Perhaps the Purpose of Your Life IS to Serve as a Warning to Others!

How wonderful to be back in the blogosphere!  I've been gone too long (says no one who actually reads my blog!) and while I have considered writing lately, I've been sick so haven't had the energy.  In reality, I've felt physically unwell AND sorry for myself, so this combined with trips to the hospital, doctor visits and a disrupted sleep cycle, well, whatever.  I finally reached out to my family and friends on Facebook asking for prayers, and let me remind you that GOD is AWESOME because He has heard and He has answered.

While I can't profess to know the mind of GOD, He, like most of you, got sick of my whining and decided to show me that IT CAN ALWAYS BE WORSE.  Kind of like when your momma and daddy tell you "Keep that up, I'mma give you something to cry about".  Today, at least, I am jolted out of my self pity and admit that there is someone waaaay worse off than me.

HLN Morning Express is my morning go-to news show.  This morning, they shared the story of Alabama teenager Darby Risner who, on finding the head of a Barney the Dinosaur costume, decided to put it on and prank her friends.  Darby, who could be described as 'not much bigger than a minute', put the costume Barney head on, and it promptly slid down over her head and shoulders, pinning her arms at the elbows, where it got stuck, trapping the hapless teen like some sort of goofy T rex with a giant head and useless, stumpy arms.  (So no push ups, playing poker, or picking up the check!)

Once her friends and all the parents realized that Darby was caught up in the raptor (I couldn't resist!), they posted pictures on facebook and instagram, looking for help, I'm sure.  Then they called the fire department for help.  Said Darby's momma, "We asked them not to turn on the sye-reens, but they said it's protocol, so we had to throw her in the truck and drive there since that big-ass head wouldn't fit in the Buick."  Ok, That's a lie, I don't know if her momma that, and I'm sure the fire department just WANTED to use the sye-reens.  I mean, who wouldn't?

Once at the fire department, fire fighters tried to control their laughter while also trying to remove the head.  According to New York Magazine (Oh Darby, you are FAMOUS!!!), "This also didn’t work, but the fireman would later describe her as 'a greased pig.' Which is what every teenage girl hopes to hear."  Ok, not for nothing, but this DID happen in the South, so we know a lot about greased pigs.  Maybe that would be an insult in New York, but it's not the worst thing you could call a Southerner.  Try calling us 'rude' or 'inhospitable'.  That hurts!  Whatever, but I think this could really only happen in the South.  I doubt anyone at New York Magazine would get 'a stoopid Bawnee mask' stuck on their head, but below the Mason Dixon line, we wrestle pigs, get stuck in dinosaur heads, and all sorts of other stuff.  I know that today, I speak for my fellow Southerners in Florida when I say, 'thank you, Alabama!"

Having been freed from what New York Magazine called "her Cretaceous Period prison", 
(Really, New York?  WTH?), Darby posed for pictures with friends and firefighters, she went on to say that she has also gotten stuck in a bus lavatory and a baby swing, and she hopes this hasn't hurt her chances to become her school's sports mascot.  Talk about ignoring the signs, but hey, think positive.  I know this incident will help Darby get ahead! 

This Diet Could Only Have Come From the Stoned Age

It's safe to say that we're a weight-obsessed nation.  So much of our energy is devoted to dieting, cardio workouts, and various weight loss pills, and for some, it's a combination of all three.  In my case, none of the above, instead, I'm praying for a weight loss miracle, and God has answered my prayers.  So far, his answer has been "No." 

Still, in my endless quest to be (un)reasonably thin, I have encountered such gems as The Grapefruit Diet, The Rice Diet, and others spanning the United States from Scarsdale to South Beach.  They will all work in the short term, but since no one can live on just rice or grapefruit or ice cubes and sunflower seeds, the pounds inevitably come back and they bring friends, at least in my experience.

Today I read about a 'new' diet that I have to add to the list of stupid shit that we do in the name of skinniness.  It's called The Paleo Diet.  Yes, Paleo as in cavemen and the Stone Age.  According to registered dietitian Chrissy Carroll, the basic precept of this plan is "based on the theory that our core genetic makeup hasn’t changed since the paleolithic era, and in that era people didn’t experience as much chronic disease. And so comes the conclusion that the diet cavemen ate is best for preventing chronic disease…"

This is just wrong on SO many levels.  Our knowledge of cave dwellers, also known as Troglodytes, is based on theory and assumption.  In large part, the term refers to Neanderthal, an extinct (yep, dead and gone) species of man who lived 350,000 to 600,000 years ago.  Based on this, I have to rely on conjecture here.  Neanderthal lived in a world wherein he was required to hunt and kill his food.  There was no refrigeration so they probably had to cook and eat their catch pretty quickly, but that's okay since there was also no birth control so they probably had many mouths to feed.  I also assume that herds of mammoths or other paleolithic animals didn't come lumbering by on a set schedule, so there probably wasn't much surplus food.  (Kind of like having teenagers at home.)  Finally, there was a real risk of dinner killing you first, either by trampling you to death or by slowly poisoning you.  (Kind of like when I cook.)

Face it, cavemen would have eaten more if food had been more readily available and was less dangerous to obtain.  The life expectancy of Neanderthal and his ilk was about 20 years.  And while I truly believe that the fast food and junk that we eat is more dangerous than a herd of hemorrhoidal Mastodons, I'm also convinced that the cavemen would not have willingly followed the Troglo-diet if given a choice.  ("Ooga booga....this mammoth would be divine with some rice pilaf and a nice Merlot!")  And being that I have NO desire to hunt and kill my own food, nor do I ever have a craving for Paleolithic Buffalo Burgers, my core genetic makeup has indeed changed.  I'm assuming, again, that yours probably has, too.

I have to accept that in order to lose weight, I need to control portion size, get some exercise, and not criticize...myself or others.  I'm good with that.  We should enjoy all of the food groups and use food as fuel.  And when tempted by sweets and junk food, it's okay to cave in every once in awhile! 

The Way to a Man's Heart is Through the E.R.

My sense of humor is admittedly peculiar, but certain topics are off-limits as laughs go. I don’t consider heart attacks to be at all funny, and feel truly bad for anyone who has suffered a heart attack or has lost a loved one to a heart ailment. It’s sad that many people try to eat a balanced diet and exercise regularly but still suffer from heart disease. It’s really sad that more of us don’t take better care of ourselves. It’s really tragic when we go looking for trouble.

There’s a restaurant in Las Vegas called ‘The Heart Attack Grill.’ There used to be a Texas location that was closed for non-payment of rent, and I am guessing that the money went for insurance premiums and larger clothes. At any rate, you can visit The Heart Attack Grill and order a Single, Double, Triple, or Quadruple Bypass Burger with an order of Flatliner Fries. I’m not sure what they call it if you order a combo meal. I call it Date With a Defibrillator. What would one expect? The point is that if you go to a place like the very aptly named Heart Attack Grill, you are looking for trouble and you’re going to find it.

Recently, a man went to the HAG for a ‘Triple Bypass Burger’, which consists of three half-pound beef patties, three slices of cheese, and 15 pieces of bacon. Just this is around 6,000 calories! Once you add Flatliner Fries and a Butterfat Shake and you’ve pretty much consumed all of your allowed Weight Watchers points for the year. The waitresses dress like nurses and the owner calls himself Doctor. (And people called Jack Kervorkian a criminal?!)

So our intrepid diner decided to stroll into the Heart Attack Grill for a bovine sized burger and a few pounds of lard fries. Specifically, he ordered the triple bypass burger, which stands about a foot tall and weighs close to two pounds. After finishing his lunch (enough to feed all of Rhode Island), one of the nurse waitresses told the ‘Doctor’ that the patron was ‘having the shakes and sweating’. Of course the owner thought she meant he was having a butterfat milkshake, and that he was sweating from the incredible physical exertion it took to lift all of this calorie-laden crap to his mouth. But no, alas. The lunch customer was having a heart attack. Health conscious onlookers and the morbidly curious thought it was part of the coronary contrivance that this restaurant is known to use in their macabre marketing, but it was the real deal. As bystanders took pictures and video, the owner, ’Doctor Jon’ said, “Even with our own morbid sense of humor, we would never pull a stunt like that.”

His cardiovascular concern is really touching. Coming from a man who makes his living on the slogan, ‘A Taste Worth Dying For’, his words ring as hollow as a balloon angioplasty on a Hasbro Baby Alive. And it begs the question. What, exactly, do the customers of this restaurant expect? Let’s face it. You know what to expect at International House of Pancakes, KFC, and the like. I don’t go to The Waffle House and order Pasta Primavera. I don’t go to Taco Bell for a burger and fries. (Actually, I don’t go there at all. The ground beef tastes weird. It’s abstract meat, like bologna.)

So there is good news and bad news. The good news is that the patron/patient has survived and is recovering. The bad news is that this diner of death is still fully operational (ooh, scary thought!) and they’re still dishing up their killer cuisine. And hopefully, there’s a lesson in here for all of us. The occasional fast food is okay…..take heed if you should suddenly feel a Big Mac Attack. And think a good thought for the sad, misguided souls who make their way into deadly diners like this one. Bless their hearts!

What the World Needs is a Pill to Control Stupidity

If there exists, as my parents said, a special angel for drunks and dingbats, that angel is unbelievably busy this week. I realize that everyone has opened mouth, inserted foot. We’ve all said and done stupid things that we would take back in an instant if we could, making amends to those wounded by our misguided ignorance. I admit that I’ve done it, too. There have been times in my village when I have realized that yes, I’m the idiot. But the realization and regret that come with this usually carry with them a valuable lesson, and a desire to be less fatuous the next time.

