Just For Laughs

Ventrilo Kissed

2012-01-28T15:57:00.000-08:00

I’m not a big fan (no pun intended) of air kisses. They often seem to say, “I’d kiss you if I really liked you, but since I don’t, I’d rather not soil my lips.”

I was watching the movie, ‘What About Bob’, again… and I always laugh when Dr. Leo Marvin talks to his daughter, Anna, using their look-alike puppet dolls. She fiercely resists but finally gives in to have their puppet conversation in which she tells him exactly what she really thinks.

Wouldn’t using puppets be an excellent way to communicate? It’s a little bit like the air kiss. You’re there, but not. Why don’t we all get look-alike puppets and make it a universal way to communicate? Imagine how many things you could say to someone who intimidates you if it was your doll who said it. Poof! All responsibility is removed from you and put on something inanimate to sop up the blame.

Getting stopped for a traffic violation is always unnerving but what if I just whip out my puppet and say, “Gosh officer, you must have been following me for miles but I swear I don’t have any donuts.”

I used to feel dreadfully inadequate around other artists. I often criticized my own work before they could. There was one very arrogant artist that I would have loved to address with my puppet. “Wow, you sure have a lot of talent. You’re ice sculptures are amazing but what do you do with them after they melt?”

No one likes reporting for jury duty. How about responding like this, “yes, I pride myself on being able to spot a guilty person from miles away, your honor. By the way, I’ve often wondered, what exactly are you wearing under that robe?”

Gossipy co-workers? “You heard it through the grape vine? Why don’t you swing through that word of mouth jungle of yours on the more advanced, Neolithic Echo Jungle vine? It’s much more reliable with information, faster and, oh yeah, when you’re through with that spellbinding expedition be sure to come back and tell me all about it!”

Bad Drivers? Let your puppet give them a piece of your mind. “Yeah, that’s right, don’t adjust your speed to freeway driving, just cut me off and poke along so we’ll both be late.” For this conversation your puppet will need to be equipped with an extended middle digit.

Snooty store clerks are particularly annoying to me. I would love to take out my puppet me. “Why are you so high and mighty? Is it company policy for you to act like a condescending moron? You’re probably living off commission and depend on goofy people like me to buy your crap!”

You can probably think of lots of other conversations within your circle of fiends. Did I say fiends? I meant friends. Kiss, kiss.

C P ....eeewwww

2012-01-15T12:38:00.000-08:00

My husband was cleaning out our hobby room and found one of his old video games, StarCraft. He remembered how much he loved playing it and offered to show me how I could master the basics in no time. I haven’t been into video games since Ms. Pac-Man and I think I became obsessed with that because it involved eating dots and chasing after bouncing fruit. Nevertheless, he wanted me to try his game because if I can get up to speed, we can play online with others. Heh.

He sat with me, offering helpful tips as I completed the first two missions, which took three hours!
It went something like this:

BJ: Okay, click on your SCV.
Me: What’s that?
BJ: That’s your energy collecting vehicle.
Me: Where?
BJ: Down at the bottom of the screen.
Me: That little thing?
BJ: Yeah, left click on it and then right click on the minerals.
Me: Oh! He responded to me.
BJ: Yeah. Now build another worker.
Me: I wish I could have done that a week ago. How do I do that?
BJ: Go to your menu, then click on build and select a worker.
Me: That’s easy, now what?
BJ: EXPAND, always expand! Don’t be afraid to.
Me: Do I look like I’m afraid of expanding? I pulled at the waist band of my sweat pants.
BJ: Okay, now you want to collect gas for energy.
Me: That isn’t hard after aunt Birdie’s green bean casserole.
BJ: You’re gonna need all your resources to defend yourself while you’re being attacked on your next mission.
Me: I’m gonna be attacked?
BJ: Big time.
Me: You know, before we get into the attacking mission, I need to switch over to FarmVille and harvest my Pattypan Squash.
BJ: Squash!
Me: Yeah, I have to plant rice too. I’m just forty points away from level one of Rice mastery.
BJ: Okay, baby, but look, you’re being attacked by the Zergs.
Me: Oh my God, this is worse than being attacked by the Goldman’s at my office holiday party. Where’s my SUV?
BJ: No, you have to build Marines and bunkers.
Me: I’ll bet my squash is starting to wither.
BJ: Defense, defense! Where are your firebots?
Me: What are those?! I was madly clicking on the enemy, not realizing that it was a useless exercise.
BJ: Those guys throw flames. Build some!
Me: Does it have to be so violent? My marines are being splattered all over the ground.
BJ: What is your SCV doing just sitting there? Mine more minerals. Go, go, go!
Me: They’re demolishing my power depot!
BJ: You need minerals to build more. You should have been doing that all along.
Me: Now you tell me.
I kept clicking on the Zergs knowing it was futile.
BJ: That’s okay baby, you’ll get ‘em next time.
He patted me on the head and went to our hobby room to work on some music.

I just sat there panting, and reliving the stress I had just experienced from my total annihilation. With a shaky hand, I opened my browser and went to Facebook. I clicked on the FarmVille icon and there it was, my peaceful little farm. All the cows, chickens, goats and horses were in their places, right where I left them. All my ducks were in one straight row, and my Pattypan squash was ripe for harvesting. There’s no place like home.

TIME LAPSE

2012-01-03T08:45:00.000-08:00

I was invited to a time management seminar. Time management? Really? I began to wonder. Can time really be managed? That question kept repeating in my mind until evening when I went to bed. The debate rolled over and over in my mind like a pair of pants in the dryer, with a quarter in one pocket.

I finally drifted off and found myself dreaming about it. I had been given the assignment of disassembling Big Ben and the sending parts out for cleaning. I took my job very seriously and demanded to see Sir Benjamin Hall, who ordered the original fourteen-ton bell in 1859. Of course, no one could put me in touch with him and I was incensed. I decided Big Ben was behind the times and searched out a new bell maker. Since I knew that the Swiss make incredibly accurate time pieces, I contacted Axel Acklin, whom I was told, comes from a long line of watchmakers and was now employed by Ryser Kentfield, one of the most well-known watchmakers in Switzerland. I hired him to help with Big Ben but soon became aware of some issues that could hinder the project.

Axel had a thick-as-molasses Swiss accent that was extremely difficult to understand. I asked him to use his best English and he reached out and slapped me across the face. I expected to hear a smacking sound but instead it sounded like the bell that ends a round in a boxing match.
Suddenly, he was like a drill sergeant shouting out directives in perfect English. The strange thing is, he yodeled after each order.

“Hey you! 60 minutes! You might be famous on CBS, but around here you work for me! I want that big hand to be dismantled inside of an hour! And you! Sixty seconds! You may have waltzed for a minute with Chopin, but I expect you to fox trot around here, and for a whole lot longer! You, time over there, don’t start thinking you’re special because people believe you heal things! Yeah right, I suspect it’s the antibiotics. Think you’re a big shot do you? Just because you have an American magazine named after you? And where the hell did the day go? Probably out brooding about his bad hair. Has anyone ordered him to have a nice one? Come on you bunch of Nannos, is your hourglass half empty or half full?! It’s showtime, where is everyone? I’m going call attendance and when I do, you better say say present!”

I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. I could see that Axel was taking my job into realms that would have caused Sir Benjamin Hall to roll over in his grave. Big Ben had now been replaced with a Swiss Chalet Cuckoo clock complete with hand-carved figures of alp climbers in leiderhosen, beer maidens, farmers, cows and roosters. On the hour, a great green Cuckoo bird emerged from the gigantic doors and emitted a deafening cuckoo sound followed by a music box version of The Happy Wanderer.

I was aghast at the disrespect Axel had shown to one of England’s most cherished landmarks. He laughed like a sinister villain and confessed that he didn’t work for Ryser Kentfield at all, but was really a member of The Black Forest Society and had plans to steal all time from the world. Big Ben would now be known as Big Cuckoo!

In time, I was mobbed by angry Englishmen and tossed onto the street hungry and timeless. I was begging for spare time and living in a cardboard Timex box. I was nearly unconscious when a light appeared in front of me and a figure appeared. He said his name was Sir Benjamin Hall and he put a hand on my shoulder. His touch was electric. He asked me a question. “Can time really be gained, beat, killed, marked, kept, gained, lost, borrowed, multiplied, pressed, small, big, behind, out, in, taken, parted, filled, right, wrong, ahead of us, or managed?”

I tried to answer but all that came out of my mouth was the sound of a cuckoo.

He smiled warmly and asked, “You have a lifetime, but are you having the time of your life?”

That’s when I awoke and smiled. I finally had my answer.

One Thousand, Eight Hundred and Twenty Five

2011-12-31T09:32:00.000-08:00

I’ve just finished watching Julie and Julia (again). It occurred to me that success seems to be achieved while you’re busy doing something else. At least, that is what I gleaned from the movie, which must be why I liked Forest Gump and Oh Brother, Where Art Thou, so much.

That happens to be my most treasured fantasy you know, when success literally smacks you in the back of the head while you’re frantically trying to make something else work. So, here is a young woman who sets a goal for herself to prepare all of Julia’s French recipes within a year. I’ll be darned if she didn’t do it too, not to mention finishing the book and having it turned into a movie.

Well, I thought, I’m a frustrated writer, musician, artist, chef, ice skater, ballroom dancer, gardener, poker player, horse trainer, and knitter. Maybe that is what the problem is. I’m just not focused enough. Maybe I should just pick something and jump in with both feet. After all, it’s the perfect time of year to set a goal. Right?

I just made a list of my partially developed hobbies. I realized that I have been playing the guitar for the last thirty-five years and have never advanced further than, The Puppy Song. I don’t think I have enough time left to master it.

I rendered portraits a couple of decades ago and turned myself inside out to please people and get their images young enough, having the right style and quantity of hair, and with attractive noses and teeth. I felt like a cosmetic surgeon. Sigh.

My mother wanted me to skate in the chorus line of the Ice Capades. Even with the bar lowered, my Axel jump was a disaster.

I’m an Arthur Murray dropout, my garden was eaten by enormous green bugs, and I don’t have the energy to turn a saddle sore into a callus again. Yes, you do have to grow a callus on your tailbone to ride a horse.

I don’t think my tater-tot, lima bean casserole will make it into a cookbook.

Since it was mentioned in the movie that Julie thought she had A.D.D. (Perhaps I do too, ya’ think?) and that was the reason she never finished her novel.

I thought, as an intensely focused hobby, I might collect five thoughts per day from those suffering from A.D.D. If we start tomorrow, by the end of 2012, I will have collected one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five thoughts. That’s a very impressive thought collection, don't you think? Of course, if you submit a thought, that would mean you are granting me permission to use it. Incomplete thoughts are welcome and the more humorous, the better. Keep it clean and original. If you use someone else’s thought, give ‘em credit.

Come on, don’t suffer with your A.D.D. Maybe if we have fun with it, the spell will be broken and A.D.D. will become nothing more than an unpleasant partial memory. Since it is more fun to participate in a group, I will expect everyone to pull their own A.D.D. weight.

Comments are welcome….uh….now...wait...what was the topic?

What, Me Worry?

2011-12-26T08:23:00.000-08:00

Growing up, I learned many valuable things from my mother. Things like, the television gets really clear just before it blows up and if you swallow a fingernail it will puncture your intestines and never eat a banana before going to bed. The most beneficial piece of advice though, has carried me through most of my life; always expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed.

I like to look up the meaning of words, it's kind of a hobby of mine, not to mention that knowing the meaning of words comes in quite handy if you're a writer. I looked up the word, 'worry', and this is what I found:

wor·ry
[wur-ee, wuhr-ee]
1.to torment oneself with or suffer from disturbing thoughts; fret.
2.to move with effort: an old car worrying uphill.
3.to torment with cares, anxieties, etc.; trouble; plague.
4.to seize, especially by the throat, with the teeth and shake or mangle, as one animal does another.
5.to harass by repeated biting, snapping, etc.

I just realized that this adds a whole new experience update to my mother's Linked-in profile, if she had one, and if she were alive.

Of course, there are things that have to be taught by example, words just aren’t enough. There is an art to worrying that has been developed primarily for aesthetics rather than utility. Hands must be wrung dramatically. My mother had brick-red knuckles. I have tried, but have never been able to achieve the same shade although I’m happy with my current skin tone which borders on unripe watermelon.

Crossing oneself is helpful if of the Catholic religion. I have crossed myself just to see what it is like but I’m not Catholic so it doesn’t count, but when the back of the hand is pressed to the forehead coupled with a facial grimace immediately following the cross, the effect can be fantastic. This stance is usually to induce guilt in others but can also foster compassion. If however someone tries to reassure the worrier, they may receive a look that suggests something bad is going to happen to them. Pacing can be effective but only if done while muttering.

“You’re always the one who gets hurt,” has stuck with me since childhood. Funny, it sure seemed that way as I was growing up. I realize now that probably all children get hair brushes tangled in their hair and have to have them cut out, and have been knocked down by a stray dog leaping through a screen door or written about in the medical journal of 1968 because of complications following a tonsillectomy, and I’m sure there are plenty of kids who have been run over by the family car.

If you don’t tell someone to drive safely, or be careful, they will be in a horrible accident. I don’t know what the statistics are on this, in fact, I don’t know what the statics are on a lot of things but, “they say,” by not cautioning someone before they set out may cause them to become unstable and make poor choices. I don’t take any chances, I tell loved ones to be careful. It always makes my mailman smile.

If you don’t tell someone you worry about them, you will be in a horrible accident. I think my mother confused love with worry. If she didn’t worry about you, she didn’t love you. If she didn’t love you, she didn’t worry about you. It made sense to her.

I’m still not sure if anything bad will happen if I eat a banana before going to bed but I don’t intend to find out.

Experiencing The A.S.S.

2011-12-24T21:28:00.000-08:00

Germany has developed a unique device, actually a suit, which is an, Age Simulator System, or ASS for those who enjoy acronyms. It is thought that this suit will help young designers of electrical appliances, cars and medical equipment improve designs by being made aware of the specific difficulties of those in their autumn years. God forbid we say the ‘O’ word. Old, old, old, old…there, I said it, thrice.

The suit has weights sewn in at various points to simulate heaviness, built-in ear muffs to decrease hearing and the helmet has a visor that restricts the line of vision and wraps it in a dull yellowish tinge. A quote from one of the first to try the suit was, “Just crossing the street was an adventure, sitting down on a bench was a pain and getting up was exhausting.” A twenty-three-year-old explained that the joints in the suit deliberately stiffened, preventing her from getting her leg over a bike. Yet another said he fumbled around in pain as he reached for his wallet, with the gloves pricking his hands at every moment. I’ll bet they were happy to have their ASS fall off. The price of this suit wasn’t mentioned, but I’m sure with all the features mentioned, it’s not cheap.

Why is it so important for us to know what it feels like to be old? How would experiencing ten minutes in any kind of simulation help us to be kinder people? Shouldn’t we be kind and make things easier just because we should?

I think the ASS was developed so we won’t be afraid to grow old…to die. We will you know, grow old before we die, if we are lucky. There are ways to know what it feels like to be old without spending vast amounts of money. Here are a few exercises that I guarantee will simulate the natural aging process.

Go to the nearest sleep gallery, jump up on the bed closest to you and try to prance around the room by jumping from bed to bed. Be sure to keep your knees bent when crossing over the water beds. Two times around the room should give you a good idea of what arthritis in the knee joints feels like.

Next time you’re at a Grand Opening, stare into the spotlight they have roving the sky. I would suggest a good thirty minutes as the perfect amount of time to experience the reduced vision associated with cataracts.

Drink several 32 oz. beverages, but don’t go to the bathroom. Go to a comedy show. This will simulate incontinence, believe me.

Ask a friend to stand behind you, place an air horn against the back of your head, and blow it for one full minute. If performed correctly, this will replicate the major hearing loss that most elderly people experience. It may take some time to recover from this test, be patient.

Fill a large wading pool with water. Run as fast as you can through the water several times around the circumference. Be sure to wear rubber sole deck shoes. This test is for experiencing the feeling one gets from standing up too quickly. If you fall, you may hit your head on a sprinkler head and that would be the self-induced coma simulator for those who are curious as to what that feels like.

Let’s not be afraid of the natural wearing out process. Thumb your nose at death, go ahead, it is fun. I have laughed in the face of death (even after eating garlic), had brushes with him, flirted with him and even gone so far as to give him a lap dance. See? I’m okay.

The only thing that really bothers me about aging is that I seem to be shrinking and I have more weight to lose than I originally thought.

Third Eye Lasik

2011-12-17T14:59:00.000-08:00

I have been made painfully aware of my much-too-concerned attitude about my physical body and social conformity. Just the other day, I was having lunch in a local café when I looked up and noticed a man was staring at me. The strange thing was that he was not looking at me through the two holes in his face that we know as eyes. He was actually gawking at me through his third eye! As if that wasn’t enough, I clearly heard his thoughts inside my own head. He was telling me that I was mentally unsteady, lacked focus and had a dread fear of amnesia. He screamed for me to just forget about what I can’t remember. I was so offended that I flicked a forkful of cole slaw at him, targeting his brow area. It worked. His spiritual vision was blocked. The café manager quickly escorted me out, but I managed to yell at the smarmy, third-eye peeping Tom, that he should have more respect for the chakra handicapped. I’m just glad I stopped him before his inner eye revealed my fear of being evaluated negatively in social situations.

It is common knowledge that we have physical and non-physical senses. Of course, I have a very strong fifth sense about these things, but activating my third-eye or what some call, the brow chakra, has been a very arduous task. I have tried gazing into the flame of a candle for an hour or two, calming my thoughts, watching my cat’s eyes to establish a meditative state and even staring at my face in the bathroom mirror for prolonged periods. It was hard to keep a straight face during this exercise, and giggling interfered with my inner peace. I felt superior when I noticed that my reflection blinked first and reveled in the victory until I realized that my ego was becoming much too involved and turned the session into an undesirable competition.

It was this state that brought me to Swami Kapesh Kumar. I found his ad in the personals while searching for my soul mate. Swami Kumar has perfected a surgical procedure as an alternative to activating the third eye by means of meditation. It involves the use of a ball-peen hammer. With one swift, forceful and nearly painless tap, he is able to dislodge the third eye from its lazy status and instantly create a glittering star-studded aura.

The giddiness usually wears off within an hour after awakening, and is followed by an overwhelming sense of well-being. The only drawback is the red dot located just above the bridge of the nose. He says it should fade in time. I’ve seen this dot on middle-eastern women before, but I had no idea it was the result of third-eye lasik surgery.

You'll Tide

2011-12-11T10:16:00.001-08:00

So…here we are again. The time of year that happens like clockwork but always manages to take me by surprise. The season spirit drives us to the malls, to the kitchen and festive gatherings. The only place it ever drove me is crazy. Though we are reminded, it is time to renew our faith; we mustn’t forget to renew our Visa and Master cards too. As if my credit cards aren’t still wheezing from last year.

Time to get out the nutcrackers…the cards, the bubble lights, flicker flame lights, LED Christmas lights, angels, nativity scenes, ornaments, cinnamon-scented pine cones, kneeling Santa collections, the holiday-decorated spin shades for the lamps, garlands, fairies and stockings.

By the way, I found out how this silly, hang a stocking on the fireplace mantle idea came about. It turns out that St. Nicholas passing by the homes of maidens too poor to afford a dowry, money that a bride gives to her groom for her wedding. (I always wondered what that big, huge, humongous, honkin’ wad of money I gave my ex was called). Anyway, he would throw gold coins down the chimneys where they would fall into stockings which were hung over the fire to dry. Heh. Yeah, right.

Actually, I don’t have to decorate at all. A couple of my neighbors have been involved in a decorating competition for some time now. By December 15th, it’ll look like Christmas threw up right here in my little cul-de-sac.

Stocking stuffers used to be candy, fruit, small toys, those Chinese finger traps, and if you were a complete bad ass, a lump of coal. The other day I read an article that had a list of suggestions for stocking stuffers. They included, a digital picture frame ($199.), comfort slippers ($50.), portable GPS system ($399.), wireless stock market tracker ($85.), motorized grill cleaning brush ($30.), electronic recipe guide ($25.). GEESH! DOESN’T ANYONE LIKE FRUIT ANYMORE???

I even found a website that is selling an adopt a vine for one year. A perfect gift for any wine lover. You get a welcome letter, a booklet about wine, a personalized pen and a vine adoption certificate. The vine is located at a famous British vineyard. Upon registration, you get a map and directions to the vineyard and a certificate that entitles you to a free tour and wine tasting.

I have a better idea. What about an adopt a flat-screen tv for a year? The perfect gift for any television lover. You would receive a copy of the owner's manuel, a personalized remote, a bunch of information about the history of television, and one full day of movies and two special events...booked in advance, of course. Just send a check for $300. payable to me, and I'll see that you receive your gift package before Christmas.

Sadly, it’s gone beyond commercial at this point and I wouldn’t be surprised if people will start registering for their Christmas gifts and try to get you to believe it will relieve you of the stress of making a decision. If that’s the case, I’ll tell you where I’m registered right now, Longo Lexus, Tiffany & Company, Countrywide Mortgage, Princess Cruises and Ramsgate Yacht Sales.

Yeah, and lets don't forget to cram our faces with candy, pie, turkey, stuffing and those green beans soaked in mushroom soup. I considered taking a class from a well-known chocolate and patisserie school to make Petit Fours, but then I realized I hadn’t taken the prerequisites…Petit Ones, Twos and Threes. Incidentally, if you’re wondering what to do with that fruitcake that no one wants, they make a great floatation device.

This year, I think I will just enjoy a life size snowman, positioned in the middle of my front lawn and fashioned like a caganer.

A Moment of Truth

2011-12-07T22:07:00.000-08:00

I’ve always prided myself on being an honest person, for the most part. I mean, there are those little white lies you tell, “sorry I’m late, I forgot about the time change and didn’t set my clock,” or, “my, that dress makes you look ten pounds lighter.” I like to think of it as being thrifty with the truth. Whatever.

Speaking of being pounds lighter, I was notified that I would need to report to the DMV, to renew my driver’s license. I was a little perturbed by this, because they had been renewing it through the mail for twelve years. I was perfectly content with keeping that particular photo, no matter how old I had become.

So, after waiting over an hour in a long line, listening to sighs and complaints, I reached the clerk at the counter. She looked at my application and asked, “Is all of your information the same?”
I was about to say yes, but some unseen force commanded me to say, “No.”
She looked up. “What has changed?”
“My weight.” I hadn’t changed the weight from the time I applied for my very first driver’s license, at age sixteen. My license claimed I was a lithe, one hundred and fifteen pounds. I figured if I ever had an accident, they would be looking all over for me, underneath the fat woman.

She blinked, and then stared at me, as if I were about a half-bubble off plumb, for admitting to such a thing. “What weight should I put down for you?”
“145.” I lied again! I had actually topped my single birth maternity weight, and was pushing for twins. Of course, if the DMV were smart, they would have a scale with a billboard-size display. You would be fined for every pound exceeded on your driver’s license. Not to mention, everyone in the building could see what you weigh. It sure would take care of the state’s financial deficit. And obesity would be a thing of the past.

She wrote down my answer and sent me over for another picture. I’ve always wondered why they don’t offer finger-size peanut butter sandwiches before they take the shot. This way, when you’re sucking in your cheeks and using your tongue to scrape the peanut butter off the roof of your mouth, they could get an even more attractive photo than they already do.

Know what’s ironic? My doctor finally convinced me to lose weight by threatening me with cholesterol medication. So, now I’m down to one hundred and twenty pounds. That’s only five pounds away from the original weight on my license. Just goes to show, you should let sleeping dogs lie.

Don't Contaminate The Crash Site!

2011-12-04T10:45:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had a computer crash? Well, let me tell you, from my own experience it isn’t pretty. I must say though, I now know more about what not to do than what to do in a computer emergency.

