It is what it is

Lucky...

2011-12-04T22:32:00.001-08:00

I'm still here! I have been reading more blogs than posting due to being iPad challenged. I can't seem to figure out how to get my pictures to post. I will begin regular posting again, but will most likely change my format to more house posts than stories. I have a house and it wants some FaceTime on my blog. It shelters me and keeps me warm at night and holds many happy memories. It also holds a few secrets you might be interested in knowing. Until then, I have a little Christmas story for you. A few years ago a relative gave all the men in the family monogrammed snowflake boxers. The next year all the men in the family received silky boxers with a New Year's theme; champagne glasses, party hats, and horns with confetti. They were quite festive to say the least. Last year my husband was the only one to receive a pair of Christmas boxers with jingle bells sewn on the legs.His nickname is Lucky. Anyway, that has nothing to do with the story so back to it. One of the men took quite a liking to the silky boxers. He liked them so much he wore them to the grocery store. He liked them so much he wore them about town. He liked them so much, he wore them to our house for a visit one day. Turns out, he thought they were shorts and not underwear. He had no idea.

Rotator cuff surgery recovery tips

2011-09-07T00:50:00.000-07:00

Before I had rotator cuff surgery 5 weeks ago I searched the Internet for recovery tips and advice. I didn't find much other than YouTube videos showing a day to day physical recovery. I was looking for advice on pre and post-op information. I will share what I learned in the process and hope it helps someone else looking for tips on ways to make recovery a much easier experience. This is my experience and may not be the same for anyone else. It is a general list of items and tips I found helpful. Here goes:

The best news I will share is the surgery was not painful. I slept through it like a little baby once they slapped the gas mask over my face and asked me to take five deep breaths. I don't remember a thing after that...

When I woke up in recovery my arm was in a sling and my shoulder had a bulky wrap covering it. I opted for the nerve block on my shoulder before surgery. My doctor said it numbs the arm and helps ease any pain you might feel after surgery. I felt no pain. I also couldn't feel my arm. That was okay with me. I told my doctor I had zero pain tolerance when asked. I actually am around a 1 out of 10 on the pain scale but I didn't want to brag.

I gained a liter while in surgery. The surgeon plumps up your shoulder and arm with a liter of fluid. Nobody told me that was going to happen before surgery or else I would have opted for a contour spray tan to distract from the giant ham hock hanging in a sling that was once my arm. That fluid is the most uncomfortable part of recovery during the first day or two after surgery. My skin was stretched to a "whole notha level" and burned from the pressure. That is the only way I can describe how it felt. It's not a deal breaker or unbearable, just bothersome and irritating. Kinda like some relatives in my family...

My surgery was at noon on a Friday and by 7:3o that night I was sitting on the patio in my backyard enjoying the beautiful summer breeze and hanging out with family. The good ones, not the bothersome, irritating relatives. They were told I was in a coma, indefinitely...

Pain pills were dispensed by my doctor but I didn't really need them. I take half a pain pill an hour before physical therapy. It really helps and makes it a pleasant experience. I highly recommend it. I didn't take a pill for the first appointment and it was unpleasant to say the least.

I have been sleeping in a recliner. It is easier and feels better for my shoulder. If you sleep in a bed surround your shoulder and arm with a pillow underneath. It takes the pressure off your shoulder. I like the recliner because I am confined to a small space and like the cocoon feeling. I may never go back to a real bed again. It also helps prevent bags under your eyes as an added bonus of sleeping in a semi-seated position. Yahoo!

I'm a girl, so this next bit of advice may be of no help to the guys out there. I bought (tube/ smocked) strapless maxi dresses for post surgery attire. They have been ideal and I can't recommend them enough if you are having this surgery during the summer or live in a warm climate. You can step right into them and pull them up instead of struggling to get them over your head or get an arm in a sleeve. The maxi length covers your legs so you don't have to worry about unshaved legs. I am right handed and my surgery was on my right shoulder so I am not able to do much about shaving my legs and the dresses cover that little secret.

I also bought a long handled buff puff body scrubber for use in the shower. It is a handy thing to have when you only have one arm that works. A velcro closure body towel is another helpful tool for drying off. I also bought a dental floss device with a handle that looks like a toothbrush at Target to floss my teeth. You can floss your teeth using one hand.

That is all I can think of right now. Good luck with your surgery and I wish you a speedy and pain free recovery.

My doctor covered my incisions with steri-strips and said to keep them on for 6 weeks to prevent scaring and aid in healing. It is working.

Lovebirds...Part III

2011-02-08T23:08:00.000-08:00

I made these cupcakes. They are a Barefoot Contessa recipe. I decree these are the best cupcakes in all the land. The rings are from my extensive jewelry collection. I hired a bodyguard to stand near these cupcakes to make sure nobody ate a ring. You never know.

This cupcake flavor was for the bride. She likes white cake with buttercream frosting.

Other people liked them too.
I also made the labels for the the water bottles. I told all the guests if they drank the water they would fall in love. If anyone fell in love after leaving my house on Saturday I feel completely responsible for their good fortune.

Lovebirds...Part II

2011-02-08T22:47:00.000-08:00

My sister made these centerpieces for a bridal shower held at my house. The theme was "Lovebirds."

My sister put these wedding bells on my staircase. She collects them. She says she likes to think of all the happy weddings these bells have decorated.

I dressed these lovebirds in their wedding finery. I'm thinking of opening a wedding haberdashery right next door to Vera Wang. It will take the pressure off her having to think about veils and hats and will allow her to concentrate on those beautiful dresses she makes. Hopefully she has some experience in dressing birds.

This is not a Vera Wang gown. It wishes it was.

Lovebirds

2011-02-08T22:10:00.002-08:00

My friend is getting married and I'm the matron of honor. Her bridal shower was held at my house last Saturday.

This is my sister's collection of cake toppers. One of the guests asked how many times she has been married. Once.

She made the happy couple on the left for one of my wedding anniversaries. It looks just like us.

The four of us are not married to each other.

Mrs. Bobba's Toffee

2011-01-27T22:31:00.000-08:00

You must make this!

1 cup butter

1 cup sugar

4 cups Kix cereal
That's it - So easy!

Over medium heat boil sugar and butter stirring constantly until mixture reaches a nice caramel brown color like the second picture. Turn off the burner.

Add the 4 cups of Kix cereal.

Mix until all cereal pieces have been coated.

Spread on cookie sheet, parchment paper or wax paper and let cool. It cools quickly, usually in under 5 minutes. Break apart and have a taste. Bet you can't eat just one! These are delicious, buttery, sugary goodness with the crunch of Kix. Store in airtight container or ziplock bag.

I haven't met a single person who didn't like this toffee treat. I came by this recipe from my sister-in-law who is a cardiac rehab nurse. It was given to her by a cardiac rehab patient as a gift. Her name is Mrs. Bobba. We call it Mrs. Bobba's Toffee in her honor.

October Birthday Girl...

2010-10-11T21:36:00.000-07:00

Life imitates art...

It did not imitate art in this instance because nobody ordered the Jagermeister.

My daughter is the one in the middle. Her dad is trying to convince her and her friends to stay home and play with Barbies instead of going out on the town.

It didn't work...Oktoberfest was calling and she had her own stein.

That's apple cider...really! My daughter thinks that was Barbie's drink of choice.

Happy Birthday, Kiddo!

The neighbors...

2010-10-07T23:13:00.000-07:00

The neighbor's house at Halloween...

Ghost guards...

Pumpkin people...

Scarecrow family...I call the one in the background, "Creeping Crow."

Fall...

2010-09-28T21:16:00.000-07:00

Simply Fall...

Ina Garten Pumpkin Cupcakes with Maple Frosting...

"Gingerbread" Haunted House

Fall decorations

Mantel Pilgrims

Halloween Banner

Mrs. Pumpkin

Halloween Tree

Sew Blue...

2010-09-12T22:47:00.000-07:00

My sister and I made those blue drapes in the dining room. I decided that using a toile tablecloth to make them was a brilliant idea. It is if you can find enough of them. I did not. It made me think of math class in high school. It would have been a good idea to pay attention. I did not. Fortunately for me my sister did. She saved the day.

She helped me make these curtains too. I got to hold the tape measure. She got to read it. I guess the difference between one half and five eighths of an inch is significant sometimes.

I did not upholster these chairs. I do not have the patience nor the skills. I sold a child to get them. (not really)

I made these drapes on my own. A rectangle shape is manageable. Using a glue gun to attach the fringe is even more manageable. I expect a call from my sister immediately after she reads this. I told her I sewed the fringe on with invisible thread.

Nothing to sew here. So I have decided this has to be my favorite spot in the house. My sister helped me here too. This Cinderella slipper and coach is located in the foyer. If Prince Charming shows up we are ready. I have my daughter's bags packed and waiting in the hall closet. She has no idea. (again, not really)

Martha Stewart, my sister and me...

2010-09-08T22:34:00.000-07:00

In 1994 I met Martha Stewart. Twice. She has no memory of meeting me. I remember her very well. I have the business card holder in the above picture to remember her by. I also have her autograph in the following picture and a story about my sister, and Martha.

Martha autographed her business card for me because I could not afford to buy her Entertaining book at the time. She was very understanding and kind. I walked away basking in the Martha glow. Above the autograph was a phone number. During Martha's talk she told the audience that we could call her if we ever had a question about gardening or cooking or anything craft related. So one night my sister and her best friend were sharing a bottle of wine.

Conversation turned to Martha.

The discussion centered around Martha's astrological sign.

A debate ensued.

Opinions differed and wine flowed.

Martha's business card was whipped out of the handy business card holder and the phone number listed on the card was dialed lickety- split. The time difference was not considered. It was late. And three hours later where Martha lives. Martha had told us at the event that she only sleeps about four hours a night and leaves her light on with a note pad and pencil next to her bed in the event she gets a good idea in the middle of the night and needs to write it down. In my sister and her friend's defense I must say the number they were dialing was believed to be an office number. My sister and her pal thought they would leave a message and hope for an answer in return. Turns out it was Martha's home phone number and she answered at two in the morning as chipper and lively as if it were the middle of the day. My sister was bolstered by a little vino and felt quite bold. She also really needed to know Martha's sign.

So she asked.

Martha playfully answered, "What do you think I am?"

My sister responded with " Scorpio?"

and Martha said,

"Wrong!" in a sing-song voice, and then said, "I'm a Leo!"

My sister said, "Of course you are! I should have known!"

Martha then asked my sister if she had a cooking or planting or craft question for her. My sister said no and then went on to say she was just a nutty California girl who wanted to win a bet. Martha laughed. My sister thanked her for her time and wished her a good night. Martha wished her the same. A few months went by and Martha came back to our neck of the woods and gave a little talk at a fancy garden center by the beach. I met her for a second time. I sort of followed her around the garden center while the owner gave her a tour of the place. I was early for the event and she was too and I didn't want to sit in the hot sun so I tagged along a few paces behind them and eavesdropped while Martha and the owner talked flowers. She knew what she was talking about. I didn't have a clue. She spoke of flowers and planting and other garden related issues. I do not have a green thumb. I didn't tell her. I pretended to be a garden gal like all the other people there that day even if all I really cared about was where she bought the fabulous cornflower blue suit she was wearing and who did her hair. And that's my story about Martha Stewart, my sister and me.

Time's a wastin'...

2010-08-23T22:19:00.000-07:00

I've been gone for a while...Come on in and see what's been happening.

made some curtains for my kitchen...

finished the kitchen...

and this room too...

had a birthday...

ate some of this...chocolate and peanut butter cake

and celebrated again with another cake...

had a pinata filled with lotto tickets, whoopie cushions, poppers, and party horns. We had a winner!

finished with this little number...

hung out with these two beauties...

hung out with this guy too...

and read a few books...

and

spent a lot of time reading all of your blogs.

I'd say I have been extremely productive.

Lights Out...

2010-04-29T22:01:00.000-07:00

Next time I book a room at a fancy hotel I won't ask for extra towels. I'll ask for extra light bulbs. Light bulbs that have more light in them than one little firefly. This is the room my sister and I stayed in last weekend. Can you see her? All the lights are on.

We took the black lampshade off the center light so I could take this picture of my sister getting ready to go to bed. It was too cold to go swimming so she is diving into her bed instead. The beds in this hotel cater to giants. I counted 4 mattresses. There may have been more but I'll never know because I'm a product of "all I really need to know I learned in kindergarten." I did a triple dismount worthy of the Olympic Games every time I launched myself off the bed. By Sunday I was so good at it that I took a flying leap and bounced off my sister's bed right into the bathroom scoring a 9.5 with the judges, otherwise known as the people in the room below us who thought they were experiencing "The Big One!" a California earthquake. Next time I'm bringing my miner's cap, a ladder and a chalk bucket to chalk up my hands for a better grip on the bedpost so I can score a perfect 10.

Breakfast anyone?

2010-03-05T19:42:00.000-08:00

It's almost time for open house again at school. The little artists are hard at work drawing pictures for their families to see. I decided to give you a small preview of what's in store for you. Can you guess the title of the first picture? It's very obvious if you ask me. It's . . . "Pancake Machine". At least that's what the 7 year old artist calls it. The second picture is a "Pancake on a Stick" employee forced to wear a ridiculous hat. The artist calls it, "Pancake Robot". I'm not so sure this student has ever eaten a pancake in his life or even seen one. Education isn't what it used to be.

Birds of a feather...

2010-02-23T18:22:00.000-08:00

Spring has sprung early at my house... I forgot to put up a "No Vacancy" sign and a bird laid some eggs in the nest on my front door wreath. I left a rent receipt. It left bird poop.

anyone know where I can get a little bird saddle?

I call this "bird on a wire"... they don't call me the clever one for nothin'
I call this whatever I want on any given day...most of the time I just whistle at it...
I call this "Art"...because it didn't come from Target.

Observation...

2010-02-08T18:37:00.000-08:00

We added a new kitchen to our house recently.

The granite we chose for the kitchen is called Juparana India Gold.

Very unique.
Very lovely.
Very chic.

Or not...

Went to a fast food restaurant with a co-worker today and to my surprise I saw my countertops in abundance there.

Either "Farmer Boy" is tryin' to class up their burger joint or I have a kitchen that looks like a "Farmer Boy" dining room.

The same granite in my kitchen was the topper to the trash receptacle and the bar counter by the window.

Classy...

My marriage in a nutshell...

2010-01-22T19:30:00.000-08:00

The following is an email I sent to my husband who is out of the country right now.

I am not.

To whom it may concern,

Houston we have a problem...

Remember the other day when I pointed at the entry wall and said it looked a little funny? Well, when the housekeeper came today she walked in and said, "Holy Guacamole! Look at your wall!"

I was right! There is something wrong....we have a leak and the wall bubbled up under the stairs in the front entry area...It looks like a balloon got trapped between the wall and the paint. It's creeping down the hallway going toward the laundry room and under the upstairs landing.

It does not match our decor.

It is not pretty.

I do not like it.

Until you get back I will take showers in the downstairs bathroom or not at all...

Hopefully it's not the crapper and I fall through the ceiling one day while I'm minding my own business...that would be hilarious don't you think? :)

How are you? Enjoying Paradise while I hold up the house by sticking my thumb in the hole that used to be a wall?...ha ha.....

The fun never ends when you stay home...

Our son took out the trash cans last night in the monsoon when he got home from work without me even asking..good thing..cause the trash man came today. Guess Martin Luther King Jr. Day doesn't warrant that big of a holiday...trash people still have to work. Apparently only people who work in banks and post offices are worthy.

Well, that's all that's happening in our neck of the woods...

Have fun...don't worry about us...we are building an ark and will test it out in the yard which used to have a pool...now it's a lake. The rain is still as strong as ever..it looks like nighttime during the day. It's pitch black right now as I look out the library window...cool and creepy at the same time. The kids are carrying flashlights to get to the library. It's an adventure...or Armageddon...not really sure yet.

Saw Dr. Love yesterday. She had great advice for me...I am trying to remember it today. Took me a while to get home. The freeways were flooded in spots. I listened to Raw Dog and Blue Collar comedy on the radio...essentially I laughed all the way home as I gripped the wheel trying to stay on the road. People were driving very carefully...only one idiot flew past in a monster truck...probably had to go to the bathroom. Everyone else was careful. Didn't see any major accidents and wasn't in any major accident. All is quiet on the Western Front.

Well, gotta go...time to switch thumbs.

love ya the mostest...
Your wife - who isn't the toastiest right now....a little wet and loving it! You really are missing a great storm..and that is no exaggeration. I swear...well, actually I don't, but that's for another day and another email...:)

After pouring out my heart in the above email I received the following response from my husband:

call me.

it is only a penny a minute.

A man of few words, married to a woman of many. Opposites attract and we certainly did.

House love . . .

2010-01-14T16:30:00.000-08:00

Eggnog is bad for you...

2009-12-27T09:47:00.001-08:00

It makes you kiss your presents...

We had to wait until she kissed all these...

