Dead Body, Much?

Well, here is a mid-day emergency post! I've had quite the morning! Hog-tie me to the sofa and lock the front door if I ever act like my life isn't interesting and decide go out in search of a non-mullet haircut in a new place.

Here's what happened:
I looked up the closest Supercuts and saw that it was in the Natomas area right near the Walmart. I had to return something anyway so I drove there and looked around for the Supercuts but didn't find it in the same shopping center as the Walmart. So I headed back out onto Truxel Blvd. and took a left hand turn. I was in the far left lane, and I had to cross 4 or 5 lanes of traffic in order to make the turn. Which means I really couldn't see what was around the corner until I was right up on it.

I was looking off into the distance, over to the side, everywhere trying to spot the Supercuts sign when my eye caught what I thought was a white plastic bag full of something laying directly in front of me on the road. In an instant I saw that it was actually a DEAD BODY in a white sweatshirt. I SLAMMED on the brakes and came within about 2 feet of running over this poor man.

I threw on my emergency blinkers, praying that a car wouldn't swoop around that corner behind me and smack into the back end of me, and ran out of the car towards the man. I stood there jumping up and down holding my hand to my mouth and ear in the universal sign for "Call 911, SOMEBODY" and then I knelt down to check this guy out.

He was laying face down, flat out on the pavement, and his face was seriously bashed in. He looked like he had been shot or hit by a car and there was flesh hanging everywhere and a TON of blood. There was a dollar bill laying by his side so I picked that up and held onto it and later gave it to the cops. By then the other people who had been right beside me turning in the other 3 lanes had pulled over and came running across all the lanes of traffic to join me. I was still kneeling and I noticed the guy was burbling blood and trying to breathe.

I rubbed his back a little bit and was patting him gently saying, "Don't move, buddy, don't try to roll over or lift your head, just lay there, okay?"

A man from one of the other cars came over and knelt down and kind of shoved me out of the way and started rubbing the man's back and saying, "Don't try to move, buddy!" I don't know why that should bother me at a time like this, but I was super annoyed by it.

Suddenly there were tons of people running over flocking to check it out and none of them were direct witnesses so I guess they were what you might call the vulgarly curious.

After what seemed like forever the cops showed up, and it was the most nonchalant officer I have ever met. I gave him the dollar and told him what happened and he knelt down and asked the guy if he knew where he was or who he was. The man was non responsive and I just hated to have him try and move his head because there was a ton of raw meat hanging where his cheek and lips used to be.

The cop dug in his pockets for a wallet and some ID but the guy had nothing on him. It was pretty obvious he was indigent or homeless. When the paramedics showed up they totally cut every strip of clothing off his body and loaded him up and took him away, leaving behind his shoes, and the shreds of his belt, jeans, shirt, undershirt and white jacket.

I kept saying, "Oh, please don't cut all his clothes off, he might not have any other clothes!"

Right about then I felt my legs get rubbery and I started to shake. I thought I might pull a Marie Osmond right there in the middle of the busiest intersection in Sacramento, so I told the officer I needed to sit down and fast. He said, "Go sit in your car, I'm going to need your driver's license." So I trembled over to my car and sat there shaking while Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland played merrily on the radio, with tears running down my cheeks.

When the cop finally took my info I told him this was the most bizarre thing that had ever happened to me and by that time I was crying outright. He shrugged and said, "Maybe for you, but this happens to me every day." Mr. Callous then handed me back my license and said I was free to go, they'd call if they needed anything.

I pulled cautiously into traffic, went to the next intersection, and turned into where I needed to be for the Supercuts...and proceeded to get the absolutely worst, ugliest, fugliest haircut of my life. Which I guess doesn't really seem that important to me right now.

Call'p Me!

I really should write song lyrics. I have such a knack for rhyming things to make them fit. I was bopping down the street in the car yesterday, singing at the top of my lungs to the tunes on the radio. Tom Jones and I were singing:

She's all I ever want

She's the kind I'd like to Call'p

And take to dinner.

You know! On the phone.... Call'p.... Call-up.

Why shouldn't Tom Jones call'p a woman if she is all he ever Wanted?

Of course then it dawned on me! After 25 years of hearing that song and thinking it was 'call'p' I finally saw the aural light. He is actually saying...

She's all I ever Want

She's the kind I'd like to FLAUNT

And take to Dinner...

Thank GOD those Pesky Bloombergs Moved Away!

Here it is! My favorite Christmas Carol the way I always THOUGHT it was sung. Brought to you by the Coalition for the Lyrics Impaired.

Sleigh bells Ring, are ya Listnin?

In the Lane, Snow's a Glistnin'

A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight

Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland.

Gone away are the Bloombergs

Here to stay are the Newburgs

We sing a happy song as we roll along

Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland.

In the meadow we can build a Snowman

And pretend that he is Parched and Brown

He'll say "Are you married?"

We'll say, "No, Man! "

But you should get a job when you're in town.

Later on, We'll perspire

As we scheme by the Fire

And Fake, unafraid, The Hams we have made

Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland...

Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland...

(Have Yourself) An Airy Little Christmas

When I was a girl (back when Grover Cleveland was President) people mostly hung a single string of lights across their porch for decorations at Christmas time. Occasionally an intrepid man with a band saw would make a wooden cut-out Nativity Scene that got planted in the front yard and was soon buried in deep snow, never to be seen again until the spring thaw in Mid-June.

These days, along with everything else, Christmas has become commercial and of course, utterly over the top in all categories. Taste has gone out the window and been replaced with Gigantic Inflatable Santas tethered to the lawn with Mobile Home Tie-Down Straps. Not content to just have a single Macy-Day Parade Giant Float on their lawns, folks seem to want to have Several of them, without regard to theme or placement. Huge Snow Globes jockey for position beside Frosty the Snowman, Snoopy as the Red Baron, Rudolph and Santa in a Golf Cart or Nascar.

Call me old fashioned, but there's something about a 4 foot inflatable Baby Jesus in a Manger that freaks me out!

Yesterday, while on my way to work I saw the tell-tale signs of the Inflatable Blight all over the lawns of the posh neighborhood where Miss Kitty lives. Deflated plastic blobs in red and white were everywhere, waiting for the moment when the air pump arrived to make them spring to life.

I was telling Jeff about this later in the day. I told him, "Everywhere you look people have their blow-up dolls on their lawns."

There was a horrified silence. "What kind of neighborhood were you driving through?"

It took me a moment for his meaning to sink in. "Not THAT kind of Inflatable Doll!" I said.

HO! HO! HO!

Love/Hate on the Squeaks and Creaks Highway

There is a love/hate relationship going on around here and it's with my spray can of WD40. I love the stuff! It loosens bolts, unlocks doors, greases and degreases, and it smells good, too.

In this old apartment where I live, the cabinets have long ago lost all their closing mechanisms. But I've never had any problems with keeping the doors closed; they just seem to stay shut by gravity or the tilt of the building or perhaps centrifugal force.

But because I am an early riser (like 2 or 3:00 am early) I am aware that when I go puttering around in my kitchen at that time of the morning my hinges squeak and grown and shriek! I live in fear that the Partying Dykes next door will report me for infringing on the 'loud and raucous' clause in the lease.

So the other morning I just decided that I wasn't going to skulk around any longer and live in fear: I was going to take the WD40 to every hinge in the kitchen.

It required bending, stooping, reaching, climbing on rickety chairs and scootching across the counter top on my agonized kneecaps, but I got the job done! And Viola! Not a screeching cabinet hinge to be heard. I love you WD40!