I know I won’t perform CPU on my CPU (central processing unit)… ever again. Yelling at a computer will give you a whole new category in feelings of powerlessness. Watching as data slips away can be a frightening encounter but hitting the keyboard will do nothing more than tip over your bowl of corn chowder. By the way, it is impossible to blow corn chowder out of a computer keyboard. It was at that exact moment that the tower began to grind and squeal. It must have been the sound of the head whatchamacallit ramming into the spinning serving platter that stores stuff. After my tenth attempt at rebooting, I must have caused more damage. At least, that is what Franklin, my computer doctor said. My visit went something like this:

Franklin: Can you describe what was happening when your computer broke down?

Me: I had just finished talking on the phone to my friend, Rita about her overactive bladder. She says her bladder muscles contract inappropriately if you can believe that. Her doctor wants to put her on an antidepressant to paralyze the muscles but the side effects are scary. Blurred vision, dizziness, dry mouth, fatigue, nausea, insomnia…I think I’d rather pee my pants.

Franklin: I mean, what was your computer doing when it stopped operating?

Me: Oh, well I went to look up the website for the bladder foundation. I remember reading that you could remedy an ailing bladder with pelvic floor exercises. I think she should also consider a holistic approach and start taking Butterbur supplements.
I laughed. That reminds me of Barliman Butterbur, you know, the owner of Inn of the Prancing Pony in Lord of the Rings?

Franklin: Then what did you do?

Me: When?

Franklin: When you searched the website.

Me: Oh yeah. Everything froze…even my mouse.

Franklin: And then?

Me: After turning the damn thing off, I rattled off cuss words until I completely ran out. Finally, I said a prayer and then anointed it.

Franklin: With what?

Me: Well, I didn’t think oil would be good for it and I didn’t have any holy water so I spit on it.

Franklin: So, you committed violence against your computer.

Me: Oh, for God’s sake. Are you going to turn me in? Can’t you help me find the little black box that explains why the crash happened?

Franklin: This isn’t a plane crash.

Me: Okay, what about checking with the Sacred Hall of Computer Records or a scanning device of some kind?

Franklin: There is no sacred hall, there are no special tricks to research what led up to the crash unless I can look at it, and the only records for your computer would be inside it.

Me: So, it’s like a really big brain with information stored in different areas?

Franklin: Baby Brain.

Me: Excuse me?

Franklin: I’m assuming you are using a desktop PC.

Me: Well, it’s sitting on my desk, yes.

Franklin: Baby Brain.

I felt my chest tighten and my lower lip began to quiver.

Me: I feel like I’m locked in a big dark box and the directions for getting out are written on the outside. What I need is for you to read them to me, loud and clear in language that a five-year-old child could understand.

Franklin: My five-year-old daughter would have diagnosed the problem and had the computer up and running by now.

It took me a few moments to compose myself.

Me: Alright, Franklin, I’m going to draw a chalk line around this disaster. You just get over here and charge me your $100 an hour. But you better install an airbag because I’m never going to go through another crash like this again.

Merry Christmas To All, Especially All Those Polite.

2011-11-26T11:54:00.000-08:00

Black Friday. Recent acts of violence while shopping may cause us to look at Christmas in a new way, especially those whom have fallen victim of pepper spray. There is an answer to this dilemma. Shoppers who have been sprayed will need to tap into their inner eye of faith where no spice can blind it. The eye of faith can lead to perfect parking spots, 75% off linens, 40% off on Oscar de la Renta Sweaters and don’t forget to pick up a pair of Macy’s Rampage Boots for $19.99, they will come in handy for next year’s Black Friday, unless the world ends on December 21st, in which case none of this will matter.

What if the overall faith in Christmas has been seriously compromised? We could choose to remember that even though it may be a holiday intended to bring families and friends together with seasonal food and drink, dancing, games, and a festive generosity of spirit or we may just need to heed the warning and prepare ourselves for those must-have items.

If you insist on using pepper spray to eliminate the competition, be sure it is organic. Halogenated hydrocarbons can cause severe allergic reactions. Asthmatics suffer more and exposure can cause a violent, allergic, life-threatening reaction known as anaphylactic shock. So, for God’s sake, if you are asthmatic and insist on carrying pepper spray, you may want to consider a formulation that doesn’t contain oleoresin capsicum and avoid possible blowback. A normal reaction to pepper spray is a horrific burning sensation, nerve irritation, runny nose, coughing and temporary blindness. The debilitating effects last for more than 30 minutes, and lessen over several hours.

I would like to offer a few Black Friday safety and self-defense tips for the future:

If you are sprayed with pepper spray, DO NOT RUB the contaminated area! When you touch a contaminated area you aid the pepper spray in opening up the capillaries.

Do your best to grope your way to the nearest grocery store dairy section. Applying whole milk to the affected area should help to take the burn away.

If someone blocks your efforts to obtain milk, apply a common wrestling technique such as the El Kabong which simply involves breaking a guitar over an opponent’s head.

Next, you will need to mix a solution of 25% Dawn dishwashing liquid and 75% water in a large bowl. Plunge your face into the bowl for 10-15 seconds at a time. Recovery time depends on your skin type. It can take anywhere from 15 to 45 minutes before symptoms subside.

You may again face opposition in the kitchen/bathroom aisle. The best maneuver here would be Rolling Thunder. It requires the action of a forward roll towards your opponent using the complete rotation to spring up onto your feet and into the air to perform the attack. I guarantee that when they see a grunting, red-eyed, salivating, crazed person leaping at them, surprise will be their first reaction. When you drop to your knees and raise your arm up between the opponent’s legs, striking the groin with the inside of your elbow joint, be sure to scream out, “Cheap shot!” This will not only create unimaginable pain but they will believe you have out shopped them. Success!

I hope these activities haven’t spoiled the Thanksgiving holiday, which is meant to bring families together and to develop an attitude of gratitude which was wisely expressed by, Charles Haddon Spurgeon, England’s best-known preacher for most of the second half of the nineteenth century.

“You say, ‘If I had a little more, I should be very satisfied.’ You make a mistake. If you are not content with what you have, you would not be satisfied if it were doubled.”

Culture Shock

2011-11-12T21:34:00.000-08:00

I went to my doctor last week to be treated for a chronic sore throat. She said she would need a specimen which by the way was obtained by sticking a three foot long Q-tip into my mouth and swiping the back wall of my throat. Yeacck! My gag reflex was in good working order.

She said she would have to grow a culture and let me know what was found in order to prescribe the proper antibiotic. As I left her office, I imagined a glob of fuzzy throat bacteria growing in a petri dish, dining off some gelatin-like protein substance. Eew.

She called me yesterday, and I found that this was not the case at all. She began describing a fascinating abundance of cultural features that had emerged from my test.

The uppermost region of the dish offered everything you might think of for a relaxing and enjoyable vacation. Sunshine, white beaches, clear water and warm climate. Just adjacent to that was a colony that offered cheap handmade articles such as crochet works, knitwear, pottery, wood-carvings and paintings. A little further down were imperial palaces, gardens and temples. A river flowed through it which led to magnificent views of rock formations and forests and into a teeming metropolis with exceptional architecture and pulsating with life. The crowning glory of the dish was a gigantic metropolis chock full of activity, tall buildings and an endless sea of lights.

I was speechless. To think, all this was taking place from a minuscule daub of my phlegm placed in a petrie dish just a few days ago.

“This is miraculous!”, I said. “Who can we report this to? World Magazine? Newsweek? Time? Maybe U.S. News and World Report?”

There was a long silence before she answered. “We can’t report it to anyone.”

“Why not?” I whined. “I’ll bet the Enquirer would pay thousands for a story like this.”

“Well,” she began. “I offered the dish a stimulus package to encourage growth but inflation accelerated above comfort levels. This caused residents to pass laws regarding global food prices and create policies on subsidies and price caps. This in turn contributed to about ten percent of unemployment.”

“What does that mean?” I huffed. “You’re beginning to sound like CNN”.

“I can only do so much”, her voice filled with impatience. “Bailouts and grants were limited and I had to take into consideration the lack of side lanes, paved shoulders and uncontrolled development of roadsides causing low travel speeds, poor level of service and less long-distance traveling. Without transport services, the culture was doomed.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about dish collapse! Financial crisis! Debt! Predatory Lending! Conflict! Collapse of the housing bubble! Famine! Systemic Crisis! Flood! Destruction!

“What does it all mean?” I was trembling with fear.

“It means I am calling your pharmacy to order you 500mg of Amoxicillin three times a day for ten days. Isn’t it nice to have a doctor with such a great sense of humor?”

Baby Boomers, wake up and smell the coffin

2011-09-30T20:52:00.000-07:00

I Know the title of this blog is a bit shocking, but I just finished reading my hometown magazine and I was aghast at the amount of advertisements there were for cosmetic surgery. I almost feel like a big fat failure, due to the all too obvious consequences of my normal aging process. Not to mention, I am down to my last feminine wile. Please don't ask me which one, I have forgotten and misplaced it as well.

When, as a society, did we place so much more importance in how something or someone looks rather than who they are? Maybe it has always been this way, but I believe we're way over the edge. Gone are the days of successful ageing, or being revered for being rich with experience. The elderly are no longer turned to for their wisdom or worldliness, but sadly reduced to a 20% discount and considered a second-class citizen.

Want to know who I blame? Car manufacturers! That's who! Notice how the names they give cars reflect the way society behaves? We started out with the model T and the Model A. Simple, timeless, and absolutely no underlying message. Then came the nouns. Viva, Previa, Nova, Probe, symbolizing reaching out. Animal names became popular. Mustang, Colt, Durango, Falcon, Impala, Cougar. GRRRRIP the road! Go for the jugular! Names morphed into a sort of lifestyle. Land Rover, Dakota, Yukon, Tahoe, Tacoma, projecting adventure and ambiance. The biggest culprits are, Infiniti, 5th Avenue and Park Avenue, whether you're playing Monopoly or driving a car, the message is the same...larger than life, rich, and beautiful.

I would like to recommend some no-nonsense, down-to-earth names for cars that actually tell it like it is. No sugar coating, just the unvarnished truth and then let's just see where it takes us. Hopefully, our addiction to outer appearances will begin to diminish and we can relax into our comfortable wrinkled bodies and instead, work to expand our spirit.

How about:

Ford Derelict – The main function of this utility vehicle is to drive you to drink. Navigation is performed solely on Bott dots, as tires collect cognizant and constant feedback from the lines on the road. Deluxe interior features include, thirty-three cup holders with automatic lid capabilities, to avoid violating open container laws, driver’s sun visor is equipped with detachable eye patch, to eliminate double vision when inebriated, dual function windshield wiper fluid/beverage storage, with toggle switch, to wash windows or serve your favorite beverage to the central cup holder directly from the fluid well. Lush, leather interior, is available in champagne beige or burgundy red.

Mid-life Chrysler – Youthful design and enough power to take you from sixty to hero in six point five seconds. Equipped with a younger, fitter, replica of your spouse or, if you prefer, a current rock or movie starlet. Complete with soft-focus mirrors behind the sun visors and also on rear view mirror to blur those pesky wrinkles. Satellite navigation is pre-programmed with younger crowd night spots. On-board slang dictionary is constantly updated to include the latest terminology. Inset moisturizing and anti-wrinkle lotion dispensers in each door and bucket seats with Mesotherapy to eliminate cellulite. Handy overhead botox dispenser will keep frown lines from forming due to road rage. (we should have at least one model to maintain our vanity).

Dyslexis SL – Whatever car you currently drive, this model is the exact opposite. Left is right and right is left. Or is it the other way around? As a bonus, this model, will automatically and without notification, backtrack to correct directional miscalculations. Speedometer begins at 120 mph and ends at zero. Luxury signage transposer, will photograph and flip the image of any road sign in as little as five seconds. A lavish treat for any driver suffering from Dysleiax…Dsylexi…Dyslexia.

Oldsmobile Bulimia – Don’t let Consumer Reports frighten you away from this vehicle. Once a portion of all fluids have been purged from the engine, this little roadster has very few rivals. Suspended fluid pan protects garage and driveway surfaces from stains and corrosion. Flushed fluids are fully recyclable. This model is light on its wheels and sport tuned. Actual mileage may vary.

Dodge A.D.D. – The perfect vehicle for, on-the-go, inner city driving. Optimal performance limited to short trips. If longer excursions are necessary, the battery cables can be re-routed to stun the engine at five minute intervals to prompt responsiveness. Stereo scans available music stations every 10 to 20 seconds and is programmed to jump from news-to-news broadcasts every 15 seconds. Turning signals and windshield wipers tend to activate before being initiated. Caution: This model is known to have trouble executing turns and tends to rev the engine without notice.

Just my 2 cents.

The Appliance Whisperer

2011-09-18T14:05:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t sleep last night. Two hours of tossing and turning compelled me to remove myself from my sleeping platform and shuffle into the kitchen for a glass of water or perhaps a chunky peanut butter and banana sandwich on lightly grilled Turkish flatbread.

I was almost through the living room when I thought I heard conversation. I stopped to listen, half expecting to hear the familiar voices of our neighbors telling each other where to go and where they could stick unpleasant things, when all of a sudden I realized that the voices I was hearing were coming from the kitchen. My thoughts were racing which I believe may be the cause of my insomnia in the first place. Thousands of daily stragglers stumble in at ungodly hours hitting both walls of my temporal lobe. Who could sleep through that?

I inched closer to the kitchen and listened to a strange rasping. It was sort of a Mezzo-soprano droning that sent chills up my spine. Its comments were perceptible now. “If she opens my door one more time and sticks her butt-ugly, no-make-up face, morning hair, looking like a troll with an updo, in one more time I think I’ll blow my compressor.” I held my breath. My ears felt as if they were distended as I strained to hear more. “I don’t think she has aired out my crisper in months! There are mystery veggies oozing in the back and growing God-knows-what kind of bacteria. It offends me.”

“I hear you,” a deeper voice replied. “My hood is greasier than a used car lot and my burner knobs are cracked. Really burns me up.”

A shrill voice piped up, “I’ve seen the same stupid orange Fiesta dishware for years and my spray arms are exhausted from fending off week-old dried food chunks. I’m losing teeth and rust is eating its way through my intake valve as we speak.”

My hand flew up over my mouth. Dear God, was it me they were complaining about?

“Just you wait and see what happens to you!” the soprano voice said.

“I’m new, never been used,” a younger voice said cheerfully.

There was a knowing chuckle. “Yeah, we were too once but look at us now. One day you’ll be struggling to melt a piece a cheese over one of her Tuscan chicken crock pot sandwiches and she will just toss you in the garbage.”

“Crossbreed!” a barratone voice bellowed. “What the heck are you anyway? A toaster or an oven? She used to come to me when she wanted a hot meal. Now I have cobwebs on my rack and dust bunnies in my broiler. I might get a once-a-year job when she shoves in an oversize fowl. Talk about feeling useless!”

“Can’t we all just get along?” came from the direction of the blender.

“Easy for you to say,” the refrigerator chimed in. “You and your sharp blades and tight base gasket. Didn’t you get here at the same time as toaster-oven? New, never been used, fourteen speed, 450 watts of ice crushing power!”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I should be ostracized,” the blender whined.

“I thought Oster was your name,” said the stove. “I guess that would make you Ostercized.”

A burst of laughter filled the kitchen. I took a step forward to get closer. The floor squeaked. Suddenly the laughter stopped and everything went silent.

I almost did a half in-half-out back flip with a ½ twist in tuck position when my husband tapped me on the shoulder and asked what I was doing.

“I’m trying to hear what the appliances are saying about me but they are non-responsive.”

He gave me a quirky look and turned around and went back to bed.

Laughirmations

2011-08-28T10:12:00.000-07:00

People who know me can attest to the fact that I am an avid fan of multi-tasking. However, I am most drawn to the tasks that can be performed while I am sleeping. You have heard about them, ‘earn money while you sleep’, ‘become smarter while you sleep’ and my most often tried, ‘lose weight while you sleep’. Of course, I have not mastered any of these techniques but that doesn’t mean I am not open to the idea that some vigorous sawing of logs can’t manifest a desired goal.

I recently came across the title of an article, ‘You can become gorgeous in your sleep’. This thrilling promise intrigued me and I was compelled to read some of the suggested methods but before I tried them I researched the aging process. Big mistake.

I found that our skin is composed of two main layers, the epidermis and the dermis. Both of these diminish in aging and the dermis thins by about twenty percent. The blood supply drops off with time and wrinkles develop. That coupled with the loss of collagen, a cement-like protein that holds cells together is what causes appearance of aging. What I found is that I am literally coming unglued. This gives the ‘War on Aging’ movement a whole new meaning for me even although I consider myself a lover not a fighter. The underlying message here is the older I get, the better I was.

The difference between my earlier attempts at sleep goals and the one I am attempting now is in the preparation. Getting richer, smarter or thinner involved affirmations whispered to me while I slumbered. Obviously, my subconscious is a much more resistant opponent than I suspected. I think it will take a lot more than encouraging whispers for me to become rich, smart or thin.

The first suggestion for waking up gorgeous was to sleep on your back. Now I don’t know about you but after I fall asleep I don’t know what position I assume although I have at times woke up in the duck and cover position that I learned in elementary school. I would have to be resourceful to insure I stayed on my back all night. I asked my husband to straddle a chair over me once I found the most comfortable position on my back with my head slightly elevated. Wedging myself between the legs of a kitchen chair was the only way I could be sure to maintain this corpse-like posture.

The second suggestion was to use a humidifier in the bedroom but between my husband’s resonate snore and the constant hissing of the humidifier, my dreams involved snakes sucking madly on straws long after their beverage was gone. I woke to my own screams, sat up rigid as a tombstone and bumped my forehead against the wooden dowels on the back of the chair. My husband was happy to hear I decided to discontinue these two techniques. Besides, I was tired of waking up like I had just entered a wet-tee shirt contest.

I washed my hair and combed a deep conditioner into it. I put on a shower cap as suggested so I wouldn’t ruin my sheets. Then I diligently applied Frownies (patches that adhere to your skin while you sleep to prevent your face from making the facial expressions that cause wrinkles)and afterward applied a thick ultra-hydrating moisturizer. Next I glopped petroleum jelly on my eyelashes (to prevent them from becoming brittle and falling out), hands and feet. I wore gloves and socks to seal in the moisturizer. Next I applied several layers of medicated lip balm the color of old lace and slipped in my teeth whitening trays.

Words cannot describe the expression on my husband’s face as I slipped into bed next to him. So I won’t try. When I turned out my light, the only thing I said was, “No more waking up to split ends, yellow teeth, a pale, pasty complexion or droopy bags under my eyes.”

His response was, “This is how you’re going to wake up gorgeous?”
I awoke early the next morning with the shower cap over my face as I gasped for air. The teeth whitening trays were lying neatly on my husband’s chest. My socks and gloves were on the end of the bed and the sheets were mottled with grease stains. I must have rubbed the petroleum jelly into my eyes while I slept because it took hours for the blurriness to go away. It was when I looked into the mirror that I realized that I am gorgeous. The petroleum jelly had provided a sort of Joan Collins filter to my naked eye and all the lines and wrinkles on my face had vanished! I had discovered the secret! This is the reason God planned for our eyesight to diminish…so we can’t see what happens to our bodies. I have limited my beauty regimen to one thing. Petroleum jelly. Now we’re all gorgeous. If only I could convince everyone to use it.

The last thing I’m going to say is, “younger people, why don’t you mind your own damn business!” You’ll get there too one day. The next time I see one of you jogging past my house with your three-hundred dollar running shoes and hand-held dumbbells I’m going to pick up a rock the size of a fibroid tumor and holler, “Serpentine, runner… serpentine!”

Six Weeks

2011-05-30T13:40:00.000-07:00

Just think, in one eighth of the gestation time it took to build me, I can fall in love with myself. That is what the ad promised me. The course would give me everything I need to create the outcome of loving myself and receive help and guidance from Mother Mary who is channeled by an unknown seeker. By signing up for the course, I would be giving Mother Mary permission to suggest actions to take that would profoundly affect the way I feel about myself. Loving myself, would be the result of taking the actions Mother Mary would recommend each week and help me find my inner compass. I paid $50.00.

Week one: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I was just about to slice off a second hunk of chocolate peanut butter pie. Enveloped in a moment of clarity, I set the server down.

Week two: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I was just about to flip off the driver who wheeled into the parking space I had my eye on. Nodding in agreement, I exercised restraint of tongue and finger.

Week three: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I was considering mentioning to an acquaintance in the nicest way possible that her bracelet, the size of Alaska, was competing with her rocket ship earrings. I suddenly realized the rattling of her baubles were drowning out the negative comments she was sharing about a mutual acquaintance.

Week four: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I refrained from beating an annoying salesman with a display rack. I took a deep breath, smiled and wished him a nice day.

Week five: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” Instead of yelling at the neighbor’s dog pooping in my yard, I gently picked him up, bagged the poop and set both on their porch. No, I did not light the bag.

Week Six: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I looked up from my laptop and gazed around at the many writers sitting with their own laptops at the local Starbucks racking their brains to touch their reader’s soul with the perfect product review and ignoring their fellow coffee drinkers. Instead of releasing a primal scream, I asked the woman at the next table if I could get her opinion on her favorite restaurant for an article I was writing.

As I completed this course, I realized that I never need be ambassador of the world, custodian of fashion, minister of the road, or overseer of bad manners again. I need only watch my own side of the street by monitoring my own behavior, my own diet, my own clothes and simply treat others as I wish to be treated.

Who would have thought that this two-thousand-year-old direction would be the very thing to turn a hard-headed, fix-you-upper into a keep her eyes on her own paper kind of woman?

I can’t say I am in love with myself but I did give me a wink as I put on my make-up this morning. I’m toying with the idea of buying me a new outfit and next week I think I’m gonna take me to dinner. I got the skinny on a great restaurant at Starbucks.

Mother's Day

2011-05-08T11:41:00.000-07:00

Good Morning, Joel,

It's been a while since I posted a blog and I remember how much you said you enjoyed reading them. Today is Mother's Day and I felt your presence this morning so this one's for you.

Gabrielle texted me and wanted my recipe for French Toast. She's making a breakfast in bed for her mom. She's grown into such a beautiful young lady. Age ten going on twenty. She's sensitive, loving, talented and extremely bright. You would be so proud of her.

I want you to know how much I miss you and if you were still here, I would remind you of my favorite times of being your mother, like rocking you in our chair until you fell asleep and feeling your heart beat against mine. When you were two, you loved pretending that you were talking on the phone which is why the extension was always off the hook in the master bedroom.

The day you went off to kindergarten and I thought you would be scared but you weren't, you were excited. You didn't cry, I did. You always shared whatever you had, wondered why some people were mean, loved animals and seemed happier when earned something than when it was given to you.

You said lots of things that made me laugh. "I just stuck my tongue out at God." (Age 5) "Was the world in black and white when you were a kid?" (Age 7)You watched too many old movies. "When you turn 40, do you stop having sex and listen to the WAVE?" (Age 9) "Why do they always ask that trick question when you interview for a job? Why do you want to work here?" (Age 16).

I miss taking you to Woodcraft Rangers, to the library to work on the reports you forgot were due the next day, to Disneyland, Magic Mountain, the snow, Reseda park to feed the ducks, the beach, and to play on the metal Robot at Santa Clarita Park. I miss going to 31 flavors and I remember one particular day when you asked why people were laughing at you (age 6). You had vanilla ice cream from ear to ear. I told you not to pay attention, they just didn't know how to eat ice cream. Of course, you always wanted vanilla ice cream no matter what the flavor of the day was. I order it myself now and think of you while I eat it.