It hasn't affected this little lady yet...
or this serene moment...
Another peaceful moment...

And then this...she is being sent back to the kids table next year, and I'm going with her.
This side of the room had a "Where the Wild Things Are" moment...the eggnog was flowing like a river over there...
This side of the room was on "Santa Watch"...
but not this guy...nobody knows what he was doing

This guy found Santa and his helper caught him...

Santa! He doesn't look too happy that he's been caught...
We took pictures with Santa...
You are never too old for that...

Santa Paws loved it...

Hope you loved your holiday too!

Annual Gingerbread House Extravaganza...

2009-12-19T19:15:00.001-08:00

Wake up Linnie! It's time to make Gingerbread Houses!

This one belongs to my sister...
She had one too many of those wax candy drinks...I have contacted the authorities.
These are the finished products. Can you guess which one is mine?
It's the one my sister named, "Santa's Outhouse." It's the best I could do with arms like a T.rex.
My sister put some gummie guards on duty to watch over her house. I don't know why...nobody wants to eat her house. Even she doesn't want to eat it and it's not because I licked everything when she wasn't looking.
I forgot to lick this side...
My favorite (only) daughter made this one...
I did not lick it.

Christmas cheer . . .

2009-12-12T20:45:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure this guy is the real deal...even if he did bring me a set of drums, a train set and a race track for Christmas the year I was eight. My husband got the same presents the year he was eight too. I'm pretty sure we were destined to be together based on this principle alone.

I'm pretty sure praying isn't going to help me much this year...but I'm still going to pray that nobody repeats those presents from my eighth Christmas.

I'm pretty sure my daughter doesn't like Nutcrackers. They stand watch on the staircase. They watch my daughter fall down the slippery wooden stairs and wipe out on the landing taking a few of these guys down in the process. Around here we call it "Nutcracker Bowling." Christmas wouldn't feel the same if this didn't happen every year. I never intend to carpet the stairs.
I'm pretty sure this is illegal in our state... but if my brother-in-law doesn't catch that squirrel there will be no Christmas dinner.
I'm pretty sure this guy had a headache the day after Christmas...Some people just can't handle their eggnog...

and some dogs can't handle it either...

I hope you are handling the Holidays just fine!

Thanksgiving...

2009-11-28T00:10:00.000-08:00

Look who won the Thanksgiving centerpiece. Lucky me!

Join in the fun at: Candid Carrie's Foto Friday Fiesta

It is what it is . . .

2009-04-20T21:44:00.000-07:00

It's time to take a blogging break.

Thank you Lynngweeny, Swirl Girl, Candid Carrie, Teri, Kat, Kath, and everyone else who has visited and read this blog and been there from the start. I have had a lot of fun writing and posting. I will still visit all of your blogs as I have come to know so many of you and enjoy your life stories in this wonderful blogging world. .

Adios for now.

Happy all the time . . .

2009-04-13T19:19:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I received a gift certificate for a beauty day at the local nail salon. A day filled with the works. A spa manicure and pedicure. I was pretty excited. When I drove up to the salon I saw the name "Happy Time Nails" on the door and told my hands and feet to get ready for a fun-filled experience.

I entered the salon and was greeted excitedly by the owner and ten nail ladies all beckoning me to come in and sit in the happy glamour nail chair. At least I think that's what they said. I was the only customer in the joint. Either this was a very exclusive salon or the worst salon. I got a gut feeling that told me to run. I should have followed my instincts. I would have been right and not in need of medical assistance when the day was over.

I awkwardly climbed up on the nail chair and turned to face my chosen nail lady. She grinned at me and said something like, "You like me?" I nervously smiled back and said something intelligent like, " Um?" She laughed and slapped my foot as she pushed my pant leg up to my inner thigh. I heard a rip. The little lady had strong hands. She had torn my jeans up to mid-thigh with her tiny little doll hands. I wasn't expecting her to alter my clothing too. This was some salon. I came in wearing boot leg jeans and I was going to leave in a pair of cut-offs to show off my new pedicure. What a surprise. I wasn't so sure I was very happy about it yet. Hopefully they lived up to their name.

She turned on the jet powered water bath and immersed my feet. Another person had snuck up behind me and turned on the vibrating chair feature. I was expecting a relaxing experience. Instead I felt like I was riding a mechanical bull. I asked for a seat belt to keep me from sliding off the chair and onto the floor. They covered their mouths and giggled. I held on tight and wondered when the happy part was going to start.

My special nail lady with the super power hands pulled out my right foot and placed it on the towel covered bar. She examined my foot as she reached under the chair and pulled out an electric sander. She flipped the switch and there was a momentary power surge. Everything stopped, the lights dimmed for a second, and then everything went back to normal again. She pressed the sander to the bottom of my foot and my leg did an involuntary rocket kick. She grabbed my flailing foot and set the sander to my heel. She ground off a full shoe size before I asked her to move to the other foot to even out the size. I wanted my shoes to flop equally when I left. I made it through that portion of the ordeal only to have her put the sander away and bring out a drill. She was going to shape my toenails. Sand away the ridges. Even them out. Sand them off completely. And then try and sand off my pinkie toe as well. I saw red, and it wasn't the nail polish color I had chosen. I decided I had about all the "Happy Time" I could take and said I just remembered that I had to go.

Now.

The nail lady wrapped my foot in toilet paper and I hobbled out the door as the salon owner told me there was no charge for the experience. I said, "Well, I'm really happy about that."

the end...

Happy Easter . . .

2009-04-11T23:19:00.000-07:00

You are never too old to take pictures with the Easter Rat. He uses his ears like arms to hug the ladies.

Aren't these beautiful? They came from a bakery named, "Some Crust".

These came from a day of making my sister slave over a hot oven. I'm particularly fond of the blue icing.
They taste amazing.
I made these party favors for my guests. It's all about the candy.

I found this nest in my yard. If those eggs hatch, Easter is ruined, my table decoration is ruined, and I will be really grossed out.

Do you leave refreshments for the Easter Bunny? This year I'm leaving him a note with the keys to my liquor cabinet. I drank everything while preparing the Easter feast for my family. I need to blame someone. He won't mind. I'm sure he's sick of carrots anyway.
Happy Easter everyone! One more thing...

... I can't leave without showing you these. These are bunny faces. I can't stop making them. Or eating them.
My sister can't stop making these gingerbread candy houses. Does anyone know of a Gingerbread Rehab group? I would love to drop this off on Monday so they can eat it during snack time.

Stay in school . . .

2009-04-02T20:43:00.000-07:00

Last night was Open House at our school. This kid drew a crown on herself in every picture. Her name is Queeny. No joke.

Three students have healthy body images. Two don't. They think they are Aliens.

One kid thinks he's Elvis.
This one is in counseling.
This is what happens to your body if you eat too many sweets. Works for me.

This is an endangered animal. Probably a good thing.

This is our token Vampire Child.

This one is trying to hide her hamster with a side ponytail. I still see it.

This one is hiding something under his desk.

This one is Gumby's daughter.
This is me. I went a little heavy on the lipstick.

This is the view from my library counter looking out at the hallway. I use a long hook to catch my friends and co-workers as they race by. They love it. I think I see someone belly crawling by my door right now.
This is where I sit and read stories to the students. Personal favorites of mine are, "There really is a monster under your bed," and "Mom and Dad love your brother more than you," and the best of all is "You and your therapist: a beginners guide". Classics.

This is the library. I have a look - but don't touch - policy. It stays cleaner that way.

Thanks for attending our Open House.

Easter...

2009-04-01T23:00:00.000-07:00

I found out in 3rd grade that I had allergies. I'm told I sounded like a cat coughing up a fur ball every two seconds and it was disturbing to everyone around.

I went to the doctor and got tested. I found out I had the same DNA as the boy in the plastic bubble.

I was allergic to everything.

Chocolate
Strawberries
Dairy
Wheat
McDonald's
The entire Universe
Et al . . .

If I liked it... I was allergic to it.

I wish the doctor had said something like, "Liver, green bell peppers, lamb, and chores." I could live without all of those things. Forever....

I found out that I was allergic to the food I loved a few days before Easter.

What in the world would the Easter Bunny bring me?

Carrots? Celery? Lettuce? Radishes? ...an I.O.U????

I was pretty concerned as any kid would be.

I wrote him/her a letter.

Dear Easter Bunny,
I just found out that I am not supposed to have any chocolate in my Easter basket this year...or ever. If you hide some under the plastic green shred I would appreciate it. My parents won't mind. They are used to me sounding like a fog horn. It's somewhat melodious once you get over the initial shock. I would also like you to leave out the Peeps. Those things taste like stale marshmallows dropped in the sand. I would also like it if you could take out the black jelly beans. Licorice gives me gas. Worse than my allergy sounds. I am leaving you an extra carrot for your efforts.
signed,
a very concerned kid

Easter Sunday rolled around and I jumped out of bed and ran to the living room to search for my bountiful basket. I saw 4 baskets lined up on the fireplace. The usual spot. Our Easter Bunny obviously came down the chimney like Santa Claus. I noticed very quickly that the three baskets for my two sisters and brother were full of large chocolate bunnies, jelly beans of all colors, multiplying Peeps in purple and yellow and pink, and lots of chocolate eggs. I saw my basket. It was full of something white. White bunnies. Lots of white bunnies. White eggs. Lots of white eggs. White jelly beans. About a hundred of them scattered in the shredded plastic Easter grass. I counted them.

I quickly set to work tasting each and every piece for flavor. After the 50th jelly bean I gave up. I'm pretty sure they were the "Mystery Flavor" which means they were factory rejects that the manufacturer cleverly marketed. I bit the ear off the largest white bunny. It tasted like sidewalk chalk. I licked a white egg. It left a coating on my tongue that tasted like Crisco. I gave up and grabbed a chocolate bunny out of my sister's basket and stuffed it into my mouth. It tasted like heaven. Two seconds later I woke up the entire family with my honking fur ball cough.

Turns out the "Easter Bunny" had given me an entire basket of white chocolate and yogurt flavored goodies.

???

I have no good explanation for why the "Easter Bunny" thought that white chocolate and yogurt were not part of the chocolate and dairy family.

the end...

Friday musings . . .

2009-03-27T17:41:00.000-07:00

Not a glass slipper...

Not Cinderella...but close...the pretty part...not the indentured servant part...

Not Goliath's foot...but close....

further proof...

Not incredibly appetizing to look at...but incredibly appetizing to eat...

Not my size. . .

also not my size . . . but close . . . if I was still a newborn . . .

and didn't eat a lot of these. . .

Happy Weekend everyone. . .

The Spelling Bee . . .

2009-03-24T15:19:00.000-07:00

I was in a Spelling Bee when I was a kid.

I made it to the final two.

My competitor, Lori, and me.

In order to get to the Spelling Bee competition I had to out spell all the kids in my school. Then I had to out spell all the kids in the county. Then I had to out spell all the kids in the city, on my block, at church, in the store, waiting for a bus, and so on...

I did that.

It was a piece of cake.

C-A-K-E.

The day of the Spelling Bee arrived. I woke up early and read the Encyclopedia Britannica and the Webster's Dictionary before breakfast. I wanted to make sure I knew how to spell every word there possibly was in the English language. I had no idea that I should have been reading romance novels too. It would have helped me ace the competition with my final word.

I went toe-to-toe with Billy DeLunamore on such words as, spoliator, elegiacal, pococurante, and ratoon. Easy-peasy...until....Billy was knocked out of the competition and I was left with Lori. Lori spelled every word correctly just like me, but with added flair. Lori would spell the word and use it in a sentence. I tried this. And was almost disqualified. Spelling Bee judges do not have a sense of humor. They do not enjoy hearing every word turned into a rhyming joke. I quit...right after ratoon.

Lori's last word was something like, fergalicious. My word was something straight out of a romance novel title. I was a kid. I didn't read romance novels. I also didn't know how to spell the word. I must have skipped over the letter "r" in the dictionary, and the encyclopedia and everywhere else. I did glance over a few pages of "r" words. I stopped after ratoon. I never ventured further. I should have. I lost on a really easy word. I will never forget that word. In fact I am writing a romance novel just so I can use the word in the title and write it many times over so I never, ever forget. Believe me when I say I haven't forgotten. To this day it haunts me.

I remember standing up on the stage with the hot lights shining in my eyes and the foul smelling microphone perched on the stand in front of me. I remember the whine of feedback from the speaker as I asked the judges to use the word in a sentence while I stalled for time. The judge said something like, "R----is the last word you need to spell in order to win this competition." I asked for the meaning. "R---- is a word not fit for children's ears." What? Then why give it to me?

I pointed out that I was a child and maybe they should reconsider and give me a more age appropriate word to spell. The judges conferred with one another for about a second and said, "No," and "Spell R---- please." Then someone hit the timer and I began to sweat. Time was ticking by at warp speed. I was searching my brain for the correct way to spell the word. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lori pull out her Spelling Bee acceptance speech and study it. I was a goner. I spelled the word. I spelled it wrong. A trap door in the stage opened up and I fell through and joined all the other losers in the orchestra pit. Lori was the last man standing. She spelled the word. Correctly. Used it in a sentence. Correctly. She won the Knights of Columbus Spelling Bee.

I crawled out of the pit and asked someone to check her I.D. Maybe she wasn't really 10. Maybe she was older. How did she know that word?

Lori said that her uncle was one. Her father was one and, in fact, every man in her family was one. Her confession did not make me feel any better. Lori's mother did not feel any better either now that the secret was out about her family.

My mother was not too happy either. I told her she should be grateful that I didn't know how to spell that word. I was pure. Innocent. And as far as I knew - didn't have any male relatives who were one.

The word you ask?

It was . . . "R-O-G-U-E", ROGUE.

the end...

Tubby...

2009-03-22T22:06:00.000-07:00

This is Tubby a couple months ago...he sat in my arms forever and made funny dolphin sounds when I tried to put him on the floor. French Bulldogs do not bark like other dogs. They sound like a cross between someone letting the air slowly out of a balloon and "Flipper". It's part charming and part unnerving. Tubby belongs to my niece. She sounds like a normal human. This is Tubby today... he continues to be a little lethargic, boneless, and likes to be carried everywhere. He still sounds like "Flipper" and squeaky balloons. Just louder. And deeper. Like he means business. Watch out.That's my nephew pushing the "ON" button. . .

It didn't work. Tubby just sat there until someone picked him up. He's trying to live up to his name. We love him anyway.

the end...

Pillow talk...

2009-03-19T14:26:00.001-07:00

My daughter and I were lying on my bed talking.

We were having one of our very mature conversations discussing world peace, the State of the Union address, and global warming...or maybe it was "Gossip Girl", the "Rock of Love Bus" and the pros and cons of hair extensions. Very important stuff if you ask me.

Toward the end of the conversation she thrust her foot in my face and with a huge grin said, "Mom, eat my toes."

I looked at her with a straight face and said, "I'm too full."

A small glimpse of life with my husband, the funny one . . .

2009-03-13T21:46:00.001-07:00

I was at the mall with my daughter. A weekly occurrence.

Hubby was at home relaxing. A daily occurrence.

We are attending a wedding next weekend and my daughter and I have been marathon shopping for dresses. I found my dress on the first try. My daughter tried harder. In fact she was trying on dress #264 while I sat on the couch outside the dressing room texting my husband. I quit trying to find the right dress for her at dress #263.

The following text message conversation between the hubby and I took place:

Me: I am at the mall...what a surprise!

Hubby: Surprise! I am loafing at home.

Me: Loaf away!

Hubby: It's a secret...no one knows I like being at home.

Me: It's called agoraphobia.

Hubby: In Spanish a gorra is a hat or condom. I do not have a fear of either.

Me: :-)

the end...

Not the Erie Canal or the Panama Canal...

2009-03-05T18:16:00.000-08:00

I'm having a root canal tomorrow morning. Wish it wasn't so. I went to a dentist many moons ago who wasn't so great at what he did. I am slowly correcting those mistakes. He put a crown on my back molar instead of on my head where it truly belongs. He treated that crown like it was a dental time capsule. He put every type of dental filling, super-glue, cement and amalgam possible in one little tooth and then covered it in gold. I call it my pirate tooth. Fortunately it can't be seen by the common house fly or man.

Yesterday my dentist removed the crown and lo and behold found another mystery to be solved by Geraldo Rivera, or not. He was so fascinated by what he saw he called in his assistants and people off the street to look in my mouth. I had no say in the matter. My mouth was numb and my jaw was locked. I couldn't close it if I wanted to. I have a miracle molar that has survived all these years with some Silly Putty and Doublemint gum holding it together and now I am honoring its survival skills with a root canal. I hope it's happy about that. I also hope it appreciates the arm and leg it will cost to fix it. I will miss them.

Out of the mouths of babes. . .

2009-02-26T20:26:00.000-08:00

I work in an elementary school. I'm the librarian. I love my job. This week the kids were extra entertaining, so I thought I'd share what they said with you.

