, I vote to hire Blue Man to be the spokespersons for The Little Blue Pill. I think a man need only look at their round, blue, smooth heads to be instantly reminded that it's "time to take my pill!" Imagine, never having to worry about that again right before heading out for the evening with your Trophy Wife?!

(editor's note: where are their ears?)

HELPING WITH LORRIE'S BLOG

2008-10-13T11:17:00.004-05:00

This is my contribution towards Lorrie's new blog design.

My suggestion for a new name would be Mudditations, carrying on with her very witty theme on her current site (I wish I could claim I thought that one up. Damn).

Further work is needed but I would also suggest adding links to the cucumber slices...

2008-10-10T09:06:00.006-05:00

(editor's note: I got this email from Sister K yesterday and she has given me permission to re-print it here.)

Friends and family,

Just had to share this story about the scare I had this morning. As most of you know, Buck and I have two brown tabby cats, Lizzie and Buster. They're mostly inside cats but sometimes I let them into the backyard if I'm home. I keep an eye on them and constantly check to be sure they're okay. (I've owned at least twenty cats in my lifetime and only two of them have died of old age.) This morning after they had been outside for about ten minutes, I went to the backyard to check on them but they were nowhere to be found. I then went to the front yard and was calling for them when I happened to glance over and saw perhaps one of the biggest birds I've ever seen in my entire life. It was standing on our lawn, regally looking around as if it owned the place. I ran inside to get my Birds of Texas book and my binoculars (most of you know that my eyesight isn't all that great.) I discovered that the huge bird was either a broad-winged or red-tailed hawk. As I was enjoying the majesty of the bird, I noticed that it was guarding something dead at its feet. At first I thought it was a rat but as I was watching it start to eat the hapless fellow, I noticed that the victim had a furry, fluffy brown tail. Much to my horror I began to panic over the possibility that one of our sweet kitties had met an untimely death in a most vicious and dramatic way. Now before you say, "Kathy, it was obviously a squirrel, you dummy," you need to know that I had minutely scanned the dead animal with my binoculars, and all I could see was its brown, variegated tail, little pointed ears and powerful hind legs. It really did resemble Lizzie, our smaller cat. Because I had to know what was the "catch of the day," I walked over to within ten feet of the hawk and threw my Birds of Texas book at it to scare it away. (I was hoping that my eyesight would kick in at that close distance and I could identify the animal.) However, the hawk kept right on eating while it disdainfully eyed my futile and cowardly attempts to run it off. By this time I was totally freaked out, wondering how I was going to explain to Buck that his favorite cat Lizzie had lost her "lease on life" and had become lunch for this grizzly raptor in our front yard. As the hawk finally got tired of my yelling and stamping feet, it flew off with its prey and, much to my relief, I saw that it was indeed a very unfortunate squirrel who had definitely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Although I felt sorry for the squirrel, I was ecstatic to discover that it wasn't one of the family pets! When I walked over to examine the few pieces of fur remaining on the grass, Buster casually ambled out from behind a bush and starting licking his front paws. I then glanced over to the house and saw Lizzie on the front porch taking a sunbath. Of course neither one of them was anywhere to be found as I had been frantically calling for them just a few minutes earlier. I immediately took the cats in and Googled "hawks cats." I ran across an unbelievable story of a hawk that crashed through a screened-in porch to try to get a cat who had been minding its own business. If you want to read this hilarious story, go to "Hawk eyes cat for its breakfast" at www.gazetteextra.com/hawkattack082107.asp

Needless to say, Buster and Lizzie will not be spending much time outside for quite a while.

2008-10-09T13:32:00.007-05:00

(Editor's note: this is my version of what happened next in BJ's story about Mary and Pete. To read the first chapter please visit her blog: http://dontoverthinkit.blogspot.com/ and scroll to "Gettin' the Hell Out of Dodge".)

Mary and Pete had never laid eyes on each other until today, but theirs was a powerful love, bound by bookends of loss and hope and the inner sanctum of an on-line chat room. Like an arranged marriage, their paths were pre-destined by forces beyond their control, lifted up by the wings of change and borne of a mutual love for ludafisk.