I miss the sleep overs with your friends and waking up on Sunday mornings with sleeping bags plopped all over the living room, not even knowing who was in each one. I miss making you cream of wheat and watch you blazing a trail with your spoon so the butter would run down in a spiral. I miss watching you play video games on Saturday morning, skate boarding and riding your bike. I miss scrambling for money because the ice cream man was coming. I miss open house at school and your sixth grade graduation when I embarrassed you by crying so hard that I snorted when your class sang, Wind Beneath My Wings.

I miss hearing you laugh, sing your favorite songs when you thought I wasn't listening and not being embarrassed to be seen with me when you were in your teens. Thanks for taking me to see Ghost among many other movies. I loved it just as you said I would and I loved you more when we ran into some of your friends at the theater. It's not easy for a sixteen year old to tell his friends he wanted his mom to see the movie.

I cried each time you left to go to the prom. Three times! You never believed me when I said you were a hunk. I loved going with you to the tux shop and the time you chose the beige tux with the black lapels and I thought you would get criticized for being odd man out but all your friends were blown away and they loved it. I cried hard at your high school graduation but you were too far away to hear me to get embarrassed.

I was proud that you went to college and graduated with honors while you were working and supporting a wife and baby. I cried again. And again. I was proud each time you told me you were promoted and got a raise. I was happy to see you with your daughter. She's a lot like you.

If you were here today, I would tell you that life is hard, some folks will always be mean, ice cream is better when it's all over your face and there will be times when people let you down although it isn't because they don't love you. I would tell you I love you and never stop. Never stop. Never Stop.

You are always a blessing, never a loss. I thank God for giving me the privilege of being your mother and I am flattered that he trusted me with you. You were loaned to me for a time and I will always treasure that. I know you are really God's kid.

Blessings to you and yours and I look forward to the day when you will escort me into the next dimension.

I love you to the moon and back.
Momma

FUN WITH TEXT AND PAIN

2011-01-22T11:10:00.000-08:00

Wow, the internet was buzzing with freaky news yesterday. Two articles were especially interesting. First, a woman at the Berkshire mall fell into the indoor fountain while texting and walking. Unfortunately, the security guard who posted the video on You Tube was fired. I imagine this unforgivable breach of security may lead to a career change. On a lighter note, I posted the video on my wall, as we know a video is worth a thousand words.

The second article that caught my eye was about a 44-year-old woman in New Zealand who suffered a small stroke caused by a hickey. She went to the emergency room after she found that she couldn’t move her left arm while she was watching TV.

Who would think that a love bite could be so dangerous? It seems that if someone sucks your neck close to a major artery there is a chance of bruising the vessel and creating a blood clot which is what happened in this case. The clot traveled to the woman’s heart and caused the minor stroke which left her partially paralyzed. She was treated with an anticoagulant and the clot disappeared within a week. Whew!
Doctors poured through medical literature to find an example of this happening in the past and they found nothing.

This makes me wonder…why can’t I write things like this?!! This is good stuff. Two women are finding fame and fortune because of measureless stupidity. I’ve done stupid things but they never get filmed. I’ve seen stupid things that will never get reported.

There’s definitely something to be said for being in the right place at the right time. Remarkably, in these cases, bad news is good news. The texter will most likely sue the Berkshire mall and win her case. Indoor fountains will be permanently banned. Hickey lady will begin to tour high schools with her warning about the dangers of neck sucking.

I only have two questions. What the hell is a 44 year old woman doing with a hickey? And why do you have to move your left arm when you’re watching TV?...OMG, unless of course her amorous lover was sitting there.

Current Events

2011-01-16T11:50:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

I logged onto my computer this morning and a listing under local news caught my eye. It was titled, Botox: guilty of crimes against beauty? As I read the article, I experienced a strange feeling that I had read it before. I have to admit that I have had many of these types of encounters and have even gone so far as to consider myself borderline psychic. Of course, that was before I read the date of the article, Thursday, 23 September 2004, and realized that I really had read it before.

Are we running out of news? Why would this article be posted under current events? Are they trying to make me think I am crazy? Hah! No challenge there. I was prompted to scan my ancient document files and found a very short story I wrote in 2004, I’m assuming this was the article that inspired, Botox and the Three Dares. Hope you like it.

Liz peeled the paper backing from her name tag and stifled a sigh. "Marla’s such a twit," she whispered to Ruth while pressing the tag over her right breast. “I can’t believe she’s doing this.”
Ruth looked around the room anxiously. "Well, why did you agree to come if you are so dead set against the idea?"
The corner of Liz’s mouth tipped up. "You wouldn't want to go anywhere without your voice of reason would you?"
"Oh stop it. You're just mad because she thought of it first."
"You've gotta be kidding, I'm not going to let some quack shoot me up with Botulism." Liz nodded in the doctor’s direction.
"Well, personally I don't think that getting rid of a few laugh lines is all that bad."
Liz huffed out a breath."Laugh lines? How would Marla get laugh lines? She's been married to Barry for fifteen years."
“She was just released from rehab you know”, Ruth whispered. She got hooked on pain meds after her breast augmentation. Barry said it got really bad, she was flirting with death.”
Liz smirked. “I heard it was more of a lap dance. See where all this vanity takes you?”
"Look, just talk to him, he's coming this way,” Ruth said. "Hello Dr. Barton." She smiled sweetly and shook his hand.
"Ladies. Enjoying the party?" His glance drifted down to their feet and back again. "Any questions I might answer?"
Liz reached for a glass of wine from the table. "How many forehead furrows have you conquered today?"
Dr. Barton looked at her solemnly. "Not everyone is a good candidate for treatment."
Ruth leaned close to Dr. Barton as she pointed to an infinitesimal discoloration on the bridge of her nose.
"Do you know what this might be?"
He examined the area briefly and smiled. "My dear, it is nothing more than a small footprint left by time, of course the foot size will grow and won’t be satisfied until it has trampled away all evidence of your youth.” He slipped an arm around her shoulder.
“Come to my office.”
"Where is that? In the bedroom?" Liz said thrusting her face close to his.
"Liz! Dr. Barton is trying to save us from premature ageing.”
Liz rolled her eyes. "Oh good then, pass the hors d'oeuvres and consent forms."
"Tell me Dr. B, how exactly does the Botox work?" Ruth asked.
Dr. Barton pushed back his lab coat and drew a gold watch from his vest. He pressed his thumb on the catch and snapped the cover open to stare blindly at its face.
"When Botox is injected into the muscles surrounding the eyes, for instance, those muscles can't scrunch up for about six months. If an area of the body can't move, it can't wrinkle." He returned the watch to his pocket.
"Sounds great if you're playing poker, it's so hard to maintain that numb look with a winning hand."
Ruth looked concerned. "So is there a chance that something could go wrong?"
"Well of course it could!" Liz chimed in. "Your muscles will be paralyzed! I mean doesn't Brad complain enough about you being non-responsive in bed? How do you think he will like you staring back at him with a blank expression? Permanently!"
Now, Liz," Dr. Barton put his hand lightly on her shoulder. "May I call you Liz?"
Liz winged an eyebrow up.
"The injectable form of botulinumtoxin is perfectly safe.” He smiled broadly and
held up a swearing palm. ”There is absolutely nothing to worry about. Now, may I take your picture with my UV camera?"
Liz brushed past Dr. Barton. "You want another drink?" She glanced back at Ruth.
"Don't mind her Dr. B, you can take my picture." Ruth grinned.
"Just fill out the form and wait for me in the next room I'll be right with you."
Dr. Barton strolled over to Liz. "Sure you don't want to join your friend?"
"Am I the only one concerned here?" She waved her hand indicating the eagerness in the room.
Dr. Barton raked a hand through his thinning hair. "Nonsense, nothing to be concerned about, everyone is doing it."
"Excuse me for being skeptical doctor but I believe anything that has the ability to attack my muscles poses as a severe threat." Liz downed her wine and reached for another glass. "I mean if it were injected in my chest, it would have a profound impact on my breathing wouldn't it?"
He lightly touched her cheekbone with his pinky finger. "Yes, but it isn't your chest…it's those pesky little lines around your eyes."
"Dr. B, will you be injecting me soon?" Ruth rudely rattled the form next to his ear.
Marla sauntered over with a rather annoyed looking chap in tow.
"Liz…Ruth, so glad you could come to my Bo party." She had a fierce grip on the gentleman's arm. "I'd like you to meet Hunter."
"Well hello, Hunter." Liz smiled and extended her hand, but Marla jerked him aside before he could reach it.
"Hunter is an actor between pants, ah parts." Marla said. "He came to offer me emotional support. I despise needles…don't I Hunter?" She threw him a pout.
Hunter smiled wryly. "In spite of appearances," he reached out and took Liz’s hand. "Marla is not a ventriloquist and I am no dummy." Liz caught the defiant tone in his voice as he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “As a matter of fact, I just landed a part in one of the daytime operas. I’ll be playing the part of a transient who blows into a small town and falls in love with a co-dependent debutant obsessed with giving him a make over.”
“Oh? Which soap would that be?” Dr. Barton asked.
Hunter looked at Dr. Barton and gave Liz’s hand a squeeze before releasing it. “Women Betrayed.”
Dr. Barton nodded knowingly. “Yes, I inject the whole cast of that one.”
"Hunter dear, would you mind refilling my glass?" Marla shoved her empty goblet at him.
"Happy to." He took the glass, made a slight bow and gave Liz a spectacular smile.
Dr. Barton nodded politely and then drifted away to begin treatments.
Marla sneered. "So Liz, are you still in retail?"
"Yes, Marla, I still work at the boutique in the mall."
"I just love that red dress you're wearing, in fact I love it more each time I see it." Marla's collagen filled lips quivered before forming a smile.
"Thanks."
Marla turned to Ruth. "Tell me Ruthie, is Brad still looking for work?"
"I'm afraid so, I really shouldn't spend the money for the injections but,” her voice trailed off as she twirled a lock of her hair and stared at the tops of her shoes.
"Well, he must be coming up to the last of the unemployment checks," Marla winked. "Then again, you must be ever so tired of staring at those unsightly lines in the mirror. Thank God for Dr. Barton, huh?"
Marla clasped Liz's forearm and spoke softly. "You know Liz, I have the name of another dermatologist. He works wonders with enlarged pores, I'll give you his number before you leave."
"You're too thoughtful Marla.”
"Oh, excuse me will you? Hunter is trying to get my attention." Marla scurried off toward the dining room.
Liz’s eyes followed Marla and she slowly shook her head. "Should I have offered her a toothpick?"
"She did kind of make a meal of us didn't she?"
"Picked our bones clean." Liz said through gritted teeth. She switched her attention to her new acquaintance and smiled. "What do you think of Hunter?"
"God, he's really cute and he keeps looking over at you,” Ruth said with a giggle.
"Yeah, I wouldn't mind running my fingers through that thick dark hair of his."
"Liz! What would Marla say?"
"Who cares? She's married and I'm single…all is fair in love and pores.”
"Whatever Liz, I'm going to get my injections now. Are you sure you won't join me?" Ruth gave her an encouraging nod.
"How old do you think Hunter is?" Liz asked.
Ruth leaned forward and squinted to see his features. "I would guess he's a good ten years younger than us."
Liz turned and snagged one of the consent forms from the table and regarded it carefully. She held it up and as she tore it neatly in half when her gaze met Hunter’s.
“You know Ruth, I have a hunch that not too long from now, I’m going to be feeling about ten years younger.”

A Little Bit Thankful

2010-11-25T07:59:00.000-08:00

He was a Patuxet Indian, and his name was Squanto. When he was a young man, he went to England on a trading ship. He was made part of an Indian Exhibit on a London stage, he worked as a servant, was tricked into going on board a slave ship to Spain where he was sold.

Luckily, he fell into the hands of a group of friars at a Catholic monastery. They freed him and turned him into a Christian. By the time he located a ship captain that would agree to take him home, twelve years had passed. When he returned home, there was no trace of his family or friends. They had all been struck with a great sickness. Every one of them had died. He was the last of his tribe, but at least he could speak English, that was the important thing.

Squanto was the one who showed the Pilgrims how to build warm houses. Then, taught them when and where to plant. He showed them how to plant and use fish for fertilizer to grow corn faster. He taught the women how to cook the corn. He acted as an interpreter, guide, and gave advice on bargaining with the natives. Without him, the pilgrims would never have survived the season. In fact, half of them had already died in the harsh winter weather.

To me, this was a true act of forgiveness. To be enslaved, beaten, mistreated and stripped of his pride, and still be willing to offer life-saving help. Now that's being thankful!

This year, we have decided to celebrate an authentic Thanksgiving. Our menu will include cod fish, steamed clams, eel wrapped in sea weed, pease porridge, a variety of dried fruit and hardtack.

There is no indication that there ever was a second harvest celebration. We had to wait 280 years for the food to improve before we could truly celebrate.

We're actually having Lasagna this year, along with the usual. But what would Thanksgiving be without, cheeseballs, nutballs and footballs?

Writer's Concrete Block

2010-11-13T10:44:00.000-08:00

Have you ever wondered how long it takes to break up a cement driveway with a pickaxe and a sledge hammer? I haven’t either, and I don’t know yet because he’s still working on it. The pickaxe resonates with a ping-thump sound as it chips away at the rock-hard gray substance that was laid down so many years ago. The sledge hammer sounds like a loud crack and then a thud as large chunks give way. The scraping sounds set my teeth on edge.

Now I am wondering if he knows that they have developed machinery to do this type of work. A Bobcat, with a front mounted jack hammer could do the work in a fraction of the time, but since this is a job arranged by the home owners association, I suppose saving money is the first order of business. One man, one pickaxe, one sledge hammer, and staggering stamina. Whack! Crack! Ping! Thud!

I just looked out the window to watch him use the flat end of the head to pry up a hefty chunk of four inch concrete. This visual is much better than written research and will come in handy for me if I ever write a story about a Mason who accepts jobs from tightfisted homeowners associations. Let’s see, what would I name him? Rock Morter? Connor (Con) Crete? Or maybe an antonym would be more fitting like, Loose Gravel. Now I’m being silly.

Somehow, this brings memories of my mother back. I can still hear her say, “you do everything the hard way.” Seems strange coming from a woman who tried to stop a car from rolling down a driveway with her bare hands rather than snatching a small child (me) dangling from the open door before dropping off under the front wheel. Good thing I was really young, flexible bones and a whole lot of luck kept me from sustaining any permanent damage.

I’ve always known that noises interfere with my thinking process which, at times, puts me at a disadvantage. I marvel at writers who sit in coffee shops to get their work done. Peck, peck, peck, they type, oblivious to their surroundings. One blast of the blender mixing someone’s Caramel, Mocha Frappiccino and I would be out the door. I just can’t incorporate noise into the creative writing process with any type of flow. It’s kind of like when reality gets in the way of an aspiration. Maybe I should write a piece on the Big Bang theory. Bang! Boom! Bonk! Scrape! No, I’m not that smart. Sometimes I wish I had a funny icon on my tool bar. Just click and everything you write is funny.

Uh oh, the chain gang just added another worker. Oh, it’s Juan, my gardener. I don’t suppose the pickaxe guy likes the cement dust being blown into his face by Juan’s leaf blower but that’s their axe to grind. The purpose of the driveway replacement is to eliminate trip hazards. I can’t tell you how many piles of bricks, dirt and cement there are, not to mention the wheel barrow sitting at the base of the porch steps. Now I’m listening to the Edgar Winter Group perform, Free Ride, in my head.

Saturday morning is my favorite time to write but there are signs that it’s time to stop. I’m thinking in broken English, my train of thought has been derailed and I am flitting from one subject to another like a hummingbird on crack. I guess I’ll take the worker some iced tea so all I will hear for the next few minutes is the tinkle of ice in the glass. Ahhhhh.

Skinny Thinking Diet?

2010-11-07T13:57:00.000-08:00

I’ve been taught that you can’t think your way into healthy living, you have to act your way into healthy thinking. This theory has worked in several areas of my life except for one, food. I love food and there is nothing wrong with that as long as it doesn’t become a dysfunctional relationship.

Sadly, I have had a dysfunctional relationship with food for over twenty years. The way the dynamic works is on a come here - go away cycle. I admit it, I beckon the dastardly Pasta Fagioli for a one-night stand more than I care to admit, a power struggle ensues, and before I know it I am scraping sauce off the ceiling. I never mean for it to become violent but after I have already gained an unwanted twenty pounds, my thinking process is compromised.

What is so frustrating is that the disease of food-codependence is insidious and powerful and begins to fold back on me. Shame beats me up after wolfing down a complete box of Dulce De Leche girl scout cookies and then knowing that a Tommy’s double cheeseburger lies in wait only fuels the panic. This toxic, one-sided romance is taking its toll.

My boyfriend caught me having a tussle with a pork tenderloin the other night. Somehow I had become tangled up in kitchen twine. He was able to free me but sadly was unable to save the roast. With remnants of butter roasted potatoes smashed against my cheeks, I rose from the floor and expressed my gratitude. We celebrated by sharing a trough of Ben and Jerry’s Dublin Mudslide.

Unhappily, I admit defeat. Food has won the battle. I have been beaten by it until my body has swollen past the seams of my designer jeans. Paraphrasing the words of Shakespeare, ‘I have eaten myself out of my five senses.’ The course of true love never did run smooth and mine was no exception. It is time to lower the drawbridge of my wall of denial and usher in a new way of thinking, the skinny way of thinking.

I am now envisioning my body the way I want it to be. Perfectly proportioned and fit. I can see myself admiring my image in the bedroom mirror. I’m wearing that sexy little black off the shoulder dress that I didn’t think I would ever fit into again. I am smiling as I slowly turn from side to side. But, wait a minute, there is a slight bulge in one of the slit sleeves. I see myself pulling out a large Caramello candy bar. No way! I can already smell the rich milk chocolate right through the wrapper. My fingers tremble as I pull the paper away and turn from the mirror. I feel the firmness of the bar between my lips and a string of caramel drips down my chin after the first bite. I am powerless to stop until the candy bar is gone. The feeling of despair overwhelms me. It was the most disturbing imagining I have had since reading Stephen King’s, The Dark Half. I need comforting.

I will have to dispose of the large pizza box before it is found. I think I will bury this one in the backyard. I can make another corned beef casserole to replace the one I ate while waiting for the pizza delivery but I won’t have time to restore the top layer of the double layer pumpkin cheesecake. I’m sure some whipped cream can cover up the damage though. Oh my God, what am I doing? The seduction of food has overpowered me once again. Just as I feared, I am unable to think my way skinny!

There is one last option…the garlic and onion diet. It makes you smell so bad that no one can stand being close to you, but then we all look slimmer from a distance, don’t we?

Ventrilo Kissed

2010-10-31T12:53:00.000-07:00

I’m not a big fan of air kisses. They often seem to say, “I’d kiss you if I really liked you but since I don’t, I’d rather not soil my lips.”

I was watching the movie, ‘What About Bob’, again… and I always laugh when Dr. Leo Marvin talks to his daughter, Anna, using their look-alike puppet dolls. She fiercely resists but finally gives in to have their puppet conversation in which she tells him exactly what she really thinks.

Using puppets is an excellent way to communicate. It’s a little bit like the air kiss. You’re there, but not. Why don’t we all get look-alike puppets and make it a universal way to communicate? Imagine how many things you could say to someone who intimidates you or pisses you off if it was your doll who said it. Poof! All responsibility is removed from you and put on your puppet, you know, something inanimate to sop up the blame.

Getting stopped for a traffic violation is always unnerving but what if I just whip out my puppet and say, “Gosh officer, you must have been following me for miles but I swear I don’t have any donuts.”

I used to feel dreadfully inadequate around other artists. I often criticized my own work before they could. There was one very arrogant artist that I would have loved to address with my puppet. “Wow, you sure have a lot of talent. You’re ice sculptures are amazing but what do you do with them after they melt?”

No one likes reporting for jury duty. How about responding like this, “yes, I pride myself on being able to spot a guilty person from miles away, your honor. By the way, I’ve often wondered, what exactly are you wearing under that robe?”

Gossipy co-workers? “You heard it through the grape vine? Why don’t you swing through the word of mouth jungle on the more advanced, Neolithic Echo Jungle vine? It’s much more reliable with information, faster and, oh yeah, when you’re through with that expedition party be sure to come back and tell me all about it!”

Bad Drivers? Let your puppet give them a piece of your mind. “Yeah, that’s right, don’t adjust your speed to freeway driving, just cut me off and poke along so we’ll both be late.” For this conversation your puppet will need to be equipped with an extended middle digit.

Snooty store clerks are particularly annoying to me. I would love to take out my puppet me. “Why are you so high and mighty? Is it company policy for you to act like a condescending moron? You’re probably living off commission and depend on goofy people like me to buy your crap!”

You can probably think of lots of other conversations within your circle of fiends. Did I say fiends? I meant friends. Kiss, kiss.

Vodka Drip

2010-10-07T12:33:00.000-07:00

I came across an article published in The Associated Press. It was reported that Australian doctors plugged a poisoned Italian tourist into a vodka drip after running out of medicinal alcohol. I thought this an extremely unconventional treatment. I had no idea that pure alcohol was used to treat any sort of condition aside from a nasty hangover.

It seems the undisclosed 24-year-old Italian, had ingested a large amount of ethylene glycol. Anyone knows that ethylene glycol is a clear, colorless, slightly sweet and syrupy (yum) liquid at room temperature. It can be used to make antifreeze, de-icing solutions, polyester compounds and photographic developing solutions, hydraulic brake fluids and inks used in stamp pads. It can also be turned into a vapor by shaking it briskly. For this, you would need a cocktail shaker.

The story described his treatment in detail, but never revealed how the man had ingested the substance. Was he drunk? Ill? Did he fall asleep under a leaky car? Was he suicidal? Blind? Cold? Stupid? Playing a practical joke on himself? What? Without more information it’s difficult to say. So, if only to ease my vexation for not being given the details, I decided to fill in the blanks myself.

Prudenzio, (Latin, meaning cautious) had studied the culture and history of Australia all of his life. He was particularly sympathetic to the Aboriginal people, who had been run off their land in the late 19th century by white Europeans. He had always dreamed of going to Australia to protest their plight. After five years of working as an au pair for a mafia family in Naples, Prudenzio had finally saved enough money to carry out his vision.

After spending only three weeks among the Aborigines, Prudenzio was found at the bottom of a hundred-foot cliff, trapped under the car he had been using. Under multiple layers of gold chains, his naked chest sported hundreds of images of ink-stamped Crocodiles, presumed to make him appear to be more native-like. The polyester pants he was wearing were drenched in photographic developing solution. After being side-swiped, the car careened off the edge of a cliff, rolled down several hundred feet to crash through the roof of a 24 hour photo shop. Authorities learned that despite his many attempts, Prudenzio fell short of being able to perform the authentic dances of the Aborigines and had grown despondent. Traces of antifreeze were found at the corners of his mouth which would explain his erratic driving.

The Brisbane doctor said they quickly used all the available vials of 100 percent alcohol. The next best alternative would be vodka. Prudenzio was hooked up to a nasogastric tube and drip-fed about three standard drinks an hour for three days. The Marachino cherries must have been excruciating.

Prudenzio made a successful recovery. The incident occurred about two years ago, though the hospital just released the information on the case. I’m sure they wanted to make certain that the rehab treatment would prove successful as well.

The Evil Eye

2010-09-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

I have a Facebook friend who suggested that I try an exercise used as a technique in actor training. It’s called, Synergenis. He explained the idea is to get your body sense memory, imagination and emotions to work together more effectively. For instance, when you’re happy, you smile. If you smile, you will automatically feel happy inside. Make sense? He instructed me to sit in front of a mirror and smile at myself for ten minutes and then post my results.

It took me well over two weeks to get up the courage to stare at myself that long…let alone smile. Ten minutes is a lot longer than you think when you’re staring at yourself and smiling, or even trying to. What finally compelled me to try the exercise was my online horoscope. It said, ‘be seductive when it comes to expressing your passion for others today, dear Leo. There is more to your glance than meets the eye. The untrained prey has no chance against your hypnotic stare’. How could I go wrong with a forecast like that? I gave it a try.