I was at a district library meeting last week and missed seeing one of the kindergarten classes in the library. As the kinder cubs filed in on Tuesday one of the kids asked me where I had been the previous week. I told her I had been at a meeting. She asked where. I said at an office not being too specific -she is only 5- and I didn't want to bog her down with details. Another little boy stood up and announced in a matter-of-fact manner, "She was with her boyfriend."

I think that kid is going to work on the show "Cheater's" when he grows up.

Today I was busy showing another kindergarten girl where the princess books were located. She asked me to choose one for her. I picked a couple books off the shelf and as I was showing her some of the books another student came up and said, "Where's the 'f' word?" I looked at the book I was holding in my hand wondering if someone had scribbled the "f" word on the book and his eagle eye had found it before me. I asked him to repeat himself to make sure I understood. He repeated himself. It was exactly what he said the first time. I told him I wasn't exactly sure what he meant. He insisted that he was looking for the "f" word. I told him that it was checked out... It's a standard thing I say whenever a kid asks me for something we don't have and is persistent.

One minute I'm in my happy place, looking at pretty princesses in a Disney book and the next minute I've got a little guy throwing "f" word questions at me. I was a little surprised. As I headed back to the library counter the little guy followed behind me and kept insisting that he wanted the "f" word. I gave him an "A" for effort...but I couldn't give him the "F" he wanted. I almost made it to my safety zone, which is the area behind the library counter where children are not allowed, when he made one last ditch effort to stop me. He tapped my on the thigh and said, "It looks like this." I was almost afraid to turn around and see his little finger sticking up in the air...but it wasn't ... he was pointing at a shelf marker displaying the letter "W" that is used to identify the last name of the author in that section. He wanted me to show him where the books were by authors with the last name beginning with the letter "F". I wiped the sweat from my brow -- renewed my faith in children the world over -- and showed him the shelf he was looking for with a fresh smile on my face. Another disaster diverted for today.

And last but not least...a student wanted a certain book. I checked on the computer and told him it was out. I looked a little further to see when it would be returned and found that it had been marked as lost. I told the student. His quick response was, " My brother lost it." His brother is in 5th grade and wouldn't be caught dead checking out "Pinocchio." Next time I see this kid's brother I'm going to tell him to sleep with one eye open.

Make some tonight!. . .

2009-02-18T19:54:00.000-08:00

I've been sick and today is the first day I have felt better, so I decided to make some good old-fashioned brownies tonight. I went into my pantry and pulled out a box mix from Ghirardelli -the delectable double chocolate kind - and decided I would have a look at their website to see if I could fancy them up a little.

My sister calls it my "polka dot" gene. I can never just make something in its regular - - run of the mill -- boring fashion...I always have to add something to "polka dot it up".... I can't stop myself...I have no control over my desire to make something better...or worse in my case. I should learn to control that...after this last batch of brownies I will work on it. Or not.

Considering that I also have a really short attention span...I clicked around and out of Ghirardelli's website and somehow I ended up somewhere else with suggestions for brownie recipes that made me smile. The two that stick in my mind were, "Brownie Surprise!"...I bet! And the other was "Brownie Balls!" ...oh boy!

I asked my husband whether he would prefer "Brownie Surprise" or "Brownie Balls" for dessert tonight. He told me he wanted nothing that had the words -Brownie, Surprise, and Balls in the same sentence. I guess he's right. I don't think we will ever see either of those recipes winning first prize in the next bake-off contest. Never say never...

Well, I'm off to make "Chocolate Marshmallow Cream Bars"...minus the brownie mix. I'll save that for another night when my husband has long forgotten about the two recipes I found tonight. One day I'll combine both recipes and present him with "Brownie Balls Surprise!" I can't wait!

Livin' for the weekend...

2009-02-17T21:48:00.000-08:00

It was an interesting weekend.

On Friday I went to a surprise birthday party. Everyone there was a cop or related to one, except me. All of the conversations consisted of police codes. For example: " I had a 321 come at me with a 642-718 and I pulled a 949'er and booked him on a 502." After the first hour I felt fairly confident and decided to throw in my own two cents after one of the guests was telling a particularly long story using code after code after code. I wasn't satisfied with just standing there holding a drink in my hand and minding my own business which would have saved me a lot of trouble and embarrassment for what followed. Instead I threw out a code of my own....deafening silence ensued... and quicker than I could run from the room, grab my purse and leave...the birthday girl arrived to save the day. It was a surprise party after all...and boy did I surprise them. I bet they are all going through their code books wondering what I was talking about. Hopefully I didn't say something like, "I'm on the most wanted list."

On Saturday I went to the movies with my Valentine. We saw "Defiance"...and was that ever romantic. We had to sit in the 5th row seeing as how so many other romantic couples chose the same movie. Love is in the air... I tell you. Anyway, halfway through the movie there is a scene involving lots of gunfire and explosions. As I was sitting there minding my own business and wishing I was watching a chick flick - a piece of dirt flew in my eye. I swear it came straight out of the movie...just like Sensurround. I slowly crawled over 10 people and then ran to the ladies room where I could remove my eyeball and wash the boulder stuck in its place. I washed out the offending speck and ran back to the theater with my one good eye guiding me in a zig-zag fashion through the popcorn toting, diet Coke lugging crowd. The movie ended and we came home. End of Saturday excitement.

On Sunday nothing unusual happened. The police didn't arrive at my door because of my Friday indiscretion and after my Saturday debacle, I can see out of both eyes again. All was calm. Looking forward to the weekend again...

Love is in the air. . .

2009-02-12T21:32:00.000-08:00

Still looking for those pictures. I think I burned most of them, but I'll keep looking. I have to wade through all the Miss America pictures first and the Prom Queen pictures and the Most Talented, Most Popular and Most Likely to Succeed photographs before I reach the ones I have hidden from the world. I put them in such a good hiding place even I can't find them.

In the meantime, and in honor of Valentine's Day, I'll post some answers to a few questions about me and the hubby.

What are your middle names? I don't have one. My mom ran out of names after the first two daughters and had just enough energy to give me a first name. The hubby on the other hand has not just one middle name, but a whole slew of them. His mom couldn't stop once she started, and to be fair, she gave all 3 sons the same middle names. Whenever she was upset with them it took her half an hour to call them by their full name.

How long have you been together? My answer, not long enough...hubby's answer, since Adam ate the apple.

How long did you know each other before you started dating? A full second.

Who asked who out? I think we did "rock, paper, scissors" to determine that.

How old were each of you when you met? We were Spring chickens.

How old are each of you now? Two old goats.

How tall are each of you? I am 5'8" and hubby is 5'10" without heels.

Whose siblings do you see the most? The ones we like the most.

Did you go to the same school? Same university.

Are you from the same hometown? No. I'm from the States and hubby fought his way out of the the Rain Forests of Central America with a machete to get to me.

Who is the most sensitive? Me, I use sensitive skin cleanser daily.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple? Back to the rain forest where he came from.

Who hogs the bed? Our bed is so small we have to orchestrate synchronized turns at night so one of us doesn't fall off the bed.

Who wakes up earlier? Last one up makes the bed, so I jump out of bed the minute I see even the hint of a flutter in his eyelashes.

Who has the bigger family? The hubby's family. They are part rabbit.

How do you spend the holidays? Having fun.

Do you have little pet names for each other? "Hey, you" and "What's his name."

How long did it take to get serious? Still waiting.

Who sings better? Hubby -- sings like a canary.

Who’s older? Hubby, by 40 days. We call him, "The Wise One."

Who snores? Depends on who's awake.

Who’s better with the computer? I'm better at finding stuff...hubby is better at fixing it.

Who drives when you are together? Me...most of the time...I'm married to Mario Andretti on a rain slicked crash course with his eyes closed.

Who is the first to admit when they're wrong? We draw straws...

Who kissed who first? We met in the middle at the count of three.

Who eats more sweets? Me... my nickname is, "Sugar Lips."

I'm looking...

2009-02-11T22:11:00.000-08:00

I've been asked to show some pictures to go with my hair history post below. I'm looking for them and will post as soon as I find them. You will all be sorry you asked...or maybe I'll be sorry I posted them. Either way it's not going to be pretty. I'm off to search the photo boxes in the hall closet. Wish me luck.

It's all about the hair . . .

2009-02-06T21:06:00.000-08:00

My astrological sign is Leo and for us Leo's it's always all about the hair. Like a lions mane. I have lots of it. Every hairdresser I have ever been to will attest to that.

Over the years I have had many different hairstyles. As a kid I had the bowl cut. Tiny bangs that made my face look freakishly long and a straight cut hanging just below my ears and around the back. My dad cut my hair. There was no rhyme or reason to why he would get it just right sometimes and not others. My guess is the amount of beer he had ingested throughout the day would determine whether I spent the next few weeks with bangs that looked like they had been cut with pinking sheers or whether I had the perfect snip.

My nickname when I was little was Barb Wire Head. My hair had a mind of its own. It swirled like looking into the eye of a hurricane on one side and stood straight up in the air at attention on the other. This made it hard to control. My mother gave up after going through a jar of "Dippity Do" and my hair still wouldn't lay flat. She put a school beanie on my head and called it a day. I got so used to wearing it I felt naked if I didn't wear it. I also spent a lot of time with my hands on either side of my head trying to mold my hair to my head or at least hold it down.

That didn't work.

So... one day my mom took me to the barber and told him to give me the works. He chopped off my hair and gave me what was called a Pixie. A cute name for what was actually a boys haircut. My hair stood up in the back like Dennis the Menace. I decided to go with it and created a whale spout on the top of my head with a mini pony tail. My name changed to Pineapple Head. Something my sister still calls me to this day. It was lovely. I would comb up a perfect square patch on the top of my head and secure it with a rubber band from the Sunday newspaper and curl it overnight with three pink sponge curlers. In the morning I would take out the curlers and hope for the best. It looked like a poodle exploded on my head, but only in a 4 inch radius smack dab on the top of my noggin. The rest had a mind of its own. I had that hair for years. Most of my grade school pictures were taken with that style.

I needed a change when I was about 12. I wanted to have girly hair. My mother told me I was on my own if I decided to grow out that "mop of whatever " sprouting from my head. Those were fightin' words to me so I grew out my hair...partly out of spite and partly because I was tired of being called a cute little boy with a penchant for corkscrew curls.

For a couple years I had pretty normal hair. Until I went to high school. I opted for a bi-level cut.

Ugly.

I am convinced that a women hating male hairdresser invented that one.

I left the bi-level/mullet behind and graduated to the ever popular Dorothy Hamill cut.

Perfect.

So perfect that I wore it like that all through high school and into my second year of college. It worked for me. I had the perfect hair for it. My hair didn't move for years. It stayed in place with the help of Super Hold Aqua Net. I loved that stuff. Then I decided to grow it out again.

I met my future husband and wanted to be sexy. Sexy for my conservative self ended up being an angled Vidal Sassoon bob. Short in the back and long in the front. That cut lasted for the rest of my college years. I woke up early every single day to wash, dry and style my hair to perfection. It was worth it.

Then I got married.

I had a baby.

My hair grew to Rapunzel lengths. I didn't have time to cut it. I didn't have time to style it. It was long and straight and pretty. Then I got a little post baby crazy when my son was a year old and decided to get a perm. I was going for low maintenance. What I ended up with was an afro. A giant afro that took up 3 feet of space. It was propped up by my shoulders. The perm took a wrong turn fast...somewhere between the actual curling process and the setting lotion. My brother-in-law took one look at me and asked me if I was wearing a wig. There was no hope for my hair. I had to cut it off. All of it. The perm had burned my hair beyond salvation. I went to another hairdresser and he turned my chair away from the mirror so I couldn't see and started chopping away ala Edward Scissorhands. My head felt really light. The lightest it had felt in years. He spun the chair around and I got my first look at the one piece of hair left on my head. It was so short I couldn't even run my fingers through it. I couldn't even comb it. I looked like G.I.Jane but worse. My husband was a little freaked out. We looked more like brothers than husband and wife. It was hideous. It lasted for about a year until it grew into the crew cut stage and I could no longer see my scalp. My husband had me sign a waiver saying that I would never ever get another perm as long as I lived. I signed on the dotted line. If perms ever become popular again I am so screwed.

Since then I have had cute short hair and stylish long hair. I've had the Rachel cut and a layered cut. I've moved from dramatic haircuts to coloring my hair over the last 10 years. I have been a blond, a redhead, a brunette and even gone black. Right now I have normal hair that is the closest to my natural color in years. I'm getting a little restless with it. It's time for a change.

Maybe I'll go back to the pink sponge curlers? Remember those? You never knew what your hair was going to look like when you took out those curlers. All the hair would turn out perfectly with all the curls coiled in little pretty ringlets and then you pulled out that last curler and it would spring the other way, like a crazy corkscrew gone mad, and no matter how much you tried to tug the curl and get it to move in the direction of all the others you couldn't.

Who knows what I'll do next...Only my hairdresser knows for sure...

About me...

2009-02-05T21:17:00.000-08:00

Ages ago I skipped over doing the 100 things about me post when I reached a 100 posts. I'll post some random stuff today.

1. I like to make people laugh. It makes me happy to know I have made someone else happy.
2. I love the idea of making something crafty.
3. I'm not so great at the actual making of it.
4. The best things I ever made were my kids.
5. My husband helped a little.
6. Due to his help...the kids look exactly like him.
7. I'm glad.
8. I love the color blue.
9. I try to like other colors but it just doesn't work like that for me.
10. I always go back to blue.
11. I don't get blue very often.
12. I suck it up and move on.
13. One foot in front of the other.
14. Never say die.
15. It makes me persistent.
16. I don't give up easily.
17. Even when I probably should.
18. That might mean I'm a little pesky too.
19. You'd have to ask my sister about that.
20. She's my best friend as well as my sister.
21. She is incredibly creative and artistic.
22. I love everything she does.
23. It is amazing.
24. I'm her #1 fan.
25. I make her laugh.
26. It brings me joy.
27. I have a dry wit.
28. She gets it.
29. I love to bake.
30. My lemon squares are my signature dish.
31. I live to perfect the chocolate chip cookie.
32. I'm pretty close to doing that.
33. I think I like eggs, but I don't.
34. I think I like popcorn, but I don't.
35. The first couple pieces go down easy and then one kernel gets stuck in my teeth and I wish I brought floss with me to the movies. That kernel bugs me for the entire movie.
36. I can be obsessive.
37. If I like something I learn everything I can about it.
38. As proof you can ask me anything you like about Princess Diana.
39. Or the Regency Era
40. Or my family and things they have said.
41. I have an excellent memory.
42. Most of the time.
43. I love to read.
44. Voraciously
45. I average a few books a week.
46. I am writing a book.
47. It's a romance novel.
48. Set in Regency times.
49. I am halfway through writing it.
50. Sometimes I think it's great.
51. Sometimes I think it's crap.
52. My sister is my biggest fan and encourages me to continue.
53. I will persevere.
54. I have two friends from high school days.
55. I love them both dearly.
56. - 62. The awkward years...
63. I can't say the "F" word.
64. It seems really crude and ugly and unladylike.
65. My husband doesn't swear.
66. I like that about him.
67. Sometimes he will swear to be funny, but just with me.
68. I don't like to fly.
69. I get motion sickness.
70. It sucks.
71. The last time I flew was 2 years ago.
72. I got sick.
73. I swore it was my last flight.
74. I feel like a loser because I don't fly.
75. I could go anywhere I like if I did fly.
76. I wish I could just beam myself to another place in an instant.
77. I think about it a lot.
78. It makes me feel like I'm not cultured enough.
79. The last time I was out of the country was 10 years ago.
80. I went to Costa Rica.
81. My husband is from there.
82. It was beautiful.
83. My kids and husband go back often.
84. I don't speak Spanish.
85. My husband does.
86. My kids do.
87. I understand it completely.
88. I sound like I am speaking Pig Latin whenever I try to say anything.
89. Most of my conversations with my mother-in-law have been mimed and mute with a lot of facial expressions, wide eyes and lots of exaggerated eyebrow movement.
90. She loves me.
91. I don't argue with her.
92. I can't.
93. I have never seen it snow.
94. I want to be a published author.
95. I listen to talk radio. Music brings out too much emotion for me.
96. I could live in a bookstore.
97. I am fascinated by people from the past.
98. Right now it's the Lennox family.
99. They have an interesting history.
100. So do I.

Anything else you'd like to know about me?

Here comes the bride . . .

2009-02-05T16:02:00.000-08:00

In honor of Valentine's Day, I thought I would share a little story about my middle sister's wedding.

Things you might need to know before I tell this story.