When Suddenly! In the middle of the night or the light of the full noon day when I stand in my kitchen and turn in any direction I can decapitate myself, put out an eye, slice open my scalp or break a leg because now all the cabinet doors swing open just for the silent fun of it! All through the kitchen the cupboard doors swing open with nary a care and with total abandon. WD40 I hate you!

Shredding Miss Kitty

Yesterday was my day for Driving Miss Kitty. I called her in the morning to see if we were going to the mall for Christmas Shopping--a task I dread as much as mopping the floors. (I hate dealing with floors.) Because if we were going to the mall it would require entirely different shoes and a warm coat because it's an outdoor mall. It would require steeling myself for a grueling day of carrying packages and running around like a madwoman to retrieve her abandoned credit card only to discover it was in her wallet all along.

And she has this thing where if she buys something for one of her kids she has to buy it for the rest of the family. Two children and Two Spousal Units equals 4 of everything: 4 containers of butter brickle. 4 containers of caramel corn. 4 oven mitts with brownie mix inside. 4 pairs of Santa Socks, even though they were in women's sizes. I feel bad for the dudes. What does a guy want with a snowman oven mitt containing a package of brownie mix and a pair of women's knee socks with a bright red reindeer pattern?

Anyway, instead of the mall we went to Target where we purchased yet another pair of nail and cuticle scissors and an emery board. Since this new obsession is much more fun than Bug Lights I haven't yet pointed out to her that we've bought at least 5 pairs of scissors and 6 or 7 emery boards in the last 2 weeks.

Then we had to go find a shredder. I haven't blogged about the shredder before because it has shredded my nerves too much. You see, her last live-in caregiver made the Colossal mistake of shredding an ENTIRE PIECE OF PAPER thus ruining the blades and destroying forever the sanctity of her shredder. Miss Kitty tears everything up into TINY PIECES before she puts it into the shredder. Because otherwise you might wear it out.

Indeed, the shredder had seen it's last days. It was probably the original model of shredders and it weighs a ton. I don't personally see why she needs a shredder with that much capacity and a motor that is the equivalent of a Hemy or a Mack Truck but hey! In a household where even the medicine bottle prescription labels must be carefully peeled off the empty bottles and shredded I guess its important.

However, I don't think Target is the best place to buy a shredder. Since she lives a mere 2 blocks from an Office Depot/Max, I tried to encourage a trip there to look at quality shredders at affordable prices but no. Her son had gotten his at Target and her sister had gotten one for 25 dollars so the case was closed.

I don't recommend a 25 dollar shredder, but her sister is the same person who decided that Miss Kitty really didn't need to fix the air conditioning in her house since she wasn't sleeping upstairs anymore and the only super-hot place in the house was upstairs. Cheap is the word I think I'm looking for. Frugal. Thrifty. Bonkers.

After at least 10 minutes of dithering over the Target Shredders, we picked one and I loaded it into the cart. Well, in case you haven't shopped for a shredder, I think I should tell you that it is as heavy as any other major appliance like a fridge or a washing machine.

We hauled it home and into the house. I had to pull the old useless shredder out of the cubby it was in and put the new one in there. On a whim, I decided to TEST the new shredder to see if it worked.

And the battle was engaged. I got one notebook piece of lined paper to feed into the shredder. Miss Kitty had a meltdown. She ran and tore her name and address off of an envelope and handed that to me for shredding. Anything larger was going to break the new shredder, she was sure of it! I tried to explain that such a small piece of paper was not going to trigger the auto-feed mechanism that turned on the blades.

Should I cut this story short? The new shredder didn't work. Not with big paper, not with small paper, not with any paper. I had to box it back up, heft it out to my car and return it. I also had to heave the old shredder back into it's cubby, even though it is broken, because otherwise there would be an empty space and that is not to be tolerated.

I put my back out. I don't know at what stage I did it, but I did it good. I felt that telltale ping as if I'd pulled a muscle entirely off of it's anchoring bone, and I still had to hoist that thing out of the trunk and into the store.

As we were parking Miss Kitty noticed we were right next to a very large SUV that had a nice big Boxer dog leaning out the window and slobbering happily at the passers by. And I was taken aback to hear, "Look at that tall dog! Have you ever seen a dog that tall? That is a TALL dog. I mean, really, really tall. I've never seen a dog that tall, have you? Really. It's a TALL dog."

And it was then that I realized, for all the inconvenience and hard work and struggling over unneccesary purchases and rigid methods of doing things, I loved my job. As I sit here with an ice pack on my lower back, thoroughly bombed on pain meds and shredding entire REAMS of full-size paper in my own shredder, I must admit that I love driving Miss Kitty.

I Got Something For Your Punk Ass

During a recent convivial dispute with a hoodlum friend of mine, I was told, "Don't make me send my homie's after you!"

To which I replied, " Don't make me go through the Proper Channels!"

Memory Malfunction! Must Recharge!

I was comparing memory loss stories with my friend who just had breast cancer. She said that chemo brain is just as bad as fibro fog, and I believe her! Chemo would tend to kill off those vital little critters called brain cells.

She said that the worst is when you are supposed to remember something in a pinch but your brain just won't cough it up.

"That's when I implement my most vital survival skill, " she said. "It's called Guess and Go!"

Got Gold?

While talking with my friend Jeff about our mutual, unending, soul-grinding poverty, I said that having friends you can laugh with makes up for all the gold in the world. Well, almost. He just shook his head and said it reminded him to go buy a lottery ticket.

"What would you do with all that money if you did win?" I asked.

He replied, "I would finally have the money to buy the one thing I've always wanted."

"What's that?"

"The Best of the Accordion Masters CD"

Turkey for Breakfast

Well, I hope all of you had a Great Thanksgiving. Mine was pretty good, I made a ton of food and enjoyed every bite of it. I've had a house guest for the weekend, who is a lot of fun but whom, upon entering the house, seems to explode in every direction. Clothing and shoes on the floor, luggage in every room, paperwork and paraphernalia on all the surfaces and wet towels all over the bathroom rods and floor.

Which makes my head want to explode and that is why I have nothing in particular to say.

Plus, I need to sleep off the triptophan.

Fabricating Imaginary Infrastructure

There I was at the grocery store, just chatting away and all excited about getting what I need for Turkey Day. "Do we want to do the homemade cranberry sauce or the canned stuff" "Do you like marshmallows on your sweet yams?" "Yes, I love that! So let's get some marshmallows." I was having a high old time when I suddenly became aware that this entire dialogue was actually a monologue. I was talking to myself. And ANSWERING.

I've been doing it for years and years. It's my dirty little secret and a habit I'm afraid I may not be able to break. I will be an old biddy in a poorhouse yapping away all day long and they will think I am totally demented. What they will fail to realize is that I was that way all along.

If I'd had a family and children and a rewarding career, maybe I would not have had to develop such a companionable inner life. But I never had that so what I have instead is a Jolly Time all by Myself.

It's just so embarrassing when I get caught! Like I really like to TALK in the shower. Sure, ORDINARY people just sing in there, but I have entire murder mysteries. I speak in foreign accents, too. "Thatsa Right, Guiseppe, I buried-a the body in-a da Olive Grove!" British Poufs and Aussie Croc-Wranglers chat back and forth about silly and inconsequential things. Jimmy the sniveling lickspittle likes to chime in with this bizarre statement, "Oh, NO! Not the BIG LOG, Eddie!"

Once I was in the shower and I caught myself saying, "Blood and Gore! I'll rip him from limb to limb and kick his dead body all the way to the ocean! AND I'll come to his funeral in a RED DRESS!"

It was then that I realized the neighbors can hear every word through the hollow echoing tile walls and floor. It even dawned on me that although I make fun of Invisible Guy and Obsessive Compulsive Girl and Night Terror Guy, they may just be saying the same things about me..."There goes Imaginary Friend Girl!"