Since that fateful day, I have begun experiencing things, little things that most people wouldn’t give a second thought to. Things that might be attributed to changes in the weather or an unexpected adjustment of plans, such as a bad sinus headache or finding that the Dill Weed in my cupboard, which I intended to use in a new recipe had the expiration date of 1982. Last week, I left a message on a friend’s cell phone. After I finished recording, I was curious about the direction given by the perfunctory voice that I have heard hundreds of times. “For more options, press one.” I pressed one, but there were no more options. It was ominous. I felt an evil presence that seemed to cast an eerie shadow as from a dark cloud. It drifted above causing a chill to run through me.

I began to notice other things too. My online grocery purchases were delivered straight to my neighbor’s door. After numerous calls to the grocery store and to my neighbor, my articles were returned with several slices of the Orowheat cracked wheat bread missing from the loaf, two sleeves of crackers were absent from my Fresh Stacks Ritz crackers and what remained of an Orville Reddenbacker microwave sack with a few kernels of unpopped corn. What was causing me to experience such a sudden patch of bad luck?

I stumbled across an article on the Internet that may have solved the mystery of why things aren’t going so well. The evil eye is to blame. Yes, it’s true. According to this article, it is quite possible to inadvertently bring the evil eye, hairy eye, stink eye, whatever you want to call it, on yourself. I knew I was vulnerable to negative energies but I never dreamed that I could sabotage my circumstances with my own powerful hypnotic stare. Unfortunately, the spell won’t just go away, it must be removed by burning rare seeds or hanging a plant called, Camel’s Needle, at the front door. I could gather uzarlik to burn but I have no idea of how to get to the Khizi mountains, but I do know it is north of Baku on the road to Guba.

I started to panic. How could I remove my evil eye spell if I couldn’t get my hands on the proper remedy? My neighbor observed my agitation and after pouring out the frightening details of my dilemma to her, she said I could call her grandmother who lives in Mexico. She had the perfect remedy to protect against the evil eye.

I called her at exactly 6:48 pm as I was instructed. A feeble voice answered and with a thick accent she said, “Take the right eye of a hyena and put it in very strong vinegar for seven days. Then boil it. Take it to a remote place, where a rooster’s crow cannot be heard and bury it next to a cactus plant. Your spell will be broken.”

I think it might be easier to avoid mirrors.

A Temple in the Hood

2010-09-05T15:39:00.000-07:00

Some are taught as children that Womanhood is sacred, life-giving, strong and wise. Huh.

When a woman can look back into her past, without resentment, for the too numerous to mention times her friends pointed out how much of an idiot she could be, but then often reminded her of how much she had improved, and learned that it was the truth that set her free, that at first had pissed her off.

When a woman can look back at her weight during pregnancy, and the all encompassing desire for Cracker Jacks and Chicken Yakatori, she can embrace the fullness of her experience, considering no one else could get their arms around her.

When a woman can look back into her past, without regret, without spotlighting the screams directed at her husband while giving birth, “You did this to me, you bastard! Oh God! This is all your fault!” She can embrace the gift of her experience or at least until she develops calluses on her nipples from breastfeeding.

When a woman can look back into her past at the ongoing unhappiness she has connected with the shape of her body, and she can then allow her personal trainer to pry the handcrafted Cinnamon Dolce Latte from one hand, and the chocolate iced vanilla pound cake from the other, she will be liberated.

When a woman can look back into her past, without hesitation or bitterness, and throw her personal trainer and caution to the wind, to build upon what she had gained, membership in a small, fat-loving civilization, she will respect herself.

When a woman can see her own divinity and recognize the divinity in other women, although some of them had cosmetic surgery to enhance the divinity, she can see her body as a temple and appreciate its form, regardless of age or stage of life she is in.

When a woman can look back and see that the temple that God had given her was being treated like a tent, she can use her experience to learn from and without faltering, choose to reposition the center pole, braid new guy lines and secure the stakes.

When a woman can look back and suddenly say to herself, “Why the hell am I looking back, we aren’t going that way,” The sooner she can move forward to express her emotions, her intellect, her talents and sing praise with the strength and beauty of a diamond that illuminates her itty-bitty, teeny-tiny, world.

Here’s to you, Womanhood.

Emotional Intellectual by Day, Basket Weaver by Night

2010-08-29T23:57:00.000-07:00

There will always be buzz words. Without them, how would anyone toss around the Toro poo poo, especially in the corporate world? Uh-oh, I think I just used another buzz word. We’ve all heard them… words like, Six-Sigma, Paradigm, Synergy, Thought Leadership, Best Practices and Revolutionary.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about and I wish you would shut the hell up.” Then again, saying that wouldn’t be emotionally intelligent, would it? Do you hear a buzz buzz buzzing noise? Emotional Intelligence, the idea that one can measure emotions to determine if they are intelligent seems to be the new gauge for success. Think about it though. How many times have you wanted to say something rotten to someone, especially if you thought they deserved it, but nodded and smiled instead? If you didn’t say it, is that emotional intelligence or just being an old fashioned bootlicker? If you did say it, would that mean your emotional processing and problem solving ability was in good working order? I’m confused. I have taken IQ tests before and have a pretty good idea of where I stand on the intelligence totem pole but how can anyone test their emotions?

For instance, if you would look at pictures of my family as I was growing up, you would see smiling, happy, fun-loving people. Are you kidding? There is no earthly reason we should have been smiling. We were saying cheese or boobies or something else with an ease on the end of it. It was exhausting. If people can smile for an inanimate object that flashes and burns dark green spots on their retinas, then don’t you think they do it for other people?

Do we really fake emotions? You betcha’. Maybe a better buzz word would be emotion management. Some say the ability to explain your feelings is part of emotional intelligence. The inability to understand your feelings would prove that there is a lack of innate emotional intelligence. If you feel uncomfortable in someone’s presence and don’t know why, does it mean you are emotionally stupid, or just need to say, “you give me the friggin’ creeps!” Of course that wouldn’t be socially desirable, especially in the work place.

For the emotionally unintelligent, and you know who you are, I have invented a device that will harness emotions. It comes in black nylon, multi-colored knitted yarn or genuine leather. The collar and harness places the weight of the emotional load onto the shoulders, without any restriction on the intellect. Leather is recommended for heavy emotional hauling. The reins are used to guide the unexpressed feelings to a neutral area without impairing judgment. Once emotions have successfully been hauled to the safe zone, they are disposed of with the use of chemicals. Alcohol works best.

Harness emotions responsibly.

The Art of Delegation

2010-08-24T00:17:00.000-07:00

I’m so very excited. The company I work for has created some new opportunities for managers to design programs for unique ways to motivate employees to step up and take on more responsibility. I have to say, I believe I have found a fabulous trend-setting method and have no doubt they will earn me an award. I think other managers will begin to see the merit of my new procedures and follow suit. Of course, having an award-winning team will possibly cause team envy within the company.

I have wrestled with delegating duties for quite some time now. Often, the decision to delegate certain duties can have a company-wide impact on morale. To eliminate conflict, I thought I would get employees in sync with my ideas by starting each morning with a group chant, “Every day in every way, I think I’m such a prize. And that is why I’m here to work or at least to improvise.” I made that up myself and I have to say, it has done wonders for team spirit.

I needed to find someone within my department who is optimistic by nature, would anticipate when something unexpected could happen, and accept the fact that just because you are in charge doesn’t necessarily mean you are…in charge that is. Resilience is crucial and the best candidate must have a knack for setting realistic goals. In order to make the best selection, I had to create a robust testing procedure to choose the right person who would assume additional duties freeing me up to focus on the bigger picture.

I began with a simple ‘Facial Feedback’ study. I had my department line up, and one by one, I stood in front of each employee and smiled, then frowned, and finally produced the most hideous grimace I could. I have to say almost all employees mirrored the smiles and frowns. However, there were two that ran away screaming at the sight of the grimace. I shouted a threat that the boogeyman would be waiting for them by their car at the end of the day. Not only did they run faster but they were also eliminated from the pool of hopefuls.

The narrowing down process had begun. Next, during the work day, I snuck up behind each of the employees and surprised them by blowing an air horn behind their head. There were only three who did not jump high enough to have both feet off the ground at the same time. I decided I would be able to delegate duties to one of these three employees, two women and one man... my finalists.

The last thing I did with a magic marker is draw a six foot by six foot box on the floor of the lunch room and request that the three competitors stand in it. I asked them mathematical questions such as what is twelve, minus one? And what is eight divided by two? History questions included when was the war of 1812? And who was the Lincoln memorial named after? Clearly, they all were equally qualified. Their answers were correct, that is, until I asked them to step across the line. They gave me blank stares when I asked them to explain the corpuscular theory of light. They were stumped when I inquired about their knowledge of the origins of Greek mathematics. I felt frustration begin to set in. Clearly, none of them could think outside of the box.

I have decided to abstain from delegating any of my duties for the time being. At least until I find a more suitable aspirant. Until then, we will continue our morning chant, “Every day in every way, I think I’m such a prize. And that is why I’m here to work or at least to improvise.”

Happy Worthday

2010-08-11T08:30:00.000-07:00

August 8, 2010

Last week was strange to say the very least, it was a week so bizarre that if it were measured on the Richter magnitude scale, it would be deemed a 7.3, with enough destructive force to cause serious damage over larger areas. The Joule equivalent, a formula based on Newton’s law to measure the amount of energy traveling one meter would assign it 11.3 but I won’t bore you with the mathematical equations or the details.

Today is my birthday, so I thought I would find my own unique way to celebrate. No party, no parade, no merrymaking but instead, a one-of-a-kind assessment. After much introspection, I have decided to sum myself up…literally. I’m not talking about financial net worth but my human worth. To calculate that, I will have to begin at the beginning and combine the Richter/Joule formulas to examine every nuance, every quirk and cranny to determine the effect my actions have had on me and on others. To reserve Internet terabytes, you will receive the condensed version. At the end of my calculations, I will have the mathematical number that will yield my true value.

I was born with a Calcium deficiency that I was told caused me to have mild to moderate seizures until I received a Calcium injection in the superficial temporal vein, located on the side of my head. This is proof enough to me that I just wasn’t right in the head, so I will have to receive a Richter of 6.7 and Joule of 708 for damage to myself and to my mother for making her worry.

When I was two, I wandered out of the house when I was supposed to be taking a nap and was somehow able to get into our car that was parked in the driveway. After releasing the parking brake and pulling the gear shift out of park, the car began rolling down the driveway. My mother happened to be washing dishes at the time and through the kitchen window, saw what was happening. She screamed and ran from the house but was unable to get to me as I was refusing to keep my arms and legs inside the vehicle until it reached a complete stop. As a result, my right leg was caught under the front left tire and if it weren’t for my then flexible bones and the miracle of missing my pelvic bone by centimeters, I escaped being physically disabled for the rest of my life. I give myself a Richter of 7.8 and Joule of 31.6 for being disobedient, causing damage to myself and giving my mother a halo of gray hair at her hairline… and of course for making her worry.

On a beautiful spring day, when I was five, I was standing at our front door screen gazing at the beauty of the giant Sycamore tree in our front yard. A large stray dog happened by on the sidewalk. He stopped abruptly and looked directly at me before bounding toward our door. I couldn’t have imagined what happened next. He slammed though the screen door, knocking the door off its hinges while running over me. It seems he spied our cat standing on the back of the couch behind me and acted on his basic instincts. It took both of my parents to evict the dog from the premises. I have to give myself a Richter measurement of 5.5 and a Joule of 2.0 for causing damage to the door, inconveniencing my father, having screen impressions on my face for three days and of course for worrying my mother.

When I was ten, I had my tonsils removed. The medical field considers this a minor procedure however not for me. I hemorrhaged. My throat had to be packed and as a result, my Uvula healed to the back of my throat directly over my nasal passages. My nose was useless, nothing more than a face ornament. I needed a second surgery to clear my nasal passages and bring the Uvula down to normal position. I believe my surgeon resigned from surgical procedures shortly after and became a dietician. I have to give myself a Richter of 8.0 and Joule of 63.1 for ruining someone’s career, running up a large medical expense and causing my mother to worry.
So far, in the early years of my life, I had accumulated a total of 28 on the Richter scale and a whopping Joule of 804.7, numbers never before recorded in history; a destructive force needing to be reckoned with.

My teen-age and adult years have been packed with continuing drama resulting in an even larger accumulation of shocking numbers due to personal problems, divorce, financial challenges, work related issues and loss of loved ones, all of which worried my mother.

My life has slowed to a comfortable pace now, which gives me time to ponder. I am more at peace. I think the reason for this might be my willingness to go back and find that drama has served a purpose in my life and in those I have come in contact with. It did you know, all of it, and since I am a writer, I can complete the stories and imagine outcomes that explain the reasons for the need to perform these dramatic acts in this mysterious stage play called life.

I can imagine that the doctor who injected my infantile noggin went home and cried to his wife that he had to perform a ghastly procedure on a two week old infant. This display of emotion caused her to rethink her decision to divorce the man she thought was void of feelings. They went on to have three children of their own.

The neighbor that drove us to the hospital when my leg was run over, along with my mother, became more vigilant to secure the safety of her children. My Pediatrician gave me the nickname, ‘Lucky’ and had a positive tale of the miracle on Cohasset Street for the rest of his patients.

The dog that trampled me under the screen door was taken to a nearby animal shelter where he was adopted by a family with six children and no cats. His quick instincts made him a hero when he alerted the family of a fire in the laundry room during the night. He saved the entire family and caught the fire early enough to save the house.

The doctor who removed my tonsils, and as I said, went into the dietary field? Well, his wife made the worst brownies in the world. They were really bad…dry and chewy. He decided to market them as an appetite suppressant; they became so popular by his patients, and then the world, that he became a millionaire.

Someone said, marriage is grand, but divorce is fifty grand. Truer words were never spoken. My divorce and the financial difficulties resulting from it created a stronger me, and as sure as broken bones have more strength in their broken places once they are healed, my confidence has grown, my inner strength has emerged and I am blessed with the knowledge that I can rely on myself, I am resourceful, smarter and more creative than I ever imagined and from these experiences I have learned the lessons I have needed to learn. This is true.

Sad to say, my ex suffered multiple injuries in a car accident when his girlfriend at the time began swatting at a bee. She hit my ex in the face several times with a rolled up Cosmopolitan magazine before a gust of wind caught her skirt and wrapped it around the steering column, locking up the steering wheel. The red mustang convertible careened through several red lights before plowing into a gigantic pile of manure waiting to be picked up by a local landscaping company.

To end my fiscal year and sum up my accumulated Richter and Joule numbers would be impossible because, you see, there are so many lives we touch that we aren’t even aware of. The serendipity of life threads its way through our experiences, our lessons, and we all have a hand at creating the most breathtaking tapestry that remains hidden to us until we step over to the other side.

My mother passed away over twenty years ago but before she died, she had the most beautiful silver hair I have ever seen. When the sunlight danced on it, I swear it looked like she was wearing a halo. I’m glad I was able to help in creating it by making her worry so much.

And the other loved ones I’ve lost? Well, they weren’t lost at all; they were a gift to me and to the many other lives that they touched. I’m happy to have known them, to have loved them and to know they loved me. That is without measurement and is priceless.

Love the people you love. You never know the last time you will see them.

Nefarious Schmarious

2010-08-01T07:38:00.000-07:00

I read an article from the Associated Press last week reporting that in Somerville, Mass, there is a growing popularity in competitive lockpicking. It seems this “Locksport” provides the intellectual thrill of analyzing locks and finding ways of opening them quickly without destroying them. Locksport fans compete to be the fastest lock picker and they have an even more challenging contest called, Locksport Wizard, involving a burlap sack, a set of identical locks, and a few odd tools provided to blindly pick them with. Lockpicking has become so popular that a US chapter of The Open Organization Of Lockpickers has been formed…otherwise known as TOOOL.

I have absolutely nothing against nerds. I am one. And I sometimes slip into the category of gullible, but I can’t believe that everyone who is participating in this sport is a mere puzzle solver. Is it possible that criminals are getting a free education in picking? In my day, and I never thought I would live long enough to use that phrase, if someone said their hobby was picking, I immediately assumed they played the guitar or banjo. Whatever happened to the masterly art of playing chess? Where have all the whittlers gone? Any bird watchers left? Embroidering? How about Origami or making model cars?

I say, if we are going to change up our interests in a pestilential way, let’s do it right! Why don’t we make this an Olympic sport? In fact, I think it would benefit the general population for our lawbreakers to hone their skills. I mean, how many times has an innocent bystander been injured or killed by a drive-by shooting? Bad shooting is to blame for these tragedies. Practice makes perfect. Maybe we should have an Olympic drive-by event that is judged by efficiency and accuracy. Or, how about relay purse-snatching? Weapon carving? We could develop team events like, prison break and looting. Top them all off with the, Tri-Athelimb Decapathon, involving bomb building, placement and detonation.

I admit my humor is dryer than a popcorn fart, and when I read things like this, my inner sarcasm breaks out and runs freely with the wind in its hair. That’s my hobby though, sarcasm. True, carping, salty, ornery, sardonic, smart-alecky, weisenheiming, sarcasm. Wish they would make that an Olympic event too.

The Revenge of the Unsane

2010-07-18T21:10:00.000-07:00

Recently, as I walked out of a well-known restaurant, I realized that I had left my favorite pair of sunglasses on the table. I quickly went back into the restaurant and rushed over to the table where I had been sitting. A busboy wearing a name tag that said, Chico, was clearing the dishes and wiping the table with a damp rag. I asked him in my best Spanish, “ha encontrado un par de gafas de sol sobre la mesa?” He turned, smiled and replied, “No, Ma’am.”

For some reason, when anyone addresses me as Ma’am, it causes me extreme side effects. All my joints suddenly ache, I see age spots before my eyes, my short-term memory is compromised, and I experience an intense urge to host a Botox party. Chico and I were off to a bad start.

I looked down and noticed a slight bulge in the pocket of Chico’s busboy jacket. My keen instincts told me that I would have to use a little finesse to win him over enough to give me back the sunglasses. I began using the few Spanish phrases I thought would gain his trust, que passo being one of them. He gave me a quirky expression. I did mistakenly use the word, aguebado for ambia, so instead of close friend, I think I called him an idiot.

He turned to me, sighed, and in perfect English said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry but I haven’t found any sunglasses today.” Involuntarily, my voice raised an octave. “I really need those sunglasses, they belong to my boyfriend!”
“You might want to ask the cashier to check lost and found.”

I stomped off toward the cashier thinking about how there hadn’t been enough time for someone to find and turn in a pair of sunglasses and just how much I detest thieves. The cashier didn’t seem to be any more helpful than Chico. She left me standing at the register as she seated what looked to be twenty members of a networking organization. I looked at my watch and tapped my keys on the counter to signal her that I was in a hurry then turned my attention to Chico. He had just finished clearing a second table and was carrying a tub of dirty dishes to the kitchen. I couldn’t keep from staring at the bulge in his pocket and how disappointed my boyfriend would be when I told him Chico had stolen his sunglasses.

Before the cashier had completely returned to her station, I was already explaining that Chico sent me and she needed to check the items in lost and found.
“Ma’am, no one has turned in any articles today but you are welcome to check.” She brought up a box that was kept under the counter. There were pens, lipsticks, a black address book, a cell phone and a screwdriver. I raked through the items and shook my head. I looked up and gave her a direct stare.
“What do you know about Chico?”
She frowned. “Excuse me, Ma’am?”
I felt my face flush. “Do you trust him?”
“He’s been working here about six months and we’ve never had a complaint.”
“Well, there’s always a first time. Do you know who his supervisor is?”
“Yes, of course, just a moment, Ma’am.”
My jaw ached from clenching my teeth. If I heard the word, Ma’am one more time, I was going to scream. A short, stocky, middle-aged bald manager appeared at the counter. “Hello, my name is Paul Davis. Can I help you, Ma’am?”
I ground my teeth to quash a scream. “Yes, you can. I believe you may have a toxic employee.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do any of your workers complain of feeling confused, angry, betrayed, anxious, fearful or filled with self-doubt? You may have heard of the book, Toxic People, most managers have.”
“I’m sorry Ma’am, we are not interested in hiring an outside EAP counselor.”
“I’m not selling EAP services. I’m talking about respectful behavior, personal responsibility, integrity and honesty among your workforce.”
Paul hesitated several moments before speaking. “I was told you want to make a complaint about one of our employees.”
“Yes, I do. I believe you have a thief in your midst and his name is Chico.”
“Chico? I don’t believe he would ever steal, he has been employed here for a few months and has earned my complete trust.”
“Maybe you should check his pockets! That is unless you wish to continue being co-dependent and become his benefactor, further allowing him to remain on his path of wrong doing. Erich Fromm, a well-known psychologist said that not just individuals, but whole workplaces, even whole societies may be lacking in sanity. It’s called, consensual validation. It’s a condition that is not exactly insane but not quite sane either. Is that what you want for Chico? Unsanity? Do you really think you are doing him a favor by protecting him? Is this whole world blind to dishonesty?” I spread my arms wide to emphasize my point. “When are we going to wake up and expose the ones who debilitate organizations? What happened to respectful behavior, integrity, honesty, communication and objectivity?” I was nearly panting from emotion.
“Ma’am, maybe if you told me what it is you suspect was stolen, I could help.”
“A very expensive pair of sunglasses, that’s what!”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Are the frames silver-green in color with a leather brow bar?”
“Yes! Did Chico have them on in the kitchen?” I stood on tip-toe trying to see into the kitchen.
“No Ma’am, you have them on your head.”

When I Say No I Feel Swell

2010-06-27T12:38:00.000-07:00

Me: I just don’t want to feel disrespected anymore, doctor Weakly.
Dr. Weakly: We know that feelings aren’t facts, don’t we?
Me: As a matter of fact, just this morning, a woman pushed her way in line directly in front of me at the store.
Dr. Weakly: What did you say to her?
Me: I told her if she didn’t go to the end of the line, I would hit her so hard her dog would bleed.
Dr. Weakly: Don’t you think that was an extreme reaction to someone who cut in line?
Me: Don’t you think a 95 year-old woman should know not to cut in line? At least her seeing-eye dog should know.
Dr. Weakly: Do you always should on people?
Me: No, not always, sometimes I coulda woulda on them too.
Dr. Weakly: Do you have another example of being disrespected?
Me: I went to a department store last week-end, when an army of police marched in and cordoned off the area I was in. I was sent to a holding area and waited for hours.
Dr. Weakly: Were you by yourself?
Me: God no. There were hundreds of us. We were packed in like cattle. They said we would have to wait until 9am to take advantage of the sale.
Dr. Weakly: I’m wondering, did your parents ever instruct you in the fine art of simple manners?
Me: Manners?! What do manners have to do with the basic respect that should be extended to everyone, including me?
Dr. Weakly: My mother forced me to read Emily Post’s book of etiquette when I was fourteen years old. I will always be grateful.
Me: Emily Post? Oh yeah, I heard of her, the hostest with the mostest. She wrote all kinds of manner pornography in the early 1900’s.
Dr. Weakly: Pornography?
Me: It may as well have been. Were manners present in her life? Did you know that she divorced her husband in 1905 for having affairs with chorus girls and actresses? I guess he didn’t read her article on proper marriage etiquette, now did he?
Dr. Weakly: Maybe we should go over a few basic simple manners to separate out the difference between disrespect and ignorance.
Me: Are you calling me ignorant?
Dr. Weakly: No, what I’m saying is most people are ignorant of good manners and this may be mistaken for disrespect.
Me: Give me an example.
Dr. Weakly: For example, don’t use filthy language or tell off color jokes.
Me: Have I ever? I mean…
Dr. Weakly: Don’t greet a co-worker with the question, how they hangin’?
Me: But…
Dr. Weakly: Don’t interrupt others.
Me: I wouldn’t…
Dr. Weakly: And when dining in the company of others, cut your meat with your fork in your left hand and the knife in the right, put your knife down, switch your fork to the right hand before putting the undersized bite in your mouth. Many years ago, a girl I dated broke up with me for not passing the fork test. And the belching! Judas Priest, I shall never forgive myself.
Me: Wow, and I thought I was sensitive. You know, in the Far East, belching is considered a compliment to the chef.
Dr. Weakly: She was right to leave me! Oh, God, how I wished I had paid more attention to Emily Post!
Me: I can appreciate your regret, but what does this have to do with me feeling respected? I really think manners are subjective. I have a friend whose boyfriend insists on walking on the outside of the sidewalk to protect her from mud splashes. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to protect her when a mugger lunged out from between buildings and snatched her purse.
Dr. Weakly: What I am saying is that everything is connected, Unfortunately, consequences are not always easy to see. It's like stretching a rubber band. As you stretch the rubber band further and further, the tension increases, but nothing seems to happen, so you think that nothing ever will. Then, suddenly, the rubber reaches its limit. It burns when it snaps.
Me: I think I would have understood your words without you shooting me with that rubber band, and the paper clip you attached to it really hurt.
Dr. Weakly: With experience comes great wisdom.
Me: I see. So, you’re saying if I improve my manners, I will understand that relationships form for our mutual becoming. Lives intermesh, thoughts and feelings intermingle. Events influence one another and the relationships we share are like the bits of color in a painting, affected by all the surrounding hues?
Dr. Weakly: No, what I’m saying is, if you hold your fork in the wrong hand and belch after you eat, you may regret it for the rest of your life.