I come from a "cast of characters" family. I had a grandfather who wore a large diamond earring in his ear long before it was fashionable. He was incredibly cool. He had a pet squirrel that he rescued from his yard and kept in his pocket. He loved to surprise people with that squirrel, at dinner parties, at church, in line at the grocery store - basically just about anywhere inappropriate. He would put the squirrel in one of the pant pockets of his jumpsuit (another fashion statement of his) and put a peanut in the breast pocket of his jumpsuit. He would make a clicking sound and the squirrel, I think his name was Chipper, would pop out of one pocket and run up his shirt and jump into the chest pocket, grab the peanut, and run up to his shoulder and eat it. He got two reactions when he did this. Usually the first reaction was an ear piercing shriek. Especially if it was a lady. The second reaction was usually fear. Fear that the squirrel was going to jump on them. Fear that it was rabid and wild. Fear that they were standing next to a guy with a screw loose. My grandpa lived for those reactions. He got a kick out of shocking people with his crazy antics.

Grandpa had 3 sons. The oldest was my dad. He was a pretty normal guy...for the most part...if you compare him to his 2 other brothers and the rest of the family. The middle brother was my favorite uncle. He called everybody "Baby"...men, women, children, and pets. It didn't matter who you were or how old you were...you were "Baby" to him. If he met the Pope, I bet he would have called him "Baby." I loved that guy. He was the ultimate playboy. Women loved him. He was charming, funny, and cool. He was very fashionable too. He wore turtlenecks and sport coats with plaid pants and demi-boots when they were the height of fashion in the late 60's, early 70's. He always had a cigarette and a glass of scotch in his hand. It was a different time way back when. Uncle J loved frogs. He collected anything that had to do with frogs. He especially liked being given frogs doing naughty things. In compromising positions. We were not allowed to visit Uncle J's office whenever we went to see our father at work (all the brothers and my grandfather worked together in a family business) because he kept his collection there. We went into his office anyway. None of us understood what was going on. We were kids. We didn't care. We just thought the frogs were friendly.

Uncle N was the youngest. Uncle N liked being married. He liked it so much he married 7 times. My grandfather suggested he become a preacher and then he could attend as many weddings as he liked without all the legal mumbo jumbo and steep alimony payments to follow, but there was something about my uncle that made him want to marry every woman on the planet.

There are many more characters in our family tree that put my grandfather and uncles to shame, but these three men are the key players for my middle sister's wedding story I am about to tell.

My middle sister was the first to get married in our family. I think she got tired of sharing a bathroom with the rest of us. Or maybe she was tired of me borrowing her clothes and returning them to her closet reeking of my Ciara perfume. I loved that perfume. I think they sell it at Walmart now. It's right next to Brute and Old Spice. Anyway, my sister is what my mom used to call a "Nervous Nelly"...she worried about everything and freaked out over the most minor incidents. Her wedding was the culmination of all her fears. Her husband-to-be's family was going to meet our family. Everyone would be together in one special place...church and the reception. My sister wasn't so worried about the church part. Not much could go wrong there as long as the groom showed up as well as the priest and the ring bearer...a couple witnesses and a few lookie loos. She was more concerned with the reception.

We all convened at the church on the given day. A warm December afternoon. The sun was shining, the bride was nervous, the groom was nervous and my dad was crying because his first daughter was getting married. We still aren't sure if they were tears of joy at giving away the bride with - one down and two to go - or if they were tears from the bills sitting on the counter at home for the dress, flowers, reception, limo and everything else that goes with a wedding. Who knows. Well, the wedding march began and my sister and I walked down the aisle in our polyester poinsettia red dresses with big white floppy hats and white ballet slippers that went with the Christmas theme. Our sister followed with our dad. She was a beautiful bride, except for the blotchy cheeks and red eyes from crying all morning. Other than that she looked great.

Her soon to be husband met her at the altar and they stood before God and man to say their vows, but before the vows they had to go through a few other little rituals. It was a Catholic service which lasted a little over an hour. During that hour my sister had to take flowers to the altar of Mary, and then there were readings to be done and a gospel to be read and a few hosts to suck on. The readings were where we ran into a little problem. My sister and her husband had chosen a few verses from the bible which held meaning for them. The bible verse they chose was also a popular song at the time. It was The Byrds version titled - Turn! Turn! Turn! Someone up above had a sense of humor because just as the best man was about to read the verse the wind blew in from an open side door and turned the pages of the bible. Not being Catholic, the best man didn't know what to do, so he just put his finger on the page and started reading wherever it landed. He was also a "Nervous Nelly" who didn't enjoy public speaking.

With a shaky voice he began. He read slowly so as not to make a mistake. He read puposefully so he could appear confident even though his knees were knocking together. He had a loud voice. It rang out throughout the church and into the rafters. Problem was...he was reading about fornication. At a wedding. And not the good kind. It was the go directly to hell sinners kind of fornication verse. Is there any other kind?

My two uncles and my grandfather who were sitting up front looked at one another. My grandpa laughed out loud. My uncles looked askance at one another and then at my dad. The priest coughed a couple times and cleared his throat trying to get the best man's attention. Then my uncle who was quite the ladies man stood up and blurted out...."Hey Baby, is that for me?" There was silence. I turned around in the church pew and whispered to my grandpa, "You don't happen to have the squirrel with you by any chance? Because now would be a good time to break it out." My grandpa looked at me and said, "He's in the car. I'm saving it for the reception."

In the end they were married. It was a few years before I tied the knot in a small affair. A civil ceremony without bible verses. Immediate family only. No squirrels invited.

the end...

ps...The sushi cake a couple posts down has caused a few of my friends to say it grossed them out. Look carefully at the picture and you will see that the sushi is made of candy. My sister is so talented she made it look real. But it's not. She's a talented gal...the clever one in the family. The one with lots and lots of patience to mold fruit roll ups to look like seaweed and rice krispy treats to look like sushi rice and mango to look like salmon.

Sweet satisfaction . . .

2009-01-27T21:53:00.000-08:00

Betty is the devil.

Somebody (me) made two desserts tonight. I found these great recipes on the Internet today on the Betty Crocker website. I had to make them. Both. At the same time. They come from two different food groups. The food group with chocolate and the one without.

Who doesn't love Betty?

Maybe I don't right now.

Betty has lots of great recipes on her site. Loaded with chocolate. I can't say no to chocolate....ever...it's a sickness. And I am sick....I fell under the Betty spell and ate my fill of "Warm Toasted Marshmallow S'mores Bars"...Man oh man...were they ever good. I had to keep eating them to make sure they were as good as I thought. They were.

Then I made "Oatmeal-Cranberry-Sour Cream Bars". There weren't enough calories in them so I added butterscotch chips to beef them up. I won't know how they taste until tomorrow. I had to show some restraint, or at least follow the directions to let them sit in the refrigerator for 2 hours. I'll leave them for the morning. I need something to look forward to...some reason to get up out of bed tomorrow...a reason to live...and those bars are my answer and reason I am looking forward to getting up at the crack of dawn.

Sweet dreams until tomorrow.

Sushi . . . hold the cake. . .

2009-01-21T21:10:00.000-08:00

My favorite sister made this cool concoction for her hubby's birthday.

It's dinner and dessert in one savory bite. A sushi cake. Nothing tastes better than fish and chocolate, especially when you combine it with powdered sugar. It marries the flavors.

There's the birthday boy. That's a funnel on his head. There weren't any party hats hanging around the fire station. It's all work and no play for those guys.

This is the part where he made a wish. It won't come true. He is stuck with our family . . . forever and ever . . . Amen.

This is the deluxe version of the sushi cake. My sister can't stop making them. I can't wait for my birthday. I'm ordering the super deluxe boatload sushi cake special. I'll call it the "All- You-Can-Eat Sugar and Sushi Combo Platter." Yummy. . .

ps: The cake was delicious. It tasted just like chicken.

pps: No really...it was delicious. No fishy aftertaste.

ppps: In my serious voice: "Really, it was very, very delicious."

somebody stop me . . .

Letters. . .

2009-01-19T20:52:00.000-08:00

I have been reading a really interesting book by Stella Tillyard titled: Aristocrats: Caroline, Emily, Louisa, and Sarah Lennox, 1740-1832 .

Caroline, Emily, Louisa and Sarah were sisters and most of the book was written using information gleaned from letters the sisters and other family members wrote to each other.

It got me thinking. What if my life was based on letters written by and to me?

Between my siblings the only correspondence someone might drum up for historical purposes might be a large note that had been taped on my bedroom door which simply said, "Stay Out!"

Perhaps they might find a single letter of apology to my oldest sister. It was an apology for reading her private diary. What can I say other than her life was much more exciting than mine. I was stuck at home watching "The Brady Bunch" on Friday nights while she was out on the town whooping it up, playing a rousing game of miniature golf at the local "Pitch and Putt" with her first boyfriend. The fact that I was eleven might have been why my life wasn't as exciting as hers and why I "had" to read her diary. "The Brady Bunch" only lasted half an hour. What else was I to do with the rest of the night as I waited up for her to come home? I'd say I used my time wisely. I learned a lot from that diary. I learned that . . . well . . . I'd like to tell you, but then again it was private. Only my sister and I know what is in that diary and that is one person too many if you ever have the occasion to ask her. I hope you don't. If you do though, just get her on the subject of her leather wedge sandals. I wore them. She didn't know then. She does now. She still can't believe I did that. It's a wonder to me too. My feet are 3 sizes larger than hers. I have very flexible toes that fold over nicely. Lucky me! It came in handy.

Another letter that might show up would be a letter from school. Most of them had a sentence written in red ink somewhere on the page. That sentence said something like, "Please have a parent sign this note so I know they received it and return it to school tomorrow." I have excellent forging skills thanks to those letters. I also have excellent penmanship thanks to all the hours of practice writing my mom's name over and over again. I hope none of those letters are still floating around. I have an excellent reputation to uphold in my adult life. No one would believe I ever received anything but glowing recommendations if you asked them. Please don't. I can't really be sure that everyone thinks that way.

Another letter that might show up is a fan letter I wrote to Bobby Sherman. Maybe there's another one to Donny Osmond and maybe there could possibly be one to David Cassidy. My mom had a surplus of carbon paper that was fun to use and smell. I hope those letters never materialize in my life's history. I wrote the same thing to all three of them and I'd hate to hurt their feelings. I bet David, Bobby and Donny are still wondering if they received the real deal or a carbon copy.

A love letter written to me from a young lad with a mad crush on me in my younger years might show up in my life's history. This love letter goes a little off track and mentions something about "Woodsy the Owl" and his slogan, "Give a hoot, don't pollute." I think that boy lives in a tree somewhere far from civilization and no longer communicates with humans so it's okay that I've written this here. Thanks Larry...for writing me my first love letter that also addressed the environment. It was both charming and educational. How many other gals can say that? And by the way, I do give a hoot.

There are many more letters that might show up. I'm sure those are the ones that sing my praises and contain glowing recommendations and compliment me to the point of embarrassment. I'm not so sure I want those letters to materialize because, "Good girls seldom make history."

I swear, it's true . . .

2009-01-10T13:16:00.000-08:00

It's almost the anniversary of my dad's passing, so in his honor I'd like to share a few of his favorite sayings.

Most of his comments contained swear words. Descriptive adjectives had no place in his vocabulary. He preferred the colorful variety. Very colorful. The cover their ears so the kids don't hear variety. We don't know where this came from. His parents were very civilized people who never swore. Whenever my sister and I need a good laugh we channel our dad and call up one of his sayings.

For instance...

If my mom asked my dad to do too many things at once he would comment, "Jesus - Rose! (my mother's proper name) Why don't you tie a broom to my ass and I'll sweep as I go."

If we were trying to tell him a little white lie or make something up he would say, "Jesus - Baby! ( my proper name) Are you trying to blow smoke up my ass?"

If he didn't think someone was on the up and up he would say, "He doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground."

The word ass seemed to be his form of a helping verb, a noun, and an adjective all rolled into one and oddly enough it worked for him.

Ironically - as his kids - we were not allowed to swear in any form. If we so much as said the word, "fart" which I still can't really say to this day without cringing -we would be given a taste of Tabasco, or the much dreaded bar of Dial soap to wash the bad words right out of our mouths. Over the years I grew to love the taste of Tabasco. Not so much the Dial soap.

When my dad died he was cremated and placed in a local cemetery. His final resting place happens to be in a very appropriate location. His marker and burial space is in a large oblong cement planter with red roses and a very pretty angel statue residing in the center of the garden. My dad's spot happens to be centrally located right under the rear-end of the angel. Whenever we visit we always say that he's probably looking down on us and saying, "You guys think you're really funny placing me at the ass-end of the angel, don't you!"

As a matter of fact, we do. And we know he would think it was funny too.

Here's to you Dad!

The best Christmas present . . .

2008-12-29T19:35:00.001-08:00

What's in the bag?
A Christmas present for me!

I took a couple . . .
Then I gave one to my son . . .

and my daughter . . .
and my brother-in-law . . .
I don't believe a word they are saying. My daughter doesn't care. Her crazy pill is still working. I need another one.
Looks like the hubby found a couple . . .
Uh, oh . . . someone dropped one on the floor. . .

and the dog ate it . . .

My brother-in-law is showing me how many he took when I wasn't looking . . .I hope I get more next Christmas . . . because it just won't be the same if I don't.

It truly was "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" for all in my family. . . how about yours?

Happy Holidays . . .

2008-12-13T22:11:00.000-08:00

This is our Christmas Tree this year. My kids decorated it for me. My daughter lovingly placed each and every ornament carefully on the tree. My son threw the ornaments at the tree and hoped they landed on a branch. A few didn't make it. He's getting coal for Christmas. I'm throwing it at him.

This is my Christmas china.

Does anyone know where the rest of it is?

This is a gratuitous picture.

Here's another one.

This arrangement is on my mantle. My sister made that for me. Don't tell her I added that giant green leaf in the background. She told me not to touch it. I saw her looking at it today when she came over. I wonder if she was asking herself where that giant green leaf came from.

This is our sitting room.

Most people prefer to stand in it.

I should probably buy some more chairs.

Those branches came from a tree in our front yard. They were free.

All the stuff on it was not. It's important that you know that. It is not important for my husband to know that. I hope he stopped reading my blog a few pictures ago.

This display is in the foyer. The branches sticking out of the flower arrangement look like antlers to me.

Can you tell what my favorite color is?

This is my favorite Christmas book. It tells the story of my family.
This is "Ernie the Elf". When my kids were little I used to entertain them with this stuffed doll. Ernie was Santa's helper. Every Christmas he would appear just after Thanksgiving to keep an eye on my kids and report his findings to Santa. Ernie did his best work when no one was looking. You never knew what you might find him or where he might be.

Ernie would show up in strange places around the house. Sometimes hiding in the kid's beds. Sometimes in Samantha's (my daughter's American Girl Doll) doll bed wearing her nightgown with an arm casually placed around Samantha's shoulder. Sometimes hanging from the chandelier. Sometimes in the car. Sometimes on the stairs. He was always hanging around doing funny things. During the Twelve Days of Christmas he would have a present for the kid's each day. I'm not sure who had more fun with the "Christmas Adventures with Ernie". I'd say it was pretty equal.

Ernie always left on Christmas Eve to go get the kids presents and help Santa deliver them. On Christmas morning he'd be under the tree waiting for them with all their presents and a letter from Santa.

to be continued. . .

in the meantime. . .Happy Holidays to all . . .

Oh, Baby . . .

2008-12-03T21:12:00.000-08:00

My first kid weighed more than me when he was born. He was the biggest baby for the month he was born at the hospital. He was born on the hottest day of the year. He was born with a streak of blond hair that has never gone away. The nurses called him a punk baby. I thought they said, "Skunk Baby". That would have worked too.

After him, it took me 6 long years to get the nerve up to have another kid.

Let me tell you why.

When I was pregnant with my son I was in my final semester of college. The hubby and I married 2 months after graduation and the kid came 2 months after that. We did things a little bit backwards, but it worked out for us. What didn't work out so well was the fact that I came from a conservative Catholic family and was attending a very conservative Jesuit University. I had to hide my pregnancy until I couldn't hide it anymore at school. I also hid it from my parents until I couldn't hide it anymore. I was about 5 months along when I told them. The one thing I did right was get medical care immediately after I knew I was pregnant. Unfortunately I picked the devil of a doctor who was a parent of someone I went to high school with. He was another really conservative Catholic who lectured me every time I went for an ob visit on the evils of being pregnant and unmarried, and badgered me about when I was getting married. When I did get married, he told me it wouldn't last. It did. And we are happy.

The kid was two weeks late. The Dr. told me to come in the next day and he would have my labor induced. I told him I would go into labor before then. He told me I was wrong. I wasn't. I went into labor right after the Movie of the Week finished. I told my husband that I wanted to see the end of the movie and then I could go into labor. It was a Princess Diana and Prince Charles movie. I had to see how it ended. My first labor pain was when the movie ended. I looked at my husband in terror and said I had been kidding, I didn't really want to go into labor. In fact I didn't really think I wanted to actually have the baby ever. I just wanted to be pregnant forever. I was terrified of the impending pain. The inevitable pain. The certain pain.