You Can Call Me Al

Yesterday some pompous style-windbag was saying, "The look of layering is soooo important in fashion right now!" I just wanted to shout at the tv, "Well I don't THINK so! I beg to DIFFER! My layers of Fat and Flesh are NOT sooooo important!" But then I retracted that imaginary statement because, Hell to the Yah! It's winter! Starting with a thick layer of adipose tissue before donning the thermals, the polar fleece socks, the jeans, the sweaters, the coat and the scarf just makes Good Sense.

Yesterday the amusing Miss Kitty came up with another stunner. She was telling me some meandering story about how all the guests at her son's wedding are connected to each other. She said, "Her name is Sylvia but they call her Jean."

"Is her name really Sylvia Jean, then?" I asked.

"No, it's because her mother's name was Agnes."

It's time to start the pre-Thanksgiving prep. I like to make my cornbread stuffing up ahead of time. This year they were out of Jiffy Mix so I had to make my cornbread from scratch.

I used to just dice up the celery and the onions and toss them in but later on I learned to simmer them a bit first in the chicken broth.

I love my gigantic bread bowl. You can mix mass quantities of stuff in it and it never overflows.

Here's a question to ponder for the ages: Why is it that you can take perfectly soft fluffy marshmallows and harmless, easily-dissolved teeny little Rice Crispies and when you combine them together into Rice Crispy Treats they make this lethal concoction that cuts up the inside of your mouth into shredded flesh strips?

Nature Abhors a Vacuum Cleaner

I had the same vacuum cleaner for about 18 years. It was a little Hoover Upright Devil and it worked just fine. It didn't have any attachments, though, so the baseboards, drapes and upholstery just continued to develop layer after fine layer of Old Cat Hair.

When it finally sucked its last breath, I bought a very nice Eureka The Boss Smartvac. Except I don't see what's so smart about it. In fact it doesn't seem to be the least bit intelligent. And it has the weird habit of popping the front panel open and projectile shooting it across the room every time I turn off the power. I can only figure that this is to remind me to check? if the bag? is full?

I spend just about as much time fitting the door back and latching the hinge as I do with the actual vacuuming. However, my drapes, baseboards and upholstery are looking spiffier than ever before.

Yesterday, I did a good, thorough cleaning and used every attachment that the Smartvac has to offer. I noticed that I didn't seem to have as much suction as I thought I should have, though. It had an odd sounding noise as well, sort of far-away sounding. After vacuuming the entire living room and bedroom, I noticed that I had left the dial on the hose option rather than the floor option. But I couldn't tell that much difference in the quality of the vacuuming either way. So I think it might just be a dummy dial. Just something to make me think I have a very Smart Vac. If it was so smart, it would have TOLD me in PLAIN ENGLISH that I needed to change the dial back to floor when I was finished with the hose.

I've already picked out my next vacuum. I'm really going to upgrade next time. It may take a while, but my next vacuum cleaner is going to be a MAID.

Cougar

We never had any dogs when I was growing up. My Mom had an incident with a dog that went mad, once, and the neighbors had a little black nasty thing called Corkie that barked incessantly until it turned up shot in the head. It wasn't us! We were away that day on a trip to Mongo. I still cannot stand the sound of a barking dog to this day, because of the stress that ran through our spinal columns from that dog yapping all day and all night long. It's so interesting, but dog owners themselves never seem to notice that their dogs never shut up!

Another bad thing about dogs is that they don't live very long. 6-8 years is a short life span, and what that means is your beloved pet is going to DIE right in the middle of your childhood. Why do people do that to their kids? All they think about is a cute puppy. They don't look much further forward than the beaming faces of their little ones when they bring it home for the first time.

What we had was Cats! Or rather, One cat for our whole lives. Before we kids came along, Mom had been given an old Siamese named Cougar. Here he is:

By all accounts he was very crabby, but he loved my brother Paul! Cougar he lived to a ripe old age and when he died, we got another Siamese just like him. And named him Cougar. I suppose we would have named every cat Cougar through the ages but it just happened that we never had another Siamese after Cougar #2.

Here is Cougar, a mere kitten. He was so mellow. We were taught to pet him so the fur didn't go against the grain; how to brush him and pick him up so his feet were supported. He had lots of respect; in fact in our house you weren't allowed to boot a cat out of a chair just because you wanted to sit in it. You chose another chair or asked the cat if you could join him. You did that by picking him up and putting him on your lap. Cougar was so mellow he'd always share! Of course I am exhibiting none of the proper cat care techniques in this photo. I appear to be giving him quite a mauling.

This was the first day of school. Paul is demonstrating the proper foot-support cat holding technique.

I have no idea where we were headed, but this was our Sunday Best. My little brother Jimmy must have been sooo excited, his hands are clenched in sheer joy. Cougar is getting older and filling out, but Paul still does the holding.

This was a lazy Christmas afternoon, Cougar is taking a nap with a visiting friend. Why, oh WHY are those pictures so askew?

Paul was about 21 in this picture and his lap is still the favorite choice for Cougar. I still think about him. He lived to be almost 20 years of age and I still have a soft spot for Seal Point Siameses.

Live Long and Prosper

Around about Halloween I read somewhere on somebodys blog that she saw this little tiny girl all dressed up for trick-or-treating. She had on an embroidered peasant skirt, a Mexican blouse with a shawl, and her black hair was wound around her head in an old-fashioned braided crown.
When the child turned around the blogger could see that she had painted a black unibrow on her forehead.

She was dressed as Frida Khalo!

I loved all the unique and homemade costumes, much more than those icky plastic and shiny rayon ones that came from the five and dime. The masks were sweaty and your mouth always got wet, and the costume itself never had any FIT to it. I was a big one for having things as realistic as possible. Somehow an icky knee length thin nylon Princess Dress with glued on sparkle flakes just wasn't REAL enough for me.

I wish I had pictures of all my Halloween costumes through the ages, but I don't. In digging around I did find this one:

That's me; a Dice. With my faithful sidekick Spock.

Toys R We

Here I am, Little Miss Pink Ponsonby in my tomboy phase! Isn't that just the cutest thing EVER? I love the way I'm holding my hands so my fingers are touching. And check out the hand-me-down boy shoes and socks from my older brother. I'm sitting on the side of the tractor tire sandbox that we never got to play with because it was always wet and damp from being in the shade and besides it was the neighborhood-wide public toilet for cats. The pink plush toy must have been something I dragged around with me as a Linus Blanket. I wasn't much on dolls at this stage!

Later on I was all about the world of Creative Design. Does anyone remember Sparkle Paints? I would have done those for hours except I think the box only had about 4 pictures in it and then you were done forever. And I remember so distinctly that the green sparkle tub was totally dried out. I love my red smock and my intense focus on The Arts.

Toys were such a part of our household, and I never realized how much until I started looking through the really old family archives. Here is my baby brother in the midst of a typical day of chaos:

He's sitting on the floor watching TV while licking the pan of fudge with a giant spoon. He's got his toolbox, airplanes, jigsaw puzzle and record albums nearby in case he wants to switch it up during the commercials.

These pics are so fun! But my all time favorite has to be this one:

My brother Paul: Poster Child for the NRA. Pow! Pow! Pow!

T Veeeeeee

This made me laugh! It's about cats!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMXCuW9LDps

I love the show BONES. It's like Joan of Arcadia meets The X Files. I loved both those shows so I love BONES. It's one of those rare tv shows where I ended up loving Each and Every character! Usually, like in the case of Grey's Anatomy, I end up being bored and hating on a few of the sub-plot lines because I het the actors. But with Bones I love them all and am so happy to find out the next chapter in their lives. Like when Booth gave Bones the little Smurf. And not the Smurfette that she had always wanted but the Brains Smurf because she is so much more than a cutesy female.