EXPERIENCING THE ASS

2010-06-05T12:49:00.000-07:00

Germany has developed a unique device, actually a suit, which is an Age Simulator System, or ASS for those who enjoy acronyms. It is thought that this suit will help young designers of electrical appliances, cars and medical equipment improve designs by being made aware of the specific difficulties of those in their autumn years. God forbid we say the ‘O’ word. Old, old, old, old…there, I said it, thrice.

The suit has weights sewn in at various points to simulate heaviness, built-in ear muffs to decrease hearing and the helmet has a visor that restricts the line of vision and wraps it in a dull yellowish tinge. A quote from one of the first to try the suit was, “Just crossing the street was an adventure, sitting down on a bench was a pain and getting up was exhausting.” A twenty-three-year-old explained that the joints in the suit deliberately stiffened, preventing her from getting her leg over a bike. Yet another said he fumbled around in pain as he reached for his wallet, with the gloves pricking his hands at every moment. I’ll bet they were happy to have their ASS fall off. The price of this suit wasn’t mentioned, but I’m sure with all the features mentioned, it’s not cheap.

Why is it so important for us to know what it feels like to be old? How would experiencing ten minutes in any kind of simulation help us to be kinder people? Shouldn’t we be kind and make things easier just because we should?

I think the ASS was developed so we won’t be afraid to grow old…to die. We will you know, grow old before we die, if we are lucky. There are ways to know what it feels like to be old without spending vast amounts of money. Here are a few exercises that I guarantee will simulate the natural aging process.

• Go to the nearest sleep gallery, jump up on the bed closest to you and try to prance around the room by jumping from bed to bed. Be sure to keep your knees bent when crossing over the water beds. Two times around the room should give you a good idea of what arthritis in the knee joints feels like.

• Next time you’re at a Grand Opening, stare into the spotlight they have roving the sky. I would suggest a good thirty minutes as the perfect amount of time to experience the reduced vision associated with cataracts.

• Drink several 32 oz. beverages, but don’t go to the bathroom. Go to a comedy show. This will simulate incontinence, believe me.

• Ask a friend to stand behind you, place an air horn against the back of your head, and blow it for one full minute. If performed correctly, this will replicate the major hearing loss that most elderly people experience. It may take some time to recover from this test, be patient.

• Fill a large wading pool with water. Run as fast as you can through the water several times around the circumference. This test is for experiencing the feeling one gets from standing up too quickly. Be sure to wear rubber sole deck shoes, the pool bottom will be slippery. If you fall, you may hit your head on a sprinkler head and that would be the self-induced coma simulator for those who are curious as to what that feels like.

Let’s not be afraid of the natural wearing out process. Thumb your nose at death, go ahead, it is fun. I have laughed in the face of death (even after eating garlic), had brushes with him, flirted with him and even gone so far as to give him a lap dance. See? I’m okay.

The only thing that really bothers me about aging is that I seem to be shrinking and now I have more weight to lose than I thought.

Baby Ka Boomers, Wake Up And Smell The Coffin

2010-05-30T09:54:00.000-07:00

I Know the title of this blog is a bit shocking, but I just finished reading my hometown magazine and I was aghast at the amount of advertisements there were for cosmetic surgery. I almost feel like a big fat failure, due to the all too obvious consequences of my normal aging process. Not to mention, I am down to my last feminine wile. Please don't ask me which one, I have forgotten and misplaced it as well.

When, as a society, did we place so much more importance in how something or someone looks rather than who they are? Maybe it has always been this way, but I believe we're way over the edge. Gone are the days of successful aging, or being revered for being rich with experience. The elderly are no longer turned to for their wisdom or worldliness, but sadly reduced to a 20% discount and considered a second-class citizen.

Want to know who I blame? Car manufacturers! That's who! Notice how the names they give cars reflect the way society behaves? We started out with the model T and the Model A. Simple, timeless, and absolutely no underlying message. Then came the nouns. Viva, Previa, Nova, Probe, symbolizing reaching out. Animal names became popular. Mustang, Colt, Durango, Falcon, Impala, Cougar. GRRRRIP the road! Go for the jugular! Names morphed into a sort of lifestyle. Land Rover, Dakota, Yukon, Tahoe, Tacoma, projecting adventure and ambiance. The biggest culprits are, Infiniti, 5th Avenue and Park Avenue, whether you're playing Monopoly or driving a car, the message is the same...larger than life, rich, and beautiful.

I would like to recommend some no-nonsense, down-to-earth names for cars that actually tell it like it is. No sugar coating, just the unvarnished truth and then let's just see where it takes us. Hopefully, our addiction to outer appearances will begin to diminish and we can relax into our comfortable wrinkled bodies and instead, work to expand our spirit.

How about:

Ford Derelict – The main function of this utility vehicle is to drive you to drink. Navigation is performed solely on Bott dots, as tires collect cognizant and constant feedback from the lines on the road. Deluxe interior features include, thirty-three cup holders with automatic lid capabilities, to avoid violating open container laws, driver’s sun visor is equipped with detachable eye patch, to eliminate double vision when inebriated, dual function windshield wiper fluid/beverage storage, with toggle switch, to wash windows or serve your favorite beverage to the central cup holder directly from the fluid well. Lush, leather interior, is available in champagne beige or burgundy red.

Mid-life Chrysler – Youthful design and enough power to take you from sixty to hero in six point five seconds. Equipped with a younger, fitter, replica of your spouse or, if you prefer, a current rock or movie starlet. Complete with soft-focus mirrors behind the sun visors and also on rear view mirror to blur those pesky wrinkles. Satellite navigation is pre-programmed with younger crowd night spots. On-board slang dictionary is constantly updated to include the latest terminology. Inset moisturizing and anti-wrinkle lotion dispensers in each door and bucket seats with Mesotherapy to eliminate cellulite. Handy overhead botox dispenser will keep frown lines from forming due to road rage. (we should have at least one model to maintain our vanity).

Dyslexis SL – Whatever car you currently drive, this model is the exact opposite. Left is right and right is left. Or is it the other way around? As a bonus, this model, will automatically and without notification, backtrack to correct directional miscalculations. Speedometer begins at 120 mph and ends at zero. Luxury signage transposer, will photograph and flip the image of any road sign in as little as five seconds. A lavish treat for any driver suffering from Dysleiax…Dsylexi…Dyslexia.

Oldsmobile Bulimia – Don’t let Consumer Reports frighten you away from this vehicle. Once a portion of all fluids have been purged from the engine, this little roadster has very few rivals. Suspended fluid pan protects garage and driveway surfaces from stains and corrosion. Flushed fluids are fully recyclable. This model is light on its wheels and sport tuned. Actual mileage may vary.

Dodge A.D.D. – The perfect vehicle for, on-the-go, inner city driving. Optimal performance limited to short trips. If longer excursions are necessary, the battery cables can be re-routed to stun the engine at five minute intervals to prompt responsiveness. Stereo scans available music stations every 10 to 20 seconds and is programmed to jump from news-to-news broadcasts every 15 seconds. Turning signals and windshield wipers tend to activate before being initiated. Caution: This model is known to have trouble executing turns and tends to rev the engine without notice.

Just my 2 cents.

Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in FarmVille

2010-04-25T14:06:00.000-07:00

Dr. Weakly has been studying my mind diligently for over a year, and has decided that it may be interesting enough to write about. He says, if I am willing to participate, there is a good possibility that he will be nominated for the Distinguished Scientist award. The annual conference will be held in October this year, at Minneapolis City Center Marriott. I agreed to participate immediately, if only to visit an exotic location like, Minneapolis, and I hear the Marriott’s are fantastic.

This week, our study was narrowed down to researching insight as the product of internal processes. Doctor Weakly is determined to find out if some of my bright ideas are inspired by cultural artifacts, external objects or perhaps secretly implanted by aliens while I am sleeping. I told him that the alien theory is not possible since, for the last ten years, I have been sleeping with a thought screening helmet that I fashioned from a 1920’s flapper hat and lined it with Velostat. I found instructions on an Internet website that provided potential abductees the sorely needed defense against telepathic wars being waged by evil doing aliens. I agreed to bring my helmet to our next session so he could examine it.

Dr Weakly also asked me to sit in a darkened room, actually I think it was his broom closet, for an hour, which was the length of an entire session. I sat in the straight-back wooden chair and stared into a 60 watt light bulb hanging at eye level. Dr. Weakly explained that the light bulb is an external object that is imbued with learned meaning. He gave me a pad of paper and asked me to attempt to answer an unsolved mathematical question, do odd perfect numbers exist?

I stared into the light bulb for a full fifty-eight minutes before writing the sentence, since it is people who have determined that numbers are even or odd, all numbers are perfect. We must not allow other people’s opinions to color our self image. Numbers needn’t feel as if they are odd just because they have been labeled as such. They are not odd. They are just numbers.

My confident smile disappeared when Dr. Weakly’s eyebrows flew up after reading my answer. He glared at me and explained that the mathematical question he gave me involved positive integers, restricted divisor function and proper divisors. “The first few perfect numbers are, six, twenty-eight, four hundred ninety-six and eight thousand one hundred twenty-eight,” he said. “Anyone with half a brain knows that.” I willed myself to stop crying once he had finished his twenty minute lecture on comprehending the English language. At least he was kind enough to drive me home. It took a full three days for my retinas to recover from the experience. Thankfully, the blob I was seeing has gone from forest green to cyan and I have assurance from my Ophthalmologist that my color blindness will correct itself in time.

I woke up early this morning and was excited about an insight I had received during my REM cycle. It wasn’t alien in nature, and it seemed to agree with Dr. Weakly’s theory about cultural artifacts acting as a catalyst for insight. I realized that everything of value that I have learned in the last year is due to playing FarmVille!

This insight was as exciting as the realization I had when I read, The Introvert Advantage, by Marti Olsen Laney. I took her test and found I was 98% introvert. It was as if someone opened my mental jail cell and let me out. I learned that my neurotransmitters are set up differently than those of an extrovert. In the words of Temple Grandin, “I’m different…not less.” Be still my happy heart!

FarmVille has taught me that you can’t put two bulls in one dairy farm. How insightful is that? Helping your neighbor often brings gifts, the golden rule no less. Never plow and plant at the same time, it takes too long. With experience come large tanks of gas. I’m sure we can all agree on that. Just because I never heard of Patty pan Squash doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Manuel harvesting can lead to index finger cramping from clicking the mouse. I’m thinking of buying an index finger glove. If you don’t set your livestock to ‘stay’, they will run away. Too bad there isn’t a real setting for children and husbands. You can mute the farm noises if they make you crazy. Again, wouldn’t this be a nice feature to use on the neighbor’s barking dogs and annoying people? Make the most use of the size farm that you have, parcel constraints must be considered. It doesn’t matter how many houses you own, you will still be standing in the middle of your crops when you return to the game. It’s much easier to plow, plant and harvest if you use the proper equipment. Putting all your chickens in one coop will save you loads of time when collecting eggs. Stabilizing your horses is a good idea. Dairy farms bring in big ‘Moola’. Pea crops are the most lucrative. Peas on earth is the lesson here. Holidays in FarmVille last much longer than one day. Something we should all practice. Always honor a neighbor’s request. You can find just as much fertilizer on your Facebook home page as you will find in FarmVille.

And last, but not least, I have found a wonderful secret for leveling up faster. Sorry, I will keep that one to myself. I don’t want Dr. Weakly, who has ten times more FarmVille cash than I do to get ahead of me.

Buyers Remorse? Don’t Worry…You’ll Be Okay

2010-04-17T13:06:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who absolutely refuses to buy a microwave oven. She actually believes that they aren’t good for your health. Silly girl. She has not, to her knowledge, been exposed to the psychotelemetric influence. Of course, if she or anyone has ever sent food back to a restaurant kitchen because it wasn’t warm enough, has experienced the joy of eating microwaved food.

I asked her, “Do you actually believe there is a conspiracy that has formed, plotting to mass kill people via their household appliances?”

“No,” she said, “It’s not a conspiracy, it’s just ignorance, greed for business, and negligence”.

I thought, if she is right, practically everyone on planet Earth should be gravely ill or have mental retardation. Shock began to set in, but I consoled myself with the rationalization that newspaper headlines are the only thing confirming this.

I decided to do a little research on the subject to enlighten her. Surely, science has found some redeeming value to microwave ovens. Sadly, my research has proven her right, or perhaps partially right, maybe having a sliver of truth to it, or damn it, it’s just her harebrained opinion. Besides, you can’t believe everything you read on the Internet.

What I found was long-term exposure to microwave transmissions can cause loss of memory, concentration, emotional instability, and a decrease of intelligence. It seems that microwave transmissions actually ‘short out’ electrical impulses in the brain. It causes a breakdown of the human “life-energy field”, in other words, it messes with your Chi.

This brought to mind my recent visit to a Del Taco drive-thru. In a louder than necessary voice, I ordered a long list of items from the El Pollo Loco menu. You can imagine my frustration when the employee questioned my selections. This could be a sign of a decrease in intelligence on my part (or hers), and also a display of emotional instability, since I threatened to call 911 when she refused to fill my order.

I began to wonder if my suppressed emotional threshold, slowing of intellectual processes and interrupted sleep had anything to do with the heating of my lima bean-tater tot casseroles. Since I am not conducting an official poll as to possible side-effects other households may be experiencing, I only have my own knowledge to supply information and I don’t own a dose meter to measure microwaves.

Not long ago, it was suggested to me that I have a self-absorbed nature. “It’s not that you think too highly of yourself, or too little of yourself, but that you think constantly of yourself. You are just too full of yourself”… but, who else would you be filled with, if not yourself?

Further Internet meanderings directed me to other warnings like, air fresheners that foul the air, causing severe pulmonary and sensory irritation, our water supply is sterilizing men because of the number of women peeing out the residue of the birth control pills, and the most recent warning issued by Samsung, that 3D tv’s may cause, altered vision, involuntary eye-muscle twitching, disorientation, nausea, cramps and convulsions.

I can only imagine future generations laughing while they say, “Can you believe they stood directly in front of the microwave and watched the food go round and round?”

Still, I have to admit, a lack of knowledge regarding these topics is totally possible. Take for example, the atomic testing performed in the ‘50’s. Las Vegas became a tourist attraction. Mushroom clouds could be viewed from downtown hotels. My parents and their friends were among the tourists who witnessed these ‘beautiful’ billows. They didn’t know it was hazardous. All four developed cancer later in life, but that could have happened anyway.

My parents were in their forties when I was born. I often ask, “What do you get when you cross a wrinkly, old, radiation-exposed egg with a sperm infested with radiation and predisposed syndromes?”
“ME!”

Acronymphomaina

2010-04-02T16:46:00.001-07:00

As you know, I have been working with Dr. Neil Weakly to improve my self-esteem, social skills and behavior difficulties. After extensive discussions, psychological testing and a brain scan, Dr. Weakly is convinced that I am to some extent mentally handicapped. As difficult as it was for Dr. Weakly to deliver this diagnosis, it was equally difficult for me to hear it. Nevertheless, similar to photos, tests don’t lie.

Take for example the fact that as a child, I had much difficulty integrating myself with other children. Debbie Pratt, my childhood nemesis, made an indelible impression on me by pushing me down and throwing my sister’s, hand-me-down, gold vinyl purse with a top lift latch, into a trash dumpster. Dr. Weakly believes this event is at the root of my inability, despite my high cognitive potential, to experience empathy for others.

I have to admit, there are times when, during a rousing bridal shower, my mind wanders off to how many origami figures could be folded with the discarded gift wrappings or if I remembered to drop off my dry cleaning. This unquestioningly detracts from my empathy for the bride. My boyfriend thinks that my remoteness is due to my two divorces, but he isn’t a doctor, and I think I should have displayed more involvement in the most recent, ‘what’s in the bag?’ bridal shower game. I hadn’t even noticed that I won because I was the only guest who carries a flashlight and a hammer in my purse.

Dr. Weakly asked me if I had ever heard of Asperger Syndrome. He explained that children with AS have an unusually sophisticated vocabulary at a young age and have been called, ‘little professors’. I told him that my first words were, “do you need me to do anything for you?” and was labeled, ‘little stinker’, so I don’t seem to fall into that category. I do however display many of the symptoms that accompany the following syndromes, ADHD, OCD, MPD, SAD, CDGS, DH, EBD, MDD and RAD. I’m thinking of having them printed on my business card.

Could I possibly have Asperger’s Syndrome? It is unmistakable that I carry the family’s genetic code which caused my grandmother to become distressingly confused by sliding doors, hinged doors and revolving doors. My mother made only right hand turns when driving, no matter where she was going and my father was most adept at delivering compliments that would inevitably come out as an insult. I have to admit, he was psychic though. Whenever there was an accident like spilled milk or one of us tripping over a shoe skate, he always said, “I knew that was going to happen.”

I kept glancing at the folder containing pictures of my brain scan on my drive home from Dr. Weakly’s. I wondered about the severity of my impairment and if I would ever be able to feel comfortable in my own skin. I flipped my sun visor down and gazed at my face, strikingly void of emotion. That is, until I nearly rear ended the car stopped at the light in front of me. I don’t think I’ll ever erase the reflection of the half-chewed Snickers bar in my mouth as I screamed.

It was the conversation that I had with my boyfriend, BJ, when I came home that confused me the most. He doesn’t agree with Dr. Weakly’s diagnosis and believes I should seek another opinion. Our conversation went something like this:

BJ: How was your session?
Me: I’m autistic.
BJ: Since when?
Me: Always, I guess.
BJ: Did that quack tell you that?
Me: Dr. Weakly is not a quack.
BJ: I don’t believe you’re autistic.
Me: I repeat things.
BJ: Lots of people do that.
Me: Okay, but when I was born I had seizures for the first few weeks.
BJ: You remember that?
Me: No, my mom told me.
BJ: What else?
Me: I was a head banger.
BJ: A what?
Me: When I was a toddler, I used to bang the back of my head on the couch, over and over and over.
BJ: Why did you do that?
Me: I dunno, I guess it made me feel better.
BJ: I still don’t believe you’re autistic.
I held up the file containing the pictures of my brain.
Me: Then explain this. I pulled out the scans and showed him.
The left side, the logical side of my brain, hasn’t even updated the Walmart logo from 2008, as Dr. Weakly pointed out.
BJ laughed. This is what he based your diagnosis on? I think the MD behind his name stands for ‘Mental Disorder’.
Me: He has PhD behind his name.
BJ: Yeah, piled higher and deeper.
Me: I think you would be convinced if you saw the results of my tests. They prove I have a multiple of syndromes. I swear, acronyms are me!
BJ: OK, you can believe Dr. Quack, but I don’t think you’re any different than anyone else.
Me: Oh yeah? Even my boyfriend is an acronym!

Sitting There With Vague On My Face

2010-03-14T13:06:00.000-07:00

The art of using lots of words without saying anything in particular is quite useful. I have to admit I haven’t mastered the art, but I do appreciate it when I run across it…well, not run, but maybe walk briskly, I don’t have enough energy to run.

My latest example was a response from a vendor that the company I work for deals with. The question was, “Can you tell me when our order will ship?” The following is their reply sent via e-mail.

Hello Venita,

Your P.O. 55437 is estimated to ship within 3-6 business days. We have a 24 hour turn over rate policy and we have item #4873 in stock at all times. But because your order is custom (we ask them to tape the inner box shut), we can take a little longer to ship in regards to our policy.

Usually your orders arrive to you in a timely manner , between 2 and 3 weeks, because of the particular product you order. My point is, that you never know for sure when your orders are estimated to ship. I would like to change your account to where you’ll receive your future invoices via email. If we can do that, you will receive your invoice the very day that your order ships. For one, you’d know if your order has/hasn’t shipped, and two, we provide tracking information on the bottom of our invoices so you could track your order. Of course, this feature is ONLY available for UPS ground shipments.

Would you like me to set your account up that way using this email address? If you prefer a physical invoice in the mail, that is perfectly fine, of course your order may arrive before the invoice.

About 87% of our customers have converted to paperless business. If you've already got an important bit of paperwork in your hand but you want to digitize it, you need a good document scanner. I'm still loving my Fujitsu ScanSnap, a portable document scanner that I bust out for contracts, legal agreements, and other already-in-paper-form documents. Jaksa advises putting everything from individual business information and forms to maps and newsletters in PDF format, which is compatible with any computer. Users can enter the information directly onto the PDF, and then it can be sent to be a database.

Of course, you are always welcome to contact me anytime to check up on your orders as well to get a roughly estimated ship date! Thanks, Venita, have a great rest of the week!

Warm Regards,
Marcia Grand x 100

What Me Worry?

2010-02-07T00:55:00.000-08:00

Growing up, I learned many valuable things from my mother. Things like, the television gets really clear just before it blows up and if you swallow a fingernail it will puncture your intestines and never eat a banana before going to bed. The most beneficial piece of advice though, has carried me through most of my life; always expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed.

Of course, there are things that have to be taught by example, words just aren’t enough. There is an art to worrying that has been developed primarily for aesthetics rather than utility. Hands must be wrung dramatically. My mother had brick-red knuckles. I have tried, but have never been able to achieve the same shade although I’m happy with my current skin tone which borders on unripe watermelon. Crossing oneself is helpful if of the Catholic religion. I have crossed myself just to see what it is like but I’m not Catholic so it doesn’t count. When the back of the hand is pressed to the forehead coupled with a facial grimace, the effect can be inconceivable. This stance is usually to induce guilt in others but can also foster compassion. If someone tries to reassure the worrier, they may receive a look that suggests something bad is going to happen to them. Pacing can be effective but only if done while muttering.

“You’re always the one who gets hurt,” has stuck with me since childhood. Funny, it sure seemed that way when I was little. I realize now that probably all children get hair brushes tangled in their hair and have to have them cut out, and have been knocked down by a stray dog leaping through a screen door and I’m sure there are plenty of kids who have been run over by the family car.

If you don’t tell someone to drive safely, or be careful, they will be in a horrible accident. I don’t know what the statistics are on this, in fact, I don’t know what the statics are on a lot of things but “they say,” by not cautioning someone before they set out may cause them to become unstable and make poor choices. I don’t take any chances, I tell loved ones to be careful. It always makes my mailman smile.