The pity is that many among us don’t possess a sense of concern about how their cruelty and derisive value judgments not only hurt others but serve to damage the speakers themselves. And in the case of Rush Limbaugh, I would scarcely have thought it possible to see him in a worse light, but it has happened. To say that I am shocked, dismayed, and disgusted, well, these words hardly do justice to how I feel about this cretinous, pompous ass.

Recently, a young law student testified before the House Democratic Steering and Policy committee. She is a scholarship student at Georgetown University Law School, and her testimony described how the high cost of contraceptive care, because of lack of coverage through insurance, impacts many women. In her statement, she spoke not only of contraceptives as birth control, but as needed treatment for women with serious gynecological health issues. These issues include the treatment of polycystic ovarian syndrome, endometriosis, and amenorrhea.

After providing her testimony to the all male panel, a literal firestorm was ignited when her remarks earned her the ire and disdain of Rush Limbaugh. Rush decided to weigh in on his radio show by stating, “What does it say about the college co-ed…who goes before a congressional committee and essentially says that she must be paid to have sex — what does that make her? It makes her a slut, right? It makes her a prostitute.”

WHAT?!

Then Rush the swine followed up with this pearl of wisdom. “If we are going to pay for your contraceptives and thus pay for you to have sex, we want something. We want you to post the videos online so we can all watch.”

First, no, I don’t want to watch. I find it worrisome and perverse that Rush, the misogynistic miscreant, would want to watch. Second, this clueless, vitriol-spewing, moral mutant has no business attacking this young woman, or any woman. He has a record of several failed marriages behind him, and I am guessing that his exes not only used birth control during their relationships with him, but considered douching with Drano once they came to their senses and the divorces were final. This is the same wanna-be pundit condemned drugs and anyone using drugs, only to admit that he was hooked on pain killers and later, was arrested for doctor shopping. Talk about a glass house for the stoned.

This Georgetown student doesn’t owe anyone an explanation of her personal life or her actions behind closed doors. The fact is that over two-thirds of the insurance carriers in the United States cover abortions, some of those include late-term abortions at 20 weeks or later. Why should prevention be looked upon as such an abomination? When my husband and I conceived our second child, we were delighted to be adding a loved and wanted baby to our family. At 4 months, we lost our baby. Because of the danger to me, my doctor explained to my husband that there was no chance that our baby would survive, but without emergency surgery, I would likely die. After my surgery, my husband and I agreed with our doctor that my body needed a break, and that we should take preventive measures to ensure that I was healthy enough to attempt another pregnancy. I guess in the eyes of Rush, that makes me a slut and a whore, since my health insurance covered my surgery and contraceptive care. What a bunch of rubbish.

I am sorry that this young woman, a student and private citizen, has been thrown into a political maelstrom, and has been simultaneously insulted and lionized. I hope she knows that there are people who embrace her and support her. As for Rush, he is the personification for the need to keep contraception legal. And as far as my personal experiences and support for this issue make me a slut? Well, Rush, there are millions of men in this world. You’ll be the LAST to know!

I'm as Good as my Word, and That's Bad!

When I was younger, my parents taught me about the importance of words. I was taught to write thank you notes. I learned that cursing will get your mouth washed out with soap (I’m partial to Dove). Now that I’m older and working in a call center, I’m reminded to choose my words carefully. Finally, I’m told to know my audience. This last point makes me giggle. In this day and age, with all of the technology I could ever need, I not only know my audience, I can almost replicate their DNA.

Of course I would never try to use technology for criminal purposes or cyber-stalking. I’m actually very nice, and I’m also an idiot when it comes to applied science, computers, smart phones and the like. I recently traded my obsolete flip phone for a Blackberry, which is described by PC Magazine as ‘still usable’ and channeled my inner techie and figured out how to upload pictures to Facebook. I’m pretty proud of that, because a picture is worth a thousand words. Ironically, that’s now my problem.

While I was surfing the web the way Gidget and Moondoggie surfed the waves at Malibu, I happened on an article about The Department of Homeland Security and Social Networking. The incongruence of this was enough to make me read the article, and I almost fell out of my chair. Homeland Security has compiled and published a list of ‘Government Key Words’ for monitoring social media. In other words, ahem, Homeland Security will be monitoring sites Facebook, Twitter, and the five people who still use Myspace for words that they deem critical and potentially threatening to national security. As word lists go, this one is strange at best. To illustrate the absurdity of this, and share with you some of the offensive words that could earn you a spot on the terror watch list, I have written a brief anecdote, and the danger words are capitalized.

“I must have eaten some bad PORK, because I thought I had FOOD POISONING, or maybe a stomach FLU. I developed a terrible ATTACK of GAS, so EXPLOSIVE in nature that I was afraid I would make my family SICK. I felt ready to BURST, and knew that prolonged EXPOSURE could be TOXIC and HAZARDOUS to my family. Rather than have them call the POLICE for HELP, I decided to take the INITIATIVE to drive to TARGET for some over the counter DRUGS, thinking MITIGATION and PREVENTION would AID in my RECOVERY. I thought it a SMART RESPONSE to my SYMPTOMS. Fortunately, I didn’t COLLAPSE, and with some ICE and ALCOHOL, I found some RELIEF, and the SHOOTING pains stopped. I’m just glad I didn’t have to drive in SNOW.”

So I hope this WARNING has ENRICHED your lives in some way. Going forward, we need to WATCH what we write on our social network sites, for we could easily be deemed a THREAT to GOVERNMENT AGENTS and AGENCIES (pick one.) And while I am keeping my Facebook page, I am going to be very careful what I write. And for HEALTH reasons, I am giving up EXERCISE. When I STRAIN to do sit ups and wear work out clothes, it’s just a RIOT!!!!

Remembrance Day 11/11/11

To every soldier standing tall,
on distant lands, where heroes fall
so far removed, the honored brave
lie exiled in a foreign grave,
who heard a higher call.

A spirit lost in serving all
is now a name writ on a wall
for some, a need to serve and save
in blood their names are signed.

Remains placed in a hallowed hall
each death still casts a bitter gall.
No vengeance do the fallen crave
for sacrifice they gladly gave;
but never solace from the pall
for those they left behind.

Not Just Another Pretty Face

This has been such a busy week for me and for the family. Jerry had a gallbladder attack recently and was found to have a gall stone, so had to have surgery to remove the stone and his gallbladder. The whole process was particularly difficult for us as a family. It wasn't so much that Jerry was in pain and had to have surgery, because, let's face it, he wasn't donating a kidney or anything so he healed up rather quickly. Rather, it was the fact that gallstones usually occur in women overweight and over forty, so I was rocked with feelings of both guilt and gratitude that it wasn't me. Jerry came through like a champ, and even asked the doctor to let us keep the gallstone so that we could sell it on Ebay if it resembled a religious deity or Elvis or someone else in high demand. Smart thinking since our social security money was already spent before we were born.


Jerry has been trying to rest and heal from surgery, so that has allowed me time to catch up on various activities, not the least of which is reading the news online. I enjoy perusing different news websites and learning about all of the nutty things that go on in the world. My interests are random and diverse, so I read about everything from freezing places to pleasing faces, which is how I got to this point in the first place.


With Jerry resting in a drug induced stupor, er, like a trooper, I took the opportunity to catch up on everything that I had missed in world events. A headline caught my eye, 'Here's Looking at You.' My first thought was that some idiot was going to remake Casablanca so I clicked on the link, determined to devote my life to stopping such horror from taking place, but I was confronted by a different horror altogether. There, on the screen, was an ultrasound picture of a tumorous testicle, containing what appeared to be a human face in it! An not just any face, but a face that looked like a sinister mash up of Rodney Dangerfield, Marty Feldman, and Abe Lincoln. I'll call it 'Maybe Drinkin.'


I was so creeped out that not even drinking would help me. Nothing would make me unsee Jack in the sack, the ghoul in his jewel, the SMUT IN HIS NUT!!!!!! And as upsetting as the sight was for me, I am sure that the Planter's Peanut guy is really having a hard time facing this.

This seems to have started in Canada when a patient sought medical advice for pain in his groin, specifically, in his, um, badoobies. So he agreed to an ultrasound to determine the cause of the misery, and the doctors were confronted with what they could only call 'the face of testicular pain.' One doctor was quoted as saying, " It looked like a man screaming in pain, which I thought was hilarious, considering the clinical picture of the poor guy." So, ignoring any moral implications (as I often do), Dr. Jack Kervorkian spent eight years in jail for trying to end the suffering of terminally ill patients, and this urologist is laughing at what appears to be a man screaming in pain in some poor guy's ball bag?

The urologist went on to say that he briefly considered that the face might be that of a religious figure or mythical deity, such as Min, the Egyptian god of male virility, and that name is the only thing in the doctor's whole news, er, release, that is even remotely appropriate. Let's face it, the poor patient is in pain. And I don't mean like a paper cut or stubbed toe....he has pain in his cojones, and now he finds out that he's toting around a tumorous face in his scrotum. And does he get the face of Brad Pitt or some other hottie? No, he gets the testicular equivalent of the one-eyed Jack and the medical James Bond reject, Dr. No He Dint!