Finally ready to start over after the tragic loss of his beloved wife (although she was by no means forgiven; how can you forgive someone who chooses their own exit strategy?) Pete found himself in the strange, subterranean world of internet dating. Maybe it was the challenge of meeting people in person that was stopping him from trying the conventional dating scene. Chat rooms afforded him the chance to edit his words before speaking them and prevented anyone who read them from hearing the lingering pain in his voice. Without much hope but now at least ready to look once again for love, Pete whipped out his Presto Charge and plunged head first into the "Love Lines" Chat Room.

Mary had resigned herself to staying in an unhappy marriage, remaining forever a stranger to love. Quietly humming “Is That All There Is” as she folded the laundry each day, Mary felt closer to Peggy Lee than to her own husband. She and Peggy were soul mates, or so she thought. Then one day, while surfing the web, Mary Googled "chat rooms" and decided she had nothing left to loose but the pain she felt in her heart. And maybe 35 pounds.

The day that Pete and Mary finally met in person, he was standing next to his car with the passenger door open, waiting for her and her faithful, if somewhat confused dog, Charlie. Their journey was just beginning but to both of them, they felt as though they had already spent a lifetime together. The interstate was calling their names as Pete dropped the top on the convertible, gunned the engine and slid the car into Drive. With every Dairy Queen and Motel 8 for the next 7 states carefully noted on his map, Pete felt a confidence and excitement in the future he had not known for years. As he pulled Mary closer to him, she, too smiled and thanked her lucky stars. Her bags were packed, Charlie was safely in the back seat and her beehive was freshly washed and nailed down with a gallon of Aqua-Net. Her hair wasn't going anywhere, but she and Pete were.

To be continued…

2008-10-09T12:18:00.005-05:00

There’s an ever-increasing amount of mud-slinging going on these days now that the General Election is just around the corner, and I have been thinking about how dangerous it can be to be associated with certain nefarious types, however innocently or far-fetched. At one time or another we have all encountered one or two scoundrels who may have been stirring things up unbeknownst to us but later on, when the truth came out, we could have been tarred with the same brush. With that in mind, I have looked back across the years and have assembled my own “watch list” of possible troubled associations. You know, if I decided to one day run for public office someone somewhere might find a way to link my name to one of those "evil doers"?

JOHN HINCKLEY
I went to school with John, although he was a year ahead of me. I remember him walking down the halls of our high school by himself and looking very lonely. He infamously went on to be the would-be assassin of Ronald Reagan. If I had known he aspired to shoot the president in order to impress his pretend girlfriend Jodie Foster, I would have averted my eyes and never acknowledged him. I’m surprised I wasn’t interviewed by the FBI after he committed his terrible deed. His photo was in my high school yearbook, in my bookshelf at home. Surely that would make me a possible accomplice.

CHARLES MANSON
The sister of one of my closest friends was good friends with Sharon Tate back in the 60s and was supposed to be at her party that fateful evening up in the Canyon. She couldn’t attend because she couldn’t find a babysitter and hence is still alive today. Surely in hindsight the cops would want to interview me to see if I maybe had some ties there with the Manson family. Never mind that I was only 12 years old at the time of the murders.

HUNSTVILLE STATE PRISON
This one has trouble written all over it in so many ways. I went to school at Sam Houston State University in Huntsville, Texas and lived across the street from the maximum security unit for 4 years. My sorority raised money every fall by selling beer and burgers at the Prison Rodeo and I remember being winked at by one of the prison rodeo contestants whom I found out later was an inmate there at the prison for committing capitol murder. That wink could have cost me dearly if anyone else had seen it. Who knew? Maybe I was plotting to help him bust out or something. I also rode the Greyhound home one weekend with a couple of ex-cons who had just been released from the prison the day before. Being bus-mates could have smeared me for life. Was I the girlfriend of one of them and maybe we were on our way to our next heist?

JIM STEVENS
You won't have heard of Jim, but he was married to my sorority sister Chris and I always thought he was a little slimy. He was a chemistry major, never appeared to bathe or wash his hair and was always at the library. A few years after college graduation I was watching the news one day and there was Jim, being handcuffed and pushed into the back of a Houston squad car. Jim had obviously paid close attention in his chemistry classes because he had been running a successful meth lab for a number of years. If I had known he would go on to a semi-successful career in pharmaceuticals I would have steered clear of him, too. I am amazed the FBI didn’t come calling, asking to see my medicine chest at home.