I struggled up the staircase like I was climbing Mount Whitney and headed straight for the shower. I needed to shave my legs, or at least try to. I also wanted to get pretty for my kid and for the delivery. I had no idea what I was really in for. I had a few more pains in the shower and then a few more while I ironed my dress and dried my hair and put on make-up. I called the doctor and he told me I was probably wasting my time and his by coming in. He thought it was false labor pains. I was pretty sure it wasn't. Each progressive pain made me double over like a pretzel. We stopped and picked up my mom along the way.

We made it to the hospital and walked into admitting. The nurse at the station told us we had walked through the incorrect entrance and was unsure what to do. I told her I would moonwalk next time but for now I was staying put. She told me I needed to enter by wheelchair. I told her if I could deliver the kid myself I would, but could she put aside her OCD about me coming in the out door and take us to labor and delivery. She pulled a wheelchair out of her back pocket and shoved it under my legs and next thing I knew I was in a hospital gown and had been violated with a few procedures that are no longer performed on expectant mothers anymore. I think they are illegal now thanks to "Mother's Against Enema's".

The doctor came by and checked me. I was in labor. I asked for part of his salary since I could have told him that without the cavity search. He told me I had nice hips for birthing a baby. I told him he had good hands for catching one. Then my nurse showed up. It was a man. The first male labor and delivery nurse in the hospital and he was going to coach me through labor. I remember how he kept telling me he knew how I felt. He didn't but he was one of the nicest nurses and he really tried to help me through my labor when he wasn't watching Moby Dick with my husband at 2 in the morning and discussing what a great classic it was. Moby Dick was lying in a hospital bed right in front of them, writhing in pain, trying to birth a baby bigger than his father. The classic version had nothing on me.

My labor progressed nicely, or so they told me. I was too busy wondering if I was part of an exorcism for my sins. The doctor refused to give me any pain medication. My incredible birthing hips would take care of everything in his eyes. He told me I didn't need it. He told me a 15 year old had just delivered her first child without a sound. I told him to give her a prize and to give me some drugs. He left to catch the end of Moby Dick. My nurse followed him. My husband went across the street to get some coffee with my mom. I wanted him awake for the delivery. While he was across the street my labored did progress nicely. The kid was ready to make his entrance. Fast. I asked the nurse if he could just walk out on his own since they all told me I was having a big baby. The husband made it in time and I was wheeled to the delivery room. Fortunately Moby Dick was still on and my doctor couldn't tear himself away from the riveting plot so another doctor was called in to deliver the kid.

Halfway through pushing Goliath out, I told the doctor that I thought my hips were exploding. I swear I heard a crunching sound. He told me I was fine. I told him I wasn't. I told him I didn't think I could continue. I politely asked him if I could go home now. He started a countdown and told me I needed to push as hard as I could. I asked for a volunteer to take over. I begged for a replacement. I pleaded. I whined. I felt another pain coming and pushed. Then I whined some more. Begged for an end. Pleaded for relief and felt another overwhelming pain and pushed again. The kid arrived. It was a boy. A big boy. It took 3 people to carry him to his bassinet. My husband questioned his paternity. He said he looked like an angry hamster. I thought he was beautiful. I still do. I forgot the pain. I forgot the hours of labor. I forgot everything except the miracle of my beautiful child. My son. Our son.

6 years later, after I was convinced by a wonderful doctor that I didn't have to experience pain and suffering to have a baby I had a beautiful daughter. It was a completely different experience. It was easy. It was relatively pain free.

It was worth it. Different stories. Different beginnings. Different in every way except one.

I love them both more than life itself.

Smokin'. . .

2008-11-30T19:15:00.000-08:00

A long, long time ago I smoked a cigarette. Actually part of a cigarette. More like a couple puffs. I wanted to be cool. Everyone was doing it and at the time I guess I was a "jump off the bridge" kind of gal. And to be fair, cigarettes and cancer were not synonymous at the time.

I was in college. On summer break. Meeting friends for cocktails at a trendy bar by the beach. It was way cool. I was not. Not by half. I've always been that person who is friends with everyone. My philosophy is: I like everybody I meet unless they give me reason not to. The people I was meeting at the trendy bar were some of the cooler people I went to school with. They were incredibly cool and sophisticated and fast. I am fairly certain I was none of those things. I'm pretty sure they wanted me around mostly because I made them laugh.

There was only one problem. All of them smoked. I did not. I had dallied in the art of cigarette holding once in high school. A friend and I sat in her father's home office and lit cigarettes and pretended to smoke. We took one puff to light the sticks and then ended up trying to see who could keep their cigarette lit and the ashes from falling off the longest. We wanted to look like we knew what we were doing. My friend had read somewhere in a contraband copy of her oldest sister's Cosmopolitan magazine that it was sexy to learn the correct way to light a man's cigarette in a bar. Before you get too crazy, it was the mid-70's, and cigarettes hadn't become the devil incarnate yet. Our lesson lasted for a total of one cigarette each. My friend's mom came bursting into the room spraying a can of air freshener and opening all the windows saying how stuffy it was in there. She never said a word about all the smoke or the pack of cigarettes, minus two, sitting on the desk. We got the message.

So, that night as I got ready to go meet my friends I bowed to peer pressure and stopped at the store to buy a pack of Virginia Slims. If I was going to smoke it wasn't going to be the Tarryton 100's or Winston's that my dad smoked. It had to be a girly cigarette. I almost didn't do it. I felt like a criminal. I was not a smoker. I was not that girl. I was the Catholic school girl - Candy Striper - Good Girl - who didn't do things like that. For one night I decided to be bad. I was going to smoke. Or maybe just pretend to.

I opened the pack of Virginia Slims and pulled a few of the cigarettes out and threw them in the trash on my way out of the store. It had to look like I had had a few on my way there or smoked all the time when I pulled the pack of cigarettes out of my purse in front of the cool ones. I drove on the freeway thinking the whole time that maybe I should smoke at least one cigarette before I got there, just for practice. I had heard from many people that their first cigarette left them coughing and sputtering. I didn't want that to happen. I couldn't bring myself to do it and waited until the last minute (in the parking lot of the trendy bar) to light up. I lit that puppy up and took a nice long drag burning halfway down the cigarette as I sucked in all the smoke. Never one to do anything halfway, I held it for a minute and tried to blow it out of my nose like I had seen my dad do many times. I ended up coughing it out instead. I took another long drag and finished off the cigarette. I felt really dizzy and a little sick. Next thing I remember was waking up to the sound of a horn blaring and my car seat on fire. I had passed out and my face had landed on the car horn button. I looked down. I had dropped the cigarette between my legs onto the cloth driver's seat. It burned a hole clear through the velour and was still smoking. I panicked and jumped out of the car. I grabbed my sweater and beat the seat until there was no sign of the lit cigarette anywhere except for the gaping silver dollar sized hole staring back at me. I grabbed my purse and tossed my car keys to the valet who had been watching me curiously from his post and ran inside. Everyone was there. Cool as ever. Smoking. It's a wonder I could even see them for all the smoke in the bar. It was like walking into a giant fireplace. My pals waved at me and I made my way to the corner table and sat down. The cocktail waitress came over and took my order. I wanted a Shirley Temple so badly, with lots of cherries, but I ordered a plain 7-Up instead. No booze for me. I was still feeling light-headed from that cigarette. I also wasn't 21 yet, but my sister and I looked exactly like each other and her I.D. came in handy at times like this.

My 7-Up arrived and I took a sip. And another. I tossed the straw onto the cocktail napkin and sucked the rest of it down. My throat was dry, my eyes were burning from all the smoke and my stomach wasn't feeling so great. I hadn't eaten all day so I could fit into my super tight ( lay on the floor and have your sister pull the zipper up with your dad's wrench) and - oh, so sexy - Gloria Vanderbilt's with the swan on the pocket. I decided that 7-Up and cigarettes were not a good combo meal. I excused myself and headed for the lady's room. I spent a fair amount of time in there. Most of the night. I never talked to my friends. I never even really saw my friends. Someone came to check on me and to bring me my purse. Another friend came in to tell me the bar was closing. I made my way to the parking lot and fresh air. I got in my car which smelled like an ash tray and drove home, crawled into bed and swore I would never smoke another cigarette again for the rest of my life.

The next morning my dad was sitting at the breakfast table with my pack of Virginia Slims lined up in front of his coffee cup alongside his more manly cigarettes. I sat down next to him and pretended like I hadn't seen them. He looked right at me, called me by my full name, and pointed at the pack of cigarettes waiting for an explanation. I looked over at him and said, "I wouldn't smoke those in public if I was you."

the end...

Two Chickens . . .

2008-11-26T20:45:00.000-08:00

I married my husband when he didn't have two nickles to rub together. I married my husband two months out of college. I married my husband after knowing him two years. I married him 10 days after he turned 22. Two's seem to play a running theme in our marriage.

Little did we both know in that first year of marriage that the two of us were incredible chickens too.

When we first married we were struggling newlyweds. Our first apartment was in the Hollywood Hills. Not the nice part. Closer to Hollywood Blvd. Way closer. The Mann's Chinese Theater lit up our living room like the Fourth of July. A friend who owned the building gave us a good deal on rent. We were grateful and young and knew it wouldn't be forever so we moved in. A homeless guy lived in the laundry room. An aging star lived across from us on the second floor. She played piano at all hours of the day and night. I'm sure she was talented in her day but those days were long gone. She had hair like Einstein and babbled out the window to our son. They had many a conversation consisting of gibberish and hand gestures. She was harmless. A prostitute lived downstairs. Her mother lived across the pool from us. They carried on conversations by yelling from their respective apartment windows across the complex never bothering to visit one another. An ex-military guy high on PCP lived a staircase over from us. He got high one night and thought he was back in Vietnam. Helicopters were a nightly occurrence and that particular night he had a flashback hearing the chopper above and the police had to cart him away. A possum lived in a tree outside our window and would watch me with beady eyes as I stood in the kitchen warming up baby bottles. Homeless people lived between the apartment buildings. Have I painted a pretty enough picture yet? I do have a point for bringing this up.

Your sense of safety and well-being becomes heightened as well as anxiety and stress when you live in an environment like that. One particular day we were watching the news and it just so happened that a killer was on the loose. He was somewhere in the area. Somewhere nearby. I saw the hubby's hair stand up on the back of his neck and his eyes shift to our front door checking the 9 locks and deadbolts holding the balsa wood door on it's hinges. He leaned over the couch in our tiny living room and twisted the bent tin foil wrapped metal dry cleaning hangars disguised as an antenna on our 8 inch black and white television to try and get a better look at the guy. It was a distorted and fuzzy picture to say the least. Cable hadn't been invented back then.

Two chickens were hatched on that couch that night. Two scared young chickens with vivid imaginations. For two weeks the killer was on the loose. Two long weeks. For two weeks the hubby swore he saw him at every turn. We would be at a stoplight and he would think it was the guy next to us innocently waiting at the light who was probably out on an errand buying a loaf of bread for his ten kids at home. We slept with the windows locked, a bat by the bed and a heightened sense of awareness.

I have no idea why when I think back on it these many years later that my hubby was certain that the killer was coming for us next. Anyway, after a long two weeks culminating in looking over our shoulders we took a self imposed sabbatical from "killer watch" and went out with friends. The hubby imbibed a little too much. I dragged him home and up the steep flight of stairs to our dingy apartment and deposited him on our bed fully dressed, safe and sound. He was snoring in minutes. I got ready for bed and put our son to sleep. We had a one bedroom apartment the size of a postage stamp so we were cramped together in one room. In the middle of the night our son woke up crying and attempted to climb out of his crib. I woke up immediately to his cries, jumped out of bed and scooped him up. I turned on the light in the hallway to see if anything was wrong with him and seeing that he was fine I rocked him in my arms and carried him back and forth in the hallway and then back into our room. I left the light on in the hallway and stood for a moment in the doorway to our room.

I was just getting ready to put our sleeping son back in his crib when my husband sat straight up in bed and pointed behind me making unintelligible sounds mingled with a look of horror on his face. The chicken in me took over. I panicked. I screamed, "What is it?" and started to hop back and forth on both feet not bothering or thinking clearly for even a second to look behind me. This woke up the baby who started to cry again. My husband continued his pointing and grunting. I screamed louder in near hysterics by this time still not bothering to turn around as I was glued to the spot in sheer terror as I clutched my son tightly. Then my husband started making a horrid guttural yelling sound and I came unglued. He said something along the likes of "He's behind me" ..followed by a yell and and a bunch of garbled words and that pointing finger. I knew the day had come. The killer had finally found us. I nearly fainted on the spot. My knees shook and my mind went completely blank. We continued our screaming symphony until I realized after a long throat scratching high pitched wail that I had been at it for quite some time and the supposed killer behind me hadn't made a single attempt to silence me or my husband. My husband hadn't moved from the bed, and our baby had stopped crying and was staring at the both of us as if he was waiting for a break in the yelling so he could say his first sentence, "Please put me up for adoption."

The phone rang and there was a pounding on our door. That silenced us immediately. It was our neighbors. They had heard the commotion as did all of Hollywood that night. In the end when all was calm it ended up that the hubby had been talking in his sleep as he did every so often. He woke up in the middle of his sleep talking to see me standing over the bed screaming and holding our child and thought that someone was coming through the window behind him. I thought his pointing and guttural sounds meant someone was coming up behind me in the hallway. We had a good laugh and sore throats the next day. I asked the hubby why we had the bat by the bed seeing as he left it there the whole time and made no attempt to pick it up. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "That's not to hit the intruder. That's for me. I intend to knock myself out with it if anyone breaks in and let you deal with it." Smiling he went into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich and watch the possum climbing outside our window. I followed and said, "They wouldn't want me....I taste just like chicken."

Two chickens...that's us.

"Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!"

Blogging...

2008-11-24T19:54:00.000-08:00

I'm back... and today's post won't be like the others. I'd like to say that I took off to join the traveling circus...or set out to discover myself, but the reality is that I had a moment of "what the hell am I doing here-itis"...plain and simple.

It all started a couple weeks ago when my husband decided to read a book. I am a librarian. Married to a man who doesn't like to read. They say opposites attract...and he more than makes up for it in all other areas of our life together so I can forgive him this one transgression. Funny enough...when I think back on it...it wasn't one of the questions that came up during our courtship. I was too busy falling in love with everything about him to stop and ask him if he ever read a book....ever. It wasn't a high priority at the time. I just assumed everyone did. I thought that everyone loved to read as much as me. I was wrong. I chose someone who doesn't even like to read the captions under pictures in People magazine. He makes up his own captions....says it's more fun that way. I'm sure it is. He's one funny guy so I bet his version is better.

When the Da Vinci Code came out he asked me to read it to him. I tried. He fell asleep right after I said, "Once upon a time..."-- not even in the book, but I was testing him to see if he was listening...he wasn't. His philosophy about reading is that he would rather do something himself and be active than read about someone else doing the same thing. It's just he way he's wired and I personally find it charming and wouldn't change him for anything.

So...nobody was more surprised than me when he told me that he wanted to read a book. I was so excited that I grabbed the car keys and took off in a flurry down the street to the nearest bookstore. I ran through the double doors...took a moment to smell that unmistakable scent of books and coffee and then headed for the information desk. The clerk asked if he could help me and I stared blankly at him. In my excitement and shock I had forgotten to ask my husband exactly which book it was he was interested in reading.

I called him.

Me: "What was the name of the book you wanted?"

Him: "Where'd you go?"

Me: "Heaven on Earth for book lovers... Now what was the name of the book you wanted?"

Him: "I can't remember...I think it has the word alone in it...and I think the author's first name was William or Billy or something like that. ---pause --- Where are you?"

Me: " At the bookstore...and I gotta go...this could take all night. Do you know how many books there are with the word alone in them?"

Him: "No...I don't read...remember?"

Me: "Gotta go...four million hits just came up in the search engine and I have to weed through them...see you in a couple days."

Him: "Take your time."

Me: click

The bookseller helping me happened to be a criminal justice major in school. I was looking for a true crime book. It was right up his alley. We found the book in record time. So fast that he hung around disappointed in the fact that our search ended so soon. He began to pull book after book off the shelf and hand them to me. Some of the titles were along the likes of, Bone Alley, Skeleton Farm, Backyard Full of Bones, How Well do You Know Your Neighbors, The Killer Next Door, He's In Your Closet, Creepy People and How to Deal With them Successfully....you get the gist.

Well, many years ago I read a few books like that. Helter Skelter, In Cold Blood and The Stranger Beside Me to be exact. They scared me half to death and I swore I wouldn't read anything like that again. I wanted to live in a happy place, a pretty world, and a fun world, filled with laughter and joy. The book my husband was interested in reading was by Billy Queen. It's about the years the author spent as an undercover agent trying to break up the Mongol Biker Gang in Los Angeles and surrounding areas. A friend who is a detective with the LAPD recommended it.