After reading this gem of a story, I was actually relieved that Jerry's gallbladder surgery turned up nothing more than a gallstone. No Sly and the Family Stone, no Stone Phillips, no Kid Rock. That's good, works for us. And as for our Canadian friend, a hospital spokesperson said that he isn't terribly interested in his rad nads. Still, he could try to say that it's 'Bally Idol' and sell it on Ebay....

"Balls have got a face, he's strangely out of place, Balls have got a face...."

Nah. That's just nuts.

It's the End of the World as We Know It, and I Feel Slightly Drunk....

"Don't blame yourself. The Apocalypse wasn't your fault. Actually, it was just as much your fault as it was anyone elses's. Come to think of it, if you're an American, it was probably about 80-90 percent more your fault than the average human. But don't let that get you down. It wasn't exclusively your fault. Unless you're the president. Then it might be your fault. But you'll have plenty of interns to tell you it wasn't, so you'll be fine." Meghann Marco

Hello, blog followers. This will be our last exchange since the world is slated to end THIS EVENING AT 6:00 PM EST!!!! I have no delusions of Heavenly grandeur, which leads me to believe that you, my dear friends and loyal readers will, for the most part, be taken up to Heaven, leaving my sorry ass behind to go through 5 months of horrible tribulation. And thats fine, because after 15 years in call center customer service, 5 months doesn't seem so bad.

I am hopeful that I will be one of those chosen to shuffle off this mortal coil, but I'm not holding my breath. The first indication that I wouldn't be chosen came to me when I heard that the END IS NEAR, so I called my mortgage company to cancel the upcoming pre-scheduled payment. Of course they asked why I was canceling my payment.

Screw you! The world is ending on May 21 at around 6pm.....that mortgage payment will buy Kendall Jackson 'communion wine' and a buttload of junk food. I'm going out fat, happy, and loaded.

Click, dial tone, Boooooooooooooooooooooop.

Hello? Hello?

Little do they know that when I get called up to my great reward, they'll have a devil of a time selling this house....no pun intended.

So I'm here waiting for the end, and I even cleaned my house today. You might be asking why but my in-laws are coming to visit, albeit briefly, and I want things to look nice. Besides, whatever sinner buys the house, well, I want it to look nice. I haven't said anything to Jenda. No use getting her upset. Besides, I can just hear how that conversation will go....

Jenda, Sweetie, the world is going to end tonight. God is calling all of his faithful home.

"Oh jeepers, Mommy, you're going to cook tonight, aren't you?"

So I am leaving her out of this. Of course earlier today, I was searching the internet to get information about the upcoming Rapture. I learned that we should feel a catclysmic earthquake at approximately 6:00 pm EST, so I added Jerry Lee Lewis's 'Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On' to my rapture song list. Poor Jenda is already traumatized thinking that she has to eat my cooking tonight, but while doing my research, I came across a headline on one of the news sites....CNN or MSNBC or one of those.....

"Church of the End Times Plans for the Future."

WTF?????

What possible plans could you have for the future if you just KNOW you are one of the chosen few? I mean, in my case, if I am one of the select, my plans for the future entail seeing my Mother, who, GOD rest her soul, passed away in 1995. And I also plan to ask GOD why kids get cancer, and can we stop that, and why do people still treat Gays and Lesbians so badly, and why are hot-fudge Sundaes bad for you but oat bran is good...? If I get called to Heaven, I damn sure have an agenda. That being said, I probably won't make it.

So I am here with my 'communion wine' and putting together my End Of The World (EOTW) playlist....here is what I have so far....

Europe- The Final Countdown
Skeeter Davis- End of the World
Elvis- Waiting for the End of the World
Iron Maiden- The Number of the Beast
The Doors- The End
Tom Waits- The Earth Died Screaming
Blondie- Rapture
and finally....Eric Carmen- All By Myself (sad but true!)

So I feel reasonably certain that I'll still be here when all Hell breaks loose. If you need me to look after your children or look after any of you, for that matter, just let me know. I expect that I'll be turning the lights off. Say your prayers, get right with your Higher Power, and know that I love you all verrrrrr............................

Captain Kirk is a Big Fat Liar!

For my friends who are fans of science fiction, this is in no way an attack on Star Trek or any other space themed show. Rather, it is a warning that not all things are what they seem, and sometimes our childhood heroes are full of it!
Having said that, I understand that all good things eventually come to an end. Designing Women went off the air. Crayola got rid of ‘maize’ and ‘raw umber.’ And apparently, all of the cast of ‘The Waltons’ are in some kind of witness protection program, because no one has seen any of them since 1981. But it’s nice to think back on these simpler days and the things and characters we held dear, because they represent, at least for me, a certain continuity and integrity that have stayed with me through the years. Which brings me to that ass-monkey, Captain Kirk.
Bearing in mind that everything has a beginning and an end, I can understand that James T. Kirk had to find another gig to pay the bills after he got booted off the Enterprise. I admired his stint on Rescue 911, really, not so much because of the positive impact the show had, but because he looked so uncomfortable so obviously encased in that full body girdle and I could identify with that. (Okay, I still can!) Of course, this show, too, ended, so Capt. Kirk, being a famewhore and food addict (I totally get that, too!) decided to take whatever job he could get. So he ended up with Pricelie, er, PriceliNe. And that is where the trouble really begins.
Captain Jerk now makes a living convincing Middle America that cheap hotel rooms are simply amazing. In fact, he encourages reasonably mild-mannered people to go online and show their asses anonymously to get cheap hotel rooms even more cheaply. It seems like a good thing, until you remember that you get what you pay for, and even our childhood television heroes will do what it takes to make a buck. Here is a case in point.
My father came to North Carolina recently to visit us and to take our daughter Jenda back to Florida for a visit. Since we already had a full house and he knew that Princess Jenda travels with more baggage than the Astors and Vanderbilts combined, he decided to venture into Kernersville and stay in a hotel for the night before driving back to Florida with Princess Jenda. My father can never be accused of being tech-savvy, but apparently he was feeling his oats, or he was smoking them, because he decided to book his hotel room on Priceline. The hotel that was recommended was rated five stars. Unfortunately, that must have been on a scale of 200.
Priceline suggested the 5 star rated Dudley Inn. After having seen it, I realize that the name was a misnomer, as it should actually be called Deadly Inn. I say having seen it, but that’s not entirely accurate. From the outside, it looks rather normal. It’s not the Trump Towers, but the outside is okay. So far, Captain Kirk is okay. Step inside and he moves from zeitgeist to shit list. See, when you walk into a hotel lobby and realize that all of the potted plants are fake, and THEY’RE dead, it dawns on you that there is a serious problem, and that creepy tingling up and down your spine is not the Vulcan Nerve Pinch. Which brings me back to my poor Dad.
He went to the front desk to check in and was told that they should have a room ready by now. Being that he had booked the room, he couldn’t understand why the room might not be ready, but he was still under the assumption that the hotel was a five star rated inn, so he went along with it, dead silk plants aside. What can I say, after a twelve hour drive, he was tired and decided that the lobby simply needed cleaning. So he paid for one night and got a key to a room on the third floor.
Naturally, there were no working elevators, so he schlepped upstairs with his overnight bag and opened the door. The first thing he noticed was the smell. Being a Viet Nam era veteran, he immediately recognized the smell of decomposing flesh. Now, Daddy doesn’t scare easily, but peering cautiously into the room, he saw unidentifiable stains on the carpet, so he backed out, went back downstairs, and asked for another room.
“What’s wrong with the one we gave you?”
Well, I think the last guy never checked out and rigor mortis is still setting in. What else do you have?
The night manager sent one of the desk clerks with Daddy to try another room. They went to another room that was occupied by a number of people that Daddy hoped were just here illegally. Then on to the third room. This one had a headboard that had fallen down from where it had once been nailed to the wall. They finally found a fourth room that had no towels. This wasn’t a huge problem since there was no running water and there was something growing all over the toilet that Daddy could only describe as MRSA on crack.
By this time, Daddy realized the sun was coming up and he decided that it would be better to just come on over, crash on the loveseat and deal with a house full of people rather than a motel full of as yet undiscovered dead bodies and unclassified diseases. He showed up on our doorstep at the butt-crack of dawn asking for a hot shower, a place to sleep, and massive doses of antibiotics. I was able to oblige on all counts, after putting him through a decontamination process similar to those at Chernobyl. After a few hours of sleep, he and Jenda got on the road. I loaded them up with Lysol spray and Clorox wipes, so I know they left all the public restrooms between North Carolina and Florida much cleaner than they found them, which isn’t saying much.
After a fun-filled vacation, wherein Jenda cleaned out Dad’s bank account, she came back home to us, and Dad decided to stay with us instead of taking his chances with another Bates Motel knock off. Of course my house isn’t nearly as nice as the Bates Motel, or as neat and clean, but that’s another story. The fact of the matter is that I would sooner believe Norman Bates than Captain Kirk. But Kirk gets away with it. And no wonder….
As Norman Bates once said, “I think [he] must have one of those faces you can’t help believing.”

Coronach for a Cowboy

"Death ends a life, not a relationship."
Robert Benchley


There exists in everything a duality. It must be so; there can be no hot without cold, no day without night, and no life without death. I'm sitting here with a glass of wine, pondering the polarity of love and loss, redemption and resurrection, humor and heartbreak.


What began as a humor blog has become an outlet for grief and thoughts and outpourings of melancholy. As always, my despondency drives me to the written word, and forces me to face the twofold nature of things. Even while I mourn, I celebrate.