If you don’t tell someone you worry about them, you will be in a horrible accident. I think my mother confused love with worry. If she didn’t worry about you, she didn’t love you. If she didn’t love you, she didn’t worry about you. It made sense to her.

I’m still not sure if anything bad will happen if I eat a banana before going to bed but I don’t intend to find out.

Tarts, Sours, and Crème de Poo Poo

2010-01-24T00:35:00.001-08:00

I saw children in the Walmart aisle today, laughing and pointing up at the familiar February landmarks. Their father glumly followed after them, glancing up at the big red hearts suspended from the ceiling.

Valentine’s Day is hard to miss, with reminders stuck on every window. Must buy… candy, cards, flowers, jewelry… or suffer the consequences, which of course would be at the least a big, fat, guilt trip or a wound big enough to need treatment by an electric cauterizing wand. I read sometime back that a woman killed her thoughtless husband with a single blow from a 16” enamel, cast-iron, Panini pan. You wouldn’t want to suffer death by cookware, would you guys?

It’s come to this, the words I love you, mean nothing more than paper or plastic. That is, paper meaning money, and plastic equals’ gift card. When did love turn into, “if you really loved me, you’d…?” Buy me a, diamond, take me to Oistins fish fry in Barbatos, or how about a CL550 Mercedes? When presented with these options, it isn’t so hard to pick out a mushy greeting with a $20.gift card for itunes, now is it? A word to the wise…come along peacefully.

When I start sponging up the feelings that commercialism tends to project…you're nobody till somebody loves you…I dig into my home improvements file, and pull out my divorce papers. Incidentally, I received my final papers from Van Nuys court, in the mail on a certain Valentine’s Day, years ago. No kidding. I imagine some court clerk laughing maniacally and calculating the correct date to mail out hundreds of final decrees so recipients would receive them on that particular Valentine’s Day. Thanks.

If the divorce papers don’t work, I remember the special Valentine’s Day when I received an oak toilet seat, which was just one of the grounds leading up to the divorce in the first place. I was a good sport about it though. I installed it in the oval room where it still resides.
The history channel claims Valentine’s Day is marked by the beginning of birds mating season. This confirms my suspicions that Valentine’s Day is truly for the birds. If you want to know more about the history of Valentine’s Day, just click on this link:
http://www.history.com/minisites/valentine/viewPage?pageId=882
You will learn about the Roman ‘lottery’ system that paired couples. I believe this ritual has been resurrected by sites such as, match.com, cyberdating.net, and e-harmony.

St. Valentine was beheaded in the year 269 A.D. or thereabouts. But it just goes to show you, whether you lose your head over love or get struck by a cast-iron Panini pan…you just can’t win.

Building Self-Esteem With My Bare Hands and Dr. Weakly

2010-01-17T09:59:00.000-08:00

It’s time to get down to brass tacks and find out why I keep shooting myself in the emotional foot. I want to address my neurosis once and for all. It’s time to do away with low self-esteem and repression and begin to feel good about myself. Since I like people, 28 % of the time, and I consider myself public-spirited, I have decided to share my process with anyone it may benefit.

Following are the actual transcripts of my recent visit with my Psychiatrist, Dr. Neil Weakly:

Dr. Weakly: Let’s assume your self-esteem is just not what it needs to be right now.

Me: I think we can safely assume that.

Dr. Weakly: There are a few things you can do to improve your self-esteem.

Me: That’s why I’m here.

Dr. Weakly: What we have to do is get you to put on your self-esteem colored glasses, set goals that will make your life a wondrous adventure and weed out those deep-rooted inadequate self-conceptions. You must believe that you can rid yourself of that debilitating anxiety and self-defeating behavior. You may not even be a person that people enjoy being around. You’re probably disorganized and don’t manage your time well. You may sit quietly and let other people do all the talking. This could literally put you in a position that is one mishap or stupid decision away from a complete emotional breakdown or worse. You’re not alone. I have many patients who look down and think how skinny their legs are. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of people are short but they don’t let that interfere with their self-image. Compared to successful people, you may feel as if your life is insignificant, but being indecisive isn’t as serious as you may think. If you continue to believe that you aren’t an attractive woman, you’re a sitting duck for any neurosis.

Me: (Crying) But what can I do about this horrible mess that I am?

Dr. Weakly: Now see? Stop referring to yourself as a mess. I mean, even if your hair is sort of a train wreck, and you have large pores and oily skin, you must acknowledge your strengths. Even though nothing you do is good enough, you mustn’t allow your past mistakes to haunt you or you will only impede your progress. Backing away and avoiding challenges has caused your self-esteem muscles to become flabby. In fact, they’re downright pendulous. Fight back, even if you’re not worthy of praise.

Me: (Crying harder) Help me, doctor!

Dr. Weakly: I believe I can. You must begin to listen to your inner dialog. Are you telling yourself that you are a whiny little failure? Do you chide yourself for being lazy? Do you tell yourself that people are laughing at you behind your back? Do you think you have an odd odor about you? Do you lie awake at night counting your weaknesses and wishing you could think of one single talent that you possess?

Me: (Sobbing) Oh my God! I had no idea I was such a basket-case!

Dr. Weakly: (Frowning) Stop indulging yourself in this panic-stricken display of feebleness. I want you to take that flaccid excuse for a backbone and give it a stiffy. Get into the control booth of your mind and allow your thoughts to be the Viagra that will cause you to straighten up, erect and proud! No wonder you’re depressed, always acting helpless, unable to cope and just waiting for someone to come to your rescue. Have you spent your whole life looking for guidance from others? When are you going to accept that you’re not the idiot that you think you are? You’re not an imposter! You’re not stupid! You’re not always going to be alone! Get up off that floor and stand up!

Me: (Clutching his pant legs) Please! Tell me how to stop this insanity!

Dr. Weakly: (Looking at his watch) Our time is up. We can discuss a firm course of action next time.

If Someone Is Driving You Crazy, At Least You're Being Chauffeured

2010-01-07T22:09:00.000-08:00

Things sure have changed since I was a kid. Nowadays, they buckle up for safety and sit in the back seat in a special booster chair complete with belly pad, plush seat cover, head pillow and a three-position, crotch strap. I remember standing up on the front seat of our Ford Fairlane, next to my mother. More than once, I was pitched head-first into the metal dash board when she had to make a quick stop. I’m fine though, honest.

Then there was the little, blue, enamel pot she kept on the floor in the back seat for emergencies. God forbid, we actually try to find a rest room. That would have required making an unscheduled stop. I sometimes wonder what happened to that pot. I hope it never made its way back into a kitchen. My sister referred to us as the squat team because it took a lot of skill to make use of that pot in a moving vehicle without tipping over.

Mom was a very serious driver. I can’t ever remember her turning her head from side to side. Her face was filled with determination as she glared at the road ahead. If I pointed to something of interest, she would say, “I can’t look now, I’m driving.” I thought this was particularly amusing when we had reached our destination and she was zooming right past it.

Mom refused to drive on the freeway. She said she was just too nervous. Therefore, whenever we went any distance, we would have to negotiate the side streets, stop lights, traffic and add several minutes per mile respectively. I remember clearly, it took quite some time for her to get my Brownie troop from Canoga Park to Los Angeles to see a theatrical performance one fine Saturday afternoon, which turned into the evening performance.

Aside from not driving the freeway, mom never made left-hand turns. She was afraid to inch her way into an intersection and stop. Her workaround was to only make right-hand turns. It made sense to her. However, when I was a teenager, I did a stupid thing. I tried opening my bedroom window by pressing my hand against the pane instead of the sash, and it went right through the glass. I got a very nasty cut and my mother’s face drained of color when she saw the bloody towel. She grabbed her purse and keys and ordered me into the car. The closest hospital was fifteen miles away. I pressed the towel against my hand to stop the bleeding, and felt the cloth getting warmer and heavier. I pushed harder, fearing that I had cut my wrist too. I looked over at the determined look on my mother’s face as she screeched the tires around her right-hand turns.

At this rate, I figured it would take us a good forty-five minutes to get there. I was trying to remember how much blood the human body holds, but I never listened in biology class. I was too busy watching the white saliva globules collect in the corners of Mr. Morley’s mouth and guessing how long he could talk before licking them away.

“Mom, how long does it take to bleed to death?”

Know what she said?

“I can’t look now, I’m driving.”

One Thousand, Eight Hundred and Ten

2010-01-02T17:42:00.000-08:00

I’ve just finished watching Julie and Julia. It occurred to me that success seems to be achieved while you’re busy doing something else. At least, that is what I gleaned from the movie, which must be why I liked Forest Gump so much. That happens to be my most treasured fantasy…you know, where success literally smacks you in the back of the head when you’re frantically trying to make something else work. So, here is a young woman who sets a goal for herself to prepare all of Julia’s rather difficult French recipes within a year. I’ll be darned if she didn’t do it too. She’s also a frustrated writer. Very inspiring.

Well, I thought, I’m a frustrated writer, musician, artist, chef, ice skater, ballroom dancer, gardener, poker player, horse trainer, and knitter. Maybe that is what the problem is. I’m just not focused enough. Maybe I should just pick something and jump in with both feet. After all, it’s the perfect time of year to set a goal.

I set my sights on my list of partially developed hobbies. I realized that I have been playing the guitar for the last thirty-five years and have never advanced further than, The Puppy Song. I don’t think I have enough time left to master the guitar. I rendered portraits a couple of decades ago and turned myself inside out to please people and get their images young enough, having the right style and quantity of hair, and with attractive noses and teeth. I felt like a cosmetic surgeon. No thanks. My mother wanted me to skate in the chorus line of the Ice Capades. Even with the bar lowered, my Axel jump was a disaster. I’m an Arthur Murray dropout, my garden was eaten by enormous, green-black bugs, and I’m too old to turn a saddle sore into a callus again. Yes, you do have to grow a callus on your tailbone to ride a horse. I don’t think my tater-tot, lima bean casserole will make it into a cookbook, so now I am toying with a different idea.

Since it was mentioned in the movie that Julie thought she had A.D.D. (Perhaps I do too, ya’ think?) and that was the reason she never finished her novel, I thought, as an intensely focused hobby, I might collect five thoughts per day from those suffering from A.D.D. If we start tomorrow, by the end of 2010, I will have collected one thousand, eight hundred and ten thoughts. And that’s a very impressive number. Of course, if you submit a thought, that would mean you are granting me permission to use it. Incomplete thoughts are welcome and the more humorous, the better. Keep it clean and original. If you use someone else’s thought, give ‘em credit.

Maybe suffering doesn’t have to be a symptom of A.D.D. Maybe if we have fun with it, the spell will be broken and A.D.D. will become nothing more than an unpleasant partial memory. Since it is more fun to participate in a group, I will expect everyone to pull their own A.D.D. weight. Don’t make me take up the slack, my brain may explode.

Comments are welcome….uh….now.

Ending 2009 'n Stuff

2009-12-30T11:06:00.000-08:00

Another year is ending. The fireworks will be over, the ball will drop. Time to put away the sweets, leftovers, white elephants, party hats, stretch pants (holiday wear) and get back to a more healthy and balanced way of living. I've been promising myself that since New Year's eve, 1993.

It seems I have been doing New Year's all wrong. After a bit of research, I found a few tidbits about tradition and warding off evil spirits or attracting luck. I've been told that what we do on New Year's day guarantees our fate for the rest of the year. When I reviewed the traditional, must-do list, it's a wonder I'm still alive.

It seems if you fail to kiss your significant other at the stroke of twelve, this insures a year of coldness. Ah, yes, I've experienced that. But when you're stinking drunk, how do you recognize your significant other? You may think you kissed your one and only, but did you? This creates what is known as auld langxiety. That is the horrible feeling you wake up with when you can't remember what you did on New Year's eve.

I guess you're supposed to stock the cupboards too. This guarantees prosperity, but I don't see how having shelves full of Top Ramen and Jiffy Pop has much to do with the rest of the year.
All bills should be paid off by New Year's day. The year should not begin with the household in debt. Which year? I've been in debt since I was seven.

Letting the old year out. At midnight, open all the doors in the house to let the old year escape without obstruction. Really? Since I have never done this, I must have decades rotting in corners, in the furniture cushions, and under the bed. It must be 1982 that has been smelling up the laundry room.

This year, I'm going to do something I have never done before. I'm going to make a time capsule and bury it in the back yard. This will help me and anyone else who forgets, to remember what all the fuss was about. The first thing that will go in will be a letter to myself.

V. (a name I call myself)...

It's now, (barring any nuclear holocaust, personal disaster, death, or discovery made by some goofball with a metal detector) January 1, 2035. You are most likely holding this letter in your fat, sausage-like fingers, realizing that you never did lose the weight you so earnestly promised to lose. Damn your eyes.

I've enclosed the following items:

A pencil rendition of, Francine, Sylvia Brown's spirit guide.

A receipt that proves gasoline sold in Blythe, CA on 12/23/09 was $4.93 a gallon.

A photo of Bernie Madoff as he was sentenced to 150 years in prison.

A photo of me running a red light (expensive photo shoot)

An unused portion of, Happy Camper, an attitude food and herbal supplement I found online that claimed to brighten your spirits.

Droppings from Barack Obama's campaign trail.

Eight years of toenail clippings from Aunt Lolly's jar.

Video of my flexible sigmoidoscopy.

An unused gift card from Victoria's Secret.

A copy of each of Stephen Hawking's books, A Brief History of Time and The Universe in a Nutshell.

A wedge of fruitcake, just to confirm that time has no effect on its form, function or taste.

A hot-pink, low-rise thong from Victoria's Secret. Yes, it's clean.

A take out menu from Wok's Cookin'.

A Viagra tablet in a test tube.

The $300. cell phone that mysteriously slipped into my ice chest on the way back from Phoenix.

A sealed, white chocolate, mocha frappuccino blended decaf coffee from Starbucks, with whipped cream topping.

My December, 2009 Visa statement. Sigh.

A recording of my first yodeling lesson.

The first season of Family Guy on DVD.

I will close and hermetically seal the capsule with Preparation H. This event surely will override any New Year mistakes I've made in the past. I hope.

Of course, I'll be sure to serve black-eyed peas just in case.

Post Holiday Depression

2009-12-27T12:03:00.000-08:00

All the trash bins are overflowing with wrapping paper and boxes, Christmas trees are drooping and all the chocolate eating has mysteriously prevented me from fitting into anything other than my holiday stretchy pants. Nothing has changed from previous years.

As in classical mechanics, p=mv, or the product of the mass (me) and velocity of an object (me), i.e. meeting year-end goals at work, shopping, cooking, wrapping, driving, mailing cards and gifts, and don’t forget to call everyone who will be offended if you don’t.

The natural side effect of all of this momentum is what I refer to as post holiday depression. Strangely, it feels as if time has stopped. Newton’s Law can’t touch the emotion that one experiences by flipping from momentum to inertia. Inertia meaning, that an object (me) will always continue moving at its current speed and in its current direction until some force causes its speed or direction to change (the party’s over).

But, enough of that, this blog isn’t about physics and it’s not really about depression. I just needed to get that off my chest.

I’d like to talk about the endless hours of computer use that go on around the world. I’m afraid in time, there will be an announcement that long term exposure to electromagnetic fields definitely causes, brain tumors, leukemia, chronic fatigue, headaches, cataracts, heart problems, cancer, stress, nausea, chest pain and forgetfulness. Oh, and before I forget, there is a public service announcement I heard. Saliva causes stomach cancer but only when swallowed in small amounts over a long period of time. Will I ever get to the point?

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has experienced a conflict of interest, especially where computers are concerned. One of the presents my boyfriend (BJ) received this year is the computer game put out by Blizzard, called StarCraft. I know, it was actually released in 1998, but I haven’t been into video games since Ms. Pac-Man and I think I became obsessed with that because it involved eating dots and chasing after bouncing fruit. Nevertheless, my boyfriend loves his StarCraft game and asked me to try playing because if I can get up to speed, we can play online with others. Heh.

He sat with me, offering helpful tips as I completed the first two missions, which took me three hours!
It went something like this:

BJ: Okay, click on your SCV.
Me: What’s that?
BJ: That’s your energy collecting vehicle.
Me: Where?
BJ: Down at the bottom of the screen.
Me: That little thing?
BJ: Yeah, left click on it and then right click on the minerals.
Me: Oh! He responded to me.
BJ: Yeah. Now build another worker.
Me: I wish I could have done that a week ago. How do I do that?
BJ: Go to your menu, then click on build and select a worker.
Me: That’s easy, now what?
BJ: EXPAND, always expand! Don’t be afraid to.
Me: Do I look like I’m afraid of expanding? I pulled at the waist band of my sweat pants.
BJ: Okay, now you want to collect gas for energy.
Me: That isn’t hard after aunt Birdie’s green bean casserole.
BJ: You’re gonna need all your resources to defend yourself while you’re being attacked on your next mission.
Me: I’m gonna be attacked?
BJ: Big time.
Me: You know, before we get into the attacking mission, I need to switch over to FarmVille and harvest my Pattypan Squash.
BJ: Squash!
Me: Yeah, I have to plant rice too. I’m just forty points away from level one of Rice mastery.
BJ: Okay, baby, but look, you’re being attacked by the Zergs.
Me: Oh my God, this is worse than being attacked by the Goldman’s at my office holiday party. Where’s my SUV?
BJ: No, you have to build Marines and bunkers.
Me: I’ll bet my squash is starting to wither.
BJ: Defense, defense! Where are your firebots?
Me: What are those?! I was madly clicking on the enemy, not realizing that it was a useless exercise.
BJ: Those guys throw flames. Build some!
Me: Does it have to be so violent? My marines are being splattered all over the ground.
BJ: What is your SCV doing just sitting there? Mine more minerals. Go, go, go!
Me: They’re demolishing my power depot!
BJ: You need minerals to build more. You should have been doing that all along.
Me: Now you tell me.
I kept clicking on the Zergs knowing it was futile.
BJ: That’s okay baby, you’ll get ‘em next time.
He patted me on the head and went to our hobby room to work on some music.

I just sat there panting, and reliving the stress I had just experienced from my total annihilation. With a shaky hand, I opened my browser and went to Facebook. I clicked on the FarmVille icon and there it was, my peaceful little farm. All the cows, chickens, goats and horses were in their places, right where I left them. All my ducks were in one straight row, and my Pattypan squash was ripe for harvesting. There’s no place like home.

How Christmas Works

2009-12-13T11:34:00.000-08:00

Time to get out the nutcrackers…the cards, the bubble lights, flicker flame lights, LED Christmas lights, angels, nativity scenes, ornaments, cinnamon-scented pine cones, kneeling Santa collections, the holiday-decorated spin shades for the lamps, garlands, fairies and stockings.

By the way, I found out how this silly, hang a stocking on the fireplace mantle idea came about. It turns out that St. Nicholas passing by the homes of maidens too poor to afford a dowry, money that a bride gives to her groom for her wedding. (I always wondered what that big, huge, humongous, honkin’ wad of money I gave my ex was called). Anyway, he would throw gold coins down the chimneys where they would fall into stockings which were hung over the fire to dry. Heh. Yeah, right.

Actually, I don’t have to decorate at all. A couple of my neighbors have been involved in a decorating competition for some time now. By December 15 th , it’ll look like Christmas threw up right here in my little cul-de-sac.

Stocking stuffers used to be candy, fruit, small toys, those Chinese finger traps, and if you were a complete bad ass, a lump of coal. The other day I read an article that had a list of suggestions for stocking stuffers. They included, a digital picture frame ($199.), comfort slippers ($50.), portable GPS system ($399.), wireless stock market tracker ($85.), motorized grill cleaning brush ($30.), electronic recipe guide ($25.). GEESH! DOESN’T ANYONE LIKE FRUIT ANYMORE???

I even found a website that is selling an adopt a vine for one year. A perfect gift for any wine lover. You get a welcome letter, a booklet about wine, a personalized pen and a vine adoption certificate. The vine is located at a famous British vineyard. Upon registration, you get a map and directions to the vineyard and a certificate that entitles you to a free tour and wine tasting.

I have a better idea. What about an adopt a flat-screen tv for a year? The perfect gift for any television lover. You would receive a copy of the owner's manuel, a personalized remote, a bunch of information about the history of television, and one full day of movies and two special events...booked in advance, of course. Just send a check for $300. payable to me, and I'll see that you receive your gift package before Christmas.

GAG! It’s gone beyond commercial at this point and I wouldn’t be surprised if people will start registering for their Christmas gifts and try to get you to believe it will relieve you of the stress of making a decision. If that’s the case, I’ll tell you where I’m registered right now: Longo Lexus, Tiffany & Company, Countrywide Mortgage, Princess Cruises and Ramsgate Yacht Sales.

Yeah, and lets don't forget to cram our faces with candy, pie, turkey, stuffing and those green beans soaked in mushroom soup. I considered taking a class from a well-known chocolate and patisserie school to make Petit Fours, but then I realized I hadn’t taken the prerequisites…Petit Ones, Twos and Threes. Incidentally, if you’re wondering what to do with that fruitcake that no one wants, they make a great floatation device.

Better yet, I think this year I’m just going to enjoy the gifts of the spirit. A bottle of Jack and a cheese ball.

Reservation For One

2009-12-05T09:33:00.000-08:00

“What are you in for?”

It has been a long time since I was asked that question and I hope I never hear it again. Yes, I have done jail time. It’s difficult to imagine by looking at me, but I have a record. A real record…no, not the vinyl kind, read by a needle to amplify music on a phonograph, the criminal kind.

It’s been five years since that awful day. Spring serves to remind me. Understand though, I’m not blaming spring at all; it’s one of the most pleasant seasons. Almost too pleasant.

It was in the spring of 2003, when I visited the California Poppy reserve. I was walking past the visitor’s center when a park ranger smiled, waved and told me the Goldfields were opening up. I was surprised because they were one of the most private families in our cul-de-sac…and how did he know them anyway?

I was amazed at the high density of poppy plants. It was as if God stroked the hillside with a brush dipped in vibrant orange paint. I followed the Coyote droppings along the trail and let my eyes drink in the majesty of the blooming Filaree and Blue Dick. I really must research the history of the latter. It caught me by surprise, as I watched a Monarch butterfly swooping and hovering. I felt an intense urge to pick one of poppies… and so I did, automatically and without thought. One led to another and I must have slipped into some kind of addictive compulsion that had been lying dormant. Before I knew it, I was clutching a bouquet that I don’t even remember picking. Of course, the park ranger didn’t accept this explanation and the next thing I knew; I was being finger printed, booked and looking at a possible jail sentence of two to five years.

How could this be? It wasn’t as if I had received an illegal stock market tip or anything as horrendous as that. I picked some flowers for God’s sake. They were there, they were pretty. Still, I was forced to register as a PPO, protected poppy offender. I’m not allowed to come within a hundred yards of a protected flower…ever.

I shared a jail cell for about twenty minutes with Kiersten, a young woman who was looking at three years for illegally duplicating a DVD of Sing Yourself Silly, by the Muppets. She may have had a hefty fine to pay as well. I will have to register with Cellmates.com to look her up. I’m curious to know what happened to her and I don’t want to wait until the ten-year reunion to find out.

I’ve since joined a twelve-step program for my flower picking addiction. I have a sponsor and attend meetings regularly. She makes me stay away from the floral section of the supermarket and return arrangements sent to me by admirers. I still get a giddy feeling when I pass the Goldfield’s garden but I found if I begin to skip and whistle zippity doo dah, it takes my mind off my PU’s (picking urges).

Thank God, there are places that we deviants can go to recover from hopeless states of mind and body. In fact, I think California is one of many states that protect these brilliant orange, cup-shaped wild flowers. Just watching these nearly indestructible perennials with their electrifying and vibrant colored petals fluttering in the soft spring breeze causes me to quiver. My pulse has quickened, so it might be a good time to give my sponser a call.