But the highlight of the night was when Dr. Hodgins says, after digging up a time capsule and finding a gigantic floppy disk and a 'Classic Coke': "That is so 80's it makes me want to push up my jacket sleeves."

That is soooo Miami Vice!

And then there is KITCHEN NIGHTMARES. You know, I really like that Chef Ramsey. I know he is a hard ass but he is so cool! Last night's episode was practically a 'feel good' experience! The family loved each other! They turned their food around! And I wanted me some of them pretty piped mashed potatoes on top of that Irish Stew. Who does that in real life? PIPES out of a pastry bag? Mashed potatoes? Onto the top of an Irish Stew?

AND! That odious Cameron the Bare Chested Soap Opera Star got booted from the competition on D.W.T.Stars! It was such a win-win week in T Vee!

And now an excruciatingly personal self-remark that the men will please leave the room for: After 500 months of doing without, I am having a REAL period. I say, YIPPEE! I still have HORMONES!

And NO WHISKERS!!!!!!

Save the Veals!!

I grew up in that magical, psychedelic era when people suddenly sprouted social causes like pinfeathers on a baby chicks back. What had been all dullness and conformity in the 50's, suddenly became wild and free and full of righteous anger, rebellion and expression. There were activists for women's rights, animal rights, Black Power rights, equal rights, free love rights, prisoner reform rights...and so many others that I can't even think.

Because it was all so new and so happening, it was often confusing. Like when my cousin Skeeter Jean thought that a 'Save the Whales' rally was actually a 'Save the Veals' protest. After all, what kind of hard life did a whale have when compared to the horrid confinement and ill treatment of those sweet little baby veal calves?

Or like when I found out we were supposed to be burning our bras. I had just gotten my first bra. I needed it. I didn't want to burn it! It was from J.C. Penney's and cost almost 5 dollars! My mom would KILL me if I burnt that bra.

Anyway. It's no surprise to me that for all these years I thought, when The Doors were singing "God-Damn the Pusherman", that they were actually singing "God Damn the Butcher Man!"

You know, like a Vegetarian's Theme Song. Ha, ha, ha! Save the VEALS!

It's a Gas!

And now for my Right Royal Pet Peeve Rant of the Week!

What if you went to the store in the morning and you saw a dress you liked and the price tag said $10.00. But when you went back to get the dress after thinking it over, you saw that the price had gone UP by five bucks! When you asked the store clerk why the dress had suddenly gone UP in price, you were told that the price of fabric had risen in the world market by 20 dollars a yard. You would be incredulous! "What does that have to do with this dress that was manufacture last season at last season's prices?" Why would the price of a dress that was already bought and paid for suddenly fluctuate according to the current prices?

Well, that is what they are doing to us for this gasoline situation! The gas in those underground tanks at the gas station has been bought and paid for. Why should the price suddenly soar up on a daily or even hourly basis just because there is a 'crises' in the oil supply? The next time they buy gas, they can raise the price but how disgusting that they are making us believe that the pumps can go up or down according to the market whims of the moment?

Well, it seems they have us over a barrel. Pun intended!

Food Follies

It's been a busy weekend. I did lots of cooking, lots of entertaining, lots of cleaning up afterwards and lots of napping!

I made cherry nut bread without the nuts, but it fell in the oven. It reminded me of when I was a kid learning to bake cakes and one time I opened the oven door and gave the cake a good jiggle when it was half-through baking just to see how liquid the center was! Can you believe it? Of course the cake fell like Babel. And I got the brilliant idea to fill the crater with chocolate pudding, and the cake was a success! Good save! And I've been a top-crack little chef every since!

This time I did no shaking...well, maybe just a little...but I was able to save it by cutting it up and arranging it prettily on a plate and none the wiser were my guests!

I also made chocolate/butterscotch chip cookies with just a handful of oatmeal thrown in for texture and nutrition.

And a whole bunch of those cream cheese appetizers. I don't know the name of them but you use Poppin' Fresh Doughboy crescent rolls and instead of making the crescent shape you leave the dough in one piece, kind of roll it out a bit or pinch the seams closed and them spread any kind of filling on it. Roll it up, cut it into pinwheels and bake according to the package instructions. These are cream cheese/black olive/mild green chilies; chicken and cheddar and Mayo/ and Ham and cream cheese.

When Jeff called and found out I was baking cookies, he did his best Cookie Monster impersonation and started chanting, "Cookies! Cookies!" in that rough Oscar voice. I told him they were for my guests and he replied, "Let them Eat Cake!"

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

First of all, my apologies for not posting for a few days. My keyboard wasn't speaking to my computer. No interface whatsoever. And it was hard on me, haaaaard! I felt like I was being forced to go cold turkey off cigarettes or heroin or something. But it's all better now.

I got another haircut to fix the one I got before. And now I just want to know...

Do I look like Jon Bon Jovi?

Or Owen Wilson?

You decide.

And Now For Something Completely Different

I had a mysterious occurrence today! A serendipitous, synchronicitous event!

I went to WalMart. I had my list in my hand. As I was filling my basket with all the stuff from my list, I really needed to cross off the items as I got them so I didn't forget anything. So I looked for my pen. It wasn't in the little side pocket where I keep it, but it's not unusual for it to be down in the bottom of my bag, so I scrounged around for a while, but since I had just cleaned out my purse, it was easy to see that I had left my pen at home.

A lifetime of writing upside down and at an awkward slant has taught me that ball point pens do not work for me. Nor do those popular gel pens. I have to have an extra-fine point felt tip pen. I really like the Pilot Razor Point Pen Extra Fine. They are almost impossible to find and I really horde the ones I have. I keep tabs on them. I don't let them slip away. In fact, I usually carry a normal, serviceable but cheap Bic in my purse for loaning out should anyone ask. That's how close an eye I keep on my Pilot Razor Point Pens.

I was disappointed that I had left it at home but just kept on with my shopping. Kitty litter, cheesecloth, laundry detergent. Bug lights.

While standing at the tin foil and plastic wrap shelves, just preparatory to reaching for some gallon size Ziplocs, something fell out of the sky and tapped me on the head and rolled away on the floor. I looked down at my feet wondering what in the heck it could have been when what to my bright shining eyes should appear but a Pilot Razor Point Extra Fine Tip pen!

Did God just borrow it for a moment to tally my deeds and then toss it back to me? I was not touching the cart or the shelf, so I could not have dislodged it from anywhere. I never put a pen behind my ear so it didn't fall out from there. I looked up, I looked down, I looked from side to side and all around. There was no one in sight.

What are the odds that some other person uses that very same pen and accidentally lost it in that very place on the very day that I happened to be walking past and needed one? If so, did they leave it in mid-air? I ran all the possible explanations through my computer mind and could not come up with a single logical reason where that pen came from.

Wow! Many Happy Returns of the Glorious Day.

What the Hell Time Is It, Anyway?

Okay. So last night before going to bed I set my little bedside clock ahead one hour. Because it's Fall Forward, right? Who falls backwards? You fall forward if you fall down the stairs. But if you need to spring out of someones way, you Spring Backwards, don't you?

That's the way my mind works and I can never rearrange it any other way.

So I am very glad that my computer knows more than I do, and set it's own clock to the proper daylight savings time change. When I awoke I was two hours away from reality.

Plus, I had to run around and try to get all my clocks changed within the same minute so they would be synchronized. Otherwise I keep racing to the computer to double check to see if it's still the same minute. I don't want a house full of clocks that are minutes apart from each other. It's no wonder I gave up wearing watches. The strain of setting the time on all of those would surely cause a rift in the time-warp continuum. Yanking time around like that could cause the earth to suddenly stop on it's axis and head back the way it came. I'm just warning you, is all. Is all.