It's interesting, duality. I just began a new job, and I am enjoying it in spite of the stress that a new job brings, and today was really a great day. Of course, that is, until I arrived home and received the dreadful news that my great, dear friend Brian Bulluck had passed away. And while I was numb on receiving the news, there was within me an ache so painful, so physical and real, that I could hardly breathe. The sad news was true....IS true, but I can not believe it.


Our family relocated to North Carolina four years ago, and before we had even left Florida, Brian reached out to me, introduced himself, and without even asking, claimed me as his friend. What we did not know about each other became known. It's safe to say that we ended up as not only good friends, but as some sort of perverse characters from the Arnold Schwarzenegger-Danny Devito movie Twins. Yes, you are correct in guessing which one I am. In keeping with the duality of all life, I must say that Brian was 6'6", majesterially slim, imperially dressed, and incredibly imposing (all the things that I am not.) But he was also down to earth, casual, and very kind. He towered over me and everyone else, but he never looked down on anyone unless he was helpng them up. He was a man of the people, but he had the ability to tell you to go to Hell and make you glad to be on your way.


Brian and his family came to our home for the first time on a weekend in 2007. There was a small fire in their kitchen and during the repairs, we offered them a Sunday brunch at our house. Brian and Dana were looking to buy a house and since Brian was the only other Dallas Cowboy fan in North Carolina besides Jerry and me, we naturally wanted him to live closer to us. In fact, if he were sitting here now, watching me sob, he'd laugh and tell me to cry for the Dallas Cowboys since they didn't even make it to the Superbowl last year. I can laugh at that thought, but it's probably the only thing I will laugh about for the next several days. That Sunday brunch was also funny, because Jerry and I knew of a house for sale nearby and we wanted Brian to see it. We drove over and walked around outside, peeking in windows, which was okay since no one was living there. Naturally, I tried the backdoor and found it unlocked. I motioned for everyone to come inside, with no thought to the possible consequences. Jerry hesitated, but Brian said, "It's fine, besides, Cat's fingerprints are on the doorknob. You and I will be alright as long as we don't touch anything." For someone with as much integrity as Brian had, he was perfectly okay with Sunday afternoon breaking and entering. I admire that. I'm also glad we didn't get caught.

My friendship with Brian was a life lesson in duality. He was a gentle giant, a servant leader, enigmatic but transparent. When I heard that he had cancer, I was angry and scared, and yet his words and actions gave me hope. It makes sense now that in the midst of his unrelenting pain, he still gave strength to others. He was emotionally strong, even when he was physically weak, and stood tallest when his physical pain brought him to his knees. For those of us who knew and loved him, at least for me, his loss is breathtaking. In the interest of allowing me to put some of my grief into words, Jerry has taken Jenda to the movies tonight, so she won't have to witness my devastation. I think they're going to see 'Ramona and Beezus.' Maybe it's 'The Romans and Jesus.' I am so wracked with heartbreak I just can't be sure. But in that pain, duality comes back to me. Brian brought such wonderful light into my life, and my world is now darker because he is gone. I marvel that I had such a wonderful friend while I hate myself that I was not a better friend to him.

I don't know that I will ever make sense of it. He fought like hell for this life, but ultimately surrendered to the will of a Creator out of whom he was endlessly born, and in whom he had complete faith. He gave wise counsel but always sought to better himself. He was such a wonderful dichotomy and his friendship taught me so much about the dual nature of things. Even as he was dying, he had the courage to live.

I will always be heartbroken because he is gone. I will always be grateful because he was here.

Better Sterile than Feral?

'The trouble with cats is that they've got no tact.' P.G.Wodehouse

Since I have a young child, I have to be very careful about what we watch on TV. I have started reading the news online since I don’t want Jenda watching anything more scary than Nicktoons or HGTV. And let’s face it. Some of the ‘before houses’ on HGTV can be rather frightening. Our TV set is like some kind of kiddie Outer Limits. Anyway, I happened across an article about an elderly woman in Idaho and her black and white house cat. Well this sweet little old lady had one of those nosy-ass Mrs. Kravitz type neighbors who had to be her own neighborhood watch committee. Mrs. Kravitz noticed a black and white cat wandering around outside her neighbor’s house and figured her elderly neighbor’s beloved pet had escaped. Being one of those nosy-ass good-Samaritan types, she grabbed the cat and took it to her neighbor. Sounds really sweet, until all Hell broke loose. It was like Picasso’s “Guernica” when that dear sweet old lady answered the door.

Little old Mildred (that’s what I call her) answered holding her cat (Chuckie), who had not escaped. Chuckie saw Mrs. Kravitz and this other cat, and he went apeshit! Unfortunately, he attacked his owner, not the dorky neighbor who deserved to be mauled, and bit his owner into swiss cheese!!! She had to be taken to the hospital. Okay, it gets worse.

A lot worse.

The paramedics rushed to the scene to treat poor, bleeding Mildred and one was quoted as saying, “The owner said she was going to take Chuckie to the shelter because that’s not the first time she’s been attacked.”

WHAT?!

There sure as hell wouldn’t be a second time. Chuckie would damn sure be pushing up daisies. Attack me? Hmph! I love animals as much as the next person (not in that over-the-top PETA kinda way!) But Chuckie would have to go. I mean, when he first attacked Mildred, he musta clawed a big-ass hole in her head where her brains fell out. Mildred may be retired and lonely, but damn, go be a Walmart greeter! It’s better than “The Human Scratching Post!” Sideshows are a dying breed (like Chuckie would be if he lived in my house) but Walmart’s always hiring!

It reminded me of when Jerry and I lived in Lauderhill, or as we called it, LauderHELL. I was getting in the car to go to work (linen suit, pantyhose, and sensible low heeled pumps, in the 105 degree heat, like an idiot!) I spied this precious kitten wandering pitifully through the parking lot. I felt sorry for it, so I decided to catch it so it wouldn’t get hit by a car. This was one of the dumber things I’ve done in my life. I couldn’t have caught that kitten with a jet engine strapped to my ass!! I was worn out, late for work and sweating like Heather Mills at a Stella McCartney fashion show. I poured some milk into a saucer and set it in the back porch. There was a big hole in the screen so I knew he would get in and find it. Then, off to work.

I got home that night and Jerry was mad as hell at me.

Jerry came home after a long day and stepped out into the patio to enjoy a cigarette and a beer. It wasn’t the kitten that bothered him so much, but the fact that the whole feline Manson family was now in our patio. We couldn’t go into our patio because the crazy mama cat would have killed us. Hell, if we so much as walked near the sliding glass door, she hissed and pissed and freaked and shrieked… like me when I get outbid at the last minute on ebay.

I told Jerry that I would handle it. I called my best friend Eileen, who is an animal lover and cat owner. I mean, this wasn’t something I could handle on my own, and Eileen came through like a champ with two heavy-duty zip-top cat carriers and directions to the no-kill animal shelter. For once though, she didn’t offer to come over and help. Something about remodeling her basement. Funny, I didn’t even know she HAD a basement. So, Jerry and I agreed that come the weekend, the cats were going. Everything was great until Jerry messed things up.

I woke next morning to the sounds of Jerry shrieking and hissing. I ran to the living room and there was Jerry with another cat! This one was babies daddy. He was good-natured and a lout in a feline sort of way. The cat, not Jerry.

What gives?

“I saw this one wandering around outside and one of those kittens looks like him so I decided to reintroduce him to the family, but it didn’t work!”

Lemme tell you why. There’s a reason the babies are with Mama and she’s crazy as hell. Daddy here is hooked on catnip, he’s behind on the child support and he pissed away the last of the milk and Little Friskies on some little frisky, so Mama ain’t gonna welcome him home with open paws! Sigh. We needed to go look at a house we wanted to buy, so we locked baby daddy in the bathroom until we got back. Then, we would take him to the shelter.

We went to look at a house and signed a contract on a townhouse (without having listed our condo yet), then we came home to feline downsize. I put Daddy cat in a vinyl tote-bag, zipped him up with his head sticking out, and put him in the floor of the front passenger’s seat. Then Jerry drove us all to the no-kill shelter. That’s when the fun began.

We got into midday traffic in Ft. Lauderdale, which is surreal at best. We were on Oakland Park Boulevard, surrounded by more cars than crap in a laxative factory. I felt sorry for the cat, since only his head was sticking out and it was a really hot day. I leaned down to unzip the bag a little so he could get some air.

I regret that move to this day.

I heard a hissing sound. The cat seemed happy enough, then, the smell hit me in the face. Hard.

I couldn’t breathe, scream or move to get the window rolled down. I gaped at Jerry, who gave me that disgusted “you farted!” look. Then, it hit him, too.

“Holy shit, roll the windows down, do something!” I was frozen, paralyzed in cat-piss horror. The smell spread like nuclear fallout through the car. Jerry took matters into his own hands, which meant he took his hands off the wheel.

We careened down Oakland Park at roughly 90 mph, me choking, Jerry scrambling to roll down his window, and other drivers honking and giving us the finger as we bounced off their fenders like Ray Charles driving bumper cars. If you have never done this, you don’t know how to live. We finally made it to the no-kill shelter, reeking, cursing, and stinking to high heaven. It’s good practice for raising small children.

We went in and the people quietly waiting their turn parted like the Red Sea and announced loudly that “those two stinky-ass people are next!” Of course, there was some pompous ass who declared, “well, someone has a male cat, and he just sprayed!”