I'm back, she didn't appreciate my idea of growing my own poppies in the rich soil of my deserted garden in the back yard. She reminded me that I am a poppyholic and that even thinking of growing flowers of any kind is a slippery slope and could trigger a craving that no human power could rescue me from. She's right.

Unless you grow your own, and consider yourself lucky if you have control over your urges, please enjoy California poppies where they are most well-suited....gracing the beautiful California countryside.

MARTH-ANGST-GIVING

2009-11-24T00:26:00.000-08:00

I'm wondering why we never give appreciation to the individual who made Thanksgiving possible. Most of us think only of eating enough to feed a small village and then fall asleep in our cushy leather recliner. I think the true story of Thanksgiving will make you ponder gratitude.

He was a Patuxet Indian, and his name was Squanto. His story is remarkable. When he was a young man, he went to England on a trading ship. He was made part of an Indian Exhibit on a London stage, he worked as a servant, was tricked into going on board a slave ship to Spain where he was sold.

Luckily, he fell into the hands of a group of friars at a Catholic monastery. They freed him and turned him into a Christian. By the time he located a ship captain that would agree to take him home, twelve years had passed. When he returned home, there was no trace of his family or friends. They had all been struck with a great sickness. Every one of them had died. He was the last of his tribe, but at least he could speak english. Heh.

Squanto was the one who showed the Pilgrims how to build warm houses. Then, taught them when and where to plant. He showed them how use fish for fertilizer to grow corn faster. He even taught the women how to cook the corn. He acted as an interpreter, guide, and gave advice on bargaining with the natives. Without him, the pilgrims would never have survived the season.

After further investigation, I found there was one particular pilgrim woman who rankled Squanto to the edge of insanity. It turns out she was the great great great great grandmother of Martha Stewart. Her name was Martha Wart, the daughter of Stu and Penelope Wart. It seems she delighted in following after Squanto to improve on his demonstrations of planting and cooking.

Martha Wart was the first woman to use lobster claws to hold the corners of the tablecloths down when feasting outside. She served Brunswick stew richly seasoned with her very own garden herbs and often substituted squirrel or oppossum for deer. Squanto was used to one-pot meals but Martha rarely stuck to one pot. Often, she served Racoon wraps with her soups and stews and used sun-dried ceramic plates which she had fashioned from the loamy soil from her courtyard.

It wasn't unusual to see her gathering sweet gum tree spurs to make place cards for the harvest festivals. She showed Squanto how to make decorative turkeys from autumn leaves and roasted nuts over an open fire using a wire basket she molded from abandoned horse shoes. She constructed a still made from a boiler chamber and pipes she smuggled aboard ship.

Soon she had a wonderful mix of homemade vodka that served as the core of many 'happy hours', which she named them. Blackberry crushes and Lemon Shadies wer the favorite drinks of the ladies while the men preferred her brew strait from the jug. They showed Squanto how to do shots.

It has always been believed that Squanto died of pneumonia however there were some questions when the mortician found a lovely organza draw string bag sewn to the inside of his deer skin jacket, filled with dried buds, barks, roots, seeds and berries. Martha explained that it was for luck, however it was suspected that some of the ingredients, when mixed together formed a lethal bacteria.

The Pilgrims mourned Squanto's passing and held a wake lasting more than a week. Of course, Martha was head of the entertainment committee. Soon after, the women began asking Martha for tips for gardening, decorating and cooking. The rest is history.

Momtrepreneurs

2009-11-15T11:29:00.000-08:00

It is a little known fact that women have been inventing useful things for years. Unfortunately, it seems that unless you are a mom, or better yet, a single mom, you will most likely remain unknown.

For instance, Mary Anderson was granted her first patent for a window cleaning device in November of 1903. Her invention could clean snow, rain, or sleet from a windshield by using a handle inside the car. Her goal was to improve driver vision during stormy weather - Mary Anderson invented the windshield wiper. What would the Internet say? ‘Mom wipes away windshield wetness one stroke at a time.’

Virgie Ammons invented the handle for the fireplace damper. Her patent was issued in 1974 complete with diagrams that explain how the tool ceases damper chatter caused by air pressure in the room or wind coming from outside. However, if it were today, the Internet would boast…’Mom finds cure for ghostly, rattling and whistling sounds.’

Katherine Blodgett’s research on monomolecular coatings with Nobel Prize winning, Dr. Irving Langmuir (for his work in surface chemistry. Hmmm) led her to a revolutionary discovery. She discovered a way to apply the coatings layer by layer to glass and metal. The thin films, which naturally reduced glare on reflective surfaces, when layered to a certain thickness, would completely cancel out the reflection from the surface underneath. This resulted in the world’s first 100% transparent or invisible glass. Ever heard of her? Me either. But today her credit might read, ‘Single mom discovers a way to reduce pesky glare.’

Silver Screen superstar Hedy Lamarr invented a secret communication system in an effort to help the allies defeat the Germans in World War II. The invention, patented in 1941, manipulated radio frequencies between transmission and reception to develop an unbreakable code so that top-secret messages could not be intercepted. What would the Internet say? ‘Mom uses musical notes to send top-secret messages.’

Stephanie Kwolek’s research with high performance chemical compounds led to the development of a synthetic material called Kevlar which is five times stronger than the same weight of steel. Kevlar, patented by Kwolek in 1966, does not rust nor corrode and is extremely lightweight. Many police officers owe their lives to Stephanie Kwolek, for Kevlar is the material used in bullet proof vests. Other applications of the compound include underwater cables, brake linings, space vehicles, boats, parachutes, skis, marching drumheads and building materials. Well now, this is big stuff. How about… ‘Single mom stumbles upon material stronger than man made of steel.’

It was originally called "mistake out", the invention of Bette Nesmith Graham, a Dallas secretary and a single mother raising a son on her own. Graham used her own kitchen blender to mix up her first batch of liquid paper or white out, a substance used to cover up mistakes made on paper. She happened to be Michael Nesmith’s mom. You remember Michael? He played guitar for the Monkees. Well, you know how the ad would read today…’Single mom discovers way to correct Monkee business.’

You never read ads about single dads doing anything as important as coming up for a formula for whiter teeth or a hauntingly healthy Halloween snacks for toddlers. Why? Hey dads, get busy!

Unique Lounge Act

2009-11-10T21:52:00.000-08:00

Recently, in Newark, Ohio, a 28 year-old-man was arrested for drunk driving. We all know that things like this happen every day in every state. The interesting thing about this incident though, was the fact that he was driving a bar stool. He already had a suspended license and was not supposed to be driving a vehicle, so the logical thing to do, of course, is to weld a lawn mower engine onto a favorite piece of furniture. His favorite happened to be a bar stool…and, voila! Now we’re legal because technically the alleged vehicle is really lounge gear. Well, it seemed to be a good idea at the time. It all began after the fifteenth beer and he had some trouble negotiating a U-turn and crashed while going over twenty miles per hour. He was taken to a local hospital to treat minor injuries.

After doing a bit of research, I found that barstool racing has become quite popular in Wisconsin and you can even purchase motorized bar stools online. No kidding, they offer a 4.5 HP engine, powder coated bar stool with cushion seat, slick racing wheels, disk brakes and a factory warranty. You tube has a video of a V-8 bar stool. Man! You’d have to be very cautious about bellying up to the bar in that.

After studying the picture of the bar stool the man was cited on, it is clear that he was in violation of several obvious safety hazards. No seat belt for one. How on earth does he think he could safely execute a u-turn on this homemade contraption? Drunk, no less. There have been times that I wished I had a seat belt on a bar stool that I was using and I wasn’t even in motion. Another risk is riding backless. And what about an air bag?

If this keeps up, I’m sure the DMV will begin to implement bar stool driving tests. I suppose the test would include making a successful u-turn, handling an unexpected wobble, driving through three inches of peanut shells while negotiating tables and chairs.

I took this picture over to my mechanic today and asked him how much he would charge to pimp my ride. You know, hot pink, forged steel, 360-degree swivel seat, 100% faux leather upholstery on a soft cushiony seat and a wooden backrest with a cherry wood finish. He laughed and said it sounded like a sissy bar stool, and then he said he would need a stool sample.

Enlisting My Brain in Higher Learning

2009-11-04T23:36:00.000-08:00

In my ongoing quest for self-betterment and mental health, I am actively following suggestions set forth by my psychiatrist, Dr. Neil Weakly. The following transcript documents the session I had with Dr. Anthony Bennett, a well-know physicist, and Nobel Prize winner.

Dr. Bennett: So, my friend, Dr. Weakly has sent you here?

Me: Yes, he believes my brain is functioning at an extremely slow rate. Because I am at such a low learning level, I am in what is known as the ‘drone zone.’ He says, if it is left unchallenged, my brain may turn off altogether. (quivering voice) The idea of this happening to me is terrifying.

Dr. Bennett: (gazing at me as if I were under a microscope) And you would like to find the optimal state of challenge, stretch your brain, and ultimately be exhilarated by a sense of accomplishment?

Me: Yes!

Dr. Bennett: On the other hand (holding up his left hand), if we tackle learning that is too much of a stretch, you will be in the ‘groan zone’. (He gives me a quirky smile).

Me: Is there some type of IQ test that I can take that will find the right level of challenge in terms of pace, level and precision?

Dr. Bennett: Forget about IQ…it’s bogus. I would like to begin by addressing your reptilean brain.

Me: Excuse me?

Dr. Bennett: There is a center in your brain that carries the legacy of our evolutionary past, with emotions such as fear, anxiety and passion. Depending on which emotion you are tapped into, you can speed up or slow down your learning to a Worm Lizard’s pace.

Me: Oh my God! I had no idea.

Dr. Bennett: Well of course you didn’t. That’s why you’re here. Let’s begin with the theory of the universe.

Me: Really? That’s a stretch. You don’t think that’s a bit advanced for my reptilian brain center?

Dr. Bennett: (giving me a look of disgust) who is the Nobel Prize winner in this room?

Me: You are.

Dr. Bennett: Exactly. (assuming a more comfortable position) If the universe was created from nothing, then nothing has potential that you have never dreamed of before. This brings us to the idea of you.

Me: Okay.

Dr. Bennett: We cannot see two points because they are at zero dimensions. But, if you make a line between the non-points, then there can be a relation between them. Imagine this now.

Me: Does it make a difference how fast the line is going?

Dr. Bennett: It takes no time for the universe from one point to the other. You would have to reduce the speed infinitely, which translates into eternity. (appears bored) Perhaps Dr. Weakly’s suspicions about your brain shutting down are well-founded.

Me: Wait…can there be a negative speed that I don’t know about?

Dr. Bennett: There is a way, through reducing the rate of the line at which potential information can be received; and in this way essentially, have our whole uneaten pie while enjoying a piece of it because we are continually creating the pieces. Do you understand this hypothesis?

Me: (staring blankly) Where did the pie come from? I thought we were talking about lines. Now you have introduced something circular. It’s hard to wrap my brain around two theories at once.

Dr. Bennett: Of course it is, my child. I’m talking about two, zero-dimensional points creating a single dimension. Your question of how it is done is, by way of time reduction, or in other words, is nothing more than stalling. It is not a velocity-dependent line. Time, slowed down, is the sole determining factor of conscious reality. Avoiding my question most likely reveals some emotional disorder or mental illness.

Me: What kind of pie is it? Fruit or cream?

Dr. Bennett: What is so difficult about imagining a cycle? They have beginnings and endings much like the four seasons; and do they not keep repeating themselves?

Me: I had a gift certificate for the Four Seasons once but it expired before I had a chance to use it.

Dr. Bennett: Discard the notion of seeing in the literal sense. If you could see absolutely nothing, it would be the same as if you could see everything simultaneously. With this perspective, creation would require no beginning or ending. Thus, the straight line can travel in any direction, don’t you see?

Me: I have a question.

Dr. Bennett: (looking perturbed) Yes?

Me: When you say reptilian center, what species are you talking about? I mean, there are snakes, lizards, Gila monsters, turtles and crocodiles. And aren’t certain species endangered? Maybe you mean the already extinct reptiles like the, Tonga Ground Stick, or the, Yunnan Box Turtle. Do you? I’m not so sure that I like the idea that a part of my brain is cold-blooded or scaly. I mean, I was just wondering.

Dr. Bennett: Just because there is mental activity going on in your head doesn’t mean that you are thinking. Thinking is hard work. Having a thought doesn’t mean you are thinking either. We all have thoughts. In your case, I would say you are merely rearranging your opinions. Everyone has an opinion, as well as a navel, but it takes a special talent to think properly.

Me: I heard that Alfred Hitchcock didn’t have a navel.

Dr. Bennett: Have you ever had a brain scan?

Me: Yes, but it was inconclusive.

Dr. Bennett: Your brain is a physical organ. It is crucially affected by your physical condition and surroundings. The concept of the line and the relation between two points is still in question. Have you formulated an intelligent answer?

Me: So, do you think I should enroll in a line-dancing class?

Dr Bennett: (Staring at me as if I had two reptilian centers) let’s just hope your feet have a mind of their own.

Wish I Was Here

2009-11-01T18:27:00.000-08:00

With the cost of living constantly going up and the price of gas going even higher, people are finding unique ways of saving money. I read about one woman who invented a bionic bra. It seems, with the simple motion of her breasts, she can create enough power to operate her ipod. I’m sure this is only the tip of the iceberg though. With research and time, breasts will one day have the ability to produce enough power to run a George Foreman grill. That’s when the real savings will kick in.

Of course, it’s true that humans are more resourceful when it is absolutely necessary. We all know that some women fake orgasms, some men fake finances, but now… families are faking vacations for the purpose of saving money.

Since I had some vacation time saved up, I decided to give the fake vacation a whirl. I chose to savor the sights south of the border, and pretend to go to Mexico. After draping long branches of bougainvillea around the living room, I dragged the picnic table into the center of the room and covered it with my crisp, acrylic, chili peppers tablecloth. A bag of tortilla chips, fresh salsa and a few Jose Ole frozen dinners, and my menu was complete.

I invited by boyfriend along and he helped me cut sponges into sea creature shapes to fill the bathtub for snorkeling. Crazy glue was perfect for sticking on the googly eyes to make the squid look even more life-like. Since my bathtub isn’t very big, we had to take turns snorkeling but fun was had by all.

It took a bit more effort, but we were able to hang a zip-line from the bedroom, through the hallway and into the kitchen. With all the houseplants placed directly beneath the line, it felt as if we were really flying through the jungle’s foliage and we only knocked over one lamp with our tandem experiment.

After we mailed post cards to our friends, we laid out our towels and pretended to relax on the white sands. Everything was going great until he started to complain that there wasn’t a sealing strip of paper across the lid of the toilet seat, ensuring recent sanitation. The mini fridge wasn’t stocked, room service was terrible and there was no Gideon Bible in the nightstand drawer. I listened to his grievances as long as I could and then reminded him that, mi casa es mi casa, cut our vacation short and sent him home.

Next year, I think we’ll pretend to go to Chicago. All I’ll need is to place a few fans around the house and paste a silhouette of the skyline on the walls. Besides, it’s going to take weeks to get all of the sand from our fake trip to Mexico out of my carpet.

2009-10-24T09:35:00.000-07:00

Holidays seem to begin earlier each year. Aisles in the department stores are decorated for Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas simultaneously. Stress is in the air, I feel it, and at this particular moment, my wallet is in no physical condition to live out the year without intense wheezing.

As I uploaded this picture of a pumpkin, and even though it’s October… it feels like a pre-mature, e-Jack o-lantern. You would think that after all these years, living with the Julian calendar, I would be used to the celebrations that occur at this time, EVERY YEAR, but no, they always sneak up from behind and surprise me.

For my own sanity, I will tackle one holiday at a time, thank you. Halloween. What is actually being celebrated? Well, originally it was a Catholic day of observance in honor of saints. Another Irish story says that, on that day, the disembodied spirits of those who passed throughout the preceding year would come back in search of living bodies to possess for the next year. The medical term for this possession is menopause. Celtic villagers would extinguish the fires in their homes, to make them cold and undesirable. Then they would dress up in ghoulish costumes, and parade around the neighborhood, being destructive, in order to frighten the spirits away.

I have unknowingly practiced this ritual for some time. I extinguish all the lights in my house to make it undesirable for the costumed midgets that knock on my door, in search of panhandled treats. It is really for their own good, and for mine. In previous years, I have purchased sweets to hand out, but ended up eating the entire stash myself before a single visitor arrived.

The Jack-o-lantern used to be fashioned from a hollowed-out turnip. That must have been an artistic challenge. It was named after a man named Jack, who was notorious as a drunkard, and tricked Satan into climbing a tree. Then he carved a cross in the tree’s trunk, trapping the devil up the tree. I have to admit, Jack has tricked me too. Yep, he’s a real trickster. Jack Daniels has tricked me onto many a barroom table and forced me to dance. He carved gigantic smiles on the observer’s faces, trapping me on the table.

Anyway, Jack was denied access to heaven because of his evil ways and the devil turned him away too, because it was long before he took anger management classes. He did give Jack a single ember to light his way in the frigid darkness. The hollowed-out turnip was the carrying case that came with it.

It was when the Irish immigrants came to America, that the pumpkin was adopted as Jack’s lantern. It’s a good thing too. Pumpkins are much more colorful when smashed on asphalt. The other name for Halloween this year is, Saturday. So, happy Saturday, whatever you celebrate.

Buying the Farm

2009-10-21T22:03:00.000-07:00

I spend a good deal of time in front of the computer. Not only at work as a production control manager, but at home as a writer. I force myself to write something every day, whether it’s a tweet or a blog or just answering e-mails. Granted, I’m not as strict as I used to be. I no longer make me sit in my chair until I write 2,000 words against my 75,000 word novel like I used to, that’s just not good for my hemorrhoids, but I do insist on writing something.

Outside of the glow of my monitors, I try to keep abreast with what is going on with my friends, go to social gatherings even if it is just to have lunch, I accept speaking engagements when offered, volunteer in a local charity organization and sing in a classic rock band.

I would have told anyone that there is absolutely nothing else that I could squeeze into a 24 hour period. Nothing. That was before FarmVille! Yes, having a profile on Twitter and Facebook is great for networking and I have successfully avoided getting involved in the Mafia wars, Vampire wars, YoVille, Rollar Coaster Kingdom, Pirates, Mobsters 2, or Bejeweled Blitz, and I was proud of that. Funny the things you’ll be proud of.

About two weeks ago, my granddaughter invited me to her favorite Facebook place… in FarmVille. Actually, she wanted me to be her neighbor. How could I possibly refuse? Anyone who could look at those sparkling brown eyes and that cute little turned up nose lightly sprinkled with freckles would have to be made of steel to say no.

So now I own a virtual farm. I plow, plant, milk the cows and collect the eggs (from my one chicken). I’m currently on level 5 so I have a fairly small farm, but no house yet, so I pretty much stand in the field all the time. It’s ingenious the way it is set up though…just like real life, everything is done with the click of the mouse. Creating your farmer is fun. You pick the color eyes and hair you want. I gave myself a tan since I spend all of my time outside. You can earn coins for harvesting and selling milk and eggs and then go to the market to buy more seeds for planting. Sometimes someone sends you a gift like a tree, a sheep or a pig. I got a violet bale of hay today. That’s nice.

Extra coins can be earned by visiting your neighbors and helping out on their farm, and I’ve done that, but I do try to stay away from Donna’s farm, even though she is a neighbor. Donna is on level 30! Do you know what that means? She is the friggin’ Walmart of FarmVille. She has a huge farm house, a tractor, a vegetable stand and even has elephants to get the work done. Enough about FarmVille envy though.

I was in a meeting at work today and I was shocked by how preoccupied I was. While I truly tried to focus on our production plan and prioritize shipments, I wondered if my crop of eggplant was ready for harvesting yet. It was at 87 percent at one this morning and I couldn’t remember if I had milked the cows before I shut down my computer. I know I forgot to collect the eggs and those rascal raccoons might come skulking around to pillage again. Crows could be destroying my sweet potatoes and I didn’t have enough money saved to fence the horse in. Man, farm life is tougher than I thought, so much to stress about. And I thought the pressures of Halloween were bad.

INTERACTION BETWEEN THE SUN AND SALES RESISTANCE

2009-10-17T13:23:00.001-07:00

Of all the bizarre traits I’ve inherited from my mother, I believe the one that tops my inventory is my inability to say no to salespeople. I’d like to say it’s only the high pressure sales that I am vulnerable to but I have to admit it is probably just about anyone who speaks (not necessarily English) and carries a clipboard.

I’ve stopped taking my car to the dealership for oil changes to avoid being descended upon by the chump whisperers, AKA car salesmen. Twice now, I have taken my car in for an oil change only to drive off the lot in a new car. What’s even more humiliating is that I actually paid for the oil change the first time. What a lesson that was. The second time it happened, I absolutely refused to pay for the oil change on my trade in.

Two years ago, I went to a well-known dance studio just to brush up on my east coast swing and was held hostage in a sales room by two salesmen (overkill for me). I literally had to dance my way out. I ended up signing up for the platinum package which included learning the dances from the Italian renaissance, Baroque, Victorian Era and 19th and 20th century dances. I learned to dance the Waltz, Gallop, Polka, Schottische, Fox Trot, Horse Trot, Kangaroo Hop, Duck Waddle, Squirrel, Chicken Scratch, Turkey Trot, Grizzly Bear, Castle Walk and Maxixe. I’m still waiting to hear back from Animal Planet regarding that guest appearance.

I don’t go to the mall anymore because it takes too much energy to walk past the kiosks offering jewelry, photos on mugs, sunglasses and dollar-a-minute massage. One word, one smile, one wave, pulls me in like the gravitational draw of the earth on the moon. I get trapped in a dimple of time and space, orbit a few turns and predictably land to make the purchase.

Last year, I took a workshop in assertiveness training in hopes to learn to say no to salespeople. What I didn’t realize is all I really needed to do is study the interaction between the sun and human influences. No kidding. The medical community has known for decades that positive airborne ions increase human moods and activity.

A.L. Tchijevsky, a Russian professor of Astronomy and Biological Physics, noticed that 80% of the most significant human events occurred during maximum sunspot activity. The solar connection to terrestrial events has been studied by scientists for decades but only recently has the focus been put on the effects that solar cycles have on human behavior.

Armed with this valuable knowledge, I am able to coordinate my activities with the aid of this fantastic new sensor I purchased. This sun monitoring system or, D.U.M. (Detecting Ultraviolet Meter) has a compact design, ultra low frequencies, and will monitor geomagnetic pulsations to alert me of solar flares (sunspots) which lower my resistance to sales pitches.

You might be interested to know that we are at the beginning of Solar Cycle 24, which will increase over the next four to six years. It is my responsibility to interpret this information and respond in the most logical way. I figure it won’t be safe for me to subject myself to potential sales threats until the year 2015.

Time Lapse

2009-10-11T12:36:00.000-07:00

Last week I was invited to a time management seminar. I wasn’t able to attend but the question haunted me. Time management? Really? I began to wonder. Can time really be managed? That question kept repeating in my mind until evening when I went to bed. It took me awhile to get to sleep. The debate kept rolling over and over in my mind like a pair of pants in the dryer, with a quarter in one pocket.

I finally drifted off and found myself dreaming about it. I had been given the assignment of disassembling Big Ben and the sending parts out for cleaning. I took my job very seriously and demanded to see Sir Benjamin Hall, who ordered the original fourteen-ton bell in 1859. Of course, no one could put me in touch with him and I was incensed. I decided Big Ben was behind the times and searched out a new bell maker. Since I knew that the Swiss make incredibly accurate time pieces, I contacted Axel Acklin, whom I was told, comes from a long line of watchmakers and was now employed by Ryser Kentfield, one of the most well-known watchmakers in Switzerland. I felt the best way to get him on board was to show him a good time, so I hired Kala who told me her name means ‘time’ in Sanskrit. She said my request was untimely, but would see what she could do. In less than two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Axel was on the job.