The store clerk had a stack of books piled up for me, and the pile was growing by the minute. I chose one off the top and flipped through it. I wanted him to know how much I appreciated his enthusiasm so I started to read an excerpt from the book in my hand. Unfortunately the book was about the BTK killer. The part I opened up to involved a family. Needless to say, I wanted so badly to read that this guy didn't really kill two innocent children and their parents in the house he had invaded early one morning. He did. It was brutal and disgusting. It made me sick. I stood in that book aisle with tears in my eyes and sadness for that family. It also reminded me that there are some people in this world who aren't so nice or mentally fit. It made me question blogging. I started to think about why I was doing it. My intention from the start has been to help me with my writing skills. I am in the midst of writing a book and this blog was a place to try out my writing...to see if anyone liked my style...to make people smile and to attempt to bring a sunnier side of life to those who chose to visit my little blogging corner of the world. I stepped away for a bit to gain perspective.

My perspective is that I have met nothing but nice people in the blogging community. People who encourage and say kind things to each other...people who care about each other...people who are good.

As for my husband...he finished the book in two days....didn't run off to join a biker gang, or ask me to start calling him "Danger" or " Evil" or "Bad Bart" or anything else...and hasn't asked for another book.

Next time I go to the bookstore I'm heading for the Fairy Tale section and choosing a "Once Upon a Time" story...they always have a happy ending.

This kid . . .

2008-11-11T20:22:00.000-08:00

This kid was the third girl in her family.

This kid was named after her mother.

This kid was the youngest kid on the block.

This kid never made it into the Secret Club behind the gates of the neighbor's backyard because she wasn't tall enough - - ever- -. They measured me. . . every - single - summer. . . and the marker grew with me. That's okay. I eventually grew to be the tallest kid on the block anyway. The Secret Club eventually set the backyard on fire while conducting a secret experiment with their Secret Science Kit that our neighbor boy sent away for in the back of Boy's Life magazine. I was the only kid on the block who wasn't grounded for the entire summer. It was a lonely summer if I recall. Apparently the Secret Club had a larger following than I imagined. They took a vote that next summer and told me they were thinking of letting me in. They would let me know in September. I told them that I had a fondness for my eyebrows and hair and would pass on their consideration.

This kid was a human remote control before TV clickers were invented. I learned to watch television out of the corner of my eye. Fortunately for me there were only a few channels available when I was a kid. Cable would have killed me or given me a bad case of carpal tunnel syndrome. I was the fastest remote in the West. I could switch from American Bandstand to Soul Train and back to Chiller Thriller in no time flat. My tiny little hands were but a flash on the fabric covered control panel.

This kid was an excellent game player. I was always the very last kid hanging on the end when we played Crack the Whip. To this day, anytime someone goes to shake or grab my hand I have flashbacks. It was me against the asphalt. I was Home Plate when we played 3 Flies Up . It taught me to duck and cover like no other. I was the first kid lined up against the garage wall when we played Dodgeball. I have little feeling left in my lower extremities to this day but I can proudly say, "I am no quitter!"

This kid was the neighborhood runner. I could pull a string of kids around the block with a rope tied to my waist while they sat on skateboards with metal wheels, bicycles with flat tires, or roller skates with one wheel missing. I learned to navigate the cracks in the sidewalk. With my excellent Crack the Whip skills, I could turn a corner at warp speed, manage to keep everyone in line and still keep my balance. I had a washboard stomach before I was 8. I would like it back please.

This kid learned how to play Monopoly before she could read, Tripoley before she could count, and Parcheesi before she realized how boring it was.

This kid is what she is. Someone with extreme amounts of patience. Someone who is a great observer. Someone who isn't afraid to try. Someone who never quits or gives up easily. Someone who likes herself just the way she is and what she was.

How about you?

Come fly with me . . .

2008-11-03T21:34:00.000-08:00

Gasket Andy.
My Grandfather.
A man ahead of his time.
Really should have been called Loose Gasket Andy.

Gasket Andy owned an airplane.

Gasket Andy loved flying his airplane.

Gasket Andy would tell my parents that we were going to take a trip to the store to pick something up and we'd be back in a little while. I would innocently hop in the passenger seat with one of my sister's and off we would go. I'd wave goodbye to my family with one hand while hanging onto the door handle using all of my strength to stay seated with the other as Gasket Andy sped out of the driveway like Mario Andretti in his final lap around the track.

We would pass one store after another. I would ask why we weren't stopping. Gasket Andy would laugh and say, "They don't have what I'm lookin' for," and then he would step on the gas as we sped ahead toward adventure. After going straight for a few miles he would suddenly veer off the road into an open space and we'd be at the airport. The airport had a little "Mom & Pop" store where they sold a little bit of everything. Technically we were "Going to the Store." We would go inside and get an Abba Zaba and a soda while Gasket Andy got the plane ready for take-off.

My sister and I would play "Rock - Paper - Scissors" to see who would sit in the front passenger seat next to Gasket Andy. I lost this particular time. That meant I was sitting up front. Gasket Andy smiled at me as we walked up to the plane. "Whose my co-pilot today?" he yelled over the roar of the engine. "Me," I said weakly.

My sister climbed into the back seat of the plane and buckled up. I climbed into the co-pilots seat, strapped myself in, said a quick prayer to the patron saint of airplanes, crossed myself a dozen times, checked the buckle on my seat belt again and again as Gasket Andy hopped into the pilot's seat and radioed the tower for clearance to take off. We taxied down the runway and gathered speed. Gasket Andy yelled, "Here we go," as we left the ground below and headed for the friendly skies. We had a routine. It was the same every time. Gasket Andy would circle the control tower and dip a wing at the traffic controller in fond farewell and then we would make a sharp right and head for the hills. Head for adventure. We never got too far before Gasket Andy would turn the controls over to the co-pilot. This time it was me. He would tell me to fly the plane as he slowly let go of the wheel on his side. I would grip the wheel with my tiny little ten-year-old hands and hold steady as I wished for God to make me 5 inches taller in the next few seconds so I could see out the front window to know where we were headed. Loose Gasket Andy would tell me to turn the wheel to the right. The plane would dip. Then he would tell me to turn it to the left. The plane would dip the other way. I could see where we were going. Headed for the ground. Fast. Gasket Andy would take over the controls and tell me what a fine job I'd done and then the stunts would begin. We would shoot up past the clouds and then down again. We'd loop in circles, turn one way, then another and then when I thought we'd done just about everything we could possible do with an airplane...Gasket Andy would cut the engine. Silence... soaring with the eagles ... flying without a net...and then after a long moment...the sound of the sputtering engine would start again and we'd level out just in time to head back to the airport before dark and around the control tower dipping a wing and then land back on the ground safely.

We'd always make a quick stop back at the "Mom & Pop" store before heading back home. Gasket Andy would run in as he left the car in park and my sister and I waiting for him. He'd come back out with a brown paper bag and toss it in the back seat and hand us kids a treat he'd picked up inside for the ride home. We'd eat our ice cream, Ding Dong or Twinkies and talk about what a fine day it had been. He'd race back down the straight highway and we'd make a sharp turn into the driveway and there would be our parents standing out front wondering where in the world we had been. Gasket Andy would reach in the back seat, grab the paper bag and say, "Tell em we got lost," as he jumped out of the car and handed our grandmother the bag.

We were lost alright...
...lost in adventure...

Foto Friday Fiesta . . .

2008-10-31T00:01:00.000-07:00

I am not beautiful Cleopatra, Hellenistic ruler of Egypt.

I am not the mysteriously masked Mardi Gras beauty.

I am Fred Flintstone.

"Yabba-Dabba-Doo!"

Happy Halloween! Go play at Candid Carrie's.

What a Punk! . . .

2008-10-29T19:45:00.000-07:00

In my youth I was "bad"... oh....so...bad....

My best friend was "bad" too. We had our very own gang. Just the two of us.

I wore a bandanna wrapped around my head like Olivia Newton John in her, "Let's Get Physical" video.

I was so "bad".

I was too "bad" to pose for pictures.
I call this my martyr pose.

Man...was I ever bad....

Foto Fiesta Friday!

2008-10-23T19:00:00.000-07:00

" Mirror, Mirror . . .

on the wall."

"Who's the fairest of them all?"
"Why. . . Snow White . . . of course!"

Join in the fun at Candid Carrie's!

A One Track Mind . . .

2008-10-21T19:12:00.000-07:00

I have no imagination . . .
when it comes to Halloween Costumes.

It's always the same variation. Year after year - when all my kid ever wanted to be was . . . a hot dog with mustard -no relish. It's still his dream. Someday, I tell him . . . someday. . .

Meet the Munsters . . .

2008-10-19T14:40:00.000-07:00

Their house . . .
Lily . . .
Herman . . . Eddie . . .
Marilyn . . .

Grampa . . .
and the lesser known relative, "Tinkerboy". . .
These are their neighbors. . .

. . . to be continued

Foto Friday Fiesta . . .

2008-10-16T21:13:00.000-07:00

Knight Rider? . . . Please don't "Hassle the Hoff " and his trusty sidekick.

Join in the fun at Candid Carrie's!

Trick or Treat . . .

2008-10-15T21:16:00.000-07:00

Did you ever do this after a night of Trick or Treating? Dump all the candy on the table and then sort it?

I did.

The Frosted Mini -Wheats were an unusual treat as were the Apple Crisps on the upper left. Someone was way ahead of their time when it came to handing out healthy snacks. All the candy in the lower left side of the picture was for trading, especially the suckers that were just like the ones the doctor handed out when I was a kid . . . the kind with the loop handle so you didn't hurt yourself if you fell while eating your lollipop. That little loop was supposed to act like a miniature airbag as your face met the concrete.

Jellybeans were also low on the list. Those were for Easter and seemed like an odd choice for Halloween candy especially if they were black and orange which meant that one of them was licorice flavor. . . which is pretty much the grossest flavor in all the land. The chocolate was golden and a very valuable trading commodity. Too bad we can't use it to boost the economy. I'll trade all my M&M's for your country and throw in a Snickers Bar in good faith. I think I just solved all of our problems.

Word on the street was that the guy two streets over who drove a "Roach Coach" was handing out full size candy bars. There was a line forming at the first hint of dusk just to get one of those prized candies. A full size candy bar meant that you hit the Halloween Jackpot. It gave you bragging rights for weeks at school. A kids popularity and wealth at school the next day was determined by the size of the candy bars they received on Halloween night. You came from a rich neighborhood if you scored more than one. Giant Tootsie Rolls did not count. Nobody would admit getting one of those. They looked too much like, you - know - what.

One thing missing from this picture is the homemade "Popcorn Ball" our neighbor, Mrs. Jones made for the neighborhood kids every year. She would hand them out like they were the golden ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Corn syrup was the main ingredient in Mrs. Jones scrumptious special treats. My teeth stuck together like they were in a vice-grip after the first bite and it took until Thanksgiving to separate them. My guess is that she made them so she could have a moments peace from all the kids on the block screaming like wild banshees up and down the street every Saturday morning while we played. If you saved the Popcorn Ball long enough it made an excellent baseball. If it was hot outside the ball would stick to the bat like flypaper. Ah, memories.

Do you remember what your favorite Halloween Candy was when you were a kid?

Party On . . .

2008-10-13T21:51:00.000-07:00

We had a birthday bash for my baby.
That's her. She just read the sign on our pantry door. I told her to come back tomorrow, or when she was 21...whichever comes first.

It'll be a while.

I love that sign . . . everyone just misses free beer by one day. If they say they will come back tomorrow for the free beer, I forget to answer the door.

These are her friends. They looked a little concerned about the food.
This cool cat is married to my favorite sister. I kinda like him a lot too. To quote one of the other guests at the party when he saw him, "Look at that guy! That shirt and that hat says - I came to party!" Actually the guy threw in a few swear words that I can't write here for emphasis on just how cool my brother-in-law is. Security showed him the way out. Party on.

It was a quiet little gathering until . . .

. . . the beer pong tournament started. Someone swiped all the food off the counter when I wasn't looking and brought out the plastic cups and ping pong balls. I wiped the floor with the competition. I was the champ. The winner. The victor. Number one. Numero uno.

Not really.

I don't even like beer.

But, if you come back tomorrow, it's free!

Foto Fiesta Friday . . .

2008-10-09T21:53:00.000-07:00

Out to dinner. . .
Waiting for our food to arrive. . .

and waiting . . .
and waiting . . .

Make it stop . . .
still waiting . . .

What are you waiting for? Head on over to Candid Carrie's for some foto fun!

Happy Birthday Kiddo . . .

2008-10-07T22:30:00.000-07:00

Meet Daisy Forkenheimer. Not her real name. But it could have been if we had let her brother name her.

Meet Belle. Not her real name. But it is what her aunt calls her.

I call her, " Hey, You!" Not really. I don't do that. Most of the time. Never. Sometimes.

This year.

For her birthday.

I am going to tell her her real name.

I might even call her by her real name.

If I can remember it . . .

I'll be right back. I have to go check her birth certificate.

Is it Dora?

Is it Crispy?

Is it Belle - Daisy - Honey - Sweetie - Sugar - Krinty???

It doesn't really matter because to me she'll always be my baby. Happy Birthday, Baby!

Foto Friday Fiesta . . .

2008-10-02T21:35:00.000-07:00

Apparently . . .

one picture . . .

was not enough.

Join in the fun at Candid Carrie's Foto Friday!

Waiting for the Queen. . .

2008-10-01T18:16:00.000-07:00

Every Saturday at our house was house cleaning and yard duty day. My mom - the Drill Sergeant- would give us all a list of things to do inside the house and when we were finished we were supposed to go outside and help our father in the yard.

I didn't like doing either. I thought I had been born into the wrong family and was Royalty. I waited years for the Queen of England or any titled person to come and get me out of my suburban neighborhood. The Queen must have lost the directions I sent to Buckingham Palace. I told my mother I couldn't have dishpan hands when they came to get me. I had to be presentable and would rather practice taking tea and eating crumpets on Saturdays. Instead I had to wipe the coffee cake crumbs off the table and throw away the Lipton Tea bags resting in the saucers.

My house jobs consisted of cleaning my room - and cleaning my room - and cleaning my room. Then after I cleaned my room - and if it wasn't Sunday already - I was supposed to empty all the trash cans in the house and put away all the canned goods in the pantry. One time I took all the labels off the canned goods. I thought it would be fun to guess which can was Campbell's Mushroom Soup and which can was Hormel Chili. We ate some strange combinations for a while after that. I always pretended to love the mystery meals, but I never took the labels off again. Especially after we had sardines, canned asparagus spears and waffles for dinner one night. Not everything tastes good on a waffle. I know that to be a fact. Trust me on that one.

One particular Saturday I rushed through cleaning my room which meant that I threw everything into the closet and slammed the door shut. I promised one of my sister's all of my allowance if she would take care of the rest. I took out all the trash and tossed the canned goods in the cupboard faster than a grocery store clerk could do it. Then I went back to my room to check on my sister to make sure she wasn't slacking off and to order her around because it was fun. I was showing my royal side to her. I also needed to get dressed to go outside and help my dad. I put on my best party dress which happened to be a granny gown with an appliqued rooster on the chest and some patent leather Mary Jane's and my best white frilly dress socks. I added some short white gloves, glanced in the mirror with approval and pranced outside. I sat on a large rock with my hands folded in my lap and watched as my dad sweat buckets while he raked the leaves in the yard. He glanced up after a few short minutes, wiped the sweat from his eyes and said, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" I answered, "Waiting for the Queen." My dad stared at me for a moment and said, "Good. We could use some more help around here. Let me know when she gets here and in the meantime make yourself useful and go get me a beer."

. . . the end.

Come meet the neighbors . . .

2008-09-30T18:53:00.000-07:00

This is our neighbor, Mr. Fancypants. People think he's a stuffed shirt because he never waves hello to anyone. I'm sure he would if he had hands.
This is Mrs. Fancypants and their two kids. The Mrs. was born with one human lady leg. People come from miles around to see her. Behind her is one of the curious onlookers lurking in the background.

The Fancypants family caused quite a stir when they moved across the street from us. The homeowners association had to hire a team of Ghostbusters to keep the riffraff out.

It looks like people are just dying to get into our neighborhood.

Foto Friday Fiesta . . .

2008-09-25T17:08:00.000-07:00

Come take a walk with me down memory lane. I found these pictures in my house photo's collection.That was my bathroom when I was a kid. My parents had this mural painted above the loo. There are many "why's" I had every time I entered this room as an impressionable child.

Like. Why the rabbit? Why was the light switch so high? And more importantly . . . Why?

Why not join in the fun at Candid Carrie's!

Charmed, I'm Sure . . .