Y’all know me…

“SOMEONE is a rocket scientist who is going to need a proctologist to get my foot out of his fat ass!” Naturally, Jerry made me go get back in the car. Wuss!

We dropped off Daddy cat, and just to be generous, we donated the bag that we brought him in. When we mentioned that he had a family waiting in the wings, they told us that they would have to go to another no-kill shelter that they worked with as a partner site.

In Afghanistan.

We went home and both got fully dressed into the shower, using Clorox as shower gel. Then we burned the clothes we were wearing and I went to work knowing tomorrow was it. The rest of the Manson Family had to go. Jerry had a plan.

We woke up early. “Take this piece of plywood and go stand outside the patio (he did say outside) and hold it over the hole in the screen. When I go out to round up the Mansons, I mean cats, they won’t be able to escape. I’ll put them into Eileen’s cat carriers and we’ll cart them off to the shelter.”

I laughed my ass right off. Jerry was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of shorts. Mama Cat would turn him into shredded cheese in about 10 seconds. Look, I said, go back in, put on jeans and a sweatshirt, and get your work gloves. If not, well, even I might have a hard time identifying your body!

I took my plywood and got into position outside, blocking the escape hole (as I was told to do). Jerry, padded like the Michelin Man, slowly opened the sliding door and brought the cat carriers out. Mama Cat knew something was up so she put down her crack pipe and motioned the kittens to huddle close. Then, the fun began.

I was standing there trying to keep all these cats contained in the patio. Mama Cat flipped out with Jerry chasing her until he finally caught her. She climbed up the screen. Jerry grabbed her around the middle. All four of her legs were splayed out spread-eagle and as Jerry was holding her trying to get a better grip, she pissed right through the screen smack in the middle of my chest! I stood in shock for several seconds, then became aware that Jerry was laughing hysterically! I thought, ‘you sonofabitch!’

Then Jerry screamed, “you sonofabitch!”

I thought it was one of those magic marriage moments when you can read each others thoughts…. Then the uncontrollable laughter hit me!

Jerry grabbed Mama too hard and she pooped in a straight line directly onto his chest! Talk about a magic moment! He managed to wrestle Mama off the screen and he was able to get her into the cat carrier, but then realized he couldn’t ZIP the thing without letting go of her. “Come help me” he said.

No.

“Get in here and help me!”

Hell no.

“You’re my wife, remember? For better, for worse?”

That’s right, and it’s better for me out here and worse in there.

After much puffing and cursing, Jerry got the cat into the bag, hahaha, and after that, the two kittens were no problem. Off we went again, to the second shelter, the one in Afghanistan. Anyway, this cute little gal came out to assist.

“Ooh, look at the cute kitties!”

I wouldn’t do that if I were you….but one hiss from Mama and Jerry’s screams convinced her to back up quick. The shelter then went into a lockdown mode as we were ushered into the back to the maximum security area. Since it was a no-kill shelter, I can’t say it was death row, more like some kind of super intensive rehab for wayward cats. We took the cats in, and Jerry made the mistake of telling the people how Mama Cat beat his ass, I mean, uh, showed very little class. We could’ve gotten out sooner if Jerry hadn’t had to fill out a bite report and tell all the people there what a horrible wife I am for not helping him.

Needless to say, I have learned my lesson. I don’t bring home strays. I still have a soft spot in my heart for animals, but I would never be attacked by some ingrate animal and then be dumb enough to let it happen again, and I don’t pick up strays to bring home anymore. Now I’m older and wiser, and in North Carolina. I set a dish of food across the street at someone else’s house. Then I just sit outside with my chardonnay and watch my neighbors do battle. It’s much safer and more fun that way.

Better for me, worse for someone else.

Age is Only a Number...of Pills and Potions!

Funny, but I have heard forever that life begins at 40. I have also been told that old age is always 15 years older than you presently are. I realize now that both of these adages are crap. Life begins to get really crazy at 40, and the fact is, if you are 40 or older, well dammit you're pretty old and if you make it another 15 years, you are damn near ancient. That makes more sense, at least to me.

I have been lucky that my health has always held me in pretty good stead. I have managed to keep myself in one piece and so far have been able to avoid invitations to spend the summer at any state mental institutions. Still, once I turned 40, things haven't been the same. Anymore when I get out of bed in the morning, you'd swear I was having group sex with those damn Rice Krispies midgets. All of my joints are screaming snap, crackle, and pop! I have various mild aches and pains where I never knew I had body parts. And where I used to consider myself a feminist, I now laugh at anyone who burns their bra. You're going to need those things one day, you fools!

At any rate, I have reached a point in life where I have to take calcium supplements, vitamins, omega threes and even extra fiber! Fiber! For all of the times in my 40 years that I have been told I am full of shit, there is no way I should ever need to take a fiber supplement. But here I am. It shouldn't come as a surprise. Having worked as a supervisor in a call center and having spoken to some of my fellow crabby-over-40 Americans, I know good and well that many, MANY people need more fiber...and anti-depressants.

I think I know when it started for me. Everything was moving along fine my whole life, and then one night, Jerry, Jenda and I went out to dinner at a diner-type restaurant that I will call Lenny's. Since I wasn't terribly hungry, I ordered a cheese steak sandwich with only meat and cheese. Jerry, on the other hand, not only ordered a bacon double cheeseburger the size of a gopher, he also asked the waitress to bring the onions, peppers, and mushrooms that would have been on my sandwich. Now, I took a bite of my blandwich, consisting of bread, meat, and cheese that I can only describe as funny in taste and consistency. Not funny-haha, this was bad funny, like cheese left over from the Reagan administration. After my second bite, I began to feel rather ill.

After Jerry finished his dinner and the food that Jenda didn't finish, I insisted that we leave. I told Jerry that I felt funny and that I thought there was something wrong with the cheese.

"Maybe it was WIC cheese, or as they say in the South, Gub'ment cheese....bwahaha! Anyway, take an Alka-Seltzer when we get home. You'll be fine." Now those of you who know me know that Alka-Seltzer is my cure-all. I take it, holding my nose and gagging it down because it works. But in this particular case, it didn't work, and I knew I was in trouble.

Fast forward two weeks and that damn depression era cheese had blocked things up worse than the line for the Halal cart at 53rd and 6th. (My New Yorker friends know what I mean!) It was not pretty. Hell, I can't even say it was ugly. Nothing happened. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I finally reached the point where I had to call out sick to work to go to the doctor, and imagine my humiliation having to tell the triage nurse what was wrong. My stomach was SO bloated that the doctor insisted on doing a pregnancy test before the x-ray because he was convinced that I was about to give birth to ten pound triplets. And yes, there was thirty pounds of somethin' in there, but I knew he wouldn't want to be the one to deliver it!

When I came back from the x-ray, the doctor was amazed. He turned to my husband and said, "I can't believe how backed up she is. There seems to be some sort of intestinal blockage," to which Jerry replied, "Yeah, she's full of shit....hahaha!"

Fortunately, we were already at the doctor's office so they were able to treat his wounds immediately. While Jerry was having my foot removed from his ass, the doctor suggested that I take an over-the-counter fiber supplement to get things back to normal, and he assured me that I would be feeling better by the next day. It turns out he was talking shit.

After another 48 hours of agony, during which time I tried Castor oil, fiber-laden beverages, and pretty much anything else out there, I sent Jerry back to the drug store and told him to empty Jenda's college fund and buy everything he could get. Strangely, he came home with a single bottle of something. What is this, I asked?

"I went to the pharmacist. I told him your symptoms, then I told him your name and showed him your picture. We had a good laugh and he told me that you should drink this stuff. It's called magnesium citrate."

Suffice it to say that they give this liquid nastiness to proctology patients because it cleans things out. Unfortunately, it also makes Alka-Seltzer taste like a glass of Dom Perignon. Nonetheless, I drank it down and hoped for the best. Be careful what you pray for....

About an hour or so later, with no warning, I knew that Judgment Day was at hand. I barely made it to the bathroom. Fortunately, I did make it, but unfortunately, I didn't have a seat belt to hold me down, because I almost took off like that guy in the movie 'The Rocketeer.' Talk about being cleaned out...Martha Stewart could perform my first colonoscopy. But it's all good, I feel much better, I finally read 'War and Peace' cover to cover, and Jerry finally repainted the downstairs bathroom.

Per the doctor's orders, I take my various vitamins and peculiar potions and eat a fiber fortified diet. I try to get in some exercise (somedays, I try harder than others) and I eat a diet rich in whole grains and fiber. Of course, I still haven't given up my Kendall Jackson on occasion.

I have enough crap to deal with!

Love Thy Neighbor, Real or Imagined

It occurred to me recently that my family and I have been in North Carolina for just under four years and I think I am finally adjusting to life in my small town. Sitting in traffic the other day, I marveled at all of the other cars on the road, until I remembered that this amount of traffic in Ft. Lauderdale would have made me wonder where the Hell all the people were!



The adjustment process has not always been easy for me. For example, in Florida, all of the ground is sand. It's a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water so it stands to reason. And I could grow ANYTHING in sand; tropical plants and palms, African Bush daisies and Cuban buttercups. When we sold our townhouse and moved to NC, our real estate remarked that our house looked like all of the others but no one else had our curb appeal. And she was right. I assumed that it was because I was a SOUTHERNER, thus a natural born gardener, but it turns out I was wrong. I'm not good at gardening OR being Southern.