I don't know what idiot invented this whole clock-adjustment thing twice a year but here it is only 5 in the morning and my internal body clock thinks it's six. For at least the first week after changing the clocks I have to think, "Now, what time is it REALLY?" so that I can adjust to sleeping and eating. My body will want to eat dinner at 3 in the afternoon and I will want to go to bed at 7 o'clock at night.

It's like a torture device to keep the masses opiated. This is probably when "Great" Leaders plan Wars, or when the Illuminati seize another 3rd world country to exploit it for commodities. Everyone is too busy trying to figure out what the darn time is, and they can't pay attention to the World at Large.

Okay, now. After this rant, it's time for tea.

I think?

Donate Today!

Ah, what a Diverse and Astonishing world it is, to be sure!

The other afternoon a young scroungy looking couple came up my stairs and started pounding on the neighbor's door. I know for a fact that Invisible Chinese Man never has guests, not once, No Not Never in the 12 years I've lived in this apartment so I thought I would kindly inform them that they had the wrong door. The wrong apartment. The wrong stairwell.

Scroungy Dude was affable and charming in a boggled, stoned sort of way as he headed down the stairs but Scroungy Chick was surly, non responsive and perhaps not quite a sentient being? as she stood 2 inches from my screen door with her back to me the entire time the Dude and I were conversing.

When the doorbell rang at 2:15 AM this morning I was therefore not surprised to see the Return of the Scroungers. When I peeped through the spyhole and asked who was there, the Dude said in a cheery, WIDE AWAKE voice, "Oh, we rang your doorbell by mistake! Don't worry about it!"

I again repeated the sage advice that they were in the wrong stairwell and went back to bed.

I know that all human beings come auto-equipped with a self-correcting device. It collects data and registers ones whereabouts so that one can more easily return home without having to consult a map each time. It's how rats find Cheese in a maze. It's how Sheep return from far pastures to the barn. It's how lemmings find the sea.

I would think that 20-something scroungers could find their own doorstep, but maybe their genetic coding has been compromised by all the Meth?

The people, and I use that term laxly, that the Scrounger Kids belong with are a loose collective of dykes who live upstairs on the other side from me. I don't have anything against dykes except maybe their haircuts, but you really don't want them living next door to you! It's the fights, the beer brawls, the cursing and spitting, the cigarette butts flung into the shrubberies. In short, it's like living with a passel of filthy dragoons. Or perhaps a low-born horde of salty sailors on shore leave. Or maybe even a bevy of foul-mouthed truck drivers endlessly congregating in a honky tonk down South.

It's 4:45 am now, and I never did make it back to bed. Too much torment and angst coming from next door. It's not really a party, per se, more like a gathering of fierce young heroines and their chosen hero. There has been quite a debate going on, and from what I gather, one of the gentler dykes is ready to be bred. She wants a baby and she wants it now. She is quite seriously haranguing Scrounger Dude to see things her way. He is holding firm to his ground, but the combination of being directionally impaired and just so stoned he can't stand upright without swaying to an imaginary samba beat, is causing that ground to turn to quicksand.

Her powers of persuasion are greater than his befuddled senses can withstand; his muttered and slurred proclamation of "I'm not ready to be a father!" was quickly voted down. She said:

It's not a FATHER it's a DONATION!

Ritual Beheading

This morning as I was blithely slicing away at my legs, I noticed that I still had the plastic guard over the razor blade. This led me to ponder the whole process of haircuts and shaving.

There is real scientific fact behind the belief that the phases of the moon effect our world. Like the tides, for instance. And how people go lunatic on the Full Moon. So I never had a problem with my Great Granny's rule that you never cut your hair when the moon was waning. It would stunt the growth of the hair. You had to cut your hair when it was waxing so that you could have longer, more luxurious hair.

I don't know why I would want to get my hair cut during a time guaranteed to make it grow faster, since it grows like a weed anyway and haircuts that are too frequent are anathema to me.

I consider a haircut to be a ritual beheading. Good for the soul, very cleansing, a great way to make a statement about change and purpose in your life, but if you aren't careful you end up with nothing but a stump for a neck and no longer able to navigate through life using your brain and your eyes.

Yesterday I got one of those VERY bad haircuts. It's a fact of life, practically a scientific fact, that whatever instructions you give the hairdresser, they do the opposite.

I only have two rules: Don't give me a dyke haircut, and don't give me an old lady haircut. I'm heavy, my bone structure got lost years ago as it sunk deeper and deeper into the fleshy, fatty bog that is my face, and I just want to have trendy hair to make up for my biological, genetic and willpower failures.

I went into one of those 12 dollar places--impulsive, I know, but when the urge for a haircut is upon me it's like itchy hives until I can get one--and I was immediately happy with the decor. It had antiques and real art on the walls. That's an amazing bonus as far as I can tell: It just means a guarantee of a great haircut, right? Someone with decorating taste would be up on all the best, new trends in hair fashion, correct?

Sure, if the place had been decorated like Ikea. But these were antiques. And the staff was Vietnamese. Don't make me go on. You can see where this is going. All I wanted was some of the bulk cut out of the back and sides so I would stop looking like Bubble-Hair Barbie. I didn't want anything off the length and I didn't want my bangs shorter and I would like some more chunky layers using the texturizing scissors.

What I got instead was a poufy, super-short, non-layered, short bangs style upon which texturizing scissors never came into play.

And the girl told me, "You look really stylish from the back." I'll be sure to walk backwards, now, until the next waxing moon phase.

Then! The 12 dollar haircut morphed into a 20 dollar haircut. Why didn't I see this coming? Somebody has to pay for all those antiques and art, after all. I was told that the 12 dollars was actually for MEN, but women have to pay 15. Then, I was told that there would be a 2 dollar surcharge for using my debit card for any amount under 20 dollars. Then the girl said, "So, that's 17 dollars and what do you want to leave for my tip?"

She actually DEMANDED a tip from me! And I caved in! Standing there with my short, shaggy hair that only looks good from the back, I actually gave that woman a 3 dollar tip.

Which brought my total up to 20 bucks which means that she didn't have to charge the surcharge after all and probably just gave herself a 5 dollar tip on the sly.

Let me pull out of that math slump now and go on to say that it has just dawned on me that if the waxing/waning moon thing works for the hair on my head, why wouldn't it work for the hair on my legs? I could save a lot of money on disposable razors and blunt far less of those plastic safety covers while trying to wear away the hair like erosion on sandstone. And the money I would save could be horded up and spent on a really GOOD haircut. Someday. When the moon is waxing.

A Food Bank Halloween

I hope everyone survived Halloween. I have friends who can't stand it and friends who ignore it and friends who are so into it that they plan and make their costumes for a month in advance.

This year I went as a fibromyalgia sufferer in flannel pajama bottoms, a XXXL white tee shirt with a warm fuzzy sweatshirt over it, baggy socks and mattress head hair. I was so into the spirit of my duds that I took myself off to the food bank to stand in line with the rest of the halt and lame.

I stood next to a perky older gentleman who was witty and pleasingly snarky. He was very entertaining as he pointed out how young people have no clue and don't realize all that they are wasting in life.

Behind me was an old geezer pushing a urine-soaked double baby stroller. I presume he brought it to carry his groceries in but the smell was so overpowering that people all down the line were holding their noses and gagging. One lady, probably high on meth, hyperactively announced to everyone that she couldn't take the smell and was leaving. Her friend said, "Don't leave me in here!" to which she replied, "Why not? I don't know where I am anyway!"

Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and the jolly camaraderie was infectious. One young man joined us and crashed the line telling the urine-geezer "I should slit your throat from ear to ear, Nigger, for dragging me down here so early in the morning." This statement, although terrifying to me, made the whole crowd including the geezer laugh with joyous abandon.

While I was pondering the social acceptability of the "N" word in this crowd, the Perky Gent got all excited. He had glimpsed a large flat of Halloween Candy that they were giving away. This got everyone off the subject of slitting people's throats, and onto some sweet reminisces of Halloweens Past.

I piped in with the story I'd seen on last night's news, all about how people bring their kids in carloads and droves to Land Park where the rich people live so they can trick-or-treat in safety and get really good loot.

Perky Gent said, "Nobody would bring their kids to Oak Park where I live. You are lucky to get a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into 8 slices. One guy gives out a single walnut to each kid. Man, I told that dude to stop handing out walnuts nobody wants that shit!"

The Young Man said, "That nigger will get his throat slashed from ear to ear one of these days!" and everyone fell out in gleeful chuckles, returning the conversation to happy stabbings, slicings and dicings.

I felt so safe and warm.

Perky Gent got his food first, and made a remark that as a senior citizen he deserved some help carrying all the bags of groceries. He loaded up his arms with bag after bag of heavy canned goods, and along came Young Man to help. He grabbed one bag and headed out, leaving Perky Gent with all the rest. He looked at me and twinkled, "Young People!"

So now I am glad it is November. It's time for the rains and the fog and that crisp winter feeling in the air.

So dull and dark are the November days.

The lazy mist high up the evening curled,

And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze;

The place we occupy seems all the world.

- John Clare, November

Boooooo! Ghostie Boooooo!

I don't like skeletons, but this one cracks me up. He seems very jaunty with his walking stick and his Jack-o-Lantern. He seems all geared up to walk the Highlands in a kilt.

"You take the high road and I'll take the low road.

And I'll get to Scotland Before Ye....."

This wee tot is preparing to start a bonfire using a pumpkin as a cauldron. Worse, she appears to be preparing cubes of tofu to boil! Is that Jolly? Where are her parents? Damn Liberals!

I don't have anything clever to say about this one because all I can think of is how goopy that kids hair and feet are going to be. But I do wish you a Highly Entertaining Halloween!

The Tall Tale

Ah, work! The Joy of Work! The Joy of a client who is a touch...touched. Yesterday was my day for Driving Miss Kitty and off we went for the groceries. She toddles inside and I bring in the grocery bags, two at a time for as long as it takes.

As we were walking in together she said, "I met John's new girlfriend yesterday. She's really tall. No, I mean REALLY, really tall. I've ever seen anyone that tall before. She was really tall. No, I mean really. Really tall. Have you ever seen anyone that tall?"

We chatted on for a while until I thought we had exhausted the ins and outs of just how TALL she was. I thought I'd go back outside for the first batch of groceries, figuring that by the time I got back she would have forgotten. Alas, as I came in the front door she ambushed me at the kitchen door and picked up right where she had left off:

"I'm not kidding. She was really TALL. I mean, really, really tall! I've never seen anyone so tall. She was REALLY tall."

"She sounds really tall, Miss Kitty" I said. And dove back into the driveway for some more bags.

"I'm not kidding. John's girlfriend is REALLY tall. I mean, Really, REALLY Tall. Have you ever seen anyone that tall? I've never seen anyone that tall."

Two more trips from the car, and two more rounds of "Really, really Tall."

I had hoped that this Tall Tale would have died down by the time I brought all the groceries in, but it went on the entire time I put things away and folded up the bags for storage. I finally said, "Well, How tall WAS she?"

Miss Kitty, 5'2", placed her hand in the middle of her chest and said, "She came up to about here on me."

Smell the Burning Flesh!

I've reached that age where my body has unexpected and uncontrollable temperature fluctuations for no reason whatsoever. And at any time. No rhyme or reason for it. And some body parts have different temperatures than others. For instance, my face and neck will heat up when my fingers and toes are chilly.

So it was not that unusual this weekend, while riding in my friend Cordelaine's new car, for me to be freezing cold. Really, very, very cold. I asked everyone else in the car if they were cold, and most of them were just room temperature. Cordelaine fussed with the temperature settings for half a moment and then got distracted driving.

When suddenly my butt started to get warm. And warmer. And WARMER until I thought my ass was on fire and I was shifting around in the car seat feeling like the polyester blend pants I had on were going to melt and extrude themselves liquidly through tubes and be formed into something recycled like a park bench, while my charred thighs and buttocks would be mistaken for pork barbecue, hot and sizzly from the smoker. If I walked down the street, people passing by would say, "Hey, I'm in the mood for some ribs!" followed by "Why is that woman's ass on fire and she's not wearing any pants?"

Since I had just asked everybody if they were cold it seemed kind of silly to suddenly ask them if they were hot, so I shifted around from buttock to buttock in ever-increasing hot discomfort for quite a while until I finally had to say something.

"Gee, Cordelaine, my bottom feels really hot!"

"Gee, Miss Pinks!" she replied, "That's because your electronic seat warmer is set on HIGH."

And I had to put up with bun warmer jokes for the rest of the day.

Practicing my Slouch

I remember learning how to slouch. It was the 60's and I was at a basketball game against the kids from Athens City, a small town 10 miles from my hometown. They were our rivals; mostly hillbilly's and Mainlanders, but their school had the cutest boys. Way cuter than the ones from my school. They seemed to have some kind of edge: an edge that was created from booze, cigarettes and poverty; but I didn't know that and it was as attractive as a magnet to me.

I was standing in the bleachers, observing these kids. They had slumped shoulders. It looked so cool, so relaxed, so laid back and desperate. Really hot! This was the 60's, you know! I thought I stuck out like a sore thumb with upright posture and straight shoulders.

So I stood there and copied them, twisting myself like a soft pretzel until I had the correct stance. It felt awkward and hard to maintain, but I did it! And it paid off, too, because later that same game, Buff Orpington came and sat with me and held my hand. Pretty daring for a 7th grader! The slump is what did it. I mastered the slump and suddenly I had a suitor.

Ah, peer pressure. Somewhere over the years my path must have diverged from needing to join the pack. Later, in the 90's I remember a young man walking me to the parking lot because "I want to see what kind of cool car you drive!" Because I was hot! And still slumped coolishly! Of course he was mighty disappointed. Instead of the Volvo Cabriolet or Jaguar or Beamer he had envisioned, I drove an older model Honda with a crushed driver's door and flaking paint. He wrote me off as unyuppie and unworthy in that moment, and I didn't care a bit.

Because I remember :

"That's when a smoke was a smoke
And grooving was grooving.
Dancin' was everything
We were young and we were improving

Laughing, laughing with our friends
Holding hands meant something, baby..."

It's been almost 40 years since I twisted myself into an S curve in order to belong to The Cool People. I still retain the slump, it's just called a Hump now.

Tea! and Bathtubs!

I've been wondering about some things, and one of them is: What kind of person designs and names fonts? Is not that an odd and quirky niche to find oneself in?

They are often named with such whimsy that I have a hard time passing them up to download just because they are charming. For instance, the one I recently saw called, "The Last Font I'm Wasting on You!"

And another thought: It is a very bad thing that in order to keep warm, one is obliged to drink more tea than is good for one!

And finally: Why does the bathtub get dirty? Does it not take a bath right along with one?

Zombie Pumpkins

Somehow I can't quite bring myself to post about the Fires that are raging away in Southern California. The news is full of it, and I'm actually quite sick of it. I get it and I feel for the people in dire circumstances who have lost their homes. I feel and fear for the firefighters who are down there battling against all odds, tired, overworked and understaffed for such a monumental amount of wildfires.