2008-09-23T22:41:00.000-07:00

This is the house from the television show, "Charmed".
This is the house to the left of the Charmed house. The roof needs a little face lift. It's like the ugly step-sister from Cinderella.
This is the house to the right of the Charmed house. It's the other ugly step-sister. It's only a partial fixer upper. The top right quarter of the house is finished. It's been for sale for a while. I bet I know why it hasn't sold.
This is the reason why. This house is directly across the street from the Charmed house. This is where the devil lived. For at least one episode on the show. My husband dared me to play ding-dong-ditch at this house. I pretended like I didn't remember how to play the game and asked him to show me. He didn't fall for it. We played rock-paper-scissors to see which one of us would ring the bell and it was a draw. I love that game. Then we flipped a coin. Then we both yelled, "Not it!" at the same time. While I was trying to think of another childhood game my husband came to his senses and said something I can't repeat here and drove off down the street and jumped on the freeway towards home. He said he didn't know what came over him, and why he was sitting in front of the Charmed house playing games when he could be in his own house doing a whole lot of nothing. I told him that maybe the devil made him do it.

the end. . .

Sunset Strip . . .

2008-09-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

The hubby and I took an afternoon drive today in his car.

We left my car parked on the street for everyone to envy.

We stopped and bought this dress for my Fairy Godmother. I'm pretty sure she'll show up any day now.

We went house hunting.

This one comes with a Ferrari in every color.

We stopped to look at the view.

Then we followed this car into their driveway. We couldn't see their house from the street and didn't think they would mind. We got through just in time. The gates almost closed on us. Security helped us find our way back to the street.

We waved goodbye to the city and the naked, fig leaf wearing, one armed guy balancing on a railroad track. I can do that too. I just don't feel like it today.

Then we came home and I made the husband get to work on building a house bigger than any of the houses we saw today. That's him running away. I better go catch him. Tomorrow is our son's birthday and he needs to finish before the guests arrive.

Foto Friday Fiesta . . .

2008-09-18T20:44:00.001-07:00

Like father, like son.

I know, I know. . . this is so wrong. The little goonie on the right did not drink that beer. I think the dog did. Not really. In fact I don't even know those two. I found this picture. Really. In my photo album -under - favorites. I have no idea how it got there.

Go see some other favorite foto's at Candid Carrie's !

Things that make you go huh? . . .

2008-09-16T22:54:00.001-07:00

I drive by a church once a week that has a street pulpit (church sign) out front.

This week the sign says: We don't believe in the same God you don't believe in.

huh?

Charlie the Wonder Dog . . .

2008-09-15T19:27:00.000-07:00

Meet Charlie.
He lives next door.
He hung out with us yesterday and today.
His parents had things to do.
It's been a long time since I took care of a puppy.

We compared pedicures.
Charlie won.

We had a staring contest.
Charlie won.

We played "Fear Factor".
Charlie won.

No animals were harmed in the making of this post. The rat liked it and begged for more.

Foto Friday Fiesta . . .

2008-09-11T19:09:00.001-07:00

That's not me.
Really, it isn't.
It is a favorite foto.
This picture was taken for career day at school.
Can you guess her occupation?
If you guessed fitness instructor you would be wrong.

She produces brussels sprouts.

Come play along at Candid Carrie's Foto Friday Fiesta!

Bible Camp, The Final Chapter. . .

2008-09-09T19:09:00.001-07:00

The mess hall was crowded and very loud, full of boys and girls of all ages. We made our way to an empty table keeping our heads down for fear of being recognized as interlopers. I slid into place next to one of the boys.

A whistle blew and the room grew silent. An imposing man who strongly resembled Grizzly Adams, without the bear, stepped up on a chair towards the front of the room and held his hands in the air. The camp followers raised their hands. I wasn't sure what to do. I decided that I would hold my hands in a half raised position thus not fully supporting the religion that I didn't belong to and not fully denying my own. I looked like I was being held at gunpoint in a bad western. It was better than nothing and I wanted breakfast before I was discovered and thrown out. He led the group in prayer. A long prayer. I thought he was going to thank the Lord for each and every person in the room when the cook stepped out of the kitchen and imitated a slicing motion with a wooden spoon across his throat. It ended abruptly. I clapped. The lone clapper in the camp. I pretended that I was doing a cheer to save myself from embarrassment. "Jesus, Jesus, he's our man . . . if he can't do it no one can!"

Another toot of the loud whistle thankfully silenced me and the food was brought out on carts by a battalion of efficient kitchen help. They looked like they were pushing dim sum carts at a Chinese restaurant. It was then that I noticed a handwritten menu board placed on either end of each table. Not only were pancakes on the menu but there was also bacon, and eggs and juice. I was in heaven and couldn't wait to chow down. Our cart arrived, bringing with it the aromatic smell of breakfast. The server asked us what we wanted as he lifted the domes off the plates. The boy next to me ordered for all of us. "We'll have some Penance Pancakes, some Bible Bacon, a few Sacrificial Sausages, a pitcher of Old Testament O.J., and you can leave the Coffee Chalice here on the table." The girls and I stared at our plates. I wasn't so sure I wanted to eat Sacrificial Sausages, or anything that started with the word "Old" but beggars can't be choosers so I decided to go with it. It didn't take much to convince me of anything in those days.

The food didn't look any different to me than normal stuff so I figured the names were probably part of a Bible vocabulary lesson at the camp. I asked the boy across from me to pass the Second Coming Syrup and Bible Butter which were already on the table. I heard somewhere that Sacrificial Sausages tasted better that way or so I said at the table to make some conversation. The boys ignored me, eating as if this was their last meal. I guess reading the Bible worked up an appetite. I dug into my plate and ate the delicious pancakes, all the while asking God for forgiveness for being such a traitor. Our church pancake breakfasts were nothing like this one. Our food was named after famous people; Aunt Jemima pancakes and Jimmy Dean sausages. Various thoughts swirled around in my head. Maybe they were saints or martyrs or something. We hadn't studied that yet in school. I ate and drank until I was in a semi-comatose state.

That shrill whistle blew again and Grizzly Adams stood on the chair. He asked for the Prayer Warriors to join him. A war cry erupted from the crowd as they pounded on the tables with their fists and stomped their feet. That woke me up in a hurry. My spidy sense was in full alert. Two of the boys from our table got up and made their way to the front of the hall. If they started speaking in tongues, I was out of there. If snakes came out of a basket, I was out of there. If the image of Jesus appeared behind them, I was out of there. Nothing like that happened. The Prayer Warriors put on a skit about Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. The closest thing to a snake was a neck tie borrowed from the Preacher to act in its place.

Our time at Bible Camp soon came to an end. The nuns and teacher had sent out a search and rescue team when we didn't come back from our walk and they stormed the hall looking for us. Grizzly Adams thanked us for joining them. The Bible Boys thanked us and all in all it was an enlightening experience. They weren't so different after all.

When we sat down at the table for dinner that night back at our cabin I thought about the different names that the Bible Camp used for their food. I looked at our food and decided to bring a little of what I learned at the Bible Camp to our table. I looked at Sr. Gertrude and asked her to please pass the Messiah Meatballs. Sr. G. looked at me and said, " They were all out of those at the local store, so I bought Mama Gina's instead." And I said, "Well then, pass those and some of that Sainted Spaghetti!"

the end . . .

Bible Camp, Part Deux. . .

2008-09-07T21:55:00.000-07:00

With 852 hours to go and two nuns and a teacher in our presence we decided that the typical games one might play like, Truth or Dare, Twister and Strip Poker, would not be half as fun with the present company.

Instead we sat around complaining of boredom until the nuns suggested that we all gather round and pray the rosary for the all of the poor pagan babies living in pagan baby land. That idea would certainly fill up all the hours left in our trip but that wasn't what we had planned. Our plans were to have fun, not spend the entire weekend feeling the Catholic guilt that permeated our lives.

I suggested we take a walk and maybe get lost and then get found by a cabin full of fun people who had never heard of pagan babies or guilt. Everyone ran for the door at once yelling, "Last one out has to buy the next pagan baby and insist on naming it after them." We pushed and shoved and shrieked and made it outside in one piece. Pagan babies were expensive and everyone knew that you never named them after yourself. You named them names like, Peg N. Bebe and hoped the nuns didn't catch on.

It was snowing and cold outside. We immediately made a snowman, shoveled the driveway in case we wanted to go out later and had another snowball fight. Someone looked at their watch. Only 851 and 3/4 hours left.

We set off on our walk. We ate the snow that didn't have a speck of yellow on it. We picked up errant pine cones and threw them. We ambled along at a leisurely pace and didn't pay any attention to where we were going and ended up getting lost. We did not find a cabin full of fun people. We found a Bible Camp instead. A Bible Camp with boys! We had landed in heaven. We quickly made a pact with each other not to mention that as Catholics we knew nothing about the bible. We were smart. We could fake it. After all, we were already way ahead of ourselves in the fact that each of us had actually seen a bible once or twice in a hotel room drawer. Someone whispered loudly, "Just remember that the bible has something to do with Gideon somebody or other." We all shook our heads in agreement. The boys approached carrying their black Bibles under their arms. We shivered a little with anticipation but mostly from the freezing temperatures. One of the girls asked, " Are we supposed to make the sign of the cross or genuflect when they get closer?" Another girl smacked her. The boys were upon us. In front of us. Flesh and blood. Alive. Real.

We were beside ourselves. They spoke first. "God bless you." A couple of the girls answered in unison, "and also with you" like we were in church. They looked at us oddly. We stood wide-eyed and anxious hoping we had not just blown our cover. I don't think they cared. They probably saw an opportunity to save us now that I think back on it. They invited us to join them for breakfast in the bible hall. A couple of the girls hesitated. "Is this a sin?" one of them nervously asked. "Only if the food is bad," another one answered. "Will there be silver dollar pancakes?" the girl next to me asked. One of the boys said, "There won't be anything if we don't hurry." We fell into step behind them as they marched to a large building in the middle of a clearing with pine trees surrounding it.

I wasn't so sure this was the best idea. We had just escaped the nuns back at our cabin and now we were headed into the unknown with 3 boys and some bibles. This was not my idea of fun but we had a few hundred hours to spare so I went along. The pancakes were calling my name.

to be continued . . .

Foto Fiesta Friday . . .

2008-09-04T21:55:00.000-07:00

I had a Tupperware Party.
This was my Tupperware Consultant.
Named : Dixie Longate.
It was not your Mama's Tupperware Party! It was a few years ago and everyone still talks about it to this day. Dixie's a dude. At the time he was the top selling Tupperware Consultant in the United States. I thought I'd share a few of my favorite photo's from that night.

Join in the fun at Candid Carrie's Foto Friday Fiesta!

"One time at Bible Camp" Part II will post this weekend.

The time I ended up at Bible Camp . . .

2008-09-03T22:17:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school I belonged to the drama club - a club that lived up to it's named. One of the girl's in the drama club had a family cabin in the mountains. To unify the group we all took a trip up to this mountain retreat for a weekend of frolicking fun. Our chaperone's were two nuns and a male teacher who was the director of the drama club. The cast of characters included students from all grade levels and assorted levels of maturity.

I drove up to the mountains in a cool little maroon Corvair with a couple of the seniors. They had no idea I was there or they would have kicked me out. I hid in the back seat on the floor until we were well on our way and it was too late to get rid of me. The look on the driver's face when I popped up in her rear view mirror was priceless. She almost drove right off the side of a cliff. They spent the rest of the ride asking me what I had heard them talking about and made me pinkie swear not to tell any of their secrets. I didn't feel like walking 90 miles in the snow so I told them their secrets were safe with me.

We got to the cabin. Jumped out of our cars screaming with excitement. Had a snowball fight. Toasted marshmallows over the open flame on the kitchen stove with rusted wire coat hangers snatched from the musty hall closet. Burned 3 Jiffy Pop pans in the fireplace, told a couple ghost stories and then looked at the clock. Ten minutes had passed. We still had 935 hours to go.

The nuns turned in for the night. The poor male teacher pitched a tent in the cabin garage with a hibachi stove for his sole heating source and turned in for the night. The nuns would not allow a man to sleep in the house with all the girls. They had to protect our virtue. In a protective frenzy they locked him out and hid the key until morning when we all begged to see whether he had frozen solid in the night or survived. The odds of finding him frozen were 10 to 1. He was kind of a pansy. The nuns said a quick prayer as we unlocked the door.

He had survived the night wearing all of his clothes and burning a set of oars and some old wooden fishing poles. I collected a hundred dollars from all the naysayers who bet against him and slapped him some skin. It cracked the ice surrounding him. He thanked me and then asked if he could borrow some of the money to go into town and get a room at the local Inn. I told him we could double down if he could hang in there for one more night. He moaned and staggered to the fireplace to warm his frostbitten fingers dripping a trail of melting ice as he walked. His teeth chattered so loud we thought someone was knocking on the door. We quickly lost interest after we realized he was not such a pansy after all and looked at the clock. Only 852 hours to go.

to be continued . . .

Weigh down . . .

2008-08-29T22:37:00.001-07:00

"Step on the scale."

The last time I visited the doctor's office I did not step on the scale immediately, instead I asked the nurse to "guess" my weight. She was not amused. I was.

For years I have dreaded the scale at the doctor's office. It is the first hurdle you must cross in what I like to call, "The Ultimate Humiliation Obstacle Course".

On prior visits I have worn the lightest clothing I owned, short of a swimsuit, or something equally less appropriate, in hopes that my weight on the doctor's scale matches the same weight on my scale at home. I have worn slip on shoes so I can kick them off before stepping on the scale. I have tossed my purse on the floor, contents falling every which way just to lose another ounce or two. I have blamed my bra and underwear for the extra pounds I see on the scale. I tell the nurse that my underwire bra is made from reinforced steel and weighs a ton so would she please deduct at least 10 pounds from the actual weight. I tell her my underwear is reinforced too. I tell her that it has some kind of titanium components woven into the fiber to keep it from riding up my rear end but the downside is that even though it feels light as a feather against my skin it weighs the same as a baby elephant. The nurse writes something on my chart. She raises her eyebrows at me. She says nothing. I try and peek over her clipboard. She flips it over.

I hop up and down on the scale. The weight on the digital readout fluctuates wildly. I laugh. The nurse does not. I stand on one foot, then the other. I touch my finger to my nose. I ask if this can be the balance portion of the humiliation chronicles. She flips the clipboard over and starts writing something on the bottom of my chart. I realize she left her sense of humor at home that day.

As she writes something down which - for all I know - could be another item on her grocery list I contemplate what it means to stand in the middle of the hallway on a scale feeling embarrassed whether I weigh as little as a super model or as much as a whale. It means nothing. This scale is not the true indicator of how much I actually weigh. The scale at home is. The scale I stand stark naked on in the privacy of my own bathroom with not a soul peering over my shoulder waiting to write a number on a chart. I am free. The weight has lifted. I smile. I reach down and grab my purse. I slip my shoes back on. I ask the nurse if she wants to join me on the scale just to see how high of a weight it can register. I no longer care what the scale says.

That day I left the office with one less thing weighing me down. And the next time I go to the doctor's I'm wearing my lead boots, my winter coat, my heaviest sweater, and ten pairs of pants. It doesn't really matter. *

*Note: I am aware that weight is an important factor in determining prescription dosage and other important medical issues. That is why I am fully prepared to hand over my driver's license in case the doctor cares to know my true weight. Everyone puts their true weight down on their driver's license right?

Foto Friday Fiesta . . .

2008-08-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

"This is torture, at its most bizarre and terrible." - Batman

I'm almost positive Batman was talking about Walmart.

Where my son and I went last night.

We are brave and adventurous like that.

Another favorite foto . . . join in the fun at Candid Carrie's Foto Friday Fiesta.

When life was simple . . .

2008-08-25T21:32:00.000-07:00

My mother kept all the important stuff from when I was a kid. Like this letter I wrote to her. She knew I would have a need for it. Like now. She was smart that way.

From the looks of it, I hadn't learned the correct form of letter writing yet. I also hadn't learned how to be very diplomatic either. Well, maybe a little. I started out thanking my mom for some gifts I apparently received. I remember the "Shoop-Shoop Hula Hoop". I don't remember the "hair like Beth". We had a neighbor named Beth. She had long flowing locks. I had a cropped pixie cut. Maybe I asked for hair like her. I don't remember what I got. Maybe a little kid's wig? I don't know.

Legend has it that my hair was unmanageable - so much so - that my nickname was, "Barb Wire Head". I have no idea why. I was bald as a billiard ball for quite some time and then when I did grow hair it was fairly normal looking as far as I can tell from old photos. It's just another tall tale and half truth from my childhood that I live with daily.

It appears that I was grasping at straws with this letter. I thanked my mom for "the bow on a lamb". We never owned a lamb. We lived in the suburbs. Owning farm animals was illegal. Maybe it was a cutlet frill from a rack of lamb. I do thank her for dinner so maybe that's what it was. Or maybe I was just making stuff up to confuse her.

I can look back in time and see myself sitting at my desk in my room, chewing on the end of a pencil, playing with my hair like Beth, admiring the bow on the lamb and twirling my hula hoop as my mind works furiously, trying to drum up any little thing I can be grateful for so I can get to the point. Reaching into the depths of my soul and pulling out my last desperate measure and writing down my last compliment before I requested that she remain nice to me until the day she dies.