We moved here and settled on life in a small town in what is known as 'The Heart of the Triad.' We had no sooner moved in than our neighbors showed up in droves with food and baked goods, invitations to their homes and solicitations to their various churches. We were a bit surprised but absolutely charmed, and very grateful for their kindness. We still are. Of course these thoughtful gestures made me realize to my horro that I am not really a true Southerner. Not even relocating from the southernmost part of the United States allowed me to join their midst, because we had to move north to live in 'The South.' For example, we heard that one of the houses in our neighborhood had recentlsold, so we would be getting some new neighbors. Naturally, I wanted to get all neighborly and take them some yummy baked goods. I mentioned my intentions to hubby Jerry and he was in agreement, which is a blessing since he is a wonderful cook and I, well, it's just not a talent I possess. Imagine my horror when Jerry showed up from the store, ready to meet the new neighbors with a store-bought lemon bundt cake from the day-old bin at Food Lion!!



Please tell me that you have something better to offer our new neighbors. This here is the SOUTH, Jerry. Day old bundt cake ain't gonna cut it!



"No. It's still soft. It'll cut fine. It'll be fine. Really."



It'll be fine IF the new neighbors relocated here from New Jersey, but if they are from anywhere near the Mason-Dixon line, we're going to be the laughingstock of North Carolina. Assuming we're not already, which I think we are.



That notwithstanding, we marched over to the new place, like some perverse General Sherman (redundant!) burning a swath to the coast. Of course the new neighbors were from Georgia or Tennessee so they took one look at our stale-ass bundt cake and immediately pegged us for freaks. Yankee Freaks!!! Okay. I guess they were smarter than I thought.



So I spent all of our money on every Paula Deen cookbook in existence and used all of our food for casseroles. I made casseroles for births, deaths, and everything in between. I made dishes with hot peppers and peppy dishes for hot flashes. I almost felt sorry for Jerry when he came home one night and said "Ummmm....something smells wonderful! What's for dinner?"



Ramen noodles.



"What?! Something smells heavenly!"



Yes, and if you touch it, I'll send you to Heaven. I am prepared for anything; pregnancy, childbirth, death, graduation, divorces, and menopause. And whatever our neighbors come up with, I have a casserole for it. So don't touch anything in the freezer. I don't have anything prepared for killing your own spouse!



Anyway, I felt that I had gotten a handle on the whole greet-your-neighbors-with-a-dish thing, until I met someone who I just couldn't get a handle on. Strangely, all of my neighbors knew him. In fact, everyone in town knew him except me, and I vowed to find my way into his inner sanctum.



His name was Mamanem.



He was a very popular sort. I assumed he was the mayor or something because his name to everyone in town, in fact, in the entire state. I first became familiar with him by talking to the people I met....



"We're busy tonight. Gonna go see Mamanem."



Okay. Cool.



And then, " We all gone go to church this Sunday with Mamanem. We'll see you later."



It hit me that Mamanem was a non-denominationalChristianBaptistMethodistMoravianLutheranHolyroller. In fact, he attended every church in town except for the little Episcopal church around the corner that Jerry and I attend. I know he didn't go to our church because I excitedly asked one of our fellow parishioners, Is Mamanem here today?

"No, Mamanem's at the the Baptist church, but thanks for askin'!"

Uh, sure. Give Mamanem my best regards.

Enlightenment came in the form of a rather glaring miscommunication, well, no, just a giant gaffe. I was talking to one of my neighbors one day and after she mentioned Mamanem, I indicated that I would surely love to meet the amazing and wildly popular Mamanem. She looked puzzled.

"Y'all met Mamanem at little Lucy Rae's birthday party. 'Member?"

Jerry flashed me a warning look. You know, the one that means 'shut up' and the one that I rarely heed? Anyway, this time, I obeyed. Oh yes, I 'member now. Ha ha....

Jerry leaned over and whispered, "He isn't a HE. It's MAMA AND THEM, spoken in deep Southern.

Oh Lord. Actually, no, OOOH LAWD! I could hardly call myself a true Southerner and not be acquainted with Mamanem. How could I have missed that?! Most of my ancestors come from the Deep South, but somehow I missed the boat. Lawd, bless my heart!

So here I am, desperate to get in touch with my Southern roots, and unfortunately, the ones in my hair don't count. My summer reading list now consists of everything ever written by Paula Deen, Ernest Matthew Mickler's 'White Trash Cookin' and the John Deere catalog. I have given up Chardonnay for Mint Juleps, and I am trying my hand at canning and cooking.

If I'm successful, y'all come on over for supper. Bring y'all's Mamanem!

For Duck, a Simple Offering

Writing has been a creative outlet for me. I try to find humor in the crazy situations that life puts in my path, and I want my works to make people laugh, but that isn't always possible. Truth be told, I am not laughing very much this week. Losing a beloved colleague and dear friend just isn't that funny to me. I got the sad news that my friend Donald McNeill passed away last Friday. I guess it's just part of that strange duality of life and death; Donald could always make me laugh. His passing has brought me to tears.

I had the privilege of working with Donald for about three years, but such was his personality that I feel like I've known him my whole life. Donald was a very warm person and such a vital presence. He always had a kind word, and even if he was picking on you in his rather snide way, it was always in good fun, and he could take shit as good as he could give it. His nickname was Duck, and initially, I thought it was because his name was Donald, but I came to learn that it was because the teasing of his colleagues rolled off his back, and he was always ready with a snappy comeback. I worked with him in a call center and any time he would refer an irate caller to me, I would huff and say, "Donald, I know you did what you could to tell the customer what can be done, but they don't believe you because you're TOO DAMN NICE!" And he would agree and then say, "That's why I am referring them to you because you're SO DAMN MEAN!" Sadly, that is not a point I could ever argue. It's just one of my character flaws. Get over it.

At any rate, his acerbic with not withstanding, he always had something nice to say to me, and in fact, when I was in his presence, I felt like I was the wittiest, most beautiful woman alive. Of course as I got to know him better, I realized that neither point was necessarily true since he made EVERY woman feel that way. In short, he was an outrageous flirt. Looking back, I am not sure that outrageous is a strong enough word. But I digress.

Inasmuch as he was a terrible tease, he also recognized character traits that deserved acknowledgement in his friends. While I personally collect character flaws the way some people collect fine china, one of my habits is humming to myself. What can I say, some people bite their fingernails. I did for years until my father told me that all of my chewed up fingernails were being stored in my appendix, which would rupture any day. Of course this is the same man that told me that mayonnaise comes from those giant cockroaches when you step on them, so I should have just ignored him. And some people smoke cigarettes, or drink wine....oh, wait. Nevermind.

So Donald heard me humming a happy tune and at the outset of our friendship, he began calling me 'Hummingbird.' Chances are he probably forgot my real name, but Hummingbird became my moniker and I can honestly say that while I have been called many thing in my life, most of which do not bear repeating here, 'Hummingbird' was one of the nicest and kindest meant. Happily, I have a decent sense of pitch and Donald and I had the same taste in music, so for that I loved him all the more.

It was some time into our friendship before I knew that he was ill, and it is a testament to his wonderful spirit that he kept his smile in place, and kept batting his eyes at all of us crazy females. But he had a serious side. He loved his job, and he cared for his coworkers and leaders. He actually grasped the fact that life is precious and fleeting, and he really lived each day to the fullest. Whatever his flaws and foibles, his wry sense of humor and ability to have fun made you forgive him, and made you feel better about yourself.

I am blessed to have many friends, and I hope that the remainder of my life brings me many more dear friends. But the beauty and tragedy of this is that there will never be another Donald. I suppose that goes without saying. I miss my friend, moreover, I miss the way his humor and kindness made me feel. My grief is selfish, but my gratitude is boundless. The fact is, many people have called me a Dodo bird, and sometimes, I have to eat crow. And it will probably never happen again, but no one else ever called me a hummingbird.

Thanks, Duck.

Christmas Carols for the Insane (Me!)

Some Christmas Carols for my friends...

Hello all! Here is my contribution to Christmas carolling. The tunes should be easy enough to recognize, so on that note, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy Kwanzaa. I especially feel for the Atheists at this time of year. Who DO you talk to when you have sex?! On that note, everyone, sing along....

When it snows our whole state panics,

But not me, I've got my Xanax

It's just a statewide freakshow,

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Or this one...

I'm dreaming of a warm Christmas, just like the ones I used to know,

In the lush warm tropics, where all our topics

were talk of hurricanes that blow.

Now, I am in a strong blizzard, at least it seems that way to me

May I live through this storm of white, while I dream of Florida so bright!

No? Maybe this one....

Oh the weather outside is frightful

and inside, it ain't delightful

While my kid is bouncing off walls

Well a big glass of chardonnay calls!

And finally....

While my kid squawks, city sidewalks

are all covered in snow

In the air there's a feeling of madness

Jenda's manic, I'm in panic, this is such a wild scene

and my frantic refrain you can hear....

Bloody hell, bloody hell

we are snowed in until Sunday

Bloody hell, bloody hell

I need some more chardonnay!

Whatever your preference, and wherever you are, have a wonderful holiday. I wish you ALL the best!

Yule Make Me Hurl!

Well the Christmas season is upon us and usual, people are going all out. Spending might be curtailed due to the economy, but crazy holiday decorations and nostalgia are still free. My favorite holiday is Halloween, so I am not one of those people who get all sentimental and drippy about Christmas and the holiday season. Of course, now that I have a child, I put a good face on it, but the whole commercialization and insanity give me the heebie jeebies, so it's just not really my thing.