It's just that I can't take the media coverage of these events! They don't offer safety tips, tell which roads are safe and which fall too close to the fire zones. They aren't being any help at all, in fact. They just go stand in front of somebody's charred ruin of a house and pontificate about the horror of it all.

Worse, they have shown that Poor Princesses' lost Elvis collection a dozen times a day! Oh WOE! And they seem obsessed with where the football/basketball/baseball teams are going to go now that their stadiums have become safe-havens for the homeless and displaced. And they can't seem to cope with the fact that 24 has been unable to complete a filming schedule due to smoke and cinder activity. Have we really become so obsessed with the trappings of Hollywood?

Oh, speaking of obsessions and TV and Hollywood stuff:

It's been quite the year on Dancing with the Stars, so far! What with people falling, fainting and flailing, it's certainly been entertaining in a scary way. Marie Osmond is my favorite: not because she can dance, but because I see her as a more accessible and fun person than Jane Seymour. Jane is so darn stuffy, no matter if she's dancing the tango, the quickstep or the rumba, she acts like she's in ballet class, and that gets on my last nerve. Plus she's prissy. Marie, on the other hand, seems like the kind of gal that would come on over and stuff herself on my cooking and then help wash the dishes! (Thanks, Queen Q. for all the years of eating and dish washing!)(My idea of the perfect guests.)

This year, I am highly in favor of someone firing the costumers. I wonder where I'd go to lodge a complaint? Between dressing poor Jenny Garth in the dead carcass of Big Bird with tail feathers trailing, and making lovely Edyta look like Pocahontas in the bathtub or a decaying zombie dressed entirely in cobwebs, I think they've stretched to the limits of their creativity and have just turned silly. Naked silly. Jane and Marie seem to be dressed according to their age and sense of modesty, but the actual female professional dancers all look like Barbarella!

Only more nekkid and trailing more shredded hankies.

But there is one thing that cannot be faulted in any way. There is one person who must be watched, admired, adored and salivated over. There is one person whose burning Russian Fire and sexy glutes makes it all worthwhile: Maxim Chmerkovskiy.

I love it that he is not even remotely gay. And that he's always in a foul mood. Because he's like a Greek God, and they were always testy. And like a Greek God I shall have to worship from afar, because Ponsonby-Chmerkovskiy is just too much of a mouthful! I cannot trade in my spinster status for such a ponderous name.

Last but not least, a little holiday fun! An entire field of Zombie Pumpkins, dancing away in a ballroom frenzy!

Global Warming and the Cold Water Heater

Here's a science fiction thought for you all! As I was taking my shower this morning I was reflecting on how wonderful this old building has been for always supplying me with a plentiful supply of hot water. Honestly, the water is TOO hot, and I have to be careful to turn the hot tap on just a little bit and the cold water tap more. Otherwise I could get scalded.

So I was thinking, what if this global warming really starts to kick in? Someone needs to invent a Cold Water Heater, because there would no longer be cold water just dormant in the pipes, etc; All water would be hot water, and you'd need some kind of refrigerant in place of the hot water heaters for everyone.

Of course by that time we'd have all starved to death from the drought and the fact that the crops had all boiled up when they watered them with hot water.

But as my Landlord told me this morning, "If it starts to be plagues and pestilance and boiling seas, with frogs raining from the sky, we could all run out with a big napsack and gather up the frogs and say, "mmm! Frogs Legs!" "

You Can't Make This Stuff Up!

One of the best parts of my blog is getting to make up silly and twisty headings for each entry. Sometimes I can come up with more of those than I have posts to go with them! As a Teenager I co-wrote a small novella named "Fletcher's Freak" and had plans to write my next one: Moldy Red Licorice, Or, Loathsome Adventures in an El Camino. I am sure you are sooooo glad I never wrote that second one! At one time I had a small notebook full of upcoming book titles.

Yesterday I saw a new store in midtown Sacramento and I realized a twinge of envy when I saw the sign above the door. This appeared to be an adult/party/lingerie type store, and just GUESS what the name of it is?

Dirty Fête.

To My Cousin Happy Breakfast Wilkerson:

Here it is! This is the bear I rescued from your abusive clutches when you were a mere 3 years old. You had left him, unfed, unkempt and face down in a mud puddle, too exhausted from many maulings to be able to hoist himself out of there and save his own life.

I gave him a new home and here he is, 20 some years later, happy, content, chubby and clean, the way a stuffed bear should be!

So far you've done a good job raising your human son, but if you take one wrong step, YOU'LL NEVER SEE THIS BEAR ALIVE AGAIN!

The Human Paloma Picasso Virus

I'm always disturbed when pharmaceutical companies trying to make big money use scare tactics to get us to buy expensive drugs that they've just invented whether or not they work or whether or not they have any basis in reality. For instance, Aricept, the drug that may or may not slow down the progress of Alzheimer's. That is what they claim, It MAY slow it down, but how would you know? If you are taking the drug and surviving the diarrhea, the dizzy spells and the Alzheimer-like side effects, how could you tell you were progressing slower than you would have progressed to begin with?

It's the same thing with this Human Paloma Virus, or is it Pamplona where they run the bulls? Either way, it seems completely ridiculous to me that they can say a VIRUS may or may not create Cervical Cancer in you, at some vague future point in your life, so you need to get inoculated against possibly getting it 20 years down the road. Maybe. Perhaps.
First of all, who ever heard of a VIRUS causing Cancer? If that were true, wouldn't it be the biggest breakthrough for all mankind, EVER? You could immediately use the same shot to prevent breast cancer, lung cancer, etc;

Secondly, don't viruses MUTATE? Isn't that what they DO? Don't they practically morph the moment they go from one host to the other, and isn't that why the annual flu shots are such a joke (and an expense?) They maybe protect you from one form of flu, but by the time that flu gets around to your neighborhood it's no longer recognizable as the original strain?

People who swear by those flu shots cannot convince me that they wouldn't have avoided the flu that season anyway. You cannot prove that those shots kept you from getting the flu! They even tell you in the small print "You may get some form of flu this winter, just not the flu that this shot will protect you from."

In the case of the Human Paloma Picasso Virus, how can they tell that 15-20 years from now that particular virus will have stayed exactly the same so that the shots you got are still valid?

My cousin Tivo Jane Coggins has cervical cancer. It's a scary thing, but as she says, "I haven't used that plumbing in years so yank it out!" She is really a kicker, to say the least. Her husband Vernelle Coggins collects antique cars. He's got bunches of them up on cinder blocks in the front and back yard, gathering rust. It was perhaps this love of all things vehicular which led them to name their two children Rotary Motor Coggins, Jr. and Chassis Axle Coggins.

Gramma Frosty Baker has decided that Chassis Axle needs to get her some of them Human Paloma Picasso Shots, because she firmly believes that since her daughter Tivo has cervical cancer, her granddaughter Chassis Axle is soon to follow, 20 years from now.

If she thinks cervical cancer is hereditary, then why bother with the anti-viral shots? It makes no sense to me. But she's getting on the bandwagon and so are millions of others, and all I can think is that 20 years from now all those girls will be sterile.

Or have mutant multi-colored babies that have their eyeballs on the sides of their faces like this:

Have Cake Will Travel

Imagine my surprise at logging on this morning and seeing so many Birthday Wishes from Friends of Pea! How sweet and kind of all of you, and you have NO IDEA how much I appreciated each and every one of your remarks!

My birthday was so strange this year, but it got better later on. For one thing, my friend Jeff showed up in the early eve with a German Chocolate Cake that he baked himself. Never before in my 51 years of life have I had a MAN bake me a CAKE! It is delicious, too, with EXTRA coconute pecan frosting!