I'd say that was a reasonable request. She had three other kids she could take her frustrations out on. She could bestow all her niceness on me. I was the third kid. The third girl. The last one in a line of girls before my brother was born. The one who made her laugh. The one who wrote letters asking her to do the impossible and believing she would. That was when life was simple . . .

I'll have Nun of that . . .

2008-08-18T22:11:00.000-07:00

My parents had high hopes for me.

In most Catholic families one kid is singled out to become the one in the family who becomes a Priest or Nun. Catholics usually have a lot of kids. They can afford to sacrifice one and offer them up to God. They pinned their hopes on me. They wanted me to join the convent and become a cloistered Nun, but the Nun's kept telling them they didn't want me. Under any circumstances. Even if they ran out of Nun's.

My parents wouldn't listen. I had a Mary in my name and that meant I was the human sacrifice in our family. Most Catholic families have at least one child named Mary in the bunch. I used to argue with my parents that it didn't make any sense when Nun's ended up with boy names like, Herbert, Martin, and John.

I used to point my finger at my oldest sister. She thought she had a calling when she was 10. She thought she saw Virgin Mary on the baseball field, behind home plate. I'm pretty sure it was the glare off the bald umpire's head that created the angelic glow. Never-the-less, she came home, grabbed a box of tin foil and some string from the kitchen and started making rosaries in her room. Then she tried to sell them to us. I didn't think that was very charitable. Or very Nun-like.

The same sister recruited me to be an altar boy in her room where she religiously conducted Sunday Mass on Saturday's behind closed doors. We used Necco wafers for the hosts, a clothes hamper turned upside down as the altar, and prune juice instead of wine. My other sister was a parishioner and I was the altar boy who rang the bell and sat by the bedroom door keeping watch in case our mom came down the hall and found us being sacrilegious. I wasn't too thrilled with this set-up. It meant that I had to attend Mass twice on weekends. I quit the Church of My Holy Sister and became a heathen in my own home when she decided to hold daily confessions in her closet. I had too much to lose and couldn't risk her finding out that I read her diary on a daily basis. My parents had other plans for her anyway. She was going to be a doctor. Or so they thought.

My other sister never had a calling. She was too busy doing nothing. I think she slept through most of her childhood and my parents forgot she existed. They never bothered her.

They focused their attention on me. I was their hope. I was their dream. I was not having any of it. I tried for a while to please them. I asked them to take me to Lourdes. I figured if I was supposed to be a Nun then Lourdes was the place to go. They refused. They took me to church instead and pointed at the statue of Mary. I stared at Mary for a long time. I stared so long I swear she moved her hands. It freaked me out. I told my parents that Mary spoke to me. I told them she said go home and do something else. Don't be a Nun. I told them she wanted me to go to Disneyland, Knott's Berry Farm and San Francisco to Fisherman's Wharf to eat sourdough bread. I told them she wanted me to have a bike of my own, skates and a big wheel. I told them that she said I was put on earth to be their favorite and to deny me nothing. They gave up and concentrated on my brother. I thought he stood a much better chance. He already had a boy name.

the end. . .

Candid Carrie's Foto Friday Fiesta . . .

2008-08-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

My kids had professional portraits taken as a birthday gift to me.

My son insisted on this one.

The photographer asked him how old he was.

His response, "Old enough to drive!"

Join in the fun at Candid Carrie's foto Friday fiesta!

Mrs. Miller . . .

2008-08-13T22:56:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Miller was my 6th grade teacher.

Mrs. Miller was an old, old, lady.

She had a metal plate in her head.

At least that's what she told us the first day of school.

She was reading off the typical list of class rules when she abruptly stopped and paused for a long moment. We all sat watching with our hands folded politely. It was the first thirty minutes of the first day of school and we were still interested and paying attention.

Mrs. Miller pointed to her forehead with a shaky arthritic finger and said, "The most important rule I have for this class is the one that will save my life, and it's all up to you children." She said this as she walked to the blackboard and wrote in chalk, " I will not throw anything at Mrs. Miller's head that might kill her dead." It was hard to read at first. Her writing looked like an EKG.

Our homework assignment for that day was to write that sentence 25 times and have our parents sign it when we were finished and bring it back the next day.

I remember my dad looking at me as I sat at the kitchen table writing this sentence over and over again and saying to my mother, "I hope the teacher isn't missing part of her brain too."

The next day we all gathered in a group on the playground and wondered aloud just what Mrs. Miller meant when she wrote "anything" on the board could kill her dead. Could an errant spitball kill her? A flying eraser? A flicked pencil?

We were all curious, but too afraid to ask.

Our imaginations ran wild.

The bell rang and we lined up single file and marched into class. We put our books away, placed our homework in the homework folder on the teacher's desk and sat down waiting for Mrs. Miller's instruction. Mrs. Miller hobbled into class and sat down at her desk.

Sammy, the bravest kid in class, blurted out, "Mrs. Miller, my dad wants to know if we're talkin' cotton balls killin' you or baseballs?"

Mrs. Miller was also hard of hearing.

Mrs. Miller squinted in Sammy's direction and said, "The state of your father's balls are none of my business."

The boys burst out laughing.

The girls looked confused.

Mrs. Miller left midway through the year. Sammy's dad probably had something to do with that.

the end. . .

Are you sure about that? . . .

2008-08-11T21:42:00.000-07:00

My mother likes to tell some stories about me that always make me shake my head and say the same thing every time.

"Are you sure about that?"

According to my mother, I was extremely ill and near death when I was born. Apparently I had a feeding problem. I couldn't keep any baby formula down.

Legend has it that I projectile vomited across the room better than Linda Blair in "The Exorcist" and could hit the opposite wall from my crib if fed anything. My mom tells me that they lined my room in layers of plastic because of that.

My response.

"Are you sure about that?"

Take a moment and look at the picture of me and my two older sister's above. I'm the one who looks like she's in a food coma.

Do I look the least bit unhealthy to you?

I think I look more like I'm about to explode.

Whenever I point to the evidence in this picture - - evidence that I look like Uncle Fester's twin - - my mom quickly tells me that this picture was taken after my father found the cure for what ailed me.

Legend has it that my father discovered the one thing that I could keep down. It was something like, virgin Yak's milk, combined with the pinkie toe of a pygmy shrew, stewed in a vat of moonshine with an old baseball bat. It was created by a genius hobo living on the railroad tracks. Apparently it was readily available at the local grocery store, right next to homogenized milk and sour cream.

My dad bought cases of the stuff and fed it to me.

The picture is proof of that.

That's the end of that story.

Another story my mom likes to tell is the story of her 30th birthday.

Legend has it that I fashioned a picket sign out of a large sheet of cardboard that was attached to a long wooden stick. On that sign I wrote, "Today is my mom's birthday. She is 30 years old." According to her, I marched in the nude throughout our neighborhood while hoisting this sign, like an angry union member, for all the neighbors to see, while I chanted and yelled her age like the town crier.

My response.

"Are you sure about that?"

I was only 1 when my mom turned 30.

I'm pretty sure I couldn't write, or make a sign, or carry it, or speak, or leave the house through the front door and march through the neighborhood without someone noticing that I wasn't in my usual spot - my baby crib .

The tables have turned.

I tell my mom stories about herself these days.

She had a stroke last year and her memory was affected.

Stories about what she used to be like.

Her response.

She smiles and says, "Are you sure about that?"

Happy Birthday to My Mom and Me. . .

2008-08-09T23:53:00.000-07:00

It's been a busy weekend.

That's my father-in-law. He turned 80 in May. He wore that big hat so everyone would know he was the birthday boy at his party. He flew in from Florida yesterday and is staying with us for a few weeks. He didn't bring that hat with him. It wouldn't fit on the airplane.

It was my mother's birthday on Friday, and she turned 76. It was my birthday on Saturday and I turned, ageless.

That's my mom. She had a stroke last October and is doing well. Her memory is a little off, so I have tried to convince her that I was the child that never gave her a moment of trouble or worry. It's not working. She says my crazy childhood antics were not one of the things she lost in her memory bank. Darn.

That's her telling my sister that she's on to me.

That's my sister-in-law on the left, my mom, and my favorite sister on the right.

Someone cut me out of the picture.

I was the one laying across their laps.

That's my sister and Smokey, the fireman.

They begged me to take this picture after they shared a schooner of beer.

My birthday was today and those are my birthday feet.

There are a hundred more pictures just like that one and not one of my face.

Next time, I'm in charge of the camera.

My Sister's House . . .

2008-08-08T23:50:00.001-07:00

Welcome to my sister's house.

If you are not a solicitor come on in and take a look around.

If you are a solicitor keep knocking and ringing the doorbell until someone answers.

This bowling ball is in her garden.

It is too heavy to carry three more feet to the front door.

That's my sister.

That's her front door.

She likes it when I pull one of those sticks out of the pot and bang on her front door instead of ringing the doorbell when I visit.

She really likes it when I poke her with it when she opens the door.

She likes it even better when I throw it across the street like a javelin.

She thinks it's hilarious when I use one of those sticks to pole vault over her house and let myself in through the back door.

This is the inside of my sister's fireplace.

A fire has never burned here.

Her husband is a Fireman.

We call him Smokey.

There are no fires on his watch.

This is a corner of my sister's dressing room.

Those angel wings on the chandelier are real.

They come from her days as a Victoria's Secret model.

She wears them everywhere.

This is her troll collection.

She says they remind her of me.

This is her laundry room.

It is for decorative purposes only and is too pretty to use.

It shows her sweet side.

This is her downstairs guest bathroom.

It shows her naughty side.

Those framed pictures are covers of Playboy magazines.

Men go in there and stay forever.

I prefer to use the bathroom upstairs with the framed covers of Playgirl magazines.

Men never go in there.

It's my favorite bathroom and it's not because of the framed man candy.

It's because the toilet seat is always down.

The end.

Foto Friday Fiesta . . .

2008-08-07T22:01:00.000-07:00

Saw this sign on our vacation in Arizona.

What in nundation is that?

Join the fun at Candid Carrie's Foto Friday Fiesta!

On The Road Again . . .

2008-08-05T22:07:00.000-07:00

We did some more sightseeing today on our vacation in Arizona.

That's a rock formation. In case you weren't sure.

That's a "Pickle Farm".

It wasn't kosher, so we kept on driving.

This is my sister-in-law.

She hid her "Big Earl Burger" in her big hair right before I took this picture.

She's posing at a roadside hamburger stand.

I told her those shoes would scream tourist, but she wouldn't listen.

This is the Spider-Man Stagecoach.

It's not half as cool today, as it was yesterday, when I was sitting at the bar staring at it for a couple of hours.

I sang the Spider-Man song just loud enough for the entire bar to hear.

I wanted to see if anyone else noticed what I noticed, without seeming like I was being too obvious.

The bartender cut me off.

I think the artist is a relative of his.

Darn those root beer floats.

They get me in trouble every time.

Come back tomorrow and see the cast of characters who joined me on vacation.

Road Trip . . .

2008-08-04T22:14:00.000-07:00

We rounded up the family and hit the open road for a trip to Arizona.
I was the co-pilot.

This is what we saw for the entire drive.
Except when we saw this.

We drove for so long and so far - we ended up in Mecca.

I prefer Nirvana myself . . . Mecca is a little overrated if you ask me.

This is what we drove 6 hours to see. It's "The World's Biggest Pickle", with an alien force field next to it.

It looks like an English Cucumber to me.

What do I know?

I'm not from these parts.

I was ready to come home, but my family says there are more pickles to see.

I don't even like pickles.

Come back tomorrow and see the only Spider-Man Stagecoach in existence.

I won't even charge admission.

Foto Friday Fiesta . . .

2008-08-01T11:50:00.000-07:00

Another random photo favorite.

Kids are always losing stuff when they come to my house.

Can you tell what's missing here?

He came with two.

Join in at Candid Carrie's Foto Friday Fiesta.

What's that smell? . . .

2008-07-31T20:17:00.000-07:00

I love to cook.

My dad loved to cook.

My grandma loved to cook.

It's in my blood.

There was a time however, when I probably could have used a transfusion.

I wasn't always a very good cook.

There was the time I made mint cookies.

Extracts hadn't been invented yet, so I went in the yard, found the mint plant, pulled it out of the ground, shook off the dirt, tore the leaves off, and carefully placed a few in the center of each little lopsided ball of dough on the cookie sheet.

They smelled so good before they were put in the oven.

They smelled like a grass fire while cooking.

They smelled up the trash can until collection day.

Years later I decided to give cooking another try.

Actually I had to wait for my parents to forget about the mint incident.

It took a long time. Anytime I even went near the kitchen they would jump up and start shouting and waving their arms all over the place, herding me out the door and back to my room.

I spent half my childhood in my room.

I had a burning desire to cook.

My dad used to say I had the desire to burn what I cooked.

He was the comedian in the family.

I asked for an Easy Bake Oven and a Kenner Big Burger Grill for my birthday every year. I got the Kenner Big Burger Grill, but they wouldn't let me have a light bulb to cook my food. I was a smarty pants though, and I used a flashlight, but soon found out that the Kenner Big Burger Grill was not intended to be used as a slow-cooker.

My next cooking experiment was a watermelon cake.

It was for my mom's birthday.

I made it in a mixing bowl so it would look just like half a watermelon.

It looked like a watermelon alright.

But I never had to use a hacksaw to cut any watermelon I ever ate before or after that cake.

Somewhere between the mixing and the baking I unknowingly discovered the chemical properties of petrifying food. It was a one time thing. I haven't been able to do it again. Many years passed before I got even a glimpse of a kitchen again. In fact, it was right after I got married.

My husband had no idea.

I made him this.

For a while he kept the emergency number for the Poison Control Center on speed dial, and the phone next to his plate at every meal.

Just in case.

After a few near misses, and the bad chicken scare of 19-something-something, I got the hang of things and became the resident, Martha Stewart - Julia Child in my neighborhood.

Nobody who knows me today would ever guess that I am the reason for all those ridiculous warnings on food labels. Thank me all you want.

Picture courtesy of cyco4toys on eBay.

A Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On . . .

2008-07-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

We had an earthquake in my neck of the woods yesterday.

I have lived in California all of my life and suffered through more earthquakes than I care to remember. They're sneaky little devils. They come with no warning signs.

My middle sister broke a couple ribs during the 1994 earthquake.

She has always been the type to panic first and think last.

At the time she lived in a very cool, Turn-of-the-Century house that she and her husband had gutted and were remodeling. They were living in the house while it was under construction. The earthquake hit and my sister attempted to make a mad dash from her bedroom, wearing only socks and not much else. She had just gotten out of the shower and was getting dressed when the shaking started. She stumbled towards her daughters room in a complete and utter state of panic, screaming and babbling that they were all going to die. She almost made it. On the way she bounced off a desk in her path, sliding and skidding on the smooth wood floors all the way to the staircase where she executed a perfect swan dive right off the edge and down the stairs, falling in a nearly naked crumpled heap at her surprised husband and daughter's feet. During the remodel they had removed the railing and there was nothing in its place to stop her. Her husband took her to the hospital where she was patched up by the doctors in the emergency room. I think she was given a lifetime supply of Xanax that day.

I think about that every time an earthquake happens since then.

Fortunately nobody was hurt in yesterday's earthquake and everybody and everything is fine.

I don't think I will ever get used to them. They get to me every time.

Lunch date . . .

2008-07-29T10:59:00.000-07:00

I was on my way to meet my sister and her best friend for a lunch date. The DHL truck in front of me was practicing drifting. It had wonky wheels.

This is what the freeway looked like after I passed the street sweeper cleaning the middle of the freeway. It might have been his first day on the job, or maybe he just didn't feel like getting his truck dirty. I'm pretty sure most of the dirt and trash collects on the sides of the road, but that's just my opinion. I wonder if it swept up the ladder I saw a mile ahead.

This is Frannie. She's my sister's best friend. I like her too. And not because my sister says I have to. I like her all on my own.

This is my sister, Linnie. I like her too. Because she says I have to. Not really. I like her well enough on my own. All of the time. Forever.

Here's the two of them together. We met for lunch because, a couple years ago Frannie moved back to her hometown, 5 states away. We miss her very much. The three of us used to go on a Girl's Trip every November. We still go, but it's not the same without her. I have no one to bug. My sister is used to me and knows all my jokes and all my stories. Plus she really hates it if I poke her while she's driving. Frannie didn't mind. She liked it. At least I told her she did. I'm pretty convincing that way.

This is what happened to Frannie when she moved back home.

She lost her California tan.

Oh, and she added some sparkle to her ring finger. She got married! I couldn't be happier for her. Her hubby had to go through a lot of Cracker Jack boxes to find this prize. It didn't really come from a Cracker Jack box. It came from the most beautiful ring in the world place. I'm going there for my next vacation. I told her that in some countries if you admire something someone has they are supposed to give it to you. She told me not to admire it.

This is what the freeway looked like on my drive home. Where's a street sweeper when you need one?