I remember Christmases past and while some of them were really great, there was often a torment within me that was worse than having an eight foot Frazier fir shoved up my butt. At that time, my parents, my brother Patrick, and I lived in Tallahassee. Since the rest of the extended family lived in Tampa, we always made the trek to Tampa so we could visit with the whole family. We could always count on some kind of Christmas drama, like someone getting pissed off because we spent more time at some other relatives house. Or I might get a toy that I deemed 'not age appropriate', in other words, a BABY TOY, and then I'd throw a fit and offend the gift giver and my parents would bawl me out while my brother Patrick laughed! Such was the season of giving.

One thing that I remember clearly (primarily because my family won't let me forget!) is that a four hour trip to Tampa usually took us close to two days. Why? Because I had to throw up at every rest stop and public restroom along Interstate 10. Seriously. As soon as we'd get in the car to leave, I would start to heave. Sing with me, "Vomit spewing in a crowded car, everybody hold your nose...." My parents tried to explain it away as pre-Christmas excitement, but I never accepted that explanation. Surely Patrick was excited and he wasn't doing the yuletide hurl. It seemed strange, somehow, and I always wondered about it. After years of introspection, therapy, and Kendall Jackson, the answer came to me upon a midnight clear.

It was my parents fault.

THEY TOOK ME TO SEE MALL SANTA!!!

This has apparently scarred me deeply. Allow me to elaborate. Mother and Daddy were two of those sentimental, drippy types who loved nothing more than to dress me and Patrick in some Osh-Kosh holiday finery and drag ours asses to Sears to pose for pictures with Santa. From the time I was small, I NEVER got close to MALL SANTA! I knew he was evil! And the poor minimum wage photographer had to drag out the widest angle lens in existence, not because of my chubby butt, but because I was standing safely out of reach of MALL SANTA, the creepy fucker! He never seemed to bother Patrick, but I saw right through that leering smile and that shitty fake beard!

Now that I am forty and a mommy, I can't help but wonder what the hell my parents were thinking, exposing us kids to such holiday freakishness. Well, not Patrick especially, but ME! It's tragic that I am still haunted by the ghosts of MALL SANTAS past, but it's true. It boggles my mind when I think back through the years to the hell they put me through....

• Big Redneck Bubba Santa- all he wants for Christmas is his two front teeth!
• Santorexic Claus- Sears couldn't always afford a jolly fat guy so they hired some puny, bony creep to haunt my dreams!
• Osanta Bin Laden-yes, he was plotting the downfall of America but at least his shitty beard was real!
• Swelter Claus- because nothing says Christmas like some over-dressed fat guy sitting under hot lights showering helpless little children with 'old-fat-man sweat!'
• Hanta Claus- Hey kid, want a deadly virus for Christmas?

I could go on and on, but I feeling that yuletide urge to purge. Just trust me when I tell you that there exists NO picture of me sitting on the lap of MALL SANTA, and there never will be. With my luck, I'd run into Saddam Husanta....nevermind. Of course, as a parent, I did have an aberrant nostalgic moment, but only ONCE! Jerry and I took Jenda to see Santa and it turned out that he was a financial advisor that I had fired because he was so incompetent. Of course Jenda became hysterical and frankly, so did I. I mean, AWKWARD! I call him Bankruptcy Claus. I never took her to see MALL SANTA again, and never will. MALL SANTA hysteria could be genetic, or of course, she could have just been really smart at an early age. I tend to think it's a little of both. Whatever the case, I will spend future Christmases making up for that horrible lapse in mommy judgment.

That's not to say that I won't enjoy Christmas and create family traditions throughout the coming years. We always watch The Grinch and the 24 hour marathon of 'A Christmas Story', and we prepare the requisite feast for three that would feed a small army. Well take pictures of our tree, and family pictures, but there will be no MALL SANTA in our future holidays. But for any friends or family reading this, if you are feeling some kind of misguided, goofy longing for a holiday of me, let me know. I'd be glad to pose with Kendall Jackson!

Love is Blind...Marriage is an Eye Opener!

Today is a very special day for me. Jerry and I are celebrating eight years of marriage today! Between marriage and motherhood, I have no idea where the time goes. I guess it’s true that life is what happens while you’re busy making plans. Like I keep planning to clean my house. Someday, I’m going to get off my butt and do it. Yes. I see the logic now. It IS true.

I would love to be able to say that I remember my wedding as though it was yesterday, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. It took me 32 years to catch a husband, so by the time it came down to the actual day, I was tired! Wedding planning will take a lot out of a bride, not to mention working overtime to help pay for everything. I do remember that the day started very early, replete with all of the mishaps and disasters that can only happen on the day one is married. However, it was an absolutely glorious South Florida day. The sky was a gorgeous blue, and it was blessedly cool outside (under 90 degrees.) I had dieted down to look svelte in my wedding dress, and had also stuffed myself into the most unforgiving corset ever created, so all things considered, I looked pretty good. At least I think I did. My maid of honor finally caught on after I had taken my 6th Xanax on a very empty but tight stomach, so much of it is a blur.

In spite of the ministrations of my amazing bridesmaids and all of the medication, my nerves were still buzzing like an angry hornet. Jerry, his groomsmen, and our priest were in the sacristy while my bridesmaids and I were in the choir room in the back. Fr. Ralph Evan, our priest, mentioned to Jerry that he wanted to give things a few more minutes, but he was going to check in on me and the girls. Jerry tried to stop him. “Fr. Ralph, you are a brave man. Or a stupid one.” Undeterred, Fr. Ralph came to check in on us.

It was sheer bad timing because one of my flower girls kept pulling the flowers out of her miniature bouquet. Since we aren’t allowed to drop petals in our church, she carried a small-scale replica of my bouquet that actually cost more than my big bouquet. I had asked her several times not to pull the flowers out of it until after we got through the pictures, at which point she could eat it, for all I cared. Still, at the precise moment that Fr. Ralph entered the room, she plucked out the largest flower from the middle of the arrangement and threw it in the floor. And I chose that moment to utter the WORST profanity you can say in the house of The Lord. For our purposes here, I’ll say ‘gosh darn’, and leave it at that. Eight years later, I can still feel the weight of Fr. Ralph’s stare, and I can still remember my bridal party backing away from me to get out of the way of the thunderbolt we all knew was coming. Fr. Evans returned to my groom to be and said, “Jerry, YOU are a brave man. Or a stupid one.”

Things finally got underway. My dad looked so handsome and proud in his tuxedo. Of course he was late to the wedding rehearsal, so he had not practiced walking me down the aisle. He chose the big moment to decide that we should do some triumphant bridal march. I suppose it was triumphant for him in that he was palming me off on Jerry at long last. Coupled with my nerves and the 6 Xanax, we bumped and lurched along like a couple of drunks until I stopped up short and hissed, just WALK Daddy. Apparently, I hiss louder than an angry copperhead, because I heard a ripple of laughter follow me to the altar.

After Jerry and I took communion, we were instructed to sit on two throne-like chairs while the rest of the congregation took communion. I saw a short cut to my throne, and by that time, the Xanax was really working it’s magic, so I turned and went to my throne. Unbeknownst to me, my very long train caught on one of the tall candelabras positioned at the altar. I though the collective gasp was meant for how beautiful my dress looked, but it turns out I nearly knocked the candles over. Fortunately, Jerry and Eileen, my maid of honor, were able to prevent yet another calamity. Once we were finally married, our guests headed to the reception for cocktails while the bridal party and family finished pictures. When our limousine driver showed up, he was very nasty, and Rocky Balboa, er, Daddy had to be physically restrained from beating him up. It was a very exciting morning!

Our reception was divine. Of course, I was being held into my dress with that vulcanized rubber torture device so I couldn’t eat very much food. But wine and champagne went down easily, hence the reason that I don’t quite remember everything that transpired. But I do remember finally leaving and having the chance to be alone with my husband in our hotel suite on the beach. And I must have held up pretty well during the day because Jerry was ready to get that dress off of me and get the honeymoon started. Sadly, there was the corset to contend with.

Have you ever opened a roll of biscuits or crescent rolls? You know how you apply pressure and then the whole things pops open “PWUPHTH” and everything spills out? It was like that when I took the corset off. Sort of an explosion. Jerry looked taken aback but I reminded him that it was legal now…no turning back! I sat down on the bed to get out of the crinolines and stockings, and that was it. I was so lit, I was out like a light.

I awoke several hours later with intense hunger pains. Jerry was sleeping, but I woke him up, saying FEED THE CAT! He told me to order room service and went back to sleep. I went all out with a bacon cheeseburger, French fries, a chocolate milkshake and diet coke, naturally. Let’s just say it didn’t sit too well after strenuous dieting and heavy medication, so we spent part of our wedding night at Walgreen’s, buying various stomach remedies.

I look back on all of this and laugh. Sometimes I laugh because I can’t believe that I lived through it. Other times, I laugh because I can’t believe Jerry actually went through with it. I was online looking up anniversary gifts by year, just to see what eight years will get you. I think Jerry is hoping for time off with good behavior. Anyway, the traditional gift is bronze. Nah. The modern gift is appliances. No way will Jerry buy me another appliance. I insisted on a Kitchen Aid mixer one year for Christmas, and Jerry got me one. Little did he know that I wanted it as an art form for my counter. No way was I really going to use it. I would ask for platinum and jewels, but knowing Jerry, he’d bring me L’oreal #120 Platinum Crystal (because I’m worth it!) Sure, blondes may have more fun, but I’m not complaining. I’ve had a great time.