Don’t know if anyone has ever heard of that song “I Danced With A Man Who Danced With A Girl Who Danced With The Prince of Wales", but it is in that vein that I see how people can sometimes be linked with other people, however obscurely. This can be a dangerous and perilous thing. If I flew over the North Pole would that make me Santa Claus? If my ancestors owned slaves or fought on the side of the Confederacy would that make me a racist? If I spoke Arabic would that make me a terrorist? If I served on the PTA with an ex-exotic dancer turned homeroom mom, would that make me a stripper? Before we all go off the deep end and assume the worst about a person (such as a presidential candidate) I think we need to take a hard look at what the actual connection is there and exercise a little common sense.

I once spent the night in Reykjavik, Iceland, but that doesn't make me a reindeer.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?

2008-10-07T15:02:00.010-05:00

(editor's note: I have once again given into temptation and am writing about politics. Sorry. If this is upsetting any of you please check back after Nov. 4.).

I was driving to work yesterday morning and came across this yard sign, nearly causing me to hit a parked car. I seriously did a double-take. Had I missed something? Overnight had Senator McCain decided to step aside “for health reasons” and install Sarahcuda at the top of the ticket as the ultimate “stunt”? Who is actually running for president, Senator McCain or Governor Palin? I am getting confused.

There is definitely a pattern here. During one of the governor’s recent stump speeches she made an obvious Freudian slip and referred to the “Palin McCain” administration. Oops. Hold on there a minute, little lady. Not so fast. Last time I checked you were still NUMERO DOS on the ticket. But wait! There’s still time for things to flip here. Perhaps it is possible that by some miracle Saracuda might ascend to the top (is that sort of like cream rising? Hey, I could be a GOP speech writer!). Maybe during some late-night behind-the-scenes meeting with the RNC top brass the decision was made to quietly and sneakily switch the ticket. Who would ever notice? Certainly not the General Public. You know, the ones who supposedly wouldn’t understand the Bailout Package so why try and explain it to them?

Hopefully come November 4th it won’t matter who is at the top of the Republican ticket because the majority of the country will have risen up, exercised common sense and good judgment and finally stopped the madness.

As much as I am enjoying Saturday Night Live this season, I will gladly settle for a change of subject if it is as the result of no more Saracuda to kick around.

I MUST BE SLOW OR SOMETHING

2008-10-06T14:38:00.008-05:00

Paco and I were driving home from golf yesterday afternoon (or as he calls it "goof") and discussing the economy (see preceding article in case you have any doubts about how I feel about THAT).

The conversation shifted to couples finances and, more specifically, pre-nupes. Not ours because we don’t have one (I think only mistrustful rich people are the only ones who need bother with them) but other people whom we have known who either have one or suggested to their partner about having one. I have always taken the view that no one would even broach the subject unless they don’t have much faith that the marriage will last. Or else they have so much darn money that it really would mean financial ruin if the marriage dissolved.

At this point I got all lovey-dovey and said to Paco "For instance, you and I would never have considered asking each other for a pre-nupe. We are both committed to our marriage and went into it with 100% love and faith that we will be married until death-do-us part." Paco agreed with me and we continued driving. After considering this for another minute or two, I added "And not that this will ever, ever happen, but if for some unknown reason you and I did end up getting divorced, I would certainly never try and demand half of any assets you may have had prior to our marriage. It would only be about community property and nothing else. I just don't understand people who try and take each other to the cleaners. That is just awful." At this point I was feeling especially close to my new husband, not to mention slightly holier-than-thou at my unparalleled selflessness and refusal to ever become a greedy soon-to-be ex-wife. Funny how my high-and-mightiness was so short-lived…

Paco: “What if you were mad at me, though?”
Me: “What do you mean? Why would I be mad at you?”
Paco: “Well, presumably if you wanted a divorce you would be mad at me about something, right? Why else would you want to get divorced?”
Me: “That’s weird. If never occurred to me that I would be mad at you but I guess why else would we be splitting up. What did you do?"
Paco: “Well, what if I had an affair or something equally terrible? Would you still only insist on splitting up our assets post-marriage, or would you go after my entire net worth?”
Me: Gosh, I never thought about that. Hell, yes, I would go after them. I wouldn't want half, I would want all of it. You could just wave your money goodbye at that point, Buster. How dare you!”