Not only was he the best craftsman that money could buy, he had a thick-as-molasses Swiss accent that was extremely difficult to understand. I asked him to use his best English and he reached out and slapped me across the face. I expected to hear a smacking sound but instead it sounded like the bell that ends a round in a boxing match.

Suddenly, he was like a drill sergeant shouting out directives in perfect English. The strange thing is, he yodeled after each order.

“Hey you! 60 minutes! You might be famous on CBS, but around here you work for me! I want that big hand to be dismantled inside of an hour! And you! Sixty seconds! You may have waltzed for a minute with Chopin, but I expect you to fox trot around here, and for a whole lot longer! You, time over there, don’t start thinking you’re special because people believe you heal things! Yeah right, I suspect it’s the antibiotics. Think you’re a big shot do you? Just because you have an American magazine named after you? And where the hell did the day go? Probably out brooding about his bad hair. Has anyone ordered him to have a nice one? Come on you bunch of Nannos, is your hourglass half empty or half full?! It’s showtime, where is everyone? I’m going call attendance and when I do, you better say say present!”

I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. I could see that Axel was taking my job into realms that would have caused Sir Benjamin Hall to roll over in his grave. Big Ben had now been replaced with a Swiss Chalet Cuckoo clock complete with hand-carved figures of alp climbers in leiderhosen, beer maidens, farmers, cows and roosters. On the hour, a great green Cuckoo bird emerged from the gigantic doors and emitted a deafening cuckoo sound followed by a music box version of The Happy Wanderer.

I was aghast at the disrespect Axel had shown to one of England’s most cherished landmarks. He laughed like a sinister villain and confessed that he didn’t work for Ryser Kentfield at all, but was really a member of The Black Forest Society and had plans to steal all time from the world. Big Ben would now be known as Big Cuckoo!

Of course, I was mobbed by angry Englishmen and tossed onto the street hungry and timeless. I was begging for spare time and living in a cardboard Timex box. I was nearly unconscious when a light appeared in front of me and a figure emerged.

He said his name was Sir Benjamin Hall and he put a hand on my shoulder. His touch was electric. He asked me a question. “Can time really be gained, beat, killed, marked, kept, gained, lost, borrowed, multiplied, pressed, small, big, behind, out, in, taken, parted, filled, right, wrong, ahead of us, or managed?”

I tried to answer but all that came out of my mouth was the sound of a cuckoo.

He smiled warmly and asked, “You have a lifetime, but are you having the time of your life?”

That’s when I awoke and smiled. I finally had my answer.

Third Eye Lasik

2009-10-04T15:03:00.000-07:00

I have been made painfully aware of my much-too-concerned attitude about my physical body and social conformity. Just the other day, I was having lunch in a local café when I looked up and noticed a man was staring at me. The strange thing was that he was not looking at me through the two holes in his face that we know as eyes. He was actually gawking at me through his third eye! As if that wasn’t enough, I clearly heard his thoughts inside my own head. He was telling me that I was mentally unsteady, lacked focus and had a dread fear of amnesia. He screamed for me to just forget about what I can’t remember. I was so offended that I flicked a forkful of cole slaw at him, targeting his brow area. It worked. His spiritual vision was blocked. The café manager quickly escorted me out, but I managed to yell at the smarmy, third-eye peeping Tom, that he should have more respect for the chakra handicapped. I’m just glad I stopped him before his inner eye revealed my fear of being evaluated negatively in social situations.
It is common knowledge that we have physical and non-physical senses. Of course, I have a very strong fifth sense about these things, but activating my third-eye or what some call, the brow chakra, has been a very arduous task. I have tried gazing into the flame of a candle for an hour or two, calming my thoughts, watching my cat’s eyes to establish a meditative state and even staring at my face in the bathroom mirror for prolonged periods. It was hard to keep a straight face during this exercise, and giggling interfered with my inner peace. I felt superior when I noticed that my reflection blinked first and reveled in the victory until I realized that my ego was becoming much too involved and turned the session into an undesirable competition.
It was this state that brought me to Swami Kapesh Kumar. I found his ad in the personals while searching for my soul mate. Swami Kumar has perfected a surgical procedure as an alternative to activating the third eye by means of meditation. It involves the use of a ball-peen hammer. With one swift, forceful and nearly painless tap, he is able to dislodge the third eye from its lazy status and instantly create a glittering star-studded aura. The giddiness usually wears off within an hour after awakening, and is followed by an overwhelming sense of well-being. The only drawback is the red dot located just above the bridge of the nose. He says it should fade in time. I’ve seen this dot on middle-eastern women before, but I had no idea it was the result of third-eye lasik surgery.

2009-09-27T10:59:00.000-07:00

What we have hee-ah is a fail-yah to communicate".
This is one of my favorite movie lines from, ‘Cool Hand Luke’.
Recently, I read an article saying faulty communication is the biggest stumbling block in relationships, and in business. Another article said there is such a thing as too much communication. Can they both be right?
I decided to do a little research on the Art of Communication and found that there is a lot more involved than just imparting information.

Take these examples of actual headlines for instance:

Tiger Woods plays with own balls, Nike says.
Caskets Found as Workers Demolish Mausoleum
Poison Control Center Reminds Everyone Not to Take Poison
Federal Agents Raid Gun Shop, Find Weapons
One-Armed Man Applauds Kindness of Strangers

Now, we all know what the reporter meant, but when you look at it in print, well…
The same thing happens when people speak too quickly. It’s called a slip of the tongue. Suppose your boss wants to introduce you to an important new client. You’ve been warned that Mr. Rose has an extremely large nose and you must not stare or refer to it in any way. What’s the first thing out of your mouth when you meet him? Uh-huh. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Nose.”

Then there is the non-verbal, demonstrative type of communication which is often amusing. This is mostly performed by mimes or those who believe that showing is better than telling. Of course, when someone can insert a fist (preferably their own) in their mouth, that’s all anyone attending the party will remember about them.

Communication requires a wide range of skills such as, listening, observing, speaking, questioning, analyzing, and evaluating. In fact, it is only through communication that collaboration and cooperation occur. The United States has a whole department set up for the purpose of imparting and regulating the communication sent out via radio, tv, wire, satellite and cable. If it’s important enough for the government to get involved, it must be pretty darned important. Not to mention the vast array of classes offered to improve your writing and communication skills using PowerPoint, spread sheet applications and shadow puppets. Cornel University engages in the fundamental study and application of communication science. Wow.

Miscommunication opens up what is known as the triangle of conflict…Fear (What if?), assumptions believed as truth, (ass-u-me), what to do? (duh)
I recently experienced the triangle of conflict when performing the simple task of ordering a farewell cake for a dear friend.

I neglected to read the following words on the order form: Print EXACTLY what you would like on the top of the cake. And although she mispelled underneath, obviously, based on my communication, the baker was just doing her job.

About Face

2009-09-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

Ever have one of those days when everything looks just the way you like? Your face powder doesn’t settle into last year’s worry lines, your eye shadow blends seamlessly from lid to brow and your lipstick stays glossy all through mealtime? Well, yesterday wasn’t one of those days for me.

Let’s start out by asking, why do they call it make-up anyway? Isn’t that something you do after a particularly destructive occurrence? Is that what we’re starting out with? A negative event? I do battle my tendencies for self-criticism, which often border on torture, but I don’t need anyone else chiming in.

I woke up with bags under my eyes big enough to handle a ten-day cruise. After splashing cold water on my face and gently dabbing it dry with a towel made of long-staple, Egyptian cotton, I noticed that not only had the bags not reduced in size, but my crows feet had turned into a wrinkle fest. I quickly seized my natural, anti-aging, soothing, soft, firming, daily moisturizer, promising to banish eye bags; I pumped a large glob into my palm. After working it into the combat zone, I noticed that the wrinkles had truly vanished but now it looked like I had a copious water balloon beneath each eye. Damn, why did I stop doing my yogic eye exercises? I began to squint and release and did ten sets of ten. I ended by squeezing my eyes tightly shut and counting to forty, but before I could open my eyes, my boyfriend walked in. I heard a deep belly laugh that is usually reserved for the Jackass movies. I’ll allow him to make-up for this later.

The loose powder I applied clung to the, way-too-much moisturizer, and I was left looking like Mr. Magoo gone geisha. I had to keep moving. I applied my sunbaked brown eye shadow, using the applicator like a mason’s trowel. My lids ended up looking like painted cement. I ignored it. I only had twenty minutes before I had to leave. I quickly opened my cheekers blush compact and the brush slipped out and fell into the sink. Know what happens when you apply blush with a wet brush? Raggedy Ann! I was on a roll. Now I applied my midnight-black, waterproof, lengthening, volumizing, maximizing, mascara. I had just finished the last touch when without warning, I sneezed. Now I looked like Jan Crouch without a bible.

I was stymied. No pun intended. It only took five minutes to remove the mascara, wash my face, and pull my hair back into a ponytail. Days like these are why God made designer sunglasses.

Don't Contaminate the Crash Site

2009-08-25T23:41:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a computer crash? Well, let me tell you, from my own experience it isn’t pretty. I must say though, I now know more about what not to do than what to do in a computer emergency. I know I won’t perform CPU on my CPU (central processing unit)… ever again. Yelling at a computer will give you a whole new category in feelings of powerlessness. Watching as data slips away can be a frightening encounter but hitting the keyboard will do nothing more than tip over your bowl of corn chowder. By the way, it is impossible to blow corn chowder out of a computer keyboard. It was at that exact moment that the tower began to grind and squeal. It must have been the sound of the head whatchamacallit ramming into the spinning platter that stores stuff. After my tenth attempt at rebooting, I must have caused more damage. At least, that is what Franklin, my computer doctor said. My visit went something like this:
Franklin: Can you describe what was happening when your computer broke down?
Me: I had just finished talking on the phone to my friend, Rita about her overactive bladder. She says her bladder muscles contract inappropriately if you can believe that. Her doctor wants to put her on an antidepressant to paralyze the muscles but the side effects are scary. Blurred vision, dizziness, dry mouth, fatigue, nausea, insomnia…I think I’d rather pee my pants.
Franklin: I mean, what was your computer doing when it stopped operating?
Me: Oh, well I went to look up the website for the bladder foundation. I remember reading that you could remedy an ailing bladder with pelvic floor exercises. I think she should also consider a holistic approach and start taking Butterbur supplements. I laughed.That reminds me of Barliman Butterbur, you know, the owner of Inn of the Prancing Pony in Lord of the Rings?
Franklin: Then what did you do?
Me: When?
Franklin: When you searched the website.
Me: Oh yeah. Everything froze…even my mouse.
Franklin: And then?
Me: After turning the damn thing off, I rattled off cuss words until I completely ran out. Finally, I said a prayer and then anointed it.
Franklin: With what?
Me: Well, I didn’t think oil would be good for it and I didn’t have any holy water so I spit on it.
Franklin: So, you committed violence against your computer. Me: Oh, for God’s sake. Are you going to turn me in? Can’t you help me find the little black box that explains why the crash happened?
Franklin: This isn’t a plane crash.
Me: Okay, what about checking with the Sacred Hall of Computer Records or a scanning device of some kind?
Franklin: There is no sacred hall, there are no special tricks to research what led up to the crash unless I can look at it, and the only records for your computer would be inside it.
Me: So, it’s like a really big brain with information stored in different areas?
Franklin: Baby Brain.
Me: Excuse me?
Franklin: I’m assuming you are using a desktop PC.
Me: Well, it’s sitting on my desk, yes.
Franklin: Baby Brain.
I felt my chest tighten and my lower lip began to quiver.
Me: I feel like I’m locked in a big dark box and the directions for getting out are written on the outside. What I need is for you to read them to me, loud and clear in language that a five-year-old child could understand.
Franklin: My five-year-old daughter would have diagnosed the problem and had the computer up and running by now.
It took me a few moments to compose myself.
Me: Alright, Franklin, I’m going to draw a chalk line around this disaster. You just get over here and charge me your $100 an hour. But you better install an airbag because I’m never going to go through another crash like this again.

Inertial Informercial

2009-08-09T13:33:00.000-07:00

I have a terrible habit of falling asleep in front of my television, spooning the remote. I suppose there are worse habits, and I wish it stopped there, but it doesn't. I usually come-to, around 3 am, when the cable station is showing one of those paid informercials. That's where all the trouble begins. Well, actually it began about thirty years ago when I woke up to Joe Karbo talking about becoming a millionaire, The Lazy Man's Way. The idea stuck in my brain like a day-old Cheerio to a porcelain cereal bowl. Far from the tiresome advice of staying focused and hungry. It is so much more appetizing to be well-fed and lazy. Earn money while you sleep...lose weight while you sleep...subliminal tapes that teach you the secret of positive thinking that only a few know. I love it. Count me in!
Last night, I woke up to, Shapely Secrets. It's a seven-minute motionless exercise program. My eyes snapped open like they were spring-loaded. There were women of all shapes and sizes giving testimonials about how this program sculpts their bodies in only 7 minutes a day, in a perfectly motionless way. My mind screamed, I can do that! It's five times more effective than a 40 minute work-out. Yes! You lose fat, never muscle. Yes! Imagine being a whole size smaller in just fourteen days. Yes! You just stand still and don't move. Yes! Yes! Yes! I felt like Meg Ryan in, When Harry Met Sally.
Now, mind you, I have ordered exercise equipment, videos and dieting books, all promising the same results, and if I added them all up, I would estimate I have lost somewhere in the neighborhood of three-thousand dollars. Suddenly, the voice of reason, at least I think that's what it was because I'm not very familiar with that voice, told me not to go back into that neighborhood. Not without back-up. For once, I listened, and I resisted the urge to pick up the phone and order this time. I was so excited, I felt like finding a 12-step group to report my success. Do they even have IA? Informercials Anonymous?
Of course, my excitement was short-lived. I just signed up for a, Laughter Yoga class. It teaches you to destress your body by laughing, without truly laughing. Ha! You're actually able to produce that thin film of tears which are squeezed from the lachrymal sacs during the act of laughter...or getting your taxes prepared. No strain, no pain.
I guess I'm just hooked on finding the easier, softer ways.

MALICE IN WONDERLAND

2009-07-25T15:34:00.000-07:00

I wonder if there are statistics on how much time people spend wondering. Admittedly, we’ve really cut down wondering time what with cell phones, e-mail, infrared night vision cameras, miniature magnetic-mount motion-activated weatherproof GPS devices, fish-eye peep holes, caller ID and audio monitoring kits . We really don’t have to make Aunt Gert wonder where we are when we can just call or send an e-mail with a photo attachment of our recent visit to Woo La La Chinese Cafe.
I heard somewhere that genetics loads the gun, and environment pulls the trigger. Well, let me tell you, with all of the negative things I was told while growing up, my mental firearm is far more dangerous than any M16 assault rifle and should never be given too much time to wonder. Still, mild wondering is something I do enjoy; at least until it becomes unstable and someone gets hurt. It starts something like this.
I wonder where he is? He isn’t answering his cell phone. I’ll bet he forgot to charge it again, or maybe it’s off. Hmmm.
Maybe he e-mailed me. I log on and scroll through the offers to whiten my teeth by 7 shades and pills that will correct my erectile dysfunction. I look briefly at an approval for government funding. But then, who isn’t being funded these days? Still another one catches my eye. This one is for pomegranate juice that promises to cleanse 15 lbs of undigested food from my intestines. I’d love to lose 15 pounds. I wonder if that detox foot patch really extracts deadly toxins from your system.
I check my cell phone. No voice messages or texts. I look at the clock again and wonder if it’s right. I call for the time. Maybe he thinks I’m still at work. I access my work voice mail and the only message is from my boss wondering why I left early.
What a fool I am to believe he would follow through. As if I’m the only girl in town. I’ll bet he collected several numbers at that party we were at last week-end. After all, an attractive man like that doesn’t need to be accountable to one girl and believe you me, that darn redhead went for him like a duck on a junebug. I anxiously picked up the phone to check the dial tone. I call my girlfriend, Cindy, “don’t ask me to explain, just call me right back.” I hung up. Seconds later, my phone rang. “Hello? Yes, I was just wondering if my phone was working.”
He spent a long time talking to that tart, Pam at the party too. I could picture him at her place right at this very moment, sitting with her on the couch and talking about how I squeezed in between them on the leather sectional sofa. I swear, I thought the other end would lift up with all of us huddled together like that. I’ll bet they can scarcely contain their laughter. I scroll through my cell numbers and select Pam. She answers. “Hi Pam, I was thinking of having some people over on Saturday. Are you available? Yeah, it is short notice. That’s too bad. Okay, well how about tonight? Are you doing anything tonight…with anyone? I mean I was wondering if you are with anyone. No? Okay, thanks.”
I suddenly remembered my locker-mate at the gym. Marcia was one of those addicted to working out, and purging every last calorie of her uncooked plant food. He mentioned how good Marcia looked when he met me at the gym earlier this week. I wonder if he’s there with her right now. I call the gym and ask them to page him. He’s not there.
I went to my closet and dug out my poster of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction and put it on the wall next to the front door, yes, it’s a well-placed reminder for him, if he ever comes back. There are sooooo many whacko’s out there. One glance at this picture is equivalent to at least ten sessions of couple’s therapy.
Maybe he was trying to call when I was checking to see if the phone was working or when I called Pam, or the gym. I wonder if I missed the call waiting beep.
This wondering is getting absurd! Who does he think he is anyway? Making me wonder like this! Now I’ve wondered out too far and made myself miserable.
I don’t care if he ever calls again! I’m just going to go about my normal evening routine. I fixed myself a sandwich and ate in front of the TV. I washed my hair and put on some densifying treatment for fine and limp hair then coiled some plastic wrap around my head. I was just getting interested in my TIVO recording of Dexter when my doorbell rang.
I looked through my fish-eye peephole to see him standing there with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He had a bottle of wine too. I wondered what crappy thing he had done that he thought a handful of daisies and a bottle of Two-Buck-Chuck would make up for. I yanked the door open wide so he could see the anger on my face. He jerked back when he saw me and the poster of Glenn Close. He glanced at his watch and frowned.
“Am I early? I thought you invited me for dinner at seven.”

I'm Driving Me Crazy

2009-07-12T23:48:00.000-07:00

I’ve always prided myself on being an honest person, for the most part. I mean, there are those little white lies you tell, “sorry I’m late, I forgot about the time change,” or, “my, that dress makes you look ten pounds lighter.” I like to think of it as being thrifty with the truth. Whatever.
Last year, I was notified that I would need to report to the DMV, to renew my driver’s license. I was a little perturbed by this because they had been renewing it through the mail for twelve years. I was perfectly content with keeping that particular photo, no matter how old I had become.
So, after waiting over an hour in a long line, listening to sighs and complaints, I reached the clerk at the counter. She looked at my application and asked, “Is all of your information the same?”
I was about to say yes, but some unseen force commanded me to say, “No.”
She looked up. “What has changed?”
I hadn’t changed my weight from the time I applied for my very first driver’s license, at age sixteen. My license claimed I was a lithe, one hundred and fifteen pounds. I figured if I ever had an accident, they would be looking all over for me, underneath the fat woman.
"My weight."
She blinked, and stared at me for a long moment. “What weight should I put down for you?”
“145.” I lied again! I had actually topped my single birth maternity weight, and was pushing for twins.
If the DMV were smart, they would have a scale with a billboard-size display. You would be fined for every pound exceeded on your driver’s license. Not to mention, everyone in the building could see what you weigh. It sure would take care of the state’s financial deficit. And obesity would be a thing of the past.
Of course, I had to pose for a new photo, damn it. I’ve always wondered why they don’t offer finger-size peanut butter sandwiches before they take the shot. This way, when you’re sucking in your cheeks and using your tongue to scrape the peanut butter off the roof of your mouth, they could get an even more attractive photo than they already do.
Know what’s ironic? My doctor finally convinced me to lose weight by threatening me with cholesterol medication. So, now I’m down to one hundred and twenty pounds. That’s only five pounds away from the original weight on my license. Just goes to show, you should let sleeping dogs lie.

Touring the Brain of an ADD writer

2009-07-06T10:18:00.000-07:00

I’d like to walk you through uncontrolled and dangerous territory. No need to fasten your seatbelts, or keep your arms and legs confined to a specific area before the tour comes to a complete halt. Just sit back, in the comfort of your own thoughts, and know that you are safe, secure and protected.

Directly in front of you is a cranium that contains a bizarre collection of, linear vs holistic, logical vs intuitive, and reality-based vs fantasy-oriented processes, that are overly ripe for picking. On the left, you will find the region that functions as a splitter, it’s logical, sees cause and effect, and responds to verbal instructions. On the right, is a lumper. It sees the big picture. This region prefers open-ended questions, is fluid and spontaneous, fancies illusive and uncertain information, and would rather have a hot poker shoved into its soft gray flesh than to follow any type of instruction.

Notice the lush vastness on the right, as opposed to the miniscule, desolate, terrain on the left. This harsh difference is most commonly found in the brain of a fiction writer. Of course, there are unique occasions, where small as it is, the left region will rise up in ambush-fashion, and arrange what the right region considers a brilliant idea into logical, and sequential order. Crap, reality intrudes.

Please proceed to the collection of ideas located in the right hemisphere. Notice how random they are, how they flit from one tack to another.
Let’s observe a few:
Never store nuclear waste in a shoe box. Even if you're not arrested, it will stink up your clothes.

When driving away negative energies, make them buckle up in the back seat while you chant, "I want to be judged for my unseen intentions." Your problems will soon disappear.

Never whack a family member in the head with a 5-iron. It will definitely throw your game off.

Why do they make magnifying mirrors? Aren’t we scary enough without exaggerating facial blemishes?

It’s best not to dwell in this region too long or operate heavy machinery for at least one hour after your visit. An overextended stay may produce unwanted side effects such as, rawness of throat, nausea, fever, giddiness, headache, severe stomach cramps and sharp pains in the neck.

Let’s move on to the left region, the master planner and scheduler.

Don’t let the coffin lid hit you in the face on the way down.

Okay, that’s enough out of the right side. Pay no attention, if you don’t encourage it, chances are, in seconds it will forget you were ever here.

As I said, the left side is responsible for logical, concrete processing. Let’s have a look at the approach it uses for writing:

Everyone dies.
No one knew that better. He had seen first-hand the unyielding power of the reaper’s will. It wasn’t the reaper who tugged at him now, however. It was the deadly toxin that was rapidly being absorbed into his digestive tract.
The cold wind flattened his pant legs against his shins. An icy ache rankled his teeth. He jerked the edges of his coat tightly around his middle. His heart battered a rabbit-quick rhythm against his chest. Pain ripped up through his abdomen and brought him to a standstill.
With panic stricken eyes, he looked around for help. It was ridiculous to think anyone would be on the street at this hour. Nausea overwhelmed him.
He pressed his hand over his mouth. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything. His fingers were numb. He retched twice and then compelled himself to keep moving, feeling only a great sense of revulsion and wrongness.
Trees loomed, posing black and claw-like as he passed beneath. Swaying in the gale, they seemed to mock him as he reached out to them for support. He thought he heard them rustling their leaves, whispering, “Poor tiny man. Foolish little man.”

Always keep your pockets free of any flavor pudding.

Uh-oh, the right side has become bored. It would be useless to continue once these types of intrusions begin. Please exit in an orderly fashion, and return soon, as ideas are updated regularly. Thank you, and we look forward to seeing you again. Oh, and don’t forget to tip your waiter on the way out.

Excerpt from, 'Initials For Murder', by Venita Louise, available at, The Authors Lounge.