So thinking back on all of this, I am also looking forward to our future, for whatever it holds, and for however long we have. I enjoy the idea of growing old together, and all the funny things that will happen to us along the way. And while I know that Jerry doesn’t always appreciate my lowbrow humor, and I can’t always understand his arch witticisms, we’re in it for the long haul. Til death us do part, and maybe not even then!

As I've said before, we’ve almost got each other trained!

Everything I Need to Know, My Child is Learning in Kindergarten

“The behavior of some children suggests that their parents embarked on the sea of matrimony without a paddle” Earl Warren

It’s great being the mother of a child in school. Aside from the free time that I now have during the day, Jerry and I now really take an active role in Jenda’s education. We do homework together and are teaching her how to read and how to spell, and of course correct word pronunciation. To a large degree we have been successful. She no longer pronounces drink as ‘drank’ and we have eradicated ‘liberry’ from her vocabulary, so I feel like our teaching is paying off. Of course, she has taught us a great deal as well, in fact, we learn something new every day.

After the whole ‘I lost a stick for bad behavior’ trauma, we learned that there are far more horrible things in the life of a kindergartner than losing a stick. Jenda hasn’t lost any more sticks, but she has shared with us what can happen to the kids in school if they really get out of line, literally and figuratively. She told us about one little boy who is just really strange.

There is one in every class. I remember in kindergarten, there was a child in my class, who I am going to call Jackwayne. He was like some perverse Shakespearean prince, in that his name (which I have disguised) was all one name, like Macbeth. At any rate, he was just repugnant. He used to eat crayons, and he also liked to scoop the Elmer’s glue paste out of the big plastic jar and eat it off his fingers. But the worst was the fact that he would pee and poo in his pants and then spend the rest of the day stinking so bad he could knock the buzzards off a shitpile from 50 paces. He said it didn’t bother him, but here I am, 35 years later, so scarred and traumatized that I still have to sit near windows, even on airplanes.

Back to Jenda and her trials and tribulations. She came home recently to announce that one child in her class was very bad. He lost ALL of his sticks and was still being bad, so he was sent to the Hall Adjusters. Being that she is only five, and sometimes has difficulty with big words, I thought she said Hall of Jesters. To me, that sounds like a happy place where teachers send the class clowns. If they’d had one of those at my school, I might have been a better student. Then she said, “No, Mommy. Hall of Justice!” That sounded rather scary to me, but I was hopeful that the ‘kiddie Supreme Court’ had enough women and liberals to keep Jenda from getting too many demerits. Then, finally, she yelled “HALL ADJUSTERS!”

Hall adjusters? What the…?! Who and what are they adjusting?

According to Jenda, ‘Hall Adjusters’ is a room with a toilet in it and apparently not much else. So I had to ask, what do they do in there, slap the poo out of the kids?

“I don’t know, Mommy. I’m not sure.”

In Jackwayne’s case, it would have been too easy. In Jenda’s case, I never want to find out.

When I was a child, there was corporal punishment in schools, and then again once you got home, after which you were sent to your room. With today’s children, being sent to your room is hardly a punishment since many kids today have better electronics in their rooms than I have in my whole house. Ostensibly, the bad seed is taken out of class and into a small room, much like solitary confinement without Nintendo, and made to sit on a toilet until their parents come to get them…. I’m just going on hearsay, but it sounds pretty crappy, pun intended.

‘Hall Adjusters’ doesn’t seem to be working out TOO well, since I hear every afternoon about this child hitting Jenda and beating up her and her friends. I was ready to go to the school and raise hell but as always, Jerry’s cooler head prevailed and he said he will go speak to her teacher about the matter. That’s great, but while he was out mowing the lawn, I took her out of swimming lessons and am enrolling her in Taekwondo. And I am going to teach her that if any kid messes with her, she needs to just zap that kid right in the buhdoobies. Trust me, that will be much more effective than any hall adjustment!

So everyday brings a lesson in behavior modification and penance. I’m still haunted by the memories of Jackwayne and Elmer’s Glue, but through memory modification by Kendall Jackson, I am doing better. My hope is that Jenda will continue to learn and grow and accept the fact that there are just some strange, ill-mannered people in this world and we just have to deal with that. I want to make sure that she is understanding of others, but I also want her to be able to look out for herself, because if I have to do it, they won’t need the Hall Adjusters. Some kid will need the Hall of Pediatric Reconstructive Surgery. I mean, it does take a village to raise a child. But in my village, we beat, uh, adjust each others’ kids.

With all of my early teaching, when she gets older and starts taking Advanced Literature, ‘Crime and Punishment’ will be an easy read. Why I bet she’ll just breeze right through Dostoyevsky.

Yeah, she’ll be a kick ass student!

Race to the Altar Has a Whole New Meaning!

Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it....
Song of Solomon


It’s really convenient sometimes to have a child. In the case of those people who have something like 19 or 20 kids, it’s obviously the free child labor they’re getting while still claiming a tax write off. In my case, I can blame not watching the news on my daughter. I am behind on current events, and I can easily blame it on the fact that we only watch Noggin and HGTV because of Jenda. The problem with this is that I do still read the news on the internet and days like yesterday, I wish I didn’t.


I actually got the first glimpse of the story on Facebook. One of my friends posted a link to a CNN story about Keith Bardwell, a justice of the peace in Louisiana who denied a marriage license to an interracial couple. I swear at first I thought it was a joke. Then I realized it was
true! And I had to contain myself.


Unfortunately, I have since escaped.

The story begins with a young couple who meet, fall in love, and decide to get married. Isn’t that romantic? Beth Humphrey and Terence McKay wanted to have a wedding and someday start a family. So Beth called Bardwell’s office to ask about getting a marriage license. She was then asked if they she was part of an interracial couple. When she answered, truthfully, yes, she was told that Mr. Bardwell’s office would not issue a marriage license and they would have to go elsewhere.


I was at a loss for words, but only temporarily. See, when I read the part about the bride-to-be being asked if she was part of an interracial couple, my jaw hit the floor, so I couldn’t speak. However, I can still type, so here we are. Since I am still speechless, can someone please yell, ‘Civil Rights Violation!’, oh, and also ‘Noneofyourfreakingbusiness!’

Mr. Bardwell was very quick to point out that he is NOT a racist (cough, sputter, puke!) He said that he will marry blacks, but only to each other. He went on to say that he was just thinking of their children. As far as I have been able to research, they don’t have any children. I can only assume that he means any children they might have. I am still trying to figure out the logic in that statement. Maybe they can’t have children. Maybe they just want to adopt a baby from, say, China. I bet this idiot isn’t asking any other prospective married couples, “Are you abusive? Are you a pedophile? Are you a flaming racist idiot like me?” No one stopped John and Kate from having a busload of kids that they exploit for television ratings, but this yahoo is worried that these two seemingly normal, moral people might want to have children, who, yes, will be bi-racial? What is he afraid of, that one of them might someday become president? No fear, it’s happened already and it seems to be working out pretty well.


By definition, a Justice of the Peace, (or in Bardwell’s case, a piece of shit), is appointed or elected to maintain the peace and deal with administrative issues that might arise in their jurisdiction. I have researched several definitions of this and none of them mention the ability to deny people their basic civil rights. Does he give any thought at all to all of the white trash he has married over the years who then go on to raise future generations of hood-wearing, cross-burning yehaws who have little to offer society other than hate crime, date rape and AIDS jokes?

Bardwell also pointed out that this has always been his practice and no one has ever complained. That’s sad. However, I would assume that if you are African American living in a small town and an appointed official does this kind of thing, you might be afraid to speak up. If I thought he and his cronies might seek their revenge, I would probably be scared, too. But that fear, in his case, has been deemed as acceptance that what he is doing is okay. Many elected officials have come forward demanding his resignation. Surely someone, somewhere, has the authority to remove this loser from his post. He needs to go. He went on to say that he has “piles and piles of black friends. They come to [his] home, they use [his] bathroom.” I think the reality of that statement is that any black people who get near him and have to listen to his racist bullshit are suddenly afflicted with bleeding piles and have to run to the nearest bathroom. That makes more sense to me. I know he makes ME sick to my stomach!


While there is really nothing funny about this situation, I am amused that he considers himself a good Christian. Someone should send him a new Bible and highlight ‘The Song of Solomon.’ It makes for some great reading, and in fact, Jerry and I had verses of it read at our wedding. In case you’re wondering, it is the story of an interracial couple. And the Bible is God’s word. He wrote it. I don’t have to do anything but read it and try to live by it. (Of course, that’s just my choice. I’m not trying to convert anyone here.) Choice being what it is, if you don’t support interracial relationships, by all means, don’t become involved in one. If you believe that it’s okay to violate the civil rights of others, by all means, leave the United States and move to some banana republic where you can be ruled over by some despotic, sanctimonious little piss-pot, like Mr. Bardwell, but let the rest of us live, get married, and have children in peace.

Kick Keith Bardwell out of office. He’ll be just fine. I imagine he’ll open his own bridal boutique, complete with robes and pointy hoods for the wedding party, and instead of a unity candle for the ceremony, maybe a large burning cross for the altar.


Sadly, it wouldn’t surprise me.

Good luck to you, Beth and Terence, and to your unborn children. Help them to be tolerant. Raise them to be well loved, loving and accepting of others. And God help us all.