Paco laughed all the way home about my sudden about-face while I thanked my good fortune to be married to someone with whom I could even have this kind of conversation in the first place.

LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP

2008-10-03T14:58:00.014-05:00

I have so far been resisting the temptation to use my blog as a soapbox, preferring instead to peck away with some musings and perhaps a recipe or two, should I suddenly develop an interest in cooking. However, like a lot of folks these days (i.e., fedup taxpayers), I am reeling from the mess we used to call the economy and can no longer sit on my hands and watch the carnage without comment.

I think it is only fitting that the current rescue plan is euphemistically called a "bailout" since that typically involves parachutes. I find it highly ironic that the "bailout" is going to be used not only to save Wall Street execs, but some of our money will no doubt also go to their "Golden Parachutes". And who should be opposed to the inclusion of a line item limiting executive payouts? That would be Dubya and his minions. If it wasn't so mind-bogglingly irresponsible what the current administration has wrought on this country I would try and assign it some fancy poetic term. As it stands, I can only call it criminal.

I also think there should be some etiquette involved regarding what a lame duck president can and cannot do in the waning months of their presidency. Like not signing legislation that will only perpetuate the damage and destruction long after they are gone. Sort of an in-your-face final farewell, complete with confetti made from hot checks. I can think of lots of other heinous acts that I would like to see off-limits to them but I think this one is a good start.

Feel free to add to my list in the comments box and maybe we can send them all to Washington next week, just in time for the weekly Ollie North Shredding Party.

WE CAN ALL USE A LITTLE DIRECTION

2008-09-24T13:45:00.009-05:00

This week I am working from home after last week's surgery (please see below). I have never tried this method before since going to work for my present employer some 5 1/2 years ago. No matter how much pain I was in or whatever my maladay, unless I was contagious, I have always dragged myself to the office.

This time I decided that the prudent thing to do was to try working from home in order to facilitate the healing progress and to also give myself a little break from my boss. Some of you may have read a few of my comments on various blogs about him and his various "idiosycrasies". Stop me if I'm wrong, but I think trying to answer the telephone by simply staring at it and saying "hello" smacks of odd. I actually have an entire list of certifiable weirdness attributed to him but it is at the office. It would make Charles Manson look sane, so just trust me on this.

At any rate, he is playing art director this week in my abscence, something he is wont to do when I am actually in the office. Hyperfocusing on a particular pet project is one of his favorite pastimes so yesterday I got a series of emails from him with helpful tips to speed me along in the design process:

Tuesday, September 23, 2008 9:15 AM
Subject: Swooshes
Add swoosh marks behind and arcing to right

Tuesday, September 23, 2008 9:31 AM
Subject: RE: Swooshes
Put all swooshes AT BOTTOM!!!

Tuesday, September 23, 2008 10:46 AM
Subject: RE: Swooshes
Can’t get it out of Adobe…make swooshes lines , lets see if that helps.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008 10:53 AM
Subject: RE: Swooshes
Turn SWOOSHES INTO LINES

Tuesday, September 23, 2008 10:59 AM
Subject: RE: RE:RE: Swooshes
Pls send me art with no swooshes so I can try to get them parallel.

Needless to say, I spent much of the day attempting to interpret exactly what he meant by all of this swooshing, finally sending him a draft of what I hope will make him happy. I have not heard anything more from him today but expect to at any moment. He may be busy getting his meds refilled.
(editor's note: some of you actually know my esteemed employer so please, no names in the comments box if you please. These are tough economic times and I really need to stay employed right now.)

A NOSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

2008-09-22T15:19:00.019-05:00

I have been feeling a bit poorly since last Thursday when I elected to go under the knife and have sinus surgery. This was not entered into lightly, mind you, and I have been mulling it over for some months now. When is it ever a good time to have this sort of thing anyway?

Not being a big "pill popper" I usually look askance at prescription pain killers, reasoning that white wine is just as efficient at dealing with annoying pain and lots more fun. Having said that, I am trying to be adult about managing my post-op pain and also do some symblance of work. So I am working from home this week and am about half way through my government-issued bottle of Lortab. I would prefer J. Lohr but this will do for now.