Oh, and my Cousin Skeeter Jean sent me some PINK M&Ms! PINK M&Ms! PINK M&Ms!

Pink M&Ms people!

Happy Birthday to Me!

EEeeeeeg!

Another Day another Medical Procedure.

I had to get up at the crack of dawn this morning and head on over to Mercy for my long-awaited EEG. Hey, it only took 10 months to get this scheduled!

Mercy is an older hospital and parking is at a deficit. I ended up on the roof of the parking structure and when I left, there was a line of cars completely blocking me in, two of which had to be moved so I could get out of my parking space. I told the toll booth attendant I wanted 10 minutes cut off my parking fee. He laughed in my face. Laughed in my face, I tell you!

But first, I parked and raced over to the hospital and went up to the EEG department, which was locked up tighter than a drum. I had to wait for someone to come along and put in the little keypad code to open the door and then I was told I had to go back downstairs and register. Nobody tells me anything! Fortunatly, registration is quick and I was back upstairs in 15 minutes flat.

The EEG tech was such a sweetheart, and she explained the procedure in depth before we got started. I was suprised to learn it takes about 20-30 minutes for the test itself. I got to lay down on a comfy bed and close my eyes while she glued 27-29 little diodes on my head using school paste. I'm not kidding, this isn't the gel stuff they use for an EKG, this is actual glue. She warned me I'd have to go home and shampoo when this was over.

She then explained I'd open my eyes and shut them and then do some slow breathing for 3 minutes then lay perfectly still for 15 minutes and then she would turn on some flashing lights for 3-5 minutes and then we would be done. The whole thing was soothing except for the flashing lights which were very uncomfortable.

When all this was completed she took the thingies off my scalp and earlobes and forehead and then did a little scrubbing to get the most obvious glue off and then handed me a comb and told me to look in the mirror and fix my hair.

I wish I had a photo of the fright that I confronted in the mirror! My hair was sticking out like Brillo Pad Weeds! I had to crack up, because although I never consider myself fussy, my friends say I am quite vain. There was no way to salvage this mess and I was wishing for a hat or a burkha.

As I was driving home I put my hand on my scalp and felt little dollops of sticky glue all over the top and back of my head! Ewww! So I raced home and shampooed before that stuff could dry on there.

Now it will be weeks before I hear any results, alas, but at least this test was finally done!

Seven Years of Bad Luck

OH NOOOOoooooooooo!!!!!

Strange Bedfellows

Years ago I noticed a correlation between sleeping with my head to the wall and migraines. I am a restless sleeper and I 'travel' in my sleep, so after a night's sleep I end up with my neck wedged up against the wall at a horrid angle. So I don't do that anymore!

Instead, I sleep at the foot of the bed. It looks odd, but it's just me so nobody is complaining. This leads to some unusual bedroom arrangements, though, because the 'normal' options of a nice centered bed in the middle of the wall is not really necessary for me.

For the most part, I just put the bed on a diagonal. I like that a lot. However, now that it's coming on cold it's time to move the bed from the outside corner into the middle of the room. Because I won't have any heat this winter (wish me luck on that poverty decision! Ugh!) I'm relying on down comforters, a hot-oil electric radiator and an inside wall for insulation.

I worked on this all morning long. I had to take the Swifter to the ceiling and corners because of the cobwebs. (What is a cob, anyway? Has anyone ever seen a cob?) I had to dust everything and clean the mirrors. I had to shove and pull and prod and push the furniture around in order to get it where I wanted it to go and then I had to vacuum where everything was before and once it was placed I had to vacuum the newly exposed places. I actually took the edger and did all the corners and wall edges!

Even though I put up with plenty of noise from Night Terror Neighbor and OCD Door Slammer Neighbor, I see no reason to be a nuisance, so I waited until the advanced hour of 9:00 am to start the vacuuming. Hey, I've been up since 4:30 so they should consider they got a bargain!

I had the idea to put the bed up against the mirrored closet doors this time; something I've never done before. It is far enough from the wall to be able to have easy access to the closet (I don't use that end of it anyway, so it's fine) with room to put my night stand and lamp.

I really like the results. Too bad I didn't think to take a 'before' picture and too bad my bedroom is hard to photograph in a way that makes it a candidate for Archeological Digest/Country California Living magazines.

After a few days of recovering from all this expended energy, I am going to tear into the living room and do some serious vacuuming in there as well. I had a guest the other day who wore black and I was mortified to discover that when she left her outfit had converted mysteriously into herringbone salt and pepper grey. That damn cat hair!

Spoiled Milk

For my birthday I got these absolutely beautiful and awesome salad server implements (what the heck do you call them?) They are hand-beaded and come all the way from Australia. (So they DO have lettuce in Australia!). Click on the picture to make it bigger so you can see better detail on the beads and also how neat the candle flame looks reflected in the bowl of the implements.

Here is a really MORONIC concept that just baffles me: FAT FREE HALF AND HALF.

I don't get it. Isn't fat free half and half called SKIM MILK?

Who do they think they are fooling by thickening some skim milk with liquid styrofoam and putting a bunch of sugar in it for flavor? If you wanted fat free creamer for your tea, wouldn't you just buy one percent milk?

1 Burner Shy of a Full Stovetop

Yeah. I am really dragging my carcass around this morning. Fibromyalgia, as I have learned, likes to sneak up on me and give me a smackdown once in a while. The weather is changing into the wet season, and that affects how I move and think, as well.

Almost first thing in the morning I like to put the kettle on to boil so I can make my pot of tea.

This morning was no different. Except as I entered the kitchen I heard the tick-tick-click-click sound that these old burners make when they are turned on. It almost sounds like a gas stove, but its not. Its the sound of electricity.

And to my horror I discovered that I'd left the large right rear burner on ALL NIGHT LONG!

What's that going to do to my electric bill, I wonder? Worse yet, what does that say about my scrambled brains that I cannot remember when was the last time I cooked anything on that burner!

I suppose I will have to start double-checking this at night to make sure it's really turned off. Unless I could get Obsessive-Compulsive Neighbor to come up and do it for me.

The Eyes Have It

I went and picked up my contact lenses this morning. They were supposed to be in last Friday and they said they would call, but they never did. Always one to give people an extra day or so, I waited until this morning then I called. Sure enough, they'd been sitting there waiting for me since last Friday and they forgot to call me.

This is a momentous occasion because it is the first time in about 2 1/2 years that I've been able to see properly. And let me tell you, that being blind is for the birds! Getting unblind was even WORSE of an ordeal, and now it's starting to look like seeing again is also going to be a trial. It's been about a year since I got taken off my hard lenses, and today just wearing these things for an hour has made my eyes soooo tired. I can feel them everytime I blink. It's annoying. I keep hoping I will just forget they are in there and get on with the show.

Speaking of Shows, I know there is a God because He allowed Wayne Newton to get voted off "Dancing With the Stars" last night! Heck for all I know, He ENCOURAGED it. Because Wayne just wasn't cut out for the dancing. I like it when they get rid of the dead weight right away so that the real dancing can begin. And for that I could just sing "Danke Shon!"

I told Jeff last night that what I chiefly needed was a butt rub. I told him my butt was so sore, and I think it is from sitting and sitting and sitting and sitting. That really tires those butt muscles out, being used all day long like that without a break. Sadly, he says he doesn't know me well enough to rub my butt. I countered with "I don't know you well enough to let you hog the remote!"

It's a week away from my birthday and he is required to break up with me right before the actual date. He has done that 3 years in a row, I think it's to get out of getting me a present. We shall see...