Having been admonished prior to other surgeries by the nurse because I chose not to remove my navel ring I decided this time to avoid the social embarrassment by taking it off at home the night before my surgery so as not to cause a fuss. Sure enough, the question was asked and I was able to say without reservation that I was sans jewelery or piercings of any description. I was kind of hoping they would demand proof since it was actually a real pain in the you-know-what to remove it. As it turned out, I could have left it where it was. They weren’t going to be anywhere near my belly button unless my doctor got it mixed up with my nose and wouldn’t that be a worry?

By Saturday I was feeling well enough to replace my navel ring, which proved to be a bit of a production owing to my impaired motor skills (thanks to the Lortab). After some dithering around, though, I managed to get it back in there and (I thought) securely fastened and tightened up. Who knew that later that same day I would discover that it was missing and nowhere to be found?! Paco and I both looked high and low but to no avail. It was finally determined that my navel ring had vanished and that a new one would have to be bought pronto or else the little hole would quickly close up and I would no longer be hip. So off we went to the tattoo parlor around the corner, Paco driving while I popped more Lortab.

Once safely parked up in front of the Skin Room Paco opted to wait in the car while I teetered my way towards their front door. It’s a pretty scary place I must say and did not blame him a bit for not wanting to go in there. Fortunately, no one there questioned my spaced-out demeanor or slightly slurred request to see their selection of navel jewelery. Clearly, anyone walking in there that wasn't stumbling around would be the target of deep mistrust. I was just your average Saturday afternoon customer.

Following my purchase Paco drove me home, intending to help me replace my missing ring. Here was our post-tattoo parlor conversation:

Me: Here, let me do it. It’s easier if I do this. Just stand there and hold my shirt up.
Paco: Sweetie, you can’t see what you’re doing and you’re weaving all over the place. Let me do it.
Me: No, no, I can do this. Where are my glasses? I need glasses and a flashlight.

Paco (handing them to me): I think you should lie down before you fall over. If you smash your nose we will have to go right back to the hospital. For goodness sakes, please lie down on the bed. Your nose is dripping.

Me: Okay, fine, I will lie down. Please hold the flashlight right there so I can see what I’m doing. More to the right. No I said right. Who’s glasses are these? These aren’t mine. I can’t see anything.

Paco: That’s because you have them on upside down. Stop. Stop. I will do it. Here, hold the flashlight.

Me: Oh, okay. Ouch, be careful. Ouch. No, no, that won’t work. Let me straighten out more. No, ouch, stop.

This went on for 20 more minutes before Paco finally got my new navel ring securely fastened into its new home. Then I promptly fell into a Lortab-induced coma and poor Paco went in search of the bourbon. His patience is wearing thin. I get the splints out tomorrow and hopefully life will start to return to normal. Just in time I might add. I am almost out of Lortab.

TIME AND TIDE WAIT FOR NO MAN

2008-09-16T14:45:00.026-05:00

Among the many historic landmarks swept away last week by Hurricane Ike (such as the venerable Brennen’s restaurant in Houston), I was saddened to learn that The Balinese Room is no more.

Built in 1929 as a Speak Easy and illegal casino, the B. Room stretched out from the Galveston Seawall some 600 feet into the Gulf of Mexico. (I have always heard that this was supposedly to give the proprietors enough time to hide all the illegal paraphernalia before the Feds showed up). Although they were long-gone by the time my college friends and I showed up back in the late 70s and early 80s, folks like Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope and Howard Hughes apparently liked to hang out there. I guess they all got bored and went back to Hollywood or Palm Springs, though, because the place fell on hard times and was boarded up off and on, occasionally re-opening as lesser versions of itself over the intervening years.

During my own personal hey day (the twenty-something years) I used to frequent The Balinese Room with my buddies, including my cousin Clare, who’s parents had a beach house on the bay side of the island. Over the years our group matured somewhat and eventually we discovered that it was cool to hang out with the Older Generation. Cousin Clare’s parents and their pals where way more hip than we could have ever been and were much better party animals to-boot. I learned to mix a mean High Ball, play Dirty Boggle and watch the sunset from a beach chair, table and umbrella set up in the surf with this crowd. When the afternoon revelry had subsided and naps had been taken we would head into town for martinis and dancing, usually ending up at The Balinese Room.

I guess the dancing part is what proved to be my undoing. Undoing that has followed me into mid-life, into Book Club which is made up of the Balinese Room beach crowd who are now also middle-aged. Each time “the incident” is brought up to much laughter and eye-rolling I laugh along with everyone else. 25 or 30 years has done much to dull the full brunt of my embarrassment but it still makes me cringe.

The Jitterbug is one of those dances that no one has any business attempting, unless maybe you’re on Dancing with the Stars (and I don’t mean Marie Osmond). At any rate, my dance partner Bob and I were out there mixing it up and twirling around like we knew what we were doing. (I should also add here that black lights were all the rage at the time and it was switched on that night). About half way through our performance Bob decided to toss me straight up into the air just like I was Judy Garland, then catch me and throw me down and backwards, sliding me across the polished floor like a sack of potatoes. Did I also mention that I was wearing a strapless sundress at the time? What about the high-top white cotton panties? Did I mention that part, too? As Bob artfully slid me across the floor between his feet he still had firm hold of my hands, rendering me completely helpless and unable to pull down the skirt of my sundress which was now plastered to my face, leaving me lying on the dance floor with the entire lower half of my body exposed. Keep in mind that this was the middle of summer and I was very tanned. And my sundress was tan. But my panties were WHITE. And the Black Light was switched on, remember? So there we all are, everyone and everything in complete darkness except for one very bright pair of High Top White Panties. Just panties in the middle of the Balinese Room dance floor. And Bob is still standing over me, trying to figure out what he was now looking at. Where had I gone? What had happened to my body? Had the Rapture suddenly taken me away, leaving only a pair of bright white panties in my place?

My hands completely immobilized, I could only squirm and squeal “Please, please, Bob, let me up. Help! I’m stuck. Please, somebody, pull down my dress, turn off the black light. Help, help. Oh please, please don’t let this be happening.” Finally, Bob sprang into action, helping me to my feet and pulling my dress down off of my head. I fled to the Powder Room, Cousin Clare finally managing to coax me out after much effort. Poor Bob was mortified and very apologetic but the damage was done.

It was the end of an era when The Balinese Room was finally swept into the sea last week, having survived a long list of deadly hurricanes going back to 1929. No doubt there are lots of stories out there similar to mine and I'm so glad that I got to experience a part of that history. Even if I had to jitterbug my way into infamy.

GUEST BLOG

2008-09-11T17:13:00.012-05:00

(Editor's note: This was a recent email sent to me by my cousin out in Arizona. I have reprinted it with her permission)

Speaking of not wanting to associate with Palin face women, I suffered a terrible insult Sunday at the fabric store. While discussing buttons in an aisle with two of my children, an older woman kept staring at us keenly. Finally, she spoke. I thought at first I was going to be lectured about my relationship with my children. But it became evident immediately that she was going to tell me who I resemble. Yep, I was ready. Ever since 2nd grade I've been called on my uncanny resemblance to Sally Field.......so I smiled graciously and waited..........until the old battleaxe said the words that really smarted.........."You look just like Sarah Palin" (I WAS wearing glasses. My hair WAS dirty, therefore UP) This called for a HOLY WAR. "You are telling this to the WRONG Person" I responded. But she wasn't phased. "It could be your jaw line, or maybe it's the lower half of you face, but I've got a feeling you'll be hearing a lot of this." I went into spasms, foam and spit . Before my throat tightened in anaphalctic shock, I sputtered "That woman needs to go back to her own back yard and pay attention to what's going on beneath her own nose" to which the woman's response was "Well, I am a conservative." "Yes", I replied, "so am I, that's why I said what I said."

My children waited until she left and then said "MOM !!!How embarrassing." But then, these days, whatever I do embarrasses them.

('Nuf said. ed.)

PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE

2008-09-08T10:57:00.004-05:00

Paco and I were out stove shopping on Saturday, having finally had enough of the ancient Jenn-Air that had been slowly falling apart in the kitchen for the last 14 years or so. We had finally put it out of its misery last week, dismantling it and literally kicking it to the curb. Now it was timed to find its successor.

Driving north to Lowe’s, Paco was, as always, carefully observing the posted speed limit, even dialing it down a few notches just to be on the safe side. Not being the most patient person in the world, I finally felt the need to comment:

Me: You know you can go 40 here, don’t you?
Paco: No, I didn’t know that. Are you sure?
Me: Yes, we just passed 2 new speed limit signs.
Paco: Am I driving too slowly again?
Me: Yes, yes you are. You always drive too slowly. If you’re going to poke along please at least move over to the right-hand lane. At this rate it will be time to color my hair again before we get there.

Silence

Paco: You need to read that book.
Me: What book?

Silence

Me: Oh, you mean that book the Smyths lent us? What’s it called again?
Paco: “The Art of Happiness” by the Dalai Lama
Me: Just because I need you to speed up? You think I need to read a book about how to be happy?
Paco: It’s about finding inner peace and serenity. You can be very impatient sometimes.
Me: Okay, I admit I can get a little testy sometimes. But I’m probably too impatient to read a book about how to be more patient. Maybe you can just read it and then tell me what it says about patience. I like the Dalai Lama, too, but I bet he drives slower than you do. He would make me crazy if I had to ride with him to Lowe’s. Besides, I prefer books that have a little faster pace.
Paco: You mean like maybe that book about Lizzie Borden?
Me: Yes, like that one.

Silence

Paco: This is exactly my point.

We bought a stove yesterday and while we were driving home, Paco said happily “You know you’re getting old when you get really excited about a new stove.” I was thinking he needed to speed up.

OUR LADY OF PERPETUAL MOTION

2008-09-05T16:56:00.000-05:00

A few years ago, just after Paco and I started dating, we went on vacation to Key West. Being a Cancer and therefore water baby, I will always choose sand over snow. Cold weather makes me cranky.

As it happened, we found ourselves down in the Keys over Easter weekend, which was nice for a lot of reasons. Weather was great, it wasn’t too hot or touristy yet, and Easter is one of my favorite holidays (being a cafeteria Catholic if that matters). This last fact was what led us to visit the local parish church there in Key West. Not the only one in town, mind you, but the one closest to our lovely little hotel and within walking distance.

Being as it was Good Friday and I wanted to scope out exactly where the church was and what time Masses were, we decided to have a little wander down that way and do some reconnaissance. Being that it was also Happy Hour on Good Friday, it made perfect sense at the time to stop on the way and have a cocktail or two and then drop by the church for some much-needed reflection.

After stopping in the Green Parrot to take advantage of their outstanding frozen Margaritas, which to our delight could be poured into a Go Cup should the patron have an urgent appointment to get to, we proceeded down the street towards the church.

Things were going smoothly by all accounts as we entered the vestibule, pausing briefly to dip a hand into the Holy Water fount, do a quick genuflect and then have a little sit down in the nearest pew. Not being Catholic but certainly spiritual and reverential, Paco sat down next to me and we proceeded to quietly, individually reflect and bask in the presence of the Lord and what the upcoming religious holiday meant to each of us.

What I failed to notice at the time, being so deep in prayer and reflection, was the tiny little woman sitting in the pew across the aisle from us, staring a hole right through my tube top. Paco nudged me, motioning in her direction with his head. As our eyes locked and I was wondering what we could have possibly done to upset her, he gently reached over and lowered my Go Cup full to the brim with FROZEN MARGARITA. I guess the umbrella gave the game away. At any rate, I was mortified and tried to make one of those hand signals that are supposed to communicate that I had no idea how it could happen that I had so casually strolled into church carrying a cocktail. The only thing that could have made this worse is if I had had a Virginia Slim hanging out of the corner of my mouth.

Realizing that I stood no chance of convincing this obviously staunch and loyal parishioner that this was a complete misunderstanding, Paco and I decided to make a swift exit out of there. While I was remorseful and totally horrified about my accidental transgression, Paco was in stitches and to this day still laughs about the day I had Happy Hour at the Catholic Church.

We still celebrated Easter Mass in Key West that weekend at the beautiful Spanish-style Catholic Church on Duval Street, heads held high. But this time, the cocktails stayed behind at the Green Parrot.

2008-09-05T14:51:00.000-05:00

BOB'S YOUR UNCLE, FANNIE'S YOUR AUNT

Several years ago I had one of those slightly spooky truth-is-stranger-than-fiction experiences that I often think was some kind of sign from God.

I was sailing down in the BVI with my wonderful English friends Jon and Diana and having a high old time catching up with them after a few years of everyone doing their own thing. As often happens when the Yanks and the Brits get together, we started sharing colloquialisms with each other. I introduced them to “discombobulated” among others, and they offered up a couple of classics, including “Kafuffle” and my now all-time favorite “Bob’s Your Uncle, Fannie’s Your Aunt”. If you haven’t ever heard this last phrase, roughly translated it means, “Everything is great / it’s all smooth sailing from here / life is good.”

As we were discussing this delightful new saying I suddenly realized something amazing. I said “Hey, wait a minute! I actually had a great-uncle Bob and he was married to my great-aunt Fannie!” No kidding, Uncle Bob and Fannie were married for a million years and they were two of my most favorite relatives. Uncle Bob was a big-time lawyer in the small Central Texas town where my mother grew up and Fannie was the original Flapper / Southern Belle who taught all of us kids to swim at the local country club pool. Their house was always party central and they were about as eccentric as you can get. Uncle Bob chain-smoked big Cuban cigars and wore a wide-brimmed Panama hat and Fannie loved really good bourbon and never served dinner before 11 pm.

So the entire week every time something good happened on the boat like favorable winds, an empty mooring buoy or the discovery of a previously unknown beach bar, someone would shout out “Bob’s your uncle, Fannie’s your aunt!” and we would all get giddy and I would have to remind everyone again about this amazing coincidence. I might also add here that at the time Uncle Bob had gone on to his reward but Fannie was still very much alive, albeit much older and not in great health.

At the end of that lovely week down in the islands with my wonderful friends we reluctantly parted company and they flew back to Blighty and I to the States. As I walked in the door of my house I saw that the answer phone light was flashing (this was before the advent of the ubiquitous cell phone) so I hit the replay button as I was putting down my bags. The very first message was from my late mother relating the very sad news that Fannie had passed away while I was gone and they had already had her service. So not only did I not get to say goodbye and have closure, but I also had that end-of-an-era sort of feeling. You know, like when something that has remained constant in your life suddenly vanishes? You just think those people will be around forever. But then I started thinking about how the entire time I was lolling about on my friend’s boat down in the Caribbean Fannie and Uncle Bob had been there with us, too. Their quirky, eccentric selves had permeated every part of our trip in such an endearing, life-affirming way. What had seemed at the time as pure coincidence now spoke to me differently. I think it was Fannie’s way of saying goodbye as only someone who loved life, her family and really good single malt bourbon could. The fact that I had spent the first few days smoking cigars (and getting violently ill) and telling funny stories about all the cousins piling into Fannie’s ancient Corvair to go swimming suddenly took on a deeper meaning. How better to celebrate the lives of two figures so firmly entrenched in my childhood than to share my memories of Uncle Bob and Fannie with some of my closest pals?

I still go sailing every year with Jon and Diana and we still shout out “Bob’s your uncle, Fannie’s your aunt!” Because that’s what you say when life is good.

2008-09-02T16:05:00.000-05:00

HAIL TO THE CHIEF?

Gee, I have no idea how this got started but I hope everyone will vote for me.

I promise not to practice Pork Barrel Politics, to go on exotic vacations with Washington lobbyists (unless they are related to me by marriage) or any of that other stuff that politicians tend to do. At least not if I can help it.

Take a look:

http://www.inews3.com/topstory.php?id=477261636520502e7c476c6f766572

(click on the "Election 2008" photo)

COMING SOON!

2008-08-28T10:26:00.003-05:00

"Piano Piano"

"Agony Aunt"

"Gratuitous Vacuuming"

"The Hillary Step"

"Next Time Don't Take the Autobus"

please stay tuned...

At Last Count There Were 2,295 Humor Blogs Out There

2008-08-27T17:18:00.001-05:00

So I thought I would add my two cents and become number 2,296. Call me crazy but this might turn out to be fun. No, of course I'm not in it for the money.